Samuel Richardson’s 1740 novel Pamela tells of a young housemaid who is pursued, harassed, abducted and almost raped by her employer before her written record of her tribulations reforms him and the two fall in love and marry. A succès de scandale in its own time, it has now inspired this piece consisting of a dozen “variations” by Martin Crimp, which likewise has already sold out its entire run on the basis of shocked, thrilled whispers about Cate Blanchett in a BDSM play.

Nearly 300 years on, a modern reader of the book is struck by the almost ridiculous implausibility of “Mr B”’s inconsistencies and switchbacks of attitude and conduct, and to an only slightly lesser extent by that of the 15-year-old Pamela’s eloquent saintliness. Crimp’s versions (called simply “Man” and “Woman”) seem at first equally distorted: Man is blunter in his description of his own power and Woman is confrontational rather than haloed and long-suffering, but it apparently offers little fresh insight. What we see at first are a series of sketches of male power, of male illusions of male power, and also of female illusions of male power – again, the Woman opposing this Man may have more of our sympathy, but that doesn’t make her a more realistic figure.

Gradually, matters grow more complex. There are scenes in which Blanchett delivers Man’s lines, calling Stephen Dillane “Pamela” (in a nice impersonation of him) and wearing his suit as he strips down to female lingerie. At times, Woman (whoever is playing her) manipulates Man by deploying her desirability. The housekeeper in the novel becomes a kind of female security chief here, who also desires Woman. A younger man and a couple of younger women (or girls: there’s a riff or two on the terminology) drift in and out in various capacities.

It becomes more and more explicitly a matter of controlling, not other people as such, but the narrative. Man is loquacious but increasingly uncertain where all his verbiage is directed; Woman’s words are fewer but better targeted. Richardson’s was arguably the first true novel in the English language, and takes the form of a series of (often unsent) letters from Pamela to her parents, so the matter of how one actually tells a story is intrinsic to the original work. Crimp sharpens the focus of this as between individuals, until it becomes a kind of pervy verbal fencing match. This isn’t the first time, either, that he has used song to step outside the normal dynamics of dramatic expression, with housekeeper/heavy Mrs Jewkes breaking into a lament of unrequital just as Man and Woman undergo a form of wedding.

This being a Katie Mitchell production, the lighting is almost entirely ambient on Vicki Mortimer’s two-car-garage set; changes such as the switching on and off of overhead fluorescent tube lights seem to be significant, but then become inconsistent and incomprehensible. The same, I fear, can be said of the play as a whole. Blanchett and Dillane are more compelling than the material, which seems more concerned with displaying its own thoughtfulness than with actually taking those thoughts anywhere in particular. I found myself thinking unkindly that it’s more intricate, and much more articulate, but not necessarily any more profound, than Fifty Shades.

Written for the Financial Times.