Theatre - A superb domestic drama takes us to the depths of depravity Festen Almeida Theatre, London N1

Two brothers and a sister rendez-vous at the grand parental home to celebrate their father's 60th birthday. From the first moment, the audience feels uneasy. Why has Michael (a powerful performance by Tom Hardy) turned out so uncouth, swearing at his wife in front of their little daughter and humiliating the butler? Evidently, there has been a recent death in the family. The spirit of Linda, the fourth sibling, hovers in one of the house's many bathrooms, and will not rest. The infectious laughter of a young girl and the echoing sound of water filling a bath haunt us.

The extraordinary skill of Festen is its tension. As the birthday party unfolds, our foreboding intensifies. We are strapped into our seats on a journey to unspeakable horror. The extended family gathers at a long table facing us like Leonardo's Last Supper. During speeches, the hideous secret slips out. Did I hear that? Did Christian (Jonny Lee Miller) really say what I think he did? Certainly, on the stage, it's as though no one heard. The rituals of the family, the manic singing of "This is Daddy's birthday", the conga dance around the mansion, are too powerful to brook interruption. Yet the cook, who knows it all, predicts that this will be Christian's night. We cannot be sure. Maybe it was what in this weird family passes for a joke, or maybe Christian lacks the balls to sustain his accusation.

Many will know what Festen is about, perhaps from having seen the Dogme film on which this dramatisation by David Eldridge is based. To experience the play properly, you should go in ignorance and be pole-axed by the revelations. If you haven't yet learnt what is at issue, do not read beyond the fifth paragraph of this review.

Robert Pugh is the father bearing an uncanny physical resemblance to the late Jimmy Goldsmith, very broad in his double-breasted dinner suit, with the authority of a rich man who has known nothing in life but obedience to his every wish. Jane Asher is physically perfect as his wife. He would naturally expect her to be so slim, so elegant - so quiet. Now, after 35 taciturn years, with a tap on her wine glass to bring hush, she breaks her silence - only to make a speech of loyalty and gratitude to a perfect husband, and to demand an apology from Christian.

Many extraordinary features make this stage version compelling. It is hard to believe that in just 90 minutes we can be led so deep into a stinking abyss of depravity and misery. It is remarkable that a play about a dinner party can be so physically vigorous. The characters rush about, and Ian MacNeil's dynamic stage design changes almost under their feet. There are moments of intimacy between two or three members of the family, but they cannot communicate. It's only when all 14 are gathered together that they blurt out the truth. This is a fine production of a deeply affecting play.

Now to the plot - so those who are going to see the play, stop here. Christian reveals that his father raped him and his late twin sister when they were small. He accuses his father of causing Linda's suicide. The family's attempts to pretend that those things did not happen are eventually frustrated, partly because they discover her suicide note, but mainly - I feel sure - because they knew all along. Perhaps the fact that the father has now begun to molest his granddaughter makes it impossible for them to maintain the pretence.

Some years ago, a constituent - I'll call her Jane - told me that her father, a man I knew well, had raped her and her brother when they were children. The boy had taken his own life. For years she had held her peace, but now that her dad had started on her children she had to tell the police. It was as though she had passed me a burden. I felt its weight on me, even though I was not intimate with the family. I have never been able to shake the unwelcome information out of my mind. Nothing came of the police investigation. Perhaps, after all, Jane did not report him. But I had no doubt that she had told me the truth, because after that I never offered to shake the man by the hand and he did not seem surprised, and because his wife's face betrayed such weariness. It seemed always that she was somewhere else, distantly smiling, her head slightly bowed by the weight of her dreadful knowledge.

The close parallels between that constituency case and Festen struck me forcibly. I thought I recognised in Jane Asher's performance something of the zombie-like quality that I had seen in her real-life equivalent, a smile accomplished after years of effort, unrelated to the world about her, every fibre strained to maintain an appearance of normality. This magnificent, horrific play had once more delivered me Jane's burden. I do not want it.

Booking on 020 7359 4404 until 1 May

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