If Mel Brooks’ 2007 musical adaptation of his 1974 film (now receiving its belated West End première) is not the humdinger that its predecessor screen-to-stage conversion The Producers was, that’s because the material doesn’t accommodate it.

The Producers, being a stage musical about an extravagant stage musical entitled Springtime For Hitler, had to attain a corresponding extravagance. Young Frankenstein has only a few moments when the scale can be pumped up: the moment of creation in the lab, perhaps (which here deploys pyrotechnics and lasers simultaneously); maybe a production number for the obligatory mob of villagers with torches and pitchforks; and of course the public display when the Monster howls his way through “Puttin’ On The Ritz”. The rest is largely chamber comedy, always allowing of course that the chamber is a Gothic stone affair.

There is also the factor, as Brooks himself pointed out following its modest Broadway reception, that Young Frankenstein is among his best-known films (Brooks himself reckons it is also his best), and therefore this version doesn’t necessarily have to work as hard to engage us. We’re already on side and know what to expect, from running gags about the pronunciations “Fronkensteen” and “Eye-gor” to the frenzied neighing of offstage horses every time housekeeper Frau Blücher <whinny> is mentioned. (If you don’t know the film yourself, this review may seem somewhat surreal.)

Susan Stroman, who directed the Broadway outing, is of course consummate at musical theatre, and skilfully unites her cast: Shuler Hensley reprising his Broadway role as the Monster, seasoned UK musical hands Summer Strallen and Dianne Pilkington as the two women in Frederick Frankenstein’s life, rising figure Hadley Fraser as Frederick himself (almost banishing memories of Gene Wilder), and a relative newcomer to acting, comedian Ross Noble, providing a 2017 equivalent to the anarchy of Marty Feldman as Igor. The laurels, though, are generally seized by Lesley Joseph who finds a perfect black comic mix as Frau Blücher <whinny>. Brooks’ songs are jovial (showing a particular taste for triplet rhymes), but nothing to make you want to get on your feet and invade Poland. It’s a solid bet for an evening’s fun, but hardly the kind of landmark that rears up atop a stark Transylvanian crag.

Written for the Financial Times.