The Patriot. A massive evening in the theatre awaits the curiosity seeker who hurries here for his entertainment. He will see eight scenes of Russian history roll by; uniformed in scarlet, green and white, majestic with the murder of a Tsar.
Paul I, son of Catherine, Russia's greatest queen, was crazy cruel with power. Destroying the love of his people at home and the power of Russia abroad, he dug his own grave. Led by Count Pahlen, governor of St. Petersburg, his surrounding servants killed him and reared his son Alexander Tsar in his stead. Pahlen's struggle with his conscience as he moulds the murder of a trusting friend for the salvation of Russia adds the major note of personal conflict.
Gilbert Heron Miller, who gives good things to our theatre in the grand manner,* fathered the show. The adaptation from the German of Alfred Neumann was done by able Ashley Dukes, Britisher. The scenery, some said the finest factor of the evening, was designed by Norman Bel Geddes. Eminent English Players Leslie Faber and Madge Titheradge were specially imported. Fabulous sums were spent with a devoted flourish. Few men would take such risks. Mr. Miller escapes with every honor. The Patriot is a production to be respected deeply, to be seen by many people with great interest, to be regretted by many for a stateliness which robbed it of keen relish.
International. John Howard Lawson wrote what a lot of people consider the best play in the modern manner yet written by a U. S. playwright. It was Processional produced some seasons ago with none too conspicuous magnetism by the Theatre Guild. Since then those who were stirred by it hasten to see Mr. Lawson's latest. In this one they were disappointed; Mr. Lawson's modern manner has sent his play flying in every direction at once. It is in 21 scenes, some of them in Thibet. It purports to be a satire on modern life. There are capitalists, lamas, undertakers, English generals, prostitutes, Japs. Mr. Lawson jumbles them bitterly, bewilderingly.
The Merchant of Venice. Shakespeare has been but scatteringly surveyed this season by the more earnest theatre followers. Save the irreverent and eminently amusing Taming of the Shrew in modern clothes there has been no long run of the Bard's shows. Therefore, George Arliss was strategically situated to seize serious theatregoers by the ears and drag them toward his Shylock. He may still do so. No one can plot the perversities of theatregoers. Yet it was the feeling of many authorities that his Shylock was indifferent.
That unsavory gentleman, irate because his daughter has eloped with a youth of an opposing race, frantic because he could not extract the pound of flesh which was the price of his loans to one Bassanio, is not one for starched shirts and diamond dignity. The demeanor of flawless respectability which has so often served able Actor Arliss well now plays him false. He finds it difficult to add writhing to his words as they eject ". . . and spit upon my Jewish gaberdine." He finds it difficult to scream "My daughter, my ducat."