FROM THE WATCH TOWER

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 894, 11 February 1930, Page 10

FROM THE WATCH TOWER

By

“THE LOOK-OUT MAN

UNWANTED BANANAS Auckland, merchants have refused to accept a consignment of bananas brought by the Maul Pomare because of the poor condition of the fruit. Their clients, the retailers, agree thfet the consignment is useless for the markets.

Yes, we’ll have no bananas. We’il have no bananas today. We’ve gazed at the cases in hot storage places, We’ve seen the result, and say! We’d try a Cook Island tomato or late Christchurch potato, But: Yes, we’ll have no bananas from Maui Pomare today! BIG GUNS

Today is the day for heavy gunfire from fort Cautley—a day of discomfort for residents in adjacent parts of Hevonport. Windows must be left open to guard against breakage by concussion; but horsewives usually make a point of avoiding headaches by departing to the homes of friends in other districts, or to the City on shopping expeditions. This, by the way, reads uncommonly like a plain hint to house-breakers, but probably they are just as liable to headache as ordinary humans. The danger of window-breakage at Devonport during heavy gun-fire is a very real one, and at least one shop in the vicinity of the fort is fitted with plateglass windows, placed loosely in their sockets so that they may vibrate freely. Fortunately the Gulf provides a generous range for big guns. In other centres territorials are obliged to journey to deserted places where shells may whine over deserted farm lands.

* * * MEMORY FAILS

In appointing Mr. Alexander Watson as visiting examiner in elocution to New Zealand in 1930, the Trinity College of Music has secured the services of a man who probably is the best and most distinguished exponent of his art heard in this country. Mr. Watson has toured the Dominion on several occasions and always the extent of his repertoire as an elocutionist, and the fact that he relies entirely upon his memory, have been sources of wonder to his audiences. Yet the greatest of singers may sing falsely, the greatest of actors may miss his cue, and the greatest of elocutionists may fail in memory.' With other entertainers the lapse may be camouflaged—the singer can escape with the aid of his accompanist, and the actor may extemporise and hope for the best—but the elocutionist is lost. Thus was Mr. Watson placed during a recital in a New Zealand town some years ago. In the midst of a lengthy prose recitation he stopped dead. * * * “I HAVE FORGOTTEN ” Mr. Watson waited a few moments and began afresh but, on reaching the elusive passage, stopped again. For a little while he struggled with his recalcitrant memory but the effort was unavailing. “I have completely forgotten it,” he said quietly.. Then he turned to another prose selection and the evening continued to run smoothly. Despite the harmlessness of his lapse Mr. Watson must have felt his position keenly. The actor in plays, provided that he is sufficiently experienced, is more fortunate and a lapse of memory becomes merely a incident which can be hidden from the audience with the greatest of ease. One evening when Miss Margaret Bannerman was appearing in Auckland she missed a fairly important entrance cue and kept her colleagues on the sthge improvising for fully a minute. When she appeared she turned to them and said: “Sorry I’m late, dears.” The dialogue was then taken up and the audience remained under the innocent impression that her lateness and frank apology were part of the play. GALLERY CHAT There are times when audiences detect and resent pauses in a play which are both intentional and necessary. On one celebrated first night occasion the initial rise of the curtain disclosed the leading man (a wellknown actor) dressed in dinner clothes and sitting alone in a darkened room, gazing meditatively into the embers of a dying fire. He maintained this silent attitude for some moments to allow the Impression to sink in, but, before he could move, a hoarse, apologetic voice came from the gallery: "I ’opes we’re not keepin’ you out o’ bed, mister?” When Louis Bennison, whose tragic suicide in America was recorded in the cables a few months ago, toured New Zealand, he opened the first scene of one of his comedies by sitting playing solitaire arid whistling briskly to himself. This was too much for the audience in a Southern theatre, and gallery whistlers joined enthusiastically in the chorus. Bennison stood it for a few moments, then sprang to his feet, rang down the curtain, and, advancing to the footlights said: “You have insulted me grossly. In a few moments we will recommence the play but I will never come to this place again.” He kept his word.