CASUAL NOTES ON ACTING
Mr H.B. Irving on his Art
To the reviewer of books fell the task of criticizing Mr H.B. Irving's
book, "Occasional Papers," as literature. The dramatic critic has the
right of considering the views expressed in it concerning the stage.
There are two essays of importance, from reading which one may learn the
ideas, admirably expressed, of Mr Irving concerning his art--"The
English Stage in the Eighteenth Century" and "The Art and Status of the
Actor." The study of them, which they deserve, leads to certain
conclusions hardly, it may be, anticipated by the author.
In his defence of the actor's art against its detractors Mr Irving seems
to ignore a fact which may be expressed in a phrase taken from the
greatest of actor-dramatist-managers, and modified. There is acting and
acting: the distinction is not merely in quality but also in kind. It
would be difficult to define acting so as not to include the efforts of
the music-hall artist, and even of the circus clown; any definition
excluding them would be arbitrary, and also historically inaccurate. If,
then, acting is to embrace these as well as the admirable performance of
Mr Irving in _Hamlet_, disputes concerning the status of the actor as an
artist must often arise.
In fact, until one reaches the actor's performance in dramas sincerely
intended to be works of art, it is difficult to treat his art seriously.
A step farther: one cannot accept as a work of dramatic art a piece that
does not seek to cause an illusion, or any play which formally admits
the existence of the audience. A workable distinction may be found in
using the terms "drama" and "entertainment," "actor" and "entertainer."
Mr Irving's essays lead to another distinction--artificial, no doubt. He
speaks of the sixteenth century as "the century of great drama," of the
seventeenth as "a century in which the interest shifts from the drama to
its exponents, the players." The nineteenth, according to him, is
"noteworthy for the extraordinary advance made in the presentation of
plays on the stage." In other words, the seventeenth is great drama, the
eighteenth great acting, and the nineteenth great stage-mounting.
The seventeenth, says Mr Irving, "is in theatrical history the century
of the actor; he and not the dramatist is the dominating figure, his the
achievement that survives, his that finds in this century its highest
opportunity for distinction.... For the plays that attracted audiences
in the eighteenth century are for the most part dead things." Later on:
"There was another and a very strong reason why the actor of the
eighteenth century was encouraged--nay, driven--to exert his powers to
the utmost. It lay in the conditions under which he was compelled to
exercise his art."
These conditions were unsuitability of costume, the conduct of an unruly
audience, and the meanness of the mounting. The eighteenth-century
players pursued "the pure art of acting, unassisted by the
collaboration of other arts," and in them their art received its highest
expression.
From this it appears that if you wish for great acting you must have
poor plays cheaply mounted. Probably Mr Irving would shun such a
conclusion. He would say that the great acting was the result of the
conditions, but not an inevitable result, and that whilst modesty of
mounting may be a necessary condition, worthlessness of drama is not.
Yet we see a distinction and a truth emerging. The actors of the golden
age--of acting--had to make silk purses out of sows' ears, and they made
them. Their age was less golden when they had great drama to play.
The triumph of a play, so far as the co-operation of author and actor is
concerned, may be regarded as one hundred, and the greater the share in
it of the one the less that of the other. Since the actor's proportion
is higher as the dramatist's is lower, it follows that his work is more
brilliant in mediocre plays than in masterpieces. This, however, cannot
be accepted without taking into account the fact that many plays have
been written very skilfully as mere vehicles for the actor.
It is sometimes a nice question which is the horse and which the cart.
How often in the heyday of her fame did we see Bernhardt in any save
"built-up" dramas--plays "written round" her and intended to give her an
opportunity of showing off her amazing physical gifts? Need it be added
that the "star" actresses of other nations were all eager to appear in
these pieces? Is, then, the actor's art at its greatest when the player
is thrilling the house in a mediocre drama, or when he and the true
dramatist are producing a great effect together?
Mr Irving will probably reply that the actors of the golden age had
great triumphs in Shakespeare. Now, it may be observed that in most of
his tragedies, though not guilty of writing "star" parts, Shakespeare,
himself an actor, took very great pains to create "fat" acting parts,
and the actor-managers of the eighteenth century were careful that, in
the mutilated versions which they presented, these parts did not shrink
in relative importance. The great dramatist's action in this respect is
not, as a general rule, followed by the serious playwrights of the
present.
Whilst speaking of Shakespeare, one may refer to a passage in the essays
which has some bearing on the question of the place of acting in the
hierarchy of the arts. Garrick clearly was the greatest actor of his
century; but in speaking of Barry, Mr Irving says: "He had not Garrick's
fire or versatility; he had no gift for comedy; but in such parts as
Othello, Romeo and Alexander the Great his superior physique, his
stately grace, his charming pathos gave him the victory." _His superior
physique_ is a phrase which explains the reluctance of some fully to
admit the actor's claim for his art: they think that the purely physical
enters too often into the matter. There may even be detractors moved by
jealousy, unknown, perhaps, to themselves, of the "superior physique."
Possibly there are more subtle reasons why many writers are unwilling to
recognize the highest claims of the actor. They are perhaps, discernible
in what Mr Irving calls "the sympathetic reflections of Charles Lamb"
and the "impressive nonsense that Doctor Johnson talked" about acting.
In one of the essays we find: "There has been at all times a certain
resentment on the part of some writers against the player, against his
immediate fame.... It is a form of jealousy that has warped many
otherwise enlightened minds: an envy that forgets that a capacity to act
is a much rarer gift than a capacity to write." What is the meaning of
the last sentence. Does it mean that Garricks are rarer than Tuppers?--a
sad thought: or that Siddonses are rarer than Shakespeares?--which may
be denied confidently.
Does it mean anything? Perhaps not. It merely exhibits a confusion
between the relative and the absolute. This warping jealousy--if it
exist--really is due to a feeling that the actor becomes great in
popularity at the expense of the author. When the actor causes the
triumph of the play the author should be grateful; when the play causes
the triumph of the actor the playwright may feel a little jealous, and
writers may sympathize with him. There are plays and plays, just as
there is acting and acting. In subtle modern pieces conscientious actors
of fair ability rarely fail, and success (within certain limits) is
common in _Hamlet_.
Mr Bourchier and "Max" on English Acting
Mr Bourchier has written rather bitterly about some remarks of Mr Max
Beerbohm concerning English acting. Apparently "Max" has asserted that
"the average level of acting is admittedly lower in England than in
France, Germany or Italy." Hence Mr Bourchier's wrath, which obviously
is unselfish, since remarks about the average level of acting have
nothing to do with him, for no country is rich enough in histrionic
talent to deny that Mr Bourchier is far above the average.
Is Mr Max Beerbohm's assertion well founded? The "admittedly" inspires
distrust. Experience teaches the middle-aged that as a rule people
allege that a proposition is admitted when they have no evidence to
offer of its truth, and are aware that it will be disputed. Does anyone
exist who knows really what is the average level of acting in the four
countries named? Such knowledge could only be based upon a first-hand
study of acting in all kinds of theatres in many towns of England,
France, Germany and Italy. A music-hall agent is the only kind of person
likely to have made such a study. Has Mr Max made it?
Probably the clever caricaturist and lively critic is really talking
about the so-called West End theatres and the foreigners who come to us,
and of occasional visits paid by him to selected pieces in important
Continental cities. If so, his observations are based upon quite
insufficient materials. Critics are wont to praise foreign acting
unfairly at the expense of our own performers, and they receive the
support of opinions expressed by some foreigners, notably French and
Italians.
Members of gesticulative races are apt to think English players very
wooden, because when representing British people our actors and
actresses are much restrained in movement. A French or Italian critic
can hardly appreciate some of the splendid "Stage Society" or Court
Theatre performances, such, for instance, as that of _The Voysey
Inheritance_, which could not have been surpassed in any theatre or
country.
The offensive comparisons often, even generally, are based upon
performances where our players are at a serious disadvantage. On what
may be called neutral ground, such as Ibsen plays, we have held our own
very well against any performances in London by Continental players;
Miss Janet Achurch was a more characteristic Nora than Duse or Réjane;
nor have we seen a Mrs Linden, Hedda Gabler or Hilda Wangle comparable
with that of Miss Elizabeth Robins. There is no need to multiply
instances.
English players do not represent certain foreign characters as well as
do the foreigners. Is this surprising? They are handicapped, obviously.
How often have we seen a French, German or Italian performance of an
English play concerning English people? Was the great Eleonora as
painfully truthful as Mrs Patrick Campbell in _The Second Mrs
Tanqueray_? No one can deny that her companions were almost ludicrous to
us. Can one imagine any foreign company able to present _His House in
Order_ without entirely destroying the stage illusion and losing the
colour? There was a very fine performance at the St James's, with
intense soberness of manner in important matters as a keynote.
It is largely a question of geography; the Englishman expresses rapture
by the phrase "not half-bad" where the foreigner piles superlative on
superlative of gush. It is our quality and our defect that we have a
strange shyness, which prevents the exhibition of emotion for fear of
ridicule. On our stage, as in our real life, the beloved son comes home
from a long voyage, and, meeting his father, shakes hands a little
warmly and says, "Hallo, governor!" or something poetic like that;
whilst abroad the two men kiss one another and utter highly emotional
phrases of rapture. Everyone knows that the feelings are equally deep in
the two cases, but our cross-Channel critics doubt the depth of the
English feeling, whilst our native players cannot do the kissing and
hugging with an air of sincerity.
Now, when taking these facts into account we should be very careful in
appraising the efforts of our own players. Not only ought we to avoid
comparing select teams of foreign players with our own scratch
companies, but also it is our duty to consider whether the strangers are
appearing in plays better or worse than the average of our own, and we
must take into account the fact that they are gaining from the advantage
of novelty. Lastly, there remains the question how far they would appear
to be better than ours if appearing on neutral ground.
It would be idle to assert that the average level of our acting is as
good as it ought to be. Many theatres suffer severely from the lack of
satisfactory stage-management; some from the determination of an
actor-manager to be the central figure of every scene. Bitter complaints
are uttered by young players about not receiving sufficient suggestions
at rehearsal and finding that the stage-manager has so little authority
that not only the leading players act as they chose, but even the
smaller stars refuse successfully to obey him.
There is another point in Mr Bourchier's letter. He suggests that Mr Max
Beerbohm is not competent to criticize actors because he is not a master
of any branch of the difficult art of acting. This is a very foolish old
fallacy. People who do work essentially ephemeral, such as acting, do it
for those who are to witness it; and their merit is in direct proportion
to their impression upon the audience, and they can have no effect upon
anybody else. Actors, with trifling exceptions, do not form part of the
audience. Critics do, and the actor seeks to affect the audience and the
critics, and not the brother "pro." occasionally found in the
auditorium.
The merit of his work lies entirely in affecting an audience _in the
way intended by the author_. The technical devices adopted have nothing
to do with the question. No doubt there is much technical knowledge
involved in acting, but it must be remembered that it is all a means to
an end. The cult of technique for itself is perilous to an art.
After all, the matter may be reduced to an absurdity. Would Mr Bourchier
refuse to say that a man is well dressed, or a dinner ill cooked because
he is (presumably) ignorant of the mysteries of the arts of tailoring
and cooking? Moreover, some of us, perhaps even Mr Beerbohm, know a good
deal about the technique of acting, even if we could not "make-up" Mr
Bourchier to look like a costermonger. The actor must be very vain in
his conceit who has not had valuable hints concerning his acting from
the critics, unless he be one of those who, unlike Mr Bourchier, never
read notices--yet often complain of an unfavourable one. The article
called "Signor Borza on the English Theatre," which appears on page 252,
should be considered in relation to these remarks.
The Sicilian Players
During many years our stage has seen nothing like the success of the
Sicilians. They presented themselves at the Shaftesbury Theatre with
little in the shape of preliminary paragraphs to "boom" them. Most of
their repertoire consisted of works unknown to London playgoers. Several
of their plays were performed in a puzzling dialect. Even the judicious
step of offering a fairly full synopsis of the plays was neglected.
Notwithstanding all this, the theatre was well patronized during two
seasons and the audiences have exhibited enthusiasm.
What is the meaning of all this; why should these village folk, playing
what in the main seem to be simple peasant melodramas, have troubled the
senses of Londoners? The obvious answer is that the affair is a triumph
of pure acting. One pauses to inquire whether this is true. In the case
of most of their plays the judgment of the audience concerning the
acting must be very rough and ready--so far, at least, as the
performance is fulfilling its true purpose of presenting in action the
ideas of the author.
How are we to know, when watching a play in Sicilian dialect and
provided with a printed "argument" comprised in about a couple of
hundred words, whether the players are doing anything like their duty to
the author? By-the-by the poor Censor had to admit that he passed their
plays on the strength of these inadequate synopses! Yet there was
absolute conviction in most of us that their work was sincere and at
times quite tremendous as a matter of pure acting. The word "tremendous"
must be confined to the efforts of Signora Mimi Aguglia Ferrau and
Signor Grasso. The others form a very good company, but it is only in
respect of these two that one employs the word "genius," which cautious
writers use very rarely, though there are journalists who lavish it upon
everybody a thumb-nail's thickness above mediocrity.
Concerning the lady there is no doubt at all. She is a little woman,
with a rather strongly featured, intelligent face, brilliant teeth and
big eyes who has, to begin with, the rare gift of filling the stage.
There is a perceptible difference whenever she is present. She may be
one of a crowd of twenty, and saying and doing nothing, but her
presence is felt. At her command is a delightful roguish comedy and a
horrible realistic tragedy. In _Malia_ she is a Phèdre burnt up with
unslakable passion, a rustic Phèdre, no doubt, but Bernhardt never gave
more strongly the idea of "_Vénus toute entière à sa proie attachée_."
There are tricks in her work; she is fond of standing her profile
parallel with the footlights, and of exhibiting the whites of her large
eyes; she is conscious of the extraordinary eloquence of her shoulders
and back, and likes to exhibit distress by the play of them. There is
often excess in violent contrast of light and shade.
Yet no one can display subsiding emotion more finely than she does. Most
of our players turn off emotion as one turns off the gas. In the
Sicilian one notices a kind of aftermath; her fury may be succeeded by
rapture; her grief by joy; but for a while underneath the rapture or joy
one detects signs of the fact that physically she is recovering
gradually from the effects of fury or grief. The voice is a little
harsh, the gestures are not exactly elegant, she is always somewhat
_peuple_, and always magnificent.
In some respects, Signor Grasso is quite different; his appearance is
unpleasant, he is an ugly man, often with a fatuous air, but his grace
of movement is quite extraordinary; occasionally he gives snatches of
dance so exquisitely rhythmical that one longs for more. His pantomime
is larger in movement than hers; his passion less terrible. He too has
tricks; he is over-fond of playing with the chairs; in _Malia_ one might
say that he plays skittles with them.
There is rather an excess of gesture, of a naturalistic explanatory
gesture, apparently borrowed from pantomime; one feels that some of it
is deliberately used to aid the ignorant foreigner to understand; he
does things which make the Briton squirm; has a habit of kissing the
ugly, male members of his troupe with big, resounding smacks on both
cheeks, and in a loving fashion pats them like a Graeco-Roman wrestler;
but there is always the extraordinarily graceful, lithe movement and,
with curious exceptions, a supreme unconsciousness of the audience;
whilst the passionate volubility and the almost brutal ferocity thrill
the house.
They are a queer lot, these village players; supremely unself-conscious
when actually acting, yet guilty of taking "calls" in the middle of a
scene. If pressed, they probably would give an encore, and with a little
urging Signora Mimi would yield to a cry of "bis" and give a repetition
of her abominable, appalling, vastly clever fit in _Malia_, to please
the friendly Britons.
At the end of a scene the players come forward, hand in hand, bobbing
and bowing, grinning and smiling, in a way that suggests a troupe of
acrobats after a successful turn. It is not difficult to overrate their
work as a company, or rather--and this in a sense is the same thing--to
underrate that of our own players by comparison.
There is one very noteworthy fact: from the point of view of a London
manager the scenery and appointments were contemptible, and this
apparently did not matter a rap. An audience, five-sixths of it British,
was enthralled by these players, although the scenery and the furniture
of the indoor sets had no pretension to magnificence, were sometimes
almost absurdly squalid.
The venture at the Shaftesbury showed that if you give what the public
deems good acting you need not bother about painted canvas and
furniture; and what applies to good acting applies to good plays. The
Sicilians taught us this, even if, perhaps, little else; for our
players, unless they are to represent Sicilians, or such volcanic
creatures, can learn comparatively little from them. Indeed, our
delightful visitors could be taught something by our despised stage in
the way of reticence, for there is little doubt that they love a horror
for horror's sake and revel in the gory joys of the penny gaff. This may
be said with full recognition of the fact that, according to their own
standard, they are intensely sincere and superbly equipped in
consequence of hard work and natural gifts.
Alleged Dearth of Great Actresses
Lately there have appeared some remarks by an unnamed "prominent
dramatic author" alleging that "there is a dearth of great actresses
just now," and stating that "several serious plays which it was hoped
might be produced next autumn are in danger of being indefinitely
postponed because of the inability of finding actresses capable of
playing strongly emotional parts in drama of deep and complex interest."
These dramas of "deep and complex interest" are quite as rare in our
theatre as great actresses and we only believe in their existence when
we see them.
Of course there is a dearth of great actresses--there always was and
always will be: "great" is only a relatively term. Thank goodness for
this, seeing that they are sadly injurious to drama. On the other hand,
to allege a lack of actresses competent to play strong emotional parts
seems quite unjust.
The remarks of the "prominent dramatic author" were followed by a
letter to the same effect by Mr George Rollit, known to fame as the
author of a fairly good farce produced in 1904 at the Royalty. He
appears to have allowed it to get known that a new play of his was to be
produced in the West End, but he was unable to find "an adequate
exponent for the leading role"--what a pretty phrase!--"which requires
an emotional young actress, capable of portraying strong light and
shade." He received many offers from actresses, none of whom were
suitable.
These two complainants are making a mistake concerning the task of the
dramatist, who fails in his labours if his plays cannot adequately be
acted without the assistance of great actresses. They are foolishly
pandering to the vanity of the players, who as a rule have a tendency to
exaggerate their importance in relation to drama. The error is very
common, and the idea that plays should be written primarily to exhibit
the players and not the ideas of the author is the bane of our theatre.
Until our dramatists act firmly on the view that their duty is to write
plays interesting when rendered by a good, starless company, they will
only produce as a rule _bravura_ pieces of little artistic value. By all
means let them write strongly emotional parts, if they can; but they are
not worthy of their royalties if their characters do not generally lie
within the range of a fair number of actresses. There is a grotesque
mixture of vanity and modesty in the mind of an author who thinks his
work worthy of performance by an actress of genius and at the same time
believes it to be too weak to succeed without her help.
It will be answered, probably, that Shakespeare's plays demand players
of genius and yet certainly are not mere _bravura_ pieces. There is
truth und untruth in this--truth that our public will not patronize
Shakespeare when acted by average performers; untruth in the proposition
that they cannot adequately be represented by players without genius. We
have unfortunately got into the very bad habit of going to see his works
not for their intrinsic interest but for the sake of the acting and
mounting. It is not _Hamlet_ but Mr Smith as the Prince of Denmark; not
_Romeo and Juliet_ but Miss Brown and Mr Jones as the lovers of Verona,
and so on, which form the attraction; and the works are cut and played
out of balance in order to meet the demand.
The author would have resented a suggestion that his characters are so
superhuman as to need marvellous performance: these remarks are without
prejudice to the question whether even with the aid of great players
Shakespeare's dramas reveal a fair proportion of their merits on the
stage.
The outcry concerning the alleged dearth of good actresses is very
commonly uttered and exceedingly ill-founded. It is wise to avoid the
thorny question how far the recognized leading ladies of our first-class
theatres are satisfactory--yet it may be said that a successful
playwright recently complained that as a body they were not, and that,
despite his protests, he was compelled to have his works performed by
the ladies in possession--and judicious to shirk the proposition,
sometimes put forward, that some of these do not hold their positions by
mere force of merit. Putting, then, aside the actresses enjoying
grandeur in London, and leaving out of account a still more remarkable
group which includes Mrs Kendal, Mrs Patrick Campbell and Miss Olga
Nethersole--whom we too rarely see in town--and even ignoring what may
be called "recognized leading ladies" who are "resting" reluctantly,
there remains a powerful group of young actresses of experience and
talent fully competent to satisfy the reasonable requirements of these
gentlemen who are complaining of the "dearth." Since this was written a
number of young ladies then on the boards but not accepted as leading
ladies have made their way to the front.
Character Actresses
Several letters have been written lately, pathetic letters, from
actresses unable to get engagements. All of the writers have enjoyed
successes, have been referred to by important papers as "promising" or
"coming leading ladies," each has had at least one engagement at a very
handsome weekly salary, yet every one of them is in doleful dumps.
Here is a passage from one: "In 1904 I did so well that I lived in
luxury, and, I fear, somewhat extravagantly, and my performance as
heroine in ---- was so highly praised that I had no doubt my future was
well assured. Last year I earned £40, and I have to live on what I earn,
and if I look dowdy when I go seeking an engagement I have little chance
of getting it. Yet I am under thirty, and although not one of the little
group of alleged beauties whose faces appear monotonously week after
week in the illustrated papers, I am well-enough-looking when made up,
and have read in criticisms references to my 'charm of presence' and
even to my 'beauty.' What is to become of me, I don't know. Of course I
am particularly hopeless seeing that nine of the London theatres out of
less than three times that number are now devoted to musical comedy and
I am unable to sing, nor should I be enthusiastic about taking work
sadly in contrast with my once high and hopeful ambition."
The last phrase deserves some consideration. To a great extent the
reason why the stage causes so much unhappiness among actresses is that
a large proportion enter the profession not in a simple straightforward
way in the choice of a career, but because they dream of great triumphs.
Probably the career of Ellen Terry, and the exhibition of public
affection shown upon the occasion of her jubilee, brought many recruits
to the stage.
Putting aside the fact that Ellen Terry is unique, one may remark that
very few actresses can hope to get close to the top of the tree, for
obvious reasons. In the case of most careers and professions, nine men
out of ten who join them know perfectly well that they will never do
more than earn a decent living, and they shape their lives accordingly;
but nearly every young actress expects to become a leading lady at a
West End theatre, though there are few West End theatres devoted to real
drama, and in some out of the small number there will always be a
manager's wife or friend as an obstacle.
The misfortune is that few young actresses--if any--say to themselves
deliberately that they will aim at character parts, or old-woman parts.
Nearly all the old-woman and _grande-dame_ characters are played by
actresses who have been leading ladies and during some period have had
the painful experience of failing, on account of their age, to get the
engagements they have sought. The Juliet of one season is not the Nurse
or the Lady Capulet of the next; a considerable time passes before there
is such a shift of characters, and she acts nothing at all during the
interregnum, which is spent in vain attempts to get the Juliet parts,
met with cruel rebuffs on the score of age.
Now, some of the old-man actors on the stage are quite young; they have
chosen a particular line, conscious of the fact that nature has denied
them the privilege of playing parts that will cause the
stage-door-keeper to be deluged with amorous letters addressed to them,
and aware, too, that the triumphs of the broad comedian will never be
theirs. These young old-men are often quite as successful in old-man
parts as those who have served most of a lifetime upon the stage.
It is not more difficult for a young woman to play the old-woman
character or the _grande-dame_ part than for the young man to tackle the
Sir Peter Teazle or the ordinary modern old-man; nor is this the only
class of work other than that of lovely heroine which lies open to the
actress. When one hears discussion concerning the casting of plays there
is often talk about the difficulty of finding an actress for a Fanny
Brough part, which, of course, is quite distinct from what may be
considered specifically a _soubrette_ character. Complaints are uttered
about the difficulty of finding a player to represent the comic
mother-in-law; indeed, playwrights are sometimes affected in their work
by the fear that if they write broad comedy for feminine parts the
difficulty of casting them will be insurmountable.
Handsome salaries are paid to the few ladies who have a well-deserved
reputation as actresses in the class of character thus indicated, and
there is a demand for them--a demand generally supplied by superannuated
leading ladies and aged _soubrettes_. It may be offensive to a girl's
vanity deliberately to choose a path in which her personal charms, or
those which she believes herself to possess, must be of little service.
On the English stage it may be doubted if such a policy will ever be
adopted, though on French there are instances which might be cited of
actresses who have played dowager characters during the whole of a
profitable, long and respected career.
No doubt there is another side of the matter. Many, most actresses, join
the stage with other ideas than of merely gaining a reasonably
comfortable living wage. Pure ambition in some cases, vanity in others,
are the motive-force, to say nothing of the numbers who may be regarded
simply as stagestruck; and to such as these nothing seems worth striving
for save to represent the triumphant heroine, the fascinating
_soubrette_, or Lady Macbeth.
Upon all, these prudent counsels will be wasted--indeed, those who know
a little of what passes behind the scenes are well aware that young
actresses, almost starving, refuse to accept character parts that would
help them out of poverty because they are afraid of jeopardising their
chance--their one-to-a-hundred chance--of obtaining the perilous
position of leading lady.
There is, of course, another class. Some, perhaps many, become actresses
simply from a pure love of what they deem a beautiful, noble art, and
for them it is only natural to think that nothing is worth representing
save the greater characters; it is difficult to gratify such a love by
representing a middle-aged comic spinster, or one of the elderly
duchesses, without whom a modern comedy is deemed ungenteel. Let us hope
that Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree's Academy, which already is bearing
fruit, will affect this deplorable phenomenon. Those responsible may
succeed in convincing a fair number of their charming pupils that it is
wise not to aim at glittering triumphs which fall to few, but to qualify
for work necessary in most plays, and very often done indifferently.
Stage Misfits
"One of those things no fellah can understand," to quote a phrase of
Lord Dundreary, is the way in which players get chosen for their parts.
Most cases, no doubt, are not instances of square pegs in round holes;
but the number of exceptions is enormous, a fact which has lately been
made manifest by one of the short French seasons. An actress of really
great talent has appeared as a star in her husband's company, and the
obvious judgment upon her first two appearances was that the characters
chosen were quite unsuitable to her. The reference is to Madame Suzanne
Desprès.
In _La Rafale_ and _Le Détour_ she had to represent a Parisian, a _chic
Parisienne_, a creature of nerves, elegance and, according to Balzac,
sound business calculation, Madame Desprès suggested none of these
qualities; in physique she seems an agreeable-looking, strong-minded
countrywoman with brains; obviously she has no instinct for dress; and,
despite remarkable skill and a fine exhibition of acting, she presented
a woman quite different from the author's character, one also who would
never have behaved like M. Bernstein's heroines.
The play suffered and the player suffered, and probably only the
critical could see what an admirable actress she is and guess how
perfectly she would represent a higher type of woman. This is no
isolated case. We often see the race-horse used in pulling heavy
weights and the Suffolk punch employed for speed, and each blamed for
the unsatisfactory accomplishment of the absurd task. Many of the
disasters in the theatre are due to this.
As a rule the actor-manager or manageress demands the principal
character, however unsuitable. Going back a little, one recalls with
astonishment the experiment of Irving in representing Romeo, and many
have wondered why Ellen Terry in 1888 appeared as Lady Macbeth. Some of
the pleasantest memories of the playgoer concern superb performances by
Miss Elizabeth Robins, and yet they can recollect two or three
appearances in commonplace dramas that were flat failures. Mrs Patrick
Campbell has had several checks which would be astounding if one did not
recollect that she was constitutionally unsuited for the task she
attempted.
The most ardent Bensonian will hardly suggest that his idols are always
judicious in their choice of characters. To use the stock stage term,
players often "see themselves" in characters in which the public sees
only them and not the characters. Are there no kind friends on the stage
to give unpalatable advice?
One reason for the extraordinary success of the performances by the
Stage Society and the Vedrenne-Barker management and of Pinero plays was
the judicious choice of players whose physique and temperament coincided
with their parts. Several times we had what seemed brilliant pieces of
acting by performers who never did anything before or afterwards worthy
of admiration. At almost every fresh production enthusiastic young
critics discovered a new actor or actress who, after all, was only an
old friend well fitted at last.
The lack of attention by managers to this matter of suitability often
leads to very awkward results, chiefly in the case of the ladies. Many
times we have listened to ravings about the beauty of the heroine, and
when she has appeared there has been a giggle in the house on account of
her lack of beauty. We have frequently heard references to the tiny feet
of a healthy young woman who would hardly have got three of her toes
into the glass slipper, or to the dainty hands of a lady who would split
a pair of eights.
The beauty of the men is not so frequently referred to, but we sometimes
have an ugly fellow vainly trying to live up to suggestions that he is
an Adonis and merely looking ridiculous in consequence. The matter of
age, too, enters into the question--at times disastrously. Some
actresses are like Cleopatra or Ninon de l'Enclos, but many look twice
their reputed age. It is only in the case of Juliet that it is deemed
decent to refer to this difficulty, and then merely because Shakespeare
has set her so cruelly young that everybody knows nobody can play and
look the part.
In this matter a little good sense would work wonders. We critics are
much to blame, and blamed, for not trying to force the entry of good
sense. Some of our forebrothers never hesitated to talk bluntly about
the physical unsuitability of players for their parts, but we have grown
so mealy-mouthed that if Miss Florence Haydon were to play Rosalind or
Mr Louis Calvert Romeo, we should merely use some obscure phrases about
unsuitability of temperament instead of saying something usefully brutal
about the folly of these admirable artists. If we go a little further,
our editors are pestered with letters to which we have the privilege of
replying.
The whole thing is absurd. The public is not deluded, and we hear
murmurs in the theatre and outcries in the streets about the fact that
Miss So-and-so is far too ugly for her part and Mr So-and-so too old,
and the plays fail because the charges are true and the stage illusion
has never been created, and the critic's authority--if any--is weakened.
There are as many bad performances because the players are physically
unsuitable as because they are otherwise incompetent.
If these ideas were acted upon the profession at large would gain, for
the players would be put more constantly in circulation; on the other
hand it will be suggested that the actors and actresses would grow less
skilful, since it may be imagined that their highest achievements are
exhibited when overcoming the greatest difficulties, in which
proposition there is an obvious fallacy; and also that they would gain
less experience, having a smaller variety in parts.
The advocates of the old stock system certainly would howl, because they
think it did an actor good to play a great number of vastly different
characters. It must, however, be recollected that in the time when the
stock system flourished, putting aside the comparatively small classic
repertoire, a very large proportion of the pieces were written upon more
mechanical lines than the better plays of the present time, and parts
tended to become classifiable into distinct well-known categories.
To-day popular players are often engaged for long terms at theatres,
where they are inevitably given characters for many of which they are
unsuited in physique or temperament, to say nothing of age.
Another matter is the question of accent. From time to time we have
players on our boards who speak English with a foreign accent in parts
where such an accent is an absurdity. No doubt some have grappled with
this difficulty very cleverly. Modjeska, for instance, Bandmann, Mlle.
Béatrice, Marius, Juliette Nesville and the lady who played here as
Madame Simon le Bargy.
The memory of few goes back to Fechter, and it would hardly be tactful
to refer on this topic to several American players. The effect, however,
necessarily is unfortunate; it is difficult enough on the stage to
create illusions, and very important not to multiply difficulties.
Opera, with the magic aid of music, may contend successfully against
such monstrosities as one singer singing an Italian part in French,
whilst the others offer various styles of Italian, Anglo-Italian,
German-Italian, Swedish-Italian--almost any Italian save the _lingua
Toscana_. Spoken drama is not so robust in this particular, and the
matter in question does not happen often enough to acquire validity by
becoming a convention.
Stars
The past season has been comparatively disastrous to the theatres, and
many pieces have failed; this state of things is coincident with healthy
progress in English drama, and the year has seen several productions
that would have startled as well as delighted enthusiasts a few years
ago. Putting aside musical comedy and comic opera, one asks why it is
that a great deal of money has been lost at the playhouses and a very
large proportion of pieces have been failures.
There are outcries about a dearth of good plays and competent players,
and the supposed deficiency in these elements is generally offered as an
explanation. Is it the true one? Certainly not. The development of the
star system is the chief cause of the disaster. In former days we used
to blame the actor-manager, but since the time when all were throwing
stones at him a good deal has happened for which the ordinary
actor-manager is not responsible--directly.
To-day several of the managers who are not actors run their theatres on
the star system, and we find the announcement frequently made that Mr X.
will present Miss So-and-so, or Mr So-and-so, or Mrs So-and-so, in a new
play by Mr XXX. In other words, the manager is really offering his star
to the public, and not the play. Moreover, a number of players are run
as stars by syndicates. In plain English, most of our theatres are
managed, or rather mismanaged, upon the supposition that the principal
players are more important than what they represent.
It is the opinion of many disinterested observers that only three or
four of our actors and actress in legitimate drama draw an appreciable
amount of money in London to the theatre, and sacrifices made for those
who do not obviously are futile. The unfortunate result of the system is
that the playwright is sacrificed to the stars--most of whom are
ineffectual. He is required to fit his drama to the personality of one,
or it may be two, in the cast.
Let us tell briefly the story of one failure of the year. A play of some
merit was shown to a popular actor, who suggested that if certain
changes were made in it he would recommend it to his syndicate. The
changes were suggested comprehensively under the phrase "If you can
strengthen my part."
The part was strengthened--that is to say, other parts were weakened,
speeches were taken from them and given to the hero, scenes for minor
characters were excised or shortened, and the star was dragged into the
finale of the second act at great sacrifice of plausibility. The play
was then recommended.
It happened that the star had just separated from the leading lady who
generally appeared with him, so the syndicate was free in choice of a
heroine. Three names were suggested. It was admitted that two of the
actresses were more suitable than the third, who, however, had a
"backer" willing to put money into the venture. The money prevailed and
the lady was chosen. She promptly insisted upon having her part
strengthened, so the play was remutilated till her wishes were complied
with. Is it surprising that when it was produced the critics fell foul
of it and denounced the faults due to these transactions, or amazing
that it did not run long?
This is by no means an isolated case: there has been one comedy given
this year, the last act of which was blamed by everybody. Why? Because
the star, who was not the chief figure in it as the play was written,
insisted upon his prerogatives, therefore the part of the second actor
in the cast was cut down to next to nothing and a big irrelevant scene
was introduced for the star, in which he uttered some of the speeches
taken from the second actor's part. To think of a work of art being
submitted to such treatment! It is difficult to emphasize it by a
parallel. One might ask what would be the result if a painter were to
attempt to convert a purely imaginative picture into a portrait, and, in
addition to altering the face and the lines of the figures, were to put
in a number of accessories to please the patron's taste, and also to
accept suggestions from the sitter as to changes in the colour-scheme.
Now, it may be asserted confidently that a number of the plays produced
this year have undergone the process of being altered to please
managers, actor-managers, star players and syndicates. In addition a
good many have been written from the start with a view of fitting the
stars without alteration, and such works, in most cases, are quite out
of balance and proportion, and, moreover, put a burden upon the stars
that they are quite unable to bear, or we to endure.
It was bad enough when there were only two or three stars, but now the
managers have starred a whole shoal of mediocre players and sacrificed
plays and dramatist to them. That there seems to be a dearth of good
plays is in part because of the fact that some good ones are ruined by
changes made in them, whilst others are refused because they do not
contain star parts, and the authors cannot or will not convert them into
star plays.
The stars, created by the managers and industriously boomed by their
press agents, by the newspapers and by the postcard merchants, have
become Frankensteins to their creators. They demand and get extravagant
salaries. Yet experience shows that few really draw people to the
theatre.
When the manager makes his calculation he can only put a limited sum to
the salary list, and since he starts with one or two star salaries there
is an insufficient amount left for the rest of the company--that is to
say, instead of having the other characters represented by players who
would be chosen for them if money were no object, they have to be taken
by the cheapest performers who can possibly be deemed competent.
The position of the unstarred actor is peculiarly precarious, for he is
often passed over, although the salary expected by him is not very
large, in favour of somebody cheaper and less competent. Some casts
remind one of the women who think themselves well dressed merely
because they have a new hat. They begin with one or two good
players--when the stars happen to be good players--and immediately drop
below mediocrity.