Over the years, “Driving Miss Daisy” has gained a reputation as an expansive period weepie that shamelessly goes for the tear ducts. Except this applies more to the movie: Alfred Uhry’s semi-autobiographical play is actually a fairly restrained drama.
There are only three characters, and very little “action” in its succession of short scenes. This modest sentimentality fits well in the small off-Broadway theater where the show originated in 1987.
The version that opened on Broadway last night stays true to this approach — and treads surprisingly lightly, considering that it stars no less than Vanessa Redgrave and James Earl Jones.
These two combine so many decades of actorly gravitas, it’s a miracle the floor of the John Golden Theatre doesn’t collapse under the weight.
At 73, Redgrave is just a year older than her character, Daisy Werthan, at the beginning of the play. It’s 1948, and the well-off widow has just sent her brand-new Packard packing — against a wall.
Alarmed, Daisy’s son, Boolie (Boyd Gaines, late of “Gypsy”), ignores his mother’s protests and hires her a chauffeur — one Hoke Coleburn (Jones).
Miss Daisy is an independent, cantankerous coot who’s used to getting her way, and she promptly lords it over the good-humored Hoke. He’s blessed with a seemingly bottomless well of patience, but then he doesn’t have a choice: We’re in segregated Atlanta, and he’s the black employee of a white boss.
Over the next quarter-century, Hoke and Miss Daisy’s forced association blossoms into a friendship that barely dares to speak its name.
Director David Esbjornson has the good sense to keep things simple. He could easily have gotten oohs and aahs by wheeling out vintage cars onstage. Instead, he suggests Miss Daisy’s successive vehicles with just a steering wheel, a chair and a bench. The moody projections are similarly pared down, even when the play gets pointedly topical during the civil-rights years.
The whole point here is the leads, and they bask in the spotlight without ever appearing to hog it. The result isn’t so much a clash of the titans as a delicate, respectful rubbing of elbows.
Granted, you often wish the show bared more teeth instead of settling into comfortable, sepia-toned banter. But for better or for worse, this is not that kind of play, and this is not that kind of production. Besides, a soft touch can also leave an impact. Just look at the last scene, when Miss Daisy is mentally and physically fragile, in a wheelchair.
After starting as a regal figure, Redgrave now suggests the brittle husk of a woman. It’s a startling turn, made even more so by its humility.
elisabeth.vincentelli
@nypost.com