The Bridgeport Post from Bridgeport, Connecticut • Page 24

Tuesday, Sept. 24, 1074 TERRIFIC is made of navy and white wool ticking, with top stitching at neck and cuffs, mitred stripes and wooden button trim. (By Albert Nipon) CHOICE. CHEMISE, of, njvy matte jersey falls spftly.from a yoke rteck. Buttoned shoulders arid-lone -Iwv arc details Albe Nipori) nel buckled sleeve straps.

(By Scene Bag)" Fall Into a Chemise-Because the Sack Is Back By ALICE CONNOLLY Post Fashion Writer I -f, pe ple Catl the tent SKk the shift. Others use the more fashiomconscious name--the chemise. Many think it looks like a smock or a jnatcr- dress, but wear it anyway. Some women ike it because is free and easy; others became like the ni'iu-muu, it conceals figure faults. Men dislike it because it makes "trirl-watch- mg" an impossible Nevertheless, the chemise is back wth a real fashion clout, first with high fashion designers pushing it and later al the more moderate price levels.

It is one style which can be knocked oft or copied with little trouble. It begins with fullness, "with i swinging out anywhere'from waist level'to below the.fanny. Patch or pouch pockets, yokes, cuffed, lull or kimono sleeves-and unusual closings are where it all ends'. It can be worn over another dress "(you'll look enormous iivthis one), over a. blouse orwitti- a dickie Occasionally, it ,5 pulled together a the waistline a belt.

Flowing, blowy, loose, sift--these-wdrds "describe the chemise perfectly. Some of the-trade papers and magazines call it tlie "Naive Chemise" the French We-sec-it here iii a more sophisticated light. In Paris, St: Laurent introduced his new 197-4 version in sheer wools, challis and crepes patterned in pretty prints. Ungaro showed brightly striped woolen chemises, while, those in Givcn- cliy evening group were in chiffon. He even made a chemise raincoat, but belted it.

New York and California designers have brought back Ine sack in flannel, polyester knit matte or woolen jersey and silk or lor day wear. For evening, they attempt this old-new sliape in chifTori, silk crepe, challis and even velvet. So here we are in the 1950's again. The sack- is really back. Many women have never stopped wearing it when they could find it.

Those who like its looks and its ease will hop on the "wiclc wagon" again. And there are those designers who dislike pants who'll be delighted sack is back." Off Broadway Actress: A Commuter From Affluency SHARP CHEMISE is in pine green wool jersey with bodice stitching in red. Wood buttons the shoulders and cuffs. (By Albert Nipon) PATRICIA COFFEY Post Focus Editor 'COS COB Half of Eunice Anderson's neighbors nave.no idea how she sup. ports herself, are thev curious.

doubt this is because, they imagine her to stable as they surrounded by arid art comfortably secure in this a suburb. But being' a 'divorced woman, before i was "accepted," a a part-time actress, had its drawbacks. Sn.e.-had to rely on the earnings she made from small character acting roles and learn to be frugal in order to herself and her son. nearly 20 years'later as one of the leads in the "The, Hot Baltimore," which on October 31 will be- cpaie the, longest running play ever to have appeared at New York's Circle in the Square Theater in Greenwich Village, Ms. Anderson takes subways from Grand Central to the theater because those New York taxis are so damned expensive." She allows herself one lux- however, 1 and does give in to a penchant for antiques, which fill her charming house of which she acquired through inheritance, others on oc- 0 al bu yms sprees.

wnen I had extra money 1 knew what to do with "it," she said. "I had to spend it on something." Ms. Anderson's home is far from being pretentious. Originally a gardener's collage on an estate, it is situated on several acres of semi-wilderness, enhanced by rock gardens and flowers and encircled by woods. The frogs call the pond, at her back door, home.

She apologized, for. her lack of make up and her casual garb of beige slacks, navy'shirt and sneakers, but she.had just made a slab al mowing the grass. "I used to feel isolated out here. No one does this but me," she said, referring to her cowcrkers in the play, most of whom are younger than she- and wouldn't entertain the thought of moving' 'out of Manhattan to travel daily from a Connecticut suburb: By commuting to the theater during the week, Ms. Anderson has become a quick change artist, rushing to a backstage dressing room after the curtain falls to change and run for a sub- way'that connects with the 11:10 p.m.

local out of Grand Central. trainmen keep watchful eye Since appearing in the 'Hot for the past few years, Ms. Anderson has made friends with some of a i who'keep a watchful eye out for her and hold the -train if they know she's running late and see her in the distance. People hardly recognize Ms. Anderson out of stage character.

She created the role of Millie, in "Hot an aging, white-haired woman clutching onto a dream -one of 'the desperate transients enmeshed in the de- lapidated splendor of: the lobby of a once fashionable hotel which is about to be razed. Ms. Anderson is not easily familiar to most of the co- mercial viewing public, since theater is her main interest. Before doing this play, she performed in numerous off- Broadway productions including "The Lady's Not for Burning," "The Three Sisters," "The Fatal Weakness," "The Great Indoors," and is a frequent guest artist with leading regional theaters, including the Ann Arbor Festival, The Actors Theater of Louisville and the Atlanta Theater Company. She would be a familial face to those who were fans of the old TV show, "Naked City," in which she acted on a semi-regular basis.

But her American career was interrupted by marital difficulties. After her divorce, Miss EUNICE A ,1 i i I sad at the amount of time it took for me to acquire an Anderson packed up and moved lo Switzerland, where she lived with her son Alex, (now in his mid-twenties and raising horses in Pennsylvania), Tor three years. "At that time I was thin, nervous, strung out," she says gazing through the quiet of tier yard. The positive act of leaving her home and friends, the loss of security frightened her. Beginning her search for independent stability, Ms, Anderson began studying at the University of Geneva, where she accidently met some people who were working on a movie.

After discovering that she was an actress, they offered her a part in a film. That role led to others during those years which she admits were happy ones, between work I was happy to be idle," she asserted. woman's independence not 'acceptable' "I'm sad at the amount of time it look for me to acquire an independence," she said adding that at the time, she was forced lo face that situation, it was long before the influence of the feminist movement. It was not acceptable" for a woman to he that independent, therefore much more difficult for her to accomplish that goal. "Being a mother and wife has its great rewards, but tt also has its problems and heartaches, as does being the head of a family," said the actress.

"You know, men must have a terrible sense of desperation, since they have to be the breadwinners most of the time." she said. "Their wives must be happy and se- cure; their children must have love and of course educational benefits." As she strolls through the yard she points out some of the cultivated growth, such as Japanese yews and rock Harden flowers, but she is mainly enchanted with the wild growth around the peed The actress is harried today because she just finished getting a foot of water pumped out of her cellar and points to some furniture which she rescued before it was ruined, as well as -to some water-soaked items. She explained that the excess water does not overflow from her frog pond, but from drainage pipes installed by a man who is building ttv-o houses on a hil! beyond her trees. "They're pitched so that the water goes down the hill across the lawn and right into my cellar." Ms. Anderson reasons that there is some thing the builder could do lo alleviate her problem She argues that logically he could alter the direction in which the pipes are pitched.

thinks I'm a dumb woman Discussions and confrontations have meant nothing to the builder, according lo Ms. Anderson. "I guess he just thinks I'm a dumb woman," she says. "I'm trying to be reasonable, but I'm at the end of my rope." The only other course she can take is to see her lawyer. But Ms.

Anderson is fortunate to have most of her days free to absorb the quiet, if she so desires, or to climb the' hill through her woods and do battle with the builder who doesn't seem to care if he floods a neighbor's basement. She is also fortunate thai she doesn't have to gel up with the birds. "At my age it isn't so great to get up and go in to New York to work," she asserts. So she continues to drive her Toyota daily (o the station taking a leisurely evening train into Manhattan when most commuters are returning to their suburban dwellings. One of the best points about working in "Hot is that the people connected with it care so much for it, she feels.

Producer Kermit Blaomgarden, she says, has interested himself deeply in this production, which proves tiiat he's not only taken up with the commercial theater. Other people involved in production, writing and direction have also taken a continuing interest. "We always do the play as if we're doing it for the first time. If we don't, we berate ourselves," says the seasoned actress. She explains that occasionally the cast conducts a a a "Somebody will say: 'That's not working right let's go through it And they do.

The wily drawback lo working in the Greenwich Village theater she could single out was the fact that there are only tiyo large 'community" i rooms one on each side of an area. "Some of the younger people don't mind it. I don't care for it," she said. She puts up with it because she loves working in Che play. The builder on Ific hill probably will not get that same consideration..