IT would be easy to jump to conclusions as scene one unfolds - street girl and cab driver, grubby exploitative sex and nothing more.

The next two settings appear to reinforce the victim theme, loveless liaisons that depress rather than titillate.

David Hare's creation was forged in the white-hot sexual heat of earlier works, Arthur Schnitzler's Reigen and La Ronde, a 1950s cult film classic. Each incarnation sends out the fashionable messages of the day, whether Marxist orthodoxy or feminist rant.

Yet director Chris Jaeger is possibly alone in recognising the essential truth of this piece - that all men are, on some fundamental level, hopelessly inadequate idiots. They stumble about like drunks, intoxicated on their own hormones.

But Jaeger's masterly brush strokes would be as nothing without the right materials, and his artist's palette must surely overflow with the talents of Emily Portsmouth and Bob Churchill. Despite a decidedly Edwardian demeanour, Ms Portsmouth effortlessly flits from uncouth hooker to posh married bint and from classy model to prima donna actress.

Meanwhile, Mr Churchill as the aristocrat and politician actually starts to sound like his namesake at times, with just a hint of Boris Johnson for good measure.

But what really hits home is all this laughable male vanity, delusion and pure stupidity laid bare - literally on occasion - for all to see.

It is not always a pretty picture, yet the so-called weaker sex somehow always manages to rise above it all.

The Blue Room is a bitter-sweet sideways glance at the human condition, neatly held together by some cool jazz sounds. It runs until Saturday and is well worth a visit.