Tom Stoppard’s 1982 play, The Real Thing, opened to a packed house on Tuesday. No doubt the Executive Producers Tom Powell and Jack Gamble were pleased by this (the programme rather showily informs us that these two are also the Directors, Set Designers, Sound Designers, Lighting Designers, and Publicity Designers) – but it resulted in a swelteringly stuffy experience for the audience sitting in the Corpus Playroom. This unusually large audience for an opening night attests to the popularity of Stoppard.

The Real Thing begins in the Stoppardian territory of metatheatricality, with a scene from a play-within-the-play. The production navigates the shifts between ‘real’ life and ‘staged’ life successfully and without being clunkingly blatant. It is not a difficult narrative to follow, but does require engaged attention from the audience. Stoppard, perhaps somewhat indulgently, presents in his main characters three actors and a playwright, who comprise two couples: Annie and Max, and Henry and Charlotte. Henry (Robin Morton) is the playwright, and there are evident similarities between Stoppard and this character – both are comic writers known for their witty repartee. And unsurprisingly, The Real Thing delights in its sparkling dialogue.

It soon emerges that Henry has been having an affair with Annie (Jenny Scudamore – who delivers one of the best performances), a pseudo political activist in addition to being an actress, and the play mainly follows these two characters.  After the first half, however, the focus expands, venturing beyond the world of the four luvvies to more problematic concerns.

Collectively, the cast are all reasonable actors, likable and with solid comic timing. But some of them capture the essence of their characters better than others. Hattie Lloyd and Laura Profumo as, respectively, Charlotte and her daughter Debbie, are most at ease with their characters. Morton manages the emotional depth of his character, but lacks the clout required to convince as an intellectual.  His vocal timbre has a tendency to verge on the whiny, undermining the erudition and gravitas of sophisticated playwright Henry. Conversely, Peter Allen’s depiction of Brodie, a character we hear much about throughout the play but who only appears near the end, is too coarse, too broad-stroked a depiction – not assisted by the truly ghastly green tie he wears.

In general though, Powell and Gamble’s production is notably competent; it is not, however, a particularly notable production. The aesthetic is rather utilitarian in its functionality. The chairs are multi-function, university-accommodation type chairs. The costumes suffice, and, apart from that tie, seem wholly appropriate; but there is nothing remarkable or commendable about them – merely appropriate. The production lacks vitality and verve: the dazzling dialogue of Stoppard demands an equally stylish and imaginative performance to complement it. Nothing hinders the passage of the action, but neither does anything propel it nor inflect it; the action passes steadily, easily, even enjoyably, but never thrillingly. That the most exciting visual aspect of the staging is a white curtain which, when drawn, splices the stage in two is indicative of the overall want of creativity.

And, unfortunately, the worst – yet serial – offences of am-dram are committed: the peculiar patches of talcum powder in hair to indicate older age (as if this is necessary); actors ferreting around in darkness to execute scene changes (as though they cannot be seen).  None of this really matters, of course, but then, neither does this production: it’s not the real thing.