Dear Trudy,

I am in love! I am in love with a creature so beguiling, that one hardly notices the flaws. Have you ever felt like this? When have you not felt like this? When have I not felt like this? Love is grand thing to have, to be in, to write about; I write to you of my newest love.

When Pigs Fly!

No, that is not a sarcastic comment to undercut the rapturous tone of the first paragraph. It is the title of the un-awaited sequel to Whoop De Doo!, the Howard Crabtree theatrical confection of some years back.

I was dragged (more of that word below) by Shem, Ham and Japeth -- those handsome son's of Noah -- to a ten o'clock performance of the show. If they'd told me in advance it was to see a group of costumes on parade, I'd've clung even more desperately to my coverlet, and not allowed myself to be pulled into the temperate summer night. But drag me they did and wasn't it worth the effort!

The show is still in preview so any criticisms may not pertain if the intrepid creative staff keeps up the good work, but I have to say, even with its bumps Pigs do fly and I am grateful for the swinish Luftwaffe!

The songs charm. They rarely do more than charm. And occasionally they do less. But mostly, they bounce along with efficiency -- the jokes arrive on schedule and are delivered as if they're gold -- this is as it should be. However, I read in the program that the lyricist, one Mark Waldrop by name, is the recipient of the Kleban award -- a one hundred thousand smacker gifty designed to encourage young lyricists. Such prizes are all well and good, but Mr. Waldrop, in my hardly-humble opinion, needs to acquire a bit more craft. For a man of his obvious talents (read that last line again to see its double meaning), he has yet to master the art of fitting words to music adroitly. The composer's job, you cry! No. No matter in what order they come (words first, music first) it is ultimately the lyricists job to make the words work. Before such generous cadeaux are dispensed, I think the recipients should prove just a bit more worthy. Well, but then I am a craft demon and that's all there is to that.

The music works.

The cast, with the inimitable and estimable Jay and Stan in the fore, are a hardy, fey, queer, delightful bunch. They fulfill their task of making we, the audience, feel like we are in the hands of people who know what they're doing, and, more importantly, who enjoy doing it. They are an excellent group and I give them all my love. John and David and "Howard" are also splendid.

And the costumes. Well, drag is the thing here, n'est-ce pas?

The late Howard Crabtree had wit, visual wit, and for that we must all be grateful. Sartorially speaking, good ideas abound, one hilariously ingenious costume follows another. but rather than cancelling out the previous wokr of art, each contributes to a mosaic of joyous imagination! When I left, I found myself chuckling again, and then again, to each brilliant display of costuming pyrotechnics. The first show, and now When Pigs Fly were both conceived to highlight the magic of Mr. Crabtree's magic. His spirit suffuses the evening with a benign and unquenchable generosity.

The songs rate a B-. The sketches B+. The direction B. The transitions C. The performers A. The costumes -- well, would you try to grade the Parthenon, or a middle period Matt Sterling film?

So, in sum, the people behind this show have done the neatest trick possible: Even with a certaion uneneveness to the evening's components, they have constructed a whole which is considerably better than the sum of its parts.