DR. STRANGELOVE at the Noël Coward Theatre

★★★½

“part broad farce, part skewering satire, a little bit of ’Allo ’Allo, some Airplane, some Partridge”

You have to laugh, don’t you, faced with this confluence of existential crises. War in Europe and the Americans tempted by the charms of a bloviated strongman. Meanwhile the Reds, if not exactly under in our beds, then loitering on our phones, messing with our minds.

Perfect time then for that whip-smart agitator Armando Iannucci, arch chronicler of political chaos, to revive and adapt director Stanley Kubrick’s classic ode to Cold War lunacy, Dr Strangelove.

A great decision and elevated to genius with Steve Coogan who is in harness for not one but four roles – the headliner’s quick change act a marvel in itself.

A reminder: it’s the early 1960s. We’re in the Cold War, everyone’s on edge, there are Commies everywhere, paranoia is rife and cigar chomping General Jack Ripper (a very Trumpian John Hopkins) has gone rogue, sending his pilots to drop a big wing of H-bombs on the Ruskies.

The next two hours of this soaring, mile-a-minute, yet strangely stodgy comedy sees bumbling War Room generals trying to mitigate and resolve one world-ending disaster after another, not helped by a disabling patriotism that won’t let them back down.

There’s a grab-bag of comedy influences on show – part broad farce, part skewering satire, a little bit of ’Allo ’Allo, some Airplane, some Partridge (inevitably) as well as dollops of that Pythonesque love of institutional silliness.

But mostly we’re living in Coogan’s world. He is the lynchpin of director Sean Foley’s ambitious production that attempts – by means of audacious staging, filmed backdrops, crashes, bangs and shoot-outs – to emulate Kubrick’s 1964 silver screen satire.

All eyes are on Coogan as he embodies, in turn, marble mouthed Brit Lionel Mandrake (channelling King Charles); frazzled plot device President Merkin Muffley; bombastic, bombtastic pilot Major TJ Kong; and the eponymous Dr Strangelove, the sinister Nazi (‘as American as apple strudel’) with the Andy Warhol wig and the alien robot arm that has a tendency to heil Hitler. Coogan is at his peak here, whizzing about in a wheelchair in a blizzard of tics, finding layers of comedy in his camp German inflections.

When he is on, he is truly on, when he is off – changing wigs and suits – we hanker for his return.

Coogan makes the most of his audacious bid to match, and perhaps surpass, Peter Sellers – the film’s original star – as the country’s most admirable comic actor. Coogan gives it everything, seemingly understanding the weight of the comparison, even taking on a fourth role to top Sellers by one.

The production is not entirely successful. The convolutions of plot and language occasionally fall for their own complexity meaning the comedy sags. Too many jokes are aimless and dated. And the febrile pacing – one note, full pelt farce, major scene changes, and non-stop calamity – is sometimes too much and not enough at the same time, the cinematic ambition leaving the theatricals stuttering.

But the ensemble cast is uniformly strong. Booming Giles Terera as General Turgidson takes on Coogan blow-for-blow in the War Room set pieces. Mark Hadfield sprinkles baffled fun on proceedings as Paceman, and Tony Jayawardena gives Russian Ambassador Bakov some comedic heft.

The sets (by Hildegard Bechtler) are jaw dropping, the energy phenomenal and the laugh rate about as high as a B-52 over Moscow.

If Armageddon’s this much fun, bring on the bombs.