Something peculiar is happening in “Ghost the Musical.” It’s nothing to do with the plot, which involves a dead man looking after his (living) girlfriend, and a sham psychic with a 4G connection to the afterlife — this is, after all, an adaptation of the 1990 film, a supernatural romance starring Patrick Swayze, Demi Moore, Whoopi Goldberg and a pottery wheel.
No, the oddity here is that, although penned by ex-Eurythmics member Dave Stewart and writer-producer Glen Ballard (Alanis Morissette’s “Jagged Little Pill”), the turgid score doesn’t boast a single decent hook.
The one tune you’ll come out humming is “Unchained Melody,” the standard that also played a big part in the movie. Not only is the song a tried-and-true classic, but in this London import, we hear it, or snippets of it, at least four times.
But then, “Ghost the Musical” likes to hit you over the head.
This distended, hyperactive tornado of a Broadway extravaganza picks up characters, objects and plot lines and flings them about willy-nilly, leaving the audience dazed and confused.
The “flinging about” is meant literally, by the way, because gravity means little in the great beyond, where banker Sam Wheat (Richard Fleeshman) finds himself.
After being murdered in an apparent robbery, our hero realizes that he can now go through doors — a nifty special effect — and even pick up objects — more nifty special effects.
This comes in handy when Sam has to protect his grieving girlfriend, artist Molly Jensen (Caissie Levy), from his devious former colleague, Carl Bruner (Bryce Pinkham).
You wonder why Sam bothers, because we sure don’t care — none of these characters registers, even when their faces appear in huge black-and-white projections, like Calvin Klein commercials.
“Everything about us is right,” sings Molly, who clearly didn’t notice that 1) she and Sam have zero chemistry and 2) her latest sculpture looks like a giant chocolate cruller.
Sam’s able to contact her via clairvoyant con woman Oda Mae Brown (Da’vine Joy Randolph), who doubles as comic relief. It’s a fun part, but also sadly typical of how Broadway relegates black women to sassy one-liners and rousing, gospel-inflected numbers.
Director Matthew Warchus (“Boeing-Boeing,” “God of Carnage”) is a master at comedy, but here he looks overwhelmed by the excess of moving parts. The result feels agitated rather than dynamic, with choreography (by Ashley Wallen) that resembles semi-incoherent flash mobs.
Typical of the overall cluelessness is “More,” a number about the glory of working on Wall Street. Like the rest of this show, its timing couldn’t be worse.