What happens when theatre takes place in the dark? The simple answer would be that it becomes a radio play, but that would be quite the wrong answer when describing Sound and Fury's production, inspired by the story of the Nantucket whaling ship, the Essex, which, in 1820, was rammed by an 85- foot whale and sunk. Here, the narrative is transformed into an extraordinary piece of theatre.
Plunged into the syrupy darkness, there are moments during this mesmerising, disconcerting 70 minutes when you feel as if you are experiencing the whole thing through your skin. We often talk in theatre of those spine-tingling moments, and there are times here when you prickle all over.
This, it must be pointed out, is not necessarily the most pleasurable of experiences. There were occasions, particularly as it reached its terrible climax (the survivors were marooned at sea for over 100 days with inadequate food and water) when I longed to be released from the purgatorial darkness, the sound of creaking timbers, the vast expanse of the becalmed ocean, the tiny snuffling sounds of dying men and, indeed, my own imagination. Playing the piece in the dark concentrates its power.
This certainly wouldn't be the case with every play. I have absolutely no desire to experience A Midsummer Night's Dream or Private Lives in total darkness. The Watery Part of the World works because form and content are perfectly married. The sea of darkness that envelopes the audience - except for some tiny glimpses of ghost-like faces bleached with guilt - immediately puts us in the same position as the Essex's crew, adrift the vast expanse of unknowable, never-ending ocean.
It also works because it has a beautifully written script, even if towards the end it is slightly over-eager in its attempts to drive its metaphorical meanings home. Mark Espiner's finely acted production creates a piece of total theatre that doesn't just happen all around you, but that, like the dark, ravenous sea, swallows you up completely.
· Until July 12. Box office: 020-7223 2223.
