The New Zealand Graphic AND LADIES' JOURNAL. SATURDAY, APRIL 2, 1891.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume IX, Issue 14, 2 April 1892, Page 320

The New Zealand Graphic AND LADIES' JOURNAL. SATURDAY, APRIL 2, 1891.

The ‘ society idol' of the present day is undoubtedly the actor. He is photographed in every conceivable pose. His private peculiarities and his preferences form the subjects of innumerable paragraphs. Collars, cravats, and cigars are called after him, and he is the most constant victim of that quaint product of nineteenth century civilization, the interview fiend. Royalty itself selects him as friend before the painter, the poet, or musician, whose lights burn feeble before the actor as candles under the powerful arc light of electricity. Curiously enough, even with men, the actress does not outshine the actor. They are twin stars in the firmament of art, and all the other stars worship them, a peculiarity, by the way, for which there is no precedent save in the dream of that Biblical statesmen Joseph. Of course it is impossible to say how long members of ‘ the profession,’ as they have christened themselves, will retain their position. At one time the poet was the idol. Byron was adulated, flattered, petted, and raved over, and for a time society went poetry mad. Every village, let alone every town, had its poet who let his hair grow, threw his neck open to the breeze, and aped the excesses and sins of their great model, as they did his rolling collar and his carelessly-knotted necktie. Painters were once so favoured, and it needs not Tennyson to remind us that savage slaughter and usurpation were the surest way to the heart of society in the time of King Arthur. Any excuse for knocking a man down and sequestering his property was good enough in those golden days, which stripped of the glamour which the poet Laureate has woven round them, must have been most unpleasant to live in except for the Round Table knights.

Quite lately it seemed as if the prize-fighter would wrest from the stage the proud position of the mummer, but the struggle was short-lived and futile. Pugilism and its worship had but a short and merry life in fashionable London. It is already practically dead, and out here it never reached beyond the fringe of Society's garments. In New Zealand the athlete is even greater than the actor, but this is because actors with us—good actors, that is—are mere meteors unceitain in their comings, and erratic in their goings. The athlete is always with ns, and yet we never tire of him. This is healthy and characteristic. The admiration of physical strength and endurance is far from an unwholesome one. At any rate, it keeps us clear of the utter inanity of any aesthetic craze. We are never likely to make ourselves as ridiculously, mawkishly insane as society once did in the old country over sunflowers and lilies.

No less a personage than the divine but somewhat erratic Sara has declared that acting is the least of the arts, ‘ if indeed,’ she says, ‘it is an art at all,’ because it is purely imitative, not creative, as is the case with music, literature, and painting. The truth of the Bernhardt dictum must be admitted to be so near the truth that, though we feel restless and disatisfied under it, it is an exceedingly difficult, if not impossible, one to reason against. Dogs and horses may be trained to imitate, and the facility with which children of little or no education ane taught to act has been illustrated all too often on the boards of even the New Zealand stage.

It is, on the other hand, difficult to fine! examples of children whom a small amount of training has converted into painters, far less into litterateurs. Arguing from this standpoint acting doe», indeed, seem to rank far behind the other arts, and as Sara Bernhardt implies, to lack creativeness. But if a slightly broader view be taken, admirers of

the stage may yet find foothold for a struggle on behalf of the art of acting, where it may be shown that the man who holds the mirror up to nature must of necessity cieate as well as imitate. It is often stated by platitudarians that the finest acting in the world takes place not on the stage, but in the every day life of the human race, more especially that portion which has been denominated ‘ Society. The tediousness of this truism is somewhat relieved by the refrigeration of conventionality which keeps it always fresh. There is always some new custom to act under, always some new pretence, some new costume, some new mummery. We are constantly reminded of the fact that we are acting, and that to live it is necessary to act well. Perhaps if we had to change our parts less often the impulse to slay the bore who talked about society-acting woul-1 become irresistible. But fashion is a great manager. He keeps us working. Most take an interest in their profession, and are therefore nnaverse to hear and talk about it. To smile on our enemy, to be cordial to our relations, to keep impassive exterior whatever the battle may be within, these are the commonplace forms of every day acting, and there is no doubt that we do it better than tis ever done on the stage, where a scowl precedes the smile, and where the hidden emotions of terror or surprise, disgust, hate, and love are clearly expressed save to the mimic mummers themselves.

The truth is that the player has to act acting. Mortals feel certain emotions under certain circumstances. These they either hide or express according to certain well-defined rules and customs of either nature or society ; which of the two it would be too complicated to discuss. Now the actor has to imitate these, and yet convey to the audience his real sentiments. M hen he smileson his enemy, that self-same smile must convey the covert hate to the audience. If any actor were to play lago as lago is played on society’s stage he would be right roundly condemned. The critics would asseverate that Mr So and-so failed to convey the idea of lago’s hatred completely when speaking to Othello. In the graciousness of her welcome to Duncan Lady Macbeth must yet let every soul in the house see that her mind is busy thinking that she is welcoming him to death. Ellen Terry, when she played the part, scored one of her strongest points when in this scene she hesitated for a second to give her hand to the aged King in hospitality, knowing it to be intent on murder. The glance of half terror, half pity was a revelation, but in real life it would have aroused comment, and Lady Macbeth would not have let herself look so. The actor must, moreover, enlarge everything. Joy must be more exuberant, sorrow more excessive in expression.

Looked at in this way, there is surely something creative in the art of the actor. The author does the greater part perhaps, but unless the actor had some creative as well as imitative genius, some very beautiful plays would be quite ‘ misunderstanded of the people.’ If it be urged that he does not create, can Dickens be said to create his portrait characters, Sykes and Micawber, and does not the landscapepainter imitate nature 1 Music is most purely creative of all the arts, but even in music men belong to schools. They unconsciously imitate the style of some great master.

The cable columns of our dailies have, during the past week, been Hooded with accounts of Williams, who would appear to be about the most brutal and cold blooded murderer the century has seen. Column after column of details, some of them of the most revolting description, have been served up warm with breakfast; and in the evening fresh horrors have been provided to further enhance the enjoyment of the post prandial dolce far niente. The shocking history of this man fiend has formed light and entertaining literature for materfamilias, and the children have shown a desire to see the paper, which can scarcely be too highly commended. Seriously, however, it cannot surely argue a hea’tliy state of society where the daily papers find that suicide and murder—the bloodier and more revolting the better—are what the public most demand ; that the ghastlier the crime the greater is their advantage. Yet this is undoubtedly the case. Spanish ladies are right roundly condemned for attending bull-fights, and a shudder

thrills the feminine frame at the very mention of the man and beast fights in the old Roman arenas. Yet it is surely a remnant of the feeling which made such spectacles agreeable to the Roman maiden which makes the fashionable girl of today read with avidity the accounts of murders most foul, false, and unnatural.

It is nonsensical and hypocritical to pretend that the news, paper readers of the day do not prefer ‘ blood’ to anything else. Proprietors and editors of papers are keen men o* business, and when it is sanctimoniously said, ‘ Why don’t the papers suppress this terrible stuff’’ they merely smile. They are perfectly well aware that every word of the condemned matter is read, and read eageily, by those who cry out loudest against the insertion. Public taste demands horrors, and it is not our intention to blame either the editors who produce or the public who demand them. The fact is deplorable, but the post of censor of the public and daily press is one which we do not as yet feel justified in taking up.

But why have any hypocrisy about it ? Why should the public be afraid to speak its mind ? This is the age of the majority, and if the majority prefer reading of battle, murder, and sudden death to anything else, why, in the name of all that is unholy and horrible, should they not do so? Let us cast our masks aside and declare boldly what we like. Then, no doubt, some enterprising Yankee newspaper office will add a tine assortment of murderers, etc., to their staff, and when things outside become slack, the sub-editor will request Mr Bill Sykes to go and make —not get, mind you—copy, and that gentleman will proceed to commit a murder of such value as his widow shall by agreement be paid for.