Most theatre requires the suspension of disbelief, but some requires more suspension than the Clifton Bridge. It's certainly the case with Michael Rudman's production of Noël Coward's 1939 play in which the author drew a sketchy self-portrait in the character of Garry Essendine, an aging matinee idol who declares: "Everyone worships me, it's nauseating." The actor cast as Garry is Simon Callow, and it is an indication of what a fine actor Callow is that he pretty well persuades us that he really is a devastatingly handsome man about town who has women throwing themselves at him - despite the fact that he resembles a sleek porpoise that unaccountably finds itself trussed up in a silk dressing gown.
What Callow lacks in looks, he makes up for in naughtiness, showing in Essendine - a man who just can't stop acting or screwing around - that inside every successful, charming man is a little boy screaming to be let out. He doesn't quite stamp his foot, but it is a close thing as he bounces on the pouffe and squirms when his ex-wife, Liz, gives him a ticking off like a prep school matron who has discovered her charge out of bed after lights out. Callow's Essendine is not so much Brad Pitt going to seed as a balding, portly Peter Pan who just can't grow up and take responsibility for his own behaviour.
Like Peter Pan, Present Laughter is as much a tragedy as it is a comedy, dissecting not just Essendine but a theatrical world where deceptive appearances are all. Rudman's production is mighty handsome, played out on Paul Farnsworth's stylish white design that, with its receding proscenium arches, makes the too-obvious point that for Essendine all the world's a stage. But although it is easy on the eye and entertainingly brittle, it plays too much to the boulevard to ever do more than scratch at the surface of the appalling loneliness at the heart of Essendine's life. There is no bitter aftertaste in the laughter here.
The production lacks pace, but not good performances, with Robin Pearce seizing his chances as the insane young playwright, Roland Maule, and Tilly Tremayne delivering every withering line in a way that suggests that she keeps her tongue permanently dipped in a very dry martini.
· Ends tonight. Box office: 01225 448844. At the Cambridge Arts Theatre (01223 503333) from Monday, then touring.
