Maxwell Anderson's new play, "The Eve of St. Mark," resolutely digs into the fundamental problems this war poses for everyone, particularly for the generation which must fight. Presenting the war with powerful directness, the play gives it meaning for each individual. A pleasant relief from the "all out" slush with which some business men, women's clubs, and just plain slackers rationalize their existence, it shows plainly that this "global" struggle is still a war in which young men chiefly die, and young women chiefly weep.

The characters are dangerously ordinary people, a farmer and his wife, their eldest son, his girl, a soldier from Brooklyn, an intellectual, etc. But Anderson's writing and the cast's understanding acting lift the play from the slough of folksy despond. Together they delicately steer the farmer's son through his promised year of military training and an unconsummated love affair, to a hero's death on Bataan without once approaching the level on which Hollywood would treat such a story. This story, after all, is very close to us. Raised during the twenty years of peace and pacifism, our generation doubts it is dying for anything. Anderson has the courage to say that the heroes of Bataan died simply because they got into a situation form which there was no manly escape. Yet their decision is more satisfactory both to them and to the audience than if they had died mouthing one of the lush phrases of current propaganda.

Played in a very effective atmosphere, created by Howard Bay's strikingly simple sets and Moc Hack's Wellesian lighting. "The Eve of St. Mark" tells the truth so plainly, so free from flag waving, that it should rank with the best plays of the war.