New Plays in Manhattan

Dynamo. All the fallibility of Eugene O'Neill as a playwright is to be found in his latest play, the first of a trilogy in which, believe it or not, he evidently seeks to answer no less a question than: What is God? It is the dramatization of that inexplicable bewilderment that has befogged men from the first grey light of a primeval dawn. To the farrago of groping speculation that has entangled the ages, O'Neill has brought the confusion of his own technique in the theatre. It could scarcely be expected that the result would be clarity.

The playwright has reduced the problem to unjustifiably simple terms. His querist springs from a clash between fundamentalism and atheism. He is the son of an unyielding minister and he is in love with the daughter of a belligerent unbeliever. Driven by the fear inspired by both these attitudes he sets out to find a god before whom he will not have to cower.

In electricity he finds a great life force. This he chooses to worship. But then, again, he finds that he is bowing before something that is unexplained. He sacrifices his earthly love to it but is unappeased. In the end he gives himself to this new deity, the dynamo, only to be thrown back lifeless, so far as this world is concerned. Or has he just begun to live? O'Neill begs the question with his final curtain.

It is, of course, a challenging play, as are all that come from this pen. It is told with strange confusion. O'Neill again resorts to the "aside," which he revived for Strange Interlude, and, at times, to the stark staccato of the new school. These make for cloudiness but the play frequently transcends its uncertainty with moments of eerie suspense. And the dia log is often shot through with a fine fire of poetry. It is played against elemental backgrounds designed by Lee Simonson which do much to soften its rough edges.

The playing is more intelligible than the play. Glenn Anders is splendidly desperate as the groping youth and Claudette Colbert not only plays the temptress with a true earthiness but is, in addition, one of the most beautiful pictures in this season's gallery. Dudley Digges gives to the atheist his usual excellent sense of values.

It is Miss Colbert's debut with the Theatre Guild, a happy event for both. She is a small brunette of perfect symmetry and French antecedents. New York first discovered her in A Kiss in a Taxi in 1925. Since then she has played in The Barker (in which she met Actor Norman Foster, whom she married), The Pearl of Great Price, The Mulberry Bush, The Ghost Train, Fast Life, and Tin Pan Alley. She has gifts which the Guild undoubtedly will magnify.

The Whispering Gallery. Those who frighten easily and enjoy it will probably find this mystery play more interesting than the recent average. It is frankly of the "I-wouldn't-spend-another-night-in- this-house-for-a-million-dollars" school, but it has its moments. The plot revolves around a house-party at a "haunted" country seat. Better acted, it would be more diverting, for it has comedy touches that might cover the holes in the construction if played with more subtlety. A. P. Kaye as a detective and Charles Warburton as the inevitable butler give thoroughgoing performances.

My Girl Friday. This purported to be a defense of the chorus girl. William A. Grew, who wrote and acted in it, believes and tried to demonstrate that the ladies of the ensemble spend their off hours in Long Island homes fending off businessmen who are anything but tired. On the road the piece was called Undressed Kid and it contained an unusual amount of bedroom material, especially underpanties. As if vulgarity were not enough, the playwright sought to disentangle the plot with a series of dull and tiresome explanations. It lasted four days. Then a patrol wagon called for Mr. Grew and his assistants. Actress Alice Weaver, chief of the innocents, collapsed, screamed for her mother.