New Plays in Manhattan

The Octoroon. Hissing the villain and shouting directions to the hero came back into vogue with the revival of After Dark a few months ago, at Christopher Morley's Theatre in Hoboken (see above). This is another by the author of After Dark. Dragged from its pre-war (Civil) dust and presented on Broadway, its thunderous plot is played "straight" by a capable cast. For those who can get enjoyment out of making fun of abandoned sentimentalities, it provides a pleasant evening.

Spring Is Here. In the spring an old man's fancy turns to musical comedy. Here is the first robin, flying in to music provided by Richard Rodgers. In addition it has intelligent lyrics by Lorenz Hart and a book by that oldtime craftsman, Owen Davis, who makes up with situations what amusement he fails to supply in the conversation. Not the least in importance is its cast: Glenn Hunter, making his musical debut after years in adolescent "drama" roles; Inez Courtney, who has a gift for flip clowning; Charles Ruggles, an able farceur; Lillian Taiz, whose voice is uncommonly good; Joyce Barbour, who is not given nearly enough to do; and Cy Landry, a dancing droll.

Young Alexander. The business of translating ancient idols for modern idlers is not new. John Erskine and Robert Emmet Sherwood have taken the edge off the novelty. It would seem that Hardwick Nevin had moments of realizing all this while he was writing his play about Alexander the Great, for he abandons the modern idiom from time to time in his treatment and launches forth into high-sounding blank verse. The result is confusion. Neither young Alexander nor the audience get anywhere.

The story itself is equally divided between fact and fable. That part of it which has historic basis deals with the young monarch's campaign against Darius and the Persians. To this the playwright had added a faintly Freudian obsession on Alexander's part for Helen of Troy, and fulfillment in the arms of Darius's young and neglected wife. The two leading roles are well enough played by Henry Hull and A. E. Anson, who might have made a very fine play of it hadthe author everdecided what he wanted to say.

The Town's Woman. There is a real horse-race on the treadmill which once played so important a part in Ben Hur; there is an aviator for women who are still pining over Col. Lindbergh; there is a mean old bond-dealer, and a self-sacrificing heroine, and a waitress in trouble; there is enough plot for six plays; there are two intermissions and, at long last, a final curtain. But it all looks like another misfortune for the new Craig Theatre.