There’s an odd new trend in the arts: verisimilitude. For example, a
West Side Story with the Sharks rumbling in Spanish. And who can
forget Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ with Jesus
delivering his Sermon on the Mount in the original-cast Aramaic?
This led us to fear a Porthouse Theatre production of A Funny
Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum authenticated with
2,300-year-old Latin. But our dread proved groundless, for the
theatrical sages at Porthouse Theatre have come up with a savvier
device: Meeting freshly goosed antiquity with even brighter production
values.
The 1962 show is a magnificent merger of antiquity, ’20s
burlesque, ’30s melodiousness and post-war craftsmanship. Playwright
Burt Shevelove came up with a novel take on blissful, purposeful
anachronism — musicalizing works by Plautus. Another inspired
notion was signing the 32-year-old Stephen Sondheim, who had gained
fame as a lyricist, to create the entire score.
The original production was cast with old-time vaudevillians —
Zero Mostel, Jack Gilford — and directed by George Abbott, one of
the legendary catalysts of musical comedy. With its canny combination
of ancient and contemporary ribaldry, the show was an instant
smash.
Alas, there are no more great vaudevillians, so Porthouse has used
some skilled theater folks to reinvent the form. They have created a
production that brings to mind the early efforts of such great
comedians as the Marx Brothers and Laurel and Hardy, where we thrill to
young mirth-makers who seem to be discovering old styles for the first
time.
Hence, each leer, pratfall and dirty joke appears to be emerging
newly minted. Stage director Terri Kent, with the expert machinations
of choreographer Eric van Baars, has found ways to embroider the show
with inspired visual puns, witty costumes and daffy physicality.
The casting goes beyond the adept into the wildly imaginative,
demonstrating a thorough understanding of the archetypes behind the
characters. As the deliciously dense young hero, who’s named Hero,
Brian Duncan has an uncanny ability to encapsulate ingratiating
naiveté. He’s a perfect match to the buxom vacuousness of Sarah
Roussos’ adorable Philia.
Just the way Marc Moritz’s Senex peers over his glasses reveals a
profound awareness of the befuddled irony of great old clowns. We’re
not sure whether the greatness of Melissa Owens, as Senex’s frustrated
wife, stems from her towering wig or her divine exasperation.
I’ve practically watched Nick Koesters grow up on Cleveland stages
and have observed his rampant energy and physical and verbal dexterity
for years. But as the slave Pseudolus, the show’s prime mover and
shaker, Koesters displays a surprising potpourri of comic techniques.
Like the production itself, he carries with him an unlimited supply of
zestful anarchy.
This article appears in Jun 17-23, 2009.