The Old Vic presents an eccentric new version of David Mamet’s ultra-masculine play, Glengarry Glen Ross. Director Patrick Marber populates the show with middle-aged actresses. And why not? Devotees of Mamet may find it patchy but the play is so powerful that it can survive any amount of experimental tinkering.

The visuals are pretty incoherent and the Old Vic’s configuration gives the cast no help at all. The playing area is surrounded by concentric rings of seats, cage-fighting style, which makes the actors feel unsure where to pitch their performance. It’s like trying to post a letter while doing a twirl on the doorstep.

The play is so powerful that it can survive any amount of experimental tinkering

The action opens in a grubby Chinese restaurant with tables built on tropical fish tanks. The tanks are empty. Did someone eat the fish? Perhaps they ate each other as a nod to the storyline about sharky real-estate agents trying to sell retirement homes in Florida to wealthy pensioners. Dave and George conspire to break into the office and steal a secret list of contacts which a rival firm hopes to buy. Their plan is to disguise the theft as a random burglary but the police investigation exposes the real culprits.

The salesmen, or women if you prefer, are dressed in smart skirts and matching jackets like an airline uniform. But in the original, the salesmen don’t wear clothes issued by the corporation. Each character has his own suit and the quality of the tailoring indicates his wealth and his position in the hierarchy. That visual shorthand is lost here.

There’s a male character called Shelley who happens to have a female name. He/she is played by a woman (Indira Varma) impersonating a man. Varma wears a white mac, like Colombo, and trots around the place, cursing and shrieking and having a series of drama-school meltdowns. It’s an impressive approximation of male rage and vulnerability. But this is clearly a performance. Artificial, not natural. Varma usually plays high-status characters – the queen, the stateswoman, the corporate boss. Why cast her as a dim, foul-mouthed deadbeat crook from the Chicago gutters?

Nancy Crane (Aaronow) takes a different approach and acts like a genteel housewife thrust against her will into a crime caper. Her embarrassed bungling gets a lot of laughs. But she’s in the wrong play. This is Mamet. She’s doing Ayckbourn. Rosa Salazar succeeds in straddling the gender gap and her Roma is a tough, smart, devious, street-fighting tigress. Wonderful stuff.

The production is brief, 90 minutes, straight through. If you’re new to Mamet this is a good place to start. But if you’re a lifelong fan, you’ll gripe and moan.

Ben Ockrent’s new play at the Lyric deserves a friendlier and more ebullient title. Relics sounds like an Egyptology lecture. Four siblings meet at the family home to divide the spoils following their mother’s death. The loveable characters are expertly drawn. Liv (Sally Phillips) likes to boss the others around with affectionate authority. Michelle, a depressed schoolteacher, announces in a grim voice that she has just accepted promotion to ‘Head of Year Three’. Jonny, a greedy whizz-kid, flies in from Switzerland where he does business with shady friends. Rob, the family nerd, asks if he can keep their mother’s bed ‘for sentimental reasons’. The others are alarmed. ‘That’s a bit Norman Bates, isn’t it?’ says Liv. Rob reveals that he was born in the bed and that his birth was overseen by a veterinary surgeon.

The jokey mood darkens when the siblings clash over a landscape painting in their mother’s room. Jonny wants to keep it but Michelle is immediately suspicious. She makes him swear on the lives of his daughters that the painting has no financial value. Jonny assents. He delivers the oath. But Michelle takes it further and threatens to cut the painting to ribbons. This forces Jonny’s hand. An expert has seen the canvas and he estimates its value at £30 million. Liv declares that they must return it to the original owner or donate it to a museum. But Jonny knows a Russian oligarch willing to pay cash, no questions asked.

At the curtain call, the entire house was standing and cheering. Why can’t all plays be this good?

At this point, the play threatens to turn into a documentary about the provenance of lost art treasures but the moment passes and the script gets back on track. The painting and its value are irrelevant. What matters are the characters. The second half takes us on a comic journey into the lives of these smart, witty and attractive people.

Michael Longhurst’s direction is superb and he ends the play with two mime sequences. One is too long and contrived. The other is simpler and more effective and it features Charly Clive (Michelle) performing a pastiche of a Bonnie Tyler hit. At the curtain call, the entire house was standing and cheering. Why can’t all plays be this good?