Kyoto

So it is in David Greig's Kyoto, in which a pair of conference delegates finally act on their decade-long flirtation and get it together. For a few moments, anyway. After that they mainly just talk.

They talk about the sparks that flew between them at dinners, discussion groups and plenary sessions, but it's clear that their moment has passed as soon as he gives the wrong answer to a question about his sexual history. The reality of the two of them, alone together in a hotel together, just doesn't match up.

The setting doesn't help - no lights, no heating and a lock on the minibar conspire to kill the mood, and he can't help repeating a stock insight of the seasoned world traveller like a malfunctioning audio guide.

She's a polar scientist, and he's not, although he's learned a fair bit about the Arctic over ten years of contriving to be around her, in cities around the globe. They refer to their colleagues as 'the world' in an over-used in-joke. They both find the overblown languague of restaurant menus faintly ridiculous.

One of the main strengths of Greig's best plays comes from his ability to beautifully articulate universal thoughts and feelings, much like a great stand-up comedian does. What the playwright has done here is created a curious set-up in which the two characters are defined only in terms of each other, yet have no real relationship.

The most interesting aspects of their lives are in another place, or time, or both, and without understanding their respective motivations it's difficult to really connect with their story, or with the issues of international relations, climate change and ageing that are woven into with it.

As it is, Kyoto feels like a fragment of a play rather than a satisfying whole.