New Plays in Manhattan

Love on the Dole (by Ronald Gow & Walter Greenwood; Maurice Barber, producer) was hailed after its London premiere two years ago as a dramatic event of first importance. Last week Manhattan first-nighters were inclined to agree, for once, with their British cousins.

Even before it reached the stage, Novelist Greenwood's bitter description of the miserable living provided by Government bounty had assumed something of the authority of a State paper in Britain. It was referred to by members of Parliament when discussing the plight of the "depressed areas." Novelist Greenwood, who had written himself off the dole with his book, became a public character. There was national rejoicing when it was announced that his new prosperity would enable him to marry the sweetheart of his threadbare days. This was followed by a general lifting of eyebrows when the marriage failed to come off.

A realist, Walter Greenwood gives his poverty-stricken story a fresh angle, distinguishes it from the monotonous, incredible heroics of most proletarian fiction. Main reason the wretched people in Love on the Dole are believable is that they spend little time trying to adjust the work to themselves. Barely surviving, they have their lives full trying to adjust themselves to the world.

Worse could scarcely befall a family than the woes that beset the Hardcastles of Hanky Park, a suburb of Manchester Father Henry, who steadfastly refuses to "go Bolshy," prays only for God to give him work. Son Harry wins 22 quid on horse race and gets a girl into trouble. Unable to subsist as a human being on her meagre wages, Sally Hardcastle (Wendy Hiller) snatches a few rewarding moment; out on a Lancashire heath with an agitato named Larry (Brandon Peters). When Larry is killed in an unemployed riot, Salb makes her final adjustment to a pitiless environment by becoming the "housekeeper" of a paunchy bookmaker named Sam Grundy. In the season's most eloquent tagline, Henry Hardcastle then sums up the hopelessness of the whole situation: "I've done me best, haven't I?

Director Reginald Bach, who play Henry Hardcastlc. insisted that Love on the Dole be keyed low. demanded from his actors the understatement which packs the play with dramatic dynamite. In the brief time she has been on the stage, no amount of directing could account for the amazing performance of Wendy Killer. An untrained natural, now only 21, she was playing in a Manchester stock company when Collaborators Gow & Greenwood found her. They selected her because she looked good in shorts and had the Lancashire accent necessary for the part of Sally Hardcastle. They got more than they bargained for because it was soon apparent that Wendy Hiller possessed mimic assets rare among seasoned actresses. Like Katharine Cornell, she has the trick of inflecting her voice in several keys. She handles her body with the articulate abandon of Elisabeth Bergner, who looks good in shorts, too. The Hillers, well-to-do Manchester cotton people, were opposed to Wendy's going on the stage. But if Hollywood lets her sail back to England after Love on the Dole is over, Broadway will be much surprised.

The Postman Always Rings Twice

(by James Mallahan Cain; Jack Curtis, producer). Something happened to Frank Chambers when he went into Nick Papa-dakis' roadside lunchroom and looked up [ and saw Cora standing there. Cora was Nick's wife. The Greek offered Frank a job. Frank took it and Cora, too. After that it made Cora sick to think of the Greek putting his greasy arms around her. Frank wanted to take her away from the lunchroom, but Cora had a better idea. She wanted to kill the Greek. The first time they tried to kill him they just fractured his skull, and he got over it. The second time they took him for an automobile ride, got him drunk on sweet wine, bashed his head with a monkey wrench and shoved the car over a cliff. Cora was tried for manslaughter, but a smart lawyer got her off.

Instead of being happy now that they were living together and running the dead

Greek's lunchroom, Cora and Frank let the murder make them suspicious and afraid of each other. It did not help any when Cora found she was going to have a baby. Then she got another idea. They would go down to the beach and swim out a long way. If Frank wanted to kill her, he could push her under and it would look like an accident. They went for their swim, but Frank did not push Cora under. They knew they loved each other. They decided to take a trip to make them feel better. Frank ran the car into a telephone pole. The accident cut Cora's head off. This time the district attorney slapped a murder charge on Frank. They hanged Frank.

James Cain's monosyllabic minor masterpiece of love and violence in the Los Angeles district was a spectacular best seller two years ago. As abbreviated and re-edited for the stage, The Postman Always Rings Twice seems a more sober product, possibly because oldtime Cinemactor Richard Barthelmess looks, talks and acts too much like Rear Admiral Richard Evelyn Byrd to impersonate fully the formidable Frank Chambers of the novel.* That does not prevent The Postman Always Rings Twice from being an exciting chronicle for those who have not read the book. As Nick the Greek, Joseph Greenwald (Abie's Irish Rose] is wonderfully naive. As Cora, Mary Philips turns in another of her fine mature performances. Jo Mielziner has designed a pair of realistic automobile crash scenes which should supplement --And Sudden Death as a deterrent to reckless driving.

Dear Old Darling (written & produced by George Michael Cohan), written, according to the author, in the interlude following the World Series, is the 52nd play to bear the Cohan name. "There are 31 others," points out a program note, "for which he never took credit." Dear Old Darling is surely not the most original of the 83, but no one need be ashamed to take credit for it. Sensitive critics will savor its vintage rather than sneeze at its fustiness.

Lively as you please, this "comic experience in two acts" involves redoubtable Mr. Cohan, impersonating an ill-used old bachelor, in a badger game. There is a bit of gunplay, a knavish exchange of documents and some police work which appears at first glance to be extremely boneheaded. Best of all there is Mr. Cohan himself, elegantly self-billed as THE AMERICAN STAGE ACTOR, rolling his knowing eyes, wagging his graceful fingers, speaking his soft and sophisticated New Vorkese. Those who cherish the lexicon of the pre-War sporting character will have fun hearing oldtime Song & Dance Man Cohan protest himself "on the square," wryly conclude that he "might as well have the game as the name." As gracious as he is talented, Actor Cohan merely observed after the premiere that he "hoped he had not bored anybody."

*Said Actor Barthelmess. of his first stage appearance since he was an infant: "I felt that a screen player who has never been in a legitimate production almost has to accept it as a dare. It's almost like sticking your chin out, but every actor. I think, feels that he wants to round out his career by leaving no stone unturned."

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