Stage Decoration as a Fine Art
The question of the use of “scenery” on the stage is perpetually
bobbing up, and as perpetually it remains an unsolved question.
Specific instances of the dire harm that the decoration can do to
a play may be observed in our theatres almost any week during the
active season. To take an example, let us mention one of Mr. Sothern’s
Shakespearean productions, which had already been cut to run within the
time-limit, but which played from eight in the evening until midnight
because the “elaborate” settings had to be changed frequently. The
intermissions, as a result, occupied more of the spectators’ patience
than the play. In another instance, a musical comedy went to pot on the
first night because the stagehands could not handle the setting of the
second act with enough expedition. As a result, they kept the curtain
down for thirty minutes, a fatal length of time in a playhouse devoted
to frivolity.
John Palmer, in that book, quotation from which is sheer delight, “The
Future of the Theatre,” says that this is the age of the “naturalist”
drama, and that as a result, when anyone tries to produce a “romantic”
or “poetic” play, there is an attempt made to wrap up the shortcomings
of the performance in elaborate upholstery.
“Why does the electrician or the costumier become so much more
important in poetic than in naturalist drama? The electrician and
costumier become more important as the author and actor become less
competent of themselves to assert their intention. Naturalist authors
and naturalist players are masters of their method. The poetic
dramatists and players are not. Poetic drama has fallen upon evil
times. The dramatist, being unequal to his burden, the artificers in
light and hair and turpentine are invoked to help him sustain it. In
the mid-twentieth-century outburst of poetic splendor, which will
follow the foundation of our national theatre, it will soon be realized
how the former degradation of the poetic drama was directly measured by
the importance yielded thereby to the subordinate crafts. The quaint
superstition of to-day that the limelight man is an important person in
the raising of Cæsar’s ghost will disappear when poetic drama of the
future is lifted to the level of the naturalist drama of to-day.
“Even to-day, when there comes an actor of genius who can present
Shakespeare in the solid flesh, it is possible for the least reflective
play-goer to realize how little it matters that the limelight is
not of the latest and best quality, or that paint upon the scene is
spread too thick. We have lately had opportunities, within a single
year, of measuring Shakespeare as produced by Mr. Granville Barker
against Shakespeare as acted by Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson.
Compare for a moment Mr. Barker’s _Twelfth Night_ with Sir Johnston
Forbes-Robertson’s _Hamlet_. Mr. Barker’s _Twelfth Night_ had every
advantage that a producer can bestow. Beautiful costumes against a
decorative background, excellent music, an intelligent revival of
the necessary apron, a very fair quality of acting, rising in a few
instances to an extremely high level of accomplishment--all that the
producer as fine-artist has been able to discover was tested and
adapted for the occasion.
“‘Look here upon this picture, and on this.’
“Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson in his _Hamlet_ of 1913 seemed bent upon
showing once for all that production matters not at all when great
acting is toward. The Drury Lane _Hamlet_ of 1913 showed not only
that the actor and his author require no artistic aid of theatrical
haberdashers to make their effect, but also that the actor and his
author, if they have as much genius between them as will cover a penny
piece, can unite and play clean out of existence the ugliest daubs of
the false cardboard naturalism of the late ‘nineties.’ In Sir Johnston
Forbes-Robertson’s _Hamlet_ was no borrowed grace of the producing
fine-artist. Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson had not even the advantage
of the poetic conventions to which his play was originally fitted.
He made his dramatic appeal in spite of his conditions, rather than
with their assistance. Yet everyone open to the appeal of Shakespeare
had to declare that the total æsthetic effect of Sir Johnston
Forbes-Robertson’s _Hamlet_ infinitely outweighed the total æsthetic
effect of Mr. Barker’s _Hamlet_.”
Now, this is the most specious kind of argument. Of course, genius,
even unclothed genius, is at all times preferable to mediocrity
decked in gauds, but genius properly caparisoned is only added to. If
Forbes-Robertson’s interesting study of _Hamlet_ had been properly set,
its effect would have been even more vivid.
Let us take, for instance, the case of the Russian dancers. Anna
Pavlowa is generally regarded as the greatest of living women dancers.
A similar place is assigned Waslav Nijinsky among the male dancers. And
yet it cannot be said that Mlle. Pavlowa, with her mediocre (in most
instances) scenic and choreographic accompaniments, makes the effect
that Nijinsky does surrounded by the Bakst scenery and the elemental
spontaneity of the superb Russian ballet. Mlle. Pavlowa’s genius
creates the utmost enthusiasm; it awakens admiration on every hand;
but it would be more compelling were it encased in the beauty which it
suggests.
To take another example, let us regard the production of _Boris
Godunow_ at the Metropolitan Opera House. Seldom, at this theatre, have
more dramatic splendors been revealed than Adamo Didur showed us in
the title part; and never has such adequate staging been seen there.
The scenery and costumes, in fact, were all a part of the Russian
equipment used in Paris a few seasons ago. Mme. Fremstad’s Brünnhilde
in _Götterdämmerung_ is an even more indisputable proof of genius than
Mr. Didur’s Boris (taking into account the Russian’s close following
of his model, Feodor Chaliapine), but the setting of _Götterdämmerung_
at the Opera is so unimaginative, so unappealing, so unsuggestive,
that one has to forget that before one can focus one’s attention on the
compelling art of the singing actress.
Of late years the item of scenery has become more and more costly, more
and more elaborate. What does it mean, after all, the kind of scenery
we see? Who cares about the painted stumps of trees, the ridiculous
apple blossoms and the pink drawing-rooms? A little simple staging
would effect a much needed reform in the American Theatre, especially
if it were coupled with a good play.
It is in Europe that attempts have been made at reform. Some of them
have been successful. Gordon Craig has been accounted the inventor of
many of the ideas that are prevalent at present, but like many other
inventors, he neither had the practical ability, nor perhaps the
desire, to put them into effect himself. Stanislawsky, Reinhardt, and
even Bakst, have all learned something from him, and have turned his
ideas to practical account.
At present Gordon Craig, ensconced in the Arena Goldoni in Florence,
is said to be at the head of a great school which shall teach the art
of the theatre. He is, to be sure, surrounded by a pack of boys with
soulful eyes, who wear dirty-greens and call him “Master.” These he
takes driving occasionally over the hills near Florence in no other
vehicle than a coach and four. When this monumental anachronism passes
through the Piazza Vittorio Emmanuele, or down the Via Tornabuoni with
its crowd from _Patience_ seated aloft, the effect on the populace of
Firenze La Bella can be only faintly imagined.
Occasionally someone tries to effect an entrance into the school
over which this eccentric genius presides and for which he issues
pronunciamentos and catalogues without number, to say nothing of
advertisements, and articles in “The Mask,” and _affiches_ which are
pasted on the high walls of the Italian and English towns. If the youth
who is hardy enough to make the trial succeeds in reaching the great
presence he may be deemed a lucky mortal. Mr. Craig observes each
newcomer from carefully prepared peep-holes. One look convinces him
whether the prospective student has talent for the arts or not; one
look alone suffices. Once having made up his mind, nothing changes it.
Robert Jones tried to invade the domain of the Craig school last
summer, but not once could he get near the Master; not once could he
get any more information than that very vague sort which is included
in the catalogue. Jones, sick of trying to get on in Florence, went to
Germany and now is one of Reinhardt’s props and aids. (He has since
done good work in New York.)
Another friend of mine who did not care to enter the school had more
success. He attained the Craig presence.
“But how,” he asked, “do you intend to teach music without teachers?”
“Oh,” answered Mr. Craig quite simply, “we shall work away, driving
nails into boards, or walking in the country, and when we feel like it
we shall sing!”
And so the possessor of some of the best ideas that have come to the
theatre in recent years ingeniously steps aside while others, with a
view to their more practical use, apply them to their own purposes. (I
need not refer to Adolphe Appia here. I leave his case for a separate
discussion.)
In the first paragraph of this article I emphasized the practical value
of simpler scenery for plays which require frequent or sudden changes;
but, of course, the artistic side far outweighs that. The kind of
scenery we see so much of in New York really deceives nobody. The
moment a human being of three dimensions steps on the stage you have
that human being posing against badly painted pictures. It is as if one
should combine statuary and painting.
The intention in current stage decoration seems to be to intensify the
lack of imagination on the part of the spectator. Each part of what is
called the scenery of a play is so clearly defined that there is no
opportunity for the communication of suggested feeling. The spectator
sees at once that he is looking at an imitation of the place, scenery
painted to look as much like the place as possible. As a consequence he
has the feeling, after the first five minutes, if he has imagination,
that he is not in the place at all. When the photographic accuracy
wears away the lack of suggestion becomes appalling. The commonplace is
scaled.
This is said, taking into account scenery which has scarcely any
plastic features--such scenery, for instance, as is used to a great
extent at the Metropolitan Opera House, where rocks and rills, woods,
templed hills and marble halls are painted on flimsy drops. In palaces
the architectural features are depicted in the same naïve way, using
the word naïve in its worst sense. I believe that scenery like this is
intended to represent the real thing just as much as a _papier-mâché_
mill which crushes the villain in a melodrama, and it succeeds just as
much.
This art, I think, came from Italy. At least, most of the scenery that
is painted in this fashion, or the inspiration for it, comes from
there nowadays. May it not be possible that it is suggested to the
scene-painter by the houses one sees in the small Italian towns, where
windows with shutters often are painted on the façade? The fantasy of
some of these windows is sublime. Occasionally, persons are painted
looking out of them. Dogs sit on the sills; I have seen peacocks. In
some instances the whole architecture is painted on the outside of the
house--columns, balconies, and all. This is a familiar enough device
in Italian churches, and I fancy many Catholic churches in America may
show traces of the style.
Carl Hagemann of Germany tries to get away from this sort of thing,
just as David Belasco has tried to in New York, by making his whole
scene plastic, every object built separately inside of a sky drop which
runs around from one proscenium arch to the other. If he uses a house
or a tree or a bench, it is not painted on the drop. It is built. In
the case of interiors his task is easier, of course.
This method of procedure has two distinct disadvantages. In the first
place, it takes away all the charm of suggestion, which I think should
play an important part in theatrical entertainment, and in the second
place, it does away with the possibility of producing a play with more
than one scene in each act, unless the producer happens to have a
revolving stage in his theatre, an equipment, by the way, which every
playhouse in New York should possess. Hagemann gave Goethe’s _Faust_,
which has countless scenes, by means of a revolving stage. He has
produced Shakespearean plays in this manner. Mr. Belasco has followed
Hagemann’s method pretty closely in some of his recent productions.
_The Auctioneer_ is a play, it seems to me, which needs this kind of
scenery, if anything does. _A Good Little Devil_, on the other hand,
would have benefited greatly by more imaginative treatment.
Gordon Craig, of course, would substitute suggestion for realism. He
uses a combination of screens, occasional draperies, and little else,
to gain his ends. The lighting is all from above; the natural lighting
in this world. If your floors were made of glass under which were
concealed hundreds of glaring electric lights, you would get the effect
that footlights give on the stage.
It seems to me there are few romantic or poetic plays which would not
be improved by Craig’s method of staging; and yet he has had little
practical experience in putting on pieces. Sets of model scenes for
_Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_ have been exhibited in London. I think Beerbohm
Tree used adaptations of one of these at one time. Certainly Craig’s
_Hamlet_ was seen at Stanislawsky’s Theatre in Moscow. It is highly
probable that Isadora Duncan’s dancing background is a fancy of Gordon
Craig’s. However, little of the practical work of this man has reached
the public, except through his books, which are verbose and vague
except in spots; and through his conversation, which is usually said to
be unillumined even by flashes.
Craig worked at Moscow for a considerable time, however, and it is
probable that from the point of view of staging, Stanislawsky now leads
the world. He has adopted some of Craig’s ideas and fitted them to
others until he has obtained a formula for staging every play from _Le
Bourgeois Gentilhomme_ to _Hedda Gabler_. This theatre is the direct
antithesis of the Opéra-Comique in Paris, which has obtained such a
false reputation for good staging.
The Opéra-Comique clings stolidly to the Italian method of using
flimsy drops, with every detail carefully painted thereon, combined
with plastic objects, the whole painted in pastel or primary colors
in a manner to suggest a St. Valentine’s gift of the 1850 period.
The lighting is usually excellent. There are no innovations to be
looked for at the Opéra-Comique at present, which holds as fast to its
traditions as if the Russian Ballet had never been seen in Paris.
Max Reinhardt and Leon Bakst have utilized Craig’s ideas in a
measure, but they have altered them to a degree where they have
become unrecognizable. Reinhardt is known in New York by _Sumurun_,
one of his slightest productions. Still, it gives a good idea of his
impressionistic use of flat surfaces to create atmosphere and a
colorful background to his picture.
Leon Bakst, who has designed many of the famous ballets which the
Russians give in Paris and other Continental cities from time to time,
proceeds on a more lavish scale. There are no plastic features in a
scene by Bakst. Everything is painted on flat canvas, but the barbaric
gorgeousness, the impressionistic and suggestive qualities, appeal
to the eye as no attempted copy of a real scene could ever do. The
number of colors he uses in one scene is almost countless, and yet the
combination is always thrilling and effective.
Bakst is better known for his _Sheherazade_ than for any other of his
ballets, but he also designed the scenery for _Carnaval_, _Thamar_,
_Jeux_, _Daphnis et Chloë_, _Narcisse_, _l’Après-midi d’un Faune_, and
_Le Spectre de la Rose_.
He has further utilized his supreme talent for decoration in staging
the dramas in which that Russian mime, Ida Rubinstein, has appeared at
the Théâtre du Châtelet in Paris during recent seasons: Oscar Wilde’s
_Salome_, Verhaeren’s _Hélène de Sparte_, and d’Annunzio’s _Le Martyre
de Saint-Sébastien_ and _La Pisanelle, ou la Mort parfumée_.
It was in this last play, produced in Paris in the spring of 1913
for ten special performances, that Bakst expressed himself perhaps
more personally than he had hitherto been able to do. Unlimited means
were placed at his disposal. He had all the money he wanted and an
exactitude in color, in scene and costume, was aimed at which required
the dyeing and redyeing of many stuffs, and the searching through
countless shops for others.
The scene in the port, with the ship of the blood-red sails painted
against a sky of blood-red clouds, in front of which figures garbed
in scarlet, vermillion, maroon, rose, mulberry, carnation, and other
shades of this brilliant color carried on the drama, will not soon be
forgotten by those who saw it. In the final scene Bakst combined black,
white, green, orange, rose, and magenta in the most extraordinary
manner. In this play, too, he utilized a series of curtains of
different colors, according to the scene, which hung half the depth
of the stage on either side. And back of the proscenium arch, also on
either side, was builded a column of gold, each column divided into
numberless small pillars, like the mass which supports the ribs of a
vaulted roof of a great Gothic cathedral.
This season Bakst has staged two new ballets for the Russians, Richard
Strauss’s _The Legend of Joseph_, in which Paolo Veronese is suggested
in the superb Venetian robes, and _Papillons_, which calls into play
the same qualities Bakst had already exhibited in his designs for
_Carnaval_.
The new school of scene-painting in Russia is said to have been the
inspiration of the painter Wronbel, who, however, did not do much
himself, as he died before his ideas were fully accepted. Bakst,
Alexandre Benois and N. Roerich took up the work. To Roerich we owe
the _décors_ of the ballet _The Sacrifice to the Spring_, devised by
Nijinsky to carry out the ideas of the cubists, and which aroused
storms of hisses whenever it was given in Paris. Alexandre Benois
painted the scenes for _Petrouchka_ and also those for _Le Pavilion
d’Armide_. Serge Soudeikine is responsible for the decorations used
in _La Tragédie de Salomé_, and Theodore Fedorowsky painted the
extraordinary scenes for Moussorgsky’s music-drama, _La Khovanchina_.
The costumes of the Persian ballet in this opera, of orange, with
vivid patches of green and blue, rest in the memory. The art of the
Russians, it seems to me, has found nearly complete expression. It is
impossible for them to go much further in their violent riots of color,
their barbaric impressionism.
It is a style particularly suited to the Russian Ballet performances;
the effect makes a complete whole which those who have seen it cannot
erase from the memory. Its practical application to other branches
of theatrical entertainment is more difficult. Certain plays of
Shakespeare could be dressed in this manner. Certainly _The Pirates of
Penzance_ and _Patience_ would be superbly fitted by it; so would the
music-dramas of Gluck, Wagner, and Richard Strauss.
But there is still another source from which one might set the plays of
Shakespeare, leaving aside the best way, which would be to give them
in front of screens and draperies in the simplest manner possible.
It often has occurred to me while wandering through various European
galleries that the work of the early Italian painters might easily be
adapted to the uses of stage decoration. Florence is full of this sort
of thing, but three pictures I remember especially--three pictures of
the fifteenth century, by an unknown painter. They are small and they
hang, with other pictures between them, in one of the long galleries of
the Uffizi. Two of them represent feasts. The simplicity and coloring
of the architecture and the costumes would be joyously in keeping with
certain plays of Shakespeare. The famous _Marriage of Boccaccio Adimari
with Lisa Ricasoli_, in the Ancient and Modern Gallery in Florence, is
another example. This train of splendid ladies and gentlemen, with a
background of old Italian houses, would make as fine a stage pageant as
one could wish for. One of its features is a bench with a cloth thrown
over it, which would occupy the entire length of the front of the
stage. Over this an awning is spread, under which the procession walks.
Numberless other examples of first aid to a producer who wants to do
something new with Shakespeare could be mentioned. I cannot resist a
passing reference to the frescos of Benozzo Gozzoli in the Palazzo
Riccardi in Florence. The subject of the frescos is The Gifts of the
Magi; what the artist has really shown is a Medici hunting party.
The paintings, in a perfect state of preservation, depict youths in
the most exquisite garments in which any actor could hope to disport
himself. The combination of the greens, the purples, the blues, and
the mulberries, all intertwined with the most lavish use of gold, would
make such a stage-picture as has not been seen since the days when a
desire for beauty and not a desire for photographic accuracy--which
always defeats itself--governed those who put drama on the stage.
_June, 1914._
Adolphe Appia and Gordon Craig
Adolphe Appia and G. Craig
In the first edition of “On the Art of the Theatre” (1911), Gordon
Craig distinguishes himself by killing off Adolphe Appia. In the 1912
edition of the book (and the subsequent editions) he apologizes for his
carelessness in a footnote in which he refers to Appia as “the foremost
stage-decorator of Europe.” “I was told that he was no more with us,
so, in the first edition of this book, I included him among the shades.
I first saw three examples of his work in 1908, and I wrote to a friend
asking, ‘Where is Appia, and how can we meet?’ My friend replied, ‘Poor
Appia died some years ago.’ This winter (1912) I saw some of Appia’s
designs in a portfolio belonging to Prince Wolkonsky. They were divine,
and I was told that the designer was still living.” There is no other
reference to “the foremost stage-decorator of Europe” in this book.
Now, Appia’s book, “Die Musik und die Inscenierung,” translated from
his original French text by Princess Elsa Cantacuzène, with eighteen
plates from drawings by the author for the settings for the Wagner
music-dramas, was issued by F. Bruckmann in Munich in 1899. This is
the book which Hiram Kelly Moderwell refers to in “The Theatre of
To-day.” Loomis Taylor, last season director of the German works at the
Metropolitan Opera House, is also perfectly familiar with it, and he
related to me recently how an attempt of his to bring Appia to Germany
several years ago failed. There is no mention made by Gordon Craig of
_any_ book by Appia; Mr. Taylor has read only the German text; and even
Mr. Moderwell seems to have been ignorant of the fact that a previous
work in French had been issued by Appia.