ABSTRACT
As I step before you to speak about the Theatre do not mistake me for a reformer. I beg of you do not do that. When I become a reformer-that is to say, a surgeon and a physician in one-I shall take Hamlet’s advice and “reform it altogether,”1 beginning with myself and ending with the limelight man. But to be a reformer one must be in the position of a reformer; that is to
say, one must have at least half-a-dozen or a dozen theatres in different parts of the world, so that the reforms spread evenly. Two small progressive theatres in Paris, London or Berlin are quite useless towards improving the state of things in the Theatre, its state as an art and an institution. Those who live in London or Berlin know very little what is passing in the two French theatres. Those who live in Paris and London have seldom heard of the Berlin theatres. And those who live in Berlin and Paris hardly know that any such theatres exist in England. And so it is that these gallant little theatres, which make daily efforts to improve the state of things, bring about no marked nor lasting improvement, because all their energy and occasional good deeds evaporate after a few thousand people have left the theatre. And the Art of the Theatre still remains unknown. It would be quite another matter (and I should be unable to write as I do)
if any of these theatres had discovered. Laws for the Art of the Theatre; for these theatres to be unknown, unheard of, would matter but little to the men who are busy all the time searching for the truths which are the basis of all things. One of the evil tendencies of the modern theatre is to forget this entirely, to aim at being heard of for a few months and years, to make an effort in front of a full audience for a few thousand evenings, and there an end. To reform this would it not need the headlong strength of some profoundly stupid giant? I write, then, as an onlooker, not as a casual onlooker nor as an irritable
one, but more as one who takes a loving interest in watching the growth of plants in a beautiful garden. The eye of such a man is instantly arrested by the weeds. Nothing seems so foolish or so abominable to him as the weeds which absorb the goodness from the soil, robbing the other plants of that
goodness and altogether spoiling the beauty of the garden; and it is the weeds, the evil tendencies of the modern theatre, that I am concerned with here. Bear in mind that when I speak of the Theatre I do not allude especially
to what is called the English theatre; nor do I mean that which they call the French theatre; I do not particularly mean what is called the German theatre, nor the Italian, Scandinavian nor Russian theatres. All theatres of all lands are alike in all things except language, and, alas! the weeds so closely resemble each other that it is positively comic. I speak then of the Theatre as a whole, the Theatre of Europe and
America, for I have seen none other; though I believe, from what I hear, that the Eastern Theatre abstains from offending the intelligence. The tendency of the Western Theatre is to disregard the vital principles
of the art: To invent or borrow with haste so-called reforms which may attract the public, not those which are necessary to the health of the art: To encourage piracy and imitation instead of cultivating natural resource: To take the keys of the place from their rightful keepers, the artists, and to hand them over to the “business man” or anyone. I write, as I say, as an onlooker, but I have been for over fifteen years a
worker in the theatre. This I say for the benefit of those who may not know, and who question my authority for these statements. I have many times written that there is only one way to obtain unity in
the Art of the Theatre. I suppose it is unnecessary to explain why unity should be there as in other great arts; I suppose it offends no one to admit that unless unity reigns “chaos is come again”; I suppose this is quite clear;—?—! Very well, then. So far, so good. And it should not be difficult to make clear how this unity is to be obtained. I have attempted this in my book, The Art of the Theatre,2 and now I wish to make clear by what process unity is lost. Let me make a list (an incomplete one, but it will serve) of the different
workers in the theatre. When I have made this list I will tell you how many are head-cooks and how they assist in the spoiling of the broth. First and foremost, there is the proprietor of the theatre. Secondly, there
is the business manager who rents the theatre. Thirdly, there is the stagedirector, sometimes three or four of these. There are also three or four business men. Then we come to the chief actor and the chief actress. Then we have the actor and the actress who are next to the chief; that is to say, who are ready to step into their places if required. Then there are from twenty to sixty other actors and actresses. Besides this, there is a gentleman who designs scenes. Another who designs costumes. A third who devotes his time to arranging lights. A fourth who attends to the machinery (generally the hardest worker in the theatre). And then we have from twenty to a hundred under-workers, scene painters, costume makers, limelight manipulators, dressers, scene-shifters, under machinists, extra ladies and gentlemen, cleaners, programme sellers; and there we have the bunch.
