text: Usk Sr* \ j® Qk 1 4< A I%J 9 J»® i -W LJMF wlfflt M jjwJPoW.s i^' : -WBaL \W vJk P^Xzl/ 'r/ J / \I'■■/ h - J) wf \3/ / —\ iWWCTMBB ; r_' Jf W\ 'S j\ / Cz - A A. JJ \zll \ \-\\l \ vui ''"'w \1 \V " A ) /V' 4 ® williß W ™ The assault-murder of an Oklahoma marshal’s Indian wife touches off the dramatic fireworks in “Last Train From Gun Hill.” Here Anthony Quinn, the Gun Hill boss, tries to keep his son, the murderer (Earl Holliman), out of the THE PASSING SHOW Is Willy Loman Era's Everyman? By JAY CARMODY Drama Editor of The Star That’s right. Absolutely right. The critics did get together last Tuesday night on the terrace of Olney Theater. Moreover, they did discuss the play. Only obliquely, however. Their intermission chat had nothing to do with the quality of the production which, their later reviews agreed, is excellent. No reference was made to Author Arthur Miller’s acute awareness of, and singular articulateness about, life in his time. Nor of the force of his comment on the relationship of fathers and sons, parents and children, in a period of social revolution. Nothing was said of this. Nor of the vividness of James D. Waring’s direction or Myron McCormick’s deft translation from hard-boiled comedy, his specialty, to the soft-headed pathos of Willy Looman. No, the discussion could not have been simpler, more old-wivel, more over-the garden-wall. 11 Abrupt Years It had to do with the passage of time; how brief the 11 years have been since Miller’s play first appeared on Broadway with Lee J. Cobb in the Willy Loman role. One factor in this, one party to the discussion brooded later on the drive in from Olney, has to be Miller himself. Of his clutch at, no, his grasp upon, one of the universals of experience that could not have a more dramatic immediacy. "Death of a Salesman" is not a play that is revived. It has been continuously in the awareness of its author’s contemporaries the most constantly timely of modern plays despite an occasional lull in production. Could this mean, D’is correspondent asked himself that night enroute to the office, that it is the best play of the many best plays of the last 11 years? His answer was yes. Better by far than Miller’s later "The Crucible" and "A View from the Bridge." Than Tennessee Williams’ "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof"? Far and away. Than Archibald MacLeish’s “J. B.”? Not so far and away; that too catches a universal, but, yes, nevertheless. Everyman, Yes? No? This judgment relates to the symbolic size of Miller’s hero. Until someone makes a better nomination, Willy is this correspondent’s choice as the period’s Everyman. He is a dreamer, a bumbler, a salesman. "Out there in the blue, riding on a smile and a shoeshine." He doesn’t know how to cope. A prosperous society has taken care of Willy until, as the play opens, he has reached the age of 63. It provided him with a job which he found congenial enough. The job enabled him to marry and to fulfill his biological destiny as the father of two sons. The boys were handsome and one of TEEN Appears After Page D-6 AMUSEMENTS, Pages D-l-3 MUSIC and ART, Page D-4 STRONG DRAMATICS IN THE OLD WEST I: •• '■ • ‘||^BkS]Sk v^w|^Bnßr' w JAMES WARING Coped With Willy Loman them, Biff, as a schoolboy athlete was neighborhood hero enough to enable Willy to enjoy vicariously, a feeling of deep fulfillment. Life provided him with so many others of Everyman’s little satisfactions. He could buy a modest home on which, by living and working to the age of 63, he could make the final payment just before going into a forced retire ment. The pay-later system enabled him to round out the standard stock of other nec essities. But Nothing Lasted He could buy automobiles, as needed by a salesman. And electric refrigerators, none of which ironically enough ever continued to function effi ciently until after the Lo mans had made the last payment. The tricks of limited ac quisition, Mr. Miller makes so movingly and humorously clear in “Death of a Sales man,” Willy knew—as every man knows them. What is so touchingly vis ible in the play again at Ol ney is that Willy is as moral ly unequipped to cope with the complexities of living as he is materially outfitted with its so-called necessities. How to see that children need discipline as well as parental pride or worse, in Willy’s case, fatherly adula tion? This latter never oc curred to Willy Loman. Nor did he ever stop to reflect that anyone can be a moderately successful salesman in a world clamoring to buy. Mr. Miller’s pathetic hero, essentially tragic really, never asked himself a question that might have caused him to reflect on this. Nor the one of what one did about faithfulness in marriage to an utterly devoted wife, especially when a tempress turned up in the form of a good-time girl any salesman might meet on the road. Miller’s dreamer, the best drama character of his decade, preferred to let life be responsible for him, and to him, rather than the other ways around. In the endless fascination of the play, Willy has a dismaying. Every man looks about him. Especially in a production as perceptively directed and sensitively played as that at Olney. Clutches of the marshal, played by Kirk Douglas. Carolyn Jones is the girl in the background torn between two strong men. The film is due on the Loew’s Capitol screen in the near future, following “Say One For Me.” TODAY'S SCHEDULES STAGE CANDLELIGHT PLAYHOUSE—“Janus,” Jeff Donnell in a comedy about summer infidelity; 2:45 and 8:45 p.m. CARTER BARRON AMPHITHEATER—World Dance Festival; 8:30 p.m. OLNEY—"Death of a Salesman,” Myron McCormick in Arthur Miller's powerful drama; 2:30 and 8:30 p.m. ROSECROFT MUSIC CIRCUS OLLNEY—"Death of a Salesman,” Myron McCormick in Arthur Miller's powerful drama; 2:30 and 8:30 p.m. ROSECROFT MUSIC CIRCUS —“The New Merry Widow.” The tuneful Franz Lehar operetta; 8:30 p.m. SCREEN AMBASSADOR—"The Nun’s Story.” Audrey Bepburn as a nursing sister in Africa; 1:10, 3:50, 6:35 and 9:25 p.m. CAPITOL—"Say One for Me”; Father Bing Crosby watches over bubbly Debbie Reynolds; 1:05, 3:15, 5:20, 7:30 and 9:40 pm. COLUMBIA—“Day of the Outlaw”; violence and Tina Louise in old Wyoming; 1:50, 3:50, 5:50, 7:50 and 9:50 p.m. DUPONT—"Grand Illusion"; Jean Renoir’s masterpiece on the futility of war; 1:15, 3:20, 5:20, 7:30 and 9:35 p.m. KEITH'S—"The Horse Soldiers”; Civil War drama in John Ford’s best manner; 1:10, 3:20, 5:35, 7:45 and 9:55 p.m. MacARTHUR—“Room at the Top”; searing drama of a ruthless success seeker; 2, 4:30, 7:05 and 9:45 p.m. METROPOLITAN—“The Nun’s Story,” Audrey Hepburn as a nursing sister in Africa; 1:30, 4:05, 6:50 and 9:25 p.m. ONTARIO—“The Five Pennies”; Danny Kaye as Band leader Red Nichols; 1:10, 3:20, 5:30, 7:45 and 9:55 p.m. PALACE—“This Earth Is Mine”; drama in California’s vineyards; 1:30, 3:15, 5:30, 7:45 and 9:35 p.m. PLAYHOUSE—“Middie of the Night”; Fredric March and Kim Novak in Paddy Chayefsky’s May-September love story; 1:05, 3:15, 5:20, 7:30 and 9:35 p.m. PLAZA—“Love Is My Profession”; earthy drama with Jean Gabin and Brigitte Bardot; 1:30, 3:30, 5:30, 7:30 and 9:30 p.m. T OWN—"The Bride Was Much Too Beautiful,” comedy with Brigitte Bardot; 2:45, 5:55 and 9:10 p.m. TRANS-LUX—"Anatomy of a Murder": suspenseful courtroom drama; 1, 3:40, 6:20 and 9 p.m. UPTOWN—“The Big Circus”; fun under the big top, but with lack-luster plot: 1:20, 3:20, 5:15, 7:15 and 9:10 p.m. WARNER—“South Sea Adventure”; the Cinerama cameras are well used on Pacific isles; 2 and 8:30 p.m. MORE AIRBORNE RUSSIANS Our cultural exchange with Russia keeps producing dancers who can get spectacular altitudes without airplanes. These three are in the Platanusky Folk Choir, part of the Russian Festival of Music and Dance to be seen at the Capitol Theater August 17, 18 and 19. Soloists from the Bolshoi, Moiseyev Company, several State ballets and the Kiev Opera also will appear on the program presented by Sol Hurok. Sunday Night WASHINGTON, D.C., JULY 26, 1959 HOLLYWOOD Comedy's No Laughing Matter By JAMES BACON Associated Press Writer HOLLYWOOD—Big business pressure, top killer of top executives, now stalks the Nation's top comedians. Comics once only had to worry about making the audience laugh. Now, with the advent of television, they worry whether the sponsor laughs, whether his wife laughs, and about such professional problems as payrolls, ratings, market analysis, sales figures, under saturation, over saturation, no saturation. Decisions, decisions, decisions. The funny business has become big business and, as a result, taken its toll. Lou Costello is dead. Overwork has on occasion brought Bob Hope, Eddie Cantor, Jerry Lewis, Red Skelton and others frighteningly close to the final curtain. Both Jonathan Winters and Sid Caesar had to take bookings on a psychiatric couch, and Red Buttons turned serious actor to preserve his health and career from the perils of the funny business. Crazy, but Healthy A handful of survivors from an earlier, perhaps tougher generation remain stouthearted and ulcer-free: Jack Benny, Groucho Marx, George Burns, Jimmy Durant, and Milton Berle. But Ed Wynn, like Buttons, switched from making people laugh to making them cry. "Me, I'm a dramatic actor," he says. "It's crazy." It's also healthy. At 72, Wynn reports there is nothing in his medicine cabinet but a toothbrush. World War II couldn't slow down Bob Hope, but a blood clot in the left eye did and he was still. RED SKELTON It's Always Back to the Old Oxygen Tent HOBBIES, D-6—RESORTS, D-10-11 BUSINESS and FINANCE, D-7-9 RADIO and EDUCATION, D-5 still can't understand why. "I enjoy working. I enjoy hearing people laugh at my jokes. How could there be any pressure or overwork?" he asked his doctors. They answered: "People may laugh at your jokes, but your blood vessels don't." He's lucky, they added, that the clot caused by overwork didn't develop in the brain. He's Big Business Rapid Robert, 54, is more than just a comic. Eighty people depend directly on him for their livelihood. In addition to show business enterprises, he owns considerable real estate, a piece of two major league ball teams, a Denver TV station, some Texas oil fields. Lunching with Hope, as I have done, is a nerve-racking experience. The phone never stops ringing. Jerry Lewis, like Eddie Cantor, is a He's also big business. His personal staff of 20 has an $8,000 weekly payroll. Both figures go up five times when he does a movie or TV show. His $7 million-a-year corporation has earned a billion laughs—and a perforated ulcer that damaged his heart. He Can’t Rest He clowns a lot, but he’s in his office at 7 a.m. every day. Aides estimate a TV show costs him 12 hours’ work daily for three weeks, a movie 16 hours a day for six weeks. Along with harried executives, he takes a bloated briefcase home with him at night. After his latest collapse, doctors ordered him to cut his activities in half. Now he tries to take Sundays off. “But you know me,” says Jerry. “I do three songs every time that light goes on.” BROADWAY Dolores Works in 'Destry' By WARD MOREHOUSE North American Newspaper Alliance NEW YORK. The costumes worn by Dolores Gray in “Destry Rides Again” cost nearly $10,000. And on her shapely figure they’re worth every nickel of it. But, she says, "They fit like they were glued on, which means I have to watch my weight—which means I starve." Miss Gray is co-starred with Andy Griffith and Scott Brady in the musical at the Imperial, playing the role of Frenchy, the tough-talking, soft-hearted dance hall hostess. “My role is very tiring,” she said. “I have nine songs and the part requires a lot of dynamics in acting. I go from soft ballads to tirades against Destry and it’s physically exhausting. Because we have so much scenery, there’s no cross-over in the back of the stage for the actors. In order to go from one side of the stage to the other, I have to run downstairs to the basement, cross the basement, then go up the stairs on the other side. I have a lot of fast changes; I cannot lag a second. “I save everything for the performance. On week ends, I’m too tired to do anything but fall apart. I take vitamin pills like mad.” Dolores Gray was born in Chicago and brought up in Southern California, to which she returns now and then to her home in New York. A vital part of the program is to keep the refrigerator door open.” Red Skelton is the only big time comic still doing a weekly show—and he flops into an oxygen tank after every one of them. Skelton’s an institution, a financial institution with all the pressures pertaining thereto. He's also asthmatic. “It helps to be a little nuts too,” he adds. “If CBS wasn’t paying me $40,000 a week, I’d be in Camarillo (State mental hospital). But the network can’t put me there because it would prove that they are crazier than I am for paying me so much.” Skelton zoomed to the top in his first TV year—1915. Then, for two years, he decided to let his advisers run the show while he concentrated on being funny. The result was so disastrous that he almost wound up becoming dance marathons once more. Red took the helm himself and came back strong. He came back strong. LIGHT PLAYHOUSE—“Once More With Feeling”; Joan Harvey; starting Tuesday. CARTER BARRON AMPHITHEATER—Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo; starting August 3. NATIONAL—"Heartbreak House”; Maurice Evans; starting August 31. OLNEY—“Roshomon”; starting August 4. ROSECROFT—“Show Boat”; starting August 4. SCREEN AMBASSADOR—“John Paul Jones”; Robert Stack. APEX—“The Roof”; Vittorio DeSica. CAPITOL—“Last Train From Gun Hill”; Kirk Douglas. COLUMBIA—“The Legend of Tom Dooley.” DUPONT—“Modern Times”; Charlie Chaplin; starting Wednesday. KEITH'S—Wall Disney's "Darby O'Gill and the Little People." MacARTHUR—“Up the Creek”; David Tomlinson. METROPOLITAN—“John Paul Jones”; Robert Stack. PALACE —"Holiday For Lovers”; Jane Wyman. PLAZA—“Lady Chatterley’s Lover”; Danielle Darrieux. TOWN—“The Mummy”; Peter Cushing; starting Thursday. DOLORES GRAY Soft Ballads to Tirades make a movie. Her films include "Kismet." "It’s Always Fair Weather,” “The Opposite Sex” and “Designing Woman.” Five feet seven inches tall, slender, and personable, she has the best voice on the musical comedy stage today. "I just woke up one day when I was about 15 and realized I had a big voice. Actually my voice is fragile, but I know how to amplify it." Miss Gray’s first New York success was achieved in “The Seven Lively Arts.” after which she became the toast of London in the title role of “Annie O'Your Gun,” which she played for three years still does the steering, grimly handling everything from props to script. Berle had to do the same thing, once; it’s said he even arranged the chairs in the sponsors’ booth. "It has Taken the advertising men a long time to realize that comics know a little bit about making people laugh, Skelton says. “That’s why we have to take over the show. We have to be the boss whether we want to or not.” What’s the secret of the calmer clan—Benny, Marx, Durante, Burns? Well, most of them claim, at least, that they don’t care whether they work or not. So why not take it easy? Says Marx: “Actually, we’re all dead but walking around. We can’t help looking relaxed.” Most of them saved their money, too. As for the indestructible Durante, he says: “I got no money, but my heart still ticks.” and 1,304 performances. One British critic wrote: "What Britain needs is not more dollars, but more Dolores.” Dolores lives with her mother (Barbara Gray) and four poodles in a house in East Fifty-Eighth street. “We had eight poodles once, and a monkey. When we boarded the Super-Chief to go to California, it was like a circus moving. The porter would wake me for a five-minute stop and I’d jump out and walk the dogs. It was pretty rough at 6 a.m. in Albuquerque.” Miss Gray is devoted to her mother and paid this tribute to her: "I don't think I would have succeeded without my mother, I would have been just another singer. Mother has a flair for the dramatic and she demanded so much of me. She wanted me to be an artist—not just a singer. "Mother is my manager. My business partner and my coach. She has been my only teacher, ever. Unlike the stories you hear about stage mothers, she was vehemently against my being in show business. It was a big struggle for me to get her consent. I had to prove myself before the age of 20. “She never sleeps until I get home after the theater, then we watch the late, late show on television. I can't go to sleep immediately after a performance. I’m a nightbird.” 