The only ghost on stage is the ghost of the performer who many years ago produced a terrific show about Kenneth Williams. Since then Benson has struggled to find another really good idea. This isn't it, although he gets by on sheer force of personality.
The disappointing thing is that this could have been a good show, perhaps even a spine tingling one, if Benson had developed the strand of the sceptic versus the believer and perhaps found a way to confound them both. There is real potential here too in the family angle - Benson's grandfather apparently believed in everything; his father, a doctor, was wedded to the empirical - but again Benson refuses to delve deep or hard enough into himself to create a narrative in which the personal and the universal meet and ignite.
Instead we get a couple of grand guignol moments, some Kilroy-Silk style banter with the audience about their own experiences of the supernatural, and some ghost stories - one written by a distant Benson relative, the Victorian writer EV Benson. It is all perfectly pleasant and not in the least bit haunting.
· Until August 30. Box office: 0131-226 2428
