And Edwards knows farce: in one scene he transforms Robin Wagner’s deco-ish set into a 16-door, two-stairway pinball machine through which characters whiz in a cross-fire of confusion. Most confused is Marchan, whose macho self-assurance (and tumescence) is challenged by his attraction to Vic. Nouri is something of a revelation; in one of the show’s best numbers, he displays a commanding vocal presence and comic flair as he tries to unscramble his sexual dilemma. But the score is a problem; the songs, by the late Henry Mancini with reinforcements by Frank Wildhorn, don’t provide a real showcase for Andrews. And Leslie Bricusse’s lyrics only come alive in a comic number in which Norma surveys the world’s municipalities from her own special point of view: “Schlepped to Stockholm/Brought a lot of shlock home . . . Seen Geneva / Hardly jungle fever . . . Paris gets me sexy / In the solar plexy.”
Even chauvinist-sniffing feminists should enjoy York’s ferociously funny take on that primal archetype, the ditsy blonde. The excellent east is anchored by Tony Roberts, sweetly world-weary as a gay blade who’s not the hot Toddy that he was. Rob Marshall’s eclectic choreography veers from an effective echo of Bob Fosse to an ill-advised one of Michael Bennett, but he gets driving energy from an outstanding dance ensemble. But it’s Andrews who has pulled in the $15 million box-office advance. At 60, she may have lost a foot or two on her vocal fast ball (“G flat!” proclaims an impressed Toddy, where in the movie it was D flat). But she remains the purest voice and spirit of our musical theater, the fairest of Broadway ladies.
