Jonathan Pryce played Mickey in the 1981 production of Harold Pinter’s The Caretaker at the National Theatre, but it is the role of Davies, which he is now taking on at Trafalgar Studios, that he was born to play. He seems exceptionally comfortable in the grey skin of vagrant Davies who, in typical Pinter style, arrives unexpectedly at brothers’ Mickey and Aston’s home and swiftly and stealthily upends their lives.

Pryce is often too big for his roles – his expansive and powerful delivery sometimes forces cracks down the seams of his characters – but Pinter’s play easily absorbs his effervescent performance whilst somehow, startlingly, leaving us with the impression that Pryce has only just begun to scratch the surface of this fascinating role.

It is Davies’ combination of vivacity and frailty, pride and shame, hope and despair (clashing characteristics shared by most tragic figures but no more so than in the plays of Pinter and Beckett) that allows Pryce to let rip with this role, without ever exhausting his performance or overexposing his part. He pours every colour of the rainbow into his delivery but, because this is such a complex role, is never allowed to go too far in one direction before being pulled back the other way. So, just as his shoulders rise too high or his voice grows a touch too steady, something brings his character plummeting back to reality and Pryce deflates: his back droops, his voice wavers and he becomes weak and laughable again. This restless flexibility allows Pryce to turn in a virtuoso but believable performance as he gallops between a wealth of roles: from shameless, clawing tramp, to old wise grandpa and sometimes, surprisingly, the epitome of the English gentleman.

As Davies continues to unravel and reveal himself, Pryce’s performance grows in strength and variety. Davies is revealed to be a bit of a show off, despite the fact he has no real identity or home. He comes across as smart and engaged, yet all too-used to being ignored. He is a man who cares about manners, yet looks like a tramp. He seems to crave quintessential English-ness (Davies has a particular penchant for tea), yet Pryce’s accent has a faint Welsh twang. This muddle of contradictions results in a character that is constantly trying to assert or reassert himself, despite his sorry situation. He is the ultimate salesman with only himself to sell – an accolade which perfectly matches Pryce’s bold but somehow desperate performance. 

Pryce’s comic delivery is also spot-on (Morahan’s production is a particularly funny take on The Caretaker): instead of hammering out the jokes, he plays the humour lightly, trusting in Pinter’s exquisitely extended logic to create the laughs. I never imagined Pryce to have such a delicate comic touch but he feels the jokes instinctively, releasing the punch lines with admirable precision and restraint. 

There are moments when the comedy – the feather in this show’s classy cap – is overdone.  Again, the parallels between Pinter and Beckett are hard to ignore in one silent exchange, which is comedy gold if played right. Davies and the brothers pass a hat between each other, gradually getting lost in the rhythm of their movements and forgetting their initial motives. The hat goes round in endless circles, nudging at the cyclical power play between these interdependent characters and recalling similar futile exchanges between Godot’s Vladimir and Estragon. It is a cheeky, rich and self-contained moment that expresses volumes, but Pryce’s knowing glances to the audience (he practically winks at us) rob the moment of its unassuming profundity.

Still, there are few slips like this from Pryce and he rarely overpowers the play, with his cavernous role swallowing up his more indulgent moments. The only actor to let his role slip is Sam Spruell as Mick, the older brother with crushed dreams, crushing responsibilities and a hulking, dangerous presence. He is the menace that we find so often sinking over Pinter’s plays but Spruell’s performance is disappointing; he plays to type and seriously compromises his part’s potency as a result.

Spruell looks and sounds like a typical Pinter ‘villain’ (not that such a thing should exist, but Lord knows it does): he speaks in that dead, flat tone, which is supposed to imply a hardened soul but ends up sounding automatic and inauthentic. The linear delivery and steady hum of aggression negates the complexity of Pinter’s role (no matter how level Pinter’s characters might be on the surface, they’re scrabbling like crazy underneath) and rather than amplifying any danger, eradicates it altogether. It is when actors keep things hidden, keep the menace under wraps, that Pinter’s characters are at their most compelling and convincing; a fact that Gambon, the greatest Pinter performer I’ve yet seen, understands implicitly but one that younger performers (see David Walliams’ recent turn in No Man’s Land ) take a while to figure out.

Peter McDonald, as mentally disturbed brother Aston, traps himself neatly in a quiet, enclosed world of his own making. He floats through the play and it is this un-touchability – impenetrability – that allows him to slide into a position of power by the closing scenes. It is interesting that it is those who say the least (except for an aching mid-point monologue, delivered beautifully and tenderly by McDonald) that end up being the most powerful of Pinter’s people. 

Till 17 April 2010