The Ladies of the Camellias

Reviewed by Holly Bartges

Under Artistic Director Kent Thompson’s leadership, the Denver Center Theatre Company kicked off its Women’s Voices Series with Lillian Groag’s hilarious contemplative play The Ladies of the Camellias. Contemplative as it explores an imaginary meeting between two Turn of the Century theatre divas. There was France’s Sarah Bernhardt, 1844-1923, and Italy’s Eleonora Duse, 1859-1924. Some say Bernhardt was the greatest of the greatest. Others insist it was Duse. When Bobby Lewis insisted Duse was the “great artist” in an acting class, Groag challenged his statement. He told her to write her own statement, which she did 18 years ago.

(Left to Right) Monique Fowler as Eleonora Duse, John Hutton as Flavio Andò and Beverly Leech as Sarah Bernhardt in the Denver Center Theatre Company production of The Ladies of the Camellias by Lillian Groag. Photo by Terry Shapiro

The first question is: In this point in time and history, how could anyone legitimately ascertain who was the greatest between Bernhardt and Duse?

The second question is: Who cares?

And the third question is: Why not?

The result was her penning the laugh-out-loud hysterical The Ladies of the Camellias.

It is impossible to take a Russian terrorist seriously who enunciates pipples for people and nuts for notes especially when he is digging into his pockets for his nuts, sending Flavio Ando (John Hutton) and Gustave-Hippolite Worms (Bill Christ) scurrying to the edge of the stage. Even though he brandishes a gun and a bum, for which he means bomb, James Knight deliriously turns Ivan the terrorist into a near one-man show. There could easily be a one-man one-act play featuring Ivan, if manipulated by Knight, turning the thought of terrorism into a grandiose laughing matter with language as a defused counter attack. Except for one small matter: without Flavio and Worms to decipher pipples, nuts, and bum no one would ever know what he was talking about. (It wouldn’t be the first time language defused a serious diatribe considering the political world surrounding us today).

The Ladies of The Camellias takes place in Paris during June 1897 on the stage of the Theatre de la Renaissance where the two great divas Bernhardt (Beverly Leech) and Duse (Monique Fowler) are scheduled to play alternate schedules for the Alexandre Dumas, fils (Phillip Pleasants) play, The Lady of the Camellias. No one in the play looks forward to the two flourished grand dames meeting head on.

The play begins with crackled sizzle when A Girl (Stephanie Cozart) announces to Benoit (Randy Moore) she is quitting. She’s had enough of being upstaged and forced to have her back to the audience. He tries to convince her, to no avail, her part is important to the play. Alas, she has fallen in love. When he asks her with whom and she replies “to a dentist” he is the first to utter, “He will beat you,” a line repeated several times, always getting a laugh, perhaps bringing back memories of the dentist in Little Shop of Horrors. Cozart’s crackling performance sizzles with defining determination laced with coquettish snub-ness. This allows for Moore to fly through lines with exaggerated frustration over the meeting of the two divas. He needs the problem of replacing a girl who just walks out like a hole in the head when he must contend with the fact Bernhardt doesn’t want camellias on the stage, she wants roses. And, if that weren’t enough, one of the vases contains two of Bernhard’s snakes.

Directed by Casey Stangl, the characters in this production are extraordinarily well defined with an artistic cast that would be difficult to improve upon anywhere.

Slapstick rolls around the stage in sheer delight. None of it is out of place. The timing is perfection par excellence, by a cast who understands the comedic limitation of the characters and the broad strokes of what is genuinely funny, what isn’t, what works, what doesn’t. Worm’s loss at musical chairs when Ivan orders everyone to sit, now, waving his gun and bum in the air, is a perfect example of perfect timing.

The intrusion of Ivan sets everyone on their heads, bringing together the grand dames of theatre. Bernhardt regally spits out that Ivan only needs her as a hostage, if its big names he wants. He certainly doesn’t need “the other one” too.

In spite of the magnificent lines, the human funniness of the situation, there are some legitimate questionable problems with the play.

The play concerns itself with digs and digging into concepts and attitudes of the theatre during the Turn of the Century more than it does exploring the differences between Bernhardt and Duse.

Ivan’s rambunctious ambition to take pipples hostage, unleashes a running dialogue as the characters try to unravel who he is and what he is about. He is upset over theatre people living their life of fantasy while there are starving pipples out there in the real world.

This leads to musing over why very creative people aren’t nice people. (When you think about it, the answer is perfectly logical). Is the theatre really valid? What does it do in light of people out there in the world staving? Is a director important? Doesn’t he (she) just make sure people know where to stand, which as Flavio smirks to Worms frequently, they already know how to do that.

Rather than be an exploration between Duse and Bernhardt, the play actually appears to be an exploration of legitimate theatrical questions, using Duse and Bernhardt as the hangers, and there is certainly nothing wrong with that.

Whether Leech and Fowler live up to the divaesque bigger-than-life façade handed down through a looking glass covering over a century is up for grabs. They both give sharp colorful distinct characters, but whether they give us true sketches of Bernhardt and Duse is left on the hangers for debate. The truth is In light of the over-all play it doesn’t matter. Duse commands Flavio, her lover, to sit quicker than my dogs ever learned to. When I described the situation to them they both just rolled their eyes, and said “yea, right.” Fowler contains a throaty deep commanding voice, while Ivan insists Bernhardt is just too pretty.

One more character comes close to flying onto the stage. Mark Rubald, with nose in tact, magically appears dressed in full regalia of Cyrano de Bergerac disguising the character of B. Constant Coquelin. First produced in Paris in 1897, it starred Coquelin in the now famous role of the lovesick poet who cannot hide from that which “leads him by the nose.” With sword in hand, Rubald as Coquelin as Cyrano adds his two cents to the theatrical debate, which heats up when the characters discover who Ivan really is.

It is up for grabs as to why Groag chose to introduce Coquelin at this point in the play. Coquelin became a household name for his staunch portrayal of Cyrano, and he was definitely a major player along with Bernhardt and Duse. Rubald obviously has great fun with the role, and pin points several good laughs, but the character doesn’t necessarily add anything to the Bernhardt/Duse debate. He does add a great deal of fun, and that, after all, may be the ultimate point.

Dividing the stage in the round in half to represent a presidium stage with half the audience supposedly in the audience facing the stage and half on the other side from off stage was lost as to where I was sitting. I was aware of the proscenium illusion, but sitting on the edge, the effect wasn’t quite as stunning as it would be facing it one way or the other. Vicki Smith designed the scrumptious set, and Devon Painter designed the gorgeous costumes.

Having Bernhardt and Duse become cuddly friends at the end seems slightly far-fetched, though possible. History may know, but may never tell, and although it softens the characters, it also waters down the divaesque approach in a contrived how do I end this piece and get off stage.

The hilarious play is actually over several minutes before the house lights come up. The playwright seems to have bled out the scenario long after everything is said and done. The exquisite cast maintains its integrity throughout, but the last few minutes stretches superfluous to more than its four syllables.

When all is said and done it doesn’t matter whether the play concerns itself about Duse and Bernhardt or is a vehicle to bounce off theatrical questions, the exquisite characterizations by this monumental cast with its brilliant lines, physical execution of honest comedy, wrapped up in pipples, nuts, and a bum is enough to send it to the top of must see productions.