Working-Class Pleasantries

ANTHONY NEWLEY and Leslie Bricusse must have thought themselves quite ambitious. They wanted to create a clever, innovative show that would transcend the limitations of conventional musical comedy--a show that would say something. Instead, they made The Roar of the Greasepaint--The Smell of the Crowd in which the British class struggle is simplified, set to music, and peppered with punny lines and broad gags. A silly little show, it's like dramatizing a dissertation on social democracy by Mickey Mouse.

Nevertheless, director Josh Milton--blessed with a talented, hyperkinetic cast--manages an enjoyable rendition of Greasepaint. He proves that with enough brass, good cheer, white teeth, and confetti, even the most banal of musical comedies can become pleasing.

In some obscure "rocky place," Sir--the embodiment of England's insensitive aristocracy--and his servant Cocky--the embodiment of England's righteous lower class--imagine their own metaphysical stage and act out society's cruelties in The Game. As Sir arbitrarily changes the rules, forcing Cocky to grovel for a loaf of bread, Greasepaint seems like a Romper Room production of some absurdist play. For the entire first act, The Game follows its repetitive course with Sir betraying poor, dim-witted Cocky's confidence again and again.

Kitty Kean, with powerful voice and striking presence, brings enormous energy to Sir. Her flamboyant gestures and comic intuition give freshness to a classic cardboard character. For most of Greasepaint, the pretentious Sir preaches honesty and fairplay to Cocky as he cheats him blind, tells Cocky he envies him but says behind his back "I wouldn't wish Cocky's existence on my worst enemy." After a couple of nasty quips and cruel tricks, Sir's character is set, leaving no surprises for the audience. But Kean never grows tired or tiresome, always finding a new inflection or expression just when her character needs it most.

Andrew Sellon fares better as Cocky since his character is--at least by musical comedy standards--more flesh-and-blood. Though his singing sometimes weak, Sellon's performance has a weet subtlety and his flexible, loose-limbed body enlivens Sara Roy's bouncy but bland choreography. Sellon, through charm and verve, survives one of the show's most dismal moments--an inane dream sequence in which Cocky slays a rag-doll dragon for his white-clad maiden (Belle Linda' Halpern) whom Robert Swerdlow's fair-to-middling lighting design strikes at most unflattering angles.

Newley and Bricusse's songs, though lively, rarely advance the plot or reveal anything about the characters. In the first act, there's song every four or five munutes, and with lyrics like "It's not in Timbuktu or Timbukthree" their frequency becomes irritating and exhausting. Newley and Bricusse are at their painful worst when they depart from typical song-and-dance numbers like "A Wonderful Day Like Today" or "Where Would You be Without Me?" and attempt flashy theatricality. "The Joker" and "Who Can I Turn To?" seem to have been written more for Newley's nightclub act than for a musical comedy and Sellon's delivery of the songs bear ugly shades of Caesar's Palace. The writers reach the lowest depths of their lyrical abyss with "Feelin' Good," a number that sounds like it was lifted from some bastardized Porgy and Bess. In a semicomatose performance, Adam Finkel as The Hobo sings "Dragonfly out in the sun/You know what I mean/Butterflies havin' fun/You know what I mean...It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life."

Yet, The Hobo makes Cocky realize that he's missing out on life's beauty and that to win freedom he must beat Sir at his own game. Suddenly, he becomes as fierce and determined as Sir and, once he wins over his master's protege (Alison Carey in a wonderfully impish performance) and proclaims his independence, Sir is left flab-bergasted with nothing but his empty rhetoric on manners and tradition. Though proud, the revitalized Cocky is not heartless. He dreams of "a new beginning, a new game of new hope, fellowship and understanding." O, Noble Proletariat!

THAT MILTON'S PRODUCTION lacks in originality, it makes up for in sweat. Observe the seven squealing, prancing Urchins. They'll smile til their faces ache, they'll dance til they collapse, they'll be so sweet you'll contract diabetes. They just want the audience to like them and to have a good time; to remember that for all of Newley and Bricusse's delusions of grandeur, The Roar of the Greasepaint can still be simply enjoyed as an amusing musical comedy.