Der
ruene Kakadu
9. 3 42 eesereenetee A
box 15/3
Telephobe.
Etund /onden &seseto N° 5520 Centrul
AND SP
12
Te Gu
ablication
—
(3) VAUDEVILLE.
* Between Sunset and Dawn.'
A Play in Pour Scenes by Hermon Quld.
" The Green Cockatoo.“
A Grotesque in One Aut by Arthur Schnitzler,
translated by Penclope Wheeler, Thurs¬
day, October 23.
Among the troubadours of the Cabaret Ger¬
trude Rolffs and Anton Dressler occupy the
first rank in Germany. At the Vandeville
where they raise the curtain their recep¬
tion was courteous but lukewarm.
And
no wonder.
Rhine-wine Jeses its savour
in tankards, as ale would in ahock glass. These
German ballads of soldiery, Bohemianism,
misery when roughly translated and hammered
on the piano, sung stentorionslv or in strident
soprano, grate upon the ear. We cannot appre¬
ciate them nor do we take in the humour of
heavy Mephistophelian manners at the instru¬
ment and affected impassiveness 4 / Yrette
Guilbert of former days, when artienlation and.
pronuncation are hazy.
Whoever advised
these artists to try a toun de Foyer made a grent
ountries have their artistiel.
nethods; so have Cabarets. The insinuabilig
irt of Munich Minstrels should be left alone; it
s spoilt in foreed transposition, Fortunately
Gertrude Rolffs and Auton Dressler in one
true German Bong,“ Ich und Du, vindicated
their reputation. The rest was sadly
grotesque.
There is much talent in “ Between Sunset s#
and Dawn,? by Hermon Quld. He hes, with
Hauptmann, Gorki, and the vounger French
school, the knack of depieting the lower depth
with swift and simple strokes. The interior
of the doss-house is admirable.
The mother
and the son, who take in the guests, wrangle
about business in rough language, yet there
is rugged affection; the lodgers who come in
bring sadness, plaints, grim jests, accordiig
to purse and mood. Then enters a brow-beaten
little woman, the ill-used wife of one of the
doss-house keeper’s friends. She appeals to
his mind and his senses. Not once in 1i6
thirty years of life had he understood the
meaning of woman. He wants her. He hides
her when the sodden husband comes t##claim
her. He knocks him down, throws him oüt.
He proposes flight and cohabitation to the
wife. But women of darker London worship
violence; they return arms for à fist. She
goes back; she tries to coax her drunken
lord; he threatens to fling the lamp at her
and then she slouchesragain to the doss-house
like a whipped dog, ready for e new life.
" Did vou tell ’im about us?“ asks the new
lover. She wavers, then prevaricates.
" What?“ and a strange thing happens—the
beast is roused in man¬he sees red—he em¬
braces her and plunges a knife into her back.
It is a manifestation of erotomania, accentu¬
ated by Sadism. A distressing exhibition on
the stage. Ascene unfit to be scen and heard.
Very clever—alas, very human, too, but in¬
comprehensible to the bulk of the audience,
better that it should remain ununderstood. It
is bevond the province of art. It belongs to
the Clinique—or the book of learning. Nor
should it be compared witk“ Ghosts“- there
is no ethical groundwork in it—merely the
revelation of a terrible ecret in the human
cupboard. The neting in three instances was
perfect: Mr. Norman MeKinnel once more
condemned to portrav aberration, terribly
realistie: Miss Ada King, a live figure of
netherworld self-sufficiency and
woeful
humour; Mr. Edmond Breon, the image of the
man whom we see Monday after Mondav in
the Marvlebone dock for having exacted wifely
*love, honour, and obedience“ on Sabbath¬
eve when alcohol reigns supreme. Miss May
Blavney rightiy outlined the unfortunate wife
in the first scene. Anon she co swallowed her
words as to become inaudible and played to
the audience instead of her partners. She
used to be artless; ehe has become artificial.
III.
ruene Kakadu
9. 3 42 eesereenetee A
box 15/3
Telephobe.
Etund /onden &seseto N° 5520 Centrul
AND SP
12
Te Gu
ablication
—
(3) VAUDEVILLE.
* Between Sunset and Dawn.'
A Play in Pour Scenes by Hermon Quld.
" The Green Cockatoo.“
A Grotesque in One Aut by Arthur Schnitzler,
translated by Penclope Wheeler, Thurs¬
day, October 23.
Among the troubadours of the Cabaret Ger¬
trude Rolffs and Anton Dressler occupy the
first rank in Germany. At the Vandeville
where they raise the curtain their recep¬
tion was courteous but lukewarm.
And
no wonder.
Rhine-wine Jeses its savour
in tankards, as ale would in ahock glass. These
German ballads of soldiery, Bohemianism,
misery when roughly translated and hammered
on the piano, sung stentorionslv or in strident
soprano, grate upon the ear. We cannot appre¬
ciate them nor do we take in the humour of
heavy Mephistophelian manners at the instru¬
ment and affected impassiveness 4 / Yrette
Guilbert of former days, when artienlation and.
pronuncation are hazy.
Whoever advised
these artists to try a toun de Foyer made a grent
ountries have their artistiel.
nethods; so have Cabarets. The insinuabilig
irt of Munich Minstrels should be left alone; it
s spoilt in foreed transposition, Fortunately
Gertrude Rolffs and Auton Dressler in one
true German Bong,“ Ich und Du, vindicated
their reputation. The rest was sadly
grotesque.
There is much talent in “ Between Sunset s#
and Dawn,? by Hermon Quld. He hes, with
Hauptmann, Gorki, and the vounger French
school, the knack of depieting the lower depth
with swift and simple strokes. The interior
of the doss-house is admirable.
The mother
and the son, who take in the guests, wrangle
about business in rough language, yet there
is rugged affection; the lodgers who come in
bring sadness, plaints, grim jests, accordiig
to purse and mood. Then enters a brow-beaten
little woman, the ill-used wife of one of the
doss-house keeper’s friends. She appeals to
his mind and his senses. Not once in 1i6
thirty years of life had he understood the
meaning of woman. He wants her. He hides
her when the sodden husband comes t##claim
her. He knocks him down, throws him oüt.
He proposes flight and cohabitation to the
wife. But women of darker London worship
violence; they return arms for à fist. She
goes back; she tries to coax her drunken
lord; he threatens to fling the lamp at her
and then she slouchesragain to the doss-house
like a whipped dog, ready for e new life.
" Did vou tell ’im about us?“ asks the new
lover. She wavers, then prevaricates.
" What?“ and a strange thing happens—the
beast is roused in man¬he sees red—he em¬
braces her and plunges a knife into her back.
It is a manifestation of erotomania, accentu¬
ated by Sadism. A distressing exhibition on
the stage. Ascene unfit to be scen and heard.
Very clever—alas, very human, too, but in¬
comprehensible to the bulk of the audience,
better that it should remain ununderstood. It
is bevond the province of art. It belongs to
the Clinique—or the book of learning. Nor
should it be compared witk“ Ghosts“- there
is no ethical groundwork in it—merely the
revelation of a terrible ecret in the human
cupboard. The neting in three instances was
perfect: Mr. Norman MeKinnel once more
condemned to portrav aberration, terribly
realistie: Miss Ada King, a live figure of
netherworld self-sufficiency and
woeful
humour; Mr. Edmond Breon, the image of the
man whom we see Monday after Mondav in
the Marvlebone dock for having exacted wifely
*love, honour, and obedience“ on Sabbath¬
eve when alcohol reigns supreme. Miss May
Blavney rightiy outlined the unfortunate wife
in the first scene. Anon she co swallowed her
words as to become inaudible and played to
the audience instead of her partners. She
used to be artless; ehe has become artificial.
III.