Unicorn review

The ensuing encounters bristle with awkwardness and trepidation, with Kate’s confidence, easy spirit of adventure and willingness to prioritise pleasure offset by Polly’s yearning lack of fulfilment and Nick’s terror that the arrangement will jeopardise everything that he and Polly already have. Bartlett also points at the way in which the older pair’s lives are dominated by the immediate – money, kids, work – while Kate’s peer group, having come of age in a more precarious Britain, are sceptical of geopolitics, disenchanted with society’s big institutions and eager to subvert norms in pursuit of new, more satisfying ways to live. Monogamous coupledom, it’s more than once pointed out, is the cornerstone of almost every Western cultural narrative; Kate sees her connection with Nick and Polly as a chance to be a sexual and emotional pioneer.

Miriam Buether’s set – an illuminated igloo shape encasing various seats and sofas, and eventually a bed – becomes crowded with shadow figures by Natasha Chivers’ lighting, as if we’re glimpsing all the other possible selves these people might be, or the other lovers they might meet. The conversations on which we eavesdrop are thoughtful and spikily funny, and Bartlett adroitly tweaks the balance of power as circumstances bend the relationships into unexpected shapes, as well as questioning which conventional impulses would creep into the most assiduously progressive set-up. Yet the stakes never feel high enough. It’s all so considered, so measured and cerebral, and although Kate in particular keeps talking about fun, that’s the very last thing anything represented here looks like.

It’s resoundingly encouraging to see new work premiere in the West End, and the play offers plenty to chew on. But it’s never as satisfying as you might hope; a lot of talk, and very little action.