THEATRE
A London Actress. By Emma Litchfield. (Arts.) THE fierce rush of life on the West End stage has left only one play to notice this week, but, I am glad to say, it is solid stuff. As a matter of fact, it is quite a relief to get away from bad farces and booing galleries to good burlesque and hissing stalls. The plot of Emma Litchfield's melodrama is as corny as the most devoted Edwardian play-goer could have wished. What a lot of things went on in that bene- ficent reign. When young Ouida officers were not having knock-out drops slipped into their brandy-and-soda by adven- turesses bent on marrying wealthy sea cap- tains (a survival this, surely, from the old Elizabethan age) they were being accused of murder by the same adventuress (rather more subtle in her technique now) after she had disposed of the wealthy sea captain afore-mentioned by the simple mechanism of a dagger in the back. But let no one suppose that she gets away with it : Mais Dien possede UN DOIGT et l'Im- moraliie Ne saurait dc/rapper• a la Fatalite.
Un jour, quand il avail fait la grande fete, Un pot de resedas lui tomba sun la tete . . . . Verb. sap. — Hilda Mannering (nee Langley) is obviously destined to get it in the neck, and the neck is where she very nearly does get it quite literally. Not, how- ever, before she has had the mortification of seeing Clive Crawford's sister (her rival for the affections of Ned Kingston, R.N.) become a famous London Actress and the good heart of Moses Mendoza, the honest financier, display itself at her expense.
In fact, we follow Hilda Mannering's fortunes from the black cloak and slinky red dress of a harpy on the up and up to the rusty shawls which were at that period the recognised uniform of a bad woman on the rocks. Joan Haythorne takes all the oppor- tunities such a part offers for the display of lively emotion, managing to hiss even words containing no sibilants. The rest of the cast support her nobly and are, in their turn, well served by the producer, but I am not sure that the joke is not funnier in the first half of the play than in the second. Or Perhaps it is that i a bad woman is always more interesting when she is in her prime than when she is suffering (thoroughly justi- fiable) retribution. The trouble is that we begin to feel sorry for her. However, all in all, there was no great strain placed on the audience's sympathy, and they joined in What was essentially an amusing evening with Vigour. Now, talking of booing ....
ANTHONY HARTLEY
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