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When an old man in a play calls his daughter a pussyhole, you’re right to cringe. But there’s something about Alfred, principle character in Kwei-Armah’s Let There Be Love at Centerstage, that makes one want to give him a pass even as that phrase hangs in the air.

First, his daughter Gemma actually is, at first glimpse, a little bit of a whiner. That’s not the same as being a pussy hole, but she’s a second generation rebel who can’t wait for her dad to sell the house and, maybe, uh, buy her a flat. As a man who immigrated to London from Grenada years ago and struggled to bring up his two daughters alone, after his wife left, he should probably expect a little more.

So, yes, her dad, Alfred (Avery Brooks) has some reason to chase her out of his castle with his cane. And she has every right to call a Polish caretaker to nurse her cantankerous dad. And he has every right to tell the Polish caretaker to get the hell out. And then, he has every right to, well, warm up to her.

But what most keeps us on Alfred’s side is Kwei-Armah’s script, which transforms a fairly grumpy old man into a walking celebration of a West Indies/London vernacular that much of this Baltimore audience probably associates with cab drivers.

Kwei-Armah politely reminds us that we should listen a little more carefully. Let There Be Love is a drawing room comedy in the best sense. It draws us into a living room that we wouldn’t know otherwise. And it teaches us a new language, a brilliantly constructed bastardization of caustic English wit and West Indies bluntness.

And to be honest, offering a few scribbled samples won‘t do it justice. You’ll have to listen to it courtesy of Avery Brooks, one of those big name actors who occasionally parachutes into Charm City. People criticize Center Stage Artistic Director Irene Lewis for being a little Apple-centric, but here it pays off. Some actors wind up on Broadway (and in Star Trek: Deep Space Nine) because they’re, how do I put this, good. Mr. Brooks, to put it simply, owns the stage, even with a bum leg.

But he doesn’t hog it. And actors Pascale Armand, as his daughter Gemma, and Gretchen Hall, as the Polish maid Maria, both perform admirably. Gemma is an underachiever, but she’s no slouch. And Armand (and director Jeremy Cohen) have cautiously limned the subtleties of second generation immigrants. She’s picked up a big of the English working-class accent, and even though she hasn’t inherited her dad’s work ethic, she has inherited his fighting spirit.

Kwei-Armah has an eagle eye for the foibles and graces of West Indies immigrants, but less of one for East Europeans. The Polish Maria is, essentially, a foil (and not a very strong one) for Albert’s isolationist tendencies, and her own status as a cultural outsider is generally defined by jokey malapropisms.

Okay. Now for the less-than-remarkable plot.  After a couple of brief spats, the bitter old loner falls in love with the cleaning lady. But before doing that, he pours out his bitterness at his wife (now living in their homeland of Grenada), his two daughters (whom he brought up) and even his friends (if he has any).

At the play’s best, there’s a dark Beckettian humor to this older man, who is caustically and crankily playing out his own endgame. But while he’s ready to end it all because of his terminal illness, he seems unwilling to give up the language itself, and its unabridged vernacular of complaints which he has molded through decades with precision and clarity. This is his show, and Kwei-Armah’s ear and Brooks’ presence lend him the right mix of force and vulnerability to outlast the predictable and somewhat drawn-out finale.

The evening’s other highlight? When Ms. Hall interrupted the now-obligatory Opening Night Standing Ovation with an eloquent plea on behalf of Haiti, where her family still lives.

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