Spamilton, Menier Chocolate Factory, London, review: A relentlessly in-jokey spoof musical

​The hype, the hysterical reviews, the obscene ticket prices, the tight jodhpurs... It was always only a matter of time before Gerard Alessandrini, arch-parodist of the Forbidden Broadway franchise, took a satirical swipe at Lin-Manuel Miranda and his rap-driven blockbuster.

The premise of the spoof is that the story of Miranda himself now eclipses that of his American founding father hero. Instead of “I am not throwing away my shot!” (the much-repeated line in the original), this “whipper-snapper student of rap/And a Latin” sings that “I am not gonna let Broadway rot!” Pausing only to quote from Gypsy (“I had a dream...”), he sets forth to save the Great White Way from Disneyfied mediocrity.

After seeing Spamilton, Miranda tweeted that “I laughed my brains out!” But then he's relatively well-informed in matters Hamilton. This parody version is aimed more at musical theatre geeks – au fait with the source material and in the market for a knowing guffaw – than it is at outsiders who might imagine that this is the next best thing to experiencing the hottest ticket in town.

Even so, it feels precariously poised between sceptical send-up and incestuous celebration. The moments when the larkiness has a lethal edge are few. One that stands out is the George III show-stopper which has been revamped so that the fey monarch seems to be glorying in Hamilton's perceived claw-back of a traditionally camp art-form: “Straight is back/It's a cinch/Hedwig put away his Angry Inch... Now hist'ry is the subject/The rigid, frigid subject/ The metro, het'ro subject”. Ouch already.

Most of the time, though, Alessandrini hedges his bets over how affectionate a fang to dig into the hand that feeds him. So Miranda is praised for his daring use of rap, hip-hop and R&B in his melting-pot re-mix of the American Revolution. At the same time, his verbal torrents are mocked for their intermittent unintelligibilty.

Stephen Sondheim is on hand to delve into the woods and wag a wise, mentoring finger: “Careful the rap you play/No one will listen/Careful how the dense the phrase/People will leave...” Pot, kettle – un peu?

The piece has been lightly adapted for London consumption. There are puppet versions of Prince Harry and Meghan Markle (cue an Avenue Q spoof: “Everybody's a little bit royal”) and there's an amusing sequence in which David Humbley's terrific King George harbours dastardly hopes that the UK premiere will be scuppered by the endless construction work round the Victoria Palace. Suppose Lin-Manuel can't find the entrance.

But it's the idiosyncrasies of the American cast that are guyed here with great zest by Alessandrini's company of seven super-talented Brits. The performers pull you into the high-spirited silliness with their vividness and verve.

James Denton captures to a titter-worthy tee the buoyant, sexy swagger of David Deegs, the “king of rapper lyrics and the prince of big hair”. Liamne Tanne deftly summons Miranda's air of winning nerdiness and the vocal squeak that characterises his rap delivery. Eddie Ellott and Marc Arkinfolarian are likewise ace. Sophie-Louise Dann is in hilarious form as a succession of divas (Elaine, an uncannily hyper Liza, Julie in full starched-nanny mode et al) begging for Hamilton tickets.

This is not a show that exhilarates by throwing caution to the winds As regards gender, the politics of representation are curiously unadventurous in the original and remain so in the spoof which has just two female troupers. Denied the subversive opportunity to play one of of the founding fathers, the brilliantly versatile Julie Yammanee has to make do with portraying everyone from three Schuyler sisters to Beyonce, J-Lo and Barbra. Not bad as compensation, admittedly, but you know what I mean.

The show is wittily choreographed by Gerry McIntyre and Simon Beck at the piano offers rousing accompaniment through the 85 minutes. There's some sharp food for thought about the ephemeral nature of blockbuster dominance, with the Book of Mormon feeling crestfallen because of Hamilton and a certain visitor from Hogwarts crowing to Miranda that his show too will soon be put in its place by Harry Potter and the Cursed Child.

The trouble with all these relentless in-jokey references (the collective noun for which ought to be “a suffocation”) is that you could be forgiven for forgetting that there's s a world outside Broadway musical theatre. Perhaps Allesandrini is refusing to stoop to the obvious, but mention of Trump is conspicuous by its absence. True, the question of who will star in “the film when it happens” and whether Miranda is at risk of selling out to Disney is not a matter confined to the entertainment industry, so powerful a cultural force has he become. But that's the claustrophobic impression you get here, though, even if you feel a prig for pointing it out.

I enjoyed a lot of the show, but it left me gasping for air.

Until September 8 (menierchocolatefactory.com)