No Exit

No Exit begins at a scream pitch, just under the thin skin of hysteria, and sustains that pitch for an hour and a half. Whatever your views on decibel drama, the Harvard Summer Theatre Group's production is excellent.

There wasn't any door for the damned to hammer on, and the Second Empire mantlepiece "bronze atrocity" was still in the papier mache stage, and two stark spotlights caught the players in a cross-fire. But these things would be rectified by the final rehearsal. The drama itself is an achievement.

No Exit deals in despair--the existentialist brand of despair which employs an infanticide, a lesbian, and a coward as its protagonists; a despair which isn't any more tragic than it is didactic, and yet is great art. The dilemma of the common death sentence, hackneyed at the hands of philosophy professors, is moving as the instrument of good acting and directing.

Mary Cass, a Northwestern co-ed during the regular year, plays Estelle, the full-bodied French seductress who murdered her child in the presence of its father. Miss Cass holds herself well; she gestures effectively; she controls her voice; and she has the advantage of beauty. The only complaints, and they are picayune, are occasional lapses when she isn't involved in the dialogue, and a tendency to grimace too often.

Garcin, the pacifist reporter who ran from war, is excellently portrayed by Earle Edgerton '56. His role requires precise voice control in a dialogue of oscilloscope inflection and mercurial mood. He seems in doubt at times where to stand or what to do with his arms, but he moves deliberately and effectively, and speaks with masterful control.

Third creature in Sartre's drawing room "hell of other people" is Nadine Duwez as the postal clerk lesbian. She stumbles in her lines occasionally, and sometimes shouts too much, but she prowls Director Hesse's "arena" with greater confidence than the other two; her motions are perfect; and the great portion of her dialogue is excellent.

Robert Scher '60, as the "valet," is stiff and apparently ill-at-ease. But his role of omniscient apathy makes the distinguishing line between stiffness and stoicism fairly hazy. His eyelids are ossified, as per stage instructions.

The arena half surrounded by chairs looked to be successful. Hesse faced the formidable task of bringing forth fine performances from roles of ugly characters unredeemed by their self-realization of that ugliness. There's really nothing more to say except congratulations to him, to his actors and actresses, Producer John Friedman '60, and the production staff.

Yes, this is a rave review.