Two men, one old and the other somewhat younger, stand on a dazzling white stage. Behind them is a childlike outline of a house. The men do not seem to know each other. They think they may have met before, but can't think when or where that might have been. The moment they agree they met on a pier, someone disputes it. Nothing is certain. They are not friends, but neither are they enemies. But although these men can't identify themselves, let alone each other, it gradually becomes clear that they do share something: a memory of a summer's day, a woman in a black swimsuit, and making love with her in a house.
Jon Fosse - probably best known in Britain for David Greig's translation of The Girl on the Sofa and Katie Mitchell's production of Nightsongs at the Royal Court - has been heralded as a modern Ibsen, but in this translation by May-Brit Akerholt he seems more like Pinter on an off day, or a meagre Beckett. Initially, I wondered whether Warm might be an examination of dementia, of the lost self, but the strange, disconnected atmosphere of Simon Usher's production suggests that what we are watching is a recurring dream, and that the older and younger man are actually the same person, the one being dreamed by the other. The fantasy woman is the mother of his children.
At just over an hour long, the play is mildly intriguing, but not gripping, more like a slightly irritating puzzle that you feel you ought to try to solve, but offers few prizes when you do. Perhaps there is poetry lost in translation, but the overall effect is of a piece that, like these two men, has no sure sense of self.
