The Would-Be Gentleman

Local theatregoers are offered this week two famous examples of Baroque comedy, one French and one English: Wellesley's Group 20 is presenting The Would-be Gentleman (Le bourgeois gentilhomme) by Moliere, the second universal genius of modern theatre; and the Boston Summer Theatre is giving Volpone by Ben Jonson, the chief contemporary of the first universal genius of modern theatre.

The Wellesley players are following up their good production of a bad play with a sparkling production of a better play. This is not to say that The Would-be Gentleman is a dramatic masterpiece; it is certainly not that. When you come right down to it, there is hardly any plot at all; and such tenuous plot as there is does not even begin until three quarters of an hour have passed--the first 45 minutes constitute one long extended joke, but what a wonderful joke!

For this reason, and also because the work is relatively short, director Elliot Silverstein decided to fatten the work up to a total running time of two and a quarter hours. He had Robert Brustein compose and, in the persona of Moliere, deliver a prologue and epilogue; the prologue was appropriate enough, but the epilogue was ineffectual and ill-advisd. He furthermore incorporated, by changing the sex or name of some of the characters, scenes from Les fourberies de Scapin, which Moliere penned right after finishing the present work--specifically, the portions dealing with the extortion of ransom money for a phony kidnapping. In principle I do not approve of the directorial use of scissors and paste; but in this case I am forced to admit that the practice did bolster somewhat the thin story line and turn out satisfactorily.

Now Silverstein, one of the most gifted and imaginative young directors in the theatre today, quite rightly kept in mind that this work is not a straight play. Moliere called it a comedie-ballet. This production retains all the songs and dances called for in the original. Moliere had as his composer and conductor the famous musician Jean-Baptiste Lully; the Lully of this show is Richard Wernick. Wernick has written a dry and witty score fully in keeping with the play; and he presides over a small live orchestra (all in period costume) of winds and percussion, and plinks on a harpsichord from time to time himself. (It would be ungratefully pedantic to complain about the anachronistic use of a clarinet, which in Moliere's day had not yet been invented.)

Silverstein has apparently spared no expense in achieving a stunning and fast-paced audio-visual spectacle, such as delighted the court of Louis XIV for whom it was created. Not only do we have live musicians, but we also have livestock, not to mention a whole harem of scantily clad Turkish dancers. And it would be hard to imagine a more lavish set of costumes than William D. Roberts has designed.

Indeed, the general aim is to transport the audience back to the late 17th century as fully as possible. The outdoor theatre at Wellesley serves well as a part of the Versailles gardens where such court plays were often presented. The show properly begins with the traditional trois coups de baton. And the audience is made to rise at the start while King Louis himself and his retinue march in to solemn music, take their places, and hear Moliere dedicate the performance to His Gracious Majesty.

Monsieur Jourdain

But Moliere's chief contribution here was the creation of the leading character, Monsieur Jourdain, a wealthy but penny-pinching middle class tradesman who will nevertheless squander any amount of money to acquire the social graces and intellectual refinement that characterize people of "quality." Jourdain will live forever as the man who was overcome with astonished glee upon learning that what he had been speaking for forty years was prose. But he is also the man who puts on his gown in order to hear music better; and who, on being asked whether he understands the Latin that has just been spoken, unhesitatingly replies, "Of course. But act as though I weren't acquainted with it and explain to me what it means."

Group 20 is fortunate to have for this role the services of Max Adrian, who scored this past season as Dr. Pangloss in the Hellman-Bernstein musical version of Candide. He romps through the role with infectious panache. He hits the right tone at his first entrance, appearing in a properly hideous green-and-red costume that clashes with his black-and-orange shoes. He belches, eats and picks his teeth with his fingers, talks with food in his mouth, and makes the most of a vulgar, cackling laugh.

Silverstein has been careful to elicit from the refined men in the play aptly elegant deportment and diction. They show a delightful preciosity by pronouncing with a pure s-sound instead of an sh-sound all such words as "appreciate," "profession," "politicians" and "demonstration." And even the word "exquisite" is correctly accented on the first syllable.

Outstanding are Reuben Singer as the nobleman Dorante, Sorrell Booke as the Music Master, Robert Brustein as the Dancing Master and Michael Lewis as the Philosopher. As the Fencing Master, Thomas Hill should speak with more elegance. Evelyn Ward is attractive as the maidservant Nicole, but seems a little too cultured; and Gail Garnett, as Jourdain's daughter Lucille, is not cultured enough and speaks too softly--maybe these two should have swapped roles. Dee Victor, as Jourdain's shrewd and shrewish wife, needs a great deal more force.

The show ends with an impressive pseudo-Turkish ceremony--things Turkish were all the vogue in Moliere's day. It features a lot of amusingly nonsensical mumbojumbo, which served Moliere as a kind of trial test for the consummate macaronic Latin in the final scene of his last masterpiece, Le malade imaginaire.

The English translation used is adequate on the whole. One minor quibble, however: since the aim is to capture as Gallic a spirit as possible, why do they doggedly insist on talking of guineas, pounds, shillings and pence instead of louis d'or, livres, sols, deniers, pistoles and francs?