Nevertheless, it is still a shock to realize that eight years after his death, Frank Sinatra is topping the bill at two West End theaters in London.

In The Rat Pack at the Savoy, of course, he is being impersonated by an actor. At the Palladium, however, they have dispensed with such old-fashioned subterfuge. What we get instead is filmed footage of the great man, projected on to giant screens and apparently requiring the combined technical resources of 26 separate computers to make it all work.

This is the first West End show I have seen where the leading man is not actually present. What next?, one wanly wonders. Hamlet performed by a hologram?

Those involved in the production - which has the support of Sinatra's daughters, so don't go expecting any lurid revelations about the singer's links with the Mob - have realized that even the most adoring of Sinatra's fans are unlikely to be happy to have paid 55 (HK$741.50) for a top price ticket to a film show.

So a few extras have been added. The filmed Frank sings along to a live band, which really knows how to swing and gets maximum value from Nelson Riddle's peerless arrangements.

Less happily, there are also 20 dancers, making their entrance across an airplane wing - the opening song is Come Fly With Me, you see - who spend the entire evening hoofing around in sharp suits and cocktail frocks to Stephen Mear's less-than-inspired choreography. The great problem with David Leveaux's slick but soulless production is that you never know where to look. The ever-busy dancers are constantly distracting attention from Sinatra's immaculately relaxed performances - or rather, they would be relaxed if the bloody screens didn't keep moving all over the shop.

What a presence Sinatra had, even on film. How coolly he handled both his songs and his cigarettes.

Why can Leveaux not trust us simply to watch and listen, without constantly trying to prove that this is a proper night at the theater - which, of course, it is not. No show that contains Sinatra's immaculate renditions of In The Still Of The Night, One For My Baby and I Get A Kick Out of You - his teasing phrasing is simply breathtaking - can be counted entirely wasted.

And most of the black-and-white 35mm film of him singing was shot in the late 1950s, when Sinatra was at his peak - though I fear we are not spared the lachrymose monomania of the lamentable My Way as a finale.

But it is intriguing to note that the moments when the audience gets really excited are not during Frank's singing. They come when the big band really lets rip, or the hoofers perform a half-way decent tap routine.

We go to the theater to watch performers live - not a necrophiliac tribute embalmed in celluloid. So here is a tip to save yourself some cash. Settle down in an armchair. Pour yourself a bourbon and light a cigarette, if you are still allowed such things.

Hit the remote control so that Songs for Swingin' Lovers starts playing at a decent volume and wave a picture of Frank Sinatra in front of your eyes.

You will be having a better time than you would at the London Palladium.

THE DAILY TELEGRAPH