London Critic and “The Desert Song”

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 62, 4 June 1927, Page 24 (Supplement)

London Critic and “The Desert Song”

Amusing Review of Latest London Success “fJYEZjEJ Desert Song/* the London successor to “Rose Marie/* received a wonderful reception on its first night. Clarice HardwicTce, last here in revue, is in the cast. Here is a London critic's opinion of the piece. It would be stupid to say that “The Desert Song” is not a good show. It is a. very good show, which caters with genius and the single mind for everything that the big public is known to demand, and, on receiving, to applaud to the echo. A French officer, the son of a general, who on the parade ground is the veriest poltroon, yet when off duty is not only “Red Shadow,” the dashing leader of a band of Riffs, but also a gallant, abductor of virgins at the saddle-bow; a maiden who, dragged by the hair to a sheik’s palace, finds an evening costume by a French modiste which fits her a merveille, and turns up at home next morning after a ten-miles’ tramp in desert sand fresh as paint and in a Wimbledon (centrecourt) confection; a prima donna who can endure these things and give forth the recitative, “It’s hard to say goodbye to all you dears!” and, as she toys with the sheik’s scimitar, the aria: Go tell your little master That my heart beats faster, ’Neath his magic spell. A son who is called upon to fight a duel with his father and magnanimously refuses; a snake-like enchantress who has only to be seen by M. Diaghileff to be engaged on the spot for the Russian Ballet; a pair of comedians enlivening the purlieus of Morocco with the wit and humour af Southend —what more of drama can we ask? If anybody suggests that all this is nonsense there is only one answer. Of course it’s nonsense, like the films, or Edward Lear’s verses, or any other voluntary abdication of the mind. Nonsense is the virtue here. The composer, after tipping us the wink that he knows all about Liszt’s "Liebestraum,” Mascagni’s “Siciliana,” and Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Coq d’Or,” launches out for himself on a series of melodies which all the butcher-boys will be whistling. There are at least two musicianly tunes, and all Mr. Romberg’s many ensembles are capital. In this sort of entertainment Harry Welchman is a host in himself, and he combined the parts of Feeble and Prince Hal with entire conviction. Clifford Heatherley, Leonard Mackay, and a gentleman about nine feet tall whom I could not identify put a bold front on matters. Clarice Hardwicke made a success of some Cockney humours, but I must confess that I have liked Gene Gerrard better in other pieces. To expostulate why Edith Day is Edith Day were, as Polonius remarked. to waste day and a lot of other things as well. She sang exceedingly pleasantly, and went through her tragic experiences with a heartening jollity. But the best performance after Mr. Welchman’s seemed to me to be Phebe Brune’s animated snake. In this there was distinct allure. And if I am to put my finger on the real success of the piece, it was the chorus whose feminine members danced and sang in a frenzy of enthusiasm, and whose masculine members put up a soldierly parade worthy of Wellington Barracks, and sang in a manner to entrap the birds of Birdcage Walk.