Can a conversation consist solely of questions? Do things happen to people, or do people happen to things? Are we in control? What does it all mean? If you were going to be buried in a coffin, would you rather be alive or dead? The audience and cast of the Winthrop Drama Society Production of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead never resolve these burning canundrums, but they spend a humdinging two and a half hours trying.

Many critics agree that Shakespeare was a fine playwright. Of his plays, many of the same critics praise Hamlet in particular. But this megahit does feature two flat characters, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, who appear, fawn sycophantically over everything that moves, and then disappear, apparently to die horribly for no particular reason.

Stoppard, intrigued by these passive, undifferentiated non-characters, tries to reconstruct the drama of Hamlet from their point of view. He intersperses his own imagined dialogue with the actual text of Shakespeare's play, to create a fascinating new perspective on Hamlet, drama, the human condition and flipping coins.

Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern do nothing. They spend their time waiting, watching others, now sucked into the hurly-burly of the Danish court, now spat out. Director Arzhang Kamarei generates this hopeless tone from the outset: to the thundering strains of Mission Impossible theme song, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern race furiously round the stage on hobby horses. This wild dance builds to a galloping climax as the music ends, and then...nothing. As always, R and G rush around achieving diddly squat.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern threatens to bore the audience with its endless wordplay and inaction. The text's witty repartee requires a quick, fluent and spotlessly clear delivery, or else all the jokes and ideas lose their impact and their meaning.

Phil Munger as Rosencrantz, and Jacob Broder as Guildenstern almost lose control of the fast-moving dialogue. At times the audience cannot keep pace with the bouts of verbal jousting because of inadequate into-national nuance. But they more than compensate with their frenetic motion and lively delivery. Broder especially appears more comfortable with physical rather than vocal acting, and his facial and bodily contortions bring the house down. In particular, his protracted death rattle during Munger's meditations on burial has the audience chortling merrily.

By contrast, Ivan Briscoe, as the self-important, archetypal actor, the Player, enunciates his lines flawlessly. With this character, Stoppard takes a stab at the thesps of this world, and Briscoe's interpretation is a twist of the knife. He delivers a spirited portrayal of the unshakably dignified Player who doubles as pimp for a group of malnourished and talentless actors-cum-prostitutes.

Since the drama consists mainly of dialogue, the director has less scope for innovation than in other plays. But Kamarei introduces some interesting touches. During one of Rosencrantz's monologues, Broder acts out scenes of brutal bloodletting with a sword and armor. The fine blocking and motion in the silent interchanges between our two heroes indicate Kamarei's talents.

Kamarei plays Claudius (Galen Weston) as an effete poseur complete with absurdly exagerrated regal costume. His amusing interpretation suceeds thanks to Weston's magnificent mincing. Similarly, Sarah Tuttleton pulls off a fantastic performance as a panting, moaning, breast-rubbing nympho Ophelia.

Funny, stimulating, well-written, well-acted: what more could you ask? Winthrop's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern may not be the next Broadway blockbuster, but it provides solid entertainment. If you're suffering from British-wittiness-withdrawl, this show will provide.