New Plays in Manhattan

Ten Nights in a Barroom. Temperance tracts, wild wives tossing their heads, Andrew J. Volstead--none of these have withered U. S. alcoholism so effectively as this old-time melodrama. In this revival it is played with complete and proper gravity. The effect of this is often as funny as would be expected; yet, oft and again, some latter-day toper could be heard to gulp and sob, with regret that was not unmixed with remorse. When the little girl cries, "Father, dear father, come home with me now," it took a hardened sophisticate indeed to chuckle at her innocence. However ridiculous was this solemn echo of an ancient and silly sermon in melodrama, it was impossible not to realize that plays even more foolish have been played this very season, in Manhattan, with an intensity not intended to be comic.

The Scarlet Fox. This play, written, acted, and staged by Willard Mack, has to do with the adventures of Michael Devlin, a member of the mounted police force in Canada. When a corpse is discovered at the beginning of the first act, it becomes his business first to find out who committed the murder and then to lay hands upon the culprit. Having accomplished the first part of his duty, he visits a snow-bound sporting house, where northern whores are cavorting with their customers. Unmoved by these ladies, Michael Devlin goes on trying to get his man. At last he breaks into a dope den and gets a ratty, villainous Chinaman, achieving at the same time the love of an Irish colleen.

Snooty spectators may scorn the mechanical thunder of this Willard Mack truck, but they will probably be unable to do so until they are outside of the theatre. It is asserted that Theatreman Mack gathered his material directly from the blotter of a Canadian police court and it is also asserted, on poorer authority, that some of the incidents in his play will be discussed in a temple of justice far closer to Broadway. Said Burns Mantle, able critic to the N. Y. Daily News: "Hoist the warnings! Go tell Jimmie Sinnott, the mayor's censor!* The prostitutes are back!"

Hedda Gabler. It was highly suitable that, almost coincident with the celebration of the 100th anniversary of his birth, an able company should perform Henrik Ibsen's sharp tragedy about a lady who loved unwisely and not well. It was highly suitable also that such a revival should be conducted by the enterprising Civic Repertory troupe, headed by Eva Le Gallienne. Whether it was equally suitable to play Hedda Gabler in up to date clothing, to have cigarets as well as the passions of the heroine smoldering continuously upon the stage, were points upon which less unanimous judgment could be passed. The acting of Eva Le Gallienne is carefully planned, carefully controlled. Only when Hedda Gabler burns Eilert Loevborg's manuscript because she is jealous of the girl who inspired it, does Miss Le Gallienne permit an explosion of her wrath and bitterness. She listens to her pedantic husband saying "Fancy that!", and she shoulders the dreary affection of his Aunt Julia, always with the same icy hatred, showing her fury only in the vigor with which she extinguishes innumerable Lucky Strikes. Her performance was unsympathetic and, though disputably, effective. Paul Leysaac, as her husband, and Alma Kruger, as his aunt, played the roles as they have been intelligently played before to everyone's satisfaction.

The Beggars' Opera was written just 200 years ago by John Gay, a gentleman who lived up to his last name while he jeered, with suitable ribaldry, at the political corruptions of his enlightened era. Since its first production, The Beggars' Opera has never wanted admirers. In 1920 a London revival opened in Manhattan. For several years a road company has been touring about North America and it was this company which last week paid its second visit to Manhattan.

Unfortunately, its members seemed too determined to make their spectators chuckle at the easy impudence of the play; certain members of the cast, as well, substituted bird-like trills and chirrups for the proper words of the songs that they were singing. The story of a highway robber who married ladies when he could deceive them in no other way and who was at last almost hanged by the fathers of two of his brides because they hoped thus to secure a portion of his ill-gotten gains, is marred a little by such insufficiencies. But it is still accompanied by tinkling, happy tunes well played upon harp and viol. The Beggars' Opera, as now presented, will please those who enjoy hearing the echoes of a merry past.

*Also alleged to be Maya's censor (TIME, March 12).