Playwright's Joys and Sorrows

Dominion, Volume 32, Issue 147, 17 March 1939, Page 14

Playwright's Joys and Sorrows

Things That Happen Before The

Curtain Rises

■jVTANY reasons tempt the would-be author to open his career with a play. One of tlie weightiest is the ease with wliich the story’s setting is dealt with there, remarks an overseas writer. In a novel the characters generally move about more, and the action is constantly being suspended while the author does some necessary furnishing and decorating. Nor can this be merely a catalogue: the woyk has to be done, so to speak, witli tlie reader in the house—not for a moment must he be irritated by crime and too obtrusive operations.

SOMETHING like this takes place: ° “John put his hat and stick down on the old-fashioned horsehair sofa, and stood with his back to the great oak mantelpiece, awaiting with trepidation the coming of Uncle William. The sombreness of the panelled room oppressed him, and the squat little bureau in the corner, reflecting the wavering light from the fire, seemed to wink at him with swift, furtive malice”—and so on; while all the time the author is bursting with impatience to bring in Uncle William and let the fun begin.

For, speaking generally, when action is in abeyance, the novice feels the weight of responsibility on his imagination to be oppressive. He is immediately afraid of being dull. Now, with a play, not only is something happening all the time —for even a speech is an event—-but he can run up his scene at the outset, and be as slapdash as he pleases. “Fire in grate R. Horsehair sofa, R.C. Bureau down L., etc.” —and there it is, perhaps for the whole play. Many an ingenuous beginner, with leanings toward the “costume” iiniiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiii

romance, has bethought him, too, that he might save much research by making his attempt a play instead of a novel, and starting off with a comprehensive statement, such as: “The drawing-room is furnished in Early Victorian style, circa 1840. Costumes to match.” He has always heard that producers have their own opinions on these matters; and what could be better than to give them carte blanche 1 There are other advantages. The play is far shorter than the novel; and as Stevenson once declared, “it is the length that kills” in a first attempt. In addition, dialogue has a pleasant and familiar aspect; and to write as one speaks appears a less daring venture than to attempt the purveyance of that indefinable magic, a good prose style. In fact, the disadvantages attaching to a play hardly become apparent to the author until the play has been written. Then be needs qualities of courage and perseverance far in excess of those required by the novelist. For production is a more remote goal than publication. The cost involved in putting on a play, and hence the desire of managers to minimize their risks; the competition, the necessity of having the right cast available; and not least, the customary delay, unknown in the publishing world, of getting his manuscript read —-all these things conspire against the new playwright. Again and again it lias happened that a play, which has afterwards made a hit, has been upon its travels for years before being accepted. One famous play by a well-kuoWn author is reputed to have flown from pigeon-hole to pigeon-hole for 12 years before coining to roost in the West End for a record engagement. Such successes as “.Marigold,” “Journey’s End” and “TenMinute Alibi” all experienced considerable delay before they were produced; ami one could extend the list. . The tyro may undertake this part of

his task through an agent, by approaching managers directly, or by getting his manuscript read by an influential actor or actress to whom the “star” part would be likely to appeal. Assuming that our man has placed his effort, he is now in for another trying period. At rehearsals he must submit to the martyrdom of seeing his work altered by others, or, more fortunately, be constrained to alter it himself. Nevertheless, he is unlikely to encounter the conditions that exist in the popular imagination: the temperamental leading lady who wants a new scene worked in to give her the opportunity for that particular display of virtuosity for which she is so well known and justlv famous, the comedian who thinks up “gags” overnight, in favour of which he cuts your dialogue the next day, the producer who looks upon the author much as the cow regards the gadfly. These are stock characters who are pretty well out of stock today. The author will find, on the contrary, the most eflicient and disciplined cooperation, combined not only with

courtesy and consideration to himself, but with a deference to his judgment that, if it be his first contact with the stage, will often embarrass him. Yet, tactfully but firmly, overwhelming reasons for altering his script will be produced. Sometimes the revision will be drastic. There was an ocacsion, after the second rehearsal of a certain play, when the producer took the author aside, and “You see,” he said gently, “we shall have to rewrite the whole play.” He was right, and they did it —in a couple of nights! Perhaps, though, the greatest of the playwright’s trials is the fact that, in the course of rehearsal, his play is apt to lose, for him, all significance. The lines become unendurably stale; the jokes, echoing gloomily through the empty auditorium, recoil upon his head with cruel and ironic persistence; and the mutter and movement of the players is but an owlishly solemq ritual whose meaning has long since become obscure. Nothing “conies over” quite a s he had expected, effects are lost, or are subtly distorted, and it is difficult for him to see how it has happened. He has not the technical knowledge to make recommendations, and, picturing the first night, he feels himself another Frankenstein. It is with amazement and gratitude that he fails to detect any sign of consternation in the bearing of the cast and the producer. And so comes the opening night, which, whatever the critics may say of It on the morning after, is nearly always, in the case of a first play, an astounding success to the playwright. He can scarcely believe his eais when the first laugh ripples through the house, and is no -less moved by the attentive silence that greets his serious scenes. For the first time he dares to contemplate that final ordeal, bis speech—but only in the intervals. At other times he watches entranced while a play, of which he had given up hope comes Jo life,