Roundabout

Actors

SADLER'S WELLS was packed from pit to gallery for

perfor- mance of the season by the Moscow Arts Theatre Company. Every wall was lined with the occupants of a few cubic inches of standing-room. Throughout the performance the Russian-speaking members of the audience translated the play to their less fortunate neighbours last curtain fell, Anglo-Russian pande- monium broke out. Wave after wave of cheers rol- led forward and broke upon the footlights. After three curtains the members of the company who had not been playing in this performance filed on tO the stage, looking very drab and ordinary in their street clothes. A plump producer struck a non-Marxist note by wearing evening dress. Bouquets were handed up by the uniformed .attendants; the ladies of the company seemed unaccustomed to receiving them. A large orna- mental basket of flowers was placed reverently in the middle of the stage, in front of the company. The cheers grew in intensity as the director of the company, Mr. Solodovnikov, came on to the 'Stage, flanked by Peter Daubeny and a tall young man, all Adam's-apple, who turned out to be the interpreter. Mr. Daubeny gave the slight twitch that informs an English theatre-audience that speeches are coming, and silence fell. Both he and Mr. Solodovnikov were brief; both were interrupted with applause, hear-hears and inter- jections like 'When are they coming back?' The interpreter translated .speeches and interjections alike. The cheering, when the words had finished, went on and on. At last the handsome, bearded Lopakhin led the company down to the footlights, clapping, cheering and waving to the audience. The curtain fell for the last time, and the two national anthems were played with maximum dis- tortion. Afterwards it was even more difficult than usual to get a taxi.

Antiques

EnscREET is the keyword at the Antique Dealers' Fair. The rows of cubicles stand politely beside each other, patiently waiting to be inspected, each one discreetly announcing its identity in fine Roman capitals; Agnew, Spink, Asprey. A dis- creet murmur of well-bred conversation laps gently around, so warm and moist that it almost seems it could be drained gurgling out into Park Lane by the sudden withdrawal of some huge, unseen bath-plug. All about, sums of money are falling, soft and thick as snow on to the deep carpets; 'Four hundred and seventy pounds, madam,' Nine hundred and fifty pounds, sir.' Each cubicle is in the form of a small, gradous room, stuffed to the gills with gracious furniture, and presided over by one, two, or all of three species: A short, fat, rude man with rings on his fingers; a tall, young, bored man with a Guard's tie; or a fair, witless girl who is someone's cousin. It is not to be imagined, however, that they are actually trying to sell anything; far from it. The

girl is there because she isn't yet married, the young man because he's not very good at arith- metic, and the fat man because he is anxious to try out new and interesting ways of insulting people.

Over by the cubicle belonging to Messrs. Gar- rard and Co. Ltd. stands Lady Lewisham, who decorated her own cubicle at the Ideal Home Exhibition with notable results. If you are afraid of colour, she says, You are afraid of life.

It is difficult to decide whether the antique dealers are more afraid of life than they are of Lady Lewisham.

Antics

S. 'CONY CENSER is a director of film publicity who prefers to call himself a showman. He is thirty- six years old, he smiles very often, and he wears white batiste shirts, silk ties and gold cuff links. He is the man who first called Brigitte Bardot a Sex Kitten, and who wrote a publicity bulletin describing Gervaise (adapted from a novel by Emile Zola) as a drama of sex, sin and sozzle.

His office is a plywood cave in Soho, and the papers on his desk are weighted down with two miniature MGM lions. Mr. Tenser talks fast. 'No, we don't want pictures of people queueing up to go and see Street of Shame. That's not the kind of picture at all. Business is good. It's very good. We don't need that kind of publicity. One thousand pounds in two weeks. We're not grumbling.'

Mr. Tenser started his career as a trainee cinema manager at Bridlington. 'One week we were showing a film called The Beginning of the End, all about the A-bomb, and the problem was how to sell it to the public. I hit on the idea of collecting relics of the pre-A-bomb era. We got all this stuff together in a lead casket and buried

it in front of the town' hall with a letter from the mayor to his successor in 250 years' time. I put in a letter myself. I won't disclose the con- tents, but they were, of a very humorous nature. It all went off very well. We had a lot of children marching through the streets carrying banners advertising the grand burial. As I say, it all went off very well.

'I realised then that my particular gift was for exploitation. We were trying to push a Lassie film at Cambridge, and I decided to stage a sheepdog trial. The only snag was that there are no sheep in Cambridge. We got over that all right. We imported some. I had lots of ideas while I was there. We had an Esther Williams picture and I wanted to advertise it as a smellie, with an ozonair machine in the foyer blowing sea breezes all through the back stalls. The circuit wouldn't wear it, though.

'Then I went into film publicity proper. And the Tenser bulletins began. I found that by writ- ing directly, dropping an "h" here and there, they had the proper punch. People liked them more than all that literary stuff.

'The job has all sorts of problems. To start with, you have to sell French films harder than others. We had one called Ripening Seed, from a novel by Colette. I had a marvellous slogan for that one : See it and discuss it in whispers.

'Then there was a Brigitte Bardot picture called Plucking the Marguerites. I retitled that one Mwn'zelle Striptease. At first I had to use psy- chology to commercialise an artistic film. Now the process has gone into reverse.

'My real ambition is to.write a book about the experiences of a cinema manager.. I've got lots of stories. Like the time a very refined usherette knocked on my door and told me there was some trouble down in the ladies' toilet. What was wrong? I asked. And without batting an eyelid she told me : A lavatory has fallen on a lady's head. The book's what I really want to do. Of a humorous nature, you understand.'