Against Bob Crowley's wonderful dilapidated-Parisian-boho set, we see a day in the life of Isadora Duncan, circa 1923: the mordancies of hustling money and the supposedly more profound difficulties of communication that are Sherman's real preoccupations here - how to cut across language (neither Duncan nor her Russian poet husband can speak the other's languages) or transcend it entirely as with her dancing, which no-one fan truly describe though they try with irksome frequency. Frances de la Tour's laconic interpreter remonstrates with Isadora: "You are an artist, you have dramas all the time... I just have life". But the play never gets to grips with its chosen issues, and is seldom more than facilely dramatic while circumventing them, culminating in a ludicrously polyglot dinner party. The play's appearance in the West End is a mystery, and Vanessa Redgrave's involvement doubly so - she's never called upon to exercise herself in a role that's primarily gush of one son or another. There's really no lasting message, beyond "don't wear scarves".

Submitted by Jane Grey