The perennial reception given Jack Kirkland's earthy vehicle of the poor South is a sad commentary on American audiences. Somehow, in nine years, someone should have had the sense to stop the flow of "adult only" and "daring presentation publicity that has provided the abortion with packed houses. Yes people will be dragged to see the ramshackle spectacle once, but only the degenerate or perverted could have the wild-eyed desire to go back and see two and a half hours of unadulterated country ham again.

Perhaps in the early days of the epic the original company had the ability to present some sort of social message. But the present conglomeration does little more than drift from one vaguely funny bit of profanity to the next. If there is any vestige of significance in the play at all, it is destroyed by a cast that neither understands what the author was trying to get at, nor tries in any way to say anything important at all.

There is one redeeming feature to the whole thing. It is nondescript Lester, huffooning his way across the drab stage with the abandon of a loosed chimpanzee, using all the tricks of the accomplished mugger, stealing every scene, cussing, spitting, pinching, and generally acting as if he enjoyed every minute of his poverty. It seems as though James Barton is almost too good a comedian, for his "heavy' scenes misfire, with the audience waiting in vain for a flow of damns and hells.