New Plays

Andre Chariot's Revue of 1924. There is one insurmountable advantage which English musical comedians and comediennes have over their American prototypes. They are all somehow bred to the idea that they are to marry royalty; they act the part. Conversely, there is an equal advantage our own players have over the English. American comedians, ingenues and prima donnas generally originate in the carefree substrata of society. They retain a certain impudent irresistible gaminerie.

What seems to be a very nearly flawless example of the British style was introduced last week by the Selwyns. It is advertised in towering type as an "intimate" revue. Intimate may be taken to mean quality rather than quantity in cast; taste rather than expense in scenery; personality rather than prodigality in production. Three exceptionally adept players--Beatrice Lillie, Gertrude Lawrence, Jack Buchanan-are pleasantly and persistently occupied throughout the entertainment. A moderately voluptuous and not particularly agile chorus of English girls is intermittently employed. The scenes are peculiarly abrupt, much of the humor novel, the music adequately mild.

For Anglophiles and individuals with nothing particular to do as night comes on, Chariot's revue will serve.

Outward Bound. Extravagant reports drifting in from London that this strange fancy--said to have originated in the bewildered imaginings of a shell-shocked soldier-is a masterpiece of modern dramatic literature, tended to irritate the Great American Sceptic. A severe first-night audience came to be shown, possibly to scoff. They remained, some of them literally, to pray.

The drama of the opening acts lies in the gradual awakening of the various characters to their destination. They are a most miscellaneous assembly--a drunken youth, a clergyman, Mrs. Cleveden Banks with all the careless vices of wealthy indolence, a business man with all the offensive manner of success, a pair of lovers, a charwoman, a steward.

Toward the end of Act I it becomes apparent that all the characters on the strange ship in which the author launches his drama are dead. Behind them the world has faded; in front lies the undiscovered country.

The tragedy of their situation is brilliantly relieved by the flash and crackle of an irrepressible wit. At times the play seems almost comedy.

Then suddenly, through the closing act, the mood deepens. The imminence of the Examiner hangs an oppressive cloud over the travelers. To tell of the manner of his coming and the exquisite semi-epilogue between the lowers would be to cheat the reader of a poignant emotional experience.

To the eternal credit of Mr. William Harris, Jr., let it be said that he enriched the spiritual quality of the play with every material advantage. He assembled an inspiring cast; he set the play perfectly; he employed Robert Milton, one of our greatest directors.

Alfred Lunt, as the drunken youth, carries the burden of the leading part with extraordinary comprehension and performance. Beryl Mercer (lately Queen Victoria) adds another memorable portrait to her stage gallery as the charwoman. Lionel Watts, Leslie Howard, and Margalo Gillmore lend competence that edges upon distinction to the clergyman and the lovers. The Examiner is Dudley Digges (Adding Machine man). The New Poor. The immigration Russian royalty to our shores is deftly satirized in this latest inscription for the stage from the pen of the socially penetrating Cosmo Hamilton. Into a household lately bereft of its entire corps of servitors, he introduces a quartette of nobles from the vicinity of the Volga. One of these is smitten with an urge to paint and secures permission to copy a trio of Rembrandts which hang in the family mansion. The discovery that the priceless canvases have been removed from their frames in favor of the copies requires the services of a detective. Nobility is incarcerated in the wood cellar. The subsequent denouement is so uniquely ingenious that no journalistic commentary can disclose it with propriety. Indeed, it is fair to say that the ending is the chief contribution to a consistently competent bit of dramatic entertainment.

The playing of this substantial superficiality is chiefly in the hands of Lyn Harding as the Grand Duke. The New York Herald: 'The neatest and most fetching surprise finish of the season ... an evening of spoofing, leaving the impression that -- here is George M. Cohan being done in an offhand British manner."