WE have noticed that in writing about pantomimes the critics of our
contemporaries usually make two rather serious mistakes. The first is
the assumption that pantomime is really intended for the amusement of
children, and the second (which to a certain extent is implicit in the
first) is the conclusion that most pantomimes are unsatisfactory because
they fail to provide the children with suitable fare. A glance at any
pantomime audience should dispel the first illusion. Even at matinées
the children are in the minority, while at night the disproportion is
quite startling. To us it seems that the real purpose of modern
pantomime is to give conscientious objectors to music-halls an
opportunity of witnessing a music-hall entertainment without shame. It
follows that, even if the second criticism were just, it would not be
very important; but though we agree that the average pantomime is far
removed from the ideal entertainment for children, it is at all events
quite harmless, and contains a number of elements that children like.
They appreciate the colour of the pageant, the papier-mâché treasures,
the gilt moons and ultramarine sunsets, the jewelled and gilt scenery;
they like the funny clothes and red noses and boisterous horseplay of the
low comedians; they like the “little girls” in short skirts, in whom the
sophisticated recognise the tired ladies of the ballet; they like, in
fact, nearly all the things which writers with sentimental views on
children think it necessary to condemn. As a general rule they do not
care for the love-making or the singing; after a long experience of
pantomimes we are prepared to say that they are right, though our reasons
are not perhaps theirs. The singing in pantomimes is nearly always
extremely bad, and the fact that the principal boy is always the
principal girl makes the love-scenes ridiculous. The wonder is that in
an entertainment that must at all costs be made attractive to adults
there should be so much that gives genuine pleasure to young people.
From the days of our youth we have always had a kindness for Drury Lane
Theatre, and, above all, for Drury Lane pantomime. The theatre has an
individual atmosphere, the pantomime is not like the pantomime one sees
anywhere else. In order to appreciate the size of the place it is
necessary to put on a very small pair of knickerbockers and gaze upwards
from the stalls between the chocolates and the ices. It is like looking
into the deeps of heaven, though here the gods suck oranges and make
cat-calls—those fascinating sounds that our youthful lips would never
achieve. Drury Lane is the only theatre that preserves the old glamour.
We never enter its doors without thinking of Charles Lamb, and it would
hardly astonish us if Mistress Nell Gwynn came to greet us with her
basket of China oranges, wearing that famous pair of thick worsted
stockings that the little link-boy gave her to save her pretty feet from
the chilblains. Outside, the image of Shakespeare leans on its pedestal,
sadly contemplative of the grey roofs of Covent Garden. The porters who
carry about bunches of bananas unconsciously reproduce the pictures of
Mr. Frank Brangwyn. If Shakespeare ever slips down from his perch to
watch a scene or two of the pantomime from the shadows of the auditorium,
he must wonder a little at our twentieth-century masques. Like the
children, he would probably appreciate the splendid colour and brightness
of the spectacle, and, having been an actor himself, he would perhaps
pardon the actors’ cheerful neglect of the rights of the dramatist. For
modern pantomime is a business of strongly contrasted individualities
rather than the product of blended and related effort. This is
especially true of Drury Lane, whose stage at this season of the year is
always crowded with vaudeville Napoleons and musical-comedy Cleopatras.
In detail the pantomime is excellent; as an artistic entity it does not
exist.
At first sight this seems rather a pity. Given a wonderfully appointed
stage, gorgeous mounting, a fine orchestra, and a number of gifted
performers, it is natural to expect that the result should be more than
the mere sum of these units. But, as a matter of fact, pantomime is
essentially formless. Those critics who clamour for straightforward
versions of the old nursery stories would be vastly disappointed if they
got what they wanted. The old stories are well enough when told by
firelight in the nursery after tea of a winter’s evening. But they lack
humour, and are not, as a rule, dramatic. (“Bluebeard,” of course, is a
striking exception.) When a story lasting twenty minutes must be
expanded to last four hours the story is bound to suffer. When, in
addition, all the characters are played by performers whose strength lies
in their individuality, it will be surprising if any part of the illusion
created by the original fable survives at all.