This thuddingly dull musical (all false eyelashes and kohl) drowns the Arthurian legend in a sea of pink blancmange and leaves one desperately scanning the horizon for flotsam. All hands lost. Can the actors possibly be taking this farrago seriously? One looks in vain for their private signals to indicate the contrary. Redgrave, to her lasting embarrassment, one suspects, plays Guenevere with absolute sincerity, even when singing 'Where Are the Simple Joys of Maidenhood?' The men's vocal mannerisms make them sound as though they're on the far end of a long-distance telephone.