As of 1.52pm GMT on Friday April 27th 2012, This Show Has No Title

Daniel Kitson sits in the middle of an empty stage, reading the script of his latest, barely finished play off printed sheets of A4. "This is literally it," he reveals in one of his many off-script asides. Except it isn't really: what Kitson attempts here (either by design or by default, we're never quite sure which) is a bravura display of theatrical reflexivity, self-referential linguistic dexterity and post-modern delight in fiddling with dramatic convention. And, while it takes all of his considerable skill as a performer to do it, he largely pulls this off in a manner that will make Kitson fans love the man even more. But therein is the problem.

It's hard to know where to start criticising a performer whose extraordinary self-awareness means he has already done most of that leg-work himself. As of 1.52pm GMT... finds Kitson analysing and articulating (probably better than any critic has done) the theatrical mode he has so brilliantly mastered ("I'm thinking; I'm crying; I'm lauging. Yes! You've been Kitsoned!") simultaneously revelling in and destroying his own creative accomplishments. But just because Kitson knows this is self-absorbed, esoteric, showing off doesn't necessarily forgive its being so. 

While there's a lot here to chew over regarding storytelling and the writing process, far and away this performance's main subject is Kitson himself. All of the jokes, the accomplished word-painting, the grasp of the idiosyncracies of dialogue, must first pass through a door marked 'Daniel Kitson.' Years from now, Kitson scholars will find much to pore fruitfully over here. But it's a work that has no life away from that of its writer and protagonist.