The Little Foxes is a play about money. Tough characters fight for it, weep about not having enough of it, dream about waterfalls of golden nickels. They exploit anyone with less than a Midas mind.

Lillian Hellman locks the tyrants and their victims into one family and plants it in a small Southern town. Regina and her brother Ben and Oscar, the nucleus of the family, vie among themselves for the position of Chief of the Wealth--struggling at the same time to keep their various relatives in line. Their disciplinary measures take effect. Everyone married and born to the trio is timid or ill when the lights go up.

The difficulty with the play is that the characters are greedy without having Faust-like desires. A day or so at the biggest department store in Chicago and some time rubbing necks with Truman Capote's gang would delight them. They don't want to conquer the world; they want to join some clubs.

But under Mike Nichols' direction The Little Foxes didn't seem a tale of nouveau-riche aspirations. Actors used every remark, every glance, every flick of the wrist to overwhelm a rival. The battle, it turned out, was not so much for extra dollars as for some kind of recognition from the family. With the Hubbards you're either one up on everybody--or ignored.

The cast was brilliant. While Anne Bancroft (Regina) was playing for time, she looked like a panther who had faith in claws. A diabolical laugh ran through her voice whenever she gained the upper hand. And the times she lost control--my God, what a bitch!

I also admired E. G. Marshall--who gave the impression he'd gladly beat up anybody smaller than himself--and Austin Pendleton, his prostitute-loving son with buck teeth. Beah Richards (Addie) refused to play a Joe Good. Even around the two or three members of the household she loved, she maintained a peculiar aloofness. Negro maids couldn't be pals and Miss Richards' performance didn't lie about that.

But Margaret Leighton gave the performance of the evening. There was one moment when her body seemed to break apart as she crossed the stage. You saw how completely the woman and her tiny hopes were crushed. Whenever she spoke, she started out eagerly, then collapsed from fear of being reprimanded. Still, she perched on her chair awaiting the split second in a conversation that would be hers to fill.

Nichol's only misdirection--and it was slight--involved George C. Scott (Ben). Scott displayed an almost chivalrous attitude toward his sister. Though he wouldn't notice a simpering girl, the smile of a dragon eager to rip his guts out fascinated him. That was perfect. So was the way he dipped cigars in his wine glass and wound a noisy watch during the musical interlude. But Scott abandoned his role occasionally to play standup comedian. He would execute a clever turn but spoil it by acting as if he thought it was pretty clever too.

Enough quibbling. They've transformed a hack's piece into something golden. Throw money.