With Respect for the Ancient text
I do not know how many would agree with me that in ancient tragedy, the myth, the familiar explanation of the primal Creation, becomes discourse by coming back into the present, in a temporarily organised and categorically defined time and place. The “coming back” takes place both poetically and in the form of a judicial argument. The debate is based on habit and custom, is juxtaposes the dialectics of legislature and is exposed to the public (in common view, as in the Assembly of the City-Ekklisia tou Dimou). However, in this instance, the rhetorical flair is transposed into the monologues of the performers who can only use the text in order to convince us of the right or wrong of their stance. The actors suffer because of and are tortured by a professed conflict between their past and present state which has a personal as well as a statutory dimension. Greek tragedies are anachronistic in so far as the handling of the material, that is the plot, is concerned as they situate the knowledge that has been gained presently in the past which then in turn reappears transformed in the here and now. “If this or that transgression occurred today what would have been the result?” appears to be the question which refers to a protagonist who has acted in the past, in times lost for ever. The critical period is that of the moment of prohibition, which can be condensed into the one and only paradigm of him or her who has transcended it without knowing.
The Greek drama explores in depth many universal themes of human existence: incest (the regulation of relationships between blood or by marriage relatives; the establishment of order in relations; the regulation of issues of inheritance and so on), infanticide (who can be commit infanticide, the mother or father; which degree of relatedness is the strongest; the continuation of the succession line in the presence or absence of ascendants; the specific or extreme responsibility to leave one’s country bereft of offspring out of one’s own free choice), murder of a spouse, homicide, the issue of avenging an injustice (acceptance up to a point of the vigilante), other lesser concerns which may constitute “diminished responsibility” such as altered mental states, madness and so on.
Rules of ordinary morality harmonise with the Law thus constituting a balanced “platform of facts” which is accepted by the people who have to compromise in having their lives governed by external regulations.
Most Greek tragedies lament the price of living in an organised society, whatever their content, either reminisce about the structure of mythological societies and put forward the view that progress was the ultimate achievement of an exceptional individual-hero (Prometheus) or doubt the Gods and project ironic enquiries on the organisation and problems of that era (Hercules, Medea). The poet’s use of individualised circumstances deals with the judicial themes and the presentation of conflicting standpoints of the protagonists (Chorus, power, tragic hero) whilst at the same time the misdeed is represented in the unfortunate hero’s/heroine’s entrenced positions and lack of insight into the meaning and gravity his/her actions.
The predestined outburst, the a priori determination of the actions of the unfortunate person who oversteps the boundaries, is an example to avoid at all costs by the younger generations. The bard does not simply sing about the epic tasks of the great fighters. In tragedy, through the enjoyment of the text and the internalised function of the Word, the play-writers mainly focus on human pain and the prohibitions which control their relationships. These same prohibitions, take on the negative-thou shall not kill, though shall not desire-in religions which disallow the use of images in worship.
Bacchae is Euripides’s most delightful play. Its central premise as in his other works Medea and Hercules, is infanticide, in this instance, the killing of a child by its mother and aunts, that is, its blood relatives from the maternal line. However, it is not just the murder of Pentheas that is of concern here. The play-writer asks the audience at the beginning, to recall the legend of the killing of the perished young king’s inverted reflection, that is Dionysus or Bacchus. The latter, a child almost killed but reborn (Dithyramvos or Dithyramb, he who has been born twice), leads to his death the other one. Another peculiarity of Bacchae is the deliberate step by step account of the entrapment of Pentheas by the divine force, which takes up most of the play. The enlightement is offered a posteriori, though, like in Medea, the trap set up by the Deity dominates the action.
The Bacchae as given by the English Royal National Theatre, and directed by Sir Peter Hall, was that rare and felicitous occasion in which every aspect of the performance was in complete harmony with the others. The play was based on the excellent translation of Colin Teevan, and the direction was unadorned and well judged without expressionist flourishes (three actors in eight roles). The music score was a revelation as it seemed to capitulate ancient trails in a modern expression (Harrison Birtwistle); the movement, particularly of Dionysus, which is one of the most difficult aspects in performing Greek drama, was brilliantly visualized (Marie-Gabrielle Rotie). The stage design (Alison Chitty) was an austere elevated screen and the lighting transformed the stage sometimes into green fields and sometimes a palace court. All in all it all added to a magnificent show.
Each character differed from another, occasionally aided by an accent, though the performance never slipped into a cheap satire of the English society. This might have been very easy to do but Peter Hall steered well clear, respected the Greek text and following contemporary approaches to interpretation of ancient theatrical texts, to present a complete range of the themes running through Bacchae (for example, the wine that stains Dionysus’ mantle is a reference to blood, death, women and so on). The most difficult part, though, must surely have been the study of the movements of the Chorus. We know very little about it, mainly sporadic references, which describe it. The descriptive-ness of the gestures in oriental dances and the obvious influence on Greece as well as the content of what the Chorus says, gives, in my opinion, a direction to those who deal with Emmeleia. This points towards the representational, the descriptive and the close association between movement and discourse.
Choreographer MG Rotie, became inspired by the Japanese Butoh which was expressed by the slow and seductive motion of the semi-naked actors-dancers (at last a non puritanical or demure Bacchae). We were given aggression and wild excitement, where the Mainads yielded to Dionysus’ sacred folly without an intention to be sensational but the spectacle appeared convincing and true.
The climax was the complex movements of Dionysus whose body contorted in minute changes in spatial perspective (contrast of leg and shoulder), with small organic contractions and gestures which were inspired by Indian dance and recalled a bull or other wild animals. Greg Hicks was exceptional in his interpretation (Dionysus/Teiresias/Servant). He was matched by David Ryall (Cadmus/Soldier/Herdsman) and William Houston (Pentheas/Agave). In a surprising denouement, one of the most memorable scenes of the play occurred shortly after the introduction when Dionysus/Hicks, took off the mask of God in the image of both human being and bull which he was wearing only to reveal a second mask which he continued to wear, as did his fellow actors, for the rest of the performance.
Avgi, July, 2002
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