Babes In Arms, New Theatre Anyone Can Whistle, St David's Hall, Cardiff

Sometimes I despair of humanity – in this case, the people of Cardiff. What on earth can they have to do, I wondered, looking round the half-empty New Theatre, that's more important than going to Babes in Arms? The Rodgers and Hart show, part of the International Festival of Musical Theatre, is far worthier of the definition "musical'' than anything in the West End except My Fair Lady, and certainly of the term "musical comedy''. As the luscious Tiffany Graves berates and biffs her erstwhile beau, then kicks out as he drags her off, then decides she likes it, one's delight at the fusion of song, dance and wit is mixed with sadness at its rarity.

Babes in Arms, it's true, will never win any fans from the politically or psychologically aware wings of musical fans. Its book is a sort of ur-text about a group of talented children working backstage at a summer theatre who decide to put on their own show. They rehearse – I kid you not – in a barn. If, however, the book is slight, at least it's weightless, and there's not much of it between songs, which include "Where or When'', "The Lady is a Tramp'', "I Wish I Were in Love Again'', and "My Funny Valentine''.

Martin Connor's cast are an appealing bunch, their youthful wholesomeness either natural or well-feigned. Joshua Dallas (Valentine) has an attractive presence and a gentle sincerity with a ballad that shows to good effect when he partners Alexandra Jay in "You're Nearer''. In the latter, a little masterpiece of dazed sensuality, Rodgers slows down the tempo so much that you don't quite realise you're listening to that musical equivalent of foreplay, a tango.

Jay delivers love songs, jazzy songs and lines with great fresh- ness and sincerity, and sends the lyrics out with beautifully clear articulation (though she has to watch the tendency to hit final consonants too hard). Absent-mindedly kicking her leg higher than her head or exploding into a fireball of naughtiness, Jay gets all the drollery and dazzle out of the part of Graves, the oversexed soubrette.

Best of all, Bill Deamer, w ith a cast who can really dance, gives us both comic and frenzied numbers, and a classic tap speciality, in which Stori James conveys not only his considerable skill, but also the excitement of being light and fast on one's feet.

The Stephen Sondheim musical Anyone Can Whistle died a quick death on Broadway and is always championed by musical-comedy buffs (as distinct from lovers). As a concert version showed, its fate was not unjust for a book that's a fey and tasteless combination of An Enemy of the People and the Alan Bates film King of Hearts. The score is low-level Sondheim – I've always thought the title tune sticky with self-pity. A high-quality cast, though, put over all the wonky charm of the piece, and Jenny Logan turned in a peerless performance as the urbane yet down-to-earth older woman. When shall we look on the like again? With luck, as Mr Sondheim said elsewhere, maybe next year.

To Saturday (029 2087 8889)