[ TITLE OF SHOW ] at Southwark Playhouse Borough

★★★

“you have to hand it to the four performers – they know how to deliver. All of them have solid pipes and their whip crack dialogue rattles along at pace”

It’s cold and wet in Southwark. If your idea of an autumnal pick-me-up is to watch four perky Americans sing a running commentary about themselves for 90 minutes, you’re in for a treat.

If you’re looking to bury yourself further into your damp irritation, you can attend the same show and find validating levels of pique.

It’s that kind of show. Often at the same time.

The title of [Title of Show] comes from the entry form for the New York Musical Festival. Clueless about what to enter, aspiring writers and performers Hunter and Jeff decide to turn their mundane blather into the product. What we’re watching is the creative process as both the creative process and the result of the creative process. Meta on steroids.

“We could put this exact conversation in the show,” says Hunter after a particularly moribund exchange. But “would other people want to watch something like that?”

We’ll see.

The problem is apparent straight away. The creative process, even fictionalised, is notoriously indulgent. You end up with songs about writing songs about writing songs. Russian dolls with nothing at the centre.

[Title of Show] – directed by Christopher D Clegg, with musical direction by Tom Chippendale – is utterly obsessed by the mechanics of its own creation. The conceit throws up some genuinely witty moments and clever-clever theatrical in-jokes but has the feel of a student end-of-year showcase aimed at a knowing audience.

When the two women, Heidi and Susan, are left alone for the first time after the two main characters go off stage to do some business, they have nothing to offer except a song about two women being left alone for the first time while the two main characters go off stage to do some business.

It’s like that all the way through. Clever but without purpose.

You’re never left alone to enjoy a moment without the nature of the moment being retold as a rhyme. To be fair, the script does frequently question whether this is one huge mistake.

However, you have to hand it to the four performers – they know how to deliver. All of them have solid pipes and their whip crack dialogue rattles along at pace.

Jacob Fowler (Hunter), Abbie Budden (Heidi), Mary Moore (Susan) and Thomas Oxley (Jeff) have sumptuous voices, great range, and an endearing jazz hands energy.

Maybe this is a British thing, but the upbeat can-do fame school exuberance is the worst of it. After the festival and a taste of off-Broadway, they return to ordinary life and something more interesting happens. They struggle. They pout. They bicker.

Suddenly, these varnished mannequins acquire a second dimension. Some of their singing becomes heartfelt, some of their plights seem grounded. The irksome sweetness becomes something more savoury, perhaps even bitter.

But if that also is too affected, you could slot your grouch into the umbrella stand, turn off your head and just enjoy the songs. There’s a bunch of styles, some swish choreography, some deft solos and arrangements. Many of the songs individually are exceptional, the lyrics clever and often catchy. The sentiment is wholesome, the energy lively, and you can admire their (fictional) pluck and (actual) craft.

There’s a number which has the (clunky) line “I’d rather be nine people’s favourite thing than a hundred people’s ninth favourite thing”. That captures the ambivalence, and maybe even courage, of this production.

[Title of Show] is about overthinking something to the point where the enjoyment fades. My bad.