Theatre: New Plays in Manhattan: Sep. 15, 1930

The Second Little Show. If Producers William A. Brady and Dwight Deere Wiman had felt free to dispense with the valuable title of their successful intimate review of last season their present attraction would not suffer by inevitable comparison. Last week critics could not restrain themselves from hearking back to the cleverness of last year’s show, the clowning of Fred Allen, the gyrations of Clifton Webb, the ululations of Libby Holman.

Judged on its own merits, The Second Little Show is an extremely tasteful production. On the same ilk as Garrick Gaieties, its chorus girls are sprightly if individualistic, the young men of the ensemble appear at home in tailcoats. Principals and choristers trip through some graceful routines. In the matter of humor, however, The Second Little Show is regrettably wanting. Chief funnyman is Al Trahan, longtime vaudevillian, whose comic antics on the piano, accompanied by a buxom blonde with whom he wrestles from time to time, are stretched out overlong.

To the lyricists and songwriters of the show go most of the credit for its success. Arthur Schwartz and Howard Dietz, who were responsible for many of the tunes in last year’s production, have produced three memorable numbers: “Foolish Face,” “Sing Something Simple,” “Lucky Seven.” Perhaps even more tintinnabulating are the melodies of Messrs. William M. Lewis Jr. and Ted Fetter: “My Heart Begins to Thump! Thump!” and “What A Case I’ve Got On You.”

If The Second Little Show has a star it is small Ruth Tester, who weighs 88 lb. and once rowed on the Smith College crew. Having appeared in The Ramblers and Follow Thru, she it is who grimaces and capers through “Sing Something Simple,” an elemental little ditty which consistently interrupts the performance.

That’s The Woman is the latest offering of Playwright Bayard Veiller (The Trial of Mary Dugan, The 13th Chair). In the first scene spectators are apprised that a young socialite (Gavin Muir) will indubitably go to the electric chair for the murder of his best friend unless he is willing to divulge his move ments on the night of the killing. At the last moment Mercer Trask (A. E. Anson), a barrister of the Clarence Darrow variety, is importuned to cheat the gallows, free Mr. Muir. Lawyer Trask has not been on the case half an hour before he divines that Mr. Muir is shielding a lady. It takes the rest of the evening to find the lady and make her confess. Because of her awesome social position and because her mother has persuaded her that the fine thing to do is to let her lover sacrifice himself, the confession does not materialize until Lawyer Trask has confronted the lady (Phoebe Foster) with a courtesan hired to do the confessing by proxy.

Plodding along with a majestic pace, affording no fresh angle on such a time-worn situation, That’s The Woman presents no situation which audiences cannot forecast several scenes ahead of time.

Phoebe Foster, brunette and beauteous, having creditably acquitted herself in Topaze, The Jazz Singer, Interference, deserves a far better part than playing a Park Avenue Lady Windemere in such an inane piece as That’s The Woman. So does the rest of an excellent cast.

Up Pops The Devil. When he was employed to write advertising at $75 per week, Steve Merrick (Roger Pryor) was unable to write his book. Living in a Greenwich Village flat with Anne (Sally Bates), who is trying to be a dancer, his numerous and very funny friends thwart the accomplishment of any worthy project. So Steve and Anne get married. She goes to dance in a cinemansion while he stays home, keeps house, writes the book. This scheme proves faulty, and they quarrel and separate; she neglects to tell him they are about to have issue. Meeting again—after Steve has become successful—to plan a divorce, they become reconciled.

As a social drama Up Pops The Devil is thin stuff, but as a comedy it is eminently successful. Albert Hackett, one of the two authors, does excellently in the part of a gin-witted journalist, saving a generous helping of the funny lines for himself. Learning that Miss Bates had left Mr. Pryor without informing him of the baby’s imminence, he ingenuously inquires “Don’t they tell fathers any more?”

Roger Pryor will be remembered as the kinky-headed, bashful husband of last season’s Apron Strings. Up Pops The Devil affords him another chance to play the part of a puzzled, naive young man, establishing him as a first rate juvenile. Sally Bates, who has had dealings with the Theatre Guild, carries off the honors for gracious and adult acting.