John Webster's play apparently drew boos on its first performance in Clerkenwell in 1612. A bawdy Jacobean revenge tragedy with fantasy sequences, papal intrigue, a sense of humour and a lot of blood, it's a lot to take in - and a lot of dramatic options for a cast to choose between.

A mile or so south and 400 years later, the Menier's revival is too capable to merit any catcalls. But Jonathan Munby's production soft-peddles the passion between its forbidden lovers, Vittoria and the Duke of Brachiano.

Yes, Claire Price and the imposing Darrell D'Silva (pictured) look intensely into each other's eyes. But this affair brings down their houses, leads to divorce, trial, ruin, murder. Whatever nuances you care to bring to their lust, it's got to be palpable enough to flavour a whole show. Without more heat, there's a lack of resonance to events as Vittoria's brother Flamineo - an impecunious Iago whose malignancy is all too motivated - tries to play the protagonists like a piano.

It's a pleasure to be so close to the 12-strong cast. But different actors respond differently to the potential for intimacy: some, such as John Dougall as Vittoria's husband Camillo, underplay a treat. Aidan McArdle has a dark charm as Flamineo but is too introverted: he should be seducing the audience as much as the characters. Christopher Godwin would be impressively irascible as Cardinal Monticelso in any situation, whereas Louis Hilyer's Francisco, out to avenge his sister Isabella, the wife of the Duke, delivers his verse with almost alarming heartiness.

Munby handles the bloodiness well, and Philip Witcomb's design, with its red curtain, suits and sashes, has little of the Fringe about it. But the dance after the interval half reminds you of the heightened theatricality that is lacking elsewhere. While there are set pieces, such as a drug-induced masque scene, that apply a 20th-century sensibility, the production traces its way through the text rather than making a strong statement on it.

So when Price's defiant Vittoria defends herself in the trial scene, it's hard to figure out what life she has beyond that defiance. And while the verse stings as the body count rises - “Doest thou imagine thou canst slide in blood/ And not be tainted with a shameful fall?” - the consequences of betrayal lack the gravitational pull of great tragedy, despite a cute circular conceit of opening and closing the show with a janitor mopping up blood. Such moments lend a welcome wit to a brisk revival still edging towards its own identity.

Box office: 020-7907 7060. To November 15

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