The audience, not the play, was the thing. To make the 7 p.m. curtain everybody had braved bright, sarcastic daylight in tie & tails, gems and gowns. London cafe society was out in all its power & glory.
Such splendor falls on theater stalls only on great occasions. This, in a way, was a great one: Better Late, Bea Lillie's first British musical* since 1942. The show itself was not much. Sighed the News Chronicle: "... A thing of shreds and patches—witty shreds and blank patches." The blank patches were very, very blank, particularly an aching void called Give My Love to...
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