Playwright: Georges Feydeau
At: Chicago Shakespeare Theater
Phone: ( 312 ) 595-5600; $48-$65
Runs through: April 23 ( Shakespeare's b-day )
By Jonathan Abarbanel
Straight from his Broadway triumph as director of The Color Purple, Gary Griffin returns to his Chicago home base to tackle an early 20th-century French boulevard farce by Georges Feydeau, the greatest master of the genre, who wrote hit plays for, and about, the complaisant Parisian upper middle class. Invariably, a proper married couple say and do flirtatious and risqué things but never actually have sex with anyone, as a madcap door-slammer romps and twists to a happy conclusion that preserves the illusion of the sanctity of marriage.
The secret of such farce is twofold: first, the playwright, director and actors must take time to establish the characters and not be too silly too soon; second, the actors must never let on that they know they are funny. The humor is in seeing proper and probable people forced to extricate themselves from improbable circumstances.
Griffin and his troupe hit the nail on the head. Characterization, timing, comic business and device all are as they should be. What's more, the show looks great—appropriately opulent and substantial—in Daniel Ostling's towering three-story set ( in Act II ) that takes advantage of Chicago Shakespeare Theater's ( CST's ) underused proscenium capabilities.
In the pivotal central role of Victor Chandebise, the insurance executive whose wife thinks he's cheating, Griffin's unexpected but felicitous choice is Rick Hall, an actor known for sketch comedy, improv and sitcoms. Eschewing any need to overplay, ham or go for the easy laugh, Hall establishes his solid-as-a-rock character with dignity and affability. As his scheming wife, Raymonde, Linda Hart provides the right blend of Lucille Ball and Lauren Bacall.
The supporting company of cronies and eccentrics are limned with aplomb by a dozen Chicago Shakespeare veterans—among them Kevin Gudahl, Timothy Edward Kane, Ora Jones, Bradley Mott, William Dick and Michelle Graff—and a few newcomers, most notably Broadway leading man Anthony Crivello, who is dry-as-a-bone funny as a passionately jealous Spanish grandee. Chicagoan Rick Boynton, preoccupied these days behind the scenes, makes a rare onstage appearance as the ascetic-looking but not-quite-virginal Chandebise nephew with a 'slight' speech impediment.
I have some quibbles, but they don't spoil the show: the platform shoes worn by several characters in Act II are out of place and period, and Boynton is too intelligible as the young man who can't pronounce any consonants. The audience will get it even with less intelligibility.
The world premiere translation by David Ives is fresh, lively and true to details of the French original, which would have pleased Feydeau, a stickler for detail. Ives' work is funny, too, in equal measure to Feydeau's template. As always at CST, all elements of costume, wigs and whiskers are impeccably crafted and Belle Époque period perfect.
