New Plays

The Depths. Though these remarks are somewhat esoterically prejudiced by the knowledge that the original play from which The Depths was taken is a brilliant psychological study, the fact remains that the play was generously damned by all professional observers. In other words, it is unworthy entertainment, what ever its origins.

The theme drags up for reinspection the familiar history of the prostitute. As usual, she falls in love with an estimable youth who is ignorant of her profession. As usual, he finds out. As usual, she kills herself.

Wrenched out of its original psychological pattern and set into a dainty mould that would presumably appeal to local tastes, the present version simply does not make sense. The poor girl is burdened with all sorts of Grundyisms. She is made just nice enough to be impossible.

Even the estimable Jane Cowl could not improve the situation. She seemed as prone as the adapter to regard the 'girl with politely scandalized eyes. "Of course she's a bad girl, but we've got to make her as nice as possible," seemed the general slogan. The result was a cautious counterfeit.

Alexander Woollcott-- "So odd and preposterous a blend of Anna Christie and Elsie Dinsmore that one wonders its rehearsals were not dissolved and abondoned in the astonished laughter of the entire company.

Hell's Bells chimed with a doubtful harmony. Their refrain told of two miners from the West who came home again to Connecticut. In the clutch of one was a $500 bill. Promptly the old folks mistook them for millionaires. These same designing elders proceeded to prove that the rich relative was insane and should therefore be pitched into a sanitarium, stripped of his riches.

The playing of this artless interlude was uneventful.

Out of Step. It is not impossible that this play, shorn of about 20 character, focussed to pick out the lights and shadows, and rewritten with a feeling for the jazz dialect, might be a pert and serviceable entertainment. In its present form, it is diffuse, dreary.

The kernel is sound. A young man who lives and breathes only for syncopation marries into a dry-goods family with emporiums the country over. For four years he is bound by the chain store shackle. The family still regard him as a cheap actor, a low comedian, a gutter snipe. He makes the obvious burst and, as the final curtain falls, is headed for Broadway and a career of sound public service as a song-and-dance man.

There was a good performance as the jazz lad by Eric Dressier.

The Stork. A lot of valuable actors and a dramatization by Ben Hecht were collected under the wing of this strange entertainment. And, as if that were not enough, the original creator was a Hungarian (Laszlo Fedor). A few months ago, this final fact would have filled the initial witnesses with prospective palpitations. Since Vajda and even the reliable Molnar have faltered recently, the stock of Budapest has dropped. Yet The Stork promised pleasantly.

It had a grand idea, too. On the heros wedding night, he was abruptly informed that he had been made Premier of France. The platform on which he stood for office was confined exclusively to more and better babies. The birth rate of France was his chief concern. He promptly embarked on tours of encouragement to the fathers and mothers of France. When in Paris, he spent all his time receiving delegations and playing godfather to babies. To every home in France went his message of increasing progeny. To every home but his. Despite the fact that it was his own honeymoon, he found no time to spend with his own wife. This annoyed her.

The tall and personable Katherine Alexander played the wife. Geoffrey Kerr, a very English actor, the premier. Both have been much better under other circumstances.

Accordingly, Hecht, Hungary, idea and performers to the contrary, the play turned out a disappointment. Each in his own way is competent. The Stork seemed to elude successfully all their capabilities.

Beyond is the type of play which makes a normal mentality sputter and scream. Certain devious and distinguished minds consider it a remarkable achievement. Few pretend to understand it.

Very little scenery, and most of it excellent, is the single feature of the venture that appeals to the standard taste. No other flash of understanding beauty was allowed to filter through. The lines were for the most part fragmentary, often repetitious, never connective in the normal sense. They endeavored to tell the story of an emotional abyss into which a man and a woman plunged after they had played false to her dead husband's memory. There was no action. The two characters simply talked, with little sound and less fury.

From this somewhat destructive summary of Beyond, the reader will conclude that it was hopeless. As entertainment, mental or emotional, it surely was. Yet in this strange medium--expressionism--there is surely something finite, some sense of exploration that will ultimately find new dramatic lands.

The Small Timers. The week's list has been rather discouraging. Important players, companies and authors have mistreated their adherents with shoddy stuff. It remained for a totally unknown organization with an unknown playwright and obscure players to devise the single acceptable diversion. Let us hury to remark that The Small Timers is not great drama. Much of it is amateurish, the thought is trivial, yet it succeeds in developing a second act that is as amusing as almost anything in town.

In this second act, two runaways from respectable domestic hearths appear to satisfy their desire to be actors. There follows a satire on the extraordinary gyrations that go on in cheap variety establishments. They call it acting. When labelled and brought out to laugh at, it is acting, comic acting that diverts immensely.

The first act is futile and the last one staggers slightly. A good deal of the playing is superfluous. But the second act is the nugget of the week.