Theo Bosanquet

At times it can feel like being given an IQ test in dramatic form, but don’t be intimidated by the jumble of scientific terminology (there’s a helpful guide to this side of things in the programme). There are plenty of laughs, many courtesy of Puwanarajah’s enjoyably pompous Bernard (“kiss my cycle-clips”), and tenderness too. Modern-day mathematics student Valentine (Angus Cooper) joyously explains the brilliance of Thomasina’s theories, while her relationship with Septimus celebrates the unknowable force of attraction, culminating in a waltz laden equally with chemistry and tragic irony.

The Producers has come back to the West End just at the right time, offering a giant slab of feel-good escapism and genuine hilarity when such things feel in short supply. And in Marber, it has found the perfect steward, a director with comedy in his fingertips and the intellectual heft to ensure it retains all of its anarchic spirit. Whether you’re a fan of the 1967 screen original or a newcomer, it’s got plenty of pleasures to flaunt.

The production’s final key ingredient, in common with many great Dreams, is a proper sense of spectacle, culminating in the giant balls that bounce over the audience’s heads at the end. Although it perhaps doesn’t quite reach the cathartic heights of Guys and Dolls, there’s a full-throated and infectious sense of collective fun to proceedings that ensures we all take Puck’s proffered hand of friendship as we dance out into the night. Those shadows can wait for another day.

There are some fine performances among the 14-strong ensemble, notably Wilkes’s skittish Carl, who places a wager on his father’s talents to clear his debts, and Hagan’s frustrated Frederick, himself a captive of societal convention. There’s also a moving turn from Juliet Garricks as Emilia, a servant in Frederick’s court whose young son has been killed on the battlefield. But it’s Cox’s impassioned, emotionally wrought portrayal of fading genius that shines brightest.

If it occasionally slides into over-sentimentality and mawkishness, particularly in the closing moments, that feels forgivable. The memory of these comedy greats is fading fast – it’s over 40 years since Cooper and Morecambe died – kept alive largely by YouTube clips and Christmas repeats. Monkhouse’s insistence on identifying the provenance of jokes (many of them his own) seems an apt reminder of our wider debt to that generation, on whose shoulders today’s booming comedy sector stands. This is a welcome chance to remember what made them so beloved, and at a brisk 80 minutes, it leaves you aching for more – just like the comics themselves.

Harrelson hasn’t been on stage for nearly 20 years, apparently put off by his experience doing Night of the Iguana in the West End in 2005. But it’s such a joy to see him back, in a role that plays to his clear comedy instincts (it’s easy to forget his big break was Cheers), and seems a perfect fit for an actor with his genuine star wattage. Serkis too has largely foregone theatre in favour of blockbusters, but reminds us what he’s capable of in a performance that captures the increasing desperation of a man who will literally say anything to ensure the show – and his career – goes on.