Scenic Design

A Presentation in 3 Acts with a Prologue and an Epilogue

Prologue

We have a lot to thank J. Alan Kenyon for—not only for his memoirs—currently published online in Theatre Heritage Australia’s quarterly newsletter, On Stage—but also for the over-large and fairly bursting folio of J.C. Williamson designs, dating back to very early 20th century, if not a little before. Mr. Kenyon, aka George, worked as a set designer, scenic artist and props maker for more than four decades; his son John joined him, and when the latter died in 2019 his son Miles discovered he was now the custodian of this veritable treasure-trove of scenic work.

All in all, there are around 120 examples, from pencil sketches to highly detailed and finished artwork, wings, flats, legs, borders, front and back cloths, cut-cloths, mostly executed at a 1 to 24 ration, very close to the ratio now favoured by today’s scenic designers—1 to 25. To absolutely verify this I would need to measure all 120 examples. This is something to be attempted at a later stage, but one setting I have examined suggests the height at around 7 metres—with the width at 11 metres.

Unfortunately none of these designs are signed—the most we can find is the occasional name scrawled on the reverse, by someone else—but someone who felt confident enough to identify the odd example. The following are all the names, rightly or wrongly, that appear.

George Upward, William R. Coleman and son William, W. Hogg and J.F.Hogg, Philip William Goatcher, Hawes Craven Green, Conrad Tritschler and Joseph Cunningham Harker. Some were born in the UK and then moved here, more or less permanently, others simply forwarded their designs for adaptation here following their production in London.

Of all the designs contained within the folio Joseph and His Brethren is the most fully represented (and in fact glued on the reverse are fine wooden supports which enable it to be set up as 3-dimensional maquette) so I will focus on the English-born Joseph Harker: the name Harker is tantalizingly inscribed on the back of several pieces.

J. Alan Kenyon folio of JCW designs

Miles Kenyon collection

Reverse of main set-piece—Potiphar’s House—JCW designs

I. Harker history

Born in Levenshulme, Manchester, in 1855 on the 17th of October, Joseph Cunningham Harker was the son of Maria (O’Connor) and William Pierpont Harker, an Irish theatre family who were currently performing at the Theatre Royal in Manchester. Joseph was educated in that city and in Edinburgh and after playing some ‘child parts’ he began his painterly career in 1881 working on a production of Hamlet at the Theatre Royal in Glasgow, following an apprenticeship with T.W.Hall, a scene painter at the Globe Theatre. The young Joseph became a stock artist for a time, but on moving to Dublin and the Gaiety Theatre, he met the indomitable Henry Irving (christened John Henry Brodribb). He also spent a period gaining experience under Herbert Beerbohm Tree, Augustus Harris, Sir George Alexander, Oscar Asche—to name but a few.

But it was for Irving and the Lyceum Theatre in London that Harker was to produce some of his finest work, often in collaboration with Hawes Craven and William Telbin. Over the years he worked on well over one hundred productions, collaborating also with T.E. Ryan, Walter Hann, Henry Emden, Robert McLeery—among others. Theatres included the Haymarket, Empire, Garrick, Drury Lane, Lyceum, and many, many more. Bram (Abraham) Stoker was the latter’s business manager at the time Harker was employed there, under the directorship of Henry Irving, later Sir Henry Irving. One of the leading characters, Jonathan Harker in Stoker’s novel Dracula, was named after him, and the name appears enigmatically in Joseph O’Connor’s 2019 Shadowplay. Harker, in the novel, is a young woman hoping to attain the position of scene painter at the Lyceum, and she disguises herself as a young man. It is also suggested that the ‘leading role’ of Dracula was inspired by, or based on, Stoker’s much-celebrated employer, Henry Irving.  And I cannot help but wonder if Shadowplay’sauthor, Joseph, is not a descendant of Joseph Harker’s mother’s family, Maria O’Connor’s, or of two Victorian scenic artists, also by the name of O’Connor.

Bram Stoker, 1906. Photo by W. & D. Downey.

National Portrait Gallery, London

Henry Irving, 1888. Photo by Barraud.

National Portrait Gallery, London

Well into the 20th century Harker was a great champion of the scene-painting profession. He wrote extensively on the subject, which included, in 1924, a book of reminiscences entitled Studio and Stage.

In the late 1870s he married Sarah Hall, daughter of the aforementioned T.W. Hall, and they produced a family of nine children, three girls and six boys—Alice, Dora and Phoebe, Philip, Gordon, James, Joseph, Roland and Colin. Several of the boys went on to continue the family tradition of scene painting, and Gordon (1885–1967) had a long career on the stage from the age of 17, and also appeared in almost seventy films between 1921 and 1959, most notably in three silent films directed by Alfred Hitchcock.

More family matters: Joseph and Sarah’s grand daughter (I can’t track which of the nine Harker siblings produced her) married one Mr. Adams and their daughter, Polly (Pauline) Adams, became an actress of some note. She married a Richard Owen and their daughters are named Nelly, Caroline and Susannah—all actresses—and all have taken the surname Harker—for pretty obvious reasons, I would say. The latter, now in her 50s, has worked in film, television and theatre and is most widely remembered for her role as Jane Bennet in the 1995 television adaptation of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. It should be noted, her mother Polly played that same character in a 1948 film version of the novel. Most recently Susannah appeared in a 2017 episode of Grantchester, but her many other roles date back to the mid-1980s.

So, another wonderful theatrical dynasty, to join that of the Foxes, Kendals, Redgraves, Kembles and Cusacks—and there are more.

Gordon Harker, 1933

tuckdbpostcards.org

Susannah Harker, 1996. Photo by Ivan Kyncl.

Author’s collection

II. Dissected designs

But, it is time to return to the designs for Joseph and His Brethren. Along with these JCW examples attributed to Harker are several colourfully exotic pieces inscribed with ‘Hogg’. Where do they belong? On checking the lists of the work of the two Hogg artists, initials J.F. and W. only, was hardly enlightening.  But on calling up the 1914 Australian production of Joseph and His Brethren, some answers were provided. J.F. Hogg was responsible for Zuleika’s Room in Act II and The Prison in Act III. It would appear W.R. Coleman, and son, were the designers for many of the other scenes, along with George Upward. So the vibrantly scarlet pieces are the work of Upward or—are they, in fact, truly the imported creations of Joseph Harker, following London’s production.

Potiphar’s House, left side—JCW designs

Potiphar’s House, right side—JCW designs

Zuleika’s Room—Hogg design for Australian production—JCW designs

Zuleika’s Room—Harker set for 1913 London production

From Play Pictorial, Vol. XXII, 1913

Joseph and His Brethren, an oratorio by George Frideric Handel, was first performed in 1744 at Covent Garden. Almost 170 years later Louis Napoleon Parker was responsible for its presentation, now a Pageant Play of a very biblical nature, incorporating family jealousies, lies and deception, and the ever-constant feuding between Israelites and Egyptians. This was first performed in 1913 at His Majesty’s Theatre in London. On the 14th of February, 1914, Melbourne’s Theatre Royal was treated to its Australian premiere—six weeks later Sydney was home to the production.

The play was produced by Cecil King, Stage Manager for Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree’s His Majesty’s Theatre in London, and presented by J.C. Williamson. The play consisted of four acts and incorporated thirteen scenes.

Program for the Melbourne production of Joseph and His Brethren, 1914

Elisabeth Kumm collection

Synopsis of scenes from the Melbourne program

Elisabeth Kumm collection

According to The Australian Live Performance Database, Joseph Harker is listed as being the designer for several productions in Sydney and Melbourne, and in New Zealand, but that does not necessarily mean he had joined the team of scenic artists here in His Majesty’s paint-room except that—from April 1912 to June 1913 one of his sons, the actor Gordon, toured Melbourne and Sydney, appearing in several productions, all with scenery attributed to his father Joseph. But it is highly unlikely that he accompanied his son, with so many scenic commitments back in London, including Joseph and His Brethren, The Merchant of Veniceand Twelfth Night.  He could hardly have made a ‘flying visit’. According to Matthew Someville’s  ‘Theatricalia’ Harker was involved, in the period 1911 to 1914, in the production of eight major plays and operas, and on referring to the 1984 March edition of Theatrephile, a further eight plays and pantomimes: here, obviously, was a man in very high demand.

Wikipedia tells us: ‘In 1905, Harker had a two-storey, open plan studio constructed to his specifications on Queen’s Row, a narrow street off Walworth Road in London. The painting studio continued to produce scenic designs for the West End and other UK theatres until the 1990s. It was used to create David Hockney’s celebrated backdrops for the Glyndebourne Opera Festival.’

And goes on: ‘Despite the building being Grade ll listed in 1989, as an important and rare example of a theatrical scene-painting workshop, the Southwark Council in early 2017 granted permission for the studios to be redeveloped into six luxury flats and an office unit … In response a petition which gained more than 4000 signatures was organized in 2017 requesting that the council change its decision.’    

Sadly, this petition was unsuccessful and the studios were carved up and redeveloped as threatened. See Spitalfieldslife.com for some wonderful shots of the former studios.

Harker Studios in 2015

 

Interior of Harker Studios, 2015

 

III. Design queries and clues

Returning home, if we refer to the images we can access in the digitized JCW Scene Books, many give clues to the identity of the Kenyon folio’s designs. It is not always that we see a full stage set—we see a backdrop, borders, wings, a cut-cloth, a flat. Which is why it is important—or lucky—that in Book No. 5 we can often see a whole plan for a stage set, if not an actual elevation. If only there were more of these plans and elevations—although we can see, for example, plans for Silver King, The Arcadians, The Boy, Katinkaand House of Temperley—for none of which, sadly, Harker seems to have created designs.

There is also the fact that backdrops/cloths were recycled or cannibalized, or simply painted over. Cut-cloths of foliage—trees, flowering plants—were also used time and time again. 

In Book No. 3 and Book No. 6 there’s a surprising amount of backgrounds for Joseph and His Brethren—palms, pyramids and pillars, sphinxes, formal gardens and rocky outcrops—and many cut-cloths, foliage necessary for the romantic garden scene between Joseph, an Israelite, and Asenath, a young Egyptian girl. Sometimes the scenic artist’s name is typed or written alongside the image—the name Coleman appears frequently. For the back-cloths 36 feet by 23 feet is the measurement most often cited, around 11 metres by 7 metres high. There is a panoramic scene that worked out at 14 metres across, another at 20, but the height was always set at 7 metres.

Setting for Potiphar’s House—JCW designs

Then there is the question of colour—was the deep red (shown here) for Potiphar’s House used in the London production—was it used in the Australian one? Was it Harker or the Colemans who were responsible for these models—are they a true representation of what was seen on stage, back in 1913 and/or 1914?

We are so used to thinking of 19th century sets as monochromatic—the 1000s of examples within the JCW Scene Books—when of course they were ‘in colour’, as is very evident when viewing the many pieces of artwork within the Kenyon folio. Could we discover the JCW sets’ colours by applying that special technique, whereby one can convert black and white to colour? Something film restorers have been doing for decades. 

Potiphar’s House—Harker set for London production in 1913

From The Play Pictorial, Vol. XXII, 1913

Set shot from JCW Scene Books—the question is: Joseph Harker or George Upward?

Theatre Heritage Australia

In Book No. 10 we have photographic records of some actual English productions. Here we can see the originals—the inspirations or guides for the later Australian plays or operas. They include The Second Mrs. Tanqueray(Harker design), As You Like It, Guy Domville, Importance of Being Ernestand Lady Windermere’s Fan—among others.

There is something that I very much doubt happens these days: within one production of, for example, 3 acts with 2 or 3 scenes in each, there would be—as we have seen—several different artists, depending on their painterly or design expertise, or on their speciality. One artist may specialize in landscapes, another in architecture, interiors, ornamentation, etc. Figures may also come into it—see A Royal Divorce (Books 1,4,5,6 and 8). Apparently Joseph Harker was passionate about birch trees and often introduced them into his pastoral settings—Joseph and His Brethren definitely being the exception!

To learn more about Harker and his work, his studio and his family, I cannot recommend highly enough Raymond Walker and David Skelly’s formidable 2018 publication, Backdrop to a Legend—a limited edition with ongoing supplementary chapters. I am indebted to them both.

Set for The Second Mrs. Tanqueray from JCW Scene Book No. 10

Theatre Heritage Australia

Joseph Harker—fronticepiece of his 1924 reminiscences Studio and Stage

www.hathitrust.org

Epilogue

But to close, in 1927 on the 27th of March, Joseph Cunningham Harker died, at the age of 71. His scenic design business carried on—first by his eldest son Philip (whose two sons were to die tragically during the Second World War), followed by fourth son Joseph and fifth, Roland. I found listings, from 1930 to 1962, for a dozen productions attributed to a Joseph Harker—possibly the work of Joseph junior and of Roland? Two of the Harker daughters, their sisters, took to the stage—and so the tradition continued.

And continues to this day.

Sources and inspiration

Australian Live Performance Database—AusStage

Backdrop to a Legend—Walker & Skelly—2018

Miles and Lisa Kenyon

Elisabeth Kumm—Theatre Heritage Australia

Scenic Studios—Melbourne

Shadowplay—Joseph O’Connor—Harville Secker, 2019/Vintage, 2020

Spitalfieldslife.com

Theatrephile—Vol.1, No.2, March 1984—Sean McCarthy

Theatricalia—Matthew Someville

Wikipedia

Explore the JCW Scene Books

The year is 1861 and the day after Christmas—it’s time for our pantomime—which just happens to be, this year, Harlequin Valentine and Orson; or, The Task of Romance and the Tricks of theSpirit of Fun, and arriving in Melbourne, just two days before, is the All England Eleven, among which is my great grandfather Charles Lawrence, a member of the team who went on to stay in Australia and ultimately, take on tour to the United Kingdom in 1867, a team of Aboriginal cricketers. I can’t help but wonder—did he get to see that pantomime that December? He certainly became acquainted, at a much later date, with the Coppin family when his daughter Millicent became acquainted with George’s daughter Daisie.

Stephenson’s Team of English Cricketers in Australia—24 December 1861

Author’s collection

Enough of that—what of the actual production? Although Coppin is not listed as its director, between 1856 and 1869 its author (or adaptor) William Mower Akhurst created ten Christmas pantomimes for the Theatre Royal in Bourke Street and the name John Hennings, as scenic artist/designer, appears over and over. In 1856 George Coppin and Gustavus Brooke had become the Theatre Royal’s new managers and owners—a partnership which lasted a mere three years—but Coppin proceeded to direct the theatre’s plays, operas and pantomimes all through the 1860s—and way, way beyond.

Returning to Harlequin Valentine and Orson in 1861, the glorification of Burke and Wills— ‘these brave men’—was painted by Hennings as the very fitting finale to the production. One can only try to imagine this artwork in full colour, rather than the detailed black and white drawing shown here!

Apotheosis of Burke & Wills

National Library of Australia, Canberra

Melbourne Library and torchlight procession, November 1867

State Library of New South Wales, Sydney

John Hennings in 1868

State Library of Victoria, Melbourne

From the early 1840s through to the mid 1890s George Coppin would have employed or involved a countless number of ‘creatives’—set and costume designers, scenic artists, costume makers, propsmen—not to mention the stage managers and crews—but only one name really stands out—occurs over and over again—that of John Hennings whose career here in Australia ran from the mid 1850s to the late 1890s. There are other names, collaborators and assistants but I am using Hennings’ 1860s pantomime involvement as a basis. There were literally dozens more productions where Coppin’s name appears in the listings available to us, although many, of course, were simply repeats, the same panto or play presented in a different theatre or state.

In 1855 at the age of twenty John Hennings (Johann Friederich Hennings), son of Danish-born parents, arrived in Melbourne, attracted as so many were, by the Victorian Gold Fields. He already had some decorating and artistic experience and it was not long before he found work as a scenic artist in various theatres, in Adelaide, Geelong, Sydney and Melbourne, and not long before he began his long association with George Coppin, with the Theatre Royal, the Princess’s and the Haymarket theatres, and also the Cremorne Gardens’ Pantheon Theatre. For at least three decades he dominated Melbourne’s stage design, responsible for an enormous body of work on plays, pantomimes and operas—backdrops and front-cloths, flats and borders, and most famously, panoramas.  During the 1860s he worked with, mentored or was assisted by, Alfred Clint, William Pitt snr, William J. Wilson, Benjamin Tannett and Messrs. Freyberger, Fry, Holmes and Opie—and no doubt many others—to some of whom we shall return shortly.

In 1863 to celebrate the wedding of Prince Albert and Princess Alexandra, Hennings and one Benjamin Tannett painted transparencies that were displayed on the city’s buildings, and four years later when the Duke and Duchess of York visited an illumination was incorporated in the pantomime at the Theatre Royal here—Tom Tom, the Piper’s Son, and Mary Mary, Quite Contrary; or, Harlequin Piggy Wiggy, and the Good Child’s History of England.

Other celebrations that year, 1867, included transparent scenes depicting the Aboriginal cricket team, prior to their departing Australian shores—scenes ‘showing their progress from utter barbarism to the highest state of civilization’! In Sydney, on board the royal vessel Galatea, Hennings painted a view of Windsor Castle for the Duke and Duchess.

Returning to 1863, Hennings and Tannett created the artwork for a moving panorama of European Grand Tour views—these were exhibited at the Melbourne Polytechnic Institute in Bourke Street East. And for the 1869 pantomime The House that Jack Built; or, Harlequin Progress and the Loves, Laughs, Laments and Labours of Jack Melbourne and Little Victoria, Hennings presented another moving panorama, a complex allegory that symbolized Melbourne’s growth and development and incorporated transportation scenes that could also stand as quite separate and distinct works of art, while still keeping within the form or frame of a theatre piece.

The painter Frederick McCubbin was said to be most impressed by Hennings’ work, as were the critics, who praised consistently, although not without the odd quibble. During the 1860s Hennings had joined the management of the Theatre Royal, in partnership with Coppin, Richard Stewart (father of Nellie and Docie) and Henry Richard Harwood.

Hennings was known to construct small 3-dimensional models to scale in order to see how separate planes could be translated into a single painted surface. He would employ this technique if he needed to incorporate figures within the back-cloth’s composition. Set designers in the latter part of the 19th century tended to use a scale of half an inch to the foot (12 inches) or 1:24—not all that different to the scale often used now of 1:25.

Late 19th century set model—Bland Holt production

State Library Victoria, Melbourne

Colour blocks reduced to powder

Walker & Skelly

Initial designs or models were generally executed in watercolour (or gouache)—the firm of Winsor & Newton was established in London in 1832 and produced many one-shilling hand-books on art—with titles such as ‘painting in watercolour and oil’, ‘the elements of perspective’, ‘the art of mural decoration’ and so on. But for the stage-cloths the designer’s assistant, or colourman, utilizing a mortar and pestle, would grind blocks of colour to a very fine powder, then mix this with size, a liquid glue obtained from boiling rabbit bones and skin. This enabled the paint to bond to canvas, hessian or wood. If size had not been added to the paint, or distemper, would flake or rub off. Oil paint, a different beast altogether, could also be the medium but presumably a more expensive alternative, although probably necessary when decorating glass to create a transparent effect.

Hennings continued to be involved with the Theatre Royal’s plays and pantomimes through to the 1890s. His work on panoramas and cycloramas also continued and we are fortunate that his 1892 cyclorama of Early Melbourne has managed to survive and has been meticulously and lovingly preserved at the State Library of Victoria.

Born in 1820 in Sunderland, England, William Pitt arrived in Australia just two years prior to Hennings. He became associated with George Coppin both as a publican—when he died in 1879 he was the licensee of the Theatre Royal’s Café de Paris—and as a scenic artist when he collaborated with Hennings, William J. Wilson, Benjamin Tannett and Signor Arrigoni. In 1867 Pitt was the principal scenic artist on the Royal Haymarket production of Harlequin Rumpelstiltskin; or, the Demon Dwarf of the Goblin Gold Mines, and the Prince and the Miller’s Daughter. The pantomime ended with a Grand Transformation Scene: A Harlequinade—played out in ‘three well-known shops in a somewhat prominent street’ and a Melbourne telegraph office. In 1870 Pitt became the first treasurer of the Victorian Academy of Art where his paintings were exhibited. His son William Pitt jnr was born in 1855 and trained as an architect, ultimately designing, rebuilding or improving theatres in Melbourne and Ballarat, Hobart, Sydney and New Zealand. In the 1880s, after Pitt snr’s death, Coppin commissioned son William to design what became Gordon House, in Melbourne’s Little Bourke Street.

Roughly ten years after Hennings, English artist Alfred Clint(1842–1923) arrived on these shores. His father was a painter and scenic artist, his grandfather an ARA portraitist, his brothers and uncles all artists. Initially Alfred assisted Hennings at the Theatre Royal and contributed to many of the pantomimes, before moving to Sydney in the late 1860s, where he continued to work in several Sydney theatres, as well as join the staff of Sydney Punch—and later The Bulletin—as a cartoonist. Most notably Clint painted settings for the 1867 pantomime Tom Tom, the Piper’s Son, and Mary Mary, Quite Contrary; or, Harlequin Piggy Wiggy, and the Good Child’s History ofEngland, one of the many entertainments enjoyed by Prince Alfred (the Duke of Edinburgh), during his royal visit. Apprenticed to their father, all three of Clint’s sons became artists and scenic painters, well and truly upholding the family tradition!

Railway to Circular Quay—sketch by Alfred Clint

State Library of New South Wales, Sydney

Reverting to 1857, and two years after Hennings’ appearance on these shores, 47-year-old English-born Benjamin Tannett arrived in Melbourne, travelling via Swiftsure from Plymouth, with his second wife Isabelle and Joseph, a son from his first marriage. Tannett was an established theatrical scene-painter and actor, and in no time at all he was employed by Coppin and was working alongside ‘the master’ John Hennings. In 1858 Tannett and William Pitt snr had painted ‘a very beautiful act-drop with a representation of Shakespeare’s birthplace’ for Melbourne’s redecorated Theatre Royal. In 1861 at the Princess’s Theatre Tannett was scenic artist on Harlequin Mother Hubbard and Puss in Boots, creating a ‘beautiful panorama of Australian scenery—corn field, vineyards (they may be), and bush’. Two years later Tannett and Hennings collaborated on the panorama of European Grand Tour views, as mentioned earlier. Sadly, the following year, 1864, and after a short illness, Benjamin Tannett died in Geelong, presumably due to a heart condition: a career cut tragically short at the early age of 54.

Also arriving in Melbourne the same year as Hennings, was the actor, manager and scene painter William J. Wilson, whose father and grandfather were both artists of some repute. Son William worked in Melbourne and Sydney’s theatres, visited New Zealand in 1863 before returning here, only to move permanently to Sydney. He was considered to be that city’s answer to an artist of Hennings’ calibre; he worked on plays, operas, pantomimes and moving panoramas. In Sydney he formed a partnership with Alexander Habbe (1829–1896), a Danish scene painter who had also headed here, initially—along with so many others—for the Victorian goldfields in the 1850s.

Other scene painters who worked with or for Hennings during the 1860s (and beyond) included Mouritz Freyberger, Charles Fry, Henry Holmes, Messrs. Liddle and Douglas, and Patrick (Joseph) Little. This last-named arrived in Australia from Dublin in 1860 and worked as a scenic artist in Victoria, South Australia, New South Wales and Tasmania. He and his descendants established a studio specialising in scenic art in the Melbourne suburb of Carlton. The company survived through to 1918.

Patrick Joseph Little

Peter Little Collection

William J. Wilson

Australian Variety Theatre Archive

German-born Mouritz Freyberger (1838–1886) at the age of 24 was working as a scene painter in Melbourne theatres but was also established as a professional photographer. He assisted Hennings in 1864 at the Theatre Royal with the ‘splendid pictorial effects’ for the pantomime The Enchanted Isle, first performed here in 1857, but adapted from William and Robert Brough’s 1848 (London) burlesque extravaganza. Robert’s son—also named Robert—is best known as a co-founder, in 1886, of the Brough-Boucicault Comedy Company. The full title of the production: The Enchanted Isle; or, Harlequin the Mysterious Prince and the Magician Father; or, Raising the Wind on the Most Approved Principles was described as a ‘travesty of Shakespeare’s Tempest’. For the 1867 visit of the Duke of Edinburgh Freyberger painted a large transparency for Robertson’s Collins Street bookshop, to illustrate the saying ‘The sun never sets on the British dominions’. A painted illusion of the façade of the Melbourne Public Library (now State Library of Victoria) was also commissioned for the same occasion. He worked often with Hennings, and sometimes as the chief painter, as with a production of the Princess’s Theatre’s Frou Frou in 1870. He moved to India where he lived for many years only to return here in 1886, arriving back a mere five days before his untimely death at the age of 48.

The Enchanted Isle—illustration for original production in London in 1848

Adelphi Theatre Calendar

Watercolour painting of landscape by W.J. Wilson, c.1865

Australian Performing Arts Collection, Arts Centre Melbourne

Costume makers were almost invariably women—Mrs. Hancock, Mrs. Croucher and Mrs. Jager/Jagar—the designs generally adapted from those used earlier in English productions or from traditional sources. Costumes are listed as being made, rather than designed. Interesting to speculate just who brought it upon themselves to transport designs or sketches from ‘the old country’… (Later pantomimes give us the names of designers such as Alfred Maltby, London’s Monsieur and Madame Alias, Madame Beaumont, Atillio Comelli and Australian-born Will R. Barnes. Multi-talented Maltby was also an actor and playwright.) James Brogden and Mr. Dennis are listed as propsmen and Herr James Cushla was also a technician and a mask-maker. It is recorded that this last-named arrived in Melbourne from Plymouth, on the same vessel Swiftsure as Benjamin Tannett, in late 1857, with his wife and two young daughters, and also, in the company of a troupe of ‘tableau performers’. Another of many talents, Cushla had, in addition to his technical and mask-making skills, a long career here as a living statue, appearing first at Cremorne Gardens, only weeks after arriving here. Over the next 26 years he created a repertoire of more than one hundred poses and tableaux.

Mother Goose pantomime—Attilio Comelli (1858–1925)

Australian Performing Arts Collection, Arts Centre Melbourne

Grimaldi’s costume in the role of Orson in Valentine and Orson, London, 1806

Harvard Theatre Collection

I have concentrated on perhaps the rather too obvious ‘creatives’ of the 1860s but plainly, there are so many more stories to be told, and in the decades to follow, for example, those of Phil Goatcher, John Brunton, William R. Coleman, George Gordon and Walter Brookes Spong. Whether these tales are of the scenic artist, his assistant, the costume-maker or mask-maker, what rich and interesting times—times of which much has been written and which will certainly continue to be written.

Late 19th century set pieces

Miles Kenyon Collection

Late 19th century water-colour sketch for back-cloth

Miles Kenyon Collection

Life spans of twelve scenic artists:

Benjamin Tannett—1810–1864

William Pitt (senior)—1819–1879

William J. Wilson—1833–1909

John Hennings—1835–1898

Mouritz Freyberger—1838–1886

George Gordon—1839–1899

Patrick Joseph Little—1840–1907

Alfred Clint—1842–1923

John Brunton—1849–1909

Walter Brookes Spong—1851–1929

Phil Goatcher—1852–1931

William Rowland Coleman—1864–1932

With grateful thanks to the following sources:

Raymond Walker & David Skelly, Backdrop to a Legend, Self published limited edition, 2018

Mimi Colligan, Canvas Documentaries, Melbourne University Press, 2002

Alec Bagot, Coppin the Great, Melbourne University Press, 1965

Anita Callaway, Visual Ephemera: Theatrical art in 19th century Australia, University New South Wales Press, 2000

Viola Tait, Dames, Principal Boys…..and All That, Macmillan, 2001

AusStage

Australian Variety Theatre Archive

State Library Victoria, Melbourne

Wikipedia

Picture this: a structure sixteen metres high, sixteen metres long and four metres wide. Inside, and halfway up its height, a floor secured at each short end but with a gap along each long side. Into these two gaps are slotted wooden frames, with a system of pulleys, weights and winches, on which an expanse of canvas (and in earlier times, lengths of stitched-together Irish linen) would have been attached.

This basically is what a small group of us were privileged to inspect one Wednesday in July, led by Matthew Peckham, Manager, Production and Capital Works at Her Majesty's Theatre, and a recent and very welcome addition to the Theatre Heritage Australia committee.

The paint frame, in Cohen Place (once Brown’s Lane), the lane behind the theatre: how often we had read about this, speculated about it, had longed to be admitted to explore it for ourselves. And we had heard so much - and so very recently - about the paint frame from Paul Kathner and Ross Turner (at the launch of the Scene Books in May), both of whom worked here back in the 1960s and 1970s, right up until the demise of the J.C. Williamson conglomerate.

Cohen Place entry (Photo: J Leech)After the refurbishment by William Pitt and the re-opening and re-naming of the theatre in 1900 - from the 1886 Alexandra Theatre (architect Nahum Barnet) to Her Majesty’s Theatre - three new buildings were added to the rear of the theatre. In 1902 a scene dock, and in 1904 a three-storey dressing room, followed, in that same year, by the paint frame.

Over the years there has been much activity in this particular part of the city - Melbourne's "theatre land". Close by, what is now the Chinese Museum once housed storage facilities and workshops for set and props building, across the way a costume hire business operated (J.C. Williamson's) and upstairs a vast studio - the Sunroom - was used for daily ballet classes and as a rehearsal space for visiting companies. Where the statue of Dr Sun Yat Sen, founder of modern China, stands (note his two left feet!) an art gallery, the Munster Arms, once existed, along with several other shop-fronted dwellings.

A roller-door opened straight onto the downstairs, or bottom half, area. What immediately impressed was the height of the ceiling (eight metres) compared to the narrowness of the actual workroom, and the paint-stained, encrusted, dribbled and spattered walls, framed and criss-crossed with wooden beams and braces. (We were pleased to see much evidence of current usage - work-benches and tools, aluminium ladders, electrical equipment and what has obviously quite recently been installed, light fittings and wooden-beamed ceiling - this last placed at the halfway point of the sixteen metre wall.)

Around the walls, old shelves, benches and cupboards, all thickly caked with the paint, size and grime of "ages past". To our left three flights of steps led us to the top half of the "frame". This is where the gaps on either side could be viewed - a strange sensation as they had the effect of drawing you to them. In addition, the floor felt "sprung", although not in the 21st century sense of the term - and not advisable to put it to the test! Huge windows at either end of the space, the ones backing onto the rear of the theatre were blacked over, the others, facing west, were clear to the sky.

Paint-encrusted walls (Photo: E Kumm)Across from the doorway to the stairs, a few steps led up to a series of small rooms - a "tea-room" that overlooks the Chinese Square. Stuck to the walls could be seen scraps of newsprint or scribbled names or numbers. On one surface there were curled and brown clippings from papers with the names of some of the artists who had worked within the building. These were headlines cut from various papers of the day.

Ross (Turner), Paul (Kathner), Hayden (Spencer), Bill (Constable), Peter (Pettit) - to name a few. A steep series of steps, ladder-like, led down to a little room below. None of us ventured to explore, though greatly tempted! Mysteriously, the floors of these various rooms no way corresponded to the floor of the upstairs work level …

No evidence now, of course, of any canvas, let alone one actually being worked on. Matthew told us how several artists painted at various levels at the same time, depending on the expertise one would be concerned with detail work such as foliage or architecture, others with skies, sea- or land-scapes. Paint at the top may well drip down onto those below: ideally sequences could be timed, for example a washy sky or background could be executed first up. The old brick walls also boast the odd diagram, a small sketch or trial of an effect or pattern - the walls are mesmerizing, you could examine them inch by inch and create story after story.

The following has been generously provided by designer Rosemary Simons, who takes up the story. Towards the end of the 1950s, Ross Turner, later to found, along with Paul Kathner, Melbourne's Scenic Studios, was taken by Jack Coleman, a member of the famous theatrical Coleman family, to visit the paint frame at Her Majesty's Theatre. At the time, both Jack and Ross were working at GTV Channel 9. It was on this visit to this historic building that Ross met the scenic artist Cecil Newman.

W.R. Coleman, who trained George Kenyon (NFSA)When Cecil Newman died, not very long after this visit, a vacancy was created in the JCW scenic art department. Jack Coleman was a close personal friend of George Kenyon, and the head scenic artist. William R. Coleman (1863-1932) had trained George Kenyon along with Dresford Hardingham and George Upward. In this way scenic art techniques had been passed down for many generations. Not only were these people scenic artists, they were also stage designers. At the start of the 20th century this became less the case in other parts of the world: however Australia did not follow suit until the period between the two world wars. That is the time when many scenic artists' design activities lessened and they instead became the interpreters of specialist stage designers' ideas.

George Kenyon, aka John Alan Kenyon (his birth name), was born in London in 1898 and arrived in Australia after the First World War. A stylish dresser and an ex-Navy man, he took great pride in his formal scenic art training, inclining him to be somewhat dismissive of those who had not been similarly trained. In Ross Turner's view, George's designs might not have been artistically brilliant but were technically so. Kenneth Rowell's designs, on the other hand, might not have been technically brilliant but were artistically so/ were the reverse. This transition from the old school to the new, in stage design and scenic art, was an important period in theatre: George typified the old school and Ross, later joined by Paul Kathner, represented the new.

Paul was working in Sydney under and for William (Bill) Constable and the avant-guard designers and directors at the independent theatres. JCW, meanwhile, imported a lot of their designs (but nevertheless took a huge gamble in commissioning John Truscott to design sets and costumes for the production Camelot).

Rupert Browne worked mainly as a freelance scenic artist but had been resident scenic artist at the Palais Theatre in St. Kilda, around the 1930s. Dresford Hardingham was similarly placed at the Princess. By the 1960s, Rupert (freelancing still) and Dres did not have constant commitments to productions and they were both often free to work at Her Majesty's paint frame - when extra "hands" were required. Both being close to retirement, they were keen to pass their knowledge on - first to Ross and subsequently to Paul.

Paul Kathner & Ross Turner in the mid-1980sThe scenic artists before Ross and Paul's generation were so competitive: they had portions of the backdrop to paint, as if there was an invisible line between each artist's section. The master painter had to come in and link all the sections together at the end. Even if they all had similar training, they each had their own theories and styles. When Ross and Paul were painting and Dres and Rupert came and gave advice, they often contradicted each other. At times the pressure was such that, if, for instance, Dres was approaching to examine your work, you made sure you painted along the lines of their respective styles.

When Ross Turner joined JCW in Melbourne the painting staff at Her Majesty's consisted of George Kenyon, his son John, and the "splodger" (scenic artist assistant or labourer) Wilson Browne who, according to Ross, was "a diligent old Scotsman who took upon himself the task to be in charge of every teaspoon of material within the paint frame".

The paint department worked out of the paint frame, which was specially constructed in the English tradition. It was very tall, twice the height of a backcloth, but not very wide, owing to real-estate constraints. Roughly, the room had the scaled-down proportions of an English cathedral. Traditionally it would have had skylights with canvas blinds to block out direct light, however these had been removed in the re-roofing of the building.

Down the centre of the room were two long pallets sitting back to back, large movable tables for blending paint before applying it with brushes to the backcloth. At one end of the pallets was a large box for brushes, and at the opposite end, a working table. At the end closest to the door were the gas jets for heating up the glue size. The whole room smelt of that glue. There were rows of shelves containing ceramic chamber pots, individually marked with hand-written labels and each containing a pre-mixed colour pigment. Collectively they represented the traditional range of scenic art pigments.

Frank Tait & George Kenyon with the chamber pots in the early 1950s (NFSA)On the landing at the top of the stairs, there was an old lead-lined sink. On the walls of the staircase climbing up to the painting level, hung hundreds of stencils of wallpaper patterns, architectural details and frieze decorations. The stencils were painstakingly drawn and cut out of heavy oiled brown paper. They were cut between shows, when the paint room was quiet, then added to the stock. Also stored were old square kerosene tins of dried pigment, each carrying a rather flamboyant handwritten label, and ceramic demijohns - which was how the pigments arrived, when imported during the years prior to the First World War.

The hand winches for the paint frame, looking like remnants from old sailing ships, were used for raising and lowering backcloths which had been attached. When you needed a new cloth to be attached, you called in the head mechanist and he arrived with a team to load the frame with this new one. Not that long before Ross Turner started at the paint frame, arrangements were so formal that paint staff were ushered into the office and the door closed, to make sure the painters were kept separate from the backstage labourers. In the theatre hierarchy of that time, the paint room staff were considered superior to the back-stage crew, in fact the head scenic artist was the most highly paid person on the theatre staff - possibly earning more than some of the performers.

Winching away (NFSA)Paint frame smells were quite distinctive and they struck you as soon as you entered the space. The main smell was from the glue, which was made from rabbit skins. This same aroma wafted out over the audience on opening night as the curtain rose, but slightly reduced in intensity over time. The toilet, a fixture dating from the time when Melbourne was first sewered, was beneath the staircase. This tiny closed room was shared with the gas meter, creating quite a cocktail of odours.

In Melbourne's cold winter weather, the paint frame was very drafty and utterly impossible to heat. At the height of summer, due to the high ceiling, it was far more bearable. The floor was mopped regularly - three or four times a week. The pallets were washed every day. Every morning, each pot on the pallet was given a good stir. If a new colour was needed, it had to be mixed up from the dry pigments. 

Despite this cleaning regime, the paint frame was less than ideal as a work-space, but appealing, since it was so very steeped in tradition. Work clothes varied: Ross worked in a white boiler-suit, a legacy of his Channel 9 days, others wore a mixture of old garments, but when they left the paint room, they were encouraged to wear collar and tie. To work in, George Kenyon favoured a smock over his suit - he often wore a bow-tie.

Second-floor workroom: seeing shadows (Photo: Judy Leech)But to return to the present, or to be more precise, early July 2018. Something I found later, on viewing the photographs taken: over and over again the rooms' painted walls gave an effect of ghostliness as if all those layers of paint, glue and the years of dust had built up a sort of ethereal presence. See for yourselves! I was seeing shadows where there should have been none …

Matthew gave us so much expert information and technical details that all of us left, eventually, bent on researching and reading up on as much as we could find on this grand old lady, Her Majesty's Theatre, and in particular, her beguiling paint frame and those who worked within its high and intriguing walls.

Thanks to:
Mimi Colligan
Claudia Funder, APAC
Paul Kathner
Elisabeth Kumm
National Film & Sound Archive
Matthew Peckham
Simon Piening
Rosemary Simons
Rohan Storey
Ross Turner

The year is 1926, the setting is London and Benjamin Pollock’s Old Toyshop in Hoxton. The cast includes, ultimately, Sergei Pavlovich Diaghilev, Russian founder and director of Les Ballets Russes, Sacheverell Sitwell, Lord Berners, Prince Aleksandr Schervashidze, Pedro Pruna, and George Balanchine—among many, many others.

A new generation of ‘avant-garde aesthetes’, including the Sitwells and Lord Berners, had been inspired by Diaghilev’s return to London in 1918. Sacheverell Sitwell, then serving in the Grenadier Guards had, quite simply, fallen in love with ballet.

With the friendship and financial backing of Viscount Rothermere, an eminent newspaper proprietor, Diaghilev’s wish was to produce a ballet to music by the diplomat-turned-composer Lord Berners (Gerald Tyrwhitt-Wilson, 1883–1950), for which Sitwell was to provide the scenario. This interest of Diaghilev’s in English themes had also led earlier that year to a commission for Constant Lambert (1905–1951) to compose a score for Romeo and Juliet and which premiered in May. Sacheverell took Sergei to view paintings by various English artists—but the ’great man’ /impresario was not satisfied. Finally, after explaining what was meant by the terms ‘penny-plain and twopenny-coloured Juvenile Drama prints’, Diaghilev was taken to visit Mr. Benjamin Pollock at his Hoxton toyshop and then to its rival shop, H.J. Webb’s in Old Street, London.

He was astonished, if not more than a little puzzled—but what could be more English than a traditional pantomime? Diaghilev was presented with an enormous selection of costume designs and backdrops, created for toy theatres and collected by Pollock: prints by George and Robert Cruikshank, Tofts, Honigold and Webb. He was delighted by the brightly coloured sheets of scenes and characters—sometimes likened to the popular prints of the Frenchman, Jean-Charles Pellerin and his ‘Imagerie d’Epinal’. When Diaghilev was taken ‘behind the scenes’ to a room where artists were hand-colouring the penny-plain prints, he declared it was “unprecedented!” although, of course, in French.

Sergei Diaghilev, 1916. Photo by Count Jean de Strelecki.

New York Public Library, New York

Lord Berners, 1920. Photo by Bassano Ltd.

National Portrait Gallery, London

Sacheverell Sitwell, 1920s. Photo by Denys.

National Portrait Gallery, London

George Balanchine, 1920s. Photo by Dimitriew.

Author’s collection

Thus, came about the ballet The Triumph of Neptune, with sets inspired by, most notably, Pollock’s Juvenile Drama The Silver Palace; or, The Golden Poppy. The Toyshop, originally a theatrical warehouse, was situated at 73 Hoxton Street, and had been opened by one John Redington (1819–1876) in 1851. (His shop is portrayed within the toy theatre image featuring Harlequin, Columbine, et al.  More anon...) After his death his daughter Eliza ran the business, and the following year, in 1877, she married Benjamin Pollock (1856–1937) and together they managed the shop. The stock consisted of toy theatre sheets of Redington’s and those of the original publisher, John Kilby Green. Mr. Pollock became a maker of toy theatres, known also as Juvenile Drama, creating miniature backdrops and characters from dramas of the day for a penny or for twopence... He used existing plates but altered the characters’ names to suit his productions.

Eliza and Benjamin had eight children, four girls and four boys, and the eldest, William, assisted in the business until his untimely death during World War One. Following their father’s death in 1937, daughter Louise stepped in and later, another sibling, Selina. In 1944 Louise and Selina sold the shop’s stock to Alan Keen, a bookseller who then operated the business under the name of Benjamin Pollock Limited, moving it to John Adam Street, in the Adelphi Building, just off the Strand. Shortly after this move, towards the end of the Second World War, the original Hoxton shop suffered badly from bomb damage.

The Welshman George Speaight (1914–2005), a theatre historian, author and performer, had linked up with Pollocks when a toy theatre performance had been held in celebration of Benjamín’s 80th birthday in 1936. (Speaight, twenty years later, lent a set of twopence-coloured prints for The Observer’s Diaghilev Exhibition, held first in Edinburgh and then in London. These original prints for The Silver Palace and other plays—The Corsican Brothers, The Miller and His Men, etc. —had been the inspiration for the décor and costumes of The Triumph of Neptune ballet in 1926.)

In 1946 Speaight was appointed manager (he remained with the shop, and later the museum that grew from it, until his death in 2005) but despite the support of many famous and influential individuals, the business failed to be a financial success and in 1950 it was moved to smaller premises in Little Russell Street—the following year Benjamin Pollock Ltd. went into receivership.

However, four years later the shop and the entire bankrupt stock was purchased by Marguerite Fawdry, a BBC journalist. The business was then moved to a rented shop in Monmouth Street and after a year it was also operating as Pollock’s Toy Museum, which was then run by Fawdry’s grandson, Eddy. The Museum and Toyshop moved again in the late 1960s and became a charitable trust entitled Pollock’s Toy Theatre Ltd. In 1980 Pollock’s opened in the newly-renovated Covent Garden Piazza, one of the Piazza’s very first shops. Ownership had passed from the Fawdrys to Christopher and Peter Baldwin. Since the latter’s death in 2015 the shop has been run by Louise Heard, someone who had, ever since the 80s, helped ‘keep the show on the road’, including opening a second shop nearby, back in 2010.

Sadly, the Toy Museum is currently looking for another venue as a new lease has not been secured, although it is temporarily situated outside London, with much of its stock in safe storage. The Toyshop dwells still within the Piazza, 44 The Market, Covent Garden, and Pollocks continues to produce its own range of toy theatres, with displays at Liberty, Fortnum and Mason, the Royal Opera House and the Chelsea Arts Club. The work of contemporary artists is represented, including that of Australian Viola Ann Seddon, whose Ballet Theatres and Opera Tableaux bring such joy to so many—her doll-making skills were developed under the tutelage of the late, beloved and legendary Mirka Mora.

Benjamin Pollock and his wife Eliza (nee Redington) with the Neptune Theatre. openhouseminiatures; and George Speaight (right). Courtesy of Anthony Speaight.

But let us rewind our clock and return to 1926 and our ballet The Triumph of Neptune, which was to be presented at London’s Lyceum Theatre, a theatre Serge Grigoriev, Diaghilev’s manager (regisseur/stage-director/dancer), apparently did not greatly care for. The ballet required much time to prepare—it would appear a great deal of this year, 1926, was taken up with its creation—but finally it opened, although rather late in the company’s season—on December 3rd. The young George Balanchine (1904–1983) was responsible for the choreography, having joined the company the previous year.

Georgi Melitonovitch Balanchivadze, Georgian-born—Diaghilev abridged and Russianized his name immediately—and young as George was, the preceding year at 21, he had created the choreography for two ballets Le Chant du Rossignol and Barabau, and collaborated with Bronislava Nijinska, Vaslav’s sister, on Romeo and Juliet. And then during Neptune’s year, he choreographed La Pastorale and Jack-in-the-Box. Clearly, the flavour of the year, so to speak! He was to be responsible for a further five ballets for Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes. I very much doubt that any record of the Neptune ballet’s choreography has survived—what system or notation method did Balanchine employ? In the 1978 book he co-authored with Francis Mason—Balanchine’s Festival of Ballet: scene-by-scene stories of 404 Classical and Contemporary Ballets—the ballet does not rate a single mention.

(This year, 2023, has seen performances, in both Melbourne and Sydney, of his 1967 three-act ballet Jewels.In August the Australian Ballet Company headed to London with this same production. Jewelswas originally choreographed for the New York City Ballet—how very tempting it is to attempt a total count of his balletic output!)

The sets for Neptune were adapted from the Victorian coloured prints chosen by Diaghilev and beautifully painted by another Georgian, Prince Aleksandr Konstantinovich Schervashidze (1867–1968), a very highly-regarded scenic artist. Early in the century the Prince had penned a report on the 1906 Paris Salon for Diaghilev’s journal ‘The World of Art’. The costumes, inspired of course by the twopence-coloureds, were by the Spaniard Pedro Pruna. But some of the costumes to be worn had been discovered at the London theatrical costumier C.W. May, left over from a production of an early Victorian pantomime—costumes encrusted with faux jewels. Jane Pritchard, writing in Diaghilev and the Golden Age of the Ballets Russes tells us the Fairy Queen’s costume was inspired by that of Mme. Auriol, a 19th century Columbine, and that of the character Cupid, a 1927 addition to the ballet, suggested by the simple tunic worn by John Reeve, an early 1800s dancer, perched on a large and totally unbending sunflower. Pedro Pruna had also designed costumes, and sets, for Les Matelots in 1925 and Balanchine’s La Pastorale, in the same year as that of Neptune.

As stated, the music was by Lord Berners, and although this was the only ballet score he composed for Diaghilev, in the 1930s he produced music for four of the Sadler’s Wells Theatre ballets—Luna Park (1930), ‘a fantastic ballet in one act’, choreographed by Balanchine with designs by the ill-fated English artist Christopher Wood; Foyer de Danse (1932); Wedding Bouquet (1937); Cupid and Psyche (1939) and Les Sirenes(1946).

Neptune’s scenario was the work of the English poet Sacherevell Sitwell, brother to Edith and Osbert. Two years before, he had published Southern Baroque Art, a Study of Painting, Architecture and Music in Italy and Spain of 17th and 18th centuries, but The Triumph of Neptune was a world away—a mix of pantomime, science fiction and satire … totally nonsensical.

Prince Aleksandr Shervashidze, 1913. Painting by V.I. Rossinsky. Wikipedia; and (right) ‘Top drops and foot pieces’. Author’s collection.

Sketch by Shervashidze. Was this the inspiration for his London Bridge set?

art.gov.ge

Apart from the three principal tableaux—Cloudland, The Frozen Forest and the Triumph at the conclusion of the ballet, London Bridge was also depicted, a Shipwreck, Fleet Street, a Giant Hand, an Evil Grotto and an Ogre’s Castle. In the Forest scene not only did it contain the best variations for the ballerinas—namely Alexandra Danilova, Lydia Sokolova, Lubov Tchernicheva and Vera Petrova—but they were brought on via wires, in the manner of the period. (J. Kirby’s ‘Flying Effects’ are still in use in theatres to this day.) Diaghilev was highly entertained by this Victorian contrivance.

Balanchine was not just the ballet’s choreographer, he also danced the role of the negro Snowball, and that of a beggar. The cast included a Fairy Queen, the sailor hero Tom Tug, a journalist called Mr. Brown, a Sea Goddess, a Dandy, eighteen assorted fairies, ogres—both male and female—sylphs and street-hawkers—to mention only a few! Diaghilev had been most taken by the Harlequins represented in the Hoxton prints and ordered that there be eight dancing within the ballet—eventually it was decided upon four. Sacherevell is reported as being similarly taken with the paper portrayals of policemen and their red and white striped footwear!  Conferences between these two took place in a huge room called the Sala di Santa Catarina, in a hotel on the left bank of the Arno in Florence, where Diaghilev was staying. Most of the dancers were also in Florence, enjoying a well-earned break and visiting the many palaces and galleries.

The Triumph of Neptune finally opened at the Lyceum in London on the 3rd of December, 1926, with Diaghilev, right up to noon on the day of the premier, helping Prince Schervashidze, and he himself painting spangles—applying tinsel perhaps?—on the transformation scene. It transpired the ballet was pretty much to the taste of the British public.  The orchestra was conducted by Henri Defosse, a particularly talented conductor of ballet (and with whom, most exceptionally, Diaghilev never quarreled over the matter of tempi) and Serge Grigoriev was the Stage Director. When Benjamin Pollock was taken to the ballet, he was delighted to see the scenes he was so familiar with come to life on an actual stage. Lynn Garafola in her admirable Diaghilev’s Ballets Russeswrites in great detail of the reception to the ballet—the attitudes of the times, including that of the Bloomsbury group, of writers, artists and musicians and what was regarded as the ‘dandy fold’. The ballet was certainly not without criticism—The Queen magazine gave it a very mixed review, Cyril Beaumont praised, whilst The Nation panned. But the general public highly approved.

In 1928 The Triumph of Neptune was performed at the Theatre de la Monnaie in Brussels and there were difficulties due to the fact that the flies were crammed with scenery belonging to the resident opera company—how could nine quick scene changes be possible without a due amount of flying-space?! The theatre’s stage manager refused to move a thing and all the backcloths duly stuck in the flies. As a consequence, the ballet went on and on and was far from the success of its English season, when it had earned great popularity as the most elaborate production since The Sleeping Princess in 1921, an incredibly lavish presentation that had cost a fortune, only for the scenery and costumes to be seized by Oswald Stoll, a theatre manager who had built the Coliseum and controlled many other theatres in London. This debt, however, was eventually discharged by further seasons of the Ballets Russes a few years later—in fact by 1926, the year of the Neptuneballet: another triumph indeed.

Vera Petrova & Serge Lifar. Photo by Sasha.

Victoria & Albert Museum, London

Alexandra Danilova & Serge Lifar. Photo by Sasha.

Victoria & Albert Museum, London

The Triumph of Neptune

A Pantomimic Ballet in Twelve Tableaux

Act l: Searching for Fairyland are two British adventurers, Mr. W. Brown, a journalist, and Tom Tug, a sailor. A crowd is gathering on LONDON BRIDGE to look through a magic telescope trained on the Fairy Kingdom—CLOUDLAND.  Sprites can be glimpsed, dancing among the clouds. There is a FAREWELL scene before Mr. B. and Tom Tug set off on a bus, but predictably, it is not long before the sailor’s wife, left at home, succumbs to the advances of the Dandy.

Meanwhile, the two adventurers, now at sea, are SHIPWRECKED, only to be rescued by a Sea Goddess (clad incongruously in a Glengarry—a Scottish Highlander’s cap—and a sequin tunic). In FLEET STREET two rival newspapers are trying in vain to receive news of the two men, who have now found themselves in an enchanted snow-filled forest. A ‘flying ballet’ takes place within this FROZEN WOOD.

Act ll: Back home the sailor’s wife is spending a lot of time with the Dandy—they dance a polka and when the two enter her dwelling their figures are outlined against the drawn blinds. Suddenly, Tom Tug’s spirit returns, knife in a GIANT HAND, and he prepares to defend the honour of his house. Two constables rush in but can only lay hold of a shadow—the sailor has returned to Fairyland.

Tom is reunited with Mr. Brown and they join forces, only to now find themselves in an EVIL GROTTO through which they manage to fight their way to the OGRE’S CASTLE. Here our unfortunate journalist is caught and sawn in half (one cannot help but wonder how this was achieved on stage—an old-time magician’s trick?) but Tom manages to escape. However, all his hopes to return home to England are dashed when a drunken negro, Snowball, upsets—on a SUNDAY MORNING IN LONDON—the magic telescope. Totally disillusioned by his wife’s behavior, Tom decides to renounce humanity and is transformed into a sprite, enabling him to wed Neptune’s daughter, the Fairy Queen, who then joins him in a ‘conjugal hornpipe’, culminating in THE TRIUMPH OF NEPTUNE. An APOTHEOSIS is then enacted, Tom Tug is now a Fairy Prince, and the ballet concludes with elaborate ceremonies that unite the new Prince to his consort, the Fairy Queen.

Twopence-coloured prints—costume inspirations for Ogres, Harlequins, Fairies, Policemen, Sailors and Dandy. Author’s collection.

The Dramatis Personae is too long to list, but here are the names of the principal dancers and their roles for the ballet’s premiere that December, almost a century ago. More than eighty characters are involved in the production, including multiple Fairies, Harlequins, Pages and Ogres.

The Fairy Queen—or Neptune’s daughter—was danced by Alexandra Danilova; Tom Tug, the sailor, by Serge Lifar; Mr. W. Brown, a journalist, Michael Fedorov; The Dandy—Konstantin Tcherkas; the Sailor’s Wife—Ludmilla Barasch and the Sea Goddess was portrayed by Lydia Sokolova, the English dancer Hilda Munnings. As already stated, Snowball was danced by the ballet’s choreographer George Balanchine. The Fairies, of which there were eighteen, included two more English dancers Vera Savina (Vera Clark) and Alicia Markova (Lilian Alicia Marks).

A few photographs of the original production do exist (held in London’s Victoria and Albert Museum) of the actual costumes. Whatever became of all these costumes? Were they recycled, cannibalized, sold or ‘liberated’, lost or destroyed by fire? Of sets I can find no trace—how unfortunate that we have no images of the backdrops and curtains of those twelve tableaux. Frustratingly, the background—such as it is—in the images shown here is a very little indication of anything or anywhere—but surely it must relate to one of Pollock’s productions? Are we looking at the base of a tree in the Frozen Wood? Or—a wild seascape, and the enormous waves responsible for the wreck of the adventurers’ ship?

Presumably the ballet’s title, if not the plot, was suggested or inspired by the existence of this particular toy theatre of Pollock’s (1880) where Neptune, Chief of the Water Deities, reigns above the proscenium arch, while on stage below Harlequin and Columbine, her father Pantaloon, Clown and the Good Fairy, cavort. They dance against a backdrop most appropriate: John Redington’s printing, bookbinding and stationery shop. Of the dimensions of the original model, I can find no record, but I imagine may be similar to that of the model, albeit more elaborate, shown in the attached image of Benjamin and his wife Eliza, nee Redington. Those dimensions are: height—63.5 cm, width—68.5 cm and depth—61 cm.

(Please see below for a description of the Neptune Theatre, its backdrop and wings.)

Serge Leonidovich Grigoriev in his autobiography writes that it was a great pity that the ballet’s season in London was so short—a mere nine days—as the public was ‘full of praise and enthusiasm’. In the company’s season in June the following year, as already mentioned, another character was added to the production, the role of Cupid and danced by Stanislas Idzikowski (1894–1977), a dancer of Polish origin, who had been with the company from 1914 onwards but had had a spell away at the time of the 1926 production. The Times thought his role “a burlesque, all the funnier for being carried out with the utmost gravity, of the old school of male dancer”. Diaghilev was highly amused by these comments and laughed, according to Sacherevell, until the tears ran down his face.

The very final performance of The Triumph was on the last day of July in 1928. Almost exactly a year later Diaghilev said farewell to his dancers in London; the performances destined to be the company’s last, under his direction, were given at Vichy in France—Cimarosiana, Le Tricorne and La Boutique Fantasque on the 4th of August. Diaghilev visited Munich on his way to his beloved Venice, which is where he died at the age of 59 on August 19, surrounded by four of his dearest and closest friends and collaborators. He had been suffering from a diabetic condition, later complicated by blood poisoning. Although bedridden for the last week of his life, and nursed devotedly, his death was sudden. Ironically, the summer of 1929 was one of the only times in his life, and that of his Ballets Russes, when worries about finances had ceased to exist—surely due, if only in a minor way, to the success of his ballet The Triumph of Neptune.

Cupid, Fairy, Goddess and Lord Berners. Photo by Sasha. Victoria & Albert Museum, London; and Vera Petrova (right) as the Ruby Fairy. Photo by North. Author’s collection.

The Neptune Theatre

There is a plethora of the most telling signage on the backdrop, which portrays a Shop Front: Miscellaneous Fancy Articles, Tobacconist & Theatrical Print Warehouse—the Trade supplied with Plays and Characters, and the shop-number 208 is above the window.

Next-door to the left is J.&J. Vickers (no.209), celebrated Liqueur GIN and Superior Compounds. There is a gas lamp inscribed with Adam & Eve.

‘John Redington, licensed to sell stamps’, is over his door and leaning against the entrance a board proclaiming Astley’s Royal Amphitheatre—Baron Munchausen. In the right foreground is a Toyshop, Shettlecock and on the left a Purveyor of York Hams.

Redington’s window is crammed with all manner of goodies—dolls and games and toy theatres. Tinsel for every sort of picture, Raffle Papers, Gold silver and every colour foil papers, etc. Window Bills, Satin and Jean toys of all kinds.

RHS—Across the bottom of the window we are informed ‘Every play is to be had within’ and that there is TINSEL FOR EVERY CHARACTER. Beneath this proclamation, RHS—The Whole of Green’s, Park’s, Webb’s and Skelt’s Plays and Characters—Plain and Colored Stages—Lamps   Slides   Stage Fronts   Shaded Boards   Card Boards   Paints   Brushes and every article used in Tinselling Characters. THE TRADE SUPPLIED.

LHS—Beneath the heading THE CHEAPEST HOUSE IN LONDON we find – For Brooches   Bracelets    Shawl Pins   Slides   Rings   Shirt studs   Buttons   Earrings   Beads and snaps   Purses   Watch keys   Guards   Combs   Brushes   Knives   Scissors & every description of fancy Articles   Violin strings   Pegs & Bridges   Stationery   Window bills   Raffle Papers!

Park’s Red Rover characters in their natural state

Author’s collection

Neptune Theatre model

Author’s collection

Listen to the music

Sources and acknowledgements

George Balanchine & Francis Mason, Balanchine’s Festival of Ballet, W.H. Allen, London, 1978

Richard Buckle, The Diaghilev Exhibition Catalogue,  The Observer, 1954

R. Buckle, Diaghilev, Atheneum New York, 1979

Rupert Christiansen, Diaghilev’s Empire, Faber, 2022

Mary Clarke & David Vaughan, Encyclopedia of Dance and Ballet, Pitman, 1977

Francis Gadan & Robert Maillard, A Dictionary of Modern Ballet, Methuen & Co., 1959

Lynn Garafola, Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes, Oxford University Press, 1989

S.L. Grigoriev, The Diaghilev Ballet, Constable, 1953; Penguin, 1960

Arnold Haskell, Mark Bonham Carter & Michael Wood (editors), Gala Performance, Collins, 1955

Robert Lawrence, The Victor Book of Ballets and Ballet Music, Simon & Schuster, 1950

John Percival, The World of Diaghilev, studiovista/Dutton, 1971

Jane Pritchard (editor), Diaghilev and the Golden Age of the Ballets Russes, V&A, 2010

Charles Spencer, The World of Serge Diaghilev, Penguin, 1979

Sofka Zinovieff, Mad Boy, Lord Berners, My Grandmother and Me, Vintage, 2014

Music

Lord Berners—The Triumph of Neptune Ballet Suite—London Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Sir Thomas Beecham in 1937, and in 1952 he conducted the same work with the Philadelphia Orchestra

Thanks to Doctor Mimi Colligan for Pollock’s Neptune Theatre, and to Elisabeth Kumm for Diaghilev’s Empire—two wonderful sources of inspiration!

REVIEW OF A THA EVENT by Judy Leech

In the talk entitled "Hidden Theatrical Gems Revealed"!" on Tuesday, May 27, 2014 at the State Library of Victoria, we were shown a selection of playbills, posters, photos and memorabilia from the SLV's George Selth Coppin Manuscript Collection by theatre historians Mimi Colligan and Elisabeth Kumm. These items had been in the possession of George Selth Coppin's daughter Lucy (one of his seven daughters - there were also two sons, young George and Frederick).

Elisabeth and Mimi with some items from the Coppin Collection. Photo Judy Leech

When Miss Lucy Coppin died, in 1960 at the age of 87, she had been assisting E.D.A.(Alec) Bagot in the preparation of a biography of her father. Miss Coppin left the papers to Alec Bagot providing, once the book was completed, he gave them to the Commonwealth National Library of Australia - now the National Library of Australia. Coppin the Great duly appeared in 1965. When Bagot died, three years after the book was published, his widow and son complied with Lucy Coppin's directive. After some time, most of the collection was distributed to the State Library of Victoria.

The selection shown represents just a tiny fraction of a vast collection, one containing a wealth of Australian theatre history - material that has been worked intensively and extensively by the State Library of Victoria's Joan Maslen and Shona Dewer.

Among the items displayed by Mimi and Elisabeth were:

GEORGE SELTH COPPIN 1819 - 1906

Playbills for "Coppin's Farewell" as Billy Barlow (Geelong's Theatre Royal, December 1853); Cremorne Gardens (November 1856); Dion Boucicault's "Elfie, or The Cherry Tree Inn" (July 1871) - a world premiere; "The Streets of New York" (March 1872) and Opening of the New Theatre Royal (Melbourne, September 1872).

Photographs of Madame Celine Celeste as Miami in "Green Bushes" (1867); Mr. and Mrs. Coppin in their homes in Richmond (Pine Grove) and Sorrento (The Anchorage); hand-coloured portrait of George Coppin as Sir Peter Teazle in "School for Scandal" (1845) plus a carte-de-visite of Coppin (New York, 1865);

Bland Holt, Falk Studios, SLV Pictures

JOSEPH THOMAS (BLAND) HOLT 1851 - 1942

Playbill for "The Breaking of the Drought" (1902); Posters for "The Great Rescue" (1907) and for the film "The Derby Winner"(1915), a British silent film adapted from the 1894 play by Augustus Harris, Henry Hamilton and Cecil Raleigh; Photos of his wife Florence Bland Holt (née Griffiths Anderson); vision scene settings of "The Breaking of the Drought" (1902) and photographic stills from the Franklyn Barrett film of the same name (1920); Postcards advertising 'real water effect' in the production "Never Despair" (date); Drury Lane album of scenes and photographic reference for the 1893 (London) play "A Life of Pleasure" set in England and Burma.

George Selth Coppin was born in Sussex in 1819 in a village not far from the seaside towns of Brighton and Worthing. His father was an actor, and by 1826 George too was acting, singing and playing the fiddle in England, Ireland and Scotland. In 1843 at the age of 24 he travelled to Sydney with Maria Burroughs, an actress nine years his senior - she took the name Mrs. Coppin.

They toured New South Wales and Tasmania for the next three years and in June 1845 formed a company in Launceston, moving to Melbourne for a season at the newly opened Queen's Theatre, at the corner of Queen and Little Bourke Street. The repertoire included "The School for Scandal", plus Melbourne's first performances of ballet. The following year Coppin spent some time in Adelaide. Not only involved in theatre he had interests in hotels, politics, racing, mining and freemasonry.

In 1849, after a short illness, Maria died. A period in Geelong and the Victorian Goldfields followed for George, plus a return to London, in 1853 (the Haymarket Theatre) where he engaged the tragedian Gustavus Vaughan Brooke for an Australian tour. In December 1854 he returned to Melbourne with a prefabricated iron building which became the Olympic Theatre - the "Iron Pot" - where the Comedy Theatre now stands. The year after he married Harriet Hillsden, Brooke's widowed sister-in-law. During the 1850s he ran three theatres, four hotels and the Cremorne Pleasure Gardens in Richmond. (He was a member of various legislative assemblies and councils off and on up until 1895.)

In 1854 English actor-manager Clarance Holt (originally Joseph Frederick Holt), at the suggestion of George Coppin, came to Melbourne with his first wife Marie (nee Brown). He played in Geelong, Hobart and Launceston, Sydney, the Victorian Goldfields and New Zealand. In 1858 he returned to Melbourne with his family, including his seven year old son Joseph Thomas (later, known as Bland) Holt. Holt senior leased theatres in Victoria and New Zealand (his son received his education in both these places), but in 1864 he returned to England.

Poster, SLV MS 882Two years after the death of his wife Harriet, George Coppin married his eighteen year old step-daughter Lucy Hilsden. The following year, in 1862 shortly after the birth of their first child, George opened the Haymarket Theatre (and the adjoining Apollo Music Hall) in Bourke Street, Melbourne. He engaged the American actor Joseph Jefferson for the Haymarket opening. He also managed to secure English actors Charles and Ellen Kean (and in 1874, James Cassius Williamson and his wife, Maggie Moore).

In 1865 at the age of fourteen, Bland Holt was a professional actor and toured England and the United States of America for the next nine years. He settled in Australia in 1876. His father back in the UK kept in close touch and he was able to secure for his son the rights for "The New Babylon", a melodrama by Paul Merritt and George Fawcett Rowe. Bland established his own company in Sydney in 1880.

The 1880s saw George Coppin back in theatre management (although he had announced his retirement in the late 1860s - none took this seriously), he set up a lucrative copyright agency, a post-office savings bank, Victoria's St. John's Ambulance - plus Australia's very first roller-skating rink. With Bland Holt, in the 1890s, he produced several lavish pantomimes. In 1900, Daisie Coppin, his youngest daughter, appeared regularly as a danseuse at Melbourne's Bijou Theatre, under the banner of Harry Rickards.
After falling ill in March 1906 at his property in Sorrento, George returned to his home "Pine Grove" in Richmond, where he died. He was survived by his wife Lucy and their two sons and five daughters, and by two of his three daughters from his first marriage to Harriet.

Meanwhile Bland Holt had become known as the King, or Monarch, of Melodrama, and he was famed for his productions' spectacular effects - involving horses and hounds, balloon ascents, pigeons, diving feats - plus the first motor-car ever to be used on stage. He frequently starred as a comedian in these productions - which he ensured were stylish - extravagant - expensive. But they paid off!

In 1883 after the death of his first wife - stage-name Lena Edwin - Bland returned to England and stayed for almost four years. He toured sensational melodramas for Sir Augustus Harris, manager of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, and for whom Clarance Holt was provincial agent. On Bland's return to Australia he remarried; an actress, Florence Anderson, whom he had employed in England. For the next twenty years Bland and Florence became Australia's favourite stage comedians.

Scene from  Holt's production of The Breaking of the Drought 1902, SLV MS 882

Bland Holt's company staged meticulous, opulent and spectacular comedy-melodramas and plays right up until the beginning of the twentieth century. In 1909 both Bland and Florence decided to retire, following a tour of the Continent, North America and New Zealand, accompanied by private secretary Lucy, George Coppin's daughter. The Holts spent the next thirty years or so in some comfort and style in East Melbourne, Kew and at Miss Coppin's holiday home, The Anchorage in Sorrento,  Bland died in June 1942, Florence four years later. There were no children.

The style and business perspicacity of Coppin and Holt equalled that of their English or North American counterparts - they both, in their interpretation of theatre, shared more than a touch of the showman. The legacy of their ventures surpassed their artistic successes on stage and this legacy led the way for others - individuals who aspired to model themselves on these two great Australian actor-managers.

We are very grateful to Mimi Colligan and to Elisabeth Kumm for sharing their passions and their research with us, bringing these two men to our attention, reminding us of our fascinating theatrical heritage, and making us more aware of these two quite extraordinary men.

Later this year, within the 2021 Australian Ballet season, we will see a revival of the 1900 ballet Harlequinade—a ballet originally choreographed by Marius Petipa (1822-1910) and initially entitled Les Millions d’Arlequin and first presented at the Hermitage Theatre in St Petersburg. After meticulous research Alexei Ratmansky, former director of the Bolshoi Ballet and artist-in-residence at American Ballet Theatre, created Harlequinade for the New York City Ballet, and it premiered on the 4 June 2018, at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York. And now, finally and coronavirus permitting, it is Australia’s turn.

Marius Petipa,1898

Britannica

Alexander Shiryaev as Harlequin in Harlequinade, 1906

Wikimedia Commons

Based on Commedia dell’arte, with its origins in 16th century Italy, and in particular the city of Padua where the first professional company of players were legally incorporated, the Harlequinade was originally a slapstick adaptation of the form and was developed in England between the 17th and mid-19th centuries and defined as ‘that part of a pantomime in which Harlequin and Clown play the principal parts’. The basic plot: Harlequin loves Columbine, her greedy and foolish father Pantaloon tries to separate the lovers, and he is in league with the mischievous Clown and the servant Pierrot. Chaotic chase scenes would follow, often involving a bumbling policeman.

Masks, fashioned from leather, could almost completely hide the face of the player—could totally take over and transform the character. As recently as mid-20th century two men, France’s Jacques Lecocq and Italy’s Amleto Sartori, began a collaboration resulting in the creation and construction of these masks—an ancient manufacturing technique was reinvented, leading to a revival, last century, of Commedia dell’arte, which has led to the evolving of a new modern theatre practice that focuses on mask work.

Turning back several centuries, the performers were silent, although music and dance were involved, but later dialogue was introduced—but principally the Harlequinade was purely a visual spectacle. It was very popular as the closing segment of a longer and more serious presentation involving opera and ballet. There would often be an elaborate and magical transformation scene, introducing a fairy, quite unconnected with the preceding story—sometimes the most curious and unlikely of plots, but a method of transforming the characters into those of the Harlequinade.

Two rival theatres in London, Lincoln’s Inn Fields and Theatre Royal Drury Lane, presented productions that began with classical tales but would conclude with a comic ‘night scene’. A Harlequin of the era, the early 18th century, John Rich (1682-1761), had the power to create all manner of magical tricks—with the help, of course, of offstage craftsmen. His weapon, a magic sword or bat, or ‘slapstick’, he treated as a wand, to bring about the scene changes and the transformation of objects.

Throughout the 18th century this format was presented in the London theatres and plots ranged from Greek and Roman mythology, British folk stories and popular literature, and by the start of the 19th, nursery tales. No matter what story had unfolded in the first part of the evening’s entertainment, the Harlequinade followed the same pattern, the ubiquitous fairy had spectacularly turned the pantomime characters into the obligatory Harlequin, Columbine, Clown, Pierrot and their fellows.

Harlequin Metamorphoses, 1780

State Library Victoria, Melbourne

Grimaldi, Barnes and Ellar by H. Brown, 1823

British Museum, London

In 1800, enter Joseph Grimaldi (1778-1837), the popular comic performer who turned the role of Clown from a ‘rustic booby into the star of metropolitan pantomime’. New costume designs were introduced and Clown was now sporting a flamboyantly colourful outfit. Harlequin became an increasingly romantic character who left all the mischief and chaos to Grimaldi’s inspired Clown—a Clown that now appeared in several different roles, ranging from a rival suitor to Columbine, to a Cook or a Nurse. His popularity was such that the balance of the evening’s entertainment was altered in that the first part dwindled to what David Mayer (Harlequin in His Element—The English Pantomime—1806-1836) calls ‘little more than a pretext for determining the characters who were to be transformed into those of the Harlequinade’. Productions often ran for four or more hours, pantomimes boasted double titles, describing two totally unconnected subjects or topics—for example, Harlequin and the Red Dwarf; or the Adamantine Rock (1812), Harlequin and Fortunio; or, Shing-Moo and Thun Ton (1815)and Harlequin Padmanaba; or, the Golden Fish (1811).

In early 19th century the Harlequinade came to dominate the evening’s fare and there were spectacular stage effects that it is hard to believe could possibly have been brought off—a whole cottage would disappear, a complete candle-lit supper would appear on a table at a touch, a letterbox turn into the head of a lion from which a diminutive postman would materialize, a sideboard become a beehive, the stage would be transformed into a lake—or a hot air balloon would advance through the proscenium and ascend over the heads of the audience. How was all this achieved?!

Blowing up the Pic Nics; or, Harlequin Quixote attacking the Puppets by James Gillray, 1802

British Museum, London

Pollocks Toy Theatre, 1840s

Victoria and Albert Museum, London

Stage machinery and technology were evolving constantly over the 19th century—but having said that, descriptions of some of Grimaldi’s antics are quite beyond belief! His magic wand could turn a dog into sausages, a bed into a horse-trough—Clown could dive into a clock face, leaving no sign of entry, let alone exit. Magic indeed!

Toward the end of this century the Harlequinade lost popularity when music hall, Victorian burlesque, comic opera and its ilk dominated the British comedy stage. By the 1930s it had apparently disappeared, but not quite, as later will be revealed. Here in Australia we saw the form persisting well into the 20th century.

Mention must now be made of the 1943 ballet Harlequin, a ballet choreographed by Helene Kirsova (1911-1962) for her (albeit short-lived) company—and considered to be her masterpiece—seen here at His Majesty’s Theatre in January 1944, after opening in Sydney in late 1943. She used the music of Maurice Ravel and the decor and costumes were the work of Amie Kingston. Some, or even many of our readers will recognise a few of the dancers’ names—Paul Clementin (Hammond), Rachel Cameron and Peggy Sager, Thadee Slavinsky, Helene Ffrance, June Newstead and Strelsa Heckelman. The costumes were made by Peggy’s mother Rose. Harlequin and Columbine ask the Moon to reveal to them their future, with a disastrous result. Columbine has no future, and Harlequin loses the woman he truly loves—his future is a rich and gaudy woman of whom he soon tires. He unsuccessfully begs to be given back his Columbine, but he is drawn by his future and she is left to mourn her fate.

Peggy Sager and Paul Clementin in the ballet Harlequin, 1943. Photo by Max Dupain.

 

Strelsa Heckelman, Paul Clementin and Helene Ffrance in the ballet Harlequin, 1943. Photo by Max Dupain.

 

Close on this ballet’s heels, but in London, there emerged a Harlequinade that must be acknowledged and described in some detail. Within a children's musical play, based on the age-old tale of Cinderella(apparently the most popular of all pantomime plots), Herbert and Eleanor Farjeon, son and daughter of Benjamin and Margaret Jane (Jefferson) Farjeon, collaborated to create, in late 1944, The Glass Slipper. Other productions of theirs include Kings and Queens (1932), The Two Bouquets (1938) and An Elephant in Arcady (1939). Interestingly, their father Benjamin (1838-1903), a promising journalist and printer, emigrated to Australia at the age of sixteen in 1854 and worked on the gold-fields, moving to New Zealand in 1861, where he continued with journalism, and later became manager and sub-editor of the Otago Daily Times. In 1868 he returned to London, marrying “Maggie” Jefferson nine years later at the age of 39. He was a prodigious writer of novels, something inherited by three of his four children—the fourth was a composer. Eleanor’s collection of whimsical short stories The Little Bookroom inspired Albert Ullin, in 1960, to open a bookshop here in Melbourne devoted solely to children’s books. The shop’s logo is a delightful example of the work of Edward Ardizzone.

Programme cover for The Glass Slipper, St James’s Theatre, London, 1944

 

Programme cover for The Glass Slipper, Princess Theatre, Melbourne, 1949

 

In addition to Cinderella’s three acts, the Farjeons devised, once Cinders had been claimed by her Prince, a Harlequinade where many of the cast were recast, or deconstructed, as participants in this ‘merry romp’, intended as the fulfilment of the wishes of the Prince and Cinderella. It was entitled Harlequin in Search of His Heart—a Paradise in Nowhere.Ballet Rambert were very much involved for Hugh Stevenson, the company's principal designer, was responsible for the costumes and settings and Andrée Howard, another Rambert mainstay, for the choreography. Music was by Clifton Parker, the production by William Armstrong and presented by Robert Donat at the St James’s Theatre in December 1944. The cast included Audrey Hesketh, Rambert's daughter Lulu Dukes, Margaret Scott, Paula Hinton, Walter Gore, Sally Gilmour, Rex Reid, Brenda Hamlyn and Joyce Graeme.

Costume design for Harlequin by Ann Church, Harlequinade

Australian Performing Arts Collection, Melbourne

Costume design for the Sea Captain by Ann Church, Harlequinade

Australian Performing Arts Collection, Melbourne

Jump ahead to Christmas 1949 and we see several of these cast members appearing here at the Princess Theatre in Melbourne. Following the Ballet Rambert tours here in 1947/1948 the dancers who decided to stay on were Margaret Scott (later Dame), Sally Gilmour, Reid and Graeme. And once again names familiar to many of us crop up within the production—Helen Franklyn, Amy Rochelle, June Jago, Justine Rettick, Leon Kellaway, June Wood, Marion Ward, Mary Duchesne, Marilyn Burr, Marie Cumisky, Alison Lee, Bruce Morrow, Max Collis, Barrie Irwin, Stefaan Haag... The production was presented by Carroll-Fuller Theatres in association with the National Theatre Movement of Australia. The Hugh Stevenson sets were recreated by Max Martin, an Australian painter and set-designer, and Ann Church and Barry Kay designed the costumes. Reid and Graeme were responsible for the choreography, basing it on the original—which they were so familiar with! William P. Carr was the director, Harry Jacobs the conductor and the entire production was supervised by Garnet H. Carroll.

Scene from The Glass Slipper, Princess Theatre, Melbourne, 1949; photograph by Harry Jay

 

Scene from The Glass Slipper, Princess Theatre, Melbourne, 1949; photograph by Harry Jay

 

Thanks to my later association with Reid, I now possess the vocal score for The Glass Slipper plus the book that was published, with the entire script and Hugh Stevenson's artwork (with a dedication to Rex), by Allan Wingate Publishers in 1946. No doubt both these came in very handy for the recreation of the production in Australia.

The Glass Slipper— Harlequin in Search of his Heart; illustration by Hugh Stevenson, 1946

The Glass Slipper— Placing the Slipper; illustration by Hugh Stevenson, 1946

Returning to London, in 1951 John Cranko (1927-1973) created Harlequin in April for the Sadler’s Wells Theatre Ballet. Scenery and costumes were by John Piper, the English painter and designer, and Richard Arnell was the composer. Columbine is Harlequin’s love and the representation of the ideal he aspires to, but Pierrot stands between the two—he is the perpetual fool and ‘we laugh at him until he interferes too much’. The title was suggested by lines from T.S. Eliot’s poem The Waste Land which began:

April is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain …

Harlequin in April—John Cranko ballet—Sadlers Wells Ballet, 1951; photograph by Baron

 

Harlequin in April—sets & costumes John Piper—Columbine, Harlequin and Pierrot—Sadlers Wells Ballet, 1951; photograph by Baron

 

More than a decade later George Balanchine (1904-1983) presented his Harlequinade, using the original score by Riccardo Drigo, and his designer was Rouben Ter-Arutunian, an American of Armenian parentage and a designer of remarkable range. The company, the New York City Ballet, and this Harlequinade a modern reworking of Les Millions d’Arlequin, telling how Harlequin, helped by a Good Fairy, succeeds in releasing his beloved Columbine from her wealthy father’s domination. Others over the years, including the Russian Alexander Mishutin, have recreated or reconstructed versions of Les Millions,using Petipa’s as an inspiration or as a basis.

So it can be seen that Harlequinade and/or Commedia dell’arte have appeared in countless plays, pantomimes and ballets over the last five centuries, since the first was documented back in 1571 when a troupe of Italian comedians took their traditional native farces to Paris. Almost a century on the Italian composer and dancer Jean Baptiste Lully collaborated with France’s Jean Baptiste Poquelin Moliere—to create Le Mariage Force, combining Commedia dell’arte with French court dancing.

Closer to home and our times, the Harlequinade appeared at the close of pantomime after pantomime—in Viola Tait’s wonderful book Dames, Principal Boys... and all That there are eighty appearances of Harlequin in the titles—although not necessarily indicating a following Harlequinade. In 1833 Sydney was treated to this character’s first appearance in the production The Three Wishes; or, Harlequin and the Black Pudding. Ten years later in 1843 George Buckingham presented Melbourne with Robinson Crusoe, a reproduction of Richard Brinsley Sheridan’s (only) 1781 pantomime—for London’s Drury Lane—Robinson Crusoe; or, Harlequin Friday.

Harlequin, a difficult character to pin down, dancing, cavorting through the centuries—now you see him, now you don’t: but we are assured, he and his trusty companions are about to pop up again, and are ‘wide awake and ready to charm ballet lovers of all ages’.

Sources

The Australian Ballet, ‘A New Era’, brochure for 2021 Season

AusStage

Australian Variety Theatre Archives

George Balanchine's Festival of Ballet, Hutchinson/W.H. Allen London, 1978

Peter Bellew, Pioneering Ballet in Australia, Craftsman Bookshop, 1945

Clarke &Vaughan, Encyclopedia of Dance and Ballet, Pitman, 1977

V.C. Clinton-Baddeley, To Study a Long Silence, Victor Gollancz, 1970

Gadan, Maillard, Crichton & Clarke, Dictionary of Modern Ballet, Methuen, 1959

Arnold Haskell, Gala Performance, Collins, 1955

John Hood, Peggy Sager: Prima Ballerina, Southwood Press, 2004

David Mayer, Harlequin in His Element, Harvard University Press, 1969

Andrew McConnell Stott, The Pantomime Life of Joseph Grimaldi, Canongate, 2009

Viola Tait, Dames, Principal Boys... and All That, MacMillan, 2001

Frank Van Straten, National Treasure, Victoria Press, 1994

Victoria and Albert Museum, London, The Story of Pantomime, https://www.vam.ac.uk/articles/the-story-of-pantomime

Wikipedia

Thousands of black and white photographs of backcloths, sets, props and curtains: where to begin? How to present a constructive and informative overview from these ten volumes covering J.C.Williamson and the years immediately before, and then into, the first two decades of the 20th century.

First things first: we wanted to discover more about the actual artists and designers themselves. Who they were, where they trained, what brought them here – to work, ultimately but not exclusively, for James Cassius Williamson. Impossible to relate in detail the backgrounds and careers of them all – rather, mention a few of those whose work is represented here within these Scene Books – although those are merely the tip of the iceberg. And to include a little colour: after viewing so many black and white images it is easy to forget the originals were far from monochromatic, although not what could be termed "Glorious Technicolour". Or were they?!

The set designer, the scenic artist, painter or designer – fine lines exist but are often smudged over – so how to determine who exactly does what? The set designer will draw up a whole stage setting (see Book 5, Plans and Elevations, or the sketches in Book 9), build a scale model or maquette, but not necessarily design, let alone paint, the cloth hanging at the back. This is up to the scenic designer and/or artist who will be bound to have an assistant or apprentice or two – or more. Their work must incorporate many different skills in order to advance or to, ultimately, pass on the craft. Knowledge of, or at least familiarity with, the roles of mechanist, carpenter, lighting director, costume designer, props maker and so forth is invaluable.

Left – the paint-frame method of painting a cloth. Right – the method generally used todayThere exists still today, at the back of Her Majesty's Theatre in Melbourne, a paint room, commonly known as the Paint Frame. It had a tall frame onto which the backdrops were tied and to allow painting access to the whole of the drop, the structure could be wound up and down. The artist worked from a stationary platform. This was after the style of the English scenic art procedures. Today's scenic artists stretch and secure the cloths to the floor, in the European style, involving a totally different method of working.

Years later, cloths may need to be repainted, refurbished or completely redesigned. There may well be strict rules governing certain back-drops – you did not "play fast and loose" with the designs for the D'Oyly Carte productions.

The cloths we see here in Books 1, 3, 4, 6, 7 and 8 may be the original work of the resident theatre artist, or may be replicated or adapted from a black and white photograph (see Books 2 and 10 for examples of these), or a drawing or sketch in colour, from England or America, or wherever the production had originated. For instance, the designers for the St. James's Theatre (London) productions of Lady Windermere's Fan in 1892 were H.P. Hall, Walter Hann and William Harford, for The Importance of Being Earnest in 1895 again H.P. Hall and Walter Hann, and for Much Ado About Nothing, T.E. Ryan in 1896, and two years later, William Lewis Telbin and H.P. Hall. The numbering that can be seen, usually bottom left hand corner, on many of the photographs related to whatever system of storage had been set up (with cloths rolled-up, folded or hung) by the Head of the Scenic Art Department or the leading Scene Painter.

In Australia one of the first artists whose work appears within these Scene Books was Edinburgh-born George Gordon, son of a very highly regarded scenic artist and landscape painter, William Gordon. From a very early age George (born in 1839) worked in London, initially for his father, and then under Thomas Grieve and Henry Telbin for Charles Kean, at London’s Princess Theatre, to later be appointed leading scene painter at the Royal in Bristol.

In 1879, at the age of forty, and five years after the death of his father, George, along with his wife and seven year-old son John (who was to follow, ten or so years later, in his father’s professional footsteps), arrived in Australia, brought out by Arthur Garner to accompany his, Garner's, London Comedy Company. Along with the older and very established scenic painters John Hennings, Alfred Clint and John Brunton, George worked for the firm Williamson, Garner and Musgrove (in 1911 to become J.C.Williamson Limited) in a position he held until the time of his death – precisely on his sixtieth birthday in 1899 – as a result of a fall whilst alighting from a Melbourne tram.

Above – The Mikado - Hawes Craven (1837-1910), one of Henry Irving's designers at London's Lyceum Theatre, designed the sets for all the original G & S productions from 1885 to 1893. Below – Temple - obviously inspired by the above for the Australian production of The Mikado, and can be found in these JCW Scene BooksHis work was much in demand – memorable not only for its accuracy and realism but because it had great general appeal. He was responsible for the original Drop Curtain/Act Drop for the new Melbourne Princess’s Theatre in 1886. George and son John were the scenic designers for the late 19th century production of Royal Divorce. Other work included The Ruling Passion (1889), The Geisha (1898), Down on his Luck (1895 – a tableau vivant painted by Frederick McCubbin to which Gordon "has supplied a fine natural background"), many Gilbert and Sullivan operettas, and the spectacular pantomime Aladdin (1882).

Around 1891, ten or so years after George Gordon, London-born Philip William Goatcher (1851-1931) arrived in Australia, attracted by an offer of one thousand guineas a year. He, also, was the son of a scene painter and was first apprenticed to his father. Whilst still in his teens he made a visit to Australia where he had the good fortune to study under John Hennings, who had come to dominate Melbourne’s stage design. Goatcher then headed to New York where he went on to become a highly regarded designer. After two return trips to England, a marriage, four sons and a divorce, he became associated with the successful Savoy Operas in London and ultimately with J.C.Williamson, who held the Australian copyright on the works of Gilbert and Sullivan.

During his years with JCW he created countless stage designs for the G & S operettas, for The Arcadians, and The Silver King, the annual Christmas pantomimes – not to mention the scenery for the premiere in 1911 of Williamson’s extremely successful musical The Chocolate Soldier. No doubt he would have worked with, possibly along-side, George and John Gordon, as he did with William R. Coleman and his son (also William) and the Littles, again father and son.

To return to Philip Goatcher – a very popular and well-read man with a passion for Havana cigars – in 1906 he moved to Western Australia for health reasons (he suffered from chronic bronchitis) and set up a painting and decorating business in the capital, Perth. He was known for creating, for a number of theatres, outstanding drop curtains, only one of which still survives, painted for the Boulder Town Hall in W.A. Other examples of his theatre work exist in Kalgoorlie, Collie and New Norcia, all in that same state of Western Australia. Melbourne's Block Arcade has preserved some of his work, painted originally for the Singer Sewing Machine Company, on the ceiling of the Crabtree and Evelyn shop, at the entrance to the Arcade.

John Little, based in Carlton, Melbourne (Lynch Street, located beside the Royal Dental Hospital opposite the Melbourne University tram stop), supplied stage scenery from the 1870s up until at least the 1910s. John, born around 1850, and his son William (John Little & Sons after 1895), painted drama and pantomime scenes for various theatre firms and companies all over Australia. William, born around the mid 1870s, worked with George Dixon (of a similar age) and Leslie Board on productions such as Get Rich Quick Wallingford (1912), A Night Out (1922), Never Say Die (1914), Lilac Time (1924) and It Pays to Advertise (1916).

Leslie Board was born in Sydney in 1883. He began working for JCW in the early years of the 20th century as a pupil of George Gordon. Later he went on to become their Chief Scenic Artist. He toured England and Europe, studying productions from a scenic and artistic viewpoint. Apart from JCW's Oh Boy! (1918), Nightie Night (1921) and The Sign on the Door (1921) – just a few found here within the Scene Books – he was the scenic designer for the 1916 production of The Royal Divorce, George Gordon being the original designer back in the 1890s. Leslie Board is represented in the Art Gallery of New South Wales.

Left – Phil Goatcher. Right – W.R. ColemanWilliam R. Coleman was born in Lancashire in 1863 and first worked as an apprenticed artist, aged seventeen, at the Queen's Theatre in Manchester. At twenty he progressed to Head Painter at Liverpool's Prince of Wales Theatre before moving south to work in Bristol. Here he would no doubt have heard all about – and been encouraged by – George Gordon, his move to London, migration to Australia and subsequent success there. William arrived here not long after George's death (and ten years after Philip Goatcher's appearance on the scene) and was, at first, resident at Melbourne's Princess and also at Sydney's Theatre Royal. Initially under a five-year contract, JCW's appreciation of Coleman's ability resulted in an agreement between the two of them which lasted over twenty years. One of Coleman's sons, also William (born 1889), went on to design and paint for Frank Thring Snr's recently developed talkies' industry.

The two Colemans worked on the productions Kissing Time, Yes Uncle, Maid of the Mountains, Mary, Katinka, pantomimes, and many, many other plays and musicals. In 1913 Coleman Snr. worked with George Upward, the next generation of scenic artist, on the celebrated pantomime The Forty Thieves. Coleman accumulated glowing credits for over thirty years. Australia had well and truly come to realize that magnificent scenery filled their theatres just as it did in London!

George UpwardGeelong-born George Upward (1880-1951) had the very good fortune to be apprenticed to Philip Goatcher (who had been, in his turn, influenced and trained by John Hennings and George Gordon) who mentored him and passed on as much of his craft as was possible. Upward became a most revered and prolific scenic artist, painting for the firm of JCW for fifty years. For six days of the week he would commence work at 9 am, finishing around 11 pm. He was responsible for the scenery and scale models of innumerable productions, he was the first designer to introduce the revolving stage. He left a most extraordinary legacy. Upward worked on (along with the Colemans and/or Leslie Board and George Dixon), to mention only a mere handful, Bird of Paradise (1917) Cinderella (1914), Under Fire (1916), Lightnin' (1919), Boomerang (1916), Penelope (1917), The Sign on the Door (1921), Mary (1922), plus, inevitably, all the G & S operettas.

The scenic artist J. Alan Kenyon worked in Melbourne, Sydney and Adelaide as set designer, artist and prop-maker having arrived from England shortly after the First World War. Born in 1898 in Woolwich, he died in Australia in 1972. He was JCWilliamson's scenic artist for the early 1950s Borovansky Ballet productions of Swan Lake and Graduation Ball.

And to the "daddies" of them all, the scenic artists of an earlier generation and to whom they all owed so much – William John Wilson (1833-1909), John Hennings (1835-1898), Alfred Clint (1842-1923), Harry Grist (1847-1932), John Brunton (1848-1909) and Walter Brookes Spong (1848-1929) – and whose work and lives influenced so many of the artists mentioned here, endless ovations are most assuredly due, if not in fact, long overdue.

See also: On Stage articles "Scenic Studios' Members' Tour" May 2013 and "Preserving the Scenic Books" August 2015

Acknowledgements:
Australian Variety Theatre Archive
Anita Callaway - "Visual Ephemera:Theatrical Art in nineteenth-century Australia"
John Gordon - "Scene Painting in Australia" ("Lone Hand" 2.11.1908)
Paul Kathner
Performing Arts Collection, Melbourne
Leann Richards - "The Lost Art of Painting a Scene & Making a Scene in the 1800s" (Stage Whispers)
Scenic Studios, Melbourne
Rosemary Simons
Viola Tait - "Dames, Principal Boys......and All That"
Ross Turner
Frank Van Straten OAM
Raymond Walker
And very special thanks to Dr. Mimi Colligan and Elisabeth Kumm

Meet a Man Who Can Really Take You Behind the Scenes

by Martin Collins

From The Australian, 6 February 1968    

Not far from Chinatown’s Ancient Times House in Little Bourke Street, Melbourne, lies a lane of tall begrimed redbrick buildings from which, on ground level, brown wooden doors sit like blind eyes.

Somewhere up the lane a small sign says J.C.W. Hire Service. Attack the right door (they all look the same), enter a high-roofed shed that’s part of the back precincts of Her Majesty’s Theatre, vault flights of wooden stairs, ignore the notice that says ‘Strictly Private’ and you’ll unearth George Kenyon, Williamson’s scenic designer, then scenic artist, for 45 years in toto.

I unearthed George, a gentle-faced bloke who looked diffident and a bit dismayed: “It’s an illusory world, the theatre, and a fascinating one... But I suppose you want anecdotes, do you?” he asked. “Heard of the tenor in Lohengrinwho mounted the swan the wrong way round and came in clutching its tail, singing My Trusty Swan?”

“What about your work?” I enquired, looking at the charts, the books, the easel, the brushes, the long wide desk, and the view of the rooftops.

“My work?  I’ve nearly finished writing a book about my work and the entertaining things that have happened in theatre life. You’re welcome to dip into it if you’d like to, though it’s still in longhand: Behind the Velvet Curtain.

Miles Kenyon collection

“It’s the unrehearsed comedy or drama, and sometimes tragedy, that the audience never sees, that gives the job behind the scenes its fascination. Actors are usually unbusinesslike, being governed mainly by their emotions like the children they really are... Though the old superstitions are dying out: I’ve known some actors to have a horror of green, while others might be afraid of peacock feathers. There’s a marked difference in character shown by the actors before and after they pass from the proscenium onto the stage: two may be shouting insults at each other, another may be sunk in gloom over his lack of bank balance, yet another may be happily dwelling on where to spend the weekend.

“But the moment they pass through the magic portal, they become real heroes and real villains. Vulgarity, bathos and pathos all belong to the comedians of the theatre. George Wallace was a great comedian: his story of little Aggie playing with a death-adder in the backyard, and the tale of Grandpa accidentally setting fire to his beard and causing a bushfire, were...”

“Please stop talking about other theatre personalities,” I begged. “What about your own work? What do you do?”

Blue eyes glinted; smoke curled from the Kenyon pipe. “When people lose their tempers with me, I can’t resist grinning at them, though it’s never had much of a calming effect... I was just about to tell you of the chandelier that dropped one second after a cast headed by Gladys Moncrieff had left the stage, and...”

 “Your work?” I insisted. Kenyon grinned. “I recall standing on stage and scratching a flea-bite, thanking God that the theatre was empty... suddenly a burst of applause came from the cleaners.  They’d thought that I was practising a native dance... I recall Melba’s thrilling Grand Opera season in 1924, with a galaxy of talent that included Toti del Monte, John Brownlee, Dion Borgioli. I recall chasing an emu we’d needed for a set, then finding it staring haughtily at traffic; we caught it before it stepped into a stray car. And I recall Borovansky, who merited accolades for putting Australian Ballet in a top class but yet never forgot nor forgave even a fancied slight, insisting that the sky of the backcloth of a new Swan Lake (for the 1954/55 seasons) that I’d designed was too light; then too dark; then—reluctantly—right. I’d never repainted the cloth: later I told him so.

“There are few designers who have had the paint-room experience, and served a long apprenticeship which enables them to achieve a standard in painting realism. Sixty years ago a scene took three months to do. Now? From the many who’ve offered themselves I have taken one pupil.  He has the ability to take care, to digest instructions... yes, I think I could say he is gifted. The pupil goes through a rigorous training, with the master being a sort of Simon Legree, the idea being that the pupil will eventually take over. The continuity of handing over accounts for the exclusiveness of the job.

“What do I think about Australia’s motion-picture industry? You did say ‘industry’? It was thriving here in the 1920s, but production stopped with the finality of a beheading, even though it was a commercially profitable proposition. Today, in countries like Sweden, the motion-picture industry is thriving … our financial pundits didn’t know what they were doing... How creative am I?” Kenyon leaned forward, took out his pipe, and beamed.

“I’ve told you, surely? You could perhaps epitomize the whole thing by saying that if I had an Aladdin’s lamp I’d give it a rub and start all over again.”

A modest artist, George Kenyon. I rather envy his pupil.

Miles Kenyon collection

Miles Kenyon collection

And George continues, with his thoughts regarding the film industry circa 1968, written, along with other recollections, to be included within his memoirs:

Had the building-up process been allowed to continue, we would not be today in our isolated position of a rich progressive country without a film industry. Each picture production was an improvement on the previous one, and I firmly believe that had it not been dumped so stupidly the industry today would most certainly have been in the top bracket of profit-making investments. Documentaries and television would have coined money for an investing public.

The foresight shown by Australian financiers has been chiefly remarkable for its absence in more cases than one. Such people are popularly supposed to be able to ‘smell money’, but maybe the olfactory senses of these gentlemen are no stronger than their sense of nationalism.  It is a fact that the studio at Rushcutter’s Bay was erected and production begun, before Hollywood was even a cross on the map. This is to the everlasting discredit of everyone concerned in the smashing of the young and thriving Australian film industry.

The Immigration Department is an important connection for the theatre. Imported foreign stars all have certain dealings with the Federal Department. The Secretary of the Immigration Department once asked The Firm (through the General Manager, Claude Kingston), if it were possible for them to lend some aid to the staging of the Immigration Convention. I was asked to think about some form of stage presentation—it must primarily concern the participation of the work of the migrants as it blended into the life of the Australian people. In the main, these entrants to Australia were drafted into heavy industry: they worked on the Railways, in mining, or in construction plants. This was one occasion when I did actually have a joyride at the Government’s expense—I went to Canberra, staying at the Canberra Hotel, meeting the then Secretary of the Department, Sir Tasman Heyes, and discussing with him my ideas. 

I looked over the Albert Hall and assessed its possibilities in regard to the stage, lighting, etc. Back at the theatre I made a model which illustrated what I proposed to do. This was composed of cut-out figures of men, showing them working in various industries. On the back-cloth I had a pale blue sky which, when lit from the back, revealed a map of Australia. In front of this cloth and behind the other figures was a rock set-piece with a figure wearing an artist’s smock, just finishing a carved inscription cut into the rock—‘From their efforts shall arise a greater Australia’. This was meant to represent the cultural skills people from abroad were bringing to the country. Possibly it was pretty corny, but once you venture to be sentimental, you are almost certain to end up ‘corny’.  It seemed necessary to reach the people to whom we were trying to convey a message of welcome and appreciation.

At a given signal, a figure was to rise slowly from behind the rock, and shading his eyes he would watch the map of Australia, now visible as the sky changed to gold. The impression I wished to convey was that a golden future awaited all migrants. The general idea met with approval by the Department Head. There was, however, one provision: could I guarantee that the man would slowly rise from behind the rock? Some anxiety was exhibited—was it possible he may stick half-way, or perhaps topple over? Was there any other way in which disaster could overtake him? asked the Department Head. “If that man does not rise up or if anything happens to him, I’ll cut your throat!” He then proceeded to acquaint me with a rather painful chapter of ancient history, by very untoward happening.

“Shall Arise From Their Effort
Greater Australia”

Miles Kenyon collection

1955 Citizen Convention

Miles Kenyon collection

Before he became Secretary of the Immigration Department, he was in charge of the National Museum in Canberra. He related the following story: “I was responsible at the official opening for the success of a function. In a much smaller degree than what you are now proposing, I had arranged to feature the playing of the National Anthem. I had a dais built with a surround of red velvet curtains and these hangings concealed a grand piano. The Duke of Gloucester, who was then our Governor General, was to perform the opening ceremony. The Duke was late and in consequence the pianist I had engaged, now tired of waiting, slipped out for a smoke, leaving the dais quite empty. The inevitable happened.

“The Duke arrived and I gave my pre-arranged signal to the men on the curtains to pull the cord which would slowly and dramatically open. The men and the curtains played their parts perfectly with all the dignity such an occasion demanded. To my utter horror and consternation there was revealed an empty seat before the grand piano.” He looked at me grimly and asked “Do you know what happened next? I got up there and played God Save the King with one finger.”

I did three of these conventions before the idea was scrapped but it had been very nice for my wife and myself. We always stayed at the Canberra Hotel and attended the opening of each convention. We attended Government House and Parliamentary garden-parties, and at one of these parties we were chatting with Sir Robert Menzies and Dame Pattie, together with a Scot who was with us. The PM and he were endeavouring to discover whose knowledge of the poetry of Robbie Burns was the most profound. They kept capping each other’s quotations.  I remember the Scot kept on insisting that ‘Menzies’ should rightly be pronounced ‘Minges’.

During one of these conventions, I was told by one of my friends who laid claim to inside information, that during the next few days a certain job would be advertised in the daily papers. He thought it would be ‘right up my alley’.  It was for an appointment as Technical Officer in (if my memory serves me right) the Trade Department. I was advised to go and see the officer in-charge and I duly went along. The interview did not go very well as I was far from encouraged by the pompous manner of the officer, and the questions he posed.

What qualifications had I got? What experience did I have? Why did I think I could do better than the outside architects whom they usually employed? He said “We do it this way. We get ideas from people and if one is not satisfactory, we get someone else. Naturally, they all get their fees whether we use their ideas or not.”

I thought that could be a bit hard on the taxpayer, but refrained from commenting. This pompous, patronizing little man was beginning to bore me. I pointed out to him, as politely as I could, that he and his Department were really in Show Business, and Show Business was my business, my preserve and my occupation. He became quite ruffled and remarked very seriously “You cannot possibly make a comparison between a Government Department and commercial theatre.” I painstakingly explained to him that his immediate preoccupation with finding a suitable applicant for the position he was advertising was closely connected with show business. This was necessarily so, because it concerned the design of Trade Pavilions for overseas—used purely to stage and advertise Australian Exports. It was surely the idea to show these exports to their best advantage. Grudgingly, he admitted that there was some connection with the work and stage presentation.

Kenyon with Frank Tait

National Film & Sound Archive, Canberra

The paintframe at Her Majesty’s Theatre, Melbourne

National Film & Sound Archive, Canberra

By this time I had lost all desire to produce any further explanations but asked him if he would like me to show him some of my drawings. He graciously gave me his permission and next day I took along some plans and sketches, which included the drawings I had made for a show I had just completed. I had had to create these designs, for The Teahouse of the August Moon, from the least possible source material. Whilst I had been talking to Mr. Frank Tait, together with the director Harald Bowden who had been overseas and acquired the show, the latter remarked airily “They wanted four thousand dollars for the plans, but I told them I had a man in Australia who would soon nut it out.” This accounted for the sparseness of the reference material I had been handed! I had got to work on them and the resultant plans and drawings were some I was very proud to claim responsibility for. And—these were the drawings that I took along to the Director of the Department. He barely glanced at them but said “Yes, but who does the actual drawing?” “I do,” I replied. “Oh, perhaps we can talk about it further, then. These are excellent.” It gave me a certain amount of mean satisfaction to say smugly “I’m sorry, but I am no longer available. Yesterday I signed my contract with J.C. Williamson’s again,” and I bowed myself out of His Pomposity’s presence,

to go back to where I really belonged—

to the theatre—

and the world I knew best.

George working on an unidentified set

Miles Kenyon collection

KENYON: Editor’s Postscript

J. Alan (George) Kenyon—born February 1, 1898—died March 11, 1972

He arrived in Australia in February 1923 and two days later, found employment working for William R. Coleman, J.C. Williamson’s head scenic artist/designer.
He married Miss Anne Leonard in 1926—their son John joined his father in the Paint Frame at Her Majesty’s in the 1950s.

Kenyon was involved in well over one hundred productions, shows and displays—for theatre, ballet and film, as scenic artist and/or designer, set and/or props maker, and as production manager for Cinesound Films.

Theatres included:

Melbourne—Her Majesty’s; The Comedy; The Princess; The Royal; The Apollo and the old State Theatre (now Forum)

Sydney—Criterion; Minerva; Empire; Tivoli and The Royal

Adelaide—The Royal and Her Majesty’s

Perth—His Majesty’s

Brisbane—Her Majesty’s

Canberra—The Canberra

Newcastle—The Victoria

His name began to be included in theatre program listings in the early 1930s.

AusStage provides a list of productions worked on by Kenyon. Given the confusion around his christian name, his work is listed under:

George Kenyon

J. Alan Kenyon

Earlier this year Patricia Convery gave us a "virtual tour" of the 19th century theatres that once graced Melbourne's Bourke Street. Two months ago, for our next Theatre Heritage Australia event, we were permitted, thanks to Mary Lewis, State Library of Victoria's Architectural Drawings Manager, and Peter Johnson, architect and SLV volunteer, to delve deeper into three of these: the two Theatres Royal and what eventually became known as The Tivoli. Not only could we hear all about the three, we could hover over sheet after sheet of beautifully detailed plans and watercolour drawings of these buildings. 

THA members listening to Sasha Grishin, author's photo

Where to start? Surely with the first Theatre Royal on the north side of Bourke Street, built in 1855 by one John Black, a British migrant who, thanks to Victoria's goldfields, had amassed for himself a fortune. The theatre, designed by architect J. R. Burns, was as big as London's Covent Garden with an elaborate stage large enough to accommodate the mounting of any extravaganza or "glorious pantomime", and seating for well over 3000 (the theatre was also the venue for huge religious meetings). London's Drury Lane was the very first Theatre Royal, the very first to have legal status conferred upon it. It was the real beginning of a regularised world of the theatre. In 1639 William Davenant obtained a Royal Patent (from Charles I), under the Great Seal of England, to erect a theatre. But it was not until 1663, under Charles II, that the first Theatre Royal actually came into existence. Question - where are records for the patents for the many Theatres Royal in the Australian colonies?

Cutting from theArgus 10 July 1855 p.5

Almost two hundred years later, Melbourne's Theatre Royal opened, in mid-July, 1855, just two weeks before the opening of George Coppin's Olympic (the Iron Pot) in Exhibition Street. One year later, Black "went bankrupt" and was forced to sell the theatre - for about one quarter of the cost of building it. Actor-manager George Coppin and actor Gustavus Brooke bought the theatre. It was rarely profitable, to them or to other lessees. No plans survive but some posters still exist, discovered in 1965 in a cottage in Richmond. They had been used as ceiling insulation. And happily for us, Samuel Thomas Gill sketched the interior of a theatre - albeit the Queen's Theatre Royal in Queen Street- this can be viewed at the State Library of Victoria's current exhibition – “Australian Sketchbook". Accompanying the exhibition is a recent SLV publication, S . T. Gill and his Audiences by Professor Sasha Grishin.

Crowd in front of the Theatre Royal, welcoming the English Cricketers 24 December 1861, private collection

In March 1872, the theatre was destroyed by fire but within months, Coppin had the theatre rebuilt, fronted by a high, three-storey hotel. And this is where we first encounter the architect George "Diamond" (known for his fondness for diamonds) Browne. Born in Melbourne in 1847, he was the son of Charles Brown(e), builder, and Mary Fletcher, who had arrived in 1841 in Port Phillip as assisted immigrants on The Wallace, along with their first-born, Henry George.

At 21, in 1868, young George was in business as an architect and surveyor. The following year he married Annie Price, daughter of John Price, Northcote-based builder, and wife Rachel Hall. Annie was born in Sawtry, England, around 1847. By 1871 George had obtained the patronage of W.J.T.(Big) Clarke and son, later Sir William Clarke, involving the construction of city houses and commercial buildings, commissions for Sunbury's Rupertswood, Ballarat's Academy of Music (now Her Majesty's), Lauder's Riding School in South Melbourne, a cheese factory in Berwick, and the rebuilding of the Melbourne Cricket Ground Grandstand. In 1872 with his father Charles as contractor, George designed the new Theatre Royal in rococo Victorian style, the facade surmounted by an enormous royal coat of arms. He increased the depth and height of the auditorium (to 25.5 metres x 18 m) and increased the seating capacity to almost 4000. The stage also was deepened - to 36 m. Scenes of Melbourne and London were painted under the dome, from which hung a huge chandelier.

George Brown's facade for 1872 'Royal, SLV image WD/THE/16/1

In 1875 the 28 year-old George Browne took, as an apprentice, 20 year-old William Pitt, the son of George Coppin's scene painter and business manager, William Pitt. William Pitt senior was born in Sunderland, Northern England, around 1820, and arrived in Melbourne in 1853 with his wife Jane, nee Dixon, also from Sunderland. WP senior had worked with Arrigoni, Hennings and Wilson on Coppin's Cremorne Gardens - he had painted scenery for, among others, G. V. Brooke at the original Theatre Royal. He was the first treasurer of the Victorian Academy of Art and he exhibited his work in its shows. At the time of his death in 1879 he was licensee of the Theatre Royal's Cafe de Paris.

By 1879 William Pitt junior was experienced enough to take on the responsibility of designing the Melbourne Coffee Palace, the city's first temperance hotel, which, built in Bourke Street, became one of the tallest buildings on the skyline.

Portrait of William Pitt architect, Parliament of Victoria

Around this time, George Browne left Melbourne for Sydney, under some sort of cloud. He continued to work in New South Wales: he also tendered for a Brisbane theatre. He was estranged from his wife Annie, who had remained in Victoria. George, the "flamboyant and mysterious",went to England - it is not known when exactly - where he died alone in 1911, of gastric carcinoma at Fulham Workhouse.

William Pitt junior went on to design, in 1880, Falls (Queens) Bridge over the Yarra River and the head office of the Premier Permanent Building Society. Then Coppin's "Improved dwellings and Lodging-house" (later known as Gordon House), alterations to the Old Colosseum in Bourke Street and the erection of the Victoria Hall behind it, the Princess Theatre in Spring Street in 1886, the Federal Coffee Palace in Collins Street, and in collaboration with Ellerker and Kilburn, the new Melbourne Stock Exchange. The Rialto, the Olderfleet and Pitt's Buildings followed.

In 1889, at 34 years of age, he married Elizabeth Mary Liddy and later became a Collingwood city councillor, including a term as mayor. He represented the council on the Melbourne and Metropolitan Board of Works and was a member of the Melbourne Harbour Trust. Interstate commissions included theatres in Adelaide and Sydney, and in New Zealand.

Having begun, in 1866 in Bourke Street, as the Varieties Music Hall and followed by a series of "lives" - The Opera Comique, the Henry Hoyts' Opera House (designed by architect George R. Johnson) - until being de-licensed in 1899 and demolished, due to complaints about the theatre's safety and lack of proper amenities, in 1901 Harry Rickards' New Opera House opened, a new theatre designed by William Pitt. A newspaper article described it as French Renaissance but it more closely approached a predominantly Moorish style, popular for variety theatres at the time. The New Opera House had three levels, including stalls, but seated only 1539. (The posts supporting the dress circle and the gallery remained until 1956, when architect Dudley Ward redesigned the auditorium.) The stage was huge - 18.3 m x 19.5 m - and, furthermore, there was a fly-tower. After eleven years, in 1912, Hugh D. McIntosh, Rickards' successor, changed the name to Tivoli Theatre.

Detail of New Opera House facade, SLV image WD/THE/13/1

Across the road, and returning to 1904, the Theatre Royal was now owned and managed by the great entrepreneur Julius Cassius Williamson who had arrived in Australia thirty years earlier. He had the theatre's auditorium gutted and then commissioned William Pitt to redesign it, although the veritable forest of posts was to remain. The seating was altered from four levels to three. The theatre continued until 1933, the period of the Great Depression, when too heavily-taxed admission prices forced it to shut down. The Theatre Royal closed its doors in late 1933 and it was demolished in 1934. Currently upon the site is the Target Store - other department stores including Mantons and J .G. Coles preceded this "manifestation".

Theatre Royal, Brown's section showing 4 level auditorium, SLV image WD/THE/16/14

Theatre Royal, Pitt's section showing changes to a 3 level auditorium 1904, SLV image WD/THE/16/15

So what is left now? A plaque, somewhere in the administration offices of Target, commemorating the two Theatre Royals and, somewhere, someone possesses - cherishes? - one for The Tivoli.

Whelan the Wrecker demolishing the Royal, private collection

How very relieved we are to know so many plans, drawings and diagrams are being looked after, so meticulously, by the State Library of Victoria, and how very lucky we were to be able to view this particular collection, to marvel at the designs, the delicate colouring, the exquisite detailing.

Attendees: Mary Lewis, Professor Miles Lewis, Peter Johnson, Dr Mimi Colligan, Elisabeth Kumm, Frank Van Straten, OAM, Diana Burleigh, Diana Burden, Jesse Cain, Vicki Fairfax, Katie Flack, Professor Sasha Grishin, Ross King, David Knight, Tony Lee, Judy Leech, Martin Powell, Malcolm Robertson and Jean Stewart.

Thanks to Mary Lewis, Peter Johnson, Mimi Colligan, Elisabeth Kumm, Sasha Grishin, Ross Thorne, Di Langmore in ADB Vol. 11, Peter Freund, Viola Tait and W. MacQueen Pope.

by Judy Leech

Plaque, editor's photo, courtesy Target

When the J. C. Williamson conglomerate finally came to an end in 1976 - its theatres sold and its name leased - it became obvious that almost a century's worth of the company's existence must find a repository. Where was all this material - from rooms behind Melbourne's Her Majesty's and offices in the Comedy Theatre - to go? The photographs, programmes, music scores, magazines, documents, set and costume designs, props, scrap-books, etc. etc.?

In 1978, eventually, the National Library of Australia purchased, from JCW's Sydney offices, an enormous selection; two years later thousands of documents were recovered and donated to the Performing Arts Museum (now Performing Arts Collection) by Lady Tait, widow of Sir Frank (the last of the five brothers who had managed JCW from the 1930s through to the 1960s); the State Library of Victoria also obtained items, and some material found its way to skips positioned behind Her Majesty's.

THA members at Scenic Studios May 2013

Sets from Melbourne production of A Royal Divorce by W.G. WillsBut back in 1974, JCW's Head of Scenic Art, Ross Turner, had only just recently taken on Paul Kathner, a scenic artist and designer of many years' experience. At the demise of the company, "The Firm", it seemed only natural for the two of them to form a partnership and to create a company of their own - Scenic Studios - a company that exists to this day (and is still in great demand), albeit minus the officially retired Paul Kathner. It was also only natural that Ross and Paul should save several old ledgers or volumes comprising thousands of photographs - records of JCW sets, backdrops, scenic details, lighting rigs and so on - for reference purposes in their new venture. Ross was concerned that these ledgers survived because they contained so much scenic art history.

All in all, there were seven volumes, in varying shapes and sizes, covering the first twenty to thirty years of the 20th century. In addition there were three smaller albums with significant London origins and connections. Since the actual volumes themselves - not the majority of the contents - mostly date from the late 19th century, it is not so surprising that their condition was not exactly pristine, although the photographs within had not been affected by time or by use. Ross and the studio have continued to use the contents of the ledgers as a working reference for painting techniques that might otherwise have been lost.

Judy and Delia preparing to bubble wrap a volume

It is these wonderful books that a group of us first laid eyes upon a couple of years ago out at Scenic Studios' premises in Fink Street, Preston. (See On Stage article - Scenic Studios Members' Tour, May 7, 2013)

Enter Peter Johnson, THA president and also a key figure in the St. Kilda Historical Society. Having successfully secured a local history grant from the Public Records Office of Victoria to digitise that Society's important collection of photos and documents from the Espy Hotel  Campaign, he felt it was only appropriate that we, THA, should attempt something similar in relation to Scenic Studios' unique collection of scene books.

To cut a very long story short, a group of us, Dr. Mimi Colligan, Elisabeth Kumm, Delia Taylor and myself, arranged visits to study the books in situ, to research as much as we could where and when we could, and to start to assemble a submission - by November 10 last year - to the PROV, the decision to be made public by June this year. Mimi duly completed and submitted the long and complex grant application - along with wonderful references from Frank Van Straten, OAM, Tim Fisher (Senior Curator, Arts Centre Melbourne), and Adjunct Professor John Rickard (Historian, Monash University) - and we sat back and waited, moved onto other matters, never quite forgetting....

Mimi photographing the bubble wrapped volumes

And in the last week of May - success! We could proceed. What was jokingly referred to as the 'Great Scenic Books Heist' occurred early in June - the books swaddled in bubble-wrap and transported to AMS Imaging in South Melbourne.

The process involves the scanning of well over 2000 pages of photographs, floor-plans and sketches. Once the material has been returned to us, Peter will process the images - this involves seven stages over several months, during which much research and writing will be taking place by the rest of "the team". Ultimately, the aim of the project is to digitise each page and make high resolution images available, with descriptions attached, to students and teachers of theatre and media studies, theatre historians, writers and artists, scenic designers, directors and others, via the internet, on a free facility, such as Flickr.
Watch this space - but, obviously, not just yet!

Judy Leech

AMS manager David Western discussing scanning with Judy

Scenic Studios member's tour - May 7, 2013

In an area given over to factories, warehouses, studios, workshops and storage facilities, is it such a great surprise to find in Fink Street (surely named after 19th century Marvellous Melbourne's Benjamin Fink?) Preston, Australia's principal scenic design studios?
When entering this large, light-filled space what first meets the eye is the vast wall of scenic paint tubs, all with the distinctive yellow label designed by Scenic Studios' co-founder Ross Turner himself. The range of paints is huge, based on the Winsor and Newton palette, dating from the 19th century. In addition to these water-soluble, acrylic paints, there are special textures and glazes, primers and extenders and a shelf of "fluro" colours. Scenic Studios also stock various widths and weights of canvas, wool curtaining, gauzes and cloths for specific effects, velvets, muslin and scenic netting for cut cloths.
Ross Turner shows his workUpon a solid work-bench Ross set out various examples of some current scenic artists' work; backdrops for the Queensland Ballet Company's production of CINDERELLA – rather different from the upcoming Australian Ballet version (one scene incorporates a huge curtain of tinted fringing – presumably for the dancers to move through) and a musical note, a tiny part of a backdrop for the new production of HOT SHOE SHUFFLE, specially treated and glitter-sprinkled foam.
Scenic Studios include in their "repertoire" exhibition, display and museum design, also that required for television productions, conventions and parties.

Ross let us view his own designs for the Singapore Ballet Company's COPPELIA – beautiful watercolours working on a scale of 1 : 70.
Where digital printing is requested the original artwork is brought up to 50 – 70% colour strength and then worked on by hand for a more detailed and vibrant finish.
Hundreds of painted backdrops are for hire, for both professional and amateur companies and groups, and that includes schools (so many schools now regularly present musical plays – not many schools have the facilities nor the know-how to create their own backdrops for their shows). Sizes vary from 12 – 16 metres in width and 6 – 12 metres in height. These are folded and stored in large sacks. Canvas quality varies – this also affects the weight of the finished backdrop. The depiction could well be a toyshop, railway station, circus setup, forest, ballroom, village, Covent Garden, restaurant, city street – you name it!

Since its inception in the late 1980s Scenic Studios, the "brainchild" of Ross Turner and now "retired" Paul Kathner, has had a few homes – Kensington, Flemington and North Melbourne – and now here in Preston. This particular home is in two parts, the other half just opposite across the road. Because the ceilings here are a certain height, the painting of each backdrop is done on the flat, laid out upon the floor, that is, not attached to a vertical frame.
Workshop areaThe canvas is fixed securely and squarely. If it is to be primed the ratio is 3 parts paint to 1 of water, starting from the "top" and working down with a team of people using big soft paintbrushes in a criss cross method. Backgrounds can also be applied using a spray-gun – from a canister the watered-down paint is filtered through a double thickness of gauze or nylon netting. Shoes off – sox only! Background colour is never mixed with white but with water, and gently feathered or sprayed with the same so that colour or tones merge into one another.
If not using a digital printing method the artwork is gridded up into squares and then transferred to the canvas (over the background colour or shade) via charcoal or chalk grid. With an upright, secured canvas flat the drawing or design can be projected from a transparency. It is important that every drawn detail makes sense – that it is recognizable when it comes to the painting stage – the more thorough the drawing the less work (and pain!) later on.....
So many do's and don't's and so many things discovered along the way – so many tricks and effects, not to mention happy accidents!
Nowadays not many set designers employ a painterly style and no scenic artists seem to be emerging from the production courses within the colleges. No longer do television stations hire, on a permanent basis, scenic artists as they once did, back in the 60s, 70s and 80s. But artists and designers are out there and once gripped by the theatre bug the task of producing a scenic background continues to teach the painter just so much.
Diana Burleigh leafs through the JC Williamson albumsRoss let us leaf through huge, and now, alas, rather frail and brittle, albums full of exquisitely clear black and white photographs of J.C. Williamson sets and productions dating back to the early 20th century. Although all are identified – many in fine copperplate hand – not a lot of dates are in evidence. The studio's library is a wonderful mix of art and reference books and magazines, journals and albums, and on the walls, along with many Scenic Studios production photos and contemporary theatre posters, there are several framed watercolours of designs for pantomimes, executed by an English artist and sent to Australia for the scenic artist here to reproduce. These were also around one hundred years old.
Is Preston the new Theatreland? where it all begins and where we were granted the opportunity to glimpse the processes involved in the creation of a backdrop, curtain or scrim, for a ballet, a play, an opera or a musical, a setting or display for an exhibition, museum or special event.

Note: A complete set of images taken on the day are available for members to view on our  flickr site. These flickr images are available in various sizes for downloading (but are for personal use only).

Introduction

It was a tall building—sixty feet high, sixty feet long and fifteen feet wide. Three flights of stairs led up to a floor halfway up. On this floor there were two pallets—seven by two feet—with pie dishes filled with colours mixed to the consistency of cream. A brush-box showed dozens of brushes ranging from six inches across to one quarter of an inch. There was a glue urn, urns for boiling water and gas jets to heat up buckets of colour. Stencils lined the walls each side of the stairs. Off the ’big room’ was another room called the ‘model room’ where the Master did his designing and made the set models. This was the paint room of the theatre—also known as the Paint Frame.

Hung on each side wall was a huge frame, suspended on cables and in turn joined up to winches, for taking these frames up and letting them down so that all painting was done at shoulder height. This is where I found myself one day in February 1923.

Chelsea Arts Ball.

Photo from 1920s Pic of the Day.

Her Majesty's Theatre, Melbourne, c. 1920.

A.C. Dreier Postcard Collection, State Library Victoria, H22987.

It all started in London at one of the Chelsea Art Balls. I had met an Australian girl at the Ball who was in London studying at the Royal College of Music. She of course knew of J.C. Williamson Theatres. She even remembered the name of the Scenic Artist—W.R. Coleman [William Rowland Coleman].

With a Royal Navy Commission, I, as hundreds of others, had been retired to the unemployed list, with the Seely-McDonald retrenchment. (See British Capitalism at the Crossroads, 1919-1932.) Having always wanted to do some painting, and at the age of 25, I took the bull by the forelock, writing to W.R. Coleman in Australia. He replied that although he would not promise me anything, if I came out, something may eventuate.

Leaving Scapa Flow—a body of water in the Orkney Islands—I spent a week or so travelling around saying goodbye to my relatives. I sailed from England, landed one day in Melbourne, saw Mr. Coleman the next day and started as his pupil the day after—and I have been flat out ever since.

During my over-forty years in the Entertainment Industry, I have worked eighty-one hundred-hour weeks, and one week even, one hundred and twenty hours.

The motto of my mother’s family was ‘Che sera, sera—What will be, will be’. One of her ancestors had at some time in the past thus acknowledged the immutability of fate. As far back as the life and times of my maternal great, great, great grandfather, who flourished in the early part of the 18th century, this probably worked out very nicely indeed.

This great, great, great grandfather was the father of four boys who were all suitably settled in their station of life by him. They squired their estates at Eynsford, Otford, Hawley and Plumstead, all in the County of Kent. I just remember my great grandfather and recall his brougham with the painted crest. He gave me half-a-crown if I could repeat ‘Che sera, sera’. My father attended a school where the boys wore yellow stockings, knee britches, and the two-tongued bib which is still worn by barristers.

My father was one of the school of hard-livers and hard drinkers, well known for various exploits which involved both. In addition, he had a Welsh temper, and was always involved in some argument or other, generally one with a religious basis. He took pride in being an agnostic and delighted in bringing Catholic or Protestant clerics home to do battle with him. The arguments always ended in the same way. As a child, wakened from sleep by the noise of crashing furniture, I would creep out onto the landing and peep through the bannisters to watch Father in an exuberant mood working havoc with the hall tables and chairs. In those days a man’s home was his castle and if he wished to wreck it that was his undoubted privilege.

My paternal grandmother was Welsh. I used to watch quite fascinated when she literally danced with temper having been teased by the menfolk of her family, who liked nothing better than to incite a display. There was an occasion when I decided it would be fun to provoke her just as my uncles did. It was Christmas and the whole family was coming to dinner. Grandmother was in the kitchen beginning preparations for the feast. I loved the huge kitchen with its tiled floor and gleaming brass and copper pans hanging over the massive fireplace, and went there as often as I was allowed. Grandmother was at the table busy with the biggest turkey I had ever seen. She was disembowelling it, practically up to her elbow in turkey. I was sufficiently ill-advised to start sniping at her with what I considered to be choice witticisms. Her arm left the turkey with the speed of an arrow and with deliberate aim threw the entrails right in my face. My discomfiture was not lessened by the delighted shrieks of everyone present.

Orkney Isles.

Image from The Times Atlas of the World.

Paint Frame at the rear of Her Majesty’s Theatre, Melbourne.

Photo by Judy Leech.

My father had seven sisters. They were all very lovely to look at and great fun to be with. One married a Master Potter at Stoke-on-Trent. He supplied the market with—of all things—china jerries. They ranged from plain to highly ornamental. In the paint room at Her Majesty’s there is an unique collection of these useful objects. They are invaluable for using as receptacles in which we keep moist colour for the supply of colours on the pallets. Visitors invariably are moved to ribald comment when they see them for the first time.

My father was able to give my sister and brother a satisfactory education. I was a day-boy at George William College in London. These years were of tremendous help to me later on in Motion Picture production, particularly Maths, Chemistry’s ‘Light, Heat and Sound’, etc. My brother spent some years at a boarding school in Norfolk—my sister studied Art at South Kensington.

My mother’s destiny was considerably less happy than that of her fortunate forebears. Her life was shortened by the hardships she suffered during the hard winters of World War One. A combination of insufficient war rations for which she had to stand interminably in queues in the freezing cold, and the struggle to do her bit as a war-worker caused her to contract the pneumonia which resulted in her death. This happened while I was still at school.

Frank Tait and George Kenyon, early 1950s.

Still from the film Theatre in Australia, made by The National Film Board 1952 and directed by Doc K. Sternberg, National Film & Sound Archive.

Glue pot.

Photo from Backdrop to a Legend.

The old aphorism ‘The Show Must Go On’ I found out, years later, and irrespective of circumstances, meant just that! It was one of my blackest days, standing with my wife, hearing the mournful words ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust’, pronounced over the tiny casket of our adored two and a half year old daughter. Then—back to the paint room to work all night. By this time I had built a house and turned a bedroom into a studio. I constructed a large frame that carried a canvas on which I practised painting—everything. Anything at all which grew or came somehow into the painting of scenery was grist for my mill. I joined the class at the National Gallery in Melbourne. I went into the bush every chance I got. This, however, is the paradox.

Chapter 1: In the Steps of Giants

Ihave often wonderedwhat would be the personal reaction of some of the old scenic artists, if they could come back today, and see what we moderns had made of it. It would probably not be very complimentary. They all had the reputation of being tyrants, and were of course very conscious of the dignity of their profession. I distinctly recall a story told me by one of the very old members of the fraternity. His name was John Hennings and his father (also John) was a scenic painter and at various times a co-partner in the management of Melbourne's Theatre Royal, during the Coppin era. The story concerned one John Gordon (1872-1911), the son of George (1839-1899), who was the scenic artist at the Princess Theatre. He happened to also be an architect. His own son was in the paint room with his father. Arriving as was customary late in the morning—in those days the theatre and the paint room kept the same hours, everyone being there until the curtain fell at 11 pm—John Gordon enquired the whereabouts of young John. On being told he was up on the fly floor he demanded his instant return to the paint room. He then delivered a stern lecture on the undesirability of looking over the fly rails at the people on the stage below during rehearsal time. He particularly forbade any association at all with the ladies of the chorus, and he ended his diatribe with the solemn injunction to ‘uphold the dignity of the paint room at all times’.

John Hennings, c. 1868.

Photo by Frederick Alexander Dunn, State Library Victoria, H29533.

George Gordon, 1880s.

Tait Collection.

Princess Theatre, Melbourne, 1927.

Shirley Jones collection of Victorian postcards, State Library Victoria, 96.200/367.

Theatre Royal, Melbourne, 1930 (cropped).

Photo by F.G. Robinson, State Library Victoria, H81.171/10.

One of the first modern scenic productions to be staged here in Melbourne was Noel Coward’s This Year of Grace produced at the Theatre Royal in 1929 in Melbourne's Bourke Street. We were given somewhat childish outline drawings which had been slightly tinted. W.R. Coleman had said to the mechanist “Any old canvas will do for this stuff.” When the first frame of scenery was ‘put on’ by the boys and the frame was being taken up, there appeared an assortment of really old flats, but one of them was entirely different. It was most beautifully painted—a piece of scenery from a set of an old castle. The painting of the weather-beaten stone was—well, old stonework. The creeper hanging between the castellated walls was so real one could pick off the leaves, and the moss was alive and damp. Mr. Coleman was painting on the other frame opposite—I called his  attention to this flat coming up through the cut. His face mirrored his astonishment. For a while he regarded it in silence and then muttered “Well! Well! Well! I remember that being painted—by a man called Stafford Hall.” He went on to say that Hall had worked for three months on this scene. It was then set up on the stage and lighted. Hall then had it returned to the frame and worked on it for another few weeks. The end of this story came when I found a box of old programmes in an office after Her Majesty’s had been burnt out, in 1929. One particular programme was for A Midsummer's Night Dream. It was beautifully printed in green and gold. It had come out (to Australia) with the complete production of the original painted scenes. I turned over the cover, and there on the front page was a list of the five scenes and the five different painters. They were painted by the greatest scenic artists of the time. They were household names in the profession. There they were—Stafford Hall (1858-1922), Hawes Craven (1837-1910), Conrad Tritschler (1868-1939), Joseph Harker (1855-1927) and William Rowland Coleman himself (1864-1932)—one scene represented the work of each painter. The ‘splodger’ primed out this beautiful painting and we settled down to draw up the rubbish which was requested for the next show.

Scene from A Midsummer Night’s Dream painted by Joseph Harker for Oscar Asche’s production, staged in Australia during 1913.

Theatre Heritage Australia, JCW Scene Book No. 3.

Coleman and Son.

George Upward at work.

George Upward (1880-1951), from whom I took over the paint room at Her Majesty's, had been articled to Walter Burley Griffin. Amongst much else, he had designed Melbourne's Capitol Theatre. The Capitol has such a really magnificent ceiling that it was decided to retain it during subsequent alterations. He was also an articled pupil of Phil Goatcher (1851-1931), another very famous English-born scenic artist, where his reputation as a ceiling painter ranked among the foremost of his time. One of the Collins Street shops has a ceiling which was the work of Goatcher. His draughtsmanship and his masterly treatment of detail put him in a class by himself. As a matter of fact, some of his scenery is still in store. Following in the footsteps of my predecessors, I was most grateful to ensure that when any of Goatcher's work was brought out to be used, it should be dusted and sized with great care. This process which had been followed over the years had, inevitably and unfortunately, dulled the colours.

One very beautiful scene which had originally been painted for Maritana (one of the most popular operas ever performed in Australia) was used for one of the scenes in Tosca. It was during an opera season when this particular scene came on the frame. Its beauty was still arresting, in spite of the passage of time since Goatcher had painted it (obviously not that of the first Australian production). Even after the passing of years, it still possessed all the magnificent draughtsmanship of ornament for which Phil Goatcher was so superbly a master. It had to be admitted that this work of art had faded, and I decided to touch it up. With the utmost care, and approaching the task with due reverence, I repainted the depth of the ornament and the highlights. It lived again, its beauty restored. At least so I thought. Unhappily, my pleasure and gratification were not shared.

George Upward, who after a stroke, had been told by Frank Tait to take things easy and keep out of the theatre, persisted in climbing the stairs to the paint room almost every day. The three flights would take him ten minutes of puffing and panting to make it upstairs. He was always exhausted when he arrived and was in no condition to be confronted with the horrible sight of me touching up one of Goatcher's masterpieces. Such sacrilege was enough to give him another stroke. Watching me must have been sheer hell. With measured steps and menacing frown, he approached within one foot, and in a savage tone he snarled “You bloody vandal!” There was another of Goatcher's famous cloths which I liked to think I had restored to something like its pristine beauty. This was the opening back-cloth depicting Venice in The Gondoliers. I not only repainted it, to bring back its lovely colours, but I had the colossal nerve to pull the sun around a little, and thus shed more light on the facade of the Chiesa della Salute in Venice. George was spared the sight of this piece of impertinence, otherwise it might really have meant heart failure for him. George died in 1951.

Goatcher’s ‘La Chiesa’ back cloth from The Gondoliers seen here in a 1940’s production.

Photo by Jean Stewart, State Library Victoria.

Phil Goatcher, 1890s.

Photo by Falk Studios, State Library of New South Wales, PI/642.

Goatcher ceiling in the Block Arcade, Melbourne.

Photo by Judy Leech.

There was—perhaps it is still there somewhere—another cloth of this scene from The Gondoliers. It was painted either by George Gordon or Phil Goatcher. It was different in as much as it had hundreds of people coming down the steps out of the church. Each of these figures, though some were only an inch in height, was beautifully drawn. This cloth was hidden away in store by the head store-man. He was fanatically determined that it should not get into the hands of some philistine who would be unable to appreciate how unique it was. The thought of someone failing to treat such a masterpiece with the reverence due to it filled him with horror, and he was going to make every effort to prevent such a catastrophe.

George Upward was, as mentioned, the pupil of Goatcher, and what a task-master he was. Of course all the fine and finished work was executed by the master. The assistant was only allowed to help with the laying in. All day long the pupil had to copy ornamental and architectural drawing. Goatcher would never look at the work done by Upward until it was time to go home to dinner. If he did not consider the work to be absolutely perfect, George would have to go without his dinner and do it all over again. He would then finish up at about 11 pm. This procedure certainly aided the struggle for perfection on the part of the pupil.

Sunday was instruction day. There was no let-up for the unlucky pupil. As well as being driven into the ground by hard work enforced by the tactics of a brush-wielding Simon Legree, he had to pay a large premium for the privilege of getting into the paint room. There was a good reason underlying this. The master takes only one pupil out of all who offer themselves. This pupil goes through a rigorous training. The idea is that he will eventually take over from the master. This happens when the master retires, or as occasionally occurs in the theatre, he dies on the job. This accounts for the exclusiveness of this job, because it involves a continuity of handing over.

Example of cut cloth by J. Alan Kenyon.

Miles Kenyon Collection.

For the 1951 musical Brigadoon, Kenyon reworked one of Coleman’s sets, after the original Broadway designs by Oliver Smith.

Any mention of ornament brings back vivid memories to me. I was extremely proud of a French interior which I had designed for a certain film production. The modelling staff had modelled it, only to take out all the plaster modelled ornament of the Louis XVl period reception room. I had a slight disagreement with the cameraman about this production. He demonstrated his cleverness to me by over-lighting every scrap of ornament on the walls. This gave them the appearance of being quite flat. I put a stop to any more funny business of that kind by having all ornamental detail at least an inch high on all future jobs.

Early on in my career I was working on the stage touching up the scenery of the operetta Cousin from Nowhere, in which Maud Fane and Claude Flemming were the stars, when Maud, who was a very whimsical lady, had the idea of perpetrating a joke on her co-star. She should have known that nothing could disconcert that gentleman once he was on stage, but she tried nevertheless. Because of his complete control, the joke fell flat. Because a certain common bedroom utensil is most convenient for mixing colour, and the enamel variety if very easy to clean, we made a lot of use of them. On this particular morning, I had one or two containing colour on the job while a rehearsal was in progress.

At the time, I was painting a panel above the door depicting a nude, when a voice, which I recognised as belonging to Miss Fane, floated up from below the ladder. “Just be careful what you are doing to that girl,” she laughed. She went on to discuss the girl's anatomy with an entire lack of inhibition. Then she requested the loan of one of the enamel pots. One of the sets of Cousin from Nowhere had two house exteriors. One house had a flight of steps leading up to the entrance. Maud Fane, chuckling to herself along with some girls in the cast, watched Claude Flemming coming up the steps. He was singing “I'm a wandering vagabond” in true romantic troubadour fashion. Maud's impish humour had given her the idea of setting the pot on the top landing. So she waited in the delighted expectation of the breakup of the ‘vagabond’ when he climbed high enough to catch sight of this object, so singularly lacking in romantic appeal. But true to his profession, he completely ignored its existence and continued to sing his number.

Claude Flemming.

Billy Rose Theatre Collection, New York Public Library.

Maude Fane, 1921.

National Library of Australia, MUS N m 780 AA v.17.

Recalling another amusing incident: on the opening night of The Cingalee, in 1930, the leading man had a song to sing but did not know his lines. He held a piece of paper with the words but was unable to read them. So he took out his spectacles and got on with the song. Then these started to fog up. You can imagine the state of the audience by this time—but when he got out his handkerchief and wiped the lenses, everyone was near collapse.

I recall the very first job I was given at the theatre, in the 1920s. It was to touch up a stage-cloth which was laid out across half the rehearsal floor. Minnie Everett (1874-1956), dancer, choreographer and producer, was rehearsing the chorus. The colour I was using had been made up out of old stock, and it was very smelly—just like rotten glue. “Take that stuff away from here!” snapped old Min. “It has a horrible smell.”

“I'm very sorry,” I told her, “but this is what I have been given to use.”

“We'll see about that!” she said angrily, “I'm not having that stinking stuff here!”

But I finished the job, smell or no smell. This was somewhat of a triumph, as Minnie Everett was a lady who seldom failed to get her own way with things.

Minnie Everett in the 1920s.

From The Triad (Sydney), 8 May 1927.

The Mikado, Act 1.

Photo by Jean Stewart, State Library Victoria.

The Mikado, Act 2.

Photo by Jean Stewart, State Library Victoria.

And rolling forward to the current day, I recently took part in an interview with one of the radio stations. The session was conducted by Lois Lathleen. We found that we had quite a lot in common, as she had been involved in the theatre for a period. She told me that when she left the Conservatorium she did an audition for the Gilbert and Sullivan seasons in the 1930s. She made the grade, and sang in the chorus. In those days, the indomitable Minnie Everett was the producer. Minnie, who had also been for a very long time a ballet mistress (and a soloist with Madame Phillipini's Royal Ballerinas at the age of 19), always carried a stick with which she was wont to tap the ankles of offenders. All the girls regarded her as a holy terror. At one of the first rehearsals of The Mikado she came up to Lois and barked “Just what the hell do you think you are doing with that fan?” “I am left-handed,” explained Lois. Minnie glared at her and snapped “You'll be bloody ambidextrous by the time I've finished with you.” By the time Minnie and the stage reluctantly parted company, she was well on her way to becoming a legend.

The ultimate of painting is simplicity, but this can only be attained by having a thorough training in detail, knowing what to leave out and what to put in. Arriving at one's degree of this, it is very hard to force oneself to neglect the production of a finished detailed work. Eventually, one reaches a level of perfection, demanded in those days, which is only checked by one's own limitations.

To be continued...

The Hole of the Truth …

It is the unrehearsed comedy and drama of the theatre that the audience never sees that gives the job behind the scenes its fascination. One becomes absorbed to the exclusion of everything else in the rush and scramble of a scene change, especially during a blackout, for example, when the stage is in complete darkness.

On the opening night of Annie Get Your Gun (1948), Claude Flemming, who starred as Buffalo Bill and had an exaggerated fear of heights, even at the slightly absurd height of six or seven feet, always wanted a helping hand. The finale of Annie was a cloth with two painted horses, one on each side. A hole was cut above each horse and reinforced to carry a saddle, etc. One side was for Buffalo Bill, the other was for Pawnee Bill. On the other side of the cut there was a platform and each Bill, when on his platform, cocked a leg over the saddle and put a foot into the stirrup. On the platform for Buffalo Bill was also another foothold, plus a hand-grip to be held by the hand not holding the reins. To make assurance double sure, one of the stagehands had hold of one of Flemming’s arms, off stage. Shades of Buffalo Bill …!

This finale was set after a blackout of the previous scene. If you have never seen an 18 foot high by 6 foot wide flat handled by one man, you would be amazed to see one of these flats folded, then man-handled off the stage and thrown against the wall into what is known as a pack. On this particular night, one of these flats did not quite make the wall in the blackout. It overbalanced away from the wall and naturally, fell back onto the stage. A piece of scenery of such dimensions does not fall quickly but it falls quite sufficiently hard enough to do some damage when it makes contact. Very unhappily the contact turned out to be Pawnee Bill’s head, and he was knocked out. There was not time to bring him round—and it was too near the end to consider dropping the curtain. So the unlucky actor was carted up the steps onto his platform to take his place on his steed.

His inert leg was manipulated over the saddle, his foot placed in the stirrup and his hands on the reins. Supported by stagehands this gave some semblance of being in the show, although he was still unconscious. Buffalo Bill was of course being held, because of his phobia about heights, on the horse across the way at the other side of the cloth.

Annie Get Your Gun: Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show

Theatre Heritage Australia

Claude Flemming as Buffalo Bill in Annie Get Your Gun

National Library of Australia, Canberra

Program for Annie Get Your Gun

Theatre Heritage Australia

Another incident concerning flats happened during a scene change. These flats are held together, that is, one to another, by toggle and line. At the top of one flat is attached a length of sash cord and on the same place on the flat that is to be joined is a piece of 4 inch by 1 inch square timber with the top cut away, so that the sash-line when flicked into the mouth, is held and pulled tight, at the same time clamping up the two flats. The two flats are held approximately 6 to 8 inches apart. The sash-line is then flicked up and if luck is with you its loop falls into the mouth of the toggle. It is by no means easy to accomplish this and as a matter of fact it requires a sleight of hand only achieved after a lot of practice. On this particular night a man was being given instructions how to achieve this—but he was having no success at all and time was running out. The man in charge, made careless by impatience, put his head between the flats in an attempt to discover what was causing the holdup. Then of course the unexpected did happen. The new man threw again, and this time he made contact—the line was at last in the toggle. Having everything in line to close up, he happily pulled the line and the two flats came—or rather should have come—together.

Full of pride in his accomplishment, he gazed upwards, quite unaware that the unfortunate mechanist’s head was still between the flats. He pulled harder, and the harder he pulled the nearer he came to choking the poor man. When the mechanist was finally set free, the stage hand had to listen to some very choice things about himself.

Skidmore Ranch

Miles Kenyon collection

Back of Laurey’s Farmhouse

Miles Kenyon collection

The person who enjoys more importance and usually gets his way about most things on the stage is the producer.  Some have more suitability and ability than others. In Oklahoma (1949) there was a ballet scene consisting of a simple cut-cloth of trees. It was my opinion that this would certainly need framing after it had been cut out. The mechanist had objected ‘Aw, we don’t want to frame it—it’s such a ruddy nuisance when it has to travel.’ This was strictly true—all the 3-ply has to come off and be tacked on again before the next opening. I was sure, however, that the producer would not wish to see the trees waving about, as they certainly would, with the action of the dancers weaving in and out of them. Ted Hammerstein (cousin to Oscar Hammerstein II and Stage Manager on the original Broadway production) came to produce the show. We showed him all the scenery and we were very gratified when he told us it measured up to anything he had seen anywhere. ‘There is just one thing,’ he said. ‘I would like to have the tree cut-cloth framed.’ The mechanist said we never did such things—it wasn’t done! This was sheer pig-headedness. ‘Okay!’ agreed the director. So all through the week the cast rehearsed the scene.

It has always been the custom to check all scenes and props on the Saturday morning of the opening at night. It is routine to go through everything backwards, as the set for the last scene is the opening scene ready for the show at night. On this particular Saturday the procedure was unvaried and the mechanist had just dismissed the stage staff, telling them they were free until they were due back at 7.30 pm. Just then a voice came from the stalls—‘Charlie, I want the cut-cloth framed.’ There was no argument—it was framed: but it took until late Saturday afternoon to do it.

A Grove on Laurey’s Farm

Miles Kenyon collection

The Smokehouse

Miles Kenyon collection

I had redesigned sets for a well-known imported actor. Because they were unlike those he had worked with overseas, he threw a tantrum and became very disagreeable indeed. The scenes were set up. Then Edward J. Tait and Harald Bowden, director and manager, along with myself, looked at the sets from the stalls. No one spoke. It was left to Mr. Tait to make the opening gambit. He took up the challenge and asked ‘Well, what about it?’ The actor, with quite a degree of petulance snapped that they were not the same as he had had in the London production. He was then asked what difference did that make? He made no reply. ‘Well,’ said E.J. Tait. ‘I think they are most attractive.’ Then the actor found his voice ‘They are too attractive—I couldn’t act in front of them.’ Actually, he really did have a point there—no scenery should be so intrusive as to draw attention away from the actors. It is a cardinal sin for it to assert itself. This is one of the hard and fast rules which a set designer must obey.

I recall an instance where a certain actor was discovered to be seeking an excuse for a project of his own. It emerged after a few days when he brought one of Sydney’s women painters to check on my painting for a show whose title now totally eludes me. We did not see eye to eye on anything—we completely disagreed on technique—and the result led to something of an altercation. When people lose their temper with me I cannot resist the impulse to grin at them. It has never had much of a calming effect on anyone.

This particular actor stamped his foot on the stage and shouted ‘I’m the boss and I’ll have things the way I want them!’ I told him he could most certainly have his own way, and at the same time take a ‘running jump in the lake’. Up to the office he rushed to make his complaint to management. I went back to the paint room and went on with the job. Some time later I heard a voice calling me from the stage. I looked down through the cut in the floor and saw E.J. Tait: his exact words were ‘You alright, George?’ ‘I’m fine,’ I answered, and I felt fine—hearing his voice and sensing the warmth in it. ‘Well, never mind … (naming the actor) he’s here today and gone tomorrow. We hope that you will be with us for a long time.’ That is the kind of attitude which inspires the people of the theatre to go all out to do their best in this strange industry. It is so unlike any other that an occasional boost to one’s ego is most welcome.

My ego was not always uplifted by happenings in the theatre—sometimes entirely the opposite occurred and I was very badly deflated. On one occasion I had been called into consultation with the management of an Italian Opera Company about the forthcoming season. During discussions of matters pertaining to the scenery, I was always referred to as ‘il scena artista’—which seemed alright to me. So I designed and painted the sets for their two operas and they were duly performed. This was a private job. I sent in my account but after a few weeks had gone by and nothing had happened, I heard from somebody that a meeting was to be held at the Princess Theatre. Hoping that I could get some finality from the directors, I wandered up to the foyer just before the meeting was due to commence. Alas! The atmosphere had lost its warmth—there were no nods and becks and wreathed smiles and murmurs of ‘il scena artista’. Instead, I distinctly heard a ‘stage whisper’ from someone ‘Look out—here comes the bloody painter.’ However, eventually I was paid.

Although there was a job for which I never did receive just payment. This happened when I did some work for a certain religious sect. I was approached concerning this job by a very well-known singer who had sung in opera overseas. I was asked if I would handle the production of a show, celebrating the centenary of this Order. I made my estimate of the cost, but was told that it was quite out of the question. Couldn’t I suggest a much cheaper way of doing things, thereby reducing the cost? At length after a lot of talk it was decided that instead of using expensive canvas we would make the ‘cloths’ out of brown paper. The two men I had with me got busy on the stage and glued lengths of brown paper together. There were at least six of them, plus a painted scrim. This was depicting a decorative frame of angels and cupids and so on. In regard to the financial aspect of the job it was arranged that my assistants were to be paid on a weekly basis, rent of the paint room was also to be charged and I was to receive a percentage of the takings on each of the three nights the show was to run. The show actually had its season extended to six nights, because the whole show was such a huge success!

But the first night almost ended in tragedy. In those days lighting, in what is now the Metro Theatre in Collins Street, Melbourne (see note below) was not all that could be desired. Hanging, as part of the general lighting, was a naked 1000 Watt globe, a working-light for the stage. There were tiers of seating across the back wall of the stage, crammed with children. The screen, on which was a portrait of the Founder of the Order, was hanging there, until the concert was due to start. It was then rolled up like a verandah blind. Unfortunately the rolled-up screen came in contact with the 1000 Watt globe and the inevitable happened—it  caught fire. At first the two hundred children just made frightened noises—but these soon swelled to panicked screaming. They left their seats and milled around the stage in a yelling mob. All hell broke loose! I shouted instructions in a voice rivalling a sergeant major in the Irish Watch... They could not even hear me. In any case we had enough trouble getting the burning screen and the painted scrim down and off the stage. When they were halfway down the house curtains parted slightly and the audience saw the fire for the first time. I grabbed the fabric and pulled them closed. I got singed a little and lost some hair as the burning screens came level with me. Somehow we got a clear passage from the stage to the back and at last smothered the fire although the screens were completely ruined. After the show we worked all night painting a new show curtain and it was hung ready for the following performance. The offending lamp was removed. There had been no protests from the Fire Brigade and the six performances showed ‘House Full’ every night. The theatre was given free, and nothing was charged for the management— actually expenses were very few. Six shows must have shown a very handsome profit.  I received a cheque for 25 pounds. My estimate was 125 pounds. Well, one lives and occasionally learns.

Metro Theatre, Collins Street, 1935

171 Collins Street, Melbourne

Courtesy 171 Collins Street

Evelyn Laye and her husband Frank Lawton first played in Melbourne in a show called September Tide (1951). In the play they lived above a boat-house and at the end of Act 1 Lawton was to go through a trap in the stage down to the boat-house below—the carpenters were busy cutting the trap set-up. Evelyn rang me, asking me over to see her. Her first words were that she would buy me two double whiskies because she simply ‘adored the set’. It was her favourite colour—but she said, ‘Do look at the frock my dresser is holding—I bought it specially and it cost me such a lot of money.’ It was the exact colour and tone of the scenery: we repainted the set!

Evelyn Laye was beautiful, charming and the epitome of elegance and she spoke to all and sundry in her beautiful speaking voice. As she left the stage to go to her dressing-room, the boys having finished cutting the hole for the trap, it was a revelation, simply amazing, to hear a pure cockney voice saying ‘Blimey, what a bloody awful ’ole!’

Apropos another hole, Dion Boucicault was producing The Admirable Crichton at the King’s Theatre in Melbourne in 1926. He was always immaculate in black coat, striped trousers and spats. The effects for a thunderstorm were made up in the flies by means of cannon balls rolling down steps and onto a sheet of tin. Boucicault wanted the thunder louder so he called up to the property operator—one Bill Richards—‘A little louder Billy—do it again.’ It was done again but of course there was no control over the method and it sounded exactly the same as before.

‘No Billy, a little louder!’ But it was of no use. Dion left the stage and climbed up the steel-runged ladder attached to the side wall of the stage, and up through the floor of the flies. As he arrived at this hole, he poked his head through. ‘My God! What a dirty hole…’ and he came back down again.

Evelyn Laye in September Tide, 1951

National Library of Australia, Canberra

Dion Boucicault, 1925. Photo by Bertram Park.

From To Tell My Story by Irene Vanbrugh, Hutchinson & Co., 1948

A hole with a difference comes to mind.

During the filming of a comedy which took place on location, a haystack was to catch fire when the fire-engine dashed through it. The structure was merely a frame shell with wire netting, covered with straw. A props man was to saturate the interior with petrol, then make a trail to a safe distance so that he could throw a match from his end. This of course should happen just as the fire-engine emerged.

For some unknown reason this man lit the match whilst he was still in the ‘haystack’. Although he was making his trail through a hole left for that purpose, he was not prepared for the extra boost he got when the petrol exploded. He shot out so rapidly that he avoided being burnt but unfortunately, he also misjudged this timing. The fire-engine was too far away to give the desired effect and he was in the picture, being catapulted through the air!

Of course it had to be done again but the stack was a tangled mass of ashes and wire netting. To add to our troubles the clouds had started to bank up and blot out the sun. Also—it was Saturday afternoon and all the shops were shut. We needed extra straw for another haystack.

Going into town we discovered the owner of the hay and corn store was playing in the local cricket team and was batting. Hoping he would get out smartly, we just had to wait. He was caught out soon after and we persuaded him to open up his store to supply us with some bundles of straw. Back on location we rebuilt the haystack and the sun peeped through the clouds sufficiently enough for us to get the shot.

It was to a fire in a barn that the fire-engine was driven through the haystack—the firing of the actual barn on location was to be faked. A very careful detailed model was constructed of this building, complete inside as well as outside. This model was taken on location and positioned on cantilevered arms about six feet away from the camera. It was on a base, surrounded by old carts, fencing, etc. This merged into the distant landscape several hundred yards away. It was set on fire and filmed in slow motion. As the walls collapsed, the interior with horse-stalls and so on were seen, until it burned to the ground and we finally got the result that we desired.

George Kenyon at work at Her Majesty’s paint room

National Film and Sound Archive, Canberra

I had become very friendly with Mr. and Mrs. C.T. Lorenz of Sydney. Carl Lorenz had a flourishing business with shops—he was an optician and optometrist—in practically every suburb in Sydney. I had designed and fitted out for him a three storey shop, after gutting the original premises. The lower ground floor was for general examinations, etc., the next floor was for offices and the next housed the workshops.

Clarice Lorenz had bought a very large house at Bathurst. This rambling blue-stone mansion required some renovations—which I planned and had done for them. Wallpapers and carpets had been selected, with no emphasis on cost. Unfortunately an accident had happened to the wallpaper at one top corner in the master bedroom—water had entered from a blocked gutter and spoilt it completely. I got rid of the segment which had been ruined and patched up the blank space, not with the same costly wallpaper but by painting matching colours into the missing patch. It was remarkable how successful this was.

A very long and high corridor ran right through the house. Carl had arranged for a painter from Bathurst to come in and paint the ceiling. Leaving my room one morning on my way to breakfast, I came face to face with two very high trestles, topped with a narrow plank. An odd character who could have modelled for Fred in the ‘Right, said Fred’ comedy routine, was standing by the trestles surveying, in a contemplative fashion, a full four-gallon petrol-tin of paint. Wishing this character ‘Good morning’ I inquired if he really intended to take the tin up onto the plank—and a 9 inch plank at that. Regarding me sourly, he assured me that he had had many years of experience. ‘I know me job,’ he said, with an air of ‘And you can mind your own bloody business’. Shrugging aside my misgivings I continued on my way to breakfast. Several ghastly events came in quick sequence—as I sat down at the table the seat of the antique chair slipped and the end of my vertebrae, where the tail was once joined, scraped down the wood of the seat.

Shutting my eyes and shuddering while electric thrills were rushing round my body, I was subconsciously prepared for the unholy clatter and din which suddenly shattered the early morning silence. Clarice and I dashed out into the passage, to be confronted with a most horrifying (if not all that surprising) sight. Fred had maneuvered his full pot of paint up onto the plank, only for disaster to overtake him. He overbalanced, knocking over the tin, and four gallons of paint splashed onto the walls, forming a river of paint which crossed the fantastically expensive carpet and flowed to the door of the billiard room and into one of the bedrooms. It seemed incredible that a mere four gallons could cover so much space. There was only one redeeming feature to this stupid, stupid incident. It was a water-based paint and after many days and much labour, and with dozens of buckets of clean water, most of the paint was washed out of the carpet and off the walls.

It should be of interest to note here that Clarice Lorenz was the power and guiding force behind the forming and financing of the opera company in Sydney. She spent huge sums of money keeping opera going in Sydney, and was possibly the most persistent advocate responsible for the building of the Sydney Opera House. It is rather sad to have to state that nowhere will anyone be able to discover any evidence that her tremendous output of money and energy were in any way appreciated. Both Carl and Clarice Lorenz were musicians of concert standard and I felt highly privileged to attend a performance by Carl on his grand piano, accompanied by his wife on her harp. Together they made music of an enthralling quality.

NOTE: Melbourne’s first concert hall, the Auditorium, located at 171 Collins Street, opened in 1913. Built and managed by J. & N. Tait, the complex comprised an eight-story office building with a three-tiered performance space on the ground level. Though principally a venue for live concerts, it was also used for the screening of silent movies. By the 1934, under the management of MGM, the venue was remodelled into a ‘modern’ cinema and renamed the Metro Collins. In 1975, Greater Union took over the cinema and it became known as the Mayfair Theatre. This closed in 1982 and the space was remodelled as Figgins’ Diorama, an exclusive department store. This venture lasted only 19 months and another short-lived retail venture took over. In 2010, the building was demolished and the facade was incorportated into a new 17-story office development.

Ready, Set, Go!

It was the Grand Opera Season of 1924 (I had been with JCW for just one year). The cast was headed by Nellie Melba and included quite a galaxy of talent: Toti dal Monte, Dion Borgioli, Apollo Granforte and Lina Scavizzi. It was tremendous fun watching, and trying, without understanding the language, to interpret the arguments, the actions and the antics which were constantly waged between the producer, the chorus master, the prompter, and the musical director. It was a battle which never seemed to end. In the ‘Nile scene’ in Aida with Franco Paolantonio, the chief maestro of the orchestra conducting, there were three notes on the timpani the drummer just could not get right.

To you and me, ‘da-da-da’ just means ‘da-da-da’ and nothing else. To Paul Antonio’s super-sensitive ear, they were either off beat or out of tune—which, I never did discover. After three attempts and three failures to satisfy him, and after holding up the orchestra three times, Paul’s rage and frustration reached the point of explosion. With arms stretched above his head, he broke his baton in halves, tore at his hair, and burst into loud sobs. Astonishment kept everybody silent.

It always came to my mind along with memories of Hamlet ‘It then draws the season—Wherein the spirit held his want to walk’ whenever I crossed the darkened stage of the Princess Theatre. It was necessary to put out all the lights before leaving the paint room, the switch being at the top of the stairs. In total darkness, with a loose board creaking eerily, one watched one’s step, particularly if one had once crashed over a chair in the line of travel. It is quite an experience crossing one hundred feet in total darkness, recalling the ghost of the Princess. During one Grand Opera performance of Faustat Melbourne’s Princess in 1888 Federici (Federick Baker) as Mephistopheles, in a puff of smoke, falls through a trap from the stage to the cellar. Nothing seemed amiss during the performance, everything had gone according to plan, except that when he reached the cellar he was later found to be dead.

Federici (Frederic Baker). From TheAustralasian Sketcher, 22 March 1888.

State Library Victoria, Melbourne

Cover of program for the 1924 Grand Opera season at Her Majesty’s Theatre, Melbourne

Australian Performing Arts Collection, Arts Centre Melbourne

Again about Grand Opera, and now in 1965, the Joan Sutherland Season will always be memorable for the repercussions on my department. There was a terrific amount of unnecessary work and worry which were all the result of inexperience. A very charming girl (Tonina Dorati, daughter of the great Antal Dorati) did the designs for all that season’s operas and although her charm was undeniable, alas, so was her inexperience. The first batch of designs came from London and they were for the first opera to be presented, which was Lucia di Lammermoor. The heads of departments were all called up to the Director’s office and were shown the sketches. As inevitably happens with such drawings, they had not been done to scale. This in itself was a frightful mistake and caused no end of complications.

The sketches showed sets of such gigantic dimensions that I remarked, somewhat sardonically I’m afraid, ‘If the curtain goes up at eight o’clock, the house will come out at two am.’ This sally received only a disdainful look. The design for the ‘mad scene’ was of such huge proportions that it swept from Opposite Prompt (OP) to Prompt Side (PS) and nearly touched the stage’s back wall. Everybody who knew the theatre (Her Majesty’s) and stage agreed that the set-up was completely and utterly impossible. However, some semblance had to be kept to the original in any of the alterations which we made.

The only yardstick for measurement was the recognized height of a step, which was about six or seven inches. Then, by counting the number of steps at these increases, it was possible to arrive at the height of the rostrum where the steps finished. From memory, I think I made this height to be seventeen feet—utterly impossible at the distance at which the back of the set was placed. Only the first rows of stall seats would see any action up there. All these sketches had been passed by the powers that be, so we had to get out of it as tactfully and safely as was possible. It was quite out of the question to use the drawings for construction and after a bit of anxious consultation, we eventually agreed on a ten-foot-high platform. This set, along with the others, was then constructed.

At one rehearsal, the Prima Donna made her entrance onto the platform from the OP side (left from the audience’s point of view). She was singing in full voice—the Mad Scene—and Joan Sutherland was at her truly magnificent best. The cast was standing gaping in amazed admiration. At the balcony, before descending the steps, Sutherland bent her knees and made the long descent in the same attitude. Arriving at the bottom, she waved her hand and asked ‘Can you see me at the back of the stalls?’

Each scene was rehearsed for setting and striking. Then the day arrived for a full rehearsal of all scenes and with the entire company. After cutting down the wall surrounding the platform of the first scene three times, both it and the platform were scrapped. The platform in the second scene was also thrown out—there simply was not time to set and strike it. Following that, one whole scene was thrown onto the scrap heap. Two thousand pounds worth of work and material careered merrily down the drain.

Covent Garden, 1959—Joan Sutherland’s first performance of Lucia di Lammermoor

 

19th century design by Hawes Craven for Faust

Miles Kenyon collection

There was the incident concerning a designer, with an extremely lofty and quite unjustified idea of his own importance, being especially imported from England to do an opera. He came with his sketches prepared and announced importantly to the quite mystified carpenters that his style was ‘free’! In spite of this blithe explanation, they continued to regard his drawings of bent columns and falling-over walls—doubtfully. He would come up to the paint room, pick up his sketch and insist that every brush stroke and variation of colour be faithfully copied. Incidentally, while he was in the paint room one night, putting some artistic touches to a cloak which needed to look old and rain-sodden, he had practically flooded the floor. I’m afraid I told him a few home truths.

It was inevitable that a man of his tyrannical type would wait his opportunity to catch me out. One day he decided that the time was right for getting his own back. Joyfully, he picked out a blob in the corner of a design, saying triumphantly, ‘This very nice piece of variation has been left out. Why?’ His triumph was short-lived. I explained to him very happily that that particular piece of decoration was simply a smear of colour we had put on ourselves when matching the hue. One hoped that his ego was at least a little dinted.

Wildflower (1924),Acts 1 & 3 set. JCW Scene Books, Book 07-0016, Theatre Heritage Australia.

We were taught never to try and get self-publicity by the design of our sets. If the sets are meant to produce atmosphere, they should take their place, do their job perfectly, and be forgotten. If they are so blatant that the audience is attracted to them, they are not serving their purpose. But sometimes the show opens with an empty scene, and it is then the scenic artist may let himself go, and maybe receive a round of applause. The opening scene of Wildflower(1924) with Marie Burke reproduced a village square at the foot of a range of mountains. As the lamplighter makes his rounds, putting out the lamps, the sun is rising. The effect achieved by Mr. Coleman was really spectacular. As the sun rose it hit the top of a mountain, then slowly illuminated the whole side of it, the lighting slowly fading in on the scene at the same time until the sun was fully up and the scene fully lit. Of course, in those days the scenic artist lit his scenery—today there are lighting experts who use, I think, dozens of spots in a less effective way than that of the old floods and light battens. Also, there is too much building of architraves, cornice moulds, etc. There are very few designers who have had paint room experience and served a theatre apprenticeship. The audience is of course aware that the background is only painted canvas on a wooden frame and accept it as such. This supposes always that the painting of the scenery is up to a standard. In my experience, not one person in a thousand cares two hoots about art in the theatre—they want entertainment, good acting and good music. (Editor’s note: I hate to think this is still true to this day!)

JCW staff, c.1920—including Coleman father and son, and George Upward

Miles Kenyon collection

Googie Withers and John McCallum

Australian Performing Arts Collection, Arts Centre Melbourne

One of the best sets I ever painted was the result of a disagreement between a team consisting of a husband and wife. The husband, John McCallum, was the producer, and he talked to me about the set for the show, its locale Scotland. It was decided that the timber interior should be painted a honey colour to represent Scotch Fir. This was done, and a lot of careful, very nice work went into the painting. When the scenery was set up on stage, the following dialogue took place:

Googie Withers: It should be grey.

John McCallum: But it’s a Scotch interior of pine wood.

GW: (Very decidedly) It should be grey.

JMcC: But it’s such a lovely set.

GW: (More decidedly) It should be grey.

JMcC: (Resignedly) Okay. But it will have to be repainted.

So it was repainted although there was scarcely any time to have it back on the frame, as it was wanted for rehearsal. So, I had it laid out flat on the trestles, one piece at a time. We mixed a bucket of grey glazed colour and hurriedly slopped it over the flats. Before they were dry, they were taken off the trestles and stood up. The colour settled in puddles in some places, then it ran off here and there, occasionally missing some areas. By accident and without design, the set was wonderful. If we had spent weeks on the painting, the result would never have been half so effective.  Such lucky accidents do sometimes happen.

Oscar Asche, actor, producer and more. Photographer unknown. From a postcard by J. Beagles & Co., London.

Elisabeth Kumm collection

George A. Highland, 1925. Cartoon by Tom Glover.

National Portrait Gallery, Canberra

Perhaps the most outstanding, and the best of all the producers, was Oscar Asche (1871-1936). As well as being a superb actor and producer, he was a master of lighting. He disliked giving what he considered to be ‘unnecessary explanations’. For example, he would say to an electrician, ‘Put a row of lamps up here on the fly rails, and don’t ask me if I need any on the other side. The sun only shines one way.’

He was a big man in every way. His completely authentic thoroughness in production was evidenced at its best in The Skin Game (1925). In this play the script called for him to be drowned in a canal. The dour North Country man was drowned, and he stayed drowned—he never took a curtain call at the end of the show. This piece of realism added considerably to the play’s impact on the audience. He produced Chu Chin Chow (early 1920s) magnificently. Then there was Cairo (1922) and Julius Caesar (also 1920s) in which he was an unforgettable Marc Antony. Julius Caesar was presented in black drapery. I remember him coming up to the paint room to consult Mr. Coleman about the black velvet for the surround and he was shown three or four samples of velvet. Then he enquired, ‘Which is the most expensive?’ He was told and he said, ‘Well, that’s the one I want.’ He was indeed a perfectionist.

Gladys Moncrieff, centre, and full cast onstage in A Southern Maid, 1924. Photo by Talma, Melbourne. National Library of Australia, Canberra.

When he produced Southern Maid (1923) starring Gladys Moncrieff the rehearsal was not up to his standard of perfection. It was a rehearsal of the orange-groves scene and had been painted by Coleman. Oscar Asche ordered all the cast into the stalls and when he had them all there, he pronounced, ‘Take a look at that scene. Now, go back and act up to it.’ He never asked—he ordered. He was even known to use his not-inconsiderable weight to emphasize his meaning. He stood no nonsense from anyone.

Another producer who was a character in his own right was George A. Highland (1870-1954). He was another man who really knew his job, and how to get the best out of everyone. He himself was an arrant exhibitionist and invariably on a first night when he took his curtain call, he would partially undress and appear in a state of collapse. Though on one occasion his roughed-up appearance for his curtain call had been acquired the hard way. There was a platform which moved up and down the stage, pulled by a wire. In his haste to take his call, George forgot about the wire and tripped, falling headlong onto the stage. The boys rushed to pick him up and help him to take his call, but he was very shaken and had no need to simulate distress that night.

The stage staff who see all the shows, watching with the closest attention a tremendous variety of performers and performances, get a real education in the theatre, and they are never at a loss for an answer. Their repartee is usually terse and very much to the point. They develop over the years a very particular sense of humour, typical of and peculiar to, the stage. With a sprinkling of profanity, their descriptions are usually both trenchant and apt—they pounce on the funny side of any development and are always quick to turn any situation into a joke.

The Russian Osipov Balalaika Orchestra was rehearsing on stage for the first time (1937) and I stayed to listen for a few minutes. Going back to the paint room I was followed by one of the stage staff. He asked if I had heard the Russians playing, and was I there at the end of the number which happened to be the finale of the show...? I told him I had come away before the end. He grinned, then said that they had begun very softly, making only a faint sound and then worked up to a great crashing crescendo, only to stop abruptly. The conductor cut them off suddenly with a lightning fall of his baton. Then he turned around dramatically to the audience and roared ‘Ooos-a pop!’ A small voice from the back squeaked ‘I am.’ This bit of typical humour was apparently conceived on the spot.

An imported producer was rehearsing a show which contained a children’s ballet within its production. The kids had jacked up for some reason only known to themselves and were making no progress whatever. They seemed too dumb-struck and listless to try and get anything right. The producer made them go over and over the same thing with no appreciable results and, driven desperate by their non-co-operation, he made them an offer of two shillings each if they only got somewhere near the effect he wanted. He said, ‘Now let’s try it again.’ This time it was nearly perfect. The producer was heard to mutter, ‘I’ve come 12,000 miles to be taken in by a lot of bloody Australian kids...’

One very satisfactory painting job (in films) was the reproduction of an all-black marble hotel foyer—the St. Francis—in, I think, Los Angeles. On a sheet of glass, with various tones, from black to white, of plaster, we turned out slabs of very creditable and credible imitation marble. Pouring on the black, cracking the glass, we then poured on the grey and white mixtures. Viewing the job by a mirror under the sheet of glass, we were able to control the effect. The large round columns were more difficult, but we made them on a form quite successfully. Whilst on technique, practically anything from brick walls to palm trees can be replicated using plaster moulds, made from casts of the job.

The Lady of the Rose, Act 1 set

JCW Scene Books, Book 01-0050, Theatre Heritage Australia

The Lady of the Rose, Act 2 & 3 set

JCW Scene Books, Book 01-0050, Theatre Heritage Australia

As an example of the futility of building features of interiors I give the opening scene of Lady of the Rose (1925) as a classic. This set was completely fabricated by Wunderlich in pressed metal. All the columns’ bases and caps, cornices, friezes and architraves were in this pressed metal and it was an utter failure as the lighting flattened it all. Mr. Coleman gave me the job of climbing all over the set, painting in the darks and the highlights, on this reproduction of the entrance to the Royal Academy in London’s Burlington Arcade. This meant I had to paint between the acanthus leaves and volutes of the capitals, the ornamentation of the friezes and the flutes of the columns. Then I had to add the highlights for the lot—it involved my going up and down a ladder all day long, until the work was finished. This building of separate parts in set construction never works out successfully, because always, and I emphasize always, it becomes necessary to paint in the darks and lights afterwards. If this is not done, it all appears to be completely flat. Painted moulding is unquestionably the best way for stage presentation.

From my workroom I had a clear view of the hiring department, when I once spied someone handling a lion’s head—which brings me in on cue. One of the important people I had with me in the Production Studio was a man called Max Krumbach. He was the modeller and plaster expert, and a complete master of his job. He could extricate a plaster mould from a cast, nearly as thin as cardboard. His father was a sculptor mason, and Max related to me the following story. Incidentally, I later had the opportunity to verify every word he uttered. His father and another man were the sculptors who modelled the lion’s heads which adorn the base corners on each side of the Sydney Town Hall. The foreman builder on the job was an irascible old Scot and when he was making his rounds it was his habit to contort his face into a leering mask of disapproval as he observed the progress. 

Eventually the building was completed and ready for the opening ceremony. The last job was of course the cleaning up. At the end of the building, against the last corner, had been stacked a huge heap of timber. This was the last thing to be removed and when the workmen pulling the leaning boards away, there was the lion’s head. No-one seeing it could doubt that it was a clever caricature—there was the characteristic leer and grimace of the old Scot, carved into the lion’s visage.

The same Max Krumbach had modelled a huge whale for one of the floats in Sydney’s Sesquicentenary Celebrations. He had finished the wire netting and the plaster-work on the whale, and it was ready for painting. The man whom I deputized to paint the job was a rather bumptious type who had managed to get under Krumbach’s skin. Every time this chap attempted to commence painting, a stentorian voice would boom out ‘Keep off that bloody whale!’ In the interests of peace and progress, I had to replace this painter with someone more acceptable to Krumbach, the master.

Setting for Roar Like a Dove

National Library of Australia, Canberra

Set for a G&S opera—an example of the complexity of painting and modelling involved

Miles Kenyon collection

To be continued

The Masks of Comedy and Tragedy

During the course of thirty years, assistants in the paint room have been many and varied. The junior member—who is of course not necessarily the youngest—has the task of keeping the room neat and orderly. He had to wash the brushes and pallets, and there was one man who kept the place spotless. Bob was regarded as being the doyen of all paint room assistants. The brushes were scrubbed and even scraped with a knife to remove any caked bits of colour. He usually came up the stairs two at a time, generally humming one of the current hits. He ate heartily and to all appearances was completely happy and content and in full enjoyment of his life. At this particular time, I had engaged a new pupil who was straight from Art School. Being the first to arrive, he had opened up the paint room only to get the shock of his young life. Bob was lying outside the door of my room—it was only too obvious that he was dead.

We left the body where it was until the police had duly arrived. When the remains of poor Bob were turned over, a gun was discovered. Bob had shot himself. No-one was able to supply or suggest a reason and all we could offer in reply to police questioning was a puzzled “But he always seemed so happy … ” Someone very aptly remarked “The heart knoweth its own bitterness”. This was especially true in the sad case of Bob.

He left us in somewhat of a hole—I had to get a new carpet for my room and we were very hard-pressed at the time and the loss of his valuable help was felt keenly. They say that no-one is ever really missed: Bob gave the lie to this, because we undoubtedly missed him.

Upstairs—Her Majesty’s Paint frame today

Editor’s photo

Downstairs—Her Majesty’s Paint frame today

Editor’s photo

Most people who work in the theatre are superstitious. I have known some to have a horror of the colour green, others are scared of peacock feathers. We were working on a picture with Bert Bailey [Dad and Dave Come to Town, 1938] and the script required him to put his foot in a sling trap. The trap consisted of a loop on the end of a rope, which was tied to a bent-over sapling. When a fox or any other animal disturbed it the holding peg allowed the sapling to fly back, and the noose at the end of the rope to tighten, holding the animal suspended in the air. It was a comedy act, calling for Bert to be caught in the trap and hang by his leg, upside down off the ground.

To prevent any great chafing of his ankle, the property man had a piece of felt to do the job. Unhappily it was, of course, green, and Bert gave tongue with loud and long protest. Green was unlucky! Everyone in the profession was aware of that …! The props man searched but could not come up with anything of another colour. It was only when everyone had expressed themselves pretty freely concerning the idiocy of wasting time in this way, that Bert said he would take the risk of breaking his ankle or his neck. His courage was rewarded by his breaking neither. After stoically hanging upside down from the sapling, he returned to terra firma safe and sound.  So much for superstition.

Bert Bailey as Dad Rudd in Dad and Dave Come to Town, 1938

Moviemem

It was during the shooting of this picture that the rear projection screen got damaged. The cameraman had a piece of three-ply nailed on the top of the frame holding the screen firm. The screen was my responsibility but I was out of the studio when this job was done—the three-ply nailed to the top of the screen frame by two one-inch nails. I had had the experience of many accidents to my ‘credit’, so I was beginning to be very careful and certainly I would have used more nails. In this case, with the moving of the screen into position, the ply at last worked loose from the frame and together with the two nails, fell down the screen, tearing a long gash at the bottom. When I returned to the studio I stepped straight into the ensuring shemozzle. Naturally I was prepared for the inevitable question “What are you going to do about it?”.

What I had to do took me all night—I really had to perform what almost amounted to a miracle, using special cement to join the torn edges together. The join was successful enough, but there remained a halo around the join which meant that for every shot I had to have something in the foreground to camouflage the join. We managed quite well until such time as another projection screen was sent over from America. They were pretty costly items too, somewhere in the region of three hundred pounds—a lot in those days.

One more accident happened, and to this new screen, when the plug from a blank double-barrel cartridge went through the cage of wire netting and perforated the top corner of the screen.

During a production of Shakespeare, the producer wanted to speak with one of the actors. Calling to him, what in those days was the Call Boy—today he is the Assistant Stage Manager—he gave him the name of the character, not the actor’s own name, and to request his presence in the prompt corner. The Call Boy went on his rounds, having no idea who was playing the particular part, asking various men if they happened to be the one the producer required. Eventually he came to a character leaning up against a stack of scenery, learning his lines with suitable actions.

“Are you,” asked the Boy, “Appias Claudius?”

“No,” replied the actor, “I’m as miserable as hell.”

Under the Counter—note the painting of ‘Girl in a White Hat’ on the back wall

Miles Kenyon collection

Cicely Courtneidge and chorus in full flight

Miles Kenyon collection

The set for Cicely Courtneidge’s Under the Counter (1948) was a four-wall interior, with a fourth wall, the one which was supposedly missing, taking its place as the set rotated the stage. One wall had a very big fireplace in it, and above the mantle a framed picture. This picture, an original by Charles Meynell Withers (son of Walter Withers) ‘Girl in a White Hat’, I had hired from Anthony Hordern’s. It was valued at three hundred guineas. When the scene was changed and the walls moved onto the next position, it was necessary to un-toggle the fireplace from the flat. Over the mantle were two candlesticks with candles.

One night, the man un-toggling the lines holding the fireplace, forgot to hang onto the flat. The man with the fireplace moved it downstage—the flat with the picture screwed on it fell, crashing forward onto the fireplace with the candlesticks on the mantle shelf.  The result was very nearly disastrous—the candles went through the canvas flat, missing the picture by just one inch each side of its frame. They could have gone right through the painting.

Next morning, I was met by the props man, Bill Lincoln, and told him the story. The outcome of this was my measuring up the canvas, procuring an exact frame as per the original, and copying Withers’ painting of ‘Girl in a White Hat’. The portrait’s copy deputized for the remainder of the show’s run, and on the very last night when everyone was happily saying their goodbyes and thank you’s, Bill told Miss Courtneidge of the deception. She had never suspected the change, but really went to town on poor old Bill because she had not been told.

George’s Buckingham Palace set

Image from Directed by Ken G. Hall by Ken G. Hall

George Kenyon and two unidentified scenic artists

Miles Kenyon Collection

Speaking of portraits, this calls to mind another portrait that gave me a lot of trouble. Whilst reproducing the White Drawing Room of Buckingham Palace for the investiture of Kingsford Smith by King George V (for the film Smithy), I borrowed a lot of pictures from the National Gallery for the passage outside one of the doors. Over one of the three fireplaces in the Drawing Room was a portrait of the Prince of Wales, in full regalia. Of course, it was not permissible to depict Royalty, even though it was within an exact replica of the room. The Duke of Gloucester, who was Governor General at the time, came into the studio and gave his approval of the set. My trouble was—try as I might, I still ‘got’ the features of the Prince. Eventually I managed to alter the face.

And on another occasion another portrait was a headache. In this film featuring an English ancestral home there existed a portrait gallery. I had painted about a dozen full-size portraits, each having a descriptive line below, appropriate to the period. The last portrait I recall had the tag line—told by the butler—showing the new master around his inheritance, “I die that England might live.” This was as he was led away to be beheaded. Just as we were ready to shoot his segment, someone—who should have known his history better, to wit, Winchester-educated Frank Harvey—asked if 1700 was too late for beheading in England. The portrait was of a nobleman about this period. [The film referred to is It Isn’t Done (1937).]

Asked if I had made a thorough check, I could not answer that I had actually gone to a library in that endeavour, so had no concrete proof. I had to do something about producing another picture. Going to the workshop I had another stretcher made and covered with canvas. A coat of thin shellac dried quickly—this was at twelve noon. I drew the outline of the portrait and whilst one of my assistants filled in the background, I painted the face and figure. It was one of those things which come out right first time! The paint was still wet when it was put into the frame and restored to the set of the picture gallery by two o’clock. Two hours!  One of my people, a sculptor, remarked, “What a bloody fool you are—that full-sized portrait is worth a few hundred guineas!  Its value is two hours of your time.”

Next morning I made a call to the chief librarian and asked him if he could tell me when they ceased beheading in England. He could not tell me offhand but did ring me back later telling me as late as 1800: according to the character of the crime the person had the option of hanging or of beheading. I went on the set and said to Frank Harvey “I had a whole bloody hundred years to spare on that portrait!” This happened to me at the finish of a picture—my holidays were due and the production was about to go out, so I could conveniently leave with an easy mind.

During the time of production, I had received a substantial increase in my salary, but when I looked at the cheque, found that my holidays had been worked out at the old lower rate. I wrote a letter to the producer—an American—pointing out the discrepancy and mentioning that I knew I was a highly skilled technician I did not feel inclined to be ‘wiped off’ or pushed around. 

From the time he received my note in the morning, until the time he arrived in the studio, there could not have been more than half an hour. I was then challenged with sending a very ‘pertinent’ letter to him: I agreed that it was pertinent, though not impertinent. We argued long and heatedly regarding the merits and economics of business as applied to my demands of payment at the increased rate.  Neither would give in until at last I said “Okay. I couldn’t care less about a few paltry pounds.” “Oh!” said my American friend, “You give in. Well, in that case I’ll pay at the increased value of your salary.”  Such is life...!

However I’ve never worried too much about money—I feel I’ve never been paid my full value, but there was always enough to live comfortably and send my sons to private schools, and unlike the Shakespearean character I have been as ‘happy’ as—well, not hell—but happy in a job done for the job’s sake, and if I had an Aladdin’s lamp which would work, I’d give it a rub and start all over again.

Original State Theatre at night

State Library Victoria, Melbourne

Maie Casey, 1940s

National Library of Australia, Canberra

It was the practice of Melbourne’s State Theatre when I was employed there, in the 1940s, to have a weekly pep talk with the staff. This kept everyone up to scratch—any small indiscretions or off-the-toes slackness were dealt with at these meetings. Technique in handling crowds and any disgruntled patrons, etc., were discussed, also a very important aspect of what was known as ‘dressing the theatre’. That was a routine the usherettes had to be conversant with when the house was not particularly full. It was a matter of seating the people in such a way that an illusion was created whereby the house looked actually better, number-wise. This applied of course to patrons who did not have reserved seats.

One afternoon I answered a knock on my office door—a lady was outside and she had a complaint. She had been asked to sit in a seat but had refused. The usherette gave her explanation and I backed her up and took all the responsibility, having of course instructed the girls to do exactly as told. What the usherette did not know, but the lady did, was that the last patron to occupy the seat had been violently ill...!  The lady was—as then—Mrs. Casey, later to be Lady Maie Casey.

On yet another occasion one of the usherettes came to my office and told me a gentleman wished to see me. I went out to the foyer and found Norman Rydge, the Chairman of Directors of Greater Union Theatres (who has since become Sir Norm), standing at the entrance to the Stalls. He complained that he had been refused entry to the auditorium—the girl on the door would not let him pass because he could not present a ticket. Although he may have been initially annoyed, he would have to acknowledge the effective discipline of the staff. Mr. Rydge made his way through the door, but not before my competent usherette had told him firmly “Put your cigar out please. No smoking is permitted in the auditorium.”

Another disagreeable aspect of theatre management has now disappeared—I suppose the advent of DDT and better conditions are the reasons. In the days I have been speaking of the theatres were troubled by imports of various crawling, biting little insects—lice and bugs. They were very difficult to control because they could manage to infiltrate inaccessible places—under the arm rests, in the screw holes and such like. I finally devised a means of combating the pests.

Each night the cleaners would put an envelope of canvas over six rows of seats, starting at a given row and from then on doing the next six rows the following night. Under the seats and the canvas sulphur candles were placed which burned—I did hope this would suffice. We even had the pest exterminators in from time to time, but this was a major operation. After the night’s show they would totally take over, covering all and every seat with huge tarpaulins. Then cyanide was pumped into the theatre—which guaranteed every living thing was dead by the time the tarps were removed. All the doors were opened and the air conditioning turned on at six o’clock the following morning—no-one was allowed in before 9.30 am. Drastic measures indeed!

A very short time after one of these expensive fumigations I received a complaint from the Health Officer of the Melbourne City Council. A mother had been shocked by the condition of her daughter, after attending the theatre—she had been attacked by some gluttonous bug, and had passed a sleepless night. The inspector who came to see me was very sympathetic, understanding the problem we faced and even giving me a most descriptive reason how it could have happened. He told me how, together with a new man he was training, they had gone to a house in answer to a complaint, one of a row of villas. Knocking on the door of the complainant, and whilst waiting, the next house front door opened and out stepped a very attractive well-dressed girl. The young man said “My company...” And my friend the inspector replied “Very enviable company to take out to dinner and the theatre!”

After a thorough inspection of the house and the people making the complaint, they were convinced that the bugs were actually coming from the house next door—from which the girl had emerged a few minutes earlier. “So you see,” said the inspector, “how these things can be transported!”

Orkney Isles and Scapa Flow

Times Atlas of the World

Scuttling in action—Scapa Flow

 

After all these years I get a kick remembering a document from the Admiralty and associating it with Cicely Courtneidge’s sketch of ‘Reading the Will’ [i.e. ‘Laughing Gas’], where the sum of some small amount like three shillings and four pence-halfpenny was left to an expectant relative. The form I have is headed:

Naval Prize Fund

Final Distribution

Flt.S.Lt.  J.A.Kenyon, R.N.

The sum of six pounds, 7 shillings and 6 pence

These stories of mine are, in the main, concerned with the theatre, but having mentioned the Naval Prize Fund, I think it might not be out of place altogether, because of the close association of the masks of comedy and tragedy, to include two episodes, one was comic, the other was tragic. Here I am really turning back the clock, to around the time at the end of the First World War …

My particular companion on HMS Commonwealth was George Oates, a nephew of that very gallant gentleman who walked to his death from that tent in the Antarctic on the ill-fated Scott Expedition. Before the introduction of oil burners in ships, shipping coal was a business in which all but the ship’s complement, with the exception of the captain and the surgeon, participated. One’s uniform and body became impregnated with coal dust—it was in one’s hair and everyone’s eyes were rimmed with something resembling mascara. Periodically, the bugle sounded, and the commander notified the crew whether plus or minus tons of coal had been shipped. Lunch in the wardroom was as usual, with snow-white tablecloth and napkins. We ate, and when we had finished Oates walked out, without a word to me. I pursued him and after a prolonged silence radiating disapproval I asked “And what’s biting you?” To which Oates replied “You cad! You didn’t use your napkin at the table!” So much for the comedy.

The mask of tragedy stared me in the face on my return from Stamford Bridge in London, where I had been competing in the Service Sports. I took two lads with me, and we each won an event.  In the long jump I had trained with a Surgeon Lieutenant who was the Champion of Ireland—the Northern Area competitors (that was us)—did their training at Sheffield where I played some rounds of golf with W.W. Wakefield of Castrol Oil. But on my return to Scapa—this is, of course, well before my move to Australia, in fact August, 1919, and at the age of 21—I arrived just as a guest (I do not recollect the name) was departing, which turned into a tragically unfortunate circumstance for Captain Roscoe C. Bulmer, USA Navy, Captain of the Black Hawk, the mother ship of the American Mine Sweepers engaged in clearing the North Sea of enemy mines. The old man, after congratulating me on my win, insisted that his guest return to the wardroom where they would both drink to my health. He would not take “no” for an answer and so they duly returned. It was then 4 in the afternoon, and it was 4 in the morning when he collected his driver, Ensign Nicholls, and was loaded into his Cadillac. Nicholls was an excellent driver, but afterwards he told me he drove his car “along the centre of a rainbow” and was totally unaware of anything being wrong, until the back door noisily parted from its hinges.

He stopped, looked inside, and was horrified to find the back seat empty. He walked back along the road and eventually found his skipper lying in a ditch. Captain Bulmer was a big man, and it was quite beyond the strength of Ensign Nicholls to get him back into the car. Nicholls, now fully sober, drove like one possessed to the Kirkwall Jetty. He recruited two guards and raced back to where his captain still lay in the ditch. With the help of the other two he got the captain back into the car, after summoning the doctor by signal from the pier, but getting the stretcher by pinnace from the Black Hawk took some time. But it was all to no avail—Captain Bulmer had broken his back in the fall from the car. His body was shipped back to America and we were put out-of-bounds for all American officers. I got the blame—unofficially, of course.

Strella Wilson, 1930. Photo by Sam Hood.

State Library of New South Wales, Sydney

Sydney Burchell, c.1935

From JCW Magazine program

I have written before of the marked difference in the manifestations of character demonstrated by actors, before and after they pass through the proscenium onto the stage. Two, maybe, are exchanging insults, another is telling the latest joke with his own embellishments, another may be dwelling gloomily on the unhealthy state of his bank balance, and yet another happily meditating on where to spend the weekend. But the moment they pass through the magic portal, they become the heroes or the villains of the play with everything else forgotten.

During the run of White Horse Inn at Her Majesty’s Theatre (1934), starring Strella Wilson and Sydney Burchell, the usual bantering and laughing was going on between them. Just before his entrance, Burchell capped all that had gone before by saying “Well, here we go! I say, couldn’t we give the customers something quite different?”

“What do you suggest?” asked Strella Wilson.

“Well, what about an exhibition …”

“That would be lovely,” was the calm reply.

“But what would you do for an encore?”

Subtlety and coarseness, they both have their place in theatre humour, and an example of the latter was derisively supplied by Clarkson Rose, a very well-known English comedian. After his return to England, at the end of a season with Ernest Rolls, he sent a toilet roll to the stage manager. Printed on its wrapping was the slogan ‘Every time you tear one off, think of me.’ Vulgarity, bathos and pathos all belong to the folk of the theatre.

Josepha (Strella Wilson), the landlady of the White Horse Inn, welcomes Emperor Franz Joseph II (Leslie Victor). View full souvenir program.

George Rings Down the Curtain 

The manwith whom I was most in contact during my association with J.C. Williamson’s theatres was Frank Tait, later to become Sir Frank. As I remember him, he was a very fine type of person to whom one could apply the rather out-moded title of gentleman, in all sincerity. He was always friendly and sympathetic and ready to help in every possible way.  If you were foolish and overstepped your responsibility, he told you in a kindly manner that it was not your prerogative to act in that particular way.

On one occasion I overheard the mechanist speaking in a very offensive manner of a certain artist’s work. Frank Tait was quick to tell him that he himself was in total disagreement with the mechanist’s views. He backed me up on numerous occasions against what I considered unreasonable opposition from producers. When I asked for an increase in salary, and remarked in parenthesis, that I only had ‘a few hundred in the bank’, he said, “You are lucky to have that,” but I got the raise. At yet another time when I was working on a grand opera season until 10 p.m. and sometimes later, I was overjoyed to find my salary had been increased by ten pounds, without my mentioning it.

I have heard many unkind and unfair things said about the Taits, chiefly of course by disgruntled actors. However, when all had been sorted out, it was always the actors themselves who were at fault. The Taits were business people, and as such insisted on sticking to the letter of the contract. Trouble usually arose when an actor did something which violated his contract and when faced with this, he would be most put out, and could take refuge in derogatory statements about the management.

Sir Frank Tait. Photo by Conway Studios Corp, New York.

Tait Family collection

Claude Kingston in 1928

Truth newspaper collection, State Library of Western Australia, Perth

The man behind Frank Tait, as his general manager, was Claude Kingston. This was undoubtedly a very smoothly operating partnership and the qualities which could be said to belong to one belonged equally to the other. We older members of the staff were all part of an organization, and had a very real responsibility to get the job in hand done. It was up to us to give the same loyalty to the Firm, as was extended to us. No enquiry was ever made as to what, when or how—provided the show was ready for rehearsals.

There are a number of people with whom I have come in contact who are still, along with myself, with the Firm and Harry Strachan, a director and general manager is one. He grew up in the Firm, and if anyone knows the answers in management, it is certainly Harry. Up to date he has booked some very successful shows, and he has always been a very sincere man and very easy to get along with; in other words, a thoroughly nice bloke.

Charles Dorning, another director, came out originally to play the male lead in Song of Norway (1950). Sidney Irving holds the reins in Sydney and it is always a pleasurable occasion when I meet him there. Bill Gordon, the publicity man has, in my opinion, done a marvellous job. He has managed to get publicity for shows in hitherto unexplored areas. Betty Pounder does the casting and produces the ballets for the shows—she is an extremely clever person, and a tremendous acquisition to the theatre.

Anna Pavlova programs

Editor’s collection

Scene from Show Boat, with Colin Crane as Joe, top right

From The Australasian, 17 August 1929, p.iii

One of the years Anna Pavlova had a season here (1926) we were in the throes of a drought. I remember talking to her before a matinee and whilst we were talking the rain suddenly began to batter on the roof. We both rejoiced that the drought had ended!

Beppie de Vries, starring in The Student Prince with James Liddy, gave such a magnificent performance it might still be remembered by many. A contretemps occurred concerning the production of Show Boat: the import who was supposed to be a bass baritone turned out to be a light tenor. It was impossible for him to sing “Old Man River” so he was eventually packed off back again to the USA. Colin Crane got his chance and thus began his journey to stardom. [Listen to Colin Crane singing “Old Man River” on YouTube.]

This following incident happened before my time in the theatre but I include it here as having historic value. It was a Shakespeare season and George Rignold’s company were the players. Rignold played the king who was slain on the battlefield and it was done by an actor in the top echelon. Even the blasé stagehands had a look at it—the boys on the fly-floor used to go out on the grid (the structure right up above the stage) and from this vantage point they had a good view of the death scene. One night they took a new hand along with them to watch the action. It was the practice to tie a piece of sash-line around a man’s waist in order to hold a hammer or three. During the edging and shuffling for a better viewing position up on the grid, this particular night one of the boy’s hammers became dislodged and plummeted down from the grid. It landed right in the middle of the dead king’s breastplate. The astonished and furiously enraged monarch struggled back to life and swinging his sword vengefully, rushed off the stage , swearing to have the blood of the unlucky individual who had perpetrated such a ghastly indignity on His Majesty’s person.

Another piece of idiocy which brought forth very untimely roars of laughter from the audience took place during a performance involving the storming, by invaders, of a castle. They were firing huge rocks from a catapult and there were two men straining to haul a large and extremely heavy-looking rock onto the catapult mechanism, when it slipped over the footlights into the orchestra pit. One of the violinists placidly put down his violin and handed back the rock—papier mâché—to the staggered troupes.

Emelie Polini

From The Theatre, Society and Home, April 1924

Harriet Bennet, 1926

National Library of Australia, Canberra

Amongst many famous people I recall Emelie Polini who scored a success with charm and ability in My Lady’s Dress. Lawrence Grossmith topped box-office records with his performance in Ambrose Applejohn’s Adventure. These were some of the big names in the 1930s. There are other names of the past to conjure with—lovely Harriet Bennet in Rose Marie, Stephanie Deste in Desert Song, Lance Fairfax and Colin Crane, and Leon Gordon with Helen Strausky playing Tondeleo, who thrilled audiences in White Cargo.

There has been some doubt expressed about the authenticity of the Flinders statue outside St. Paul’s Cathedral in Melbourne. A writer to the Press mentioned the—I think he did call it ‘famous’—mural at Flinders Naval Base showing the landing of Captain Cook, in which he is shown in the identical stance of the Flinders statue. My reason for writing about this is that the mural, in several parts, was painted by William R. Coleman, the J.C. Williamson’s head scenic artist. The panels were transported by lorry from the theatre, already framed, ready to be installed in position in the Ward Room at Flinders. The boys who were assigned to the job were first entertained by the Petty Officers and as a result got rather ‘full’. Two ladders, one at each end of the wall, were used by the carpenters to hoist each painting up into position to be fixed.

Great care had been taken with measurements, the frames being an exact fit to neatly fill the apertures, but one refused to go into place.  There was a lot of pushing and shoving until the mechanist, who had gone down to supervise the job, saw the trouble, and called, in a slightly slurred voice “Freddie, you bloody fool, take your fingers out from behind the frame!”

During the Second World War I was busy constructing a model map (for the State Theatre) of Europe, showing the countries taken over by Herr Hitler. As the commentary told of each country being invaded it caught fire—a coating of match-head composition having been ignited by a fuse wire. As I was preparing that part of Northern Europe, Estonia, with mountains, rivers, etc., a voice behind me said, “There is a small lake just about there….” Turning round I said, “It must be very small—as it is not marked on the map!” “I know,” replied Eric Reiman, “It is small—but I know it’s there—I used to wee in it when I was a small boy.”

The same Eric played a German officer in the film Forty Thousand Horsemen. In one shot he was hiding in a cave built within the studio. Eric swears it was so atmospherically real that he came down with a cold.

My Fair Lady—The Ascot Scene

Miles Kenyon collection

I  suppose one of the most spectacular shows was My Fair Lady (1959), with the best box-office ever. Before the director—Sam Liff—arrived, I had quite a lot of the scenery already painted and exactly the opposite to the designs used in New York and London. I was quite definite—I was going to paint the show in my style, not in the easy impressionistic way it had been treated. In any case, all I had were 35mm slides of the original sketches (Oliver Smith’s) which were completely useless.

When Sam Liff arrived we showed him the scenery which we had so far painted. He looked at it, then said to me, “I have strict instructions that the scenery must be exactly as in America and London—but you paint it how you want it. I will take the responsibility.”

Our brickwork was like bricks, the stone and woodwork painted as such—I filled the flower-market stalls with baskets and flowers, marbled the ballroom with silver and bronze and painted the Ascot Racecourse scene as it should have been painted. The Covent Garden Market roof was in the original, without a mezzanine, which at the date of the original play was in existence—it was drawn that way.

My Fair Lady—The Promenade of the Embassy

Miles Kenyon collection

My Fair Lady—The Ballroom

Miles Kenyon collection

It was 110 degrees in the Theatre—Her Majesty’s, Melbourne—on the Friday night final rehearsal, and the same on the opening night. But one forgot the heat—it was a magnificently produced show and worth all the long hours we had put in with the painting of it. I even received a letter from Mr. Liff, saying, “it is a wonderful production, thanks to you!” Patsy Hemingway understudied Bunty Turner as Eliza and during the run she developed appendicitis and had surgery. She went on a world tour convalescing, attending the various productions of My Fair Lady in different countries. On her return to Australia, she was interviewed in Sydney and asked her opinion of these other productions. She was quite definite that the Australian one, scenically, was infinitely better than in any other country!

Gus Bluett

National Library of Australia, Canberra

Funny-men Alfred Frith & Cecil Kellaway in a scene from Whirled into Happiness, 1924

National Library of Australia, Canberra

I have inadvertently left until now, some of the well-known names of theatre comedians, names such as Alfred Frith, Gus Bluett, Don Nicol, Arthur Stigant and the Kellaways, Cecil and Alec. These people were tops in their profession, but often circumstances cut their lives short. In the case of ‘Frithy’ it was too much Bacchanalian revelry—many a time he would be missing and come seven thirty—zero hour in the theatre for the evening performance—no Alfred Frith. Search parties were unable to find him on the premises or in the vicinity. George Jennings was his understudy and would ready himself for the part.

The show would start and the audience had settled down and then just as George made his entrance there would be loud cheering and clapping from the back of the gallery, holding up the show. On investigation—there was ‘Frithy’, happy in his cups, causing the interruption. What a character—but what a damned good comedian!  The same with Gus Bluett—a first-rate comedian, but over-indulgence spoilt everything. Don Nicol died early—he was excellent in his job and a very good caricature artist. Then there were Jack and Silvia Kellaway, two wonderful dancers—sadly Jack died of T.B. when quite young.

In a sketch Frith and Bluett are doing a drink scene in a bar—they introduce themselves and find they have the same name. What’s more, they live in the same house in the same street—and so on. The tag-line—they say goodnight to each other because it is time to head home.  They do—separately. And then there was the sketch involving Gus Bluett and Charles Norman, as two elderly spinsters making their way to bed. They undress with all the antics imaginable—the climax being when they disentangle themselves from their corsets, fumbling and scratching as they shed the garments. They get into bed and afterwards, in a semi-blackout, one is seen crawling over the other to get out of bed; then fumbling under the bed with inaudible mutterings. Blackout. With the times, how comedy has changed ….!

Sir Frank and Lady Tait, 1958

Tait Family collection

Margot Fonteyn, 1957

Tait Family collection

There are very pleasant memories of Mother’s Day when Lady Tait (Sir Frank’s wife, and formerly Viola Wilson) would produce a concert in the Melbourne Town Hall for funds for the Women’s Hospital. The stars of the current show at the theatre would perform within a big cast of entertainers. Lady Tait and I would get together on the production and I would design suitable décor for the occasion.

When Dame Margot Fonteyn was here, she danced at one of these Mother’s Day shows, held in the mid-1950s. I had painted large cutouts of Dresden china ornaments and figurines, with Dame Margot as a figurine coming to life and dancing. The most spectacular was one which we did in the theatre, at the time of the Queen’s Coronation in 1953, when South Pacific was one month off the end of its run. I painted the interior of Westminster Abbey and the ceremony was re-enacted. During the casting of the company much fun was caused by suggestions of various people to play the different parts in the presentation. Such as—casting the most inept character to play the Archbishop of Canterbury. And in the same vein—I suggested that Bloody Mary, the Negress mother in South Pacific, should play a part. When the impact of this was given more thought, the potential was felt to be dramatic. Bloody Mary was dressed as a duchess—she sang “Home Sweet Home” and most of the audience had tears in their eyes as the great wave of applause nearly brought the roof down! Incongruous as it may have been, it still is a beautiful memory for me.

That same night, the papers’ headlines splashed the wonderful news that Mount Everest had been conquered.

Beppie de Vries, 1927

National Library of Australia, Canberra

Gladys Moncrieff in Sybil, 1923

From The Theatre, Society and Home, April 1924

Some of the old shows which still have such joyful memories are The Merry Widow, Lilac Time, The Student Prince with James Liddy and that superb actress Beppie de Vries. The wonderful male chorus in this last show—with ‘Scottie’ Allan who sometimes took the top note for Liddy. Madame Pompadour, Silver King, If I were King, Sybil with Gladys Moncrieff, Potash and Perlmutter, The Broken Wing...

And then there were the people who gave a huge amount of their talent and industry to the film industry of the 30s and 40s and to which a value could not be set. Stuart Doyle, for one, was instrumental in launching Cinesound Productions. Ken G. Hall was another—he was the director of every production, with the exception of one, made by Cinesound. Others I feel compelled to mention were Captain Frank Hurley, George Heath as cameraman, sound engineers Arthur Smith and Clive Cross, and the tutors of expression and acting Frank Harvey and George Cross. Jack Soutar and Harry Strachan were production managers, and Jack Kingsford Smith was a wizard on the optical printer, something he had designed and constructed himself. Other skilled people included Bert Cross, lab manager, and Bill Shepard the film editor and cutter. There were highly experienced make-up men, there were carpenters, property men and electricians. 

All these dedicated people had given all their time and energy into the melting pot, only to find their skills were lost to the community when the Motion Picture Industry, which had been thriving in Australia, stopped, in the 60s, with the surety and finality of a beheading. No one has advanced any reason why it was suddenly discontinued. At the time I am writing we have neither a film industry nor many suburban picture theatres—they have all practically closed down since the advent of television. Just for the sake of ‘making a faster buck’, a worthwhile industry which would have had untold value, as it created a fine national image, was utterly destroyed. It was an instance of a tremendous opportunity cast to the winds for lack of vision, and for greed.

George working on an unidentified set

Miles Kenyon collection

But returning to the world of theatre, as I look back, little instances—entertaining, good and/or bad, come to mind. The beautiful production of Aida with the Nile scenes and the massive Tomb scene. This tomb was built to take the big ballet number after the two characters had been interred. Because of the number of people involved above, the construction was of heavy timber. Two frames supported four-by-three joists and over these were laid the platform tops. These consisted of 20 feet by 4 feet of flooring and were unwieldy and extremely difficult to handle. Experienced stagehands could manage the juggling, but the Mechanist was breaking in some new stagehands to manipulate these troublesome rostrum tops. The first, second and third attempts were very unsuccessful, the tops all but toppling over and crashing onto the stage—only to be saved by others rushing to the rescue. At last the Mechanist, with a lovely flow of indecent swear words, broke his silence. “Cripes, you stupid bastards—you’ll never learn!”

The reply he got from one of the newly initiated was “Who the hell wants to...” And this bloke walked out of the theatre.

A little bit of history of a different kind: during the period I was Art Director to the Royal Agricultural Society of New South Wales I had designed a circular entrance vestibule to the big hall at the Show Ground. I wanted to use all Australian timbers, varying from the darkest to the lightest in colouring. Being war time, I had to approach the Timber Conservation Board for approval to obtain the three-ply. They were interested enough to have the sheets made for me—the partition was a fifty-foot semi-circle, and three six-foot high sheets of ply, the lightest coloured timber in the centre, gradually going through to darker and to the darkest at the edges. It was quite a feature.

Many months afterwards, I was having lunch in Sydney when I was approached by a man who enquired if I remembered him. I did, but had forgotten where we had met. He mentioned that he had dealt with my request for the timber for the RAS—so we got talking. He remarked that knowing at the time that I was with Cinesound and that they, of course, watched the Cinesound News Reels, he was dying to tell me of a job he had been given to do, top secret, and of the highest priority.

He told me of his travels and the eventual finding of a great number of Coachwood trees, found growing in warm, temperate rainforests along the coast of NSW.  With every available man and piece of machinery they were felled, sawn up and transported to the small arms factory in Penrith, where, with round-the-clock effort they were manufactured into rifle butts—since Australia hadn’t a rifle left in the country!

What a scoop for the news it would have been if it had been broadcast!

George at work in the Paint Room

Miles Kenyon collection

George puts his feet up!

Miles Kenyon collection

Cover image: Programme cover for Rhapsodie of 1935 at Wests Theatre, Adelaide. State Library of South Australia. 

The Importance of (being) Ernest C. Rolls

In the early 1930s before I went to Sydney and began my involvement with film-maker Ken Hall and Cinesound, Ernest C. Rolls made theatrical history in Australia with his revues and pantomimes. Ernest (Josef Adolph Darewski) Rolls emigrated from Warsaw to England in 1907 at the age of seventeen and in 1925, after several years as a theatre producer, travelled to Australia to stage his production of Aladdin for J.C. Williamson’s. His productions were most lavish in conception, and working eighty or one hundred hours a week in order to carry out his ideas was the rule rather than the exception. For the smallest black-out, there had to be a scene. There was one in particular that I really resented. It included a back-cloth and a cut-cloth, two wings aside and borders. As the lights faded in/up, a garden was revealed and an old lady sitting in an armchair with a handkerchief over her face. Her grand-daughter enters and asks solicitously “Grandmama, how are you today?” She repeats the question twice, whilst Grandmama slowly comes awake. She removes the handkerchief, regards her grand-daughter and snaps “Bloody awful!” Black-out.

Rolls was in the habit of handing me a list of perhaps twenty-five or thirty scenes. Knowing that all of them could not be used, I would whittle them down to the openings and finales of the first and second acts. Then I would concentrate on those I felt to be the most important and so on, leaving to the last those scenes which were most likely to be scrapped. These I never painted!

On one occasion, a chance remark of mine, to the effect that I was really concerned about the work which still remained to be finished, got round via the grapevine to Rolls. With his temper at boiling point, he came rushing up three flights of stairs to the paint room, at full gallop. Coleman’s stepson Jack, who also worked with us, chanced to be with me. Before Rolls could get started on his tirade of abuse, he solemnly warned him about the foolishness of rushing upstairs at his time of life. He spoke earnestly of the danger of a sudden heart attack. But Jack’s kindly consideration for his health was completely wasted on Rolls who threw himself into the attack. We were quite aware that his edged remarks were mainly due to his well-known early morning liverishness. It was 3 am—one attribute of Rolls was that he truly put in the hours—but Coleman and I began to get annoyed.

Ernest C. Rolls, c.1930. Photo by Herald & Weekly Times.

Lady Tait Collection, National Library of Australia, PIC/8745/294 LOC ALBUM 1087/10.

Downstairs at Her Majesty’s Theatre paint-frame today. Photo by Judy Leech.

I was engaged in painting the Battle of Balaclava with masses of infantry and cavalry. Strewn about were the dead bodies of men and horses along with smashed guns—a lot of drawing and very realistic painting. At that exact moment I was painting life-size horses and was fully extended. Rolls finally decamped when I handed him the brush, with the suggestion that if he thought he could paint better and faster than I was already doing, he was more than welcome to try.

Another incident which happened just after breakfast (having worked all through the night): Coleman and I were on a scaffold working at painting an arch in black and gold. I was quite unaware that we had a spectator, until a startled yell from below broke the silence. Coleman had flicked his brush full of metallic gold paint and it had left a trail down Rolls’ waist-coat. It was an episode we were both very happy to remember. And another incident which centred around Coleman took place a bit later. While we were crossing the stage at the Princess one morning at 4 am we saw the property shells for one of the scenes I was working on belonging to Pearl of the Pacific lying about the stage. We had a good look at them and decided they were not good enough for the scene, so then and there we got busy with glue and glitter. We did endeavour to find something to cover the stage before we started—this we thought we had done satisfactorily.

We went off to a cafe in Bourke Street for breakfast, feeling righteously convinced we had done a good job. When we arrived back, a great commotion seemed to be going on around some glue spots on the stage. A lot of harsh words were being said about the thoughtless so-and-so’s who were giving the cleaners so much extra work. We said we were terribly sorry but we simply couldn’t find anything better to put beneath the shells. Nothing seemed to pacify anybody. In the theatre, temperament can spill over—even to the cleaners. Tired of the abuse, we exhorted them to get on with it and clean up, for heaven’s sake. Then Jack Coleman began a whistling rendition of Ramona. This so infuriated the head stage man that he threatened to commit mayhem if Coleman would not shut up.

Later Coleman went down on the stage with two buckets of colour, one of blue and one of green, to ‘lay in’ some rocks. He was still whistling Ramona, in spite of the warning given him, when this mechanist came up to Jack Coleman and landed a punch on his ear. Shaking his head, and glaring through his spectacles, Jack took careful aim and emptied the blue paint over the bloke. Taking his time, while his audience watched spellbound, he flung the green paint over the blue. The unfortunate mechanist was drowned in colour; but he got little sympathy from most of the hands who thoroughly enjoyed the somewhat different stage entertainment. It took a lot of time and solvent to clean up before the opening matinee.

There were mutterings about a stage strike, when Rolls intervened. He told the boys they could do as they damned well pleased. He reminded them that he could replace them immediately, but that he could not replace me and my staff. This cooled everybody down.

Quite a number of idiotic things happened in this period. I was standing in the middle of the stage, soon after midnight, going through intricate contortions trying to rid myself of a flea from around the waistline—which was driving me crazy. All of a sudden the midnight silence was abruptly shattered by gales of laughter from the fly-tower. The wardrobe women who had been watching, quite fascinated by my solitary acrobatics, had suddenly divined the reason for them. I was not, as they first thought, practising a native dance. I had a flea devouring me.

I had made it a condition that anyone who worked with me must first have their salary verified by the management, that they must negotiate that pay arrangement independent of me.  In that way I could not possibly be blamed for any discrimination. When Jack Coleman came to me and asserted he was worth more than he was getting, I said “All right, you speak to Rolls about it.” He came back from lunch one Wednesday with a smile from ear to ear, absolutely exuding joy and confidence. I regarded him sourly and grunted “What the hell have you got to grin about?” I added “This will wipe the smile off your face—we've got forty hours work to cram into ten!”

Then Jack related his story and the reason for his smiles. Turning the corner from Bourke Street into Spring Street, he had immediately been swallowed up by a tremendous crowd, absolutely swarming around the theatre. Pushing his way to the entrance of The Princess he saw the Full House sign going up. As he got closer, he spied ‘the great man himself’, Rolls, standing on the step with a smile of Federal Territory dimensions, and by his side, Joe Lyons, the Prime Minister. Never a one to emulate the angels when treading might become a fearful business, Jack Coleman pushed his way through to Rolls and tapped him on the arm. Rolls turned and, with what amounted for him a beatific smile, asked “What can I do for you, Coleman?” “I was just wondering if perhaps it had slipped your mind about the salary increase you promised me?” beamed Jack. “Absolutely not, Coleman,” replied Rolls, fairly radiating benevolence. “It will be there on Friday night.”

It was not long after that that Rolls was heard referring to Jack as that “bloody Coleman, asking for a rise when I was talking to the Prime Minister...”

Ernest Rolls and I were quite good friends. He was an exceedingly shrewd man where his pocket was concerned and he was well aware that in employing me he really got his pound of flesh. He always knew that sort of thing, which probably had a great deal to do with his tremendous success as a producer.

1932 programme for Rolls’ production of Dick Whittington,drawn by Don Nicol

Courtesy of Frank Van Straten

1933 programme for Rolls' production of Honi Soit with cover design by Don Nicol

Courtesy of Frank Van Straten

During a lull between two productions, I had put a whole week into painting a garden cloth. When I arrived on stage one morning, I discovered the stage staff putting top and bottom battens in the pockets of my cloth. They were not taking the slightest amount of care and my cloth, a week's work, lay crushed and crumpled in a heap in the middle of the stage. I was so infuriated at the evidence of such stupidity that I outdid myself.

As I gazed at the ruined result, I really surprised myself with my powers of invective. I even went back a generation or two as I succinctly described these idiots. The result was they wrapped themselves in offended dignity and went on strike. When they put their grievances to E.C. Rolls he once again came in on my side, and reminded them that they were expendable, and I was not. A triumph maybe, but I still mourned my spoilt cloth.

Rolls had a name in the business as being extremely tough, but his worst detractors could not deny that he really knew his theatre. He could not be imposed upon. Once I overheard him say to a very brash imported artist who had foolishly disputed his ruling “As far as I'm concerned, you can catch the next boat back, old boy. I can easily do without you.”

On the only occasion when I had a week off with a bout of influenza I was accosted by Rolls “Where have you been? What's happening to the scenery and the new show?!” I did explain the reason and expressed concern that I had not been able to drag myself to the theatre, having a temperature and a few aches and pains associated with a dose of the ‘flu’... Maybe I was a little sarcastic! Perhaps it sank in through Rolls's rough hide—I felt a little put out and when he uttered what he thought would be the last word “Y’know, you're not an R.A.” I got in very smartly “No, and you're no bloody Cochran.” Rolls’s dead-pan suddenly broke into a smile. Irrespective of what people thought of him, I had proof of his stage genius and respected him as a showman.

Charles B. Cochran, 1932. Photo by Bassano Ltd.

National Portrait Gallery, London

Programme for Charles B. Cochran’s musical Ever Green, London, 1930

Victoria & Albert Museum, London

One morning he told me that he had thought of a wonderful title for a presentation. This happened, he explained, in his bath. It was The Birth of Melody. Could I think about it and evolve something around the motif. I planned a fantasy and made a model. When I took this up to Rolls, I explained it was of course in conjunction with the story and presentation that I had come up with. “Okay, let’s have it.” So this is how I explained it should work.

Open up in a black-out, with just a glow from a small camp fire. Crouched over the fire a native beating a drum or tom-tom. Meanwhile the orchestra producing similar tones. To get away from the tom-tom, a roll of thunder, some lightning, etc. Fade in some ‘blue light’ which would show (on the model it did just this) clouds rolling by. The clouds revealed a nude—such as The Birth of Venus—and at the same time another cloud exposed a piano with an early composer getting an inspiration from the figure. The music by this time had taken up a melody. Another cloud showed The Three Graces and another pianist at a grand-piano following on with more music. Four groups of figures, four grand-pianos, until a large cloud in centre stage exposed a jazz band, playing jazz music. The lighting was full up and the stage full of the sounds of jazz.

Then from a flight of steps at the back of the stage came the chorus and the showgirls, dressed in silver lame and carrying silver trumpets. As they descended the steps the jazz music would fade out until complete black-out. Then bring back the camp fire and the tom-tom. Curtain.

“That’s fine, but not that end—the black-out would kill the applause!” Effect NOT got! That’s the commercial theatre for you.

At the rehearsal, it was very evident what would be a cause of great disappointment for me—not all the audience could see everything! That was to be understood with ten cut-cloths of mosquito-net cut like clouds. Some would interfere with the sight-line for some seats. Rolls pointed out the obvious, then called for a pair of scissors and started to cut away the offending parts of the netting so that the pianos were revealed to all parts of the auditorium. When he had finished, all semblance of clouds had disappeared, the set ruined, my sense of humour somewhat frayed, but I just sat and watched. Then Rolls handed the scissors to me saying “I seem to have mucked it up—I'll leave you to put it back.” Then he went home, whilst I repaired the damage.

Perhaps, along with me, only one man ever got the better of E.C. Rolls. I had told him I was the only one who knew how sets came together, because I painted them in bits and pieces—“So don't push too hard.” Although I never was sufficiently paid for the amount of work I did, Rolls never owed me a penny. I was paid ten to fifteen pounds during the Depression, according to the house takings, getting a reduction if they dropped. Many people and firms suffered.

One man who did get his pound of flesh was a tailor in Bourke Street, a little London East End Jew, by name Davis. He was my tailor and made me especially well-cut suits as an advertisement—sometimes not letting me have them out of the display window, where they were on show. The finale of one of Rolls’ Spectacular Revues was to the music from Tannhauser—the men were in green tail-coats, top-hats and canes.

It was opening at the Saturday matinee. Just before Davis the tailor closed on Saturday morning, Rolls sent someone down for the suits, promising to pay on the following Monday. That was not to be—Davis demanded payment before delivery. No argument was to alter this arrangement. Rolls hadn't got the money and a cheque was not acceptable. So it was only when the whole of the matinee takings were in that there was ready cash to pay for the suits—in time for the finale.

Possibly the most spectacular show Rolls produced was Flame of Desire(1935). I was told to make the scenery most elaborate, because if it failed here it would be shipped to New York and played there!

Sheet music for Rolls’ production of Flame of Desire, 1935

Courtesy of Frank Van Straten

Foyer of the Palace Theatre, Melbourne

Cinema Treasures Collection

There were twelve full scenes with only one front set of flats, these representing a foyer and opening out into a ballroom. Each set touched the back wall and practically each side wall. This was Melbourne’s Apollo Theatre aka The Palace, later the Metro Nightclub … John Leigh Gray wrote the story and Maurice Gutteridge the music. I designed and painted the scenery and Joan Scardon and Erica Huppert were the costume designers.

The first scene was the Palace Courtyard. The flats were twenty-four feet high and there were one hundred and twenty people on the stage. The last scene—the Ballroom—had massive built columns in a circle around the stage. A platform surrounded the columns with ornate ornamental balustrades and steps down to the level of the stage. Mirrors hung at the back gave the set massive proportions. The rehearsals began at seven o'clock—they ended at three or four in the morning. This went on even to the very last rehearsal on the Friday night.

I cornered Rolls and explained to him that although it was none of my business setting up the stage and getting rid of the scenery, I thought we should concentrate on some practice doing just that. I suggested he come in on Saturday morning and run through the routine with the stage staff. He agreed. Rolls came in to the theatre in the morning with the announcement that he was going to the races! So, no rehearsal! I commiserated with Les King, the Stage Manager, who admitted that it would be chaos that night.

Anyway, I finished my last job at seven, painting a ten foot chandelier on three-ply, and I lowered it over the fly floor to the stage where the mechanist hung it on a pair of lines. Having a wash in the paint room sink, I changed into a dinner suit, pushed my way through near-naked ballet girls in their dressing-room to reach my seat in the stalls where I grabbed forty winks, waking to a roll of drums and seeing a spotlight on the stage pass-door, with Rolls coming through. He went into the orchestra pit where Maurice Gutteridge handed him the baton—Rolls conducted the orchestra. He was a musician, Herman Darewski his brother. The overture finished, Rolls took his bow, went back through the pass-door, back on stage, and in a few minutes the curtain went up—it was a quarter past eight—the miracle had happened. The show went rolling on with no hold-ups, and the final curtain came down at eleven twenty. Three hours: every rehearsal had taken six or eight hours. Rolls was the genius behind the stage—he directed the striking and setting of the scenery, which had to be carried out into Little Bourke Street in order to get rid of it and the next set brought in. How it was done I do not know, but I do know it happened.

Herman Darewski features on the cover of the sheet music for ‘Just Another Day Wasted Away’, published by Campbell Connelly & Co., 1927

Victoria & Albert Museum, London

Sheet music for ‘Smoke Clouds’ one of the songs in Rolls’ London production of Topsy Turvy, involving his wife and brother. Herman Darewski Music Publishing, London, 1917

Courtesy of Frank Van Straten

The last time I saw ‘The Guv’nor’, Rolls, was on Bondi Beach. My wife and I chatted with him for some time. He died in London, in 1964, very much down at heel.

Film Interlude: Cinesound and Efftee Films

A GREAT MANY PEOPLE HAVE deplored the making of ‘Dad and Dave’ films by Ken G. Hall, Cinesound's producer-director (1931–1956). They are needlessly embarrassed by them—they fear that wrong impressions abroad could be created by their showing. I am certain they do not give the Australian a poor image, as is feared. Just consider how many ‘silly ass’ English pictures have been made for export. The English, however, have never been averse to laughing at their own eccentricities; hence their unrivalled success in comedy plays and films. (On Our Selection was the first Dad and Dave film, made in 1920, and Rudd's New Selection appeared a year later—my involvement, when I moved from Melbourne to Sydney, was not until 1935, when Grandad Rudd was produced.)

Poster for Grandad Rudd, 1935

Cinesound Days

Poster for Dad and Dave Come to Town, 1938

Cinesound Days

Entertainment value is undoubtedly the chief ingredient of any Show presented to the public, be it stage or film. These old films certainly had that, however corny their productions may have been. Two of these films with Bert Bailey and Fred McDonald as leads in the ‘Dad Rudd’ series played with a change of titles on Broadway and in the West End of London. These films were Dad and Dave Come to Town (1938) and Dad Rudd MP (1939/40). By this time we had learned that perhaps the old image of Dad Rudd should be presented differently. In the MP picture Dad Rudd was shown ploughing—a long straight furrow. When he went into Parliament he was still—straight—and any Australian could be glad and proud of their image in Dad Rudd.

Apropos of Broadway—I saw in an issue of the American theatre publication Variety that our Orphan of the Wilderness (a film made around the same time as the above films) with its cast of twenty kangaroos had been the main feature of a program with the second release of The Great Waltz as its support. At that time the picture of the life of a joey kangaroo was recognized as the finest film of animal life made up until then. The film was made in 1936 and had its American release in 1938 entitled Wild Innocence. (The original film was initially banned in the UK but released after cuts also in 1938.) It is interesting to note that when the human element was introduced, ratings dropped abruptly.

Shooting a scene for Grandad Rudd, 1933; photo by Sam Hood

Mitchell Library, State Library of NSW, Sydney

The actual shooting of the animal scenes took months of painstaking work. Every action of each animal ‘star’ followed the script faithfully. Because these were of course completely natural reactions on the part of the kangaroos, with no rehearsals possible, scenes were shot over and over again until perfection was attained. Only two definite actions had any human assistance: in order to produce an appearance of reality, the mother of the young joey which was supposed to be killed by the hunters was given an injection by a veterinary surgeon under RSPCA supervision. The script called for a certain completely spontaneous action by a huge buck too. When the hunters made their entry onto the ‘outdoor set’ in the studio the leader of the herd had to give warning and communicate it to the resting does. They were supposed to react violently, jumping into the ‘scrub’ for shelter. This big buck ’roo was seven feet tall and required every available man on its tail in order to manoeuvre it into position on the set. It was a case of 'never the time and the place' and the kangaroo ‘at any moment jumping out of camera’.

It was an impasse. Then I had the idea of concealing a sheet of iron under the leaves on which the ’roo stood or sat in position for the reaction shot. Then, at the required instant, a very mild electric current from a shocking coil did the trick. It would sit up startled and shoot off giving warning to the herd of does which were peacefully sleeping. At least that was the general idea, but we again struck trouble. The sleeping does who were, by this time, so accustomed to any noise we used to rouse them in order to cause them to scamper off, slumbered on. Neither shotguns, kerosene tins hammered vociferously or drums banged disturbed their dreams of the silent bush. They slept peacefully on. Help came from a visitor just as we were almost passing out with fatigue and frustration. He was a big bluff hearty man and when he had sized up the situation let out a loud bellow of laughter. This was a completely new sound which had a magical effect—the does awoke from their dreams and scampered off.

Filming in the bush, 1936

Miles Kenyon collection

Bushland setting for Orphan of the Wilderness, 1936

Miles Kenyon collection

On the set we had used an emu which had been hired from a Fauna and Flora Show Garden down the coast from Sydney. When it was no longer required, the Production Manager was asked to return it to the Park. It was a Saturday afternoon and the shooting was almost finished. He asked me if I would drive him—he wanted some human companionship, he said. We had made a cage trailer for the purpose of transporting animals and we judged this would do for our long-legged passenger. We put him in and away we went.

The Production Manager, Jack Souter, kept an eye on the emu and trailer, turning around every now and then to check. Souter had a round face, big eyes, altogether the face of a cherub, which belied his keen efficiency. As he turned to make another inspection I was startled to hear him shout ‘Stop the car George! We’ve lost the bloody emu!’ I pulled up and sure enough the big bird was gone. It had managed to force the conduit bars apart. Apparently it had just stalked off because we found it a quarter of a mile down the road, holding up the traffic. Cars in a hurry had to drive around it, a few had pulled up out of curiosity. We hastily reloaded his birdship before worse befell us. We had horrible visions of him walking haughtily into a car.

More about film but for a different company and in the early 1930s, and before I left Melbourne to work in Sydney—Frank W. Thring’s Efftee Films. When preparations for rebuilding His Majesty’s Theatre were under way, after the 1929 fire, we had to vacate our temporary studio there and move to the Wattle Path Dance Palais in St Kilda. There Efftee made more films. For one set, for Aimee and Philip Stuart’s Clara Gibbings(released in 1934, this was the last film shot at the studios), we had to have the interior of a stately home of England. I had borrowed from a department store a terrestrial globe, on condition that I would be personally responsible for its safe return. Whilst backing the utility out of the lane, I was staggered to see this valuable antique go over the side with a crash. I felt as if my comfortable world had smashed along with the mahogany frame which was splintered into a hundred pieces! What is more, the globe had flattened where it had hit the ground. That seemed to be disaster enough, even if it was ever to be put right!

George Kenyon with a mysterious invention

Miles Kenyon collection

George Kenyon making props possibly with his son John

Miles Kenyon collection

I personally undertook the repairs for the globe. I had first to get out the dent, then it needed patching in order to return it to its spherical shape. The faded old parchment effect was very difficult to match up, but finally I was overjoyed to see that the damage was now practically undetectable. But I was still not out of the woods. There were figures still to be drawn—Neptune was half hidden under my patching—and lines of latitude and longitude. There was very fine lettering to be done, and only the apprehension of the wrath to descend on my head inspired me with the genius of the original draughtsman.

Meanwhile, the head carpenter was doing his best with the frame, and what a best it had to be! A game of hide and seek developed with tiny splinters of wood—the quarry of the seekers. He had to try infinitesimal pieces here and there and—everywhere! Where did a piece of inlay half-an-inch by one-thirty-second fit? Infinite patience was required but at last the job was done. This time we made sure the precious antique was safely tied down. Then I wheeled it from the store's lift as nonchalantly as my quaking bones and shaking nerves would allow. One final push landed it in front of the floor manager who regarded it casually and murmured ‘Oh, thanks.’ It seemed like walking a hundred miles through purgatory as I walked away from him to the lift.

On another occasion I had borrowed a very large vase. It was extremely costly—but this one was exactly what I wanted for an interior. There had once been a pair of these vases, but one had been purchased by a client of the store. Right in the middle of a shot of the interior, with the vase absolutely vital as a focal point, this client arrived at the store saying she desired the second vase. Then ensued a period of masterly delaying tactics: somehow, responsible people were unable to come to the telephone because they could not be located. Meanwhile, we worked feverishly to complete shooting. Finally, we had used up all our obstructing resources and we could put the lady off no longer. She duly arrived at the Studio to be met by wreathed smiles, explanations and assurances that her precious vase was quite safe. She succumbed, and we were able to finish the sequence with the owner watching.

Efftee Film Productions logo

Vintage Australia

Coral Brown in her dressing room at the Garrick Theatre, Melbourne, 1933

Australian Performing Arts Collection, Arts Centre Melbourne

We also had stage productions to get ready. We did Christa Winsloe’s Children in Uniformwith Coral Brown (no final ‘e’ at this stage of her career) at the old Garrick Theatre across Princes Bridge. The play was produced by Frank Harvey and was an outstanding success. Even in those early days Coral Brown gave evidence of her extraordinary ability as an actress. No one who saw her in this play doubted that she would have a great career, which has indeed been proved in many, many later plays.

Then we did Dion Boucicault’s period melodrama Streets of London and after that Patrick Hamilton's Rope which was played at what was the Metro (Palace Theatre) in Bourke Street. Then Efftee, Frank W. Thring, decided on a ‘grand coup’. He brought out Alice Delysia, a famous French star, to play in the Princess Theatre. She opened with A.P. Herbert’s Mother of Pearl (1934) and enchanted large audiences with her performance. She had had Paris and London at her feet for years, and Melbourne was quick to respond to her charm. Soon everyone was singing the play's lyrics—you heard ‘Every Woman thinks she likes to Wander’ and ‘When Anybody Plays or Sings I Think of You’ being whistled in the streets, a sure sign of the success of a production. What a superb actress Delysia really was.

Programme cover for Mother of Pearl, Princess Theatre, Melbourne, 1934

Mitchell Library, State Library of NSW, Sydney

French performer Alice Delysia backstage with two men, Sydney, 11 November 1934

National Library of Australia, Canberra

On the opening night I was standing on the stage when the star left her dressing room. As I said ‘Good evening’ to her, she smiled. ‘Please hold these for me.’ I was left clutching two handfuls of her personal jewellery. From then on a guard was put at her dressing room door.

The previous night, at the dress rehearsal, I had collided with one of the male leads as we both tried to enter the stage door at the same time. He seemed to be in a frightful hurry, but our collision caused sufficient delay for his taxi driver, in full pursuit of him—to catch up and demand his fare. The driver flatly refused to accept the proffered overcoat as a deposit, alleging that he had been caught that way before. To end the impasse and save the actor further embarrassment I paid the amount owing. He thanked me with a nonchalant ‘Much obliged, old boy’ and went on his way, quite unruffled.

The curtain went up and this actor, who was playing the part of a press correspondent, was awaiting Delysia. As they came in close contact during the interview, the lady drew back and administered a sound slap to his face, all the while assaulting him verbally in rapid and explosive French. I knew enough French to understand the epithets she was applying to him, but could not grasp what had aroused her anger. Curiosity impelled me later on to ask him. ‘Oh,’ he said in an indifferent manner, ‘She resented me breathing stale beer and garlic all over her.’ That was Campbell Copelin, an English actor who had come to Australia in 1923 at the age of 21.

The first show which Efftee produced at the Princess Theatre (in 1933) was Varney Monk's Collits’ Inn. Gladys Moncrieff, Claude Flemming, George Wallace and Campbell Copelin starred in the cast. It was the very first time a revolving stage was used in Australia. It was thirty-five feet in diameter and was motivated by manpower, with just one man under the stage turning it. It was constructed of angle iron with castors turning on iron tracks. Signals were given by word of mouth. As a matter of fact, it worked like a charm. There was never any over-shooting as later happened with electric motor control.

The set for the opening scene was all bushland. There were saplings and tall gumtrees, and as those tree set-pieces came to the back, others replaced them, and for the first five minutes the audience saw only a changing scene. Then the soldiers marched on from the back of the stage with very short steps and then were very slowly brought round to the front of the stage. Additions and changes were meanwhile being made behind, even though the stage was still revolving. Naturally, timing was all important. At last the Inn appeared and with perfect and precise timing, the troops caught up. The command to ‘Halt!’ rang out, and there they were, right outside the exterior of Collits’ Inn. Throughout the production the revolving stage worked most efficiently as a means of changing scenes.

Scene from Collits’ Inn, Princess Theatre, Melbourne, 1933

Australian Performing Arts Collection, Arts Centre Melbourne

Programme cover for Collits’ Inn, Princess Theatre, Melbourne, 1933

Mitchell Library, State Library of NSW, Sydney

The librettist was Thomas Stuart Gurr (Varney Monk wrote the music and lyrics) and he was the father of Thomas Johnson Gurr, journalist and documentary film maker. I came in for a lot of publicity as Scenic Director (the designer was W.R. Coleman). I thought it was somewhat exaggerated but was told to pipe down and take what I was given. Anyhow, I knew that by any standards Collits’ Inn was good, and as I had painted most of it, I felt I had earned at least some of the plaudits, and let it go at that. This publicity was given an extra boost by some very spectacular shots of a horse race in a picture (the film was Thoroughbred with Helen Twelvetrees in the lead). This was obtained by a simple arrangement: the cameraman had his camera on a toboggan, towed by a car. The toboggan was practically under the horse’s hooves. It was also my responsibility to find a way of safely ‘crashing’ the leading horse in the race as in the script it fell dead just as it passed the post. Somehow we achieved the miracle of managing this, without injuring either the horse or the catapulting jockey.

After each picture was completed it was always the custom to have a cocktail party and a ball in the Studio. Everything was cleared from the floor, but any decorative sets were distributed around the walls to give the place some atmosphere. The capacity for tables around the sound-stage and the size of the dancing area determined the number of guests who received invitations. Applications for invitations were always double the number it was possible to accommodate. They were always highly enjoyable affairs—everyone came with the intention of enjoying themselves—and I guess everyone did just that.

The crew of Thoroughbred on set; photo by Sam Hood

Mitchell Library, State Library of NSW, Sydney

Helen Twelvetrees outside the Cinesound Studios in Sydney; photo by Sam Hood

Mitchell Library, State Library of NSW, Sydney

Often I have taken in the milk, still dressed in tails, my wife in her evening gown, cooking breakfast, eggs and bacon for some friends. For one party we chartered the new ‘Curl Curl’—the new Sydney Harbour ferry, just arrived from England—all night, up and down the Harbour. It was a most successful party.

For the party which came after a Dad Rudd picture had finished, leaping ahead to my later ‘stint’ with Cinesound, we asked the guests to come in fancy dress. The costumes had to have a definite Rudd family flavour. The following doggerel constituted my special invitation to our guests. The date was Saturday, August 5th, 1939. World War II had not yet cast its shadow over everything and we could all still be gay on occasion.

Hey! Coming to Town with Dad and Dave?

Don’t bother to dress, don’t even shave.

Wear a beard or Dave’s ‘Clark Gable’,

Pad up for Mum, or slim down for Mabel.

We’re all to meet at Cinesound’s Place,

Ebley Street, Waverley, and just in case

You come to Ruddville minus a ticket,

There ain’t no chance of being admitted.

We’ll hop off at eight to this grand shivoo,

And drive the cows from the paddock round about two.

The Rudd family supplies the tucker to youse

But if you think you’ll be thirsty,

Bring your own booze.

RSVP This is urgent so please remit

Because 400’s the limit we're going to admit.

Poster for Gone to the Dogs, 1939

Cinesound Days

George Kenyon (left) with George Heath, Chief of Cinematography

Image from Directed by Ken G. Hall by Ken G. Hall

Film Interlude Number Two; or, Just Let George Do It!

In ken g. hall’s (cinesound) 1939 Dad rudd mp production,the script called for a dam to burst and overflow the semi-constructed retaining wall. This never happens in reality, the engineers are always building above water level.

Again, it was a model, but this time the simulated dam wall was of rather large proportions and it was constructed on the studio lot at Pagewood, Sydney. The wall was twenty-five feet long and every detail of a real dam was exactly copied on the model. The uneven wall construction, showing the mortising of the poured concrete, the gangway and catwalks, the flying foxes and the surrounding terrain were faithfully copied, because the camera went from an actual dam to the model. A tank holding 100,000 gallons of water was constructed, out of camera range—a sluice and race leading to the platform behind the wall. There would be enormous pressure on the platform when the water was released for the flooding.

We used steel scaffolding for this platform. Incidentally, I used the very first imported experimental consignment in Australia. Below the wall the creek bed was dug out with the outlet pipes etc. built in. A hundred feet or more below the wall was a bridge which had to wash away just as the last car made it to the other side. The bridge was constructed in its wrecked condition, then joined together and held in position with wires.

The sequence of events was—first rain pouring down over the area, then the collapse, with the foundation being washed away with the flying foxes. Then the water in the tank was released, filling the dam behind the wall until it overflowed in a great cascade of boiling turbulence. Logs, let loose at intervals, were washed over the wall, rushed down the creek and finally banked up against the bridge, forcing it to capsize and be swept away. The six inch model car was pulled down a slope and over the bridge by silk threads. It was a breath-taking spectacle on the screen—but still a fake! The calculation of strength, stresses and strains of the wall, the platform and the judgement of water from the tank needed to be absolutely exact. The timing of the car pulled over the bridge so that its wheels ‘feathered’ the rising water was precisely timed, and at the right moment, I, myself, axed the holding wire which allowed the bridge to float away down-stream.

We did have one rehearsal with the water flowing over the wall, which emptied the tank. It then took all day to fill it again. The Director Ken Hall was, I think, hypnotized and forgot to call a halt, or—it could have been the ‘take’.

Film-maker Ken G. Hall (1901-1994)

Australian Screen

Film poster for Dad Rudd, MP

Wikipedia

This spelt ‘finale’ to our struggles with storms and floods and washed away bridges—with the advent of rear projection within the studio. The next collection of odd bits and pieces belonged to a picture starring George Wallace and Alec Kellaway, Let George Do It—1939. Naturally this was a comedy with Wallace in the principal role. The script called for a motor-boat to vanish up a big outlet pipe into Sydney Harbour. We searched for days for a suitable hole but had no luck. We simply could not find one. Finally we overcame the difficulty without a great deal of trouble. A large circle of black velvet was stretched over a fairly smooth cliff face, and the edges 'modelled' into the rocks. By simply running the boat up to the apparent hole, represented by the black fabric, and then, when sufficiently close, cutting the camera, we got our effect. The actual entrance into the tunnel was done in the studio.

The same motor-boat cut a racing eight in halves in the middle of the harbour. Also, when the waves became somewhat rough and high, a few fish found their way on board. Just to cause the maximum amount of disturbance, a confused fish was to dive down Letty Craydon’s blouse. When the desired effect was obtained, the screams and contortions as the cold little fish wriggled frantically in its unfamiliar element inside Letty’s blouse, were frightfully funny to everyone—except poor Letty.

A gorilla was needed in the 1939 film—again with George Wallace and with John Dobbie—Gone to the Dogs. We obtained a batch of skins and gave them to a leading taxidermist with instructions to make them up into a suit. It was intended to transform one of our top heavyweight wrestlers into a reasonable facsimile of a gorilla. I duly picked up the finished job and opened it out in the studio, but to my dismay, found it to be a skin-tight fit. When worn, it would simply look like a man in a fur suit. In no way would it resemble a gorilla. Two of my property men, along with myself, worked non-stop over the weekend, unpicking the skins and remaking it nearer to requirements. We had to lengthen the arms, and make false 'hands' as well as false feet. It had to have a mobile mouth, with teeth and eyes that could roll. At least it no longer looked like an ad for the well-dressed man at the North Pole. Then we finally dressed the actor who was playing the part of the gorilla. The two men who had assisted me in the remaking of the skin were his dressers. They were in sharp contrast to each other: one was an international rugby player, the other was a dyspeptic with a hacking cough.

Before the skin was put on, shoulder pads, pads for chest and abdomen—altogether roughly four pounds of kapok—had to be put in place. With the temperature around 80 degrees the man inside was anything but comfortable. Getting the legs and arms into the skin was comparatively easy, but fastening the long zippers up the back was far from that with Fred Adkins, our gorilla, fidgeting all the time. Except for what was possibly unavoidable, wrestler Fred was an extremely fit and co-operative bloke. With much fumbling with the zipper, accompanied by a lot of mumbling, the small thin dresser finally lost his patience. In tones of extreme exasperation he muttered “Listen Fred, if you don't stand still, I'll drop you, I will.” Fred further complicated the situation with his laughter from inside the head.

George Wallace and friend in Gone to the Dogs

National Film and Sound Archive, Canberra

George Kenyon and Gorilla

Miles Kenyon collection

When final shots were taken, except for a few incidental bits and pieces, it was the custom to hold a party in the studio to celebrate the successful completion of yet another picture. This particular party with George Wallace and John Dobbie turned out to be one of the best we ever held. These two performers who had played together many times on the stage performed a little sketch, especially written for a private party. George asked me to dress John up in a sheet. He was supposed to be the Mother Superior of a convent. George dressed himself. We rigged a flat of scenery with a door in it and George, when he was ready, came and knocked upon it. He wore a black straw boater, with a long-stemmed rose stuck in the crown, and a feather boa which circled his neck and trailed on the floor. A tight-fitting black coat, women's size, was buttoned up cock-eyed over his big paunch. His skirt was pulled up to show red—what in a bygone age were called—drawers. His face was made up and his lank hair flapped in all directions.

After knocking a few times, Dobbie, as Mother Superior, appeared at the door to see what the trouble was. Dobbie was a huge man, well over six feet and weighing at least twenty stone. The following patter ensued after some pantomime of Dobbie’s, pretending to be unable to locate his caller, always looking over George’s head. Eventually George grew impatient and pulled hard at Dobbie’s sheet to draw his attention down to him.

“Hi Mum,” said George.

“Well, you tramp, what can I do for you?”

“You see Mum, it’s like this. I've had a bit of bad luck.”

“You always do,” returned the Mother Superior. “What is your trouble my girl? Don't tell me—let me guess.”

“You couldn’t this time. It so happened I was walking down Little Bourke Street, minding my own business, when...”

“All right, all right.” interrupted the Mother Superior, “I know the routine. I'll give you refuge, but you will have to behave yourself. Please proceed through these holy portals.”

“Oh, goodoh! Ta ever so Mum! You're a real lady.” And George walked through the door. Then John turned to follow. There were horrified shrieks from the girls and loud laughter from the men, when everyone saw the sheet only covered the front of Dobbie. It was quite indecent.

John Dobbie, Ken G. Hall, George Wallace and Len Barlow on the ‘upside down room’ set of Gone to the Dogs

National Film and Sound Archive, Canberra

Back to things theatrical and the next episode also concerned George Wallace (1895-1960). On the opening night of The Beloved Vagabond at The Princess in April 1934 George was doing a ‘Napoleon number’. In those days the chorus men had to be tall as well as having to possess good voices. At this point in the show they were all lined up on the O.P. (Opposite Prompt) side of the stage when George made his appearance on the verandah, having walked through the French windows at the back. He stood at the top of six or eight steps making a comic speech, finishing with “Men! Forward march!” He tripped over his sword and somersaulted down the steps to land in the middle of the stage. At rehearsal he had always got up in time to march at the head of his soldiers, but alas! He was still down when the marching men reached the centre of the stage, and they marched all over him. The audience loved it and screamed with laughter. The unfeeling management implored George to keep the incident in, but he was adamant. There was to be no repeat performance. He swore that he was bruised all over and that he could not be bribed to make it happen again. After this he timed his fall more accurately.

As everyone knew, the baggy trousers, tartan shirt and slouch hat were the trademark of this really great comedian. Sometimes, however, he told his inimitable stories in a dinner suit, but I always thought that when he dressed in conventional fashion something was missing. His wonderful tale of little Aggie playing with a death adder in her backyard, and the one of Grandpa accidentally setting fire to his beard, causing a bushfire. These were funny.

During the making of one picture with Wallace, he had to fall from a plane and come to earth by parachute. The actual fall was produced in the studio. But it was one of George's bad days—the fall was so lacking in reality that it took very many takes before the director was satisfied. In the same picture was a cockatoo. It was a most grotesque looking bird. Although it was quite young it did not look a day less than eighty as it was entirely denuded of feathers. To add to its unfortunate appearance its beak had a malformation. Really, it was a very miserable specimen of the ornithological species. The upper and lower portions of its beak were overgrown and crossed into the bargain. The feet of this wretched bird were badly deformed, the claws being unduly long as well as tangled. It was an attraction as a freak at a Fauna Flora Park and because of this was very valuable to its owner, and it took a great deal of persuasion on the part of the production manager before he would consent to part with it. Great care was taken of this sinister bird.

The idea in the picture—George Wallace was supposed to have wandered by mistake into a laboratory and drunk a certain brand of spirit. The result of this was to give him uncontrollable hiccoughs. After leaving the lab and passing a garden wall, he saw a parrot perched upon it. The simple act of breathing on it was supposed to transform a perfectly ordinary feathered bird into the hideous freak we had borrowed. The transformation was affected by means of a puff of smoke. That seemed to be quite simple, but the property man who had undertaken the care of the bird had put a mattress on the other side of the wall so that if the bird took fright and toppled from the wall, it would not injure itself on the hard floor. As an extra precaution this careful props man lay down on the mattress himself in readiness to catch the bird if it became frightened when George hiccoughed at it. The bird was undoubtedly startled but the result was quite unforeseen. It did not fall but its droppings found a perfect target on the face of the outraged props man. The same crew member was given the job of keeping the highly polished floor in that same pristine condition. Unhappily a milkmaid, leading a real cow over it in one of the sequences, left a cowpat behind her charge. After cleaning up several times, he just stood with a bucket, until the camera was ready to roll. A day in the life of a property man was rarely without incident.

Talking about cows, I had never heard the expression ‘It's a fair cow!’ before I came to Australia, but I can still remember an unintentional use of the same word which to Australians would have been hilarious. It happened during a confirmation service in the Orkneys, where the Grand Fleet had its home and where the scuttling of the German fleet took place after World War One. The Bishop of Aberdeen was giving the address and he emphasized the greatness which originated in small beginnings. He gave as an instance the acorn as one of the small things which later attained greatness. He said “It falls from the tree and then, some cow treads it into the earth.” Imagine the mirth of an Australian congregation on hearing that pearl of wisdom. It just goes to show that the colloquialism of one country may be a profundity in another.

Diana du Cane as Ann Brady in a scene from The Broken Melody

Miles Kenyon collection

Ken G. Hall, Diana du Cane and Alfred Hill discussing the music for TheBroken Melody

Image from Directed by Ken G. Hall by Ken G. Hall

In 1937 we, Cinesound, made a picture called Broken Melody. It was a story of people living in the area known as ‘The Rocks’, in Sydney. A violinist is practising before an audience of down-at-heel inhabitants of the rock caves, grouped sitting round the mouth of their habitation. As he plays, he sees the figure of a girl coming towards the group down a flight of steps cut in the rock. She is singing as she descends. The violinist pauses to listen. For some time the music for the finale of an opera he was creating had been eluding him. Now he thinks that the sight of this beautiful girl will give him the inspiration for which he has been searching in vain.

For the finale of his opera, which of course is set on a stage, I had erected in the studio a flight of steps that divided two rows of houses of European architecture. These steps reached right to the studio ceiling. Diana du Cane came down these steps, singing the final number with the chorus lining the steps outside the houses where they lived. Some of them stood on little balconies with their wrought-iron balustrades.

This is only the introduction to the story. I had also designed Diana’s costume for this scene and, as I remember, it was a gown which had a figure-fitting undergarment buttoned from neck to hem, a full tulle overskirt with appliqued bands of dark velvet at decreasing intervals from the hem to the waist. Her head was framed in a starched lace collar. The frock was designed to fit in with the set and its architecture. I was very pleased with it. But—she never wore it. It was considered too sombre, too out-of-date. The one she wore was a Dolly Varden flouncy affair with a large picture hat.

The picture was previewed at the State Theatre in Sydney. As I parked my car outside Farmer’s I looked across to the show windows. They were completely curtained, while they dressed them for their Autumn show. At that time Farmer’s were definitely ‘on top’ for their window displays. After the show and supper, my wife and I strolled to our car. The curtains on Farmer’s had disappeared and the display was fully lit, showing their imported models of Autumn gowns. There, in a prominent position, was a model wearing my dress. I had had no previous view, and of course no contact with the designer, Molyneaux, but there it was, exactly as I had designed it. I had dreamed up an up-to-the-minute frock, with the added virtue that it blended with my scenery.

Occasionally something happens in the theatre which could very easily have turned into a tragedy. One such event occurred after the Gladys Moncrieff Company had taken a great many curtain calls at the finale of a performance. At last the applause died down as the curtain descended for the last time. The company moved off to their dressing rooms and just as the last member left the stage, the huge crystal chandelier parted from its straightener hook and fell with a mighty crash onto the stage. It actually hit the spot where only a few moments previously the company had been standing. It was very nearly the last curtain call for some of them.

Fire damage at Her Majesty’s Theatre in 1929

www.hmt.com.au

Wattle Path—Efftee Studios—St. Kilda

Rob Morrison collection

 

Sometimes things do not happen in such a ‘fortunate’ way. After the 1929 fire in Her Majesty’s Theatre, Melbourne, there was a great deal of dismantling to be done. I happened to be standing near an electrician who had his arm resting between the bars of the switchboard. I suppose it was a case of familiarity breeding carelessness—perhaps he pushed his arm in too far, or maybe the screwdriver slipped. Anyhow, there was a blinding flash, and his arm a horrible mess. Another electrical fatality took place in the studio which was used by Efftee Films at Wattle Path. An electrician was on top of a high gantry securing a connection to the overhead wiring system which was simply suspended along the ceiling. He had the misfortune to take hold of a live wire and he was powerless to let go. The head electrician was faced with a shocking choice—if the current was switched off, there was the merest chance of his falling back onto the small gantry platform, but without all the luck in the world he would crash twenty feet down onto an ironized floor. The alternative was electrocution. The main switch was pulled, but the poor fellow was out of luck. He fell to the floor and although he lived, he never walked again.

I remember another incident—it was not very serious, but the result was a truly remarkable example of technicolour. The occasion was the Pacific Crossing in the 1944 film Smithy, a film owned and financed by the Americans but directed by Ken Hall. It was during the night when the Southern Cross was winging its way across the Pacific. This was, of course, a sequence where a replica of the plane was used in the studio. The reaction of the crew during a storm made it necessary for the film to be shot when the studio was in darkness, except for the lights in the cockpit. The area was roped off as a precaution against anyone walking into the revving propellers. It has often been noted that when the call of action comes, people are apt to forget all danger warnings. This happened at this time to the Assistant Art Director. Someone yelled out “Something's wrong!” Something was very wrong. An electrician had picked up a wire that was lying in a pool of water that had been made by the rain machine. As a consequence he received some unplanned ‘shock treatment’. The Art Director unthinkingly went to his aid, actually rushing beneath the rope and into the whirling propeller. Miraculously the blades skinned up his arm, pushing him away at the same time. He was not too badly hurt, but from hand to shoulder his arm was a wondrous medley of yellow, green and mauve.

Southern Cross plane

National Air and Space Museum, Washington, DC

Charles Kingsford Smith

National Archives of Australia, Canberra

Whilst on the subject of the Southern Cross it was at the time of a show (in 1931) called Sons o’ Guns that the Southern Cloud, a three-engine aircraft, was lost. The girl playing the lead was Bertha Riccardo. The news leaked out during the performance—Bertha's husband was on the Southern Cloud. Like a real trouper, she finished the show—but fainted as the show ended.

J.A.K. of All Trades

It so happened that I did again forsake the theatre, fairly early on, to take up an entirely different job. I had been introduced to the game of lacrosse by a friend, a Doctor Callister who lived next door to me in Brighton, Melbourne. We did our practice by throwing the ball over the fence to each other. Going out onto the field one afternoon to play a match against one of the senior grade teams, I found myself marking a player who introduced himself as Stanley Myers, and we found time for a chat as the play was not coming our way too often. He was a business-man, running an advertising agency. He asked a lot of questions. How long had I been in Australia, whether I had ever been interstate, did I know many people, etc.? He advanced the opinion that a man should not settle down in the first place at which his ship dropped him. The sensible thing was to see as many of the states and cities as he possibly could, and then decide which appealed to him most as a good place to settle.

He came forth with a very attractive proposition. He told me he had a vacancy for someone to go up North on his business. As luck happened, it was again a slack period in the theatre and there seemed nothing to prevent me from taking advantage of his offer. Anyhow, I went along to Mr Coleman to get his advice. He agreed that it would suit him if I took some leave right then. So I made arrangements with Mr Myers to commence work for him the following Monday. I was first of all to go on a training tour with him. We drove to Ballarat, and I stood at his elbow whilst he did his ‘sales talk’. There was a great variety of clients—some old, some new and we dealt faithfully with all except one, whom he said was ‘rather difficult’. He said he thought it might be personal antipathy, so suggested I should have a go and see how I worked it out.

Myers himself was in the top bracket class as a salesman, so I tried to imitate his approach and general manner. Whatever the reason might have been, the ‘difficult client’ listened to my spiel and allowed me to book him up for twelve months. Mr Myers voiced his congratulations and departed forthwith to Melbourne. I was on my own, with a long list of people to interview in a dozen different towns. During the next two weeks the result was better than I had anticipated—evidently the routine I had been at pains to learn, worked. My teacher was very definite about the importance of three things: before approaching a new client, you must get a dossier on him from the local press, who seemed to be always willing to co-operate. You paid particular attention to what was said about the client's business, his background, his solvency and general reputation as a man who settled his debts promptly. The second rule was that you stayed in the best hotel available, in whatever town you were in, and the third was that you always travelled first class on a train.

I thoroughly enjoyed my coverage of Victoria and New South Wales—I even got as far as Bourke. My figures continued to be quite satisfactory. My last client was one of the original tough guys, so I was jubilant when I booked him up for five years. By this time I was saying to myself “Enough is enough”. So when I returned to Melbourne and was offered the job of going to New Zealand and opening the business there, I turned it down. Instead, I went back to the theatre.

However, I remained exceedingly grateful to Stanley Myers for putting in my way such a wonderful opportunity of seeing the country, and meeting a lot of Australian people. With all expenses paid.

For some reason connected with one’s regenerate self, it is always a source of pleasure to remember that one was not found wanting and tongue-tied when it was necessary to make a suitable rejoinder to a hurled insult. Because I was not prepared to ‘play ball’ with a lady, I incurred her very considerable displeasure. Then something happened to persuade her that her enemy was delivered into her hands. We were on location and someone, with an idiot’s sense of humour, hid her handbag. Unfortunately in the bag were the pay envelopes of all the other women. When it had gone long past time for the bag to be returned by the joker, I told her not to worry because it would be sure to turn up, as someone must be playing a practical joke. She was a charming girl—before everyone, with all the dignity she could muster, she opened up with all guns going full blast! 

“Oh, so now I know,” she said scornfully. “I've wondered about you, what you were before you had this job. I imagine you have a shady past, just a common thief and pickpocket.” My reply “Don't be so damned meretricious.” I wondered a bit grimly if she would have to look up the meaning of the word, and what she would think when she did. We never spoke to each other again and I did not even get an apology when the fool who hid the bag in the first place decided the ‘joke’ had gone on long enough, and confessed to his stupid prank.

Just to try and set my story straight, as I realize I have jumped around quite a bit, due to memories resurfacing in unexpected places, in 1935 Efftee Films folded, after the death of its founder, Frank Thring. The following year I found myself joining a team at Ken Hall’s Cinesound, along with a newly appointed assistant director, Ronald Whelan, the Australian architect Eric Thompson—who had Hollywood experience, and chief of cinematography George Heath, who had succeeded Frank Hurley, now heading up a new documentary film unit. And in 1936 back projection was being used for the first time, and after an enormous amount of trial and error, somehow we manage to master it. Since I had first moved into motion pictures, in the early 1930s, I found I was able to paint to a standard of detail which was photographable, and get away with it. I painted backgrounds, even buildings, that were filmed from ten or twelve feet, my early training had certainly paid off—with ‘glass shots’ particularly, and also with ‘matting’. When production costs could well be prohibitive with the building of a very elaborate roof or ceiling, the glass was used as a means of getting the result, at very small cost. I shall explain!

Backyard view for Cinesound by George Kenyon

Miles Kenyon collection

Diagram illustrating the use of glass and matte paintings

From Movie Magic by John Brosnan, Macdonald and Jane’s; London, 1974

When the walls of the set have been constructed and put up on the sound stage, the camera is placed in position and in front of the camera, at about nine or ten feet, a sheet of optical clear glass of roughly seven by four feet. The procedure from then on is very exacting. Looking through the camera and using the thinnest of silk threads, the vertical lines of the set’s walls are projected upon the glass. Remember, you are looking through a 35mm aperture and one hundredth of an inch error will be magnified enormously upon the screen. When all the lines are marked on the glass, the artist then draws the ceiling or top part of a building, for instance, on the glass, matching exactly to match up with the under structure. It is then painted. With the people on the set, and of course behind the glass and also below any painting, the result can be remarkable—relying on the quality and realism of the painting’s execution.

Another technique is to matt in on an enlargement such additions as required. This is the routine: the cameraman matts off the top of the film so that having exposed the bottom half, the top half is still unexposed. The scene required may be of a building in another country, or a landscape. In a building scene the walls would be built only sufficiently to be above the heads of the actors. After shooting, an enlargement is made from a frame of the film, which shows the scene with a blank top half. Into this top part is painted whatever is required to complete the building. Landscapes can be altered similarly—very careful drawing and painting is necessary, but it saves much in costs.

Reverting to 1929, when the Regent Theatre in Collins Street was about to open, Frank Thring (Senior) asked Mr Coleman to lunch. When he came back to the Paint Room at His Majesty’s it had been arranged that I was to take over the scenic department at the Regent. For six months I painted non-stop stage presentations, which got bigger and better, competing with the State Theatre (now the Forum) in Flinders Street—but which eventually were scrapped. I still had six months of my contract to run.

Programme for the Melbourne’s Regent Theatre, 1929

Rob Morrison collection

Regent Theatre foyer detail, today

Photo by Judy Leech

The manager Bert Cowan (Louise Lovely was his wife) asked me to colour some photographs of the banners in the Plaza Theatre. Asking why, I was told they were to be sent to America for reproduction of similar banners for the New Plaza Theatre in Sydney. Saying that there were artists in Australia who were very capable of the execution of these, I requested the cost of getting one made, with the idea of painting it myself. It was agreed and I had a banner made and I painted a knight on a white charger with a castle background. Bert Cowan didn’t believe it, because the original banners had been executed by a famous studio in America. It was shown to Mr Thring who immediately said “You paint them for Sydney Plaza!” They hang in the theatre today.

William Rowell by Alice Bale, c.1924

State Library Victoria, Melbourne

John Rowell self portrait, 1934

New England Regional Art Museum, Armidale

With the completion of this job, Frank Thring suggested that perhaps I would like to manage a theatre—and that is how I was made assistant manager of the Gardiner Theatre in South Camberwell. One very hot night I was standing outside, getting a little of the slight breeze that had come with a change, and one of the supervisors caught me in this ‘frightful disregard for the rules’. He started to remonstrate, but before he got too far I told him I had the last word in the matter. He disputed this until I made it quite clear that I hadn’t really wanted the job and that I had resigned. I left and went home.

Shortly after I joined John and William Rowell at Luna Park, where we were involved in the rush production of a Luna Park for Adelaide. All the animals, props, etc. were made in Melbourne, and I painted all the lions, tigers, polar bears and suchlike. When construction of the site was ready in Adelaide we went over to supervise the building of the caves and other departments. Anyway, the park was eventually finished and opened, but it was not a financial success and was dismantled and shipped to Sydney, where it was re-erected and still operates.

Luna Park, Glenelg, Adelaide

State Library of South Australia, Adelaide

View of Milson’s Point and Luna Park, Sydney

Oxyman

Perhaps my time sequencing may be at fault but it was back to the theatre then, but to make moving pictures. His/Her Majesty's Theatre in Exhibition Street in Melbourne had been burnt out. Efftee Films (Frank Thring) took over and the first production was Co-respondents Coursewith John D’Arcy and Elaine Hamill. It was followed by The Haunted Barnwhich had Brett Randall, of St Martin’s Theatre, in the cast, along with several other old timers. Then came Pat Hanna’s Diggers(1931) and Diggers in Blighty(1933). For the latter I had my first experience of making a model which was actually to be used on location. This was erected in front of the camera and then merged into the unmade road. With a deploy of troops moving up this road, my ruins and the models of a bombed church and dwellings were really quite effective.Arthur Higgins the camera-man did some very successful running matt shots.

After the Diggerfilms, we made, I think, four with George Wallace. His Royal Highness(1932), Harmony Row(1933), Ticket in Tatts(1934),etc.—they may not have been top Hollywood class but they were damned funny and when shown the audience thoroughly enjoyed them.

Advertisement for His Royal Highness from Everyone, 14 December 1932

Trove

Lobbycard for Diggers in Blighty (1933)

ozmovies

In 1937 we made a film called Lovers and Luggers—often referred to as Buggers and Boats—a story of pearling luggers. The exterior sequences were concerned with four or five luggers lying ready to set out for the oyster fields. Shooting—always dependent on the weather—was held up by the sun sulking behind clouds. Everything got behind, including the underwater scenes, which we had arranged to shoot in an Olympic Pool. Because of the delays, by the time we got around to these shots, summer had come and the pool was open to the public—consequently full of swimmers and bodies. This was the reason for the decision to build a tank in the studio. It was quite a big one—thirty feet square—and unfortunately I allowed myself to be talked out of what I believed to be a necessary addition—some sort of filtering system. When the tank was half full of tap water, it became evident that shooting scenes in it was impossible: penetration was practically nil!

It was suggested by someone that sea water could be the answer—it was very clear. Remember—I had wanted to filter the tap water. To transport the sea water to the studio, we hired a petrol wagon, and at the end of the day it suddenly dawned on me that I had a problem. What to do—leave the sea water in the tank overnight or pump it out of the tanker into our tank? Whichever I did—the inside of the tanker would rust—so we emptied the water into the tank. Sure enough, next morning, the inside of the tanker was rusty and useless for further transporting of water—or anything else! So, another rush job, making a wooden tank which was fitted to a lorry. It was something like 14 feet by 4 feet by 3 feet. This was trundled backwards and forwards to the sea and the tank gradually filled to the required level. And - when it was full we could see right through those thirty feet. Of course everyone was happy and arrangements were made to shoot the underwater scenes the following morning.

Alas, next morning when I looked through the glass windows the water was as opaque as the previous tap water had been—but instead of a murky colour, it was a nice green. The infinitely small marine-life had grown again and again the works were clogged up. A little knowledge of chemistry helped: I made a solution of magnesium sulphate (Epsom Salts) and sodium carbonate and when this was thrown into the tank of sea water it formed a layer of ‘snowflakes’ which gradually sank, taking with it all the impurities in the water to the bottom. We could again see right through to the other side of the tank.

Lovers and Luggers: Divers preparing to enter the tank

Image from Directed by Ken G. Hall by Ken G. Hall

Lloyd Hughes, Sidney Wheeler and James Raglan in Lovers and Luggers

Image from Directed by Ken G. Hall by Ken G. Hall

Everything was set—arrangements for the divers to come in tomorrow—our troubles would be over. They were —until next morning when the divers entered the tank when they, of course, stirred up all the sludge on the bottom. It was hopeless! Another fiasco and I’m left again ‘holding the baby’—what do we do now?

I was very dogmatic—scrap the tank and cut our losses—because without a filter it was useless persevering. So back to the original location—the Olympic Pool. I went out to see the Manager of the baths—he was a retired Navy man. It was a long argument for the baths were open and it was not anyone’s intention to close down so that we could use the pool. After all kinds of suggestions, the Manager was persuaded to rope off half of the baths, giving us use of the deep end. Then another major problem presented itself! Somehow I had to build a thirty by forty foot platform and get it to the bottom of the pool. The only entrance to the venue was a standard doorway and no space for building on the surrounding edges of the pool.

I remember going back to the studio, sitting quietly and thinking out the possible ways and means of doing this particular job. It came eventually—I located the architect and borrowed the plans of the pool from him. We drew on the studio floor the curved bottom of the section and from this drawing, ‘legs’ were made to fit the shape of the pool floor to the height required—ten of them thirty foot long. These would go through the door and together with planks, rocks, etc. they were transported to the site. Before putting the legs into the water, a sandbag was tied to the end of the central leg which ensured that the leg would float upright. All the legs were placed in the pool and tied off at equal intervals along the side. Then with a dinghy, the other ends were evenly and similarly spaced. The planks were then placed on the upright floating legs, the tarpaulin then stretched over this platform and the rock pieces put into position. From the dinghy we emptied dozens of bags of sand onto the platform so that it gradually sank, and eventually when the sand equalled the buoyancy, it came to rest gently on the bottom of the pool. The set was then dressed, the fish dumped in and the camera bell lowered into position.

Shirley Ann Richards, Lloyd Hughes and Elaine Hammill in Lovers and Luggers

National Portrait Gallery, Canberra

Shirley Ann Richards in a scene from Lovers and Luggers

National Film and Sound Archive, Canberra

All the shots with the divers, including the fight underwater, were photographed—all had been successfully completed. It was then that the director, Ken Hall , had an additional—not in the script—shot he wanted. He would like a shot of a completely flat sea bed, minus the rock pieces. I explained that the rocks were holding the platform on the bottom and without them the whole thing would float to the top. Well, he insisted—so I was to try and give it to him. I sought the help of the divers who, when I explained the idea to them were by no means happy, but would do their best to help. I suggested that they went below and with the greatest care, try to manoeuver the rock pieces off the platform, but so that they caught on the edge of it and held it down.

They went into the water and I got into the dinghy so that I could watch from above. They staggered along with the first rock and moved it to the edge where it held the platform down, but they were out of luck with the next, and the next—then things did happen... The platform started on its see-saw journey to the surface—the cameraman left his camera and dashed up to the top of the bell—the divers were lying flat on their backs, their air-pipes and life-lines all a-tangle. My dinghy overturned and I got shot into the churned up mess of sand, seaweed and fish. But, within minutes the crew had the divers on shore and their helmets off—only slightly ruffled.

When all the excitement was over, I looked around, but everybody apart from my crew, had silently stolen away. It took a long time to dismantle the platform, clear the rocks from the bottom of the pool and then clean up the mess on the pool floor which was thick with sand and dead fish. This the divers did with a vacuum cleaner. I would like to mention that the filtration plant of these particular baths was constructed of many tanks of different sands, coarse to fine, and the water pumped through them at the rate of 12,000 gallons per hour. It took at least six hours of pumping and filtering for the water to be sufficiently clear for shooting underwater. After that it would start to cloud up.

Late that night my dinner was interrupted by the Assistant Director, Ron Whelan, phoning to say—the set as intended was wanted for nine o’clock next morning. After a few seconds, I told him the pool was cleaned up, everything had been dismantled and was back in the studio. I then rang off and continued by delayed dinner.

George Kenyon (far left) aboard the lugger he built for the film

Miles Kenyon collection

Poster for the American release retitled, Vengeance of the Deep (1937)

moviemem.com

We faked the shots in the studio with miniature divers in a tank. Because there was acting on board a pearling lugger, I had built a full-size one in the studio. This was to be wheeled in front of the rear projection screen where action on the lugger was to be photographed. During the move onto the sound stage, things started to happen. Trying to economize, I had used sets of cheaper castors, and these were too flimsy to cope with the weight and one by one they collapsed, until the lugger was sitting flat on the stage. It was quite a job to lift that whole boat up, using jacks, and to then replace the castors with more expensive but much stronger ones. So much for false economy.