THE CARETAKER The Adelaide Festival Her Majesty’s Theatre Until 23 Mar 2012 Review by John Wells Watching a Harold Pinter play is a bit like eating fugu. If you sit down to a plate of fugu sashimi, you want to make sure it’s not the apprentice chef on duty in the kitchen. Things could go very badly. In the wrong hands, Pinter, too, can be deadly. Pinter is unforgiving. A good production of a Pinter play requires the utmost skill. This is an absorbing and tenaciously intriguing production of this classic play. Part of its success is what it’s not: it is not a star vehicle for Jonathan Pryce, nor is it a period piece. Despite “The Caretaker” being over fifty years old, it does not feel dated. Into a cluttered, drab room comes Aston. He brings with him an irascible, jittery tramp, Davies. They speak in odd, disjointed conversations, two blind dancers where neither is leading. Aston’s brother, Mick, a smiling jack-the-lad, joins them and the trio circles around in a curious, savage and darkening dance. There is a freshness to this production which engages on a deep level; despite the flatness of the relentless, mundane dialogue, there is a palpable sense of lurking danger and chaos. It is this danger and uncertainty which keep the production fizzing. The play settles us then upends what we think we have just accepted. Nothing is true. No-one speaks honestly. No-one communicates. Reality morphs and solidifies instantly, then changes in the next utterance. Why would Aston bring Davies into his room with such kindness? Does Mick really own the building? Are they brothers? What is in Sidcup? There is anger, pain and disappointment everywhere, but there is a sense of refuge in the crumbling, cluttered room. It is a production of grinding pairs which work against each other brilliantly: it is both absurdist and naturalist (and neither); everyone talks but no character listens to the other; each believes in his truth but they are all heart-breakingly delusional. Jonathan Price as Davies leads the talented ensemble. Spiky, open-jawed with reptilian tongue, he is repellent, grating and snivelling. With his ineffectual knife and readiness to adapt the truth instantly, Davies’ sad vulnerability soon unmasks his pitiable cruelty. Pryce is assured and relaxed in the role. It is a strong and finely-detailed performance. Alan Cox’s Aston is equally successful: with whiffs of David Brent and Billy Bragg, he shuffles, ravaged by electro-convulsive-therapy, his bryl-creamed hair and pin-striped suit barely covering his neuroses. Alex Hassell plays Mick as an energetic, smiling lunatic, like a low-level Krays hanger-on. Hassell injects physical intensity, violence and desperate confusion brilliantly. This is an engrossing and beautifully-acted production.