Though an admirer of Mr. Kenneth Horne of many years'standing,
I must regretfully state that his play The Devil Was Sick (Fortune) is what is sometimes known as a stinkeroo—a cold collation of cuts from a number of creaky old joints. The country vicarage, the pert, sexy maid, the toque-laden grande dame who turns out to be a crook are as dead as last Sunday's mutton; undistinguished acting and dialogue do not help turn them into lamb, far less bring them to life.
Double Image (Savoy) has a little more claim to fame. The question whether Richard Attenborough is his own twin or not may not seem the most vital of themes, even when a murder is involved, but tension has somehow been screwed into the situation by Roger Macdougall and Ted Allen (the authors), and Mr. Attenborough does at least succeed in turning himself into a thoroughly unpleasant character—no mean feat this.
A million monkeys tapping typewriters for a century could surely not have produced the notion of turning Pagnol's screen classic Marius into a stage musical; it would have been a disaster if they had. Fanny (Drury Lane) is no doubt the result of human aberra- tion, but it is still a disaster. Instead of real Marseilles treated with real affection we must make do with a slick, cardboard travesty treated with saccharine sentiment. The music of Harold Rome and the dancing, though they are uninspired, at least distract the attention from banal dialogue and the well-meaning but pathetic efforts of Robert Morley and the rest to look French.
D. W.
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