Beyond Dorothy Parker

As Dorothy Parker once said to her boyfriend, 'fare the well,' Ella Fitzgerald croons on the recording played just before the lights come up on the world premiere of Beyond Dorothy Parker, a one-woman play written and directed by Barbara H. Franklin.  The Cole Porter lyric slyly reminds us that tiny, tart-tongued Parker was -- and still is, judging from the delighted smiles of recognition at the bon mots shot off like fireworks by actress Michele Ruby in Parker's guise -- a most quotable woman.  Parker was also a tortured, self-destructive, conflicted soul who drank too much, suffered through too many unsuccessful marriages and love affairs, attempted suicide a few times, and died a sad lonely death in obscurity at age 73.  Parker's glittery yet troublesome world comes alive in Franklin's skillful script, which uses several of Parker's familiar poems and one story in particular -- "A Telephone Call" -- to excellent effect.  And Michele Ruby as the wisecracking Parker serves up a solid  characterization, splendidly conveying the woman's ruefulness and angst though a bit less brittle than one imagines Parker to have been. 

Set in Parker's apartment, the play is reminiscent of the one-woman Full Gallop show of a few years back about Diana Vreeland, in which an actress portraying Vreeland took us inside that woman's head.  Wearing dresses from the 30's and 40's, Ruby is a compelling presence as she paces her apartment waiting for phone calls, talking about people from her era such as Robert Benchley ('we both slept around but not with each other; I respected him, which was not the case with the others") and Oscar Levant (when he asked if she took sleeping pills, she said yes -- "in a big bowl of sugar and cream"), cuddling her little black poodle, downing Scotch, and confiding that she requires only three things of a man -- that he be "handsome, ruthless, and stupid."  So many well-remember poems leap from the script at various points in Parker's monologue:  "Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses," "You can lead a whore to culture but you can't make her think," "Razors pain you, rivers are damp, acids stain you, and...gas smells awful; you might as well live," "Love is a thing that can never go wrong, and I am Marie of Roumania." 

The room goes dark at times and recorded voices of men and women speak Parker's agonized lines from "A Telephone Call" -- "Please God, let him telephone me now," etc., etc., in numbing repetition.  Franklin has varied the female voice in the original text so that women pine for men, men for women, and men for men.  Franklin also has provided moments for the wonderful Gayle King to sing two haunting songs: Irving Berlin's "What'll I Do?" and Vernon Duke and E. Y. Harburg's "April in Paris."  Both are done to perfection.  At one point Parker describes her wisecracking as "calisthenics with words."  Franklin has deftly packaged those witticisms and other elements of Parker's life to craft a show that seems destined for a life in other venues.