You won't find better performances in the West End right now than those of David Suchet and Zoë Wanamaker in Howard Davies's meaty, satisfying production of this 1947 Arthur Miller play.

Suchet is Joe Keller, an ordinary man with one excruciating flaw. He's materially comfortable, but his security is the result of canny dealings during the Second World War, and there's a nagging suspicion that the facade of respectability he's erected is just one good nudge away from collapsing.

Wanamaker is Joe's wife Kate. Tormented by the disappearance of their son Larry, who was reported missing in action in the war, she insists he is still alive, investing her faith in the restorative power of cosmic energies. “Laugh, but there are meanings in such things,” she tells the sceptics — she's a woman of “uncontrolled inspirations”.

Miller's play suggests the impossibility of blotting out the past. It begins amid the norms of suburban life — the Kellers' verdant backyard — then throws their apparent equilibrium into disarray as secrets surface from the depths of their carefully contrived oblivion. During the war Joe shipped defective airplane parts from his father's factory, and 21 pilots died as a result. He's shrouded the unpleasant facts in a personal myth that neatly sustains his innocence.

Of all Miller's plays, this one throbs most strongly with the influence of Ibsen. It compellingly charts the relationship between actions and their morbid psychological causes, and there's a note of Nordic mysticism beneath its richly furbished reality. Davies's production has a rousing sense of scale and is studded with telling details. William Dudley's design is atmospheric, and Paul Groothuis's sound evocative.

There's excellent work from Stephen Campbell Moore as Joe's affectionate, attentive son Chris, and from Jemima Rooper, warm and twinkly but soulful as Ann, his brother's one-time lover and the woman he now aspires to marry. Wanamaker is husky, poised and poignant, a model of tortured seriousness.

It's Suchet, though, who dominates. He invests Joe with a lovely geniality, yet also with gravitas and a wounded, anxious manliness. Every nuance of his performance feels perfectly weighted: he can even make holding a pipe in his mouth a densely expressive gesture. All My Sons is a heavyweight drama — moralistic, well-made and perhaps a little too obvious in its tragic design. It's not exactly summer blockbuster material, but it is as potent a production of Miller's work as one could hope to see.
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