There were three people in her marriage. Photo: Paul Hackett

The big bad wolf is perhaps the most Freudian of fairytale characters, a figure of corruption and carnal sexuality. The Hungarian playwright Ferenc Molnár’s (probably best known to English speaking audiences for Liliom, which inspired Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Carousel) 1912 bourgeois marital comedy The Wolf is a fairly unknown beast, receiving its first British airing since 1973 in a production by Sturdy Beggars (a young ensemble of Poor School graduates) at the elusive Network Theatre, a perfectly proportioned black box tucked away under the arches of Waterloo station. Molnár’s interest in Freud is evident in his portrayal of repressed desires that surface in dreams, which become different with time and reality (and makes the act two twist more interesting than an old cliché). It’s a farce with a bleak edge; rather than domestic harmony being restored at the end when the wolf turns out to be a gauche middle manager, the husband and wife both break down in tears.

Eugene and Vilma Kelemen are having an early dinner out before returning home to prepare for a high society soirée hosted by a countess, at which Eugene intends to seal an important business deal that should earn a million kronen for Vilma’s future happiness. Kelemen, who is not handsome, witty, nor dashing, is madly jealous with an inferiority complex, unable to come to terms with his luck in marrying her. He feels as if he needs to pay her off in order to prove his love. As they bicker, a mysterious stranger, recognised by the prattling cavalry officers at the neighbouring table, enters the restaurant. Kelemen recognises him from an old photograph as Vilma’s former suitor George Szabo, who seven years previously vowed to win her back, leading to a series of interrogations and fantasies that become increasingly nightmarish.

Brendan Jones’s neurotic Kelemen isn’t exactly endearing, but he makes his character’s obsessive paranoia plausible. Katherine French, while a tad shrill, is a good foil for Jones with her portrayal of “an honest, upstanding woman without an ounce of romanticism”, a model of self-denial dressed in virginal white who also harbours fantasies for something more exciting. Alexander Andreou makes light work of portraying five different versions of the same character: a world-weary military hero (who enslaved a small Balkan nation for his beloved), a dashing attaché, a broadly comic baritone (in Rigoletto costume), a humble servant and finally the anticlimactic reality. Andrew Mudie and Dan Addis make a very amusing double act and Josie Martin milks some of the broadest comedy as the fainting countess.

Jamie Harper’s light-handed staging benefits from pleasing production values (a nicely homey design by Charlotte Randell, with cleverly dismantling furniture to create different settings), atmospheric lighting (by Dan Addis) and neatly choreographed transitions between scenes (though the prancing with the furniture is a little excessive). While it does take rather a long time to wrap everything up, it’s an accomplished and spirited production of an intriguing play, offering a welcome glimpse into the richness of turn-of-the-century European theatre.