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Born Yesterday is a work that rises or falls based on the charm of its lead actor. In the 1950 film, Judy Holliday effectively captured the dizzy, bubble-headed blonde Billie Dawn, while the 1993 version with Melanie Griffith essentially sunk under the weight of its lead’s willfully mannered idiocy.
The 1946 play by Garson Kanin revolves around the political ambitions of a gangster, Harry Brock, who comes to Washington to meet with (read: pay off) a few senators. He brings his girlfriend, Billie, a former chorus girl who proves embarrassing in her lack of social skills (read: she’s dumb), so he hires journalist, Paul Verrall as her tutor. Though she may not become the brightest bulb as a result of her newly-found thirst for knowledge, Billie is able to empower herself with strides toward education. Kanin’s work examines these issues of empowerment, as well as the lines between personal and political worlds.

Ostensibly a play about the corruption of politics, the work is actually a far deeper look at power struggles between and within people. With its snappy one-liners and glamorous setting, Born Yesterday ought to be a lip-smacking piece of commentary on the state of politics, power, and the nation of the human heart. Alas, in the current production on now at the Shaw Festival, director Gina Wilkinson can’t decide if the work should be presented as a screwball comedy, a domestic piece, or a polemic on political idealism.

It tries to be all three, but ends up being none. Thankfully, it’s saved by some wonderful performances by its mainly male ensemble, and one charming turn by its female lead. Deborah Hay brings a likeable streak and a knowing smirk, though she’s never allowed to fully show off the range of her acting talents.

The play opens with a choreographed piece of luggage tossing taken straight out of 40s screwball comedy films. While it’s entertaining (and certainly well-executed by actors Prince Amponsah, Jonathan Widdifield, and Craig Pike), as the work progresses, one begins to wonder how it fits into the overall picture. Ed Devery, Harry’s crooked lawyer, manoeuvres between keen opportunism and stunted sycophancy, and, like many surrounding Harry, has chosen to be reduced by his adherence to the whims and desires of his boss, while Billie herself is mere window dressing. She has everything she wants (including, she reminds us, “two mink coats!”) and wants for nothing more –until, that is, journalist Verrall points out the actual poverty she lives in mentally.

Hay’s performance is winsome, whimsical, and very, very cute; she imbues the ditzy Billie with every ounce of charming affability, and Mallet makes sure the actor milks the adorable-factor for all it’s worth. While it’s amusing, it does little to enlighten the audience on the intended themes of the play, or indeed, how the character’s development and growing awareness serve to highlight Kanin’s observations on the relationship between education and politics.

For example, the scene in which she and Harry play cards is fascinating for its portrayal of the ways a couple relates in the most mundane ways, even as its execution verges on the edge of excruciatingly annoying. Playing – and looking – like a elderly couple, the pair exchange looks and grunts as they shuffle and deal hands. Hay is highly mannered here, her loud, high-pitched girlie-grunts, head-shakes, and careful card-dealing being milked for every ounce of laughs from the audience. While it elicited hoots and howls of laughter, I found the scene overly drawn-out and remarkably tiresome.

Surely, of all the moments to choose where Billie might come into her own, where we might see the spark that sets off her passion for knowledge and shows a feisty spirit behind the tacky lingerie and white-blonde hair and fake nails, this scene would be it? Wilkinson has her actor resort to cutesy mannerisms, to the great amusement of the audience but to the detriment of developing a fully fleshed-out woman. She may come up to Verrall in a moment of confidence and ask him if he has the veracity to put actions behind his words, but Kanin’s script, hinting as it does at a liberation on a myriad of levels, isn’t given the kind of proper respect or deep insight it requires.

Designer Sue LePage has, however, nicely captured Harry’s decadent, if empty world. The sumptuous set consists of one huge hotel penthouse suite that looks out onto a rendering of the White House/Capitol Hill through floor-ceiling windows, and a grand staircase leading to a second storey, the landing of which is used as a prime spot for Billie to pose in a myriad of impressive, if equally doll-like, outfits. There’s no chance of her ever being mistaken for a certifiable sex bomb. LePage has outfitted her in numbers that mix charmingly girlish with vintage sexpot. For instance, a pseudo-lingerie outfit with a long black lace trail at the back isn’t so much vampy as it is kewpie, and provides a visually striking contrast to Billie’s pale skin and white-blonde ‘do.

This stark contrast is nicely exemplified in the scene in which Senator Hedges and his wife come to visit Harry and meet his “wife.” While she may look cute enough, Mrs. Hedges immediately senses Billie isn’t the average run-of-the-mill Washington-wannabe-wife, but something much cruder. The look on actor Donna Belleville’s face as she runs offstage with Lorne Kennedy (playing the Senator with a mix of stand off-ish snobbery and embarrassed awkwardness) is hilarious, and very easy to miss amidst the larger gestures, but it’s a small moment worth savouring. The audience isn’t being instructed to laugh, so much as doing it naturally, which is part of the scene’s great appeal.

The music used between scenes – a mix of jazz, classical, and original score by Keith Thomas – works against this naturalism, however. While it’s a good mix, its overuse feels intrusive, inappropriate, and again, confuses the tone of the work. For instance, a scene of intense domestic violence is followed by light-as-soufflé madcap music as props are shuttled on and of the stage. Another scene, full of politicking and pointing at underhanded Washington corruption, is followed by more sonic puffery. This not only undercuts the tone of the piece, but the way it’s meant to be understood. Should we take Harry’s easy attitude toward corruption seriously? Should we remain idealistic? What is Wilkinson trying to say?

The music isn’t entirely necessary for comic relief –that’s what Billie’s purpose is, in some senses, and yet, the assertion her character is little more than cute, pretty window dressing for a more serious political message – one Wilkinson goes to great lengths to underline in her program notes – feels like an extra swipe at a character who is already brushed aside within the material itself.

So while Born Yesterday is a good, if somewhat dated work, that attempts to examine serious questions around the politics of not only Washington but of the human heart, it’s suffered a serious case of uneven direction here. Still, the production is saved by the resounding strength of Deborah Hay’s lovely performance, as well as the excellent turns by her male co-stars. Thom Marriott is a scary Harry Brock, all bluster and anger hiding a deep self-loathing, while Patrick Galligan’s performance as Devery is a perfect mix of awkward and sycophantic. As Paul Verrall, Gray Powell matches Hay’s charm with nebbish energy and a knowing stare, making use of small gestures to indicate a much larger inner strength.

It’s a pity Wilkinson’s production takes in shards of so many various styles: serious piece on domestic melodrama, a commentary on political corruption, or a basic screwball comedy. Yes, those are all part of Kanin’s work, but over-playing each element makes the work mentally tiresome and emotionally unengaging. The strength of this production lies in its performances, and it’s these performances that make the trip to Niagara worth the drive.