Theatre cannot exist without an audience, nor would it serve any purpose. The audience is not only the paymaster, it is the ultimate critic. If the actor or the theatre manager overlooks the spectator, the spectator will not return, then there will be no theatre. There is little question, then, that theatre has a duty to its audience, but, to a significant extent, the reverse is also true. If the theatre is to thrive, the audience must encourage it through both their attendance and their appreciation of its efforts.
The audience undoubtedly has a profound effect upon the performers. It is right there in front of them; they can feel it's mood and sense it's responses as the production progresses. However much they may have prepared for the part, it is very different to perform it in front of a live audience than in private amongst their peers. The uncertainty of how an audience may react to a performance can induce fear in even the most experienced of performers, and is the source of the phenomon known as 'stage fright' - which is surprisingly common among actors, especially on first nights.
Of course, then, as now, theatre audiences did not think and feel as one. I am sure that any regular theatregoer can recall a production that they did not particularly enjoy but was rapturously received by the audience as a whole and vice versa. And any any performer will tell you that the self-same play produced in exactly the same way at the same venue can receive a very different reaction from the audience on two consecutive nights.
An audience is, in effect, a living entity, and every audience is different. Without wishing to delve into the realms of human psychology, suffice it to say that crowds strengthen their collective spirit by shared expression of their feelings as a group, and a few more vociferous individuals can do much to steer that feeling in one direction or another.
When the first permanent theatres were built in London (and most other places on the continent) it was common practice to allow spectators to purchase seats on the stage to observe the action close-up. Unfortunately, this often led to disruption as these places were commonly taken by young fops who had little interest in the proceedings going on before them. They were far more interested in showing off their finery and caused a constant distraction through their constant restlessness and chatter. At a performance of 'MacBeth' in 1723, one such nobleman so incensed the actors that they chased him from the stage, only to see him return with the militia and burn the house down. The practice was largely in decline by the beginning of the nineteenth century, although it carried on much later in some theatres on special occasions and for special personages.
Audiences in those early days were much more vociferous in their approval or, particularly, disapproval of what they saw, and it was not at all unusual for the actors to be pelted with fruit if the spectators thought the performance was a poor one. Nor is it purely events that occur on the stage that a theatre audience may react to.
There can be no better example of how a theatre audience can be disaffected by off-stage affairs than the riots whcih accompanied the reopening of the Covent Garden theatre on 18th September, 1809 (the previous building having been destroyed by fire twelve months earlier). The causes of the unrest were that one tier had been replaced by private boxes, whilst the prices in the pit, which had been made more cramped in consequence, had been raised from three shillings and sixpence to four shillings. From the start the audience was in uproar, and when the manager, John Kemble, tried to quiet them with an address from the stage he was met with boos and hisses and cries of "old prices!". The commotion continued throughout the performance with the audience hissing and making all kinds of animal noises so that barely a word could be heard from those on stage. The protests continued night after night, week after week, until the management introduced bands of thugs in a desperate attempt to quiet the protesters. In the resulting violence some blood was shed but still the riots continued, until, after two whole months of disturbances, the management capitulated and the old prices were restored.
The potential audience for theatre that existed in Edwardian London was larger than it has ever been before or since. The population of London had expanded tremendously in the years leading up to that era, evolving public transport made it easier than ever for people to get around, and street lighting and an active police force made the streets safe after dark. The industrial revolution had created a much expanded middle-class and even the working classes had, for the first time, disposal income to spend on entertainment. This was a boom time for theatre audiences that will probably never be seen again. True, the population of London (and England as a whole) has continued to grow and is considerably larger now than it was then, but there are also many more competing forms of entertainment.
By this period, audiences, in the legitimate theatres at least, were generally somewhat more civilised than their earlier counterparts, though still not averse to hissing and booing as a sign of their disapproval. But altogether new sources of disruption had arrived on the scene, such as high-class ladies who would arrive fashionably late for a performance so that all eyes would be upon them and their sumptuous gowns as they bustled in to take their seats. One such socialite maintained a regular box at a London theatre where she would commonly sit with her back to the stage conversing loudly with her guests throughout the performance!
Reproduced below are two period articles discussing the duty of a theatrical audience.
(The Theatre [UK] - 1st September, 1879)
THE DUTY OF AN AUDIENCE
By EMILY FAITHFULL
A theatre is a place where a play is performed, and people go to the theatre to see a play. This is how the schoolboy would put it in a prize essay, and both statements would seem obvious enough; but the second is far from true in the present day. A very considerable contingent of the occupants of the boxes and stalls at the fashionable theatres seems under the impression that the performance on the stage is only intended as an agreeable accompaniment to conversation, like the band at a horticultural fete or a garden-party.
To begin with, these loquacious loungers come late. Their dinner-hour is not altered to suit the play or the public. So interested spectators are disturbed by the inevitable bustle of people entering the stalls in the middle of a scene. The rustling of ladies' silk robes, the discordant sounds which accompany the pulling back of curtains, banging down of seats, the sale of programmes, and the whispering of the box-keepers, are most provoking to those who have come to see the play. For the first hour, however, they must submit to the intolerable nuisance of people crushing past them and standing up between them and the stage. And as to the effect on the performers, why that is a matter quite beneath the consideration of these well-bred persons. The artists are paid to act, they have really no concern with what the public is pleased to do, especially the public that dines at 8.30 and is obliging enough to drop into the theatre about the middle of the second act of the piece of the evening. The vulgar people who show such exceedingly bad "form" as to be interested in a play, or interested in anything, ought to be thankful for the opportunity of gazing upon the "curled darlings" of male swelldom, or the besatined shoulders of Belgravian dames.
No indignant "sh-'s" will remind these vapid individuals that if they want to talk they could do it as well at home, and that their remarks, even if sensible - and they never are, or hardly ever - are not so interesting as the dialogue on the stage. It may be pre-eminently entertaining to the parties intimately concerned to hear that "Sir Harry is yachting in the Mediterranean," and that "Mrs. --- looked quite too charming at the ball last night," but we who don't know Sir Harry, and didn't see the belle of the ball, would far rather hear what Polly Eccles is saying to Sam, and we have, we fraukly admit it, the inconceivable bad taste to relish the tirade of Mr. Eccles upon the rights of the working man far more than the fashionable "Aw, indeed; really, how strange: you don't mean it," and all the other disjointed bits of conversation which fall from the lips of the spoilt children of fortune beside us.
The theatre is not the place for conversation, except between the acts. But here comes the time for inflicting another torture upon the genuine playgoers. Il faut boire. Such intervals are devoted to B. and S. and whiffs of cigarettes, for no dandy of the nineteenth century could possibly exist for two mortal hours at a play without such aids at every available opportunity. Accordingly at the end of every act they push past other people, returning with studied courtesy after the fresh act has commenced.
The ladies are by no means behindhand in proving how disagreeable socalled "well-bred people" can make themselves. A few nights before the closing of the Court Theatre, a famous society beauty, whose photograph is so well known that she obtains the ready recognition she is apparently so anxious to ensure, made herself conspicuous by draping her box with her white furry opera-cloak and talking to her companions in tones which were heard on the other side of the house during the performance of The Ladies' Battle. She not only ignored tbe stage in this fashion, but she positively turned her back on it during one of Mrs. Kendal's and Mr. Hare's most telling scenes. She was evidently anxious to make it apparent beyond all doubt tbat she did not go to the theatre to see and hear, but to be heard and seen.
Surely the obligation of the public towards their entertainers is not discharged by the mere money transaction that secures to the one a seat, and compels the other to perform certain pieces. Society would crumble if our dealings with our fellow-creatures were conducted on the hard-and-fast lines of contracts alone, setting aside all considerations of courtesy and good feeling. We pay our servants, and yet clothe our commands in the dress of politeness. We are not obliged to express in a theatre what we do not feel, but we are obliged, if we admit that courtesy is among the canons of goodbreeding, to abstain from indifference so pronounced. We go even further, and assert that audiences when pleased should show their approbation frankly.
They would be great gainers by affording such cordial encouragement. Artists are proverbially the most sensitive of mortals. They cannot do their best for lymphatic spectators; applause is to them like water to the thirsty, it puts fresh life into them. English audiences are painfully cold, and in fashionable theatres indifference is chic. The passionate enthusiasm of an Italian or Viennese house would be voted absurd by our languid youths and insipid maidens of the gilded order, and therefore it is to tbe pit and gods that the artists look for appreciation.
Silent indifference is, however, negative. No one has a right to meddle with people because tbey are too stupid or too affected to take an interest, or, if they take it, to show it. Talking is positive, and as it is insulting and annoying to both actors and honest playgoers, it ought to be put down. Behind the scenes notices are posted up requesting the artists not to speak in the wings during the performance of the play. A notice, "Talking is prohibited," might prove useful in the stalls and boxes, and we think one or two additions could be made. We would snggest the following:
"Gentlemen requiring constant refreshment are requested to return to their places before the curtain is rung up again, and not to begin searching for their hats and coats before the conclusion of the play".
(The Fort Wayne Sentinel [USA] - 14th February, 1908)
THE ACTOR AND HIS AUDIENCE
By Mrs. Leslie Carter
The psychic effect of an audience's attitude on the player offers a varied field of speculation. To the player there is nothing so aggravating as a cold or unappreciative audience. Like a blast from the north it freezes the genial current of the actors' art, stiffens effort, and brings dread blackness to his mind and heart. It is on an opening night that an absence of uplift, of congeniality, is felt with the most intense effect. And this feeling is often as painful to the auditor as it is to the player.
It is futile, on such occasions, to inwardly berate the auditor, for it is a psychological condition for which there seems to be no accounting. Even after a play has run for many months, the audience on one night will be found wildly enthusiastic, while on the next it will be sullenly undemonstrative.
Every actor, big or little in his calling is aware of this ever changing aspect of audiences. An old player who was in my company some years ago was wont to call undemonstrative auditors "Eskimoes." He had a pleasant way of coming to my dressing room after his first exit and would say, ruefully. "There is a party, of Eskimoes in front tonight Missie: so do whoop 'em up a hit." This dear old kindly soul often varied the phrase, for once in a while when things looked frosty "out in front" he would remark "Undertakers' convention in front tonight."
It is the greatest sort of personal satisfaction in being able to thaw out a trapped house. On such occasions one's inclinations are to "let 'em slide on their own ice," as I heard a player once remark; but in doing this the actor does himself a great injustice.
I have never failed to do the best that was in me on such occasions; yet it is unquestionably the case that the quality of a performance depends largely on the temper of an audience. The late Augustin Daly thoroughly appreciated this fact. For a number of years he kept standing in his program a dissertation which was headed "The Value of Applause." After several years I recall a couple of paragraphs which were to the following effect: "Achievement grows upon appreciation. To get the best acting, an audience must inspire it by hearty, genial, frequent applause." This is the whole matter in a nutshell. Surely it is not a pleasant thing for the actor to see an audience nod approvingly while it sleeps.
It is curiously the case that an audience will often be coldest on a warm night and most enthusiastic when a storm is raging without. Weather conditions may have a good deal more to do with the failure or success of a play than one might suspect. I have noticed that when a storm is coming on and the barometer is low that an audience is usually restless and ill at ease. The reason for this is that those rheumatically inclined 'feel it in their bones' and are consequently unable to keep their minds on the play. On such occasions an audience will be uneasy, disquiet and restive.
This matter of atmospheric disturbances has never been given the attention it deserves. A rather remarkable illustration of this fact is what occurred at Charleston, S.C., some years ago. On the night before the earthquake the audience was restless and inattentive, so much so in fact that few people remained in their seats at the close of the play then being presented. So marked was the seeming rudeness of the audience that the star, a man of great sensitiveness stopped in the middle of the performance and rebuked the audience for spoiling the play. But, as the person who related this instance to me said "the audience simply couldn't keep still." The earthquake followed in an hour or so and then the star realized that, the peculiar actions of the audience was due to some influence other than the desire of the persons themselves to create a disturbance.
If there are terrors for the actor from without, there are also those from within. The inappropriate laughter of an auditor will often upset a scene so that the actors, try as hard as they may, will be unable to pull it together again. I recall one night in England when attending a comedy at the Savoy theater that a very well known comedian was so embarrassed by the unexpected and uncalled for laughter of an auditor, that, although he had appeared in the piece for over a hundred nights, he forgot his lines and was unable to go on till prompted by the players appearing with him in the scene.
Then the tipsy man, the things that he will often do to a play! The disturbance occasioned by the ejection of such a one from the theater will very often exceed the annoyances should he be left alone. In this particular I recall another anecdote related to me in England. One night at Drury Lane in London, a tipsy man occupied an entire upper box and informed the audience that he was the duke of Devonshire! In the way of attracting attention "his grace" succeeded much better than the actors on the stage, who by the way, were entirely overlooked. Finally an usher with a sense of humor, went to the box and whispered to "his grace" that the prince of Wales waited for him outside the theater. "His grace," in a most dignified manner, arose and retired in tow of the usher. This incident completely upset the action of the play and it was considerable time before the actors and audience recovered themselves.
Coughing and sneezing are other fruitful sources of distraction. On one occasion the sneezing of actors and audience stopped a performance. This incident occurred at a college town. A student seated in the gallery threw a handful of cayenne pepper into the house. Several people sneezed, when the unaffected cried "Hush-h-h-h-h." And then in a little while those who were crying "Hush-h-h-h-h" commenced to sneeze, till finally everybody in the house was sneezing as loudly as ever they could. Finally the mischiefmaker tossed some pepper on the stage and the actors joined in the chorus. The play could not continue, so the curtain was lowered amid a tumult of sneezing.
In the category of nuisances, the crying baby should easily he given first, place. Such a fruitful source of distraction did the unquiet infant become that it was made the rule of almost all theaters a dozen or so years ago, that any child under six should not, under any circumstances, be given admission. Incidentally, it is rather curious how well-behaved a baby will usually be when used in a play, and how many of our most adept players made their first appearances on the stage in long clothes. Fortunately, the recalcitrant infant is a plague to the player that no longer exists except in "out of the way places."
Some audiences will oddly insist on accepting as comic what is intended as serious. Such a distraction as this is usually to be discovered on a festal occasion - that is when a crowd is "out for a good time," and so refuses to take a play earnestly. When the actor appreciates this occasion for mirth he is not disturbed so completely as might otherwise be imagined. Then there is the man who insists on reading a newspaper while the play is in progress, the cat that makes an unexpected appearance on the stage, the careless stage-hand who knocks over a stage-brace, the noisy passage of a vehicle in the street, coughers and noisy box-parties - all distractions that serve to disarrange the tedepathic wires.
It Is all very well to say that appreciation and applause are pure sugar, having the usual "saccharine effect of fattening tho actor's head." This would be true if actors were blocks of wood instead of creatures with "temperament," and keen sensibilities. Clara Morris told a great truth when she said: "There is not an actor or actress in the land, from the highest to the very newest beginner, who cannot recall nights of suffering from the whim, the mood, or the carlessness of an audience."
That this suffering is caused unconsciously is all the more pitiable. If a theater, like Vincent Crummels', is coarse, cold, gloomy, and wretched, it, is more than likely that the spectators will be in much the same state of mind. To play before such an audience and in such a playhouse is not likely to be productive of good results - results satisfying neither to auditor nor actor. It is under congenial surroundings that the player achieves and the audience enjoys.
The late Richard Mansfield had a keen appreciation of the attitude of audiences. In a little speech made several years ago he said: "Applause is to the actor what the sun is to the flower. An actor can tell only how he is appreciated by the applause he receives, and only by that means can he measure his success. If he receives none, he falls by the wayside of his profession. Take a plant down into a dark and dismal cellar and it bleaches and withers up and dies. Take it out into the glorious sunshine, and it sends its roots, deep into the earth, its branches up into the heavens; it blossoms and tells how glad it is by giving forth beautiful flowers. Now, you are all little suns - and I am a star."
Primary Sources: Various period newspapers and periodicals (as mentioned and others).
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