The Theater - Two Gentlemen of Verona
by Henry Hewes
Saturday Review -  January 8, 1972



Is it not amazing that the newest Broadway hit musical is Two Gentleman of Verona, a casual spoof based on one of Shakespeare’s least often produced comedies?  Nevertheless, this romp, which is the combined work of playwright–lyricist John Guare, director-co-adaptor Mel Shapiro, and composer Galt MacDermot, appears to be delighting audiences a the chic 1,609-seat St. James Theater in much the same way that it did in Central Park last summer (S/R August 21).  The Broadway version doesn’t seem quite as reverberantly eruptive as was the outdoor fiesta, but the plot has now been simplified to the point where the audience feels more comfortable with the mixture of Shakespeare dialogue and colloquial nonsense that has been so unabashedly created.

The real heroes of the evening are not Guare, who is obviously enjoying a vacation from writing such profound plays as Muzeeka and The House of Blue Leaves, And MacDermot, whose tunes here are less catchy than some of the ones he wrote for Hair.  Rather, they are the performers themselves all of whom seem imbued with the spirit of the New York Shakespeare Festival.  They have come simply to share their earthiness and good nature with theatergoers badly in need of just this kind of refreshment.  Chief contributor is Raul Julia, who plays the fickle and selfish Proteus. This engaging actor is the soul of blithe amorality as he sings in calypso style, “I want my best friend to be happy, but not happier than me.”  Jonelle Allan makes an impulsive Sylvia, who does everything, including fallin in and out of love, like a rabbit.  Clifton Davis as the trusting Valentine and Diana Davila as the naïve Julia are attractive, too.  And funniest of all is Frank O’Brien, who, as Thurio, provides a ridiculous burlesque of vanity and romantic delusion.

Amid Ming Cho Lee’s maze of fire escapes, the proceedings are light as a summer breeze and offer Broadway audiences a merrily zany respite from the pressures of daily logic or neurotic romantic entanglements.

Copyright Saturday Review.

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