"Luckee Girl" Proves A Tuneful Comedy

LUCKEE GIRL, a musical comedy in three acts, adapted by Gertrude Purcell form the French of "Un Bon Garcon" by Mr. Yvain and Maurie Rubens; lyrics by Max and Nathaniel Lief. Staged by Lew Morton; settings by Watson Barrett; dances arranged by Harry Puck; produced by the Shuberts. At the Casino Theatre.

Arlette...........................Irene Dunne

Colette..........................Flo Perry

Man...............................Clifford Smith

Lucien DeGravere..........Irving Fisher

Tampon.........................Lou Powers

Lulu...............................Gertrude McGushion

Celina............................Dorothy McGushion

Pontaves.......................Frank Lalor

Hercules........................Billy Honse

Camille..........................Doris Vinion

Mme. Falloux..................Josephine Drake

Jean..............................Clifford Smith

Paul Pechard.................Harry Peck

Mme. Poataves..............Loraine Welmar

DeGravere.....................Harold Vizar 

In "Luckee Girl," Saturday night's exhibit at the Casino, the Shuberts have taken, by way of an adaptation from the French, a standardized, old-fashioned type of musical comedy and put into it considerable liveliness and a comedian from vaudeville whom the first audience esteemed as a funny fellow. The further circumstance that the score - the work of Maurice Yvain, who is the best known over here as the composer of the song "Mon Homme"- has its qouta of pleasant tunes, which are outfitted far better than average lyrics by the brothers Lief, makes for an entertainment that, despite dull spots, is fairly creditable. While in only two respects does it threaten to revolutionize musical comedy, "Luckee Girl" probalby will fill the place that its sponsors intend for it in the Broadway scheme of things.

 One of the two supposed novelties which it boasts is a troupe of girls who, at a cue, bend over to form a human xylophone from which Harry Puck extracts a real tune. The other is an adagio team consisting of two men and a girl, as is customary. There is also a plot which, in essence, goes at least as far back as Shakespeare, and a much-plugged song which, in the current vulgate, invites its audience to "Come On, Let's Make Whopee."

 Otherwise the Casino piece leaves the musical comedy situation just about where it was. In the first act one meets most of the principal's characters at Coco's restaurant in Paris - you remember good old Coco's in the Rue Pigalle? - and in the ensuing two acts the plot takes them all, even to the least chorus boy, to Mme. Falloux's house in the country, where several assorted love affairs are further tangled and straightened out. 

 The new funny man is Billy House, who has been at the Palace on numerous occasions. He is an obese merry-andrew, possessing an infectious smile and a walk which resembles that of an elephant on a tight rope. Furthermore, he gives his observers an impression a grand time. With better material he might have been more consistently amusing, but on at least one occasion he had the musicians in the pit laughing - and that is regarded as high tribute.

 Probably M. Yvain's best contributions are the numbers programmed as "A Flat In Montmatre,"  "I Love You So" and "Magic Melody," although several others stand out. Max and Nathaniel Lief benefit here by the fact that their usual literate lyrics can be heard, as was not the case in the recent "Greenwich Village Follies."

 Irene Dunne is far from being the least attractive participant in the entertainment. Josephine Drake makes a sort of musical-comedy Mary Boland, and there are assorted antics by Frank Lalor, who has played in such shows for years; Irving Fisher, Harry Puck, Doris Vinton and a reasonably vocal quartette called the Four Diplomats.

 Also present are the Kelley dancers, who appear to be the latest in an ever-increasing number of such hoofing units. For the most part their routines are so much alike as to make these groups indistinguishable. A change for musical comedy to do something really revolutionary lies in the declaration of a six months' moratorium on ensemble stepping.

(The New York Times, September 17, 1928)