As theater and music reviewer for The Saturday Review, George Bernard Shaw (1856-1950) followed Mrs. Patrick Campbell’s (1865-1940) accomplishments on stage. Never unsure of his opinions, Shaw celebrated or damned performance without middle ground. Surely she was aware of the critic. In 1894, the journalist now playwright achieved his own theatrical success with Arms and the Man beginning a long run of iconic work.
At the height of Campbell’s career in 1899, Shaw asked “Mrs. Pat” to play his Cleopatra, a role she purportedly inspired. The actress had just been offered a 20-week American tour. Her family’s sole support (Mr. Campbell had deserted them) it was incumbent upon her to accept. Timing was off. Finally meeting this “enchantress,” Shaw experienced coup de foudre (love at first sight). She was 34, he 43. Forty years of passionate, mutually fascinated correspondence followed. Nothing on the record indicates consummation.
“When I went away, I felt our friendship ripening – too much. I fell head over heels in thirty seconds… Are you afraid you might involve your heart with this blarneying Irish actor?” he unabashedly wrote. The playwright created Pygmalion for his inamorata. She agreed to act his “pretty slut.” He would direct the debut. Rehearsals began as did gossip. “I wish I could fall in love without telling everybody,” Shaw wrote her. He was married to a woman who’d cared for him when ill, a liaison also believed to have been unconsummated. Campbell was between husbands.
Rehearsals were put off when the actress had an accident and convalesced in France. “Write and make me well. A letter a day won’t be enough,” she wrote. Like any performer, any woman, his adoration nourished her. “Perhaps someday I’ll write you a love letter,” she coyly wrote. “When have you written anything else?” came the reply. His letters refer to bed, to sex. She ventures as far as “the temptation of an unbroken gaze” or a kiss. “Oh darling, I accept and love you, but when you were a little boy, someone should have said ‘hush’ just once,” Campbell wrote.
Courted by the younger George Cornwallis West, the actress never flagged in attention/devotion to Shaw. Deception was abandoned early on. “He’s too young and I’m old. Let him wait until I’m tired of you,” the playwright wrote. Campbell and Shaw were loving and flattering, but also often sharp with one another. Both had enormous egos, intelligence, and well honed wit. Both were independent artists. “Why do you go on scolding me for the woman I am?” she wrote. “I will forgive, bless, humor and adore you…for you, I wear my head nearest the sky,” he responded.
Campbell was 49 when she appeared onstage as Eliza Doolittle. We watch Shaw and his leading lady rehearse. In the role of the actress, Melissa Errico’s Cockney is not up to par. Perhaps the production means to indicate Mrs. Pat’s accent was poor. She wrote about the challenge. The play was a triumph. She married West. Though remaining dear friends, Shaw would never again let her originate a role she inspired.
Time passed. When war came, the actress watched her husband and son enlist. An anti-war activist, Shaw was politically savvy. He disdained his friend’s lack of interest. Campbell toured the U.S. with Pygmalion. It would be two years before she returned. With armistice came a changed world. The actress was writing her memoirs including some of their letters. Shaw threatened to do the same. “I refuse to play the horse to your Godiva.” They agreed that if either published, both would look bad. Literally years of contentious letters followed. Her book was published in 1922. Sixteen months later Shaw sent forgiveness. St. Joan was about to premiere. She was 57, he 68. “Let’s not quarrel again until we’re both dead,” he wrote.
The actress found less and less work. West left her. She spent time in Hollywood too outspoken to be popular, never getting a career footing. At 81, Shaw sent back their correspondence. “If you have to sell them, it will add value.” Campbell lived cheaply while Shaw grew rich, yet he sent no money. They realized they’d never see one another again. “We’ll meet in heaven.”
Dramatization gives us a look at the protagonist’s careers, health, travel, family, and, of course feelings for one another. Shaw forbade the missives to be published while his wife remained alive. They went to press in 1952.
Dear Liar is one of five “letter plays” written by Jerome Kilty. It was first staged in 1957 and published in 1960. A television and two film adaptations exist. The piece is genteel, moving, clever; its characters fleshed out. Respect, admiration and affection are channeled with skill.
Director Charlotte Moore has used a light hand with her excellent cast offering credible variety of movement that keeps the piece from stasis. Choices as to when they look at one another maintain connection and distance each in good part. Actors are focused and in specific character throughout. Pacing is adroit.
Once a Broadway baby, multifaceted Melissa Errico stepped away from recent successful cabaret appearances/recording and her writing desk (memoirs) to get back to live theater. She brings dignity, grace, and pride to her role. A fine portrayal.
David Staller’s accent is subtle and superb. His Shaw is calculating, self-absorbed and pixilated. Curling into disparate positions atop a desk, the actor soundlessly adds to the last. We see too little of Staller onstage. He’s marvelous here. (Founding Artistic Director of New York’s Gingold Theatrical Group.)
There are no credits for scenic design or costumes (love Shaw’s red smoking shoes), both of which are just right.
Photos by Carol Rosegg
Irish Repertory Theatre presents
A Staged Reading as Part of The Letters Series
Dear Liar by Jerome Kilty
Correspondence between Mrs. Patrick Campbell and George Bernard Shaw
Directed by Charlotte Moore
Starring Melissa Errico and David Staller
Irish Repertory Theatre
132 West 22nd Street
Through April 30, 2023
