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London Theatre Critics Criticized, 1867
‘THE CRY OF THE CRITICS. Someone is writing an elaborate defence in the Standard [newspaper, London] of the theatrical critics of the daily press - so rudely attacked by Mr. [John] Hollingshead. We suppose it must be one of the herd, for we cannot fancy any writer of ordinary intelligence taking up the cudgels in their defence. Theatrical criticism in this country [England], is about on a par with the acting which it is intended to criticize; and that is all which can be said for it. The so-called critics possess nothing to qualify them and everything to disqualify them for their art. We are speaking of the ordinary London daily and cheap weekly papers, in which there are regular notices of theatrical performances - in the country press, and in the better class of weekly London journals there are many exceptions to this rule.
‘Let anyone consider for one moment, some of the requisites for real criticism of such a wonderfully complex art as acting - the delicate sensibility, the wide sympathy, the refined taste cultivated by study of the best models of dramatic writing - and then let him go to the first night at any of the principal theatres in London, and see the men who represent the Press. Putting aside the ties, interests, and obligations, which, unless they are marvels of courage and I partiality, must totally preclude their giving anything like an honest opinion on the subject - just consider the lowness of their intellectual calibre, their nearly total ignorance of the dramatic literature of their own country, their habits of life, associating with a narrow clique of mere hacks, and burlesque writers like themselves, in which their minds become warped with the most vulgar prejudices, and crippled by perpetual contact with nothing but self-satisfied mediocrity; consider all this, and then say if the criticism of such men can be of any profit to author or actor.
‘Those who defend these persons talk of their vast experience of the stage, and ridicule the notion of anyone, of however cultivated an intellect, of however vivid an imagination, being able to criticize plays or acting, because they have not lived all their lives in the purlieus of the green-room. We grant that this experience teaches them those paltry tricks and flashy devices which serve to catch the unreasoning applause of the vulgar, but it also imbues them with an utterly false standard of dramatic art, and when they have to judge of the portrayal of passion by any real artist, they test the merit of such portrayal not by the grand reality of natural passion, but by those conventional synonyms for the emotions of the heart, which they have seen in every mouthing, ranting idiot who called himself, or herself a tragedian. It is amusing to watch the faces and listen to the comments of these critics when they are confronted with some piece of acting drawn from Nature itself, evolved out of a deep feeling, passionate, sympathetic heart; of course if it be at some theatre for which they are labouring at a mutilation of some French drama, or lumbering through ill scanning nonsensical lines of a burlesque; or if the actor or actress be the idol of some of their clique, or sufficiently influential to produce a piece with a character written expressly for him or herself (to the utter sacrifice of every other character in it), they have their terms of praise cut and dried. But if none of these contingencies arise, they are most likely to fall into a vein of impotent carping at a performance, which is an insult to their comprehensions as being so far above them, and at an artist who as yet does not appear to have sufficient influence to advance their prospects in any way.
‘We may seem to have written with asperity on this matter; but we fairly confess to having lost all our patience with these people.
‘We appeal to any honest person (who has no connection with any of the Bohemian Clubs), whether the most gross adulation of one another is not prevalent among the majority of dramatic writers, whether they do not even go to the extent of puffing themselves in those journals which they honour by writing for? Have we not seen in a certain weekly comic journal, which now drags on a stagnant, witless life, on the strength of its former reputation, the most extravagant laudations, and most barefaced puffs of pieces written by two well-known members of the staff? Is there not a refinement on this brazen self-praise, which consists in bespattering with the most outrageous panegyric, some actress who has infused life into the wooden characters which one of these authors has provided for her? But we need not continue the subject - it is not a pleasant one - let us end by expressing a hope that all respectable papers will take one step at least in the right direction, by refusing any gratis admissions to any theatre; and that the critics will try and learn, that there is something higher in this world than their own petty jealousies and selfish interest; and that to criticize the dramatic art, however degraded be the state of that art at the present time, requires something more than an intimate acquaintance with the artist, or a prospective obligation to the manager.’
(The Tomahawk, London, Saturday, 21 September 1867, p.209)
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The Pirates of Penzance revived, Savoy Theatre, London, 1888
‘The occasion of the revival of The Pirates of Penzanceat the Savoy on Saturday night last, was marked by a great and high-toned gathering. Sir Arthur Sullivan was not present to conduct, a circumstance which served to take a little interest from the event; but every number and every bit of "business" had been so adequately rehearsed, that the performances went as smoothly as though the opera had been in the bill for a previous three months.
‘Messrs. [George] Grossmith and [Rutland] Barrington were in excellent form, and made their customary score. Mr. Richard Temple appeared to be somewhat hoarse; his singing, consequently, did not reach the high standard usually touched by this good vocalist. Mr. Robertson is a tenor who is making very capital progress. He is in possession of a useful voice, and is improving as an actor. In the duet which he sang with Miss [Geraldine] Ulmar - one of the most graceful numbers for two voices that Sullivan ever composed p he was heard to advantage. Miss Ulmar is a well-looking lady who, to my thinking, shines more as an actress than as a vocalist. When she forces her voice, her intonation is not by any means true. Miss Jessie Band and Miss Rosina Brandram rendered good service in their respective parts, and the choruses were excellently given. At the end, all the principals were recalled. Mr. Gilbert also bowed his acknowledgements, and Mr. D’Olyly Carte made excuses for Sir Arthur Sullivan, who is wintering at Algiers.’
(The Entr’acte, London, Satuarday, 24 March 1888, p.4a)
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A death in Paris, 1895
‘At the case in Paris for damages against the proprietress of the menagerie, at which a lion killed a certain Eysette who wished to be photographed together with the animal, the attendant on the wild beasts, one Mouillon, gave the following interesting and terrible evidence: "I left Eysette outside, and went first myself into the cage, into which I let the lion Romulus, who was lying in a neighbouring small cage. I wanted to be photographed with him myself. Romulus knows me well, for I have always fed him. He came creeping to me, and lay down at my feet. I doubted whether I would allow Eysette to come in. He called out, ‘You see that the lion is quite quiet.’ ‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘but Romulus does not know you.’ After all, I opened the door, and Eysette came in. Romulus raised his head, and when he saw the stranger he rose slowly, and as slowly approached the man, smelt at his knees, and then suddenly rushed upon him. He seized him by the throat, and threw him to the ground. I got hold of Romulus by the mane, and tried in vain to make him let Eysette loose. The lion pushed me gently away with one paw, and began quietly to drink his victim’s blood. I got hold of a prong within my reach, and beat Romulus with all my might. It was no use; he would not let his booty go. I was in despair; and ran out to call Mr Lucas, the lion-tamer."’
(The Era, London, Saturday, 26 October 1895, p.19d)
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