Back in 1943 J. B. Priestley, who could (I suppose) be regarded as Howard Brenton's political and theatrical grand-dad, wrote a play entitled We Came to a City, in which a cross-section of hallucinating citizens were confronted with a socialist utopia. Some winced away in genteel distaste; others eagerly embraced its share-alike lifestyle; and the best and boldest made the trip back to waking reality with the intention of transforming glum old Britain into the new Jerusalem whose glistening avenues they'd briefly trod. Then, anything was possible; now, everything seems impossible; and, if you want a pretty vivid illustration of just how far Icarus has plummeted in the intervening years, compare Priestley's soaring vision with the distinctly nightmarish 'dream-play' [Thirteenth Night]…. Jack Beaty, an earnest young idealist concussed in a dust-up with rampaging fascists, finds that he is the male lead in what rapidly reveals itself to be an...