Improbable Theatre, as one of the most energising and provocative forces in British theatre, has produced a piece that is as much about making theatre and stories as it is about telling them. Whether you find it irritatingly self-conscious or that it talks to you straight from the heart, this is a show you cannot ignore.
The presence of this strongly physical, visual piece at the Royal Court is significant: nothing less than a signpost to the future. But it does not strike me as being among the company's most potent work. There are some typically wonderful moments: clouds suddenly scudding across the steeply raked stage, a little pop-up skyscraper city being bombed to oblivion, an actor being manipulated as if he were a puppet.
Most of all there is the company's ability to connect with an audience so it feels as if we are linked by an invisible and pulsating umbilical cord. Then there is the design - a little miracle of tiny doors and openings that reveal the secrets of the heart sign, presumably largely the brainchild of Julian Crouch.
But the story about three baker brothers, one of whom joins the army during a conflict, gets constantly subverted by the manner of its telling. Improbable has never been about acting in any traditional sense, although there has never been any doubt about the performers' skills. In its shows the persona of the individual and the role they are playing are always distinct and yet intimately connected. There are no transformations. Yet because the actors always make it clear that they are actors, the whole thing somehow feels truer and more real.
Here, however, everything has been deconstructed into oblivion and for the first time a worrying sense of ego appears that sometimes obscures the storytelling rather than helping it. Previous Improbable shows have played strongly with autobiography and this one is no different. It has never mattered whether what they tell us actually is the truth, what has counted is the emotional truth of what they tell us. But in this show on the theme of conflict, it seems too pat when one performer starts telling us how much he hates another.
For all I know this may be true, but my suspicion is that this is just acting, even if the underlying resentments are real. A note of emotional dishonesty has crept in that renders the whole show slightly suspect.
Others may have no difficulty with this, and it is the nature of Improbable's work that the show changes so tomorrow's performance won't be like yesterday's. I can only suggest that you go and make up your own mind.
Until April 7. Box office: 020-7565 5000.
