New Musical in Manhattan

House of Flowers (book by Truman Capote; music by Harold Arlen; lyrics by Capote and Arlen) has a good deal of what its title evokes. Out of a West Indian yarn of high-toned rival bordellos, of Mardi gras and cockfights and voodoo worship, spill brilliant color, exotic fragrance and tropical profusion. To be sure, the very things that give House of Flowers its charm and freshness also tend, after a while, to drain them away. For flowers wilt, and scent induces drowsiness.

But beyond the fine single things it boasts--the Negro dancing and Oliver Messel's wonderful sets and costumes--House of Flowers is a truly individual musical, to be saluted for what it possesses before being penalized for what it lacks. Truman Capote's tale of a bordello life full of genteel pretensions, and with far more high style than low instincts, has a nice rococo playfulness. Harold Arlen's score is attractive and unified, the songs delicate and unglib. About it all there hovers--despite no great amount of overt comedy--a sense of the humorous, and through it all move some excellent performers. Pearl Bailey can safely say almost anything, she looks so girlish, or do almost anything, she does it so gracefully. As the ingenue who finds love in such reputedly lustful surroundings, Diahann Carroll has a winning simplicity and innocence.

In time, however, House of Flowers is somewhat victimized by its virtues. What gives it unity of tone gives it sameness also; what gives it playfulness makes it decidedly slight. Never robust, the plot consistently thins: from the rivalry of the bordello madams emerge no comic explosions, nor any satiric didoes from the gentility of the girls. In the second half, House of Flowers craves a sea breeze to dispel its island languor, a human note for its doll-like, bird-like world.

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