Actress Sarah Miles is, how to put this kindly? Eccentric. We know this already, from her memoirs which recounted her early expulsion from Roedean, a long affair with Laurence Olivier and two marriages to playwright Robert Bolt. Along the way she became infamous when Robert Mitchum told the press that she drank her own urine; she was also accused of the murder of a Time magazine journalist with whom she had a one-night stand. More than enough material then for a one-woman show celebrating an extraordinarily quixotic life.
From the moment Miles rushes awkwardly onstage though, it's clear that this is going to be an uncomfortable evening. For a start, she begins by announcing that back in 1974, while walking beside a river in Devon, she had a supernatural experience. A voice boomed out: "Your life is your message. Sing it, dance it, write it." Quite sensibly, Miles, who had just been nominated for an Oscar for Ryan's Daughter, ignored the voice, but it was to haunt her throughout her life. Twenty-five years on, The Widow Smiles is the result of her finally paying heed to this unsolicited advice.
Through 12 songs and a rich collection of impersonations and anecdotes, Miles takes us on what she terms "the rollercoaster journey of my life". She lounges on a sofa strewn with lurid Indian silks, her two Yorkshire terriers Oxton and Batty in loyal attendance. Her Hollywood years provide her with rich comic material. Not all of her life is as amusing though. In the voice of Violet Elizabeth Bott, she recalls the domineering father who nicknamed her Pusscat and made fun of her large ears. When she admits the effect his attentions had on her, the impression is downright creepy.
Miles has a great story to tell, and there is much to learn from a woman who has survived and thrived on such cruel twists of fortune. "The truth is not out there but in here," she advises, tapping her heart. Admirable she may be, but there's no getting away from the severe limitations imposed by her singing voice. Miles is no Shirley Bassey and no amount of self-mocking jokes about her lack of vocal talent can compensate for two-and-a-half hours of off-key warbling.
Her dogs are perhaps the most entertaining aspect of the show, providing a useful barometer of interest. At one point, during an anecdote about auras, one of the dogs escapes into the audience. And during the final song, Wanna Be A Lady, the other dog does what no one in the tiny theatre dares to do and lets out a giant yawn.
Until October 31. Box office: 0171-226 1916
