Silhouettes.

Fair Play, Volume I, Issue 21, 1 May 1894, Page 26

Silhouettes.

No. IV.—THE DRAMATIC CRITICIN NEW ZEALAND.

There a dramatic critics and dramatic critics, and the gentleman with whom we propose to deal in this issue must not for a moment be confounded with the man wnose experience, education, powers of observation, delicate intuition, and capability of contrast, eminently fit him for his laborious work, if conscientiously carried out, and entitle him to the privilege of designating himself a fair and honest critic. To such a man due praise must be given, and his opinions listened to with deference; but, as a rule, his appearance in the colonies is like angel’s visits, few and far between. The subject of our sketch is generally callow, painfully superficial, utterly unacquainted with dramatic and musical tradition, and absolutely ignorant of either Drench, German, or English dramatic literature. His eloquence is usually drawn from his memory, and his facts from his imagination. He has seldom been outside of the colonies, and and often not out of his own particular colony. He has never seen the great artists of the world, nor made a careful study of either their interpretations or the authors whose thoughts they endeavour to convey to the public, and he is almost invariably a man of limited journalistic experience. To hirn the entre to a theatre is an unmixed blessing, and the privilege of “ going behind the scenes” a coveted honour. To be seen in the company of some popular actor or actress, to address a star (of course in the presence of other people) familiarly by his or her Christian name, or to be referred to as so-and-so critic for the Daily Clipper, is the acme of his ambition. Artists as a rule size him up at his proper value, flatter him to his heart’s content, fail to notice his palpable errors when in his company, and laugh at him behind his baok. This species of the journalistic genus homo is generally evolved on a country newspaper. He usually commences by reporting teafights, bun struggles, amateur theatricals, and tableaux vivant. After awhile he succeeds in being transferred to a city paper, and, finally, is allowed by an over indulgent editor to write pars, oh second night performances. The second step on the ladder has now been taken, and by a oonstant haunting of the theatres, and using his privilege of visiting the stage, he finally acquires a kind of polyglot shibboleth relating to 11 flats,” “borders,’’ “ wings," and “ cloths," which he airs on every convenient occasion. He always refers to Ms seat as having been secured pn the O.P. side of the house, and gratuitously gives advice as to the kind of piece that will suit the public taste. Finally, he is entrusted with a first night’s criticism —generally Saturday night—so that he pan have all Sunday to think it over, and then his ambition is almost

realised. By a fluke, perhaps, it does not require much sub-editing, and delighted with his success, he presses his advantage, until, as no one else in the office cares much about the work, he monopolises it, and rapidly announces him- . self to his friends and every manager that comes through the country, as the regular critic for the paper upon whioh he is engaged. From this time forth at every theatre in town he is übiquitous. You meet in the lobby, you stumble over him on the stage, you fall up against him in the manager’s office, you hear his voice in the star’s private dressingroom ; like a lost spirit he wanders from the dress circle to the stage, and from thence to the stalls; as a matter of fact he pervades the atmosphere of the theatre, and in sheer desperation you are driven to drink, wondering whether you went to see him or the play. He talks learnedly of the old school and the new school, and handles with impunity the names of great artists he has scarce read of, let alone either heard or seen. You can spot him in the dress circle by his air of assumed languor, and the carefully rehearsed cynical expression on his face. You approach him perhaps, if you are bold enough, as you would approach a French gendarme, and venture to suggestethat Madame so-and-so or Mr. so-and-so is giving a very fair performance. He eyes you with a pitying smile for a moment and then probably rejoins with “Aw, yes, possibly ; but notin the street with aw —Charlie Wyndham, Nellie Farren, or Modjeska,” or whoever it may be, but almost always some one whose names he hardly knows. Possibly you venture to remark that they never played the part, but you are immediately overawed by the remark, “No, perhaps not in the colonies but at home.” In desperation you say, “But it was at home that I heard them.” It has no effect, his rhinoceros hide of vanity and assumed knowledge crushes you all the same, as he replies, with a supercilious stare, “ I make a study of these things professionally, and seldom make a mistake.” You read his criticism the next morning, and find that he has mixed up Congreve with Shakespeare, George R. Sims with Byron, and Pinero with Tom Taylor; explained a translation from the German as an adaptation from the French, and generally messed matters up by slating the one bit of good acting and buttering all the rest; yet, in spite of all this you meet him the next night as self-sufficient and satisfied with himself as usual. We are positively at a loss to understand the longevity of this class of individual. He thrives and flourishes in every colonial town, and we have never as yet heard of his being dynamited. We recollect meeting one in New South Wales who was once sent to criticise David Garrick. He got to the theatre rather late, and ' immediately went to the manager and requested that he would write out a brief resume of the plot for him, as he hadn’t time to see the performance out, and was unacquainted with “ Haddon Chamber’s

latest production. The manager sent the plot down to the editor, and when that critic returned to the office he thought he had run against a volcano in active eruption. We have met one or two in New Zealand since then that have broken even that record. In a theatre not one thousand miles from Wellington, some time back a discussion was going on as to whether “As You like It" should be revived for a certain night. One gentleman present suggested that it should, and further remarked, Miss so-and-so seems at her best in “ Rosalind.” This was the opportunity for the critic who chipped in with “ Why not play Rosalind one night and ‘ As You Like It’ the next ?” A ghastly silence fell over the assembly, and then some one told a sickly joke in order to afford a vent for the suppressed laughter. We could give numerous instances of the amusing blunders of this class of individual, but they are too well known. But as long as professional men and women cater to his vanity and gloss over his mistakes he will continue to flourish, intoxicated with the exuberance of his own conceit, until perchance he moves to some big city “home” and finds his inevitable level when brought into contact with men of experience and education in his own assumed line. “ 0, wad some power the giftic gie us, To see ourscls’ as ithers sec us.”