Modern audiences will, I think, be divided by J B Priestley's 1938 offering.
Some will see this comedy of manners in which three couples - all of them upstanding pillars-of-the-community types - discover on their 25th anniversary that they are not as respectably married as they thought, as a creaky old crowd-pleaser populated by northern stereotypes.
Others will think that Priestley's play is a well-observed take on marriage and that anyone who has been hitched for more than a decade will recognise more truth than they would probably want.
By the star rating at the top of this review you may have already guessed where I stand, and I heartily recommend Christopher Luscombe's sumptuous production, which features some of this country's best-loved comedy talent.
The play, which is set in the fictional Yorkshire town of Cleckleywycke 30 years before Priestley wrote it, relies heavily - possibly too heavily - on one immensely pleasurable joke in which social climbers are serially humiliated into realising that they are no better than anyone else.
The occasion is the wedding anniversary of three middle-aged couples who after a celebratory lunch retire - actually stagger - to the drawing room of the grand Victorian house in which all the action takes place.
It is here, among the mahogany furniture and carved columns (design Simon Higlett), every stick of which underlines the respectability and wealth of its owner, that the Helliwells (David Horovitch and Susie Blake), the Soppitts (Sam Kelly and Maureen Lipman) and the Parkers (Simon Rouse and Michele Dotrice) discover that the vicar who married them in one joint ceremony 25 years earlier, was not qualified to do so.
They have been living in sin. It matters little that sin is the way most people now live.
The fun here is in seeing the castles crumble, and the smug faces of respectability fall. And none more so than Maureen Lipman's battle-axe, Clara Soppitt, who rules her Herbert (Kelly) with a glare as withering as a witch's breath.
In fact, with hair drawn back, Lipman has something of the Wicked Witch of the East about her and adopts exactly the frosty face that, as Lynda Baron's cleaning lady says, could stop clocks.
But even those with an old-fashioned view of the correct relationship between married couples might baulk at the way Herbert turns like a worm and puts Clara in her place. We are, it seems, invited to think that all is right with a world in which wives obey their husbands without question.
Until that moment Priestley's play subverts the institution of marriage as daringly as any by Ibsen - although with much more fun, especially when watching Dotrice's Annie turn the tables on her boorish prig of a husband.
And the sense of a gathering if quiet revolution increases when inebriated photographer Roy Hudd - yes, another British comedy stalwart - gives a speech that puts happiness ahead of respectability.
But this is not Ibsen, and unlike A Doll's House, there is ultimately no serious undermining of a sacred institution. Instead we get a very British version - funny, irreverent, knowing but, perhaps disappointingly, rather accepting of the status quo.