BEING stuck in the middle of a warring couple is never a pleasant experience.

So pity poor Kurt, who finds himself used as a human shuttlecock in August Strindberg's tale of the marriage from hell, adapated by Howard Brenton.

Edgar, a frustrated mid-ranking military leader, and his wife Alice are approaching their 30th wedding anniversary, locked in a relationship based on mutual loathing from which there is seemingly no escape.

When Alice's cousin Kurt arrives amidst this nuptial nightmare, the couple spy a chance to stop feeding off one another's disappointments and fix on some fresh prey.

Kurt, who is running a quarantine compound on the remote island they call home, soon finds himself getting sucked into the viral vortex of their relationship - tapping his feet to their dance of death, as a clubber might to a guilty pleasure floor filler.

But while this is the only tune the couple know, Kurt struggles to break this sirens' spell and kick free of their poisonous pas a deux.

Dances of Death is a forensic examination of a loveless marriage and what keeps this human wreckage afloat, asking whether cruelty is as natural a human condition as compassion.

Unfortunately, this production pales in comparison to Mies Julie, the excoriating revival of Strindberg's most famous play recently seen at Hammersmith's Riverside Studios.

Where that was like having your insides carved up by a skilled swordsman, this is akin to being repeatedly biffed on the nose for two-and-a-half-hours.

The dialogue is too often clunky and unconvincing, with the couple's barbs failing to hit the mark, and an admittedly strong cast fail to rescue the affair.

The whole experience is too much like a painfully awkward dinner party and unfortunately the pudding's not good enough to justify sticking around.