Theatre - Patriotism without a sneer served up with deep humanity. By Michael Portillo We Happy Few Gielgud Theatre, London W1

Congratulations to Imogen Stubbs who in her debut as a writer has unearthed the wonderful story of Nancy Hewins and the Osiris repertory company. Seven women through all the years of the Second World War criss-crossed Britain, sleeping on floors, performing in schools and pubs, because they believed it was their patriotic duty to nourish the nation's spiritually starved souls with Shakespeare.

Stubbs tells us that she is "yearning for a lost age". The generation that is now in its forties and fifties grew up when talk of the war still hung constantly in the air. We felt that mixture of relief and regret that we were born too late, and that now translates into a sense of obligation to remember and celebrate the courage of those days.

In fact Stubbs is pushing at an open door. She may be right to lament that for some young people history is superfluous, but in books, films and documentaries not much sells like the Second World War. Few can resist evocations of our finest hour. As the Union Flag unfurls in her play, words from Winston Churchill and the bard of Stratford-upon-Avon blend, inviting us to celebrate this sceptred isle, this blessed plot, this realm, this England. It can only help that Shakespeare's greatest hits supply Stubbs with a high percentage of her script. The story of seven women living cheek by jowl, donning beards to play the male leads, coping splendidly through all adversity, is good box office, too. Whatever you call the stage equivalent of a chick-flick, this is it. What is more, Stubbs has chosen a format that has often succeeded before: a show about actors putting on a show.

It is a winning combination, but Stubbs does not entirely bring it to success. The problem does not lie with the cast. Juliet Stevenson gives a vigorous performance as the leader of the troupe, striding about barking orders in her father's coat, trying to disguise how her responsibilities burden her and her tormented anxiety for her son at war. Marcia Warren is her adorable number two, a woman whose superficial prissiness cannot disguise deep humanity and courage. When she comes to tell her life story, she has the audience enthralled. Kate O'Mara makes the most of a rather two-dimensional fallen starlet who has become a whisky-sodden old cow, venting her bitterness against her pretty daughter, played by Emma Darwall-Smith. Patsy Palmer is meltingly sweet as the cockney tomboy for whom the war, and the chance to be in the theatre, are the best things that ever happened. Her first attempt at being Henry V, instilling courage in his outnumbered men, provides the most moving moment of the play.

Stubbs is at her best writing comedy. Many of the lines in the first half brought loud laughter. She capitalises well on the farcical potential of the situation as the women, with few resources of any kind, including talent, set forth into a sceptical world to achieve their ideal. The parade of ludicrous candidates at the first audition may not be original, but it is very funny. The troupe's inaugural performance of Macbeth might owe a lot to the Marx brothers, but it is nicely done. At the interval the audience has a warm feeling about the play.

The second half works less well. In dramatic terms, Stubbs is right to offer us a contrast. Years have passed and the company is now well established. There are love affairs, but also tiffs, sorrow and bereavement. The war is unbearably wearisome. The play's difficulty is that Stubbs does poignancy less well than jokes. The character development is predictable and clumsy. O'Mara's dipsomaniac bitch repents being so horrid and, once her one-liners have dried up, she ceases to be of interest to the audience. She promises to go dry herself. "Let's shake on it," says her deeply repressed daughter cheerily. Oh dear. There are too many examples of wooden dialogue and the piece teeters uncomfortably on the edge of sentimentality.

Perhaps Stubbs has suffered from being too well known. An obscure author would have had to rework the weaker material before reaching a West End stage. The first read-through should have identified the duff lines and sent them to the barber, as Hamlet remarks during the players' scene. The direction, by Stubbs's husband, Sir Trevor Nunn, is good, but might another director have been more ruthless in hacking out the scenes that flag? At three hours, including the interval, a cut or two would not go amiss.

Nancy Hewins's godmother was Beatrice Webb. Her travelling band, her happy few, were political at least in the sense that they believed in the efficacy of women and the virtue of communal effort. Those idealists set out to raise the spirit of even the most uneducated by letting them hear the finest words ever written in English.

During this mainly enjoyable evening it was refreshing to be served patriotism without a sneer. In a play about war, Stubbs plays it straight and avoids any anachronistic references to Iraq. For this relief, much thanks.

Booking on 0870 890 1105 until 13 November

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