To avoid burying the lead, let me say right up front that Harlequin Productions does an unimpeachable job of producing Phillip Barry's 1939 The Philadelphia Story. Billed as a romantic comedy, it's programmed as an obvious enticement to older patrons. That makes my review an unusually difficult one to write.

Imagine you've just seen Spielberg's Lincoln when you run into friends at the bar. They ask what you thought of the movie. What do you say? "Well," you might reply, "it was beautifully acted, the dialogue was clever, and it wasn't your usual light, bubbly comedy. Kinda long, though. Yeah, we nodded off an hour in. It's OK, though. Go see it." And your friends thank you and wait for the DVD. That's not Steven Spielberg's fault. It's not even your fault. Younger audiences have ADHD and seldom invest three hours in a plot they care little about.

So it is with Philadelphia Story. I'd be lying if I said it's right for the average Volcano reader, urbane as it is. As the script approaches its diamond anniversary, it expresses outdated notions that stick in the craw. The father of upper-crust protagonist Tracy Lord, for example, accuses her of causing his own infidelities. Spoiler alert: he's not the one who winds up apologizing. His estranged wife, meanwhile, slumps back into his arms for no discernible reason. The cast plays this scene as well as can possibly be expected, but it nonetheless smashes our ears like a brick.

As ostensible comedies go, The Philadelphia Story is only marginally funnier than Philadelphia. Barry drops dozens of 1930s references you'll need the glossary in the program to understand, but not many jokes. It's one of those plays where people take a magic narcotic that makes them blab secrets at each other, only to suffer that bizarre theater hangover that causes limping hours later. The first act introduces as many characters as Season One of Downton Abbey, only to waste several on a pointless subplot about the editor of a Fortune-esque magazine. People fall in love instantly, only to make more impulsive, unlikely reversals minutes later.

Again, not Harlequin's fault. Linda Whitney not only directs with precision but offers, yet again, a truly beautiful set design - two, in fact. I can't say enough about Helen Harvester's lead performance. She captures the regal arm acting and Bryn Mawr drawl of Katharine Hepburn, for whom the role was written, without indulging in caricature. Same goes for Aaron Lamb, who has Jimmy Stewart's way of swallowing his lines without bounding around the stage like George Bailey from a Looney Tunes parody. The whole cast is outstanding, really, so I wish I could be more positive about the script. I just found myself wondering if Tracy'd be better off ditching these knobs for a week at Club Med.

HARLEQUIN PRODUCTIONS, THE PHILADELPHIA STORY, THROUGH APRIL 6, 8 P.M. THURSDAY-SATURDAY, 2 P.M. SUNDAY, $20-$38, 202 FOURTH AVE. E., OLYMPIA, 360.786.0151