(b)The vaudeville two-actvaries in price as greatly as the monologue. Like the monologue, it is usually sold outright. The performers use precisely the same argument about the two-act that is used about the monologue. It is maintained that the material itself is not to be compared with the importance of its presentation. When a two-act has been tried out and found "there," the performers or the producer will offer a price for it.
The same rule, that vaudeville material is worth only as much as it will bring, applies to the two-act. From two hundred and fifty dollars to whatever you can get, may be considered suggestive of two-act prices. Although more two-acts have sold outright for less than three hundred dollars than have sold above five hundred dollars, a successful two-act may be made to yield a far greater return if a royalty arrangement is secured.
Whether it is a two-act, or any other vaudeville act, the royalty asking price is ten per cent of the weekly salary. This rate is difficult to enforce, and while five per cent is nearer the average, the producer would rather pay a definite fixed figure each week, than a percentage that must be reckoned on what may be a varying salary. Usually a compromise of a flat amount per playing week is made when a royalty is agreed on.
(c)The playletvaries in returns amazingly. While one small-time producer pays no advance royalty and a flat weekly royalty of from ten dollars to fifteen dollars a week—making his stand on the fact that he gives a longer playing season than his average competitor—many a big-time producer pays a good round advance and as high as $100 a week royalty.
Edgar Allan Woolf has said: "The desire for the one-act comedy is so great that even an unknown writer can secure an advance royalty as great as is paid to the author of a three-act play, if he has written a playlet which seems to possess novelty of story and cleverness of dialogue."
George V. Hobart is reported to have had a variously-quoted number of playlets playing at the same time, each one of which returned him a weekly royalty of $100 a week. And half a dozen other one-act playwrights might be named who have had nearly equal success.
On the other hand, Porter Emerson Brown is quoted as saying: "The work of writing a playlet is nearly as great as writing a three-act play, and the returns cannot be compared."
One of the collaborators on a famous big-time success received forty dollars a week for three seasons as his share. Another playlet writer was paid one hundred dollars a week for one act, and only twenty dollars a week for another. And a third was content with a ten-dollars-a-week royalty on one act, at the same time that another act of his was bringing him in fifty dollars a week.
These examples I have cited to demonstrate that the return from the playlet is a most variable quantity. The small-time pays less than the big-time, and each individual act on both small- and big-time pays a different royalty.
When a playlet—either comedy or straight dramatic—is accepted for production, it is customary, although not an invariable rule, that an advance royalty be paid "down." When the act proves successful, one or more of three propositions may be offered the writer: outright sale at a price previously agreed upon; outright sale to be paid in weekly royalties until an agreed upon figure is reached, when ownership passes from the author to the producer; the more customary weekly royalty. As I have said before, what price you receive for your act finally depends upon your keenness in driving a bargain.
In nearly every case, outright sale has its advantage in the fact that the author need not then worry about collecting his royalty. Of course, when a recognized producer puts out the act there need be no concern about the royalty, so in such instances a royalty is preferable. But in some cases, as when the performer is making long jumps and has a hard time making railroad connections, a weekly royalty has its disadvantages in causing worry to the author.
(d)The one-act musical comedyis usually bought outright—after the act "gets over." While many a "book" is contracted for in advance at a small figure, to be doubled or trebled on success, it is also true that royalties are paid. In this case, the custom is to divide the royalty equally between the writer of the book and lyrics, and the composer of the music. When a third person writes the verses of the songs and ensemble numbers, the royalty is usually split three ways. It would be misleading to quote any figures on the musical comedy, for the reason that circumstances vary so greatly with each that there are no standards.
(e)The burlesque tabpays about the same rates as the one-act musical comedy, its kindred form.
(f)The popular song, unlike the other material treated in this volume, has a well established royalty price: one cent a copy is the standard. Of this, half a cent goes to the writer of the lyric, and half a cent to the composer of the music.
As a popular song, to be considered successful, must sell anywhere from half a million to a million copies, it is easy to estimate the song-writer's return. If the same man writes both the words and the music he will receive from five to ten thousand dollars—or twenty-five hundred to five thousand dollars if he divides with another—for being able to make the nation whistle. Of course, many song-writers have two successful songs selling in a year— therefore you may double the figures above to estimate some successful song-writers' incomes. But it may safely be said that the song-writer who has an income of twelve thousand dollars a year is doing very well indeed! There are many more professional song-writers who work year after year for the salary of the average business man in every other line of endeavor. Don't count your royalty-chickens too soon.
6. Important Lists of Addresses
AMERICAN PLAY COMPANY, 33 W. 42d St., New YorkMARY ASQUITH, 145 W. 45th St, New YorkALICE KAUSER, 1402 Broadway, New YorkDARCY AND WOLFORD, 114 W. 39th St., New YorkKIRKPATRICK, LTD., 101 Park Ave., New YorkMODERN PLAY CO., Columbus Circle, New YorkLAURA D. WILK, 1476 Broadway, New YorkGEORGE W. WINNIETT, 1402 Broadway, New YorkPAUL SCOTT, 1402 Broadway, New YorkSANGER AND JORDAN, 1430 Broadway, New YorkMRS. M. A. LEMBECK, 220 W. 42nd St., New York
The producers given here offer a market which varies so widely in each instance that no attempt has been made to list their needs. Some are interested in other lines of the amusement business as well; and their activities elsewhere must be taken into consideration as determining factors in their special market needs. No division of these producers into big-time and small-time producers is made, because such a distinction would be likely to be misleading rather than helpful.
ARTHUR HOPKINS, 1493 Broadway, New YorkJOSEPH HART, 1520 Broadway, New YorkJESSE L. LASKY, 120 W. 41St St., New YorkPLAYLET PRODUCING COMPANY, 1564 Broadway, New YorkB. A. ROLFE, 1493 Broadway, New YorkJOE MAXWELL, INC., 360 W. 125th St., New YorkROLAND WEST PRODUCING COMPANY, 260 W. 42d St., New YorkHARRY RAPF, 1564 Broadway, New YorkPAT CASEY, 1499 Broadway, New YorkBILLIE BURKE, 1495 Broadway, New YorkJOE PAIGE SMITH, 1493 Broadway, New YorkALF. T. WILTON, 1564 Broadway, New YorkJOHN C. PEEBLES, 1564 Broadway, New YorkJAMES PLUNKETT, 1564 Broadway, New YorkC. M. BLANCHARD, 1579 Broadway, New YorkLEWIS AND GORDON, Columbia Theatre Building, 7thAve. at 47th St., New YorkMAX HART, 1564 Broadway, New YorkJAMES J. ARMSTRONG, Columbia Theatre Building, 7thAve. at 47th St., New YorkWILLIAM A. BRADY, The Playhouse, 137 W. 48th St., New YorkBART McHUGH, Land Title Building, PhiladelphiaMENLO E. MOORE, 22 W. Monroe St., ChicagoMINNIE PALMER, 35 Dearborn St., Chicago
The following vaudeville circuits, while they may not maintain regular producing departments, produce acts every now and then.
THE UNITED BOOKING OFFICES OF AMERICA, 1564Broadway, New York. This organization booksthe B. F. Keith Theatres and allied small- andbig-time housesORPHEUM CIRUIT COMPANY, 1564 Broadway, New YorkLOEW'S THEATRICAL ENTERPRISES, 1493 Broadway, New YorkPOLI'S CIRCUIT, 1493 Broadway, New YorkTHE WESTERN VAUDEVILLE MANAGERS' ASSOCIATION,Majestic Theatre Building, ChicagoGUS SUN CIRCUIT, New Sun Theatre Building,Springfield, OhioBERT LEVEY CIRCUIT, Alcazar Theatre Building, San FranciscoPANTAGE'S CIRCUIT, SeattleSULLIVAN AND CONSIDINE, Seattle
To these markets nearly every booking agent and manager in the vaudeville business might be added. Each one has a list of acts he handles that need new material from time to time. And often the agent or manager will add to his list of clients by producing an exceptionally fine act himself.
The reason such a list is not given here is that it would require a small volume merely for the names and addresses. Consultation of "The Clipper Red Book"—a handy directory of theatrical agents, sold at ten cents—will supply this information. A knowledge of the special kinds of acts handled by each agent or manager, and the producers previously given as well, may be gathered by a careful reading of the various theatrical specialized journals. This knowledge can only be acquired a bit here and a little there through persistent attention to the notices of new acts and announcements of plans.
SAMUEL FRENCH, 28 W. 38th St., New YorkT. S. DENNISON, Chicago
VARIETY, 1536 Broadway, New YorkTHE DRAMATIC MIRROR, 1493 Broadway, New YorkTHE NEW YORK MORNING TELEGRAPH, 50th St. &8th Ave., New YorkTHE NEW YORK STAR, 1499 Broadway, New YorkTHE CLIPPER, 47 W. 28th St., New YorkTHE BILLBOARD, 1465 Broadway, New YorkTHE DRAMATIC NEWS, 17 W. 42d St., New YorkTHE NEW YORK REVIEW, 121 W. 39th St., New YorkTHE THEATRE MAGAZINE, 8 W. 38th St., New YorkTHE GREEN BOOK MAGAZINE, North American Building,Chicago.
While an understanding of how a vaudeville act is transformed from a manuscript into a commercial success may not be necessary to the writing of a good act, such a knowledge is absolutely necessary to the writer who hopes to make money by his work. For this reason I shall devote this final chapter to a brief discussion of the subject.
Permit me, therefore, to take the manuscript of an act, assuming for my purpose that it represents a monologue or a two-act, a playlet or a musical comedy, and trace its commercial career from the author's hands, into a producer's, through a booking office, to success. Anyone of the famous examples printed in this volume could be so taken and its history told, but no one would combine in its experience all the points that should be given. So I shall ask you to imagine that the act whose commercial story I am about to tell represents in itself every kind of act to be seen in vaudeville. I shall call this act by the name of "Success."
When Mr. Author, the writer of "Success," received a letter from Mr. Producer accepting the act and requesting him to call at his office to discuss terms, Mr. Author was delighted and hurried there as fast as he could go.
The office boy ushered him into Mr. Producer's private office, and before the caller could get his breath Mr. Producer had made him an offer. He accepted the offer without haggling over the terms, which seemed to Mr. Author very satisfactory. To tell the truth, he would have accepted almost anything, so eager was he to get his first act on the stage, so it was lucky for him that the terms were really fair.
He had hardly folded up the contract and stowed it, with the advance royalty check, in his bosom pocket, before Mr. Producer plunged into business. He pressed a button for the office boy and told him to tell Mr. Scenic Artist to come in. Now Mr. Scenic Artist was the representative of a great scenic studio, and he sketched a design for a special set in a jiffy; then he thought of another, and then of a third. And Mr. Producer and he were so interested in combining all their good ideas into one admirable set that Mr. Author was startled when they shoved a sketch under his nose and asked for suggestions. He made two that were pertinent to the atmosphere he had imagined for his room, and when they were incorporated in the sketch, Mr. Producer O. K'd it and Mr. Scenic Artist bowed himself out, promising to have a model ready the next day.
Mr. Producer then rang for Miss Secretary, and told her to have Mr. Star, Miss Leading Lady and other performers in the office next morning at eleven o'clock, gave her a list of the characters he wished to cast, and handed her the manuscript with an order to get out parts, and to have them out that night. He turned to Mr. Author with a request for the incidental music for the act. Mr. Author told him he had none. Then Mr. Producer reached for the telephone, with the remark that the music could wait, and called up the United Booking Offices of America.
After a few minutes wait, Mr. Producer got the special Mr. Booking Manager for whom he had inquired, told him he had an act for which he wanted a break-in week, and as he hesitated and named a date three weeks later, Mr. Author was sure the act had been booked. Mr. Author marveled that the act should be contracted to appear when it was not even yet out of manuscript form, but when he mentioned this with a smile, Mr. Producer wanted to know how he ever would get "time" for an act if he didn't engage it ahead. He explained that he had a regular arrangement with Mr. House Manager to play new acts in his house at a small "break-in" salary. It was an arrangement convenient to him and gave Mr. House Manager fine acts at small cost.
After this, Mr. Producer rose from his desk and Mr. Author went out, promising to be on hand that evening at eight to go over the manuscript and make some changes that Mr. Producer promised to prove were necessary to the success of the act. And as he passed through the outer office, Mr. Author heard Miss Secretary explain over the telephone that Mr. Producer wished a hall at eleven o'clock two days later to rehearse a new act.
Promptly at eight o'clock that night Mr. Author presented himself at the office again, and found Mr. Producer busily engaged in reading the manuscript. A tiny paper model of the mimic room in which the act was to be played stood upon the desk. When he stooped he saw that the walls were roughly colored after the sketch they had discussed and that the whole scene bore an amazing likeness to the place of his imagination. Mr. Producer explained that he had had the model rushed through to make it possible for them to "get down to brass tacks" at once. The act needed so many little changes that they would have to get busy to have it ready for the morning.
When Mr. Producer began discussing various points about the act, Mr. Author could not for the life of him imagine what all these changes could be. But when Mr. Producer pointed out the first, Mr. Author wondered how he ever had imagined that the heroine could do the little thing he had made her do—it was physically impossible. Point after point Mr. Producer questioned, and point after point they changed, but there was only the one glaring error. A motive was added here, a bit of business was changed there, and as they worked they both grew so excited that they forget the time, forgot everything but that act. And when the manuscript at last dropped from their exhausted hands, it looked as if an army had invaded it.
Mr. Author glanced at the pile of nicely bound parts and sighed. All that work would have to be done over! "Only another one of my mistakes," smiled Mr. Producer as he scribbled an order to Miss Secretary, attached it to the manuscript, together with these now useless parts, and laid them on her desk, as he and Mr. Author went out into the cool night air. "See you tomorrow at eleven," said Mr. Producer as they parted. And Mr. Author looking at his watch wondered why he should take the trouble to go home at all.
At eleven Mr. Author found the little outer office crowded with actors and actresses. Miss Secretary was busily directing the typing of the new manuscript and parts. Mr. Producer was late. After Mr. Author had waited an hour in the private office, Miss Secretary came in and said he should wait no longer, because Mr. Producer had been called out of town to straighten out some trouble which had developed in one of his acts and had just telephoned that he would not be in until late that afternoon. Rehearsal would be as scheduled next morning, Miss Secretary explained. The performers would be on hand, and she hoped to goodness they would have some idea of their parts by then. Mr. Author wanted to know how the cast could be engaged when Mr. Producer was away, and Miss Secretary told him that Mr. Producer knew the capabilities of everyone who had called and had even directed her to engage the ones he named.
The following morning Mr. Author saw his characters for the first time in the flesh—and was disappointed. Also, the rehearsal was a sad awakening; it wasn't anything like he had imagined it would be. They all sat around on chairs and Mr. Producer told them what the act was all about. Then he suggested that they go through it once, at any rate. Chairs were placed to mark the footlights, chairs were used to indicate the doors and window, and chairs were made to do duty as a table, a piano and everything else.
Finally they got started and limped through the lines, reading their parts. Then Mr. Producer began to show them how he wanted it done, and before he had finished he had played every part in the act. They went through the act once more with a myriad of interruptions from Mr. Producer, who insisted on getting things right the very first time, and then he knocked off, calling it a day's work.
The next morning Mr. Author was on hand early with some suggestions: one Mr. Producer adopted, the others he explained into forgetfulness—and rehearsing began in earnest. They worked all morning on the first quarter of the act and went back at it late that afternoon. Miss Leading Lady unconsciously added one line and it was so good that it was kept in the act. Then Mr. Star did something that made them all laugh, and they put that in. Of course some pretty lines in the dialogue had to come out to make room, but they came out, and Mr. Author never regretted their loss. And the next day it was the same, and the day after that, and the seventh day, and the eighth day.
Then came a day when Mr. Author saw the act taking shape and form, and when he spoke to Mr. Producer about it, Mr. Producer said he thought that after all the act might whip around into something pretty good.
A few days later when Mr. Author arrived at the rehearsal hall, there were three strange men facing the company, who were going through the act for the first time without interruptions from Mr. Producer. Mr. Author wondered who they were, and watched their faces with interest to see how they liked his act. After a while he came to consider as great compliments the ghosts of smiles flickering across their jury-like faces. And when it was all over the performers gathered in one corner, and Mr. Producer came over to him, and the three men whispered among themselves. Mr. Producer explained that they were booking managers, and then Mr. Author sensed the psychological reason for the unconscious drawing together of the different clans.
His heart beat rather violently when the three men came across the room, and he felt a great wave of gladness sweep over him when the tallest of the three pulled out a little black book and said, "Mr. Producer, I'll pencil it in one of my houses for next week at this figure," and he showed Mr. Producer what he had written.
"And I'll take you for the second break-in, as we agreed when you 'phoned," said the shortest man. "And I'll take the third at that."
Then it was that Mr. Author felt a great admiration for Mr. Producer, because Mr. Producer dared assert his personality. Mr. Producer objected to the figure, talking of the "name" of Mr. Star.
"That's every penny he's worth," came the adamant answer.
Then Mr. Producer mentioned transportation costs, and the cost of hauling scenery, as additional arguments.
"Why didn't you say special set at first?" said the smallest man; "I'll give you this advance." Then all four looked, and they all agreed.
Then Mr. Author was introduced, quite casually. "Guess your act'll get by," conceded one of the jury generously, as they all left.
"So you're going to open a week earlier?" gasped Mr. Author to Mr. Producer, when they were alone in the interval between the exit of the three and the entrance upon the scene of the performers, who came swiftly across the room to learn their fate. "And you've booked three weeks more!"
"Well," said Mr. Producer, "you know the boys only pencilled those weeks in—pencil marks can be rubbed out."
The next day as they were on their way to the train to go up to the town where the act was to open, Mr. Producer suddenly remembered that he had forgotten to send Miss Secretary up to the Booking Offices for his contract. He wanted that contract particularly, for he had a feud of long standing with the manager of that particular house. So up he rushed to get that contract, with Mr. Author tagging at his heels.
It was the first time Mr. Author had seen even the waiting room of a booking office—it amazed him by its busy air. A score or more performers crowded its every inch of space. They were thickest around a little grilled window, behind which stood a boy who seemed to know them all. Some he dismissed with a "Come in tomorrow." Others he talked with at length, and took their cards. When he had a handful he disappeared from the window.
But Mr. Producer was calling Mr. Author. Mr. Producer stood holding open the inner door. So in Mr. Author went—to another surprise. Here there was no crush of people—here there was no rush, and little noise. Stenographers stood about, seemingly idle, and at a dozen little desks sat a dozen men quietly bending over rather odd-looking books, or talking with the few men who came in.
One of these men Mr. Author recognized as Mr. Booking Manager, for whom they were to play the second week. He was about to speak to him, when up came a bustling little man who said, "Do you want Miss Headliner for the week of the thirtieth? I can give her to you."
"Nope, all filled. Give you the week of the twenty-third."
"All right."
Mr. Booking Agent made a note in his little book, and Mr. Booking Manager bent over his desk and wrote Miss Headliner's name in his big book—and a business transaction was consummated.
Then Mr. Booking Agent hustled over to another desk and repeated his offer of the week of the thirtieth.
"Sorry, give you the week of the twenty-third," said this man.
"Just filled it," said Mr. Booking Agent. "Can't you give me the thirtieth? Who's got the thirtieth open?"
The man at the next desk heard him. "Who for? Miss Headliner?All right, I'll take her."
Just then Mr. Producer came out of a little room and Mr. Author followed him in a wild dash to catch the train. In the smoker he asked Mr. Producer to explain what he had seen in the Booking Offices. And Mr. Producer said: "Each one of those men you saw up there is in charge of the shows of one, or maybe three or four vaudeville theatres in different cities. It is their duty to make up the shows that appear in each of their houses. For instance, Mr. Booking Manager, whose house we are playing this week, books the shows in four other houses.
"The man you heard ask him if he would take Miss Headliner for the thirtieth, is Miss Headliner's business representative. His name is Mr. Booking Agent. Besides Miss Headliner, he is the representative for maybe fifty other acts. For this service he receives a commission of five per cent of Miss Headliner's salary and five per cent on the salaries of all the acts for whom he gets work. It is his business to keep Miss Headliner booked, and he is paid by her and his other clients for keeping them working.
"Mr. Booking Manager, on the other hand, is not paid a commission. He receives a flat salary for the work that he does for his houses. You remember you met him yesterday, when he pencilled 'Success' in for the house we are on our way to play. Well, that is also a part of his business. For some of his houses that like to make a big showing at little expense, he must dig up new big acts like ours, which are breaking-in.
"Now, the price I get for this act for the breaking-in weeks, is mighty low. But this is customary. That is the reason why the performers have to be content with half salaries, and you with half-royalty. But this price does not affect the future price I will receive. It is marked on the books as the 'show price.' That means that it is recorded in the book-keeping department by the cashier as the price for which I am showing this act to the managers. When the act has made good, a price is set on the act, and that is the standard price for the other houses that book through these offices. The book-keeper watches the prices like a hawk, and if I tried to 'sneak a raise over,' he would catch it, and both yours truly and Mr. Booking Manager would be called up on the carpet by the head of the Offices. The only increase that is permitted is when a new season rolls around, or two or three booking managers agree to an increase and consult the office head about boosting the salary on the books."
That night Mr. Author rather expected to see a dress rehearsal of the act; he was disappointed. But the next morning there was a full dress rehearsal, played in the brand new special set which had come up with them and that now shone like a pretty picture in the dingy theatre.
It rather amazed Mr. Author to note that the emphasis of this rehearsal was not put on the speeches, but upon the entrances and exits, and the precise use and disposal of the various properties employed. A glimmering of the reason came to him when Mr. Star promised to murder anyone who moved a book that he used in his "big" scene. "Unless it is here—right here—I'll never be able to reach it and get back for the next bit without running."
And so the rehearsal went on, with no effort to improve the lines, but only to blend the physical movements of everyone of the performers to make a perfect whole and to heighten the natural effect of even the most natural action. Then the dress rehearsal came to an end, and the entire party went out to see the town.
That night, after the performance, they worked again on the act, because Mr. Producer had been seized by an idea. And when they had gone through the act time and again to incorporate that idea, they all went wearily to bed, praying for success next day.
At ten o'clock in the morning Mr. Author was at the theatre. He found that other acts had preceded him. The stage was littered with trunks and scenery, trapeze bars, animal cages and the what-not of a vaudeville show. Each performer as he came in was greeted by the doorman with the gift of a brass check, on which there was stamped a number. This number told the performer in what order he was entitled to rehearse. Vaudeville is a democracy—first come, first rehearsed.
The stage hands were busy rolling in trunks which express-men had dumped on the sidewalk, the electrician was busy mentally rehearsing light effects according to the formula on a printed light plot which was being explained to him by a performer. "Props" was busy trying to satisfy everyone with what he had on hand, or good-naturedly sending out for what had not been clearly specified on the property plot. The spot-light man in the gallery out front was busy getting his lamp ready for the matinee, and consulting his light plot. And the stage-manager was quite the busiest one of them all, shoving his scenery here and there to make room for the newly arrived sets, directing the flying of the hanging stuff, and settling questions with the directness of a czar.
Suddenly through the caverny house sounded the noise of the orchestra tuning up. The leader appeared and greeted the performers he knew like long lost brothers and sisters, and then Brass Check Number One dropped into his hand, and the Monday morning rehearsal began. Then it was that Mr. Author learned that it is not the acts, which are rehearsed on Monday morning, it is the vaudeville orchestra, and the light men and "Props."
This was borne in forcibly when Mr. Producer arrived with the performers and "Success" went into rehearsal. Although the entire staff of the theatre had been rehearsed the night before at the final dress rehearsal, Mr. Producer wished to change some lights, to instruct "Props" more clearly, and to jack up the orchestra into perfection. Therefore they all went through the act once more. Then the scrub-women appeared and demanded the centre of the stage with great swishes of watery cloths. The curtain came down to hide the stage from the front of the house, and the first early comers of the audience filtered in.
Mr. Author has never been able to recall just how "Success" played that first performance. He has dim memories of a throbbing heart, fears that lines would be forgotten or the whole "big" scene fall to pieces; and finally of a vast relief when the curtain came down, amid—applause. The curtain went up and came down a number of times, but Mr. Author was too busy pinching himself to make sure that he wasn't dreaming, to count how many curtains the act took.
It seemed to him like a tremendous hit, but Mr. Producer was in a rage. There were scores of points that had not "got over," half a dozen of his finest effects had been ruined, and he was bound those points should "get over," and those effects shine out clear and big.
Looking back on that week, Mr. Author recalls it as a nightmare of changes. They cut out speeches, and changed speeches, and took out bits of business, and added new bits—they changed everything in the act, and some of the changes they changed back again, until by Saturday the act was hardly to be recognized. And then they played two more performances to crowded houses that applauded like madmen; and Mr. Producer smiled for the first time.
Then they moved to the next theatre, and the first performance showed even Mr. Author that all the work had been wise. Now he was even more anxious than Mr. Producer to make the many changes by which this week was marked. And by the end of the week "Success" looked like—success.
They were preparing for a week of great things in the next town, when Wednesday night a cancellation notice came for that precious week. Something had gone wrong, and the pencilled date had to be rubbed out. Of course, by all the laws of the legislatures that week should never have been rubbed out, because there was a contract fully binding on both the theatre and Mr. Producer. But the week was rubbed out of sight, nevertheless, and Mr. Producer—knowing vaudeville necessities and also knowing that only the most dire necessity made Mr. Booking Manager "do this thing to him"—forgave it all with a smile and was quite ready to get back to town when Monday morning rolled around.
But Monday morning there occurred a "disappointment" at another theatre in a town only a few miles away. The act that was to have played that date was wrecked, or had overslept itself. Anyway. the resident house manager telephoned to the Booking Offices that he was shy one act. Now it happened that the act that "disappointed," was of the same general character as "Success." The Booking Manager knew this, and remembered that "Success" was within a few miles and with an open week that ought to have been filled. Therefore, just as Mr. Producer and Mr. Author were leaving the hotel to join the other members of "Success" at the railroad station. Mr. Producer was called to the telephone—long distance.
In less time than it takes to recount it, the resident manager who was suffering from a disappointment, and Mr. Producer, suffering from the lack of a playing week, were both cured of their maladies at the same time. And so, instead of going back to town, "Success" rushed to the next city and played its week.
Now, in this last week of breaking-in, Mr. Author realized one fact that stands out rather prominently in his memory; it is a simple little fact, yet it sums up the entire problem of the show business. Perhaps the rush of events had made it impossible before for the truth to strike home as keenly as it did when there suddenly came to him a tiny little bit of business which made a very long speech unnecessary. He explained it to Mr. Producer, and Mr. Producer seized on it instantly and put it into the act. That night the act went better than it had ever gone before. This little bit of condensation, this illuminating flash which was responsible for it, "punched up" the big scene into a life it had never had before. Then it was that there also flashed upon Mr. Author's mind this truth:
A dramatic entertainment is not written on paper. It is written with characters of flesh and blood. Strive as hard as man may, he can never fully foretell how an ink-written act will play. There is an inexplicable something which playing before an audience develops. Both the audience and the actors on the stage are affected. A play—the monologue and every musical form as well—is one thing in manuscript, another thing in rehearsal, and quite a different thing before an audience. Playing before an audience alone shows what a play truly is. Therefore, a play can only be made—after it is produced. Even in the fourth week of playing—the first week of metropolitan playing—Mr. Author and Mr. Producer made many changes in "Success" that were responsible for the long popularity it enjoyed. Mr. Author had learned his lesson well. He approached his next work with clearer eyes.
"THE GERMAN SENATOR," A Monologue, by Aaron Hoffman.
"THE ART OF FLIRTATION," A Two-Act, by Aaron Hoffman.
"AFTER THE SHOWER," A Flirtation Two-Act, by Louis Weslyn.
"THE VILLAIN STILL PURSUED HER," A Travesty Playlet, by ArthurDenvir.
"THE LOLLARD," A Comedy Playlet, by Edgar Allan Woolf.
"BLACKMAIL," A Tragic Playlet, by Richard Harding Davis.
"THE SYSTEM," A Melodramatic Playlet, by Taylor Granville.
"A PERSIAN GARDEN," A One-Act Musical Comedy, by Edgar Allan Woolf.
"My OLD KENTUCKY HOME," A One-Act Burlesque, by James Madison.
The nine acts which are given, complete, in the following pages are representative of the very best in vaudeville. Naturally, they do not show every possible vaudeville variation—a series of volumes would be required for that—but, taken together, they represent all the forms of the talking vaudeville act that are commonly seen.
The German Senator
This monologue by Aaron Hoffman has been chosen as perhaps the best example of the pure monologue ever written. Originally used by Cliff Gordon—continually being changed to keep it up-to-the-minute—it has, since his death, been presented by numerous successors of the first "German Senator." It is doubtful if any other dramatic work—or any other writing—of equal length, and certainly no monologue, has returned to its author so much money as "The German Senator" has earned.
The Art of Flirtation
For more years than perhaps any other vaudeville two-act, this exceptionally fine example of two-act form has been used by various famous German comedians. It may be considered to stand in much the same relation to the two-act that "The German Senator" does to the monologue. Its author, also Mr. Aaron Hoffman, holds a unique position among vaudeville and musical comedy writers.
After the Shower
This delightful little example of lover's nonsense was played for more than four years by Lola Merrill and Frank Otto. It has been instanced as one of the daintiest and finest flirtation-couple-acts that the two-a-day has seen. Mr. Louis Weslyn has written perhaps more successful acts of this particular style than any other author.
The Villain Still Pursued Her
This travesty, one of the most successful on record, was used for years to star Mrs. Frank Sheridan. Written by Mr. Arthur Denvir, whose specialty is travesties, it undoubtedly became the inspiration for the many similar acts that created the travesty-vogue of 1912-15.
The Lollard
Edgar Allan Woolf, who wrote this delightful satirical comedy, is perhaps the most successful writer of playlets in this country. For many years he has turned out success after success for famous legitimate stars, while still other performers have become vaudeville stars in his acts. Mr. Woolf himself chose "The Lollard" as representative of his best comedies. The star role, Angela Maxwell, was created in this country by Miss Regina Cornelli, and in England by Miss Hilda Trevelyan.
Blackmail
Richard Harding Davis needs no introduction. This remarkable little tragedy was produced for the Orpheum Circuit by Mr. Charles Feleky, who declares it to be "the best tragic playlet I have produced." From so eminent a vaudeville producer, this is, indeed, high praise. The character of Richard Fallon was created by Mr. Walter Hampden.
The System
Without doubt, this act is the best of the many big productions with which Mr. Taylor Granville has supplied The United Booking Offices of America, during his many years as a producing star. Mr. Junie McCree, who collaborated with Mr. Granville, was once president of "The White Rats," the vaudeville actors' union, and is now a successful vaudeville writer. Mr. Edward Clark, the third collaborator, has written many successful vaudeville acts.
"The System" is said to have been characterized by Mr. George M. Cohan as the best one-act melodrama he ever saw. Its extraordinary popularity in this country and in England is but added proof of the tenseness of its scenes and its great ending.
A Persian Garden
Played by Louis Simons season after season, this real comedy set to music is without question Mr. Edgar Allan Woolf's best effort in this field. Unlike the usual musical comedy, this act possesses dialogue interest as well as pleasing brilliancy. It has won its many years of success not because of scenery, costumes and the chorus, but by the sterling worth apparent in the manuscript divorced from them.
My Old Kentucky Home
Perhaps the most characteristic of the burlesque acts in vaudeville, this "Tab" has been played in various guises in the two-a-day and in burlesque for many seasons. It is the work of a writer who justly prides himself on his intimate knowledge of the burlesque form, and who possesses the most complete library of burlesque manuscripts in America. To the thousands of readers of "Madison's Budget," James Madison requires no introduction.
Permission to publish these acts has, in each instance, been personally granted to the author of this volume. This kind permission covers publication in this book only. Republication of these acts in whole or in part, in any form whatsoever, is expressly prohibited.
Stage presentation of any of the acts is likewise forbidden. ASpecial Warninghas been inserted in the introductory page of every act, at the request of each author. The reason for such repetition is to be found in the commercial value of successful vaudeville material, and in the fact that the general public has never precisely understood the reservations permitted to the author of a dramatic work under the copyright law. Infringements of any sort are subject to severe penalties under United States law and will be rigidly prosecuted.
To the writers of these acts the author of this volume wishes to express his deep appreciation for the permissions that enable him to print as illustrations of his text some of the finest acts that vaudeville has ever seen.
The German SenatorA Monologue
By Aaron HoffmanAuthor of "The Politicians," "The Belle of Avenue A,""The Newly-weds and their Baby", "Let George Do It,""School Days," Etc., Etc.
My dear friends and falling citizens:
My heart fills up with vaccination to be disabled to come out here before such an intelligence massage of people and have the chance to undress such a large conglomerated aggravation.
I do not come before you like other political speakers, with false pride in one hand and the Star Strangled Banana in the other.
I come before you as a true, sterilized citizen, a man who is for the public and against the people, and I want to tell you, my 'steemed friends, when I look back on the early hysterics of our country, and think how our forefathers strangled to make this country voss iss is it; when you think of the lives that was loosed and the blood that was shredded, we got to feel a feeling of patriotic symptoms—we got to feel a patriotic symp—symps—you got to feel the patri—you can't help it, you got to feel it.
I tell you, our hearts must fill up with indigestion when we look out to see the Statue of Liberty, the way she stands, all alone, dressed up in nothing, with a light in her hand, showing her freedom.
And what a fine place they picked out for Liberty to stand.
With Coney Island on one side and Blackwell's Island on the other.
And when she stands there now, looking on the country the way it is and what she has to stand for, I tell you tears and tears must drop from her eyes. Well, to prove it—look at the ocean she filled up.
And no wonder she's crying. Read the nuisance papers. See what is going on.
Look what the country owes.
According to the last report of the Secretary of the Pleasury, theUnited States owes five billion dollars.
Nobody knows what we owe it for;
And nobody ever sees what we have got for it; [1]
[1] Here begins the "Panama Canal point," referred to in Chapter V. It continues until the "End of Panama Canal Point" footnote below.
First read the monologue including this point, then read it skipping the point—thus you will see, first, what a complete "point" is; second, what "blending" means; and third, how a monologist may shorten or lengthen his routine by leaving out or including a point. [end footnote]
And if you go to Washington, the Capsule of the United States, and ask them, THEY don't even know THEMSELVES.
Then they say, what keeps the country broke is the Pay-no-moreCanal.
It cost the Government nine thousand dollars an hour to dig the canal. THINK OF THAT!
Nine thousand dollars an hour for digging, and the worst of it is, they ain't digging.
Up to date, it has cost a hundred and seventy million dollars to dig a hole—they've been at it for over nine years—and the only hole they've dug is in the United States Treasury.
Every six months, the Chief Engineer, he comes up with a report;
He says: "Mr. Congress, the canal is getting better every day, a million dollars MORE please."
He gets the money, goes out, buys a couple of shovels, then sends back a telegram: HOORAY—The digging is very good, the two oceans will soon be one.
Can you beat that?
Before they started the canal it didn't cost us nothing, and we had two oceans.
And by the time they get through, it'll cost us three hundred million and we'll only have one.
And now that the canal is nearly finished, it looks like it was going to get us into trouble.
Japan is against it on one side and England don't like it on the other.
And that's why we've got to have a navy. [1]
[1] End of "Panama Canal point." See footnote above, also Chapter V.
Of course, we've got a navy.
But everybody is kicking about it.
Why should they kick?
All we appropriated for the navy last year was four million dollars.
And there's eighty million people in this country.
And that figures a nickel apiece.
And what the hell kind of a navy do you expect for a nickel?
Still they are crying that the country is in destitution circumstances.That is inconsis—inconsis—you can't deny it.
Our country has got a superabum, a superabum—a superabum—we've got a lot of money.
There's money lying in the treasury that never was touched. And the first fellow that will touch it will get six months.
The whole trouble is the trusts.
Look what the cold storage trust have done with the eggs. Sixty cents a dozen—for the good ones. And the good ones are rotten.
Then they say the reason prices are going up is because wages are getting higher.
But why should they raise the price of eggs?
The chickens ain't getting any more wages.
And if meat goes up any higher, it will be worth more than money.
Then there won't be any money.
Instead of carrying money in your pocket, you'll carry meat around.
A sirloin steak will be worth a thousand dollar bill.
When you go down to the bank to make a deposit, instead of giving the cashier a thousand dollar bill, you'll slip him a sirloin steak.
If you ask him for change, he'll give you a hunk of bologny.
If they keep on, we won't be able to live at all.
Statistics prove that the average wages of the workingman is one dollar a day.
Out of that, he's got to spend fifty cents a day for food; fifty-five cents for rent; ten cents for car fare.
And at the end of a hard day's work—he owes himself fifteen cents.
Yet the rich people say that the poor people are getting prosperous.
They say, look at our streets. You see nothing but automobiles.You don't see half the poor people now that you used to.
Certainly you don't.
Half of them have already been run over and the other half is afraid to come out.
Why, between the automobiles and the trusts the poor man hasn't got a chance to live.
And if only the gas trust gets a little stronger, the price of gas will go up so high a poor man won't even be able to commit suicide.
They'll have him both ways. He can't live and he can't die.
And that's why I am with the socialists.
They say, "Down with the trusts! Do away with money. Make everything equal."
Imagine a fellow going into a jewelry store and saying:
"Give me a diamond ring, here's a lemon."
But the socialists have got some good ideas for the working people. And my heart and soul is with the labor class of people. I am for labor unions.
But what help are the labor unions to the working man?
Look at it in the right light.
A man pays twenty-five dollars to join a union. He gets a job in a shop for two dollars a day, works two weeks, the union gets out on a strike and he owes himself a dollar.
The unions are crying the days are too long.
They want the days shorter. They want the days should be eight hours long.
But think of the fellows out in the North Pole where the days are six months long. That's the place for the poor man to live.
When the landlord comes around and says, "Rent," all you have to do is to tell him to come around the day after tomorrow.
Then Andrew Carnigger, he comes out and tells us you should save money and put it in the bank.
What's the use of putting your money in the bank?
It's easy enough to put it in, but it aint so easy to get it out. When you want to take your money out, you got to give the cashier sixty days notice.
And did you ever figure out how far a cashier can go in sixty days?
Then they say, as the world goes on, we are improving.
It's ridiculum.
We were better off years ago than we are now.
Look at Adam in the Garden of Eat-ing.
Life to him was a pleasure;
There was a fellow that had nothing to worry about.
Anything he wanted he could get.
But the darn fool had to get lonesome.
And that's the guy that started all our troubles.
We would be all right today, if it wasn't for Adam and Evil.
Then they say that Adam fell for an apple.
It just shows how men have improved.
No man would fall for an apple today.
It would have to be a peach.
And I tell you, it's no wonder that women feel stuck up. They say they can do more than men can do.
That's very true, when you go back to the first woman, Eve.
She was only one little woman, all by herself, and she put the whole human race on the bum.
Could a man do that?
And yet she was only a rib out of Adam's side.
It just goes to show you what a cheap proposition woman was.
Nowadays, when you want to marry a woman, you got to buy a diamond ring, take her to the theatres, buy her taxicheaters, and what's left of your wages you got to spend on candy and tango trots and turkey teas. There's where Adam had it on all of us.
All Eve cost him was one bone.
It all goes to show you how much better off man was in those days than today, and while John D. Rottenfeller, the great Philosopede, he comes out and says, nobody has a right to be poor; he says, anybody can live on eighteen dollars a week.
He don't have to tell us that.
Let him tell us how to get the eighteen.
And still that great statesment, William Chinning Bryan, he comes out and says, we are living in a great country. He says we are living in a country of excitement intelligence and education.
That's very true.
Look at our public school system.
A child can go to school for nothing, and when he grows up to be a man and he is thoroughly educated, he can go into the public school and be a teacher and get fifty dollars a month.
And the janitor gets ninety-five.
That shows you how education is coming to the front. Wouldn't it better, instead of sending a child to school, to learn him to clean out a cellar?
And what's the cause of all the trouble?
The House of Representatives.
We send them to Washington to look out for the people and the only time they look out for the people is when they look out the window and see them coming.
Then they get $7,500 a year. They spend $10,000 a year, and at the end of the year they have $100,000 saved.
No wonder they are careless with our money.
That's all they got to do. Sit around Washington and touch the treasury.
Every couple of days a fellow comes into Congress and says:
"Good morning, Congress, let me have $4,000,000."
That's all they do, is make touches for millions.
You never heard of those suckers making a touch for a quarter, or a half a dollar.
To show you what they do with our money, look at our Weather BureauDepartment.
We pay a fellow $10,000 a year. For what?
To tell us when it's going to rain.
And he don't know himself.
But he don't want to know.
He knows that if he ever guesses it right, he is going to lose his job. But believe me, it's a soft job.
Nothing to do.
He gets up in the morning, eats a nice breakfast, smokes a good fat cigar; then he looks out of the window and says, "Fine weather to-day."
Then he takes his umbrella and goes out for a walk. I tell you, my dear friends, the way the country stands now, the country stands on the brink of a preci—the country stands on the brink of a precip—and if somebody shoves it, it is going over.
And the cause of all the trouble in the country is the crooked politics.
And that's why the women suffering gents have gotten together and are fighting for their rights.
And you can't blame them.
Now I see where one married woman has hit on a great idea.
She says there's only one protection for the wives.
And that's a wives' union.
Imagine a union for wives.
A couple gets married.
And as soon as they get settled, along comes the walking delegate and orders a strike.
Then imagine thousands and thousands of wives walking up and down the streets on strike, and scabs taking their places.
The Art of Flirtation A Two-Act for Two Men by Aaron Hoffman
Author of "Toblitz, or The End of the World,""The New Leader," "The Son of Solomon,""The Speaker of the House," Etc., Etc.
STRAIGHT: Say, whenever we go out together, you always got a kick coming. What's the matter with you?
COMEDIAN: Nothing is the matter with me.
STRAIGHT: With you always everything is the matter.
COMEDIAN: What's the trouble?
STRAIGHT: The trouble is you don't know nothing.
COMEDIAN: Yes, I do.
STRAIGHT: You know! If I only knew one-half of what you don't know,I would know twice as much as the smartest man in the world.
COMEDIAN: What you got against me?
STRAIGHT: You ain't a gentlemen.
COMEDIAN: What is a gentlemen?
STRAIGHT: A gentlemen is a man who knows how to act senseless vit people no matter vat happens.
COMEDIAN: I am a gentlemen, I always act senseless.
STRAIGHT: You are a gentlemen! Look at you. How can a man be a gentlemen with such a face like that. There are two kinds of men—gentlemen and rummies. I am a gentlemen, you are a rummy.
COMEDIAN: I am a rummy? I know how to act vit people. Ven you met your friends down the street, vat did you say to them?
STRAIGHT: I said come on and have a drink. I spoke like a gentlemen.
COMEDIAN: And ve all vent to have a drink.
STRAIGHT: Ve did.
COMEDIAN: Didn't I pay for it?
STRAIGHT: Sure—that shows you are a rummy.
COMEDIAN: No, that shows I was a gentlemen.
STRAIGHT: Dat's right. In a saloon you are a gentlemen.
COMEDIAN: Sure I am. I act just a bartender.
STRAIGHT: But the trouble with you is you don't know how to mingle.
COMEDIAN: Oh, I can mingle.
STRAIGHT: You don't know the first thing about mingling. As a mingler you are a flivver. Among men you are all right, but as soon as I take you out to some parties and dinners and you see some women around, your brains get loose.
COMEDIAN: Why—what do I do?
STRAIGHT: It makes no resemblance what you do or what you say. No matter how you do it—no matter how you say it, the women get insulted. You ain't got the least consumtion how to be disagreeable to the ladies.
COMEDIAN: Oh, I know how to be disagreeable to a lady. You ought to hear me talk to my wife.
STRAIGHT: To your wife? Any man can be disagreeable to his wife. But tink of other women—the trouble with you is, you have no, as the French people say, you have nosavoir faire.
COMEDIAN: No what?
STRAIGHT: I say that you ain't got no, what the French people call,savoir faire.
COMEDIAN: What's dot?
STRAIGHT:Savoir faire.
COMEDIAN: Oh, I can salve for fair.
STRAIGHT: You can salve for fair; yes, but you ain't got nosavoir faire. You are not a mingler. You have no vit, no humor. You ain't got noesprit.
COMEDIAN: Vere do you get all dose words?
STRAIGHT: I get them because I am a gentlemen.
COMEDIAN: Then I'm glad I am a rummy.
STRAIGHT: Sure you're a rummy. If you wasn't a rummy, you'd haveesprit.
COMEDIAN: Oh, I had a spree lots of times.
STRAIGHT: Not a spree. I meanesprit. I mean you ain't got no refinement—like me. I got polish.
COMEDIAN: You're a shine.
STRAIGHT: No, I ain't a shine. I am a lady killer.
COMEDIAN: One look at you is enough to kill any lady.
STRAIGHT: I am a Beau Brummel. Ven I am with the ladies, I talk to dem vit soft words; I whisper sweet nothings, but you, you rummy you, you don't know how to make the ladies feel unhappy.
COMEDIAN: How do you make them unhappy?
STRAIGHT: You got to be disagreeable to them.
COMEDIAN: And vat do you do to be disagreeable to ladies?
STRAIGHT: The only vay to be disagreeable to a lady, you got to flirt vit her.
COMEDIAN: Flirt. Vat does that mean flirt?
STRAIGHT: Flirting is a thing that begins in nothing. You say something, you talk like everything and you mean nothing, and it liable to end up in anything. A flirtation is a clan-destination meeting with a lady.
COMEDIAN: Vat kind of a meeting is dot?
STRAIGHT: Don't you know? Ven you flirt, you meet a pretty woman in a shady spot.
COMEDIAN: Oh, you meet a shady woman in a pretty spot.
STRAIGHT: Not a shady woman. A pretty woman in a shady spot.
COMEDIAN: How do you know so much about flirting?
STRAIGHT: Now you come to it. I got here a book on the art of flirtation. Here it is. (biz. shows book.)
COMEDIAN: What is the name of that book?
STRAIGHT: The art of flirtation. How to make a lady fall in love with you for ten cents.
COMEDIAN: A lady fell in love with me once and it cost me FiveHundred Dollars.
STRAIGHT: That's because you didn't have this book. This book tells you how to make love. This book is full of the finest kind of love.
COMEDIAN: For ten cents.
STRAIGHT: Yes, for ten cents.
COMEDIAN: Oh, it's ten cents love.
STRAIGHT: No, it ain't ten-cent love. It's fine love (opens book). See—here is the destructions. Right on the first page you learn something. See—how to flirt with a handkerchief.
COMEDIAN: Who wants to flirt with a handkerchief? I want to flirt with a woman.
STRAIGHT: Listen to what the book says. To a flirter all things have got a language. According to this book, flirters can speak with the eye, with the fan, with the cane, with the umbrella, with the handkerchief, with anything. This book tells you how to do it.
COMEDIAN: For ten cents.
STRAIGHT: Shut up. Now when you see a pretty woman coming along who wants to flirt with you, what is the first thing a man should do?
COMEDIAN: Run the other way.
STRAIGHT: No, no. This is the handkerchief flirtation. As soon as a pretty woman makes eyes at you, you put your hands in your pockets.
COMEDIAN: And hold on to your money.
STRAIGHT: No, you take out your handkerchief. (biz.)
COMEDIAN: Suppose you ain't got a handkerchief?
STRAIGHT: Every flirter must have a handkerchief. It says it in the book. Now you shake the handkerchief three times like this (biz.). Do you know what that means?
COMEDIAN: (Biz. of shaking head.)
STRAIGHT: That means you want her to give you—
COMEDIAN: Ten cents.
STRAIGHT: No. Dat means you want her to give you a smile. So you shake the handkerchief three times like this (biz.), then you draw it across you mouth like this (biz.). What does that mean?
COMEDIAN: That means you just had a glass of beer.
STRAIGHT: No, dat means "I would like to speak with you."
COMEDIAN: And does she answer?
STRAIGHT: She got to, it says it in the book.
COMEDIAN: Does she answer you with a handkerchief?
STRAIGHT: Yes, or she might umbrella.
COMEDIAN: Over the head.
STRAIGHT: Sure. If she answers you with de umbrella over the head, that means something. Ven she holds the umbrella over her head, she means that she is a married woman.
COMEDIAN: Den you quit flirting.
STRAIGHT: No, den you commence. If she shakes it dis way (biz.), dat means—
COMEDIAN: Her husband is coming.
STRAIGHT: No. Dat means "You look good to me." Den you hold your handkerchief by the corner like dis (biz.).
COMEDIAN: Vat does that mean?
STRAIGHT: Meet me on the corner.
COMEDIAN: Och, dat's fine (takes handkerchief). Den if you hold it dis way, dat means (biz.) "Are you on the square?"
STRAIGHT: You are learning already. You will soon be a flirter. Now I vill show you how you flirt according to the book. You are a man flirter, and I am a beautiful female.
COMEDIAN: You are what?
STRAIGHT: A female. A female.