Luckily, the cast of The Pride is so splendid that they take the best of Campbell's speeches and hurl them at us with transfixing lyrical feeling while guiding us with ease over the rare bad patches in his writing. I've heard for a while just how good Whishaw is on stage, and this performance proves it. In films, Whishaw has been striking in his fragility, but a recessive screen presence, as if he was scared of calling attention to himself. On stage, he's in his element. When the 1958 Oliver tries to win back 50s Philip, Whishaw is so physically charged with romantic intensity that the scene carries a special, almost adolescent sting, a pang of despair and disappointment that gracefully relates to the play's modern argument for sexual fidelity. Alongside the flyweight Whishaw, the also-delicate Dancy looks solid, and he's magnificent in their Act I confrontation, struggling to control feelings that keep trying to break out. The female roles in plays about gay male identity are generally thankless, but Andrea Riseborough is such an authoritative performer that she deepens her 50s wife and her modern friend in ways that make them both likable yet different women. Adam James fills out a variety of characters with relish, and has maybe the best scene as a straight magazine editor whose panicked stream of consciousness leads him into a socially embarrassing bit of genuine emotion. The Pride is a play about giving in to emotion and about letting it transform your life, and that's all to the good, but its resolution is too tidy and conservative to resonate past repressive good intentions.