Misalliance (Shaw would insist on spelling the word with a robustly English "i") is a ridiculous play, a fantastical play: it has an absurd plot with nine outlandish characters, it is appallingly epigrammatic, it ridicules all while instructing none--an impossible play, in short, and just the thing for a hot July night.

For G.B.S. has included almost every one of his favorite types; there's the self-made S. B. Clemens-ish Tycoon, the capable Mother, the daring Young Thing, an impossible Suitor for her, a pious Burglar, a graying Aristocrat, and, of course, the "independent" Foreign Lady who can comment caustically on anything the home-bred figures miss. And, then, they all talk--Lord, how they talk: two straight hours of chatter as each character rises hungrily in turn, like a guppy at the food in a goldfish bowl, to strike his pose and horrify at least a good 1/9th of the audience.

A difficult play to act, for all that noise; but it does act well, cajoled--unlike democracy and "some people's plays" as the graying Aristocrat alleges in one of his less memorable mots. That is, it can act well, if each one of the nine players is content to remain a posture to be sympathized of at least content to pretend to enjoy the talk as much as Shaw himself did. And in the current Harvard Summer Players production most of them, unlike in Monday's Boston Record, are quite content.

Particularly so, fortunately, is Robert McEntire, the Tycoon. Mr. McEntire struts roguishly and confidently, smoothing his hands over his assumed paunch and twinkling devilishly at everybody as he enjoins them didactically to "Read Pepys' diary," "Read Marcus Aurelius," "Read Walt Whitman." So, too, the ever-capable Paul Barstow, now the Aristocrat, an ex-governor and F.O. man: he gestures with the monocle, is dismayed and contented both with proper peerish disdain.

Jane Quigley, every bit as versatile as Mr. Barstow, is a quite magnificently scornful Polish Lady (a circus acrobat as well), and if her accent often thickens dangerously, her gusto becomes almost unbounded. Richard Hornby, the alternately tearful and sternly moral Gunner, also occasionally lapses from his proper voice (a deadly Cockney whine); but the Peter Sellers mustache and 'onest workman cringe that he adopts are entirely successful--this is compentent character interpretation indeed.

I am less content with the four young people. Faye Dunaway's Hypatia Tarleton (the Young Thing) shouts and mouthes her lines magnificently--rather like the tutored Eliza Doolittle. But a shout seems to be the limit of Miss Dunaway's acting capabilities, and she is less than arch, more that dull. As her original suitor, Jere Whiting is determinedly effeminate (he can shout, too); Robert Moulthrop, her eventual choice, must be a stout fellow, but his Etonian ways do not convince. The fourth one, William Gordy, Hypatia's brother, barks gruffy; he is not a little tedious.

These last four dominate what Joseph Everingham as Director has delineated as the first act, and though he moves them about energetically enough, the pace seems sluggish and tired. In the latter two acts, however, they recede--and the play becomes ridiculous. Donald Soule has provided a perfect wicker-cum-art nouveau set.

The Summer Players (or, at least most of them) have learned how to be light. Misalliance is a more than pleasant evening, and an excellent antidote to the beastly heat.