Farces are frantic and fun, with a combination of pace and confusion. Or rather they should be. Bedroom Farce at the ADC this week is one of Alan Ayckbourn’s characteristic cleverly constructed comedies. Written in the 70’s, it comes from the same stable as No Sex Please, We’re British and Fawlty Towers, and is a study of the personal embarrassment about attitudes to relationships and intimacy.

The structure of the play is rather ingenious: set in one evening and morning, the action interweaves the stories of four couples and three bedrooms. A simple misunderstanding cascades into ever-increasing mayhem, and when no one takes the time to question the reality of what they have heard, the confusion is multiplied.

“There is an exuberance of comedy outrage from Noah Geelan and Kim Alexander, who bound along as if their lives depend on it.”

A minor injury, overlapping plans for an evening, and couples whose lives turn out to interconnect give the groundwork for a variety of apparent bed-hopping, partner swapping, and general 1970’s naughtiness. Each mis-chosen word or misunderstood explanation causes the level of panic to escalate beyond the point where anything can ever be the same again for the characters involved.

The cast deliver their roles with energy and excitement. There is an exuberance of comedy outrage from Noah Geelan and Kim Alexander, who bound along as if their lives depend on it. Ania Magliano-Wright and Colin Rothwell play Jan and the injured Nick (whose back problems prove the main catalyst for the evening’s plot, and some of the weirder innuendos). They display a humorous hatred for each other, which they manage to convey even when no words are spoken.

Holly Witton and Orlando Gibbs are Kate and Trevor, providing the kick-start to the overlapping relationships, hidden affairs and fun-filled infidelity. Their bawdy naughtiness and their dim wits fuel the farce, and allow for moments of genuine hilarity. Bringing up the rear (as it were) are Annabel Bolton and John Tothill, whose skilful handling of the script makes you marvel at the smoothness of their great comedy timing and delivery.

But the play is like a huge jigsaw, where someone has lost the picture from the top of the box. The bits are all there, and although they should fit together as a whole, they don’t. The perfect pace of some interactions jars with the difficultly-handled awkwardness of others. The flow of constant confusion which needs to be at the heart of any farce seems to jump and start, so that the energetic set up for a particular line has fizzled out before the payoff has arrived.

“Josh Cleary’s direction shows some moments of brilliance.”

Managing the double-takes and the panicked disbelief isn’t easy, and takes a lot of workshopping and rehearsal, plus a very clear vision of the where the laughs need to land. Relying solely on the written script to do the work means that the opportunity for all the unspoken reactions and the potential for building on the physical comedy are lost. While Josh Cleary’s direction shows some moments of brilliance, a clear understanding of the tradition of British farce seems lacking.

Perhaps the outrage and embarrassment at the mere mention of body parts or items of underwear which was so familiar in the 70’s has been totally lost on this generation who have such easy access to images and interactions that would have been unimaginable to their predecessors.

Not a love story: staging student writing in Spiders

Likewise, the titillation and giggles induced by embarrassed audiences of the past is very probably going to be hard to reproduce without a lot of very specialised and nuanced foreplay by a director with a fetishly fiendish sense of quirkiness