The Death Of A Theatre (1933, November 18).

Ghosts today people the Theatre Royal and on Monday even they will be disturbed in their fretful musings by the first crashes of falling masonry as the wreckers begin the work of demolition.

The old theatre died last night in a blaze of triumphant glory. Never even in the heyday of the past can there have been such a night. Once more were the splendours of yesteryear rehearsed in tableau and the audience cheered and cheered again until the last sundering curtain fell between it and all the world of pageantry that has been the Royal.

It was fitting that so popular a production as “The Maid of the Mountains” should be chosen for the last performance and probably there was never a merrier one.

Favourites applauded

For the invisible barriers between players and audience were dissolved, and an intense personal sympathy between them made every sally of the old favourites, heard by many present probably a dozen or 20 times, doubly amusing, and every romantic moment more glamourous than before. 

Often the action of the show was held up by the demonstrations of the audience. For all the cast, and especially for such favourites as Gladys Moncrieff, Arthur Stigant, and Phil Smith, there was continuous applause. 

But it was when “The Maid” was over that the real show began. 

The Lord Mayor (Cr Gengoult Smith), who had been sitting in a box, went upon the stage and recalled the grandeurs of the far past and of more recent years. 

Nights of Long Ago 

He spoke of nights when a younger Melbourne gazed up adoringly at its favourites; of after-theatre revelry at the now defunct Savoy, and of the passing, in its turn, of the Royal itself.

“But,” he said, “The flesh and blood of the theatre can never die!” and the audience which, by now, filled every seat and crowded in the aisles and along the back of stalls and circle, cheered again and again.

Now Mr Stigant, in his costume as General Malona, introduced a series of tableaus.

“Tonight,” he said, “within this historic theatre the curtain falls for the last time and there will remain but a memory of the many plays and players who have been seen upon the old stage with its historic associations of the past.”

Upon the Boards Again

The shades of the old players must come trooping across the boards upon which they once strutted their brief hour of triumph. We shall present to you a glimpse of them in the characters in which they were notably associated, so that when you leave this theatre tonight you will feel that, although this occasion is invested with a good deal of sadness, there is still the pleasure of remembrance.

“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more, or close the wall up with our English dead!’ Who can forget the stirring call of King Henry the Fifth, or the never-to-be-forgotten triumph in that role of George Rignold, whom Mr Harvey Adams will present before you?” 

Player after player they appeared, most represented by some performer of the present day, with a few old favourites in person.

Great Names 

Here they all were – George Rignold, affectionately known as Handsome George, who first appeared in the theatre of 1878; Marion Dunn, the Daughter of the Regiment of 1864, represented by her daughter; Marion Marcus Clarke, in the dress used in the original production; J B Atholwood, the character actor, represented by his son Ronald Atholwood; Julius Knight, “A Royal Divorce” celebrity; Pavlova; Jack Ralston; Harriet Bennett, of “Rose Marie”; Melba: Rueben Fax; Lewis Walker; Maggie Moore; Nellie Stewart; Tittel Brune as L’Aiglon, recalled Patricia Wenman; and to the rapture of the audience, Carrie Moore herself, the original Merry Widow; Meta Pelham, at 84 Australia’s oldest actress; and smiling Cecil Kellaway himself. 

Never can any of the famous in the flesh have had a more tumultuous reception than was given their depictors. When Mr Frank Tait had explained that a new His Majesty’s was to arise, the theatre was showered in streamers from circle and gallery and, amid a mass of multi-coloured ribbons, Gladys Moncrieff sang “Farewell.” 

The Last Curtain 

So at midnight the last curtain fell.

The audience streamed away, but not a few people lingered wandering across the huge stage or among the deserted dressing rooms. 

What tales indeed could be told by these well-worn walls, these rooms all empty now!

But now the lights were going out. Carrie Moore was saying a last farewell. She stopped to speak to Frank Talbot, who was paying the last tribute of a brother showman to the dying theatre. 

The corridors were piled high with theatrical baskets. On the walls hung the wardrobe of the last performance.

Mourners and merrymakers alike took their last look and drifted away. 

Workmen began to carry out the furniture 

The exit doors to Bourke street were closed.

The Theatre Royal was dark for ever.