And Now the Radio Actor

Article appeared in Vanity Fair, March 5, 1927

[Spelling and punctuation are Mr. Howard's]

In the March issue of Vanity Fair I delivered myself of an epoch-making pronouncement. I asserted that the next theatrical reform would be the production of plays from which the actor would be entirely eliminated. And, furthermore, I gave an example of an actorless play which, apart from one or two little difficulties, was most convincing. At least I thought so. But some of my friends seemed to think I was trying to be funny. They didn't take me seriously at all.

Now I happen to be English and all my friends happen to be American. The result is that when I think I am being funny, my American friends take me very seriously, and when I am in dead earnest they find my earnestness ridiculously funny. Whereas I think they are funny all the time. Thus it is between the English and the Americans.

So I was very much hurt when my friends laughed at my remarks about the actorless theatre. In fact, I was terribly upset for some days—until I got an offer to act on the radio. That changed my entire attitude. My friends were right. I don't wonder they thought I was being funny. I now realise, like them, that you cannot get rid of the actor.

Change of mind being a sign of greatness, I here expound a directly reverse theory about the actor. I assert now that, far from being a waning force, the actor's profession will never die. The theatre may collapse, the films may grow from infancy into advanced senility, the phonograph be superseded—but the actor will go on forever, thanks to the Radio.

The moving pictures have always been regarded as a great menace to the theatre. They may be, but they are not a menace to the actor. There are ten thousand more actors in existence now than there were before the films were invented. And think of the hundreds of great artists who were not properly appreciated on the stage who have at last found an outlet for their genius in the expansive and expensive art of the motion picture. And now comes the radio rich in opportunities for many more misunderstood stage performers. A great many actors are already making regular incomes at it.

To the uninitiated, however, there is one great mystery about radio. Since the radio audience get their entertainment free, who is the philanthropist who pays the actors and the other very considerable expenses connected with the performance? Of course, that's the catch. One is never quite sure. But one thing is certain. The whole thing is publicity. The actor is advertising somebody's product—whether it be a chewing gum, an automobile tyre, a toothpaste or a night club.

A big businessman once said to me, 'Actors are parasites on the community—they don't prodooce nothing!' But not the radio actor. He is helping to 'prodooce' all manner of things.

My solitary radio appearance (or should I say audition) was most exhilarating. I was engaged by a very charming gentleman who called himself, somewhat mysteriously, 'the director'. With him I signed a contract in which I pledged my exclusive services for a certain evening between the hours of nine and ten, in fourteen different cities all at the same time. That was uncanny enough on the face of it. I was to play opposite a famous actress in a scene from an equally famous play.

Accordingly, at the appointed hour, I presented myself at the studio. I was pleasantly surprised at once. There was none of that depressing stage-door atmosphere that prevails at the regular theatre which makes one wish one were selling bonds instead of acting. Instead I entered a luxurious reception room, dimly lighted. A number of ladies and gentlemen were sitting about smoking and chatting. At first sight one would hardly have taken them for actors, musicians etc. They looked like ordinary people. A very small man, who carried his head permanently on one side, advanced and shook hands with me. He wasn't much to look at, but he had a rich and resonant voice. He said he was our Announcer. He said, furthermore, that we were due to be 'on the air' in five minutes, which frightened me rather.

I looked through into the two adjacent studios. They were hermetically sound-proof, and through their glass doors I could see people whose mouths opened and closed, but from which no sound came. I could see members of a large orchestra in their shirtsleeves working violently in, apparently, complete silence.

Suddenly the little man with his head on one side seized me and thrust me into one of the studios. I found myself, in a brilliant glare of light, in the midst of intense activity. the orchestra was tuning up, singers were humming through their songs. My Announcer friend was marching up and down, with his head more on one side than ever, having a little private rehearsal in addressing an imaginary audience. Officials were coming and going. The place seemed packed with people. It was all most bewildering, and the noise indescribable. Suddenly an official popped in and called out loudly 'Three minutes'—to which nobody paid the slightest attention—then, a little later, 'Two minutes'. This again had no effect. Rather nervously I glanced through the manuscript, and wished I had learned my part by heart. Still the audience couldn't see me reading it.

'One minute', the official announced—and still just as much noise. I was beginning to get a bit frightened when the famous actress with whom I was to act leaned over and screamed something in my ear. At the tops of our voices we had the following conversation:

Famous Actress: All right?
Me: What?
F.A.: You all right?
Me: I think so.
F.A.: I'm going to cut that line about New York being a big place.
Me: What line?
F.A.: Well, there's only one. I'm going to cut it. It's no good and you can't tell whether they're laughing anyway.
Me: If you say so.
F.A.: And don't forget to wait for the thunder.
Me: What thunder?
F.A.: Don't be a fool. All the thunder. And can you imitate the dog barking?
Me: (Horrified) Good God no.
F.A.: (with a giggle) Well, pull yourself together.
Me: I'll try, Laurette.

The Official Voice again—'Thirty seconds'. More noise than ever. Then—very loud—'ON THE AIR.' Absolute dead silence. Every single sound stops. You feel you ought to apologise for your noisy heart. Your audience has arrived. Seven million of them, from fourteen large cities. They are practically in the room with you. They can hear every sound. But that is the only way one exists for them—as sound waves. Apart from that they might be seven million blind people. But they are very definitely there. One feels their presence most oppressively.

At the far side of the room, the Announcer was now whispering confidentially into a solitary microphone. Wondering why he went so far to do this, I moved nearer to hear what he was saying. He was discussing some mysterious disease from which, according to his statistics, four-fifths of the human race are suffering, and which can only be checked by a liberal use of Somebody's Anti-Bacterial Toothpaste. For a moment I wondered what connection this disease could have with our impending performance. But only for a moment.

I realised by the gentleman's next words that this was The Ever-White Hour and that we were part of the 'Ever-White Tooth Paste Repertory Co', and would be assisted by the Ever-White Tooth Paste Symphony Orchestra and by the Mesdames So-and-So of the 'Ever-White Tooth Paste Grand Opera Co'. I was impressed by the discreet way our Announcer made these communications to our unseen public on a separate microphone some distance away rather than taint one's art with such commercialism.

The entertainment was now on in earnest. The Announcer, having completed his intimate message, now raised his head from the distant microphone (I now realised why his head was permanently on one side), the Tooth Paste Orchestra struck up and the Tooth Paste singers broke into song. As our performance opened with a love scene, I did my best to forget the microphone and addressed my remarks to the Famous Actress who drew appropriately near me. I was just getting nicely warmed up when an official gestured that I must speak my heart into the microphone. Accordingly I ignored her and poured my soul into the instrument. Immediately the official gesticulated that I was too close and speaking too loud. This rather flustered me, and I spoke my line 'Dearest, listen to that ominous thunder' before I realised there hadn't as yet been any thunder. This horrified the official who signalled violently to the drummer who in turn thumped vigorously on his drum. At this the Famous Actress gave a slightly hysterical giggle, and I was so put out I turned over two pages by mistake. This produced a dreadful result.

The Famous Actress had just said, 'Good night, Mr Jones—I'm going to bed now.' The leading man's correct reply to this was 'Oh, please don't go yet', whereas what I actually said was 'Splendid—I'll come with you.' This caused a temporary hiatus in the performance—my partner seemed unable to continue—and I didn't help matters by saying out loud, 'Oh, hell, I've turned over two pages at once.' This very nearly produced a catalepsy in the official whose gesticulations plainly indicated, 'You confounded fool, have you forgotten there are over seven million people at the end of this thing, four million of whom have probably got pyorrhea!'

Realising that a great part of the toothpaste market was trembling in the balance, I hastily pulled myself together and managed to get through the rest of the performance without further mishap. Needless to say I dared not look at my partner for fear of unsettling her again—and it was some months before she would speak to me.
I am afraid I have made it all look rather complicated but I assure you acting for the radio is not too difficult—at least for the majority of performers—who have found it an interesting, and lucrative, outlet for their talents. All of which convinces me that the actor is eternal. If one doesn't want to see him and hear him simultaneously, as in the theatre, there are two great alternatives: one can see him without hearing him on the movies, and one can hear him without seeing him on the radio. Which seems to prove that you can't get rid of the actor.

Trivial Fond Records, pgs. 70-74


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