Mary, Mary

Psychologically at least, Mary, Mary is deep, deep. The most important event in the lives of the hero and heroine came one night when the tired husband donned pajamas, jumped into bed, and put his arms around his wife, whereupon she said, "Let's get the colored lights going." Divorce proceedings began the next morning. In Mary, Mary, this homey incident is key, and if you can appreciate why this should be so, you will be taken up in the psychological struggle before you.

This transparent attempt at Meaning is in tune with the paper-thin plot line. Divorced husband, about to marry young sophisticate, is confronted with former wife days before divorce becomes final, with expected result. Author Jean Kerr abandons characterization at any time for the sake of a clever line, so that nobody seems very real, and the heroes, villains, and everybody in between all come out the same.

You would think that a play--especially one with five characters and one set--would need more than the world's oldest plot and a set of indistinguishable characters to justify its surviving. You would think that, but you would be wrong. Mary, Mary is just one Jean Kerr wisecrack after another for almost three hours, and the show will probably run for years.

Mrs. Kerr's collection of insults, sight gags, in-jokes, and social commentary contains a few clinkers, and some of the really embarrassing ones should most certainly be laid to rest. But most of the jokes are truly funny, and they should insure success for this creaking vehicle.

Of course, the cast helps--all five of it. Everybody seems to enjoy himself during the show, and several times the performers had all they could do to keep from bursting out laughing at some of the cracks. They're that funny. For instance, the divorced husband, realizing his error, says of his new fiancee, "I can't marry her--pushes in the bottom of chocolates." Of his former wife, he laments that he could never muster the nerve to tell her she had a delicate beauty, like white porcelain: "She'd say, 'White porcelain? You mean like the kitchen sink?'" His wife tells a veteran movie actor that she "feels like Katharine Earnshaw."

"Who?" he asks.

"You know, the girl in Wuthering Heights."

"Oh--you mean Merle Oberon."

Barabara Bel Geddes, as the wife, is clearly the star of the show. She handles the wisecracking and mugging demanded of her with consummate skill. Miss Bel Geddes is very nearly matched by Barry Nelson, as her husband, who is appropriately bewildered by all the activity around him. He probably can't help the fact that he looks 20 years old, instead of 36.

Michael Rennie does well as the matinee idol who makes a play for Miss Bel Geddes, and he looks the part. John Cromwell, as Mr. Nelson's crusty old tax lawyer, is another bright spot. In fifth and last place is Betsy von Furstenberg, the fiancee. Miss von Furstenberg is fun to look at, but occasionally agony to listen to.

Joseph Anthony's directing seems to be more than adequate, as are Theoni V. Aldredge's costumes, Peggy Clark's lighting, and Oliver Smith's set.

I couldn't help wondering whether Mrs. Kerr created the wife in her own image. Miss Bel Geddes portrays a wisecracking terror, who is forever turning innocent remarks into fodder for her machine-gun bursts. She sounds about the way you'd expect Jean Kerr to be. Old Walter must have a hell of a time.