THEATRE Jolson, Victoria Palace Theatre, London

The singing was great, but the plot is missing: David Benedict found himself caring about nothing but when the next song was going to arrive

In many ways, Jolson resembles the megaflop Gertrude Lawrence bio-musical Star!. They are both star vehicles, backstage rags-to-riches stories of career success and personal pain packed with good songs, both lasting three hours. Sadly, Jolson repeats the formula of having no discernible point of view or attitude to its material.

It may seem fatuous to ask, but what is Jolson actually about? Is it just a parade of the career of the man universally regarded as "the world's greatest entertainer", a Jewish emigrant from Lithuania whose career at the top of showbiz makes Madonna look like a one-hit-wonder? Yes. Isn't that enough? No. Despite the strenuous efforts of Sally Ann Triplett as his wife Ruby Keeler and John Bennett as his long-suffering agent, everyone bar Jolson remains a cipher, with the result that you end up caring about nothing except when the next song is going to arrive.

It can be done. The bio-musical Funny Girl had similarly little to say, but everyone was too busy watching Barbra Streisand to notice. Nevertheless, that show had the sort of dramatic structure that Jolson so painfully lacks. Streisand went out there a youngster and came back a star. Brian Conley is no youngster, and with 12 million fans for his TV show no one is going to label him an overnight sensation, but if anyone can save this, it's him.

For starters, beneath the harsh, metallic sound-mix, his impersonation is uncannily good. He belts out numbers like an unstoppable force. Beefy, brash and brazen, he is supremely in control. By sheer force of personality he makes you believe he is the singer who broke every record in the business, commanded staggering fees and was worshipped by millions. Yet even he cannot save cheesy scenes like the one where a young black kid sings for him and is sent away unknowingly carrying a wad of dollar bills. It's a craven appeal to the lowest common denominator, solely there to illustrate that, contrary to everything we've seen up to that moment, the man has heart. This show has no sense of shame.

The producers are refreshingly upfront about Jolson's egomania, less so about his relationships with the women in his life. He famously gave Keeler a black eye. Here he steals her limelight, pays her no attention and shouts a lot. She divorces him, but don't worry, she's back smiling for the finale. Then there's the whole issue of "blacking up". Jolson made it playing in blackface at the time when a colour bar existed on Broadway. Later in the show, Conley performs without the make-up and nothing is said. Black audiences are left to like the historical context or lump it.

The show is also stymied by the scale of the sets, some of which, despite the budget, actually wobble. It's impressive when the entire orchestra is flown in for the inevitable final concert sequence, but with that amount of scenery waiting in the fly gallery, scenes often begin in embarrassed front light with the set still arriving behind them. Conley's powerhouse performance and the immense marketing campaign may put everything in the shade and ensure the show's survival, but audiences deserve far more.

Booking: 0171-834 1317