One Man Theatre

[Spelling and punctuation are Mr. Howard's]

An Emotional Outburst by One Who Wrote, Acted and Directed a Play—and lived

There is no doubt at all that ninety-nine out of a hundred people in the civilised world regard those involved in the directing, writing and acting of plays as suffering from some form of insanity, a kind of incurable dementia dramaturgica. Perhaps it is really no worse than an advanced, though harmless, form of childishness—yet the freak one hundredth part remaining believe passionately in that kind of insane public display which is to them the magic of the theatre.

Now if the person who wants to write, direct or act in plays is regarded by the majority as suffering from abnormality, what is the psychopathic status of one who wants to do all three—simultaneously? I have recently involved myself in that kind of collective—and compounded—insanity. I have made a humble bid to join an exclusive company of such lunatics—James Gleason, William Hodge, Frank Craven, Noël Coward and others, not to mention the greatest lunatic of them all, Sacha Guitry.

However, it was never my initial intention to involve myself in these dangerous activities. I had merely written a play and that, at the outset, I thought was enough. Probably the greatest surprise that the budding playwright encounters—apart from having finished a play at all—is to discover that someone actually wants to produce it. When I had recovered sufficiently to sign the contract I went home thinking that my part of the job was done, that I could leave all the hard work to other people and proceed to the simple task of writing another masterpiece.

However, as I was an actor, the manager thought I ought to know how to cast the play. This little service I was pleased to perform and I, accordingly, sent him a list of good names. He instantly started raising objections, the principal one being that the weekly salaries of my cast ran into five figures. I sent him a second, more economical list, complete with the exception of a leading man. The fact was I simply couldn't think of one—except, of course, every playwright's choice, John Barrymore. The manager thought that an amusing, though expensive, idea. In desperation I called up a theatrical agent.

'Good morning, Mr White, I said affably. 'I want to put in an order for a leading man—talented but cheap, please.'

'How about yourself?' he replied cheerily. At first I thought it a ridiculous idea. Apart from the stupidity of paying commission to an agent for engaging myself, I didn't want to do it. I thought I had done enough by writing the play and selecting the cast. So it was something of a surprise when the manager rang me.

'Good morning, old man,' he said. 'On the advice of Mr White I have cast you for the leading man—you know, the undertaker (mortician in America). You'd be absolutely ideal for it.'

'But, really,' I protested, 'I don't think...'

'You must think of the play, old man,' he insisted. 'You'd be superb in the part, and it would save money. All the others I've seen want such enormous salaries.'

'But I'd want to get paid,' I said nervously.

'Oh, yes, of course—but since you have the interests of the play so very much at heart, I thought...' He paused. 'How much would you want?'

'Oh, that's all right,' I said, not wishing to seem grasping. 'Anything you've got left over...'

'That's the spirit,' he replied heartily, giving me a telephonic pat on the back.

Thus it happened. I was now the author, the casting director, and the leading man. The sane man who reads this is probably already convinced of my insanity—but he doesn't know it all yet. As author and leading man I appeared at the first rehearsal with quite a sense of responsibility. I encountered the stage manager.

'Is the director here yet?' I asked him.

'Director?' he questioned vaguely. 'No. I understood you were directing it yourself.'

I hurried to the telephone and asked to speak to the manager.

'Who's going to direct this piece?' I asked abruptly.

'What piece?' said the manager, who had a number of productions on hand at the moment and didn't recognise my voice. I hastened to identify myself.

'Why, of course, you're going to direct, old man,' he announced. 'You're the only one who knows what the play is about, and besides,' he added frankly, 'it'll save us quite a bit of money, and you want to do all you can for the production, don't you?'

And so I became, in one swift coup, the director. As I proceeded to tackle the first rehearsal there commenced a conflict between my three identities. It is an eternal conflict, that subconscious battle between the actor, the author and the director. At the back of the mind of each of these prime elements of the theatre there rests an everlasting suspicion that his own individual work is being marred by either, or both, of the other two elements. The actor feels he is severely handicapped by the author's having written lines that no human being can speak, and by the unnecessary interference of a fussy director. The author finds in the actor a character completely foreign to his original conception, and in the director an egoist who is quite obsessed with his own impression of the play and not the author's. While the director usually feels that the author has constructed his play abominably, and that the actor is wholly incompetent.

These are merely their private views of each other. They are usually able to preserve a friendly air of mutual admiration during their actual association. But what they say about each other after hours is, of course, nobody's business. But they do at least have some time away from each other when they can let off steam. That's where I was out of luck. Being author, actor and director all rolled into one I was never able to separate these warring elements, by day or night.

It was interesting to discover during rehearsals that it was the actor who had the most prominent identity in my mind because, obviously, he is the most active of the three. As the actor I was constantly resenting the intrusion of the author and director, and it exasperated me beyond measure never to be able to get away from them. Apart from having to work with them, I was obliged to eat with them, drink with them, smoke with them, to say nothing of sleeping with them. And I could not even insult them. It was a particularly trying ordeal for one's sanity.

'The title of this play,' I said to the stage manager just before the dress rehearsal, 'is, as you know, Murray Hill. Does that convey anything to you?'

'Not a thing,' replied the stage manager who was English.

'Nor does it to me,' I replied savagely. I should add that it was Howard the director speaking.

'That title is useless for the public,' I continued. 'I suggest we change it to The Cock-eyed World. That's a title the public will like, and [it's] good for the movie rights.'

There followed a violent protest from Howard, the author.

'The Cock-eyed World!' he said contemptuously. 'I'd rather starve. Murray Hill is dignified and it means something to people who know New York. Those that don't can find out.'

'Does it matter?' drawled Howard, the actor. 'It's the actors' names that draw them, not the name of the play.' Howard, the actor, stopped suddenly.

'This is a terrible line to say'—he burst out temperamentally—'I am the Deputy Assistant Mortician.' He appealed to the stage manager. 'Am I joking or am I serious?'

The stage manager appealed to Howard, the author, who seized a pencil and pored over the script.

'I'm sorry,' he said finally, 'I can't change it. That's what I mean. Say it anyway you like.'

The stage manager appealed to Howard, the director, who now considered the matter.

'I agree that it's a rotten line,' he announced at last, 'but you don't say it any too well. Why don't you try it with your back to the audience?'

This sort of thing goes on for weeks. Finally, there comes the first performance—in Boston. Howard, the author, stands trembling in the wings as the curtain rises. Dressed and made-up as the leading man, he looks like Howard, the actor. But all that is a mere shell. He is really Howard, the author, in disguise. He is listening intently. At the second line of his play someone in the audience laughs—and the author's heart turns over. It is impossible to describe the thrill that comes from that first laugh at the first performance of his play. Particularly as the author has never thought it at all funny himself. He thinks, of course, 'I am even cleverer than I thought.' And when the entire audience laughs out loud he nearly faints. This is assuming that it's a comedy he had tried to write. If it was a drama, he probably would faint.

By the time Howard, the actor, got onto the stage he had decided that it didn't really matter about his being an actor at all, seeing that he was such a perfectly grand author. And the Boston newspapers confirmed it. So did the Philadelphia newspapers, and the newspapers of several other points west of New York. 'Brilliant comedy'...'witty'...'sparkling dialogue' ...'splendid entertainment', and so on. By the time the play opened in New York, Howard, the author, was strongly in the ascendant—especially in his own mind.

But the New York critics didn't all seem to be so carried away by the play's scintillating brilliance as those of the other cities. One (Woollcott) praised the first act and called the rest 'floundering mendacity'; another (Atkinson) remarked that it was 'rather slovenly written', and a third was even ungallant enough to say, in effect, 'As a playwright Howard is an excellent comedy actor.' Which, though it may have disturbed Howard, the author, gave an evil satisfaction to Howard, the actor, who instantly started putting on airs. Howard, the director, got somewhat lost in the shuffle.

By the end of the second week in New York, all three Howards vowed never to work together again which, taking a detached view, was just as well for the survival of Howard the actor. He was eternally grateful to be out of the others' clutches, and to be able to be himself again. There is now no doubt in my mind that the psychopathic status of the individual in whom all three functions are combined is distinctly abnormal. I have since found out that ninety-nine out of a hundred members of the paying public are entirely in agreement.

Trivial Fond Records, pgs. 102-106


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