Gemma Arterton as Hilde Wangel and Stephen Dillane as Halvard Solness. Simon Annand

London: The Almeida Theatre's new production of Henrik Ibsen's late (1892) play "The Master Builder" is oddly unlovable. I don't mean by this that it's not good, but that director Travis Preston's staging (using an excellent, idiomatic, up-to-date translation by Kenneth McLeish), with designer Vicki Mortimer's contemporary dress and fashionably bare-earth set, doesn't attempt to charm the audience or make us warm to the characters.

Yet the actor playing Halvard Solness in the title role is Stephen Dillane, who charmed everyone who ever saw his performance in "Angels in America." I'd never have imagined Mr. Dillane could give a performance in which you did not quiver with sympathy for his character. Or that his co-star, the beautiful and excitingly vulnerable Gemma Arterton, could make one mind so little about what happens to her character, Hilde Wangel.

Solness spurns a new architectural commission, but won't pass it on to his assistant Ragnar (John Light), as it would launch the young man on an independent career, enabling him to marry Kaja (Emma Hamilton), the master builder's secretary. Is Solness a brute, or just a neurotic mess? He has the nail-bitingly dutiful devotion of his wife (played superbly by Anastasia Hille) and the respect of the partner (Patrick Godfrey) and the goofy family doctor (Jack Shepherd).

Out of the blue comes Hilde, 10 years to the day since she met Solness when she was a little girl, and he told her she would be a princess and he would build her castle and run away with her. In her fantasy way, she means business: she's come to collect on the promise. She tells Solness's entourage that, 10 years ago, she witnessed the master builder perform the topping out ceremony by placing a wreath on the very tall spire of the church he'd just finished. On hearing this, the incredulous wife gets even worse-than-usual shakes: Solness is phobic about heights.

There's a new building to be dedicated, and you can work out the rest, marvel at the plethora of phallic symbols and even be a little shocked. What you can't do is care very much about it all. I think I blame Ibsen, but Mr. Preston's direction does little to melt the icicle in the heart of the play.

Until Jan. 8

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