The Government Inspector at Marylebone Theatre – review

Who’d have thought it? 188 years after its premiere, a play about privileged buffoons hustling their way into power is still drawing audiences. What a difference a couple of centuries doesn’t make, hey?

Nikolai Gogol’s satire originally skewered Tsarism and contemporary Russian society. It follows a foppish civil servant who is mistaken for a government inspector by a corrupt small-town mayor and his councillors. He takes their misunderstanding and sprints with it, accepting bribes, moving in with the mayor and flirting with his wife and daughter, and generally making a freeloading nuisance of himself.

It’s since been transposed onto every era going, from fascist Italy to newly independent Indonesia. But this adaptation by Patrick Myles, who also directs, chooses a small UK town in a late-1800s, alternate universe.

It stays faithful to Gogol’s structure, and nods to his wonderfully ridiculous naming conventions (our civil servant is Percy Fopdoodle and our mayor is Governor Swashprattle). But its untethering from any real historical moment lets it sidestep sledgehammer political messages. The mirror it holds up to society is raised in brief, brilliant flashes (“I’ve swindled so many people, I should be the Prime Minister”). Instead, we’re offered two hours of glorious, unbridled silliness. Any navel-gazing in this production is from the Pythonesque cast members bending themselves into slapstick contortions.

Monty Python is just one of the influences Myles cites in his programme notes, along with Blackadder and Fawlty Towers. And these childhood heroes would be proud. He knows what they did: that true silliness requires control and attention to detail.

Every second of the riotous action is meticulously crafted. From pratfalls and dance parties (set to Jamie Lu’s zany score) to the stomping, sulking Fopdoodle being spoon-fed his soup, complete with “here comes the train” sound effects. There’s a Two Ronnies-style double act – the two Ivans – rabbiting over each other with perfect timing. And ample opportunities for the cast to stretch out a joke for as long as they please, occasionally reappearing from offstage to give one last jab of a repeating punchline. The scenes feel like brilliant, self-contained sketches – so much so that the audience applauded at the end of each one.

The script is unrelentingly hilarious and linguistically delicious. “Needs must when fate defecates in your porridge” and “the staff have all the manners of a Scottish stepchild” were two standout zingers. Meanwhile, the officials have wickedly meaningless titles like “Councillor for Fruit and Vegetable Opportunities”.

With such a blistering roster of quips and physical gags to hit, you’d forgive a cast for missing a few beats. Not this one. They have comedy in their bones.

Kiell Smith-Bynoe is superb as the petulant, posturing Fopdoodle, firing off witticism after hyperbolic claim with an airy entitlement that holds you helplessly in thrall. “Bring the water, I’ll turn it into wine. I’ve done it before,” was the line of the night.

Dan Skinner as Governor Swashprattle is a formidable comedy ringmaster to his band of clowning councillors. The Basil Fawlty to nine expert Manuels. So great is their command of slapstick, so easy their comedic coordination that one feels they might be improvising the whole dizzy spectacle. And Martha Howe-Douglas cuts through their tomfoolery as the equally foolish, social-climbing Mrs Swashprattle.

Gogol purists may come away mulling over questions of power, delusion, or some other impressive profundity. But everyone will leave with a face aching from grinning.