Inside Speaking Out

How the Playwright Meets the Actors About to Enact His Magnum Opus

LESLIE HOWARD

THIRD LECTURE

HAVE been trying very earnestly, in my lectures on the art of modern theatrical production, to present an entirely fearless and impartial statement of the facts—so that any stray layman who chanced to be present at my last lecture will not have failed to detect a faint note of sympathy in my heart for the playwright, in spite of my many previous condemnations of these absurdly over-rated individuals. Any layman who says that I am prejudiced against playwrights is a liar, and had better attend no more of my lectures. We professionals are never prejudiced. Or, very seldom. And even when we are, we are right.

Those laymen who are in agreement with me will remember that we left our playwright— one Roger Blackman, at the first reading of his play, which was entitled Clouds, in a very depressed state indeed. He had just commenced to read his play to the company of actors selected to play it when the star, Miss Florence Partridge, had insisted that she could not think of acting in a play called Clouds and that the title must be changed to Heart's Blood or she would quit the company forthwith.

NOW, however over-rated the status of the author may have become in the theatrical world, one must in fairness, point out that, in most cases, he did write the original version of the play, (apart from that, he is a wholly negligible factor) and that he must therefore be credited with the idea of the play on which the manager, director, scenic artist, actors, etc., must finally build the production. Of course even the idea of a play gets changed sometimes, but that is not the author's fault. So that the solemn Mr. Blackman, a funereal fellow even in his gayer moments, may be forgiven his misery at the star's insistence that Clouds, the title of his play, which took him four years to think of, be changed in one brief moment to Heart's Blood. The layman probably imagines that Heart's Blood is an excellent title for any play, but the poor layman is always a fool about these things. Heart's Blood is really not a good title. It isn't Art—a title like that. We professionals of the more high-brow type would come straight out and frankly term the title "hokum", a term indicative of a low form of drama that people like The Theatre Guild, Mr. A. H. Woods and Mr. David Belasco are trying to drive from our stages. In fact, the only members of the Clouds company who like the new title at all are the star, Miss Partridge, and the heavy man, who once played for nine years in East Lynne, which really wasn't a very high-brow type of play. Even the English juvenile doesn't think much of Heart's Blood for a name, in spite of the fact that the star is now holding his hand. (Of course she holds it in a nice way. There is no room for scandal in these lectures. They must be kept clean at any cost.)

However, the director, Mr. David Stilton, thinks that they are all wasting time. He is considered a fine director; the actors believe implicitly in everything he says, and the ingenue tells everyone he is very "artistic."

He says, in effect, "For the love of Pete, Rog, the name don't matter a damn do it? It's what you got in it, Kid. Come on—shoot!" at which point the unfortunate Mr. Blackman clears his throat and once more starts to read his play.

"The play," he announces intensely to the breathless company, "Is entitled-"

He hesitates. There is quite a dreadful pause. He glances miserably at Mr. Stilton, who glares back, chewing his cigar.

"Look here," the author suggests desperately, "How about calling it Heart's Clouds?"

This elicits a shriek from the star.

"Clouds—hell!" she yells, still clinging to the English juvenile. "'Blood' or nothing."

The director here lets fall one of those New Testament references for which he is so justly famed, and hurls his cigar into the orchestra pit. It hits the big drum with a thud and lends an added point to his expletive.

"Leave the .... name out altogether," he says between his teeth. "And get on with the . . . . thing."

The author continues lugubriously.

"It is a drama of life—in four acts—and sixteen scenes."

The members of the cast bend forward eagerly, some of the minor characters murmuring sixteen to each other, as if it were a wonderful number. Which indeed it is, when signifying scenes in a play.

"How many dresses do I wear?" interrupts Miss Partridge.

"Sixteen, Madame," replies Mr. Blackman severely.

THIS seems to pacify the star, who listens quietly for some little time.

(Please remember that I am trying to paint a true picture for you. All this may seem to you—perhaps even funny, but to us professionals it is very serious. These people are very much in earnest. It is their way of working.)

Of course, it will be impossible for me to give you the entire play as Mr. Blackman read it that day to the company. But I will describe it briefly for you as he goes along, and you must imagine him reading it, which he does rather inaudibly (authors not being gifted, as a rule, as elocutionists) but with tremendous internal effort. He really feels it very deeply.

The plot is all rather complicated, but it seems that a New York society girl, Irene Vandenlump (to be played by Miss Partridge) has sickened of the social whirl and eloped with a very romantic half-Italian ice-man who works in Fresno, Cal. It is not very clear as to how she met him, as she has never been to Fresno, while he has never been anywhere else, but being a very impressionistic type of drama it is not really necessary to explain anything, as that would be considered bad art. Psychology is the main thing, not material facts.

The first scene is on the train from New York to Fresno, in which Irene Vandenlump is travelling to the Wild West to marry her former ice-man. On the train she meets a handsome young English lord who is going to Los Angeles to stay with Douglas Fairbanks. When he hears that her father is the Vandenlump, the English lord asks her to marry him, but she is proud, and determined to go through with her marriage to the ice-man, though she feels instinctively that it is not quite the right thing for her to do.

Mr. Blackman is just in the middle of this scene when a loud pop from the orchestra pit startles everyone. Mr. Stilton curses biblically and the stage manager leaps down to see what has happened. It appears that the big drum has exploded owing to the heat of Mr. Stilton's cigar, which he had thrown down in his anger only a short while before.

"That'll set you back some Dave," observes the ingenue. "Those things cost."

"Let 'em cost," growls Mr. Stilton. "It's a Shubert drum. Cover it over quickly, and—" he glares at the company—"please don't anyone smoke. It's not allowed."

MR. BLACKMAN proceeds. The second scene is a short one and takes place at the station at Fresno where Irene is met by the ice-man, who is called Carlo, while the English lord looks at them with his eye-glass through the Pullman window and shakes his head. Then time passes. They are married and living in the ice-man's humble home. Poor Irene is trying to live down to him, but she finds it very hard, especially when she has to entertain Carlo's great friend, who is a garbage man by profession. The fourth scene, which ends Act I, is laid outside a millionaire's house in Fresno, where Irene is helping Carlo to deliver the ice. The millionaire comes from the house and turns out to be Irene's uncle, but he does not recognise her, and Irene faints as she picks up a large piece of ice. Mr. Blackman gets very worked up over this scene, perspiring freely and becoming more and more inaudible. It ends thus:

Carlo: Wha' for you droppa da ice?

Irene: Heavy-oh, heavy—

Carlo: Sure—ces 'eavy—what you tink— ha—

Irenes Like my heart—and cold, cold— never knew ice before—except in cocktails—way back East—cocktails —God—

Carlo: Na, na—what have you—ha— Irene: (Very clearly) The world goes on> Carlo.

Carlo: Ha? (Irene faints. Carlo stares and understands at last.) Ah cara mia— ah—da leetla pickannin'—ah—oh— cara mia—(He raises her head. She opens her eyes.)

Irene: Cocktails—East is East—and West— (she shudders)—is West Mr. Blackman stops and wipes his brow. "Curtain," he announces triumphantly, "And end of Act I."

"Act one?" gasps Miss Partridge, "I thought it was the end of the play."

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"No, madam, it's the end of Act I. There are three more acts."

"But you've read four already."

"Those were scenes, madam, not acts. There are sixteen of those in the whole play."

"For crying out loud!" observes the star, taking the juvenile's hand again in a resigned manner.

"Shoot, Rog" says the director, "and make it snappy. We don't want no frills."

Mr. Blackman now proceeds to read the second act, which is even more pathetic than the first. Irene and her ice-man have twins now, and this makes her life even more unbearable, although she loves the little ones. A terrible blizzard and unheard of cold weather descend on Fresno and this ruins the ice business, so they move to Los Angeles where people use a lot of ice—in all weathers.

But bad luck dogs Carlo and Irene, for Los Angeles is in the throes of a purity campaign and that spoils the ice business too, so that Irene gets herself and the twins into the movies. There she runs into the English lord, who is a star now. He says that she would make a very fine screen actress but he is doubtful about the twins, looking as they do, rather like a couple of miniature ice-men. He makes the nefarious suggestion that she should desert Carlo and the twins, and come to seek out her Destiny with him. But she is still proud; so, with her head high and a twin under each arm, she goes with Carlo back to Fresno, where the ice business is once more on its feet. But she feels worse about everything in Fresno, and, at the end of Act II there is a violent scene in which she realises she hates the ice-man and is even a little bored by the twins. She rushes out into the night screaming "East is East."

Mr. Blackman is obliged to loosen his collar now, as he finishes reading the second act. Miss Partridge is becoming quite elated.

"Well, I must say it's getting very interesting," she remarks, "and that Irene part certainly was made for me."

"I should like to know," demands the ingenue, looking a little sour and not very ingenue, "just where I come into this play. So far it seems to be a monologue for Miss Partridge."

"That girl's an ungrateful cow," whispers Miss Partridge to the English juvenile, "I gave her her first chance, and now look at her nerve."

The author assures the young lady that she has a very good part in the next act, which he will now read.

"Jump the next act, Rog," interjects the director, "We'll have to cut it out anyway, there's enough here for three plays."

"But that's impossible," gasps the horrified author. "It won't mean anything if it's not complete."

The director makes a sound which might be construed in a variety of ways, and the ingenue giggles.

"I'll tell 'em the rest of the plot, Rog. Never mind reading it. There's going to be a show in this theatre to-night and we gotta hurry."

The company is really rather relieved and the author protests in vain.

"Now, folks," says Mr. Stilton "Irene quits the wop and the two Katzenjammers, and beats it to Los Angeles to look for the English lord,

' who isn't a lord at all and was really born in London, Ontario. She finds him putting his slick stuff over on an innocent little chorus girl (the ingenue begins to look interested here) from one of the burlesque shows then in town.

"Irene is just in time to save the innocent young girl from a life of shame, when her husband, the ice guy, who has followed her from Fresno, jumps in through the window with a gun and shoots the English lord. Enter the cops and pinch the wop. Then Irene and the English man, who recovers all right and really loves her, both beat it back to Fresno to find the two kids, who have been taking care of each other all this while, and from there they go back East to New York and the cocktails which Irene has been worrying about for so long. Meanwhile Carlo, the ice guy, gets five years for assault, which is kind of a dirty deal in my opinion. Irene now makes up with her father, old man Vandenlump, and introduces the Englishman as her husband, and the old man takes a shine to him, thinking he's not such a bad egg for a wop iceman, though lie's kind of puzzled over the twins. Then five years pass and Carlo gets out of jail and swears vengeance on Irene and the Englishman and follows them from place to place all over the world and the thing ends in a scene in Monte Carlo where the Englishman has lost all of Irene's money and the ice-man is upon them with a brace of guns. However, it turns out fine and dandy, for the wop falls into the Mediterranean, and that's that. Rehearsal to-morrow, folks, at eleven."

You see, Mr. Stilton is a busy man, which is why he had to explain two whole acts in less time than it took Mr. Blackman to read half a scene. The latter, however, is terribly upset about it.

"You have left out half the best scenes, Mr. Stilton," he objects. "There is a beautiful scene on the desert when the twins arc lost and . . . ."

"Well, it's a pity they didn't stay lost," retorts the director. "How the devil I'm going to cast them two Katzenjammers I don't know. We may have to cut them out entirely."

"But that's impossible. But for them the play would end in the first act. And then you got the end quite wrong. Carlo doesn't fall into the Mediterranean at all. It's Irene who throws herself in because life is too complicated, and Carlo and the Englishman make friends."

But Miss Partridge does not like this at all.

"I think Mr. Stilton was right," she insists, "and even if he was wrong, I never played in a play with an unhappy ending, and I don't propose to start in now."

"I guess," remarks the ingenue in a fed-up way, "that it would be a very happy ending if Irene drowned herself."