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THE CRITIC AS CRITIC |
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A Portfolio of Theatre and Book Reviews |
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No 46 : SEPTEMBER
/ OCTOBER 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 page | To hub page | To THE
OSCHOLARS home page |
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ANNOUNCEMENT |
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Following the review by Ruth Kinna of Brian
Morris’s recent biography of Kropotkin in our last issue, for the first time
we are systematically extending our coverage to include reviews of books that
explore the anarchist and socialist background to the fin-de-siècle. The task of selecting such books and commissioning
the reviews is being undertaken by a recent recruit to our team, Dr Anna Vaninskaya, and are flagged
with *. |
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THEATRE |
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An Ideal Husband at the Abbey Theatre,
Dublin: an interview with director Neil Bartlett, and a review, by Aoife Leahy, Ireland Editor of THE
OSCHOLARS. |
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Neil Bartlett
arrived in Dublin on Monday the 7th of July to begin rehearsals for his
production of An Ideal Husband. He
very kindly agreed to answer some questions put by Aoife Leahy for THE
OSCHOLARS. |
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Q. As you begin rehearsals for An Ideal
Husband in The Abbey this week, do you have any hints of what we should
expect to see in the new production (14th August–27th September with previews
11th–13th August)? |
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A. Of course,
I don’t want to give too much away, but….. the ‘Society’ plays of Wilde are
often thought of as epitomising a certain kind of well-upholstered,
convention-driven late nineteenth century theatrical heritage product. In
fact, the play is subtitled ‘A New and Original Play of Modern Life’, and it
was written in a year when Wilde was restlessly experimenting with new ways
to express both the increasing turbulence of his private life and his dissatisfaction
with conservative London culture. It was written in the same year as
La Sainte Courtisane and The Florentine Tragedy, two failed experiments in treating
An Ideal Husband’s primary themes
of dysfunctional marriage and prostitution, and it comes just before
The Importance of Being Earnest
– which is probably the most formally experimental London play of its
century. We’re playing it in period, but trying to keep it as odd, as
questioning, as uncomfortable as Wilde’s letters tell us he found it to
write. |
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Q. Is there a particular resonance to
staging a Wilde play in Dublin? In recent years, Wilde productions have been
very popular and well attended here. |
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A. Of course,
as an Englishman, I am slightly apprehensive about creating the first ever
staging of this play at Ireland’s National Theatre. I just have to remind
myself that the play is not only about outsiders – all the principal
characters feel themselves at odds with the city they live in – but written
by a man who revelled in that role. |
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Q. Your book Who Was That Man: A
Present for Mr Wilde looks at scandals
– including significant gay histories before and after Wilde - that have been
forgotten or sidelined. The threat of scandal drives the plot of An Ideal
Husband and ultimately good things
result from the crisis. Is it an inherently political play? |
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A. Hmmmn, not
sure about those ‘good things’- of all Wilde’s ‘happy endings’, the ending of
Act Four of this pay strikes me as being one of the most queasily
double-sided. Of course, in a simple way, the play is political, even topical
– I understand that the notion of a senior Government figure being caught out
over some shady financial transactions is not entirely unheard of in Dublin.
The entire plot hinges on the question of whether a corrupt politician should
resign or not, so in that simple sense it is political – thrillingly so…but
it is also political in another and perhaps more interesting sense of the
word. It struggles to connect ideas of personal freedom (and personal guilt
and shame) with larger, social ideas, particularly in the realm of sexual
relations and of marriage. In his own inimitably contradictory and lurid way,
Wilde is toying with ideas that were rising to the surface of his century –
in the writings of Symonds, of Carpenter and of Shaw, for instance, all in
the same decade – and giving them an absolutely personal shape. For obvious
reasons, he was obsessed with the idea of whether personally freedom could
ever be found within a conventional social structure, or whether some more radical
shift of values was the only possible source of salvation…. |
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Q. You are collaborating with set and
costume designer Rae Smith on the production. Is it important to get the
right look and space for a Wilde play? |
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A. Absolutely
fundamental; this is my eleventh collaboration with Rae Smith, and
artistically the show is as much hers as mine. The most important thing is to
get rid of all notions of decorative décor and concentrate on telling the
story, which is a dramatic and dramatically unpleasant one. She has taken all of the conventions – the
furniture, the period costumes, even the ideas of act-drop and scene-change –
and made them active ingredients rather than simply givens. Wilde uses three
very different spaces in this story, and Rae is very good in honing in on
what is important about a space from the point of view of fundamental
narrative. For instance, the point about the opening scene in Grosvenor
Square is that the Chiltern’s home is not stable, secure and luxurious, but
built on sand; the point about Lady Chiltern’s morning room in Act 2 is that
it is a feminine and self-consciously conservative environment, in which the
most vicious marital row in Wilde’s entire canon is spoken (my god, imagine
how Constance must have felt watching that scene on the opening night!!!)
whereas Lord Goring’s bachelor pad in Act 3 is masculine and self-consciously
radical….all sounds a bit abstract, but it all comes down to being bold with
colour, light and space. You’ll see! |
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Q. What do you think of the relatively new
Oscar Wilde statue on Merrion Square (sculpted by Danny Osborne and unveiled
in 1997)? Although Wilde lived in Merrion Square until 1876, Osborne
interestingly portrays him at a later stage in his life. |
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A. I have
tried to love it, I really have, but I’m sorry; I think the whole idea of a
statue to someone as elusive and unstable and dangerous as Wilde is a bit of
a non-starter. He is many things, but monumental is not one of them. Maggi
Hambling’s memorial in London faced the same problem – and addressed it by
making a sort of anti-monument. With some success; the last time I passed it,
it was being sat on by three young and completely filthy construction
workers, using it to have a quick fag in their tea-break while working on the
restoration of St Martin’s church next door, and the sound of Wilde spinning
in his grave (with pleasure, of course) was actually audible all the way from
Paris….. |
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Q. Any other thoughts or comments? |
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A. I look
forward to seeing you at the show! |
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Many thanks from The Oscholars! |
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Review by
Aoife Leahy |
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The first Saturday night
performance of Neil Bartlett’s An Ideal
Husband on August 16th was a great hit with the Abbey audience. It was a
diverse crowd that included a number of young Dubliners who were so
well-groomed and elaborately dressed that they looked almost as if they
should have been on the stage, something that turned out to be quite
appropriate. There was a clever moment in Act 3 of the play when Lord
Goring’s cheval mirror was revealed to be transparent glass, creating the
optical illusion that the character saw the audience members as his
reflection just as we saw him as ours. The predominantly black and gold set
pieces by Rae Smith reminded me of the layouts currently seen in the
glossiest home design magazines, closing the gap between Wilde’s time and our
own. It lent a resonance to Sir Robert Chiltern’s declaration that ‘To
succeed one must have wealth. At all costs one must have wealth.’ |
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An Ideal Husband examines the integrity of a man who becomes rich by selling a state
secret at the right time. All of his future political dealings are threatened
by that false step. Can the people – or the audience – ever forgive a
politician for accepting money in exchange for a dishonest deal? In a
contemporary Irish context, strangely enough, the answer tends to depend on
how much the people like the politician. Morality is not absolute but
moderated by affection for the individual. But what if the disgraced
politician is also priggish and difficult to like, so that affection for him
cannot confuse the issue? |
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As Sir Robert and Lady Chiltern,
Simon Wilson and Natalie Radmall-Quirke have the challenging task of
interpreting leading roles in a manner that is not likely to invoke the
audience’s sympathy. Interestingly, while many of the other actors in the
production are veterans of the Abbey, Wilson and Radmall-Quirke are making
their debut appearances and thus no sense of familiarity is invoked. The
Chilterns of this production are emotionally crippled well before the
problems created by Mrs Cheveley begin. Gertrude Chiltern behaves like a
strict nanny with her husband and he responds boyishly to her every command.
She recites platitudes at times of difficulty and he attempts to live by
them. Unlike every other character in the play, the Chilterns show no ability
to laugh at themselves and thus their humanity is lessened. In contrast,
Abbey regulars like Deirdre Donnelly as Lady Markby attract the audience’s
goodwill with many funny and well-delivered lines. |
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As Bartlett explains in the
programme to accompany An Ideal Husband,
the Mrs Cheveley of this production is not so much a villainess as she is the
aspect of Wilde that longs to shake everything up. Commenting on Wilde’s
similarity to the secretive Robert Chiltern and the witty Lord Goring,
Bartlett asks: ‘But isn’t Wilde Mrs Cheveley too?’ Derbhle Crotty, fresh from
The Abbey’s very recent production of The
Three Sisters, seems more insightful than evil for much of the play. It
is only when she decides to ruin Lady Chiltern’s reputation for the sake of
vengeance alone that the stage lighting changes to make her look monstrous.
In Act 2 Mrs Cheveley wears Wilde’s signature green carnation against the
striking background of her purple dress. When Lord Goring traps her with the
incriminating bracelet in Act 3, she screams ‘Fuck!!!’ – the only verbal
addition to Wilde’s script that I noticed and one that seems highly
appropriate to the interpretation of the character. |
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Mark O’ Halloran’s Lord Goring is
a more conscientious version of Dorian Gray who has kept his soul and
consequently has to cope with ageing. He has perfect clothes and an enviable
apartment, but his father the Earl of Caversham (James Hayes) demands that it
is time for him to marry. Years ago, as it transpires, Lord Goring almost
married Mrs Cheveley and this is key to the working out of the plot. Lord
Goring and Mrs Cheveley represent different aspects of the same witty, urbane
personality (Wilde himself, as Bartlett suggests) and while one would forgive
the Chilterns for their weaknesses the other would expose and destroy them.
The two sides are too far apart to be reconciled, so Goring rejects Mrs
Cheveley’s renewed advances in favour of a hasty marriage with Aoibheann O’
Hara’s Mabel. His moral stance in rejecting Mrs Cheveley for her cruelty is
undermined by his readiness to exploit a friend who has fallen in love with
him. |
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The entertaining Lord Goring is
the darling of the audience until close to the end of the play, when he
delivers the tricky speech: ‘A man’s life is of more value than a woman’s. It
has larger issues, wider scope, greater ambitions. A woman’s life revolves in
curves of emotions. It is upon lines of intellect that a man’s life
progresses.’ On Saturday night (and I suspect on every night of the
performance) there were audible gasps of disapproval. It is an odd speech
that seems hard to reconcile with Wilde’s usual attitude to women. Perhaps it
reflects Lord Goring’s hypocrisy in putting his own needs ahead of what is
best for Mabel. Natalie Radmall-Quirke repeats these unappealing lines to
Simon Wilson in a dull and mechanical tone; Lady Chiltern does not believe in
the truth of the words and neither does the audience. She has a new if
meaningless rule to live by and we are supposed to find it repulsive. |
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Bartlett’s interpretation of An Ideal Husband does not allow for a
happy ending. Wilson and Radmall-Quirke look miserable and defeated as they
make their final declarations of love for each other. They have made bruising
compromises in politics and in private. Aoibheann O’ Hara transforms her
articulate and intelligent Mabel into a tragic figure at the last moment, as
she admits that she wants to be a ‘real wife’ to Lord Goring instead of just
a friend. With great comic effect, however, Derbhle Crotty grumpily reappears
on stage with her suitcases as if setting off to Vienna once again. As in Henry
James’ novella The Europeans when the Baroness returns to Europe and is still
in search of her fortune, only the most interesting character has a future
that is still undecided. The audience responded with appreciation to this
unscripted but very welcome final glimpse of Mrs Cheveley. |
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Dorian Gray: It's a Woman's World |
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When I knew that I was going to see a
theatrical version of The Picture of
Dorian Gray, I was curious. But when I heard that it was an all-female
cast, I was intrigued. |
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This new version adapted and directed by
Darren Tunstall and Emily Jones (The Lincoln School of Performing Arts), and
produced by Andy Jordan was part of this year's Fringe Festival in Edinburgh.
And I must say that the prospect of seeing the play in the quite gothic Old
Town area only added to my excitment. |
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Having just recently reread the novel, I
made my way from Glasgow to Edinburgh, pervaded by Grayness and haunted by a
gothic mood. |
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The play was being performed in the
CSoco Building, a massive seven-floor venue at the heart of the Old Town. |
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What struck me first was the staging,
both very simple and very visual. |
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The choice of a black box theatre places
the focus on the story rather than on technical effects and allows the
characters to move around, using frames of all shapes and sizes in nearly
every scene of the play. In one of the scenes for example, Henry and Basil
are having a drink and the frame, wedged between the actresses' hips, is used
as a table. In another scene, Dorian and Henry use a frame as a theatre box.
And when Dorian dies, he dies huddled up in a frame. |
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The use of frames was, after the
all-female cast, my favourite element in the play. It makes the portrait
pervasive without actually having a portrait as such on stage. |
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Along with frames, the use of puppets
(designed and made by Michelle Tunstall) on several occasions adds to the
surreal atmosphere of the play. They appear three times during the
performance and echoe quite accurately these lines from the book "(...)
fantastic shadows were silhouetted against some lamp-lit blind. He watched
them curiously. They moved like monstrous marionettes and made gestures like
live things. He hated them". They also reminded me of the puppets and
marionettes in Wilde's poem, The Harlot's House. |
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As for costumes, actresses all wear
black shoes and black trousers, making their outfits quite simple. The only
reminders of the nineteenth century are waistcoats, floppy neck-ties and
Henry's cigarette holder and case. Suggestion once again. |
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Suggestion and deception are the key
elements in this adaptation. Even gender is suggested as all the characters
of Wilde's novel are played by Alice Brockway, Jenna Cahill, Emma Beever and
Laura Norton. The all-female cast was, I thought, a interesting allusion to
Wilde's editorship of The Woman's World
between 1887 and 1889. |
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The actresses succeed brilliantly in
impersonating Dorian, Basil, Henry and James, Sybil's brother. So much so
that as the play was being performed, I completely forgot that they were
women. And it is a prowess to do so in only 50 minutes. |
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The duration of the play is the last
thing I wanted to mention. To encapsulate twenty chapters of a novel as dense
and intense as The Picture of Dorian
Gray in 50 minutes left me thrilled with surprise and enthusiasm. As a
Wilde lover, I am always delighted to see that his works and legacy still
inspire authors (Will Self and his 2002 Dorian,
An Imitation), choreographers (Matthew Bourne has created a ballet
adaptation of the novel), and playwrights such as Darren Tunstall. |
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Even rockers are inspired. The
Libertines wrote a song called Narcissist, and here is what they sing: |
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‘They're just narcissists |
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I left the theatre after fifty minutes
of an outstanding adaptation and interpretation of Wilde's only novel. I was
pervaded by the book when I entered the theatre, and pervaded by the play
when I left it. |
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·
Mathilde Mazau
specialised in Irish studies at the University of Caen, and wrote
two ‘mémoires’, one on Wilde’s essays and the other on his correspondence.
Her doctoral thesis on Wilde’s correspondence was cut short by the premature
death of her supervisor and she now lives in Glasgow. |
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‘The Selfish Giant’ by
Oscar Wilde represents Wilde's sweet, sentimental, and quite religious side;
it is a fairy tale for children with a strong allegorical overtone that would
be poignant for any good little Victorian child (like the two sons for whom
he wrote it). The musical adaptation presented by Literally Alive Children's
Theatre keeps much of the magic and sweetness. However, the mysterious boy whose
tears move the giant to open his garden to the little children to play no
longer represents the Christ child, whose wounds, the giant learns, are the
wounds of love. Instead, the giant realizes that the boy is his own inner
child. It's understandable that adaptor Brenda Bell, also producing artistic
director, would want to make the substitution, but it's asking a lot of the
under-7 set to care about a grownup's inner child (if they even get the
concept), and this Wilde fan missed his gorgeous lyricism. |
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Still, the production,
which clocks in at less than an hour, offers a diverting chance for family
activity on a weekend morning. In the pre-show workshop, children learn about
the music that will be played — all percussion instruments — and have an
opportunity to create paper flowers and snowflakes to decorate the selfish
giant's garden. |
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As narrator Oscar Wilde
and the giant, Todd Eric Hawkins displays charisma and Wildean aplomb. His
deep velvet voice charms, particularly in the opening number "Wilde
Imagination" (music by Michael Sgouros, who is also percussionist;
lyrics by Bell), which is also the show's catchiest song. Sal Delmonte brings
wit to the role of a cheeky servant to the giant, and Eric Fletcher amuses in
various roles. Choreography and dance by Stefanie Smith are accomplished if
not fully integrated into the play. |
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·
Presented by Literally Alive Children's Theatre as part of
1st Irish 2008 at the Players Theatre, 115 MacDougal St., NYC. Sept. 13-Oct.
26. Sat. and Sun., 10 a.m. (Additional performances Sun., Sept. 20 and 27, 2
p.m.) |
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·
Gwen Orel is a dramaturge, theatre
administrator and critic based in New York, from where she reviews regularly
for THE OSCHOLARS. This review first
appeared in Backstage 13th
September 2008, and is here republished by kind permission. |
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BOOKS |
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Review by Annabel Rutherford |
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Mary Fleischer: Embodied
Texts, Symbolist Playwright-Dancer Collaborations. Amsterdam/New York: Rodopi 2007. xxi, 346
pp. Pb: 978-90-420-2285-0. € 74 / US
$111 |
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. |
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Artistic
collaborations are always fascinating to explore and perhaps none more so
than those that occurred during the fin de siècle and early modernist period
– a richly fertile time of artistic intermingling and profound innovation.
And, largely due to such radical figures as Isadora Duncan, Loïe Fuller, and
Ruth St. Denis, these years saw the emergence of a new theatrical art form –
modern dance – which captured the attention of artists, writers, and
composers. Nonetheless, despite the abundance of dance imagery in poems,
paintings, and plays during that era, there remains a paucity of critical
analysis by scholars on dance and its impact on early modernist works. In her
amply illustrated book Embodied Texts:
Symbolist Playwright-Dancer Collaborations, Mary Fleischer succeeds in
filling some of this gaping void. |
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Fleischer
examines the relationship between playwrights and dancers: Gabriele D’Annunzio
and Ida Rubinstein; Hugo Hofmannsthal and Grete Wiesenthal; W. B. Yeats and
Michio Ito and, later, with Ninette de Valois; and Paul Claudel with Jean
Börlin and the Ballets Suédois. Each of these playwright-dancer
collaborations was highly experimental and strongly focused on fusing the
performing arts – acting, dancing, singing, music, and design – into one
theatrical production. In keeping with the symbolist aesthetic, their desire
was to expose the emotional and psychological realms inherent in their works.
And this, they believed, could be achieved through the dancer. Embodied Texts, then, not only
considers the collaborative working relationship between artists, but also
dwells on the interaction of art forms in a specific work (xix). Given the
inherent ephemerality of dance as an art form, Fleischer sets herself
the daunting task of describing how symbolist playwrights, from 1890–1930,
utilized dance and gesture to express the verbally inexpressible. To achieve
this, they created dance-plays or, the term Fleischer prefers, dance theatre,
in which the dancer embodied their texts. |
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The author’s
criterion for her choice of works considered is that each must communicate
more through “rhythmic movement, gesture, image, and music” than through the traditional
spoken text (3). Thus, dance is an integral part of the structure in all the
six discussed works. For her theoretical framework, Fleischer draws from
Stéphane Mallarmé’s writings on dance, but is swift to identify Duncan and
Emile Jacques-Dalcroze as two highly influential theorists for symbolist
playwright-dancer collaborations. Indeed, Dalcrozian philosophy is apparent
in much of Fleischer’s analysis of the dance-plays, and it is, after all,
through a rhythmic or musical base that the playwright and
dancer/choreographer intertwine their art forms. |
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Of all the
playwrights discussed, Yeats is the most successful in achieving this quested
unity of the arts. Much has been written about his collaboration with Michio
Ito and his fascination and experimentation with Noh theatre, particularly in
his play At the Hawk’s Well. Until now, however, comparatively little has
been written about Yeats’ collaboration with de Valois on the production
Fighting the Waves. While Fleischer lingers too long on early biographical
information about de Valois, she provides an engaging analysis of the work,
explaining how Yeats all but replaced verbal narrative in favour of a dance
ensemble, a highly complex musical score, and the visual elements.
Particularly compelling is her detailed exploration of de Valois’ working
methods with Yeats, which focuses on an area all too frequently neglected in
studies of this grand matriarch of British ballet. The result of their
collaboration is, arguably, one of the closest examples of artistic
integration during these years. |
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Each of the
works Fleischer discusses attempted to explore new areas of performance and,
as with any experiment, not all of them were successful. D’Annunzio’s
collaboration with Rubinstein to create Le Martyre de Saint Sébastien is a
case in point. Indeed, given that playwright, dancer, composer (Claude
Debussy) and designer (Leon Bakst) worked in isolation, it is hardly
surprising that the result was more one of dissonance than the desired
harmonious blending of the arts. Bakst’s characteristically rich decor was
too flamboyant to blend. Debussy, bewildered by the entire experience, called
upon the aid of a colleague to orchestrate his composition. But, ironically,
the major complication (as it was for several playwrights) was the
integration of the dancer. Rubinstein had a strong personality (as did
Wiesenthal and de Valois) and, as Fleischer points out, no matter how
abstracted the dancer’s body, through physical and visual components, there
was always an underlying tension created by the very presence on stage of a
specific dancer (304). The quested unity between dancer and dance necessary
for total artistic collaboration was rarely, if ever, truly attainable. |
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With the
exception of Rubinstein, all the dancers had received formal training from
childhood. De Valois, a classically trained dancer, was familiar with
performing in an ensemble. Wiesenthal was wholly dedicated to experimenting
with Hofmannsthal and exploring the artistic possibilities of true embodiment
of a text. Rubinstein, despite her appearances with the Ballets Russes, was
not a classically trained dancer. She had trained independently with Russian
choreographer Michel Fokine as a young adult but had not experienced the
traditional dance school training. Never one to miss an opportunity for
sensationalism (or box office), Serge Diaghilev had engaged her more for her
exotic stage presence and ability to convey such characters as Cléopatra than
for her dancing skills. Although D’Annunzio wrote Saint Sébastien
specifically for Rubinstein, he may not have anticipated the strength of her
stage presence, which was virtually impossible to integrate or merge with the
other components. Predictably, as Fleischer shows, the result was theatrical
chaos. That Saint Sébastien was revived and performed in major opera houses
(Paris, London, Milan) was more, Fleischer explains, through radical
reworking of the production. |
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Fleischer’s
application of Claudel’s theories to his work with Börlin and the Ballets
Suédois is particularly fascinating and, arguably, the most integrated
analysis in this study. Although her frequent references to the Ballets
Russes are extremely generalized and, in places, irritatingly superficial,
her analysis of Claudel’s L’Homme et son désir (1921) is highly original and
the many illustrations enable the reader to visualize the production. Through
her analysis of the set in relation to the spatial groupings of the
performers, the musical score, and the expressive movements and gestures,
Fleischer brings to life an extraordinary, hitherto, little known
production. |
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One flaw in
this otherwise valuable study is the author’s failure to devote more than a
fleeting reference to Oscar Wilde’s Salomé
in the introduction. True, the play was not written in collaboration with
other artists, but even a cursory glance at Fleischer’s index suggests its
impact on symbolist-inspired theatre at this time. Sprinkled throughout the
work are references to Salomé and its various offshoots: The biographical section on Rubinstein
provides several paragraphs devoted to the play’s Russian production history;
allusions are made to Max Reinhardt’s 1907-08 production for which St Denis
rejected the role on the grounds of Wilde’s play being too decadent;
interesting reference is made to Hofmannsthal’s little known scenario for Salomé, originally written for St
Denis; and the reader is also reminded of the strong influence that Wilde’s
play had on the Yeats/de Valois collaboration for The King of the Great Clock
Tower. Whether Fleischer realizes or not, Salomé’s
influence permeates her book and a brief introductory discussion specifically
about Wilde’s text would enrich the work considerably. |
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Embodied Texts is an excellent source
for students and scholars of modernist theatre, dance, art, and stage design.
Fleischer provides an original and fascinating study on the emergence of the
dance-play, or dance theatre, as a theatrical genre. While several
contemporary critics recognized these dance-plays for their theatrical innovation,
several expressed bafflement when attempting to identify genre or form.
Consequently, the productions were short-lived and, until now, some of them
forgotten or, sadly, unknown. Fleischer’s vast collection of illustrations is
extremely valuable in enabling the reader to visualize the choreographic
image described. Indeed, the illustrations are a major strength of the book.
The lengthy bibliography is impressive and provides an excellent source for
future scholarship. This work is long overdue and points the way to further
exploration and a deeper understanding of the impact dance had on both the
performing and literary arts of the fin de siècle and modernist era. |
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·
Annabel
Rutherford is Dance Editor of THE OSCHOLARS |
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Angela Kingston, Oscar Wilde as a Character in Victorian
Fiction. New York and Houndsmills, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007.
304 pp. |
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Angela Kingston’s book is
an important addition to the recent spate of studies on fictional
representations of Oscar Wilde, such as Tanitch’s inventory Oscar Wilde on Stage and Screen
(1999), Haase’s analysis of Wilde portraits in biofictional literature, Oscar Wilde für alle – Die Darstellung
Oscar Wildes in biofiktionaler Literatur (2004) or my own
media-comparative study of fictional biographies of Oscar Wilde in Roman, Drama und Film (2003). While these writers
are principally interested in fictional representations of Wilde from the
twentieth century, Kingston has chosen to restrict her analysis to fictional
portraits of Wilde in English published during his lifetime and has even
further limited her text corpus to narrative prose texts. Within this scope,
however, she aims at completeness, and her table of contents lists an
impressive 36 works with fictional Wilde portraits from the period between
1877 and 1900 as well as two immediately related later texts from the early
years of the twentieth century. As an appendix, Kingston moreover provides an
extensive annotated bibliography of novels and short stories featuring Wilde
as a character from the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. By identifying
28 novels and short stories with Wilde portraits published between 1895 and
1930, she not only convincingly contradicts the established belief that the
Wilde fiction industry basically dried up after the Wilde trials before
reviving in the 1930s, but also goes well beyond the scope of the text
corpora treated in the studies mentioned above. The book ends with a useful
index of names and topics. |
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Even though Kingston
writes most exhaustively about better-known fictions such as Dracula, Robert Hichen’s The Green Carnation or Henry James’ The Tragic Muse, her book goes far
beyond other critical studies on early Wilde portraits, such as John Stokes’ Oscar Wilde: Myths, Miracles, and
Imitations (1996). Kingston’s book introduces the reader to texts by
canonised authors (e.g. Shaw, Conan Doyle, Beardsley and Stoker) or by
household names of late nineteenth-century literature (e.g. Marie Corelli,
Mrs Humphrey Ward, Marc-André Raffalovich, Richard Le Gallienne and Ada
Leverson) as well as writers that even specialists in late nineteenth-century
literature will not have heard of before. Kingston presents and analyses the
texts from her corpus individually and in chronological order. She has
subdivided her review according to the works’ dates of publication into three
parts ‘that correspond with distinct phases in Wilde’s public life’ (3). The
first part of her book thus deals with works published during Wilde’s
so-called ‘first phase’ as an Aesthete
(1877-1890); the second part contains works published during his phase as Decadent (1891-1895); and the last
part presents texts published after the trials, when Wilde was forced to lead
the life of a Pariah (1896-1900).
At first glance, this subdivision might appear problematic, since some of the
later portraits clearly reflect earlier ways of representing Wilde, such as
the aesthete Guy Waye in the novel Miss
Malevolent (1899) by C. A. E. Ranger Gull. Moreover, Kingston goes
somewhat against her own premise by including Max Beerbohm’s ‘A Peep into the
Past’ in her corpus, which, though written in 1893 or 1894, was only
published in 1923. (Similarly, she concentrates on the uncensored 1907
version of Aubrey Beardsley’s The Story
of Venus and Tannhäuser rather than the expurgated excerpts published in
1896 as ‘Under the Hill’.) Yet the subdivision of the book is ultimately
convincing because even though Kingston never systematically categorises the
various Wilde portraits from her text corpus, it allows her to sketch out
changing tendencies and shifts in emphasis in the Wilde portraits of and
between the three periods. Her presentation of these shifts and changes is
supported by biographical information about Wilde that Kingston provides as a
backdrop for the Wilde portraits in her corpus and as a linking device
between the various phases of Wilde’s life. It also serves as a unifying
element in view of the very disparate nature of the works of Kingston’s
corpus, which reflect Wilde’s often contradictory self-presentation, and as a
way to provide an outlook at fictional portraits of Wilde in other genres
than narrative prose fiction. |
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Somewhat problematically,
Kingston’s methodological approach to her corpus consists in ‘critiquing’ the
fictions on the basis of ‘the strength of the resemblance of the fictional
character to Wilde’ (3), which seems to contradict the claim in her
introduction that she regards fiction as a supplement of historical
knowledge, which must not, however, be mistaken for biography. Deliberately
pursuing a biographical approach, she also aims to ‘ascertain if and how the
author was acquainted with [Wilde]’ and ‘how this relation is reflected’ in
the individual works (3). Kingston has moreover tried to find out whether and
how the portrait was ever acknowledged by the author or Wilde himself and,
where applicable, provides and discusses relevant critiques by others in
addition to her own analysis (3/4). |
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The result of this
approach to a highly impressive corpus of texts is an extremely informative
study of the manifold perceptions of Wilde that existed during his lifetime,
and of Wilde as an agent and object of scrutiny within his professional and
social environment. One might argue that especially towards the end of the
book Kingston’s text contains altogether too many speculations masked as
intriguing prospects (e.g. 100) or ‘interesting possibilities’ (216); for
example, she hints at an affair between Ada Leverson and Frederic Carrel
without proper corroboration. However, Kingston’s speculations are always
marked as such, and her detailed research on authors’ lives and
interconnections, which has uncovered a wealth of biographical detail beyond
the standard biographies, as well as on the social, historical and political
influences shaping the production of her text corpus, has led to an
extraordinarily intricate and vivid depiction of the web of social and
literary relations that Wilde was a part of. Especially by unearthing a lot
of information about lesser-known writers and positing them in relation to
Wilde, Kingston has gone beyond a study of the reception of Wilde to create
also a sort of communal biography of writers, which allows the reader an informative
glimpse at the literary scene in late nineteenth-century London (and beyond).
In fact, her analysis of the Wildean character in the fictional text
sometimes decidedly pales in relation to the information she provides about
its author and his/her relation to Wilde (e.g. in the case of the survey of A Willing Exile by Marc-André
Raffalovich). Moreover, in several cases, Kingston’s claim of Wildean
influences in a specific literary character seems far more tenuous and
speculative than her factual narrative of the genesis or background of the
text in question (see e.g. her analysis of Joseph Conrad’s ‘The Return’). The
mentioning of white fleshy hands, drooping eyelids and a distinctive voice in
characters otherwise unlike Wilde, seems hardly enough to warrant the claim
that these characters represent fictional portraits of Wilde. This,
however, is implied by Kingston’s use of the resemblance of the fictional to
the ‘real’ Wilde as a normative criterion in her textual analyses (e.g. in
her evaluations of George Fleming’s Mirage
and Gull’s The Hypocrite). Indeed,
Kingston’s own wording repeatedly suggests that many of the texts she surveys
do not contain ‘Oscar Wilde as a character’, which the title of her study
implies, but rather characters ‘who display […] aspects of Wilde’ (28). In
some cases, such as Grant Allen’s Linnet:
A Romance or Mrs Campbell Praed’s The
Scourge-Stick, one might even go further and ask whether it would not
make more sense to regard the allegedly Wildean figures in these texts as
generic representations of aesthetes or dandies – which admittedly derive
from Wilde and the prevalent notions about him in a similar way that the
later generic figure of the male homosexual does, but whose relationship to
Wilde is more tenuous than Kingston suggests. Due to these methodological
questions, Kingston’s analysis of
fictional representations of Wilde during his lifetime remains somewhat less
satisfying than her detailed and vivid depiction of the network that Wilde
was part of as author, critic, socialite and object of creative interest. In
this second respect, however, the book is thoroughly convincing and a real
biographical treat. |
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·
Lucia Krämer is Germany Editor of THE
OSCHOLARS. |
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Christopher Stray, ed.: Gilbert Murray Reassessed: Hellenism,
Theatre, and International Politics.
Oxford & New York: Oxford University Press, 2007. ISBN-13: 978-0-19-920879-1. 400pp.
£65. 00 (Hardback). |
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In the Einleitung of his seminal edition of
Euripides’ Herakles, Ulrich von
Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, rejecting the Nietzschean ideal of the philologist
as prophet, urged: ‘We philologists … must have something of the actor in us
– not the virtuoso who interprets his role in his own way but rather the true
artist who through his heart’s blood gives life to the dead word.’ Perhaps
the nearest embodiment of this principle of exegetic enquiry was Wilamowitz’s
friend and disciple Gilbert Murray (1866-1957), whose important rehabilitative
work on Euripides owed much to the great German philologist’s ‘historical
insight and singular gift of imaginative sympathy with ancient Greece’
(Murray, A History of Ancient Greek
Literature, 1897). Although he
lacked Wilamowitz’s hermeneutic exactitude, Murray was first and foremost a
consummate performer (albeit one with a touch of the virtuoso about him), an
academic equipped with theatrical acumen and actorly intuition and instilled
with a mission to breathe life into the classics. It is fitting that his ashes lie interred
in Westminster Abbey’s Poet’s Corner near the grave of David Garrick. The present volume, edited by Christopher
Stray, is testament to Murray’s proficiency and, above all, his versatility
as a performer. |
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Most of the sixteen
papers collected here derive from a conference on Gilbert Murray held at the
Institute of Classical Studies, University of London, between 6th and 8th
July 2005. The middle day of the
conference coincided with the ‘7/7 bombings’, the coordinated terrorist
attacks on London’s public transport system, which included the explosion of
a bomb on a double-decker bus in nearby Tavistock Square. It is to the memory of the victims of those
attacks that this volume is dedicated.
In his introduction, Stray recalls that the bomb blasts brought home
to the delegates ‘the human reality of the issues to which Murray devoted so
much of his life. ’ |
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The book’s publication
comes fifty years after Murray’s death and almost a century after his
appointment as Regius Professor of Greek at Oxford. Murray’s career and legacy are certainly
ripe for reassessment. Although in his
lifetime he wielded an influence and attained a celebrity status few
classicists have matched, most Greek scholars nowadays have a low opinion of
his work. He is commonly disparaged as
an amateur and popularizer, a critical lightweight despite his enormous
erudition. Gilbert Murray Reassessed is a valiant and, for the most part,
successful attempt to redress such facile censure, to form a reappraisal of
Murray’s deeds well beyond the undeniable shortcomings of his literary
criticism and historical perspective, and to capture something of the human
essence of an extraordinary individual.
It is thus the first collection of its kind. |
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The eighteen contributors
to the volume are drawn from several disciplines – classics and classical
reception studies, education, politics, economics, theatre studies, history
(ancient and modern), and international relations – reflecting the remarkable
range of Murray’s own interests and activities. The aggregate image is of a colossus who
bestrode the worlds of Victorianism and Modernism and of classicism and
historicism, a scholar and statesman with a sizeable dash of the popular
entertainer (even vaudevillian) thrown into the mix. Evaluating the difficulties inherent in the
commemoration and analysis of such protean endeavour, Stray observes: ‘The
author of The Study of History [Arnold Toynbee] had the gift of seeing the
grand pattern in the scattered particulars, but also a tendency to impose
Procrustean patterns on them. A
similar problem confronts anyone who writes about Murray’s achievement and
his position in history. ’ While it manages to avoid Toynbee’s Procrustean
tendencies, the volume as a whole could have profited from some of his
grand-pattern perception. It could
likewise have profited from Murray’s gift for synthesis and engaging
presentation. Inevitably, and maybe of
necessity, it is somewhat discursive.
Nonetheless, this is a valuable and penetrative study, bold in scope
and objective. |
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The first chapter
comprises two sets of recollected vignettes by Murray’s grandchildren Ann
Paludan and Alexander Murray, both accomplished scholars in their own
right. These vivid shards of memory
afford intimate, unsentimental glimpses of Murray at Yatscombe, his home on
Boars Hill, ‘the green paradise that looks down on Oxford’s towers. ’ They
fashion a portrait of a man of warmth, humour and incisive intellect, of mild
eccentricity and benign authority.
Alongside this portrait is evoked, with equal vividness and affection,
the memory of Murray’s wife, Lady Mary (daughter of the 9th Earl of Carlisle)
and of the symbiotic union they enjoyed.
Chapter 2 by Francis West is a well-researched but slightly tedious
reassessment of Murray’s genealogy and misremembered Australian childhood. |
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Chapters 3 to 6
constitute a cogent exposition of Murray’s work as classicist: his writings
on Greek literature, philosophy, and religion, his textual editing, and his
translations of Greek tragedy. The
last showed him to be, in James Morwood’s words, an ‘instinctive man of the
theatre’. In discussing Murray’s aim
to procure a wider audience for classics, Mark Griffith presents Murray as
the developer, ahead of his time, of a type of Outreach programme. Christopher Collard provides a fresh and
adroit review of the area of Murray’s classical scholarship that has received
the most condemnation, his textual criticism. |
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Fiona Macintosh’s
excellent chapter on the theatrical legacy of Murray’s translation of
Euripides’ Bacchae, in particular
its influence on Bernard Shaw and Nigerian playwright Wole Soyinka, is one of
the volume’s most effective demonstrations and reassessments of Murray’s
enduring significance. The next three
chapters consider Murray in the role of friend and mentor, and specifically
his relationships with three men very different from himself: A. E.
Housman, J. A. K.
Thomson, and Bertrand Russell.
Chapters 11 to 13 deal with Murray’s famed liberalism and his
involvement in politics and international relations. Martin Caedel charts Murray’s progression
from Gladstonian to Asquithean, from apologist to internationalist, and from
liberal to conservative. Peter Wilson
evaluates Murray the international political theorist, indicating the
limitations of what he perceived as Murray’s idealist strategy ‘to inject
into international affairs the values, manners, and code of conduct of the
nineteenth-century English gentleman.’ Julia Stapleton explores Murray’s
conception of Hellenism in relation to the vicissitudes of twentieth-century
liberalism, focusing on his association with Alfred Eckhard Zimmern and with
the Home University Library. |
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The final three chapters
examine hitherto largely neglected aspects of Murray the public man of
letters and popular entertainer. Mick
Morris documents Murray’s long involvement in radio, his BBC broadcasts as
translator of ancient drama, lecturer on a wide variety of topics, and regular
member of the Brains Trust. Murray
was, Morris states, ‘quite literally, to millions of radio listeners, the voice
of classical learning.’ But as proof that he was a classicist with no
ordinary or circumscribed remit, we learn that his first radio appearance
took place at the conclusion of the General Strike of 1926 when he was asked
by John Reith, the first Director General of the BBC, to speak to the nation
in a bid to heal raw wounds. Murray as
prolific letter writer to The Times,
second only probably to George Bernard Shaw in this regard, is the subject of
an essay by William Bruneau and Russell Wodell, who have compiled a
representative selection of Murray’s correspondence between 1908 and 1956 ‘as
evidence of his powers as a practical logician and a prose stylist. ’
Finally, Nick Lowe gives an interesting account of Murray’s lifelong
engagement in psychic research, describing him as ‘the most significant
telepath of his age’. Equally
interesting is the revelation of Murray’s own ambivalence towards his psychic
abilities. |
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In consequence, and
occasionally in spite, of its contributors’ efforts at reassessment, the
picture of Murray that emerges from this collection of essays is of a
passionate Hellenist, a civilized and charismatic figure of admirable vision
and impressively wide sympathies and intellect, a figure too of complexity
and capable of self-contradiction. The
conclusion, which the various contributions collectively encourage, is that
it is as a great man, rather than a great classicist, that Murray should be
remembered. His greatness was in many
respects fostered by and peculiar to the time in which he lived. It is hard to imagine a comparably dashing
all-rounder, a flawed but commanding combination of professional and amateur,
finding a place in today’s worlds of classical scholarship, theatre, or
international politics. Alexander
Murray prefaces his recollections by saying that the thought of his
grandfather ‘conjures up a world. It
is full of people, vanishing beyond the horizon.’ In my view the entire
volume carries a strain of (unconscious) elegy; it is effectively a
remembrance of a world, and a Hellenism, that is all but lost. This elegiac quality is appropriate to its
subject. For there was in Gilbert
Murray himself something of the elegist in the way his intellectual and
political labours signified a kind of nostos,
a vigorous desire to recover a fundamental decency. |
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·
Kathleen Riley is a British Academy Postdoctoral Fellow in
Classics at Corpus Christi College, Oxford and the author of Nigel Hawthorne on Stage (University
of Hertfordshire Press, 2004) and The
Reception and Performance of Euripides’ Herakles: Reasoning Madness
(Oxford University Press, May 2008). |
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Ruth Livesey: Socialism, Sex, and the Culture of
Aestheticism in Britain, 1880-1914. Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2007. Hardbound, x + 236 pp, illustrated. ISBN 978 0 19 726398 3. £30 / $60 |
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In Socialism, Sex, and the Culture of Aestheticism in Britain, 1880-1914,
Ruth Livesey analyses the appropriation of aestheticism for the ideological
armoury of socialism in the late-nineteenth century, and its ultimate
cultural secession in the Edwardian period. While the late-Victorian
aesthetes could consider their art as socially transformative, and thus
contributory to the coming socialist dawn, by the eve of the Great War,
socialist politics had turned to more hard-nosed (and in many ways
aggressive) issues such as addressing poverty, empowering workers’
organisations and succeeding through parliamentary and extra-parliamentary
means, while the aesthetic movement took a radically individualist turn,
ultimately feeding into Modernism and rather detached (and one might say
socially irrelevant) preoccupations. |
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Reacting against the notion
of the artist as necessarily individualist, socialist artists emerged in the
late-Victorian period in reaction to the strictures placed upon their work by
capitalist society. The emerging phenomena of industrial production, mass
publicity and the marketing of taste both priced the artist out of the market
and restricted the propagation of aesthetic taste due to capitalist
monopolisation of the means of production, distribution and exchange. In
short, artists’ and craftspersons’ commodities were too expensive for mass
enjoyment, while the emerging mass media balked at publicising productions
that did not ‘sell’ in favour of more successful commodities (i.e., cheaper
and more plentiful) that did. With William Morris in the vanguard, artists
and craftspersons emerged (often associated with the Arts and Crafts
Movement, and such periodicals as the New Age) who challenged, on the one
hand, the dominance of machine production of commodities and, on the other,
the elitist, ghettoised status of the aesthete as individualist, existing
outside of history and producing art for its own sake, detached from the
cultural needs of the society in which they existed. Livesey describes the
aesthetic polarisation at the fin-de-siècle thus: ‘Whilst aestheticism tended
towards individualism, the sensuous pleasures of taste and consumption, and
insisted on the absolute autonomy of the aesthetic, socialist writers tried
to frame an alternative in which art was by its very nature a communal
product of labour and will, with only relative freedom from the material
determination of capitalism’ (1-2). |
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Throughout her study,
Livesey privileges Fabianism and the New Age as forums within which socialist
aesthetics flourished, writing that ‘Not only were a large number of artists
and writers members of the Fabian Society during the late nineteenth and
early twentieth centuries, but also the New Age, a journal central to the
dissemination of early modernist literature, was established by members of
the Fabian Arts Group in 1907’ (7-8) (though Livesey’s later assertion that
the New Age was ‘an adjunct of the Fabian Society’ [18] overstates the
relationship between the two). Given the nature of her study, it is
surprising that Livesey does not discuss the emergence of the Samurai Society
in this context, and as a breeding ground for the emerging Modernist
‘movement’. The Society was inspired by the ascetic ruling class of H. G.
Wells’s A Modern Utopia (1905), and while its founding meeting in April 1907
(under the auspices of the Fabian Arts Group at the New Reform Club) declared
an intention to establish Samurai Clubs and train up political leaders of the
future, the reality (with Wells’s support) proved to be a Norwich-based
printing press which published 34 titles of (mostly) poetry between 1907 and
1909. Although a short-lived enterprise, the leading lights of the Samurai
Society were Maurice Browne and Harold Munro. In later life Browne
established the Chicago Little Theatre (1912), and was the founder of the
Dartington Hall drama programme and Maurice Browne Ltd, a West End theatre
company which controlled the theatrical rights to R. C. Sherriff’s Journey’s End (1928). Munro later
became the manager of the ‘Poetry Bookshop’ and edited Poetry Review (1912) and The
Chapbook (1919-21). As bridges between Victorian socialist aesthetics and
Modernism, a discussion of Browne and Munro would have been useful and
revealing. |
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In the first chapter,
Livesey discusses ‘William Morris and the Aesthetics of Manly Labour’, seeing
Morris as the emergent artist radicalised to socialism by a frustrated
aesthetic. A pupil of John Ruskin and Thomas Carlyle, Morris took those
sages’ anti-industrialism and channelled it into a collectivist aesthetic
which promoted a socialist future of free labour engaged in physical
(pleasurable) arts and crafts. According to Livesey, ‘The aesthetic ideal
must be available to all, Morris argues, in order to stimulate material
change. Only the aesthetic has the capacity to stand outside the shadow of
history: it is the only place left for idealism in Morris’s socialist theory;
the only means by which will and desire can have relative autonomy from the
material determinations of capitalism’ (43). For Morris, socialism would
emancipate the artist and craftsperson from the limits placed upon them by
free market ethics, and such an emancipation would result in a transformation
of the built environment and thus transform the quality of life and the
relationship of workers to their work. For, in such a society, all work would
be art, and therefore free and pleasurable. |
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Especially in chapter
two, Livesey addresses the issues female socialists such as Clementina Black
faced regarding class solidarity versus gender solidarity. Black became an
activist in London’s East End, mobilising self-help among the poor, and
encouraging trade union membership during the mid- to late-1880s. As part of
this campaign Black rejected or ignored initiatives by women to unite for
causes peculiar to their gender, seeing working class unity as paramount and
believing that socialist victory would automatically transform gender
relations. However, by the beginning of the 1890s, it became clear to Black
and her like that women faced particular abuses, both under capitalism and
within the labour movement itself, and she began supporting women’s
organisations and initiatives to safeguard women from abuses at work, such as
the appointment of female factory inspectors and women’s sections of labour
and socialist organisations. This identification by Livesey of such factional
choices forced upon women socialists predates the theoretical and practical
debates held within the Second International later in the century, when Clara
Zetkin was arguing for class solidarity among world socialists, and rejecting
the alliance of the working class women’s movement with the bourgeois
feminist movement of the 1890s. Zetkin, the paramount Marxist theoretician of
women’s role within the labour movement, came to realise that socialism would
not of itself deliver gender equality, and from the early twentieth century
argued for a socialist women’s movement within the greater socialist movement
in her native Germany and within the Second International generally, a
realisation she might have observed earlier had she been aware of the more
advanced women’s movement in Britain. There, questions of gender within and
between classes already had a history of debate and consideration due to the
experiences of activist female socialists such as Black. |
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Chapter four contains a
discussion of ‘faddism’ in late-nineteenth and early-twentieth century
socialism – vegetarianism, sandal-wearing and ‘Jaegerism’ – and its uneasy
positioning between (and ultimate disregard by) labourism and Marxist
socialism as the twentieth century progressed. Livesey portrays faddism as a
development of earlier ethical socialism, and presents it as a practical,
achievable objective for bourgeois socialists such as George Bernard Shaw and
Edward Carpenter, as ‘For many socialists […] vegetarianism and dress reform
were a tangible means of acting upon this ethical reformist agenda of the
“religion of socialism”’ (105). As the vegetarian, H. S. Salt asserted in
1899, vegetarianism ‘was nothing less than “Progressiveness in diet”, freeing
man from the cravings for meat consequent upon advanced capitalism and
returning him to the humane farinaceous diet of the peasants of the past’
(105). For Carpenter, vegetarianism and dress reform were conduits by which
practitioners could achieve a sort of spiritual advancement. Carpenter
credited Lamarckian evolution, and saw will or ‘desire’ as motive forces in
improving the individual and through the individual the culture at large. |
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By translating Lamarck’s besoin,
or need – the driving force behind species modification – as desire,
Carpenter was able to sketch out a thoroughly intentionalist and idealist
model of development. Change of any sort, Carpenter argued, was ‘not
accretive, but exfoliatory’, beginning in the ‘mental region’, and moving
from ‘desire, gradually taking form in thought’ passing into the ‘bodily
region’, expressing itself in action, and only then ‘solidifying itself in
organisation and structure’. Wanting to have a certain form, thinking of the
self a certain way brought that body into being. (113) |
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Having covered these and
other expressions of aestheticism within the socialist movement, Livesey
concludes her study with a very interesting chapter on the break between the
aesthetes and socialism. Although the misnomer ‘aesthetic movement’ is often
used, aestheticism was not united by any single institution (though a variety
of cultural organisations existed for various members of the aesthetic
establishment); all the more interesting is it, therefore, that aesthetes en
bloc shifted from a socially engaged practice to an insular, individualist
and irresponsible mode of artistic production around 1907 (or, with Virginia
Woolf, should that be c. 1910?). While figures like Shaw continued to espouse
such notions of the Victorian aesthetes as vegetarianism, Lamarckism and
unconventional medical approaches, such ideas were marginalised and ridiculed
from the Edwardian period onwards. Livesey demonstrates this cultural shift
through a discussion of Alfred Orage. Orage began public life as an Independent
Labour Party activist in Leeds in the 1880s, and increased his significance
in the socialist movement through editing the reborn New Age from 1907.
However, by fronting the aesthetic debates within the socialist movement in
the pages of his journal, Orage quickly repositioned himself, remaining true
to the evolving aesthetic culture, but thereby finding it difficult to remain
relevant to the socialist cause. True, the New Age continued to publish
political debates throughout Orage’s editorship (1907-22), but from around
1911 his editorials became cynical, and his criticisms were aimed at
socialist thinkers and practices, though from the perspective of a socialist
thought that could no longer be grounded in theory or in the practice of
political activists. Thus the aesthetic socialism espoused by Orage from 1911
was a hollow shell, socialism in name, but in fact not socialism at all. With
the emergence of such new contributors to the New Age as Ezra Pound, and the
disappearance from its pages (except to make an occasional attack upon it) of
H. G. Wells and Arnold Bennett, the remaining socialist readership could find
few contributors sharing their political convictions. The aesthetic the New
Age came to promote may have retained an interest for socialist readers, but
not for any socialist content it contained. |
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Livesey’s study carries
an interest, though perhaps less for scholars of political thought and action
than for those interested in the shifting manifestations of aesthetic culture
at the fin-de-siècle. |
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Sébastien Rutés, Le Linceul du vieux monde (Marseille,
Éditions l’Atinoir, 2008) Paperback ISBN: 978-2-35299-023-9. Price: 12€ |
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A
Pleasing Melancholy |
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The preface warns us that
the structure of this novel will be complex—and so it is. At the centre is
Oscar Wilde in Parisian exile, drawn into a circle of anarchists who ply him
with absinthe and then ignore his witticisms. As Wilde toys with the dream of
dynamiting the Eiffel Tower, he becomes involved in an anarchist scheme to
unmask the perpetrators of series of recent attacks on beautiful Parisians,
an unsolved mystery that is currently attracting unwanted police attention to
the anarchist milieu. Also on the case is an anaemic racing-driver of a
police inspector, concurrently pursuing a gang of Chinese opium-dealers who
appear to be dealing in more than opium. Meanwhile, in an exotic opium club
near the Parc Monceau, a sinister English gentleman is organising masked
balls with ulterior motives. And in the background is Paris, a capital
excited by the Dreyfus Affair and the preparations for the forthcoming
International Exhibition, its restless crowds surging through the streets in
the hope of violent confrontation between the Ligue antisémitique and the police, and pressing their faces
against the windows of the Morgue to view its latest victims. |
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The scene is set for
mystery, adventure, and a nostalgic peregrination through a Paris of bohemian
cafés-concerts and secret assignations, and in this deftly constructed and
engaging novel, Sébastien Rutés does not disappoint. Certainly, the warning
of complexity should be well heeded. The tangled skeins of the various
subplots are initially perplexing, and the rich variety of anarchist
slang—bandits lapse readily into javanais,
in which every vowel is followed by –av
or –va, while butchers prefer
the more complex louchebem—can be
similarly challenging. (Fortunately Rutés provides a glossary, and Wilde’s
demands for clarification are often timely.) Yet the reader’s indulgence is
ultimately and generously rewarded. Based on the premise that Wilde
frequented anarchist circles during his Parisian exile—and he did indeed
encounter anarchist poets at the Kalisaya café, including a friend of the
terrorist Émile Henry—Rutés constructs a fictional detective story that is
often fantastical, and invariably entertaining. |
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When the rich tapestry of
the narrative is complete, a well-conceived pattern emerges, and there is a
strong underlying harmony of style, theme, and tone. Deliberately recalling
the sources and preoccupations of the period, Rutés makes consistent use of
fictional newspaper extracts to present the lurid faits divers of his narrative, and each press cutting then
features in the following chapter. It is an effective technique, maintaining
a brisk pace and establishing useful links between subplots, while also
giving the novel the flavour of an archival investigation. Equally successful
(and strongly reminiscent of police dossiers in the Archives Nationales) is
the construction of a complete chapter around a collection of brief reports
labelled individually with time and place: a series of snapshots of the
subplots as they gradually and inexorably converge. |
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The deft interweaving of
this fictional detective drama with the historical chronology of the Dreyfus
Affair creates a tension between appearance and reality that also
characterises the novel as a whole. When Wilde first joins his anarchist
friend Nino in their search for the mysterious attackers, neither is quite
certain where reality ends and fiction begins, not least when discussing
their self-identification with Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Wilde delights in
the multiple opportunities for disguise and reinvention within the anarchist
milieu: not content with his assumed name of Sebastian Melmoth, he later
claims to be related to Buffalo Bill, basking in the admiration thus elicited
from his new acquaintances. Two separate instances of fancy dress reinforce
this tension between appearance and reality, disguise and revelation, while
also offering rich possibilities for comic misunderstanding. |
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The novel’s structural and
thematic unity is further strengthened by its dominant tone. This is not
merely a detective story, but also—and more fundamentally—a poetic homage to
the decadence and melancholy of the fin-de-siècle which is strongly autumnal
in quality (most of the action takes place in September–October 1899). The
title of the novel is apt, but ironic. Taken from a song by Aristide Bruant,
the celebrated cabaret singer immortalised in the posters of
Toulouse-Lautrec, Le Linceul du vieux
monde is the shroud woven by anarchists in preparation for society’s
imminent demise. Anarchists of the fin-de-siècle frequently identified
themselves as the ‘new barbarians’ whose assault on the civilised world would
accomplish its final destruction, and they deliberately evoked the historical
precedent of the fall of the Roman Empire. Their violence and vitality would,
so they claimed, renew the world, and they often underlined their own
youthfulness as evidence of their regenerative potential. Yet the central
characters of Rutés novel are, for the most part, no longer young. Wilde is
deeply conscious of his physical decline; Nino increasingly infirm; even the
Argentinean terrorist Le Sahuayo reminisces about heroic exploits almost
three decades ago on the barricades of the Commune. Their glory has faded;
they are incurably nostalgic for their lost youth; and the fast-paced murder
mystery that jerks them out of their habitual reverie provides a strangely
brief staccato against the sustained melancholy of the underlying melody.
Ironically, Rutés’ characters are fighting not against the old world but
against the new, angrily opposed to the brash ironwork of the Eiffel Tower that
offends Wilde’s aesthetic sensibilities, and to the modernisation and
technical progress that strip the world of mystery and romance. ‘Ennui is the enemy,’ as Wilde observed
in a letter from Switzerland in 1899, and the observation could be
pertinently applied to almost every one of Rutés’ characters. Even the
villain echoes this sentiment precisely, nostalgic for the gothic tales of
his youth and for the perceived virility of medieval heroism. |
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Rutés intends his novel to
be a hybrid version of the roman noir,
somewhere between the thriller, the historical novel, and the
nineteenth-century serial. It is not an easy position to adopt: the necessary
explanations of historical context can seem heavy-handed or artificial, the
many-layered narrative can appear confusing, and a book of this length does
not offer the leisure of the nineteenth-century novel for the elaboration of
complex subplots. Yet Rutés navigates his path with confidence, and the final
impression is of a pleasing melancholy, carefully sustained. If the novel
stands as a homage to the literary fin-de-siècle, it is also reminiscent of
early cinema: there is something here of the macabre comedy of Louis
Feuillade’s Fantômas, and of the
quirky innovation of Georges Méliès (like Méliès, Rutés also adorns his
creation with beautiful, decorative women.)
Le
Linceul du vieux monde is Sébastien Rutés’ first
novel. I hope
that it will be the first of many. |
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·
Jessica Wardhaugh is a Junior Research Fellow at Christ
Church, Oxford. She has edited a book on Paris
and the Right in the Twentieth Century, and has a forthcoming monograph
on street politics in France during the 1930s with Palgrave Macmillan. She
has also published on anarchist culture in the Belle Époque, and is currently
writing a history of popular theatre during the Third Republic. |
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Review by Eva
Thienpont |
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André Capiteyn: Maeterlinck. Een Nobelprijs voor Gent (ISBN
978-90-5349-658-9) and Maeterlinck. Un
prix Nobel (ISBN 978-90-5349-687-9), Uitgeverij Snoeck 2008. [Maeterlinck: a Nobel Prize for Ghent –
a new introduction by André Capiteyn] |
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To this day, Maurice Maeterlinck (1862-1949) remains
the only Belgian author ever to have received the Nobel Prize for Literature
(1911). You would think that this would make him a figure of note in his
native city of Ghent, but that is hardly the case. Even at the time of his
greatest successes, Maeterlinck was not cherished in his hometown. If people
talked about him, it was mostly to gossip about his love-life – for the
longest time, his mistress was the actress Georgette Leblanc, and he later
married another actress, the much younger Renée Dahon. The Ghent bourgeoisie
did not like his plays, because they were too avant-garde, nor his attitude,
which was not sufficiently modest. But even today, very little in the city
reminds the visitor (or, for that matter, the locals) of its famous inhabitant.
Though there is a Maeterlinck Cabinet in the Arnold Vander Haeghen house, and
the city archive holds a Maeterlinck archive and photo collection, the author
has no museum exclusively devoted to or named after him, and so the material
goes largely unnoticed by the general public. |
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In 1999, the year of the fiftieth anniversary of
Maeterlinck’s death, the city of Ghent asked André Capiteyn, researcher for
the city archive, to write an introduction to the author’s life and work. The
little book having sold out, it was time for an update, and Capiteyn has now
reworked and expanded his text, which has been published as Maeterlinck. Een Nobelprijs voor Gent.
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With its 112 extensively illustrated pages, Maeterlinck. Een Nobelprijs voor Gent
offers a concise overview of the Nobel Prize winner’s life, writing career
and work. The book is not aimed at a scholarly audience, and those readers
who were hoping for an in-depth treatment of important Symbolist works like Serres chaudes and La princesse Maleine, let alone their
influence on other authors (we cannot fail in the present context to think of
Oscar Wilde and his Salomé), will be disappointed. Maeterlinck’s role as a
Symbolist and his time in Paris are mentioned, but not expounded upon. Then
again, the book never pretends to be a study. Een Nobelprijs voor Gent presents itself as nothing more, but
also nothing less, than an accessible introduction to the figure of
Maeterlinck for the general interested public. It certainly does what it has
to do: it is a pleasant read that leaves the reader wanting to know more
about its fascinating subject. The biography that forms the main part of the
book is padded with poems, anecdotes, and interesting details about
performances and musical settings (most famously by Debussy) of Maeterlinck’s
writings. The one hundred and twenty illustrations – old Ghent cityscapes, snapshots, and book
illustrations by famous contemporaries of the author like Frans Masereel,
Georges Minne, and Fernand Khnopff – are well-chosen and form an excellent
visual counterpart to Maeterlinck’s texts, as well as a backdrop for the
events of his life. |
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The French translation of Capiteyn’s book, Maeterlinck. Un prix Nobel, chooses to
ignore the fact, but the Dutch version has Ghent in its title. Indeed, Een Nobelprijs voor Gent deals to a
significant extent with Maeterlinck’s sometimes troubled relationship with
the city where he was born. Maeterlinck, though born and raised in Flanders,
like most affluent members of the bourgeoisie at the time wrote in French and
did not speak Dutch; he did, however, speak Ghent dialect – very Belgian of
him. As an extra, the second part of the book reprints those fragments from
Maeterlinck’s memoir, Bulles Bleues,
that relate to his childhood in Flanders. These extracts are printed here for
the first time in Dutch, and paint, with a delightful irony so different from
Maeterlinck’s usual, rather humourless, literary style, interesting pictures
of bourgeois life in nineteenth-century Ghent. Capiteyn also proposes a literary
walk through the city, listing all places of importance, complete with a
small map. |
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·
Eva Thienpont gained her doctorate (on Oscar Wilde) from the University of Gent
[Ghent/Gand]. She is a member of THE OSCHOLARS group of editors. |
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David Goodway:
Anarchist Seeds Beneath the Snow: Left
Libertarian Thought and British Writers from William Morris to Colin Ward
(Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2006), i-xi, 401 pp. 1-84631-026-1.
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In his 1989
collection For Anarchism David
Goodway argued that historical scholarship in anarchism had degenerated into
the dry and too often uncritical hero-worship of a set of well known
theorists at the cost of the study of the popular anarchist movement.[1] Not only was little known about this
movement, but what was known had been written by those who were hostile to it
and/or who adopted theoretical approaches which were likely to shed only
critical light on its activities. A
similar concern runs through Seeds
Beneath the Snow. Anarchism, he
argues, ‘continues to be shunned in polite circles, whether social or
academic’ (1). Indeed, he too
confesses to a reluctance ‘to express … longstanding anarchist sympathies’
because they ‘attracted such scorn’ (2).
Yet the premise of the book is Goodway’s increasing conviction ‘of the
urgent relevance of the anarchist position.
Challenging popular conceptions, he continues: ‘it is not anarchism
which is utopian but rather the belief that voting for a political party – any party – can bring
about significant social change that is utopian in the sense of being
completely unrealistic’ (2). His hope
is that by outlining the political history of the British anarchist and
left-libertarian movement he will encourage new, practical anarchist seeds of
action to germinate. |
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Goodway’s book
is not a study of an anonymous movement.
Rather, it examines the life and work of a number of writers Goodway
believes have been key to the development of British left-libertarianism:
William Morris, Edward Carpenter, Oscar Wilde, John Cowper Powys, George
Orwell, Herbert Read, Aldous Huxley, Alex Comfort, E.P. Thompson, Christopher
Pallis (aka Maurice Brinton) and Colin Ward.
It’s an impressive list and Goodway’s coverage is equally
impressive. Each one is brought to
life through the discussion of their writings, their particular concerns
explained by the close attention Goodway pays to the historical conditions in
which they operated and their general relevance developed through a complex
interweaving of his subjects’ mutual relations and/or influences. In organising the chapters, Goodway is led
by each individual and his strong, confident responses to them, rather than
by a uniform structure. The advantage
of this approach is that his obvious and infectious enthusiasm for each is
communicated very well. The
disadvantage is that readers unfamiliar with the territory have to
concentrate on the details, unable to anticipate the twists and turns of the
discussion. |
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Not all those
on Goodway’s list thought of themselves as anarchists (he uses
‘left-libertarianism’ as a ‘less emotive’ (1) synonym for anarchism). Indeed, as Goodway notes, Pallis
aggressively rejected the label. For
perhaps different reasons, Morris and Thompson were also hostile. Others, Huxley, for example, did not
express a preference either way, and are included because their work is
judged to have been anarchistic.
Goodway begins to explore the parameters of anarchism in his
introduction, but the theme runs right through the book. Its distinctive features include a concern
with individual expression and autonomy overcoming repression, sexual
liberation, decentralised organisation, self-management and/or the rejection
of exploitation, hierarchy and bureaucracy.
There are no minimum criteria to satisfy to qualify as an
anarchist. Indeed, Goodway’s sketches
suggest that the significant commitment is attitudinal as much as it is
programmatic. Nor is there any
necessity that these features manifest themselves in any particular way. The concern with autonomy and expression
might be more or less mystical and it might be drug-induced; it might
translate into inward-looking reflection and a concern with self-discovery or
into a social interest in combating systems of domination. The most that Goodway will insist upon is
his own preference for non-violence, a position which draws him towards
Comfort and Ward. |
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Goodway’s
approach to anarchism is itself anarchistic and this is to be applauded. At the same time, I was left wondering how
the boundaries between anarchism and the anarchistic might be
conceptualised. For all his professed
scepticism about ‘theory’, his probing of this relationship is the book’s
theoretical core. Perhaps Goodway is
right to suggest that these boundaries shouldn’t be formalised in theory, for
risk of ossification. On the other
hand, the open hostility to anarchism that he identifies in some of his
subjects and its casual dismissal in academic circles perhaps points to a
need for greater clarity. Indeed if,
as Goodway wishes, a new generation of anarchists are to be encouraged by his
study, there is a practical issue of co-operation at stake here. As a history of anarchist thought, then,
Goodway’s survey is fantastically and richly contestable. As a lesson in how to think about
anarchism, it is nevertheless inspiring.
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·
Ruth
Kinna is Senior Lecturer in Politics, Loughborough University |
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