Two Instances of Misguided Moliere
With two less-than-glowing adaptations of Moliere comedies in town, the old Frenchman must be doing some pretty high-speed spinning in the grave. The Boston Repertory Theatre features a contemporary version of The Misanthrope; the production inspires antipathy not towards mankind in general but towards one in particular; the director. Scapino! at the Loeb fares much better; George Hamlin's skilled direction turns an uneven collection of actors into a smooth comic troupe.
Scapino retains only the barest skeleton from the Moliere play. A standard comedy plot (a pair of lovers, hidden identities, knowing rogues, fodish parents) is used as a jumping-off point for an evening of slapstick and mime. Scapino is a showcase rather than a play; its success depends on the comic talents of the actors in a show which has no pretensions to dramatic integrity. The script demands a veritable catalogue of comedy skills, ranging from stand-up routines to sexual sightgags to circus acrobatics.
The hit production on Broadway a few years ago included some of the most versatile actors in the business; Jim Dale in the lead role of Scapino nearly made it a one-man show. But if the talents of the cast are not worth showing off, Scapino becomes no longer worth doing. This is where the Loeb production falls short.
Why showcase actors who are only slightly better than average, and by amateur standards at that? The cast at the Loeb is good but not great in a show that demands the superb. George Hamlin's meticulous direction has' molded a group of inexperienced players into an entertaining comedy troupe, but this Scapino was marked for mediocrity long before rehearsals began.
David Eddy (Scapino) is a case in point. Eddy is a fine actor and his pirate imitation in the second act marks the highlight of the show. But Eddy does not possess the polished energy needed to maintain two solid hours of high-flying farce. The part crys out for Jim Dale in a very special way. While certain parts have been stamped by the individuals who made them famous--Liza Minelli in Cabaret, Zero Mostel in A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, to name two--rarely is a part actually created for a specific stage personality. Jim Dale co-authored Scapino, and certain bits and lines seem to be there because he knew he could make them work. The task set for David Eddy is an impossible one.
The supporting cast has an easier time of it. Tom Myers as the side-kick Sylvertro turns in the best performance of the evening; his character's personality is one of the few that emerges clearly in this relatively homogenous cast. Myers' physical control enables him to demonstrate the sophistication of Hamlin's direction; each twist of the neck and slide of the back shows perfect tuning. Paul Redford as the humpbacked Geronte and James Holt as the insipid suitor Leandro are also quite good.
Tim Garry, Amy Aquino, and the three clownish waiters provide a fine atmosphere as the surly character actors in this sleazy Italian cafe; Skip Mendler is a nicely crotchety old man. Three in this cast, however, seem bent on annoying the audience--Jonathan Prince with his woeful mugging, Caryl Yanow with her too-stiff innocence, and Lisa Popick with a laugh of practiced exaggeration that ceases to be funny the second (let alone the twenty-second) time it is done. George Hamlin leads this production, rescuing an inexperienced cast with rigourously detailed direction. One gets the impression that he has told them exactly where every bone and muscle should be at any given moment. Their timing is incredibly sharp. The pacing on the whole is a bit slow, but things will probably pick up as the cast moves into its final weekend.
Don Soule's design seminar has constructed a fantastic set, full of faded storefronts and sagging clotheslines. The graffiti ("Wednesday is Prince Spaghetti Day") seems an unnecessary intrusion. Unfortunately the set, with its scaffolds and dangling ropes, is never fully explored. John Magoun's lighting is downright incompetent; areas go dark and light quite abruptly for no discernible reason. Anne Higonnet's costumes help establish an endearingly seedy atmosphere, although Scapino himself should show a bit more panache and the two ingenues should, to be blunt, show a bit more skin.
It would appear that once again the blame for the mainstage's mediocrity must fall on the choice of the script. The case of Scapino is certainly talented; why such a difficult project was picked remains a mystery. Liz breaks up with Dick, Harvard loses to Yale and the chicken crosses the road. Today the Harvard Dramatic Club chooses its spring productions; it is hoped that their decisions on next year's slots are better tailored to the strengths and weaknesses of student actors.
While there are several excuses one might make for the muddy Moliere now playing at the Loeb, there is no justification whatsoever for the dramatic horror called The Misanthrope at the Boston Repertory Theatre. Productions such as this one seem to have no purpose whatsoever, save to fuel the critical sarcasm of Boston's alternative weeklies.
In a sorry preamble to a sad evening, the publicity agent makes a little speech before each performance, asking audience to "tell all your friends about us." The woman is truly pathetic but as these are the last honest words to be spoken to the theatre, my advice is this: go hear some high quality grovelling and then split quick before you get trapped into seeing the abomination that follows.
Director Joseph Wilkins, rumored to be assuming a new name after the show closes, has chosen to do Richard Wilbur's poetic translation in a twentieth century setting. The light, witty eighteenth century elegance of Wilbur's heroic couplets is totally out of place and soon becomes tiresome droning. Add to this a genuinely ugly set that is half a caricature of art deco and half a clumsy imitation of seventies Manhattan townhouse elegance. Pile on costumes that range from late Victorian decadent fopperty to Gatsby-esque knickers and then to late sixties hippy uniforms. This confusion of era and sensibilities obscures the director's intent, if indeed he ever had one.
The two most major travesties are in the casting. Susan Palmer-Persen plays the intelligent and beguiling Celimene with a lack of elegance and a cloying accent. David Morse, in drag, minces about as the catty society lady Arsinoe; this silly transsexuality proves nothing except the director's incompetence, by this time firmly established.
Faced with this abysmal mess, the actors descent uncomfortably into selfconscious farce; they begin to clown in the worst sense of the word. Still, two of the actors deserve praise for fine performanced: David Zucker (Alceste) for somehow convincing us that, despite it all, he is an extraordinarily talented actor and Charles Stransky (Philinte), for maintaining his dignity while the rest of the cast grunts and mugs their way to begrudgingly dutiful applause.