New Plays in Manhattan

Whoopee. "Here is another of Mr. Ziegfeld's sumptuous durbars, a large and glittering ceremonial with Mr. Cantor at the comic centre of its parades. . . . The celebration earns the right to be called magnificent. ... He (Florenz Ziegfeld) employs the expensive Eddie Cantor . . . the prodigal Mr. Urban. ... He inspires the lazy silkworms to weave new and fabulous fabrics. . . ."--Percy Hammond in the Herald Tribune.

"It is almost too well done. We become satiated with an excess of splendor. Let these ladies see to their makeup. . . . How it is to be cut down I cannot imagine. ... I ... I have seen ... I ... I ..." --St. John Ervine, in the World.

"Carnival time has come again to the New Amsterdam Theatre where Mr. Ziegfeld's first production of the season was produced last evening. . . ."--J. Brooks Atkinson, in the Times.

"In that opulently festive corner of the earth where Maestro Ziegfeld gathers his bards. . . . The swiftest, most lighthearted, loose-limbed show for miles and years around. . . ."--Gilbert Gabriel, in the American.

"Dear Flo Ziegfeld: . . . What, my dear Flo, is your secret? . . . Thank you, my dear Flo Ziegfeld, for the musical comedy the town's been waiting for. . . ." --Robert Garland, in the Telegram.

"Of course you do run out of Ziegfeld adjectives after awhile. . . . Why not just call them 'Zigs'? queried he. . . ." -- Burns Mantle, in the Daily News.

"The peer of all spectacle sponsors, the paramount figure of America's entertainment impresarios, the amazingly adroit F. Ziegfeld. ... It is swift, sure and steadily sparkling. It is better described as one of the grandest things Mr. Ziegfeld has ever done. He is truly a great man, this Ziegfeld. This [reviewer] . . . kneels at his toes and thanks him for having had a superb evening. . . ."--Walter Winchell, in the Evening Graphic.

With these perfervid paeans the drama-reviewers of Manhattan let it be known that they had caught Whoopee, a cute little musical show, starring Eddie Cantor and exposing to view large portions of Gladys Glad, Olive Brady, and the like.

Singing Jailbirds. To Author Upton Sinclair, it seems that the lack of charity with which rich men deal with poor men is a novel wickedness, separate from the other beetlish wars which people wage among themselves. He sympathizes with the poor men and writes tirades in their favor, damning "capitalists." Such a tirade is Singing Jailbirds which was acted last week by the New Playwrights Theatre.

It appears that the incident with which Author Sinclair herein expresses his rage actually occurred in San Pedro, Calif., in 1923. Strikers were imprisoned and when imprisoned they were compelled to stop singing their "wobbly" songs. By sentimentalizing this repression, and by causing his hero, Red Adams, to die in solitary confinement after dreaming dementedly of the scenes of his life, Author Sinclair has concocted a tract which will bring cheers only from those who agree with him.

For, though Em Jo Basshe has done well with his direction, and though a Broadway cast brings a welcome efficiency to the stage of a Greenwich Village theatre, the play never touches reality.

Angela. Twenty-eight years ago, among the most popular of Manhattan's plays was one called A Royal Family, stimulated by the grace and sex-appeal of Annie Russell. Now the Shuberts have disinterred it, playing tunes as they exhibit its creaking situations.

The plot calls for a simultaneous ascent into a tree by the heroine, a princess, and the hero, a prince incognito who will marry her at the finale. While they are in the branches, Alison Skipworth, as a queen mother, spies them and utters a scathing rebuke. Someone thereat points out that no dreadful improprieties can take place in a tree; whereupon Eric Blore, with frightening sophistication, says, "What about the birds?"

At other times it seemed that Actor Blore had an extra letter in his name; the tunes were weak, the jokes wore stays, the trollings were adequate, and Peggy Cornell looked pretty and danced nicely.

Three is a translation from the Yiddish play by David Pinski. It concerns a faintly nymphomaniac Beatrice who cannot decide between a sculping Damon and a poetic Pythias. The friends throw dice for the booty and the poet wins. Act II is a business of struggle between the unsuccessful sculptor and the invitation of Beatrice. Act. Ill for most critics was a business of getting a taxicab.