New Plays

Maurice de Feraudy. In Les Affaires Sont les Affaires (Business is Business), this distinguished veteran of the Comedie Franc,aise calls himself "the tiger cat." But he hardly spits. His sense of humor is so overflowing that in the scenes where he should be yowling he is purring. In all his varied repertoire he seems certain that what this sad old world needs most is comedy. He prefers to exchange drama for a wink.

In Moliere's L'Avare (The Miser), that barbed satire on French thrift, the visiting star's abundant sense of the ludicrous makes the hoarding old wretch a spendthrift of merriment, a caricature instead of a nightmare. Similarly, in Octave Mirbeau's play about business his funnybone seems constantly elbowing out the dramatic elements. Instead of suggesting the ironhanded vulgarian of a millionaire, whose god is business, De Feraudy reminds one of Mr. Jiggs in the comic supplement series, Bringing Up Father. In an intense scene he puts his finger on a rocking wine bottle for a laugh. He is very expert in putting his finger on any laugh.

The mantle of Coquelin, distinguished French comedian, is considered to have descended on him, and despite his 62 years, De Feraudy enjoys giving it playful shakes. He has the twinkling mischievousness of Foxy Grandpa. Age cannot wither the vitality of his acting, with its spontaneous but deft gestures, including the forefinger laid aside the nose or gracefully scratching the ear. A delightful Gallic casualness pervades his performance, so that he does not hesitate, if the impulse takes him, to close a door carelessly left open in the middle of his speech, or to scratch his ankle while trickling around the stage.

His supporting company is fairly adequate, though it occasionally mistakesi foaming at the mouth for historianism. The settings seem to have been gathered up from the ruins of the Grand Guignol Players.

We Moderns. Israel Zangwill, hav-ing shaken his finger at the U. S., now shakes it at the entire younger generation. This author seems bent in his new play on providing his own Book of Knowledge for the children. He teaches them what to think of psychoanalysis, Longfellow, free love, free thinking, Freud, democracy, war, Christian Science, futuristic paintings, electrons and similarly unrelated matters. It is just like having the famed Britisher visit us all over again.

A wealthy London family provide the opportunity to waggle head and pen reprovingly. The father, a distinguished lawyer, is a solid stratum of old-fashioned notions. His wife is also old-fashioned to the point of slightly addled brains. Son and daughter are of the newer scope, independent, impudent. They are constantly snooping about in quest of suppressed desires and easily fall under the spell of a fashionable, artificial poet-soul in spats. He preaches hypocrisy as the one great sin of a modern world where other sins have been abolished through epigrams.

The son (an artist) humbly accepts one of the poet's discarded mistresses until, having fallen in love with her, he suddenly discovers that the poet has done more than dally with complexes. Meanwhile the poet is gushing amours to the artist's sister. Romantic, she believes his lovemaking goes no further than moonlight and roses; but a kiss he snatches at a midnight rendezvous opens her eyes. She considers him carnally voluptuous. Then a threatened operation for the vapid mother makes this flapper understand how precious Mother and her fogey ideas really are. Bathos.

Playwright Zangwill tries almost forcibly to be fair. He admits the young must indulge their craving for self-expression, while the old should give more pats on the head and fewer raps on the knuckle. But it is obvious that he really bows before Kipling's God of Things as They Are. It is Zangwill determined to grow old gracefully. He is intent on raising the dust by thumping sofa cushions which have already had the stuffing knocked out of them by numerous writers. His stodgy play is only occasionally relieved with flashes of wit, and sudden fits of farcical frenzy.

Helen Hayes is radiantly demure as the flapper, as deft and cocky as a bird. Hers is the only real spark of life in the piece. O. P. Heggie is condemned to suffocate his gorgeous Dickensian caricaturing in a stuffed shirt role. Kenneth MacKenna and Gilda Leary are others who try valiantly to keep their bearings.

The Lady Killer. While the murder of a young lawyer is supposed to be perpetrated in this comedy, the real victim is the spectator. The Lady Killer is a preposterous compound of claptrap and labored humor, which seems to have been written solely with an eye to the cinema rights.

Macbeth, James K. Hackett, hav-ing acquired the Legion of Honor for his single performance of Shakespeare's tragedy in Paris, presents Macbeth, now in Manhattan, seemingly, with all the might of the French Government behind him. He is like Foch at the Marne, standing immobile against the battering thrusts of fate. Apparently up to the climacteric point he has done nothing but shake his head like a lazy, shaggy lion, tossing the blows from him. And then like Foch he charges and turns the tide completely.

Up to this moment Hackett seems to have been content to write the meaning of Shakespeare's regicide, fumbling with his destiny in a large, sprawling handwriting. When he finally blazes forth he telegraphs. It is Shakespeare done in the towering manner of the old school, in which the star is slow to anger, but a hellion when roused. It is a wellrounded, extremely solid conception, wherein Hackett lets his audience warm up gradually, like a motor. He has made of Macbeth a statuesque memorial to the darkling souls of usurpers the world over.

Clare Fames is an admirable foil as Lady Macbeth, sharp and thrusting as a dagger against Hackett's tremendous battle-axe personality. Moffat Johnston (as Macduff) and the supporting company are well chosen. The massive settings suit this dreadnought production. Hackett has even arranged appropriate incidental music to show his complete mastery of the play.