Upon finding myself this past Friday traveling on the occasion of my 155th birthday (I know, to count looks so calculating, but the world does insist on correctness at present), imagine my utter delight when I learned that a theatre in Baltimore—oh, scintillating New World metropolis—would be presenting that delicious dramatic construct, that scrumptious theatrical je ne sais quoi, that accidental swan-song, The Importance of Being Earnest. As I am rather close to the author—having known him all my comparatively brief life—I thought I might do worse than drop by. After all, I very much enjoyed my prior visit to the hinterlands of America, and was ever-so well received by the gracious natives of that curious and wonderfully barbaric young nation. Why not, then, add Baltimore to my itinerary? After all, as I noted on a prior occasion, “Baltimore is amusing for a week” (while Washington is like “a suburban vestry,” Philadelphia “dreadfully provincial,” and New York fine for dining but “one could not dwell there.”
Hence, chers amis and dear readers, I found myself in the soi-disant Charm City, a-twitter with eager interest as the house lights dimmed and the limelight illumined the first notes of this evergreen masterpiece.
I held out originally for a separate US premiere of this play, knowing too well that we are two countries separated by a common language (an observation Georgie Shaw was only too happy to steal from me and make his own); my wisdom was rewarded then, and my conviction renewed on this occasion, by the difference in approach evident. Where I would expect a slavishly faithful rendition of the parlors and drawing rooms too-familiar from my glorious youth, instead this production took marvelous liberties of invention. Instead of the dreary and oppressive colors or the excessive indulgence in bric-a-brac that paralyzed the households of bygone days, here was something more in line with my own teachings on the House Beautiful—an actual Aesthetic experience. Vibrant fuchsia, zebra skins in positively Biblical starkness of black and white, even a complete suite of furniture en rose caressed my eyes. I nearly danced in dithyrambs of delight.
Music, too, formed a charming component of the evening, from the pianoforte dabblings of Algernon (also featured on a most inventive woodwind later) to the pleasant warbling of a favorite parlor song (“Come into the Garden, Maud,” lamentably by Tennyson rather than one of my own poetic opus, but an apt choice nevertheless).
There were some young people in attendance, which is always tres charmant and adds a dose of gaiety to any evening—though I noted once again of American youth, as I had before, that “the chief secret of their charm is that they never talk seriously except about amusements, and can talk brilliantly upon any subject, provided that they know nothing about it.” I felt myself in the best of company. On further reflection, that perception may have been in part an effect of the liberal use I made of the fine vintages on offer at the bar, imbibing beyond what was perhaps judicious as I was favored with the opportunity to take my drink to my seat. Who dares cry out that Americans are still uncivilised? Fie.
What, though, of the incidentals of the evening, the performance of the play itself? Well, allow me to note that the script was, as ever, flawless, and the audience did a creditable job of playing its part—appreciating the voluminous wit with apt and astute gales of laughter. The actors rose to the occasion, pronouncing all the words in the correct order and not insisting on making too much sense of any of it. They were utterly charming, one and all, even discovering unanticipated depths of sincerity I never would have dared dream might find their way into this of all pieces. I was really quite moved and touched withal, to see the endeavor and to witness its success.
And the performance of Mr. Laurence O’Dwyer (a fellow Celt, I note with glee) in the so-desirable role of Lady Bracknell? Well, nothing would induce me to reveal the original inspiration for that most-glorious portrait, but I must say Mr. O’Dwyer did her more than justice, in a rousingly fresh, sincere, and authoritative interpretation. I could desire no more, nor hope for any less.
-Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde
