Wittgenstein's Daughter, Stalls Studio, Citizens' Theatre, Glasgow. Confusing

fascist, but not the fascist Celine. Round two will feature Beckett, and

again not the Beckett, but the boxer Beckett, former lover of the

aforementioned Wittgenstein. Are you following?

The ghost of Wittgenstein will turn up during the course of this new

play by Dic Edwards, his exhumed skeleton will provide a necromantic

diversion, and we will have a flashback involving Alma's mother

Victoria, but Alma is revealed as not the daughter of Wittgenstein at

all, though disciples of the great man thought it might be a good idea

if some kind of child could be attributed to him so that the image of

philosophy would not suffer from homophobic prejudice. This is

Cambridge, after all. Alma ends up giving birth in her non-father's

grave.

Beyond that, I'm not sure I can be of much help. The language of the

piece is largely, and possibly wilfully, dislocated from the action, and

such residues of it as refuse to escape attention are tedious in the

extreme. Whether it is a philosophical comedy, a play about the end of

history, about language itself, or about Alma's quest for identity, is

by no means clear, and as far as this reviewer is concerned, it will

remain a matter of total indifference.

Last night I bought a copy of Mr Edwards's play, and since I cannot

comprehend even his 13 notes which preface the work, I am resigned to

the conclusion that we inhabit separate and irreconcilable orbits of

intelligibility. I therefore claim sanctuary in Wittgenstein: ''Whereof

one cannot speak one must remain silent.''

Designer Rebecca Loncraine's boxing ring and surrounding bill-poster

collage, based on the treatises and equations of the philosopher, is an

unusual and arresting idea. The performance by Anne Marie Timoney as

Alma, doubling as the mother, is courageous, and she is supported by

Robert David MacDonald (who directed), Patrick Hannaway, and Daniel

Illsley. Theirs was a difficult and unenviable assignment.