Judge — May 10, 1919 — page 22: what you’re looking at

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

T H E HE stage is the only field where obesity counts as a profession. In the side-show pre-emi- nence in this line—or, rather, surpassing cir- cumference—affords a stable livelihood. The ‘o-pound fat lady can eke out an existence without much of a struggle. But that is only an occu- pation, a job: she just has to stay put and be seen, like the Statue of Liberty or Grant’s Tomb, leaving the barkers and megaphone men to do the work. But to act obese is a pro- fession. The stage fat man enjoys no elephantine lan- guor. He must bustle, mop his brow, be a man of care. No single pound of his must 5 Avoirdupois S H O W By Lawtox Mackau. S H O P In “Monte Cristo, Jr,” Tom Lewis, despite the prominence of his waistcoat, pursues the lowly calling of pickpocket and general kleptomaniac. In the thoughtless helter-skelter, incident and perhaps inevi- table to a Winter Garden extravaganza, he manages to get away with everything that is portable, from a moderate-sized watch and chain to a large safe. His rotund stealth represents a distinct departure from the methods of the conventional slim and slippery crook. He exhibits the finesse of a hippopotamus. It is odd, though, that while he was lifting the bric- a-brac he overlooked the liv- ing ornaments which were on hand in giggling profusion. as an Asset seem a supernumerary. He must breathlessly develop his fleshly talent to the spluttermost. Let us consider the various merry mammoths now straining the boards in New York. In “Listen, Les- ter,” Eddie Garvie is a lavish-waisted millionaire hiber- nating in Palm Beach. Is he permitted to enjoy tran- quillity? Hardly. A swift but sure manicure lady vamps on his trail with a threat package of mushy missives and nearly brings down the whole hotel upon his unprotected bald head. Not even jumping Johnny Dooley can call her off. And when at last the frenzied fat man sits down for a bite to eat with a des g widow, the orchestra plays an ally national air with each course, robbing him of the solace of nutriment. In “Up in Mabel’s Room,” Walter Jones, as a fat-yet-faithful hubby, is compromised almost beyond repair and spends the night groveling at his chilly wife’s door step, like a Pekingese out of favor. Surely the vocation of being portly is no sinecure. Yet there are fat men who triumph. In “Take It From Me,” there is a genially im- pertinent “efficiency expert,” swathed in adipose tissue, whose systems for manag- ing department stores, girls, old maids and creditors are as benefi- cent as they are balmy His success as a_ scientific kidder appears the more gloatable when you consider the heavy responsibility his ankles have to bear. Not far above him, in the Nora Bayes Attic Theatre atop this 44th Street show-orium, is Harry Tighe, another portrayer of the fat man as conqueror. This gentleman fills to capacity the réle of mess sergeant and over- lord of kitchen police “Come Along.” His busy bulk carries the show. Still, if he had walked off with one of these she might have been missed. ‘The policy of a fat man’s squeezing himself into a e usually occupied by a thin one is beautifully illus- trated in the matter of dancing. In musical comedy no globular guy’s task is complete without an Adolf Bolm-Nijinsky burlesque with a skipping exit, one palm under chin and the other Egyptianized in his wake. Herbert Corthell’s plastic Greek lilting in “Tumble In’ might have been cribbed from a Parthenon impediment; and George Hassell’s stately minuet in “Good Morning, Judge” might have been painted by Watteau—though I'll bet a pair of fleece- lined suspenders they weren’t. All of these comedians are gazeworthy exponents of obesity, as is also the quasi- spherical Clyde North, Willie Collier's little playmate (gone on the road but not forgotten); but the un- challenged Prince of Whales is Tom Wise. He it is who in “ Cappy Ricks” gives us the spectacle of a fat man fuming. ‘o behold him excoriating a lounge lizard or barking brimstone let- ters to a brace of shrinking stenographers is a most choice sight—after we have just seen him gentle ar a babe before the bamboozlements of his sister and daughter. He is a lion and a mouse rolled roundly into one. But where are the fat ladies? Surely the side-show platform has not lured them all. Where are the gentle and jocund May Irwins of to-day? Who now occupies the spacious void left by Marie Dressler, that full blown ingenue? Is it that the race of comediennes is declin- ing? Is stage obesity now a one-sex art? The only conscientiously fat Olga, Mishka of | dame ina current show is a Watson weenie ins Sister at the Winter Garden, and ‘e hope July Yt ¢ i . she is hardly of heroic proportions. won't dep i } : of her kick. Where are the Big Ones? 16 Photo by Anaw