William Congreve's The Way of the World, first performed in 1700, is regarded by some as the height of Restoration Comedy, despite its convoluted, and ultimately pointless plot, and long stretches of dialogue which, though littered with bons mots, are often symptomatic of a rather literary verbal diarrhoea. A challenge, then, for any company, but one to which the Oxford Theatre Guild, under Polly Mountain's lively direction, rises admirably.

The strength of the play -- and this production -- lies in the interaction between characters. The two most outlandish of them are among the most effective pairings. These are the courtly hangers-on, Petulant (Jason Tomes) and Witwoud (Simon Vail), with their painted faces, elaborate clothes and a fine line in repartee.

At the heart of the action is the widowed Lady Wishfort, beautifully played by Barbara Denton. She longs for a new husband but is not duped for long by the imposter she is presented with. Like Patricia Routledge's Hyacinth Bucket, Lady Wishfort's fine words are undermined by her comically clumsy actions. And her attempt to demonstrate that there is "nothing more alluring than a leve from a couch" predictably and delightfully comes to grief.

The leading lady, Lady Wishfort's niece Millamant, is skilfully played by a newcomer to the Oxford Theatre Guild, Tegan Shohet. She is courted and eventually won by Mirabell (Oliver Baird), who, somewhat inexplicably, seems to have been the object of the affections of almost all the ladies in the play at one time or another. Perhaps the most memorable scene between the two would-be lovers, albeit a clich of the comedy of the time, comes when they lay down their conditions for marriage. Few could fail to sympathise with Millamant's aversion to being "intimate with fools because they may be your relations" or Mirabell's plea for his wife to shun bizarre aids to beauty.

While the floor of the stage is a painted chessboard, albeit in shades of pink rather than black and white, there is little else to suggest that the characters are being manipulated. All that they experience (to call it suffering would be an exaggeration) they bring upon themselves. "My head's in a maze like a dog in a dancing school", declares the perplexed Witwoud in the closing scene, a suitable comment on a play where you're left wondering what it has all been for.

The Way of the World is at the Oxford Playhouse

By Paula Clifford