THE BACK NUMBER

Lake Wakatip Mail, Issue 3967, 23 September 1930, Page 7

THE BACK NUMBER

STUDY OF AN OLD ACTOR You will find him any morning or afternoon outside the theatre and ;n the streets where- the agents have then offices. Wherever you see him you see a score of men of ids sort, for lie is of the type that can never be alone. He can only live in crowds. He is the outmoded actor, and these places serve 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 us it is well written). Ho is well and neatly dressed. He looks prosperous and pleased with niinself. 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—il he can run to it-—will be tried fish.

All his prosperity is in his clothes It has to be, for appearance is his chief stock. An actor may live \u a hack-street bedroom at Camden Town, and may pawn most of his possessions, and feed on bread and cheese in little public houses. But whatever else goes, the one thing that must not go is his wardrobe. Without that he is like i carpenter without tools or a musician without an instrument. lie is the hack number; the smallpart actor who knows his job, but las never made a name. In his most t uccessful days he earned much applause for his character studies from the audiences of small provincial towns—No. towns. He has never earned the applause of a West End audience. Not (as he himself will tell yon) because he couldn’t, but because for some inscrutable reason he has never been given the chance. His whole life has been a lile ot obscure, ill-fitted theatres, long hours of Sunday travelling in theatrical specials, cheap lodgings, L’rcss notices from cheap local papers, and cheap food. To-dav it is not even that. What with films, dance-halls, broadcasting, and other tilings, few touring companies are being sent out, and in he few that are there is no room for him. Lately his best jobs have been crowd work iii films, and, owing to the present state of the film industry, that, too, has failed him. But be is still dapper and dohonaii. Hopefully, every morning he turns up at the agents’ offices. He waits

with others in bare and dirty waiting rooms. After two hours a clerk comes out and “ sees ” him. “ Nothing doing just now, Waltcn But there may be .something later. Keen in touch during the day.” When lie is dead those words wid be found graven on his heart; “Keen m touch during the day.” So out he goes to kill time and to meet the crowd of others who are killing time. They meet at one or other of the rendezvous, and exchange gossm 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 in the offing. Next week or the week alter big things are to happen. “ Hullo, Herbert! And what are

you doing?” “Nothing at tiie moment, Baiter. But I’ve just been seeing Black’s, and they want me to go 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 Blanks part in th Number 1 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 tiling coming on at the Queen’s. They think there’s a part in it tor me. But I shan’t decide till I’ve read it.” , “Ha! Well, what about a drum.' “ Well, I’m afraid not, old chap. As a matter of fact,_ things are a bit tight. I was counting on a cheque from .” “That’s all right, old man. ! hey re on me this time. You can do another time ” So Walter has drinks with Herbert, and Herbert knows that Walter is completely broke, and Walter knows that he knows. But the fiction of temporary embarrassment is politely kept up, and they are such good actors that after the second drink they almost convince each other. 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 simply can’t know their business.

Walter agrees. The present-day manager is hopeless. Look at tl.c failures he has. They didn t ha\e those failures in the old days when managers did know their job. “ Look at that show. ‘ The Wading of the Wind.’ 1 played the old bishop in that for four years. Four yea:s, my boy. What is there to-day that keeps on the road for four years? Lb? A > few plays like that. And a lew casts like that. Eh?” Walter still believes, as every outmoded actor believes, that the public wants to see him, and is only prevented from seeing him by the stupidity of agents and managers. In the back bedroom at Camden Town is an ailing wife, as old as himself Hut Walter doesn’t think of her during the day. lie mustn’t think ol her. He must he the agreeable and independent actor who is willing to consider oilers. The offers—when they do come—-are usually offers of an engagement at a working men’s club dinner or at some obscure suburban picture theatre, where the best seats are Is 9d.

Walter accepts them with a shrug of the shoulders, but with gratitude, for. to the actor, any show is better time no show. And there is always the chance—so sanguine is your actor —that somebody who matters will see him in these obscure places and will recognise his greatness, and reinstate him Nobody ever does; but that cannot stop Walter from being sure that some day somebody will. Walter gives his age at forty-throe. Walter is sixty-one. If you are with him for live minutes you will believe thar his ago is what lie says it is. II y )U ar > with him for half an hour you will guess his real ago. in his young days lie was happy, ami he had no philosophy. To-day he is a hopeless optimist. At midnight, in the Camden Town bedroom, lie recognises his position for what it is. Is he downheartedP Yes.

Will he let anybody know it P Never. He is a hack number. Nobody wants him And he knows it. But he will he standing in Charing Cross road until he can no longer get out of bed. Cor he knows that if lie can no longer get out of bed that will he his bids, 'I he curtain will come down on an empty house, not only will nobody want him; they won’t even know that he has gone.