The cast of The Roar of the Greasepaint-The Smell of the Crowd sings, dances, shouts, and seats its way through two and a half hours of unutterable nonsense. That's why I felt sorry for the actors and actresses in this musical; they pour so much talent and energy into a show that's not worth the effort.

Anthony Newley and Leslie Bricusse, responsible for the book, music, and lyrics of Greasepaint, have returned and rephrased themes from their first show, Stop the World-I Want to Get Off. And the cuteness and originality that made that show a Broadway hit become stupidity and insanity in this one.

Newley's Littlechap, in Stop the World, stood for a shallow, self-seeking Britain. The show was simple and amusing enough to rest successfully on its pantomime and song, but the simplicity disappears in Greasepaint. Littlechap, has become Cocky (Newley) and Sir (Cyril Ritchard), who, dripping with social symbolism, play The Game (of Life, get it?). The winner of each game writes the rules for the next one, so Sir, having won the first game, imprisons Cocky in a vicious loser's circle.

It would be all right if Cocky and Sir were more than symbols, if they had witty lines, clever songs, or pleasing tunes. But Mssrs. Newley and Bricusse manipulate words with no regard to their meaning. Most of their songs are snappy but senseless.

In fact, no part of Greasepaint shows any thought by the author. They have picked ideas they considered cute or topical and piled them one upon another. They thought civil rights were a good topic, so in the middle of the second act a Negro runs in and asks to play the game. When Cocky and Sir reluctantly acquiesce, the Negro wins, but by disregarding Sir's rules. He then sings a rousing celebration of his victory, all of which, song and victory, seem irrelevant to what's been going on.

No musical is complete without children, and this one boasts 15 active urchins, running and jumping and singing to no apparent purpose. It also has its giant, who, in his minute or so, brings down the house with a meek "Ho, ho, ho," which is at least funny, if still meaningless.

Somehow, Newley and Ritchard hold the show together. Newley is a perfect clown, a graceful pantomimist whose range is limited but effective, especially when he's staggering under self-pity or belting out self-encouragement. And Ritchard, though there is still too much of Captain Hook in his giggle and leer, matches Newley's pantomime with a mocking, sophisticated farce that at times shines through the hazy book, lyrics, and music.

Under Newley's imaginative direction, and Gillian Lynne's lively choreography, Greasepaint bounces idiotically along, though its sound and fury ends with a thud. Newley, a director as well as an author and actor, certainly is talented enough to stage, with decent material, an intelligent and entertaining show. But as long as he builds his castles out of ashes, they will, like this one, all fall down.