Apparently George Bernard Shaw was as prolific a letter writer as he was a critic, author, and journalist. His more romantic side blossomed notably in the voluminous correspondence he had with the equally droll and witty Mrs. Patrick Campbell, the noted diva actress who had the greatest triumph of her career as Eliza in Pygmalion, the play Shaw wrote for her. In the play Dear Liar, by Jerome Kilty, which could be more accurately labeled a staged reading, Shaw and Campbell occupy their own space in a Victorian drawing room (handsomely designed by David Raphel), and either read or soliloquize the text of their correspondence. And what humor and drama is drawn from this chronicle of admonishing and adoring epistles by this year's Tony-nominee (Ring Round the Moon) Marian Seldes, and the fine Irish character actor Donal Donnelly. Whether or not these two approximate the delight created when Katherine Cornell and Brian Aherne originated the roles on Broadway in 1958 is not nearly as important as is the sheer joy of the occasion as acted by the current portrayers, and presented by the Irish Repertory Theater. I can't vouch that the real Mrs. Campbell was as much fun watching as is Seldes. However, the irresistibly theatrical Seldes is an actress who doesn't let either a word or a silence escape her dramatic inspection or introspection.
This is not to imply that Seldes lacks finesse and subtlety, only that you won't want to take your eyes off her for one second, lest you miss the nuance of a lifetime. The sheer bravura of Seldes' presence might intimidate an actor in less control of his character than Donnelly, who effectively holds his own by means of his own deceptively-calculating wiles. Their long-standing, but non-sexual relationship, however punctuated and embroidered with adoring declarations as well as the playful venom, makes for consistently amusing listening. The journey in letters that takes us from Mrs. Campbell's early turn-of-the-century stage triumphs through the tempestuous yet nourishing times with Shaw, to her failure in the Hollywood of the 1930s, is filled with shared and personal anecdotes. It affords the listener a lively peek into our theatrical past.
Humor is abundant but never more so than in the scene that has Seldes, as a middle-aged Mrs. Campbell overdoing Eliza's cockney accent in a rehearsal of Pygmalion. If one might complain that Donnelly spends too much time confined (or is it consigned?) to his writing desk by director Charlotte Moore, there is no stopping Seldes, as she floods the room with a radiance that is already legendary in its own right.
