Mini-Review: Mrs. Warren's Profession

If you ever find yourself with an unwarranted sense of optimism, happiness, and contentment, hurry to the nearest showing of George Bernard Shaw's "Mrs. Warren's Profession." Rest assured, your happiness will vanish in a hurry.

So I didn't like the play? Not at all. As performed by the National Shakespeare Theatre--yes, I have truly become part of the cultured class--"Mrs. Warren's Profession" is brilliant. The acting is top-notch. The set design is breathtaking. And the dialogue truly crackles, and not in the Rice Krispie sense of the word.

No, the play was fantastic, but all the laugh lines couldn't cover the grimness at its heart. To briefly recap: Vivie Warren, a recent Cambridge graduate, has returned home for a brief visit before she begins her business career. While flirting with Frank Gardner, the archetypal dumb male blonde, Vivie begins to learn more about her mother's past--and the unseemly titular profession. Ah, titular. Writing that word makes me flash back to my Quiz Bowl days.

Uh, where was I? Oh yes, the profession. The profession is prostitution.

Posthumous kudos to Shaw for developing the entire plot without using the word "prostitution" once. Of course, we must remember the context This was a simpler time, a time when eccentric old men--like the character of George Praed--could ask a young woman "I hope you will be disposed to be friends with me" and not sound outrageously creepy.

Whoever designed the sets--Simon Higlett, according to the program--did a wonderful job. When the curtain raised on the first act to reveal a quaint English cottage in miniature, a small but distinct gasp ran through the crowd. And a quick-change between a church courtyard and a London office triggered a burst of spontaneous applause.

This review has by far exceeded the limits implied by "mini." In closing, I would like one more thing noted. The young woman who played Vivie had a very peculiar way of pronouncing the word "you." She turned a perfectly decent one-syllable word into a three syllable tongue twister: "Yaouuuuu..." She sounded frighteningly like pop-rapper Soulja Boy.

With that deep thought I leave you.