It isn't. Bliss that is. It’s certainly slick but a drama needs to offer more than that to persuade play-goers it’s been £15 well spent. After all, think of how many celebrity gossip magazines that money could buy.

These trashy titles are the oblique focus of this strange, jet-black comedy from Québécois playwright Olivier Choinière, whose potentially intriguing thesis seems to be that we are what we read. At first, it looks like a clever, if hollow, send-up of our obsession with the lives of vacuous celebrities. Then Choinière, confidently translated by Caryl Churchill, twists it up a notch on the surreal dial. But it reminded me uncomfortably of an overworked exercise on a creative writing course.

On entering the auditorium, we are each handed the blue bib and nametag of the Wal-Mart employee. Four similarly dressed actors confront us from the set, a badly maintained washroom. They talk, in meticulous detail, of a French-Canadian singer Céline, obsessed with every aspect of her life.

Just when we might scream if we hear the name “Céline” once more, the narrative focuses on bedridden Isabelle, an ardent Céline fan. Her life disintegrates into a schlocky “abuse porn” memoir of the sort we lap up when not drooling over stars’ shoes.

Fine as actors Bríd Brennan, Hayley Carmichael, Neil Dudgeon and Justin Salinger are, it’s exhausting to hear them narrate constantly in the third person without the relief of dialogue. Joe Hill-Gibbins’s production fails to join up too many dots although, when the action grounds itself in Wal-Mart for the denouement, we realise that the cut-away black box surround represents a mirror and we are the reflections of these sad sacks who know only how to live vicariously. It’s a salutary warning that could have been sounded it more engagingly.

Until 26 April (020 7565 5000)