Imagine a fiery exchange between a legendary playwright and the actress who brought his most iconic character to life—a relationship fueled by wit, desire, and unspoken tension. But here’s where it gets controversial: Dear Liar isn’t just a play; it’s a time capsule of unconsummated passion and creative clash, leaving us to wonder: Can art truly capture the complexity of human connection?*
During World War II, Jerome Kilty, then a U.S. soldier stationed in London, boldly knocked on the door of George Bernard Shaw. The octogenarian playwright, as Kilty later recalled, greeted him warmly. This encounter sowed the seeds for Kilty’s own career as an actor and playwright, culminating in his 1957 masterpiece, Dear Liar. Inspired by Shaw’s passionate yet platonic correspondence with Mrs. Patrick Campbell—the original Eliza Doolittle in Pygmalion—the play is a two-hander that brings their electric dynamic to life.
And this is the part most people miss: While Campbell’s brilliance has faded into history and Shaw’s plays are rarely staged today, their intellectual sparring remains a fascinating study of ego, artistry, and unspoken longing. Rachel Pickup and Alan Turkington breathe new life into these outsized personalities, portraying a relationship that oscillates between courtship and combat. The revival hinges on their performances, which are as fiery as they are fragile.
The first act revolves around the tumultuous staging of Pygmalion. Campbell’s bold declaration, “I will be your pretty slut,” sets the tone for a negotiation laced with flirtation and frustration. Shaw, ever the contrarian, retorts, “All I ask is to have my own way in everything.” Rehearsals are a battleground, with Campbell’s struggling Cockney accent and Shaw’s overbearing direction threatening to derail the production. Yet, against all odds, the show becomes a triumph.
As the play progresses, their relationship fractures, particularly when both attempt to immortalize their connection in art. Shaw’s detached curiosity—even attending his mother’s cremation out of morbid fascination—contrasts sharply with Campbell’s grief over losing a son to war. His pacifism, rather than offering solace, only deepens her pain. Here’s the bold question: Does Shaw’s intellectual detachment make him a genius or a coward?
A contemporary director might approach this material with a modern lens. Scholars now view Campbell not as a stroppy diva but as a psychologically astute performer, adding layers to her character. Stella Powell-Jones’ production, however, struggles to fully revitalize the dated script. While moments of vulnerability—like the actors gazing uncertainly as they read letters—are touching, the frequent declamatory exchanges feel strained.
The set, designed by Tom Paris, features cloud-stippled curtains that frame the action, while the actors’ costumes—Pickup in chandelier earrings and Turkington in a T-shirt emblazoned with a Shaw cartoon—add a whimsical touch. Pickup’s stillness in old age is poignant, while Turkington’s petulant gestures reveal a man easily wounded by criticism.
Desire lingers in every exchange, as Campbell quips, “I absolutely refuse to play any longer the horse to your Lady Godiva!” Were they, as she suggests, merely “lustless lions at play”? Or were these two cantankerous artists forever entangled in each other’s imaginations? Kilty’s play captures their chemistry but occasionally feels trapped in its own historical cobwebs.
Dear Liar is playing at Jermyn Street Theatre, London, until March 7. But before you go, ask yourself: Can a relationship defined by unspoken longing ever truly be understood? Share your thoughts in the comments—let’s spark a debate as fiery as Shaw and Campbell’s own.
