O.O. McIntyre
Palladium-Item/January 4, 1928
NEW YORK, Jan 4. The clown in every age has presented, despite his public buffoonery, a tragic sadness in private, from the fabled Pagliacci to the real life Marceline, who was found a month or so ago in a drab side street hotel with a bullet in his head, a suicide.
He had gone the way of Slivers of another day—whose grotesque feet and comic one-man baseball team convulsed thousands all over the world. The mask of the mime has always, it seems, hidden despairing heart aches.
There is that story of a melancholy gentleman visiting a famous English physician. Physically fit, he seemed to carry the woes of the world. “You need amusement,” said the doctor; “go to see the famous harlequin at the Drury Lane.” The patient replied: “I am that harlequin.”
During the war passersby daily saw a solemn little figure perched on the fire escape of the Hippodrome, industriously fashioning sofa pillows out of leather cigarette trophies—the fad of the day. Too old for active service, this was his contribution to the Red Cross sales rooms.
He was little Blutch, who made millions laugh with his weird screech as one leg seemed to shorten in his baggy pantaloons when he crossed the stage. It is proverbial that clowns dodge all overtures of human companionship. They seek solitude.
The Fratellinis at the Cirque d’Hiver in Paris have never been seen on the gay boulevards. Idols of the European pleasure seekers, they elect to spend idle hours from the circus ring in a dreary chateau on the fringe of Sevre.
The day of the clown is gone. Movies and other high-speed entertainment have shunted him to the back waters. The few remaining find vicarious engagements at children’s parties or private banquets. Eight have killed themselves in the past five years.
There used to be a little restaurant on Seventh avenue where circus clowns gathered during the winter, but a Sunday feature writer discovered it and when the curious came the clowns deserted. Clowns are devoted to the game of checkers.
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The underground wars of bootleggers go on. Invasion of new territory is met in the underworld manner—oblivion. Five characters in this incessant battle this winter vanished. In picturesque Broadway argot they were “put on a boat.”
It has been estimated strangers in New York hotels are gypped a million a year, paying for liquor to be shipped to home towns and which is never delivered. The suavest salesmen are engaged in this swindling. They manage to be introduced by responsible people and spin such plausible tales of their ability to deliver that the most cautious are tricked.
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Sunday theatrical performances are a hodgepodge of vaudeville, and to conform to the law are often designated as “sacred concerts.” A “concert” comedian was indulging some jovial commonness recently and one of his jokes became particularly guttery. A disgusted voice in the gallery piped: “That’s a sacred one, you big ham!”
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A bearded East Side product has made a small fortune visiting dressing rooms and selling jewelry to performers on the installment plan. He says he has little trouble with his collections save with comedians. “They are honest all right,” he says, “but careless.” Many of us not comedians are like that.
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In a theatrical club the other night a plastered member dropped in, beaming friendliness. His eyes fell upon a talented and lovable young man who came up to prominence from the East Side ghetto.
“You know, I like you,” he hiccoughed, encircling him with his arm. “And when they start the killing I’m going to hide you in my house.”
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