Walnut Street Theatre presents Andrew Lloyd Webber and Don Black's 'Tell Me on a Sunday'

Our heroine (Julia Udine) — if we can even call her that — doesn’t even get a name; the program refers to her only as “Girl,” and that childish diminutive seems no accident. She moves from the London suburbs to New York City with no job prospects and no real interests besides landing a green card and a suitable hunk.

Two dozen vapid songs chronicle her various trysts, which take her briefly to Los Angeles (to live as a studio exec’s consort, natch) and then back to the Big Apple (where she plays mistress to a married businessman). The lights dim before we see any hope of self-actualization.

Time warp

Sunday is set in the 1980s — Roman Tatarowicz’s Pepto-pink set and Troy A. Martin-O’Shea’s abrasive lighting never let the audience forget it — and its retrograde ideas should have stayed there. It’s possible a more skillfully realized production could have reframed the problematic narrative as satire, but Debi Marcucci’s clueless directorial choices betray little evidence of skill.

Why does Girl sing “Capped Teeth and Caesar Salad,” which purports to mock Hollywood excess, while cradling a Chanel shopping bag? She’s supposedly commenting on Rodeo Drive's emptiness, not participating in it.

Udine’s sweet-toned soprano easily fills the small space without amplification. (Ryan Touhey provides able support on the keyboard.) Her acting choices make little impression, though it’s fair to wonder what anyone could possibly do with such a hollow role. Perhaps the show and the part once gave off a more spirited and sexy vibe, but by today’s standards, it more often feels like blithe objectification.

Cultural attitudes have shifted greatly since Tell Me on a Sunday premiered — and even more so in the wake of women’s marches and #metoo. Through that lens, the show really feels like an old man’s fantasy. Is that the story theater should be telling in 2018?