Review: THE SCHOOL FOR LIES at Constellation Theatre Company

Molière may have crafted an enduring hit centuries ago with his 1666 comedy of manners "The Misanthrope," but it couldn't have been more fun than David Ives' super-clever reimagining of it.

His "The School for Lies" comes in rhymed couplets, wrapped in modern sass, with plenty of surprise and a wicked pulse. Just when you think it should have a backbeat and join the wittier works of rap, there's a brief beatbox bit that shows he could have done just that had he wanted to.

The Constellation Theatre Company's terrific current production of the 2011 work (which has played D.C. at least a couple of times before) is just as rollicking as the text, with a cast that ekes out an extra laugh out of the sharp verse, a sumptuously decorated set by Sarah Reed, of which the audience almost seems a part; and costumes (and hairstyles) that delight one after another.

From the moment the pink-suited Dylan Arredondo appears and presents a kind of prologue, it's already in verse: "Screw Molière, we'll do our own damn version! / In English, thank you, for your full immersion." (Then another rhymed couplet about turning off phones).

And we're off, into the fast-paced farce about truth-telling, being sued for doing just that and the possibilities of love emerging from even the most cynical. Ives' consistently funny lines keep audiences rapt and laughing ; the direction of Allison Ariel Stockman, the company's founding artistic director, keep things at a lightning pace.

Drew Kopas appears as Frank, a name that describes his approach to everything, as he criticizes all around him in a 17th century era of "fake news." Made to seem out of place for dressing in black, he is in contrast to the fantastically attired gentlemen who swirl around him, which besides Arredondo's demonstrative Philinte include Jamil Joseph, Jacob Yeh and the wonderfully droll Ryan Sellers. All three are inept potential suitors to the woman of the house Natalie Cutcher's glamorous Célimène. One flaunts his riches, the second his bad poetry the third his own stupidity.

This stranger, Frank, seems more intriguiging to her, if only because he's as quick and cynical as she. Swirling around this romantic maelstrom are lawsuits of slander to overcome, made worse by one jealous rival, a pompous "friend" played to malevolent excess by Gwen Grastorf, who fully embraces the swooping emerald cape Frank Labovitz has made for her. It's one of many Labovitz creations that take a moment to fully appreciate each time they appear.

Cutcher is less theatrical as Célimène, befitting a romantic lead, but she adds a sly, knowing tone and timing to some of her lines to nudge their effectiveness while adding a bit of realism. Midway through the work, Ria Simpkins nearly stops the show as a formerly sweet-tempered cousin who is suddenly ignited into a fiery passion that has her literally hopping across the stage.

More physical comedy is offered in Matthew Pauli's thankless manservant, whose trays of canapés are forever upended - a bit of funny business so reliable, one nearly misses that he plays another memorable character - Frank's attendant, who is meant to be crude and in tattered (but still gets agreeable costuming from Labovitz). The elaborate costume changing between Pauli's two characters does not go without notice late in the show.

Amid all the legal squabbling and spontaneous couplings and recouplings, there are sudden changes in motivation and plot, where logic doesn't always hold. But things are moving so fast, and the individual couplets so witty, it hardly matters.

And when it closes with an ending that seems the most preposterous of all, it only serves to remind the audience how much fun this whole thing has been.

Running time: About 100 minutes, no intermission.

Photo credit: Drew Kopas and Natalie Cutcher. Photo by DJ Corey photography.

"The School for Lies" continues through May 28 at the Constellation Theatre Company, in residence at Source, 1835 14th St NW. Masks required. Tickets at 202-20407741 or online.

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