Mrs Doubtfire is a social comedy about divorce. We meet Miranda, a talentless, bitter mother, who tires of her caring but imperfect husband, Daniel, and kicks him out of the house on some footling pretext. When Miranda later discovers that Daniel’s loyalty to their children is an asset of inestimable value she invites him back. And he accepts her offer without a murmur of recrimination.

The story is based on the cruel imbalances in family law that entitle a vengeful, heartless woman like Miranda to destroy the emotional wellbeing of her children and her husband, and to call her vandalism justice. In this story Daniel is a voiceover artist who impersonates an eccentric Scottish nanny, Mrs Doubtfire, and persuades Miranda to hire him as their kids’ carer. A neat set-up. It works better as a play than a movie because the nanny’s disguise is more convincing on stage. And the audience is spared the relentless and distressing hyperactivity of Robin Williams, who starred in the 1993 film.

The ingenious plot has some exquisite moments. Miranda shares the secrets of her troubled marriage with the wise, kindly Mrs Doubtfire, aka Daniel, who thus discovers where he erred in his marriage and how he might improve his conduct. The audience knows what’s going on. Daniel knows too. Miranda doesn’t. A wonderfully touching scene. The contrary device works just as well. Mrs Doubtfire befriends Miranda’s hunky new boyfriend who outclasses Daniel in every way. He’s younger, richer, better-looking, and he sounds more intelligent (to American ears, at least) because he’s English. Daniel uses Mrs Doubtfire’s persona to sour his wife’s budding relationship and to plant doubts in the boyfriend’s mind about Miranda’s true feelings.

The script is highly manipulative, in the best possible way, and it leads the audience like a flock of trusting lambs towards the sunny uplands of reconciliation and peace. Everyone learns, everyone grows, everyone hugs. This type of schmaltz is often unbearable to sit through but here it’s a joy. The tunes are decent enough although not well integrated with the storyline. The dancing is brilliant and the female performers have clearly been chosen by a red-blooded male with an eye for a fetching contour and a flexible physique. Tickets are costly but scarce. Great family fun.

Aspects of Love, by Andrew Lloyd Webber, is based on a novel by David Garnett. The storyline has become accidentally topical as it includes a pair of symmetrical romances between a middle-aged man and a younger female. It opens in the dressing room of a French theatre where Rose, a failing actress, is propositioned by an innocent but devilishly handsome teenager, Alex. (Great work from Laura Pitt-Pulford and Jamie Bogyo in these roles.) Alex embarks on a romance with Rose which is promptly wrecked by his rich, famous uncle, George, who shoves him aside and invites Rose to move into his swish Paris apartment.

The script is packed with enough surprises to fill ten hours of television but it never feels rushed or over-hasty. In one hectic scene, Alex barges into George’s home and begs Rose to take him back. She relents. They make love. Then they quarrel. Alex draws a pistol. Rose dares him to murder her. Bang! He misses. George walks in and correctly reads the situation but instead of getting angry he agrees to give Rose up. Alex makes an identical offer and suggests that Rose remain with George. But it’s George who quits, whereupon Rose becomes overwrought, rejects Alex and throws him out on to the street. Left alone, she confesses her undying love for him. This is an astonishing feat of compressed storytelling. Although it sounds absurdly melodramatic, the scene is handled with great tenderness and humour.

The sets keep pace with the fast-moving storyline. Director Jonathan Kent has chosen a shabby-chic style with mobile panels that indicate each change of location from Provence, to Venice, to Paris and so on. Some of the scene-painting is deliberately unfinished, which gives it a raffish, bohemian air. And the panels include quotations from the work of Cézanne, Degas and Van Gogh. It’s fun for art-lovers to play spot-the-masterpiece. Michael Ball dazzles as the opulent, dandyish George but the role is too slender for his talent. He has a huge aria in Act One that needs to be complemented by an even more impressive showstopper in Act Two. The influence of George fades unexpectedly towards the close, and the show ends on a minor key, in mournful anti-climax.

At press night, the curtain call was interrupted by the authors, Andrew Lloyd Webber, Don Black and Charles Hart, who tottered on to the stage, a little stooped and a little paunchy, like three ageing gunslingers in a wild west saloon. Perhaps they could spend an afternoon around the piano and create one last hit for this not-quite-perfect show.