Last week gabby old George Bernard Shaw tripped through the U. S. Southwest leaving columns of commonplace impertinences in his wake. Simultaneously a 13-year-old Shavian masterwork made thrilling news for Manhattan playgoers when Katharine Cornell revived Saint Joan.
Critical consensus was that the Irish dramatist, well past his productive prime, had never been seen to better advantage.
For many a critic, Saint Joan is the lone instance in which the world's cleverest playwright discards the brakes of self-consciousness and permits himself one glorious swoop of spiritual freewheeling. In common with the body of Shaviana,...