`The Violation of Xim' might more accurately, perhaps, have been entitled `The Violation of an Audience'.

Commencing 40 minutes late (no explanation, no apology), what should have been a 90-minute show stretched to three interminable hours. Most of this time, it should be noted, was taken up with five-minute (average) breaks in between each very brief scene, when the audience was left gazing at the lowered curtain.

These unofficial intervals -- we also had an official one of 20 minutes -- were variously employed by the audience to chat with equally fed-up friends and colleagues, or as an unexpected bonus of quiet reflection time: more prosaic thoughts, such as the dawning realisation that this was going to be yet another late working night, were succeeded by an increasing sense of puzzlement as to what makes some people get involved in the theatre in the first place.

Is it an ego thing, a dream thing ("Hollywood on the line for you'')? Maybe we came on the wrong night, and this was only a rehearsal. After all, the scenes did not appear to have been `blocked', none of it appeared to have been joined together as in scenario/song/dance relating to each other in any way, and with one or two exceptions, there was little interaction by a cast that seemed as bemused by the whole thing as we were.

This is a pity, as Alan Smith's text for this original musical reveals promise. Set in a sci-fi world, the planet of Xim falls victim to the evil machinations of shape-shifter `Rail' who arrives in style with his two lieutenants in galactic transporters. With lights a-twinkle, this was the most visually arresting moment of the evening. While not totally original -- `Trekky' fans will recall a similar episode where inhabitants of one planet lived in a permanent state of stupor thanks to drugs supplied by baddies from another -- the surrealist theme, especially its treatment in musical terms, is something of a departure for local original theatre.

Bermudians, too, will identify with the problems of a planet where a lucrative tourist trade has ended. The vulnerable inhabitants are ripe for exploitation, through promises of wealth and accompanying instant gratification, achieved in this case, through the supply of a kind of celestial cannabis which Mr. Smith calls Flatella.

The music, by Robert Edwards and Wendell Simmons, while predictably techno-pop in approach, had moments of real melody and some innovative lyrics.

Unfortunately, the overall effect of the music was more `spaced-out' than probably intended, as the sound system was far from perfect, as songs boomed and faded randomly throughout the long night.

The imaginative sets, designed by Dean Richards, were one of the redeeming features of the production, as were the space-age costumes designed by Dean Parris.

During the rare moments when this show twitched into life, Daren Herbert, in the role of Rail, revealed considerable talent. But this promising young actor, who combines fine diction with a commanding stage presence, scarcely had an opportunity to develop the character he was attempting to portray.

Not even seasoned actor Danjou Anderson was able to rescue this production from oblivion, this in spite of some fine singing, especially in the number, Prophecy. Wendy Callabras and Aprille Choudhury (who was also the choreographer) brought finesse to the dance sequences, and there were potentially good performances from Alan Smith, Nayte Paxton, Katherine Kawaley, and 16-year old Sjoniece Fox.

The failure of this production lay in its direction, or, more precisely, in its total lack of direction. This was a task apparently way beyond the capabilities of Kevin Bean, who appeared to have little idea of even the basic requirements of stage direction. Even as an under-rehearsed workshop production, the obvious lack of prior planning left the impression that not even he knew how, or indeed, why, he wanted to present this piece.

As it was, the admittedly sparse opening-night audience had been asked to shell out $20 to sit through this agony of a muddle. Some, who had had more than enough by the time the official interval rolled around, quite sensibly walked out.

More worrying is the fact that Chameleon Productions managed to wangle funds from the Bermuda Arts Council to stage the show. One would have thought that anyone accepting what is, after all, public funding, would realise that there is an accompanying responsibility to deliver the goods. This, Chameleon Productions spectacularly failed to do.

PATRICIA CALNAN