Noel Coward's last play, first produced posthumously in 1982, is a farewell with a careless flourish. He salutes a lifetime spent in the theatre with a sparkling torrent of catty epigrams, set off by a few melodies played discreetly on the heart-strings. It is not a play with a great deal of substance, and it makes no apology for that.

The story is the backstage development of an innocent young playwright's first effort, and provides a series of juicy caricatures of various monsters of the theatrical profession. It is a more cynical and much more bitter play than some of the others he wrote dealing with the same themes (eg Waiting In The Wings or Relative Values). It has been adapted for this production by Christopher Luscombe: among other things, cut down to two acts. I suspect the dialogue has been slightly modernised, but on the whole it remains in tune with the shabby, vaguely 1930s world convincingly created by the costumes, sets and accents.

For most of his life, Coward was able to write exclusively for friends who were breath-takingly, riot-squad-requiringly, Daniel Radcliffe-level famous and/or who possessed the charisma of Gertrude Lawrence or Tallulah Bankhead. Coward was fascinated all his life by the quality of stardom (as distinct from mere fame or even talent). Hence the title. And unfortunately that's just what this production doesn't have quite enough of. The cast are strong and professional, the lighting and the scene changes are well-choreographed, the dialogue is pretty funny and the performers achieve laughs with it, but there simply isn't quite enough of the title factor to bring a rather one-dimensional play into 3D.

Sarah Berger and Anthony Houghton enliven proceedings with some enjoyable hamming and camping it up (respectively) - the Master would have approved (he once defended a leading lady by admitting that she was over-acting but claiming that if she hadn't the whole thing would have been unbearably dull). Liza Goddard succeeds in the much more difficult job of keeping the part of the star in question sufficiently toned-down and simultaneously sufficiently wacky to be believable.

Su Douglas is pretty much perfect as the dresser Nora, and Keith Myers does the good solid work called for by the limited part of a bluff, vain leading man. Bob Saul as the innocent author at the centre of the play is puppyish and dazzled as required, and does well in what is essentially the stooge role.

Daniel Casey as the devastating director leaves only one thing to be desired: his As are uncompromisingly Northern, which would be fine a) if the rest of the accent he uses for this part were less elaborately pre-war BBC Southern or b) if his part, like Su Douglas's, called for vocal swooping between demographics. As it is, it jars in what is otherwise a splendidly vicious performance.

The play is short (7.30 - 9.30 with one interval) and glittery and in parts very funny. It would probably have won me over if they had cut the last scene entirely. Personally I think it would make all the difference. As it is, it drags horribly: the climax is over after the previous scene and today's audiences are unused to the kind of curtain-lecture rubbings-in of which the last scene consists.

Altogether, one for existing Coward fans or avid theatre-goers I think: if you're neither of those things I can't really recommend this one.