Lantern Theater's "The Liar'

More lies have been told in the name of love than on any other subject, with the possible exception of sub-prime mortgages. You might even say that the art of lying is a chief index of high civilization, and that, per corollary, excessive truth-telling is the mark of those dull, dour, Calvinist cultures where the streets roll up at nine o'clock in the evening.

I think the French would agree; at any rate, they seem to accept lying as one of the social conventions, not to say graces. Pour dire la vérité— "To tell the truth"— is a phrase one encounters in French prose as a kind of verbal tic, as if the speaker were about to do something unusual, not to say mildly scandalous, and actually speak his mind.

The greatest-- or at least the most characteristic-- of all French novels, Choderlos de Laclos's Les Liaisons Dangeureuses, is the story of two former lovers who, having exhausted their deceptions on themselves, decide to seek fresh victims as a form of entertainment.

Farce with a twist

As for the theater, well, could we even get into the first act of any play without someone trying to gull someone else? The only stage character I can recall who ever demanded the truth was King Oedipus, and look what happened to him.

Pierre Corneille's 17th-Century comedy, The Liar, is a prime example of French farce, but it's also a play with a serious twist. Its hero, Dorante (Aubie Merrylees), a young provincial aristocrat newly arrived in Paris, is a compulsive liar who is, naturally, bound to be a success with the ladies.

His first encounter, though, occurs with Cliton (Dave Johnson), an unemployed servant who suffers from a terrible deformity: He is unable to speak anything but the truth— or so, at least, he says. Dorante takes Cliton on after a little verbal sparring that gives Cliton the hang of the double entendre.

Candide's precursor

Fortunately, the office of the servant is to keep silent except when delivering his master's messages, for whose content he is of course not responsible. Cliton, a precursor of Voltaire's Candide, is shocked by Dorante's endless prevarications, and much put upon to handle the resulting complications.

A second gentleman, the blustery Alcippe, joins the proceedings, and two ladies, Clarice (Sarah Gliko) and Lucrece (Emilie Krause), come into play, along with an earthy maid (Emily Rogge), who balances Cliton but, unlike him, has amorous interests of her own. Dorante's father Geronte (Peter Schmitz) also hovers about, anxious for the grandchild his son is in no evident hurry to provide.

The plot complications need not concern us, as the women try their own affections on like so many trousseaus. The world of The Liar consists of those who deceive others and those who deceive themselves, and the line between them is often blurred.

Ives after Spinoza

Cliton alone complains that he is "constipated" with truth; that is, unable to express anything pertinent at all. But Dorante, too, suffers ultimate bewilderment, for although he boasts of his ability to manipulate others, he can't find himself in the pack of lies he delivers.

After all, a lie is just a whirligig in the absence of some truth to which it refers, even if concealed. For lack of a better word, we call that truth "the self," and if nobody's home in the end, all that's left is a perverse and futile mechanism.

David Ives, whose revived Spinoza drama New Jerusalem has just quit the boards at the Lantern, has "translapted" Corneille's Alexandrine text into rhymed English pentameter. The result is breezily effective and often ingenious, and displays Ives's considerable range as a dramatist.

Director Kathryn MacMillan jumps her cast into the merriment, with good results all around, and Maggie Baker's period costumes add just the right touch of satire. After enduring a hurricane and a national election in the same week, a few good laughs are definitely in order.