When Enid Bagnold's play opened in London in 1956, a year after its Broadway premiere, critic Kenneth Tynan called it "the finest artificial comedy to have flowed from an English pen since the death of Congreve," and praised John Gielgud's production as "reproduc(ing) in the theatre the spirited elegance of a Mozart quintet." I regret to say that the present production suggests only the somnolent droning of a dirge.
Played with absolutely no sense of period or attempt at English accents in this most English of plays, and with most props merely mimed, comedy, even of the subtle sort, was nonexistent.
Laurel, an unstable teenager, lives in virtual seclusion at her grandmother' estate, and Miss Madrigal, her companion, harboring a dark secret, is hired to attend her. By the end, Madrigal manages to free Laurel from her cloistered environment, while working wonders with the arid garden in which nothing can grow. Symbolism, you see, abounds.
Veteran pro Jacqueline Brookes has the requisite authority in the possessive grandmother role once played by Edith Evans and Gladys Cooper. Robin Long as Laurel demonstrates some spirit, while James Stevenson as a judge who precipitates revelations about Madrigal' past is unobjectionable.
But Elizabeth Nafpaktitis doesn't begin to plumb the depths of Madrigal. Charles Cissel as a peculiar manservant and Roberta MacIvor as Laurel's long-absent mother seem to be in the wrong play. Indeed, they and Mary Round, Caitlin McDonough-Thayer, and Emi Fujinami Jones are game, but in over their heads.
Terese Hayden's direction never captures the rhythms of the play, which drags on for three hours. Fred Kolo's shoestring-budget set and Scott Sullens' basic lighting are acceptable.
Ms. Hayden is to be applauded for mounting this once-important piece, but this is one of those instances where, unhappily, the endeavor must be commended more than the execution.