Ondine

In his book, Good Night Sweet Prince, Gene fowler claims that a whole generation was in loves with Ethel Barrymore. I am currently collecting dues for membership in This Generation for Audrey Hepburn Club. She is magnificent. So is Ondine.

A fairy story dramatized by Jean Giraudoux and adapted by Maurice Valency, Ondine is a prime and welcome example of the variety possible on the stage. Unlike T.S. Eliot, Giraudoux does not couch his parable in obscurity, but is quite willing to spell out the point of the play: that man must accept and respect human limitations. When exposed to superhuman love and devotion-like that of the water sprite ondine-even a knight errant finds that his shining armor becomes rusty. He is neither worthy nor capable of returning complete love. Having only this simple "message" to comprehend, the playgoer can approach his evening as one of enjoyment rather that as a cultural double acrostic.

And it would be unfortunate to saddle this delightful production with a top-heavy moral. As in The Madwoman of Chaillot and The Trojan War will Not Take place, Giraudouz rejects a serious plane for the freedom of fantasy. Ondine is a splash of brilliant costumes (Richard Whorf) and imaginative sets (Peter Larkin). The appearance of such characters as three Loreli-type sprites and a walking replica of Venus de Milo break into the narrative to keep the lively pace.

But the plays most impressive feature is diminutives Miss Hepburn. She does not mistake her role for that of a normal 16-year-old girl with an abnormal affection for swimming. Rather, she makes Ondine a genuine immortal water sprite. With an exaggerated inflection and manner, she creates an aura of sprightliness about her. Lithely posturing, she distorts realistic movements to the point of super-nature; and they seem right for an ondine. Added to her acting skill is her delightful personal appearance which would make a fine model for all sprites, land, air or sca-borne. When she makes her third act entrance in several feet of fish net, some strategic sea weed and perhaps a trifling bathing suit, she is the most charming picture I've ever seen surrounded by a proscenium arch. She is magnificent.

Ondine, though, is not a monologue, and Miss Hepburn's co-star, Mcl Ferrer is also quite good. At first a bit wooden and seemingly nervous, he becomes more involved in his part by the second act, and dominates the third. In deliberate contrast to Ondine's flighty movement, Ferrer's Hans-the knight-is static. Unfortunately he carries his set posture over into scenes in which he could, in the absence of Miss Hepburn, lend force to the action.

Of course the production is not entirely spotless: that is the point of a Boston opening. Some lines were forgotten and cues missed in the first act; the final interview between Hans and Ondine is too long and immobile and the final curtain is painfully slow. But Alfred Lunt has molded the show with an amazing flair for the whimsical and fantastic. to him and the company, especially to Miss Hepburn, go a large assortment of honors.