Beanstalks.

When Jack went out and beheld the beanstalk that had sprung up overnight he was fairly staggered. On our seeing "Harvest in the North" our amazement knew no bounds, because it seemed impossible that such growth should take place at our very door. The soil must have been unexpectedly rich. So the small fiction of Jack is beaten into a cocked hat by this splendid reality of "Harvest in the North", the throe act play produced by the Dramatic Club a week or two ago. They seem to have gathered strength from somewhere: their bones have ceased dissolving, and lo, there is conviction in their eyes and voices.' Need we say there are no flies in the ointment? There's a crop. N' importe!

The atmosphere of the Lancashire edition-milling town, the cold-bloodedness B of the dole, discounting man's urgent need to work, the strangling inarticulation of the men and women put off the mills, the destruction of their lives and families - and then out of the fire of all this, the hope and courage of these people, was real, like life's blood, to the actors. On top, the play was desolate; underneath it was strong with the continual rise, rise, rise of those who must and will live. Probably the most vivid character was the woman-of-the-house, played by Beatrice Hutchison, Harriet was afraid, distracted by the course of events, but underneath calm with knowledge that made her build out of torment and chaos. And Beatrice revealed an instinct for this woman's life.

There were various divergencies flowing from the mainstream - undercurrents of fooling bringing to light facts that exist immovably in life alongside the broad, more general conflicts. Harriet's husband (D. Hartley) was excellent, bathed in a glow of tolerant humour, and quite cognizant of the truth, when he realised that one man's life cannot necessarily mean one woman...J.R. McCreary who played' the father-in-law of Harriet showed a new side to his acting. Somehow the shape of his head, the dramatic tones of his voice, bespoke the ardent bright-eyed youth of "F 6", and we felt all the time that, with the flexing of those neck-muscles, he was dramatising everything with the force of youth. John cannot conceal himself even behind greyed hair, but there were variations, tones and shadows in his portrayal of the dream-fed father which engendered in us a "fly-repleteness" very pleasant. Margaret Freeman (Trix) is getting a bit buttery. The part of the melting girl is hard to put across but unless things are taken carefully we shall have them melting over the stage, and that would only be a bother.

For the choice, the casting and producing of this play we are thankful. A. Donald Priestley we mention here honourably as the producer. Assurance is ours for the future, vade in pace, and may the seeds of the beanstalk be not only vastly propagated, but put forth fair growth.

C. F.