An apparent disposition to classify has lead S. N. Behrman to call his new play, "Wine of Choice," a comedy. Its only claim to that category is that it is not sublimely tragic. It is certainly not funny; its neatly turned phrases and condensed, polished dialogue are not calculated to make it that. Nor is it entertaining or satisfying; it confirms no one in his preconceptions. Rather is it irritating social comment with a few dramatic moments carelessly thrown in.

In simplest terms the play is a struggle between a communist and a liberal or unreactionary conservative, as you prefer, for the possession ultimately of the world, intermediately of America, and immediately of a woman. A trifling playboy enters into the picture, too, but he is not an antagonist. It is not thought that he may inherit the earth some day. The best that can be said for him is said by the liberal: the latter is willing to gave even him, for his chivalry and his generosity, rather than see the communist triumph.

The communist is treated with as much interest and care as the believer in American democracy. Yet it is perfectly clear where the author's sympathies lie. The communist is not made a contemptible figure as in "The Ghost of Yankee Doodle" or "The Prodigal Parents," but he is made a hateful one. He is aptly called humanitarian who hates humanity. He is working for a goal and is wrapped up in an ideology that make him renounce friendship, patriotism, love, and self-interest. But the fallacy is that he is not only impersonal, but also inhuman; he is not even concerned, to all appearances with humanity. The familiar analogy between communism and religion is introduced, but a contradiction in the stand of the extreme radical is posited; he seeks something beyond material things while denying the existence of any such realm of being.

The liberal is a determined, intelligent man, and is wholly admirable as a person, but there is no attempt made to hide the inherent weaknesses of his position. It is admitted that if people are allowed to choose their own courses free from dictation, they will blunder as often as proceed wisely. The inertia and occasional impotence of democracy are freely conceded. The communist is allowed to write a novel about the squalor that our economic system allows, as seen in the sharecroppers of the Mississippi delta.

The girl is an irresolute person fatally destined to be her own destroyer. Movie stardom offered by the playboy is no more to her liking than being the first lady of New Mexico. The finance of the liberal, she allows herself, to put it mildly, to be seduced by the communist. Since, however, the latter has made no promises either to her or to the liberal, who was once his best friend and patron, neither can censure him for treachery when he walks off to keep himself unattached. Her end, and that of the liberal, are thus close of tragic.

Leslie Banks is manly, earnest, and warm as the advocate of democracy. Theodore Newton is as grim, as honest, and as frigid as the role of the communist demands. Claudia Morgan is attractive and uneasy, and whether the uneasiness is in the actress or the character, it all contributes to the proper dramatic effect. A prominent background stands behind the picture of these fighters in the form of Alexander Woolcott, who as a cynical marriage broker contributes to the play what humor it has. Since the ill-fated girl is one of his proteges, she relapses at the end into the tutelage of this good-natured sophisticate.

The play as a whole is probably as enthusiastic a eulogy of American democracy as this uncertain, critical, qualifying age will allow.