Theatre Review by Ron Fassler . . .
I only got to Ken Ludwig’s 2019 play Dear Jack, Dear Louise last night and since it closes this weekend please take my word that it’s well worth rushing to see. It’s written somewhat in the style of A.R. Gurney’s famous Love Letters in which the course of two people’s lives are depicted in a series of letters that each read aloud. A special piece of material that requires no memorization, rotating actors would be engaged for a week at a time or even just a single performance. Productions of Love Letters held unique potential in keeping theatregoers interested in who was up next. Dear Jack, Dear Louise does indeed require the actors to know the lines and, as directed here—quite engagingly so by Stephen Nachamie—its cast takes charge of the stage in the best way possible. Now playing at the 59 E 59 Theatres complex in Manhattan, its rather enchanting to hear Ludwig’s version of Jack and Louise’s wartime letters, written between 1942 and 1945 by his real-life parents. It pays moving tribute to love in a turbulent time.
Having had its world premiere in Washington D.C. in 2019 and the recipient of the Helen Hayes Award for Best New Play, things were looking bright. Then came the pandemic in 2020 shutting down all theatre for more than a year. But when the bans were lifted, Dear Jack, Dear Louise found its footing due to its two-person cast and little in the way of physical scenery (hell, it can be played with two chairs, really). Also lucky at an unlucky time was that it had its own social distancing built into the staging, thereby making it a natural to produce when entertainment returned in early 2022. Now New York is finally getting a production and it makes for a pretty enchanting evening of theatre.
Though the letters we hear back and forth are purely out of Ludwig’s imagination and not their actual writings, he captures the tone of both his parents perfectly. And why wouldn’t he? He’s a playwright with a wonderful ear and he knew them better than anyone. Their love affair is truly touching due to their first meeting not being face to face, but rather advanced by letter writing. It turns out that Ludwig’s grandparents were friends with a couple who had a lovely young daughter and it was they who suggested that their son (a shy and reserved Jewish doctor serving stateside in Oregon) should write and introduce himself to her. The letters they write wind up covering three years without ever once laying eyes on one another. It’s romantic as hell and even though you know the ending—after all, how else will Ken Ludwig be born?—there are enough twists and turns along the way to keep things flowing. And the fact that Louise is a budding dancer/actress with her own career keeps this from feeling one-sided the way it might had it been portrayed with a less pro-active female lead in some Hollywood film of this era.
As for the performances, both Jack and Louise are well cast. Michael Liebhauser brings a stoic touch of the neurotic to Jack and has a clarion voice that projects into the small space with a power that is welcome during these times when many actors mistake the stage for being in front of a camera. He bites into the role with relish and makes a commendable, offbeat leading man. As Louise, Alexandra Fortin feels authentically Brooklyn without going overboard with her accent. She ably projects what Ludwig describes as his mother’s “bubbling personality,” which even spilled over into her handwriting; something he mentions in a 2021 interview with DC Arts. He also explains in that interview how his dad’s letters were all written with the same two Mont Blacs. “When he died, I inherited the pens and began using them,” he said.
Dressing one side of the stage as Jack’s army barracks and the other as Louise’s apartment, Christian Fleming’s minimalist approach with the scenery and costumes work fine. Lighting by Keith A. Truax is effective as is the radio soundtrack that’s offered as background both during and between scenes. Naturally, it’s made up of 40s wartime standards and perhaps some deeper digging would have pulled up less familiar tunes and not the same ones that always get chosen (can we have a moratorium on Glenn Miller’s version of “In the Mood” to suggest the 1940s, please?)
So, with only a few more days until it closes on February 16, I can’t recommend Dear Jack, Dear Louise highly enough. Its portrayal of true love rings true and for an hour and forty minutes you may feel as if time stands still in the best way possible.
Dear Jack, Dear Louise is at 59 E 59 (located at 59 E 59th Street in Manhattan). For information on tickets, please visit: https://www.59e59.org
Photos by Dorice Arden Madronero.
