She Stoops to Conquer

If there's anything worse than a girl who's a tease, it's a girl who's a tease, but hasn't got the goods to deliver. Oliver Goldsmith's She Stoops to Conquer fits very definitely into the latter category. In his attempt to salvage theatre from the sentimentality of his day, Goldsmith dipped enthusiastically into the grab bag of Restoration drama. Unfortunately, all his hand touched upon was an endless array of frenetic entrances and exits. Aside from a few minor characters, his players still must wander about with an air of frustrated gentility. All that excitement, but so little vigor--rather like a spastic with anemia.

Director Leland Moss must have been hard put to find ways of keeping the machinations rolling. The prologue, written by Goldsmith as a parody of once popular, tear-drenched death scenes, is played with lilting stylization. Alas, it's the only sustained bit of mannered playing. Too much of what follows is done with a calculated ribaldry derivative of Richardson's Tom Jones. Mr. Hardcastle (Ed Etsten), the lord of the manor, must be given the dubious honor of a lifetime membership in Santa's Village. He tries so hard to be elfishly cop any winning that I'm sure his boundless energy will result in a heart attack along about the third night of the play's run--somewhat in the manner of the late Pinky Lee.

Moss's minor characters--servants, barmaids, and roustabouts all--burst onto the stage intermittently with the same kind of gratuitous cavorting. A chorus number in a pub scene must be granted a certain amount of theatrical realism. The revelers sing so drunkenly that at least about half of the scene is completely unintelligible. The real problem, though, isn't that similar bits aren't funny (though they often aren't), but that they don't contribute to the more intricate and restrained development of the main action.

She Stoops to Conquer centers on Kate Hardcastle's (Susan Yakutis) attempts to convince her betrothed, Marlow (Andre Bishop), that he needn't stutter so before gentleladies, since he's so often displayed his knack with the wenches. In the process, Miss Yakutis makes a charming transition from country lady to lusty serving woman. Either way, she's a maid who's real talent lies in raising her eyebrows at just the right moment. Perhaps, she could instruct Mr. Etstein.

As Kate's mother Mrs. Hardcastle, the inevitable Sheila Hart must be applauded for the style she brings to the production. Her second act entrance with an enormous Marie Antoinette headpiece, complete with decorative clipper ship, is a first rate metaphor of spectacle as the Hum 7 people would say. Her arch delivery makes for a kind of cutting humor that saves this trifle from being just a confectioner's tableaux.

During the three hour course of the play, worth-while vignettes are bound to appear. Kate's first meeting with the bashful Marlow, who refuses to look her in the eyes, is skillfully managed. And a later scene between Mrs. Hardcastle and her dimwitted son (John Pym) over a crucial letter is hilarious. Still, one wishes the comedy weren't spread so thin. An occasional home run doesn't always redeem a low batting average.

Of course, one can always depend on the Loeb for meticulous sets and costumes. This time they are executed with the usual expertise by Randall Darwell and Tom Owen respectively. Still, pretty clothes aren't enough to resuscitate what Goldsmith saw as the dying muse of comedy. There are occasionally lively moments in the current Loeb production, but for the most part it is like attending the sick bed of a lingering old grandam.