Review: I’m Sorry, Prime Minister (Richmond Theatre / UK Tour)

Review by Sam Woodward

⭐️⭐️⭐️

There is something rather comforting about returning to a political world where the chaos comes not from push notifications, rolling news alerts or another ministerial resignation, but from two elderly men talking themselves into increasingly ridiculous corners. Yes, Minister and Yes, Prime Minister have long occupied a special place in British comedy, built on the eternal battle between political ambition and civil service obstruction. Now, with I’m Sorry, Prime Minister, writer and co-director Jonathan Lynn returns to Jim Hacker and Sir Humphrey Appleby for what is billed as the final chapter. Here, the battle continues, only now the enemy is not another political department, minister or memo, but the uncomfortable realisation that the world has moved on.

This time, Jim Hacker is no longer in Downing Street but installed as Master of Hacker College, Oxford. His position is under threat after a series of ill-judged remarks caused outrage, leaving the college and its students eager to remove him before the reputational damage spreads any further. Naturally, when faced with crisis, panic and the prospect of public humiliation, Hacker turns to the one man capable of making everything infinitely more complicated: Sir Humphrey. It is a sharp enough premise, placing two old political creatures into a world of student protest, institutional caution, social media pressure and changing attitudes to race, gender and sexuality.

The play works best when it treats that collision as a generational misunderstanding rather than a topical punchline. There is nostalgia here, of course, and anyone with affection for Yes, Minister will find plenty of pleasure in the familiar rhythms of evasion, correction and verbal gymnastics. But there is also something oddly touching in watching these men as relics of another age, not just as former political operators, but as grandparent-like figures who cannot quite understand how the rules have changed around them. That gives the comedy a warmer quality than expected. This is not simply a sketch about old white men saying the wrong thing, although there is plenty of that, too. It is also about ageing, irrelevance and the painful comedy of people discovering that the world no longer bends to their assumptions.

Simon Rouse makes a very enjoyable Jim Hacker, capturing the character’s vanity, panic and wounded self-importance without turning him into a cartoon. His Hacker is indignant, slippery and frequently absurd, but there remains enough vulnerability beneath the pomposity to stop him becoming entirely unsympathetic. Clive Francis, meanwhile, has the enviable task of stepping into Sir Humphrey’s labyrinthine sentences, and he does so masterfully. The joy of Sir Humphrey has always been that he can make obstruction sound like poetry, and Francis clearly understands the music of those speeches. Even when the writing reaches for a familiar trick, his delivery gives it a comic lift, and his physical comedy and perfect timing are a joy to watch.

Princess Donnough brings a valuable sharpness as Sophie, whose presence prevents the play from becoming a sealed room of old men congratulating themselves on being misunderstood. The conversations around race, gender, sexuality and institutional prejudice could easily have felt clumsy, but they are more naturally handled than the audience might fear. Sophie is not there simply to lecture the audience or stand in for “the modern world”. Instead, she challenges the older characters, while the writing gives the exchanges enough wit and tension to avoid feeling like a lecture. Some of the strongest moments come when the play lets discomfort sit in the room before anyone can laugh it away.

And it is funny. There are proper laugh-out-loud moments throughout, particularly when the characters begin circling one another in increasingly desperate attempts to preserve their dignity, status or reputation. Jonathan Lynn knows this comic language inside out, and there is still great pleasure in watching a contemporary problem become buried under policy, procedure, panic and self-interest. The audience at Richmond Theatre clearly responded to that, with plenty of laughter across the evening. These are not just polite chuckles of recognition, either. At its best, the play lands with real comic force.

The problem is that laughter alone cannot quite disguise the thinness underneath. The central question is strong: what happens when an ageing establishment figure is confronted by a culture no longer willing to excuse his behaviour as harmless eccentricity? That is a genuinely worthwhile dramatic idea, especially within the world of universities, reputation management and generational conflict. But I’m Sorry, Prime Minister never quite decides what it wants to do with it. It raises the question, jokes around it, occasionally brushes against something sharper, then moves on before it has to commit to a more meaningful argument.

That is where the evening starts to soften. It does not need to become a solemn state-of-the-nation play, and frankly, nobody buying a ticket to this is likely to want two hours of political lecturing. But there is a difference between handling difficult subjects lightly and using them mainly as scaffolding for easy laughs. The play gestures towards progress, understanding and the possibility of generational conversation, yet it rarely pushes those ideas far enough to make them matter. What it lacks is not comedy, but consequence.

Visually, the production serves the piece cleanly rather than spectacularly. Lee Newby’s set and costume design place us in an academic world of tradition, authority and institutional polish, while also leaning into the cluttered domestic messiness of an ageing man increasingly reliant on those around him. Mark Henderson’s lighting and Ben and Max Ringham’s sound design support the pace without drawing too much attention to themselves. It is a talk-heavy comedy, and the production knows it, keeping the focus firmly on performance and dialogue. That works, although the evening might have benefited from a stronger sense of theatrical occasion to match the “final chapter” billing.

By the end, I was entertained, but still left wondering why this particular final chapter needed to be written. What is it actually saying that the original series did not say more sharply, more dangerously or more memorably? I’m Sorry, Prime Minister is enjoyable, nostalgic and frequently very funny, with enough wit and performance quality to make for a good night out. Yet it also circles some fascinating contemporary tensions without quite knowing what to do with them. As a farewell, it is affectionate. As a comedy, it lands plenty of laughs. As a piece of theatre asking to exist now, it is harder to make the case. Funny, familiar and performed with charm, but not quite indispensable, much like the characters themselves.

I’m Sorry, Prime Minister plays at Richmond Theatre until 30th May, before continuing its UK tour. Tickets from https://imsorryprimeminister.com/. 

Photos by Johan Persson and Danny Kaan