THEATRE
A MAN, a coming man, whose wife is dying of an incurable disease, decides to help her to die. A mercy killing, in fact. But can he be sure that it is only that ? Not when he falls in love with someone else he can't. So Stephen Ireland acts according to his con- science and is consumed with remorse, as they say in the hovels, ever afterwards. The play is the story of what really happened to him and of his rehabilitation. Not a very promising subject. The whole thing is told by means of flashbacks, and I dislike flash- backs almost as much as mercy killings. It is therefore a considerable tribute to Romilly Cavan and the cast of her play that I enjoyed this evening at the Arts. Miss Cavan has a considerable gift for creating character on the stage: her people carry on like real people and charming people at that. Moreover, they are treated by their creator as though they mattered, as though they had dignity (human dignity is, after all, so often lacking on the West End stage). Stephen Ireland is provided with a genuine conscience and Kenneth Hyde plays him as a character with a brain should be played—soft outside, hard underneath. Ann Walford was charming as the ingenue from South Kensington develop- ing into the not-so-ingenue from Knights- bridge (certainly, not worth murdering your wife for), and Jenny Laird was good as the professional divorcée sister. Marie Ney gave a frightening performance as the unre- quitedly devoted companion-friend of the dying wife. What with a pleasant set and Miss Cavan's dialogue,the Arts Theatre seems to have done it again. The pace of the pro- duction might be speeded up a little, but, all in all, the play seemed to me to come off.
It is always sad to see people wasting their talents on a trifle—especially on a dubious trifle. In this case the trifle is of Roger MacDougall's fabrication and the subject is the perils of approaching adolescence. Allan Peters, a good decayed middle-brow actor deep in the heart of Bootland, but pleasanter than many of its inhabitants, finds that his son Jonathan (aged what? thirteen?) is given to staying out late on certain nights of the week, frequents strange company and is evasive when questioned. The Worst is immediately suspected, the encyclopedia is consulted about birds and bees, bed-clothes are inspected (I told you it was dubious)—all to no avail. Jonathan keeps his secret well. Only through a bit of bad luck does it come out, and then it's not what we all thought, though anyone with any nous will have guessed it half-way through. Alec Clunes as the father, Allan Peters, and Avice Landon as the mother, Marjorie, do their best with this intractable material, but the acting honours are carried off by Lance Secretan as the stammering bespectacled Jonathan. I don't know that there are any other bouquets to hand out. The play is written with some wit at first, but gives the impression that its'author tired of writing it about half-way through.
• At the Duchess, A. E. Matthews makes William Douglas Home's latest farce toler- able. Those who liked The Chiltern Hundreds will like this sequel. At the Criterion Intimacy at 8.30 adds a witty and sophisti- cated revue to the West-end repertoire.
ANTHONY HARTLEY
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