Andy Warhol gave his approval to Edward Albee's 1964 failure Tiny Alice by saying that he "liked its emptiness." Albee's latest play could never be accused of that; it is stuffed full of big themes, as Manhattan Oedipus Martin - a successful architect in a happy marriage and at the peak of his professional powers - confesses a secret that brings his world come tumbling down.
Greek theatre was hot on incest and parricide and Albee tosses a new taboo on to the pyre of entertainment when it emerges that Martin is deeply in love, and having sex with, a goat.
On one level The Goat is about the limits of tolerance, although I suspect that the limits of tolerance would be stretched much further for the audience if it Martin was sleeping with a small child or his own gay teenage son. A brief sexualised kiss between father and son elicits predictable horror from Martin's Judas friend, a minor character who always claims the high ground yet has the personal morals of a sewer rat.
At a deeper level The Goat is a play that makes a drama out of a crisis. Martin is a man riding high. His infatuation with the goat propels him towards chaos. The chaos becomes a maelstrom when those around him react with the frailty of the human - although Kate Fahy's smashing of the family knickknacks seems restrained.
You really don't want to bleat when there is a serious play as good as this in the West End, but if the 90 minutes doesn't quite unleash the power of a Greek tragedy it is because Albee plays things too safe. Often, the comedy diminishes the tragedy making it seem faintly Ayckbournish. It is left to Jonathan Pryce, who gives a mesmerising performance of delicate, dignified desperation to persuade us that Martin is a man who looks into the abyss and discovers the pain, the terror and perhaps also the bliss that lurks there.
· Until August 7. Box office: 0870 890 1101
