The Voice by Jean Cocteau struck me as probably intended to be a radio play; in fact, this famous one-woman dialogue with a telephone (better known as The Human Voice) has been a radio play, but also many other things, from a ten-minute microplay to an operetta. The version showing this week at the Burton Taylor is a straightforward stage adaptation; just a young actress on a slightly decadent set, scattered with ashtrays, jewellery and photographs of her own face, coming apart on the telephone to the man who has just left her against a backdrop of red drapery. The situation is familiar enough, the pain easy to relate to, and the woman (Olivia Grant), manages to rise above the indignity of acting against a beige telephone that looks like it was recently liberated from the theatre's office to deliver a touching and involving performance. However, she is not the fading,
middle-aged woman you would expect to find at the centre of this play, but a pretty young student, dressed to impress and surrounded by evidence of her own attractiveness. Rather than feeling sorry for her, one gets the impression that she will be much better off without the man on the other end of the phone, which deconstructs some of the bitter humour, along with much of the sympathy. This new adaptation of the Anthony Wood translation swaps emails for letters and an unreliable mobile phone for the crossed lines, but the modernization sits awkwardly with the antique tawdriness of the heroine's despairing histrionics, which seem to belong to an older and more fragile world. However, if you are feeling grumpy about Valentine's Day, this brief and bitter snapshot of a Parisian mistress cast aside to clear the way for her lover's society marriage could be just the ticket.

Jeremy Dennis, 15/02/05