August Strindberg's vicious dissection of a marriage fuelled more by hate than love is one of those plays that offer about as much entertainment as a visit to the dentist for a little root-canal work. And theatres, unlike dentists, seldom offer pain relief on the way in. The better the production, the nastier the experience. David Hunt's production is almost very good indeed, but never quite convinces that Edgar and Alice are engaged in a diabolical and bloody struggle to the death.
It begins and ends fantastically well: a bitter wind blows through the couple's emotionally icy home, as if the pair are stranded in the wastelands of Antarctica rather than a stiff Victorian parlour. Michael Vale's effective design provides a huge mirror at the back of the stage; the couple - together and yet entirely separate - stare into it like the damned watching themselves burn. The mirror reflects the audience too, implicating anyone who has ever lashed out and crushed the one they once loved. The really horrible thing about this play is its total lack of illusion about human nature.
Mike Poulton's new version is very nifty, combining an initial Pinteresque dislocation with an accessible suburban banality and ironic humour. The effect is interestingly contemporary. But any production of this play stands or falls on the central casting, and Christine Absalom and Gregory Floy don't quite crack it. You are always too aware of the acting, of the mechanics of these performances.
Floy may yet pull it off. He doesn't make Edgar a sufficiently monstrous figure, but he does capture the streak of narcissism that infects the man, and the sense that this is a damaged - and therefore dangerous - person. Absalom has done some really fine work at this theatre over the past few seasons, but she is miscast as Alice. She works far too hard to make you believe that she has the attractions or feminine wile either to gull Edgar or rekindle the flame of desire in her cousin Gustav.
· Until December 1. Box office: 01206 573948.
