One glittering night last week. Manhattan's theatregoers offered to pay up to $50 a seat to get into the venerable Belasco Theatre. They went to sit through something Chicago had been howling over for 33 weeks: John Barrymore, the Waning Profile, making a travesty of a play that travestied his own career. In a sense they were disappointed. My Dear Children was definitely not up to the low standard it attained in Chicago (TIME. Nov. 6).
Barrymore's burlesque of himself proved more bumpy than bumptious, his ad libs flabbier than flip. But he did...
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