The Alchemist, Finborough Theatre, London

The Alchemist, Finborough Theatre, London

You never can tell, of course, but if The Alchemist is a faithful version of Paulo Coelho's novel of that name, I wouldn't think he'd find much of a following here. Coelho sells millions in South America, where magical realism goes down a treat. In the Cornish Theatre Collective's adaptation, however, his story comes across – as magic realism always does to me – as precious, whimsical and bent on turning an anthill of wisdom into a mountain of sententiousness.

Dominic Knutton's production is far more elegant and inventive than one is used to at the Finborough: a pale-yellow construction of hatbox and wedge-shaped forms is separated and reassembled to portray a cliff, a well, a ship at sea and a fleet ofcamels. As some of the five actors are on stage, or changing, the others play a pipe, drum or mandolin, or chant or, when the alchemist gets busy, make bloop-bloop "boffin at work" noises.

The story concerns Santiago, an Andalusian shepherd who yearns to see more of life, travels abroad, and, after showing bravery and cleverness in the face of adversity, finds happiness. Santiago is played by a woman, and the other woman and three men portray many characters, shuffling and striding in an assortment of head wraps and caftans. At times the actors simply speak to each other, at times they tell us what they are doing, and sometimes a narrator tells us, though that can mean unnecessary explanation. "Take this,'' says an old man to the boy, and the narrator adds "... said the old man.'' Instead of sounding antique, this is just irritating.

What really sites The Alchemist in the land of the twee, however, is its sentiments, reminiscent of no more magical an author than Walt Disney. "No heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams'' and "The only thing that makes a dream impossible to achieve is the fear of failure'' are precepts even the most sanctimonious parent might hesitate to endorse. At times the language turns poetic: "Love is the falcon's flight over the sand,'' says Santiago, "because to him you are a green field to which he always returns with game.'' As another way of wording his later apercu – "When you love, you can do anything'' – it's more exotic but equally dumb.

Coelho seems whimsical through and through: "He will not start writing a novel until he has seen a white feather,'' the programme says. Tip to Paulo: have a pillow fight. Er, actually, on second thoughts...

Rhoda Koenig

To 2 February (020-7373 3842)