Shunned by television and demonised by the tabloids, Michael Barrymore planned this West End debut as a return to what he does best: live performance. Those of us intrigued by Barrymore's subversive flip side hoped he would come out all guns blazing. Alas, the guns weren't loaded and the only blazing was his revival going up in smoke.
Maybe it was press-night nerves - journalists, after all, are decidedly not Barrymore's kind of people. But the rough ride he got here was well deserved. Barrymore's medley of smut, funny walks and ropey balladeering made lead balloons seem weightless by comparison.
There were flashes of what might have been. Barrymore is at his funniest when he is manic and mischievous - remember how he used to sabotage awards ceremonies? Here, he smothers half the audience in a sheet, then climbs into the royal box to scatter a punter's Twiglets over the shrouded stalls.
But such mania as there is slips through the yawning gaps in this production. There are half-baked musical numbers about knickers and dicks, and a ghastly routine in which his guest, the diva Suzanne Prentice, croons into a microphone at Barrymore's crotch - small wonder that the sound of laughter is eclipsed by that of flipping seats.
As the gig slides away from him, Barrymore's wit goes the way of his confidence. When a woman mounts the stage to reclaim the handbag Barrymore has pinched, he's got no reply. An awkward moment is left to hang poisonously in the air.
Barrymore's audience longs to love him. When someone tells him, "You're a nutter," and he replies, "I know - I've been through rehab eight times," there's a round of applause. But his vulnerability alone can't redeem this ill-judged two hours. If he wants to trade sympathy for hilarity, he's got to do a whole lot better than this.
· Until October 11, then from October 20 to November 8. Box office: 020-7369 1736.
