Absolute Hell
National Theatre, London

RODNEY ACKLAND'S 1952 play Absolute Hell and the director of this latest revival, Joe Hill-Gibbins, both come with a reputation for raucousness. Surprising then that, despite many a flourish, this production fails to deliver on its satanic promise.

Set in the immediate aftermath of WWII Soho, with a Labour election victory looming, Ackland’s work — initially titled The Pink Room — was greeted with such negative critical fervour that it was forced to close within three weeks, losing its producer Terence Rattigan £3,500 and their friendship to boot.

A series of high-profile revivals have restored the play's reputation and that of its author, but, despite painting beautifully detailed character sketches, the full picture ultimately underwhelms in 2018.

“Just one long, never-ending effort to escape from reality” is how dependable barmaid Doris describes the slowly disintegrating members' club where all the action takes place — La Vie en Rose is a haunt in both name and nature. Bruised egos and battered alter egos rub more than shoulders as the spectre of the war slowly stretches its dark shadow over the lives of its heavily intoxicated denizens.

Among the 24 different characters zipping in and out over the course of three hours, it is the stories of the permanently “in a jam” writer Hugh Marriner (Charles Edwards) and Christine Foskett (Kate Fleetwood), the randy yet ultimately lonely owner of the club, that feature most prominently. They chase their desires with such intensity that they both manage to let them slip and allow the demon drink to fill the gap.

Fleetwood and Edwards (pictured) muster deeply spirited performances that stand out in an almost flawless cast. They make the most of what is at times a repetitive, if not pedestrian, play whose characters predictably repeat their self-destructive actions.

Absolute Hell works best when it frees itself from the interpersonal relationships and looks outwards at the events of the times, particularly the disturbing tales filtering through of the nazi death camps — one of the first mentions of the Holocaust on a British stage.

A shame then that Ackland spends so much time indulging the audience in the tedious emotional quagmire of his characters.

Runs until June 16, box office: nationaltheatre.org.uk