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Judas. That Basil Rathbone is an able actor there is no doubt, but his part in writing this ineffectual piece should dictate to him the confines of his metier. He is not a playwright. Obvious, intermediate lines try without success to sketch Iscariot as a better man, really, than Bible History makes him. He who is hard of hearing would enjoy the personable cast, the good settings by Jo Mielziner, but the hard of hearing go to the cinema.
The Subway. Six years ago able Playwright Elmer Rice (The Adding Machine, Street Scene) tried to peddle this play. Twice it went as far as the casting process. Never, until last week, was it produced, except for a brief presentation at the Cam bridge Festival Theatre in England. Many a worse play has been produced, but this is not another Street Scene, save in method. It is a cameractual dissertation on life in the metropolis. Sophie Smith (Jane Hamilton) doesn't mean to be bad, but she permits herself to be seduced by an artist. When she finds she is in his way, she leaves him, committing suicide by jumping in front of a subway train. It is only an honest play, not a good one.
Deep Harlem. This blackamoor musical comedy suggests in episodes the history of the black race from Cushites to Harlemites. In the syncopated moments of that history there is such brazen, delicious gusto as whites never attain. The humor is racially familiar and pleasing. One disconsolate Negro moans: "I'm the blackest ball on the table." But the company is too naive; needs a tonic of finesse to turn its dusky vigor into fine artistry.