New Plays

Aren't We All deserves all the usual reviewer's adjectives beginning in "s." It is smart and suave and sophisticated and sparkling--as amusing an English comedy as Manhattan has seen in some time. The plot turns about one of those kisses that are administered just to pass the time away--this time by a pleasant young gentleman, who thinks his wife is abroad, to a pretty girl, slightly under the influence of her own voice singing a love song. The wife discovers the kissers--and complications begin. Of course all are finally reconciled after many humorous misadventures that offer Cyril Maude any number of delightful chances to score as Lord Grenham, the father of the oscillatory husband, a charming old beau, who believes in kissing early and often, even in the wastes of the British Museum.

Heywood Broun: "First class foolery. Mr. Maude at his very best."

. Kenneth Macgowan: " A thoroughly amusing comedy, fresh and witty and finely acted."

J. Ranken Towse: " In this fragile but amusing piece, which hovers constantly on the border line between farce and comedy, Cyril Maude fairly comes into his own."

Not So Fast. As many critics commented, the title of this opus is apt. If Southern dialect were the only requisite of great drama, Not So Fast would be another Hamlet--but that is the most that can be said in its favor. The action concerns the usual city fellers who atempt to befool the honest but apparently boobish guardian of the two girl orphans and their fortune. Of course, he befools them instead. Allegorical triumph of virtue. Curtain.

Taylor Holmes deserves mention for his pleasant portrayal of the guardian. So do James Dyrentforth and Theodore Westman, Jr., who played the parts of two collegians ostensibly from Yale in a way to delight the hearts of all honest Harvard men.

Kenneth Macgowan: " A fairly dull play that might have been better written and a great deal better acted."

Alan Dale: " Decidedly slow."

Sun Up. One of the few convincing and unusual pieces of writing about the Southern hillbilly and his environment, somewhat spoiled by a frenetic rah-rah finale.

The Widow Cagle, moonshiner's relict, hated Yankees and Yankee laws. The War was a Yankee war-- she couldn't see why her only son, newly married, should go off and fight in it--fight in this queer place, France, that she thought of as a few miles away from Asheville. But he goes--and is killed. So far, the tragedy is moving, individual and complete. And then comes an act of creaky melodrama--the son of old Pappy Cagle's slayer (a former revenooer) turns up as a deserter from the army--the Widow is about to kill him--business of spiritualistic music offstage--business of the deserter boasting patriotism--and the Widow drops the gun--convinced by special wireless from the lands of ectoplasm that It's a Grand Old Flag, be it Yankee or no, that her son is happy and that everybody ought to love everybody else (except the Germans).

Lucile La Verne couldn't be better as the mountaineer Mrs. Cagle. And even considering the messy last act, Lulu Vollmer, the author, should rate sincere applause.

John Corbin: "As precious a collection of fine acting as has been on display the past season. . . . First demonstration of a playwriting talent that held forth the clear promise of better things."

Heywood Broun: " First two acts ... of unusual fidelity and power. Third act villainously inept."

Burns Mantle: " Something very like a human play."

Cold Feet. The usual bedroom antics, neither wicked nor daring-- only stupid.