The daily worker. [volume] (Chicago, Ill.) 1924-1958, 1935-01-22
Reviewed by
LEON ALEXANDER

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WHEN he is not writing in his
w best, lightfooted, musical COM
edy manner, Mr.. Coward has a tai
ent for lending cheap, tawdry
plot the appearance of depth and
meaning. This talent, however, fails
him almost completely in Point
Valaine-almost, but not quite.
The play is badly written, SEN
sational, tropical sex drama, a
Grand GuignoI horror. The famous
Noel Coward flashes of wit often
sound like sententious hurnbug; his
best drawing room talk has become
what drawing room talk often is-a
i! painful bore. The plot is slow to
get started, loosely woven.
This is the bald story: Point
Valaine is an island hotel, off the
coast of Martinique, a French
ub-tropical colony. 1t is run by
Linda Valaine, widowed, and for
seven years the mistress of her
head waiter, british, primordial
Russian soul, out of Dostoevski.
Martin Wexford, a young aviator of
%, who has recently suffered a
crash during a flying expedition in
the wilderness, comes to the hotel
in need of rest. The inevitable
happens; the middle-aged hotel
keeper and the young flyer fall in
love. The Russian headwaiter,
whom everyone had thought gone
to the mainland, returns and finds
them together in bed. He beats the
woman, spits in her face; then
when he learns from her own
mouth that she has never loved
him he cuts his veins with a pocket
knife in full sight of the audience
and jumps into the shark-infested
sea. The young flyer leaves the
island, chastened and wiser
youth; the woman is crushed.
TO these three main characters,
Mr.. Coward has added a philo-
sophie and detached novelist who
applies the salve of understanding to
the young mans heart in the last
scene, and a number of insuffer-
able, undressing, specifically
drawn hotel guests who serve no
purpose but to allow their dull, irri-
tating talk to drag the thin play
out for at least the prescribed hour
and three-quarters. 1t all sounds
almost like the work of a tyro in
the theatre, and not of the expert
enced Noel Coward-almost but not
quite.
For, somehow, there is something
more in the play than physical
melodrama. I will not dignity that
something by calling it a thesis.
Rather, it is mood. the famous
Noel Coward mood" 1t never
comes clearly to the surface, but
vaguely it is wrapped around the
people. the settings, the action. 1t
is feeling that action, passion, &C.
tivity are stupid, vulgar, unneces-
sary, messy. The thing to prefer is
the cool detachment" of the nov
elist.
The play, however, is so badly
written that it seems far fetched
even to look for a thesis. But you
pays your money and you takes your
choice.
TIPON the trivial, careless Theatre
" connection, Mr.. Cowar
wastes the talents of three of our
grandest actors: Lynn Fontanne,
Alfred Lunt and Osgood Perkins.
The glow of Miss Fontanne's acting
lends some interest and intensity
to her part; the experiences of AL
fred Lunt gives physical excitement
to his scenes. Osgood Perkins plays
the novelist with dry, often keen
humor, but he never convinceS us
that he is q great novelist
rather, someone of Noel towards
own stature, often piffling, but pos
sessed of a vague awareness OF
tragedy that reaches beyond the
petty limitations self-imposed upon
his craft.