Milly Bennett, an American expatriate who lived in Shanghai in the twenties, described the way Western women at the time would anglicise themselves. ‘It is appalling what can happen to the average…housewife when she gets within hailing distance of what she thinks is high society, especially if it happens to have a British accent…It made my flesh crawl to hear…women go around imitating the la-de-da manners of the British, “cheerioing” one another and imitating what was obviously a lower-class British accent although they did not know it, and filling up their heads with imperialistic nonsense’ (Clifford, 1990).
In the Shanghai of the twenties expatriates made up eighty-five per cent of the city’s population. In many senses Shanghai became their town, with the locals existing to serve them. The general view of the expats, who usually came with a team of servants, was summed up in Vogue in 1924: ‘Both Europeans and Americans love China, because it is so completely flattering to the Anglo-Saxon sense of racial superiority…one accepts all the Chinese, dun coloured and inert, without personality, as a background for the white “foreigners” who are high spots of colour in the parade dominating the street crowd just as the small foreign population dominates and colours the life of the city’ (Clifford, 1990).
Despite her pretensions, Bobby’s onstage antics received rave reviews in publications such as the Statesman, 15 June 1923, which described her as having an ‘arresting style and rich expressive voice, [that] was particularly captivating’. Another publication claimed she and the Globetrotters received rapturous applause after their fusion of cabaret, pantomime, cross-dressing and ‘highly spicy’ comedy (Manchuria Daily News, 1924), while advertisements in local newspapers and on billboards read, ‘The Globetrotters. Mirth–Music–Melody–Comedy & Burlesque. Some of everything and everything of the best. Popular pre-war prices’. The troupe, which had between six and nine members (depending on which review you read), consisted of Bobby, Wallingford Tate, Dick Norton, Dick Crichton, Kitty Farrell, Leila Forbes, Dorothy Drew, Charles Holt and Ralph Sawyer. Each member had a unique role: Dick Norton was the master of ceremonies, Dick Crichton was a comedian, Wallingford was the accompanying pianist, Charles and Ralph were the titillating cross-dressers (Ralph also had a dual role as a female impersonator and dancer), while Bobby enthralled the audience with her velvety voice.
Together the troupe travelled extensively to perform at theatres in India, Assam, Burma, Siam, the Malay States, Java, Sumatra and Japan, appearing at venues such as the Palace Theatre in Karachi; the Theatre Royal in Kowloon and the Royal Bangkok Sports Club, where they performed for the rich, the famous and the upper echelons of society. According to Florence, the King of Siam was present at one of their performances. Favourable reviews abounded: the Peking Daily News claimed they were ‘the finest combination now touring the East’. The Penang Gazette and Straits Chronicle hailed them as ‘…clever, witty, musical and above all original…’, while the North China Star enthused that ‘not a dull moment passed from the time the curtain rose until it dropped again to close one of the most interesting evening’s entertainments offered in Hong Kong for many a long month’.
A single image in the Manchuria Daily News captures the troupe’s style: headbands, flapper dresses, swinging beads and pointed character shoes for the girls; dinner suits, starched white shirts, bow ties and slick oiled hair for the boys. But this particular publicity shot did not reveal the racy costumes and characters that Florence and the rest of the crew assumed on stage. Florence shimmied in a headdress with spikes that jutted out like horns and white feathers that splayed in a peacock fan above her head. Some of her costumes were a beaded figure-hugging frock that featured a feather boa collar and a feathered hemline; a Manto de Manila, or Cantonese shawl, which she wore as a dress; a skirt cut mid thigh, with a matching crop top, headband, sandals and Hellenicinspired detailing; a baggy clown suit with a ruffled neckline and pom-poms; and a long, black cape that hid a sexy, strappy dress with cut away sleeves and layers of finely woven fabric. The makeup and hairstyles that she wore on stage were changed to suit each character—when she dressed like a diva she rimmed her eyes with kohl and wore a sharp bob; when she dressed like a clown her hair was pinned back and her face pancaked white with an exaggerated red mouth.
The troupe took days, sometimes weeks, to reach their ports of call. They often travelled long distances across oceans and along rivers and canals before they reached the theatre where they were scheduled to perform. When they arrived local employees helped them with their luggage, which included the stage sets, while the troupe made their way to their accommodation either by horse and cart, or in a car (if one was available). Barry Little claims that Florence told him and his wife, entertainer Jeannie Little, that ‘[Florence] had always dreamt of going to Asia to have a bearer and that’s exactly what she had when she went on tour.’
Touring was a lengthy and gruelling process, but it was worth it. Florence had never seen such exotic landscapes, streetscapes, faces or buildings: the streets of Japan were lined with Buddhist temples, Shinto shrines and blossom trees; the fields and terraced hills of Java were an elaborate network of canals, dams and aqueducts; and the Sumatran waterways were overloaded with boats, Dutch immigrants and produce such as rubber, tobacco and tea. It is probable that when the troupe didn’t have to rehearse or perform they wandered through the local craft markets bartering with locals or took short boat trips to nearby villages. In Calcutta they would have wandered through narrow streets, endured the summer monsoons and admired Hindu dancers. While in Peking they would have marvelled at shops filled with jade and ivory sculpture and explored the Forbidden City.
Sometimes Florence went on day trips on her own: she trekked over the heavily guarded Khyber Pass from India into Afghanistan; traversed the Great Wall of China; visited the Taj Mahal with its chequered marble floor and Quran verses that dance around the building’s archways; and went camel riding. According to Barry Little, ‘There wasn’t much Florence didn’t do when she was over there. She visited opium dens, the lot—you name it she did it. She had a wild, wild time and when she talked about it, she had a twinkle in her eye.’
Though during her time there Florence absorbed aspects of (and learnt from) the myriad of cultures throughout the east, she seemed not to understand the true nature of these cultures. After all, it was the British colonial perspective that appealed to her most. As she told a reporter for the Bundaberg Daily News and Mail in 1927, ‘It is wonderful how the British have made their authority respected in India. The British dominance in India is positively thrilling. I knew a ruler of an independent Indian state—he had 70 wives, by the way—who dared not cross the border because the British resident said to him,“Keep in your own territory!”That is the sort of thing that you meet in India, that makes you feel proud that as an Australian, you are a Britisher.’
By early 1924 Florence and Wallingford Tate were concocting plans of their own. Together they abandoned the Globetrotters and formed half a musical-comedy quartet known as The Broadcasters. Jack Crighton and singer Beryl Lucina completed the circle. After a successful soiree at the Tent Hotel in Yokohama, Japan, the Kobe Herald claimed the Broadcasters were ‘up to New York and London standards’ and another reviewer declared, ‘Miss Bobby’s charming voice evoked enthusiastic encore calls.’
When The Broadcasters weren’t on lengthy tours they were based in Shanghai performing at venues that included the Star Theatre, the French Club and the Carlton Club. In between gigs with her famous travelling troupes, Florence joined groups affiliated with the Carlton Club, including the Carlton Follies and the Carlton Sparklers. A popular venue on the Shanghai night scene, the Carlton attracted an elite crowd who crammed into the stylish building on most nights of the week for a glittering display of razzle-dazzle and goodtime girls.
An evening at the Carlton was a dusk-til-dawn affair. As one reporter working in Shanghai in the twenties wrote: ‘Boozing went on excessively and ceaselessly, pick-me-ups in the morning, heavy,
boozy Tiffin’s and cocktail parties, teas, receptions and late dinners, and the whole, long night of drinking, dancing, carousing, stretching ahead of it. Few flesh and blood men could resist it. Few did’ (Clifford, 1990). An American journalist recorded his thoughts more succinctly: ‘When, if ever the sun did set for foreigners in Shanghai, it would go down to the popping of champagne corks’ (Clifford, 1990).
The Carlton had its own movie house, a ballroom and an in-house orchestra. Ornate imitation rococo designs adorned the building’s ceilings and walls, while on the fringe of the sizeable dance floor, chairs and tables were set with crisp linen tablecloths that fell to the floor and flowers cascaded over the edge of upstairs balconies. The Carlton’s signature was a massive glass-domed ceiling in the ballroom through which you could see the stars.
However, there was another, darker, side of the Carlton. While the cabaret girls were shimmying across the stage in their skimpy outfits, the roof garden hosted boxing matches bloody enough to bring down the ‘wrath of the Municipal Council’ (Clifford, 1990); while a spot known as ‘Blood Alley’ was within spitting distance of the club.
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Was Florence doing more with Wallingford Tate than drinking champagne? In photos from this period the pair appear together everywhere: on board a ship from Australia to the east, on weekends away with friends, in press photos larking about in their stage costumes. In a photo taken in a garden on one of their many adventures, Wallingford stands with another couple as Florence sits cross-legged on the ground at their feet. She is cradling a white cat and her dark eyes glare up at the photographer like two black pools. Wallingford was not an unattractive man. He was tall—around six-foot-two (about 188 centimetres)—with large eyes, large hands, a thick chest and an expressive face with a forehead that was broad and lined. He looked protective, masculine and sincere standing near Florence in this photograph. When he smiled his face lit up. When he didn’t he looked serious and pensive. And though Florence had a big personality, she looked demure and almost school-girlish beside him.
Florence was doubtless fond of Wallingford (she kept a copy of his obituary among her personal papers decades later) but she probably only ever saw her relationship with him as a passing affair. They had fun together and, living in a foreign country, they weren’t answerable to anyone but themselves. Florence knew her sojourn in the east was a stepping-stone in an adventurous life that would reach far beyond the Shanghai dance halls and opium dens. Though she probably found it glamorous that her boyfriend was a performer with whom she travelled to exotic places, Wallingford didn’t aspire to much beyond what he was currently doing. He didn’t make much money, had no real social standing and no burning ambition. And he knew Florence as the person she truly was: the girl from Mount Perry who had once performed with him in the Towoomba Smart Set Diggers. Deep down she yearned for more in a partner and much more out of life. But she was happy to have fun in the meantime.
The only correspondence that exists between Walling-ford and Florence is from 15 December 1925, when ‘Wally’ sent Florence a telegram via the Eastern Extension Australasian & China Telegraph Company which read:
BOMBAY LCO BROADHURST CHARTERED BANK SHANGHAI. DEAREST [the following word has been scribbled out with pencil] FRIGTHFULLY [sic] WORRIED CABLE CONDITION IMMEDIATELY. ALSO SOONEST YOU CAN COME JOIN MUSICAL COMEDY LOVE WALLY EXCELSIOR BOMBAY.
One might wonder whether Florence was having Walling-ford’s child. Certainly she felt the telegram was important enough to keep among her personal papers. But Florence had her eyes on a bigger prize than marriage or fame.
Since arriving in Le Paris de L’Orient, she had been sharpening her entrepreneurial talons and, three years after her arrival (when she was twenty-seven years old), she opened the impressively named ‘Broadhurst Academy Incorporated School of the Arts’—abbreviated locally to ‘The Broadhurst Academy’. Her life with the Broadcasters (and to a large extent with Wallingford) was now over. The school’s location, on the corner of Nanking Road (Shanghai’s answer to New York’s Fifth Avenue) and Kiangse Road (a renowned red light district), had a strange duality. Like the Carlton Club, it embraced two worlds. Nanking Road was lined with sky-high department stores, theatres, hotels, fur stores, silk stores and skating rinks, and Kiangse Road was filled with brothels, filth and squalor. Nanking Road represented the new China, while Kiangse Road embodied the old.
Shortly after the school opened on 15 February 1926, advertisements appeared in the Shanghai Ladies Journal and in the program for Shanghai’s Lyceum Theatre. The ads said that the school was founded to ‘provide expert tuition in every branch of Music and Elocutionary Studies, Journalism, Languages, Short Story Writing, Drawing, Painting, Pen Painting, Modern Ball-Room and Classical Dancing, Physical Culture’.
Florence handled the day-to-day affairs of her new business venture such as keeping the books, hiring employees and recruiting pupils, but she also provided tuition in ‘voice production’ that incorporated stage technique, public speaking, deportment and dramatic art classes. She offered banjolele (a cross between a ukulele and a banjo) tuition with an advertising hook that ‘guaranteed’ pupils could ‘learn the banjolele in six lessons’.
There exists a black-and-white image of Florence taken shortly after she opened her school. She’s wearing a flowing frock and swinging beads and looking out from under an upturned hat as she holds a banjolele in her lap. Her penetrating gaze seems to look far beyond the photographer. The photo appeared in the Sunday Pictorial Section of the China Press captioned ‘Banjolele Wielder’.
The credibility of the Broadhurst Academy was enhanced by four associates who joined Florence in the well-appointed practise rooms. They included Daniel Melza, a famous and highly regarded violinist; Professor Kournitz Boulueva, a buxom Russian pianist who earned her stripes at the Dresden Conservatory of Music and whose role at the Broadhurst Academy was to ‘prepare pupils for the Royal Academy of Music and London Trinity College’; Madame Boulueva (perhaps a relative of the buxom Russian) who taught classical dancing including ‘Ballet, Simultaneous, Sensational, Acrobatic, Eccentric, Buck, Soft Shoe, Toe Dancing’ and physical culture classes that claimed to include ‘scientific reducing exercises for stout figures’.
Offering classes of a more literary kind was Jean Armstrong who taught short story writing, advertising, languages, copywriting and journalism; while other teachers took classes in modern ballroom dancing, such as the novelty waltz, polo trot, tango blues, Charleston and jazz fox trot. As the academy became more established these teachers were joined by other tutors including Jacob Lihnos who, according to an article in the Sunday Times, was a ‘noted artist who exhibited paintings…in England, Rome and Japan’ and had ‘recently arrived in Shanghai after a world tour’; Miss Gravitzki, a lyric soprano who taught voice culture; and Simons Bryan, the former conductor of the Moscow Opera, who launched an operatic and piano studio at the school.
The way in which Florence went about establishing her academy reveals that even at twenty-seven she was a shrewd businesswoman who had a firm handle on ‘networking’ and ‘marketing’ before the terms were even invented. Selling herself and her skills was a talent that seemed to come naturally. In a strategy designed to attract fee-paying students to her ever-expanding studio, she promoted her school on local Shanghai radio stations and hosted dancing demonstrations at the academy and in nightspots around the city. In mid July 1926 she performed a banjolele duet with one of her male students on the airwaves. A few months later she displayed her considerable dancing expertise with an assistant known only as ‘Mr Gleron’. A China Press article from 3 October 1926 reads: ‘Miss Broadhurst with her assistant instructor, Mr Gleron, as partner, delightfully demonstrated the attractions of the Valencia, Sevilla, Barcelona and the New Charleston. These are the dances that are expected to be all the rage during the coming season. The music for the first three named dances is particularly seductive and this, combined with the grace and perfect unison with which the coupl
e moved, left little to be desired.’
As always, not everyone found the latest dance craze so agreeable. A local teacher of the tango penned a letter to the editor of the North China Daily News: ‘The tango is the most beautiful dance, and beautiful things never die. And who is dancing the Charleston? No one except a couple of youngsters who like to show off for the amusement of onlookers. The Charleston will never become fashionable in Shanghai because everyone is afraid to appear ridiculous.’ In a letter of response that can only be described as hyperbolic, Florence defended her dance of choice: ‘Who can resist the bright strains of the Charleston?’ she wrote. ‘I contend that when people dance for enjoyment they will dance those dances that create the greatest joy. Hence, a tango for enjoyment, a Charleston for fun…Certainly it will not last for ever—everything must give way to fashion’s fancies, and Shanghai, though removed from the world’s centre, is not going to allow a craze to pass unhonoured—when London and New York Charleston, Shanghai will not be found wanting. And when the Royalty of England and the leading society of America give their patronage to a dance, be it Charleston, Blues or camel walk, Shanghai’s small voice of protest will go unheard, while those who care will find the correct solution and join in the craze of the world. I am, etc. B. BROADHURST.’
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By 1925, much as they tried to ignore it, Shanghai’s golden years were waning and resident Westerners had little understanding of what was taking place or didn’t want to know. In urban and rural China, members of the working class, students and intellectuals had started to speak out about foreign imperialistic ventures. In 1922, when agreements signed by the United Kingdom, United States and Japan at the Washington Conference failed to satisfy Chinese demands, boycotts of foreign-owned goods and imports had been instituted. In 1924 a short, violent struggle erupted between Jiangsu and Zhejiang militarists: it was a conflict that resulted in thousands of casualties. Six thousand refugees from rural areas in China were pouring into Shanghai every day. By the end of September there were half a million in the city resulting in a dramatic shortage of jobs, food and places to live. Then, on 30 May 1925, when foreign gunfire shot down a crowd of demonstrators on Nanking Road, there was a furious response. It marked the beginning of a national revolution: the shedding of the old structure of foreign domination and the birth of radical anti-imperialist nationalism. The straight-talking rebel Sun Yat-Sen, who died in 1925, summed up the mood among many Chinese: ‘I want to tell foreigners this: Shanghai is China—foreigners are guests here, we are the hosts, and if this fact is not realised, we shall have to take drastic measures’ (Clifford, 1990).
A Life By Design Page 4
