Based on an intolerably overworked situation, cast with unerring and ridiculous stupidity, and written with the dullest and least realistic dialogue in many a year, "The Wind Is Ninety" adds up to a confused humorously sentimental treatment of a non-existent solutions to a problem on which the theatre has been spending too much of its valuable time.

The problem is that of the wife and family of a flyer who has died in battle, the solution a cheapened form of the supernatural: the hero returns, visible only to himself, other friendly spooks and the audience.

As presented, the situation is perfect for an intelligent comedy of the same order as "Here Comes Mr. Jordan" or "Blithe Spirit." Th ex-flyer is guided back to earth by a whimsical orderly of World War I vintage; he jokes about the events of his other life; he cynically surveys images of himself at different ages and mental capacities. Everything is perfect for comedy except for the regrettable tragedy of death and its effects on friends and relatives.

It is here that the author has fallen down. he has tried to write a tragic drama, with the same maudlin result that characterized the over-publicized "Carousel." The returned hero struggles to communicate with his family, to let them know that he still exists despite his untimely decease. At the end of the play, mental or spiritual telepathy seems to have resulted in some sort of liaison between the soldier and his wife, who sides with the audience in not knowing what is going on.

The production is particularly distinguished for its banal and at the same time boring dialogue. When a 30-year-old ghost dressed in the uniform of a Captain, AAF, falls at his mother's knees and cries "Mummy!", the time has come for a regeneration of something.

Perhaps the most destructive source of all to the tragic element of the play is the diction of several of the players. Blanche Yurka and Bert Lytell, as the hero's parents, are adequate in poorly-constructed roles, as are other less-important actors, Unfortunately for the audience, however, the author decided to-include in his piece several juveniles of the most objectionable variety. Tortuous as it is to sit through lengthy minutes of childish mock battles and other entertaining sports, it becomes living death by comparison to endure more than two hours of little boys and girls wandering around an obviously rural setting and talking in the most Brooklyn possible of accents.

With all the value that is being put today on avoiding escapism in the theatre, it seems a shame to condemn a drama which aims ostensibly to treat one of the touchiest of all real topics--death in war. But until some honest playwright can break away from fantastic treatment and false emotionality--to say nothing of avoiding poor casts and stupid dialogue--the stage might just as well stick to musicals and farces. jal