Apparently the late Anne Bancroft was so enamoured of Ann Randolph's one-woman show, about her experiences of working in a shelter for mentally ill women, that she produced it on Broadway and bought up the film rights.
It just goes to show the gulf between British and American sensibilities, for Randolph's autobiographical piece is so contrived, self-obsessed and glib that it had me curling my toes in embarrassment.
Imagine Bridget Jones among the down and outs and you get something of the tone of a show that attempts to combine romantic comedy with homespun wisdom and lots of therapy-heavy self-improvement babble.
Randolph swaps with ease between characters and sends everybody up, except her very earnest self, in an hour of few insights and even fewer laughs.
There is something rather distasteful about the way the cast of unfortunates are just bit players in Ann's endless journey to discover herself, true love and the meaning of life. Definitely one better left to middle-aged American tourists.
· Until Aug 29. Box office: 0131 226 2428
