OLIVETTE; OR, AN ACQUIRED TASTE.
The present Strand Management has established a reputation for an eccentric musical entertainment, of which the chief features are a few pretty ones on the stage, bright dresses, legs and arms,
and excellent scenery.
Those who saw the late Madame Favart with
out Miss St. John and Miss Cameron, must have wondered at her prolonged vitality. But even with these two Ladies, and other attractions to hoot — in
cluding high heels — and with the prestige of past successes, the
present Company will
ave to work their hardest to make the Public enthusiastic about Olivette. The music, with the excep
tion of a quintette in the last Act, is common
place throughout; the stage business, for the most part, hackneyed and monotonous; the singing nothing remarkable; the words of the songs more or less unintelligible; and the story confused.
The leading idea of the plot is the same as that of the farce called The Ringdoves, where the nephew disguises himself as his uncle in order to marry the lady to whom the latter is engaged. That is really all: “the reat is silence”— we would that it were — or rather the rest is padding, and padding with a considerable amount of stuff. In one respect it can be favourably compared with Madame Favart, for the dialogue, at first, is genuinely good — brisk, sharp, and telling. But the fireworks fizzle away with only occasional flashes through
the Second Act, and scarcely a spark remains to illumine the Third. M. Marius, who we sincerely hope will find an early opportunity for giving up Opéra-bouffe and going in for Comedy — though we admit there are difficulties in his way, as his line on the English
stage must necessarily be limited — performs a lame part which can only be made to go at all with a boisterous amount of roaring and shouting and excessive play of stick. It is neither true burlesque nor pure comedy, and is but “sound and fury, signifying nothing”
to anybody, though of great importance to the Actor. Mr. Ash
ley’s shortsighted Duke bears a strong family resemblance to his
part in Madame Favart, only younger; and his sly imitations of Mr. Toole s peculiar manner and intonation, like Mr. Peter Mag
nus s signing himself “Afternoon, ” are calculated to afford his
friends in front the highest gratification. More of Mr. Ashley himself, and less of Mr. Toole — except where the imitation may be
construed as intentional flattery of that eminent tragedian — would be, on the whole, judicious — for Mr. ASHLEY.
Mr. Cox, in the small part of Coquelicot, is quite himself as a thoroughly “ all-round Actor, ” — at all events, in appearance. He is very funny at first; and this seems to be fatal to him, as he shares the fate of the dia
logue, and fizzles away to nothing. In fact,
every one begins too well. It is too bright
to last. The ideas are so good, their development so poor. The notion of the Duke perpetually conspiring, and always failing, and the notion of his choice of conspira
tors, form a capital foundation, and yet nothing worth mentioning is built on it.
Perhaps the night we were there was not what is termed at the Covent Garden Concerts a “Hu
morous Night. ” Handsome Miss Violet Cameron went through her part, as if she had just dropped in by accident to sing a couple of not very lively songs, and didn’t wish it to be supposed for one moment that she was in any way connected with the plot. The Comic Tenor, Mr. Knight Aston, would be an acquisition to the Mastodon Minstrels, which troupe he could join as the “Elephantine
Comique. ” Miss St. John, when she did condescend to play, played charmingly; but when she didn’t, she seemed to be exchanging confidential nods and smiles with the leader of the orchestra, who perhaps needed some encouragement to cheer him at his work; though,
by the way, the instrumentation and the orchestral performance must be conceded to the credit side of Olivette s account.
We trust that exceptional success will not make Miss Florence St. John careless.
Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things To low ambition lounging at “the wings. ”
The most irritating thing in the whole Opera is the last song “ The Whale and the Torpedo. After twenty minutes or so of dulness, there was something hopeful in Miss St. John’s announcement that she was going to infuse a little life into the Third Act by singing “The Whale and the Torpedo. The title is good and everybody
anticipated a real treat, and as the song was encored, we suppose that a majority of the audience must have appreciated it. For ourselves “ we could not catch that whale, brave boys, ” — in fact, we could not catch a single word from first to last, and this was the more annoying, because everyone on the stage appeared to be so thoroughly entering into the joke, whatever the joke was. There they were winking at one another, put
ting their fingers to their noses, grinning, grimacing,
stamping, dancing, and laughing, and yet for the life of us we could not make out what it was all about. We asked our neighbours in the third row, and they couldn’t
tell us. It is still a mystery. Perhaps the art was to conceal art, and induce us to go again; but we shan’t, — certainly not while the
stall accommodation in that third row is so unaccommodating as it is
at present. To which subject — not to the stalls — we shall return, as we went, anon.
GOOD FOR A TANNER.
An “Occasional Correspondent” writes to advise us not to travel
into Warwickshire without our own food, as there is Nuneaton there.
CIPHERING!
Schoolboy (kept in). “Let ’s see — One t’m’s Ought’s Ought. Twice Oughtʼs Ought. Three t’m’s Ought — Oh, must be SOMETHING — STICK IT DOWN ONE! ”
“One of Us? ”
Admiral Swayin’ and Cox-Swain.
Hum-antic Couples.
The present Strand Management has established a reputation for an eccentric musical entertainment, of which the chief features are a few pretty ones on the stage, bright dresses, legs and arms,
and excellent scenery.
Those who saw the late Madame Favart with
out Miss St. John and Miss Cameron, must have wondered at her prolonged vitality. But even with these two Ladies, and other attractions to hoot — in
cluding high heels — and with the prestige of past successes, the
present Company will
ave to work their hardest to make the Public enthusiastic about Olivette. The music, with the excep
tion of a quintette in the last Act, is common
place throughout; the stage business, for the most part, hackneyed and monotonous; the singing nothing remarkable; the words of the songs more or less unintelligible; and the story confused.
The leading idea of the plot is the same as that of the farce called The Ringdoves, where the nephew disguises himself as his uncle in order to marry the lady to whom the latter is engaged. That is really all: “the reat is silence”— we would that it were — or rather the rest is padding, and padding with a considerable amount of stuff. In one respect it can be favourably compared with Madame Favart, for the dialogue, at first, is genuinely good — brisk, sharp, and telling. But the fireworks fizzle away with only occasional flashes through
the Second Act, and scarcely a spark remains to illumine the Third. M. Marius, who we sincerely hope will find an early opportunity for giving up Opéra-bouffe and going in for Comedy — though we admit there are difficulties in his way, as his line on the English
stage must necessarily be limited — performs a lame part which can only be made to go at all with a boisterous amount of roaring and shouting and excessive play of stick. It is neither true burlesque nor pure comedy, and is but “sound and fury, signifying nothing”
to anybody, though of great importance to the Actor. Mr. Ash
ley’s shortsighted Duke bears a strong family resemblance to his
part in Madame Favart, only younger; and his sly imitations of Mr. Toole s peculiar manner and intonation, like Mr. Peter Mag
nus s signing himself “Afternoon, ” are calculated to afford his
friends in front the highest gratification. More of Mr. Ashley himself, and less of Mr. Toole — except where the imitation may be
construed as intentional flattery of that eminent tragedian — would be, on the whole, judicious — for Mr. ASHLEY.
Mr. Cox, in the small part of Coquelicot, is quite himself as a thoroughly “ all-round Actor, ” — at all events, in appearance. He is very funny at first; and this seems to be fatal to him, as he shares the fate of the dia
logue, and fizzles away to nothing. In fact,
every one begins too well. It is too bright
to last. The ideas are so good, their development so poor. The notion of the Duke perpetually conspiring, and always failing, and the notion of his choice of conspira
tors, form a capital foundation, and yet nothing worth mentioning is built on it.
Perhaps the night we were there was not what is termed at the Covent Garden Concerts a “Hu
morous Night. ” Handsome Miss Violet Cameron went through her part, as if she had just dropped in by accident to sing a couple of not very lively songs, and didn’t wish it to be supposed for one moment that she was in any way connected with the plot. The Comic Tenor, Mr. Knight Aston, would be an acquisition to the Mastodon Minstrels, which troupe he could join as the “Elephantine
Comique. ” Miss St. John, when she did condescend to play, played charmingly; but when she didn’t, she seemed to be exchanging confidential nods and smiles with the leader of the orchestra, who perhaps needed some encouragement to cheer him at his work; though,
by the way, the instrumentation and the orchestral performance must be conceded to the credit side of Olivette s account.
We trust that exceptional success will not make Miss Florence St. John careless.
Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things To low ambition lounging at “the wings. ”
The most irritating thing in the whole Opera is the last song “ The Whale and the Torpedo. After twenty minutes or so of dulness, there was something hopeful in Miss St. John’s announcement that she was going to infuse a little life into the Third Act by singing “The Whale and the Torpedo. The title is good and everybody
anticipated a real treat, and as the song was encored, we suppose that a majority of the audience must have appreciated it. For ourselves “ we could not catch that whale, brave boys, ” — in fact, we could not catch a single word from first to last, and this was the more annoying, because everyone on the stage appeared to be so thoroughly entering into the joke, whatever the joke was. There they were winking at one another, put
ting their fingers to their noses, grinning, grimacing,
stamping, dancing, and laughing, and yet for the life of us we could not make out what it was all about. We asked our neighbours in the third row, and they couldn’t
tell us. It is still a mystery. Perhaps the art was to conceal art, and induce us to go again; but we shan’t, — certainly not while the
stall accommodation in that third row is so unaccommodating as it is
at present. To which subject — not to the stalls — we shall return, as we went, anon.
GOOD FOR A TANNER.
An “Occasional Correspondent” writes to advise us not to travel
into Warwickshire without our own food, as there is Nuneaton there.
CIPHERING!
Schoolboy (kept in). “Let ’s see — One t’m’s Ought’s Ought. Twice Oughtʼs Ought. Three t’m’s Ought — Oh, must be SOMETHING — STICK IT DOWN ONE! ”
“One of Us? ”
Admiral Swayin’ and Cox-Swain.
Hum-antic Couples.