Ever since it first set up shop in Paris in 1570, the commedia dell’arte has been one of Italy’s most durable theatrical exports and one of global entertainment’s great polarizing forces.
The massive 16th Century popularity of a commedia troupe at the Petit-Bourbon so unnerved the French wordsmith Moliere, he abruptly changed style and penned the commedia-style “The Pranks of Scapin.” His 1671 farce about young lovers and interfering fathers was a desperately competitive attempt to ape the commedia’s crowd-pleasing scenarios of stock characters doing elaborate shtick.
Some 400 years later, commedia techniques still can divide and conquer. For proof, one needed only look around the audience this weekend at Chicago Center for the Performing Arts, where a proudly over-the-top commedia-style revival of “Scapin” from the Court Theatre is in full throttle.
From some seats, the onstage slaps, prat-falls, funny noses and goofy verbal noises all were met with shrieks of laughter, slapped knees and watering eyes. From other seats, stone-faced viewers looked on with expressions similar to those born by Notre Dame fans as Boston College scored its second touchdown on Saturday.
One can see much the same thing, of course, when it comes to the numerous commedia antecedents in American popular culture — from The Marx Brothers to The Honeymooners. Fans of The Three Stooges, for example, declare them a timeless trio of comic genius. Others wouldn’t want to watch a Larry, Curly and Moe show even to prevent entering the very gates of hell.
The Court’s lively and authentic “Scapin,” directed by Christopher Bayes, is a co-production with Seattle’s Intiman Theatre of an adaptation that began life at the Yale Repertory Theatre. It has a few post-modern nods to our current culture — Michael Jackson, Rod Blagojevich, a gospel number, and a stadium-style wave all are worked into the show. And like the Moliere script from which Shelley Berc and Andrei Belgrader crafted this freewheeling adaptation, it’s a shrewdly self-aware piece.
“The Court hasn’t produced `Scapin’ since 1960,” says Jeremy Shamos’ titular clever servant, early in the show. “You’re about to find out why.”
That was a risky issue to bring up. Pa-DA-bump.
The great strength of Bayes’ piece lies in the individual skills of his performers, which include such savvy Chicago casting choices as Chester Gregory, the hugely talented star of Black Ensemble Theatre’s recent “The Jackie Wilson Story.” From Ned Noyes to Sean Fortunato, the performers in “Scapin” demonstrate energy, vitality, dead-on timing and great comedic agility.
In particular, Allen Gilmore (who came with this show from Seattle) offers a simply astonishing Argante (one of the two old fatherly coots) full of little physical nuances and clever bits of business. You’ll rarely see a better Pantalone-style characterization for the modern age.
But the reason why this show seems unlikely to win over the commedia-phobic is its strange inattention to timing and its curious lack of narrative flow.
Even the gags known as lazzi have lazzi in this veritable orgy of commedia trickery. That’s fine. But for 400 years, the first rule has been don’t linger.
Here, many of the gags go on so long, they interrupt rather than elaborate on poor old Moliere’s text — leaving the audience hanging to the point one can see attention start to wander. As a result, the show lacks the kind of drive, structure and excitement that would flesh out its appeal.
As is often the case with this kind of show, the best bits come when the comedy feels fresh and is both born in pain and true to character. Examples: a lovely piece of business early in the show involving a fellow’s hat and a persistent butterfly; a clever shadow-puppetry scene; and a riff on “The Music Man” that’s just subtle enough to be very, very funny.
But a famous scene involving a man in a bag is just too ponderous and predictable, the kiss of death for commedia, post-modern or otherwise.
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“Scapin”
When: Through Nov. 24
Where: Chicago Center for the Performing Arts, 777 N. Green St.
Phone: 312-327-2000
