McVicker, Hooley, Abbey, Daly, Field, Gilbert, Barrett, Florence, Booth,—all were dead. Mansfield had made his ambitious venture in theatre management and had utterly failed in it: Irving had lost the Lyceum in London and was nearing the end of his life: Salvini and Mary Anderson had left the Stage: Jefferson retired within eighteen months and soon after died: Modjeska and Ada Rehan were in broken health, their careers practically closed. Fine actors were visible and, here and there, splendid things were being done: the histrionic fires have never yet been wholly extinguished. But actors and men truly comprehensive of, and sympathetic with, actors no longer controlled the Theatre: that institution had passed almost entirely into the hands of the so-called “business man,”—the speculative huckster and the rampant vulgarian,—and the prevalent ideal in its management was that of the soap chandler and the corner-grocery. The men who chiefly dominated the Theatre in the period of fifteen years since Belasco’s establishment in the metropolis,—with many of whom he was long righteously and bitterly at variance,—were Charles Frohman, Al. Hayman, A. L. Erlanger, Marc Klaw, Samuel Nirdlinger, J. F. Zimmermann, William Harris, George C. Tyler, William A. Brady, Henry B. Harris, Lee Shubert, J. J. Shubert, George M. Cohan, and Al. H. Woods.
There is not one of those men, his later contemporaries, with whom it is possible properly to compare Belasco. He was an artist, a dramatist, an authentic manager actuated by a high purpose and one who exerted a profound influence on the Theatre of his period. The others—though several of them have manifested various talents—all belong in the category of mere showmen,—speculators in theatrical business, and, save for the bad influence fluent from some of them, they are of no more interest or importance than so many “eminent brewers” or celebrated purveyors of tallow and pork.
One of the managers named, however, by reason of exceptional energy and shrewdness and by dint of incessant self-advertising, became and long continued to be the most conspicuous figure in the theatrical field. That manager was Charles Frohman, and because Belasco and he were personal friends and personal enemies, because they were professional associates and, in a business sense, professional rivals during many years, it is inevitable that the student of the theatrical period from 1885 to 1917 should attempt to make some comparison of them. That renders an estimate of Frohman desirable here....
Charles Frohman was born at Sandusky, Ohio, June 17, 1860, and he lost his life in the sinking of the Lusitania, May 7, 1915. He entered the theatrical business, as an “advance agent,” in January, 1877, and he remained in it until his death. He was honest in his dealings, amiable in his domestic and social relations, benevolent toward the poor, highly popular among his friends, able and energetic in business affairs, a gambler by temperament, and of a self-poised, resolute character. His management of the Theatre, however, was injurious, both to that institution and to society. He assisted to commercialize and thus to degrade the Stage. His policy was distinctly and unequivocally expressed by himself, in these words: “I keep a Department Store.” That is precisely what he did, and that is precisely what no manager has a right to do,—while claiming to exercise an intellectual power and foster a great art. The man to whom Oofty Gooft and Edwin Booth, “Shenandoah” and “Hamlet,” “Hattie” Williams and Helena Modjeska, “The Girl from Maxim’s” and “Alabama,” and so following, are all alike—mere theatrical commodities of commerce to be exploited as such—may be “a man of his word,” an honest tradesman, a genial companion, a dutiful son, an affectionate brother, a loyal friend, generous in prosperity, unperturbed in adversity and expeditious in transaction of business,—but he is not and he never can be a true theatrical manager.
In the “Life” of Charles Frohman—by his brother Daniel (a man of far higher ability) and another writer—some informative utterances by him are quoted,—utterances which reveal and establish the quality of his mind more unmistakably than whole chapters of analysis could do. This is one of them, imparting his view of the greatest poet and dramatist that ever lived and of the consummate tragedy of youthful love, “Romeo and Juliet”:
“‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed Frohman. ‘Who’s Shakespeare? He was just a man. He won’t hurt you. I don’t see any Shakespeare. Just imagine you’re looking at a soldier, home from the Cuban war, making love to a giggling schoolgirl on a balcony. That’s all I see, and that’s the way I want it played. Dismiss all idea of costume. Be modern.’”—The tragedy was acted in the manner he desired.
Charles Frohman was simply a wholesale dealer in theatrical produce. He “made” many “stars”—“stars” being a commodity requisite in his business and for the manufacture of which he expressed a strong liking. He never made an actor. There was nothing of importance accomplished in the Theatre through his activity that would not have been accomplished equally well if he had never been born. As far as the Art of the Theatre is concerned he stands in about the same relation to such men as Wallack, Daly, and Belasco as a maker of chromo-lithographs does to Corot or Inness.
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Belasco was a good fighter—resourceful, courageous, pertinacious. He never forgot a kindness nor an injury,—yet bitter and, to a certain point vindictive, as his resentment of injury unquestionably was, he could easily be placated and he was instantly amenable to any appeal to his kindness of heart. I well remember one occasion on which I chanced to be with him and other friends (it was the last night of the run of “The Darling of the Gods,” May 30, 1903) when he was called away by an urgent appeal. He presently returned and, speaking aside with me, informed me that the message had been from a person widely known among journalists and actors as one of the vilest creatures that ever scribbled slander about decent men and women for the blackguard section of the press and one who had done him great wrong and injury. “And now,” Belasco said, “he comes to me—appealing for help!” “What have you done?” I asked. “What could I do?” he answered: “The man is in the gutter—friendless—penniless—starving. I couldn’t refuse him—now, could I? I gave him what he asked for.” That incident is significantly characteristic....
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