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THE OSCHOLARS |
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THE CRITIC AS CRITIC |
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A Portfolio of Theatre and Book Reviews |
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No 45 : JULY 2008 |
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Wilde theatre reviews appear here; Shaw reviews in Shavings; all other theatre reviews in . |
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Exhibition reviews and reviews of books relating to the visual arts now
appear in our new section VISIONS which is reached by clicking its symbol |
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All authors whose books are reviewed here are invited to respond. |
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In
an article for THE OSCHOLARS which she has titled ‘Wilde on Tap’, Patricia Flanagan Behrendt, our American Theatre
Editor, has set out an agenda for our theatre coverage that THE OSCHOLARS
will try to follow. This article can
be found by clicking . |
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To the Table of Contents of this
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ANNOUNCEMENT
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In the main editorial pages of this month’s issue of
THE OSCHOLARS we are sheltering a new section called MELMOTH. Edited by Sondeep Kandola, this will treat of the Gothic as a trope of the fin-de-siècle
and Decadence, and reflect current scholarship. In this, the first MELMOTH, the following
reviews appear: |
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THEATRE
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Review by Sondeep Kandola
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De Profundis, the National Theatre, |
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Given Oscar Wilde’s
interest in performativity, artifice and social theatricality, De Profundis,
a letter in which the author purports to be revealing both his ‘real’ self
and his (lack of) motivation for the first time, is certainly a text that occupies a special place in Wilde studies.
In his performance of it at the National’s Lyttelton Theatre, Corin Redgrave
gave a subtly nuanced reading in which he managed to convey the full range of
emotions that Wilde sought to articulate (bewilderment, exasperation,
self-recrimination, bravado and shame) without ever losing sight of his
unstinting generosity and compassion in the face of immense personal trauma.
The masterful control that marks the shifts in moods with which Wilde recalls
and re-assesses the ‘lamentable friendship’ that had now left him a
‘disgraced and ruined man’ is a quality that derives entirely from the
original text, a quality that is made all the more striking because, as we
know, the author never had the opportunity of editing it. [Oscar
Wilde, De Profundis and Other Writings
(Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1986) pp. 97–8] |
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With regards to
Redgrave’s revival of his 2000 performance, the question of editing continues
to loom large but in a different way. The edition of the text from which
Redgrave was reading is one specially edited for him by Merlin Holland,
Wilde’s grandson, and it is here that anyone familiar with the original might
notice some striking editorial choices. It is my sense that both the decision
not to include Wilde’s attempts to console himself by meditating on the life
of Christ (‘He has all the colour elements of life; mystery, strangeness,
pathos, suggestion, ecstasy, love. He appeals to the temper of wonder, and
creates that mood in which alone he can be understood’) and his own sense of
moving from a Decadent materialism to a mystical Symbolist position somewhat
diminishes the powerful growth in spirituality that Wilde clearly underwent
in prison (173). While, in the spirit of dramatic economy, such an editorial
decision rightly accents the unravelling of the love affair with Bosie, I ,
for one, certainly regretted that such an omission in the performance made
Wilde’s final resolution ‘to make everything that has happened to me good for
me’ appear hollow and unconvincing (155).
And in this respect, this sense of Wilde’s spiritual development
cannot be overlooked both because of the way that it importantly explains the
final resolution of the text (Wilde tells Bosie: ‘Perhaps I am chosen to
teach you something much more wonderful – the meaning of sorrow and its
beauty’) and also for the way in which it foreshadows what we might term the
humanism of The Ballad of Reading Gaol
(211). Another striking decision (this time one suspects, a directorial one)
was to give Redgrave a mild Irish accent which was used to intimate that
under enormous emotional pressure that the mask of the English gentleman that
Wilde had worn had now slipped. A brave decision, perhaps, and one in keeping
with recent academic work that has sought to recuperate the politics of Wilde’s
Irish identity but, at the same time, a decision that does not fit with what
we know of Wilde’s own regret at having completely lost his Irish accent on
entering English society. Nonetheless, these reservations aside, this was a
very welcome, if sadly short-lived, revival of De Profundis and one that was given a powerfully haunting
rendition by Corin Redgrave, an actor who is clearly much loved and respected
by his audience. |
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Review by Gwen Orel
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The Importance of Being Earnest |
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Presented by the Pearl
Theatre Company, |
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15th April |
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Oscar Wilde's status as a
fuzzy toy for American culture vultures has never been so secure. In fact, I recently bought an Oscar Wilde
fuzzy toy (a stuffed doll) at a |
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There hasn't been a
Broadway production since 1977 (and you have to go back to the 1940s to find
a |
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For the Pearl Theatre
Company, founded in 1984, whose mission is to produce a classical repertory
with a resident company of actors, these conflicting forces (Wilde is
popular; Wilde is not often produced) must have seemed to create a haven of
artistic security. There are not too
many resident companies in the |
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The Good |
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The |
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This is no small feat,
particularly for American directors and actors, who can be intimidated by
English phrases and titles (particularly if they've seen the 1952
movie). That intimidation can lead
acting companies into delivery that is halting and affected, if not lisping.
That was not the case here. Wilde, of
course, was Irish and not English, and the essence of his humor is a very
Irish style of deadpan reversal.
Pauses before a surprising word kill the surprise (and the
humor). To Director J. R. Sullivan's
credit, the actors delivered each comic line fluently and naturally, allowing
Wilde's iridescent humor to bubble lightly along. American actor training is rooted in
Stanislavskian techniques, and Sullivan used her cast’s best skills, and
served the play most effectively, by letting the truth of the moment
highlight the absurdity. |
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Sullivan clearly also
understands the strong comic dramaturgy underpinning the play. Wilde's creation of a man who has invented
a bad brother to escape from country boredom, and his rakish friend who
impersonates the fictional brother to flirt with the man's charming niece,
has charm and theatricality built in, and Wilde's addition of the lovely
nonsense names and the girls who love them, is sweetly bizarre. Of course, Gilbert and Sullivan had already
presented many a pert heroine with odd notions, inhabiting many a calm
topsy-turvy world, before Wilde left his melodramatic structures behind and
let his wit drive the plot (a precedent dramatic literature scholars often
conveniently ignore). Still, it isn't
just one, or two, or three comic reversals and impostures that make the play
work, but the comic stakes in each scene that keep the play humming
along. Again, the Stanislavski-based
sincerity in such actions as competing for the last cucumber sandwich or
tussling over a cigarette case brought out the situation’s humor. While the |
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The Bad |
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What the show lacked,
primarily, was cohesion and a strong point of view. |
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The show also lacked an
overall directorial approach, other than a determination to keep the pace up
and the delivery speedy. Those are
good things, but they don't add up to a real ‘take’ on the play. Nice as was not to suffer the feminist
deconstructed version of Earnest, or the Queer Theory reading of Earnest, the
show lacked the distinction of one person’s unique, unifying vision. |
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The actors, resident
company or no resident company, didn’t always relate well to one
another. None of them attempted a
British accent, and while it was nice not to have to suffer through a labored
one, it's a mark against the |
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The Specifics |
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Respect for the play, and
the playwright, surfaced in the elegant sets by Harry Feiner and costumes by
Devon Painter, as well as in the choice to take two intermissions (Nineteenth
Century plays do not always fare well when forced to conform to 21st century
act break norms, and nothing kills humor faster for an audience than the
nagging desire to move one's legs). The Act One set included a backdrop of
painted peacocks in secondary tones, displaying both opulence and period
attention. The design of the garden had a pointillist appearance, with a
brown and green backdrop. Act Three presented another full set, with large
purple drapes, and a library full of books.
There was no attempt to make the sets realistic, which worked nicely
with Wilde's pleasure in artificiality. Painter's costumes for all of the
ladies were elegant, and it was nice to see Bracknell dressed for her rank
without any attempt to make her look, for example, like a piece of
upholstery. The lines are funny; the
costumes don't need to be. |
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Overall, the older actors
were most memorable. Chasuble in particular emerged as a role with some of
the funniest lines in the play—he's always had them, but where there are
stronger juveniles, one doesn't always take them in. In this production, the almost surreal
riffs the older characters indulge in were made even funnier by the
essentially naturalistic environment.
TJ Edwards' droll Canon Chasuble's digression about his sermon on
manna, for example, had a touch of Ionesco about it. Carol Schultz as Lady Bracknell brought a
sweet, almost ditzy quality, to the role.
Joanne Camp's Miss Prism emphasized the writer of the three-volume
novel—an interesting choice that supported her throaty flirtations with the
Canon. The director also emphasized how all of the characters fell into their
own inventions, and forgot that they were just inventions. |
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As Algy, Sean McNall had
puffy hair that just made him look weird (probably not what Wilde had in mind
describing his wavy hair). It took
McNall most of Act One to warm up and relax into the role; in early scenes he
tried too hard to make the lines funny, with the result, of course, that they
went flat. McNall won a 2008 Obie
Award (the Village Voice gives these out for Off-Broadway productions and
performers) for ‘sustained excellence in performance,’ but his other roles
must be less mannered in style. He
seemed self-conscious for the first half of the play. |
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Bradford Cover's John Worthing
was as square-jawed and determined as the cartoon character Dudley Do-Right,
so his moments of boyishness, as when he leaps over the sofa to sit down,
were particularly charming (Note: during the play's extension to June 8th,
the role was played by Erik Steele).
Rachel Botchan's Gwendolen had charm and wit; she also brought just a
hint of sexuality, devoid of vulgarity, on the line ‘it produces
vibrations.’ She had, like |
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was the right age for the
role, and she looked well in her flowered dress, but her sing-song delivery
grated very quickly. |
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It's easy to get a little
bit ahead of Wilde as Act Three winds down.
Sullivan, in keeping the energy high and the moments motivated,
succeeded at building a strong finish.
Cover’s Jack, went all the way into broad melodrama for his ‘why
should there be one law for men, and another for women?’ and received a
well-earned laugh. Sullivan milked the
final scene’s suspense, adding fumbling bits with the register, and the added
suspense allowed the actors to play the denouement naturalistically. The |
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With a Ph.D. from the |
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Review by Ann M. Bogle
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The Secret
Fall of Constance Wilde by Thomas
Kilroy |
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Guthrie Theatre, |
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http://www.guthrietheater.org/whats_happening/shows/2007/the_secret_fall_of_constance_wilde |
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Leaving New York City this 4th of July holiday weekend, I
visited the famous Guthrie Theatre, Minneapolis, which was
presenting The Secret Fall of
Constance Wilde by Irish playwright Thomas
Kilroy; director, Marcela Lorca through July
11. (Surely the play, in view of its reception here, will
travel on to other cultural hubs & centres of Oscar Wilde interest.) |
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This is a ‘women’s lives’ kind of play, based on
available historical information on Oscar Wilde’s wife, Constance,
with whom Wilde had two sons. It debuted at the Abbey Theatre, |
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The Guthrie has become ‘edgy’ – it does its measure
of counter-culture theatre, surely – but this time, the sordid side
of the tale (the sad expense of Oscar’s wild life) dominates the
play, which is not a celebration of gay history, but rather a grim
reconstruction of Mrs. Wilde’s haunting plight: her
largely unexamined story. Constance Wilde is center-stage, and what she
experiences as Mrs. Oscar Wilde shows her strange moral fiber.
Though she maintains an abiding love of Wilde, she perforce has
to recalibrate such affection: he effectively loses all
the family money; he stays away from her and the children for long
stretches of time in order to
indulge his lifestyle; and he achieves
fame whilst they are dragged into tawdry headlines &
slurring controversy. Interestingly, Wilde is accurately depicted
as a conflicted soul: marriage and fatherhood are a duty, yes; but
he is an artiste (a privileged individual, a cultural creature)
who shall do as he bloody pleases. For all his talents &
gifts, his debauchery seems unjustifiable or like so much
dionysian madness. |
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My companions and I had just been discussing Henry
James’s presumed repressed homosexuality with some sorrow at its estimated
cost to his work (but on that score, better repressed, I had said, than
if he had been a caricature or drag queen as were some of Wilde’s street
friends and jailed for it). As I watched the play, I started to think
of parallels between life with an alcoholic – another recurring theme at the
Guthrie – and life with a gay outlaw such as Wilde. The more relaxed
mores with which we live today – perhaps, in part, due to
Wilde’s tragic melodrama – may tempt us to think romantically about the times
in which he lived, but this production refuses to be romantic. |
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The Secret Fall
of Constance Wilde by Thomas
Kilroy was bald, harsh, realistic. All the players were
superior; costuming & staging (as always), splendid; set design,
disturbing and correct. |
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·
Ann Bogle is a writer who lives in |
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BOOKS |
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Review by Yvonne Ivory
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Lucia Krämer, Oscar Wilde in Roman, Drama und Film. Eine medienkomparatistische
Analyse fiktionaler Biographien. |
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The 2006 art-house hit |
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Precisely what it is that
has inspired novelists, playwrights, and filmmakers to constantly re-imagine
Wilde in the century since his death is a question that lies at the heart of
Lucia Krämer’s study. Its title, Oscar
Wilde in Novels, Drama, and Film: A Comparative Media Study of Fictional
Biographies, points to the two axes along which Krämer aligns the work.
Her main goal is to understand the nature and function of fictional biography
as a genre–a task that is best served, she argues, by comparing the various
‘means and strategies’ (29) by which historical figures are fictionalized in
different media. The Wilde case study constitutes a secondary line of
investigation: Krämer analyzes nine novels, thirteen plays, and three films
about Wilde, all of which appeared in |
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Although Krämer might
have looked to representations of other historical figures to probe the
nature, possibilities, and limitations of fictional biography, Wilde proves
to be a particularly apt subject. His declarations about the relationship
between life and writing--his frequent dismissal of conventional biography,
his insistence on the truth of masks, his theory that fact is best accessed
through fiction, and so on–coupled with the large number of twentieth-century
works of fiction in which he appears as a character, make him a natural
choice for her study. Krämer argues that it is not only Wilde’s own
championing of the life that is ‘suggestive’ for art that accounts for his popularity
with other authors; but also the extraordinary trajectory of his story, with
its ready-made tragic emplotment (224). Fictional biography, too, allows for
speculation about areas of life that are generally hidden from the public
eye, and Wilde’s polymorphous sexuality has long been a compelling subject of
conjecture. (Krämer shows how other private aspects of Wilde’s life–his
childhood, his early married life, his experience of fatherhood, and, more
rarely, his creative process–are also explored in the works she is examining,
but concludes that none has the same draw as his sexuality.) Despite the
upsurge in serious Wilde scholarship since the 1980s, many aspects of his
biography remain obscure, and it is these shadows, Krämer shows us, that
fictional biography attempts to illuminate. |
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A key reason for the rise
of academic interest in Wilde over the past two decades is undoubtedly the
1987 publication of Richard Ellmann’s monumental biography.[2] When read alongside
Horst Schroeder’s volume of corrections, Ellmann’s study appears to offer a
comprehensive account of Wilde’s life.[3] It is the very model of
what Krämer calls an ‘academic’, ‘factual’, or ‘scientific’ biography, a
genre against which she defines fictional biographies.[4] Krämer is very careful in
her opening chapter to tease out the differences between these two forms, and
to think through the implications of Ina Schabert’s claim that they represent
‘two literary genres . . . governed by different laws of establishing
coherence’ (23). Whereas the principles of historiography establish coherence
in traditional biography, the fictional biography is governed by
‘[n]ovelistic structures’ (23-4), according to Schabert. Although Krämer
grounds her study in this distinction, she is not so naïve as to imagine that
historiography is without its own novelistic structures. Indeed, Krämer gives
more than a passing nod to Hayden White’s Metahistory,
the work that sowed the seeds of the linguistic turn in historiography (41):
implicit in her study is the argument that fictional biographies are more
likely to be self-reflexive, and that, in shedding the mantle of objectivity,
they also avoid the emplotment traps into which conventional biography can so
easily fall (303).[5] |
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Krämer finds that this
meta-biographical impulse is more common in fictional biographies that have
appeared since the 1980s[6]–just one of the ways in
which such works have changed over the course of the twentieth century. She
takes the diachronic aspect of her study very seriously, investing as much
energy in comparing how the genre has changed over time as she does
discussing the idiosyncrasies of the media used to represent the
fictionalized Wilde. At times, this diachronic analysis reveals quite radical
changes in the structure and content of fictional biographies: Constance
Wilde has become a more central character since the advent of feminism
(243-9); Brechtian efforts to break theatrical illusions are evident in
almost all of the more recent plays about Wilde (211, 216); films no longer
rely on voice-over techniques to convey a character’s innermost thoughts
(173); and whereas earlier fictional Wildes spouted direct quotations from
the Irishman, in more recent works their words amount to a pastiche of
Wilde-like utterances (155). At other times Krämer acknowledges that a
diachronic analysis shows precisely how little has changed in the realm of
biographical fiction since the 1920s (205, 214). |
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Similarly, Krämer
recognizes that occasionally the fictional Wildes share characteristics
across media, that comparative analyses point to similarities rather than
differences. But the study focuses for the
most part on how the medium does change the message. She is not, she
insists, proffering an abstract, comparative treatise on the semiotics of the
three media--that work has been done by others (149); her contribution is
rather to flesh out the theories of how these media function with a sustained
(and diachronic) analysis of a set of related examples. Rather than breaking
her study into sections that deal with novels, plays, and movies in turn, she
structures it around three categories established by Joshua Meyrowitz, whose
1993 essay ‘Images of Media’ is a founding text in the field of comparative
media studies (12, 150 n98). According to Krämer, Meyrowitz contends that
there are three basic (and braided) metaphorical ways in which the word
‘media’ is used: it can refer to the ‘environments’ of production,
distribution, and so on, through which material passes on its way to its
ultimate reception; semiotics, or the ‘languages’ that convey meaning; and
the ‘conduits’ used to present actual content. Accordingly, Krämer breaks the
bulk of her study into three sections: ‘Umwelten’, in which she looks at the
material conditions of production, distribution, and reception that impact on
fictional biographies (93-149); ‘Sprachen’, which compares the semiotics of
novels, dramas, and films about Wilde, focusing specifically on strategies
used to represent figures, settings, and time (149-235); and ‘Kanäle’, in which
she compares the various aspects of Wilde’s life that are treated in the 25
works of fictional biography under review (235-300). |
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While the latter two
sections (which essentially focus on form and content, respectively) are well
researched and written, by far the most interesting of the three sections is
the first, Krämer’s discussion of the contexts within which fictional
biographies are produced and consumed. This may be due to the fact that
questions of reception clearly interest the author deeply: in her
introduction she makes plain that the question driving her research is just
how readers and viewers decide to categorize a work as fictional rather than
factual (11, 37, 45). She theorizes that we use a number of markers to
distinguish expository from fictional discourses when consuming fictional
biography (49), and that those markers vary by medium (35). Much of the rest
of the work is spent illustrating this theory of reception, one which she
believes has been utterly neglected (13). Using concepts developed by Umberto
Eco and Stanley Fish, Krämer demonstrates convincingly that fictional
biography needs different markers for different media, that more recent works
(plays, especially) presume a more knowledgeable consumer, and that a focus
on reception highlights the extent to which contemporary fictional
biographies almost always have a meta-biographical component (133-49). |
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Krämer deals with more
than just questions of reception under the rubric ‘Umwelten’: she also
discusses at length how conditions of production and distribution impact the
form and content of plays and films. Here she offers insights into such
diverse phenomena as the rise of the one-man show in the 1990s (108), the
superficiality of biopics featuring Wilde (105), the differences between US
and British theatregoers (112), the rise of publishing conglomerates and
multiplex cinemas (120, 122), and the impact of the DVD and VHS markets on
films of the 1990s (123-5). This line of investigation places Krämer squarely
among a group of scholars who see Wilde as a lynchpin in the history of
consumer culture.[7] Regenia Gagnier’s 1986
study Idylls of the Marketplace was
the first of a number of works to explore the economics of the Wilde
phenomenon; since then the material culture surrounding Wilde in the late
nineteenth century has been the subject of studies by Mary Blanchard,
Nicholas Frankel, Jonathan Freedman, Josephine Guy, Mark Samuels Lasner, Ian
Small, Margaret Stetz, and others.[8] Krämer’s Marxian
analysis complements these works by looking at how the problems of global
capitalism play out in twentieth-century works about Wilde (30, 115, 133). |
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Although Krämer focuses
on fictional biographies that appeared in English, her research also covers
German and French works. This linguistic diversity is one of the study’s
strengths, and serves as a reminder that important work has been done on
Wilde in languages other than English. Indeed, after the 1895 scandal,
Wilde’s name was first rehabilitated and his works first reappeared in print
in |
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Oscar Wilde in Roman, Drama und Film, then, complements other
works in this field, but does not replace them. It is a nicely-produced
addition to a well-respected Lang series, a revised dissertation that orients
itself toward a comparative media studies audience, but is nonetheless of
great interest to a Wilde studies audience. As is typical for a German
academic publication, it has no index, but the bibliography is well
organized. Still, for an annotated bibliographical survey of all
(English-language) texts that represented Wilde between 1900 and 2007 we must
turn to |
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·
Yvonne Ivory (Ph.D. UCLA, 2001) is
Assistant Professor of German and Comparative Literature at the |
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Review by Maureen O’Connor
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Jarlath Killeen: The Fairy Tales of Oscar Wilde. |
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Jarlath Killeen’s study
of the fairy tales attempts to address an enduring lacuna in Wilde studies in
which, with few exceptions, the texts remain marginal. Killeen locates the source of this neglect
in a reductive insistence on Wilde’s subversiveness, difficult to reconcile
with a genre understood to be ‘didactic and conservative’, an oddly
inappropriate example of what Declan Kiberd refers to, in a discussion of
Wilde, as ‘the manic Victorian urge to antithesis’,[14] an anachronistic ‘urge’
which misleadingly extenuates the complexity of both the writer and the
genre. This potentially powerful
opening argument is mitigated somewhat by Killeen’s overreliance on the work
of Jack Zipes—who includes Wilde in his surveys of the fairytale, but sees
him exclusively as British—and the absence of references to other relevant
authors such as U.C. Knoepflmacher on the Victorian child and children’s
literature or texts that consider the Irish tradition of writing for
children, such as the work of Mitzi Myers on Maria Edgeworth, a writer Wilde
greatly admired.[15] Both Knoepflmacher’s and Myers’s attention
to gender would be useful in supporting Killeen’s contentions; for example,
Myers’s positing of an Irish practice of ‘cross-writing that shakes up
standard hierarchies privileging masculine over feminine, adult over child,
learned universalism over oral particularity’.[16] The Irish child,
particularly the complicated case of the Anglo-Irish child, is theorised
somewhat cursorily, and I found myself thinking of another missing reference,
Margot Gayle Backus’s study of the gothic family romance and her
interrogation of the passionate but necessarily covert identification of the
Protestant Ascendancy child with the native Irish.[17] The attenuated nature of these aspects of
the discussion may be explained by the author’s real interest lying
elsewhere; that is, in the case he desires to make for Wilde’s Irish
folk-Catholicism, an eccentric-seeming contention, but one argued with great
ingenuity and brio. The resulting
readings of the individual fairy tales are brilliant and convincing, even if
one hesitates to accept Wilde as a fully committed crypto-Catholic. |
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Killeen begins with the
assertion ‘that the fairy tales should be read in relation to the field of
force from which Wilde drew much of his creative energies—Ireland—and that
when placed in this context the strange, often disturbing qualities of the
stories begin to make sense’ (1). It is not simply |
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The fairy tales as
critiques of empire provides one of the analytical tools in the following
chapter on ‘The Nightingale and the Rose’, in which |
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The anti-patriarchal
power of the Virgin, and in particular how the nineteenth-century Church
attempted to neutralise it, serves to explicate some of the difficulties of
interpretation presented by ‘The Birthday of the Infanta’. This reading also bring ecocritical theory
to bear, as does the chapter on ‘The Selfish Giant’. Throughout the study, there is a
thematically coherent yet theoretically diverse approach to the
material. Some stories seem to yield
more riches to |
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·
Maureen O’Connor’s ‘Maria Edgeworth's Fostering Art and the
Fairy Tales of Oscar Wilde’ was published in Women's Studies vol. 31, no. 3 pp. 399-429 January 2002. |
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Review by Virginie Pouzet-Duzer
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Rhonda K.
Garelick: Electric Salome: Loïe
Fuller’s Performance of Modernism. |
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‘I assure you
that there is nothing original in me’ wrote Loïe Fuller to Gabrielle Bloch in
February of 1892. Chosen by Rhonda K. Garelick as epigraph to her first
chapter, this quote is itself the best sign of Fuller’s paradox. Later in June
of the same year, the outcome of a lawsuit brought out again this idea of a
non-original being. While Fuller wanted to prevent others from imitating her
famous serpentine moves, the judge indeed decided and stated that the dance
was too impersonal to be copyrighted. As a matter of fact, Loïe Fuller’s
eponym performance of modernism – as it is clearly revealed in the pages of
this Electric Salome – is to be found in a constant dialectic between
originality and banality, between the self and the universal. This dialectic
is itself actually embedded in the title, through the conjunction of the
modern adjective ‘electric’ to the mythical name of Salome. The near oxymoron
of an ‘electric Salome’ enables a constant a-historical twinkling which
connects the past of everlasting myths to Fuller’s vibrant present, turning
her into a kind of fairy of modernity. Wasn’t electricity named ’’Fée
électricité’ when it was first introduced to the Parisian public of the 1881
World’s Fair? A few years later, in 1900, at a very similar World’s Fair in |
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Following a
chronological order through the five chapters of her study, Rhonda K.
Garelick manages to expose, explain, analyse and discuss Loïe Fuller’s
perfect chameleon’s quality. Electricity, Cinematography, World’s Fair,
Romantic Ballet, Modern European Drama – Fuller’s eclectic aesthetic journey
enables Garelick to trace a very nice cubist-like-collage of modernist
matters. The reader is hence enlightened not only about Loïe Fuller’s life but about a whole
trans-Atlantic epoch inhabited by the multi-faceted dancer and choreograph,
from the Americana ‘Buffalo Bill’ Cody’s Wild West Show in 1883, through
Tristan Tzara’s pre-surrealist Mouchoir de Nuages during the avant-garde
springtime festival of the arts named Les Soirées de Paris in 1924. |
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One of
Fuller’s lifelong paradoxes is that on the one hand, she managed to develop a
dance at first sight very natural, instinctive and remote from the romantic
ballet, as it is shown in chapters three and four – but on the other hand,
she taught this barefoot choreographic style to her troupe of dancers, making
it reproducible and hence recognizing that even instinct and naivety could be
learned. Moreover, one might wonder how a dance which relayed heavily on
techniques and technology, an elaborated dance with sticks, fabric and games
of lights (all thoroughly patented by Fuller) could seem so bodily and
natural. Let us not forget that, as Garelick reveals in her first chapter, Loïe
Fuller who loved science visited her
friend Thomas Edison’s |
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Review by Ruth Kinna
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Brian Morris: The Anarchist Geographer: An Introduction
to the life of Peter Kropotkin. Minehead, |
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Brian Morris says that his
short and very accessible book on Kropotkin has one aim: ‘to keep alive the
memory of an anarchist scholar and revolutionary socialist, and to introduce
the reader to the life and times of Peter Kropotkin’. In many ways this book succeeds in
both. The discussion covers the span
of Kropotkin’s life, drawing on the existing biographical and
auto-biographical literature, taking the reader from his privileged childhood
to his death in |
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The
weakness of the text, I think, is that it is not always entirely clear whom
Morris is writing for. In its
narrative style and chronological structuring, the discussion seems to be
designed for genuine beginners, who have never encountered Kropotkin and who
know very little about anarchism. On
the other hand, comments within the text – for example about the failure of
academics to engage with Kropotkin, his important influence on contemporary
anarchism, political theory, ecological thought and urban geography; issues
of terrorism and divisions between communists and individualists – suggest
that the audience is assumed to be sufficiently well versed in the basics of
anarchist thought and Kropotkin’s life to make sense of these
references. Perhaps the problem here
is that Morris tends not to develop the important points he wants to make, so
that they appear as mere assertions, difficult for anyone to evaluate
properly. Admittedly, Morris refers
readers to other more detailed treatments of Kropotkin’s anarchism but it
would surely have been possible, in an introductory text, to have given
readers a greater sense of what has been written about Kropotkin and to have
outlined the lines of debate in order to provide context for the conclusions
he wants to draw. I agree with Morris
that Kropotkin is a substantial figure and that his work is a rich source of
inspiration. And his enthusiasm for
his subject is refreshingly open and honest.
But I think that it’s a shame that Morris identified one aim, rather
than two. Had one chapter been devoted
to the biographical material, readers would not only have known who Kropotkin
was, they might also have been better placed to know why we should keep his
memory alive. |
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·
Ruth Kinna teaches political
thought in the Department of Politics, International Relations and European
Studies at |
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Review by Richard Fantina
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Adrian S. Wisnicki: Conspiracy, Revolution, and Terrorism from Victorian Fiction to the
Modern Novel. |
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Since the assassination of
JFK, conspiracy theories have become a permanent feature of our
socio-political landscape. Adrian Wisnicki's Conspiracy, Revolution, and Terrorism seeks to provide an
archaeology of this phenomenon through literary texts, most of which predate
what some historians refer to as ‘the crime of the century.’ This book
demonstrates that the idea of conspiracy theory has been evolving in fiction
since at least the mid-Nineteenth Century. |
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The author begins with a
discussion of fictional detectives as exemplified by M. Dupin in Edgar Allen
Poe’s Murders in the Rue Morgue
(1841), Sergeant Cuff (and others) in Wilkie Collins’s The Moonstone (1868), and Inspector Bucket in Charles Dickens's Bleak House (1852). The detective
investigates solvable cases that involve the more or less common criminal
actions of individuals. The fictional detective ultimately evolves into the
lone conspiracy theorist (or the ‘Subject Who Tries to Know’), such as
Nicholas Branch in Don DeLillo's Libra
(1988), a novel about Lee Harvey Oswald and the Kennedy assassination, and
Oedipa Mass in Thomas Pynchon's The
Crying of Lot 49 (1966). To establish this connection, in Chapter Two
Wisnicki identifies ‘The Hidden Hand’ representing an often unknown but
inexorable force that intervenes in human activity. The author points to
Professor Moriarity and his crime network in the Sherlock Holmes tales as a
typical fictional representative but the chapter focuses primarily on
Magwitch's effect on Pip in Dickens’s Great
Expectations (1861). Later, in an afterword on Proust's In Search of Lost Time (1909-1922),
Wisnicki writes that to Marcel, ‘inverts assume the role of a sinister and
powerful Hidden Hand, one which acts from behind the scenes to manipulate
political and historical developments’ (198). Clearly, to Wisnicki,
conspiracy theories can take many forms. |
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A major development in
the process described in Chapter Three consists of actual (i.e. fictional)
conspiracies with two or more human agents who seek to defraud a third and
who are willing to commit other crimes to further their purpose, inspiring a
sense of paranoia in their potential victims. Wisnicki chooses Collins’s The Woman in White (1860) as the
prototypical novel of this phase, with Count Fosco and Sir Percival Glyde as
the conspirators seeking to defraud Laura Fairlie and willing to murder
anyone who stands in the way of their purpose. Collins's novel is especially
significant in that it introduces the concept of political conspiracy in the
persons of Fosco and Pesca as members of the underground organization, the ‘Italian
Brotherhood.’ Wisnicki asserts, quite plausibly, that the ‘Italian
Brotherhood’ constitutes a fictional stand-in for the Fenians, also known as
the Irish Revolutionary Brotherhood who advocated armed struggle against the
English. Contemporary readers could readily see this connection. In addition,
the author discusses the European revolutions of 1848, still fresh in
readers’ memories, and includes a brief but useful discussion of the
Chartists and the perceived threat they posed to a British bourgeois
readership (107). Police surveillance and repression helped to prevent the
Chartists from launching a revolution. According to Wisnicki, Walter
Hartwright, the primary narrator of The
Woman in White, ‘affectively attempts to transfer ‘paranoia’ to the
reader’ as he (and others) relate the machinations of Fosco and Glyde, and
the retribution exacted by the Brotherhood against Fosco for treason to the
group. (110). The combination of threats—from foreign agents, radical
workers, and a repressive police apparatus—led to an increasing sense of
public paranoia. From here, the modern political conspiracy theory evolves
almost organically. |
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The argument of Conspiracy, Revolution, and Terrorism
suggests that the political unrest and the repression it provokes, along with
the increasing bureaucratization and atomization of society, gives rise to a
sense of helplessness in individuals who look to conspiracy theories to make
sense of a fragmented reality. In his most compelling chapter, ‘The
Inaccessible Authorities and the Vanishing Subject,’ Wisnicki discusses
Foucault's Discipline and Punish
(1975), reading it as a conspiracy narrative. He faults Foucault for failing
to provide an answer to the question of who controls the conspiracy and that ‘the
narrative loops back on itself: disciplinary practices are both their own
cause and effect’ (117). Yet this is precisely one of Foucault’s points, that
power diffuses itself through bureaucratized networks in the public and
private sectors, and that its pervasiveness enables it to become internalized
and reproduced by its victims. Wisnicki further asserts that in Foucault, ‘the
authorities become inaccessible, and the reader is left with the disciplinary
loop and with Foucault, the conspiracy theorist’ and that ‘in Discipline and Punish, Foucault
produces one of the most ‘paranoid’ works in conspiracy theory history’
(117). Wisnicki also suggests that Foucault’s paranoia leads him to turn
Bentham’s panopticon from a discrete entity into a multipurpose, abstract
model, without conceding that Foucault is simply using the panopticon as a
metaphor for the diffusion of power (119). Rather than a conspiracy theorist,
Foucault and his work demonstrate why conspiracy theories are so prevalent.
Certainly Wisnicki recognizes all this, yet he still insists on seeing Discipline and Punish as ‘one of the
most pervasive, resistant, and formidable conspiracies yet imagined in
literature’ (123). While this chapter offers intriguing hypotheses on
conspiracy theory in fiction—Kafka's The
Castle (1922), DeLillo's Libra,
Pynchon's The Crying of |
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In the same chapter,
Wisnicki continues his discussion with a counterintuitive reading of
Trollope’s The Warden (1855).
Trollope’s early one-volume novel attempts a variety of satire by portraying
Carlyle as ‘Dr. Pessimist Anticant’ and Dickens as ‘Mr. Popular Sentiment.’
Wisnicki discusses the role of Trollope's fictitious publication, The Jupiter, as a stand-in for The Times. The novel invests The
Jupiter with control over the lives of the people it chooses to attack, in
this case the innocent title character, Mr. Harding. As with his satire on
Dickens, Trollope’s purpose here is largely conservative as he portrays the
writers and editors of The Jupiter
as misguided reformers or sinister agents of surveillance. He writes that the
power of The Jupiter is ‘divided
among many’ (qtd. 125), suggesting a view of power similar to Foucault's. He
emphasizes the point by noting that ‘Trollope fosters this contrast between
the newspaper’s power and authority and the nondescript site from which the
power issues’ (127). Linking two such dissimilar texts as The Warden and Discipline and Punish makes for an intriguing argument that
demonstrates the author's contention that conspiracy theories are pervasive
across a broad political and ideological spectrum. |
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The chapter, ‘From
Conspiracy to Conspiracy Theory,’ ties together the elements that have
preceded it as it links earlier remarks on The Woman in White and mid-century revolutionary movements to
Henry James’s 1886 novel The Princess
Casamassima, and early Twentieth Century works such as Conrad’s The Confidential Agent (1907) and Under Western Eyes (1911). Wisnicki
also discusses the paranoia, described by Stephen Arata, involved in the idea
of ‘reverse colonialism,’ in Dracula
(1897) as well as that novel's oblique references to Sinn Fein. The
discussion demonstrates that conspiracy theory was beginning to come of age
by the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Century. The afterword credits
Proust's novel with crystallizing many of the disparate elements discussed in
the previous chapters and, in effect, inventing the modern conspiracy
narrative. |
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Wisnicki's selection of
text covers a century and a half, and shows a refreshing lack of respect for
boundaries of era and genre. While his conclusions are not always convincing,
they are consistently compelling. Ultimately, the value of Conspiracy,
Revolution, and Terrorism lies in the author's often brilliant discussion of
a selective group of texts, from the Victorian era to our own, that presents
a highly original analysis of the development of the modern conspiracy theory
narrative. |
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·
Richard Fantina is Professor of Graduate
Studies at Union Institute & University in |
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Review by Tina Gray
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Joy Melville: Ellen Terry. Haus Publishing Limited 2006. ISBN-10: 1904950140; ISBN-13: 978-1904950141 256 pages. |
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This is a delightful
book, quite literally, as it a book full of delights. Ellen Terry was deeply loved and admired
during her long and amazing life, and, because of her genius as an actress
and her unconventional and quite ‘private’ private life, she continues to fascinate
us today. |
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Joy Melville has spotted
a gap in the market! There are many
books about Ellen, for example, Joy’s previous work Ellen and Edy and numerous others, some of which are listed in
the bibliography. There are many
collections of Ellen’s letters, for example, her correspondence with George
Bernard Shaw. There are also many
poems written for Ellen, for example, the Oscar Wilde sonnets. There are many wonderful paintings of
Ellen, for example, The Choosing by G F Watts and Lady Macbeth by John Singer
Sargent. There are many telling
personal notes, for example, to her children.
There are also many descriptions of Ellen’s magnetism as an actress,
for example, those by her great nephew, John Gielgud. There is much interest in Ellen as a woman
ahead of her time – her ability to be accepted by the establishment whilst
unable to accept the mores of her time.
There was and, indeed, still is much dispute about Ellen’s
relationships with men, for example, her three husbands, Edward Godwin, and maybe
Henry Irving. |
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So, what is good about
this book is that, to tell Ellen’s story, Joy Melville has simply chosen what
she considers to be the clearest facts, the best quotes, the most amusing
anecdotes, and, above all, the most glorious pictures, beautifully presented
in warm sepia tones. It might seem
insulting to say that this a perfect birthday present or coffee table book
but I intend this as praise, because it is a splendid book to dip into for
solace and inspiration. My only
quibble is with the most un-Ellen-like fussy writing of her name on the front
cover, but this is happily compensated for by Sir Donald Sinden’s charming
comments on the back cover. |
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We learn that Ellen
achieved in Victorian England a life style that we in the 21st century struggle
to emulate: a dazzling career, marriages (three), children (two), travel for
work and pleasure (America, Canada, Europe, Australia), passionate love
affairs, staunch friendships, and, in spite of hardships, a joie de vivre and
sense of fun, a concern for others, and an open mindedness that shone through
her life. |
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Ellen’s life was not an
easy one and Joy is very strong on the darker side of it all – problems in
youth with a disastrous early marriage, problems with her adored but
precocious children, and, in her later years, problems with her sight, her
health, her memory for lines, and her dwindling career. |
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The following quote,
discussing Ellen’s relationship with Henry Irving, is a good example of the
strengths of this book: |
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Both Irving and Ellen were
dedicated to their profession, yet were remarkably different in
temperament. |
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Ellen’s daughter, Edy,
was later to counter-argue the idea of Ellen being more woman than artist,
pointing out that her work was always the most important factor in her life;
that most of her time at home was spent nursing her energy for rehearsals and
performances; that her house was better managed by others than herself; and
that significantly none of her domestic relationships lasted as long as her
20-year artistic relationship with Irving. |
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I recommend this book as
an excellent starting point for anyone discovering Ellen for the first
time. It is clear, well researched,
and very detailed. Of course, I also
recommend Ellen’s autobiography, The Story of My Life. In this you really hear Ellen’s own voice,
but you don’t get the whole picture or, indeed, the later years. I also await with bated breath Sir Michael
Holroyd’s book about Henry Irving and his two children and Ellen Terry and
her two children due out later this year.
This will be definitive I’m sure.
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·
Tina Gray is an actress and President of the Ellen Terry
Fellowship. Among her notable roles is
that of Ellen
Terry in Our Ellen, a play written for her by Richard Osborne. |
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Review by Christine Huguet
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Margaret D. Stetz and Cheryl A. Wilson, eds.: Michael Field
and Their World. |
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The book under
consideration contains a selection of the papers given at the ‘Michael
Field’ and Their World Conference, held at the |
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Obviously, for
a number of practical reasons not all of this very attractive and ambitious
programme could find its way into the conference proceedings. The net result
of this is that one comes out of the reading of the book with, for instance,
an understandable yearning for more visual evidence of Michael Field’s
awareness of the poem-object than can be found in the three photographs
featuring pp. 213, 214, 222 (of the handsome binding and title-page of Sight
and Song, 1892; of the front-cover of Wild Honey from Various Thyme,
1908). Notwithstanding the scarcity of the illustrations and the inevitable
limitations of the 256-page format, this seminal collection offers a
fascinating survey, at once comprehensive and finely nuanced, of the couple’s
aesthetic aspirations and production. This is mainly due to the theoretical
variety among the twenty-three contributions and the wide array of topics
broached. In order to pay homage to the sheer diversity and range of Michael
Field’s body of work, also to their passionate ‘desire to question and
overthrow limiting labels of various sorts’ (8), the editors (above-mentioned
conference organiser Margaret Stetz and Cheryl A. Wilson, from Indiana
University of Pennsylvania) perceptively capitalize upon the
interdisciplinary approaches adopted by several of the contributors. Although
the collection is neatly divided into four sections, Stetz and Wilson urge
readers to regard their distribution of the essays as a largely pragmatic and
purely advisory strategy. And indeed, one of the major assets of this book is
its protean character, its combined synthesizing structure and complex
overlappings, even though an index pinpointing some of the more obvious
cross-references would have been a welcome addition. |
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The four broad
sections into which the articles have been shepherded are the following:
Biography; Contexts: Literary and Cultural Worlds; Thematics: Sexuality and
Religion; Translations: Textuality and Genre. One should note that despite a
conspicuous recent revival of interest in biographical details of Bradley and
Cooper, five contributions out of twenty-three still engage with the
remarkable life history of these gifted women. The pleasant surprise is that
their authors do break new ground on the intricate question of the
biographer’s special task when a couple’s life – and lives – is/are
concerned. In their own individual way, Rachel Morley, Katharine (JJ) Pionke,
Holly Laird, Sharon Bickle and Joseph Bristow all overtly swerve away from a
routine handling of biographical matters. The last-named of these
contributors more avowedly situates himself on the ground of publishing
history in his well-documented examination of the complex case of Underneath
the Bough, 1893. Morley’s brief essay develops into a sober yet cosily
intimate meditation in poetic prose on how the dead past may be recaptured
and reconstructed, while Pionke and Laird look at the female couple’s history
from the linguistic angle, viz. the vexed issue of self-naming and gender
identity building. As the editors of this volume humorously point out in
their introduction, a basic, albeit out-of-the-way, issue awaits academic
readers of the two literary collaborators so far conveniently referred to by
the present reviewer, after the conference organisers and editors themselves,
as ‘Michael Field.’ One of the inferences to be drawn from the reading of the
opening section of ‘Michael Field’ and Their World is that the
biographical perspective will certainly never be all plain sailing. The
situation just cannot be straightforwardly formulated in this way: Katharine
was ‘Michael,’ Edith was ‘Field’ (or ‘Heinrich’ or ‘Henry’) and the lesbian
couple functioned smoothly and single-mindedly under the wise penname of
‘Michael Field.’ If the equation worked, where would ‘Field,’ ‘the Field,’
‘the Fields,’ or again ‘the Michael Field[s]’ come in, as the present
contributors choose to name the inseparable couple? Also, what kind of
borderline runs between Bradley & Cooper (the aunt and the niece, the
distinct individuals readily romanticized as the defiant ‘poets and lovers
evermore’ par excellence), ‘Arran and Isla Leigh’ (the 1881 fledgling
coauthors of drama and verse), the pseudonymous male persona ‘Michael Field,’
twosome and singular, which came into being on the title-page of two separate
plays in May 1884, and the anonymous ‘author of Borgia’ (1905)? Sharon
Bickle figures out a convincing ‘rethinking’ of the bewildering puzzle: in an
attempt to pinpoint the impact of the late Victorian community in the
development of the rebellious artistic unit, she revisits the neglected
letters from the 1880s that are held by the Bodleian Library and evaluates
the key role of Emma Cooper, Edith’s Victorian mama. |
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The second
part of this book contextualizes Michael Field’s collaborative authorship in
an attractive and informative manner. A string of great names becomes associated
with these ‘two dear Greek women,’ as Robert Browning once called them:
‘Shakspere,’ for a start, through rather than against whom,
Rhian E. Williams lucidly demonstrates, the lesbian union of Underneath
the Bough ‘speaks’ (73). Unsurprisingly, given the spirit of the age and
the philosophical bias of many a Bradley poem, another important name
cropping up in this book is that of Spinoza. The philosopher’s discourse of
multiplicity and ‘fine grasp of unity,’ as Katharine Bradley saw it, is
analyzed by María DeGuzmán as enabling these women’s joint work to acquire ‘a
virtuous and a divine status’ (77). Directly reverberating DeGuzmán’s
examination of the dual authors’ mystical sacralization of their working
relationship, Ed Madden explores the Victorians’, notably Matthew Arnold’s,
Tiresian mythology, with a view to foregrounding the Fieldian rehearsing of
the classical celebration of sexual experience. Revised and expanded in the
direction of the ‘Sapphic’ literary tradition, the Arnoldian legacy, Madden
contends, provided the Fields with an elaborate analogy for poetic power at a
time when Katharine Bradley, a great Classicist herself, was mourning the
death of the poet (April 1888). In the first essay in this collection
addressing the perplexing question of the women’s conversion to Roman
Catholicism when, possibly, their essential Paganism was finding its best
expression, the convergences established by Kit Andrews between Long Ago
(1889) and Marius the Epicurean further recall the relevance of intertextual
readings in the complex case of this outstanding duo. |
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Pouring over these
contextualizing articles, readers of the Fields’ corpus will probably agree
that a basic requirement in poetic studies has here been met: one of the
strong points of Section Two consists in the in-depth rhetorical analyses of
highly stylised lyrics such as ‘Sapphic Tiresias’ (by Madden) and ‘It was
deep April’ (by Williams). Beyond the interplay of the pagan and the
Christian, for instance, what these explorations also alert the reader to is
the web of complex interfaces and the resulting tensions characterizing much
of the couple’s lyrical work. |
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Prefiguring
some of the contributions grouped together in Section Three, the last three
essays in this section look across the turn-of-the-century aesthetic and
decadent scene to address the feminist debate. Valerie Fehlbaum’s
re-examination of a contemporary literary pair, the Hepworth Dixon sisters
(Ella and her elder sister Marion) makes vivid reading but will be found too
exclusive to serve the ‘‘Michael Field’ AND Their World’ problematic
which is the official object of the present book. A more thorough
juxtaposition of the two eccentric pairs of women writers would have more
made sense, one feels. Linda K. Hughes’s article on Michael Field and the
transatlantic salon of Louise Chandler Moulton, the American poet and
critic, will be found more to the point if one is concerned with issues of
reception and artistic cross-influences. Hughes provides insightful clues to
why Moulton could at once annoy the Fields, provoke their resistance, and
provide the requisite entrées (definitely not entrèes, [120],
the present French reviewer unfairly insists) that would enhance their
careers. In the final article devoted to literary and cultural influences and
heritage, Richard Dellamora discusses the representation of sexual dissidence
in Long Ago (1889), seen as ‘the most complex and capacious
celebration of Sapphic desire in late-Victorian culture’ (128). According to
him, this would account for its recuperation in the 1915 and subsequent
Sapphic lyrics of Radclyffe Hall, an apt indication in itself of the enduring
force of decadent aesthetics in |
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Also
containing seven articles, ‘Thematics: Sexuality and Religion’ makes up the
third, fittingly generous section of the volume. The first four essays
explicitly address the question of gendered identity and art. Elizabeth
Primamore offers an analysis of Michael Field as dandy-aesthete-poet, as the
product of the conflating discourses of aestheticism and of the gay male
dandy (137). Probably because the focus is on the Fields’ understanding of
dandiacal self-construction, this otherwise perceptive essay fails to read
their inward turning, their rhetoric of uniqueness as also, to a large
extent, a belated romantic yearning for what Primamore somewhat ponderously
names ‘the status for non-reproduceability’ (144). Brooke Cameron explores
the apprehension of otherness and the elaborate links between the observer
and the observed in Sight and Song. Hers is an insightful essay,
although one is left wondering if a narratological approach might not have
provided additional tools of great help in the pages devoted to the gendered
economy of the gaze. With Frederick S. Roden, an interesting link between the
topics of queer sexuality and religious trajectory becomes established. In
order to reconsider the issue of the women’s catholicism, Roden follows
Bradley and Cooper into the twentieth century and relates them to the
Catholic homosexuals Father John Gray and André Raffalovich whom the two
women had befriended. He points out that lesbianism and Catholicism were not
seen as mutually exclusive in twentieth-century literature and demonstrates
that the Fields should be understood as precursors to lesbian writers such as
Radclyffe Hall (also discussed by Dellamora) and Vita Sackville-West. The
following article is by Dinah Ward and it examines the Saint Sebastian figure
as a distinctly erotic motif in three poems from Sight and Song
evoking contrasting Renaissance representations of the Christian martyr. The
transdisciplinary approach which these poems invite is enlarged by a series
of relevant comments on the references to Richard Wagner in the Fields’
journals. Chris Snodgrass and Camille Cauti continue the exploration of the
artistic duo’s paradoxical religious sensibilities, the former by showing,
like Roden but with special reference to the dramatical production, how
neoclassical paganism and the Church of Rome can both be understood in the light
of a Dyonisiac logic. Snodgrass is good on the theme of sacrifice and its
widely different orientations in Classical tragedy and Catholicism, and shows
convincingly how the Fields found a novel way of reconciling the two. With
her essay on Michael Field’s pagan Catholicism, Cauti is also obviously
concerned with artistic consistency but places herself more conspicuously on
the psychological rather than the literary terrain when she examines their
representation of Christ as a feminized, erotic object. Last but not least in
the third section of the book, Diana Maltz’s crisp study proposes a
challenging reorientation of perspectives: the thematic highlighted is
neither the Fields’ post-conversion poetical trances nor their contribution
to the New Woman debate. Instead, this essay looks at Bradley’s links with
‘the religion of socialism’ (195): ‘another form of Victorian “religion’’’,
Stetz and Wilson agree (10). Also, a further novelty is that, unlike her
fellow contributors, Maltz chooses to single out Katharine Bradley for a
class-oriented inspection. She studies her against the backdrop of the
community of socialist activists and female charity workers under Ruskin’s
influence (that everything should have destined Bradley to associate with).
Maltz concludes on an insightful observation about Bradley’s very individual
brand of socialism when she traces her political principles in her dramatic
characters’ struggle to preserve the sacredness of the social self. This was
indeed one of the tenets of the FNL, the Fellowship of the New Life, which
she had joined in 1889. |
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The four
essays brought together in the concluding part of the book, ‘Translations:
Textuality and Genre,’ address the question of Michael Field’s remarkable
capacity for artistic and generic border crossings. Julie Wise starts from
the prefatory declaration of intention (‘to translate into verse what the
lines and colours of certain pictures sing in themselves,’ Sight and Song)
to identify Field’s innovative theories of the visual by comparison with
those of men like D. G. Rossetti or Matthew Arnold. Nicholas Frankel’s essay
on ‘the concrete poetics’ of Michael Field is the one that comes with the
three photographs mentioned above. Admittedly, no research on these
exquisitely refined women could possibly disregard the materiality of their
poetic gesture. Both Nicholas Frankel and Marion Thain, the next contributor
to the ‘Translations’ section, underline the tensions between the aesthetic
and the economic at the turn of the century by recalling the fussy care the
artistic couple devoted to the sheer beauty of their books (the choice of
publication format, design and binding) in the aggressive context of
commodity culture and mass-market literary production. Providing a fit
conclusion to the section and the whole volume, Ana Parejo Vadillo finds a
distinct anti-materialistic strain in their neglected, largely outmoded
historical dramas – more than thirty of them. She looks at their loud protest
against reified art, at their defiant transgression of the limits imposed by
capitalism: a further illustration, if need be, of their devotedness to art. |
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What a long
way this volume of essays takes us from Robert Plunket’s wistful comment on
the occasion of the publication of Irish writer Emma Donoghue’s We Are
Michael Field: ‘The name Michael Field is virtually forgotten now, but in
late-Victorian |
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·
Christine Huguet is a Senior Lecturer
at the University Charles-de-Gaulle |
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Review by Mireille Naturel
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Evelyne Bloch-Dano: Madame Proust, A biography. Translated by Alice Kaplan. |
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Evelyne Bloch-Dano has
given to her biography a title that evokes that of Flaubert’s novel, Madame Bovary. Each of the two heroines is the wife of a
doctor, but whereas one suffers under the mediocrity of her husband, the
other could take great pride in having married one of the glories of the |
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Madame Proust reads like a novel.
Always following a Flaubertian technique, the author takes us into the
consciousness of the characters; we hear their interior monologue. Evelyne Bloch-Dano knows how to make the
reading pleasant through her mixture of portraits (that of Jeanne Proust
painted by Anaïs Beauvais, which one can see in the museum at Illiers-Combray,
figures on the dust-jacket), of tales, of scenes, of letters quoted in their
entirety. A collection of black and
white photographs, rich and varied, illustrates the family saga. The ‘carnet de Jeanne’ allows the discovery
of the social environment of the family.
It is also the charm of this biography that it gives us a sociological
picture of its epoch, from the practice of ‘thermalism’ to the fashionable |
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Very often constructed
from the outset of the work, biographical fiction carries with it an
authenticity that one cannot derive from archives. The author does not hide her borrowings for
the book; indeed she affirms them explicitly when she titles one chapter ‘The
evening kiss’. Rightly, Esther, the
heroine of |
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The translation by Alice
Kaplan succeeds perfectly, reproducing the clarity, flow and charm of Evelyne
Bloch-Dano’s writing. Her decision to
leave two chapter headings in French – ‘Monsieur Proust et Madame Weil’ and ‘La
vie à deux’ – gives a ‘frenchy’ touch, amusing yet at the same time speaking
to the essence. |
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·
Mireille Naturel is Secretary-General of the Société des Amis de Marcel
Proust. The original French text
appears in Rue des Beaux Arts no 15
(July/August 2008); this translation by D.C. Rose. |
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·
For more on Evelyne Bloch-Dano, see http://www.ebloch-dano.com/biographie.php. |
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To the Table of Contents of this
page | To hub page | To THE OSCHOLARS
home page |
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NOTES TO YVONNE
IVORY’S REVIEW
[1] Paris
je t’aime, dir. Olivier Assayas et al., Victoires International, 2006.
[2] Richard Ellmann, Oscar
Wilde (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1987).
[3] Horst Schroeder, Additions
and Corrections to Richard Ellmann’s Oscar Wilde (Braunschweig: H.
Schroeder, 1989). Schroeder is thanked in Krämer’s acknowledgements for his
expertise on films about Wilde.
[4] Krämer refers to
traditional biographies variously as ‘wissenschaftlich’ (‘scientific’),
‘akademisch’ (‘academic’), or ‘sachlich’ (‘factual’).
[5] The nod to the
linguistic turn notwithstanding, Schabert’s heuristic distinction works well
for Krämer throughout the study.
[6] She also subjects her
own writing to this kind of metacritical analysis, when she considers why she
decided to include or exclude certain texts, for instance (75), or when she
describes her attempts to approach each new fictional biography with fresh eyes
(92).
[7] For a discussion of
this trend in Wilde scholarship, see Dennis Denisoff, ‘Wilde, Commodity,
Culture,’ in Palgrave Advances in Oscar
Wilde Studies, ed. Frederick S. Roden (
[8] Regenia Gagnier, Idylls of the Marketplace: Oscar Wilde and
the Victorian Public (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1986); Josephine
M. Guy and Ian Small, Oscar Wilde’s
Profession: Writing and the Culture Industry in the Late Nineteenth Century (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2000); Margaret D. Stetz and Mark Samuels Lasner, England in the 1890s: Literary Publishing at
the Bodley Head (Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press, 1990); Mary
Blanchard, Oscar Wilde’s America:
Counterculture in the Gilded Age (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998);
Nicholas Frankel, Oscar Wilde’s Decorated
Books (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press; 2000); Jonathan
Freedman, Professions of Taste: Henry
James, British Aestheticism, and Commodity Culture (Stanford: Stanford
University Press, 1990).
[9] A translation of ‘The
Canterville Ghost’ appeared in German in 1897, the year Wilde was released from
prison. This edition, with illustrations by Fritz Erler, was limited to only
sixty copies and is the very first Wilde work that appeared in book form in
German. Oscar Wilde, Der Geist von Canterville, trans. A. M. von B[öhn] (Munich: Brügel, 1897).
[10] The recent re-emergence
of a European dialog about Wilde, hinted at in the appearance in English of
Norbert Kohl’s Oscar Wilde: The Works of
a Conformist Rebel, is apparent in such interventions as Uwe Böker, Richard
Corballis, and Julie Hibbard’s edited volume The Importance of Reinventing Oscar: Versions of Wilde During the Last
100 Years (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2002).
[11] Carl Sternheim, Oskar Wilde: Sein Drama (Potsdam: Kiepenheuer, 1925).
[12] Angela Kingston, Oscar Wilde as a Character in Victorian
Fiction (
[13] John Stokes, Oscar Wilde: Myths, Miracles, and Imitations
(Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1996); Robert Tanitch, Oscar Wilde on Stage and Screen (London:
Methuen, 1999).
NOTES TO MAUREEN O’COONOR’S REVIEW
[14]
Declan Kiberd . Inventing
[15] See, for example, U.C. Knoepflmacher, Ventures into Childhood: Victorians, Fairy
Tales, and Femininity (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998); ‘Female
Power and Male Self-Assertion: Kipling and the Maternal’, in Children's Literature 20 (1992): 15-35;
and ‘The Balancing of Child and Adult: An Approach to Victorian Fantasies for
Children’, in Nineteenth Century Fiction.
37 (4): 497-530’. By Mitzi Myers, see, ‘Child’s Play as Woman’s Peace Work’, in
Girls Boys Books Toys: Gender in
Children’s Literature and Culture, ed. Beverly Lyon Clark and Margaret R.
Higonnet (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, 1999); ‘Daddy’s Girl as Motherless
Child: Maria Edgeworth and Maternal Romance; An Essay in Reassessment’, in Living by the Pen: Early British Women
Writers, ed. Dale Spender (New York: Teacher’s College Press, 1992); and
‘Goring John Bull: Maria Edgeworth's Hibernian High Jinks versus the
Imperialist Imaginary’, in Cutting Edges:
Postmodern Critical Essays on Eighteenth-Century Satire, ed. James E. Gill.
(Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1995).
[16] ‘Goring John Bull’,
p. 368.
[17] Margot Gayle Backus, The Gothic Family Romance: Heterosexuality, Child Sacrifice, and the
Anglo-Irish Colonial Order (Durham: Duke University Press, 1999) 76 and passim.