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The trouble with the rest of the show is that it should be musicomedy and is not. As wholly unorchestrated spooring—of the U.S. and the U.S.S.R. alike—it runs to the mild, the familiar and the wasn't-funny-even-when-new. As totally unvocalized romance, it offers lovers who do little more than kiss when together and mope when alone. Even scenically it features a picturesque European square without once bringing on dancers or choristers or pretty girls. Had revelers filled the square and dancers whirled expertly about it, had the lovers moped to music, had the ambassadors unbent in patter songs or the embassies rhymed their prejudices, the show—and not just the star of it—might have been fun.
As it stands, the show is not: in lieu of dancing and music, there is little spoken wit, a virtual contempt for plot, a good deal too much routine staging and performing. Actor Ustinov greatly enlivens but cannot make up for Playwright Ustinov's weak script.