The Sea Gull 

THE TRIUMPH of Chekhov is the triumph of the unspoken word. I do not mean by this the triumph of incident, or action, or situation, in contradistinction to dialogue; I mean quite the contrary—the triumph indeed of the dialogue, but the dialogue which is unsaid. The words of a poet, the color of a painter, the notes of a composer suggest more than they apparently perform, if they are to have more than an ephemeral effect. And the same is true of the dramatist. The play in which the words express just what they say and no more, in which they can be spoken in just one way, may be successful for a season, but it will not live. The human mind demands more of its great dramatists than that. It demands characters which can be interpreted in different ways and lines which can be read accordingly; in short, it demands the unspoken word, the word which is the door to the corridors of the imagination. Those who have seen or even read "The Sea Gull" must realize that Chekhov is one of the few modern dramatists to whom this magic has been given. Only in the plays of the Irish dramatists, and in some moments of O'Neill and Anderson, do we find in modern English-speaking drama this double sense in dialogue. Most of our other successful plays, skilfully written though they may be, express solely what is in the words themselves, and are therefore only two-dimensional. 

What is the meaning of "The Sea Gull"? It of course tells the story of Trepleff, an idealistic writer, who kills himself because the girl he loves has been made unhappy by an older writer, and one far less original, who is the lover of Trepleff's mother, a selfish, egotistic actress. But this is merely the dry bones of the play. 'What counts is its exposition of character, and with that the exposition of an age and a civilization—the civilization of Russia's pre-war landed gentry. Well-meaning, and on the whole kindly, they are presented to us in all their basic futility and tired neurasthenia. We have Trepleff beating his head against the wall of insensitivity, too weak to fight the battle of life; Trigorin, the arch-type of the literary man of talent but without genius, weaker even than Trepleff in that he both understands his weakness and accepts it; Nina, the young girl who would be an actress, but who is afflicted with a sensitiveness which almost destroys her; Irina, the actress, vain, selfish, unreal in her emotions; Sorin, her brother, the arch-type of failure in everything he has attempted; Masha, who fails in her love and is unhappy in her marriage. Only Dorn, the doctor, seems to have lived life as he was meant to live it—that is, if we perhaps except Irina. Chekhov puts these people upon the stage and allows them to act and talk, as they would act and talk; not logically and for a predetermined purpose as an English or French dramatist would make them but with a strange Slavic inconsequence, which yet at the end is that of an iron-bound logic. A paradox indeed, but a paradox implicit with an extraordinary truth. 

The Lunts and the Theatre Guild have given "The Sea Gull" a most interesting and vital production in anew and splendidly vital translation by Stark Young. Alfred Lunt as Trigorin shows his artistic integrity by burying himself in the ensemble, and giving a passive performance of a passive role. If he is not entirely successful in getting rid of his comedy technique, it is at least only in his manner of reading his lines. Miss Fontanne is less successful. Her make-up is unfortunate and her performance is too flamboyant. Richard Whorf as Trepleff, Sydney Greenstreet as Sorin, Uta Hagen as Nina, and Margaret Webster as Masha are all superb. In short, "The Sea Gull" is one of the delights of the season. There ought to be some theatre in New York where such classics can be given and regiven. It is only by the playing of the classics that our public can be shown the triviality of what they too often hail as masterpieces. (At the Shubert Theatre.) —Grenville Vernon

Life Dances On 

AT THE Biennial Film Exposition in Venice, this picture was pronounced the finest production of 1937. "Un Carnet de Bal" (Dance Program) was written and directed by Julien Duvivier, who has to his credit, "Poil de Carotte." In both its weakness and its strength it is completely French. In seven different episodes, seven different artists give superb performances which are mutually dependent upon the rather absurd device of a lonely widow tracing the history of her partners at her first ball. None of the incidents would be particularly memorable were it not for the characterizations that quicken them : Francoise Rosay—out of "Kermesse Heroique"—as the demented mother who thinks her son is still alive; Jouvet as the master criminal and proprietor of a night club; Harry Baur, the disillusioned musician turned monk ; Willm, the Alpine guide; Raimu, the mayor in the Midi; Blanchar, the epileptic doctor; Fernandel, the coiffeur. Each of them, in the few moments allotted, suggests the possibility of another complete film. There is the rollicking comedy of Raimu who set out to be the President of the Republic and instead has become the president of every-thing else—in his own village. In the Dominican choir-master, Harry Baur shows a man who has run the gamut of life and found peace. "God has given me an excellent memory," he remarks to the beautiful widow, "but He has also suggested what I had best forget." The scene would have been more authentic had M. Duvivier permitted him to forget a bit more. It is only salvaged by Baur's quiet poise. 

In French, the dialogue is direct and the diction pure delight, but never were words worse mutilated in translation. As the story relies much more than other foreign films have usually done upon words, it is seen here at distinct disadvantage. The framework of scenario and photography are below American standards. There is no unity except in the person of Christine and the endless reminder of her carnet de bal; no idea other than the suggestion that it is best to leave illusions alone. The most telling satire is in the contrast of the real ball with the dream—where slow motion is used most effectively for the waltz. As a museum piece of the French stage, "Life Dances On" should be seen.—Euphemia Van Rensselaer Wyatt