The ghost of Tennessee Williams and a lesbian poet stricken by writer's block are at the centre of Linda Wilkinson's blandly composed drama. The poet heroine, Jo, has at some time in the past had a breakdown following the institutionalisation of her senile grandmother. This is a trauma for which she blames her handyman father. Meanwhile, Williams also suffered from family tragedies when he was alive and his role as a ghost is to help Jo recover by getting her writing back on track.
Sadly, the idea presents a number of problems. Firstly, Jo shows little appreciation for the scathing Southern queen's bone-dry wit. Secondly, as a poet, she is endlessly prosaic. At one point, she even tells Williams to "bog off" - and if that's the best way you can invite someone to go forth and multiply, you're hardly destined to become a laureate. Worst of all, Williams's camp loquacity makes for devastating comparison with Wilkinson's monosyllables.
A wit such as Williams could hardly have resisted a quip in the company of a lesbian like Jo, who speaks of her "mail box". In a further lapse of realism, it's a good half-hour before the lush Williams decides to raid the drinks cabinet.
As for the rest of the play, Wilkinson writes all the characters apart from Williams in the same earnest tones - tones they use to exchange little more than psychological platitudes in a metronomic rhythm. In Michael Kingsbury's production it is therefore hard to distinguish between the heroine poet Julie-Kate Olivier (daughter of Sir Larry and Joan Plowright), Leigh McDonald as her nondescript lover who seems to be employed in an office and Ric Morgan as her retired suburban Dad. At least Jay Benedict as Tennessee Williams has some sardonic fun as he urges the tortured Jo to persist in the excavation of her psyche. All the while, Friday night's winds were attempting to raise the roof. They didn't succeed, but nor did Wilkinson's drama.
Until Sunday 17 February; box office: 020 7793 9193.
Dust At Midnight
