Paul Kind

I had high hopes, the reviews looked good and the essential story of relationships between a showbiz-driven Mum and her 4 daughters, seemed a solid enough platform. Now whilst the acoustics didn't help, the ponderous script plodded through Act 1 with children, a couple of irrelevant males, a resident pianist all thinly drawn. It could have been so different. The introduction of some music and a great song&dance routine by 4 younger actors breathed Life into the proceedings. Upstairs Mum lay dying and this Ghost in the Machine came more properly to life after the interval. Indeed the whole show kicked up a notch. But then in a Sunak-like act of self-inflicted madness, more irrelevance landed on stage. Who cares how a juke box works? Who were the 2 blokes anyway? The climax of the miracle of St Joan cried out for a deft hand to craft a moment of real theatrical import. Instead, the MeToo moment suddenly produced a young baby in the porch. Wham! Where on Earth did that element of fantasy come from? It wasn't the acting but the storytelling that left one underwhelmed. I felt a sense of disappointment and frustration - if a story is worth telling, then it should be done well. There was so much more that could have been done with this.