A hot misogynist mess that squanders Smith's talent - how dare the director do this to her?

THIS dismally muddled, self-important, furtively misogynist musical about an actress going to pieces squanders the talents of everyone involved, even breaking Sheridan Smith’s unique ability to connect with an audience.

- Nick Curtis

It’s adapted from John Cassavetes’ 1977 film by theatre director Ivo van Hove, whose London productions are either sublime or, like this one, awful. Singer-songwriter Rufus Wainwright contributes his first musical score, a hodgepodge of genre pastiche and schoolboy rhyme so lame I hope it will also be his last. The use of video adds another tiresome layer of introspection to a project wedged firmly up its own fundament.

The underlying message is that audiences don’t appreciate the pain of creatives who crucify themselves on stage every night, and that it’s tough to be a woman. Certainly the talents of Smith and Wainwright seem inextricably linked to their sensitivity, but Van Hove leaves both of them horribly exposed here. He puts Smith in particular through the wringer, forcing her to confront her vulnerabilities and blaming us for watching. How dare he?