Painfully accurate

Pains of Youth, The Cottesloe, National Theatre, 6/1/2010

Katie Mitchell's production of Martin Crimp's translation of Ferdinand Bruckner's play makes for electric viewing.

The premise has the mechanics of a farce: the self-involved characters are all sleeping with one another, as a rotating cast of lovers drift from one bed to another. In truth, there are few laughs. Instead, we get a parable on human relations which seems to have at its source Forster's "only connect."

The characters talk past one another, so wrapped up in their own concerns that they are utterly unable to listen. Desperate to avoid bourgeois moderation, they retreat into carefully constructed boxes. This is brilliantly evoked by Crimp's declamatory, disjointed writing, in which no statement seems quite to follow another. The speeches are not realistic; they are the epitome of theatricality.

Mitchell is never a passive director, and here she makes herself felt most clearly in the scene changes. Props are clinically bagged by anonymous, besuited investigators, harshly lit. This is set to uneasy, discordant music composed by Paul Clark. The two together provide a moral commentary on the actions onstage.

All the actors put in strong performances. Geoffrey Streatfield is perhaps the most outstanding, adding depth to manipulative, vicious Freder. Leo Bill's timid Petrell is a little lacking in definition, though it steers well away from cliche. Sian Clifford's besotted, naive Lucy is a remarkable creature.

This play is the result of brilliance in collaboration; the labours of Crimp, Mitchell, Clark and all the cast combine to create a memorable work.