The Confessions of a Press Agent.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XL, Issue 1, 4 January 1908, Page 28

The Confessions of a Press Agent.

By CHANNING POLLOCK IN “MUNSEY.” A frank revelation of the methods of a peculiar modern profession, which may make the reader wonder how much be can believe of the theatrical news of the day. A Press agent, as the reader may know, is a person employed to obtain free newspaper advertising for any given thing, the thing usually being a theatrical production. This advertising he is supposed to get as the Quaker was advised to get money —honestly, if possible. Since it isn’t often possible, the press agent may be described in two words as a professional liar. There is neither malice nor “muck rake” in this assertion. The press agent knows that his business is the dissemination of falsehood, and he is proud of it. Go up to any member of the craft you find on Broadway and say to him, “You are a liar!” You will see a smile of satisfaction spread itself over his happy face, and his horny hand will grasp yours in earnest gratitude. Victor Hugo and Charles Dickens and William Makepeace Thackeray were liars, too, according to his way of thinking, and not particularly ingenious or entertaining liars, at that. Their fiction was spread over the pages of books, as his is spread over the pages of the daily journals, and their mission, like his, was the enlivening of a terribly dull little planet. This altruistic motive really lurks behind the prevarications of the press agent with imagination. He conceives his philanthropic duty to be the making of news to fill a demand largely in excess of the supply. If the pursuit of this purpose brings him an income hovering about that of a United States Senator, he cannot be blamed. I became one of the gild of Ananias some six or seven years ago, coming fresh from the position of dramatic critic on a Washington newspaper; and I think I may say without undue egotism that, throughout this period. I have lied industriously, conscientiously, and with a fair degree of success. There have been, and are, more able falsifiers than I in the field, but the confessions of one man cannot in honour include the deeds of another, and so I must omit them from this chronicle. Suffice it to say that the stories of Anna Held’s bathing in milk, of the detention of a recently imported giant at Ellis Island, of Mrs. Patrick Campbell having tan bark spread in the street to deaden the rumbling that annoyed her during performances, and a score similar in nature, remain conspicuous examples of various press agents’ skill in attracting attention to the players to whose staffs they were attached. THE ELEMENTS OF A GOOD “FAKE.” The successful launching of a “fake” —so these imaginative efforts are known to the profession—is not at all the simple matter that it may appear to be. The mere conception of the story is only the beginning of the task. It is not enough to decide that such and such a thing might happen, or to swear that it has happened; it must be made to happen. Moreover, the occurrence should lie so natural, and the plans leading to it so carefully laid and concealed, as to prevent suspicion and baffle investigation. If possible, the press agent ought ostensibly to be unconnected with the affair; if not, he must hide his knowledge behind a mask of innocence in comparison with which the face of Mary’s little lamb would have looked like a selection from the Rogue’s Gallery. There are other requisites to the spinning of a yarn which shall be valuable in an advertising way. In the first place, it is necessary that the story shall not injure the reputation or lower the standing of its hero or heroine, and equally desirable that it shall have no “come back” that may make enemies for the press agent. For instance, the announcement, made during a recent engagement of Mrs. Patrick Campbell in New York, that the actress had won a large sum from society women at bridge whist received all kinds of space in the newspapers, but it brought down upon Mrs. Campbell’s devoted head such scathing denunciation from press am? pulpit that she lost no time in issuing a denial. A good “fake” is bizarre and

picturesque enough to be will defy the prober after troth, hurt* no one, and creates no journalistin grudges to be fought down in the future. There must be no limit to the number of times that the press agent can stir up excitement when he calls “Welfl* So many of the stories invented hy theatrical Munchausens possess the qualification first mentioned that it is by no means unusual for the inventor to take the newspaper man into his confidence. Of course, before doing this, he wants to feel sure of his newspaper and of his man. Dailies there be that prefer fact to fiction, however prosaic the former; that treat the stage in so dignified a manner that, if the Empire Theatre burned to the ground, they probably would print the information under a head reading “The Drama”; that scorn the press agent and have only contempt for his handiwork. The most extreme of these dailies, strangely enough, is the very newspaper that once, for its own amusement, so successfully exploited a “fake” about wild animals escaping frost the Central Park Zoo that for twelve hours afterwards business was practically suspended in New York. On the other hand, at least half of the newspapers of the metropolis do not inquire too closely into a tale that is likely to appeal to their readers, especially if the tale in question is obviously harmless. THE TWENTY-FOUR-HOUR PLAY. A characteristic example of the kind of “fake” in which one may rely upon the co-operation of the Fourth Estate is the incident of Margaret Mayo writing a play in twenty-four hours. Miss Mayo, who has since written many plays, at the time of which I speak was appearing with Grace George in “Pretty Peggy” at the Herald Square. The season had been dull, and I was casting about for any item likely to get into print, when the idea of having some one go Clyde Fitch one or two better in rapidity of accomplishment occurred to me. Obviously, it was impossible to involve Miss George in the episode without making her appear ridiculous, and so I cast about for a likely member of her company. Miss Mayo's name suggested itself to me because of the fact that she was even then at work on several comedies, and I obtained her consent to my plan. Shortly afterward, it was announced from the Herald Square that Miss Mayo had wagered a supper with Theodore Burt Sayre, an author of prominence, that she could begin and complete a four-act drama in the space of a single day. The test was to be made on tho following Sunday, at the residence of tho actress, who was to have the benefit of •-* stenographer; and to guard against her using an idea previously worked out, she was to follow a synopsis furnished by Mr. Sayre. This synopsis was to be delivered in a sealed envelope at six o’clock one morning, and the play was to be finished at six o’clock the next. Mr. Sayre, an intimate personal friend, had been furnished with these details over the telephone, and affirmed them when called up by the reporters. Our announcement was printed by nearly every newspaper in town. The stenographer furnished Miss Mayo on that eventful morning was my own —a bright, quick-witted Irish girl, whose name, unfortunately, I have forgotten. The synopsis of the play was Miss Mayo’s. She had made it from an old manuscript of her own, which had been freshly typed a day or two before. On Saturday night sheets from this manuscript were generously distributed about the room, the remaining sheets were hidden in a bureau drawer, the typewriter was put in position, and our scenery was ready. Business took mo to Philadelphia on a late train, and the beginning of our two little comedies—that to be written and that to be acted —was entrusted to Miss Mayo. I got back from the Quaker City shortly after noon on Sunday, and went directly Co the apartment house in which the lady lived. From the hall I heard a nervous voice and the click of a typewriter. Somebody admitted me, and my eyes beheld as excellent a counterfeit of fevered energy as it has ever been their luck to fall upon. Miss Mayo was pacing the floor wildly, dictating at least 60 words a minute, while the stenographer bent quiveringly over heC machine. A pile of manuscript, such as Arthur Wing "Pinero might possibly have prepared in six months, lay on the table. The typist broke the charm. “Why,” she exclaimed, “it’s Mr. Pol* lock!”

’ “Oh,” said Miss Mayo, “I thought you were a newspaper man! Sit down and havo a biscuit.” This pretence was continued all day. When reporters camo we struggled with the difficulties of rapidtire composition; when they didn’t we ate biscuits and manifolded epigrams, which were sent to waiting city editors, and quoted as being from “the twenty-four-hour play.” Miss Mayo was photographed several times, and we nad dinner at six. Afterward, wo named our product “The Mart,” and our day’s work was done. Despite our thin histrionism, there was not a scribe among our visitors who did not know in his secret soul that the whole thing had been cooked up for advertising purposes; yet, a newsless Sunday aiding and abetting us, we had more space the next morning than would have been devoted to the outbreak of a revolution in France. A MATINEE “FOR WOMEN ONLY.” Similarly, no intelligent person could have questioned for a moment the purpose of the matinee which De Wolf Hopper gave “for women only” a year ago at the Casino. “Happyland,” the opera in which Mr. Hopper was appearing, made no especial appeal to the gentler sex, while the presenting company included so many pretty girls that a performance for men only might have been more reasonable. As a matter of fact, I first conceived the idea in this form, but swerved from my course upon taking into account two important considerations. The announcement of an entertainment “for men only” must have created the impression that there was something objectionable about the presentation—an impression which we were anxious to avoid—and it would not have given the opportunities for humorous writing which we hoped would serve as bait to the newspaper reporters. Foreseeing that upon the obviousness of these opportunities would depend the amount of attention paid to so palpable an advertising scheme, we took care to guard against a dearth of incident by providing our own happenings. Among these were the entrance of a youth who had disguised himself as a girl in order to gain admittance, the appearance of a husband who insisted that his Wife must not remain at a performance from which he was barred, and-one or two like episodes. We found in the end that these devices were superfluous. On the afternoon selected, the interior of the Casino fairly grinned with femininity, the audience looked like a suffragists’ mass-meet-ing multiplied by two, and even so dignified and important a news-gathering service as the Associated Press condescended to take facetious notice of the “woman’s matinee.” If you remember what you read in newspapers, it is not nt, all impossible that, even at this date, you will find something familiar about the name of Marion Alexander. You don’t? Perhaps your memory can be assisted. Miss Alexander was the chorus girl supporting Lillian Russell in “Lady Teazle” who sued the manager of the company for ten thousand dollars because he had said she was not beautiful. The story of this slander and of the resentment it provoked went all around tho world, though it is unlikely that anyone who printed it was deceived as to the genuineness of the lady’s fine frenzy. The Marion Alexander tale had all the journalistic attractions of the -woman’s matinee, in that it was unique, and admitted of breeziness in narration; but it had, in addition, an advantage which no press agent overlooks—it was easily capable of illustration. Newspapers always are eager to print pictures of pretty women. The average New York daily would rather reproduce a stunning photograph of Trixie Twinkletoes than the most dignified portrait of Ellen Terry or Ada Rehan. Miss Alexander was pretty—no doubt she still is—and, while this story was running along, her manager’s firm paid nearly three hundred dollars for photographs used by daily papers, weekly papers, magazines, and news syndicates. In tho course of the controversy. Miss Russell took occasion- to side with the manager—she didn’t know that she had done so until she read her published letter the next morning—and ventured tho opinion that no brunette could possibly be beautiful. As had been expected, this statement aroused a storm of protest. There are half a million brunettes in New York, and to say that we sucoeeded in interesting them is putting it mildly. When “Lady Teazle” departed tor the road they wore still writing in-

dignant notes to the newspapers, and nearly every note gave added prominence to Miss Russell. I wrote a few indignant letters myself, and had them copied in long hand by the telephone girls and stenographers in the building. It is quite needless to say that Miss Alexander’s suit never came to trial. AWKWARD REQUESTS FOR PROOF. It has sometimes happened tliat managing editors have become interested in my humble efforts at the creation of news, and have demanded proofs that were not easily manufactured. During the run of “Fantana” at the Lyric Theatre I discovered a chorus girl whose dog wore an exquisite pair of diamond earrings. To be quite accurate, neither the chorus girl nor the dog had thought of any such adornment when we three became acquainted, but a ten-cent pair of jewels stuck to the animal’s head with chewing gum, and the popular belief that “the camera does not lie,” were expected to make the discovery seem convincing. A doubting Thomas on the “World” made it necessary for us to borrow earrings from an obliging jeweller, and to bore holes in the flesh of a poor little canine that might never have known what suffering was but for the shocking scepticism mentioned. If in this case the beast was martyred in the interest of science—the science of advertising—the staff of the Press department at the Lyric had its share of trouble a bit later on. We had sent out ingenuously a trifling story about what we were pleased to call a “chorus girls’ rogues’ gallery,” detailing the manner in which the records of the young women were kept on the backs of the photographs filed away in a room arranged for that purpose. A newspaper wanted the tale verified, and inquired blandly if it might send up a reporter to inspect. We replied with equal politeness that it might—the next day. That after- * noon we bought a rubber stamp and nearly a thousand old pictures, and all night long six of us worked on a “chorus girls’ rogues’ gallery” that would live up to its reputation. Our reward was a page in colours. Sometimes things really do happen to actors and actresses, and so, not infrequently, t-xere is a grain of truth in the news printed about them. Only a grain, mind you, for if a tenth of the happenings in which they are supposed to take part were actual, the inevitable end of life on the stage would be death from nervous prostration. Tho wide-awake Press agent is quick to plant the grain of truth aforesaid, growing therefrom stories no more like ths originals than a radish is like a radish seed. Grace George once telegraphed me, at Chicago, that she would not open at the Grand Opera House in “Pretty Peggy” on a Sunday. She felt, quite rightly that eight performances a week were the limit of her endurance. Staring at a pile of printed bills announcing an engagement beginning on the Sabbath, I concluded that this ultimatum nad reached the limit of mine. Then an inspiration. Up went the original bills, to be covered a day later with others advertising the premiere for Monday. The newspapers were curious as to the reason of tho change in our plans, and we were willing, not to say, eager, to satisfy their curiosity. Miss George did not believe in giving theatrical performances on Sunday. At least a dozen clergymen read this, and told their congregations about it the day before the postponed advent of ‘ Pretty Peggy.” Caught in a blizzard at Oswego, four years ago, I was informed that the only chance of my joining Miss George that night at Syracuse lay in making the trip in a special locomotive. That necessity got printed throughout the country a vivid description of Miss George driving an engine through banks of snow in order to reach Syracuse for her performance of “Under Southern Skies.” The woman who actually made the trip with me was a waitress from an Oswego hotel, and she received ten dollars for it. A little later, William A. Brady needed a thousand girls for his Woman's Exhibition at Madison Square Garden. They could have been obtained without the knowledge of the Police, but secrecy was not -what we were after. “Wanted— One Thousand Women at Madison Square Garden, at 8 p.m. on Friday” was an advertisement which brought down upon us nearly thrice that number, together with a small army of newspaper reporters and photographers.

STORIES THAT HAVE HAD THEIR WAY. Truth is never especially a desideratum in a press agent’s story, and there are some actual occurrences which he willingly suppresses. Accounts of small fires, accidents, thefts, and quarrels never get into type if he can help it. Several kinds of news stories have been “faked” so often that no one would attempt to have them exploited journalistically should examples of their class really happen. He would be a brave publicity promoter, for instance, who carried to an editor the tale of his star stopping a runaway, no matter how firmly the tale might be based on fact. Miss George had a valuable diamond necklace sto'jpi from her while she was playing in “Pretty Peggy,” but she knew better than to permit my sending out an announcement of the theft. “An Actress Loses Her Diamonds!” You laugh scornfully at the very idea. The newspapers no longer publish accounts of people standing in line before box-oflices all night in order to secure good seats in the morning, though I succeeded in obtaining mention of this feature of Sarah Bernhardt’s recent engagement in New York by injecting into the yarn a few drops of what theatrical managers call “heart interest.” Five dollars and a little careful coaching secured for me a picturesque-looking old woman, who convinced her inquisitors that she had once acted with the Divine Sarah iri Paris. Her vigil in the lobby of the Lyric received more attention than did the bona-fide line of three thousand persons which I rose at five to have photographed on the morning following. This impostor’s husband afterward figured at the Casino in the role of a man whose visit to “Happy land” was the first he had made to a theatre since the night on which he had witnessed the shcoting of Abraham Lincoln. The tale we told was that this historic tragedy had so affected him that the soothing influence of forty years was required to bring him again into the precincts of a playhouse. Interviewed by the representatives of several journals, he made a comparison between theatrical performances of anti-bellum times and those of to-day that could hardly have been more convincing had my confederated price not included two seats for the preceding evening at another place of amusement under the same management. This story, which went the rounds of the country, cost, in all, ten minutes’ work and three dollars in cash. I mention it as an instance of the simple “fake” which sometimes proves most effective. THE “LOST MANUSCRIPT” EPISODE. An equally simple story, used almost simultaneously, came near being less inexpensive. Henry Miller was about to produce "Grierson’s Way” at the Princess, anil, rehearsals not progressing to his satisfaction, he determined to postpone the schedule date of opening. This determination we resolved upon turning to our own account. We advertised widely that Mr. Miller had lost the only manuscript of the play, without which the performance could not be given, and that he would pay a reward of five hundred dollars for its return. Two days after, Mr. Mil’er called me up on the telephone. “An awful thing has happened,” he said. “I’ve actually lost a manuscript of ‘Grierson’s Way.’ ” “What of it?” I inquired. “What of it!” echoed Mr. Miller. “Supposing somebody brings it to me and demands that five hundred dollars!” Fortunately the manuscript was found by one of the stage hands, who was satisfied with a small bill and an explanation. It seems to me hardly probable that anybody will recall how a barber once delayed the beginning of a performance of “Taps” until half-past eight o’clock; yet that tale was one of the most successful of simple stories. The only preparation required was to post the chosen tonsorialist and to hold the curtain at the Lyric. Herbert Keeley, according to th? explanation given out, had just been shaved, when he discovered that he did not have the usual fee about him. “I’ll pay you to-morrow." he had remarked. “I’m Herbert Kelcey.” “Herbert Kelcey nuttin’!” his creditor hud replied. “Dat gag don’t, go! You stay here till you get. dat fifteen cents!" A niessenegr, hastily summoned, was said to have released the actor shortly after the hour for “ringing up.” The idea that a barber could keep a thousand people waiting for their entertainment was both novel and humorous, and

in the vernacular, our story “landed hard.” THE GREAT PARKER ASSOCIATION, It was during Judge Alton B. Parker's Presidential campaign that I evolved what I consider my most magnificent "fake.” At that time I represented several attractions in New York, chief among the number two musical comedies, entitled "The Royal Chef” and “Piff, Paff, Pouf.” 1 wired Judge Parker's secretary that the choruses of these productions had formed a club, which was to be known as the Theatrical Women’s Parker Association, its purpose lieing to induce male performers to go home to vote. Would Judge Parker receive a delegation from this society? The wire was signed “Neva Blake,” and in due time Miss Blake received a courteous but conclusive reply. No, Judge Parker would not. That message was a stunner. In tho face of it, there was only one thing to do —to send the delegation on the pretense that no answer to our message had ever been received. Nino young women were picked out in a hurry, placed in charge of a shrewd newspaper woman, who passed as another show girl, and the whole outfit was despatched to Esopus. The newspaper woman had instructions to register at a local hotel as a delegation from the Theatrical Women’s Parkeu Association and to parade before all tho alert correspondents in the little town on the Hudson. That done, we who had stayed behind got ready photographs of the pilgrims and waited. The wait was not long. By nine o’clock that night the bait had been swallowed at Esopus, and my office was crowded with reporters anxious to verify the story wired up from the river. Judge Parker, with characteristic kindness, had lunched the party, allowed it to sing to him, and sent it away rejoicing. Most of the boys “smelled a mouse,” but the story was undeniably true, and much too picturesque to be ignored. The Theatrical Women’s Parker Association, “Piff, Paff, Pouf,” and “The Royal Chef” were well advertised the next day. It was the failure of a prominent newspaper to mention either of these plays by name that drove me to further utilisation of the scheme. Such an omission, to my mind, is unfair and unjust. A story is good enough to be printed or it is not: if not, nobody has cause for complaint; if it is, there is no reason why a newspaper should deny the expected compensation. Resolving that 1 would compel this payment, I arranged for a public meeting of the club. The Democratic National Committee furnished us with a cart-load of campaign literature and with three speakers, one of whom was Senator Charles A. Towne. The other orators we provided. They were Eddie Foy, Dave Lewis. Nena Blake, Grace Cameron, and Amelia Stone. Ths juxta position, 1 felt confident, was sufficiently grotesque to provoke comment. I wrote nine political speeches for the occasion, held two rehearsals, and, When our advertisements failed to draw an audience, secured a fine one by sending to such congregating places as the Actors’ Society. The affair passed off beautifully, Senator Towne adapting himself to circumstances and making one of the most graceful and agreeable addresses imaginable. I heard it from a nook in the fly gallery, where I remained until the meeting was adjourned. This “fake” accomplished its purpose, the delinquent newspaper falling in line with the others in publishing the story. A LONG LIST OF “FAKES.” It would tax your patience and your faith in the existence of modesty were I to go into detail regarding a score of similar "fakes” which come to mind. How this same Nena Blake was kidnapped from the Garrick, in Chicago, and sent to New York in the costume she wore in "The Royal Chef”; how her cister, Bertha, was sent to Zion to kiss tile unkissed son of John Alexr.nder Dowie; how a supposed German baron threw across the footlights to Julia Sanderson a bouquet from which drop (sit an eighteen-thousand-dollar diamond necklace; how a chorus girl called Mabel Wilbur was found in the "wee, sma* hours'* in a comatose condition on the doorstep of a prominent physician; how another young woman created a sensation nt a recent physical culture show in Madison Square Garden by declaring the costume she was expected to wear ■■shockingly immodert''; how a niece of Adele Ritchie dr.n.vd her mime to Adele Ritchie, jiui. ii'.i.l hew Mis, Ritchie herself was -. ir .t in niig'bv a Siamcs*

millionaire — all these anecdotes must pass with the mere mention that they were successful “fakes.” Sometimes an ingenious and promising story may prove to be an almost fatal mistake. Such a story was the announcement of the management that it would p::y fifty dollars a week for exceptionally beautiful chorus girls to appear in “Mexieana.” The tale was printed all over the world, but it caused newspaper critics to stamp as homely one of the most attractive ensembles ever brought to New York. “If any of these girls,” raid the “Sun,” “gets fifty dollars a week, her employers are entitled to a rebate.” 1 cannot place in the same catagory Mme. Bernhardt’s appeal to the French ambassador at Washington to protest against her exclusion from playhouses control led by the so-called Theatrical Syndicate. Madame denied this over her own signature, but, from a press agent’s point of view, it was an exceedingly creditable falsehood. It is possible to discuss at endless length the real value of the “fake” and iti place in theatrical advertising. Perhaps no one ever went to a place of amusement merely because one of the performers at that house was supposed to have bathed in milk or to have stopped a runaway horse. On the other hand, 1 am sure that no one ever went to a theatre because he or she had seen the name of the play acted there posted conspicuously on a bill-board. The mission of the bilil boar is to call attention to that fact that there is such and such an entertainment, and that it may be sent at such and such a location. There is no question in my mind but that quite as much is done for a production by “fake” stories concerning it. In some rare instances, where the story accentuates the importance of the presentation and its success, or awakens interest in some member of the presenting company, the service performed may be even greater. At all events, the average manager expects this kind of advertising from the publicity promoter to whom he pays a salary, and, naturally, the publicity promoter feels that it is “his not to reason why.” The press agent realises that to any failure on his part will always be attributed the misfortunes of the management with which he is connected. Productions do a good business because they arc good .productions, pr a bad business because they had bid press agents.' Every theatrical . newspaper man' knows the anecdote of the German ebrnetist on tour with a minstrel company. The organisation was toiling up a steep hill that lay between the railway station and the town. The cornetist was warm and he was tired. The camel’s back broke, at last, when he stubbed his toe against a stone. Picking up the obstruction, he threw it as far away as he could. ‘Aeh!” he exclaimed. “Ve got a fine advance agent!”