Theatre in Review: Pygmalion (Gingold Theatrical Group/Theatre Row)

	Lizan Mitchell, Mark Evans, Synnove Karlsen, Carson Elrod. Photo: Carol Rosegg

The first glimpse of Lindsay Genevieve Fuori's set for Pygmalion disconcerts: It's a pop-up pen-and-ink sketch of an august structure in the Classical style, surrounded by fluffy clouds, with none other than George Bernard Shaw looming overhead, looking as he does in the Al Hirschfeld poster for My Fair Lady. Are we on Mount Olympus? A literary outpost of the afterlife? Not quite: It's the exterior of St. Paul's Church near Covent Garden, the location of Pygmalion's opening scene. Nevertheless, director David Staller has provided a full cohort of gods and goddesses, suitably attired by Tracy Christensen; these deities set each scene and editorialize over various plot points; their kibitzing extends to discussing the myth of Pygmalion and how it relates to Shaw's play.

Is this necessary? Imagine Regan, Goneril, and their husbands discussing King Lear's basis in one of Robert Holinshed's chronicles, or The Iceman Cometh with a prologue on Eugene O'Neill's alcoholism. In his program notes, Staller says he was inspired by Shaw, who, working on the screenplay of Pygmalion and worried about filmgoers unschooled in Greek mythology, devised a similar introduction. It wasn't used and, really, Staller might have followed the master's lead and given his audience a little more credit.

The Greek chorus is but one element of an up-and-down, in-and-out revival of a play that, if we're being honest, needs plenty of love. Shavians, cover your ears: My Fair Lady is the rare musical theatre adaptation that improves on its source material; in comparison, Pygmalion is a brittle, patchy piece of work, in which some of the most interesting developments unfold offstage. Staller stresses the script's romantic comedy aspect, noting in the program that protagonist Henry Higgins is "afraid of having to deal with people, women in particular." Indeed, when he and Eliza Doolittle first lay eyes on each other, during a rainstorm, a clap of thunder underlines their mutual attraction plus a sense of trouble brewing.

Afraid of women? That's one way of putting it. Mark Evans' Higgins is a boyish, bratty creature, who, absent-mindedly wrapping himself in a dressing gown and scarf, looks eerily like Harry Potter standing in front of the Sorting Hat. He's a clear case of arrested development, alternately sullen and too pleased with himself. It's a novel approach, but it subtly diminishes the character, making his outrageous, convention-challenging wit feel needlessly offensive. It also undermines the role reversal on which the comedy turns: Higgins, making Eliza a test subject in phonetics and class consciousness, drastically underestimates her; once she acquires polished pronunciation and nice manners, she is more than a match for him. In this production, she towers over him from the get-go, which spoils some of the fun.

This imbalance is aided by abetted by the Eliza of Synnove Karlsen. The actress, a new face but a formidable one, works with her limited opportunities in the play's first half when her lines consist mostly of "ow" and "garn." (If you had a drinking game, taking a sip every time Eliza says, "I'm a good girl, I am," you'd be blackout drunk by the intermission. Alan Jay Lerner gives the character a much better break in My Fair Lady's first act.) In the second half, Karlsen's effortless poise and cutting intelligence dominate the action. Between this Higgins and Eliza, it's really no contest.

In addition to Karlsen, whom one is eager to see again, there are other felicitous casting choices. Carson Elrod is a chummy, rubicund Colonel Pickering, an old India hand feeling out of place in a (to him) racy, slang-ridden Edwardian England. Teresa Avia Lim exudes entitlement as Clara Eynsford-Hill, biting on her lines like Brazil nuts. The idea of having the same actor portray Eliza's irrepressible, incorrigible father Alfred and the giggling milquetoast Freddy Eynsford-Hill seems absolutely mad, but Matt Wolpe pulls off this most unlikely double act with astonishing skill. Less felicitous is Lizan Mitchell, a welcome presence on so many other occasions, whose highly gestural approach feels wrong for both the prim housekeeper Mrs. Pearce and for Mrs. Higgins, both of whom usually get their laughs with sly understatement.

And so it goes: The early scenes are bumpy, thanks to Higgins's seemingly endless attitudinizing. But Eliza's social debut -- her soft opening, so to speak, during one of Mrs. Higgins' at-home gatherings - is hilarious, her robotic movements, flat-affect delivery, and too-candid airing of her family's scandals leaving the genteel guests gobsmacked. The climactic confrontation between Higgins and an intellectually emancipated Eliza comes with considerable crackle; suddenly, one sees why they can't stop irritating each other, nor why they can't leave each other alone. And there is something genuinely affecting about the sight of Higgins, abandoned by everyone as they run off to Alfred's wedding, looking as if he has been spanked and set to bed without his supper.

Other design credits include Jamie Roderick's solid lighting and Julian Evans' sound, which relies on ragtime music, which, I am surprised to learn, was very popular in the UK during the play's time frame.

Overall, it's best not to draw too close a distinction between the Pygmalion myth, which is rather romantic and sensuous, and the fraught, combative matchup of Higgins and Eliza. The strange mystique of the play (and the musical) may be that the most interesting part of the story takes place after the final curtain: What can possibly happen between these two? Is Eliza really gone for good? Can Higgins change? We'll never know, which is why we return to this peculiar comedy time and again.

Gingold Theatrical Group is to be admired for keeping the Shavian spirit alive at a time when few other theatre companies seem too interested in him. (I am convinced that this, too, shall pass, but, for some reason, first-class revivals of his plays are sadly thin on the ground.) Staller, a true keeper of the flame, clearly makes his interpolations in a spirit of invitation; he wants nothing more than for audiences to share his enthusiasm. But surely audiences attracted to Pygmalion don't need such handholding. Even with its oddities, this revival is good enough to exist without extra fussing. --David Barbour