Theatrical weeklies report that
drama critics will be all resigned
and rusticated within another
year. We are already groping
in the twilight of the galler
gods.
In such an atmosphere of
sackcloth scenery and ashes of
art, therefore, it might behoove
us first nightly reviewer to pull
our shots, to spare that tree, and
to work with fellow mourners
towards the establishment of a
National Park for the Preserva¬
tion of Poor Plays and the Pro¬
pagation of Second-Rate Silli¬
ness.
I'm sorry, I'm one of an al
too evident public which prefers
no play to a poor one. My aim
may go cock-eyed but I'll shoot
until the last clay pipe is down.
In my far from infallible eye-
sight both Philip Goes Forth
and "Tomorrow and Tomorrow
look like poor plays.
Mr. Kellys little opus about
Philip, a golden lad who wants
to be a playright but just
hasn't the right, God-given
stuff in him, is a tame and an¬
nowingly tutelary affair. Why
the author of such Broadway¬
sized successes as "Craig's wife
ever
and "The Soff
bothered to elongate it from a
moral-cated vaudeville sit
can't tell you. Mr. Kelly is a
master of small talk, a pretty
caricaturist, and his more re¬
cent plays have made only to
successful efforts to confine
their tempests within teapots.
He so worships an effect of cas¬
ualness, he cannot be chagrined
when "Philip Goes Forth
me such casual returns from
the critice quite one an all
Mr. Barry's "Tomorrow and
Tomorrow was hailed, on the
other hand, by all critics but
one. From behind my haystack
I creep to admit I was that one
one. I read descriptions and
prophecies concerning it the
next day so glowing as to put
even Mr. Barry's own fine prose
to pallid shame. I had seen the
stuff that Pulitzer prize plays
are made of, and I had thought
it mush.
A few evenings later I stole
back to the Henry Miller
Theatre, got me a seat (paid
for it, too, in contrite cash!)
and saw the whole of Mr.
Barry's play a second time. So
soon as some of my squadron of
disagreers have wiped away the
froth from their Pegasi, I trust
his enthusiasts. One of them
tells me he must have been
awed out of countenance by a
Biblical quotation at the top of
the theatre program. I am
neither a crystal-gazer nor a
Bible Rebel, but it all seemed to
me to be at least satisfactory
clear. Oughin't it have been
Mr. Barry pulls out of its
Pinero-colored limbo the good
old statuette of the lady with a
love-child. For framework he
uses the Scriptural chapter
about Elisha and the Shunam¬
mite woman, and of the miracles
Elisha wrought to both beget
and revive her son. A famous
scientist is a guest in the house
of a mid-Western millionaire
and falls in love with his hostess.
as she with him. It is no mi¬
acle, this modern time. It is
plain cucko dry and fancy words.
Years later the scientist is called
back by a stroke of radio to save
his son from feyer and horse
back-riding.
The language in which this
legendry is couched is evidently
tangential and wispy enough to
give off an aroma of parlor
mysticism. Mr. Barry is a past
master at polite humors and
neat yearnings. He paddles
through melted pastels. Dim
the lights, warn the players to
keep their anguish down to
whispers, intersperse with cas¬
ual exclamations about the
wind, sky and cosmos... and
lo, beauty is bosh and bosh is
beautiful. Mr. Barry (here's the
bunt truth of it) has a pet's
license and a playwrights knack
to put over a completely
thoughtless and affected play
The recent revival of Ana¬
tol" was not letter perfect. And
revivals should be that, all of
that, not one comma less than
that, to justify their pains. A
few days more scrubbing, scrip¬
ping, glossing and speeding, and
"Anatole would have been. It
probably is so now.
And even on its opening night
it seems to me that this "Ana¬
tol," as handsomely cast is it
was, set in the most beautiful
scenery any stage has arbored
for several seasons, gave off
considerable graciousness.
Anatole is not a serious busi¬
ness it doesn't ever pretend to
be half so serious as its present
directors seem to have thought
it ought be but always was
and, all in all, still is a fond
parade of farcelets and pleas¬
antries on the theme of uni¬
versal bachelordom. In a theatre
world as gray and spent as ours
its return should be hailed as a
prodigal treat.
box 9
4.9. Anatol
Zyk
Commoneal
Feb 4-31
Anatol
RITTEN in the full ven of continental cynicism and
sophistication, Arthur Schnitzler’s Anatol” might con¬
ceivably lay claim to only one redeeming feature its brittle and
stabbing exposure of the Don Juan type of character, of the
vaulting egotism, of the false sentimentality and of the love of
self as reflected in others for which the Don has become the
supreme earthly symbol. But even this claim is doubly vitiated
first by Schnitzler's own play construction which is, for the
most part, obvious and heavy-handed, and secondly by the acting
of Joseph Schildkraut as Anatol.
Nothing could better illustrate the real difference between
art and mere cleverness than the wide gulf which separates
Rostands “Last night of Don Juan" from Schnitzlers
Anatol." The distinction reminds one a bit of the famous
law suit in which "Abies Irish Rose" was compared in theme
to Romeo and Juliet! Schnitzler’s play is just about the
Abies Irish Rose of the "Don Juan" theme a brief recount¬
ing in tabloid scenes, and in ironic mood, of the amours and
disillusionments of Anatol. Four out of the six incidents are
based on a single monotonous formula-the things that Anatol's
egotism leads him to expect as against the harsh realities he
encounters, in most cases with the moral pointed or hinted by
Max, Anatol's guide, counselor and much amused friend. A
fifth incident is merely Anatols unsuccessful effort to disem¬
barrass himself from an adoring lady on the morning of his
wedding. The sixth is the only scene with a touch of real
artistry and subtlety in the handling Anatoles meeting on
Christmas eve, under an arcade, with one of the few ladies of
Vienna who had resisted his approaches. But the whole point
of that scene comes with the lady's admission that she slightly
regrets her fidelita perfectly bald situation glossed over
chiefly by the perfection of Patricia Collinge's acting.
Mr. Schildkraut adds much to the sense of obviousness by his
acting, which makes Anatol about as glamorous as a wooden
soldier on parade. Fierce gestures and violent outbursts hardly
convey the true inwardness of the Don Juan character, which is
bound at all times to be ingratiating if only to give pleasure to
itself. It luxuriates in its own pathos, is the best audience for
its own drama, the keenest flatterer of its own wit, the richest
comforter of its own sadness, the most astonished witness of
its own failure. Don Juan is a fool and is burdened with
all the uncreative futility of self-love; but he is seldom an
obvious fool. Schnitzler and Schildkraut have conspired to
make Anatol a self-advertised bounder, which quite misses the
whole point. The best part of the current revival, aside from
the all too brief glimpse of Miss Collinge and the constant
suavity of Walter Connolly as the friend, is its stage setting by
Jo Mielziner. Vienna lives again in the glamorous illusions he
has prepared. (At the Lyceum Theatre.)