I have no great
admiration for most of our comic gentlemen and ladies in London, but I
find it still more difficult to take any interest in the comic gentlemen
and ladies of Paris. Take Marie Lloyd, for instance, and compare with
her, say, Marguerite Deval at the Scala. Both aim at much the same
effect, but, contrary to what might have been expected, it is the
Englishwoman who shows the greater finesse in the rendering of that
small range of sensations to which both give themselves up frankly. Take
Polin, who is supposed to express vulgarities with unusual success.
Those automatic gestures, flapping and flopping; that dribbling voice,
without intonation; that flabby droop and twitch of the face; all that
soapy rubbing-in of the expressive parts of the song: I could see no
skill in it all, of a sort worth having. The women here sing mainly with
their shoulders, for which they seem to have been chosen, and which are
undoubtedly expressive. Often they do not even take the trouble to
express anything with voice or face; the face remains blank, the voice
trots creakily. It is a doll who repeats its lesson, holding itself up
to be seen.
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