THEATRE
The Loving Elms. By Patrick Cargill. (Embassy.)
ALTHOUGH I am by no means exacting in the matter of whodunnits, I did for a moment imagine at this one that we were being treated to a burlesque of the horrific breed. It turned out to be quite straight- faced, though—a wet week-end in the West of England, a brass- bound millionaire stabbed in his room, an assemblage of guests with strong motives and weak alibis, and an amateur detective half as big again as anyone else on the premises. The suspects (all but one, of course) and the audience are eased into knowledge of the dire deed upstairs by way of a game of consequences ; and the fancy title, it should be pointed out, has only the remotest association with the plot. Well, dramatically it is the primest of ham, but I must say that the absurd plot tickled my fancy into some wildly inaccurate guesswork. Also, I thought that the able company (which included Sylvia Coleridge, Valerie White, Julian D'Albie and James Carney) did not come anywhere near disguising sufficiently their consternation and embarrassment. The dialogue is lumpish, but the voices could have lightened it a bit more : thrillers no less ludicrous than this have been accepted by the public. LAIN HAMILTON.
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