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When They Were Matinee Idols
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"In some ways, we got cheated, but on the whole, I think those were the days," the character actor mused, as he turned the yellow pages of his voluminous scrapbooks, that day in the den of his Spanish bungalow, the walls of which were lined with autographed pictures * of stage favorites famous a quarter of a century ago.
"The actor, then, was a demigod who could do no wrong, not a popular hero in the personal sense in which we use the term now, for he had not such a wide latitude in which to become known. Only a few thousand persons saw him and were enraptured by their own imaginations.
"That's it — imagination. Explains the idolatry in which he was held. More appeal to illusion and dreams. Now, the actor must go to greater lengths of realism to thrill his jaded public.
"I remember one old melo I played in, in which there was an exciting rescue scene. I had to dive into a tank of water five feet deep in the center but only eighteen inches deep at the sides. Corks marked the spot where the lady had gone down. If I miscalculated, I went head first into eighteen inches of water, cracked my bean, waddled over to where the lady was drowning and hauled her up. For that heroic risk of life, I received seventy-five dollars a week and the reward of kissing her hand.
"Now, the hero plays up to the thrill scene, but a double enacts it. And the hero gets a thousand a week, plus the fun of kissing the girl.
"Great attention used to be given to the proprieties. A love scene, at most, was a reverential embrace without any trimmings. The hero must be a gentleman at all costs, must never offend the modesty of refined ladies. Love, then, was restrained ; now, it is impassioned.
"The biggest argument I ever had in the theater was when I dared to suggest actually kissing a girl. There were paraded before me all the traditions of Booth and the other Shakespearean bellowers, to put an instantaneous end to my forwardness."
Edeson, always an insurgent against outworn conventions, was among the first stage heroes to establish a friendly contact with an audience. Instead of giving the customary formal curtain speech of condescending ap
William S. Hart as he is, and at the left, as he appeared as Messala in the first stage production of "Ben-Hur."
preciation, he one evening startled the theater by sitting down on the edge of the stage, swinging his feet over the footlights, and saying chummily, "Now, folks, let's get together and talk things over."
Interviews, too, have changed, until there is little comparison between the stilted conversation that used to be held twenty or more years ago, and the friendly confab of to-day. Edeson's first request for an appointment was a most formal note from Alan Dale. At their meeting, questions were asked about his plans for the next season, and respectful inquiry was made into his theories concerning the development of stage technique. Never was a personal note struck, or even hinted at.
To have asked at that time about an actor's favorite perfume, about his love affairs, or even his hobbies, would have been a most presumptuous and unprecedented discourtesy. His personal life was his own concern, a matter about Continued on page 110