The Theatre: New Plays in Manhattan: Nov. 12, 1934

Jayhawker (by Sinclair Lewis & Lloyd Lewis; Henry Hammond. Inc., producer). Mr. Lloyd Lewis, the historian (Myths after Lincoln; Sherman, Fighting Prophet) and Mr. Sinclair Lewis, as resourceful a story-teller as the nation has produced, have concocted between them a Civil War episode which will be found in none of the history books. They would have the audience believe that in June 1864, a Kansas Senator and a Confederate general, himself a onetime U. S. Senator, planned to have both sides declare an armistice, march united against the French interlopers in Mexico, thus put an end to fraternal bloodshed and reunionize the Union. Only a cunning Washington correspondent of arch-Abolitionist Publisher Horace Greeley prevented them from selling the scheme to President Lincoln.

The Messrs. Lewis are not related, nor are they professional playwrights. But they have managed to produce a drama which entertains, although it does not always convince, by placing their plot on the broad back of a beguiling rascal named Asa (“Ace”) Burdette (Fred Stone). “Ace” has been a fiery leader of “Jayhawkers,” those bellicose sons of the Middle Border whose ropes, pitchforks and rifles kept Kansas abolitionist because they did not want the agricultural competition of cheap slave labor. A noted boozer, tobacco-chewer and wencher, sly “Ace” is first seen confessing his sins to a camp-meeting audience so he can mount the rostrum and persuade the good folk to elect him Kansas’ first Senator in 1861. He is elected, goes thoroughly jingo when the first shell bursts over Fort Sumter, becomes chairman of the Military Affairs Committee. Then, after three years, “Ace” is sickened by the casualty lists, decides to end the fighting.

His colleague in the plan is General Philemon Smallwood, C. S. A. (dpy Walter C. Kelly, “The Virginia Judge” of vaudeville and the corrupt Congressman of Both Your Houses). Invalided in Washington, General Smallwood is as crooked a politician as “Ace.” Their fire-eating ante-bellum debates helped start the hostilities. It is a hard blow to both when the first honest deed of their official lives is prematurely discovered, balked. But rapidly reverting to type, each prepares elaborate lies to cover the blunder, part as bitter enemies as they ever were. “Sign it Burdette!” cries “Ace” to his secretary, who has just finished taking a blood-curdling public pronouncement urging war to the death. “Sign it Jayhawker Burdette!” cries “Ace.”

In the week’s second happy legitimate debut (see below), oldtime Song-&-Dance Man Fred Stone turns in a vivid characterization as hot-blooded “Ace.” A great parodist in his time, Actor Stone shines best when, as the persuasive stumpster, he drops into Western, Southern or Irish dialect at will, depending on whom he is trying to persuade. Unconsciously, he confuses the part a bit by also imitating Will Rogers, Eddie Foy and Glenn Anders from time to time.

Allure (by Leigh Burton Wells; Arthur Dreifuss & Willard G. Gernhardt, producers). Marion (Edith Barrett) has been a sadist from her crib. In childhood she incurred the hatred of her entire family by pushing her sister Joan down a flight of stairs, leaving her a lifelong cripple. Grown up, slinky Marion continues to raise hob. She brings home an Italian sculptor who falls in love with Joan, does a splendid statue of her. Mean Marion smashes the statue. Not until Act III is she persuaded to shoot herself.

The Farmer Takes a Wife (by Frank B. Elser & Marc Connelly; Max Gordon, producer). In 1825 cannons boomed from Albany to Buffalo as Governor De Witt Clinton, on a red and yellow barge, opened the Erie Canal. For 50 years it was the main commercial artery between East and West, the marvel of its time until the railroads came. With much nostalgic tenderness has Walter D. Edmonds (Rome Haul) written of the canal as it approached its decadence. Two able adapters, Marc Connelly (The Green Pastures) and Frank B. Elser (Mr. Gilhooley), have preserved for the stage every jot of humor, deviltry and brawling caste loyalty which Author Edmonds’ boatmen had between covers.

In the spring of 1853, just as the Big Ditch is freed of ice, Dan Harrow (Henry Fonda), a big, quiet farm boy, signs on as a mule driver for the summer. In Hennessy’s strictly moral canal hotel at Rome (immoral canal hotels could be identified by their white chimneys), Dan meets Molly Larkins (June Walker). She is a pretty minx born to the Erie water. The conflict between “notional” Molly and simple Dan is the traditional one between water folk and land folk.

Few people seem to have married on the “Grand Canawl,” the usual relationship being that of captain & cook. Molly is cooking for Jotham Klore, a profane, hard-drinking bully boy who seldom passes a lock without a fight. A quarrel with Jotham and a sudden turn of good luck for Dan sends Molly into the kitchen of Dan’s Sarsey Sal. A tranquil panorama by Currier & Ives, The Farmer Takes a Wife becomes emotionally articulate only when Molly is trying to infect her bumpkin beau with her passion for The Big Ditch.

But Dan was not born to be a bargeman. Before the summer is over, he and Molly have parted. Then, as the canal is about to close for the winter, and while an employment agent in Hennessy’s Hotel is significantly hiring “canawlers” to work on the Utica & Black River Railway, the young folk meet again. Dan has to toss Jotham Klore into the water before he can persuade Molly to come and live with him on his new farm. Excellent as are the sharp, penny-plain performances by Miss Walker and Mr. Fonda, they do not dim the legitimate debut of droll Herb Williams. In earmuffs and plug hat, he impersonates a sly dizzard who signs on as driver of the Sarsey Sal. Fortune is not a mule driver by trade. He prefers gambling and his various winnings in kind enable him to embark on such careers as the ministry, dentistry, photography and almanac salesmanship as the play progresses.

For years Herb Williams has made vaudeville audiences scream with delight by his quavering plea of “Spotlight!” from a dark stage. Sometimes billed as “The Bulgarian Military Pianist,” he used to rummage for a ham sandwich under his piano lid, draw himself a glass of beer from a spigot beneath the keyboard. His comedy was generally of the tear-the-place-to-pieces variety.