Review: I’m Sorry, Prime Minister (Apollo Theatre)

Review by Harry Bower

⭐️⭐⭐

What happens when political titans fade into obscurity? When the corridors of power are replaced with stolen biscuits, a walking stick, and care workers? I’m Sorry, Prime Minister invites us back into the drawing room with Jim Hacker and Sir Humphrey Appleby, now in their twilight years, to find out whether nostalgia is enough to sustain them. The answer, over the course of two hours at the Apollo Theatre, is complicated.

The premise is, given these characters are being played by new actors, reassuringly simple. Jim Hacker (the outstanding Griff Rhys Jones), is now Master of an Oxford college that rather immodestly bears his name. His tenure is under threat after a series of racially insensitive remarks and an ill-judged exchange with a feminist colleague that has put him squarely in the firing line of the “woke” student body. Cue a frantic, circular, self-justifying spiral as Hacker attempts to save his reputation, his livelihood, and perhaps most importantly, his sense of relevance. Alongside him is Clive Francis’s Sir Humphrey, ever the master of obfuscation, still capable of turning a sentence into a monologuing labyrinth.

Jonathan Lynn’s writing retains the hallmarks of the original sitcom. It is wordy, nimble and sharp. There are passages of ping pong dialogue that crackle with the rhythm long-time fans will remember fondly. Some of the biggest laughs come not from topical barbs about cancel culture or generational divides, but from the familiar cadence of Humphrey’s linguistic gymnastics. That said, the stage exposes the material in ways television never did. Without the tight framing of a camera, most exchanges feel too long and empty. What might once have felt brisk now drifts into the laboured.

The overall production leans into comfort. The set, at first glance, looks almost too basic for the Apollo’s scale. But it rewards your attention, with shelves stacked with political books, framed photographs winking knowingly at long-term fans, and there are small visual jokes tucked into corners for those who care to look. It is an apartment that feels lived in, if not particularly grand. The familiarity is the point.

Griff Rhys Jones embodies Hacker with infuriating precision. He captures the bluster of the retired politician who cannot quite accept that the world has moved on. His physicality and voice are perfectly pitched, a blend of entitlement and bewilderment that rings uncomfortably true. Clive Francis is magnificent too; his comic timing is immaculate, and many of the biggest laughs are rooted in his physical theatre. Stephanie Levi-John, as Sophie the care worker, offers a welcome counterbalance. Her performance is dynamic yet understated. She rarely overplays a moment, instead grounding scenes with warmth and wit. The difficulty is structural rather than performative. Sophie is designed primarily to contrast with Hacker and Humphrey, and that predictability limits the dramatic tension of their exchanges.

The play sets its sights on cancel culture, ageing political behemoths, and the discomfort of becoming out of touch. There is a fascinating ambiguity in the audience response. Laughter ripples around the theatre, but it is never entirely clear whether it is ironic, sympathetic, or purely nostalgic. That uneasy space gives the piece an edge. It is satire that risks being embraced by the very people it skewers, which may well be part of its design, but feels uncomfortable nonetheless.

For all its merits though, the second act struggles to gather momentum. After the interval there is a flicker of renewed intrigue, but it gradually settles into a meandering farewell. The sense lingers that perhaps, like the characters themselves, the show might have been content to retire quietly rather than stretch towards one final bow. For fans of Yes Minister and Yes, Prime Minister, there is undeniable pleasure in revisiting these figures. The performances are strong, the jokes frequent, and the nostalgia potent. It may not reinvent the legacy, but it honours it with affection. If you have ever wondered what became of Jim Hacker and Sir Humphrey in their later years, this is your chance to find out.

I’m Sorry Prime Minister plays at Apollo Theatre until 9th May. Save up to 53% on tickets from https://allthatdazzles.londontheatredirect.com/play/im-sorry-prime-minister-tickets .

Photos by Johan Persson