Theater: Family Spat

The Lion in Winter, by James Goldman, uncages a good roaring lion (Robert Preston) and a fearsomely impressive lioness (Rosemary Harris), but they spend the evening toying with a tiny blind mouse of a script.

Since Henry II could not possibly recognize himself or his brood in Goldmancolor, the playgoer should not strive to do so. Winter is rather a day in the life of that boisterous Plantagenet family in the little 12th century castle halfway down the next block. It is Christmas Eve, and a spat is in progress. That is what the play is, an interminable family spat. The three boys, or brats, want Daddy’s crown, and they sulk and scream over it as if it were the prize in the Cracker Jack box. Daddy wants Mommy’s booming piece of real estate —Aquitaine.

What Mommy wants is to be one up on Daddy—always. Of course, Daddy can be trying. He keeps a lemon-blonde lollipop of a mistress around the place, and sometimes gives her a lick, right in front of Mommy. Since they are all unloving and unloved, no one is hurt. But the pomposities of the dialogue can be pretty wounding: “The sky is pocked with stars,” “I’ve spent two years on every street in hell.”

Robert Preston takes on this child’s play with small range but fierce unrelenting intensity. Rosemary Harris—whether melting, mocking or Medean—proves once again that she is one of the two or three most formidable actresses on the American stage. Too bad she got stuck in a Plantagenutty play.