The Man Who Came to Dinner

Based on Wikipedia: The Man Who Came to Dinner

The Houseguest Who Wouldn't Leave

What happens when you invite a famous wit to dinner and he breaks his hip on your front steps? You get stuck with him for a month. And in that month, he will insult your family, run up your phone bill, receive a gift of live cockroaches, encourage your children to run away from home, and possibly stuff a glamorous actress into an Egyptian mummy case.

This is the premise of The Man Who Came to Dinner, a 1939 comedy that became one of Broadway's biggest hits. But here's what makes it truly delicious: the whole thing was inspired by real events, and the monstrous houseguest at its center was based on a real person who was in on the joke.

Art Imitating a Very Annoying Life

Playwrights George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart had a problem. They'd promised to write a starring vehicle for their friend Alexander Woollcott, a theater critic and radio personality who was genuinely famous in 1930s America. Woollcott had helped revive the Marx Brothers' career with his reviews and hosted a popular national radio program called The Town Crier. He was witty, cultured, and well-connected.

He was also, by all accounts, absolutely insufferable as a houseguest.

One day, Woollcott showed up unannounced at Hart's estate in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. What followed was a masterclass in bad behavior. He commandeered the master bedroom. He terrorized the household staff. He treated the entire property as his personal kingdom. When he finally left, he wrote in the guest book: "This is to certify that I had one of the most unpleasant times I ever spent."

Hart told Kaufman the story. They laughed about it. Then Hart made an offhand comment: thank goodness Woollcott hadn't broken his leg and gotten stuck there.

Kaufman looked at Hart.

And they had their play.

The Plot Thickens in Ohio

The fictional version transplants the nightmare houseguest scenario to Mesalia, Ohio, a small town where a wealthy factory owner named Ernest Stanley has made the catastrophic social error of inviting Sheridan Whiteside to dinner. Whiteside is a New York radio personality—sharp-tongued, culturally omnivorous, and connected to absolutely everyone who matters in show business.

Before Whiteside can even enter the house, he slips on ice and injures his hip. He's now stuck in the Stanley home for weeks, attended by a frantic nurse named Miss Preen and his loyal secretary Maggie Cutler.

What unfolds is chaos wrapped in wit.

Whiteside insults his hosts with creative viciousness while simultaneously befriending their adult children, June and Richard, and their eccentric aunt Harriet. He encourages June to elope with a union organizer her father despises. He urges Richard to abandon his expected path and pursue photography. A parade of bizarre visitors appears: paroled convicts, a professor who arrives bearing a gift of cockroaches in a glass case, old friends from the theater world.

But the real plot kicks in when Whiteside discovers that Maggie has fallen in love with Bert Jefferson, a local newspaperman who writes plays on the side. Maggie plans to quit her job and marry him.

Whiteside cannot allow this.

The Scheme and Counter-Scheme

Here's where the play becomes a chess match of manipulation. Unable to accept losing his secretary, Whiteside invites Lorraine Sheldon to visit. Lorraine is a glamorous, loose-living actress—the kind of woman who collects admirers like souvenirs. Whiteside's plan is elegant in its cruelty: have Lorraine seduce Bert, breaking up his romance with Maggie.

Meanwhile, Dr. Bradley—the absent-minded local physician—discovers that his original diagnosis was wrong. Whiteside can actually leave. But Whiteside bribes the doctor's silence by pretending to want to collaborate on a book, then spends the rest of the play dodging him.

Maggie figures out what Whiteside is doing. Her counter-move involves another visiting friend, Beverly Carlton—a suave British actor and playwright who can do a devastating impression of Lord Bottomley, an English aristocrat Lorraine is desperate to marry. Beverly calls Lorraine pretending to be the lord, proposing marriage over the phone, hoping she'll abandon Ohio for imaginary British nobility.

It almost works. But Whiteside sees through it. When Lorraine realizes Maggie was behind the deception, she doubles down on seducing Bert out of pure spite.

Christmas Morning Chaos

By Christmas Day, everything has collapsed. Bert is enthralled with Lorraine. Maggie, heartbroken and furious at Whiteside's betrayal, quits. Even Whiteside feels guilty—a novel sensation for him.

Then salvation arrives in two forms.

First, Banjo shows up. Banjo is a manic movie comedian, modeled directly on Harpo Marx. He's chaos incarnate, but useful chaos.

Second, a delivery arrives: an Egyptian mummy case, a Christmas gift from the Khedive of Egypt. Because of course Sheridan Whiteside receives Christmas presents from Egyptian royalty.

The solution presents itself. Whiteside and Banjo trick Lorraine into the mummy case and seal her inside.

But there's still Mr. Stanley, who has had enough. He orders Whiteside out of his house immediately, giving him fifteen minutes to leave. How can they get the mummy case—with Lorraine still in it—out of the house and onto Banjo's private plane?

Whiteside notices something. There's a photograph of Harriet Stanley from when she was younger. He recognizes her. She's actually a famous axe murderer who changed her identity.

This is the kind of play where discovering your host's sister is a notorious killer is a convenient plot point rather than a tragedy.

Whiteside blackmails Mr. Stanley into helping them smuggle the mummy case away. Maggie is free to marry Bert. Order is restored. Whiteside prepares to return to New York.

And then, walking out the front door, he slips on another patch of ice.

The curtain falls on him being carried back into the house, screaming.

The Real People Behind the Characters

Part of what made The Man Who Came to Dinner such a sensation was that New York audiences knew exactly who all these people were supposed to be.

Sheridan Whiteside was Alexander Woollcott, barely disguised. Beverly Carlton was clearly Noël Coward, the British playwright and wit. Banjo was Harpo Marx, right down to his anarchic energy and the joke about his brothers—when Whiteside talks to Banjo on the phone, he asks about "Wackko and Sloppo."

Professor Metz, the one who brings the cockroaches, was based on Dr. Gustav Eckstein, a Cincinnati physician who studied animal behavior and was a longtime Woollcott friend. In real life, Eckstein studied canaries rather than cockroaches, but the playwrights apparently found insects funnier.

Lorraine Sheldon was modeled on Gertrude Lawrence, the British actress who would later originate the role of Anna in The King and I.

And Harriet Stanley's secret identity as an axe murderer? That's an homage to Lizzie Borden, whose 1892 trial for killing her father and stepmother made her one of America's most notorious figures. She was acquitted, but the case never left the public imagination.

Woollcott's Reaction

When Kaufman and Hart showed Woollcott the script, he was thrilled. The printed edition of the play carries a dedication: "To Alexander Woollcott, for reasons that are nobody's business."

They offered him the lead role for the Broadway premiere. He couldn't take it—his schedule of radio broadcasts and lectures was too demanding. So Monty Woolley played Sheridan Whiteside instead, both on stage and in the 1942 film adaptation.

Woolley, incidentally, was a Yale drama professor before he became an actor. He had taught Thornton Wilder and Stephen Vincent Benét. His distinctive beard and acerbic delivery made him perfect for the role, and he became so associated with it that it essentially defined his career.

Woollcott did eventually play Whiteside himself in a West Coast touring production. Imagine that: the inspiration for the monstrous character, performing as himself, night after night. He reportedly loved every minute of it.

From Stage to Screen to Musical and Beyond

The 1942 film version featured Monty Woolley alongside Bette Davis as Maggie and Ann Sheridan as Lorraine. Mary Wickes played Miss Preen, the long-suffering nurse. The screenplay was written by Philip and Julius Epstein, the twin brothers who would, that same year, write the script for Casablanca.

The film had its world premiere not in New York or Los Angeles, but in Paragould, Arkansas, at the Capitol Theater. Hollywood sometimes did this during wartime—bringing glamour to smaller communities as a morale boost.

The play became a radio staple throughout the 1940s. Woolley reprised his role for Philip Morris Playhouse in 1942. Fred Allen starred in a 1946 Theatre Guild on the Air production. In 1949, CBS assembled a dream cast including Charles Boyer, Jack Benny, Gene Kelly, Gregory Peck, Dorothy McGuire, and Rosalind Russell.

Television adaptations followed. The most notable came in 1972, when Orson Welles finally played Sheridan Whiteside for a Hallmark Hall of Fame production. This is notable because Welles had been offered the role twice before—for both the original Broadway production and the 1942 film—and had declined both times.

Looking back, Welles said he was "very smart" to have passed on the movie: "if you've seen the film you'll know it was awful and there was no way for anybody to be good in it." Harsh words, but Welles was never one for false modesty. The 1972 television version updated Whiteside to a TV personality competing with Johnny Carson, a choice that The New York Times found so misguided they included it in their "Worst of Television" list for that year.

In 1967, someone decided the play should become a musical called Sherry! James Lipton—yes, the future host of Inside the Actors Studio—wrote the book and lyrics. It ran for 72 performances on Broadway, which sounds modest until you remember that most musicals close within weeks. Years later, the show was recorded with a studio cast led by Nathan Lane.

The Nathan Lane Revival

Lane also starred in a major 2000 Broadway revival directed by Jerry Zaks. In interviews, Lane talked about the challenge of the role: "There's a danger in playing Whiteside. In the movie, Monty Woolley's portrayal at times came across as mean for mean's sake. It's when it gets nasty or bitchy that it goes off in the wrong direction."

Lane brought a different interpretation. He suggested his performance was informed by Woollcott's sexuality—or rather, his repression of it. "He had a lot of...things he didn't want to deal with," Lane said. This adds psychological depth to what could be a one-note monster.

The production received mixed reviews. The New York Times critic Ben Brantley found it too jokey, "a series of flourishes that sell individual jokes and epigrams without being anchored to character." Others praised it. Jean Smart won particular acclaim for her portrayal of Lorraine Sheldon, demonstrating what one reviewer called "swanning showbiz phoniness."

This revival was filmed for PBS's Great Performances series, meaning anyone curious about the play can still watch Lane's interpretation.

Echoes in Unexpected Places

The play has had a peculiar afterlife in popular culture. British singer Morrissey—before he was famous with The Smiths—used the pseudonym "Sheridan Whiteside" when writing record reviews. Later, he quoted one of the play's monologues in the 1986 Smiths song "Cemetry Gates."

The play also gets a mention in an episode of The West Wing. It makes sense that a show about fast-talking Washington insiders would reference a play about a fast-talking cultural insider.

What It Captured

The Man Who Came to Dinner is a time capsule of a particular cultural moment. In 1939, radio was the dominant medium. A famous radio personality really could be that famous—a voice in millions of living rooms, a cultural arbiter with genuine power. The play's parade of theater people and Hollywood types reflects an era when those worlds overlapped constantly, when a theater critic could be friends with the Marx Brothers and Noël Coward and expect audiences to get the jokes.

But the play's appeal isn't really about topical references. It's about the fantasy of being so brilliant and so essential that you can behave abominably and people will put up with you. Sheridan Whiteside is terrible. He manipulates everyone around him, interferes with their lives, and treats his hosts with contempt. But he's also witty and cultured and genuinely interesting, and somehow that's supposed to make it okay.

Does it? The play doesn't really ask you to answer that question. It just asks you to laugh.

And when Whiteside slips on the ice at the end, doomed to repeat the whole nightmare, there's something almost karmic about it. He can't escape. Neither can the Stanleys. They're stuck with each other, the perfect houseguest and the imperfect hosts, forever.