For 15 or so ghastly minutes, it seems as though events unfolding in the Royal Court’s smaller performance space will be riper and more self-consciously “theatrical” than if the ghosts of Olivier, Gielgud and Richardson had gathered for a catch-up chat in the bar downstairs.

Tim Crouch’s twistily self-referential new work starts with a performer, masquerading as an audience member, sitting among us and talking excitedly about his play-going habit. There follow periods of pitch darkness and pauses that extend for minutes. Knowing laughter is, depressingly, elicited from us.

Just when this particular audience member felt she’d scream if such artful smugness continued, the piece morphs into something far more complex. The four performers, still among us in the two banks of facing seating, start to recount their disturbing involvement in a play with a particularly violent theme. Gradually Crouch, who also plays a writer called, yes, Tim Crouch, forces us to confront the awkward complicity between audiences, actors and the type of art these two groups choose either to watch or be involved with.

It’s the sort of frustrating yet rewarding work that is stronger on ideas than their execution and coheres far more if you read the script afterwards. Crouch is probably asking too much of us but at least he’s banished that knowing laughter far away.

Until 24 October (020 7565 5000,
www.royalcourttheatre.com).