It has been suggested that the buy-to-let property market is in danger of returning society to a new form of feudalism. Yet there are few fiefdoms more frightening than the network of fever dens and insider dealing exposed by George Bernard Shaw in his first play. Shaw later dismissed Widowers' Houses as "one of my worst", but it is notable for the creation of one of his finest theatrical monsters, Mr Sartorius, a seemingly impeccable model of patrician Victorian values who is revealed to be a ruthless slum landlord. Sartorius might be one of the murkiest characterisations Shaw conceived, but the wonder of Roger Lloyd Pack's performance is that there are little shafts of humanity to be glimpsed through the gloom. Physically, he's perfect for the part: tall and lugubrious with features so drawn they seem to hang from his eyebrows like curtains. But he has a mordant wit that instantly makes everyone seem equally culpable. When reminded that money is the root of all evil, he replies: "And which of us would not wish to have the tree planted in our garden?"
The financial details around which the plot revolves are, frankly, mystifying: suffice to say that all the money is tainted, and no one emerges without their kid gloves spotted to some degree. Ian Bartholomew is horribly funny as the despicable opportunist Lickcheese, and Lucy Briggs-Owen is frequently incandescent as Sartorius's hot-tempered daughter, Blanche. Greg Hersov's handsome production is evenly paced and, unlike Sartorius's properties, extremely well-managed.
