Armed with wit and wisdom, Shaw's the man

BY MICHAEL LOPRESTI

"The world is not such an innocent place as we used to think, Petkoff." Uttered in the context of George Bernard Shaw's Arms and the Man, this phrase serves merely as an enigmatic aside. Yet its significance may be more prescient today than it was 100 years ago, when it was first delivered on stage. The remark forces us to realize that we live in a time when it is difficult to fully escape the cruel reality that has been thrust upon us, even within the gilded sphere of light-hearted theater. But, as they say, the show must go on—and it does.

Arms and the Man, directed by Greg Leam-ing, opens the Long Wharf Theatre's fall season. Commonly viewed as one of Shaw's finest comedies, Arms manages to blend funny, sarcastic dialogue with thought-provoking observations on life, all in true romantic style. As zany as the story and the characters are, it's easy to forget what the play truly is at heart: a satire of our illusions about love and war.

The play is set in late 19th-century Bulgaria in the midst of a war with Serbia. The plot hinges on the beautiful and shallow Raina Petkoff (Sarah Knowlton), daughter of an aristocratic Bulgarian family and fiancée of a war hero. One evening, as Raina prepares for bed, a Serbian soldier named Bluntschli (Mark Nelson) climbs up onto her balcony seeking refuge, threatening her with his pistol to add ballast to his request. After a comical repartee between the soldier and the maiden, Raina relents and hides Bluntschli from his pursuers. The play continues on to chronicle the ensuing events of the evening, then leaps ahead four months to the return of Raina's fiancé, Sergius (Patrick Page) from the war. What follows is a hilarious tale of social posturing and miscommunication, one in which all the characters struggle to stifle their true desires in the interest of upholding the natural social order.

As the ideological center of the story, the bourgeois Bluntschli stands in contrast to the other players, who serve primarily as farcical characterizations of late 18th-century aristocracy. While they are each consumed by their own romantic worlds, he alone is able to step outside himself and appreciate the harsh reality of war. His stoicism, punctuated by a biting dry wit, elevates him above the mayhem that marks the turbulent life of the Petkoff family. It is clear from Nelson's performance that he intends to clearly distinguish Blunt-schli from the rest of the ensemble, but the contrast is almost too great. Where he should be quietly contemplative, he seems merely bored. Many of his lines fall flat, and his voice is often drowned out by the flamboyance of the rest of the cast; he often seems to murmur while the other characters shout.

Knowlton, on the other hand, could improve her rendition of Raina by turning in a more nuanced, less boisterous performance. Her naïve romanticism is too exaggerated to be convincing, and her grandiose mannerisms quickly become melodramatic.

The character of Sergius notoriously steals scene after scene in performances of Arms and the Man, and in Page's capable hands, he once again lives up to his reputation. From the moment he walks on stage decked out in full Bulgarian army uniform (complete with white-feathered helmet, gilt epaulets, and yards of gold rope draped over his inflated chest), Page commands the stage. He strikes the subtle balance between farce and feigned refinement that both Nelson and Knowlton seem to miss. His baritone voice, vaguely reminiscent of Sean Connery's famous growl, and his self-righteous delivery of every word are enough to garner laughs regardless of the words he actually speaks. He turns in such an impressive performance, in fact, that it's easy to forget his character plays second fiddle to Raina and Bluntschli, rather than the other way around.

While not a flawless adaptation, enough of Shaw's legendary wit and fierce social commentary peek through the cracks of this production to make it enjoyable. Page's portrayal of Sergius alone justifies the entire play, his funniest moment, resulting from the firm conviction he displays in his every word and deed. When Raina asks him to withdraw his resignation from the army, he furrows his brow, stomps his foot gallantly on a chair and shouts, "I never withdraw!" It is moments like these, sprinkled throughout Arms and the Man, that make this indulgence in carefree theater worthwhile.

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