New Plays

That Awful Mrs. Eaton. There lived a lady once, in Washington, of whom many suspected that she was not really a lady at all. The fact that she had been a tavern keeper's daughter had something to do with it. She was married to John Henry Eaton, Secretary of War under Andrew Jackson. Andrew Jackson took it upon himself to establish her social position. With her engaging Irish wit as his chief aide de camp, he succeeded.

The unfolding of this more or less historical tale requires six scenes. Of these, three could be deleted; and the play would remain a significant commentary on the masks and manners of an earlier generation. Of the scene in which Andrew Jackson has himself shaved while granting an audience to the British Ambassador, of his following fulminations against the flimsy turrets of society and of the episode of the White House Ball much good must be remarked.

One cannot see the history one studied in childhood magnificently recreated in the stately personages of Calhoun, Clay, Webster, John Quincy Adams and Dolly Madison without delight. So dextrous was the play in setting, character and costume that it stirred unmistakable delight throughout the audience. If the play's incident was mild, its brilliant qualities of pageantry more than erased the difference.

John Farrar and Stephen Vincent Benet are the authors. Possibly they imputed to Peggy Eaton a nimbler wit than they devised for her. As played by Katherine Alexander, the character caught the crackle of conviction.

The Far Cry. Those who are industriously interested in the stage have long known the facile genius of Robert Milton. He has been termed the most talented director of our theatre. This season he incorporated himself and plunged into independent production with The Far Cry. The splash attracted notables, professional and social, to the opening performance. They retired at eleven o'clock with their hopes vaguely dampened.

A very expensive cast gave a patchwork performance in a somewhat unpalatable play. The single redeeming feature was the bitter brilliance of Margalo Gillmore.

Miss Gillmore translated into beauty and cynicism the playwright's conception of an American girl who has lived too long abroad. Deserting the lax and luxurious friends of her not too immaculate mother, she turns up in Florence with an American artist who is not her husband. Her long-suffering father and the mother of her artist arrive to create a difficult scene from which she flees with an Italian count for no very good reason. Back in Paris, she repents on her father's shoulder and departs for America ostensibly to reforge her rusty morals against her marriage with the artist.

Heywood Broun --"A magnificent performance [Miss Gillmore's], a good deal of interest and entertainment, and a cracked window on life."

Gilbert W. Gabriel--"It it does not seriously threaten the traffic in travelers' checks, (it) puts an aureate lily in either hand of the Statue of Liberty."

The Busybody. A turbulent tale of chorus girls and stolen jewelry arrived under this trade--mark and achieved the distinction of being one of the loudest, if not one of the funniest, farces currently in operation. Ada Lewis, whose hoarse and drastic buffoonery have promoted the pulse of many a musical comedy, took the lead. She took in addition nearly all the critical cordiality that the production was awarded.

Made for Each Other. A stranger wandered into a small uptown theatre and was riddled with critical bullets. Everything about him was awry. The story he had to tell was jejune and his mode of narration was stumbling and shabby. He discussed in three switchback scenes just why the hero of his story was one hour late for his wedding.

Alan Dale--"Somebody remarked that the play needed life. . . was possibly too drastic, but 20 years --at least 20 years." Bewitched. A brilliantly colored and ambitious dream has added its spell to the diversions of the season. Fantasy is one of the most dangerous elements of the Theatre. The heavy hand, particularly the heavy stage hand, crushes its magic. The magic of Bewitched, occasionally disturbed by clanking scenery, contrives nevertheless to contribute a high quantity of beauty.

It tells the tale of a Boston aviator, crashed in a magic forest of France and in love with the daughter of the castle. As he falls asleep that night, he dreams that the Marquis of the castle is a sorcerer. In answer to his demand for the daughter's hand in marriage, the sorcerer presents him with temptations. The echoes of old love return in tempting series to drown the latest melody. Through a horrible night of memories he survives successfully to plead his case with the lovely lady in the morning.

Florence Eldrige is called upon for the complex portrayal of the granddaughter, the wizard's ward, herself "a sorceress in a small way," and the old loves. Seldom are such intensive and complicated demands made upon an actress in a single evening. Miss Eldridge was game, but hardly great.

Judy Drops In. A harmless little comedy that is probably not long for this world was among the late arrivals of the week. It is one of those clean, wholesome entertainments to which you can take your greataunt. Almost anyone else would be bored to death.

Greenwich Village, and a bachelor menage is suddenly surprised by a little lady who has been disowned by her horrid old mother just because she stayed out too late at a party. In the end she marries one of the bachelors. Greenwich Village turns out to be a tidy settlement after all, given to mild jokes and exceedingly correct parties.

Great Music. The old story of the man who came back is herein told. Only this man didn't. The demeanor of the telling is dangerously explosive, and dangerously obvious. It flies its danger flags so flagrantly that most of the witnesses can retreat, mentally, to safety before the crash occurs.

Throughout the play, an enlarged and presumably expensive orchestra thunders away at Erik Fane's great music. The action aims to tell the story of his life, on which he based his symphony. First he flees Rome with a mistress because his father demands his return to Wall Street. Failing to write his music in Paris, he slides down the scale and is 'next discovered in a Port Said brothel. Ably assisted by quantities of dope, he murders a cockney sailor man. His last lap is in the Marquesas where he comes down with leprosy. In the brief remaining years of sanitay he is supposed to have contrived the symphony.

The play shouts at the top of its voice for lovers of morbid melodrama. As a serious discussion of character disintegration, it is preposterous.