The promise of a play from the pen of a Nobel prize-winner may have been the reason for the packed house at City Hall last week; or perhaps it was because that here was a play by the author of the legendary "Dream on Monkey Mountain'' (professionally -- and memorably -- performed in the same theatre some twenty years ago); but the theatre was also surely crowded by those who recalled the high standard of earlier productions by the West Indian Association (Bermuda).

Director Enid Christopher assembled a first-class troupe of Caribbean players -- with a sprinkling of born Bermudians -- who drew faithful, perceptive characterisations in a play that was fascinating, if long. Unfair as it might be to single-out any members of a first-class cast, Michael Charles carried the leading role of Otto Hogan with presence and discipline and Wilhelm Bourne's schoolteacher, Anglicised and pompous, he was memorable in his every scene. Inola Hull played Otto's weary sister with real empathy, Ken Savoury's Cardiff Joe was a model of subtle understatement, and Drusilla Douglas was a delight as the shy niece making the transformation to television butterfly with abnormal ease.

The director obviously restrained and disciplined her cast, ensuring, in a play that neared farce in some of its scenes, that enthusiasm did not drown the diction or flood the action.

Mr. Walcott flavours his funny, poignant story with sharp observations, witty one-liners and memorable vignettes of character and plot -- including scenes where armed burglars are browbeaten into buying raffle tickets from their intended victim, a wickedly accurate parody of a town council meeting, and a finale in a television studio that bordered on true satire.

But some misgivings arise. Act One promised much: The story of a small restaurant in a tiny Trinadadian village, threatened by the development of a four-lane highway that will smash the restaurant into history is told with spirit and skill and Mr. Walcott produces a number of memorable characters and sub-plots. Running through the play is the metaphor of the road, carrying reluctant travellers onward down a black tar of "progress'' that some want and others fear.

As the play progresses, however, it seems that the author had found himself forced to develop each of these stories in the face of that enemy of all playwrights -- time. With a final curtain close to 11.15 p.m. even the most entranced members of the audience must have been glancing at their watches.

The professional standards backstage, marshalled by co-producers Ken McDowall and Phillipa Burke, means that the Associaton must be persuaded to give us more of this sort of evening. The rich library of Caribbean literature holds plenty of treasures for this standard of production.

Theatre in Bermuda is obviously alive and kicking: "Beef, No Chicken'' was sandwiched between an American musical, a play on rape and a forthcoming pantomime. The fare was refreshing and if the meal was little long, one can hardly blame the maitre d' or the waiters -- they did an excellent job.

GEORGE RUSHE.