What splendid letters those are from George Soule! Every one has been really worth while and inspiring. Especially the advice and warning he gives in his last: “Let us go to the theatres next fall prepared to trace the beginnings of a new stage art in this country; in the meantime, however, not hoping to escape the flood of cheap and artistically vicious stuff with which the commercial managers will attempt to drown our sensibilities.”
Perhaps after this warning one ought not become agitated or angry with any of the productions of those showmen who are frankly in the business for the sake of revenue. However, when the “super”-showman, who is said by the press-agent to possess unconquerable ideals, does something that is supposed to be the uttermost of stage production—and fails—well, then one can’t help becoming irritated. In a production of Joseph and His Brethren which I saw recently there is evidence that he is aware of the presence of new ideas in the theatre. But nowhere is it perfect enough or fearlessly new enough to be satisfying. What new ideas are used are swamped under, in their imperfection, by the mass of “excellent mediocrity” that Mr. Soule speaks of. In every act is present that hideous compromise—rank mixture of the old theatrical devices with a cautious lifting of some daring modernists’ best ideas. But the pictures received applause. Most came for the scene that jarred most. It was a moon-light garden scene. The backdrop and sense of distance were perfect, but stuck prominently in the foreground, on either side of the stage, were huge clusters of pink blossoms. The applause for that was great—just as Soule predicted.
Mixing ideals—so-called—with the business of attracting the crowd for what it brings to the box-office may produce a super-showman and make of him a millionaire, but it does not advance the cause of the theatre. Not only is the production to be quarreled with, but the drama itself is of mongrel character. Everywhere is evident that catering to the ordinary theatrical taste:—entire speeches from the bible alongside those of modern idiom and thought together with re-arrangements and useless additions to the already satisfying detail of the scriptures.
After a “smashing” finale with the gorgeously garmented multitude waving dusty palms in a private house I decided to dismiss the entire show as fruitless, so far as the “new note” was concerned. However, one critic writes that the German and Russian moderns were suggested in some scenes and that the chief female character might have been costumed by Bakst himself! That arouses one to the danger of the thing. Is this the final word in the theatre and what we are to expect as the best this season?
Marion Thayer MacMillan, Cincinnati:
The July number of The Little Review is before me, and the demure brown cover brings a smile as I recall the stimulating sparkle and scarlet audacities hidden beneath. After Nietzsche’s notion of the Wagnerite, it is at least interesting to read Mr. Brooke’s description of pâte de foi-gras at the opera. The talk of Dr. Brandes and the tedious speaker is a gladsome thing, but most of all I was held by The Renaissance of Parenthood. It is a large subject for one article and too large for a letter; nevertheless I must quarrel with one of your implications. I refuse to admit that one can deduce anything whatever from the writings of Mr. George Bernard Shaw. Don’t mistake me: I feel sure that I agree with everything you think about him—“aye more.” But I deny that you can justly follow any statement of his with “hence.” When a man takes his authorized and adoring biographer and tells him “Lo! here is the house where I first saw the light,” and, when the adoring and authorized one comes a cropper because he deduces from this remark that the self-same house is the birth place of his idol, it behooves one to walk warily with this God! No doubt to read the profound and playful prophet philosopher is to conclude that he believes “the old-fashioned game in which the mother sacrificed everything was unfair and unnecessary and wasteful.” Equally, however, there is no doubt that G. B. S. himself holds an entirely opposite point of view since he emphatically affirms: “When others thought I should be working to support my mother, I made her work to support me. Five years after I was entirely capable of earning a living, I kept her at it so that I could learn to write English”; and, to prove his rightness, he cries: “And now look who’s here!”
To Serve an Idea
There is no more vivid thing in life. All those people who are vitally interested in The Little Review and its idea, its spirit and its growth, may want to become part of a group which has just been suggested by several of our contributors and readers. An attempt to influence the art, music, literature, and life of Chicago is an exciting and worthy one, and should have its opportunity of expression. Such an opportunity is planned in a series of gatherings—the first to be held in 917 Fine Arts Building at eight o’clock on Saturday evening, October 10. For further details, address The Little Review Association, 917 Fine Arts Building, Chicago.
