“FOR the good are always the merry," says William Butler Yeats, Ireland's foremost living poet, in "The Fiddler of Dorney." This is an old truth, too often ignored or forgotten. There are, unhappily, many persons who have conceived the strange notion that goodness means a gloomy outlook toward the world and those who inhabit it. To them this earth is a vale of tears; everything is evil and steadily growing worse; if every prospect pleases it only emphasizes their conviction that man is vile. Natural instincts that prompt mankind to rejoice and be glad, to lift up their voices in cheerful songs, or to express their abundant vitality by joyous dances, are to them evidence of sin and depravity. If they could have their way they would abolish every manifestation of happiness, and carry their conviction that man is doomed to endless pain and woe into the life beyond.
That this peculiar idea of the relation of goodness to happiness at one time represented the prevailing sentiment of what are termed the enlightened peoples, is undeniably true. Yet always there has been a saving remnant that protested against the solemn, serious, and sad railers against mirth and merriment, and at last these dissenters are finding that they are rapidly becoming the majority. No longer are normal men and women ashamed to show that they are glad to be alive; that they believe that they were meant to be happy and should seek happiness; that they do not agree that goodness means repression of natural impulses. Perhaps they are less concerned with abstract standards of conduct than were their ancestors. For them life is a joyous adventure, and they wish so to live that they may experience to the full all that it has to offer.
Not the least encouraging sign of the changed and changing attitude of humanity toward the old repressions and fears, is the world-wide extension of interest in all forms of popular amusement. People no longer think that to be good—or moral—whatever those words may mean, is to be a doleful machine, wearily going the rounds of earning a livelihood. They question the authority of those who try to inflict upon them their narrow standards of life. They ask questions. They want to know many things. Why, they ask, should it be a virtue to wear a gloomy face, to shun pleasure, to avoid their impulses to sing, play or dance? They have capacity for enjoyment. Why should they starve their natures, and go without pleasures that are rightfully theirs? It has often been said that Americans have not as a rule known how to play. They are changing all that, and as the level of education and intelligence rises, as wealth accumulates and is more widely diffused, as old inhibitions lose their force, this country is destined to become the great playground of the world. The American people are above all else cheerful and optimistic. They know what they can do because they know what has been done, ever since their brave pioneer forefathers cleared the forests, subdued the wilderness, spread out across the wide prairies, and established the mightiest empire of the earth. The present and all coming generations that enjoy the fruits of pioneer labor and sacrifices have a right to be joyous. They are free, prosperous and filled with vitality, vim, pep and go. They want more from life than any other people. There are among them no country peasants, or city proletariat, no class distinctions, no artificial aristocracy. Strong, confident, fearless, they work not merely, as the masses in other lands, for a bare existence, but as a means for providing the comforts and pleasures to which they feel they are entitled.
Whether people are cheerful because they dance, or dance because they are cheerful, may not easily be decided. One thing is certain, that if from an assemblage of men and women there should be selected those with smiling, happy faces, by far the greater percentage would be found to be dancers. "For the good are always the merry," the lighthearted, free from care and worry, who sing, or dance, or play because of their superabundance of vital energy, and because in so doing they are in harmony with the primal laws of being.
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“LITTLE OLD NEW YORK,” FOLLIES OF 1923
FOR more than a generation the problem of checking the steady drift of the young people from American farms into the cities has occupied the attention of statesmen, able editors, farm leaders and economists. It is universally agreed that agriculture is the basic industry upon which the prosperity of manufacturing and commerce depends. When the farmers are prosperous their demands for all kinds of manufactured goods sets in motion the wheels of industry, labor is fully employed and merchants find increased sales to the rural communities and factory workers. When, as happened five years ago, there is a widespread depression among the farmers, it is felt by manufacturers, railways, merchants and industrial workers in every field. Today, as one hundred years ago, when Thomas Jefferson wrote that agriculture was the most important of all industries, the welfare of the American people as a whole is indissolubly bound up with the existence of a large and prosperous agricultural interest.
President Roosevelt twenty years ago recognized the importance of keeping on the farms the young and vigorous American men and women who are needed to maintain the enormous food supplies required by the vast populations of the great cities and industrial centers, and appointed a Country Life Commission to investigate and report on the conditions that were making life on the farms unattractive as compared with the cities. One of the reasons found by the Commission for the increasing flow of country youth cityward was the lack of social activities and amusements in the rural districts, and the consequent desire to migrate to localities where a denser population brought wide opportunities for social diversions. Curiously enough, the dance as a means of promoting sociability among the farm population was not discussed, possibly because of an old-fashioned prejudice against dancing that still prevails in many rural regions. Why certain good people should object to the dance, innocent, joyous and beneficial as it is in practically all its manifestations and associations, can only be explained on the grounds given by Lord Macaulay from the British Puritan's objection to the sport of bear-baiting. "The Puritan condemned bear-baiting, not because it gave pain to the bear, but because it gave pleasure to the spectators." There was a time when it was considered frivolous and wicked to be happy, and dancing and many other innocent amusements were put under the ban. This narrow view of life is, fortunately, becoming outgrown, and no power is now invoked to prevent pleasure-seekers finding diversion in sports, games, or the dance.
With the gradual disappearance of the ancient view of pleasure as akin to sinfulness, there is no good reason why dancing should not become as popular in the rural districts as it is in the cities. The automobile and good rural roads have combined to make possible social gatherings in central localities that would have been impossible twenty years ago. Improved farm machinery and implements have shortened working hours on the farm, so that the evenings are no longer devoted to finishing up the day's work. Then there are the long winter evenings when the heart of youth calls to youth, and when in every village or country hamlet there should be assembled joyous groups, finding in the dance an escape from the routine of daily cares. Picnics and outings would take on new attractions, and under the spur of rivalry the simpler forms of dancing would evolve into its more artistic branches. There would be something to look forward to outside the family circle; new acquaintances and agreeable companions. With the dance would come a wider knowledge and love of music that would stimulate its study and practice. In many thousands of farm homes the radio is now installed, and programs of dance music are arranged that make it possible for millions to join in moving to the strains of the best metropolitan bands and orchestras.
The contrast between the city residents and their "country cousins" is in no respect more marked than in their walk and carriage. Watch the city crowds, as with heads up, chins in, and shoulders back, they step out briskly along the sidewalks. They know how to walk. They may be going somewhere in a hurry, or sauntering to see and be seen, but in either case they carry themselves as individual personages. They have been taught grace of movement, and their self-confidence expresses their individuality. Compare with them a group of rural walkers. Too often the latter slouch carelessly and drag limbs that are awkward and aimless. They are frequently bent and listless, as though walking were hard labor imposed as a penalty. They do not know how to hold their arms to keep them in accord with their bodily progress. It is not an injustice to the country folk to say that by their walk they can nearly always be distinguished from the city resident. Instruction in even the simplest forms of the dance, and practice in their movements, will bring about a far-reaching change. The country boys and girls will learn to hold themselves erect, they will quickly see the difference between the sort of progress by what has been described as a process of falling over and recovering one's balance, and real walking by a coördinated entity. They will take pride in well developed bodies, and will show in every movement the results of the training that has enabled them to become proficient in the dance.
Is it not possible that the answer to the old query: "How you goin' to keep them down on the farm?" may be found in the advice: "Teach them to dance"?
Perhaps you are asking yourself, "What has country dancing to do with stage dancing?" And I will answer you:
Just this: The city has no monopoly of talent in any field. The candidate for dancing honors and emoluments comes as often from rural communities as from metropolitan. But first, whether in city or hamlet, there must be present in the aspirant the true love of dancing as an art, a sense of rhythm, an urge to step to music,—and these he or she discovers only as the ballroom dancing in the home community develops them.
This is no lure; it is a true word: There are young ladies and gentlemen in all localities who, if they but knew it, could rise to heights worth while, because possessed of genuine talent needing only correct training to develop its possibilities to the full.
The country-bred girls and boys in our courses have equal opportunity with their city cousins, and both are thriving alike.
RITA OWEN
SOME years ago the editor of a great New York newspaper, who was nationally known as one of the foremost personalities of his era, invited a group of his friends to his home to enjoy a performance by the then celebrated Spanish dancer Carmencita. After the plaudits of the delighted guests had died away, a lady eminent in society inquired of her appreciative husband: "Why didn't we ever think of arranging for something of this kind?" And her worser half agreed that for the future they would follow their host's example, and make dancing by great artists a feature of their social entertainments.
Ever since that time there has been an increasing demand by those whose wealth, culture and good taste have made them the dominant force in American society, for the services of the leading exponents of the creative art of the dance. To the ballrooms of the great mansions that adorn every city of any considerable size there have come brilliant assemblages of the men and women who by reason of their special qualifications are recognized as social leaders, to see, enjoy and appreciate the charm and beauty of "woven paces and of weaving arms." The hosts whose invitation includes the announcement "special dances by Miss —— or Mr. ——" know that there will be few declinations because of other engagements. The fortunate ones who are able to command the presence of any of the well known stars in the dancing firmament at a social gathering, are assured that their guests will carry away with them only pleasant recollections of a delightful occasion.
Even to those who may have often seen the artist in public performances, there is an additional charm in the dances as given in the more intimate conditions of a private gathering. The knowledge that the audience appreciates every detail, down to the slightest touch, stimulates the dancer to the highest mood of artistic endeavor. "Art," wrote William Morris, "is the expression of man's joy in his work." Emphatically is this true of the dancer's art, and the exaltation of joyousness into perfect harmony of motion comes only when the artist knows that the message conveyed is understood by the onlookers.
To those who wish to make their impress upon society by distinctive gatherings, the artist affords an ever new and always pleasing entertainment.
As knowledge of the illimitable possibilities of the dance expands, there is certain to be a growing demand for the types of dancers whose gifts make them peculiarly adapted to the exercise of their art at social functions.
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THE chief reason why dancing as a public entertainment will always maintain its present popularity, and will be in even greater demand in the future than in the past, is to be found in the fact that to appreciate and enjoy to the fullest degree the work of the creative dancer requires no special knowledge of the art itself on the part of the spectator. There are many who do not understand or appreciate classical music. To many others the speaking drama makes no appeal. Still others care nothing for the motion picture, and cannot be induced to witness a performance on the screen. But everyone—men and women, young or mature, can enjoy the beauty, harmony, and exhilaration of a well conceived and well executed dance. There is something in the nature of us all that responds immediately to the message that the dancer conveys. Perfection of form, grace of movement, harmony of action with appropriate music, all combine to make up a spectacle that thrills and inspires. To slightly paraphrase Robert Browning:
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"Others may reason and welcome, But seeing the dance, we know." |
As was said of the Athenians of old, the American people are always looking for something new. They are quick to take up this or that fad in dress, games, sports or amusements, and after a brief time throw it aside. There is nothing of the fancy of the hour in the popular acceptance of the dance, either for personal practice, or as a stage entertainment. What has been seen in all the American cities during the past ten or twenty years—the steady growth in popularity of the dance in all its forms—is no whim that will presently pass. On the contrary, nothing can be more certain than that each year will find a greater increase in dancing, both by the people themselves, and for them by the artists of the profession. It was said for a long time by visiting foreigners that Americans had not learned how to enjoy themselves. This may have been true at one time, but it is not today. The chief object of life, it has been discovered, is to live abundantly and joyously. Everything that helps to make living more cheerful, healthful and agreeable; that satisfies aesthetic needs; that ministers to the sense of beauty and harmony, will be encouraged and developed, and as one important means to these ends, the dance must of necessity flourish and endure.
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A GREAT deal is being talked and written about changing the millions who have come to this country from foreign lands, or are the children of immigrants, into 100 per cent Americans. So far as the advocacy of measures for this purpose is based on a sincere desire to bring home to everyone living under the national flag a knowledge of the essential principles of our government and institutions, this is worthy of the encouragement and aid of all patriotic citizens. There is, however, another aspect of the Americanization movement, that is not so admirable. This is the attack on ideas, manners, customs and amusements peculiar to certain foreign peoples, not because they are necessarily wrong, or antagonistic to genuine Americanism, but merely because they are different. According to some of these self-constituted authorities the way to instill patriotism and love of country into the benighted aliens is to persuade them to abandon all that links them with the land of their ancestors, and become exactly like the prevailing type of Bangor, Maine, Augusta, Georgia, or Portland, Oregon.
Oliver Wendell Holmes tells how when he was a boy living in Cambridge, Mass., there was a constant warfare between the boys of his district and those who lived down by the water front, who were regarded as foreigners, because they seemed to be in some way different. He concluded that most of the racial antagonisms and hatreds that so often lead to quarrels and war are due to the same notion; that the foreign man is inferior because his ways are different from ours.
Against the narrow ideas that would reject many things of great value because they are of foreign origin, there is need for a wise and discriminating selection of the best that all regions of the earth have to offer in the domain of science, literature, music, painting, the dance, and other arts, and their combination with the results attained by American creative effort.
In no respect is there a more urgent need for the development of a truly American art spirit than in the wide field offered by artistic dancing, yet it would surely be a mistake to ignore all that has been learned and accomplished in the long experience of other peoples. A foolish prejudice against foreign dances should not be allowed to prevent the incorporation of their best features into what will ultimately be the distinctive American school.
That there assuredly will be an essentially American type of dancing in all its branches, that will reach heights far above that yet achieved by any other country, cannot be doubtful. As the increase of wealth, not only for a few, but for the great mass of the people, gives more leisure, creates new desires, and brings increased capacity for enjoyment, it is inevitable that more and more will the public appreciation of the dance call for still greater advances. As the various races from other lands have mingled their several qualities and gifts, and have produced the highest civilization on a broad scale that the world has ever seen, so will the creators of new and more beautiful dance forms utilize the characteristic dances of all nations in achieving what will be the 100 per cent American dance.
THOSE of you who are perfecting yourselves for a stage career are naturally giving consideration to your future as you advance in the courses, and are wondering just how you will go about it to get well placed in your chosen line of work.
I am going to tell you how some have tried to do this, and then tell you the best, surest and safest way. And do not for a moment think that I am guessing about what I tell you. I know the theatrical world and theatrical ways and methods, and I know the managers, the producers, and all the principals connected with our profession, and they know me. So I am not guessing when I say that your personal interests in all matters connected with the stage will be best conserved by entrusting them to me.
In our classes here in the studio there is apt to be one or more dominating spirits who become anxious to go around the booking offices and seek for a tryout and an engagement.
It is true that to go to any office and say that you are a recent or prospective graduate of the Ned Wayburn Studios is a good recommendation, and you may get a hearing and a tryout on the strength of it. But please be advised by me and let me give you the tryout first when I am sure you are ready for it. Your teacher should first be given a chance to see what you can do individually. His advice is invaluable and impartial. When he reports that you are advanced sufficiently to deserve consideration for a solo role, then come and dance for me. I am glad to have you do this, and shall always give you my decision honestly and fairly, and let me add, freely—no charge whatever. If I see that you are deficient in any way, I will be frank and tell you so, and will also suggest what you should do to correct your fault. In other words, you will get constructive criticism, and kindly advice, in my office, whereas anything short of perfection shown to a booking agent or possible employer would be apt to insure abrupt dismissal. They would give you no helpful advice, and you would prejudice yourself, for your effrontery, in their eyes for any future engagement you might seek.
So be advised by me. I respect an ambition that prompts you to go out and hunt an engagement, but, believe me, yours is not the best way. There are agents and agents. Some would do right by you, and perhaps some would be unscrupulous. I am not going on record in this book with any details that would seem to reflect in the least on anyone, so I'll not enlarge upon this subject here. But I will tell you more about this if you come to my office and ask me to.
Now if any pupil in the school asks you to go around the theatrical agencies, please don't do it, but come and tell me. Perhaps some day you both will come to me and say "Thank you."
ADA MAY (WEEKS)
Oftentimes we send out groups of our students, two, four, six or eight, to go on the professional stage for something special. Sometimes they are paid; sometimes it is done gratuitously; but the experience alone is worth money to them.
The regular theatrical season opens about Labor Day and lasts till around Decoration Day. Summer engagements begin about the first Monday in June and end about the last Saturday in August. Calls are sent out about the middle of April for summer work, and about the middle of July for the winter or regular season. If you are able to qualify, you will get the benefit of these calls for dancers, and when you go with my recommendation, it will be only to the best managers.
I will inform you fully as to the best forms of contract for you to sign in every case, and make no charge for this. You know, when you engage to go with a show, you do not simply take the manager's word for it that he will employ you for so many weeks at so much a week, nor does the manager simply take your "Yes, I'll come," and let it go at that. This matter of entering his employ is a business affair, a transaction of importance to you both, and calls for a signed agreement that binds him, the manager, as to his responsibility to you, and binds you as to your duties to him. It is a legal document, binding on both parties, the manager and you—and let me tell you right here, you feel mighty big with your first stage contract duly signed and delivered, and in your pocket, and while you may in future seasons get contracts that specify much larger salaries than your first one does, no contract will ever seem so big and important to you as this first one, the start, the goal of your ambition. I love to see my pupils with their first professional contracts! They are so happy and hopeful; the world opens up new delights for them; they have arrived. The reward of their untiring exertions here in the courses is at hand, and they have earned it and deserved it. "Good for you!" I feel like saying; and I am truly happy to think that I have been in some degree instrumental in bringing this about.
My experience has been paid for. I have learned to profit by my own mistakes, and I can and will save you all the risk in closing deals that involve so much—perhaps your entire future stage career. I can and will do this, if you let me.
WHEN my pupils become professional dancers and "sign up" for their first stage engagement they will wish not to be or appear ignorant of the marvelous mechanism that is the modern theatrical stage. Not that they will learn it all from any book, but my knowledge of things back stage will be of help, and I have jotted down here some of them for that purpose. The rest of it the new entrant upon the real stage will absorb in time, but with the help of my condensed explanation herein no one who reads need appear lost or totally bewildered in the new environment back of the curtain line.
Let me tell you some of the important things that every pupil of mine who contemplates a308 professional career should know about the theatre, the building itself and the stage upon which you expect to present your offerings to the public.
In the first place, the theatre building is divided into two parts, the auditorium and the stage. The dividing line is known as the curtain line. In stage parlance the auditorium side of the dividing line is the "front of the house," or "out front," and the stage side is always "back stage."
The proscenium arch of the stage makes the frame for the pictures on the stage. "The opening" means to the professional the width across stage at the proscenium arch, and varies according to the size of the auditorium and the line of sight of the auditors. It may be thirty feet, forty,309 or even more, as is the case in the New York Hippodrome and other large city theatres. The height is sometimes the same as the width, or slightly less, the complete frame of the arch being usually of an oblong shape, possibly thirty-five feet wide and twenty-five feet high.
The fire laws require a fireproof curtain, which is on the outer or audience side of the two or more curtains that hang on the stage side of the proscenium arch. Next to this asbestos affair is the "act curtain," that raises and lowers, and is usually painted on fire-proofed or heavy duck canvas. There may be used instead or in addition to the act curtain, what is known as a tableau curtain, that works in a traveler above, which can be drawn straight off stage, both ways, parting in the middle, or be pulled to a drape at each side. This is always made of material and sometimes painted in aniline dye; if painted in water color or oil it would crack.
proscenium
Proscenium Arch, the Frame of the Stage Pictures
stage diagram
Diagram of a Modern Theatre
There is never any curtain in front of "the arch" or proscenium. The footlights and the apron are in front of the fireproof curtain. The apron may be deep or shallow, and at its front edge is the footlight trough and a masking piece, fireproof always, to shield the eyes of the audience and reflect the footlights onto the stage. The footlights follow the front curvature of the apron, when it is curved, as is usually the case, although many of the modern stages have no apron at all, the footlights running in a straight line across, sometimes within a foot of the fire curtain.
The stage itself extends from the curtain line to the back wall of the theatre, and from left wall to right wall. Under the roof of the stage, anywhere from sixty-five to ninety feet above the floor, there is a horizontal lattice work of steel or iron covering the entire spread of the stage, and known as the gridiron. The space on top of the gridiron is called the rigging loft. The roof of the stage over the rigging loft is a huge skylight, opened or closed from the stage. The skylight is made light-proof for matinee performances. On the gridiron are rigged the blocks and pulleys through which pass the lines attached to all the scenery that goes up in the air, or "up in the flies," which is the name given the space between the top of the proscenium arch and the gridiron. To take scenery up, is "flying it," in stage language, leaving the sight of the audience; whatever goes up "flies," and whatever is carried off to one side or back is "struck." The stage manager, when he wants the scene taken away, gives the order "strike" to the stage hands, or "grips," as they are called, who are on the stage level, and he pushes a button for the head-flyman in the "fly-gallery" to fly whatever scenery goes up.
GRAND BALL ROOM IN NED WAYBURN STUDIOS
There is a "fly-gallery," as it is called, usually ten to fifteen feet wide, some twenty-five to thirty-five feet above the stage level and extending from the front to the back walls of the stage on one side, against the side wall, usually of steel and concrete. Then there is the "paint-bridge," perhaps five feet wide, extending across the stage at the back wall from side to side, on a line with the "fly-gallery." Sometimes there is a "paint-frame" attached to the back wall on which scenery is painted. It is movable up and down. Sometimes twenty to twenty-five feet above the stage level is a light-gallery, on each side of the stage running parallel to the fly-gallery, but under it. These galleries are for the purpose of holding calcium lights and operators. Running from the back wall of the stage to the proscenium wall all the way of the fly-gallery on the front edge nearest the stage is the pin-rail, very strong and imbedded in the wall front and back of the stage; it holds all the scenery that goes aloft. When the scenery is raised, the "lines," as the ropes or cables are called in stage language, are pulled down and tied off to this "pin-rail." These lines attached to the scenery are usually in sets of three, sometimes four, and extend straight up through the blocks in the gridiron and across the gridiron down to the pin-rail in the fly-gallery. As they are usually fastened to three or four different points on each piece of scenery they are necessarily of three or four different lengths, but the lines are tied and handled as one at the pin-rail, and pulled all together. In a set of three lines, the line nearest the pin-rail is called the "short line," the next one the middle line, the far one the long line. "Trim it," you hear the order given. This means to "level" whatever piece of scenery it is. "Tie it off" is the way they direct that the lines be made fast to the pin-rail. In rainy or damp weather the ropes get longer; in dry they shrink; then it is necessary to "trim the drops," letting out the lines and tying them over before the performance. This is done under the direction of the master mechanic or stage carpenter. Often there is a counterweight or bag attached to the lines above the fly-gallery to help carry the weight of the heavy scenery as it is sent aloft to its resting place in the flies, out of sight of the audience and out of the way of everybody on stage.
The various drops are known on the stage as "solid," "cut" or "leg" drops. Borders about forty feet long by twelve feet deep, hung horizontally, mask in the top of all scenery, and hide the "flies" from the audience on the lower floor, and may be interior, exterior, foliage, straight, arched, or sky borders (plain blue). In troughs hung across the stage by steel cables from the gridiron, their height regulated from the fly-gallery, are the various border lights, each usually in three circuits, red, white and blue. These are hung at intervals of about six feet, the first being about that distance back of the act curtain and the others spaced about every six feet to the back wall of the stage. On the average practical modern stage there will be anywhere from four to seven border lights. On the stage, between the curtain line and first border light, are the first entrances, known as left first entrance and right first entrance. The right and left of the stage are always the dancer's right and left as she or he faces the audience. About six feet back of this is located the second entrance, and about each six feet interval is a successively numbered entrance, as "third entrance," etc. In a "full-stage" setting the last entrance to the rear is called "upper entrance." A scene in the space covering the entire first entrance is spoken of as being "in one"; in the second entrance, "in two." When one passes out of sight of the audience he is "off stage." The various entrances and exits are designated in writing and print by characters that carry their meaning plainly, as RUE (right upper entrance), L2E (left second entrance). So, too, with spoken directions on the stage. When you are told to "exit LUE," for instance, you are supposed to know that you are to go off stage at the left upper entrance. No one in the theatre ever speaks of standing "in the wings"; always it is "in the entrance."
The prompt side in a theatre is usually the left first entrance, though sometimes it is on the other side, where are located the electric switchboard controlling every light in the building, under the personal direction of the chief electrician, and a series of buttons above a shelf or prompt desk attached to the wall about the height of a bookkeeper's desk, where the stage manager makes his headquarters during each performance, the stage manager being like the captain or skipper of the ship. All signals are given by the stage manager, the buttons usually placed immediately above or at one side of the prompt desk, within easy reach controlling buzzers, lights or bells that tell as plainly as shouted words could do what is to be done and who is to do it. Sometimes lights flash to give directions and warnings, instead of the buzzer sounding. Every action of the stage hands below and aloft is directed in this manner from one central point of control by one master mind, the stage manager of the show.
The orchestra usually has a music room of its own somewhere under the stage or in the cellar of the theatre, where the musicians congregate before the performance and during their "waits." A buzzer or bell warning to them is said to "ring the orchestra in," and they are usually allowed about three minutes to get into their places in the orchestra pit after it sounds. There is also a "drop" signal buzzer or light to give the head flyman in the fly-gallery the signals that indicate when to raise and lower certain "drops," or hanging pieces. A bell would be heard by the audience and detract from the performance. A curtain buzzer or light gives the "warning" and "go" signals to the stage hands in the fly-gallery who are called "flymen," for raising and lowering the curtains or other scenery, like "drops," "borders," and any other pieces of scenery that have been "hung" to fly. In some modern theatres the switchboard and its operator are raised some ten feet above the stage. In such a case a buzzer signal from the stage manager's prompt desk directs the manipulation of the lights for the guidance of the chief electrician in his elevated perch, these signals being given at a certain "cue" in the performance, and he knows from his cue sheet, always before him, just what lights are required on each succeeding cue.
Stage dressing rooms are by law required to be separated from the stage proper by a permanent wall. Access to them is usually found near the front wall of the stage, seldom along the back wall. In modern city theatres dressing rooms are in tiers, as in the New Amsterdam Theatre, New York, where there are seven floors of dressing rooms reached by a private elevator used for no other purpose. The modern stage dressing rooms in city theatres have every known arrangement for comfort, sanitation and convenience.
Stage artists have no business in the front of the house, nor, conversely, have those whose employment is in the front of the house any business on the stage. Both keep their separate places at all times. Artists are always required to enter and leave the theatre through the stage door. All first-class managers forbid the artists to be seen in "the front of the house." Members of the company usually are required to report for matinee performances about 1:30 P.M. and for evening shows about 7:30 P.M., but always before the "half hour" is called, which is thirty minutes before the overture is played. The stage watchman, known as the stage door tender, is always at the stage door before and during a performance and permits none to pass in who are not directly connected with the stage end of the theatre, the day stage door tender being on duty usually from 7 A.M. to 7 P.M., and the night stage door tender from 7 P.M. to 7 A.M. The night watchman goes his rounds regularly throughout the night at required intervals, registering on a time-clock from different stations throughout the theatre building; all outer doors and windows are locked about one-half hour after the evening performance.
No messages, calls, telegrams or information of any character from outside is permitted to enter the theatre for any actor or actress who is inside and hence secluded from all outside contact and purely in the realm of the playhouse. This and absolute exclusion of all interlopers is one of the strictest rules of the theatre, and woe to him who attempts its violations, or to the doorkeeper who permits it. Any messages received are given to the artist after the performance. No person who is not a member of the company should ever be permitted to visit a dressing room during a performance, only afterwards; such a contact takes the mind of the artist off her or his work.
Men who have obtained wrong ideas about members of the theatrical profession and have boldly sought to force their presence onto the stage have been summarily dealt with before now—and in some cases I have helped in the good work myself. Sometimes, after the performance, relatives, friends or escorts are permitted to enter the stage door and there await the street-clad and departing performers. But strangers and would-be "stage-door Johnnies" are always barred out.
There is no "green room" in the modern American theatre. We have all read about a meeting place in the rear of the stage that went by this title in the old English novels and biographies. They may exist still in some foreign theatres, I am not sure—but I doubt it. What I am sure of is that the American stage is sacred to its artists, principals and subordinates alike, and to its stage manager and the stage hands who keep things moving behind the curtain line.
It is a business and not a game. A theatrical life is taken seriously by all who wish to succeed in it. No triflers need apply nowadays.
After every performance the stage is cleared of all obstacles, scenery and everything else. The last member of the company out of each dressing room is required to put the light out, lock the dressing-room door and leave the key to the room with the stage door tender who is held responsible for the contents of the rooms. The act curtain and the asbestos curtain are raised. A single electric bulb or pilot light on a portable iron stand about three feet high is placed centre of the stage near the footlights, and casts its beam across the stage and throughout the auditorium. The show is over and the fire-laws are obeyed.
MARILYN MILLER
ONE may see big electric signs carrying bright-light messages similar to the above placed conspicuously over theatre entrances in all cities of any magnitude. Such signs convey to the passing populace the interesting information that here is located a certain play, and also that in this play a certain person appears as a main attraction.
Now to the passerby whose knowledge of things theatrical is merely cursory, scant or non-existent, the two signs given above may have exactly the same meaning, bear the same message in both cases. But to all those "in the know" as to stage matters the two signs tell two entirely different stories, and the location of the names of the play and the actor convey important information in the theatre code that the wise ones interpret at a glance.
Here are the two readings as the stage-wise render them, and when I have told you about this you will catch the point at once and ever after be able to "read the signs" with a clear conception of their import:
The name at the top of each sign is "starred"; the other is "featured." In one, the play is given the star position and Miss Miller is featured; in the other, Marilyn Miller is starred and the play featured.
"Well, what of that?" you ask.
Just this, and here is where the importance of it all comes in:
The one that is starred carries the burden of the success of the show. If the play is starred, its failure does not reflect on the person featured; but if the actor is starred and failure follows, the actor and not the play is considered responsible, the actor not having proven a magnet, not having drawn business on the strength of his or her name. The personal difference to the actor is really very great, yet "to star" is the actor's great ambition. No one should ever be starred unless popular enough to attract plenty of patronage and thereby insure "packed houses."
This applies not alone in the signs over the door, but also in all the theatre's publicity. Pick up today's newspaper, and look at the stage announcements. "Mary Pickford in—" you don't care what the play is when you see the star's name. The star carries the play, in such a case. "Rose-Marie, with Mary Ellis and William Kent." You are glad to go and see the featured pair, but in this case the play is given the star position, it having registered success, the profits from this musical play having been as high as $18,000.00 per week during its run in one New York theatre.
Now the point of all this, that has to do with the stage dancer, is, "How did Marilyn Miller get a name that entitled her to this conspicuous exploitation, and how can I go about it to become equally well-known and famous, myself?"
You are wise to ask this question seriously early in your stage career, and if you have or develop the quality that makes for stardom you can read this chapter with confidence that it is an accurate and correct account of how many a stage celebrity has progressed from an unknown and unheralded place in the theatrical world, to one where Broadway producing managers have solicited the privilege of elevating her or his name over the doors of their playhouses.
Bear in mind that your name is to you what a trademark is to a manufacturer. And, to continue the analogy, you cannot establish a name in a day or two, any more than the manufacturer can make his trademarked goods universally known in a short period.
You are starting out now with the laudable ambition to make a name for yourself, and have still to seek your first engagement. You know your dances, are continuing your practice, and have confidence in your ability to make good.
Don't hurry to get yourself before any producing manager until you have had a little experience in some hideaway place, like at a church or charity benefit performance, some local entertainment, or club affair, anything of this nature, that will enable you to try yourself out before a small or friendly audience, test your ability to overcome stage fright, and get hold of yourself before a crowd. Having done this away from Broadway and gained assurance, then an appearance in some regular theatre, preferably at some benefit performance, usually given Sundays, should come next, where the dancer is sure to be seen by someone who has the authority and position to offer an engagement. Any sort of an engagement with a reputable management is a good beginning and should be accepted without expectation of a fancy salary, an opportunity being what one always needs in order to prove one's ability.
If you do not succeed in creating a demand for your services at appearances like this, do not become discouraged; make up your mind to keep on trying until you do attract the attention of the right manager. Always be willing to make any sacrifice as far as remuneration is concerned for an opportunity to appear to advantage, and be everlastingly grateful to whoever gives you your first opportunity, or foothold which enables you to establish yourself.
Send a brief letter to the offices of various managers announcing your forthcoming appearance. Enclose a good full-length photograph, preferably in stage costume, the best you can afford, i.e., taken by the best photographer you can get. Some of these managers or their representatives will be there and see your performance. Be sure you are "making good" before you try to interest any of the big managers. It is better for you to be seen by the manager before an audience than in an empty theatre.
Be satisfied to make a small beginning for the experience, provided you get a chance to do your best dance. This will help you establish yourself, but it is going to take a long time to prove your ability. Travel, and make territory for yourself. Go in a vaudeville act, if offered such an engagement. Keep on "small time" for a year, if necessary, and get your name known in a certain territory for a pleasing entertainer. Get on with some act, big or little, as a solo dancer, at a reasonable salary, and expect the first two weeks to be at half salary, as is usual. Do not demand a large salary until managers are clamoring for your services—make it an inducement for someone to employ you in the beginning.
When you start on a road tour your first inquiry of your company manager will be for a "copy of the route." You want to know where you are going, what towns your itinerary takes you to, so that friends can be advised in advance of your location day by day, and letters and communications reach you with certainty.
ONE SCENE FROM NED WAYBURN’S “DEMI-TASSE REVUE.”
To the trouper, a town is a "stand." A week's showing in a place is spoken of as a "week stand"; the first and last half of the week is each a "three-day stand," or "four-day stand," or the "first" or "last-half." Then there is a "two-day stand" and a "one-night stand," which are self-explanatory. A "run" is a greater period than a "week stand," and you hear of a "two-week run," an "eight-week run," "six months run," and "one year run," etc.
There is a solid season, a theatrical year of forty weeks, of travel, experience and development, beginning about Labor Day and ending about Decoration Day, and a summer season beginning about the first Monday in June and ending about the last Saturday in August. Your work and progress is being watched unknown to you at every performance. The manager back home finally knows all about your work through "reports" which are kept in the main booking office and to which he and all other managers on his particular circuit have access.
Now you are ready to try for something bigger and better, ready for "big time" vaudeville, perhaps in your own act; if not that, then in someone else's act. Your second year's advancement is based on the weekly report that has been sent to headquarters regarding your reception by the public and the way in which your act has got over. Big time may mean Chicago, Boston, Philadelphia, and any or all the larger cities on the various "circuits." It may include the Keith-Albee Palace Theatre in New York, the Mecca of all vaudeville artists. It is at the Palace that you know you and your act are seen by every revue, musical comedy, or dramatic manager, casting director whose business it is to pick and engage artists.
There is no school like vaudeville for the dancer, singer, actor or actress in any line of musical work. Most of the brightest stars in the theatrical firmament have graduated from vaudeville into greater things, and many of them return to the vaudeville stage for a flier now and then. It is there that you come in contact with different wise audiences in different cities and learn how to handle them. You watch your fellows in their various acts, note the bills as they change every week, or usually twice weekly, and your audience with them. You are in two, three or four shows a day in your short time, and learning how to get over better at every show. The vaudeville audience knows what's what. You can't fool them. You've got to do your best for them all the time—and you will, or you will not remain in vaudeville, where you have to "make good" every performance. It is an invaluable experience, your first stage years, and you will gather lasting benefit from your active vaudeville appearances. You must not complain of the number of shows you are required to give daily—the more you give the more practice you get before a paid audience, and remember you are gaining experience while being paid for it.
You may follow a season of this with a road show over your former territory another year, and you will find your old friends in the audience ready to boost you. You are on the right road to the "making of a name," which after all is what you are after. For although they will not remember your name yet, if you really pleased them they will remember your offering; about your third trip around they will learn your name and never forget it—provided you "make good." If you fail, the audience will forget you; but not the manager. Once you fail in his opinion, he will never forget or forgive it. He will never give anyone who fails a second chance. That is "show business."
Your fourth year should find you in a New York production in some good company. For New York is always the objective point, since the best and most opportunities are always there. There follows naturally a year on the road in the same company, as the show abandons New York for a tour of the larger cities. Always make the road trip in order to create territory for yourself, to establish a following, to make a still bigger name and demand for you, which means a larger salary eventually. You are sufficiently established now, after five successful years, to be able to expect another New York engagement, under the same management in all likelihood but with a new vehicle. This New York engagement and another year on tour with the same play puts you seven years along the way to a name in the big lights, and your name has been growing day by day, until it is now known in good territory, and consequently, through wise exploitation—publicity—it has become a magnet and attracts patronage.
When the time comes that your name is to go up in front of the theatre, choose to be featured at first rather than starred. If anything must fail, let it be the show, and not you. Don't risk failing to "draw business" to the box office.
There will come a time somewhere along in your progress to fame when you will need a business manager or an agent versed in all matters of a theatrical nature, favorably known to all the large producing managers, and able to advance your fortunes materially by protecting and looking after your interests. He is entitled to receive ten percent of your earnings from whatever source, and the services he can render you are well worth it.
Nearly every successful actor and actress has a manager. Stage celebrities have not the time, let alone the experience and ability, to promote their own business interests, watch for opportunities to secure the choice engagements, and attend to the very necessary publicity and negotiations for contracts for the future. The reputable agent or artist's manager is always on the ground and in touch with the best managements and things theatrical daily. But no such representative worth while will bother with you until you have made good.
The best artist managers or agents know in advance what is being planned for the coming theatrical season. They are in close contact with the very high-ups in the theatrical world, men whose contracts you hope to sign on the dotted line soon. A good agent may save you several years' time in advancing to a stellar position. He knows the value of publicity, which often is half the battle in getting yourself before the public. You must have publicity, whether or not you secure a representative to attend to it for you. Interesting newsy stories about you, with effective art studies of yourself in costume accompanying them, are gladly accepted by many newspapers and magazines. The rotogravure sections of Sunday papers contain many pictures of theatrical folks. A beautiful picture will usually carry a story, and you are wise to get a few good ones rather than many cheap prints. Every first-class theatre has its own press agent, and every production of any size its own press representative. Both are glad to coöperate with you if you have real ability, and help you with the preparation of your stories and photographs and getting them into the daily newspaper. There are also many publicity concerns who make it a business to keep your name and picture in the public eye at a moderate charge. But you must be able to make good first. Neither publicity nor anything else will avail to establish a permanent name for you unless you are prepared to deliver the goods. Duds and dumb ones never make a big noise in the world. There is no star name awaiting the inferior person in this profession. All the front-page publicity in christendom won't do the trick if you haven't back of you real talent and something the public is clamoring for. And you cannot hope to fool the wary producer by any false representation or exaggerated claims.
You are not wasting your time while on the way to the bigger things. Seven years may seem a long time to wait, but you are not starving on the way, and you are really not "waiting" at all. You start with a reasonable salary that advances from year to year and engagement to engagement, as you deserve it. You must build all the way on solid rock, then the structure that you finally rear, because of its firm foundation will endure forever.
Build up a public interest in yourself if you expect any producing manager to pay you what you are worth. Perhaps he will never pay you what you think you are worth, but if you bring money into the house he knows he must pay you well in his own interest. And believe me, he knows whether you are an asset or a liability to his show. You have simply got to prove to the box office that you are producing—not stage money—but the real stuff.
There is such a thing in stage lingo as an "overnight hit." Someone suddenly "stops the show" in a town; that is, gets an unusual number of recalls. But wait a while before you decide that you are ready to star on the strength of that. Your next audience or the audience in the next town may not be so enthusiastic over your act. An "overnight hit" is seldom continued beyond the single performance. It is pleasant while it lasts, but it doesn't last long. You must perform consistently and "make a hit" at every performance, with every audience.
Be patient, you who would star and see your name go up in the bright lights on the Great White Way. Do not get discouraged. You will meet with obstacles on the route to fame undoubtedly, as others have done, and, like the others who have finally arrived, you must overcome them one at a time as they appear, by sheer force of willpower, determination, pluck or whatever you desire to call it. If you are a weakling and lack strength of character do not ever take up a stage career, for you will get many a bump; so be prepared to stand it. For only those who are determined to succeed will ever reach the top, where there is plenty of room always.
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MARILYN
RITA HOWARD