given his place permanently to the ever present singing lady who is
always telling you who her modiste is, sings a sentimental song or two
and then disappears; to the sleek little gentleman who dances off a
moment or two to the tune of his doll-like partner whose voice is
usually littler than his own? Perhaps our acrobat is still the delight
of those more characteristic audiences of the road whose taste is less
fickle, less blasé. This is so much the case with the arts in
America--the fashions change with the season's end and there is never
enough of novelty; dancing is already dying out, skating will not
prevail for long among the idle; what shall we predict for our variety
which is in its last stages of boredom for us?
I suspect the so-called politeness of vaudeville of the elimination of
our once revered acrobats. The circus notion has been replaced by the
parlor entertainment notion. Who shall revive them for us, who admire
their simple and unpretentious art; why is there not someone among
the designers with sufficient interest in this type of beauty to make
attractive settings for them, so that we may be able to enjoy them at
their best, which in the theater we have never quite been able to
do--designs that will in some way add luster to an already bright and
pleasing show of talents.
I can see, for instance, a young and attractive girl bareback rider on
a cantering white horse inscribing wondrous circles upon a stage
exquisitely in harmony with herself and her white or black horse as
the case might be; a rich cloth of gold backdrop carefully suffused
with rose. There could be nothing handsomer, for example, than young
and graceful trapezists swinging melodically in turquoise blue
doublets against a fine peacock background or it might be a rich pale
coral--all the artificial and spectacular ornament dispensed with. We
are expected to get an exceptional thrill when some dull person
appears before a worn velvet curtain to expatiate with inappropriate
gesture upon a theme of Chopin or of Beethoven, ideas and attitudes
that have nothing whatsoever to do with the musical intention; yet our
acrobat whose expression is certainly as attractive, if not much more
so generally, has always to perform amid fatigued settings of the
worst sort against red velvet of the most depraved shade possible. We
are tired of the elaborately costumed person whose charms are trivial
and insignificant, we are well tired also of the ordinary gentleman
dancer and of the songwriter, we are bored to extinction by the
perfectly dull type of playlet which features some well known
legitimate star for illegitimate reasons. Our plea is for the
re-creation of variety into something more conducive to light pleasure
for the eye, something more conducive to pleasing and stimulating
enjoyment. Perhaps the reinstatement of the acrobat, this revival of a
really worthy kind of expression, would effect the change, relieve the
monotony. The argument is not too trivial to present, since the
spectator is that one for whom the diversion is provided.
I hear cries all about from people who once were fond of theater and
music hall that there is an inconceivable dullness pervading the
stage; the habitual patron can no longer endure the offerings of the
present time with a degree of pleasure, much less with ease. It has
ceased to be what it once was, what its name implies. If the old
school inclined toward the rough too much, then certainly the new
inclines distressingly toward the refined--the stage that once was so
full of knockabout is now so full of stand-still; variety that was
once a joy is now a bore. Just some uninteresting songs at the piano
before a giddy drop is not enough these days; and there are too many
of such. There is need of a greater activity for the eye. The return
of the acrobat in a more modern dress would be the appropriate
acquisition, for we still have appreciation for all those charming
geometrics of the trapeze, the bar, and the wire.
It is to be hoped that these men will return to us, stimulating anew
their delightful kind of poetry of the body and saving our variety
performances from the prevailing plague of monotone.
VAUDEVILLE
I have but recently returned from the vaudeville of the centuries.
Watching the kick and the glide of very ancient performers. I have
spent a year and a half down in the wonderful desert country of the
Southwest. I have wearied, however, of the ancient caprice, and turn
with great delight to my old passion, vaudeville. I return with glee
to the ladies and gentlemen and pet animals of the stage, including
the acrobats. Is there one who cares for these artists and for their
rhythmical gesture more than myself? I cannot think so. I have wished
with a real desire to create new sets for them, to establish an
altogether new tradition as regards the background of these charming
artists. If that were the chosen field for my esthetic activities, I
should be famous by now for the creation of sets and drops by which
these exceptional artists might make a far more significant impression
upon the type of public they essay to interest and amuse.
I would begin first of all by severing them from the frayed traditions
of worn plush and sequin, rid them of the so inadequate back drop such
as is given them, the scene of Vesuvius in eruption, or the walk in
the park at Versailles. They need first of all large plain spaces upon
which to perform, and enjoy their own remarkably devised patterns of
body. I speak of the acrobats, the animals, the single and double
dancers who perform "down in one" more especially. The so called
headliners have their plush parlours with the inevitable purple or
rose lamp, and the very much worn property piano just barely in tune.
Only the dressmaker and the interior decorator can do things for them,
as we see in the case of Kitty Gordon. It is to be hoped that a
Beardsley of the stage will one day appear and really do something for
the dainty type of person or the superbly theatric artist such as Miss
Gordon, Valeska Suratt, and the few other remarkable women of the
vaudeville stage.
I am more concerned with the less appreciated artists. I would see
that they glitter by their own brilliance. Why, for instance, should a
fine act like the Four Danubes and others of their quality be tagged
on to the end of a bill, at which time the unmannerly public decides
to go home or hurry to some roof or other, or dining place?
I should like seeing the Brothers Rath likewise, perhaps as refined
acrobatic artists as have been seen on our stage for some time, in a
set that would show them to better advantage, and give the public a
greater intimacy with the beauty of their act than can be had beyond
the first six rows of the Winter Garden. They are interposed there as
a break between burlesques, which is not the place for them. I would
"give" them the stage while they are on it. Theirs is a muscular
beauty which has not been excelled. I have no doubt that if I
attempted to establish these ideas with the artists whom I spend so
much time in championing, they would no doubt turn aside with the word
"highbrow" on their lips. They would have to be shown that they need
these things, that they need the old-fashioned ideas removed, and
fresher ones put in their place. I have expressed this intention once
before in print, perhaps not so vehemently. I should like to
elaborate. I want a Metropolitan Opera for my project. An orchestra of
that size for the larger concerted groups, numbers of stringed
instruments for the wirewalkers and jugglers, a series of balanced
woodwinds for others, and so on down the line, according to the
quality of the performer. There should be a large stage for many
elephants, ponies, dogs, tigers, seals. The stage should then be made
more intimate for the solos, duets, trios, and quartets among the
acrobats. I think a larger public should be made aware of the beauty
and skill of these people, who spend their lives in perfecting grace
and power of body, creating the always fascinating pattern and form,
orchestration if you will, the orchestration of the muscles into a
complete whole. You will of course say, go to the circus, and get it
all at once. The circus is one of the most charming places in
existence, because it is one of the last words in orchestrated
physical splendour. But the circus is too diffused, too enormous in
this country to permit of concentrated interest, attention, or
pleasure. One goes away with many little bits. It is because the
background is made up of restless nervous dots, all anxious to get the
combined quota which they have paid for, when in reality they do not
even get any one thing. It is the alert eye which can go over three
rings and two stages at once and enjoy the pattern of each of them. It
is a physical impossibility really.
I think we should be made aware in finer ways of the artists who open
and close our bills. Why must the headliner always be a talking or a
singing person who tells you how much money he needs, or how much she
is getting? There is more than one type of artistic personality for
those who care for vaudeville. Why doesn't a team like the Rath
Brothers, for example, find itself the feature attraction? Must there
always be the string of unnecessary little men and women who have such
a time trying to fill up their twenty-two minutes or their fourteen?
Why listen forever to puppy-like song writers when one can hear and
watch a great artist like Ella Shields? My third visit to Ella Shields
convinces me that she is one of the finest artists I have ever heard,
certainly as fine in her way as Guilbert and Chevalier were. It is a
rare privilege to be able to enjoy artists like Grock--Mark
Sheridan--who is now dead, I am told. Mark, with his "They all walk
the wibbly-wobbly walk, they all wear the wibbly-wobbly ties," and so
on. Mark is certainly being missed by a great many who care for the
pleasure of the moment. When I look at and listen to the aristocratic
artist Ella Shields, I feel a quality in her of the impeccable Mrs.
Fiske. And then I am thinking of another great woman, Fay Templeton.
What a pity we must lose them either by death or by decisions in life.
Ella Shields with her charming typification of "Burlington Bertie from
Bow."
The other evening as I listened to Irene Franklin, I heard for certain
what I had always thought were notes from the magic voice of dear old
Fay. Unforgettable Fay. How can one ever say enough about her? I think
of Fay along with my single glimpses of Duse, Ada Rehan, Coquelin. You
see how I love her, then. Irene Franklin has the quality of imitation
of the great Fay without, I think, the real magic. Nevertheless I
enjoy her, and I am certain she has never been finer than now. She has
enriched herself greatly by her experiences the last two years, and
seems at the height of her power. It was good to get, once again,
little glimpses of her Childs waitress and the chambermaid. It seemed
to me that there was a richer quality of atmosphere in the little
Jewish girl with the ring curls and the red mittens, as also in her
French girl with, by the way, a beautiful gown of rich yellow silk
Frenchily trimmed in vermilion or orange, I couldn't make out which.
The amusing French girl, who having picked up many fag-ends of English
from her experience with the _soldats Américains_--got her "animals"
mixed--"you have my goat, I have your goat, et--tie ze bull outside,"
and so on. I am crossing Irene and Fay here because I think them
similar, only I must say I think the magic was greater in Fay, because
possibly Fay was the greater student of emotion. Fay had the
undercurrent, and Irene has perfected the surface. If Irene did study
Fay at any time, and I say this respectfully, she perhaps knows that
Fay went many times to Paris to study Rejane. The light entertainer
is, as we know, very often a person of real intellect.
If you want distinction, then, you will get it in the presence of Ella
Shields. Her "Burlington Bertie" is nothing less than a chef
d'oeuvre; "Tom Lipton, he's got lots of 'oof--he sleeps on the roof,
and I sleep in the room over him." Bertie, who, having been slapped on
the back by the Prince of Wales (and some others) and asked why he
didn't go and dine with "Mother," replied--"I can't, for I've just had
a banana with Lady Diana.... I'm Burlington Bertie from Bow." Miss
Shields shows also that she can sing a sentimental song without
slushing it all over with saccharine. She has mastered the droll
English quality of wit with real perfection. I regret I never saw
Vesta Tilley, with whom the old tops compare her so favourably. Superb
girls all these, Fay, Ella, Cissie, Vesta, as well as Marie Lloyd, and
the other inimitable Vesta--Victoria.
Among the "coming soon," we have Miss Juliet, whom I recall with so
much pleasure from the last immemorable Cohan Revue. I wait for her. I
consider myself fortunate to be let in on James Watts. We thought our
Eddy Foy a comic one. He was, for I remember the Gibson girl with the
black velvet gown and the red flannel undershirt. I swing my swagger
stick in the presence of Mr. Watts by way of applause. His art is very
delicately understood and brought out. It has a fine quality of broad
caricature with a real knowledge of economy such as Grock is master
of. The three episodes are certainly funny enough. I find myself
caring more for the first, called "June Day," since he reminds me so
strongly in make-up of the French caricaturists in drawing, Rouveyre
and Toulouse-Lautrec. Mr. Watts's feeling for satirical make-up is a
fine shade of artistry in itself. He has excellent feeling for the
broad contrast and for fierce insinuation at the same time. If you
want real unalloyed fun, Mr. Watts will supply you. Nor will Grock
disappoint you. Quite on the contrary, no matter what you are
expecting.
I do not know why I think of vaudeville as I think of a collection of
good drawings. Unless it is because the sense of form is the same in
all of the arts. The acrobat certainly has line and mass to think of,
even if that isn't his primal concern. He knows how he decorates the
space on which he operates. To make another comparison, then, Grock is
the Forain of vaudeville. He achieves great plastic beauty with
distinguished economy of means. He dispenses with all superfluous
gesture, as does the great French illustrator. Grock is entirely right
about clownery. You are either funny or you are not. No amount of
study will produce the gift for humour. It is there, or it isn't.
Grock's gift for musicianship is a singular combination to find with
the rest of his artistry. It goes with the remarkably refined look in
his face, however, as he sits upon the back of the seatless chair, and
plays the little concertina with superb execution. There are no
"jumps" in Grock's performance. His moods flow from one into another
with a masterly smoothness, and you are aware when he is finished that
you have never seen that sort of foolery before. Not just that sort.
It is the good mind that satisfies, as in the case of James Watts, and
Miss Shields.
From elephants carrying in their trunks chatelaines of Shetland
ponies, curtseying at the close of the charming act like a pretty miss
at her first coming out, to such work as the Four Danubes give you as
the closing number, with Irene as a lead, you are, to say the least,
carried over the dreadful spots, such as the young man who sways out
like a burlesque queen and tells you whom he was with before Keith got
him. His name should be "Pusher," "Advance Man," or something of that
sort, and not artist. What he gives you, you could find just as well
if not better done on Fourteenth Street. He has a ribbon-counter,
adenoid voice production that no really fine artist could afford. He
will "get by," because anything does, apparently.
One turns to the big artist for relief, even though minor artists like
The Brown Sisters charm so surely with their ivory and silver
diamond-studded accordions, giving very pleasing transitions from
grave to gay in arias and tunes we know. Accordions and concertinas
are very beautiful to me, when played by artists like these girls, and
by such as Joe Cawthorne, and Grock.
There are more dancing men of quality this season, it seems to me, who
are obscured by dancing ladies of fame, and not such warrantable
artistry. Perhaps it is because male anatomy allows of greater
eccentricity and playfulness. There are no girls who have just such
laughing legs as the inimitable Frances White. It is the long-legged
American boy who beats the world in this sort of thing.
The lovely bit of hockey which James Barton gives is for me far more
distinguished than all the rest of his work in the Winter Garden
Revue. He is a real artist, but it is work that one sees rather a deal
of this season, whereas the hockey dance is like nothing else to be
found. A lovely moment of rhythmic leg work. We are now thoroughly
familiar with the stage drunk, as we have long been familiarized by
Weber and Fields with the stage Jew, which is fortunately passing out
for lack of artist to present it. Léon Errol is good for once, even
twice. He is quite alone in his very witty falls and runs. They are
full of the struggle of the drunk to regain his character and manhood.
The act lives on a very flat plane otherwise. It has no roundness.
I have come on my list to Mijares and Co., in "Monkey Business." We
have the exquisite criterion always for the wire, in the perfect Bird
Millman. "Monkey Business" is a very good act, and both men do
excellent work on the taut and slack wire. "Monkey," in this case
being a man, does as beautiful a piece of work as I know of. I have
never seen a back somersault upon a high wire. I have never heard of
it before. There may be whole generations of artists gifted in this
particular stunt. You have here, nevertheless, a moment of very great
beauty in the cleanness of this man's surprising agility and sureness.
The monkey costume hinders the beauty of the thing. It should be done
with pale blue silk tights against a cherry velvet drop, or else in
deep ultramarine on an old gold background.
The acrobatic novelty called "The Legrohs" relies chiefly on its most
exceptional member, who would be complete without the other two. He is
most decidedly a virtuoso in vaudeville. Very gifted, certainly, if at
moments a little disconcerting in the flexibility and the seemingly
uncertain turns of his body. It is the old-fashioned contortionism
saved by charming acrobatic variations. This "Legroh" knows how to
make a superb pattern with his body, and the things he does with it
are done with such ease and skill as to make you forget the actual
physical effort and you are lost for the time being in the beauty of
this muscular kaleidoscopic brilliancy. You feel it is like
"puzzle--find the man" for a time, but then you follow his exquisite
changes from one design into another with genuine delight, and
appreciate his excessive grace and easy rapidity. He gives you chiefly
the impression of a dragon-fly blown in the wind of a brisk morning
over cool stretches of water. You would expect him to land on a
lily-pad any moment and smooth his wings with his needle-like legs.
So it is the men and women of vaudeville transform themselves into
lovely flower and animal forms, and the animals take on semblances of
human sensibility in vaudeville. It is the superb arabesque of the
beautiful human body that I care for most, and get the most from in
these cameo-like bits of beauty and art. So brief they are, and like
the wonders of sea gardens as you look through the glass bottoms of
the little boats. So like the wonders of the microscopic, full of
surprising novelties of colour and form. So like the kaleidoscope in
the ever changing, ever shifting bits of colour reflecting each other,
falling into new patterns with each twist of the toy. If you care for
the iridescence of the moment you will trust vaudeville as you are not
able to trust any other sort of a performance. You have no chance for
the fatigue of problem. You are at rest as far as thinking is
concerned. It is something for the eye first and last. It is something
for the ear now and then, only very seldomly, however. For me, they
are the saviours of the dullest art in existence, the art of the
stage. Duse was quite right about it. The stage should be swept of
actors. It is not a place for imitation and photography. It is a place
for the laughter of the senses, for the laughter of the body. It is a
place for the tumbling blocks of the brain to fall in heaps. I give
first place to the acrobat and his associates because it is the art
where the human mind is for once relieved of its stupidity. The
acrobat is master of his body and he lets his brain go a-roving upon
other matters, if he has one. He is expected to be silent. He would
agree with William James, transposing "music prevents thinking" into
"talking prevents silence." In so many instances, it prevents
conversation. That is why I like tea chitchat. Words are never meant
to mean anything then. They are simply given legs and wings, and they
jump and fly. They land where they can, and fall flat if they must.
The audience that patronizes vaudeville would do well to be present at
most first numbers, and remain for most or many of the closing ones. A
number, I repeat, like the Four Danubes, should not be snubbed by any
one.
I have seen recently, then, by way of summary, four fine bits of
artistry in vaudeville--Ella Shields, James Watts, the Brothers Rath,
and the Four Danubes. I shall speak again of these people. They are
well worth it. They turn pastime into perfect memory. They are,
therefore, among the great artists.
A CHARMING EQUESTRIENNE
I am impelled to portray, at this time, my devotion to the little
equestrienne, by the presence of a traveling circus in these lofty
altitudes in which I am now living, seven thousand feet above the sea,
in our great southwest. The mere sight of this master of the miniature
ring, with all the atmosphere of the tent about him, after almost
insurmountable difficulties crossing the mountains, over through the
canyons of this expansive country, delivering an address in
excellently chosen English, while poised at a considerable height on
the wire, to the multitude on the ground below him, during which time
he is to give what is known as the "free exhibit" as a high wire
artist--all this turns me once more to the ever charming theme of
acrobatics in general and equestrianism in particular, and it is of a
special genius in this field that I wish to speak.
I have always been a lover of these artists of bodily vigour, of
muscular melody, as I like to call it. As I watched this ringmaster of
the little traveling circus, this master mountebank of the sturdy
figure, ably poised upon his head on the high wire, outlined against
the body of the high mountain in the near distance, about which the
thunder clouds were huddling, and in and out of which the lightning
was sharply playing, it all formed for me another of those perfect
sensations from that phase of art expression known as the circus. My
happiest memories in this field are from the streets of Paris before
the war, the incomparably lovely fêtes. Only the sun knows where these
dear artists may be now.