Just now The Catholic Theatre Movement has created a diversion by issuing their “White List” of plays and threatening to prosecute by law the producers of “unclean” drama. They take occasion to compliment the newspaper critics for abandoning to some extent artistic standards of criticism and substituting moral standards. The movement will undoubtedly tell against much undesirable filth, but it is needless to say that it would be used with equal effectiveness against most works of genius which might by some strange chance be produced.
Little Theatres are sprouting up by the handful. The Punch and Judy Theatre is a clever imitation of the theatrical prototype, with benches for seats, wall boxes for two only, and boy ushers. It is the personal enterprize of Charles Hopkins, a Yale graduate who shows his enthusiasm by combining not only the rôles of actor, manager, and producer, but owner and playwright as well. He has not yet, however, put on any of his own plays. Mrs. Hopkins, a really talented graduate of Ben Greet’s company, plays the feminine leads. The Neighborhood Theatre is a quasi-philanthropic undertaking with enough money behind it to aspire to the new stage art in all its magnificence of the concrete dome and more expensive settings. Perhaps the most interesting of all will be a new theatre planned by the Washington Square villagers under the leadership of a committee among whose members are Mr. and Mrs. Max Eastman and Charles and Albert Boni. It will be supported principally by its own subscribers at a very moderate expense, and will be as far as possible from a philanthropic attempt to “elevate the stage.” It is the result merely of a belief that here is a group of people who want to see more intelligent drama than is ordinarily supplied, and that the dramatic material and acting and producing ability are available. Plays by American authors will be used as far as possible, but the standards will not be lowered for the sake of encouraging either authors or propaganda. Such a thing cannot avoid being at least a healthy experiment.
Pavlowa opened in the Metropolitan a week after Genée had given a Red-Cross benefit in a vaudeville theatre. The conjunction was a striking example of the marked inferiority of a romantic form to a classic unless the romantic vehicle is done honestly and supremely well. Genée gave in ten minutes more genuine æsthetic pleasure by her perfection of line than Pavlowa in a whole evening of half-done work. Pavlowa has proved often enough that she can be one of the goddesses of the dance. Last year she had with her Cecceti, her ballet master, and practiced with him constantly. Only by such external vigilance can perfection be maintained. This year, presumably for reasons of economy, Cecceti is not present. The company is much weakened by the absence of the principal character dancers. The opening ballet was a second-rate concoction with almost no real dancing in it. And to top off the insult, a third of the program was devoted to ordinary ball-room dances, which any number of cabaret performers in the United States can do better than trained ballet people. It was the usual tragedy of the artist who tries to popularize his work. An enthusiast sitting next me said: “We are now seeing the funeral of good dancing in America. Those who want this sort of thing will go to the restaurants. And the others will say, ‘If this is ballet, give me baseball.’” But there is still hope. The original Diaghilew company which plays yearly in London and Paris is coming next season. Then we shall see romantic ballet at its highest.
Only one other event must be mentioned now. While various discontented persons, perhaps anarchists, have been leaving bombs about public buildings, the socialists have elected Meyer London to Congress. In itself this is not of great significance. It is interesting to see, however, that twelve thousand people went to the public reception to him in Madison Square Garden. It is still more interesting to compare what was said there with ordinary political buncombe. Mr. London began by calling President Wilson one of the ablest men this country has produced. He went on to say “The business of socialism is to give intelligence to discontent.... When I take my seat in Congress I do not expect to accomplish wonders. What I expect to do is to take to Washington the message of the people, to give expression there to the philosophy of socialism. I want to show them what the East side of New York is and what the East side Jew is. I am confident that I will get fair play. I will be given my opportunity, and I do not intend to abuse it. Do not let yourselves be deceived by this victory. You are good noise-makers, but you are poor organizers. Organize now for the next campaign. Organize for victory, not by violence, but by the greatest of all forces, the force of the human intellect. Give the people your message clearly and make them think about it.”
If the ballot fails because of lack of intelligence, is it reasonable to suppose that violence will succeed with the same material? Or that any arrangement under the sun for the welfare of human beings can take the place of individual human quality? “My friends, mankind is something to be surpassed!”
The Theatre
“The Philanderer”
(Chicago Little Theater)
The most interesting thing about Shaw’s Philanderer as it was put on at The Little Theater the latter part of November, was the new treatment it received at the hands of the scenic artists of that precious institution. One is tempted to use the trite but pretty figure and say that it was an instance of an old gem in a new setting, only modifying it by the statement that The Philanderer is merely a fake gem. The luster it may have had in the eighteen-nineties is now almost entirely worn away. In short, its fun is pointless. Ibsen, thanks largely to Mr. Shaw’s active propaganda, is a household pet. Ibsen clubs are as obsolete as Browning clubs; while the “new” woman as embodied in her present-day sister, the feminist, is too familiar and too permanent a figure to be the subject of effective satire. That the play still has appeal for a modern audience is due wholly to its characters, and yet these stage people are not real. They are no more than caricatures, each effectively distorted and exaggerated in the drawing, each effectively touched off in monochrome. To use another overworked phrase, they are typically Shavian in that they are not characters but traits of character. They are not real people; they are perambulating states of mind, as are almost all of Shaw’s creations, and the more emotional, rather than intellectual, the state of mind, the wider its appeal.
But neither Shaw nor the play is the thing in this discussion. The setting of the play, subordinate, no doubt, in intention, but predominating because of its novelty, is what interested most the eyes of the layman brought up for years on the familiar conventions of the ordinary-sized theater. The action demands interior settings, but instead of the realistically-painted canvas walls and wooden doors, The Little Theater gives us tinted backgrounds with rectangular openings for entrances and exits. The first act is done in gray, the second and third in blue, and the fourth in a soft green. The effect of people, particularly of women, moving against such plain unrelieved tints is pictorial in the extreme. Each successive movement, each new position is a new picture. The curtains parting on the last act, showing the copper tint of a samovar, a vase of delicate pink flowers, a white tablecloth, a handsome dark woman pouring tea, all against a soft glowing green, gave one the feeling of seeing an artfully-composed, skillfully-colored canvas at a picture gallery. And it suggested, more successfully than any other setting I have ever seen, the home of a person of refinement and restraint. Less successful was the setting for the second and third acts. The use of indigo in representing an Ibsen club may be satirical and it may be subtle, but its effect on the spectator after an hour or so is depressing, and in the general atmospheric gloom that increases as the act goes on the sparkle of some of the brightest dialogue is lost.