F

AITHFULNESS to truth is, we suppose, the last thing anyone should demand from a musical comedy. Wherefore the fact that "White Lilacs" (now at the Shubert Theatre) considered merely the story of Frederic Chopin's love affair with George Sand bears very little resemblance to the original, should not be allowed to detract from its value as an entertainment. And a fairly good entertainment it is.

It would be this, we think, even without the charm which Chopin's music adds to it. For as a romantic musical drama, “White Lilacs" reaches heights unusual in the musical comedy world. In fact, it is fair to say that gradually the music sinks out of sight and the power of the story increases until the climax is almost pure drama merely re-inforced by melody.

Meanwhile, the background, if unveracious, is colorful. The famous artists, poets, writers and musicians who for many years were the background of Chopin's life in Paris and the provinces-Meyerbeer, Heine, Liszt, George Sand-the people who were his friends as well as leading characters in his life, are made to live again on the stage in the Shubert Theatre with considerable reality by De Wolf Hopper, Ernest Lawford, Odette Myrtil. Even Chopin himself as played by Guy Robertson has touches of verisimilitude although on the whole he is the least convincing of all the char

acters.

IN

N this day of biography, it was probably inevitable that the story of Chopin and George Sand would sooner or later find its way to the stage. The love affair of the musician, torn by his own genius, sensitive to all impressions, with the infinitely attractive, magnetic woman who understood humanity's emotions so well and yet was at the mercy of her own, presents a story that would attract any dramatist—the more so because the peculiar attraction that drew and held together Chopin and George Sand for eight years has always defied clear analysis. For George Sand,

The Theatre

By FRANCIS R. BELLAMY

the affair was merely one of the many which made her life stormy and full of emotional as well as financial vicissitude. For Chopin, it was was the one passion of any sort which he allowed to rival his passion for music. Both were egotists and individualists to the last degree-particularly Chopin. And one fought illness, and the other emotion. Their eight years together constitute an almost unrivalled picture of Bohemian artistic existence.

In the end, George Sand's emotions swept her on to other conquests. And to judge from all the tender care she expended upon Chopin during the years when they lived together and he was a semi-invalid, their relationship, for her, probably always was closer to that between mother and son than that between mistress and lover. Yet ther affair extended for years against all the background of genius and passion and glitter which was artistic Paris in the 40's. And much might be done with it.

Considering this, it is a pity that "White Lilacs" presents little except a fairly faithful reproduction of the society amid which they moved. An affair of a month between two people of genius whose sensitive natures made it impossible for them to be emotionally happy together, resulting in a tragic ending this is all we see in "White Lilacs."

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ONSIDERED solely on its own merits, nevertheless, it is pretty good; mainly, because of Odette Myrtil. We have no knowledge where the Shuberts found her or what is the history of her artistic life. But she comes dangerously close to being a woman of genius herself. Her ability to portray an artistic woman thoroughly experienced in the emotions, yet always at the mercy of her own passions, is little short of remarkable; particularly when one considers that she not only acts, she also sings, dances and plays the violin. We doubt if there is any American actress alive who could do it. And

we say this despite the fact that we disliked her intensely during all the first act, only to be won over completely in the end.

As for the others, most of them succeed in producing a fair illusion; from the poet Heine, always the pessimistic observer of the scene, to the voluble mercurial Meyerbeer, quarreling with his librettist, and forever jealous of Mendelsohn.

The whole play, of course, is overshadowed by the intense egotism of genius whether in poet, musician, composer or singer. And much of the charm as well as the humor of "White Lilacs" results from this very thing.

THE

HE music? Well, it could be done better. It is difficult in any case to reproduce Frederic Chopin at the If Rachmaninoff pianoforte. could have been persuaded to produce some mechanical records for the scenes, the effect would have been greatly heightened. And the orchestral variations are not always of the happiest.

The chief difficulty with "White Lilacs," however, is the character of Chopin himself. The playwright has indicated none of Chopin's well-known gift for mimicry, his sensitive humor or his alternate fits of gaiety and extreme depression. And to our mind Guy Robertson hasn't helped the dramatist at all. It is surprising that the result is as convincing and entertaining as it is.

And yet one has only to see "The New Moon," Broadway's other attempt to reproduce in musical comedy the life of a past century, to realize that "White Lilacs" is much the better of the two. Here are French noblemen, pirates, New Orleans dives, West Indian islands, and the ever-present love story; pleasant music, beautiful pictures, and attractive chorus direction. But the breath of life is not in it. It is just another good costume musical show.

Despite the passage of eighty years, and the rough hands of strangers, distorting his character and altering his music, Chopin can still provide a better entertainment for Broadway.

Man" is a Buster Keaton comedy and has to do with the misadventures and ultimate triumph of an aspirant for the position of newsreel photographer with the M-G-M folks.

The youth, needless to say, is out of luck throughout almost the entire action, otherwise he wouldn't be played by Buster Keaton. He goes to the Yankee Stadium to get some baseball shots, only to find that the Hugmen are pursuing the pennant elsewhere that day.

So he wanders out onto the deserted diamond and puts on a one-man ball game purely for his own benefit-there is not another soul in sight. He impersonates first the pitcher, then the batter; he delivers the imaginery ball with telling effect in his first capacity and knocks a homer in the second, and we thought the stunt one of the most beautiful pieces of pantomine we've ever seen. Chaplin could have done it and so, perhaps, could Harry Langdon; but neither one could have invested the episode with more of the mirth which hides the furtive teardrop than does Buster Keaton.

In another sequence that in the public baths-Keaton's undressing act, in the same cubby hole with his rival for Marcelline Day's affections, is a grand piece of wordless funmaking; it seems incredible that they can keep it going for so long without overdoing it. Again, Keaton's expression of crafty malevolence as he pursues a lay bather, whose nether garment he purposes to purloin, is what the profession vulgarly calls a "belly laugh."

We can see no reason why we should not recommend "The Camera Man"" as one of the best comedies Keaton has ever made, and, therefore, one of the best comedies any one has ever made.

And so, having given a good deal of

The Movies

By A. M. SHERWOOD, JR.

deep thought to the matter, we thus recommend it.

"The Docks of New York" The plot of this piece is totally inadequate to the amount of celluloid which it uses up; but so adroit is the direction of Josef von Sternburg and so colorful the histrionics of his hired hands that the defection goes for little.

Gerge Bancroft is the star, and there is something about George Bancroft's acting which is hard to define but which, whatever it is, nearly always

BUSTER KEATON

rings the bell. Perhaps it is that he counterfeits the sort of direct-action roughneck which every man secretly wants to be and every woman to know. Does Mr. Bancroft ever knock on a closed door? No. He kicks it open; will he so much as give a thought to arbitrating a slight difference of opinion?

Positively not, men-not that boy! One sock, and the argument is

over.

In "The Docks of New York" he gets plenty of opportunities to demonstrate his forthright methods and also to make engagingly crude love to a surprisingly rejuvenated Betty Compson, who plays a lorn stray of the wharves with conviction and much tenderness.

The actress named Baclanova, who is slated to succeed Polo Negri in the Paramount ranks, gives her standard performance in this picture; it's a good performance, all right, but before we get enthusiastic about the lady, we'd like to see her do something besides open her handsome eyes very wide and then throw her head back in a fit of derisive laughter. Fun's fun-but there is such a thing as a change of pace, once in a while.

"The Docks of New York" is not entirely a picture for the young person, but it's good adult stuff for the not overly squeamish.

"The Whip"

We remember when this old Drury Lane melodrama was first put on a New York stage; it was many years ago, and we were young enough to be pleasurably agitated by the realistic automobile accident, the train wreck, the horse race, and the incredibly sustained villainy of Greville Sartoris.

On the screen, however, despite a cast which includes Dorothy Mackaill, Ralph Forbes, Lowell Sherman, Anna Q. Nilssen and Marc McDermott, the old thriller seems curiously tame. On the stage, the mechanical effects which caused the thrills were interesting 10 more seasoned patrons of the drama than our then callow self, because every one wondered how they were done; in the movies, no one cares much how anything is done, any more.

As a consequence of this present-day sophistication "The Whip" must seem to most people a conglomeration of long, explanatory subtitles, disconnected scenes and a brand of melodrama which more than borders on the ludicrous. Horse lovers (we are one) will not find its racing and fox-hunting scenes very stimulating; the gas tanks and trolley poles of Hollywood are too palpably in the immediate offing.

But in terms of pleasant acting, lavish presentation and good, standard villainy, "The Whip" isn't such a bad picture, dashed if it is.

I'

Venice

T is a curious and amusing fact that while certain famous places may owe their reputation to stirring events or illustrious personages, who by their high ideals, heroism or statesmanship have left their mark on all they touched, a not inconsiderable number of people who travel will value those same cities, towns or buildings for some quite trivial association, an association often ludicrously out of keeping with the really great happenings which have made forever famous the names in question.

Thus many visitors to this wonderful and wellnigh unbelievable city in the sea (who was it that called Venice a "city of marble and of mud"?) are far more interested in the lovely little Contarini-Fasan palace with its exquisitely carved balconies on account of its having been dubbed the "House of Desdemona" than they are in the intrinsic beauty of the palazzo itself or its history.

Personally speaking, we must admit that interesting as is the history of the great family of Giustiniani, we are much more concerned with the fact that in one of their most beautiful palazzi, the middle one of that trio adjoining the matchless Ca' Foscari, Richard Wagner was living in 1858, and while there wrote the greatest loveduet ever written the second act of Tristan & Isolde.

By EUGENE BONNER

ing apartments there, all of which they told me would remain uninhabited. I here engaged a large stately room with. a spacious bedroom adjoining. I had my luggage quickly transferred there, and on the evening of the 30th August I said to myself, 'At last I am living in Venice'. Wagner also speaks of what William Dean Howells wrote so delightfully about-the extraordinary rift between the authorities and the general public, Venice being Austrian territory at that

the people were gathered round the band in thousands listening most intently, but no two hands ever forgot themselves so far as to applaud, as the least sign of approbation of Austrian military music would have been looked upon as treason to the Italian Fatherland."

AR

s a matter of fact Wagner did not finish his Tristan in Venice, but he did compose and orchestrate the entire second act during his stay here. The last act was written in Lucerne, various

matters necessitating his departure from Italy. However, although written elsewhere, the inspiration came while here, as there is as every one knows much of the second act in the last. In regard to a certain passage he writes:

"As I was returning home late one night on the gloomy canal, the moon appeared suddenly and illuminated the marvellous palaces and the tall figure of my gondolier towering above the stern of the gondola, slowly moving his huge sweep. Suddenly he uttered a deep wail, not unlike the cry of an animal; the cry gradually gained in strength, and formed itself, after a longdrawn 'Oh!' into the simple musica exclamation, 'Venezia!' This was followed by other sounds of which I have no distinct recollection, as I was SO much moved at the time. Such were the impressions that to me appeared the most characteristic of Venice during my stay there, and they remained with me until the completion of the second act of Tristan, and possibly even suggested to me the long-drawn wail of the shepherd's horn in the third act."

The first act of this opera had been finished shortly before, while he was living in Zurich with the Wesendoncks. It was after the disastrous contretemps precipitated by his first wife Minna which resulted in the breaking-up of that strange double ménage that he decided to come to Venice.

"I heard," he writes in his autobiography, "that one of the three Giustiniani palaces, situated not far from the Palazzo Foscari, was at present very little patronized by visitors, on account of its situation, which in the winter is somewhat unfavorable. I found some very spacious and impos

time. Speaking of the concerts by the Austrian bands in the Piazza he says: "I was often suddenly startled towards the end of my meal by the sound of my own overtures; then as I sat at the restaurant window giving myself up to impressions of the music, I did not know which dazzled me most, the incomparable Piazza magnificently illuminated and filled with countless numbers of moving people, or the music that seemed to be borne away in rustling glory to the winds. Only one thing was wanting that certainly might have. been expected from an Italian audience:

Twenty-five years later he was to return to Venice for another sojourn. He had been very ill, but during his stay here had seemed to recover much of his old-time vigor, even conducting at a performance at the Liceo Martello on Christmas Eve. It was however only the flash of the dying embers, and on February 19, 1883, he passed away.

acute that may be. There is no man in the game who can put more "stuff" on the ball. This was not so noticeable when he played against Richards on a Sunday on Rip's courts, on the upper West Side, but the change from dirt to turf gave him a better surface with which to work, so alarmingly good, indeed, that the tennis authorities are somewhat perturbed as to the future of the game when American players have learned the trick, as they assuredly will learn it. There were times when Karel's service drew his opponent at least thirty feet out of court in order to meet the sharp break of the ball, and if this sort of thing is to be moulded into modern tennis, there will have to be a radical readjustment of the boundaries in many courts throughout the land.

The breezy Czech seldom makes a double fault, and his service is by no means of the cannon-ball variety that has become so familiar in French, American and Australian tennis, but it strikes well within the service line, and then breaks high and whisks away at all sorts of deadly angles. Once this is returned the visitor has a wide open court for his return and that return is an earned point.

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HERE are two opinions, of course, as to just how enthusiastic one can become over this sort of thing. One cannot forget one of the favorite stories of Herbert Spencer, who was somewhat addicted to billiards. Upon one occasion he engaged in a billiard match with a youth who had the bad taste to beat him unmercifully. At the conclusion Spencer slammed his cue into the rack and remarked: "Young man, such proficiency in games of skill argues a misspent youth." This might well be said of the grinning Czech were it not for the fact that he is and always has been an honest, open and aboveboard professional, engaged in teaching the game and playing it for money. His therefore has been anything but a misspent youth. No doubt he will not make as much immediate money as certain of the deserters from the amateur ranks who have gone out on the circus tours of one C. C. Pyle, but after ten years of effort at his favorite game, there is a long and profitable open road ahead of him.

One may become enthusiastic over his play because of its perfection, quite aside from what one is apt to consider conscious mountebankery-for what can be learned from his stroking of the ball

un

and his marvelous court generalship. It is doubtful if any amateur can ever achieve his proficiency, but he doubtedly can improve his game from watching Kozeluh's play. As to giving three cheers for his victories, which is the essence of amateur sport and the essence of enthusiasm in any game, it is also doubtful if such cheers and such enthusiasm can ever be on top. All the color in the world will not make up for the partisanship of the amateur sport. And that is, of course, the fundamental fault of professionalism. But the Kozeluhs of tennis have their place in the world just as the Hagens and Farrells and Jim Barneses of golf.

It is quite probable that the French tennis stars, notably Lacoste, who, while not strictly professional, has the time of a profesisonal at hand in which to perfect his play, can give the Czechoslovakian a better argument than either the American amateur or the American professional, and it is possible that when Lacoste and Kazeluh meet there will be plenty of enthusiasm, especially if the match is held somewhere in Europe. But the average American follower of the game misses something of what the English call "devil" in the professional game, and would prefer to cheer an amateur who played with more fire and perhaps not nearly so meticulously. Sport, I think, is not the gainer when a game is reduced to something close to an exact science.

GR

RANTED the quality and quantity of material that is always present on the edge of the Pacific, it is only necessary to look over the roster of the coaches to see just why that section is around the peak in football. Stanford has "Pop" Warner, who has promised followers of the game that he will put on a brand new attack this year-and he generally keeps his word. California is again in the hands of "Nibs" Price, who has a good deal to say about the lateral pass; Enoch Bagshaw continues his winning way at Washington, where he has gone in for scientific coaching, using a highly complicated laboratory machine with which to devise plays; Paul Schissler is at Oregon State, with Charley Erb at Idaho. Orin Hollingberry is guiding Washington State, John McEwan remains at Oregon and Major Milburn is teaching Montana. McEwan will be remembered as one of the Army's greatest centres of all time, and later as a winning coach of the West Point eleven. Up to this

season he has had Ellinger, a former Army guard of the first flight, with him, but this year Ellinger is to be found on the "plains."

One of the novelties of the season will be the battle between the Navy and Princeton, the game that takes the place of the annual battle with the Army. There is, besides the high quality of the elevens engaged, a sentimental feeling about the encounter. Away back in the early days of football the Poes of Princeton introduced the game at Annapolis, and for many years the Navy's play was practically under Princeton direction. Later when Princeton began to play the Navy, old-timers from Tigertown used to complain that the missionary spirit in football had been somewhat overdone.

The date for the Army-Stanford battle in New York comes at the close of the season, which means that there will be present the same galaxy of famous coaches and players that was wont to turn up for the service encounter. The game, therefore, is in the nature of a reunion. In addition it will provide an outlet for some of the pentup and somewhat festering enthusiasm of the horde of Westerners that is

usually in New York at that time of year. Technically, too, the game will be of the greatest interest, for it will show a team in action produced by one of the greatest of all the coaches, a pioneer along almost every line of play. A victory for Warner on that day would come as a climax of a remarkable career on the gridiron, perhaps the most remarkable of all careers. The Army, on the other hand, is led by a group of younger coaches who have steadily built up a great reputation. There is no sounder football anywhere than that played these days at West Point. may be expected to be practically errorless on that day, and the battle of wits between the great veteran and his big team and the younger flight of openminded football instructors who have already proved themselves masters of detail will be worth a trip from almost anywhere to witness.

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There are many teams in action which are among the best products of American football coaching, of which space forbids mention, but they will break into print in this department in due time. The technical side, too, will be more intimately treated in forthcoming issues. Just now it suffices to point out some of the treats in store-if the tickets go 'round.