THE shortsighted policy of looking too far ahead has often, in theatrical matters at least, brought in its train a series of complications, not to say disasters, which might have been avoided by adopting the more obvious one of leaving well alone, the great difficulty being of course to decide when it is "well," this difficulty being increased by the extraordinary unanimity of the diametrically opposite opinions offered by "those who should know," on each and every play that has ever been submitted to the public.

The divergence of individual opinions on a play is really something marvellous; you will find two clubmen discussing, let us say, The Quaker Girl and The Arcadians. A will tell you that the former is "absolutely the biggest rot I ever saw," and the latter – "the only thing worth going to just now"; while B will give an identical opinion but transpose the plays. It is to be presumed that both are equally sincere in their pronouncements, but it is an interesting problem to solve as to which of them is correct in his summing up, especially when we consider that, it being after all a matter of personal opinions, both may be right.

An odd point about these much-discussed plays – I refer to plays generally, and not in particular to the two I have chosen for purposes of illustration – is that, in spite of a strongly worded contempt for the entertainment, you will find at certain theatres the expressors of these criticisms in constant evidence, and certainly not voicing any dissatisfaction with the fare provided. Of course in some cases this may be accounted for by the lure of the personal friend on the working side of the footlights, but when that attraction does not exist the motive for supporting a decried entertainment is difficult of comprehension.

A periodical statement is made in all journals dealing with theatrical matters to the effect that in musical plays "there is a strongly developing taste on the part of the public for those which present a continuity of plot and action with more than a soupçon of serious interest." This statement has, within my recollection, cropped up with studied regularity whenever there has seemed to be a dearth of the "go-as-you-please" form of play, but that there is more than a modicum of truth in the implication is, to my mind, amply demonstrated by the success of plays of The Chocolate Soldier type. Here we have a piece which, in regard to the different parts, is more fairly balanced than is the case with the one in which two, or perhaps three, artists are overloaded with material, producing the inevitable shrinkage in the work allotted to other members of the cast, who, given the opportunity, are usually equally as competent to shine as their more favoured(?) brethren.

The leading soprano, by the exigencies of the plot, carries the larger burden of this work, but even then the proportions are better maintained than usual, with the result of an effective ensemble which, in giving each their opportunity, constitutes an entertainment much more acceptable to the general public. Also, in this kind of play there is no possibility allowed to the artist known to the present-day playgoer as "an irresponsible comedian" to embroider his part with words or business absolutely foreign to the matter in hand, and this I believe to be a very great factor in the success of this stamp of play. The really intelligent comedian should surely be capable of importing his personal humour into each and every part he plays without stepping out of the environment of the piece, but it is very rarely the case to find this done, and perhaps the excuse may be urged that a laxity in this matter is met with more approval from the majority of the play-goers than is signified by the minority, who appreciate the more artistic abstention from such methods.

It is difficult to call to mind any musical play wherein the comic men and women have not, at some period of the evening, induced a feeling of regret (not to use a stronger word) at some totally unnecessary interpolation which has severely marred what was otherwise an excellent, and possibly even artistic, performance. Of course, in many cases, these regrettable interpolations are less the fault of the artists making them than that of the manager who introduces them, equally of course with the best possible motive – namely, that of (in his opinion) brightening up the piece. That this method is not invariably attended with the happiest results is conclusively proved, in my humble opinion, in the case of The Girl in the Train. Here we have what was, at the start, a straightforward play, with a plot which was developed in a pleasant and interesting manner, and, without unduly fatiguing the attention, adhered to in the second act, and brought to the inevitable happy conclusion with what one might describe as a praiseworthy consecutiveness which, from its very rarity, seemed to be worth preserving, not only to those concerned in the work, but also to the playgoer with a preference for this type of piece. But what happens? The powers that be come to the conclusion, for reasons naturally not divulged, but presumably not entirely disconnected with the box-office returns, that the introduction of some new feature is imperative to give the play the fillip which seems advisable.

The return to England, after some years' absence, of so popular a public favourite as Miss Connie Ediss apparently synchronised with the object in view, and she was persuaded to take the seat in the train vacated by the former "confidential maid" to the heroine, Mrs Van Buren; everyone knows, admires, and loves (and speaks of her as) Connie Ediss, and in suitable surroundings her humour and breadth of style have again and again proved invaluable, but in this particular instance a strong note of incongruity was struck by the confidential Dutch servant of a Dutch mistress living in Holland breaking out into a song dealing with famous London and Brighton hotels, and with the refrain of "When I was in the Chorus at the Gaiety."

A sympathetic little scene between the mistress and maid was eliminated entirely, to the disadvantage of the plot, and those of us who had to deal with the story were distinctly conscious of an effort being required to reunite the broken thread.

That the song in question was an undoubted success is an incontrovertible fact, and, in its proper environment, would have made the success of any act in which it fell, but it did not certainly belong to this play, and, as I have tried to show, caused a break in the interest which proved exceedingly difficult to bridge.

It was just about this time that I was "approached" on behalf of Mr Whitney, who was gratifyingly anxious to secure me for his production of Baron Trenck, and as I imagined I saw symptoms of the train approaching a terminus I consulted the Superintendent of the Traffic, who very kindly consented to my stepping off when the train slowed down for Holy Week. However, Fate stepped in once more, and a very severe attack of bronchitis necessitated my removal to a nursing-home some ten days earlier, and although I was anxious to reappear for a few nights, at least, on recovering, George Edwardes thought it inadvisable to make any further change, in which he was doubtless correct, but I felt some natural disappointment at having played my part for the last time without being aware of it.

I was thus free to commence rehearsals of Baron Trenck, this being my first engagement with a manager owing allegiance to the Stars and Stripes.

Mr Whitney is the fortunate possessor of a personality so genial as to make him a persona grata with all who come in contact with him, and with this trait he combines an optimism which is positively exhilarating, and although the first-night reception of Baron Trenck was not altogether favourable, even though enthusiastic at moments, it entirely failed to shake his faith in the ultimate success of the opera, a faith which I admit I share, for where there is so much to enjoy and admire it only needs the elimination of the dull portions, and the general "pulling-together" which, at the time of writing this, the opera is undergoing, to establish its success, and, incidentally, dissipate the reputation for ill luck which in some odd way the theatre has acquired.

An initial error was made in describing it as a "comic opera," which it certainly is not, the term which would have fitted it more nearly being, in my estimation, "light opera," which is a distinction with a great difference, the predominance given by the author to the love interest completely overshadowing the "comic relief." This combination arises, as I gathered from the original adaptor of the German book, from two causes, firstly, the attraction possessed by these lengthy duets in dramatic style for the German audiences, and secondly to the uproarious mirth aroused in the same audiences by humour which, to the differently constituted English mind, appears to be not only feeble to a degree but of so hoary an antiquity as to be unworthy of disinterment.

Whether the faith I have alluded to is to be justified or not, remains to be seen, but the comedians entrusted with the lighter side of the work have plenty of straw to hand for the making of their proverbial bricks, the first act being most fortuitously laid in a farmyard, the cheerful aspect of which is somewhat discounted by an overwhelming tree of a totally unknown type, presumably of Slavonian origin, but not, it is fervently to be hoped, the Slavonian Upas.

The American method of rehearsing naturally interested me much, as a novel experience, the play having an American "producer," who was described to me as a "hustler" of pronounced ability, and in whom Mr Whitney had every confidence; I found him a genial, capable man, with a very keen sense of humour, which stood him in good stead in dealing with our insular idiosyncrasies, but the marvellous smoothness of the Savoy rehearsals of the olden days, conducted entirely by Gilbert, have perhaps made me slightly hypercritical on the subject of time-wasting, a feeling which has not been wholly eradicated by the many subsequent years of trial in connection with musical comedies, so many scenes in which are absolutely and literally written at rehearsal, but with regard to this production there was only one serious cause of delay, arising from the "producer's" conception of one of the two most prominent characters differing in a most marked manner from that of Mr Whitney, who, being unable to attend the earlier rehearsals, found himself in the position of having to "undo and remake" – at a very considerable expenditure of time and patience on the part of all concerned; the only drawback to this bouleversement of a reading of character is the appearance, at odd moments, of certain remnants of the earlier teaching, thereby producing a complexity of character not perhaps intended by the author.

The success of an opera or musical comedy, but more especially the former, must of necessity depend on the clearness with which the plot or story (if any exist) reaches the intelligence of the audience, and the fact should never be lost sight of that the audience has assembled to be amused and will almost involuntarily resent a strain upon its attention sufficient to warrant the query "What is it all about?"

If this fact were more generally recognised, authors would grasp the inadvisability of telling such plot or story in the form of lyrics, instead of a few concise speeches which would furnish all the needful explanation, while the lyrics could be left to the tender mercies of the artists dealing with them.

To tell the story in lyrics necessitates not only a Gilbert to write them, but artists possessed of an enunciation in the delivery which is unfortunately very rare, I was about to write "nowadays," but on retrospection I have come to the conclusion that singers of the present day are at least no worse than their forerunners, and some of them even better, but the chief offenders in this matter of indistinct delivery are undoubtedly those who attach undue importance to "voice production," and the blame for this, I fancy, rests less on their shoulders than on those of their instructors, who probably adopt what is known as "the Italian method."

I have before now alluded to the difficulty, within my own experience, of writing singable lyrics to music already composed, a difficulty largely increased in the case of rendering into English, lyrics which have been set by a foreign composer in a foreign tongue, but the difficulty is by no means insurmountable, though it calls imperatively for two qualifications in the attack – namely, a knowledge of music and a keen perception in the matter of emphasis.

One journal, in dealing with the production of Baron Trenck, made use of the headline, "Volupük Opera at the Whitney Theatre," which was perhaps a slight overstrain in the effort to display originality on the part of the critic of the paper in question, but, while deprecating the wilful exaggeration of the term, it is perhaps, from another point of view, entitled to some commendation, as indicating a tendency on the part of, at least, one of a highly influential body of men to write of things as he finds them, a proceeding which is less honoured in the breach than the observance, and also one which offers the delightful possibility of his being able to refer, on a second visit to the play, to the improvement consequent upon the attention paid to his reprimand.

Mr Desmond Coke writes an interesting article on the subject of critics, in The Daily Mail, in which he compares the American and English critic, rather to the advantage of the former, whom he describes as "fearless," but he undoubtedly weakens his case in saying that "it is surely more exhilarating than the usual" to read such criticisms as that delivered by a Chicago journal on Miss Blank's voice, which he compares to that of "a rheumatic corncrake," but he re-establishes it perhaps at the close of the article where he proffers the following advice to the critic:–

"As complement to tactful praise must go some truthful blame."

To which I will venture to add a line of my own:

"A combination only found in him who plays the game."

Page modified 3 February 2008