On the day of Tracy Lord’s second shot at marriage, we have a diverse bunch of mostly upper crust folks before us. Little sister Dinah is played bubbly with existence and prone to mispronunciation, in her saddle shoes, by Tess Benger. Sharry Flett’s Margaret, the mom, seems openly human but obviously secure in place like the splendid furniture about her. Brother Sandy via Jeff Meadows displays an appealing serious levity. Ric Reid’s Uncle Willie is slightly rough- edged and ever ready to pinch a young lady’s bottom. Juan Chioran’s father Seth maintains a somewhat regal air of remote caring.
Enter husband-intended, Thom Marriott’s George, tall and tightly judgmental and given to huffy indignation, and then former husband Dexter, played by Gray Powell with an edgy charm that bites with bitterness. Enter Fiona Byrne’s Liz, who is cute and sexy with impending feminine savoir faire, and Patrick McManus as the almost cynical reporter Mike, a man of compellingly ambiguous passions that could find several outlets –social or female.
If the central role of Tracy Lord was intended as a career-saving vehicle for Kathrine Hepburn, Moya O’Connell here makes it distinctly and poignantly her own. This Tracy is a feeling creature who, though remote in privilege, reveals a frenzied vulnerability that speaks with big gestures and sends her inner emptiness in all directions. At first she seems a big, bright and somewhat artificial presence who almost has feelings, and is described by Mike as a “young, rich, rapacious American female.” This being the tail end of the depression, he also asks, “What right has a girl like Tracy Lord to exist?”
O’Connell certainly combines a dynamic and delicious delivery that is ripe with comic punch, but she also makes Tracy a personal creation. We sense an implied inner pain that will either explode or consume itself—remember O’Connell’s Hedda Gabbler of a few years ago? It’s hard to play an empty, self-centered individual who holds our sympathy, but as Tracy to us becomes a victim of inner futility who parades her superficial unrealized self about aimlessly, we watch her every move and, for some reason, care.
This is a relaxed world of people who live in shallowness –okay, think Kardashian, but with style. William Schmuck’s big, elegant, sturdy, grand set at first seems too broad an expanse for a play that explores inner turmoil and intimate relationships, but as we observe this almost undisturbable society, one that almost floats in privilege, we realize that its inhabitants seem to casually own even air and space around them as their exclusive property. This production, ably directed by Dennis Garnhum to create a sense of implicit restraint, an underpinning of humanity, and several shades of comedy, at times almost glides by.
These folks seem anchorless in a world of normal human values as they deny themselves feelings and never get dirty. Like Tracy, they exist in a grand expanse of their own reflection and they get lost in it. They don’t seem to breathe, they can’t be themselves, and when Tracy bursts, as free as she can be, we feel a long-contained sob in her now become laughter. We join in, although, thanks to O’Connell’s power of playing inner emotional turf in an ambiguous manner, we are not quite sure who she is or will be.