Judge — January 1, 1916 — page 18: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

B ET: W E HE CRITIC was standing in the Pink 4h Room (to the left as you go in) at the Bandbox Theatre. He was appar- ently so absorbed in some sketches on ex- hibition there that he did not hear the Débutante when she said, “Let’s leave it to him. He'll know all about it.” I made bold to touch him on the arm. “We are having an argument,” said I. And we want you to settle it for us. Is ‘Overtones’ anything more than a piece of trick-work?” “It is, and it is not,” replied the Critic. (Sometimes I think it can’t be so difficult to be a Critic, after all.) “The idea is, of course, a clever bit of—well, dramatic legerdemain; but the s! of the actors adds so much to the playlet that it must be raised above the class of trick-work. It is like an O. Henry plot executed by a de Maupassant.” There seemed nothing more to be said, so we said it. The uncomfortable silence was broken by the entrance of the Tired Business Man, who looked extremely guilty. “Well,” he began, in a loud, cheerful tone, “I made a killing in Copper this afternoon. The market Critic fixed him sternly with an accusing forefinger. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “This isn’t in character at all. You are supposed to be at the Winter Garden, or on your way to the Midnight Frolic.” The Tired Business Man was stirred to action “T'll own up,” said he, “that I came here under protest. But I've this much to say: if this is highbrow, I want some more. I’ve laughed at these fittle plays more than I have at anything in weeks and weeks.” “Ts that all you go to the Theatre for— to laugh?” asked the Critic. ‘Doesn't a play represent anything to you except the possibility of amusing yourself?” I foresaw that these two were about to reopen their perennial dispute, and I hastened to interpose. By CYRIL ANDREW “T had rather an unique experience the other night,” I said. “I went to the People’s Theatre.” “People’s Theatre?” said the Tired Business Man wonderingly, “I never heard of it.” “No, I don’t suppose you did,” inte rupted the Critic. “It’s down on the Bowery.” “Oh, that delicious Bowery!" cried the Débutante. “I’ve often wanted to go there —but it’s such a desperate place!” “You're laboring under the same delusion that e ody has,” I answered. The Bowery is perfectly respectable. But about the play—it was in Yiddish——”” I got no furthe “How much Yiddish do you understand?” shouted the Tired Business Man. “How perfectly awful!” cried the Débu- tante. I rallied to my colors. “Yiddish is so like German that I had very little trouble. And a great deal of the dialogue was in English. And incidentally, the company played a rather ordinary melodrama, and played it so well that the audience was weeping during the entire second act. If the actors had a fault, it was taking too much time with business. Acting of that order is rare nowadays.” C U RTA IN S The Critic supported me. “If some of the plays now in our midst were performed by such a company the theatres would be crowded to the doors,” he said. “I saw ‘The Price of Love’ there, too, and I was mightily pleased. The acting was superb.” “Let's talk about something we've all seen,” said the Tired Business Man. “About that first play tonight, now—who is this Schnitzler, anyway?” The Critic took on a How-long-oh-Lord nd explained. Schnitzler,’” he began, ‘‘is a really great ist. He is a marvelously fascinating satirist. His medium seems to be, to quote the late Percival Pollard. sidious croticism.’” The Tired Business Man was squelched, and said no more. “I wanted to sce Lydia Loupokova,” complained the Débutante. “And she hasn’t come on yet.” “She plays in the last comedy,” said the Critic. “Why isn’t she dancing any more?” asked the Tired Business Man. “Because she wants to act,” returned the Critic. “She has the courage to give up a lucrative ficld for one in which she gets practically no return, but to which she feels that she must give herself. There are not ny of us who would make such a sacrifice to Art.” “Don’t you think,” said the Débutante, “that some of the things in these plays are— well, too risque?” hey are not healthy, perhaps,” replied the Critic, “but a great many things that are healthy are not half so pleasing. In general, you know, nothing that is good for one is at all interesting.” “Well,” said the Tired Business Man philosophically, “I suppose we should all do what we honestly feel we owe to ourselves and the world.” “That isn’t a half bad definition of Art, either,” said the Critic. —_sT comicbooks.com