No Waif Need Apply

By T.E.K.

ANNIE

Book by THOMAS MEEHAN Music by CHARLES STROUSE Lyrics by MARTIN CHARNIN

Sometimes the desire to avoid sentimentality abolishes sentiment. A wide-eyed Little Orphan Annie is precisely what one expects, but a dry-eyed Little Orphan Annie is a contradiction in terms. Perhaps through the innate temperament of its teen-age star, Andrea McArdle, an aridity of mood pervades Annie. There is no suggestion of a waif in this 14-year-old, who keeps any warmth or vulnerability on a very tight leash. And what, after all, is the strong. affectionate bond between Annie and her dog Sandy except that both are waifs and strays?

The story line unravels as follows:

Annie is an abandoned child of the cruel Depression era. She is incarcerated in a kind of kids' San Quentin where the whisky-swigging warder, Miss Hannigan (Dorothy Loudon), mistreats her charges with fiendish glee. Loudon brings a hammy leering venom to the part that releases howls from playgoers, though her performance will surely appall any admirer of acting restraint.

Annie runs away, is recaptured, and escapes again when Oliver ("Daddy") Warbucks (Reid Shelton) makes a request for an orphan child on whom to lavish a billionaire's Christmas bounty. Guess the rest; it's no great test. Of course, you might not guess that President Franklin D. Roosevelt would be tastelessly trundled on in a wheelchair and be smarmily caricatured by Raymond Thorne. And you might not dream that the updated Daddy Warbucks is as chummy with F.D.R. as he is with Bernard Baruch.

The music of Charles Strouse would scarcely inspire an organ-grinder's monkey to rattle his cup, and Martin Charnin's lyrics are for beginning lip readers. On the plus side, David Mitchell's settings have an imposing splendor, Theoni V. Aldredge's costumes are period perfect, and Peter Gennaro's choreography pleasurably animates what is basically a placid show.

For valiant and convincing service on the acting front, Reid Shelton gives Warbucks an unparched humanity. Without Alpo to lure him on, Sandy proves an artful trouper even if he doesn't say "Arf." Since Annie is the sort of wholesome family fare audiences are always supposed to be arfing for, Broadway's latest tryst with nostalgia will doubtless turn the till at the Alvin Theater into a reasonable facsimile of the U.S. Mint. T.E.K.

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