By Elaine Liner
By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
And neither does Theatre Three's cast for The Hollow. They take a fusty 1951 script and, without tipping into melodrama, inject enough camp into their performances to make the dialogue and the characters feel funny and fresh. Jac Alder directed this production, and his deft choreography of dozens of entrances and exits and well-tuned ear for funny sounds and what sounds funny result in a play that crackles with Christie's witty wordplay and offers some of the best comic acting this stage has offered in some time. First scene to last, this show is killer fun.
The mystery's a doozy, too. A tried-and-true Christie gimmick gets the game afoot, as a group of guests--six little Indians, marked down from 10--gather for a weekend romp at a run-down estate outside London called The Hollow. Hosting the party are the resident toffs, a dotty old couple named Sir Henry (Terry Vandivort) and Lady Lucy Angkatell (Sally Cole), along with their niece Henrietta (Gina Handy), a sculptor who exudes all the warmth of a slab of Travertine.
Into the Angkatells' drawing room (nicely designed and furnished in shabby velvets and brocades by Harland Wright), guests arrive by ones and twos. A second niece, the orphaned Midge Harvey (Mary-Margaret Pyeatt), quickly asserts her position as the poor relation. She's on a break from her miserable job as a London shopgirl. Secretly, Midge loves wealthy, sad-sack cousin Edward (Scott Meek), heir to the family's pile of bricks known as Ainswick (think Manderly without Mrs. Danvers). But Edward carries a torch for Henrietta, who's having a fling with the very married and devilishly handsome Dr. John Cristow (Brent Alford). He blusters into the party shadowed by wife Gerda (Sue Birch), a creature as ungraceful as her name. As Cristow openly flirts with Henrietta, he verbally dresses down dowdy Gerda, who seems to resonate with a dull, one-note hum of despair.
Through the French doors bursts the Angkatells' next-door neighbor, flame-haired American film star Veronica Craye (Morgana Shaw), who has Bette Davis' eyes, Joan Crawford's shoulders and Barbara Stanwyck's guttural laugh. She also has a past with Dr. Cristow and fantasizes that he's ready to run off with her to Lalawood and leave Gerda in the dust.
When most of the guests head outside to practice target shooting--what else?--Cristow briefly is left alone. Someone, probably not the butler, sneaks up through the garden with a .38 and plugs the doc, leaving him sprawled on the Oriental. Enter the maid (the spot-on hilarious Kelly Thomas) to end Act 1 with a bloodcurdling shriek.
Act 2 brings on this play's faux Poirot, Inspector Colquhoun (Richard Zavaglia, adopting an imperious Duke of Windsor accent), to interrogate the suspects. Many of them have good reasons for wanting the doc dead. To wrap up the Cristow case, Colquhoun and his young assistant copper, Sergeant Penny (Blair Mitchell), will employ every cliché in the Agatha Christie canon. But even though the ending is telegraphed louder than Morse code on a kettledrum, it all comes to a satisfying denouement.
Besides the pre-CSI techniques of crime-solving that Christie gives Colquhoun to bait the mouse into the trap, what makes this production of The Hollow irresistibly entertaining is its wonderful company of actors. Here are thesps who use subtle comic touches to create broad characters. The best at this is the diminutive Sally Cole, whose Lady Lucy is a mini-Lady Bracknell with perhaps a soupçon of Lady Macbeth. Christie's running joke for Lady Lucy is to have her constantly misplacing the oddest things around the drawing room. "Did I leave my mole trap in here?" she chirps on her first entrance. And later, "Now where did I lay my eggs?" When the doctor is found toes-up on the carpet, Lady Lucy squeals happily, "Ooooh, our first murdah!" She escapes suspicion for that felony, but Cole steals so many scenes as Lady Lucy, she could be charged with larceny.
Brent Alford delights as a cruel but dashing Dr. Cristow. "How was I to know devotion could be so irritating?" he growls about dreary wife Gerda. Sue Birch, eyebrows pitched up like resting oars, is heartbreaking as the sorrowful wife, sagging under the burden of loving a philandering husband.
Were this an old movie, the roles of old-maid cousins Edward and Midge would be played by Van Heflin and Teresa Wright. Here, Scott Meek and Mary-Margaret Pyeatt are just right as second-tier characters who might have stepped off the screen of a '50s film noir. Pleat-happy period costumes by Patty Korbelic Williams aid the illusion.