They still love Barrymore

The prodigal son has returned from his wanderings and is ready to face his public again. And it must be admitted that his public seemed very happy to have him back.

Michael Barrymore began his stint at Wyndham's Theatre with a series of impressive genuflections to all parts of the auditorium, and the ovation was warm, particularly from the ladies.

There were obviously other people there for different reasons. After his recent trials and tribulations, Barrymore has the special allure of damaged goods, and there is nothing like a close-up view of the man on stage to indicate just how bad the damage is.

If his recent rehabilitation is a function of the modern age of celebrity, then the staging of his live show harked back to the past, specifically a past that might have once been situated at the end of a very long pier. A six-piece band, described at one point rather optimistically as an orchestra, occupied each side of the stage, all dressed in black and reading their notes assiduously from sheet music on stands. And that included the drummer.

A singer called Suzanne Prentice warmed up the audience with four songs, after which there was an interval. If Barrymore plans on conquering the West End, he might do well to reconsider this lop-sided arrangement and put the interval somewhere near the middle of the show, where it should be.

The appearance of the leggy fellow was not long delayed, and I have to confess that he looked well. That, though, is just about the end of the good news. There was no forewarning that the man was going to be so impossibly vulgar. Although a tall man, no sex gag is beneath his reach. His appearances on the television led me to believe Barrymore had something of a natural communicating gift, particularly with children.

Unfortunately, his obviously pre-scripted banter was horrible to behold. The relationship he struck up with various women in the audience was profoundly uncomfortable, principally because he has what seems like an irresistible urge to humiliate. We have all read quite enough about Barrymore's tortured sexuality, but this tawdry mix of half-cocked homo-eroticism and fauxlascivious lady-baiting is hardly the way to air out the closets and hanging wardrobes.

Certainly, Barrymore made it quite clear he has read enough about himself, certainly those articles which are not in the business of fawning upon him. Of fawning, I should imagine, he could never have a surfeit. It seemed that sniping at the press was going to be a tiresome motif of this show, except that the audience didn't pick up the scent of blood, and Barrymore, like the old pro he is, dropped the subject.

It was the centrepiece of the evening's entertainment that best encapsulated its qualities. Barrymore invited Suzanne back for a duet. This took the form of him reappearing on stage in a pink leotard, underwear flapping round the edges.

The gag was that Suzanne had lost seven stone on some exercise regime, and Barrymore was going to recreate it by getting her to sing She into a microphone shoved suggestively down the front of the leotard. I looked at this from every possible angle, and could not locate the humour. The only blessed relief was that she was doing the singing and not him, for among the many mysteries of this entertainment is the identity of the person who told him he could hold a tune.