Gilbert and Sullivan operettas exist within a world of their own. To begin with, the comedic works are distinctly British and distinctly Victorian. But even beyond their spatial and temporal remoteness, the pieces tend to play themselves out in a bizarre alternate world, where identities are often mistaken and endings rarely make sense.

The history of the Harvard-Radcliffe Gilbert and Sullivan Players (HRG&SP) has often unfolded in a manner as quirky and topsy-turvy as the comedies themselves. The kings and controversies of Gilbert and Sullivan’s libretti seem to jump from the stage into the group’s past.

THE MONARCHY PERIOD

The Crimson obtained a letter from HRG&SP historian Ben T. Morris ’09, sent from Jack A. Marshall ’72 to Matthew R. Saunders ’97, then president of HRG&SP, regarding the 40th anniversary of the Players in 1996. In the letter, Marshall discusses the period from 1968 to 1972, years “of great turmoil” during which the Players temporarily became a monarchy—actually.

Marshall tells the story best himself: “Prior to 1969, for four or five years, the Players were a quasi-professional theater dominated by brilliant conductor and musical director James Paul. Key orchestra members and several principals were paid,” he writes in the letter.

But not all members were satisfied with HRG&SP’s move towards a paid system. Soon, the group shattered.

“An acrimonious controversy over this policy in 1969 split the group resulting in Paul’s exit and the exodus of many student stalwarts,” Marshall says. “The prevailing faction, led by baritone and talented director David Hammond, proclaimed their independence by producing a non-G&S show, ‘Fledermaus,’ which was a critical success but one which alienated the bulk of the organization’s patrons.”

Many of the exiled followed Paul to MIT, where, in the Spring of 1969, Marshall directed a production of Gilbert & Sullivan’s “Patience.” According to Marshall, his show “had more Harvard G&S players in the cast than MIT students.”

Meanwhile, Hammond and his faction produced a musical by Kurt Weill called “Johnny Johnson” at the Loeb Theater.

Marshall writes that the whole affair “left HRG&SP with a seriously depleted base, as well as diminished patron support,” leading to subsequent productions of “The Mikado” and “The Pirates of Penzance” that were respectively, as he puts it, “embarrassing” and “weak.”

“At that point, the group was nearly broke and at an artistic nadir,” Marshall writes. “The word was that the Board would cut back to only one show a year. I put together a ‘shadow board’ and we made an offer to the elected, dispirited members: turn the organization over to us, and they would be off the hook. They agreed.”

What followed was a brief period known as the “Monarchy.”

“Because the new Board was not elected, we ratified an interim, emergency set of by-laws declaring HRG&SP a monarchy, with me as King and my sister, [Edith S. Marshall ’74] as heir apparent,” Marshall writes.

The decision was ratified and accepted by Harvard. “For one full year, I received official correspondence addressed to ‘Jack Marshall, King of the Harvard Gilbert and Sullivan Players,’” Marshall recalls.

After a year, the monarchy was ended and the group reverted to democracy. They soon staged a successful “Iolanthe,” with Marshall as “a kind of executive director,” as he states in his letter. Although the production was well received, the run was not without a few Gilbert and Sullivan-esque twists.

Marshall writes that two strange incidents occurred prior to the production of “Iolanthe.” The night before the show was scheduled to take place, a light designer “grabbed an axe, chopped up the entire set, and burned it,” he writes. Although he was shocked, Marshall solved the problem the next day by decorating the set with several Union Jacks. Curiously enough, Marshall writes that “every review praised the ‘impressionistic’ set.”

Furthermore, a tainted potato wreaked havoc on the cast, crew, and orchestra. “Everyone turned up for the next day’s matinee violently sick with intermittent vomiting and diarrhea,” Marshall recalls.

“One orchestra member passed out during the show,” he continues. “Buckets were stationed in the wings. The Green Room looked like a battlefield, but the show went on.”

A QUESTION OF ORIGIN

The Crimson’s own inquiries into the origins of the group inadvertently sparked a debate that revealed a contested detail in the genesis of the group. The problem emerged in the form of two contradictory accounts of HRG&SP’s beginnings, both found on the group’s website.

The first, from the “History” section, states that “The Harvard-Radcliffe Gilbert and Sullivan Players came into existence on March 7, 1956, when it was granted its charter from Harvard University to ‘present Gilbert and Sullivan to the Harvard community.’”

It makes specific mention of a “more immediate lead-up to HRG&SP’s birth,” which was “due in part to a group of students in Winthrop House,” who regularly performed Gilbert and Sullivan libretti.

An alternate tale appears in the Web site’s “Director and Historian Notes” section, written by HRG&SP 50th Anniversary Coordinator Emma B. Katz ’06, which states that “the more immediate lead-up to HRG&SP’s birth was due in part to a group of students who were already performing the operettas regularly, but without a fixed home.”

The discrepancy may seem minor, but a statement by a founding member suggests otherwise. Wayne C. Paton ’56, one of original members who obtained the charter, writes in an e-mail that a book by former professor of music Elliot Forbes ’40, now deceased, has created a legacy of confusion.

“Forbes fails to mention the two productions at the Congregational-Presbyterian Church in Cambridge—‘Princess Ida’ and ‘Yeomen of the Guard’—which were the real, immediate forerunners of the HRG&SP,” Forbes writes. “In those productions, most of the people who would put on ‘Ruddigore’—which Forbes doesn’t even mention—first came together.”

The incensed alumnus calls the fable about HRG&SP starting in Winthrop, “rubbish. Absolute rubbish.”

According to HRG&SP’s historian, Ben T. Morris ’09, the group is “in the process of phasing [the account crediting Winthrop] out,” and is waiting for their webmaster to make the changes.

BUILDING ON THE PAST

Eventually, the major dramas limited themselves to taking place on stage in a controlled, fictional setting.

After staging “Iolanthe” the group put on “Trial by Jury” and “The Sorcerer.” They soon followed it up with “The Yeoman of the Guard” and have maintained a high level of success ever since.

This year, the 50th anniversary year of HRGS&P, is a crucial one in the troupe’s history, according to Charles I. Miller ’08, director of this year’s “HMS Pinafore” and “Trial by Jury.”

“We’re trying to outdo ourselves, create something bigger than we’ve ever created before in our fifty years,” he says.

Miller’s “bold staging choices”, as he described them, reveal his lofty goal: “This is by far the largest production we’ve staged...this is the largest budget production we’ve ever done. We’re hoping to achieve a larger scale than we previously have, and it should be one of the grandest productions in our history.”