CONTEMPORARY ARTS
THE THEATRE
Variety. (London Palladium.) A HOLLYWOOD director, faced—as he easily might be—with the task of making a film, part of which takes place in a contemporary London music-hall, would find himself in a pitiable dilemma. His instincts would powerfully incline him towards a lavish use of authentic local colour ; he would look forward•with confidence to plenty of oppor- tunities of catching the racy, pungent, amicable atmosphere in which the heirs of Dan Leno and Marie Lloyd perform with brilliance their inimitable Cockney antics. He would half expect to find that the proceedings were illumined by means of gas.
Alas, research of even the most perfunctory nature would disclose that these preconceptions were hopelessly wide of the mark. He would discover in the London music-hall precious little that is not imitated—or, better still, imported direct—from Hollywood. Of the seven turns which I saw at the Palladium the first was a gentleman giving imitations of film stars. The second was the Ben Yost Royal Guards—five large young men dressed in (among other things) epaulettes and cummerbunds who, clustering intently round the microphone, pound into it an intimidating volume of song well calculated to deter any enemy from approaching whichever royal personage it is their duty and their privilege to protect. The third turn was Mr. Ben Blue (" M.G.M.'s Famous Dancing Comedian "), and Mr. Blue, who has beautiful timing and a keen sense of nonsense, was very funny indeed. Then we had three American comedy acrobats, and a rather breathless negro on roller skates and Mr. Frank Marlowe, also an American, who started by pretending to be Mr. Humphrey Bogart but happily gave that up and launched out into a series of personal non sequiturs which were all the better entertainment for being delivered without that slavish dependence on the microphone which has such a paralytic effect on the modern music-hall.
Finally, as the piece de resistance, we had Mr. George Burns and Miss Gracie Allen, America's No. t Comedy Couple. Stationing themselves firmly on either side of the microphone, these two cele- brated people embarked on a cross-talk act. (" Did I ever tell you about my brother ? " " Your brother ? " " Yes, my brother. . . .") It went on and on. There seemed no reason why it should ever stop. The audience laughed when (and largely, I think, because) they were expected to laugh. But disillusion was in the air and only the reappearance of Mr. Ben Blue averted a complete anti-climax. I came away pondering on the curious, synthetic sort of Never-Never- Land into which the transatlantic influence has turned the London Music Hall, and reflecting that, as long as America's No. t Comedy Couple headed the bill, it was for me a Never-Never-Again-Land.
PETER FLEMING.
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