Witness, Gate Theatre, London

All part of the therapy

"Being an interpreter is a kind of punishment,'' says the nameless woman in this Swedish play. Like the unlucky nymph Echo, condemned to do no more than repeat the words of others until she fades away, the woman is savaged by feelings of helplessness and imminent oblivion."When I look up at the sky I think something's going to come crashing down on me.'' Her fears mirror those of the speakers, survivors of the war in Yugoslavia, whose stories of rape, torture, and sadistic degradation she translates for a therapist.

After hearing a particularly dreadful tale, the interpreter breaks the rules forbidding private relations with clients and writes to the man, offering help. They have long talks, and then she sleeps with him ("I saw it as part of his therapy"). Like all charity sex, this ends badly. "Does talking help?" she asks us, as if to say, "Does anything?"

Despite the simple story of Cecilia Parkert's play, as compelling as it is horrifying, much in Witness is obscure. We are told too little about the interpreter to know how much to trust her, or to assess her motives. Relating an embarrassing incident in the office, she seems unaware that the married analyst is disturbed by his attraction to her. Is she simply careless in her diction, is she naive, is she deferential, or is she deliberately ignoring what she doesn't want to know? Acting, of course, is a form of interpreting, as is watching and listening to an actor, and, by making us aware that we are all interpreters, Witness creates a powerful sense of identification with its character. Tamzin Griffin reinforces this with her matter-of-fact delivery, broken at first by nervous laughter, later by misery and anger, and finally by a seeming calm that covers a shattering loss of hope. I wondered, though, whether the Sloaney, slightly coy quality (Griffin is a good-looking blonde) was right for the character; Erica Whyman's otherwise efficient and tactful direction was marred only by sound effects that were distracting rather than emphatic.

This play about translation's inadequacies ironically won the Gate's relaunched Translation Award for Kevin Halliwell, who richly deserves it. But, along with its virtues, Witness is somewhat manipulative. The interpreter says that it would be absurd for her to say she's not strong enough to listen to the victims' stories, since they had to be strong enough to survive them. This is a sentiment I endorse, but not the hectoring sanctimony of her saying it would be absurd for us as well. Our strength, or susceptibility to guilt, is then tested with a recital of bizarre tortures. Are they true? Either way, one feels bullied, bludgeoned with unfamiliar horrors rather than made newly sensitive to accepted, familiar ones.

To 17 Aug (020-7229 0706)