Ancient Greek Theatre and the Theatre of the World: The Case of the
Tauric Iphigenia
Ancient Greek drama is now
performed in every part of the world: from Manipur in northeast India to
Melbourne, Australia; from Bolivia to Peking; from Newfoundland to the
Transvaal; Tokyo to Montreal; St Petersburg to Buenos Aires; and of course,
repeatedly, in Delphi, Epidauros, and Athens. It is performed by Arabs and
Israelis; by Greeks, Cypriots and Turks; by Bosnians, Serbs and Croats; by both
Catholics and Protestants in Ireland. More than any other “classics” in the
repertoire of world theatre, the plays first composed in ancient Greek have
proven their ability to migrate between languages, cultures, religions, and
contingent political circumstances. Over the last four three or four decades
especially, there has has been a revival of interest in Greek drama,
internationally, that is completely unprecedented in scope and scale. All the
plays have been performed on every continent, and dozens of new translations and
adaptations are commissioned for productions every year.
The plays of
Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, and Aristophanes have travelled and penetrated
culturally just as far as the works of the two other ancient Greek authors who
have been translated into hundreds of languages—Homer and Aesop—and have been
experienced in performance, whether “live” or on screen, more often than either
of them. But the increasing globalisation of these ancient plays, although amply
demonstrated in practice, of course presents an intriguing theoretical problem.
One type of response has been aesthetic. Poets, translators, and
composers have been keen to experiment with the effect of elevated verse drama
and an aural form that shifted between speech and song, and entailed some
instrumental accompaniment. Theatre directors, designers, actors, and drama
theorists, especially those engaging in postmodern experiments in the electronic
age, have been attracted by the aesthetic potential of these ancient plays. Some
of ancient theatre’s formal devices (for example, the messenger speech) find
unexpected modern analogues in the machines we have designed for the electronic
recording and retrieval of experience, such as the audio tape recorder or the
split screen. The recent prominence of Greek tragedy is also connected with the
so-called performative turn, the moment when physical theatre, especially in
Central Europe, began to challenge the theatre of the spoken word. Above all
this process entailed an assault on the proscenium arch, with its constraining
separation of the worlds of the audience and of the stage, an assault fuelled by
encounters with surviving Greek theatres and with other, non-western theatrical
traditions. There developed a powerful urge to explore new types of performance
space (whether converted factories, roofed thrust stages, or out of doors in
city parks), new configurations of audience and performers (for which the Greek
chorus has proved especially useful), and the observation of performances from
different angles and levels in a constantly shifting perception of the
action.
The directions taken by the late twentieth- and early
twenty-first-century intellect and psyche have also contributed to the
popularity of Greek theatre. The increasingly widespread use of psychotherapy
has certainly helped to keep Greek tragedy on the public mind. Several
influential psychoanalysts have used Greek tragedy, especially its fascination
with children, to develop models of the human psyche going far beyond Freud’s
interest in Sophocles’
Oedipus the King or Jung’s in
his
Electra . The ancient plays also provide an ideal
site for investigating the human subject. Does it have an unchanging core—is it
in some respects the same today as in classical Athens? Or do cultural changes
mean that there is no permanent, essential, or lasting commonality of human
experience? Producing Greek drama entails unceasing shifts between these two
contrasting ways of relating to the past. Any audience of a Greek tragedy drifts
between awareness of the dimension of the performance that is determined by the
attitudes and tastes of our own era, and a (usually) pleasurable sense that
certain dimensions of human experience transcend time. At an emotional level of
apprehension there is nothing like hearing live theatrical delivery of speeches
first formulated thousands of years ago, even in a quite different language, to
bring this tension home.
Greek tragic ethics have offered our era
opportunities for exploring modern problems of crime and punishment. Many of the
plays, especially the conclusion of
Children of
Heracles , ask whether the emotional need for revenge on the part of
victims of serious crime and their families should be a factor in the way that
decisions about punishment are made and implemented.
Hecuba asks, to what sort of trial, in front of what sort of
tribunal, should political and military leaders accused of war crimes be
subject? Medea, who does plan her murders but only under enormous pressure of
time, challenges the distinction between premeditated murder and suddenly
provoked manslaughter. She and other tragic criminals certainly allow
exploration of the topical relationship between crime and physiological
factors—hormones, genes, mental disturbance, or neurological breakdown.
Yet it is the gods on whom the suffering of many tragic characters is
blamed, and it is the gods who provide a further possible answer to the question
of Greek tragedy’s relevance today. The opportunity to create charged, spiritual
atmospheres through the performance of prayer and ritual has proved attractive. Moreover, an increasingly secular world has found in the Olympian religion
portrayed in the plays, their interrogatory, intellectual quality, and their
interest in the workings of the human psyche, rich material through which to
explore the big, unanswerable questions about metaphysics, death, and the human
condition—the problem of suffering, the limits of human agency—in a
multicultural, or perhaps
inter cultural way.
Other reasons
for Greek drama’s cultural stamina are more to do with politics and society. One
has been feminism’s rediscovery of ancient drama, and the appeal of ancient
Greek frankness about erotic love to late twentieth- and early
twenty-first-century directors interested in exploring the repercussions of the
sexual revolution. The critique of conventional gender roles has led to a
spotlight being cast on the role of men, and indeed on the unpalatable truth
that society’s view of ideal masculinity—indomitable, self-sufficient,
physically powerful, decisive, emotionally controlled—has sometimes been
complicit in the oppression of both women and children. The figure of Heracles
in Greek tragedy has proved especially suggestive for exploring such issues. The
Greeks had already asked whether this monster-slayer was a liberator of the
civilised world or some kind of global terrorist, and both Sophocles’
Women of Trachis and Euripides’
Heracles have recently proved excellent arenas for updating the
frame of that question, and confronting the audience with the trained killer
whose insensitivity and disregard for his responsibilities as husband and father
must turn his homecoming into a tragedy.
Greek theatre was itself born in
a moment of revolutionary change, and directors have always been galvanized by
its political potential. The heroine of Sophocles’
Antigone is a hardy perennial who has protested against South
African apartheid, the abuse of human rights in several countries in Latin
America, and (in Anouilh’s version) patriarchy in Jakarta. In Euripides’ war
plays, too, painful resonance has been discovered:
Trojan
Women has revealed the terrible consequences of war for people all
over the world;
Hecuba has been revived as a regular
performance text since the fall of the Berlin wall. With the deepening of the
third-millennium war between the USA and Islam, Greek tragedy has become a
medium for the exploration of east-west tension, and Aeschylus’
Persians and Euripides’
Iphigenia in Aulis
have both enjoyed marked revivals.
During the period that has seen the
final stages in the slow, painful process of decolonization, especially in
Africa, writers searching for new forms of identity have also found fertile
material in the texts which could from one perspective be said to epitomize
imperial Europe: the dramas of classical antiquity. Yet the ancient Greek
language has itself proved liberating by inspiring creative writers, and has
helped some dramatists from colonized countries to explore the part of their own
heritage that is undeniably European. Greek drama has often felt like a root
which it can be pleasurable and legitimate to dig towards, bypassing some of the
pain connected with literature in the actual language of the colonial
power—English, French, or Afrikaans. Interculturalism and internationalism
thrive on the process of interpreting these plays, composed before the
religious, political, and cultural barriers that now divide the world were fully
erected, let alone set seemingly in stone.
In the second half of this
paper I want to think about the uses to which a particular tragedy has been put
historically, in order to present a case study in the potential of Greek
dramas—regardless of the less edifying interpretations they may have received
historically—to resonate powerfully and constructively as canonical works in the
stage repertoire of the “global village.”
At the end of Euripides’
Iphigenia Among the Taurians , diplomatic harmony is
established by Athena on both an international and a cosmic level. The Greek
youths Orestes and Pylades, who have escaped human sacrifice in the Taurians’
temple of Artemis in the southwestern Crimea, are to be allowed to return safely
to Greece along with Iphigenia. The chorus of Greek women, attendants of
Iphigenia at the sanctuary of the Tauric Artemis, are later to be rescued and
return to Greece themselves. The Taurians are to live on peacefully, but allow
the Greeks to leave, along with the statue of Artemis which needs to be taken to
Halae, near Brauron, in Attica (see figure 1). Nobody dies. Conflict between
Greeks and barbarians is avoided. Both Greeks and barbarians, in different ways,
progress from the practice of human sacrifice to a more advanced way of
worshipping divinity. Moreover, it has to be said, Euripides implies that
actually, in one way, his Taurian barbarians are morally superior to his Greeks. They may kill strangers, and offer them to the goddess, but the Greeks sacrifice
and murder members of their own families. When Iphigenia tells Thoas that
Orestes has killed his mother, he replies, in disgust and horror, “Apollo! Even
a barbarian would not do that!”
Of course the very removal of the
cult statue of Artemis is, on one level, a reflection of Greek colonial ambition
in the Black Sea. Of course the Taurians are portrayed as intellectually
inferior barbarians, superstitious and primitive, who are easily tricked by
Iphigenia. This is why so many versions and adaptations of the tragedy, from the
sixteenth to the twentieth centuries, identified the Greeks with white,
Christian northern Europeans who had an inherent right to conquer the entire
planet, and the Taurians with the perceived enemies of advanced and advancing
civilisation. The version in Christoph Willibald Gluck’s opera
Iphigenie en Tauride (1779) is fairly typical of this tendency: the
Taurian King Thoas is a wicked tyrant, a stereotype of a Turkish
pasha , who is killed by the brave and heroic Greeks, a
fate he thoroughly deserves. The Ottoman associations can be heard loudly in it,
above all in the
a la Turca idiom of the savage dance of the
Scythians. It is absolutely crucial to remember that Euripides’ play is by no
means so crudely racist. His Thoas is not sexually predatory, and he holds
Iphigenia in great respect. He does maintain the custom of human sacrifice to
the
Parthenos , but that is out of piety and
respect for ancestral tradition. Iphigenia, although perfectly happy to deceive
him in order to save her brother and secure her own escape, is outraged when
Orestes suggests that they murder Thoas. Her chorus are meticulously respectful
of the indigenous Taurian goddess, her statue (which the gods had dropped from
the sky onto Taurian land), and all the ceremonies and tabus that her cult
entails.
Gluck—or rather his librettist Nicolas-François Guillard—was
working within the canonical tradition of interpreting the ancient play which
had been established much earlier. The first Renaissance version of
Iphigenia Among the Taurians was Giovanni Rucellai’s
attempt to turn the ancient Greek play into a tragedy acceptable to contemporary
Christian readers and spectators, his
Oreste of 1525. In Rucellai’s version, the description of the statue of Artemis’ revulsion at
Orestes’ pollution shows the influence of the miracle tradition, while Iphigenia
conducts herself with the emphatic chastity of a Roman Catholic nun devoted to
the Virgin Mary. Like his close friend Gian Giorgio Trissino, often regarded as
the founder of neoclassical drama, Rucellai wanted to create a new literary play
that utilised what he saw as the best the ancient world had to offer in the
service of Christian humanism. His play’s ultimate importance lies, however, in
its circulation as an example of a modern tragedy closely based on an ancient
one but interpreted in a way that fitted a culture defining itself in opposition
to the Ottoman Empire. It was as a statement of Christian belief in the face of
barbarous false religion that the myth of Iphigenia among the Taurians was
subsequently to develop its reputation—and eventually its stage presence—in the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.
The earliest surviving staged
adaptation was one by Charles Davenant, performed in London in 1677. It was
called
Circe , because it imported the famous Odyssean
enchantress into the tragic plot by marrying her to Thoas. The outlandish
setting is associated with the Ottoman Empire, for example through the name of
Thoas’ daughter, Osmida. The equation of the Turks with the barbarian opponents
of Greeks to be found in ancient tragedy was facilitated by the growing
awareness, in the later part of the seventeenth century, of the continued
existence of Greek culture and language in Greece. This awareness was fostered
by Milton’s interest in Greece and by the social prominence of Greek visitors to
England, who were sponsored by Charles II himself. Davenant’s play was adapted
into a much lighter, spectacular musical comedy, revived repeatedly until the
1720s, and was an outstanding commercial success. In this entertainment, the
barbarous Ottoman King Thoas was invariably humiliated and vanquished, and
usually actually killed. The same is true of almost all of the ensuing flood of
operas, dramas, (and later ballets) on the theme, from the Minato/Draghi
Il tempio di Diana in Taurica (which premiered in Vienna
in 1678, just five years before the Ottoman siege of the city) onwards. Librettists persistently adapted the Euripidean story so as to remove all its
ethical complexity, and exacerbate the conflict between Greek and Taurian, with
an Ottomanised, cruel, and licentious Thoas, a far less interesting character. Euripides’ humane drama became transformed into a violent and often sexualised
escape fantasy that bolstered the European and Christian
self-image.
Similarly monochrome politics underpin Handel’s
Oreste , performed in London in 1734, and derived
ultimately from Gianguelberto Barlocci’s
L’Oreste ,
written for Benedetto Michaeli’s opera of that name (performed in Rome in 1723). The premise of such entertainments is the crude, binary contrast between
enlightened Europeans and the unenlightened inhabitants of the places to which
superior naval technology enabled them to travel. The Handelian Thoas is both
wicked tyrant and sexual predator, and is justly killed when the Greeks restore
liberty to his rebellious people. Handel’s
Oreste
heralds the fate of
Iphigenia in Tauris for the next
century and a half, during which it was rediscovered as an elevated text for
serious adaptation in opera, in particular Tommaso Traetta’s
Iphigenia in Tauride (1763), and subsequently Gluck’s
Iphigénie en Tauride . Gluck’s opera was an astonishing
success, performed more than ninety times between 1779 and 1787 in Paris
alone.
By the later eighteenth century, the geographical setting of the
Euripidean play had become a crucially important region once again in the mind
of Europe. Many accounts of European travellers to the region stress the
luxuriousness and the savagery o f the infidel inhabitants, and the ancient story
of an intelligent heroine’s escape from a backward and religious barbarian
community will have had immediate, contemporary reverberations that we would do
well to remember. Ottoman forces were still attempting to besiege Vienna in
1683; they failed, but between that year and the treaty of Jassy in 1792, Turkey
was at war with either Austria or Russia for no fewer than forty-one years. The
Turks made notable advances in the years leading up to 1740, and it was not
until the 1770s that the Ottoman Empire ceased to look like an immediately
pressing threat to Christian civilization at large, rather than just the
countries it occupied. The turning point was the Russian-Turkish war of
1768–1774, by the end of which the Western powers agreed that that the Russians
were a worse threat to European stability.
“The Ukraine will become a new
Greece,” predicted Johann Gottfried Herder in his travel journal in 1769, and
once Grigori Potemkin had annexed the Crimea in 1783, the creation of a revived
ancient Greece in the northern Black Sea—the most telling of symbols of European
resistance against the Ottoman Empire—became almost inevitable. Euripides’ Black
Sea drama, in a particular and rather crude interpretation, then played a
crucial role in the reinvention of the Crimean peninsula by Catherine the Great
and Potemkin, who was restyled “Prince of Tauride” by his imperial lover Prince
Grigori Alexandrovich Potemkin-Tavricheski, in recognition of his acquisition
for Russia of this symbolically crucial space. The stunning neoclassical palace
Catherine built for Potemkin in St. Petersburg was called the “Tauride Palace.”
Re-Hellenising the Crimea sent Catherine and her acolytes hurrying to rediscover
everything they could about this strategically invaluable peninsula in
Greco-Roman antiquity. They unearthed the ancient Greek names for towns, bays,
and mountain ranges, and relived all the stories they could find associated with
the territory in the pagan era. Gluck’s opera—a favourite across all of
Europe—meant that the reinvention of classical “Tauris” became inevitable. It
had been, of course, a performance of this opera in Vienna in 1781 with which
Joseph II had welcomed Catherine’s second grandson to the Habsburg capital.
Six years later, in January 1787, eager for an exciting adventure,
Catherine embarked on the notorious tour of her empire, which culminated in the
newly acquired Crimea. Over the gate through which she passed into the newly
founded city of Kherson (separate from the ancient site at Chersonesos) was the
inscription: “this is the way to Byzantium.” The annexation of the Crimea
provided a welcome opportunity for Russia to claim the status of a western-style
empire. By adopting western techniques of portraying barbarians, Russia was able
to describe itself as comparatively “more European” than peoples such as the
Ottoman Turks and the Crimean Tatars. Along with the defence of the Crimean
Greeks against Scythian enemies in the second century BCE by Mithridates VI
Eupator, by far the most important ancient narrative in this ideological
programme was the encounter between the Greeks and the Taurians—but not quite as
dramatised in Euripides’ archetypal Crimean adventure story.
Catherine
presented her journey as the mission of an enlightened European princess to a
land retarded by oriental despotism. The party visited what could then be seen
of the ruins of ancient Chersonesos, near the fortress of Sevastopol; but
according to Catherine and her associates, the actual location of the temple was
on a more southerly tip of the peninsula, at a spot known as “Parthenizza.” In a
fantasy clearly informed by the tradition of the escape plot, the Prince de
Ligne (who was obsessed with the
Iphigenia in Tauris
and believed that the estate Catherine bestowed on him in the Crimea had been
the setting of the action in Euripides’ play) speculated on what “Europe” would
think if the whole party, including Catherine herself, were to be carried off
and delivered as prisoners to the barbaric court of the sultan in
Constantinople.
Some important steps towards returning to Euripides’
infinitely more humane and complex picture of the relationship between Greek and
non-Greek were taken by Goethe. His
Iphigenie auf
Tauris , the poetic text of which was finalised in 1786, was
certainly the most important turning point in the history of the reception of
Euripides’ tragedy. For the first time since antiquity, the story was allowed to
end in relative harmony, with the statue of Artemis even remaining in the Tauric
Chersonese, and King Thoas acquiescing in the departure of the captive Greeks. Goethe was himself resistant to the idea that literature was closely related to
nationalism, and indeed in 1827 invented the term
Weltliteratur to describe works, like Greek drama, which
could succeed in translation and thus be enjoyed on other than national or
nationalist levels. But he was no “multiculturalist,” since he warned overtly
against showing excessive respect towards either non-European (Chinese) or even
“minor” European literary traditions (Serbian), as well as putting
German-language literature on any kind of exceptionalist pedestal. But the
context in which he uses the term
Weltliteratur also implies
that this new transnational medium is indeed somehow being led by German
literature. The model of the idealized ancient Hellas in Goethe’s
Iphigenie auf Tauris certainly remains Eurocentric, even
if it is expressed in Romantic humanist terms rather than Christian ones.
Yet it was certainly Goethe’s version which freed the ancient Greek
tragedy to play more complex, psychological roles in defining the global as well
as the European regional identities of the twentieth century. In the brilliant
autobiographical
Ifigenia Cruel by the modernist poet
Alfonso Reyes (1924), “Tauris” even becomes the European motherland Spain in
opposition to the violent Greece of Mexico. A refugee from Mexican political
unrest which had killed his father, Reyes found in Spain a place where he could
liberate himself from his family’s painful past. This process is reflected in
his Iphigenia’s amnesia and her ultimate decision not to return to Greece at
all. The land of the Taurians has here become completely detached from any
Crimean geographical reality, and represents something quite other: the promise
that a new start, even if in “Old” Europe, can offer to a fugitive from the
personal and political injuries inflicted upon him and upon his immediate
ancestors who had emigrated to the New World.
My long-standing fascination
with this Euripidean masterwork began when I was researching the presentation of
non-Greeks in Greek tragedy. It has inspired me to write a book-length study of
its role in the transmission of cultural Hellenism, an enterprise which has
kindly been supported by the Alexander S. Onassis Public Benefit Foundation
(USA). But it has also convinced me that the time is ripe for a new performance
version of this drama, which is both very funny and very sad, a bittersweet
story of loyalty and escape from the crippling psychological load of history. It
acknowledges the suffering caused by wars, atrocities, and international tension
(all of which the Crimea has of course seen in abundance over the centuries),
but offers a more optimistic dream of a world in which people forgive each other
and move on, in peace, with a new hybrid culture. I have persuaded the British
poet and dramatist Tony Harrison to create a new version of Euripides’
Iphigenia Among the Taurians which will be performed in
the UK in 2012—the anniversary of the first English-language performance of
Euripides’ play, in the translation of Gilbert Murray, in 1912 (figure 2).
Murray was himself a great advocate of international
Hellenism. He was inspired by the example of ancient Greek cosmopolitan thought when
he collaborated on the foundation of the League of Nations—subsequently the United
Nations—in 1919–1920.
The excavation of the ancient theatre at Chersonesos—the
most northerly surviving Greek theatre—near Sevastopol, in the area of the
ancient Greek colony where the play is set, has created the possibility of
staging plays there (figure 3).
We have been encouraged in our tentative plan
actually to stage the play in the ancient land of the Taurians by Professor
Joseph Carter, Director of the Institute of Classical Archaeology at the
University of Texas at Austin, who has been working with the National Preserve
of Tauric Chersonesos to draw international attention to the site. We plan to
enlist major press interest in our project, the goal of which is physically to
follow the path taken by Orestes as he travelled looking for his sister and the
statue of Artemis, thus underlining the international scope and spread of
ancient Greek myth and theatre.
The production, with a cast of fifteen
and specially commissioned music, will open in London in late May or early June
2012. There will then be touring performances in Oxford and Edinburgh. We hope
then to bring the production to Delphi in late June and early July before a
final performance—the ultimate goal of the whole enterprise: the play will be
performed, for the first time since antiquity, in the theatre of Chersonesos
itself, the ancient Crimean centre of the cult of the Parthenos, Artemis. This
performance will take place in mid-July, well before the opening of the 2012
Olympics in London on 27 July. Key international figures in the arts and culture
will be invited to attend.
The play is the archetypal dramatisation of an
encounter between different ethnic groups on a faraway coast—the Greek
equivalent of Shakespeare’s
The Tempest . The encounter
begins with mutual suspicion, violence, and the threat of death to the Greeks
who have arrived on foreign soil; but the conflict is resolved and old
psychological wounds are healed. Moreover, the ending celebrates the positive
aspects of cultural exchange: Thoas and his Taurians agree to let the Greeks go
in peace, and Greek religion is enriched by its contact with the Taurians’ cult
of Artemis. The play is a symbolic meditation on the potential of intercultural
contact, written when the Athenians were building communities in the Black Sea. The planned productions would allow Taurian Artemis to move symbolically between
Greece and the rest of the world in a performance of great beauty and emotional
power.
There could be no better play with which to celebrate the global
impact of Greek literature and myth, its crucial role in internationalism, and
the two-way process of cultural fertilisation that the spread of ancient
Hellenic culture across the planet has entailed. These will be performances with
a new vision for the third millennium, taking place in the very ancient places,
both Greek and non-Greek, which were home to Iphigenia and Artemis’
statue.