A Story for a Sunday Evening (by

(by Paul Crabtree; produced by Trio Productions and Milo Thomas 1st) is a tiresome little showoff that won't even make use of a curtain. Purporting to be a rehearsal of a play in the early stages of production, it deliberately wallows in confusion, tries to thrive on disaster, and insists on being bosom friends with an audience that barely vouchsafes it a nod. Playwright-Director-Actor-Master of Ceremonies Crabtree takes potshots at latecomers while offering pointers on the play; the stage manager struggles with the prompt book while actors add inserts to injury; the lights blow a fuse; an actress throws a fit.

All this chops up a drama in which the author is torn between a wife who loves him madly and a mistress who loves him more. Playwright Crabtree has not only given himself a whale of a part, but has depicted himself as one hell of a guy. The only snag is that he comes through as almost nothing of a writer. Nor is his technique of winking one eye while wiping a tear from the other, of crossing soap-opera passion with backstage pranks, more than rarely a help. He has merely opened Pandora's box in Mother Hubbard's cupboard.

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