Theatre 503, London
Ever since David Mamet's testosterone-fuelled 1983 play, Glengarry Glen Ross, theatre-goers have known that estate agents sell their own grubby souls along with the property they are flogging. But at a time when bankers are replacing Mini-driving whippersnappers as hate figures in the national psyche, Suzie Miller's play gives estate agents a jolly good kicking.
It's nothing startlingly new, except it's a sign of how much the workplace has changed since Glengarry that the emphasis is very much on the women: the lonely Hilary (Abigail Thaw, excellent) who is driven by fear of ageing and a hunger for success to fill the aching void inside, and 21-year-old Mandy, the receptionist turned trainee saleswoman, a bimbo who learned the magic rule early: "Sex sells. I can't help it." It's not just Mandy's nails that are acrylic-coated in Kellie Shirley's slyly comic performance.
The men in this small north London estate agency are all losers: divorced Gary may swear by motivational videos, but he can't even forge a relationship with his own son. Flakey Stan, who has a dangerous habit of taking internet dates to clients' houses, and would-be writer, Anthony, who has allowed a job he hates to take over his life, are feeling the pressure in a recessionary climate where it's hard to make a sale.
It's entertaining but over-familiar stuff. The TV-style short scenes are given little help by a production that lacks a comic edge, and is inclined to overuse snazzy music and lighting effects that sap energy rather than fuelling it. The shifts between dialogue and internal monologue are often clumsy, although it is in the latter's more poetic moments that both Miller and her characters really find their voice.