Through May 22.

There is a rare chance, this week, to see one of the great classics of the American theatre.

The Glass Menagerie, staged by the Bermuda Musical and Dramatic Society (BMDS) at Daylesford, was Tennessee Williams' first great success and epitomises his talent for exposing the frailties and excesses of the human condition. As a native of the South, he is the quintessential American playwright whose observations on human relationships take on a mint-julep freshness in today's preoccupations with generational dysfunction.

For if ever there is a dysfunctional family, the Wingfields of St. Louis are it.

This largely autobiographical play centres around Amanda (the mother), who has been long deserted by her husband. Dreams of her past as a "Southern belle'' conflict with the grim reality of her present reduced circumstances. She insists that her rebellious poet son, Tom, provides a "gentleman caller'' for her shy and crippled daughter, Laura.

This BMDS production is an intelligent, and often moving version of a play that is deceptively difficult to stage, for there is little action and little overt drama. It requires a director and performers of considerable subtlety and nerve to sustain, without descending into melodrama, the essential air of quiet desperation that simmered in the more restrained America of 50 years ago.

Steven Hankey, in his directorial debut, certainly manages this. Not surprisingly, he errs, perhaps, on the side of caution, so that this is a safe interpretation, rather than one that takes production risks. He avoids the obvious pitfalls of directing an episodic memory play, largely through an emotionally charged performance from Phillip Jones, who has to narrate the events of his family's fraught existence.

Williams himself uses the term "memory play'', noting that it "can be presented with unusual freedom of convention'' and dismissing "the realistic play with its genuine Frigidaire''. He has his characters eating imaginary food with imaginary knives and forks and so does Mr. Hankey. The trouble with this approach is its inconsistency, for the Wingfields eat off plates that are real enough and they sit at a solid table. The sudden plunge into the world of mime is, at best, disconcerting.

A more serious problem, however, is the set itself which is meant to represent the "vast hive-like conglomerations of cellular living units''. There is no sign of the crucial fire escape (not even sketched or painted in the background), the very name of which is symbolic of Williams' vision of the circumstances that "feed the fires'' of poverty-induced existence.

All the more credit, then, to Phillip Jones as narrator and son Tom, who captures totally, the claustrophobic atmosphere that so maddens him. This is a brilliant Bermuda debut from a highly talented and experienced actor from Canada, who has recently arrived on the Island. The scene where he tries to pursue his poetic career to the accompaniment of his mother's ceaseless carping, is as good as anything seen recently on the local stage. And throughout, he achieves an impressive balance of sardonic exasperation tempered by a clumsy and reluctant tenderness.

Connie Dey takes on, with her usual aplomb, the role of Amanda Wingfield, whose constant stream of feverish chatter has already eclipsed her daughter and threatens to smother her son.

Technically, this is a wonderfully fluid performance. There is a sense, however, that the period of the piece escapes her, a jarring modernity that keeps peeping through. We are able to laugh at her, even wish to hit her, but rarely do we glimpse the air of vulnerability that confronted women of her kind at that time and which kept Tom tied to her for so long.

Ingrid Welch makes more than a valiant effort to bring believability to the young girl whose mental and physical fragility matches that of her glass collection. She is not helped by the fact that she actually says little, having to rely heavily on body language to convey her gradual withdrawal from those around her. Shyness can, as in real life, often appear as sulkiness, but Ingrid Welch manages, on the whole, to steer her character away from that trap. She is a promising young actress who has already learned a few tricks of the trade, including the all-important one that the act of stillness can be more effective than a wringing of hands. There is a suspicion, however, that it is Hankey's direction of Laura that is too diffident: As her tenuous hold on reality shatters, there could have been, surely, just a touch of "the Ophelias'', a mental drifting-off beyond that non-existent fire escape.

Jim, the gentleman caller who becomes the symbol of the hope that springs eternal, brings a welcome dose of cheerful normality as he strides, briefly, into the lives of this neurotic trio.

Dal Tucker who, incredibly, only began acting two years ago, plays this role with a sunny and wholly convincing authority. He is a natural. His air of bemused fascination as he listens to the torrent of Amanda's social discourse is one of the joys of this production.

Plays of this intensity usually soar into top gear just as the run comes to an end. Sometimes, and The Glass Menagerie is one of those occasions, it seems a shame that the production has to be reviewed on opening night. Things will probably be sizzling by Saturday.

This play marks a promising beginning for Steven Hankey and, it must be admitted, a brave one. Tennessee Williams, who constantly tinkered with his dramas from production to production, is not the easiest of playwrights to pin down. But anyone who appreciates a beautifully written play, where the language is the thing, will get great pleasure from this classic production.

PATRICIA CALNAN.