In Peter Morris's twin monologues, which curl about each other like wisps of smoke, there are two child-killers. One is teenager Timmy (clearly modelled on the larger of the two boys convicted for the killing of toddler Jamie Bulger) who is about to be released from his secure unit. The other is Stephanie, the single mother of six-year-old Raquel, who she treats like a meal ticket and is grooming for stardom. This involves advising Raquel that there are three Ts in entertainment, "talent, teeth and tits", and turning a blind eye when a paedophile director of TV adverts takes an interest in her daughter.
So who is the more culpable? The child put behind bars for a crime he can't begin to explain, or the adult who, in a position of trust, fails to protect her child? The child who kills is demonised by the tabloid press. The press turns a blind eye to most of the activities of the Stephanies of this world, who kill childhood as they live their own dreams, or gratify their desire for money and their 15 minutes of fame, through their children.
Morris's play achieved notoriety at Edinburgh last summer when it was condemned by Denise Bulger. As usual with Edinburgh it was a case of lots of smoke and no sign of a fire. The Age of Consent is neither offensive nor controversial. It just makes you feel slightly grubby, in the same way that watching a late night channel 5 documentary on serial killers seems justified at the time but always turns out to be merely titillating. Morris has a real facility as a playwright and a sharp wit, but he is far too soft on himself. He increasingly takes the easy option: specialising in the monologue and drawing on headline grabbing stories. Exploring tabloid culture simply gives him the opportunity to indulge in it.
What saves the evening from accusations of exploitation is the performances. Ben Silverstone captures all the vulnerability of Timmy, and as Stephanie, too bright to completely deny to herself what is going on, Katherine Parkinson is nothing short of miraculous. She would make you shake with laughter if she wasn't making you shudder quite so much.
· Until February 9. Box office: 020-7610 4224.
