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The Play within the Play The Performance ofMeta-Theatre and Self-Reflection
Internationale Forschungen zur 112 Allgemeinen und Vergleichenden Literaturwissenschaft In Verbindung mitNorbert Bachleitner (Universität Wien), Dietrich Briesemeister (FriedrichSchiller-Universität Jena), Francis Claudon (Université Paris XII), JoachimKnape (Universität Tübingen), Klaus Ley (Johannes Gutenberg-UniversitätMainz), John A. McCarthy (Vanderbilt University), Alfred Noe (UniversitätWien), Manfred Pfister (Freie Universität Berlin), Sven H. Rossel (UniversitätWien) herausgegeben von Alberto Martino (Universität Wien)Redaktion: Ernst GrabovszkiAnschrift der Redaktion:Institut für Vergleichende Literaturwissenschaft, Berggasse 11/5, A-1090 Wien
The Play within the Play The Performance ofMeta-Theatre and Self-Reflection Edited by Gerhard Fischer Bernhard Greiner Amsterdam - New York, NY 2007
ContentsAcknowledgements ixGerhard Fischer and Bernhard Greiner The Play within the Play: Scholarly Perspectives xiI. The Play within the Play and the Performanceof Self-ReflectionBernhard Greiner The Birth of the Subject out of the Spirit of the Play within the Play: The Hamlet Paradigm 3Yifen Beus Self-Reflexivity in the Play within the Play and its Cross-Genre Manifestation 15Klaus R. Scherpe ‘Backstage Discourse’: Staging the Other in Ethnographic and Colonial Literature 27David Roberts The Play within the Play and the Closure of Representation 37Caroline Sheaffer-Jones Playing and not Playing in Jean Genet’s The Balcony and The Blacks 47II. The Play within the Play and Meta-Theatre1. Self-Reflection and Self-ReferenceChristian Sinn The Figure in the Carpet: Metadramatical Concepts in Jacob Bidermann’s Cenodoxus (1602) 61John Golder Holding a Mirror up to Theatre: Baro, Gougenot, Scudéry and Corneille as Self-Referentialists in Paris, 1628-1635/36 77Manfred Jurgensen Rehearsing the Endgame: Max Frisch’s Biography: A Play 101Barnard Turner Tom Stoppard’s The Real Inspector Hound (1968) and The Real Thing (1982): New Frames and Old 113Ulrike Landfester The Invisible Fool: Botho Strauss’s Postmodern Metadrama and the History of Theatrical Reality 129
vi2. The Theatre and its AudienceShimon Levy Queen of a Bathtub: Hanoch Levin’s Political, Aesthetic and Ethical Metatheatricality 145Gad Kaynar The Disguised and Distanced Real(ity) Play within the Fictitious Play in Israeli Stage-Drama 167Zahava Caspi A Lacerated Culture, A Self-Reflective Theatre: The Case of Israeli Drama 189III. Perspectives on the World: Comedy, Melancholy,theatrum mundiFrank Zipfel ‘Very Tragical Mirth’: The Play within the Play as a Strategy for Interweaving Tragedy and Comedy 203Herbert Herzmann Play and Reality in Austrian Drama: The Figure of the Magister Ludi 221Helmut J. Schneider Playing Tragedy: Detaching Tragedy from Itself in Classical Drama from Lessing to Büchner 237Gerhard Fischer Playwrights Playing with History: The Play within the Play and German Historical Drama (Büchner, Brecht, Weiss, Müller) 249Birgit Haas Postmodernism Unmasked: Rainald Goetz’s Festung and Albert Ostermaier’s The Making of B-Movie 267IV. The Play within the Play as Agency of Socio-CulturalReflection and Intercultural AppropriationLada Cale Feldman The Context Within: The Play within the Play between Theatre Anthropology, System Theory and Postcolonial Critique 285Maurice Blackman Intercultural Framing in Aimé Césaire’s Une Tempête 297Kyriaki Frantzi Re-Interpreting Shadow Material in an Ancient Greek Myth: Another Night: Medea 307
viiV. The Play within the Play as Agency ofIntermedial Transformation1. The Play within the Play and OperaYvonne Noble John Gay and the Frame Play 321Donald Bewley Opera within Opera: Contexts for a Metastasian Interlude 335Theresia Birkenhauer Theatrical Transformation, Media Superimposition and Scenic Reflection: Pictorial Qualities of Modern Theatre and the Hofmannsthal/Strauss Opera Ariadne auf Naxos 3472. The Play within the Play and FilmErika Greber Pushkin in Love, or: A (Screen)Play within the Play. The Cinematic Potential of Romantic-Ironic Narration in Eugene Onegin 361Alessandro Abbate The Text within the Text, the Screen within the Screen: Multi-Layered Representations in Michael Almereyda’s Hamlet and Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo + Juliet 377Ken Woodgate ‘Gotta Dance’ (in the Dark): Lars von Trier’s Critique of the Musical Genre 3933. The Play within the Play in Narrative FictionTim Mehigan The Game of the Narrative: Kleist’s Fiction from a Game- Theoretical Perspective 405Alexander Honold French Beans and Mashed Potatoes: Agonistic Play and Symbolic Acting in Gottfried Keller’s Prose Fiction 421Ulrike Garde Playing with the Apparatus: Franz Kafka’s ‘In the Penal Colony’ and Barrie Kosky’s Interpretation for the Melbourne International Arts Festival 431Notes on Contributors 447Index of Names 455
AcknowledgementsThe essays in the present collection constitute a selection of papers deliveredat the 2004 Sydney German Studies Symposium, which was devoted to thetopic of The Play within the Play. The chapters have been thoroughly revisedand edited for publication. The Symposium, convened by the editors, wasdesigned to explore the wide range of aesthetic, literary-theoretical and philo-sophical issues associated with the rhetorical device of the play within theplay, not only in terms of its original theatrical setting ranging from the baro-que idea of the theatrum mundi onward to contemporary examples of a post-modern self-referential dramaturgy, but also with regard to a number of dif-ferent generic and theoretical applications, in narrative fiction and anthro-pological writing, in musical theatre and film. As editors, our thanks go, first and foremost, to the individual authorswho have made this volume possible; we appreciate their contributions asmuch as their co-operation and patience during the preparation of this work.We also wish to thank Marieke Schilling of Rodopi and Ernst Grabovszkiand the members of the editorial board of IFAVL for their enthusiastic adop-tion of the project. A vote of thanks is due to the Sydney Goethe Institute,notably Roland Goll and Rainer Manke, for providing once again their beau-tiful venue with its cheerful ambiance that had so much to do with makingthe Sydney German Studies Symposia a successful series of events over near-ly three decades, as well as to the German Consulate-General in Sydney andthe German Research Council (DFG) for their essential support. We also liketo acknowledge the contribution of the German Academic Exchange Service(DAAD) and the Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences of UNSW (Prof. Annet-te Hamilton, Dean) who made the visit of Prof. Bernhard Greiner possible. We owe a considerable debt of gratitude to Dr. Nita Schechet (Jerusalem)and, in particular, to Dr. John Golder (Sydney) who helped with the arduoustask of proof-reading and copy-editing a complex and diverse manuscript. Afinal ‘thank you’ goes to Maria Oujo (Sydney) who completed the electroniclayout of the book. Lastly, it is our sad duty to report the death of our colleague Theresia Bir-kenhauer who passed away on 6 November 2006.Gerhard Fischer (Sydney) and Bernhard Greiner (Tübingen)
Gerhard Fischer and Bernhard GreinerThe Play within the Play: Scholarly Perspectives The curtain opens. The stage represents a theatre. Ludwig Tieck, Die verkehrte WeltThe Play within the Play, Spiel im Spiel in German dramatic theory, or le thé-âtre dans le théâtre in French, is a theatrical device or convention, or a kindof sub-genre within dramatic literature and theatrical practice. Dramaturgical-ly speaking it describes a strategy for constructing play texts that contain,within the perimeter of their fictional reality, a second or internal theatricalperformance, in which actors appear as actors who play an additional role.This duplication of the theatrical reality is often reinforced by the presenceonstage of an ‘internal audience’ which acts as a double to the actual audi-ence. Like similar terms employed in theories of narrativity, e.g. mise enabyme, Rahmenerzählung (‘frame story’), Binnenerzählung (‘inner story’, orstory within a story), dramaturgical terms such as ‘frame play’ or ‘outer play’(Rahmenstück, pièce-cadre) and ‘interior’ or ‘internal play’ (Binnenstück,pièce intérieure) are commonly used in order to identify the two characteris-tic components of the play within the play. Its most salient feature is that itdoubles an aesthetic experience which already presents a dual reality: theactor, who appears on stage both in his/her own physical presence and in thepart he/she portrays, assumes and plays yet another role, thus adding a thirdidentity which itself is constructed in the context of a third level of time,space, characterisation and action. The play within a play boasts a long and notable tradition in Europeantheatre and dramatic literature: it is a dramaturgical strategy that playwrightsfrom Aristophanes to Heiner Müller have put to a wide range of purposes.However, scholarly perspectives on the play within the play do not need to belimited to European theatre. Indeed, the anthropological ubiquitousness ofboth play and performance as social action as well as aesthetic experiencetestify to the international and multicultural dimensions of the play within theplay and its function as a motif in dramatic literatures around the world. Fur-thermore, the play within the play also presents an ideal agency for shifting
xii Gerhard Fischer and Bernhard Greinerbetween different media, as well as for expressing notions and experiencesinvolving cultural exchange or cultural conflict. The play within the play was the focus and the exclusive topic of investi-gation of an International Symposium held from 22 – 25 July 2004 at theGoethe Institut in Sydney, Australia, under the auspices of the Faculty of Artsand Social Sciences of the University of New South Wales. The main aim ofthe conference, convened by the editors of the present volume, was to presenta comprehensive account of the peculiar structural and thematic features ofthe play within the play, to analyse its theoretical dimensions, and to providea comparative basis for discussion of this literary/theatrical phenomenon onan international scale. The participants, some fifty academics from Europe,Asia, the United States, the Middle East, Australia and New Zealand, repre-sented a number of disciplines and research areas; they included scholars inliterature and cultural studies, anthropologists, theatre historians and practi-tioners, musicologists, and specialists in performance studies. The presentvolume presents a selection of the papers that were read and discussed at theSydney Symposium, edited and brought up to date for the express purpose ofproviding a critical study at once wide-ranging and comparative. The play within the play is manifest in a multitude of forms and constel-lations, and it fulfils an equally diverse variety of tasks and functions withinthe performing arts. Systematically, these can be grouped in four distinct cat-egories. One can consider the play within the play primarily (1) as an artisticagency of self-reference and self-reflection, i.e. as imaginative play that re-fers back to itself. It thus appears as a meta-theatrical mode of aesthetic ex-pression, in terms of its own specific nature as play and representation as wellas with regard to the function of the stage-audience relationship and in viewof the self-reflection of its acting protagonists. It may also be thought of (2)as a special mode of perception that allows for different ways of presentingperspectives of appropriating and placing itself in relation to the world atlarge. Likewise, it is (3) a particularly suitable aesthetic agency for the explora-tion of fields of social and historical interaction or exchange, with a specialdimension in the area of intercultural and/or intracultural contact or conflict.Lastly, the play within the play can be seen (4) as an artistic agency of media-tion between conventional genres, or of generic transformation, permittingshifts from one genre to another. The play within the play is thus by nomeans limited to theatre, whether it be dramatic text or performance; it en-joys a wide popularity also in film, opera and musical theatre, and it frequen-tly appears as a device in narrative fiction as well.
The Play within the Play xiii As a specific form of organizing a process of theatrical reflexivity, theplay within the play needs to be distinguished according to the different con-stituents of its respective realisations on stage. It features most prominentlyas a meta-theatrical strategy of self-reflection, especially in the modern con-text of the establishment and foundation of a concept of the self, that is to sayin the affirmation of a self-conscious subject (‘the actor’) that transcends themasks of social roles. Hamlet, as play and as character, thus presents thesuccinct model of a social-historical and aesthetic-philosophical paradigm ofmodernity. Similarly, the play within the play constitutes a special agency forthe self-legitimation of an evolving bourgeois subject within the parametersof a philosophy of idealism; here, the constellations of the play within theplay favoured by the Romantics of the Kunstperiode offer the relevant para-digm. On another level, as part of a system of thinking set within a specificorder of ‘representation’ (in the sense of Foucault’s meaning of the term), theplay within the play also appears as a preferred field of self-reflexivity, whichis why the meta-theatrical dialectic of play and representation achieved suchparticular prominence in the period of the Baroque. Of course, it could alsobe said that a postmodern art in which a reflection upon itself appears to bean essential element (not only in the theatre, of course) is very much a featureof our own era. Indeed, the play within the play would seem to be a particu-larly apt device for the expression of the playful self-referentiality of thepost-modern condition. Other forms of the play within the play offer themselves, and have beenemployed, to provide a structure for self-reflection concerning the theatre au-dience, or the recipient reader of a literary work, respectively. Here, the playwithin the play functions as a ‘romantic’ site which encompasses all constitu-ent elements of art (in the sense of borders being suspended or transcended),or equally as the site of a didactic theatre, e.g. during the early Enlight-enment period or, with similar but not identical intentions, in the Lehrstück-concept of Brecht towards the end of the Weimar Republic. One could addthat, generally, the play within the play tends to be a prominent feature of thepractice of political and anti-illusionistic theatre. Apart from these forms of self-referentiality and self-reflexivity, the playwithin the play also offers an important organisational structure that high-lights certain ways of approaching or dealing with the world. Perhaps themost significant example of this is comedy. Indeed, it could be said that theplay within the play is a constituent and intrinsic component of the comedicgenre. Typical features of comedy, e.g. the use of parabasis (as in the plays ofAristophanes), falling out of character, improvisations, or comic intriguesgenerally, are all structured on the play-within-the-play principle. Other ways
xiv Gerhard Fischer and Bernhard Greinerof approaching the world, in which the play-within-the-play constellationscan be seen, are melancholy and humour. In the former the world that con-fronts us, our own world of social practice and process, is merely regarded asplay, however, when seen from the perspective of a protagonist who refusesto join in. The humorist, on the other hand, accepts his or her role as a per-former in the ‘play of the world’; even though he recognizes the play as idleand transitory, he nevertheless accepts that he is an actor and that he has arole to play. Thus, the time-honoured topos of ‘world theatre’ proclaims thatthe world itself and all of its inherent processes and interactions is merelytheatrical play, performed in front of and judged by a higher authority. TheBaroque period in particular featured very powerfully staged presentations ofthe topos of theatrum mundi at the core of many of its extravagant spectacles.In another way, social or socio-historical interactions are often consciouslyimbued with the aura of the theatrical, as shown in the example of the protag-onists of the French Revolution who loved to see themselves and reflect upontheir historical roles by taking on the personae of the protagonists of the Ro-man Republic of classical antiquity. The play within the play has also found a very useful and productiveusage as a form of action and reflection within a wide variety of cultural andintercultural exchanges. An example of this might be the appropriation ofclassical culture, e.g. Greek or Roman, by later European cultures. It can thusserve as an organisational agency to assist structuring encounters of differentEuropean cultures of distinct epochs, as in the role model of Shakespearewithin German-language theatre, or the return to different forms of comme-dia dell’arte at various stages within the development of European comedy.Similarly, the play within the play has been an important factor as a structureof mediation between European and non-European theatrical traditions; it hasenabled and facilitated the meeting of European and non-European cultures,just as much as it has been used to question the validity of such forms of cul-tural appropriations in the context of colonial encounters as well as in a criti-cal postcolonialist discourse. As examples one could cite the case of Israelitheatre which connects the European culture with a genuine Jewish theatricaltradition, or the appropriation and transformation of certain aspects of Euro-pean theatre to theatrical forms of the Islamic World. The staging of playsbelonging to a specific culture by directors or theatre practitioners whose cul-tural background might be very different has opened up a special field in anarea which might simply be called ‘cultural contact’ in an affirmative sense. But cultural encounters could also provide unforeseen and undesirableoutcomes. Attempts at intercultural mixing or interaction could result in mis-understandings and misappropriations; they could result in opposition and
The Play within the Play xvdistanciation, cultural exchanges could fail. This leads to yet another promi-nent usage of the play within the play, namely as an agency of action andreflection in the context of cultural conflict. One could distinguish here be-tween intracultural and intercultural conflicts. An example of the formerwould be the conflict between high and popular culture, e.g. the proliferationof the play within the play in the Volkstheater movement (a specific traditionwithin German-language theatre), where it was used to ironically or comical-ly subvert the idea of theatre as the property and domain of the ruling classes.Here, the Viennese Volkstheater of Nestroy offers the most obvious para-digm. Intercultural conflicts on the other hand might involve differences andopposition between cultures or groups of more or less equal prestige andstanding, or between a majority culture (i.e. the ruling or leisured class) and aminority culture; the latter variant occurs for example in the play-within-the-play constellations that are being used in the context of postcolonialist en-counters. Alternatively, some of the paradigms current in postmodern andpostcolonial studies (hybridity, syncretism) are well suited to explore thetopic in question, e.g. in relation to the notion of ‘intercultural framing’ aspart of the process of reception and appropriation of European theatricalworks by non-European playwrights and theatre practitioners. Finally, the play within the play has played a significant role as a structur-al principle to facilitate a process of mediation between media, or a move-ment of ‘shifting’ between different media. Thus, a kind of intermedial strate-gy can be observed in the change of medium or genre from theatre and otherforms of artistic and imaginative expression. The play within the play appearshere as the essential link, or as a kind of go-between. In recent film versions of Shakespeare’s plays, for instance, new forms ofthe play within the play were widely discussed as prominent features. In mu-sical theatre, similar shiftings also make use of the device. The transforma-tion of plays into opera in the eighteenth and early twentieth centuries atteststo the versatility of a structural principle that allows librettists like Hof-mannsthal and composers like Strauss to appropriate and to transform suit-able dramatic models as well as pieces from the classical theatrical repertoireinto their own modernist operas. More recently, practitioners of moderndance theatres have also found it useful and productive to explore the poten-tial of the play within the play in order to contribute to the development oforiginal works that originated in other genres or media. Alternatively, the play within the play facilitates and enables the dramati-sation of certain prose narratives – as, for example, in some of Heiner Mül-ler’s later works – or, in a more conventional mode, it can be found as a fairlystandard literary motif in a number of novels or other works of narrative
xvi Gerhard Fischer and Bernhard Greinerfiction. One prominent example concerns the integration of theatre and oftheatrical practice in narrative texts, by way of specific constellations of theforms of the play within the play that can be found in narratives by Goethe,Keller or Pushkin, among many others.
IThe Play within the Play and the Performance of Self-Reflection
Bernhard GreinerThe Birth of the Subject out of the Spirit of the Play within thePlay: The Hamlet ParadigmWhen the play within the play starts its career in early modernity, it revolves about the modernsubject as director, examiner, and judge of the play. Moreover, and vice versa, it produces thisposition: the ego as the centre of the world. Referring to Hamlet and its multiplied plays withinthe play, the chapter shows that this emergence of the modern subject takes place in a circle. Theplay within the play requires a position beyond the play from which the play can be initiated,directed, performed, examined, and judged. But, to achieve such a position (of a ‘true interior’,an ego beyond all masks and all show), it is necessary to gain knowledge and certainty about theinterior, which can only be achieved by exteriorization of the interior, in other words, by playing(by acting in masks, in the world of show). Thus the effect of the play within the play is its pre-condition and vice versa. This chapter considers this circle in Hamlet as paradigm with refer-ence, not only to an historical argument (the specific conditions on which the concept of the playwithin the play is constituted in early modernity), but also a systematic argument (the position ofthe ego, constituted as endless reflection, as the reference point and precondition of the playwithin the play). The other meaning of the circle, in which the emergence of the modern subjectand the concept of the play within the play are connected, is the unification of producer (the egobringing forth plays within plays as acts of self-reassurance) and product (the ego brought forthby plays within plays), and thus a purely immanent self-creation of the modern subject: it pro-ceeds from the ‘spirit’ of the play within the play and no longer needs reassurance from a posi-tion of transcendence.‘It is a peculiarity of Shakespearean triumphalism,’ Harold Bloom remarks,‘that the most original literary work in Western literature, perhaps in theworld’s literature, has now become so familiar that we seem to have read itbefore, even when we encounter it for the first time. Hamlet [...] remains bothas familiar, and as original, as his play. [...] We hardly can think about our-selves without thinking about Hamlet, whether or not we are aware that weare recalling him.’ 1 If, in our awakenings to self-awareness, we have always been Hamlet, itis because we equate the subject in its ideal boundlessness and respectiveuniqueness with unending reflection, introversion, and an element of play-1 Harold Bloom, Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human (London: Fourth Estate, 1998), pp. 404-05.
4 Bernhard Greineracting that is hard to pin down, in the sense that one can only be a person byplaying one. The play-within-a-play patterns developed with virtuosity in theHamlet drama bring these three constituents of the subject (self-reflection, in-troversion and play-acting) together. Hamlet becomes, as a paradigm for theplay within the play, a paradigm of the subject. The figure of Hamlet introduces itself with an ontological claim to an es-sence independent of both role models and behavioural models. This claim isconspicuously linked with the theme of grief that is raised at critical juncturesin the plot; that is to say, at critical junctures in the play’s redrawing of theself. The theme is presented without delay in the exposition of the conflictbetween Gertrude, Claudius and Hamlet over proper and false ways ofmourning Hamlet’s father. Likewise, the evocation of grief or signs of griefbecomes the subject of a debate that follows the Player’s monologue on thegrief of Hecuba, occasioning the play within the play in the narrower sense,which triggers certain crucial incidents in the plot: Gertrude urgently de-mands an interview with Hamlet, at which he kills Polonius; Claudiusremoves Hamlet from court with the intention of having him killed in Eng-land). Lastly, the final catastrophe, when all the protagonists except Fortin-bras and Horatio meet their deaths, begins with the conflict between Laertesand Hamlet as to whose grief over Ophelia is the more authentic. In grief thesubject is manifested as having experienced a fundamental loss that at thesame time implies a loss of self.2 The subject in mourning does not, in asense, maintain possession of itself. It is therefore all the more astonishingthat it is Hamlet’s grief that moves him to lay claim to a self beyond and be-neath the forms of appearance. The outward signs of mourning, Hamlet ex-plains to his mother in their first scene – clothing, gestures, modes of behav-iour – are mannerisms that could just as well be faked (‘actions that a manmight play’; I.ii.84)3, whereas he himself is unacquainted with appearances:‘I know not “seems”’ (I.ii.76). He has rather ‘that within which passethshow’ (I.ii.85). Hamlet negatively introduces the ontological claim to a sub-jectivity beyond appearance. Obviously, such a subject cannot otherwise bedelineated. Insofar as it is missing something, it experiences itself: thisindeed constitutes the grief of the ego through the concrete content of thedeficiency, in this case the death of the father. The courtly ideal of ‘civility’, of cultivated behaviour, as proposed byBaldassarre Castiglione in The Courtier (published 1508-16) and given a2 Sigmund Freud, ‘Trauer und Melancholie’, in Sigmund Freud Studienausgabe, ed. by Alex- ander Mitscherlich and others (Frankfurt/Main: Fischer, 1974), III, pp. 193-212.3 Quotations are taken from G.R. Hibbard’s edition of the play (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987).
The Hamlet Paradigm 5political concretisation by Niccolò Machiavelli in The Prince (1513), in-cludes significant doses of ‘play’, ‘show’, and ‘seeming’; that is, the art ofconcealing oneself, permitting no-one to see behind the mask, suppressingthe emotions, controlling the body and its expressions, moulding oneself likea sculpture, all made to appear effortless, unforced, as ‘natural grace’ undercompetitive pressure. No-one is expected to say what his ‘own’ thoughts andfeelings are, and each person expects similar treatment from his peers. 4 Thereference point for this ubiquitous seeming is not, however, the constructionof a personal identity, but rather that of a persona, that is of a mask.5 The goalis social advancement, making the right moves in the game played conscious-ly by all, without any claim being made to a self beyond or beneath the mask. Hamlet is the figure that refuses to play the game, lays claim to an ego be-hind the mask, and makes reference to truth rather than to functionality insocial intercourse. The refusal of the subject to play along in a world ofseeming stands thus in a reciprocal relationship to grief, through which thesubject has established itself as incorporating a fundamental lack. With allthis, Hamlet is in the position of the melancholic as developed in the figure ofJacques in As You Like It, written immediately before Hamlet. The melancholicrecognizes that life is a play – ‘All the world’s a stage’, he says – but has nodesire to act in it himself. In As You Like It, the conditions of possibility of thisposition are not discussed. We find ourselves in the Forest of Arden, that is,outside the social world, and Jacques, after the Duke’s restoration to power,will not return to court with the other exiled lords. In Hamlet, the question ofthe conditions of possibility for the position of the melancholic is asked ex-plicitly as a question of the possibility of maintaining the existence of a sub-ject, a being beyond the social masks and roles assigned to each of us. Thisego-essence is connected significantly with the notion of the particular, thatis, of the entirely unique, that which is connected with the notion of theauthentic, and never allows itself to become an instance of a general rule. Ger-trude questions the occasion of Hamlet’s grief and the grief itself as being‘particular’ (‘Why seems it so particular with thee?’; I.ii.75). It is in responseto this that Hamlet lays claim to an essence beyond all seeming (‘I know not“seems”’). But what is the basis of such an ego, and how can it be sure ofitself? The scenes with the ghost of Hamlet’s father give the subject’s claim totranscend ‘show’ a justification, although in a doubtful manner – a justifica-4 Cf. Klaus Reichert, ‘Hamlets Falle. Das Paradox der Kultiviertheit’, in his Der fremde Shakespeare (München, Wien: Hanser, 1998), pp. 57-86.5 Cf. Stephen Greenblatt’s concept of self-fashioning in his Renaissance Self-Fashioning: From More to Shakespeare (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980).
6 Bernhard Greinertion by what is, after all, a ghost. The subject is called upon to restore the dis-turbed natural order (‘Revenge his [i.e. the father’s] foul and most unnaturalmurder’; I.v.25). On the other hand, he is not allowed to link his actions to apre-existing natural order which, ideally, would have a secure metaphysicalfoundation. The subject is made rather to justify its actions through itself andits own moral responsibility. This occurs with the second command that hasto be fulfilled in the restoration of order: ‘Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soulcontrive/ Against thy mother aught’ (I.v.85-86). The subject is offered an elu-cidation of the occurrences at court that permits it to see beyond appear-ances, that is, beyond the show put on by the others. This fuels the subject’sclaim, based on a deficiency (that is, on grief), to an essence beyond allseeming. Since, however, the subject does not wish to dirty its hands in per-forming the actions the insight prescribes, it must initiate an investigationbefore carrying out its revenge. But this means that Hamlet must achieve cer-tainty about the nature of the Ghost – first, as to whether it is a ‘goblindamn’d’ that hopes to destroy him;6 then, whether it is telling him the truthwhen it claims that Claudius is his father’s murderer and has had an adulter-ous relationship with Gertrude; and thirdly, whether he himself is capable ofcorrectly understanding the behaviour and speech, the signs, that the othersproduce. On this last point he provides questionable proof. As his own wordshe cites, ‘Adieu, adieu, remember me’, which the Ghost had said to him(I.v.112). Is he here metonymically replacing the speaker with its audience?Or, if the words Hamlet writes are truly his own, must we accept the Ghost’sspeech and perhaps even the Ghost itself as mere delusion? Hamlet maintainsthat he swore ‘Remember me’, but until this point in the plot he has swornnothing. Instead it is his companions who must take an oath, not to ‘remem-ber me’, but rather not to betray Hamlet or his investigative techniques.Hamlet, who has claimed to know no seeming, to have that within, a subject-tive essence, which is beyond all show, announces to his comrades that hewill ‘put an antic disposition on’ (I.v.179). This, however, means operatingbehind a mask, play-acting. Self-contradiction is inevitable. From this contra-diction arises, with and through the tragedy of Hamlet, the configuration ofthe play within the play. The subject, with its claim to transcend seeming, can only experience andbe aware of its subjectivity when it becomes apparent, that is, manifests itselfin the world of seeming. The ego must simultaneously play-act and judge itsown performance from the sidelines. This is precisely what Polonius suggests6 Cf. Greenblatt, ‘Hamlet im Fegefeuer’, Zeitsprünge: Forschungen zur frühen Neuzeit, 2 (1998), pp. 5-36.
The Hamlet Paradigm 7to Reynaldo in Act II, scene 1, following the Ghost scene, as a method ofacquiring relevant information about Laertes’ conduct in Paris. The methodemploys the negation of negation. Reynaldo should express negative opinionsof Laertes, and from the ways in which these are contradicted it will be possi-ble to deduce the truth. Nor does Hamlet have any other method, but hisgoals are more far-reaching. He has to prove the ego-essence that is beyondall seeming, beyond all produced signs and masks, while simultaneouslyproving his interpretation of the events surrounding his father’s death, an in-terpretation which along with his grief has occasioned his departure fromoperating behind masks in accordance with the rules of courtly role-playing.Hamlet’s method similarly employs the figure of the negation of negation. Hestages, on the foundation of an ‘antic disposition’, performances of negationthat the others must then negate. Correspondingly, the ego whose foundationsand apperception are thus based proves itself negated; that is, it proves that itin itself is fragmented. The subject can gain itself as ‘particular’, that is,unique and indivisible, only by dividing into two subjects, one that acts inself-staged productions and another offstage that judges the performances. Itrefracts others’ masquerades through its own, then reflecting the consequentfigures of refraction as its legal instance. Thus, the putative ego-essence, be-yond all show, manifests itself as a process of reflection within the mediumof the theatrical. Harold Bloom may have felt as much when he cited RichardLanham’s assessment that Hamlet’s self-consciousness ‘cannot be distin-guished from the prince’s theatricality’.7 The subject, as manifested in thetragedy of Hamlet, is embedded in masquerades. It is so deeply nested inthem that, Hamlet, for example, who has proclaimed that he will play at‘madness’, is able in the fifth act to call upon his ‘madness’ as a defensewhen asking for Laertes’ pardon. At the same time, the subject takes up a po-sition beyond the play-acted representations, observing its own and others’acting in reality. But such duplication is the essence of theatre. It is thereforehardly surprising that Goethe, in his novel Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre, de-veloped the conception of representative acting that gave shape to his drama-turgic and theatrical activities in Weimar with direct reference to Hamlet.8The actor, Goethe writes, must be always absorbed in his role, yet at the sametime he must know and observe himself in the reality of acting.97 Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human, p. 411.8 Cf. my ‘Puppenspiel und Hamlet-Nachfolge: Wilhelm Meisters “Aufgabe” der theathra- lischen Sendung’, in Bernhard Greiner, Eine Art Wahnsinn: Dichtung im Horizont Kants. Studien zu Goethe und Kleist (Berlin: Erich Schmidt, 1994), pp. 29-41.9 See, for instance, Goethe’s rules for actors in his Sämtliche Werke. Briefe, Tagebücher und Gespräche. Vierzig Bände, ed. by Hendrik Birus and others (Frankfurt/Main: Deutscher
8 Bernhard Greiner A subject based on such a foundation is not ‘particular’, e.g. not unique, awhole that behaves in response to the various masquerades in which it is em-bedded. It is split, ‘dismembered’ and also in need of remembering, onemight say, with apologies to the ghost of Hamlet’s father. With this kind offragmentary self-justification and apperception, the subject is in a circuitousmovement that cannot end. In the collisions of its masquerades with those ofothers, it becomes fragmented. To convey the semantic content of these re-fractions, it must undertake new proofs that it simultaneously observes andthrough which new fractures arise, again demanding new acts of judgment,and so on. Embedded in an unending chain of references, the ego flees everdeeper, itself becoming ghostly. Thus, the Ghost scene substantiates the sub-ject, which had laid claim to a being beyond appearances, as an internallyrefracted processual unit of reflexivity without any possible end, a reflectiontaking place within the medium of theatre. The combination of its fragmentednature and its inconclusive reflexivity give the subject the ontological statusof a ‘dismembered ghost’ that would have equally solid grounds for demand-ing – the question is only of whom – ‘Remember me.’ After Hamlet, as a reaction to the Ghost’s revelations, has announced hisintention of assuming an ‘antic disposition’ and sworn his companions not toreveal that his actions may be concealing something beyond what they seem,it is impossible to decide whether or when Hamlet is play-acting both in therepresented world in the events and speeches that follow and in the reality ofthe discourse (that is, for viewers and readers). From now on Hamlet defiesdefinition. To gain insight into such a subject, one needs to apply Hamlet’sown method of apperception: The viewer, or reader, must confront Hamlet’ssemantic masquerades with his own – his reading strategies; at the same time,he must step outside the semantic masquerades in which he nonetheless re-mains involved, and pass judgment on the resulting figures of refraction froma position offstage, in the wings. Thus he creates himself as a Hamlet-likesubject. It is this persistence in establishing subjectivity on the other side ofappearances, in the reality of discourse, that makes the ego-conception ofHamlet so utterly compelling. The method of establishing and qualifying a subject that transcends all ap-pearances through the staging of masquerades (generated by the subject onthe basis of an ‘antic disposition’ and simultaneously performed and judged)is already in place and visible with initial effects before the professional ac-tors appear in the Hamlet drama. Polonius, Claudius, and Gertrude attempt in Klassiker Verlag, 1987-), XVIII: Ästhetische Schriften 1771-1805, ed. by Friedmar Apel (1998), pp. 857-83.
The Hamlet Paradigm 9vain to arrive at a cogent interpretation of Hamlet’s behaviour towardOphelia. Hamlet is incomprehensible, precisely because as a subject beyondall show he can conceal himself, rather than revealing himself, in the mas-querade. Why is a further exponentiation of play-acting (through the perfor-mance put on by the travelling players at Hamlet’s request) necessary? Withregard to the grounding of the ego as a process of inconclusive reflexivity inthe medium of the theatrical, and with respect to the attempt to bring out thetruth about the death of Hamlet’s father within this structure, nothing newcan be gained by the Players’ performance. The chain of staged action andreaction, already well under way, can only become more complex. So thequestion necessarily arises whether the play-within-the-play thematic forcedby the Players’ performance is yet another way of grounding and making sureof the subject, while at the same time suggesting a different way of dealingwith the unexplained events that surround the death of Hamlet’s father. What impresses Hamlet so much about the First Player’s presentation thathe engages the troupe for a performance before the King and Queen? Theanswer seems clear. The actor, in his speech about Hecuba’s mourning forPriam, puts himself so entirely into character – spanning two internal refrac-tions, as he represents a narrator reporting how Dido reported the scene toAeneas – that he manages to evoke in himself that grief of which he is speak-ing, even manifesting his feelings with an abundance of physical symptoms.Apparently, the Players are engaged because they are effective in this man-ner. They invite the expectation that their acting will elicit signs of Claudius’guilt or innocence. This way of reading the text is suggestive, but it ignoresgrave contradictions. The actor produced his emotional effect in himself, notin Hamlet, his audience, who had every reason to empathize with grief over amurdered king, and whose fixation on this very theme had led him to demandthis text from the actor. If Hamlet has shown no affect, how can he expectClaudius, who has good reason to control his expressions of emotion, to bemoved by the play to the uncontrolled production of signs that would betrayhim? The actor’s self-deluding performance has, however, produced a resultin Hamlet; reflection on himself, and renewed resolve, stemming from hiscomparison of the actors’ text and performance with his own situation. Ham-let offers a commentary immediately after the player’s speech: ‘O, what arogue and peasant slave am I’ (II.ii.538). That seems to be the effect he hopesthe play within the play will achieve: not the production of signs whose con-tent can only be conveyed in further semantic performances in a ‘progressusad infinitum’, but rather the evocation, if not the creation, of a subject thatpossesses an essence beyond the performances on display and behaves asHamlet has previously depicted. If one reads carefully, Hamlet describes
10 Bernhard Greinerexactly this as the hoped-for effect of the Players’ performance: ‘guilty crea-tures’ will be compelled to ‘proclaim their malefactions’ (II.ii.578, 581),which presupposes a moral subject: ‘The play’s the thing / Wherein I’ll catchthe conscience of the King’ (II.ii.593-94). Hamlet is aiming for a subject thatdoes more than function in masquerades, for a moral ego that reflects on it-self when confronted with represented performances. Hamlet has postulatedsuch an ego with reference to himself (‘I have that within which passethshow’). The attempt to make sure of this subjectivity has shunted him on tothe track of inconclusive reflexivity in the medium of the theatrical on whichhe himself threatens to become a ‘dismembered ghost’, while at the sametime threatening never to achieve any certainty with regard to the actions ofothers. Thus, one can name two functions and attainments of the plays withinthe play, as developed in Hamlet. On the one hand, they serve to reassure theoriginator, actor, and observer of the play of the existence of his ego – postu-lated as given – beyond and beneath all appearances. On the other, raised ex-ponentially to plays within plays within plays, they should evoke, or evencreate, this ego in their audience. The Players’ play within the play seems, by virtue of its complex teleolo-gy, to be entirely dedicated to the former function, yet it fulfills only thelatter. The scene presents so many levels of play-acting and corresponding in-terpretative contexts that the formation of meaningful signs ‘betraying’Claudius can no more be mastered than can their possible readings. Suffice itto name a few of these levels. The play within the play duplicates and predi-cates itself with a pantomime, the dumb show. Claudius does not react to thedumb show, which reprises the entire plot, a king’s murder and his widow’smarriage to the murderer. However, he does react to the spoken play, inwhich it is not the King, but the Queen, that takes the leading role. In addi-tion, Hamlet announces that he has inserted a speech of his own, though theparticular passage cannot be readily identified. It is everywhere and nowhere.Hamlet proceeds to offer nonstop commentary, not only on the play itself, butalso on the Players’ acting skills and the meaning of the performance (refer-ring to it, for example, as The Mousetrap). The performance immediately fol-lowing the dumb show is largely taken up by the complexity of ‘the Queen’sfidelity’, featuring, among other things, the Player Queen’s scandalous state-ment that, by giving herself to her second husband, she will kill the first.10The regicide is mentioned only briefly, yet it is not the Queen’s reactions to10 ‘A second time I kill my husband dead, / When second husband kisses me in bed’ (III.ii.172- 73). The double meaning of these words is stressed by Anselm Haverkamp, Hamlet: Hypo- thek der Macht (Berlin: Kulturverlag Kadmos, 2004), p. 49.
The Hamlet Paradigm 11the play, but those of Claudius that are supposed to be put to the test. Lastly,the piece does not reflect the murder as described by the Ghost. The murdererin the play within the play is not the brother, but the nephew of the King.Thus, the play appears to refer not only to the death of Hamlet’s father, butalso to a possible future murder of Claudius by Hamlet. Hamlet has commis-sioned the performance. Through his addition to the text, it becomes his own.In the frame play’s presentation of a play for the King and Queen, he playsalong, yet maintains at all times the perspective of an outsider observing theplay and its audience. As end-effect of the piece and its performance, Hamletseems to have achieved the desired certainty about Claudius. But such cer-tainty should be followed by an act of revenge that becomes conspicuous byits absence. At first it fails because Hamlet misinterprets Claudius’s postureas a token of deep prayerfulness, but he later fails repeatedly to carry it out;as, for example, when Claudius questions him about Polonius’s whereaboutsand sends him to England, acting clearly not as a repentant sinner, but as aconspirator with evil intentions. Meanwhile, the play within the play does nothave the hoped-for effect of eliciting unambiguous signs. Claudius’s reactionon leaving the performance is ambiguous: it may be a confession of guilt, orpossibly a reaction to a clear threat of murder. At the same time, it is the onlyappropriate reaction to a play generating meaning that has spiraled out ofcontrol. In addition to creating a diversity of signs that cannot be unambiguouslydetermined, the play within the play also fulfills the second function. That is,it evokes in Claudius as its audience (and likewise in Gertrude, although Iwill not discuss her case further here) an ego beyond all masquerade. Thissubject announces its presence when Claudius leaves the performance insteadof interacting with the Hamlet-generated piece viewed by Hamlet and Hora-tio that could be entitled Performing a Play about Regicide for a RegicideAudience. This subject is evidenced by Claudius’s monologue as he prepareshimself for prayer. This evoked ego behind the mask can only be perceivedby the signs it emits, as was true for the ego-being claimed by Hamlet fromthe beginning. These, however, can never be conclusively determined, asHamlet’s misinterpretation of the seemingly praying Claudius shows. Read-ing such signs demands new semantic performances in which the interpretingego, as presented, would experience itself as being further alienated from it-self and embedded in an endless self-reflexive process. So both achievementsof the play within the play (self-knowledge in its founder, actor, and observ-er, and the evocation of an ego in the audience) remain under the spell of thisstructure. Each launch of a play within the play necessitates further plays.
12 Bernhard Greiner But is it also possible to escape the influence of the infinitely partheno-genetic plays within plays? The fifth act of the play puts this question centrestage. The answer it gives is that it is possible to break the spell of the playswithin plays, if both achievements can be combined in a single figure. That isdemonstrated by Hamlet in Act V. The new quality that Hamlet gains re-solves the great hermeneutic riddle of the piece, how the Hamlet of the fifthact can be linked with the Hamlet of Acts I-IV, where he appears as themodern subject in whom the world is centred, where he is expected to ‘setright’ [the time] that is ‘out of joint’ (I.v.197, 196).11 The juxtaposition of the two attainments of the play within the play con-tinues to proceed from the theme of grief, now in the conflict between Laer-tes and Hamlet as to who can display the deeper grief over the dead Ophelia.Hamlet has pursued the semantic performances that serve to assure him of hissubjectivity by assuming an ‘antic disposition’ on the very field where dissi-mulation is least expected, that of love. His play-acting has destroyed, amongothers, Ophelia. He was an actor in, as well as observer of, this play, andLaertes’ grief over Ophelia confronts him once more with the signs that hisperformance has evoked. When he rejects Laertes’ grief in favour of his own,his argument is weak, purely quantitative. His ‘quantity of love’ exceeds thatof ‘forty thousand brothers’ (V.i.260, 259). Hamlet lends substance to hisgrief with an emphatic first-person declaration, and this immediately afterLaertes has marked him as the guilty party: What is he whose grief Bears such an emphasis, whose phrase of sorrow Conjures the wand’ring stars, and makes them stand Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I, Hamlet the Dane (V.i.244-48) Thus, the play within the play that Hamlet once played with his andOphelia’s love has not only put him on track to apperception of his putativesubjectivity, but has also evoked in him – when Laertes puts him in the posi-tion of the audience at his own play – a subject that confesses its guilt. This iswhat Hamlet once expected from the performance by the Players, but hecould not be sure of its effect on others, that is, on Claudius as its intended11 For two totally different interpretations of this, see Verena Olejniczak Lobsien, ‘Shake- speares Hamlet: Apologie der “Innerlichkeit”’, in her Skeptische Phantasie: Eine andere Geschichte der frühneuzeitlichen Literatur (München: Fink, 1999), pp. 102-26, and Aleida Assmann, ‘“Let it be”: Kontingenz und Ordnung in Schicksalsvorstellungen bei Chaucer, Boethius und Shakespeare’, in Kontingenz, ed. by Gerhart von Graevenitz and Odo Mar- quard (München: Fink, 1998), pp. 225-44.
The Hamlet Paradigm 13audience. The subjective essence claimed by Hamlet beyond and beneath allappearances is present both as a creative force (bringing forth plays withinplays as acts of self-reassurance) and as a created product (brought forth bythe plays within plays). Such a unification of producer and product is an actof self-creation of a subject whose character is purely immanent – it proceedsfrom the ‘spirit’ of the play within the play – and no longer needs reassurancefrom a position of transcendence. An ego that has brought itself forth in thismanner and has reassured itself of its self-generated semantic performances –as unending reflection in the medium of the theatrical – can allow all trans-cendence to rest on it alone. It has no need to involve itself in questions ofprovidence; it does not need to play at destiny. Hamlet’s speech ‘Let be’(V.ii.170) and his apparent recognition and transfer of loyalty to a world ofprovidence is the utterance of an ego that has created itself and bears no traceof transcendence. So the subject purifies, through its speech, transcendenceof all immanence,12 proving in the process that transcendence is the absoluteOther of the purely immanent self-creation of the subject out of the spirit ofthe play within the play. This feeds the expectation that the self-negation ofthis ego – insofar as Hamlet anticipates his probable death – creates ex nega-tivo an opening into the transcendent world as a metamorphosis that takes itsevidence from the perfect immanence of this ego’s self-creation. The two attainments of the play within the play through which the subjectcreates itself are brought together in the realisation of the dramatic discourse– that is, not primarily in the represented world, but rather in the reality of thehere and now of each performance or reading of the piece. For it is the orderof the drama that links the producer and product aspects of the Hamlet-subject: it confronts Hamlet, who is the subject of plays within plays, a sub-ject that must first make sure of itself, thrusting itself into a course of incon-clusive reflexivity. The drama confronts this Hamlet with the Hamlet as au-dience at his own performances that call forth in him a subjective essencebeyond all appearances, an emphatic first-person declaration of the recogni-tion of guilt. The drama Hamlet achieves, in its discursive reality here andnow, the self-creation of the ego – the Hamlet-subject as a process of incon-clusive reflexivity in the medium of the theatrical that we all are. It lends thisact, as the absolute Other of transcendence, its aura ex negativo. This makesthe ‘birth’ of the modern subject in Hamlet so compelling that we feel we12 This argument is stressed in Walter Benjamin’s remarks on baroque allegory; see his Ursprung des deutschen Trauerspiels, in Walter Benjamin: Gesammelte Schriften, ed. by R. Tiedemann and H. Schweppenhäuser (Frankfurt/Main: Suhrkamp, 1974), I, p. 246.
14 Bernhard Greinerhave always known it: the self-creation of the subject out of the spirit andmatter of the play within the play.
Yifen BeusSelf-Reflexivity in the Play within the Play and its Cross-GenreManifestationThe play within the play is often used as a form of irony and can be disguised as a simple perfor-mance within the play itself, a character masquerading as another character, a character pretend-ing to be out of his mind, or a complex fusion of theatrical realities. All these forms of the playwithin the play carry a paradoxical significance in theory and practice and rely on a self-cons-cious writing process on the playwright’s part and the self-reflexive aspect of the performanceitself. This paper concerns the theoretical development of self-reflexivity in the play within theplay and focuses its examination on early discussions that greatly influenced the poetics of‘modern’ drama, namely German philosopher Friedrich Schlegel’s concept and definition of Ro-mantic irony. It will also discuss the cross-genre application of the play within the play that func-tions similarly in painting, drama and cinema by drawing examples from Diego Velázquez,Ludwig Tieck and Terry Gilliam.The play within the play is often used by playwrights to reveal the workingsof dramatic irony and the very nature of drama. It may come in a variety ofguises: (i) a simple performance within the play itself, as in Ludwig Tieck’Der gestiefelte Kater or Puss in Boots; 1 (ii) a character masqueradinghim/herself as another character, as in Alfred de Musset’s Lorenzaccio;2 (iii)a character pretending to be ‘beside’ his/her usual self, as in Shakespeare’sHamlet; or (iv) a complex fusion of theatrical realities, as in Luigi Pirandel-lo’s Six Characters in Search of an Author.3 All these forms of the playwithin the play carry a paradoxical significance in theory and practice andrely on a self-conscious writing process on the playwright’s part and the self-reflexive aspect of the performance itself. Thus, it is meta-drama, so to speak.This is by no means a new concept. In fact, self-reflexivity can be regarded asa marking of modernity in art and literature. This chapter examines the theo-retical development of self-reflexivity in the play within the play, focusing onearly debates that greatly influenced the poetics of ‘modern’ drama, namely1 In Schriften, 12 vols (Frankfurt/Main: Deutscher Klassiker Verlag, 1985).2 In Théâtre complet (Paris: Gallimard, 1958).3 In Naked Masks: Five Plays by Luigi Pirandello (New York: Meridian Books, 1952).
16 Yifen BeusGerman writer/philosopher Friedrich Schlegel’s concept of Romantic irony.4By drawing examples from the work of Diego Velázquez, Ludwig Tieck andTerry Gilliam, as well as that of Schlegel, it will also discuss the cross-genreapplication of the play within the play as it functions in drama, cinema andpainting, in order to illustrate the working or reflexivity in various forms ofthe play within the play. First elaborated by Schlegel as part of his definition of the modern, Ro-mantic irony later becomes a defining characteristic of all Romantic art.Schlegel is the first to use the term ‘Romantic’ to describe modern literature.In his Critical Fragments (Kritische Fragmente or Lyceum Fragmente),5 pub-lished in 1797, in the periodical Lyceum der schöne Künste, Schlegel rede-fines the concept of irony, in literature as well as in philosophy. He uses theterm Poesie (roughly translated as ‘poetry’) in its broadest sense, to meanliterature in general, and thus his theory of irony and poetry actually concernsall literary genres. The two major aspects of Romantic irony are: (i) the har-monious mixture of the comic and the serious, and (ii) self-reflexivity, i.e.literature that reflects back on itself, that reflects on its own existence. In hisAthenäum Fragment 116, Schlegel defines Romantic poetry as ‘eine progres-sive Universalpoesie’ (a progressive universal poetry): Ihre Bestimmung ist nicht bloß, alle getrennten Gattungen der Poesie wieder zu vereinigen und die Poesie mit der Philosophie und Rhetorik in Berührung zu setzen. Sie will und soll auch die Poesie und Prosa, Genialität und Kritik, Kunstpoesie und Naturpoesie bald mischen, bald verschmelzen, die Poesie lebendig und gesellig und das Leben und die Gesellschaft poetisch machen, den Witz poetisieren und die Formen der Kunst mit gediegenem Bildungs- stoff jeder Art anfüllen und sättigen und durch die Schwingungen des Humors beseelen. (Its mission is not merely to reunite all separate genres of poetry and to put poetry in touch with philosophy and rhetoric. It will and should also mingle poetry and prose, genius and criticism, the poetry of art and the poetry of nature, render poetry living and social, and life and society poetic, poetize wit, fill and saturate the forms of art with solid cultural material of every kind, and inspire them with vibrations of humour.)64 For a more detailed analysis of Schlegelian irony, and of its working in Tieck’s drama, see my Towards a Paradoxical Theatre (New York: Peter Lang, 2003), chaps 2 & 3. The pre- sent essay derives the analysis of the play within the play from the re-definition of Romantic irony advocated by Schlegel.5 Schlegel’s key writings on irony and the Romantic poetics appear in two sets of fragments, the Critical, or Lyceum Fragments and the Athenäum Fragments (1800), both published in Kritische Ausgabe, ed. by Hans Eichner, 35 vols (Munich: Ferdinand Schöningh, 1967).6 Athenäum Fragments quotations are taken from volume 2 of Schlegel’s Kritische Ausgabe and, unless otherwise noted, translations are by Ernst Behler and Norman Struc in German Romantic Criticism, ed. by A. Leslie Willson, German Library, 21 (New York: Continuum International, 1982).
Self-Reflexivity in the Play within the Play 17 This is a very ambitious – and obviously serious – definition of literature.Few people have taken literature and the attempt to define it more seriouslythan Friedrich Schlegel, yet he concludes his central definition by arguingthat literature should inspire laughter in the reader. For Schlegel, the comic is a key ingredient in serious literature. He de-rives this comic, ironic paradox from a number of literary sources, includingHamlet, King Lear, and Tristram Shandy. In Hamlet, the comic play withinthe play reveals the central, hidden truth that Claudius has murdered Ham-let’s father. Fiction, here, becomes the perfect vehicle for truth. In King Lear,the Fool’s jests show Lear the true nature of his daughters. The Fool’s jokesboth conceal and, at the same time, reveal the truth – and thus might arguablybe seen as another form of play within a play. In Tristram Shandy, Tristram,the narrator, assumes the role of jester, informing his readers that he will‘sometimes put on a fool’s cap with a bell to it’. At the same time, he re-quests that his readers ‘courteously give [him] credit for a little more wisdomthan appears upon [his] outside’.7 In these examples, the line between folly and wisdom, the comic and theserious, appearance and truth, becomes blurred. This instability – this comicirony – forces the spectator (or reader) to view realities on different levels –realities both within and outside the work. This ironic sentiment reflects aquizzical attitude towards the traditional, classical views of reality or truth.By mixing the serious and the comic in this way, the new Romantic poeticschallenges the old Classical definitions, and the very strict boundaries of aplay (in its broadest sense). Thus, this fusion of tones is essential to the playwithin the play as a device of deception, intrigue and masquerade and an ulti-mate truth-telling power about the nature of play/drama. Structurally, the playwithin the play also takes on the (con)fusion of various levels of reality,blending the theatrical reality as well as illusion while maintaining a reflexiveposture through this very design, for within the larger play’s illusion, thereare both reality of the spectator and illusion. It calls for the breakdown of thespectator’s suspension of disbelief and draws his attention to the purpose ofthis mise-en-abîme structure. Schlegel does not simply advocate the fusion of comic and serious ele-ments in a literary work. He argues for a universal poetry, a kind of literaturethat embraces everything, an all-inclusive literature. The new freedom advo-cated in Schlegel’s definition of Romantic poetry emancipates the poet’s im-agination with regard not only to form, admitting every possible genre, but7 Laurence Sterne, The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1967), I, vi.
18 Yifen Beusalso to content, admitting all imaginable subject matter. In order to exemplifyhis new ideals, Schlegel writes Lucinde, which he subtitles ‘a novel’. Farfrom what we think of as a typical novel, Lucinde is a combination of shortnarratives, essays, and dialogues. Besides containing a mixture of traditional-ly separate ‘genres’, in line with the principle of universal poetry Lucindealso attempts to challenge the concept of the novel as a single, complete workconsisting of a lengthy narrative with logical sequence or discernible chrono-logy and providing a sense of closure after a climatic incident. Not only doesaforementioned irregularity and variety exist in individual sections of thebook, but the entire second part of Lucinde is never written! This ‘novel’ isthus complete (in its structural intention) and yet incomplete. However, in themidst of seemingly formless imperfection and a mixture of different genres,Schlegel carefully arranges the novel’s content in a fashion that displays witand craft while Classical drama insists on a strict separation of the differentgenres – tragedy, epic, and comedy – Romantic drama insists on mixing thesegenres. Of all the genres of literature in the Romantic period, drama pushesSchlegel’s ideals the farthest in practice, although to Schlegel the novel (derRoman) is the ideal genre. In the absence of Classical restraint, Romanticplaywrights are given so much freedom that their plays often exceed thephysical capabilities of the nineteenth-century stage. For instance, a suddenchange of location or the staging of multiple simultaneous scenes were noteasily achieved in the first part of the nineteenth century, until the advent ofdevices such as the elevator stage and the revolving stage. The former is firstinstalled in 1884 in the new Budapest Opera House, and the latter in 1896 byKarl Lautenschläger in Munich’s Residentztheater. Faced with the limitationsof the stage, Romantic dramatists such as Byron, Shelley and Musset writecloset dramas. Not intended for physical performance, these permit the poet’simagination to soar beyond theatrical boundaries. A play within the play alsoallows the playwright freedom to incorporate elements, situations, characters,and even dialogue that are inconsistent in tone and structure with the maindrama and would otherwise have not been included. This device literallybreaks the conventions that are contained within a drama and clears the spacefor itself to exist separately and yet, at the same time, as part of the main play.The physical stage is thus no longer an obstacle in terms of scene and loca-tion change or even identity disguise for characters; such changes could easi-ly be performed and staged in the context of a play within a play that justifiesany manipulation or inconsistency in technicality or illusion. These changesmight even be highlighted in the play within the play in order to hint at truthand display the playful nature of the theatre.
Self-Reflexivity in the Play within the Play 19 The second major feature of Romantic irony is its self-reflexivity. Poetryshould always be meta-poetry, and drama meta-drama. The play within theplay is the most common device for this self-reflexivity. In Athenäum Frag-ment 238, Schlegel says: [...] so sollte wohl auch jene Poesie die in modernen Dichtern nicht seltern transcendentalen Materialien und Vorübungen zu einer poetischen Theorie des Dichtunsvermögens mit der künstlerischen Reflexion und schönen Selbstbespiegelung […] in jeder ihrer Darstellungen sich selbst mit darstellen, und überall zugleich Poesie und Poesie der Poesie sein. (That poetry not infrequently encountered in modern poets should combine those transcen- dental materials and preliminary exercises for a poetic theory of the creative power with the artistic reflection and beautiful self-mirroring […] thus this poetry should portray itself with each of its portrayals; everywhere and at the same time, it should be poetry and the poetry of poetry.)The paradoxical self-creative and self-critical powers combine raw materialwith theory and allow the work to present itself as meta-poetry (Poesie derPoesie) that describes itself as well as the author’s mind at work. Schlegelfrequently refers to Sterne’s Tristram Shandy, which is full of digressions anddigressions from digressions, as the most quoted example of such a narrativedevice that makes the author’s act of writing the novel evident. BesidesSterne’s opening remarks warning the reader that he would occasionally actas a jester to provide comic effect as mentioned previously, his voice(through Tristram) is constantly heard, talking to his reader and asking howhe might continue the story, telling the reader to re-read a passage which shehas carelessly read, calling on the critic to render assistance in writing a diffi-cult part of the narrative etc. Sterne’s narratology challenges Schlegel in hisreading experience to constantly think about both his own process of readingand the novel’s own self-critical stance, while Schlegel commends Sterne’switty craft of a novelist who skillfully captures his reader’s interest and atten-tion, giving them immense pleasure of confusing the reading and writing ex-perience. Humour is but a disguise for criticizing the form of a novel and therules of reading a work the reader is accustomed to. Similarly, the play withinthe play device serves as a digression in the main play from the developmentof the plot, while at the same time it extends the implications of the innerplay into the main play. Thus, this disguised digression continues to developthe story, supplies plot information and reveals the very process of writing(both plays). In addition, the framing of the inner play exposes the existenceof the author from within and, in so doing, gestures towards the actual author(of the outer play) at work. In his own writing, Schlegel employs similar authorial intrusions, al-though not as daringly digressive as Sterne’s or Denis Diderot’s narrative
20 Yifen Beuspatterns, by confounding the authorship and the narration of each section ofLucinde. Its very title-page sets up a frame for the reader to enter the world offictionality: ‘Lucinde, a novel, by Friedrich Schlegel’; but the authorship ofeach section of the novel is deliberately ambiguous. After a prologue inwhich the author, employing the German first-person ‘mein’, confesses hisinability to write verse like that of great poets Petrarch and Boccaccio, andstates his overall view of poetry, love, and romance, another subtitle-likepage insert appears: ‘Bekenntnisse eines Ungeschickten’ (Confessions of aMaladroit), suggesting an ambiguity regarding the author of the confessions:Is it Schlegel himself? Or Julius? Within the confessions, the main body ofthe novel, the point of view shifts back and forth between that of the maincharacter Julius (using first-person narration) and that of an omniscient nar-rator. ‘Sehnsucht und Ruhe’ (Longing and Silence), one of the shortest sec-tions of the novel, even contains pure dramatic dialogue. Although autobio-graphical parallels in Lucinde often confuse the narrative voice (of the author,the narrator, or the character Julius) addressing the reader, Schlegel, throughsuch a deliberately ambiguous narration, is able to present his philosophy andopinions from an ‘objective’ position, critiquing his work through his charac-ters and their self-expression within this novel. Hans Eichner sees this inter-posed narration as the novel’s main strength, illustrating the ‘fusion ofenthusiasm, caprice, self-criticism, and deliberate structuring’ demanded bySchlegel’s theory: Most strikingly, the novel exploits the technique of the interposed narrator in such a way as to display the fusion of enthusiasm, caprice, self-criticism, and deliberate structuring de- manded by Schlegel’s theory; Lucinde is an obvious illustration of the ‘witty’ or ‘arabesque’ form that Schlegel had singled out as a distinguishing feature of Romantic poetry.8 To Schlegel the self-reflexive (Selbstbespiegelung) and thus ‘objective’presentation of an action in Romantic poetry also refers to portraying itself asa whole with each of its portrayals. This reflexivity, which occurs every-where, will thus be at the same time ‘Poesie’ and ‘Poesie der Poesie’ (Athe-näum Fragment 238). As the author depicts his object, he constantly standsabove to look at his creative process and his creation and critiques it as hemoves along, and the work he produces in turn reflects all these individualactivities, forming a whole with a series of creative and critical components.This self-mirroring power merges poetry/drama with theory and allows thework to present itself as an organic self-revealing and self-critiquing entitythat describes its very nature and the writer’s writing process. Just as a play8 Friedrich Schlegel, Twayne World Authors Series (New York: Twayne, 1970), p. 89.
Self-Reflexivity in the Play within the Play 21within the play is a complete, self-contained work, it is also a part of thelarger play that contains it. Thus, it is both a fragment and a whole in thepost-modern sense. The very existence of the play within the play displaysthe ironic structure of such a literary device and exposes the nature of play-writing – it is a play (toying) with illusion and reality between the charactersand the spectator/reader. As Schlegel points out in his Fragments, numerous pre-modern literaryworks, as well as art works, already display this reflexive sensibility and forhim serve as forerunners of ‘modern’ literature.9 The seventeenth-centurySpanish painter, Diego Velázquez, demonstrates such modernity in his cele-brated Las Meninas, a painting about painting that questions the nature andrepresentation of perception and thus invokes the effects of the play withinthe play. 10 Acknowledged as the chief forerunner of nineteenth-centuryFrench Impressionism, Velázquez presents a striking ironic fusion of Clas-sical order and objectivity, of naturalistic details and obscure reflections, andof the duality of creative and destructive powers in the very creation of thework. Las Meninas is a great example of self-reflexive art, in which thepainter toys with various forms of disguise – through the motifs of reflectionsin the glass/mirror, door frame, the very canvas itself, and the contextual real-ity of the subject – much like that of a play within a play, while at the sametime, displaying a playful reality of the act of painting and artistic expression.On the left-hand side of the canvas is a painter, ostensibly Velázquez himself,painting the scene that we see inside the painting. As with the various reali-ties superimposed through Romantic irony, this painting reveals to us layersof existence and perspectives within and outside itself: ourselves (the specta-tors), the painter, the King and Queen (reflections in the mirror), the JoséNieto (the figure standing in the doorway), and the infanta Margarita with herladies-in-waiting and the dwarf. The painter here creates a painting within thepainting. The figure of Velázquez looks out of the painting, at the spectator,forcing the spectator to contemplate the whole question of artistic representa-tion. The playwright Ludwig Tieck, a contemporary of Schlegel’s, is the primeexemplar of Romantic irony in literature. In his plays, Tieck’s self-reflexivitysystematically destroys the dramatic illusion of reality, just as does Veláz-quez’s painting by revealing all the different levels of its representations, and9 Besides Shakespeare and Sterne, previously mentioned, Cervantes, Milton and Diderot all inspired Schlegel to rethink and define modern literature.10 See Foucault’s detailed analysis of the painting in Les Mots et les choses (Paris: Gallimard, 1966), translated as The Order of Things: An Archeology of the Human Sciences (New York: Vintage Book Editions, 1994).
22 Yifen Beusdisrupts the ‘reality’ it appears at first to depict. In Tieck’s best-known play,Der gestiefelte Kater, the characters go to see the play Puss in Boots. Theplot develops around the characters’ responses to and interaction with theplaywright, the actors and audience of the play within the play. The structureof the play reflects itself as drama and meta-drama at the same time. Sometechniques Tieck uses include: this framing of the play within the play, thedouble role of many characters in the play, and the constant interaction be-tween the characters and the audience. All these elements are presented on atleast two, if not more, levels – the play itself, and the play within the play,which both creates and critiques the ‘real’ play at the same time. The play it-self is a process of writing and staging a play. Tieck manipulates the illusionof reality in his plays, alternately increasing and decreasing the distance be-tween the play and the audience. By using the play-within-the-play structure, Tieck conveniently critiquesthe clichés of his contemporary sentimental drama by ridiculing the author-audience relationship within the play. It displays in essence more of a retro-spective attitude of the author than a direct attack on a specific form/subgenreor author and serves as a device to examine the nature of the genre. Thepoet/playwright in Kater, for instance, defends his profession and role by re-minding his audience at the end of the epilogue that he has done well totransport them back to the remote feelings of their childhood years – a naïveand innocent state closer to nature than adulthood.11 Although the audiencerewards the poet with ‘rotten pears and apple and wads of paper’, the latterwalks off the stage commenting that the audience is in fact better than he is atcreating a ‘eine neuerfundene Dichtungsart’ (a new kind of poetry), a farceindeed. This farce, created by the audience within the play, leaves the realspectator/reader to contemplate the nature of the dramatic genre, the missionof the poet, and the entire viewing experience – a quite serious intent – afterthe laughs and farcical caricature are produced during the play. This sort of self-conscious reflection, this playing with the boundariesbetween fiction and reality, remains quite common in more recent theatre andfilm. The Verfremdungseffekt (device for making the familiar strange)through laying bare the play’s structure in Bertolt Brecht’s epic theatre doesthis, for example, as does the ‘anti-play’ of the Theatre of the Absurd. Thesetwentieth-century dramas continue what Schlegel advocates in the Fragments11 Wordsworth expresses a similar sentiment in his poem, ‘The Rainbow’. This call to return to childlike innocence, in order to be closer and eventually united with nature, becomes one of the defining characteristics of most Romantic lyric poetry. Tieck’s desire to transport his au- dience back to childhood feelings is no doubt serious, and he does it by using fantastic ele- ments rooted in the past and far removed from jest and imagination.
Self-Reflexivity in the Play within the Play 23and set the stage for the cinematic use of similar kinds of ‘play within play’.For instance, the subject of Federico Fellini’s film, 81/2 is the film itself.Woody Allen’s characters jump in and out of the screen in The Purple Roseof Cairo. Terry Gilliam’s films often blur the boundaries between fiction andreality; his Adventures of Baron Munchausen even uses the stage as its verybackdrop and introduces the audience to a play within a play within a film.This cross-genre application of the self-reflexive device illustrates how Ro-mantic irony functions in the film’s content and form at different levels ofauthorial control. The Adventures of Baron Munchausen is based on a set of stories aboutthe preposterous eighteenth-century Baron Karl Friedrich von Munchausen,who goes on all sorts of remarkable adventures, including sailing to the moon.Gilliam uses these obviously impossible adventures to call into question thenature of reality and explore the truth-telling power of fiction. The film opensin an unnamed European city that is under attack from the army of the GrandTurk. In a large theatre, a troupe of actors is trying to perform a dramatic ver-sion of Baron Munchausen’s tales. As the play within the film begins, a manclaiming to be the real Baron Munchausen enters the theatre and disrupts theperformance. The first exchange between the ‘real Baron’, the actors portray-ing the Baron’s story and a prominent member of the audience (Horatio Jack-son) sets up the initial playful complexity of theatrical illusion and reality.The Baron often comments on both the play and events in the ‘real world’outside the play. In an interview with Eric Idle (who played Berthold, a mem-ber of Munchausen’s gang), the actor marvels at the interplay of fantasy andreality this film presents in the form of the play within the play: They’ve cleverly interwoven them, so you don’t feel it’s several stories. It’s just drawn on the sources. So he [Munchausen] goes into the whale, and he goes to Vulcan, and you do feel it’s going somewhere because of the context in which Terry’s set the whole thing, which is the conflict with the Turks and this little troupe of actors playing this awful version of the Munchausen story. When you first see Munchausen, he’s played by this very awful actor with a silly nose, and you think, ‘Oh no, it’s not going to be this’ – and it isn’t! The Baron comes up out of the audience, and goes, ‘No, it’s not like this at all.’ And takes you off into fantasy. So it’s good the way the fantasy and the reality keep [overlapping], so you’re never quite sure whether the Baron – in one scene, for example, we’ve finally beaten the Turks, and we win, and then he’s shot dead. And we’re going to a funeral and everything for him, and we cut back to the stage and the Baron says, ‘That was just one of the many oc- casions on which I’ve met my death!’ It’s a nice joke. Very strange.1212 David Morgan, ‘Interview with Eric Idle’, available at <http://members.aol.com/morgands1/ closeup/text/idle.htm> (accessed 25 January 2005).
24 Yifen Beus When the Baron, backstage at the beginning of the film, says to HoratioJackson, ‘Your reality is lies and balderdash, and I’m delighted to say that Ihave no grasp of it whatsoever’, we realize immediately that he is addressingboth the theatre audience within the film and us, the cinema audience outsidethe film. A few moments later, the real Baron ushers the actors offstage andbegins to narrate the apparently ‘real story’ of his adventures. As he tells histale, the stage setting dissolves into the palace of the Grand Turk. The filmthen follows the Baron through his adventures until, finally, he defeats the ar-mies of the Grand Turk. As the city celebrates its deliverance, Horatio Jack-son reappears and shoots Munchausen. The audience then picks up the storyat the Baron’s funeral – one of the many deaths Munchausen encounters dur-ing the course of the play within the play. Gilliam’s strategy is to set up andthen dismantle a linear story-line. By the end, the spectator has no way of dif-ferentiating between real events and the story Munchausen tells. When thefilm cuts back to the Baron’s narrative, after his apparent death, the audiencedoes not know whether he is dead or alive, whether he has simply been tell-ing crazy tales, or whether all the characters have been part of a great adven-ture. Gilliam gives equal weight to each of these possibilities. His manipula-tion of artistic illusion through the play within the play can be traced back toSchlegel’s concept of irony; that is, the notion that a work of art should re-veal the creator’s creative process, the mind at work, rather than simply pre-sent an imitation of reality in the classical sense. Since the Romantics coaxed irony out of its Classical shell as a rhetoricaltrope, it has been an intrinsic attribute of modern literature and art, redefiningthe relationship between the author, the work, and the reader through itsmode of expression and representation. Jonathan Culler describes Romanticirony as ‘the posture of a work which contains within itself an awareness ofthe fact that, while pretending to give a true account of reality, it is, in fact,fiction and that one must view with an ironic smile the act of writing a novelin the first place.’13 In a word, Romantic irony is self-referentiality, constant-ly reminding the reader of the very act of writing and reading the text. Themodern concept of irony has generally evolved around Schlegel’s definition.It remains a topic of constant interest and investigation in contemporary liter-ary studies as well. From Shakespeare to the Romantics, and from the Ro-mantics to the modernists and contemporary writers and theorists, Romanticirony continues to play an important role.13 Flaubert: The Uses of Uncertainty (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1974).
Self-Reflexivity in the Play within the Play 25 In Les Mots et les choses Foucault comments on the crisis of representa-tion initiated by Romantic irony and the transparency of language as a sign-system whereby representations represent nothing more than themselves: La littérature, c’est la constestation de la philologie […] De la révolte romantique contre un discours immobilisé dans sa cérémonie, jusqu’à la découverte mallarméenne du mot en son pouvoir impuissant, on voit bien quelle fut, au xixe siècle, la fonction de la littérature par rapport au mode d’être moderne du langage […] la littérature se distingue de plus en plus du discours d’idées, et s’enferme dans une intransitivité radicale; elle se détache de toutes les valeurs qui pouvaient à l’âge classique la faire circuler (le goût, le plaisir, le naturel, le vrai), et elle fait naître dans son propre espace tout ce qui peut en assurer la dénégation ludique […] elle rompt avec toute définition de «genres» comme formes ajustées à un ordre de représen- tations, et devient pure et simple manifestation d’un langage qui n’a pour loi que d’affirmer – contre tous les autres discours – son existence escarpée; elle n’a plus alors qu’à se recour- ber dans un perpétuel retour sur soi […].14 (Literature is the contestation of philology […] From the Romantic revolt against a dis- course frozen in its ritual pomp, to the Mallarméan discovery of the word in its impotent power, it becomes clear what the function of literature was, in the nineteenth century, in re- lation to the modern mode of being of language […] literature becomes progressively more differentiated from the discourse of ideas, and encloses itself within a radical intransitivity; it becomes detached from all the values that were able to keep it in general circulation dur- ing the Classical age (taste, pleasure, naturalness, truth), and creates within its own space everything that will ensure a lucid denial of them..[…] it breaks with the whole definition of genres as forms adapted to an order of representations, and becomes merely a manifestation of a language which has no other law than that of affirming – in opposition to all other forms of discourse – its own precipitous existence; and so there is nothing for it to do but to curve back in a perpetual return upon itself […].)This description of language and literature of the nineteenth century as self-reflecting manifestation largely coincides with Schlegel’s central assertionabout Romantic poetry – that poetry ‘should portray itself with each of itsportrayals; everywhere and at the same time, it should be poetry and the poe-try of poetry’. Lyceum Fragment 37 also describes this self-referentiality in-herent in the paradox of irony – ‘Das Höchste: [...] Selbstschöpfung undSelbstvernichtung’ (The highest goal: [...] self-creation and self-destruc-tion).15 In Foucault’s words, literature creates within itself a space that en-sures a ‘lucid denial’, it curves back in a perpetual return upon itself. But toSchlegel, poetry is more than an independent form such as Foucault describesit, which exists wholly in reference to the pure art of writing; it is also a re-presentation of the author’s creativity, and it should also undertake a criticalapproach that portrays its relationship not only to the creator but also to his14 Foucault, p. 313.15 Kritische Ausgabe, II, 151.
26 Yifen Beussurroundings. It is a paradox that transcends its intrinsic being as a ‘pure artof writing’. Romantic irony creates multiple layers of existence and meaning in worksof art. It also creates a resistance to fixed interpretations, permitting texts toremain in a state of perpetual becoming. It makes the work of art a self-con-suming artifact that protects itself from attempts to finalize its meaning. Ro-mantic irony also reveals criticism as creatively destructive in the way it dis-mantles the preconceptions and received opinions (of the author, the text it-self, or the audience/reader). As we look at the myriads of the form of theplay within the play in its broadest sense, it is indeed this self-reflexivity thatunderlines the working of dramatic irony generated by meta-drama. Playwithin the play is its best representation and, at the same time, the best criti-cism of itself.
Klaus R. Scherpe‘Backstage Discourse’: Staging the Other in Ethnographic andColonial Literature‘Backstage discourse’ is constituted by gestures, words and tales, which cannot be performed inthe face of power. Exploring the ‘hidden transcripts’ in ethnographic and colonial literature wecan follow a line of resistance from 18th century drama (Schiller’s The Robbers) to Jean Genet’sLes Nègres, which – as play within the play – mimicks the front stage of domination and vio-lence. Kafka’s ‘A Report to an Academy’ demonstrates the ape’s mimetic faculty as a means ofsurvival. Jean Rouch’s film Les Maîtres Fous gives evidence of resistance by incorporating thecolonial regime into the tribal ritual. The replay of the ceremony shows its real character. JosephConrad’s Heart of Darkness and George Orwell’s ‘Shooting an Elephant’ exemplify the perver-sion of power indicating the failure of the colonial enterpriseThe term ‘backstage discourse’ is taken from a fabulous book by James C.Scott, an expert in South East Asian Studies at Yale. Its title, Domination andthe Arts of Resistance, refers to encounters of and confrontations between thepowerless and the powerful, the colonizers and the colonized. The process ofdomination generates hegemonic public discourses (of morals, conduct, val-ues and language) as well as a backstage discourse that consists of what can-not be said in the face of power. Backstage discourse is to be found in gossip,folktales, jokes, songs and all kinds of performances in which the vengefultone of mocking and mimicry display resistance to official onstage practicesand rituals of denigration, insults and assaults of the body. Making use of ca-mouflage, disguised speech, and hence exploring the immanent possibilitiesof acting against domination, these ‘hidden transcripts’ – another term for thesame issue – are part of a power play within the accepted framework of dia-logue, participation and understanding. In its anonymity and ambiguity, back-stage discourse harbors a permanent threat to those in power, who fear vio-lence.1 Thus it is inherent in the colonial mode of production of reality. Mi-mesis occurs, as Michael Taussig argues, ‘by a colonial mirroring of other-1 James C. Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance. Hidden Transcripts (New Haven: Yale UP, 1990), p. 2.
28 Klaus R. Scherpeness that reflects back onto the colonist the barbarity of their own socialaction.2 Like social scientist James Scott, cultural anthropologist Michael Taussig,Clifford Geertz in his ‘thick description’3 of the Balinese cockfight, or newhistoricist Stephen Greenblatt in his Marvelous Possessions,4 I take the liber-ty to present some striking literary examples of theatrical quality within thecontext of ethnography: a re-reading of well-known texts by Franz Kafka, anethnographer in heart and mind; a story by George Orwell, the colonial offi-cer in 1920s’ Burma; Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness of course; somecinematographic material and, at the end of this essay, Jean Genet’s clown-ery, Les Nègres. Backstage discourse, I suggest, functions as a play withinthe play, taking into account the ‘mimetic faculty’ that Walter Benjamin hasexplored in his short essays on language,5 drawing attention to the sensuousand tactile qualities of communication lost in the script. I should like to begin by going back to the première of Friedrich Schil-ler’s drama Die Räuber (The Robbers) at the Mannheim National Theatre onJanuary 13, 1782. Surrounded by his wild bunch of comrades, Karl Moor, theprodigal son and heir to the principality, receives the forged and fatal letter,written by his vicious brother Franz, which informs him of his father’s deci-sion to dispossess him of home and country, and to set him free to go wher-ever his ‘despicable deeds’ may take him, without hope of forgiveness. WhileKarl is reading the letter on the front stage, Moritz Spiegelberg, who embod-ies the utmost of criminal energies among the robbers, performs a pantomimebackstage that silently demonstrates Karl’s transgression from good to evil.The dialogue between the three robbers that accompanies and comments onSpiegelberg’s strange performance backstage runs as follows: What’s Spiegelberg up to? The man’s gone mad. He’s gone St. Vitus’s dance. His mind must have gone. Or he’s writing poetry. Spiegelberg! Hey, Spiegelberg! The brute can’t hear me!2 Michael Taussig, Shamanism, Colonialism, and the Wild Man: A Study in Terror and Healing (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), p. 134.3 Clifford Geertz, Thick Description: Towards an Interpretative Theory of Culture, in The In- terpretation of Cultures. Selected Essays, ed. by Clifford Geertz (New York: Basic Books, 1973), pp. 3-30.4 Stephen Greenblatt, Marvelous Possessions. The Wonder of the New World (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991).5 Walter Benjamin, Über das mimetische Vermögen, in: Gesammelte Schriften, Bd. II.3, ed. by Rolf Tiedemann and Hermann Schweppenhäuser (Frankfurt/Main: Suhrkamp Verlag, 1877), pp. 210-214.
‘Backstage Discourse’ 29 (Shaking him) Are you dreaming, man? Or what? Spiegelberg (Who has meanwhile been miming a mountebank’s pitch in the corner of the room [die Pantomime eines Projektemachers] jumps up wildly) La bourse ou la vie!6Evil Spiegelberg mimes good-natured Karl’s criminal imagination. Spiegel-berg is obsessed with crime and insanity, dancing the epileptic Vitus’s dancebackstage; he is the brute, the beast; and he is in Schiller’s play (often ne-glected by scholars of German literature, with the exception of Hans Mayer 7)the Jew. Moritz Spiegelberg is the Jew in the play, who desires to bring thekingdom of Judea back by force as he bursts into his dance. ‘I took you foryour better,’ Hamlet says ironically to Polonius. ‘I take you for your worst’ isthe sardonic message in Spiegelberg’s pantomime. The name Spiegelbergmeans ‘mirror mountain’, rocher de miroir. He re-plays, or rather pre-plays,the robber’s violent action in the Bohemian Forest. But in this backstage mir-roring of a front-stage morality play – Karl’s soul will be saved at the end –there is, against expectation, no referential evidence in the doubling of thetheatrical reality, nothing of the fascination with transgression, liminality,hybridity, no real drama between fact and fiction to entertain and educate theaudience. The pantomime does not illustrate the dramatic action; it does notsubstitute and illuminate the dialogue as in Hamlet’s staging of the playwithin the play. Why? Because there is nothing to negotiate. And that meansthat the only evidence on the backstage is casual and not causal: violence.Spiegelberg demonstrates pure violence. The villain’s mimetic acting shows the audience how terrifying resem-blance can be. Why? Because Spiegelberg’s spectacle, that is, the extremistother (as murderer, beast, maniac, and Jew) demonstrates that pure violencehas no metaphor, no symbol, and no meaning. Real violence is nothing butthe desire to kill, Jean Genet said in an interview with Hubert Fichte aboutthe murder of Pasolini on the beach of Ostia: ‘People say it’s for a dollar or acoat. In reality it’s for the violence itself.’ 8 No picturing, nothing but thismute mimicry. Schiller’s ‘hidden transcript’ on the backstage operates me-tonymically: Spiegelberg insults and murders by numbers, making his vic-tims into objects, thus making himself the outcast, the thief, the rapist, the6 Friedrich Schiller, The Robbers, trans. by Robert David MacDonald (London: Oberon Books, 1995), p. 33.7 Hans Mayer, ‘Der Weise Nathan und der Räuber Spiegelberg. Antinomien der jüdischen Emanzipation in Deutschland’, in Jahrbuch der deutschen Schillergesellschaft 17 (1973), 253-272.8 ‘Jean Genet talks to Hubert Fichte’, trans. from the French by Patrick McCarthy, in The New Review Vol. 4 (1977), 9-21 (p. 17).
30 Klaus R. Scherpemurderer, the opposite of Karl Moor on the dark side of reason. In his Vitus’sdance Spiegelberg is outraged, beyond himself. Basically violence has noface, as Jean-Luc Nancy states: ‘Violence represents itself as Gestalt withoutGestalt; it is monstration and performance of what remains without Gestalt.’9In his pantomime of a criminal, Spiegelberg, the monster, is constructed aspure monstration. The backstage discourse of the fierce and ultimate ‘other’is – to return to my main point – the realm of non-representation (one that isnot/cannot be represented). Nonetheless, when we wish to see or visualizehorror, the uncanny, catastrophe, our vision of the end of the world (the apoc-alypse) in writing and reading, we seek relief from violence. How? By engag-ing l’écriture, the distancing code of the alphabet against the original mimeticprocess of the backstage, which according to Benjamin was originally consti-tuted as a magical correspondence. Friedrich Schille’s The Robbers, staged inMannheim in 1782, is a morality play that expects the audience to take an in-terest not in violence, of course, but in the functioning, the instrumentality,the moral katharsis of violence. But whose violence? Whose morality is it, orwill it be? When we take backstage discourse not only as an educating constructionof good and evil, but as a scene of hidden violence within the construction ofdomination and resistance – the terrifying scene of difference and resem-blance – we are then confronted, sans phrase, with the core of the problem:in ethnographic and colonial efforts of writing and re-writing ‘the other’. Thestaging of the other (the monster, beast, brute, the Hun, the Black, and theJew) takes place in the presence of the other’s other: the white man, the whiteaudience, which Jean Genet demanded for his black play.10 In Kafka’s ‘A Report to an Academy’ we find the inversion of this scene.Rotpeter, the ape imported from the dark continent (the brute, the monster,the slave, the Jew), has made his way to the front stage of the academy; con-vincingly he gives evidence of his learning to become a human being by imi-tating human beings, ‘almost but not quite’, as Homi Bhabha would say.11Mimicry was Rotpeter’s only chance to survive (his Ausweg, the only wayout, the last exit). One can read this as alluding to the forceful assimilation ofthe ‘Jew of Prague’, that is, of Kafka’s own play within the play. The ape’sprogress is, by means of this mimetic production, meant to wipe out his exist-9 “Die Gewalt stellt sich als Gestalt ohne Gestalt aus, sie ist Zur-Schau-Stellung (“mon- stration“) und Darbietung dessen, was ohne Gestalt bleibt.’ Jean-Luc Nancy, ‘Bild und Gewalt’, in Lettre International 49 (2000), 86-99 (p. 89).10 Gene A. Plunka, ‘Victor Turner and Jean Genet – Rites of Passages in Les Nègres’, in Thea- tre Annual 46 (1993), 65-88 (p. 69).11 Homi K. Bhabha, The Location of Culture (New York, London: Routledge, 1994), p. 91.
‘Backstage Discourse’ 31ence as an ape, his difference, extinguishing his original barbarity (Calibanon the island before the arrival of Prospero). But not quite! What we see inKafka’s text, again, is the experience of terrifying resemblance. The brutalact of subjection, well accomplished in the eyes of the observers, officers andofficials, hides the wound, the red scar on the ape’s bottom, the reason whythe name Rotpeter was inflicted on him. Not always! When excited and en-thusiastic about his mimetic achievements toward becoming a human being,Rotpeter cannot always avoid dropping his pants in public and demonstrating(monstrare) where he was shot, exposing the spot, the signifier of violenceand pain. And, back home, behind the stage, he has his beloved, his femaleape, dull and blind, to relax and feel pleasure, as Kafka writes. Kafka’s art ofresistance, as we know, only exists as a ‘hidden transcript’ in the self-destruc-tive act of assimilation and submission. And this, of course, takes us directly to the colonial enterprise, on stage,to the West Coast of Africa, for instance, or to the San Blas Islands off theshore of Panama. How is the white man’s presence being performed? Howcan the powerless, the subaltern, speak behind or in the face of colonial pow-er and violence? How is resistance performed in the white man’s presence,backstage? ‘In some way or another one can protect oneself from the spirits byportraying them.’ Michael Taussig makes this statement in his book Mimesisand Alterity, referring to the ritual practices of the Cuna Indians who inhabit-ed the San Blas Islands.12 In 1927, the Swedish baron Erland Nordenskjoldmade his observations of the Cuna shamans who use carved wooden figur-ines in a curing ritual. These figurines are emblems of power. Everything vi-sible (people, animals, plants, stones) has its invisible counterparts. The CunaIndians believe in the magical power of replication. In the wooden figurinesthe evil spirits can be convinced and pacified by portraying them. And whencopied, the power of the original is transferred to the copy. In other words:The representation takes its power from the represented. But the really stun-ning discovery of the white traveler was to observe that the Cuna in oneparticular village carved fifty larger than life-sized figurines, all of which re-presented (through their clothes and military outfits) European types of main-ly the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, among them a colossal, seven-foot figure of General Douglas MacArthur. Obviously, the mimetic transfer,this curious affair of embodiment, the appearance of the colonial other inlocal shamanism, is a re-play in the strict sense, a strategic maneuver to resist12 Michael Taussig, Mimesis and Alterity: A Particular History of the Senses (New York, Lon- don: Routledge, 1993), p. 10.
32 Klaus R. Scherpepower in the face of power. Consequently, thanks to the Cuna’s mimeticfaculty of visualization, backstage discourse could be performed on stage. Inthis case, however, the mimetic process does not reveal any act of violence: itis not ‘emergent’, exploding in an act of disobedience and disorder. On thecontrary, the Cuna’s technologies of mimesis make use of all tactile qualities(carving and painting) to establish a logical and strategic matrix of mimesis. By comparison, mimetic performances of violence as such, emergent vio-lence, could be observed in another context of colonial affairs, in WesternAfrica, Niger, nowadays Ghana. Cultural anthropologists have researched theHauka movement in the 1920s und 1930s, when the natives were resistingFrench colonial rule. Jean Rouch’s famous ethnographic film Les MaîtresFous gives evidence of the Hauka’s spiritual practice. In their ritual dance itcould happen that the Hauka became possessed by the spirits of their colonialadministrators. This mimetic production signified to the Europeans, ofcourse, the native’s downright savagery and awesome otherness. Mockingthe white man was a daily practice among the Hauka, but making the colonialauthorities the object of ritual violence called the French colonial regime tothe scene. Much later, in 1954, Rouch’s film showed that such actions werebanned in France. The insult to the French, as Rouch explains, ‘was becausethe film, e.g., shows an egg being broken over the head of an image repre-senting the Governor-General, an imitation of the real Governor General’splumes cascading over the ceremonial helmet.’ 13 The mimetic machinery, in-tensified through film’s ability to explore the optical unconscious, is greasedwith dirt, blood and excrement to soil the symbols of power and oppression.The Hauka’s re-play of colonial domination, first performed on the backstageof the possession rituals in local villages, went beyond earlier limits of repre-sentation. Tribal violence as mimesis of colonial domination developed avariety of mimetic techniques for dishonoring and delegitimizing the whiteman’s mental and physical power. Incidentally, one of the last targets ofthose militant Hauka spirits in Ghana was a French general who later becamea commander in the Indochina war that preceded the U.S. war in Vietnam. How terrifying resemblance can be! Quite different from what VictorTurner aimed for in his well-known book From Ritual to Theatre, Westerntheatre that is, which takes mimesis as a universal potential for understandingand humanizing the other.14 The mimetic matrix of violence tells a differentstory of colonial power and resistance. Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness13 Taussig, Mimesis and Alterity, p. 242.14 Victor Turner, From Ritual to Theatre. The Human Seriousness of Play (New York: Per- forming Arts Journal Publications, 1982).
‘Backstage Discourse’ 33stages colonialism as a narration within narration: Marlow, the narrator, re-tired on the banks of the river Thames, tells the adventures of Major Kurtz,who crossed the borders of civilization to become the chieftain of native bar-barians. Marlow’s mission as Kurtz’ potential double (the Doppelgänger) isto reverse Kurtz’ excess of violence in the dark hinterland of domination bybringing home (to the colonial office) Kurtz’ eccentric writings on colonialmatters and his own re-writing of Kurtz’ experience of ‘horror’. Marlow’s re-telling of the story is, one could say, a painful hermeneutic endeavour torepresent to the Western reader what cannot be represented: the horror, theviolence of Kurtz’ experience of the heart of darkness. In this reading, the‘white lie’ is not only the softened version of Kurtz’ death which Marlowgives to his fiancé in the British countryside; Marlow finds himself confront-ed with the empire’s ‘white lies’ of colonizing “’he others’ in the name ofChristian brotherhood, of human rights and other benefits of the Westernworld. ‘He [Major Kurtz] would have been a splendid leader of an extremeparty,’ Marlow quotes one of the visitors. ‘What party?’ he is asked, and thefatal answer is: ‘Any party.’ 15 This is the moment when Marlowe’s narrativeof Kurtz’ adventures comes to the point, the point of no return as far as thehermeneutic effort of re-writing of colonialism is concerned. On the back-stage of the jungle outback there is nothing but a diffuse execution of vio-lence; divine power, as Walter Benjamin says in his essay ‘Critique of Vio-lence’,16 ‘ecstasy of heroism’, as Max Weber termed it,17 violence withoutGestalt, shape and contour as Nancy formulates. Major Kurtz is Marlow’sSpiegelberg. And a Spiegelberg (the perversion of a human being, the brute,the beast, the founder of a barbarian kingdom of his own will) can by nomeans be brought back to the front stage of civilisation. Major Kurtz’ imper-ative (‘exterminate the brutes’), as Malinowski’s secret diary of his fieldstudies also shows, cannot be reported back to the academy. If Conrad’s Heart of Darkness is ultimately a book about the ‘final solu-tion’ and a narrative of rescue in terms of the ‘white lie’, then George Or-well’s ‘Shooting an Elephant’ is a short story to end the ‘white lies’ of colo-nialism. Orwell’s report about his colonial experience as a sub-inspector ofpolice in 1920s colonial Burma gains insight into the permanent threat ofbackstage discourse, its hidden transcript of power that, on the front stage,15 Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness (London: Penguin Books, 1973), p. 115.16 Walter Benjamin ‘Zur Kritik der Gewalt’, in Gesammelte Schriften, Bd. II.1, ed. by Rolf Tiedemann and Hermann Schweppenhäuser (Frankfurt/Main: Suhrkamp Verlag, 1877), pp. 179-202.17 Max Weber ‘Charismatische Herrschaft’, in: Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft (Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr, 1985), p. 140.
34 Klaus R. Scherpedeprives the dominant discourse of its meaning and legitimacy. Worse, back-stage discourse even makes dominant discourse ridiculous in the eyes of theso-called natives. In this first person narrative Orwell has been summoned todeal with an elephant that has broken its tether and now ravages the bazaarand kills a man. Later, the elephant peacefully grazes in the paddy fields; hisheat has passed. For the villagers and the officers the logical assumptionwould have been to return to work. But there is another logic Orwell has toperform on the front stage of colonial rule. The public scene demands the ex-ercise of power to preserve power. Two thousand colonial subjects follow thescene and watch the police officer. Orwell writes: And suddenly I realized that I should have to shoot the elephant after all. The people expect- ed it of me and I had got to do it; I could feel their thousand wills pressing me forward, irre- sistibly. And it was at this moment, as I stood there with the rifle in my hands, that I first grasped the hollowness, the futility of the white man’s domination in the East. Here was I, the white man with his gun, standing in front of the unarmed native crowd – seemingly the leading actor of the piece; but in reality I was only an absurd puppet pushed to and fro by the will of those yellow faces behind. I perceived in this moment that when the white man turns tyrant it is his own freedom that he destroys. He becomes a sort of hollow, posing dummy […]. For it is the condition of his rule that he shall spend his life in trying to impress the ‘na- tives’, and so in every crisis he has to do what the ‘natives’ expect of him. He wears a mask and his face grows to fit it.18Orwell’s use of theatrical metaphors is pervasive, as James Scott observes.19He speaks of himself as ‘a leading actor of the piece’, of hollow dummies,puppets, masks, appearances, and an audience that would ridicule him if hedid not follow the established script of colonial power. Obviously, there is adisparity between the public discourse of domination, the open exercise ofpower, and the backstage discourse safely expressed only offstage. If subor-dination requires a credible performance of obedience and humility, so domi-nation requires an authoritarian performance of haughtiness and mastery.Any disorientation of this hierarchy as experienced and reflected by Orwell isthreatening. As a result of the failure of this power play – the breakdown ofthe hegemonic discourse of the colonial power under the observing eyes ofthe powerless – Orwell feels the ‘hollow posing’ of his own performance: thesudden recognition that his acting is nothing but the shallow imitation of anaction, which had to be carried out. The personal consequence for Orwell18 George Orwell, Shooting an Elephant and Other Essays (New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1950), pp. 3-12, (p. 8).19 James C. Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance. Hidden Transcripts (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990), p. 10-11.
‘Backstage Discourse’ 35after this experience was quitting the colonial service. If Major Kurtz mirrorsSpiegelberg, who mimics pure violence on the backstage, in the woods, in thejungle, then Orwell, the colonial officer, makes his last appearance as KarlMoor did on the front stage, staging shame and honesty, the very last hero ofa morality play, Western style. However, as Jean Genet observed when commenting on the theatricalproduction of Les Nègres, colonization does not end when the colonizer hasgone. In an all-black performance, Genet writes, one white man at least mustbe in the audience, the spotlight focused on this symbolic white; or whitemasks have to be distributed to the black spectators as they enter the theatre;and if the blacks refuse the masks, ‘then let a dummy [of a white man] beused.’ 20 Even better: a dummy! The black audience does not share GeorgeOrwell’s sophistication of guilt and the shame of being ridiculed by ‘theother’. Les Nègres is a play without morals, absolutely indifferent to the‘white man’s burden’ and also deeply mistrustful of the better morals of thesubordinates. Genet’s support of the Black Panther movement did not alterthis view. The play within the play in Les Nègres is a ‘clown show’, impro-vised not only to execute the inversion of white to black domination, but evenmore to demonstrate that the code of power and violence is circulating, end-lessly shifting without a reliable notion of one’s own identity and that of theother. For this reason, the blacks imitate their own imitation of the whites.‘Who can say what exactly is “black”?’ Genet asks. At this point the ontolog-ical order of the play within the play – what is ‘real’ and what is ‘fiction’? –becomes ineffective. There are no limits of representation in this play and,therefore, no substantial meanings of identity, hybridity, transgression, etc.The coffin with the body of the murdered white woman onstage and – back-stage and offstage – the trial and execution of a renegade Negro, are happen-ings that are accumulated and associated data of violence, nothing more: kill-ing by numbers in a never-ending play. ‘What party’, extreme and powerful?Major Kurtz’ ghost would have answered: ‘Any party’. Here it is again: Thepower play within the play, without Gestalt, no condition, no reference, thedefinition and vision of violence. And the theatre as an institution? If the play can no longer be a moral playin Friedrich Schiller’s sense, maybe the theatre can be a moral institution;differently, to be sure, in Genet’s practice. ‘There is only one place in theworld,’ Genet claims in his interview with Hubert Fichte, ‘where theatricalitydoes not hide power and that is the theatre.’ 21 In political and social affairs20 Gene A. Plunka, p. 69.21 Jean Gene talks to Hubert Fichte, p. 14.
36 Klaus R. Scherpepower is hidden by theatricality, violence is justified, legalized, etc. Not so inGenet’s theatre. In staging violence the theatre does not hide violence; in itsritual action it has the ability to incorporate violence. Pure violence in abso-lute presence: this would be the sensation of Genet’s theatre of excess. Andthe audience? They, of course, are fictional in their need and desire for iden-tity, with the illusion of gaining insight and learning from the play. ‘Whydoes it disquiet us to know that Don Quixote is a reader of the Quixote, andHamlet is a spectator of Hamlet?’ Jorge Luis Borges writes: ‘These inver-sions suggest that if the characters in a story can be readers or spectators,then we, their readers and spectators, can be fictions.’ 22 Western readers andspectators, one must add! The real horror, the utmost threat to one’s own fic-tional identity is, as we know, the loss of the opposite, the black, the brute,the Jew, ‘the other’ to define oneself against. Most terrifying: the absence ofevil Moritz. The absence of Spiegelberg as a mirror of good-natured KarlMoor would signify the loss of certainty and security. But identity needs amirror, at least a shadow. We cannot do without our Caliban. And here I come to the end of the chapter, with Kafka again. Franz Kafkain Prague with his friend Max Brod, after a visit to a cinema maybe where aWestern movie was shown – Kafka, in this very short story about an Indian,reports the terrifying experience of the failure of mimetic production, in thiscase the mimetic desire to be an Indian: Oh to be a red Indian, instantly prepared, and astride one’s galloping mount, leaning into the wind, to skim with each fleeting quivering touch over the quivering ground, till one shed the spurs, for there were no spurs, till one flung off the reins, for there were no reins, and could barely see the land unfurl as a smooth-shorn heath before one, now that horse’s neck and horse’s head were gone.2322 Jorge Luis Borges, Other Inquisitions, 1937-52, trans. by Ruth Sims (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1964), p. 46. See also Pyllis Gofrain, ‘Play and the Problem of Knowing in Hamlet: An Excursion into Interpretative Anthropology’, in The Anthropology of Experi- ence, ed. by Victor Turner and Edward Bruner (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1986), p. 217.23 ‘Longing to be a Red Indian’, in Franz Kafka. The Transformation and other stories, ed. and trans. by Malcolm Pasley, (London: Penguin, 1992), p. 31.
37David RobertsThe Play within the Play and the Closure of RepresentationThe limits of representation in the theatre can be made manifest only through the staging of therepresentation of representation. The two basic types of metadrama, the inset play, the self-implicating play in the play, and framed play, the self-explicating World Theatre, are the pro-ducts respectively of the Renaissance (Shakespeare) and of the Counter-Reformation (Calderón).The second part of the article analyses the critical intention of Dürrenmatt’s combination of thesetwo forms of metadrama in The Visit (Der Besuch der alten Dame).1.In Derrida’s essay on Artaud 1 the theatre of cruelty is characterized as thetotal antithesis to Western theatre. Artaud’s impossible idea of a theatre with-out representation serves to bring into focus the limits of representation, thatis to say, the closure of representation which defines the invariant structure ofWestern theatre across its whole history and all its dramaturgic revolutions. This invariant structure, integral to Western culture, whether it be in thefield of religion, philosophy or politics, is metaphysical or theological inkind. By theological Derrida means the dominance of the word, the primacyof a founding logos, which endows the scene with the following elements: anauthor-creator, absent, distant, armed with a text, who supervises and controlsthe meaning of the representation. The originating logos is represented bydirectors and actors, who represent characters, who represent directly or indi-rectly the ideas and intentions of the author-creator. In other words, actorsenact the will of an invisible master before an audience of spectators, con-sumers, voyeurs. The theatre of cruelty, more exactly, the idea of a theatre without repre-sentation, signifies the impossible attempt to banish God from the scene bydestroying this structure of reduplication and repetition. Artaud’s paradoxicaldream of an originary representation of pure self-identical presence cannotescape the closed circle of representation. All Artaud can do is lay bare whatthis circle contains: ‘Closure is the circular limit within which the repetitionof difference repeats itself indefinitely. That is to say, the space of play (jeu).1 Jacques Derrida, ‘Le théâtre de la cruauté et la clôture de la représentation’, in L’écriture et la différence (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1967), pp. 341-368.
38 David RobertsThis movement is the movement of the world as play.’ 2 Every play, we maysay, opens a space of play and represents the world as play. From the per-spective of the limit, the space of play refers to the form of the play and theworld as play refers to the content (meaning) of the play. Since every formhas a content and every content a form, neither the space of play nor theworld as play is perceived as such. The limit of representation remains unre-presented, just as the scene’s secret relationship to its other – the originaryforce of a theatre without representation – remains occluded. The hidden‘presence’ of this other can manifest itself only negatively as a consciousnessof the limit of representation. For this to happen, however, representationmust be represented: that is to say, presented, re-presented, represented. In-herent in this second order reduplication are two possibilities: on the onehand reduplication can produce a self-critique of representation; on the otherhand, it can produce a self-affirmation of representation. These two possibilities are familiar as the two basic types of metadrama:the inset drama, the play within a play, and the framed drama, the theatrummundi or World Theatre. The play within the play first appears in the Renais-sance, its classic embodiment is Hamlet. World Theatre as generic formcomes to full flowering in the Baroque. Calderón’s The Great Theatre of theWorld is its classic embodiment. The theological dimensions of both playsare evident. Calderón’s affirmation of the world as play requires a personalappearance by the author of authors, whereas Shakespeare’s exploration ofthe space of play is shot through with theological doubts. But in each case themeaning of representation, for both actors and audience, is at stake, themeaning, that is, of playing the game. The self-referential character of both types (e.g. the self-critique and self-affirmation of representation) indicates that they both operate within the cir-cular closure of representation. Each reconfirms through reduplication thisclosure at the same time as each uses reduplication to ‘master’ closure byraising representation to a higher power. In structural terms the two typesconstitute complementary (but asymmetrical) opposites: the play within theplay is the introversion of the framing ‘play of the play’ in World Theatre,just as the latter operates through the extroversion of the inset play. To put itdifferently: the one uses reduplication to internalise the origin and causalityof the scene, the other to externalise origin and causality. In each case redu-plication has the purpose of making the invisible closure of representationvisible in relation either to the form or the content (meaning) of representa-tion. As indicated, the representation of representation raises the theological2 Derrida, p. 367.
The Closure of Representation 39stakes – in more obvious fashion in the case of World Theatre, where insteadof chasing God from the stage he is made the visible source of all action, theGod in the World Machine; in less obvious fashion in the case of the playwithin the play, where God has withdrawn to become the ghost in the ma-chine. Theologically and historically the two types point in opposite direc-tions: the play within the play anticipates through introversion the modernrecession of origin, that is, the paradox of self-implication; World Theatrelooks backwards to reaffirm through extroversion the medieval closure ofmeaning whose outcome is the allegory of self-explication. The distinguishing feature of the play within the play is that it makes thespace of play visible by redoubling it in order to stage the form of representa-tion. I am using the term ‘form’ here in the sense that Spencer Brown uses itin his Laws of Form.3 Spencer Brown defines form as the unity of difference,such that every form possesses two sides: the marked, visible and the un-marked, invisible. The form of representation involves a visible scene and aninvisible audience but also the in/visible distinction between actor and role.To make this closure of representation visible, it is necessary to repeat theform – in Spencer Brown’s terminology, to re-enter the form in the form (theconcisest definition of mise en abyme.4 This is of course what the play withinthe play, the representation of the form of representation, does. Its mise enabyme appears to bracket the theological question of the author-creator. InHamlet an agnostic or atheistic standpoint is adopted, whose consequence isthe paradoxicalization of representation. Although Hamlet expounds an Aris-totelian aesthetic of imitation (e.g. holding a mirror up to nature), he is com-pelled to register that in a world of mirrors everyone is an actor, that one cansmile and yet be a damned villain, and that madness is the safest refuge ofsanity. In Hamlet we observe the stage becoming the world through stagingitself. The play announces what we could call the vanishing perspective ofmodernity – the infinite recession of meaning, set in motion by re-entry, thatis, by the self-implication of form, which folds the play in on itself. The rep-resentation of representation responds to the break in symmetry, which is theeffect/consequence of the closure of representation. The play in the play isthus both less and more than the play. It is less, in that the part is less than thewhole; it is more, in that the part is more than the whole. Hence the paradox,that the part contained in the whole contains and frames the whole at thesame time.3 G. Spencer Brown, Laws of Form, 2nd edn (New York: Julian, 1977). See also David Ro- berts, ‘Die Paradoxie der Form in der Literatur’, in Probleme der Form, ed. by Dirk Baecker (Frankfurt/Main: Suhrkamp, 1993), pp. 22-44.4 See Lucien Dallenbach, The Mirror in the Text (Oxford: Polity, 1989), p. 37.
40 David Roberts World Theatre by contrast proposes the self-explication of its content byunfolding the allegory of representation. If the play within the play absorbsthe world into the space of play, World Theatre absorbs the stage into theworld as play. In the first case the macrocosm becomes visible through themicrocosm (the inset play), in accordance with the paradoxical logic inherentin the figure of re-entry (that the part is greater than the whole, because inorder to see itself the whole must divide itself into a seeing and a seen part).The opposite applies with World Theatre: here the macrocosm, the world asplay, gives meaning to the microcosm, the stage play. This is only possible ifthe spectators can be raised to the awareness of their participation in the‘great theatre of the world,’ that is, if the spectators can grasp the meaning ofthe rules of the game revealed through the authorization of representation.The visible presence of God on stage has the function of ‘representing’ therestoration of the symmetry broken by re-entry. The world of re-entry is aworld without God (a world of infinite recession). It makes us all, like Ham-let, self-observing observers who have a problem with acting (in both sensesof the word). This vanishing perspective is replaced in World Theatre by Godas the vanishing point of all perspectives, through which the unity of all dif-ferences can be reaffirmed. We are transformed from self-observing observ-ers into authorized participants, called to represent in a worthy fashion therole allotted to us in the world theatre. The authorization, the deparadoxical-ization of representation cancels its negativities and culminates in the mys-tery of ‘real presence.’ Calderón’s autos sacramentales, written for perfor-mance on the feast of Corpus Christi, all conclude with the allegory of allego-ries, the miracle of the Eucharist. The play within the play and the WorldTheatre are thus the structurally complementary but asymmetrical representa-tions of the closure of representation which emerge in the context of Renais-sance/Reformation and Counterreformation.2.In the second part of this chapter I want to examine an inversion of the modelof World Theatre, which turns its defining idea of judgment against it: theform this takes involves the presentation of World Theatre as the inset play ofa morality play that operates through the staged contrast between appearanceand reality, in which both actors and stage audience are being judged. Theplay in question is Friedrich Dürrenmatt’s The Visit (Der Besuch der altenDame, 1955), which I want to set in relation to Hugo von Hofmannsthal’sreworking of Calderón’s Great Theatre of the World for the Salzburg Festivalafter the First World War.
The Closure of Representation 41 The Salzburg Festival, inaugurated in 1919, was Hofmannsthal’s responseto the defeat and dissolution of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. The heartlandof Central Europe, Austria and Vienna, had suddenly been relegated to theperiphery of the German ‘nation,’ divided since the Reformation between theProtestant North and the Catholic South. The Festival aimed at more, how-ever, than a continuation of the Baroque legacy of the Habsburgs. Hofmanns-thal intended a cultural politics, whose stake was the divided soul of theGerman nation, a cultural politics in the spirit of the Counter-Reformation,that is to say, directed against the Protestant definition of the German nation.Hofmannsthal’s Salzburg signifies in this sense the counterpart to Wagner’sBayreuth. Each festival was dedicated to the cultural-political goal of thespiritual regeneration of the German nation through art. Each moreover iden-tifies the split between Protestant drama and Catholic opera as the culturalsymptom of the divided German soul, which Wagner’s music drama andHofmannsthal’s ‘German national programme’ for the Festival were to heal. As his own long productive collaboration with Richard Strauss indicates,Hofmannsthal saw himself as the inheritor of a great theatrical tradition,which did not separate opera and drama.5 Just as great operas – Gluck,Mozart, Beethoven – are above all dramatic works, so great dramas –Goethe’s Faust, Shakespeare’s fantasy plays, Schiller’s romantic dramas –presuppose music. At the centre of this great tradition stand Mozart’s operasand Goethe’s Faust; they form what Hofmannsthal calls ‘the German nation-al programmme of 1800,’ which included as well as the ancients the modern– English, Spanish and French – drama. On what grounds, however, canHofmannsthal reclaim Goethe and Schiller and Weimar classicism from theProtestant North and its concepts of Bildung and Kultur for his programme?On what grounds can Salzburg displace Weimar and Bayreuth as the site thattruly corresponds to the nation, even more claims to be ‘the heart of the heartof Europe’?6 Hofmannsthal’s ‘national’ programme of 1800 looks back to a prerevolu-tionary Europe and to the universalism of the Catholic Church. It turns itsback on the political and cultural nationalisms of the nineteenth century,which led Europe into the catastrophe of 1914 and tore the supranationalAustro-Hungarian Empire apart. Just as the ‘people’ must reconcile class di-visions, so the lost tradition of popular theatre must reconcile the modernsplitting of the public into the elite and the masses. Thus against Bayreuth,5 ‘Deutsche Festspiele zu Salzburg (1919)’, in Hugo von Hofmannsthal, Gesammelte Werke. Prosa III (Frankfurt/Main: Fischer, 1952), pp. 441-443.6 ‘Die Salzburger Festspiele’, in Hugo von Hofmannsthal, Gesammelte Werke. Prosa IV (Frankfurt/Main: Fischer, 1955), pp. 88-94 (p. 92).
42 David Robertsdedicated to one great artist and a German nation in the image of Weimar,Hofmannsthal sets the whole classical heritage of the nation, which extendsfrom the Middle Ages up to Mozart and Goethe in an unbroken theatricaltradition, whose organic development is rooted in the popular culture of theSouth, that is, the Austrian-Bavarian lands. Hofmannsthal is at pains to un-derline what he calls the southern German theatrical forms present in Goe-the’s world theatre: Faust incorporates mystery and morality play, puppettheatre, courtly opera with chorus and stage machinery. The centre of Aus-tria/Bavaria is Salzburg, not Vienna. The modern cosmopolitan metropoliscannot play this reintegrating national role. Salzburg thus stands for the ro-mantic redefinition of society as community, as ‘aesthetic totality.’ 7 To create this totality through the moral and magic powers of a re-totalized theatre, the collaboration of Max Reinhardt was essential. In 1917Reinhardt submitted a memorandum to the Austrian Ministry of Culture pro-posing the building of a theatre in Hellbronn, dedicated to the original andfinal form of the theatre, the festival play, as it had been realized by theGreeks and in the medieval mysteries and Passion plays of the Church. Rein-hardt had already achieved some of his greatest prewar successes througharena spectacles for a mass audience. Perhaps the best known was his 1911production of the pantomime, The Miracle by Karl Vollmüller with music byHumperdinck, performed by 2000 actors before an audience of 30 000 at theOlympic Hall in London, transformed for the occasion into the interior of aGothic cathedral. In the following years this production was performed inVienna, various German cities, New York and the Salzburg Festival in 1924.In 1910 Reinhardt directed Oedipus Rex in Hofmannsthal’s adaptation at theCircus Schumann in Berlin, and in 1911 Hofmannsthal’s version of the me-dieval English morality Everyman at the same venue. If Oedipus figures as aproduction of major importance in the history of twentieth century theatre,Everyman failed to impress Berlin critics. Before a more congenial audiencein Salzburg in 1920, however, staged in front of the cathedral, it made a pro-found impact and remained central to the Festival up to 1937, forming withDon Giovanni and Faust a trinity of Catholic morality plays. The success of Everyman fulfilled Hofmannsthal’s idea of the festivalplay and confirmed the ideological goal of the Salzburg Festival: the trans-formation of the theatre public into the ‘people.’ As Hofmannsthal put it, thepublic is capricious and moody whereas the people is old and wise and recog-nizes the food that it needs. To this end the modern playwright must haverecourse to the great and simple dramatic forms that were truly the products7 See ‘Die Salzburger Festspiele’, pp. 88-89.
The Closure of Representation 43of the people.8 In 1920 the difference between public and people was identi-fied with the difference between Berlin or Vienna and Salzburg. In 1911, inrelation to the Berlin production of Everyman, Hofmannsthal had tried to per-suade himself that concealed within the metropolitan masses the people stillexists, ready to respond to the revival of ‘this eternally great fairytale.’ Builtaround the one great opposition between the profane and the sacred, earthlylife and salvation, Everyman, he declared, is still illuminated by a divinelight.9 The Salzburg reception of the medieval morality encouraged Hofmanns-thal to rework Calderón’s most famous contribution to the genre of the autosacramental, The Great Theatre of the World. The dramatic metaphor of thetheatrum mundi, in which man plays the role allotted by God in the game oflife, provided the perfect model of and for a re-totalized theatre. Hofmanns-thal’s Salzburg Great World Theatre sought to refunction this sacred form forcontemporary purposes by expanding the role of the beggar in revolt againstGod’s world order into an allegorical demonstration of the overcoming of thedestructive forces of revolution by divine grace. Here the suggestive power ofReinhardt’s staging in the University Church in Salzburg (by the Baroquemaster Fischer von Erlach) came to the rescue of Hofmannsthal’s undramaticallegory. Here too, as in Everyman, the figure of Death the drummer, leadingthe players, King, Rich Man, Beauty, Wisdom, Peasant in a dance of death,had the desired effect on the audience. Hofmannsthal speaks of this dance ofdeath as one of the strongest scenes of any of Reinhardt’s productions, hold-ing the audience spellbound as death fetched each figure in turn in a panto-mime in which the figures follow like puppets the beat of the drum. Dürrenmatt’s The Visit is also set in the heart of Europe in the other Al-pine republic, the other South German-Swiss region with its own tradition ofpopular theatre going back to the Reformation and celebrated by GottfriedKeller in his novel Der grüne Heinrich. Dürrenmatt’s Güllen is the counter-part to Salzburg. On the one hand it presents itself as an old European Kul-turstadt, proud of its medieval cathedral and its connections with Goethe andBrahms. On the other hand, like Salzburg after the First World War, it is aruined provincial town, which European reconstruction after the SecondWorld War has passed by (international trains no longer stop in Güllen). TheVisit can be seen as a bitter satire on Hofmannsthal’s self-deluding ideologyof a theatre for the ‘people’ and on the revival of the Salzburg Festival after8 ‘Das Spiel vor der Menge (1911)’, in Hugo von Hofmannsthal, Gesammelte Werke. Prosa III, pp. 60-65 (p. 63).9 P. 64.
44 David Roberts1945 to promote the economic benefits of cultural tourism. On a secondlevel, however, The Visit needs to be grasped as a searching re-vision of theidea of World Theatre, in which the theatre of the individual and internalizedguilt is pitted against the theatre of the collective and the externalization ofguilt. The Visit explicitly invites comparison with the model of World Theatre.In Act I we learn that the West Door of the Gothic cathedral (Münsterportal)portrays the Last Judgment, in Act II posters at the railway station advertisethe Oberammergau Passion play. The author and director of the stage action,the old lady, the billionaire Claire Zachanassian, who is present throughouton stage, observing events from her hotel balcony, is repeatedly comparedwith one of the Greek fates. With the exception of Claire’s former lover Ill,the townspeople appear solely in their function as teacher, doctor, policeman,etc., to be judged according to the duties of their calling. We are thus invitedto be spectators of a Last Judgment but also of a Passion play, in which thelast words of the sacrificial victim, ‘My God’, leave us to ask whether likeJesus on the cross God has abandoned Ill in his agony. Ill is condemned todeath by the townspeople to redeem the sins of the community, that is to say,to ransom the town from the guilt, which goes back to 1910 when Claire, dis-honoured and betrayed by Ill, was forced to leave the town and to become aprostitute. Claire has now returned 45 years later, after two world wars, todemand justice from Güllen, which had sanctioned and approved Ill’s guilt.Dürrenmatt’s morality play thus encompasses World Theatre and Passionplay: the judgment of Everyman and the judgment of Everyman’s proxy, thesacrificed redeemer. Dürrenmatt turns to the theatre of judgment after World War Two for thesame reason as Hofmannsthal after World War One. His play ratifies Hof-mannsthal’s diagnosis of the disintegration of values, the self-destruction ofEuropean civilization. He ratifies Hofmannsthal’s judgment at the same timeas he judges Hofmannsthal’s ideological programme. Salzburg serves Güllenas the prototype of European reconstruction after a second world war, a re-construction that represents for Dürrenmatt a final betrayal of Europeanvalues, in that it substitutes cultural restoration – the celebration of the ‘festi-val as cultural event’ still in its infancy in the 1950s – for moral purification.Dürrenmatt turns Hofmannsthal’s remedy against him by re-presenting theold popular form of theatre as play in the play, performed for the assembledmedia (film, TV, radio, and press) that follow Claire’s celebrity trail. UnlikeHofmannsthal’s Everyman, the Güllen Passion play is not performed beforethe cathedral but in the assembly room of the Golden Apostle, the hotel inwhich Goethe once stayed. The men of the town have assembled here be-
The Closure of Representation 45neath a Theaterportal, as opposed to the Münsterportal with its Last Judg-ment. The proscenium arch, designed to separate play and audience, isdecorated with Schiller’s famous adage, ‘Life is serious, art is serene,’ inorder to underline the evacuation of moral intention from the ‘representation’of the old communal ritual before the cameras and microphones of a worldpublicity. However, as we know, the play in the play creates two audiences, theaudience on stage (the media and the townswomen) and the audience in theauditorium. It is we, the real audience, who must observe and judge the dif-ference between reality and appearance. And since the play within the playframes the whole of which it is part, The Visit can both present and re-presentthe idea of the festival play from Greek tragedy to Oberammergau – not for-getting the town’s bankrupt ‘Wagner-Werke’! – for the judgment of the audi-ence. The Visit realizes the idea of world theatre at the same time as itdemonstrates its reduction to advertisement for Güllen’s supposedly intactcivic tradition. Moreover, it does so through the enactment before the mediaof the return to the archaic origins of the theatre in the ritual of communalpurification from pollution. It was Artaud who compared the living theatre,the theatre of cruelty, to the plague. Güllen is infected by the plague. Its onceflourishing economy lies in ruins. Deliverance suddenly arrives from outsidein the person of Claire Zachanassian, Armenian Oil, who has secretly boughtand closed the town’s businesses. In return for economic rescue she demandsjustice, that is, the death of Ill, the man who has brought the plague on thetown. Claire thus sets in motion the archaic ritual of the scapegoat, the exter-nalization of collective guilt. That the destruction of Europe’s economy intwo world wars was the consequence of moral disintegration can thus be de-nied or rather converted into its opposite: Güllen’s economic recovery is de-picted before the media as the consequence of the still intact moral integrityof the town, which renders unto Claire the justice that she demands. Ill ismurdered on stage once the cameras have gone. The blindness of Oedipus isvisited on the whole town. By assenting before the cameras to Claire’s gift toher native town, Ill (the one individual in the town) assents to his murder as ajust retribution for his guilt, thereby demanding of the town that it recognizethe guilt that it is incurring. The Visit can thus re-present with total dramaticirony the empty shell of the tradition of World Theatre, in which judgment bya higher external causality is exemplified by the visible presence of the god-author of the play and negated in Ill’s internalization of guilt. This god is Mammon, comparable in the modern world to one of the an-cient fates; Claire, like the tradition she represents, is herself an empty shell,a creature of artificial limbs and plastic surgery, alive but not living. The
46 David Robertsfateful archaic-modern reversal of Christian judgment takes the form of theoriginal constituting act of the polis – the traditional meeting of the towns-people in solemn deliberation is enacted now for a world public in the ap-propriately mediated form of a repetition of repetition, the very figure of re-entry. The decision whereby Ill is collectively sentenced to death (masked asthe town’s decision to accept Claire’s gift) has to be repeated because of atechnical fault with the TV cameras. This simulation of a simulation, whichpresents itself as moral self-approbation, is the public face of the collectivereversion to archaic barbarism. The theatre of the individual and the interna-lization of guilt accuses the communal theatre and its myth of the authenticcommunity. The transformation of the townspeople into the one collectivebody is aptly symbolized by the yellow shoes which they have all bought oncredit, the credit drawn on Ill’s life.
Caroline Sheaffer-JonesPlaying and not Playing in Jean Genet’s The Balcony and TheBlacksThe play within the play is discussed in relation to Genet’s The Balcony and The Blacks. Bystaging the play within the play, Genet makes the central issue of his theatre not simply social orpolitical concerns but the question of the spectacle. Through the embedded play, actors take onmultiple roles, including that of spectator. Objectivity is brought into question and the spectatoris neither simply outside theatre nor within it. Indeed the borders of the representation are diffi-cult to define. The notion of the work is examined and reference is also made to some of Derri-da’s texts. The metaphor of the ‘house of illusions’ in The Balcony, for example, does not simplyrelate to the bordello, but is clearly central to the idea of theatre, as is the title of the play. Theplay within the play in Genet’s texts renders problematic the difference between reality and illu-sion, outside and inside. For theatre, as for culture, the question remains to name and to direct shadows: and the thea- tre, which is not fixed in language and forms, destroys false shadows by this fact, but pre- pares the way for another birth of shadows around which the true spectacle of life assembles. (Artaud, The Theatre and its Double) ‘But is he still acting or is he speaking in his name?’ (Genet, The Blacks)The Play within the PlayThe play within the play is an integral part of Jean Genet’s theatre. Charac-ters step into the roles of others, or represent themselves, in front of an au-dience played by other characters. What is paramount about the play withinthe play is that it brings into focus the question of theatre. It highlights aboveall the acts of watching and acting, which are not as straightforward as theymay seem. The term suggests that one might designate an inner play which ispart of an outer play, yet it is precisely the boundary between the two whichGenet brings into question. When the frontier between the acting in the playwithin the play and the so-called reality beyond this inner play is unclear,then it is apparent that what belongs to the representation is not well-definedand the very notion of the work needs to be rethought. In his writing on theparergon in a different context, Derrida has problematized the conception of
48 Caroline Sheaffer-Jonesthe work and its boundaries, for the parergon is neither internal nor external.1Indeed, in analysing Genet’s use of the play within the play, I will discuss thelimit of representation and the problem of distinguishing between playing andso-called reality. It can be shown that in The Balcony and The Blacks the in-teractions of an ‘inner’ and an ‘outer’ play disrupt the conventional notion oftheatre as spectacle. Before examining these plays in detail, I will make somebrief, general remarks about Genet and theatre. The play within the play has appeared in different forms in the works ofmany playwrights including Shakespeare, Corneille and Molière, for exam-ple, or Pirandello and Sartre.2 Drama has, of course, changed radically overthe ages, especially when considered in relation to the function which Aris-totle ascribed to tragedy in the Poetics, namely catharsis or the purgation ofthe emotions of pity and terror. However, it is the relationship between per-former and spectator, the fundamental component of traditional theatre,which has been rethought by playwrights such as Genet. Modern drama hasre-evaluated the aesthetics prevailing in Western thought, in which art is con-ceived of as predominantly the imitation of nature.3 The play within the playis an important means by which the interaction between art and life is re-examined. The possibility for the spectator to be completely detached fromthe play is brought into question. As Genet writes: ‘Without being able to sayprecisely what theatre is, I know what I will not let it be: the description ofeveryday gestures seen from the outside’.4 When the figure of the spectator isplaced on stage, the border between the spectator and the actor is displacedand objectivity is undermined. As the distinction between the inner play andthe outer play is transgressed before the spectator’s eyes, so too is the limitbetween the play and so-called reality and thus what constitutes playingneeds to be redefined. Genet’s writings include poetry, novels, autobiography as well as plays,namely The Maids (1947; revised 1954), Deathwatch (1949), The Balcony(1956; revised 1960), The Blacks (1958) and The Screens (1961). Death,ritual and crime return again and again in his work, frequently centred on out-1 Jacques Derrida, La Vérité en peinture (Paris: Flammarion, 1978). See also Derrida, Glas (Paris: Galilée, 1974), p. 277; ‘Le Facteur de la vérité’, La Carte postale: De Socrate à Freud et au-delà (Paris: Flammarion, 1980), pp. 439-524.2 For an overview, Robert J. Nelson, Play within a Play: The Dramatist’s Conception of his Art: Shakespeare to Anouilh (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1958).3 For a detailed analysis of various forms of mimesis, see in particular, Sylviane Agacinski, Jacques Derrida and others, Mimesis des articulations (Paris: Aubier-Flammarion, 1975); Arne Melberg, Theories of Mimesis (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995).4 ‘Comment jouer Les Bonnes’, Œuvres complètes (Paris: Gallimard, 1968), IV, 269. All translations in this chapter are my own.
Playing and not Playing in Genet 49casts in society. 5 Prominent thinkers such as Sartre, Bataille, Lacan andDerrida have turned their attention to aspects of Genet’s writing.6 Much hasbeen written on his plays from different points of view, in particular on theissue of gender,7 although there has been little focus on the play within theplay. Martin Esslin has described The Balcony and The Blacks in particular asbelonging to the Theatre of the Absurd.8 On the other hand, Robert Brusteinbelieves that Genet is not an absurdist, and in a chapter of The Theatre ofRevolt prefers to associate him with Artaud,9 despite differences such as Ge-net’s obvious reliance on written language.10 Genet, Brustein writes, ‘goeswell beyond the limited boundaries of the avant-garde to create an alchemi-cal, primitive, messianic theatre, embodying many of Artaud’s precepts: anOriental theatre of metaphysical tendency, the modern equivalent of the mys-tery religions’.11 Through rituals and ceremonies in Genet’s theatre, in whichcharacters lose themselves, the boundaries between the inner and outer playsare repeatedly crossed. Genet strenuously rejected realism and his dramamakes use of many different visual and sound effects, as well as an often de-liberately exaggerated use of masks, make-up, costumes, stilts and gestures.Bernard Dort insists on the fundamental notion of the game, as well as dis-guise in Genet’s theatre and states: ‘to be, it is necessary to appear’.12 Indeed,5 Various political texts and interviews, including on Genet’s support for the Black Panther Party, are to be found in Jean Genet, ‘L’ennemi déclaré’ Œuvres complètes, VI: ed. by Al- bert Dichy (1991). See also Simon Critchley, ‘Writing the Revolution: The Politics of Truth in Genet’s Prisoner of Love’, Ethics-Politics-Subjectivity: Essays on Derrida, Levinas and Contemporary French Thought (London: Verso, 1999), pp. 30-50.6 Jean-Paul Sartre, ‘Saint Genet, comédien et martyr’, Œuvres complètes de Jean Genet, I (1952); Georges Bataille, ‘Genet’, La Littérature et le mal (Paris: Gallimard, 1957), pp. 197- 244; Jacques Lacan, ‘Sur Le Balcon de Genet’, Le Magazine littéraire, No. 313 (September 1993), 51-57; Derrida, Glas.7 See, for example, Kristin Ross, ‘Schoolteachers, Maids, and Other Paranoid Histories’, in Genet: In the Language of the Enemy (Yale French Studies, No. 91), ed. by Scott Durham (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997), pp. 7-27; James Creech, ‘Outing Jean Genet’, in Genet: In the Language of the Enemy, pp. 117-40.8 The Theatre of the Absurd, rev. updated edn (New York: Overlook Press, 1973), pp. 166-97.9 ‘Antonin Artaud and Jean Genet’, The Theatre of Revolt (London: Methuen, 1965), pp. 361- 411. See also Carol Rosen, ‘The Structure of Illusion in Genet’s The Balcony’, Modern Drama, 35 (December 1992), 513-19.10 Discussing a new role of language in theatre, Antonin Artaud writes about ‘Incantation’, Le Théâtre et son double (Paris: Éditions Gallimard, 1964), p. 67. Theatre is a performance which cannot simply depend upon dialogue, p. 66; see also p. 53.11 Theatre of Revolt, p. 377.12 ‘Le théâtre: une féerie sans réplique’, Le Magazine littéraire, 313 (September 1993), 46.
50 Caroline Sheaffer-Jonesin his use of the play within the play, Genet exposes the limits of a dangerousgame entangling art and life, one which affords no safe haven.13Dance with DeathFor Genet, theatre is inextricably tied to death.14 In one of his letters to thedirector Roger Blin, he wrote about The Screens: ‘Really, it is necessary that,at the exit, the spectators take away in their mouths that famous taste of ashand a smell of rottenness’.15 Truly tasting ash is part of the fundamental spec-tacle which Genet presents and one is not free to remain aloof from the action.Through the play within the play, the spectator is put right into the midst of aconflict with death. Being at the knife-edge is exemplified by the tightropewalker whom Genet describes in a short text. This character risks death,chasing his image with which he tries to identify on the rope: we come to see‘a solitary lover in pursuit of his image, saving himself and fainting on awire’.16 Between the tightrope walker and the image pursued is the risk of afatal fall. It is this extreme limit which fascinates Genet, one at which thespectacle itself risks ruin, or at least transformation. Like the tightrope walkerin a dance with death, the actors and the spectators in Genet’s plays are in-volved in the perilous making and unmaking of the spectacle. Death and treacherous make-believe are central in The Maids. However,unlike in The Balcony and The Blacks, which it preceded, the play within theplay does not show the spectator’s role explicitly. Yet to a certain extent whatis already questioned is the difference between role-play and life; that livingmight somehow be free of acting.17 Claire says: ‘What remains for us is tocontinue this life, take up the game again’, to which Solange replies: ‘Thegame is dangerous’.18 In the changing of places, roles become confused.When Claire drinks the poisoned tea as Madame, who does not drink it, is shereally still acting as Madame? To what extent she is pretending is uncertain.Claire and Solange also interject in their ‘real’ identities. Yet it is as if they13 This is contrary to Christiane Vymétal Jacquemont’s view: ‘The locus of the game provides a reassuring cosmos while, in the outside world with its unpredictable daily profane life, a threatening chaos reigns’, ‘The Essence of the Game and its Locus in Jean Genet’s Le Bal- con’, French Review, 54 (December 1980), 285.14 See the startling text, ‘L’étrange mot d’…’, Œuvres complètes, IV, 7-18, and, in particular, Samuel Weber, ‘Double Take: Acting and Writing in Gene’s “L’étrange mot de…”’, in Ge- net: In the Language of the Enemy, pp. 28-48.15 ‘Lettres à Roger Blin, Œuvres complètes, IV, 224.16 ‘Le Funambule’, Œuvres complètes, V (1979), 19.17 Sartre, Œuvres complètes de Jean Genet, I, 567, states that the reader will recognize Claire and Solange as the Papin sisters.18 Les Bonnes, Œuvres complètes, IV, 154.
Playing and not Playing in Genet 51were somehow suspended between themselves and the roles which they as-sume, like the tightrope walker chasing his image.19 Indeed, in the swappingof roles, it is the line between play and reality which becomes impossible todistinguish. Roles overlap; one is substituted incessantly for another. One fig-ure lives on as another. It is as if the play were almost a game with multiplepossibilities in which actions are at once mimed and realized, neither playednor accomplished once and for all.Focusing on the SpectacleGenet’s use of the play within the play in The Balcony and The Blacks drawsthe spectator into the play, so that he is even more compellingly confrontedwith a role which is neither simply imagined nor real. The notion of objectiveobservation is cast in doubt, as is the possibility of a well-defined framewhich would separate the actor in the play from the spectator in reality. Thus,distinguishing where the play begins and where it might end, indeed definingthe work, becomes problematic. In particular, through the transgression of thespace between the inner and outer plays, the spectator’s role is shown to beinextricably bound to that of the actor. The outer play is no more containedthan the inner play, but opens out into a much wider space, in which the shift-ing limits between actor and spectator, play and reality, are at stake. The Balcony begins in Madame Irma’s brothel, ‘The Grand Balcony’,where clients are dressed up to act out their fantasies of various figures, in-cluding a Bishop, a Judge and a General. Madame Irma observes the activi-ties in all of her rooms with a viewing apparatus. She is also seen dressingwith the assistance of her confidante Carmen. Meanwhile, all around, a revoltis taking place. Chantal, a prostitute who left the brothel to become involved,meets with her lover Roger, a leader in the uprising. Chantal dies and be-comes a symbol of the struggle. Madame Irma is persuaded to appear on thebalcony in the role of the Queen, along with the clients who pass themselvesoff as Bishop, Judge and General, key figures in the society, and the Hero orChief of Police. The revolt is then quelled. The Chief of Police’s longstand-ing dream to become part of the nomenclature of the brothel is finally real-ized when Roger asks to act out his role. In the designated room, a mausole-um, Roger castrates himself. The Chief of Police finally disappears into themausoleum and Madame Irma closes her house for the night. The play within the play occurs in many scenes: in particular, in theclients’ theatrical performances observed by Madame Irma, a surrogate audi-19 In ‘Comment jouer Les Bonnes’, Œuvres complètes, IV, 267, Genet describes the Maids’ gestures, and even their voices, as suspended or broken, adding: ‘Each gesture will leave the actresses suspended’.
52 Caroline Sheaffer-Jonesence in her brothel; in the appearance of the key figures of society on thebalcony of the brothel and in Roger’s role-playing in the mausoleum, as he isspied upon by other characters. What is apparent is that there is no clear-cutdistinction between the play within the play taking place in the form of role-playing and the so-called reality outside this make-believe. When figuresplaying roles become part of the political scene and calm the revolt, the linebetween play and reality, theatre and affairs of state, is obviously blurred. Infact, this is also the case in the brothel, also known as a ‘house of illusions’,where the clients require that there be a certain truth and at the same time alack of reality, as Madame Irma explains to Carmen: Irma: They all want everything to be as true as possible… Less something undefinable, which makes it not true. (With a change in tone.) Carmen, I am the one who decided to name my establishment a house of illusions, but I am only the director of it, and each person, when he rings, enters and brings his perfectly worked out script. All that is left for me is to rent the hall, provide the props, the actors and actresses.20Illusion is not separated from reality by the walls of this house of illusions,where, according to Carmen, the scenarios are all reducible to the theme ofdeath (Balcony, p. 126). When Arthur, an employee of the brothel, is hit by abullet which penetrated the house from the outside, he still plays a cadaver,but for real. To distinguish between acting and not acting poses difficulties;as Madame Irma says: ‘He didn’t believe that he would be able to play hisrole of cadaver so well tonight’ (Balcony, p. 98). In the fantasies played out in the house, characters move between rolesand so-called reality, or else between the inner play and the outer one. Theextent of the make-believe is difficult to determine, as in The Maids, andcharacters slip into and out of the game like the judge with the girl playing athief (Balcony, pp. 48-49). The spectator in the auditorium sees the bounda-ries between the inner and outer play becoming unclear and is compelled toreassess his own position. In the play within the play, in which Roger takeson the role of the Chief of Police, there are a few spectators who watch clan-destinely in the outer play, namely Madame Irma as the Queen, the palaceEnvoy and the Chief of Police, along with the Bishop, the Judge and the Gen-eral. When the Chief of Police interjects, the Envoy tells him that he shouldlet the roles be played right to the end. However, what sort of play does thisentail? Might the Chief of Police see himself in Roger, and to what extentdoes Roger act this spectator? In seeing his role performed, the Chief of20 Le Balcon, Œuvres complètes, IV, 73. The page numbers to The Balcony will be given in the text after the quotations.
Playing and not Playing in Genet 53Police witnesses the grandeur of his image. He sees Carmen explaining toRoger towards the end of play that the Slave has left their role-play in themausoleum in order to disseminate the ‘truth’ to the outside world: ‘Thetruth: that you are dead, or rather that you don’t stop dying and that yourimage, like your name, reverberates to infinity’ (Balcony, p. 131). The inter-jections of the Chief of Police to the Queen show his satisfaction with the‘truth’ of his death, or, more precisely, that he never ceases to die, living onin his name and his ever-present image. If this show of truth is the culmination of the action for the Chief of Po-lice, if after such a role-play nothing remains for him but to disappear into themausoleum for two thousand years, this is not the case for Roger, who em-bodies his role in the inner play beyond all limits: ‘greater than great, stron-ger than strong, more dead than dead’, in the words of the Chief of Police(Balcony, p. 133). He carries on despite Carmen’s insistence that the ‘sessionis over’ (Balcony, p. 131). Indeed, Roger does not just represent the Chief ofPolice in the role-play, taking on the policeman’s chosen appearance as agiant phallus, but he merges ‘his destiny with his own’ (Balcony, p. 132).Roger castrates himself, as if to destroy the Chief of Police. It is evident thatthe boundaries of the inner play are unclear, as Roger leaves the stage and isreplaced by the Chief of Police, who was a spectator. Taking over the role-play, he acts himself on centre stage. To the photographers, who take hisphoto, he says: ‘You, look at me live and die. For posterity: fire!’ (Balcony,p. 133). Through his participation in the nomenclature of the brothel, throughhis image passed on to posterity, the Chief of Police is never simply deadonce and for all. Thus, when he takes the place of the figure who personifieshim in the inner play, it becomes all the more apparent that his role is in factneither simply real nor represented, neither offstage nor onstage; that he isnot just a spectator or an actor, but both at once, appearing on a much widerstage. Focusing on the spectacle is without a doubt a most problematic task.A People of ShadowsIn The Blacks, through the play within the play, Genet shows the fluidity ofthe roles of actors and spectators involved, at once in ‘make-believe’ and‘truth’. The play is about a group of Blacks who stage the ritual killing of aWhite. This takes place in front of the spectators of the Court, Blacks maskedas Whites, and consisting of the Queen, her Valet, the Governor, the Judgeand the Missionary, some of the characters who also appear in The Balcony.This action serves to hide the ‘real’ action offstage, where a Black is judgedby Blacks and executed. Ville de Saint-Nazaire makes several appearancesduring the play to inform the actors, indeed all of us as spectators, about the
54 Caroline Sheaffer-Jonesprogress of these events. The members of the Court take off their masks, re-vealing black faces, and listen intently. They then put their white masks onagain and are finally killed in succession. The play culminates in the murder of the spectators of the Court, as ifthey were meant to be the true victims of the murder re-enactment. To a cer-tain extent, there is a reversal at work, because the spectators from the outerplay are murdered on centre-stage in front of the actors from the inner play,who have become spectators. Moreover, the interweaving of the roles ofspectator and actor is further complicated when the action offstage is reportedto everyone onstage and the actors are realigned with the spectators to forman audience. In these ‘ceremonies’ involving death, as in The Balcony, theboundaries of the inner and outer plays become blurred. This dramatic stag-ing of a murder in front of others has parallels with the fundamentally thea-trical representation of crime within the court system in society. Significant-ly, for Genet, spectators are not removed from the action, but are implicatedin this theatre and thus must share the responsibility for crime. Indeed, it isthe queens, valets, governors, judges and missionaries in society who witnessto a certain extent their own deaths. However, what is apparent above all inthis play, in which murders are repeatedly staged, is that death is extremelyelusive. While death is at the centre of this play, even literally, in the form of thecatafalque covered in a white cloth onstage, this spectacle of death is withouta doubt most difficult to grasp. Even the staging of the murder in the innerplay is surrounded by a certain unreality, because the enacted events do nottally with Village’s account at the beginning of the outer play, in which hespeaks of his attack on an old tramp on the embankment. It is apparentthrough the juxtaposition of these differing representations that there is nosimple reality. However, it is through theatre, more especially the play withinthe play, that the spectator can get a glimpse of his mortality, or perhaps im-mortality; as Bataille affirms, the spectacle or representation is, in fact, theonly way of ‘knowing’ death.21 About theatre, Archibald says to Village:‘We’ll play at being reflected in it, and we’ll see ourselves – big black narcis-sists – slowly disappearing into its waters’, adding finally: ‘You’re becominga spectre before their very eyes and you’re going to haunt them’. 22 Throughthe play within the play, the spectators in the Court and the auditorium are21 See Bataille, ‘Hegel, la mort et le sacrifice’, Deucalion, 5 (1955), 21-43.22 Genet, Les Nègres: Clownerie, Œuvres complètes, V, 101. The page numbers to The Blacks will be given in the text after the quotations.
Playing and not Playing in Genet 55made to witness to a degree their own death and to see themselves asspectres. Through a certain unreality of death, both the Whites and the Blacks arecaught in a twilight zone. While the Governor imagines ridding the earth ofthe ‘shadows’ of the Blacks (Blacks, p. 150), the Queen asks whether in kill-ing the Court, the Blacks will boast about killing ‘a people of shadows’(Blacks, p. 149). After complaining about this dangerous ritual conductedeach night and each second, the Queen, undeniably a spectre, states that infact she is always ‘sculpting herself’ in the ‘form of an eternal ruin’; she is ananimated ‘cadaver’ (Blacks, p. 141). Indeed, the killing of the Court is some-what unreal. When the Governor is shot, for example, Archibald gives himdirections to get up and move to centre-stage: ‘No. Come and die here’(Blacks, p. 150). Seeing oneself die or seeing another die, as if in one’s place,is a fundamental aspect of Genet’s use of the play within the play. The spec-tator occupies a position which is neither simply in the play nor outside it,and he can come to terms with an image of himself as neither dead nor alive,moving between make-believe and reality. What is apparent is that both ac-tors and spectators alike must confront an intangible death, mortal yet con-tinuing to live on in a state of suspended animation.The Frame in PlayThe play within the play is a means of tackling the issue of the limits of thea-tre by providing a glimpse of the viewing of the spectacle at the heart of theplay. By displacing the borders of theatre, it effectively highlights the condi-tion of the spectator, indeed, of the human being, as actor. Most significantly,it undercuts the spectator’s sense of reality by showing that he is also a shad-ow in the ever-changing scenes. Both The Blacks and The Balcony contain aplay within a play in which the boundaries of performance are challenged andthe external status of the spectator is brought into question. In a different way,Artaud’s replacement of the stage and the auditorium with a sole area withoutpartitions or barriers recasts the traditional roles of spectator and actor.23 In ‘How to perform The Blacks’, Genet explains that, during one of Vil-lage’s speeches, both the stage lights and those in the auditorium are to beturned on. The spectators must be in the spotlight. Genet writes that his playis written for Whites by a White and that there must be at least one White inthe audience. Seated at the front, he will receive attention and the light willbe on him throughout the spectacle. If there is no White, and Blacks refuse23 Le Théâtre et son double, pp. 146-48. See also Derrida, ‘Le théâtre de la cruauté et la clôture de la représentation’, L’Écriture et la différence (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1967), pp. 341-68.
56 Caroline Sheaffer-Jonesmasks, then a mannequin is to be used. Thus, the play opens out to includethe spectator, a White spectator, although even colour is changed in the play,especially through the use of white masks, sometimes worn, sometimesremoved. As Genet writes: ‘But what exactly is a Black? And first of all,what’s his colour?’ (Blacks, p. 79). In The Blacks, the spectator is necessarily forced to recognize his ownpart in the endless theatrical repetition of a play which finishes, only to beginagain with the same sounds of Mozart. At the start, the Blacks salute not onlythe Court, but also the audience, as does Archibald when introducing theactors. The Blacks are thus overstepping the boundaries of the inner play toacknowledge at once the presence of both audiences. At the beginning of TheBlacks, the Governor in the Court says: ‘And we know that we have come toattend our own funerals’ (Blacks, p. 86). This is the case for all the spectators.Yet death is neither onstage, nor offstage; neither make-believe nor real.After the members of the Court die, they lift their heads to listen, they talk,get up, lie down again and move off to Hell. Along with the Blacks, themembers of the Court come back at the end, this time without their masks,and stand once again around the catafalque draped in white. Life, death and role-playing are also incessantly linked through the circu-larity of The Balcony. In ‘How to perform The Balcony’, Genet rejects theuse of a turntable onstage and insists that the scenes follow each other fromleft to right, as if one fitted into the other in front of the spectator (Balcony, p.274). Thus, what Genet describes is not independent vignettes, but one scenealmost endlessly metamorphosing into another and witnessed by the specta-tor, as if he were part of an ongoing movement. The first four scenes of theplay occur in different rooms of the brothel and are, of course, shown in se-quence to the spectator. At the same time, the play within the play displacesthe boundaries of this sequential movement by showing Madame Irma look-ing through her viewing apparatus at the salons simultaneously. The playwithin the play disrupts the borders of the play, because it assembles togetherwithin a frame role-playing which the spectator in the auditorium perceivesnot simultaneously but sequentially. However, it is evident that in trying tostep back to take in everything within one frame, Madame Irma is no lesscaught up in the endless succession of scenes. Indeed, a spectator of the sa-lons, Madame Irma also assumes a role-play in the outer play and where therole-playing begins and ends is certainly difficult to determine. It is evidentthat the spectator in the theatre can no more simply step back than can Mad-ame Irma. On the wall of the stage in the first three scenes is a mirror reflect-ing an unmade bed and, if properly arranged, as Genet writes in his stagedirections, the bed would be in the first seats of the auditorium (Balcony, p.
Playing and not Playing in Genet 5739). This bed, shown on stage in the fifth scene, is set in Madame Irma’s bed-room. Thus, it is as if Madame Irma’s bedroom were also in the auditorium.It is as if the spectator were occupying Madame Irma’s place, in effect withinthe frame of the play and at the same time beyond it, indeed neither insidenor outside. It is evident that in this theatre, in this ‘maison d’illusions’, clients alongwith partners act out roles to the limit. If this role-playing involves dying,death remains somewhat unreal. When the figures appear ‘in reality’ on thebalcony and help to quell the revolt, they play out their fantasies beyond im-agination. As the Bishop says: ‘[T]here will never be a movement powerfulenough to destroy our imagery’ (Balcony, p. 124). The differences betweenthose figures and the people whom they represent are blurred. It is as if Mad-ame Irma were no more real, nor unreal, than the Queen whose part she as-sumes and whose function she successfully fulfils. There is already someconfusion about whether the Queen is alive or dead and, as the palace Envoystates: ‘The Queen is embroidering and she is not embroidering…’ (Balcony,p. 123). At the very end of the play, Madame Irma slips from her role as Queeninto her role in the brothel. She frees the various figures, telling them to goout into the alleyway, and turns off the lights, pre-empting what will soontake place in the auditorium. Alone, she then speaks of her salons, which canall fit together and combine, and of the endless role-playing: ‘Soon, it will benecessary to begin again… to light everything up again… to get dressed […]To redistribute the roles… to get into mine’ (Balcony, p. 135). What is appar-ent is that no one, not even Madame Irma, is free from playing a role; no one,not even the Chief of Police, initially excluded from the nomenclature, cansimply remain outside. Everyone plays a part,24 including the spectators inthis house, the term ‘balcon’ meaning also ‘dress circle’. Finally, MadameIrma turns to the spectators and tells them also to prepare their roles, as jud-ges, generals, bishops, chamberlains and insurgents. She tells them, just asshe said to the figures in the play, to go home and there ‘everything, don’tdoubt it, will be even more false than here’ (Balcony, p. 135). Playing thesame roles, they are just as much actors in the theatre as the players. They arealso told to leave via the alleyway. The entrances and exits in this scene arenot confined to the stage. As the spectators watch, join, Madame Irma’s‘house of illusions’, she too is a spectator of the theatre of which they are alla part.24 For Lacan, ‘Sur Le Balcon de Genet’, pp. 56-57, however, everything pivots around the Chief of Police.
58 Caroline Sheaffer-Jones In ‘The Tightrope Walker’, the performer is suspended, endlessly chasinghis image on a rope. Balanced between reality and an image, this figure isneither one nor the other. As a tightrope walker, he is at once fragile and stillpart of an enduring tradition. In Genet’s plays, the characters are all involvedin a similar dance fraught with danger. They see themselves incessantly indifferent roles. The Maids act to the limit, where play and reality, acting andnot acting, cannot clearly be distinguished. What is important about the playwithin the play in The Balcony and The Blacks is that it demonstrates mostpowerfully the way in which make-believe and reality are necessarily part ofthe same scene. When spectators and actors onstage cross the borders be-tween the inner and outer play, what is apparent is that the boundaries be-tween actor and spectator are brought into question. There is no possibilityfor the spectator in the auditorium to remain aloof. If in The Blacks murder isstaged, indeed ultimately that of all of the members of the Court who werespectators, the spectator is compelled to a certain extent to confront his mor-tality. Dying, he necessarily also lives on in another role or image. Death re-mains somewhat abstract for the spectator, as it does for the actor playing apart, which is symbolized above all by the empty catafalque. In this theatre, the borders of the stage, like the ‘house of illusions’, arecertainly difficult to determine. What the play within the play shows aboveall is not a well-defined drama within another, but rather the transgression ofthe boundary between make-believe and reality; it redrafts the limits of thescene, drawing attention to the fragility of the separation between the stageand the auditorium. Both actor and spectator are part of a theatre in which thevery possibility of representation is at stake. For this theatre is not about awork with a clear beginning or end, showing the ‘real’ world. It consists ofthe endless comings and goings, both on the stage and in the auditorium, ofthose who are at once actors and spectators. Changing roles, perhaps dyingand reliving in another performance, is part of this ungraspable game. Likethe tightrope walker one risks falling, unmaking a scene. However, roles arealso transformed as people, a ‘people of shadows’, come and go: Queens,Judges, Bishops or Missionaries such as those who act in The Balcony or whoreturn, with a different profile, in The Blacks. What is in play are appearancesand disappearances on the world stage. Figures repeatedly take the place ofothers in a performance which goes on. It is not possible simply to be a spec-tator and to step back from the stage to see everything within one frame, forone is precisely a part of the scene, at once both a spectator and an actor inthe infinite spectacle.
IIThe Play within the Play and Meta-Theatre1. Self-Reflection and Self-Reference
Christian SinnThe Figure in the Carpet: Metadramatical Concepts in JacobBidermann’s Cenodoxus (1602)Bidermann creates in his Cenodoxus a metatextual metaphor derived from the literary sense of‘text’ as ‘textum’, i.e. carpet, which fulfills the function of the Jamesian ‘figure in the carpet’ byproviding the spectator with the figure of an implicit author who in the course of the drama inter-weaves the strands of Greek and Latin tradition with those of normative Jesuitical Christianityand, more important, keeps this process of weaving visible for the audience, so that the audienceby being made conscious of this process. To emphasize this figure in the carpet Bidermannemploys a combination of several media (the stage set, periochen (summaries) for the non-Latinspectators, music, dancing, allegorical figures, etc.) in what today is called a Gesamtkunstwerk inorder to initiate the audience into an art of imagination.On 3 July 1602, a new neo-Latin Jesuit drama was offered to the citizens ofAugsburg in a production staged by its author, Jacob Bidermann. Many otherstagings followed: Ingolstadt (1617), Paris (1636), Vienna (1637). Perhapsthe most remarkable performance was that given on the Munich court stagein 1609: legend 1 has it that, in response to the horrific impressions left by theplay, the distinguished audience, consisting mainly of important Bavariancourt nobles and the foremost citizens of Munich, was moved to convert toCatholicism.2 A strange, simple title, Cenodoxus, suggested the theme ofcenodoxia, i.e. vain glory, the mother of all sins. Opening with comic scenes,the drama then built up to a mercilessly shocking finish. Its tone was exactingin form and harrowing in content, threatening with hell on earth anyone in theaudience who might not repent his sins. Later audiences, especially in the eraof Enlightenment, were not amused by the tone and ideological fanaticism ofthe play, and the most famous neo-Latin drama of its epoch seemed long for-gotten until Hugo von Hofmannsthal, fascinated by the Baroque theatrum1 Günter Hess, ‘Spectator – Lector – Actor. Zum Publikum von Jakob Bidermanns Cenodox- us. Mit Materialien zum literarischen und sozialgeschichtlichen Kontext der Handschriften von Ursula Hess’, Internationales Archiv für Sozialgeschichte der deutschen Literatur (1976), 1, 30-106.2 See Cenodoxus, ed. and trans. by Denis G. Dyer (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1975), Introduction, pp. 1-25. All quotations are from this edition.
62 Christian Sinnmundi theme, revived the history of Cenodoxus’ reception by developingplans to write a play entitled ‘Xenodoxus’ [!]. Today Bidermann’s play isperformed in the classical schools in Germany (Ettal, St Blasien, Augsburg)and at the University of Passau. At the University of Heidelberg, a new pro-duction was staged in 2005. What little we know of the life of Jacob Bidermann is quickly told. Hewas born in 1578 in Ehingen, a village southwest of Ulm, and educated at theJesuit college in Augsburg, where he remained a pupil until 1594. In thecourse of his studies he became personally acquainted with the famous classi-cist and grammarian, Jacob Pontanus. In 1594 Bidermann entered the Societyof Jesus at Dillingen. For three years he studied at the college in Ingolstadtand then started teaching Jesuit pupils in Augsburg. In 1606, after three moreyears pursuing theological studies in Ingolstadt, he moved to Munich to teachat the Jesuit college. In 1616 he first became professor of philosophy andthen professor of theology at the Jesuit-controlled university of Dillingen. Sixyears later he was called to Rome to act as the official theologian of theSociety and censor of books. He died in Rome on 20 August 1639. Bidermann’s oeuvre reaches far beyond the prescribed genres and didac-tic interests of Jesuit tradition. Nine dramatic texts are known, includingCosmarchia (1617), which not only preaches a spiritual reality, but is also areadable and highly comical satire of politics, and Joannes Calybita, whichwas staged with extraordinary success in 1638. There are epics in verse likeHerodias (1622), which was very popular and even translated from Latin intoGerman during his lifetime. Utopia (published 1640), an entertaining andaesthetically complex cycle of satirical novels modelled on Boccaccio’s De-camerone, went through nine editions and was also translated into German in1677. There are epigrammatical writings – published in 14 editions – episto-lary poems, such as the Epistolae Heroidum (1638), which tries for a Chris-tian reworking of the Ovidian elegies, and there are hymns and stylized liter-ary biograpies of the saints, Ignatius (1612), Elisabeth von Reute (1626),Graf Anton Maria von Urbino (1631) and Alosius von Gonzaga (1640). Inshort, Bidermann was an extremely productive author who experimented joy-fully with nearly all the established contemporary genres. Today Bidermann is valued as one of the seventeenth century’s great Ger-man playwrights, along with Gryphius and Lohenstein. The reason his firstand most popular play, Cenodoxus, has met for so long with such a biasedreception is – always excepting the now unfamiliar Latin – that it hasconsistently been seen as a mere illustration of Jesuit dogma. But the fact thatCenodoxus was almost translated in 1635 in Munich by his pupil JoachimMeichel and was then adapted for a German performance in 1742 emphasizes
The Figure in the Carpet 63that it was seen to differ quite significantly from other plays of its time, es-pecially from traditional Jesuit drama. Still more importantly, the Society ofJesus itself honoured Bidermann after his death with an exceedingly costlyand well-printed edition of his Ludi theatrales (1666) – including Cenodoxus– for having innovated traditional Jesuit poetics in a way that gave his Ludithe value of classical texts.3 This is all the more extraordinary as Jesuit dra-mas were usually only staged for single performances, instruments of an ex-cellent and highly progressive concept of education based on the ancienttheory of rhetoric practised in the form of a play. This play offered the pupilsdifferent models of acting, and more often than not the play was discardedonce it had served its educational purpose. Thus printed, Bidermann’s Ludi, unlike those of most of his contempora-ry teachers, were read, quoted and performed until well into the eighteenthcentury. Literary merits aside, they were considered theoretically highly in-teresting.4 That it was called a comico-tragoedia already hints at this andimplies an understanding of Cenodoxus as a metadrama in our contemporarysense of a ‘drama about drama’, and thus about the possibilities of drama it-self.5 However, the play does not in itself represent a ‘pure’ dramatic genre,but employs a mixture of tragedy and comedy in which the comic aspects, incontrast to other forms of tragicomedy, function to deepen the tragic situa-tion. Thus the concept of comico-tragoedia inverted the old Plautine idea oftragico-comoedia, in which comedy was used to create a non-tragic endingfor a tragic situation. It is, however, not only this inversion which renderedBidermann’s comico-tragoedia highly innovative, but also the coexistence ofhigh and low characters in the same play, which was an offence against theBaroque rule that tragedy should deal exclusively with the high-born andcomedy with the low. Bidermann’s Jesuit respondents, however, found three arguments for ap-plauding this offence. To start with, it furthered the ends of Jesuit populareducation, demonstrating that low-status persons could be shown to confrontethical questions just like high-status persons. Consequently, the techniquesused to appeal to the audience covered a variety of ‘multi-media’ stimuli –the stage set, periochen (i.e. summaries in the vernacular for non-Latin-3 See Fidel Rädle, ‘Die Praemonitio ad Lectorem zu Jacob Bidermanns Ludi theatrales (1666) deutsch’, in Der Buchstab töd – der Geist macht Lebendig, ed. by James Hardin and Jörg Jungmayer, 2 vols (Bern: Peter Lang, 1992), II, pp. 1131-71.4 Hans Pörnbacher, ‘Cenodoxus, Der Doctor von Pariß’, in Dramen vom Barock bis zur Auf- klärung (Stuttgart: Reclam, 2000), p. 9.5 Richard Hornby, Drama, Metadrama and Perception (Lewisburg: Bucknell University Press 1986), p. 31.
64 Christian Sinnspeaking spectators), music, dancing, allegorical figures, etc. – in what Wag-ner might have called a Gesamtkunstwerk, aimed at awing the audience intohumility and, at the same time, creating a heightened awareness of both theperformance’s theatricality and human existence on earth. The effects addedto Jesuit theatre after Bidermann – ballet scenes, operatic elements and, notleast, the scenic stage with its deep perspective and infinite vanishing-point,where the boundaries between play and life seem to dissolve – served to in-tensify this awareness still more, continuing the process which had startedbefore Bidermann with the Elizabethan and Jacobean theatre in England:‘[P]rologues and epilogues, asides, direct addresses, and the play-within-a-play [...] remind the audience that it is watching a play, which, while pretend-ing to reality, [it] is not.’6 This is precisely why the prologue of Cenodoxusinforms us about the difference between history and fiction, implying, how-ever, that history is formed by fictions. Seen against the backdrop of literaryhistory, Bidermann thus represents an important part of the hidden and com-plex history of aesthetics before the term itself actually existed. First theologyand then politics become metaphors for art – in the sense of the ‘fiction’ in-troduced by the prologue – so that Bidermann’s concept of the comico-tragoedia is an interesting contribution to the notion of theatrum mundi in theShakespearean sense, especially on its self-referential level, ‘where the worldmay become a stage, history a plot, kings dramatists, courtiers actors, com-moners audiences, and speech itself the dialogue or script that gives breath toall the rest.’ 7 Secondly, the comico-tragoedia was a typological argument in a theoreti-cal discussion. It was J.C. Scaliger (1561) who first defined and establishedthe genre of tragicomedy, even if he himself criticised it for its heathen ori-gins in the works of Euripides. Nevertheless, this led to a debate over the le-gitimacy of ‘mixing’ genres, to which G.B. Guarini, Donatus and Lope deVega contributed with their respective theories of tragico-comoedia. Fromthe first years of the seventeenth century Bidermann’s work, with its inver-sion towards a comico-tragoedia, anticipates this debate and argues for newformal possibilities that might be derived from genre-mixing. However, thelater Classical poetics of Opitz and Gottsched strictly advocated preservingthe purity of the genres for their own sake, and the art of mixing them did not6 June Schlueter, Metafictional Characters in Modern Drama (New York: Columbia Univer- sity Press, 1979), p. 2.7 James L. Calderwood, Metadrama in Shakespeare’s Henriad: Richard II to Henry V (Berke- ley: University of California Press, 1979), p. 5. But the Shakesperean view is already found- ed in older metaphors of play since Plato’s Nomoi, see Ernst Robert Curtius, Europäische Literatur und lateinisches Mittelalter, 8th edn (Bern: Francke, 1984), pp. 148-54.
The Figure in the Carpet 65become acceptable until the German Romantics began to debate the theoryand put it into practice on onstage. The third argument combines aspects of the first two: Biderman with his‘Mischspiel’ (‘mixed-genre play’) strove to establish an art of imaginationwhich served the interests of the rhetoric and poetics of Jesuits as well as thatof Protestants.8 Traditional poetics, and with it traditional genre distinctions,had to be rejected if they did not serve to instill Christian sense in the public.By the same logic, mixing was legitimate, even compulsory, if it achieved itsdidactic goal.9 Therefore, Bidermann not only wrote a comico-tragoedia butalso adopted the Roman comedy of Plautus and Terence, introducing allegor-ical characters who usually also combined antique and Christian aspects. Thiscoexistence of heterogeneous traditions linked metatheatrality, i.e. the toposof the theatrum mundi, to a universal theological dogma: human beings donot act by themselves, but are puppets operated by God and unable to controltheir own existence. This dogma is most clearly illustrated by the fourth actof Cenodoxus: Cenodoxus cannot make his own decisions regarding eternalsalvation, but must abide by a decision made for him. But herein lies a funda-mental contradiction, one that reflects a deep division in Catholic ideology: inradical opposition to that of the Dominicans, Jesuit dogma insists on the free-dom of the human will – freedom, for instance, to decide for or against ac-tions which lead to redemption. In light of this, Cenodoxus causes one to askwhy Bidermann should have adopted the Dominican-like, almost Lutheran,position of proclaiming that man is no more than a plaything in the strugglebetween God and Satan. The answer can only be found at the level of theplay’s poetics: as the comico-tragoedia informs the audience about what de-termines man’s actions in the boundaries of the play within the play, it invitesits audience to reflect on those determinants and to act accordingly at the le-vel of and with regard to its – the audience’s – own worldly existence. The writing of this drama, however, presented a seemingly insolubleproblem for its author: as the drama displays an impressive amount of knowl-edge derived from Greek and Latin sources, revealing its origins in quota-tions and allusions, it shows exactly that form of learned superbia for whichCenodoxus finds himself consigned to damnation. To resolve this theologicaldifficulty of how to attack and surpass the pride of the Humanist scholars8 See also the analysis by Georg Braungart, ‘Jakob Bidermanns Cenodoxus. Zeitdiagnose, su- perbia-Kritik, komisch-tragische Entlarvung und theatralische Bekehrungsstrategie’, Daph- nis (1989), 18, 581-640.9 This is documented by the Praemonitio itself (see Fidel Rädle, note 4 above) and the repre- sentation of James A. Parente, Religious Drama and the Humanist Tradition: Christian The- ater in Germany and in the Netherlands, 1500-1680 (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1987).
66 Christian Sinnwithout inviting the accusation of being proud himself, Bidermann employsthree variations of the play within the play. First, the design of the persona Cenodoxus represents the construction ofJesuit virtue, dependent on prudentia, prudence. Cenodoxus’ application ofprudentia operates within the idea of the theatrum mundi, the idea that every-thing that is perceptible to a human being is part of a play ultimately devisedand staged by God Himself. In Cenodoxus’ case this idea does not confirmany virtues as God-given but rather deconstructs them as arbitrary elementsof playacting, to be made use of wherever they seem to further the actors’sinterests. Second, Bidermann applies prudentia himself against the false prudentiaof Cenodoxus. He contrasts and comments upon Cenodoxus’ superbia bycombining the antique tradition with Christian elements like the Last Judg-ment, those elements again clearly shown to represent a theatrical structure.So the guardian angel presents Cenodoxus with the latter’s book of sins, agesture taken from Everyman,10 yet he talks to Cenodoxus using an antique-pagan vocabulary; and the devils, instead of being simply ‘Christian’ devils,descend from the antique Acheron. But this creates a new problem: As soonas religious – i.e. Christian – issues are put onstage, especially in this particu-lar form, they lose their ‘own’ reality. They are no longer things but signs,i.e. something standing for something else, thus gaining the precarious ‘reali-ty’ of stage performance and becoming an integral part of the play’s basicallyself-referential structure. And third: this structure finds its most explicit metaphor in a metatextualsign brought up in the so-called ‘carpet scene’ (II.8), a metaphor derivedfrom the literary sense of ‘text’ as ‘textum’, ‘carpet’, and as such an earlyprecedent of the Jamesian ‘figure in the carpet’. It provides the spectator/reader with an implicit author who in the course of the drama interweaves thestrands of Greek and Latin traditions with those of normative Jesuit Christi-anity and, more importantly, keeps this process of weaving visible so that theaudience, by being made conscious of it, may ideally be led to the right formof prudentia. In terms of poetics, the carpet motif focuses on what by now has becomefar more than the story of a man involved in sin and damnation. As play afterplay is introduced into the framing Cenodoxus-plot, it becomes clear that theplot’s end, Christ’s condemnation of the sinner, cannot even begin to exhaust10 See also Barbara Könneker, ‘Das andere Sterben: Jakob Bidermanns Cenodoxus und die Tradition der Jedermannspiele’, in Der fremdgewordene Text, ed. by Silvia Bovenschen (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1997), pp. 285-97.
The Figure in the Carpet 67the kaleidoscopic multitude of moral and other elements of reflection addedto the frame by its meandering subplots. Seen from this angle, Cenodoxus’story seems little more than an axis around which the main interest of theplay evolves. Indeed, in the opening scene of the comico-tragoedia Cenodox-us himself is not even present. He becomes even more absent, as it were, ashis servant Dama misleads the parasite Mariscus,11 who is searching for Da-ma’s master: Dama lies to Mariscus about Cenodoxus awaiting him in thesuburban gardens, and on top of that shows him the wrong way to these gar-dens.12 DAMA Walk past the tower, the one right here, and then You’ll see an arcade on your left – walk in it, Not to the right, though; bear then to the left, Around a corner; take the next turn right, Go left soon after, then turn right again. Before your eyes ... MARISCUS I’ll see the suburb gardens? DAMA No, no, just wait. You’ll see a man who’s called Hoplitodromus Megaloperiphronesterus, Come all the way from Pyrgopolitoxia. (l.108-15)13Mariscus will then have to ask Hoplitodromus Megaloperiphronesterus forfurther information on how to meet Cenodoxus. This opening warns specta-tors/readers that if, like Mariscus, they fixate on Cenodoxus as the play’s cen-tral part, they too will be permanently misled by grossly fictional signals likethe preposterous names given by Dama. For the same reason the audience isnot allowed to see Cenodoxus himself, neither in the opening scene nor inthose that follow. The audience only hears the comments made by other char-acters about him and, when he does finally appear, he himself quotes moresuch comments. Even in his monologues he does not so much speak in hisown voice, as act as a medium through which the Philautia, self-love, and the11 ‘Mariscus’ may be derived from ‘marisca’, a bad figure, or perhaps from ‘Mariscus’, a kind of rush, in the sense that Mariscus is not worth a rush. ‘Dama’ refers to the Latin term for several animals, such as roe, deer, chamois, even antelope.12 This misleading is constitutive for Bidermann’s plays (cf. Philemon I, 9) and an intertextual allusion to Syrus as another form of the play within the play.13 In his Miles Gloriosus Plautus, one of the most quoted sources in Bidermann, invents similar names, which hint at the nonsense of what is proposed and which are not to be understood etymologically.
68 Christian SinnHypocrisis speak.14 The perioche of the performance in Munich 1609 there-fore shows the Philautia as a shadow on stage, mirroring the fact that Ceno-doxus, speaking the Philautia’s words, himself becomes a shadow of herpeformance.15 Instead of simply telling the story of a haughty bookworm who meets hisdeserved, if ghastly, end, Bidermann uses these irritating devices to elicit thespectator/reader’s awareness that the convoluted process of the play’s devel-opment is itself at the centre of the play. A further clue to this is given by thelast words of the opening scene. They are spoken by Dama, who announceshimself to be a Cretan who tells lies, thus alluding to the ancient proverb thatall Cretans are lying, even when they say they are. If these words are takenseriously, then there can be no distinguishing at all between what is true andwhat isn’t. Furthermore, this distinction must be supposed to be of secondaryimportance – if any at all – to the realisation that all characters, without ex-ception, regardless of differences in their techniques and motivations, arepractising the art of deceit. This is certainly true for the play as play, but dis-turbing as to the diagnosis of reality the play purports to aim at. If, for exam-ple, the dramatis persona Dama reflects on the actions he took to dupeMarisco as in a play, which finally leads to Mariscus being put into a lunaticasylum, the question is raised whether two wrongs ever make a right, whetherit is ever justifiable to take immoral action against an immoral person such asMariscus. This question is put to the spectator/reader in terms that leave nopossibility of answering it outside the sphere of play, thus in fact multiplyingthe problem instead of resolving it. This is further complicated because theplay makes it quite clear that Dama, on the surface the over-zealous and na-ive but faithful servant of Cenodoxus, is in fact a complicated character whoprofesses to condemn wholeheartedly what he himself does most efficientlyand even with clear insight into the moral depravation he thereby invites. Most notably, Bidermann further misleads the spectator by presentingseveral interesting cases of memory loss. His play might even be said toconstitute an exercise in training the memory of his spectators/readers byconfronting them with examples of memory loss which, at a later time in theplay, must be recovered in order for sense to be made of the ongoing14 Hypocrisis is not only the name of a character in the play. In Greek it does not mean ‘hypoc- risy’, as we currently understand the word, but rather, ‘to play a part in the theatre’, thus em- phasizing the self-reflexive quality of the play within the play.15 Through such an unconscious shadow play, Bidermann criticises the Stoic tradition (l. 262- 70, 276) and also the consequences of the Renaissance’s praise of fortune (l. 211-15), as well as the desire to immortalize oneself by acts and deeds (l. 237-39), an allusion to the Pharisees in the Bible.
The Figure in the Carpet 69proceedings. The first play on the capacities of memory (Mariscus repeatingword for word what Dama tells him without realising for a moment that thenames Dama recites for him must be fictional), while in itself trivial, never-theless already introduces the central motif of the last act of the tragoediawith the making and staging of oblivion at the beginning of the comoedia.There Cenodoxus, like Mariscus, remembers his life very well within thelimits of his own perspective, but what he remembers lacks the context whichcondemns him. He has given alms to the poor, he has been a wise counselor,he has prayed to God, etc. – all perfectly true, but what he does not rememberis that he acted throughout solely from self-interest. While Mariscus’ inabili-ty to remember accurately is pathological – and, indeed, part of what leadshim to the asylum, Cenodoxus’ mnemonic inaccuracies are self-made, thusmarking his guilt. He has not gained experience through suffering. Perfectlyoblivious of what has made him what he is at the end, he cannot answer theangry questions hurled at him by his exasperated guardian angel: ‘Have youno memory of your own true self? / Is there no limit to your boundlessarrogance?’ (l. 932-33) Bidermann here argues that the radical Stoicism that some of his contem-poraries proclaim as a God-fearing way of life is, in fact, a perverted form ofwhat Bidermann in general values as a correct adherence to the Stoic tradi-tion,16 as it does not allow for re-evaluating one’s actions and decisions in thelight of painful experience. It is not a philosophical fashion which concernsBidermann, but the fundamental problem of the foundation of law. Cenodox-us is a lawyer, chief adviser to the King of France. The funeral Chorus la-ments over Cenodoxus’ death: Ah, courts of justice, now gone is your master. Land of our fathers, now gone is your guardian; Gone now, oh Gaul, is your own loving father; Gone now, oh earth, is your safe-guard and strength! (l. 1767-70)Occupying a position between Hugo Grotius and Samuel von Pufendorf, whoreplaced the old concept of law as a reliable given with a new concept of lawas a renewable construction, Bidermann saw this latter change as mere horse-trading. Even if one were able to deduce laws mathematically, he thought itimpossibe to deduce the law’s premises themselves by this procedure; evenmore important, a mathematical construction fails to include social and cul-tural traditions in what was essentially a social and cultural process.16 As Pörnbacher, p. 22, justly argues.
70 Christian Sinn First and foremost, the ‘carpet scene’ serves to illustrate this culturalhorse-trading as a third form of memory loss by humorously showing howthe physician Aesculap tries to acquire a carpet which actually already be-longs to him, the carpet having been stolen by a thief who has been caught inthe act. The sophistic argumentation of the thief and still more Aesculap’signoring his servant’s hints, together with several further misunderstandings,finally lead to the physician’s paying the thief for a stolen carpet whichseems to be a double of one Aesculap supposes is in his possession. The con-tent of this scene far surpasses its superficial entertainment value, as theinsistently stressed origin of the seemingly new carpet from the Netherlandspoints to the Netherlandian philologist Justus Lipsius, who, in his Politico-rum sive civilis doctrinae libri sex qui ad principatum maxime spectant(1589), had argued for the supremacy of natural law over divine law. Bymeans of this intertextual reference, Bidermann hints critically at a similaritybetween Lipsius and the thief, insinuating that what Lipsius purports to benewly thought out by him is in fact nothing but the old philosophy of lawstolen and sold anew to wrongfully achieve the glory of originality. Furthermore, it is highly suggestive that the subject in question should bea carpet and not, say, a ring or a casket. The carpet being a metaphor fortextum, the woven, by which the old poetics referred to its own textuality, Bi-dermann specifially alludes to Ovid’s Metamorphoses in almost every sceneof his play. These allusions are mostly to the sixth book, in which theweaving of carpets is tied together with the very theme of the Cenodoxus,pride and oblivion. The book opens with the story of the proud weaver,Arachne, who provokes Minerva by representing the sins of the wicked godsin her carpet. The gods want that scandalous piece of truth condemned to ob-livion; Minerva, in particular, is so enraged that she slashes Arachne’s carpetand strikes her. Minerva herself has woven another carpet, the four corners ofwhich depict the punishments which the gods inflict on proud mortals andwhich are described by Ovid in the subsequent narratives. The final one ofthese is the horrible story of the tongueless Philomela, who is only able toreveal to her sister, Prokne, the unspeakable story of how she has been rapedand mutilated by weaving it into a carpet. However, as this book with its aesthetics of both describing and perform-ing the process of weaving is in itself part of the much larger texture of theMetamorphoses, it is by no means clear which of the carpets in Ovid’s text isto be compared with the weaving of the poet Ovid himself; it may be arguedthat the figure ‘carpet’ as such refers to poetic weaving wherever it appears.Along those lines it seems probable that Bidermann in turn refers to Ovid’stext as to a figure representing a poetic program that tries to encompass the
The Figure in the Carpet 71totality of literature, showing it as a mise en abyme of the weaving of texts,not least because the Metamorphoses are constructed similarly to the meta-dramatic structure of Cenodoxus. By the intertextual interweaving of his ownplay with Ovid’s narrative on the process of creating texts, Bidermann createsa text which stages itself as an open system of thought. It is in sharp and criti-cal contrast to the superbia with which fundamentalist dogma claims its in-fallibility. Moreover, it is a text that analyses the loss of cultural and socialvalues incurred in the process of rewriting the philosophy of law (by scholarslike Lipsius) as a particularly vicious form of cultural amnesia, a deliberateabandonment and consigning to oblivion of the great thesaurus of images andthoughts as woven together by Ovid. All in all, Biderman employs the case studies on memory loss as a strate-gy to train both the spectator/reader’s perception of the play and his ability toperceive the pitfalls of oblivion yawning throughout his present-day exist-ence. There is the pathological loss of memory, induced by the parasite’suncritical pursuit of his victim and leading straight into the lunatic asylum;there is Dama’s willingly incurred inability to remember the boundariesbetween playing and ‘reality’; there is the sinner’s oblivion regarding whathas brought him to the threshold of hell, this oblivion in itself, tragically, thefinal reason for his condemnation. There is also – and this is at least as im-portant as the individual’s sinful loss of memory and played out far moreextensively – the sin of letting culture with its open systems of thought andits proliferating weaving of texture sink into an oblivion which the play Ce-nodoxus opposes by making that the real subject of its textual performance. For all the generalizing attitude towards life and death that it articulates,the following question, asked and answered repeatedly by the chorus – What is the life of mortal man? Scarcely are we born at all Than we death’s sudden victims fall; So must this life of mortals seem Nothing but an empty dream. (l. 1624-28) – shows precisely what Bidermann aimed at with his play, as the ‘dream’which the playwright weaves around the ‘mortal man’ Cenodoxus’ story isanything but ‘empty’. Quite the contrary – Bidermann does not teach resigna-tion, but rather stages a wake-up call in accordance with the Jesuit poetics ofdidactic instruction, a call implying that the audience might well be in dangerof forgetting that remembering their identity and its history is the key to lead-ing a truly Christian life. Bidermann not only insists on the visionary, even
72 Christian SinnGod-sent quality of dreams and other simulacra, but even includes poetry it-self in his affirmative analysis of such phenomena. This, however, poses a logical problem: To see the drama as a wake-upcall implies a belief that the reformation of evil times and bad conditions de-pends on the will of man. But this voluntaristic position, represented byPhilaretus, i.e. by someone who idealistically loves virtue for itself, is explic-itly refuted by Guarinus: The times are evil, so are we, And worsening with the times. We’ve finished living, And so has probity. This must be said: The world is vitiated, vile and ruinous. Our crimes have reached their peak. Where now is found Integrity and trust? Who now inclines To modesty? We hate pride, but in others; Our own, we cherish! Wicked, impious age! What hemlock shall purge you? (l. 475-83)The process of the drama shows more clearly than Guarinus himself knowsthat evil times are not conditioned by history or men, but founded in the con-dition of a world which is the battleground for the eternal strife between Godand Satan. Every word from the angel is countered by a word from the devil,a perfect stalemate which seems to leave no space either for the will of manor for poetry. Poetry, however, offers one possibility that in Bidermann’s eyes legiti-mates its existence – the potential to instil doubt, to irritate and thus ideallypreclude man’s falling under the powers of Hell by making him sharply andfearfully aware of them (l. 160). The main difficulty of this strategy lies inthinking and describing it: Ah, who can contemplate the flames of hell Eternally unceasing? Death’s long agony? The serpents and the stinging worms of Conscience? A thousand other things? – I’d rather spare All speech than name but few! For what I name Will be too little! nothing! My description Will be sweet bliss and blessed in comparison With sufferings in hell. (l. 2181-89)The series of memory losses with which Bidermann confronts his audienceall converge on the construction of a Hell, the knowledge of which, in orderto become visual without the playwright resorting to merely spectacular stim-uli of raw fear, is shown as having simply been lost to human memory and
The Figure in the Carpet 73now, by activating the whole cultural thesaurus of images of Hell, must bebrought forcefully back into remembrance. Thus, the general cultural amne-sia attacked by Bidermann via the carpet metaphor is not only an abandon-ment of debatable luxuries of imagination, but an excruciatingly dangerousthreat to man’s path to redemption. The founder of the Jesuit order, Ignatius Loyola, had already developed atechnique of how to imagine Hell in his Spiritual Exercises. The most impor-tant textbook of Jesuit rhetoric in Europe, Cyprian Soarez’s Three Booksabout the Art of Rhetorics (1560), points with equal insistence to the import-ance of imagining Hell, paving the way for Bidermann’s combining the Clas-sical rhetoric of Aristotle, Cicero and Quintilian with Christian didactic poe-try. At the end of the seventeenth century, Jacob Masens’ Dux Viae ad Vitampuram, piam, perfectam, per Exercitia Spiritualia (1686) also strengthens theconcept of imagination, demanding it be forced to its extreme limits of pain.17Following those scholars, Bidermann in the course of the history of imagina-tion goes far beyond the boundaries of Jesuit theology, especially when hestresses the difference between ritual and poetry,18 arguing that poetry, withits power to inspire imagination, fulfils a specific theological function whichcannot be replaced by theological forms like ritual, liturgy or even treatises. Following this idea, Bidermann develops an idea of Hell that shows it tobe just as orderly and planned as that of God’s sphere. Both God and the dev-il fight on the same level, employing similar strategies to get the better of oneanother. The protagonist of Hell in Bidermann’s play is Pan-Urgus, literallythe one who can make all things,19 even ordering Cenodoxus to return to thegame: PANURGUS Now go, [Self-Love, and Hypocrisy]. I’ll not report to our commander17 See Günter Hess, ‘Die Kunst der Imagination: Jakob Bidermanns Epigramme im ikonogra- phischen System der Gegenreformation’, in Text und Bild, Bild und Text, ed. by Wolfgang Harms (Stuttgart: Metzler, 1990), pp. 183-96.18 Since the appearance of Victor Turner, From Ritual to Theatre: The Human Seriousness of Play (New York: PAJ Publications, 1982), this relationship has acquired some currency, as is documented by Stanley J. Tambiah and others. See Ritualtheorien: Ein einführendes Handbuch, ed. by Andréa Belliger and David J. Krieger, 2nd edn (Wiesbaden: Westdeut- scher Verlag, 2003), pp. 227-50.19 In François Rabelais’s Gargantua and Pantagruel (1532-52) Panurgus is a technician, through whom Rabelais not only accepts but also satirizes the learning and pride of the new knowledge of the Renaissance. In Cenodoxus he is the proper adversary of God because he negates law, order, necessity and values by suggesting that anything goes, if only you have the right technique.
74 Christian Sinn Until I have my Cenodoxus back Playing his game of pride to match my rules. I’m damned if I’ll see him escape damnation! (l. 463-66)Against the temptation of omnipotence represented by Panurgus, Bidermannsets a strictly controlled and deeply moral concept of poetry, the poetry of thecomico-tragoedia, which serves to remind man of Hell by precluding a happyending from the outset. The fight between God and the devil thus preordainedto end with the sinner’s condemnation, it is only the temporal structure of Ce-nodoxus which allows for God’s intervention: the multitude of plays withinthe play all serve to temporarily cheat the devil of its prey. Even in the endthe doctor’s dead body comes back to life three times, until it finally gives upits soul, while the devil’s growing impatience hints that his lack of time is hisone weakness: PANURGUS Back to him quickly! Delay Is dangerous. Urge him again, use all The subtleties your zeal contrives, to rid The house of Conscience; otherwise, we’re done. (l. 459-62)But even the respite granted by God finally proves to be finite, when theConscience says to Cenodoxus: ‘You dawdle, tarry? / Wretch, these delayswill never serve your cause.’ (l. 1810-11). The shaping of time is of the great-est importance from both theological and aesthetic perspectives. As a form oflimited deferment of the inevitable, the plays within the play alone cannotchange the course of justice. They rather instruct the audience that, in thelimited time allotted to him, mortal man must master a paradox: man shouldand can only by playing acquire a form of life which is not play-acting,meaning that the virtual reality of Bidermann’s play consists of a sphere inwhich there is no play at all – a sphere which, of course, cannot in itself beshown on stage. Here lies the main historical difference between the reality hinted at byBaroque metadrama and today’s awareness of reality’s intrinsic theatricality.The modern mania for authenticity is only the reverse side of the irreversibleand unspoken understanding that authenticity is no longer possible, not evenin literature, and that man’s existence is not only communicated but musteven be supposed to be constituted by playing roles, social and otherwise.Even then, Bidermann’s plays may be seen to contribute to the concept ofperformativity which has become virulent after the ‘cultural turn’ towards asemiotics of theatrical performances. As early as the seventeenth century,
The Figure in the Carpet 75Bidermann gives an ostentatious representation of ostentation20 as the found-ing moment of what is nowadays called ‘performance’.21 Thus Bidermann,shaking to its core the truth privilege automatically assumed by theologicaldiscourse in his time, states that performance is the wellspring of theology,truth and also philosophy, when, for example, he makes the actor playing thepart of Cenodoxus speak the lines: ‘I am not the actor, I am the Cenodoxus. Iam bad, but I should not be so and you should not be like I am. Therefore letus convert together to the pure doctrine.’ It is the performance that creates thepower of ‘pure doctrine’, and emphatically not the doctrine that empowersthe performance. Seeing the complexity with which Bidermann reflects onthe relationship between poetry, ideology and rhetorics, it is obvious that Bi-dermann was capable of employing the interference between ideology andrhetorics to such an effect that any truth he made his characters utter is truthonly insofar as it points to the figure of self-referentiality painstakinglywoven into his text. This figure, in turn, creates a particularly paradoxicalbond between the text and its recipients, already investing Cenodoxus withthe very same ambivalence with which, centuries later in Henry James’ TheFigure in the Carpet, Gwendolen will reveal to herself – and to the reader –the secret of her existence: ‘I don’t review [...] I’m reviewed!’2220 See Keir Elam, The Semiotics of Theatre and Drama, 2nd edn (London: Routledge, 2002), pp. 87-92, who speaks of ‘presentational conventions’, which hint at the dramatical repre- sentation itself.21 Umberto Eco, ‘Semiotics of Theatrical Performance’, The Dramatic Review, 21 (1977), 107- 17.22 The Novels and Tales of Henry James, 26 vols (New York: Scribner, 1937), XV, p. 268.
John GolderHolding a Mirror up to Theatre: Baro, Gougenot, Scudéry andCorneille as Self-Referentialists in Paris, 1628-35/36The Baroque period abounds in dramatists who held a mirror up their own profession and to thearts of the stage as readily as to nature in Hamlet’s broader sense. The fifty-one years ofMolière’s lifetime, from 1622 to 1673, saw over thirty plays reach the Paris stage containing thephenomenon of ‘internal performance’ or, in George Forestier’s words ‘action enchassée’, a per-formance of some sort incorporated within the action of the play. This chapter considers four ofthe earliest and most successful of these – Balthasar Baro’s Célinde (1628), two rival plays, bothcalled La Comédie des comédiens, by N. Gougenot and George de Scudéry (both 1633), andPierre Corneille’s masterpiece, L’ Illusion comique (1635) – and asks what it was about the stateof the theatre industry, about contemporary dramaturgy and performance conditions thatprompted such an exuberant outburst of self-referentiality.In his Le Théâtre dans le théâtre, Georges Forestier examines forty examplesof French plays staged between 1628 and 1694 that incorporate some kind of‘internal performance’, very often the play-within-a-play device.1 This chap-ter will look at four of the earliest. One, Pierre Corneille’s L’Illusion comique(1635/36), is an acknowledged masterpiece. The others, less well-known, areBalthasar Baro’s Célinde (1628) and two with the same title, La Comédie descomédiens, both very probably first produced in 1633, one by the ‘sieur deGougenot’ and the other by Georges de Scudéry.2 Fascinating self-reflexive,metatheatrical pieces, these plays present onstage, for an onstage audience,action that is acknowledged within the play world as theatre. At the sametime, however, each differs from the others in both subtle and not-so-subtle1 Le Théâtre dans le théâtre sur la scène française du dix-septième siècle, 2nd edn (Geneva: Droz, 1996), Appendix II, pp. 351-54.2 Balthasar Baro, Célinde (Paris: Fr. Pomeray, 1629); Le sieur de Gougenot, La Comédie des comédiens, ed. by David Shaw (Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 1974); Georges de Scudéry, La Comédie des comédiens, ed. by Joan Crow (Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 1975); Pierre Corneille, L’Illusion comique, ed. by Georges Couton, in Corneille: Oeuvres complètes, Bibliothèque de la Pléiade, 2 vols (Paris: Gallimard, 1980), I, 613-88. Quotations are from these modern editions, and all translations are my own. See also La Comédie des comédiens et Le Discours à Cliton, ed. by François Lasserre, Biblio 17 (Tübingen: Gunter Narr, 2000), pp. 323-35.
78 John Golderways. Indeed, there is a clear development from the first to the last of them.In the first the inner performance is a mere plot device, and draws littleexplicit attention to itself as theatre. In the second it is independent of the restof the action, but considerable attention is drawn to it as theatre. In the thirdthe play is just about incorporated into the plot, and again attracts consider-able attention. In the fourth it is integrated utterly and completely. Corneille’splay, his last flourish of flamboyant Baroque dramaturgy before he turned toa more restrained, neo-Classical mode, is about the theatre in every way.Interesting as they are, these structural issues need not detain us long: mytheme is really the nature of the mirror that these self-conscious plays hold upto nature and the reflections shown in it.1.Baro’s 1628 ‘heroic poem’, as the title-page has it, is the first French exam-ple we know of to incorporate an inner play, and it is as crucial to the plot ofCélinde as The Mousetrap is to that of Hamlet. The idea of an inner play isfirst broached in Act II, when Amintor, Célinde’s father, and the father of ayoung man named Floridan arrange for these two youngsters to marry – pre-dictably, their inclinations lie elsewhere! – and to celebrate the event theyarrange a performance of Holoferne, the Biblical tale of Judith, played byCélinde, and Holofernes, by Floridan. Act III is devoted to the inner play,performed on a stage erected in Amintor’s house. As the Apocrypha insist,Judith visits Holofernes. He falls for her and arranges to meet her that night.In order to inspirit himself for their nocturnal encounter, he takes a drink …and promptly falls asleep. Judith arrives, and, as he lies sleeping, stabs him.Leaping from the stage, she brandishes the bloody dagger at her astonishedfather, and declares that she loves someone else! (Incidentally, we discoverlater, in Act IV, that Floridan isn’t really dead.) In other words, for Baro theinner play serves merely as a convenient plot device. Which is not to say thatit does not implicitly raise any matters of theatrical interest – regarding thepopularity of private theatricals in the early years of the century, or the use ofplays based on Biblical stories in such circumstances – but the play is far lessrich in references to specific stage practices than those that followed threeseasons later. The two ‘plays about actors’ probably reached the stage during 1633,Gougenot’s early on and Scudéry’s prior to year’s end. Indeed, in all likeli-hood, Gougenot’s tragi-comédie, which is about – and was written for and
Holding a Mirror up to Theatre 79played by – Bellerose’s troupe at the Hôtel de Bourgogne,3 still Paris’s onlypermanent public playhouse in 1633, and Scudéry’s ‘newly conceived drama-tic poem’ – written for Montdory’s rival troupe at the Marais tennis court4 –followed upon the heels of one another: perhaps Scudéry hastily supplied ascript so as to enable the Marais troupe to capitalise on their rivals’ failure.5La Courtisane, Gougenot’s inner play, takes up three of the play’s six acts.The first two function as a kind of prologue to the inner play. The openingscene is a genuine prologue, a profuse compliment-apology to the audienceby Bellerose, leader of the troupe, such as convention might have required onthe occasion of an eleventh-hour change to the advertised program: two of hisactors, Gaultier and Boniface, have argued and come to blows. Almost atonce the bickering pair appear, with arms in slings. They are quickly joinedby the other actors and a 750-line talkfest ensues on matters theatrical. Thetroupe then presents La Courtisane – which has nothing whatever to do withthe preceding discussion. Scudéry’s play is twice the length of Gougenot’s. But, if it bears a certainformal similarity to Gougenot’s – Joan Crow argues that the dramatist seeksto give it a more orthodox structure6 – it does present a timid technical ad-vance. Scudéry’s inner play is bookended, but in no symmetrical way. Suchclosure as it achieves, a perfunctory 10-line speech, is ambiguous as to its ad-dressees, the actors in the inner or outer play. The prologue is a prose conver-sation between actors under their own stage names; the inner play, a ‘tragi-comédie pastorale’, preceded by a ‘prologue dialogué’, entitled L’Amour ca-ché par l’amour (Love Hidden by Love), is a verse piece that they have re-hearsed. The inner play is of no consequence: any play could follow the two-act ‘prologue in dialogue form’.7 It all begins with Montdory explaining to us, the theatre audience, that hereckons his colleagues have all lost a few marbles: they want to persuade himthat he is ‘a certain Mr de Blandimare’ (‘even though in reality my name is3 This discussion is indebted to the introductions of both Shaw and Lasserre to their editions, especially pp. v-xxvi and 40-86 respectively.4 The Marais opened as Paris’s second permanent playhouse in January 1635.5 On the dating of these two plays, see Shaw, p. vii, Crow, p. xi, and Lasserre, pp. 323-25.6 Crow, p. x. I acknowledge a general indebtedness to Joan Crow’s introduction, pp. v-xix.7 Indeed, on 28 November 1634, when Scudéry’s play was performed at the Arsenal for the Queen, the inner play was replaced by another Marais play, Pierre Corneille’s first comedy, Mélite (1629). According to Renaudot’s Gazette, 30 November 1634, Mélite became a permanent replacement for Scudéry’s insipid original.
80 John GolderMondory’, he says8), that he is not on a stage, but in a street in the ‘town ofLyons, that over there is an inn, and here a tennis court, where actors who arenot us, and yet who are, are putting on a pastoral’ – and that they shouldpretend that they’re going to be there for twenty-four hours, even though thepastoral only lasts an hour and a half – in which case he advises thespectators to send out for food and beds, for they’ll need to wrap up warm ifthey’re going to spend the night in a tennis court! He exits. Enter the troupe’s doorkeeper, quickly joined by their drummer and Har-lequin, who have been trying, in vain, to attract an audience. Two actresses,wives of two of the actors, join them and they all talk about the theatre. ThenBlandimare enters, a rich merchant in search of his long-lost nephew. Hesees, from a poster on the wall, that the performance is due to begin soon.However, when no other spectators turn up, the performance is cancelled.Suddenly, he recognises the doorkeeper as his missing nephew and he invitesall the actors to eat with him at the inn where he’s staying. The next act takesplace in Blandimare’s room after supper. There’s more discussion, at the endof which Blandimare commends his nephew’s choice of profession and de-cides to become an actor himself. He joins the troupe and plays in the innerplay – which he happens to know by heart! It would be going too far to say that the only similarity between the threeplays thus far described and that of Corneille is that they all contain innerplays. But the truth is that L’Illusion comique is a considerably more complexplay than either of the others, and, at least until the final moments, a moresubtle apologia for theatre than Gougenot’s or Scudéry’s comparativelyartless efforts. Moreover, L’Illusion is a ‘play within a play within a play’ –that’s about, on behalf of and for the theatre. Performed at the Marais, in late1635-early 1636, by Montdory and his troupe, L’Illusion tells of a father,Pridamant, who asks a magician, Alcandre, to help him find his son, Clindor.As the father sits watching, Alcandre conjures up the spectacle of Clindor’slife: he’s working as valet to Matamore, a commedia dell’arte braggart Cap-tain, and has become his master’s rival in love; after twists too baffling torecount, he ends up in prison and finally, after an amorous encounter in agarden at night, he’s killed. Only when the father, the onstage audience, andwe, the bemused theatre audience, are convinced that Clindor is dead, doesthe magician reveal that Clindor managed to escape from prison and that heand his friends have become professional actors. The moonlit garden killing8 Crow, p. 8. In fact, the real name of the Marais troupe’s leader was Guillaume des Gilberts. Seventeenth-century French actors had shifting identities – a christened name, one stage name for tragedy and another for comedy!
Holding a Mirror up to Theatre 81that we have just witnessed was the climax of a tragedy that they have beenperforming in a Paris theatre. He raises a curtain and we see Clindor andeveryone else alive and well, and sharing out the afternoon’s box-office. Corneille called the play ‘a strange monster’, which phrase he clarifiedthus: ‘The first act is merely a prologue, the next three constitute an imperfectcomedy and the last is a tragedy.’9 In fact, Corneille might have considered itmore ‘monstrous’ than he did: a pastoral in Act I, a mixture of farce and com-edy of intrigue in Acts II-IV, and a tragedy in Act V – the whole packageadding up to what the first edition called a ‘tragi-comedy’. In one sense, then,in terms of generic homogeneity, the play is an utterly irregular sampler of allthe popular contemporary theatrical genres. In another, one might regard it aswholly obedient to the strictest rules of unity: action that from one perspec-tive moves from Touraine, to Bordeaux to Paris over a considerable period oftime might be said to have been conjured up inside a magician’s cave in themerest twinkling of an eye. This apparent anomaly is not the least of theplay’s ‘illusions’. Though plays such as Gougenot’s or Scudery’s on the one hand, andCorneille’s on the other, are all apologias for the state, function and reputa-tion of contemporary theatre, there is an important difference – namely thatwith Corneille the essential illusion, the fiction, remains intact: the father andthe magician remain unquestionably themselves throughout, as do the centralcharacters of the magician’s conjured-up world (Clindor, Matamore etc.).The illusion that they constitute is never broken, even when they are allfinally revealed to be actors. Furthermore, despite first impressions, Corneille’s magician is not yourusual theatre director or playwright (creators of illusion). Neither is the fatherany ordinary audience; neither compares the visions conjured up by themagician to ‘theatre’. And, compelling as the equation may seem, Alcandre’s‘dark cave [… where] Night lifts its heavy veil but to the rays of unnaturallight’ (I.1.2-4) need not be regarded as the description of an artificially-litindoor playhouse. Alcandre and Pridamant both see the visions as past reali-ty, reproduced by real magic: the magician’s ‘spectres’ are ghosts, not actorsin disguise. The magician is not the author of the inner play, but simply re-sponsible for its arrangement, choosing what to show and what not to show tohis audience of one. He falls somewhat short of fulfilling all the functions ofa real dramatist, whose work, according to Renaissance theory, would becomposed in the three successive operations of invention, disposition and9 Couton, p. 613.
82 John Golderelocution. Alcandre only has control over disposition, the other two being be-yond his reach, in God’s hands and those of actors, respectively. And while we, the theatre audience, have known all along that we’re in atheatre, Pridamant thinks he’s in a cave in provincial France. Nor do we sharehis perspective on events: while he is the father of a character within the illu-sion, suffering along with his son, his pain is our pleasure. And when he seesClindor ‘restored to life’ and dividing up the box-office, we share his aston-ishment. But, while we quickly realise what’s going on, he remains bewilder-ed: ‘What’s this! Do they count out money amongst the dead?’, he asks(V.6.1747). It never occurs to him that he’s been watching a theatrical perfor-mance. Unlike the situation in the earlier plays, here the basic illusion isnever broken: all the characters remain behind the fourth wall, so to speak.Everything has been as it was, so that the magician might reveal to Prida-mant, in a speech often seen as the play’s raison d’être, just how prestigiousand worthy is his son’s new profession – that of professional actor.2.It is useful to think of these four plays as ‘Baroque’ – a label it became cus-tomary several decades ago for literary historians to use –, markedly less con-trolled and disciplined, governed by a much freer aesthetic, less straightfor-ward and clearly defined, both in form and subject, than the neo-Classicaldrama of the subsequent generation. There is no need to rehearse in detailhere the features of the Baroque aesthetic.10 Suffice it to mention a few keywords and phrases: delight in superficial embellishment; an appeal to the im-agination and emotion, rather than the intellect and reason; themes of insta-bility, surprise, disguise, metamorphosis; an indulgence in scenes of violenceand suffering designed to impact on the senses. In short, ‘Baroque’ denotesrestlessness, uncertainty, skepticism, subjectivity – and theatricality.11 It isprecisely at this moment, as our plays are in gestation, that the Parisian liter-ary scene begins to reflect a more ordered and disciplined attitude towardswriting. However, the age responsible for the neo-Classical tragedy of Cor-neille and Racine was similarly intoxicated by ballets, operas, comédies-ballets and pièces à machines, the very antithesis of regular tragedy. Here, ifanywhere, was an age in which ‘nothing is but what is not’. It is not reallysurprising, therefore, that the theatre, either as reality or metaphor – human10 See, for example, Imbrie Buffum, Studies in the Baroque from Montaigne to Rotrou (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1957), especially pp. 29-39 &, on L’Illusion comique, pp. 164-72, and Robert J. Nelson, Play within a Play: The Dramatist’s Conception of his Art (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1958).11 See P. J. Yarrow, Corneille (London: Macmillan, 1963), pp. 43-57.
Holding a Mirror up to Theatre 83beings as actors, life as a performance, the world as a stage –, should havestruck dramatists, Shakespeare and Calderón de la Barca as well as Corneille,as an ideal topic to write about, calling their plays The Great Stage of theWorld or naming their playhouses ‘The Globe’. The whole enterprise of so-cial living, of human perception and relationships, clearly had much to dowith emergent post-Renaissance theorising about the nature of dramatic illu-sion. But the preponderance of self-reference in the plays of this period mustsurely tell us something about the theatre itself, as reality, as social institu-tion, as profession, as art-form, at this specific moment in time. Of our fourplays only one has had a theatrical afterlife of any note, deservedly, Corneil-le’s Illusion. In other words, they have spoken more eloquently to their con-temporaries than to subsequent generations. It may be worth rememberingthat of the twelve plays within plays created between 1633 and 1645/46, sixappeared between 1633 and 1635. So, let us think now about the various ways in which these plays ‘hold amirror up to’ contemporary theatre practice – bearing in mind that Hamletoverlooked to mention that it might be a distorting mirror, that the image itreflects back to us will necessarily be to some degree inflected. Put simply,the mirror’s purpose may be to advertise, to propagandise, to satirise, to satis-fy the viewer’s curiosity to know how things work, to look backstage withprurience. These playwrights may not have been writing for the benefit of fu-ture historians, their work may nonetheless speak to us very eloquently. In-deed, Edward Forman has recently asserted that ‘the authenticity [of Gouge-not’s and Scudéry’s plays] allows us to take their documentary significanceat something close to face value.’133.The mid-1630s were watershed years, one aspect of which is strikingly vis-ualised in Abraham Bosse’s well-known engraving of the three most popularfarce actors of the years 1620 to 1630 on the stage of the Hôtel de Bourgogne(Fig. 1).16 When, in L’Illusion comique in 1635/36, Pridamant discovers from13 David Shaw, p. VIII, goes further, calling Gougenot’s play, ‘as a document about the theatre [… ,] possibly the most important play of the first half of the seventeenth century’. See also Eveline Dutertre, Scudéry dramaturge (Geneva: Droz, 1988), p. 231 and ‘The actor’s pro- fession in the 1630s’, in French Theatre in the neo-Classical Era, 1550-1789, ed. by W.D. Howarth (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), p. 164.16 BnF, Est., Ed 30a. On this engraving, see the exhibition catalogue Abraham Bosse, savant graveur: Tours, vers 1604-1676, Paris, ed. by Sophie Join-Lambert and Maxime Préaud (Paris: BnF / Musée des Beaux Arts de Tours, 2004), pp. 135-36.
84 John Golderthe magician that his son Clindor has become an actor, he cries out in horror,‘My son an actor! (V.6.1765) Like Scudéry’s unreconstructed Blandimare, ayear or two earlier, he sees the theatre as Bosse does here, all filth and ob-scenity, low and vulgar farce, neither aesthetically nor morally attractive. Hewho says ‘actress’, of course, says ‘whore’: as La Beau Soleil, an actress inScudéry’s play, puts it, the common perception is that an actress is ‘commonproperty […] the wife of any one of you is incontrovertibly the wife of theentire troupe’ (77-79). Figure 1. ‘L’Hôtel de Bourgogne’, by Abraham Bosse (c.1633). A farce scene in which Turlupin robs Gaultier-Garguille, who is watching Gros-Guillaume make love to a woman. (Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris)By placing Gaultier’s eye-glasses in the very centre of his image, Bosse indi-cates that eyes and looking are the key to the scene. Staring fixedly at the leftindex finger of Gros-Guillaume – whose pop-eyed gaze is similarly riveted,as it tickles the rim of his suggestively placed beret, unsubtly made to repre-sent the exaggerated vaginal cleft of a not unwilling mistress17 – Gaultier is17 Gros Guillaume’s obscene gesture calls to mind the opening words of Gaultier’s own Farce de la querelle de Gaultier Garguille et de Perrine, sa femme (c. 1616), ‘As there is nothing
Holding a Mirror up to Theatre 85easy prey to Turlupin’s thieving fingers. Bosse’s engraving commemoratesthe passing of these ‘bad and bawdy old days’. Gaultier-Garguille was buriedon 10 December 1633, shortly before this engraving appeared in the shops,and only a matter of months after he had played himself in Gougenot’s play,‘virtually on the threshold of his tomb’.18 But the days of farce were number-ed. Well before the end of the 1630s, all three farceurs in Bosse’s engraving,who appear under their stage names in Gougenot’s play, were in their graves.At the same time, new dramatists – the focus of whose concerns was above,rather than below, the belt, in the heart and the mind – had come onto thescene, our four authors for a start, and others, to whose plays Scudéry refers:Jean Mairet (Sylvie, Chriseide and Silvanire), Pichou (Les Folies de Cardé-nio, L’Infidelle Confidente and Philis de Scire), Racan (Les Bergeries), Scu-déry himself (Ligdamon et Lidias and Le Trompeur Puni), Pierre Corneille(Clitandre and La Veuve) and Jean de Rotrou (La Bague de l’oubli). And, tobring this new work before the public, a new generation of actor-managershad begun to appear. The two principals, Bellerose and Montdory, feature inGougenot’s and Scudéry’s play respectively. Bellerose, who brought a quiet-ly rhetorical acting style to Paris in the 1620s, helped raise the prestige of theserious actor. As did Montdory, a cutler’s son, who had established himselfin Paris in 1629, and, after working in a law office, attracted the patronage ofCardinal Richelieu. Reputedly, he is the first great French actor never to haveplayed in farce. Indeed, on 15 December 1636 Guez de Balzac wrote to him:‘[B]y cleansing your stage of all manner of filth, you can boast of having rec-onciled […] sensual pleasure with virtue.’19 There are not many aspects of the business and craft of the theatre in theearly 1630s that completely escape mention in these plays. None, however, isso insistently laboured, from Célinde onwards, as that which Balzac congrat-ulates Montdory on having corrected, namely its poor moral record. Theplays re-echo with the classical dictum that the theatre’s function is to act as acorrective, and that of the playwright to teach, as well as entertain. As Scudé-ry’s Blandimare says: ‘The stage has become the scourge of vice and thethrone of virtue’ (II.1). All our plays stress the positive value, the usefulness– moral and/or social – of the stage: from Baro’s Célinde, in which Amintorsays: ‘There is nothing more honest, more pleasant, nor more useful [thantheatrical performances]’ (III.1) to Corneille’s L’Illusion comique, where more responsive to a tickle in the lower abdomen than a woman …’, in Emile Magne, Gaul- tier-Garguille, comédien de l’Hôtel de Bourgogne (Paris: Louis-Michard, 1911), p. 184.18 Magne, p. 62.19 Quoted in Couton, pp. 1423-24.
86 John GolderPridamant confesses: ‘I was unaware of [the stage’s] lustre, utility and attrac-tion’ (V.6.1811: my emphasis). The manners in most need of correction are the sexual. Pleas in defense ofactors as models of virtuous behaviour by the likes of Gougenot’s Beauchâ-teau and his wife, when neither of their real-life counterparts was a reliableadvertisement for clean-living, must have amused more than one spectator.The irony of hearing a man ‘whom nothing chaste can possibly resist, andwho only wants to be loved’20 reject ‘the opinion of many that life in the the-atre is nothing but debauchery, a licence for vice, foulness, idleness and in-continence’ (451-55) cannot have passed unnoticed. And the presence in thecast of the three celebrated farceurs, especially Gros Guillaume and GaultierGarguille, whose comic songs were carried more by force of obscenity thanwit, can hardly have been reassuring to an audience all too ready to confusethe onstage and offstage lives of actors. ‘[Mlle de Beau Soleil] has rather toosmart a tongue for a woman’ (69-70), remarks Belle Ombre, in response toMlle de Belle Espine’s smutty equivoque, ‘If my husband’s tongue isn’t asloose as yours, he certainly has other parts that do him proud’ (63-65). In herlong defence of her fellow-actresses against the charge of immorality and ofleading offstage the life-style of the onstage wife in the traditional conjugalfarce – ‘everyone […] imagines that farce is a reflexion of our real lives’ (74-75) – La Beau Soleil shifts the blame onto the backstage attentions paid toher and her female colleagues by excessively assiduous male spectators: Every one of them believes he has the right to make us suffer his importunate demands […] One will spend an entire evening sitting on a skip and swinging his legs, without saying a word, just to show us his moustaches […]. Another […] will talk nothing but nonsense, as trivial as his mind: and, ever so obligingly, will try to place a beauty spot on our bosom, but only so that he can touch us there. (77-91)21In view of these concerns it is surprising to find so few overt references to theChurch and/or any Church control exerted over the behaviour of actors:Scudéry’s Belle Ombre attributes the absence of an audience to the fact that‘the entire town is at its devotions today and they have been ordered to morti-fy their flesh by avoiding the playhouse’ (I.5). Similarly, it is no accident –rather obedience to the exigencies of plausibility and morality – that Barochose the appropriate Biblical role of Judith for his heroine: ‘For a father to20 Testament du feu Gaultier Garguille (1634), cited by Mongrédien, p. 114.21 On the actress and the backstage door, see Georges Forestier, ‘L’actrice et le fâcheux dans les Comédies des comédiens du XVIIe siècle’, Revue d’histoire littéraire de la France, 80 (1980), 355-65.
Holding a Mirror up to Theatre 87agree to his daughter going on the stage (even in private), it was absolutelynecessary that the subject matter be religious, lest the portrayal of ungodlylove leave a bad impression on her soul.’224.On the other hand, both Gougenot and Scudéry make copious reference tomatters of internal control and company organisation/administration. Gouge-not’s Beauchâteau speaks of there being ‘twelve actors at most’ constituting atroupe (433). Anxious to join the troupe, he observes that, once Gros Guillau-me and Turlupin have settled their differences and agreed to ‘take an equalshare in the rewards accruing from the work [of the troupe]’, (963-64) it onlyremains for them to go before a notary and ‘draw up [a] partnership agree-ment’ (969). Predictably, the picture Gougenot’s propagandist brush paints isrosier than reality. His is a world governed by democratic principles of equal-ity and fraternity, where differences are settled. ‘You think, Monsieur Gaul-tier,’ says Bellerose, who in his role as company orateur, endeavours to re-solve the casting dispute and restore peace between Gaultier and Boniface, that your profession as a lawyer gives you preference over Monsieur Boniface, who is only a shopkeeper. Indeed, we all know that a doctorate gives considerable prerogative to the mind, that a knowledge of literature gives rise to fine thoughts and facilitates one’s understanding, but these are not what an actor needs most. (198-204)Gaultier is a lawyer, Boniface a draper, the Capitaine a soldier. Gougenot’stheatre is a great equaliser, welcoming all ranks and conditions of men – andwomen. And, in Bellerose’s troupe, all make an equal investment and drawequal profits: as Guillaume reminds Gaultier, ‘People in the theatre recognizeneither subservience nor control’ (532-53). That is not to say that an absoluteequality reigned across the board. For example, the joint-stock reward systemdrew a clear distinction between sharers and wage-earners. Indeed, the entiresecond act of the play hinges on the decision of Gros Guillaume and Turlu-pin, small-part players here, to leave the troupe, should their request to bepromoted, to ‘draw a share and not a wage’, be rejected. For Shaw, ‘the dif-ference between salaried ‘employees’ and ‘shareholders’ is brought out‘more clearly [here] than [in] any other contemporary document’.23 For Corneille, the need to bring his L’Illusion comique to a swift conclu-sion supercedes any question of specifying whether his inner-play tragedianshave instituted a graduated share system: the stage-direction reads simply, ‘A22 Forestier, pp. 330-31, n.17.23 Comédie des comédiens, p. VIII.
88 John Goldercurtain is drawn back and all the actors are seen sharing out their takings’(V.6.1746). Georges Couton comments on the actors’ accountancy proce-dures: ‘Each day costs are deducted from the door takings, then what’s left isshared out, not according to a fixed division, but by going round the troupe:one livre for X, one for Y, one for Z … until everything is distributed.’24 Thisis certainly the stipulation made before notaries on 7 April 1625, when Fran-çois Chastelet (the ‘real’ Beauchâteau), along with Jean Valliot and his wife,Gros-Guillaume, Turlupin and Gaultier Garguille undertook to play together,sharing profits and losses equally, on pain of a fine of 500 livres.25 But it wasno more standard practice early in the century than it was in 1674, whenSamuel Chappuzeau arged that it was unfair ‘that those […] who render littleservice […] have the same advantages as those who render considerableservice’.26 When Valleran Le Conte and his colleagues made arrangementson 22 October 1615 for a four-year association, they agreed upon a most une-qual division of profits: from 2 full shares for Valleran, Pierre Hazard andBarnabé David, 2 shares for Léonard Cutin and his wife, 1 share for JacquesMabille and a two-thirds share for Charles Guérin.27 Even if there is no for-mal hierarchy of share-division in Bellerose’s troupe, some receive a largershare of the profits than others – or, at least, think they should. Doing nomore than emulate the ‘real-life’ Montdory, who according to Gaultier’s sa-tirical Testament (1634) habitually took ‘twice as much as the others’,28 onceaccepted into the troupe Gros-Guillaume insists his participation will be con-ditional on his being given what amounts to a lion’s share. On the other hand, it is not Bellerose alone, as autocratic troupe-leader,who will decide the fate of the two bit-players, but the entire company, in-cluding the three women sharers: ‘[W]e must necessarily submit our wishesto the opinion and judgment of all our colleagues’ (194-97: my emphasis)The same applies to Beauchâteau’s admission to the troupe. When arrangingthe meeting at which the decision will be made, democratically, Bellerose not24 Corneille: Oeuvres complètes, p. 1447 (my emphasis).25 See Alan Howe, Le Théâtre professionel à Paris, 1600-1649 (Paris: Centre historique des Archives nationales, 2000), pp. 270-71. Of the 20 partnership agreements summarised by Howe, drawn up between 1600 and 1649 and detailing sharing arrangements, 18 specify a clear hierarchy of shares.26 Le Théâtre français, ed. by G. Monval (Paris: Bonnassies, 1875), p. 98.27 For a complete transcription of the documents, see Howe, pp. 355-60.28 Gaultier Garguille, Chansons de Gautier Garguille, ed. by Edouard Fournier (Paris, 1858), quoted in Georges Mongrédien, Les Grands comédiens du XVIIe siècle (Paris: Société de l’édition ‘Le Livre’, 1927), p. 30. Elie Cottier, Le Comédien Auvergnat Montdory (Clermond-Ferrand: Mont-Louis, 1937), p. 140, says that Montdory drew a double share, and Bellerose at the Bourgogne a share and a half.
Holding a Mirror up to Theatre 89only emphasises that he will not be sole judge, but stresses that the companyactresses will participate in the assessment of Beauchâteau’s talent: We shall meet this evening at Monsieur Gaultier’s lodging, where […] you shall receive the satisfaction you want and we that of giving it you; and these ladies, if they please, will take the trouble to give their opinion. (406-10)It would be rash, solely on the evidence of Bellerose’s remark, to concludethat gender equity was the order of the day: involvement in the companydiscussions did not necessarily mean having voting rights. Figure 2. Frontispiece to the first edition of Scudéry’s La Comédie des comédiens (Paris: Augustin Courbé, 1635)If we turn now to performance practices, again we find our texts to be rich indetailed references. The Tambour of Scudéry’s travelling troupe, accompa-nied by the Harlequin, literally walks the streets of Lyon ‘drumming up’business for the afternoon’s performance of a pastoral at a local jeu de paume(Fig 2).29 Unfortunately, on this occasion to no effect:29 The lower half of the frontispiece illustration to the first edition of Scudéry’s play appears to illustrate the moment at the end of I.1, when a masked clown (Harlequin?) and a drummer (Tambour) meet the doorkeeper (portier).
90 John Golder There isn’t a main street or back alley that we haven’t been down half a dozen times, more assiduously than if we had been under a magistrate’s orders to patrol them. […] I even did more than I was supposed to, for what the posters showed them to look at I taught them to listen to: there’s isn’t a crossroads where I’ve not played town-crier. (31-42)Wilma Deierkauf-Holsboer takes Harlequin’s advertising methods as evi-dence that, except in the provinces, by 1632/33 posters had replaced drumsand criers as the most effective means of advertising: ‘[T]hey have a drum-mer and a harlequin do the rounds, as minor troupes did in small towns’.30Perhaps she had failed to notice that Gougenot pointedly sets his play in thelarge town of Lyons? By a happy coincidence the earliest surviving, but un-dated, French theatre poster advertises a play by Scudéry, Ligdamon et Li-dias.31 The fact that the play was probably first given in 1629/30 has causedcommentators to date it ‘before 1633’. While early posters rarely carried anyactors’ or authors’ names, they did name the troupe and, of course, theirvenue: ‘that there are actors in this town and the tennis court where they areplaying’ (I.2). It was not unusual for troupes to over-dignify themselves – thereal ones in Scudéry’s Ligdamon – by calling themselves the ‘ChosenTroupe’, the fictional ones by the common strategy of dubbing themselves‘Actors in Ordinary to the King’! (‘BLANDIMARE: (Reading the poster)The King’s Players. Ah, that goes without saying!’32) And there is no hint ofexaggeration in Belle Ombre’s reference to ‘the poster’s lies’ (I.1): the Ligda-mon et Lidias poster asserts immodestly, ‘The trivial amount you’ll pay at thedoor wouldn’t buy you a single scene of this divine play’.33 Nor, as Scudéry’sComédie suggests, could potential spectators be sure to find the ticket prices30 L’Histoire de la mise en scène dans le théâtre français à Paris de 1600 à 1673 (Paris: Nizet, 1960), p. 112. Posters were hardly a novelty in the 1620s. W. L. Wiley, Early Public Thea- tre in France (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1960), pp. 219-20, quotes an agreement of January 1599 in which Benoist Petit seeks assurance that Valleran Le Conte will perform in farces, otherwise, ‘the said Petit will not be able in any way to name the said Valleran on the posters that will be put up’.31 This poster – for ‘Les Comédiens de la troupe choisie à l’Hôtel de Bourgogne’ – is pre- served at the Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal; see Exposition du IIIe centenaire de la mort de Molière, 1973-74 (Paris: Hummerlé & Petit, 1973), p. 14. The ‘chosen troupe’ was the ‘King’s Players’.32 Although Valleran Le Conte’s company is described in legal documents of 1598 and 1599 as ‘King’s Players’, Louis XIII dispensed no annual subsidies until 1629 (John Lough, Paris Theatre Audiences in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries (London: Oxford University Press, 1957), pp. 24-25.33 Quoted by Deierauf-Holsboer, Mise en scène, p. 113.
Holding a Mirror up to Theatre 91printed on the poster: it is the portier, Belle Ombre, who tells Blandimarethat they cost ‘eight sols!’ (I.5).34 If early posters announced the starting time of a performance, they never,of course, indicated its playing-time. Although the reference is as slippery asthe ‘two-hour traffic’ of Shakespeare’s stage, Gougenot’s Beauchâteau doessay that ‘twelve actors […] have to enact in five acts and two hours what inthe real world might have happened to a thousand people in twenty years’(433-36). But, hardly a considered remark about playing-time, this is rather ageneral theoretical statement about theatre as ‘a digest of the world’ (431),condensing ‘th’accomplishment of many years into an hour-glass’. Scudéry’sBlandimare may be nearer the mark when he implies a much shorter playing-time. Alluding to the consideration increasingly given to the unity-of-timerule and the real time/stage time opposition in the manufacture of dramaticillusion, he says that plays ‘should only last for an hour and a half, but theseirregular madmen make sure [they] last for twenty-four, and call that follow-ing the rules’ (25-27). Blandimare has seen the troupe’s posters at street intersections and, if thefrontispiece illustration to the first edition of Scudéry’s play is to be readliterally, on either side of the entrance-door to tennis courts (Fig. 2). It wasBlandimare himself, in his real-life persona of Montdory, who converted theMarais tennis court – where Scudéry’s play is actually, though in a Lyonstennis court fictionally, taking place – into a permanent public playhouse in1634.35 That neither Gougenot nor Scudéry draw special attention to such avenue is not surprising: converted tennis courts were capable of housing farmore complex mises-en-scène than the multiple settings required by boththese dramatists. In his opening address – or ‘compliment’, as seventeenth-century troupe-leaders called this conventional practice – Gougenot’s Bellerose says that‘our stage is set for our Play about Actors’ (42-43). If the first 1080 linesoffer no evidence of what that setting might represent – the action takes place‘on the stage where the actors are playing’ and was probably played in frontof curtains – the inner play, La Courtisane, is very different. Obedient to therules of time and place as understood in the early 1630s, its action runs forfewer than twenty-four hours and is set in Venice, for the most part in a sin-gle street. There are references to a ‘lodging […] close by’, ‘this palace’ and34 In 1619 the Lieutenant civil limited the price of theatre tickets in Paris to ‘five sous in the pit and ten in the boxes and galleries’, N. de Lamare, Traité de la police, 4 vols (Paris: 1705- 38), I.440, quoted by Lough, p. 14.35 See John Golder, ‘The Théâtre du Marais in 1644: a new look at the old evidence concern- ing France’s second public theatre’, Theatre Survey, 25.2 (November 1984), pp. 127-66.
92 John Goldera ‘canal’ (1084-6), and a ‘gondola’ (1853). Much use is made of the heroineCaliste’s window (‘Caliste is at her window’ (1102), ‘She […] closes herwindow’ (1147)) and for a couple of scenes the action moves inside her hou-se: ‘Caliste and Filame go into a room, sit on a small day-bed. The room re-mains open’ (1847). The action opens at night: ‘It is as the night comes on,’(2) says a stage direction, after which a new day dawns: ‘The cock is singingalready, / Up, fair Caliste, get up!’ With complicated love intrigues, consider-able onstage violence, one character attacked and stripped naked by robbersand a case of cross-dressing (Clarinde is breeched throughout as Floridor36),La Courtisane is a typical example of 1630s’ pre-Classical tragi-comedy. Indeed, the multiple setting implied by Gougenot’s text is the staging sys-tem required by the plays, largely tragi-comedies, which make up the touringrepertory of Scudéry’s travelling troupe. These are ‘all [the plays] of the late[Alexandre] Hardy’, ‘Pyrame [et Thisbé] by Théophile [de Viau], ‘Sylvie’,‘Chriséide [et Arimand], ‘Silvanire’ [all by Mairet],‘Les Folies de Cardénio’,‘L’Infidèle confidente’, ‘Philis de Scire’ [all by Pichou],‘Les Bergeries’ byMonsieur Racan, ‘Ligdamon [et Lidias], ‘Le Trompeur puni’ [both byScudéry himself], ‘Mélite’ [by either Rampalle or Corneille, ‘Clitan-dre’, ‘LaVeuve’ [both by Corneille] and ‘La Bague de l’oubli’ [by Rotrou] (263-82).These had all been premiered at the Hôtel de Bourgogne by Easter 1632,staged by the theatre’s décorateur, Laurent Mahelot. Mahelot’s celebratedMémoire contains the detailed production notes and sketches for all of them –except three. Two of the three, Clitandre and La Veuve, early pieces by PierreCorneille, had probably been created at the Sphère tennis court by Montdo-ry’s company in the 1630/31 and 1631/32 seasons respectively.37 The third isMélite, commonly assumed to refer to Corneille’s first play,38 also firstbrought, by Montdory, to the stage of the Berthault tennis court.39 However,as there is in Mahelot’s Mémoire a Mélite, convincingly shown by H.C.Lancaster to be an alternative title for Rampalle’s Belinde, another Hôtel de36 Was it pure chance that caused Gougenot to choose Floridor, the stage-name of Josias de Soulas, who (a) comes first to historians’ notice in 1635, playing Corneille’s Mélite in London; (b) makes his debut at the Marais in 1638, and (c) nearing the peak of his fame, assumes Bellerose’s own position as director of the Bourgogne troupe? Can it be that the military career, which, according to Mongrédien, p. 133, he took up in 1633, was short-lived and that within the year he had made enough of a name for himself on the stage to warrant Gougenot’s using it here?37 John Golder, ‘The stage settings of Corneille’s early plays’, Seventeenth-century French Studies, 7 (1985), pp. 184-97, and Couton, p. lxx38 Crow, p. 62.39 Golder, ‘Stage settings’, p. 184.
Holding a Mirror up to Theatre 93Bourgogne tragi-comedy and also listed in Mahelot’s Mémoire,40 we shouldperhaps pause before leaping to the conclusion that it belongs with Clitandreand La Veuve. Our hesitation is the more justified, if we recall that Rampal-le’s play was first published by Pierre Drohet, in 1630 – in Lyons, the verytown where Scudéry’s play is set!5.Scudéry seems to have been at pains to give his actors an authentic repertoire.Not only are all the titles ‘real’, but they might very plausibly have consti-tuted the repertory of a troupe under Montdory’s leadership at the time Scu-déry’s text was published, i.e. prior to 28 November 1634. Since the plays weknow to have originated at the Hôtel de Bourgogne were all published by1634 – Scudéry’s own Trompeur puni was in print by mid-January 1633 – byvirtue of being public, they were available for any troupe to perform. Onlytwo of the remaining plays, Mélite and Clitandre, had been published bythen: La Veuve only went into print during the course of 1634. In otherwords, these three plays are understood to have been created by Montdory’scompany, who have ownership rights over them until they are printed. Therecan be no debate about the legitimacy of including any of the titles Scudéryproposes. Of the two Comédies, Scudéry’s is the more interesting from the point ofview of staging. As Dutertre has noted, the action of its frame play is set,‘successively in the street, at the door of a tennis court, at an inn, then againin the street’ and, finally, ‘at the inn’.41 It needs, therefore, two (probablypracticable) compartments, a tennis court and an inn, one either side of theforestage, the open playing area before them representing the street. After abrief discussion between the Prologue and the Argument, ‘the setting changesto become woodlands’ (471). In other words, we might imagine that a trav-erse curtain – hung just upstage of the side compartments and against whichthe frame play has been played – is drawn, to reveal the bucolic setting re-quired by L’Amour caché par l’amour. This we might imagine to consist of40 Le Mémoire de Mahelot, Laurent et d’autres décorateurs de l’Hôtel de Bourgogne, ed. by H.C. Lancaster (Paris: Champion, 1920), pp. 21-5. H.C. Lancaster, A History of French Dramatic Literature, 9 vols (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1929), supposes that Mahelot mentions neither Gougenot’s nor Scudéry’s play, because (a) Gougenot’s was no longer being played when he compiled his Mémoire and (b) Scudéry’s was written for the rival company, and still unpublished. He also asserts that Rampale changed his title from Bélinde to Mélite in order that the Bourgogne might have a similarly titled piece with which to oppose Corneille’s play (I.II.653 & 657).41 Scudéry dramaturge, p. 219.
94 John Golderrocks and bushes, elements placed upstage right and left, behind which char-acters are required to hide in an overhearing scene (990-91 & 999-1001). If both playwrights demonstrate contemporary stage practice to advan-tage, they are no less interested to promote other arts of the stage, in particu-lar those of the actor. There is some dispute, however, over the extent towhich Gougenot’s play reflects the membership of the Bourgogne troupe in1632/33. Since he does not believe that by 1632 women were yet authorisedto sign leases (one of the historian’s most reliable sources of information re-garding the composition of troupes), Shaw argues that ‘it is […] only from[Gougenot’s La Comédie des comédiens that we learn the real list of [Gros-Guillaume’s] company’.42 Lasserre disagrees – ‘[I]t is simply a list of names’,he wrote in 1998 – arguing that some of these might have been editorialadditions.43 In 2000, Alan Howe sided with Shaw: four of the actors namedby Gougenot, he writes, Beauchâteau, Mlle Beauchâteau (Madelaine DuPouget), Mlle Bellerose and Mlle La Fleur (Jeanne Buffequin), were veryprobably members of the Bourgogne company at this time, and should pro-perly be added to the signatories of the lease document of 5 August 1632:Robert Guérin (Gros-Guillaume), Hughes Quéru (Gaultier-Garguille), HenriLegrand (Turlupin), Pierre Le Messier (Bellerose) Philbert Robin (Le Gaul-cher) and Louis Galian (Saint Martin).44 On the other hand, although Belle-rose was, indeed, as the play insists, the troupe’s spokesman at the time, indramatising Beauchâteau’s admission to the troupe, Gougenot massages his-tory a little: Beauchâteau had, in fact, joined several years earlier, in August1626.45 While both dramatists are interested in the actor as social animal as muchas stage artist, Scudéry is rather more concerned with the latter. Which is not,however, to imply that his prescription for the ideal actor offers us any clearimpression of what pre-Classical acting might have looked and sounded like:42 Comédie des comédiens, p. xi. Although Bellerose is the troupe leader in the play-world, it is unlikely that his namesake assumed that role at the Hôtel de Bourgogne until the death of Gros-Guillaume in 1634.43 ‘Un ouvrage sous-estimé: La Comédie des comédiens de Gougenot’, Papers on French Seventeenth-Century Literature, 25 (1998), p. 518.44 Howe, p. 116. For the 5 August 1632 lease, see Eudore Soulié, Recherches sur Molière et sur sa famille (Paris: Hachette, 1863), p. 164.45 Lasserre, ‘Un ouvrage sous-estimé’, p. 513 and Howe, p. 273. Gougenot may also have mas- saged the ‘real’ Beauchâteau’s character a little. The portrait in Gaultier-Garguille’s (albeit satirical) Testament of someone ‘whom nothing chaste can possibly resist’ (quoted in Mon- grédien, p. 115) hardly measures up to Gougenot’s portrait of someone who, ‘to be account- ed a good actor’, must be ‘learned, bold, obliging, humble, a good conversationalist, sober, modest and, above all, hard-working’ (450-52).
Holding a Mirror up to Theatre 95 First, nature must give [the actor] an attractive appearance, for this is what makes the initial impression on his audience: he should carry himself well; be free and unrestricted in his movement, have a clear, strong voice, and speech that is free from poor pronounciation and untainted by any provincial accent. […] He should have the wit and sound judgment to ena- ble him to understand his part, and a good memory to learn it quickly and retain it for ever after. He needs some knowledge of both history and legend; otherwise he will talk nonsense and regularly misconstrue his text, be as out of tune as a tone-deaf musician; he will move like a bad dancer, capering half an hour out of time and rhythm, which will lead to his striking so many extravagant attitudes and removing his hat inappropriately, the way one sees on the stage. Moreover, all these qualities must be accompanied by a modest boldness, which, without being either impudent or timid, maintains an equitable moderation. Finally, his face must be able to register tears, laughter, love, hatred, indifference, scorn, jealousy, anger, ambition – in short, every possible passion – whenever they are required. (225-50)Using language that occasionally echoes Blandimare’s, Bellerose seems toimply that a good actor needs the advantages of nature, plus others that hemust acquire for himself. He lays particular emphasis on elegance, controland moderation of both physical and vocal expression, underpinned by intel-ligence. If his primary requirement is aesthetic, that the actor present well, hisfinal word is that the actor be able to express emotion in the face – a tacitacknowledgement that, as the more Baroque and expansive, action-packeddrama of the pre-Classical era begins to give way to the more regulated andintense, psychological drama of the Classical period, a more internalised,contained mode of acting is developing, in which the face and the voice arethe primary signifiers.46 Bellerose’s reference to a presumably conventional etiquette of hats – theonly fleeting glimpse he gives of the actor ‘at work’ – and Boniface’s refer-ence to his wife’s gloves seem somehow to suggest a further recommenda-tion, namely that good manners never be forgotten. In fact, the wearing ofgloves, in both comedy and tragedy, was standard practice until late in theeigteenth century.47 ‘You always have to have needless extras in your cos-tumes’, scoffs the tight-fisted husband, allowing us a glimpse, not only of thepatriarchal culture of their domestic life, but also of the fact that the provision46 Cf. Dutertre’s reading of this speech (p. 219). Scudéry is surely having a little fun at the great actor’s expense when – having put his ‘definition of the ideal actor’ into the mouth of Montdory, an actor who (as Blandimare), having played in the troupe of the duc d’Orange, brought Corneille to the world’s notice, acted for Louis XIII and secured the patronage of Richelieu, known as ‘Roscius’ – he makes him request a ‘try out’: ‘[I]f you agree, I shall try out in a role tomorrow’ (369-70).47 See John Golder, ‘Costume in the second half of the [eighteenth] century’, in French Theatre in the neo-Classical Age, pp. 524-25.
96 John Golderof stage costumes was the responsibility of the individual actor, not thetroupe, ‘What’s the point of these ribbons, lace and embroidery on yourgloves […] It’s all a drain on my purse’ (26-29). Kept on short supply, MlleBoniface despairs of being able to dress herself appropriately, ‘with orna-mentation suitable for empresses and queens’ and is fearful that ‘instead ofgold brocade, brocatelle, flowered satins and taffetas, and other expensivematerial’, she will be reduced to appearing in ‘gilded leather, garishly paintedfabrics with cheap tinsel, and instead of fine pearls, Venetian beads’ (843-49). There is a reference in Bellerose’s brief remarks to the actor’s need for aprodigious memory. His suggestion that lines must be learnt quickly, thensubsequently retained for ever, may well contain very little exaggeration. Thefifteen-plus plays listed by Scudéry’s Blandimare (263-82), all played inrepertory and not in runs, may be the only example we have of a travellingtroupe’s repertoire in the 1630s. We are even less well informed about atroupe’s playing schedule at this time. Such evidence as we do have, however– that performances were given ‘at least three times a week’ 48 – suggests thatthe onus on the repertory actor’s memory in the 1630s was as heavy as thatplaced on any of Molière’s actors a few decades later. Molière’s Les Fâ-cheux, conceived, written, rehearsed and presented in a fortnight, may be anextreme example, but the evidence of La Grange’s Registre makes abundant-ly clear, not only that an actor had to hold numerous roles in his head at anyone time, but also that there could have been little time for, especially group,rehearsals.49 Private study must have constituted the bulk of an actor’s pre-paratory work. And since any one play might remain in the repertoire formany seasons, without being given frequent or regular performances, an actorwas indeed expected to retain his lines in his head ‘for ever’. Preparations for a new production, it would seem, began with a companymeeting at which roles are cast and individual parts distributed. ‘As we’regoing to cast the play,’ Bellerose tells his colleagues, ‘you must come and getyour parts, so that we can get on with learning them and try out our first playas soon as possible’ (639-42). Then follows a period of ‘study’ and consulta-tion, after which they proceed to (probably only a handful of) group re-hearsals: ‘Let us go’, says Bellerose, ‘and rehearse our first play, and put iton as soon as possible’ (1080-81).48 AN, Min. centr., XV.21 (2 September 1611), reproduced in Wilma Deierkauf-Holsboer, La Vie d’Alexandre Hardy (Paris: Nizet, 1972), p. 205.49 Le Registre de La Grange, ed. by Bert and Grace Young, 2 vols (Paris: Droz, 1947).
Holding a Mirror up to Theatre 97 Although Gougenot makes no mention of the kind of role to which eachactor might be suited, he implies that lines of business were the order of theday. It is in part over the emploi of kings that Gaultier and Boniface havefallen out: ‘[Y]ou both claim a preference for the characters of kings in plays’(176-77). If the troupe has more kings / noble fathers than it needs, it coulddo with a juvenile lead: ‘(Y)ou know,’ says Bellerose, ‘that you don’t have ayoung man to play lovers: we must make a concerted effort to choose some-body decent from amongst the thousands who are turning up now that wordof our business has spread.’ (315-19) And the Capitaine – a real soldier be-fore becoming a stage braggart, and now no more able than Corneille’s Mata-more to distinguish between art and life – is anxious to establish that ‘[i]f[they] needed two captains’, it would be ‘something [he] could not tolerate’(323-24).50 While these self-conscious plays offer modern historians an abun-dance of evidence concerning the pre-Classical stage, their original purposewas different, probably to give an insatiably inquisitive audience a peepbehind the curtain into the ‘reality’ of contemporary theatre and the on- andoffstage lives of those who created it, and certainly to proselytise on behalf ofan art form making desperate efforts to renew itself. The establishment by cultivated women of literary salons where literature,poetry, language, psychology were discussed helped generate a new refine-ment of taste, of manners in literature – and in theatre writing – and graduallyencouraged respectable women to frequent the playhouses. A more refinedtheatre of moral dilemma began to replace the colourfully rambustious dramaof the earlier years. A prime mover in these developments was the PrimeMinister, Cardinal Richelieu, who drafted and commissioned plays, gaveFrance its first proscenium-arch stage, was an active patron of the arts andwho not only rebuilt the Sorbonne, but, in 1634, established the FrenchAcademy. According to article XXIV of its charter, the Academy’s mainfunction was ‘to […] render [our language] pure, eloquent and capable oftreating the arts and the sciences’, and also to maintain literary tastes, towhich end Richelieu gave them for critical examination the work of contem-porary writers (e.g. Corneille’s Le Cid). Nothing was more responsible forbringing into focus the enormous amount of critical thinking, recently comefrom Renaissance Italy, about the theory of drama and the stage, and was fur-ther refining the neo-Classical aesthetic in France. It is commonly said that it was for the sake of one speech – whichacknowledges Richelieu and alludes to the favour theatre had long enjoyed at50 Lasserre, ‘Un ouvrage sous-estimé’, pp. 514-16, insists that Gougenot’s ‘Capitain is not yet a Capitano (a stage braggart), but a soldier, who is a candidate for various roles’.
98 John Goldercourt – that Corneille wrote his L’Illusion comique. The speech in question isthat of the magician in the play’s final moments, disabusing Pridamant of hisattitude to theatre: At present the theatre Is so prestigious everyone adores it; And what your age looked on with scorn Is today the darling of all men of good taste, The talk of Paris, what the provinces all want, The gentlest diversion of our princes, The people’s delight, the pleasure of the great, It holds first place amongst their pastimes: And those who with profound wisdom And great care keep all our nation safe Find in the sweet joys afforded by the stage The means to relax from such demanding tasks. Even our great King, that thunderbolt of war, Whose name strikes fear in every corner of the earth, His head crowned with laurels, deigns sometimes Lend ear and eye to the French stage. It’s there that Parnassus displays its marvels; And to which the finest minds give up their evenings; And those on whom Apollo casts his most favourable eye Devote to it a share of their learned work. Besides, if wealth’s regarded as a measure of worth, The theatre is a business that pays well; Your son has gained more wealth and honour from this trade Than he’d have won by staying home with you. So, in short, put this common error from your mind, And stop feeling so miserable about his good fortune. (V.5.1781-1806)51This is the raison d’etre of all our plays. The picture they all paint, to a cer-tain extent, is rosily attractive: rarely does any of them have a bad word tosay about the stage or about actors. And while they are not beyond occasion-ally treating their subjects with gentle mockery, there is not much comic dis-tortion or irony of tone in them. Everything and everyone are seen in a posi-51 As he wrote these lines, Corneille surely had in mind the conversion of Blandimare, Scudéry’s bourgeois merchant and would-be actor: ‘One would be out of ones mind to scorn something so estimable: the theatre, venerated for as many centuries as science has flour- ished; the theatre, once the diversion of emperors and topic of intellectual discussion: the portrait of the passions, the picture of human life, talking history, philosophy made visible, the scourge of vice and the throne of virtue. No, no, far from thinking it an abomination, I see how you all glory in it, and I praise my nephew’s good sense in joining your troupe: and to show you that […] far from suspecting your profession of ignominy, I consider it glo- rious, if you will have me, I should like to join too.’ (345-58).
Holding a Mirror up to Theatre 99tive light. Indeed, if anything, it all reads less like a report on past achieve-ments, and more like wishful thinking on the part of a profession in need ofstrong support. Here is the distortion to which Hamlet failed to alert us.
Manfred JurgensenRehearsing the Endgame: Max Frisch’s Biography: A PlayBelieving that all human life consists of self-conscious role-playing, Frisch adopts a theatre ofrehearsal as paradigm for staging imaginary variations of personal identity. In his comedy Bio-graphy, marriage is seen as the most intimate social model of role-playing. Linking its drama-turgy to the reconstruction of a lost game of chess, the fictional freedom of self-expression as-sumes fatal finality. Antoinette is the ‘queen’ with ‘all the moves’, while checkmate Kürmannloses his life. Based on playful identification of the actors with the spectators, Biography trans-forms the audience into participants. In an almost Brechtian manner, it demonstrates the modelcharacter of human identification, thereby allowing the theatre to reveal and play itself. Theplace of comedy is the stage, ‘completely identical with itself’. The ultimate self-realisation isdeath. Live rehearsals prove terminal. The comedy about death reflects the paradoxical nature offiction and reality, identity and authorship. ‘Life theatre’ is a play within a play, a rehearsal ofvariable selves until the game is over.Max Frisch’s Biografie: Ein Spiel appeared in 1967, at the height of the au-thor’s international reputation, both as a playwright and a novelist.1 It takesits subject from a couple of lines, spoken by Vershinin, in Act One of Che-khov’s classic Three Sisters: I often think: what if one were to begin life over again, but consciously? If one life, which has already been lived, were only a rough draft, so to say, and the other the final copy! Then each of us, I think, would try above everything not to repeat himself, at least he would create a different setting for his life, he would arrange an apartment like this for himself, with flow- ers and plenty of light … I have a wife and two little girls, but then, my wife is not in good health, and so forth and so on, and … well, if I were to begin life over again, I wouldn’t marry … No, No! 21 Max Frisch, Biografie: Ein Spiel (Frankfurt/Main: Suhrkamp, 1967). All quotations in this chapter are mine and refer to this edition, to which page numbers will be given in the text. It has also been translated by Michael Bullock as Biography: A Game (New York: Hill and Wang, 1969).2 In Anton Chekhov: The Major Plays, trans. by Ann Dunnigan (New York: The New Amer- ican Library, Signet Classic, 1964), p. 250.
102 Manfred JurgensenBut, of course, the idea of living one’s life over again, with the aim of ‘cor-recting it’, applying the wisdom of hindsight, is not merely a quotation fromone of the great plays of world theatre. It’s a widely indulged-in popular re-flection of wishful thinking, by no means confined to men experiencing amidlife crisis, trying to escape their marriage. It is not a literary theme asso-ciated with one specific period of history or belonging to only one particularculture. Indeed, Frisch believes that, far from being pathological, it is in thenature of individual identity to be made up of multiple fictional personalities.Like Vershinin, his own protagonist, Kürmann, has no doubt that ‘If he couldstart again, he’d know exactly what changes he’d make in his life’ (Biografie,p. 7). Having decided to take Chekhov’s character (as well as his own) at hisword, Frisch adopts a surprisingly simple dramaturgical model, uniquely suit-ed to put their assertion to the test. It is a theatrical form designed to enact awide range of incomplete, variable projections. In spite of the protagonist’sdetermined resolution to escape repetition, it is ironically in the starting-pointof theatre, the rehearsal, that the playwright finds the perfect paradigm forstaging imaginary variations of personal identity. It is precisely because of itsconstant repetition, the freedom to correct, change, vary and improve, thatFrisch elevates the rehearsal to the dramaturgical level of performance. In theprocess of rehearsing, projecting, testing and evaluating various possibilities,fictional characters and self-conscious actors amalgamate. Such theatre lends voice to Frisch’s conviction that ultimately all humanlives (‘biographies’) consist of self-conscious imaginary role-playing. Thedrama’s programmatic title proclaims this very correlation quite unequivo-cally. It is significant that in his notes the author compares this dramaturgynot just to a ‘game’ of chess, but, more precisely, to the ‘reconstruction’ of a‘lost game’ of chess (Biografie, p. 111). The repetition of constant variation,emerging as the central formal device from which all other aspects of theplay (plot, dialogue, etc.) derive, nonetheless leads by design to a final, fatal,ultimate version – the defeat in a fictional game promising unlimited movesand possibilities, a triumphant freedom of self-expression. The special feature of Frisch’s ‘comedy’, as he labels it, is that, as forChekhov’s Vershinin, marriage appears as the most intimate social model ofrole-playing. In an ironic double entendre, Kürmann explains the game ofchess to his future wife, Antoinette, ‘That’s the queen. She’s got all themoves’ (Biografie, p. 11). Later in the play Kürmann is asked, ‘Is that all youever think about, your marriage?… Is that your problem in this world?’ (Bio-grafie, p. 84). As almost all of Frisch’s plays and novels do in fact featuretragi-comic marital conflicts, it is difficult not to recognize in these questions,
Rehearsing the Endgame 103as in the earlier analogy with chess, playfully serious allusions of self-criti-cism. Despite Frisch’s undeniable, albeit ironic, at times self-indulgent, mascu-line perspective, it could be argued that it is indeed in marital and other inti-mate personal relationships that the problematic ‘game’ of self-realizationunfolds. Kürmann ends up losing it, and, with it, his life. As it happens, German has a word denoting both theatrical staging (withan implication of both time and location) and the very nature of imaginativeprojection. The dual meaning of Vorstellung (literally ‘pre-positing’) thuscalls for an intertwining of the production’s actual performance with the au-dience’s imaginative, empathetic and socially responsive participation in theplay. It is a correlation particularly applicable to Frisch’s Biography: A Play,because it relies, more heavily than his other plays, on the spectators’ com-pulsive identification with the actor’s rehearsing a role they, too, have beentrying to escape. Their participation in the play thus amounts to an act of re-cognition. What they are watching on stage is a process of variation includingand defining their own selves. From the beginning the audience is confrontedwith the reflective spectacle of their own collective biographies. Once theybecome aware of this fact, they cease to be mere onlookers. In that sense, itcould be said that, strictly speaking, a performance of Frisch’s Biography: APlay has no audience, only participants. Whenever it seems its protagonistKürmann is speaking to the spectators – ‘I know exactly what you’re thinkingnow …’ – he is, in effect, addressing his own consciousness (cf. the openingof Part Two, Biografie, p. 61), the persona of the Registrar, as defined by theauthor in his postscript to the play (Biografie, p. 111). It is hardly a coincidence, then, that quite early in the play Kürmannmakes a seemingly casual reference to the Italian playwright, Luigi Pirandel-lo, for here Frisch has written what might well be described a variation ofPirandello’s classic, Six Characters in Search of an Author. Mindful of itsown dramaturgical adaptations, the play could have been called either some-thing like One Author in Search of Six Characters (referring to the six varia-tions of Kürmann’s biographies) or else An Audience in Search of Itself. Evenin the context of comparative modern world theatre, then, Max Frisch variesand ‘rehearses’ the nature and scope of role-playing. His Kürmann is not apurely fictional stage character play-acting individual projections of personalfreedom; he also functions as a playwright’s, director’s and actor’s dramatur-gical voice in contemporary theatre. In other words: Frisch’s Biography: APlay allows the theatre to reveal and play itself. The name of Frisch’s protagonist implies, of course, that he is a man whocan choose (German Kür, derived from kiesen, ‘to choose’, ‘to examine’;
104 Manfred JurgensenMHG kür[e] or kur[e], OHG kuri, OE cyre, OIC kør). But in ‘choosing’ anddeclaring, ‘I know how it goes’ (Biografie, p. 10), he continues to make thesame mistakes (‘Registrar: Then why do you always end up doing the same?’:Biografie, p. 26). Kürmann begins to ask himself, ‘How can I choose some-thing different …’ (Biografie, p. 41). One possible reason for his recurringdilemma is provided by the Registrar when he explains to Kürmann: ‘Youhave permission to choose again, but with the same intelligence. That is agiven’ (Biografie, p. 29). There is only one other consideration limiting thelikelyhood of repetitions in personal history – ‘the others, too, can choose’.Again, it is the Registrar who reminds Kürmann that he is not alone in theworld (Biografie, p. 46). In a socio-cultural context, the ‘given intelligence’ of a white European,‘middle-class’ behavioural scientist like Frisch’s Kürmann may be assumednot too dissimilar to the social, political and moral preoccupations of theplay’s general audience. His theatrical performance therefore does not merelyrelate to the fictional assumption of his own character; in line with the Che-khov quotation, it implicitly enacts the paradigmatic part of a collective iden-tity. The representative nature of such role-playing powerfully asserts an in-escapable identification between spectator and actor. In juxtaposing thepersonal and the social, the private and the public, Frisch stages his modelconcept of a shared role-playing identity. In such a context, it is important to bear in mind that throughout the playthe location remains the stage, or, as Frisch puts it so succinctly, ‘a placecompletely identical with itself’ (Biografie, p. 111). In rehearsing variations,the theatre manages to realise what ‘in reality’ cannot be: experiencing possi-bilities of another life, choosing the option of a different biography. Becauseof the protagonist’s representative identity, the audience themselves leave thepassive realm of the auditorium, as it were, and join the actors on the stage.Quite different from his more Brechtian, politically didactic, ‘morality with-out a moral’, The Fire Raisers,3 Frisch likens this kind of paradigmatic thea-tre to the reconstruction of a ‘game’ of chess with the aim of discovering if,where and how alternative moves would have led to a different outcome(Biografie, p. 12). With its heavy emphasis on rehearsal his dramaturgy oftheatrical ‘play’ always remains a ‘game’. In the final conciliatory sentenceof his notes, Frisch explains, ‘I consider it a comedy’ (Biografie, p. 111). Aurally, the play reinforces its structural logic with frequently repeatedincomplete or interrupted sounds of a piano, emanating from rehearsals of a3 See Max Frisch, Three Plays, trans. by Michael Bullock (London: Methuen, 1962), pp. 1-88, also The Firebugs, trans. by Mordecai Gorelik (New York: Hill and Wang, 1963).
Rehearsing the Endgame 105ballet class next door. With its very first lines the persona of a Registrar in-troduces the theme, the subject or the challenge of the play by summarisingthe essence of the Chekhov quotation: ‘So he said: If he could start all overagain, he’d know exactly what he’d do differently in his life’ (Biografie, p. 7).Thus, Frisch clearly considers his Biography part of a continuing drama-turgical development in the European theatrical tradition. In theatrical terms,the figure of the Registrar is a kind of director, who rehearses variable scenesbased on a ‘dossier’ script expressing the consciousness of the play’s centralcharacter, Kürmann. Alternations of Arbeitslicht (work light) and Spiellicht(stage light) are designed to mark frequent switches from dramaturgicalworkshop reflections to rehearsals of ad hoc script variations, both promptedby coinciding determinations of actor, playwright and audience. From the beginning, then, dramatic production, fictional characterisationand projected plot are in a complementary relationship. Frisch’s Biography isnot merely a play within a play, but a ‘life play’, exposing variable forms ofrole-playing by all individual and social identities, including that of the thea-tre itself. It explicitly endorses the concept of theatre as all-embracing para-digm of human life, applying Jaques’s famous declaration, ‘All the world’s astage,/And all the men and women merely players’ (As You Like It, II. 7. 139-40).4 It is, indeed, no coincidence that in this kind of dramaturgy quotationsfrom, or allusions to, other dramas frequently play a vital part in the act ofself-identification. For the history of the theatre itself is made up of self-quotations, variable interpretations and productions. Thematically and drama-turgically, Frisch’s play declares itself, somewhat self-consciously, to be partof this history, in that broader sense a ‘play within a variety of plays’. Corre-spondingly, in the consciousness of Frisch’s protagonist biography consistsof a long chain of theatrical self-quotations. The challenge of expressing an authentic life is one of Frisch’s centralthemes. In his novel, Stiller, the eponymous hero makes the startling discov-ery that ‘[i]t’s possible to tell any kind of story except the reality of one’sown life’ (Stiller, p. 101).5 Elsewhere in the novel he goes even further. Theimprisoned Stiller begins to grasp the frustrations of recognizing one’s ownidentity: ‘He who remains silent doesn’t even have the slightest idea of whohe is not’ (Stiller, p. 119). In a 1964 essay entitled ‘Der Autor und das Thea-ter’ (The Author and the Theatre), Frisch states, ‘However theatre projects4 The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, ed. by W. J. Craig (London: Oxford Univer- sity Press, 1906; repr. 1962), p. 227.5 Originally published in Frankfurt by Suhrkamp in 1954, it is translated by Michael Bullock as I’m not Stiller (London: Abelard-Schumann, 1958). All translations here, however, are my own and references, to the original, Frankfurt edition, will follow quotations in the text.
106 Manfred Jurgensenitself, it is art: Play as response to the inability to reproduce the world’ (p.76).6 His novel, Mein Name sei Gantenbein, written the same year, offersperhaps its author’s most succinct definition of individual lives. In almostformula-like precision the blind narrator declares, ‘Sooner or later everyoneinvents a story of himself which he comes to accept as his life.’ 7 (The Aus-tralian poet, James McAuley, a contemporary of Frisch’s, summed up hisown, very similar, belief in the words, ‘For what we are can only be imagined;/The story never lies.’ 8) All these quotations prove to be of immediate relevance to Frisch’s play.As the Registrar clearly demonstrates, the desire to change the course ofone’s life is invariably based on a selective range of self-quotations. It is ineffect always an attempt to re-write the biographer’s own account of himself. As we have seen, Frisch primarily likens aspects of such rehearsals of im-aginary change to the reconstruction of a game of chess. By contrast, Antoi-nette, Kürmann’s wife-to-be, ‘the queen with all the moves’, is in turnfascinated by musical boxes that continue to delight, despite their figuresforever repeating the same gestures following the same drum. Ironically, shelongs to hear Kürmann’s ‘old musical box’ (Biografie, p. 8-9). In the contextof the play’s production it is an ‘instrument’ not unlike the ballet practice’spiano in a nearby apartment condemned to play forever incomplete pieces, asit pro-vides a telling background to the protagonist’s tragic-comic attempts toim-prove the record of his own life. There is, of course, a decisive differencebetween the game of chess (Schachspiel), a game Kürmann is determined toteach Antoinette, and the moving figures of musical boxes (Spieluhren), amechanical performance his wife-to-be loves to watch. Both may be Spiele,‘games’ or ‘plays’, but only chess allows for direct, practical involvementand the possibility of actual change. The most appropriate staging of Frisch’splay, then, would need to aim for a balance between these two kinds ofmovement – seeming passivity and active control. What’s more, such‘counter-acting’ would have to apply to both actors and spectators. Throughout the play, its protagonist, a professional behaviourist who failsto recognise the pattern of his own conduct, responds to the rehearsals of hislife’s alterations with the same frustration: ‘I already know how it was!’ (Bio-grafie, p. 10). In vain, the Registrar tries to explain the life-actor’s predica-ment. ‘You see,’ he informs Kürmann, ‘you don’t relate to the present but to6 In Max Frisch, Öffentlichkeit als Partner (Frankfurt/Main: Suhrkamp, 1967). The translation, from this edition, is my own.7 See Michael Bullock’s translation, A Wilderness of Mirrors (London: Methuen, 1965), p. 74.8 ‘Against the dark’, in Collected Poems, 1936-1970 (Sydney: Angus & Robertson, 1971), p. 196.
Rehearsing the Endgame 107a memory. That’s the problem. You think your experience can anticipate thefuture. That’s why you keep arriving at the same story’ (Biografie, p. 17).Repetition wrongly assumes the cognitive role of knowledge. Frisch’s play-rehearsal is not merely a comedy of variable role-playing. What gives hisBiography its full weight is its primary theme, the search for authentic exist-ence. All attempts at self-realisation share an ultimate point of reference, death.Play-rehearsing seemingly endless variations of individual identity proves tobe terminal after all. Beyond the realms of self-dramatising, human mortalitydetermines physical reality, individual authenticity and social actuality. Thesecond part of Frisch’s drama presents a decisive turning-point. Confrontedwith his fatal illness, the protagonist appeals to the Registrar, ‘You alwayssaid I could choose’ (Biografie, p. 105). In response, the Registrar once againconfirms Kürmann’s Faustian pact to rehearse imaginary variations of hisbiography, their agreement to let the theatre explore the range and conse-quences of an alternative life. But when faced with the finality of his own life,Frisch’s protagonist wonders what there is left to choose. In stark contrast tothe variability of his earlier self-projections, the answer is unconditionallybrutal: ‘How you’re going to respond to losing it’ (Biografie, p. 105). Theplay of Kürmann’s biography ends with the fateful pronouncement: ‘You’refree – for another seven years …’ (Biografie, p. 110). In the final analysis, then, Max Frisch’s Biography: A Play is a powerfulcomedy about death. With judgmental severity, but very appropriately, giventhat the figure personifies the theatre, the Registrar delimits the stage from avariable presence to the finality of life. Biography turns into an end game, atheatrical play ending in death, the terminal fall of the curtain. Thus, Frisch’scorrelative play remains as much about the theatre as it is about the freedomand limitations of individual life. Of the ten plays Frisch has written, Biogra-phy is, in more ways than one, by far the most theatrical – if at times ratherself-consciously so. The last of his plays, its subject is both a homage to thetheatre and a live rehearsal of his own obituary. As his health began to deteriorate in 1966-7, Frisch began work on hisTagebuch, 1966-1971 (Diary, 1966-1971).9 Central features in the book arerecurring, seemingly playful, reflections on death and suicide – Frisch joineda group of men forming a Vereinigung Freitod (Association for Suicide). Pre-ceding and following his joyful entry, ‘Renewed pleasure in the theatre!’9 Originally published in Frankfurt by Suhrkamp in 1972, it is translated by Geoffrey Skelton as Sketchbook, 1966-1971 (New York: Harcourt Brace, 1971; London: Eyre Methuen, 1974). The translation here, however, is my own, from the original German.
108 Manfred Jurgensen(Diary, p. 93), Frisch reports on the activities of the Association for Suicide.The playwright becomes increasingly aware that one function of the theatrehas always been to enlighten its audience about the inevitability of death.Early theatre in particular saw the staging of different kinds of dying as oneof its main social functions: the tragedies of classical Greece and Rome ha-bitually enacted ‘biographies’ of heroic individual lives culminating in death. When Kürmann is told he remains free to choose what he will do with hislife ‘for another seven years’, it is the mere passing of time that turns the mir-ror of theatrical self-reflection back to front. Confronted with the blunt dull-ness of death, the staging of self, the playing with images of varied lives,comes to an end. In modern theatre it is the captive spectator who, sitting inthe dark auditorium, witnesses the complex unfolding of imaginary livesfrom the terminal vantage point of death. Frisch’s Biography offers the re-construction of a post-mortem, even as its dramaturgy continues to antici-pate, project and instruct. Ultimately, the staging of dramatic conflict posesonly one all-embracing challenge: could a particular ending have been avoid-ed? For, more than anything else, theatre is about ‘the end’. In comedy as intragedy, plot and characterisation, performance and direction are geared to aninescapable, powerful conclusion. The very nature of the dramatic embodiesa critical forward movement seeking resolution and finality. In the stage reen-actment of life at least one of the aims of theatre is to function as intellectualand moral reflection, relating directly to the audience’s own experience. InFrisch’s terms, the spectator witnesses the transformation of an interchange-able biography into a play. Not the least reason for the worldwide success of Frisch’s Biography: APlay is the entertaining quality of its witty, at times scathing, social criticism,such as the Registrar’s biting comments when, crucially juxtaposing the pub-lic with the private, he tells the pseudo-revolutionary Kürmann: ‘You’reunder suspicion of wanting to change the world, when in fact all you reallywant is change your biography’ (Biografie, p. 55). Kürmann himself catego-rically denies the assumption that a particular kind of meaning can be attri-buted to biographical events merely because they have occurred, and in doingso questions, in quite a fundamental way, any belief in a discernable meaningof life. In his Tagebuch Frisch appears to be doing the same thing, by inte-grating periodic questionnaires (Fragebögen) into personal analyses and criti-cal self-reflections. German literary historians have characterised most of theauthor’s writings as the ironic or self-critical role-playing of a theatricalpersona called ‘I’ (Ich-Theater). Both Frisch’s narrative and dramatic styledo indeed express an ironic consciousness of the variable nature of author-ship. As his narrative prose demonstrates so clearly, the author remains ever-
Rehearsing the Endgame 109conscious of the analogy between the freedom of occasional diary entries andthe spontaneous, casual nature of stage rehearsals. What, then, is Frisch’s specific contribution to a dramaturgy of the playwithin the play? In the first instance, it is his belief that ‘life theatre’ is a pri-mary, powerful, non-metaphysical means of projecting and reflecting the na-ture and limits of our being. Biographical role-playing defines man’s freedomto determine and vary self-images, individual as well as social values andcommitments. However, as in the paradigmatic game of chess, motivation forsuch changes may at times seem frivolously willful or purely coincidental,only to be subsequently revealed as inevitable, indeed, logically inescapable.Either way, whatever the variety of moves, ultimately the range of self-ex-pression remains fatally limited. Frisch’s analogy of life as a play within a play does not imply that eitherhuman existence or the theatre amounts to little more than self-centred exer-cises in pastime. Rather, it asserts the conviction that life must be understoodand accepted as an end in itself. Frisch’s staged visions of homo ludens con-tain no metaphysical references. The paradigmatic nature of his dramaturgycalls into question even the assumed certainty that all dramatic conflict mustlead to an end. While, on a practical level, in a time- and plot-related sense, atheatrical performance culminates in its designated conclusion, the paradig-matic character of most of Frisch protagonists – in particular, Kürmann inBiography: A Play, Biedermann in The Fire Raisers and Andri in Andorra 10– extends their continued existence beyond finite dimensions. It is in theplay-like model of their logic and validity that the cultural ‘game’ of individ-ually, socially and theatrically staged biographies survives. Yet within this self-reflecting drama Frisch is anxious to prove there are,in fact, a number of special events in human life, unique experiences thatcannot be altered, varied, repeated, recaptured, rehearsed or exchanged.Prominent among them are Freude, ‘joy’, Erwartung, ‘anticipation’, andEregung, ‘excitement’. ‘How can one repeat something,’ his protagonist asks,‘when all mysteries and uncertainties are spent?’ With bitter poignancy headds, ‘You try reliving a joy, if you already know what’s going to follow!’(Biografie, p. 70). Rehearsing play-like composite identities fails to come toterms with the unpredictable uniqueness of human individuality and the mys-terious impact of shared intimacy. It is because Kürmann ‘loves’ Antoinettethat he cannot escape into a life without her (Biografie, p. 92). Yet, once the‘mysteries’ of a relationship are ‘spent’, he finds it impossible to re-experi-ence ‘happiness’ (Biografie, p. 70, 69). He is stuck. The repetitions of10 See Frisch, Three Plays, pp.165-254.
110 Manfred JurgensenFrisch’s play do not move forward; they are ‘dead ends’ demonstrating theimpossibility of Vershinin’s, as well as his own protagonist’s, longings for adifferent life. Unlike much traditional drama, Frisch’s theatre nonetheless does not de-monstrate inevitability either. Instead, it questions the search for a meaningof life beyond itself. Essentially, its dramaturgy amounts to a staging of un-answered questions. ‘I’m asking’ is the most characteristic of the Registrar’srepeated comments (Biografie, e.g. p. 95). Despite the fact that his plays areessentially models, or as he calls one of them, ‘a morality without a moral’(Lehrspiel ohne Lehre), Frisch explicitly acknowledges the powerful influ-ence of coincidence or chance on the staging of life. Biography: A Play cul-minates in the following exchange between Kürmann and the Registrar: KÜRMANN You mean, I have to search for the meaning of what has happened; otherwise I won’t be able to bear it. REGISTRAR I’m asking. KÜRMANN And that meaning would lead me to believe that this was the way it had to be. Which no one can prove. But you can believe it. Only this way. Fate. Providence. REGISTRAR Let’s call it that. KÜRMANN I know how it happened. REGISTRAR – coincidentally?The dialogue concludes with the timeless question: ‘Mr Kürmann, it’s yourchoice.’ – ‘To believe or not to believe.’ – ‘Yes.’ When, in a final variation of his life having killed his wife Antoinette,Kürmann realises too late the full consequence of having destroyed someoneelse’s life. ‘How can I still think of choice?’, he calls out, ‘She’s dead – dead,and I choose between believing and not believing … Whether I believe or not,what difference does it make to her?’(Biografie, p. 95). The imaginary re-hearsals and wishful variations of his life do not only come to an end with hisown death. Finality, even in a model theatre of self-projection, is reachedwhen there is no more identity to be challenged. Having killed the person heloves, the authenticity of Kürmann’s own life ceases to have any relevance.Death destroys the very assumption of his ‘life theatre’, the preconditionwhich allowed him (and others) to play with, or rehearse, variations of hisown, and thereby someone else’s, biography. The game is over. Even thoughhe himself is not yet dead, his obsessive role-playing has come to an end.Without life there can be no theatre. The paradigmatic variability of Frisch’s life theatre is responsible for thecontinuing dialogue between actors and spectators, play and audience. It is inthis very exchange that individual and social existence unfolds, the play
Rehearsing the Endgame 111within the play, the variable biography of who and where and what we are,the reality of fateful coincidences and arbitrary roles based on chance per-ceptions, the few precious, mysteriously shared, encounters of anticipation,pleasure, love and joy, sometimes referred to as ‘happiness’, even thoughthey, too, may carry no ultimate purpose, no meaningful design, hold nopromise of metaphysical ‘redemption’ or ‘salvation’.
Barnard TurnerTom Stoppard’s The Real Inspector Hound (1968) and The RealThing (1982): New Frames and OldTom Stoppard has adapted the conventions of the play within the play frequently in his work,manipulating the relationships between ‘inner play’ and ‘outer play’ (and thus those between theaudience and the performance) in ways which destabilise the former relationships while leavingintact those implicit in mainstream Western contemporary theatre-going practice. While there isgreat creativity in Stoppard’s staging and his correspondent adaptation of theatrical and literaryconventions, tropes and gestures (ranging from a quasi-Brechtian episodicity to the classicalcontaminatio), the stage-audience dialectic itself is unshaken. Stoppard then offers only the illu-sion of flux or instability and, while this gesture increases the entertainment value, it lessens theprovocation of the theatrical encounter. Considering two plays from different points in Stop-pard’s career – The Real Inspector Hound (1968) and The Real Thing (1982) – this chapterargues that, while in their various ways they compound generic postmodernist ludic fragmen-tation, they remain traditional in their core theatrical value. ‘Commercial recordings of orchestral rehearsals are now available, presumably to allow audiences an intimate glimpse of the conductor at work. One wonders how these strips differ from the real thing.’ Erving Goffman1Intertextuality as theme and structuring device informs Tom Stoppard’s plays,which often incorporate elements of other authors’ plays for purposes ofparody or – more importantly here – of frame-shift. These inflexions producerole-reversals and misunderstandings, as in the mixture of sub-plot and vari-ous off-sides in Professional Foul; discordant time-frames, as in Arcadia orTravesties; the bric[k]olage of Dogg’s Hamlet, Cahoot’s Macbeth, and themore – at first glance – ‘traditional’ plays within plays that are The Real Ins-pector Hound 2 and The Real Thing 3 (the former one scene, the latter a se-1 Frame Analysis: An Essay on the Organization of Experience (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1974), p. 126.2 Tom Stoppard, The Real Inspector Hound, in Tom Stoppard: Plays 1 (London: Faber and Faber, 1996), pp. 1-44. Further references will be given in the text as RIH followed by page number.3 Tom Stoppard, The Real Thing (New York: Faber and Faber, 1984). Further references will be given in the text as RT followed by page number.
114 Barnard Turnerquence). Harold Bloom has described Stoppard’s trans-generic plays in termsof Senecan contaminatio, the ‘interlacing between an old play and a newone’,4 and such is in miniature the case with both the Real plays with whichthis chapter is principally concerned. Often, Stoppard rewrites existing orhypothetical but possible scenarios, or – in the Real plays – has characters doso, as, in Hound, critics Moon and Birdboot both comment on the play thatthey are watching and modify it by transgressing through what for them, ifnot for Stoppard’s audience, should be the ‘fourth wall’. In the second sceneof The Real Thing, a professional writer (Henry) tries to imagine the conver-sation of a young soldier (Brodie) who has met an actress (Annie, laterHenry’s wife) on a train (RT 32). While Henry is far from accurate in hissuggestions for the dialogue, which is based on stale pick-up lines, Brodie’sown writing of this scene, in a play which Henry resists reworking, but whicheventually is made for television, is in no way more accomplished or provoc-ative. If Brodie’s play is meant to ‘catch’ the national ‘conscience’, it is –like Hamlet’s interpolation into The Murder of Gonzago – an easy target,proving nothing and providing little which would encourage viewers to re-flect on its more general political claims, any more than might the allusionsto Shakespeare’s Danish play that litter the surface of Stoppard’s play, suchas ‘these few precepts’, ‘what’s a petard?’, or the attention to ‘words’, inno-cent or superfluous (RT 63, 75, 53). In many of these superimposed contexts,not entirely ironically perhaps, playwright Henry takes on the questionablestatus of critic and anxious father Polonius. All drama has always been in the detective mode: ‘[T]oute pièce est uneenquête menée à bonne fin [Every play is an enquiry brought to a successfulconclusion]’, says Choubert in Ionesco’s Victims of Duty (1953),5 a playwhich in some ways prefigures Hound in its playing with the detective genre(a detective calls here, too), in its staged monologue (more minor howeverthan the interstitial play in Hound), and, of course, in its absurdist humour. Inthis game of detection, the contaminatio also extends to the assessment ofmotivation, and the audience must be nimble in assigning motive, role andguise. While the theoretical, but oxymoronic, task of seeing through the mask,the persona, is required in normal circumstances of, say, Faust, Othello andVolpone, this is particularly apparent in the play within the play. Actors playtheir titular characters; they represent themselves playing other characters;they take each other for real and take a tableau – fake to them – as a prick ofthe conscience. And, of course, the paradigm of this last is not Hamlet, but4 Tom Stoppard, ed. by Harold Bloom (New York: Chelsea House, 1986), p. 1.5 Ionesco, Plays. Volume II, trans. by Donald Watson (London: John Calder, 1958), p. 269.
Stoppard: New Frames and Old 115Macbeth at the banquet, ‘starting’ at what appears to his wife to be the ‘verypainting of [his] fear’ (III.iv.60). In The Real Thing, actors play actors acting onstage and offstage in their‘real’ lives. So far so Pirandello, in a sense, even if Stoppard’s debt to theItalian playwright is more applicable to the earlier play. As Felicia HardisonLondré has argued of Hound, it is difficult to assess whether Stoppard is‘building upon Pirandello’s technique of forcing the spectator constantly toreexamine his [sic] assumptions about different levels of reality’, or ‘merelyspoofing Pirandello for the amusement of the cognoscenti.’6 From Hound toReal Thing, indeed, Stoppard’s is the theatre of the crisis deferred, of a rathercomfortable, even disengaged foregrounding of mediated reality.7 Much ofthe interest in his plays stems from the Wildean cliché about life imitating art,where – as in Henry James’s short story ‘The Real Thing’ (1893) – what bestpasses for ‘the real thing’ is a fake.8 Since this is by now but common, in hislater work – The Real Thing, for example – Stoppard disengages the clichéswith which he had charged his earlier work. Yet perhaps for those who cuttheir teeth on the critical chestnut of reality versus illusion, particularly as astipulation of limit or framing conditions for a play, it is one difficult to ex-tract. For example, June M. Schlueter says of Hound that it destroys the ‘dis-tinction between reality and illusion’;9 Paul Delaney says of The Real Thingthat the first two scenes ‘establish the contrast between real life and art’ and‘the contrast between the real and the imaginative accounts for the genesis[…] of the play’s form.’10 Here, one need only to note that in the theatre all isfaked and feigned, but all is a real theatrical event, which is all that matters. The Real Inspector Hound presents what might be called a ‘play betweenthe play’: the easy target of criticism, the spoof of Agatha Christie’s TheMousetrap – but also, if incidentally, of Hamlet’s identity politic – is placedbetween the first acting area, where critics Moon and Birdboot are sitting,and the audience. The disgruntled grocer in Beaumont’s The Knight of theBurning Pestle (1607/08), or the semi-cardboard audience, mystics and all inAlexander Blok’s The Fairgound Booth (1906) are transformed into the critic6 Tom Stoppard (New York: Frederick Ungar, 1981), p. 119.7 See, e.g., Londré, p. 119; Anthony Jenkins, The Theatre of Tom Stoppard (Cambridge: Cam- bridge University Press, 1987), pp. 160-61; John Fleming, Stoppard’s Theatre: Finding Order amid Chaos (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2001), p. 160; and June M. Schlueter, ‘Stoppard’s Moon and Birdboot, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern’, in Bloom, p. 81.8 Henry James, ‘The Real Thing’ (1892), in Tales of Henry James, ed. by Christof Wegelin (New York: Norton, 1984), pp. 239-59.9 Schlueter, p. 81.10 Paul Delaney, Tom Stoppard: The Moral Vision of the Major Plays (London: Macmillan, 1990), pp. 114, 105.
116 Barnard TurnerBirdboot, who wanders from the stage-auditorium onto the stage-stage totake up a real phone-call, i.e. from a supposedly functioning phone. HereStoppard, like Beaumont before him, with what we might call Living or Fo-rum Theatre, while at the same time disallowing it. If in his 1914 letter, ‘TheTheatre of the Future’, Leonid Andreyev could opine that in ‘the theatre ofthe future there will be no audience’, since ‘the performing theatre willgradually fade away’ along with its edifices and conventional framings,11 inStoppard’s real, existing future theatre, from Andreyev’s perspective at least,all notions of audience and theatre are mere convention. He therefore rein-states that separation, the relegation of the audience to the shadows, whichhis play literally highlights. Thus, the play is avant-garde in its content, itsmaterial, but not in its form and nature. According to Richard Schechner,‘[E]ngaging intercultural fractures [here in a limited sense, of course], philo-sophical difficulties, ideological contradictions, and crumbling nationalmyths does not necessarily lead to avant-garde performances.’12 Unfortunate-ly, Stoppard’s critics have often been sidetracked or ‘ambushed’ by the seem-ing chaos, and have retreated into paraphrases of that critical rhetoric whichplays like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, Hound and Foul parody.In one such case, William E. Gruber says of the first-named play, ‘Here wetouch the core, I think, of the play’s literariness […] What, this play asksagain and again, is valid dramatic language?’ 13 Even the intonation appears tobe Birdboot’s. And yet the search for such transcendent ‘validity’ is seldom a primaryobjective in the Bauhaus, the house of prompt-cards, of Stoppard’s plays. Attimes, and uncannily perhaps, he detaches showing and speaking roles,almost as in a mime or in the way some Asian theatres separate the performerwho moves and the performer who speaks; so at least can these plays be read(and performed). After going onto the stage and answering the ringing on-stage phone, and remaining there as the actors begin the scene, Birdbootspeaks as himself while the actors repeat lines from a previous scene. Aspuppets or marionettes, they then feed off Birdboot’s manner and dialogue,which is so uncannily like Simon Gascoyne’s in the play between the playthat they take his cues from his dithering and general demeanour, both ofwhich override the actual words, even if some are reproduced, accidentallyperhaps (or because the situation is itself clichéd), in what might be called an11 The Russian Symbolist Theatre: An Anthology of Plays and Critical Texts, ed. and trans. by Michael Green (Ann Arbor, MI: Ardis, 1986), p. 367.12 The Future of Ritual: Writings on Culture and Performance (New York: Routledge, 1993), p. 17.13 ‘Artistic Design in Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead’, in Bloom, p. 105.
Stoppard: New Frames and Old 117innertextual contaminatio.14 But what they say fits the context of Birdboot’sphilandering between the actress playing the Felicity role and the one playingCynthia, so that the flurried Felicity actress confuses him and Gascoyne: ‘original’ ‘inner’ play scene (pp. 16-17) ‘contaminatio’ scene (p. 33) SIMON I love another! BIRDBOOT I want to call it off. FELICITY I see. FELICITY I see. SIMON I didn’t make any promises – I BIRDBOOT I didn’t promise anything – and merely – the fact is, I have my reputation – people do talk – FELICITY You don’t have to say any more FELICITY You don’t have to say any more – – SIMON Oh, I didn’t want to hurt you – BIRDBOOT And my wife, too – I don’t know how she got to hear of it, but – FELICITY Of all the nerve! FELICITY Of all the nerve! To march in SIMON Well, I – here and – BIRDBOOT I’m sorry you had to find out like this – the fact is I didn’t mean it this way! – FELICITY You philandering coward – FELICITY You philandering coward! SIMON Let me explain – FELICITY This is hardly the time and place – you think you can barge in any- where, whatever I happen to be doing – SIMON But I want you to know that my ad- BIRDBOOT I’m sorry – but I want you to miration for you is sincere – I don’t know that I meant those things I said want you to think that I didn’t mean – oh yes – shows brilliant promise – I the things I said – shall say so – FELICITY I’ll kill you for this, Simon FELICITY I’ll kill you for this, Simon Gascoyne! Gascoyne! Here the new has been assembled as part of the frame of the old, and thenew action has taken the old with it into a third trajectory, distinct from each,but which partakes, loosely, of each. Down register (Birdboot wants to ‘call itoff’, since he can hardly ‘love’ anyone or claim the stridency and Noel Cow-ardly quasi-camp of Simon’s ‘I love another’ line), pragmatism (‘my reputa-tion’) and the farce of self-interest in the supposedly disinterested promotion14 As between the acts of Pinter’s The Homecoming and Beckett’s Waiting for Godot. In res- ponse to Elliot Norton’s observation that he did not care much for the second act of The Homecoming, Pinter famously responded, ‘Im not going to do anything about the second act. The second act is the second act.’ See Mel Gussow, Conversations with Pinter (London: Nick Hern, 1994), p. 34.
118 Barnard Turnerof others outweigh the farce of the heart’s impermanence. The occlusion offrame-play and framed play is here both metatheatrical and a denial of thatrelated but detachable (here detached) viewpoint that makes metatheatre pos-sible. Most surprisingly, Felicity’s line about Simon’s inopportune arrival isnot repeated, but perhaps this goes without saying, or rather – since it is thepoint of Stoppard’s humour – saying it would be merely verbose, and wouldgo around the Hamlet principle that a play within a play allows a speed, pre-cision and laconicity to the dialogue-action inter-face. Anthony Jenkins, stillnot detaching himself enough from the theatre-as-staged-illusion/theatre-as-real-event opposition, has said that the Birdboot/Felicity confrontation ‘loops[the play within the play] back to what went on before. In a sense, nothing inthe second half of Hound actually happens.’ 15 What does it mean to usemotion as a metaphor for motive here, that which ‘goes on’, that which ‘hap-pens’, ‘actually’ or not? To quote Erving Goffman, ‘[H]ere it is probably bestto leave open the question of necessity, obligation, and interdependence.’ 16Once the idea is set, that the critic will walk onto the stage, all else followsafter, merely because it is possible to create a play this way. For all this wayward trajectory – ‘mad, according to [Stoppard’s] custom’,to quote Sheridan’s The Critic (III.1.286)17 – Hound still remains faithful to atraditional, layered or box-set conception of ‘play beneath the play’, evenwhile it appears to have shifted the frames along a horizontal axis separatingthe traditional longitudinal spaces of any theatre event (the theatron, or ‘placefor seeing’, and the dramaton, ‘place where things happen’). Stoppard workswith the assumption, suppressed in most Western theatre, that seeing (thea) isan event (drama), even if the event (drama) is what one has come to see, andtherefore needs to be separate from the seeing; in other words, seeing is anact too. It is therefore still a long way from the abandoning of ‘the skin ofonly one character’ which Eugenio Barba laments as uncommon in Westerntheatre,18 or even Strindberg’s ‘splitting, doubling, evaporating and recom-posing’ of ‘personerna’ in his preface to A Dream Play.19 While Westerntheatre can partake of such diffusion through the use of image – from cyclo-rama to computer screen, and pre-taped segments, from Wagnerian adap-tations in the 1920s through Beckett, Lanterna Magika, and the incorporationof audience typology in Peter Handke’s Publikumsbeschimpfung and DieStunde da wir nichts voneinander wußten (see the three spectators incorporat-15 Theatre of Tom Stoppard, p. 51.16 Frame Analysis, p. 44.17 Plays, ed. by Cecil Price (London: Oxford University Press, 1975), p. 383.18 Beyond the Floating Islands (New York: PAJ Publications, 1986), p. 126.19 Ett Drömspel (Stockholm: Kungliga Dramatiska Teatren, 1986), p. 3. My translation.
Stoppard: New Frames and Old 119ed at the end),20 – such innovations are impossible in Stoppard’s Hound. InThe Real Thing, which could go further in ‘evaporating’ character throughthese means, and in which the media play a more contemporary role, multi-media is again only incidental. In the final scene, and in some ways updatingthe distinction between visual and sound of the Noh Theatre, from a darkenedstage set is heard the recorded dialogue from a television set projecting a vi-deo of Brodie’s play. Stoppard clings, as Henry does, to a humanist concep-tion of the theatre, where characters have no prosthetics but their memories. In Stoppard, where character meaning and audience meaning are distinct,there is seldom a necessity or plot to make of this distinction a source of dra-matic irony. The audience can see that characters are ‘playing roles’, al-though the relations between and among these are both indiscreet and indis-crete. What else should one expect? In The Real Thing, Henry makes snideremarks about urbane witty rhetoric: ‘I don’t believe in debonair relationships.“How’s your lover today, Amanda?” “In the pink, Charles. How’s yours?” Ibelieve in mess, tears, pain, self-abasement, loss of self-respect, nakedness’(RT 71). Here, in a gesture which would uncover real emotion beneath politeconversation, Henry succeeds in sidestepping Noel Coward, only to summonRichard and Sarah at breakfast in the opening scene of Pinter’s The Lover,and therefore merely substitutes one level of farce for another: RICHARD (amiably) Is your lover coming today? SARAH Mmnn. RICHARD What time? SARAH Three.21 Claiming a belief is a telling, a description, even if this belief is that emo-tion should not be described but should be shown. Since Henry can both ex-press faithfully his own belief and the limitations of that belief, there is littleleft for the audience to do in tracing irony, except to reflect on the layeringwithin one role and one character who can so reflect on his framing butcannot escape it except by alluding to a cultural milieu with which the audi-ence is familiar and the implication that – almost a commonplace for thosecritics who think lightly of British middle-class drama post-Osborne – manyof the plays of Pinter, Stoppard and Hare are in a sense all one play. Erika Fischer-Lichte has cogently remarked that the framing process oc-curs on two levels one specific to a play and its theatricalized events, and the20 Die Stunde da wir nichts voneinander wußten (1992) (Frankfurt/Main: Suhrkamp, 1997), pp. 63-64.21 The Collector and The Lover (London: Methuen, 1963), p. 49.
120 Barnard Turnerother more general, establishing the perception of the theatrical itself as anevent ([dass] Vorgänge überhaupt erst als Theater wahrgenommen werden).‘And yet’, she writes, ‘the rules […] of combination and relation of percep-tion and signification […] must first be formulated.’ 22 Similarly, the framingprocess accommodates the perception of connections between plays, thosepertaining not only in Wagnerian sequential drama, or multiple plays (such asAeschylus’s Oresteia trilogy, Shakespeare’s Henry VI cycle or Stoppard’sCoast of Utopia plays), but also more widely those of theme, generation andcharacterization. In Stoppard or some of Hare, the character of a playwrightor some other media figure or writer might well intercede between the drama-tist and the work, and be seen as ‘himself’ in one play and as the implicitwriter of another. This again is a debt Stoppard at least might owe to Piran-dello, or even to Julian Beck and Judith Malina. Yet perhaps this is stretching the significance of the play within the play alittle too far, as the audience is expected to take the immediate as real. It isstill quite common, as audience member, to leave one’s reality outside withone’s overcoat. In a quaint, pre-Brechtian fashion, Goffman contends that au-diences ‘hold [their] understanding [of dramatic unreality] to one side’, buthe also makes the self-evident point that ‘it is perfectly obvious to everyoneon and off the stage that the characters and their actions are unreal’.23 So it iswith the mise en abyme: external occurrences have internal effects, perhapsthe transference principle of dramatic communication in general. Yet, to keepthe heraldic allusion, what is the fesse-point, the exact centre, which is extra-polated from and into? The two are related, not perhaps by mere transpositionof the same, mere ‘inescutcheon’, but in the manner of an escutcheon of pre-tence, that is where the heiress’s or successor’s smaller shield or charge isplaced at the fesse-point. In the contrast, the embryonic presence of thesmaller icon within the larger, a forward momentum, a dramatic necessity foraction (even if only taking control) is implicit. Stoppard plays with such con-trol in the critical diatribe of Hound and the rehearsals, known as such by theaudience in advance or not, of Real Thing, including the shifting of framesthrough repetition (sometimes rehearsal) of lines from Brodie’s play (pp. 47,54, 72). Ever since Beaumont’s Knight of the Burning Pestle, a rehearsal oran interrupted performance has provided an inherent opportunity for a playwithin a play. Hamlet, of course, has both, as does Real Thing, though in thelatter case it is through the video performance Brodie etc. are watching.22 Die Entdeckung des Zuschauers: Paradigmenwechsel auf dem Theater des 20. Jahrhunderts (Tübingen: Francke, 1997), p. 61. My rough translation.23 Frame Analysis, p. 136.
Stoppard: New Frames and Old 121 When considering the mise en abyme and its roots in heraldry – butwithout recourse to the figure of the escutcheon of pretence – the stasisimplicit in the pictorial allusion foreshortens its theatrical application. In ajournal entry for 1893 André Gide notes that ‘in a work of art’, he likes ‘tofind transposed, on the scale of the characters, the very subject of the work.’ 24Here the analogy is with simple compression and repetition, rather than witha forward motion as in the figure of a rehearsal. While Gide does mentionHamlet, his other references are to paintings and prose works, and the use ofthe term ‘transposition’ implies a miniaturization of the whole, even if thisprovides another angle on the foreground (as in Hamlet’s own ‘hold[ing] themirror up to nature’). This may be seen in the use Velázquez makes of spec-ular reflection in Las Meninas (1656), which Gide mentions, Van Eyck’sArnolfini Marriage (1434), or Holbein’s Ambassadors (1533), where a skullreplaces the mirror, which he doesn’t. The dramatic specular makes of theclear the enigmatic, as in the original use of the Vulgate for St Paul’s ‘seethrough a glass, darkly’ (I Corinthians 13. 12), where the Vulgate reads perspeculum in ænigmate and the Greek di’esoptrou en ainigmati, a paradig-matic case of sight not being equal to that which can be said (the root ainosor tale, later riddle). Many of Vermeer’s paintings of interiors include maps, globes, or paint-ings of the countryside and, need it be said, the all-important light fallingfrom an open window. All these give an implicit pictorial inescutcheon, as inthe case of the Girl Reading a Letter by an Open Window (1657), with thegirl’s face symbolically reflecting and reflected in the window as she reflectsupon the contents of the letter. We are all in nature, in the macrocosm, even ifthe actual exterior to the room etc. is not shown at what would be the outerfringes of the frame. In his Woman with a Lute near a Window (c. 1663), thewoman looks out the window to her right; she would see more, symbolically,and better understand her place in the scheme of things, were she to gaze be-hind her at the intricately painted map of Europe. As Sheridan’s Mr. Puff re-marks on his actress announcing her vision of approaching ships, which are,of course, invisible to everyone else, ‘[O]ne of the most useful figures’ of atragedy writer is that which allows a character ‘in consideration of their beingoften obliged to overlook things that are on the stage […] to hear and see anumber of things that are not’ (The Critic, II.2.331-35).25 This is the casewith the dead body under the sofa in Hound, which escapes the notice ofmany of the characters, including Mrs Drudge, who cleans so meticulously. It24 Journals, 1889-1949, trans. by Justin O’Brien (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1967), p. 30.25 Plays, p. 369.
122 Barnard Turneris this tradition of the ‘picture window’ which Magritte parodies in his Do-main of Arnheim (1949 version), and which is particularly crucial here sincea companion piece to Hound has been After Magritte (1971). However, Stoppard’s experiments with frames do not reach this level ofthe lucid ludic, the impingement or transfer of the exterior onto, and thus into,the medium through which it is seen. Thomas R. Whitaker has called Hounda ‘game of mirrors’,26 and Stoppard’s opening stage-directions give a hint ofthe allusions both to Hamlet’s line about ‘mirror’ and ‘nature’ and to thespecular genre: ‘The first thing is that the audience appear to be confrontedby their own reflection in a huge mirror’ (RIH 5). Thus Moon and Birdbootare seated in the ‘royal position’, facing the auditorium, with the ‘play be-tween the play’ interposed between them and the audience. Traditional,proscenium-arch stagings of The Murder of Gonzago suggest a somewhatsimilar arrangement, with Hamlet and Ophelia to one side of the stage andClaudius and Gertrude to the other, framing the Players’ acting area.27 Following from this, Hound’s ‘play between the play’ may be seen as anupdating of The Arnolphini Marriage: a comparison of it with a performancestill makes clear that the characters in the play Moon and Birdboot are watch-ing are interposed between the critics and the audience of Stoppard’s playitself. In both Van Eyck’s painting and Stoppard’s play, the background pres-ences constitute an act of testimony, of corroboration, and the legitimacy ofthe roles of painter/marriage witness in the Van Eyck is only marginallyquestioned by Birdboot’s betrayal of trust in philandering with actresseswhose reputations he has meretriciously made (RIH 17). Stoppard does not so much break frames as play with them, and his workis as culinary as ever, the mirror of the audience as consumer. The Real Thing,then, is described as a play about the ‘reality’ of one’s emotions, rather thanabout the medium itself. The play’s revival at London’s Donmar Warehousein 1999 prompted John Peter in the Sunday Times to say that the first scenewas ‘only a play within the play’, to speculate at length about the charactersas real people and to praise an actor’s ‘luminous’ performance (all this, as ifBrecht had never written). Michael Coveney engaged in a Birdboot momentby talking of ‘the delectable Miss [Jennifer] Ehle’, who played Annie. (Hewas writing in the Daily Mail after all!) Even the Guardian’s Michael Bil-lington foregrounded the real emotional content over the form: ‘Stoppard isreally a romantic who uses cerebration as a shield against emotional excess.’26 Tom Stoppard (London: Macmillan, 1983), p. 74.27 Cf. Van Lochon’s well-known engraving, ‘Le Soir’, showing Louis XIII and other members of the French royal family watching a performance of Le Ballet de la Prospérité des Armes de France at the Palais-Cardinal in 1641.
Stoppard: New Frames and Old 123And the Spectator’s Sheridan Morley said that the play involved ‘not justlove but betrayal, divorce, obsession, anger, anguish and reconciliation’ (Wasit a Hollywood movie?), and only added afterwards that ‘in it somewhere aresome truly wondrous insights into the craft of the dramatist.’ 28 Again, then,these critics present paradigms of ‘the real thing’ in their insouciance to thatFuturist irony, as depicted in Marinetti’s ‘Variety Theatre, 1913’, whichwould foreground a viewpoint which ‘mechanizes sentiment’,29 but which inthese critics apparently partakes more of the knee-jerk reaction to what news-paper reviews should be, the equivalent of the human interest story in the artssection or feuilleton perhaps. The changes of scene, frame and register appearincidental to this criticism, although it could well be said that, by foreground-ing Henry and his woes, Stoppard indeed slips back into what Kandinsky, inhis 1912 essay ‘On Stage Composition’, claims was the ‘form of the drama’of the time: ‘External happenings and the eternal unity of the action.’ 30 How-ever, given that so many of Stoppard’s critics have focused perhaps too muchon the ‘inner life’, it is paradoxically (contra Kandinsky) in the oscillationbetween the Kandinskyesque external (the regard for the outer world) and aninterstitiality that has replaced the ‘eternal’ that Stoppard’s drama moves. Toby Zinman draws attention to the ‘Chinese-box succession of sets as[The Real Thing] moves from one living room to another.’ 31 Yet the juxtapo-sition of scenes is necessarily temporal rather than spatial, and one set is notsubsumed within the other. Every scene, as Brecht notes of his ‘epic form’,should be regarded on its own terms (‘jede Szene für sich’),32 and Stoppardgoes partway to this fulfilment. In Jenkins’s view, ‘[I]nterconnecting picturesdictate the structure of the entire play, so that we continually challenge thereality of one such picture in relation to another.’ 33 One painting or tableau ina series cancels out, or at least modifies, the impression created by the onebefore, as in Macbeth’s imagination at the banquet and, to give a morecontemporary example, Heiner Müller’s Bildbeschreibung.34 To return then28 All quotations from reviews of David Leveaux’s 1999 production of The Real Thing are taken from <http://members.aol.com/dramaddict/dwthing.htm> (accessed 21 April 2006).29 Futurist Manifestos, ed. by Umbro Apollonio (1970), trans. by Robert Brain and others (Boston: MFA, 2001), pp. 128-29.30 Theater of the Avant-Garde, 1890-1950: A Critical Anthology, ed. by Bert Cardullo and Ro- bert Knopf (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2001), p. 182.31 ‘Travesties, Night and Day, The Real Thing’, in The Cambridge Companion to Tom Stoppard, ed. by Katherine E. Kelly (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), p. 131.32 ‘Vergnügungstheater oder Lehrtheater’, in Über experimentelles Theater, ed. by Werner Hecht (Frankfurt/Main: Suhrkamp, 1970), p. 81.33 Theatre of Tom Stoppard, pp. 160-61.34 Werke 2. Die Prosa, ed. by Frank Hörningk (Frankfurt/Main: Suhrkamp, 1999), pp. 112-19.
124 Barnard Turnerto Bloom’s argument adumbrated at the beginning here, one could say thatone frame ‘contaminates’ the next one, even though the principle is that whatis described as chronologically prior is not necessarily aetiologically or caus-ally antecedent. Post hoc, of course, is not propter hoc, either in chronologyor in any identification of scenic series. For example, in scene 11 of The RealThing, Henry – jokingly – says that Bach had plagiarized Procul Harum: hehad heard the latter’s ‘Whiter Shade of Pale’ before Bach’s ‘Air on a GString’ and so for him the pop song predated the baroque piece (RT 74). Theaudience laughs, perhaps rather mildly, at this ignorance (more likely we arepuzzled by it), yet Stoppard plays with the hysteron proteron principlethroughout. Henry can differentiate ‘good writing’ from the banal (RT 50),but he cannot apply such generic principles to music. He confuses Verdi withStrauss (RT 44) and thinks that there are two Italian composers named Verdi,one Giuseppe and the other Monty (as in ‘the full’, rather than ‘mountain’).All that which would constitute the ‘frame’ of one composer’s music, and placeit generically and historically – its instrumentation, patterns of repetition, gra-dients of crescendo and diminuendo, etc. – are not salient features for him; con-sequently, any musical historical charting of oppositions and progress is im-possible. This inability to define an origin and thus a cogent holistic perspective inan immanent world which provides anticipation, but which by definition den-ies transcendence, is evidenced in the sequencing of rehearsals, where per-sonal motivation and desire contaminate the words. Henry says that ‘wordsare sacred’ (RT 53), but the play shows that such transcendence is impossible;there is always in a performance what Brecht calls the attention ‘to everythingunsteadfast, fleeting [...] to the contradictions in all conditions’;35 one should,as he suggests in his defence of Peter Lorre’s acting in Mann ist Mann, ‘playagainst the flow’,36 or, as he writes, famously, in a later piece, an actor should‘go on functioning as long as possible as a reader’.37 One can ‘read’ thewords of another, in this sense, but one is always taken to imbue them withone’s own voice and discursive purpose. In The Real Thing, this is mostapparent in a short section from John Ford’s ’Tis Pity She’s A Whore, whichAnnie (now married to Henry) and the younger actor Billy act out on the35 ‘. . . auf alles Unfeste, Flüchtige . . . auf die Widersprüche in allen Zuständen’ ‘Notizen über die Dialektik auf dem Theater’, in Über experimentelles Theater, p. 154.36 ‘The Question of Criteria in Judging Acting’, in Brecht on Theatre, ed. by John Willett (London: Methuen, 1964), p. 55.37 ‘Short Description of a New Technique of Acting which Produces an Alienation Effect’, in Brecht on Theatre, p. 137.
Stoppard: New Frames and Old 125InterCity train from London to Glasgow, where they are to appear as incestu-ous lovers, Giovanni and Annabella: ’Tis Pity She’s a Whore (I.iii.176-219)38 The Real Thing, scene 6 (pp. 57-58) GIOVANNI Come, sister, lend your hand, let’s walk together; ANNIE If you weren’t a child, you’d know I hope you need not blush to walk with that you won’t get anywhere with a me; married woman if you’re snotty Here’s none but you and I. abut her husband. Remember that ANNABELLA How’s this? with the next one. GIOVANNI I’faith, I mean no harm. BILLY I’faith, I mean no harm, sister. I’m ANNABELLA Harm? just scared sick of you. GIOVANNI No, good faith; how is it with How is’t with ye? thee? ANNABELLA (Aside) I trust he be not frantic – (Aloud) I am very well, brother. ANNIE I am very well, brother. GIOVANNI Trust me, but I am sick; I fear so BILLY Trust me, but I am sick; I fear so sick, sick ‘twill cost my life. ’Twill cost my life. ANNABELLA Mercy forbid it! ’tis not so, I ANNIE Mercy forbid it! ’Tis not so, I hope. hope. GIOVANNI I think you love me, sister. BILLY I think you love me, sister. ANNABELLA Yes, you know I do. ANNIE Yes, you know I do. GIOVANNI I know’t, indeed – y’are very fair. BILLY I know’t, indeed. You’re very fair. ANNABELLA Nay, then I see you have a ANNIE Nay, then, I see you have a merry merry sickness. sickness. GIOVANNI That’s as it proves. BILLY That’s as it proves. […] […] ANNABELLA Fie upon ’ee! ANNIE Fie upon ye! GIOVANNI The lily and the rose, most sweetly BILLY The lily and the rose, most sweetly strange, strange, Upon your dimpled cheeks do strive for Upon your dimpled cheeks do strive change: for change: Such lips would tempt a saint: such hands Such lips would tempt a saint; such as those hands as those Would make an anchorite lascivious. Would make an anchorite lascivious. […] […]38 While Stoppard appears to have used the text edited by W. Gifford in vol. 1 of The Dramatic Works of John Ford, 2 vols (London: Murray, 1827), I have used the Revels edition, by De- rek Rogers (London: Methuen, 1975). Stoppard’s own text is in italics.
126 Barnard Turner ANNABELLA Oh, you are a trim youth! ANNIE O, you are a trim youth! GIOVANNI Here! – BILLY Here! (Offers his dagger to her) (His ‘reading’ been getting less and ANNABELLA What to do? less discreet. Now he stands up and opens his shirt.) ANNIE (Giggling) Oh, leave off. (She looks around nervously.) GIOVANNI And here’s my breast, strike BILLY (Starting to shout) And here’s my home! breast; strike home! Rip up my bosom, there thou shalt Rip up my bosom, there thou shalt behold behold A heart in which is writ the truth I A heart in which is writ the truth I speak speak. Why stand ’ee? ANNIE You daft idiot. ANNABELLA Are you earnest? GIOVANNI Yes, most earnest. BILLY Yes, most earnest You cannot You cannot love? – love? ANNABELLA Whom? ANNIE Stop it. GIOVANNI Me. My tortured soul BILLY My tortured soul Hath felt affliction in the heat of death. Hath felt affliction in the heat of Oh, Annabella, I am quite undone! death. Oh, Annabella, I am quite undone! ‘His “reading” been getting less and less discreet’ (RT 58): he is notcautious, circumspect enough (given that they are on a train), but also – totrace the word back to its Latin root – not discrete enough in discriminatingbetween the play and the present purpose. The relapses to the personal serveas commentary on the material’s ebullience, its balance, and on the clichésapparent – and even in Ford’s day, perhaps – in the metaphor of love writtenon the heart. With Billy’s shirt open, the primary connotation of ‘undone’ ischanged to buttoning, rather than the moral dilemma of loving one’s sister.That the passion can only be conveyed through seventeenth-century languageshows that this passion is as unreal as the characters portrayed. This in turnreverses the Hamlet paradigm; if Hamlet wants to use the play within theplay to discover something of which he is not certain (Claudius’ guilt), Billywould like to think that Ford’s dialogue here reveals what is known butwhich, for decorum’s sake, cannot be expressed. And yet there is no such distinction between what is thought and what isexpressed, either in authentic sentiment or in linguistic theory, as the expres-sion does not predate the content of the message, but both forms and informsthis message itself. Set on a train, this scene is not, of course, a rehearsal inthe true sense, nor a read-through, as the primary frame – Billy’s desire forAnnie – is retained throughout, unlike scene 8, which shows a presumed re-
Stoppard: New Frames and Old 127hearsal of a slightly later scene from Ford’s play (II.i), which shows Giovanniand Annabella after they have consummated their love. While Stoppard’slater scene, played twice ‘to accommodate a scene change’ (once as a ‘wordrehearsal’ and once as ‘an acting rehearsal’), plays the Ford straight, with nointerpolations or interruptions in its twenty or so lines, it ends with the ‘ear-nest’ kiss Annie gives to Billy. Again, in its details, there is a ludic, ironicephemerality in the scene, worthy of much modernist writing, but Stoppardcollapses this, as the imperatives of the outer frame require. Here then, as so often in Stoppard, the provisional is regulated by thecompulsion to exact decisions and pattern climaxes, and thus inevitably per-haps relapses to traditional mimetic Aristotelianism at last. The play withinthe play, therefore, even if, as here, it extends to the very limits of the transi-tive space between theatron and dramaton (that is, the audience cannot knowat the outset whether they are watching ‘the real thing’), shows both the limi-tations of all theatrical innovation, which a predominantly middle-class au-dience increasingly expects and against which, therefore, it is already inocu-lated, and also the limitations of the societal role of theatre today.
Ulrike LandfesterThe Invisible Fool: Botho Strauss’s Postmodern Metadrama andthe History of Theatrical RealityIn the traditional play within the play established most notably by Shakespeare, the Fool is theone persona allowed or even bound to speak what the drama stages as ‘the truth’, this ‘truth’being the knowledge of just where the boundaries between the metadrama’s different levels ofplayacting are to be found. In postmodernist play-within-the-play structures, for example inBotho Strauss’s comedy Besucher (1988), the Fool as a stage persona has become invisible. Thisvery invisibility, however, underscored as it is by the recurrence of the word ‘Narr’ and otherallusions to the theatrical tradition of the visible Fool in the play within the play, serves to keepthe Fool very much present, in the shape of a blank which must be filled by a knowledge about‘truth’ which threatens to be lost together with theatre itself.In the traditional play within the play established most notably by Shake-speare, the Fool is the one persona allowed, or even bound, to speak what thedrama stages as ‘the truth’. This ‘truth’ is the knowledge of exactly where theboundaries between the metadrama’s different levels of playacting are to befound – and, more importantly, where they are superseded by those levels’structural affinities to each other. Whenever the Fool tells the truth about therelationship between the play and the play within the play, he also tells thetruth about the structural affinity between the drama onstage and reality off-stage. Thus it is the Fool’s privilege to reveal that fact and fiction, or, interms of the drama, playacting and reality, not only both participate in basi-cally the same formal designs of communication, but that the significance ofeach is dependent on that of the other. The Fool makes it clear that there is nospeaking the truth without using theatrical forms to express it, while on theother hand the form’s self-conscious theatricality paradoxically serves tounderscore that what is spoken is, in fact, the truth. Especially in his later works, Botho Strauss stages patterns of the playwithin the play that finally allow no one, least of all the audience, to locatesuch boundaries. Again and again his protagonists lapse from their parts onone level and relapse into them as soon as another level seems established.The simple concept of the play within the play turns into an undistinguishablemultitude of what, in the end, cannot even be called different levels of acting.
130 Ulrike LandfesterStrauss’s metadrama thus surpasses the epistemological doubt introduced intothe play within the play by German Romanticism, doubting the ontologicalsecurity of there being, after all, recourse to a single reality. Strauss makes itvery clear that while Romantic playwrights at the end of the eighteenth centu-ry took up the Shakespearean tradition of the play within the play and show-ed an artistic value derived from the blurring of any difference between play-acting and reality, in the twentieth century there are no such boundaries to beblurred, only a compound of realities derived from individual ways of per-forming one’s identity. The perception of reality that is the subject matter of postmodern theatre1does not allow for the secure knowledge of a sphere that is perfectly and un-shakeably authentic, untouched by any infestation of fictional elements. Rea-lity is constituted by a flow of information that owes as much – and probablya lot more – to the techniques of simulation used by the new media in con-veying such information as to the factual events reported. Between the ritual-istic aspects of communication and the loss of any co-ordinating influence onthe ever-growing multitude of specialized micro-languages, this ‘medialisa-tion’ of reality confronts the postmodern theatre with a singularly paradoxicalsituation. The lack of a co-ordinating macro-code of communication throwseverybody back on his or her own self-conception for the security of his orher identification, as Lyotard put it, concomitantly instilling knowledge ofthis security’s arbitrariness,2 while the growing awareness of the imminenttheatricality of the ‘real’ led to the paradigm of performance taking hold inliterally every sphere of social existence. If this is what the postmodern thea-tre aims at exhibiting, then it is anything but remarkable that it can, evenmust, dispense with the Fool persona. The differences once managed by the1 For a typological description of the postmodernist theatre see Alfonso de Toro, ‘Die Wege des zeitgenössischen Theaters – Zu einem postmodernen Multimedia-Theater oder: das Ende des mimetisch-referentiellen Theaters?’, Forum Modernes Theater, 10 (1995), 135-83. De Toro states that postmodern theatre, developing since ca. 1970, ‘ist gekennzeichnet durch seine Ambiguität, seine Diskontinuität, seine Heterogenität, durch Pluralismus, Subversion, Perversion, Deformation, Dekonstruktion und Dekreation, es ist antimimetisch und wider- setzt sich der Interpretation. Es handelt sich um ein Theater, in dem Kunst als Fiktion und das Theater als Prozeß, Performance, Nicht-Textualität gefeiert werden (‘is characterized by ambiguity, discontinuity, heterogeneity, pluralism, subversion, perversion, deformation, de- construction and de-creation; it is anti-mimetic and resists interpretation. It is a theatre in which art is celebrated as fiction and theatre as process, performance, non-textuality’; 137). See also Dieter Kafitz, ‘Bilder der Troslosigkeit und Zeichen des Mangels.: zum deutschen Drama der Postmoderne’, in Tendenzen des Gegenwartstheaters, ed. by Wilfried Floeck (Tübingen: Francke, 1988), pp. 157-75.2 See Jean-François Lyotard, Das postmoderne Wissen: ein Bericht, trans. by Otto Pfersmann, ed. by Peter Engelmann (Vienna: Passagen, 1986), p. 54.
The Invisible Fool 131Fool seem to have comprehensively lost their importance for the state ofconsciousness with which theatrical discourse used to concern itself. In Strauss’s postmodern metadrama, however, there remain two aspectsof the Fool’s absence to be accounted for, aspects which lead one to believethat this absence must be treated as conspicuous, indeed even as an invisiblepresence. On the one hand, by having his personae lapse in and out of roles,Strauss obviously works on the assumption that there is a difference betweentwo or more levels of playacting, so that his aesthetics of metaleptics stillrealise the Fool’s privilege, however rudimentary. On the other hand, theterm ‘fool’ (Narr) itself appears recurrently in his plays, sometimes in a title,such as the 2001 Der Narr und seine Frau heute abend in Pancomedia (‘TheFool and his Wife Tonight in ‘Pancomedia’), where there is no Fool amongthe protagonists, and sometimes, even more significantly, in lines spoken byprotagonists who are desperately seeking hold where the sequence of meta-leptic changes offer none, as in the earlier comedy Besucher (1988). Theseappearances serve to create an intense awareness of the Fool’s presence, evenif the concretisation of a dramatis persona is denied him. The lines sketched above suggest that the invisible Fool’s significance inStrauss’s metadrama may well be due, at least in part, to a radicalization ofwhat has always been part of the visible Fool’s history. The earliest Fool onrecord dates back to ca. 3000 B.C.; the position of the Fool in the sense of thejester was a social institution and as such part of the institution of the royalcourt. His job description covered the typical function of merry-making atpublic events as well as, more often than not, that of close companion, evenfriend, to the king. The institution of the Fool was found by Beatrice Otto tohave existed in every historical society that was hierarchical, the king’s castestrictly distinguished from that of his subjects.3 It is in fact this distinctionwhich both fuels and marks the Fool’s specific social position. Sheltered byan a priori acknowledgement of his words’ fictionality, the king’s jester isprivileged to speak truths which, if spoken by anybody else, would be deem-ed treacherous; armed with this privilege, the Fool can act as intermediarybetween the sphere of the king’s perception of reality formed by the ritualistbehaviour of court life and that of the framing, ‘real’ reality of his subjects. Taking on the Fool as its structurally most important dramatis persona,Shakespearean metadrama stages his truth as that of a fixed world order kept3 See Fools Are Everywhere: The Court Jester around the World (Chicago and London: Uni- versity of Chicago Press, 2000). For the history of the Fool, see also Enid Welsford, The Fool: His Social and Literary History (London: Faber and Faber, 1935) and Sandra Billing- ton, A Social History of the Fool (Brighton: Harvester Press, 1984).
132 Ulrike Landfesterin place by God.4 This God, master director of all, directs man’s playactingjust as he directs reality, so that all boundaries between playing and realityare those between different levels of playing installed to advance awarenessof God’s omnipotence.5 As such they are mirrored by the play within the playon the theatre stage, the structure of which in itself simply exhibits the rela-tionship between playing and being as it is placed by the topos of the thea-trum mundi: ‘Ist die ganze Welt Spiel, so ist das Theater schon Spiel imSpiel’ (‘If the whole world is play, then theatre is always play within play’).6Under these circumstances, the persona of the Fool, pointing out, in thewords of the melancholy Jaques in As You Like It, that ‘[a]ll the world’s astage, / And all the men and women merely players’,7 balances precariouslyon the narrow brink between the affirmative and the subversive. Even in hisostentatious resignation he seems to imply blasphemously that there is asphere where men and women might be more than ‘merely players’. Precar-ious it is, but balance he does, a trickster jesting his way across the bounda-ries between levels of playacting. If the ‘purpose of playing, […] both at the first and now, was and is, tohold, as ’twere, the mirror up to nature’,8 reflecting an historical reality con-sisting of separate political and social spheres, the Shakespearean Fool em-bodies the aims of the play within the play, i.e. the privilege of both showing4 The terms ‘play within the play’ and ‘metadrama’ have been repeatedly discussed. The former is generally applied to a structure which puts forth a play within the framework of a consistent masterplot, this structure being not necessarily a priori concerned with the subject of the theatre, while the latter explicitly denotes the processes of creating, staging and per- forming. As I am concerned with the concept of theatrical reality as shown by the play within the play, this distinction is academic in my case and I use both terms synonymously. For the term ‘Spiel im Spiel’, see Joachim Voigt, ‘Das Spiel im Spiel: Versuch einer Form- bestimmung an Beispielen aus dem deutschen, englischen und spanischen Drama’ (unpub- lished dissertation, University of Göttingen, 1954); for the term ‘metadrama’, see Karin Vieweg-Marks, Metadrama und englisches Gegenwartsdrama, Literarische Studien, 1 (Frankfurt/Main: Peter Lang, 1989).5 See Manfred Karnick, Rollenspiel und Welttheater: Untersuchungen an Dramen Calderons, Schillers, Strindbergs, Becketts und Brechts (Munich: Fink, 1980), pp. 16-17.6 Bernhard Greiner, Welttheater als Montage: Wirklichkeitsdarstellung und Leserbezug in romantischer und moderner Literatur, Medium Literatur, 9 (Heidelberg: Quelle & Meyer, 1977), p. 19. See also Dietrich Schwanitz, Die Wirklichkeit der Inszenierung und die Insze- nierung der Wirklichkeit: Untersuchungen zur Dramaturgie der Lebenswelt und zur Tiefen- struktur des Dramas, Hochschulschriften Literaturwissenschaft, 22 (Meisenheim: Hain, 1977).7 William Shakespeare, As You Like It, ed. by H.J. Oliver (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1968), II.7, p. 87.8 William Shakespeare, Hamlet, ed. by Harold Jenkins (London: Methuen, 1982), III.2, p. 288.
The Invisible Fool 133up and bridging the chasms which divide said spheres by speaking the truth.This truth in the play within the play encompasses not only informationcarried from one sphere into the other, but also points to their similarity,knowledge of which is deemed necessary for holding both spheres’ function-ing intact by making it clear that the difference between them must be heldup willingly and strategically. Fulfilling this function, the Fool is the axiswhich guarantees both the play’s and the world’s integrity by allowing thespheres to meet, even mesh, under the tight control of a trickster who, by al-ways doubting the restrictions put upon man by God, effectively seduces hisaudience into accepting them. So it is fitting that the first invisible Fool to ap-pear in the history of the play within the play should turn up in Shakespeare’sHamlet, his invisibility representing the threat to ‘all the world’ incurred bythe tragedy’s starting point, the vicious murder of the rightful king by his bro-ther. Shortly before the final showdown rights this wrong, Hamlet’s encoun-ter with the Gravedigger opening up old graves for further use gives thecrucial clue as to what precisely lies at the bottom of Hamlet’s seeminglymad behaviour. ‘Alas, poor Yorick’, Hamlet mourns, holding in his hand theskull of the late King’s dead jester; without the Fool’s ‘most excellent fan-cy’,9 the time is ‘out of joint’,10 lacking the trickster to mediate between thespheres and thus endangering the theatrum mundi onstage as well as (by im-plication) offstage. To put the time back into joint, to pave the way for revenge of his father’smurder by providing the framework of communication necessary for percep-tion of the truth about the murder, Hamlet himself has to take the place of theFool. To do this, he simulates a madness whose very efficiency depends onbeing taken seriously by everybody concerned, including himself: assumingthe Fool’s privilege, Hamlet can speak the truth about the theatre mirroring‘nature’ and thus uncover the structural affinity between them. As it is thetrue content of the play within the play that makes the closure of revenge pos-sible in the framing master play, the closure of the master play in turn pointsto the truth that theatricality is common to all communication. Precariouslyand self-destructively replaced as the legitimate heir to the throne – who ishimself king in all but form, as the acting king having murdered his predeces-sor has no right to his position – the Fool’s importance for the theatrical dis-course and, through that, for the discourse on reality’s theatricality, is em-9 Hamlet, V.1, p. 386.10 Hamlet, I.5, p. 228.
134 Ulrike Landfesterphasized once more by Hamlet’s last words, as with the death of the Kingturned Fool: ‘The rest is silence’ indeed.11 In the history of German theatre, Gottsched’s banishment of the Foolfrom the Enlightenment stage in the early eighteenth century was due to thephenomenon that the role of the Fool in early modern theatre had transformedthe court jester’s truth privilege into the Fool’s license to improvise freely –and lewdly – in direct reaction to his audience. This meant that the Fool con-stitutionally threatened the distance between play and audience necessary tothe ideal moral and aesthetic wholeness of didactic Enlightenment theatre.Gottsched’s cleansing act, however, might have remained merely an episode,had not the French Revolution of 1789 rendered the classical Fool obsoleteby dramatically challenging the pre-modern idea of man ordained by God tofill the social position he was born into. The fact that dramatists from then tothe present have chosen to set their plays within the play in the context of thisRevolution – e.g. Peter Weiss, Heiner Müller – is testimony to the fundamen-tal change wrought in 1789 when the hierarchical separation of social sphereswas, at least in theory, overthrown in favour of the idea that man could andshould take responsibility for his own life and its achievements. This development affected the history of the metadrama in a contradictoryway, reflecting already the ontological problem later tackled by postmoderndramatists like Strauss. On the one hand, Romantic authors like LudwigTieck and Clemens Brentano created metadramatic plays that mirrored thenew reality by subverting the traditional structure into a perfect mise enabyme that afforded no security of perception on any levels of play. With thebackground of the metaleptic breaking up of the ancien régime, metalepsis,once carefully controlled by the Fool, now changed into a near-autonomousmode of representation. The Revolution had effectively exposed the historicalstructure on which the traditional play within the play had been based as whatits Fools always had known it to be – an artificial instrument for imposingorder on a reality which, in truth and opposed to what clerical and politicalpowers had argued before, was not naturally organized by class separations.12Consequently, the Romantic metadrama no longer needs the Fool to point outexplicitly that all the world’s a stage. Moreover, as the Fool’s voice cannotbut imply the authority of a sovereign power that keeps the playing spheresapart, the Fool finds himself dethroned along with his king. In his comedyDer gestiefelte Kater (Puss In Boots) Ludwig Tieck ascribed the same ridi-11 Hamlet, V.2, p. 416.12 See Axel Schalk, Geschichtsmaschinen: über den Umgang mit der Historie in der Dramatik des technischen Zeitalters (Heidelberg: Carl Winters Universitätsverlag, 1989), pp. 71-96.
The Invisible Fool 135culous superfluity to both King and Fool, pointedly leaving to the Poet theprivilege of telling the truth about the time being out of joint without anypossibility of restoring its former status quo. However, the Romantic metadramas’ reception in their time proved thatthe public depended on the tangible separation of spheres now more than everbefore: Brentano’s metadramatic capriccios were not even staged, and thefirst performance of Der gestiefelte Kater was not successful because the au-dience, far from being amused, were openly furious at the disorienting pro-ceedings onstage – particularly when actors crossed the border between thestage and the unsuspecting spectators in the front rows. The audience feltcheated of the hoped-for theatrical illusion. While the Shakespearean meta-drama had exhibited ‘truth’ as the knowledge that man’s existence on earthwas nothing but that of a puppet, the emancipation of man in the name ofreason required a strict separation between playing and reality in order toestablish a firm ground of authenticity on which man could rely for his senseof self; that included plays being unquestionably and consistently fictitious.Subsequently, at least German metadrama has more or less had to revert toconventional lines to achieve stage success, and the Fool has subsided into anunobtrusive, if persistent, existence at fairgrounds, in carnival festivities andpuppet shows. With the beginning of the twentieth century, the idea – still mainly theo-retical, of course – of man shaping his own social position without beinghampered by prescribed roles merged with the development of the then newaudiovisual media into a conception of reality which focussed on epistemol-ogical frameworks of perception. The questions posed to reality were nowconcerned with ways and means to organize knowledge about it which, asBrian McHale notes, is a typically modern approach, as opposed to the post-modern questioning of ways and means to organize reality or even realities.13Looking at the play within the play within this period of so-called ‘classicalmodernism’, the Fool (in contrast to Romantic ‘early modernism’, when hestill played at least a token role) is already invisible in a way similar to thepostmodern play within the play; his presence is part of the play without ma-nifesting itself as a dramatis persona. Arthur Schnitzler’s one-act play Der grüne Kakadu (The Green Cocka-too), first staged in 1898, gives a particularly fine example of the earlyinvisible Fool. Set on the day when the Revolution of 1789 began, the playdenounces the difference between play and reality as a collective culturalfantasy. In a pub called The Green Cockatoo, the former theatre director13 Postmodernist Fiction (London: Methuen, 1987).
136 Ulrike LandfesterProspère combines his old profession with that of host: his ensemble assumethe roles of prostitutes and murderers, thieves and even revolutionaries toprovide the blasé nobility visiting the pub with the frisson of mixing with themost dangerous subjects in all Paris. (Of course, the audience remain securein the knowledge that the atrocities narrated and partially enacted by Pros-père’s crew are nothing but make-believe.) When the Revolution breaks outin the streets outside the pub, it only confirms what is happening inside thepub. None of the characters assembled there manage to tell play from reality,so much so, that when the leading actor gives a spectacularly passionateaccount of having murdered the Duke of Cadignan moments earlier becausehe had found the Duke in bed with his – the actor’s – woman, the host’shorrified reaction provides him with the information that the said woman hasindeed been betraying him with the Duke for months. Right on cue, the Dukehimself appears and is promptly murdered by the infuriated actor, this time‘for real’. With the Revolution already under way, the rules that would havecondemned a nobleman’s murderer to death mere hours before the crime wascommitted have changed, and the murderer is forthwith celebrated euphori-cally for his service to the young republic. At the beginning of the play the Duke had explicitly ascribed the term‘Fool’ to one of its characters, thus the Duke’s murder equals the abolition ofKing and Fool alike along lines similar to the Romantic metadrama. Havingbeen elaborately insulted by Prospère, the Duke muses aloud: ‘Wenn ich derKönig wäre, würde ich ihn zu meinem Hofnarren machen, das heißt, ichwürde mir viele Hofnarren halten, aber er wäre einer davon.’ (‘If I was king Iwould make him my jester, that is I would have many jesters, but he wouldbe one of them.’).14 Prospère’s position can indeed be said to resemble that ofthe classical Fool, to the extent that at first he is the only one of the characterswho can explain to the police officer investigating his pub for revolutionarytendencies precisely where the boundaries between playing and reality aredrawn in his pub. During the course of the play, however, the qualities of theknowledgeable functionary of theatricality are successively deconstructed,until Prospère’s Foolishness degenerates into mere foolishness when he failsto realise that Henri’s story is an act, thus unwillingly instigating the Duke’smurder, while the revolution outside the pub sets the stage for a reality nolonger in need of anything like a Hofnarr. As it is, the Duke’s musing itself isconducted in the speculative mode of fiction, the Duke no more a king thanProspère is a traditional Fool (either as the King’s jester or even as the Fool14 Arthur Schnitzler, Der grüne Kakadu, in Der grüne Kakadu und andere Dramen, Das dramatische Werk, 8 vols (Frankfurt/Main: Fischer, 1977-9), III, p. 25.
The Invisible Fool 137onstage). Prospère had set up his business without the sheltering author-isation of jesting by the sovereign and, moreover, collapses out of his role asa director in unintended and therefore perfectly un-Fool-like clumsiness. The introduction of the term ‘Hofnarr’ thus serves to hint that what lies atthe core of the play directed by Prospère (collapsing into its framework andvice versa) is not the category of knowledgeable Foolishness impersonatedby one dramatis persona in disguise; rather, it is the embarrassing trivialityof a foolishness common to all protagonists without exception. In its extremeform of not being able to even realise, much less articulate, the difference be-tween playing and not playing, this foolishness is most clearly represented bytwo characters, one of whom speaks only the unadulterated truth, while theother speaks anything but. Early in the play, a ragged newcomer by the nameof Grain enters the Green Cockatoo to ask Prospère for a job in the mistakenbelief that the pub-theatre’s director would be delighted to have an actor whois entirely truthful about his felonies; Grain hails straight from jail where hehas served two years for murdering his aunt. Now Grain wants to become anhonest man, but Prospère is appalled at the thought of a real murderer on hispremises, and only consents to let Grain stay because of his convincing ap-pearance, the perfect makeup of a murderer. While Grain implicitly insists on‘reality’ being the perfect stepping stone for an actor imitating it mirror-fashion, the former actor and present politician Grasset suggests the contrary,that playacting is the key to acting ‘real’. Grasset begins boasting of the in-flammatory public speeches he makes while drawing on his experience as anactor, and in the end claims authenticity for the voice of the Revolution byloudly approving of the Duke of Cadignan’s murder. He is a liar turning hisplayacting into a representation of a new political truth. Having shifted theattribution of foolishness once from the honest felon to the dishonest politi-cian, the play leaves its cast wide open to further shifts, by implication in-cluding the historical citizens of 1789 Paris as well as the actual audience of1898; small wonder, then, that Schnitzler’s play was closed by the Austriancourt not long after its very successful first night. Boasting many of the characteristics of the postmodern play, especially inview of the connection between metalepsis and the Fool’s invisibility,Schnitzler’s Der grüne Kakadu is in substance still distinctly modern. ForSchnitzler, disillusionment concerning the indistinction of playing and notplaying still remains a truth, however arcane; moreover, the play’s author canmake this truth systematically available to its recipients. Following the logicimplemented by Tieck, Schnitzler even has the poet Rollin, in the manner ofthe author’s mouthpiece, voice the generic impossibility of distinguishing be-tween playing and being: ‘Sein…spielen…kennen Sie den Unterschied so
138 Ulrike Landfestergenau […]? […] Ich nicht.’ (‘To be…to play…do you know the difference sovery well […]? […] I don’t.’)15 There is, however, at least one importantdifference to be discerned between the Fools in modern and postmoderninvisibility. While Schnitzler is still concerned with the topical analysis ofreali-ty’s theatricality as such, presenting at least an atrophied version of theFool’s role onstage to be identified, Botho Strauss in his comedy Besucher(1988) uses the term ‘Fool’ only to signify that no such role can any longerbe distinguished among the dramatis personae. Here Strauss is concernedwith the modes and techniques of simulation through which a given indivi-dual might define him- or herself within the flow of images – visual andothers – constituting reality at the end of the twentieth century.16 The playbegins and ends in a theatre, but what looks like a simply constructed framefor a play or plays within quickly dispenses with any pretention to coherentlevels of playing, shifting abruptly from rehearsal stage to living room to barto fairground to a TV station and back to a stage. Crossing all those spaces without ever motivating his transitions, theyoung actor Max is driven by the desire to fill his existence’s empty stage bymeans of performing a charismatic, even auratic identity.17 To achieve this,he draws all the play’s characters into a playing game seemingly promisinghimself as prize – seemingly, because the others are playing just the samegame with just the same end in view. The famous actor and male protagonistof the rehearsed play, Karl Joseph, imposes the double bind of ‘Sei frei’ (‘Befree’) to enforce the actor’s conventional adherence to the script which markshis (Karl Joseph’s) hitherto successful technique of playacting, while Max,feeling thre