Theater: Showman in Knee Britches

Ben Franklin in Paris is a title in search of a show. This Ben (Robert Preston) is no American Renaissance man but a Broadway showman in knee britches who treats his inventions—the Franklin stove, the lightning rod, the rocking chair—as enticing props to con the yokels of Louis XVI's court. The court is ostensibly Versailles, but the real milieu is the chandelier-lit ballroom of half a hundred interchangeable musicals in which girls in flowing period gowns go swirling into musical-comedy oblivion.

In a show as synthetic as Ben Franklin in Paris, it scarcely matters whether the history is true or false. Librettist Sidney Michaels credits Franklin's successful pursuit of French funds and official recognition to a species of boudoir statesmanship. Despite his celebrated gynecophilia, rare Ben is, after all, 70 years old in 1776, and his torpid romancing of Louis XVI's mistress (Ulla Sallert) has to consist mostly of gallant guff and one balloon ascension.

Attacking English with a French accent, Swedish Actress Sallert is a lip reader's delight; baffled playgoers may feel that she is singing in tongues. As it happens, missing the show's lines is a fringe benefit, unless one relishes lame quips ("For someone who was a postmaster-general of North America, you could have written"), exclamatory archaisms ("By thunder, I know the wench!") or arch witticism ("I invented bifocals because I thought a man should be able to see the girl in his arms at one and the same time as her husband coming in at the far door").

The book gets no lift from Mark Sandrich Jr.'s music-to-yawn-by, and Director-Choreographer Michael Kidd unleashes his dancers only once for some sword and gun play. No one could coax a poor performance out of Robert Preston, but his hard-sell charm, snap and gusto create the curious impression of a history-book minstrel man in whiteface. Still, he could save the show if there was one to save.