New Plays in Manhattan

Green Grow the Lilacs is a folk-play whose elements are a good deal more folk than play. Because Playwright Lynn Riggs (Roadside) is a poet rather than a dramatist, his pithy piece is chock full of fine, salty dialog, but the dramatic structure is very slim.

The scene is laid in Oklahoma Territory at the turn of the century. The plot: Curly (Franchot Tone of Hotel Universe and Pagan Lady), a happy broncobuster, woos and wins Laurey (June Walker), who mortally fears & hates a psychopathic farm hand (Richard Hale) in her employ. During the wedding party Mr. Hale ignites a hayrick, falls on his own knife in a scuffle with Mr. Tone. Mr. Tone is held for questioning but escapes to his new wife. There the play ends, with the cowboys singing "Green Grow the Lilacs" offstage.

There is an abundance of lyrical description of the surrounding countryside through the actors' lines. Possibly because she has less of this beautiful but unlifelike stuff to put across, Helen Westley, as Laurey's crusty old aunt, easily carries off the acting honors.

Additional injections of atmosphere are made between scenes--while some extremely simple and effective scenery by Raymond Sovey is being shifted--by the appearance of a number of cowpunchers who sing old Western songs. This technique is not unlike that of Girl Crazy, the musicomical neighbor of Green Grow the Lilacs. When one overcomes the impression that Green Grow the Lilacs is a succession of song cues, it becomes a diverting presentation.

Private Lives. This is one of the crispest comedies that has come to Broadway for many a season. Perfectly acted by svelte Gertrude Lawrence, who has a fetching way of closing her eyes from the bottom when smiling, and deft Noel Coward, author and producer of the piece, it relates the adventures of a divorced couple who find themselves occupying adjoining suites and terraces at a French hotel on the first night of their separate new honeymoons. With the merriest of dialog they tenderly reunite, after quarreling with their respective new wife and husband.

Then follows a most congenial scene in Miss Lawrence's Paris apartment, with brandy-drinking, song-singing ("Some Day I'll Find You," by Mr. Coward) and great fun on a couch. Says Mr, Coward:

"Of course, according to the Catholic church we're not divorced at all."

Miss Lawrence: "But we're not Catholics."

Mr. Coward: "I know, but it's rather nice to think they'd back us up."

But their felicity is marred by violent bickering which culminates in a rough-&-tumble. At this point the deserted mates appear. The third act straightens matters satisfactorily.

Private Lives is written with a basic honesty that is apparent even beneath its not extraordinary plot and glib lines, almost every one of which is pure gold. Sample: "Some women should be struck regularly, like a gong."

As You Desire Me is by Luigi Pirandello, the brilliant and oblique playwright (Six Characters In Search Of An Author, Right You Are If You Think You Are) who is Italy's chief claim to membership in the bright republic of modern letters. First produced in Rome two years ago, As You Desire Me is concerned with this Pirandelicate proposition: a wife (Judith Anderson), having been raped and driven insane by visiting soldiery during her husband's absence in the War, is found living with a depraved German novelist. She is brought back to Italy, but so changed is she by her experiences that her husband and kinsmen begin to doubt her identity. The confusion increases when a demented woman appears. She too is put forward as the missing wife. Whereupon Miss Anderson disappears, leaving behind the impression that if the rest of the cast had desired her to be the lost wife, she would have been.

There is a great deal of melodrama in As You Desire Me which detracts from the idea behind the play. It seems to be the work of a playwright who has half-learned the fantastic technique of Pirandello, rather than the product of Pirandello himself. As You Desire Me, therefore, can be recommended only to the author's heartiest admirers.

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