By Chloe Watson

DEPENDING ON WHO YOU ASK, The Philadelphia Story is the best romantic comedy ever made. Or it’s an actors’ showcase with several questionable story lines.

Oliver Matthias’s latest adaptation of the classic play turned film turned musical (because we can’t forget High Society) clearly intends to honor the first school of thought while addressing the second.

He very nearly succeeds.

Although he’s able to update the extremely problematic father-daughter relationship, plus address the casual domestic violence sprinkled throughout, Matthias never truly nails the zaniness of the original.

Credit where credit is due, though, the casting is impeccable.

There was outrage when it was announced that disgraced former Bond Gabe Parker would be playing C. K. Dexter Haven. The internet exploded with think pieces about how casting a recovering alcoholic to play a recovering alcoholic was lazy and exploitive.

We should all know now that Oliver Matthias, in his infinite wisdom, knew exactly what he was doing when he chose Parker. Parker’s C. K. Dexter Haven is droll, debonair, and pitch-perfect. While the rest of the cast is superb—Benjamin Walsh as Mike Connor is a true revelation—it’s Parker who steals the show.

Chapter 25

Chapter
25

I AGREE TO HAVE DINNER WITH Gabe and his family. We don’t talk any more about my writing or Jeremy. As we lock up the theatre, Gabe tells me that he and Ollie are planning to spend the next several months renovating, hiring staff, and planning their first season.

“We want to open next fall,” he says.

“Ambitious,” I say.

He shrugs. “I don’t have much else going on.”

It’s a topic both of us seem to be avoiding—the future.

“No movies in the pipeline?” I ask.

“I think everyone’s waiting to see how The Philadelphia Story does before I’m officially welcomed back to Hollywood,” he says. “You get into one drunken, viral argument with your shitty director and suddenly no one wants to work with you. Unless, of course, you might make money for them.”

There’s that desert-dry tone again.

“You should have just stuck with the old standby of anti-Semitic insults and referring to female officers as ‘Sugar Tits’ and you’d be welcomed back with open arms and awards,” I say.

Gabe snaps his fingers. “Dammit, I knew I’d played it wrong. Where’s your phone? Let’s get something on film.”

And just like that, we’ve once again sidestepped the conversation I’m not ready to have.

It isn’t until he stops, breath visible in the cold air, that I realize we’ve been walking down Main Street in silence.

“Here we are,” he says.

We’re outside of the Cozy. With the setting sun and the lights inside ablaze, it lives up to its name.