Murder So Refined, It Deserves to Be Repeated, and Repeated

Joan Marcus

From left, Heather Ayers, Ken Barnett and Jefferson Mays in the premiere of the musical "A Gentleman's Guide to Love & Murder" at Hartford Stage.

HARTFORD — Jefferson Mays dies not once, not twice, not thrice, but a staggering eight times in the delectable musical "A Gentleman's Guide to Love & Murder," having its premiere at the Hartford Stage here. And as each passing away passes by, this gifted actor discovers ingenious ways of making the final throes of his ill-starred characters inspire full-throttled laughter.

Whether he's plummeting into a frozen river while ice skating, being stung by a swarm of bees, swanning offstage as a Hedda Gabler who finds her prop gun carries real bullets, or merely succumbing to a spot of poison, Mr. Mays makes the most of the last moments of the phalanx of British aristocrats he so nimbly portrays. Death by foul play certainly becomes this marvelous actor, best known for his Tony-winning turn (also portraying multiple characters) in Doug Wright's solo play "I Am My Own Wife."

"A Gentleman's Guide to Love & Murder," with a book by Robert L. Freedman, music by Steven Lutvak and lyrics — ah, what lyrics! — by Mr. Freedman and Mr. Lutvak, ranks among the most inspired and entertaining new musical comedies I've seen in years. Set in Edwardian England, this effervescent show, dexterously directed by Darko Tresnjak, is pure catnip for Anglophiles. Devoted lovers of doorstop Victorian novels, obsessive watchers of BBC soaps about the trials of the gentry, fans of the peppery patter of Noël Coward: Here is a new musical to leave you feeling giddy and sated, as after a rich afternoon tea, with plenty of jam and clotted cream.

I confess to ardent affection for all of the above, and I was pretty much smiling from ear to ear throughout the musical, which is adapted from a 1907 novel by Roy Horniman. The same book inspired a classic Ealing Studios comedy, "Kind Heart and Coronets," which featured Alec Guinness memorably portraying a similar array of doomed British gentlefolk.

If you know the movie, you know the fundamentals of the savory, sanguinary plot. Here the sweetly lethal hero is Monty Navarro (Ken Barnett), the lone son of a recently deceased mother. Unbeknownst to him, she was a distant relative of a well-to-do British family who disowned her when she married his father, a Castilian. ("And worse ... a musician," as Monty ruefully admits.) Apprised by her old friend Miss Shingle (Rachel Izen) of his mother's cruel treatment at the hands of her family, Monty broods over his years of poverty and neglect.

But not for long. "Only eight other relations stand between you and the current head of the family," Miss Shingle casually lets drop. "I speak, of course, of Lord Adalbert D'Ysquith himself, the Eighth Earl of Highhurst."

Despite Monty's gentle demeanor, this nugget of news naturally inspires in him an irresistible hunger for vengeance. Since his beloved, Sibella Hallward (Lisa O'Hare), has made it clear that her hand will be won only by a man of means, Monty has an added incentive to brush up on methods of dispatching unwanted relations. Soon he has dashed off to begin offing the D'Ysquiths (pronounced DIE-skwith, aptly enough), and the musical is off and running, its gleefully murderous plot generously adorned by a stylish pastiche score inspired by Coward and Gilbert & Sullivan, with a little Chopin, a little Stephen Sondheim and a bit of the Lerner & Loewe of "My Fair Lady" thrown in for good measure.

Mr. Freedman's music, elegantly orchestrated for a pit band of six by the Sondheim specialist Jonathan Tunick, earns worthy comparison with his inspirations. The melodies are bright and jaunty, the tempos mostly brisk, save for the lilting, romantic ballads for Monty and Sibella that spread the sweet perfume of Victorian music-hall airs. But the lyrics, with their witty wordplay, are what truly enchant.

A particular delight is the comic number "I Don't Understand the Poor," performed with adorably pompous zest by Mr. Mays as the snooty Lord Adalbert D'Ysquith, aghast that his country house must be opened to the depredations of tourists. Supporting him is a chorus of ancestral portraits chiming in from within their dusty gold frames, in one of the many inspired touches of the set designer, Alexander Dodge. A sample:

I don't understand the poor.

And they're constantly turning out more.

Every festering slum

In Christendom

Is disgorging its young by the score.

Equally funny is the song performed by Lady Hyacinth D'Ysquith (Mr. Mays as well), a doughty, relentless do-gooder bent on finding a population sufficiently needy to astound her fellow philanthropists. Apprised by Monty, who has wormed his way into the bosom of the family, that the lepers in India are simply the latest in desperation, she breaks into a jolly dance of celebration:

When we arrive they'll hobble out to greet us!

Their toothless grins would melt a heart of stone!

And every dilettante

Will envy me and want

A colony of lepers of her own!

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