Arms and the Man
The eminent conversationalist, George Bernard
Shaw, delivers a tedious tirade in ARMS AND THE MAN. A romantic comedy
abounding in quid pro quos and the kinds of gimmicks typical of an
18th century bedroom farce, this play is not tried and true, but trite
and formulaic. There’s altogether too much artifice, none of
it sustaining a contemporary spirit.
This, Shaw’s 4th play is a comedy debunking
military glory. An apparently unheroic soldier, Captain Bluntschli,
portrayed by the charming Henry Czerny, carries chocolate bon-bons
instead of bullets in his cartridge belt. His adversary who he later
befriends, Major Sergius Saranoff is a Don Quixote who acts like an
"opera tenor" on the battle field and in the bedroom.
Into their dialogue, Shaw infuses some characteristic
epithets and parables. But more importantly, the Marxist subtext appears
surprisingly strong, complicating the romantic text. In a deus ex
machina, the arranged marriage between "the most important families
in the country" is averted by the maid. Once this is accomplished
and the more compelling issues of class and responsibility are addressed,
the lovers can live happily ever after. It’s a comedy after all.
For the most part, the acting is well suited to
the material. Paul Michael Valley’s Sergius is a broad caricature
who weathers lots of drawing room conversation...no small trick as
caricature and realism are at opposite ends of the dramatic spectrum.
Katie Finneran’s Raina Petkoff, on the other hand, lacks reality;
it’s as difficult to follow her conversation as it is to grasp
her character.
Director, Roger Rees handles the play’s vicissitudes
with clarity, allowing both farce and the realism of the drawing room
to coexist. Rees, in fact, dresses the bedroom farce with such sophistication
that we are led to feel that it abounds in social commentary.
Still one wonders why the Roundabout Theatre revived
this play. What may have been a great vehicle for Shaw is less so
for this contemporary audience.
That's This Week on Broadway. I’m Isa Goldberg.
