Newspaper Page Text
The Southern Israelite
. . The Finale . .
David Belasco, Dean of the American Stage, Passes
By FANNIE BRICE
Foremost American Jewish Comedienne
Page 5
> sudden death of David
lasco, grand old man of the
-mean theatre, at the age
seventy-six, has plunged
s country into mourning.
/ his article was dictated ex-
isively for The Southern
raelite and Seven Arts Fea-
Syndicate by Fannie
price, America's most beloved
,>medienne, in the dressing
oom of the theatre where she
rehearsing for her coming
production. “Crazy Quilt".
Ivlasco once said: “Introduce me
uni, and I’m positively bashful.
: mo an actress, and I’m her
a.-icr.
That was no idle boast. There was
i David Belasco something that de-
id definition, a dynamic force that
dindy in his vicinity could escape,
.mething that made the actor or ac-
■ess under, his direction merely an
trn>i<>u of himself. 1 am well
ware that mv words have a mystic
1 realize that they will
■ngthi“?i the silly legend that Be
rn used hypnotism to influence
d dominate his artists. But I can-
■ help expressing myself as 1 do.
"iv was something unnatural—or
it supernatural—in Belasco’s
idnation over his actors. That is
it is so difficult to realize that
1 Belasco is no more, that this
! personality has passed into the
real Beyond.
When Belasco fell critically ill a few
> ago and the doctors despaired
~ life, his actors felt confident
lie would see it through. The
riean stage without Belasco was
l inkable. It seemed like the w'orld
hout a sun.—Here I am, waxing
antic, blubbering all over myself
a ballad composer. But it does
unbelievable, this headline
glares at me from all the
r-: Belasco Dies.
me years ago—a lady never men-
exact figures—the theatrical
was startled when David Be-
1 took the funny Fannie Brice
his tutelage to produce her
play, an honest-to-goodness play,
revue or musical comedy. If
’’her producer had attempted to
a diseuse, a comedienne, or what-
you care to call me, from the
‘ville stage to the most exacting
°i America—the Belasco stage
make out of her a dramatic
1 ss , there would have been a
of derision, a shrugging of
shoulders. Broadway is skeptical. As
a matter of fact it remained skeptical
even after the Fannie Brice produc
tion by Belasco—am l not back on
the revue stage, rehearsing for
“Crazy Quilt”t-—but still, Broadway
received the announcement with re
spect, the respect which Belasco’s
personality always commanded.
No, I am not going to give an
autobiographical sketch on the occa
sion of David Belasco s death. Let
other celebrities give out statements
about “their personal loss”, “the
end of a perfect friendship”, “the
long years of association”. I feel
too much to indulge in such phrase
ology. I shall just try to remember
a few characteristics of Belasco, the
theatrical genius who is no more.
Belasco was a tireless worker. His
studio in his own theatre building,
frequently described, was an interest
ing place. More of a museum than a
study. Belasco liked tradition and
genuine witnesses of great historical
events, llis large oak table once stood
in a sixteenth-century palace in Italy.
The chair in which he sometimes sat
uninterruptedly for twelve hours—
when in the midst of a creative period
he would forget to eat- was made
from a pew of the church in which
Shakespeare was buried at Stratford-
on-Avon. Innumerable relics of Na
poleon littered his room. When he
was asked why this veneration of
Napoleon, he answered: “Because he
did not know the word ‘ impossible \ ”
In his museum-studio, when at work
discussing the production of a play,
he, the white-haired dean of the
American drama, also did not recog
nize the word “impossible”.
I remember one late afternoon. lie
had been at work since early morn
ing. His face was drawn, his hand
shook from nervous exhaustion, but
his eyes flashed with that eternal
youthfulness which nothing could
FANNIE BRICE
The irrepressible Jewish funmakcr, who
mourns Belasco as the discoverer of her
dramatic talents.
down. I pointed out to him a pass
age in the dialogue of the play in
which I was to appear. The transi
tion from one mood to another was
forced. I could not find a natural
way of bridging it and I suggested a
change, commenting: “As it is it’s
impossible. ’ ’
At the word “impossible” he
jumped up, glared at me, grabbed
the manuscript and, shouting. “Sit
down!” forced me into his chair.
“Watch me,” he commanded, with
out taking notice of my amazement.
And the septuagenarian who, a min
ute before, had looked ready for the
hospital enacted for me the very part
of the dialogue which I had qualified
as impossible. He was not an actor,
and in his clergical garb he looked
like anything but “Fannie”. His
voice was cracked, his movements
slow. But as he spoke my lines hi3
intonation brought home to me the
idea I had vainly been groping for.
The inflection of his voice, the mis
chievous twinkle in his eye and then
the masterful sliding from the humor
ous to the tragic were nothing short of
miraculous. I sat transfixed, hardly be
lieving my eyes. He did not relax.
Without a pause he ordered: “Try
it now.” Under his influence I rose
and repeated the scene as he had
played it. I felt that I had caught
the transition of moods which he had
so superbly demonstrated. He nodded,
and without so much ns smiling to
himself was again immersed in his
own work.
This incident remains impressed
upon my memory. It is typical,
characteristic of the greatest moulder
of human stage material.
At rehearsals he would often get
excited, interrupt every few seconds
—lament that it was atrocious, clamor
that we—the actors—were all wooden
(Continued on page 14)
DAVID BELASCO
Grand Old Man of the American theatre, whose sudden death at the age of 75
shocked all theatre-lovers throughout the world.