Photograph: Tristram Kenton
John Galsworthy's 1922 play scarcely smacks of modernism, but it does offer, as Phil Wilmott's excellent revival shows, a disturbing and realistic picture of the iron clad class-loyalty and reflex anti-semitism of interwar England.
Galsworthy's setting is a country house near Newmarket, where one of the guests, Ferdinand de Levis, has had £1,000 stolen from his room. Because he is Jewish, De Levis is treated less as a hapless victim than a fuss-maker. And, when he plausibly accuses an impecunious war hero of pinching the money, he is threatened with social ostracism, racial abuse and a law suit. Accused of betraying the code of honour, he sardonically announces: "I'm not a gentleman - I'm a damned Jew!"
With consummate skill, Galsworthy shows how English caste and race loyalties diabolicially intersect. One particularly viperish society dame says: "I know lots of splendid Jews, but when it comes to the point they all stick together - why shouldn't we?" But, while I admire Galsworthy's moral honesty and dramatic craft, I wish he went for the jugular. Having exposed the insidious racism of English society, he implicitly exonerates his gentleman thief by suggesting he is a damaged war victim with a residual sense of decency. Galsworthy is like a doctor who diagnoses a fatal disease but won't apply a radical remedy.
Wilmott's production, however, confirms that Galsworthy's shockingly neglected plays are eminently revivable social documents. Nicky Bunch's set brilliantly recreates a feeling of oak-pannelled solidity within the tiny space of the Finborough. There are spot-on performances from the 10-strong cast, including William Ludwig as the inflexibly courteous De Levis, Perri Snowdon as the risk-addicted war hero, Marcus Webb as the lantern-jawed host, and Sarah Everard as his softly beguiling wife. I saw the play with a packed house who seemed, like me, to relish Galsworthy's portrait of the poisonous worm inside the woodwork of English society.
· Until May 20. Box office: 0870 4000 838.
