Toward the end of the first act of "Sweethearts," Bobby Clark juggles his ubiquitous cigar on a cane and wonders if "there was ever a plot so complicated and yet so thin." Probably not; but the sting of the conjecture is mitigated by Clark's shenanigans, proceeding, as he does, to make the Victor Herbert musical noteworthy indeed. The stumpy comic with the skin-tight specs and vaudeville mannerisms compensates for the shortcomings of the rewritten plot, and should satisfy all but those with tin ears and antediluvian morals.

Boby Clark is a last remnant of the American entertainment idiom characterized by the minstrel show, the burlesque and the one-two-three kick. Clark and his walking stick continue in the manner of Weber and Fields and other footlight pranksters: a little man who speaks softly and brings down the house. Viewed apart from Clark and the situation comedy he provokes, "Sweethearts" is not worth the few tunes that motivate its singers. All too often the usual operetta tomfoolery involving disguised counts and misplaced husbands is a little hard to stomach. Clark, however, patches things up nicely by injecting enough innuendo and thigh-gazing into the proceedings to make even the merry widow drop her mask. Snatching at apron strings and pinching fannies, Bobby Clark makes no bones about his slapstic; but the very fact that he enjoys himself wins over the audience.

Filling in when Clark exits to light a new cigar, the chorus does only a passable job with Herbert's music, mangling the words to widen their smiles. The dancing is fair; the supporting east barely struggles above a mediocre rut; but when Clark reappears, the show comes back to life. Vaudeville will never die so long as Clark and his cigar are smoldering; and in "Sweethearts," both Clark and cigar are red hot.