"THE BABES IN THE WOOD."
When I saw a dull red glow in the early evening sky above the great open
flares that lit the portals of the Theatre Royal, I said to myself,
"This brings the Peace home to one!" But those who think that England
will never be the same after the War, that all things will become new
and better, have not reckoned with the Drury Lane Pantomime. Its tactics
may change, but its general strategy remains untouched by War or Peace.
Under any name--_Ali Baba_ or _Aladdin_, _Puss in Boots_ or _The Babes
in the Wood_--its savour is the same. If only a tenth part of the
enterprise that goes to the making of its great pageants were devoted to
the invention of a new subject, though it were only _The Babes in Boots_
or _Puss in the Wood_! However, with Bolshevism in the air it is best
perhaps not to tamper with British institutions.
Still, even within the limits imposed by immemorial tradition there
surely must be somebody in the United Kingdom who could make a better
book. It was pathetic that so capable a cast--Miss LILY LONG in
particular--should have such second-rate stuff to say and sing. Seldom
could one detect any attempt to evade the obvious. Of topical allusions,
apart from timeworn themes of coupons and profiteers, there was scarce
a sign, and such burlesque as there was had no sort of subtlety in it.
Take, for example, the opportunity lost in the imitation of a bedroom
scene from modern drama. It announced itself as something "West-Endy,"
yet it was like nothing (I imagine) even in the remote Orient. And
constantly the poor play of _esprit_ had to be carried off by the
distracting thud of some falling body or covered by the deadening clash
of the eternal cymbals.
It is significant, in this connection, that there never seems to be any
male character in these pantomimes that is not committed to buffoonery.
Apparently no reliance is placed on the unassisted humour of the
dialogue. A funny remark must be clinched with a somersault, a repartee
be driven home by a resounding smack on the face. You might have thought
that on such an occasion there would be room for the figure of some
gallant soldier of the masculine sex. Yet there wasn't a vestige of
khaki in the whole show, and the only patriotic song assigned to a man's
voice had to be delivered by the comic villain.
However, the actors were too good to be defeated by the authors; and the
two couples--the _Babes_ (Mr. STANLEY LUPINO as _Horace_ and Mr. WILL
EVANS as _Flossie_) and the _Robbers_ (Messrs. EGBERT)--went far by
their personal drollery and unflagging spirits to make up for any defect
in the words. Each member of the two pairs played very loyally into the
other's hands. Mr. ALBERT EGBERT indeed played into his brother's feet
with equal devotion; and the good humour with which he accepted the
fiercest blows on face and person seemed to indicate an exceptionally
close fraternal understanding.
[Illustration: THE AGE OF INNOCENCE _Horace_ ... Mr. STANLEY LUPINO.
_Flossie_ ... Mr. WILL EVANS.]
Mr. HARRY CLAFF as the Wicked Uncle (with a note or two in the
operatic manner) belied his villainous nature by an unusually amiable
temperament; and Miss FLORENCE SMITHSON, with her dainty air, furnished
interludes of conventional song, during which we gave our ribs a rest.
The dancing, as usual, was rather perfunctory, if one excepts a _pas de
deux_ which gave promise of a parody of the Russians and turned out to
be just a series of contortionist feats, brilliant but unlovely.
As good wine needs no bush, so good babes need no wood; but Messrs.
McCLEERY and HUMPHRIES painted for them a quite nice one, where, after
some very pleasant business with a brace of giant mushrooms that went
up and down like a lift, the robins came and camouflaged the wanderers
under a counterpane of fallen leaves, where they behaved much better
than in ordinary beds. But the best scene was M. MARC HENRI's Temple of
Peace--very beautiful with its dim perspective, till the garish light of
"The Day" was turned on. Here the assertive colours of the Allies were
tempered to an exquisite pale harmony, only slightly damaged by a
nondescript contingent in pink (possibly neutrals) and the apparition of
Mr. ARTHUR COLLINS and other gentlemen in black, who came on to receive
the expression of our grateful approbation.
I stayed long enough into the Harlequinade to see little Prince OLAF of
Norway, in QUEEN ALEXANDRA's box, capture a large cracker dexterously
flung to him by the Pantaloon. So ended for me an evening more jocund
than I have had the good grace to admit.