I don’t know quite what to say about this production of She Stoops to Conquer. The famous old comedy is one of my favorites. This latest revival is directed by Stratford’s leading expert on direction who has also starred superbly in several productions of the play. It is designed by some of Canada’s greatest designers. And the cast includes three of my favorite actors in the world. Except for one scene marred by a poor choice of actor, I thought the whole performance delightfully well-played, adroitly and very beautifully designed, expertly directed, and a total pleasure. But it just wasn’t very funny.
Maybe if I see a later performance, I’ll think it is going very well indeed. But when I saw it, there was little laughter to be heard throughout this really funny play.
Goldsmith was an incredibly talented writer and evidently a remarkably gentle, kindly man. From an age that prized insulting repartee, it is hard to find an unkind word about him. This gem of a play is full of wit, yet good-natured enough to have no villain and hardly a really unkind view of anyone.
The comic title reflects the daughter of a wealthy family, Kate Hardcastle’s, pretense that she is the housemaid, a poor relative, so that she can win over handsome young Marlow, who is bashful with women of his own society but flirts with pretty, lower-class women. While Kate “stoops” to attract him, Marlowe’s friend Hastings plans to elope with Kate’s friend Constance, the ward of Kate’s mother, the grande dame, Mrs. Dorothy Hardcastle. Mrs. Hardcastle wants her drunken buffoon of a son, Tony Lumpkin, to marry Constance Neville, but they hate each other. And Mrs. Hardcastle is holding on to Constance’s inherited jewels for “protection.”
We start the fun with Marlowe and Hastings heading for the Hardcastle mansion and meeting Tony Lumpkin at a tavern. Lumpkin tells them of an inn which is the best stopping-off place en route to the Hardcastle home, and directs them to his house, where Marlowe treats the distinguished Mr. Hardcastle as an innkeeper. He meets Kate but is too shy to really even look at her and practically runs away, only to meet her as a “housemaid” and look at her a lot.
In all the flirting, unintentional insults, and sneaking around that follows, Goldsmith’s switch on the typical plotting is that his “harridan,” Mrs. Hardcastle, is one of the funnier, most affectionately regarded characters in 18th century literature. Though typically a foolish old woman who chases after young men and greedily hogs the spotlight and the money in the family, she is really more fun than the “stooping” Kate or the lovely helpless ingénue, Constance. And after all the running around and misplaced anger and farce, Mrs. Hardcastle’s resigned and relieved return to her loving old husband is, in many ways, the true happy ending of this amiable comedy of manners.
Tony Lumpkin is the one unappealing character, but he must be in some ways a likable bumptious oaf, or he is merely annoying. I’m afraid that Karack Osborn isn’t charismatic enough or pleasingly funny enough to get out of the “annoying slob” category. But all the others are attractive and delightful, and their cleverly changing scenery and handsome garb by Douglas Paraschuk and Charlotte Dean are a pleasure, as is Louise Guinand’s flavorful, intricate lighting. Standouts in the fine cast are Sara Farb as an especially spirited Constance; Brad Hodder, also both romantically attractive and inventively comic as young Charles Marlowe; and three smaller roles for servants hilariously portrayed by the delightful Lally Cadeau and Kevin Bundy and Gareth Potter. For me, the most rewarding moments were played by two veteran top-level actors: Lucy Peacock, beautiful, memorably entertaining as Mrs. Hardcastle; and Joseph Ziegler, always compelling, and ideally inhabiting the role of her loving, tolerant husband.
Director Martha Henry moves the action with effortless pace, and places every person and item and comment with elegant precision. The tone and wit are perfect. I’m not really able to say what happened to the laughter.
