Judgment Day on the Stage

New Zealand Listener, Volume 13, Issue 324, 7 September 1945, Page 14

Judgment Day on the Stage

We Visit the Competitions

ONG before Noel Coward thought of imploring Mrs. Worthington NOT to put her daughter on the stage, Queen Victoria had professed her fears of the realm that lies behind the theatre curtain, and its pitfalls for the susceptible. In a letter to the tutor of Prince Arthur (afterwards Duke of Connaught) she "hoped and trusted that he NEVER went BEHIND the scenes on his visits to the theatre." Whether young Arthur occasionally slipped round to the stage door and into the dressing room of the favourite of the day, we are not told. But we ventured behind the scenes the other night and came out uncontaminated. The guardian of the stage door was a good guardian. He knew that when "The Competitions" were in full swing at the Wellington Town Hall the dressingrooms must not be cluttered up with admiring relations. He was up to all the dodges. Parents were barred. Only people actively and intimately connected with the work of the competitors could pass. A member of the staff of The Listener, accompanied by a photographer, who was accompanied by his assistant, wished to write something about the competitions and photograph back-stage incidents. The president was helpful. A word from him and the stage manager said in effect, "it’s all yours." Following the Famous Dressing-rooms at the Town Hall have accommodated many a famous artistGracie Fields the latest. Their mirrors have reflected the bulging torsos of wrestlers, the rippling muscles of boxers, and, the aesthetic features of great musicians. The rooms have echoed to the notes of famous singers (as they took a final run through) and have attracted countless autograph-seekers. During the competitions that are the subject of this article they housed representatives of almost every branch of the art of entertainment. Here were very young people. And there were some getting on a_bit-all | preparing to face judgment. Possibly

some had in view the stage or concert platform as a career; others were there just for the fun of it. There were the old hands who were competition-minded, and who had, possibly, performed at various times in the four main centres. But all knew that the main reason for their appearance was to make the greatest impression on the official judges; and on the even sterner critics, their relations and friends, arid their teachers. The stage manager had told us we could prowl about where we pleased, so after knocking loudly we peeped into one dressing-room. We left, with sincere apologies, followed by a feminine voice, "It’s all right; you can come in now." A photographic bulb flashed and then we made for a door marked "male competitors only." Every room was occupied. Ballets were limbering up, a baritone stood in the corner, mouth wide open, and doing his "mee, mee, mee; mo, mo, mo," sucking a throat lozenge and making sure he remembered the words. Not far away piano duettists were reassuring each other that there was no need to be nervous-"it’s only one man’s opinion, you know"and a young man with a piano-accordion was making certain that the keys and stops of his instrument were up to the mark. As elsewhere in New Zealand, the competitions in Wellington were conducted on strictly business-like lines. Long experience has contributed to the working out of a system that makes for smooth running. The stage is occupied all the time, while in the wings the fateful numbers which tell of a competitor’s success or failure are laid out neatly on a table, ready for display. There is a lot of coming and going. Some competitors are anxious to see the whole programme. As soon as their item is over they hurry in to the audience. Others prefer to do their turn and go home or on to some social. engagement. Endurance Tests If one were to make a guess at who were the hardest-worked officials, the answer would probably be the secretary

and the judges. Theirs is a long and exacting. job, but what of the three official accompanists? One of them told us that it was not uncommon in competitions to play for 40 or 50 persons in one class-from 2 p.m. to 6.15 p.m., without an appreciable break. For instance, on the opening day this year, the women’s lieder class started at 10.30 a.m. and continued throughout the afternoon. The range of accompaniments presented is very wide, but the accompanists told us that they find it all interesting. It is their job to give the competitor all possible assistance, and to adapt the accompaniment to varied styles and interpretations. A competitor who, on the ordinary stage or concert platform, is all aplomb and self-confidence, finds facing the judges a different matter. Nervous singers must be given confidence. Some get excited and restless; others go cold and quiet. But in general the men are more nervous than the womenperhaps for a psychological reason. Put a girl into a new and pretty frock and she feels mistress of her fate. The average man, evening-dressed, gains no such "lift." He may know that he looks well, but he feels neither comfortable nor confident. Calming Those Nerves Conipetitors havé tried various nostrums for settling the nerves. Once sal volatile was the thing: to-day some favour a glass of wine, orange juice, or raw eggs. There was a girl a year or two ago who, before going on the stage, nibbled daintily at tiny pieces of bread and butter. When asked the reason, she said: "Oh, they grease the throat, you know; Galli-Curci always did that." Some odd things haye happened on competition stages in New Zealand. A drama group presented a dramatic sketch in which thunder and lightning were in the effects. The stage manager had not been notified. When the lights flickered and the synthetic thunder boomed, he protested loudly. The audience heard his angry voice: "Here, what are you doing with those lights? For Heaven’s sake stop that hammering!" On another occasion the order of the items was upset. The stage manager, so the story runs, strode on to the stage and announced, "Owin’ to a slight herror, we will ’ave to take the pronunciation test now." And once,

in a small hall, where the curtain was of the old-fashioned roller type, a competitor’s frock became entangled in the bottom roller and rose with the curtain. These incidents belong to earlier days. They were disastrously funny at the time and are still talked of when competition "old boys" and "old girls" get together and the conversation begins "Do you remember. .. ." A Door to Fame ‘There can be no doubt that the movement in New Zealand has given opportunities to many a boy and girl, man and woman, to prove their capabilities. Some have gone overseas on the impetus given by competitions. A stranger to any city does not need to be told that competitions are in progress. City-bound trams and buses in the early evenings contain children with their hair tightly screwed up in rags or paper curlers, boys decked out in full evening-dress, tiny dancing girls, and the older performers attempting to look blasé. Parents clutch their programmes and "competitions" is the topic of conversation. And when it’s all over for the night, there is the weary ride home — some elated, some downcast, but in many cases still wearing their make-up, for they have been "on the stage" and the greasepaint is the proof. It must not be removed until the last possible moment. /