New Plays in Manhattan

Faust. Wrapped with the finest trappings of the Theatre Guild and propelled by delicious off-stage airs, Goethe's masterpiece was revealed to Manhattan theatregoers as a tedious, mouthy drama several acts too long. There were moments when it was possible to believe in Mephistopheles, as played by Dudley Digges, an urbane and prowling devil; but his villainies were those of a barroom miscreant, his sacrilegious witticisms those of a sophomore, and it was impossible to get excited about the events which led up to the doctor's tragedy.

Faust (George Gaul) was seen early in the evening, moaning his discontent. Though often he voiced the assurance that he was thinking profound thoughts, his bombastic manner of doing so made you think he was lying. His intellectual hauteur had grown somewhat to resemble Gene Tunney's when finally the devil appeared with promises of pleasure. In the first moment of action on the stage and one in which for an instant the enchantments of the underworld seemed real, Faust wrapped his cloak around him and flew with his companion through the dark air in search of gaudy cities and delight.

The second act, due to the exquisite awkwardness and charm of Helen Chandler, seemed convincing and almost sufficiently beautiful to be exciting. Faust, having regained his youth, met Margaret and loved her despite the fact that he had made a bargain for his soul. First he sent his devil carrying presents to her, then he seduced her and finally killed her brother who attempted, idiotically enough, to defend his sister's honor. Faust dared to return later to Margaret, but, infected with diabolical and tragic cowardice, he did not dare to stay.

It was very painful to observe that Lee Simonson's settings, in which a pointed arch at the back of the stage became a frame for pictures of the sky or country, and Wolfgang Zeller's curious songs, were far superior to the play itself. Possibly this was due to the dull fervors of translation; but the only epigram which Mephistopheles achieved, though he was forever trying, was this: "He died like a good Christian for he had much to repent."

The Little Accident. When faced with the problem of making a play out of Floyd Dell's The Unmarried Father, Novelist Dell and Playwright Thomas Mitchell realized that it would be necessary to change the name of the book. The Little Accident was their idea of an improvement; but, having contributed this, they kept their fingers out of the butter and effected a thoroughly charming comedy.

Skeleton plot: a college youth, on the eve of marriage, is informed that one of his old extra-campus acquaintances has given birth to a child of which he is the father. He therefore proposes marriage to the brat's mother who impudently refuses, preferring to study art in Paris. The youth discovers his child in a foundling hospital and steals it; he is pursued by the daughter of a boardinghouse keeper and also by his fiancee. Too soon, it seemed to the audience, weary of their company, Norman Overbeck made amends with his original flame and they were wed.

The comedy is not, however, the measly enterprise which the foregoing account of it would indicate. Ingenuous and yet very smart, The Little Accident is full of laughter that keeps its place. Among other excellent performances, most notable were those of Katherine Alexander, as the unmarried matron, and Elvia Enders, a new actress, as the college boy's fiancee.

Paris. Billed as a '"musicomedy," Paris turned out to be merely the classic myth about the youth who got tangled up with a Parisian actress and what happened when his New England mother appeared to unravel the tangle. His mother took a cocktail; this made her drunken and uproarious. A twist at the finish: the actress does not marry the New England boy.

So pleasing was Irene Bordoni as the actress that any reiterations in the dramatic continuity could easily be forgotten. Moreover Irving Aaronson's Commanders (a ten-piece orchestra) apparently shared her living quarters on the stage for they appeared at all times to do tricks and make music. They sounded five songs written by Cole Porter, an idle and talented composer who lives too silently abroad; of these the best was, "Don't Look at Me That Way." Paris provides cheer and it deserves one.

Hold Everything. Persons who engage in the prizefighting professions are often dopey and malicious, false, fraudulent and hideous, pitiful and at the same time monstrous. These are not, it would seem, ideal qualities for the musical comedy stage; yet, in addition to two prosaic versions of the ring and the bookmakers, this season has now produced a flashy operetta wherein racketeers attempt to poison the champ. The last act embroilment in Hold Everything is less exciting than the one in Ringside or Jack Dempsey's in The Big Fight; perhaps the pugilist-actors follow the advice of their title and clinch too frequently. But in place of punches there are puns which produce deep laughter; Bert Lohr has been unable to pass his cigaret test; Victor Moore quavers funny songs. Ona Munson, famed "Manhattan Mary," Be^ Compton, still a strong danseuse, and Alice Boulden, recently emerged from a cavern along Broadway, provide all the feminine requisites of a good show.

The Light of Asia. A maudlin drama elaborately upholstered is often cheered in the josh houses of Broadway. Actor-manager Walter Hampden sniffed out a play about Buddha, The Light of Asia, written ten years ago by a student of oriental religion, Georgina Jones Walton; in this biography he appeared with a leading lady called Ingeborg Torrup.

Though the best of gods are eternal, their lives should be shortened for the stage. Buddha, as offered by Actor Hampden, seemed not very divine but as old as Methuselah by the time he stopped prancing as Prince Siddartha and took to meditation. Meditation cannot help seeming absurd when it is selfconscious. And Walter Hampden was absurd sitting under Claude Bragdon's excellent conception of a Bo tree or answering the silly questions of his disciples.

Any Buddhists who were in the audience should have stormed the stage as Christians would have done in case a mime made Jesus seem a bore. Such Buddhists as were to be seen acted pleased with the play.

Courage, is a play constructed largely out of the bright sayings of children as made to a mother whose wisdom and tenderness is that of Dorothy Dix. Tom Barry wrote Courage and Janet Beecher, who has a public, played it. She was an extravagant widow with seven children; these with the exception of the youngest abused her for wasting their inheritance. The one who was loyal was rewarded when the lady next door, who had loved his pretty, boyish face, left him $500,000 when she died. Thus there was plenty dough for everybody.

Just a Minute. There are no lengths to which musical comedy maestros will not venture in the effort to achieve a novelty. In this one, for example, the orchestra is made up of women; the idea would have been a good one if the women could have been taught to play properly. The plot is about a chorine who resists luxurious temptations and achieves fame without undue frivolity.

Ups-A-Daisy. A listless musical comedy. The cast includes Marie Saxon, whose legs win her at least the title of "The American Mistinguett;" Buster West, cute and toothy juvenile dancer; Luella Gear, William Kent, Nell Kelly. And yet it is dismal, for the lines are feeble, the tunes ordinary. The story deals with a husband who plagiarizes a book on mountain-climbing so his wife will not know he has spent all his time in Paris, none in the Alps.