It is not uncommon, even today, for the first night in the run of any new theatrical production to be beset by problems. The performers have not yet developed that familiarity with their role and surroundings that only repeated portrayals of the in front of a live audience part can develop. Moreover, the production in which they are about to appear is as yet unproven, and everyone concerned is under intense pressure to ensure it is a success.
Under these circumstances, it is perhaps not surprising that things occasionally go wrong. Actors may struggle with their lines and/or fumble with props - all things that will have become second nature to them by the time they have played the part a dozen times or more. The backstage staff also, not yet having developed that same kind of familiarity with their own roles, may miss cues to provide sound effects or move scenery, etcetera, at the appropriate moment. This is not indicative of deficient or inadequate reahearsing, it is simply that a first night performance in front of a live audience imposes demands and imperatives that simply cannot be fully prepared for under any other circumstances.
London audiences have long been more demanding of their entertainers, and quicker to display their disapproval of any deficiencies, than those in most other areas of the world. London audiences would, for example, boo and hiss a bad play, when New York audiences would simply walk out. The first night of any production then, being inherently prone to imperfection, would likewise be more likely to be met with this kind of impertinent behaviour than any well established play.
Unfortunately, towards the latter part of the nineteenth century, this kind of first night behaviour became so commonplace as to be practically institutionalised, regarded by a certain rowdy element as if it were part and parcel of a first night event, to be indulged in for it's own sake as much as for any perceived deficiency in the performance. This element came to be drawn to first nights for this very reason, waiting in keen anticipation for the slightest moment upon which to vent their derision, even on occasion heckling the actors with what they perceived to be clever quips when no such moment was forthcoming.
Nor were even the very best and most popular of performers immune from this kind of treatment. A good example of this was Henry Irving's Twelfth Night which experienced it's first night at the Lyceum theatre in London on 8th July, 1884. The play itself, in truth, was not wholly to the taste of English audiences of that era but in Irving himself (Malvolio), Ellen Terry (Viola), Fred Terry (Sebastian) and William Terris (Duke Orsino) it boasted four of the best known and most loved thespians on the London theatrical scene. Unfortunately, some mistakes had been made in the casting with veteran actor David Fisher (Sir Toby) being well past his prime and Ellen Terry's close friend Rose LeClerc being simply too old for the part of Olivia. Even the ever-reliable Terris looked somewhat out of place in a role that did simply not suit him, Ellen Terry herself was at less than her brilliant best due to suffering badly from an infected thumb (which eventually forced her to hand down the role to her sister, Marion.)
Ellen Terry herself later recalled that their intrepretation of Twelfth Night was "dull, lumpy and heavy", but even so it was not deserving of the reception it received from certain malcontents in the audience. On a stiflingly hot summer's evening, minor disturbances occurred throughout the performance but the worst was reserved for the end. After the final curtain, when Sir Henry stepped forward to give his customary first night speech, he was roundly booed by this fractious element. Visibly distressed, he departed from his speech with the observation "I can't understand how a company of earnest comedians and admirable actors - being sober, clean and perfect - and having excercised their abilities on one of the most difficult of plays, can have cause for disatisfaction". In fact critical reports of the evening's production appear to have agreed with him, a perfect performance it was not, but certainly a workmanlike one, and not worthy of such declamation as it received.
That such great names performing a Shakespearean classic could be received so badly for so little cause became a matter of much discussion in the theatrical world for much time afterwards. Reproduced below is some of the literary coverage of that event. Unfortunately, this kind of bad behaviour from certain elements within the audience on first nights would continue to be a problem for some years yet to come. From the second item included below it may be implied that, in the author's experience, it gradually died out in the two or three preceding 1896 (ie. approximately ten years after the first article).
THE THEATRE, 1st August, 1884.
THE FIRST NIGHT OF "TWELFTH NIGHT" AT THE LYCEUM.
BY J. PALGRAVE SIMPSON
There was a time, within many living playgoers' remembrance, when hissing, on first nights of new pieces, was very rare, but if heard, was decidedly genuine and intended as a bona fide expression of condemnation. In latter years a new custom has arisen.
With very few exceptions, every "first night" is signalized by more or less evidence of dissatisfaction, as though it were a necessary portion of the entertainment. So distressing has this system become to many playgoers, that controversies have arisen as to the right of an apparently discontented minority to disturb all the rest of the audience by its sibilation, often considered most unfair and mal apropos. Disputes have waxed so warm that the practice of hissing seems to have been dropped in a great measure by the noisy malcontents. They hiss but little now; but they hoot and howl. The persistency in this conduct, frequently without any apparent reason, has induced me to make inquiries, and sift the matter as much as possible. One important conclusion has been the result. I have rejected the idea of "organized opposition," so often repeated by managers and authors, and adopted another theory, the truth of which has not only been confirmed by observation, but also by the confession of some of the delinquents.
For some time past it has been the practice of certain young men, yet frequently old enough to know better, to say among themselves, "Hallo! there is a new piece on to-night; let's go in and guy it. It will be such a lark!" And they go into the theatre to carry out their intention. Every scene or piece of stage business, or word of dialogue, that can afford opportunity, however feeble, for ridicule, is seized on for "guying." It is such a lark! Remarks are shouted, which are supposed to be witty, but generally fail in being so. They distress the actors - they disturb the audience. But what matter? - it is such a lark! If any attempt is made to put them down, the "guyers" wax angry, and then begin to hiss. I have expostulated with a young friend on this foolish and disagreeable conduct, reminding him of the fable of the frogs who, when stoned by the boys, lamented: "What is sport to you is death to us." He hung his head as if touched by the truth of the comparison; and I hope that he left off the cruel "sport."
There are other "first-night" playgoers who simply think it a fine thing to be critical at all ventures, and who imagine that to express their disapprobation of any play is a fine manly exercise of their superior judgment, and stamps them as "devilish clever" fellows. It cannot be denied, at the same time, that, now and then, considerable prejudice and personal animosity may be detected in expressions of dissatisfaction. Not only are actors, who have incurred the displeasure of portions of the audience on previous occasions - perhaps long gone by - assailed by expressions of discontent, perfectly apart from play or performance; but it is notorious that authors, critics and others, who may have somehow or somewhere, wounded the susceptibilities of these nice spirits, are hooted at as they enter the theatre and take their places.
Far be it from any real lover of the drama to call for the entire suppression of the long-established manner of displaying dissatisfaction. But the right of hissing ought certainly only to be exercised at proper times and without tumult; and it is very evident that if the modern hootings and howlings be not, somehow put down, the theatres, especially on first nights, will become bear-gardens of unseemly disturbance.
Nothing can better illustrate this untoward state of things than the conduct of some dozen or so among the audience on the revival of Shakespeare's "Twelfth Night" at the Lyceum Theatre lately. There was nothing in the whole performance to which the most critical and "cantankerous" spirit could take umbrage.
The acting was generally excellent, in some instances superlative; the "staging," as the phrase now goes, was exquisitely beautiful, teeming with poetic fancy - each scene was a work of art. There was not a hitch in the whole work; the play was by our great poet, and there was not a single opportunity for "guying." But "guyers" or not, the malcontents endeavoured to revenge themselves as the curtain fell. Hissing there was little; but the hooting was loud and painful, being resumed when Mr. Irving appeared. I have disclaimed all belief, generally speaking, in "organized opposition." I can only put down this preposterous conduct on this occasion, therefore, to the vanity and conceit of those who wished to assert their right of judgment, however mistaken, or to the disappointment of baffled "guyers" who would have their "lark." Nor can I admit the excuse charitably put forward by some writers, that the night was hot, the theatre overcrammed, and that discomfort produced discontent. There was no reason why any discomfort should have occasioned the hooting of a beautiful play and a great actor; to speak of it as an expression of public opinion would be preposterous.
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By FRANK A. MARSHALL
With regard to what occurred on the night of the first representation of "Twelfth Night" at the Lyceum, I happened to be sitting in the stalls just in front of the individual or individuals in the Pit, who signified their disapprobation in such a disagreeable way. At the end of the second act I heard a sound which I never heard before at that theatre under Mr. Irving's management. It was not a hiss; it was that kind of half groan, half howl which suggests the presence of an animal, who, in the words of an old Irish song, is "unaisy in his mind." Such a sound is extremely disagreeable, not only to the audience, but more so to the actors.
I am the very last person to dispute the right of every spectator at a theatre to express his or her disapprobation. I once had a dispute with a very celebrated dramatic author on this point. He maintained that no one had a right to hiss in a theatre. He said that when you are in front of a picture, you do not hiss if you think it bad; to which I naturally replied that you do not applaud when you think it good. There can be no doubt that if an audience is allowed to applaud, they should also be allowed to hiss. Any attempt to evict a person who expresses audibly his disapprobation of any public performance is a mistake, provided that he expresses it in such a manner as not to interfere with the undoubted right of his fellow auditors to hear what is being said upon the stage. On the other hand, no one will deny that it is within the right of the majority of the audience to object to any minority who insist upon making such a disturbance as to prevent that majority from paying proper attention to what is going on upon the stage. But there is also another limit to the right of expressing disapprobation, which I think should be enforced in the interest of the audience as much as in that of the actors.
Hissing or groaning should be reserved for the condemnation of what offends against the laws of morality or decency; and should not be employed in cases of mere incompetency; much less in cases where the conception, or interpretation, on the part of the actor does not agree with that which any member or members of the audience may have formed of the character the actor is representing. In such cases silence is sufficient. If an actor fails to interpret the part he has to play, abstention from applause is surely sufficient condemnation. If a small portion of the audience do not relish his performance, if they think that his conception of the part is a false one, or that his execution of his own conception is very faulty, they have not the right to express their views in such a manner as must not only offend the majority of the audience who differ from them, but must sensibly embarrass the efforts of all the performers, as well as of that individual against whom their censure is directed. For I hope we are as yet far removed from the time when questions of art shall be treated with the same fierce intolerance as questions of politics or religion.
As a rule, dramatists avoid subjects which can excite political or religious animosities; and I think they are very wise in so doing. It would be an evil day for art if those persons who differ from the views of the exponents of art, were to think it necessary to express their difference of opinion with that disregard for the decencies of life which seems to distinguish so many politicians at the present day. It is for the sake of the audience, and not for the sake of the actor, that one objects to the indiscriminate use of such extreme forms of disapprobation as hissing or groaning.
In the case of a performance like that of "Twelfth Night" at the Lyceum, which, whatever its faults might be, was in its main features so careful and artistic - if such a performance be received, even by a small portion of the audience, with hisses and groans, what form of condemnation can be reserved for performances in which vulgarity or indecency are rampant, or in which an attempt is made to impose upon the audience manifest incompetency and gross carelessness by the aid of unreasoning applause?
Some little time ago there was an editorial article in THE THEATRE, which, if I mistake not, expressed a more or less modified incredulity as to the existence of organized oppositions on first nights. I was very nearly addressing the Editor a letter on this subject, in which I had embodied some of my own personal experiences with regard to the existence of such organized opposition. No doubt there are many cases, where the condemnation of a play by the audience was simply the natural consequence of the gross inefficiency of the dramatist or of his interpreters, in which the imputation that such organization existed has been very rashly made; but there is no doubt that, on most first nights, there is present an element of hostility in the audience, consisting of individuals who have come to the theatre determined, by every means in their power, to make the piece a failure.
They may be influenced by personal feelings against the author or manager or some individual actor; but they are very often persons of that unhappy disposition who either having failed themselves to achieve success as actors or authors, or being envious of success in anyone, even though that success may not interfere with their special pursuits in life, are actuated by a malicious desire to bring about the failure of any undertaking in which they are not personally interested. In fact, persons of this disposition seem to deem it necessary to the sustenance of their own self-conceit, that any effort on the part of author or actor to elevate the character of dramatic representation should be represented as a failure. With a natural predisposition for all that is vulgar and coarse, they intrude themselves amongst the audience at a theatre where what suits their individual tastes is sure not to be presented, and either by their private comments, or by their public expression of ridicule, seek to damage the efforts of the author or manager, simply because those efforts are directed towards an object with which their degraded natures have no sympathy.
These disinterested and self-constituted critics receive encouragement, I regret to say, from a section of journalism which has lately come into great prominence. I allude to certain papers - they are not many, I am glad to say - that in virtue of a certain smart impudence which is mistaken for cleverness, and of a conscientious and too successful effort to evade the penalties under Lord Campbell's Act, obtain a character for being amusing; and are unfortunately encouraged, by those who are fully alive to their vulgarity, in their constant efforts to decry everything that is noble in man or in art, and to exalt into a kind of religion what is really the worship of the most bestial sensuality. To the writers on such papers it would seem as if life had no higher objects than the consumption of almost unlimited quantities of champagne, or of spirits and soda-water, in the course of the twenty-four hours; and the more or less dishonest evasions of one's just debts.
This is one type of such journalism. Another type is that which, at the commencement of its career, seeks, by constant abuse of those members of the dramatic profession who from their very respectability are a living offence to the writers of the said journals, to establish a reputation for what they are pleased to call independent criticism; and who, when such tactics have been more or less successful, by an immense effort of self-restraint, confine themselves to sneers and insinuations which are not absolutely libellous, but which enable the writers to gratify their malice without any cost to those pockets which have become filled with ill-earned gains. I believe that the true interests of dramatic art have no greater enemies than the class of journals to which I allude: a large portion of their space is devoted to the affairs of the theatre, and it is amongst that largely increasing public who frequent the theatres that they find their most steady patrons. It would be well for those connected with dramatic art, who encourage such prostitution of journalism, to consider that the vile weapons, which are now turned against those of whom they are more or less consciously jealous, may be turned any day against themselves, if ever they attain that success for which, in spite of every discouragement, they hope.
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By JOSEPH KNIGHT
The scene witnessed at the first representation at the Lyceum of "Twelfth Night" has attracted to the behaviour of first-nights' audiences an amount of attention the subject has not previously received. Having been asked to express my views on the question, I am glad to do so. Regarding with aversion the application to the drama of any form of censure that does not apply to literature or the fine arts, I am anxious to preserve in the public, which I hold to be the true guardian of the stage, a healthy sentiment. In order to do this I would maintain its right, within reasonable limits, to express disapproval. I am aware that in America no hissing is customary, and that the only condemnation of a piece consists in quitting the theatre. Apart, however, from the fact that I am not anxious to Americanize, any more than I am to Gallicize, our institutions, or indeed to do anything except apply to existing English practice the restraint imposed by an advancing civilization, I hold that the custom of pronouncing condemnation, besides encouraging a healthy interest in the drama, is beneficial to actors and managers. To prove as I go along each point I put forward would extend my observations beyond reasonable limits; I am accordingly compelled to allow this statement to remain a mere expression of opinion. While, however, I would oppose warmly any attempt to interfere with the right to hiss, I think restrictions should be imposed upon the abuse. These should, if possible, come from within-that is, be imposed by the first-night's audience upon itself. If not, they must be combated from without. No one, I presume, will hold that a small minority should so interfere with the enjoyment of the majority as, in the expression of opinion, to arrest a performance. Things are best shown in the extremes.
Had the few malcontents at the Lyceum interrupted the progress of the piece they would have been, very properly, expelled by the majority. Their right, at the close of the performance, to express dissatisfaction I do not dispute. I may, and indeed I do, marvel at the exercise of it. It may or may not be that the performance of "Twelfth Night" was inferior to what had previously been done at the Lyceum. It was, at least in my opinion, the best representation of the comedy that I have witnessed - not the best, perhaps, in the merit of each individual representation, which it would be unreasonable to expect, but best in the way in which one master-mind assigned the whole a completeness not before obtained, and furnished it with a setting so poetical as to make it a dream of enchantment. In the realization of life in past epochs, as it is now presented by Mr. Irving and some other managers, the public is provided with an experience not otherwise to be obtained, and the world is richer by a new art. You go to the National Gallery and see pictures of Italy or Greece, which in most important respects are not to be compared to what you see on the stage. You visit those countries themselves, and are exceptionally lucky if once in a lifetime you see a pageant such as Mr. Irving has again and again presented. The best living artists lend him their aid to reproduce, under the most imaginative aspect, the most variegated life in the most brilliant countries of the world. And the picture lives. More than this, it does not interfere with the acting, which indeed it often most potently aids.
Now Mr. Irving needs neither justification nor apology, and I am offering neither. My argument is, that gratitude exacts that disapproval of his efforts must be very strong indeed to justify clamorous condemnation. If you hold that the acting is so subordinated to decorations that the performance is not worthy of attention, hiss and depart. Do not stay to make objection persecution; do not hoot as though the actors deserved execratiOn, and some infamy attached to what had been done. Be judges who pronounce sentence with regret and under a sense of duty, not with mischievous exultation in the pain inflicted.
I have taken the case of the Lyceum as the strongest. I hear, however, with great regret the demonstrations now common on a first night. When a bad piece is laughed off the stage, I am very far from discontented. The management learns sharply and uncomfortably what it would learn in a more roundabout but not less effective way. To call on an author by mocK applause, and then to howl at him with what I have heard called "a fog-horn ululation," is, I hold, unmanly. A man spends months of his time shaping a drama, the favourable reception of which may, directly and indirectly, put thousands in his pocket. It goes to pieces - not always through his own fault - for managers and actors are, like women, "kittle cattle," and no one but the author knows how he is misrepresented, or what sacrifices he has been compelled to make. At this moment of supreme desolation - for such it must be - he is caIled forward and treated as infamous.
He has done no wrong. To seek to excel and to fail in so doing, is with most of us a life's lesson. In his case alone is the unsuccessful struggle treated as though it involved some terrible moral depravity. My advice to authors under the circumstances is never to go on the stage in acknowledgment of any call. A dramatist is a private gentleman, and in no sense part of a show. Whether his piece is applauded or condemned he will know without coming before the curtain, to move awkwardly and make an ungainly bow as in cases of success he ordinarily does, or under less favourable conditions to retire with a burning cheek and a swelling heart, as though some unreachable foe had stricken him on the face. The practice of author baiting should be at once abandoned.
Englishmen are distinguished from all other nations by their love of fairness. Now fairness is close of kin to justice and is one of the noblest of qualities. To this I like to appeal. Hiss a piece if necessary, hiss grossness on the stage, hiss whatever deserves to be condemned. But do not continue to hiss a man dramatist, manager or actor - because he has once under the influence of anger or disappointment been indiscreet. Mercy is a quality as noble as fairness, and when once a man has been taught a lesson and learned it well, let him be forgiven. Against the uttering of blatant noises or ribald remarks it is needless to protest, since there is none but the very young who indulge in them, and no one to defend them. There are those who would write angrily on such a subject; I am not with them. I prefer an appeal to English nature, and I believe in its efficacy. Under the present editor's admirable management THE THEATRE has become a recognized and potent organ. I am fortunate enough to be allowed to reach through it many of the first-nights' public. To them I appeal to restrain within decent bounds all forms of opposition, and to stop at once and for ever the cruel and heartless proceedings to which I have made special reference.
Excerpt from GREEN ROOM RECOLLECTIONS by Arthur Wm. A. Beckett (J. Arrowsmith and Co. 1896)
First Night Wreckers
Nowadays an audience on the first night of a new piece are fairly well-behaved. For months - I may almost say for years - those wreckers of the play who used to "guy" every dramatic production from the front row of the pit, with very rare exceptions, have been conspicuous by their absence. It may be that it has occurred to them that, after all, it is poor sport to ruin a work that may have entailed immense labour, and cost great expense, by a few feeble witticisms; it may be that they have become dramatists themselves; it may be that (even after the abolition of transportation) they may have gone to Australia; or it may be that they are dead. I do not think their disappearance will be regretted. The manager, the company, and the author, will certainly bless their absence, because their presence meant a distinct pecuniary loss, and the critics will not complain, because their ill-timed levity, although occasionally amusing, was on the whole a bore.