[Below, Kingston presents a review of the production of Swanwhite directed by Timothy Walker.]

This charmingly peculiar fairytale shows how much there is of Strindberg that most of us know absolutely nothing about. The wife-taming Strindberg, yes, or rather the would-be wife-tamer; the dramatist of terrible family life, of lives unconvincingly redeemed by suffering, and plenty of lives not so redeemed; of strife under the Vasa kings (not that we are given many opportunities to see these).

Now that Timothy Walker has directed what is thought to be the British premiere of this full-length 1901 play written by, you might think, Hans Christian Strindberg, its characters of stern father, cruel stepmother, trusting maiden and loving prince obviously emerge from the same brainbox. But even if the simple starkness of the tale is what might be expected, the fact that he is telling it at all remains a surprise. I first became aware of Walker when he played an unforgettably fawning and grubby clerk in Cheek by Jowl's sublimely funny A Family Affair eight years ago. Though I ought to know better, this is the image that has unfairly hung about him in my mind and can now be replaced, or at least joined, by that of someone who has managed to create, on his directorial debut, a passionate tale of redemptive love among the archetypes that, against so many odds, holds the stage.

More than simply offering a fascinating glimpse of fin de siècle drama as written at the end of the last siècle, the play provides its cast with vivid characters to create and a language to do so that is certainly flowery but reminiscent of meadows and medieval gardens rather than the hothouse. Gregory Motton's translation serves his author well.

Young Swanwhite's father must set off for battle—“Farewell, my great war hero!”—and she is left to the mercy of the stepmother (Richenda Carey, wicked in rustling black velvet). A prince comes courting on behalf of a sottish king, and true love blossoms. The Green Gardener sows discord, horrid things happen in the Blue Tower; fire rages, seas pound, a brace of dead mothers bring blessings. It could all be perfectly absurd but isn't, because of the cast's convincing habitation of their roles.

Jules Melvin projects gravity and innocence without being mawkish; her wobbly gait at the start is like a bird, of course, but also suggests an enthusiastic, two-legged, newborn lamb. Her young prince, Jason Morell, declares his feelings in a most expressive, gently passionate voice, and they play their love scenes (and their show of discord) with stirring conviction.

On Gemma Fripp's set, with its sense that menace lurks in the shadows, the three candle-holding servants look as if they have stepped from an 1890s children's book. Apt image for Strindberg's dip into the pools of myth.