• •MUSICAL GOLF Kid Boots is reported to have run for
a thousand nights on Broadway, but (like many nobler things within recent memory) it has suffered grievously from the Atlantic crossing. Branded all over with the authentic Ziegfield touch, it seemed heavy and uncomfortable in the jolly English atmo- sphere of the Winter Garden Theatre, though it is only fair to say that time and a thick blue pencil will probably remedy these defects. Curiously enough, this play has a far more definite plot than most musical comedies, and a persistent background of golf which, at least theatrically, has the advantage of novelty, but a century of time is taken to tell it and so the advantage is lost—the lyrics are poor and the music both dull and reminiscent. It was irritating, too, to find such clever artists as Miss Vera Lennox and Mr. Claude Hulbert wasting their substance on the thinnest of material. The costumes are lovely to the eye ; the scenery more lavish than usual ; there are rows of beautiful girls and some good dancing, but this American piece, I'm afraid, falls behind the high English standard of the Winter Garden, save in one respect. Mr. Leslie Henson, mercifully occupying the stage for the best part of three hours, has the chance of his life, and takes it. Now there is no good beating about the bush. The thing has got to be said, and the Superior Person confounded. Mr. Henson is an artist of genius. The longer his part, the greater his responsibilities (and in this case his responsibilities are colossal) the more irrepressible his spirits grow. He can do more with the flicker of an eyelid than some of our fashionable actors with half a stage. He appears to make no effort—and you find yourself crying with the very pain of laughter. And he is never vulgar of his own accord, so that an exceptionally coarse line that falls to his lot in an otherwise amusing golf scene with a woman doctor (cleverly played by Miss Diana Wilson) was all the more regrettable and should be taken out at once.
I have always admired Mr. Henson. After seeing him in his latest part, I take off my boots to him. Why does no manager have the vision to see that here (under the guidance of a producer of the quality of Mr. Robert Atkins) is a heaven-sent Shakespearian clown, with so loyal and vast a personal following, that Twelfth Night and not Kid Boots would run for a year in the Winter Garden ?
I ought to add that in the temporary absence of that adorable piece of thistledown known to this wintry world as "June," Miss Edna Bellonini took her place very prettily.
E. S. A.
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