Taking It With Me

Last night I moderated a post-show talkback at a performance of You Can’t Take It With You at T. Schreiber Studio. Peter Jensen has directed a charming and poignant rendition of this chestnut, which opened on Broadway in 1936 (winning a Nobel Prize in 1937) and was made into an Academy Award-winning major motion picture in 1938. It's also the offoffonline Pick of the Week.

Moss Hart and George S. Kaufman’s play is one of the most beloved in the American canon: Alice, the eldest daughter of a rather kooky family, falls in love with her straight-laced boss’s son, Tony. When the families meet, chaos ensues, and we watch the intriguing clash between people who do what they are supposed to do and people who do what they want to do (guess who’s happier?). The idea that “you can’t take it with you” resurfaces again and again in our culture—one of the simplest maxims to ingest, but one of the most difficult to effect.

The cast is remarkable for its size (19) and intergenerational demographic—the actors can range in age from teenaged to 80+, so it’s one of those plays where you might find yourself in many roles over the course of your (acting) lifetime.

It’s amazing to connect the dots across the show’s history: Kaufman and Hart, of course, were legendary men of the theater. Between them, they wrote The Man Who Came to Dinner, directed My Fair Lady and Camelot (both with Julie Andrews), and produced a dazzling array of ventures. (Just look them up on the Internet Broadway Database.) Henry Travers played Grandpa in the original stage version, and although Lionel Barrymore played the role in the film (directed by Frank Capra), Travers went on to work on another iconic Capra project: he played the gentle angel Clarence in It’s a Wonderful Life. The play opened at the Booth Theatre on 45th Street; when I passed by on Friday, I noted that it is now home to The Year of Magical Thinking, which stars another legendary actress, Vanessa Redgrave (of the film version of Camelot. And the New York Times theater critic who covered the show in 1936, Brooks Atkinson, now has a Broadway theater in his name.

Enough factoids to convince you of the play’s venerable qualities?

The talk back was warm and lively—the performers were all eager to talk about their experiences working on the show, and the audience members who stayed were very effusive in their appreciation and enjoyment of the material. One gentleman told us that he was in town from Australia, where he was part of a reading of this play by a senior citizen’s group. “Timeless,” was how one contented woman described the play.

It’s obvious that there is something special about this particular ensemble of actors: a shared sense of purpose and an easy, generous camaraderie. They told me that playwright George S. Kaufman’s daughter Anne came to the show last week; rumor has it that she will only meet a cast if she is pleased with the particular production (she also holds final approval on where and when his plays can be revived). Although she skipped out on the actors in a recent notable London production, she insisted on making the acquaintance of the T. Schreiber cast, much to their elation.

It was so refreshing for me to sit down with theater people to talk about theater—as a critic, I so often see a show and go home to write in solitude, and it was wonderful to participate in a conversation about the art form, its potential, and its power. When a show can feel this fresh and pertinent after so many years, it certainly must possess some truths about human nature. It makes me wonder what will be revived in 2077 …

Pictured are Jacqueline van Biene (Alice), Peter Judd (Grandpa), and Andrew Gregor (Ed).