Reviewed by F. Kathleen Foley
Theatre Forty
Through Dec. 15
RECOMMENDED
In light of unpleasant present realities, many — myself included — have elected to swear off the news, at least temporarily.
In such worrisome times, a good dose of retro entertainment can provide a blessed distraction from the bombardment of angry talking heads and retrospective analyses.
And you can’t get much more retro than the current production of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd at Theatre Forty. Adapted by Mark Shanahan from Agatha Christie’s 1926 novel, the play is among Christie’s cleverest mysteries, complete with plenty of likely suspects and a final twist worthy of O. Henry. A straightforward yarn from the old school of classically plotted theater, the show is escapist fun of a high order.
That’s despite a few faults in the staging and a cast of varying competence. Veteran stage director Jules Aaron helms the proceedings with a sometimes-heavy hand, allowing his performers to chew the scenery with gusto.
Overacting is prevalent and the show borders on parody — but strangely, it mostly works.
The action is set in 1927 in England’s Lake District — the sleepy village of King’s Abbot, to be precise. It is here that famous private detective Hercule Poirot (Michael Mullen) has recently retreated to grow vegetables and live a quiet life. His intended retirement is interrupted by the murder of his friend, wealthy businessman Roger Ackroyd (Todd Andrew Ball), found stabbed in his office at Fernly Hall. The reluctant Poirot, ever the old war horse, is called back into the fray to ferret out the truth.
Of course, there’s no shortage of individuals who would have benefitted from Ackroyd’s demise, most particularly his improvident son and heir Ralph (Ian Riegler), heard arguing with his father shortly before the murder. There’s also Gertrude (Diane Linder), Ackroyd’s tart-tongued, boozy sister-in-law and her daughter, Flora (Anica Petrovic), both of whom are broke and tired of relying on the crumbs of Ackroyd’s occasional charity.
Also out of funds is Ackroyd’s long-time friend Major Blunt (David Hunt Stafford), a big game hunter who also put the touch on his pal, only to have his proposed “business venture” summarily rejected. Included among the passel of suspects are the butler Parker (Michael Robb) and the maid Ursula (Rebecca Del Sesto), as well as Miss Russell (Caroline Westheimer), Ackroyd’s personal secretary.
Inspector Ragland (Joe Clabby), a blunderer who has the case sewn up in advance of the facts, is determined to hang the crime on Ralph. Ackroyd’s trusted friend Doctor Shepard (an engaging Matt Landig), the piece’s narrator, teams with Poirot to help solve the case. Shepard’s busybody sister Carolyn (Michele Schultz), the village gossip, proves a font of vital information to Poirot.
Any actor essaying Poirot, including Kenneth Branagh’s serviceable but uninspired recent attempts, labors in the looming shadow of David Suchet, whose perfectly realized Poirot takes pride of place among other legendary portrayals, such as Jeremy Brett’s Sherlock Holmes. Mullen has the basic attributes for the role, including an assured physicality and an underlying emotionalism that plumbs Poirot’s hidden depths. Unfortunately, he is lumbered by an egregious French/Belgian accent that couldn’t pass muster in a Monty Python sketch.
\Stafford, who plays Flora’s secret admirer, is also problematic. He is perplexingly miscast—the more so because he could have played several other roles in the play more appropriate to his proven abilities. Mention is made of the “lopsided match” between Flora and Blunt, but the two are so dissimilar that any chemistry between them seems implausible.
The design elements are well-realized. Derrick McDaniel contributes spot-on lighting, while Michael Mullen’s prolific period costumes are excellent, as is Nick Foran’s sound (barring the melodramatic musical underscore in certain crucial scenes). Jeff G. Rack’s handsome set, redressed and repurposed for the occasion, is a familiar old friend from earlier productions.
For those longing for “dark-and-stormy-night” nostalgia, this adaptation of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd provides a delightful, if imperfect, antidote to modern woes.
Theatre Forty, 241 S. Moreno Drive, in the Mary Levin Cutler Theatre, Beverly Hills. Thur.-Sat., 7:30 pm; Sun., 2 pm; thru Dec. 15. dark Nov. 28 and 29. (310) 364-0535. http://theatre40.org Running time: 2 hours and 15 minutes with an intermission.
