A scene from A Gentleman’s Guide to Love and Murder at the Walter Kerr Theatre, New York. Picture: Joan Marcus
A Gentleman’s Guide to Love and Murder continues at the Walter Kerr Theatre, New York, in an open-ended run.
Roy Horniman’s 1907 novel Israel Rank: The Autobiography of a Criminal glows like a brilliantly refurbished antique in the new Broadway musical which uses it as source material. The musical is the work of a creative team making their debuts on the Great White Way: Robert L Freedman wrote the book, Steven Lutvak the music, and both collaborated on lyrics. The show carries the apt if not terribly imaginative title of A Gentleman’s Guide to Love and Murder, but rest assured, dear reader, the title is the only uninspired thing about this delicious farrago of nefarious doings in Edwardian England.
At the start, a spooky looking chorus warns us we are about to see a tale of “revenge and retribution… that’s not for the faint of heart.” But don’t expect the gruesome enthrallment of a Sweeney Todd. A Gentleman’s Guide to Love and Murder is played for laughs, and great laughs they are, with a hefty helping of charm, to boot.
The plot centres on Monte Navarro, a young fellow with little or no prospects, who discovers after the death of his mother that she was a member of the fabulously wealthy and titled D’Ysquith family. He initially makes a gentlemanly attempt to ingratiate himself with the D’Ysquiths by seeking employment at the family business, but his request is curtly rebuffed. So, naturally, he decides the next best thing is to do away with the eight family members who come before him in line to inherit the family dukedom and fortune. (As you movie buffs already know, the Horniman novel also served as the basis for the Alec Guinness classic Kind Hearts and Coronets.)
Monte’s disposals of the various D’Ysquiths make for a mirthful series of murders, executed in imaginative theatrical style under the gleeful, gag-filled staging of director Darko Tresnjak. Most notably, however, all the victims – both male and female – are portrayed by one actor, the infinitely versatile Jefferson Mays. His enegry, masterful acting skills and comic sensibilities are tested to the full; they happily pass the test. He is well abetted by the costumes of Linda Cho and the hair and wig design of Charles LaPointe, while the set designs of Alexander Dodge add to the hilarity. For example, one of the D’Ysquiths has found his profession in the Church, and while taking Monte on a tour of his domain, falls, not quite so accidentally, from a spire, plummeting to earth against a projection of a spiralling vortex reminiscent of Hitchcock’s Vertigo. We know the Reverend has hit the ground, when the projection turns to a spreading mass of blood. Sounds gory, but believe me, it’s funny.
Monte is portrayed with a gentlemanly demeanour and leading-man appeal by Bryce Pinkham, holding our sympathy throughout, despite his wicked ways. Interwoven with his trail of slaughter is a love triangle involving Monte’s avaricious mistress, Sibella, who is already well married for money, and his innocent cousin Phoebe. Lisa O‘Hare makes Sibella a kittenish confection, and Lauren Worsham’s Phoebe is the quintessence of virtue, with more than a touch of entitled aggression. Both ladies sing beautifully as well. Among the other players, Jane Carr as the mysterious woman who informs Monte of his pedigree, and Joanna Glushak, portraying the harridan wife of the most imperious of the D’Ysquiths, expand the humour quotient.
The bountiful score by Freedman and Lutvak is a wondrous recapitulation of vintage musical theatre, a synthesis of styles from Gilbert and Sullivan to Lerner and Loewe, that nevertheless sounds freshly minted. There are lilting waltzes, march-time declarations, piquant ballads and plot-furthering patter songs galore, with melodies that well serve the abundantly witty lyrics.
Most of the action takes place on a quaintly designed proscenium stage within the theatre’s actual proscenium, adding to the period charm. The show also takes on a bit of contemporary relevance in its depiction of the wealthy few’s disdain of the struggling hoi poloi. In one of the big patter songs, a D’Ysquith sings ‘I Don’t Understand the Poor’.
But don’t go to A Gentleman’s Guide to Love and Murder looking for a message. Just sit back and enjoy a cornucopia of exquisite tomfoolery.
(My only concern: Does the show have enough marquee magnetism to draw audiences in this fiercely competitive Broadway environment? The title isn’t compelling; it doesn’t call up anybody’s favourite old movie or book, and love and murder, by themselves, are pretty much old hat in the realm of theatergoing. The creative team is a fairly unknown quantity; there is no jukebox of familiar songs and no blasting guitars either, and while Jefferson Mays is a Tony Award winner, he won it for his work in the offbeat and serious I Am My Own Wife, not exactly catnip for the all-important pleasure-seeking tourist trade. Let’s hope they can somehow sniff out what pleasures await them in this show.)
Ron Cohen
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