The Bodyguard, Adelphi Theatre

It's Academy Award season within the showbiz-centric world of The Bodyguard, but even the greatest of Oscar obsessives - count me among them - would be hard-pressed to toss many a trophy in the direction of the 1992 film or toward the largely stillborn stage musical that it has now spawned. Widely panned at the time of release (the film received more Golden Raspberry nods for the year's worst than it did golden statuettes), its pulpy narrative looks even more threadbare on the West End stage, notwithstanding the news value of the return to the musical theatre after a dozen years of Broadway actress-singer Heather Headley, following in the screen shoes of the late Whitney Houston. 

For some, the opportunity to hear the Houston songbook re-packaged will be enough, and the show to some extent renders critical discourse as irrelevant as the likes of the West End Ghost, Dirty Dancing, and Flashdance did before it. Thea Sharrock's production is better than the above-named trio, largely due to the coolly commanding Headley (pictured below) and to a physical production that is simultaneously sleek and slick, its cinematic dissolves tipping a nod to the celluloid source. Tim Hatley's design offers up moneyed chic, Oscar-night glitz, and the rural appeal of a log cabin retreat, all with an effortlessness not glimpsed elsewhere. 

But all the vocal pyrotechnics and technical know-how on offer can't put right the vapidity at the core of a plot that could have been written on the back of an interval drinks order. If your idea of scintillating dialogue runs towards the following - Q: "What the hell has gotten into her?" A: "The bodyguard" - then read no further. This is the show for you. 

The rest of us are left to ponder the shifts in a story of mutual distrust turned to togetherness and lust that go completely undramatised in Alexander Dinelaris's book, adapted from the Lawrence Kasdan screenplay of the Warner Bros. film. Scarcely has the eponymous bodyguard Frank Farmer (Lloyd Owen, inheriting Kevin Costner's screen role) shown up at the LA mansion of six-time Grammy winner Rachel Marron (Headley) before she is sniping at him while he dispassionately stares her down. (Owen's performance, in fact, is defined by many a firmly held gaze and this actor's inimitably deep voice.) 

The two might continue indefinitely on their jointly antagonistic path were anxiety not building about the looming presence of an assassin (played by a mostly mute Mark Letheren) who on this evidence has a thing for sequins and a knack for infiltrating heavily secured awards jamborees. Indeed, quite how this gunman ends up crashing the Oscars and brandishing a weapon in full view is anyone's guess, credibility evidently not of paramount importance.

But scarcely have lines been uttered on the order of "do you think he's out there?" before Frank and Rachel are making love, not war, their rapprochement abetted by a night out at an LA karaoke bar at which Rachel goes entirely unnoticed, her superstardom apparently not enough to render her recognisable to the women at at an adjoining table. So much, I guess, for gawker.com, while all it takes is one "C'mere!" delivered sotto voce by Frank (see Owen pictured above), and Rachel falls into his protective arms. And so what if at least two others among the male ensemble look far more physically apt than Owen for the role?