Two crucial rules for a musical: make it quick and make it slick. Break them and you’ve lost me. Rossini once said of Wagner that he had lovely moments, but awful quarters of an hour. Don’t get the wrong idea, I’m not comparing Gypsy to Wagner - I wouldn’t be as foolish - but the point is made: brief moments of colour and stretches of grey do not make a good musical.

Set during the fading hours of 1930s vaudeville, the story was clear, but not compelling, and though on occasion amusing, it became quite the chore readjusting to the wild variations of on-stage talent. With all the charisma of a still-warm cadaver, Herbi the Love-Interest struggled to elicit any real appeal, followed in suit by June, the irascible child-star, who was more akin to Jimmy Krankie than Shirley Temple. One requires a healthy and loveable level of shamelessness to volunteer for musical theatre, but they lacked any particular charm in portraying classic musical characters. There was some reprieve though, in the form of starlet Rose. She was vibrant. She was oddly endearing. She was wonderful, in fact. She could hold a note - though this should not be taken as a sign of distinction. Many of the vocalists had perfected an unusual singing method, choosing to oscillate between notes instead of actually hitting them.

Still, after the first hour (of an eventual three), my attention was beginning to limp. Anything would do to divert it - the paint work in Cripps Court theatre could do with a touch up, and that lighting was a bit strange too - whilst countless scenes blurred by, one lifeless tableau after another. The set was unremarkable; the stage-direction was linear; and, for the most part, the vocals were tedious.

Who says vaudeville is dead? I do.