New Plays in Manhattan

The Tunnel of Love (by Joseph Fields and Peter DeVries; based on DeVries' novel) suggests at the outset a satiric cannonade on that citadel of Exurbanites and seacoast bohemia, Westport, Conn. But it soon abandons anything so highbrow and becomes an illustrated jokebook on styles in childbearing. When married women aren't having children, unmarried ones are; or couples are adopting; or the sins of the fathers become the adoptees of their wives.

The play has funny lines, and here and there an amusing scene. But on the whole, it both bogs down as a tale and goes out of bounds in the telling. Motherhood may or may not be sacred, but it cannot for three acts without respite be altogether happily profane; the theme turns more than dubious, it turns dull. And the telling in Tunnel is no help. In dealing exclusively with errant husbands, expectant wives and unwed mothers, it is essential that there be a light touch that leaves no smudge, a swift skating tempo that outrides thin ice. The Tunnel of Love gives even its brightest remarks the neon lighting of the wisecrack instead of the sheen of wit; it makes its stork deliveries not swoops from the housetops but road-rumbling, door-banging trips by United Parcel.

The production is not without its good points: the cinema's Nancy Olson is almost as engaging as she is attractive, and Tom Ewell, though at times the quivering slave of direction, has always the wonderful look of an oaf with charm or a camel with problems. But too often the play--overlong to begin with--tends to spell out every last word where it should not even finish the sentences.

Holiday for Lovers (by Ronald Alexander) concerns a well-heeled Minneapolis family's first trip to Europe. Beginning in Manhattan, the Dean family and the play move from one hotel suite to another (Manhattan, Paris, Seville, Rome, Paris). Father, despite a heart of gold, is a bit Babbitty, short-tempered and over-possessive of his two daughters; Mother Knows Better and, between visits to Dior and Balenciaga, smooths things out; one daughter acquires a pianist and the other a painter. The usual names are on the Deans' list--the Sistine Chapel, the Catacombs, the Louvre; Mr. Dean's sharp-tongued sister and her husband keep barging in; a maid keeps talking French, Mr. Dean keeps trying to, and there are a good many sentimental interludes.

Holiday for Lovers is not just a carefully guided tour of a play, it is a no less carefully chaperoned one. On occasion Playwright Alexander can make tart enough remarks, but always in Holiday for Lovers actions speak softer than words. There are no real family rows or fatherly rages, only mention of them. Even where--and it is never for long--Playwright Alexander casts a satiric eye on the characters, he keeps a concerned one on the audience. He at least uses no come-ons: even in Paris, even among the easel-and-keyboard set, far from resisting temptation, his young people never encounter it.

Don Ameche and Carmen Mathews make exceedingly likable parents, and at its best, Holiday for Lovers is bright, amiable and even passingly witty. But as the play has no ribs, so the satire has no guts. Afraid to scratch even the surface, Playwright Alexander just gently pats it.

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