The current offering at the Tufts Arena Theatre, The Chrysalis, an experimental play by Norman Ashton, is a curious bill of fare. One is tempted to regard it as an exotic dish, for which one admires the ingenuity and curses the indigestion.

Ashton, who also directs the play, has taken the overworked Troilus and Cressida theme, retained the Trojan setting, and come up with two acts that purport to depict the horrors of war. By war, Ashton means War, and he has underscored the universality of his theme by a sometimes clever juxtaposition of the ancient and the modern.

Troilus, the illegitimate son of Priam, declares himself a "happy little warmonger" and so he is until Cressida (or Crisseyida, as Ashton would have it) appears in Priam's court. The reason Cressida is in court is that her father, Calchas, has deserted to the Greeks, and Cressida is therefore in danger of being adjudged a security risk. Troilus naturally defends her against the ancient Committee on Un-Trojan Activities and, naturally enough, the two fall in love.

Incest with her father, however, has left Cressida with a guilty conscience and she feels unworthy of Troilus, until he proves his love in bed. Love's victory is Pyrrhic, however, and Cressida soon succumbs to a Prince of Greece, who can provide security and a house in Connecticut. The Greek is nevertheless the tool of Mars, who is the real villain, and provides the climax, which is tragic for Ashton and perhaps slightly comic for the audience.

The cast, headed by Jean Concannon as Cressida and William Siebert as Troilus, gave an earnest but uneven performance. At times, overacting marred scenes that required emotional intensity rather than emotional exhibition. Cressida often shouted, like a querulous child in a tantrum. Siebert gave a sensitive interpretation of Troilus, showing an understanding of his composite personality. Regina Oliver was commendable as Cassandra, although she needed more variety of voice. William Harris, as Cressida's father, suffered most from overacting and a reliance on stick gestures. The Prince Regent, Hector, was strongly reminiscent of Marshall Tito, but needed a more imperial air. Paris was overplayed as an asinine nincompoop by Gardiner Tillson. Among the minor characters were three very good Palace soldiers of which Sol Schwade was outstanding.

Although the plot is not so cryptic as a summary might indicate, Ashton has collected a menage of rather dissonant symbols and attempted to bring them together in a harmonious structure that only partly succeeds. Ashton must be seen in reaction to 19th century "realism," in whose place he would substitute a reconciliation of the Romantic with the Epic. He attempts to involve the audience emotionally (Romantically) and then to shock them intellectually (Epically).

What all the theory comes down to, however, is a bewildering combination of Shakespearian iambics, incessant alliteration, and implausible puns. All of this profuseness of language is rather overbearing, and suggests that Mr. Ashton may be more interested in experimenting with style than in narrating an admirable theme.

One last protest must be added: the play is damnably long. Long, not in the sense that it bores one to sleep, but simply that at the end of three hours one wonders whether all the words have added up to more than virtuoso verbosity.

At the risk of being inconsistent, however, it should be said that Ashton's "experiments" are refreshing theatre. Not that he has approached success, for Chrysalis is very imperfect. But it is an effort toward a new theatre which deserves respect and, if for no other reason than its seriousness, it deserves an audience.

Next week the Tufts Arena will present Jules Romains' renowned comedy Doctor Knock, which deals with the "triumph of medicine" among gullible moderns. Director Marston Balch has recently fashioned his own English translation.