Evening of laughter

Press, 14 November 1977, Page 6

Evening of laughter

By HOWARD McNAUGHTON “Wind in the Branches of the Sassafras,” by Rene de Obaldia. Directed by Randell Wackrow for The Court Theatre, Christchurch Arts Centre. Running time: 8.15 p.m. to 10.25 p.m. It is Kentucky, about 1800. and the only house still standing in a 20-mile circle is surrounded by throngs of Redskins, outlaws, coyotes, and sassafras. Inside, a simple frontier family is devoting itself to prayer and brandy, remedies which we know will triumph in the last act—but only after lan Boswell’s well-executed set has been penetrated by a blazing arrow, a golden-hearted whore, and a satin-clad cowboy.

The ingredients are those of a parody of a Western farce which has been enormously popular all over the world since its Paris premiere about a decade ago, and which is well on the way to becoming a classic of its kind —a reputation which Randell Wackrow’s production certainly supports.

Seldom have I seen a cast so deeply and happily immersed in the mood of a play. S'tewart Ross does the patriarch, John Emery Rockefeller, with that domineering grossness through which nations are fathered and heathen eliminated, both on a scale which defies computing; his presence is central to the play and to the cast.

Elizabeth Moody, on the other hand, presents a pioneer mother with a strongly puritanical exterior. That appearances are misleading might be guessed from the morality of her progeny, or from the content of her crystal ball, which provides two of the most hilarious episodes of the production. Sandra Rasmussen and Robin Queree complete the extant family with a beautiful maidenly daughter repelling the incestuous advances of the ne’er-do-well son-—or so it all seems at first. However, for neolithic Kentucky it was not sufficient for the sins of the father to be visited merely on the son and the daughter and the mother. Relationships i spinal variously with the

introduction of an alcoholic, genocidal doctor (Paul Sonne), a crack-shot prostitute (played by Judie Douglass), the cowboy of everyone’s dreams (Russel Smith) and two bitterly hostile Indian chiefs (done by the versatile, and by now probably schizophrenic. William Kircher). All of these are excellent comic performances of ludicrous stereotypes, but Paul Sonne’s caricature stands out as one of the most masterly exercises in farcical comedy that the Court has ever offered.

The production has many excellent features. The use of audience confrontation is impeccably judged, the costumes are evenly successful, and the various trios round the crystal ball and peacepipe are very well orchestrated.

On Saturday, the script was not treated with customary reverence, and the atmosphere (not inappropriately) approached that of a sophisticated revue. But the priority in this production at this time of year is on nonstop laughs, and in terms of unbroken hilarity it would be hard to beat.