The ’90s may be the worst-to-first decade. The Minnesota Twins and the Atlanta Braves went from last place to the World Series; now Prince, in a single Broadway season, has gone from “Nickand Nora,” last fall’s megaflop, to a show that sold a record $396,710 in tickets the day after opening night. “Guys and Dolls” is as politically incorrect as its title suggests; its gorgeous Frank Loesser melodies are out of sync with this Andrew Lloyd Webber era, and the show’s memory has been muddied by a crumbum movie. Still, the audience walks in and promptly falls down the Runyonesque rabbit hole. “I’m still surprised by how they get caught up in the story,” says Prince. “There’s a moment in Act I, and another at the top of Act II, where I can feel them rooting for Adelaide, and that’s magical.” So is the way that the angular Prince comes off as the bosomy “poy-son” who can “develop a co-wold” from “waiting around for that plain little band of gold.” Her voice sounds like Judy Holliday crossed with Betty Boop. Director Jerry Zaks is himself amazed: “With Faith you see the power of pure craftsmanship.”
Prince, who’s in her early 30s, has worked on the New York stage since graduating from the Cincinnati Conservatory of Music, and earned a Tony nomination for “Jerome Robbins’ Broadway” in 1989. If you haven’t noticed her, she understands. “I consider myself a ‘character leading’ actor-a category that doesn’t exist,” she says. “I usually play somebody’s friend or somebody’s mother.” In “Nickand Nora,” she was somebody’s corpse, coming alive when her murder was re-enacted. The critics loved her, hated it; but by then, Prince’s mind was on Adelaide. She’d played the role in summer stock and says, “It just felt right.” Not that she and the character have much in common. Prince has a husband (musician Larry Lunetta) and a Manhattan version of the home and garden Adelaide pines for. “What I identify with is her determination,” Prince says. “Adelaide wins.” And Faith Prince triumphs.
