Moss Hart


Just watched Act One, about the early playwriting life of Moss Hart. And if George Hamilton here was anything like the real Moss Hart, which he wasn’t, then Moss Hart was one of the most precious little two dimensional loathsome creeps on the Great White Way. It’s hopeless. He’s not even funny.  An unfunny Moss Hart. I write comedies, Hamilton’s Moss Hart says, and he can’t even read comedy. Why him, I think, why George Hamilton? I have no idea. Not even supporting actor Jason Robards could save this turkey. Eli Wallach nearly smothered it by, you know, actually acting. Was Moss Hart still alive when this came out? I hope he sued someone, at least. Or offed someone, at best. What a nightmare it would be to have future generations see you like this. I’ve never met a writer as lifeless and devoid of character as George Hamilton’s Moss Hart. Some critics, maybe, but never a writer.

At one point I was wishing I could unleash Moss Hart’s Sheridan Whiteside on George Hamilton’s Moss Hart. But that got too Escher, even for me. Sometimes you’re so beautiful, Moss Hart once wrote, you gag me.

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