The true story of Florence Foster Jenkins, the tone-deaf New York soprano whose lack of talent was counterpointed by astonishing self-belief, is, if you'll pardon the pun, one-note.
She couldn't sing, but sing she did and often, in public, like a demented poodle. Few actresses would have the chutzpah to carry this off successfully, but Maureen Lipman pummels both the part and us into helpless submission. Grandstanding, barnstorming: every diva-like adjective is hers.
With fingers placed judiciously in ears, we follow Jenkins through 1944, all the way to a sell-out concert at Carnegie Hall.
Virtually impervious to critical vitriol, she lives surrounded by a twittering bunch of admirers, as well as her sardonic young pianist (William Oxborrow, excellent).
Sympathetically brought to life as this surreal world is, Alan Strachan's production is nonetheless one of those curious period pieces in which no one is capable of leaving the stage without humming, snorting or skipping.
Peter Quilter's script is slight, amiable and almost entirely devoid of any sort of dramatic conflict, as Jenkins, who wouldn't know her aria from her elbow, continues on her frustratingly unfathomable way to notoriety. The oneliner count is impressive. If not exactly glorious, it is pretty entertaining.
- Booking to 29 April. Information: 0870 890 1103.
Glorious!
