CONSTANT swinging of the censer in the temple of his art has imposed a strange fate upon Mr. Belasco. Perhaps he has himself inhaled too deeply of the pleasant perfumes intended for the nostrils of his public, or possibly the incense, curling upward in blue threads of realism, has subtly invaded his sense of humour. Or perhaps the mere act of swinging the censer, originating as the expression of an aesthetic idea, has slipped unconsciously into the arc of hypnotic rhythm -- a rhythm which will not permit itself to be exposed -- even through the stage door -- save in the trappings of legerdemain. Every sleight of hand performer holds the option of two technical methods. He may minimize the difficulties of the trick, and make it appear ridiculously simple, or he may surround it with simulated effort, and give it an air of utter painstaking. In one instance, the spectator is invited to marvel at the revelation of dexterity, while in the other, his sympathies are aroused to foster the illusion of tremendous obstacles overcome. Contrary to our hopes, it is to the latter school of sleight of hand that David Belasco adheres, with an adhesion almost fanatic. Not for an instant during the course of his book does he depart from his rôle. Iconoclasm, even if it involves no destruction more real than the shattering of papier-mache idols, has its uses, but it has not been allowed to transgress the cloistral security of the producer?s eminence. Mr. Belasco seems blissfully unaware of the many things in his plays which he might have illuminated out of the storehouse of his experience. We should like to have had him unmask the admirable storm which starred in Tiger Rose. We should like to know the producers feelings toward the horse in Dark Rosaleen -- the horse who played the title rôle and invariably got a hand on his entrance. But instead, we find Mr. Belasco playing a rôle of master martyr at the stake of his art, slyly adding fuel to his own bonfire under the guise of giving away the show. If he does finally, after many pauses and passes, pull the rabbit out of the hat, you are asked not merely to applaud the elevation of the hare, but you must be awed by the artful manner in which the personality of the rabbit blends with the contours of the hat. Furthermore, you must realize the days and nights of untiring preparation and the long search for the exact rabbit for the rôle. You must picture Mr. Belasco going from hutch to hutch, from hatter to hatter, ere he discovered precisely the hare and precisely the headgear he wanted. Only in this manner is that precious realism attained. If everything set down in these pages were to be taken in the solemn fashion in which it is stated, we fear that the theatre would wither amid the thin gases of its own self-importance, cut off from the oxygen of a saving humour. In his playhouses, Mr. Belasco has much traffic with comedy; in his revelations, he will have none of it. He cannot forget that he has been called a wizard of stagecraft, and -- Midas-like -- everything that he touches turns into mystery....
--The Dial, Vol. 68