Life — April 14, 1927 — page 23: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Heavy Sopples OU can't imagine a nicer man having a worse time ¥Y ion Mr. Arthur Wontner in “Mariners.” He plays the Rev. Benjamin Cobb, afflicted with a low-life, hysterical and dearly beloved wife, and, as Mr. Wontner combines the lavender lovableness of William Gillette with the air of gentcel long-suffering of Walter Hamp- den in his more messianic moods, the thing #@ just about morc than you can bear. In fact, the whole play is. The Russians themselves couldn't get more tragedy into the trowel than Clemence Dane has done. Not that “Mariners” hasn’t many fine moments. And not that Pauline Lord doesn’t do magnificent things with the réle of the wife, so magnificent, in fact, that all ob- jections to the play seem rather petty by comparison. But the whole effect is one of having passed a pretty miserable evening, and while we are not one of those who go to the theatre to be amused, we prefer not to be depressed by repeated hammerings on the same spot. THE acting in “Mariners” does much to make it notable, Miss Lord’s is of such power as to place it in a class by itself; and Mr. Wontner and Miss Haidee ight would give distinction to any play. > hope that in Mr, Wontner’s next play he will a bachelor. He doesn’t seem to be a very good picker as a husband, having last been seen as the purely nominal mate of the off-stage Lesbian in “The Captive” and being here the provider for one of the least possible wives in the world. Apparently all that is necessary is to show Mr, Wontner (in character) a pretty face and he is off to the registrar's with it. MHIEN there is the réle of High Priestess of the Younger Generation, made as human and bearable as possible by Mary Kennedy, but constantly barking out those gems of common-sense philosophy which Miss Dane began writing for her heroines in “A Bill of Divorcement,” and which English writers in gencral have been ascribing to any young lady under twenty-two ever since the War. We have often wanted to live in England, but are held « by the fear of what that country will be like in a 'w years when these Younger Generation girls lose their willowy figures and their easy, loping gait and turn into middle-aged ladies with nothing left but their Younger Generation gift for management. We shouldn’t be sur- prised to see another Civil War. LTHOUGH it would scem that Zoé Akins does not always write things that please the critics, she very seldom disappoints the actors. Any one of Miss Akins’ plays is pretty sure to be an actor's parad Never was there a richer one than “The Crown Prince,” which Miss Akins has adapted from the Hungarian of Ernest Vajda. “The Crown Prince” has court costumes, tender speeches, regal trappings and “butter in a lordly dish.” It is elegant, and, even if it runs but a short time, it must have afforded the cast high satisfaction. It might very possibly be successful, for there are also a large number of laymen who derive secret delaght in the contemplation of mock royalty, including, in our mellower moments, this department. The story is a true one, of a prince who made every sacrifice, including the Ultimate one, for a beautiful lady, and as Basil Sydney plays the Prince and Mary Ellis the beautiful lady, at least the casting was accurate. Ever since Mr. Sydney played Hamlet in modern dress we have thought of him as a very credible prince, and certainly Miss Ellis fits the specifications as given. AST week we intimated that “The Spider” turned out to have the necessary novelty to make up for the whole wretched season of type mystery shows. We can speak more calmly of it now. In the first place, it is easily the leader, not only of the season’s mysteries, but of those mysteries which have in the past enveloped the audience in their meshes, (It is not the first to do this, as some have said. There was “The Last Warning” several years ago, and we still carry the scar from the whack we got when we swooned forward onto the seat in front.) You simply can’t tell which of your neighbors in the audience is going to turn out to be a mean old nvurderer or an accomplice in the dastardly attempt to involve John Halliday in the crime which took place right in your very lap. It is all very ingenious and exciting, and what is more, amusing. All that remains now in the way of complicating our murder mysteries is to write one in which a man takes his enemy to a play like “The Spider,” in which a murder is committed in the audience, and shoots him, escaping under cover of the darkness and random shots and the general willingness to accept anything that happens as part of the show. Such a murderer could be half way across Times Square before any one realized that he wasn't one of the actors....And, of course, in the play we are planning he would be one of the actors. What price Pirandello now? Robert Benchley. comicbooks.com