The Hippopotamus, directed by John Jencks, is adapted from the 1994 novel by Stephen Fry, and the author’s dry, PG Wodehouse-esque wit is all over this off-the-wall, cheerfully foul-mouthed movie. If it has the air of an old-fashioned Merchant Ivory production – posh people, rolling hills, horses, that kind of thing – then it’s at least served up with a pleasing side order of acidic humour. Ted, who’s visibly horrified at David’s florid attempts at verse (one of his latest efforts is about pleasuring himself in the woods), is having none of it: he’s far too jaded and world-weary to believe David’s claims, even when the family horse is seemingly rescued from oblivion by the lad’s supernatural powers. This, at least, is the jumping-off point for a brisk, diverting comedy drama which is British to a fault. The eccentric cast of supporting characters are played by some familiar faces from UK film and TV: Russell Tovey as the newspaper man who gives Ted his marching orders, Tim McInnerny as a rather flamboyant friend of the Logan family, and Fiona Shaw as David’s mother. All of them, including Matthew Modine as the family’s stern patriarch, give such broad performances that The Hippopotamus initially feels like a cleanly-mounted stage production – one where all the players are projecting their voices to a half-deaf person at the back of the theatre. Simply yet competently directed, The Hippopotamus doesn’t quite have the grungy honesty and quotability of, say, Withnail & I – a true classic of the ‘drunken Brit comedy’ genre – but it does have enough affectionately-crafted sauciness to make it worth the price of admission. As Stephen Fry knows, a well thought out insult can have be a form of poetry in the right hands. The Hippopotamus is out now in UK cinemas.