Sombre Reflections on the Slumping Drama

Is the Dramatic Season Not Only Slowing Up, But About to Drop Dead?

GEORGE S. CHAPPELL

THERE seems to be a basic law underlying most forms of activity, physical and mental, which might be called the Law of Early Speed. Just why this should apply to a theatrical season is a little hard to say, but such would appear to be the case. We can understand that Mr. Dempsey after a few rounds with so valiant an opponent as Mr. Brennan should not flash quite such a lightning-like line of goods as in the early stages of the battle. We can even conceive that Man O' War may enjoy letting down a bit when he feels that he has established a safe distance between himself and Sir Barton. But the manifestation of this tendency in the theatrical world is more mysterious.

Dramatic offerings presumably are produced by a number of individuals acting more or less independently of each other and it would seem fair to expect some brilliant success to come suddenly popping forth in mid-season as well as in its earlier stages. Such, however, would not appear to be the case judging from, the recent dramatic fare. The Early Speed Law seems to have resulted in a rather sad slackening of enlivening plays, while the early starters go on their merry way filling their respective playhouses. It is particularly sad, in this season of paucity, to have to chronicle the demise of a promising infant, The Young Visiters by name, which seemed at its birth to have a fair prospect of survival. Postmortems are not particularly enlivening, but it is only fair to say in passing that a surprising amount of dramatic interest was imparted to Miss Ashford's delicious romance, thanks to a production that was highly intelligent. To have seen Harold Anstruther's impersonation of Bernard Clark is in itself an experience not to be passed without mention. It is evident, however, that we are not, as a public, quite prepared to spend an evening in the admiration of such subtly evanescent forms of entertainment.

The Drama of Delicacy

NEVERTHELESS, there is distinct hope that we may some day raise up a race of theatre-goers of discrimination in the encouraging success of Clare Kummer's latest trifle, Rollo's Wild Oat, which is being sown nightly in the somewhat limited field of the Punch and Judy. A hair, we are told, divides the false and true and in consideration of the amusing story of Rollo with its fragile sub-structure of pseudo-plausibility, in comparison with such excursions into the realm of pure nonsense as The Young Visiters, we see, perhaps, the reason for the success of one and the failure of the other. Miss Rummer, if I mistake not, possesses a rare and precious gift, she is the premiere soap-bubble blower—or should I say bloweuse?—in the American theatrical world. Yet she is too experienced in the art of stagecraft to fail to realize that where soap-bubbles are concerned the audience likes to see the pipe as well. In a period dating from the not distant past, we have been asked to admire various imaginative creations from the poetic imaginativeness of The Blue Bird down to the delicious fooling of The Young Visiters. Some have had a very limited succes d'estime; most have left us stolid and unconvinced.

One of the reasons, I think, for Miss Rummer's success is that she does not disdain the harnessing of her fancy to the cumbrous coach of a fairly reasonable story. Rollo's desire to play Hamlet, though not developed to its fullest possible extent is still an excellent Xmas-tree on which to hang decorations. The decorations themselves, the gilt balls and tinsel chains are the exquisite contributions of the authoress. Around almost everything which Miss Rummer writes hangs an appealing sense of over-tone, or perhaps it is under-tone. Anyway, it is something, a flavour, an unspoken, unseen quality which keeps her audiences on the broad grin—they rarely laugh aloud—for which we should be devoutly thankful. It only remains to chronicle that in casting Roland Young and Lotus Robb for the leading parts a perfect selection was made. They are the instruments on which such music should be played. A more than honourable mention is due to Ivan Simpson's admirable manservant and to Miss Marjorie Rummer's charmingly ingenious impersonation of Rollo's sister, Lydia.

"When We Are Young"

NEXT to blowing soap-bubbles—to pursue a metaphor relentlessly—it would seem that the favorite mid-winter theatrical sport was the consideration of youth. .All that sort of thing is so disarming.

Probably the idea that lurked in the back of the Shubertian brain when it considered the production of Miss Rate McLaurin's play— When we are Young,—was to give to New York, fed up with truffles and French pastry, a plain, homely slice of bread and molassessimple fare that would take us back to Mother's knee and the nursery and twilight prayers and all those things that, theoretically, we are anxious to get back to. They forgot however to include the bread, which little omission makes of the comedy at the Broadhurst a rather sticky and saccharine affair.

It is—almost we said "of course"—a story of the engaging young scion of a once wealthy family who, having effectively gotten rid of the "substance," is continuing the "riotous living." All, all are there, the old familiar faces,—the old negro servitor, made intensely likeable and almost possible by the fine playing of George Marion; the boarding-house keeper who is always remembering, damply, the happy days at Oak Lane; the stony hearted uncle; the undesirable friends; the revolver— and of course the incentive to regeneration in the person of a beautiful—and highly cultured!—shopgirl, and even she has a Confederate General lurking in the background.

Henry Hull is easy, graceful and decidedly likeable as the impudent and careless hero. The role does not, by any means, exhaust his capabilities as an actor but he succeeds in being engaging and charming. His performance is reminiscent of that of his late brother, Shelley Hull, in the "Cinderella Man," which play, however, had the saving grace of delicate humour, wholly lacking in the comedy in question.

Miss Alma Tell, while decorative in the extreme, seemed hopelessly miscast. She lacked conviction in a part which, it must be admitted, would have taxed the whimsicality and ingenuousness of a Phoebe Foster or an Eva Le Gallienne, but somehow when she clasped the Three Musketeers to a bosom which heaved, audibly, with delight, we couldn't feel that it was anything in her young life but a blue paper-covered book, and from what we know of property men, probably not the Three Musketeers at all!

When We Are Young is a sweet, harmless and mildly entertaining little comedy. You can put it on your list of "Plays That I Can Let Mother See".

Another reversion to childhood which will not fail in its appeal to a fairly large section of our population is Daddy Dumplins at the Republic, in which Macklyn Arbuckle is supported by a truly remarkable group of stagechildren. In this naïve entertainment, the co-authors have done a crafty thing. We all know, I presume, the stage child, as an institution, and we all realize how definitely they may be either perfectly horrible, smug little pests that make you writhe in your seats or perfect little angels of loveliness, who scatter all criticism to the winds, reduce hardened first-nighters and callous old club-men to tears and pluck the most outrageous performance out of the slough of despond. Daddy Dumplins is by no means an outrageous performance. It is a placid, kindly creation and the genial Mr. Arbuckle is a most likeable Daddy, but it is, after all, to the children that the great credit is due. It is here that the craft of the authors shows itself. Realizing the sure-fire appeal of a sweet littleone, they have developed the idea into a bevy. How they found so many youngsters who could act so supremely well is a mystery, but the fact remains that the success of Daddy Dumplins is due not so much to Daddy as to the surrounding Dumplins.

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"Lady Billy"

ONE of the few undaunted managers who apparently do not realize that the proper thing to do is to slump is Mr. Henry Savage who comes bravely forward with Lady Billy, a musical show of much snap and attraction, in which charming little Mitzi, who seems to have lost her last name, once more delights us with her varied talents. The design of this new offering will not upset any traditions in musical comedy construction, but its conventionality is amply atoned for by the general smartness of the performance. The story is one of romantic ingenuousness, in which a penniless countess and a rich American effect the inevitable merger.

Mitzi is a most compact bundle of ability and finds an admirable foil for her diminutive charm in the truly colossal Bateson of Sydney Greenstreet, one of the most delightful performances I have ever seen. Never for a moment does he drop the mask of dignified seriousness by which he infuses the faithful butler's character with a surprising amount of humour and appeal. As for his dancing, it is a joy to behold. All in all, the performance goes with a bang. There is pep galore, without the vulgarity which is the usual accompaniment of this excellent quality. A point of special merit is the staging of the musical numbers, which move with a briskness and precision greatly to the credit of Julian Alfred. Bare legs, without which a modem musical comedy cannot hope to live, are limited to two pairs, which illustrate effectively Jthe value of restraint; their very appearance is infinitely more excitihg than the overwhelming displays to which we have become callously accustomed.

That infancy is not all is likewise shown at the Astor where Madge Kennedy (Herself!) reappears, after a long series of screenings, in a creaky melodrama, which is a reversion to the ancient crook-play. So swiftly do the waters pass under our theatrical bridges that this sort of thing seems already as outworn as pigs-in-clover or ping-pong. Miss Kennedy is such a charming young person and so skillful an actress that it is a pity to fetter her with the shackles of such conventional material. A more than adequate cast contrives to keep the corpse alive and at moments even seems to infuse certain spasmodic jerks of near-life into its outrageous frame but, for the most part, it lies like a stuffed dummy which has fallen from the fly-gallery, provoking only ironic laughter by its occasional imitations of animation. It is plays of this sort which, when compared to the sprightly Bat, make the jaded theatregoer think that the dramatic race horse has not only slowed down but is also about to drop dead.