Does residing at number seven in FHM's "world's 100 sexiest women" poll qualify you to act on the London stage? Not on the evidence of this lamentable debut by Abi Titmuss, in an evening that serves as its own morality tale about the difference between fame and talent. The pain is all the audience's - but the fault is not entirely the lady's.
Perhaps, in a tiny role in a good production of a better play, Titmuss's reedy voice, fluffed lines and awkward body language might pass unnoticed. But Mike Miller's emotionally and physically clumsy production - so inept that I initially had difficulty recognising the first play in this Arthur Miller double bill - is horribly exposing, and exploitative in the way it feeds off our mania for celebrity. This is nothing to do with theatre and everything to do with the opportunity to gawp at the mildly famous up close. It is Titmuss's cleavage, not her acting skill, that is the main event.
Our old friend Arthur Miller must share some blame - if not for the cleavage, then certainly for the writing. This is not his best work, and the quest to examine fantasy, realities and self-deceptions remains elusive. In one of the two plays, Some Kind of Love Story, Titmuss - got up like Marilyn Monroe - plays a prostitute who has kept Detective Tom O'Toole returning for years by feeding him titbits of information about a murder case. Fantasy and reality shift in a piece that demonstrates Titmuss's aptitude for comedy and lack of aptitude for accents. Jay Benedict, who is barely competent as O'Toole, fares better in the other work, Elegy for a Lady, where he plays the smoothie who uses the owner of a gift shop as an agony aunt to whom he confides his lack of commitment to his dying mistress. Titmuss is out of her depth in a role that demands remarkable emotional nuance.
All in all, only slightly less depressing than being tied to a chair and forced to watch every episode of Celebrity Love Island back to back.
· Until April 2. Box office: 0870 163 0717.
