The Cavalier daily :: Tuesday, April 27, 1971 :: University of Virginia Library

Turn a group of better than fifty
industrious law students loose on
"Macbeth," and what do you think
you'll get? An accessory-to murder
charge against the three witches? A
restraining order against Malcolm
for attempting to make off with
Birnam Wood? These, maybe, are
the probabilities, but it was the
improbable that flourished last
weekend as members of the Law
School staged their annual
extravaganza known as the Libel
Show.

"Heir Today, Gone Tomorrow,"
this year's "Macbeth"-based
edition, aimed to spoof the law
faculty, the School, Virginia, the
law itself, and anything else
scholars of jurisprudence are
expected to hold in reverence,
including Tony's Tavern. The
energetic cast slaughtered its sacred
cows with an unceremonious verve
that proved delightfully nutty and
outrageously funny.

The show itself, in form, aspired
to musical comedy. Author and
lyricist Mark Sullivan began with
"Macbeth" but obviously drew less
inspiration from Shakespeare than
the Marx Brothers. Sullivan was just
interested in the basic threads of
plot - lurking political ambitions,
clandestine regicide plots,
blood-curdling acts of vengeance
always good staff for a
light-hearted farce. Law School
personalities, of course, were fitted,
more or less comfortably, into the
slots of Shakespeare's drama.
Frances Farmer, the school's
librarian, apparently the most
powerful force currently ensconced
in Clark Hall, begins the play as
Queen Frances, mistress of
Scotland. When "Macrad" and
spouse (Dean Monrad Paulsen is the
show's Macbeth) apply the dagger
to Scotland's ruler, a rivalry for the
throne ensues between
Paulsen-Macrad and Charles
Whitebread, here dubbed
"Macbread." Macrad seizes the
throne, but, after having been
turned on by Macbread, the King
freaks out, abdicates, and leaves his
rival in control.

From that unlikely premise
emerged a wealth of songs and gags
on the ambitions and inhibitions of
Macrad and Macbread, laced with
numerous allusions to the particular
personalities on the grill, and
frequently halted for ludicrous
excursions into jungles of legalistic
nonsense.

Big Time Sound

There were fourteen musical
numbers, generally clever and
bright, built on borrowed tunes
ranging from "Camelot" to "Wait
'Til the Sun Shines, Nellie" to "Let
It Be." The ten-piece orchestra
provided an amusingly sloppy
caricature of the "big-time"
musical-comedy sound. When not
striking up the band, leader
Stephen Dichter played an
accompanying accordion to many
of the show's quieter numbers.

The relish and theatrical savvy
with which the performers brought
off the show was no less than
amazing. Much credit goes to
director-author Horowitz for giving
the play just the right amount of
direction; but talent was evident all
over the stage. Most of the show's
fun centered on Horowitz'
exuberant parody of Dean Paulsen
("All the world loves a fat man")
and Chris Sumner's hilarious and
deadly accurate take-off on
"Charlie" Whitebread, a man
determined to step over "the
potted palm in the great lobby of
life." Superb in supporting roles
were Donald Woodman as Emerson
Spies, chief of three
witches-turned-property-teachers,
and Robert Wolf as Charlie Woltz,
the plastic-faced "Gator." Molly
Powell as the Queen and Linda
Fairstein as a romping Lady Macrad
were both fine. John Finley created
an excellent portrayal of Calvin
Woodard, while James Kabler's
parody of Peter Low was
outstanding.

'Bareassters'

Surprising touches of musical
finesse were provided by Linda
Howard, borrowing from "Hair"
with a sweetly song, "A Man
Named Macbread"; and by an
assemblage of ten vocalists called
the "Bareassters," who won
repeated applause by
barber-shopping their songs with
the sort of intricate harmonizing
that gets so wound up that the
point of the song is completely lost.
Macbread's strained but clever
version of "Smoke Some Dope,"
sung to the tune of "Let It Be,"
and the witches' "Miranda,"
borrowing the tune from "Maria,"
were two of music director
Sullivan's best numbers.

High-Stepping Horowitz

Undoubtedly, the show reached its
zany zenith when the venerable
Dean Paulsen himself leaped to the
stage to join the high-stepping
Horowitz in a swaggering, careening
dance.

Unfortunately, the lack of
publicity and high prices kept the
audience limited to mostly law
students and faculty on Saturday
night, and the play was performed
to a half-empty house on Friday.
The heavy proportions of "in"
humor in the Libel Show naturally
limited an outsider's appreciation.
But it took no specialist to realize
that the show was pure
entertainment.

Photo by Peter Lacouture