It introduces a blazing new talent in Welsh writer Gary Owen, and it points up the limitations of the storytelling theatre that has become all the rage since the success of Conor McPherson's The Weir. They can and do, but it is a partial theatre, even when they are as sparkily written and performed as they are here. There is also a world of difference between the theatrical dynamic of the intercut monologue style of, for instance, John Corwin's Navy Pier or Richard Cameron's Can't Stand Up For Falling Down, and this trio of monologues. Despite the clever connections that emerge as the evening progresses, Owen's monologues have their theatrical interest limited by the fact that there is only ever one person on stage. And this kind of storytelling can only sustain your interest for so long - two and a half hours makes you feel that you have been cornered by the pub bore.
Someone needs to take a blue pencil to the script.
For all these cavils, it is bliss to come across a writer such as Owen, who is prepared to sink up to his neck in the cesspool of language. Owen writes like an angel with a foul mouth, capturing in his tale of lust, violence and revenge the hellhole that is a small Welsh town on a Saturday night. David Rees Talbot as Gary, Steven Meo as Mathew and Richard Mylan as Russell tell you what it is like for them, and you believe every word. Until April 7. Then tours to Hemel Hempstead, Leicester, Stamford, Brighton, Eastleigh and Scarborough.