Foxy transports Broadwayites to an antic, 1890s Yukon, where all the fool's gold is stashed in the pouches under Bert Lahr's eyes. When Lahr crosses those eyes, the showdown is eyeball-to-eyeball. When he rolls them deliriously around the socket rims, he looks like a pixilated squirrel who has forgotten where last summer's nuts are buried.
Never has a pinkie been crooked with more elaborate Lahr-di-da, or sexagenarian toes been more agile in the choreography of cowardice. In one panic, Lahr scrambles halfway up the proscenium arch and hangs there, glaring down in 20-foot-high dudgeon at...
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