CONTEMPORARY ARTS
THEATRE
All This Is Ended suffers from two defects which cannot, with due respect to the intentions and abilities of the author, be overlooked. Its conception is, however unconsciously, derivative ; the handful of officers and other ranks in a war-scarred Italian villa in I944 cannot, when they discover that they are all dead, fail to evoke memories of Outward Bound, especially when the rather too obviously acting, and on their own admission unpaid—the supra-human sub-angelic representatives of the new Supreme Commander are almost replicas of their originals in Mr. Sutton Vane's excellent play of twenty years ago.
But there is not necessarily any harm in evoking memories. Most plots do this, and Outward Bound—one of the few which, for most of us, didn't—had quite enough freshness and strength to father, inspire or suggest other plays. We would have forgiven or forgotten the fact that Mr. Alldridge was repeating a formula if he had done it with a higher degree of skill. Mr. Alldridge has skill, but he has not enough of it. " Undergraduate " is the epithet which constantly obtrudes itself as, time and again, the conflict of ideas and personalities is stated with perception and sincerity and then left un- or half-resolved. That war is a bad thing, that an early and violent death is, if possible, to be avoided, we knew already and we seem often to be on the point of learning more, for Mr. Alldridge forges an ingenious link between the dead soldiers and the world which each in his own way longs to save from the destruction which has overtaken him and his friends.
But none of it, in the end, adds up to very much. We respect the author ; we admire the players (especially Mr. Russell Waters and Mr. Charles Lloyd Pack) ; and we agree with the lady behind us that it is not in the least like lourney's End. But it is no use pretending that All This Is Ended is a good play ; and it is no use either adding, "Or anything like one." * * .* * There is nothing undergraduate about Mr. Ustinov's writing ; this is an adult play, and a very good one, too. The Rev. Henry Aspen is a failure. Looking back on it, he realises that he entered the Church only because he had a vague, glowing apprehension of the beauty of things, not because he was deeply religious. His sermons, groping with mazy sincerity after ultimate truths, remain incom- prehensible to his dwindling congregations ; when he tries to give comfort and courage to a servant-girl in trouble, she throws herself straight into the river. His wife, a hard woman made harder by her passionate and no longer requited love for a heartless boor, does not conceal her contempt for him ; and her brother, whose war service as a padre has strengthened his belief in the breezy certainties of muscular Christianity, is equally intolerant of Henry's ineffectiveness. Nothing very much happens in the vicarage at Oldchurch-in-the- Vale, where the destinies of half-a-dozen human beings interlock awkwardly but inescapably. Because, however, they are human beings, because Mr. Ustinov sees them in the round and explores their hearts and minds with penetration, sympathy and assurance, this play is very far from being dull, and is indeed one of the best now to be seen in London. Mr. Norman Marshall's production matches the writing in intuitive and unforced skill, and the cast is excellent. Miss Gladys Cooper rightly does not attempt to soften the hard yet pitiable outlines of the wife's character, and gives a very fine performance. Mr. Andrew Cruickshank draws a firm portrait (which could so easily have been a facile caricature) of the ex-padre's complacent heartiness, and Mr. Charles Cullum shows the same wise moderation in handling the callous, brutish, pathetic hulk of the neighbour who was once Mrs. Aspen's lover. Miss Anna Turner, Miss Charmian Eyre and Mr. Peter Street all do well ; but it is really Mr. Francis Lister's evening. As Henry Aspen he gives a performance of great though unobtrusive power which will remain long in the
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