There is an unfortunate parallel between Oscar Wilde’s Dorian Gray and Matthew Bourne’s dance-drama of the novel. Wilde’s anti-hero starts well, as does Bourne’s show, which he’s set in modern-day London and its model-fashion-art milieu. But just as Gray goes off the rails, so, too, does Bourne’s muddled production.

Bourne’s new show is chaotic. Many of the practicalities, such as clear character and narrative, are missing, while the music is just woeful. Has Terry Davies heard of melody and leitmotif, two essentials in non-verbal drama? If so, he hasn’t included them in his composition, a mostly pre‑recorded rock-themed score so unsophisticated that its tempi speed up as the shaggings multiply.

The programme is chock-full of musings on beauty as a sign of spirituality, or not, but none are realised on stage. Instead we see a parade of reasonably attractive young people who pose, strut and thrust. Some are OK dancers, some not. Dorian (Richard Winsor), whom Bourne casts as a bisexual perfume model, can barely stretch his feet. If an actor had an equivalent shortcoming (no diction, say), we’d boo.

Winsor is nice to look at, but hardly a ravishing youth. Even if he were, Bourne doesn’t explore our fascination with beauty, nor its true desperation. Beauty only temporarily makes us lustful or inspires us to good. After the first flush, it brings sorrow because we know it will pass. We are dust to dust, and beauty accentuates the loss. That may explain our tendency to crush it, to blot the pain, but not Bourne’s feeble show.

All gets increasingly trivial. The women strut in silly sunglasses and the men thrust and writhe. The close is lurid, and you leave thinking that Bourne is too besotted with beauty to reveal it meaning. A case of game-keeper turned poacher.

Until 14 Sept (0844 412 4300).