New-Old, Old-New, and New

Theater New-Old, Old-New, and New ARLENE CROCE

T IS RARE to find a play to go to in New York which isn’t just a re- hearsal for next year’s movie starring Jane Fonda or Natalie Wood. It is rarer to find a play which hasn’t al- ready been a movie. But I relaxed at Dinner at Eight even though it had already been produced twice, first as a play (by George S. Kaufman and Edna Ferber in 1930) and then as a movie (by David O. Selznick and George Cukor in 1932), and even though the present revival revives less than it buries—for good, one would hope. There is an almost necrophiliac passion in the care with which the 1930s sets, clothes, props, people—Robert Burr’s bullet-headed magnate, Darren McGavin’s archa- ically vain actor, Pamela _ Tiffin’s Harlowe’en mask—are all exhumed and replanted with loving pats—form without feeling, fantasy without flesh. Not that such a passion can’t be mov- ing in the theater, or that a Depression-days, upper-crust comedy can’t stand up to the stresses of re- vival. But this crust, as it happens, was pretty thick delicatessen even in the long ago and such inferior stuff shouldn’t be allowed to pass today for period créme de la créme. The movie, all cellophane high- lights, is constantly on view as a classic. It’s bad and it’s boring but it had stars. Even at stage pace you could enjoy a film with,

AC

About the Author

Arlene Croce

Featured Tags

Theater New-Old, Old-New, and New ARLENE CROCE

T IS RARE to find a play to go to in New York which isn’t just a re- hearsal for next year’s movie starring Jane Fonda or Natalie Wood. It is rarer to find a play which hasn’t al- ready been a movie. But I relaxed at Dinner at Eight even though it had already been produced twice, first as a play (by George S. Kaufman and Edna Ferber in 1930) and then as a movie (by David O. Selznick and George Cukor in 1932), and even though the present revival revives less than it buries—for good, one would hope. There is an almost necrophiliac passion in the care with which the 1930s sets, clothes, props, people—Robert Burr’s bullet-headed magnate, Darren McGavin’s archa- ically vain actor, Pamela _ Tiffin’s Harlowe’en mask—are all exhumed and replanted with loving pats—form without feeling, fantasy without flesh. Not that such a passion can’t be mov- ing in the theater, or that a Depression-days, upper-crust comedy can’t stand up to the stresses of re- vival. But this crust, as it happens, was pretty thick delicatessen even in the long ago and such inferior stuff shouldn’t be allowed to pass today for period créme de la créme. The movie, all cellophane high- lights, is constantly on view as a classic. It’s bad and it’s boring but it had stars. Even at stage pace you could enjoy a film with,