New Plays

How Come? When Shuffle Along came to town, New York was captivated by a new musical comedy genre. Its plot was bad, its scenery would have been rejected by William A. Brady, and its direction seemed to be an impromptu affair, varying from night to night with the spirit of the entertainers. But it had real Negro jazz music, real dancing and a quality of speed and verve which was unique and refreshing. Strut Miss Lizzie and Liza, which followed, were progressively poorer. The naivete was gone, the speed became a deliberate mechanical effect instead of a natural exuberance, and the delightful " high yella " and " brown skin " flavor, degenerated into a cheap imitation of white musical comedy plus extravagant caricature of the native jazz tradition. How Come, in the opinion of most metropolitan reviewers, is the poorest of the lot. Whatever redeeming quality it has is furnished by Eddie Hunter, the librettist and comedian, who was hailed by the press agents as the "colored Jimmie Barton." But his eminence is due to the flatness of the surrounding country.

Within Four Walls. Like How Come, Within Four Walls is an attempt to commercialize the dramatic residue of previous successes. It is a fourth carbon copy of Little Old New York and Not So Long Ago, with overtones of Plots and Playwrights and Zoe Akins' The Varying Shore. A series of totally unrelated one-act plays involving incredible incidents in the life of the Minuit family are patched together and stretched across a framework of the Mendelian Law of inheritance, in order to demonstrate that blood will tell and that children are liable to take after their ancestors. The dodge by which historical flavor is achieved is hardly more subtle than having a character say: " Well, so this is 1852," together with an assiduous sprinkling of bustles, antimacassars and young ladies with what used to be called "the vapors." The play is badly staged, poorly written and acted after the manner of an overworked stock company.

Percy Hammond: " The best that may be said for Mr. MacDonough's new play is that it is not very good."

Alan Dale: " A theatrical ragout, goulash, or stew."

Heywood Broun: " It is quite evident that the end of the season is approaching."