French play isn't classic, just old 'He Hunts,' a new adaptation of a
Feydeau
farce, struggles to capture his genius.
April 19, 2002
By PAUL HODGINS -The Orange County Register
Bedroom farce is a high- wire act, and Georges Feydeau's plays add an extra
element of danger - imagine the aerialists performing their acts of derring-do
while
sharpshooters on the ground try to pick them off.It takes perfect timing,
detailed,
assured direction and a durable set to make Feydeau's complicated concoctions
work properly. Even slight miscalculations can turn the whole evening into
a mess of
misfiring kinetic energy.
At the Geffen Playhouse, "He Hunts," a translation and adaptation by Philip
Littell of
Feydeau's "Monsieur Chasse!" operates continually on that not-quite-clicking
level,
and the result can be maddening, like a jigsaw puzzle with a few crucial
missing pieces.
"Monsieur Chasse!" is one of the earlier works in the French farceur's jam-packed
oeuvre
(his first success, after several tries, in 1892, when he was just 30), but
it contains all the
trademark characters and situations of "A Flea in Her Ear" and other mature
Feydeau
comedies: Duplicitous types whose scheming traps them in ridiculous situations;
lots of
sexual intrigue without much sex; and, of course, thinly veiled and sharply
barbed criticism
of Feydeau's own class, the Parisian bourgeoisie.
Here's the plot - take a deep breath: Moricet (Stephen Nichols) is itching
to bed Leontine
(Valarie Pettiford), the wife of his best friend, Duchotel (Maxwell Caulfield).
Duchotel's impish
nephew, Gontreins (Daniel Kucan), is enjoying a liaison with the young wife
of Duchotel's old country-bumpkin pal, Cassecul (V.J. Foster). And Duchotel
is indulging in some shenanigans
of his own, dis guising his bedroom dal liances as hunting trips with Cassecul
and buying fresh
game at a butcher shop to prop up his alibi.The setup unfolds in the Duchotels'
ridiculously
overdressed parlor (scenic designer Chris Barreca has plenty of fun going
overboard with belle
epoque touches, including a diamond-tufted false proscenium).
But the play's farce motor kicks in when the action moves to the bedroom
- in this case, a small
flat in a building where Moricet, Duchotel and Gontreins all somehow conduct
their affairs
simultaneously (don't ask how - I'd need a pie chart, a calculator and some
colored crayons to
graph it all out for you).This is where director David Schweizer's production
comes up short.
When the doors and windows start flying open and careening characters meet
or miss each
other, the timing must be calculated to a hairsbreadth; lines and stage business
must be worked
out with the obsessive detail of a Mark Morris choreography; not a single
moment or movement
can be wasted or misdirected.
Schweizer and the actors haven't done enough homework - much of the action
seems sloppy, under-rehearsed and fuzzily conceived. An example of the latter:
At certain points, Moricet and
Gontreins struggle to find their way around the supposedly pitch-black room.
At other times,
characters can apparently see in the darkness.It's here, too, that Barreca's
set fails farce's
crucial tests of sturdiness and clarity. Walls shake when doors and windows
are slammed.
The bedroom door steadfastly refuses to stay closed - an important point,
since Moricet goes
through elaborate pains to double-lock it. And a badly positioned chair blocks
the audience's
view of the center of the Feydeau universe - the bed. This is especially
frustrating during one of
the play's comic high points: the frenzy that erupts when Gontreins sneaks
amorously between
the sheets, convinced that the snoring Moricet is his lover.
The actors display varying degrees of comic talent. Pettiford, Nichols and
Caulfield are very
good, Kucan has a fine time doing a stylistically inappropriate Owen Wilson
imitation, and
veteran comedian Carol Kane makes the most of her juicy supporting role as
an overripe
countess- cum-concierge.
But the actors are allowed to indulge themselves, and Schweizer doesn't rein
in his cast.
Despite the manic energy level needed to perform his work, Feydeau, believe
it or not, is
definitely a "less is more" playwright. His ingeniously ridiculous situations
are the point of
the comedy - they can easily be trampled on by overplaying them. As a performer,
there's
no need to go for the comic jugular every time; Feydeau does most of the
work for you.
Littell's adaptation, though largely faithful to the original script, contains
some jarring
modernisms. We don't need to hear Leontine bray that her husband "has some
'splaining
to do."
The "I Love Lucy" reference seems like pandering. Littell's script isn't
helped by the actors'
inability to nail down an accent style. Some characters sound French, some
sound British.
Kucan seems to hail from Marin County, and Cassecul apparently comes from
Kentucky by
way of County Cork and Provence. My advice for the accent coach applies to
the production
as a whole: Find an approach that respects Feydeau, then practice, practice,
practice!
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