Maybe I should have listened to the publicist who put the frighteners on me when I said I would be reviewing this show about the history of the American mafia. "It's not really theatre," she insisted. Too right, it's not. "It's more of a lecture," she said. Wrong. A lecture suggests some modicum of authority, not two hours spent in the company of someone who calls himself the Mercy Man and whose idea of research appears to be an afternoon watching reruns on the History Channel.
He shows absolutely no mercy for the English language. His stresses and pronunciation are so murderous, it's as if he is conducting a personal vendetta against the spoken word. If the script, a stupendously dull mismatch of gore, conspiracy and high romanticism, is delivered with all the animation of the speaking clock, the Mercy Man's arms make up for it. They are like demented windmills. When he says "me" or "I", he points at himself; when he says the word "think", he points at his head. Presumably to check that it's still there.
Towards the end, his arms twitch like a bullet-riddled corpse. I think he may have been signalling for help, possibly from Nicole Faraday, who plays a supporting cast of bad girls. The only assistance I could think of was hiring a hit man to put him out of his misery. Fortunately, the projectionist got there first. During the second half of this tacky show, the video projector broke down, leaving us more in the dark than ever. If, after this review, I am found in the Thames with my feet in concrete, you will know who is responsible. Prosecute.
· Until February 16. Box office: 0870 040 0090.
