Scenic Design

Tempers and Temperaments

When david N. Martin opened the Minerva Theatre in Sydney, I was with him as designer and scenic artist. I designed and painted Room for Two (1940)—described in one paper as ‘one of those gaily furnished bedrooms—so seductive in tone as to seem almost wicked. One cannot imagine anyone of aggressive respectability being comfortable in it for a moment, but the people in the play are not exactly that’. (H.A. Standish) Some other shows were Reunion in Vienna (1941), By Candlelight and Design for Living (1941), and for this last named the script took us from a garret studio to the respectability of a Bloomsbury boarding house. The last scene was a modern interior and David Martin and I did not see quite eye to eye over this—he said it was not sufficiently modern. Very portentously he said ‘In that box on Saturday night will be sitting a man whose ideas are extremely modern. In fact they are “avant garde” as far as any other playwright is concerned.’ He was talking about Noel Coward—it was, of course, his own play.

It was my argument that if I did modernize the scene in the boarding house, it would not contrast enough with the last scene in the way it should. I added that I very much doubted whether Noel Coward would appreciate it if I did modernize a run-down London Adams interior which, left as it was, was easily recognised as such. Anyhow, I won the argument and later Mr. Coward expressed himself as perfectly happy with the sets.

We had another disagreement over a particular colour in the set of Reunion in Vienna. This scene had necessarily to be a very elaborate salon with panels of figures and lots of Baroque ornamentation. A certain lady who ran an interior decoration shop supplied all the furniture for the show, which we hired. It was David’s expressed opinion that one colour was not in harmony with the tapestry of her settee. I refused to paint the colour out and told her it would be much easier to change the settee, even if it meant reupholstering it in different fabric. So the battle raged back and forth, each of us refusing to budge from our entrenched positions. Then David entered the lists—he told me I was acting like a temperamental actress. This was too much—so I grinned and surrendered.

David N. Martin, 1940s

Australian Performing Arts Collection, Arts Centre Melbourne

Various Minerva Theatre programmes

From The Minerva by John Stephen Clark, Australian Theatre Historical Society, 1993

At this time I had a very young girl assistant in the paint room. I gave her the job of drawing the figures in the panels. and how rapidly and beautifully they were drawn. Today, Lesbia Thorpe is best known for her printmaking. She has exhibited her work at the Royal Academy.

One of David Martin’s chief attributes was his wide knowledge of advertising. He was extremely able in ‘putting it over’ effectively. During the time I was with him, I came in for my share of the publicity and in fact, was given as much as the producer. The first time I was made aware of this I was so startled I nearly lost control of my car. I was driving past the stadium in Rushcutter's Bay at the time and my eye was irresistibly attracted to not one, but two, 24-sheeters over the entrance to the stadium. In the traffic I only had a split second to concentrate on what I saw—my own name in huge letters. On my return journey I pulled into the opposite side and allowed this startling sight to sink in. I was extremely bewildered, but very happy and most amused—I could only think that someone had goofed, and I profoundly hoped that the mistake would not be rectified (or at least, not too quickly). I wanted to have a little time to wallow in my glory. On these 24-sheeters, which are the largest of the posters, was the title of the show Room for Two and underneath, in twelve inch letters, was proclaimed ‘Produced by Gerald Kirby and Directed by J. Alan Kenyon’. I supposed the writer had misread 'Decor' for an abbreviation of ‘Director’. Anyhow, there it was, and there it remained, not only for Room for Two but for all the other shows I did at Minerva. The denouement came many months later.

David Martin gave me the script of a show called French for Love. After carefully going over it I designed the set. It was an outdoor scene in the courtyard of a French chateau. The set was constructed and painted; but there was no word of rehearsals, and no production date was named. Then, one day, intrigued by this odd situation, I asked David what was happening to the show. It was an extremely entertaining comedy, with a very exciting plot and would, I firmly believed, have packed them in for a long season. His answer was evasive—'I'm not sure,’ he said, ‘It must be superlatively done and I don’t know if (mentioning an actress by name) she is strong enough. I doubt very much if she could play the part successfully and also, I’m afraid it is rather out of Gerry’s field.’ He continued with very heavy sarcasm, ‘Of course you have been directing the shows for so long, perhaps you could take over the production.’

Programme for The Dancing Years, 1946

Elisabeth Kumm collection

One of the opulent sets for The Dancing Years, 1946

Miles Kenyon collection

I first made Borovansky’s acquaintance in 1946 when he directed his company in the dance sequences for Ivor Novello’s musical play The Dancing Years. This was some time before I became more involved with the Borovansky Ballet Company in the early 1950s. He undoubtedly put Australian ballet in a top class and even his enemies, of whom I possibly was one, could not deny him an accolade for that. It was unfortunate that his personality was so unattractive—he had the disposition of being always ready and willing to pick a fight with anyone over anything at any time. Like most people who came in contact with him, I had my share of trouble. It arose from a perfectly simple situation which anyone but Boro could have resolved quite easily.

London’s Joseph Carl was the original designer for The Dancing Years, but George Upward, along with myself, Cecil Newman and assistants, and one of my sons during his school holidays, were all working on the very elaborate sets. Boro yelled at my son, bawling ‘Hey you painter—get off the stage!’ ‘Are you talking to me?’ asked John. He was ordered again very summarily to get off the stage. But John answered ‘I'm sorry, but I have been told to paint this balustrade (which was at the very back of the stage in any case) and I’m going to finish the job.’ And finish it he did! Boro of course marked him down for further trouble. One of his less charming traits was his vindictiveness—he never forgot or forgave even a fancied slight. He could not endure any brooking of his imperious will. So he accused John of whistling in the paint room during a performance—at the Theatre Royal in Sydney the paint room is at the back of the stage. John was assisting Bill Constable who did much of the painting for Boro. When taking up the frame with a winch, one of the pulleys squeaked. ‘What do you mean by whistling during a performance?’ he snarled at the boy. ‘I was not whistling,’ said John. ‘I tell you, you were!’ Boro insisted, with some added abuse. John then threatened him with a punch on the nose. The result was Boro complained to the management—they refused to take the matter seriously but told me to keep John out of Boro’s road in future. The boy’s defiant attitude had actually been provoked by Boro’s very shabby treatment of one of the girls.

From that time on, I was in his black books with a vengeance. Boro knew every spiteful trick in the book—he was probably responsible for the inclusion of many of them. No matter how trifling the matter, he blew it up if it could possibly cause me trouble. When I designed and painted a new Swan Lake (Act Two) in 1954, he at once expressed himself as dissatisfied with the sky of the backcloth. He asserted that it was slightly too dark and he wished it to be altered. On the next inspection he considered it to be too light, and he was only satisfied when he had had the sky changed three times, when he reluctantly gave his approval.

Swan Lake programme credits, 1954

Judy Leech collection

Edouard Borovansky as Pierrot in Carnaval, 1946. Photo by Jean Stewart.

Judy Leech collection

Then one day when I was in the Director’s office and had just remarked that ‘although no one wanted any trouble, if Boro looked sideways at me I was going to let him have it’, he came mincing in, making some derogatory remark about me not being on hand when he telephoned. Enough is enough, and I took a deep breath. When I had finished my oratory, M. Borovansky was literally shaking with rage. I was sufficiently detached from my outburst to become quite objective and to note that he was quivering like a jelly. I reminded him of his infantile persecution over the Swan Lake backcloth, which I told him had never actually been changed, knowing that his objection to the colour had no real basis but was the result of purely personal spite. I had never repainted that cloth at any time. I was sorry that the altercation had to take place in the Director’s office but Boro’s spiteful habit of pin-pricking and of bringing personalities into the business made working with him too much of a liability. I detest scrapping with anyone and have to consider myself in the last ditch before I decide to take up arms.

There is no doubt there is a great variation in people's temperaments. There was the case of technician Jack Kingsford Smith—a scrap of any kind was meat and drink to him.  One time I passed the office of the General Manager of a film unit and issuing from it were the unmistakable sounds of combat. Abuse was being shuttled back and forth between the belligerents. In a few minutes the identity of the combatants was made plain by the emergence of Jack Kingsford Smith, wearing all the outward signs of victory.  Rubbing his hands, he said, with a triumphant beaming smile, ‘Cripes, I enjoyed that!’ As the philosophers truly remark, ‘It takes all sorts’, or if one recalls the Latin tag ‘De gustibus non est disputandum’!

Before the restaurant became known as Mario’s, Poppa Becker had established himself at the tavern opposite Her Majesty’s in Melbourne. As Mine Host, Poppa was a well-known character in Melbourne’s cafe society. His home had been in Vienna and he always wore what a well-dressed Viennese gentleman would wear, he was sartorial perfection. He sported a trilby and spats, and had a beard which resembled the tail of a partridge, divided in the centre and then carefully brushed to the sides. We had a brush in the paint room which was divided exactly like Poppa’s beard and someone stuck a paper trilby on the handle to further the resemblance to the genial maître d’hotel. Poppa Becker lived to the ripe old age of eighty plus. He was often heard attributing his long life and good health to good wine, and his many theatrical friends.

Then there was Fasoli’s cafe in Lonsdale Street, founded in 1897, and a mecca for artists, journalists and writers during the early years of the century. The walls were lavishly decorated with signed samples of the artists who frequented the establishment. Rather than washing up, some poverty-stricken artists painted for their suppers - no one was ever denied this privilege. At least that is how the story ran.

Drawing of Fasoli’s Restaurant by Herbert Moore

State Library Victoria, Melbourne

Stirring the pots in the paint room, c.1950

National Film and Sound Archive, Canberra

There was once a Lord Mayor of Melbourne who ventured as far as the paint room. He was a sufferer of gallstones and having no mind for surgery, he drank gallons of olive oil which he thought would keep his condition under control. During one visit he expounded what he considered to be a brand new theory to do with making money. It was to go into business and supply gravel for road making. We considered that, with such an off-beat sense of humour, he might have a future as a comic and make some money that way. Another character who had apparently frequented the paint room was John Ford Paterson, the artist. He used to say about scene painting ‘It's not art. It’s mechanical contrivance.’

The following is a story of a well-rehearsed reply to a demand for an explanation—something which I had fully expected. The play was Edward My Son (1949). Some of the sets were painted in Melbourne by me, and some in Sydney by Bill Constable. The show opened in Sydney and was then to open here in Melbourne. By some mismanagement, the railway truck from Albury—with the scenes on board—got shunted to a siding at Montague. To make matters worse, the tarpaulin came adrift, it rained for days, and when we at last got the scenes to the theatre, we were aghast at the mess we were presented with.  Everything was completely saturated, flats which had been packed face to face had become glued together and when we separated them found that the image on one had been transferred to the other. It was a frightful job to get them into some sort of presentable shape—by the fast approaching opening night.

There was one particular scene which had been painted in Sydney by Constable, and much beloved by the producer. When the stage manager arrived and was shown the extent of the disaster, he expressed his amazement at the result of my efforts to reproduce this particular interior. I did not know whether he meant what he said, or whether he was simply deriving some enjoyment by watching my discomfiture. However, I accepted his assumption that ‘His Lordship, the Producer’ would really hit the roof when he saw the transformation of his favourite set into what I had done my best to restore.

Bill Constable working on a piece of the Edward, My Son set, 1949. Photo by B. Rice.

State Library of New South Wales, Sydney

Robert Morley discussing Edward, My Son with director Daphne Rye and J.C. Williamson’s business manager Eric Wahlquist, 1949. Photo by B. Rice.

State Library of New South Wales, Sydney

Because the flats and wings had been stuck together most of the paintwork on them had been lost. The ornament of this French bedroom set was absolutely non-existent. I had to scrape off one side, put thick colour on the other, stipple and repaint. In my mind at least the result was satisfactory, I had quite honestly considered we had done an excellent job. The set had appeared damp and water-stained and altogether dilapidated when we saw it first, but when the mouldings were repainted the whole scene looked to be what it was supposed to represent. But the stage manager continued to needle me, assuring me that ‘His Lordship’ would never in this world accept it as a substitute for the glory it had been. By this time, I was completely fed up because of all the trouble and worry—and the many late hours—this extra work had given me. I was prepared to do battle—I was quite determined that I would have my say and that if there was any unpleasantness, it would not be altogether one-sided. So I awaited the arrival of 'His Lordship' with a large-sized chip on my shoulder, going over my lines like an actor, what I was going to say—I was word perfect. By the way, the gentleman happened to be Robert Morley.

When at last he actually did arrive, we began the customary procedure of going through each scene, the props and the lighting. The curtain was lowered on each scene until it was set and then raised so that the producer could see the scene from the stalls. I had my speech fully rehearsed and when the fatal moment arrived and the bedroom set was about to be revealed, vowed to myself that I would not retract a word. Everyone was in front and when the curtain went up, there was complete silence. Then Robert Morley, in his most peremptory voice, asked ‘And who painted the set out?’ No one answered, but every face turned to me. Then Frank Tait stepped into the breach and explained ‘George Kenyon did his best with the mess it was in when it arrived from Sydney.’ I opened my mouth to say my piece but failed to get started because Mr. Morley was speaking. ‘It is much better than it was originally.’ For a few minutes I did not know whether I felt deflated or inflated!

Brigadoon (1951) and South Pacific (1952) were two shows I completely re-designed. The producer of the former (James McGregor Jamieson) was quite definitely not afflicted with false egoism. He informed us that he had danced as one of the ballet in the American production. He was an excellent producer and played a leading part in the show. Actually the show stayed on an even keel from the opening night until the last performance.

When he arrived from America he wished to see, quite understandably, what we had done. We lowered the cloths and other scenery for him to inspect, and I heaved a sigh of relief when he gave his unqualified approval by saying ‘Now you have really given us something—we can really be seen.’ He went on to say that the American production had mauve and yellow skies, also a lot of bright reds and greens, and on the stage the kilts of the performers just faded into the scenery. I was of course gratified to hear him say that he liked my treatment much more.

Scene from the original Broadway production of Brigadoon featuring Oliver Smith’s sets, 1947

 

Kenyon’s forest in the Scottish highlands, Brigadoon, 1951

National Library of Australia, Canberra

The producer of South Pacific, Charles Atkin, had a completely different personality. When he arrived the models were all made and set out in the paint room. This is the moment of truth for the set designer and painter! Frank Tait brought him up to the room and made the introductions and he and the producer walked slowly along inspecting the models I had constructed. Nobody uttered a word and in spite of my efforts to appear detached and give a convincing display of sang-froid, I began to sweat. Then the producer broke the silence by announcing ‘Well, when I get back to America, I shall tell ‘so-and-so’ he hasn't a clue how to design scenery.’ This speech had the effect of increasing my confusion, because for the life of me I could not decide whether he meant it as a compliment or it was just his way of being sarcastic.

Anyway, the scenery was made from my models and it was duly painted. At regular intervals the producer, who turned out to be a very nice person, came up into the paint room. He generally had some comment to pass—‘You must love palm trees,’ he remarked one day. ‘As a matter of fact, I loathe the things. I must have painted thousands of fronds!’ I answered. The house I had designed was, to my way of thinking, quite suitable for the Frenchman who was one of the leading characters in the play. I had decided on a style of architecture which I felt would follow the lines of this particular character’s taste—Emile, a cultured Frenchman—I gave it a suggestion of French as well as jungle construction. I considered it had to appear sufficiently solid to enable it to weather monsoons and tropical storms. When speaking, Mr. Atkin never lost a certain bantering way he had. ‘What a truly magnificent house,’ he exclaimed, gazing in mock admiration at my structure. He continued with this kind of badinage right through the entire period of production.

Kenyon’s Act 1, Scene 2 scene from South Pacific, 1952

Miles Kenyon collection

Double page spread from the souvenir programme for the JCW production of South Pacific, 1952

Theatre Program Collection, Theatre Heritage Australia

On the final rehearsal night, he informed me in a frightfully condescending manner that he thought the scenery was ‘very good’. Somewhat piqued, I made a reply both adequate and dignified—I told him that if the scenery was really atmospheric to the needs of the play and did not intrude, but was subservient to the actors, then I was happy and satisfied, had simply done my job and did not look for any applause. Maybe that was the reason why, on opening night, I never received any. After the curtain calls the producer thanked everyone, but failed to mention the scenery. Next day I went on holidays, as I had some leave owing. When I returned and duly reported to Frank Tait, he let me know about the thanks and best wishes for a successful season left behind by the producer of South Pacific. After making his farewells, he left the office, but as he went through the door turned around and said ‘Oh, and by the way, he said to tell George Kenyon that his production makes the New York show simply look shoddy.’ He was a funny man.

In Brigadoon there was a tree cut-cloth. This is a cloth that is painted with foliage, branches and trunks. When the painting is finished, the portions between the foliage etc. are marked for cutting out. At that time, I had a most efficient pupil and I showed him what to do with the cloth and left him to it. He really was efficient—he marked that cloth for cutting until it looked for all the world like lace. Then it was removed from the frame and carried to the workshop beneath. When it was opened up on the floor, the boys gazed at it in astonishment.

I was in the paint room, very busy painting, when one of the lovable characters from the workshop came up into my work space. Walking straight up to me, and towering over me by about twelve inches, he said quite simply, ‘Kenyon, you bastard!’ Then he walked out.

They did cut every small marked piece of that cloth, and the result was really something. Personally, I would hate to have been responsible for such a job, lacking the time, the patience and the audacity. My pupil possessed an ample supply of all three. Eventually, he decided to leave me, and I considered I had wasted four years of my time. He finished up teaching art at a secondary school.

Example of a tree cut-cloth

Miles Kenyon collection

Kenyon’s design for ‘Outside the Kirk’, Brigadoon, 1951

National Library of Australia, Canberra

George Pulls the Strings; or, TIMBERRRRRR!!!!!

For the Ken Hall film Tall Timbers (Cinesound, 1936) Frank Hurley was responsible for the storyline, Frank Harvey was the screenwriter (and actor) and George Heath was the Director of Photography. The script called for a Timber Drive and the location chosen was thirty miles or so outside Gloucester, in New South Wales.

Captain Frank Hurley

National Library of Australia, Canberra

Director of Photography George Heath

From Directed by Ken G. Hall

Viewing a small mountain that appeared thickly covered with big trees, we agreed it should be ideal for the purpose. The Production Manager was to engage sufficient men to cut away all the scrub and small trees, leaving, we hoped, only the big ones to give us our Timber Drive. On our drive out of Gloucester to this location, called Craven Plateau, we came upon an extensive plain in the middle of which radiated five tracks. Not knowing which one to take we stayed put until we saw a puff cloud of dry track made by a car coming over the hill. We sat and waited. Eventually a car, an old model Ford, pulled up at our outstretched hands. You may believe it or not, but from that moment hysteria overtook the five of us in the car.

As the old Ford stopped, we saw the exact duplicate of Bert Bailey’s Dad Rudd at the wheel. He switched off the engine, put his head on his hand at the wheel and apparently fell asleep. From the car then stepped Fred McDonald’s representation of Dave. With not a word spoken, our car was trembling with the suppressed laughter of five people nearly in convulsions. It must have been market day—Dave was dressed up.  He took off his porkpie hat and the effect was staggering. Dave had his hair plastered down with grease, brushed forward and then up in a quaff. He was cross-eyed and sported a Clark Gable moustache, a butterfly collar with a shoe-string tied in a bow. I for some reason was still able to speak—the others were nonplussed. I asked the way to Craven Plateau.

“Well,” said Dave, “Yer take that track. Yer go a mile or so and y’ come to a gate. Don’t worry about shuttin’ it, it’s been off its ‘inges for years. The next gate y’ come to y’ won’t have to shut—it’s open with a dead cow jammed up against it. Another mile or so y’ go through another gate. Be careful of that one, I did me courtin’ on it. Another one has a bit of history—old man O’Malley swallowed his false teeth tryin’ to open it one day—he choked.”

So did I at this point, and I have never been able to put together the remainder of Dave’s descriptions of the other gates to be encountered on the way to Craven Plateau. As Dad and Dave drove off, there was an explosion of laughter from our car. It was ill-mannered but it was also one of the funniest things that ever happened: and we had discovered our Dad and Dave in real life.

Tall Timbers poster

ozmovies.com.au

Poster featuring the screen ‘Dad and Dave’

 

Returning to the Timber Drive, I went to the location a few days before the unit was to leave to make sure everything was ready for shooting. After climbing the very steep hill and arriving breathlessly at the top, I could only second the conclusion of the foreman of the timber-cutters that there could not be a Timber Drive. The trees, when revealed after the cutting away of all the small ones and the undergrowth, were so far apart that the drive was impossible. On phoning Sydney, I was dismayed to hear that the unit was already on its way.

We did not attempt the Drive but we felled, dynamited, etc. many individual trees and got some magnificent shots which were later of great use in the film. To take these shots was a precarious job for after we had set off the explosive, the tree had not always fallen. As we proceeded through the forest, one would hear a crack or a creak and look around wondering which tree, and which way the erring monster would fall, and would we be clear. They were big trees. One gigantic mahogany we had put six charges of dynamite around the base and it was still standing. Some trees persisted to lean at a dangerous angle but to not fall, but we got all we wanted of trees crashing. And we had to have a Timber Drive, and, being the Art Director and Special Effects, it fell to me to produce one. No sapling or small tree will deputize for a two-hundred foot Black Butt, so they had to be manufactured. Lorry loads of small trees and branches were collected from the bush and in the studio we went to work building tapering trunks from many pieces, attaching branches to them—making miniature trees four feet high to represent two-hundred foot ones! Eventually a few hundred trees had been created. For foliage I sliced up small sponges which I had dyed various strengths of green and attached them to the trees’ branches. To the camera they resembled branches of eucalyptus leaves.

Next, a platform eighty feet long by thirty was built at an angle of about thirty degrees. This was dressed with undergrowth, boulders and a small waterfall. The trees with a scar cut in them were then fixed on the ramp, spaced so that each row when falling would hit the one below—the domino effect. Each tree had a wire attached and this wire, with five other wires, led to a single one which, in its turn, was made fast to a lever. A series of levers each side of the platform would control the felling of the trees. In addition, each lever had a length of cord attached to the next one to be certain—as calculated—that when one row of trees had been pulled down, the next row would fall.

When it came to it, the miniature trees would not of course fall naturally and the requirements of slow-motion photography had to be worked out for speed purposes.

On each side of the platform a slide had been built and this was to take a toboggan with cameraman and camera riding down, photographing the trees from the side as they fell. Eventually the job was finished—all trees in position, wires checked, the slides greased and the cameras and operators in position. There were ten slow-motion cameras in use. Any rehearsal was out—it had to be right the first time. With a final check we gave the okay, and the Director gave the words—“Cameras—action!”

Shirley Ann Richards, make-up and the timber men

From Directed by Ken G. Hall

George’s forest before the fall

From Directed by Ken G. Hall

The explosion of the top row of trees—called King trees—was the signal to start pulling the levers. The toboggans were released down the slides. In six or eight seconds the weeks of work lay in a tangled mess. This was all a fake, but on the screen it was a magnificent spectacle with the individual trees added and a separate shot of some larger modelled trees crushing all about it. It was all worth the headache and the painstaking work of playing Mother Nature and creating trees.

The film got rave notices from the Press, one critic going so far as to add “Nothing to surpass this has come out of Hollywood.” A letter of complaint was published by an indignant timber-cutter who, stating he had been cutting down trees all his life, was very critical and deplored deceiving the public into believing hardwood timber could be crashed by a drive—but he never mentioned that it had been faked!

Other incidents I recall from the time: the camera I had been using was at the top of a hill. When the day’s shooting was over, I sent one of the boys up to cover the camera up for the night. Sitting down to dinner—I remember it was good Captain Salmon that the cook had turned into a fish stew—awful—and it was evident that one of the crew was missing. It was the chappie I had sent up the mountain.  There was absolutely no hiding place in the uninhabited and dilapidated hut in which we were dining. We finished our meal, having decided to give Tommy Dalton another half hour, but still he failed to materialize. So, as it was dark by this time, we had to organize a search party and go find him.

First going to the timber-cutters’ camp, we told them of a man lost. The foreman was an ex-soldier with a Distinguished Conduct Medal, and had left a leg in France. He assured us that there was no need to worry, we’d find Tommy okay. He got a torch and we fell in behind him, arriving at the starting point, the place where I’d sent Dalton up the hill. Flashing his torch on the ground now and again, we made progress by the clues only he, the old bushman, could see. We kept up a yell and a coo-wee/coo-ee when after half an hour we heard a return shout. The foreman said “He’s in the creek!” Losing his way, Dalton had reasoned that the creek meandered past the camp, therefore, if he followed it he would come out eventually at the camp. It was a very hot night and Tommy had stripped off for a cooler and when we found him—in the beam of the torch—he was frantically trying to pluck off hundreds of blood-sucking leeches that had nearly totally covered his naked body. We were all very sorry for him, but he had given us a lot of trouble—although it did break the monotony of one night.

Ken G. Hall on location

From Directed by Ken G. Hall

Shirley Ann Richards at an opening for Tall Timbers, 1937. Photo by Sam Hood.

State Library of New South Wales, Sydney

These timber-cutters are a valiant breed of men, usually skinny, but with unlimited stamina and energy to swing an axe all day without showing tiredness—no job for weaklings. I stared at the lunches which they drew out of their sugar sacks at midday—the bread of their sandwiches was an inch thick and the filling a great slab of meat. On the last day of shooting we had sent the lorry into Gloucester for a cask of beer—this was for the timber men. When we were packing up we sent it over to them and the last we saw of it was balanced over a head, with the last dregs dripping into a mouth.

All packed up and ready to move off, we started on the journey back to town and our next location at Stroud, where we were to take shots of the timber mill in action. As we started off, every timberman mounted his pony—consequently they were all just ahead of us on the one-way bullock track.  They cantered ahead, we were behind in a cavalcade, until after a mile of slow progress we tooted the horn. The horsemen moved over to the side—but not the safe side—over to the edge of a five hundred foot drop. I don’t suppose anyone has ever seen a display of horsemanship to equal that last run before they were passed.

Bareback—everyone of them—with rope halters and their sugar sacks slung over their shoulders, they rode the edge of that track at the gallop and in single file. I am still convinced that only two of each horse’s legs were on the ground—the other two were thrashing the air over the edge!

To conclude, an episode—which still gives me a belly laugh—occurred during the filming of what was intended to be the Timber Drive described earlier. We had engaged a cook for the camp, a nice, polite young man with no knowledge at all of the culinary arts. As I have explained, the Drive was the most ghastly failure and when this had been proved beyond all doubt, and we were all dismally surveying the wreckage, each occupied with his own gloomy thoughts, a small polite voice cut across the silence. “Shall I serve afternoon tea now, sir?” piped up the cook. With an explosive “Christ!” Ken Hall took off his hat and, reminiscent of a well-known sea captain named Kettle, jumped on it. He was heard to mutter “God forgive me for what I am thinking.”

We'll Give It a Go, Mate!

The teahouse of the august moon (1956) had sets which were quite complicated and heavy. When it went on tour, it cost so much in transport and time that I was asked if I could reduce the sets without losing the spectacle. I first scrapped all those that had been built, then painted them on the flat, and was very gratified when I was told they looked better that way. This might possibly have been so, but the important thing, and this is very much so from a business angle, the costs for transport and erection were infinitesimal compared with the original costs. Maybe that fact gave a valeur de la rose to the statement that the appearance of the sets had improved. Incidentally, the man in charge of the transportation and building of the sets, after it had left Sydney, rushed to Newcastle for the opening. There he had a heart attack and died on his way home. Percy Reid was a fine and conscientious member of the profession.

Cover of souvenir program for the J.C. Williamson Ltd. production of Teahouse of the August Moon, 1955. View full program.

Theatre Heritage Australia

Making props for Teahouse of the August Moon

From souvenir program, Theatre Heritage Australia

Perhaps this is the right place to mention some of the real people of the theatre who received no fanfares, no curtain calls, but who gave everything they had to the theatre. They were humble people, but they had a gallantry and high spirit all their own. One of these was an old property man named Bill Lincoln, who had an accident falling from a high rostrum, injuring his feet so badly that they were permanently deformed into little more than stumps. To make matters worse, he insisted on continuing to do his job, thereby ruining any hope there was of his feet healing into normal shapes. He helped set out props, crawling on his knees, dragging his mutilated feet behind him whilst they were still in bandages.

Another property man was Bill Richards. He suffered from lumbago and when he was in the throws of a severe attack, which made any bending exceedingly painful, he would get one of his boys to tie a length of board up his back and around his thighs. Which meant he was prevented from bending and his part of the show could go on.

One of the electricians truly had the sense of humour William Locke has described as the ‘bubble on the cup of courage’. This man, another Bill, surname Hunt, had undergone a major operation for cancer. Directly he was out of hospital he was back at the theatre and on the job again, and never missed a day—until the end came. It must have taken a lot of guts for him to say at the end of one particular night’s performance ‘Well boys, you’d better get your two bobs ready’. He died two days later.

Another electrician, Reg Jones, who never missed a day or a performance, had the worst kind of heart trouble. It never prevented him from rushing home at 5 pm and back again at 7.30, although he was head of his department. I remember saying ‘Cheerio’ to him one lunch hour as he was off to Adelaide. He arrived there, but in the middle of greeting his conferees/confreres he dropped dead.

These are the unsung heroes of the theatre. I wonder—does any other job have such a hold on its servants …. My old master, William R. Coleman (1864-1932), in hospital with a cancer just removed from his throat, had only one worry. ‘I must get out of here soon. I have Waltzes from Vienna to paint, and it is only a month to opening night.’ He never saw the opening night and George Upward was the one to paint those sets. It is not easy to understand so much devotion beyond and above the call of duty. There is no glory attached to it, and not much money; but there it is. If one is bred in the tradition of the theatre, one is irrevocably of it!

Construction Workshop, Electrics Store and Women’s Wardrobe

From JCW booklet designed and compiled by Charles Dearden, Speciality Press, 1962

Scene Painting Dock, a Property Store, and Men’s Wardrobe Room

From JCW booklet designed and compiled by Charles Dearden, Speciality Press, 1962

I have never been conscious of any change in my attitude since the day I first began in the theatre, but something happened to give it a boost in rather odd circumstances. It happened to me at Cinesound the first week I was there. At that time Stuart F. Doyle was the chairman of directors of Greater Union Theatres. One afternoon I received a telephone call from his secretary saying Mr. Doyle would like to see me at his Point Piper flat at seven o’clock that evening. I went along, rather mystified, and after the usual sherry and small talk, I was handed a document. ‘This is my itinerary while I am overseas,’ he said. ‘If you ever run into any trouble cable me to the address here, opposite the date.’ I did not in the least understand but I was profuse in my thanks. However, I never had any cause to do any cabling to the address he had indicated. Maybe my guardian angel had stood guard during the period and averted all evil.

At one time, during my early days in the theatre, in the 1920s, we were very slack. The forthcoming show had already been painted—there was a lot of standing about, or cutting numerous stencils—so I answered an advertisement by an American Motion Picture Director who required a secretary and assistant.  I got the job and found that he was hoping to start production in Australia. He was Gerald F. Bacon, and he was married to a one-time actress Lilian Meyer. They had brought, by cargo ship, their son and daughter, all their furniture, their car and a large collection of films which had been directed by Mr. Bacon. They settled into a large house in Caulfield that Mrs. Bacon owned, opposite the race-course. I was given a room there, in case pressure of work made it necessary to stay overnight.

Our first job was to produce a script. Just about this time, the Tye-Corteen scandal concerning the racehorse Purser, winner of the 1924 Caulfield Cup, was occupying a lot of space in the newspapers. We made this the leitmotif of our story, but giving it a Melbourne Cup background. I accompanied Bacon to all his meetings with business men whom he was endeavouring to interest in investing in picture production. On occasional nights, we arranged with certain people—who had considerable social value—to loan us the grounds of their stately homes as settings for Gerald Bacon’s films. We would have a screen erected in the garden and the underlying idea was to interest the guests whom each host had gathered together in the prospectus of a company which Bacon hoped to form.

It was all very charming, very dignified, very much appreciated—and a complete waste of time. Melbourne was not ready to start up a motion picture industry. It seemed doubtful it would ever be. You can lead a donkey to water...

The Bacons threw in the towel, decided to fold their tents and return home. One day before their departure Gerald said to me ‘Let’s drive down to the Docks. I want to see the ship which brought us over from the States.’ We drove to the Docks and found the captain in his cabin. We had a drink and arrangements were made for the transportation of the entire Bacon household back to America. When we left to return to the house in Caulfield, Gerald said ‘I’ll drive. You sit in the back with the captain.’ After chatting about this and that for a few minutes, I nearly shot through the roof at his next remark. ‘I hear that you are thinking of going to America. If you do decide to go, keep an eye on my ship’s movements and then come and see me when I am next in Melbourne. I’ll sign you on as something and you can have a free passage.’ I suppose I should have known what to expect, because both Gerald and his wife had quite strongly expressed the wish that I should go back to the States with them. They seemed to consider that I had some potential which, with Gerald’s help and influence, would launch me on a career in the American theatre or picture production. I was in my late 20s at this stage and I have, naturally enough, often though of what might have been, if I had been able to establish myself in the rat race of Broadway or Hollywood. Both Gerald and Lilian Bacon came back to Australia during the Second World War. He was in an official capacity, and she was in the uniform of the American Red Cross. They stayed on permanently, and I attended, much later, their respective funerals.

When we were making the film Forty Thousand Horsemen (1940) we had an original Sergeant of Light Horse on the job, in charge of the riders and their horses. These men were recruited from absolutely anywhere—quite a number were found hanging around pubs, willing to take a chance on anything to earn a few shillings. Most of these men had never been on a horse before but did not seem to mind risking their necks in what to them was a new adventure. They were, naturally, not among the elite who rode in the production’s famous Charge of the Light Horse segment.

Poster for Forty Thousand Horsemen

 

Charles Chauvel on location, 1940

Australian Screen

These men were only used for trekking across the desert at a slow pace. All they had to do was to stay on their horses. If they could manage not to separate themselves from their mounts they were doing all that was required of them. One day Charles Chauvel, the director of the film (for ‘Famous Feature Films’), told the sergeant that he wished him to gather all the men and horses together at dawn the following morning. He wanted to get a silhouette effect by taking them up a great sandhill and down the other side. The route upwards was not steep, just a long and easy ascent. That involved no difficulties for our warriors, but when it came to the other side, it required horsemen of another calibre. This descent involved an angle of perhaps 45 degrees.

‘Blimey!’ exclaimed the sergeant, dismay clearly visible on his face. ‘Have a heart! These blokes can only just manage to stay on—you’ve seen what they can do. They’d never make the climb up without falling over backwards, and as to going down that steep decline, it will look like the Battle of Waterloo—men and horses lying all over the place. It will be a shambles...’ He concluded.

‘That’s exactly what I’d like to film, Sergeant,’ the director surprised him with. ‘You go and have a talk with the men. Tell them what I want and ask them if they think they can do it.’ The conversation among the temporary troopers when the message was passed on to them could best be described as ‘very flowery indeed’. Eventually the bolder among them overcame the protests of the more timorous and finally all the blokes made a decision. ‘Okay, we’ll give it a go, mate!’ And contrary to all expectations, they made the journey up the hill without mishap; but the descent was quite unforgettable. The horses came down in every conceivable way—on their rumps, their noses and their knees—but by some miracle those inexperienced riders stayed with them. It was wonderfully effective.

Scene from Forty Thousand Horsemen

State Library of New South Wales, Sydney

Film still for Forty Thousand Horsemen

State Library of New South Wales, Sydney

I recall the end of shooting Forty Thousand Horsemen: we had begun to film at dawn and had gone straight through without lunch, hoping to finish up everything that day. The horses, as well as the men, had had nothing at all and were both hungry and thirsty. When the last shot was in the camera, the sun was sinking below the horizon and everyone’s thoughts were turning gratefully towards making camp for the night. There is always a feeling of thankfulness when all the location shots have been taken. The sand-dunes on Botany Bay’s Kurnell had been blown so far inland that practically every acre of ground was covered in sand. This was where we had made our camp and had corralled the horses.

After work was over, it was the accepted thing to grab yourself a horse and ride back to camp. By ill-chance, I happened to be standing on the offside of a big black which must have been all of seventeen hands. Without thinking, I swung myself up into the saddle only seconds before intuition told my mount it was a case of ‘Home, James!’ and with a snort, it wheeled on its hind legs, making for the camp and nourishment. It was now almost dark and the terrain was anything but level or safe. My mount was thirsty and starving and off we went, with me clinging frantically to the pommel. My only concern—staying in the saddle. As the camp had been made at the base of a high sandhill we both simply slid down and at the bottom I disassociated myself from my mount by slipping off his rump. I hastened to do this before he rose from the sitting position he had adopted to descend the hill. He then went on his way, and I went on mine—with no regrets.

We had tents—one was for dining, the other served as a kitchen. The plumbing had a certain simplicity.  One day during the lunch period there was a feminine shriek from outside. As I was nearest the entrance I rushed out to find Betty Bryant, our leading lady in Forty Thousand Horsemen, lying in a drain which was a ditch dug outside the kitchen tent where the used water could run away. After he had washed the dishes, the cook simply threw the water into this ditch.  It was both smelly and slimy, and as Betty had attempted to jump across the ditch she had slipped and fallen headlong into this ill-smelling slime. She was wearing her fur coat over her costume of drab rags at the time and she was covered with grease. I stood her on her feet and hosed her down. Later in the shoot, during the bombing of the set, Betty Bryant had a very narrow escape. Charges of explosives had been set in the houses, to simulate bomb hits upon them. One of these was placed within a solid arch which threw lumps of concrete over a very wide area. One large piece just missed Betty by inches.

Betty Bryant with Chips Rafferty, Grant Taylor and Pat Twohill

State Library of New South Wales, Sydney

Chips Rafferty—one of the film’s leading actors

State Library of New South Wales, Sydney

Another incident, years before, which even today, just recalling, makes me shudder—it happened at the theatre in 1925 during the show Kid Boots. This was a musical with a golfing story. The golf sticks were kept at the top of a ramp, leading down to the backstage door.  One day when I was walking across the stage, I took an iron down from the rack. I had almost finished a cigarette which I upended on the floor at the top of the ramp. The big doors, which opened onto the street through which the scenery was unloaded, were closed. A small wicket gate in the doors was used when the main doors were shut. I addressed the butt on the floor and took a mighty swing with the club. At that exact moment the wicket door opened and a man came on through and at that identical split-second of time when his head was silhouetted in the opening, with only a few inches to spare either side, the head of the club left the shaft. It was propelled with the speed of a bullet towards the door, and by the greatest luck, passed between the man’s head and the narrow opening in the door. If there had been a deviation of only one inch towards his head, well... as I say, I still shudder to think of what might have been the outcome.

But back to film production and Forty Thousand Horsemen.One afternoon the director Charles Chauvel changed horses in mid-stream. He decided he would prefer a white Arab pony to the roan he had. After telling this to the production manager, he said it was to be ready on the set at 9 o’clock tomorrow morning. The production manager, Jack, looked at me saying ‘Coming?’ I fell for it and we both got into a car, had our dinner and then set off, now quite dark and raining. We called on all the riding schools and racing stables around Sydney, at last arriving at the outlets of the city. We now had the open country before us. All Jack Souter’s contacts had no idea where we should find a white pony—Arab strain! Eventually we were miles out in the country—our torch given out, we were wet, fed up, and had little hope of finding our pony.

We were at least thirty miles from Sydney when we got a lead from an old circus hand. He had a white pony in a paddock—if we could find it—and he was also fed up, being pulled out of bed at one in the morning. With no torch, some damp matches, our task was becoming worse and worse. Tramping over uneven ground, over fences, and stumbling in ditches in the dark was just too bad, but luck was finally with us when a white blob appeared before us. Striking our last matches, we saw more or less what we wanted—a white pony, and by all the luck, it did have an Arab strain!

Returning to the house we got the help of the owner who assisted us to catch the horse and to tie it up. Next we had to find a horse-float—which meant knocking up someone else at this ungodly hour. Anyway, we thought, horse people are early risers and at four o’clock we found the owner of a horse-float who was nearly up. Telling him the whereabouts of the pony and stressing the fact that it was wanted in the studio before 9 o’clock, we got back into our car and went home to an early breakfast.

The white Arab pony was on the set at nine precisely—just another night in the life of picture production.

Scene from Forty Thousand Horsemen

State Library of New South Wales, Sydney

The set for Forty Thousand Horsemen

State Library of New South Wales, Sydney

State of Play

In 1938 I was art director for Sydney’s Sesquicentenary—a celebration for 150 years of European settlement. I am certain that the only artists and sculptors who did not work on that undertaking were those who simply failed to apply for a job. I had to mobilize every one of whom I could get hold—to see if they could contribute in any way in the making of dozens of floats for the procession. As in all such undertakings, we were pressed for time. One morning three girls arrived to apply. They were all three of them sculptors—one had received a gold medal for her work—she was an instructress at Sydney Art School. I told the girls it would be impossible to have three women around as they would seriously cramp the literary style of all the men, plumbers, carpenters and electricians whose language was lurid when things went wrong.

They told me nonchalantly that they were quite familiar with the argot of them all, and that it would take something very out of the way to shock them. Beaten on that point, I shifted my ground. I pointed out that there was nowhere in the building for them to change—there was not a corner that could be made private. I thought I had them there, but they said anywhere behind a float would do very nicely, thank you, as they were all quick-change artists. I knew when I was defeated and told them they could start work that same day.

I gave them the life-size figure of Henry Lawson to model in an extremely non-academic medium—this material consisted of wire-netting, canvas and plaster. They were quite honest about it and admitted that they were entirely ignorant of this method, so I explained to them what had to be done, and showed them how to make an armature of the wire-netting. This had then to be covered in canvas which had been impregnated with plaster. When this had set, pure plaster was to be added. This was roughly modelled and allowed to dry. When all this had been done, it was carved to portray reality.

The three girls made a wonderful life-size model—it really was a magnificent life-like statue of Henry Lawson. This happened at their first try, with not a single mistake. The finished detail was absolutely perfect.

I listened to three male art-instructors applying, after broadcasts for help, and who had apparently been talking matters over with the girls. They were quite confident that they could cope with anything I could hand them. Being a little bit dubious, I asked them to make me a full-size jersey cow. I emphasized that they must spend sufficient time on the armature, telling them that this correct foundation was all-important for success, making it as near to the finished job as possible. They assured me that, after talking to the girls, they quite understood the method of direct plaster modelling. So I told them to go ahead.

It would appear they had not really profited by their talks and observations because, after using a ton of plaster, they succeeded in producing a cow which was undersize and overweight. I might have overlooked the former attribute, but it was impossible to ignore the latter. We could not shift the thing, so it had to be scrapped. They had completely failed to grasp the secret of this method—that is, to model the wire-netting as closely as possible to the object being modelled, only allowing for the thickness of the plaster layer for the final modelling.

My job was a 24 hours-a-day affair. I held a sandwich in one hand, and a pencil and sheet of paper in the other—I was responsible for continuous supervision, providing a great deal of help, offering suggestions for construction and painting, and trying to cope with any problem at all which might happen to turn up. Towards the end of the job, I developed a carbuncle on the back of my neck. It was a carbuncle to end all such horrors, and almost knocked me out. But I managed to keep on my feet long enough to see the wall of Sydney’s old Exhibition Building demolished to enable us to get the floats out. It took all one night to get them into position for the parade next day. With a splitting headache, plus a variety of explosive pains everywhere in my body, I at last thankfully made my way home, first waiting for all the floats to pass. It was like heaven to be able to crawl into bed and oblivion.

Industy float, Sesquicentenary parade, Sydney, 1938

State Library of New South Wales, Sydney

Surfing float, Sesquicentenary parade, Sydney, 1938

State Library of New South Wales, Sydney

One of the many small worries on this job occurred only a day before it came to an end. I was inspecting the finished floats and noted that the one entitled ‘Industry’ needed brushing up. It was a mass of cogs, cylinders, pistons, etc. On its pinnacle was a cylinder. It had been painted a brilliant red and had collected an appreciable amount of dust. One of the chaps I had with me happened to be a studio stunt man. In his time he had been in many difficult and dangerous situations. He had been lassoed off bolting horses, and suspended over a cliff by a pickaxe, for example, and so far his reflexes had functioned perfectly.

I told Tommy to get a ladder and a tin of red paint. He was to repaint the red cylinder on top of the ‘Industry’ float. To me it seemed a very simple job, after the hair-raising stunts I had seen him do. He followed instructions, but unfortunately he over-stretched himself on the ladder which started along the cylinder’s side. There was now nothing for him to hang onto, what with a tin of paint in one hand and a paintbrush in the other. The ladder continued its merry slide off the float, with Tommy still on a rung near the top. He rode the falling ladder, until he was only a few feet from the ground when he dropped the tin of paint and neatly somersaulted onto his feet. With a beaming smile he assumed the pose of an acrobat who has just successfully performed a difficult feat. Tommy looked for a burst of applause, as he bowed, and remarked with satisfaction ‘Never even hurt myself.’ I said bitterly ‘No, but just look at “Motherhood”….’ This float was a beautifully modelled ‘Mother and Child’ and now absolutely smothered with red paint. I was much afraid it could never be removed. When we did get most of the paint off, it had to be repainted in white paint to conceal any remaining red stains. It was previously in stark white plaster.

I have just recalled another accident, but of quite a different nature. One of my Art Staff had an engineering degree and as a hobby did modelling and sculpture. I had given him the job of creating a Corinthian capital, afterwards to be moulded for the production of a number of these for columns.

Corinthian capitals

From Handbook of Ornamentby Franz S. Meyer, Dover Publications, 1957

Example of props making

From Stagecraft, Phaidon, Oxford, 1982

The clay model was simply perfect, beautifully done with the precision of engineering application and artistic appreciation. With the clay work finished, I told him to take the mould out with glue, saying ‘Get a bucket of glue from the carpenters and simply pour it around the capital and its retaining sides.’ I then made a tactical error, mentioning the fact that for the figures, etc., they used gelatin. This of course started my engineering friend thinking: if there is a right strength for the mould he would like to do it using the correct method. Asking if I objected to him experimenting, and my giving in, I left him to it.

Over the weekend he informed me he had been reading up the subject. He made mixtures of various strengths of glue and gelatin—none of them set hard. He tried again with more glue. On his own initiative, he made up a batch of diluted glue and/or gelatin and poured it over his beautiful piece of modelling. Days passed and the stuff never set—it succeeded in gradually melting the clay and ruining his work. The spiral scrolls and acanthus leaves simply turned to sludge. He spent many days recreating the job again, this time using nothing but carpenter’s glue.

During the Second World War I was employed as Art Director of the Royal Agricultural Society of New South Wales. I was commissioned to design an exhibition called ‘Homes of Freedom’. All the countries which were then fighting against Hitler were represented. As I designed and completed a drawing of each country’s representative home, I would take it along to the Consul of the country concerned to ask his advice. This was always given most graciously. I wanted detailed information about the correct furniture and interior goods with which to furnish each particular set. The various interiors were peopled by every country’s Nationals, and in many cases they were to lend me authentic furniture from their homes.

This was the routine I adopted in the case of all participating countries. However, so as not to appear wholly ignorant, before making my call on a particular country’s representative, I did some homework. I spent some hours at the Mitchell Library in Sydney, with books which contained any reference at all to the country’s culture, art and furniture, etc.

I made my sales talk so convincingly to the French Consul, for instance, that he overwhelmed me with ‘Well, I am a Frenchman, but you know more about my country’s art than I do!’ I felt rewarded, and did not grudge the time and pains I had taken to gather my information. To myself I admitted that perhaps the fact that what I had read, only the day before, certainly did help.

Homes of Freedom

Miles Kenyon collection

State Theatre, Melbourne, c.1940s. Photo by Rose Stereograph Co.

State Library Victoria, Melbourne

Back in Melbourne and also during the War years, I was standing one night in the foyer of the State Theatre (where I was now employed, to present live shows as an introduction to the screening of a film) along with hundreds of patrons jammed in so tightly that they formed an unyielding mass. (The State [now The Forum] was the largest theatre in the Southern Hemisphere.) I heard a voice behind me asking, ‘Where is it, mate?’ I was wedged in so completely that I could not turn to locate the owner of the voice. For some idiotic reason, the predicament of the unseen prompted me to say, ‘It’s over on your left, if you can get through,’ and then added, a thought vulgarly I’m afraid, ‘If you can’t make it, you can use my pocket.’ This elicited a guffaw and a ‘Thanks mate.’ That was another satisfied customer.

A few nights later, a fight broke out in the foyer between some returned soldiers and a few civilians. I looked around wildly, intending to call reinforcements of ushers. They, however, quite unaware of the trouble, were bowing people into their seats. To my surprise the voice of my friend of the other night sounded in my ear. ‘Want a hand, mate?’ he asked. This time I was able to turn and identify the voice—it was Red Maloney, a gentleman very well known in the boxing world and in certain circles of the underworld. The fight ended, so Red’s kindly meant intervention was not needed.

One evening I answered a knock at the office door to find an American officer outside. ‘Are you the manager?’ he enquired, and presented me with his card. It was, he explained, his card in civilian life. He was a Wurlitzer Organ Company’s expert. He said he would esteem it a great privilege if I would allow him to play the theatre organ after the show. I agreed, so after the show we went down to the console, where he switched on, pulled out all the stops, and gave a magnificent performance to an audience of one. We had opera, symphonies, lullabies and a full-scale battle-piece with guns, bugles—the whole works. There was so much noise that I eyed the plaster ornaments and statues in fear. I thought that any minute an especially loud salvo would set them toppling. The vibration was quite frightening. I felt quite dazed when at last I staggered out of the theatre with him.

Some weeks later the same officer called on a very different mission. Because of his reputation as a musician, he had been given the task of forming a combined orchestra of American and Australian musicians. What he needed from me was permission to go backstage where he wished to speak to our musicians and, if possible, obtain their co-operation. I explained gently to him that the Musicians’ Union in Australia was powerful, exclusive and very conservative. In the past they had been imposed on for so long that they had made hard and fast rules which were totally unbreakable. ‘Nothing for nothing’ was the watchword. I communicated to him my serious doubts that they would give their services free. My visitor listened in silence and then took out his wallet. He extracted a card which he handed to me. ‘This is my American Union card,’ he explained, adding apologetically, ‘We are the same the world over, a lot of bastards.’ I have forgotten what the outcome was, and how he actually made out.

Interior of the State Theatre with Wurlitzer to left of orchestra pit, 1929. Photo by Edwin G. Adamson.

State Library Victoria, Melbourne

The State Theatre Wurlizter is now installed at the Kingston City Hall in the Melbourne suburb of Moorabbin

https://www.kingstonarts.com.au/PERFORMANCE/MUSIC/Mighty-Wurlitzer

With each change of the program I had a stage set which formed a background for the singer. There was a presentation of ‘Ave Maria’ with Freddie Goldman, billed as the boy soprano, singing the number. With lights fading in slowly, similarly the candelabra, at the top note of ‘Ave Maria’ a high cross of light was thrown from the bio-box onto the back wall of the stage drapes above the altar—the presentation was very ecclesiastical. Believe it or not, on two different nights a woman went into the aisle, knelt down and prayed!

Freddie possessed this wonderful freak voice, but it could not fill the large State Theatre. To encompass this, he had to use a microphone and a loudspeaker system—he concealed the mike in the hymn book he carried.

I had sometimes wondered how my own voice would sound over the air, using a mike. So one night I went backstage and switched on the speaker. I took the mike out to the centre of the stage and tried out my singing voice in the empty theatre. I went through two or three numbers in what I felt to be fine style. In my biased opinion, I sounded quite professional, and was very well satisfied with my effort. After my ‘performance’, I returned the mike to the prompt corner, feeling rather smug about the whole thing. I had quite forgotten the cleaners who must have been much amused by my impromptu concert. They were sitting in the back of the stalls, thoroughly enjoying the interlude. As I walked off, they gave me a hearty round of applause.

There was a particular feature about the staging of Women in Uniform. For the change, showing the various occupations of women during the war, I had huge cogwheels which turned the big central one which was acting as the stage. As each aperture between the spokes came into place, a new figure appeared, representing departments of industry, nursing, the service, and so on. Freddie Goldman, who was supposed to be the engineer engaged in oiling the machinery, sang an appropriate number as each woman in uniform appeared.

With the picture Eagle Squadron (1942 war film) I had painted a backcloth showing the Houses of Parliament, the Thames and the Embankment. This time Freddie was a paper seller and sang ‘Old Father Thames’ and ‘There’ll Always Be an England’. It was as corny as hell, but the audiences lapped it up.

The last show I did before going to Sydney for the making of the film Smithy in 1944, was the production Warsaw Concerto.Bill Tinkler, who was the General Manager for Greater Union Theatres in Victoria, wrote the script, and this was narrated during the presentation. I did the production, with only one rehearsal in the morning on the day of the opening, and as was expected, it was chaotic. Nothing went right and a big flop was predicted by everyone; but with proper cues and organization, it was eventually a spectacular success.

The show opened with a cloud machine throwing clouds onto a scrim—a transparent cloth. The backstage was in complete darkness. Above the actual stage was a floating stage, ten feet up, with the Wurlitzer Grand Piano aboard. A spot picked up Desmond Tanner (a musician of some note) at the piano—he would play a note with one finger and then write it down. He was supposed to be composing the Warsaw Concerto. He played only the suggestion of the melody, accompanied very softly by Aubrey Whelan on the organ, and the orchestra under the conductor, Tiny Douglas. Then from the projection box a huge swastika was projected onto the scrim. With gunfire effects from the organ, the audience was made aware, by the commentator, that Warsaw was about to fall. This was the cue for the film’s hero, Richard Addinsell, to flee Poland.

Richard Addinsell, 1949. Photo by Anthony Buckley.

National Portrait Gallery, London

Sheet music for the Warsaw Concerto, published by Keith Prowse & Co. Ltd, London, 1942

www.sheetmusicwarehouse.co.uk

The commentator continues with the story—Richard Addinsell leaves Warsaw and begins making his way to England. In the darkness, the boys had erected representative cutouts of the countries through which Richard passed and the orchestra and the organ played the National Anthem of each particular country—on the stage was a cutout of a recognized feature of each particular country, for example, the Eiffel Tower for France, St. Stephen’s in Vienna, and so forth. Each piece was spot lit, fading out as the imaginary journey proceeded. Eventually Addinsell arrived in England, which was represented by Big Ben and the V for Victory sign, thrown from the bio-box onto the scrim, superimposed over the slowly fading swastika.

The tide is about to turn. Addinsell joins the Royal Air Force, he has a period of intensive training and is one of the crew of a plane sent on a mission to bomb Warsaw. I had made set pieces of buildings which toppled as the gunfire and lightning stocks made night flashes, as Warsaw was bombed and reduced to ruins. With the dying away of the sounds of battle, the spot faded in on the piano up on the floating stage. Then you saw Richard come back and sit at the piano, where he had left off so long ago. He was striking a note with one finger, writing it down, and then playing a chord. Then playing another, and another, and finally using both hands. At last the orchestra and the organ took up playing the theme, until at last, as Des Tanner played the Warsaw Concerto, the orchestra and the organ were at full volume.

It was a damn fine performance and the applause lasted three whole minutes, before we could get the orchestra-lift down and the picture, Dangerous Moonlight, on the screen. 

As I have mentioned, the rehearsal for this production had been ghastly but had muddled itself through to an end, and I had then gone backstage to speak to Tiny Douglas. Standing in a group with him were Des Tanner and Beatrice Oakley, who sang ‘Lonely Heart’ during the show. All three had very long faces. Tiny Douglas, who was just a little over six feet, muttered lugubriously, ‘Oh well, if the worst comes to the worse, I can get fired and play the fiddle on street corners, I suppose.’ Des said, ‘Whatever happens, I’ll play the thing through and Beatrice will sing her numbers—even if they aren’t in the right places.’ I duly applauded their spirit and determination not to let the side down. With an almost certain flop on my hands, I tried to put as good a face on things as possible. Making my voice as optimistic as my inner quakings would allow, I exhorted them not to worry, that it would be ‘all right on the night’! The good old stock theatre phrase did not seem to have much effect; but oddly enough, it was all right on the night. In desperation I had typed a number of very simply timed procedure sheets and everyone was handed one. I hid myself in the folds of the drapes on the floating stage and yelled out the changes. The performance began at the matinee; it finished and—there was applause. When I went backstage this time there were no long faces to depress me, and no atmosphere of concentrated gloom. Instead three people were hugging each other and chattering excitedly about the success of the show.

It was a very happy theatre. Twenty-four usherettes and sixteen ushers came on at night. There was only one rule: it had to be ‘Sir’ or ‘Madam’, accompanied by a bright smile. We had a great many letters from patrons expressing their appreciation of the courtesy of the staff. One in particular was indicative of the thoughtfulness and instant action on the part of the men. It came from someone who was hobbling along on crutches. He wrote that he was not given time to protest but was picked up by two ushers, carried up the stairs, and deposited in his seat. A smiling usherette then told him that his crutches were in safe keeping.

Lobby card for Dangerous Moonlight, 1941

ebay

Advertisement from the Argus for the New State Theatre, 3 August 1944, which saw the Warsaw Concerto played as one of the attractions accompanying the feature film Lady in the Dark

Trove

I was very proud of this staff and treated them as they treated me—with respect. If anyone had a birthday, we had a party after the house was out. When my last night arrived, all the staff threw a party in the grand foyer. They presented me with a set of drawing instruments. I was returning to Sydney as Art Director for the Columbia Pictures’ 1944 film Smithy.

 FROM A NORFOLK FOLKTALE to Sydney’s George Street and Melbourne’s Elizabeth Street we trace the footsteps of two of the world’s most put-upon waifs and encounter a multitude of characters, ranging from babes to barons, robins to robbers, and dance or stumble through forests and fountains, caves and castles.

Once upon a time, as the old English ballad goes, there were two little children who lived at the edge of a forest. When their father died, they were entrusted to the care of their uncle and if the children died a fortune would be left to him, so of course he must find some willing assassin to ‘do the dastardly deed’ once the children had been abandoned deep in that wood. The original ballad was also known as The Norfolk Gentleman’s Last Will and Testament, and very naturally, and as the story goes, this wicked uncle eventually received his ‘just desserts’.

The Children in the Wood; or, The Norfolk Tragedy, Religious Tract Society, London, c.1825

University of Washington Libraries

The Babes in the Wood; cover design by Randolph Caldecott (1846-1886)

In 1793 The Children in the Wood was created by Dr Samuel Arnold and presented as an opera at London’s Haymarket Theatre. In this first version the children survived and were restored to their parents, neither of whom had died. Later versions decided to return to the ballad’s gloomy and tragic original ending.

Almost twenty years later the Surrey Theatre, having begun life as the Royal Circus and Equestrian Philharmonic Academy (Blackfriars Road, Southwark), presented the tale as an operatic Burletta—a musical farce or comic opera. And in 1827, entitled Harlequin and Cock Robin; or, The Babes in the Wood, the children succumb to the elements in what was the first pantomime version, at Drury Lane, and again in 1856 at the Haymarket.

In 1867, eleven years later, Robin Hood made an appearance within the plot. Was the character of Robin suggested by the fact that, in the original ballad, the children were discovered by the feathered variety, a Robin Redbreast? The legend has it that this tiny bird will cover bodies with leaves, robins will never suffer a dead body to remain unburied. Anything goes—anything went—this was pantomime and Robin Hood, even though two centuries out, always appealed greatly to the pantomime-going public. This time Robin rescues the babes from their fate, but not always was this the case. In 1874 Covent Garden’s panto restored the original unhappy ending and also brought about the death of the Wicked Uncle—or Wicked Baron. In modern versions the children always survive, their uncle is unmasked or vanquished.

There followed many versions and many additions and alterations to the title and to the list of characters. Maid Marion joined Robin Hood, the Merry Men made an appearance, sometimes the ‘Wicked’ Sheriff of Nottingham is the Babes’ uncle—and naturally a Fairy makes an entrance at some point in the plot. Young women play boys and men, men play women and children, the two assassins, or cronies or robbers, one or sometimes both, would find they could not carry out those grisly orders.

In the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries pantomimes took the form of a harlequinade, which was related to commedia dell'arte and the invention of stock characters. Classical myths and later, folk tales, provided an Opening with a Narrative, after which the characters would transform into the classic harlequinade roles—Columbine, Pantaloon, Clown and Pierrot, and Harlequin himself.

Commedia dell'Arte postcards

Author's collection

Harry Nicholls and Herbert Campbell as the Babes, Drury Lane, 1888/1889

Victoria & Albert Museum, London

In 1897 at Drury Lane two men appeared as the Babes and ten years later another version handed the Babes to the Old Woman who lived in a Shoe, who planned to poison them with deadly mushrooms. The children escape and encounter giants, rabbits and ferrets but finally manage to reach Lollypop Land where they are crowned King and Queen.

The last Babes in the Wood pantomime to be presented at Drury Lane was in 1938 and was produced by Tom Arnold, who was responsible, in 1939, for the production of The Dancing Yearsin London. I can't help but wonder if he was not a descendant of eighteenth century’s Dr Samuel Arnold, who was the originator of The Children in the Wood!

The first Australian Babes in the Wood to be presented was at Sydney's Prince of Wales Theatre in 1859, entitled Babes in the Wood and the Good Little Fairy Birds, and this occurred barely six months after its first appearance in London at the Theatre Royal, New Adelphi. The author, Henry James Byron, the son of a second cousin of Lord Alfred Byron, described the production as a Burlesque Drama in One Act. Here follows a list of the cast in that original London production, given on the 18 July 1859.

Cast list for Babes in the Wood and the Good Little Fairy Birds, New Adelphi Theatre, London, 18 July 1859

Garnet Walch; undated photo by Samuel Milbourn

State Library Victoria, Melbourne

The scenes included the courtyard of Sir Arthur Rowland Macassar’s ‘noble pile’, a schoolroom, an arched chamber within, and, inevitably, a wood in which one of the ‘very dreadful children’ makes himself very ill gorging on blackberries.

Known enigmatically as Mr Guy, the Australian designer was also involved in two other very early local productions—the first in 1856, working alongside a Mr Thomas, Eva, or Leaves from Uncle Tom's Cabin (presumably not a pantomime) and the second in the year following The Good Little Fairy Birds—The Pilgrim of Love; or, Harlequin Prince Ahmed, the Talking Cockatoo and the Enchanted Horse. The mind boggles! The source was likely to be H.J. Byron's Fairy Romance Pilgrim of Love. Here Mr Guy collaborated with Alexander Habbe, the 31 year old Danish scenic artist.

In 1860 the Prince of Wales Theatre was destroyed, as so often happened, by fire, only to be rebuilt—with the same name—in 1863.

In 1879 Babes in the Wood was presented at Melbourne’s Theatre Royal (and at Sydney’s Theatre Royal it was entitled Babes in the Wood; or, Who Killed Cock Robin) and locally adapted by Garnet Walch, from the original pantomime by Englishman John Strachan, who was responsible, between 1879 and 1881, for another three pantomimes. Bland Holt not only played the part of Roberto, the Baron’s Henchman, he also was Our Clown in the Harlequinade Finale. The Babes were both played by girls, Rose and Lily Dampier, daughters of a famous theatrical family, and the scenic designers were the Dane John Hennings, Dublin-born Joseph (John) Little and Harry Grist from England.

The year 1885 saw the Babes presented at St Georges Hall, located on the western side of the Theatre Royal, opposite the Bijou Theatre, in Melbourne’s Bourke Street. And six years on, in 1891, Bold Robin Hood and his Foresters Good joined The Babes in the Woodat Her Majesty’s Theatre in Sydney, on Christmas Eve. Frank Ayrton wrote and directed, Frank Eugarde composed and directed the original music and London-born Alfred Clint was responsible for the scenic art. Here the director, Ayrton, and the choreographer Madge Seymour, played the Babes, Maggie Moore, J.C. Williamson's ex-wife, was Robin Hood and the English dancer Bella Bashall was Maid Marion. Bessie Rignold, niece of the producer George Rignold, was Fairy Goodheart.

The production opened in the Home of Pantomime, a cave full of glittering stalactites, and present were the Gnome King, the Spirit of Pantomime and Father Christmas—‘what is to be the subject of this pantomime?’ They settle on The Babes in the Wood. Act One is set in Sherwood Forest and the two babes are introduced, their wicked uncle Sir Rupert de Guile, his two ruffians, Roger Ruthless and Timothy Trembline, followed by, inevitably, Robin Hood and Maid Marion. The babes are lost, there are situations both very comical and pathetically sad.

In the Second Act there is a series of Dances of All Nations, a Toy Review [sic], accompanied by a cascading fountain of water flowing beneath coloured lights. Act Three is presented in Sir Rupert's baronial hall—a gavotte is enacted, also the Leslie Brothers’ ‘grotesque musical interlude’. The stage was a blaze of colour, with a dazzling frame-work of flowers and fruit, as it transformed itself and led into the traditional Harlequinade.

By this time, in the early 1890s, quite a number of those participating in ‘local’ pantos were sitting for H. Walter Barnett at his Falk Studios in Sydney’s Royal Arcade. To mention briefly a few, apart from those above, Pattie Browne, Jennie Lee, Violet Varley, Florence Young, Nellie Stewart and Aggie Kelton.

Babes in the Wood, Theatre Royal, Melbourne, 1879/1880

Private collection

Bella Bashall, 1892; photo by Falk Studios, Sydney

Theatre Heritage Australia, Falk Album, 080/2

The following Christmas, in 1892, George Coppin, possibly inspired by Rignold’s 1891 success, secured Bland Holt as director, along with the entertainer/comedian John Gourley, who stepped in when Holt was taken ill with an unidentifiable illness a mere week before the opening night at Melbourne's Theatre Royal. John Brunton was brought in as the designer and the Sydney Morning Herald reported that for The Babes in the Wood; or, Robin Hood and his Foresters Good‘the scenery forms a striking feature’ and ‘the transformation scene was a triumph of stagecraft’. Table Talk’s critic was not as complimentary and wrote of the ‘weak dialogue and the incomprehensible jokes’. The music comprised original material plus popular songs from both Australia and abroad; including ‘Finiculi, Finicula’ and ‘Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay’. (John Brunton’s prodigious amount of work and his contribution to this particular production will be the subject of a later article.)

Postcard of Bland Holt, c.1907

Elisabeth Kumm collection

Song sheet cover for ‘Ta-Ra-Ra-Boom-De-Ay’, sung by Lottie Collins; written by Richard Morton, music arranged by Angelo A. Asher. Published by Charles Sheard & Co., 1891.

Victoria & Albert Museum, London

The Opening revealed the home of Father Christmas and a vision of a Christmas tree, surrounded by a circle of expectant children—much to the disgust of Herne the Hunter who plans to slay the precious babes whom he so loathes. The scene changes to an English village near Sherwood Forest, and we meet Dame Tabitha Durden and her scholars, the two babes (both female this time), and presently, Robin Hood and his Foresters. An archery contest takes place, where Robin (played by Ada Bemister) proves his skill. Acquaintance has also been made with the Wicked Uncle, Baron Bullyrag and his two bold, bad ruffians, Burglar Bill and Joe Ugly. They are observed plotting against the babes. Miss Bella Bashall, as Maid Marion again, executes, with fantastic skirt whirlings, her Serpentine Dance.

Windsor Castle, viewed from the Baron's pavilion, presents the opportunity for a spectacular regal pageant—the crowned heads of England, from the time of King William the Conqueror to the present monarch, Queen Victoria, complete with juvenile Life Guards on ponies, banner bearers, pages and heralds, and a band. The National Anthem is very appropriately played, before the curtain falls on Act One.

Act Two begins in the Baron’s picture gallery where the plotters bundle the two babes over to the ruffians, to take ‘a walk in the forest’. There follows a forest scene inhabited by the Foresters Good, who are joined by the children and their murderous companions. The babes manage to escape whilst the ruffians wrangle over how the murders are to be carried out—ultimately there is a duel and presumably they move off stage as the exhausted babes return to lie down upon a leafy couch and fall asleep. Robin Redbreasts and woodpeckers entertain the audience, in ‘high carnival’ fashion. What was described as a ‘Watteau retreat of light and love’ then introduced a children’s ballet and we are returned to the Baron’s Castle of Many Towers, which is now held by our hero Robin Hood, his Foresters Good and the rescued babes. The traditional Harlequinade followed, with Dame Tabitha as Clown, and two of the ‘Bad Ones’ as Pantaloon and Harlequin. Columbine was portrayed by Miss Rosalie Phillipini.

Christmas Scene by Lothar Meggendorfer

Author's collection

Peeps into Fairyland, 1896; illustration by Lothar Meggendorfer

State Library Victoria, Melbourne

At precisely the same time, Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves was playing at Melbourne’s Princess’s Theatre, with more of Walter Barnett’s subjects participating—Katie Barrie, Alice Lethbridge and Leila Roze. The troupe included the London Gaiety Burlesque Company and the prolific Faust Family. George Gordon and son John were responsible for the scenic art.

A rather different approach to those pitiful babes followed a year later with Sydney’s Theatre Royal production The Babes; or, Whines from the Wood. This was a localized adaptation by Cyril Sandham (with music by George F. Pack) from the previously adapted version by the Englishman Harry Paulton. The Australian rights had been secured from Willie Edouin by John Gourley, who had stepped in to co-direct George Coppin’s Babes’ panto the year before. In this 1893 production he had the role of Dolly—‘Poor little Dolly’—and alternated each evening with George Walton, playing Pierrot in the harlequinade. The scenic design was shared by Sydney-born William Kinchela, George Campbell, Joseph Little and John Hennings—a formidable foursome. Once again kings and queens made an appearance, there was a grand transformation scene incorporating a water-nymph and, described as the ‘rage of Paris’, the Ballet d’Action Comique á la L’Enfant Prodigue’s Harlequinade.

Although I have concentrated so far on the pantomimes featuring those ubiquitous babes, I mention others where the cast lists featured actresses and dancers who chose to be photographed by H.W. Barnett, or who were chosen.

Willie Edouin, 1870s; photo by Trafalgar Photographic Co., London

Elisabeth Kumm collection

Enrichetta D’Argo, 1893; photo by Falk Studios, Sydney

Theatre Heritage Australia, Falk Album, 048/3

Just three days after the premiere of Whines from the Wood, at Sydney’s Lyceum Theatre, J.C. Williamson and George Musgrove presented Beauty and the Beast, for which Bella Bashall created the choreography. Nellie Stewart was, of course, Beauty, and Florence Young played Prince Lionel. Polly Emery was one of Beauty’s sisters and Catherine Bartho, the first Russian ballerina to visit Australia, led the troupe of dancers. The following year, 1894, Melbourne's Princess’s Theatre saw a rather revised version with quite a different cast of characters. This classic fairy-tale, as a pantomime, employed several indigenous themes and topics within its narrative. Spiders and mosquitoes do battle with butterflies and bats, that is—bad versus good. There was, inevitably, a boxing kangaroo, an ‘electric’ snake dance, and a fabulous transformation scene disclosing George Gordon’s Beauty’s Bower.

Other actresses and dancers to find themselves on the pages of the Falk Studios’ Album were Hetty Patey, Marietta Nash, Alice Lemar, Billie Barlow, Jennie Opie and Enrichetta D'Argo, billed as the Prima Ballerina of Naples’ Teatro San Carlo. No doubt there are others.

Playbill for Babes in the Wood, Her Majesty’s Theatre, Sydney, 1897/1898

National Library of Australia, Canberra

Programme cover for 1898/1899 production of The Babes in the Wood at the Princess Theatre, Melbourne

Mitchell Library, State Library of NSW, Sydney

Before the close of the nineteenth century other significant versions of the Babes were presented—in 1897 Babes in the Wood; or, Bold Robin Hood and his Merry Men was presented initially at Her Majesty’s Theatre in Sydney and the following year in Melbourne as an Easter attraction at the Princess, entitled simply Babes in the Wood, but still featuring Robin Hood (Millie Young) and Maid Marion (Ada Reeve). In fact by 1895 Walter Barnett had opened a studio in Melbourne, in Elizabeth Street, close to the Block Arcade, but run by his brother Charles and his sister Phoebe, and by 1898 Barnett was well and truly established in London where his clientele included subjects prominent in society and members of royalty.

Early in the twentieth century the Babes reappeared at the King’s Theatre in Melbourne, and again at Sydney's Adelphi at the start of the First World War, and exactly four years later at the conclusion of the war, at Sydney’s Grand Opera House. From then on, in every state of Australia, and on an irregular basis, someone would be presenting one version or another of this classic tale. Within the last one hundred years, at the last count, there have been at least twenty fully professional productions.

The Babes will continue to be lost, continue to be rescued, wicked uncles, sheriffs and barons to be unmasked, jailed, foiled, vanquished. The Babes have endured for almost two centuries, and here in the Falk Album we can catch glimpses of some who fled through forests, sung along with kings, queens and the merriest of men, and danced with dogs, demons and princesses.

Katie Barry, 1892; photo by Falk Studios, Sydney

Theatre Heritage Australia, Falk Album, 078/5

Programme cover for Babes in the Wood, Her Majesty’s Theatre, Melbourne, 1921/1922

Tait collection

Open the Album and see if you can spot them in costume! Theatre Heritage Australia Digital Collection

 Acknowledgements

I am indebted to the following: Australian Variety Theatre Archives; AusStage—Australian Live Performance Database; Victoria and Albert Museum; State Library Victoria; Wikipedia; National Portrait Gallery; Tait Collection; Plays by H.J. Byron, Cambridge University Press, 1984; Project Gutenberg; It's Behind You - Babes in the Wood; and last but far from least, Elisabeth Kumm and Simon Piening.

Frank Van Straten at the launch of the J.C. Williamson Scene BooksAlmost exactly five years ago, THA members caught their first glimpse of the JCW Scene Books: on Saturday May 26, 2018, we launched their digitisation (and public access via Flickr) at The Channel, Arts Centre Melbourne.

It has been a long process, and an ongoing one, beginning with that tour of Preston's Scenic Studios back in May 2013. Much time and effort was spent assembling and lodging a submission to the Public Record Office of Victoria, which proved, obviously, to be successful. Next action – "The Great Scene Books Heist" in 2015 and the months necessary for their digitising by Australian Microfilm Services (AMS). The books were returned to Scenic Studios the following year and the long, slow process of adding descriptive text and metadata to the 1000s of images on Flickr by several THA committee members began.

On Saturday, THA's president Simon Piening started proceedings with a brief overview – to a background of thirty or so projected images selected from the books – and introduced Frank Van Straten AM, who was instrumental in setting up the original Performing Arts Museum back in the 1980s in this very building. Later, for a period called the Black Box, now The Channel, the venue holds many memories for Frank – as it does for many of us present.

Guest speaker Ross Turner at the launch

Frank spoke also of the rescue – one shared with the late Sir Frank Tait's widow, Viola Tait – of two other Scene Books, now safely housed in the Australian Performing Arts Collection, here within Hamer Hall, which led into the introduction of the next speaker, Ross Turner, master painter and co-founder of Scenic Studios, and former custodian of the ten scene books, six of which were shortly to be "unveiled before our very eyes".

At the demise of what was known as The Firm, Ross, J.C. Williamson's Head of Scenic Art, along with Paul Kathner – also present at the Launch and due to speak shortly – saved several volumes, crammed with wonderful black and white photographs of theatrical productions, dating from the late 19th century to the 1930s. Ross and Paul set up Scenic Studios, a company that continues to produce backdrops and a wide range of theatrical products and services. Ross spoke about his involvement in and love of the theatre, he mentioned the artists and designers who encouraged or influenced him, most notably George Kenyon and Rupert Browne.

Guest speaker Paul Kathner at the launchPaul Kathner OAM was then introduced and delighted us again – Paul was THA's guest speaker at last year's AGM at the Prahran Mechanics' Institute – with his tales of his experiences working for JCW, and prior to that St Martin's Theatre – among other companies. Both Paul and Ross painted a wide variety of sets for operas, ballets, dramas and musicals. These were for JCW and for other organisations who commissioned the paint department at The Firm to undertake scenic art.

Simon thanked the speakers and then asked Frank to "do the honours" by launching the completed project with the unveiling of the books – not without a dramatic cloud of dust – for all those present to view.

The majority of the books are huge – and heavy! The three small albums (Books 2, 9 and 10) were on display, one a sketchbook with a dedication by John Henry Hennings, son of the legendary scenic artist John Hennings. The drawings and ground-plans are by George Gordon, for Dion Boucicault's late 19th century production of "After Dark". The other two albums, of London's St James' Theatre (1890s), contain highly detailed and very clear photos, images used as guides for the Australian scenic artists working on the same production.

Book 5 – 63x51x6 (25"x20"x2.5") – comprises plans and elevations, drawn predominantly in pencil. These were to a scale of half an inch to one foot, a ratio of 1 to 24 – not so different to the scale commonly used today of 1 to 25. Dozens of productions are represented – rarely is there mention of a scenic artist or designer but there are several references to stock back-cloths being used – "Phil Goatcher's standard forest cloth" sort of thing.

Committee members, Dr Mimi Colligan and Judy LeechBook 8 – 50x37x9 (19.5x14.5x3.5) – also on display, was originally a SHARE REGISTER, CALL & TRANSFER book, the stationer's label dated 1910. Another weighty tome! The photos show stage sets, back-cloths and lighting rigs and they are labelled with the name of the production and the act number. There are a few printed programme segments attached, relating to individual scenes.

But it was Book 6 that really intrigued many of you! Another enormous volume it contains more than 450 photographs – productions such as the Gilbert & Sullivan comic operas, The Silver King, London Pride, Daddy Long Legs, The Belle of Brittany and Monsieur Beaucaire. However it was originally an earlier ledger for accounts – which can be seen beneath the photos and also sandwiched between the pages bearing the images. The accounts date from the late 1890s – for rent shops, the Princess Theatre, admission prices, wages, production costs, etc. etc. All in black or red ink, executed in a beautiful copper-plate script. Such interest was generated at the Launch that there have been suggestions that these unique records should now be made the subject of a separate project! We will keep you notified.

The afternoon ended with an invitation to join the speakers and the committee at Bombini Buzz Bar – to enable us all to toast the Scene Books in time-honoured tradition!

View the JCW Scene Books online here»

SPECIAL THANKS:

THA would like to thank the following people for making the JCW Scene Book project a success:
Diana Burleigh, THA Committee member
Mimi Colligan Theatre historian, THA Committee member & past THA President
Joshua Cowie, The Channel, Arts Centre Melbourne
Tim Fisher, former Senior Curator, Australian Performing Arts Collection
Gavin Jennings, Special Minister of State
Peter Johnson, Architectural Historian & THA Committee member, THA webmaster & former THA President
Paul Kathner OAM, Scenic Artist & Co-founder of Scenic Studios
Elisabeth Kumm, Theatre Historian, THA Committee member & current THA Secretary
Judy Leech, Artist & Designer & THA Committee member
Simon Piening, THA President & THA webmaster
Brendan Pierce, Scenic Artist & current owner of Scenic Studios
John Rickard, Adjunct Professor
Meredith Sherlock, Here’s Proof
Delia Taylor, THA Committee Member & former THA Secretary
Ross Turner, Scenic Artist & Co-founder of Scenic Studios
Frank Van Straten AM, Theatre Historian & former Director of the Performing Arts Museum
Staff of Public Record Office Victoria
Staff of AMS Imaging

A round of applause for all concerned!

IMAGES FROM THE LAUNCH

Click on images below 

The ballet Terra Australis, 1946. National Gallery of Australia, © Estate of William Constable, NGA 87.1943

William Constable’s career as a scenic artist spanned some sixty years, working for leading companies in Australia and Britain, but as Judy Leech explains, it was through his close association with Edouard Borovansky from 1940-1956, that he honed his craft.

What would the Reverend Archibald Henry Constable, rector of Bendigo's St John's Church of England, make of the fact that one of his housemaids, on her day off, had taken his four year-old son, William, to a performance of a play! The reverend gentleman deplored the theatre and he had forbidden his three sons to ever attend. 

The young William recalled, not the play nor the actors, but the colours, the painted walls and doors of the settings—his first experience, or exposure to, scenic design. The year was 1910.

In his teens William received some training or guidance in water-colour painting from the artist Meta Townsend, wife of Reginald Sturgess. These two had both been students at the National Gallery Art School of Victoria from 1909 to 1914. It was not until 1926, at the age of twenty, when William's apprenticeship at the Jolimont Workshops was terminated, that he could commence full-time study at the National Gallery, which was followed by a move to the UK and a period spent at St Martin's School of Art in London. He found work as a graphic designer and became involved in experimental theatre: at theatres such as the Embassy, in Swiss Cottage, now home to the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama. He was influenced by the modern school of stage design first introduced by the English designer Gordon Craig and the Swiss architect and theorist of stage lighting and design, Adolphe Appia. These experiences set his passion for life.

Returning to Australia in the early 1930s William Constable was engaged by Gregan McMahon to contribute his design expertise to the inaugural production of James Bridie's Jonah and the Whale at the newly opened Garrick Theatre in Melbourne.

Thus began a long and astonishingly varied career in scenic design, for the theatre a long, long list of plays and operas in Melbourne, Sydney, Adelaide, Brisbane, New Zealand and the UK, for film and television both here and during the years he spent in London from 1955 to 1972. He illustrated books, produced paintings, prints and murals, his work was exhibited across Australia and England.

But the principal subject or aim of this article is to be Constable's design for the ballet, most notably for one particular ballet company here in Australia.

Constable acknowledged his formative experience with the McMahon company and later, his indebtedness to the three tours of the de Basil and Ballets Russes companies, from 1936 to 1941, visits that had an extraordinary impact upon designers for the stage, local artists, dancers and choreographers. At the conclusion of these tours, or a dancer's contract with a company, a number—around one dozen—preferred to remain in Australia, and for an understandable variety of reasons, given the current state of the world. A few endeavoured to set up schools or companies, others were to join forces with these new ventures. Edouard and Xenia Borovansky opened an Academy of Dance/Russian Ballet in Roma House in Elizabeth Street, Melbourne (Czechoslovakian born Edouard —originally Eduard Skrecek—met his future wife Xenia Smirnova when they were both members of Anna Pavlova's company), others, including Valentin Zeglovsky, were to join the soon-to-be-formed Borovansky Ballet Company. 

Constable met Borovansky through the photographer Eric Rowell when they both attended the 1939 opening of the Roma House Studio. This was the start of a creative partnership and friendship to last until Boro's untimely death in 1959.

Constable's early designs, Vltava, Pas Classiqueand Autumn Leavesin 1940 were for the Roma Studio's recitals to help raise money for war charity benefits, from 1939 through to 1943. His first professional dance commission was for En Sagain 1941, a ballet choreographed by Laurel Martyn (who had danced with Sadler’s Wells and Borovansky and was later to form Victoria's Ballet Guild) and performed at a Red Cross Gala in Melbourne University's Union Theatre. The ballet was, essentially, an expression of hatred and rebellion against war. With a Finnish poem as a basis, and with the music of Jean Sibelius—chosen from one of his Tone Poems—Constable created costumes inspired by the folk-dress of Finland against a bleak, windswept backcloth. The whole production was greatly admired—the principal dancers, the choreography, and most importantly, the design.

The following year, 1942, the newly-formed company presented Les Sylphides at the Princess Theatre—designs by Constable, no doubt following the usual romantic woodland-glade tradition. That same year, Harry Tatlock Miller, journalist, art critic and expert in paintings and antiques, assembled an exhibition of Australian art for ballet and theatre, which included work by Constable, Loudon Sainthill, Amie Kingston, Elaine Haxton, William Dobell, Daryl Lindsay—among others. Many of these artists had contributed designs for another ballet company, albeit a short-lived one, formed by the Sydney-based Hélène Kirsova, another one of the dancers who had ‘stayed behind’.

In the early 1940s the dancer Valentin Zeglovsky, who had also chosen to remain in Australia, set up a school in a studio in the house in which he lived in Potts Point. He submitted patent applications to the relevant authorities for four ballets, one of which was The Red Poppy,a ballet first created for the Bolshoi in 1927 and the first Soviet ballet with a modern revolutionary theme. Who knows exactly what Zeglovsky had in mind—the original version had over sixty separate segments or divertissements! The most famous, and remembered, being the Russian Sailors' Dance. The music was by Reinhold Glière, the original choreography by Lev Laschiline and Vasily Tikhomirov.

There is no evidence of Zeglovsky's version, apart from Constable's beautifully rendered costume designs, shown here. A tragic waste! From Zeglovsky's autobiography, his Ballet Crusade,we know he danced in the original ballet with the Riga State Opera Company in 1929.

In 1943 the ballet Façade was to be presented by the Borovansky Ballet and with these designs Constable decided not to attempt to follow the lead of the London production at Sadler's Wells. When he began to prepare his designs, he had no knowledge of the score—he knew only the outline of the crazy plot. Once he had heard the music he scrapped all his designs and started over again. His keen musical sense dictated his designs—'you paint the music’ he was often quoted as saying. He considered the English costumes and decor far too literal and conventional for William Walton's marvellously ‘mad’ music.

The original Façade was first produced in July 1940 in London with sets and costumes by John Armstrong. The one-act ballet was freely adapted from poems by Edith Sitwell, but Walton's orchestral suite Façade was first used for a ballet by the German choreographer Gunter Hess, who created a series of six divertissements for his German Chamber Dance Theatre. First performed at the International Musical Festival in Siena in 1929 the Hess production inspired the Camargo Society (later to be known as Vic Wells, Sadler's Wells, and ultimately the Royal Ballet) to commission the English choreographer Frederick Ashton to create their own version.

George Upward, a scenic artist featured in previous THA articles, executed Façade’sscenery. He was well established as a designer and scenic artist with Kathleen Robinson and Alec Coppel's Minerva Theatre at Potts Point in Sydney when Constable, in 1941, was given his first commission for the play Mr Smart Guy. (Hélène Kirsova's 40-member ballet company had a six-week season at the Minerva Theatre in the same year, before relocating to His Majesty's Theatre in Melbourne.) Constable went on to create the designs, over the years, for at least two dozen productions at this theatre. Obviously, and as Scenic Director, he was under some form of contract with them as the scenery and costume designs for Façade were by courtesy of Robinson and Coppel's Whitehall Theatrical Productions. He would have used the company's paint-rooms and workshops at the Minerva Theatre, as Whitehall had held the lease since 1941, only vacating the premises in early 1950 when Metro Goldwyn Mayer purchased the building.

But for the most part, sets for Boro were constructed and cloths painted in Melbourne, in the dedicated areas behind His Majesty's Theatre in Cohen Place, once Brown's Lane.^1. Constable, and Upward, called on the talents and expertise of scenic artists such as J. Alan (George) Kenyon and his son John, Rupert Browne, Cecil Newman and many, sadly un-named, assistants. Ballet programmes now, invariably, inform us where sets have been built, scenery painted, costumes created, and so on. Very few, back in the 40s and 50s, were so enlightening.

In 1943 Constable created the designs for Vltava,a ballet he had first worked on during the studio recitals period. The music was written by Bedrich Smetana as part of a cycle of compositions entitled My Country (or Má Vlast). The ballet expresses the River Moldau, as it flows from its source to the sea, and old Bohemia with its legends, its castles, forests and plains.

Giselle,with very traditional decor and costumes by Constable, followed in 1944, and another exhibition of designs and drawings, created in connection with the company, was displayed in the foyers of the J.C. Williamson theatres. Constable again, along with Alan McCulloch, John Rowell, Daryl Lindsay, William Dargie and Len Annois. Also in 1944, Act 2 of Swan Lakewas staged—designed by Constable.

The following year, 1945, would appear to be a year devoted to a formidable string of dramatic and comedic productions, predominantly in NSW for the Minerva, Independent and New Theatres, and for the Tivoli circuit.

For the ballet Terra Australis,in 1946, Constable designed the decor for the Sydney version only. Eve Harris was responsible for the original Melbourne one and her design was criticised for its lack of depth. In the 1947 season Constable produced a new backdrop using a row of totem poles of diminishing height to create an illusion of greater depth. Terra Australispremiered in May 1946 and, as Boro's first work on an Australian theme, was considered his most important original creation. Based on a story by Tom Rothfield, the ballet was set to a score by Esther Rofe and told of the struggle between the white man, the Explorer as danced by Martin Rubinstein, and the Aboriginal (Vassilie Trunoff, late of the Ballets Russes), for the possession of Australia, represented by a young girl, as portrayed by Peggy Sager. Helen Ffrance created the role of the Earth.

The original costume designs by Leon Bakst for Diaghilev's 1910 production of Scheherazadein Paris had a considerable impact on fashion, French in particular, popularizing loose and flowing oriental-style garments. Obviously Constable used these designs, in 1946, as an inspiration—Edward H. Pask in his Ballet in Australia: the second act—claimed that ‘those of William Constable and Leon Bakst evoked a great deal more of the supposed sultry, mysterious and perfume-laden atmosphere than any subsequent production’. The photographs recording Boro's 1946 Scheherazadeillustrate just how exotically dramatic and sumptuous the ballet was—if only there existed some film footage in colour!

In this same year Constable was responsible for the designs for Coppélia and, thanks to Boro's wonderful characterisation as Dr Coppelius, and Edna Busse as Swanhilda, this ballet became a firm favourite of the company's repertoire. (In 1960 Kenneth Rowell was commissioned to create new designs for the ballet and in 1979 it was Kristian Fredrikson's opportunity.)

For the next two or three years Constable produced many designs for a variety of theatre companies, principally, again, in NSW. As financial assistance had been withdrawn from JCW, the ballet company had disbanded, but in August 1949 Boro's Educational Ballet Club was formed and programs were again presented at Roma House, even though a number of the dancers had headed for Europe or sought employment elsewhere in Australia.

The Black Swan,the second of Boro's Australiana ballets, was premiered at Roma House in September 1949 (but was fully and theatrically presented at the Empire Theatre in Sydney in June 1951). The story, set in three acts to the music of Jean Sibelius, tells of the 17th century visit to Western Australia by the explorer Captain Brandt of the Dutch East India Company. Of the decor and costumes the Age critic wrote: ‘William Constable's sets are superb: his design for the Black Swan's costume produced something ethereal and beautiful … However, more effective lighting on a larger stage would improve it [the set], but as it was presented last night the melancholy loneliness and wonder of an undiscovered land were not suggested’. No doubt with the re-staging of the ballet two years later these faults were rectified!

A newly re-formed Ballet Company assembled in late 1950, to commence rehearsals for a new season.

But earlier, in July 1950, Sydney was treated to the premiere of Rex Reid's Corroboree,choreographed for Melbourne's National Theatre Ballet Company, and to the world-acclaimed music of John Antill. It was built up from snatches of tunes of the indigenous people at La Perouse that Antill had heard and which had then taken him eight years to compose and complete as a score. The Sydney Morning Herald critic wrote, following the ballet's premiere on the 3 July 1950—‘Constable's decor, a rocky desert outcrop rising to a garish sky, is a masterpiece of theatre design’. And much later Olga Sedneva, writes: ‘… [he used] bold organic shapes, strong details, variation in textures and contrasting colours in set designs …’.^2. He created a minimalistic composition that accurately translated to the desert of Central Australia to contrast with the night sky’.^3. The ballet travelled to Perth and then to Melbourne in early 1951.  

And, leaping ahead, in Sydney on 6 February 1954, a reworked version of Constable's set for Corroboreewas the highlight of a royal gala for Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip. Beth Dean (originally from Denver, Colorado and a lecturer, choreographer, writer and critic) was commissioned to completely re-choreograph the ballet. Dean and her husband Victor Carell had made an extensive study of the music, legends and dance of the Australian Aborigines. A more authentic production of Corroboreewas created as a consequence.

And how interesting it is to observe the progress and development of Constable's style, or styles, from those first designs for the studio through to those of Terra Australis, Scheherazadeand Corroboree.The early ballet decors, somewhat two-dimensional, simply replicated what had gone before, with other companies, but soon the versatile and creative Constable was illuminating our stages by demonstrating his true artistic prowess!

Nineteen fifty-one was to be an important and momentous year, being both the Centenary of Victoria and the Jubilee of the Commonwealth, and a year of the most extraordinary artistic achievements for William Constable!

Click here to read Part 2 of this article»

Endnotes

1. See Framing the Past, https://theatreheritage.org.au/on-stage-magazine/general-articles/item/558-framing-the-past
2. See ‘Rediscovering the Stage Designs of Bill Constable: Corroboree and other ballet designs’, Sydney Mechanics’ School of Arts, 18 October 2016, https://smsa.org.au/events/event/rediscovering-bill-constable-ballets-lost-designer
3. See also William Henry Archibald Constable, Design and Art, https://www.daao.org.au/bio/william-henry-archibald-constable/biography

Sources

Cornelius Conyn, Three Centuries of Ballet, Elsevier Press, Houston, 1953 
Jean Garling, Australian Notes on the Ballet, Legend Press, Sydney, 195-
Norman MacGeorge, Borovansky Ballet in Australia and New Zealand, F.W. Cheshire, Melbourne, 1946, available online, http://nla.gov.au/nla.obj-498778442
Edward H. Pask, Ballet in Australia: the second act, Oxford University Press, Melbourne, 1982
PIX Magazine, vol. 14, no. 19, November 1944, available online, https://nla.gov.au/nla.obj-449744968/view?sectionId=nla.obj-478973642&partId=nla.obj-449934804#page/n17/mode/1up
Sydney Ure Smith (editor), Present Day Art in Australia, Ure Smith, Sydney, 1943 & 1945
Valentin Zeglovsky, Ballet Crusade, Reed & Harris, Melbourne, 1943

I am indebted to:
Australian Performing Arts Collection, AusStage, Tom Breen, Alan Brissenden, Cornelius Conyn, Frederick W.L. Esch, Jean Garling, Bob Hill, John Hood, Joan Kerr, Barry Kitcher, Norman MacGeorge, Edward H. Pask, Michelle Potter, Frank Salter, Olga Sedneva, Jean Stewart, Frank Van Straten, Pamela J. Zeplin Waite, Kenneth Wilkinson, and Valentin Zeglovsky

Constable & Borovansky: collage by Judy Leech.

Judy Leech concludes her look at the life and work of Australian scenic artist William Constable, with particular focus on his creations for the ballet stage and his designs for Edouard Borovansky’s company. Click here to read Part 1 of this article»

Nineteen fifty-one was to be an important and momentous year, being both the Centenary of Victoria and the Jubilee of the Commonwealth, and a year of the most extraordinary artistic achievements for William Constable!

In February, as part of these celebrations, the National Theatre Arts Festival Committee held a Theatre Arts Display in the Print Gallery of the then National Gallery in Swanston Street, Melbourne. The artist, teacher and stage designer John Rowell (brother of William and uncle to Kenneth) was appointed convenor and various items, equipment, costumes and designs were lent by the Myer Emporium, J.C. Williamson Ltd, the Ballet Guild and the Victorian and New South Wales Galleries. Puppeteer Don Nicol and Swinburne Art College lecturer Mrs Winter, and her students, created a puppet theatre, complete with performances.

Over one hundred items were exhibited, including those of John Brunton, W.R. Coleman, Phil Goatcher, Ann Church, J. Alan (George) Kenyon, Daryl and Norman Lindsay, John and Kenneth Rowell, Loudon Sainthill, George Upward—to name only a few—and, of course, Bill Constable.

Alan McCulloch (also represented) wrote an excellent and enlightening foreword entitled ‘Designing for Theatre’. ‘The year 1909,’ he wrote, ‘When Serge Diaghilev produced the first Russian ballets in Paris, marked the beginning of a new era in the art of designing for the stage.’^1.

The Constable designs displayed were decors for Petrouchka, Aurora's Wedding and Scheherezade. A celebration indeed.

On the 6 April at Sydney's Empire Theatre the ballet Petrouchka was premiered. The choreography was by Borovansky, after Michel Fokine, with the music of Stravinsky, a ballet first presented to the world in 1911, at the Théâtre du Châtelet in Paris, by Serge Diaghilev's Russian Ballet. Forty years later, William Constable truly did the ballet justice. In the original 1951 programme Thomas Essington Breen wrote: ‘His work is exciting, imaginative and real theatre. While principally confined to the perceptual, Constable's decor is always at one with the dancing, the while commanding separate attention and yet fusing into the whole. When Constable appends a faded and forlorn-looking rose on the heart of Petrouchka, one respects his innovation. Constable says that the rose makes Petrouchka seem most pathetic—and I agree with him. Pursuits may consider this to be sacrilege, but, set in the subtle variations given by Constable to the costume, it is not.’^2.

Breen was a journalist (plus a man of many passions and interests) on The Sydney Morning Herald where he covered his long-term loves, the ballet and the theatre. He had married the sculptor Charlotte ‘Bill’ Hart and her clay figurines of Petrouchka and other characters from the ballets were displayed in the foyer of the Empire.

Breen also wrote of Petrouchka that Constable's decor for the opening scene had ‘more theatre feeling’ than Benois' original which preserved the real appearance of a Russian Fair. And, again, of Constable's costume design for Petrouchka: ‘It shows a masterly conception of the character's profound tragedy. If anything, Constable has deepened this aspect of the character.’^3.

In 1976 the late-lamented Ballet Victoria (originally Laurel Martyn's Ballet Guild) staged this ballet at the Palais in St Kilda and their sets were based on the original Alexandre Benois designs of 1911. Dennis Law was the Scenic and Property supervisor. Where are these designs now—where indeed are those of Benois? not to mention those of Constable?! But the Petrouchka of 1951 will long remain in the memories of many—the combination of Stravinsky's music, the Fokine based and inspired choreography and Constable's vividly imagined and executed sets (assisted by Michael Biddulph) and frankly, gorgeous costumes.

Two weeks later, La Boutique Fantasque premiered in Sydney. The music was by Gioachino Rossini, arranged and orchestrated by Ottorino Respighi, and the choreography was by Leonide Massine, on which Borovansky based his. In fact Borovansky stole the show, time and time again, dancing the role of the bewildered and befuddled shopkeeper. In 1919, in the original Ballet Russe production, this role was played by the legendary Enrico Cecchetti.

This is a ballet that really should be re-staged—it is a delight from start to finish, although one should be prepared, very possibly, to be moved to tears by the sad plight—albeit temporary—of the two ‘can can’ dolls! Many a local ballet school has attempted to reproduce this ballet but what it requires is a fully professional re-creation, and as close to the original 1919 designs of Andre Derain as possible—or to those of Constable in 1951!                                

On the 4 May 1951, Aurora's Wedding (the final act of the full-length ballet, still in the planning stage, The Sleeping Princess) had its first performance at Sydney's Empire Theatre. Another magnificent backdrop by Constable, and a mere fourteen days later the premiere of The Outlaw, and Boro's second major work on an Australian theme, relating to episodes in the life of Ned Kelly, the country's (in)famous outlaw. Boro commissioned the music and worked closely with the composer Verdon Williams (the following year he was appointed Musical Director of the National Theatre Ballet), Clive Turnbull wrote the Prologue, and after hearing the story and the score, Constable set to work on both the sets and the costumes.

In this same year, on the first of June, there occurred one of the most important events of the season. A new work set to the music of Schumann, his Piano Quintet, Op. 44. The ballet Chiaroscuro was contemporary in all senses of the word. Choreographed by the Australian Dorothy Stevenson, a highly-regarded and stunningly beautiful dancer, for both the abstract decor and the costumes Constable made much use of shades of grey, and of yellow and white. Winding motifs were appliqued on the costumes, setting off the sensitively-lit and extremely striking ‘modern’ decor.

What with the preparations in 1951 for so many new ballets, the Paint Frame at Sydney's Theatre Royal would have been stretched to its limits, and this just happened to be the year that Paul Kathner commenced work in the painting department, thanks to Bill Constable and to a newly created vacancy, brought about by the departure of a staff member having been diagnosed with a form of colour-blindness. Paul had been working as an office boy at J.C. Williamson's in Sydney and had become curious about the painting of scenery, having avidly followed the ballet, from Kirsova's Company and the Ballet Rambert tour, through to Boro's.

Once again, I am greatly indebted to the words and findings of designer Rosemary Simons.

Paul, at sixteen, was now assistant to Bill—who headed the Scenic Art team—a team consisting of Rupert Browne and Irishman Tommy Moor. Daily, Paul had to arrive before Constable and prepare the paint and equipment, which included setting up the pallet—large movable tables for blending paint—assembling and positioning the required buckets of water, ensuring the glue-size was heated to the right consistency and making sure the primer, made from a combination of whiting, glue-size and water, was mixed and ready. This was an established daily routine for Paul although, generally, Bill was not a highly regimented person, in fact could be quite haphazard in his approach. Nevertheless, he taught Paul the craft of ‘getting a show on stage’.

Constable and Rupert Browne were the two most influential scenic art teachers in Paul's career—the former a graphic artist and serious painter and Browne, who had been formally trained and worked alongside Constable on many of the ballets. Paul spent a lot of time just watching Rupert paint. Bill painted his own designs and his scenic art style was often tailored to the needs of these designs—he invented techniques to suit. In those days it was common practice for designers to execute their own designs. Paul was greatly influenced and impressed by Bill's commitment to designing ballets while listening to the ballet's score, allowing time for the music to sink in. He maintained that a good ballet design was an exercise in ‘painting the music’.

Still in this same year, 1951, Paul, Rupert and Bill moved to Melbourne, to the King's Theatre, to work on Boro's Sleeping Princess. At this time the theatre, near the corner of Russell and Little Collins Streets, was principally a cinema, however scenic artists could hire the old paint frame located above the stage. Paul remembers it as a ‘lovely paint room’, bigger than either the Princess or Her Majesty's paint rooms, with skylights so large you could paint relying just on natural light.

On the first of December, Melbourne was treated to the premiere of a ballet by Paul Grinwis (Belgian dancer and choreographer who had, that same year, choreographed and created the decor and costumes for his interpretation of L'après-midi d'un faune) entitled Les Amants Éternels —The Eternal Lovers—(a story) telling of Romeo and Juliet united and awake in the after-life. Constable created a surrealistic and very dramatic decor in ochre and grey—shades of Dali and Loudon Sainthill! Set to Tchaikovsky's Romeo and Juliet fantasy overture, this was the only original work that year to be included in further seasons, its final performance occurring in 1960, with a 1954 revision of the work by Grinwis, when the ballet gained in dramatic force and showed more clearly the struggle between Love and Death.

Intended as a Christmas attraction, on the 22 December 1951, at Her Majesty's Theatre in Melbourne, the full length ballet The Sleeping Princess was presented and again, Constable was responsible for the designs. The ballet was first produced at the Mariinsky Theatre, St Petersburg, in January 1890, but was not seen by the west until a good thirty years later, when it appeared in London and was presented by Diaghilev's Ballet Russe.

Boro's ballet boasted three intervals and an astonishingly long list of cast members, including students from Madame Borovansky's Ballet School. According to many, the production, set in five scenes (with 300 costumes), was far too colourful and the costumes distractingly lavish, but according to the programme notes it was ‘the first production in Australia of the most spectacular ballet ever produced’.^4.

How many assistants, over 1950-1951 would Constable have needed in order to create this staggering line-up of ballets? (It was not until 1960 and long after Bill had left Australia for the UK that Ross Turner—much later to found, along with Paul Kathner, the firm Scenic Studios—joined Williamson's and the staff of scenic artists and designers based at Her Majesty's Theatre's Paint Frame in Melbourne.)

Due to the sudden death of King George VI in 1952 the proposed Royal Visit by Princess Elizabeth and Prince Philip was cancelled, which meant the cancellation also of a Royal Command Performance of the Borovansky Ballet. It was not until early 1954 that the company reformed (having been somewhat decimated in late 1952) and once again Constable's work was displayed upon the ballet stage, although in the interim he had been far from idle, producing glorious settings and costumes for four important opera companies, one of which happened to be the début performance of Joan Sutherland!

January 1954 saw Constable's fabulous designs for the ballet Symphonie Fantastique, with choreography by Kiril Vassilkovsky based on that of Leonide Massine. Vassilkovsky had danced here in the original Ballets Russes production in 1939-1940. Two months later Fokine's Prince Igor was presented, and in April the ballet Candide. In one of the company's 1954 programmes, Constable wrote ‘ballet is a blending of three arts... a meeting of the poetry of movement, music and painting—a poem distilled of three arts and beyond the need of the spoken word’.^5.

Set to Hector Berlioz's powerful and haunting score, for Symphonie Fantastique Constable produced surreal and strikingly macabre decors for the ballet's five scenes. They follow the drugged Musician's wandering mind where he imagines his Beloved, the woman whose image haunts him, has been transformed into the leader of a Witches' Sabbath. Constable presents a ballroom, a peaceful rural place, a landscape with spinning-top-like shapes and a further two settings. The Age reviewer wrote that the ballet ‘has many memorable moments. Among them are the vermilion and white ballroom scene with its swirling choreography; the idyllic pastoral scene and the leering, grotesque March to the Gallows, with its Daumier-like costumes and attitudes’.^6. And the Melbourne Sun's reviewer: ‘Here is a company of more than 50 dancers of world standard, a symphony orchestra, and a lavish artistry of costume and decor which would receive acclaim in any country.’^7. It was a hugely successful ballet according to many, but to others, not, it is reported, a completely satisfying production. It would really be something to see it reproduced, with reference to either these designs of Constable, or those of the original designer, Christian Bèrnard.

The Polovtsian Dances from the opera Prince Igor, by all accounts extremely colourful and energetically danced, was a ballet that actually brought about the reinstating of the male dancer. The wild barbarity of these dances (Fokine's choreography, reproduced by Vassilie Trunoff, another of the Ballets Russes dancers) had been enthusiastically welcomed, back in 1909, when Diaghilev's company first presented them. The ballet is an excerpt from the second act of the opera, by Aleksandr Borodin. The original backdrop, by Nicholas Roerich, and of which there are many records, revealed an empty, desolate landscape, in which were pitched the beehive tents of the Polovtsi, with the smoke from their camp-fires trailing across the sky. We can only imagine that Constable produced something similar and that Roerich's wonderfully textured and patterned costumes also inspired him.

For Candide—a ‘Farcical Ballet in One Act—A Parody by Kiril Vassilkovsky’—Constable made use of a screen for the Lovers and others to hide behind, a lovely light Rococo-inspired setting. The music, chosen from Rossini overtures, thoroughly matched the choreography and the telling of the tale, an adaptation from Voltaire, with a cast of characters that included Candide, Cunegonde, Paquette, Pangloss and The Baron. Bill designed the scenery, Jean Miotte the costumes. Miotte (1926-2016), was a French abstract painter, in the style known as l'abstraction lyrique. Born in Paris, he was greatly influenced and inspired by the Ballets Russes. Unfortunately, the ballet Candide was only moderately successful and did not remain long in the repertoire.

Now we come to 1955 and Les Presages—or, Tchaikovsky's Fifth Symphony. In Paris in 1933 this ballet, choreographed by Leonide Massine, sparked a controversy worthy of the old Diaghilev Ballets Russes days, purely because it was danced to a symphony. Shock! Horror! Critics, musicians and angry balletomanes proclaimed that the use of a symphony for a theatrical dance work was sacrilegious. Simply—not on. Later, in London, leading British music critic Ernest Newman was overwhelmingly in favour ‘... the inner life of the work, as an organic piece of musical thinking, is not diminished but actually enhanced’.^8.

In the Borovansky production, choreographed by Warsaw-born Yurek Shabelewski, the 1955 programme states: ‘The choreographic design of Tchaikovsky's Fifth Symphony is inspired by the composer's notes to his score which reflect his fatalistic nature and his fear of the inadequacy of man in the face of Fate.’^9. The ballet is in four movements—Action, Love-Passion-Fate, Volatility and Conquest.

In Australia Dances, Michael Brissenden (with Keith Glennon) wrote: ‘The most effective feature of the production was William Constable's scenic design.’^10. Edward Pask wrote that the ballet ‘was designed in splendid style by William Constable’.^11.

In November 1955 the ballet, Francesca da Rimini, by David Lichine and Henry Clifford, and choreographed by the former, was presented at Sydney's Empire Theatre. With music by Tchaikovsky this ballet was first performed by Colonel de Basil's company in 1937 at Covent Garden and was now restaged by Lichine for Boro, with all new sets and costumes by Constable. The ballet was in two scenes, and featured a huge castle doorway at the rear of the stage, to the left a throne on a dais, and to the right a row of pillared casements. The richly coloured costumes created an atmosphere of Renaissance luxury and decadence. The story is taken from the Fifth Canto of Dante's Inferno. Boro had created the role of the chief spy, Girolamo, in the original 1937 production. In 1955, Frank Salter danced this role—he went on to write Borovansky: the man who made Australian ballet, a biography published in 1980 by the Wildcat Press.

Also in 1954 Bill was involved, in a major capacity, in the production of the film Long John Silver(and later the TV series The Adventures of Long John Silver) at Pagewood Studios in Sydney. He was appointed Production Designer on what was to be the first Cinemascope film to be shot in Australia. For more on this period in his career please refer to Bob Hill and his article ‘The Strange and Wondrous Tale of Bill Constable and the Cinemascope Pirates of Pagewood’.

On the 17 February 1956, David Lichine presented the world premiere of Corrida, a Spanish ballet set to music of Scarlatti—a dramatic and violent tale of a great matador who is driven mad over a love obsession that goes horribly wrong. This remarkable setting, with strikingly colourful costumes, was Constable's—I have counted up to two dozen!—last design for the Borovansky Company.

But by the end of 1955, and at the conclusion of his work in Sydney with the film and television studios, and the ballet, with Sophie his second wife, and their very young daughter Deirdre (Dee), Constable had left their Castlecrag home in Sydney and set off back to London. Over the next sixteen years old acquaintances and connections were renewed, much film work ensued—he worked on at least a dozen productions, including The Trials of Oscar Wilde, Dr Who & the Daleks and Lord Jim—and in 1959 the London Festival Ballet, now the English National Ballet, commissioned him to design sets and costumes for the ballet London Morning. The music and libretto were by Noel Coward and the choreography by Jack Carter. According to The Sphere, a London illustrated newspaper, ‘Coward was commissioned to write the work (performed at London's Festival Hall) which brings to the stage a number of London characters and types in what some purists regard more as dance revue than true ballet’.^12.

The choreographer Jack Carter was to create, five years later, the ballet Agrionia, in which Joyce Graeme dominated. She had directed the National Theatre Ballet Company here in Melbourne from 1948 to 1951, having stayed on after the Ballet Rambert's tours in the 1940s. Clement Crisp wrote of her ‘a superb dance artist—her Myrtha (in the ballet Giselle) with Ballet Rambert still remains the best I ever expect to see’.^13.

Back in Australia that year, 1959, two days after delivering his usual opening-night speech in Sydney at the first performance of a revival of The Sleeping Princess, Borovansky suffered a heart attack. Less than a week later in hospital, he died, shortly after suffering a second attack. On the 18 December his death was announced to the audience, after the company—both shocked and stricken with grief—had somehow managed to perform, to ‘carry on’. When Constable had met up with him in London the year before, he had found him aged, exhausted, and in a futile search for a new assistant, an ‘artistic controller’, having very recently lost his long-time personal assistant/stage manager Colleen Gough. He felt that he had been abandoned—by everyone. Their farewell was intensely distressing to Bill, and he realised that it really was, this time, goodbye.

In 1966 Constable was back in Australia, briefly, to design the sets and costumes for the Australian Opera's (now Opera Australia) Boris Goudonov. Sadly his sets were replaced three years later as they were thought to be ‘over-saturated with colour’.^14.

But in 1973 Constable returned permanently to Australia. He worked briefly for J.C. Williamson and was asked to design the house curtain for Her Majesty's Theatre in Sydney, which, happily, was recently discovered in Adelaide and now hangs in the Queensland University of Technology Gardens Theatre. The original 1973 design depicts the muse of the theatre, instead of the rather obvious phoenix, rising from the ashes, flanked by candy-striped banners symbolising light entertainment and sombre ones symbolising opera and tragedy. This theatre had first burnt down in 1902 (having been built in 1887) and then again in 1970. Two other major works of Constable's, during the 1970s, were lost to fire or demolition.

A digression I feel must be made, in view of several recent articles dealing here with theatre design and ballet: very understandably, through J.C. Williamson's, Constable had become acquainted with Sir Frank and Lady Tait and their three daughters, Isla, Ann and Sally. Over the 1950s and later, when he had returned to Australia in the early 1970s (and after Frank Tait's death in 1965), Bill had become a real friend of the family. Ann, an artist (illustrator and doll-maker) in her own right, and because of their shared interests and passions, was most probably the one closest to him.

Principally Constable was now concentrating on painting, exhibiting extensively artwork and prints of Central Australia and the Great Barrier Reef. So many paintings, illustrations, set and costume designs for theatre, ballet, opera and film—his list of achievements is staggeringly long. In late 1987, and into 1988, the Performing Arts Museum (now Australian Performing Arts Collection) mounted an exhibition and celebrated his life and work as ‘one of Australia's most noted stage, film and television designers: a lifetime of achievement presented against an exciting insight into the development of the performing arts since the 1930s’.^15.

When William Constable died, on the 22 August 1989, in Melbourne, you may be sure his easel, paints and brushes were not so very far from his side. His establishment of the stage designer as a profession is one of his many important legacies to us, and most particularly, as I hope I have somehow managed to convey here, to the world of ballet.

Endnotes

1. Theatre Arts Display, National Theatre Arts Festival, Melbourne, Feb 1951, p. 2.
2. Borovansky Ballet Jubilee programme, Apr 1951, p. 17.
3. ibid.
4. Borovansky Ballet Jubilee programme, Dec 1951, p. 16.
5. William Constable article in Borovansky Ballet souvenir programme, 1954.
6. J.B. McA., ‘Brilliant spectacle at ballet opening’, The Age (Melbourne, Vic), 1 Feb 1954, p. 2, https://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/206087351
7. The Sun (Melbourne, Vic), Jan 1954.
8. Valerie Lawson, ‘The Birth of Symphonic Ballet’, 2007.
9. Borovansky Ballet programme, 1955, p. 17.
10. Australia Dances by Alan Brissenden & Keith Glennon, p. 29.
11. Edward H. Pask, Ballet in Australia, p. 81.
12. The Sphere (London), 15 Aug 1959, p. 39.
13. Clement Crisp, unidentified clip, Sep 1964.
14. Frank Van Straten, ‘William Constable 1906-1989’, 2007.
15. Performing Arts Museum Exhibition schedule, 1987.

Sources

Alan Brissenden & Keith Glennon, Australia Dances: creating Australian dance 1945-1965, Wakefield Press, Kent Town, SA, 2010

Valerie Lawson, ‘The Birth of Symphonic Ballet’, 2007, https://dancelines.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2011/02/Pages-from-Destiny-2007.pdf

Edward H. Pask, Ballet in Australia: the second act, 1940-1980, Oxford University Press, Melbourne, 1981

Frank Salter, Borovansky, the man who made Australian ballet, Wildcat Press, Sydney, 1980

Theatre Arts Display, National Theatre Arts Festival, Melbourne, Feb 1951, p. 2.

Frank Van Straten, ‘William Constable 1906-1989’, 2007, Live Performance Australia (website), http://www.liveperformance.com.au/halloffame/williamconstable1.html

Acknowledgements

Again, I am most indebted to the following: 

Australian Performing Arts Collection, AusStage, Alan Brissenden, Deirdre Constable, Mimi Colligan, Claudia Funder, (the late) Keith Glennon, Bob Hill, Barry Kitcher, Joan Kerr, Elisabeth Kumm, Paul Kathner, (the late) Edward H. Pask, Michelle Potter, Simon Piening, Frank Salter, Olga Sedneva, Viola Ann Seddon, (the late) Jean Stewart, Rosemary Simons, Ross Turner, Frank Van Straten, and Pamela J. Zeplin Waite