One of the first things I would put in a rule book for casts attempting to get good reviews would be “try not to unexpectedly bite the reviewer’s leg”. This was a rule cheerfully broken within the first five minutes of this mad, wonderful play, and would be followed by a series of others. For instance, we were never entirely sure what kind of play we were watching. Was it a police procedural? A piece of Brechtian agit-prop? An absurd Italian slapstick farce? In fact, all these elements and several more were slammed together with such insane enthusiasm that it never really mattered.

The plot, briefly, involves a Maniac (Max Upton), finding himself apprehended in a Milan police station, outwitting the slow, semi-fascist (and, as James Parris’ Inspector himself points out, highly caricatured) cops and inadvertently revealing that last week’s plummet of an anarchist suspect to his death from the fourth floor window may not have been entirely suicidal after all. This gives the plot structure of a thriller, and despite the hilarious rapid-fire dialogue, the well-executed pratfalls and the perfect comic timing on show, I actually found myself caring quite deeply as to how this absent man was killed. It is not so much a who-dunnit; that seems pretty clear, but it is a how-dunnit, as the Maniac, posing as an inspecting judge, exposes the crassness of police interrogators’ attempts to kill a man and cover it up. It was only afterwards that I realised that it was all based on a real 1969 case, which might have the given the whole thing added weight; as it was, the sublime twist at the end made it more thrilling than your average heist movie, and strangely relevant too. If you’re thinking, as I did, that the point of this play will be “it takes a madman to demonstrate the madness of state brutality”, you will be delighted at how wrong you are.

But the politico-thriller elements are not the main draw for an audience that probably just wants a laugh-filled break from exam term. In this, the play excelled, mainly through its observance of the commedia dell’arte traditions that the playwright Dario Fo so loves – the actors improvise around the script, reference Fo himself, with Sophie Outhwaite’s journalist at one point complaining that she is the only female character he bothered to write in, and the cast at one point become miserable at the thought of tomorrow’s supervisions. None of this felt cheap or smug, partly because the style of theatre felt right for it, and partly because the fourth wall was so well broken anyway by the Maniac’s sudden decision to bite my leg, and my shouting “JESUS!” very loudly in shock.

I was mightily impressed by the whole cast, but Upton’s Maniac comes in for special praise for bringing an odd credibility to his deranged part, as well as for the fact that Upton has stolen two Lateshows now in as many weeks. I have rarely had as much fun in a theatre, professional or otherwise. What I loved most, though, was the peppering of such brilliantly orchestrated comedy with serious political points, the shock of which can only be equated with having someone dig their teeth into your shin. Go see it - this one deserves full houses.