I still remember the rush of sheer pleasure when Sean Foley revealed his Morecambe and Wise-inspired show, The Play What I Wrote. It was 2001 and it was as if two of Britain’s funniest and best-loved comedians, both of whom had long since died had somehow been resurrected (especially Eric). Or at least their sense of humour had.

So, when a decade later it was announced that Foley was to revive the Ealing comedy The Lady Killers there was a palpable anticipation that once again we would be in the company of something loved but lost, like a much-missed family relative.

And, although that show didn’t quite deliver the triple whammy of wit, invention and nostalgia that made the M&W show so enjoyable, it didn’t much matter because the decline had started from such from such a dizzying height.

However, this time, the decline has continued, and the dip is steep. This time, the beloved work of art is another classic Ealing comedy film that starred Alec Guinness as textile scientist Sydney Sratton who invents a material that can neither be dirtied nor destroyed.

Foley’s stage version stars Stephen Mangan who, though it might be sacrilege to some, might have been a better casting choice than Guinness himself were he available in 1951.

There is something instantly likeable about Mangan’s brand of guileless charisma. He has a face that doesn’t so much as reflect emotion, as amplify it. Here he is paired where with Kara Tointon who revels in a clipped, upper-class English that only exists in post-war British movies.

Her Daphne is the daughter of a Lancashire textile tycoon (Richard Cordery) whose business might fold if Stratton’s invention sees the light of day.

So the old man and his fellow fat-cat chums conspire to suppress Stratton’s invention, first with bribes and secondly by kidnapping.

It is a plot that resonates unexpectedly with modern concerns about sustainability and there is a nice line about how clothes will one day become cheap throwaway things. But the gags in Foley’s script are as broad as the M1 and the slapstick lacks the precision and timing needed to for a pratfall to be funny.

Where once the visual gags provided a delightful low-tech theatricality, here they suggest an imagination that is running out of ideas.

Mangan and Tointon deliver the only genuine highs with a well-executed dance of seduction (on her part) and attempted escape (on his). But the rest is middling fare that not even Mangan’s talents can elevate above the mildly amusing.