The Master and Margarita, Barbican, review Characters are filmed from above and their images projected onto a backdrop of grim Moscow apartments. Heads are severed, people fly, and there are some spectacular conjuring tricks, but one also sees the suffering of those banged up in mental hospitals for questioning the official party line. But as well as its technical élan, this production also captures the great heart of the work. Sinead Matthews, an actress who gets better with every performance, is deeply moving in her unconditional love for the Bulgakov-like writer, whom she calls the Master because she so admires his work. The scene in which she sells her soul to the devil so they can be reunited, becoming the naked hostess at a diabolical party before flying to her lover is as erotic and thrilling as anything on the London stage. Paul Rhys is equally fine as her beloved Master, powerfully capturing the terrible fear and self-doubt of a writer who is spied on and publicly denounced before his book is even published and ends up in a state lunatic asylum. The actor also springs one of the most thrilling theatrical surprises I have ever witnessed. The story of Pilate and Jesus is beautifully presented, too, offering a vision of grace and forgiveness in this unpitying world, and César Sarachu's harrowingly emaciated Christ figure brings an extraordinary sense of suffering spirituality to the stage. The production isn't perfect. There are longueurs as well as bewitching bedazzlement, and the cat, Behemoth, isn't as much fun as he might be. But this is a constantly daring and ambitious staging of an enthrallingly original literary masterpiece, and makes a fascinating companion piece to the National Theatre's Collaborators, transferring to the Olivier next month, about Bulgakov's vexed relationship with Stalin. Until April 7.