Playwright: Israel Horovitz
At: Apple Tree Theatre, Highland Park
Phone: (847) 432-4335; $38
Runs through: May 16
Our setting is a charming belle époque apartment with a view of the Jardin de Luxembourg in Paris, courtesy of scenic designers Richard and Jacqueline Penrod. Our charming hostesses—94-year-old Mathilde Giffard and her fiftysomething daughter, Chloe—speak impeccable English with charming French accents, courtesy of dialect coach Doug Peck. Both women wear modern clothes, but Mme. Mathilde's slacks and sweater are augmented by a charming burnt-velvet jacket in pre-WWI style, while Mlle. Chloe favors classic fashions in conservative-bordering-on-mousy colors, courtesy of costume designer Patti Roeder. The general ambiance is of a charming little tale by Colette, courtesy of director Brian Russell, who understands fully the need for camouflage if Israel Horovitz' soapy, formulaic and annoyingly predictable drama is to be rendered tolerable, much less palatable.
The premise is undeniably intriguing: By the terms of a real estate contract known as a 'viager,' or reverse annuity mortgage, an American businessman decades earlier purchased Mathilde's property under the condition that she be allowed to reside there until her death. (Francophiles detecting similarities to a contract of plaçage will be several scenes ahead of the playwright.) The owner having himself recently died, his wastrel son arrives from New York to collect his sole inheritance, only to find it still occupied.
Mathilde graciously extends Mathias her hospitality ('You must be patient, Monsieur' she cautions him with Gallic candor) and after that, all that's left is for long-buried secrets to be exhumed and for the two middle-aged children to drink too much and lament the irresponsibility of their romantic progenitors. But only in an amorally romantic universe such as this production presents us could we accept the resolution Horovitz affixes to a promenade paved in revelations, rants and copious tears, all of which are telegraphed far in advance.
Ann Whitney's formidable Mme. Mathilde, flanked by Gene Weygandt's wheedling Mathias and Barbara Robertson's impetuous Chloe, engage our emotions unreservedly even as our intellects protest the plot's contrivances. (Could a hunting rifle, left to rust untouched for decades, be expected to fire without injuring the shooter? Would ammunition to load it still be handy?) In spite of its author's ineptitude, however, My Old Lady ultimately proves satisfying and—well, charming.