What Price Independence?

The Future of the American Theatre as Viewed by a Theatrical Manager

BROCK PEMBERTON

EDITOR'S NOTE:—From its beginnings before the Revolution nearly to the end of the nineteenth century, or for 150 years, the theatre in America followed an orderly course of evolution, and remained in each community the home both of popular spoken drama and classic tradition. In the nineties the formation of the Theatrical Syndicate tended rapidly to rob all theatres of their local dignity and reduced their proprietors to the status of janitors. Hard on this came the revolutionary invention of the motion picture, which so suddenly and completely altered the whole scheme of theatrical entertainment that as yet neither the spoken drama nor the movies knows quite where it is at. Vanity Fair has been trying, in a series of articles, to present significant facts and opinions. This article by Brock Pemberton, producer of Enter Madame, Miss Lulu Bett, and other interesting plays, sets forth the trials of the independent producer, and discusses the possible effects of the motion picture control of the stage. In succeeding issues of Vanity Fair further views will be advanced on the subject by the following authorities: RALPH BLOCK, a supervising editor of the Famous Players-Lasky Corporation, will defend the motion picture producers. WALTER PRICHARD EATON, in a concluding article, will weigh the views of the other contributors to this symposium, and JOHN EMERSON, President of the Actors' Equity Association, will discuss the effect of motion picture control of the American theatre on actors and public

IF the rewards of producing any play have become meagre, and the half-hundred producers who inhabit New York will tell you they have, those of the "artistic" production have become microscopic. Three dangerous pitfalls have appeared in the past ten years in the path of the "artistic" production—the vanishing road; the increasingly avaricious real estate goblin; and the uneconomic system of ticket merchandising introduced by the ticket broker.

When the road was still the road the real profits were made there. New York was the factory where plays were conceived, created and sent forth in breathless anticipation of provincial consumption. And once equipped with a New York run a play was a pretty sure road property. So receptive were the provinces that even a false claim to metropolitan success was of ten sufficient. Now all that is reversed. The road is now the factory for New York, and all it means to most of the younger generation of producers is a costly place in which to fashion their wares for New York premieres. Vast sections of the country are closed to the spoken drama because of their remoteness from New York, the apathy of their inhabitants, or the absorption of their playhouses by the movies. The country is open as far west as Kansas City, but the rest, until you reach the coast, is silence, except for stock and an occasional touring company more courageous than the others because of the nature of its offering. Thus Abie's Irish Rose, The Bat, The Cat and the Canary, White Cargo and plays of like pattern will still tackle any section and stand a chance of emerging triumphant. The West Coast has taken matters into its own hands and does most of its own producing, in some cases creating plays to send to us but more generally buying territorial rights of our own successes. Very rarely now does a complete New York organization make the grand tour there and back. Chicago, Philadelphia, Boston, Detroit still see most of the plays that achieve any degree of success in New York, and Buffalo, Cleveland, Pittsburgh and cities of like size on the beaten track, are plentifully supplied. But even they are getting choosey and a New York run is no longer a guarantee of provincial profits.

The motor, the movie, the radio, and managerial stupidity have all contributed to bringing about the debacle of the road. And the last shall be first inasmuch as the stupidity of managers who palmed off shoddy goods on the road was the antecedent and underlying cause. By providing inferior entertainment in the form of poor plays wretchedly staged and acted for the provincial public, when there was no other form of amusement to which they could turn, the managers sowed the seed of dissatisfaction and discontent that blossomed into disdain for the spoken drama when "limousine", "location", and "loud speaker" were added to our vocabularies. Now only attractions bearing such hallmarks as the name of a popular star, the legend of an unprecedented, bona fide run, or the stamp of a nationally advertised revue fare forth with any feeling of certainty.

Some of the older producers who lived in those "rare old, fair old, golden days that have passed beyond (at least immediate) recall",* when the road was the rainbow's end, do not yet admit its demise, but certainly we younger ones who have received nothing but travail for travel, put no faith in it. My first experience with the road cured me. Five years ago I sent Enter Madame forth after a season of fortythree weeks in New York to double its profits in the provinces. Instead it lost money.

FOR US, at least, New York is the theatre and the theatre is New York, and our problems are defined by conditions inherent here. These are enough to give us pause. The controlling factor is the status of the playhouse. In fifteen years the number of theatres devoted to the production of plays has more than doubled till now there are approximately seventy. At least ten more will be completed next season. The majority of these add their radiance to the incandescent mile of Broadway that nocturnally gilds the heavens between Thirty-ninth and Fifty-ninth Streets. Today it costs about a million dollars to build the average theatre in this district, probably twice as much as it did ten years ago because of the increase in realty values and the added expense of construction. A playhouse, then, to make a profit must play to much larger receipts than formerly.

The application of the same business principles that in mercantile lines produced the chain store brought about this great expansion. Capital saw an opportunity for large dividends and so invested not in single playhouses but in chains of them. The resultant change in the complexion of the theatre is the important fact of this phenomenon. From the personal institution of a quarter of a century ago when nearly every New York playhouse was the resident home of a producing manager, the theatre has become a Big Business proposition with Capital in control. There are only two or three playhouses left in New York which the proprietors attempt to reserve for their exclusive uses, and the exigencies of the business arc now such that these are frequently given over to competitors' productions.

Increased costs and the substitution of the corporate for the personal aspect have conspired to bring about a new regime in the theatre. When individuals controlled stages for their own uses they divided the risk between the playhouse and the show, sharing the receipts. As they had a financial interest in each end of the business this was the natural thing to do. The past decade has seen the birth of a complete new crop of showmen. So many former newspaper men (myself included), stage managers, office boys and others equipped with some working knowledge of the theatre have turned producer that if one of the departed Old Guard should do a Rip Van Winkle he would recognize few of the current names.

I REMEMBER reading at the time of my advent as a producer an interview with one of the deans who complained that the trouble with show business was the presence of so many interlopers who didn't know anything about it.

I took it as a personal affront, though the oldster probably didn't know 1 was alive, and yet now I, a grey-beard of six years in the theatre, find myself bemoaning in the same way the constant influx of new producers. For really they are the ones responsible for the prevalent regime of real estate. There are enough of them flitting about throughout most of the season with sufficient Butter and Egg money for a single production to maintain a premium on all theatres. Under the old regime, if the proprietor of a house didn't have a play of his own ready he booked an outsider's attraction, giving the latter the benefit of the sharing terms he enjoyed. Now the proprietor is generally a syndicate too smart to try to provide enough plays to keep its stages filled. In full season from ten to fifty producers are tugging at the syndicate's elbow begging for the next chance. The proprietor, be he syndicate or individual, would be scarcely human and certainly not a good business man if he didn't take advantage of the market.

HE does, with the result that from the beginning of the season until the demand eases up in the spring he asks that the producer guarantee him against loss. No more the divided risk with both sides sharing the loss if the receipts arc low or the profit if the show is a hit. The current contract specifies that whatever the receipts the theatre's share shall not be less than a stipulated amount each week. This amount depends on the resources of the producer, his tactical position, and the conscience of the theatre man. The average is $4,000 a week, that being the rent at which most playhouses can show a profit, but this season the guarantee has been creeping upward and $4,500 and $5,000 are not isolated instances. A slice of the show thrown in with no capital investment and no share of the possible losses has been known to make the theatre lord's fountain pen flow more freely when he seemed to be having trouble affixing his signature. Of course this parlour game, which is known as "Declaring In", is frowned upon and its practice not admitted by those who originated it, but just the same it is played, as every small producer knows.

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The contract contains what is technically called a "stop clause", which gives either party the right to tender two weeks' notice of closing in the event business falls below a stipulated figure for two successive weeks. This figure averages $10,000. In other words, the usual contract calls for four weeks' occupancy at a guaranteed rental of $4,000 a week or more. If a play is a cataclysmic failure and the receipts are nil it must continue for four weeks unless the theatre proprietor finds another attraction and is willing to release it. On the other hand, a play may gross $9,000 during each of its first two weeks and then receive notice from the proprietor of closing after two more weeks, although this figure may represent satisfactory business to the attraction. For the theatre owner is not interested in $4,500 a week as his share when the next attraction might be a capacity hit that would increase his share to $8,000. And every production is a potential hit before it reaches Manhattan.

Since the jury of the public now brings in a more speedy verdict the voice of the critic has again become authoritative. It is the judge's instructions to the jury. In the days when a play was given time to seek out its public, newspaper reviews didn't matter much. A broadside of favourable criticisms accelerated success and blasting ones set up another hurdle, but the public was apt to reverse either critical decision. My first year as a producer provided two examples. The critics didn't think much of Miss Lulu Belt in its original version. Nevertheless we went to work on it after the opening and within six weeks had turned it into a success that'eventually ran six months and won the Pulitzer Prize of that year. About the same time Mr. George M. Cohan produced The Tavern, and because I had brought to his notice the play which inspired him to write that grand bit of fooling he declared me in as a partner. Most of the critics turned thumbs down, but within a fortnight the play was selling out.

These reversals are still possible but they occur less frequently. Criticisms in the daily press extend their influence over perhaps a week. When a critic dislikes a play he is quite apt to reiterate his dislike in his week-end review. This carries the negation into the second week, and as the first two weeks determine the fate of a play under the guarantee-stop-clause contract, the word of mouth advertising, which is most potent of all, doesn't get much chance to help the play.

These, then, are some of the conditions every New York production must face. The artistic production has a still stiffer battle in that its potential audience is smaller and hence more difficult to assemble. There is a public for every play of any merit whatsoever, probably large enough to insure it against loss, but the problem is to rally that public in time to save the play. Only the Theatre Guild with its six weeks of subscription audiences has solved the problem.

Latterly the movie entrepreneurs have stirred up a flurry by investing in play production rather than picture rights. This activity roused the authors to the point of demanding and getting a new contract designed better to protect them. They complained that some managers were withholding a part of their share of movie money through fake sales. This may have happened since there are wolves in this, as well as in every other business. The authors feared the film makers would restrict production to those plays suitable to conversion to the screen, that competitive bidding would be destroyed, and that runs would be curtailed in the interest of film releases.

The man who stirred things up was Mr. William Fox, one of the most successful of the movie barons. Mr. Fox, who is reputed to have cleared as much as $10,000,000 in a single year, spent $1,500,000 last year for movie rights to plays. He did this, I am told, because the source of his wealth is the lesser films which mop up the smaller houses of the country and he is ambitious to produce also pictures for the larger houses. So he gave $100,000 for What Price Glory? and the same amount for Is Zat So?

There is a divergence of opinion among movie makers as to the value of Broadway successes for screen material. An executive of one of the larger companies told me recently he would pay any amount for a play that filled a specific purpose but otherwise a Broadway run meant nothing, as his films were sold before they were made, largely on the personnel of their casts. I tested his sincerity by selling him an unproduced play, with no promise of production and no right to use the play's title if produced, for the sum of $15,000!

The spoken drama and the screen are competitors and I have no doubt if left to the tender mercies of the gentlemen who control the screen, the drama would come out loser. But the spoken drama has persisted through the centuries and I feel will persist in spite of the cinema and everything. Even without the new authors' contract, which sets up a strong defence against the movie onslaught, the film makers would have had the large majority of producers to contend with, and they, for all their manifest deficiencies, are more interested in perpetuating the drama than the public believes.

Somebody will always produce plays because to date no social diversion so potent as a good play well acted, has been conceived. Eventually, I believe, the spoken drama will be restored to the millions who know not Manhattan, perhaps, through local love of it.