On Tuesday night, as I sat in the compact corner of the Cambridge world that is Corpus Christi Playroom, I felt the effects of an inescapable force. I had neither brought this force with me nor wanted it, but it was quite extraordinary. Bludgeoning away, somewhere between the whitewashed walls and myself, was a blood and guts depiction of love which was completely compelling - one which hacked the human heart to pieces, reconstructed it as a “fist wrapped in veins”, and made me feel just a bit voyeuristic as I was watching. That force was Closer. A play which, when first performed in the West End, was the most honest depiction of sex ever seen on a British stage. Not to be watched with romantic attachments, still less old ones, and certainly not the faint hearted.

On this instance, its uncompromising image of sexual entanglement was understood and portrayed quite brilliantly.

That I was more deeply concerned by what Closer had to say on stage than by my own reading of the play, or by the film adaptation, is the biggest compliment I can pay to its performance and production.  In its finest form, Closer should create an image of love so arbitrary, so selfish, so degrading, and so downright punishing that audiences feel the tangible, temporary sense of imprisonment which its playwright Patrick Marber builds around his script. The task of making such brutally intended writing just as powerful in actions as in words, requires absolute commitment and control, and the four-man cast, not to mention the director, exhibited both qualities in abundance.

From her part in the play’s opening to the bitter close, I simply could not take my eyes off Charlotte Hamblin’s Alice, a creature snarling, pouting and flirting her way to destruction with a non-naturalistic fierceness all of her own. The play’s most enigmatic character, her almost ghoulish looks carried the silent moments of the play as well as the shouty ones: the soullessness with which she performed her (lap)dance of death atop a bleak white platform was particularly notable. Trapped in the same space as her at this point was the force-of-nature dermatologist Larry, wild eyed, brooding, silly, and completely convincing throughout. Just as the general performance did not hide from its themes, actor Benjamin Blyth did not flinch from his one bit.

Perhaps the most subtle performance in a not particularly subtle play was that of Emma Sidi as Anna: even after describing her adultery in the most explicit detail, she retained an enchanting stillness which was only (and quite deliberately) undermined by her quivering lip and tearful eyes. This is all the more important when one considers that plays this forceful simply cannot have all their characters explode in quite the same way. For recognising that intensity has different appearances, credit should be paid to director Natasha Moules as well as the actress herself. Similar to Sidi, but not the same in tone, was reckless romantic Dan, played by James Evans. Although he didn’t carry quite the same power as the other characters, his spark lit up the delightfully taboo internet cafe exchange for which the play is famous, and his character exhibited a playfulness which had the audience swinging between hatred and sympathy for him.

Most memorable of all was the innovative set piece which combined two breakups and all four characters on stage. Scenes which might have come across as a little hackneyed were thrown together in one uneasy snapshot of inextricable, in fact, plain messy, human feelings descending into the abyss. Although Marber is no Sophocles, this was the closest that Closer comes to Greek tragedy, as four Oedipus appeared to fall powerless to the machinations of a larger force.