FIRST NIGHTS
There is a movement, I am told, in certain critical circles in favour of the system which obtains in Parisian theatres of therépétition générale. This, as most playgoers know, is a final “dress rehearsal” held on the evening (at the Français, where evening performances must be continuous, on the afternoon) of the day before the actual “first night” production, orpremière, of the play. The seats, including the exceptionally large number allotted in Paris to the Press, are filled by invitation. It is the real “first night”; only there is no “money” in the house. Notoriously, there is a formidable cohort of Parisians who regard their seat at arépétition généraleas a kind of vested interest, and who would be affronted by having to put up with thepremière. A very remarkable public this is, the public of therépétition générale, with its members virtually all known to one another, filling thefoyerwith chatter and much scent, and patiently sitting through a performance which is apt to begin a good half-hour after the advertised time, and to end in the small hours of the morning. The inter-acts are of inordinate length, perhaps in the interests ofthe buffet, more likely because of the inveterate leisureliness of the Parisians. The whole thing, at any rate as I have found it, is a weariness to English flesh. But then the gentlemen (and ladies) of the Press have the advantage of being able to go home straight to bed, and of having all next day to think over their “notices.”
That is the reason, I suppose, why some critics would like to see the system introduced in London. They want more time. They want to sleep on it. They would write, they think, better in the morning. Let me leave that point, however, for the moment to turn to what an incorrigibly commercial world will probably think a more important one, the question of finance. To the theatrical manager the introduction of this system would mean the loss of a whole night’s receipts. With theatre rents and expenses at their present height, could they possibly contemplate so heavy a sacrifice? They are already complaining that theatre seats at their present prices do not pay—and here they would be giving away, for one night, the whole house. Further, however they might gratify the friends whom they invited, nothing could save them from the wrath of those who were left over. Some of these, perhaps, might be mollified by a subsequent invitation—for the “deadhead” habit becomes an insidious disease, and, I am told, the Paris theatres groan under the hordes of playgoers who consider themselves entitled to gratuitous admission. On the whole, I think ourmanagers would be ill-advised to countenance the suggested change.
Another thing. Therépétition généraleis a trial performance. Effects which don’t “tell,” incidents which shock or provoke ridicule, are often cut out next morning, so that the play actually presented at thepremièrediffers, sometimes vitally, from that presented to the critics, so that the “notice” not seldom describes and criticizes various matters which the public are never shown. If the English manager imitated this example—and as a practical man of business he would be sure to imitate it—the unhappy critic after writing his notice would have to go to the play again, before printing it, in order to assure himself that it still represented the facts. It would have to be two bites at a cherry. Now, new plays are often produced on two nights running, in which case two bites at the same cherry would be impossible. In the most favourable case, two successive visits to a play would be a heavy addition to the burden of life.
But would criticism benefit in quality? I venture to doubt that, too. I think that theatrical “notices” are all the better for being piping hot. One’s impressions of the play are stronger, more definite in outline, richer in colour, when one leaves the theatre than next morning, when they have had time to cool and to fade into “second thoughts,” which in criticism are far from being always the best. When Jules Lemaître went from theDébatsto theDeux Mondeshe found that his thoughts about the play, instead of maturing with the longer interval for writing, were apt to become simply vague and general. If the play happened to be one “of ideas,” not so much harm was done, because ideas stick in the mind, and are revolved there. But a play of emotion or a play dependent on fine shades of acting is bound to suffer by the gradual waning of the first impression. And my own experience is that in writing about a play of which one has lost the first hot impression, and which one has to recall by an effort of memory, the proportions get altered, so that the criticism is thrown out of gear. Some point, a mere minor point, perhaps, that attracted one’s attention, remains in the mind and assumes an undue importance in relation to other details that have faded. I went to seeGrierson’s Wayrevived the other night after a quarter of a century. When I asked myself beforehand what I remembered of it, I could only answer that I had been originally much struck by its merits, but that the only one of these merits that remained in my mind was a conversation wherein, under a surface of small talk, two people were revealing depths of tragic emotion. I had forgotten the characters, themotif, the very story. And when my conversation turned up (in Act III.), though I was as delighted as ever, I saw, of course, that it was only an item, not the sole memorable thing in the play.
An interval of a quarter of a century is ratherdifferent from one of four-and-twenty hours? Undoubtedly; but my point is that one’s impressions begin to wane and to alter in “values” from the very outset. After all it is the business of critics not merely to criticize, analyse, and judge a play, to try and “place” it in the realm of art; they have also the perhaps minor but still important duty of acting as public “tasters.” They have to represent facts, to give the public a reasonably accurate notion of what they are likely to see. And they are in a much better position for doing this if they set down their facts and their views of the facts at once, while they are still quivering with the excitement (or yawning with the boredom) of them.