Thursday, September 20th., Cadogan Square, London.
Dorothy and I went to see my play, "The Return Journey", at the St. James's. Full house. An ordeal. The play seemed to me to be very harrowing. Now that it is in performance I feel disconnected from it, which is rather strange - why didn't I think it was harrowing when I was writing the blessed thing? I suppose what this means is that the author only contributes so much, and so much more is brought to the production by the director and the actors; so whose play is it eventually? Cynically I think it will be mine if it is unsuccessful, which I suspect will be the case!
The upper circle and the dress circle liked it better than the stalls, or showed their liking more; probably they are simply less polite. We talked to Gerald duMaurier afterwards in his dressing room and didn't get to bed until 12.30. Exhausted. Goodish might though.
I was thinking today about absent-mindedness. It has only struck me as I have gottten older just how apposite this descriptive phrase is. For example two days ago I was out walking and took a spectacle case with me in my bag should I need to put my reading glasses away. Yesterday, I was wanting to put my glasses in their case but couldn't find it. Searched around but no sign. Then I thought about my bag, and there, sure enough was the case which I put my glasses in. Later in the day I needed my glasses but couldn't find them anywhere. Where could they be? Searched about again, getting increasingly frustrated. Surely I couldn't have put the case back in my bag - yes indeed. I told myself off and swore always to put the case (and the glasses) in their designated home. This morning, walking through the house what should I chance upon lying on a side table but my glasses case! How is it possible that I should have become so absent minded? The thing is that, so far as I recall, there was nothing particular distracting me - I was simply and unaccountably absent. This sort of thing seems to be happening to me more and more frequently.
Showing posts with label The Return Journey. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Return Journey. Show all posts
Wednesday, 20 September 2017
Wednesday, 19 October 2016
A Full Day
Friday, October 19th., Cadogan Square, London.
I wrote 1,000 words of a short story before noon. I then walked two miles and then drove to the Garrick Club. where du Maurier lunched with me. He practically wanted me to re-write Acts 2 and 3 of "The Return Journey". I told him I couldn't but gave him leave to fool around with the play.
Sir Gerald Hubert Edward Busson du Maurier (26 March 1873 – 11 April 1934) was an English actor and manager. He was the son of the writer George du Maurier and brother of Sylvia Llewelyn Davies. In 1902, he married the actress Muriel Beaumont with whom he had three daughters: writers Angela du Maurier (1904–2002) and Daphne du Maurier (1907–1989), and painter Jeanne du Maurier (1911–1996). His popularity lay in his subtle and naturalistic acting: a "delicately realistic style of acting that sought to suggest rather than to state the deeper emotions". His Times obituary said of his career: "His parentage assured him of engagements in the best of company to begin with; but it was his own talent that took advantage of them."
We reached the Ravel concert at the Aeolian Hall 20 minutes late and Ravel himself came into the vestibule. We talked a bit. I hadn't seen him since he came to visit us at Comarques in December 1913, so, of course, it was his first meeting with Dorothy. I wonder what he thinks about my change of circumstances? The concert was extremely satisfactory. It seemed to me to be all good music.
I wrote 1,000 words of a short story before noon. I then walked two miles and then drove to the Garrick Club. where du Maurier lunched with me. He practically wanted me to re-write Acts 2 and 3 of "The Return Journey". I told him I couldn't but gave him leave to fool around with the play.
Sir Gerald Hubert Edward Busson du Maurier (26 March 1873 – 11 April 1934) was an English actor and manager. He was the son of the writer George du Maurier and brother of Sylvia Llewelyn Davies. In 1902, he married the actress Muriel Beaumont with whom he had three daughters: writers Angela du Maurier (1904–2002) and Daphne du Maurier (1907–1989), and painter Jeanne du Maurier (1911–1996). His popularity lay in his subtle and naturalistic acting: a "delicately realistic style of acting that sought to suggest rather than to state the deeper emotions". His Times obituary said of his career: "His parentage assured him of engagements in the best of company to begin with; but it was his own talent that took advantage of them."
We reached the Ravel concert at the Aeolian Hall 20 minutes late and Ravel himself came into the vestibule. We talked a bit. I hadn't seen him since he came to visit us at Comarques in December 1913, so, of course, it was his first meeting with Dorothy. I wonder what he thinks about my change of circumstances? The concert was extremely satisfactory. It seemed to me to be all good music.
Thursday, 3 September 2015
Plays!
Monday, September 3rd., 1928
At 75 Cadogan Square, London.
After chores I reached the St. James's Theatre at 11 a.m. My play, "The Return Journey" opened there two days ago. Everyone was pretty gloomy except me. They pretend to despise critics but they attach extraordinary importance to everything the critics say. Gilbert Miller was cheerful and he and I upraised these spirits. By 5 p.m. they were quite cheerful, and dreaming of "an enormous success"; and so on. I was on the stage for six hours during the day, making minor alterations, and changing the business at the end of the last act, and rehearsing the same. I doubt that it will make much difference but sometimes the semblance of positive activity has a revitalising effect.
I do not believe that notices affect the fate of plays. No play of mine has ever had a good press except "Mr. Prohack". There are not, literally, three dramatic critics in London whose opinions have the least interest for me. I hate the stage but I cannot help writing a play now and then. These plays are always a damned nuisance to me after they are written. God knows whether this play is any good. I don't. I merely know that nine critics out of ten have shown no understanding of the whatsoever. This is usual.
In any case it looks as if the future will be in motion pictures not the theatre and I am still working on my "Punch and Judy" film. Whether I will have any success in the new medium remains to be seen. I suspect not, as I am now in my sixties and it is difficult to embrace new ideas even though one feels oneself to be open to them.
Sometimes I wonder if I have spread myself too thinly as it were? Of course I have been driven by the need for money to finance my lifestyle which some may consider extravagant, for example in the matter of clothes. Suppose I had concentrated on writing novels, by which I mean "proper" novels. I would certainly have been poorer but would I have been more contented, and would I have established a reputation to stand the test of time? I don't know. I think I have one more "proper" novel in me to be set in a great hotel. This is an idea I have been mulling over for years now and I think I am nearly ready to begin. I will commit myself to have started writing it by this time next year!
At 75 Cadogan Square, London.
After chores I reached the St. James's Theatre at 11 a.m. My play, "The Return Journey" opened there two days ago. Everyone was pretty gloomy except me. They pretend to despise critics but they attach extraordinary importance to everything the critics say. Gilbert Miller was cheerful and he and I upraised these spirits. By 5 p.m. they were quite cheerful, and dreaming of "an enormous success"; and so on. I was on the stage for six hours during the day, making minor alterations, and changing the business at the end of the last act, and rehearsing the same. I doubt that it will make much difference but sometimes the semblance of positive activity has a revitalising effect.
I do not believe that notices affect the fate of plays. No play of mine has ever had a good press except "Mr. Prohack". There are not, literally, three dramatic critics in London whose opinions have the least interest for me. I hate the stage but I cannot help writing a play now and then. These plays are always a damned nuisance to me after they are written. God knows whether this play is any good. I don't. I merely know that nine critics out of ten have shown no understanding of the whatsoever. This is usual.
In any case it looks as if the future will be in motion pictures not the theatre and I am still working on my "Punch and Judy" film. Whether I will have any success in the new medium remains to be seen. I suspect not, as I am now in my sixties and it is difficult to embrace new ideas even though one feels oneself to be open to them.
Sometimes I wonder if I have spread myself too thinly as it were? Of course I have been driven by the need for money to finance my lifestyle which some may consider extravagant, for example in the matter of clothes. Suppose I had concentrated on writing novels, by which I mean "proper" novels. I would certainly have been poorer but would I have been more contented, and would I have established a reputation to stand the test of time? I don't know. I think I have one more "proper" novel in me to be set in a great hotel. This is an idea I have been mulling over for years now and I think I am nearly ready to begin. I will commit myself to have started writing it by this time next year!
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