The Back Number

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 1040, 2 August 1930, Page 18

The Back Number

Courage and Pathos Mingle in the MakeUp of this Human Study of an Old Actor

nOU will find him any moming or afternoon out3ide the \Or theatre, and in the streets if where the agents have £§» * their offices. Wherever you

see him you see a score o£ men of his sort, for he is of the type that can never be alone. He can only live in crowds. He is the outmoded actor, and these places servo as his club. He and others like him frequent them because the offices of the theatrical agents are near at hand (writes Thomas Burke, the novelist, in the “Sunday News” in an article that is as pathetic as it is wellwritten).

He is well and neatly dressed. He looks prosperous and pleased with himself. He glances amiably about him with the air of a man of leisure observing the human pageant. But the chances are that he will have no lunch and no dinner, and his supper—if he can run to it—will be fried lish All his prosperity is in his clothes. It has to be, for appearance is his chief stock. An actor may live in a back-street bedroom at Camden Town, and may pawn most of his possessions, and feed on bread and cheese in little public-houses. But whatever elße goes, the one thing that must, not go is his wardrobe Without that he is like a carpenter without tools or a musician without an instrument. A\ Small-Part Actor He is the back number; the small part actor who knows his job, but has never made a name. -In his most successful days he earned much applause for his character studies from the audiences of small provincial towns—Number Two towns. He has never earned the applause of a West End audience. Not (as he himself will tell you) because he couldn’t, hut because, for some inscrutable reason, he has never been given the chance. His whole life has been a life of obscure, ill-fitted theatres, long hours of Sunday travelling in theatrical specials, cheap lodgings, Press notices from cheap local papers, and cheap food. Today It is not even that. What with films, dance-halls, broadcasting and other things, few touring companies are being sent out, and in the few that are there is no room for him. Lately, his best jobs have been crowd work in films, and, owing to the present state of the film industry, that. too. has failed him. Keeping in Touch But he is still dapper and debonair

Hopefully, every morning, he turns up at the agents’ offices. He waits with others in bare and dirty waiting-

room. After two hours a clerk comes out, and “sees” him. .idling doing just now, Walter But there may be Something later. Keep in touch during the day.” W T hen he is dead those words will be found graven on his heart: "Keep in touch'during the day." So out he goes to kill time, and to meet the crowd of others who are killng time. They meet at one or other of the rendezvous, and exchange gossip and reminiscence. Bravely They Lie

Bravely they lie to each other. It is known that they are all out of work, but nothing else is known. This gives scope for optimism. Out of work they may be, but it appears from their gossip that they all have work lit the offing. Next week or the week after big things are to happen. “Hullo, Herbert: And what are you doing?” "Nothing at the moment. W alter But I’ve just been seeing Black's, and they want me out next week with the Number One Sunbeam Company. But I don’t know. . . Their idea of terms isn't quite mine And what are you doing?”

“Oh, I’ve just been offered Blank's part in the Number One Dreamland Company —Manchester, Leeds. Bristol. Nottingham. Sick of touring though. Like to stay in town for a bit They wrote me the other day about that new thing coming on at the Queen’s. They think there’s a part ’in it for me. But I shan’t decide ill I’ve read it.” “Ha! Well, what about a dmnk?” “Well, I’m afraid not, old cnap. As a matter of fact, things are a bit tight. I was counting on a cheque from —’’ “That’s all right, old man. They’re ou me this time. You can do another time* So Walter has drinks with Herbert, and Herbert knows that Walter la completely broke, and Walter knows that he knows. But the fiction of temporary embarrassment'!* politely kept up. and they are such good actors that atter the second drink they almost convince each other. Exchanging Confidences After the third drink and two courses of bread and cheese they become confidential. Herbert says that he can’t understand —simply can't understand —how it is that managers don’t jump at Walter. They elmply can’t know their business. Walter agrees. The present-day manager is hopeless. Look at the failures he has. They didn’t have those failures in the old days when managers did know their job. “Look at that show. ‘The Wailing of the Wind.’ I played the old bishop

in that for four years Four years, a, boy. What is/there today that ke* N on the road for four years? Eh’ few plays like that. And a few cn»« like that. Eh? Walter still believes, as every ontnoded actor believes, that the peMic wants to see him. and is only vented from seeing him by the stupidity of agents and managers. In the back bedroom at Catsdu Tcwn is an ailing wife, as old as hisself. But Walter doesn't think of her during the day. He mustn’t think of belle must be the agreeable and Inie pendent actor who is willing to sider offers.

The offers—when they do come—are usually offers of an engagement at a working-men’s club dinner or at soaObscure suburban picture thmut where the best seats are Is 9d.

Waller accepts them, to tlm ages', with a shrug of the Hhoulderm, and, t his heart, with gratitude. For, to the actor, any show is better than no show. And there is always fin chance—so sanguine is your actor—that somebody who matters will am him in these obscure places and will recognise hia greatness, and reinttathim. Nobody ever does; but that cunot slop Walter from being sure thr. some day somebody will. Walter gives his age as 43 TCaltrr is 61. If you are with him for :lv« minutes you will believe that his age u what he says it is. If you are atm him for halt an hour you w ill guess hie real age. In his young days he was happy, and be had no philosophy. Today he ii a hopeless optimise At midnight, in the Camden Tows bedroom, he recognises his position ter what it is. Is he downhearted? Ye*. Will he let anybody know it? N'erer. He is a back number. Nobody wiats him. And he knows 1L But he mil be Etanding in Charing Cress Band until he can no longer get out at herd. For he knows that If he can no larger get out of bed. that will be his Hair. The curtain will come down on an empty house. Not only will nobody want him: they won’t even know dut he has gone.