Manners without Men
The Way of the World. By William Congreve' (Saville.)
THERE is, thank the Lord, no space here in philosophise about Comedies of Manners. Acres of newsprint would not have been enough before the war to house the gasq monsters that the latest revivals at the Saville must have conjured up. It will now be enough to say that The Way of the World, like the rest of its kind, reads like an actors' paradise. The lines have an exquisite turn, a clear, hard ring, a seductive answering chime which, one would have thought, could be mouthed by any person not having an actual impediment and still bewitch the ear and mind—a vie given some plausibility by their success on the wireless. How deceiving it all is! The stag is the real touchstone, for the sight of a lot of strutting periwigs and simpering furbelows (if I am not being anachronistic) is bound In emphasise the inadequacy of mere dressing' up, verbal or physical. These plays becomeDead Sea fruit unless superlative acting brings out what is contained in any of than that is worth preserving—the absurdities 01 human behaviour which lie behind absurdities of manners.
One comes away from the Saville with some pretty gritty cinders in the mouth. The mar nered veneer is all right, for Petulant and Witwoud have a good foppish sheen, and the production is nicely staged and dressed. It is when one bites deeper that the snapping of teeth and the yells of agony are to be heard' Kay Hammond's drawling, moue-ing Mills' ment carries affectation to absurd lengths, and John Clements is more perfunctory in acting and producing than I ever remember seeing him. Their two big scenes drag horribly Margaret Rutherford saves the day with a marvellous impersonation of Lady Wishfort-- for once mercifully unlike Lady Bracknell-- a poor, fading, humorous, old thing with 3 few ineffective puffs left in her. Still, London ought to do better than this with the cream of English comedy. We must see what the Royal Court can make of Wycherley neat
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