Palm Beach Dramaworks: Why ‘Driving Miss Daisy’ Still Matters

 

 

U.S. social history has often been a tale of “those people”—one ethnic group, once at the bottom of the totem pole, eventually finding a new group to turn on as its next victim. Two minority groups who have long shared struggle and tension are African Americans and Jewish Americans. Theirs has been a bittersweet encounter: common ground in the fight against prejudice, yet also moments of misunderstanding and conflict.

 

I found myself wondering how the now seemingly antiquated themes of Driving Miss Daisy would resonate in a world where “Americanism” has become, in some quarters, an excuse for government-supported hostility toward immigrants and minorities. The Palm Beach Dramaworks production leans into the play’s fundamentally humane spirit, suggesting, perhaps optimistically, that there is still hope in confronting the rise of a reinvented Christian nationalism and the social instability it has brought with it.

 

So, to answer the question of whether one should see this production of Alfred Uhry’s Pulitzer Prize–winning play, even if one has seen it before: a resounding yes. Three excellent actors, combined with a thoughtful and skilled production, make Driving Miss Daisy feel especially meaningful in the present moment. 

 

A brief disclaimer: I admit to a personal bias. My wife, Ann, grew up in Atlanta and was a firsthand witness to many of the social attitudes depicted in the play. She acted in high school, playing alongside Dana Ivey (in A Midsummer Night’s Dream), who would later originate the role of Daisy Werthan in the original Playwrights Horizons production.

 

The plot traces some twenty-five years, beginning in 1948, in the life of Daisy Werthan, a wealthy Jewish widow in Atlanta. Her son, Boolie, hires a chauffeur for her—Hoke—over her strenuous objections. While Hoke’s being Black certainly matters, Daisy’s fierce independence and legendary frugality are just as central to her resistance. Still, the racial and religious climate of the Deep South quietly but firmly dictates the behavior of everyone involved.

Debra Jo Rupp, Matthew W. Korinko-Jason Nuttle Photography

 

Boolie’s desire for social and business success leads him to suppress his Jewish identity—most notably through his elaborate Christmas displays (encouraged by his offstage wife, Florine, who becomes a perpetual target of Daisy’s scorn) and his refusal to publicly support Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. for fear of social and professional consequences. Daisy, however, gradually comes to resist this kind of cultural erasure. These overlapping layers of prejudice, assimilation, and tradition provide the essential context for the evolving relationship between the Werthans and Hoke.

 

Boolie is played by the ever-versatile Matthew W. Korinko, whose many past PBD performances have shown his particular strengths—especially his expressive voice and instinct for both humor and emotional shading. His affection for Daisy is evident not only in hiring Hoke to keep her safe, but in his patience with her many idiosyncrasies and her constant mishegas. Their exchanges supply much of the play’s dry, wry humor.

Debra Jo Rupp and Ray Anthony Thomas-Jason Nuttle Photography

 

But the emotional center of the production belongs to Debra Jo Rupp as Daisy and Ray Anthony Thomas as Hoke. Their casting reflects a broader trend toward recognizable names in intimate, two- or three-character plays, and both are well known from television and film, though also seasoned stage actors. They seem ideally matched to their roles. Watching their characters evolve over twenty-five plus years is both moving and absorbing—a study in mutual growth, as the power structures of their era gradually dissolve, leaving behind two people who finally recognize each other as equals. Daisy’s journey from stubborn self-sufficiency to reluctant vulnerability mirrors Hoke’s own path toward dignity and self-assurance.

 

There are countless tender moments. Rupp is especially evocative in a monologue recalling Daisy’s childhood memory of seeing the ocean for the first time:

 

“Papa said it was the Gulf of Mexico, and not the ocean, but it was all the same to me… I asked Papa if it was all right to dip my hand in the water… I tasted the salt water on my fingers. Isn’t it silly to remember that?”

 

Thomas’s response, delivered with his trademark gentle humor, is equally touching:

 

“No sillier than most of what folks remember. You talkin’ ’bout first time? I’ll tell you ’bout first time I ever leave the state of Georgia.”

 

Daisy innocently asks, “When was that?”

 

Hoke replies: “’Bout twenty-five minutes back.”

 

Moments like these—small, intimate, and quietly profound—are what give Driving Miss Daisy its enduring emotional power.

 

In the hands of the director, Julianne Boyd, and cast, the bombing of Daisy’s Reform Temple becomes an emotional fulcrum of the play. Daisy cannot quite believe it happened because her Temple is Reform, not conservative or orthodox. Here, the pace and the plaintive reply of Hoke carry the audience into a place one does not expect:

 

Hoke: “It doan’ matter to them people. A Jew is a Jew to them folks. Jes’ like light or dark we all the same nigger.”

 

Responding to Daisy’s disbelief, Ray Anthony Thomas delivers a stunning, nuanced monologue, straight from the gut:

 

“I know jes’ how you feel, Miz Daisy. Back down there above Macon on the farm—I ’bout ten or ’leven years old and one day my frien’ Porter, his daddy hangin’ from a tree. And the day befo’ he laughin’ and pitchin’ horseshoes wid us. Talkin’ ’bout Porter and me gon have strong god right arms like him, and den he hangin’ up yonder wid his hands tied behind his back and the flies all over him. And I seed it with my own eyes and I throw up right where I standin’.”

 

Daisy challenges him: “Ridiculous! The Temple has nothing to do with that!”

 

Hoke replies quietly: “So you say.”

 

Daisy knows, of course, but is just too blind at the time to see it. The audience feels it profoundly. I personally recalled Billie Holiday’s recording of “Strange Fruit.”

 

One of the play’s most compelling features is its kaleidoscopic treatment of time, compressing decades of social history into a series of short, impactful scenes. The steady transformation of both society and the characters unfolds quietly but inexorably before the audience, even if the transitions can sometimes feel abrupt. 

 

The temper of the times is beautifully supported by the production design.

 

Brian O’Keefe’s costume designs are masterful, with changes that mark the passing of time. Daisy in particular morphs from typical late 1940s dress at home in the opening, to scenes with her in a fur stole going to Temple, and finally to the clothing of a ninety-year-old being cared for in an assisted living facility.

 

Alexander Sovronsky’s sound design (PBD debut) includes riffs from popular music that help denote time’s inexorable march while enhancing the emotional texture of the production. It begins, most appropriately, with “Georgia on My Mind,” and amusingly includes “Santa Baby” when Daisy visits Boolie’s overly decorated home at Christmas—a hollow holiday to Daisy, given her family is Jewish and her son, and especially her daughter-in-law Florine, are trying to pass as Christian in order to blend into Atlanta society and their country club. Sound also includes the opening and closing of the imaginary car doors, and the running of the engine, so perfectly timed that the audience can “see” those doors.

 

Bert Scott’s simple yet imaginative scenic design is representational, a blank slate used to suggest the three primary locations: the Werthan family home, the automobile, and Boolie’s office (with, further stage left, a telephone on a pedestal to represent Boolie at his home). Lighting design by John Wolf (PBD debut) is dictated by which portion of the stage holds the action and by the time of day.

 

Above the stage, the “windows” are where Tim Brown’s projection design (PBD debut) appears, offering outside scenes ranging from open sky to destinations such as Piggly Wiggly, Daisy’s Temple, the Christmas decorations of Boolie’s home, headstones in a cemetery as Daisy tends her husband’s grave, and even images from Martin Luther King’s appearance at Atlanta’s UJA Banquet, which Daisy attends but fails to invite Hoke to join.

 

The winding down of the play is bittersweet. Aging is a fact of life, but this unlikely pair, a wealthy Jewish widow in Atlanta, of all places, who finally recognizes her uneducated chauffeur as her “best friend,” arrives at something quietly profound. Palm Beach Dramaworks’ production goes even further, making us feel that their bond resembles that of an old married couple. There is love. This heartwarming production is delicate rather than sweeping, inspirational rather than didactic.

 

Ray Anthony Thomas and Debra Jo Rupp-Jason Nuttle Photography

‘The Seafarer’: A Christmas of Shadows and Spirits at Palm Beach Dramaworks

 

The anonymous epigram to this play, The Seafarer (c. 755 A.D.), truly sets the stage: it is our fate to be adrift, “wretched and anxious,” alone in an icy ocean of indifference, braving the vicissitudes of existence.   

 

Hence, I’ll make no bones about it: ‘The Seafarer’ by Conor McPherson may not appeal to everyone, particularly anyone seeking pure holiday cheer.  The play unfolds over a Dublin Christmas Eve, its mood reflected in the disheveled home shared by brothers Sharky and Richard.  Their artificial Christmas tree hints a deeper bleakness.  Both men are alcoholics, Sharky temporarily on the wagon, Richard blind and apparently making up for both of them with gusto.  Irish whiskey and potent Irish moonshine (poteen) are practically other characters in the play, fogging memory, judgment, and hope for anyone in their orbit.

 

The Palm Beach Dramaworks set is so striking upon entering the theater: every thread of the brothers’ lives is visible on its walls, family photos, Irish football memorabilia, and religious artifacts, all representing better past times.  Ironically, horseshoes hang at an entrance, in keeping with old Irish folklore meant to ward off evil. Anne Mundell’s scenic design works its magic before the play even begins, with a special shout-out to Jillian Feigenblat, PBD’s prop manager, and Celeste Parrendo, scenic artist.

 

‘The Seafarer’ is a play firmly within the tradition of modern Irish drama, a vein Palm Beach Dramaworks has tapped before: The Beauty Queen of Leenane, Dancing at Lughnasa, Outside Mullingar, and The Cripple of Inishmaan.  PBD knows how to honor the dark humor, dashed hopes, and battered resilience that define this territory.  So while the play may not offer the familiar comforts of ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ or ‘A Christmas Carol’, it has its own rewards for those willing to lean into the shadows.

 

True to the lineage Sean O’Casey carved out a century ago, McPherson gives us Dubliners on the edge, irresponsible, alcohol-fueled, clinging to camaraderie, wit, and bluster.  McPherson also adds something contemporary drama has embraced, a touch of magical realism.  Enter Mr. Lockhart; yes, the name is a hint, whose interest in Sharky is more infernal than social.  Offstage, Karen and Eileen, exasperated and long-suffering, exert their influence, two women who have clearly had it up to here with their men.

 

In the hands of director J. Barry Lewis and an extraordinary cast, these characters emerge with specificity rather than slipping into caricature.  Casting has long been one of Palm Beach Dramaworks’ strengths.  Resident Costume Designer Brian O’Keefe delivers masterful designs that reinforce each character’s distinct personality.

 

Declan Mooney, Sheffield Chastain, Rod Brogan, Michael Mellamphy, Rob Donohoe; Photo by Jason Nuttle

Declan Mooney is Sharky Harkin, our hapless protagonist, confronting the wreckage of his past while attempting sobriety, on a holiday of all times, and facing a reckoning that threatens nothing less than his soul.  Mooney brings a confident familiarity to the role, having served as understudy in the original Broadway production, directed by McPherson himself.  His portrayal of Sharky’s tragic flaws, a life marked by failure, generates more pity than hopefulness.  He is stoic at times, hyperventilating at others.

 

The always dependable and versatile Rob Donohoe is his blind brother Richard Harkin, hell-bent on gathering everyone for a drunken Christmas Eve card game.  Richard lost his sight in a dumpster-diving misadventure and now relies on, and demands, Sharky’s attention for his every whim.  Though often in a drunken stupor, he has learned to manipulate his younger brother through humorous guilt trips and accusations.

 

He is a central force in this production, around whom the other characters orbit, except, perhaps, Mr. Lockhart.  Richard even enlists his friends to go outside with him and his cane to chase away ne’er-do-wells, winos who are even more unruly than he and his companions, and whom Richard feels he can still intimidate.  Conveniently, this clears the stage for uninterrupted, more profound exchanges inside, but it also reveals something essential, Richard’s need to believe there exists at least one tier below him.

 

For further comic relief, look to their friend Ivan, who is another step-and-fetch-it for Richard.  Ivan is functionally blind himself, having misplaced his glasses after a night of heroic drinking.  Sheffield Chastain (PBD debut) plays a hilarious, hopeless, and endearing Ivan Curry, with a gift for physical comedy, stumbling through a myopic fog (which ultimately bears on the play’s resolution).  The playwright milks the missing glasses for all they’re worth, as Ivan literally “feels his way around.”  Yet all is not mirth: Ivan harbors “shameful secrets” known to Mr. Lockhart.  Chastain delivers one of the play’s most memorable lines with perfect timing and drunken profundity: “It’s Christmas for fuck’s sake!” the play’s version of “God bless us, everyone!”

 

Richard has also invited his friend Nicky, now partnered with Sharky’s ex-lover Eileen, to the card game, much to Sharky’s dismay.  Michael Mellamphy (PBD debut) plays Nicky Giblin with an unsettling undercurrent of feigned happiness and bravado.  His Versace jacket and driving Eileen’s car (really Sharky’s) represent high points in an otherwise diminished life.

 

With free-flowing poteen fueling tensions later in the play, conflict erupts in a flurry of swings and shoves.  In the aftermath, Mellamphy showcases his comic flair with a line delivered to Richard: “Sharky’s left hook is nothing compared to Eileen’s, I’ll tell you.”  Richard responds, “She wouldn’t hit you, Nicky.”  Mellamphy fires back with a humorous but revealing retort: “It’s the force of her words, Richard! Fucking pin you up against a wall.”

 

Nicky arrives accompanied by Mr. Lockhart, who believes he has come to collect what Sharky owes him.  Rod Brogan (PBD debut) is an elegant Mr. Lockhart who, as the evening wears on, conspicuously holds his drink, his composure sharply contrasting with the others’ inebriation.  Brogan’s actions and reactions are quietly demonic, often accompanied by a knowing smirk and a sense of omniscience.

 

The card game becomes the arena in which he intends to collect on a bet Sharky made twenty-five years earlier in a jail cell on another Christmas Eve, a promise of a rematch for his soul (apparently a busy time for Mr. Lockhart, resting until Good Friday for the past two thousand-plus years).

 

Declan Mooney, Michael Mellamphy, Rod Brogan, Rob Donahue, and Sheffield Chastain; Photo by Jason Nuttle

Brogan leans fully into the demonic nature of the role, delivering Lockhart’s long monologue with careful, menacing articulation.  On death (“you go over a cliff so silently and the dusk swallows you so completely, you don’t ever come back”), on eternity (“time is bigger and blacker and so much more boundless than you could ever have thought possible with your puny broken mind”), and on hell itself (a “permanent and crippling form of self-loathing” thousands of miles beneath an icy sea, in a coffin-like space).  Lockhart is entirely in his element with these proclamations, preying on self-destruction, turning a poker game into a battle for a soul.

 

The stage is thus set for discord and confrontation that yield McPherson’s themes: addiction, guilt, and the possibility of redemption, all rendered in rhythmic, darkly comic dialogue that captures the cadence of Irish speech.  The play is bleak, funny, and at times unexpectedly moving, a Christmas story for those who find the season more complicated than the usual carols might admit.  Perhaps that is why ‘The Seafarer,’ for all its shadows, feels oddly comforting, it understands the holiday more honestly than most.

 

This is a stunning ensemble production, a collective triumph, with Director J. Barry Lewis guiding both cast and creative team toward something more ambitious than a straightforward staging.  That is no small accomplishment, given the complexity of the themes, and at a time of year when mistletoe is generally preferred over existential angst.

 

Lighting design is by Genny Wynn, and sound design by Roger Arnold, whose omnipresent chilling wind, rising and falling, adds to the play’s otherworldliness.  David A. Hyland is the fight choreographer and Jennifer Burke the dialect coach.

 

We move inexorably toward the ending we expect, followed by a sudden deus ex machina, a Christmas gift of a double ending: an apparent redemption, or merely another chance to relive the same mistakes.  In a world defined by regret and missed chances, McPherson allows the play to close on something quieter and more human, a moment of grace among friends, and an unmistakable bond between brothers.  It is not salvation, exactly, but it is connection, and for these men, that may be miracle enough.