The Smell of the Crowd

THE PHONE RANG in the bullpen.

"Hello?"

"Scheft?"

"Yeah."

"Are you loose?"

"I guess so. That women's basketball game last week didn't give me much of a problem."

"You got a tux?"

"Yeah. I got one."

"You ever review theater before?"

"Well, I've covered men's hockey all winter. I guess that would qualify as Theater of the Absurd."

"Good. Get in there and handle the Pudding show."

*****

Yeah, I was there. Mr. First Nighter. Masquerading as Army Archer but feeling like George Archer. Walking in the footsteps of Rex Reed but as out of place as Willis Reed.

And though I've always hated champagne, everyone was wearing real bow ties, and I kept calling the 80-page program a "scorecard," I did, as I always have, know how to laugh. Amidst all my discomfort, laughter once again came to my rescue.

What inspired the laughter was the opening night performance of HPT 131, Overtures in Asia Minor, a show that relies on the adage that if you attempt humor as often as possible, you will succeed often enough to make the production a clever piece of entertainment.

There's a problem, though. People expect too much from a Pudding show. They think it's professional. They think it's Broadway. And compared to the House productions, which are performed either in somebody's closet or on top of a dining room condiment table, it probably seems that way. If you want to be dazzled, go see Godspell with its original cast. If you want to be moved, go see Dick Burton or Larry Olivier. But if you want to have a relaxing evening of shaving cream fight-type fun, go see a Pudding show, any Pudding show. It will set you back as much as a box seat at Fenway for a Red Sox game.

Early reports from my correspondent over at J. Press told me that Overtures was one of the better HPTs in recent years. During the show, rhythmic clapping and the loud murmuring between scenes seemed to confirm this.

The plot was nothing unusual for a Pudding show, where original thought usually takes a back seat to tradition and G-strings. Superspy Carson O'Genick (played by Phil Murphy) is sent on an assignment from the British Intelligence with his one-time lover Natalie Dreste (David Merrill) to explain the link between the discovery of large amounts of opium in the Near East and the desire of the Society for the Prevention of Anglo-Saxon Morality (SPAM) to destroy the British Empire.

Along the way to Constantinople they find that Burton deBusch (James Hanes) is the mastermind behind SPAM's plot to fill the snuff boxes of the British with opium and blow away their entire navy. In the end, thanks to the efforts of O'Genick's fellow travelers, Spasm the Butler (Rich O'Leary) and Ella Mental (Doug Fitch), the scheme is thwarted. (Leavitt and Peirce's sales have dropped sharply since the show opened.)

Although the show's plot improves dramatically in the second act from the pun-fest of the first, it is merely a showcase of the characters and an occasion for the show's 15 musical numbers. The author, Nick Vanderbilt, throws in a few good lines between the songs, though.

Melissa Forethought:

"Here I sit and age like like so much cheese and I Camembert it any longer."

(Natalie with Burton deBusch)

"I love you, Natalie. From the first wedgie to the last I always have."

"But Burton, I'm a liberated woman."

"I don't care if you're occupied."

While Vanderbilt steadied a shaky plot well with puns, it is in the songs that the creative genius of the show lies.

Caroline Franklin's lyrics are mostly marvelous, escaping limitations that render Pudding scripts cliched. While Franklin's lyrics would not have stood a chance on their own, except as clever greeting cards, they are without question the best aspect of Overtures.

Enter Paris K.C. Barclay, who puts Franklin's words to a variety of original tunes without trying to out-cute his collaborator. The score combines a variety of musical eras and styles to succeed on two levels. Not only is almost every song smoothly professional, but taken as a whole, the score represents a comprehensive and a sophisticated satire of musical comedy.

FOR THOSE OF YOU Nat. Sci. majors out there who cannot deal with creativity at any level, the sets and the costumes are incredible.

But what of the players? Can't have a ballgame without players, and there are many who rode into the winner's circle. Murphy comes through as O'Genick, but better direction would have tightened his wavering Steve Martin-Goes-to-Southie character. Fitch's job on Ella Mental, the nonagenarian nympho, is outstanding. Jim O'Brien, who plays the second female lead as Melissa Forethought, a whorish double agent who gets it from both sides, turns in an admirable performance, especially on the raunchy number, "Coo and Bill Me Later." O'Brien's act is marred only by the fact that he walks around with his mouth wide open too much.

Hanes as Burton deBusch and O'Leary as Spasm are memorable in their roles. The latter, who portrays a classic professor-turned-butler, makes the most of his few lines and shows the difference between creating a character and just playing a part. You just can't take your eyes off O'Leary from the time when he steals the song "Domestic Blisters," to the end when he is fittingly left alone on stage.

What O'Leary achieves with actions, super-freshman Hanes does with words. Not only does he have the egocentric villain character nailed ("Natalie, I believe I've found myself overqualified for life as we know it."), but the kid knows how to play off the audience like the great comic actors. Hanes is raw material, and when he goes into the Elvis-takeoff tune "Stud" (my favorite song in the show, complete with background choreograpy in the finest Motown tradition), you'll know he doesn't spend his Saturday nights watching "Mannix."

The other main characters (Reggie Mental, brother of Ella and Natalie) suffer from too few good lines and not enough personality, as do most of the bit parts, but most of this is redeemed by the big drag number, "Immoral Code."

The drag. It's the thing that everyone waits for, and like the Orange Bowl halftime show, it gets more outrageous every year. "Immoral Code" starts out as harem burlesque, eases into "shake your baubels" Mediterranean disco, and before the night is over, we get the mombo, conga, meringue, and of course, the remedial can-can. The transitions are fast, a credit to the show's skilled choreography, and the dancers are fully aware that they are playing drag, not house.

In the end it was a pretty quick two hours, an encouraging sign for any theater presentation. If you've never been to a Pudding show before, get a taste of Overtures. You won't go tapioca like the giggling Brahmin businessman sitting next to you, but there's enough solid visual comedy and quality music to pull you through and give you something impressive to write your mother. I chose not to write mine, mainly because I jotted down all the good puns to spring on her as originals when I go home for vacations.

WHEN YOU HEAD OVER to Holyoke St, bag the critical, narrow-minded appraisal ("Oh bummer, it's not anything like Saturday Night Live,") and save your class consciousness for another day ("Oooooooh, I don't think I fit in with all these people.").

Have fun. Be a big shot. Give your terminal degeneracy a two-hour boost. But don't expect "Plaza Suite," much less "Pi Eta Suite."

Give the Pudding show a chance, and save your own overtures for South Africa, Nicaragua or Staten Island.

As for me, I think Shumann, the clown of classical music put it best when he said--"I'll be Bach."