The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, December 14, 1902, Page 26

bere: that won't scene is all mix Amber s, squattin , barren stage)— Oskiand. Don’t forget that Oal s always San Francisco’s stock joke. re g to Oekland,” Miss Am- than the author nobody in that eerie light of d at this sally. Fischer pl , qne quickly di earsal that nothing could to the actors themselves. r Lask clapped his hands self heard above the noise. 1 song, Miss Am- horus. Come, girls; You all carry scene.” asked Dill with his seat in a wings ought to o of stage carpenters were now convert- an awe-in- fous to the Joki answered g in his work of rus in serried ranks. t, 50 please cut it hwell Browne? Ah, or that owne, the slender and as grace- me as a Parisian ballet quee: ons like a Tyrolean warb- mysteriously from some- ths of the cavernous a and skirts. ; left hand ding the skirts; point 1 arched Is—waist move- our toes, Net- side wall about half or). Ready, Miss Am- Tum, tum, tum. Tum, our head, Pauline; down stage left, Miss lare. Tum, tum, tum.” til the tin-panny strains at which the musical di: e up the whole orchestra, ro girls—still—every- that's it—curtain’—shouted without waiting to take Third act—Clear the incipals—All on.” d, Blake, Miss Am- reassembled. Ib and Dill are up stage, left, as the Mandarin 1i Hung Chang and the Gelsha tea garden proprietor. Your cue, Miss Amber, is “the girl with the chang- ing ey Let’s try that song. There’s sood “pusiness” on that chorus. Diil—What's the ‘“business?” Lask—Miss Amber as The Geeser Girl makes love to you first and then to Kolb. ou both do jealous stunts. On that treble, Dill, you run the scale on your pipe as if it were a flute. Kolb kicks yol1 in the stomach. O the finale of chorus, Miss Amber sips away from you, and you smbrace each other. When you dis- cover the deception simultanepusly, Kolb kicks you again. Then ‘“business” of choking—until encore. Now let's hear it. The song was gone over perfunctorily in a way that would never be recognized as the same song at a regular perform- ance. In fact even the best written bur- lesque 1is so emasculated, with local puns and new “business,” to fit the ipdi- vidual idiosyncrasies of the actors them- selves, that the original author wouldn't know his own work. : “Now comes the quartet and then you, Blake. Where's Blake—Oh, Blake, this is your cue.” Enter Blake with his stage sweetheart. Blake—And now that love is at an end THE SUNDAY CALL. S BIR E-SQUE« IS BUIL-T AREs >OU LcAUCHH The stars Themselves. have Jieoubles you can return my letters and say fare well. Stage Sweetheart—What's love? Blake—Only a pastime between two fools. Stage Sweetheart—Then when one mar- ries a title, one need not love. Lask—Get ready everybody. All on for Bernard's procession and grand finale. Bernard, you come on in a sedan chalr costume. Lask—No; now where's that “business ‘with money.” Stage Sweetheart—There’s your thou- sand dollars in gold. (Hands Bernard a mythical sack of gold.) Bernard (sotto voce)—If it was only real. Everybody laughed. The line wasn’ n the manuscript, but Lask was quick to see the point. “That’s good line, Bernard—use It,” he cried. . “And now the finale song. Cur- tain,” he added briefly, whemn the en= semble was done. It was now balf past three. The re- hearsal had been on since 10 a. m. There was a wild scramble for dre: but Lask stopped it at the narr way stairs, leading underground benea" the stage. “There's a call for the full chorus at the costumer’s after rehearsal to try on kimonos and things. Don’t forget.” And so the process of bullding a Christs mas burlesque to make you laugh was over for one day.