on a related theme can turn a mildly provocative piece of theatre into a play worth writing about. Act Provocateur International have had rather different luck. They might have hoped that their production of Lolita at the Lion and Unicorn would, as well as being a worthy parasite of one of last century's most beautifully written novels, have brought in a decent audience. After all, "paedophilia equals shock value equals audiences" is an alchemy well-established on the Fringe.

But they could not have expected the stream of hatred that would soon be unleashed against what we should surely call the "pederast community." In the current climate, a play with a paedophile protagonist is unlikely to pack them in. Thus, on the night I went, Act Provocateur were playing to a crowd you could count on your eyeballs.

Which, in a sense, is a shame, as by the final curtain the actors were obviously embarrassed that they outnumbered their audience. On the other hand, I would be lying if I said this production deserved a good house. Much about it seems ill-conceived. Andy Mcquade, as the famous Humbert Humbert, is a case in point.

Mcquade's performance is adept and holds the show together, but while the book had Humbert handsome and suave, Mcquade plays him as gibbering in his infatuation, and prone to facial expression straight out of Munsch. This well conveys the helplessness of his passion, but it feels strange that Lolita and her mother should both fall for an obviously sick man.

Another feature that bugs is the decision to take the story out of its cultural context. Lolita was written in 1955, but here the women's costumes tell us we are in modern times. Fine in principle. Indeed touches such as having Lolita dance to Britney Spears make points about our infantilising culture that the play would be worse without. But when we see Lolita's mother, a powerfully sexual woman in tight-fitting leather trousers, wag her finger at Humbert and tell him to wait until the wedding night, anachronism strikes. It's as if Sharon Stone switched legs to reveal a glimpse of chastity belt.

The director, Victor Sobchak, is disconcertingly obsessed with the women in this play. It is true that both Charlotte Reeve and Nika Khitrova are what some might term "knockout blondes." But Sobchak takes rather too many opportunities to put them on display. Khitrova, as Lolita, removes her top for no apparent reason in the first minute of the play. An episode that in the book sees a supposedly innocent gesture of Lolita's bring Humbert to climax has become a huge snogging session on the couch, with the girl's skirt riding her thigh.

Is this supposed to make us feel guilty? If so, it doesn't work. Khitrova is gamine but not under-age, and, if anything, placing her in compromising position after compromising position emphasises this. I can't help but think this play would have been more shocking if they'd let her play the child on-stage, which she does well, but kept the sex out of sight.

Empty minds

Over in Chiswick, at the Tabard Theatre, is a play about serial killing, Down the Road by Lee Blessing. A husband and wife writing team are interviewing a serial killer with the intention of writing the book of his crimes. He starts to get inside their minds, as serial killers do, with consequences neither hilarious nor particularly unpleasant.

The play lacks a satisfying conclusion. But there is much of interest in Blessing's script, and the actors do it reasonable service. The play is simply and effectively directed, a split stage making for quick shifts in the action. The journalists are holed up in a motel on some lifeless strip, and it is in evoking the fruitlessness and frustration of their existence that the designers have done well. The set is simple and lifeless, and Olafur Teitur's is the best original music I've heard in the theatre for some time

The serial killer is man driven to extreme action by an heroic impulse to do something memorable. Philip Bulcock's portrayal draws rather heavily on Hollywood prototypes but he makes the role his own when the journalists probe into areas of his life he would rather keep from posterity. His catalogues of death are the highlights of the show, shot through as they are with a grim humour - "Is it rape if she's dead?" he asks. One guy in the audience chuckled. Then stopped. Half an hour later, the play stopped equally abruptly. I shouldn't complain too much: it was good enough while it was going nowhere.

India in miniature