Simon Stone’s adaptation of Federico García Lorca’s Yerma is unrelenting. Contained within a rectangular glass box, Billie Piper delivers a grounded and deeply human performance as Her, a woman whose wants, needs and sense of self begin to fracture under the weight of expectation, jealousy and isolation.

Around her, life continues with ease. Brendan Cowell’s John, Charlotte Randle’s Mary, John MacMillan’s Victor, Maureen Beattie’s Helen and Thalissa Teixeira’s Des move forward without consequence. For Her, that same passage of time steadily pulls everything apart.

The play opens as Her and John move into a new house following their wedding, ten years into their relationship. The moment feels hopeful and uneasy in equal measure. Her runs a successful blog, writing openly about her attempts to get pregnant and the quiet misogyny that shapes how women are spoken to and spoken about. Her words resonate, creating a sense of solidarity through recognition.

With stability, success and love apparently in place, the next step feels inevitable. A child becomes not simply a desire, but an expectation.

What follows is a series of highs, lows and revelations that steadily loosen Her’s grip on the world. As others conceive with ease, she is left asking why the one thing she wants most remains out of reach.

Under Stone’s direction, with design by Lizzie Clachan and music and sound by Stefan Gregory, the production moves at a relentless pace. Scenes fracture and reform with startling speed, time collapsing as years pass in moments.

The effect is distancing and deeply unsettling. The camera allows intimacy without intervention. You watch, unable to look away, as Her endures humiliation, loss and emotional violence inside her transparent enclosure.

The glass box becomes both home and trap. As seasons shift and relationships strain, Her’s sense of purpose begins to dissolve. IVF cycles offer fleeting hope before disappointment sets in again. Each attempt carries the promise of resolution. Each failure pulls her further from herself.

Dissociation takes hold. Her becomes untethered not only from the life she is living, but from the life she is expected to want.

Some moments land differently on screen than they might in the room, yet the production’s cinematic language translates with striking clarity. The claustrophobia, repetition and inevitability remain intact.

What lingers is the sense that this story is preventable. Yerma exposes the consequences of failed communication, unchallenged assumptions and suffering minimised until it can no longer be contained.

It is difficult not to recognise something of yourself in Her’s story, whether as the person unravelling or the one watching it happen.

This production is not gentle. At times, it confronts its audience directly. That intensity feels earned.

Stone’s adaptation, and the ensemble’s commitment to its form, create a piece that is unsettling, necessary and deeply affecting.

If this production returns to the stage, it is one to experience in the room. Until then, the National Theatre Collection offers a powerful reminder of theatre’s ability to hold a mirror to lives lived under pressure, and to ask what happens when the world keeps moving while someone is quietly falling apart.