The Viagra Monologues at the Herald Theatre

By PETER CALDER

Any predisposition to be irritated by the very idea of this piece - what, after all, might have been said if a man had written The Vagina Monologues? - evaporates within a few moments of the lights going down.

There's Paul Barrett, his toddler size defined by the shadowy adults holding his hands, talking about where his penis "lives" ("in my big-boy undies, not my nappies"). The intonation, the awkward head angles, the flapping arms, the tangled logic ("it's not a real crocodile, it's a crocodile crocodile") are all sublime.

So is the writing. Geraldine Brophy, who penned these 15 monologues about men's relationship with love, manhood, sexuality, fatherhood and, just occasionally, their penises, displays an excellent ear for the way men talk. The phrasing at times carries more than a suggestion of transcription, but the shaping showcases a skilful theatrical sensibility and keeps us riveted.

In doing so, Brophy, who also directs, is abetted by a fine trio of actors: Barrett, Jason Hoyte (what a versatile talent is emerging here!) and Greg Johnson inhabit with irresistible conviction a variety of characters aged from 3 to 68. And what's striking is that, despite the suggestive sniggering occasioned, even encouraged, by the production, it's a show about much more than penises. It's refreshingly free of the cheap and easy leer and often touching as it engages with some of the great malaises of being male.

There are flat spots: statistical interpolations - the difference between the genders' life expectancies, for example - have an uncomfortably didactic ring to them and jag the otherwise beautiful rhythms of the evening. And an early piece which addresses the problem of sex tourism doesn't really work.

But these small faults are overwhelmed by the bits that work well indeed - Johnson's memory of the young man who stole and crashed his car; Barrett's haunting evocation of a gay businessman who walks along the terrible precipice edge of his dangerous desire; Hoyte's brilliantly tormented priest; Johnson's reminiscences of a wartime visit to a Cairo whorehouse - are excellently crafted and tellingly performed.

Best of all, many, if not most, of the pieces, have an unpredictable dramatic arc. Often there's a sting in the tail, usually to do with tragedy or disappointed expectation, and the sobering connection between male sexuality and the violence men do to themselves and others is evoked without ever being belaboured. It's not often you see a world premiere which doesn't feel like a work in progress. This is an exceptional, rounded and moving piece of theatre. It's ripe for export, but let no one forget, when the Northern Hemisphere versions open, that we saw it here first.