that characterizes them, know practically nothing about stock
companies. Perhaps, the chief reason of this is that within the memory
of man they never have had fewer than five at one time. Stock
companies in Philadelphia or Boston they might have studied at long
distance as curious institutions, but never stock companies so
unappealingly near as Fifty-eighth Street and Lexington Avenue. Your
blithe Broadwayite leaves such places of amusement to the people in
their neighborhood, and sticks to musical comedy in the vicinity of
Times Square.
[Illustration: "_Known as a stock company ... because the people in it
work like horses_"]
Broadway used to keep close track of stock companies when the two
Frohmans had fine organizations at the old Lyceum and at the
Empire--when John Drew and Henry Miller and Georgia Cayvan were seen
in such new pieces as "The Grey Mare" and "The Charity Ball." Fifth
Avenue is beginning to re-make an acquaintance with the scheme of
resident organizations, through the medium of that at the New Theatre,
and Charles Frohman recently has announced his intention of
establishing an important stock company under the directorship of
William Gillette. This announcement brings with it high hopes; the
very suggestion calls to mind the departed glories, not only of the
Empire and the Lyceum, but of the Union Square, Daly's, and the
Madison Square.
The stock company with which we have become familiar of late has been
a very different kind of affair. Its field has been limited, and the
purpose of its managers merely the giving of old plays at popular
prices. If you have been in the world long enough to learn that
whatever is cheap in price is cheap in quality--that no merchant
deliberately sells at a loss--you will have little difficulty in
understanding that, with rare exceptions, the performances offered
have been mediocre. Sixteen, eighteen or twenty fairly competent
actors and actresses are formed into a cast that prepares a different
play every week in its season. The plays generally have had their day
in the hands of regular traveling organizations. It is not often that
the result has in it more than three letters from the word
"artistic." Such aggregations have held forth in Gotham at various
times on the stages of the American, the Fifty-eighth Street, the One
Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street, the Yorkville, the Fifth Avenue, the
Murray Hill, the West End, the Plaza, and other theaters. They used to
be particularly indigenous to that portion of our metropolitan soil
known as Harlem, but now are confined almost entirely to Brooklyn.
This brand of stock company, which we may as well label "The
Contemporary Brand", had its origin in some large Eastern city where
an enterprising theatrical manager planned to provide summer amusement
for such of his patrons as wanted to stay in town through the hot
weather--and for the husbands of those who didn't. The traveling
troupes had all shut up for a few months, so this manager was obliged
to form an organization of his own. I'll bet that, at the same time,
he originated the story about installing a pipe system for
distributing cool air throughout his house--a pleasant little
Christian Science lie that since has become classic. However that may
be, the venture paid. Imitation is called initiative in the theatrical
business, and the following year there were fifty "summer stock
companies." Then somebody discovered that these combinations, playing
at low prices, had attracted a _clientele_ of their own, that they
drew people whose purses would not permit their visiting the best
theaters, and whose taste stood between them and the other houses. So
somebody else tried running a stock company all through the season,
and succeeded. Within a little time there were enterprises of this
sort in most cities of the size of Pittsburg or Cincinnati; then they
crept into towns like Hartford and Providence; now-a-days any village
populous enough to boast of two saloons, a church and a dry goods
store has also its opera house and its stock company.
In the big cities these aggregations of histrionic talent generally
offer a fresh play every week; in some of the smaller places two are
given in the course of seven days. One play a week is the usual thing,
however, and the amount of labor it involves is stupendous. Not only
must that one play be prepared in the time mentioned, but
simultaneously the company must be thinking of and acting another
play--that already being performed for the benefit of the public. Dr.
Doran, in his "Annals of the Stage", speaks of the hard work
accomplished by actors in the Eighteenth Century, when Thomas
Betterton "created a number of parts never equaled by any subsequent
actor--namely, one hundred and thirty." The good doctor, who waxes
quite enthusiastic over Betterton, adds: "In some single seasons he
studied and represented no less than eight original parts--an amount
of labor that would shake the nerves of the stoutest among us now."
Dr. Doran's esteemed friend, Master Betterton, probably would have had
his own nerves a good deal shaken had he found himself in this year of
our Lord 1911--say at the Chestnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia.
Victory Bateman, a charming actress whose health recently was reported
to be seriously affected by the strain of the work she had done in
stock companies, played twenty leading roles in five months. Of these
and the number of words in each she gives the following account in a
book she wrote in collaboration with Ada Patterson:
Mrs. Winthrop in "Young Mrs. Winthrop" 7,000
Floradilla in "A Fool's Revenge" 6,750
Louise in "The Two Orphans" 7,250
Cecile in "David Laroque" 6,500
Adrienne in "A Celebrated Case" 7,000
Camille in "Camille" 7,300
Carmen in "Carmen" 7,200
Portia in "Julius Caesar" 6,500
Eliza in "Uncle Tom's Cabin" 7,500
Ruth in "The Wages of Sin" 6,000
Juliet in "Romeo and Juliet" 7,500
Dora in "Diplomacy" 6,900
Portia in "The Merchant of Venice" 7,600
Ophelia in "Hamlet" 7,000
Mrs. Gregory Graxin in "The Tragedy" 6,500
Desdemona in "Othello" 7,000
Alice in "In Spite of All" 7,500
Frou-Frou in "Frou-Frou" 7,000
Vera in "Moths" 6,000
Roxane in "Cyrano" 8,000
-------
Total 140,000 words
[Illustration: "_Master Betterton would have had his nerves a good
deal shaken_"]
Some of the details of this statement strike me as being erroneous. I
do not believe, for example, that Roxane is a longer part than Juliet.
One thing I do not doubt--that the average stock leading woman learns
140,000 words in a season. And 140,000 words, we must understand, are
the number contained in two fair-sized novels or "fourteen pages of a
large newspaper."
The mere statement that so much matter has to be committed to memory
does not give a fair idea of the amount of work that has to be
accomplished by the actor or the actress--especially the
actress--under these conditions. In addition to learning each role she
must rehearse it. These rehearsals will occupy every morning of the
six days whose afternoons and evenings are devoted to the public
performance of another part. In addition, the actress must figure on
giving time to dressmakers, since each character must be properly
costumed; to wig makers and to allegedly unavoidable social duties.
The inevitable result is a crudity and carelessness in the
interpretation of plays that would not be tolerated by any
theater-goers in the world except those that do tolerate it. This can
be better understood when one learns that the average time spent in
the preparation of a piece to run in New York is something like three
weeks--three weeks in which the players have nothing else to occupy
their minds.
The members of the ordinary stock company scarcely pretend to know
their lines before the third repetition of the comedy or drama in
hand. John Findlay, a fine old actor, used to complain to me that
always he "had just begun to understand what a piece was about when
they took it off and put on another." I remember an amusing incident
in connection with a rendering of a certain light comedy by a stock
company in Baltimore. A scene in this comedy was divided between two
men, one of them seated at a desk and the other standing before that
article of furniture with his hat in his hand. Both actors having
forseen opportunities of concealing their manuscripts where they could
see them and the audience could not, neither had learned a single word
of the dialogue. The first player had his part on the desk; the second
hid it in his hat. But the second man had forgotten that, at a
critical moment, the office boy was supposed to take that hat. The
moment arrived, the boy took the hat, and the unlucky Thespian, at his
wits' end, could think of nothing better to do than read the remainder
of his speeches over the shoulder of his colleague.
[Illustration: "_The actress must figure on giving time to
dressmakers_"]
Opening nights with stock companies would be dreadful affairs, but for
that kindly provision of Fate, "the old stock actor." There usually
are three or four of this man and woman in an organization, and each
of the three or four, at one time or another, has played nearly every
part known to his or her "line of business." Your "old stock actor",
who need not be old as to years, will be familiar with half the roles
entrusted to him or her in a season, so that a little study serves to
prompt recollection of the lines, and even such memory of details as
may be of great assistance when communicated to the stage director.
Unfortunately, scenery and other accessories cannot share this
advantage. The small town stock company possesses eight or ten regular
settings and a scene painter, whose efforts usually are confined to
retouching shabby spots on the canvas and to coloring furniture,
cannon, trees and similar trifles. Occasionally he paints new wall
paper and pictures, which, with the blessed aid of the stage
carpenter, who can change windows from left to right and doors from
right to left, transform the banquet hall of some Roman noble (Period
40 B. C.) to the front room of a Harlem apartment (Period 1911 A. D.)
A week doesn't allow much time for accuracy, and mine eyes have seen
the tent of Mark Antony electric lighted, Louis XVI chairs in the
palace of Macbeth, and a Queen Ann cottage occupied by Shylock and his
daughter Jessica.
When melo-drama is produced worse horrors than this are likely to
intrude themselves upon first nights. Balky locomotives _will_ refuse
to run over prostrate heroines, and I once witnessed a _premier_
matinee of "The Gunner's Mate" at which the jib boom displayed a most
distressing _penchant_ for knocking off the helmet of the ship's
Captain. Stage management frequently is responsible for even worse
blunders.
The theater-goers who frequent the homes of stock companies--they are,
for the most part, wives of sign painters and journeyman
printers--don't seem to mind things of this sort in the least. Early
in the season they begin to pick favorites in the organization, and
they follow the annual progress of such play-acting pilgrims with
great care. The value of a man or woman to his or her stock company
depends largely upon his or her personal following, and I have known
leading men to be so sure of this following that, upon being
dismissed, they have harangued crowds on the street in front of their
theaters. This very episode, by the way, occurred only a few years ago
in New York.
Matinee idols achieve popularity, not according to their own deserts,
but according to the heroism of the folk they impersonate in the
course of a season. It might be estimated safely that one opportunity
at Sydney Carton, one at Armand Duval, and one at Romeo would
establish the least prepossessing of leading men in the marshmallowy
affections of the stock company matinee girl. These young women and
their neighbors have singularly distorted ideas of good acting, and
their partizanship makes them blind to the imperfections of their
favorite players. In Brooklyn it used to be a common thing to hear
that Cecil Spooner was much better than Mrs. Leslie Carter as Zaza,
and a little time ago Pittsburg did not hesitate to put Sarah Truax
above Mrs. Fiske for her impersonation of Nora.
The manager who successfully pilots a stock company through the shoals
and shallows of forty weeks must have uncommon perspicacity. Not alone
must he secure players who are likely to become popular, but, more
important still, he must select plays that will appeal to all of his
patrons all of the time. Too much tragedy and he is quite sure to lose
the men in his gallery; too much comedy and the girls in the orchestra
begin to thin out. Then, too, his purse must be considered. The rental
of popular plays is high. When first the piece was released for stock
the royalties asked for "Peter Pan" were a thousand dollars per week.
Few plays bring as much as this, but royalties rarely are under one
hundred dollars and generally range between two hundred and fifty and
four hundred. Of course, there are many dramatic works whose age makes
them anybody's property, and the skillful manager balances his profit
and loss neatly by sandwiching these in with the costly ones. When
you see that your pet stock company is to follow "Salomy Jane" with
"Camille" you may be sure that its manager is evening up matters on
his books.
The same degree of skill that is required in other theatrical
advertising is required of the man who conducts a stock company.
Various odd schemes have been tried with effect, the best seeming to
be that of giving things away. There are now various theaters at which
food and drink is served between acts, generally eliciting real
evidences of appreciation. Personally, I cannot see how a bad
performance of "Too Much Johnson" with ice cream would be more
endurable than the same performance without, but apparently this
failure on my part indicates a unique state of mind. Receptions on the
stage, at which the public meets the players, have proved an
attraction, and they have the additional merit of helping to establish
the necessary _entente cordiale_. The distribution of actors'
photographs, the inauguration of guessing and voting contests, and
similar features, keep alert the brain of the man at the helm of the
small town "stock."
[Illustration: "_Evening up matters on his books_"]
To the most casual reader even this very casual article must have made
apparent the disadvantages of the average resident aggregation. First
among these, perhaps, is the impossibility of producing new plays
under a system which requires the presentation of fresh material so
frequently. A new play cannot possibly be rehearsed in a week. This is
a misfortune to the company, which must develop its best talent in
unhackneyed vehicles; a misfortune to the public, which must tire of
seeing second-handed comedies and tragedies; and most of all a
misfortune to the inner circle of theatrical folk, to whom the stock
organization should offer unrivalled opportunities for the quick and
inexpensive testing of untried manuscripts.
Since new plays are not within the range of these organizations, it
seems a pity that they cannot be allowed more leisurely preparation of
the old. Performances never can be good, much less artistic, while
they are made ready as rapidly as is necessary at present. Neither can
they be good so long as a certain small body of people must divide
among them whatever parts offer, regardless of equipment or natural
tendencies. Because Minnie Jones is suited to the _ingenue_ role in
this week's farce it does not follow that she will be ideal in the
_ingenue_ role of the tragedy done next week.
We hear that this sort of thing means excellent histrionic training,
but there is no law compelling audiences to attend training schools,
and the results of putting square pegs into any old sort of hole are
often too ludicrous. It is appalling to reflect that the lady who
plays Mrs. Micawber today may be cast for Du Barry tomorrow. I
remember one poor little girl who had been engaged to "do" soubrettes
at the National Theater, Washington. She was a charming little thing,
and for a whole season she successfully met all comers of her weight
and age. In "Esmeralda" I recall having thought her the most ethereal
of women. Two weeks later she became the comic opera star in "All the
Comforts of Home," and I discovered that what was spirituality in
"Esmeralda" became emaciation in red silk tights.
Much as I have harped on the disadvantages of the stock company, I
believe most solemnly that its advantages are over-balancing. Even bad
bread is better for the system than good whiskey, and a crude
performance of "Romeo and Juliet" is to be preferred to the best
possible performance of "The Girl and the Outlaw." The prices for
these "attractions" are about the same, and the people who now go to
see "Romeo and Juliet" are precisely the people who otherwise would go
to see "The Girl and the Outlaw." Slowly but surely, even the current
stock company interpretations educate the taste of theater-lovers,
until they begin asking for better things, and, seeking, find. In
addition, there seems no doubt that these organizations provide
exceptional schooling for young actors, who, by their aid, play two or
three hundred parts in a period during which otherwise they would
play five. It has been urged against this that they also acquire
habits of haste and carelessness, but I always have found actors with
stock experience superior to those without it. The consequence of this
particular phase of the stock system must be of inestimable value to
the theater in America.
Then, too, it is a kind of interchangeable cause and effect that the
quality of stock performances improves with the taste of their
patrons. Of late years, fewer autographed photographs have been
distributed among audiences, and more money has been spent in the
painting of proper scenery. Manner has been less frequently required
for stage receptions, and more frequently for drawing room drama. The
combination of several organizations under one management, like that
of the Baker Chain, in Seattle, Portland and Spokane, with consequent
possibilities of reciprocal borrowing, has accomplished wonders in the
way of betterment.
"Out West", where touring companies are rarer than this side of the
Missouri, and where metropolitan successes arrive tardily, notably
fine stock aggregations have come largely to take the place of
visiting stars. There are two excellent companies located in Los
Angeles, and I have heard that the superiority of their performances
has seriously injured the business of the "first class" theaters. John
Blackwood, at the Belasco, and Oliver Morosco, at the Burbank, make
complete productions of every piece offered, and often they are able
to give Los Angelites their first view of some much-discussed triumph
of Broadway. In such cases, it is not unusual for the play to last six
or eight weeks, and George Broadhurst's "The Dollar Mark", initially
presented at the Belasco, had a longer run there than in New York. It
will be seen at once how such public support enables a company to be
worthier of support--a kind of beneficent perpetual motion.
While the East is not yet so far advanced, nor so nearly rid of the
stock company that has been made typical in this article, there are
fine organizations in half a dozen of our larger cities. It can be
only a matter of time before enforced haste and economy in staging
stock performances will disappear before the demands of a more and
more enlightened clientele. There will be a greater number of
rehearsals and a smaller number of matinees. The people who patronize
these presentations now will have got ahead in the world, and will be
able and willing to pay more generously for their entertainment, and
it is to be hoped that the people who turned to moving pictures from
cheap melodrama--which, in its whilom prosperity, we are to consider
in our next chapter--in due time may turn from moving pictures to
adequate representations of classic, standard and popular plays.
All this will come in the nature of evolution. The movement will be
accelerated if Charles Frohman keeps his promise of giving us in New
York such a stock company as his brother maintained at the old Lyceum,
and which, at the same time, included Edward J. Morgan, William
Courtleigh, George C. Boniface, Mary Mannering, Elizabeth Tyree, Mrs.
Charles Walcot, Hilda Spong, Grant Stewart, Mrs. Thomas Whiffen, and
John Findlay.
_SITTING IN JUDGMENT WITH THE GODS_
Being an old manuscript with a new preface--the former dealing
with a lost art, and the latter subtly suggesting who lost it.
The article that fills the following pages was written in 1905.
Originally printed as a protest and a prophecy, it is reprinted here
as history.
Melodrama is dead. It died of poor circulation and failure of the box
office receipts. There were no flowers, and there need be no regrets.
Neither is there reason to fear resuscitation.
I should like to think that popular priced melodrama had been killed
by a general desire for better things. That, however, is not the case.
The death blow was struck when the inventor of moving pictures
supplied a form of entertainment that demanded even less of the
spectator than had been demanded by such classics as "Through Death
Valley" and "The Millionaire and the Policeman's Wife." The people
who patronized these plays are not now patronizing worthier plays;
they are attending performances that appeal to them wholly through the
medium of the eye.
Of the seven theaters mentioned in this article at present three are
devoted to moving pictures, two to burlesque, one to vaudeville, and
one to drama in Yiddish. A few cheap companies are presenting
melodrama in the provinces, but not a single place of amusement
shelters it in New York. Requiescat in pace.
"Sitting in Judgment With the Gods" is republished as a contemporary
opinion of a lost art. It was my intention to alter the wording
somewhat, substituting more recent examples for those mentioned, but I
found the result was apt to be like a history of Rome brought
"up-to-date" by introducing gattling guns at the Battle of Pharsalius.
So here is the story as it was set down in the beginning, and may you
find amusement in reading it.
Melodrama, according to my dictionary, is "a dramatic performance,
usually tragic, in which songs are introduced." The encyclopedia adds
that the name was bestowed first upon "the opera by Rinuccini", and
that it was derived from two Greek words meaning song and drama. This
is extremely awesome and impressive, but I'm afraid I can't allow you
to accept it as applying to offerings in our popular-priced places of
amusement. Melodrama isn't a bit like that in New York.
It was the dictionary that started me on a tour of investigation which
comprehended visits to all of the seven theaters in town that
habitually present melodrama. There are so many classes of people in
this big city, and each class has so many characteristic ways of
working and playing, that no one hundredth of the population can be
expected to know how any other one hundredth lives. The men and women
who go to see "Man and Superman" don't go to see "No Mother to Guide
Her", and I think I am quite safe in saying that most of the men and
women who witness "No Mother to Guide Her" are conspicuous by their
absence at "Man and Superman."
Sitting in judgment with the gods leaves me in doubt as to why the
latter part of this statement should be true. The plays of the "No
Mother to Guide Her" type are so hopelessly bad, so obviously false,
so absolutely vicious, that it is hard to comprehend a mind that can
prefer them, if not to "Man and Superman", at least to such better
melodramas as "The Lion and the Mouse" or "The Squaw Man." The matter
of money is no explanation at all. Harry and Harriet might have
excellent seats in the balcony of the Lyceum or Wallack's for the
price of orchestra chairs at the American, and, if it comes to pride,
what choice is there between the gallery, politely disguised as "the
second balcony," of the Belasco, and a box at the Thalia?