Maurice de Feraudy. In Les Affaires Sont les Affaires (Business is Business), this distinguished veteran of the Comedie Française calls himself "the tiger cat." But he hardly spits. His sense of humor is so overflowing that in the scenes where he should be yowling he is purring. In all his varied repertoire he seems certain that what this sad old world needs most is comedy. He prefers to exchange drama for a wink.
In Moliere's L'Avare (The Miser), that barbed satire on French thrift, the visiting star's abundant sense of the ludicrous makes the hoarding old wretch a spendthrift of merriment, a caricature instead of a nightmare. Similarly, in Octave Mirbeau's play about business his funnybone seems constantly elbowing out the dramatic elements. Instead of suggesting the ironhanded vulgarian of a millionaire, whose god is business, De Feraudy reminds one of Mr. Jiggs in the comic supplement series, Bringing Up Father. In an intense scene he puts his finger on a rocking wine bottle for a laugh. He is very expert in putting his finger on any laugh.
The mantle of Coquelin, distinguished French comedian, is considered to have descended on him, and despite his 62 years, De Feraudy enjoys giving it playful shakes. He has the twinkling mischievousness of Foxy Grandpa. Age cannot wither the vitality of his acting, with its spontaneous but deft gestures, including the forefinger laid aside the nose or gracefully scratching the ear. A delightful Gallic casualness pervades his performance, so that he does not hesitate, if the impulse takes him, to close a door carelessly left open in the middle of his speech, or to scratch his ankle while trickling around the stage.
His supporting company is fairly adequate, though it occasionally mistakesi foaming at the mouth for historianism. The settings seem to have been gathered up from the ruins of the Grand Guignol Players.
We Moderns. Israel Zangwill, hav-ing shaken his finger at the U. S., now shakes it at the entire younger generation. This author seems bent in his new play on providing his own Book of Knowledge for the children. He teaches them what to think of psychoanalysis, Longfellow, free love, free thinking, Freud, democracy, war, Christian Science, futuristic paintings, electrons and similarly unrelated matters. It is just like having the famed Britisher visit us all over again.
A wealthy London family provide the opportunity to waggle head and pen reprovingly. The father, a distinguished lawyer, is a solid stratum of old-fashioned notions. His wife is also old-fashioned to the point of slightly addled brains. Son and daughter are of the newer scope, independent, impudent. They are constantly snooping about in quest of suppressed desires and easily fall under the spell of a fashionable, artificial poet-soul in spats. He preaches hypocrisy as the one great sin of a modern world where other sins have been abolished through epigrams.