February 6, 2003

Born Jean Baptiste Poquelin in 1622, Moliere is considered the premiere author of French comedy. No, seriously, it's Moliere, not Jerry Lewis. While plays are written to be performed and not merely read, we felt it our duty to experience the man's work and share our impressions with you, our valued readers.

"The Middle Class Gentleman" by Moliere: Monsieur Jourdain isn't satisfied being a good bourgeois. He has achieved wealth and now strives for nobility. It may not be his birthright, but he can at least carry himself like a gentleman and keep company with the best French society has to offer. There's only one small problem... Monsieur Jourdain isn't that bright. In fact, he's rather, shall we say, dim? Shall we say stupid? We shall say stupid.

This personal quest for self-improvement is also a mad attempt at gaining the favor of Dorimene, a beautiful young marchioness. So it is with love in his heart, albeit an adulterous love, that Monsieur Jourdain hires teachers of music, dance, fencing, and philosophy to shape him into the picture of nobility. For their part, the various instructors are just happy to be cashing a check. They flatter and heap praise whenever possible, knowing full well they're employed by a buffoon. Madame Jourdain attempts to talk sense into her husband, but he will hear none of it. He turns a deaf ear to her protests and those of their maid Nicole. How could they, mere ignorant women, understand nobility?

Monsieur Jourdain's gullible nature also falls victim to Count Dorante, a silver-tongued devil always on the make. Dorante uses his vague ties to nobility and devotion of friendship to hit up Monsieur Jourdain for money. Dorante also volunteers to act as go-between for Monsieur Jourdain and the fair Dorimene, only to use the gifts given by Jourdain to try and win Dorimene for himself.

And when Monsieur Jourdain refuses to marry his daughter, Lucile, to her true love, Cleonte, because he wants a gentleman as a son-in-law and not some bourgeois, even his wife and daughter conspire to take advantage of their puerile patriarch.

Of all the Moliere we read, this was clearly the best. It's a solid comedy from start to finish, owning a laughable lead, sharp dialogue, and general absurdity. It also has a strong ending. Monsieur Jourdain's final line is memorable for its wit and timing. Henny Youngman couldn't have done it better.

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"Amphitryon" by Moliere: The Roman gods take center stage in this comedy of mistaken identity.

Jupiter, that all mighty god of gods, finds himself attracted to the mortal Alceme, wife of Amphitryon, a great army commander. While the true husband is off waging war, Jupiter disguises himself as Amphitryon in order to make love to Alceme. Oh, that nutty Jupiter. He can just disguise himself in order to sleep with whomever he wants. I usually have to get them really, really drunk. Gods have all the luck.

Jupiter needs someone to run interference for him and keep lookout, so he brings along Mercury, the fleet messenger of the gods, disguised as Sosie, servant of Amphitryon. Everything is going all smooth like until the real Sosie shows up to announce that Amphitryon is returning early, having won a decisive victory on the field of battle. Mercury, wearing the mask of Sosie, encounters the true Sosie and the hilarity ensues.

It actually is quite funny watching Amphitryon and Sosie try to decipher what's going on as their doubles of Jupiter and Mercury wreak havoc with their lives. Mercury's confrontations with Sosie, and with Sosie's wife, are particularly amusing.

This really is a wonderful work of comedy, boasting snappy dialogue and ingenious plotting, or at least it is until the ending comes along and pretty much ruins everything. Well, it doesn't completely ruin it, but it certainly takes away all momentum, bringing down the curtain with a titanic thud.

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"Tartuffe" by Moliere: As with "Amphitryon," the curse of a weak ending also plagues "Tartuffe."

Orgon, another foolish father in the same vein as Monsieur Jourdain, is enamored with Tartuffe, a fake man of God who weasels his way into Orgon's home by playing on the man's willingness to live a more righteous life. The other members of the household, however, are not blind to Tartuffe's true colors. They see him as the hypocrite that he is. But Orgon won't hear of anyone speaking against such a paradigm of virtue, even siding against his own son when he reports of Tartuffe's trying to seduce Orgon's wife, Ermine. So convinced is Orgon of Tartuffe's character that he makes the holy man sole beneficiary of his will, entrusts him with evidence that could implicate him in a crime, and promises the hand of his daughter, Mariane, in marriage.

Everything is set for a riotous conclusion until a virtual bolt from the blue renders the previous four acts of the play a moot point at best. It's as if Moliere really couldn't find a way out of the corner in which he had painted himself, so he merely invented a door through which to step to freedom. The resolution is a hollow one. And it's a shame because there really is some funny stuff here. Tartuffe, who doesn't make his first appearance in the flesh until about midway through the play, is extremely clever and Dorine, the family maid, never fails to generate a smile. The ending is so bad that it should really drop from four shots to two, but we'll give it three out of respect for the rest of the material holding up so well after 325 years. What more proof that comedy is timeless?

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"The Bores" by Moliere: Eraste has only one thing on his mind: meeting Orphise, his beloved. Unfortunately, it would seem that every bore and simpleton in Paris has other ideas. They crawl out of the woodwork to waylay Eraste, blocking his path and stealing his time with one frustrating impediment after another; a singer eager to vocalize, a gambler dealing stories of bad luck, a hunter claiming triumphs, petition peddlers, an inventor seeking money; they all set out to delay. It's too bad that these characters are bores in name and action. Eraste isn't the only one annoyed by their presence. Only one such diversion, a trio of women discussing who makes a better lover: a jealous man or a man immune to jealousy, is of any interest at all. The other bores live up to their title all too well. Then, of course, there's also another anemic ending worthy of an Adam Sandler-era Saturday Night Live skit. Moliere needed to be reminded that it's not how you start, it's how you finish. If he closed any worse he could pitch for the Cubs.

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