Pinter's great play is still as shocking and fresh as it was in 1960, still sounding as if every word was recorded straight off the streets. As Davies, the tramp, rescued from a brawl by the damaged Aston, a grizzled Jonathan Pryce is all wounded, smelly mongrel. His eyes dart nervously as if constantly assessing where the next kick may come from; he marks out his territory with a pair of carefully folded trousers over the back of a chair and seems eager to please despite his rasping racism.
Only later in this deadly three-sided power game does Pryce's Davies show his feral side, his lack of loyalty that manifests in a bared-teeth snarl as he aims to become top dog. It's a strong performance, stronger than the careful production that plays up the crowd-pleasing comedy of the drama (there's a wonderful pass-the-parcel routine with Davies's bag that could be straight out of a variety hall act), but sometimes seems short on atmosphere and isn't as disquieting as other revivals.
It's as if the heightened surreal edges have been planed off, leaving us with something that remains compelling because of the power of Pinter's writing, but which also feels too ordinary. With his secret smile, Peter McDonald offers a clever void as Aston, who left part of himself in the mental hospital, and as his brother Mick, Sam Spruell suggests that while he may incline towards vacuuming with menace, he too is a dreamer, as much a lost stray as the others.
