The play is also a hymn to the late 1950s with the fug of late-night jazz clubs and liberation of louche London life for the postwar generation: ghosts that cling to Rickson's moody production.

Memory and the constraints past actions  confer also hang like a tattered shroud over Simon Stephens's Port, written in 2001 and now in a new incarnation at the National Theatre, albeit with Marianne Elliott retaining the director's role. 

Stephens is routinely described as "prolific". A more pertinent question for a man who churns out plays at record speed as well as successful adaptations like The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time is what makes this Stakhanovite dramatist's work  memorable. Port, first performed in 2001 in Manchester, is a good test. In it, we follow the euphonically-named Racheal Keats (a spirited Kate O'Flynn) from the age of 11 to 24, as she struggles to shake off the shackles of a deprived upbringing by a mother who abandons her and brother Billy (Mike Noble), an epically jumpy ADHT youth. Recall The Jam's lines, "I could go on for hours/and I probably will/But I'd sooner put some joy back into this town called Malice," and you have Stephens's evocation of life on the edge of tolerability amid the high-rises and car parks.

No one bothers with the Racheals and Billies, whoever is in power. Billy drifts into young offending and prison, with only his stroppy sister believing in his redemption. Although resolutely left-wing, Stephens wisely resists having his characters shout about the Thatcher years or persistence of the opportunity gap under Labour. Plotlines from perverts in the park, to smash and grab raids on Boots and the casual awfulness of bad parenting, mean that the evening contributes little to a "Visit Stockport" campaign. Northern towns must shudder when one of their own puts them on the stage and the running time could be cut by a good third if the profanities were rationed. 

But there is much humanity and the odd belly laugh in Stephens's bleak vision. Billie reflects that Stockport is no place to bring up a dog, while the supermarket manager reeling from the umpteenth shoplifting spree perorates that the north-west is "getting like bloody Beirut". On this showing, the judgment is somewhat unkind to Lebanon.