Open-air theatre

Gigantic Spectacle of Julius Caesar Thrills 40,000: Receipts $50,000

Theatre site, Beachwood Canyon, Hollywood, Calif., Library of Congress, pan 6a02019. Click here for larger image

Source: Guy Price, ‘Gigantic Spectacle of Julius Caesar Thrills 40,000: Receipts $50,000’, Los Angeles Herald, 20 May 1916, p. 1

Production: William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, Beachwood Canyon, Los Angeles, 19 May 1916

Text: GIGANTIC SPECTACLE OF JULIUS CAESAR THRILLS 40,000: RECEIPTS $50,000

Forty thousand persons, the largest gathering in the history of Southern California, saw the production of “Julius Caesar” in the natural amphitheater at Beach wood canyon, Hollywood.

This estimate was made by officers of the Hollywood Carnival association, under whose auspices the production was given, today.

It was estimated that $50,000 was derived from the sale of tickets. After the cost of the production is paid for the remainder of this sum will be turned over to the Actors’ Benefit Fund.

The forty thousand persons reveled in a panorama of Shakespeare : such as probably never was seen in j America outside of the wonderfully beautiful Greek theater which nestles in the sun-rimmed Berkeley hills.

As a spectacle they saw something far more wonderful, far more impressive, far more inspiring than their eyes had ever before been privileged to feast upon. They perceived at one heavenly glance the ultra of dramatic artistry and theatric wonderment.

TRIBUTE TO AVON BARD

Confirmation was lacking, but the imagination necessarily does not have to be over-elastic to believe that the Avon bard, whose tercentennial the world is now celebrating, must have turned over in his flower and tribute bedecked grave and smiled with appreciative satisfaction as he visualized this wondrous triumph of brains and beauty. Had he himself lived to direct “Julius Caesar,” I doubt if the vast realism of it all would have been greater.

Every seat in the huge open-air auditorium available to accommodate a human being was occupied; the hilltops to the east, to the west and to the north, wreathed in Stygean darkness held their quota of avid listeners, and hundreds crowded the entrance, disappointed at not being able to enter the gates.

ANNUAL AFFAIR

It was a notable event, one that will remain glued to the memory as long as Shakespearean drama lives—and that will be for always. The only disturbing regret protruding itself through the splendor of the occasion was the fact that the sponsors are unable to stage the performance another night, or for several nights, in order to make possible that more may witness it.

But then we have the consoling promise of those generous-impulsed gentlemen that steps will be taken to make the festival an annual affair, with Hollywood giving its financial backing and Los Angeles its moral and artistic support.

KEEP FAITH

So much had been said of the plans for the production and the public hopes had been buoyed to so high a pitch that even the slightest flaw might have sent some, at the close of the performance, plodding down the mountain side crestfallen.

But the management, the directors and the players kept faith with us and in place of disappointment we ambled through the myriad of wooden benches fully satisfied and content, yea, happy, that we had the foresight to procure a ticket. Not a flaw – I mean a serious one, for in all tremendous undertakings there are bound to creep little discrepancies—not a discordant note save for a rubble of voices coming from the unseated during the opening act, not an intrusion to mar the beauty injected itself so as to be prominently visible to the naked eye; everything ran as smoothly and perfectly as a freshly-pruned racing motor — the entrances, the exits, the complex lighting apparatus, the mob scenes, and last, but by no means least, the competent symphony orchestra of 75 pieces guided by a baton in the master hand of Wilbur Campbell.

40,000 SURPRISED

A stranger next to me expressed surprise that a thing of so gigantic size and multifarious important angles could be operated with so little confusion. His remark is an epitome of the opinion of 40,000 people.

At no time and in no place since the history of man has a community had opportunity to sit through three hours of such delightful entertainment and view so rare and splendid a picture. To those on the outside its divine loveliness is unbelievable; certainly to us it was as though we were in a trance, or riding through a strange, wonderful land in a fairy chariot. It was an optical intoxication new to us.

Here is what we saw in our fairy dream, only it wasn’t a dream at all. Directly in front of us lay a street of Rome, its beautiful Roman architecture glistening in the rays of powerful spotlights: on the right stood the Roman theater, revered in history and play; in the background to the extreme left and towering above the clouds circling the Capitollne hill, was the Homan capitol, within whose walls the mighty Caesar proclaimed his laws and received the tumultuous homage of his people.

HILLS OF ROME

Winding snake-like from the street to the capitol ran a roadway which the king’s subjects ascended and descended at various junctures in the play. And as walls for the theater were the seven hills of Rome. Not the minutest particle of setting was theatrical in texture —all was the real, home-spun stuff built life-size and as near replicas of the originals as history would permit. No curtain drops with scenery painted thereon interjected themselves to destroy the illusion. Everything was real — and beautiful.

And into this colorful setting paraded the pompous Caesar (Theodora Roberts), the conspirator Brutus (Tyrone Power), Marc Anthony (William Farnum), Cassius (Frank Keenan), Lucilius (Tully Marshall), Casca (De Wolf Hopper), Calpurnia (Constance Crawley), Cato (Douglas Fairbanks), Portia (Sarah Truax), Flavius (Wilbur Highy), Cleopatra (Grace Lord), and other well-known and respected citizens of old Rome, escorted by thousands of prettily costumed women and children and an impressive throng of male onlookers.

COMBINATION OF STARS

Most of you are intimately familiar with the Individual artistry of these players, though personally you may never have witnessed their work. Picture, then, if you can, the effect of their combined histrionic efforts. Mere words become feeble in describing a result so exquisitely charming; the eyes and ears alone can drink of its dramatic fragrance. Numerically, the cast was much too large for individual praise, it being remembered that approximately 5000 participated, though the work of each warrants superlatives, so let one word suffice for the behavior of all. That word is “superb.”

The dancing girls were headed by dainty Mae Murray, Marjorie Riley and Capitola Holmes. This trio occupied the center of a picture that for grace and pulchritude and bewitching costumes is not often equaled.

CREATIVE GENIUS

No small credit for the success of the production is due Raymond Wells and his corps of assistants for the superb handling of the cast and entire production. For one thing the performance revealed Mr. Wells’ extensive knowledge of Shakespearean works and his creative genius for giving expression to the same.

There are many others to whom congratulations are not out of place, such men. for instance, as Charles A. Cooke, director general of the affair, and C.C. Craig, his chief aide, but they have reaped their reward in the appreciation that the production commanded from the spectators and the everlasting good will of the Actors’ Fund, in whose behalf the affair was staged.

CROWD ENTRANCE

It was regrettable, indeed, that the early part of the play was unwarrantedly interrupted by late comers.

They were compelled to crowd the entrance while the first scene was in progress, and, bring unable to procure seats, vented their anger by participating in a demonstration wholly ungentlemanly and unladylike, seriously hindering the performers and making it difficult for those seated to follow the threads of the play’s story.

For this condition the management was equally to blame with the disturbers. Lax attention at the main entrance resulted in hundreds swarming into the amphitheater after the play’s progress had begun whereas had these late arrivals been held in leash until the first Intermission ho disagreeableness would have shown on the surface.

The following telegram was received by the Hollywood Carnival association just prior to the “curtain raising” on “Julius Caesar”;

Hollywood Carnival Ass’n,
Hollywood. Calif.

Deeply grateful for Actors’ Fund and myself for the tremendous and magnificent action of all concerned in the production of Julius Caesar, for such a glowing tribute of affection and great service In the Interest of a worthy professional charity.

DANIEL FROHMAN.
Pres. Actors’ Fund of America.

Comments: Guy Price was dramatic editor at the Los Angeles Herald. The production he describes of Julius Caesar was one of the most spectacular and extraordinary Shakespeare productions ever staged. 1916 was the tercentenary of Shakespeare’s death. Many events marking the tercentenary were held around the world. In Los Angeles, the Hollywood Businessmen’s Club decided to put on a spectacular stage production of Julius Caesar, at Beachwood Canyon, a natural amptitheatre in the Hollywood hills. For the major players in the case they invited members of the film industry, which had only recently started establishing studios in the Hollywood area. the film industry provided technical and production talent (including the director of the production Raymond Wells), stage properties (D.W. Griffith, Jesse Lasky, Thomas Ince, Mack Sennett and the Universal Film Corporation all contributed, while Gelenral Electric provided the lighting), and performers. Among the big name film and stage stars were Theodore Roberts (Julius Caesar), Tyrone Power Sr. (Brutus), Frank Keenan (Marc Antony), William Farnum (Cassius), Constance Crawley (Calpurnia), DeWolf Hopper (Casca), Douglas Fairbanks (Young Cato), Sarah Truax (Portia), Horace B. Carpenter (Decius Brutus), Gibson Gowland (Cinna), Tully Marshall (Lucilius) and Mae Murray (Barbaric Dancer).

The remainder of the reported cast of 5,000 was made up of local residents and school students. The production was seen by 40,000 people, and featured vast visual spectacles including a gladiatorial arena and a re-enactment of the Battle of Philippi which commenced half a mile down the canyon before working its way up to the stage, lit all the way by magnesium flares. Roman sentries guided the audience to their seats. Music was supplied by a 75-piece orchestra. Profits of $2,500 went to the Actors’ Fund of America. Following the demands for a repeat production, a cut-down indoor production was staged at the Majestic Theatre, Los Angeles. Regrettably, only a single photograph of the set seems to survive to show something of the ambition of this one-off extravanganza, and despite the Hollywood involvement, it seems no one thought to film any of it.

Links: Copy at California Digital News Collection
Hope Anderson, ‘When Shakespeare Came to Beachwood Canyon: “Julius Caesar,” 1916‘, Under the Hollywood Sign, 9 February 2010
Luke McKernan, ‘Shakespeare in the Canyon‘, The Bioscope, 26 June 2007
Mary Mallory, ‘Hollywood Heights — ‘Julius Caesar’‘, archive of The Daily Mirror blog

Eleonora Duse

Ilya Repin, ‘Portrait of Actress Eleonora Duse’ (1891), via WikiArt

Source: Alice Meynell, ‘Eleonora Duse’, in The Colour of Life: and other essays on things seen and heard (London: John Lane, 1897), pp. 45-52

Text: The Italian woman is very near to Nature; so is true drama.

Acting is not to be judged like some other of the arts, and praised for a “noble convention.” Painting, indeed, is not praised amiss with that word; painting is obviously an art that exists by its convention—the convention is the art. But far otherwise is it with the art of acting, where there is no representative material; where, that is, the man is his own material, and there is nothing between. With the actor the style is the man, in another, a more immediate, and a more obvious sense than was ever intended by that saying. Therefore we may allow the critic—and not accuse him of reaction—to speak of the division between art and Nature in the painting of a landscape, but we cannot let him say the same things of acting. Acting has a technique, but no convention.

Once for all, then, to say that acting reaches the point of Nature, and touches it quick, is to say all. In other arts imitation is more or less fatuous, illusion more or less vulgar. But acting is, at its less good, imitation; at its best, illusion; at its worst, and when it ceases to be an art, convention.

But the idea that acting is conventional has inevitably come about in England. For it is, in fact, obliged, with us, to defeat and itself by taking a very full, entire, tedious, and impotent convention; a complete body of convention; a convention of demonstrativeness—of voice and manners intended to be expressive, and, in particular, a whole weak and unimpulsive convention of gesture. The English manners of real life are so negative and still as to present no visible or audible drama; and drama is for hearing and for vision. Therefore our acting (granting that we have any acting, which is granting much) has to create its little different and complementary world, and to make the division of “art” from Nature—the division which, in this one art, is fatal.

This is one simple and sufficient reason why we have no considerable acting; though we may have more or less interesting and energetic or graceful conventions that pass for art. But any student of international character knows well enough that there are also supplementary reasons of weight. For example, it is bad to make a conventional world of the stage, but it is doubly bad to make it badly — which, it must be granted, we do. When we are anything of the kind, we are intellectual rather than intelligent; whereas outward-streaming intelligence makes the actor. We are pre-occupied, and therefore never single, never wholly possessed by the one thing at a time; and so forth.

On the other hand, Italians are expressive. They are so possessed by the one thing at a time as never to be habitual in any lifeless sense. They have no habits to overcome by something arbitrary and intentional. Accordingly, you will find in the open-air theatre of many an Italian province, away from the high roads, an art of drama that our capital cannot show, so high is it, so fine, so simple, so complete, so direct, so momentary and impassioned, so full of singleness and of multitudinous impulses of passion.

Signora Duse is not different in kind from these unrenowned. What they are, she is in a greater degree. She goes yet further, and yet closer. She has an exceptionally large and liberal intelligence. If lesser actors give themselves entirely to the part, and to the large moment of the part, she, giving herself, has more to give.

Add to this nature of hers that she stages herself and her acting with singular knowledge and ease, and has her technique so thoroughly as to be able to forget it—for this is the one only thing that is the better for habit, and ought to be habitual. There is but one passage of her mere technique in which she fails so to slight it. It is in the long exchange of stove-side talk between Nora and the other woman of “The Doll’s House.” Signora Duse may have felt some misgivings as to the effect of a dialogue having so little symmetry, such half-hearted feeling, and, in a word, so little visible or audible drama as this. Needless to say, the misgiving is not apparent; what is too apparent is simply the technique. For instance, she shifts her position with evident system and notable skill. The whole conversation becomes a dance of change and counterchange of place.

Nowhere else does the perfect technical habit lapse, and nowhere at all does the habit of acting exist with her.

I have spoken of this actress’s nationality and of her womanhood together. They are inseparable. Nature is the only authentic art of the stage, and the Italian woman is natural: none other so natural and so justified by her nature as Eleonora Duse; but all, as far as their nature goes, natural. Moreover, they are women freer than other Europeans from the minor vanities. Has any one yet fully understood how her liberty in this respect gives to the art of Signora Duse room and action? Her countrywomen have no anxious vanities, because, for one reason, they are generally “sculpturesque,” and are very little altered by mere accidents of dress or arrangement. Such as they are, they are so once for all; whereas, the turn of a curl makes all the difference with women of less grave physique. Italians are not uneasy.

Signora Duse has this immunity, but she has a far nobler deliverance from vanities, in her own peculiar distance and dignity. She lets her beautiful voice speak, unwatched and unchecked, from the very life of the moment. It runs up into the high notes of indifference, or, higher still, into those of ennui, as in the earlier scenes of Divorçons; or it grows sweet as summer with joy, or cracks and breaks outright, out of all music, and out of all control. Passion breaks it so for her.

As for her inarticulate sounds, which are the more intimate and the truer words of her meaning, they, too, are Italian and natural. English women, for instance, do not make them. They are sounds à bouche fermée, at once private and irrepressible. They are not demonstrations intended for the ears of others; they are her own. Other actresses, even English, and even American, know how to make inarticulate cries, with open mouth; Signora Duse’s noise is not a cry; it is her very thought audible — the thought of the woman she is playing, who does not at every moment give exact words to her thought, but does give it significant sound.

When la femme de Claude is trapped by the man who has come in search of the husband’s secret, and when she is obliged to sit and listen to her own evil history as he tells it her, she does not interrupt the telling with the outcries that might be imagined by a lesser actress, she accompanies it. Her lips are close, but her throat is vocal. None who heard it can forget the speech-within-speech of one of these comprehensive noises. It was when the man spoke, for her further confusion, of the slavery to which she had reduced her lovers; she followed him, aloof, with a twang of triumph.

If Parisians say, as they do, that she makes a bad Parisienne, it is because she can be too nearly a woman untamed. They have accused her of lack of elegance — in that supper scene of La Dame aux Camélias, for instance; taking for ill-breeding, in her Marguerite, that which is Italian merely and simple. Whether, again, Cyprienne, in Divorçons, can at all be considered a lady may be a question; but this is quite unquestionable—that she is rather more a lady, and not less, when Signora Duse makes her a savage. But really the result is not at all Parisian.

It seems possible that the French sense does not well distinguish, and has no fine perception of that affinity with the peasant which remains with the great ladies of the old civilisation of Italy, and has so long disappeared from those of the younger civilisations of France and England—a paradox. The peasant’s gravity, directness, and carelessness —a kind of uncouthness which is neither graceless nor, in any intolerable English sense, vulgar—are to be found in the unceremonious moments of every transalpine woman, however elect her birth and select her conditions. In Italy the lady is not a creature described by negatives, as an author who is always right has denned the lady to be in England. Even in France she is not that, and between the Frenchwoman and the Italian there are the Alps. In a word, the educated Italian mondaine is, in the sense (also untranslatable) of singular, insular, and absolutely British usage, a Native. None the less would she be surprised to find herself accused of a lack of dignity.

As to intelligence—a little intelligence is sufficiently dramatic, if it is single. A child doing one thing at a time and doing it completely, produces to the eye a better impression of mental life than one receives from—well, from a lecturer.

Comments: Alice Meynell (1847-1922) was an English poet and essayist. Eleonora Duse (1858-1924) was an Italian actress of worldwide renown, the performances celebrated for the depth of their sensitivity. The plays in which she appeared mentioned here are Henrik Ibsen‘s Et dukkehjem (A Doll’s House), Divorçons by Victorien Sardou and Émile de Najac, and Alexandre Dumas filsLa Femme de Claude and La Dame aux Camélias.

Links: Copy at Hathi Trust