Opening during the warmest week of the year to date, this seems a strange play to put on, but of course, Mamillius never gets to tell his winter's tale, and the story of jealousy and reconciliation warms hearts at any time.

Nicholas Hytner, in a welcome return to the National, has set this play in a modern city state, with all the trappings of the 1980s. Alex Jennings' Leontes is a thrusting, young businessman running his fiefdom in his country casuals, lounging about on his designer furniture. The modernity causes a few problems. Would these characters really consult the Delphic oracle to determine Hermione's guilt? This Leontes would probably have brought in a management consultant and surely he would have had some sort of grief counselling to cope with perceived infidelity.

Jennings is insanely jealous almost from the start and plays the early scenes with an incandescent intensity of rage. He is a megalomaniac in charge, storming through the palace with a permanent red face, terrifying his minions. Jennings' is an almost too-believable portrayal of a man, secure in his position and ruling by fear - a story repeated in all too many organisations.

But his mood changes in the court scene; he struggles to lay the charges and his anguished face shows what his accusations have cost him - even before Hermione's innocence is determined. When she collapses, he is brusquely pushed away by the courtiers. This is a fine portrayal of a man who has lost his grip of power and, in the second half of the play, a man genuinely torn by remorse.

Deborah Findley's Paulina makes a superb counterpoint to Leontes. Arriving at the prison as a sort of 'lady-who-lunches' who won't take no for an answer, she's all sweet reason. But the ferocity of her attack on Leontes is an uncomfortable echo of the king's madness. Her dignity in keeping alive her lady's memory (and indeed her lady) sits nicely alongside the king's grief. However, Claire Skinner's Hermione is too flat. She shows little sense of outrage at the accusations leveled against her, accepting of her fate almost too meekly.

Where the production does score highly is in its depiction of passing time: the 1980s corporate culture gives way to a rave scene. Phil Daniels' Autolycus is a roguish rocker blasting out his (largely inaudible) rock anthems. A dance routine featuring samples of a variety of Shakespearean speeches is especially cleverly done. And the sheepshearers' festival with its, er, exotic substances does give Callisto's line about "unusual weeds" added resonance.

But this makes the comparison between the bucolic idyll that is Bohemia and the grief-stricken Sicilian court even more marked. And the ending, after Hermione's statue comes to life and she is left, silent, holding her newly-discovered daughter, is genuinely touching. A real emotional blow to finish with.

Maxwell Cooter