New heights of twaddle

If it were not for the dollops of mystical tosh with which David Greig gives his latest play an artificial flavour of gravity, Pyrenees could be written off as a banal account of one middle-aged man in half-hearted search of his lost memory.

Leaning heavily on themes, styles and ideas that TS Eliot, JB Priestley, Edward Albee and even Strindberg articulated in flashes of theatrical originality, Greig keeps stumbling ambitiously in their famous footsteps: large sections of his play (Faber, £8.99) are printed as if they were poetry, though a typically supine couplet - "I think we're like doctors./We just try to sort out people's problems." - suggests that the prolific Grieg is to poetry what Tim Henman is to football.

Vicky Featherstone's production sets a mysterious tone. Neil Warmington's set, a Pyrenees hotel terrace backed by white, louvred screens, and Nick Powell's eerie flickers of music, reek of foreboding.

That mood is enhanced by Hugh Ross's Man, found at the foot of the Pyrenees with loads of euros in a briefcase and no identity he can apparently recall. Anna, an introverted British Consulate official, irritatingly impersonated by Frances Grey with flapping and flailing of hands, is oddly despatched to help the Man rediscover himself.

This slow-winded process yields too few discoveries and Ross's highly charged, beautiful performance is all enigma variations. He clings to the trappings of reticence and inscrutability as if intuiting he has plenty to hide. His body, perhaps unused to tears, convulses when he weeps. All Anna's questions and the Man's unhelpful answering drag towards the discovery that the unlikely couple fancy each other.

The appearance of that enthralling actress Paola Dionisotti, swathed in charisma and contemplative gentleness, only takes Pyrenees deeper into cliché-land. For having revealed her own identity and met with the Man's comic, stonewalling response, Vivienne helps Pyrenees taper off into a narrative of an unhappy marriage and unfulfilled life.

The means by which Vivienne has followed the Man on his runaway excursions beggar belief. The escape-hatch of contrivance opens wide. The Hotel's Proprietor, who enjoys multiple identities himself, wafts the play, as in Greig's San Diego, away from reality. "Why didn't you tell me she was a spirit? You've visited the realm of angels," he helpfully tells the Man as Pyrenees scales the rocky heights of twaddle.

Until 24 April. Information: 020 7907 7060.

Pyrenees