Inside Speaking Out

Revealing the Bitter Truth Incident to the First Rehearsal of a New Play

LESLIE HOWARD

THOSE of you who were fascinated by my lecture on the Modern Theatre designed for the benefit of simple laymen, like yourselves, may, or may not remember what it was all about. For those who may not, I must recapitulate briefly.

As far as I can recollect it myself, I indulged in what seemed to me a masterly analysis of the various Identities of the Theatre, the Manager, the Author, the Director, the Scenic Artist, and the Actor. I think I proved—to the satisfaction of the layest of laymen—that all these, with, of course, the exception of the Actor, were really quite unessential in the modern theatre, and only survived because, through long association, they had become legendary figures in the eyes of the public at large.

I denounced, in my lecture, the Manager because he does nothing but provide the money. I denounced the Author because, when all is said and done, he only writes the play (sometimes hardly that). I denounced the Director because he said so many harsh things to the sensitive actors. And I denounced the Scenic Artist because he has become out-moded owing to the fact that black velvet at $2 a yard is now just as effective for a scene as his familiar and inevitable picture of the Bay of Naples.

I SHOWED how the manager decides to produce a play because it would make a good moving picture, and because he doesn't want Sam Harris to get it: how, after this momentous decision, he rushes off to Florida leaving everything to his director, Mr. David Stilton. And how the latter, after some complications, calls the first rehearsal of the play, which was entitled Clouds.

In the present lecture I am going to describe the procedure nowr in vogue at the first rehearsal of a play.

Well, then; the stage-manager and his assistant are the first to arrive at the theatre. They immediately call up the Stage Hands Union for three men. One of these is to raise the curtain, one to turn on the lights, and one to arrange some chairs. (For nothing may be done in a theatre except by a Union man. The Etiquette on this point is very rigid.) These men then remain till the end of the rehearsal —at Union rates—when they respectively lower the curtain, turn out the lights and push back the chairs. The layman should understand at the outset that every job in the modern theatre is a highly technical and specialised function, a mastery of which is only acquired after years of training. It w'ould be just as impossible for the stage-manager to pull the rope that raises the curtain as it would be for the man who works the curtain to press the button that gives the signal to raise it. Neither is equipped for the other's job. Both are specialists.

All being ready for the rehearsal, the stagemanager and his assistant sit down at a little table near the footlights and begin smoking cigarettes. This regrettable violation of the Fire Laws of all our great American cities is set down here fearlessly, in spite of the consequent fury of all stage-managers and their assistants in general. I speak the truth or nothing. Furthermore the layman will sense the hypocrisy of these fellows when I tell him that, five minutes later, they will inform the innocent actors that smoking is prohibited in the theatre.

There is little virtue in stage-managers.

It being now 11 A. M. the members of the cast begin to arrive in varying degrees of punctuality according to their financial status; the neediest first, the more prosperous later. The Clouds company, like all others, consists of— in addition to the female star—a leading man, a fine virile fellow (or a leading woman if the star is a male), an ingenue or innocent young girl, with golden hair, who knows all the managerial secrets and even knows where the manager is staying in Florida; an English juvenile who plays opposite the ingenue and is aged anywhere from 18 to 45; a heavy man (this refers to his acting, not his weight)—or villain; a kind, elderly father; a dear old lady, mother, aunt or other relative of the star part; an improper, dark haired young person (or "vamp") who, by contrast, is found in private life to be living quietly in Brooklyn with her aged mother; and a few miscellaneous extra people known as character actors, their number and type depending on how much the play in question differs from all other plays of its type —which is usually not much.

The company, then, with the exception of Florence Partridge the star, arc assembled on the bare stage, when the director, Mr. Stilton, bustles in accompanied by the author. The director looks at the company, and usually, at the first rehearsal (and sometimes even at the second) says, "Morning, folks," or "Good morning, children," depending on whether he was born in Newark or Moscow. Mr. Stilton, however, whose origin is even more obscure than this, merely says "Well . . ., " and lets it go at that. He notices the absence of the star, Miss Partridge, and comments on it. The stage manager says that he called Miss Partridge on the telephone and was informed that she was still asleep. Mr. Stilton's reply to this can only be characterised as unfortunate, and does not bear repetition. He then introduces the author to the company. This little touch of etiquette is always expected by authors.

He says, "Folks, meet Mr. Roger Whiteman ..."

"Blackman," the stage manager corrects him.

"Sure. Well, he wrote this play we're going to do In Old Seville ..."

"No ... Clouds," whispers the stage manager.

(Of course, the director is a busy man, and is naturally bound to make a mistake occasionally.)

"I mean Clouds. Well . . . you wrote it didn't you Rogr "

Mr. Blackman nods gravely.

"And how many others, Rogr "

"A hundred and eighty-five," says Mr. Blackman quietly.

A HUSH falls on the company at this statement. It is indeed a lot of plays to write, but the layman must not imagine that Mr. Roger Blackman has had all of them froduced. Only very rich authors have all their plays produced. (As a matter of fact the actual number of Mr. Blackman's produced plays would have run to ten but for the fact that the managers let their options expire on nine of them, while, of the remaining play, all the existing manuscripts vanished completely, so that the work was lost to the world.) Even Mr. Stilton is taken aback by this number. "Gee, Rog," he says, "this one ought to be a knockout after all that practice you put in." This flight of fancy on the part of the director makes everybody laugh loudly and puts them all at their case, except the author, who is very rarely seen to smile at all. I mention this little incident to show that, in spite of all his drawbacks, the director can be a very human fellow after all, with a nice sense of humour. Above all things these lectures must be unbiased.

The stage manager is now engaged in handing round to the company a number of little booklets enclosed in blue covers. These are the individual parts in the play, every word of which must, sooner or later, be, committed to memory, as it is considered unethical for the actors to make up their own words as they go along, though I regret to say this does sometimes happen in the case of the more ill-mannered members of the profession. Of course, at the present moment the parts are so much Greek to the cast, and indeed, in certain instances, may remain so—not only ro themselves, but. to their patient audiences.

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During this process of handing out the parts another little error on the part of the director is brought to light. It is discovered that tzco heavy men have been engaged for the one part. Tins is quite awkward, though pardonable enough in the busy life of the modern theatre director. However, one of the heavy men is found to have red hair, and is discharged.

The director now, making sure that the remaining parts are allotted to no more than one actor apiece, invites the company to draw up their chairs as the author is about to read the play. If the stage manager remarks that Miss Partridge is not there, the director says, "Bother Miss Partridge," —or words—burning words—to that effect. Mr. Roger Blackman sits at one side of the little table, Mr. Stilton at the other, and they are flanked by the stage manager and the assistant stage manager. Their backs are to the auditorium and each has a copy of the manuscript. Facing them at a respectful distance sits the cast, in a semi-circle, assuming expressions of great eagerness and interest, tempered in some degree by their individual states of prosperity. The director lights a cigar and says, "Shoot, Rog," which is theatrical parlance for, "You may commence, Roger." The author nods sadly, dons his spectacles, and clears his throat loudly.

"The name of the play," he says quietly, "is Clouds."

During the little pause that follows the cast look from one to the other brightly and eagerly and murmur "Clouds" in a surprised way, as if it were the first time they had ever heard the word.

The author of Clouds clears his throat once more, but is prevented from further action in the matter by the sudden, whirlwind entrance of Miss Partridge, the star.

Florence Partridge has been described, I think by Mr. George Jean Nathan, as the "Great White Hope of the American Theatre," an estimate which I hope, has nothing to do with the fact that Miss Partridge is a large, blond woman, but which is probably just another of those sentimental eulogies with which Mr. Nathan is eternally appraising native art and artists. First nighters may (or may not) remember having seen her in this very piece,—Clouds—or even second, third, and I think, fourth nighters—but I'm not certain about the latter.

Miss Partridge's arrival holds up the progress of ^he rehearsal for half an hour or so, to the unconcealed disgust of the ingenue, who has a luncheon appointment at the Ritz and who also harbors a shrewd idea that Mr. Blackman will take several hours to read his play after he actually gets started.

Following an ancient custom the director now introduces the cast to the star, who exhibits some partiality to the English juvenile by holding his hand tightly while she explains expansively just why she is so late.

Mr. Stilton arrests this interesting discourse by announcing that the author had started to read the play.

"Why, certainly," says Miss Partridge. "You wouldn't mind beginning again would you Mr. Blackman:"

Whereupon, still holding the English juvenile's hand, she sits down, smiling encouragingly upon Mr. Blackman, who, looking more sombre than ever, clears his throat again before making a fresh start.

"The play," he commences, even more quietly, "is entitled Clouds. It is ... "

"What's that?" interrupts Miss Partridge.

"Clouds."

"What d'you mean . . . Clouds?"

"It's the name of the play, Madam."

"It's nothing of the sort," asserts the star vigorously, "the play I was engaged for is called Heart's Blood. I'm an emotional actress. I can't play in anything with a name like Clouds. What the hell does it mean, anyway? "

The author sinks his head in his hands. The director comes to his rescue.

"For the love of Pete, Florence, don't be so exacting. We'll change the name for you if that's all the trouble . . . won't we, Rog?"

"If we must," whispers the author with a catch in his voice, "but not, I beg you, to Heart's Blood."

"Oh, go on, just for today. Shoot it again, Rog."

The author gathers himself for another effort.

"The play is entitled," he recommences, "Heart's ..."

But he is unable to continue. Some things are sacred, even to authors.