THE THEATRE.
A LONDON GRAND GIIIGNOL.
THE English theatre is continually, and not unjustly, being accused of " lack of direction," of " purposelessness," of being " a rudderless ship." Plays are continually being produced which have no clear, definite aim. They are not particularly intended to make their audiences laugh, cry, shriek or even (apparently) applaud. They are not tragedies, farces, satires on the age, studies of manners at a particular time, expositions of a way of life or a particular theory, or even in the true sense of the word comedies, though they are, of course, nearly all lumped under that most inclusive beading. They are just plays, some well written and some ill-written, and that is really about all there is to be said of them.
It is a relief for the critic to turn from these nondescripts to a production which does at any rate know what it is attempting; which has started out with the definite intention of producing, by its combined means of play, players, scenery, music and costume, some particular emotional effect upon its audience. Of such a kind is Mr. Jose Levy's new enterprise at the Little Theatre. Mr. Levy is attempting to establish a London equivalent to the Paris Grand Guignol. That is to say, he is undertaking to supply London nightly with a certain well-known mixture of farce and horror (much as a chemist might undertake to supply it with malt and iron) which has hitherto been unattainable in England, and which he suc- cinctly calls " Grand Guignol Mixture, to be taken nightly in 4 doses." People who go to him for poetry or profundity will of course be disappointed. It would be about as sensible to try the chemist for a Gaineborough. At the Little Theatre it is this " Grand Guignol Mixture " that is being handed over the foot- lights, which arc after all sometimes only a kind of illuminated counter, and it is by its efficacy or the reverse that we must judge the production. It is idle to protest that you do not like
horror. In that case you should have stayed away from the Little Theatre ; but if, as in my case, you do, then you may begin to try to form an estimate of the quality and quantity which has been provided.
The series of four short plays which made up the programme reminded me of dinner at a small French restaurant. The sort of dinner that begins very badly with weak, watery consomme, but steadily improves through the amiability of the poisson, the solid excellence of the eiande, to the almost whimsical charm of the glace.
The consomme at the Little Theatre was represented by a piece entitled How to be Happy, a moral in one act. As a sedative designed to calm the nerves of the audience before trials to come, it had, I suppose, its uses. I can think of no other raison (rare for its mild, harmless humour or its thin, watery sentimentality. The poisson was called O.H.Q. Love. The scene was the ante-room to the respective Chan:brat des Messieurs and des Dames at a French cafe. The plot was all about a married woman (with comic husband) who writes letters to her lover in the Chambre des Dames, and an unbelievably silly young man who is in love with MissDorothyMinto, in every pretty pink frock (that was the only credible part of him), and steals rings and despairs and finally shoots himself in the Claambre des Messieurs, the whole being linked together by a reflective lava- tory attendant who seemed about to fulfil the relit of the Greek chorus. As a play it seemed to me very bad, but as a sketch of that particular squalid corner of life it was most accurate and life-like, and, above all, it gave an opportunity for a most delightful piece of acting by Miss Sybil Thorndike as one of the "women of the house." She looked so exactly right that it gave one a little thrill of pleasure each time one noticed her. The Mande was a genuine French play by Andre de Lords, hot from the Paris Grand GuignoL It is called The Hand of Death, and its plot is, roughly, that Professor Cherries invents an electric appliance for reviving the apparently dead, to test which he gets an introduction to the local executioner, " has him to the house," and settles to experiment on the body of the next condemned. His only daughter and her fiance are staying with him. He sends her out in the car while seeing the executioner, who tells him and the fiancé a few " acad.-side" stories of bodies which have gone on functioning without their heads. This ends Act. I. Act. H. finds the professor and the fiance still talk- ing, when they are disturbed by the telephone. The professor cannot hear who it ie. He thinks it is a tiresome patient. Then he recognizes his chauffeur's voice. There has been a bad accident. His daughter is apparently unhurt, but has fainted. (How fully the French have realized the dramatic possibilities of the telephone! There is hardly a play in Paris without at least one important telephone conversation.) His daughter is brought back still unconscious. The professor becomes dumb with anguish. Her fiancé (himself a doctor) and two local practitioners try to bring her round. They fail, and pronounce her dead. Suddenly the professor wakes up. He determines to try his appliance. The body is brought in. He performs the tremendous operation which is necessary before he can apply his " electrodes." The storm howls, the lights go out. But the body does not stir. He begins to despair. Suddenly it moves. It raises its hand. The professor, transported, seizes its hand and kisses it. Suddenly the fingers close in an iron grip on his throat. He chokes ; he tries to tear it away. The fiancé, who has been hysterical in a corner, tries to tear it away. But they cannot, and the professor is strangled. Curtain.
It may all eound a little crude, but as played it was really very effective. Mr. Heathy the professor, Mr. Casson the fiancé, and Mr. Thomdike as the executioner were all excellent in their gloomy conversation in the first act, and succeeded in getting the audience into exactly the right state for horrors. Mx. Heathy was also very effective as the grief-maddened parent, and Miss Thomdike as the daughter was as accomplished as ever, and was beautifully still as the body (not always the case with stage bodies). The least effective thing was the strangling itself, which Miss Thorndike did in rather a ladylike manner between the fingers and thumb of one hand. It was a little painfully obvious that two large men could have removed it with the greatest ease.
The glace was a " revuette " entitled Oh, Hell I in which the company tried their hands at a musical entertainment. One distinctly noticed that they were working out of their accustomed medium. They had a sudden air of being extremely talented amateurs, which all goes to show that though the musical stage
may be a lower profession, it Is probably not an easier one. But as the piece was more or less in the nature of a " rag," this slight amateurishness was almost an advantage, and I can imagine nothing gayer than the general effect. Miss Thorndike as the Minister All for War had the most attractive kit, and sang in a charming deep voice ; while the devil, old, feeble, futile, kindly, and wife-beaten, was a delicious conception.
The programme takes a long time, and one goes away with a comfortable feeling of having had one's money's worth ; and anything more innocuous and unlikely-to do harm than the London Grand Guignol, if it goes on as it has begun, would
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