New Play in Manhattan

The Burning Glass (by Charles Morgan) is one more melodrama in which a scientist discovers a new source of power --this time by harnessing the heat of the sun. Being the work of Charles Morgan, it is meant as far more--though at times it comes off as far less--than a mere thriller. The author of The Fountain is a stylishly earnest writer who, while posing philosophic debates over when the new weapon should be used, offers cultivated characters who spout Shakespeare and Keats and dress regularly for destruction.

They are all cozily upper-class--indeed, the Prime Minister who hurriedly arrives to claim Christopher Terriford's momentous formula for Britain was once a beau of Christopher's lady mother. But Scientist Christopher as firmly resists the P.M. on moral grounds as probably his mother did on matrimonial ones: arguing that spiritual matters, today, lag far behind scientific ones, Christopher will surrender his formula only in time of war or dire necessity. Meanwhile Christopher's chief assistant--who is in love with Christopher's wife--talks too much to a white-tied foreign gentleman, and Christopher is kidnaped. He soon returns, unharmed, perhaps because Playwright Morgan prefers the pursuit of ideas to a mere manhunt; the only remaining action is that the assistant, for fear of blabbing again, nobly swallows poison.

The moral problem of The Burning Glass is genuine, and Playwright Morgan's characters say some pertinent things. But there is no real sense of moral passion, nor effect of intellectual light. There is rather an unconscionable amount of talk that sounds much more like writing, and of love-making that seems written by rote. Despite a lively and accomplished performance by Cedric Hardwicke as the Prime Minister and about 15 minutes of good, vulgar, second-act suspense, The Burning Glass is a high-toned bore.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.