McKellen in fine form

At a time when London is sunk in nervous jitters about terrorism and war with Iraq, what better escapist entertainment could there be than a play that views marriage as a war-zone, prison, boxing ring and cock-pit? Well, plenty.

August Strindberg's The Dance of Death, even though offering Sir Ian McKellen's first London performance since he discovered new-found fame as a movie star, proves a bleakly alienating experience.

As the ailing artillery captain, spreading more than a little malice in a marriage that has gone to the dogs or rather become a nasty cat and dog fight, Sir Ian sports a military moustache, shorn hair and stiff military gait. He impressively musters a grim, gaunt desolation.

His taunts are delivered with chilling impassivity. But his performance, which misses the Captain's anguish and vulnerability, is not a moving one. This version of Strindberg's Dance of Death, which director Sean Mathias disastrously allows to move at a funeral dirge's pace, allows shafts of flippancy and melodrama, but never sufficiently manages to grip or engage.

When premiered in 1905 the play caused a sensation. Here was an unflinching portrayal of the sacred institution of marriage. Here were partners of almost 25 years' standing and enduring locked in mutual hatred, with no key to prise them apart. Even Ibsen had not depicted such marital furies.

Yet once you have witnessed a few hisses and snarls from the two injured parties, Edgar and his wife, Alice (Frances de la Tour) who live unhappily in an island fortress near Stockholm, it becomes disconcertingly apparent that to watch Dance of Death is like being trapped on a marriage-go-round.

Even though Alice's cousin Kurt, whose own marriage is over, arrives and stays, there's something wearingly repetitive about the cycles of vituperative accusation and childish insult. There's no investigating of how or why the Captain and Alice fell out.

Mathias, as if realising the play needs invigorating, injects liberal touches of sepulchral gloom and flippancy. And Richard Greenberg's translation, despite such odd, inappropriate modernities as "scum-bag" and "be my guest" improves upon Michael Meyer's ponderous version. Robert Jones's handsome set furnishes the tower with a huge spiral staircase, which at the highest level resembles a prison walk-way.

Even during the day the lighting is murky. There's a surfeit of lightning flashes. A sinister old woman patrols the upper stairs. Frances de la Tour's Alice, all swathed in brown velvet and sulky gloom, raises laughter with her poisonous put-downs. But her plaintive notes of self-pity and unhappiness succumb to melodrama and preposterousness: attracted by Owen Teale's uncomfortable Kurt, who has the detached, downcast air of a man who wishes himself miles away, she strips down to her petticoat and makes a grab for him.

McKellen's Edgar reminds me of his definitive Iago years ago. All cold, aloof and impassive the actor wounds with words and gestures but never gloats. He adopts a throaty Lancastrian voice, and an unsteady gait, as if trying to ward off collapse.