The Plight of the Playgoer

Things Theatrical which One may See or would Like to See

GEORGE S. CHAPPELL

WHAT a pity it is that everyone wishes to see the same plays at the same time. Here we are in the midst of a period of apparent deflation in the theatrical world, with a plethora of performances playing to slim houses and yet it is next to impossible to secure seats for the few things one really wishes to see.

The reason is obvious. The whole theatrical structure is suffering from over-production, and iust at this moment the good old buying public refuses to function. Of course we know that the cost of leading ladies and handsome heroes has mounted terribly. They all think and talk in movie money. Nevertheless, their increase has found its due reflection in the boxoffice prices, until, with the war-tax added, a foolish farce has grown to command the fee which frugal families used to reserve for their grand annual spree, the opera.

Now, while spell-binding press-agents bally-hoo their attractions, the soft hearted suburbanites and visiting firemen turn deaf ears. They go to the movies or devote themselves to upbuilding the home-brewing industry. Occasionally, in the midst of their innocent pastimes, they think of the poor ticketspeculators and give three rousing cheers.

The result has been a series of dramatic detonations, flivvering farces and popping productions which sound like a major offensive. It is the zero hour in many a box-office.

Those who are still left, the ardent enthusiasts who count that day lost which does not end in an orchestra-chair,are* all fighting to get aboard such stout barks as Enter Madame, The Bat or The Bad Man, abandoning a large flotilla of rafts and cockle-shells, which have either foundered completely or are rapidly going to pieces. An almost instantaneous sinking was that of the Scottish trampsteamer Don't Tell, Capt. Graham Moffat, bound from Glascow to any old place. It is too bad the Captain's wife had to perish but nothing else of value was lost. It is really interesting to think of a Scotchman's spending so much money to bring such rubbish so far.

However, I assume that this is not an obituary column, and will proceed to mention a few plays one may actually see if they do not die on me before this treatise sees the light.

Three of a Kind

A TRIO of recent offerings falls so naturally into a single category that one review will do for all. Alice Brady in Anna Ascends, Florence Reed in Mirage, and Mary Young in The Outrageous Mrs. Palmer, all make ambitious efforts. When I see plays of this kind I always try to remember that a critic should be inspired by those three grand old attributes Faith, Hope and Charity, and surely the greatest of these is Charity. Granted however that it is extremely difficult to write any kind of a play at all, I must still preserve a feeling of thankfulness that it is not easier. Think of the out-put we should have! In the plays mentioned we see three graces of the stage struggling with material which refuses to materialize.

Alice Brady stands the best chance. She has a strong film following and is an actress as well, imbued with not a little of the divine fire. The play is attributed to Harry Ford. If as I suspect, this is Henry of Detroit, I can only say it is the worst vehicle he has ever turned out. However, it will probably go well—on the road.

During the performance of The Mirage which I witnessed, Edgar Selwyn the author stood in the foyer wearing the well-known catand-canary smile. As the play progressed, I thought I knew whv. The hero, Al Manning, well played by Alan Dinehart, is the good-est young man who ever set foot on Broadway. He hails from Erie, Penn., (referred to, for atmospheric purposes as The West), and when he discovers that the 'Mrs.' prefixed to the name of his old sweetheart, Irene Moreland, is an honorary degree conferred on herself by herself, his horror is unspeakable. He quits her flat flat. Through it all, Miss Reed looks very beautiful and sobs and strangles in the most approved jane-cowlish* fashion. Al finally promises to let her into Erie when she has proved herself worthy. As I passed out, longing to kick the hero and kiss the heroine, the Author was still smiling.

Of the Outrageous Mrs. Palmer we can only repeat: the play's the thing, and here we have a bit of writing which, in spite of the efforts of a capable star and such assistants as Herbert Standing, Jr., Henry E. Dixey and Minna Gale Haynes, vacillates helplessly between light comedy and limp emotionalism. In portraying the gayer moments of the temperamental Mrs. Palmer, Miss Young is distinctly entertaining and I shall certainly hope to see her some day in a role of sustained high comedy.

Anyone who doubts that the Art of theatrical production has progressed in the last ten years should witness William Hodge in The Guest of Honor at the Broadhurst and see how far he has been left behind. This play is a quaint survival of the Sol Smith Russell school. Every four or five years Mr. Hodge slips in from the bush and shows a limited portion of New York how he can play a gentle simple role such as that of John Wetherall. It is so absurdly easy for him that he does it with his eyes shut. After the first act, I followed his example and enjoyed the rest of the play immensely.

The Tavern

NOTHING could contrast more strongly with William Hodge's dusty drama than the real novelty in which Arnold Daly is appearing at Cohan's Theatre. The Tavern is a refreshing and puzzling play. Indeed, it runs a danger of being muffed by the public which does not know what to make of it. But, as the evening progresses, it is a delight to hear the bursts of laughter which greet the efforts of one of the best casts that has been put together in many a long day. The part of the Vagabond suits Arnold Daly as nothing has suited him since he played the young poet in Candida. His fantastic touch here supports and vitalizes the merry gentleman who, with all his keenness, is wandering in his mind, as he is wandering in the world. After a rather slow but interesting first act, the pace quickened to one of real hilarity, ably sustained to the end. I can wish no one better luck than an evening at The Tavern, with the star and his assistants, who are so equally good that it seems invidious to give anyone special mention, except .perhaps Spencer Charters as the Hired Man, a humorous characterization of a zany which will remain long in my mind. The Tavern is credited with the personal supervision of George Cohan and certainly the hand of this master of stage-craft would seem to be in evidence. Here's hoping the public won't miss it.

And then there is Georgie Cohan himself, personally, at the Hudson. What can we say of this astounding actor-manager? Everything he produces seems to go with a bang. Everything he acts seems plausible, and to me well-nigh perfect. Personally, I am such a Cohan-fan that I dare not trust myself to a full expression of my feelings. How often have we seen him take a book, a vaudeville skit or a useless farce and by some mysterious blood-transfusion galvanize it into life. And now, we see it done again. The Meanest Man in the World is far from being a fine comedy; in fact, it is a rubber-stamp of several we could mention, particularly in the last act when, after seven months of the hero's beneficent management, the entire cast is rolling in wealth and Rolls-Royces. Any one of the old Wallingford or Turn to the Right companies might stroll on without in the least disturbing the picture.

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But the great thing is that Cohan as the young lawyer, Richard Clarke, completely wins one's heart from the moment he appears. Without any fireworks or flag-waving, simply by sheer magnetism, plus a most subtle art, he reaches every person in the house. The old and trite construction becomes fresh and appealing. In the first act he tells his friend, Ned Stevens, sympatheticallyplayed by Norval Kudwell, that he, George, is a failure, and you actuallybelieve it. Imagine it. George Cohan a failure. One's sympathy for him is the highest tribute. Excellent work is done by Howard Boulden as Andy Oatman, and Hugh Cameron as Lute Boon, a most amusing hit. Marion Coakley is an appealing heroine. In fact, I found no weak spot in the cast. But I do not know why I say all this about Mr. Cohan and his play. The public all love him and will flock to the Hudson whether I tell them to or not.

Tip Top

FRED STONE is another who will never know anything about a deflated dramatic season. It must be wonderful for a manager like Charles Dillingham to have a card like Stone up his sleeve for an annual production, and the same might be said backwards, for Mr. Dillingham surely does give Fred a grand production. And between the two of them what a lay-out of talent they offer! Of course, there is no play to the thing. I reached my seat a few moments late and never for a minute had the slightest idea what it was all about. I just sat there entranced, giggling at Stone and wildly applauding the wonderful London Palace Girls and the splendid specialties of the Duncan Sisters, Anna Ludmila, Violet Zell and lovely Marie Sewell, who seemed to me the daintiest dancer of all. As for those saxophonic Brown brothers. I am going to start saving up now in order to have them play at my funeral. "Leave Everybody Happy" is my motto and the correct address for happiness is the same as mine used to be in London: "Care of Brown Brothers". And bless Fred Stone for the cleanness of his shows, which are worth a thousand and one bed-room farces.

In another field of entertainment, that of the spectacular, Morris Gest has produced what is probably a notable achievement in Mecca at the Century. But I fear this sort of thing is not much in my line. I kept asking myself: "Why should all these great pageants be so insufferably dull?" The only rays of humour were from Ida Mulle and Thomas Leary as a pair of Chinese Gamblers. Occasionally there was a beautiful stage picture, and the Bacchanale, arranged by Fokine, is very fine, but between times are oceans of stupid recitative, inane story, feeble music, bad acting and worse singing, in the welter of which it was remarkable how1 vivid and human Gladys Hanson made her part. The maddening thing is that these spectacular shows do not have to be so stupid. I have seen productions at the Chatelet in Paris which were not only diverting but extremely beautiful. But I left the confines of Mecca murmuring with Goldberg: "Its all very beautiful—but it doesn't mean anything."