The Fantasticks

REMEMBER the second act of Peter Pan, when Tinkerbell is dying, and Peter turns to the audience and asks everyone to clap if they believe in fairies? The other day I read a critic who claimed it was all a dirty attempt to make the kiddies accept homosexuality. I was shocked. Not at the smut charge, mind you, but at the critic's inference that I believed in Peter and his boys at all. You just can't be brought up on television and still believe.

Previous productions of The Fantasticks I've seen have provoked similar crises of faith. If you've heard "Try to Remember," you've heard the show's moral: to wit, "without a hurt the heart grows hollow." Now if you read that with a Phyllis McGinley intonation--as is often done--you've got a pretty saccharine play on your hands. The Leverett House Opera Society has chosen a different tack. The prevailing tone of the evening is a cool, balanced wit. Rather like a mellow Oscar Wilde propounding the importance of being burnished. The results are marvelous.

The Fantasticks, of course, sets out to be the definitive fable on the classic Boy Meets Girl theme. Beverly Randolph, as The Girl, is just about the best illustration of the principle you can find. Fortunately she is more than the usual ingenue. She sings somewhere between torch and gospel--a most enticing balance.

The Boy, played by David Ripley, is every bit her equal. Last night, even managed to ad lib through a fight despite an accidentally broken sword. And as a singer, his controlled power carried the evening. The accompanying orchestra quartet--complete with harp--offered lively assistance.

Nonetheless, the star of the evening had to be its director, Charles Heckschet. His clever stagings combine perfectly with choreographer Barbara Clark's dance numbers--and in the close quarters of the Leverett old library that attests to a happy collaboration. If that doesn't prove Heckschet's worth, watch him as The Girl's Father--a part he had to take over a few days ago. He doesn't look old enough, he can't quite sing, but his intricate vaudeville routines are delightful.

Need one continue? I'll admit two minor characters, Mortimer and Henry, do strain one's good will by over-playing, but the fault lies in the script and not in the actors. On the other hand, Steven Flax's set made ingenious use of the library's windows and staircases, and John Hanick's lighting was remarkably creative. On balance, Leverett has mounted a delightful production.

I know because during the curtain I was clapping wildly. My pre-show reservations seemed academic quibbles. Despite large doses of fantasy, I believed in all that I'd seen. And that's more than Mary Martin ever did.