Theatre in Review: A Gentleman's Guide to Love and Murder (Walter Kerr Theatre)

	Jane Carr and Bryce Pinkham. Photo: Joan Marcus

It's murder most delightful in A Gentleman's Guide to Love and Murder, a merrily heartless new musical that invites us to laugh -- no, cheer -- at decapitation, drowning, and other fiendish acts. Monty Navarro, the unlikely hero behind these crimes, is a poor but honest young fellow who has just buried his beloved mother. He is in love with the ravishing Sibella, but she comes from a family of means and, this being London in 1909, she requires a husband with a similar fortune. Robert L. Freedman's book establishes its briskly unsentimental nature when Monty asks Sibella, "Has it ever occurred to you to marry for love?" "Now you're just being cruel," she replies, bursting into tears.

Imagine Monty's surprise when he receives a visit from a maidservant named Miss Shingle, who informs him that not only is he a member of the wealthy, titled D'Ysquith family, he is eighth in line for an earldom. (His mother was disinherited for marrying Monty's father, a Castilian musician.) The stunned Monty approaches the current earl, Lord Adalbert, for help in finding a position and is roundly rebuffed. Growing desperate -- Sibella has acquired a fiancé -- he contacts the Reverend Lord Ezekiel D'Ysquith, a dessicated member of the clergy, who refuses Monty's request for assistance, then plunges from the top of his cathedral in an accident that Monty could have prevented. It is a moment of inspiration for Monty, who vows to get rid of all of the eight D'Ysquiths standing in his way.

We happily go along with Monty's killing spree in no small part because all of his victims are played by Jefferson Mays. (Although A Gentleman's Guide to Love and Murder is based on the novel Israel Rank: The Autobiography of a Criminal, by Roy Horniman, it retains a key device from the film version, Kind Hearts and Coronets, in which Alec Guinness played each of those pesky D'Ysquiths.) Mays, a fine character actor with the instincts of a true clown, delivers a tour de force of comic caricatures, sporting a spectacularly untidy haircut and ferocious overbite as the Rev. Ezekiel, ice-skating to his doom as the family rascal, sporting an enormous bust and leading a chorus of do-gooders as a female philanthropist (she carries a sign that says "Unite for imbeciles and idiots"), and all but devouring the stage as a grandly terrible actress who blows her brains out during a particularly egregious performance of Hedda Gabler.

Most of the first act consists of Monty dispatching one D'Ysquith after another, taking up along the way with a distant cousin, the winsome Phoebe, much to the annoyance of the now-married Sibella, who enjoys her afternoon lovemaking sessions with Monty and wants to keep him all to herself. By the intermission, the only D'Ysquith left is the appalling Lord Adalbert, who strides about his country estate in a red hunting jacket, clutching a fox pelt and hurling insults in every direction. However, any worries that the show will run out of steam are quickly dispersed, as Freedman and Steven Lutvak (music and lyrics, the latter co-written with Freedman) have other tricks up their sleeves. The second act kicks off with "Why Are All the D'Ysquiths Dying?", in which the chorus complains about having to attend all those funerals. "I've Decided to Marry You" is a nifty bit of bedroom farce in which Monty struggles to keep Sibella and Phoebe from meeting in his apartment. There's a deliciously ironic twist, in which Monty is arrested and tried for the one murder he didn't commit. And there's a capper of an ending that suggests that open season on Monty is just beginning.

Freedman's witty, well-structured book, framed as Monty's prison memoir, is cunningly constructed to make us complicit in his crimes. The score marries mordant, macabre lyrics to charming tea-dance waltzes and tinkling, palm-court melodies. Among the standouts are "A Warning to the Audience," in which the chorus instructs the faint of heart to flee the theatre before the evening's horrors begin; Lord Adalbert's lament, "I Don't Understand the Poor;" "Better with a Man," sung by Henry D'Ysquith, a true product of the British public school system who never quite got the hang of heterosexuality; and an alluringly fatalistic ballad, "Sibella."

The director, Darko Tresnjak, knows that these gleefully wicked goings-on must be carefully stylized if we are to get in on the fun, and he works with his creative team to render each murder in the manner of a New Yorker cartoon or perhaps one of Edward Gorey's illustrated tales of Edwardian mayhem. To this end, he has made sure the show has a remarkably clever production design. Alexander Dodge's scenery whisks us from lavish pink sitting rooms to wintry lakes, pubs, gymnasia, and elaborate country houses, all of them enclosed inside a false proscenium decorated with classical detailing. Dodge blends old-fashioned cut-out-scenic effects with Aaron Rhyne's projections to create a series of visual surprises. The cathedral is revealed to have a dizzying circular staircase, which all but invites a deadly plunge; a lush country garden is invaded by a swarm of killer bees; and a hallway full of family portraits comes to life, ready to provide vocal backup when needed. Linda Cho's costumes emphasize the sensual lines inside the Edwardian silhouette of the ladies' dresses and each of May's outfits is a comic creation in itself. Philip S. Rosenberg's lighting adds a veneer of elegance and Dan Moses Schreier's sound design blends a barrage of effects with Monty's voiceover narration. In addition, the sound reinforcement is excellent; every word of the lyrics is intelligible, even during some Gilbert and Sullivan-style tongue-twisters.

While Mays runs amok as the various D'Ysquiths, Bryce Pinkham's Monty is equally crucial to the success of the enterprise; he lands big laughs with remarkable understatement, his permanently arched eyebrows and slightly protuberant eyes reflecting a thoroughly shifty pose of innocence. Lisa O'Hare is delectable as the calculating, self-centered Sibella, and Lauren Worsham provides excellent contrast as the earnest Phoebe, who nevertheless knows the value of a whopper of a lie in a pinch. Both ladies have heavenly voices and make the most of their vocal opportunities. Jane Carr is fun as the baleful Miss Shingle, who sets the plot in motion.

It all adds up to the kind of high-style, sophisticated entertainment we rarely seem to get these days. Thanks be to a smart and gifted creative team, all of whom understand that murder can be its own form of amusement. --David Barbour