"Class of '29", a grim catalogue of the trials and terrors awaiting today's, or perhaps yesterday's, college graduate, is being presented at the Repertory Theatre by the Federal Theatre, an arm of the Works Progress Administration.

The W. P. A. must be credited with the intelligence of not stifling its theatrical ventures at the start through making them chauvinist messengers of the New Deal. So frank, if not profound, is the discussion of contemporary disorders, that the sponsors of the play have had to disclaim its points of view. But "Class of '19 does not assail capitalism; Rooseveltism, assumed in this play, dispite Hearst, to be capitalistic; or even Americanism as defended by that staunch old patriot.

This holding fire is not cowardice or even restraint, for the play is not nearly so interested in ideas as in its people. Reddish remarks pass current, but they develop the characters, not the characters them. Bishop Holden, champion of the old order, although a little sententious, is not made to look ridiculous; Martin Paterson, champion of the new, is as non-chalant as that genial Communist, Earl Browder, and gladly abandons his lectures.

The play is thus not invective, but lamont. The class of '29 to dropped into a world that cannot use it, and its members disintegrate before her audience's eyes.

One of them sells herself to her sensual boss, and although her condemnation is half facetious, it is clear that her act is not to be admired. Another throws himself before a subway train, and although he has been a complacent parasite on his pauper friends, there is the uncomfortable hint that in his death he is the bravest of them all. Ken Holden, the some-what major figure, trims his political views to suit his status of the moment, and when he learns that his life-giving job is merely a concoetion of his father's well-meant trickery, he gets drunk, and then resigns himself. He it is who ends the play with the discordant note of admiration for the suicide.

The actors, much the same as the people they represent, are parading their talents before an oblivious world. But all are compotent, and some are good. Jack F. Ryder, in the rule of the above Ken Holden, has to appear, as the acts progress, grumpy, elsted, and placidly drunk, and does brilliantly in all except the first. One cannot help wishing the reclaimed actors well, and feeling that here at least is not boondoggling.