The Theatre: New Plays: Apr. 20, 1925

The Backslapper pours salt in the wound opened by The Show-Off. The latter comedy tells of a man who has a tongue of honey and a heart of gold; the backslapper’s talk runs freely enough, but underneath there is the shark heart of the hypocrite.

His wife bears the burden. Every evening when he comes home from dispensing everywhere the cheer that wins votes, he takes his temper out for exercise. Hovering in the background is the silent, honest worker who worships the wife in purity and quiet.

There are several fearful scenes, at first, wherein the boys from the “old University” gather and tell one another that they must take with them through life the “old frat spirit.” Their relations are known as the “old pal code.” If you can survive the digestive irritation due to these remarks, the rest is better. But not a great deal.

The Mikado. It has been nearly six years since this most noted of all the great Gilbert and Sullivan series has played Manhattan. During these six, the complaint has been general. Now the piece is back in town and the rejoicing is general, particularly because the revival is in most respects admirable.

Wisely the emphasis is placed on melody. On the merits of this melody, comment is superfluous. On its delivery, compliment is due. Marguerite Namara, lately with the Opera Comique in Paris, adds beauty and a considerable lyric ability. Lupino Lane is an agile Ko-Ko. William Danforth, standard Mikado of this century in the U. S., is excellent as usual. The acting of Tom Burke in the part of NankiPoo was seriously displeasing, but his excellent concert voice paid back the debt.

Of the merits of The Mikado itself nothing need be said. This particular edition is elaborate in setting and interpretation. The production automatically becomes one of the necessities to every right-minded amusement regimen.

Cain. Lord Byron wrote it. It has never before been played in English. On its merits, the current production should be a guaranteed farewell appearance.

The tale is based on the Old Testament story of the most famous fratricide. The poet, however, takes a modern point of view, represents Cain as the first thinker. Lucifer is his advisory board; he objects to his brother’s sacrificing unoffending animals to his unknown God. Abel is a terribly earnest young man who certainly should have been killed. The tale is declamatory and undramatic. The acting is fair.

Stephen Rathbitn — “Consensus of opinion seemed to be that the play wasn’t as bad as everybody had expected.”

Wild Birds. Another page torn from the hungry innocent existence of the prairies is this play, which won some sort of prize at the University of California. An orphan girl and a runaway boy on a farm fall rather inevitably into each other’s arms. They attempt to run away from the brutal farmer, are hauled back. The girl finds herself about to have a child. The farmer beats the boy to death with a bull whip. The girl jumps into a well.

Such strong medicine as this requires bitter ingredients. These have not been faithfully furnished. Parts of the drama are heady, horrible. Parts of it are thin and tasteless. The author’s name is Dan Totheroh. His ensuing chapters will be watched with interest. The acting was typical of a Greenwich Village production— some of it excellent, some of it shoddy.

Stark Young—”Manages pretty constantly to engage the interest and to make us think it is going to be better than it is.”

Ruint. Pondering over this title, one stumbles on the truth—”ruint” is what happens to a girl when she gets careless. That’s how they pronounce it in the Carolina mountains. This particular girl was careless enough to get herself kissed on the lips by a vagrant Northern millionaire. Thereupon, the simple village menfolk consider her disgraced and rally round to marry her and reinsure her honor. Shotguns and tar are meted out to the unhappy Northerner. A rope is around his neck when the lady, having kissed, decides to tell.

All this was written by Hatcher Hughes, last year’s winner of the Pulitzer play prize with Hell-Bent for Heaven. Mr. Hughes spends vacations among these Southerners. It seemed in this play that he had glorified them just a trifle. Their humor is a bit too sharp, their characters a bit intensified. Yet the novelty, the philosophy and the intelligence of the piece makes it better than most. It is endowed with an uneven performance.

Heywood Broun—”It does not seem to me that the author has succeeded in his effort to present a benighted people wholly from their own point of view. … It is skilful eavesdropping, but it falls short of capture.”