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ITH the departure from our shores of the splendid company of operatic artists which has appeared at the Metropolitan Opera House during the winter and spring,
and with the imminent approach of the‘ managerial bugbear, warm weather, the season of ’93-’94 is, for all practical purposes, ended.
More than one decided moral may be drawn from the results of the past few months in theatrical New York. The first, and most obvious, moral is that there is, as there always- has been and always will be,‘ a public for that which is good in the amusement world. And the public taste has never been truer than it is at present. I do not propose to review in detail all the productions of the past season, but, by taking its salient features, to prove my point. The magnificent enterprises of Messrs. Abbey, Schoeffel, and Grau may be dismissed briefly. Their operatic season and the engagement of Henry Irving and Ellen Terry carried success with them from the first. The result, in both cases, was a foregone conclusion just as much as that, although in another direction, which attended M. Mounet-Sully. With the opera and with Mr. Irving, there came the knowledge that we were to have the best that money and energy and taste could secure on the operatic and dramatic stages of our time. And, although fashion was an important factor in both instances, still the great*bulk of support came from the general public, from those who come to the theatre to see rather than to be seen.
It is agood fhing for art that these gigantic engagements have been properly appreciated, but the best evidence of the good taste of the playgoer is to be found in theatres where the stock company is still a feature. The great theatrical events and the great actors and singers will always draw. ‘ They are heralded so widely that their mere announcement is sufficient to fill the theatre night after night. But, \vifh the lesser affairs of the drama, the end cannot be so surely seen. It is a Sign of the times that the successful productions at the Empire and Lyceum theatres—the only houses in New York where stock companies are maintafned—are, in their respective ways, sound, wholesome works, which are capably acted. The days of rough and tumble farce, of horseplay, of vulgarity, are over. I place of these abominations has come the love of that which is interesting, often amusing, and always decorous. The success of “Sowing the Wind,” of “The Amazons,” and of “ Charley’s Aunt,” is the best answer to those managers who endeavor to foist foolish and noisy “farce comedies” on an unsuspecting and surfeited public.
I have already dwelt at length upon these plays, and on the reasons for their success. But they must once more be cited as evidence of the public taste which, even if averted for the time being by ephemeral attractions, is true at heart. “ Sowing the \Vind,” at the Empire Theatre, has beaten the London record; “The Amazons” is the greatest success which the Lyceum has known; while “Charley’s Aunt” has at last gone to Chicago after a visit of many months to the Standard Theatre. It is well that this is so. Mr. Sydney Grundy’s play is not calculated to amuse the man about town, but it is a treat to the intelligent playgoer. It sets forth a strong and
‘out into three acts after the custom of the time.
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stirring story in language which is remarkably brilliant, and, although it does not solve the problem, it affords an evening’s entertainment far above the average and one which gives room for thought. It is an unusual play, but it is a fine play. It is, also, a serious play, but it succeeds for all that. On the other hand, “The Amazons” is a comedy which, dealing with an impossible subject, still makes the story, characters, and incidents appear possible. And it delights from beginning to end. Its subject is a delicate one, but there is no offense in it. Its fun is quiet, but it is honest, hearty, healthy. The third successful play of the season is “ Charley’s Aunt,” which is farce, pure and simple, as distinguished from Mr. A. W. Pinero’s delightful comedy. In the old days, its three acts would have been confined to one, and the farce would have been played merely as a preliminary piece to the staple fare of the evening. But we no longer take our amusement in large quantities, so Mr. Brandon Thomas’s farce is spun It is a thoroughly amusmg play. Its fun is fast and furious, but it is good, solid fun, without a taint of vulgarity to mar it. So that here we have three distinct classes of plays, all successes from every point of view. Here is proof that there is room for domestic drama, like “Sowing the Wind,” for genuine comedy, like “ The Amazons,” and for honest farce, like “Charley’s Aunt.” »
It is thus abundantly evident that there is a public for that which is good. And, if the question be closely considered, it will be found that much of the success of the three plays thus singled out by the voice of public approval is due to their literary, no less than to their mechanical workmanship. Of course, the dialogue of “Charley’s Aunt” is not its most important feature. Indeed, it is not so essential to its success as its situations. It is, however, neat and to the point. But where. I would like to know, would “Sowing the \Vind” and “ The Amazons ” be but for their dialogue? They certainly would not be on the New York stage at the present moment. It is often charged against the stage that the plays of to-day are not literature. I am not aware that it is necessary for a play, in the ordinary sense, to aim at being literature. So long as its dialogue interprets the thoughts and expresses the emotions of its characters, it fulfills its office. But good writing is as essential to a play as it is to anything else. The majority of plays, it is true, do not read well, but the majority of them do not act well. “Sowing the Wind” and “The Amazons” would, I am convinced, read extremely well.
It is a pleasure to listen to the dialogue of these plays. I have seen both pieces three times in New York, and on each occasion I have been impressed by the value of the writing. In the one case it is strong, virile, incisive, determinate. In the other it is brilliant, smooth, polished, and remarkably delicate. Mr. Grundy has no hesitation in calling a spade a spade, but he does it so cleverly that there is no offense in it. And Mr. Pinero has the faculty of skating over thin ice more successfully than any other living dramatist, Mr. Gilbert excepted. In the hands of a less skillful writer, the story of “ The Amazons ” would be vulgarized, if not rendered absolutely indecent. But its humor is as clean as its dialogue is clear cut, and it ripples along in a constant stream of delicacy. “ The play’s the thing,” but the actual writing of a play is far more necessary to its success than most would-be dramatists appear to think. They imagine that dialogue is of little moment,and,if they pay any attention whatever to it,they endeavor to make it “ natural,” which means that it becomes merely colloquial and commonplace. Stage dialogue, like the stage itself. should idealize. If the characters in the plays by Mr. Grundy and Mr. Pinero spoke like people in actual life, “ Sowing the \Vind ” and “ The Amazons” would hardly be worth listening to. It is not the subjects which are of so much importance, as the manner in which they are set forth. Literary workmanship counts for something after all.
The American manager cannot be blamed for purchasing his material in the English market. It is a question of supply and demand. It is a significant fact that the stock companies of the Empire and Lyceum theatres have made suCcesses with
.the English plays, which were not written for them and whose authors were entirely ignorant of the styles of the respective actors, whereas the plays written to order by the American dramatists failed signally. The moral is obvious. The plays which succeeded were the better plays. Good parts make good actors, an old and true theatrical adage which cannot be reversed. A part may be written for a single actor, but a play cannot be written for an entire company. Playwriting is sufficiently mechanical work at all times. Its difficulties should not be increased. The only true way to write a play is to follow the bent of the author’s inclination. If it fits the stock company, well and good. If it does not, let the manager arrange his company accordingly. If an actor is worth salt, he can adapt himself to his part. The part should not be written down to his level.
If, in the next season, the “foreign ” dramatist is still to the fore, the American writer will have only himself to blame. And the indications are that Grundy and Pinero, Sardou and Henry Arthur jones will hold the New York stage in full force. It is only natural that it should be so, their works being better than those of the native born playwright. But let us take heart of grace. There is plenty of room for all comers. The managers have no race prejudice. They are, on the contrary, liberal minded. It is a question of ability, of worth. One reason for the failure of so many purely American plays is their sentimentality as opposed to sentiment. They contain too much of the infant in arms, of the church organ, of falling snow, and other cheap theatrical devices of a bygone age. All this should be avoided. Let us have sentiment, by all means, but do not let us be merely maudlin. And do not let us mistake “unconventionality” either for naturalness or for greatness. Let us be true to life, but let us never forget that the stage should idealize. It should take us out of ourselves. It should not let us wallow in the depths of despair. It should lift us out of the commonplace. It should lighten and brighten, and this is as true of the dialogue of plays as of their actual framework.
Wanted, a Stage Manager.
I.\’ the “good old days” of the drama, those days which are so often, and so rightly, deplored, the stage manager was a veritable autocrat. and a valuable one into the bargain. Much of the success of the play depended upon him, and many an actor was indebted to the stage manager for advice and instruction which often put him on the path which led to fame. Nowadays, however, the term amounts to nothing. “Stage manager” is a meaningless phrase. If it represents anything at all, it merely typifies an individual without experience, or intuition, or power. I speak tnore particularly in regard to the New York stage. There is hardly a production given here which is not marred on its first night by want of proper stage management. It is the custom, in the case of a London suc
cess, to bring over some one who is thoroughly familiar with .
the play and who is made responsible for the representation of it in New York. This was done, recently, in the case of “ A Woman’s Revenge,” and, again, with “Sowing the Wind” and ” Utopia, Limited.” And “Cinderella” is, to all intents and purposes, a London production stage-managed by the same person who was responsible for it in England. In the latter instance, it would have been impossible for a stranger to have done justice to the extravaganza, which is a thing of its own requiring special knowledge. I
In regard to ordinary productions, however, it is absurd to think that it is necessary to import a stage manager. Each theatre should have its own permanent stage manager, who
_able to show him how to portray his part.
should be capable of taking the prompt-book and working out the “business” of the play for himself. Even in this matter. authors are now so careful as to every bit of business that little or nothing remains for the stage manager to invent. His chief concern is to busy himself with the tails of the scenery and properties. the acting being left to take care of itself. The modern stage manager is, in fact, little more than a prompter. Compared to what he was in the past, and to what he should be, he is an absolute nonentity. He is ignorant, he is wanting in authority. He is ignorant of the methods and traditions of the theatre, he is ignorant of the English language. he is quite incapable of suggesting an idea to the novice. In the old days. there used not to be any appeal from him. To-day, however, it is useless to appeal to him. for he is absolutely and hopelessly incompetent. On the New York stage. at the present moment, there are errors in the pronunciation of words which are so glaring that they ought never to have passed the first rehearsal, and things occur on the stage which, although small in themselves, ought not to be tolerated. I speak of the firstclass theatres, which are usually the chief sinners in this respect, because the “ stage managers ” of these houses ought to know their business. I could multiply instance upon instance of this deplorable state of affairs. !
The want of proper stage management is an injustice to the public and an absolute wrong to the young actor. The playgoer is denied the performance which he has the right to eatpect, and the player who is starting in his profession has to labor in darkness. For the stage manager, if he knows his business, should be able to instruct the actor, and should be The importance of stage management is recognized on the London and Paris stages. Why should New York be behindhand in this matter? Our managers spare no expense in regard to their productions. They invest heavily in scenery and furniture and dresses. But the office which is so vital to a play is. for all practical purposes, left unfilled. Stage management is not merely a case of a first-night representation. The stage manager should keep a watchful eye on the play throughout its run. For actors are only human, and, one and all, they require keeping up to the mark. A play requires unceasing vigilance. Mispronunciation should not be tolerated for a single instant, and stupid or objectionable ” business ” should be quite impossible in a wellregulated theatre.
So much is done for plays here that it is a pity that the rest should not be done. There is no stint of money, but judgment is not infrequently misplaced. Managers, in their own interest, should look into this subject. The importation of English actors is rebelled against in certain quarters, but the English actor will be brought here just so long as this country is deficient in stage managers. The innate ability of the English player may or may not be greater than that of the American actor. Ilut the English actor has the advantage of a better training. He has been educated, so to speak. in a more experienced and a more rigid school, and the effect of his’training is distinctly visible. Again, if the so-called stage managers here were as capable as they should be, we would hear less of the petty jealousies and the bickerings of the theatre. Actors and actresses are constantly quarrelling with each other over some trivial matter which should be settled, once and for all, by the stage manager, so that the artificial and narrow life of the theatre is rendered more and more unpleasant. The effect is not confined to the stage, for it makes itself known to the audience. On all grounds, it is desirable that the New York manager should realize the vital necessity of having a competent controller of the stage. At the present time, stage management is a lost art.
This lamentable state of affairs should not be allowed to exist. There is no excuse for it. Competent stage managers may not be very plentiful, but they are to be found. They are obtainable in England. Why should they not be in evidence in America? Their importance is made more and more evident as each succeeding production‘ shows some weakness which ought to be avoided. or some defiCtency which. if an efficient stage manager were in control, would not be apparent. It is too much the fashion to take a successful London play and to present it as an imitation of the original. That bad system also prevails, and to a worselextent, in regard to the representations in the English provinces of London pieces. The provincial company copies the London one as closely as may be, no allowance being made for difference either of audience or of the temperament of the actor. To be sure, that evil does not, because it cannot, exist here, but we require, nevertheless_ a little originality. And we require, far more, firmness, decision, on the part of those who direct the stage. The attention of the managers of the various theatrical enterprises here is directed, of necessity, to what may be called the financial side of the undertaking. But the stage cannot be controlled from the box office. It is all very well to run a theatre as a business, but every business must have its heads of departments. And the most important person in a theatre, so far as the artistic, and ultimately, the commercial side of the subject is concerned. is the stage manager. If a little more scrutiny were devoted to the stage management of our various playhouses, the result would be beneficial to those who run the theatres as well as to the public and to the player. For one error leads to another on the stage, and, once you get slipshod, there is no knowing where the carelessness will end. Where so much time, and energy. and money are invested, it is a pity that our managers should not go a step further and pay strict attention to the stage. ‘
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Anything quite so wild and weird and wonderful as “ The Sleepwalker ” has not been seen on the New York stage, during my time, at any rate. It is, to me, at least. a piece which is utterly bewildering. As scene succeeded scene, I sat in blank amazement, vaguely trying to imagine what it was all about. Some of the situations, more especially those of the second act, are vastly amusing. By the time that they are reached, the attempt to follow the plot or to make head or tail in the story has been abandoned. so that the uproarious fun may be enjoyed by th05e who do not mind what they are laughing about. Farcical comedies are generally of a fashion. They are, as a rule, variations of the same tune. Granted that you have a number of male and female characters, all playing at cross purposes. make a butt of your mother-in-law, drag in a baby, lug in a pug dog, and there you are. But “The Sleepwalker” has no mother-in-law, or baby, or pug dog. To be sure, there is a maiden aunt who gets mistaken for a trapeze performer, and there are two fiaxen-haired idiots, facetiously called the “heavenly twins,” whose doiifgs are worse than infantile. For the rest, however, the new piece has the charm of novelty if not of intelligibility.
‘The “wealthy young man,” who gives the play its title, is a rather jolly bachelor who wears his hair like Mr. Charles Coghlan and fixes his eyeglass after the manner of that actor. He has been engaged to a young and pretty lady, but, attracted by the charm of wealth, he has fixed his attention on a widow who is still fascinating. although she has had two husbands. Her first spouse is dead beyond all manner of doubt. but there is a mystery about her second husband. Attached to the “wealthy young man’s” household are a blustering uncle and his grown up, insane twins. I fail to understand the precise reason of their presence in the play, but. I presume, they are meant to show that this particular “uncle” is no lender, but a borrower. His nephew has had the misfortune to walk in his sleep. and the grasping uncle has taken advantage of the unhappy somnambulist by rob
bing him of various articles, maintaining that they were gifts. So tables, and chairs, and sofas are turned upside down, pistols are fired, maids are kissed. all in noisy and meaningless confusion. There is a really funny scene, in the second act. in which the alleged sleepwalker, who is very much wide awake, does the most ridiculous things and makes his conipanions on the stage follow his example.
The scene of the intended marriage, which ends the second act, is, despite its incongruity, amusing. 1 do not believe in making capital out of such serious things as marriage and religion, and a burlesque marriage, by a mock clergyman, is not a proper thing on the stage. But, if you can forget these objections, the discovery by the short-sighted minister that the intended bride is his long lost wife, is funny enough. It certainly‘is the most amusing scene in this strangely complicated piece. But, for my part, I do not think that the travesty is in good taste. There are still some people who regard marriage as a solemn ceremony, and there are still some persons who hold with religion. To them, the scene cannot afford pleasure. But, as they do not, as a rule, banker after farce performances, the matter is not of much consequence. I am sorry, nevertheless, to see the stage lending itself to such means of obtaining laughter which, at best, is misplaced in these cases.
As I recently pointed out, in reference to a piece at the Fifth Avenue Theatre, New York, the acting of force is a thing of its own. The farce must be understood, and it must be acted with meaning and spirit. The interpretation of “The Sleepwalker” is lamentably deficient. The players. of both sexes, are lacking in distinction. The men are particularly wanting in this respect. They all speak their lines like automatons, and with very much the same effect as though they were reading their parts at a first rehearsal. They do not appear to have considered their characters or the language—such as it is—which is provided for them. If there is an exception to this rule, it is Mr. Paul Arthur, who is funny, but too exaggerated, as the clergyman. As is customary in the transplantation of a farce of this kind from England to America, there are various so-called musical interpolations in the piece as we see it. Their speedy elimination would be a good thing for the play and for the audience. [do not know what success attended “ The Sleepwalker ” in London, but the piece would not have lived there a single week unless it had been rendered with dash and intelligibility. Messrs. Hilliard and Arthur should instantly cut out the songs and set to work to drill the company into a little understanding of their respective parts. Some illustrations of the piece. as it is presented in New York, are given on page 5ii.
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