Hysteria is a pile-up of unmotivated absurdities

Terry Johnson’s acclaimed farce Hysteria opens in Sigmund Freud’s Hampstead home in 1938. The godfather of psychobabble is ambushed by a beautiful maniac named Jessica, who forces him to analyse her, and then hides in his closet and strips naked. Along comes Freud’s old chum Yahuda, a bumbling twerp who doubles as the farce’s authority figure. His presence forces Freud to improvise countless daft wheezes in order to prevent Jessica from being discovered. You may wonder if Freud is the best candidate to star in this kind of sex caper. And you’d be right. He is, in fact, the worst candidate.

Having spent 40 years treating mental illness, Freud has only to open the closet door, and say, ‘Look, Yahuda, a deranged exhibitionist is hiding in my consulting room. Happens all the time. Put your clothes on, dear, and go home.’ Problem solved. Even if this explanation were untrue it would be convincing.