Sometime in the early nineteenth century in a nondescript Russian village the political establishment is thrown into a state of panic when they hear a Government inspector may be on his way, or worse, he’s already arrived incognito. Hearing a young man has been staying at the local inn and won’t leave but won’t pay either, they naturally assume he must be a representative of the State, and so lavish attention and bribes upon him. They’re wrong of course, but that doesn’t mean their behaviour would have been any more noble if they were right. In the end, when the townsfolk have realised what the audience has known from the outset and laughed at throughout, the Mayor (Don Wycherly) rants about how some snivelling hack writer will no doubt turn his story into a comedy, and snarls at the audience “What are you laughing at? You’re laughing at yourselves.”

Gogol's The Inspector General is a venerable classic: once a dark, controversial, satirical masterpiece (first performed in 1836), often since a more broad vehicle for comic farce (Danny Kaye starred in a film version in 1949, Footsbarn Travelling Theatre staged a version in a circus tent at the Dublin Theatre Festival in 2000). Though the programme makes much of Nabokov’s assertion that “None but an Irishman could ever try tackling Gogol”, the truth is that Roddy Doyle didn’t need to do very much to make this story work for a local audience. It was never really all that specific to Tsarist Russia to begin with, dealing as it does with the venality and greed of every human being in command of power or offered profit from its benefits. Though Doyle may have inserted specific verbal reference to ‘dig outs’, ‘frontloading’, and the ever-popular ‘brown envelopes’, the play is much the same as it has always been, and just as effective as comedy and as satire. The linguistic rhythms of contemporary Ireland are there courtesy of Doyle, but it’s still pretty much all Gogol as far as text goes.

What actually makes the production worthwhile is the lively, cartoonish aesthetic director Jimmy Fay has brought to the show. Catherine Fay’s marvellous costumes immediately lift the proceedings out of the naturalist muck of the actual nineteenth century and into something more like Punch caricature: from the Mayor’s orange housecoat and gold Y-fronts to the ersatz inspector’s purple checked trousers, everything is vivid without being overly exaggerated, comical without being farcical.

The same is true of the choreography overseen by Liz Roche, a lovely mix of hardworking physicality (there’s a great bit where Wycherly straddles and strangles Jonathan Gunning playing a hapless guard lying prone across a hideous sheepskin-covered couch) and classic comic kinetics (actors move as groups in synchronised staccato rhythms; pause, turn, and deliver double-takes like goofball cartoon characters). All of this occurs on Conor Murphy’s enormous rotating steel frame set, which doubles as a climbing frame but constantly proves a navigable space within which the convolutions of the characters are represented as being at least partially caged. Denis Clohessy provides a breezy musical accompaniment that keeps the mood up and Kevin Treacy keeps the lighting generally crisp and clean to complete the look of comic illustration. Lest we miss that this is what the production design is all about, the programme includes a pull-out section of ‘cut out and keep’ Martyn Turner drawings.

This is an entertaining show designed for light fun during the silly season, and with the aesthetics all firing nicely, Fay and the cast rise to the same level. Wycherly is an absolute hoot as the Mayor, presenting seething rage and command, but also obsequious anxiety and fawning hypocrisy. Ciarán O’Brien is not a particularly sympathetic ‘inspector’, but clearly revels in the character’s fallen aristocrat/Celtic Cub sense of cheerful ignorance of anything beyond his own immediate needs. O’Brien doesn’t give the character a great deal of premeditation or even canniness, which softens the role a little, but Joe Hanley picks up the slack as the slightly more knowing servant that accompanies him and sizes up the situation more quickly. Rory Nolan is particularly funny as the Commissioner in charge of charity and the local hospital, conveying the darker side of this character without losing the comedy. Some of the scenes featuring Marion O’Dwyer as the Mayor’s wife and Liz Fizgibbon as his daughter don’t really crackle with the comic sexual energy they’re clearly supposed to, but this again may be down to the lack of a credibly predatory dimension in O’Brien’s ‘inspector’.

Overall though, the energy level in the performances is high, the whole thing looks bright and cheery and cartoon-like, and though the play retains its biting satirical elements, they’re not permitted to dominate. Truthfully, the point is so easily made anyway that this direction may well be ideal.

Dr. Harvey O'Brien lectures in Film Studies in University College Dublin.