In a week when scientists discovered, in a gob-smacking instance of life imitating art, that Hitler really did only have one ball, along comes Full Moon Theatre to dust off Bertolt Brecht’s comedic story of the world’s foremost mono-testicled tyrant.

Director Milo Marsh has dug deep for contemporary relevance. The Resistable Rise of Arturo Ui does, after all, track the rise of fascism, and with right-wing populism popping up all over the world, now seems a fitting moment to heed a warning from history. The vestibule of the Pilch is accordingly plastered with newspaper front pages stretching from 1929 to the present day, drawing comparisons between Hitler’s thuggery, Trump’s bullying diplomacy and a number of other prime suspects. (Hitler’s closest modern-day comparator, Putin, is strangely missing, despite his propensity for fixing elections and invading/annexing his neighbours. Netanyahu is well-represented.)

The pre-start entertainment is a treat. In place of Brecht’s so-called ‘epic’ theatre introduction (in Brecht, ‘epic’ just means telling the audience the story before they’ve seen it) the actors chat with the audience and even cajole some brave souls to go and dance with them on the set, while ragtime jazz and blues fill the air. It sets a suitably disconcerting but relaxed tone: is this real or artificial? Has the show started, or are they actually just saying hi to their friends?

But finally the fun ends and the play starts. Brecht may be a genius, but he’s also just about the most infuriating playwright there is. The ultimate post-modernist punk, he is obsessed with exposing the artificiality of theatre. Whenever the spectre of traditional elements like dramatic tension, character depth or plot twists raises its head, he swerves away in favour of presenting something deliberately undramatic instead. As an approach it’s highly distinctive and original, but still there’s a part of me that wishes he would be a bit more involving. Verfremdungseffekt is all very well, but sometimes Verfreundungseffekt can go a long way.

In the case of Arturo Ui, Brecht gives us an allegorical satire of Adolf Hitler that is so tightly and specifically anchored to people and events from the period of his rise to power that it becomes more like a game of Nazi bingo than an evolving drama. Amongst the characters, Giri = Göring, Roma = Röhm, Givola = Goebbels, Dogsborough = Hindenburg (Dog/Hund, get it?) and the Cauliflower Trust are the German nobles whose wealth is appropriated by Hitler and his band. Chicago stands in for Germany, Cicero is Austria, and a fire at the warehouse is the Reichstag fire that Hitler finagled to grab the Chancellorship. And in case you might accidentally get involved in the story rather than paying attention to the message, Brecht’s original version even included, before each scene, explanations of how the action linked to historical events, projected onto the curtain so audiences would know exactly what was about to happen. In Marsh’s version, these interpolations are spoken in rhyming verse by a riveting Ademide Obagun, and her chorus-like announcements are some of the most arresting parts of the production.

But the paint-by-numbers allegory is so torturous. It’s like Animal Farm without the suspense. At the time of writing, it may have been thrilling to see current or recent events translated into the milieu of Al Capone’s mafia racket, but now, when the people and incidents have receded into history, it feels slightly pointless to disguise them further. On top of this, any ambitions the production may have harboured to find modern-day parallels for Hitler’s extremist thuggery are hamstrung by the fact that the script is so uncompromisingly and specifically bound to the Germany of the 1920s and 30s. It won’t budge. You just can’t make it about Donald Trump, because it insists on being about Adolf Hitler.

Faced with this obstinate but strangely compelling script, past productions have found ways to illustrate its discomfiting artificiality. It’s been performed by clowns, had wildly exaggerated expressionist sets, and been done as a full-on gangster costume-drama, playing down the allegory as much as possible. Full Moon’s approach uses stark lighting and a raised diagonal walkway to split the cast into intriguing geometrical groups, so they resemble patterns rather than people. It’s a clever way to emphasise the symbolism in the play. And the occasional props (such as Dogsborough’s coffin) are unrealistic, covered in newsprint, reminding us that they are manufactured, empty emblems, not believable parts of a story. This is all intelligent and fitting, but it does play compliantly into Brecht’s hands, and gives us a show which is stubbornly resistant to emotional involvement.

Likewise, the actors’ commitment is unimpeachable. The entire evening is carried along by a sense of urgency and desperation writ large in furrowed brows and yelled commands. But for some it’s all at the same level of panic, which after a while loses its potency. In the lead role of Arturo, Hugh Linklater brings a genuine mix of chill and charm, switching from jokey crowd-pleaser to brutal murderer at the flip of a threepenny opera. Linklater has carved a niche on the Oxford stage as a laid-back romantic lead, so playing Hitler is a true departure, and one he encompasses with glee. (I was glad to see however that he still managed to incorporate his trademark ‘going to sleep on the ground’ routine even here.)

The Resistable Rise of Arturo Ui may not be Brecht’s greatest work. The first few times it was produced professionally it never lasted more than ten performances. But it’s a fascinating curiosity. And if you decouple it from its source material it does present a warning to beware fascists. In short, it’s difficult. Full Moon have produced a thoughtful interpretation which finds pockets of modern relevance and packets of impassioned performance. But I left feeling that the thing I really wanted to do with the Führer was forget all the satire and allegory, and just say, like Kelly in Misfits, ‘Oy, Hitler! Why have you got to be such a dick?’