There is a movement, I am told, in certain critical circles in favour
of the system which obtains in Parisian theatres of the _répétition
générale_. This, as most playgoers know, is a final “dress rehearsal”
held on the evening (at the Français, where evening performances must
be continuous, on the afternoon) of the day before the actual “first
night” production, or _première_, of the play. The seats, including the
exceptionally large number allotted in Paris to the Press, are filled by
invitation. It is the real “first night”; only there is no “money” in the
house. Notoriously, there is a formidable cohort of Parisians who regard
their seat at a _répétition générale_ as a kind of vested interest, and
who would be affronted by having to put up with the _première_. A very
remarkable public this is, the public of the _répétition générale_, with
its members virtually all known to one another, filling the _foyer_ with
chatter and much scent, and patiently sitting through a performance
which is apt to begin a good half-hour after the advertised time, and to
end in the small hours of the morning. The inter-acts are of inordinate
length, perhaps in the interests of the buffet, more likely because of
the inveterate leisureliness of the Parisians. The whole thing, at any
rate as I have found it, is a weariness to English flesh. But then the
gentlemen (and ladies) of the Press have the advantage of being able to
go home straight to bed, and of having all next day to think over their
“notices.”
That is the reason, I suppose, why some critics would like to see the
system introduced in London. They want more time. They want to sleep on
it. They would write, they think, better in the morning. Let me leave
that point, however, for the moment to turn to what an incorrigibly
commercial world will probably think a more important one, the question
of finance. To the theatrical manager the introduction of this system
would mean the loss of a whole night’s receipts. With theatre rents
and expenses at their present height, could they possibly contemplate
so heavy a sacrifice? They are already complaining that theatre seats
at their present prices do not pay—and here they would be giving away,
for one night, the whole house. Further, however they might gratify the
friends whom they invited, nothing could save them from the wrath of
those who were left over. Some of these, perhaps, might be mollified by
a subsequent invitation—for the “deadhead” habit becomes an insidious
disease, and, I am told, the Paris theatres groan under the hordes of
playgoers who consider themselves entitled to gratuitous admission. On
the whole, I think our managers would be ill-advised to countenance the
suggested change.
Another thing. The _répétition générale_ is a trial performance. Effects
which don’t “tell,” incidents which shock or provoke ridicule, are
often cut out next morning, so that the play actually presented at
the _première_ differs, sometimes vitally, from that presented to the
critics, so that the “notice” not seldom describes and criticizes various
matters which the public are never shown. If the English manager imitated
this example—and as a practical man of business he would be sure to
imitate it—the unhappy critic after writing his notice would have to go
to the play again, before printing it, in order to assure himself that it
still represented the facts. It would have to be two bites at a cherry.
Now, new plays are often produced on two nights running, in which case
two bites at the same cherry would be impossible. In the most favourable
case, two successive visits to a play would be a heavy addition to the
burden of life.
But would criticism benefit in quality? I venture to doubt that, too. I
think that theatrical “notices” are all the better for being piping hot.
One’s impressions of the play are stronger, more definite in outline,
richer in colour, when one leaves the theatre than next morning, when
they have had time to cool and to fade into “second thoughts,” which in
criticism are far from being always the best. When Jules Lemaître went
from the _Débats_ to the _Deux Mondes_ he found that his thoughts about
the play, instead of maturing with the longer interval for writing, were
apt to become simply vague and general. If the play happened to be one
“of ideas,” not so much harm was done, because ideas stick in the mind,
and are revolved there. But a play of emotion or a play dependent on
fine shades of acting is bound to suffer by the gradual waning of the
first impression. And my own experience is that in writing about a play
of which one has lost the first hot impression, and which one has to
recall by an effort of memory, the proportions get altered, so that the
criticism is thrown out of gear. Some point, a mere minor point, perhaps,
that attracted one’s attention, remains in the mind and assumes an undue
importance in relation to other details that have faded. I went to see
_Grierson’s Way_ revived the other night after a quarter of a century.
When I asked myself beforehand what I remembered of it, I could only
answer that I had been originally much struck by its merits, but that
the only one of these merits that remained in my mind was a conversation
wherein, under a surface of small talk, two people were revealing depths
of tragic emotion. I had forgotten the characters, the _motif_, the very
story. And when my conversation turned up (in Act III.), though I was as
delighted as ever, I saw, of course, that it was only an item, not the
sole memorable thing in the play.
An interval of a quarter of a century is rather different from one
of four-and-twenty hours? Undoubtedly; but my point is that one’s
impressions begin to wane and to alter in “values” from the very outset.
After all it is the business of critics not merely to criticize, analyse,
and judge a play, to try and “place” it in the realm of art; they have
also the perhaps minor but still important duty of acting as public
“tasters.” They have to represent facts, to give the public a reasonably
accurate notion of what they are likely to see. And they are in a much
better position for doing this if they set down their facts and their
views of the facts at once, while they are still quivering with the
excitement (or yawning with the boredom) of them.