Arsenic and Old Lace

Only four plays in the history of the American stage have had longer runs than Arsenic and Old Lace, which was performed this week in Wellington by a Williamson company. I expect that the play would have folded up on the first night on Broadway had It opened with the current cast. The play is a good one; it suffered a great deal in their hands. The story must be well-known now: two charming but daffy old ladies assist lonely old gentlemen to find surcease with fortified elderberry wine. Why such a macabre plot—that of general homicidal insanity—should so have caught the imagination of the public is somewhat of a mystery. Perhaps we as an audience think that it simply cannot happen anyway; perhaps, peeking over our shoulder at the contents of our own closets, we titter nervously; perhaps the play is just funny, after all. Certainly it is extremely amusing, though it has its overtones of horror.

Of the cast, easily the best were the two old ladies; some fine acting there. There was some good character work, too, by "Dr. Einstein" (no, not that one!), The rest of the players were pretty putrid. Lloyd Lamble, much vaunted character actor, emoted all over the shop, but he wasn't quite so bad as a perennial juvenile with dyed hair and St. Vitus' Dance named Mortimer. The only young woman in the show just stood, about and mouthed at the audience. The rest of the cast, apparently scene shifters brought on to fill in, were almost uniformly bad.

Well, New Zealanders are so starved for the legit, that they will flock in thousands to any stage presentation (viz., Extrav.). So I anticipate that the Williamson company will have a bumper season. (After all, they have some excellent plays.) But I've seen far superior amateur shows in this country.

Films

Nothing to report on the social or experimental front this issue—just quite a number of light and fairly good films.

The Major and the Minor.—An excellent light comedy, with Ginger Rogers as capable as ever. Dual role films haven't been in fashion for some time, but this one is good enough to revive the hordes of imitations.

The Phantom of the Opera.—A curious affair which endeavours to give everybody something. There is fine singing, very poor clowning about, magnificent sets, plenty of movement. But I'll bet Lon Chaney turns in his grave.

The Human Comedy. — A very pleasant, rather well acted film, with Mickey Rooney rather surprisingly behaving himself. But, oh, what a pretty picture of life It presents—no wars, no dirt and grime, but a nice roseate hue covering everything and everybody. To this critic, Saroyan's drooling come to life.