Usually my favourite Churchill play, this is a moving and intense exploration of the relationship between a father and his sons, cloned ones; a dead one too. The issue of identity comes in for a searching, often funny examination and soon the richness of this territory is apparent. I was reminded of the effect of a mantra, except here repetition of the word number garnered it multifarious meanings, rather than a loss of meaning. What does each son, what can each son mean to his father? What ought the father to feel for his sons? What does he? For his first dead son? A moving but never solemn piece that lives on stage and page. The effect of Beckett is evident in the spare, beautifully written dialogue and the characterization is, as it has to be, superbly delineated.