Theatre in Review: One Man, Two Guvnors (Music Box Theatre)

That James Corden really is a clown.

This is meant as the highest of praise. Our contemporary theatre does a great many things well, but it lags behind in the regular production of outsized comic talents; there's a pronounced deficit of deranged personalities who can dominate a show by sheer force of will. You have to have an AARP card to have seen most of them, but from Bert Lahr to Zero Mostel to Nancy Walker to Carol Burnett, they collectively represented one of the glories of Broadway. Today, we have Nathan Lane, Jim Dale, and perhaps one or two others -- but, because they are also fine character actors, you often find them not in rambunctious comic vehicles but in plays by Athol Fugard and Eugene O'Neill.

From the moment Corden comes on stage in One Man, Two Guvnors, and, attempting to pop a peanut into his mouth, collides with a comfy chair, executing a perfect 360-degree pratfall, it's clear that you can call him a clown without fear of contradiction. Plump; fair; dressed in violently clashing jacket, pants, and socks; and blessed with an angelic smile and an irresistible bent for mischief, he is Francis Henshall, the principal agent of chaos in this update of Carlo Goldoni's 18th-century Venetian farce, The Servant of Two Masters. Careening around the streets of 1960s Brighton, he delivers trumped-up explanations to everyone he meets. Unable to pick up a heavy trunk, he enlists two audience members to do the job for him, while resting atop that immovable object. Frantically trying to serve two hotel meals simultaneously without either guest becoming aware of the other, he lays waste to several courses, slicing and dicing vegetables and fish heads to a fare-thee-well while helping himself to the lion's share of the food. (He does so in the presence of a woman he has recruited from the audience and "hidden" behind a life-size painting of a cricket player with the head cut out. Corden works the audience relentlessly; his victims are a mixture of real ticketholders and plants, and it's a measure of his skill that you won't be able to tell which is which.)

Not all of Corden's skills are physical. Francis, staring at an oversized picture of Elizabeth II, says, "Who's that?" When apprised of her identity, he says somebody should write a song about her. "God Save the Queen," someone says, informationally. "Good title," he replies, beaming. It's no wonder that one of his bosses, casting a pair of beady eyes in Francis' direction, notes, "Not exactly a Swiss watch, are you?"

Yes, there's a plot, but it will do the cause of clarity little good to explain that Francis is employed by both Stanley, a toff on the lam for having murdered a gangster, and Rachel, who is masquerading in drag as her brother, a gangster; that Stanley killed Rachel's brother; that Stanley and Rachel are in love; that Rachel, in male drag, is engaged to the dimwitted Pauline Clench; and that Pauline is really in love with Alan Dangle, an aspiring actor whose main talent is for making overlarge entrances and exits. ("I shall return like a storm and everything will get wet," he announces, in a manner better suited to Lear on the heath.) I might add that, from time to time, the action is interrupted by a four-man skiffle band playing very early Beatles song stylings by Grant Olding; other entertainments on offer include a female trio, a xylophone number, and a ballad for bicycle horns.

One part Goldoni, one part variety show, and one part tribute to the fabulously lowdown comedy of Sid James, Kenneth Williams, and Barbara Windsor -- a good alternate title would be Carry On Brighton -- One Man, Two Guvnors converts a classic farce into a sumptuous tribute to the gaudy glories of the British music hall, delivered with a wicked glint in its eye. A lowdown nightclub is described by someone, shuddering, as crawling with "gangsters, criminals, Princess Margaret." Francis, trying to describe the woman he loves, says, "She's got..." and cups his hands in front of his chest, signaling enormous breasts. "Arthritic hands?" asks an onlooker. Dolly, the object of his affection, likes to dream of the future. In only 20 years, she says, there will be a female prime minister who will commence a new era of compassion and caring for the poor. She also envisions a time when people carry tiny little phones, an idea she quickly dismisses; after all, she says, think of the noise they'd make in the theatre.

It's all glorious, cheeky fun, with Corden serving as ringmaster, assisted by a first-class cast of cutups. As Stanley, Oliver Chris has a splendid upper-class sneer -- wait for the moment we seem him literally wearing a hair shirt -- and Jemima Rooper is fun as Rachel, trying to pass herself off as a homosexual tough guy, like one of the Kray brothers. Chris and Rooper also have a splendid moment when, unaware of each other's presence, both try to jump off the same bridge. There are also lovely contributions from Claire Lam as the astonishingly vacant Pauline; Daniel Rigby, hamming it up in his best deadpan fashion as Alan; Suzi Toase as pert, buxom Dolly; and Tom Edden as a superannuated waiter who is, sadistically, the victim of every stray fist and opening door.

The fun extends to the production design. Mark Thompson's scenery is a pop-up version of Brighton, done up in the colors of a children's picture book and loaded with amusing details, including some very kicky wallpaper patterns. (There's also a false proscenium that lights up during the musical numbers.) Thompson's costumes turn early '60s styles into gleeful cartoons. Mark Henderson's lighting creates the right bright, uptempo atmosphere. Paul Arditti's sound design includes a handful of effects (including seagulls) as well as solid reinforcement for the musical numbers.

Riding herd on everything is Corden, a 20th-century Harlequin caught up in plots not of his making, who ultimately brings all the intrigue to a hilariously satisfying resolution. As long as he's around, Broadway is once again a home for clowns -- news that should brighten anyone's day.--David Barbour