ruene Kakadu
Der
9. 3 40 enenenener ene
Vandeville.
A TRIPLE BILL.
The new triple bill at the Vaudeville does
not call for lengthy notice. Of Schnitzler’s
tbrilling play, The Green Cockatoo,
admirably Englished by Miss Penelope
Wheeler, we gave a full account when the
Stage Society produced it last March, and it
is well worth seeing, even though Mr. Norman
MeKinnel's performance of the principal part
lacks the touch of fantssy and genuine
ex'ravangance which made Mr. Leon Quarter¬
maine's version of it 80 delightful.
The produszion of Betusen Sunseb and
Dawn,
a play by Mr. Hermon Ould, we
regard as a grave error in judgment. This
story of a dosshouse is sordid, dull and
depressing, and the final sceie, in which Mr.
Norman Mokinnel, as the kesper of the doss¬
house, gees mad and stabs Miss Mav Blayney,
as his friend’s runaway wife, while kissing
her, is horf'ole with the kind of horror that
does noborv ang ssod. The entertainment
begins with scme dramatic songs composed by
Antin Dresslee and sun by the composer and
Miss Gertrude Bolffs—tus kind of thing very
popular in Continental cabarets and not with¬
out attraction for London.
Sssenn Ksrenn
uinh elenschen
box 15/3
—402
blication
2
(0
2
A TRIPLE BILL AT THE.
VAUDEVILLE.
THE GREEN COCKATOO.“
The new programme at the Vaudeville Theatre
begins with a set of songs composed by Mr. Anton
Dressler and sung mainly by Miss Gertrude Rolffs,
while the composer accompanies and occasionally
sings. The theatre is quite tho place for Mr. Dressler’s
songs, for both the music and the mnanner of singing
aim chiefly at the dramatic. And very dramatic,
and signilicant, and neatly sly the songs become
when Mr. Dresslor is playing and Miss Rolffs is sing¬
ing with vivacity and polished art.
Next comes a play in four scenes, Bel#cen Sunset
and Daien, written by Mr. Hermon Ould. It is a
play dealing with the sordidest kind of what is com¬
monly called“ low life,“ and to the facts of that life
it may very likely be true; but that life is in itself
no more interesting than any other kind of
life, and a play which treate of it with elaborate
artifice and ne art has no claims to distinction because
of its subject. But such defects do not matter much,
by comparison with another and a very grave cause
of complaint—the introduction into the play of an
crotomaniac, who in“ making love“ to a woman
stabs her in the back and gibbers over her corpse.
The episode is nothing but disgusting, and should
never have been allowed to appear on the stage of a#
respectable and well-conducted theatre.
The last item in the programme is Arthur
Schnitzler’s play The Green Cockatoo, which was ##
introduced to the English theatre by the Stage
Society some six months ago. It remains exception¬
ally thrilling, even to those who know the truth of
it, so to speak, from the start. In this underground
tavern of Paris, where the nobles of 1789 come in
all their splendour by night to see the rabble—much
as a modern tourist goes to the Bowery or certain
districts of Chicago—is it all real or make¬
believe? Prosper, who, like a tavern-keeper in
Montmartre of more recent years, grects his aristo¬
cratie guests with hideous revilings—does he mean
them, or not? We know that criminals whom he
keeps on show are all shams, jast tavern-players
practised in their parts, because when a real murderer
comes and tells a true story he is cried down as a
poor“ turn,? a mere amateur. That din in the
streets on this night of July 14, that, of course, is
only the rabble making its usual uproar; and, just
imagine! they are said to be storming the Bastille.
But this weird and horrible tale told by the leading
actor, Henry—how he has just caught his newly¬
wed and adored wife Léocadie with the Duc de
Cadignan, and has murdered the Duc—is that true,
Vor just another“ turn?' put on for the amusemen!
of the company? And this fearful inrush of s
rufflans, mad with drink and rage
has Prosper surpassed himself #eenin
can it be indeed that the Bas
The play is like a tower that
that, while the suspense of th.
ever more fearful, unt
ruin.
The skill with
has done the dilfleult work of translatie
nized on the play’s first appearance. Bu
respects the perfermance at the Vandevilie is not
equal to that given under Mr. Norman Page for the
Stage Society. The stage of the Vaudeville is too
small for the full effect, and there was last night a
slowness and heaviness about the playing as a whole
which do not sult the brilliant, vivid piece. Mr.
Norman MeKinnel played with all his force as Henry,
and Miss Sarah Brocke made an elegant aristocrat:
but the acting as a whole needed brightening and
quickening.
9
Der
9. 3 40 enenenener ene
Vandeville.
A TRIPLE BILL.
The new triple bill at the Vaudeville does
not call for lengthy notice. Of Schnitzler’s
tbrilling play, The Green Cockatoo,
admirably Englished by Miss Penelope
Wheeler, we gave a full account when the
Stage Society produced it last March, and it
is well worth seeing, even though Mr. Norman
MeKinnel's performance of the principal part
lacks the touch of fantssy and genuine
ex'ravangance which made Mr. Leon Quarter¬
maine's version of it 80 delightful.
The produszion of Betusen Sunseb and
Dawn,
a play by Mr. Hermon Ould, we
regard as a grave error in judgment. This
story of a dosshouse is sordid, dull and
depressing, and the final sceie, in which Mr.
Norman Mokinnel, as the kesper of the doss¬
house, gees mad and stabs Miss Mav Blayney,
as his friend’s runaway wife, while kissing
her, is horf'ole with the kind of horror that
does noborv ang ssod. The entertainment
begins with scme dramatic songs composed by
Antin Dresslee and sun by the composer and
Miss Gertrude Bolffs—tus kind of thing very
popular in Continental cabarets and not with¬
out attraction for London.
Sssenn Ksrenn
uinh elenschen
box 15/3
—402
blication
2
(0
2
A TRIPLE BILL AT THE.
VAUDEVILLE.
THE GREEN COCKATOO.“
The new programme at the Vaudeville Theatre
begins with a set of songs composed by Mr. Anton
Dressler and sung mainly by Miss Gertrude Rolffs,
while the composer accompanies and occasionally
sings. The theatre is quite tho place for Mr. Dressler’s
songs, for both the music and the mnanner of singing
aim chiefly at the dramatic. And very dramatic,
and signilicant, and neatly sly the songs become
when Mr. Dresslor is playing and Miss Rolffs is sing¬
ing with vivacity and polished art.
Next comes a play in four scenes, Bel#cen Sunset
and Daien, written by Mr. Hermon Ould. It is a
play dealing with the sordidest kind of what is com¬
monly called“ low life,“ and to the facts of that life
it may very likely be true; but that life is in itself
no more interesting than any other kind of
life, and a play which treate of it with elaborate
artifice and ne art has no claims to distinction because
of its subject. But such defects do not matter much,
by comparison with another and a very grave cause
of complaint—the introduction into the play of an
crotomaniac, who in“ making love“ to a woman
stabs her in the back and gibbers over her corpse.
The episode is nothing but disgusting, and should
never have been allowed to appear on the stage of a#
respectable and well-conducted theatre.
The last item in the programme is Arthur
Schnitzler’s play The Green Cockatoo, which was ##
introduced to the English theatre by the Stage
Society some six months ago. It remains exception¬
ally thrilling, even to those who know the truth of
it, so to speak, from the start. In this underground
tavern of Paris, where the nobles of 1789 come in
all their splendour by night to see the rabble—much
as a modern tourist goes to the Bowery or certain
districts of Chicago—is it all real or make¬
believe? Prosper, who, like a tavern-keeper in
Montmartre of more recent years, grects his aristo¬
cratie guests with hideous revilings—does he mean
them, or not? We know that criminals whom he
keeps on show are all shams, jast tavern-players
practised in their parts, because when a real murderer
comes and tells a true story he is cried down as a
poor“ turn,? a mere amateur. That din in the
streets on this night of July 14, that, of course, is
only the rabble making its usual uproar; and, just
imagine! they are said to be storming the Bastille.
But this weird and horrible tale told by the leading
actor, Henry—how he has just caught his newly¬
wed and adored wife Léocadie with the Duc de
Cadignan, and has murdered the Duc—is that true,
Vor just another“ turn?' put on for the amusemen!
of the company? And this fearful inrush of s
rufflans, mad with drink and rage
has Prosper surpassed himself #eenin
can it be indeed that the Bas
The play is like a tower that
that, while the suspense of th.
ever more fearful, unt
ruin.
The skill with
has done the dilfleult work of translatie
nized on the play’s first appearance. Bu
respects the perfermance at the Vandevilie is not
equal to that given under Mr. Norman Page for the
Stage Society. The stage of the Vaudeville is too
small for the full effect, and there was last night a
slowness and heaviness about the playing as a whole
which do not sult the brilliant, vivid piece. Mr.
Norman MeKinnel played with all his force as Henry,
and Miss Sarah Brocke made an elegant aristocrat:
but the acting as a whole needed brightening and
quickening.
9