Alyson Hannigan

THE first question that springs to the minds of most theatre- and cinema-literate people on hearing that the delightfully intelligent When Harry Met Sally is being brought to the West End stage, is, of course, why?

And, having seen the piece, so are the second and third questions. Why take a quintessentially 80s-America, middle-class masterpiece, a diffidently murmured poem to interpersonal navel-gazing, played out in close-up and tight two-shots, and whack it on one of the biggest stages the 21st-century West End has to offer? Why? Why?

The Woody Allen-esque neuroticism of the leading characters was somehow forgivable in a time when "Feel The Fear And Do It Anyway" was hot off the press and selling like shoulder pads. Played by Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan, their mutual obsession was compelling. Almost charming.

I make no apology for looking back so much to the original. Had the stage adaptation been any good, it would have put it from my mind.

It wasn’t, and it didn’t. In fact, it did the opposite. From never having been a huge Billy Crystal fan, I now appreciate the man’s brilliance.

Luke Perry was - after opening scenes in which he made the average giant redwood look like Cary Grant - really not bad. Compared to Alyson Hannigan. At least on television, there is always the hope of a demonic slaying coming along to leaven the dough of Miss Hannigan’s performance. Not here, sadly. My grandmother is more genuinely engaging to watch than Alyson Hannigan. My grandmother died in 1989.

There is good news, however. The script is true to the film, which means that all your favourite lines are there in all their smartness and acuity. Which makes it all the more painful to hear them smothered at second birth by a leading lady with all the comic sensibility of Iain Duncan Smith.

The supporting players are really rather good. And Jamie and Ben Cullum’s music is wonderful. Perfectly sassily, tightly, tunefully jazz. But even that is not enough.