science of advertising--the staff of the press department at the Lyric
had its share of agony a little later on. We had sent out ingenuously
a trifling story about what we were pleased to call a "chorus girls'
rogues gallery", detailing the manner in which the records of the
young women were kept on the backs of photographs filed away in a room
arranged for that purpose. _The World_ wanted the tale verified and
inquired blandly if it might send up a reporter to inspect. We replied
with equal politeness that it might--the next day. That afternoon we
bought a rubber stamp and nearly a thousand old pictures, and all
night long six of us worked on a "chorus girls' rogues' gallery" that
would live up to its reputation. Our reward was a page in colors.
Sometimes things really do happen to actors and actresses, and so, not
infrequently, there is a grain of truth in the news printed about
them. Only a grain, mind you, for if a tenth of the events in which
they are supposed to take part were actual, the inevitable end of life
on the stage would be death of nervous prostration. The wide-awake
press agent is quick to plant the grain of truth aforesaid, growing
therefrom stories no more like the originals than a radish is like a
radish seed. Grace George once telegraphed me to Chicago that she
would not open at the Grand Opera House in "Pretty Peggy" on a Sunday.
She felt, quite rightly, that eight performances a week was the limit
of her endurance. Staring at a pile of printed bills announcing an
engagement beginning on the Sabbath, I concluded that this ultimatum
had reached the limit of mine. Then an inspiration. Up went the
original bills, to be covered a day later with others advertising the
first performance for Monday. The newspapers were curious as to why
the change had been made and we were willing, not to say eager, to
satisfy their curiosity. Miss George did not believe in giving
theatrical performances on Sunday. At least a dozen clerygmen read
this and told their congregations about it the day before the
postponed advent of "Pretty Peggy."
[Illustration: "_Sometimes things really do happen to actors_"]
Caught in a blizzard at Oswego, N. Y., eight years ago, I was informed
that the only chance of my joining Miss George that night at Syracuse
lay in making the trip in a special locomotive. That necessity got
printed throughout the country, a vivid description of Miss George
driving an engine through banks of snow in order to reach Syracuse for
her performance of "Under Southern Skies." The woman who actually made
the trip was a waitress from an Oswego hotel and she received $10 for
it.
William A. Brady wanted a thousand girls in September, 1902, for his
Woman's Exhibition at Madison Square Garden. They could have been
obtained without the knowledge of the police, but secrecy was not the
_desideratum_. "Wanted--1000 Women at Madison Square Garden at 8 P. M.
on Friday" was an advertisement which brought down upon us nearly
thrice that number, together with a small army of newspaper reporters
and photographers. This was the first gun fired in a campaign of
advertising for a show during the existence of which we obtained
nearly six hundred columns of space in New York.
Truth is never important in a press agent's story, and there are some
occurrences that he actually suppresses. Accounts of small fires,
accidents, thefts and quarrels do not get into type if he can help it.
Several kinds of news items have been "faked" so often that no one
would attempt to have them mentioned journalistically should examples
of their class really happen. He would be a brave publicity promoter,
for instance, who sent to an editor the tale of his star stopping a
runaway, no matter how firmly the tale might be based on fact. Miss
George had stolen from her a valuable diamond necklace while she was
playing in "Pretty Peggy" and knew better than to permit my sending
out an announcement of the theft. "An Actress Loses Her Diamonds!" You
laugh scornfully at the very idea. The papers no longer publish
accounts of people standing in line before box offices all night in
order to secure good seats in the morning, though I succeeded in
obtaining mention of this feature of Sarah Bernhardt's last engagement
but one in New York by injecting into the yarn a few drops of what
theatrical managers call "heart interest." Five dollars and a little
careful coaching secured for me a picturesque looking old woman who
convinced her inquisitors that she once had acted with the Divine
Sarah in Paris. Her vigil in the lobby of the Lyric received more
attention than did the _bona fide_ line of three thousand persons that
I rose at five to have photographed on the morning following.
This imposter's husband afterward figured at the Casino in the role of
a man whose visit to "Happyland" was the first he had made to a
theater since the night on which he had witnessed the shooting of
Abraham Lincoln. The tale we told was that this spectacle had so
affected him that the soothing influence of forty years was required
to bring him again into the precincts of a playhouse. Interviewed by
the representatives of several journals, he made a comparison between
theatrical performances of ante bellum times and those of today that
could hardly have been more convincing had my confederate's price not
included two seats for the preceding evening at another place of
amusement under direction of the Shuberts. This story, which went the
rounds of the country, cost, all in all, ten minutes work and three
silver dollars. I mention it as an instance of the simple "fake" that
sometimes proves most effective.
An equally simple story, used almost simultaneously, came near being
less inexpensive. Henry Miller was about to produce "Grierson's Way"
at the Princess Theater, and, rehearsals not progressing to his
satisfaction, he determined to postpone the scheduled date of opening.
This determination we resolved upon turning to our own account. We
advertised widely that Mr. Miller had lost the only existing
manuscript of the play, without which the performance could not be
given, and that he would pay $500 reward for its restoration. Two days
afterward Mr. Miller called me up on the telephone. "An awful thing
has happened!" he said. "I've actually lost a manuscript of
'Grierson's Way.'"
"What of it?" I inquired.
"What of it!" echoed Mr. Miller. "Supposing somebody brings the
'script to me and demands that $500?"
Fortunately, "Grierson's Way" was found by a stage hand who was
satisfied with a small bill and an explanation.
It seems hardly probable that anyone will recall how a barber once
delayed the beginning of a performance of "Taps" until half past eight
o'clock, yet that tale was one of the most successful of simple
stories. The only preparation required was posting the chosen
tonsorialist and holding the curtain at the Lyric. Herbert Kelcey,
according to the explanation given out, had been shaved when he
discovered that he did not have the usual fee about him. "I'll pay
you tomorrow," he had remarked. "I'm Herbert Kelcey."
"Herbert Kelcey nuttin'!" his creditor had replied. "Dat gag don't go!
You stay here until you get dat fifteen cents!"
A messenger, hastily summoned, was said to have released the actor
shortly after the hour for "ringing up." The idea that a barber could
keep a thousand people waiting for their entertainment was both novel
and humorous, and, in the vernacular, our story "landed hard." The
strike of the Helen May Butler Military Band at the Woman's Exhibition
was arranged with equal ease and proved equally good. That exhibition
was wonderfully fruitful. Almost anything the women did seemed
amusing, and the show itself was so extraordinary that its smallest
features were interesting.
As elaborate a tale as, for example, the famous Anna Held milk bath
story, to which I have referred, requires more plotting and arranging
than would the founding of a revolutionary society in Russia. One may
spend weeks of work and hundreds of dollars on such a "fake," only to
trace its subsequent failure to some trifling flaw in the chain of
circumstance. Widely though a successful story of this sort may be
chronicled, the reward is absolutely incommensurate with the labor
involved, and I think few press agents would ever attempt one were it
not for a gambler's love of excitement.
It was during Judge Alton B. Parker's presidential campaign that I
evolved what I consider my most magnificent "fake." At that time I
represented several attractions in New York, chief among the number
two musical comedies, entitled "The Royal Chef" and "Piff, Paff,
Pouf." I wired Judge Parker's secretary that the choruses of these
productions had formed a club, which was to be known as The Theatrical
Women's Parker Association, and the purpose of which was to induce
male performers to go home to vote. Would Judge Parker receive a
delegation from this society? The wire was signed "Nena Blake," and,
in due time, Miss Blake received a courteous and conclusive reply.
Judge Parker would not.
That message was a stunner. In the face of it, there was only one
thing to do--send along our delegation on the pretence that no answer
to our communication had ever been received. Nine chorus ladies were
picked out in a hurry, placed in charge of a shrewd newspaper woman
who passed as another show girl, and the whole outfit was dispatched
to Aesopus. The newspaper woman had instructions to register at a
prominent hotel as a delegation from the Theatrical Women's Parker
Association, and to parade herself and her charges before all the
alert correspondents in the little town on the Hudson. That done, we
who had stayed behind got ready photographs of the pilgrims and
waited.
The wait was not long. By nine o'clock that night the bait had been
swallowed at Aesopus, and my office was crowded with reporters anxious
to verify the story wired from up the river. Judge Parker, with
characteristic kindness, had lunched the party, allowed it to sing to
him, and sent it away rejoicing. Most of the boys "smelled a mouse,"
but the thing was undeniably true and much too important to be
ignored. The Theatrical Women's Parker Club, "Piff, Paff, Pouf" and
"The Royal Chef" were well advertised the next morning.
It was the failure of a prominent newspaper to mention either of our
plays by name that drove me to further utilization of this scheme.
Such an omission is always unfair and unjust. A story is good enough
to be printed or it is not; if not, nobody has cause for complaint, if
it is, there is no reason why a newspaper should deny the expected
compensation. Resolving that I would compel this payment, I
immediately arranged for a public meeting of the Theatrical Women's
Parker Club. The Democratic National Committee furnished us with a
cart-load of campaign literature and with three speakers, one of whom
was Senator Charles A. Towne. The other orators we provided. They were
Eddie Foy, Dave Lewis, Nena Blake, Grace Cameron and Amelia Stone. The
juxtaposition, I felt confident, was sufficiently grotesque to
provoke comment.
[Illustration: "_A public meeting of The Theatrical Women's Parker
Club_"]
I wrote nine political speeches for the occasion, held two rehearsals,
and, when our advertisements failed to draw an audience, secured a
fine one by sending to such congregating places as the Actors'
Society. The affair passed off beautifully, Senator Towne adapting
himself to circumstances and making one of the most graceful and
agreeable addresses imaginable. I heard it from a nook in the fly
gallery, where I remained until the meeting was adjourned. This "fake"
accomplished its purpose, the delinquent newspaper falling in line
with the others in publishing the story.
It would tax your patience and your faith in the existence of modesty
were I to go into detail regarding a score of similar "fakes" which
come to mind. How this same Nena Blake was kidnapped from the Garrick
Theater, Chicago, and sent to New York in the costume she wore in "The
Royal Chef"; how her sister, Bertha, was sent to Zion to kiss the
unkissed son of John Alexander Dowie; how a supposed German baron
threw across the footlights to Julia Sanderson a bouquet from which
dropped an $18,000 diamond necklace; how a chorus girl named Thorne
created a sensation at a Physical Culture Show in Madison Square
Garden by declaring the costume she was expected to wear "shockingly
immodest"; how a niece of Adele Ritchie changed her name to Adele
Ritchie Jr., and Miss Ritchie herself was sought in marriage by a
Siamese millionaire--all of these anecdotes must pass with the mere
mention that they were successful "fakes."
The manner in which a good story may go wrong merits more extended
description. While an extravaganza, yclept "The Babes and the Baron",
was in town, I resolved upon a news event so complicated that I wonder
now at my temerity in undertaking it. The idea was that some well
known doctor should find on his doorstep one morning a young and
pretty girl, fashionably dressed and intelligent-looking, but quite
unable to recall her name or to give an account of herself. The
doctor, naturally enough, would report the affair to the police, who,
in turn, would give it to the reporters. These gentlemen, deceived by
the fact that no possible advertising could be suspected in the case
of a woman who looked untheatrical and who did not even know her own
name, were expected to give untold space in the evening papers to the
mystery. After the journals in question had been published, the girl
was to be identified, so that her name and that of "The Babes and the
Baron" might be printed in the morning.
It was necessary that, at this time, the victim should be able to give
a good reason for her condition. The reason selected was as follows:
During the performance of the extravaganza, some question had arisen
as to the young woman's courage or cowardice. To prove the former, she
had volunteered to hide in the Eden Musee and to remain all night in
the "chamber of horrors." The terrible sights of this place had
frightened her into hysteria; the porter, hearing her scream and
believing her to be intoxicated, had ejected her; a kindly old
gentleman had found her in the street and started to drive her to a
hospital, when, becoming alarmed, he had decided instead to place her
on the doorstep of a physician's house, ring the bell, and get away.
Anyone will tell you that the first essential to having roast goose
for dinner is to get your goose. At least twenty chorus girls must
have been interrogated before I found one willing and competent to try
the experiment. Mabel Wilbur, afterward prima donna of "The Merry
Widow", was chosen, and she spent eleven days being instructed in the
symptoms of the mental disease known as asphasia. The officials of the
Eden Musee, glad to share the advertising, carefully coached the
porter in the story he was to tell. The stage manager of "The Babes
and the Baron" was admitted into the secret and a bright journalist
was engaged to hover about and superintend affairs. Of course, my
appearance in the neighborhood of the sickroom would have been fatal
to the "fake."
Miss Wilbur was left on the doctor's doorstep shortly after four
o'clock one mild morning. From that time until night the scheme worked
like a charm. Miss Wilbur, bravely enduring all sorts of physical and
mental tests, passed the scrutiny of a dozen detectives and medical
men. After vainly buying a dozen editions of the evening papers in an
anxious effort to learn how matters were progressing, I suddenly found
the journals filled with the affair. "The Mystery of a Hansom
Cab--Pretty Girl Left on Doctor's Doorstep in Dying Condition" and
"Police Have New Problem" were headlines that flared across front
pages. Up to that point the story had been a huge success. There
remained only the matter of identification to connect with the other
story, like two ends of a tunnel meeting, and this promised to be a
delicate matter. Say "chorus girl" to a newspaper man and he
immediately becomes suspicious. Our hardest work was before us.
At nine o'clock the stage manager of "The Babes and the Baron" was
sent around to recognize Miss Wilbur. It was he who had challenged her
courage, and, alarmed at her failure to report for the performance, he
had hastened to pick up the clue given him by the evening papers. Miss
Wilbur's identity was established in the presence of a score of
reporters and photographers, none of whom seemed to suspect anything.
"At the hour of going to press" we all felt certain that we had
"pulled off" the biggest theatrical "fake" known to history.
Every paper in town had the story the next morning--but it was the
true story. A City News Association man had recognized my bright
journalist, at that time passing himself off as a brother of Miss
Wilbur, and the net result of our fortnight's toiling and moiling was
some six columns of ridicule.
These confessions would be incomplete if I did not admit here and now
that this story was the most ill-advised of my career. It brought
discomfit and discredit to a dozen persons, it involved an attempt to
deceive some of my best friends, and it put me in a bad light at the
very time that the approaching premiere of a play from my pen made
that most undesirable. A great many city editors have never forgiven
me my part in this particular "fake," although the owner of an evening
paper wrote me the next day: "I was fooled from first to last. You're
a wonder. Congratulations."
Another bad mistake was my story regarding the willingness of the
management to pay $50 a week for exceptionally beautiful chorus girls
to appear in "Mexicana." The story was printed all over the world, but
it caused critics to stamp as ugly one of the most attractive
ensembles ever brought to New York. "If any of these girls," said _The
Sun_, "gets $50 a week her employers are entitled to a rebate." I
cannot place in the same catalogue Madame Bernhardt's appeal to the
French Ambassador at Washington to protest against her exclusion from
playhouses controlled by the so-called Theatrical Syndicate. Madame
denied this over her own signature, but, from a press agent's point
of view, it was an exceedingly creditable falsehood.
It is possible to discuss at endless length the real value of the
"fake" and its place in theatrical advertising. Perhaps no one ever
went to a theater merely because one of the performers at that theater
was supposed to have bathed in milk or to have stopped a runaway
horse. On the other hand, I am sure that no one ever went to a theater
because he or she had seen the name of the play acted there posted
conspicuously on a bill-board. The mission of the bill-board is to
call attention to the fact that there is such-and-such an
entertainment and that it may be seen at such-and-such a house. There
is no question in my mind but that this much is done for a production
by "fake" stories concerning it. In rare instances, where the story
accentuates the importance of the presentation and its success, or
awakens interest in some member of the presenting company, the service
performed may be even greater. At all events, the average manager
expects this kind of advertising from the publicity promoter to whom
he pays a salary, and, naturally, the publicity promotor feels that it
is "his not to reason why." The press agent realizes that to any
failure on his part will always be attributed the misfortunes of the
management with which he is connected. Productions do a good business
because they are good productions, and a bad business because they
have bad press agents.
Every theatrical newspaper man knows the anecdote of the German
cornetist _en tour_ with a minstrel company. The organization was
toiling up a steep hill that lay between the railway station and the
town. The cornetist was warm and he was tired. "The camel's back"
broke when at last he stubbed his toe against a stone. Picking up the
obstruction, he threw it as far away as he could. "Ach!" he exclaimed.
"Ve got a fine advance agent!"
_THE WRITING AND READING OF PLAYS_
Being a discussion as to which pursuit is the more painful,
with various entertaining and instructive remarks as to the
method of following both.
At my side lies an advertisement reading: "I will teach you to write
plays for $10!"
If the professor means that he can teach you to write plays that will
bring you ten dollars, he may be speaking the truth. If he means that
for ten dollars, or a hundred dollars, or a hundred thousand, he can
teach you to write plays, he is a liar!
Aunt Emma, who represents the palmy days of the stage, and "used to be
with Booth and Barrett", once gave me her opinion of schools of
acting. "One can learn to fence", she said, "and to walk and
articulate properly. But one cannot learn to think or to feel, and
without thinking and feeling there is no acting." Precisely the same
thing may be said of playwriting.
Of course, there is a great deal that the dramatist must know about
drama. W. T. Price's interesting volume on the subject contains about
a hundred iron-clad principles that should be read, and re-read, and
then forgotten. Such of the number as cling to your subconsciousness
can't do you any harm, and probably will do you a lot of good. The
others might help to make you a capable mechanic. Rostand's rooster,
once he had been told how to crow, couldn't crow--fell to the ground,
as it were, between two schools. Bronson Howard, asked to compile a
book of rules for playwriting, declined on the ground that he feared
being tempted to follow them.
To learn to do anything--do it! If you would know how to write plays
write them, read them, go to see them. Then think a while, and write
some more. If you feel sure you have a big idea--and sometimes it
seems to me that the big ideas come most often to people who can't
use them--pool it with the skill of someone who is willing to give
craftsmanship for inventive genius--and watch him. Avery Hopwood
collaborated on "Clothes" before he went single-handed at "Nobody's
Widow", and, midway, he leased his experience to the novelist who
furnished the plot of "Seven Days." Harriet Ford helped Joseph Medill
Patterson write "The Fourth Estate", and now Mr. Patterson is
exhibiting signs by which one may predict that he will do something
alone. Wilson Mizner worked with George Bronson Howard on "The Only
Law", and with Paul Armstrong on "The Deep Purple", and we may expect
soon a piece that will bear only the name of Wilson Mizner.
"What a lucky fellow!" we say occasionally of some new author who
springs into notice. "His first play, and a huge success!" But every
professional reader in town could tell you that this success _wasn't_
"his first play." While I was reading for the firm of Sam S. & Lee
Shubert, I saw three or four manuscripts from the pens of Rachel
Crothers and Thompson Buchanan. "The Three of Us" did not surprise me,
nor "A Woman's Way." I knew, and every man in my profession knew, that
Miss Crothers and Mr. Buchanan had spent years turning out pieces they
could not sell. They worked, and they studied, and they went to the
theater thoughtfully until they could write pieces that would sell.
Poets may be born or made, according to the field they occupy, but
playwrights must be born _and_ made. However, there isn't the least
use of dwelling on this fact. To the end of time men and women who
wouldn't think of trying to fashion a horseshoe without first having
served an apprenticeship with some blacksmith will go on endeavoring
to create comedies and tragedies without having made the least effort
to shape their talents--even to whet their instincts.
Once upon a time, in a speech delivered somewhere, I said that,
everything else being equal, the author who had never produced a play
had the best chance of producing a good one. I was wrong. It is true
that the newcomer is likely to have fresher ideas than the old stager,
and that generally he dramatizes a lifetime of experience, instead of
dramatizing only what he has gleaned between contracts. That accounts
for the fact that some tyros never repeat their primal successes. But,
even in this period of the novice, when appreciation of novelty
submerges appreciation of skill, statistics prove that a majority of
the pronounced hits are the work of established authors.