THE THEATRE

THE reappearance of George M. Cohan has usually the effect

and tawdry in comparison; this year, by the grace of a slight diversion from his usual path, he has managed to call a great many features of the durable theatre into question. (I use these attractive words not in Gordon Craig's precise sense; the light and the serious theatre would be an equally accurate description of the two types.) For if Mr Cohan with his material, with his background and experience, can give so much aesthetic satisfaction, can give such intense pleasure to the contemplative mind, what becomes of the theatre burdened with loftiness and torn asunder with experimentation?

I do not know of another experimental theatre for which the auspices were so favourable as they were for the Provincetown Players of this year, in a theatre directed by Kenneth Macgowan, Eugene O'Neill, and Robert Edmond Jones; and I hasten to say that their first production, THE SPOOK SONATA of Strindberg, goes far to answer the question I have just asked. It is clear that a reverential attitude toward the stage and an inclination toward modernism in any field are not sufficient causes for the creation of a theatre; in the present case you can omit the religion and the intellectual bias-if they exist-and still feel that the directors have a specific idea of what the theatre can be and, what is even more important for the patron, a genuine talent for the theatre itself. This exists apart from Mr Jones' abilities as an artist and Mr O'Neill's capacities as a dramatist; and it has given THE SPOOK SONATA a sense of homogeneous growth, an existence and a style. Of the play itself it was interesting to note that in it the method of expressionism seemed to have reached not so much a beginning as a fulfilment; it is certainly more in one mode, and more successful in that mode, than FROM MORN TO MIDNIGHT; genius, however neurotic, has this capacity to outstrip and anticipate talent. And although THE SPOOK SONATA is irritating at moments and seems to wander, the actors in it definitely accepted the mood which the directors created. Mr Howlett and Miss Eames in particular profited by the occasion to do excellent work.

Between the extremes I have mentioned lies, for once, the work of the Theatre Guild which is usually definitely one or the other. The text and the production of SAINT JOAN both seem to me to be unsuccessful, to be uncertain of direction and mood. I suspect that an English law forbidding the representation of the figure of Christ on the stage led Shaw to use Joan instead; and having Joan he gave her a political significance in the development of nationalism which would be more appropriate to the French Revolution and which hardly furthered the main, the religious and historical, interest of the play. It is easy to understand that the martyrdom of Joan is not in itself the essence of the matter; nor is it the historical criticism implied in the character which Shaw presents. The interest is in our modern relation both to the martyr and to the assassins, and that is why the Inquisitor and the bishops are presented with such eloquent justice and are endowed with such gentle wisdom. I find in this no excuse for the epilogue which is dull in the theatre. Nor do I find in the spoken words sufficient authority for Miss Lenihan's Joan. She did many things well, but even the high courage of her scene with the Bastard seemed to lack an inner fire. And it does not matter whether Joan was surrounded by angels or attended by demons, in the mediaeval sense, or was hysterical or inspired in our sense; the truth which Shaw made no effort to escape is that Joan was possessed, and therefore was able to gain possession of the souls of others. Miss Lenihan appreciated and presented beautifully the brightness of Joan and her common sense; but it is no trick to call a Dauphin "Charlie" unless you can make him a King. It was the radiating energy, the violence of a thousand hearts beating within her bosom, that Miss Lenihan failed to give to Joan; the rest was always interesting, always intelligent; it could not be moving.

The name of Mr Cohan's play is THE SONG AND DANCE MAN. After his superb acting-the diversion I mentioned above is that he is not acting himself, but a character with a definite leading emotion-the thing to note in it is the actual eloquence of most of the first act and the general skill-marred by the worst of Broadway of the production. Looking over a list of other current pieces I find that the shadow Cohan has cast on them is thick and dark. GILBERT Seldes

MODERN ART

NE of the first results of THE DIAL'S publication of a folio of facsimiles of living art-and I expect many-will be an immediate inquiry into the reason why no such institution as the German Ganymed Press which made these astonishing prints exists in this country; and since Americans are loth to deny themselves anything and are thought to have a particular genius for facsimiles themselves, the demand will straightway follow that we facsimile the Press that so admirably facsimiles works of art.

A difficulty in the way of our doing such work-and I state it not to be pessimistic, but merely in the effort to begin at the beginning is that something quite foreign to the present state of mind in America seems to be required for it, an infinite degree of patience upon the part of the workman; two years, I'm told, having been required for the present folio. Then, as though patience in itself were not a great deal to expect of a workman, these Germans have had to understand the language of art and the special accents not of one, but in this instance of many artists, so to render all the vagaries of touch. I know nothing of the Ganymed processes, but I know enough of the camera and reproductions in general to know that science and machines cannot interpret, and where an artistic effect is repeated by machinery a human being who knew art guided the apparatus to its end. That has been the error that has stopped us hitherto in this country that those who have guided the machines have not known art.

To me, an American, the present accomplishment seems marvellous. I have had the privilege of comparing one or two of the originals with the facsimiles and, with a bit of luck, I guessed which was which, but I must confess it was only guessing. In particular, the reproduction of Picasso's painting in tempera, Le Bain des Chevaux, amazes me. I have not seen the original for some years, but had this reproduction been passed to me in an ordinary room and, say, under glass, I should have accepted it unsuspectingly. The few among my friends who have already seen the folio have each had their own amazements. One told me he was thrown absolutely into confusion by the two Signacs, not