It's a question of relevance against idiocy. Gangs of New York was held back for a year after the events of September 11th, and Gone Baby Gone delayed for a good few months by the disappearance of Madeleine McCann. Oli O'Shea puts on Frozen, the story of a paedophile killer and his victim's mother, in a week during which the James Bulger case, and the questionable humanity of a killer, has dominated headlines. Topicality's no need to call the whole thing off, but if you're going to touch such raw nerves, you'd better do it well.

That anxiety could be felt in the audience. Bryony Lavery's script follows three characters involved in the murder of ten year old Rhona Shirley: her mother, her murderer, and the doctor studying the case for her thesis. The first scene saw the latter departing her apartment for research in England. Alone, she bid goodbye to various rooms, before bursting into hysterical sobs, and screaming, ludicrously, into her handbag. Titters abounded. It was all awkward, and quite ghastly.

Oli O'Shea, however, does know what he's doing. Unafraid of showcasing Lavery's dangerous brand of humour, he spiked the tragedy with chuckles. The pitiful irony of Mrs. Shirley's opening rant against her daughters' bickering was a monologue both humorous and hollow, its comedy unsettled by the presence of paedophile Ralph Wantage, freeze-framed in darkness besides her. This interplay of the leading trio was juggled with ease; at one point, Dr. Gottmundsdottir strolled between delivering her thesis and conversing with Wantage in its research, a smart dance choreographed by acting and lighting alone.

It was when the production strayed away from its minimalism that things tippled into the tasteless. A mother's description of holding her dead daughter's skull doesn't need a violin accompaniment; a graveyard scene doesn't need a soundtrack of chirping birds. It was a shame that the intensity of the production was diluted, too, by the auditorium's gaping impersonality. The gut-wrenching emotion of the actors had a long way to travel to their sparse audience, and it was dulled, a little, along the way.

Still, that cast really were immaculate. Brid Arnstein played her unstable American psychiatrist with neurotic perfection, and George Johnston was not afraid of making Ralph Wantage monstrous, a figure for resentment as well as subtle sympathies. His vocal tics were terrifyingly believable in a role which, in the wrong hands, could easily have gone awry.

For all of O'Shea's bravery, a stellar script and astonishing leads will usually a good play make; the dynamism of a great production is a more elusive art to master. In an intimate venue with the minimalism maintained, this wouldn't just have been brave; it would have been brilliant.