THERE’S a moment in Kursk – when the lights go out and you’re standing in the pitch black surrounded by the sound of dripping water and panicked breathing – that you could almost believe you are in the belly of a Russian submarine that’s lying motionless on the seabed.

It’s a powerful scene and one that’s illustrative of the show’s ability to manipulate its audience’s emotions through the use of understatement.

Set on board a British hunter-killer sub that’s spying on Russian war games under the surface of the Barents Sea, the meticulously researched play centres on the claustrophobic lives of its crew and their reaction to the news that an enemy vessel has gone down.

Men who were adversaries only a moment ago have, in a split second, become fellow submariners in desperate need of help.

Yet, unknown to the British under the sea, the Russian government has refused help from other nations and they are unable to intervene in Kursk’s fate.

The disaster, which shocked the world in real life in 2000, unfolds in parallel with the more personal tragedy of a member of the British crew.

Yet, in real time, the events surrounding Kursk takes up little of the play.

Instead, the audience – invited inside the submarine set – witnesses details of life on board, from its residents’ easy camaraderie to the 40-word-limit messages sent by loved ones.

An evocative soundscape of rumbling engines, singing whales and tapping Morse code accompanied the action in an ambitious set that incorporated narrow corridors, restrictive bunks and the bridge.

As the names of the lost Russians are read out at the play’s emotive close, it’s impossible to resist feeling moved.

Laura Davis