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Mrs. Warren's Profession, which opened for business Oct. 3 at the American Airlines Theatre, is the world's oldest — and the source of such hypocritical moral indignation in Britain that it was banned from the English stage from 1894 to 1902. But that was then, and this is now, and now all kinds of cultural shock-absorbers have kicked in — to such a degree that GBS is starting to sound like ABBA, especially in the opening scene when three middle-aged moths are flapping their flabby wings around an old flame and the question of who fathered the woman's now-grown and eminently marriageable daughter is raised.

The paternity issue is merely an appetizer. Shaw's main course is a mother-daughter banquet, and it's a real acting feast for those who take it on. Here, we have in one corner Cherry Jones, two-time Tony winner and one-term U.S. President (via TV's "24"); in the other is Sally Hawkins, a new critical darling (via the Mike Leigh flick, "Happy-Go-Lucky") imported from Britain to make her Broadway debut.

All this is played out on a country estate that is paid for with Momma's ill-gotten gains. If the old-flame dame is to be believed, the daughter's dad is not on the premises — he's not the architect (Edward Hibbert), not the businessman (Mark Harelik), not the minister (Michael Siberry). That's her story. Then, she makes her move on a possible son-in-law (Adam Driver).

"Isn't it a good play?" trilled a contented Jones later at the after-party held way out west on West 42nd at the elegantly spacious Espace. "You gotta give it all you got. Shaw writes it to be primal. There was a scene I was worried about, but the fourth act with Sally felt really strong. Isn't she magnificent? It's such a demanding role. She is the central character of the play. Mrs. Warren's name is in the title, but Vivie is the central character, and it is an exhausting role for a young actress."

View the Entire Photo Gallery Cherry Jones Photo by Joseph Marzullo/WENN

There was also an exhausting schedule that Hawkins had to contend with while putting together her Broadway debut performance — namely, the elaborate, far-flung launching of her new movie, "Made in Dagenham," in which she leads female workers in a 1968 strike at a Ford car plant protesting sexual discrimination. Bob Hoskins and Miranda Richardson co-star along with such New York rialto-known names as Andrea Riseborough, Rupert Graves and Kenneth Cranham. (For her next film, she'll continue the firebrand trend and play Irish activist Bernadette Devlin in "The Roaring Girl.")

For now, Hawkins is confining her roaring to the Roundabout's American Airlines Theatre, and Jones says she's frankly surprised at the ferocity at the returned-serves she has been getting. "While we've been in previews, Sally has had to go to the Toronto Film Festival for the film's premiere, then she had to fly to London for 48 hours and open it there. I don't know how she's done what she's done. We had a beautiful understudy on for her for several performances — she was very good — Stephanie Janssen is her name. Every time, Sally kept coming back with this stamina that I don't know how she comes up with because she has been taxed to the max. Edward Hibbert calls her The Iron Butterfly. She's an incredible actress."

One has to be pretty incredible to keep up with the Jones girl, even here where she has tucked her nun's habit and her spinster high-collar away with her Tonys and bravely, gamely gone for broke. "That's why I did it," exclaims Shaw's former Major Barbara, "to try a character I've never tried before." Prostitution does shake up the image after the Presidency certainly, and bordello madame is not remotely an ideal fit for her, but watching her get there is a lesson in the acting art.

Her Kitty Warren is not a conventional, contemporary type of tart but more reminiscent of the way Gladys George and Mae West used to trot out the old heart-of-gold stereotype, full of brass tacks and sass. Think Belle Watling, and you're in the right ballpark. "I think brothel women are a little bit of a tomboy," says Jones, who swaggers confidently into a room more than she girlishly sashays. "There's a bravura about them. It wasn't about sex. It was about a game they played for men."