San Francisco dramatic review (1899)

14 THE SAN FRANCISCO DRAMATIC REVIEW April 21, 1900 And in his ravings by mistake A solemn truth the madman spake. "In the asylum — back next week. C. T." That was the line I sent the editor to explain a period of vagabond joy and no "copy." Then I kept away from the office and reproach and went on my vagabond way rejoicing — thinking it all a great joke. His revenge was neat and prompt. He published it! I shall have to catch up with the world if I want to teach it tricks. Mr. Editor, I take off my hat. I should like your autograph. "There shall be no more cakes and ale." Holidays are obsolete. * * This is a charitable age and there are so many ways of letting the actor down easily in the prints that its almost inconvenient to hurt his feelings. But really, when he steps out of his character between speeches to stare into the boxes and flirt openly with the willing, it is time to call names. But I can't think of any bad enough. * * * In the old Nevada days when he was blacksmithing, Richard Jose was plain Dick Jose [one syllable], and everybody loved him for his genial ways and musical voice. He danced as well as he sang, and always sang while he danced. To be in his set in a quadrille was equivalent to a promenade concert, and had division been the fashion, he might have had three partners to each tune. He had a pretty custom of singing through the town on New Year's Eve, and no sweeter good-bye to the old, no happier ringing in of the new has ever been thought of. His place in the town has never been filled — certainly not in bulk. Another of Mr. West's people well worthy of special mention is Mr. Tenny, a comedian of the first class. I don't think he knows himself what he could do with opportunity and effort. * * SOCIETY PLAYS Society plays — some are worse than others, but all are bad enough. A bold and pessimistic beginning is it not ? But true. The unblushing spread-outness of them— about two ideas stretched to the limit and eased up with rugs, cushions, dim lights, clothes, poses and cheap philosophy. Nothing seems to be written in dead earnest. There are some comings and goings, a great deal of behavior, some kaleidoscopic sensations and emotions without system or result, some festivities and awkward livery to indicate wealth, and some men in the dumps and without visions to indicate degeneracy. Ach Gott! Not a brain in the crowd. * * * Now society is a magnificent field to prospect. Its possibilities are infinite, but the prospector can't squint sidewise aud expect to find gold in paying quantities. . And the trouble is that most society plays seem to be written without knowledge of the subject — hence are they limp, colorless and unconvincing. A lot of half formed impressions go drifting through three or four acts, playing bo-peep with satire, religion, diseased fiction and the last fad, like yards of unattached pastel colored fringe looking for a lost fabric. In the centre of this society (?) is a gibbering type of female, who couldn't attract a mosquito, who never could he socially effective and who in real life would be socially crucified. If perchance a fine serviceable life creeps in — it creeps. A man with a sober thought is not allowed to move fast enough to catch up with an ear that could understand what his words contain — and he wouldn't if he could. The vital interest of most of the characters pictured is to be entertained and yet they choose to live in an atmosphere that would bore a philosopher. Choose? Oh no, there is nothing so positive as choice. Everything is negative — themes undeveloped, inferences tb at can't be clinched. In the midst of it, good acting going to waste. * Dialogue ? There is none. Just mystic monologue, and the characters seem touched and surprised when anybody takes interest enough to answer them. They ought to be. Really, if some of us could drop in upon our plays about a year after first night we should fetch up with a sore conscience and "Never Again !" Society ? It is merely a tilt at society, wherein the sparing middle class way of three course dinners and the street car is never allowed a possible existence. Cafe frappe — vol au vent. Waiter! Fetch cutlets and potatoes. * * Good-morning, Mr. Neill and all your company. Here are both my hands. That is all, until a longer and a closer look. Say about a week. * * * At the Columbia, Nat Goodwin, Maxine Elliott and John Drew. Is this a dream ? O, do not wake me. Mr. Gotlob, if the public does not shove the orchestra under the stage, arrange for fines and time. An empty chair will be an actionable offense. * * If THE STAGE BEAUTY I searched my lady's face to find Wherein the witchery lay. It was not in her beetle brows Though arched and fine were they. It was not in her damask cheek, Nor in her auburn hair, Nor in her alabaster throat, So smooth and round and fair. But as I looked, the answer came : Her dimples, heaven sent ! My gaze had found a resting place, And nestled there content. I followed her behind the scenes; Again it came to pass, That things are seldom what they seem — She sat before her glass, And washed away her beetle brows, And laid aside her hair; Her beauteous alabaster throat Was anything but fair; Her ruby lips, her damask cheek Were folded in a rag. But what of that ? Her dimples, man Her dimples were my brag. Great Heaven ! and I rubbed my eyes, Alas it was too true — Ach Himmel I Oh dear me ! Mon Dieu ! The dimples wiped off too. * FLORENCE ROBERTS Let me print a paragraph from the pen of a San Franciscan, now in New York — an inveterate theatre-goer : "Just in from Madame Butterfly, Belasco's newest success. It is wonderful. The First Born pales. Can I say more of the play ? Just beyond my natural reach an idea kept floating, and now a jump has reached it — Florence Roberts in the part would be ideal. That little woman is an angel of sincerity and latent possibility. Keep the managerial eye upon her, is my advice to the syndicate and the renegade." And there is every possibility of her doing Madame Butterfly during her coming season at the Alcazar. I have it from the source. She opens in Carmen, follows it with Frou Frou, and then in rapid succession come Comedy and Tragedy and The Country Girl, Adrienne Lecouvreur, Romeo and Juliet, Camille, two new plays — first productions, Miss Multon and perhaps Under Two Flags. I overhauled her new wardrobe, or part of it duplicated since the fire and oh, oh, such dreams of gowns and cloaks and hats. "A thrill is untranslatable." * * AT THE ELBOW CF THE COLUMBIA DOORKEEPER. The doorkeeper at the Columbia Theatre can see nothing funny in the entrance of a matinee audience. He told me so himself. He is no judge; the scene is grown common by custom as all scenes but cathedrals and mountain heights are wont to do. I leave it to the pier glass, shoved up by a kind but careless management to the very frame of the entrance door. Given a crowd of women and all you want is a mirror to turn a funeral into a comedy. Women in the gross are the most utterly in bonds creatures imaginable, and the way they bear down upon that mirror, openly and impudently fishing for compliments, is droller than modern headgear, if that were possible. They do not wait for it to say "yes" or "no"' to their question, they simply dare it to say "no." The mirror, not having an original mind, replies, "You're quite fetching" even to the disastrous plaids and stripes and checks and pastel flowers of the season. The unholy time-serving hypocrite. I'm going to interview that mirror some night when the crowd is in and there is no pressure brought to bear. It will put a new face, I warrant, on the elderly frumps who choke the path and wot not. Choke the path ? I should say so. You can't hurry in, so you may as well get entertainment as you drift. Stand on the prudent edge and hear the women talk. Has such music