I was anticipating The Hypochondriac with fairly high hopes. I like Molière, a playwright who provides imaginative directors with wonderful opportunities to create exciting and hilarious theatre and I like Tony Robinson or, at least, I liked Baldrick, the only other acting role in which I have seen him. Also, this adaptation is by Richard Bean who created One Man, Two Guvnors which circumstances have cruelly contrived to prevent me from seeing, but about which everyone else raves. So, all the pieces seemed to be in place for a fun night out.

As we took our seats we were able to enjoy looking at the front-cloth, a giant reproduction of Gilbert and George’s seminal Spunk, Blood, Piss, Shit, Spit (or should that be semenal?). This set the scene for an evening which presented us with rather more faecal content than we had a right to expect.

Le Malade Imaginaire was conceived as a comédie-ballet to include musical interludes but I imagine they would have been in keeping with the rest of the play. We were offered two songs, performed by a couple of rather ordinarily played acoustic guitars, a trumpet and a singer who was like a latter-day Gene Vincent for the first song and a slimy Noel Coward (singing Blood In My Poo) for the second. The “highlight” of the show was a “ballet” at the end that was grotesque in the least flattering sense of its meaning. If you are going to do music, then do it well; this was amateurish. From the moment “the band” appeared to open the show, I had a good idea where we were going.

As I said at the beginning, Molière, or indeed any French farce, provides an imaginative director with opportunities which should have them rubbing their hands with glee. Disappointingly this production was a sorry tale of missed opportunities. It lacked identity, commitment and imagination. Only rarely did we glimpse what it could have been.

Tony Robinson was very watchable and entertaining but was not given his head and allowed to run with the performance in a way in which I am sure he would have been capable. David Collings, as the cutely named Diafoirehoea, was also good in a restrained way but it was only Imogen Stubbs as the pushy, money-grabbing wife Beline, who showed what could have been done. Her performance had elements of farce which were unfortunately missing from the rest of the production. There were moments, like Mr Robinson’s prolonged and mechanical enema, that came close to being funny but by then it was too late. The procedure, administered by a poncy apothecary, prompted one of the funny, though groaningly obvious, lines in the play – with friends like that you don’t need enemas.

Le Malade Imaginaire, as you will have gathered, is nothing if not scatological and this production loses no opportunity to exploit that aspect. I am tempted to say that I could describe the plot (or should that be plop?) and this production with the same word, but I am far too polite for that.

This was Molière’s last play. In fact he collapsed and died during its fourth performance. Sadly, he died again last night.   ★★☆☆☆   Michael Hasted     28/10/14