"My Fair Lady' at Act II in Ambler

Poor Tony Braithwaite and his Act II confreres. Their pocketsize production had to compete with my memories of Rex Harrison, Julie Andrews and the original cast from its pre-Broadway tryout in Philadelphia in 1956.

Yet they did so, triumphantly. Indeed, this experience was like re-discovering a lost treasure.

Rex had to shout

The cast was small— only 11 performers— but they filled the stage with effervescence and some smart choreography by Sonny Leo. The production benefited by focusing attention on the individuals. Their subtle expressions came across as they couldn't in a large theater.

For example, Braithwaite was able to lower his voice to a conversational whisper to tell Eliza: "Just think what you're dealing with. The majesty and grandeur of the English language. It's the greatest possession we have. The noblest thoughts that ever flowed through the hearts of men are contained in its extraordinary, imaginative and musical mixtures of sounds." Sexy Rexy had to shout the same words back in '56.

As the self-absorbed linguistics expert Higgins, Braithwaite was utterly believable, and he delivered his songs with easy grace. Aficionados of the Arden and 1812 Productions who think of Braithwaite as a clown or satirist should be advised that he possesses additional gifts. He's the first Henry Higgins I've seen since 1956 who holds his own in comparison with Harrison, and he adds a welcome additional dimension.

Harrison, you see, was 48 years old in 1956 but seemed older. He was formal in his deportment, and his hairline had receded. Braithwaite is only 40 and has a youthful spring in his step. His Professor Higgins seems more attractive, and the possibility of romance between him and Eliza thus seems plausible, to the play's benefit.

Boisterous Doolittle

Chris Faith was excellent as Higgins's confrere, Pickering; Eileen Cella was appropriately gamin-like and sang beautifully as Eliza; and Mary Martello was a tower of strength as Higgins's mother.

Two other cast members were equally talented and added welcome originality. Mike Corr, as Eliza's father, Alfred Doolittle, refused to copy the easy-going charm of the part's originator, Stanley Holloway. Instead, Corr was rough, boisterous and totally convincing. Jonathan Silver differed from most stiff Freddy Einsford Hills, who customarily intone "On the Street Where You Live" as if they were singing in an operetta. Instead, Silver was outgoing, adolescent and comical.

Dirk Durossette's set was functional, despite the small stage, unlike the ludicrous 1993 Broadway revival that had Richard Chamberlain sit in what looked like a dentist's chair.

The only element in this production that left a void was the substitution of a lone upright piano for the original big orchestra. Robert Diton did a heroic job at the keyboard, but I did miss the lush strings. I got over that hurdle by imagining that I was attending a rehearsal of My Fair Lady where composer Fritz Loewe presided from the keyboard.

Women as possessions

Re-examining My Fair Lady more than five decades after its creation, I'm struck again by the brilliance of Alan Jay Lerner's lyrics. But I also spotted a lapse. How, in the second scene, can Cockney boys sing about "a castle in Capri?" How would they even know that an island by that name existed?

I also discovered a new perspective on the hero's sexism. In 1956 many theatergoers blandly accepted Higgins's view of women as possessions. His condescension and sense of entitlement were accepted as normal male behavior, even if Lerner and George Bernard Shaw took it to extremes.

Shaw— whose Pygmalion was the basis for Fair Lady— clearly objected to Higgins's mindset, but he seemed to consider it an idiosyncrasy to be mocked, not an abuse to be denounced. And why was this male chauvinist attitude accepted by Alan Jay Lerner?

Like JFK

When Higgins and Pickering congratulate each other ("You did it!") while ignoring Eliza, we in 2012 are appalled. But I just read in Chris Matthews's book, Jack Kennedy: Elusive Hero, how JFK celebrated his victory in the crucial 1960 West Virginia primary. Matthews quotes the Washington Post editor Ben Bradlee to the effect that "Kennedy ignored Jackie and she seemed miserable at being left out of things. She...stood on a stairway, totally ignored as the men celebrated."

Today we recognize the seriousness of the effrontery, and our sensitivity brings new dramatic resonance to this classic musical.

Director Bud Martin responded to this presumed evolution by changing the staging of the last scene. Traditionally, Higgins tilts his chair back and waits for Eliza to fetch his slippers as the curtain falls. Martin, instead, has Higgins rise, approach Eliza and offer her a ring. It's a ring he previously bought her and she left behind, so it's not literally an engagement ring. Yet it raises that possibility.♦


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