unlike that of Mr Sarg's, is throughout enlivened with music; instead of a play with dreary spoken speeches, there is the score of a little opera by Cesar Cui. But I really can't see a whole evening of marionettes for anybody but children; I don't know how they have got such a reputation in New York as an exotic and delightful form of entertainment. No person over the age of twelve should ever allow himself to get let in for a marionette performance.
I hereby relinquish this department back into the hands of Mr Gilbert Seldes, lately returned from abroad. Mr Seldes has been engaged in the composition of a series of essays—soon to be published in a book—on "the Seven Lively Arts," in which he has discussed vaudeville, the jazz band, and the musical revue with a flaming prophetic enthusiasm which I—with all admiration for his book—have sometimes thought a little excessive. Yet after witnessing a year of the American theatre I really begin to understand how he has arrived at his present opinions; "God knows," as Oscar Wilde said about the martyrs, "I am with him in some things!" It is true (though perhaps it has always been true) that a great many of the favourites of the "serious" theatre have not half so much that is genuine to offer—are, in fact, not half so near to being "artists"—as the favourites of vaudeville and the revue. Al Jolson has more dramatic conviction than Joseph Schildkraut. Gilda Gray and Queenie Smith are more inspired than Eva LeGallienne. Ed Wynn has a more interesting imagination than Mr Hartley Manners. Florenz Ziegfeld is a better producer than William Brady—or Arthur Hopkins. This doesn't necessarily mean that the jazz people are great artists, as there is a tendency in some quarters to believe; but merely that they come nearer to the mark than the legitimate performers who have education and technique without either personality or passion.—But I step aside for Mr Seldes, who will tell you about it much better than I.
