Too Late for Logic, King's Theatre

An evening of sterile condescension

If you've ever been trapped with a drunk explaining his theory of life, death, God and the universe, then you'll be familiar with the tone of unjustified condescension emanating from Tom Murphy's play. He condescends to his characters, to the actors, and to the audience. If the man met a rubber plant, he would condescend to it – with, of course, a sad, gentle smile.

Murphy supplies descriptions for his characters. One is "a laughing, welcoming woman. She is remarkably, innocently forthright, and with a capacity to alternate seamlessly and fluently from celebration to concern. It's difficult not to respond to her warmth". In other words, if she were having a high old time, but noticed one old boy with his head on his chest, she'd step over and seamlessly and fluently say, "Oh, dear! He's dead!" Women! Aren't they grand, now!

Too Late for Logic takes place in Ireland, where Christopher, a middle-aged philosophy professor, is preparing a lecture on Schopenhauer. This is his big chance for advancement, as it will be televised live. What an appetite for culture they have in Ireland! But just when he is getting into his stride, his son and daughter arrive to announce, "Your brother's wife, mum's sister, she's dead." Brother Michael has gone off on a bender, and Jack is entreated to find him. That's done, and the family sits down to lunch after the funeral, among them Christopher's ex-wife, whom he has left six months before – not for another woman, but to find the meaning of his life. At last, a touch of originality.

Murphy's play, first produced at the Abbey Theatre in 1989 (why?) and now revised and revived (why? why? why?) is not lacking in unity. Every single line, character and scene is devoid of intellectual or emotional interest. When Christopher gives his lecture, he is meant to be so frayed that he self-destructs – though personally, I've seen people get more upset than Duncan Bell when they've lost a laundry ticket. He refers to the Ding an Sich as the "ding-a-dong," then rambles on in an even less believable fashion until someone pulls the plug. Nobody approaches him with rage or concern, and at lunch he says nothing about it to the others – who appear not to have seen the speech, and aren't curious.

Patrick Mason's production, with actors hanging about in pointless tableaux, emphasises the play's sterility, as does Francis O'Conner's sparse set, the only element here with a touch of wit – Christopher has two 20ft bookshelves; they and all the books are grey. The performances are pretty grey, too, save for Jo Freer as the daughter. Any sympathy I might have had for someone playing "a child-woman" evaporated when she started to screech and bawl and to contort not only her face but her whole body into a smirk. As Murphy says, "She is capable of great tenderness and great rage." Funny – that sounds like someone I know.

To August 18 (0131-473 2000)