Sarah Hemming

The play gets over-entangled in its philosophising in places. But that’s offset by Hunter, who stepped into the role at the last minute to replace the unwell David Threlfall, and is quite superb. Dressed in a scruffy, tawny old coat and scuffed boots, she prowls the action, sardonic, stealthy, commenting on events with deadpan humour and grumbling at being forced into a sudden moral re-evaluation of her natural instincts — eating children and the like — by her posthumous existence. Her ethical musings, absurd as they may seem, underpin the play, contrasting with the madness of human atrocities. And she ends it with a quietly chilling warning: “Be conscious of the wind: where’s it coming from. Be still. Watch. Listen.”

And the production becomes intensely moving by the end. It defiantly gives our divided times one of Paddington’s famous “hard stares”. Above all, it’s about empathy and acceptance, joyously celebrating the role of theatrical storytelling in making those qualities manifest. It’s when Hameed and Shah step forward simply as themselves at the end, that it fully hits home: although its star is a small bear, this is really a show about humanity.

The play dances to and fro, interweaving serious questions with crisply funny dialogue and combining the absurd with the profound. Luka’s awakening, for instance, arrives on a treadmill at the gym when he is apparently joined by Jesus in the guise of actor Willem Dafoe. In Finn den Hertog’s tightly paced production, the action plays out like a boxing match, which works wonderfully in Soho Place’s in-the-round space. Milla Clarke’s spare design — a table and a few chairs — has dispensed with the set the show had in Edinburgh, leaving the two actors exposed, in tune with their characters’ feelings.

But timely as all this is, the situation feels oddly contrived and the dialogue often stiff and airless. McGregor suggests that Henry’s confident exterior is undermined by grief and remorse, but he struggles to animate some cloying lines. “You were like this brilliant beam of light in the dark tunnel of my life,” he says at one point. Another character talks of someone “undressing you with his eyes” — the sort of cliché that should have vanished with the first draft. And then there is Mathilde herself, who is expanded from the original and played with immense poise by Elizabeth Debicki, but still feels more like an idea than a person.

It’s been billed as a “reconceived” production of Lionel Bart’s 1960 musical but it’s certainly not as radical as some of Bourne’s other work. Rather, Bourne and producer Cameron Mackintosh walk a canny line between the upbeat Cockney carry-on in the musical and the darkness of Dickens’ novel, paying good heed to both as they unpack Oliver’s story with nimble dexterity. Raucous big numbers such as “Oom-Pah-Pah” and “Consider Yourself” come blazing across the footlights, Bourne’s witty, exuberant choreography filling the stage with music-hall zest.

Collins, in her stage debut, is a mercurial figure, zigzagging about like a butterfly, both physically and emotionally. Wohl gives Irene some great lines, which Collins delivers wittily: “I rely on other people not to sink to my level,” she says, admitting that what she is doing is screwed up. She’s never still, while Morte, in reply, has a quiet, contained quality. When they finally unpack their feelings, it’s clear that her restlessness and his stillness have to do with their unhappiness. But in the end, despite its thrust, this feels like a curiously flimsy affair.

It’s full of cracking performances, however. Giles Terera, as the hawkish General Turgidson, smoothly games civilian casualty numbers as if calculating odds on the weather, while John Hopkins’ General Ripper, spouting garbage with complete conviction, feels frighteningly familiar. Meanwhile Coogan is terrific, making each of Sellers’ roles his own with honed comic timing. He’s particularly good as Mandrake, his mild manner and plummy English accent masking his rising desperation, and he’s spectacularly sinister as the ex-Nazi nuclear scientist, Dr Strangelove.

It’s a long joke, frantic in places, and the extra framing of the prologue and epilogue feels unnecessary. But the show has so much effervescent joy, and is delivered with such energy and heart by Foster, Tulley and the terrific ensemble, that it’s irresistible. And, in the end, under cover of obsession with romantic love, it smuggles in a refreshing musical paean to platonic love.

Director Dominic Cooke, who last worked with Staunton on a matchless staging of Stephen Sondheim’s Follies, throws everything at it the vast Palladium stage can handle, relishing the chance to savour musical comedy at its bonkers best. So we have comic nonsense in a hat-shop, marching bands, swirling crowds and an army of spinning waiters brandishing extravagant, quivering desserts and silver salvers as they pirouette around (choreography from Bill Deamer). Rae Smith’s lovely sets whisk us through 19th-century New York using a moving backdrop of old photographs and full-sized models of trams and locomotives.

This is a play about what it means to serve. The three characters are all public servants. All three have faced tough problems and ethical dilemmas. Alec is struggling with the aftermath of witnessing unspeakable violence, Monica with the wrath of an angry electorate who feel let down. In a year when, amid division and rancour, many go to the polls, Penhall’s play makes the case for more care and empathy. He reminds us of the other meaning of constituent — “to be part of a whole”.