SINCE there has been little new to speak of in London this week (I have been unable to pene- trate to Stratford) the time seems ripe for a silly season, selection for desultory playgoers. The short short-list is as follows :
FOR ALL GOOD MEN:
Summer of the Seventeenth Doll (New). An Australian slice of life; unequivocal, earthy, the kind of People's Theatre we may, with luck, be writing here in fifty years' time.
The Chairs (Royal Court). Obligatory for any- one interested in 'Theatre' as such, being techni- cally dazzling and revolutionary; it is also tragic, funny and intensely moving.
Titus Androtticus (Stoll). An overproduced and somewhat travel-strained blood-bath but worth its place for Olivier's superb efforts to achieve an impossible pathos.
A Dead Secret (Piccadilly). Paul Scofield and Megs Jenkins act poisoner and wife. Brilliant orchid-house atmospherics.
The Chalk Garden (Haymarket). Edith Evans in her grandest manner and her dreariest play.
At the Drop of a Hat (Fortune). Slight, delight- ful two-man smoking party. Under royal patronage.
The Boy Friend (Wyndham's). Impossible to believe you have not seen this musical skit on the Twenties after four years but it is evergreen and will bear seeing again.
It's the Geography that Counts (St. James's). For those who must have a thriller. It may also, alas, be your last look at this theatre.