A Playhouse Where One Does As One Pleases

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 882, 28 January 1930, Page 8

A Playhouse Where One Does As One Pleases

SYDNEY’S ART THEATRE

(Written for THE SUN) SYDNEY, January 22. IMAGINE for a moment a little theatre in which one might sit at ease with one’s coat off, where one might—-and does —smoke in comfort, and even peacefully indulge in a little mild liquid refreshment, at the same time imbibing as much of Eugene O’Neill as one’s fancy or equipment permits.

It seems almost too good to be true. Yet I hasten, to assure you that I did all three, and perhaps four, at the Playbox Theatre, the theatre intime o£ Sydney, this week. With mercury in her most flighty mood. —during the afternoon she had registered 100 degrees, a record for this summer, —one sat in perfect comfort and watched “Strange Interlude,”' that fascinating O’Neill work which set New York by the ears, and has only faintly amused Sydney. . . . Outside, one was well content to let the rest of Sydney swelter or pant for the shark-proof net at Coogee. In shirt-sleeved comfort, luxuriously ensconsed —no other word but “ensconsed” would possibly do —in something that looked peculiarly like a sheep-pen of pillar-box red relieved with black, one enjoyed the production. Those seats were planned for two and possessed cushions that one could actually place behind one’s head. One knew a blithe content never experienced in the commercial theatre. PRIMITIVES AND INFANTS It is the contention of Mr. Macdougall that the ordinary commercial theatre of today is devoted to primitives and infants of all ages. The Playbox, opposing this tendency, addresses all lovers of the sincere theatre. The art theatre is too often an excuse for dullness, whereas, above everything, it should be the home of those great and daring plays which, without it, would not be seen. It must also be the studio of an artist. It must bear the stamp of an individuality. For history proves that when the authority becomes factional mediocrity steps right in. Has the Playbox that stamp of individuality? I think so. It is none the less a theatre because the wit and humour are projected, and the comedy and the drama interpreted, of only those writers who are fired by courage and imagination. . . . First let me describe the theatre. At most it could not hold more than 200. The real theatre intime. That night possibly GO were there. The building, an old warehouse of some kind, is situated in unfashionable Oxford Street, Sydney’s Tottenham Court Road. The theatre, like Mohammed’s coffin, is dexterously suspended between the wilderness of Woolloomooloo on one hand, and notorious Surry Hills on the other, both haunts of razor gangsters, thugs of all kinds, and street-walkers. Yet it is central. It is most accessible. It is easy to find. Still, my American friend and I had some difficulty in finding the right door. We stumbled through one entrance obviously originally intended for capricious draught mares to back along. Duncan Macdougall, once of the Art Theatre in New York, that courageous little Scot who has kept the Playbox open for six long years, hastily assured us of our mistake; most affably, but none the less sternly, pointed in the right direction. Down into the alley we climbed where the carts no longer rumbled, and entered by way of the box office. . . . , Seats of red, black, green and

chrome. Yet somehow they seemed to match, provocative colours tumbling into the general scheme quite naturally, and blending admirably. Despite the sheep-pen design they were more than comfortable. The players did not appear to notice if one wandered over to the miniature bar, and returned with a glass of innocuous fluid for one's comcanion. Not a dinner suit to be seen, or a frock that any woman would have wasted her eyesight upon. I thought of fashionable repertory gatherings in New Zealand where u dinner suit, if not precisely essential, was at least accepted as some indication of one’s respectability, if not mentality. And as for smoking . . . ye, gods!! The conventions would have been outraged. Silently one thanked providence that Duncan Macdougall was not at the beck and call of some braided hall official. CHARCOAL SKETCHES ON WALLS The sketches that covered the walls were more than passingly good. All were signed, several by wellknown “Bulletin” men. On the wall, opposite the buffet, Leo Carillo had drawn a Chinese. The actor was a guest of honour at a recent Bohemian night in the theatre when Dulcis Deamef, New Zealand writer, was a hostess. There was a tendency on the part of Mr. O’Neill to give us rather large doses of his particular medicine. The New York presentation of “Strange Interlude” began at 5 p.m. Duncan Macdougall reduced the eight acts to five; that, of course, was essential. The acting of his players was surprisingly good. At the curtain, fall, every man Jack, and woman, too, in that 50, applauded. Duncan Macdougall stepped out to return thanks. “Desire Under the Elms,” O’Neill in more melodramatic form (but every bit as -shocking to Americans), he declared, would be the next offering. A cup of coffee with producer, actors and actorines, and audience. No extra expense. A move that repertory directors might note. Likewise that hearty handgrip at the door, which, though also more usually associated with church “sociables,” w'as none the less intimate. “Strange Interlude,” coffee, and good-night grip. Out into the night again, carefully avoiding the place where the horses should have backed and didn’t, to the accompaniment of the hideous shrieking of the last clandestine tram, suburbs bound, by the complaining murmurings of a Bondi bus. It, in turn, was followed somewhere along empty Oxford Street. “Strange Interlude" methought that if the average Sydney flapper realised just what meaty fare was being offered at her very nose, surely that theatre intime would have been packed to the doors. What she cannot understand she immediately designates “highbrow'.” But so do many other people besides flappers. ERIC RAMSDEN.