It’s far from unusual to stage a J.M. Barrie revival for Christmas; what is uncommon, however, is to choose this one. Tenuous claims are sometimes made comparing Dear Brutus (1917) with Barrie’s Peter Pan: instead of Neverland, the second act takes place in what has been called an Almostland, and the boy who never grew up corresponds here to adults who, ultimately, never change. However, given that the mysterious realm is a wood on Midsummer Eve, and that the group of house-guests have been assembled by a strange, seemingly timeless host named Lob (which is another name for Puck), there’s a far more obvious parallel from Shakespeare.

Bit by bit we glean a legend of an eerie wood which apparently materialises in different places on Midsummer Eve, from which visitors do not always return; it’s apparent, further, that Lob has assembled his guests because they all have something in common. This, he eventually blurts out, is a need for the wood’s gift: to give people “a second chance”. Under the magical moon, an adulterous triangle is reconfigured, a thieving butler becomes a successful magnate and so on.

The most affecting of these transformations involves wealthy but washed-up artist Will Dearth and his wife. Freed from their loveless marriage she, ever socially conscious, is transformed into a beggar, whereas Dearth himself acquires a “might-have-been” daughter. Margaret (Venice van Someren) more or less justifies the Peter Pan comparisons on her own, combining as she does Peter’s irrepressibility with Wendy’s insight. Miles Richardson also turns in an admirable performance as the newly caring Dearth, whereas in the first act he had been one of a number of actors in Jonathan O’Boyle’s production who pitch their performances far too large for the smaller of Southwark’s two studio spaces.

In the final act, most – but not all – characters have learnt a salutary lesson yet also recognise that the reform may not take root after all... hence the title, from Julius Caesar: “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.” It’s a play that exemplifies both Barrie’s tendency sometimes to be a gentler Bernard Shaw and his more frequent propensity for letting us off perhaps too easily.

Written for the Financial Times.