The opening gag in The Garden Party was to switch off the auditorium lights, switch on the stage lights only to switch the stage lights off and begin again. The first instance was amusing, the second even more amusing. But by the fifth repetition I found myself uncomfortably bored, groaning internally at the thought of sitting out an entire hour and a half’s worth of exhaustive comedy. Thankfully this initial thought was swiftly quashed.

Penned by the Czech dissident Vaclav Havel, the play concerns the rise of Hugo Pludek from his domestic backwater existence to life in head office. The narrative comprises of a series of lengthy scenes structured in a series of disconcerting loops that wind and rewind round the various bureaucratic, systematized language that stifles the governmental apparatus. Peopled by a gallery of officious nuts and white-collared creeps, the drama revolves in cartoonish crisis similarly to the opening light-switch joke, at first provoking choric giggles before wearing itself out. By the end of each weary-go-round scene the satire has taken on a much more complex form, seemingly attempting to tortuously instil in the audience members a kind of tedium-induced pall. (It is interesting to note how the back of the programme is a photograph of someone holding the card: ‘Not long now. Just sit it out a while longer’.)

This mildly disturbing will to infuriate was handled competently by this group of actors. The surreal, senseless proverbs of Mr Pludek were uttered wryly in the sing-song bass of Max Upton, complemented by the posh nerviness of Hugo (James Parris) whose cherubic looks (in the mould of Jesse Eisenberg and Michael Cera) gradually took on a malevolent, ruby glee towards the galling finale. Yet, the standout performance (to adopt a banality) was Ben Blyth’s Falk. Blyth’s ruthless energy was evident from his moment of arrival: shaggy, Dylan Moran-ish jet curls tangled in sweat above a wan complexion and icy-blue eyes. His voluminous presence was engineered by goggling facial expressions, esoteric hand gestures and a coked-up, canine avidity. Perhaps in future Blyth might reign back on his much-valued vigour to allow for us to see a little deeper into whatever character he might play next.

The set (deftly put together by Sian Docksey) propagated another squib of interest for me. Simple monochrome pin-ups of world leaders and a spot-lit chess board seemed to atmosphere the right blend of Soviet kitsch and Eastern European dowdiness. The tinny piano polkas and ragtime tunes simulated this equally. Repeated, however, until the comfort faded and an unnerving, yet vital, sense of tedium began to set in.