George Banks works hard to convey Stephen's disintegrating psyche, and Samuel Martin gives a plaintive account of a private whose inflated sexual boasts belie a young man condemned to die a virgin. The production is far more moving when it concentrates on the unadorned testimony of those who suffered – there's a very fine performance from Peter Duncan as a simple sapper whose fate is horribly pre-ordained. The hurried running in and out of boudoirs seems to owe as much to Feydeau as Faulks and is further exacerbated by the rickety melange of styles employed by director Alastair Whatley, who chooses to present the moment of consummation as a risible outbreak of expressionist dance. But the compression of the flashback scenes introduces an unintentional note of absurdity. The idea has merit, enabling Stephen's erotic adventures in Amiens to be presented as a form of shell-shocked delirium.
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