Maybe it was the dancing penis routine that won me over. Perhaps it was Jacob Rees-Mogg as a Praying Mantis. Or Suella Braverman becoming aroused by thinking about deportation. Despite fearing the worst, Spitting Image in the rubbery flesh proved to be shockingly funny. I had not expected it to be this entertaining.
While the series had been a satirical staple in the 1980s and 1990s the recent TV revival had made few waves. But on the plus side it meant that there were lots of latex grotesques caricaturist Roger Law could recycle for this stage spectacular. Some barely have any lines. Dominic Cummings walks on and off. Environment Secretary Thérèse Coffey floats past as a cigar-smoking maggot. Meghan – “my West End debut” – is attention-seeking, Harry plugs his book. Neither have pivotal parts.
The plot is about a group of not-so-superheroes uniting to defeat Boris Johnson, who wants to snatch the crown from King Charles. It makes your average Christmas panto look like Ibsen. Yet it works. Writers Matt Forde and Al Murray and writer/director Sean Foley do not miss an opportunity for a punchline, aided by top impressionists including Luke Kempner and Jess Robinson.
The pace is so fast there is no chance of boredom. By the time you have tittered at Carrie Johnson’s talking breasts, the cast, controlled discreetly by puppeteers, is onto the next scene. This is all very old school, the inclusion of Ru Paul feeling like a nod to diversity. Punchlines are broad. Prince Andrew arrives sweat-free from Pizza Express, Paddington Bear is a goggle-eyed ursine Pablo Escobar.
Occasionally the satire misses the mark. Tom Cruise, who leads the impossible mission to save the UK, is portrayed as tiny. Which means they can’t use this gag for Rishi Sunak, who instead is a man-sized schoolboy, which doesn’t feel right.
The script is largely pre-recorded, but newsroom inserts offer flexibility for topical additions. An announcement says that Phillip Schofield is indisposed, while a spoof report has Chancellor Jeremy Hunt quoted as saying “the economy is really f**ked”. The real Jeremy Hunt was seated behind me, so is either a good sport or has no shame.
Extended sketches are punctuated by musical numbers mixed in quality. King Charles has a playful pastiche of Bohemian Rhapsody – “I’m just a posh boy from a posh family” – while Suella Braverman doing Michael Jackson’s Thriller was so close to the original it was more tribute act than parody.
This is very much equal opportunities mockery, with added swipes at Angela Rayner and Keir Starmer, the latter sent up as a fence-sitting, legalese-spouting automaton. But most of the ire is understandably directed at the government.
It tries to get a little more serious towards the end, with a visual montage of Westminster fails and a hint of something more sinister around the corner. But while Spitting Image was once known for its biting political barbs, this version is strongest on simple, brainless belly laughs.
