CONTEMPORARY ARTS
THEATRE
"Saint's Day." By John Whiting. (Arts.)
THE ARTS THEATRE is an admirable institution and has long been firmly established in the London playgoer's respect and affection. But the artistic direction has been up to some curious tricks lately. The first was the season, programme after programme, of short plays by Shaw—for the most part a tiresome waste of time and talent which could justify itself, if at all, only as an act of piety. The second has been the handling of the Festival play competition. From the hundreds of plays submitted three were chosen as finalists by Alec Clunes, Peter Ustinov and Christopher Fry and presented on the stage of the Arts. The first to be seen was Enid Bagnold's Poor Judas, the second C. E. Webber's Right Side Up, and running at the moment is John Whiting's Saint's Day, winnei of the first prize.
If these three plays are really the best of a big bunch, then it is a sorry look-out for the native theatre. As for the one judged best of the three, it quite defies description, far less analysis. Having dug out of himself a prodigious pile Of unassayed (but probably rich) ore, Mr. Whiting, so to speak, shovels it on to the stage and sits back while the mountainous muddle wins him COO. If prizes are properly won for ambitious intention, then perhaps Mr. Whiting deserves his. He is clearly a writer of promise, and if the prize encourages him, so much the better. But a critic really must insist on the distinction between the undifferentiated mass of raw material and the work of art that may or may not be beaten out of the sound metal bidden in the heart of it. There has been enough prolix poeticality in the last decade or two to last us for the next century. The Arts would have done better to award these three playwrights consolation prizes and carry the balance forward against
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