By Martin B. Copenhaver

The Triumph of Love lacks the physical comedy and swift action that usually characterize a farce. Here the dialogue is the action. 

The Triumph of Love by Pierre Marivaux. Translated by Stephen Wadsworth. Directed by Loretta Greco. Staged by the Huntington Theatre Company at the Huntington Theatre, 264 Huntington Ave. Boston, through April 6.

Left to right: Marianna Bassham, Allison Altman, Vincent Randazzo in the Huntington Theatre Company production of The Triumph of Love. Photo: Liza Voll

Farce is a remarkably enduring sub-genre of comedy. Its roots can be traced as far back as Aristophanes in 5^th Century BCE Greece and, even more surely, to the Roman Plautus in the 2^nd Century BCE. Shakespeare and Moliere both mastered the craft and there are examples of farce in every era. What is more, the conventions of farce remain conspicuously constant. They include: exaggerated characters, mistaken identities, ludicrously improbable situations, the mocking of social norms, the reversal of expectations, all delivered through brisk dialogue and speedy action.

The Triumph of Love by Pierre Marivaux — which premiered in Paris in 1732  — is a light confection, but at its center there is something to chew on. Like many farces, it delves into the vagaries of attraction and love.

There is enough exposition in the first ten minutes of Triumph, let alone the rest of the play, to fill several reviews, but let me give it a shot: Leonide and her servant disguise themselves as men in order to infiltrate the household of a philosopher, Hermocrates, who has forbidden female visitors to his estate. Leonide resorts to the deception because she has fallen in love with a young man, Agis, who lives there. When the gardener becomes suspicious, he calls on Hermocrates’ spinster sister, Leontine, to expel the two “men.” (Yes, the names of these two characters are confusingly close–but stick with me.) To prevent Leontine from banishing them, Léonide professes a passionate love for her. Leontine responds by falling both for the ruse and for Léonide. Later, when Hermocrates declares that he knows that Léonide is, in fact, a woman, she seeks to mollify him by declaring that she is in love with him. In due course, Léonide has an opportunity to express her love for Agis. That is, eventually, everyone in the household believes that Léonide loves them and they respond by loving her/him in return. Through the course of the play, Léonide becomes quite practiced at expressing her ardor for each one. Hers is a love that dares speak its name… over and over again.

Triumph lacks the physical comedy and swift action that usually characterize a farce. Here the dialogue is the action. To be sure, the lines are delivered in a spritely manner. This is particularly true of Allison Altman, superb as Léonide, who consistently speaks with the urgency of someone who is afraid she is about to be interrupted. Overall, however, the play is weighed down with words, and particularly with overly refined and mannered speech that has come to be known, eponymously, as, “marivaudage.” (As the great baseball manager, Casey Stengel, would say, “You could look it up.” I did.)

George Feydeau, a gifted farceur writing at the turn of the 20^th Century, was asked the secret to his plays. He replied that he determines which characters simply must not meet, then he makes sure they do meet and as soon as possible. Most farces feature multiple such encounters, often one right after another. Those are facilitated by confinement. Thus the saying that farce requires one bed and five doors. That is one of the reasons farce works better on stage than on film. Usually, there is too much room in film to contain the concentrated demands of farce. A stage is much more confining, and so more given to characters bumping into each other (and sometimes literally).

Left to right: Allison Altman, Rob B. Kellogg in the Huntington Theatre Company production of The Triumph of Love. Photo: Liza Voll

The beautiful set for Triumph, however, is not at all confining. It depicts a stunning formal garden that is spacious and accommodating. Such a space is not conducive to multiple unwanted encounters that pile up in quick succession. In Triumph, there is only one encounter that involves all those who must not meet. It contributes to the drama because one can see it coming from a mile away. That only enhances the delight when, after all the knowing anticipation, the full complement of Léonide’s supposed lovers end up in the same place at the same time. As for the ending? Well, you can see that coming from a mile away, as well.

The cast of Triumph is consistently good. Both Marianna Bassham as Leontine and Nael Nacer as Hermocrate are excellent in the roles of fastidious siblings who end up as giddy and blushing love-objects. Vincent Randazzo does well in the stock commedia dell’arte role of Harlequin, although the traditional mask covers much of his face; not only does that make facial expressions impossible, it also makes his witticisms harder to hear. Much more expressive — and funnier — is his compatriot, Dismas, the gardener (played by Patrick Kerr). Although his is not a large role, a couple of his scenes are among the most amusing.

Throughout the play Allison Altman, as Léonide, is the spinning top at the center of the action. Her energy carries the show. Although at times she seems to labor to keep things moving — often speeding through lines in order to keep some forward momentum — I was grateful for her efforts. A less lively pace would have been deadly.

A coda: Although The Triumph of Love is a reflection on desire and love, the direction of the plot brings in the related theme of gender. Living and writing almost 300 years ago, Marivaux would not have been familiar with the phrase, “gender fluidity.” He might not have intended his play to be an exploration of various expressions of gender. Nevertheless, the fact that Léonide expresses love to people of different genders, and does so as both a man and as a woman, does reflect a playful, even if inchoate, entertainment of such realities and understandings. Recognizing that makes Triumph seem less like a quaint period piece.

Martin B. Copenhaver, the author of nine books, lives in Cambridge and Woodstock, VT.