the

roots of
theatre



studies in
theatre history & culture
Edited by Thomas Postlewait

the
roots of
theatre



Rethinking Ritual and

Other Theories of Origin
Eli Rozik

u n iv e r s i ty of iowa p r es s iowa c i ty

University of Iowa Press, Iowa City 52242

Copyright 2002 by the University of Iowa Press
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Printed on acid-free paper
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Rozik, Eli.
The roots of theatre: rethinking ritual and other theories of origin /
by Eli Rozik.
p.

cm.(Studies in theatre history and culture)

Includes bibliographical references and index.
isbn 0-87745-817-0 (cloth)

1. Theater Origin.

2. Rites and ceremonies.

I. Title.

pn2125.r69 2002
792.01 dc21

2002018925

02 03 04 05 06 c 5 4 3 2 1

II. Series.

To my wife, Atara,
my best friend




contents

Introduction, ix

part one. theories of origins

1. Basic Denitions, 3
2. The Ritual Origin of Tragedy, 29
3. The Ritual Origin of Comedy, 49
4. The Shamanistic Source, 69
5. The Recreation of Theatre by Christianity, 90
6. The Mummers Plays, 111
7. The Adoption of Theatre by Judaism, 129
8. Back to Aristotle, 140

part two. hedges and boundaries

9. Performance Theory, 165
10. The Drama of Real Life, 185
11. The Spirit of Carnival, 206
12. Culture as Play/Game, 226

part three. a theory of roots

13. The Language of Dreams, 247
14. Playing as Thinking, 270
15. Mythical Representation, 293
16. Retracing the Steps of History, 314
17. Reections and Conclusions, 335
Bibliography, 349
Index, 357




introduction

In this study I have set out to question a theory that has become a cultural commonplace even beyond the circles of theatre scholars: that the origin of theatre
lies in ritual. This commonplace reects the impact of a unique approach to theatre, particularly that of the School of Cambridge, which attempted to lend scientic foundations to earlier intuitions by applying a combination of historical and anthropological methodology. Although already discredited for many
years by the excellent scholar Arthur W. Pickard-Cambridge, the inuence of the
School of Cambridge remains clearly discernible in subsequent theories. Prominent scholars, despite their rejection of some of its methods, still explain the development of Western drama and theatre in terms of its supposed ritual origins.
Moreover, under the inuence of recent anthropology, which has expanded the
notion of ritual beyond religious practices, some theatre scholars developed
models that presuppose an even more fundamental relationship between ritual
and theatre.
The lasting inuence of the theory of ritual origin is mainly reected in textbooks on the history of theatre. For example, in Phyllis Hartnolls A Concise History of the Theatre (1971): The origins of the theatre go back far into the past, to
the religious rites of the earliest communities. Throughout the history of mankind there can be found traces of songs and dances in honour of a god, performed by priests and worshippers dressed in animal skins, and of a portrayal of
his birth, death, and resurrection (7). In Jack Mitchley and Peter Spaldings Five
Thousand Years of Theatre (1982): Theatre began in ritual. Ritual needed technique to become effective. When the artist of theatre began to practice technique
for its own sake, then the ritual became an art. When it became an art it kept the
same mainspring that it had when its function was purely ritual. The mainspring
is the costumed actor and his resources (17). Oscar G. Brockett in The Theatre
(1991) acknowledges that the ritual-theatre relationship was reconsidered under
the inuence of recent anthropological research and that theatre was no longer
seen as necessarily originating in ritual; rather ritual and theatre were viewed
as coexisting modes in which the same elements might be used for differing

functions within the same society (3). In his widely used History of the Theatre,
however, he still considers ritual origin as a legitimate theory (1999: 16ff.).
Far more astonishing is its grip on the imagination of lay intellectuals. Ask
anybody about the origins of theatre and the answer will almost certainly and automatically be: Greek theatre was born from Dionysiac ritual and Christian theatre reborn from Christian ritual. Although prominent scholars, such as Richard
Southern, Benjamin Hunningher, O. B. Hardison, Ernest T. Kirby, and Richard
Schechner, are much more sophisticated, the umbilical relationship between ritual and theatre still underlies their theoretical approaches. Even such a critical
scholar as Ronald W. Vince claims that [i]t seems futile to deny that religious
rite is one source for theatre (1984: 10).
This rmly entrenched conviction is actually contradicted by the evidence,
however, and even more so by lack of evidence. Whereas it is indeed possible that
the appearance of some embryonic forms of theatre is linked to certain kinds of
ritual, my intuition is that typical theories of ritual origin or shared nature have
an inadequate conception of their relationship. It is also clear that theatre outlives
the ritual forms to which it was allegedly linked in its beginnings. Eventually, theatre exists in parallel with and independently of any known religious ritual. Instead of seeking for such origin, therefore, we should examine the self-governing
nature of both ritual and theatre and suggest an alternative thesis for their relationship in antiquity and later. For the modern mind, theatre and ritual are two
distinct cultural entities, as are other entities that in ancient times were completely intertwined with cult, such as philosophy, medicine, and politics. Ritual,
as a complex of cultural activities, can not only display elements of theatre but
also draw upon other arts, such as storytelling, music, dance, design, sculpture,
and architecture. Nobody would dream of claiming that any of these activities
originated in ritual.
What is behind the spell cast on both scholars and layfolk alike by the ritual
theory of origins? There is probably a deep reason for its widespread acceptance.
I believe that in general people are inclined to adopt answers willingly, even for
questions for which there are no ready answers, if these re their imagination. A
preliminary solution could well be that the charm of this theory lies in its metaphorical value: deriving theatre from ancient ritual, particularly from magic religious practices, lends the theatre a magic, uncanny, and numinous aura, which
seems to correspond to the spellbound fascination that people experience in the
theatre. The question is whether or not, with regard to theatre, words such as
spell, charm, and magic are true metaphorical descriptions of its nature.
Instead of a theory of origins, based on traces of ritual practices and/or beliefs
in newly created theatrical forms, I suggest a theory of roots, based on the exisx

{ Introduction }

tential sources of theatre. The intention is not to discover or examine the exact
historical point of creation of theatre but, rather, to reveal the necessary psychocultural conditions for its inception. I contend that theatre is a specic imagistic
medium (i.e., a method of representation or, rather, an instrument of thinking
and communication), and as such its roots lie in the spontaneous image-making
faculty of the human psyche. This innate ability is assumed to exist prior to the
advent of natural language. Indeed, theatrical elements could well have been in
existence long before the historic advent of popular and artistic theatre, with the
creation of natural language being a precondition for the eventual establishment
of theatre as a prominent medium in human culture.
My thesis is that ritual is a mode of action and theatre a kind of medium. I assume that ritual practices and theatre are entities on different ontological levels.
They are neither necessarily opposed nor mutually exclusive. Ritual is a mode of
action and theatre a cultural medium. Whereas as a mode of action ritual reects
intentions and purposes, as a medium theatre is neutral with regard to intentions
and purposes and can be employed for any kind of action, including ritual. Ritual is characterized by its performative aims and medium by the texts that it can
generate. Consequently, ritual and theatre are mutually independent; therefore,
ritual can only opt for rejecting or adopting theatre. Because of its nature, theatre
can neither reject nor adopt ritual. Ritual may employ imagistic media such as
theatre, as it may use natural language, but cannot be conceived as creating any
of them. If the medium of theatre was indeed used in ancient ritual, it was subordinated to the intentions and purposes of ritual action. In the next chapter
I intend to expand on the denitions of ritual and theatre, which underlie
these contentions.

Methodologies: Criticism and Alternatives

This study was motivated by an intuition that ritual could never have generated
theatre. I believe that part of the confusion stems from the methodologies employed in researching this intricate problem: asking the wrong questions leads to
the wrong answers.
For the historian, the crucial question relates to the cultural entity that could
have generated theatre. The search thus naturally focuses on a causal sequence.
The assumption is that any cultural phenomenon is preceded by another, which
(in embryo at least) comprises nuclear traits of its progeny, and that such a development can be explained by circumstantial factors. Obviously, in order to justify the notion of generation, it is presupposed that this progeny is different
{ Introduction }

xi

from its ancestors. It is not surprising, therefore, that such a search for antecedents not only found but even identied them in Dionysiac ritual and/or
shamanism. Despite the lack of evidence, these are usually assumed to have had
theatrical components.
Furthermore, since the historical method rests heavily on documentation
whether verbal or nonverbalas its primary source, the availability of documentation also determines its limitations. History can only go as far as documentation allows. The problem is that documentation of the ancient world not
only is scarce but was probably not even produced until people began to realize
that what they had taken for granted or seen as trivial in their lives was in fact
sufciently distinct and interesting to be worth writing about. Furthermore, the
question is whether or not such a causal sequence can be documented. This applies even more for phenomena whose roots reside in those prehistoric times
which by and large have escaped the grip of historical methodology. With regard
to the origins of the theatre medium, primary sources do not exist; at the appearance of its known historical forms, theatre was already a fully developed art
form. Moreover, the oldest extant theory of drama and theatre, Aristotles Poetics, was written some two hundred years after the rst recorded events of the supposed origin of theatre in ancient Greece, Thespis victories on the Parian Marble
in particular. Nonverbal documentation, such as rock and pottery paintings,
is only partially informative. Although pottery contemporaneous with the recorded events is more plentiful, this kind of evidence also remains ambiguous
due to the lack of complementary verbal descriptions and insufcient knowledge
of the background culture.
Although I attempt to refute the competence and relevance of historical
methodology in this particular eld of research, I have no argument against the
history of theatre itself. I do respect all its achievements and merely suggest that
history should be aware of its own limitations regarding the question of theatre
origins and that our object of inquirythe roots of theatre denitely lies beyond its methodology. The question of roots cannot depend upon documentation, since it confronts a black hole that provides no historical data. Whatever we
may think we know about the origins of theatre is merely the knowledge of a few
uncertain facts coupled with a great deal of speculation.
Alongside the historian comes the anthropologist, for whom the obvious assumptions are (1) that rituals found in aboriginal societies in present times are
essentially similar to those that may have existed in ancient times and (2) that a
model of an ancient ritual can be constructed and suggested on the grounds of
traits gathered from all ancient and modern rituals. The result is usually an
articial construct that hardly ts any ritual in any culture but is supposed to
xii

{ Introduction }

have materialized in ancient times, when theatre was being created. The harshest criticism of this school was leveled by Ruth Benedict and fully endorsed by
Ernest T. Kirby: Studies of culture like The Golden Bough and the usual comparative ethnological volumes are analytical discussions of traits and ignore all
the aspects of cultural integration. Mating or death practices are illustrated by
bits of behavior selected indiscriminately from the most different cultures, and
the discussion builds up a Frankensteins monster with a right eye from Fiji, a left
from Europe, one leg from Tierra del Fuego, and one from Tahiti, and all the
ngers and toes from still different regions. Such a gure corresponds to no reality in the past or present (H. B. Menagh, quoted by Kirby 1975: x). Paradoxically, Kirby too, like many other scholars, followed the same fallacious path.
In addition, in its quest for shared intercultural phenomena, cultural anthropology shows a clear tendency to use overbroad categories, which, since they are
based on extreme abstraction of singularities, allow almost uninhibited application. The advantage of this approach resides in its enabling the examination of
particular cultures from the perspective of an ideal all-inclusive human culture.
The disadvantage lies in its tendency to include within its all-embracing categories most diverse phenomena, which precludes any attempt to learn about the
nature of the subcategories and makes any epistemological benet doubtful.
I have no argument against cultural anthropology either. I value very much
the theoretical achievements in the elds of comparative ritual, religious or otherwise. I understand the interdisciplinary appeal of this work in the social sciences and humanities. Some of the scholarship in this domain has indeed proved
most enlightening. I also appreciate its inuence on the development of a theory
of theatre, particularly as a social institution. I believe, however, that abuse of anthropological categories has tended to confuse our understanding of a crucial issue in the theory of theatre: its origin and nature. I also believe that the question
of the roots of theatre is beyond its current methodology.
What I have set out to achieve in this book is neither historical or anthropological research nor a critical survey of such theories as applied to the history,
nature, and functions of ritual. In other words, their truth-value with regard to
human history and/or ritual is not my concern here, unless they affect our perception of theatre. In general, I intend to show that the quest for origins is essentially misleading, whatever the methodology employed, and that we should not
expect it to provide any signicant insight for our understanding of theatre. I
presume that theatre, like dance or music, is a sui generis kind of human creativity, which neither can be generated by other kinds of human activity nor can generate any other kind of human activity.
Since the question of theatre origin cannot be solved, we may turn our atten{ Introduction }

xiii

tion to an alternative most interesting theoretical task: to establish the conditions

that enabled its coming into existence, its possible existence for the past thousands of years, and its foreseeable existence in the future. Rather than searching
for previous forms that could have engendered theatre, we should seek its roots
in the psychological constitution of human beings and sociocultural structures
of human societies. The history of theatre suggests parallel processes of creation
of particular genres, at least in ancient Greece and in medieval Europe. Findings
relating to a possible kind of ritual drama in ancient Egypt may predate the creation of theatre, going back several thousand years before the appearance of
Greek theatre, as may Asian theatre. The quest for roots, in contrast, presupposes
that rudimentary theatrical activities could have occurred anywhere, at any time.
In principle, only their manifestations as popular theatre or their subsequent
transmutation into art can be traced. The origin of institutionalized theatrical
forms could have been a happy accident within a particular culture, even stemming from a particular use in a given ritual; but theatres roots cannot be traced:
they lie in the very structure of the human psyche.
In my own investigation of the roots of theatre I apply an alternative interdisciplinary method of research, which broadly speaking lies within the boundaries
of a structuralist and semiotic approach (perhaps post- applies to both domains). I also apply additional disciplines, such as psychoanalysis, neurology, sociology, play and game theory, science of religion, mythology (in the sense of
science of myth), poetics, philosophy of language, and linguistics, particularly
pragmatics. Because this is an interdisciplinary study from the viewpoint of a
theory of theatre, constant and consistent translation to theatre terminology may
be unavoidable.
The semiotic approach assumes the existence of systems of representation and
communication other than natural language and the distinction between these
systems (langue) and their use in given texts for specic purposes (parole). Although, logically, a system of representation must exist prior to its use, it can
be assumed that at the beginning it originated in its own primeval texts. The
moment somebody spontaneously engaged in theatrical representation, the system or, rather, mediumby denition was there. Consequently, even if
theatrical elements are found in ancient or aboriginal rituals, the medium itself
either preceded these texts or was created concurrently with them and therefore
cannot be said to have originated in ritual. For the same reasons one cannot conceive the origins of natural language in ritual, although it was rituals vital medium. We can only look for its roots.
I suggest that the roots of theatre should be sought in traces of innate imagistic thinking. Such traces can be found in the various manifestations of the imagxiv

{ Introduction }

ination: dreaming, daydreaming, imaginative play, childrens drawing, imitation,

mockery (caricature, parody), storytelling (in the sense of oral performance),
and mythmaking. It is not my intention to claim that any of these domains generated theatre but that all of them share the same roots.
Because of their nonmaterial nature, mental images cannot be communicated.
In order to be communicated such images must become iconic signs (i.e., be imprinted on matter). While all media reecting this method of representation
imprint their images on various matters, theatre is characterized by imprinting mental images primarily on the bodies of those who produce them, the actors. This method of representation, in its various forms, although superseded by
natural language and probably suppressed into the unconscious, is socially permitted to reenter culture only within predetermined domains and mainly in the
form of art. If this is so, we must assume a primeval phase of spontaneous creation of iconic representation and a subsequent phase of formalization of this
method of thinking and communication, in which natural language fullls a crucial role.
For many years I have been advocating theatre as a specic imagistic medium.
I believe that ritual is dependent on a medium and can employ various media,
including language, but is not a medium. Following this line of reasoning, the
questions to be asked are: How do iconic modes of representation in general and
theatre in particular come into being? What is the relation between the advent of
the theatre medium and natural language, the assumedly unrivaled medium of
human culture? What functions do iconic media fulll in the economy of the
psyche, despite having been superseded by natural language? Under what conditions could they have reappeared as a set of cultural postlinguistic codes? Why
does humanity preserve theatre and other iconic arts? These and other questions
demarcate the theoretical space of the present study and determine the direction
I take here in the search for the roots of theatre.
The question of roots or origin cannot be detached from questions of nature.
One cannot look for the ritual origin of theatre, or its refutation, without sound
denitions of both ritual and theatre. Unfortunately, most theories of ritual
origin seem to avoid such an undertaking and, in most cases, require deducing
denitions from their actual use of the terms. Such clues usually, but not necessarily, reect dated theories. Various theories of theatre clearly look for different
evidence of origin, and some of the differences among these theories do indeed
derive from their approaches to theatre and/or ritual. This problem is exacerbated by descriptions of primary sources, particularly translations of ritual
texts, couched in theatrical terminology; e.g., the so-called Egyptian Coronation
Drama (Gaster 1950b).
{ Introduction }

xv

I am aware that working with denitions may lead to the kind of essentialism
currently not in vogue. Nonetheless, in the next chapter I suggest some working
denitions, because elucidation of the problems involved in this study are dependent on them. For the moment, I can only suggest that theatre is a medium
and as such is devoid of any content or cultural signicance unless used for particular, including ritual, purposes. I assume that this medium can be used not
only in art. Moreover, I assume a distinction between theatre as a medium and
an actual theatrical performance-text that employs this medium to describe a
(usually ctional) world. I also assume a distinction between a performance-text
and the ctional world it describes. Unfortunately, most scholarly works on theatre focus on the ctional worldsthe entities described by the mediumand
not on the medium itself. Whereas we are interested here in the roots of the medium, dominant theories of origins rely on features of ctional worlds or look for
the origins of particular dramatic genres, such as tragedy and comedy, which
again are dened in terms of qualities of their ctional worlds.
It is plausible that theatrical elements were and/or still are used in ancient
and/or contemporary rituals. However, while during the last twenty-ve centuries theatre itself has become an independent mode of expression that continues to maintain its vitality, those ancient rituals which allegedly generated theatre
have become extinct. Moreover, even if monotheistic religions incorporated theatrical means at one stage or another, in European cultures at least such partnerships were limited or short-lived. In other words, not only has theatre become an
absolutely distinct form, but so has ritual itself. Seen in this way, ancient ritual
can more reasonably be perceived as an admixture of texts in different media,
which may or may not have included theatrical elements, subordinated to the
purposes of a magico-religious act. Such a process, having started from a ritual
complex that comprehends most mental and spiritual activities, including all the
embryonic arts, ended in the specialization of each component and its own constitution as a self-contained and self-sufcient domain. This lack of distinction
has affected the relationship not only between art and nonart but also among the
arts themselves. Consequently, it is highly unlikely that such an admixture could
have generated pure forms of expression. The mere contiguity of forms cannot
in itself justify any theory of generation. It is as absurd to think that theatre originated in ritual as it would be to think that poetry or music originated in it. In
other words, it is fallacious to see the origin of theatre in an ancient cultural combination of indistinct phenomena, which has been termed ritual because of its
dominant function.
Taking all the above considerations into account, this book explores the following alternative theses:
xvi

{ Introduction }

1. The medium of theatre could not have originated in ritual, since these
are ontologically different cultural entities. There is no binary opposition between ritual and theatre, because they operate on different levels. Theatre is a medium, and ritual is a mode of action that may employ any medium and even various media. A religion could at the most have chosen either to adopt or to reject
theatre.
2. The medium of theatre originates in an innate form of thinking, based on
images, generally considered to have been superseded by natural language.
Although this is a genuine interdisciplinary study, it is not my intention
to claim anything with regard to domains other than theatre. Most of the approaches reviewed in this book are based on different methodologies, and their
elds of research are not my concern. I do, however, intend to examine any claim
that regards theatre and is conceived within the framework of these methodologies from the viewpoint of a general theory of theatre. Furthermore, I adopt ndings from other disciplines that contribute to such a theory. From the viewpoint
of theatre studies, these other disciplines should be seen as auxiliary sciences; and
following innovations in those elds, a revision of the theory of theatre may also
ensue.

The Structure of the Book

The book is divided into three sections. Theories of Origins focuses on criticism of theories that see the origins of theatre in religious ritual. Hedges and
Boundaries focuses on criticism of theories that view theatre as sharing its nature
with the other expressive activities, including ritual (religious and secular), play,
and the so-called social drama; this approach tends to blur the specic nature of
theatre by overabstraction. A Theory of Roots focuses on theories that make possible an alternative theory of the roots of theatre.
We should bear in mind that any search, whether for origins or roots, is totally
conditioned by our denitions of terms such as ritual, myth, drama, and
theatre. Although explicit declarations of assumptions and denitions place
any study in danger of easy refutation, despite the risks there is no other way. The
main purpose of the next chapter, therefore, is to make explicit my own assumptions and denitions, particularly regarding ritual and theatre. Each succeeding chapter focuses on at least one major study bearing on theatre or theatre
theory.
In building the argument of this book, my intention is to take into consideration the major contributions to the question of origins and/or roots published
{ Introduction }

xvii

since the end of the nineteenth century, whether I accept these theories or not,
totally or partially. I believe that the theories under scrutiny, which have had a
major impact on the theory of theatre, constitute the most representative collection of approaches to have been put forward in the last hundred years or so. In
addition to Aristotles Poetics, the main theories examined throughout the book
include the important works of Emile Durkheim, Edmund R. Leach, Clifford
Geertz, Walter Burkert, Victor Turner, Gilbert Lewis, and Catherine Bell on the
nature of ritual; J. L. Austin, John R. Searle, and Teun van Dijk on the nature of
action, including speech activity; the School of Cambridge (James G. Frazer, Jane
Harrison, Gilbert Murray, and Francis M. Cornford) on the origins of Greek
tragedy and comedy; A. W. Pickard-Cambridge and Gerald F. Else on the fallacies of the School of Cambridge; Ernest T. Kirby and Robert Weimann on the
shamanist origins of theatre; Edmund Chambers, Benjamin Hunningher, and
O. B. Hardison on the recreation of theatre by the Church; Edmund Chambers,
Richard Southern, and Ernest T. Kirby on the mummers plays; Victor Turner
and Richard Schechner on ritual and theatrical performance analysis; Erving
Goffman on the dramatic presentation of self in everyday life; Mikhail Bakhtin
on carnival and the carnivalesque; Johan Huizinga and Roger Caillois on the omnipresence of play/game; Ernst Cassirer and Susanne K. Langer on the nature of
symbolic thinking; Antonio R. Damasio and Stephen M. Kosslyn on the neurological basis of imagistic thinking; Sigmund Freud and Carl G. Jung on the imagistic aspects of dreams; Karl Groos, Jean Piaget, Hans-Georg Gadamer, and
D. W. Winnicott on imaginative play as a form of thinking; Bronislaw Malinowski, Carl G. Jung, Ernst Cassirer, Mircea Eliade, and Claude Lvi-Strauss on
the nature of myth; E. H. Gombrich and Curt Sachs on the prehistory of drawing and dance respectively; Theodor H. Gaster on Egyptian coronation rituals;
and many others no less important on more restricted areas of research.
Theories are presented as fully and as fairly as possible. Ample quotation is
provided to enable the reader to grasp the ideas in their original terminology and
own logic, so that the reader may take an autonomous stand. Each presentation
is accompanied by my own comments (clearly distinguished from the theories
and their implications), which attempt both to underline the problems involved
and to suggest possible alternatives. Most chapters also engage in analysis of
primary sources (such as plays, productions, games, myths, and rituals), some
of which are dealt with at length. This study is restricted to Western theatre, although I believe that it can apply to other cultures as well. All emphases in quotations are mine unless otherwise indicated.
We thus embark on a long and winding quest for the roots of theatre, in the
hope that it will eventually enlighten us all in our understanding of this art. That
xviii

{ Introduction }

was my own hope when I began to write this book, and I am very much in debt
to the muses for having inspired my journey.
I am deeply indebted to my wife for her loving support and dedication, to my
daughter Maya for her generous assistance in library matters, to my student
Sharon Aronson Lehavi for her thorough reading of the manuscript and most
thoughtful remarks, to Naomi Paz for her constructive English editing of the
book, and to Professor Tom Postlewait for his enlightening observations and suggestions and above all for welcoming the book for publication in his prestigious
series.

{ Introduction }

xix

Part I

Theories of
Origins



1
Basic
Denitions



The thesis that theatre was generated by ritual is relatively new in the history of
theatre theory. Until the end of the nineteenth century scholars almost unquestioningly subscribed to Aristotles dictum that tragedy originated in dithyramb
and comedy in phallic songs (Poetics 4.12); but he did not link either to ritual. It
was the School of Cambridge that, under the inuence of James G. Frazers anthropological work, attempted to provide scientic support for the intuitive thesis of ritual origin, suggested by nineteenth-century scholars with regard to the
crucial role of the Church in the recreation of European theatre.
As I intend to subject this thesis to severe criticism, the validity of both thesis and criticism depends on denitions of key terms, in particular ritual,
drama, and theatre, which present a methodological problem. Not only are
scholars in disagreement on such denitions, but also, in most cases, these denitions are not even provided and must be extrapolated from the actual uses of
these terms.
Initially the notion of ritual was restricted to a wide and diversied set of religious phenomena, from totemic dance, shamanistic seance, and pagan libation
to the Yom Kippur service and the Christian Mass. More recent approaches have
extended this category to include secular ceremonies and even various forms of
repetitive and compulsive human behavior. The boundaries of this set have,
therefore, become difcult to draw. It is also difcult to choose from among the
wealth of theoretical approaches to ritual or its many denitions. Similar considerations apply to the notion of theatre on both levels: the delimitation of the
set to the members to which the term properly applies and the variety of theoretical approaches to it and denitions of it. These appear to be vicious circles,

because determining a set of entities or phenomena would condition the resultant denition and the mere formulation of a denition would determine the
kind of phenomena included in it. Since both sets are also open to novel ritual
and theatrical forms, constantly being discovered or created, we may speak at
most of sound intuitions about the properties shared by all their members that
distinguish these sets from others. Therefore, before examining the thesis under
discussion, I commence by making explicit my own intuitions and working
denitions regarding the notions of ritual and theatre. Although denitions
establish nothing, in themselves they do, if they are carefully constructed, provide useful orientation, or reorientation, of thought . . . [and] can be an effective
way of developing and controlling a novel line of inquiry (Geertz 1973: 90).
Eventually, I intend to show that ritual and theatre are ontologically different
cultural entities, on different levels of existence. Whereas ritual is a mode of action in the real world, theatre is a kind of medium (i.e., a particular system of
signication and communication). Because of their ontological difference, this is
not a binary opposition. Ritual and theatre are mutually independent: ritual can
use different media, including theatre; and theatre may or may not describe rituals. Theatre may even create ctional rituals.
I am aware that the theories of ritual origin of theatre rely on notions of both
ritual and theatre that differ in various respects from my own. In principle,
I respect the ndings and theoretical achievements of experts in anthropology
and sciences of religion with regard to ritual and do not intend to suggest an alternative view unless strictly necessary for my argument. In contrast, I do intend
to examine those theories of theatre that underlie the various theories of generation, from the viewpoint of a general theory of theatre. I assume that a theory
that explains the origins of theatre in terms of ritual should conform with such a
general theory, whatever the approach. Furthermore, the theories under scrutiny, which have been devised within various disciplines of research, are couched
in different terms; therefore, some measure of translation to a common terminology is mandatory.
The following paragraphs provide a brief review of the main theoretical perspectives in anthropological research on ritual since the last decades of the nineteenth century. In order to facilitate the readers assessment and critical judgment, I also provide an account of my own theoretical approach to theatre and
drama. For each theory under examination in the following chapters, I attempt
to reveal their implicit denitions of ritual and theatre as well as to examine
in what sense it is claimed that theatre evolved from ritual.

{ Theories of Origins }

The Notion of Ritual

Difculty in distinguishing between the different kinds of custom on the grounds
of denitions of ritual, as a religious mode of action, motivated the development of an alternative paradigm that considers ritual as a function or aspect of
different modes of action (Bell 1992: 72). In the following sections I discuss these
functions and aspects of ritual initially in their anthropological context and
eventually in relation to the question of theatre origin. I do not intend to deal
with problems such as the nature, origins, and functions of religion. Most theories of theatre origin focus on religious ritual practices and not on religion in itself. At least one important theory is based on a wider denition of ritual.

Religious and Secular Ritual

Emile Durkheim suggests that the notion of ritual should derive from the notion of religion, which presupposes a fundamental distinction between the sacred and the profane: All known religious beliefs, whether simple or complex, present one common characteristic: they presuppose a classication of all
things, real and ideal, of which men think, into two classes or opposed groups,
usually designated by two distinct terms which are translated well enough by the
words profane and sacred (52). This distinction is absolute, because these are
two worlds with nothing in common: the forces or rules operating in one do not
operate in the other (54).
The sacred is a wide category, which includes not only gods or other supernatural beings but also spirits and the souls of the dead (39). Moreover, faiths
without gods, such as Buddhism, also feature in this category (39). Thus, divinity, an idea that appears in late religions, does not characterize religion (44). Sacred things are naturally considered superior in dignity and power to profane
things, and particularly to man, when he is only a man and has nothing sacred
about him (52).
The notions of sacred and profane also underlie Durkheims distinction
between practices and beliefs: A religion is a unied system of beliefs and
practices relative to sacred things, that is to say, things set apart and forbidden
beliefs and practices which unite into one single moral community called a Church,
all those who adhere to them (62). Religious phenomena thus fall into two
fundamental categories: beliefs and rites (practices): (1) religious beliefs are the
thoughts that express the nature of the sacred things and the relations either
with each other or with profane things (56); (2) rites are the rules of conduct
{ Basic Denitions }

that prescribe how a man should comport himself in the presence of . . . sacred
objects (56). Between these two classes of facts there is all the difference which
separates thought from action (51). I believe this distinction between action and
thinking, which underlies my own approach, to be of fundamental importance.
Max Gluckman shifted the denition of ritual away from the Durkheimian
notion that ritual was primarily concerned with religion or the sacred. Gluckman dened ritual as a more embracing category of social action, with religious
activities at one extreme and social etiquette at the other (Bell 1997: 39). Although religious ritual is an obvious and central specimen within this wide category, focus on additional types of custom and ceremony became prominent.
This approach proved most enlightening in the study of civic rituals. In this
vein terms such as state ritual and state religion were coined. Konrad Lorenz
adds ethology, which explores so-called ritualized patterns of behavior among
animals (Bell 1997: 31). Although in this context ritual is used in an obvious
metaphorical sense, this term has denitely taken on a new literal sense.

Internal and External Viewpoints

J. R. Goody suggests that ritual is a category of standardized behavior (custom)
in which the relationship between means and the end is not intrinsic (159). In
this context intrinsic is synonymous with rational. Leach questions this
view: rationality is not easily dened, and [i]f non-rationality is made a criterion of ritual, it must be remembered that the judge of what is rational is the observer, not the actor (1968: 521; emphasis in original). Indeed, for the nonbeliever,
or the believer in another religion, ritual may appear devoid of intrinsic adequacy
for its purpose. Observers may vary, however, and obviously the viewpoint of a
priest of the same religion may reintroduce the notion of rationality. For the
believer, ritual presupposes that the relationship between means and ends is intrinsic and efcacy is thus ensured. Leach subscribes to this view without reservation: Ritual acts are to be interpreted in the context of belief: they mean what
the actors say they mean (1968: 525). E. E. Evans-Pritchard supports this approach too: He who accepts the reality of spiritual being does not feel the same
need for such explanations, for, inadequate though the conceptions of soul and
God may be among primitive peoples, they are not just an illusion for him (121).
Moreover, the acceptance and inclusion of the participants internal viewpoint
paradoxically enables a scientic approach to religion. Similar considerations apply to secular rituals. Gilbert Lewis observes that [b]ehaviour that might seem

{ Theories of Origins }

arbitrary was made signicant by tradition or convention, at least as far as recognition of identity and the obligation to obey went (19).
Goody warns, however, that if culturally dened behavior can only be interpreted by the actors, all cross-cultural generalization is impossible, and all attempts to make rational analysis of the irrational must necessarily be fallacious
(Leach 1968: 525; cf. Goody: 155). Consequently, in order to understand ritual,
there seems to be no other way than to accept the viewpoints of both the involved
participants and the scientic observers and to be aware of the difference. Bell
summarizes: The nineteenth- and twentieth-century debate over magic, religion, and science has successively dened ritual activity as non-rational, then as
rational given its premises, and nally as a fundamentally symbolic form of communication, which means that it is irrational with respect to science but rational
in terms of its internal coherence and purpose (Bell 1997: 50).

Ritual Practices and the Notion of Performance

Following Durkheim, there is widespread agreement that, within a religious
framework, ritual refers to the practical or, rather, performative aspect of religion with regard to a sacred sphere. Jane Harrison, who subscribes to Durkheims approach, notes that in ancient Greek dromenon (religious ritual) literally
means things done (1951: 35; cf. Burkert 1979: 36). Ritual practices refers to
the entire set of performed acts, such as sacrice of animals, saying of prayers,
and relating mythical narratives. A distinction should be made between the performative aspects of a prayer, for example, and the beliefs it conveys. Fundamentally, practices are nonverbal in nature.
Despite profound differences between magic and monotheistic rituals (cf.
Durkheim: 57), in both the aim of ritual practice is to reach the sacred sphere
and procure assistance for individual and/or community. Bronislaw Malinowski claims that magic and religion both belong in a single sphere, the magicoreligious: Man needs miracles not because he is benighted through primitive
stupidity, [or] through the trickery of a priesthood . . . but because he realizes at
every stage of his development that the powers of his body and of his mind are
limited (1963: 301). The main difference is that magic presupposes that the divine can be compelled by ritual practices, whereas monotheistic religions assume
that God is omnipotent and confers grace only by His own will. Edmund R.
Leach claims: From the viewpoint of the actor, rites can alter the state of the
world because they invoke power. If the power is inherent in the rite itself, the

{ Basic Denitions }

analyst calls the action magic; if the power is believed to be external to the situationa supernatural agencythe analyst says it is religious (1954: 52; cf. Bell
1997: 47). Both kinds of religious practices, however, share a single aim: efcacy
on the sacred sphere. Moreover, both assume dependence of their efcacy on the
communitys participation.
Ritual practices are usually extremely formalized. They are characterized by
colorfulness, solemnity, prescribed behavior, recurrence, and long-term permanence. Their preestablished acts are obligatory, and transgression is penalized.
Failure to recognize the situation until too late, failure to conform or the actions
done wrongly, may be expected to be met by sanction or misfortune, and a lapse
prompts embarrassment, shame or anxiety (Lewis 1988: 20).
Recurrence and stability are essential to rituals symbolic function: its capacity to gather a periphery of verbal and nonverbal (particularly emotional) associations and evoke them anew and with renewed vigor whenever it is performed.
These verbal and nonverbal associations usually attach to components of ritual, such as kneeling, narration (myths in particular), and even geometrical
forms (e.g., the Star of David). Because of this symbolic potential, recurrence and
stability should be seen as an integral and crucial factor in the alleged efcacy of
religious ritual. Ritual practices develop from a kernel of meaning and grow
associatively.
Rituals are usually performed in places that are exclusively devoted to sacred
events, which have been consecrated by the community, such as synagogues,
churches, and mosques. These places also gather symbolic meaning. They are
performed at consecrated times, such as the annual religious celebrations, the
cyclic transition of seasons, and the changing phases in individual life, such as
birth, puberty, marriage, and death, for which Arnold van Gennep proposes the
category of rites de passage. Cyclic time entails recurrence and stability, and thus
such moments also gather symbolic meaning.
Interest in ritual practices led Turner, the anthropologist who probably most
inuenced the theory of theatre in the second half of the twentieth century, to explore ritual as performance (Bell 1997: 42). Turner endorses the view of ritual as
the performance of acts with regard to supernatural forces:
In earlier publications I dened ritual as prescribed formal behavior for
occasions not given over to technological routine, having reference to beliefs
in invisible beings or powers regarded as the rst and nal causes of all effects . . . I still nd this formulation operationally useful. . . . I nd it useful,
because I like to think of ritual essentially as performance, enactment, not primarily as rules or rubrics. . . . To perform is . . . to bring something about, to
8

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consummate something, or to carry out a play, order, or project. (Turner

1982: 79; emphasis in original)
Turner denes ritual as performance in terms similar to those of the speech
act (Austin; Searle 1985; Levinson) or, rather, action theory (Dijk). Although his
early application of performance was restricted to religious ritual, this denition enabled its expansion to other modes of action. On these grounds, Turner
suggests that ritual generates some kinds of aesthetic performance: ritual in its
performative plenitude in tribal and many post-tribal cultures is a matrix from
which several other genres of cultural performance, including most of those we
tend to think of as aesthetic have been derived (Turner: 81). This set of genres
includes theatre art. On these grounds, however, there is not much to distinguish
between religious and secular ritual practices, apart from intentions and purposes. Moreover, it is difcult to see how the notion of performance can distinguish between ritual, in its wide sense, and nonritual.

Symbolization of Beliefs and Values

The main function of ritual practices is to convey and establish a set of beliefs
which condition social and individual behavior. Clifford Geertz develops an approach that seeks to establish the ways in which religious symbolisms establish
powerful, pervasive and long lasting moods and motivations in men (1973: 90).
Symbol is conceived by him as anything that serves as a vehicle for a conception, its meaning (1973: 91). His examples are the number six, a feathered serpent,
the cross, the Guernica painting, and a shamanistic seance. A distinction should
be made between their performance and meaning aspects. Symbols and beliefs
belong in the latter. Such symbols store beliefs, insights, and values. Religious
symbols may stand for transcendent truths (1973: 98). The claim that religion is
a system of beliefs, however, does not imply their evaluation in terms of truth or
falsity from a scientic viewpoint. Catherine Bell observes that the focus on ritual has helped to elaborate theoretical models that could examine the dynamics
of religion apart from questions concerning the truth or falsity of doctrinal beliefs (1997: 22). The crucial factor is that the community believes in their truth.
Religious symbolism establishes a perspective, which is dened as a particular way of looking at life, a particular manner of construing the world (Geertz
1973: 110). The religious perspective differs from common sense in that it moves
beyond the realities of everyday life to wider ones which correct and complete
them, and its dening concern is not action upon these wider realities but ac{ Basic Denitions }

ceptance of them, faith in them (1973: 112). For obvious reasons, this perspective
also differs from the scientic one. It is out of concrete acts of religious observance that religious conviction emerges on the human plane (1973: 112 13).
In contrast to classic anthropology that conceived religion as reecting the social order, Geertz contends that religious symbolism shapes it (1973: 119, 127).
In other words, this symbolism conditions the ways in which the believers conceive the world (world view) and choose to act in it (ethos) (1973: 127). It is
the ability of religious symbolism to synthesize the cognitive and value aspects of
life that enables it to condition peoples behavior. The drive to make sense out
of experience, to give it form and order, is evidently as real and as pressing as the
more familiar biological needs. It is therefore necessary to interpret symbolic
activitiesreligion, art, ideologyas attempts to provide orientation for an
organism which cannot live in a world it is unable to understand (1973: 140 41;
cf. Burkert 1998: 26). Geertz avoids dealing with the truth-value of such conceptions (1973: 123) and focuses on the structural relations between symbolism and
its effect in the normal regulation of behavior (1973: 141).
Although not on a transcendental level, secular ritual proceeds in a similar
manner. Geertz extends the symbolic approach to civic ceremonies, while categorizing them in religious terms, such as cult, religion (1985: 16), and political theology (1985: 30). Secular cults proceed by symbolic practices whose main
aims are to condition civic behavior and support social and political order (1968:
1 4) by means of political speeches, assemblies, and parades.
Lewis points out the different levels of knowledge with regard to practices and
beliefs: The explanations for what is done may be clear, or complicated or uncertain, or multiple, or forgotten: but what to do is known (1988: 11). Moreover,
[r]itual performance may aim at clear, explicit symbolism or aim at mystery
(8). He even raises the question: to what extent may the anthropologist rely on
the account of the participants or be allowed to provide an interpretation of his
own (6)? It is clear that what is done bears symbolic meaning, but it is not clear
what its symbolic meaning is.
Ruth Benedict notes that in various cultures different symbolisms may be attached to quite similar ritual practices (397)for example, the sacrice of an animaland the same symbolism to different ritual practicesfor example, the
Catholic and Reform practices (397). She favors, therefore, a structural approach,
focusing on the internal functionality of culture, ritual, and symbolism within
a system of a given society as a crucial object of research: Such inquiries have
more signicant aim than the usual studies of ritual devoted to illustrating the
widespread occurrence of similar formal traditional modes of behavior, such as
divination or sacramental eating (397). This is an important observation for our
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study, since it aims a blow at the foundations of traditional anthropology, which

supports the theory of ritual origin of theatre on the grounds of supercial similarities of ritual practices and symbolisms throughout the world.

Social Functions and Dramatization of Social Life

Expansion of the category of ritual was suggested on the grounds of social
functions. Believers are usually not aware of ritual functions other than efcacy
on the level of the sacred sphere. In contrast, structural approaches tend to overlook this crucial function, and foreground psychological and social functions.
Bronislaw Malinowski argues that ritual simultaneously expresses and creates
the sentiment of dependence on a type of moral or spiritual power that is thought
to transcend the realm of the human. It is this sentiment at the heart of the unifying function of religious rituals that makes such rites essential to the constitution of society (Bell 1997: 28). A. R. Radcliffe-Brown generalizes this principle:
the performance of ritual generates in the actors certain sentiments that are advantageous to the society as a whole (Leach 1968: 522). This is an abstract formulation for secondary functions on the level of participant community, such
as buttressing tradition, reafrming common beliefs and promoting a sense of
community and social cohesion, and bestowing legitimation on social and political order. In religious ritual, its efcacy should be conceived as the condition sine
qua non for these functions to be fullled.
The fulllment of these secondary functions by any other kind of cultural
practice, however, does not transform it into a kind of ritual. Although theatre is
capable of fullling some of these functions, in particular reafrmation of common beliefs, it is also capable of producing the opposite experience, clearly contradicting ritual. The notion of functionbased on the gestalt theorypresupposes that the same function can be fullled by different entities and that the
same entity can fulll different functions. Although secular rituals do not share
the intention to reach the sacred, they may equally well fulll these secondary
functions, which thus become their principal ones.
Rituals are performed by the community. Even if a priest or political leader
fullls a crucial role in a given practice, it is the entire community that is supposed to participate in it. Participation is not only a precondition for its efcacy
but also explains the secondary functions attributed to it by anthropology. Moreover, ritual legitimates itself.
Expansion of the notion of ritual is maintained also on the grounds of
dramatization of critical social situations. Durkheim suggests a model of ritual
{ Basic Denitions }

11

as the projected expression of social cohesion and the unity of the group. Max
Gluckman argues, in contrast, that this model does not do justice to the role of
conict that is built into any society. Stressing the difculty of actually achieving social unity, Gluckman suggested that rituals are really the expression of
complex social tensions rather than the afrmation of social unity (Bell 1997:
38). He terms these rituals of rebellion. His examples, however, in particular
those of a carnivalesque nature (e.g., the Zulu women parading in mens clothes),
hardly contradict Durkheims model. They may magnify social tension, but they
also fulll a cathartic function in the sense of ultimately releasing this tension and
reafrming social cohesion despite tension. As we shall see below (chapter 11),
carnivalesque behavior may become rebellious, and even lead to social change,
only if the cathartic function is overpowered.
Victor Turner develops Gluckmans idea of ritualization of social conict.
He argues that many forms of ritual serve as social dramas through which the
stress and tensions built into social structure could be expressed and worked out.
Turner echoed Durkheim in reiterating the role that ritual, as opposed to other
forms of social action, plays in maintaining the unity of the group as a whole, but
he also echoed Gluckman in stressing how ritual is a mechanism for constantly
re-creating, not just reafrming, this unity (Bell 1997: 39). This lends a dynamic
dimension to Turners model.
Turner employs social drama not in the sense of medium or art but of
dramatization of real conict. Van Genneps rites de passage are a very good example: since transition from one social status to another is most exciting in itself, these rituals intensify preexisting tension in order eventually to produce its
catharsis upon reintegration. Furthermore, not all rituals dramatize social tension. As we shall see below (chapter 10), the notion of social drama reects a
fundamental fallacy: it blurs the ontological gap between life and representation
of life, between social life and thinking about it. In this sense dramatization is
not an established meaning of drama in theatre theory.

Mimesis
Many scholars have suggested that rituals, in the wide sense, feature a prominent
dramatic aspect. Their theories range from inclusion of dramatic elements to being a subspecies of drama. In this context, drama and dramatic are used in
the sense of theatre and theatrical. Following Durkheim, who introduces the
category of imitative rites, Jane Harrison views ritual as a representation or a
pre-presentation, a redoing or pre-doing, a copy or imitation of life, but . . . al12

{ Theories of Origins }

ways with a practical end. In contrast, art is also a representation of life, but cut
loose from immediate action (1951: 135). Following Aristotle, Rainer Friedrich
claims that [p]rimitive man and child alike indulge in mimesis. Here lies the origin of ritual (178 79; cf. Poetics 4.2). Moreover: Not all imitations are rituals,
but all rituals are imitations of actions, no matter how formalized a ritual ceremony may become (181). Walter Burkert nds the as if element even in animal ritual (1979: 51).
In what sense do these scholars employ mimesis? In theatre theory, it is usually used in three different senses: (1) artistic representation of life in various
media, following Aristotles denition and application of this notion to epic poetry, tragedy, and dithyramb; (2) similarity to real life, in the vein of naturalism;
(3) use of an iconic medium whose signs convey meaning on the grounds of similarity to their real models (cf. Kowzan: 63 74). In the latter sense, theatrical
mimesis can describe worlds which are not necessarily similar to any known
world. In contrast, Harrison and Friedrich employ this term in an additional
sense of reenactment of previous doings, in a noninstrumental expressive capacity. Following Harrison, Friedrich conceives ritual as an imitation of past
events that have a vital bearing on a communitys physical or spiritual well being, [which,] in turn, precipitate mimetic reactions that nally crystallize in rituals (179). These mimetic responses are detached from, and are repeated independently of, the occasion and situation that provoked them. Once they have
become repeatable, they acquire a xed pattern. The ritualization is complete
when their periodically repeated performances have been institutionalized
(179). Similar considerations apply to the Mass, which should also be conceived
in terms of reenactment of the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ.
Basically, there is no problem in the use of the theatre medium (sense 3) in the
context of ritual, such as the inclusion of the Quem Quaeritis in the Mass; but
there is a problem in viewing reenactment, which refers to an actual event, in
terms of theatre. The Mass reenacts Jesus Christs sufferings but not by means
of acting. As we shall see below, acting and reenactment refer to completely
different phenomena. I suggest that mimesis, in the sense of reenactment of
past events, which may be an efcient tool in ritual studies, is not a relevant notion in theatre theory.

Expression or Communication
Leach expands the notion of ritual on the grounds that communication is its
quintessential aspect: Human actions can serve to do things, that is, alter the
{ Basic Denitions }

13

physical state of the world (as in lighting a bonre), or they can serve to say
things (1968: 523; emphasis in original). These are conceived as concomitant aspects: Almost every human action that takes place in culturally dened surroundings is divisible in this way; it has a technical aspect which does something
and an aesthetic, communicative aspect which says something (1968: 523).
Shaking hands clearly illustrates this duality. For Leach ritual is characterized
by the particular prominence of the aesthetic, communicative aspect although
a technical aspect is never entirely absent (1968: 523).
This dual structure particularly applies to the nonverbal elements of ritual
practice (Leach 1976: 10), assumed to convey meaning similarly to language. In
seeking to understand ritual we are, in effect, trying to discover the rules of grammar and syntax of an unknown language (1968: 524). In this Leach concurs with
Susanne Langers dictum that [m]agic . . . is not a method, but a language; it is
part and parcel of that greater phenomenon, ritual, which is the language of religion (49). He warns, however, against application of analogy to language without caution (1976: 95).
Leach is aware that [m]ost modern anthropologists would agree that culturally dened sets of behaviors can function as language, but not all will accept my
view that the term ritual is used to denote this communicative aspect of behavior (1968: 524). Although he is correct in that the communicative aspect of ritual is highly prominent, his approach is nonetheless reductive. Lewis expresses
loud dissatisfaction with his view (1988: 20): there is not only some uncertainty
about the messages conveyed by ritual but also obscurity or uncertainty about
the message is tolerated and even valued (33). Moreover, we allow or expect a
latitude, variety or complexity in the interpretation of ritual meaning which is
different from what we would expect of language (32). On these grounds, Lewis
prefers considering ritual in terms of expression (8), which is symptomatic or
indicative (27). Although the need for interpretation does not contradict verbal
communication, as illustrated by literature, as we shall see below, there is no contradiction between communication and expression either.
The principle of communication poses an additional problem: who is the addressee (Lewis 1988: 33)? It would appear that the unique addressee of religious
ritual is the divine; but its social functions indicate that the messages articulated
in this language are also transmitted by the community to itself. This is particularly conspicuous in secular rituals, which lack any addressee other than the
community itself. Consequently, religious ritual at least should be conceived as
communicating in two directions, toward the unseen and toward the contemporary social situation (Burkert 1998: 6 7). Since it is a community that engages

14

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in performing a ritual, however, with regard to itself the notion of expression

appears to be more adequate.
Lewis claims that rst and foremost ritual is a doing: To limit ritual to its
communicative aspect would exclude and falsify its signicance for those who
perform it. Ritual is not done solely to be interpreted: it is also done (and from
the point of view of the performers this may be more important) to resolve, alter or demonstrate a situation (35). I believe that Lewis is correct in that communication should be conceived in the context of performance and that it is
only part of and subordinate to the latter. Leach overlooks the fact that in this dual
structure it is not the technical aspect but the element of action, reecting the intention of changing a state of affairs, which predominates over communication.
Burkert also endorses the view that ritual is an imitation of a regular (profane)
doing, which acquires a new function, that of communication (1979: 36); for
example, the killing of an animal for food instead of for ritual purposes (a
sacrice). Communication is meant to explain how behavior that may be considered profane within one domain becomes sacred in the other. He also overlooks the fact that the main function of animal sacrice most probably is to be a
surrogate offering to a god: its communicative aspect is subordinated to its performative function. Following Malinowski, for Burkert communication aims at
fullling the main social functions of religious ritual, which is characterized by
manipulation of anxiety, to the extent that one might be tempted to make this
its denition (1979: 50). Religious rituals seem intentionally, and articially, to
produce the atmosphere of awe, using all the registers of darkness, re, blood and
death, and thereby to control it (Burkert 1979: 50). This is assumed to fulll a
social function, because anxiety tends to draw the group together and its control
to strengthen its cohesion (50). Does Burkert assume that these are achieved only
by conveying meanings? In my opinion, anxiety control and cohesion also reect
subordination to the performative aspect of ritual. In this sense, Leach and Burkert commit the same fallacy.
The main problem is that the communicative aspect cannot distinguish ritual
from nonritual, whether in the religious or the secular sense. The wide variety
of activities that have come to be analyzed as ritual behavior patterns . . . testies
to the promiscuous tendencies of this approach. It identies ritual with formal
communcative functions and then nds ritual to some degree in all or most activity. . . . it is a short step from the proposition that everything is ritual to the
practical reality that nothing is ritual (Bell 1992: 73). This conclusion also applies
to the performative, expressive, and symbolic aspects, which underlie the expansion of the ritual category.

{ Basic Denitions }

15

Ritual as a Macro-Speech/Medium Act

In my view, the apparent incongruity among the performative, expressive, symbolizing, and communicative aspects of ritual is resolved within the framework
of pragmatics. In the terms of speech act theory, ritual should be conceived as a
macro-speech/semiotic act employing verbal and/or nonverbal systems of signication and communication with the intention (illocutionary force) of achieving contact with and affecting the spheres of the divine and/or community for
the sake of various practical results (perlocutionary effects) in the world (cf. Austin; Searle 1985; and Dijk). This working denition equally applies to religious
and secular rituals, although the latter lack a divine addressee, thus foregrounding their social functions. The principle here is that ritual action subordinates all
its other aspects.
Communication can be carried out by language or nonverbal media, such as
the indexical (e.g., body language) and iconic (e.g., theatre medium). The use of
language for the sake of ritual is particularly obvious in monotheistic religions:
the Jewish service of Yom Kippur (Day of Atonement), for example, comprises
almost exclusively verbal prayers. These verbal texts are used in speech acts of repentance, request, and allegiance to God. There are also body language examples,
such as the Jewish custom of opening the door for Elijah the prophet and eating
bitter herbs in remembrance of the hardships of slavery in ancient Egypt at the
Passover Seder (ritual meal). It is no wonder, therefore, that the theatre medium
can also be employed for the sake of ritual purposes (e.g., the Quem Quaeritis;
chapter 5). Moreover, even prayers should be seen as the verbal component of
fundamentally nonverbal expressive acts, because they are components of actions that reect intentions and purposes of believers. The performance of a
prayer is more important than its particular prayer. The fact that a ritual provides
a ready-made verbal text does not contradict its expressive nature. In being performed by the participants, the text is adopted by them and becomes an index of
their intentions and purposes. Leach contends that [w]henever we discuss expressive behavior we are concerned with the relationship between observable
patterns [of behavior] in the world out-there and unobservable patterns in the
mind (1976: 17). The function of symbolism also explains the recurrent use of
ready-made texts. Consequently, although ritual may operate a complex text
which combines several systems of representation, these are always subordinated
to its general aim: to change a state of affairs. In all cases, whatever the medium,
as a whole ritual is self-referential to its performersit is a predication that
reects on their own real intentions and purposes.

16

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If ritual is indeed performative, in the sense of speech act theory, the implication is that it cannot be dened merely by the type of language or medium it
employs but must be dened by the type of act it performs, which is determined
by its intention. Lewis, who claims that [r]itual cannot be demarcated by a clear
boundary from other kinds of custom, contends that recognition of the chief
intention or address in the custom is nonetheless important for a just and proper
interpretation (1988: 8). Furthermore, to mistake the intention of the ritual
performance may seriously distort the meaning we extract from it (23).
Striving for efcacy is, in fact, a quality of both speech/medium and nonverbal acts. The same act can reect different intentions and aim at achieving different purposes, and different acts can reect the same intention and aim at
achieving the same purposes. Although the expected effect of ritual is usually a
denite one, failure does not change the nature of the act. Reafrmation of beliefs, a possible effect of ritual, can also be achieved by theatre. The difference is
that theatre may also aim at undermining traditional beliefs, whereas a ritual
striving for refutation of its professed beliefs is inconceivable. Ritual can also
strive for purposes, such as achieving divine grace, which are unthinkable in the
theatre.
For the purposes of this study and from a pragmatic viewpoint, therefore, my
working denition of ritual includes the following: performance of an act/action
by and for the community, employing various media, with religious or other
intentions and purposes, aiming at an effect on the divine and/or community
spheres, in the form of a prescribed and recurrent practice, attaching ever growing symbolic meaning, performed at consecrated places and times. From a pragmatic viewpoint, ritual is basically self-referential, like any other real act/action,
and subordinates the use of any language/medium, including the possible use of
theatre, to its general design.

Ritual and Myth

Despite substantial variance, the main theories of myth do agree on the following
features of myth: it is a narrative of events, set in primordial and non-temporal
time (Eliade 1991: 57), commanding belief or involvement, relating in a nonliteral
manner to the world (possibly metaphorically), and fullling various functions.
Theories vary on these functions: theological, political, social, psychological
(cognitive or other). These theories can be conceived as complementary to each
other (chapter 15).

{ Basic Denitions }

17

There is controversy on the nature of the relationship between ritual practice

and myth. G. S. Kirk criticizes Leach for asserting that myth is the counterpart
of ritual; myth implies ritual, ritual implies myth, they are one and the same. . . .
Myth regarded as a statement in words says the same thing as ritual regarded as
a statement in action (Leach 1954: 13; quoted by Kirk: 23). Kirk considers it a revival, based on modern rather than ancient evidence, of Jane Harrisons view that
myth is the legomenon, the thing said, ritual the corresponding dromenon, the
thing performed (23). In contrast, Kirk advocates mutual independence: myths
and rituals can and do frequently occur independently of each other (24; cf.
Burkert 1979: 56). Similarly, Burkert claims that there are myths told and retold
without a ritual, and rituals without myths (56 57). Moreover, myths are not
necessarily associated with religious beliefs (11). He also claims that ritual is older,
since it occurs even in animals, and that myth depends on language (57).
This mutual independence does not contradict the fact that in many cultures
myth and ritual are associated in some degree with religion (Kirk: 29). In such
cases the relations between them are complex and varied (16; cf. Fonterose: 50).
Most relevant to this study is the fact that in Dionysiac faith the etiological myth
of the god (aition) appears to be an integral part of its ritual. Ritual practices, religious or secular, may include the recitation of a myth. Thus ritual and myth
may complement each other, without contrasting mutual independence.

The Notion of Theatre

Unfortunately, the denitions of theatre and the assumptions about it that underlie most theories of origins under scrutiny in this study are not made explicit.
After inference, however, we nd that most implicit assumptions and denitions
conform with various well-known theories currently in vogue when each theory
of origin was rst suggested; some of them have long since been superseded.
Since I have already stated my own views on the nature of theatre on various occasions, particularly in my book The Language of the Theatre, I conne myself
here to a brief recapitulation of my major theses, with special emphasis on those
most relevant to the questions of theatre origins and roots. Other theories of theatre are dealt with in the following chapters in the framework of discussions of
specic theories of origin.
My own theory of the theatre was developed within the context of several disciplines, particularly philosophy of language, rhetoric, and pragmatics, which at
least in part can be subsumed under semiotics, in the sense of a general theory of
signication and communication. As we shall see below, however, semiotics is
18

{ Theories of Origins }

not understood here in its classical form. The principles suggested below underlie my critical remarks throughout the book.
Theatre is a specic medium within the system of iconic signication and
communication. In this study, medium refers to the material element that enables a system of signication to be perceived by the senses of receivers and thus
its communication. In this sense language is a medium too, since it communicates by means of perceptible combinations of sounds or graphic forms in its
printed guise. The basic unit of the theatre medium is an image, as a basic unit
of signication, which requires imprinting on real matter, because otherwise it
would be an intangible gment of the imagination that could not be communicated. An imprinted image is usually termed an iconic sign. The medium thus
comprehends the system of signication. The iconic system also includes other
media, such as painting, cinema, and puppet theatre. The medium of theatre is
capable of describing ctional worlds, especially by means of imprinted images
of the characters acts on the bodies of actors.
The fundamental unit of an iconic medium is the iconic sign, which basically
is an (imprinted) image that conveys sense by virtue of its similarity to its model
in real life. Because of the principle of similarity there is no need to learn the language of theatre: its images can be decoded spontaneously, because they convey
exactly the same sense as the words employed for categorization of their real
models. I assume that abstractions connected to the words, which usually categorize such models, are naturally transferred to the signs that replicate them. In
other words, iconic signs are made possible by the mediation of natural language.
This mediation also extends to the syntactic structure of iconic sentences, in
which some signs are used in the capacity of subject and some in the capacity
of predicate. The former includes all the iconic signs employed to identify the
referent of the sentence and the latter all the signs used to attribute some acts/
actions to it. Whereas subject signs usually remain stable, predicate signs interchange on the time axis. For example, an actor produces permanent signs that
identify a character, such as a limp, and changing signs, such as a laugh, which
describe the character.
In iconic systems, the matter employed for imprinting an image usually is not
typical of its model. For example, the image of a human being may be imprinted
on marble, canvas (by means of paint), or puppets. The difference between an
imprinted image and model on the material level stresses the signifying and communicative functions of an iconic sign. It is only the theatre that imprints its images on matters that resemble those of the models of the images. For example,
images of human beings are imprinted on actors (i.e., real human beings); images of furniture on real wood and even real furniture; images of light on real
{ Basic Denitions }

19

light. Actors produce images of human beings, which are imprinted on their own
bodies and constitute the signs of a theatrical text. Their acting constitutes the
theatrical text.
The theatre medium usually replicates actions or, rather, real doings, which
are the perceptible aspects of actions. In this sense, doings are indexes of actions.
In the category of action I also include verbal actions and their perceptible indexes: speech acts. This is based on the theory of speech acts, whose main contention is that speech is used primarily for doing things (e.g., in acts of command, apology, and blame) and only secondarily for describing a world. I employ
index and icon as suggested by Charles Peirce. They belong in a triad which
also includes symbol, in the sense of an unmotivated sign (e.g., a word). In this
study, in contrast, I employ symbol in the sense of a sign that conveys a set of
associations, verbal and nonverbal, in addition to its basic signied, as usual in
theories of religion and the arts (Rozik 1992a: 64 81).
Iconic signs accumulate associative peripheries (connotations), which include
verbal and nonverbal associations, exactly like words. Nonverbal associations
(e.g., sensory, emotive, and evaluative) derive from actual human experience
with real beings and objects in real situations. Therefore, because of similarity
they are also attached to the images of such objects. Iconic signs thus loaded with
associative peripheries operate like verbal symbols, in the sense of conveying additional meanings to their basic signied.
Despite the mediation of natural language, theatre fundamentally is a nonverbal medium. Because an act is the perceptible aspect (an index) of an action,
which by denition is supposed to aim at changing a state of affairs, it is assumed
that it is nonverbal in nature (i.e., it is an object of verbal categorization). For example, the speech act of the order get out! couples a performative element (I
order you to x) and a descriptive one (You go out). This principle applies to
speech acts too, since they are used for performing actions, in a nonverbal capacity. In this sense, iconic replicas of speech acts, although descriptive in themselves, reect the nonverbal nature of speech acts. Moreover, viewing speech as a
kind of action changes our perception of dialogue from an exchange of verbal
descriptions into a specic form of interaction. Since theatrical dialogue replicates real dialogue, its indexical-nonverbal quality becomes an integral part of
theatrical dialogue itself. Consequently, theatre is a nonverbal medium on two
accounts: (1) as an iconic medium of representation, in contrast to language; and
(2) due to its objects of imitation.
A theatrical sign becomes conventional when the principle of similarity is
totally or at least partially canceled, thus preventing or impairing its natural
decoding, unless the principle underlying the convention has been learned or
20

{ Theories of Origins }

otherwise grasped. In other words, it becomes conventional when the image has
no model in reality (e.g., a soliloquy). Because of the limitations of iconic media,
conventions are vital to theatre. Without them the medium of theatre can neither
fully describe ctional worlds nor, in particular, fully condition the attitudes of
the spectators to them (Rozik 1992a: 104 25).
Actors inscribe sequences of images of human behavior, including speech, on
their own bodies. These are indexical in nature: for example, an image of dancing. The theoretical problem is that indexical signs only refer to those who produce them, apparently the actors in the case of theatre. An image of dancing is
equivalent to the sentence I am dancing. There is a need, therefore, to explain
how the actors who produce such indexlike predicates deect reference from
themselves to the characters who are supposed to produce them. They do so by
enacting iconic signs in the capacity of both subject signs which identify a referent (the character) other than themselves and predicate signs which are eventually attributed to the enacted characters. This mechanism, which I term deection of reference, denes acting and explains how actors describe characters
by means of images of indexical signs. On the same grounds, the notion of acting should be extended to include nonhuman objects on stage, as well as space
and time, which can equally be seen as enacting ctional objects, space, and time.
Deection of reference does not contradict the fact that the actors are synchronously producing iconic indexes, meant to be attributed to characters, and indexes of their own acting, for which they are eventually applauded or jeered. In
various theories the principle of acting has been labeled by words such as pretense and impersonation, which cannot be accepted for reasons I supply
below.
Acting is the quintessential principle of theatre, since the description of a
(ctional) world by means of the theatre medium is made possible only by
deection of reference. Enacting a character is in fact the very act of formulating
its description. Although other iconic media, such as cinema and puppet theatre,
share deection of reference, the difference resides in the extension of the principle of similarity to the imprinting matter. The real actors acting thus requires
a clear distinction from humans doing real things in the real world.
In some cases, street theatre appears to create the impression of a real event,
leaving bystanders wondering whether it is indeed real or not. In street theatre,
the theatre building, which can be seen as a domain marker of theatricality, is
missing. The extension of the principle of similarity to imprinting matter is
probably responsible for occasionally blurring the borderline between theatre
and life. Once we are certain that what we are seeing is actually a case of theatre,
however, our difference in attitude then becomes striking: we allow ourselves to
{ Basic Denitions }

21

apply the principle of acting, or deection of reference, and thus effectively decode and interpret the text.
I suggest a distinction between theatre as a medium and the use of this medium for different modes of cultural creative activity. The fact that we know the
theatre medium from its particular use in the framework of theatre art does not
preclude its use in other domains, such as religious or civic rituals, opera, dancetheatre, and even advertising. In the context of this study, I do not engage in a
denition of art. Such an endeavor justies a separate study. I only suggest that in
its artistic guise theatre art is dened by its medium, as literature is dened by
language, which is used solely for the fundamental function of humans thinking
about their own world. Being a medium (i.e., a system of signication and communication), theatre is an instrument of thinking, articulating, and communicating thoughts to others, similar to and no less efcient than natural language.
The theatrical experience should thus be conceived in terms of communal thinking. I do not presuppose a theatrical impulse, instinct, faculty, sensibility, or disposition but only a specic method of thinking.
The performance-textthe actual enacting of a ctional or ctionalized
world for a given audience at a given time and place, whether in the context of
theatre art or otherwiseis a description of such a world. In contrast to classical semiotics, I suggest that the spectator is not only expected to decode the text
but also to interpret it, in the sense of providing a set of additional associations,
which are no less important than the text itself.
Fictional worlds are spontaneously created by the human imagination as a sequence of images. Such worlds can be described by verbal or iconic media. The
common denominator of literature is the medium of natural language, which is
able to describe images by means of the evocative power of words, including the
nonverbal components of dialogue. In contrast, the common denominator of
theatre is its specic iconic principle that describes images by imprinting them
on matter similar to their models, including images of speech. The medium of
theatre thus affords a particularly suitable method for representing ctional
worlds: by imprinting the images spontaneously created by the psyche it lends a
concrete dimension to them. Obviously, there are additional iconic media that
afford similar methods, such as cinema, whose afnity to theatre is self-evident.
Viewing the performance-text as a description of a world entails a fundamental distinction between this text and the (usually ctional) world it depicts. This
distinction is evident in that different media, including language, can describe
the same ctional world, making translation from medium to medium possible, and the same medium can describe different ctional worlds. The ultimate
implication of this principle is thatin contrast to the commonplace view that
22

{ Theories of Origins }

what actually happens on stage is the ctional worldthere is no inherent connection between the ctional world and the medium used to depict it. They are
mutually independent.
A theatre art performance is also a social event, involving performers and audience. Its communal nature is more prominent than that of literature. It should
be conceived as a thing done, as an act/action performed by the set of authors,
designers, and performers, under the directors lead, reecting their intentions
and purposes and aimed at producing certain effects on the audience (i.e., as a
macro-medium act too). What is then the difference between ritual and theatre
as modes of action on this level? My answer is that whereas ritual basically aims
at affecting states of affairs in the divine or another sphere, theatre art only aims
at affecting the perception of states of affairs or, rather, thoughts about them. Ritual may use the theatre medium or language for similar purposes but always subordinated to its own intentions and purposes. Whereas ritual is restricted in its
possible effects, theatre art is open to any possible idea.

The Notion of Drama

Whereas theatre has been basically dened as a medium, there is a complex
problem in dening drama because in the various theories reviewed in this
book it is employed in a variety of senses.
1. Aristotle suggests drama in the sense of medium, which presents characters in the form of action, not of narrative (Poetics 6.2; cf. Halliwell
1987: 37in the mode of dramatic enactment); and as living and moving before us (Poetics 3.1; cf. Halliwell 1987: 33 by a wholly dramatic
presentation of the agents), in contrast to storytelling that communicates
narratives by means of words.
2. Drama is used for play-text, usually known in a printed form and
meant to be performed on stage, in contrast to performance-text. It is
assumed that a playwright has written the play-text having in mind the nature of the ctional world and its possible effect on a synchronous audience. It is on such grounds that the play-text is assumed to be a consummate literary work of art, which can only be experienced by reading it.
Typical analysis of drama in this sense thus focuses on its ctional worlds.
I believe that this reects a fallacy whose roots can also be found in Aristotle (Poetics 6.19). Moreover, the possible application of drama to both
medium and ctional world results in a vague term which should be
{ Basic Denitions }

23

avoided. In recent research, however, focus on the performance-text reveals that the play-text is predominantly a design of a dialogue, or rather
predominantly verbal interaction, eventually meant to be performed on
stage (or equivalent place). In this sense, it is not different from designs for
other aspects of the performance-text, such as set, costume, or lighting.
The implication is that the play-text is a decient text, particularly because
it lacks the nonverbal elements typical of the performance-text which can
disambiguate the verbal ones. This implication is based on the principle,
advanced in speech act theory, that the same verbal sentences can have different meanings depending on intentions, which are best communicated
by nonverbal indexes. Nonverbal signs thus acquire a capital function in
theatre semiosis, because they actually determine the meanings involved in
speech interaction. Since the performance-text features denite nonverbal
concomitants of speech, its meaning is not ambiguous, by denition. The
use of drama for play-texts can be explained as a metonymic displacement of meaning: drama (sense 2) got such a name because it has to be
performed in theatrical form (sense 1).
3. Drama and dramatic are used for extremely emotionally charged situations in theatre and real life. The theatre medium, however, can create either emotionally loaded or detached ctional worlds. This sense can also
be explained as a metonymic displacement, since drama usually features,
although not necessarily, highly emotional situations. This sense underlies
Schechners notion of social drama.
4. Drama is used for basically serious play-texts which cannot be classied
as tragedy. This cannot be considered a theoretical tool.
5. Drama is used for the set of rules that structure the ctional worlds described by the theatre medium (cf. Elam: 98ff.).
* * *
In this study, and in phrases that reect my own view, I use these key terms in
the following senses: theatre for the medium, as suggested above, which is
dened by the rules that enable generation of theatrical performance-texts;
drama (and dramatic) for the rules that structure the ctional worlds described by this medium (sense 5); dramatic arts for the various arts capable of
describing ctional worlds, including theatre art; dramatization for the basic
translation of ctional worlds to the theatre medium, considering their eventual performances; play-text for the script or, rather, design of the dialogue
of a possible performance; and performance-text for the set of actually per-

24

{ Theories of Origins }

formed signs on a stage, to be decoded and interpreted by a specic audience.

Theories under scrutiny are quoted in their original terms, with additional remarks regarding the senses in which key terms, theatre and drama in particular, are employed.
From the viewpoint of the medium, a performance-text can be seen as an
open set of theatrical sentences, which only dramatic rules can further organize
into a whole, featuring a beginning, middle, and end. As suggested above, medium and ctional worlds are mutually independent. In the light of the decient
nature of the play-text, creative interpretation, in the sense of lending specic
meaning to verbal sentences by attaching nonverbal signs to them, is not a matter of choice, which also explains the factual diversity of performance-texts based
on the same play-text.
A crucial question is, why are audiences so attracted by descriptions of unreal
worlds? The problem lies in the obvious gap between the descriptions of any
given ctional world and the psychical world of the spectator. Such a gap can be
bridged by the principle of metaphor, which is the only kind of description that
combines apparent improper description, apparent double reference (to a world
and to the psyche), and ultimate adequacy. I have suggested elsewhere, therefore,
that such worlds are potential descriptions of the spectators psychical state of affairs, including its conscious and unconscious layers (Rozik 1991). Obviously the
spectator can accept it or reject it as such at will. In other words, eventually theatre is self-referential too but only by mediation of a ctional world and deection of reference to it.

From Ritual to Theatre

The various theories of ritual are relevant, or irrelevant, to our study on different
grounds. The following are only schematic observations on the level of denitions on theories of theatre origins, which are subjected to criticism in the following chapters.
The School of Cambridge supports the theory of ritual origin on the grounds
of two arguments. Jane Harrison bases her approach on the alleged shared
mimetic nature of ritual and drama (in the sense of theatre). As we have seen,
mimesis is not a necessary aspect of ritual. She also claims that the transition
from dromenon to drama occurs when a participating community becomes a
watching audience. Although the efcacy of ritual depends on communal participation, the question is whether or not such a transformation is possible. In con-

{ Basic Denitions }

25

trast, Gilbert Murray and Francis M. Cornford sought proof for ritual origin in
alleged traces of the aition of Dionysus in dithyramb, tragedy, and comedy. As we
have seen, myth and ritual are mutually independent (chapters 2 and 3).
Ernest T. Kirby suggests a theory of origin from shamanistic practices on the
grounds of their shared performative nature. In trance, while being possessed by
a spirit (another being), a shaman would appear to represent it. Kirby equates the
ecstatic shaman with the actor enacting a character. Indeed, both engage in performance, but its nature is different in each domain. While the shamans performance is self-referential, like any other ritual, the actor engages in a description
of a character by deecting reference to it. While the shaman produces an indexical text, the actor performs a basically iconic one (chapter 4).
The recreation of theatre in the religious service of the medieval Church was
suggested on various grounds: (1) the lack of continuity between ancient and medieval theatre; (2) the symbolic nature of the Mass; and (3) the dramatic quality
(in the emotional sense) of the Mass. The Mass is indeed dramatic in both the
symbolic and emotional senses but not in that of being articulated in the medium
of theatre (chapter 5).
On the grounds of more recent theories of ritual, Turners in particular, Richard Schechner suggests relinquishing the search for a generative link between ritual and theatre. Instead, he endorses a more fundamental bond: being different
manifestations of a shared combination of two elements, efcacy and entertainment. Although efcacy has been considered a fundamental aspect of ritual,
however, entertainment cannot be conceived as epitomizing theatre (chapter 9).
Schechner also suggests the notion of performance as the overall category
of all forms of expressive behavior, which applies not only to ritual but also to
nonritual kinds of activity. Such an all-embracing category, which may be an
efcient tool for understanding the shared social circumstances of performance,
cannot tell much about the nature of its subcategories. Since theatre has a clear
performative aspect, not only in the sense of performing a preexistent play-text,
this notion is relevant to our study (chapter 9).
No major theory under scrutiny in this study contemplates generation of theatre from secular ritual or overlooks the intentions of religious ritual. Even
Schechners theory of performance is articulated in terms of address to the absent other. The attempts of the theatrical avant-garde to reintroduce ritual into
the theatre also refer to ritual in its religious numinous or transcendental
sense, as indicated by the use of terms such as holy (Jerzy Grotowski) and sacred (Peter Brook).
No theory of ritual origin was suggested on the grounds of its prescriptive, recurrent, and stable nature. These aspects probably reect a fundamental human
26

{ Theories of Origins }

drive to formalize behavior, which is neither exclusive of ritual nor applies to all
of its kinds (e.g., shamanism). They also do not conform to the nature of artistic
theatre in its constant renewal. The expressive, symbolizing, and communicative
aspects of ritual cannot distinguish between ritual and nonritual either. Moreover, only by means of a medium can these aspects of ritual materialize.
No major theory of origin was suggested on the grounds of the social functions of ritual. The fact that theatrical performanceslike literary worksare
capable of fullling such functions, as well as contrasting ones, contradicts such
possible theories. For example, Bruce A. McConachie denes theatre as a type
of [secular] ritual which functions to legitimate an image of a historical social order in the minds of its audience (466). As mentioned above, theatre as both
medium and social event can inter alia also fulll this function, as it can fulll
the opposite one, thereby contradicting any denition of ritual. Equal function does not necessarily entail samenessusually the contrary is the case. McConachie is aware that catharsis . . . does not necessarily reconcile the theatrical
participant to the dominant social order of his historical present. Indeed ritual
participation may help to maintain aspects of a symbolical universe that contradict the premises of those in control of political or economic institutions (479).
He is not aware, however, that by this marginal remark he contradicts the notion
of theatre as a kind of ritual, including his own denition of the latter, in which
legitimation of social order is central (474).
The thesis of this book is that theatre could not have originated in ritual. This
can be demonstrated even on the level of denitions, because ritual and theatre
are cultural entities on two different ontological levels. Whereas ritual is a kind
of macro-act/action, with denite intentions and expected effects in the divine
or other sphere, theatre is a medium that can produce descriptions of acts and,
by accumulation, of worlds. Potentially, ritual as a mode of action can be an object of description but not a description in itself. Although ritual is dependent on
a medium, it can choose to employ the theatre medium or not, provided that it
is subordinated to its pivotal intention. In fact, theatre is only a marginal medium
in rituals. Conversely, the medium of theatre can only generate descriptions of
worlds.
Methods of representation, including theatre, can be and are used for doing
things; but they have no intrinsic intentions and purposes. Only the action of
which they are part can be said to have purposes and effects. Even if ritual employs a theatrical text as part of its practice, and subordinates it to its particular
aim, the medium itself cannot originate from such a particular use of it. The use
of the medium of theatre logically presupposes its existence. By nature rituals are
historical: they are established and disappear; theatre, in contrast, is ahistorical:
{ Basic Denitions }

27

as a medium it exists even if it is not used. Consequently, the only reasonable

model for their combination is that ritual can only choose to adopt or reject theatre as a constituent element of its performance. The theatre medium has no
choice with regard to ritual.
This ontological gap between ritual and theatre refutes by denition the possible origin of theatre from ritual. Ritual (world) and theatre are mutually independent and, therefore, cannot generate one another. The relationship between
theatre and ritual is analogous to that between ritual and natural language. The
former may employ the latter, but nobody would suggest that the use of language
in poetic prayers, for example, could have generated language. The gap between
medium and world reects the ontological gap between being and thinking, between world and thinking about the world.

28

{ Theories of Origins }

2
The Ritual
Origin of
Tragedy



The theory of the origin of Greek tragedy in ritual, as suggested by the School of
Cambridge and particularly advocated by Jane Harrison and Gilbert Murray, was
nally refuted and scientically laid to rest over half a century ago by that eminent scholar of ancient Greek culture A. W. Pickard-Cambridge. Nonetheless,
Harrisons and Murrays insistence that the structure of Greek tragedy reects the
nature of its generic ancestor, Dionysiac ritual, is still nding devoted adherents
even today. What is more, some of their fallacious assumptions have continued
to make their presence felt in subsequent and currently unquestioned theories of
origins. It is appropriate, therefore, to start our quest for the roots of theatre with
the very rst serious attempt to establish its origin in ritual.
Following Aristotle (Poetics 4.12), Harrison and Murray accept that tragedy
originated in dithyramb, a form of serious and sublime choral storytelling that
focused on narratives of heroes and gods. Such a development is presumed to
have occurred through the successive detachment from the chorus of rst one
and then two and three actors (Poetics 4.13), who enacted individual characters in
the narrative. Aristotle thus conceives the generation of tragedy in terms of transition from the medium of storytelling to the medium of theatre and does not
even mention Dionysus in connection with either one. In contrast, since Harrison and Murray claim that dithyramb itself evolved from an early form of
Dionysiac worship, they posit the indirect ritual ancestry of tragedy via dithyramb. Moreover, instead of relating tragedy to dithyramb on the level of medium, they assume that both share the structure of the ctional world with the
ritual of Dionysus.

Aition or Mimesis
Harrison and Murray suggest not only that the origins of Greek tragedy lie in the
revels of Dionysus but also that this worship reects a widespread phenomenon
in ancient cultures: the cult of the eniautos daimon or Spring-daimon. Following
James G. Frazer (1945: 324ff.), Harrison notes that peasant life was greatly dependent on the annual crop, as manifested in the worship of a god who through his
life, death, and resurrection personied this cycle, dying at the beginning of autumn, after harvest, and being reborn at the beginning of each spring. Murray assumes the same pattern:
The ordinary Year-Daimon arrived, grew great and was slain by his successor,
who was exactly similar to him. But Dionysus did not die. He seemed to
die. . . . When the world seemed to be dead and deprived of him, he was there
in the ivy and pine and other evergreens; he was the secret life or re in wine,
or other intoxicants. By this train of ideas Dionysus comes to be regarded not
as a mere vegetation-spirit or Year-Daimon, but as representing some secret
or mysterious life, persisting through death after death. (Murray: 362)
Within the boundaries of the ancient world there are indeed several gods in addition to Dionysus who may also be conceived as embodying the natural cycle of
the year by means of an image of death and resurrection, such as Adonis, Orpheus, Osiris, Tammuz, Attis, and even Persephone, an alternative metaphorical
representation of this cycle (Frazer 1945: 324 85). Following Frazer, Harrison
conceives Dionysus as a particular version of such a god. She acknowledges,
however, the questionable validity of this thesis: because of lack of evidence with
regard to a ritual of the eniautos daimon in ancient Greece, she supports it with
Egyptian sources, particularly the myth of Osiris, who in her view stands as the
prototype of the great class of resurrection gods (1951: 15). Harrisons and Murrays model of ritual clearly suffers from a dearth of genuine Greek evidence;
therefore, other sources had to be brought to bear on the subject in order to
forge a link between the dithyramb and the god (Vince 1984: 5).
In principle, it can be a valid theoretical procedure to suggest a model (of
which particular rituals are variant instances) despite a lack of explicit evidence
to substantiate this claim, particularly in attempting to explain the proliferation
of gods that present the same divine life-pattern: cyclic death and resurrection.
Such a model can only be posited, however, on condition that these forms of
worship do indeed preserve and share elements of the assumed underlying
model and that such an assumption has explanatory power. Indeed, in Harrisons
view, the existence of such primeval rituals would explain certain constants not
30

{ Theories of Origins }

only in synchronous traditions of worship but also in a series of subsequent genres, namely dithyramb and tragedy, in which traces of these rituals are allegedly
easily discernible.
In 1962 T. B. L. Webster brought out a revised edition of Pickard-Cambridges
Dithyramb, Tragedy and Comedy, in which he reviews new archeological evidence, including depictions of choral performances on vases of the archaic period and material from the Mycenaean age of the second millennium. These
vases suggest the existence at that time of fertility worship of the eniautosdaimon type, perhaps associated with the god Dionysus himself, and involving
performances by a dancing chorus. The signicance of the new evidence was that
the prehistory of the tragic genre might be traceable back even beyond Homer
(Silk and Stern: 144; based on Pickard-Cambridge 1962: 128 29). From a methodological viewpoint, however, in order to demonstrate that tragedy originated
in ritual there is no need for an underlying model of worship of the Springdaimon. It would sufce to establish a chain of descent only from Dionysuss
ritual. The problem is that Harrison and Murray attempt to link three distinct
cultural phenomena: the worship of Dionysus (a particular form of the Springdaimon cult), dithyramb (a particular form of storytelling), and Attic tragedy (a
theatrical form of the tragic). They suggest that the cult of Dionysus underwent
a series of transformations and renements leading rst to mature dithyramb
and eventually to tragedy and that continuity is reected in the shared structure
of the narratives of ritual, dithyramb, and tragedy.
The theses proposed by the School of Cambridge can be summarized as follows: (1) Dionysus is an eniautos daimon or god of the crops who represents the
cyclic death and rebirth of nature; (2) choral dithyramb stems from a sacer ludus
or ritual dance in honor of Dionysus that represented his aition (i.e., the mythical narrative of his ritual; Murray: 341); and (3) tragedy stems from dithyramb,
both reecting the structure of the very same aition. Since the pivotal axis of transition is thus the aition of Dionysus and in particular its structure, it should be
clear from the outset that the School of Cambridge does not address the question
of the origin of the medium of theatre. Since tragedy combines a tragic narrative
and theatre medium, it is evident that for this school the question of origin focuses on the structure of its narrative. Their main claim is that the narrative of
tragedy reects the structure of the aition of Dionysus. Focus on the ctional
world of tragedy justies the use of the term drama also according to its denition in this study. In general, the scholars of the School of Cambridge employ
drama in a vague sense, which applies to both ctional worlds and theatre
medium.
There is, however, a substantial difference between Harrison and Murray.
{ The Ritual Origin of Tragedy }

31

Jane Harrison denitely also addresses aspects of the medium. For her behind
the dithyramb lay a rite, a dromenon, and that rite was one of group initiation
(1927: 41). In terms of etymology, a dromenon is a thing done (1927: 42). Since she
is aware that not everything done is a ritual, the question is, what kind of doings constitute a ritual? It is a thing re-done or pre-done, a thing enacted or represented. It is sometimes re-done, commemorative, sometimes pre-done, anticipatory, and both elements seem to go to its religiousness (1927: 43). In other
words, a dromenon is a doing involving representation and imbued with religious
meaning; for example, savages returning victorious from war would commemorate their success by redoing the acts that brought them victory; and before setting off to war, they would anticipate their victory by predoing them. It is thus
that Jane Harrison conceives the advent of mimetic rites, since all rites qua rites
are mimetic (1927: 35).
In this Harrison follows Frazer, who without evidence presupposed that the
aition of a divinity featuring death and resurrection was enacted in its rituals; for
example, the ceremony of the death and resurrection of Adonis must have been
a dramatic representation of the decay and revival of plant life (Frazer 1945: 337)
and [l]ike other gods of vegetation Dionysus was believed to have died a violent
death, but to have been brought to life again; and his sufferings, death and resurrection were enacted in his sacred rites (388). The reason for this theatrical representation was the wish to facilitate natural processes, for it is a familiar tenet
of magic that you can produce any desired effect by merely imitating it (324).
By stressing the verbal root of dromenon (from dran do), Harrison supports
the thesis of a fundamental connection between dromenon (ritual) and drama,
both of which derive from the same root, dran (cf. Aristotle Poetics 3.3). She goes
on to say that [i]n all religion, as in all art, there is this element of make-believe,
not the attempt to deceive, but a desire to re-live, to re-present (1927: 43). In
other words, the thing done is not only religious or theatrical; it is both. Since
Harrison refers to cultures in primeval stages of development, her theory may be
conceived as a genuine theory of the roots of the medium of theatre. I return to
this aspect of her theory in chapter 16, in the analysis of iconic aspects in prehistoric dance. Her emphasis on the aition of the eniautos daimon diverts her theory from this course, however, because it focuses on aspects of the ctional
world. Rainer Friedrich too assumes that primitive man and the child alike indulge in mimesis. Here lie the origins of ritual (179). In other words, mimesis
was primordial, and [i]ts fusion with religion gave rise to ritual, and ritual, in
turn, to drama (159). He also claims that the presentation of an aition in a ritual
automatically reinforces the element of mimesis.

32

{ Theories of Origins }

Murrays Model
Fully endorsed by Harrison, Murray suggests a model of narrative in which six
type-events, following a denite order, reect the consecutive phases of the aition
of Dionysus. This sequence of type-events constitutes the structure of all narratives in dithyramb and subsequently in tragedy. Murray describes the narrative
sequence of the founding myth as featuring the following type-events:
1.

An Agon or Contest, the Year against its enemy, Light against

Darkness, Summer against Winter.
2.
A Pathos of the Year-Daimon, generally a ritual or sacricial death,
in which Adonis or Attis is slain by the tabu animal, the Pharmakos
stoned, Osiris, Dionysus, Pentheus, Orpheus, Hippolytus torn to
pieces [sparagmos].
3.
A messenger. For this Pathos seems seldom or never to be actually
performed under the eyes of the audience. . . . It is announced by a
messenger . . . and the dead body is often brought in on a bier. This
leads to
4.
A Threnos or Lamentation. Specially characteristic, however, is a
clash of contrary emotions, the death of the old being also the
triumph of the new. . . .
5 and 6. An Anagnorisis discovery or recognition of the slain and
mutilated Daimon, followed by his Resurrection or Apotheosis, or,
in some sense, his Epiphany in glory. This I shall call by the general
name Theophany. It naturally goes with Peripeteia or extreme
change of feeling from grief to joy.
We should stress the sequence in which these should normally occur: Agon,
Pathos, Messenger, Threnos, Anagnorisis and Theophany. (Murray: 343 44)
The transition from dithyramb (a kind of storytelling) to tragedy (a kind of theatre) is thus not mediated by their medium, the common denominator being the
aition and, to be more precise, its structure. Murrays theory thus deects interest from the origins of the medium to the origin of a narrative structure.
It is the task of a theatre scholar to examine the relevance of such a model to
the study of tragedy and particularly to the quest for the origins and/or roots
of the medium of theatre. Since Murray illustrates the validity of his model by
applying it to three Euripidean tragediesBacchae, Hippolytus, and Andromachethis model is also examined below through analysis of his plays.
The rst and denitive lethal blow to Murrays model was already inicted in

{ The Ritual Origin of Tragedy }

33

1927 by Pickard-Cambridge, whose criticism consistently refuted all possible

evidence and demolished any possible argument in support of the existence of a
ritual of the Spring-daimon. What matters, however, is not to determine whether
or not cults based on the cycle of seasons existed in ancient Greece but whether
or not they took the form Murray suggests they did. In principle, it is reasonable
to assume that an agricultural society, whose entire livelihood was dependent
on the seasonal crop cycle, would deify such a cycle in the image of a god who
cyclically dies and is reborn, thereby reecting the innermost hopes of the community. With regard to structure, however, Pickard-Cambridge claims that it
can be safely said that neither in [Harrisons] Themis nor in any records of Greek
ritual is there any trace of a ceremony called Dithyramb on good authority and
taking the form of Agon, Pathos or Sparagmos, Threnos, Anagnorisis, Resurrection; nor does any known Dionysiac ritual contain such a combination of elements (198).
Moreover, what little is known about the cult of Dionysus fails to conrm
Murrays thesis. Even the Zagreus mysteries, in which a sparagmos (a dismemberment of the body of Dionysus) may have been performed, cannot be shown
by any evidence to have any connection whatever with tragedy, or with the dithyramb. . . . It seems most probable that the supposed ritual, with which the origins of tragedy are connected by the theory under discussion, never existed in
Greece at all (188 89). Furthermore, it is extremely doubtful whether, in any
ritual known in Greece, the representation of the death, and the representation of the resurrection of the god or other object of cult were ever combined in
the same ceremony. They were, in fact, almost inevitably supposed to take place
at different times of the year, if they represent the phenomena of winter and
spring (188).
The School of Cambridge is often criticized for reecting a Christian bias in
anthropological research; indeed, the ritual of Easter demonstrates that the representations of death and resurrection can be consecutive events in the same ritual. For Christianity, however, this pattern of death and resurrection is clearly far
from being related to the cycle of seasons. Murray, moreover, presents birth and
rebirth as two sides of the same coin, in clear contrast to Christianitys celebration of them on totally separate occasions, Christmas and Easter. Christianity
combines death and resurrection and separates birth from resurrection.
All the evidence to date indicates that no cult, and in particular no ancient
Greek cult, embodies the model suggested by Murray. Furthermore, nowhere
is there evidence that the sequence of events suggested by Murray passed from
Dionysiac ritual to dithyramb and eventually to tragedy.

34

{ Theories of Origins }

The Dithyrambic Source

Very little is known about the nature of dithyramb. Most of the extant texts are
fragments comprising short quotations, other than a few complete poems, particularly by Bacchylides. Continuity from dithyramb to tragedy is plausible in the
sense that these choral songs tell stories of gods and heroes in a prevalent tragic
mood. In fact, Murray admits that these narratives replaced the myth of Dionysus; he suggests, therefore, that at least the structural traces of his aition can be
detected in both dithyramb and tragedy: while the content has strayed far from
Dionysus, the forms of tragedy retain clear traces of the original drama of the
Death and Rebirth of the Year Spirit (342). Close examination of the extant texts,
however, reveals no evidence of such type-events and their suggested order in
dithyramb or tragedy.
The ceremonial elements allegedly found in the performance of dithyramb
are not enough to support the thesis that they were part of Dionysiac or any other
ritual. Those fragmentary or complete dithyrambs that have been found do not
feature even a single episode of the aition of Dionysus and only occasionally
mention his name in a deferential gesture. Despite fragmentation, evidence suggests that this gesture was the customary form, which is also supported by extant
tragedies. Gerald F. Else claims that there is no plausible reason to believe that
tragedy was ever Dionysiac in any respect except that Peisistratus attached it,
once and for all, to his festival of the Greater Dionysia (80). The proverbial saying nothing to do with Dionysus indicates that the Dionysian institutional
setting of Greek tragedy with its un-Dionysian nature was a puzzle to the ancients no less than it is to us (Friedrich: 159; cf. Winnington-Ingram: 261).
Simon Goldhill disputes the validity of this saying on the grounds of the interplay between norm and transgression enacted in the tragic festival that makes
it [the City Dionysia] a Dionysiac occasion (127). He views the sacred time of
a festival as a period in which the social order is reversed (127) and tragedy and
comedy as not only reversing the norms of society but inculcating a questioning of the very basis of these norms, the key structures of opposition on which
norm and transgression rest (127). It is unacceptable, however, that in tragedy
as a genre we nd the unsettling thrust of the potential undermining of a secure and stable sense of norm (and thus of transgression) (128). This may suit
the tragedies of Euripides but not all Greek tragedies. Tragedy indeed questions
fundamental tenets of Greek religion, in most cases, however, with the intention
not of undermining them but of reinforcing them. Furthermore, this saying is of
genuine Greek origin.

{ The Ritual Origin of Tragedy }

35

Even if Murrays assumption is accepted, the question still remains as to how

the myth of Dionysus was removed from dithyramb and substituted by a host of
mythical and historical characters and their actions. Harrisons thesis, so central
to his argument, that Dionysus and the main heroes of Greek mythology were
variants of the eniautos daimon (all of whom had an aition and a dromenon of
their own) quite clearly fails to conform to the actual remnants of dithyramb,
which seem to focus more on particular actions of gods and heroes than on their
life patterns, let alone death and resurrection. These choral songs tell stories of
heroes such as Theseus, Menelaus, and Odysseus, whose eventual death was most
assuredly human and, therefore, nal. Murrays model fails in its attempt to create an ur-myth of which all other myths are only variants, while totally disregarding the wealth of imagination encapsulated in Greek mythology.
William Ridgeway claims that a cult of heroes had preceded the ritual of
Dionysus and that this cult is reected in dithyramb. The implication is that there
was no transition from the myth of Dionysus to analogous narratives of gods and
heroes and, therefore, that the transition from ritual of heroes to nonritual art
occurred only with the advent of tragedy. In contrast, Pickard-Cambridge suggests that the transition from ritual to nonritual themes probably took place
within the framework of dithyrambic tradition itself during the sixth century,
when the heroic legends were being collected and consolidated by Peisistratus
and other tyrants, at which time stories and rituals had already become separated
(196). During the same period, drama too was developing from dithyramb; consequently, a tremendous mass of legend was also being made accessible to the
dramatic poets and organizers (196). It is rational to assume, therefore, that
these poets were eager to seize on the legends, experimenting freely, and ultimately rejecting stories which did not make good plays, and so settling down (as
Aristotle says) to the stories of a few houses. By no means all these legends were
aetiological (though no doubt some were) (196).
Friedrich attempts to reinstate the ritual theory of theatre origin by circumventing Pickard-Cambridges criticism on the transition from the aition of
Dionysus to heroic myth and to suggest an alternative. In his view, the School of
Cambridge fails to solve the crucial question: how the transition from ritual to
drama took place (165). The answer depends on how one explains the adoption
of heroic myth by Dionysiac ritual, given that Dionysian religiosity was antagonistic to the spirit that had shaped heroic myth (172). Friedrich explains this on
the grounds of equivalent complexity: heroic myth could enter the Dionysian
ritual only because ritual had previously arrived at a plot the place of which
heroic myth could take. It was the entrance of heroic myth which brought about

36

{ Theories of Origins }

the metamorphosis of ritual into drama. Thus in acquiring the equivalent of a

plot, ritual reached the morphological stage at which it pregured dramas complexity. And it was precisely this complexity which made ritual the antecedent of
drama (172). In principle, in his view, myth and ritual are independent of each
other but can create a benecial symbiosis (183): Myth, importing a narrative
plot, strengthens the purely mimetic element in ritual at the expense of its liturgical purpose. Soon, ritual comes to be viewed as the dramatic performance of
the myth (185). By adopting the seasonal myth, Dionysiac ritual attained the
structural complexity required for the creation of drama: As a passion play dealing with the sufferings, death and ultimate epiphany of Dionysus it does possess
the equivalent of a plot. It is structurally prepared to adopt heroic myth (173).
Friedrichs solution is quite ingenious: while retaining the Dionysiac thesis, he
does not require that Dionysiac aition be reected in all heroic myths, as suggested by Murraybut which are then the traces of Dionysiac ritual in tragedy?
Although Pickard-Cambridge accepts the claim that tragedy originated in
choral songs (of which dithyramb was a specic kind), he was very particular in
showing that under the circumstances of the advent of tragedywhich assumedly happened with the introduction of the rst actor by Thespisthese
choral songs, including dithyramb, were already far removed from actual Dionysiac ritual, in the regular sense of the term: the transition from ritual to art, if
it indeed occurred, preceded the advent of tragedy. If this conjecture is true, on
the level of the ctional world, tragedy stems from a nonritual and nondramatic
tradition. At most, it was an indirect transition from ritualfrom which tragedy was twice removedto dramatic art. Paradoxically, this seems to imply that
the question of origin in ritual would now appear to apply to storytelling; but no
scholar has ever claimed that this medium originated in ritual.
Not only was the Dionysiac cult still in evidence at a time when tragedy was
reaching its greatest achievements, but dithyramb too continued its existence
and development in parallel to tragedy. Aristotle, the closest source to the events,
who did perceive an afnity between tragedy and dithyramb, detected no such
afliation with the cult of Dionysus.

Murrays Model in Practice

Murrays ultimate aim was to demonstrate the origin of tragedy in ritual on the
following grounds: a recurrent sequence of type-events in tragedy coinciding
with the very same sequence in ritual. Even Euripides Bacchae, however, which

{ The Ritual Origin of Tragedy }

37

is the only extant tragedy featuring a myth of Dionysus, does not comply with
this model, not to mention the heroic myths. Murrays own application of his
model to Euripides Bacchae, Hippolytus, and Andromache is most revealing.
In Bacchae Murray nds ve elements: the Agon between Dionysus and Pentheus; the Pathos of the dismemberment (sparagmos) of Pentheus by his mother;
the Messenger announcing his death followed by his mothers Recognition
(Anagnorisis) and the Threnos or Lamentation. For him, however, Agaves recognition of Pentheus and apprehension that she has dismembered her own
son count as Anagnorisis, which most denitely is not the expected recognition
of a slain god. The application of the term thus involves an illicit extension of
meaning. The same applies to Pathos, which is not for the dismemberment of the
god, and theophany, which is not the manifestation of the previously dead
character. Whereas only Pentheus, the dismembered hero, could have undergone resurrection in order to symbolize the renewal of life on earth, it is, rather,
the theophany of Dionysus, who neither dies nor is resurrected.
Murray does not consider this to be a problem: when we remember that
Pentheus is only another form of Dionysus himselflike Zagreus, Orpheus,
Osiris and the other daimons who are torn to pieces and put together againwe
can see that the Bacchae is simply the old Sacer Ludus itself, scarcely changed at
all, except for the doubling of the hero into himself and his enemy (346). His solution is indeed ingenuous but hardly satisfying: Pentheus as a dying Dionysus
cannot deny his own divinity. With due irony Pickard-Cambridge asks, When
is Pentheus Pentheus, and when is he Dionysus? When is Dionysus the enemy of
Pentheus, and when is he another form of him? (187). It is clear, therefore, that
the necessary pattern of death and resurrection of divinity is missing and that
the alleged metaphorical representation of the cycle of seasons has vanished.
Pentheus is most mortally dead, and Agaves grief does not turn into joy (peripeteia) at the alleged theophany and, therefore, cannot represent the renewal of
nature.
Murray claims that Bacchae is a most instructive instance of the formation
of drama out of ritual. It shows us how slight a step was necessary for Thespis or
another to turn the Year-Ritual into real drama (346). This claim, however, is
groundless. Although Euripides dramatized a myth of Dionysus with critical intent, it is indeed possible for a playwright faithfully to present an aition with
the intention of casting an ironic shadow on a cult in order to undermine and
overthrow the religious beliefs associated with it. In particular, if the aition is
grasped as self-defeating, it would be represented with complete delity, preserving its narrative structure. The playwright did not choose to dramatize the myth
of the death and resurrection of Dionysus, however, but a myth featuring his
38

{ Theories of Origins }

struggle for recognition as a god for the very same ironic reason. It is a fallacy to
expect that all myths associated with the same god will reect the same narrative
structure.
Murrays choice of this particular play is, therefore, puzzling. Euripides criticism of contemporary popular beliefs, as manifested in his tragedies, is erce and
even scornful. In particular, in Bacchae Dionysus appears in the worst possible
light. Euripides stresses the disproportion between Pentheuss crime and Dionysuss punishment. He deliberately emphasizes the contrast between human and
god in order to show both the improper humanlike behavior of the god and his
total failure to comply with any loftier human conception of divinity. In general,
Euripides, in contrast to ritual, aims at undermining irrational religious beliefs
and in particular at discrediting Dionysus as a god.
Euripides critical intent is made evident in the ironic structure of the action:
Dionysus, who eventually defeats his detractors and establishes himself as a god
in his native city, reveals himself as devoid of divine nature. He declares himself
to be overpowered by human emotions and motives. Dionysus punishes the
women of the city for slandering him and his mother, Semele, by inicting madness upon them (32 34) and wreaks vengeance upon King Pentheus for opposing his faith by having him dismembered by his own mother. He has Cadmus,
who initially welcomed the new god, openly criticize his act as an atrocious
crime (1223) and awful murder (1245) and then vindicate his grandson Pentheus as a noble victim who has been slaughtered to the gods (1247):
Cadmus: We have learned. But your sentence is too harsh.
Dionysus: I am a god. I was blasphemed by you.
Cadmus: Gods should be exempt from human passions. (1346 48)
Dionysus is motivated by pride, passion for power, and vindictiveness against
those who have rejected him. He carefully plans his vengeance on Pentheus. He
lures him into becoming the laughingstock of Thebes (854) and being butchered
by the hands of his mother (858 59). Dionysus inicts madness upon victim
and victimizer alike and with cruel indifference leads them to mutual destruction: Women, I bring you the man who has mocked at you and me and at our
holy mysteries. Take vengeance upon him (1079 81). Euripides certainly implies a more advanced notion of divinity.
Euripides Dionysus is not only enacted by a human actor, an unavoidable yet
obvious element of personication, but also, in order to carry out his scheme,
disguises himself as a human being (55). Eventually he proves that he is more human (in the sense of subjected to the rule of emotions) than all the other characters. Euripides deliberately confronts the sacred anger of the god, wounded
{ The Ritual Origin of Tragedy }

39

in his pride by human disbelief, with Agaves maternal love. The description of
Pentheus begging for his life from his frenzied mother, while she is foaming at the
mouth, and of his being dismembered by his own kin, who eventually play ball
with scraps of his body (1136 37), aims at shocking the audience members into
reconsidering their mistaken beliefs. Agaves verdict, meant to guide the audiences response, is no less harsh than that of Cadmus:
Agave: . . . Let me go
where I shall never see Cithaeron more,
where that accursed hill may not see me,
where I shall nd no trace of thyrsus!
That I leave to other Bacchae. (1384 88)
Imposing his faith in his native city entails the alienation of one of his fervent
devotees. Dionysus, who seemingly commands an ironic advantage over Pentheus and his mother, proves himself to be the ultimate object of irony. The
ironic superiority of the humans Cadmus and Agaveis the eventual genuine
anagnorisis. Those who were considered blind by the god have now gained genuine vision, and true blindness is predicated for Dionysus himself. Euripides
irony is most prominent when he introduces the old and blind Teiresias, incongruously dressed in the bacchants fawn skin and crowned with ivy (168),
and Cadmus, dressed in Dionysiac costume, as an incongruous and pathetic
gure (178). The prophet and the father become fools. Cadmus, the only one
who had respected Semele, mother of Dionysus, and accepted Dionysus as a god
(10 11), is the most severely hurt.
In Murrays application of his own model to Euripides Hippolytus exactly the
same problems arise. Hippolytus is dismembered and the epiphany is that of
Artemis, who fails to save him from the deadly vengeance of Aphrodite. Murrays
solution is also the same: For who was Hippolytus? He was, ritually, just another
form of the same Year Daimon, who is torn to pieces and put together again
(346). Hippolytus, however, remains dismembered. Furthermore, the play does
not end with a comforting theophany (344) but in harsh criticism of the gods
and the moral victory of the humans. The reconciliation of father and son stands
in stark contrast to the ongoing enmity between the goddesses. Artemis promises to avenge the death of Hippolytus by sacricing an innocent follower of Aphrodite, exactly as the latter had done to Hippolytus, not to mention Phaedra. Euripides presents the gods as lacking any sense of divine justice. Murray believes
that Euripides used the theophany of the gods to console griefs and reconcile
enmities and justify tant bien que mal the ways of the gods (351). I suggest instead that Euripides was in fact emphasizing the unacceptable humanity of the
40

{ Theories of Origins }

gods and their unlawful intervention in human life. Artemiss promise to take
vengeance on Aphrodite by hurting one of her pious followers (1416 22) is
echoed in the Bacchae:
Cadmus: . . . You saw
that dreadful death your cousin Actaeon died
when those man-eating hounds he had raised himself
savaged him and tore his body limb from limb
because he boasted that his prowess in the hunt
surpassed the skills of Artemis. (336 41)
In both plays the gods are justly criticized by mortals, and in Hippolytus even by
a human servant: You should be wiser than mortals, being Gods (120). The
only difference is that in Hippolytus the chorus nally sees the truth toward the
end of the play, while in Bacchae the chorus remains blind to the very end.
Murrays main fallacy resides in his notion of structure. He views a mere sequence of type-events as a structure and disregards the meaning of the action for
both characters and audience. The action of the Bacchae, which should have been
a paradigmatic play for his theory since it dramatizes a myth of Dionysus, in fact
refutes it, even on the level of sequence of events. Had Euripides not wanted to
produce a shocking effect on an audience of believers, he would assumedly have
remained faithful to the meaning of the original myth. The change of perspective
on this myth is most conspicuous, however, and there is nothing to reect an
underlying ritual. If the Maenads behave out of their inicted madness and are
then shocked by their own deeds, how can they reect the scenario of a mystery?
Moreover, if the death of Pentheus is a human death and there is nothing about
it that can assuage Agaves grief, how can his dismemberment represent the death
of a god who is meant eventually to be resurrected? If the god is no more than a
vindictive mortal, how can he prove his own claim to divinity? The nal epiphany of Dionysus is actually the ultimate manifestation of his vile nature. The ultimate irony of the play resides in that his success, in establishing his divinity, in
fact invalidates it. The play, it is clear, is a representation of an antimyth, and such
a treatment of a myth is the prerogative of theatre. I cannot conceive a ritual that
criticizes its own beliefs.
Ronald W. Vince concludes that [p]erhaps the severest criticism of all is that
Murrays . . . readings of the plays are faulty (1984: 15). Although Murray is aware
that the content [of most tragedies] has strayed far from Dionysus, he believes
that tragedy contains traces of the original aition of the death and rebirth of the
Year Spirit (342). Accordingly, he looked for them and, as usual for this kind
of theory, he found them. In contrast, Pickard-Cambridge rightly concludes:
{ The Ritual Origin of Tragedy }

41

There is not a single extant play in which the epiphany is the epiphany of the
god or hero who has been slain (1927: 345). The only exception, perhaps, is Euripides Alcestis, but the satirical intentions of the author are too obvious for Alcestis to be considered another version of Dionysus.
Murrays claim that theophany is followed by a sudden change of feeling
from grief to joywhich he calls peripeteiaposes an additional problem.
Again, the facts are different. Those tragedies that end happily, such as Sophocles
Philoctetes, do not necessarily feature theophany, and those that do feature theophany do not necessarily end happily, as evidenced in Hippolytus and Bacchae.
Pickard-Cambridge rightly argues that
if the original ritual always ended joyfully, it is less easy to explain why in most
tragedies the ending was in disaster. . . . It would be easier to explain tragedy
by a ritual which had originally no happy endingwhether in the form of
theophany or notthan to explain why, if the happy ending was an essential
part of the original ritual, the majority of tragedies should have got rid of it.
It seems more likely that happy endings, where they occur, should be at least
in part due to the cause to which Aristotle refers some of themthe weakness of the spectators, who wanted to go away cheerful. (Pickard-Cambridge
1927: 192)
From a theatrical viewpoint we can reconrm Pickard-Cambridges view that
some of the type-events suggested by Murray may be found in extant tragedies if
their order can be changed to almost any extent, and the very broadest meaning given to the terms themselves (Pickard-Cambridge 1927: 192). Murray employs the term agon, for example, for even a simple dialogue (such as a discussion), which is certainly a feature of the medium of theatre and not necessarily of
the ctional world. Pickard-Cambridge claims that even Murrays own applications of the model do not observe the strict order of the events for any of the
tragedies and that he fails to maintain a consistent denition of terms (192). Indeed, exibility has its limits, and under certain conditions the application of the
model should be considered to have failed.
If no evidence of the six-fold model exists in any known ritual or any extant
dithyramb or tragedy, Murray did not abstract his model from any of these. He
could perhaps have found it in ritual and made an attempt to apply it to tragedy
or found it in tragedy and assumed its existence in ritual. Unfortunately, he did
none of these, leading to the inevitable conclusion that he invented the model
and then imposed it on both ritual and tragedy.
We can nonetheless trace the inspiration for this model in various sources,
such as ritual, tragedy, and the medium of theatre; but in most cases the nature
42

{ Theories of Origins }

of some elements has been grossly misunderstood. (1) Agon, as Murray acknowledges (354), is typical of drama because of its dialogic nature, which enables verbal struggle. Not all dialogues, however, represent struggle. Agon should
be seen as deriving from both the theatre medium and the tragic ctional world.
(2) Pathos (death in particular, not dismemberment) and Lamentation constitute frequent episodes in ctional worlds of extant tragedies. (3) Messenger is
not an essential component of any myth, aetiological or other, but a convention
of the theatre medium whose function in Greek theatre is to report offstage
events. Whether the death of the god is actually enacted or merely narrated on
stage is in fact irrelevant to the ctional narrative. (4) Anagnorisis and Peripeteia
are frequent events of tragedy, as suggested by Aristotle, but not necessary ones.
(5) Epiphany of the god who dies and is resurrected is missing in all extant
tragedies, and the aition of Dionysus would probably have been its sole source of
inspiration. This element seems to have been derived analytically from the recognition of a recurring pattern in various cults featuring death and resurrection.
Murrays eclectic approach is thus based on the intuition that features belonging to the medium of theatre, ctional worlds, and rituals can be combined to
provide a model for both ritual and tragedy and thereby demonstrate the ritual
origin of tragedy. Such an intuitive approach, however, must eventually prove
fallacious since, as suggested earlier, the assumption of a ritual model without
supporting evidence could have been methodologically correct if and only if it
had explanatory power. In contrast, it attributes to ritual the features that could
have explained tragedy and to tragedy the very same features that it was meant to
explain. In fact, Murray reverses the scientic process: rather than explaining recurrent traits of Greek tragedies, he creates them. Else concludes: Actually the
fortune of Murrays theory was due to his shrewd combination of certain features
from the plays with the alleged anthropological evidence (1965: 28).
I have avoided dealing with Friedrich Nietzsches The Birth of Tragedy, because this thought-provoking book reects neither a theory of origin nor a theory of roots. Nietzsche does not distinguish between theatre medium and ctional world and denitely relates to the latter (i.e., to the tragic narrative and not
to tragedy). In this he continues the Aristotelian tradition and anticipates the
School of Cambridge. Nietzsche suggests kinds of archetypal entities (such as
Apollo, Dionysus, and Socrates) and various metaphysical notions (such
as individuation and metaphysical solace) that aim at explaining existential
elements operative in any historical form of drama which, in contrast to the title
of his book, do not necessarily relate to its historical origins. Indeed, Nietzsche
has no concern with the origin of tragedy as a literary-historical development
(Silk and Stern: 150). He should be credited, however, with rst connecting the
{ The Ritual Origin of Tragedy }

43

aition of Dionysus to tragedy, in particular his dismemberment by the Titans and

subsequent rebirth (Nietzsche 1956: 66). Nietzsche also advances the idea, later
taken up by Murray, that up to Euripides, Dionysus remains the sole dramatic
protagonist and that all the famous characters of the Greek stage, Prometheus,
Oedipus, etc., are only masks of that original hero (66). Because of these suggestions Nietzsche can be considered the spiritual father of the School of Cambridge. Jane Harrison proclaimed herself a disciple of Nietzsche (Silk and
Stern: 144). Friedrich considers The Birth of Tragedy the birth of ritual theory
(161). Similar considerations apply to Nietzsches notion of genealogy, as understood by Michel Foucault (Rabinow: 76ff.).

Tragedy and the Origin of Theatre

Does Murrays theory have any relevance to the origin of theatre and to our quest
for its roots? In principle, a consistently recurring pattern of death and resurrection in ritual, dithyramb, and tragedy could have afforded at most conclusive
proof for the birth of tragic ctional worlds from ritual. If this were true, however,
it would still have had no bearing on the creation of the medium of theatre. Even
if it was demonstrated that the advent of tragedy coincided with its creation, an
assumption often implied in current theories, this could not have had any bearing on the medium either. Moreover, this is without foundation both historically
and theoretically; rst, because of the probable existence of earlier theatrical phenomena; and second, because even if such a simultaneous rst appearance of
both the medium of theatre and the tragic ctional world had occurred, it would
have been a case of sheer coincidence, due to the fundamental mutual independence of medium and (ctional) world. The same narrative can be formulated by
means of natural language, as in storytelling, or by dramatic media, including
theatre, as clearly demonstrated by the smooth transition from dithyramb to
tragedy. The very act of transforming a member of the chorus into an actor, using the very same narrative, in itself effected the transition from choral storytelling to theatre.
A widespread fallacy in seeking the origins of tragedy resides in the assumption that it coincides with the birth of theatre. This probably stems from Aristotles denition, which conceives the class tragedy under two genera: mimesis
and, implicitly, the nature of ctional action (Poetics 6.2). As mimesis, tragedy
reects a form of describing a tragic ctional world: in the form of [imitation
of ] action, distinct from storytelling mimesis. As a kind of ctional action it is,
inter alia, serious, sublime, and cathartic. As a whole, the Poetics denitely fo44

{ Theories of Origins }

cuses on the ctional features of tragedy. In the sense of presenting a tragic

ctional world, Aristotle is correct in claiming that the power of tragedy is felt
even apart from representation and actors (Poetics 6.19; cf. Halliwell 1987: 37).
This twofold denition of tragedy justies two ancestries. Whereas the dramatic
element could have evolved from dithyramb, the theatrical element, the medium, could have existed for centuries and perhaps for millennia prior to the advent of this genre and been adopted by the producers of dithyramb for reasons
unknown.
Whereas the medium of theatre is shared by both tragedy and comedy, the
prominent distinction between them in the Poetics in itself introduces a possible
distortion, since they embody essentially different images of the world, which are
not necessarily coupled with the theatre. Also, this distinction reects an interest
in the qualities of the ctional world rather than the medium: for example, a
tragic or comic catharsis is the effect upon an audience of the given qualities of a
ctional world. It is not the medium itself that makes us cry or laugh. Tragedy is
indeed a theatrical genre, but the term tragic applies only to narratives and,
therefore, to both storytelling and theatre. Tragedy is a tragic ctional world described by the theatre medium. It is a tragic theatre.
The nature of the tragic narrative is in itself a matter of controversy, relating
to whether it is conveyed by the structure of the ctional world, the mood of its
presentation, or both. Since structures of ctional worlds are shared by all genres, including tragedy and comedy, I believe that the tragic quality is conveyed by
a serious and even sublime mood of presentation of the ctional world: Aristotles spodaius (serious and sublime), which induces an analogous attitude in
the audience. In this sense, even the sparse available evidence on the nature of
dithyramb attests to a prevalent tragic mood. As their ctional structure could be
and their mood is the same, the transition from dithyramb to tragedy did not
need to affect the nature of the ctional world and the spodaius vision reected
in it but only the medium: from storytelling to theatre. This is accounted for by
the Thespian innovation.
The School of Cambridge follows Aristotles proclivity in focusing its inquiry
on the origins of Attic tragedy or comedy; therefore, its conclusions can only
validly relate to the qualities of the ctional worlds typical of these genres, not to
the nature of their medium. In principle, the origin of the tragic vision could
have been traced backvia dithyrambto Dionysiac ritual. Evidence contradicts a possible serious and lofty mood in the latter, however; it was Homer, after
all, who was labeled a tragic poet by Aristotlehe was certainly not writing
ritual texts or tragic dramas. It can be safely assumed, rather, that manifestation
of the tragic vision has no traceable past either.
{ The Ritual Origin of Tragedy }

45

The mood of tragic drama/theatre presents an additional problem: some of

its ctional worlds go to extremes to shake the audiences beliefs, whether they
eventually reconrm them, as in Sophocles Oedipus Rex, or openly attempt to
undermine them, as in Euripides Hippolytus and Bacchae. By denition, ritual
cannot allow itself to adopt the methods of Euripides, as this would contradict
its fundamental design to cement beliefs, not shake them. In some cases, rituals
revolve around myths that feature the death and resurrection of a god or a human sacrice, whether attempted or consummated (for example, the sacrice
of Isaac). In ritual, such worlds are designed to eventuate in reafrmation of
beliefs by the congregation, when what for a while has been absurd regains a
harmonious balance with their beliefs. The mere existence of such subversive
playwrights as Euripides, and particularly those in the twentieth century, alters
our perception even of those plays that are meant to reafrm existing beliefs. It
suggests theatre as a laboratory for exploring ideas, as a kind of communal
thinking.
The theory of ritual origin of tragedy, including its typical performance within
the framework of Dionysiac festivals, fails to explain the puzzling fact that Euripides managed, despite being prosecuted, to present his tragedies, win victories (for Hippolytus and Bacchae, among others), and achieve popular acclaim.
Whereas some of the most impressive tragedies ever written were designed to
undermine well-established beliefs, ritual cannot undermine itself. Whereas ritual satises the human need to believe in something, the theatre hosts ctional
worlds, not necessarily mythical, to satisfy the human need to think, regardless
of whether thinking reconrms beliefs or not.
While thoughts regard the qualities of ctional worlds, the transition from
dithyramb to tragedy in both modern and ancient theory relates only to the medium of thinking. The detachment of the rst actor from the chorus enabled enactment of a ctional character and dialogue, which are the hallmarks of theatre.
The addition of a second and third actor by Aeschylus and Sophocles simply
made this medium more exible. Since each actor could perform several roles,
three actors provided considerable latitude to populate a full ctional world. In
light of the second actor being introduced by Aeschylus, Pickard-Cambridge
queries: It takes two to make a quarrel. Where was the agon before Aeschylus?
(Pickard-Cambridge 1927: 195); but his criticism is groundless, since once again
the number of actors relates to the medium and the notion of agon to the
ctional world. An individual actor with the coryphaeus, the latter with the chorus, or the actor alone could have performed both agonists. Even oral storytelling includes agons in its ctional worlds, with only the storyteller enacting
both characters in direct speech.
46

{ Theories of Origins }

The transition from dithyramb to tragedy indicates not only that the same
narrative can be formulated in different media, particularly storytelling and theatre, but also that oral storytelling can generate a theatrical form, provided that
it starts incorporating, even partially, that essential element of theatre: acting
(chapter 8).
* * *
There is no evidence to support the origin of tragic ctional worlds in Dionysiac
ritual. Murray suggests a model for such an origin based on the alleged recurrence of type-events in a given order, allegedly typical of the death and resurrection pattern of the cult of the Spring-daimon. In contrast, employing historical
and linguistic methodologies, Pickard-Cambridge refuted Murrays theory on
the grounds of lack of support from remnants of any ancient Greek ritual, dithyrambs, or tragedies. His theory has been equally refuted by independent analysis
of extant tragedies.
Murray errs in assuming that a structure is dened by a series of type-events
and their order and in excluding the type of experience that is expected for the
audience. According to this principle, the same type-events in the same order
may be structured differently, leading to different and even contrasting experiences, as illustrated by Euripides.
Murray fails to distinguish between medium and ctional world; therefore,
his approach to the question of the origins of tragedy confuses aspects of both.
Such an approach cannot benet our inquiry, since ctional worlds and media
are mutually independent and obey different sets of rulesfor example, the
same ctional world can be described by means of different media; therefore, one
cannot be derived from the other.
In principle, the aition of Dionysus or variants of it could have been used for
ritual, dithyramb, and tragedy. Murray overlooks the fact, however, that in such
a case the same myth would have been employed within different modes of human action, thereby reecting different intentions and purposes. While religious
ritual aims at effects on the divine sphere, theatre is a means of representing the
world and thinking about it. Theatre differs essentially from ritual in that it is a
system of collective experimentation with thoughts and feelings, being thus,
among other functions, able to reafrm or refute beliefsan unthinkable function in the realm of ritual.
Harrison and Murray make an additional crucial error in assuming that all
myths of heroes in ritual, dithyramb, and tragedy are variants of the same Dionysiac pattern of death and resurrection. Since their six-fold model cannot be
found in any ritual, dithyramb, or tragedywithout unbearable exibility in the
{ The Ritual Origin of Tragedy }

47

application of termsthe inevitable conclusion is that this is an eclectic model,

which was not inferred from actual data but reects an intuition derived from
various sources and eventually imposed upon all of them.
If the sharing of narrative features could indeed indicate the possible origin of
tragic ctional worlds in ritual, the links with the latter must have been severed
at the dithyramb phase, thus making tragedy twice-removed from ritual.
Since the origins of tragedy provide no clue to the roots of the theatre medium, the failure of the School of Cambridge theory does not disprove the origin
of theatre in ritual. It is merely irrelevant. As we shall see below, later theories
have indeed proceeded to account for such a ritual origin of theatre on apparently rmer grounds.

48

{ Theories of Origins }

3
The Ritual
Origin of
Comedy



In The Origin of Attic Comedy, published in 1914, Francis Macdonald Cornford

suggests a theory of the ritual origin of Attic comedy that complements Gilbert
Murrays theory of the ritual origin of tragedy. The title of the book implies that
he wished to conne his theory not to comedy in general but to the advent of Attic (old) comedy and, even more specically, to the eleven plays of Aristophanes.
In his quest for these origins, Cornford considers Aristophanes plays as primary sources. His attempt to determine the laws of their structure and composition (1) stems from his belief that their ctional worlds would reveal traces of
their alleged ritual ancestry, and this constitutes the major assumption of the
book. For Cornford, the ritual origin of comedy is not a thesis but an established
fact: [t]hat Comedy sprang up and took shape in connection with Dionysiac or
Phallic ritual has never been doubted (3); in this he relies on Aristotles dictum:
[comedy] originated with the authors . . . of the phallic songs, which are still in
use in many of our cities (Poetics 4.12; cf. Halliwell 1987: 33).

The Traces of Ritual

Like Murray, Cornford too employs the term structure in the unusual and fallacious sense of a mere sequence of type-scenes, some in terms of type-events and
some in terms of theatrical conventions. Having stated that the Parabasis (the
choral song that divides the plays into two halves) is almost wholly undramatic,
he suggests that the rst part normally consists of the Prologue, or exposition
scenes; the entrance of the Chorus (Parodos); and what is now generally called
the Agon, while [t]he second part after the Parabasis, contains the rest of the

action (2), including Sacrice, Feast, Marriage, and Komos. Cornford

claims that this sequence reects the structure of the Spring-daimon ritual that
also generated comedy; therefore, with the exclusion of the Parabasis, the remaining parts are shared by both ritual and comedy.
The Agon is seen as a erce contest between the representatives of two parties or principles, which are in effect the hero and villain of the whole piece (2).
These are the Spring-daimon and its opponent. The protagonist is the hero,
who is attacked, is put on his defense, and comes off victorious. The antagonist
is the villain, who is in the stronger position at rst, but is worsted and beaten
from the eld (71). Two more stock-types participate in the Agon: the leader of
the chorus, who directs the trial and sometimes pronounces the verdict, and
the buffoon, who interjects remarks and anecdotes, naive, humorous, or obscene, aside to the audience (71). The Sacrice and Feast relate to the God who
is the victim:
He is dismembered, and the pieces of his body are either devoured raw in a
savage omophagy, or cooked and eaten in a sacramental feast. . . . In all these
cases, the fundamental need is the same; the essential purpose is that of the
phallic rites, which aim at spreading the benign inuence as widely as possible, so that all members of the community may have their share. This dispersal, moreover, is the prelude to resurrection. (Cornford: 99)
Regarding the Marriage and Komos,
the plays regularly end with a procession in which the chorus marches out of
the orchestra, conducting the chief character in triumph and singing a song
technically known as the exodos. The hero, moreover, is accompanied in
this Komos by a person who, perhaps because she is (except in one play) always mute, has attracted less notice than she deserves. This person is sometimes a nameless courtesan, sometimes an allegorical gure. She is the temporary partner of the hero in what is, in fact though not always in a legal sense,
a Marriage. (Cornford: 8)
The bridegroom in this marriage is usually the victor in the Agon (70). The Intruders is a collective name for the set of recurring episodes in which usually
the Sacrice, or the Feast, or both, [is interrupted] by a series of unwelcome intruders, who are successively put to derision by the protagonist and driven away
with blows (3). Having described the structure of Old Comedy, as Cornford
understands it, one is rst led to wonder whether or not any Aristophanes comedy in fact conforms to it. The next question is whether or not any known ritual
reects any similar structure.
50

{ Theories of Origins }

Arthur W. Pickard-Cambridge, who provides the most fundamental and

sound criticism of the School of Cambridge, bases his refutation of Cornford on
three criteria: (1) lack of evidence; (2) inconsistency in the application of terms
and suggested order of type-events; and (3) lack of explanatory power with regard to both ritual and Old Comedy. On Cornfords description of the actual ritual underlying comedy, Pickard-Cambridge comments:
The question, whether there is any reason to suppose that this complex ritual
ever really existed, is one which Mr. Cornford practically does not touch. It
can only be said that it would require very strong evidence indeed to prove
that one and the same rite included the birth of a wonder-child, his Agon,
death and resurrection, a sacred marriage in which he took part, and the expulsion of a pharmakos [a scapegoat]. . . . we certainly do not nd these elements combined in any ancient ritual about which we have information.
(1927: 330)
He goes on to say that there is no evidence at all that the god was ever slain in
any ritual with which comedy can be connected; and the idea that the Agon arose
from a ritual in which an Eniautos-Daemon or Good Principle underwent a simulated death must be pronounced wholly unproved (1927: 348).
There is equally no evidence of the role of Dionysus, or for that matter any
Spring-daimon, in comedy prior to Old Comedy, whether in a folk-play or a
more developed form:
Mr. Cornford states that there can be little doubt that the protagonist in
comedy must originally have been the spirit of fertility himself, Phales or Dionysus [20], and that it must have been he who originally led the nal komos
as male partner in marriage. The evidence for these does not appear. The fact
that some Athenian actors wore the phallus certainly does not prove it. There
is no trace of Phales as a character in any kind of procession or drama in ancient Greece, though he is invoked in song, or represented by the phallus carried aloft; and Dionysus did not wear the phallus in art or drama. . . . It is important to note that evidence for connecting a ieros gamos [ritual wedding]
with a phallic procession in any actual ancient Greek ritual is nonexistent.
(Pickard-Cambridge 1927: 334 35)
Even Cornford himself appears to be uncomfortable with the available proof:
The strength of this evidence may be variously estimated. No one instance
taken by itself would have much weight: but when all are taken together, and
{ The Ritual Origin of Comedy }

51

it is seen how constant this motive is, it appears to me that the probability that
we have here survivals of an original simulated death of one or other adversary is considerably stronger than we should expect to nd it even if we knew
on other grounds that the hypothesis were true. (Cornford: 83)
There is also a question of consistency in the application of terms to events in
the comedies of Aristophanes. With regard to marriage, for example, PickardCambridge claims that there is no trace of any kind of gamos or indecency in the
conclusion of the Clouds or the Frogs, and there is actually no feast in either,
though in the Frogs, Pluto invites Dionysus and Aeschylus to a meal before their
journey (1927: 332). With regard to the divine union of vegetation agents, for example: The scene in Plutus between the old woman and the young man who rejects her advances can hardly be made to prove anything as to a ritual marriage
of the Old Year or Good Spirit with a (presumably) young woman (1927: 333).
After reviewing all the comedies by Aristophanes, Pickard-Cambridge concludes
that in several plays there is no marriage at all; that in several there is simply
gross indecency in the presence of one, or more often two, courtesans; and that
these courtesans are there as common accompaniments of the feast, not representing the female partner in a ritual marriage (1927: 334). If this marriage represents the necessary consummation of the Phallic ritual, which when it takes
dramatic form, simulates the union of Heaven and Earth for the renewal of all life
in Spring (Cornford: 103 4), it is clear that the alleged human marriage is a
metaphorical representation of the divine one. The enactment of a marriage,
however, is not found in either a literal or metaphorical capacity.
In the previous chapter we have already noted that there is no methodological obstacle to postulating the features of a ritual without evidence, on condition
that such a model provides a key for the better understanding, in this case, of Old
Comedy. The problem here (as suggested for Murray) is that in this case too we
are faced with the invention of a ritual sequence and the attempt to impose this
model on both ritual and extant plays. Pickard-Cambridges criticism is severe to
the point of irony: The only play which ends in an actual resurrection of the
Good adversary is (as Mr. Cornford remarks) the Frogs. The question is: Does
Aeschylus represent the mother or the bride of Dionysus? (1927: 346).
Cornford attempts to support his theory on the grounds of a description of a
phallic ritual by Aristophanes, which paradoxically poses an additional problem:
Starting from Aristotles authoritative statement, we sought the nucleus of
Comedy in the Phallic ceremonies, illustrated by Aristophanes himself in the
rites performed by Dikaiopolis [in Acharnians] at his Country Dionysia. We

52

{ Theories of Origins }

found there, in barest outline, a ritual procedure in three parts. (1) The procession of the worshippers of Phales moves on its way, carrying the emblem
of the God on a pole and the instruments of sacrice. (2) It pauses at some
xed place for the sacrice, accompanied by a prayer to Dionysus. (3) The
procession moves on again singing the Phallic song. This Komos hymn reects
the two essential elements: invocation and induction of the good inuence or
spirit, magical abuse and expulsion of the evil. The same two elements we
found perpetuated in the comic Parabasis. In the Agon which regularly precedes the Parabasis we now have come to see the equivalent of the Sacrice
which precedes the Phallic Song. The Agon is the beginning of the Sacrice in
its primitive dramatic formthe conict between the good and the evil principles, Summer and Winter, Life and Death. The good spirit is slain, dismembered, cooked and eaten in the communal feast, and yet brought back to life.
These acts survive in the standing features of the comic plot between the
Parabasis and the Exodos. Finally comes the sacred Marriage of the risen God,
restored to life and youth to be the husband of the Mother Goddess. This
Marriage is the necessary consummation of the Phallic ritual, which when it
takes dramatic form, simulates the union of Heaven and Earth for the renewal
of all life in Spring. (Cornford: 103 4; cf. Frazer 1945: 324)
Cornford suggests the phallic ritual as described in Acharnians in support of his
own version of Dionysiac ritual, in terms of the School of Cambridge. In addition to contradictions to his own premises, it is self-evident, however, that their
structures do not match (cf. Pickard-Cambridge 1962: 145). I believe that any attempt to solve this discrepancy would lead to further frustration.

Bridging Models: Cornford and Murray

Although Cornfords unusual notion of structure is imposed upon Old Comedy and applied somewhat inconsistently, it would appear to provide a solid and
coherent model. Upon further scrutiny, however, we uncover at least two underlying sequences of events (those of Murray and Cornford) which have been
combined in an attempt to smooth over some obtrusive differences. The question is whether or not such a combination can result in a logically coherent
model.
Cornford accepts without qualication Murrays model for tragedy, claiming
that it equally applies to comedy:

{ The Ritual Origin of Comedy }

53

If the conclusions to which so many converging lines of argument have led us

are in substance true, Athenian Comedy arose out of ritual drama of essentially the same type as that from which Professor Murray derives Athenian
Tragedy. The case of this origin of Comedy seems to me the clearer and more
convincing of the two; and it reinforces Professor Murrays hypothesis. . . . The
two theories help one another, and, if either could be regarded as proved, it
would be in a fair way to carry the other with it. For, that the two types of
drama which were presented to the same audience at the same festivals of
Dionysus should have had their origins in different cults, is a thesis so paradoxical that only the most cogent proof could recommend it to serious attention. (Cornford: 190)
If tragedy and comedy derive from the same ritual, however, it is sensible to
expect both to reect the same underlying so-called structure. Instead, Cornford clearly diverges from Murrays model in most type-events, not to mention
conventions. While Murrays model features Agon, Pathos, Messenger, Threnos,
Anagnorisis, and Epiphany, Cornfords model features Agon, Parabasis, Sacrice,
Feast, Marriage, and Komos. Only Agon, which is similarly dened in terms of a
contest between the old year-spirit and the new one, is common to both models.
Messenger and Parabasis can be dismissed from both models as being theatrical
conventions. Pathos and Sacrice may be conceived, from different viewpoints,
as equivalent terms for the consequences of the Agon. Threnos (Lamentation)
could easily have been inserted in Cornfords model after Sacrice, but instead
we nd feast. Marriage/Komos is fundamentally different from Anagnorisis
and Epiphany. Whereas Murrays sequence ts the general thesis of divine death
and resurrection, Cornford does not even mention resurrection as the crucial
type-event.
Marriage is the most problematic feature of Cornfords model, for no actual
human marriage occurs in most of Aristophanes comedies. In fact, he does not
employ the term marriage in its literal sense: The pair often represent, under
a more or less transparent disguise, the two great agents of vegetable fertility, the
Earth-mother and the Heaven-father, whose rain falls in a life-giving stream into
the womb of the Earth (19). Cornford is not alluding to comedy ending with the
celebration of love in marriage, as in later comedy, but rather employs the term
marriage to refer metaphorically to the union of two elementary powers in the
renewal of nature. Consequently, little doubt can remain as to the further point
that, in that case, the protagonist in comedy must originally have been the spirit
of fertility himself, Phales or Dionysus (20). In this Cornford follows Frazer,

54

{ Theories of Origins }

who claims that the weddings object can hardly have been any other than that
of ensuring fertility of the vines and other fruit-trees, of which Dionysus was the
god (quoted by Cornford: 24 25).
Cornford assumes that in the original ritual an act of human marriage, with
real actors representing the above-mentioned agents of vegetable fertility, actually took place in front of a community; therefore, he claims that [w]e have
here the essential of dramatic representation (mimesis)an assumed character
impersonated or incarnated in a human actor (19). If this is true, this ritually
consecrated marriage did constitute a theatrical element; thus, this would have
been precisely the theatrical element that comedy was eventually to inherit from
the cult of Dionysus. Even if we grant truth to Cornfords description, however,
there is an essential difference between the metaphor of marriage in the alleged
ritual source and the metaphor of marriage as applied to the various endings of
Aristophanes comedies. Whereas in the former we are dealing with a human
marriage that metaphorically refers to a union of divine agents, in the latter a
marriage is not enacted at all, other than in Cornfords metaphorical interpretation. Furthermore, the events in the text do not refer to a divine union with a
vegetation spirit or divinity. If there is no explicit human marriage in the text,
there cannot be a metaphor of a divine marriage. William Ridgeway notes with
regard to a rm source for this model that the whole theory of the sacred marriage between the Sky-god and the earth-goddess at Eleusis depends entirely
upon writers who lived after the Christian era, and who described with accuracy
the performances at Eleusis in their own time. The Philosophoumena itself, on
which Miss Harrison mainly relies, was not written earlier than the second century after Christ (Ridgeway: 24).
We thus arrive at the inescapable conclusion that Cornfords marriage is an
addition to Murrays model, reecting the typical happy end of later comedy.
Cornford assumes that comedy presents a metaphorical description of the transition of seasons and that the resurrected Spring-daimon consummates its duties by marrying mother Earth and engendering a new cycle of life. This implies
that tragedy, lacking marriage, thus lacks not only peripeteia, the change of mood
from grief to joy, but also the most important part of the ritual, its ultimate end
and purpose: fertilization. In other words, whereas comedy would present the
entire cycle, tragedy depicts only its sadder part, ending at the sacrice phase.
Murray appears to have been aware of this difculty, claiming that Comedy and
Tragedy represent different stages in the life of this Year Spirit; Comedy leads to
his Marriage Feast, his komos and gamos, Tragedy to his death and threnos (341).
He also appears to have conveniently forgotten to mention here epiphany and

{ The Ritual Origin of Comedy }

55

the subsequent change of mood from grief to joy. He claims that tragedy, as we
know it, lost its happy ending as a result of a process of detachment from what
eventually became a satyr-play:
Now our tragedies normally, or at least commonly, end with comforting theophany but not with an outburst of joy. No, but it looks as if they once did. We
know that they were in early times composed in tetralogies consisting of three
tragedies and a Satyr-play. . . . The Satyr-play, coming at the end of the tetralogy, represented the joyous arrival of the Reviving Dionysus and his rout of
attendant daimons at the end of the Sacer Ludus [sacred dance]. . . . Now we
know that in the historical development of Tragedy a process of differentiation occurred. The Satyr-play became more distinct and separate from the
tragedies and was eventually dropped altogether; and secondly, the separate
tragedies became independent artistic wholes. (Murray: 344)
Once more Pickard-Cambridge contends that there is no evidence of such a
developmentthat it is easier to explain tragedy as deriving from a ritual that
ended in catastrophe and more likely that happy endings, where they occur,
should be at least in part due to the cause to which Aristotle refers some of
themthe weakness of the spectators, who wanted to go away cheerful (1927:
192). In other words, Pickard-Cambridge explains happy endings on the grounds
of the natural expectations of the audience, which should be conceived as an integral factor of the ctional structure. From the little available evidence on the
development and nature of the satyr-play, Murrays thesis would appear to be
pure speculation; and from a theatrical viewpoint the problem is even more fundamental: the satyr-play not only does not seem to be necessarily connected to
the narrative of the preceding trilogy but is also conducive to a totally different
mood, as illustrated by Euripides Alcestis. Furthermore, possible trilogies (such
as Sophocles, Theban Plays) as well as actual trilogies (such as Aeschylus, The
Oresteia) are complete in themselves and do not require any additional ending,
which provides sufcient evidence that the alleged process of thematic detachment is without reasonable foundation.
Cornford also proposes that the difference in structure between tragedy and
comedy resides in the former focusing on action and the latter on character. This
is a somewhat surprising suggestion from someone who had previously postulated analogy on the level of ritual narrative structure. Such a suggestion was
probably based on his awareness of the theory that comedy concentrates on characterization. This is only true, however, if such characterization is conducive to
the comic mood. Tragedies too, while being conducive to the tragic mood, may
revolve on characterization, and even on unity of hero in Aristotelian terms
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{ Theories of Origins }

(Poetics 23.3; cf. Halliwell 1987: 58), such as Tirso de Molinas El burlador de Sevilla. The difference thus resides not on the level of characterization but in the
tragic or comic mood.
Such a conclusion also suits the level of structure: no essential difference exists between tragedy and comedy on the level of narrative structure, apart from
their mood, which should be seen as an integral part of the overall dramatic
structure. Aristotles contention that comedy originated in a different type of
choral song, at least in mood, is thus upheld; in this sense, Cornfords approach
is congruent with Aristotles dictum on the origin of comedy in the phallic songs
(48). He considers satire and invective to be typical of such songs: it must be remembered that the verb [comodein] meant to satirize (47); but there is an afterthought: the Comedy we know does not consist solely or mainly of personal
abuse and satire. These areand this is a fundamental pointnot in any way
dramatic; more, they involve no germ out of which a drama could grow (47).
Indeed, comedy is a combination of theatre medium, happy ending structure,
and comic mood. For him, however, whereas the comic mood can originate in a
nondramatic form, the medium can only derive from something which is already dramatic, at least in germ. This is why he had to postulate the previous existence of both a folk-play and a previous fundamentally dramatic, in the sense
of theatrical, ritual.
Cornfords view that the Parabasis, although characterized by a comic mood,
is undramatic and therefore disqualied as a possible source of comedy is
paradoxical:
[Parabasis] merely interrupts the action of the play. The actors leave the stage
while it is performed; its contents are irrelevant and in no way help out the
course of the action. The element of drama here sinks to the lowest point: the
chorus-leader in the introductory Anapaests drops the mask completely and
delivers a message direct from the poet to the Athenian public. Nothing could
be clearer than that the play itself, with all its curious and stiff conventions of
form and plot, could not possibly grow out of the Parabasis as a nucleus.
(Cornford: 47)
Cornford is correct in considering the Parabasis as an untheatrical element. The
paradox is thatin contrast to the traces of tragedys choral origin, which are
of a nontheatrical naturethe choral element of comedy (the chorus-leaders
speech), which Cornford considers to have originated in the same type of ritual
and the phallic songs, is now considered foreign to its main design. Moreover,
the prevalent mode of the Parabasis is of invective satire, and as such, assumedly,
it is umbilically connected to the phallic songs.
{ The Ritual Origin of Comedy }

57

In principle, in addition to sharing the same medium, both tragedy and comedy can be claimed to present the same structure of action. I have suggested elsewhere that basic structures of action are indeed shared by all dramatic genres;
therefore, there is no point in distinguishing between them on such structural
grounds (Rozik 1990). The main implication is that the distinction between dramatic genres is irrelevant to the question of origins of different ctional structures, let alone the roots of the theatre medium. Another implication is that the
distinction between tragedy and comedy resides in their specic moods, tragic or
comic, which are parts of more comprehensive ctional structures. As we have
seen in the previous chapter, a ctional structure cannot be described without
taking into consideration the expectations of the audience. If we add that such expectations are based on the normative values and beliefs of the audience, we understand how such a structure can bring about the reafrmation of those values
and beliefs and thus produce catharsis. In other words, the structures of ctional
worlds mirror the patterns of response of the audience. This formula can also be
inverted: by frustrating the expectations of the audience, catharsis is prevented,
thereby effectively undermining rather than reinforcing the beliefs of a given
cult, as in Euripides Bacchae. Moreover, when structure is dened in terms of
values, beliefs, attitudes, and expectations, the importance of the order and nature of the events themselves becomes marginal.

Bridging Models: Cornford and Aristotle

The sequences suggested by Murray and Cornford do not relate to the complex
experience of the spectator but to a series of allegedly recurrent type-events that
underlie specic narratives, featuring different characters and actions. The existence of a real agon (a ght between representatives of divine agencies), the death
of one of the parties and his eventual resurrection, indeed establishes an abstractnarrative sequence, even under conditions of change of specic characterization
and action. When the audiences values and expectations are taken into account,
however, the same abstract-narrative sequence may be part of different ctional
structures, depending on their attitudes to the contending agencies (e.g., the difference between death and resurrection of positive or negative deities). Similarly,
different narrative sequences may reect the same ctional structure. Cornfords
mere recurrent sequence of type-events hardly satises such a notion of ctional
structure.
What happens if we attempt to reformulate Murrays and Cornfords models
in terms of such a complex structure? They both presuppose, for tragedy and
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comedy, that the expectations of the audience are against the death of the Springdaimon and in favor of his resurrection and that these expectations are based on
value judgments, allegedly rooted in the economic needs of the community, who
depend on this daimon for their survival. If the end of tragedy, with the death of
the god of light-growth-life, is bound to bring about distress in the audience and
not joy at his resurrection, this model hardly reects a harmonious structure by
means of which the audiences expectations are eventually fullled, anxiety is relieved, and a cathartic experience is granted. How then to reconcile the concluding sense of absurdity at the death of the spirit of spring-summer and tragic
catharsis? Paradoxically, Cornford attempts to solve it by invoking the Aristotelian hamartia-catastrophe structure: it was Murray who pointed out
the afnity between the recurrent life-story of the Year Spirit, the theme of our
supposed ritual, and the deep rooted doctrine of Hubris, of the insolence that
brings vengeance on itself as the wheel of Time and Judgement inexorably
turns, in which the Greek found the tragic philosophy of life. He [Murray]
says: The life of the Year-Daemon, as it seems to be reected in Tragedy, is
generally a story of Pride and Punishment. Each Year arrives, waxes great,
commits the sin of Hubris, and then is slain. The death is deserved; but the
slaying is a sin: hence comes the next Year as Avenger, or as a Wronged One
re-risen: they all pay retribution for their injustice one to another according
to the ordinance of time. (Cornford: 207 8)
Hubris is a kind of offensive behavior, reecting a sense of superiority, not necessarily against the gods but punished by them if the moral or social values they
were supposed to safeguard were transgressed or they felt directly dishonoured
(Hornblower and Spawforth: 732). Cornford applies the same principle with regard to comedy: What now becomes clear is that Alazoneia is the comic counterpart of the tragic Hubris (209). Indeed, it is sensible to accept that alazoneia,
rst mentioned in the Tractatus Coislinianus (Cooper: 224 26; cf. Frye: 132ff.), is
the comic equivalent of hubris, as both are structural components of the (comic
or tragic) hamartia-catastrophe structure.
With regard to comedy, Cornford attempts to solve a nonexisting problem,
since the temporary sense of absurdity is only meant to increase tension to be relieved by the eventual resurrection of the Spring-daimon and catharsis. The
problem is crucial, however, with regard to tragedy. Aristotles principle of hamartia (usually translated as error or frailty by Butcher or fallibility by
Halliwell 1987, Poetics 13.4) is meant to explain the sense of relief brought about
by catastrophe itself. It is catharsis that is brought about precisely if such an unhappy ending is indeed proportional to a given hamartia. In order to be com{ The Ritual Origin of Comedy }

59

mensurate with such an ending and be distinct from villainy, a hamartia must
reect a severe errorreected in a consequential wrongdoingset against the
background of a positive characterization. In fact, catharsis indicates that the expectations of the audience have been fullled.
J. M. Bremer, following a thorough philological analysis, denes hamartia as
a harmful deed (62) and as a tragic error, i.e., a wrong action committed in
ignorance of its nature, effect, etc., which is the starting point of a causally connected train of events ending in disaster. He adds: [h]amartia is not tragic
aw, i.e., a moral weakness, a defect of a character which enlarges itself in its successive stages till it issues in crime; nor is hamartia equivalent to tragic guilt
(63). The implication is that Bremer stresses the objective harm that has been
done, on condition of ignorance of possible effect. Bremer rejects any consideration of morality. He agrees that the term philanthropon (Poetics 13.2 translated
by Butcher as moral sense and avoided by Halliwell 1987) betrays preoccupation with the moral effect of tragedy and that in this passage for a short moment Aristotle falls victim of the popular need of poetic justice, which he rejects
in the rest of this chapter implicitly and explicitly in 1453a 3135 ([13.7] 14 15).
I see no contradiction, however, between considering the effect of hamartia morally shocking (e.g., Oedipus killing his father and marrying his mother) and
viewing it as being committed in ignorance and not out of wickedness (19).
A deed must be judged as an error from a given viewpoint. Moreover, in contrast to Bremer, one should take into consideration not only the causal chain of
events ending in disaster but also the balanced relationship between the objective
harmful nature of the deed and catastrophe. The effect on the audience depends
on it.
This interpretation of hamartia is congruent with Robert Parkers interpretation of miasma (pollution). Miasma should be understood as responsibility for
an objective disruption of order, moral or religious, without consideration of intention. Whereas intentional miasma obviously reects an evil nature, which is
not tragic according to Aristotle, unintentional miasma can be no less harmful. What disturbs and distances the modern reader in the case of . . . Oedipus is the intensity of the pollution that emanates from an unintentional act
(Parker: 317). Being ritually impure, however, does not overlap legal guilt. Since
Drako, intention has been considered a crucial factor in incrimination (Parker:
320). The unique correction of unintentional miasma is katharos (purication)
(Parker: 4). Pollution and purication are metaphors of disorder and restoration of order in terms of cleanness (Hornblower and Spawforth: 1208). Such an
interpretation of unintentional miasma explains how hamartia, as pollution

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{ Theories of Origins }

(Hornblower and Spawforth: 1208), may reect an attitude or action of a basically positive character and by the same token explain its being commensurate
with catastrophe (Parker: 317).
This leads Cornfords explanation to the absurd, because fulllment of expectations of death, of a hamartia-stricken god, may produce catharsis and contradict expectations of resurrection. Moreover, it would contrast the audiences disillusions with both the death of the generous god and the temporary triumph of
the villainous one. Cornfords model and Aristotles model thus conict with one
another, at least with regard to tragedy: hamartia leads to commensurate catastrophe, with no necessity for resurrection. This applies to alazoneia too. The
complications evolving from this approach might have been avoided if the pattern of death and resurrection representing the cycle of seasons had been separated from the hamartia-catastrophe structure. The latter reects a distinct archetype of human experience, referring not to the cyclical system governing the
physical world (death and resurrection of nature) but to the rules governing human endeavors in a world of ethos.
The seasons establish a cyclical pattern, annually presenting a two-fold transition, from summer to winter and from winter to summer. If given metaphorical depiction through the life cycle of a god who dies and is resurrected, this pattern implies that the congregation of believers identies with spring-summer and
views the succession of seasons in opposing terms. Whereas death and resurrection are assigned to the summer, the winter, although also cyclically dying
and being resurrected, is awarded no such terms. This discrepancy clearly reects
the preference of the community. Such a metaphor, however, says nothing about
characterization in terms of ethos.
The hamartia-catastrophe structure thus introduces a diametrically different
principle. In contrast to the seasonal pattern that conforms with simplistic characterization (in the sense that summer is good and winter is bad, not in ethical
terms), the hamartia-catastrophe structure is more complex, featuring an error,
from a religious/ethical viewpoint, against a background of an otherwise positive
characterization. Consequently, in order to comply with this structure, the year
spirit must undergo a change of characterization from good to evil (commits
the sin of Hubris), to the effect that at the end of the summer it justies transition to the winter (death is deserved). In turn, this implies that winters slaying of the summer is ambiguous: although it reects divine justice, the slaying
itself is a sin which, duly avenged, enables the return of the summer. The
reestablishment of the summer can thus have two possible meanings: as simply
the resurrection of the wronged one or as the feat of an avenger. Avenging,

{ The Ritual Origin of Comedy }

61

in Cornfords theory, is performed by the wronged one, thereby avoiding the introduction of a different character to represent each new summer ad innitum.
The succession of seasons is thus understood as an innite chain of retribution for their injustice one to another according to the ordinance of time (Cornford: 208).
The question is, why should the summer be conceived as committing the sin
of hubris at all? The pattern is simpler and clearer if the summer is given only positive attributes, thereby justifying its resurrection. Moreover, if we assume that
there is a ght between good and bad daimons and that the good daimon rst
fails and dies, eventually being resurrected in the spring, there is no need for the
introduction of new characters. In addition, if we assume that the good and bad
principles ght one another, there is no room for Murrays contention that the
characters that represent them are two versions of the same Spring-daimon, as
suggested for Pentheus and Hippolytus.
In contrast to the pattern of seasons, which is a never-ending chain, the
hamartia-catastrophe is a closed structure featuring a harmful action, which
leads to proportional catastrophe and, therefore, to nal harmony with the expectations of the audience. The very aim of the notion of hamartia is to make catastrophe acceptableto harmonize with the audiences expectations. Such a
structure does not require any sequel, particularly in the shape of resurrection,
since catastrophe is thus conducive to a sense of wholeness and harmony. In this
sense Pentheus and Hippolytus are mortally and irreversibly dead; and so is
Oedipus, who, although worshiped after his death, most assuredly is not resurrected. Any attempt to bridge between Cornford/Murrays original sequence
with Aristotles structurean obvious tribute to the validity of the hamartiacatastrophe structuremust run into insoluble contradictions.

Comedy and the Origin of Theatre

There is little that can be learned from the advent of Old Comedy about the creation of the theatre medium, since this type of comedy came into being more
than a hundred years after Thespis. Cornford assumes that comedy appears to
have existed for centuries on the humble level of popular farce (180). He argues
that comedy only indirectly derives from ritual, presupposing a mediating phase
in the form of a folk-play: Attic Comedy, as we know it from Aristophanes, is
constructed in the framework of what was already a drama, a folk play, and that
behind this folk play lay a still earlier phase, in which its action was dramatically
presented in religious ritual (4). The insertion of a folk-play as an intermediate
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{ Theories of Origins }

link between ritual and Old Comedyin contrast to the indirect development
of tragedy from ritual through choral storytellingand the assumption that ritual featured dramatic elements in itself have the advantage of supposing that the
element of dramatic representation [in the sense of theatre] was there from the
very rst (4). Cornford adds: It is difcult to see how drama can come out of
what is not, even in germ, dramatic (4). In other words, he attempts to solve the
problem by improving on Murrays model in two ways: by introducing a folkdrama phase instead of a storytelling one (dithyramb); and by tracing the theatrical element back to the ritual phase itself. If theatrical form can only derive
from a previous theatrical form, Cornford is clearly making no attempt to explain the origin of the theatre medium, because this assumption leads to innite
regression.
Moreover, he supports the existence of comedy prior to the advent of Attic
comedy with remarks made by Aristophanes himself: In several passages Aristophanes, in the course of pointing out his own superior merits, refers to certain
stale tricks and characters of what he calls vulgar comedy. He makes it clear that
the Athenian public was getting tired of these stereotyped antics, and he claims
credit for giving comedy a wider range, a larger construction, and newer themes
(177). Cornford provides several examples, such as the speech of the coryphaeus
in the Parabasis of Clouds:
And see how modest she is. To begin with, she comes before you not decorated
with the broad, red tipped thing of stitched leather (the phallus), to raise a
laugh among the children; then, there is no jeering at the Baldhead, no highkicking Kordax [a comic dance]; and the old man who speaks his lines shall
not beat the bystander with his stick to conceal the badness of his jokes. My
comedy does not rush upon the scene with torches in her hands, screaming
Iou! Iou!; she comes with full trust in herself and her verses. (quoted by
Cornford: 178)
These comic devices characterize Megarean comedy. For example, in the prologue of Wasps the slave Xanthias promises laughter, which shall not be laughter thieved from Megara (178). Ecphantides, another poet of Old Comedy, says
that he is ashamed to make his play like a product of Megara; and Eupolis, a
contemporary of Aristophanes, speaks of a joke as being brutal and dull, like a
joke from Megara, that would only draw a laugh from a child (quoted by Cornford: 179). Although Pickard-Cambridge denies comedy a Dionysian origin, he
concludes too that it derives from animal masquerades and from Megarean
farce, vulgar and probably indecent (1927: 277).
How long had comedy previously existed on this lower level of folk-drama?
{ The Ritual Origin of Comedy }

63

Cornford does not commit himself to a denite answer: The examples still lingering in modern Europe show that no limit can be set to the persistence of such
survivals; but, on the other hand, it might have been for a comparatively short
time (216). Allardyce Nicoll suggests the possible existence of farce since the beginning of the sixth century b.c., in Dorian country, particularly Megaraalmost two hundred years before the advent of Old Comedy (1931: 20 23). This
concurs with Aristophanes, who (as already noted) acknowledged the precedence of Megarean comedy, and Aristotle, who claimed that before the Archon
granted a comic chorus to a poet the performers were till then voluntary and
that [c]omedy had already taken denite shape when comic poets, distinctively
so called, are heard of (Poetics 4.2; cf. Halliwell 1987: 36).
The origin of comedy in folk theatre does not necessarily mean a total sharing
of traits: If it is necessary to disclaim anything absurd, it shall here be set down
that our argument does not suppose the original ritual drama or the degenerate
folk-play which may have followed to have contained, even in germ, either the
wit of Aristophanes or the wisdom of Aeschylus, either the comic or the tragic
perception of life (Cornford: 191). It most certainly does mean, however, the
sharing of both theatre medium and mood.
This vulgar comedy featured a set of stock masks. Cornford distinguishes a
group of six or seven masks which recur in different places with local modications: the Buffoon, the Doctor or Cook, the Soldier, the Parasite, the Old Man,
the Old Woman. This group furnishes the stock masks for the major characters
in the plays of Aristophanes, who carry the main business of the plot, if we add
to them the Young Man (in two plays) and the Young Woman, the mute bride of
the nal marriage (188; cf. Pickard-Cambridge 1962: 174). The existence of such
masks in the folk-play shows that they were typical functions in motivating the
action and setting the comic mood. The existence of stock masks indicates an established theatrical tradition.
Cornford assumes that the origin of masks resides in ritual: the set of actors
in a xed plota denite action which demanded just those characters, and in
which each had his proper place and function, is the set required for the fertility drama of the marriage of the Old Year transformed into the New (188). For
Cornford, this is the folk theatre that derives from ritual and mediates between
the latter and Old Comedy. Such an explanation is unsatisfactory; while not all
these masks (e.g., the parasite) can be explained by ritual origin, all of them can
be explained on dramatic and theatrical grounds.
Dramatic masks are used to promote a particular kind of mood, whether
comic or tragic, depending on the type of mask. Masks are also used to maintain

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characterization from play to play, while still allowing the possibility of creating
different ctional worlds, even based on different structural principles. Theatrical masks indicate the duplicity of the actor-character. In contrast, ritual masks
usually indicate possession by spirits. It is thus clear that masks fulll different
functions in theatre and ritual (chapter 11). We should remember that Thespis introduced masks into dithyramb, which, despite its allegedly ritual tradition, did
not use them (Pickard-Cambridge 1927: 44). Cornfords assumption is therefore
both irrelevant and lacking in explanatory power.
Cornfords focus on the origin of Old Comedy, and discussion of those forms
of comedy that preceded it, also indicates that he was not interested in the beginnings of the theatre medium but in the creation of a dramatic genre. There is
also a profound difference between Murray and Cornford with regard to their respective treatments of the creation of the genres of tragedy and comedy. Whereas
Murray assumes that tragedy derived from a storytelling form, Cornford claims
that comedy originated in an earlier theatrical form. Both claims are probably
historically correct, depending on whether the kind of ctional world or the medium is considered. As folk comedy likely came into being before both tragedy
and Old Comedy, it follows that both may have borrowed their medium from
previous theatrical genres.
Cornford contends that folk comedy germinated from a ritual already possessing theatrical elements. What exactly counts as a dramatic element in ritual? As mentioned above (chapter 1), the term dramatic bears two relevant
senses: (1) a narrative presented by means of imitation of action (through acting)
rather than by storytelling (through verbal description alone), as in Aristotles
denition of tragedy (Poetics 6.2); and (2) highly emotional ctional events
that induce strong emotional responses from the participants or audience. Consequently, a dramatic element in ritual either can be an enacted event in a ritual narrativein which case we may say that the ritual also employs the medium
of theatre, just as it makes use of natural language or can be a highly emotional
event, described by various media, such as theatre or storytelling (natural language). In general Cornford uses the terms drama and dramatic in a vague
sense that applies to both ctional world and medium. In this context, however,
he uses these terms in the sense of imitation of action (i.e., of theatre medium).
To avoid confusion, in this study I use theatre for the medium and drama for
the ctional world designed for theatre. Therefore, when Cornford speaks of the
enactment of the ritual marriage of Heaven and Earth by a real man and a real
woman, he certainly alludes to a genuine theatrical element (19). If indeed any
ritual featured such a metaphorical marriage, it certainly employed a rudimen-

{ The Ritual Origin of Comedy }

65

tary form of theatre. In itself, however, this medium is not a necessary component of ritual and usually is a very marginal one.
Cornford endorses Harrisons view that ritual is essentially dramatic. Following her approach, dramatic nature, which is the thing predone or redone, is shared
by both ritual and theatre, the actual difference between them residing solely in
the attitude of the community/audience:
A rite needs no audience; and when a rite passes out of the purely religious
stage into the dramatic or spectacular, the performers acquire a new relation
to the body of spectators, who have now gathered to watch, but not to take any
active part in, the proceedings. The congregation or band of worshippers now
becomes a chorus, standing in an intermediary position between the actors,
still absorbed in the action, and the spectators, who are only concerned in the
drama [in the sense of ctional world] by way of sympathetic contemplation.
(Cornford: 107)
Accordingly, in enacting a metaphor of the cycle of seasons, this difference between ritual and theatre depends upon the target audience: whether it is a participating community or a group of detached spectators. Participation in itself,
however, does not constitute the distinctive trait of ritual. In recent years it has
become more and more clear that the alleged passivity of the theatre spectator
is only apparent, as has been amply demonstrated by the avant-garde theatres
deliberate stress on active participation by its audiences. This is no less true for
proscenium theatre with its comfortably seated audience. Whereas the activepassive dichotomy is thus not applicable for determining the difference between
ritual and theatre, ritual reects an essentially different type of participation: its
efcacy on the divine sphere depends on the communitys involvement in its
practice.
Cornfords ritual wedding could indeed have been an element of theatre,
but theatrical elements are capable of fullling completely different functions
when used for various purposes, whether in ritual or in art, because they are subordinated to different intentions and purposes. The alleged wedding, of which
there is no actual evidence, would have been embedded within a complex selfreferential ritual act, with predetermined effects on the divine sphere. I have suggested (chapter 1) that the difference lies in religious ritual being a mode of action, an invocation of, or an address to a supernatural power, while theatre is a
medium which can be used for various purposes, including ritual. It would be
more correct, therefore, to relate to them as two entities on two different levels of
human activity and experience. Whereas ritual can make use of theatrical ele-

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ments, as it can use any other medium, it cannot be claimed that theatre originates in ritual. Its very use logically presupposes its existence.
* * *
Cornford did not attempt to trace the origins of either the medium of theatre or
the genre of comedy. He set out to explain only the origins of Attic comedy.
Within this restricted scope, following Aristotles remarks, he presupposed direct
derivation from a kind of folk comedy. His innovation probably resides in tracing the origin of this folk comedy to ritual.
His main thesis, however, regards the so-called structure of comedys action,
basically in terms of the School of Cambridge. In this sense, any criticism of this
school applies equally to Cornfords own work, in particular focus on the
ctional world, insufcient evidence, unbearable exibility in application of theoretical terms, and lack of explanatory power. As I have already noted, a model
can be suggested without evidence, but only if it has explanatory power. Like
Murrays model, Cornfords model is abstracted from neither ritual nor dramatic
data but is clearly imposed on both, while failing to explain either.
While focusing almost exclusively on features of the ctional world is acceptable in tracing the origins of a particular dramatic genre, contrary to the implied
assumptions by historians of theatre, it has no bearing on the origins of the medium of theatre itself.
Cornfords methodology employs a fallacious notion of structure in applying it to a sequence of type-events and disregarding ethical categorization and
patterns of expectations reecting the possible response of the audience. His attempt to harmonize among his own suggested sequence of type-events, Murrays
sequence of type-events, and Aristotles hamartia-catastrophe structure results in
theoretical chaos. Moreover, since the plays themselves have been considered
primary sources, the appropriate criticism, as mentioned above, is that Cornfords reading of the plays is faulty (chapter 2).
Cornford also errs in assuming thatin contrast to the origin of tragedy
from the nondramatic dithyramb comedy must have originated from an earlier theatrical form. This claim does not consider the fact thatbeing a combination of a theatre medium and a typical moodboth tragedy and comedy may
reect two possible sources. In this sense, it is sensible to argue that while both
genres could have borrowed their medium from preexisting theatrical forms,
their tragic or comic mood could have been drawn from either theatrical or
storytelling sources.
The School of Cambridge denitely fails to demonstrate the ritual origins of

{ The Ritual Origin of Comedy }

67

tragedy and comedy. The persistent belief in the thesis of the ritual origin of theatre only shows that exposing fallacies is not enough to refute it once and for all.
So what is the secret of its appeal? Vinces reply is illuminating: However inaccurate as a record of the historical origins of the theatre, the ritual theory appeals
on a metaphorical level to unconscious patterns and longings in our own psyches
and we nd drama considered in its terms a richer and more satisfying experience than it might otherwise be (1984: 16). The only way left, therefore, is to
demonstrate that such origins are logically impossible.

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4
The
Shamanistic
Source



Tracing the origins of theatre back to Dionysiac ritual on the grounds of shared
features on the level of the ctional world, rather than on the level of the medium,
constitutes the heart of the ritual theory as advocated by the School of Cambridge. The school posited the unreasonable assumption that vestiges of mythical narrative elements found in the ctional worlds of ancient Greek drama prove
that drama, in a vague sense that applies to both ctional world and medium,
was generated by ritual. In contrast, the thesis that the origins of theatre lie in
shamanism, which is a variant of the ritual theory, focuses not on ctional traits
but on certain aspects of performance allegedly shared by both shaman and actor. Perceived in this way, shamanism seems to be somewhat more promising
in the search for theatre origins since acting is the quintessence of this medium.
The following discussion focuses on Ernest T. Kirbys works, in particular his
Ur-Drama (1975), which fully develops the theory of shamanism as the matrix
of theatre. My aim is to establish the crucial difference between the act of the
shaman and the act of the actor.

The Nature of Shamanism

The term shaman, of Siberian origin and initially used in the ethnography of
Siberia, currently applies to a wide class of medicine-men in various cultures
who combine healing, mediumship, and magic. A shaman is believed to
be able to enter a state of trance, to travel in other worlds (the heavens or the underworld), and eventually to master their spirits, primarily for the purpose of
curing the sick by ritualistic means (Kirby 1975: 1).

Whereas Kirby greatly stresses the therapeutic function of the shaman, Mircea
Eliade prefers a stricter denition: of course, the shaman is also a magician and
medicine man; he is believed to cure, like all doctors, and to perform miracles of
the fakir type, like all magicians, whether primitive or modern. But beyond this,
he is a psychopomp, and he may also be priest, mystic and poet (1974: 4). Conversely, a doctor or a magician is not necessarily a shaman, for it is predominantly a religious phenomenon, although it coexists with other forms of magic
and religion (1974: 5). The shaman typically enters a state of trance, in which he
alone, is the great master of ecstasy. A rst denition of this complex phenomenon, and perhaps the least hazardous, will be: shamanism technique of ecstasy (4). The shamanistic techniques of ecstasy, however, do not exhaust all
the varieties of ecstatic experience documented in the history of religions and religious ethnology. Hence any ecstatic cannot be considered a shaman (1974: 5).
Eliade distinguishes between controlling the spirits and being possessed
by them (mediumship): a shaman differs from a possessed person . . . ;
the shaman controls his spirits, in the sense that he, a human being, is able to
communicate with the dead, demons, and nature spirits, without thereby becoming their instrument. To be sure, shamans are sometimes found to be possessed, but these are exceptional cases for which there is a particular explanation (1974: 6). Although there is an obvious contradiction in terms, between
controlling and being controlled, Kirby does not nd such a distinction viable. He contends that the shaman combines both possession in trance by a
spirit who speaks from within the medium (not in the sense of system of communication), and determines his actions, essentially an inhabitation or incarnation of the spirit and control over them in order to force them to perform the
cure (1975: 2). Kirbys contention seems to be the more accurate since the shaman
both is possessed, in the sense that the spirit speaks through the shaman, and also
subdues the spirit to achieve the cure. Kirby could not, in any case, accept Eliades view, for while deriving acting from possession could make sense, deriving
acting from control over spirits clearly does not.
In Kirbys sense the shamanistic act is aptly named a seance since [i]t is very
like the seance of a medium in present Western culture, with its levitation on
tables, strange rappings, spectral apparitions, and voices from the dead (1975: 8).
The following provides a good description of the shamans act in Siberian
shamanism:
At this moment, the song ceased and the sounds of the drum were gradually
mufed, becoming a soft roll. The listeners with bated breath awaited the appearance of the spirit. The ensuing silence was broken by a sharp blow on the
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drum, changing into a sort of roll. In the silence following this, the voices
of the spirits could be clearly heard: the snorting of beasts, bird-calls, the
whirring of wings, or others, according to the spirit appearing before the
shaman at the moment. . . . The journey of the khargi [an animal spirit helper]
to the other world is described in the shamans songs in such fantastic form,
so deftly accompanied by motions, imitations of spirit voices, comic and dramatic dialogues, wild screams, snorts, noises, and the like, that it startled and
amazed even this far-from-superstitious onlooker. The tempo of the song became faster and faster, the shamans voice more and more excited, the drum
sounded ever more thunderously. The moment came when the song reached
its highest intensity and feeling of anxiety. The drum moaned, dying out in
peals and rolls in the swift, nervous hands of the shaman. One or two deafening beats were heard and the shaman leaped from his place. Swaying from side
to side, bending in half a circle to the ground and smoothly straightening up
again, the shaman let loose such a torrent of sounds that it seemed everything
hummed, beginning with the poles of the tent, and ending with the buttons
on the clothing. Screaming the last parting words to the spirits, the shaman
went further and further into a state of ecstasy, and nally, throwing the drum
into the hands of his assistant, seized with his hands the thong connected to
the tent pole and began the shamanistic dancea pantomime illustrating
how the khargi, accompanied by the group of spirits, rushed on his dangerous
journey fullling the shamans commands. . . . Under the hypnotic inuence
of the shamanistic ecstasy, those present often fell into a state of mystical hallucination, feeling themselves participants in the shamans performance.
(A. F. Ansimov, quoted by Kirby 1975: 5)
In general, shamanism appears to be an ancient and omnipresent phenomenon, found from Siberia and Central Asia to the extreme south of the Americas.
As usual for these types of phenomena, cultural migration as well as parallel developments can be taken into account, because of the great and similar needs
and the similar structure of the psyche (Kirby 1975: 1). The scientic drive to
nd such cross-cultural phenomena, which is typical of cultural anthropology,
in itself plays a crucial role in the formation of such an abstract concept. Ruth
Benedict questions comparative anthropology, claiming that such studies are:
analytical discussions of traits and ignore all the aspects of cultural integration. Mating or death practices are illustrated by bits of behavior selected indiscriminately from the most different cultures, and the discussion builds up
a kind of Frankensteins monster with a right eye from Fiji, a left from Europe,
one leg from Tierra del Fuego, and one from Tahiti. . . . Such a gure corre{ The Shamanistic Source }

71

sponds to no reality in the past or present. (H. B. Menagh, quoted by Kirby

1975: x)
Although Kirby uses this argument to discredit the School of Cambridge, Benedicts criticism also pertains to his own model of shamanism, which does not correspond to any real shamanistic culture in the world but is a construct of features
from various cultures throughout the world, with little regard for their inner
structure and function within the entire structure of society and culture at large
(cf. Evans-Pritchard: 8).

The Origin of Acting

In a trance the shaman behaves like and particularly speaks in the voice of the
spirit. It is this mediumship aspect of shamanism that is essential to Kirbys theory, since the shaman apparently enacts another being, an inhabitant of another world, which would make the shaman the prototype of the theatre performer, the actor. In this sense, in contrast to the School of Cambridge, the
shamanistic theory focuses on acting, which is a crucial element of the theatre
medium. For Kirby, conceiving the shamanistic performance as the ur-theatre
(or prototheatre) implies a crucial distinction:
Shamanistic ritual is unlike rites-of-passage or other forms of what may be
called ceremonial ritual in that it depends on the immediate and direct manifestation to the audience of supernatural presence, rather than its symbolization. . . . In order to effect a cure of the patient, belief in what is happening
must be held, reinforced, and intensied, not only in the patient, but in the
audience as well, for their experience contributes directly to the effect. (Kirby
1975: 2)
The main distinction thus resides in the difference between actual manifestation
and symbolization. In other words, shamanism engages in real action in which
even natural language is subordinated to the function of doing something, as
in speech acting, while symbolization, in this sense, pertains to the level of pure
verbal representation.
Furthermore, despite being aimed at the cure of an individual patient, the
shamanistic act is performed in front of a community and in a well-dened area,
whether outside or indoors (Kirby 1975: 3). In the state of possession, therefore,
it would appear that the shaman does enact a character (the spirit) within a the-

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atre for an audience. Seen in this light, the prototheatrical nature of shamanism
seems to become evident when the audience members, although still appreciative of the shamans arts, lessen their belief in the shamanistic ability to master the
spirits. Kirby thus outlines a development from a small curing seance, through
more elaborate curing ceremonies and rituals and trance dances for curing
and other purposes, to performances which are purely theatre, spectacles from
which the functional element has disappeared (1975: 2 3). This functional element, the curative function, is assumed to disappear following confrontation
with disbelief. In this sense, however, the creation of theatre is thus viewed as the
result not of a particular ritual but of its disintegration. Developing William
Ridgeways thesis, in his Dramas and Dramatic Dances of Non-European Races
(1915), Kirby suggests that the actor was originally a medium (1975: xiii)he assumes that the shaman, when possessed by a spirit, performs the most distinct of
all theatrical functions: acting. Shamans do indeed appear to be enacting the
spirit, particularly speaking in its voice, and behaving as if they were the
spiritbut is this really a genuine instance of acting? As I have already suggested, acting engages in producing not an act but a description of an act in a
world. Moreover, acting is characterized by duality of reference: self-reference
and deection of reference from actors to characters. The actors imprint on their
own bodies images of indexes, in the capacity of description, which are meant to
refer not to themselves but to other beings, real or ctional. As a result of this deection of reference, such iconic indexes are eventually attributed to characters
that are supposed to produce them. During this process the actors remain themselves and are perceived both as actors, who inscribe descriptions on their own
bodies, and as texts that describe characters.
From the viewpoint of the faithful, in contrast, the shaman in a state of possession is believed actually to produce indexes of a real other worldly being, what
believers would call a spiritin this sense, there is no acting. Possession implies that the spirit is in control and all manifestations are its ownit is selfreferential. Even if we attempt to look at possession from a scientic or, rather,
a nonbelievers viewpoint, it is also self-referential. For example, from a psychoanalytical viewpoint, possession could be perceived as the voices of potential
personalities suppressed in the unconsciousthey are most certainly not conceived as indexes of the conscious shamans self in its attempt merely to make the
impression of mediumship. They are, rather, indexes of an otherness, from
within, leading to the conclusion that there is no acting and, therefore, that reference is not deected. Shamans are self-referential to their performance and,
when possessed, cease to be self-referential to themselves in order to become self-

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referential to whatever possesses them. This conclusion does not imply that their
human features disappear altogether. The participants believe that the manifestation of the spirit is the result of the shamans actions but also assume that
the manifestation itself is self-referential. In contrast, characters do not manifest
themselves through actorsthey are only described by them. If actors enact
possessed shamans on stage, the audience will confront three entities: the actors,
the enacted shamans, and the enacted spirit that possesses them.
Belief is assumed to be a precondition for the efcacy of any attempt to control the spirits, and the need for a medium in itself suggests that spirits cannot
communicate with humans cannot produce indexes that can be captured by
human senses, unless mediated by a human body. Just as shamans believe that
they become the mouthpiece of the spirit, so too do their audiences. To consider that they are merely impersonating a spirit reects an attitude that is foreign
to shamanistic culture, since it assumes that magic procedures are not real and
cannot affect the real world. If shamans are suspected of simply enacting a spirit
rather than actually being possessed by one, the mystery vanishes. In this context
impersonation or pretense is equivalent to fraud. Whereas shamans can deceive (i.e., impersonate or pretend), actors never do; they are genuinely and professedly enacting characters distinct from themselves.
It may be argued that an actor pretends to be drunk in order to present a characters condition and that the audience understands that the actor is faking
drunkenness and may even admire his or her talent. However, the actor is not really faking, but only imitating the appearances of drunkenness in order to describe a character, which is the nature of iconic representation. I thus suggest a
distinction between impersonation or pretense, which is a behavioral lie and
evokes negative moral connotations, and acting, which is not. Whereas an actor never fakes, a shaman who counterfeits ecstasy or possession cannot be considered to be enacting these psychical states. An actor can enact a shaman in a
state of possession, but a shaman cannot enact a spirit. Whereas the shamans act
can be described as genuine or spurious, the actors act can not.
There is a basic duality in acting, which should not be forgotten. Theatregoers
are alternately aware of the existential gap between the actors enacting characters
and the enacted characters. The actors are acclaimed or criticized for the quality
of their performance, while the characters are conducive to a variety of attitudes,
depending on the human qualities they reect. Even in the case of the actors extreme identication with characters, this duality cannot go unnoticed. In such a
case, identication is grasped as no more than a quality of acting. The actors indexes of their acting are clearly self-referential, like any other real indexes: as per-

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formers, actors are denitely anchored in real life, as is the audience; but the reference of their iconic text is deected. Shamans would also appear to reveal such
duality, since they too seem to refer to both themselves and the spirit; they are
praised for the efcacy of their performance, and so is the spirit. In the state of
ecstasy/possession, however, shamans are self-referential on both accounts, as
masters of the spirit and as the spirit itself.
Even if we accept the proposal that shamanism is a prototype of acting, what
does this explain? First, it could partially explain the actors mechanism of enacting characters. If so, Kirbys theory would at the most reect a specic but
dated theory of acting that assumes that actors, in order to create characters, have
to enter into their personalities or, we might say, be possessed by them. This is
obviously a metaphorical way of speaking, since ctional characters are not real
beings and, therefore, cannot actually possess the actors. Moreover, it is hard to
believe that professional actors go into a state of ecstasy every time they perform
on stage. As it is unlikely that actors could either cope with such dependence on
volatile states or endure such a recurrent experience, the alleged possession
principle may apply only to the preparatory phase.
Such an approach does not suit even naturalistic theatre, whose attitude to
acting is not shared by most theatrical styles, such as classic, classicist, romantic,
epic, and absurd theatres, let alone Asian styles. All these advocate an utterly different approach to acting and preparation, which stresses the ability to produce
the appropriate stage images rather than complete identication. There is also a
basic difference between possession and identication. In acting, identication
with a character usually means looking for inner resources in order to lend depth
to the produced images, while retaining the basic duplicity of actor-character.
This is a controlled way of opening ones consciousness in order to access a
broader spectrum of human potentialities, which can be only partially materialized in the actor as a real individual. In contrast, possession involves loss of
control over the produced images and above all loss of identity, even if this occurs in contact with suppressed layers of the psyche.
In the realm of theatre theory, therefore, possession can be understood only
as a misleading metaphor. Shamans do not describe a spirit but become inhabited by a spirit. They do not enact; they act. In contrast, enacting a character is a
deliberate, purposeful, and fully controlled use of a cultural medium. When
shamans, or their assistants, describe a journey to other worlds, they usually do
so in natural language, although, in principle, they could make use of the theatre
medium. The simple fact is that in the sense of theatre employed here, they
do not.

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Mask and Costume

The use of masks appears to reect a basic afnity between ritual and theatre.
Both shamanistic ritual and some styles of theatre do employ masks, and in both
cases the mask clearly indicates an intention to refer to the other. There is,
however, a substantial difference, which once again can be determined by the
principle of reference. Whereas the theatrical mask is used to deect reference
from actor to character, the ritual mask reects reference to what is, or is supposed to be, a real entityfor example, a spirit that requires an actual human
body and a mask in order to manifest itself:
In trying to describe the special veracity given to masks by the relationship to
spirits, it is often said that the mask is the spirit. This is intentionally redundant, but is somewhat inaccurate in regard to representation. The mask receives the presence and takes on the functions of the spirit. The basic relationship of the mask is to trance possession as an actualizer of its spirit. . . .
When the Tlingit shaman of the north-west coast puts on his mask, it is believed that he becomes possessed by the spirit represented, and the utterances
of the shaman are for the time being regarded as the words of the spirit.
(K. Stewart, quoted by Kirby, 1975: 21; emphasis in original)
In other words, the mask communicates that change, rather than deection of
reference, is taking place. The abstract design displayed on the shamanistic mask
reects it.
Similar considerations apply to costume: The basic concept of the mask
seems to be associated with the use of body paint or elaborate costume which
transforms the wearer into an animated sculptural gure. As noted, such gures
are essentially abstract. One function of this abstraction is to create a disjunction
with ordinary visual reality, a disjunction which is similar to that presented by
the trance state itself (Kirby 1975: 21). In other words, mask and costume are
meant to change reference: instead of referring to a ctional character by means
of an iconic text, they indicate that another being temporarily inhabits the body.
Mask is not essential to acting, as demonstrated by most theatrical styles. The
same can be said of makeup. Mask and makeup may have been borrowed from
ritual at a certain stage, because of the similarity between change and deection
of reference, but for the same reason this similarity is misleading. The distinction
between being and description is fundamental. There is also a signicant difference between mask and costume: whereas by denition the use of the mask
(not the mask itself ) cannot be iconic, except when describing actual use of
masks in ctional reality (such as the carnival scene in William Shakespeares
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Romeo and Juliet), costume always is. Although an iconic costume can convey
various kinds of information, such as nationality, social status, gender, and age,
the use of costume on stage is in itself iconic of the use of costume in real life and
enacts costume in the ctional world.

Actor and Audience

The performance-audience relationship is an additional element in the allegedly
theatrical nature of shamanism. Shamans enter the state of trance and perform
their cure in front of a gathering of members of the community. What is such a
gathering doing at a curative seance aimed at relieving the suffering of an individual? Answers given to this question presuppose that the effect of magic is dependent on the belief and collective involvement of the community or that the
shamanistic act transcends the merely curative and aims, rather, at reafrmation
or validation of beliefs. Whatever the answer, the reason for performing in front
of people would appear to be consistent with shamanistic beliefs. The gathered
community is not an audience in the sense of decoding and experiencing a theatrical description, however, but, rather, a community participating in the communal effort to ensure the efcacy of a ritual.
When Kirby suggests that in shamanism the basic relationship is already one
of spectacle-audience, as in theatre, he errs in employing overly broad notions
of spectacle and audience. In the theatrical sense, an audience is a group of
people participating in decoding and interpreting a text and creating an artistic
experience. Not every gathering of people watching an event is an audience in
this sense (e.g., people watching the re brigade attempting to extinguish a re
are no more a theatre audience than are the congregants watching the ofciating
priest during the Mass). Similarly, as shown above, the shamanistic act neither
presents a spectacle nor is aimed at a watching audience, terms which obviously have been attached to it mechanically, since the shaman and the community jointly engage in actual doing. The fallacious mechanism is clear: rst, use
terms in overly broad senses and, second, claim analogy.
The School of Cambridge suggests that the transition from ritual to theatre
occurs when participants in a ritual become spectators. This approach is based
on the alleged opposition participation-spectatorhood, which is invalid because participation cannot be excluded from theatrical experience. Spectatorhood is a form of participation. There is, however, a difference: participation in
ritual regards the efcacy of the ritual, whereas participation in theatre regards
handling a description and its eventual meaning as such for each spectator.
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77

Whereas the former is a mode of action, the latter is a kind of thinking. For Kirby,
the transition from ritual to theatre is marked by the disappearance of the functional element in the shamanistic act (1975: 3), which usually reects change in
the communitys beliefs. The ritual then becomes empty. If theatre is assumed to
derive not from ritual but from its disintegration, why see in ritual the source of
theatre?
There is no reason to suspect reports claiming that the response of the community to the shamanistic act is very forceful, even more forceful than the theatrical experience. According to I. M. Lewis:
After shamanizing, the audience recollects various moments of the performance, their great psychophysiological emotion and the hallucinations of
sight and hearing that they have experienced. They then have a deep satisfactionmuch greater than that from emotions produced by theatrical and musical performances, literature and general artistic phenomena of the European
complex, because in shamanizing, the audience at the same time acts and participates. (Lewis 1971: 53, quoted by Kirby 1975: 6)
The physically close proximity to the shaman, who actually manifests the supernatural, may well induce a degree of wonder and even terror, which, upon its
relief, may be conducive to a particularly strong cathartic effect. Although it is
difcult to compare intensity of response, however, there is clearly a difference
in quality. For catharsis is not a type of emotional response that is exclusive to
theatre: it is also experienced in real life, in the context of sports and religious or
civic rituals. It is, in fact, a psychic mechanism that can be activated by various
means, including theatre. In contrast, it is not a necessary response in theatre,
which, being a medium, is able to produce texts with diametrically opposed
effects.
A theatrical text only appears to refer to a described ctional world. Its ultimate referent is the spectators themselves. In actually watching a performance,
the spectators are not only decoding and interpreting a text but also examining
it as a true or false description of their own predicament. This apparent duality,
in having both deection of reference to a ctional reality and ultimate reference to the real spectators, is resolved by the notion of metaphor, which is the
only kind of description characterized by apparent double reference (Rozik
1988). Such a relationship explains the total involvement (participation) of the
spectators: the theatrical text is a descriptive version of the self, by mediation of
a ctional world. The theatrical experience is thus a confrontation with a potentially complex self-image. In this respect too, the fundamental difference be-

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tween actor and shaman remains. In theatre ultimate self-referential participation is mediated by a description of a ctional world.

Paratheatrical Crafts
In various cultures, shamans display a mastery of performing crafts, such as
ventriloquism, stage magic, escape art, sword-swallowing, re-walking, reeating, rope-walking, juggling, and acrobatics, all of which have for millennia
commanded a sense of wonder in all kinds of audiences. These are performed in
the service of their curative art (Kirby 1975: 14 16, 1974: 6 12). Kirby refers to
them as paratheatrical or prototheatrical arts (1975: 19), thereby implying
that the source of theatre can be found in these crafts as well.
From the available literature on these crafts it is difcult to assess their exact
function within the curative act of the shaman and whether they belong to
shamanism proper or to pseudo-shamanism, in the sense of a corrupted ritual.
With regard to theatre research, the key questions concern the relationship between these performing crafts and theatre and whether or not a generative relationship between them is plausible. To the question of relationship Kirbys answer is that:
[p]erformances of this kind, such as acrobatics and magic acts, when practiced as popular entertainments, seem to relate to the esthetics of drama only
through the use of skill and through a common theatricality; they seem independent of considerations of narrative form or of the representation or enactment of another reality. To regard them as a theatrical activity, is to deal with
aspects of dramatic theory that have been largely neglected. (Kirby 1974: 5)
We note that Kirby employs theatre and drama indistinctly. He is correct in
that these crafts do not involve acting in the sense of enacting a ctional reality.
So what is meant by common theatricality? Both use of skill and spectacle
provide too vague a common denominator. If certain common traits do exist,
then they must be specied. If they do not, then the entire issue is irrelevant to
theatre theory.
With regard to skill, all paratheatrical crafts require unusual abilities and are
probably able to be used in the context of shamanism because of the heightened
demands . . . placed upon the body, which is driven beyond its natural limits
(Kirby 1975: 16). There is an essential difference, however, between acting and
performing such skills. The so-called paratheatrical artists do not inscribe images

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of such abilities on their own bodies but exhibit these abilities of their own bodies. Moreover, their behavior does not deect reference to described characters
but is self-referentialit is meant to project an improved image of themselves.
The possible claim that such artists do inscribe texts on their own bodies could
be accepted only on condition that it is a different kind of text: an indexical one.
Even if these skills are attributed to spirits, they still remain self-referential.
Whether or not shamans, or the spirit that possesses them, are interested in making a profound impression on an audience by performing an amazing act,
transcending normal human abilities (Carmeli: 103 8), acting in the theatrical
sense does not take place. Connection with the theatre is precluded unless the
performance of such skills is part of a described ctional world.
The answer to the question of a possible generative relationship is also negative. There can be no development from paratheatrical crafts to theatrical
arts, due to precisely the same fundamental difference. All paratheatrical
crafts have in fact remained exactly what they always were; modern ventriloquism, for example, is still ventriloquism, simply demonstrating an unusual
skill. Since ventriloquists cannot generally carry an entire show, they usually perform with other artists in a sequence of different acts, belonging to the variety
show, the circus, or the marketplace. In ancient times they were included in the
category of mimes, which appear only occasionally to have incorporated theatrical acting.
Kirby himself implies that these crafts are not essential to the shamans act,
which focuses on curing an illness. As mere adjuncts, such crafts can more reasonably be claimed to have been adopted by shamanism in order to enhance its
powers, rather than to have originated in shamanism. They have most likely been
independent, forming an incidental connection with shamanism and eventually
returning to independence. In adopting such skills, shamans may have intended
to lure their audiences by means foreign to their own craft. Therefore, although
the connection of these crafts to shamans may throw light on the nature of
shamanism, shamanism cannot throw light on them. In any case, it is not Kirbys
intention to derive theatre from what is not genuine shamanism.
Such crafts clearly demand a good deal of training, for it is difcult to believe
that even in a state of trance such abilities could be exhibited by an untrained
body which has been overtaken by a spirit. The degree of genuineness in the
shamans act is irrelevant, but such additional crafts, if used, do require learning
and therefore an awareness of their human rather than spiritual origin. Kirby
uses the expression pseudo-shamanistic fakirism (1975: 14) to indicate that the
practice of these crafts may reect some degree of corruption. In this sense, even

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with regard to true mediumship, they can only be seen as a buttress to improve
its efcacy.
Because so many popular kinds of entertainment and craft can be traced back
to shamanism, Kirby suggests that the latter is the great engenderer of all art:
They [the paratheatrical crafts] are an important part of the great differentiation
of shamanism into modes of secular entertainment as such, as if shamanistic ritual was the the great unitarian artwork that fragmented into a number of performance arts, much as Wagner believed had been the case with ancient Greek
tragedy (1975: 19). To these paratheatrical crafts, he adds puppetry (1975: 17), divination (1975: 19), and even dance and music: Dialogue, enactments, ventriloquism, incantations, music, dance, and song create a swirling stream of images
drawn from a number of performance modes (1975: 5). If Kirbys assumption
that whatever shamanism contains also originated in it is correct, why is it not
also conceived as the source of dance, music, or even natural language? To claim
that music and dance began in shamanism, which clearly was not the rst stage
in the development of culture, is scientically dangerous, since there is ample
evidence to the contrary. For theatre studies, however, such contradictory evidence is not available; therefore, it is open to wild speculation. I suggest instead
that not all crafts of shamanism are of the nature of shamanism and that their
roots may lie elsewhere.

Self-Inicted Suffering
Shamanism also tends to practice self-inicted pain. Kirby comments with regard to re-eating that [i]n this category of performance, illusionistic trickery
is combined with actual danger (1975: 14). Pain is self-inicted by means of
swords, needles, and burning coals, and there have been various reports on other
kinds of self-inicted suffering, particularly in ceremonies of initiation. In all
these the self-referential quality of shamanism is self-evident: shamans do not
enact suffering, it is the shamans themselves who suffer.
This aspect of shamanism appears to contradict the previously discussed tendency to employ various illusionist crafts. The apparent contradiction resides in
the opposition illusion-reality: self-inicting pain is real, and illusion negates
its reality. Kirby dismisses this contradiction:
These performances might seem to represent an aesthetic which is at the opposite pole from illusionism in which similarly gruesome acts are represented

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by trickery. They insist upon the virtuality of the body and of reality, forcing
them to produce a sanctication of the trance. Like illusionism, they are demonstrations of the supernatural, of the transcendent, and like it they hold the
virtual to be more real than ordinary reality. (Kirby 1975: 15)
He sees both virtual reality and illusionism as producing a demonstration of the
supernatural and thus together opposing ordinary reality. In other words, for
him there is no contradiction since both fulll the same function.
Self-inicted pain, however, opposes the textuality and iconicity of the actors
body on stage. Kirby explains away this contradiction: This, too, must be considered in regard to theories which hold that theatre originates in or is dened by
imitation. Perhaps in shamanistic self-torture we have spectacle as anti-theatre,
but it remains spectacle, a fundamental aspect of theatricality (1975: 15). Despite
the fact that self-torture is purely self-referential, Kirby prefers to disregard the
imitative (in the sense of iconic) aspect of theatre and preserve instead the
theory of the shamanistic origin on the grounds that spectacle is no less fundamental. The fallacy lies in applying a too abstract and broad perception of spectacle, which he applies not only to theatrical and nontheatrical texts but also to
real behavior, thereby invalidating the use of this term. Moreover, basically actors are meant to produce only images of self-torture and deect their reference
to characters. In contrast, shamanistic self-torture can only be self-referential,
since otherwise it is fake.
In theatre, nonetheless, and not only in modernist theatre, there are cases of
self-inicted pain within a theatrical performance. For example, in a Passion play
in one of the cities of Catalonia, the actor enacting Jesus carries an extremely
heavy cross up the mountain where he eventually enacts the crucixion. The
cross is so heavy and so real that one can see the suffering in the very act of carrying it, to the point of near exhaustion. This suffering is still subordinated to the
nature of the theatrical text, however; it is an image of suffering, whose reference
is deected to the character of Jesus. In this sense, self-inicted pain is no different from the use of a real table (or a human body to enact a character): real things
on stage are received as imprinted images which, combined into sentences,
deect their reference to the enacted characters.

Nondramatic Dialogue
The various reasons Kirby gives in support of his thesis of shamanistic origin
of theatre include the shamans use of dialogue: Dialogue, the hallmark of our
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drama, occurs in the seance as the shaman converses with his spirits or recounts
the adventures of his trance journey to the spirit worlds. It also takes place in
the form of interaction between the spirits and the participants in the ritual
(1975: 6). He also remarks that [d]ialogue also occurs when a spirit possesses or
inhabits a shaman (1975: 7). The contention that dialogue is the hallmark of
drama reects a curious theory of theatre, however, since it overlooks the simple
fact that in real life dialogue is the basic form of human communication and interaction by means of verbal acts (speech acts). Similar to nonverbal action, real
verbal activity too refers to the doers themselvesit is inherently indexical and,
therefore, self-referential. Since theatrical dialogue is an iconic replica of real dialogue, its enactment manifests both self-reference to the actor who performs it
and deection of reference to the ctional character. Thus, in itself dialogue is by
no means the hallmark of drama or theatre and thus cannot be used to posit a
theory of origins.

The Demon Play

In his theory of origins, Kirby outlines a possible development from the shamanistic act to the established genres of drama, suggesting that the missing link is to
be found in a transitory dramatic form, the demon play:
The masked sculptural gure is directly identied with what is undoubtedly
the most instrumental phase in the evolution of shamanistic theatre. The costumed personication of spirits, particularly of demons, is associated both
with shamanistic ritual and with the dramas that then develop from these rituals. As a generalized category, such rituals and performances may be termed
demon plays. (Kirby 1975: 22)
Because all the examples of demon plays presented in his book are from southeast Asia (e,g., the Cham of Tibet, the Cham of Nepal, and the Lion-Dragon
Barong Ketet of Bali), it is difcult to establish, without a profound knowledge of
the contextual culture, whether such performances are indeed theatre or are remains of an ancient ritual, deconsecrated for touristic purposes. Clifford Geertz
claims that the [Barong] drama is, for the Balinese, not merely a spectacle to be
watched but a ritual to be enacted. . . . A Rangda-Barong struggle is inevitably
marked by anywhere from three or four to several dozen spectators becoming
possessed by one or another demon, falling into violent trances. . . . To become
entranced is, for the Balinese, to cross a threshold into another order of existence (1973: 116). In any case, there is no problem in conceiving the demon play
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83

as a form of theatre. The question is whether or not this is the looked-for missing link in the creation of theatre.
Kirby claims a fundamental afnity between demon play and comedy: Let us
rst observe the evolution of the demon play into comic spectacles and consider
its relationship to the origins of comic performance. . . . Clowning, as such, arises
from a differentiation of the shamans functions as well as from representation
of an antagonistic reality based on portrayal of spirits or demons of disease
(1975: 27). He perceives a correlation in that clowning essentially manifests the
anarchic, insane and demonic (1975: 2728). Although he is correct in viewing
deformity as one of the sources of laughter and may be correct in that [p]hysical deformity, a source of the comic, is thus an aspect of spirit possession (1975:
30), he nonetheless overlooks Aristotles most enlightening comment: the ludicrous being merely a subdivision of the ugly. It consists in some defect or ugliness which is not painful or destructive (Poetics 5.1; cf. Halliwell 1987: 36). In
other words, deformity is comic on condition that it is presented in a comic form
(i.e., as neither painful nor destructive), thereby implying that deformity can also
be painful or repulsive to watch and thus not comic in itself.
Kirby concedes that the comic effects of a ritual can be produced by the ritual
itself, not necessarily as theatre: They [the Ceylonese clowns] also do so because
such forms of expression are characteristic of the comic. Recognition of this fact
seems to have followed upon portrayals of bizarre and psychotic behavior, represented in all seriousness, which resulted in causing laughter rather than fear
(1974: 13). By admitting that laughter is not only the outcome of a deliberate
comic intent, Kirby thereby implies that laughter is not an exclusive response to
comedy. Ritual or, indeed, any other form of behavior may become comic without becoming theatre or art. Kirby compounds his error by assuming an opposition between fear and laughter, although in fact fear is the raw material of comic
catharsis; therefore, it is hardly surprising that the same act may elicit both terror
and laughter.
Following Henri Bergson, Kirby contends that the function of the comic is to
serve as a social corrective or, rather, social therapy. If so, the clown should be
identied with the shaman, the societys doctor, on the grounds that comedy
has some therapeutic effect, by making symptoms laughable in terms of bizarre
and psychotic behavior, and it also functions against psychological repression in
general by acting out vulgarities that are not represented in sanctioned behavior
(1975: 29). Such a reasoning, again, is faulty. First, comedy is not therapeutic in
the sense of curing psychological ills, but only in the sense of catharsis (probably
of energy invested in repression of undesirable behavior by relief of tension).

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As suggested above, catharsis should be understood as a physiological mechanism that can be activated by different means, including tragedy, comedy, and
the shamans act. A distinction should be made, therefore, between cure of a patient and catharsis in the healthy participants of the ritual. Second, to derive
comic catharsis from the shamans performance of evil spirits presupposes a
radical change in the communitys attitude to this ritual, which would otherwise
have inspired awe in addition to terror (according to the communitys own reports) and would have led to a serious catharsis. My main argument with this
minitheory focuses on laughter being a kind of response to the nature of the ctional world and not to the medium of theatre. Since a comic ctional world can
be equally described by means of storytelling, in adding the demon play as a transitional phase between the shamans act and theatre Kirby reverts to the basic fallacy of the School of Cambridge, in his attempt to derive a kind of medium from
a kind of ctional world.
If the demon play is conceived as a parody of the shamans act, however, then
the resulting text may indeed be theatre. Parody in itself presupposes the existence of an object-text, which can be recognized by means of clues provided by
the parodic text. Moreover, if ritual is conceived as a text formulated in an indexical medium, its parodic replication may well be in the form of an iconictheatrical text. In general, parody is always a description that can be effected by
a literary (verbal) or theatrical (basically iconic) medium. A demon play can,
therefore, be considered theatrical, if it is formulated as a replica of actual behavior in the medium of theatre. Although this could equally be the performance of
a ritual as an empty shell for an alienated audience of tourists, such a possibility
is irrelevant because in such a case the medium of theatre is not employed. Moreover, the use of this medium for the sake of parody does not necessarily constitute an indication of origin. On the contrary, use logically presupposes existence.

Shamanism and Greek Tragedy

Kirby states that there are no viable alternatives to Dionysiac origins of tragedy
(1982: 167) and attempts to integrate this theory into a general theory of the origins of theatre by redening the Dionysiac cult as an instance of assimilation of
shamanistic elements (1982: 74 75). Through this theoretical step, while changing only the source-ritual, he reinstates the School of Cambridge approach, reafrming that tragedy and comedy stem from ritual. The only difference is that
Kirby suggests the alternative dimension of performance to this theory:

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Tragic drama evolved from trance-dances or ecstatic dances accompanied by

dithyrambic music, the music of Dionysianism. Some time before 600 b.c.,
Arion of Corinth rst composed special music and lyrics for the ecstatic dance
and trained the dancers in gesture and movement. This new form was called
drama (from dromenon, something done) and was also referred to as the
tragic mode, but, more precisely it was the literary, or choral, dithyramb.
(Kirby 1982: 168; emphasis in original)
I have already dealt with, and tried to refute, the derivation of the medium of theatre from trance and/or ecstasy.
Kirby is equally reluctant to relinquish the ctional component. His analysis
of the Bacchae assumes that the play retains the shamanistic elements of a preDionysiac ancient cult. Kirby claims, for example, that the dismemberment of
Pentheus recalls a similar phase in shamanistic initiation (1982: 88); that his
perch on the sacred r tree, and his dismemberment were not intended as images of death at all, but of insanity, derived from shamanistic sources (1982: 80);
that the feminine appearance of Dionysus and the dressing of Pentheus in womens clothes stem from the ambiguous sexual identity of the shaman (1982: 83);
and that Dionysus appearing to Pentheus in the shape of a bull reects his shape
changing abilities that originated in shamanistic sources (1982: 91). Even if all of
this were true, it would still be irrelevant to the search for the origins of theatre,
since it relates to ctional elements that could equally well have been described
by verbal means, as in dithyrambic storytelling. In other words, through this theoretical move Kirby also restores the fallacies propounded by the School of Cambridge, particularly the attempt to derive a medium from qualities of ctional
worlds.

Kirbys Notion of Theatre

Our next question relates to the precise notion of theatre underlying Kirbys
reections. Although he does not provide any organized account of his views on
this subject, several passages in his studies reect certain basic assumptions that
require our attention. First, he does not accept the thesis that theatre is based on
imitation. If he refers to a popular interpretation of Aristotelian mimesis, in
the sense of similarity to reality, he is correct in rejecting imitation in this sense,
since it is not a necessary quality of theatre but of particular styles such as naturalism. In contrast, the use of mimesis in the sense of iconicity would have

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posed a serious problem to his theory, since by means of iconic units theatre can
describe worlds that substantially differ from the real world.
In place of mimesis, Kirby advances a theory of actual transformation into a
suprareality:
It is commonly held that drama is inherently identied with an imitation of
reality and that this may be traced back to imitative dances and actions, such
as the miming of animals, used in magical control over that which is imitated.
Dramatic imitation is also traced back to an instinct for role-playing and imitation in childhood. A second theory holds that dramatic activity is play, a
manifestation of an instinct for play that is apparent in childhood and in the
activities of primitive man. Neither theory has actual anthropological validity
nor is either relevant in regard to the materials and concept of origin considered here. At their origin, popular entertainments are associated with trance
and derive from the practices of trance, not in childhood play or imitation.
They do not seek to imitate, reproduce, or record the forms of existent social
reality. Rather, the performing crafts that develop from shamanist trance may
be characterized as the manifestation, or conjuring, of an immediately present
reality of a different order, kind, or quality, from that of reality itself. Shamanist illusionism, with its ventriloquism and escape acts, seeks to break the surface of reality, as it were, to cause the appearance of a supra-reality that is
more real than the ordinary. (Kirby 1974: 14)
The claim that theatre reects an attempt to create a suprareality, in the sense of
an immediately present reality of a different order which aims at breaking the
surface of reality, cannot be maintained for most forms of theatre. Basically, this
view ignores the fact that theatre is a medium and as such possesses the ability
both to reafrm the audiences construct of reality and to contradict it. Furthermore, this approach unduly attributes religious qualities to theatre, as if these
enhance its inherent nature. Essentially, religion creates and maintains, whether
by ecstatic or other means, a perspective on reality that integrates metaphysical
dimensions; in this sense, religion always challenges a simplistic view of reality.
Kirby fails to note that theatre, being a medium, is able to describe reality in
whatever form the author wishes, whether as suprareality or infrareality or in any
other dimension. His contention also ignores the descriptive duality of acting, in
the sense of the imprinting of images on real human beings and deection of reference, which contradicts the self-referential nature of any kind of reality.
Kirby believes, moreover, that the theatre experience is basically one of illusion; therefore, he also accepts Samuel T. Coleridges dictum of momentary and

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voluntary suspension of disbelief : [t]hese modes [delusionary and hallucinatory experience] may be considered basic aspects of primal theatre, and an anthropological sequence is then established in regard to a change in the perception of illusion and deception, of illusion and reality, concerning a particular
modality of suspension of disbelief in theatrical performance (1975: 12). This is
consistent with his viewing theatre as a kind of reality, which Kirby appears to
consider a good common ground for shamanism and theatre. If the theatrical experience is viewed as being based upon a text and decoding a text formulated
in a specic medium, however, illusion is excluded. The typical experience of
theatre is not illusion of reality but audience involvement. A theatrical description of a ctional world may induce personal involvement, but without necessarily providing an illusion of reality. Kirbys misconception of theatre, compounded by the irrelevant inclusion of illusion, cannot produce (particularly
in the context of cultural anthropology) an adequate theory of the origins of theatre, since it presupposes what it is meant to demonstrate.
* * *
Kirby appears to have been making a desperate attempt to save the ritual theory
of theatre origin. He arrived at this eld of research after the School of Cambridge had already been rmly discredited and, apparently, with the preconception that in principle, although perhaps not in all its details, this school had been
right after all. Vince comments: Given the apparent limitations of comparative
anthropology, it is somewhat surprising to nd the method resurrected as late as
1975 by E. T. Kirby in Ur-Drama: The Origins of Theatre (1984: 11). Such sweeping theories are currently met with strong suspicion, and in this case rightly so:
Kirby appears to derive too many important cultural entities from the one single
source of shamanism.
Kirby seems to be on stronger grounds when advocating the ecstatic quality of
shamanism as the prototype of acting. The vogue of theatrical naturalism was
probably responsible for equating acting with possession or, rather, mediumship. In this sense, despite his reluctance to accept a mimetic theory of theatre,
Kirby is a product of his time. Acting, however, can never be ecstaticnor can
ecstasy be actingsince ecstasy is self-referential, in regard to both the spirit and
the shaman; in contrast, acting is both self-referential (as enacting actor) and
iconic (as description of a world) and, as such, deects reference. These are basically two essentially distinct human entities, and one cannot be reduced to or derived from the other. The same distinction applies to his inclusion of the socalled paratheatrical arts as prototheatrical phenomena.
Kirbys too wide perception of categories, such as performance, spectacle,
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{ Theories of Origins }

and audience, also vitiates his notion of theatre. The shamans act is not intended as a spectacle, and those who participate in the shamans act are not an
audience but a believing community on whom the efcacy of the act depends. Although there is participation in both shamanism and theatre, its meaning is
different in each domain: the former involves being part of an act meant to produce an impact in the divine sphere, whereas the latter involves producing meaning by means of a theatrical text.
Shamanism is clearly not the great unitarian artwork that Kirby believes it
to be, so the attempt to derive such a variety of cultural entities from it, including theatre, must inevitably lead to a dead end.

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5
The Recreation
of Theatre by
Christianity



In The Origin of the Theater, Benjamin Hunningher sets out to refute the widely
accepted theory that medieval theatre was recreated in the ritual service of the
Church: Christianity could not have recreated theatre because it lacks the necessary conditions to do so, and theatre contradicts the nature of Christian beliefs
and ritual practices. Under such circumstances, according to Hunningher, rather
than being created, theatre could only have been adopted, albeit temporarily and
unwillingly, after a thousand years of fully documented Church intransigence.
In this controversy between recreation and adoption, the possible continuity
of theatre practices is crucial. Whereas the theory of recreation presupposes that
theatre had become virtually extinct, Hunningher claims continuity of theatre
practices throughout the Middle Ages. If true, his conclusions also constitute a
severe, if not lethal, blow to the alleged universal theatre-genic impulse of religious ritual. Without subscribing to all of Hunninghers theses, I intend to demonstrate that theatre could not have developed from Christian liturgy and that
the Quem Quaeritis reects a fair knowledge of theatre practices, thereby supporting the thesis of continuity and adoption.
The notion of drama being reborn in Christian Europe was of romantic origin (in the following considerations drama is used in a vague sense that relates
to both ctional worlds and theatre medium). Although August Wilhelm von
Schlegel had stated in 1809 that no drama was to be found in all Europe during
the Middle Ages, as early as 1838 Charles Magnin, in his Origines du thtre moderne, was to claim that just as the great theater of fth-century Greece has risen
out of religious festivals, so a complete new theater was established, absolument
de la mme manire, from the festivals of the Christian Church in the tenth and
the eleven centuries (Hunningher: 5). Magnin thus coupled a theory of religious

origin of theatre with a theory of analogy between ancient Greece and Christian
Europe in creating/recreating theatre. In 1849 Edelestand du Meril too, in his
Origines latines du thtre moderne, suggested the Church as the cradle of European theatre (Hunningher: 5). Following Magnin, Lon Gautier, in his Histoire de
la posie liturgique au Moyen Age: Les tropes, published in 1886, attempted to establish the exact origin of European theatre in the tropes, particularly the Easter
tropes of the tenth century. He noted carefully that he was tempted to believe
that they constituted one of the sources of the recreated theatre: Je nose pas
direlOrigine et je serait cependant tent de le croire. Par une srie de transitions . . . les Tropes sont, petit petit, devenus des Mystres; les Mystres sont,
petit petit, devenus des Jeux, et les Jeux enn sont, petit petit, devenus des
Drames en langue vulgaire (Gautier: 8). His small doubt was soon forgotten . . .
and since that time the Quem Quaeritis trope is stated in all our text books and
handbooks to be the source of modern drama (Hunningher: 7). In Le thtre en
France au Moyen Age (1928), Gustave Cohen took a radical theoretical step, formulating his law that toute religion est par elle-mme gnratrice de drame et
que tout culte prend volontiers et spontanment laspect dramatique et thtral
(Cohen: 1). Cohens law was in line with the School of Cambridge, giving unqualied support to the universal application of its theses. In contrast, Hunningher attempts to refute this law on the grounds that Christianity could not have
generated the new European theatre and the alleged analogy between ancient and
Christian drama is, therefore, invalid.
Karl Youngs description of medieval liturgy in The Drama of the Medieval
Church precedes Hunningher in claiming that [t]he Mass . . . has never been a
drama, nor did it ever directly give rise to drama (Young: 85), which he bases
upon his belief that the distinctive feature of drama is impersonation:
A play . . . is, above all else, a story presented in action, in which the speakers
or actors impersonate the characters concerned. Dialogue is not essential, for
monologue is drama when the speaker impersonates the one from whom the
utterance is represented as proceeding. Even spoken language may be dispensed with, for pantomime is a true, though limited, form of drama, provided a story is successfully conveyed, and provided the actors pretend to be
the personages concerned in this story. (Young: 81)
Although impersonation and pretense carry connotations foreign to theatre,
in this case they should be conceived as synonymous with enacting a character.
Young reinforces this sense of synonymy in his elucidation of impersonation:
It consists in physical imitation. In some external and recognizable manner the
actor must pretend to be the person whose words he is speaking, and whose ac{ The Recreation of Theatre by Christianity }

91

tions he is imitating. The performer must do more than merely represent the chosen personage; he must also resemble him, or at least show his intention of doing so (Young: 81). I agree with Young that the Mass has no theatrical character:
the priest does not represent anybody (in the sense of referring to somebody
else) but himself and the community. Furthermore, [t]he impossibility of there
being impersonation in the liturgy of the Eucharist arises from the fact that since
the early Christian centuries this rite has been regarded as a true sacrice. The
central act is designed not to represent or portray or merely commemorate the
Crucixion, but actually to repeat it (Young: 84). In other words, the Mass is a
reenactment of the crucixion.
In contrast, O. B. Hardison is categorical in arguingwith great erudition
that the dramatic instinct of European man did not die out during the earlier
Middle Ages, as historians of drama have asserted. Instead, it found expression
in the central ceremony of Christian worship, the Mass (41). Paradoxically, he
supports Hunninghers thesis of continuity, but on the grounds of the dramatic
nature of the Mass. His notion of drama is quite peculiar: he distinguishes between ritual drama and representational drama (178), thereby implying that
as ritual drama the Mass is not representational. Moreover, for him drama
means the visible: The elevation of the host and its extravagant adoration during the high Middle Ages is a striking instance of the compulsion felt by all participants, including the clergy, to express invisible mysteries in visible dramatic
form (79). In fact, however, the (nonrepresentational) visible refers to its performative aspect, which, although shared with theatre, does not concern its intrinsic form of representation. Moreover, it is concrete symbolism, which for
Hardison is based on the allegorical interpretation of the Mass by Amalarius of
Metz (41 43). Allegory, in the sense of visible symbolism, is not necessarily
theatrical either. By negating representation (in the sense of enacting characters),
he reafrms the self-referential ritual nature of the Mass: In the medieval mind
the idea of commemoration fused with the doctrine of Real Presence: if the bread
and wine are truly changed at the moment of Consecration into the esh and
blood of the Savior, then Christ must be literally present at every Mass (43). The
Mass does not enact the biblical narrative but is its reenactment: The celebrant
is Christ at the moment before the Ascension, blessing His disciples (76). In
other words, the congregation too is transmuted into His disciples. Thus, in order to support his basic claim, Hardison operates an unacceptable notion of
drama: acting and staging procedures are certainly not essential elements of
the theory of drama (31).
William Tydeman claims that [c]learly the priest celebrating Mass is not
play-acting when he repeats certain of Christs reported words at the Last Supper
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{ Theories of Origins }

or utilizes gestures in blessing the bread and pouring the wine, but advocates argue that if participation in a religious ceremony calls for one to display the presumed behaviour or to repeat the imagined actions of another without acknowledging the fact, then one may be said to be engaging in a form of impersonation,
and this activity may be reckoned as dramatic (5). Tydeman, who stresses the
fact that the Mass (or the Quem Quaeritis) was not conceived by the congregation as drama, does not consider the possibility of self-reference.
Hunningher accepts Youngs position, while making a distinction between religions that can create theatre and those that can not. He claims that the term religion is misleading:
Can a connection be made between something that springs from the conjuring rites of a totemistic community and the prayers and hymns to the Savior
uttered by a Christian congregation? Has the frenzy of the fertility dances in
the primitive and ancient world anything in common with the joy of those redeemed from the cycle of life and death and reborn to a Higher life? Have,
then, analogies with primitive cult and Greek religion any value for the thesis
that Christianity gave form to a dramatic art? (Hunningher: 9)
Hunningher accepts the theory of the ritual origin of theatre because of the nature of pagan practices; but he cannot accept that the same conditions obtain in
Christian ritual. In other words, he believes that rituals may generate drama, as
in ancient Greece, but only under similar conditions.
Rather than attempting to refute the transition from tropes to theatre within
the context of the Church service, Hunningher contends instead that this occurred under the inuence of an already existing theatrical tradition. He bases his
claim for the existence of such a tradition in Europe, rst and foremost, on the
consistent rulings of the Church against the mimes; second, on exposure to actual mimes and their inltration into Church services. His main attack on the romantic theory of Christian recreation of drama, however, rests on his certitude
regarding the fundamental incompatibility between Christian faith and drama
(in the sense of theatre). In the following sections I provide a survey of these aspects of the problem.

The Rulings of the Church

Due to a lack of any direct sources, the existence of a living theatrical tradition in
medieval Europe can be inferred only from the rulings of the Church, which constantly and consistently denounced the mimes and rebuked the clergy for join{ The Recreation of Theatre by Christianity }

93

ing in these Satanic activities. The Church, however, did not appear to be reacting to the nature of theatre per se but, rather, to its pagan connotations: It
feared the destruction of the actors and the spectators soul, the pagan temptation of theater which caused the fathers of the Church to regard it as Satans
tool (Hunningher: 63). This attitude was not groundless: Christianity, which
has from its very onset emerged with a prejudice against theatre, based on the ancient biblical injunction against disguise (Deuteronomy 22:5), had found the
Roman world harboring mimes who indiscriminately poked fun at every credo,
even their own (Chambers: 1ff.). Moreover, Christian rites appeared to them
[the mimes] and their public both silly and incomprehensible (Hunningher:
65). Christianity also blamed the mimes for their role, during the war of creeds,
in parodying and holding up to ridicule the most sacred symbols and mysteries
of the Church (Chambers: 10).
There is clear evidence that the mimes not only survived the conversion of Europe to Christianity but also retained their ancient popularity. Tertullian, in his
De Spectaculis, probably written by 200 a.d., roundly condemns theatre, circus,
and amphitheatre, stating that the Christian has explicitly forsworn spectacula,
when he renounced the devil and all his works and vanities at baptism. What are
these but idolatry, and where is idolatry, if not in the spectacula, which not only
minister to lust, but take place at the festivals and in the holy places of Venus and
Bacchus? (Chambers: 11). To St. John Chrysostom, both as priest at Antioch
prior to 397 and as patriarch of Constantinople afterward, the stage is
a present danger as it was to Tertullian two centuries earlier. A sermon
preached on Easter-day, 399, is good evidence of this. . . . it was a week of ludi.
On Good Friday the circus, and on Holy Saturday the theatre, were thronged
and the church was empty. The Easter sermon was an impassioned harangue,
in which the preacher dwelt once more on the inevitable corruption bound
up with things theatrical, and ended with a threat to enforce the sentence of
excommunication, prescribed only a few months before by the council of
Carthage, upon whoever should again venture to defy the Churchs law in like
fashion on Sunday or holy day. (Chambers: 15)
In this dispute the emperors were in an impossible position. After the edict of
Milan (313), and still more after the end of the pagan reaction with the death Julian (363), Christian inuences began to make themselves felt in the civil legislation of the Empire. . . . [The emperors] stood between bishops pleading for decency and humanity and populaces now traditionally entitled to their panem et
spectacula (Chambers: 13). Furthermore,

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{ Theories of Origins }

[i]t was hardly possible for practical legislators to take the extreme step of forbidding Christian laymen to enter the theatre at all. No doubt that would be
the counsel of perfection, but in dealing with a deep-seated popular instinct
something of a compromise was necessary. An absolute prohibition was only
established for the clergy: so far as the laity were concerned, it was limited to
Sundays and ecclesiastical festivals. No Christian, however, might be a scenicus or a scenica, or might marry one; and if a member of the unhallowed profession sought to be baptized, the preliminary of abandoning his calling was
essential. (Chambers: 12)
The injunction of the Council of Laodicea (fourth century) requiring the clergy
who might be present at weddings and similar rejoicings to rise and leave the
room before the actors were introduced, was adopted by council after council
and took its place as part of the ecclesiastical law (Chambers: 24).
Many Church authorities, however, joined the Roman and Byzantine emperors in openly admitting their warm appreciation to the mimes. Although
Church authorities made all possible efforts to keep their congregations and the
theatre apart, even to the extent of threatening excommunication, what effect
could this have when the great in church and state set such an example? (Hunningher: 66). The ban on theatre by the conclave of 692 clearly indicates that it
was a thriving activity in Byzantium and that the condemned not only did fairly
well, but even prospered (66).
This harsh criticism continued throughout the Middle Ages and was particularly promoted by Jerome, Augustine, and their pupil Orasius. Eventually the
theatres were closed: Dr. Krumbacher, the most learned historian of Byzantine literature . . . holds . . . that the theatre must be considered to have perished
during the stress of the Saracen invasions which, in the seventh century, devastated the East. The ending of the theatre in the West was in a very similar fashion (Chambers: 17). Severe criticism from the Church and the conquest of the
remains of the Roman Empire by the Barbarians/Germanic tribes managed
to close the theatres: The bishops and the barbarians had triumphed (Chambers: 22).
Whereas the prerequisite of the thesis of recreation or rebirth is extinction or
death, the opposite thesis stresses manifest or underground continuity. Edmund K. Chambers himself claims that the fall of the theatres by no means implied the complete extinction of the scenici. They simply performed elsewhere:
Driven from their theatres, they had still a vogue, not only at banquets, but at
popular merry makings or wherever in street or country they could gather the

{ The Recreation of Theatre by Christianity }

95

remnants of their old audiences. Adversity and change of masters modied

many of their characteristics. . . . the mimi had always appealed to a common
and gross humanity. But even they must now rub shoulder and contend for
denarii with jugglers and with out-at-elbow gladiators and beast tamers. More
than ever they learnt to turn their hand to anything that might amuse; learnt
to tumble, for instance; learnt to tell the long stories which the Teutons loved.
Nevertheless, in essentials they remained the same; still jesters and buffoons,
still irrepressible, still obscene. In little companies of two or three, they
padded the hoof along the roads, traveling from gathering to gathering, making their own welcome in castle and tavern. . . . They were in fact absorbed
into the vast body of nomad entertainers on whom so much of the gaiety of
the Middle Ages depended. They became ioculatores, jongleurs, minstrels.
(Chambers: 24 25)
Chambers believes that the minstrels inherited the traditions of both the
mimus and the German scop: under Charlemagne, the blending of both types of
entertainer under the common designation of ioculator, seems to be complete,
And . . . the animosity of the Church to the scenici is transferred wholesale to the
ioculators, without much formal attempt to discriminate between the different
grades of the profession (Chambers: 35). Even the animosity of the Church was
inherited: It may be fairly said that until the eleventh century at least the history
of minstrelsy is written in the attacks of ecclesiastical legislators. . . . Throughout the Middle Ages proper the same standpoint was ofcially maintained. The
canon law, as codied by Gratian, treats as applicable to minstrels the pronouncements of father and councils against the scenici (Chambers: 38 39).
The following examples from the ninth century, however, provide plenty of
indirect evidence for the continued popularity of the mimes. In 813 the Synod
of Tours bade the clergy keep away from mimes, and in the same year the Synod
of Chalons and the Council of Mainz issued a similar edict. In 816 the Council of Aix-la-Chapelle forbade the clergy to be present at any performance and in
819 the Council of Paris accused the priests of neglecting their duty for the entertainment of the mimes. In 847 the Council of Mainz repeated the command
as did the Council of Nantes in 890, in which there was further mention of
mimes using larves daemonum, devils masks. . . . In the ninth century the frequency of these complaints is remarkable (Hunningher: 69 70). It was in this
century and the following one that the tropes, which allegedly were to become
the forerunners of European theatre, became popular and began to be dramatized and performed.

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The Mimes
Mimes is the collective term for a set of assorted professionals, whose common
denominator was to perform an act in front of an audience. Relating to them as
a group reects the fact that they used to perform together, bearing a great resemblance to the modern variety show or vaudeville. Although they were all considered to belong to the same profession, other than providing the audience with
a series of consecutive acts, they did not share their arts. The mimes included
tightrope walkers, prestidigitators, jugglers, puppet masters, musicians, dancers,
singers, storytellers, and possibly actors, some of them performing their skills simultaneously (Hunningher: 64 67).
Following Allardyce Nicoll, Hunningher maintains that the history of the
mimes harks back to the Greek Phlyakes, the Latin Atellans, and . . . many other
kinds of folk theater (65):
The Roman stage was ruled by the mime, who presented an extremely varied
art, both in the time of the emperors and before it. In the Greek theater, too,
his domination had been virtually unlimited, for the Golden Age of tragedy
and comedy had not, after all, lasted long. All over the ancient world these
comedians, cittern-players, clowns, dancers and prestidigitators grouped under the name of Mimes had made an increasing claim upon the theater. Their
appearance, which began as an intermezzo, ended as the main event. (Hunningher: 64)
It is the mime-actors who attract our attention here because, following my own
denition of acting, only they had the potential for renewal of the pagan theatrical tradition and its integration into Christian ritual. It is generally accepted
that within this framework acting was marginal and probably not in the best
tradition of theatrical art; and we may even assume that during their heyday the
theatre itself was in a dormant stage. It is also difcult to determine the exact nature of their acts, since there are no extant play-texts; nor is there any orderly account of their acts, particularly in the centuries preceding the Quem Quaeritis.
Distinguishing between the mimes, Thomas de Cabham mentioned that some of
them used masks (Hunningher: 68). It is difcult, however, to infer from this that
these were indeed actors enacting ctional characters. Others insist that the Latin
terms mimus, histrio, and joculator merely refer to entertainers, such as the jongleurs, who sang songs and told stories, jugglers, and exhibitors of trained animals. In other words, although all agree that they were professional performers,
not all believe that they were theatrical actors in the sense of enacting characters.

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Hunninghers argument depends on the continuity of the mimes tradition

and on the inclusion of theatrical acts in their performances. The main problem
resides, therefore, in the lack of an exact denition of terms in the rulings of the
Church, making it almost impossible to determine the existence of actors and
acting in the regular sense. In Hunninghers view the words histrio and mimus
did not describe musicians, but actors, against whom the church hurled their
proclamations, actors who resembled in many ways the opera singers and ballet
dancers of our day. . . . For all of them, physical portrayal was the basis of their
art (72). Nonetheless, he fails to provide support for this view: Nicoll emphatically pointed out that in the Middle Ages, the designations histrio and joculator
were frequently connected with the word scenicus, from which it appears that all
these names were inextricably bound up with the idea of performance (Hunningher: 69). Yet performance is not necessarily acting. Glynne Wickham claims
that in the Latin countries bordering the MediterraneanItaly, France, and
Spainthe word jocus came to absorb into itself, as vernacular languages developed, the meaning formerly associated with ludus in the sense of kind of
playing (3). All these speculations notwithstanding, Hunninghers thesis still depends on the continuity of actors and acting.
From the rulings of the Church we can infer not only the forceful appeal and
popularity of the mimes but also a clear sense of their threatening competition.
Tertullian rebukes his fellow Christians for ocking to mimes: If they need spectacula they can nd in the exercises of their church. Here are nobler poetry,
sweeter voices, maxims more sage, melodies more dulcet, than any comedy can
boast, and withal, here is truth instead of ction (Chambers: 11). Saint John
Chrysostoms aforementioned Easter sermon was delivered at a time when the
congregation was ocking to the circus and the theatre on Good Friday and Holy
Saturday, while the Church stood empty. In the eighth century John of Damascus had attacked the mobs veneration of the mime and compared their lewd performance with the solemn spectacle of the Mass. . . . he clearly expressed the idea
of competition between liturgy and mimic performance, particularly in his rebuke to those who spent all day in the theaters and left no time for church (Hunningher: 75). Despite the recurrence of this motif throughout the Middle Ages, it
is hard to consider it in terms of competition on the same level. It was not a matter of fullling similar functions in the peoples psychical economy but, rather, a
struggle for their spare time.
Hunningher suggests that the clergys realization of the mimes powerful attraction was probably in the back of their minds when they were considering
adoption of theatre procedures. His main claim in this regard is that the clergy
not only had a fairly good acquaintance with the work of the mimes but also that
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by the ninth and tenth century the association between them had reached the extent of mimes performing for and inside churches. As early as 325 a.d., in the
Council of Nicea, St. Athanasius accused Arius of wanting to inltrate the mimes
popular songs into the Church service. Later on in the same century Gregory
Nazianzen also attacked the heretical Arius. Ironically, the attacker, who is considered to have laid the foundation of Christian song with his Virgins Song and
Vesper Song, borrowed them from the mimes and adapted their meter from a
mimic stanza (Hunningher: 65). Even after Athanasius the standard accusation
hurled by the councils at the renovators was that they were trying to smuggle
scandalous theater-songs into the Church (Hunningher: 53).
Hunningher nds conclusive evidence for the inltration of the mimes in
the troparium of the monastery of St. Martial at Limoges. This troparium, now
in the Bibliothque Nationale in Paris, is richly illuminated with miniatures, as
can be found in many of these trope-books:
In it I found miniatures of great importance, for they portray the various
mimes in their performancesacting, dancing, accompanying themselves
on musical instruments. . . . the actors are so vividly and realistically depicted
that we must assume the miniatures to be portraits: the only conclusion we
can draw is that the artist considered the pictures of mimes to belong to the
cantilenae. He must have seen them acting, dancing and singing in the very
tropes he illustrated. Certainly, nothing could better serve as illumination of
the text here than the direct illustration, the portrayal of that performance.
(Hunningher: 73 74)
Hunningher conceives this troparium as reliable evidence of how theatrical procedures were eventually adopted by the Church: If the mimes were called in to
perform the tropes, it immediately becomes clear how the element of impersonation was introduced, for instance, into the Easter trope (74). Although the term
impersonation also bears connotations foreign to our study, as mentioned
above, it is also used by Hunningher in the sense of actingthe quintessential
phenomenon of theatre. By dening theatre in terms of impersonation, his
theory is placedin contrast to the School of Cambridgewithin the context
of the medium of theatre and not of its ctional worlds. As mentioned above,
however, the mimes commanded a wide range of performing arts, and their employment did not necessarily entail acting.
There have been various opinions as to the value of the pictorial evidence.
Ronald W. Vince claims that the interpretation of this evidence is not persuasive:
The gures may actually depict dancing joculatores which traditionally appeared with King David, as in the Psalterium Aureum of St. Gall, rather than
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mimes (1984: 27). Obviously, Hunninghers interpretation of the picture

which could have been the result of an illustrator giving free reign to his imaginationand of its inclusion in the troparium is not the only conclusion that can
be drawn from it. Identication of the images with mimes, moreover, cannot be
established beyond doubt, and the performance of tropes does not necessarily
entail impersonation. Unfortunately, a picture by itself, with no verbal explanation, is poor evidence. Without it, in order to justify identication of referent
and context, a wider knowledge of synchronous culture is required. In itself, a
single pictorial document is not enough to support Hunninghers corollary to his
thesis, that the adoption of theatre by the Church was effected by employment of
professional mimes. There is no reason to disallow the possibility that it was by
the (theatrically unprofessional) clergy themselves, as can be learned from the
stage directions of the Quem Quaeritis. The adoption of the theatrical medium
is most certainly not dependent on the quality of acting.
Hunningher notes a widespread policy of the Church to provide additional
support for his claim: Quite aside from the evidence of these miniatures of
St. Martial, the use of mimes in the divine service is not incomprehensible and
unacceptable; the Church has always, with wisdom and discretion, adopted and
sanctied worldly elements from which the people, the congregation, would not
willingly be parted (75). This principle, although acceptable in itself, does not
contradict the possible adoption of theatrical means by the clergy itself. Dramatization and theatrical performance of a trope such as the Quem Quaeritis requires neither professional actors nor an infrastructure of partnership between
mimes and clergy. Thus, with regard to the thesis that the traveling mimes kept
the old classical tradition alive and reestablished theatre in the medieval era, my
conclusion is that Hunninghers evidence is inconclusive. We should, therefore,
consider rather the Church ritual practices as possible sources of recreation of
theatre.

The Tropes
What was the nature of the tropes, particularly those sung during the night before Easter, which could have germinated the new drama as suggested by Gautier? His own explanation of trope is as follows:
Cest linterpolation dun texte liturgique: interpolation que lon a principalement loccasion de constater, depuis le IXe jusquau XIIe sicle, dans certaines
livres de chants lusage des glises de lAllemagne, de lItalie, de la France.
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Cest lintercalation dun texte nouveau et sans autorit dans un texte authentique et ofciel; dans ce texte mme dont saint Grgoire avait si sagement
trac et x toutes les lignes. (Gautier: 1)
These interpolations are not dramatic in themselves; and although some of them
appeared to have been dramatized, most were not. Furthermore, the fact that
some of them were chanted in antiphonal form, resembling dialogue, does not
necessarily attest to their dramatic nature. Hunningher refutes Gautiers assumption, stating that: dialogue and drama are far from identical (43), preferring instead the approach of Young, who [q]uite properly . . . rejected dialogue
and changes of voice as essential manifestations of drama and recognized only
impersonation. With this as his yardstick, he found that the germ of drama was
present neither in the Mass nor in any other part of the ofcial liturgy (45). He
stresses this point in noting that the priest who celebrates the Mass does not engage in enacting anything, but rather in telling and explaining and, in Hunninghers own terms, in commemorative symbolism (45). I have already suggested that Youngs impersonation should be understood as synonymous with
acting. We may conclude, therefore, that neither Young nor Hunningher detects in the trope any special quality that could have made it the most appropriate candidate for introducing a theatrical practice.
According to Hunningher, the tenth century, when the dramatization of the
Quem Quaeritis trope took place, is a late date for the origin of theater, if it is
assumed that every religion spontaneously generates drama. Christianity, after
all, had been ofcially established for some centuries in Western Europe (45). In
other words, Hunningher does not see in this single dramatized trope evidence
in support of the recreation of theatre by the Church or, by implication, of Cohens law. This observation is also consistent with Hunninghers other claim that
the theatre had continued to exist in any case throughout this time: A religious
explanation is, moreover, entirely superuous, for the mimes continued to play
their farces outside the Church (78).

The Quem Quaeritis

In the tenth century Ethelwold, bishop of Winchester, composed the Regularis
Concordia, a supplement to the rules of St. Benedict in which he set down precise instructions for the performance of the Quem Quaeritis on Easter morning
in Benedictine monasteries. This episode features the visit of the three Marys to
the sepulchre and their dialogue with the angel who announces the miracle of the
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Resurrection (cf. Matthew 28 : 17 and Mark 16 :17). A. M. Nagler has translated

Ethelwolds instructions:
While the third lesson is being chanted, let four brethren vest themselves. Let
one of these, vested in an alb, enter as though to take part in the service, and
let him approach the sepulchre without attracting attention and sit there quietly with a palm in his hand. While the third respond is chanted, let the remaining three follow, and let them all, vested in copes, bearing in their hands
thuribles with incense, and stepping delicately as those who seek something,
approach the sepulchre. These things are done in imitation of the angel sitting
in the monument, and the women with spices coming to anoint the body of
Jesus. When therefore he who sits there beholds the three approach him like
folk lost and seeking something, let him begin in a dulcet voice of medium
pitch to sing Quem Quaeritis [Whom seek ye in the sepulchre, O Christian
women?]. And when he has sung it to the end, let the three reply in unison Ihesum Nazarenum [Jesus of Nazareth, the crucied, O heavenly one]. So he, Non
est hic, surrexit sicut praedixerat. Ite, nuntiate quia surrexit a mortuis [He is not
here; He is risen, as He foretold. Go and announce that He is risen from the
dead]. At the word of his bidding let those three turn to the choir and say Allelulia! resurrexit Dominus! [Hallelujah! the Lord is risen!] This said, let the
one, still sitting there and as if recalling them, say the Anthem Venite et videte
locum [Come and see the place]. And saying this, let him rise, and lift the veil,
and show them the place bare of the cross, but only the cloths laid there in
which the cross was wrapped. And when they have seen this, let them set down
the thuribles which they bore in that same sepulchre, and take the cloth, and
hold it up in the face of the clergy, and as if to demonstrate that the Lord has
risen and is no longer wrapped therein, let them sing the anthem Surrexit
Dominus de sepulchro [The Lord is risen from the sepulchre], and lay the cloth
upon the altar. When the anthem is done, let the prior, sharing in their gladness at the triumph of our King, in that, having vanquished death, He rose
again, begin the hymn Te Deum laudamus [We praise Thee, O God]. And this
begun, all the bells chime together. (Nagler: 39 41)
This text clearly bears the signs of a theatrical scenario. Ethelwold set down all the
relevant details of a possible stage performance: dialogue (e.g., Quem Quaeritis?);
mise en scne (e.g., entrances of actors and images of movement in space); gesture (e.g., show them the place bare of the cross); face expression (e.g., like
folk lost and seeking something); set design (e.g., sepulchre and cross); costume
(e.g., vested in alb and copes); props (e.g., palm and thuribles); music (e.g., anthems); sound (e.g., chiming bells); special effects (e.g., entering without at102

{ Theories of Origins }

tracting attention). Although no instruction regards lighting, the natural morning light of the church is used. In general, the church functions as a found space,
which assumedly lent the performance-text the universal meaning symbolized in
the architecture of the church. Such a meaning was obviously also enhanced by
its being part of the Mass.
The dialogue was probably sung throughout the performance in the manner
of a cantata or opera, which is a genuine theatrical medium. The monks enact the
characters of the biblical scene, particularly the three Marys, and the resurrection
is iconically depicted by the empty cloth that enwrapped the Lord.
The word let indicates how things should be performed, thus being equivalent to stage directions. It appears thirteen times in a text of about thirty lines.
Paradoxically, stage directions are proportionally more frequent than in later
play-texts. In contrast to these instructions, which regard nonverbal aspects of
the performance, in most cases the verbal elements are reduced to the rst words
of hymns, because these were well known.
The fact that the Quem Quaeritis was organically integrated in the Easter Mass
should not be overlooked either. Indications of this integration are found in the
scenario itself: for example, the costumes of the monks, the thuribles, the choir,
and the prior leading the singing of the Te Deum. In Hans-Jrgen Dillers opinion these attest to the intermediate status of the trope between liturgical drama
and theatre (13). Even if this distinction is correct, however, it does not contradict the fact that the medium of theatre was employed. Moreover, this fact can
also be explained differently: it attests to the neutrality of the medium that can
be employed for any purpose, in the context of any mode of action, and to convey any idea. Indeed, there is nothing in this to support recreation within the
Church, since by the same token it can indicate adoption.
Tydeman questions the status of this dramatized trope on the same grounds:
can a combination of a sung text and a series of ritual actions be truly regarded
as forming a play, when it is nowhere alluded to as constituting one and we possess no evidence to suggest that at its inception it was perceived as something separable from the remainder of the liturgy? Perhaps not, yet the dominant belief
among scholars still remains that . . . clerics created the rst piece of medieval religious drama (6).
Michal Kobialka implicitly presupposes that Catholic ritual was the generative
force in the recreation of theatre and goes on to explore the mental conditions of
the monastic community for whom the Quem Quaeritis was performed. This
earliest record of a dramatic representation (11) was not only performed as part
of the Easter Mass; it also transpires that the monks watched it after undergoing
a unique spiritual preparation that made them receptive to its meaning. He ex{ The Recreation of Theatre by Christianity }

103

amines how Benedictine monks were expected to cleanse their souls of sin by
daily introspection: It was the monks duty to know who he was, what was taking place inside of him, and to know the temptations that he was or could be exposed to (13). The aim was to maintain the necessary purity to receive God
(14). This was achieved by daily confession, which implied a verbal description
of the monks own spiritual state of conscience, total subordination to the abbot, and absolute observance of the value of truth, conceived as a visible sacrice (16). For a monk, as the Concordia Regularis asserts, the act of exploring the self, purication of the soul, and compunction of the heart provided the
pardon of the sins, the grace of Christ, and ultimately, access to divine light (13).
As Saint Augustine stated, the one who makes truth has access to light (16).
Kobialka understands access to light in the Regularis Concordia as a kind of
spiritual seeing through, a state in which the eye could perform a non-optical
and non-geometrical function (18)a transmutation of the bodily eye into an
organ of spiritual perspectivein order to access the light of spiritual reality.
The implication of these considerations is that in the Benedictine context theatre
was not theatre in the modern sense but still an organic part of ritual, watched
with an eye immersed in ritual, as a precondition to seeing through it the divine
light; that at this stage ritual and theatre were one and the same; and that no
generation of theatre had yet occurred. Although I believe that Kobialkas ndings are true, I would interpret them differently: the Quem Quaeritis is a clear
case of ritual use of the medium of theatre. It is reasonable to believe, therefore,
that its performance in a Benedictine monastery, as an actual part of the macrospeech/medium act of the Mass, imbued it with its prevailing atmosphere and
reected its main intentions and purposes. Indeed, ritual inclusion entails ritual
participation.
Hardisons attitude is even more extreme. For him ritual drama already existed before the Quem Quaeritis, which only became quite literally, the bridge
whereby mediaeval culture made the transition from ritual to representational
drama (178). As mentioned above, the problem of recreation based on continuity does not exist for him, because ritual is dramatic in any case, echoing thereby
Harrisons dictum that all rites qua rites are mimetic (1927: 35).
All these qualications that contemporary people did or did not see their activities as drama and that it was an integral part of the liturgy are irrelevant. The
point is that the theatre medium was employed in actual performance.
On the grounds of analysis of this scenario, I suggest that it indicates more
than a fair knowledge of theatre and even the existence of a performing theatre
tradition. Ethelwolds elaborate use of all theatrical means denitely indicates a
familiarity with the medium. Even his use of the term imitation (in Latin imi104

{ Theories of Origins }

tatio; Diller: 14)Aristotles key expressionbetrays at least a supercial

knowledge of ancient theatre theory. Everything in the text reects the theatrical
fundamental duality of actor-character. For example, a monk enacts Maria, by
deecting reference to her. There is even cross casting. Therefore, it is quite inconceivable that the performance of such a dramatized trope could have been
created spontaneously within the Church service, without some known tradition
in the background. In the tenth century Christianity denitely knew what theatre was: Bishop Liutprand of Cremona, who twice served as Emperor Ottos
ambassador to Constantinople around 970, complained that Hagia Sophia had
been turned into a theater (Hunningher: 67). A distinction should be made between a testimony of recreation within the Church and the rst known document of theatre in its service. I believe that the Quem Quaeritis is the latter.
Nagler claims that in the Concordia Regularis, the birth of medieval drama
from the spirit of liturgy lies clearly before us, and the rgisseur Ethelwold has
seen to it that no important element of the theater is overlooked (39). Indeed,
this scenario for a possible performance is a genuine and quite sophisticated
piece of theatre, betraying fair knowledge of an existing theatrical tradition.
Therefore, I consider it, on the grounds of continuity, the strongest support of
Hunninghers thesis of adoption.

Jesus and Dionysus

In his attempt to refute once and for all Gustave Cohens thesis that all religions
spontaneously generate drama, Hunningher makes a fundamental distinction
between ecstatic and nonecstatic religions. He believes that the former generated
theatre but the latter did not. Hunningher perceives a seed of acting in ecstasy itself, since the worshipers bring themselves to the wild and frenzied dance born
of this ecstasy, which has an extremely pronounced portraying character (40).
He goes on to claim that ecstasy is a precondition for the change of personality
that allegedly takes place in acting: this very ecstasy aroused by the rites leads
into portrayal, the core and primary characteristic of dramatic art. Through ecstasy, as the word itself indicates, the cultist can step outside himself and start on
the road to presentation of other characters (41). This claim would appear to be
the source of a shamanistic theory of origins, although not every ecstatic activity
is shamanistic.
For Hunningher, since Christianity repudiates ecstasy, it did not create the
conditions for such a change of personality to take place. Ecstasy aims at communion, union with the Invisible, the metaphysical power, the Deity, and this
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sense of communion is not bestowed upon man by any external mercy or grace.
On the contrary, he must concentrate all his force and power to obtain the rapture which will overmaster the deity and secure for him the communion for
which he hungers (Hunningher: 40 41). In contrast, what motivates Christianity is the soul which seeks to approach the Invisible and to receive communion
with the Supernatural through prayer, contemplation and renunciation of the
world (41). Hunningher assumes that all religions aim at communion with the
unseen, but the ways by which they achieve this state of grace are utterly different. It is this difference that allegedly makes ancient rites and the Dionysiac cult
in particular conducive to the creation of theatre, while preventing Christianity
from being so. In his view, this fundamental attitude leaves no room for acting.
In other words, ecstasy, a necessary condition for the theatre to be born or,
rather, reborn, has no standing in Christianity. As suggested above (chapter 4),
the claim that ecstasy underlies acting is groundless. Even for cases of similarity
it can be demonstrated that acting and ecstasy are essentially different phenomena and that it is absurd to derive the former from the latter.
Hunningher contrasts the Dionysiac cult, motivated by the lust for life and
a drive for a satisfaction of all the senses (41), with the symbolic nature of
Christianity:
For primitive and ancient religions and the theater that arose from them, in
the beginning was the deed, . . . and Christianity replaced this with In the
beginning was the Word. . . . The fundamental opposition of these two concepts leads us to believe that it is impossible for the Christian Church in any
century or period to have created drama in the way analogous to primitive
and ancient rites. Cohens law does not hold for Christianity. (Hunningher:
60 61)
Without going into a theological argument, we should note that this dichotomy
between deed and word can be challenged, since words too can be used for doing things, whether conducive to magical communion or asking for divine grace.
Prayer should be viewed as a believers speech act with clear perlocutionary aims
at the divine end.
Despite the essential difference between pagan and Christian religions, as suggested by Hunningher, the fact remains that Christianity hosted theatre for centuries. Religious drama reached outstanding achievements, not only in mystery
and morality plays but also in mainstream drama, such as Pedro Caldern de la
Barcas La vida es sueo. Having myself witnessed the profound religious sentiment aroused by the performance of the Passion in Esparragueras, Catalonia, I

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{ Theories of Origins }

nd it hard to believe in such a fundamental contradiction. Hunningher also

suggests that encounters [of the Church and theatre] are mostly brief, because
of intrinsic opposition; for this reason the ties of the theater with the Christian Church are inevitably of temporary nature (62). This allegedly brief encounter lasted for centuries, however, making the theological explanation inadequate. Hunningher was aware that theatre did indeed ourish in Christian
surroundings; therefore, he considered this difference to have explanatory power
only with regard to the genesis of theatre: When denite dramatic forms have
been established, a church, no matter how opposed it might have been to theater,
may see some desirability in employing that theater and even in participating directly in its further development (Hunningher: 61). I believe that the Church
eventually came to realize that the reason for its own vehement opposition
resided in what theatre stood for, as a remnant of pagan culture, rather than in
any inherent evil or, as Hunningher contends, in its being contrary to the very
nature of the Church. The Church simply discovered that theatre is just a medium and thus able to serve any purposes, including its own.
Hunninghers thesis of a fundamental opposition between Church and theatre is also problematic because, albeit in an indirect manner, it contradicts the
School of Cambridge. Reading Hardisons book poses the question of whether or
not Christs death and resurrection was in the back of Murrays mind when he
postulated a generative link between the Dionysiac aition and tragedy. In fact, the
theory of recreation of drama by the Church preceded the School of Cambridge
since, as mentioned above, Charles Magnin had claimed in 1838 that Christian
theatre evolved from the festivals of the Church exactly as in ancient Greece. In
1886 Gautier had suggested the Quem Quaeritis, featuring resurrection at its climax, as the rst offspring of Christian recreated theatre.
From the viewpoint of medieval Christianity, Hardison conceives the pattern
of crucixion and resurrection as the central event of world history and the Mass
as dramatically commemorating this event (178). Rainer Friedrich argues that
Hardison is perhaps not fully aware of the implications of his theory, since it
transpires that the Christian myth is ultimately derived from a pagan myth . . .
of the dying and reborn god (Friedrich: 199 200). Hardison implies that there
is a parallelism not only between theatre being created and recreated from ritual despite differencesbut also between the aitia of Dionysus and Jesus underlying creation and recreation. Gilbert Murray could have deduced this from
James Frazers long exposition on the myths of Adonis, Tamuz, Attis, Osiris, and
Dionysus (Frazer 1945: 324 39). Frazer, however, who may have continued the
romantic tradition, was not explicit on this matter either. Was the time not ripe

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for such a conclusion? These considerations, which only regard possible ctional
worlds, may refute Hunninghers claim of fundamental contradiction between
the Church and theatre too.

The Advent of Secular Theatre

It is widely accepted that in Christian countries European drama followed a pattern of development from religious to secular, assumedly parallel to that of ancient drama. Hunningher also attempts to refute the commonplace contention
that Christian religious drama begot secular drama. He compares religious and
secular drama from the thirteenth century onward and nds that in the same
period the artistic level of secular drama was much higher, in both poetry and
dramatic technique and, therefore, little reason remains to ascribe a clerical
birth to secular theater (83). He goes on to state that [t]here is no doubt that
the development of the Church theater at the end of the Middle Ages was of great
importance for the development of theater in general, but it lay as little in the nature of Christianity and within the possibilities of its divine service to create
spontaneously a religious drama as to cause the rise of secular theater (83 84).
Hunninghers rejection of the ritual generation of secular theatre should be
seen as an additional effort to deny any possible role of the Christian faith in the
alleged recreation of European drama. One of the main motives for seeking the
roots of European drama in the Middle Ages has been to understand later
achievements such as Shakespeares dramatic works (Chambers: vvi). It is indeed difcult to understand such a development without taking into account the
rediscovery of ancient drama, fundamentally secular in nature. It is noteworthy that the works of Terence were known, although for the wrong reasons,
throughout the medieval period: his plays were used as textbooks for the study
of Latin. Parallel to the development of the Quem Quaeritis, Hrotsvitha of Gandersheim (born in 935 a.d.), was writing plays in Terences style, although applying the dramatic form to stories of saints (cf. Vince 1989: 206 7).
Unfortunately, lack of conclusive evidence also has cast its shadow on the
search for the origins of medieval drama, whether religious or secular, and it is
difcult to predict a scientic method that could overcome this state of affairs.
Despite these difculties, however, Hunningher has made a substantial contribution in elucidating the nature of the relationship between Church and theatre.
He has demonstrated as far as possible with the scanty evidence at hand that it
was more a case of adoption of an otherwise existing medium than its recreation.
The fact that it took more than a thousand years for the Church to accept theatre
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{ Theories of Origins }

may attest to another possible and even opposite function fullled by religion:
rejection (i.e., preventing the employment of theatre). Hardison correctly claims
that [t]he view encouraged by [Chamberss] The Medieval Stage is that drama
originated in spite of Christianity, not because of it (16). Hunningher arrives at
the same conclusion. Could they, in fact, have reached any other conclusion?
* * *
Under conditions of an already existing theatrical tradition, Christianity could
not have recreated theatre. First, there is no way to derive theatre from its liturgical practices. Second, although there is no reliable evidence on continuity of
the mimes theatrical practices, analysis of the Quem Quaeritis clearly indicates
that theatre had not been altogether eradicated and forgotten, thus in fact supporting Hunninghers primary thesis, albeit on different grounds.
Hunninghers main contribution to our inquiry is, therefore, the notion of
adoption, which is the only possible principle underlying the advent of Christian theatre. In fact, after the Quem Quaeritis, the Church and theatre coexisted
peacefully for centuries, thereby effectively contradicting their alleged opposition. A thousand years of consistent rejection, several centuries of cooperation,
and an eventual divorce furnish evidence for rejection/adoption as the most
accurate model to depict their relationship. The adoption thesis does not require
the mimes to have been employed in the Church. Adoption could equally well
have been effected by the clergy themselves, as demonstrated by the Regularis
Concordia. Moreover, I suggest that this model is just as valid for ancient ritual,
even before the advent of tragedy and comedy, and that it also applies to any
other religion. The rejection/adoption model is consistent with the fact that theatre is a medium and, therefore, employable for any possible purpose. For the
same reason, the theory that a religion can be fundamentally incompatible with
theatre is as unacceptable as Cohens law.
Chambers concludes that modern drama arose, by a fairly well dened line
of evolution, from a threefold source, the ecclesiastical liturgy, the farce of the
mimes, [and] the classic revivals of humanism (182). Hunningher eliminates the
rst source, while seeing the other two as indicating not recreation but a culturalhowever fragile continuity.
The major implication of Hunninghers main thesis that Christianity could
not have recreated theatre lies in its refutation of Cohens law. I believe that this
also applies to the alleged generation of theatre by ancient rituals. Theatre is a
medium and can thus serve any possible creed, philosophy, or ideology. It can be
adopted or rejected at will. The changing policy of the medieval Church demonstrates the validity of this model.
{ The Recreation of Theatre by Christianity }

109

Ronald Vince, who, like Hunningher, accepts in principle the ritual theory of
the birth of theatre (1984: 10), contends that [w]hoever claims that more important is the role of the mimes and folk plays in the rebirth of church theatre
recasts the Churchs role as foster-mother rather than mother of the new theatre,
which now nds its true origin in pagan rite (1984: 26). Hunningher makes it
quite clear, to use Vinces metaphor, that the motherhood of theatre cannot be
attributed to the Church. But the question still remains: can it be attributed to
any cult or religion, or is it always a case of stepmotherhood?

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6
The
Mummers
Plays



In their attempts to determine the origins of theatre, both the School of Cambridge and shamanistic theory are seen to focus on its nonessential aspects: the
former on the nature of the ctional world and the latter on what allegedly is the
prototype of acting. In contrast, there is a theatrical tradition whose attraction
for historians of origins, although not entirely justied, can be understood: the
mummers plays of the British Isles.
These plays seem to offer certain advantages over other potential source materials: they present a very uncomplicated line of action andwhat is more importantare performed by theatrical means. If we assume that the theatre medium, as we know it today, must originally have developed from simpler forms
that did not require the complicated mechanisms and sophisticated conventions
of later generations and that its rst appearance was not necessarily in the already
perfected form of classical Greek theatre, these plays would appear to answer our
requirements. An additional advantage is that they are available in verbal descriptions of performances, scripts, and lms.
Whereas it is highly plausible that on the ctional level tragedy did develop
from a nontheatrical genre, it is an established fact that the theatre medium was
already in existence. Thus a producer of dithyrambs could fortuitously have decided to adopt it, being familiar with its contemporary popular forms, in order
to create tragedy. It was assumed, therefore, that the most obvious way to seek
evidence for such humble beginnings is to study these mummers plays, which
assumedly are remnants of a form of popular theatre traditionally preserved for
particular holidays. I intend to show how they have been misused to justify theories of origin.
Although the extant theatrical scripts of mummers plays reveal traces of de-

terioration, these traces have been seen as further evidence of their antiquity. The
main problem, however, resides in the virtual impossibility of tracing their origins beyond a few centuries. A. E. Green claims that [r]ecords of this (or any
other) type of mummers play before 1800 are extremely scanty; during the nineteenth century they multiply a hundredfold (142). He follows Alan Brody in
mentioning additional traces of previous existence, but not earlier than 1685
(Brody: 11).
Ernest T. Kirby and Robert Weimann wished to believe that these mummers
plays represent archaic forms of theatre, stressing their origins in the Middle
Ages. In particular, Kirby offers these plays as additional support for his general
theory of the shamanistic origin of theatre. He also concedes, however, that the
mummers plays by no means constitute a straightforward indication of such
practices but reect rather such cultslike the demon playsthrough parody.
To demonstrate his claim he alludes to several of their features, which he considers to have had clear parallels in shamanistic procedures. Before dealing with the
implications of Kirbys approach, we should rst attempt to understand the nature of these plays.

Basic Traits
In The Medieval Stage Edmund K. Chambers suggests a model of mummers
plays based on 29 versions drawn from chap-books or from oral tradition,
which constituted the source material for his book (11). R. J. E. Tiddys The Mummers Play, published posthumously (1923), records 31 versions; ten years later, in
The English Folk-Play, Chambers published a bibliography of 159 texts. Chambers
suggests a model that closely follows the Lutterworth version (Leicestershire),
which is incorporated as an appendix to his book. This version may be regarded
as the type from which all the other versions diverge. It epitomizes the genre because [i]t shows very clearly and briey the normal structure of the play
(Chambers: 211). The variants were recorded from all parts of the British Isles.
Chambers divides the performance into three parts: the presentation, the
drama, and the qute (211). In the rst part a presenter delivers a prologue, asking for room and a welcome for the actors and introducing the leading characters. The commonest presenter is a personication of the festal season at which
the plays are usually performed, Old Father Christmas (216). The second part
consists of two incidents: a ght scene, in which one of the contenders is slain,
followed by a revival scene with a doctor. In the third part several supernumerary characters enter and there is a gathering of contributions (qute), which takes
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{ Theories of Origins }

various forms: Sometimes the presenter, or the whole body of actors, comes forward, and wishes prosperity to the household. Beelzebub, with his frying pan or
ladle, goes round to gather in the contributions (217).
The leading gure in the ght scene usually is St. George, although some slight
variants of name are found. His chief opponent can be one of two contrasting
gures: variants of Turkish Knight or Slasher. Both sides are anked by minor gures: a bewildering variety of personages, of whom only a rough classication can be attempted (Chambers: 212). The ght takes the form of a duel or
succession of duels in which one of the ghters is overcome and killed. The results of the ght are not always consistent with expectations: St. George does not
always subdue his opponent. On the contrary, the versions in which he slays and
in which he is slain are about equal in number (213). This would appear to imply that the name St. George is not used for its religious connotations. His
legendary contender, the dragon, appears only in the Cornwall version (217) and
in the quite unusual version of Brill, in which a prominent part is taken by
the Dragon, with whom ght, all at once, St. George and a heterogeneous company (213).
Whatever the outcome, the Doctor always restores the dead to life. He is a
comic character, boastful of his skill, and working his cure by exhibiting a bolus, or by drawing out a tooth with a mighty pair of pliers (Chambers: 213). In
some versions the revival scene is duplicated and a comic dialogue between the
Doctor and his assistant introduced. In addition to these three characters, several
more tend to reappear in different versions, particularly the woman, or lad
dressed in womans clothes, the hobby-horse, and the black-faced man. The
woman and the hobby-horse are unmistakable (214).
The style of speech delivery is denitely conditioned by tradition. Richard
Southern maintains that in no version surviving today are the speeches delivered in a normal style of speaking. They are sing-song, or chanted; they are spoken in a deliberate convention (50). Furthermore, the speeches themselves are
often unaccountably obscure (50). It is not at all clear whether the scripts reveal
signs of textual deterioration or deliberate obscurity. Southern explains that in
the theatre, understanding the meaning of the words does not greatly matter
(51). He is correct in claiming that speech in theatre does not function in a descriptive capacity. It is indeed the case that the meaning of spoken words in theatre is secondary or, rather, subordinate to the kind of acts they perform. I cannot agree with Southern, however, that in theatre their meaning is immaterial.
With regard to costume, [t]he true mummer dons [a coat of ] papers. . . . It
consists of a basis of an overall or old coat, covered with sewn-on strips of newspapers or ribbons. The headdress is similarly bedecked, and so profusely that the
{ The Mummers Plays }

113

strips hang down and entirely hide the face and head of the wearer. The whole
man is transformed into a walking, rustling, white anonymity of uttering. Only
his farm boots betray him (Southern: 47). Probably, the main means for distinguishing among the various characters is self-presentation.
The circumstances of performance also indicate an underlying uniformity.
Southern claims that the mummers play is seasonal. The season is generally
around Christmas, more especially on Boxing Day, on Twelfth Night, or on
Plough Monday. The ceremony is thus concerned with the turn of the sun towards the ascendant again, and the inspiring and immense task of resuming
work for a new year after the solstice (47). Southern denitely considers the
mummers plays in the context of ritual. His few remarks betray his theoretical
afliation and presuppose that the ritual theory is not only right but also widely
known and in no need of detailed presentation.

Spring-daimon, Shaman, and Doctor

It would appear that the mummers plays justify scholarly attention as genuine
relics of primeval theatrical forms, rst and foremost because they are works of
theatre and, second, because of their rustic outlook and their textual decay, which
probably reects the workings of oral tradition. The crucial question, however,
relates to what precisely they are relics of, in particular if it is assumed that these
plays are remnants of archaic forms of theatre. Two answers have been suggested.
One, following the School of Cambridge, emphasizes the agon between the two
contenders and views it as representing the struggle between summer and winterthe drive for renewal of life. The other, suggested by Kirby, places emphasis on the revival of the dead in the Doctors scene. Whereas for the former, a
mummers play reects the alleged ritual of the Spring-daimon, for the latter it is
reminiscent of the shamanistic seance. Kirbys attempt to trace back the origins
of Dionysiac cult to shamanism cannot abolish the fundamental difference between these approaches: whereas the account based on the alleged cult of the
Spring-daimon focuses on the aition of the Dionysiac cult, the shamanistic cult
is based on an ecstatic ritual practice.
Already in 1903, under the inuence of James Frazer and preceding the theories of Murray and Cornford, Chambers advances a theoretical explanation
based on the cycle of seasons, represented by the motif of death and resurrection:
They are probably called folk-drama, because they are derived, with a minimum of literary intervention, from the dramatic tendencies latent in folk-fes114

{ Theories of Origins }

tivals of a very primitive type. They are the outcome of the instinct to play,
manipulating for its own purposes the mock sacrice and other debris of extinct ritual. Their central incident symbolizes the renouveau, the annual death
of the year or the fertilization spirit and its annual resurrection in spring.
(Chambers: 218 19)
He even adds that [t]he symbolism of the renouveau is preserved unmistakably
in the [mock] episode of the Doctor (219). In other words, he subordinates the
Doctors episode to the seasonal myth and thus advances the view that the mummers plays combine all the elements of the assumed aition: the combat of the
seasons, the death of the god of fertility, and his resurrection.
Chambers also considers a possible forerunner of the mummers plays in the
form of a St. George play in which a dumb show featuring the ght between the
saint and the dragon probably took place. This is mere speculation, since he
himself is aware that the mummers play nowhere takes place on St. Georges
day and that [t]he Dragon is very rarely a character. Moreover, though
St. Georges traditional exploit is generally mentioned, it is, as that very mention
shows, not the motive of the action. On the other hand the legend, in its medieval form, has no room for the episode of the Doctor (Chambers: 226). We may
add here that there is also no reason to identify St. George with the Springdaimon, because in many variants he is not the character who is slain.
Chambers is also aware of the discrepancy between the aition of the Springdaimon and the tradition of performing the mummers plays in midwinter,
around Christmas. His explanation is that none of the Christmas folk-plays are
proper to mid-winter. They have been attracted by the ecclesiastical feast from
the seasons, which in the old European calendar preceded and followed it, from
the beginning of winter and the beginning of summer or spring. The folk-play
has come with the rest (227). Chamberss reservation could be dispelled by
claiming that the winter solstice is very well suited to the celebration of spring,
since the longing for spring is then at its highest. The fact remains, however, that
Christmas has given the play the characteristic gure of Old Father Christmas.
And the players are known as mummers and guisers, or, in Cornwall, geese
dancers because their performance was regarded as a variety of the mumming
or disguising which . . . became a regular name for the Christmas revel or qute
(Chambers: 227).
In assuming the appropriation of the mummers plays by Christianity and
their location in the new calendar, Chambers thereby excludes any possibility
that these plays reect a Christian origin. He also assumes that they were canonized because of their roots in the folk tradition and conjectures that they proba{ The Mummers Plays }

115

bly reect a pre-Christian ritual. This is in stark contrast to his own assertion that
the prototypes of the existing mummers texts need certainly not be earlier than
the seventeenth century (Chambers: 221), thus implying that St. George is there
by virtue of adaptation and not necessarily by virtue of his aition (the struggle
with the dragon). In considering the St. George motif Southern asks, [I]s this,
then, a Christian rite? and answers: Surelyno. Presumably a more primitive,
pre-Christian hero lies still deeper, hidden by the politic imposition of Saint
George (45).
Kirby, who seeks the pre-Christian origins of the mummers plays, makes the
same unjustied assumption. Following Kirby, Weimann also presupposes such
origins on similar grounds. With regard to St. Georges dragon he suggests: It
may be cautiously conjectured that the dragon formed part of a more primitive
tradition according to which he was viewed as a benecent creature, a dispenser
of water and food, an original expression of the vital powers of life-giving. And if
correspondence with the Northern Widhug, the guardian of a well, can be established, the context of a fertility ritual does not seem too far-fetched (Weimann:
38). In light of the late specimens of the mummers plays, however, there is nothing to corroborate such a conjecture.
Kirby rejects Chamberss seasonal theory because it fails to make a clear distinction between the two contenders. He observes that in the various versions examined by Chambers:
The hero is slain as often as the antagonist is; no seasonal pattern is evidenced in this equivalence of death, as the hero might be slain in the spring
and the antagonist in the autumn. The resurrection of a character, which
is actually his cure by a doctor, is basic to the performance. But if the performance was held in the autumn to portray the death of Summer, this character would not have been resurrected in the same performance, and Winter,
who might be slain, would not be resurrected. In fact the same type of performance may be given at any time of the year. (Kirby 1982: 24)
By refuting the seasonal pattern, Kirby reinforces the centrality of the resurrection scene.
If the ctional world of the play is purported to represent the struggle of the
seasons, the slain and resurrected character requires some identication with the
spring-summer or, rather, the principle of life in order to ensure the support of
the audience in its ght with autumn-winter. In the known versions, however,
there is no distinction between characters on any level (ethical or other), including their possible fates (each can be slain and resurrected); therefore, there is no

116

{ Theories of Origins }

way to anticipate the expectations of the audience or to conjecture possible ritual

or other functions. Consequently, Chamberss theory, unless the texts have been
terribly corrupted, lacks explanatory power.
Although the original reasons for performing the play may have been lost forever, it would be unreasonable to assume that such a tradition fails to fulll any
function whatsoever in the cultural economy of those who maintain it. On such
grounds, it is sensible to accept Kirbys criticism and proceed to examination of
his claim that the cure, not the combat, is the basic element of the performance
(1975: 142). Following Tiddy, he asserts that in the mummers plays the Doctor is
the medicine man of primitive races (Tiddy 1923, quoted by Kirby 1975: 76).
Consequently, he makes a serious attempt to identify the vestiges of a shamanistic seance in the Doctors characterization and action and nds them in a series
of parallel traits:
(a) a doctor, who has traveled extensively to acquire his skills, performs the
resurrection;
(b) a cure, which is effected by extracting an object from the dead;
(c) a presenter, who parallels the shamans talker, repeats and/or
interprets the unintelligible words of his master;
(d) a hobby-horse, which according to Kirby derives from the common
shamanistic belief that the shaman rides a horse on his imaginary trance
journeys to other world. (1982: 52)
Kirby also suggests an additional and perhaps more profound relationship: the
hobby-horse as a symbol (more correctly a metaphor) of the shaman and riding as a symbol (a metaphor) of the relationship god-shaman in the state of
trance: The horse stave and the hobby-horse depict the nature of trance. That
is, they show a relationship of the body-as-horse to the possessing, dissociated
consciousness-as-god as rider (1982: 48 49).
Kirby overlooks that the heart of his own theory is not the cure as such but the
cure performed by a shaman whose body is possessed by a spirit. Following his
own logic, possession could have been the only possible basis for a theory of theatre origins. In contrast, in the mummers plays the Doctor is neither inhabited
by a spirit nor enacts a doctor inhabited by a spirit. He is a mere instance of an
actor enacting a funny doctor. Furthermore, there is a fundamental difference
between a ritual and a description of a ritual. In this sense, Kirby shifts his interest from the performative aspects of shamanism to the possible description of a
parodic version of a ctional shaman. Moreover, there is all the difference between cure and resurrection. The shaman cures but does not resurrect, and

{ The Mummers Plays }

117

the terms or situations can be legitimately interchanged only as metaphors. In

addition, there is a difference between viewing the mummers plays as reecting
the origins of theatre and viewing the source of the mummers plays as the
shamanistic seance and only the latter as the source of theatre.
Kirby also suggests that [i]n the mummers play it is often said that the victim in the combat is not dead after all, but only in a trance (1975: 148). This is
most intriguing; if true, it implies that resurrected and resurrecting characters,
protagonist and antagonists, and the bearer of the shamans spirit (the hobbyhorse) and the spirit (the rider) all are representations of the shaman and that
the entire play is an allegorical representation of the shamans act as a whole. This
verges on the absurd, and any attempt to verify such implications on the grounds
of actual plays is bound to show that they are unfounded.

Prototheatrical Practices
For Kirby the shamanistic seance is already a theatrical or prototheatrical
performance:
Social entertainment is provided by songs, and ritual pipe smoking. The
shamans troupe often includes a talker who is like an interpreter and
master of ceremonies and whose job it is to repeat aloud the words the shaman
mumbles. Sometimes the troupe includes a woman dancer. The basis of the
performance is the trance state of the shaman; its induction by rhythmic
dancing and song, his mimic combat with the spirits, his fall into deep trance,
during which he lies rigid as if dead, and his return from this state with vivid
descriptions of his travels, encounters and adventures during the time his soul
was absent from his body. The climax of the performance is the pretended
extraction from the patient of an object representing the cause of the sickness.
(Kirby 1982: 39 40)
Kirby assumes that the mummers play would appear to have preserved the theatrical features of the shamanistic seance. Here too, however, Kirby is mostly
seeking the preservation of features of the ctional world (e.g., the skill of the
Doctor, the miraculous cure, and the hobby-horse). As suggested in chapter 4 regarding entertainment, neither the use of song, dance, and pipe smoking nor
the state of trance has any inherent relation to the theatre medium. Even shamans descriptions of their travels in other worlds are articulated in natural language, like storytelling. The use of talkers to repeat aloud and interpret the words
mumbled by their masters derives from the need to involve a ritual community
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{ Theories of Origins }

in what happens during the state of trance and not to perform a text for a theatrical audience. The only element that could be seen as belonging to theatre is
the mimic combat with the spirits, were it not for the fact that this is not enacted but assumedly really happens. In contrast, in the mummers play the
Doctor and the dead character, for example, are enacted exactly in the manner
of theatrical acting. Even the extraction of an object, as a metaphoric image of extraction of pathogenic causes, is enacted in the mummers play. Consequently,
the mummers play could not have preserved the alleged theatrical or prototheatrical nature of the shamans act. Moreover, if prototheatrical practices indicate
a stage of disintegration, deriving theatre from a decaying ritual refutes the ritual
theory of origins altogether.
Kirby, it should be remembered, also claims that the transition from ritual to
theatre occurs with the disappearance of the shamanistic rituals effective function, thus implying a transition from ritual participation to spectatorhood
from nontheatre to theatre. This claim contradicts Kirbys previous one. His explanations, therefore, appear to have reached a dead end and to be badly in need
of theoretical revision.

Parody of Shamanistic Ritual

Kirby is aware that even on the ctional level there is a wide gap between the
model of shamanistic seance and the action of the mummers play. In order to
bridge this gap, he suggests that [t]he mummers play . . . developed as a parody
of the shamanistic seance or curing session (1982: 39 40). He detects a parodic
intent in various features of the play: the representation of the shaman by a traveling and bragging Doctor (1975: 144) and the representation of the cure by a bolus, huge pliers, or a giant tooth (1975: 142). He contends that the latter would be
the nearest civilized equivalent to extracting a pain from the patient, as well as
being a parody of this practice (1975: 143). Furthermore, [m]ost of the other
characters in the mummers play can also be derived from parodies of the shaman (1975: 149). On the same grounds, description of the riding a horse metaphor by a hobby-horse metaphor would appear to reect parodic treatment too.
There is no theoretical problem in having a play representing a ritual, in theatrical form, while also reecting a parodic intent. If it is true that the mummers
play makes reference to a shamanistic seanceand because, according to all descriptions, there can be no doubt about its comic natureit would follow that it
is a parody. A magic ritual, as we have seen, is performed by a series of acts which
aim at achieving a predetermined result in this world, with the assistance of the
{ The Mummers Plays }

119

divine sphere. The shamanistic seance is directed at achieving this by means of

ecstatic mastering of the spirits. In addition, a ritual practice may also be seen as
a text, which in terms of medium is a set of indexical acts/speech acts. Such a text
can be parodied by a subsequent text in any medium, whether verbal or nonverbal, including theatre. Moreover, theatre would bear greater resemblance to the
original since it would preserve its behavioral features, due to the iconic nature
of the theatre medium, which imprints images of real people on real people.
Since real behavior may also be an object of parodic treatment, if it is conceived as a text, in order for it to serve in such a capacity the shamanistic seance
need not be theatrical in itself, as Kirby mistakenly assumes. Furthermore, although the parody and the object of parody need not be in the same medium,
any parody of a ritual that uses the theatre medium would be a genuine piece of
theatre. We should not overlook, however, the difference between a ritual and a
description of ritual, parodic or otherwise. Moreover, even if the rst known instances of theatre took the form of parody of rituals, it cannot be said that their
medium originated in ritual, since its very use logically presupposes its existence.
With regard to the mummers plays two additional problems still remain.
First, an essential condition for effective parody is the recognition of the underlying referent text by an audience/readership. We are entitled to doubt, however,
whether those who engaged in performing and/or attending performances of
mummers plays could have identied the alleged object-text before Kirby obligingly revealed it. It can be argued, with good reason, that corruption and oblivion could have played a crucial role in obliterating the traces of the original ritual, but the evidence is lacking. If the parodic text does not reect an object-text
for a target-audience/readership, it cannot work as a parody. A mummers play
provides plenty of farcical scenes that explain its continuous grip on audiences,
without assuming parodic structure.
Second, parody may indicate an alteration in cultural perspective. If the mummers play is indeed a parody of the shamanistic seance, it may reect a change
in attitude to shamanismfrom reverence to ridicule. Kirby distinguishes between protective parody and rejective parody (1975: 149ff.). By the rst he
means the kind of parody that is exercised by the believers themselves with the
intent of protecting their ritual when confronted with an alien culture. Assumedly, such a culture is not necessarily of nonbelievers but possibly of believers of an alternative cult. By the second he means the kind of parody that reects
a negative and alternative viewpoint. He clearly views the mummers plays in
terms of the rst category, which I do not consider to be parody at all but the performance of an empty ritual devoid of any religious meaning. I can conceive,

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{ Theories of Origins }

however, of an alternative form of protective parody, which aims at releasing the

stress that ritual itself creates, as in the purim-shpil (chapter 7). This form of parody presupposes actual practice and intimate knowledge of the ritual in its serious form, enabling the parodic principle to work and assumedly beneting from
being performed concomitantly. A typical contemporary audience of the mummers play does not fulll such a condition. This may have been the case for the
presupposed early audiences but not for the recorded ones, for which such a play
denitely would have lost its parodic intertextual character and survived mainly
because of its intrinsic farcical qualities.
Weimann connects the mummers plays to the fool and its pagan legacy and
attempts to demonstrate the principle of inversion that underlies both. He suggests a number of examples of inversion in these plays. Weimann acknowledges
a change from ritual to comic functions and attributes it to deterioration: The
imaginative truths of myths and the social functions of ritual deteriorated, in the
folk play, into trivial patterns which, being comically misunderstood, assumed a
new and strange kind of signicance (35). Furthermore, [t]he ambivalence and
varying relationship between the fools past ritual function and his non-sensical
contemporary meaning can best be studied in plays where this ambivalence is reected in modern verbal structures (Weimann: 36). There is nothing in the
plays, however, to make them special with regard to regular farce.
Green claims that [t]he element which requires nal reintegration into the
analysis is the plays comedy. . . . The play deals with the grotesque, the rowdy, the
absurd, it offers for our inspection an inverted and perverted version of reality,
and a highly selective one (159). He stresses the communal function of the
mummers play in cementing the self-identity of the group, by confronting the
audience with a set of strangers and unt characters: the need [of the community] to dene insiders and outsiders, and normality and abnormality among the
insiders, was . . . pressing for the Englishman of the late nineteenth century
(Green: 158). Following this line of argument, the comic element of the play indeed fullled a crucial function within its contemporary community.
The mummers play is rst of all a genuine piece of theatrical farce, as attested
by both scripts and descriptions of its performances. Whether it was a parody or
notand, if it was, whether of a Spring-daimon ritual, a shamanistic seance, or
something elseis a matter of pure speculation, since there is no evidence to
support any of these theses. It could equally well be suggested that the mummers
play is merely a popular theatrical farce that uses crude images of struggle, death,
and resurrection to produce the necessary anxiety for cathartic purposes. Anxiety is the raw material of laughter. The Doctor is probably the paradigm of a

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121

comic character because he can equally inspire fear and be an object of irony, as
demonstrated by Molires plays.

Analysis of a Mummers Play

The following example was recorded in Camborne, Cornwall, four miles from
Redruth.

the christmas play

The Page: Here comes I the Page; I am come to ask you
to favour us with a few gallons of room in your house
For Father Christmas with his Pop and Touse,
For, friends, this is the time of the year
For Father Christmas to appear.
Father Christmas: Here comes I old Father Christmas welcome or welcome
not;
I hope old Father Christmas will never be forgot.
We are not come here to laugh and geer
But come to taste your Christmas beer.
If your Christmas beer is all done
We are come to have a bit of fun;
But if for fun you are not inclined,
Before we leave we will taste your wine;
But if our fun you think its right,
I call in the Turkish Knight.
Turkish Knight: Here comes I the bold Turkish Knight.
I came from the Turkish land to ght:
First I fought in England,
And then I fought in Spain,
And now I am come back to England,
To ght St. George again.
If I could meet St. George here,
I would put my spear in through his ear,
I would beat him and bale him
And cut him in slices
And take a small pot and make a pair of garters.
Father Christmas: Bold talk, my child, bold talk, I am sure
And St. George is coming through the door.
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St. George: Here comes I St. George

A man of courage bold:
If thy blood is hot
I will soon make it cold,
As cold as any clay;
I will take thy life away.
Draw thy sword and ght or draw thy purse and pay,
For satisfaction I must before I go away
Turkish Knight: My sword is already drawn, no money will I pay
But satisfaction you can have before you go away.
They begin the ght by crossing swords. After three leg-cuts and
then three head-cuts, St. George strikes a blow at the Turkish
Knight and he falls to the ground. Father Christmas goes to him
concealing some red ochre in his hand which he puts on the Turks
neck.
Father Christmas: Oh, oh, is there a doctor to be found
To cure this deep and deadly wound?
Doctor: Yes, there is a doctor to be found
To cure that deep and deadly wound.
Father Christmas: What can you cure?
Doctor: I can cure the itch, the specks, the spots and the gout
If theres nine devils in, I can kick ten out.
Father Christmas: Wonderful cure, wonderful cure.
The doctor then gives the Turk a kick in the backside with the side of
his foot.
Father Christmas: Is that all you can cure?
Doctor: No, I can cure the hipigo limpigo and no go at all,
The diseases of men big or small.
Father Christmas: Wonderful cure, wonderful cure.
The doctor, taking from his pocket a very large bottle and wooden
ladle, pretends to pour some medicine into the ladle and to put it into
the Turks mouth.
Doctor: Now take a few drops of my helly com pain
And rise to ght St. George again.
The Turk jumps up and has another ght with St. George; but he soon
receives his fatal blow and falls to the oor. Father Christmas goes to
him and, shaking his head, says, My child is dead. Then the Doctor
goes to him and takes hold of his foot to feel his pulse: he shakes his
head and says The Turk is dead.
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123

The Devil: Here comes I old Bealzibub,

On my shoulder I carry my club,
In my hand a frying pan:
Dont you think me a jolly old man?
Father Christmas: How arent you a jolly old man
With a head like a pig
And a body like a sow
And a great long nose like the beam of a plough.
The Devil: I have a re that is long lighted
To put the Turk who was long knighted.
With the help of the others he gets the Turk on his back and goes out
with him, saying,
Here I goes old man Jack
With the Turk upon my back.
The mason comes in with the trowel in his hand and a hod on his
shoulder.
The Mason: Here comes I little Tom Tarter
I am the boy for xing marter.
He takes St. George by the hand and walks him out, saying,
With my trowel and my hod
I will build a house for you and God.
the end
J. Thomas, of Camborne, who wrote out the above for Cecil Sharp, adds this note
of explanation: There was a little difference in the play in almost every district:
but when I played it, Father Christmas was accompanied by two Merrymen
or clowns who were making funny faces whilst Father was talking and singing
old songs at intervals. And it would be they who would help the devil to carry
the Turk out. And the Doctor would be a small boy of about twelve years old; he
would have on a box hat, a frock coat, a pair of gloves too large for him, and a pair
of spectacles on his nose with a hump on his back (Tiddy: 144 47).
This version was chosen not for being the most typical play but because it is
simple, quite consistent in itself, and provides many stage directions, the most
conspicuous of which requires Father Christmas to use ochre to simulate a wound.
The informants note also provides nonverbal aspects of the performance that indicate a clear intent to produce farce.
The narrative is very clear and uncomplicated: the Knight and the Saint have
two ghts and in both the Turkish Knight is killed. After the rst mortal wound,
the Doctor revives the Knight; after the second, the Knight is declared dead and
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taken out by the Devil. The victor is promised a house for himself and God. The
Christian overtones are straightforward: while the Knight is promised the long
lighted re of hell, the Saint is promised the eternal house of the Church. Although both characters boast of their might, Father Christmas only admonishes
the Turkish Knight for his bragging. The identication of the audience with St.
George, with all the connotations attached to the patron saint of England, is ensured by distinct characterization: a national saint who is opposed by a Turk, an
indel and a historical enemy of England.
Apart from these thematic elements, the play is pure farce. This particularly
applies to the comic and negative characters and is most conspicuous in the
Doctors treatment of the casualty. He revives the Knight by kicking him in the
behind and pouring medicine into his mouth with an enormous ladle. He also
conrms his death by feeling the pulse on his foot. Father Christmass description
of the Devil in terms of a pig and sow and his nose, which is likened to the
beam of a plough, are also typical of farce. The informants note adds vital aspects
of comic stage business: the clowns who make funny faces while Father Christmas speaks provide a clue to the acting style of the troupe, and the description of
the Doctors garments suggests the type of costume probably also worn by the
other actors. The props carried by the Devil club and frying panalso conform with the overall comic mood of the performance. We may infer from Father Christmass introduction that the play used to be performed at peoples
homes at Christmas, probably by a group calling from house to house and being
given food and drink in recompense for their acting.
Because no clues to the origin of such plays exist, and all scholarly speculation
is based on wishful intuitions alone, I suggest my own intuitions: the plays may
reect medieval conception and style (e.g., the self-presentation of the characters). It could have been adopted and adapted from a previous pagan culture,
simply by changing the names of the personages to names that were meaningful
to the newly converted audiences. There is, however, no evidence for such an origin. We have no indication of a possible representation of the shamans act either.
The shaman is a healer, but not every healer is a shaman. The fact that there is a
ght, death, and resurrection is not in itself indicative of a subjacent seasonal
myth, since in this play it is the evil character who is slain and resurrected, before his nal death. The interchange of seasons could have been represented by
struggle, death, and resurrection, but not all such patterns are necessarily seasonal. It would be more rational and consistent to explain these elements of the
play as reecting sheer farcical design.
If parody is advocated, as Kirby does, such an explanation is even less reasonable. If it is the shamans act that is parodied, this would not have been preserved
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125

by a Christian culture which did not endow it with the necessary sacredness to
explain parodys possible cathartic or critical effect. Moreover, even if the mummers plays originated in pagan ritual, this version reects total Christian appropriation, particularly in the opposition House of God vs. Hell. In its extant form,
therefore, the only way to explain the preservation of the tradition is by assuming that the play is sheer farce, in which the tension produced by purely ctional
devices is dissolved in laughter.
It could be argued that this particular example is not as typical of the set of
scripts in our possession as some others. Other variants, however, also fail to
support Kirbys thesis. For example, the fact that the vanquished character is not
always the Turkish Knight indicates that the comic mood is more important than
possible identication with the characters. In another variant, the addition of a
comic dialogue between the Doctor and his assistant only furthers the farcical
mood of the play. Moreover, there is no need for a theory of origins to explain
the use of a comic Doctor, two boastful contenders (following the model of Plautuss Miles Gloriosus), and a ludicrous Devil, all of which are quite common in
comedy and farce. In this vein, we could just as well have analyzed a play by
Molire and speculated on its ritual origins.
* * *
I am in agreement with Chambers and Kirby that the inuence of folk-performances on the development of drama and theatre in medieval Europe should not
be underestimated or discarded. There is no evidence to prove that however diffused its inuence might have been, a shamanism absorbed into folk culture lay
at the origins of theatre (Kirby 1975: 153). The attempt to harness the mummers
plays to this effect reects a total misunderstanding of their nature. A similar
conclusion regards the attempt to demonstrate their pre-Christian origin.
Kirby does not dispute the recreation of drama by the Church. He simply adds
a parallel development:
The evolution of the religious drama from an origin in antiphonal choirs of
the Quem Quaeritis trope is well known, but the role of secular dramatic activity in this development is a subject of controversy. Some would understand
that the Latin choral responses with minimal dramatic activity staged within
the church eventually led directly to the vast, outdoor, vernacular cycles encompassing the history of mankind, with the former structuring the latter, in
an essentially hermetic process of development. Others would question this
view. (1975: 152)

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As suggested in chapters 4 and 5, we should question the roles of both shamanism and the Church in the recreation of medieval drama on the grounds of the
possible simultaneous existence of an uninterrupted theatrical tradition. Furthermore, if the mummers plays precede the Quem Quaeritis and constitute a
tradition parallel to that of the mimes, Hunninghers thesis of adoption of theatre by the Church is corroborated.
From a historical viewpoint, as we have already noted, the problem resides in
the impossibility of even speculating on the beginnings of the mummers tradition. Kirby himself is undecided as to whether the mummers plays are survivals
of shamanism from Iron Age Celtic culture or Germanic or Scandinavian tribes.
Although he could have conjectured the same type of shamanistic origin for all
such possibilities, he makes no such a determination. Brodys and Greens temporal delimitation of the mummers plays constitutes a lethal blow to conceiving
these plays to be at the origin of theatre.
The alleged connection between mummers plays and shamanism suffers
from the same deciencies evinced by the School of Cambridge: focus on the
ctional world (i.e., on the characterization of the dramatis personae and their
action). In addition it is plagued by lack of reliable evidence and explanatory
power. This theoretical move also contradicts Kirbys own attempt to derive the
actors performance from the shamanistic act.
Kirbys main claim is that the mummers play is a parody of the shamans
act. Viewing the object-text of a theatrical parody as the source of theatre is decient, mainly because the alleged parodic treatment affects features of the ctional world and, therefore, cannot explain anything about the origins of the theatre medium.
It cannot be denied that the mummers plays are genuine instances of theatre.
Kirby and Weimann, however, overlook that there is a fundamental difference
between parodic ritual and parodic description of a ritual. Mummers plays can
only be parodic descriptions of shamanistic acts. Such descriptions can indeed be
articulated in the medium of theatre. Kirby prefers to look upon the shamanistic
seance itself as theatre, a position that cannot be substantiated due to the seances
claim to reality. Shamanism could have used the theatre medium, just as it uses
natural languages, but this has not been demonstrated either. Even if shamanism
used a theatrical form, this would still not have demonstrated that it generated
theatre. Even if we assume that disintegrating shamanism is a kind of pretense, it
is still not theatre, since acting is not pretense. Consequently, the mummers
plays can tell us no more about the origins of theatre than any other ritual practice can.

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127

Kirby appears to have reversed the scientic process: bearing xedly in mind
that a certain type of play must exist that still preserves traces of shamanism, particularly the cure/resurrection motif, which is its crucial element, he probably
overlooked any other kind of folk-play (cf. Brody: 5 6), focusing on the only
kind that incidentally features such a scene. This is hardly a scientic demonstration; at most it is a happy coincidence.

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7
The Adoption
of Theatre by
Judaism



The existence of a medieval marginal theatrical tradition, reected by a thousand

years of Christianitys consistent and persistent rejection, leaves adoption of theatre by an established religion as the only possible model. The fact that it took a
thousand years for Christianity to adopt and adapt theatre suggests that religion
can also function in precisely the opposite direction: to prevent its use, not only
in the Church but even within the wider context of a secular culture. Consequently, a new model for the relationship between religion and theatre emerges:
rejection or adoption, in whatever order. Such a model emphasizes the mutual
independence of religion and theatre. I believe that this principle is equally applicable to Judaism, which managed to delay the adoption of theatre until about
six hundred years after Christianity had adopted it.
In Judaism the rejection of theatre took place under conditions similar to
those that had made theatre unacceptable to Christianity. Medieval Christianity
and Judaism evolved from the same monotheistic and antipagan religious tradition, sharing a consistent animosity toward theatrical activities, to the extent of
totally prohibiting them. Both derived their common ban on theatre from the
general injunction against wearing garments of the opposite sex (Deuteronomy
22:5)a ban which is still observed in ultraorthodox Jewish communities today.
In addition, as Karl Young notes for the Christian Mass, the Synagogue service
features no impersonation, in the sense of acting, either. Finally, in both cultures we can detect the same historical pattern of rejection, temporary adoption
under conditions of severe clerical surveillance, and eventual secularization. The
inuence of the surrounding Christian culture certainly played a fundamental
role in this parallel development in Judaism.
Such similarities, however, should not overshadow substantial differences,

since each of these religions found a different solution for the unwelcome and
uneasy coexistence with theatre. Whereas at the beginning the Church incorporated it into the sacred service (e.g., the Quem Quaeritis), the Synagogue restricted it to a fringe phenomenon, only tolerated within the boundaries of the
festival of Purim, during which a temporary disregard of certain religious commands is permitted and even encouraged. Within the context of its unique atmosphere, plays in the form of parodies of sacred texts were performed. Such
a license, in line with other types of ofcially authorized indulgence, was not
meant to undermine well-established religious beliefs. It was, rather, following
an accepted and pragmatic approach, intended to reinforce their validity by
means of the sanctioned release of the strain produced by the religious practice itself. This was achieved by establishing a day of culturally controlled folly,
in many ways resembling the Christian carnival. The carnivalesque permissiveness of Purim, reected in the temporary and controlled lifting of given prohibitions, enabled the adoption of theatre by Judaism and explains the creation of the
purim-shpil. This characteristic Purim-play epitomizes the advent of Jewish theatre, a late development that took place despite the traditional antagonism of the
religious establishment.

The Ritual of Purim

Purim is essentially a festive and carnivalesque holiday, and the purim-shpil faithfully reects its peculiar atmosphere. The comic mood and cathartic function of
the purim-shpil, however, cannot be understood without taking into account the
holidays serious religious background. Purim is celebrated a month before
Passover, on the fourteenth of the lunar month of Adar, which roughly corresponds to the solar month of March. It commemorates a series of events ascribed
to the Jewish community of the Persian Empire some 2,500 years ago. These
events are narrated in the Book of Esther (known as the Scroll of Esther) which
constitutes part of the Old Testament, a selection of sacred books that was
codied circa 200 b.c. The Book of Esther recounts the story of the deliverance
of the Jews of Persia from the threat of annihilation planned by the wicked
Haman, vizier to King Ahasuerus, usually identied with Xerxes I, 485 465 b.c.
(Gaster 1950a: 3). The holiday commemorates the reversal of the kings decision,
under the inuence of astute Queen Esther, to exterminate all the Jews of the
realm. Purim, the name of the holiday, is interpreted in the Book of Esther as
lots, from Hamans determining the proposed day of slaughter by casting lots
(Esther 9 : 26).
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{ Theories of Origins }

Rabbinical Judaism accepts the tale as a true manifestation of divine mercy

and solemnly rejoices in the deliverance of the Jews. A study of the tale from a
secular viewpoint reveals, however, that the story, far from recounting a historical fact with religious meaning, is a piece of romantic ction, probably of
Babylonian origin, adopted by and awkwardly adapted to Judaism. The action,
for example, is clearly structured according to poetic justice. A situation with no
possible solution is reversed at the last moment and brought to a happy end by
the sheer power of the queens beauty and wit. This is in full accordance with the
expectations of the Jewish target readership. Furthermore, while the names of the
Persian characters mentioned in the story have no historical record, the names of
the Jewish heroes, Esther and Mordekhai, are not Hebrew names at all, but reminiscent of the names of Babylonian deities Isthar and Marduk. These names
strongly support the view that the original story might have dealt with a struggle
between competing gods within the context of Babylonian mythology (Gaster
1953: 216 21). Such a possible origin is reinforced by several clues: for example,
there is no Hebrew word (except in the Book of Esther) or even Persian word
similar to purim meaning lotsthe closest relative is in Babylonian; and the
name of God is not once mentioned throughout the story, which is unthinkable
in a Jewish book.
Why, therefore, was it translated and included in both the Bible and the cycle
of yearly holidays? A plausible answer is that when the Old Testament was codied the holiday, imported by the Jews when they were released from bondage
and exile in the Persian Empire and permitted to return to the Land of Israel, was
already a well-established fact and badly in need of national conversion. For later
generations the story probably stood for something more important than just the
historical narrative itself. If we take into account the status of the Jews in the
Diaspora since their dispersion by the Romans (70 135 a.d.), particularly their
persecution on religious grounds, we may begin to understand their dreams of
freedom and their rejoicing in the memory of deliverance and grasp how this
naive story became a central myth in Judaism. In the Jewish imagination, Haman
was established as the archetypal enemy of the Jewsand many historical archanti-Semites, such as Ivan the Terrible, Symon Petlyura, and Adolf Hitler, have
been called by his name.
One of the most prominent features of the adaptation is the characterization
of Haman, the plotting vizier, as a descendant of the Amalekites and Mordekhai
and Esther as descendants of King Saul (Bloch: 280). Such ancestry lends a meaningful historical dimension to the conict since King Saul waged erce war
against the Amalekites, enemies of Israel since the time of Moses, and eventually
defeated them. The Book of Esther thus presents the struggle between Persians
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131

and Jews as a particular instance of a perennial cycle of animosity, which continued to be faced by the Jews even in exile. On the Sabbath before Purim the religious service includes the verses from Deuteronomy: Remember what Amalek
did to you on your journey after you left Egypt (25: 1719). Moreover, the myth
of Purim reinforces the central myth of Judaism: the deliverance of the Jews from
slavery in Egypt. The historical reasons for identication with the characters of
the story thus appear to be more important than questions concerning their actual historicity.
Because of its central themereligious persecutionand its crucial role in
Jewish identity, the holiday acquired a heavily loaded symbolic meaning and even
today is still celebrated within the framework of strict religious observance. The
Book of Esther itself establishes the basic features of the holiday: reading the
book, feasting, and giving presents to friends and to the poor (Esther 9:22). In
the third century a.d., Rabbi Joshua Ben Levi legitimized the custom of reading
the Scroll twice, on the eve and the morning of the holiday. Since the fourth century a.d., in reaction to the practice of reading the Scroll in translation, it was
ruled that it should be read only in Hebrew. It is read on the fourteenth of the
month of Adar in most places, and on the fteenth of the month in fortied cities
like Jerusalem. By the end of the fth century it had also become established that,
in addition to the regular evening prayers, the reading of the Scroll should be
preceded by three prayersSheasa Nissim (He who made miracles), Al Mikra
Hamegilla (On reading the Scroll), and Shehekheyanu (He who kept us alive)
and followed by the prayer Harav eth Rivenu (He who struggles our struggles),
all of which share the theme of deliverance from oppression. The meal on Purim
eve took on a ceremonial character; in addition, a day of fasting preceding the
holiday, called the Fast of Esther, was established. Since the end of the Talmudic era (fourth century a.d.) there have been almost no innovations in the religious practices which encapsulate the serious ritual background of Purim.

The Rule of Misrule

An apparently contrasting aspect to the seriousness behind the festival of Purim
resides in its carnivalesque nature. The motto of the day is to the contrary (Esther 9: 1), which reects the reversal of values characteristic of carnival. Not
much is known about its shape in ancient times, but from the Middle Ages onward increasing sources reveal that the holiday gradually took on the distinct
character of a day of misrule, during which several precepts of Judaism were disregarded by special dispensation of the religious authorities. Misrule was thus set
132

{ Theories of Origins }

within a strict context of rule. The roots of Purims special atmosphere can be
found in Roman Saturnalia and early Christian customs, such as the Bishop, Patriarch, or Pope of Fools, who, under ephemeral authority, permitted utmost license, even within the precincts of the church itself (Welsford: 197217).
Curiously enough, unlike other Jewish holidays, the day of Purim is not
viewed as a Sabbath, thereby reecting its permissive character: people are allowed to work and women to busy themselves with household chores, and it is
permitted to light re as well as to travel. Moreover, the rabbinical attitude prevents Purim from falling on a Sabbath, since whenever this happens the holiday
is postponed to the following day. It is also interesting that, unlike most other
holidays, it is compulsory for women to attend the religious service on Purim,
since the hero(ine) of the day is a woman. What really makes Purim a unique holiday, however, is the set of dispensations transforming it into a day of misrule:
1. Purim is mostly associated with drinking wine to the extent of intoxication.
Within the context of a culture that does not permit excessive drinking and in
which wine is mainly used for ceremonial purposes, permission to get drunk is
of major impact. The rabbinical establishment ruled that on Purim all people
should become inebriated to the extent that they should fail to distinguish between cursed Haman and blessed Mordekhai. This rule is still observed today,
particularly by religious communities. Drinking is accompanied by songs about
the peoples duty to drown their sorrows in wine and song and do nothing but
carouse throughout the holiday. Since the Middle Ages most of these drinking
songs have been written in Hebrew. Obviously, following the Bible (Genesis 8:3),
Noe (Noah) is the hero of the day.
2. The wine should be drunk with a good meal, which, against the background
of religious austerity, also required a special permit. Several manuscripts provide a description of the typical dishes of the day, and a long list of them can be
found in the Masekhet Purim (ca. 1320) (Davidson: 22). The Haman-tashen,
poppy seedlled pockets of dough, probably from the German Mohntaschen
and popularly translated into Hebrew as Hamans Ears, are typical of the holiday. Feasting promotes the merry atmosphere of the day, which is also fostered
by permission to play games, such as backgammon, chess, and cards, to dance,
and even to indulge in profane language (Davidson: 48).
3. During the reading of the Scroll at the synagogue, children are permitted to
whirl noisemakers (raashanim) whenever the name of Haman is mentioned. The
origins of the Purim noisemaker can be traced to the fourteenth century, and it
is still in use today. This license should be perceived against the normal background of absolute gravity characteristic of the Jewish service. Jews of Provence
and France used to write Hamans name upon stones, and the children used to
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133

erase his name by rubbing two stones against one another (Shachar: 33). In other
ancient communities it was customary to chalk the name of Haman on the soles
of shoes so that it was literally trodden underfoot until blotted out. The spirit of
the biblical injunction to erase the memory of Amalek was thus metaphorically
fullled.
4. During the holiday, people are encouraged to dress in disguise, although at
all other times this is conceived as transgressing biblical law, which forbids crossdressing (Deuteronomy 22 : 5). There are many indications that male-female exchange of costume was most common on Purim, but masquerading obviously
also included other kinds of disguise. Probably because of its vitality, Rabbi
Moses Mintz (fteenth century) ruled that such a practice could be tolerated on
Purim, taking into consideration the special nature of the day. It is generally accepted that in this the Christian carnival inuenced Judaism, although the possibility of a common origin for both cannot be discarded. Tradition even nds
support for dressing up in the Book of Esther, in which Esther disguises herself
as a gentile. Disguise is also the keynote of the Purim parade, a deeply rooted tradition, which is still observed throughout the Jewish world, including Israel.
5. Since the seventeenth century it has become customary to elect a mock
rabbi for the day, and even today in many a yeshiva (a religious institution of
higher education) a Purim-Rabbi is still elected. The elected student is disguised as and enacts the real rabbi, parodying the rabbis homilies. Before this
custom became established it was usual to elect a Purim King who was in charge
of merrymaking for the day and, in some countries, throughout the month of
Adar (Davidson: 26).
6. Much use is made throughout the day of parody, a genre highly conducive to a merry and lighthearted atmosphere. A long and rich tradition of parody
of sacred scriptures and prayers exists in Judaism. In Spain many parodies on religious texts of all kinds have been written since the twelfth century. There is
probably no single prayer that has not been parodied, including the Kaddish (Requiem) (Davidson: 147). The aim of these parodies was not to ridicule their models but to use them as a formal frame for other themes, such as rejoicing, drinking wine, and playing games. Parodists knew no boundaries: even biblical texts
and legal discussions of the Talmud, which is the major sacred book studied by
Jewish scholars over the last fteen hundred years, were made objects of parody.
Most of these were written in Hebrew. The paradigms of the genre are Kalonimos ben Kalonimoss Masekhet Purim, written in Rome (ca. 1320); the anonymous Book of the Prophet Habakbuk (the real name of the prophet is Habakkuk,
and habakbuk means the bottle); and Megillat Setarim, attributed to Levi ben
Gershon (ca. 1332). Although parody was not restricted to Purim alone, the vast
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{ Theories of Origins }

majority of such texts were written for this occasion, and the connection became
stronger in the course of the centuries. As we shall see, the Book of Esther became
one of the main objects of parody. No parody written before the nineteenth century appears ever to have been aimed at undermining religious values (Davidson:
xviii). On the contrary, by promoting merrymaking and relaxing inhibitions, religious feelings were meant to be reinforced.
7. The most bafing license permitted on Purim is the permission to indulge
in producing and attending theatre, which is otherwise absolutely forbidden
by rabbinical law: One should not go to theatres or circuses because entertainments are arranged there in honour of the idols. . . . Where such entertainments
are given there is the prohibition of being suspected of idolatrous worship, and
where such entertainment is not given, the prohibition is because of being in
the seat [company] of the scornful (The Babylonian Talmud, Avoda Zarah, 18b).
This interdiction too was probably lifted in the spirit of the day and under the inuence of Christian theatre. The rst evidence of theatrical performances during
the holiday is from the seventeenth century, but these attest to a previously wellestablished tradition. Although it is possible to parody biblical narratives in the
verbal form of storytelling, as the form of the original stories, it is a typical innovation of Purim to translate them into the medium of theatre. Thus, a peculiar
form of adoption of theatre came into being: the purim-shpil.

The Purim-shpil
The Yiddish term purim-shpil currently applies to plays performed on the day of
Purim, which was not the case in the beginning. The earliest extant manuscript
for which this term is used dates from 1555 and is not a dramatic text. The manuscript indicates that the term had already come into vogue in Europe, including
Eastern European communities, by the end of the sixteenth century (Shmerok:
103). Extant texts suggest that initially a purim-shpil consisted of a verbal parody,
not necessarily dramatized, read by a single performer at the ceremonial meal.
These include parodies of prayers: for example, a manuscript from the end of the
sixteenth century features a parody of the Slikhot (prayer of forgiveness) which
bears the label purim-shpil. This custom of reading a humorous composition at
the Purim meal rapidly evolved into the performance of short plays and eventually full-length plays, whether in private homes (as various versions of the
Ahashverosh-shpil clearly indicate) or in theatre halls. The Deeds of Esther and
Ahashveros is said to have been staged with music in a regular theatre by the students of the famous Rabbi David Oppenheim (1664 1736) in Prague in 1720
{ The Adoption of Theatre by Judaism }

135

(Gaster 1950a: 72). These theatrical performances gradually spread from Purim
to the entire month of Adar and beyond and eventually became secular.
The at home version, within its ceremonial framework, reveals the circumstances of performance, beginning by introducing the players to the family and
ending with a request for a rewardin particular, to join the meal (Shmerok:
133; see chapter 6 on mummers plays). This custom followed a peculiar line of
development and persisted for centuries, until the extermination of the East European Jews by the Nazis. At the beginning plays were performed by groups of
youngsters; but in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries these were replaced by
the poor, who found a way to prot from the special atmosphere of the day by
calling at the houses of the rich and performing during the meal. In the process
the tendency was to abbreviate the performed text, for obvious reasons, without
affecting the overall ceremonial framework. Chone Shmerok claims that the entire procedure eventually degenerated into the performance of a jingle, retaining
only the opening and closing elements of the frame: Today is Purim, / Tomorrow no more; / Give me a penny, / Ill be gone from your door!
Most scholars share the view that purim-shpils, although written and performed in the Jewish ghettos, were radically inuenced by contemporary Christian theatre. Their ctional and theatrical traits do indeed have counterparts in
the typical theatre of the surrounding culture, particularly in mystery plays and
farces. Although some biblical purim-shpils are reminiscent of the nature of these
genres, however, there is a fundamental difference, epitomized in the triangular
relationship of the permissive atmosphere of Purim, parody, and theatre, reected in the typical theatrical parody of the Book of Esther. The earliest extant
version of an Ahashverosh-shpil (1697) already reveals this triangular relationship. This difference is most conspicuous, however, if we compare typical parodic purim-shpils on the Book of Esther with the serious plays on the same theme
by prominent Christian playwrights, such as Lope de Vegas La hermosa Ester and
Jean Racines Esther. Although a parodic tradition does exist in Christian literature and drama, to the best of my knowledge there is no such tradition with regard to the Book of Esther.
The earliest manuscripts featuring purim-shpils indicate that at the beginning
comic situations rather than biblical themes were dramatized, such as a competition between cantors or a dialogue between vendors of ethrogim (ritual citrus
fruits) (Shmerok: 106). Although biblical themes were only introduced at a later
stage, they eventually became characteristic of the genre, partially justifying the
usual identication of purim-shpil with biblical play. The most popular biblical
themes of purim-shpils were the stories of Esther and Ahasuerus, Joseph and his
brothers, the sacrice of Isaac, and David and Goliath, with their common de136

{ Theories of Origins }

nominator being the deliverance from impending annihilation. Moreover, minor parodies on short sacred texts (such as the marriage ceremony) or on the
styles of sacred books such as the Bible and the Talmud were incorporated into
overall theatrical parodies of biblical myths.
At the beginning, purim-shpils were written only in Hebrew, of which almost
every adult male had a good command. Plays had been written in Hebrew sporadically even before the advent of the theatrical purim-shpil. The earliest extant
Hebrew playComedy of Betrothal, by Leone de Sommi, Ebreo (152792), well
known for his Dialogues on Stage Affairs, unlike other early Hebrew playswas
written specically for Purim. These early attempts, rather than representing an
intracultural drive, reect the vital links that existed between Christian and Jewish cultures (e.g., Leone de Sommi was theatre director for the duke of Mantova). Thus it is the solid tradition of the purim-shpil that should be viewed, and
usually is, as the genuine beginning of Jewish theatre.
The use of Yiddish, the Jewish vernacular of Central and Eastern Europe, soon
became widespread; typical biblical purim-shpils were later written in Yiddish.
The earliest extant copy of such a play, the Ahashverosh-shpil, dates from 1697;
a similar version was performed in Frankfurt on Main at the beginning of the
eighteenth century and rst published there in 1708 (Shmerok: 20). With the
modern revival of Hebrew as a spoken language Purim-plays are now once again
being performed in this language. Notwithstanding the change of language, the
performance of a purim-shpil still remains a typical feature of the Purim holiday,
especially in Hasidic communities in Israel and the United States and Israeli
schools and youth clubs.
The main biblical theme of the purim-shpil to the present day has remained
the story of Queen Esther. The earliest dramatizations of what was considered a
serious story already showed clear signs of parody. From the very rst versions a
specic parodic tradition was established for some characters, such as the characterization of King Ahasuerus as a fool; Mordekhai as a matchmaker; Haman,
who intends to make love to Queen Esther, as a frustrated lover; and Vashti, the
rst wife of Ahasuerus, as a shrew. Even Esther did not escape parody.
Many features of the original story indeed lend themselves to effective comedy and even to farce. The king, for example, is appalled by Queen Vashtis refusal to appear before his guests. His advisors suggest that her attitude might
jeopardize the undisputed authority of husbands over their wives. The king is
persuaded to divorce Vashti and proclaim that throughout the empire husbands
are the rulers of their homes (!). In several Purim-plays Vashti is requested to appear naked in front of the guests, which develops the motif of the kings drunkenness, or rather, foolishness in the original. He is easily persuaded by Haman to
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137

exterminate all the Jews of the empire and no less easily to reverse his decision.
He is also led to choose his new wife in a kind of beauty contest. Since it is by the
clever stratagem of Mordekhai that his cousin Esther is chosen to become queen,
it is no wonder that he is often portrayed as a matchmaker. In addition, it is because of a deliberate misunderstanding that Haman, who is begging for his life at
the queens bedside, is taken to be assaulting her (Esther 7:8). All these incidents
did not escape the eyes of avid parodists or even serious interpreters of the Bible:
Ahasuerus is already described as a fool in rabbinical literature. In the Leipzig
Mahzor, from the fourteenth century, Hamans daughter is shown throwing the
contents of a chamber pot on the head of her father, and this element was also
incorporated in the parodic tradition (Gutman: 21).
There are two episodes in the Book of Esther that provide instances of typical
reversals in comedy. First, the king asks Haman: how should a man of worth be
rewarded? Haman, believing that the king intends to reward him, suggests that
such a man should be dressed in regal attire and paraded through the streets of
Susa, the capital of the empire. Eventually Haman nds himself instead performing all these acts for Mordekhai, whom the king wanted to reward for unveiling and preventing an attempt on his life. Second, Haman is hanged on the
very same tree that he had prepared for Mordekhai, who is eventually promoted
to Hamans rank. Finally, there is the happy end: the redemption of the Jews,
which is in complete harmony with the expectations of the target readership of
the adopted and adapted story.
The purim-shpil on the Book of Esther does not parody the ritual of Purim, in
which its reading is embedded, but its mythical narrative, which is fundamentally conceived as a very serious story. The holiday fosters both attitudes to this
narrative, which is rendered in two basic forms: serious reading of the story at the
synagogue and theatrical performance of its comic dramatization immediately
afterward, with the former preparing the ground for the latter. The aimed parodic experience relies on the sacredness of the source text, for otherwise its cathartic function could not be explained within the context of a culture in which sacredness is a deadly serious matter and rabbinical authority is guarded with
utmost zeal.
* * *
The beginnings of Jewish theatre reected the peculiar carnivalesque atmosphere
of permissiveness, characteristic of Purim, which also included the lifting of
taboos on both parody and theatre. This triangular relationship has constituted
the hallmark of the purim-shpil from its inception until the present day.
Christian and Jewish cultures evolved from the same religious tradition, with
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both sharing a consistent animosity toward theatre and prohibition of it and revealing the same historical pattern of rejection, adoption, and eventual secularization. Each religion has, however, shown different solutions in its unwilling
adoption of this medium. Whereas the Church initially incorporated it into the
sacred service itself (e.g., the Quem Quaeritis), the Synagogue restricted it to a
fringe phenomenon, only tolerated within the connes of a day in which other
prohibitions were also lifted, and even then under strict religious control.
Whereas for Christian theatre there is insufcient evidence to determine
whether theatre was adopted or recreated, Judaism could only have adopted it,
since the process took place within the context of a host culture that had reached
the pinnacle of theatrical art at least a hundred years before.
Gustave Cohens dictum is thus contradicted by the advent of Jewish theatre
too. In other words, religion does not naturally engender theatre. Moreover, the
creation of the purim-shpil indicates that, although religions can equally well promote or inhibit the adoption of theatre within their ritual discourse, they have
nothing to do with its creation. The pattern of rejection/adoption is reinforced
by the history of Jewish theatre. Since we have found no reason to accept that ecstatic religions create theatre spontaneously, as suggested by Hunningher, rejection/adoption would indeed appear to be the universal law with regard to the relationship between ritual and theatre. It is, in fact, impossible to conceive of any
other kind of relationship between ritual, as a mode of action with particular
aims, and theatre, as a kind of medium with no intrinsic aims and only occasionally used for performing ritual acts. This applies equally to natural language.
Jewish theatre was born in the spirit of a holiday during which inhibitions
are relaxed and folly is permitted to rule the day. The readiness of the rabbinical
establishment to accept Christian and even pagan customs is probably explained
by understanding that on such a day even non-Jewish demeanor could have
a benecial effect. Theatre which was produced in this spirit did not defy religious authority but, through releasing strain, was meant to reinforce it. Jewish
theatre appeared within the context of authorized license and folly and continued to fulll this unique religious function until it too became part of the secular culture.

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139

8
Back to
Aristotle



There is no substitute for Aristotles own relative immediacy to those real events
that we can only attempt to imagine today, either as part of a living tradition or
through possible access to ofcial records. A very careful reexamination of his
comments on origins should therefore be carried out and taken into account
along with all other evidence.
In Poetics Aristotle raises two alternative views. The rst view focuses on the
common medium of comedy and tragedy and is sustained by the Dorians, who
claimed to have created the dramatic form: Sophocles is an imitator of the
same kind . . . as Aristophanesfor both imitate persons acting and doing.
Hence some say, the name of drama is given to such poems, as representing action. For the same reason the Dorians claim the invention both of Tragedy and
Comedy. . . . They add also that the Dorian word for doing is dran, and the Athenian, prattein (Poetics 3.2 3; cf. Halliwell 1987: 33). Their claim, which is supported by the etymology of drama, is consistent with the view that theatre consists in iconic replicas of doings, including speech acts, and also concords with
the theory suggested by Jane Harrison, who accepts a shared etymology for
dromenon and drama, as a mode of action and enacted action respectively. Aristotle too appears to accept this etymology, since he neither contradicts it nor
suggests an alternative. On these grounds, since he employs drama in a vague
sense that also applies to theatre as dened in this study, Aristotle could have
suggested a theory of its origins or roots, but he does not follow this line of inquiry. The second view focuses on the differential qualities of tragedy and comedy, as dramatic genres, particularly their structure and mood, in connection
with their alleged progenitors: the dithyramb and the phallic songs respectively.
In this sense, Aristotle relates to the qualities of their ctional worlds and makes

some remarks on the origins of these genres. In the following sections I intend to
examine the genres in question.

On Tragedy
Aristotle (384 322 b.c.) was the rst of all the ancient sources to suggest that
tragedy originated with the leaders of the Dithyramb (Poetics 4.12; cf. Halliwell
1987: 35). Although he probably had access to the oral and/or written tradition,
his work was actually written some two hundred years after the advent of tragedy. Gerald F. Else even refuses to see in his remarks a thesis enjoying more authority than others (1965: 14) and therefore views it as a theory that one should
not be committed to accept (1965: 26). Nonetheless, to this day no scholar has yet
been able to disprove Aristotles claim persuasively. In this century, in particular,
it was A. W. Pickard-Cambridge who in principle and with only slight reservations reconrmed Aristotles authoritative statement on the origins of tragedy
from some kind of choral storytelling (1927: 162 63). Several problems, however,
still remain unsettled.
In Aristotles famous denition of tragedy, the genus proximum is mimesis and
not drama, in the sense of medium. (Butcher translates mimesis by imitation
and Halliwell by representation. In view of Poetics 4.2, on the instinct of imitation in childhood, I rely on Butchers translation, although Aristotle also implies
the notion of representation.) Aristotle perceived tragedy as a specic kind of
imitation of action, which is distinguished from other kinds of imitation primarily by its dramatic structure: its serious, complete, and cathartic ctional world.
Drama, in the sense of actual medium of tragedy, is apparently relegated to a
secondary distinction within imitation: in the form of action [drama], not of
narrative [storytelling] (Poetics 6.2; cf. Halliwell 1987: 37). In other words, tragedy is conceived predominantly from the viewpoint of the qualities of its
ctional world and not of its medium. An additional distinction on the level of
kind of representation is also provided, however: the poet may imitate by narrationin which case he can either take another personality as Homer does, or
speak in his own person, unchanged or he may present all his characters as living and moving before us (Poetics 3.1; cf. Halliwell 1987: 33). The distinction is
thus between imitation in the form of narrative (storytelling) or in the form of
action (drama or, rather, theatre).
This anomalous denition, from a modern viewpoint, is consistent with
Aristotles own approach. He conceived the possibility of a tragic action also in
the form of storytelling and saw Homeric epic poetry as sharing this quality:
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141

Sophocles and Homer are imitators of the same kind, for both imitate higher
types of character (Poetics 3.2; cf. Halliwell 1987: 33). The imitation of a serioussublime action is a property common to both storytelling and drama. This view
is congruent with the continuity and supposedly smooth transition from dithyramb to tragedy, since both share the presentation of heroes and their actions in
a serious and lofty or, rather, tragic style. As suggested by Aristotle himself and
corroborated by modern research, the change thus regards only the level of medium and takes place with the introduction of actors, who represent characters
by enacting them and their doingsby adoption of theatrical form. Tragedy
thus shares the serious-sublime quality with Homer and the theatrical quality
with Aristophanes. Hence the apparent anomaly reects categorization from
two viewpoints: the nature of the ctional world and the nature of the medium.
This confusion would appear to have arisen because Aristotle did not make
clear the distinction between the tragicin the sense of a ctional world characterized by a specic structure and mood, whatever the mediumand tragedyin the sense of description of a ctional world, characterized by the tragic
structure and mood, by means of the particular medium of theatre. Consistently,
he dismisses stage performance as the only means to produce the tragic experience: For the power of Tragedy, we may be sure, is felt even apart from representation and actors. Besides, the production of spectacular effects depends more
on the art of the stage machinist than on that of the poet (Poetics 6.19; cf. Halliwell 1987: 38 39). In principle, if the tragic experience is produced by the nature
of the ctional world, and not by the medium employed, he is right; but he does
not explain the difference between rendering the tragic ctional world by means
of storytelling or theatre.
In fact, most of the Poetics is devoted to the qualities of the tragic ctional
world rather than the qualities of tragedy as a theatrical form. Aristotles main
concern is how the distinct tragic response is evoked by means of the structure of
its ctional world. Like his successors of the Cambridge School, as indicated by
their focus on the pattern of death and resurrection, he too is mainly interested
in the origins of tragedy in the sense of its typical tragic ctional world rather
than in the origin of its medium.
From the viewpoint of the theatre medium, tragedy could have originated in
choral songs, such as the dithyramb, through the enacting of dialogic episodes in
the tragic narrative. This would have had no bearing on the origins of the medium, which could have been borrowed from earlier theatrical forms, as indicated by Aristotle with regard to comedy (Poetics 5.2; cf. Halliwell 1987: 36). The
idea of weaving actors into the fabric of storytelling could indeed rst have arisen

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{ Theories of Origins }

as a brilliant and innovative idea in the mind of a composer or performer of

dithyrambs, Thespis or another who was familiar with existent theatrical forms,
popular or otherwise, and decided to adopt this medium for presentation of a
tragic narrative.
Aristotle also reports on developments that most certainly do concern the medium of theatre: Aeschylus rst introduced a second actor; he diminished the
importance of the Chorus, and assigned the leading part to the dialogue. Sophocles raised the number of actors to three, and added scene-painting (Poetics
4.13; cf. Halliwell 1987: 35). This description reects the gradual adoption of theatrical procedures within the framework of tragedy. The number of actors does
not in itself concern the nature of the ctional world, since it does not reect the
number of enacted characters but only the number of performers.
Although in the Poetics Aristotle mentions neither Thespis nor the introduction of the rst actor, this was the most crucial and revolutionary step not only
for tragedy but for theatre in general. The essential detachment of tragedy from
dithyramb was plausibly accomplished the moment a member of the chorus
stepped forward, enacted a character, and established a dialogue with the chorus:
he stopped singing a story and began to act it (Winnington-Ingram: 259).
This element would have been represented originally by the exarchn . . . , and
perhaps later by the coryphaeus or chorus leader (Else 1965: 54). This automatically redened the medium used to render the narrative and initiated the transition from storytelling to theatre. It is difcult to accept, however, that the coryphaeus became the rst actor, since in later tragedies he is functionally separated
from the actors. With regard to the controversy about the meaning of the name
hupokrites given to the actor, this possible development favors its interpretation
as answerer, which is consistent with a theatrical form evolving from a single
actor and a choral storytelling form.
Horace credits Thespis with the invention of tragedy:
Thespis is given the credit for having invented tragedy as a new genre; he is
said to have taken his plays about to be sung and acted on wagons by players
whose faces were smeared with the lees of wine. After him came Aeschylus,
who devised the mask and the dignied robe of tragedy; it was he who laid
down a stage with planks of moderate size, and who introduced the grand
style into tragedy and increased the actors height with buskins. (Horace:
227ff.)
As we can see, Horace too deals here with crucial elements of the theatre medium, such as building a stage (planks), indicating the enactment of characters

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143

(smearing the faces and masks), and designing a costume to match the dignity of
the characters (robe and buskins).
In principle, Pickard-Cambridge agrees that Thespis is entitled to the status of
having introduced the rst actor, thus marking the creation of tragedy. He considers the Parian Marble generally trustworthy and unhesitatingly accepts that
the rst victory of Thespis took place in Athens, in a public competition, about
534 b.c. (1927: 107). He even conjectures that he may have been performing there
[Athens], before the organization of dramatic competitions as early as 560 b.c.
(120). He credits Thespis with the innovation of introducting an actor distinct
from the chorus, to deliver a previously composed prologue and set speech in
enacting a legendary or historical character (120); he also credits him with certain experiments in facial disguise (120). Suidas [ca. tenth century a.d.] states
that, when acting, Thespis at rst disguised his face with white lead, but afterwards hung purslane over his face, and nally introduced masks of linen (110);
and he concludes that the description of him as the rst tragic poet or the inventor of tragedy is sufciently explained and justied (110). Although Else does
not accept that tragedy was the end-result of a gradual development solely from
a choral performance, he believes that the new genre consisted in a combination
of epic content, drawn from heroic myth, Solonian form (iambic verses), and
choral songs (1965: 63), and was the product of two successive creative acts by
two men of genius. The rst of these men was Thespis, the second was Aeschylus. If Thespis did not exist, that is, if we had no tradition concerning him, it
would be necessary to invent him (1965: 2).
Else also believes that it can be shown that Thespis created a new genre, instead of merely tinkering with the old one, and that the actors part and the choral
part never existed independently but were invented together, with and for each
other (1965: 55). Thespis added a chorus to be a sounding board for the heroic
passion (1965: 65). Else also suggests that tragedy grew out of the rhapsodes
recitations of Homer (1965: 63): The rhapsodes did not merely recite Homer,
they acted him, and from this quasi impersonation of Homeric characters it was
only a step to full impersonation (1965: 69). But, in contrast to epic narrative,
crowded with heroes, tragedy focused from the beginning on the suffering
(pathos) of a single hero (1965: 65). Else harshly criticizes the ritual theory, which
presupposes that the origin of acting resides in ritual. He claims that tragedy is
anti-Dionysiac: the speeches are not of gods and are enacted not as being possessed but in a rational style. There is no plausible reason to believe that tragedy
was ever Dionysiac in any respect except that Pisistratus attached it . . . to his festival of the Greater Dionysia (1965: 30). Elses claim that Thespis learned im-

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{ Theories of Origins }

personation from Solon is groundless, however, since he was not enacting anything, and, in any case, when Thespis was creating tragedy the theatre medium
was probably already in existence. Although Else attributes a different role in the
creation of tragedy to Thespis, he nonetheless acknowledges his importance.
In line with this process of gradual theatricalization, Aristotles valid advice,
following the practice of Greek tragedy, is that [t]he chorus should be regarded
as one of the actors; it should be an integral part of the whole, and share in the
action (Poetics 18.7; cf. Halliwell 1987: 52). This should be understood in the
sense of enacting characters and participating in the action. Although the chorus
can also be seen as a theatrical convention, it is in fact a remnant of choral storytelling, and the transformation of the chorus into a collective character severed
the nal link between dithyramb and tragedy. Despite being the matrix of theatrical representation, the role of the chorus gradually diminished until it nally
disappeared altogether (without denying that it remains an integral means of
theatres inventory of conventions). The advent of tragedy thus reects the intent
to retain the tragic quality of dithyramb, notwithstanding the abrupt change in
medium.

On Dithyramb
In light of the alleged connections between dithyramb and ritual, does accepting
the origin of tragedy in dithyramb commit us to the view that tragedy derives, directly or indirectly, from ritual? Aristotle neither mentions nor implies such a
possible development. Given the fact that dithyramb was a storytelling form,
what are the elements that tragedy inherited from it, apart from features of the
ctional world? Aristotle does not address this question either. To answer these
questions requires an examination of the nature of dithyramb, for which we shall
rely heavily on the ndings of Pickard-Cambridge, probably the most cautious
historian of Greek dithyramb and drama.
Dithyramb continued to exist and change, developing or degenerating, during and after the creation of tragedy. Aristotle counts it among the kinds of imitation: Epic Poetry and Tragedy, Comedy also and Dithyrambic poetry, and the
music of the ute and the lyre in most of their forms, are all in their general conception modes of imitation (Poetics 1.2). Since he undoubtedly had a rsthand
knowledge of this genre, which still enjoyed an independent existence in his days,
his perception of the origins of tragedy is substantially reinforced. Our own interests naturally focus on the nature of dithyramb prior to and synchronously

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145

with the creation of tragedy, at the moment when it occurred to Thespis to introduce an actor. The scarcity of available knowledge on this phase unfortunately
forces extrapolation from later evidence.
Pickard-Cambridge establishes that the origins of dithyramb do indeed lie
in Dionysiac ritual: The dithyramb probably originated in Phrygia, or at least
among Thraco-Phrygian peoples, and came to Greece with the cult of Dionysus.
We hear of it rst as a riotous revel-song at Paros (1927: 47). The earliest mention of dithyramb is found in a fragment of Archilochus of Paros, probably from
the rst half of the seventh century b.c.: Here the dithyramb is distinctly called
the fair strain of Dionysus. Its special connection with Dionysus throughout its
history is sufciently attested (5). In most cases the name dithyrambos is used for
both the song and Dionysus alone of the gods (10). For Pickard-Cambridge,
Pindars allusion . . . to the creation of the literary dithyramb at Corinth shows
that it was still performed as part of the worship of Dionysus (21; cf. Webster
1970: 63 64).
The next stage in the development of dithyramb relates to its transformation
into a pure literary composition. Pickard-Cambridge suggests that this was, so
far as our evidence goes [Herodotus 1.23], the creation of Arion, who lived at
Corinth during the reign of Periander (about 625 585 b.c.) (1927: 19). His poems seem to have been accompanied by the cithara, not, like the early dithyrambs, by the ute (20). Arion is known to have introduced other innovations:
he rst produced a chorus which kept to a denite spot (a circle round an altar)
instead of wandering like revelers at random; and he made their song a regular poem, with a denite subject from which it took its name (20; cf. Webster
1970: 68).
The following important phase is connected with Lasos, born approximately
548 545 b.c. Although little is known of his life and work, two innovations are
denitely associated with his name: the institution of dithyrambic contests in
Athens, and some elaboration of the rhythms and the range of notes employed
in the music of the dithyramb (Pickard-Cambridge 1927: 23). In addition, he
may have inaugurated that predominance of the music over the words against
which . . . Cratinas shortly afterwards protested (24; cf. Webster 1970: 91). Since
Thespis won his rst victory in a public competition in Athens, about 534 b.c.,
and probably invented tragedy some years before, we understand that the innovations of Lasos were either contemporaneous with or immediately after the crucial innovation of Thespis.
Simonides (ca. 556 467 b.c.) was probably the most successful and famous
of all the dithyramb poets. In an extant epigram he claims to have won fty-six
dithyrambic victories (Pickard-Cambridge 1927: 25). Unfortunately, no frag146

{ Theories of Origins }

ment of work by Simonides that is undoubtedly dithyrambic has survived (cf.

Webster 1970: 90 91). There is reason to conjecture, however, that his dithyrambs were not necessarily devoted to a Dionysiac narrative and that the dithyrambs of Simonides like those of Arion, Pindar and Bacchylides, dealt with a
denite and special divine or heroic subject, though it is likely enough that
Dionysus was apparently recognized at some point of the poem (28).
Tradition attributes two books of dithyrambs to Pindar (518 442 b.c.), but
only some striking fragments remain (Pickard-Cambridge 1927: 32). His poems maintain the predilection for heroic narratives: The pindaric dithyramb
was . . . an antistrophic composition dealing with special themes taken from divine and heroic legend, but still maintaining its particular connexion with
Dionysus, who is celebrated, apparently at or near the opening of the song, whatever its subject (38; cf. Webster 1970: 92 93). Pindar was a contemporary of Aeschylus (525/4 456 b.c.).
Bacchylides, who wrote from about 481 to 431 b.c., is the only poet from
whom complete dithyrambs have survived (cf. Webster 1970: 101ff.). The dramatic quality found in some of his extant work makes it noteworthy. Poems 14
19 in the papyrus are explicitly labeled dithyrambs, and basically all are pieces of
storytelling: The piece [no. 14] is narrative throughout and would gain nothing
by being sung by a chorus impersonating some of the characters in the story
(Pickard-Cambridge 1927: 42). About no. 15: Jebb rightly notes its appropriateness to a rapid and striking narrative (43). In contrast, Pickard-Cambridge
notes that no. 17, titled Theseus, is a lyric dialogue in dramatic form, and is
unique in extant Greek literature (44). The following excerpts illustrate these
qualities:
Theseus Dive
1 str. The dark-prowed ship, with bold
Theseus and fourteen more Ionians,
the sheen of youth upon them,
cut through the Cretan sea.
The bright sail caught
the full north wind
that armed Athena sent
and in his heart King Minos felt
an itch of lust, love-crowned
Aphrodites sacred gift.
He did not check his hand
but let it stroke
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147

the girls white cheek

and she cried out, for she was Eriboea,
bronze armed Pandions child.
And Theseus saw it all.
Beneath his brow
his angry eye rolled dark,
a sordid pain tore at his heart
and, Son of Strongest Zeus, he called,
You guide an unclean thought
within your mind.
A hero curbs his violence!
...
So the spear-skilled warrior spoke
and his contemptuous pride
struck all on board with awe.
But then the heart of Helius kin
grew angry, and he spun a dreadful plan
in his response. Almighty
Father Zeus, he prayed, hear me! If
the white-armed girl of Phoenix bore me
as your son, then send a sign:
a darting re-tressed bolt
of lightning from the sky!
(Burnett: 1721)
The existence of direct speech cannot be disputed, but [t]here is no evidence
to show whether it was sung by a soloist and chorus, or whether it was sung by a
chorus or two semi-choruses throughout, the change of speakers (who are not
indicated in the papyrus) being marked only by a pause. Nor is there anything to
tell us whether the performers were masked, unlike those of the regular dithyramb (Pickard-Cambridge 1927: 44). Furthermore, with regard to all the poems
under scrutiny [i]t is noticeable also how large a proportion of the poems is occupied by speeches in the rst person; and though (except in Theseus Dive) these
are woven into a narrative, they give the poems a dramatic quality like that which
Aristotle nds and praises in Homer (45). The conclusion is that dithyramb
could and did contain speech in the rst person which, if suitably presented,
could easily have been enacted, as in typical oral storytelling.
Although Bacchylides was a contemporary of Euripides (484 406 b.c.), it is
not true that we have no idea whatsoever of what dithyramb was in Thespiss
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times. There are quite a number of fragments and names of poems of this genre,
from which one can make a learned conjecture. The possible claim that Bacchylides was inuenced by tragedy cannot be accepted either: there is plenty of evidence for the use of narratives of heroes and gods in a serious and lofty mode in
dithyramb prior to tragedy. Moreover, the element of dialogue was common in
storytelling for centuries, particularly in the Homeric tradition.
Nonetheless, a dearth of evidence also plagues the history of dithyramb,
which proves to be a somewhat puzzling and disappointing affair. No complete
dithyramb, except those of Bacchylides, survives, and those, in their quiet gracefulness, seem to belong almost to another world from the fragments of Pindar,
in which the spirit of Dionysus is at least discernible (Pickard-Cambridge 1927:
80 81). Unfortunately, we have practically no evidence of the spirit in which the
dithyramb, as a form of religious celebration, was regarded during the classical
period (81). Certain conclusions crucial to our query can still be drawn:
1. During the period when tragedy was being created, the circumstances of the
performance of the dithyramb were no longer those of genuine ritual. The original religious nature of dithyramb had vanished rather quickly, and particularly
[i]n the latest stages of its history it seems to be quite secularized (PickardCambridge 1927: 82). From an early stage, the aition of Dionysus ceased to be the
main theme of dithyramb; as far as evidence goes, he was only given recognition
in a few lines, probably as patron of the genre. The connection with ritual thus
appears to have been severed within the tradition of dithyramb itself, before tragedy was born. Else considers that Aristotle chose the dithyramb not for its
Dionysiac spirit but for precisely the opposite reason, because of all the major
forms of hymn to the gods it was the one which did in fact begin, early in the
sixth century, to lose its specic character and become a vehicle for heroic narrative in general (1965: 15).
2. Extant texts indicate that dithyramb consistently featured an episode of a
narrative of a hero and/or a god but, in contrast to William Ridgeways claim,
[t]here is no evidence whatever that dithyrambs were ever performed as part
of the worship of heroes, though they often dealt with their stories, when performed in the festivals of Dionysus and (secondarily) of other gods such as
Apollo (Pickard-Cambridge 1927: 12). Furthermore, [t]here is nothing in this
to disprove their Dionysiac character: the themes of the dithyramb, as of other
literary forms, were doubtless extended in range as the time went on; but it began
in Greece, so far as our evidence goes, as a revel song after wine, not as funereal
or commemorative of the dead (12). Ridgeways theory reintroduces a ritual dimension but is inconsistent with the evidence. The transition from Dionysiac to
heroic narrative thus took place within the tradition of dithyrambalongside its
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secularizationprior to the birth of tragedy: The content of the overwhelming

majority of known tragedies . . . is heroic myth or legend, from Homer and the
epic Cycle. . . . not religious cult (Else 1965: 63).
3. There is practically no evidence of the spirit in which the dithyramb, as a
form of religious celebration, was regarded during the classical period. After the
jolly drinking song of Archilochus passes out of view, we are not told whether the
light-heartedness of the early days was still attached to it, or whether it was solemn, as tragedy was (Pickard-Cambridge 1927: 81). The fragments indicate,
however, that dithyramb was serious and sublime in its mood at the time of the
advent of tragedy, and thus the transition from joyous to tragic mood took place
previously, within the tradition of dithyramb itself.
4. The dramatic elements of Bacchylides Theseus Dive indicate both that dialogue can and does exist within a storytelling form and that a tendency to introduce dialogue was a vital force within dithyramb itself. It was not dialogue,
however, but the enactment of dialogue that marked the transition from
dithyramb to tragedy.
5. Dithyramb was probably performed without masks: [t]he dancers were
crowned with owers and ivy, but there is no suggestion . . . that they wore
masks. . . . It is much more likely that the literary dithyramb was the modication
of a revel in which the revellers did not pretend to be any other than themselveshuman worshipers of Dionysus (Pickard-Cambridge 1927: 50). This is
consistent with and reinforces the tradition that Thespis experimented with various types of masks and makeup while introducing them into his performance of
tragedy (110), particularly with his introduction of acting into a storytelling form.
6. There is evidence that [a]t Athens the dithyramb was danced and sung by
a chorus of fty men or boys. The name kuklios choros, which always means
dithyramb, was probably derived from the dancers being arranged in a circle,
which may have been formed round the altar in the orchestra, instead of a rectangular formation as dramatic choruses were (Pickard-Cambridge 1927: 48
49). As a choral, danced, and sung performance, dithyramb could indeed have
been a source of tragic theatre.
The qualities of dithyramb that were preserved in its transition to tragedy are
thus on the level of ctional world: ctional narrative of heroes and gods, dialogue, serious and lofty style; and on the level of medium: choral presentation,
possible enacted direct speech, dance, and songall these within a loose framework of Dionysiac worship. In other words, substantiating Aristotles remark and
bearing in mind Pickard-Cambridges reservations, dithyramb could have been a
forebear of tragedy: we detect in it crucial features of tragedy, even its inherent
theatrical potential. The break of dithyramb with ritual provided tragedy with
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the intellectual space for examining even religious themes unfettered by the restrictions of religious beliefs. Jane Harrison offers the presence of a priest of Dionysus at the tragedy contests, as indicated by the inscription of the priest of
Dionysus Eleuthereus on the central seat of the theatre of Dionysus in Athens, in
support of the ritual nature of tragedy (1951: 11). In all probability, however, this
did not amount to more than a gesture of reverence, similar to the few lines
devoted to his name in the dithyramb itself. There is no indication of actual
Dionysiac worship, as the tragedies of Euripides clearly attest. In Elses view,
[t]here is no solid evidence for tragedy ever having been Dionysiac in any sense
except that it was originally and regularly presented at the City Dionysia in Athens (1965: 7). Tragedy was born as an art form which engages in examining the
beliefs held by its audiences, not always with a benevolent eye.

From Storytelling to Theatre

Harrison and Cornford assume that tragedy and comedy must have developed
from some form of ritual practice that already featured theatrical (dramatic in
their terms) elements. This assumption, which has been maintained by subsequent theories, implies that there is no chance of tracing the origin of theatrical
forms, since it must of necessity lead to innite regression. My contention is that
tragedy could have originated in choral storytelling, by developing its potential
theatricality, and, probably, in already existing theatrical forms. Since evidence
tends to support dithyramb or, at least, some other kind of a choral song as the
predecessor of tragedy, how can we account for this on a theoretical level?
The answer is simple: since storytelling is a verbal art, it naturally includes the
verbal components of dialogue. If storytelling is printed, the concomitant nonverbal aspects of dialogue are described by means of words; but if storytelling is
performed orally, these aspects can be, and usually are, conveyed by the storytellers themselves, who enact each character in turn, whenever the narrative features dialogue (Alexander and Govrin: 4 7), by means of imprinting images of
the speaking characters on their own bodies. This probably is the ground for
transition from one medium to the other.
It was not only dithyramb and other contemporary choral forms that were
performed as oral storytelling. For centuries before the advent of dithyramb and
tragedy there had been a strong tradition of individual oral storytelling in
Greece. J. Michael Walton stresses this fact and claims that the actor developed
directly from such a storyteller: In both the Iliad and the Odyssey, stories from
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sive, factor in the development of Greek tragedy may have been the manner in
which social entertainment, rather than religious expression, supplied a performance convention. I contend that . . . the actor developed directly from the bard
or rhapsode (46). This genre had enjoyed a long life, from at least Homeric
times: The bards in the Iliad and the Odyssey seem to perform much as the bard
would have done who himself composed the poems for recitation, and as later
rhapsodes who recited passages from the epic poems at the public festivals in
Athens (47).
Walton acknowledges that this genre is not drama proper, but he does emphasize its dramatic qualities (47 48), which are manifested precisely, as mentioned above, by orally enacting direct speech and thereby reecting characterization. Walton offers the following example from Homer:
The famous bard sang to them and they listened in silence. He sang of the sad
return home of the Greeks, contrived by Pallas Athene. Upstairs Penelope,
wise daughter of Icarus, heard the divine song and came down the steep stairs
in company with two attendants. When she reached where the suitors were
she stood by a roof-pillar, her bright veil over her face. An attendant stood at
either side. Then she burst into tears and addressed the bard: Phemius, you
know many soothing songs which bards have composed, songs of the deeds of
gods and men. Sing one of these for your present audience who drink quietly
here. But cease from this sad song which tears the heart of my breast, having
suffered such grief myself. (Odyssey 1.325 42; quoted by Walton: 48)
In this passage, however, although Penelope addresses the bard in direct speech,
she might equally well have been quoted in the typical form of written storytelling, with additional description of her behavior (burst into tears), unless performed orally by Homer himself. We need, therefore, an example of direct
speech by the bard himself, without additional description of nonverbal aspects.
This is also provided by Walton: in book 8 of the Odyssey, the bard who tells the
story of Ares and Aphrodite is certainly enacting a character when he describes
the arrival of Ares at Aphrodites house: She had just come back from visiting
her mighty father Zeus. She was sitting down when Ares entered, took her hand
and addressed her: Come, my dear, let us go to bed together, for Hephaestus is
no longer at home . . . (Odyssey 8.289 94; quoted by Walton: 50).
For Walton this is the ultimate proof of the potential dramatic quality in storytelling: Eric Bentley has described the theatrical situation reduced to its minimum as A impersonates B while C looks on. To accept this denition would be

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to forge the nal link between bard and actor (50). Indeed, if we take impersonation in the sense of acting, by employing direct speech, the bard (A) is enacting Ares (B) in front of the bards audience (C). The bard is undoubtedly engaged in enacting Ares, which is typical of oral storytelling. Indeed, Professor
Bentleys conditions for the theatrical situation appear to be met (51). Walton is
also correct in claiming that the bard is still recognizable to the audience as the
narrator in his own persona. There is no attempt on his part to conceal his own
identity or to take upon himself the nature of the person imitated (51). On these
grounds, it is proper to speak in terms of theatrical elements regarding the
bards performance, since the dominant medium of storytelling prevents us from
speaking of theatre proper. It is a storyteller, and not an actor, who enacts Ares.
Accordingly, Walton asks the right questions: At what precise point does a
recitation become dramatic? How much is a man who simply tells a story also an
actor? How exactly can we dene the performance of the bard, if at all, and is he
really the precursor of the rst actor later? (49). His answer to all these questions
is that the bard could indeed have been a precursor of the actor and thereby of
theatre. Indeed, the moment oral storytellers perform dialogue in character
there is acting, since by doing so they engage in imprinting human images on
their own bodies and deecting reference to characters. In addition, Walton offers evidence from Homer that the bard used to perform with a dancing chorus
and claims that the relationship of actor and chorus in tragedy was a development from that of the bard and chorus in the Odyssey when the chorus danced
the story that the bard was singing (53). The kind of narrative, the style, the
mood, and even [t]he effect he [the bard] has on his audience is also closely akin
to that aimed at in tragedy proper (48). For tragedy proper, however, this theory lacks explanatory power since it cannot account for a nontheatrical feature of
tragedy that only dithyramb or similar choral forms possess: choral storytelling.
Nonetheless, the acted-out sections in the bards performance could have generated theatre in various popular forms. In other words, Waltons thesis may not
serve to explain the creation of tragedy but can be an excellent starting point in
the search for the roots of the theatre medium.

The Chorus: A Matrix of Conventions

The sense of perfection induced by Greek tragedy never fails to elicit a sense of
wonder: how could an art form have come into existence already in a state of
being closer to perfection than any other kind of art in any period of history?

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Reading the extant plays reveals that no aspect of the ctional world and authorial conditioning of its perception has been overlooked. This achievement is all
the more enigmatic when we realize that it took only a few decades for Greek
tragedy to evolve from birth to maturity, from Thespis to Aeschylus. It can, however, be more easily understood, without in the least diminishing our appreciation, if we accept that tragedy evolved from an already well-developed choral
storytelling form, featuring all the complexity of Greek storytelling since the time
of Homer. Recent research on theatre semiosis has shown that the theatrical
medium is restricted in the kinds of information it can convey and therefore requires the permanent assistance of theatrical conventions. Most of these conventions derive from what should be conceived as the ur-convention of drama:
the chorus.
We are all familiar with the multiple functions of the chorus, the most prominent of which are interpretation of action by thematic discourse, interpretation
of action by analogous myths, monitoring audiences emotions and expectations
from both naive and ironic points of view, verbal characterization, announcing
the entrance and exit of characters, rendering of off-place and off-time events
(offstage exposition), and maintaining condential dialogue (the equivalent of
monologue). None of these functions, as I have attempted to demonstrate elsewhere, could be fullled by the theatre medium in its fundamental iconic form;
therefore, all of them, in different periods, had to be and have been fullled by
various conventions which essentially replace the chorus (Rozik 1992a: 104 25).
The general trend is to dramatize the functions of the chorus by creating single
characters that fulll these functions, while the actual forms of contemporary
theatrical conventions are also determined by the aesthetic ideology and/or
prevalent style of the period. In this sense, the chorus can be seen as the matrix
of all theatrical conventions.
The multifunctionality of the chorus is the key to our sense of completeness
evoked by ancient tragedy. It explains how tragedy, as a new genre based on a
combination of a tragic ctional world and the theatre medium, was able to appear already in a mature form, precisely because it had originated from a previously developed narrative form. Dithyrambic poetry, suggested by Aristotle as
the source of tragedy, was a mature form of storytelling that would appear to have
featured all the elements necessary for the description of a ctional world and
conditioning of its reception by an audience. With the emergence of the rst actor, who probably enacted the hero, and the later addition of actors by Aeschylus and Sophocles, we witness the gradual transition from storytelling to theatre.
The appearance of the masked actor logically led to a parallel characterization of

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the chorus and to its use of masks. In this process, all those functions of storytelling that could not be enacted remained part of the choral song. Thus it is not
the choral parts of tragedy that divide the presentation of the action into episodes
but quite the opposite: the episodes stem from and break the continuity of the
choral song. Consequently, we can understand both the functional complexity of
tragedys chorus, since it emerged from a fully developed choral form, and its
eventual withdrawal from the theatre, because it is essentially a nontheatrical device. This functional complexity of the chorus reconrms the validity of Aristotles theory of origin in an unexpected way.
The rst step toward dramatization of remnants of choral storytelling was
made within Greek tragedy itself, by functional characters such as the messenger and condant. Moreover, Aristotles dictum that the chorus should be characterized like any other character (Poetics 18.7; cf. Halliwell 1987: 52) is corroborated by all extant tragedies: choruses are characterized as collective characters,
such as the Fates (The Eumenides), sailors (Philoctetes), or Asian Bacchae (The
Bacchae). The transformation of the chorus into a character had an interesting
side effect on the chorus. It had to relinquish at least partially its essentially ironic
function, in the sense of omniscient storyteller, and also operate as an alazonic
character, depending like any other character on the development of the action to provide it with a better understanding of the events. A character does
not appear to be able to be part of the ctional world and also command a
genuine ironic viewpoint unless characterized by special powers, like Teiresias.
Sophocles chorus, despite its new alazonic status, nonetheless retains its original ironic function. This duality is achieved by its interpreting the action on
both the level of involvement in the events and categorization on the abstract
level of values and beliefs. The purely alazonic function is manifested by Euripides, who in some plays carries the process of dramatization further, by using the
chorus to express accepted truths, which are then refuted from an ironic viewpoint. With the disappearance of the chorus, the last residue of the storytelling
form vanished, and theatre marked its establishment as an utterly independent
medium.
The choral vestiges in tragedy reconrm Aristotles contention that tragedy
was born from a form of choral storytelling. In the development of tragedy, Else
comments, [e]ach is a step in the progressive emergence of the mimetic individual against the comparatively unmimetic background of the Chorus (1957:
160). The paradox is that the traces of its origins reside in the nontheatrical (storytelling) elements of tragedy and not in the ctional ones, as had been assumed
by the School of Cambridge.

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On Comedy
Aristotle conceives comedy, like tragedy, primarily as a kind of ction and only
secondarily as a kind of drama. In the former sense, Homer is also viewed as a
precursor of comedy: As, in the serious style, Homer is pre-eminent among
poets, for he alone combined dramatic form with excellence of imitation, so he
too rst laid down the main lines of Comedy, by dramatizing the ludicrous instead of writing personal satire. His Margites bears the same relation to Comedy
that the Iliad and Odyssey do to tragedy (Poetics 4.9; cf. Halliwell 1987: 35). Aristotle fails to make a clear distinction between the comic in the sense of mood
and comedy in the sense of comic drama.
With regard to comedy, for Aristotle, the problem of sources is more complex:
Comedy has had no history, because it was not at rst treated seriously. It was
late before the Archon granted a comic chorus to a poet; the performers were till
then voluntary. Comedy had already taken a denite shape when comic poets,
distinctively so-called, are heard of. Who introduced the masks, or prologues, or
increased the number of actors,these and similar details remain unknown
(Poetics 5.2; cf. Halliwell 1987: 36). In other words, despite lack of records, comedy had already existed for some time before becoming an established art form.
In contrast, Aristotle implies that tragedy had a known history; accordingly, with
regard to its origins he felt that he was on rmer grounds.
A scarcity of records is probably the reason why Aristotle suggests two possible theses for the origin of comedy. The rst thesis is that
[t]he claim to Comedy is put forward by the Megareans,not only by those
of Greece proper, who allege that it originated under their democracy, but
also by the Megareans of Sicily, for the poet Epicharmus, who is much earlier
than Chionides and Magnes, belonged to that country. . . . they appeal to the
evidence of language. Villages, they say, are by them called komai, by the Athenians demoi: and they assume that Comedians were so named not from komazein, to revel, but because they wandered from village to village (kata komas), being excluded contemptuously from the city. (Poetics 3.3; cf. Halliwell
1987: 33)
By claiming that comedy was created under their democracy, the Megareans
provide a clue to the period of its creation, after 581 b.c. In addition, Aristotle
grants them at least the creation of the plot which came originally from Sicily
(Poetics 5.2; cf. Halliwell 1987: 36). This is of crucial importance since the generic
nature of comedy depends on the kind of response to its ctional world. More-

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over, the Megareans claim is made on the grounds of etymology, which, at least,
is most convincing with regard to the term drama.
The second thesis is that Comedywas at rst mere improvisation and
originated with the leaders of the phallic songs, which are still in use in many of
our cities (Poetics 4.12; cf. Halliwell 1987: 35). These two claims are not necessarily mutually exclusive, since the creation of a genre can be initiated by various
factors or previous forms. Aristotle does not challenge either of them.
Nicoll provides ample evidence in favor of the Dorian-Megarean tradition.
Although he attempts to keep track of the development of the mimesmentioned by Aristotle as an autonomous genre (Poetics 1.7; cf. Halliwell 1987: 32)
from the viewpoint of the origin of comedy, the difference between comedy and
farce is marginal. Nicoll rmly traces the origins of the mimes to Megarean farce,
which adds weight to the Megareans own claim to comedy. Since in the case of
mimes the problem of records is no less acute, Nicoll resorts to two types of evidence: passages in ancient comedies and archaeological discoveries (1931: 25).
With regard to the former, for example, in Aristophanes Wasps Xanthias says:
do not expect anything too grand from us nor laughter stolen from Megara. We
do not give you either a pair of slaves throwing nuts to spectators out of a basket
or Heracles being cheated of his dinner (Wasps, 54ff.; Pickard-Cambridge 1962:
179). Xanthias is denitely alluding here to a previous style well known to the audience, who are expected to share the playwrights own contempt for it. Since his
remark is intended to ridicule Megarean merriment, it adds a parodic dimension
to the structure of his own comedy. To this passage from Wasps a scholiast has
added a line from a play by Eupolis referring to a dull and wanton Megarean
jest. . . . These lines agree with others quoted from Ecphantides, and with still
others which, interpreting Megarean laughter . . . , explain that the Athenians
laughed in mockery and disdain at these untimely and unbecoming jests (Nicoll
1931: 27). Furthermore, in Aristophanes Acharnians a Megarean character mentions the changing of his daughters into pigs, and refers to this as a Megarean
trick (1931: 30 31; cf. Pickard-Cambridge 1962: 138). This type of evidence certainly indicates a consolidated comic-dramatic style prior or parallel to Old
Comedy but is not conclusive with regard to the origins of comedy itself, since
Megarean comedy too could have had its models, whether appreciated by its audiences or not.
The second type of evidence relates to a series of ancient vases that feature images that could possibly refer to early comedy. The garments worn by these depicted gures are particularly odd: tight-tting vest, either plain colour or ornamented with spots, and heavy padding, sometimes both behind and in front,

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sometimes only in the back. Many of them, although not all, are phallephoric,
and one suspects that the majority are supposed to be wearing masks (Nicoll
1931: 21). They also wear tights (1931: 24) and a short vest that reveals the leatherphallus (cf. Pickard-Cambridge 1962: 171). These garments were still to be seen in
much later images of comic actors:
We are faced, then, with the fact that, in spite of the association in Athenian
imagination of Dionysus and the satyrs and sileni, the actors in the Old Comedy, itself an offshoot of Dionysiac merriment, adopted the padded costumes
of the Peloponnesus. That they did so seems to prove denitely the existence
of such costumes in early Dorian theatrical shows, and leads one to believe
that the characters depicted on the Corinthian vases are not imaginative gures, but either pictures of actors in their roles or else inspired by performances of such actors. (1931: 23)
If this is indeed so, in retrospective, the garments depicted on the vases may
be seen as representing an earlier stage in the development of comedy. These
vases, which were found in the Dorian region, are dated to the beginning of the
sixth century b.c.:
That the costume itself was of great antiquity is proved by its appearance on a
black-gured Corinthian amphora now in Athens . . . , which dates from the
beginning of the sixth century b.c. The scene here illustrates the return of
Hephaestus to Olympus in order to free the imprisoned Hera. The persons,
two of which wear the phallus, are costumed in the same manner as those on
the other vase, and again represent Dionysiac demons, possibly suggested at
least by dramatic performances of a burlesque nature. This costume, then, was
already associated with Dionysus among the Dorian peoples at the beginning
of the sixth century b.c. (Nicoll 1931: 22)
The other vase may depict a farce in which Dionysus is robbed by his slaves
(1931: 21). These conclusions are problematic, because [m]any of the scenes
might be nothing but imaginative conceptions of grotesque Dionysiac revelry
or pictures of real-life festivity wholly unconnected with the theatre (1931: 21;
cf. Pickard-Cambridge 1962: 171ff.). The fact is, however, that in retrospect
these gures do wear garments that eventually became the typical costumes of
comedy.
For the purposes of our study it is highly relevant that burlesque or, rather,
grotesque treatment of mythical characters and narratives was unmistakably
adopted by Old Comedy (e.g., the treatment of Dionysus himself in Aristophanes the Frogs). In this case, considering the quality of the ctional with regard to
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the origins of a dramatic genre is justied. Nicoll is more interested in the origins
of the comic mood than in the theatre medium. He provides additional evidence
of Dorian origin:
the British school at Athens has . . . unearthed a number of clay replicas of
masks buried in the sanctuary of Artemis Orthia at Sparta. These masks,
which date from the beginning of the sixth century b.c., among other types,
show an old woman, with heavily lined face and hideous jaws, having one or
two solitary teeth peering between her ugly lips. . . . the main characteristics
of the masks are reproduced in some of the later masks of the New Comedy . . .
here is some slight evidence, at least, to indicate that, as a stage gure, she was
born in the Dorian farce. (1931: 28; cf. Pickard-Cambridge 1962: 163ff.)
The Megarean origin is also supported by the earliest known comic playwright:
Epicharmus was writing long before . . . Chionides, who is known to have
made his rst appearance as a comic poet at Athens in 487 b.c. As Epicharmus
was writing plays at the court of Gelo in Syracuse from 485 to 478 b.c., it is likely
that he started his dramatic career in Dorian Megara Hyblaea a number of years
previous to his Syracusan premiere (Nicoll 1931: 20).
Neither Nicoll nor any other scholar maintains that the Megarean farce featured a chorus. This is consistent with Aristotles claim that comedy was granted
choruses at a later stage, possibly in 486 b.c. (Pickard-Cambridge 1962: 134). It is
also consistent with the impression that the chorus is not a natural element of
comedy. It rather appears more likely to have been a later attempt to provide it
with artistic respectability.
After reviewing all the types of evidence and several examples of later mimes,
Nicoll concludes:
Without, of course, being able to establish any absolutely denite facts, we
may be permitted to believe that during the period immediately prior to the
appearance of Attic comedy there developed in different centres inhabited by
the Dorian peoples a type of mimic farce, rude in form, popular in its appeal,
and ever eager for boisterous merriment. In this farce mythological and legendary burlesque must have formed a staple ingredient, and Herakles in particular must have been a favorite character. In addition to the person of Herakles, we may picture as stock types an old man with a pointed beard, an old,
hag-like woman, a fool, a doctor, and at least two slaves, who on occasion may
have acted as thieves. These must have been the outstanding persons in the
Megarean drama . . . which is the parent of the mime and may be one of the
parents of Aristophanic comedy. (1931: 29 30)
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Since archaeological evidence possibly reveals the existence of theatrical elements

from the beginning of the sixth century, Megarean farce may indeed have been
the source of Attic comedy. This is consistent with Aristotles remark on the
humble beginnings of comedy. Archaeological chronology is also congruent with
Aristotles indication of the period of Megarean democracy for the creation of
Megarean comedy (or mime), which for Nicoll means after 581 b.c., when it
drove out its tyrant, Theagenes (1931: 20). Since Thespis is thought to have created tragedy by the mid-sixth century b.c. (he won his rst competition in
534 b.c.), it is sensible to conjecture that Thespis may have borrowed the idea of
theatrical enactment from preexisting theatrical forms, although the origins of
popular comedy itself will probably remain unknown. If the archaeological evidence is correct, Megarean farce may also have preceded Thespis in the use of
masks.
The evidence of the Megarean farce may predate the origin of drama, but it
still leaves us little the wiser in terms of roots. Assuming that theatre could have
been created spontaneously in various ways, what really matters is that, however
it was created, Greek culture was clearly prepared to adopt it as a method of expression and even to lend it cultural prominence.
* * *
Aristotle, who was the rst to comment on the origins of Attic tragedy, does not
connect it to ritual. All the evidence indicates that its ctional structures probably developed from a choral form of storytelling, such as dithyramb. Despite the
possible origin of dithyramb in ritual, it does not follow that tragedy originated
in ritual, even indirectly, since dithyramb had severed its umbilical cord to ritual
long before the creation of tragedy. Even if there was a transition from ritual revels to art, the transition to the narratives of heroes and the tragic mood was effected prior to the advent of tragedy itself.
The transition from dithyramb to tragedy reects the intent to retain the
tragic mood in the treatment of narratives of gods and heroes, while performing
a radical and abrupt change from medium (storytelling) to medium (theatre).
Thespiss initial small step triggered the deep internal and gradual evolution of a
new form, from introducing one actor to all the implications of a complete theatrical form, including the attempt to abolish nontheatrical forms, such as the
chorus itself.
Dithyramb already contained direct speech reecting characterization; therefore, the transition to tragic theatre was embryonic within it. In principle, if a
theatrical genre had to emerge from a previous nontheatrical form, choral storytelling could have been the most likely. In fact, in contrast to the view of the
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School of Cambridge, the traces of tragedys origin in choral storytelling reside

in its nontheatrical elements. Walton sensibly suggests a possible development
from individual oral storytelling as well. It is much more sensible, however, to
assume, according to evidence, that Thespis could have borrowed the theatre medium for his new genre, including the use of makeup or mask, from previous theatrical forms. The creation of the theatre medium most assuredly did not coincide with the birth of tragedy or comedy, and this most probably holds true for
Megarean farce as well.
Aristotles marginal comments, despite his own inclination to deal with the
tragic structure of ctional worlds rather than with the medium, nonetheless remain the most reliable source for the origins of dramatic genres.

{ Back to Aristotle }

161

part II

Hedges and
Boundaries



9
Performance
Theory



Richard Schechner suggests a new paradigm in Performance Theory, based on

the notion of performance, which fundamentally overthrows the hegemony of
the ritual theory of origins. In some measure, however, his reections belong
in the province of the School of Cambridge, as well as constituting a logical consequence of its methodology and theoretical failure in seeking the origins of theatre in ritual practices. Despite criticism, Schechner acknowledges his afliation
with the School of Cambridge:
Unfortunately little is known directly about the rites of the Dionysian Festival, or about the poets, Aeschylus predecessors, who gradually made the
tragic form out of ritual. The scholars who devote their lives to such matters
do not agree upon the evidence to be accepted, nor upon the interpretation of
the evidence. But some of their theories are extremely suggestive, especially
those of the Cambridge School. . . . It is this school which has had the deepest
inuence upon modern poetry and upon the whole climate of ideas in which
we now read Greek tragedy. (Schechner: 1)
However, Schechner is not really interested in defending the Cambridge anthropologists. Fundamentally, under the inuence of a more recent trend in anthropology (the works of Victor Turner in particular), he rejects their theories. His
most crucial move seems to be congruent with our attempt to abandon the quest
for origins and look instead for roots:
I am not going to replace the Cambridge origin theory with my own. Origin
theories are irrelevant to understanding theater. Nor do I want to exclude rit-

ual from my study of the performative genres. Ritual is one of the activities
related to theater. The others are play, games, sports, dances and music. . . .
Together these seven comprise the public performance activities of humans.
. . . These activities are primeval, there is no reason to hunt for origins or
derivations. There are only variations in form, the intermixing among genres, and these show no long-term evolution from primitive to sophisticated or modern. (Schechner: 6)
Schechner employs ritual in a wide sense, which includes secular ritual in
sociocultural contexts and assumes a substantial afnity between ritual and theatre. He suggests the notion of performance for a category comprising seven
expressive activities, including ritual and theatre. Within this context, although
Schechner assumes that theatre could not have originated in ritual, he suggests a
more intimate relationship, conceiving them as two sides of the same coin. His
search, however, fails to consider the possible contribution of theories of signication, communication, and action. Schechners ideas reveal, in fact, a sense of
crisis among those who would otherwise subscribe to a theory of ritual origins.
His approach reects an attempt at radical theoretical solutions, which justies
reconsideration and criticism in the context of a theory of roots.

The Notion of Performance

Several denitions of performance or its main aspects are scattered throughout the book. First, we note that it is presented as an all-embracing notion, referring to the most diversied sequences of human behavior, such as ritual, theatre, social intercourse, sports, play, games, dance, and music (Schechner: 6, 252)
and including some kinds of animal behavior (xiii).
The crucial element in Schechners denition of performance is the performer-audience relationship: a performance is an activity done by an individual or group in the presence of and for another individual or group (30). Consequently, a performance is a social phenomenon, whose basic structure is a
sequence of gathering, performing, and dispersing (168). This denition is both
too narrow and too broad. First, it may exclude certain phenomena, such as
some forms of play, which he himself believes should have been included:
I recognize that some activities legitimately called play, games, sports, and ritual would be excluded from my denition. . . . I thought it best to center my
denition of performance on certain acknowledged qualities of live theater,

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the most stable being the audience performer interaction. Even where audiences do not exist as suchsome happenings, rituals, and playthe function of audience persists. (Schechner: 30)
Indeed, even rituals always have some kind of audience, composed at least of the
noninitiated, such as women and children. The exclusion of childrens imaginative play creates a real theoretical problem, however, sinceas we shall see belowthere is a fundamental afnity between it and theatre (chapter 14).
Schechners denition is also too broad to be effectively workable. The variety
of subclasses included under performance demands an examination of what
kind of social behavior is not performance or, rather, what is contrasted to it.
Schechner opposes performance to productive work:
The separation of performance activities from productive work is a most interesting, and unifying, factor of play, games, sport, theater, and ritual. What
Huizinga and Roger Caillois say about play applies to all performative genres.
Summing up the formal characteristics of play, we might call it a free activity standing quite consciously outside ordinary life as being nonserious but
at the same time absorbing the player intensely and utterly. (Huizinga: 13) A
characteristic of play, in fact, is that it creates no wealth or goods. (Caillois
1961: 21) (Schechner: 9)
The distinction between performance and productive work roughly coincides
with the usual expressive-instrumental dichotomy. By means of this notion of
performance Schechner is in fact attempting a unied theoretical account of all
nonproductive forms of social behavior. We should bear in mind, however, that
even productive work is occasionally performed in front of audiences and may
evince the same sequence of gathering, performing, and dispersing (e.g., people
watching a lifeguard rescuing a swimmer from drowning). In this sense, Schechner is consistent in claiming that the boundary between the performance and
everyday life is shifting and arbitrary (71). We should also note that this dichotomy does not exhaust all types of behavior (e.g., war is neither productive
nor expressive).
Schechners use of performance should be distinguished from two established senses widely employed in the study of art and theatre: (1) execution of
a work of art, which otherwise exists only potentially in the form of script or
score; and (2) doing something by means of verbal or nonverbal acts (the former by using verbs labeled performatives, in the context of action or speech
act theories). Schechners use of the term performance differs from both of

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these. Since all these meanings are relevant to our eld of scrutiny, they should
be kept as distinct categories of thought (i.e., as homonyms), despite the use of
the same term.
In his practical work with the Performance Group, Schechner aims at emphasizing the performers-to-spectator interaction (as opposed to character-tospectator interaction) (82). He attempts to do so throughout the entire sequence: before, during, and after the play. He stresses elements of interaction
between actors and spectators by such means as interrupting the acting, crossing
the stage-auditorium boundaries, and repeating scenes, as well as by programming aspects of gathering and dispersal. Emphasis is placed upon the spectators
seeing the performance in preparation, the actors getting into costume, the musicians tuning up and the technical equipment being checked. In the production of Mother Courage by the Performance Group, for example, a full meal was
served during intermission in an attempt at encouraging spectators to use the
space differently: I try to establish non-story-telling time as an integral part of
the whole performance scheme, while clearly separating this time from the
drama (Schechner: 173). It is this emphasis on performance aspects that allegedly narrows the gap between theatre and ritual: Ritual studies are turning
from looking at the nished product toward examining the whole performance
sequence: training, workshop, rehearsal, warm-up, performance, cool-down,
and aftermath. . . . Ritual process is performance (280 81).
The aim is to create tension between the performance constituent and theatrical sequences in order to stimulate a particular kind of attitude. What Schechner suggests for the kinetic activity of the audience could apply to tension of
this kind in general: it encouraged a detachment, a critical attitude. . . . The
theater event people saw remained the same regardless of what perspective spectators adopted, but how that event was received changed (83). This implies,
however, that the theatre and the social sequence are essentially different components otherwise creating tension between them would have been impossibleand that theatre is simply an activity that is embedded in performance, in
nontheatre.
There is no theoretical problem in seeing the embedding of a theatre performance in the sense of producing a theatrical text within a performance in the
sense of a more comprehensive social sequence and in recognizing the possible
function of tension between them. There is even no problem in seeing acting itself as part of the real sequence of performance. The problem resides in using the
same term, performance, with different meanings within the same semantic
domain.

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The Notion of Actuality

A crucial quality of performance in Schechners sense is its being an actual.
He does not provide any explicit denition of this notion but gives a quite detailed description of it:
An actual has ve basic qualities and each is found both in our own actuals
and those of tribal people: 1) process, something happens here and now;
2) consequential, irremediable, and irrevocable acts, exchanges or situations;
3) contest, something is at stake for the performers and often for the spectators; 4) initiation, a change in status for participants; 5) space is used concretely and organically (Schechner: 51).
Evidently, some of these qualities are needed in order to integrate ritual into
the notion of performance. For the sake of a theory of theatre, we could say
that as an actual a performance is a real event or sequence of events that happens
in the world, here and now. Indeed, actors performing their iconic texts comply
with this condition. The term actual thus conveys its usual meaning. In the
terms of this book, an actual is an indexical, namely, a self-referential event. In
this sense, a theatrical performance is an act of producing an actual description,
which unfolds in the real world of actors and spectators, of a nonactual ctional
world, whose existence is not anchored in actual time and space. The actors acting is an actual; the enacted character is not.
Schechner makes a sharp distinction between Aristotelian art and his own
approach to art. An Aristotelian artwork lives a double life. It is mimetic in the
Platonic sense, but it is also itself. . . . Art always comes after experience; the separation between art and life is built into the idea of mimesis. It is this coming after and separation that has been so decisive in the development of western theater (38). In other words, Schechner sees Aristotelian art as both an actual and
a representation. He employs mimesis in the sense of imitation of life and
not in the sense of iconic representation and thinking about life. In our terms,
this duality is the heart of theatre: a real being enacting a ctional being in front
of a gathering of real beings.
Schechner also claims the existence of another type of art which is nonmimetic: In non-mimetic art the boundaries between life and artraw and
cookedare blurry and permeable (38). In this type of art the quality of the actual grows at the expense of the mimetic quality, the implication being that actuality and not mimesis is the quintessence of art. A happening is an obvious

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169

example of nonmimetic art. A concrete example is Fluids (1967) by Alan Kaprow,

who describes his work as follows:
a single event done in many places over a three-day period. It consists simply
in building huge, blank, rectangular ice structures 30 feet long, 10 feet wide,
and 8 feet high. The structures are built by people who decide to meet a truck
carrying 650 ice blocks per structure. They set this thing up using rock salt as
a binderwhich hastens melting and fuses the block together. The structures
are to be built (and were) in about 20 places throughout Los Angeles. If you
were crossing the city you might suddenly be confronted by these meaningless blank structures which have been left to melt. Obviously, whats taken
place is a mystery of sorts. (Kaprow 1968; quoted by Schechner: 36)
Such an event can indeed count as an example of an actual, since it is a sequence
of actions in the real world with no descriptive quality. Although it could be
accepted that mimesis (in the sense of iconicity) may not be the quintessence
of art, I contend that if no formulation in the theatre medium and acting in its
dual sense takes place, it has nothing to do with theatre. Furthermore, the moment there is an element of play-text, as in Mother Courage by the Performance
Group, there is acting and use of the theatre medium. The alleged unitary nonAristotelian quality thereby disappears, and the duality of acting is reinstated.
Schechner views the shaman as a prototype of acting in the sense of creating
actuals: Understanding actualizing means understanding both the creative condition and the artwork, the actual. Among primitive peoples the creative condition is identical with trances, dances, ecstasies; in short, shamanism (41). Indeed, the shaman enters this state in order to confront real spirits and perform a
cure, which is meant to be effective in actual terms. In other words, whereas
the shamanist act is denitely an actual, it is impossible to nd in it the characteristic duality of acting. In performing a ritual the shaman or priest is part of the
real world, as is the world, it is believed, that the shaman attempts to evoke. From
the viewpoint of creativity, while actors operate in the world, the texts they inscribe on their own bodies refer to a nonactual world. The ctional world is not
an actual, and stressing the actuality of the creative aspect simply underlines theatres duality.
Whereas an actual may produce meaning, its way of creating meaning is different from that of theatre. Investing tremendous effort in a purposeless and
eventually melting away constructionwhich may or may not have an aesthetic
value could at least produce a good metaphor of life. Other real events can
equally become metaphors of life in the minds of observers, such as a soccer
game. Is the ice construction metaphor ritual or theatre? The answer depends on
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{ Hedges and Boundaries }

denitions. According to my own denitions it is neither ritual nor theatre. Is it

a performance? In Schechners sense, yes. It is a sequence of events performed by
people, and probably while other people are watching. Does it produce an experience? Most assuredly, although this is not exclusive to ritual or theatre. It may
be a new way of producing meaningful events without even pretending to use a
medium. Is it art? It could be, but that question must be dealt with elsewhere.
Schechner believes in the possibility of nonmimetic theatre and in performers
who do not play a character but play (enact) themselves: Stand-up comics
play aspects of themselves. Disclosure is the heart of the comics art (50). It may
be true that performers are disclosing or at least emphasizing their own being,
their actual selves. In our terms, however, unless they actually create a character
(such as Dame Edna) they are not necessarily acting and, therefore, do not
count as actors. Moreover, if an actual is indeed a self-referential event, we can
agree with Schechner that circus artists and athletes are performers of actuals:
Athletes, like circus performers, display their skills. The rules of games are designed to show prowess, quick judgement, nesse and grace, speed, endurance,
strength and teamwork (50). There is indeed nothing in their displays beyond
what is done and achieved. They do not enact or represent a given ability. The
abilities are truly their own, and they expect to be applauded for them. Circus
performers take pride in not being actors: what they are doing is real, and they
impress their audiences because what they do is beyond the spectators own abilities (Carmeli). All they do refers to themselves, and they are cheered or jeered
for it accordingly.
For Schechner, the phenomenon of movie stardom attests to the actuality of
the actors art, particularly the interest of the public in the stars own life: One is
never sure how much of the star personality is genuine, and how much put on.
The star is usually not sure either. A stereotyped mask thickens and freezesthis
mask is worn publicly and privately throughout life (50). One should remember, however, that the mask of Marilyn Monroe as a star differs from the mask of
Monroe in character and that the word mask has two different senses here. In
fact, public interest in the star only emphasizes the essential duality of acting.
Schechner concedes that actors not only actualize themselves but also enact
characters. He claims that this dichotomy can be placed in a state of tension (i.e.,
in a state of confrontation) and suggests that in some cases the proportion between actuality and enactment can be inverted: even in aesthetic theater something approaching actuality has been sought for making the performer the author of his own actions or visible side by side with the character in a Brechtian
way (118). In his own productions Schechner has attempted to emphasize the
actuality of the actors. He reports, for example, that in the Performance Groups
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171

production of Mother Courage [p]art of the theater was made into a green
room wholly visible to the audience. When a performer was not in a scene she
or he went to the green room for some coffee, to read, and to relax. A little more
shielded, but still in sight, were places for performers to change costumes and apply makeup (138). He also reports on performers playing two or more roles, on
opening the theatre to the (actual) street, and even on offering meals in the midst
of a performance. Although all these are good examples of tension between actual and enacted aspects of a theatre performance, such a tension does not in any
way affect its medium. While it is true that Mother Courage was treated as a
drama nested in a larger performance event (139) and it could be true that [t]he
Performance Group worked to enhance Courages ritual aspects (139) in the
sense of emphasizing actuality, it cannot be true that the nonactual aspect of
Mother Courage thereby underwent a substantial change, although it may have
conditioned a slightly different attitude to it. Thus, the distinction between Aristotelian and anti-Aristotelian theatre is not that sharp, being not between actuality and nonactuality but between different degrees of tension.
Since the duality and even inner tension of acting should be and is felt in any
case, the question arises as to what difference is made, for example, if the actors
meet the spectators before and after the performance, chat or drink coffee with
them, or display rehearsal and backstage procedures. What is the point in stressing the actuality of performancestressing the common features of building a
huge block of ice and a performance of Macbeth by the Royal Shakespeare Company? I believe that the only advantage of the notion of actual resides in viewing the actors creativity and audiences participation in a wider social context, although this does not affect the nature of the specic art embedded in the
performance. Each kind of performance is in effect essentially different, and it
is this specic difference that should be captured by theory.

Braiding Ritual and Theatre

Schechners considerations reect a general tendency in the 1960s and the 1970s
for performance artists to recreate the ritual quality of primitive theatre by creating actuals, homemade rituals (118). The term homemade ritual indicates
that he is aware that these are not rituals in the literal sense of the word: a contradiction undermines these efforts. . . . When artists, or their audiences, recognize that these staged rituals are mostly symbolic activities masquerading as effective acts, a feeling of helplessness overcomes them. So-called real events are
revealed as metaphors (118). This is indeed a wonderful insight! Unfortunately,
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{ Hedges and Boundaries }

Schechner does not follow it up but continues to insist on the rituality of avantgarde theatre. In what sense can such homemade elements be both ritual and
theatrical? Since this is a matter of denitions, in the following paragraphs I discuss Schechners own approach.
Schechner does not conceive ritual and theatre in their usual meanings
as essentially different or as connected in a generative relationshipbut, rather,
as the structural combination of two elements, efcacy and entertainment,
which, in changing proportions, are always present in both. If the dominant element is efcacy, the result is ritual; if it is entertainment, the result is (aesthetic)
theatre. Efcacy and entertainment are not mutually exclusive:
rather they form the poles of a continuum. The basic polarity is between
efcacy and entertainment, not between ritual and theater, and proportions
can be changed at will. Whether one calls a specic performance ritual
or theater depends mostly on context and function. A performance is
called theater or ritual because of where it is performed, by whom, and under
what circumstances. . . . No performance is pure efcacy or pure entertainment. (120)
The implication is that the same performance can be ritual or theatre depending on circumstances and, particularly, on perception, since changing perspectives changes classication (120). Schechner considers these to be omnipresent tendencies that are allegedly in constant dialectical tension (123). This
is a gurative use of dialectic, because literally this term presupposes opposition between thesis and antithesis (and eventual synthesis), which is not the case
between efcacy and entertainment. He also claims that aesthetic theatre ourishes in periods when the basic elements of efcacy and entertainment are both
present in equal degree (123). Schechners diagram shows the workings of the dialectical relationship between efcacy and entertainment in the history of theatre
since the Middle Ages (122).
Accordingly, transition from ritual to theatre, and vice versa, cannot be a matter of a unidirectional historical process but instead is something that can happen in both directions at any moment. This is the heart of Schechners change of
perspective with regard to traditional theories of origins, which conceive ritual
and theatre as rigid categories and transition from the former to the latter only as
a process of generation.
The alleged advantages of Schechners theoretical move are quite evident:
while it provides a new underlying distinction between ritual and theatre, it disposes of the principle of generation. Instead, it suggests the principle of braiding the elements of effectiveness and entertainment, which are always there and
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173

Efcacy
Cycle plays
Church ritual
Court ceremony

Efcacy
Paratheatre
Experimental performance
Political theatre
Performative psychotherapies

Restoration
ElizabethanJacobean

Bourgeois drama
Modern theatre

Entertainment
Fairs
Bards & troubadours

1500

1600

1700

1800

1900

2000

Entertainment
Commercial theatre
Regional theatre
Theme parks
Street entertainers

only require changes in proportion and perspective. Against the background of

recurrent attempts to derive theatre from ritual, Schechners theory denitely
reects their failure and the need for an alternative approach. Unfortunately,
Schechner seeks to solve the problem by abolishing the traditional adequate distinction between ritual and theatre and reintroducing them with new meanings which fail to match either experience or healthy intuition.
What are entertainment and efcacy? For entertainment Schechner
lists the following aspects: fun; only for those here; emphasis now; performer
knows what s/hes doing; audience watches; audience appreciates; criticism ourishes; individual creativity (120). For efcacy: results; links to an absent Other;
symbolic time; performer possessed in trance; audience participates; audience
believes; criticism discouraged; collective creativity (120). Careful observation
reveals that most of these are traditional antinomies, usually employed for theatre and ritual. For example, on the audience level: participation vs. watching, belief vs. appreciation and/or critical attitude; and on the creative/acting
level: possession vs. awareness, collectivity vs. individuality. As shown in previous chapters, these antinomies are groundless and derive from viewing ritual and
theatre as ontologically on the same level.
The only real innovation is fun (a synonym of entertainment) vs. results (a synonym of efcacy). This is not a valid antinomy either, however, because fun is a kind of audience response (or effect) and results, in the case of
ritual, also concern the effect on and/or response of an absent Other, another
addressee in addition to the community. Effect thus can apply to both ritual
and theatre only if attributed different meanings. This braided relationship could
be understood as supporting Schechners theory, since these elements are not
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mutually exclusive and can coexist. The questions, however, multiply. For example: is fun an elementary notion? Does fun exhaust the theatrical pole? Is
it a category that applies to all aesthetic theatre? How should we then categorize
the frustrating experience of a subversive play: under fun or results? What is
the link to an absent Other in Molires Les fourberies de Scapin? Conversely,
we read that [s]hamans are artists and performers and doctors and trancepossessed ecstatics and priests and entertainers (140). Entertainers for whom?
For those believers upon whose devoted participation the efcacy of the curing
seance depends?
In his theatrical practice, Schechner honestly attempts to reintroduce efcacy
and reach the ritual pole. He believes that
[in the theatre of the] 1960s and 1970s efcacy ascended to a dominant position over entertainment. . . . many performance artists as well as practitioners of third or alternative theater draw directly on shamanistic techniques
or other efcacious events. Paratheatrical events dissolve the audienceperformer opposition, while a whole branch of performance art is aimed at
eliminating the art-life distinction. (Schechner: 122)
Do these indeed reintroduce ritual elements, even as specied by Schechner,
such as symbolic time, belief, and links to an absent Other? As suggested above,
not even Schechner himself believes this. Another question is whether the socalled shamanistic techniques equal shamanism. I do not believe that such innovations could ever transform a theatre performance into an efcacious event
upon which the participants depend (Schechner: 126). They could make the
performance different, but this still would not constitute a ritual, in either the
traditional or Schechners sense.
Schechner claims that [t]he move from theater to ritual happens when the
audience is transformed from a collection of separate individuals into a group or
congregation of participants (142). On such grounds it is also possible for ritual to arise out of theater by reversing the process just described. This move from
theater to ritual marks Grotowskis work and that of the Living Theater (138).
Here too this claim fails to set a distinction, because both transformation of a
bunch of individuals into a unied group (albeit not a congregation) and participation (albeit of another kind) characterize all kinds of theatre. In his own practice, Schechner fosters participation by environmental staging and attempts to
achieve this goal also by means such as performing several actions simultaneously and encouraging selective inattention, while spectators can shift from
one aspect of the performance to another. . . . Instead of working for a unanimity of reaction, as in orthodox theater, I strive for a diversity of opportunities
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(174). Shifting from one aspect to the other and selective inattention, however, hardly conform to any known ritual. In my opinion, instead of transforming an audience into a genuine ritual congregation, these practices may produce
exactly the opposite result.
Similar considerations apply to ritual when performed for tourists. In such a
case, this may appear to become sheer entertainment in the sense of fun and consequently, in Schechners terms, theatre. But how would he classify such a show
if we grant tourists, as we should, the same genuine interest in cultural otherness
and pure curiosity about ritual as manifested by Schechner himself in several of
his accounts? In this case it is neither ritual, because it is not performed for its
efcacy, nor theatre, because it is not performed for fun. He himself is aware of
the problem: Presently, the Makehukans perform a traditional ritual emptied
from its efcacy but not yet wholly regarded as a theatrical entertainment
(Schechner: 128).
We should also ask how other types of performance, such as play, game, and
sports, conform with this efcacy-entertainment polarity. For example, play,
game, and sport obviously belong at the pole of entertainment; but what about
efcacy? What about efcacy with regard to a melting ice construction? What is
the element of fun in music performed on the battleeld? Unfortunately, ritual
and theatre, as the polar outcomes of elementary efcacy and entertainment,
while appearing to resolve the problem of origins, in fact end up creating too
many theoretical problems instead.

Drama, Script, Theatre, and Performance

In Schechners deliberations the term theatre is also used in an additional sense,
referring to a link in a chain of growing complexity that goes from drama to
performance (see diagram; Schechner: 72): drama is what the writer writes;
the script is the interior map of a particular production; the theater is a specic
set of gestures performed by performers in any given performance; performance
is the whole event, including audience and performers (technicians, too, anyone
who is there) (Schechner: 85). He uses drama in the sense of play-text
(whereas I employ drama for the ctional worlds and the rules that constitute
them); script in the sense of a production plan that preexists and underlies a
particular performance; theatre in the sense of the outward phenomenology of
a script or, rather, the perceptible side of a performance; and performance in
the sense of the social event, including the audiences reception and the entire se176

{ Hedges and Boundaries }

Performance
Theatre
Script
Drama

quence, preparations, and aftermath. The latter is the widest possible circle of
events condensing around the theater (Schechner: 91).
In the sense of perceptible side of performance, Schechner uses theatre
for all types of performance, such as game, sport, and ritual, including all kinds
of theaterthat on show in theaters or churches, that of rites of passage, that of
sports, that accompanying ofcial displays of power, and that happening on a
microsocial level in play and daily routines (207). Thus, paradoxically, theatre
also refers to kinds of performance that emphasize efcacy and not entertainment. This is probably the reason why Schechner has to introduce additional labels, such as aesthetic theatre and ritual theatre. The former is equivalent to
theatrical theatre, meaning the outward component of a theatre performance
(in the usual sense) that emphasizes entertainment. The latter means the perceptible aspects of rituals (in the usual sense), such as initiation rites, marriage
ceremonies, and funerals (193), which are also supposed to have a drama, a
script, and a performance. For example, Schechner claims that he would
call the Mass a ritual rather than theater. Why? Because it was efcacious (125).
In the sense of the perceptible side of a script, however, the Mass is theatre. We
might equally ask what he would call aesthetic theatre that emphasizes ritual efcacy. Methodologically, the use of terms with different meanings in the same
domain is highly confusing and should be replaced by clearly distinct terms, such
as theatrical text and ritual text.
Furthermore, the links of the chain do not reect equivalent relationships:
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script includes drama; theatre is each particular manifestation of script;

and performance is both the common denominator of theatre and ritual
whatever is emphasized as well as the entire sequence, including play,
script, theatre, and even audience. Schechner is aware that for such a terminology the exact points to set boundary markers distinguishing performance,
theater, script and drama from each other are somewhat arbitrary, but the center of each is very different from that of any others (86). Most important, however, is to note that the terms script, theatre, and performance bear different meanings when referring to aesthetic theatre or ritual theatre.
All these terms clearly derive from a theatrically centered viewpoint, thereby
emphasizing the difculties in nding their equivalents for ritual. In this context,
while theatre can be used as dened above, drama and script are not always available in ritual; for example, [t]he thovil trance-re is theater nested in
performance. There is no drama and the script is very loose (Schechner: 90).
Indeed, every performance of a ritual usually is a manifestation of a preconceived
plan, or script, although it never includes drama. The observance of such a
script is viewed as a precondition for the efcacy of ritual, although some rituals, particularly shamanism, include unexpected events.
Schechner believes that in aesthetic theatre all these four entities should be
kept in constant tension: As a theatre director I am attempting to make both
performers and audiences aware of the overlapping but conceptually distinct realities of drama, script, theatre, and performance. . . . I want to nd ways of keeping three or all four in living tension (85 86). The notion of tension, however,
implies that each of them is independent, that one cannot be reduced to the
other, and that audiences should be made aware of this. Drama (play-text) and
script, for example, can be kept in tension by emphasizing the directors share at
the expense of the playwright. Schechner reports that the Performance Group
production of Tooth (based on Sam Shepards The Tooth of Crime), which reected dissociation between drama-script and theater performance, resulted
in the playwrights aggravation (76 77). In this case script and performance were
also kept in tension by emphasizing the mechanism of production at the expense
of the enacted world. It is hard to understand, however, how theatre, as the manifested side of script, can be kept in tension with script.
The notion of performance for expressive social events would seem to provide a good contribution to the sociology of theatre. A complex sequence that
places such social activities in the context of real life, while also separating them
from its ux, indeed deserves special attention since it promises to reveal a common social denominator. I agree with Schechner that such a notion is appropriate for such varied domains as theatre, ritual, games, sports, dance and music,
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poetry readings, paratheatrical entertainment, and even everyday behavior. Such

an all-embracing category, however, does not imply that its subcategories have
anything in common, other than their being embedded in social events. This notion thus discloses nothing regarding the intrinsic nature of theatre or ritual.

Theatre Space
In addition, Schechner employs theatre for the place where theatrical activities are performed, obviously including the theatre hall, and other unusual venues such as churches, sports grounds, auditoriums, courts of law, and battleelds.
In them performance activities are performed, such as rituals, sport and trial
(duels, ritual combats, courtroom trials), dance, music, play, and various performances in everyday life (161). In this sense, theatre also applies to all possible places, including those that are not designed for or devoted to a specic activity but function as such by the very fact that the activity is carried out in them,
as in street theatre. What makes a place a theatre is thus the performance that
takes place within it.
Schechner thus extends the use of theatres to a time before the appearance of
purpose-built theatre buildings and beyond them:
The art in the caves of southwest Europe and the stories of the Aborigines
about the landmarks in their range are means of transforming natural spaces
into cultural places: ways of making theaters. But every architectural construction or modication is the making of a cultural placewhat is special
about a theater? A theater is a place whose only main use is to stage performances. It is my belief that this kind of space, a theater place, did not arrive
late in human cultures (say with the Greeks of the fth century b.c.e.) but was
there from the beginningis itself one of the characteristics of our species.
(Schechner: 155 56)
In other words, the rst theatres were natural spaces transformed into cultural
spaces by the mere fact of being used for performance.
Schechner also advocates tension between theatre in the sense of performance space and theatre in the sense of perceptible aspect of script:
The open-theater movement of the twentieth century has once again made
the playing space part of the viewing space. This has been attempted in many
variationsthrust stage, arena, environmental theater. In the proscenium
theater the part of the stage visible to the audience is a surprisingly small por{ Performance Theory }

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tion of the area behind the proscenium. In the Greek theater almost every
space was visible, as well as the city and countryside behind and around the
theater. (Schechner: 163)
Tension is thus created by emphasis on the performance space. This is an additional aspect of the tension between the actual and textual aspects of theatre. In
contrast, I believe that the theatre-space should be seen as no more than enacting a ctional-place. Such a tension thus exists in any case, even in the proscenium theatre, since it reects the basic duality of acting, which only naive spectators fail to grasp.

Transformational Acting
Consistent with his extension of other theatrical notions, Schechner extends the
notion of acting to denote forms of behavior in additional categories under
performance. The main drive of avant-garde theatre toward the efcacy pole of
performance, in Schechners view, is also reected in an attempt to create or,
rather, recreate a different type of acting which is akin to ritual theatre: Modern
western theatre is mimetic. Traditional theater, and again I include the avantgarde in this category, is transformational, creating and incarnating in a theater
place what cannot take place anywhere else. Just as a farm is a eld where edible
foods are grown, so a theater is a place where transformations of time, place,
and persons (human and nonhuman) are accomplished (165 66; emphasis in
original).
As mentioned above, Schechner does not distinguish between mimetic in
the sense of imitation of reality and mimetic in the sense of using iconic representation, which, although based on the principle of similarity, enables description of worlds that in some cases are substantially different from real life.
For Schechner, acting thus includes both mimetic and transformational
types of acting, the former in the sense of imitation of reality and the latter in the
sense of affecting the actor as part of an actual. I believe, however, that the same
method of representation accounts for both types of acting, just as the effect on
the actor applies to both. In some passages Schechner concedes that this is the
case; for example, When in western theater, we speak of an actor portraying
a role, using a metaphor from painting where the artist studies a subject and
produces an image of that subject, we slide away from the main fact of theatrical
performance: that the portrayal is a transformation of the performers body/
mindthe canvas or material is the performer (175). In other words, mi180

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metic theatre is also transformational. Even if we insist on iconicity, it is still obvious that acting has an effect on the actor. It is a long way, however, from this to
transformation, in the sense of abandoning the notion of description by
means of the theatre medium, and completely reverting to actuality or, rather,
to real life.
Schechner nds a fundamental afnity between archaic and avant-garde acting, which echoes the alleged afnity between primeval ritual and the avantgarde attempt to recreate ritual theatre: One can only speculate, and many have,
about the origins, structure, and functions of totemism and animism. What is
very clear is that people identify themselves with animals, dress in animal skins
and heads, and develop specic ceremonies and observations to keep intact links
connecting animal species to humans (9192). He perceives all this as linked
to the well-known Dancing Sorcerer or Reindeer Shaman of the Trois Frres
cave, who appears to be wearing the antlers of a stag, an owl mask, wolf ears,
bear paws, a horse-tail and perhaps wearing streaks of body paint. This disguise (?) clearly betrays the dancing nude male human underneath (92). The
sorcerer is indeed not imitating anything in Schechners sense, since there is no
such a model. Under the assumption that this description is true, fundamentally,
the picture does constitute an iconic text, however, as the various parts of his costume attest. It is difcult to gather from the picture to what extent the sorcerers
display may have affected the human underneath. The main question is still
whether the sorcerer is acting, in the sense of inscribing a text on his own body
and deecting reference, or whether he is expressing through costume the idea
of becoming something else, in the sense of self-reference. Whereas for Schechner becoming something else is the essence of transformational acting, I cannot
conceive this in any way as acting. Using a medium in which the user and the inscribed text are evinced by the same human body cannot be transformation,
because such a notion eliminates the essential duality of acting.
Schechner makes one other distinction between two acting techniques ecstasy and trance:
Looking at performing worldwide, two processes are identiable. A performer
is either subtracted, achieving transparency, eliminating from the creative
process the resistance and obstacles caused by ones own organism (Grotowski . . . ); or he is added to, becoming more or other than he is when not performing. He is doubled, to use Artauds word. The rst technique, that of
the shaman, is ecstasy; the second, that of the Balinese dancer, is trance. In the
west we have two terms for these two kinds of acting: the actor in ecstasy is
Ryczard Cieslak in The Constant Prince, Grotowskis holy actor; the actor in
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trance possessed by another, is Konstantin Stanislavski as Vershinin, the

character actor. (Schechner: 175)
This distinction, however, has neither linguistic nor anthropological grounds.
Eliade, for example, makes a distinction between being possessed by and being in control of a spirit (1974: 6), but these hardly apply to theatre in the regular sense. The question is how the distinction between ecstasy and trance relates
to that between mimetic and transformational acting. For the sake of argument,
transformation could be seen as a kind of ecstasy, but is mimetic acting necessarily a kind of trance? What about biomechanics or Japanese acting? Eventually Schechner himself dismantles this dichotomy of ecstasy and trance by
again applying the principles of braiding and polarity: No performing is
pure ecstasy or trance. Always there is shifting, dialectical tension between the
two (179).

Rule-Governed Behavior
Schechner is relatively at ease in suggesting that it is the polarity between efcacy
and entertainment that underlies theatre and ritual. He is less condent, however, when it comes to other types of human activity, such as games, play, and
sports, which he also categorizes under performance. Some of these are evidently rule-governed activities, and one of the implicit requirements of such an
all-embracing theory is to allocate them a place in the system. Schechner accepts
the challenge set by his own theory. Once again he typically expands the principle
of rule-governed behavior to accommodate all types of performance: What
rules are to games and sports, traditions are to ritual and conventions are to theater, dance and music (11).
It is not hard to nd the equivalent of rules in ritual, although the term tradition is not the best equivalent. Tradition is meant to support ritual rules.
These rules, however, are utterly different from those of games and sports: usually, ritual is completely scripted, not allowing for unpredicted results. In John R.
Searles terms, whereas in ritual rules are regulativethey regulate antecedently
or independently existing forms of behaviorin game they are constitutive
they create [the very possibility] or dene new forms of behavior (Searle
1985: 33).
The case of theatre is even more difcult. Conventions are an anomalous case
of theatrical rules because, as I have attempted to demonstrate elsewhere, they do
not observe partly or wholly the principle of similarity (Rozik 1992a: 104 25). In
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general, however, if the theatre is a medium, an instance of the iconic system of

communication, we may speak of constitutive rules that govern encoding and
decoding, because they create the very possibility of theatrical communication.
These rules are different from those governing either ritual (which are regulative), because the rules of a language or medium cannot be the same as the rules
of the activities in which they are employed, or game (which are also constitutive), because the use of a medium involves signication and communication.
The inclusion of imaginative play within the category of rule-governed behavior is the most intriguing, since this is usually viewed as unrestricted and unconned by rules. Schechner himself claims that [p]lay is free activity where
one makes ones own rules (13). Making ones own rules, however, is tantamount to a lack of social rules. Moreover, imaginative play is essentially related
to theatre in the usual sense of enacting ctional worlds, and this can be rulegoverned only in one sense: being an instance of an iconic system of signication
and communication. We may conclude therefore that using the notion of rule
in the context of such a variety of species necessarily reects different meanings
and is, at the very least, too abstract or, rather, too vague to make sense.
For Schechner the existence of rules derives from the notion of performance:
Special rules exist, are formulated, and persist because these activities are something apart from everyday life. A special world is created where people can make
the rules, rearrange time, assign value to things, and work for pleasure (11). Although I agree that all the activities under performance are governed by principles, not rules, so too are activities that Schechner does not include in the same
category, such as productive work.
* * *
Rather than suggesting an orderly theory, Schechner provides a collection of
thought-provoking ideas, somewhat haphazardly presented and not always consistent with one another. His main theoretical move is to renounce the quest for
theatre origins (i.e., history) and look instead for the elementary components of
ritual and theatre: entertainment and efcacy. These elements are not the equivalent of roots, in the sense of this study, because they are not innate methods of
representation but, rather, the possible effects of real or ctional worlds on audiences or other beings.
His main offering is to create the supercategory of performance, which may
be useful for sociological purposes but reveals nothing about its various types of
embedded activities. Schechner believes that in creating a wide category he is indicating the common denominator of all the comprised categories, but in fact he
merely points to their common circumstances of performance. Ritual and the{ Performance Theory }

183

atre are denitely different, as assumed by the theories of origins; forcing a single
fundamental category upon two entities, which have become totally dissociated
in the last centuries, contradicts healthy intuition. His use of overbroad categories is particularly frustrating, for instead of explaining phenomena they
reect a tendency to blur their specic character. Therefore, any attempt to suggest common traits for these and other subcategories under performance must
result in absolute theoretical chaos. The use of crucial terms in current theories
of ritual and theatre, each in various new and ill-dened senses, and within the
very same contexts, makes Schechners theoretical work even cryptic.
Furthermore, his models usually reect supercial impressions of ritual phenomena in utterly different cultures and fail to ask crucial questions about their
functions within the contexts of their own social structures. Ronald W. Vinces
criticism of James Frazer and the School of Cambridge, on their endeavor to lend
scientic support to their intuitions by employing anthropological methodology, is equally applicable to Schechner: the general procedure opened the way
for a very unscientic eclecticism in which by carefully selecting evidence from
the wealth of material availablesome valid, some nota theorist could support any one of several hypotheses (Vince 1984: 8). Lamentably, Schechner bequeathed this propensity to his followers.
Schechners efforts appear to have been made in order to lend theoretical support to his own attempt to reintroduce the so-called ritual elements into avantgarde theatre. The attempt to justify his own theatrical practice lends his work a
sense of ideology of theatre, in contrast to theories of theatre that are free from
such preoccupations. Vince claims that Schechner anticipates the sometimes
desperate attempts of much avant-garde theatre of our own day to make something holy out of the theatre, to reinvest the entertaining shell with signicance (1984: 9). Despite all his innovations, however, Schechner cannot reintroduce ritual participation into the theatre, because from the beginning there
was neither ritual in theatre nor theatre in ritual.
Unfortunately, there is little we can learn from Schechners theory about the
roots of theatre, other than noting to what a dead end the ritual theories of origins, and particularly their methodological approach, have led.

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10
The Drama
OF REAL LIFE



Erving Goffman implies, in The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, that the notions used for centuries for theatre are also the most tting to describe the mechanism of social intercourse, particularly the techniques employed when people
present themselves to others: I assume that when an individual appears before
others he will have many motives for trying to control the impression they receive of the situation. . . . I will be concerned only with the participants dramaturgical problems of presenting the activity before others. The issues dealt
with by stagecraft and stage management are sometimes trivial but they are quite
general; they seem to occur everywhere in social life (26). Goffman thus puts us
in the paradoxical position in which we have to make a theoretical distinction between entities on different ontological levels: between life and theatrebetween
life and thinking about life.
Goffmans theory of human interaction appears to rest on a consistent analogy/metaphor between real life and theatre, which he certainly did not create
and probably harks back to ancient times. Tradition includes many instances of
such an analogy/metaphor; for example, the saying uncritically attributed to
Democritos: The world is a stage. Life is a play. You come, you look, you go
away (Christian: 1); the soliloquy of Jacques in As You Like It: All the worlds a
stage, / And all the men and women merely players (II, vii); Macbeths nal
comments: Lifes but a walking shadow; a poor player, / That struts and frets his
hour upon the stage, / And then is heard no more (Macbeth, V, v); and Caldern
de la Barcas autosacramental (allegorical play) The Great Theatre of the World, in
which this analogy/metaphor is developed into a full-length play. We should distinguish right from the beginning, however, between analogy and metaphor.

Whereas the former aims at understanding something essential about human behavior on the grounds of common features with theatre, the latter aims at predicating of human behavior a set of verbal and nonverbal associations connected
in peoples mindsto theatre. Furthermore, whereas an analogy rests on
predicates that are true of both life and theatre, a metaphor can produce a true
predicate of life, even if the associations connected to theatre in the minds of
people are false. This is prominent in cases of literary or dramatic use of the theatre metaphorfor example, in the above-quoted words Macbeth attaches a
sense of the eeting, vanishing, and dreamlike nature of theatre to real life. Goffman is clearly not interested in metaphor but in elucidating a crucial aspect of
social behavior and uses theatre on the grounds of what he conceives as a rm
analogy.
No matter how ancient this analogy is, Goffmans innovation resides in employing it to suggest a scientic model for understanding human interaction.
The terms used by Goffman range from those referring to the mechanism of production of a play, such as actor, player, performer, part, role, director, directing,
stagecraft, stage management, stage directions, play, conception, routine, and
cues; through those referring to the performance-text, such as performance,
show, act, audience, stage, backstage, front[stage], setting, scenery, mask, and
stage props; to those referring to the ctional world, such as character, in character and out of character.
It is not my intention to argue against Goffmans suggestions on human interaction, some of which appear to provide valuable insights. I do intend, however, to test the validity of this fundamental analogy. The main questions relate to what can be learned from theatre about human social intercourse or
since, in contrast to metaphors, analogies are reciprocalfrom social life about
theatre.
In principle, there is nothing wrong in drawing an analogy between social life
and theatre, as long as we bear in mind that analogies are always restricted to a
limited set of features. I would claim, however, that there is a fallacy in employing theatrical terminology in understanding the real world, precisely because basically theatre is a medium whose signifying principle is similarity or, rather,
iconicity. This principle does not entail that theatre is committed to an imitation
of the world: the use of signs that maintain a relationship of similarity with real
models does not preclude description of possible ctional worlds which clearly
diverge from the principles on which real life rests. Moreover, the fact that in
some cases performance-texts do resemble the real world emphasizes the fallacious nature of this analogy. Therefore, since theatre produces descriptions of

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worlds, there is no point in making an analogy between the real world and a description of a world, particularly if the medium used for such a description is
based on the principle of similarity. This is absurd, because it is the basic principle of signication and communication, and not the possible world, which is
thus taken as part of the analogy.
Goffman eventually drops the basic analogy that structures the entire argument of his book. Toward the end he writes:
And now a nal comment. In developing the conceptual framework employed in this report, some language of the stage was used. I spoke of performers and audiences; of routines and parts; of performances coming off or
falling at; of cues, stage settings and backstage; of dramaturgical needs, dramaturgical skills and dramaturgical strategies. Now it should be admitted that
this attempt to press a mere analogy so far was in part a rhetoric and a manoeuvre. The claim that all the worlds a stage is sufciently commonplace for
readers to be familiar with its limitations and tolerant of its presentation,
knowing that at any time they will easily be able to demonstrate to themselves
that it is not to be taken too seriously. An action staged in a theatre is a relatively contrived illusion and an admitted one; unlike ordinary life, nothing
real or actual can happen to the performed characters. . . . And so here the language and mask of the stage will be dropped. Scaffolds, after all, are to build
other things with, and should be erected with an eye to taking them down.
This report is not concerned with aspects of theatre that creep into everyday
life. (Goffman: 246)
The problem is that after taking down the scaffold, the theatrical terminology
used in describing the human world still remains and creates an unprecedented
phenomenon in language: two realms so intimately related as the world and one
of its means of description are categorized by the same words. Typically, when attaching a new meaning to an existing word, language uses it for a realm different
to such a degree that possible ambiguities are preventedfor example, wave
for a ridge of water between two depressions in the domain of sea; for an undulating form [of the hair] in the domain of hairdressing; for a body of persons
in one of successive advancing groups; for a gesture of waving [a hand]; and
for a disturbance of the particles of a uid medium to form ridges and troughs
for the propagation or direction of motion, heat, light, sound, etc., without the
advance of particles.
For Goffman the gap between social life and theatre is even narrower than
outlined above. He views theatre in terms of creating an illusion of life: a rela-

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187

tively contrived illusion and an admitted one; unlike ordinary life, nothing real
or actual can happen to the performed characters (246). This statement reects
two fallacies. First, theatre is not committed to producing an illusion of life. This
is only typical, if at all, of a subset of theatrical styles, particularly naturalism. Furthermore, we should question whether or not illusion is an adequate notion to
describe the utter involvement of the audience in the ctional world. If theatre is
a medium, whatever happens on stage is not a world but a description of a world.
I have suggested elsewhere that this involvement reects the fact that plays are
metaphorical descriptions of the conscious and unconscious contents of the
spectators psyche, by means of ctional worlds (Rozik 1988). Involvement thus
reects the psychological impact of the description; therefore, the attitude to the
ctional should not be equated with illusion. I assume that creating an illusion is not the purpose of self-presentation in real life either, so illusion cannot
be a common ground for this analogy.
Second, in stating that nothing real or actual can happen to the performed
characters Goffman trespasses the existential gap between real life and theatre.
Obviously, from the viewpoint of the audience, nothing real can happen to characters since they are not real (ctional) and inhabit an unreal (ctional) world;
but, within such a ctional world, from the viewpoint of the characters, we nd
the same relationship of actions to consequences as in real life. Characters have
wishes and strive to accomplish them; they succeed or face frustration; they are
born and die. It is the nature of imagistic thinking that thoughts about ourselves
take the form of ctional human worlds. In this sense, an analogy between theatrical (ctional or ctionalized) worlds and the real world is indeed possible; but
there is no analogy in enacting a character in the former and self-presentation in
the latter, as assumed by Goffman. Therefore, on these grounds too it is inconceivable to draw an analogy between a world and a thought about it.
For Goffman, in the terms of his book, social behavior adopts the medium of
theatre for the sake of social intercourse, as if everyday life is a series of performing or enacting social roles, enabling distinction between actor and character.
The problem is that in enacting a character the actor and the character do not become a unity; on the contrary, theatrical experience hinges on this distinction.
No such duality exists in performing the various roles of any given individual.
The set of roles of individuals is an essential component of their own personalities. Duality is detected only if individuals produce indexes that do not conform
to their own qualities/abilities, deceiving either themselves or others.
I suggest, therefore, that to construct such an analogy is invalid on all possible
grounds. Analogy presupposes similarity and difference between compared ob-

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jects in a world, or between worlds, and cannot be drawn between objects and
their descriptions; and even less so between objects and the medium of these descriptions. For the same reasons, it is a gross error to use the same terminology
for both, since this results in blurring the existential gap between world and representation of world. In the following paragraphs I provide an outline of Goffmans theory of human self-presentation.

A Model of Interaction
Goffman suggests a model to account for the techniques used by people in interaction, in promoting an advantageous denition of the situation and, particularly, a benecial image of themselves. For the sake of his model, interaction
(i.e., face-to-face interaction) may be roughly dened as the reciprocal inuence
of individuals upon one anothers actions when in one anothers physical presence (26). In such situations individuals engage in a performance, which
Goffman denes as all the activity of a given participant on a given occasion
which serves to inuence in any way any of the other participants, and all other
present are conceived as the audience, observers or co-participants (26).
As mentioned above, the term performance is usually employed in two
senses: (1) in the theory of action for a doing, which is the perceptible aspect of
an action; and (2) in the traditional theory of theatre for enacting a play-text
on stage. In addition, Richard Schechner suggests sense (3), for the whole event,
including audience and performers (technicians, too, anyone who is there) (85)
and the entire sequence that encompasses various kinds of noninstrumental behavior, including aesthetic theatre (85). In contrast to all these, Goffman employs the term for human self-presentation in social, including instrumental, circumstances. Similar considerations apply to the words act and actor, which
he uses for both life and theatre.
Goffman claims that in social situations individuals act according to preexisting patterns of behavior: [t]he pre-established pattern of action which is
unfolded during a performance and which may be called a part or routine
(26 27). He assumes that social interaction unfolds on the level of personality
performing roles, which essentially are such clusters of predetermined patterns
of behavior: When an actor takes on an established social role, usually he nds
that a particular front has already been established for it (37).
In real interaction, assumedly, people reect their intention to promote an
improved image of themselves in order to inuence or, rather, change a state

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of affairs, to their own benet. Consequently, each person operates as a twofold system: actor, in the sense of performer of image; and character, in the
sense of performed image:
In this report, the individual was divided by implication into two basic parts:
he was viewed as a performer, a harried fabricator of impressions involved in
the all-too-human task of staging a performance; he was viewed as a character, a gure, typically a ne one, whose spirit, strength, and other sterling
qualities the performance was designed to evoke. The attributes of a performer and the attributes of a character are of a different order, quite basically
so, yet both sets have their meaning in terms of the show that must go on.
(Goffman: 244)
In other words, Goffman favors a clear distinction between actor and character for real interaction. Since some people show a tendency to promote a degraded image of themselves, we could improve the model by claiming, without
refuting the said duality, that people show a tendency to promote deviant images
of themselves, according to various needs.
Goffman thus assumes that there is an existential gap between what individuals are and the self-images they purport to promote. How can we know what any
given individuals really are if they are constantly shifting from role to role and
this reality is never made explicit? Goffman claims that for any given performance there is a backstage. Like actors when leaving the stage, performers allegedly enter a nonperformative space in which they can relax and revert to their
own behavior. Goffmans example refers to what happens in the kitchen of a
hotel, when waiters, cooks, and owners are on their own (118ff.). This example,
however, does not necessarily present us with the unmasked waiters, but more
probably with the waiters entering upon a different role, in promoting another
image of themselves in front of their mates. It is more sensible, therefore, to perceive the individual as a set of roles, with the question of what exactly the individual iswith no rolesstill remaining open (cf. Emigh: 23).
Goffmans approach implies that action is always accompanied by elements of
communication, particularly in fostering an image of the self. He claims, and this
is the main thesis of his book, that social behavior is basically contrived and not
natural, as one may have been inclined to think: [t]he implication here is that an
honest, sincere, serious performance is less rmly connected with the solid world
than one might rst assume (78). He also claims that control of promoted images is possible even for aspects of action that are usually considered uninten-

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tional: [o]f the two kinds of communication expressions given and expressions given offthis report will be concerned with the latter, with the more theatrical and contextual kind, the nonverbal, presumably unintentional kind,
whether this communication be purposely engineered or not (16). It is this manipulation of a projected image that Goffman sets out to capture by means of the
analogy to theatre. Whereas his intuition with regard to real behavior could be
accepted, however, the analogy is inapplicable, since in theatre no such manipulation takes place, unless for characters in front of other characters within the
realm of a ctional world.

Action vs. Enacting an Action

Because this model of human interaction clearly rests heavily on a particular
concept of theatre, Goffmans underlying theory requires elucidation. He particularly invokes a strong analogy between action and acting:
It does take deep skill, long training, and psychological capacity to become a
good stage actor. But this fact should not blind us to another one: that almost
anyone can quickly learn a script well enough to give a charitable audience
some sense of realness in what is being contrived before them. And it seems
that this is so because ordinary social intercourse is itself put together as a
scene is put together, by the exchange of dramatic inated actions, counteractions, and terminating replies. Scripts even in the hands of unpracticed
players can come to life because life itself is a dramatically enacted thing. (78)
Dramatic is used here in a vague sense, which applies equally to drama and theatre. Moreover, this analogy is even fostered by language: the morpheme act is
usually employed for both action in real life and enacting characters in theatre. I assume, however, that there is a fundamental difference between action
and enacting an action. Goffman himself implies the same belief: All the
world is not, of course, a stage, but the crucial ways in which it isnt are not easy
to specify (78). The question, therefore, is how to account for the difference.
I suggest a fundamental distinction between action and acting or, rather,
enacting an action by means of several semiotic categories, on the following
levels: (1) the employed semiotic system or, rather, the type of sign characteristic
of each sphere; (2) the way texts composed by such signs refer to a world; and
(3) the type of image they create: self-image or character. The terminology used

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191

in tackling these problems is that developed within Charles S. Peirces and John
Austins traditions (Rozik 1992a).

1. type of sign: index vs. icon

In real life people act in order to change states of affairs. An act is the perceptible part of an action. The relationship between act and action can be described,
therefore, in terms of a part-whole contiguity. Although acts may be performed by words, in what are usually called speech acts, strictly speaking the
use of a medium is not a necessary condition. Nonverbal acts are no less typical
of human behavior than verbal ones. Because of this part-whole relationship,
however, they are grasped as indicating intentions and purposes, which dene
the type of action and, therefore, are conceived in terms of index. Acts also indicate other aspects of doer and circumstances, such as temperament, social
background, education, momentary feelings, and emotions, whose qualities do
not affect the nature of the basic act-action unit. For example, waiters may take
the patrons orders while simultaneously revealing other aspects of their personalities as listed above. All these include, in addition to natural indexes (including
symptoms), an entire range of conventional ones, which can be produced intentionally. In this sense, a projection of a self-image can be manipulated and controlled at will. Goffmans main thesis relates, therefore, to the indexical principle
of communication. While he lacks the notion of index itself, he clearly refers
to this phenomenon by terms such as expression (a synonym of index) and
inference (the typical decoding principle of index).
In contrast, acting proceeds by producing iconic signs. Iconic signs are images
of real models imprinted on matter that convey meaning by virtue of the principle of similaritysigns that reproduce the images of real objects and bear the
signieds of the words that usually categorize such objects. From these, it does
not follow that acting is committed to a naturalistic imitation of the real world
but only that any element of similarity embodied in the iconic signs, however
faint or stylized, may be used in decoding an iconic text. Although in iconic media the iconic principle does not necessarily apply to the imprinted matter, as in
sculpture or painting, theatre is characterized by similarity on the material level
as well (e.g., on stage actors inscribe human images that describe human characters on their own bodies). Iconic signs can reproduce all kinds of signs, including iconic ones, but typically they reproduce real indexes. A distinction should
be made, therefore, between indexes and iconic replicas of indexes. Consequently, real human behavior and enacting human behavior communicate by
means of two different systems.

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2. self-reference vs. deflection of reference

In real life, indexes present a double relationship of contiguity: rst, an act is
part of an action; and, second, it is a reection of the doer. In terms of reference, the implication is that ultimately an index always refers to its producer
since nobody can produce an index that refers to somebody else, it is always an
equivalent of an I sentence and never of a you or he/she sentence. The fundamental characteristic of self-presentation (to use Goffmans term) is that
whatever is indicated by actual behavior, whether true or false, is predicated on
the self-presenters themselves (i.e., is self-referential).
In contrast, acting is characterized by deection of reference. Actors reproduce an index with the intention of it being predicated not on themselves but
on the characters they are enacting. The moment the index is correctly referred
to the character, it is again understood, as in real life, as indicating the intentions and purposes of the ctional doer: the character. Although we tend to understand iconic indexes by the same means by which we understand real indexes
by inferring intentions and purposestheir way of referring to a world is
different.
How is it possible for actors to produce (iconic replicas of ) indexes, which by
virtue of the principle of similarity do not necessarily differ from real indexes,
and yet refer them to somebody else, whether real or ctional, in apparent contradiction of the principle of indexality? This is enabled by producing iconic
signs that, on the level of the iconic sentence, fulll two distinct functions: subject and predicate. Subject signs aim at identifying the human entities, other than
the actors, that are assumed to be the producers of the predicate signs, which in
turn aim at describing the characters, particularly in their interchanging acts/
actions on the time axisactors may use costume, makeup, and a slight limp to
indicate that they are enacting a character such as Harpagon (subject signs),
while producing changing speech acts and gestures that indicate their share in the
action (predicate signs).
A simple way of indicating reference to another is the use of a mask. This
device has been used in ritual and theatre since time immemorial. Goffman
views social behavior in terms of using masks and invokes Robert Ezra Park for
support:
It is probably no mere historical accident that the word person, in its rst
meaning, is a mask. It is rather the recognition of the fact that everyone is
always and everywhere, more or less consciously, playing a role . . . It is in
these roles that we know each other; it is in these roles that we know ourselves.

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In a sense, and in so far as this mask represents the conception we have formed
of ourselvesthe role we are striving to live up tothis mask is our true self,
the self we would like to be. In the end, our conception of our role becomes
second nature and an integral part of our personality. We come into the world
as individuals, achieve character, and become persons. (Park: 249; quoted by
Goffman: 30)
Even if this etymology is correct, however, which it probably is, its use to support a scientic thesis is questionable. If these masks reect the cluster of roles
which individuals identify with and strive to live up to, what is usually called a
self-image, they do not refer to the other but to the wearers of the masks themselves. Even in shamanism the mask is meant to be self-referential. Actors may
use more sophisticated ways of indicating that they are enacting another human
being, not only by mask or makeup but also by recurrent features, such as typical gestures, peculiar intonation, or verbal idiosyncrasy. Furthermore, the theatre
precinct itself should be seen as a frame-marker, indicating how the audience is
meant to grasp the nature of the signs produced on stage. Clearly, there can be
no acting without deection of reference, just as there is no real action without
self-reference. Such a deection, whether by use of mask or otherwise, is only
characteristic of enacting an action. In this sense, the invoked etymology is
misleading.
Essentially, by means of the very same behavior on stage, actors operate two
sets of signs: signs that intentionally refer to the characters they enact and signs
that refer to themselves as producers of their description, to whom the audience
eventually responds by curtain applause. Although a naive audience may also applaud the characters for their feats, the grounds for this are essentially different.
It is this duality that enables actors to circumvent the inherent self-reference of
the indexical system and produce an apparently indexical description that refers
to someone other than themselves. Moreover, the moment the identity of the
other is established, whether real or ctional, the indexical principle is reestablished, and the behavior produced by the actor is reinterpreted as self-referential
with regard to the enacted character.
If real people, who are not acting on stage, produce indexical signs that refer
to other people, they are in fact engaging in actingin enacting somebody else.
For example, pupils who caricature a teacher produce (iconic) signs that are specically reminiscent of the teacher, to ensure that their fellow pupils identify the
object of their imitation and that they themselves do not become the object of
ridicule; they also produce changing (iconic) signs that present the teacher as an
object of laughter. The former are subject signs and the latter predicate signs.
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They are enacting their teacher: their audience (their fellow pupils) is able to distinguish these natural actors from their victim.
In contrast, youngsters who imitate somebody else in an attempt at identication usually reect the intention to apply the description to themselves. One
could take a hard line view and claim that they are impostors or a more benevolent view and accept imitation as a necessary stage in acquiring a mature identity;
but, in terms of reference the conclusion is the same: self-reference. Usually
youngsters identify themselves with others with the intention of living up to their
new self-images and thereby transform potentially false descriptions into true
ones. In any case, such youngsters do not enact others but project a desired image of themselves. In this sense imitation is not acting. Moreover, within the
boundaries of a ctional world, the projection of a (temporary) false self-image
can be enacted on stage as an index of a particular character.
Consequently, a sharp distinction can be drawn between real action and
enacting an action on the level of reference: self-reference in the former and
deection of reference in the latter. It is also worth noting that when an actor enacts another actor deection of reference is doubledfor example, the production of Kean by Alexandre Dumas ls/Jean-Paul Sartre, at the Old Vic (1990), in
which Derek Jacoby enacted (the real) Kean enacting (the ctional) Othello.

3. person vs. character

Goffmans approach can also be tested on the level of character. An actor is
supposed to create a charactera complex image of a human beingand,
according to Goffman, a person also projects an image (which only partially
overlaps the persons true self ), which he also terms a character. For the sake of
clarity I refer to the latter as a person. Although Goffman is aware of the difference, he stresses the use of the same techniques:
A character staged in a theatre is not in some ways real, nor does it have the
same kind of real consequences as does the thoroughly contrived character
performed by a condence man; but the successful staging of either of these
types of false gures involves use of real techniquesthe same techniques by
which everyday persons sustain their real social situations. Those who conduct face-to-face interaction on a theatres stage must meet the key requirement of real situations: they must expressively sustain a denition of the situation. (246 47)
Goffman correctly assumes that in most theatre styles characters tend to behave like real human beings. Therefore, it is quite sensible to claim that on the
ctional level, in their interaction with other characters, they may employ tech{ The Drama of Real Life }

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niques similar to those used by people in real lifefor example, they may attempt to project favorable images of themselves. Moreover, an actor can enact a
character in its various roles, as in real life; but not every character is necessarily
constructed as a person (e.g., an allegorical character). Furthermore, being a
person is not a quality of an actor as producer of an iconic description, but of a
character in a ctional world, a stratum shared by other ctional arts such as literature, puppet theatre, and radio or pictorial drama. Actors themselves do not
use real-life techniques to produce characters. They use their craft and the underlying principles of their medium.
In the context of his basic analogy, of particular interest is Goffmans use of
the term audience for those who in fact are the receivers or, rather, the objects of real acts. In real life, members of the audience are affected by acts performed upon them. In contrast, in theatre the audience is excluded from the effects of actions of characters in their interaction with other characters, although
not from the effects of a theatrical description of a world. Actors perform for
spectators, who in turn are present in the theatre in order to decode, interpret,
and experience the meaning of the actors descriptions and appreciate the quality of their artistic performance.

Truth and Falsity

The existential duality between real self and promoted image requires an examination in terms of truth and falsity. According to Goffman, it would appear that
human beings are doomed always to present an image that is essentially false. He
is aware of this problem and warns:
In our Anglo-American culture there seem to be two commonsense models
according to which we formulate our conceptions of behavior: the real, sincere, or honest performance; and the false one that thorough fabricators assemble for us, whether meant to be taken unseriously, as in the work of stage
actors, or seriously, as in the work of condence men. We tend to see real performances as something not purposely put together at all, being an unintentional product of the individuals unselfconscious response to the facts in his
situation. And contrived performances we tend to see as something painstakingly pasted together, one false item on another, since there is no reality to
which the items of behavior could be a direct response. It will be necessary to
see now that these dichotomous conceptions are by way of being the ideology
of honest performers, providing strength to the show they put on, but a poor
analysis of it. (Goffman: 76 77)
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This dichotomy, in other words, is not an adequate description of human behavior. His main thesis is that in real life putting on a show is the basic principle:
whether it is an honest show or not, everybody performs. Hence, if performance
is the general principle, truth or falsity should be sought on a different level. I believe this to be a valuable sociological insight.
What, therefore, makes a promoted image of the self true or false or, in moral
terms, honest or dishonest? Goffman tackles the problem from the viewpoint of
the receiver: As members of an audience it is natural for us to feel that the impression the performer seeks to give may be true or false, genuine or spurious,
valid or phony. . . . When we think of those who present a false front or only a
front, of those who dissemble, deceive, and defraud, we think of a discrepancy between fostered appearances and reality (66). Indeed, discrepancy cannot be the
answer, since for Goffman this is built into the principle of performance. We
should therefore look for it on a deeper level.
Goffman assumes that, rst,
[s]ociety is organized on the principle that any individual who possesses certain social characteristics has a moral right to expect that others will value and
treat him in an appropriate way. Connected with this principle is a second,
namely that an individual who implicitly or explicitly signies that he has certain social characteristics ought in fact to be what he claims he is. . . . He also
implicitly forgoes all claims to be things he does not appear to be and hence
forgoes the treatment that would be appropriate for such individuals. (24)
This principle implies that if individuals are not what they claim to be, they are
in fact promoting a false impression of themselves. True and false thus apply to adequacy between promoted image and reality. This seems to be a matter
of degree, however, since there is a degree of inadequacy in every promoted image. Thus the question remains open: on what grounds is the borderline between
true and false drawn?
There is an obvious gap between an assumed true self and a set of roles or,
rather, personality, and we may assume that in some cases the receiver tacitly
overlooks this fact and tends to view the performance as a kind of true indexical
description. Goffman claims that humans show a tendency to promote an improved and, in some cases, even idealized image of themselves (44ff.). Whereas
an idealized description may be false in a rigorous sense, an improved image is
not necessarily so. Because everybody knows that this is the way of the world, any
self-presentation is usually taken with a sensible pinch of salt. For example, we
know beforehand that the performance of craftspeople will generally and unfortunately fall somewhat short of their description of their own abilities. We regu{ The Drama of Real Life }

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larly discount immaterial discrepancy; occasionally, even possible failure is taken

into account. At what point, however, does the discrepancy widen to such a degree that it becomes a misleading presentation of the self (i.e., an indexical false
description)? Goffman accords a special status to sincerity:
At one extreme, one nds that the performer can be fully taken in by his own
act; he can be sincerely convinced that the impression of reality which he
stages is the real reality. . . . At the other extreme, we nd that the performer
may not be taken in at all by his own routine. . . . The performer may be moved
to guide the conviction of his audience only as a means to other ends, having
no ultimate concern in the conception that they have of him or the situation.
When the individual has no belief in his own act and no ultimate concern with
the beliefs of his audience, we may call him cynical, reserving the term sincere for individuals who believe in the impression fostered by their own performance. (28)
It is difcult, however, to accept that the distinction between true and false
hinges on a sincere belief in ones own promoted image: it is possible to cheat
oneself as well as others. Since a false self-presentation is obvious in the case
of an intention to deceive, and it is also false in the case of a sincere selfdeception, we may claim that intentions are not of paramount importance in determining the truth or falsity of a self-presentation. Although sincerity should be
taken into account, there must be another criterion.
I believe that the distinguishing factor resides in the ability of individuals to
live up to their projected self-images. For example, if someone offers to x our
car and sincerely produces the image of an expert mechanic by looking and
touching in all the right places, we shall soon enough know whether that individual is in fact an expert or merely impersonating one. We may even say that
those who not only project an image of expertise, even if their style is pompous
or otherwise unacceptable, but also provide the goods are not impersonating
or pretending. In the terms of this study, impersonation or pretense means
formulating a false description of oneself by means of an indexical text. Since a
self-image is projected on the level of the person, it is on this level that the predicates true and false should apply. Sometimes when we ask whether a fostered impression is true or false we really mean to ask whether or not the performer is authorized to give the performance in question, and are not primarily
concerned with the actual performance itself (Goffman: 66). When real people
employ indexes of intentions, purposes, emotions, qualities, or abilities that they
do not possess, they can be seen as producing a false indexical predication of

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themselves, whether this is a deliberate attempt to deceive others or whether they

are truly unconscious of their own real natures (cf. Emigh: 23 24).
We should distinguish between a moralistic view of self-presentation and a
descriptive one. Whereas a moralistic view entails blame for any discrepancy in
terms of a lie or deception, a descriptive view entails that, if the indexes reect what within a given culture they are taken to reect, the description is true;
for example, if the person who behaves like an expert gardener is indeed capable
of producing a beautiful garden. Goffman is correct in arguing that [w]hen an
individual plays a part he implicitly requests his observers to take seriously the
impression that is fostered before them. They are asked to believe that the character they see actually possesses the attributes he appears to possess (28). People
are concerned with the morality of their self-image, since this impinges upon
what they are out to achieve. In both cases the crucial test is whether or not individuals manage to live up to the impression that they themselves intend to make.
The moralistic view presupposes the descriptive view. For example, waiters may
foster the image of being respectful and devoted to their clients. The question,
therefore, is whether or not they will behave accordingly under any circumstances. From a descriptive viewpoint their performance is true or false; from a
moralistic viewpoint it is honest or deceitful.
In contrast, actors never pretend, impersonate, or deceive. They purposefully produce indexes that do not refer to anything in themselves but deliberately engage in an iconic description of a character and deection of reference
to it. Acting means formulating a description of another being by means of an
iconic text. Consequently, a false indexical self-description, whether from a descriptive or moralistic viewpoint, can never be equated with acting. Acting is a
doingan act of descriptionand, as such, cannot be true or false, honest or
deceitful. Only the indexical behavior of a character, within the boundaries of the
ctional world, may be conceived as true or false, honest or deceitful. Moreover,
only on this level may characters be described as pretending or impersonating (i.e., producing predications of themselves that are false); but such behavior
has no bearing upon the actors who enact them.
There is another possibility that has not been explored by Goffman, namely a
metaphorical-indexical description of the self. Although metaphorical descriptions may produce the initial impression of false descriptions, on the level of apparent inadequacy, inherently they are neither true nor false. Only after an expected process of decoding, which usually includes associative phases, and only
on the grounds of thorough knowledge of the referent, can it be decided whether
an indexical metaphor is true or false. In such a case, the theoretical problem is

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whether or not metaphor is possible at all in the indexical system of communication. I believe that it is. For example, if individuals produce behavior reminiscent of a movie star associated with spectacular strength and ruthless violence,
such a description of themselves can be veried (or not) in real situations, determining whether or not they actually fulll the expectations raised by their own
projected image. In any case, acting is never an indexical metaphor of the actors,
although they may produce metaphorical iconic descriptions of a character.

Social Drama
Whereas Goffman focuses on the performing aspects of human behavior,
Schechner exposes an unexpected implication of his theory, which assumes no
existential gap between theatre and life: that the roots of theatre reside in real life.
Against the background of Gluckmans approach, which stresses ritualization
and dramatization of social conict, further developed by Victor Turners notion
of performance, this is a natural move (chapter 1). Furthermore, it would appear that Schechner accepts Goffmans approach, since he bases his reections
on The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life: Goffman believes all social interactions are stagedpeople prepare their social roles (various personae or masks,
different techniques or role playing) backstage and then they enter the main
stage areas in order to play out key social interactions and routines (166).
Schechner, however, does not deal with the outer aspects of human interaction,
which Goffman views as analogous to acting, but with the very kernel of actual
life, with social drama, which is conceived as an equivalent to the ctional
world in theatre.
By social drama Schechner refers to human behavior in critical situations,
or sequences of situations, in real life. Consistent in blurring the borderlines
between medium and reality, he nds no essential difference between social
drama and aesthetic theatre. He concedes that some differences do exist, but
these are not easy to specify (116). Schechner here equates people involved in
their real affairs and characters involved in their ctional affairs. He appears unaware that the performance-text is meant to be a description of a world that
fullls a cognitive/emotional function in the spectators psychical economy. Only
on the level of the audiences attitude to ctional action does he spot a difference:
the separateness of the audience is the hallmark of aesthetic drama [in the sense
of theatre]. In social drama all present are participants, though some are more
decisively involved than others. In aesthetic drama everyone in the theater is a
participant in the performance while only those playing roles in the drama [in the
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sense of ctional world] are participants in the drama nested within the performance (171; emphasis in original). The implication here is that the audience is
denied participation of any kind in the theatre, that on this level it is existentially
doomed to spectatorhood. If separateness is the hallmark of aesthetic theatre, however, why is it that it cannot even be conceived without an audience?
The obvious answer is that the audience is not a mere addition to a theatre but
the very locus of production of artistic meaningmeaning results from the interaction between the ctional world described in the performance-text and the
audiences competence (knowledge, values, medium prociency, and interpretation). The spectator not only decodes the text but also contributes to its meaning no less than the text itself.
From a theoretical viewpoint, the introduction of the category of social
drama is problematic on several accounts. First, it forces Schechner into at least
a tripartite model: Thus there are at least three categories of performance: 1) aesthetic, where the audience changes consciousness while the performer rolls
over; 2) ritual, where the subject of the ceremony is transformed while the ofciating performer rolls over; 3) social drama, where all involved change (172).
How does this new model accommodate Schechners previous two-fold model of
braided efcacy and entertainment? Is social drama closer to efcacy or to entertainment (chapter 9)? Obviously any response would be absurd.
For the relationship between social drama and aesthetic theatre Schechner
suggests one more model: [t]he hidden structure of one is the visible structure
of the other (190; cf. chapter 9). He means thereby that aesthetic theatre uses elements from social life, just as people in real situations employ elements from
theatre:
The politician, activist, militant, terrorist all use techniques of the theater
(staging) to support social action or to maintain it. The theater artist uses
the consequential actions of social life as the underlying themes, frames,
and/or rhythms of her/his art. The theater is designed to entertain and sometimes to effect changes in perception, viewpoint, attitude: in other words, to
make spectators react to the world of social drama in new ways. There is a
owing back and forth, up and down, characterizing the relationship between
social and aesthetic dramas; specic enactments (shows) may travel from
one hemisphere to the other, following the directions of the arrows. (Schechner: 190)
Schechner, it should be noted, indistinctly refers here to theatre as a medium and
the possible ctional worlds it may describe: whereas for real people he speaks of
staging, for actors he speaks of consequential actions of social life. This
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model may have some appeal, probably because of its symmetry, but it cannot be
maintained: the hidden structure of one is not the visible structure of the other,
since ctional worlds are also structured by archetypes projected by the mind,
while in itself social life is not. Only the perception of social life can be similarly
structured.
Furthermore, his contention that [a]ll tragedies, probably all dramas, have
under their personal and idiosyncratic surfaces deep social substructures that
guide the sequence of events (192) is groundless. It is true that [a]t its deepest
level this is what theater is about, the ability to frame and control . . . to deal with
the most problematic (violent, dangerous, sexual, taboo) human interactions
(170) or, in other words, to present ctional worlds whose raw materials or models, such as conicts, are rooted in real life. The ultimate aim of ctional worlds,
however, is not to present equivalents of the real world but to lend it a dimension of meaning, and this is achieved by principles that both differ from those
that shape real life and reect the patterns of response of the audience (Rozik
1990).
Schechner adds an additional dimension to his modeling of theatre, which
in this context is understood in a more traditional way, in the sense of experimenting in human situations: Theater is the art of enacting only one of a range
of virtual alternatives. It is a luxury unaffordable in ordinary life (169). Moreover, [t]hese virtual alternatives take on a life of their own. Theater is the art of
actualizing them, and rehearsal is the means of developing their individual
shapes and rhythms. By turning possibilities into action, into performances,
whole worlds otherwise not lived are born (184). Viewing theatre as a social laboratory is an interesting and commonplace insight, which is consistent with
my own view that the spectators participating in a theatrical performance are
thinking of the world and themselves within it. The idea that a medium is used
for cognitive purposes is indeed highly legitimate. The problem it sets for
Schechners theory, however, is that it implies an additional pole to efcacy and
entertainment, on an additional axis.
Unfortunately, this extension of the notions of theatre and drama to real
social interaction runs into tremendous difculties, which in fact reect a misleading theoretical move. Following Schechner (and D.W. Winnicott, inaccurately), John Emigh makes an attempt to differentiate among modes of performing that are distinguished by a different relationship between me and
not me. This continuum would begin with the experience of performing within
every-day life [me], continue through the experiences of pretending [no synthesis of me and not me] and character acting [not me/not not me], and conclude
with the experience of being visited or possessed by a spiritual entity other than
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ones self [not me] while in a performance situation (22ff.). These four types of
performance, however, reect exactly the same fallacies as those attributed to
Schechner.
My main criticism is that Schechner does not take into account two factors:
(1) theatre is a medium whose basic principle of signication is that of similarity to real models; and (2) theatre affords description of real life, usually a metaphorical one, and even draws its raw materials from it. These principles lend
theatre, particularly in certain given styles, the appearance of real life. These appearances, however, should not blur the existential gap between life and description of life. As mentioned above, Goffman eventually renounces the alleged analogy between theatre and social life and exposes it as a theoretical scaffold in
building his theory of human interaction. Schechner overlooks Goffmans own
qualications and further develops such misleading assumptions to their most
absurd implications.
This is most conspicuous in Schechners attempt to include animal drama
in his all-embracing model. He contends that in contrast to the animal world in
general, we nd in primates the sufcient conditions for acting to occur: free
will, variation, improvisation and pretension (215). For example, the chimp
Mike is reported to perform a typical display of strength in which he makes use
of kerosene cans in challenging the authority of Goliath, the leader of his group:
[B]y the time we get to chimpanzee Mikes performance with the kerosene
cans we are at the threshold of human theater. It only remained for Mike to
do his act with another chimp playing Goliath while Goliath looked on, for us
to have a chimp version of Hamlets mousetrap. Mike combined xed elements characteristic of his speciesswaying, pant-hooting, drumming,
chargingwith improvised elements and props: the kerosene cans, charging
out of sight to allow for a temporary respite and rising suspense, a steadily increasing intensity of action climaxing in the confrontation with Goliath. . . .
Mike composes his own scenario as he goes along, combining the xed with
the found. Aside from its non-repeatability and the lack of an audience, Mikes
display is very much like human dance-theater. This dance-theater does not
assume a psychology for Mikehis performance is not an expression of
feeling but an action which is the feeling. (215)
Schechner even sees this display as a kind of rehearsal, since eventually Mike took
over Goliaths leadership.
Obviously, the extension of the denition of performance to include human social drama allows the inclusion of chimps social drama. Although there
is a certain continuity from primate to human social behavior, however, this con{ The Drama of Real Life }

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tinuity is not manifest between behavior, whether human or not, and description
of behavior. In his indirect challenge of Goliath, Mike is doing something in the
real world. This doing is self-referential. Moreover, his doing is instrumental in
the sense that taking over leadership involves privileges. Therefore, the same objections with regard to social drama also apply to animal dramanot to mention that pretense is not a form of acting or equivalent to it. Furthermore, the
very existence of theatre as a medium is made possible only by mediation of natural language. Ergo, animal aesthetic theatre is impossible.
* * *
To conclude, real human interaction, even in cases of self-presentation, is essentially different from theatre: (1) it employs a different system of signication and
communication: namely, it is indexical and not iconic; (2) it refers to the world
by contiguity (i.e., on a part-whole basis, in contrast to theatre, which refers to
the described world by similarity and deection of reference); (3) it produces a
self-image of a person and does not describe a character; (4) while it projects a
self-image that can be true or false, acting is a doing, which cannot be true or
false. Truth and falsity are terms that properly apply only to the relationship between description and world, not to the relationship between producing
a description and description itself. Goffmans analogy, therefore, is based on a
misleading and simplistic concept of theatre.
Theatre, which affords descriptions of worlds and indirectly of real life, most
frequently draws its raw materials from real life and operates a medium whose
principle of signication is that of similarity to phenomena in real life. It is hardly
surprising, therefore, that even scholars are misled into positing an analogy between theatre and real life. All these, however, cannot blur the existential distinction between world and description of world. Moreover, the relation between
action and enacting an action is inherently asymmetric, since the latter presupposes the former and not vice versa. In this sense, the use of the analogy to
theatre is both irrelevant and misleading. Thus, in formulating a theory of the
(social) world, particularly of social intercourse, there is a fundamental fallacy
in borrowing terminology from a medium that is used for describing worlds,
whether real or ctional.
Although Goffman himself suggests that eventually the scaffold of theatrical
terminology should be dismantled, this is difcult to envisage, since the borrowed terminology continues to be employed by him. What exactly would happen to his theory if this scaffold would indeed be removed?what would be the
result if human interaction were to be redened in proper sociological terms?
For the sociologist the main question is whether or not the analogy to theatre
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does indeed reveal something about human nature that could not have been
grasped by other means. This question, however, is not our concern here. Since
analogies are supposed to work both ways, we could also ask whether or not such
an analogy reveals anything about theatre itself. In this case, the answer is
denitely negative.
Consequently, the roots of theatre cannot reside in regular social behavior.
Theatre is a form of thinking about social life. Therefore, social drama can
never be theatre. Their relationship can be only metaphoricalboth ways.

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11
The Spirit of
Carnival



No theory of the origin of theatre in carnival has yet appeared in any systematic
form, but the idea keeps reappearing or is implied in related studies. Indeed,
there would appear to be a close afnity between carnival and theatre, which is
reected in disguise, imitation, and use of masks. Moreover, many a scholar has
claimed an umbilical connection between carnival and ritual. Against the background of the alleged generative connection between ritual and theatre, therefore, a possible link between carnival and theatre could be established. A connection between them is most conspicuous in the parodic treatment of ritual,
one of the features of carnival, which aims at reafrming and buttressing the
prevalent values and beliefs of society and at an ultimate cathartic effect. The relationship of ritual, carnival, and theatre, therefore, deserves our attention.
Following an assessment of the peculiar spirit of carnival, I present a more detailed analysis of its specic manifestations and bearing on the genesis of theatre.

The Nature of Carnival

Mikhail Bakhtin conceives the peculiar spirit of carnival as the expression of a
folk culture that appears to oppose all that is sacred and serious in culture. It
should be noted that he reects an ideologically biased attitude of admiration for
folk culture, and one that should be avoided: carnival is a phenomenon that involves all walks of society and not particular classes in it. I suggest, therefore, that
whenever Bakhtin employs folk it should be read as society.
Bakhtin claims that the manifestation of the spirit of carnival takes three distinct forms: (1) [r]itual spectacles: carnival pageants [and processions], comic

shows of the market place; (2) [c]omic verbal compositions: parodies both oral
and written, in Latin and in the vernacular; and (3) [v]arious genres of Billingsgate: curses, oaths, popular blazons (5). In addition to (1) there are the Feast of
Fools (festa stultorum), the Feast of the Ass, and a special Easter laughter
(risus paschalis), consecrated by tradition (5). Variety aside, all these forms reect a single humorous attitude to the world: folk festivities of the carnival type,
the comic rites and cults, the clowns and fools, giants, dwarfs, and jugglers, the
vast and manifold literature of parodyall these forms have one style in common: they belong to one culture of folk carnival humor (4).
Such tangible forms of the carnival spirit were to be found in all countries of
medieval Christian Europe. They built a world of their own in which everyone
had a share during an annually circumscribed lapse of time. This was not, however, an invention of medieval Europe, for this duality with regard to the world
and human life had existed even at the earliest stages of cultural development.
In the folklore of primitive peoples, coupled with the cults which were serious
in tone and organization were other, comic cults which laughed and scoffed at
the deity (ritual laughter); coupled with serious myths were comic and abusive ones; coupled with heroes were their parodies and doublets (Bakhtin: 6;
cf. Willeford: 82). In other words, the spirit of carnival has been a steady companion of serious culture for millennia, perhaps even since early humanity.
Bakhtin characterizes the spirit of carnival as the peoples second life, organized on the basis of laughter (8). This second life evinces
a characteristic logic, the peculiar logic of the inside out ( lenvers), of
the turnabout, of a continual shifting from top to bottom, from front to
rear, of numerous parodies and travesties, humiliations, profanations, comic
crownings and uncrownings. A second life, a second world of folk culture is
thus constructed; it is to a certain extent a parody of the extracarnival life, a
world inside out (Bakhtin: 11)
By parody of extracarnival life Bakhtin means a temporary reverse and overthrow of regular life and its established values and order: what is serious is derided and what is sacred is profaned.
In the Middle Ages the serious face of society was consolidated in religious
and civic ritual: the ofcial feasts . . . whether ecclesiastic, feudal, or sponsored
by the state, did not lead the people out of the existing world order and created
no second life. On the contrary, they sanctioned the existing pattern of things
and reinforced it (Bakhtin: 9). In contrast, the ceremonies in which a sense of
inversion of rules was highly conspicuous were sharply distinct from the serious
ofcial, ecclesiastical, feudal, and political cult forms and ceremonials. They of{ The Spirit of Carnival }

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fered a completely different, nonofcial, extraecclesiastical and extrapolitical aspect of the world, of man, and of human relations: they built a second world and
a second life outside ofcialdom, a world in which all medieval people participated more or less, in which they lived during a given time of the year (5 6).
Because of the extreme seriousness of ofcial life, [t]he true nature of human
festivity was betrayed and distorted. But this true festive character was indestructible; it had to be tolerated and even legalized outside the ofcial sphere and
had to be turned over to the popular sphere of the marketplace (9). If Bakhtin
implies that seriousness reects establishment whereas laughter reects the folk
attitude to life, however, this cannot be accepted: seriousness and laughter are
two complementary aspects of the same culture.
Such duality should not be mistaken for the symmetrical coexistence of two
opposing attitudes, since, in clear disproportion, up to 364 days were devoted to
seriousness and only one or a few to carnival. Coexistence is precluded for two
reasons. First, there is a contrast between the spirit of real life and the spirit of
carnival: whatever is serious in the former may become ludicrous in the latter.
Second, there is a vital social function to this established or, in Bakhtins words,
sanctioned by tradition relaxation: The tradition of the Saturnalias remained
unbroken and alive in the medieval carnival, which expressed this universal renewal and was vividly felt as an escape from the usual ofcial way of life (8).
Why should one need an escape from ofcial life? This can be understood
only if we assume that in order to endure ofcial life people have to sacrice
something vital and that whatever is not serious has to be suppressed. Because
suppression creates pressure and a possible eruption under uncontrolled circumstances, such an escape is indispensable. This function of safely releasing
pressure for the sake of preserving seriousness is best described by the safetyvalve metaphor used by Enid Welsford (216; cf. Willeford: 82). The carnivalesque is characterizated by the social permit not only to disregard things sacred
for a limited period but also to deride them. The carnivalesque does not undermine the sacred, as theatre can, but buttresses it by means of the temporary release of pressure. In this sense, carnivalesque laughter safeguards seriousness
and dissolves the contrast between seriousness and laughter, because the former
fuels the latter and the latter is in the service of the former.
Bakhtin contends that
at the early stages of preclass and prepolitical social order it seems that the serious and the comic aspects of the world and of the deity were equally sacred,
equally ofcial. . . . But in the denitely consolidated state and class structure such an equality of the two aspects became impossible. All the comic
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forms were transferred, some earlier and others later, to a nonofcial level. . . .
Such were the carnival festivities of the ancient world, especially the Roman
Saturnalias, and such were medieval carnivals. They were, of course, far removed from the primitive communitys ritual laughter. (Bakhtin: 6 7)
If he implies that by losing their sacredness the comic aspects of the world became profane, this is hardly acceptable. If the spirit of carnival is seen as an indispensable accessory of serious culture and its sacredness, this necessarily contradicts its profane nature.
Bakhtin suggests that the spirit of carnivalsimply by opposing seriousnessbears the stamp of freedom: As opposed to the ofcial feast, one might
say that carnival celebrated temporary liberation from the prevailing truth and
from established order; it marked the suspension of all hierarchical rank, privileges, norms, and prohibitions (10). It is quite reasonable to assume that within
the context of medieval society, in which all these were vigorously imposed, even
freedom for a day was most welcome. Bakhtins assertion that the people temporarily entered the utopian realm of community, freedom, equality, and abundance (9) is probably somewhat idealized and exaggerated, although nonetheless partially true. He particularly exaggerates in his assertion that [t]he basis of
laughter which gives form to carnival rituals frees them completely from all religious and ecclesiastic dogmatism, from all mysticism and piety (7). Such a statement does reect Bakhtins own interest in furthering the idea of an independent
secular folk culture rather than in establishing the true feeling of the people, of
all walks of life, including the clergy. It may be conjectured that all indulged in
the spirit of carnival, enjoying the social permit to overthrow everything sacred,
while being clearly aware of its temporary rule and eventual return to the world
of established values for the rest of the year (cf. Eco: 6). The mere fact that Christianity permitted carnival, including parody of the ecclesiastic ritual, while actual
heresy was bitterly persecuted, indicates that there was an awareness of parodys
function in buttressing the religious foundations of society.
Doubtless, there is also tension. The spirit of carnival is potentially rebellious,
and the line between a humorous attitude to the establishment and militant satire aimed at overthrowing the social order cannot always be clearly drawn. Many
initially naive carnival customs eventually became dangerous and had to be prohibited, indicating that carnival freedom was not absolute and that the permit
was granted within given limits, as long as it served the establishment. There
could be no absolute freedom in carnival, because medieval society could not allow itself to forsake either seriousness or faith.
This sense of in-service-freedom is most conspicuously manifested in the gro{ The Spirit of Carnival }

209

tesque imagery characteristic of carnival literature and art. This imagery mainly
incorporates the functions of the human bodymaking love, eating, drinking,
defecating, and urinating (Bakhtin: 19)and stands in clear contrast to decent
literature and art. In these the carnival-grotesque form exercises the same function: to consecrate inventive freedom, . . . to liberate from the prevailing point of
view of the world, from conventions and established truth, from clichs, from all
that is humdrum and universally accepted. This carnival spirit offers the chance
to have a new outlook on the world, to realize the relative nature of all that exists,
and to enter a completely new order of things (34). Despite Bakhtins enthusiasm, however, the underlying principle remains the same: temporary and ofcially restricted freedom for the sake of catharsis of functional pressure.
The cathartic release of functional pressure denes carnival not only as complementary to ritual but also as sharing its functions. Carnivalesque behavior is
thus a precondition for religious austerity. As such, it is denitely not theatre, nor
can it engender theatre:
[It] does not know footlights, in the sense that it does not acknowledge any
distinction between actors and spectators. Footlights would destroy a carnival, as the absence of footlights would destroy a theatrical performance. Carnival is not a spectacle seen by the people; they live in it, and everyone participates because its very idea embraces all the people. While carnival lasts, there
is no other life outside it. During carnival time life is subject only to its laws,
that is, the laws of its own freedom. (Bakhtin: 7)
In this sense, for example, the carnival of Rio de Janeiro is not a genuine carnival but probably a corrupt form, since it is created to be watched by others. Even
so, this carnival has not become theatre: it is something else, possibly an actual
in Schechners terms.
Carnival does not even lie within the sphere of art: Because of their obvious
sensuous character and their strong element of play, carnival images closely resemble certain artistic forms, namely the spectacle. . . . but the basic carnival nucleus of this culture is by no means a purely artistic form nor a spectacle and does
not . . . belong to the sphere of art. It belongs to the borderline between art and
life (Bakhtin: 7). Bakhtin also claims that to a certain extent carnival itself is a
parody of the extracarnival life (11). Parody is employed here in a wide sense,
since parody presupposes a preexisting and known text; thus, life in all its manifestations is conceived as a single complex text. Consequently, despite the occasional use of the theatre medium, the actual spirit of carnival is not relevant to
our study, since nothing can be learned from carnival about the origins or roots

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of theatre. As a medium, theatre can be employed in carnival because it can express any spirit, serious or other. Three aspects of carnival are most relevant to
theatre and should be given special attention: the use of mask and disguise, the
Feast of Fools, and theatrical parody.

Mask and Disguise

Masks are used in ritual, carnival, and theatre. Does this indicate a shared function? In principle, there is a distinction between the nature of a device and its
function. Masks cover the faces of their wearers, presenting instead the images of
faces other than those of the wearers. This is a semiotic device that basically conveys the message that the wearers are temporarily not expressing or representing
themselves. It is indeed shared by ritual, carnival, and theatre. Beyond this, in order to understand the specic function of masks in each of these domains, let us
rst review them separately and then proceed to a comparison.
By wearing masks shamans convey the idea of being possessed by a demon
or spirit. They are considered to become and are the other. This is reected in
shamanism that can be studied from two different perspectives: (1) that of the believer, for whom shamans indeed transcend the realm of the real world, reach another world, and are possessed by its spirits. In this sense, when possessed, their
speech is the speech of another and the masks indicate that during the trance they
are not themselves; (2) that of the scientist, who casts methodological doubt on
a claim that cannot be veried scientically and suggests that what is called possession is an expression of an inner other, which, albeit enigmatic, is nonetheless real. Without questioning the factuality of the trance itself, what exactly happens to shamans and, to be more precise, who is speaking through their mouths?
Do the masks indicate that they have been overpowered by a spirit or by an unconscious agency? In fact, from the viewpoint of this study the answer is immaterial. Whatever overpowers shamans, be it a spirit or an unconscious agency, by
projecting an abstract image meant to create a disjunction with ordinary visual
reality (Kirby 1975: 21), the masks indicate that the shamans are no longer themselves and have become an-other. This applies in particular to the use of masks
for hosting ancestral spirits (Okagbue).
By wearing masks carnival revelers implicitly claim to be other than themselves and, therefore, entitled to display behavior that is consistent with the quality of their masks and not of themselves. Psychoanalytically speaking, they are
producing an image of a desired or nonrealized and, in some cases, even a sup-

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211

pressed aspect of themselves. Despite some similarity to shamans, the difference

is clear: rst and foremost, carnival revelers are not possessed and are not even
serious about their disguises. By concealing their own identities the masks endow
them with momentary freedom, within the set time boundaries of carnival. It is
this freedom that makes possible the expression of what is suppressed and not actualized in their selves. Thus, paradoxically, the mask, instead of concealing the
true self, reveals it. To be more precise, during carnival, more than in ordinary
life, the revelers present themselves as a unity, displaying the perpetual duality of
the potential and the real. The freedom of carnival lies in giving individuals the
opportunity to experience the potential as real in the context of an atmosphere
of social permit, in which everybody joins the game. The social permit consists
in allowing revelation in the form of concealment. This is an authorized transgression (Eco: 6). It is this freedom that is cathartic. In this sense, within serious
life, carnival is a relapse to play for a limited period, since an everlasting carnival does not work (Eco: 6).
It is because of such a disclosure of self that carnival revelers, without necessarily being aware, have to dissociate themselves from their masks. They have to
disguise the fact that they are revealing an aspect of their selves in order to protect themselves from the scrutiny of others, particularly when the carnival is
over. To protect the revelers and enable safe withdrawal, carnival thus demands
dissimulationstressing a gap between mask and wearer and conveying the
message that the mask does not equal the self.
By wearing masks, while enacting characters that are different from themselves, actors remain themselves. Acting means inscribing an iconic description of a ctional or real human being on a real body. While reference is made to
characters, the actorsmind and bodyretain their identities. At any given
moment, the audience knows (although it is not constantly aware) that both the
actors and the characters are simultaneously present on stage, the former as
producing the descriptions and the latter as the described entities. The actors are
always real, whereas the characters are always evoked. This duality indicates the
textual nature of a theatre performance and is part of the spectators aesthetic experience. Therefore, the use of a mask in the theatre is not only nonessential but
even superuous. When used, however, the mask basically indicates this duality.
Acting emphasizes the juxtaposition of the mask and the face.
The use of a mask is not essential to every kind of ritual, although in its rudimentary forms it was quite frequent. Huizinga claims that the totemic savage
who plays the kangaroo says that [h]e has taken the essence of the kangaroo, . . . he is playing the kangaroo, say we. The savage, however, knows nothing

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of the conceptual difference between being and playing (25). We may assume
that Huizinga uses playing here in the sense of enacting (a kangaroo), as
in some kinds of childrens imaginative play in which, for example, they enact
parents, teachers, or doctors. He implies that the distinction resides not in the
fundamental difference between ritual and theatre but in the activity being essentially the same, in a difference of viewpoints between the savage and the
scientist who knows better. The savages, however, even in Huizingas own
terms, are not playing. They are deadly serious about sharing the quality of kangaroo. They are not enacting a kangaroo; rather they are taking part in the common nature of human and kangaroo, and the mask is supposed to reect this belief. Savages also play, particularly in childhood, and assumedly know the
difference between play and ritual.
If we compare the use of masks in these three domains, we nd that even the
apparently shared basic message that the wearer momentarily does not express
or represent himself reects an important distinction. Whereas representation
(in the sense of description) applies only to actors, who use an iconic medium
and deect reference, expression is a tting term for both shamans and carnival revelers, who operate in real life and indicate their inner states of affairs by
means of self-referential behavior. Whereas actors manifest themselves as a duality, shamans or carnival revelers do not. The difference is that in their acts the
actors preserve their social identities (personalities), whereas the shamans and
the revelers professedly do notthe shamans because they are possessed (whatever the interpretation of this phenomenon) and the carnival revelers because
they split themselves, since they cannot confess that their carnival behavior
reects their innermost selves. Moreover, whereas the shamans reinforce beliefs,
the carnival revelers momentarily suspend their rule. This opposition, however,
should be qualied, since by releasing pressure eventually carnival also reinforces
beliefs. In other words, although employing different means, both ultimately
fulll the same function. It is this difference of means that is reected in the distinct appearances of ritual and carnival masks. Fundamentally, the shamans enter a state of trance, whereas the revelersin fully conscious state enjoy a social permit.
From the viewpoint of the notion of reference, whereas actors both refer to
themselves and deect reference to characters, shamans and carnival revelers
only refer, depending on viewpoint, to themselves and/or to an-other, both
being cases of self-reference. Actors may make use of their own resources to create roles, but the end result is not a representation of themselves. Deection of
reference, whether by use of a mask or otherwise, is only characteristic of acting.

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In the context of the history of Western theatre, the mask was consistently
used only during two main periods: ancient theatre and commedia dellarte. Theatre can thus do without masks. Nonetheless, we can also understand how Thespis, in creating tragedy, got the idea of experimenting with various types of
makeup and masks. The performers of dithyramb were not masked; therefore,
the moment Thespis decided to enact a character, he probably sought a way to
indicate the difference. He may have chosen the mask because it was an available
marker, possibly also in previous theatrical forms. With the introduction of acting into the dithyrambic realm of description of ctional worlds, a mixed medium was created, partly storytelling and partly theatre. The sensible step at this
time was also to transform the chorus into a collective character and to indicate
this transition by masks. It was under such conditions that the masks of tragedy
probably came into being. Eventually the practitioners of theatre realized that
neither masks nor choruses are essential to their art, and they were gradually
withdrawn.
In principle, makeup is a kind of mask, and several theatrical styles adopted it.
The duality of actor-character has proved to be preserved by the audience, however, even when the actor appears in the bare face typical of modern theatre. Popular Greek theatrical forms, prior to tragedy and comedy, may have borrowed the
idea of the mask from some kind of ritual, but even this possibility does not entail that theatre originated in ritual. Since mask is not an essential component of
ritual, what might follow is that nonessential elements of theatre were borrowed
from nonessential elements of ritual.
The main advantage of the mask for theatre is enormous: it serves as a screen
for the projection of the imagination of the spectators. The main disadvantage
is that it diverts expression from face to body and hinders vocal communication. The exible mask of commedia dellarte partly solves such problems and is
also used for a slightly different function: not necessarily to indicate the actorcharacter duality, which is self-understood, but to emphasize continuity of characterization among different productions. Thus the mask is seen to fulll different functions not only among the various cultural domains but also within the
single domain of theatre. There is also a clear distinction between the basic function of the mask and additional functions that it can fulll as carrier of specic
signs, particularly characterization: the mask can convey traits such as gender,
age, social class, economic status, and religious afliation. The mask can also indicate mood and style.
Disguise can be seen as a kind of expanded mask for the entire body. The term
disguise, however, does not apply to the costume of all wearers of masks. Actors do not disguise the fact that they are enacting characters. Consequently, we
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speak of their costumes. The difference between disguise and costume is that
the latter enacts a costume in the ctional world. Costume also fullls functions
of characterization, such as gender, age, status, mood, style, and in some cases period and nationality. The difference between mask and disguise (mask-garment)
is that a mask is an unusual attachment to the face, clearly distinguished from it,
and a costume is a usual addition to the body. A mask on stage does not necessarily enact the use of a mask in the ctional world, unless, for example, it describes a carnival scene. If the use of a mask is part of a theatrical style, it conveys
the message that the actors are describing somebody else. This does not extend
automatically to garments. A stage garment always enacts a ctional garment.
As mentioned earlier (chapter 10), Goffman describes social behavior in terms
of donning masks, while invoking the etymology of persona, which originally
meant actors mask (30). This etymology is probably correct, but it should not
be used to support a scientic thesis. If such a mask reects the cluster of roles
one identies with and strives to live up toa self-imageit does not express
or refer to an-other, but to the wearer of the mask. In this sense, this etymology is misleading.
Mask is sometimes used in the sense of pretense, but in any of all the domains under scrutinytheatre, ritual, carnival, and even social lifethis notion does not apply. Whereas pretense is a behavioral lie, all the performers in
these three domains faithfully fulll their predetermined roles, including carnival revelers, who are permitted to be their other selves. Even in naturalistic theatre actors do not pretend.
The use of masks is thus not indicative of any afnity between acting on the
one hand and ritual and carnival on the other; therefore, nothing can be inferred
from it about the roots of theatre.

The Feast of Fools

Feast of Fools is used here as a generic term that in this context applies to a variety of customs. This set includes the Feast of the Ass; the Mock King; the Abbot
of Unreason; the Prince of Fools; the Patriarch, Bishop, or Pope of Fools; the Boy
Bishop; and the Lord of Misrule. All these revolve around the inversion of social
hierarchy and established rules for a limited period, even for a single day, which
is an additional communal manifestation of the spirit of carnival. For example,
the Lord of Misrule presides over twelve days from Christmas (25 December
6 January) and the Boy Bishop over Christmas week (25 December1 January).
Welsford traces the roots of the Feast of Fools to ancient Rome, where they
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215

must be sought among the old pre-Christian customs, more particularly the
Kalends and Saturnalia of pagan Rome (199). Welsford alludes to Lucian, who,
in his Saturnalia, has drawn a vivid picture of the Liberties of December,
that merry festival when the winter darkness was lightened by the restoration
of the golden reign of Saturn, and for a short time masters and slaves changed
places, laws lost their force, and a mock king ruled over a topsy-turvy world.
The same freedom prevailed at the New Year festival of the Kalends, when
people exchanged presents, masqueraded, played the fool and gave reign to
their appetites, with the laudable object of ensuring prosperity and plenty for
the next twelve months. (199)
Although the Kalends and Saturnalia constitute an important phase in the development of carnival, the roots of this inverted ritual may well hark further
back, perhaps even to prehistoric times.
Early Christianity was determined to uproot this pagan custom. The Catholic
Church waged ceaseless war upon the Kalends during the rst centuries of the
Christian era, because it was regarded as a form of devil-worship leading to inevitable damnation. Nonetheless, in spite of all her efforts, the old pagan rites
not only survived as rustic amusements, they actually penetrated into the interior of the churches and at length gave rise to that famous clerical Saturnalia in
which mighty persons were humbled, sacred things profaned, laws relaxed and
ethical ideals reversed, under the leadership of a Patriarch, Pope, or Bishop of
Fools (Welsford: 199). It is noteworthy that the only medieval sources of information on these antirites are exactly the same as the sources on medieval theatre:
the rulings of the Church.
We nd that already in the ninth century the Council of Constantinople condemned the profanity of courtiers who paraded a mock patriarch and burlesqued
the Divine mysteries (Welsford: 199). First indications for Western Europe are
from the twelfth century, when Joannes Belethus, who was rector of Theology
at Paris, informs us that the priests, deacons, subdeacons and choir children each
have their special days of rejoicing after Christmas, and that the feast of the subdeacons which is held on the Circumcision or on Epiphany or the Octave of the
Epiphany is called the Feast of Fools (200). The spirit of the Saturnalia probably was not revived but instead enjoyed a clandestine continuity throughout the
centuries, inltrating into and affecting all Christian Europe. The custom was
forbidden in 1438 by the Pragmatic Sanction of Charles VII and gradually declined, although traces of it remained as late as the seventeenth century (201).
Such feasts were professedly of an antiritual character. Glynne Wickham
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claims that [c]lerics could involve themselves in dramatic parodies of sacred rituals like the Feast of the Ass or the Boy Bishop, just as easily as artisans of city
guilds could devote themselves to the reenactment of the Crucixion or the Last
Judgement (4). The parodied sacred rituals included the Mass. The procedure,
although it varied at different places and times, took the basic form of a reversal
of the ritual, with several additions. Welsford suggests the following model:
The transformation began with the singing of the Magnicat at Vespers, when
the words He hath put down the mighty from their seat and hath exalted the
humble and meek were repeated again and again, while the baculus or staff
of ofce was delivered into the hands of one of the despised subdeacons who
as Bishop or Pope or King of Fools led his fellows into the stalls of the higher
clergy, to remain there and usurp their functions for the duration of the feast.
This transference of authority was the signal for the beginning of the most astonishing revels. As soon as the higher clergy shed their authority the ecclesiastical ritual lost its sanctity. Even the Mass was burlesqued. Censing was
done with pudding and sausages. Sometimes an ass was introduced into the
church. . . . On these occasions [the parodied] solemn Mass was punctuated
with brays and howls (Welsford: 200).
The Feast of Fools was thus an inversion not only of social hierarchy but also of
established values. It was an inversion of the social hierarchy for the sake of inversion of valuesand ultimately for the sake of catharsis and reafrmation of
values.
The insistence on the idea of folly reects its main function. Welsford assumes that the clerks must have had at least some dim awareness of the profound antagonism between the riotous mocking spirit of the Saturnalia, and the
spirit of Faith of which they were the ofcial exponents and explains that all
was done in jest, that they were not more responsible than half-witted fools for
their behavior during a brief and well earned season of relaxation (202). Although folly does indeed lend a rational dimension to antiritual, there is no antagonism between mockery and faith. Welsford invokes a doctor of Auxterre
who explained the vital and sacred function of carnival by means of a secular
analogy: wine barrels break if their bungholes are not occasionally opened to let
in the air, and the clergy being nothing but old wine-casks badly put together
would certainly burst if the wine of wisdom were allowed to boil by continued
devotion to the Divine service (202). Although this doctor describes the functional pressure (continued devotion) and cathartic function of carnival in general, this most tting analogy also applies to the Feast of Fools. Welsford stresses:
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217

Circumstances, as we have seen, drove the vicars and subdeacons to emphasize

the idea of folly as a safety-valve, a permitted form of relief and relaxation (216).
The spirit of the Feast of Fools transcends the limits of time and space set for
its expression. Welsford traces the roots of the Lord of Misrule or the Abbot of
Unreason to the fool (198), since in his role and costume as an anti-king he embodies the principle of inversion of social hierarchy and in his spirit the principle
of inversion of values. Clowns and fools . . . were the constant, accredited representatives of the carnival spirit in everyday life out of carnival season. Like Triboulet [the court fool] at the time of Francis I, they were not actors playing their
parts on stage, as did the comic actors of a later period, impersonating Harlequin,
Hanswurst, etc., but remained fools and clowns always and wherever they made
their appearance (Bakhtin: 8). If folly is the name of the game, there is no reason to conne it only in time; it can also be restricted to a functional role in
everyday life.
With only slight exaggeration, however, folly can also become a means of
social criticism, aimed at overthrowing established values for good. The dialectical nature of the fool, therefore, soon became a focus of humanism: the clergys
emphasis on the idea of temporary misrule and tolerated folly must have helped
to develop the medieval idea of the fool as the licensed critic of society. This development was carried a stage further, when the Lord of Misrule expelled from
the churches was heartily welcomed in towns, law courts, and universities, and
the ecclesiastic Feast of Fools was succeeded by the secular Socit Joyeuse (Welsford: 202 3). In particular:
The Enfants-sans-Souci emphasized the idea of folly as a mask for the wise
and an armour for the critic. Their misrule was no temporary relaxation of
law and order, but a more subtle and permanent reversal of ordinary judgements. It was the wisdom of Mre-Folle to display the folly of the wise, and it
was this intellectualization of folly which gave the fool his inuence over literature and the drama, and also made the fools licence a very desirable privilege. (Welsford: 216)
Thus carnivalesque humor was transmuted into satire, and established values
were undermined rather than reinforced.
None of the varieties of the Feast of Fools provide any explicit hint regarding
theatrical representation. The parody of ritual conducted by the Bishop or Pope
of Fools makes an obvious use of theatrical representation, however, since it is a
real bishop or pope who is enacted.

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The Purim-Rabbi
The Purim-Rabbi, the Jewish equivalent of the Lord of Misrule, is a more recent
phenomenon and has the advantage of allowing access to well-preserved primary sources and even to contemporary examples. Some of the texts created
within the tradition of the Purim-Rabbi and several descriptions of the custom
by people who actually witnessed it in performance are still available. Moreover,
the custom still persists today, although it is conned to a few Orthodox communities, particularly in the United States and Israel.
This custom originated and developed in the Jewish communities of Central
and Eastern Europe alongside the purim-shpil. The geographical distribution of
the custom overlaps the distribution of Central and East European Jewry. Although the similarity between the Lord of Misrule and the Purim-Rabbi is profound, it is very difcult to establish any direct inuence. While the Christian
custom seems to have disappeared completely by the end of the seventeenth century, the Jewish custom only emerged at that time.
The custom features the appointment of a yeshiva student as mock rabbi with
the blessing of the head of the school. The Purim-Rabbi is chosen for a single
day. In most communities the typical day was the second day of Purim, called
Shoshan-Purim, which is devoted to the commemoration of Purim in fortied
cities. In Eastern Europe, however, this holiday was also celebrated in nonfortied cities and aimed at enhancing the merriment of the holiday. The custom,
which included several phases, culminated in the delivery of a parodic sermon by
the mock rabbi. This was usually performed in the synagogue, in front of a male
audience, particularly because of their degree of familiarity with the parodied
texts and prociency in the languages (Hebrew, Aramaic, and Yiddish) involved
in the mock and mocked sermons.
The main criteria for the election of the Purim-Rabbi are mastery of Jewish
literature, particularly the Talmud, and excellence in parodying its style in the
spirit of playfulness characteristic of Purim. The elected student is dressed up in
the garments of a rabbi, including the typical black silk gown and shtraiml (furhat) worn by Orthodox Jews on holidays. He is also given a beard and long sidelocks. His investiture, which is a parody of the real ceremony, is then performed,
and his appointment is ratied by a ktav rabbanut (rabbinical credential), that is,
a parodic version of the original one. This document also species his future
earnings; for example, in one of the extant texts the newly appointed rabbi is
promised the noises of the doors revolving on their hinges, the echo of the tune
of the shoffar [ritual horn], chickens milk, and in addition to his income: the twi-

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light of crepuscule, the shades of the walls of a succa [wall-less booth built for the
Feast of Tabernacles], and the morning cloud on condition that all his teachings are devoid of any trace of truth. Subsequently, the Purim-Rabbi and his entourage enter the yeshiva precinct, taking the habitual place of the real rabbi,
while the latter withdraws to the students place and prays with the community.
The mock-rabbi then engages in imitation of the real rabbi at prayer, particularly
the inection of his voice and his facial and body gestures, eventually giving his
mock sermon, which often includes humorous insinuations aimed at the school
establishment and the head of the yeshiva.
This temporary usurpation of authority reects the carnivalesque nature of
the event. This principle is usually referred to by the expression nahaphoch hu,
quoted from the Book of Esther (9 : 1), which means the opposite is the case. In
this sense too Purim features a ritual reversal of the social hierarchy, which is reected in the interchange of roles in meaningful pairs, such as man-woman,
master-servant, andin the case of the Purim-Rabbiteacher-student, aiming
at catharsis of psychological pressure in the spirit characteristic of the holiday.
The mock sermon parodies its model in its way of reasoning, ample quotation
from holy scriptures, mixture of languages, address to actuality, and improvisation. An excerpt from one such text, for example, reads as follows:
Is it the case that Haman [the villain of the Book of Esther] was a righteous
man? Yes, he was a righteous man. We learn that from Abraham, who wanted
to kill only one Jewish soul [Isaac] and was called righteous; Haman, who
wanted to annihilate all the Jews, is he not entitled to be called righteous? And,
since he was a righteous man, why was he hanged? The learned Rabbi Kozban
[Hebrew: deceiver], Rabbi Shakran [Hebrew: liar] and Rabbi Barozovi Falakar
[Yiddish: nickname given to a rude person] were divided on this issue. Rabbi
Kozban says: Haman was handsome and he was hanged for the sake of ornament, as a beautiful picture is hanged on the wall. Rabbi Shakran says: Haman
was a miser and he hanged himself for less than a penny. And Rabbi Barozovi
Falakar says: he was found wet in the morning and was hanged under the sun
to dry up.
One of the sources refers to criticism of a Purim-Rabbi who, although he excelled
in his imitation of the rabbi, was found to have been too serious, thereby breaching the conditions of his appointment. The student excused himself by revealing
that all the sources on which he based his line of argumentation were of his own
invention. The excuse was accepted, since in his own way he had succeeded in
mocking all his learned audience.

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The Purim-Rabbi enjoys the typical license allowed to the fool. Some sources
indicate that the parodist was permitted to say whatever he wanted, including addressing barbed criticism and satire. In this sense, the custom harbors a potentially subversive element that could overpower its cathartic function. The paradox is that its benet to the social structure in releasing functional pressure
depends on its ability to put the authorities in a comic, and possibly satiric, perspective. The more procient the performer, however, the more dangerous it becomes, and the borderline between healthy humor and critical satire becomes
ner. This basic duality may explain the persistent and consistent objections to
the custom found in various sources. Moreover, some accounts indicate that on
several occasions the Purim-Rabbi breached the rules of the game, and the custom was banned.
In contrast to the purim-shpil, which is performed at home in front of an audience including women and children, the Purim-Rabbi performs in front of a
selected male audience: the teachers and students of the yeshiva, including the
head of the school, who is the object of imitation. These men are all well versed
in their culture, particularly in the style of the sermon, its literary sources and
languages. Furthermore, all of them live under the direct administrative, moral,
and religious authority of their rabbi, who thereby becomes, within their social
system, the natural source of functional pressure. This explains the cathartic
function of the mock sermon.
This expression of the carnivalesque spirit of Purim was never conceived, either by practitioners or by scholars, in terms of theatre. The Purim-Rabbi complies, however, with our denition of the theatre medium, since he embodies the
principle of acting in the sense of imprinting human images on a real human being and deection of reference. The Purim-Rabbi enacts the real rabbi by imitating his easily identied bodily characteristics (subject signs) and by producing changing images that describe him (predicate signs) in the spirit of parody.
Although this type of imitation, which can be found even in secular schools
whenever students mimic their teachers, is not usually viewed as a subspecies of
theatrical activity, there is in fact no distinction between them. Whereas the
Purim-Rabbi enacts a real person, the theatre actor usually makes reference (although not exclusively so) to a ctional character. Such a difference, however,
does not abolish their shared quality of acting. Even theatre proper quite frequently enacts real people, such as Julius Caesar, Pope Pius XII, or Evita Pern,
although here too ctionalization is never completely absent. It is possible, perhaps, to distinguish between theatre and mere mimicry on the grounds of artistic value. It would indeed appear that there is no artistic objective in the Purim-

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Rabbis imitation; nonetheless, it is a spontaneous theatrical form. He employs

the theatre medium with a humorous and at times satiric design, with the deliberate intention to conveyalbeit for cathartic purposesan alternative view of
the world.

Parody of Sacred Texts

Parody of sacred texts is a further reection of the spirit of carnival. Since, in
principle, parody is a text that refers to another text, it follows that both the parody and the object of parody must be conceived as formulated in a given medium. As suggested above, even real life can be conceived as a text. Parody of a
verbal text can be verbal or theatrical and touches upon our research insofar as it
is theatrical.
An object of parody can be a ritual text, such as a prayer, a hymn, or a narrative. Welsford maintains that even the Mass was burlesqued (200). The Mass
should be seen as a complex act/action, performed by means of a set of verbal or
other texts, whose intended perlocutionary effect is to dispose God to bestow His
grace on the performers of the ritual. In this sense, the Mass is not a description
of a state of affairs but changes or creates a state of affairs. The use of a medium
in performing such an act/action is not only theoretically possible but is in fact
a central element of the Mass. It can be seen, therefore, as a complex macrosemiotic act, which performs texts formulated either by language, such as prayers
and hymns, or by the theatre medium, such as the Quem Quaeritis. Actions are
essentially self-referential in nature, and on this level participants perform indexes of fervor, repentance, and penitence in order to propitiate God and obtain
His grace. On the verbal or iconic level participants read, sing, or listen to verbal
texts and, in some cases, watch a theatrical performance. As a complex macrosemiotic act, the Mass satises the denition of text and the requirements of a
potential object of parody. Therefore, it can be parodied by a literary or a theatrical text, without in itself being a literary or theatrical text. Similar considerations apply to the Purim-Rabbi with regard to the mocked rabbi.
Judaism possesses a vast literature of parodies of ritual texts, ranging from the
Passover Seder to the requiem. Jewish parody is known to have originated in
Spain in the twelfth century, continuing after the expulsion of the Jews in 1492
(Rozik 1992b). From the very beginning, literary parody established an umbilical
link with Purim. Most literary parodies on sacred texts were written for this occasion, and this link became consolidated in subsequent centuries. Connement
to sacred texts is explained by the typical atmosphere of the day, which allows an
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exceptional disregard of certain religious rules. This could not have been possible
unless the rabbinical authorities had given their blessing, thereby creating a day
of established misrule.
Parodies were usually written in Hebrew and occasionally in Aramaic before
parodies in Yiddish began to appear. There is a distinction between parodies on
actual texts, such as prayers, and parodies on the styles of sacred books, such as
the Bible or the Talmud (Shmerok: 49 50). None of these parodies burlesque the
source-text; they are conned to imitation of formal and stylistic elements, while
being devoted to a humorous subject (usually feasting and carousing).
Sacredness would thus appear to be a prerequisite for a text to become an object of parody, and the originality of the parodist resides, among other things, in
spotting additional texts for this purpose. Perhaps the most extreme case is the
parody on the Kaddish (requiem), a prayer of utmost sacredness, composed in
the fteenth century in Aramaic (Davidson: 31). There is no hint in any of these
parodies of any intention to undermine seriousness and faith (Davidson: 19). On
the contrary, they indicate a clear intention to circumscribe the experience
within the limits of the holiday and to release the functional pressure accumulated during the year due to meticulous observance, under the strict surveillance
of the religious authorities. In that sense, this mild type of parody reects the carnivalesque duality of Purim: whereas sacred texts are excellent objects of parody,
since functional pressure is a result of strict observance, there is no aim beyond
catharsis itself.
The use of theatrical parody at Purim became consolidated in Ashkenaz (Germany) in the seventeenth century. By then Yiddish was acknowledged as one
of the cultural languages of Judaism. In fact, the Yiddish term purim-shpil was
originally applied to all humorous literary texts written especially for Purim in
Yiddish and only later restricted to theatrical works. Yiddish thus attached to the
basic triangular relationship carnivalesque permissiveness, parody, and theatreto become the keynote of Purim. Subsequently theatrical parody spread
throughout Eastern Europe and eventually (following the major waves of emigration at the end of the nineteenth and beginning of the twentieth century)
reached the New World and Israel, where it is still observed today. In Israel theatrical parody was restored to Hebrew, the original language of both parodying
and most parodied texts.
Most theatrical purim-shpils are parodies of the Book of Esther and feature
parodic treatment on two levels: (1) the entire narrative of the book and (2) short
texts inserted into the main narrative. The latter genre features parodies of texts
relevant to various situations in the ctional action, such as prayers, matrimonial
contracts, and legal discussions in the style of the Talmud (for example, the par{ The Spirit of Carnival }

223

ody of the matrimonial contract at the royal wedding in the typical Ahashveroshshpil, based on the Book of Esther. In this context, however, the parody of the
main narrative is most relevant to our study, since this piece of storytelling is embodied in theatrical form.
The parodic intent is evident, for these plays used to be produced for a restricted audience extremely familiar with all the source-texts in their original serious form. The Book of Esther itself is read twice in the synagogue, during the
serious services of the eve and following morning of Purim, before the performance of the play during the festive meal (Shmerok: 86). The contiguity of these
performances emphasizes the symbiotic relationship between the sacred text and
its parody.
Parodic treatment of the Book of Esther could have been made in literary
form. The use of the theatre medium is probably best explained by the two-fold
injunction against parody and theatre in ordinary life and the parallel lifting
of these prohibitions at Purim. The use of Yiddish, conceived as a nonsacred
language, may be explained on equal grounds. While it would appear that an
element of secularity is introduced, the contrast to the strict rule of religion
throughout the year in fact explains both the exceptions made at Purim and its
cathartic function. Only the sacredness of the Book of Esther explains the complementary ritual function of its parody, in the context of a religious establishment that zealously safeguards its authority.
The theatre medium could have been created by parodying a nontheatrical
text, whether a ritual or regular verbal text. Parody, however, presupposes both
the textuality of the object-text and the preexistence of the specic medium of
parody itself. Parodic treatment of a mythical narrative could reect the roots of
theatre, if the theatre medium was used, but it cannot reect its origins. The same
applies to the burlesque treatment of myth, as in Megarean farce. Burlesque too
probably was a complementary safety-valve to ritual. It could also explain the
historical creation of Greek theatre as a carnivalesque function in contemporary
culture, for the sake of safeguarding its faith. The creation of the purim-shpil
demonstrates that theatrical parody of ritual may employ an existing medium.
Indeed, Jewish theatre was created in the context of a surrounding culture that
had reached the peak of theatrical art. We can envisage the possibility of spontaneous mimicry of ritual or sacred narrative; but such a treatment would only be
an additional indication of the existential roots of theatre.
* * *
The possible afnity of ritual, carnival, and theatreapparently reected in disguise, imitation, and the use of maskshas proven nonexistent. In theatre there
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is no disguise, no imitation in the sense of mimicry, and no use of masks in the

sense of expression of the other. In theatre there is only description of the other.
Yet the spirit of carnival is conducive to customs that employ theatrical elements. First, the parody of ritual conducted by the Bishop or Pope of Fools
makes obvious use of theatrical representation, and this is corroborated by the
Purim-Rabbis performance of a mock sermon. Second, there is the theatrical
parody of the Book of Esther typical of Purim, in which the serious-ritual reading of the Scroll is performed immediately prior to its burlesque theatrical version. In both cases theatrical parody relates to nontheatrical texts: the performance of a mock sermon to a real rabbis performance of a verbal text and the
purim-shpil to a ctional literary text. In both cases the theatre medium is known
to have been borrowed from the surrounding culture, and their theatricality
emerges from the simple impulse to ridicule the source-text by enacting its
people or characters.
Both customs indicate that, in its elementary forms, the theatrical medium
can be used even in spontaneous parody, which can be seen as an additional
manifestation of the existential roots of theatre.

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12
Culture
as
Play/Game



Johan Huizinga aims at a theory of culture according to which virtually everything that eventually developed into higher forms of cultural activity, including
theatre, was originally a form of play or, rather, game.
In Huizingas view, drama is inherently a form of play. He employs drama
in a vague sense, which may apply to both the ctional and medium aspects of
theatre. Because of this alleged fundamental quality, in contrast to all other arts,
theatre cannot sever itself from play. Following the ritualistic approach, Huizinga
also accepts the intrinsic relationship between ritual and theatre, but he views
both in terms of play. It is evident that Schechner found inspiration for several
of his ideas in Huizingas theory, in particular the central function he assigns to
fun. Although Schechner subordinates the entire set of noninstrumental activities to the notion of performance, Huizingas Homo Ludens is undoubtedly a
crucial link in the chain leading to Schechners theory of the primordial elements
of theatre and ritual. The problem resides in Huizingas denition of play:
rather than emphasizing imaginative playwhich shares fundamental qualities with theatrehe bestows cardinal importance on the principles underlying
the game.
Huizinga attempts to present his theory without recurring to psychological or
biological explanations. He claims that elements of play can also be detected in
the animal world (foreword) but discards theories that assign a biological function to play, such as discharge of excess energy or training for adult behavior, because they start from the assumption that play must serve something which is
not play and not with the question of what play is in itself and what it means
for the player (2; emphasis in original). In answering the question of what it

means for the player my own intuition is that it is impossible to abstain from
assuming at least a psychological function. Indeed, as we shall see further on,
Huizinga uses notions such as fun with no explanation of the underlying psychological mechanism and function in the economy of the psyche.
Huizinga faces difculty in dening play on the abstract level of being an elementary activity: play is a function of the living, but is not susceptible of exact
denition either logically, biologically or aesthetically. . . . Hence we shall conne
ourselves to describing the main characteristics of play (7). Despite this phenomenological approach, we nd two sets of qualities that amount to denitions
of play as a kind of human activity (13, 132). The following list is a selective combination of both:
1. Play is a free or voluntary activity: [p]lay to order is no longer play (7).
2. Play is fun. It fosters a mood of rapture and enthusiasm and is sacred or
festive in accordance with the occasion. A feeling of exaltation and tension accompanies the action, mirth and relaxation follow (132). This aspect, which is
the only motive of play, seems to imply a psychological function, but this is not
made explicit.
3. Play is free: Child and animal play because they enjoy playing and therein
precisely lies their freedom (8).
4. Play stands outside ordinary life, beyond the sphere of necessity or material utility. In this sense it is disinterested, not serious, and even superuous:
For us the opposite of play is earnest, also used in the more special sense of
work; while the opposite of earnest can either be play or jesting, joking. However, the complementary pair of opposites play-earnest is the more important
(44). Moreover, play lies beyond moralsit is neither good nor badbecause
morals regulate life (6, 213), and beyond knowledgeit is neither true nor false
since knowledge is subordinated to life. Play creates a world of its own.
5. Play proceeds according to xed rules, freely accepted, and in an orderly
manner. Play creates order, is order. Into an imperfect world and into the confusion of life it brings a temporary, a limited perfection. Play demands order absolute and supreme. The least deviation from it spoils the game, robs it from its
character and makes it worthless (10). The profound gap between ordinary
life and play implies that there is a difference between rules of play and rules that
regulate other human activities, such as law, morals, economy, and particularly
languages, but such a distinction is not made explicit.
6. Play proceeds within its own boundaries of time and space. It is . . . a stepping out of real life into a temporary sphere of activity with a disposition all of
its own (8).

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227

7. Play absorbs the player intensely and utterly in its world; in this sense, it
is serious. Since Huizinga attempts to deal with play from the viewpoint of
the player (4), this type of seriousness also denes play. Furthermore, it is the coexistence of this seriousness and practical nonseriousness on two different levels, the worlds of play and reality, which characterizes play. In this dialectical relationship [a]t any moment ordinary life may reassert its rights either by an
impact from without, which interrupts the game, or by an offence against the
rules, or else from within, by a collapse of the play spirit, a sobering, a disenchantment (21).
8. Besides its formal characteristics and its joyful mood, genuine play possesses at least one further very essential feature, namely, the consciousness, however latent, of only pretending (22). The child plays in complete . . . earnest.
But it plays and knows that it plays. The sportsman, too, plays with all the fervor
of a man enraptured, but he still knows that he is playing. The actor on stage is
wholly absorbed in his playing, but is all the time conscious of the play (18).
Moreover, [e]very child knows perfectly well that he is only pretending, or that
it was only for fun (8).
All these qualities are deliberately presented without distinguishing between
essential and circumstantial. The adjective essential is attached to qualities
such as the consciousness of only pretending (22), although it is not included
in any of the denitions of fun (3) and rule-governed behavior (10). In contrast, a feature such as operating within its own boundaries of time and space
is conceived as marginal and optional. Despite the existence of more essential
features, the description presupposes that only a conguration of qualities characterizes a certain kind of human activity.
Huizinga points to a fundamental afnity between play and aesthetics: The
profound afnity between play and order is perhaps the reason why play . . .
seems to lie to such an extent in the eld of aesthetics. Play has a tendency to be
beautiful. It may be that this aesthetic factor is identical with the impulse to create orderly form, which animates play in all its aspects (10). He explicitly excludes aesthetics from any explanation of play (7), however, and even denies that
poetrya kind of play can be understood only in terms of aesthetics (120).
From my viewpoint, fun is a crucial and problematic feature in the denition of play, since it reintroduces the notion of function. Although Huizinga
avoids going into the psychological intricacies of play, it is clear that fun reects
a satisfaction of a need (e.g., catharsis) or, in other words, the fulllment of a
function in the psychical economy of the player. Perhaps, in this case too, we
should apply his general principle of play as a cultural function and claim

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{ Hedges and Boundaries }

that this does not detract from its disinterested character on the instrumental
level, for the purposes it serves are external to immediate material interests or
the individual satisfaction of biological needs (9). In other words, play can have
a function and yet, on another level, be disinterested.
With regard to the higher cultural forms, the coexistence of utter involvement
in play and a sense of unreality as one of the elements that denes play is problematic. This is most conspicuous with regard to ritual: The question remains
how far such a consciousness is compatible with the ritual act performed in devotion. . . . As far as I know, ethnologists and anthropologists concur in the opinion that the mental attitude in which the great religious feasts of savages are celebrated and witnessed is not one of complete illusion. There is an underlying
consciousness of things not being real (22). The question, however, is whether
or not such a sense of things not being real is the same as the sense that children have when they play. In this Huizinga seems to be misled by his own use of
very abstract qualities, although he does concede that, [d]espite this partial consciousness of things not being real in magic and supernatural phenomena generally, these authorities still warn against drawing the inference that the whole
system of beliefs and practices is only a fraud invented by a group of unbelievers with a view of dominating the credulous (24).
Although the sense of an activity typical of children underlies Huizingas
denition of play, in fact, in this sense play is not discussed at all. Since our
theme is the relation of play to culture we need not enter into all the possible
forms of play, but can restrict ourselves to its social manifestations. These we may
call the higher forms of play (7). The transition from such lower forms (i.e.,
sheer play) to these higher forms, however, is crucial for his theory, since Huizinga includes in the latter certain human activities, such as ritual, justice, and
war, which are usually not conceived in terms of play and whose inclusion contradicts sound intuition.
Furthermore, the emphasis on rules reveals that Huizingas denition derives
from a particular kind of play, namely game, including sport. There is, however, another and particularly important kind of play, highly relevant to our
study: imaginative mimetic play, which does not seem to conform to the principle of rule-governed behavior and, therefore, does not show forms of transgression unless reality intrudes. It is this type of play that is of most interest to our
study, since it might reect common roots with theatre; unfortunately, Huizinga
does not refer to this type of play.

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229

Methodological Considerations
In his discussion of the relationship between play and culture, Huizinga includes
domains as diverse as play, games, sports, ritual, war, administration of justice,
and the arts. Even life insurance, we are told, started as a form of betting on future eventualities, such as the life and death of individuals, the birth of boys or
girls, and the outcome of voyages and pilgrimages (53). Some of these domains
are viewed as play proper, and others are assumed to reveal both a profound afnity with play and a nature of their own. No wonder, therefore, that Huizinga
overextends the notion of play through extreme abstraction. Indeed, in order
for any cultural entity to be considered the source of all the others, it would require abstraction to such a degree that even cardinal differences would no longer
be applicable. What does the category of play reveal about the nature of the
constituent subcategories? Overabstraction leads to categories that are no longer
relevant to the qualities of their subspecies, as is the case with the category of
performance in Schechners theory. In Huizingas theory, in particular, the notion of play is not what is generally understood but, rather, is presented as a set
of abstracted qualities not always consistently applied, whose inadequacies are
self-evident:
1. The abstract qualities are dened differently for each type of phenomenon
under consideration. For example, in viewing poetry as a kind of play Huizinga
gives an unexpected interpretation of its connement in time and place: It
proceeds within the playground of the mind, in a world of its own which the
mind creates for it (119). The notion of place is thus extended to the realm of
the mind.
2. The abstract qualities are dened so broadly that their reversed application
is not necessarily true. For example, whereas Huizinga claims that play is rulegoverned, not all human activities that are rule-governed are play, since such a
characterization would include within play all languages, scientic methodologies, mathematics, social life (e.g., law), and even the entire economic system
(which is explicitly excluded by Huizinga). The introduction of order, more correctly, reects a general human propensity, of which the use of rules in games is
only a particular case. Moreover, although it is true that some kinds of play are
rule governed, not all of them are.
Similarly Huizinga claims that play is always conned to a given place; in this
sense, he nds that [j]ust as there is no formal difference between play and ritual, so the consecrated spot cannot be formally distinguished from the playground. The arena, the card-table, the magic circle, the temple, the stage, the
screen, the tennis court, the court of justice, etc., are all in form and function
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play-grounds, i.e., forbidden spots, isolated, hedged round, hallowed, within

which special rules obtain (10). The problem here, however, is that even activities which are not play, including those that are part of the economic system of
society (such as the marketplace or the stock exchange), are also conned in the
same way. All human activities reect a tendency to have a specic time and place
devoted to them. Furthermore, play is secluded from ordinary life ergo ordinary life becomes secluded from play.
3. The relationship of play to the higher forms is not consistently dened.
In most cases they are connected in terms of origins or roots. For example: Now
in myth and ritual the great instinctive forces of civilized life have their origin: law
and order, commerce and prot, craft and art, poetry, wisdom and science. All
are rooted in the primeval soil of play (5). In some passages, however, this is presented differently; for example, The great archetypal activities of human society
are all permeated with play from the start (4). Another example: Gradually the
signicance of a sacred act permeates the playing. Ritual grafts itself upon it; but
the primary thing is and remains play (18). Terms such as permeated and
grafted obviously different from originating or rootedpresuppose
having a nature of their own and combining, in line with his frequent use of
element of play, as in the subtitle of the book.
Huizinga himself eventually comes to the conclusion that his denition of the
category of play is too abstract and its extension too broad to prevent inclusion
of domains that even according to his own intuition should be excluded:
If we apply to science our denition of play as an activity occurring within certain limits of space, time, and meaning, according to xed rules, we might arrive at the amazing and horrifying conclusion that all the branches of science
and learning are so many forms of play because each of them is isolated within
its own eld and bounded by the strict rules of its own methodology. But if we
stick to the full terms of our denition we can see at once that, for an activity
to be called play, more is needed than limitations and rules. A game is time
bound, we said: it has no contact with any reality outside itself, and its performance is its own end. Further, it is sustained by the consciousness of being
a pleasurable, even mirthful, relaxation from the strains of ordinary life. None
of this is applicable to science. Science is not only perpetually seeking contact
with reality by its usefulness, i.e., in the sense that it is applied, it is perpetually trying to establish a universally valid pattern of reality, i.e., as pure science.
(Huizinga: 203; emphasis in original)
The implication here is that if the cleavage between reality-oriented activities and
play is essential, then other elements of the denition may well be dispensable.
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Huizinga, however, would have rejected this implication, because it contradicts

his entire theory; for if it is true, then other domains, such as justice and war,
must also remain outside the domain of play.
Whereas science is not viewed in terms of play, philosophy is. Its playful
element is found in its polemical and agonistic nature (Huizinga: 115). The presupposition is that philosophy is not perpetually trying to establish a universally
valid pattern of reality (203). This stands in stark contradiction to the generally
accepted view that philosophy is also committed to a better understanding of the
world and provides the cognitive foundations of science.
In general, Huizingas method of research is also based on cultural anthropology; therefore, all the reservations that have been raised above with regard to
this discipline apply equally to his theory. He also recurs to popular semantics;
thus my reservations in this respect are based on the observation that natural language is not systematic to the degree of reecting scientic knowledge. Its categories are not explicitly dened and leave room for much speculation and projection of desired meanings.

Contest and Representation

Huizinga distinguishes between two basic types of play: a contest for something
or a representation of something (13). What he usually detects as an element of
play in the higher forms of culture is the spirit and form of contest, whereas he
hardly addresses the element of representation at all. While the notion of representation is most relevant to our study, however, the notion of contest absolutely is not. Moreover, representation is not dened in its usual sense of
both system of signication and medium: Representation means display, and
this may simply consist in the exhibition of something naturally given, before an
audience. The peacock and the turkey merely display their gorgeous plumage to
the females, but the essential feature of it lies in the parading of something out of
the ordinary and calculated to arouse admiration. If the bird accompanies this
exhibition with dance-steps we have a performance (13). In this sense, representation is conceived more as an atypical kind of contest, performed by a single
individual, against the background of usual qualities or achievements of others.
Representation is also equated with performance, in a sense akin to Kirbys
and Schechners approaches.
It is contest, according to Huizinga, that characterizes play in its social function and is transferred to the higher forms, because it derives from playing together, usually between groups, which has an essentially antithetical character.
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As a rule it is played between two parties or teams (47). Typical of contest is the
passion to win, which sometimes threatens to obliterate the levity proper to
a game (47), although not its typical seriousness. Winning means showing
oneself superior in the outcome of a game (50). Furthermore, there is always
something at stake (49), such as honour, esteem, prestige (50), which are
symbolized in material form by medals, cups, and banners. This function can be
shifted from the protagonist to the spectator, who merely watches the struggles
of others appointed for that purpose, namely, these others struggle on behalf
of the spectators (74). Nonetheless, [l]ike all other forms of play, the contest is
largely devoid of purpose. That is to say, the action begins and ends in itself, and
the outcome does not contribute to the necessary life process of the group. . . .
the outcome of a game or a contest except, of course, one played for pecuniary
protis only interesting to those who enter it as players or spectators . . . and
accept its rules (49). Lack of purpose clearly applies to such activities only from
the viewpoint of ordinary life. Although Huizinga deliberately avoids such a
conclusion, this passion to win clearly betrays a psychological function.
Huizinga alleges that this element of struggle exists in all the higher social
forms: for example, a lawsuit properly resembles a contest whatever the ideal
foundations of the law may be (76). It is dominated by the desire to win the case,
subject to a system of restrictive rules (78). It is also secluded from life: Judges
about to administer justice step outside ordinary life as soon as they don wig
and gown (77). An interesting offshoot of this approach is Jody Enderss Rhetoric and the Origins of Medieval Drama. The main claim of this book is that forensic rhetoric had a crucial inuence on the creation of medieval drama (15):
orators focused increasingly on pleasing their audiences with the aesthetic performance of a juridical agon. Our understanding of early drama must thus take
into account the fact that the legal ordeal was far more than a popular medieval
theme: its discourse constituted an enduring dialogic structure whose ludic, conictual features were analogous to those that had once spawned early Christianity and pre-Christian ludi (17; emphasis in original). Moreover, echoing Hardisons thesis, the mimetic instinct was present in the court of justice no less than
in the Church. This approach, however, reveals the same problems as those in
the approaches of Huizinga and Hardison (chapter 5).
Engaging in philosophy is also described in terms of contest: the philosopher, from the earliest times to the late Sophists and Rhetors, always appeared as
a typical champion. He challenged his rivals, he attacked them with vehement
criticism and extolled his own opinions as the only true ones. . . . In style and
form the earliest samples of philosophy are polemical and agonistic (115).
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etry and drama (133, 145), music and songs (124), plastic arts (169), and ritual
competition (173). In this sense, even science is considered to be polemical (204).
Huizingas most puzzling example is war, which he perceives as best illustrating the civilizing function of play. This distressing view is explained as follows:
We can only speak of war as a cultural function so long as it is waged within
a sphere whose members regard each other as equals or antagonists with
equal rights; in other words its cultural function depends on its play quality.
This condition changes as soon as war is waged outside the sphere of equals,
against groups not recognized as human beings and thus deprived of human
rightsbarbarians, devils, heathens, and lesser breeds without the law. In
such circumstances war loses its play-quality altogether and can only remain
within the bounds of civilization in so far as the parties to it accept certain limitations for the sake of their own honour. (Huizinga: 89 90)
In other words, war is civilized when it restricts itself by rules, which in Huizingas view dene play. Furthermore, the motives of war may be similar to
those of sport contests: in the great majority of cases the real motives [of war]
are to be found less in the necessities of economic expansion, etc., than in pride
and vainglory, the desire for prestige and all the pomps of superiority (90). The
element of play is seen to be most conspicuous in medieval single combat in
which knights would decide the outcome of a war by personal combat instead of
engaging the entire army (91). It is clear that Huizinga reects and relies on a romantic view of war, particularly inuenced by literary descriptions of wars in the
Middle Ages: it is certain that the soil in which chivalry ourished has yielded a
rich harvest, the veritable rst-fruits of civilization. Epic and lyrical expression of
the noblest kind, brilliant decorative art, splendid ceremonialall have sprung
from this immemorial conception of war as a noble game. A direct line runs from
the knight to the honnte homme of the 17th century and the modern gentleman (104). It is also clear, however, that in this sense play is in no way a constitutive element of war but only a circumstantial one. Moreover, the mere categorization of play and war under the same heading is in fact an act of legitimization
and, perhaps, deserves a response on the same level: in my view, the element of
play, rather than mitigating the barbaric and absurd nature of war, only serves to
exacerbate it.
In general, even if we agree that the element of contest is present in all the
higher forms of cultural activity, the question still remains as to whether or not
we can learn anything from this about their nature. For instance, do the tragedy
contests in ancient Greece indicate anything about the nature of tragedy itself ?
Does contest indicate the existence of something fundamental in common in
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the nature of poetry and football or philosophy and war? The obvious answer
is that there is nothing to be learned from the element of contest about the activities that involve it, other than seeing it as an omnipresent reection of a
strong propensity in human nature, which, with regard to these activities, is only
circumstantial.

Origin and Development

In his attempt to dene the exact relationship between play and culture, Huizinga discards various possibilities:
When speaking of the play-element in culture we do not mean that among the
various activities of civilized life an important place is reserved for play, nor
do we mean that civilization has arisen out of play by some evolutionary process, in the sense that something which was originally play passed into something which was no longer play and could henceforth be called culture. . . . we
do not mean that play turns to culture, rather that in its earliest phases culture
has the play-character, that it proceeds in the shape and the mood of play. In
the twin union of play and culture, play is primary. (Huizinga: 46)
This appears to imply that whatever was play remained play, that there is no evolution from play to culture, that play is a quality that cultural forms can share or
not, and that the process of emergence of culture from play is from coexistence
to detachment. Consequently, I infer that what Huizinga means by element of
play is a feature that attaches to the so-called higher forms without necessarily
being part of their nature.
Huizinga draws a line of evolution from ancient times to the present in which,
broadly speaking, play gradually recedes from the higher forms of culture. Initially: Play is older than culture, for culture, however inadequately dened, always presupposes human society, and animals have not waited for man to teach
them their playing (1). In contrast, in modern times [a]s a rule the playelement gradually recedes into the background, being absorbed for the most part
in the sacred sphere. . . . The original play-element is then almost completely hidden behind cultural phenomena (Huizinga: 46 47). Furthermore, [c]ivilization as a whole becomes more seriouslaw and war, commerce, technics and
science lose touch with play; and even ritual, once the eld par excellence for its
expression, seems to share the process of dissociation. Finally only poetry remains as the stronghold of living and noble play (Huizinga: 134). Nevertheless,
although in modern cultures the share of play has diminished, it never entirely
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disappears: civilization does not come from play like a babe detaching itself
from the womb: it arises in and as play, and never leaves it (Huizinga: 173).
Moreover, Huizinga argues that the health of civilization depends on the dose
of play and particularly of fair play (Huizinga: 211). In other words, the process
of dissociation is innite.

Ritual and Play/Game

The question of how ritual ts into Huizingas theory is of crucial importance because it appears to mediate between the School of Cambridge and Schechners
approach. Huizinga accepts Jane Harrisons view on the allegedly umbilical relationship between ritual and dramaalso in the above-mentioned vague
sense on etymological grounds: The rite is a dromenon, which means something acted, an act, action. That which is enacted, or the stuff of the action, is a
drama, which again means act, action represented on stage (14; cf. Harrison
1927: 42ff., 1951: 35ff.). The difference is that Huizinga views both in terms of
play. He perceives ritual as evincing all the features of play: it proceeds according to its own rules; it is secluded in time and space; it is serious for its participants; and it transports the participants to another world (18). In my opinion,
however, the problem is whether or not ritual also reveals the nonserious element of fun/entertainment, which is similar to the problem posed by Schechners subsequent theory of ritual as performance, also conceived in terms of
fun/entertainment (chapter 9). As mentioned above, Huizinga claims that
there is an element of unreality in the savages attitude to ritual (22). This answer reects a distinction between two kinds of departure from the seriousness
of ordinary life: In play we may move below the level of the serious, as the
child does; but we can also move above itin the realm of the beautiful and the
sacred (19). Such a distinction, which adds the aesthetic and the sacred (not
included in the denition of play), does not imply fun.
Ritual hardly satises Huizingas own denition of play. It is not a voluntary
activity within the community. Although it is outside ordinary life, it does not
create a world of its ownall its concerns regard the real world, including the
divine sphere. It cannot be seen as the opposite of work, since in most cases it is
intrinsically concerned with assisting work. The performance of a well established procedure or script cannot be seen as following rules in the sense of
game, since there is no contest. Freedom in determining time and space does
not apply. There is no pretense. Therefore, it is not only a matter of accommo-

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dating fun into the formula of ritual, which in any case fails to be successfully
accomplished.
Schechners attempt to assimilate a wide range of cultural activities into the
single category of performance nds its model in Huizingas attempt to assimilate them into the category of play, one of the members of Schechners set of
performance activities. Huizinga already employs categories, such as actualization by representation (14) and efcacy with regard to the perlocutionary effects of ritual (56) central terms in Schechners theory of performance. Curiously enough, again and again, ritual and drama are found to reect the same
qualities, although the unifying principles interchange among the members of
the set, from ritual, through play, and, eventually, to performance. Scholars appear to be experimenting with each member of the set of noninstrumental /expressive activities to see whether or not they could provide a good theory
of origins of culture and/or its particular forms. Ironically, in the same vein, we
could also venture a theory of origins of culture in theatre, but the result would
be equally absurd.
These theoretical attempts are cases of sheer reductionism. Why should phenomena as different as lawsuit and ritual, war and theatre, philosophy and hunting, in clear contradiction to healthy intuition, be conceived under a single category, purely for the sake of understanding the generation of culture? What kind
of understanding is thereby achieved?

Play/Game and the Arts

Huizinga views most of the arts as essentially connected with the notion of
play; for example, music (158ff.) and dance (164ff.) are sometimes referred to
as lying within the sphere of play (42) and sometimes as pure play. This is
probably because of their power to transport performers and audiences into another world and because they are experienced as funapart from other functions music can be praised chiey as an edifying pastime, a delectable artice,
or simply a jolly entertainment (162). Similar considerations apply to poetry in
the classical sense of including lyric, epic, and dramatic works.
The plastic arts (design and sculpture) appear to be the only exception. The
reason given for the absence of the play element in these arts is most revealing:
The absence of any public action within which the work of plastic art comes
to life and is enjoyed seems to leave no room for the play-factor. . . . For where
there is no visible action [a synonym of performance] there cannot be play

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(166; emphasis in original). This is in line with Huizingas claim that epic and
lyric poetry severed themselves from play the moment they stopped being performed. Although performance is understood here in its usual meaning, the
reason given also ts Schechners later denition, which includes the social circumstances. Indeed, in this sense, the plastic arts have no public performative aspect. The play qualities of poetry, music, and dance were not asserted on such
grounds either. Should visible-public performance be perceived as an additional
quality of play, one which is not included in Huizingas above-mentioned list? By
excluding these arts from the category of play, however, it is implied that the
notion of art cannot be dened in terms of play, since it is not a quality
shared by all the arts. Since the plastic arts also have their competitions, they are
perhaps not lost to play after all, according to Huizingas own principles.
Because Huizinga sees drama as a subspecies of poetry, his suggestions regarding the roots of poetry require careful examination. Against the background
of his own denition of play we could have expected that poetry, which is an
autonomous cultural activity, would only occasionally reect (e.g., in contests)
the existence of elements of play. In fact, he considers that [p]oiesis, in fact, is a
play function. It proceeds within the playground of the mind, in a world of its
own, which the mind creates for it. There things have a very different physiognomy from the one they wear in ordinary life, and are bound by ties other than
those of logic and causality. . . . it lies beyond seriousness, on that more primitive
and original level where the child, the animal, the savage and the seer belong, in
the region of dream, enchantment, ecstasy, laughter (119). His explanation of
poetrys departure from ordinary life or, rather, lifes seriousness is practically
the same as for myth: myth and poetry move in the play-sphere. This is not
to say a lower sphere, for it may well be that myth, so playing, can soar to heights
of insight beyond the reach of reason (129).
The essential quality of playbeing a rule-governed activityis not consistently applied to poetry. This is probably assimilated into its creating a world of
its own, as myth/ritual. If we examine the themes of poetry, we must ask whether
or not feelings such as love, loneliness, and despair belong in a world of their
own. If we apply play to the formal aspects of poetry, are these rules that regulate action, or do they reect aesthetic principles which further organize a work
of art? Huizinga claims that the common denominator of these formal elements
of poetry: namely, metrical and strophical patterns, rhyme, rhythm, assonance, alliteration, stress, etc., . . . might perhaps be found in the fact that the creative function we call poetry is rooted in a function even more primordial than
culture itself, namely play (132). Huizinga does not explicitly state that these
formal elements are rules or reect them; but, if they are not, what part of the
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denition of play do they illustrate? Their identication as rules or sets of rules,

on the other hand, would be strange because in such a case Huizinga fails to distinguish between rules and principles. Rules constitute or regulate what counts
as a legitimate or illegitimate act in a given activity, whereas principles underlie
regularities or laws (of nature). Rules can be infringed, principles cannot. A
poem does not qualify as a poem because of rhyme, rhythm, assonance, or alliteration, and poets are not disqualied as poets if they break these rules. On the
contrary, breaking previously established regularities is a pervading principle
in poetry.
Eventually, we learn that two out of three kinds of poetry can disassociate
themselves from play: The epic severs its connection with play as soon as it is no
longer meant to be recited on some festal occasion but only to be read. Nor is the
lyric understood as a play-function once its ties with music have gone. Only the
drama, because of its intrinsically functional character, its quality of being an action, remains permanently linked to play (Huizinga: 143 44). The implications
are (1) that play is not an intrinsic quality of poetry and (2) that most kinds of poetry are distinct from play. We also learn that drama cannot sever itself from
play due to both its being an action and its functional character. We do not
know, however, whether it is the described ctional action or the performance of
the actor that is intended; neither is it clear why its functional character makes
drama essentially a kind of play, which is dened as nonfunctional.
Huizinga also recurs to the existence of competitions of lyric poetry (133) and
drama (144 45) as a further indication of their playful nature, and he could have
added song contests too. The contest element in competitions such as the Eurovision competition has no bearing on the nature of song, however, just as competitions of tragedies in ancient Greece cannot teach us anything about tragedy.
Huizinga also alludes to agonistic themes in poetry (133), particularly in
drama (145). If he is referring to conict, we should note thatin contrast to
the generally accepted approaches based on Hegels aesthetics conict is not
and cannot be the only theme or structural principle of dramatic ctional worlds,
because we cannot conceive a language or medium that can describe only one
kind of action or deal with only a single theme. In particular, modern and postmodern theatrical practice clearly contradicts such a view. Even if we concede
that conict makes more effective drama, nothing precludes the writing of ineffective plays. In this sense, Huizinga addresses only the function of ctional
worldswhether in the context of society or the individualnot the nature of
theatre as a medium.
Viewing drama as a kind of play (in Huizingas sense) runs into insurmountable contradictions with his own list of features and/or denition of play. If his
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aim was to suggest a theory of origins or roots of all cultural activities, including
theatre, the choice of the model of a game was a mistaken one. Whereas watching theatre is indeed a voluntary activity, not every voluntary activity is play.
Whereas exposing oneself to ctional worlds stands outside ordinary life, it is
psychologically functional and not disinterested. Theatre does create worlds of
its own, but these function nonetheless in the real world of the spectators psyches. It does follow rules, but only in the sense that semantic and syntactic principles, which have no resemblance to rules of games, are involved. It may entertain, but not necessarily (dramas that are intentionally devised to shock the
audience). Finally, actors do not pretend to be somebody else: they ostensibly enact somebody else. Theatre does not necessarily create an illusion but a text,
which may or may not bring about the involvement of the audience.

Caillois: Criticism and Alternatives

Although Roger Caillois pays explicit tribute to Huizingas theory of play, his
own theory reects severe criticism of it, in particular for being restricted to
competitive kinds of play/game (4; cf. Ehrmann: 32). This is also implied in his
more comprehensive classication of play into four main categories: agn, alea,
mimicry, and ilinx, depending upon whether . . . the role of competition,
chance, simulation or vertigo is dominant (Caillois: 12). These types of play actualize powerful instincts (55), which cannot be reduced to one another and
which are gratied by the various types of play/game. Examples include for competition: football; for chance: roulette; for simulation: Hamlet; and for vertigo: a
rapid whirling or falling movement.
Caillois suggests two additional cross-categorical principles, which are not
categories of play but ways of playing (53): paidia, dened inter alia as a term
covering the spontaneous manifestations of the play instinct (2728) and free
energy (35); and ludus, dened as a human tendency to discipline and enrich
paidia (29). Since the various kinds of play are expressions of different play instincts, Caillois generalizes and suggests paidia as the instinctual principle underlying all. And, since the civilizing function of play cannot be detected in the
nature of instincts, he postulates ludus, the additional tendency to bestow order on the otherwise instinctual activities.
This enriched set of kinds of play entails a change of denition. For Caillois
play is an activity that is (1) free, (2) separate, (3) uncertain, (4) unproductive,
(5) regulated [or governed by rules, 10] and (6) ctive [or make-believe, 10]
(43). Most of these differentia (1, 2, 4, and 5) reiterate Huizingas. From our view240

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point, the introduction of the ctive element is of crucial importance, because

it enables inclusion of imaginative play. The problem resides, as suggested above
for Huinzinga, in applying to it the notion of regulation. Caillois is aware of the
problem: no xed or rigid rules exist for playing with dolls, for playing soldiers,
cops and robbers, horses, locomotives, and airplanesgames, in general, which
presuppose free improvisation, and the chief attraction of which lies in the pleasure of playing a role, of acting as if one were something else, a machine for example (8; emphasis in original). His solution is that games are not ruled and
make-believe. Rather, they are ruled or make-believe (9). I believe that instead
of solving the problem this bridging principle reveals the basic incompatibility of
the two domains: Caillois is unable to apply the same set of qualities to all the
kinds of play.
Cailloiss further solution is to extend the principle of ction: the sentiment
of as if replaces and performs the same function as do rules. Rules themselves create ctions (8). The question, however, is whether ction is used in the same
sense for both cases. The rules of soccer hardly create a ction. A soccer game is
real. It is not the case that [a]ll play presupposes the temporary acceptance, if
not of an illusion, . . . then at least of a closed, conventional, and, in certain respects, imaginary universe (Caillois: 19). Indeed, while a soccer game is separated from regular life, no such activities are separated in the same sense as
ction, which also involves the principle of representation. This is only one example of Cailloiss extreme measure of exibility in application of terms.
The question is whether or not the mere addition of mimicry really improves the theory of play with regard to a possible theory of origins or roots of
theatre. First, if mimicry is grasped as an expression of an instinct, this is a regressive move that only poses additional questions. First, why should humans
feature such a drive? Second, if mimicry is an expression of an instinct, why is it
not satised only by the mere fact of playing? In other words, why is there a need
for theatre? Third, if mimicry, as an instinctual function (paidia), is in need of
socialization (ludus), why does the disciplined result take the form of theatre,
which is more complex and reects the existence of a cultural medium whose
rules are completely different from the rules of play/game?
The crucial question is, what is Cailloiss notion of the common ground between mimicry and theatre? Mimicry is grasped in terms of the player becoming an illusory character . . . and so behaving, making believe or making others
believe that he is someone other than himself, shedding his personality, and
feigning (19). With regard to theatre proper: The rule of the game is unique:
it consists in the actors fascinating the spectator, while avoiding an error that
might lead the spectator to break the spell. The spectator must lend himself to the
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illusion without rst challenging the dcor, mask, or artice which for a given
time he is asked to believe in as more real than reality itself (Caillois: 23). In
other words, for Caillois illusion is the common ground for dening mimicry in both play and theatre. If theatre is a medium and a theatrical production
is a description of a world, however, the notion of illusion is not viable, unless a
specic production reects the deliberate intention to produce such an impression. At most it can apply to a certain style, but it is denitely not a characteristic of the medium, which in principle can either produce an illusion of reality or
preclude it and even purposefully break it. I believe that the notion of illusion
does not apply to imaginative play either.
Caillois concurs with Huizinga on the crucial role of play/game in culture:
Left to themselves, destructive and frantic as are all instincts, these basic impulses can hardly lead to any but disastrous consequences. Games discipline instincts and institutionalize them. . . . At the same time, they are made t to contribute usefully to enrichment and the establishment of various patterns of
culture (55). Does this imply that mimicry reects a destructive instinct? I can
accept that in a way theatre institutionalizes aspects of imaginative play, but only
after establishing that imaginative play is a form of thinking (chapter 14).
* * *
In terms of our own investigation, these theories can be seen as theories of roots,
since they do not look for the historical origins of theatre but for elements that
can generate it. The inclusion of a theory of imaginative play in our search for the
roots of theatre does show signs of eventually being rewarding, but only after reformulation. This is not based on the fact that many languages, including English, refer to drama as play and to its performance as playing, because we realize that such pieces of popular wisdom are always recognized a fortiori (i.e.,
after a theory has been conceived).
Both Huizinga and Caillois assume common principles underlying both play
and theatre, ranging from sharing some accidental qualities such as contest
and illusion to identity. We learn, for example, that drama cannot sever itself
from play, because it is play. Whether the link is essential or accidental, however,
the generation of theatre from play on such grounds cannot be accounted: if it is
accidental, the notion of generation is not applicable and, if it is essential, application is also precluded.
It is rather surprising that, although childrens play seems to underlie
Huizingas denition of play, most of the book is devoted to what we would call
the principle of game, as indicated by the centrality of the notion of contest.
What is lacking for our purposes, therefore, is a thorough discussion of the only
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kind of play that evinces a crucial afnity to the theatre medium: the imaginative
play of children. Cailloiss attempt to put it on an equal footing, on the grounds
of illusion, cannot solve the problem. This type of play, although apparently satisfying the conditions of Huizingas and Cailloiss denitions, features an additional element which is not shared by any other cultural activity widely described
in their books: the use of images, imprinted on the playing childrens own bodies, to describe a world (for example, enacting parents and children, teachers and
pupils, doctors and patients). Huizinga is aware of the use of images in poetic
language: What poetic language does with images is to play with them (134);
but he refers to them in terms of play and not of basic units of thinking.
Huizingas and Cailloiss notions of play are overabstracted categories, similar to Schechners notion of performance, which cannot reveal anything about
their constituent subcategories. Even if it is agreed, for example, that contest is a
common element that links play, theatre, and all other activities, this can tell us
nothing about their nature, apart from detecting a universal competitive drive
that pervades even nonplay. Consequently, these theories do not assist in our
search for the origins or roots of theatre.
The quest for a unifying theory for the set of noninstrumental activities (also
bearing in mind Kirbys and Schechners theories) appears to have these scholars
trying out in turn each member of the set and exploring to what extent it can produce a comprehensive theory of origins or roots. The choice thus goes from ritual to play and, eventually, to performance. Although this philosophical drive
to nd a unifying principle can be understood, the question still remains: why
did all these scholars fail to see the reductive quality of their own theories? I tend
to suspect that approaches of this kind are more interested in nding a magical
principle that will provide an all-encompassing theoryin satisfying an aesthetic drivethan in pursuing actual knowledge.

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part III

A Theory
of Roots



13
The
Language of
Dreams



The universality of theatrical forms leads to the conjecture that their roots must
lie in an elementary and vital mental faculty. In this section I analyze various biological and cultural manifestations of the inborn capacity of the human brain
spontaneously to create images and think by means of them, in which I see the
roots of theatre.
The rst steps in considering images as units of a system of signication are to
be found in the realm of philosophy. In particular, Ernst Cassirer suggests the notion of symbolism, which should be understood as coupling representation of
objects and abstraction of their qualities in basic units of thought. In Language
and Myth, he considers that the special symbolic forms are not imitations, but
organs of reality, since it is solely by their agency that anything real becomes an
object for intellectual apprehension, and as such is made visible to us (8). With
his notion of symbolism he opens the way to forms of representation alternative to the established verbal one. Although Cassirer conceives the basic antinomy to be between logic and mythical thinking, it is explicit that in the latter the
principle of description is metaphor (94ff.) and implicit that its basic element is
the mythical image (37).
Following this line of reasoning, Susanne Langer lent full theoretical support
to imagistic thinking. Considering language to be not the only form of symbolization (89), she states that images are our readiest instruments for abstracting concepts from the tumbling stream of actual impressions. They make our
primitive abstractions for us, they are our spontaneous embodiments of general ideas (145). Images are just as capable of articulation, i.e., of complex combination as words (93). She also suggests that human thinking is anchored in

perception, the raw material of mental imagistic representation: The eye and the
ear make their own abstractions, and consequently dictate their own peculiar
conception (91). Furthermore, [e]yes that did not see forms could never furnish it with images (89). An object is not a datum, but a form construed by the
sensitive and intelligent organ (89).
In The Intelligent Eye, R. L. Gregory demonstrates Langers approach on scientic grounds. He claims not only that the eye is an image-forming organ but
also that in the act of seeing interpretation already plays a crucial role (12 15). He
conceives that perception is the prototype of thinking (146) and that the eyes
freed the nervous system from the tyranny of reexes, leading to strategic
planned behaviour and ultimately to abstract thinking (13).
Conceiving images as fundamental units of thought is amply supported by
neurobiology. On the grounds of digital methodology, Stephen M. Kosslyn, in
Image and Brain, asserts that [i]magery [in the sense of mental representation]
is a basic form of cognition, and plays a central role in many human activities
ranging from navigation to memory to creative problem solving (1995: 1). In
contrast to the model of the mind-as-program, he advances the model of the
brain gives rise to the mind (1996: 960). Antonio R. Damasio, in Descartes Error, asserts that having a mind means the ability to display images internally and
to order those images in a process called thought (89). In fact, knowledge depends on images: whatever is not imageable, including words and mathematical symbols, cannot be known and, therefore, cannot be manipulated by thought
(107). Kosslyn distinguishes between propositional and depictive representations. The latter are stored in the brain spatially, like the objects they represent:
Depictive representations convey meaning via their resemblance to an object,
with parts of the representation corresponding to parts of the object (1995: 5).
Depictive representation is synonymous with imagistic representation. Damasio distinguishes between perceptual images (e.g., running your ngers over a
smooth metal surface); recalled images, which occur when one conjures up a
remembrance of things; and images recalled from plans of the future [which]
are constructions of your organisms brain (96 97). The last should be conceived as images that have been disconnected from actual experience and have
become units of thought. Such an image is not an exact reproduction of an object, quality, or act but a combination of a faint reproduction and an interpretation, a newly reconstructed version of the original (100).
Kosslyn characterizes thinking as hinging on two properties. First, information must be represented internally; and second, that information must be manipulated in order to draw inferences and conclusions (1996: 959). He thereby
reconrms Langers claim that thinking is the manipulation of real objects in ab248

{ A Theory of Roots }

sentia (31)by means of their representations, of which mental images are a

special case.
In this chapter I look for indications of the imagistic roots of theatre in the
language or, rather, rudimentary method of representation of dreams, through
a critical reading of Sigmund Freuds The Interpretation of Dreams. Basically, for
the purposes of this study the psychoanalytical aspects of his theory are irrelevant. In contrast to Freud, since I conceive theatre as a medium, my interest in
dreams resides in their method of signication rather than in their meaning. In
fact, Freud was the rst to consider some intuitions regarding this method of unconscious representation. I consider his ideas only as a point of departure and intend to build upon them a totally different line of argumentation. I do not claim
that theatre originates in dreams but that dreaming reects the most rudimentary human form of thinking in images, in which theatre is rooted.
In his theory of dream formation and method of dream interpretation, Freud
recurrently employs two basic analogies: (1) between dreams and language,
which is most conspicuous in his use of terms such as language of dreams
(1978: 201), syntactic laws (381), and text (658); and (2) between dreams and
theatre (Thoret). In the light of recent ndings, within the context of the theory
of theatre semiosis, Freuds words would appear to reect an incisive insight into
the fundamental links that obtain among these three domains. Closer analysis
shows, however, that these analogies are restricted, as analogies usually are, to
achieving a rhetorical aim by making use of certain common features for the sake
of clarication. Essentially, Freud is not interested in the dream as a text to be decoded but as a symptom of the unconscious (174) and as a disguised fulllment
of a wish (244), with the denite function of protection of sleep. These conclusions are irrelevant to our study. Freud couches his views on the dream-work
in linguistic and rhetoric terminology, such as image, metaphor (458), allegory (670), and particularly symbol. Although he does not dene the term
symbol, from his actual use of the term we may safely infer that the prevalent
linguistic-rhetoric theories of his time determined his views on symbolism and
conditioned his attitude to the interpretation of dreams. Since the publication of
Freuds works major theoretical developments in the understanding of gurative
language have taken place, in particular concerning the theory of metaphor
(Beardsley 1958; Black 1962 and 1988; Searle 1988). Such developments entail a
clear distinction between symbol and metaphor as specic kinds of gurative use of words and sentences. Because of the dependence of Freuds theory on
the then current rhetorical notions, I believe that the subsequent changes in the
notions of metaphor and symbol require a reformulation of his approach to
the language of dreams.
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249

This chapter does not deal with the psychoanalytical aspects of Freuds theory
but focuses on the principles underlying the method of signication of dreams,
my ultimate aim being to lay bare the fundamental links between dream signication and theatre semiosis. In particular, I intend to show that:
1. In principle, dream and the theatre (despite the additional complexity
of the latter) are not only analogous but also share the principles of the
same method of representation, being only variants of it and revealing
thereby their common roots.
2. The difference between dream and theatre is that the former lacks
communication capacity and the latter imprints images on matters
similar to their real models, thus achieving communicativity (e.g.,
imprinting human images on live actors).
3. Dream reects a rudimentary method of representation which, in its
natural form, is suppressed by consciousness, together with the irrational
drives originating in the unconscious. Theatre provides the socially
approved opportunity for reexperiencing this method.
4. Theatre should be conceived as a social and institutionalized form
of dreaming (i.e., thinking by means of the same method of
representation), which incorporates additional cultural structural layers,
thus enabling society to confront even unconscious thoughts and
assimilate them into a complex and comprehensive conception of life.

Thinking in Images
Freud believes that while dreaming the mind goes into a process of regression:
We call it regression when in a dream an idea is turned back into the sensory
image from which it was originally derived. . . . In regression the fabric of the
dream-thoughts is resolved into its raw material (1978: 693). He implies that
there is a basic relationship between ideas or, rather, words and their respective sensory imagesfor example, between the word/notion apple and the
image/notion apple. On such grounds he claims that in dreams we go back to
thinking in images, which means that the latter are not mere perceptions but are
also used as basic units of thought. In this sense, by regression he means that
thinking in images was a prelinguistic method of thinking, characteristic of humankind in the very early stages of its development. In this he follows Nietzsches
assertion that in dreams we all resemble the savage. . . . as man now still reasons
in dreams, so men reasoned also when awake through thousands of years (1998:
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{ A Theory of Roots }

1: 12 13; cf. Jung 1974: 33). Furthermore, Freud expects that greater knowledge
regarding the dream-work would eventually lead to a knowledge of mans archaic heritage, of what is psychically innate in him (1978: 700).
It is usually assumed that during childhood the individual recapitulates in a
condensed manner (ontogenesis) all the stages in the development of humankind (phylogenesis): Behind this childhood of the individual we are promised a
picture of a phylogenetic childhooda picture of the development of the human race, of which the individual development is in fact an abbreviated recapitulation (1978: 699 700). Following this principle Freud claims that dreams reect a method of thinking typical of childhood, which in turn also reects the
phase gone through by early humanity. This method is characterized by formulating thoughts by means of images or, in Freuds terms, the methods of expression which were then available to him (699).
The assumption that the nature of dreams indicates the existence of an imagistic method of representation at an early stage of human development implies that the method of representation typical of humans when awake is essentially different. Although he does not explicitly state this, Freud identies
the latter with verbal representation. The same assumption also entails that this
early method was abandoned as being inefcient (1978: 721), superseded by
language, and suppressed: What once dominated waking life, while the mind
was still young and incompetent, seems now to have been banished into the
night (721).
Freud suggests that dreams think essentially in [visual or other] images
(1978: 113). Is it possible, therefore, to see in the images of dreams, and their combinations, texts produced within the context of a language or system of communication? If the terms language and communication are taken in their literal
sense, the answer is negative, because dreams reect a prelinguistic phase of development. Because the images operating in dreams are not coded, too loaded
with personal associations, immaterial, and thus imperceptible in nature, they
cannot be used for interpersonal communication. Nonetheless, these objections
would not prevent such images from operating as units of a system of signication in thinking processes taking place within the mind of the dreamer.
Are images indeed basic units of a method of representation? It is quite obvious that images are linked with abstract features (concepts) not only in humans,
even before the appearance of language, but also in animals (Langer: 88 91);
otherwise, we could not understand how they assimilate experience and develop
accommodation to the world. The main innovation of natural language was
probably not in the domain of abstraction but in a new type of signier, based on
sound, more efcient than its predecessor. The appearance of a vocal signier
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251

clearly introduced a dimension of objectivity that made possible not only interpersonal communication but also social control over the system of categorization, particularly differentiation between signied and connotations. Despite
substantial differences, however, mental images should be seen as signiers and
the abstract features linked to them as signieds. This type of mental activity or,
rather, thinking, based on the combination of mental images, is commonly called
imagination.
As mentioned above, thinking should be understood as handling the world
in absentia. According to Susanne Langers distinction between signals and signs,
the latter are used to talk about things, not to direct our eyes and ears and noses
toward them. Instead of announcers of things, they are reminders (31). Man,
unlike all other animals, uses signs not only to indicate things, but also to represent them [in the mind] (30). It is this manipulation of reality by means of
surrogate mental objects that denes thinking. Although I do not accept
Langers terminology, in particular her use of symbol for all types of signs, her
denition of thinking is sound because it enables inclusion of images for this
function: Images are . . . our readiest instruments of abstracting concepts from
the tumbling stream of actual impressions. They make our primitive abstractions for us, they are our spontaneous embodiments of general ideas (145). In
other words, mental images are natural units of thought. As suggested above, this
is amply supported by neurological research.
Under what conditions can a method of thinking based on images be transformed into a method of communication? First, such images should be capable
of being communicated to somebody else. This is made possible only if an image
is coupled with a perceptible vehicle that can be captured by at least one of the
senses; that is, if it is imprinted on matterwhat is usually called a medium.
Such an imprinted sign (image plus matter) could thus be seen as the signier of
an image-sign, within an imagistic system of communication. This type of sign is
known as an iconic sign, which is imprinted on a variety of materials, such as
marble, color on canvas, and puppets. The difference between iconic signs and
their real models on the material level emphasizes their communicative function.
This does not prevent the usage of matter similar to the model of the image, however, such as the imprinting of human images on live actors in the theatre (Rozik
1992a: 42 45). It can thus be contended that dreams and iconic arts, theatre in
particular, share the same method of representation, differing only in the additional imprinting of the images in the latter, thus achieving communicative
ability.
Second, meanings conveyed by iconic signs should be socially controlled. As
we have already seen, images are associated with sets of abstract features, which
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may well be very personal. Any system of communication, however, must ensure
that it is the interpersonal meanings that prevail, whether universal or cultural,
and that individual associations are ignored. This is made possible by mediation
of natural language, which assumedly controls the signieds of all nonverbal systems of communication. Consequently, it is difcult to think of an iconic system
of communication in the strict sense of the term prior to the advent of natural
language.
Similar considerations apply to the syntactic rules that underlie the formation
of iconic sentences. If we accept Noam Chomskys assumption (1975) that syntax
is inborn, we may contend that basic organization by the subject-predicate structure conditions not only linguistic behavior but also imagistic thinking, including dreaming, and probably animal thinking too. Consequently, some aspects of
the images of dreams will function as subjects (identication of referent) and
some as predicates (categorization of referent). Even for cases in which the subject is implicit, these basic functions are recognizable and enable reconstruction
of this basic relationship. In iconic media, mediation of natural language formalizes this natural syntactic patterning as well.
The theatre meets all these conditions; so, despite a difference in complexity,
it can be claimed to share with dreams the imagistic method of representation,
being simply a variant of it. In the theatre this imagistic method has acquired
communicative capacity and gone through cultural institutionalization by means
of imprinting images on live actors and mediation of natural language.

Symbol and Metaphor

Only toward the fourth edition of The Interpretation of Dreams (1914), rst published in 1899, did Freud come to understand fully the importance of symbolism in the formation of dreams. In this edition he insisted on regarding K. A.
Scherner (Das Leben des Traumes, Berlin, 1861) as the true discoverer of this principle and added to chapter 6 a new section on symbolism: Representation by
Symbols (466 506). Eventually, it was this aspect of Freuds theory that captured the imagination of later generations and had a major impact on how
dreaming is perceived at present. In view of the crucial role of symbolism in various cultural domains, the understanding of this aspect of the mechanism of
dreams may have a vital effect on the theory of the arts in general and theatre in
particular.
Initially, in introducing his psychoanalytic method of interpretation, Freud
rejects on scientic grounds the possibility of symbolic interpretation (1978:
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253

170ff.). In his later view, he recognizes the shortcomings of his own method (469)
and sees both methods as complementing one another (477): We are thus
obliged, in dealing with those elements of the dream content which must be recognized as symbolic, to adopt a combined technique, which on the one hand
rests on the dreamers associations and on the other hand lls the gaps from the
interpreters knowledge of symbols (470). What is the difference between these
methods, which are both based on the principle of association? The psychoanalytic method consists
in focusing our attention on a single element of the dream and then taking
note of whatever involuntary thoughts may occur to us in connection with it.
We then take the next portion of the dream and repeat the process with it. We
allow ourselves to be led by our thoughts regardless of the direction in which
they carry us and drift on in this way from one thing to another. But we cherish a condent belief that in the end . . . we shall arrive at the dream-thoughts
from which the dream originated. (Freud 1978: 673)
This method thus relies on the associations connected to a manifest element
of a dream. After the rst link, however, such associations relate to each other linearly as a chain, by means of mediating associations, to the effect that the nal element is not necessarily connected to the initial link in the chain. It is Freuds belief that the dream-thoughts could be twice or more removed from the manifest
content of the dream. The implication of this approach is that the so-called manifest meaning of a dream element is not necessarily relevant to the latent meaning of the dream; therefore, viewing it as a component of a text becomes meaningless. For Freud, this does not pose a problem, since in any case he sees the
dream text as a distortion of the dream-thought. Therefore, as a result of the application of the associative procedure, which is repeated for every element of the
dream, it is expected that the dream-thoughts will be disentangled (381), but
the dream itself not necessarily decoded or, rather, interpreted.
In contrast, the new method presupposes the textuality of dreams. Although
the meaning of symbol is never explicitly dened in his book, it is possible to
infer its meaning from Freuds actual use of the term. In later works he is more
explicit, particularly in Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis (ILP) and New Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis (NILP). The following features underlie his
use of the term symbol:
1. Symbol is a particular case of the indirect methods of representation
(1978: 468) or, in modern terms, a kind of gurative use of language. In this sense,
we should contrast symbol with the direct or literal means of representation.
2. A symbol is in fact what we would correctly call, and what has been called
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since ancient Greek philosophy, a metaphor. Freud relates to symbols in terms

of the comparison view of metaphorfor example, In a number of cases the
element in common between a symbol and what it represents is obvious; in others it is concealed and the choice of a symbol seems puzzling (1978: 468; cf. ILP:
152). When speaking of staircases and analogous things as unquestionably symbols of copulation, he writes: It is not hard to discover the basis of the comparison (1978: 472, footnote 2 [1911]; cf. ILP: 152). He is equally revealing in his use
of the term tertium comparationis (ILP: 152) and the contrast between symbol
and the proper meaning of a word (1978: 469).
3. Symbol is a metaphor of substitution. Freud claims that the dreamthoughts do not usually appear literally in the content of a dream but are replaced by symbols. In modern terms, we would say that a dream-thought is the
referent of a metaphor that does not specify its literal subjectit is a substitutive metaphorical predication (Rozik 1994). Consequently, because of the consistent replacement of the subject/referent, often by various improper terms, the
dream presents the appearance of an allegory, which in modern terms should be
viewed as a particular case of substitutional metaphor (Rozik 1992a: 82 103), as
implied by Freud himself (1978: 223 25, 670).
4. Symbol is a metaphor that tends to recur with the same meaning in the
dreams of many people, even in different cultures. Because of their universal nature there is a tendency to attribute xed meanings to symbols and, therefore, to
propose dictionarylike listings of dream symbolism. Freud reports on the empiric evidence and suggests a long list of such symbolsfor example, [a]ll elongated objects, such as sticks, tree-trunks and umbrellas (the opening of these last
being comparable to an erection) may stand for the male organ [1909]as well
as all long, sharp weapons, such as knives, daggers and pikes [1911] (1978: 470);
[b]oxes, cases, chests, cupboards and ovens represent the uterus [1909], and
also hollow objects, ships and vessels of all kinds [1919] (471); steps, ladders or
staircases, or, as the case may be, walking up and down them, are representations
of the sexual act (472). These examples attest to a stable metaphoric relationship
between dream image and (nonrepresented) referent (e.g., the sex organ). A
constant relation . . . between a dream element and its translation is described by
us as a symbolic one, and the dream element as a symbol of the unconscious
dream-thought (ILP: 150). Paul Ricoeur refutes this idea because it implies univocality, in contrast to the fundamental plurivocality of symbol and the necessity of its interpretation (Ricoeur: 499). Because the potential associations of any
metaphor are screened by the referent, however, if such a constant relation between an improper term and a specic referent is maintained, it can indeed convey a stable meaning. Freud himself qualies his own generalization: I . . . am
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255

prepared to nd that the piece of content may conceal a different meaning when
it occurs in various people or in various contexts (179). This reservation, which
does not contradict the universal aspects of dream-symbolism, aims rather at
precluding mechanical application (Wright: 25; cf. Jung 1974: 32).
5. Symbolic interpretation thus means to infer the proper or literal referent of
the dream-thought (e.g., copulation) from its symbolic substitute (e.g., climbing a staircase), according to principles of similarity and recurrence.
In the modern theory of gurative language, in contrast to Freud, metaphor
has become a well-dened type of linguistic or semiotic phenomenon, referring
to a standard means of description or, rather, predication, by the mediation of an
apparently improper predicate (Rozik 1992a: 82 103). For the sake of dream interpretation the main contributions of the modern approach to metaphor may
be formulated as follows:
1. Metaphor is a standard type of description (predication) which, although
apparently improper, after a due associative process makes sense as a literal description. I have suggested elsewhere that the specic difference of metaphorical
description is that it predicates on a literal subject a literal predicate coupled with
nonverbal associations originating in its improper term (Rozik 1994).
2. Substitutional metaphor is understood on the assumption that the substituted term, representing the object of description, is elliptically present in the
context and that predicative relations obtain between the substituting and the
substituted absent terms.
3. Consequently, metaphor does not disguise or hide the true nature of the referent, whether explicit or implicit in the context, but describes it.
As a result of considering metaphor as a standard means of description, distinct from both literal description and other kinds of gurative language, the way
is open to a clear denition of the symbolic phenomenon and its distinction
from metaphor.
I have suggested elsewhere that symbol should be used for the relationship
between the signied of a sign, in its literal capacity, and its associative periphery,
or connotations, including verbal and nonverbal associations (Rozik 1992a:
64 81). This denition is not based on Peirces and Cassirers use of symbol (cf.
Ricoeur: 10) but on its traditional use in the realms of religion, mythology, rhetoric, and the arts. For example, the sign cross, whether verbal or iconic, is used
as a symbol when, in addition to its literal meaning (stake, usually with transverse bar, used by the ancients for crucixionConcise Oxford Dictionary), we
relate to its verbal (e.g., sacrice, devotion, and redemption) and nonverbal associations (e.g., feelings of awe). The term symbol is thus restored to its
usual meaning in the aforementioned domains. Hence Freuds view of symbol
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is too restricted: whereas metaphor, including the substitutive type, is indeed a

symbolic phenomenon, since it presupposes and necessarily activates the associative periphery of an apparently improper term, the activation of such peripheries of signs used in a literal capacity is also possible and in certain domains even
promoted.
Consequently, I consider symbol to refer to the relation between a signied
of a (single) sign, verbal or imagistic, and its associative periphery, whether the
sign is used literally (properly) or metaphorically (improperly). Every type of
sign carries an associative periphery, and it depends on the type of text whether
it is activated or not. In contrast, metaphor refers to a particular type of predication (i.e., to a relation of at least two signs), one of which (the improper term)
is necessarily used in a symbolic capacity.
The use of features traditionally connected with metaphor as an implicit
denition of symbol indicates that Freuds usage of the term reects a dated
theory. At the end of the nineteenth century and beginning of the twentieth century metaphor was understood in terms of the comparison view and symbol
as a general term for gurative language, including what we now call substitutive metaphor. For example, we nd in the 1911 edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica: SYMBOL The term given to a visible object representing to the mind
the semblance of something which is not shown but realized by association with
it. A similar denition of symbol is reected in Ferdinand de Saussures use of
the scales as symbol of justice (Saussure: 101). Jean Piaget is more specic and
explicit: the symbol is motivated, i.e., there is resemblance between signier
and signied (Piaget: 98). Ricoeurs approach is even closer to that of Freud:
for him symbol designates all verbal expressions that have double meaning (Ricoeur: 7 8), including metaphor (17). The symbolic function is to mean something other than what is said (12). A symbol hides and reveals; it conceals and
discloses (497).
In dreams, an image is assumed to behave as a symbol in the sense of metaphor. It can also be assumed that the distinction between a signied and an
additional associative periphery does not apply to dreams, because in preverbal
thinking this distinction has not been established yet. Furthermore, not all the
associations beyond the set of abstract features controlled by words are strictly
personal. Some of them are shared by members of communities of various
denitions, and some of them could be seen as universal in nature. These types
of collective symbolism, which t Freuds knowledge of symbols, are suitable
for interpersonal communication and are indeed preserved and activated in all
the arts, particularly theatre.
It fact, my approach to symbol suits better Freuds psychoanalytic method
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of analysis, because it considers that symbol is based on the connection between sign and associative periphery. The problem is that Freud is more interested in chains of associations, leading one to another regardless of the direction
in which they carry us and drift on in this way from one thing to another (1978:
673). In this sense there is no necessary relationship between a sign and the nal
link of the associative chain; consequently, symbolic interpretation is wasted.
Reecting due criticism, Jung develops a technique of interpretation called
taking up the context that consists in making sure that every shade of meaning which each salient feature of the dream has for the dreamer is determined by
the associations of the dreamer himself. I therefore proceed in the same way as I
would in deciphering a difcult text (1974: 7172). He stresses the centripetal
function of these associations in interpreting the dream-text, since he considers
it to contain all that is needed in order to understand its reection of the unconscious. Although Ricoeur ignores the fact that Freud is not actually interested in
interpretation (26), he concurs with Jung: since a dream is a possible realm
(zone) of double meaning, it necessitates interpretation: in dreams the manifest meaning endlessly refers to hidden meaning; that is what makes every
dreamer a poet (15).
From the viewpoint of the present state of the art there is no problem in seeing images as basic units of thought and iconic signs as basic units of communication, capable of being used in literal (including symbolic) and metaphoric capacities. On such theoretical grounds, Freuds notion of distortion becomes
redundant. A good example is the nannys dream, which is a pictorial rendering
of a dream reecting her hyperbolic interpretation of the babys crying during
her sleep (1978: 487).
The increasing anxiety of the nanny is clearly reected in the size of the
metaphorical vessels sailing in the babies waters. Also, hyperbole is a kind of
metaphorical representation.
Freud could not have envisaged such a theoretical development; indeed his
metaphor and symbol refer to verbal representation, which allegedly is activated in dreams prior to their representation by means of images. Ricoeur suggests that symbolic relations are created prior to dreaming, within the realm of
language, in myths, fairy tales, and jokes (500). Freud conceives jokes as similar
and additional reections of the same psychic mechanism. He perceives the
dream-thoughts as basically verbal in nature and as undergoing a double process
of distortion by translation into verbal concrete terms and eventual regression to
representation by images. These concrete termsverbal images in factbehave
as symbols, since in every language concrete terms, in consequence of the history of their development, are richer in associations than conceptual ones (1978:
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455). Because images translate verbal concrete terms, it can be assumed that
they also behave as symbols. From a semiotic viewpoint a dream can thus be dened as an imagistic text in which some images function literally and some
metaphorically, both in a symbolic capacity. Such a notion of the nature of the
dream requires a parallel change in our notion of interpretation and raises
three types of problems.
First, Freuds method of interpretation reects a denite tendency to equate a
metaphor with its referentfor him, luggage is a load of sin (1978: 475). In
understanding metaphor, however, identication of the referent is only half the
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way. The next and more important step is to capture the predicative relationship
between the improper term and the subject of the predication: how does the
modier actually describe the referent? Or, rather, what are the activated predicates and their verbal and nonverbal associations? For example, how does luggage describe a load of sin? This function of metaphor is evident when we
compare two metaphors which refer to the same object (e.g., the difference between describing a woman as a table laid for a meal [472] or as a room [471]).
Unfortunately, the tendency to limit the interpretation of substitutive metaphors
to revealing their referents also affects traditional Freudian arts criticism.
Second, the identication of the referent of the substitutive metaphorical description is a matter of speculation because, by denition, the subject of predication is missing in the dream-text. The problem is that an improper term activates different literal predicates, depending on the referent described by it.
Consequently, dream interpretation focuses on identifying each particular referent, precisely because a dream never tells us whether its elements are to be
interpreted literally or in a gurative sense (456). Such a distinction can be
made, again, only if we know what the referent is. We can assume, however,
that, while dreaming, the dreamer knows what the real referents of the dream are.
This is corroborated by the fact that under certain conditions, such as hypnosis
(Fromm: 19) or dementia praecox (Freud 1978: 467), dreamers have no problem
in interpreting their dreams. This knowledge makes the dreamer an indispensable partner in dream interpretation (Jung 1974: 70) and explains the dreams
immediate obliteration upon waking. Only if such knowledge is lost does the
dream become a text to be interpreted on hypothetical grounds.
Third, there is no problem in interpreting symbols provided that we know
their universal or cultural associative loads (e.g., an elongated object or the cross,
respectively); but more often than not dream symbols are of a very individual nature, reecting highly personal experiences. Whereas the latter are of crucial importance for psychoanalytical ends, however, cultural and universal symbols are
indispensable for interpretation of works of art.
Because theatre too uses images, in the guise of iconic signs in symbolic
(whether literal or metaphorical) capacities, dreams and theatre constitute two
reections of the same underlying method of signication.

Text and Reality

Freud considers the dream as having a reality of its own. This is conspicuously
implied in his performative thesis that a dream is a (disguised) fulllment of a
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(suppressed) wish (1978: 244; cf. ILP: 213, note 12). From the viewpoint of its
psychical function, he views a dream as a kind of experience that fullls a twofold function: (1) to afford a moderate outlet for the stirrings of the unconscious;
and (2) to preserve sleep by beguiling consciousness (1978: 735). As such, in
Freuds view, a dream is not a description but an object of description. In this
vein, he states that dreams are not made with the intention of being understood (457). The implication is that the energy invested in the disguise of the
dream-thoughts further attests to the nontextual quality of dreams.
In contrast, viewing dreaming as reecting a way of thinking in symbolic images implies that a dream is not a state of affairs but a specic kind of text that describes a state of affairs. This implies that during sleep the unconscious, as a suppressed agency, is released from the bondage of consciousness and is freed to
think its own thoughts, articulated in its own method of signication. This is
probably the source of the autonomy of dreams and also the reason for their
giving the combined impression of profound insight and fantastic absurdity
(1978: 454). Thus, the inclusion of interpretation based on the knowledge of
symbols is not a mere addition to Freuds theory but introduces a basic duality
in his approach. Because symbols carry meaning and can be decoded, the dream
can no longer be seen as only a cluster of symptoms but is also a text. The adoption of the symbolic principle thus reinforces the status of the linguistic terminology previously used in a weak analogous sense by Freud himself.
For Freud the aim of the psychoanalytic method, which relates to each portion of the dream separately, is not to suggest a coherent interpretation of the entire dream, as required for a text, but rather to arrive at the disguised and hidden
dream-thoughts. In this sense, the importance of the dream as a whole is marginal: in quite a number of cases one can reconstruct from a single remaining
fragment not, it is true, the dreamwhich is in any case a matter of no importancebut all the dream thoughts (1978: 662). Since the fragments are used as
points of departure for chains of associations that should eventually lead to and
unravel the dream-thoughts, we may assume that any verbal or nonverbal element, or symptom, in waking life may be used for the same purpose. Although
on the theoretical level Freud considers the meaning of a dream as a coherent text
to be immaterial, in his interpretation of actual dreams most of them are in fact
treated as texts. His practice is in full accordance with Jung, who claims that the
meaning of the dream itself, as a coherent text, is crucial in understanding the
unconscious state of affairs: The manifest dream picture is the dream itself and
contains the whole meaning of the dream. . . . To understand the dream meaning I must stick as close as possible to the dream images (1974: 97).
Freuds performative thesis would appear to be supported by the sense of re{ The Language of Dreams }

261

ality that dreamers attach to their dreams. He follows this line of argument by
means of an analogy to the theatre: Dreams construct a situation out of these
images; they represent an event which is actually happening; as Spitta . . . puts it
they dramatize an idea (1978: 114). The underlying assumption remains that
conceptual thinking is translated into image-form, which is presented to our
consciousness, a sense organ for the apprehension of psychical qualities (729),
as if the situation is real: a thought, and as a rule a thought of something that is
wished, is objectied in the dream, is represented as a scene, or as it seems to us,
is experienced (682). He refers here to the sense of reality that the theatregoer
usually attaches to what happens on stage as a means to explain the attitude of
dreamers to their own dreams: in dreams . . . we appear not to think but to experience; that is to say, we attach complete belief to the hallucinations. Not until
we wake up does the critical comment arise that we have not experienced anything but have merely been thinking in a peculiar way or in other words dreaming (115). The paradox is that the sense of reality attached to what happens on a
stage does indeed resemble what happens in a dream but for precisely the opposite reason: both are unreal in the sense that both are descriptions of a world (i.e.,
both are texts). Although Freud is aware that satisfaction does not follow, that
the need persists (720), and that [a] change can only come about if . . . an experience of satisfaction can be achieved which puts an end to the internal stimulus (719), he nonetheless sees the function of beguiling both the unconscious
and consciousness as still being fullled. Unfortunately, Freud does not make a
clear distinction between unconscious drives being the driving force in the formation of dreams (681) and dreams actually being the fulllment of unconscious
wishes (244). Whereas the former concept does not contradict the nature of
dreams, being unconscious descriptions, the latter does.
The belief attached to dreams while dreaming is probably due to the vividness
of the images that often compose a dream. Because of such vividness, a dream
may create the impression of an actual experience. Such a phenomenon is very
similar to what happens in a theatre performanceand not only in its naturalistic variety. There is indeed a clear tendency, also among scholars, to view stage
reality as the only reality (or referent) of the theatre. Such an experience, however, is probably due to the nature of the theatrical imprinting on living actors
and to the strength of the spectators involvement in what is being formulated,
particularly their conscious and/or unconscious thoughts. It reects our incapacity to distinguish the vividness of the images, due to the abilities of our mental mechanism, and their textual status. The sense of vividness stems from the
qualities of the medium and the sense of involvement from the meaning of the
described ctional world. I believe that viewing the dream or the stage as a type
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of reality, even as an illusion of reality, is a fallacy, because it contradicts the contention that the performance is the actual text of the theatre. This implies that
what happens on stage is not a world but a description of a (usually ctional)
world.
Viewing dreams as reecting an imagistic method of thinking, in the context
of their afnity to theatre, may also solve the problem of the sense of here and
now characteristic of both. Although this sense is consistent with experiencing
things, it is also typical of iconic media, which basically do not provide markers
of past and future. There is thus no contradiction between dreams and theatre
being texts and the sense of experiencing real things, as if they are taking place in
front of the dreamers or spectators eyes. For example, the way in which a dream
formulates the wishful thought I want to have sexual intercourse with x is to
present it as actually happening, and the same applies to a fearful thought. This
present tense should be understood against the background of the lack of past
and future tenses in dreams, however, as a quality of the system of signication.
The same applies to descriptions of ctional worlds in theatre.
I assume a basic distinction (and mutual independence) between theatre as an
imagistic-iconic medium and the particular ctional worlds it describes. I also
assume that the same ctional world can be formulated by various media. Such
a distinction also applies to dreams: we should distinguish between the method
of signication of mental imagery and the ctional world it describes. In both
dream and theatre, the mind does not formulate itself by discursive means but by
means of characters and their actions, what Frye terms a ctional world (365).
Moreover, there is a clear tendency in the theatre to describe ctional worlds that
are most meaningful for the spectator on both the conscious and unconscious
levels. I have claimed elsewhere that there is a basic afnity between dreams and
theatre and that most frequently theatre presents a description of a ctional
world which in turn is a metaphorical description of the actual psychic reality of
the spectator (Rozik 1988). Such an apparent double reference, an essential feature of metaphor, is also typical of dreams; therefore, it is capable of explaining
the utter involvement of the dreamer in the dream or spectator in the theatrical
experience.

Apparent Absurdity
It would appear that the strongest support for Freuds performative thesis, and
for distortion as typical of the dream-work, is the apparent absurdity of dreams.
This alleged distortion, however, can also be explained otherwise, in terms of the
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imagistic-symbolic-metaphoric method of representation. In contrast to Freud,

for both dream and theatre, it is necessary to distinguish between two types of absurdity: the rst relates to the ctional world and the second to the imagistic
method of representation. I term the former ctional absurdity and the latter
imagistic absurdity.
1. The term ctional absurdity refers to features of the ctional world that
are disharmonious with the expectations of the audience members, particularly
their beliefs and values. Absurdity of this kind has been found in the theatre since
the time of Euripides and is typical of the theatre in the last hundred years. It is
not surprising to nd it in dreams, particularly if we assume that the unconscious
is motivated by unacceptable drives and guided by a different set of values,
prevalently biological. This is probably the main reason why dreams shock consciousness and are eventually erased from memory.
Theatre usually, though not necessarily, goes all the way in confronting potentially absurd situations in this sense, such as adultery, parricide, and theomachy. For example: Like Oedipus, we live in ignorance of these wishes, repugnant to morality, which have been forced upon us by Nature (Freud 1978: 365).
As spectators, we are prone to the same type of drives and anxieties, but ctional
worlds tend to integrate them into a meaningful cultural experience, in harmony
with moral and religious values. In other words, basic disharmonious situations
are reorganized by conceptual structures, which make them compatible with the
principles of consciousness (chapter 15). Theatregoers enjoy reorganization of
such ctional worlds and their integration within the complex texture of their
conscious beliefs. Fictional worlds may also aim at the opposite experience
that of the absurd, as often found in modern theatre. This type of absurdity is
irrelevant to our study, because it does not reect the qualities of the theatre
medium.
2. The term imagistic absurdity relates to the absurdity of the text on the
level of imagistic-iconic system of representation, in the sense of apparently
precluding its sensible reading. This is what Freud was referring to in wrongly
presupposing the distortion of the dream-text. Exactly the same claim is typically made with regard to surrealist theatre, including the so-called Theatre of
the Absurd, whose afnity to dreams is widely acknowledged. This type of attributed absurdity reveals itself as a case of sheer miscomprehension of imagistic
thinking.
We should bear in mind that the essential features of imagistic-iconic formulation are, rst, that its sentences feature spatial coexistence of images or aspects of
them, some in the capacity of subject and some of predicate; and its texts, spatio-

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temporal coexistence of several predications. Second, since imagistic-iconic predication is symbolic, whether literal or metaphorical, and when metaphorical also
substitutive (allegorical), some texts feature a mixture of these various forms,
without specifying in which capacity each image functions. In Freuds terms: a
dream never tells us whether its elements are to be interpreted literally or in a gurative sense (1978: 456). Third, in most cases the referent is not represented in
the text. For all these reasons, interpretation is an almost impossible task. Indeed,
dream-texts and some kinds of theatrical performance-texts, if not decoded properly, induce a sense of absurdity that is spurious and reveals misunderstanding of
the principles underlying imagistic-iconic textuality.
Freud suggests two types of condensation in dreams: in composition the
dream character is a composite gure of several people who do not share any
common traits (1978: 432), and in identication the dream character represents not only the dreamer but also other people who share some common features (432). I suggest, in contrast, that both types of condensation can be understood in terms of metaphor. Freud also suggests a common denominator
between dreams and imagination in creating composite images, which presupposes the principle of allegory (436). Rather than composite images, however, I would suggest the notion of multiple or mixed substitutional metaphor
(Rozik 1992a: 82 103).
It is the proliferation and prevalence of substitutive metaphor in dreams that
is mostly responsible for their absurd appearance. This only applies to the uninterpreted dream or performance-text. In fact, apparent absurdity means that
the knowledge of the basic units and the syntactic principles that organize the
dream-text are not fully understood by consciousness. In other words, dreams
only present the appearance of absurdity, and misunderstanding derives partly
from conscious recoiling from the meaning of such texts and partly from lack
of knowledge of the language of dreams (Wright: 19).
Similar considerations apply to theatrical styles whose texts employ a profusion of mixed substitutive stage metaphor, or allegory, in the sense of substitutive and expanded metaphor. Plays written in such styles often omit any hint as
to the identity of the referents and require a process of interpretation, in the sense
of suggesting possible referents and reconstructing predicative relations. In some
cases, the spectator is assumed to make sense of the play, even without realizing
it, as in dreaming. The theatre that actually adopts this extreme and intricate type
of metaphoric predication, particularly the surrealistic tradition, including the
Theatre of the Absurd, is aware of its umbilical bond with dreaming.

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Self-Reference and Spectatorhood

Freud claims the basic referent of the dream images is the dreamer: It is my experience, and one to which I have found no exception, that every dream deals
with the dreamer himself. . . . Whenever my own ego does not appear in the content of the dream, but only some extraneous person, I may safely assume that my
ego lies concealed, by identication, behind this other person; I can insert my ego
into the context (1978: 434). In terms of the textual thesis: the dream is a description of the (unconscious) dreamer, and conversely the dreamer is the ultimate referent of the dream-text.
Freud also suggests that the dream, with all its personages, is a multiple description of the dreamers psychical state of affairs: my ego may be represented
in a dream several times over, now directly and now through identication with
extraneous persons (1978: 435). In other words, he advances the possibility of
description on both the level of the dreamers psyche as a whole by means of the
entire ctional world and the level of its components by means of a set of substitutional, usually personied, metaphors.
Freud, however, fails to distinguish between apparent reference to a ctional
world and ultimate indirect reference to the dreamer. For example, a dream may
feature people, sometimes even real people, but these are not necessarily its ultimate referents. In other words, dreams feature apparent double reference: to the
ctional world of the dream and to the dreamer. Such double reference is a structural feature of metaphor, which seemingly refers to both the improper term of
the predicate and the literal subject of the predication. The former, however, is
invoked only in order to provide a set of verbal and nonverbal associations for
the description of a single referent. In the case of dreams this ultimate referent is
the dreamers unconscious and its idiosyncratic attitude to the world. Also, theatre, which apparently refers to a (usually ctional) world, may be and usually is
a potential metaphoric description of the spectators psychical state of affairs.
This parallels Fryes notion of ctional world: the expression of the author
not by means of a thematic discourse (367), but by means of a ctional discoursea world of characters and their actions (365). Only such a metaphorical
structure can explain how such a world, which is essentially different from the
spectators world, can be so meaningful to them. In Jungs words: the dream is
a spontaneous self-portrayal, in symbolic form, of the actual situation of the unconscious (1974: 49). If so, we can hardly be surprised by the dreamers or spectators utter involvement in the dream or theatrical text, since in these they encounter themselves on a descriptive level.
The dream-text is actually watched by the dreamer as if by a spectator in the
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theatre. Freud even suggests, following H. Silberer, that in dreaming in certain

circumstances a species of self-observation plays a part (1978: 648 49). The existence of an observing entity can be discerned within the dreamer, in addition
to what is shown in the dream-text. The sleeping psyche as a whole thus becomes
an ur-theatre, comprehending the basic functions of theatre: the producer of the
dream-text, the text metaphorically describing the psyche, the psyche reading
the text and, ultimately, being its referent. This is corroborated by the mere fact
that we experience dreaming as watching something that happens in front of
our eyes.
Fictional works of art differ from dreams in that authors produce texts for
readers/spectators consumption and not necessarily only as an expression of the
authors self. Actors produce texts, equivalent of dreams, for spectators to daydream under conditions of a culturally established medium. It is assumed that
in the process of watching, by mediation of a ctional world, a theatrical performance-text eventually becomes an indirect self-referential text for the addressee,
as does a dream or a daydream. In this sense, theatre can be conceived as a cultural version of dreaming.
* * *
A critique of Freuds approach leads to the conclusion that dreams use means of
representation which, if we adhere to linguistic/semiotic terminology, do not
hide or distort anything but, rather, formulate thoughts by means of a distinct
and inborn method of signication. Although the immaterial quality of mental
images precludes communication, it does not contradict their textual-descriptive nature. Communication of imagistic thinking is enabled by the imprinting
of images on real matter and mediation of natural language (i.e., by the creation
of iconic signs).
In dreams the dreamer fullls the multiple function of producer of the
dream-text, reader of the text, and its ultimate referent. The theatre performance maintains the encoding, decoding, and referential functions and reects
the nature of dreams on two levels:
1. The use of the very same method of representation that characterizes
unconscious thinking; they differ in that theatre, which is a culturally
established medium, adds imprinting on matter similar to the models
of the images (particularly live actors) and the mediation of natural
language.
2. The tendency to describe the inner world of the spectator by mediation
of ctional worlds: on this level, the theatre may confront even those
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267

disturbing or amoral drives that originate in the unconscious, otherwise

consistently suppressed, by means of culturally developed ctional
structures, which bring about assimilation of subversive thoughts and
absurd ctional worlds and accommodation to the values of the audience.
Consequently, such confrontation may produce an experience of
harmony (or disharmony, if the author wishes).
Because dreams are usually not understood by the awaking dreamers, it may
be assumed that their method of representation in its natural version is suppressed by consciousness, together with the irrational drives originating in the
unconscious, to which it lends expression, and due to its umbilical connection
with these drives. On these grounds we can understand the twofold impact of
theatre:
1. as reecting a social permit to confront both shameful and disturbing
contents of the psyche, including suppressed drives originating in the
unconscious, in the context of a collective experience that lends them
some kind of legitimation, and to incorporate them into a conscious and
more complex concept of life.
2. as a social permit to use and enjoy a suppressed method of representation
or thinking, which is typical of the unconscious.
This double permit makes theatre an institutionalized way of dreaming, a social opportunity to confront even the unconscious in its two basic components.
Consequently, in the social context of theatre both shameful and suppressed
contents are recognized as fundamentally human; the individual feeling of otherness thus is transmuted into a feeling of communion, of belonging to the
group, despite otherness and including otherness. Theatre thus also enables dramatization of the borderline between the unconscious and consciousness. The
permit to use a suppressed language and the attraction that most people feel for
it probably indicate that this method of representation, although suppressed in
other circumstances, still enjoys a very important status in the human psyche
and maintains its basic autonomy and vitality.
Nietzsches phylogenetic thesis suggests that dreaming is a relic of a primeval
way of thinking, characteristic of prelinguistic humanity, and thus implies the
common roots of dreaming and theatre. Although the existence of the theatre
medium and ctional /dramatic arts and their afnity to dreams cannot provide
conclusive evidence for the validity of Nietzsches intuition, it does reinforce his
thesis from an unexpected angle.
This conclusion entails a redenition of theatre, in terms of the institutional268

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ization of a prelinguistic imagistic method of representation. Theatre does not

originate in dreams, but it reects the same archaic propensity of the psyche to
think by means of symbolic and metaphorical images. Dreams and theatre, despite the additional complexity of the latter, are not only analogous but share the
fundamental principles of the same method of representation, being simply variants of it and thereby revealing their common roots.

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14
Playing as
Thinking



In contrast to Johan Huizinga, Jean Piaget denitely views imaginative play, or

what he terms symbolic play, as reecting a rudimentary method of thinking,
with verbal thinking being its alternative and successor in the process of human
evolution and child development. The roots of his approach should be sought in
Freud. As suggested above (chapter 13), this study is not concerned with the psychoanalytical aspects of Freuds theory but with his intuitions regarding the
method of signication in dream and imaginative play. Piaget correctly criticizes
Sigmund Freud for neglecting this aspect of the problem. Some of his remarks,
however, constitute a point of departure for Piagets further theoretical development. In the following discussion, I intend to focus initially on Freuds intuitions
about the fundamental connection between imaginative play and theatre and subsequently on Karl Grooss, Jean Piagets, Hans-Georg Gadamers, and D. W. Winnicotts theories of play.

Playing and Daydreaming

Freud asks a crucial question: from what sources that strange being, the creative
writer, draws his material? (1990a: 131). Creative writer is used in the sense of
creator of ctional worlds. Freud seeks the answer in a theory of the psyche: If
we could at least discover in ourselves or in people like ourselves an activity
which was in some way akin to creative writing! An examination of it would then
give us hope of obtaining the beginnings of an explanation of the creative work
of writers (1990a: 131). Freud suggests that this activity is play, in which we can

nd the rst indications of the ability that underlies the creation of ctional
worlds:
Should we not look for the rst traces of imaginative activity as early as in
childhood? The childs best-loved and most intense occupation is with his play
or games. Might we not say that every child behaves like a creative writer, in
that he creates a world of his own or, rather, rearranges the things of his world
in a new way which pleases him? It would be wrong to think he does not take
that world seriously and he expends large amounts of emotions on it. The opposite of play is not what is serious but what is real. (1990a: 13132)
In this sense, there is no difference between the imaginative player and the
imaginative writer: The creative writer does the same as the child at play. He creates a world of phantasy which he takes very seriously . . . while separating it
sharply from reality (1990a: 132). Whatever the theory of play, there is indeed no
reason to view it as a nonserious activity, particularly if we surmise that imaginative play reects a method of thinking. Rather than the aforementioned spurious opposition, perhaps we should conceive instead of a genuine opposition between reality and (serious) thinking about reality or, in other words, between
reality and description of reality.
Freud is aware that play eventually diminishes and disappears and suggests
that it is replaced by daydreaming:
As people grow up, then, they cease to play, and they seem to give up the yield
of pleasure which they gained from playing. But whoever understands the human mind knows that hardly anything is harder for a man than to give up a
pleasure which he has once experienced. . . . What appears to be a renunciation is really the formation of a substitute or surrogate. In the same way, the
growing child, when he stops playing, gives up nothing but the link with real
objects; instead of playing, he now phantasies. He builds castles in the air and
creates what are called daydreams. (Freud 1990a: 133; emphasis in original)
In other words, imaginative play and daydreaming are both manifestations of the
same faculty: imagination. The only difference between them appears to be that
play is manifested outwardly, being attached to real objects, while daydreaming
is manifested inwardly, like dream, as a form of mental activity.
For Freud, the reason for this transition from play to daydreaming, which in
fact means continuity on the level of imagination, is obvious: adults are ashamed
of playing and therefore tend to conceal their fantasies. In order to understand
more fully, we should ask ourselves, what do both playing and daydreaming con-

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tain that requires concealment? Freud suggests that the only reason that adults
are ashamed is the social expectation or, rather, pressure upon them to relinquish
playing and make their way into the real world. This is hardly satisfactory. Neither is the suggestion that the childs one wish is to be big and grown-up. Freud
also suggests, however, a deeper reason: some of the wishes which give rise to
his phantasies are of a kind which it is essential to conceal. Thus he is ashamed
of his phantasies as being childish and as being unpermissible (1990a: 134). Following the logic of Freuds own theory of the psyche, fantasies express sexual and
aggressive wishes, which are not repulsive to consciousness but embarrassing in
front of others. Whereas children at play are not aware that they are exposing
themselves, upon becoming adults they will opt for daydreaming or, rather, internalized imagination. Whereas play is open to observation, daydreaming is not
(Freud 1990a: 133).
If we assume, as we should, that children also daydream, then there is no reason for a transition from play to daydreaming but, rather, a reason for a suppression of play and the continuation of daydreaming, for which also the child
is guaranteed total privacy. The transition is thus from imagination that is also
manifested outwardly to imagination that excludes outer manifestation. Instead
of daydreaming being an internalization of play, we can view play as an externalization of imagistic thinking, by imprinting mental images on the childrens own
bodies, an externalization that is eventually banished. In this sense, childrens imprinting in play is an episode against the background of continuous imaginative
thinking. I suggest that this imprinting of imaginative thinking is eventually
transmuted into theatre.
Unfortunately, Freuds interest focuses on the wishing aspect of daydreaming
and not on its method of signication: Let us now make ourselves acquainted
with a few of the characteristics of phantasying. We may lay it down that a happy
person never phantasies, only an unsatised one. The motive forces of phantasies
are unsatised wishes, a correction of unsatisfying reality (1990a: 134). What is
then the difference between dreaming and daydreaming? In contrast to dreams,
daydreaming is a conscious activity. While dreams express suppressed wishes,
which the dreamers must conceal from themselves, daydreams express conscious
wishes that the daydreamers have to conceal from others (1990a: 136). In other
words, the content of daydreaming is not repugnant or frightening to consciousness. For example, the daydreamers may picture themselves as heroes, which, although in total disagreement with reality, could be in complete accordance with
the ethos of their own culture. In Freuds words the typical wishes of daydreaming are either ambitious wishes, which serve to elevate the subjects personality;
or they are erotic ones (1990a: 134).
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In order to establish continuity between daydreaming and poetic creativity,

Freud tends to deal with literary genres, which reect more clearly the underlying wishful thinking of their readership:
We will choose not the writers most highly esteemed by the critics, but the less
pretentious authors of novels, romances and short stories, who nevertheless
have the widest and most eager circle of readers of both sexes. One feature
above all cannot fail to strike us about the creations of these story-writers:
each of them has a hero who is the center of interest, for whom the writer tries
to win our sympathy by every possible means and whom he seems to place
under the protection of a special Providence. (Freud 1990a: 137)
This invulnerability very clearly betrays: His Majesty the Ego, the hero alike of
every daydream and every story (1990a: 138). Furthermore:
Other typical features of these egocentric stories point to the same kinship.
The fact that all the women in the novel invariably fall in love with the hero
can hardly be looked on as a portrayal of reality, but it is easily understood as
a necessary constituent of a daydream. The same is true of the fact that the
other characters of the story are sharply divided into good and bad, in deance of the variety of human characters that are to be observed in real life.
The good ones are the helpers, while the bad ones are the enemies and rivals, of the ego which has become the hero of the story. (Freud 1990a: 138)
This is a most valuable insight: in this type of ctional world, whether in literature or drama, there is a clear afnity between the daydreamer and the poet, who
dreams in broad light (1990a: 137). I would suggest that the poet should be conceived as a craftsperson who provides the means for readers/spectators to dream
in broad light with the explicit permission and even encouragement of society, as
demonstrated by the collective nature of the theatre experience.
Since Freud connes himself to minor genres such as gothic novels (we could
add detective stories and westerns), he reects a reductive approach, which leaves
us to wonder about the more complex genres in which profound insights into reality are conveyed. He is aware of the problem: I cannot suppress the suspicion
that even the most extreme deviations from that model could be linked with it
through an uninterrupted series of transitional cases (1990a: 138). No such alleged transformations, however, are offered for our scrutiny. My own explanation is that literature and theatre, each in its own medium and on different levels
of complexity, provide ready-made metaphorical descriptions of psychic reality
for the use of readers and spectators. These are thoughts not only on shameful
matters but also on suppressed contents of the psyche.
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Therefore, more to the point is Freuds suggestion that [t]he psychological

novel in general no doubt owes its special nature to the inclination of the modern writer to split up his ego, by self-observation, into many part-egos, and, in
consequence, to personify the conicting currents of his own mental life in several heroes (1990a: 138). This is exactly what he postulates for dreaming and is
most plausible when considering a literary or theatrical text as a thought that
readers or spectators can relate to themselves. In fact, Freud is suggesting here the
mechanism of creation of ctional worlds: the expression of a single psyche by
means of a world of characters and their actions. The problem is that even in
dreams, and more clearly in daydreams, thoughts cannot be explained only in
terms of self-description. Psychical states usually also relate to others (e.g., when
daydreamers see themselves conquering a beloveds heart or overpowering all enemies), and a category of how the world is thought of should be introduced too.
The question is how to account for the transition from the need to avoid embarrassment, when the daydreamers are confronted with their own daydreams,
to pleasure, when they confront them as presented by a creative writer. The disclosure of the daydreams of a fellow human being would fail to elicit such a pleasurable effecttherefore, this cannot be the answer:
even if he were to communicate them to us he could give us no pleasure by his
disclosures. Such phantasies, when we learn them, repel us or at least leave us
cold. But when a creative writer presents his plays to us or tells us what we are
inclined to take to be his personal daydreams, we experience a great pleasure,
and one which probably arises from the conuence of many sources. How the
writer accomplishes this is his innermost secret; the essential ars poetica lies in
the technique of overcoming the feeling of repulsion in us which is undoubtedly connected with the barriers that rise between each single ego and the others. (Freud 1990a: 140)
Freuds treatment evidently reects difculty in explaining the transmutation of
such embarrassing materials, which is made even more difcult when we consider that not only shameful contents but also suppressed ones are confronted by
means of ctional worlds.
In the process of transmuting repulsion into pleasure, which eventually leads
to the real source of pleasure, Freud introduces two intermediate factors: rst,
[t]he writer softens the character of his egoistic daydreams by altering and disguising it, and he bribes us by the purely formalthat is, aesthetic yield of
pleasure which he offers us in the presentation of his phantasies (1990a: 141).
Aesthetic pleasure is viewed by Freud in terms of fore-pleasure, the name
given to a yield of pleasure . . . which is offered to us so as to make possible the
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release of still greater pleasure arising from deeper psychical sources (1990a:
141), including unconscious and early childhood experiences. Second, he suggests that all aesthetic pleasure which a creative writer affords us has the character of a fore-pleasure of this kind, and our actual enjoyment of an imaginative
work proceeds from a liberation of tensions in our minds (1990a: 141). The adequacy of these suggestions in the description of the psychic mechanism is beyond
my eld of expertise, but I do question the split between fore-pleasure (as bribe)
and release of tension (as ultimate effect), since they appear to be two organic aspects of the same mechanism. I assume that the release of tension, usually called
catharsis, is brought about by the ultimate harmonization of the ctional world
with audiences expectations, which is an aesthetic phenomenon. Since I assume
as well that the expression of drives and the aesthetic function are also found in
both play and daydreams, these alone cannot explain the need for art to exist.
Freud himself hints at an additional solution when he argues that [i]t may
even be that not a little of this effect is due to the writers enabling us thenceforward to enjoy our own daydreams without self-reproach or shame (1990a:
141). This explanation derives from the aesthetic function only if we assume that
drama involves a socially accepted logos, in the sense of a social ideology, and that
the expression of unacceptable drives is socialized by putting them in terms of
such a logos, which in various ways makes their confrontation acceptable. By the
same token, the apparent connection of such drives to characters distinct from
themselves provides the spectators with both the possibility of denial in front of
others and a metaphorical description of themselves. What they cannot afford to
disclose is thus socially permitted. They are allowed to enjoy the experience and
share it with others.
Freud demonstrates a fundamental afnity between playing and daydreaming, creating and consuming ctional worlds. Because he focuses on the
thought (content) aspect of these activities and not on their method of signication, however, this is of a lesser relevance for our study. From the perspective
of representation, it is clear that all these activities share the imagistic method
and are reections of this spontaneous function of the psyche: thinking in images. Theatre differs from both play and daydreaming in its use of a culturally
established medium to communicate imaginative worlds. In this sense, while
theatre continues the creation of ctional worlds, as in imaginative play and daydreaming, it is the genuine sequel only to play in that it also imprints its images
on matter. Whereas play imprints images on the bodies of the players themselves,
theatre does so on the bodies of actors. When play is relinquished, therefore, its
function becomes fullled by watching ready-made imaginative texts enacted
by actorsby watching theatre. This type of surrogacy, which is also typical of
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other human activities (such as writing poetry, playing instruments, and playing
soccer), certainly deserves further research.
I do not wish to claim that the roots of theatre lie exclusively in imaginative
play but that it is a clear indication of the primeval faculty of the psyche to think
in imprinted images and, in this sense, that it is perhaps the closest human activity to theatre.

Imaginative Play
Groos and Piaget have made invaluable contributions to the understanding of
imaginative play and thereby, indirectly, to our understanding of the umbilical
relationship play/theatre. As early as 1901, in The Play of Man, Groos suggests that
the source of drama resides in imaginative play: we have reason to believe that
dramatic art has developed from the play of children by way of the mimic dance
(301). Groos employs drama in a vague sense that applies to both drama and
theatre. In this particular context, he is not considering play in all its forms but
one particular kind, which he terms dramatic imitative play. He perceives a
two-fold distinction between this type of play and others: an element of imitation
and an element of illusion (300).

1. the element of imitation

Any iconic medium can be dened in terms of imitation, but not all forms
of imitation constitute an iconic medium. Groos fails to distinguish between imitation for the sake of emulation and imitation for the sake of representation.
Children use the former to learn various skills from adults, including games and
sports, early acquired by the children by means of imitation (304). In contrast,
by means of the latter children put themselves into possible situations (300). In
other words, they think about themselves and the world. In fact, the variety of
models used by children for imitation exceeds their actual needs for learning
skills. A child imitates almost everything, from human beings to animals and machines, displaying thereby an extraordinary capacity for supplying any deciencies in the object of his fantasy (308).
A lack of distinction also characterizes Grooss approach to the pleasure
gained from imitation: Imitation is still the foundation and also the source of
pleasure not only in the feeling of emulation, but in putting ones self in the place
of another, in the play of imagination and in the enjoyment of aesthetic effect
(300). He does not consider the possible difference in the kinds of pleasure:

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whereas mastering skills is enjoyed as an accomplishment, imaginative play introduces cognitive dimensions. A similar lack of distinction is also found in Aristotle (Poetics 4.1 6).
A girl feeding a doll is viewed by Groos as an imitative kind of play because it
presupposes parental models: the maternal instinct is present in little girls, but
rst attains expression in play on the rise of the imitative impulse (310). Her play
is thus conceived as a kind of emulation. It seems hardly likely, however, that a
small girl is imitating her parents only for the sake of learning the skills of motherhood. It is more plausible that she is mainly putting herself in the place of her
mother in order to think about her own family relations and in a sense relive past
experiences and explore possible ones.
Grooss approach also betrays a fallacy that until now has vitiated the theory
of theatre: he does not distinguish between imitation of life and imitation of real
models for the sake of representation or, rather, thinking about life. It is more
reasonable to explain the girls play in terms of the latter. Another example illustrates that imaginative play is not necessarily meant to imitate life but employs
units of representation, based on imitation of real models, to think about life:
Marie [suggests]: Then lets play that I am a thief, and there is a whole roomful
of cakes, and the door is shut, and I cut a hole in it and take all the cakes away,
and you are the policeman and run after me and get all the cakes back again.
Frida: And I will take them to my child (307). Marie is neither imitating life nor
learning a skill but experimenting with a possibly forbidden drive of her own
thinking by means of an iconic method of representation.

2. the element of illusion

Groos suggests that by dramatic imitative play children temporarily enter a
different world in whose reality they believe, to the degree of self-deception:
The capacity for illusion is always the most interesting feature of such a play.
The same child varies greatly in this respect: sometimes he seems entirely given
up to self-deception; he will offer you a meal of candy in which one bit represents
the meat, another the vegetables, etc., and he is quite hurt if you are guilty of confusing these dishes (307). In other cases [i]f you warn the playing child not to
hurt his rocking horse, he will answer that it is only a wooden horse, without,
however, abating his zeal in the play (307). These contrasting observations can
also lead to an entirely different conclusion: that illusion is neither essential to
nor, perhaps, even at all operative in play. I prefer, as suggested above, to distinguish between illusion and involvement for both play and theatre. If play indeed
produces texts that formulate thoughts about the players themselves, two con-

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clusions should be drawn: (1) there can be no illusion, particularly in the sense of
delusion; and (2) this would explain the utter involvement of the players, since
they are thinking about the questions that preoccupy them most.
Within this category of dramatic imitative play, which is based on the imitative impulse of the child, Groos nds two basic subspecies:
The play may be so conducted that the players own body appears as the exclusive object [in the sense of medium] of the mimic production, or in such
a manner that the pretended object serves, either on the ground of an actual
resemblance or by sheer force of imagination, as a substitute for the thing represented, or lastly in a way that includes both. We have an instance of the rst
when the boy pretends to be a soldier, of the second when he marches his tin
soldiers to battle and of a combination of both when a little girl plays that her
doll is a real baby and she herself the mother. (300)
Groos equates these basic types of play to theatre and puppet theatre respectively,
although he gives an explicit example of only the latter: The second, indeed, appears in the marionette farces which are still much enjoyed by the uneducated
classes among ourselves and are in great favour in the East (301). It is precisely
because children employ their own bodies to enact a soldier or a mother, however, that this type of play can be said to reect a close afnity with theatre. Furthermore, the tin soldiers and puppets used in play are also images imprinted on
matter, although different from their real models.
What is the differential factor that transforms playing into acting? For Groos
the answer is simple: A fundamental distinction between mimic play and mimic
art consists in the fact that the player imitates simply for his own amusement,
the artist for the pleasure of others. His is not real play but exhibition (301). Indeed, while both children and actors engage in iconic representation, in the
sense of employing images imprinted on their own bodies and deection of reference, essentially children do not play in order to communicate their thoughts
to others. Even when at a certain age they start sharing their play with others,
which involves an element of communication, we cannot speak of the use of an
established medium. Since children imitate every possible thing, the principle
of similarity on the material level does not always materialize. Children indiscriminately employ their own bodies and any available object too. Moreover,
since children may also enact themselves, the eventual distinction between selfreference and deection of reference is not yet established. In other words, although Groos is pointing in the right direction, his explanation is not entirely
satisfactory: in theatre actors imprint images on their own bodies and deect reference to characters. Moreover, in theatre the functions of plays are divided be278

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tween spectators and actors: the former inherits the function of players and the
latter provide the text of their play, a description of the ctional worldthe actors mediate between the players and the imaginative world.
Groos attempts what I term a theory of theatre roots based on childrens
play, but he mistakenly focuses on the contents of ludic activity, while lacking the
semiotic tools for an adequate description of the relationship between play and
theatre. Following my alternative approach, the afnity between them is indicated by use of the same method of signication and similar method of imprinting (iconic) images. Both, therefore, reect the same roots in a rudimentary and
spontaneous method of representation of the psyche. Nonetheless, imaginative
play is not theatre. It lacks the use of an established code, which is supplied to the
growing individual from without, by culture. There is nothing, however, closer
to theatre than imaginative play in the spontaneous behavior of humans, children or otherwise. At this stage we still lack empirical evidence to support the intuition that the operation of images, whether imprinted or not, is a kind of thinking. Such a theory is clearly provided by Piaget.

Playing and Thinking

In Play, Dreams and Imitation in Childhood, Piaget pays particular attention to
play in the context of the equilibrium between two basic psychic functionsassimilation and accommodation. He perceives this equilibrium as dening intelligence and these functions as crucial factors in the development of the child
toward conceptual thinking and mature intelligence. Although the complete
process, which includes the adoption and evolution of verbal thinking, does not
concern our study, what is of interest here is the existence of an imagistic method
of representation and thinking, prior to the development of discursive thinking
as an improved alternative. Equally relevant is its subsequent development into
the parallel iconic system of representation and communication characteristic of
some arts, particularly theatre. Within this narrow context Piagets contributions
are crucial. He provides empirical evidence for the existence of such a system of
representation in imaginative play or, in his own terms, symbolic play; he also
reveals its inherent thinking function and connects play both with dreams and
implicitly, by accepting Grooss approach, with theatre.
The main problem in dealing with Piagets theory is the use of a different and
possibly dated terminology, which reects both the shortcomings of particularly
Freudian psychoanalysis in handling rhetoric terminology and the revealing but
somewhat undifferentiated linguistic terminology of de Saussure. The problem is
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exacerbated due to Piagets mixing of these terminologies. In order to avoid an

arduous search for the sources of his unique use of certain terms, here I simply
suggest their meanings according to Piagets own use of them.
Symbol is used in the sense of an image which has meaning distinct from
its immediate content, and in which there is a more or less direct resemblance between signier and signied (Piaget: 169). This sense combines on the one hand
the relationship between sign and its associative periphery and on the other the
structure of metaphor. By signied Piaget probably means referent, since
there can be no similarity between a concrete signier and a set of abstract features. He contrasts symbol (which in his view is a sign motivated by similarity
or, rather, a metaphor) with sign in the Saussurian sense of an arbitrary signier, related to its signied by a social convention and not by any resemblance
between them (169).
By introducing the element of metaphor into the denition of symbol Piaget reverts to the fallacy of Freud, who denes it in terms of the comparison view
of metaphor (chapter 13). In the terms of this study, symbol is understood as a
particular form of reading a sign, verbal or otherwise, which activates, in addition to its basic signied, an associative periphery; and metaphor as a predicative relationship which is alternative to literal predication. Whereas symbol
hinges on the relationship of a single sign to its associative periphery, metaphor
engages at least two signs in a modifying relationship.
Piaget also combines the notions of symbol and image. In his time metaphor and image were commonly used as synonymous terms; but Piaget also
uses image for the mental representation of a real object or model based on the
principle of similarity, as in this study. I dene image as a unit of representation characterized by similarity to a model, which, if imprinted on matter, becomes an iconic sign that can be employed in both literal (with or without activating symbolic periphery) and metaphorical capacities.
Piaget rightly assigns the function of signier to the image itself, and it is in
this sense that he raises the problem of imitation: It is clear from the outset that
the problem of imitation is linked with that of representation. Since representation involves the [mental] image of an object, it can be seen to be a kind of interiorized imitation (74). This principle (interiorization of imitation) is in fact
an answer to the question of how an image becomes part of the mental life of the
child.
Piaget holds the view that fundamentally imitation is learned: there is nothing innate in imitation. The child learns to imitate, and this learning process is
particularly obvious in the eld of movements he cannot see himself make (78).
It is difcult to accept, however, that such an elementary activity of the mind as
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producing images of the world is a learned activity. Even Piaget himself qualies
his claim: This conclusion would still be true even if in the tendency to imitate
there were an element transmitted through heredity, since a distinction must be
made between a tendency and the technique which makes its development possible (5). In the context of our study, it is the innate element that is most relevant, since my own claim is that theatre is rooted in this elementary activity of
the mind. My intuition is that images, at rst mere sensory recollections of real
objects, are produced naturally as units of thinking processes (cf. Damasio) and
that at later stages these become imprinted on matter and coupled with denite
meanings, by mediation of natural language.
In order to explain internalization of imitation, Piaget introduces the notion of deferred imitation, which happens when the rst reproduction of the
model does not necessarily occur when the model is present but is produced in
its absence. In other words, imitation is no longer dependent on the actual action, and the child becomes capable of imitating internally a series of models in
the form of images or suggestions of actions. Imitation thus begins to reach the
level of representation (62). When children imitate a model for the rst time
which they have not seen for several hours or days, it certainly indicates that an
internal model (67) has replaced the externally perceived model. The rst examples of such deferred imitation given by Piaget relate to the age of sixteen
months. This deferred imitation is conceived by Piaget as an interior language
and as the interiorization of speech (67).
The problem here is that the notion of interiorization implies that images
are created externally and become units of mental activity at a later stage, in stark
contrast to neurologys basic claim that images are spontaneously produced
on condition of maturationby the brain. Piagets experiments show that some
form of primary imitation not only is spontaneous but is already observable in
the second month of life (8ff.). The relationship between image and imitation is
of crucial importance, since production of images also includes imitation of behavior, particularly in enacting characters. These may indeed be enabled at a later
stage.
Silberers contribution to discovering the spontaneous mechanism of imagination was crucial, as recognized by both Freud and Piaget:
Silberer attempts to discover the exact point at which, in the half sleeping
state, thought abandons its coherent logical structure for imaged symbolism.
Having observed that the rst images to appear are often a continuation and
symbolic transposition of the last conscious idea, Silberer tries to reproduce
the phenomenon experimentally by forcing himself to x his thought on a
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chosen problem and to wake up and note the images which appeared after he
had fallen asleep while meditating. (Piaget: 193)
Some of his examples are highly illuminating: Example I.I thought of having to revise an uneven passage in an essay. Symbol: I saw myself planing a piece
of wood (quoted by Freud 1978: 460). Silberers experiments indicate that when
not under the control of consciousness the mind naturally abandons verbal
thinking and reverts to imagistic thinking. This particular example shows the use
of an image of planing wood as a metaphorical description of revising an uneven passagethe metaphorical use of an image.
Piaget suggests two methods of representation, based on symbols and signs,
which assumedly underlie two fundamental methods of thinking: symbolic
thought and logico-verbal thought. The common denominator of these two
methods is representation, dened as the union of a signier that allows of
recall, with a signied supplied by thought (273). Piaget uses representation
in two senses:
in its broad sense, representation is identical with thought, i.e., with all intelligence which is based on a system of concepts or mental schemas and not
merely on perceptions and actions. In its narrow sense, representation is restricted to the mental or memory image, i.e., the symbolic evocation of absent
realities. It is obvious that these two kinds of representation are related. The
concept is an abstract schema and the image a concrete symbol, and in spite
of the fact that we no longer consider thought to be merely a system of images,
it is possible that all thought is accompanied by images, for if thinking consists in relating meanings, the image would be a signier and the concept a
signied. (Piaget: 67)
Piaget explicitly states that the operation of imageswithout actual manipulation of real objectsis a mode of thinking (cf. Langer: 145).
Piaget suggests that each method of thinking best suits a particular need and
that symbolic thinking suits those of the individual: Since it [the sign, the instrument of rational thought] is social, and therefore liable to generalization and
abstraction in contrast to individual experience, the system of signs makes possible the formation of rational thought. . . . [In contrast,] [t]he symbol [the instrument of symbolic thought] will . . . be used in affective language, to express
feelings and concrete experiences, rather than in intellectual language to express
impersonal thoughts (169). He also links imaged representation to intuitive
thought (164). Piaget is probably correct in noting that in modern times the use
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chic states of affairs. His explanation is far from being satisfactory, however, because in principlealthough natural language is more articulatethere is no
difference between the system of abstraction in verbal and iconic media, due to
the mediation of natural language in the latter. Piagets suggestion clearly reects
the general view that imagistic texts may at most reect emotive states of affairs.
He may be right in assuming that ludic symbolism best suits the childs egocentrism and that it is the expression of the childs present reality (155); but this
means neither that it cannot equally suit other aims nor that verbal and conceptual thought is inadequate to express individual experience (155). Because he
makes no distinction, within imagistic representation, between spontaneous play
and coded theatre, he is unable to conceive the possibility of use of images in formulating and communicating genuine observations about reality.
The use of natural language in symbolic play makes this dichotomy even more
problematic, since it is evident that the child experiences play and verbal thinking together. In play language is used in imitation of real speech acts, which does
not contravene the principles underlying image formation and iconicity. Language is also used for describing the play-situation, particularly when children set
up the frame of play. For example, when Mary suggests: Then lets play that I am
a thief, and there is a whole roomful of cakes, and the door is shut, and I cut a
hole in it and take all the cakes away, and you are the policeman and run after me
and get all the cakes back again (Groos 1914: 307). In this case, the entire situation is described by means of words. Furthermore, imagistic thinking most probably could not have been made accessible without mediation of language. The
moment language mediates, an element of communication by a socialized means
is introduced, and the expression thereby ceases to be entirely personal. I agree
with Piaget that symbolic (in the sense of imagistic) thought, although mediated,
is independent of verbal signs and even opposed by its structure and function
to rational thought which uses signs (Piaget: 170); but I do not accept that there
is an inherent restriction in their objects of description. The two methods have
been used for both affective and intellectual thoughts. Even natural language
is not used spontaneously for scientic purposes but only after strict redenition
and control of signieds.
Piaget denitely views imaginative or symbolic play as a form of thinking: In
most cases, indeed, the doll only serves as an opportunity for the child to relive
symbolically her own life in order to assimilate more easily its various aspects
as well as to resolve daily conicts and realize unsatised desires. We can be sure
that all the happenings, pleasant or unpleasant, in the childs life will have repercussions on her dolls (Piaget: 107). In this sense playing is experimenting mentally with life, by putting oneself in possible situations as if they were real. Pia{ Playing as Thinking }

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get not only lacks the notion of reference but is also unaware that imaginative
play involves an apparent double reference: apparent reference to the imagined
world and eventual real reference to the real world of the child. In this indirect
way, both play and theatre are eventually self-referential, with the latter adding
the mediation of actors. This apparent double reference to ctional world and
child or spectator can be explained only in terms of metaphor, since it is the only
kind of predication that presents an apparent improper (nonliteral) predication
which eventually proves most proper.
As we have seen already, like Freud, Piaget uses symbolism in place of substitutional metaphor to indicate dissociation between what the text seems to refer to and the real referent, which is implicit or, rather, substituted. This gap
clearly indicates both the use of some kind of system of representation and the
presence of metaphor: symbolic games imply representation of an absent object, since there is comparison between a given and an imagined element (111).
The problem with this formulation is that Piaget employs the obsolete comparison view of metaphor. The fact that symbolism is obvious in substitutive metaphor is no reason to deny its existence in cases of explicit metaphor or even of literal predication. Some forms of imaginative play may well be literal descriptions
of the childs predicament.
Piaget sees symbolic representation as a phase in the development of intelligence, commencing with sensory-motor intelligence and culminating in discursive intelligence, with each phase incorporating and subordinating the previous
one. Symbolic-imagistic intelligence subordinates sensory-motor intelligence,
and similarly logico-verbal intelligence eventually subordinates imagistic intelligence. Piaget also conceives a development from sensory-motor games to the advanced social games, through symbolic games or, rather, play. He arranges these
types of play according to a developmental pattern, which derives from his own
theory of growth. According to this theory at approximately the same time as
sensory-motor intelligence develops into conceptual representation and imitation becomes symbolic representation, the system of social signs makes its appearance in the form of speech. The problem therefore involves three terms: concepts, symbols or images, and verbal signs (68). Since concepts are shared by
both images and words, we are left with two types of medium. An alternative
reading of the same data is also possible, however, viewing it not as a linear development within which every mental phenomenon in the child is set but as a
conictive one. The rst examples of symbolic play appear in Piagets records by
the end of the second year of a childs life and are concomitant with the appearance of language and its use in sentences for descriptions of the world, while
symbolic games decline after the age of four (145). I suspect that the verbal sys284

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tem, which is imposed on the child from without, has a two-fold effect: rst, it
enables socialization of the imagistic method by mediation, and, second, it becomes an alternative and competing method of thinking, based on aural signiers and socially controlled signieds. As a result of this struggle imagination is
eventually overpowered and even suppressed.
Piaget is critical of Grooss theory of play as pre-exercise and not merely exercise, because it contributes to the development of functions whose maturity is
reached only at the end of childhood (151). The notion of pre-exercise of faculties is too broad, since it can also include thinking itself. Grooss notion of preexercise is therefore restricted to instrumental functions in adult life, such as
hunting and building. For Piaget this stands in contradiction to empirical data,
which clearly indicate that in his play the child, instead of pre-exercising, relives
or, rather, reshapes past experiences according to various principles, particularly
wishful /fearful thinking. Piaget accepts Grooss theory of pre-exercise with regard to practice-games (sensory-motor phase) but cannot accept it for symbolic
games (151). Even games with dolls, which might lend themselves to a special interpretation, are much less pre-exercise of the maternal instinct than an innitely
varied symbolic system which provides the child with all the means of assimilation it needs in order to rethink past experiences (154).
For Piaget the main question is why, in order to exercise their mental abilities,
children do not use verbal and conceptual thought, instead of having recourse to
symbolism.
In order to think a church steeple or a dead duck, or to relive a scene which
took place because one wouldnt eat ones soup, would it not sufce to use interior speech, i.e., verbal and conceptual thought? Why imitate the church
steeple, lie motionless to mime a duck, make ones doll drink imaginary soup,
scolding or encouraging it the while? The answer is obvious: the childs interior thought is not as yet sufciently precise and mobile, his logico-verbal
thought is still too inadequate and too vague, while the symbol concretizes
and animates everything. But this means that the symbol is not to be explained
by pre-exercise: it is the very structure of the childs thought. (Piaget: 155)
Play thus cannot be explained by pre-exercise. Instead, it is actual thinking by
means of a particular system of representation.
Piaget claims an essential afnity and even continuity between dreams and
play on the grounds of shared employment of symbolism. First, inuenced by
psychoanalysis, he distinguishes between [primary] symbolism and secondary symbolism, using the former for conscious and the latter for unconscious
symbolism (169). Secondary symbolism is not employed exclusively in dreams;
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to some extent, it is also found in play. For example, a child who has been made
jealous by the birth of a younger brother and happens to be playing with two
dolls of unequal size, will make the smaller one go away on a journey, while the
bigger one stays with its mother. Assuming that the child is unaware that he is
thinking of his younger brother and himself, we shall call a case of this kind secondary or unconscious symbolism (171). Another example: At 5; 8 (5), being for
a moment on bad terms with her father, X. charged one of her imaginary characters with the task of avenging her: Zoubab cut off her daddys head. But she has
very strong glue and partly stuck it on again. But its not very rm now. (174).
In these examples, although the children are not aware of their play making reference to their own family situation on the unconscious level, unsurprisingly this
is highly meaningful for them. This duality of unawareness and signicance
makes this kind of play akin to dreams and therefore likely to be suppressed and
forgotten. Suppression presupposes, however, some kind of recognition of its
potentially upsetting nature. Moreover, in this primary form we nd already
metaphorical predication and indirect reference to the player.
Furthermore, Piaget proves a continuity between play and dreams, when their
parallel occurrences at the same age are analyzed, on the grounds of the appearance of the same symbols (176 82). He claims that in both types of imaginative
activity there is unconscious symbolism even in cases in which suppression is
apparently not involved. Therefore, [g]enerally speaking, we can assume that
dreams are continuation of symbolic play (202) or vice versa, we should add.
Piaget asks at what stage dreams appear and answers that [i]t is very difcult
to say . . . , since before the stage of language only behaviors can be analyzed
(176) and [i]n the case of children, we have been unable to nd evidence of authentic dreams before the appearance of language (177). It is difcult, however,
to think of dreaming as a learned activity. I assume, therefore, that the production of images is fundamentally an innate faculty of the mind and a side effect of
the mechanism of perception. Neurobiology provides the empirical evidence
(Damasio). On these grounds, I suggest that the mediation of natural language is
essential to make imagistic thinking communicativeto report on it or to transform it into an established social medium.
Piaget does not take the important theoretical step of questioning the difference between dream and play. In contrast to dreams, play images are imprinted
on matter, whether on the childs body itself when enacting a character or on objects (such as dolls or tin soldiers), and mediated by natural language. This imprinted text, which is accessible to direct observation, describes a ctional world
that apparently differs from the childs own world but eventually proves to be a
metaphorical description of it. Use of the body for imprinting and mediation of
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a ctional world clearly underscore the afnity between play and theatre. The
main difference between them is that theatre employs a culturally established
medium to produce ready-made texts for the consumption of audiences in the
context of a social permit to confront even socially suppressed contents.
The afnity between play and theatre should not be overstretched, however.
Play does not always produce images or imprint them in the typical form of theatre. For example, At I; 10 (30) she [J] put a shell on the edge of a big box and
made it slide down saying: Cat on the wall. Then (without any further action)
tree and then (putting the shell on her head) right at the top (i.e., of the tree:
the day before she had seen the cat climbing a pine tree) (Piaget: 124). Although
the manipulation of the shell reects the intention of representation, it is neither
an image of the cat nor imprinted on similar matter. The element of iconicity is
conned only to the spatial relationships in its movement and resting. Furthermore, even in the case of substitutes such as puppets, dolls, or tin soldiers obvious images of human beingssimilarity does not apply to the imprinted matter. The essential bond between imaginative play and theatre is revealed only
when children use their own bodies to represent another human being, including a specic (interpretive) image of themselves. Only then are they genuinely
engaging in a primordial form of actingimprinting human images on a human body, deecting reference, creating a ctional world, and eventually referring to themselves. In other words, in play the use of images is much wider than
their use in theatre.
Piaget perceives that the basic fallacy in the theories of both Groos and Freud
resides in their attempt to explain imagination by its contents:
[A]fter discovering that elementary games are for exercise, K. Groos failed to
nd the explanation for symbolic ction because he attempted to explain it
by the content of the tendencies exercised. In his opinion the child makes
do with make-believe ghts or imaginary characters because he cannot really
ght or nurse real babies. Like Groos, Freud also failed to understand the
cause of the unconscious symbols which he himself discovered, and for the
same reason, that he sought to explain them by their content. For Freud there
is symbolism because the content of the symbols has been repressed, while
for Groos there is symbolic ction because the content of the ludic symbols is
still beyond the childs reach. But in both cases the formation of the symbol is
not due to its content, but to the very structure of the childs thought. (Piaget:
155 56)
By structure of thought Piaget probably means the method of representation
employed in both domains. This conclusion is therefore crucial to our under{ Playing as Thinking }

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standing of imagination: dreaming, playing, and experiencing theatre all are

forms of thinking by means of the same method of representation regardless of
the contents of thought, whether egocentric or socialized, whether conscious or
unconscious. In all of these domains the use of images reects the structure of
thought.
Piaget analyzes childrens drawings in similar terms, as a phase in the development of their imagination (Eng: 181 88; Krampen: 35 38). The use of drawing
for projected thinking clearly echoes the play of children. This is most conspicuous when children explain their drawings in their own words. The use of drawing for the sake of representation and thinking is mainly reected in its formal
and abstract iconicity. It is minimalist to the extent of just enabling identication of referents and predication in the childrens own minds. Representation
does not aim for a one-to-one correspondence between the elements that constitute an object and the depicted image, nor does it aspire to copy the original
(Golomb: 3). Basically, children are not interested in communication, as in play,
but in expression. Whereas external inuences can be detected, the imitation of
internal representation is a dominant factor (Eng: 184; Krampen: 42). Claire
Golomb considers these drawings as reecting a creative search of meaning (3).
On these grounds, childrens drawings can be used as indications of mental
growth (Eng: 181) and for psychological diagnosis of healthy and disturbed children (Golomb: 265 306).

Play, Theatre, and Truth

Gadamers approach to play, basically similar to that of Piaget, is deeply embedded in his philosophy. Therefore, with utmost care, let us try to isolate his views
concerning play and drama. Gadamer also employs drama in a vague
sense, applicable to both drama and theatre. He assumes that drama is a kind of
play and contends that play has its own essence, independent of the consciousness of those who play (92). He derives his denition of play from the metaphorical uses of this term. For example, when we say that someone plays with
possibilities or with plans. What we mean is clear. He still has not committed
himself to the possibilities as to serious aims. He still has the freedom to decide
one way or the other (95). The structure of play absorbs the player into itself,
and thus takes from him the burden of initiative, which constitutes the actual
strain of existence (94). The movement which is play has no goal which brings
it to an end; rather it renews itself in constant repetition (93). The implication is

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that play means freedom. This does not contradict that [p]lay itself contains
its own, even sacred, seriousness (91).
Gadamer suggests that play and drama are forms of representation; but,
whereas the mode of being of play is self-representation, the mode of being
of drama is representation for someone (97):
All representation is potentially representative for someone. That this possibility is intended is the characteristic feature of the playful nature of art. The
closed world of play lets down, as it were, one of its walls. A religious rite and
a play in a theatre obviously do not represent in the same sense as the playing
child. Their being is not exhausted by the fact that they represent; at the same
time they point beyond themselves to the audience which is sharing in them.
Play here is no longer the mere self-representation of an ordered movement,
nor mere representation, in which the playing child is totally absorbed, but is
representing for someone. This assignment in all representation comes to the
fore here and is constitutive of the being of art. (97)
Whereas [c]hildren play for themselves even when they represent (98),
players (i.e., actors) in drama represent a meaningful whole for an audience.
Thus it is not really the absence of the fourth wall that turned the play into a
show. Rather the openness toward the spectator is part of the closeness of the
play. The audience only completes what the play as such is (98). Drama has the
structure of a game, which is that of a closed world. . . . the [dramatic] play itself
is the whole, comprising players and spectators. In fact, it is experienced properly by, and presents itself as what is meant to, one who is not acting in the play,
but is watching. In him the game is raised, as it were, to its perfection (98). In
other words, it is for the spectators that the theatrical play takes place. The implication is that in theatre the actors merely fulll a mediating function within
a complex form of play, in which the real players are the spectators. Although
Gadamer does not distinguish between game and imaginative play, I believe that
this distinction is of crucial importance. Its application to imaginative play entails that instead of children imprinting their mental images on their own bodies, the adults delegate this function to the actors for the sake of themselves qua
spectators. By doing so they engage in a cultural activity that carries with it the
permit to enjoy imaginative play in adulthood. In this sense, theatre is the cultural sequel of both daydreaming and play.
Gadamer considers play the prerequisite of truth. I call this development, in
which human play nds its true perfection in being art, the transformation into

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structure (99). Transformation into structure is not a mere change, but a

condition in which
what existed previously no longer exists. But also what now exists, what represents itself in the play of art, is what is lasting and true. . . . The transformation is a transformation into the true. . . . In the representation of play, what is
emerges. In it is produced and brought to the light what otherwise is constantly hidden and withdrawn. If someone knows how to perceive the comedy and tragedy of life, he is able to resist the suggestiveness of purposes,
which conceal the game that is played with us. (100 101)
From this viewpoint reality is dened as what is untransformed, and art as the
raising up of this reality into its truth (102). The difference between play/drama
and life seems to disappear. The notion of truth implies, however, the notion
of description of reality. It implies, in the terms of this study, that play and theatre are forms of thinking.
Winnicott too, who sees himself as a disciple of Freud, creates a meaningful
relationship of representation, freedom, and truth, which he identies already in
handling transitional objects (e.g., a teddy bear) and transitional phenomena:
[t]he intermediate area . . . that is allowed to the infant between primary creativity and objective perception based on reality-testing (11). This intermediate
area of experience, unchallenged in respect of its belonging to inner or external
(shared) reality, constitutes the greater part of the infants experience, and
throughout his life is retained in the intense experiencing that belongs to the arts
and to religion and to imaginative living, and to creative scientic work (14).
For Winnicott, [t]here is a direct development from transitional phenomena
to playing, and from playing to shared playing, and from this to cultural experiences (51). He conceives play as operating mental images or what he calls internal representations (15)a kind of thinking which is typical of dream material:
In playing, the child manipulates external phenomena in the service of the
dream and invests chosen external phenomena with dream meaning and feeling
(51). Winnicott presupposes, like Freud for dream, the possibility of playing
without communication with the world but with the observing ego (43). He
also considers play a domain of freedom: in playing, and perhaps only in playing, the child or adult is free to be creative (53). He believes that creative thinking is a healthy state, and that compliance is a sick basis for life (65). Moreover,
it is a precondition of individual truth: It is in playing and only in playing that
the individual child or adult is able to be creative and to use the whole personality, and it is only in being creative that the individual discovers the self (54). Indeed, discovery implies the notion of truth.
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Although Winnicotts claim regards the discovery of the true self, the fact is
that both Gadamer and Winnicott, from extremely different disciplines, converge on the point of truth. True and false, however, are possible predicates
of statements on a world which presuppose (1) a medium affording representations of objects, qualities, and acts/actions (nouns, adjectives, and verbs) and relations (syntax); and (2) a possible reference, because true and false refer to
a statements adequacy with regard to a world. In principle, a statement cannot
be true if it cannot be false. In other words, truth and falsity presuppose a system
of signication and communication (i.e., a method of thinking) and specic
statements that categorize something in a world. Imaginative play and theatre are
kinds of representation (i.e., basic modes of thinking), but neither thinking nor
freedom can guarantee truth. No language or medium can.
* * *
Piaget shows that the operation of mental images and imprinted images in play
reects a method of thinking, in the sense suggested by Susanne Langer, as manipulation of reality in absentia by means of representations (Langer: 31).
Piaget criticizes Freud and Groos for focusing on the wrong aspects of dream,
daydream, and play: on their contents instead of their methods of representation.
It is indeed on the level of representation that the afnity between play and the
theatre obtains.
Freud claims that in adult life the natural heir to playing is daydreaming, and
doubtless the afnity of daydreaming with theatre is as meaningful as that of
dreaming. In contrast to play, in both daydreaming and theatre there is no danger of exposure to criticism because of daydreamings internal nature and theatres cultural permit that allows collective and public confrontation with contents of the psyche. While daydreaming already includes mediation of language
and cultural logos, enabling conscious confrontation with shameful contents of
the psyche, theatre goes even further in also allowing public confrontation with
shameful and even suppressed contents. This afnity, however, only regards aspects of meaning.
In contrast, in most cases, imaginative play is a text performed by children who imprint mental imagesmediated by natural language on their
own bodies. The texts they produce eventually refer to their own predicament,
whether literally or metaphorically. Like theatre, play deects reference to a
ctional world, while eventually being self-referential. The difference is that in
play self-referentiality applies to the players and in theatre, by means of mediating actors, to the spectators. In other words, while it is the spectators who inherit
the role of the playing children, it is the actors who provide the text of their play,
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a description of the ctional world. Despite differences, since play and theatre are
similar in both method of signication and medium, it is more plausible that theatre, and not daydreaming, is the real heir of play.
Mental images are created spontaneously by the psyche and reect this rudimentary method of signication, probably suppressed by consciousness. I
suggest that dreams, daydreams, play, and theatre (even in its rudimentary
forms) reect this method and see the roots of theatre not in any of these particular forms of imagistic thinking but, rather, in this shared innate method of
representation.
Thinking in images does not guarantee truth in the discovery of the true
self or the true nature of the world. Thinking in any language or medium, even
scientic thinking, cannot claim such a privilege.

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15
Mythical
Representation



There is a profound gap between the attempt to explain the use of myth in the
ctional arts (such as theatre, cinema, and literature) and the various theories of
myth, particularly those suggested in the last hundred years within such disciplines as anthropology, science of religion, and psychoanalysis. For the student
of drama, myth can be a fundamental structural layer of a more complex ctional world. This has been evidenced throughout the history of the dramatic arts
not only by the continuous recycling of the same myths in different ctional
worlds but also by the use of mythical structures that can be discerned only by
means of comparative analysis. Such ctional worlds, moreover, reveal a clear
preference for myths that focus on the infringement of taboos, such as those relating to violence or eroticism within the familymyths that have a deep psychological signicance. Such mythical elements always appear in the context of a
logos, whose specic values depend on the culture of the audience, making the
assimilation of such transgressions into a meaningful cultural experience for
each individual spectator possible.
In contrast, most of the leading theories of myth view it not as just one component of a comprehensive and more complex structure but as an entity on its
own, with denite functions, whether expressive, cognitive, or validatory. It is
difcult to infer, therefore, how any of these theories might explain its use in the
dramatic arts, particularly in the context of societies in which belief is not attached to myth. As we shall see below, it was Malinowski who raised the problem
but did not attempt to solve it.
Unfortunately, typical theories of myth relate only to the thought aspect (content) of myth. Neither anthropological nor theories of drama are concerned with

myth as a product of the imagistic method of signication. In this chapter I emphasize this aspect of myth in order to support the main thesis of this study that
myth and theatre share this archaic method of signication. I assume a fundamental distinction between the representation and thought aspects of myth and
intend to stress the former.
Within this context, from the viewpoint of a comprehensive theory of theatre,
we shall take a look at those intuitions or ndings that may be able to contribute
to an understanding of the use of myth in the context of theatre art, with regard
to both drama (i.e., within a ctional structure) and theatre, as a product of the
imagistic method of signication. It is my rm belief that no general theory of
myth, whatever the discipline, can ignore the widespread use of mythical materials in the ctional arts.
There is a certain methodological advantage to approaching myth by means
of its use in theatre. Instead of looking for the nature of myth in remote cultures, in which various cultural phenomena (such as ritual, history, and the arts)
appear in intricate combinations, we shall examine it from the perspective of
theatre, in which mythical representation appears to be part of a most distinct
phenomenon.
My theses are as follows.
1. Myth is a product of the imagistic method of representation or, rather,
thinking. By means of this method the psyche spontaneously formulates thoughts
in the shape of ctional worlds (i.e., worlds populated by characters and their
actions).
2. Myth even in its rudimentary formand theatre even in its most sophisticated formshave their roots in the very same method of representation:
both reect the spontaneous imagistic creativity of the psyche. In order to be
communicated myth requires a medium, either language or an iconic medium
such as theatre.
3. Although myth can refer to any possible phenomenon in the world, drama
usually focuses on myths that constitute metaphorical representations of amorphous stirrings of the psyche. Myth provides drama with a basic mapping
(mythos) of the spectators psychical state of affairs, which is reformulated in
terms of the spectators culture (logos) and thus transmuted into a complex ctional object.
4. In this sense, drama based on myth provides the opportunity for a culturally controlled encounter between the spectators and all the layers of their
psyches.

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Basic Features
Despite substantial variance, the main theories of myth do agree on the following.
1. A myth is a narrative, an account of a world of characters and their actions
unfolding in time, what is usually called a ctional world (Frye: 365): All
myths are stories and depend heavily on their narrative qualities for their creation and preservation (Kirk: 254). Obviously, not every narrative is a myth, but
every myth is indeed a narrative.
2. A myth is a narrative that is set in an ahistorical time: a myth is an account
of events which took place in principio, that is, in the beginning, in a primordial
and non-temporal instant, a moment of sacred time (Eliade 1991: 57). And in
William G. Dotys terms: a foundational period (the primal times, the times of
beginnings and creations) (8).
3. A myth does not relate to the world in an explicit or literal manner. At
face value myth is nonsense. Whatever the approach, all agree that there is a gap
between the mythical narrative and what it represents, describes, explains, or
validates.
4. Myth commands total belief (Malinowski 1963: 35; cf. Eliade 1960) or,
rather, involvement. It would appear that in modern society myth has lost its
numinous meaning, but we still witness the deep involvement of audiences
whenever it serves as a clear component of a ctional world.
5. A myth fullls at least one main function, although the main theories diverge as to what this function is: social, cognitive, or psychological. In the following sections I review the singular contributions of those major theories of
myth that reect different attitudes to its main function.

The Functional Approach

Malinowski vehemently advocated a functional approach in his attempt to dene
the notion of myth by its crucial function. He considered this function to be
validation, which is dened as a collective effort to justify existing patterns of
behavior and social institutions, when rite, ceremony or a social or moral rule
demands justication, warrant of antiquity, reality and sanctity (36)that is,
buttressing their validity (42). In other words, [m]yth fulls in primitive culture an indispensable function: it expresses, enhances, and codies belief; it safeguards and enforces morality; it vouches for efciency of ritual and contains
practical rules for the guidance of man. Myth is thus a vital ingredient of human
civilization (23). Actually, Malinowski criticizes not a hypothetical antifunc{ Mythical Representation }

295

tionalist approach but the current approach prevalent in his time, which attached a unique and basic cognitive function to myth: It is, therefore, neither a
mere narrative, nor a form of science, nor a branch of art or history, nor an explanatory tale (124).
Malinowski was ready to acknowledge the possibility of a cognitive function,
but subordinated to validation: Once we have realized that myth serves principally to establish a sociological charter, or a retrospective moral pattern of behavior, or the primeval supreme miracle of magicit becomes clear that elements both of explanation and of interest in nature must be found in sacred
legends (121). Indeed, a story that is not believed to be true cannot validate anything. Thus, in terms of structural methodology, he argues that myth is characterized by a dominant validating function, without excluding others.
There is an obvious difference between cognition and validationbetween
knowledge and justication. While knowledge deals with truth, validation deals
with value. Moreover, validation presupposes an epistemology. For example, the
sacrice of Isaac may validate belief in a God who does not require the sacrice
of humans, which is based on a cognition of the nature of God. The condition
of truth, however, is not absolute. In a scientic sense, most cognitions underlying myths are false and yet still prevail. Falsity does not contradict their cognitive nature. It conrms it.
Malinowskis exhortation to abandon cognitive views of myth and focus exclusively on its validating function, within the framework of the society that consecrates the myth, thus proves misleading. Although myths on their native soil
may fulll crucial functions in buttressing the social system, the question is
whether or not a phenomenon such as myth can be dened by its function. The
notion of function implies that there is no necessary connection between a
function and the nature of what fullls it. The same entity may fulll different
functions, even synchronously, and different entities may fulll the same function. The validating function advocated by Malinowski in itself demonstrates this
claim: in different societies religion, ideology, philosophy, or the arts can fulll
it. Theatre may fulll a validating function, even of religious beliefs, without
sharing the nature of ritual. In other words, to dene a cultural entity solely by
its functions is to disregard its specic nature. There must be an inherent quality
of myth that, while enabling the fulllment of a given function, distinguishes it
from any other entity that could fulll the same function. Although myth is a
narrative that can also be characterized by having functions, including validation,
it cannot be dened by function alone. A clear distinction should be made between myth as an autonomous phenomenon and its functions in the context of
its synchronous social structure.
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The Cognitive Approach

The term myth has nowadays acquired the meaning of collective misconception and even falsity, if not outright lie. In order to understand this shift in
meaning we should remember that a myth which is regarded as true by a believing society could be and usually is regarded as false in the context of another society, which usually attaches belief to different myths (Levin: 106). Both belief
and disbelief, however, reect that myth is and should be examined in terms of
truth or falsity and that it is basically expected to operate in a cognitive capacity. This is not surprising, if we consider myth to be the thought aspect of the
imagistic system of signication. In this sense, myth is both a product of the
existential need to understand the world, whether for practical purposes or not,
and a text formulated in a particular and perhaps peculiar method of representation, capable of both cognitive achievement and failure. In Andrew Langs
words, myth is a product of early human fancy, working on the most rudimentary knowledge of the outer world. . . . In the case of the myths, the need was to
explain certain phenomena (12 13). Even if, as a rudimentary system, it may
fail in accounting for the world, it is very difcult to avoid seeing that at least
some myths are obvious attempts to explain puzzling phenomena such as the
seasons (e.g., Hades and Persephone), the fallen human condition (e.g., Adam
and Eve), and the rule of evil (e.g., Faust).
Ernst Cassirer conceives language and myth as symbolic systems originating
in the same symbolic impulse (88) and contrasts them to theoretical thinking. He
assumes that symbols are instruments of knowledge that can never reproduce the
nature of things but must frame their essence in concepts, which, as creations
of thought, can only express the nature of the mind (7). Each symbolic system
language, myth, art, or scienceis a particular way of seeing and carries within
itself its particular and proper source of light. Because of its intrinsic limitations,
it is not a question of what we see in a certain perspective, but of the perspective
itself (11). What, therefore, distinguishes myth from other perspectives? It is
the focus on immediate experience (32), concentration, and compression (33).
The ego is spending all its energy on this single object, lives in it, loses itself
in it (33). Although Cassirer alludes to the notion of metaphor, he does not
suggest it as a specic mythical form of predication on the world but as bridging
between language and myth. He overlooks the fact that, as a medium, language
serves both mythical and theoretical thinking and is a precondition of both.
In particular, myth is unapproachable without a medium. He denitely errs in
comparing myth as the thought aspect of myth-making and language as one of
its possible media. Nonetheless, he reinforces the cognitive nature of myth.
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The cognitive thesis is intimately related to the assumption that myth reects a rudimentary method of thinking, which was eventually superseded by
verbal thinking. What is a method of thinking? Following Susanne Langer, my
working denition is: the operation of a method of representation in handling
reality, without direct manipulation of reality (Langer: 31). The question, therefore, is whether cognitive failure is inherent in the mythical method or accidental. We should remember that the use of natural language is no guarantee of truth
either. In current theory, however, mythical thinking, as a remnant of preverbal
thinking, is generally seen as of little help in elucidating the nature of the world
and as having consequently been superseded by scientic thinking, based on natural language. In the words of Claude Lvi-Strauss: myth is unsuccessful in giving man more material power over the environment. However, it gives man, very
importantly, the illusion that he can understand the universe and that he does
understand the universe. It is, of course, only an illusion (1979: 17). Is it not true,
however, that in their constant interchange most scientic theories eventually
prove to have the very same function? Furthermore, although the cognitive thesis may seem to be self-defeating, by assuming its inferiority, in fact it is not: the
cognitive nature of myth is actually conrmed by its comparison to another
method of cognition since this implies that both operate in the same capacity.
The question, therefore, regards not the truth-value of a given mythical description but the nature of this method of cognition.
Lvi-Strauss assumes that, when properly understood, myths are speculative
or problem reecting:
[People without writing] are perfectly capable of disinterested thinking; that
is they are moved by a need or desire to understand the world around them,
its nature and its society. On the other hand, to achieve that end, they proceed
by intellectual means, exactly as a philosopher, or even to some extent a scientist, can and would do. . . . To say that a way of thinking is disinterested and
that it is an intellectual way of thinking does not mean at all that it is equal to
scientic thinking. Of course, it remains different in a way, and inferior in another way. (1979: 16 17)
He considers thinking to be possible only by means of a method of representation and assumes that natural language is not the only method and that mythical
thinking also reects such a method (1969a: 11). Therefore, it can and should be
studied, like language, as a system that is independent of its users. He claims that,
regardless of obvious differences, [t]he total body of myth belonging to a given
community is comparable to its speech (1969a: 7); as in speech, there is an underlying vocabulary and syntax that explains the unlimited generation of actual
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myths; and the task is to reveal the rules that underlie mythits universal laws.
This analogy to language may justify the use of linguistic methodology in the inquiry into myth.
Although this basic approach is theoretically attractive and clear, its implementation is less so. With regard to the vocabulary of myth, Lvi-Strauss
is denitely unclear. He attempts a theoretical explanation of the basic units
of meaning, which I believe to be based on a misunderstanding of Ferdinand
de Saussures notions of concept, image, sign, signier, and signied
(1969b: 18; Saussure: 98). He does correctly assume the existence of a new kind of
sign that shares the properties of both images and concepts: from a logical point
of view we can understand why images borrowed from experience can be put to
use . . . to play the part of conceptual thinking (1979: 22 23). He lacks, however,
the category of imprinted image or, rather, iconic sign. He could in fact have
found the embryo of this notion in Charles S. Peirces teachings (Peirce 1965 66;
Sebeok: 1975).
With regard to syntax, while Lvi-Strauss assumes that the system of myth
reects an underlying system of oppositions, he does not present it methodically,
detached from its application to the analysis of specic myths. Moreover, these
relationships in no way resemble the syntax of language, since they regard aspects
of content. They also raise the question of whether or not the syntax of myth
can differ from the syntax of natural language. If Noam Chomsky is correct that
the rules underlying any particular syntax are innate (Chomsky 1975), could a
syntax of any system of representation be an exception to this principle? I suggest
that basic syntactic relationships (such as subject-predicate) underlie all human
systems of representation and communication and contend that those suggested
by Lvi-Strauss are not of this kind. Moreover, from the very same observations
on signs and syntax, I would conclude that myth is not analogous to language.
Even if it uses language, it does so for evoking images. Essentially, it resembles
ctional worlds in the arts, which reect rules of a higher level of complexity, independent of language or any other medium.
Lvi-Strausss cognitive approach is also functional, since it advocates the
function of thinking, not only in the mental operation of representational units
but also in solving problems: The purpose of myth is to provide a logical model
capable of overcoming a contradiction (1983: 229); in other words, mythical
thought always works from the awareness of oppositions towards their progressive mediation (1972: 188). Although he considers the solutions to be illusory, as
mentioned above, the attempt is nonetheless made by cognitive means and answers cognitive needs. Certainly, being a system for the sake of thinking about
the world, myth is capable of fullling other functions, including that suggested
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by Malinowski. We should note, however, that function is used here for two
different levels: (1) within the structure of society (Malinowski) and (2) in thinking about society, reecting the existential gap between being and thinking,
which is neutral with regard to validation. Thinking can be used for invalidation too.
Lvi-Strausss assumption proves right: trying to nd a common function of
all myths is like trying to do the same for linguistic texts and must lead to the absurd. The obvious common denominator of the entire set of mythical texts is the
system itself (cf. Kirk: 7). He fails, however, in fullling his professed aim, which
is to reveal the system of axioms and postulates dening the best possible code,
capable of conferring signicance on unconscious formulations which are the
works of minds, societies and civilizations chosen from among those most remote from each other (1969a: 12) and to contribute to a better knowledge of
objectied thought and its mechanisms (1979: 13). Knowledge of the grammar
of mythical thinking is indeed indispensable; therefore, theorys aim should be its
systematic description. In this respect Lvi-Strauss does not satisfy this need.
Lvi-Strauss does succeed in showing that mythology is a more systematic
cognitive system than it appears to be and one that reveals a degree of complexity and meaningful structure not previously envisaged. A thorough understanding of this system, however, should also provide an explanation for the enigmatic
grip of myth (whether belief is attached to it or not) on the souls of entire communities, distant from each other both culturally and historically, which makes
the claim for its universality plausible. What is still missing, therefore, is a psychological explanation.

The Psychoanalytical Approach

Sigmund Freud conceives a basic afnity between dream-work and mythmaking
and in various passages stresses their common roots: this symbolism is not peculiar to dreams, but is characteristic of unconscious ideation, in particular
among the people and is found in folklore, and in popular myths, legends,
linguistic idioms, proverbial wisdom and current jokes, to a more complete extent than in dreams (1978: 467 68). Furthermore, dreams and myths preserve
a method of signication that was typical of humankind in its early stages of
development:
[D]reaming is on the whole an example of regression to the dreamers earliest
condition, a revival of his childhood, of the instinctual impulses which dom300

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inated it and of the methods of expression which were then available to him. Behind this childhood of the individual we are promised a picture of a phylogenetic childhooda picture of the development of the human race, of which
individual development is in fact an abbreviated recapitulation inuenced
by the chance circumstances of life. We can guess how much to the point is
Nietzsches assertion that in dreams some primeval relic of humanity is at
work which we can now scarcely reach any longer by a direct path; and we
expect that the analysis of dreams will lead us to a knowledge of mans archaic
heritage, of what is psychically innate in him. (1978: 699 700; cf. Nietzsche
1998: 17)
In other words, Freud assumes that dreams and myths reect an archaic method
of representation or, rather, thinking that was abandoned as being inefcient
(1978: 721) in favor of discursive thinking. He claims that this method has been
preserved in the unconscious and underlies the production of texts, in which the
unconscious plays a crucial role, as in dreaming, daydreaming, and hallucination. In this sense, he forestalls the cognitive approach on both accounts: the cognitive nature of mythical thinking and its inferiority with respect to discursive
thinking, as suggested by Lvi-Strauss; but he also implies a reason for its universal appeal: its being part of our biological heritage.
Freud fails to provide an adequate account of the nature of this method of representation, due to his scientic assumptions and reliance on dated theories of
symbolism that were in vogue in his time. He does not envisage the possibility
of images being units of a self-contained method of representation and thus
elementary signs in an imagistic text (chapter 13). Despite Freuds use of terms
such as language, text, image, and symbol, his work also fails to establish
a grammar of this method of representation.
Carl G. Jung, in contrast, has made an important contribution to outlining
such a grammar. He recognizes that images can be signs in a method of representation and can even be used symbolically, in the sense of conveying sets of associations in addition to their basic meanings. He is also aware of the possible literal or metaphorical use of such symbolic images (1969: 69). Jung agrees with
Nietzsche and Freud on the basic similarity between dreaming and mythmaking
and also develops their intuition that dream-thinking should be regarded as a
phylogenetically older mode of thought (1974: 33). Dream images reveal the existence of what Freud terms archaic remnants, which, in Jungs view, form a
bridge between the ways in which we consciously express our thoughts and a
more primitive, more colorful and pictorial form of expression (1969: 2728).
What is the nature of these remnants? Jung does not continue to develop this line
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of inquiry, but in addition to symbolic images he does suggest the notion of

archetype. Although it appears to be no more than a new name for Freuds archaic remnants, it is in fact more specic and relates to the principle that underlies the combination of these images and the formation of imagistic texts.
Archetype retains the Greek root arkhe, as in Freuds term archaic, with
the addition of type. Arkhe refers to the primordial image that stems from
the infancy of humankind: the biological, prehistoric, and unconscious development of the mind in archaic man, whose psyche was still close to that of the
animal (Jung 1969: 67). Because both dreams and myths possess elements that
cannot be explained in terms of personal experience, Jung concludes that [they]
seem to be aboriginal, innate, and inherited shapes of the human mind (1969:
67)in other words, collective representations, emanating from primeval
dreams and creative fantasies (1969: 55). Type, from the Greek tupos (meaning stamp), probably relates to the principles that underlie the combination
and formation of complex images, which condition the way people experience
their world. The archetype is a tendency to form such a representation of a motifrepresentations that can vary a great deal in detail without losing their basic
pattern (1969: 67). Whereas it would be absurd to assume that such variable
representations could be inherited (1969: 67), it is not absurd with regard to the
principles underlying their formation and their stamping of human experience. It follows that, like innate syntactical principles, an archetype is revealed in
actual images and does not exist on its own.
Jung applies this notion not only to the syntactical level of what we would call
imagistic sentences but also to other levels of organization such as the character, the motif, and even the entire discourse (e.g., the mandala). The term archetype can thus be seen to refer to all principles of organization of images that
are characteristic of unconscious ideation and revealed in dreams and myths:
The unconscious . . . seems to be guided chiey by instinctive trends, represented by corresponding thought formsthat is, by the archetypes (1969: 78).
Following Jungs theory it can be concluded that a myth is a set of symbolicimagistic signs organized by archetypes.
Walter Burkert avoids dealing with psychoanalytical aspects of myth, which he
conceives as far beyond [his] capabilities and competence (1979: 1718). He is
suspicious of psychology, which has the advantage of admitting neither of verication nor of refutation, since those nonempirical entities may be constructed to
t exactly the presuppositions of some set of myths (1979: 4). He acknowledges,
however, that tale structures . . . are founded on basic biological or cultural programs of actions, and pursue our way in the other direction, from the unconscious toward verbalization (1979: 18)in other words, toward articulation by
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means of a medium. In fact this approach does not contradict the psychoanalytic
account, in particular Jungs, in its attempt to explain the tendency to form
certain representations of these moving forces [the drives], which C. G. Jung
has called archetypes (1979: 17).
Another signicant contribution of the psychoanalytical school regards the
discovery of the dreams referent. If a dream is a description, what is its referent?
Freud does not employ the notion of reference, but he certainly implies that
the referent of the dream-text is the dreamer and, conversely, that the dream is a
description of the dreamers psychical state of affairs (chapter 13). Freud also implies that a dream is, with all its characters, a multiple description of the dreamers psyche: my ego may be represented in a dream several times over, now directly and now through identication with extraneous persons (1978: 435). In
other words, he advances the possibility of description of the dreamers psyche by
means of a set of substitutional, usually personied, metaphors. The same principle should apply to myth.
Northrop Fryes notion of ctional world reects Freuds approach. He sees
ctional artists as expressing themselves not by means of a thematic discourse
but by means of a ctional discoursea description of a world of characters
and their actions (33, 365). This is also true for spectators who express themselves
by means of a ready-made ctional text: a world populated by various characters
constitutes a description of a single psyche.
The notions of description and reference can thus be applied to myths
and ctional worlds based on myths, with only one restriction: not all myths can
be considered descriptions of the psyche. These notions apply to myths that reect and map unconscious drives, such as transgression of interpersonal taboos
(e.g., the myths of Oedipus, Medea, Electra, Isaac, and Don Juan) but cannot apply to myths that clearly refer to the outer world (such as the myths of Osiris,
Adam, and Persephone). Whereas myth, as reecting a method of thinking, can
apply to any object in the inner or outer world, the type of myth that refers to the
psyche is most prominent and effective in drama. This type is clearly represented
by myths that feature animosity or sexual attraction between kin.
The psychological meaning of some mythical representations could explain
the universal appeal of certain dramatic works. Such an appeal is essential in theatre, because as an art, among other constraints, it has to establish an immediate
and powerful rapport with an audience, a large group of heterogeneous people
expected to react in unison. Only a narrative that hits at the very depths of the
spectators psyches can explain such a sudden and forceful involvement. Confrontation with the suppressed contents of the psyche explains both the audiences involvement, in particular tension, which is a euphemism for anxiety
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or fear, and the crucial function of catharsis, in the sense of pleasure derived
from the release of tension. Although not every play aims at catharsis, most plays
manipulate anxiety. It could even be conjectured that release of anxiety at the end
of a play indicates that the encounter with suppressed contents of the unconscious has been brought under the control of consciousness.
The possibility thus exists that the numinous aspect of myth has not in fact
vanished but continues to function no differently from the way in which it is assumed to have functioned in ancient societies. Since such an involvement is detected in audiences with no apparent common beliefs, it can be assumed that it
is not necessarily the result of education within a particular magic or religious
tradition but is mainly due to the inherent psychological meaning of the narrative itself. Consequently, it can be conjectured that the tendency of drama to conne itself to a particular subclass of myths can be explained by a need to use
myths in which the psychological meaning is crucial.
The psychoanalytical approach excels in explaining the spell cast on the audience by suggesting that by the same token such narrative elements are a symbolic
representation of suppressed contents of the unconscious and a means to confront them on the conscious level. It does not explain, however, by what means
this mythical material is transmuted into an object that can be confronted and
even enjoyed by the audience. The main contribution of the psychoanalytical
school has been to focus our attention on the mythical mapping of the psyche,
and its main fallacy has been to disregard the additional layers that transform an
unconscious representation into an aesthetic experience.

A Logocentric Approach
I assume that dream, imaginative play, and mythical representation reect the
very same psychical roots: they spontaneously create ctional worlds. In other
words, they think by means of images of human worlds, of characters and their
actions, which describe the referent of their thoughtsthe individual psyche
by way of personication and substitution. What, therefore, is the difference between dream and myth? On a supercial level, whereas dreams are hard to cope
with and tend to be suppressed, myths can be transmuted into even enjoyable
texts. The differential factor that operates in myths is that they never appear on
their own but are embedded in a more complex structure, a story or drama, in
which we can discern additional layers of organization. The mythical material is
only a single and basic component. Myths featured in books such as Edith Ham-

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iltons Mythology are only skeletons of ctional worlds, abstracted from complex
ritual texts or works of art.
This omitted context is usually a web of cultural key-terms and patterns that
categorize mythical representation in the terms of the audiences culture and assimilate it into the conceptual and value system (religion, philosophy, or ideology). This complex superstructure, which is responsible for transforming mythical thought into an object that can be confronted and even enjoyed, is usually
called logos (cf. Doty: 3). For example, the myth of Isaac relates the sacrice of
a son by a father, which probably reects an archetypal urge to kill something
in the nature of a child on the altar of the divine or, rather, the sphere of value.
The mapping metaphor or mythos father kills son for God is transmuted by
biblical logos into a manifesto against the sacrice of children. Whereas dreams
are not affected by a cultural logos, a mythical mapping of the psyche embedded
in a storytelling or dramatic work is dream material that has been subordinated
to a particular logos and transformed into an object of social experience.
Because of its potential anti-logos nature, mythos thus constitutes a powerful
raw material of drama, for logos is the very mechanism by which consciousness
is enabled to confront these upsetting contents of the unconscious, which otherwise are doomed to further suppression. The anti-logos thrust of mythos is best
illustrated by myths in which, in contrast to human expectation, characters who
would normally be supposed to love each other nd themselves inicting severe
pain or even death on one another. For example, Jocasta is probably right in saying that many a man has lain with his own mother (982); but only a ctional
world in a work of art enables the audience to confront this impulse without
being terried and to assimilate it into a comprehensive image of the world. In
theatre spectators are even invited to confront these suppressed wishes within a
context that makes this possible. Mythos and logos are thus integrated into
a unity that is the ctional world. Although mythos is distressing in nature, not
all distressing materials in dream are necessarily mythical. A logos enables confrontation with distressing materials of both kinds.
I have suggested elsewhere that this logos features three basic structural principles: the structure of the action that is based on the relationship motive-outcome,
whether success or failure; the structure of the action from the viewpoint of the
values of the characters and/or the audience, who categorize motives and actions
as fullling or violating them; and the aesthetic structure that categorizes the relationship between the sphere of action and the sphere of value as harmonious or
absurd (Rozik 1990). If the ctional world eventually behaves in accordance with
the value system of the audience, it is harmonious; if notabsurd.

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Mythos and logos thus refer to two different principles, independent of

one another: the same mythos can appear in the context of a different logos, and
the same logos in the context of a different mythos. Both are raw materials in the
creation of ctional worlds. Mythos is potentially recyclable and usually is (e.g.,
the mythos of Oedipus in plays by Aeschylus, Sophocles, Pierre Corneille, Jean
Cocteau, and Jean Anouilh). In contrast to common belief, the function of this
recycling is not merely the use of a ready-made story-frame but the use of a
ready-made mapping of an unconscious state of affairs. Obviously, a logos is also
recycled.
A ctional world, a composite of mythos and logos, is the arena in which
mythical thinking is confronted, and usually is subdued, by culture. With its
minimal categorization of action and characters, mythos provides maximum
psychological effect. Logos, in contrast, ensures maximum communicability and
assimilation by the norms of the spectators ethos. The effect of mythos is determined by its potential violation of the audiences values, which is manifested in
the shape of anxiety. A mythos is capable of undermining order, and a logos is
capable of shielding the spectators from chaos.
Since the audience shows a natural tendency toward harmonious ctional
worlds, we may consider structures of ctional worlds that fulll the natural expectations of the audience as archetypal. A harmonious dramatic experience
means that unconscious drives have been brought under the control of the spectators consciousness. If the undermining potential of mythos has been tamed,
the value system of the audience is reafrmed. In this sense, dramatic ctional
worlds may demonstrate a validating function similar to that attributed to myth
by Malinowski. What he and other anthropologists viewed as myth was not
merely raw mythical material but also composites of mythos and logos.
Can a ctional world that materializes an archetypal structure be a true description of the human psyche? In principle, if ctional worlds are designed with
the intention of reafrming the audiences ethos, the answer is negative. Their
aim, as such, is an experience of truth and not truth itself. For the sake of validation, it is the experience of truth that is more important than truth itself. Does an
antiarchetypal (absurd) ctional world guarantee truth? If such a ctional world
was also designed with the intention to bring about an experience of falsity, the
answer is again negative. The only way out is to avoid altogether the sphere of archetypal validationto avoid value characterization of the ctional world by author and/or audience. Such attempts have been made since the end of the nineteenth century, by Anton Chekhov in particular. In any case, this validating
function does not contradict the cognitive nature of the mythical mapping of the
psyche, whose dramatic potential does not yet appear to have been exhausted.
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Although Malinowski asks why myth lends itself in certain of its forms to
subsequent literary elaboration, and why certain other of its forms remain artistically sterile (1963: 119), he does not answer his own question. Following our
line of reasoning, the key would appear to reside in the psychological signicance
of some kinds of mythos. If the basic duality mythos-logos, which is typical of
literary/dramatic creativity, is already present in nonartistic (or ritual) mythology, what is the difference between these two major realms of ritual and art? Frye
believes that it resides in belief: when a system of myths loses all connection with
belief, it becomes purely literary, as Classical myth did in Christian Europe. Such
a development would be impossible unless myths were inherently literary in
structure (363). This does not explain, however, why myth is effective in itself. I
suggest that myth is not necessarily affected by belief: religion is only one possible
kind of logos; whereas a religious belief may become obsolete, a mythical mapping of the unconscious does not. Moreover, validation of belief may be a function of dramatic ctional worlds, although their use for invalidation is possible
as well. I suggest, therefore, that the difference between ritual and art resides not
in the mythical mapping itself but in the purpose of the ctional text, in ritual or
otherwise.
Frye considers myths to be purely literary works, because their characters are
characterized as gods who can do what they like, which means what the storyteller likes: there is no need to be plausible or logical in motivation. The things
that happen in myth are things that happen only in stories; they are in a selfcontained literary work (Frye: 361). The opposite of myth is thus realism, which
is displacement of the world of myth into the terms of plausibility of real life
(136). Fryes contention, however, is groundless, since being a god (or hero) is a
particular kind of characterization with its own constraints. Moreover, not all
myths feature godsand, in any case, even a divine mythos is confronted with
a logos. Fryes substantial contribution resides in considering mythical material
as a personied abstract mapping of a ctional world, whose dramatis personae can be more specically personied on ve different levels of power of action (33), whether characterization is realistic or not. Characterization is thus
merely a personied function, which has to be specied, in an abstract narrative
structure.
Brian Vickers contrasts the psychoanalytical and the anthropological approaches. Whereas the former stresses the process of creation of myths (e.g.,
Freud and JungVickers: 177), the latter focuses on its social functions (e.g.,
Durkheim and MalinowskiVickers: 179 81). Vickers denitely sides with the
latter: The Greek myths are resolutely human, and they demand to be analyzed
in terms of the social and religious values of the culture that produced them
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(205). For a mytho-logical approach, however, the two approaches complement

each other. Vickers ignores the fact that the mythical kernel, which may be shared
by different cultures, cannot only reect the religious/ideological terms of reference and values of a given society. This is the function of the logos.
Burkert suggests a distinction, similar to that between mythos and logos, between structure and crystallization of myth. Structure is what retains the
identity of myth in its various versions. Following Vladimir Propp (Burkert 1979:
20), he conceives this structure to be a program of actions (1979: 15), whose
source is life or, rather, biology (1979: 15)a search for food. In fact, Burkert
suggests an abstract plot without a characterization, a logos, and a particular
language/medium. This explains why myth, on this level, is independent from
any particular text or language and from direct reference to reality (1979: 5). The
complementary element of this abstract skeleton is crystallizationwhat
makes a tale specic, effective, unforgettablewhich may reect the interplay
of multiple structures (1979: 18). For example, a crystallized myth is a text featuring a specic mythos, a characterization, a logos, and a language/medium.
The differences between this model and the mythos-logos model are that:
(1) mythos, which is equivalent to narrative structure, features basic characterization (such as father-son, mother-daughter, and lover-beloved), without which
the abstract structure has no psychological meaning; and (2) logos is equivalent to crystallization insofar as it attributes to structure specic characterization
(including motivation) and articulation in terms of the audiences values and
beliefs. I believe that Burkert is wrong in considering myth as a phenomenon
of language (1979: 2). He disregards that theatre or other imagistic media can
equally well convey it. He also fails to conceive the structure of myth as both fundamentally independent of any language/medium and still dependent on one of
them for its communication.
Burkert claims that, in contrast to myth (as structure), a crystallized myth
makes reference to the world: An age of myth . . . would be an epoch when adaptation of traditional tales [including myth] is the only or the main method of
general speculation and communication, in order to verbalize phenomena, to
give them coherence and sense (1979: 24). A myth may crystallize in a certain
cultural environment and become the established verbalization. It may also attach to itself some characteristics of this culture. But it may crystallize again
when retold within new circumstances, over and over again (1979: 27). This is the
historical dimension of myth. Moreover, mythical thinking was, and is, not a
mechanical repetition of absurdities, but a mental activity which can be quite
subtle and effective. It provides most of all a synthesis for isolated facts (1979:

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25). In other words, (crystallized) myth is a form of thinking about the world and
thus fullls a cognitive function.
Dreams and myths have in common the creation of ctional worlds. They differ in that dreams formulate the inner stirrings of the unconscious, which are
doomed to further suppression by the waking person because of the inability of
consciousness to cope with them, while myths feature a compound of mythos
and logos that makes such a confrontation possible, healthy, and even enjoyable.
Mythos-logos is thus by the same token a legitimate way of dreaming and confronting the unconscious. If this is true, the basic relationship between the spectator and the ctional world ceases to be, as commonly accepted, one of watching a world of others with which one can identify or not and becomes instead a
confrontation with ones own inner being. Such a relationship concerns the spectator on two levels: being and self-description.

A Semiotic Approach
Against the background of general interest in the thought aspect of myth, neglect
of the principles of signication that underlie its making becomes most conspicuous. So is the problem of communication of mythical thought. Dreams, daydreams, and myths share the imagistic method of representation. Images in
dream and daydreaming are not and cannot be the basic units of a communication system, endowed with denite meaning, since they cannot be communicated unless coupled with a medium and are not mediated by language. Whereas
dream images are eeting gments of the imagination, without communicative capacity, mythical images are always conveyed by a culturally established
medium.
There are two basic ways of conveying images: by means of the evocative
power of words, as in literature, and by means of imprinting them on matter, as
in the dramatic arts. Such imprinted images are usually termed iconic signs,
in which the signier features two components: image and matter. The various
iconic media differ in the qualities of the imprinted matter; for example, in cinema images are imprinted in dots of light projected on a screen, and in the theatre they are imprinted on matter similar to their modelssuch as live actors
(Rozik: 1992a). These iconic signs carry denite meanings by mediation of natural language.
Images, whether imprinted or not, operate in both dreams and the dramatic
arts in the capacity of symbols. According to Jung, a symbol is a term, a name,

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or even a picture that may be familiar in daily life, yet that possesses specic connotations in addition to its conventional and obvious meaning (1969: 20). On
these grounds, Jung perceives words and images as basically equivalent: a word
or an image is symbolic when it implies something more than its obvious and
immediate meaning (1969: 20). It is in this sense that I refer to symbolic image. Dream images cannot be other than symbols since the distinction between
core of meaning and additional associative periphery is a by-product of natural
language, which is not a factor in dreaming. Activation of associative peripheries
reects a cultural permit that applies, in contrast to science and philosophy, to
theatre and additional cultural domains such as other dramatic arts and religion.
These symbolic iconic signs can be used in either a literal or metaphorical capacity. Metaphor does not contradict symbolism: symbolic images make good
metaphors, since such descriptions activate associative peripheries. The crucial
evidence for the existence of metaphor is the nature of the referent: only on the
grounds of knowing the referent can it be decided whether a given description is
literal or metaphorical. If Freud is correct in his implied claimmade explicit
by Jungthat the referent of the dream is the dreamer, the ctional world depicted in dreams is a metaphorical description of the dreamers psychical state of
affairs. Its metaphorical nature is corroborated in that dreams are usually populated by people and objects distinct from the dreamer. Metaphor is the only type
of description in which apparently improper predicates eventually prove most
proper. A dream can thus be seen to be a complex metaphor that describes by
way of personication and substitution the dreamers psychical state of affairs. In
Jungs words: the dream is a spontaneous self-portrayal, in symbolic form, of the
actual situation in the unconscious (1974: 49).
On such grounds, in contrast to Freud, I suggest an alternative reading of the
myth of Oedipus. Freud claims: It is the fate of all of us, perhaps, to direct our
rst sexual impulse towards our mother and our rst hatred and our rst murderous wish against our father (1978: 364). Otto Rank offers an alternative translation of the last phrase: our rst impulses of hatred and resistance towards our
fathers (8). If the referent of myth is everyman, Freuds description cannot be
a literal description of his predicament. First, it refers to a ctional world in
which the hero not only directs his rst sexual impulse toward his mother but
actually marries and has children with her (i.e., commits incest); and not only directs his rst hatred toward his father but actually kills him (i.e., commits parricide). If this mythos maps two of everymans fundamental, universal, and unconscious drives, these gaps preclude considering it a meaningful description
unless the principle of metaphor is invoked. In other words, Freud fails to establish that the mythos of Oedipus is an unmistakable case of a metaphorical de310

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scription of the psyche. Second, this could have been a literal description only if
the actual drives of a child were indeed incestuous and/or murderous. The murder of a father, however, could equally well be a metaphorical description of the
childs struggle against the imminent invasion of his soul by adult social values,
as personied by his father. This gap is even wider if we consider that children at
the Oedipal stage have no exact idea of what marriage and death mean. An often
forgotten fact is that in this myth Jocasta is as incestuous and Laius as murderous as Oedipus. In any case, the world of Oedipus is not the world of the spectator, and metaphorical potential improperness is thus established.
This metaphorical quality of a myth, which describes two elementary attitudes
toward the parents, is reinforced by the familys royal status and the setting of
their story in the nations remote past, although it could have been set in any
other reality. Following this line of reasoning, it can be conjectured that myths
featuring aggression or eroticism among family share this basic metaphorical description of psychical drives. I contend that dramatic ctional worlds based on
myths function in exactly the same manner.
Having literal or metaphorical symbols in both realms, the imagination
(dreams, daydreams, and hallucinations) and the dramatic arts, reects the existence of two parallel systems. Imagination is characterized by the use of images
in a primeval symbolic state, prior to the establishment of a distinction between
sense and associative periphery, and by lack of communicative capacity. In contrast, the iconic system is characterized by communicative capacity: it imprints
its images in a given medium and controls their meaning by mediation of natural language. It is because of these fundamental differences that they complement
one another: the imagination provides ctional worlds and iconic media the
means for their communication. The same can be said for the evocative power of
natural language. The fundamental afnity between imagination and iconic media should be stressed nonetheless, since the media lend imagistic formulation to
imagistic thoughts. I have suggested elsewhere that the imagistic method of signication is suppressed by consciousness together with its contents and that the
arts may provide an opportunity to experience both within the context of a special cultural permit (Rozik 1991).
* * *
The various theoretical approaches to myth prove to be not contradictory to
each other but, rather, complementary. They focus on different aspects of mythical thinking, which can all be integrated into our study.
Fundamentally, a mythical thought is a gment of the imagination, a set of
immaterial and ephemeral sequences of images, which in order to be communi{ Mythical Representation }

311

cated requires a medium. By means of its method of signication and a medium,

whether verbal or iconic, the psyche spontaneously formulates thoughts in the
shape of ctional worldsworlds of characters and their actions. By mediation of such worlds humans think about their inner or outer reality. In this sense
a myth is a cognitive phenomenon.
A clear distinction should be made between two aspects of mythical creativity: thought and method of representation. As thought, mythos never appears
on its own and is always coupled with a logosa thematic contextualization
which enables its assimilation into the system of values and beliefs of the society within which it is articulated. In its cognitive capacity, a myth, combining mythos and logos, is a representation of a psychological or external reality
that is not inherently false. As a method of representation, the imagistic text produced by the psyche is in need of a medium, which is the only accessible way to
mythical thinking. Myth is not known in any other form than storytelling or
drama. Without a logos it is dream material, which without a medium cannot
be communicated.
There is no essential difference between ritual myth and works of art based on
myth. Ritual, religious or otherwise, may and does make use of mythical materials (as it may not), whether in literary or dramatic form; but there is no necessary intrinsic relationship between them. Depending on a specic logos, the
same mythical mapping can be used to cement faith or undermine it. On the
same grounds, there is no intrinsic relationship between mythical materials and
literature or drama either.
For the student of drama, mythical material is a discernible component of a
more complex ctional world. This is evidenced by the tendency to recycle the
same mythical materials in the context of different ctional worlds and the possibility of rendering them by different media. These mythical materials should be
seen as elementary formulations of amorphous contents of the psyche or, rather,
abstract mappings of psychical reality, more specically personied by means of
additional metaphorical characterization. Drama shows a clear preference for
myths that have a profound psychological meaning, such as those dealing with
violence and eroticism within the family. Exposure to such materials explains the
immediate and forceful involvement of entire audiences, because of the confrontation with descriptions of their own psyches.
The basic relationship between the audience and the ctional world thus
ceases to be, as commonly conceived, one of watching a world of others with
whom the spectator can identify or not and becomes instead a confrontation
with the spectators own inner being, including conscious and/or unconscious
layers, in the shape of a (usually metaphorical) mytho-logical description. Such
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a relationship cannot be understood in terms of identication, since it is the

spectator on two different levels: being and self-description.
The combination of mythos and logos indicates that the ultimate aim of
drama based on myth is to provide an opportunity for a culturally controlled encounter between the spectator and the deeper layers of the psyche and to integrate disturbing unconscious contents into conscious discourse. When integrated into a drama, it becomes a complex object of experience that enables the
spectator to confront the unconscious self with the shield of culture and even to
make such a confrontation enjoyable.
The imagistic method of representation has been superseded by natural language and probably suppressed by consciousness together with its unacceptable
contents. A dramatic ctional world based on a myth may, therefore, be an opportunity not only to confront suppressed contents of the psyche but also to indulge in a suppressed method of representation. Theatre may provide an opportunity to experience both within the context of a cultural permit. Mythos, logos,
and theatrical iconicity thus create a legitimate collective way of facing the unconscious: this is the arena in which culture meets and subdues nature.
It is on the level of its method of representation that myth manifests its fundamental afnity with theatre, since both share the imagistic method of signication, which also reects the spontaneous creativity of the psyche. The imprinting of images on matter similar to their models makes theatre the most
suitable medium for such a method of signication. In its primary form, mythical material is an additional instance of this rudimentary method of representation in which the roots of theatre may be found.

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313

16
Retracing
the Steps of
History



The earliest known forms of Western theatre hark back at most to the beginning
of the sixth century b.c., immediately prior to the advent of Attic tragedy and
comedy. Certain theories, however, suggest much earlier cultural phenomena
that may have heralded the creation of Greek theatre. In this last chapter of our
search, I follow up possible clues regarding the roots of the theatrical method of
signication and communication in the earliest days of human history and prehistory, long before the advent of Greek culture.
In retracing the steps of history, I examine the symbolic wedding at Eleusis;
the so-called Egyptian dramas, which appear to have taken place at least hundreds of years before Greek theatre; prehistoric mimetic dance; the rock paintings and engravings at Tassili, in Central Sahara, most of which were made from
8000 to 3000 b.c.; and the cave paintings in Europe from circa 15,000 b.c.

The Wedding at Eleusis

James G. Frazer contends that forms of dramatization of natural processes existed before the creation of drama in ancient Greece, particularly the union of
the powers of fertility (1945: 324), and the allegedly symbolic wedding at Eleusis
was his best example. William Ridgeway, in contrast, notes that the latest theories of the origin of Tragedy rest mainly on the supposed antiquity of the sacred
dramas there [at Eleusis], in which was enacted the marriage of Zeus and Demeter (22). Ridgeway refutes the possibility of such a wedding at Eleusis, claiming
that the whole theory of the sacred marriage between the Sky-god and the
Earth-goddess at Eleusis depends entirely upon writers who lived after the Chris-

tian era, and who described with accuracy the performances at Eleusis in their
own time. The Philosophoumena itself, on which Miss Harrison mainly relies,
was not written earlier than the second century after Christ, whilst Hippolytus,
Tertullian, Arnobius, Asterius and Psellus are all several centuries later (24).
Ridgeways intention was to demolish the School of Cambridges argument
that the origin of tragedy resides in a ritual which already featured dramatic elements while simultaneously supporting his own thesis that it had started from
the cult of heroes. From our perspective, however, the occurrence of theatrical
elements in ritual does not pose a problem since, as I have already postulated, ritual can choose to use component texts in any medium, subject to their subordination to its intentions and purposes. Even if the marriage of Zeus and Demeter
was indeed being performed at Eleusis prior to the advent of theatreprovided
that the theatrical medium was employedthis would still not contradict the
claim that theatre cannot have originated in ritual. Instead, it would support the
claim that theatre is a medium that can be used for various kinds of action. In
other words, if it was indeed carried out, the ritual marriage at Eleusis could have
been a good example of use of the theatre medium for the sake of a ritual act.
On the grounds of the available sources, however, it is impossible to establish
whether or not the theatre medium was in fact usedwhether or not a bride and
a groom enacted Zeus and Demeters wedding. In principle, it can be accepted
that theatrical elements were employed in ancient ritual, without affecting our
basic thesis on the existential roots of theatre.

The Egyptian Coronation Ritual

Herodotus (484? 420? b.c.) reports on a contemporary traditional ceremony in
ancient Egypt, which he describes (at least in the translation) in terms of mystery and divine passion. Herodotus relates that the grave of Osiris was at Sais
in Lower Egypt and that there was a lake there upon which they hold, at night,
an exhibition of the gods sufferings, a performance that the Egyptians call the
Mysteries (Herodotus 2.170). This commemoration of the divine passion was
held once a year: the people mourned and beat their breasts at it to testify their
sorrow for the death of the god; and an image of a cow, made of gilt wood with a
golden sun between its horns, was carried out of the chamber in which it stood
the rest of the year (2.132). The cow represented Isis herself, for cows were sacred to her, and she was regularly depicted with the horns of a cow on her head
(2.41). It is probable that the carrying out of her cow-shaped image symbolised
the goddess searching for the dead body of Osiris (Frazer 1945: 373). Frazers
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315

terms passion and mystery indicate that he perceives this ritual in terms of
Christian theatre and that he views this ancient account as evidence of the ritual
origins of theatre (Pickard-Cambridge translates deikela by exhibition in the
sense of representation; 1962: 135). The representation of Isis by a cow is not an
instance of acting, however, but a case of metonymy: since cows were sacred to
her, they could have represented her on the grounds of contiguity. Moreover, this
alleged mystery play reects neither a theatrical performance nor an audience
response but actual sorrow for the actual death of a revered goda ritual activity, in a self-referential sense.
Fortunately, several texts of similar mysteries have been discovered and are
available for scrutiny. For example, the Ramesseum Dramatic Papyrus, usually
called the Egyptian Coronation Drama, was discovered by Quibell, in 1896, in
the precinct of the Ramesseum at Thebes. . . . it was rst published, in 1928, by
the late Kurt Sethe, to whom belongs the credit of demonstrating its dramatic
character. The papyrus itself was written in the reign of Sesostris [Senusret] I, a
king of the Twelfth Dynasty (c. 1970 b.c.), but according to Sethe, the contents
go back a further millennium and a half to the time of the First Dynasty
(c. 3300 b.c.) (Gaster 1950b: 52). Theodor H. Gaster believes that [t]his would
be the earliest literary specimen of drama yet known (52). He employs drama
in a vague sense which applies to both the ctional worlds and the theatre medium. To be precise, Sethe was the rst to use theatrical terminology in describing this text, including its categorization as a mystery play, and was later followed by others, although [w]e do not know whether the Egyptians had words
for drama, play, act or scene (Fairman: 1). Since these scholars presuppose
that drama developed from liturgy, a process that can be seen clearly in early
church ritual and medieval drama (Fairman: 12), Sethes categorization should
be reexamined.
The text of the Egyptian Coronation Drama is written in the form of storytelling, to be recited by a reader, interspersed with dialogue which, on the
ctional level, is conducted by the gods. In this respect it does indeed give the impression of employing the medium of theatre. Since the performance of this text
clearly serves ritual civic purposes, it could be conceived, as Gaster does, as the
earliest extant example of ritual drama and as an example of the form of drama
presupposed and so greatly longed for by the School of Cambridge. Furthermore, accepting Gasters proposal means dating the origins of theatre to some
two thousand years before the advent of Greek theatre. Determining the exact
nature of this text, therefore, is crucial to our study.
As suggested above, the existence of a ritual drama at such an early stage in

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{ A Theory of Roots }

the development of human culture does not pose any theoretical problem. The
use of the medium of theatre for ritual purposes does not prove origin in ritual
either but, rather, the use of an available medium. Furthermore, it would hardly
be surprising if ritual, being such a dominant phenomenon in ancient culture, is
seen to employ all possible media. The apparent dramatic quality of such an articulated text at such an early period, however, poses a fascinating question.
Before engaging in analysis of the text, we should note that Gasters description is vitiated by two of his own assumptions: (1) that the theory of the School
of Cambridge is correct, reecting his intention to demonstrate its validity in the
more ancient literature of the Near East; and (2) that the text is indeed drama,
which explains his free use of theatrical terminology in its description, such as
scenes and stage properties. This sense of certainty possibly affected his
translation of the text too. Consequently, the text is not exactly a translation but
admittedly an expanded adaptation, which inter alia attempts to make explicit
what for the Egyptians was assumed to be self-understood (Gaster 1950b: 383).
Although its various parts do not appear in their natural order (cf. Fairman:
5), the entire myth can be reconstructed from the papyrus as follows:
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.

Osiris is vanquished by Set (Gaster 1950b: 388).

Horus engages in combat with Set (392).
Set succeeds in splitting an eye from the head of Horus (394).
Horus defeats Set and recovers his eye (394).
Horus grafts upon himself the testicles he has wrested from Set (395).
Set is beheaded (390).
Horus becomes the god/king of Upper and Lower Egypt (396).
Horus takes the place of Osiris (his father) (385).
Osiris is embalmed (399).
Horus invites his followers to enjoy the benevolence of his protective
eye (402).
11. Osiris is conveyed to heaven (403).
(The rest is lost.)
The eye of Horus is endowed with central symbolic meaning, particularly
power and benevolence, and its restoration is repeated in various scenes
throughout the text. The following are three typical scenes from the text:
1 4
The ceremonial barge is equipped.

Scene I
Horus requests his Followers to
equip him with the Eye of Power.

{ Retracing the Steps of History }

317

The launching of it marks the

opening up of the Nile and
inaugurates the ceremony of
installing or reconrming the king.

Beer is proffered.

5 7
The royal princes load eight mns,
-jars into the bow of the barge.

Horus (to his Followers):

Convey to me the Eye, that by its
power
This waterway may now be
opened up!
Horus also instructs his followers
to bring upon the scene the god
Thoth, who is to act as the master
of ceremonies, and the corpse of his
father, Osiris.
(Gaster 1950b: 384)
Scene II
Thoth loads the corpse of Osiris
upon the back of Set, so that it may
be carried aloft to heaven.
Thoth (to Set):
Behold, thou canst endure and
stand no more
Against this god who mightier is
than thou!
(to Osiris):
Let not this villain chill thy heart
again!
The elders of the court are
mustered.
(Gaster 1950b: 385)

56 58
A punching match is staged between
two champions.

Scene XVIII
Horus and Set engage in combat.
Geb, god of the earth, eventually
bids them desist.
Geb (to Horus and Set):
Expunge the thought of
punching one another!
Horus (to his followers who aid
him):

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{ A Theory of Roots }

Tis you he means! He tells you to

desist!
(Gaster 1950b: 392)
The text is divided into forty-six scenes and is indeed written in the form of
dialogue. The nal section of the papyrus has been lost. The ritual nature of the
text is evident from its focus on two major elements: (1) the installation of a new
king or his reconrmation (e.g., Thoth: The son shall in his fathers place arise!;
Gaster 1950b: 385); and (2) the opening of the Nile for navigation when its waters subside (e.g., Horus: Convey to me the Eye, that by its power / This waterway may now be opened up!; Gaster 1950b: 384). According to Gaster, [t]he
text gives an account of the traditional ceremonies at the induction of the king,
which was celebrated in conjunction with the New Year ceremonies during the
month of Khoiakh (1950b: 52). Although this ceremony is conspicuously of a
civic nature, featuring legitimation of a king and opening of the Nile for navigation, it also includes obvious religious elements. This is very clear, as anywhere
else in the ceremonial forms by which kings take symbolic possession of their
realm (Geertz 1985: 16).
The ritual is conducted on two levels: (1) the actual royal investiture and
opening of the Nile; and (2) the mythical investiture of Horus as god/king of Upper and Lower Egypt. The text clearly indicates that the mythical representation
is performed by the new king and his followers: Following the initial description
of the ritual act and the subsequent explanation of it in mythological terms, each
scene contains words of accompanying mythological dialogue, with clear indications of the speaker and the person addressed. Further, there are brief rubrics
enumerating the stage properties required and (in most cases) stating the assumed locale of the action (Gaster 1950b: 53). Furthermore,
[e]ach detail of the ritual program is . . . invested at the same time with a durative signicance and this is brought out explicitly in the form of a mythological key attached to every scene. The king is here identied with the god
Horus, and the old king with his slain father Osiris. The Ritual Combat is the
battle between Horus and Set. The members of the royal household are the
children of Horus who aid him in this conict. The two priestesses who perform the seasonal ululation are the goddesses Isis and Nephthys bewailing the
discomted Osiris. The ofcial that invests the new king is the god Thoth, who
adjudicates the quarrel between Horus and Set. The various articles of the regalia are given a symbolic meaning in terms of concomitant myth; e.g., the
beads of carnelian represent the great eye of Horus which was suffused with

{ Retracing the Steps of History }

319

blood when it was wrested from him by his rival Set; the two clubs or maces
represent the testicles of Set which Horus plucks from him in the combat and
then engrafts upon himself in order to acquire added vigor; the threshing of
the grain represents the thrashing and belaboring of Osiris by Set. (Gaster
1950b: 53)
The ritual purpose can be summarized as follows: they realistically identied
the living king with Horus, and the dead king with Osiris, and so perpetuated all
that Osiris and Horus meant for Egypt. To attain this end the living king plays the
part of Horus (Blackman: 31).
Another text, labeled the Memphite Drama, which is dated to between 2500
and 3300 b.c., throws additional light on the struggle between Horus and Set, the
kings of Lower and Upper Egypt respectively, and the eventual coronation of Horus as the Sovereign of Two Lands (Gaster 1950b: 407). The unity of the realm
is symbolized by twin plumes, mentioned in the earlier text too. This ritual is also
performed on the occasion of the coronation of a new king and given mythological dimension by identication with the induction of Horus. The two texts are
quite complementary on both the actual and mythological levels.
Reconstructing the ritual practice reveals its basic layer of investing the king
with a long series of symbolic attributes, embalming the dead king, accompanying him on his nal journey, and culminating in feasting and celebration. The
ceremony includes equipping the barge, launching it, slaughtering animals, eating and drinking, chanting dirges, dancing, mourning, boxing, mummifying
the corpse, and kissing the ground, as well as comic elements and puns. The list
of the so-called stage properties includes a ram (slaughtered), grain (strewn), two
loaves, a bough, royal insignia (footstool, cincture, and staves), goats and asses,
a goat and a goose, a pillar, a loaf and wine, milk (spilt), sacricial meat, wood
(split), beads, maces, two plumes, a coronet, cosmetics, pigments, an uraeus (a
sacred serpent), beer, a mummy cloth, masks of monkeys and wolves, an animal
thighbone, food, and water. Most of these have known symbolic meaning in the
real coronation of the king but not necessarily in the myth. There are also clear
cases of correlation between ritual and myth (e.g., the decapitation of a goat
signies the beheading of Set).
This ritual was performed at successive stations along the Nilementioned
in the textsin which the local gods were invoked and paid respect. This cruise
is explained as the Egyptian form of a widespread practice . . . whereby a newly
appointed king has to take possession of his dominion by travelling around it
(Gaster 1950b: 384). Its processional quality explains the repetition of various elements of the myth for the benet of newly visited communities: some of the
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{ A Theory of Roots }

central rites were of such importance that they had to be performed not merely
once, but at every distinct shrine and center to which the procession came (383).
In order to assess whether or not this text is an instance of drama, the actual
performers of the dialogue must be determined. The clear parallelism between
the purely ritual acts and the dialogue indicates that the mythical text was spoken by the real participants in the royal investiturethe king enacted Horus, the
chief ofciant enacted Thoth (cf. Fairman: 6), and two wailing women enacted
Isis and Nephthys. The dead king, equated with Osiris, was represented occasionally, it would seem, by an efgy, as well as by an inanimate object of nonhuman form (Blackman: 29). Set was a mute character. Thus, basically, the entire ceremony was a real event and not a description of an event; therefore, it
should be conceived as a direct self-referential text. It is of particular interest that
the participants, while performing the royal investiture, engaged in a dialogue
that makes reference to characters in a mythical narrative. This reected on the
new king as a new instance of a cyclic phenomenon of investiture and government, thereby reenacting the primeval divine one in the worldly sphere. The intention probably was to present the kings identication with Horus, endowing
him with divine legitimation: [t]hus every Egyptian king was Horus and as such
was legitimate ruler of Egypt (Fairman: 29).
Because this structure also features an apparent double reference to the gods
and to the actual new rulers of the land, we should consider the possibility of
metaphor. The intention in this case would have been to attach to the new king
the connotative aura of the divine sphere. Such a reading of the ceremony does
not contradict that the kings own culture probably viewed it in terms of identication. In this sense, the king did not enact Horus but reenacted the gods
struggle, and whatever the king said was meant to be predicated on himself. In
other words, in contrast to acting, ultimate reference was made to the performing king himself, not to an audience. To assume that the king was conceived as
only enacting Horus would have destroyed the ritual nature of the event. Furthermore, this ritual was not performed in front of an audience but in the midst
of a community of involved supporters and believers, in particular the ofcials of
the new administration. Inhabitants, priests, and ofcials all actually participated
in bestowing legitimation on the new king and themselves.
Only from an external viewpoint could speaking the lines of Horus be seen
as reecting the principle of acting. Overlooking the internal viewpoint of the
participants, however, as suggested above (chapter 1), contradicts a genuine scientic approach to ritual. Yet there are sporadic instances of a spontaneous use
of the theatre medium. For example, the combat between Horus and Set was presented in the form of a punching-match . . . staged between two champions
{ Retracing the Steps of History }

321

(Gaster 1950b: 392; cf. Blackman: 22, 24). These champions, even from an internal viewpoint, enacted a spontaneous theatrical metaphor of both Horus and Set.
Set too must have been enacted, since he had no counterpart in the real ceremony (no king was defeated). The same seems to apply to the mummy: if it was
not that of the deceased father, it was enacting the dead father and/or Osiris. In
contrast, the use of a bough to represent the corpse of Osiris, under which the
workmen stagger (Gaster 1950b: 387), does not comply with our denition of
the medium, since the image of the corpse is not imprinted on similar matter;
therefore, at most it can be conceived as a theatrical convention.
This mixture and variety of forms of representation, which is akin to childrens play, indicates that the various modes of representation have not yet been
totally differentiated and were employed in embryonic forms. This does not
make ritual the matrix of these forms but simply indicates their existence in
spontaneous human behavior. In this sense, even if this ritual cannot be seen as
theatre, in the sense of an established cultural medium, some of its scenes can
certainly be seen as sharing the roots of theatre.
Gaster views the Egyptian Coronation Drama as an excellent example of
that pristine stage of Drama in which it still belongs within the realm of Religion
rather than Literature and in which Ritual and Myth still go hand in hand as inseparable correlatives in a single complex (1950b: 54). He assumes that in mystery ritual and myth enjoy equal status, the former not yet being subsumed by
the latter, as ultimately becomes the case (52). In his view, with the emergence
of new conceptions and less dependence on nature, traditional ceremonies lose
their urgency and tend to survive not on account of any functional efcacy but
solely by reason of their wider mythological signicance and of their purely artistic appeal. Ritual then becomes subsumed in Myth. The participants are no
longer protagonists of a direct experience but mere actors or guisers (personae)
reproducing an imaginary situation and impersonating characters other than
themselves. Dramatic Ritual then becomes Drama proper (55). It is difcult,
however, to imagine the performance of a ritual such as the Egyptian Coronation Drama as a sheer enactment of its myth, devoid of its actual meaning of a
real coronation. The Egyptian Coronation Drama is a reenactment and, therefore, cannot be theatre.
In fact, Gaster attempts to revive the lost cause of the School of Cambridge. It
is the thesis of his book that the same method of approach as has been applied
in the case of Greek drama and of the European Mummers Play may be applied
also to a group of Canaanite, Hittite, Babylonian and Egyptian texts recovered
mainly during the past fty years as the result of archaeological excavations in the

322

{ A Theory of Roots }

Near East (1950b: 56). He assumes that drama has developed as an art, yet it can
never wholly forget the rock whence it was hewn, beneath all of its subsequent
superstructure there remains always the basic foundation of the Ritual pattern.
Reduced to its bare essentials and shorn of its diverse elaborations and embellishments, it revolves always around the central theme of Conict, Discomture
and Restoration (1950b: 55). Gaster views the ght between Horus and Set, only
represented in the Memphite Drama, as the typical Ritual combat between Old
Year and New, Summer and Winter, Life and Death, Rain and Draught, etc.,
which we nd in seasonal festivals everywhere (1950b: 405). Such a claim, however, appears to have little if any factual support. A struggle between kings and
the eventual unication of two realms, being common phenomena in themselves, are not necessarily representations of the alleged mythical struggle. Moreover, Gaster commits the same fallacy as the School of Cambridge: he seeks the
origins of theatre in elements of the ctional world.
The Egyptian Coronation Drama may throw light on the Egyptian ritual described by Herodotus; if it was of a similar kind, we could well question the use
of terms such as drama, mystery, and passion for its description. In contrast, Christian mystery plays were genuine pieces of theatre, in which narratives
were enactedwith deection of referencein front of audiences. Ritual
drama should be understood in the narrow sense of theatre employed in the
context of ritual acts. The Egyptian Coronation Drama is not a piece of theatre,
because even its alleged dramatic elements are functionally subordinated to a
civic rite (i.e., a nontheatrical comprehensive text). These elements are nonetheless indicative of a spontaneous use of a method of representation in which the
roots of theatre may be found.

Prehistoric Mimetic Dance

Dance probably is one of the most ancient human activities that eventually developed into an autonomous art. E. H. Gombrich equates painting and sculpture
with dance in prehistoric cultures: There are other tribes who have regular festivals when they dress up as animals and move like animals in solemn dances.
They too, believe that somehow this will give them power over their prey (22).
Some scholars even see the origin of theatre in primeval ritual dance.
Jane Harrison contends that Greek drama originated in ritual dance and
describes the development of ritual in mimetic terms. The rst stage: When the
men of a tribe return from a hunt, a journey, a battle, or any event that has caused

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323

them keen and pleasant emotion, they will often re-act their doings round the
camp-re at night to an attentive audience of women and young boys (1951: 42).
The next stage: The savage begins with the particular battle that actually did
happen; but, it is easy to see that if he re-enacts it again and again the particular battle or hunt will be forgotten, the representation cuts itself loose from
the particular action from which it arose, and becomes generalized, as it were
abstracted. Like children he plays not at a funeral, but at funerals, not at a
battle, but at battles; and so arises the war-dance, or the death-dance, or the
hunt-dance (42 43). The nal stage: once the commemorative dance has got
abstracted or generalized it becomes material for the magic dance, the dance predone. The rst type commemorates by re-presenting and the second anticipates by pre-presenting (43). Although the origin of dance in ritual commemoration and anticipation is not based on evidence, Harrisons description clearly
alludes to the descriptive function of mimetic dance.
Curt Sachs, who also applies a combined method of prehistory and anthropology, retraces the history of dance as far back as the Paleolithic. In his view, it
is possible to nd equivalents to this earliest period in human history in aboriginal cultures today, in which traditional dances are still being performed (Sachs:
107). For example, the motif of dancing women encircling a man or dancing
men encircling a girl can be traced both in the Europe of the old Stone Age
and among primitive peoples today (209). It is found, for example, in the rock
painting of Cogul, Spain, that was made circa 15,000 years b.c., and it is still being performed in various cultures, such as by the Bushmen of South Africa and
the negritos of the Philippine Islands. Although a denite interpretation can be
suggested for only a few rock paintings, these are nonetheless the only primary
sources on the earliest kinds of dance available (207).
Sachs distinguishes between image dance and imageless dance. The image
dance is bound to the body. It starts with the idea that imitation of gesture and
position is sufcient to capture a power and make it useful. . . . To portray an animal is to be one with them (60). Image dances can be as ecstatic as imageless
dances (78). There is a third kind: beside the mimetic and imageless dance we
may speak of an allegorical or a metaphorical dance. . . . A sex dance would be allegorical in which the men stamp on the ground, while the women respond to
each stamp with an outcry. A marriage dance with the characteristics of a weapon
dance will be allegorical (58). This category, although not widespread, is important for our study because it demonstrates a rudimentary method of representation, such as iconic metaphor, which is both imagistic and imprinted on the bodies of the dancers, exactly like theatrical stage metaphor.

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There is a fundamental link between image dance and body language. Image
dance shows an obvious tendency to draw its movements from the particular
activity to which it alludes: An investigator recounts that when the Marutse
of South Africa on a journey began to sing a boat song, they drifted involuntarily into the motion of rowingthe idea was converted into action (Sachs: 78).
Dances of war produce movements typical of war, such as handling weapons,
and dances of work equally produce typical movements, such as gestures of gathering food, catching sh, planting, and harvesting (87). Metaphorical dances
make use of such movements to describe semantic domains other than their own.
The variety of image dances described by Sachs is astonishing, even bearing in
mind the classicatory intent of his work. The entire category of image dance
is divided into subcategories such as animal, fertility, initiation, funeral, and
weapon dances and each subcategory into types that include hundreds of specimens from numerous cultures.
The assumption is that the purpose of such dances is magic: A dance of this
kind will anticipate events together with their desired ends and thus force the occurrence to that end. This dance depicts the ourishing of animals important for
sustaining life, the chase with the bringing down of the game, the battle with victory, the rich harvest, the dying and the resurrection of man (Sachs: 57). The use
of image dance for magic presupposes that [t]he essence of thingsthis is its
meaningadheres to what may be perceived, to form and motion. It is sufcient, therefore, to reproduce in painting or in dancing the wished-for events, the
victorious battle, the successful hunt, in order to be certain of them, in order to
have control of them (77). The use of dance for magic purposes may be corroborated by a peculiar nding: A counterpart [of a present usage] from the Early
Stone Age has been found in the cave of Tuc dAudubert . . . with delineations of
Franco-Cantabrian style. The heel-prints of young people make a circle in the
ground; it is supposed that these are tracks of boys and girls. Five outgoing tracks
lead to phalli made of clay; and on the walls are pictures of bisons jumping (83).
The circle of footprints may indeed indicate that this ritual was conducted in the
form of dance.
Sachss query also relates to the various ideas that motivate each kind of magic
dance: Four ideas motivate animal dance. The rst is the hunting charm. . . . the
second ideathe soul of the slain animal is propitiated in the dance. The third
idea: certain animals have in their own right magic power, have control over rain
and sunshine. . . . The fourth idea: the animal dance brings about an increase of
useful animals, especially when it represents their mating (82 83). In totemist
cultures it serves to increase not only the edible animals, but often enough those

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325

animals in particular that are taboo as food (83). The variety of animals imitated
in animal dances is enormous and depends on the interests of the society. In fertility dances imitation ranges from atmospheric phenomena such as wind, lightning, and rain to planting, growing, and gathering food (85 87). Human fertility dances draw their imagery from two different phases of sexual intercourse:
the meeting and wooing, and the act itself (88). In funeral dances some cultures
oppose death with symbols of life, particularly by exposing sex organs (104).
Weapon dances usually depict a ght and eventual victory, aiming at compelling
the happy outcome of an expedition (108).
In the context of this study we are interested in imagistic or mimetic dance,
because it is to this type that historians of theatre refer when speaking of its origins. Indeed, in dance human images are imprinted on the bodies of the dancers,
and in some cases there is even deection of reference. Such images are performed for the sake of producing a meaningful text and not just for the sake of
mimicry. The variety of objects of imitation, however, exceeds the boundaries
of humans imitating humans. Dancers indulge in imitating atmospheric phenomena, animals, and plants. In theatre these would be conceived as theatrical
conventions. What, therefore, is the difference between mimetic dancing and
acting? First, basically, in theatre human images are inscribed on the human bodies and other images on correlative objects. In contrast, in dance all images are
inscribed on the dancers bodies, because the dancers bodies in space are its only
medium. Second, whereas acting produces a description of a world, usually ctional, by deecting imprinted images to characters, image dancing, if it reects
ritual action, is fundamentally self-referential, reecting on the dancers themselves. For example, the men who court young women do intend to marry them,
and warriors dancing a war dance actually intend to engage in war and return
victorious. Third, dance images are further organized by rhythmical and/or musical principles.
There are also clear cases of deection of reference, such as the representation of the enemy in a war dance: Among the Haussa the motif was executed
somewhat as follows: walking forwards within the dance circle, each dancer attacks the man in front of him, then in the next moment turns around to defend
himself from the blows of the one behind him (Sachs: 110). Another example is
that of a dead person being represented by a dancer, as in a Hungarian funeral
dance:
In the middle of the room a man lay down with his hands and feet stretched
apart. His face was covered with a kerchief. He lay there and did not budge.
Then the leader called for the death dance with the bagpipe. As soon as it be326

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gan, the men and women walked around the fellow in the center singing and
half crying, . . . Finally they stood him up slowly and danced with him, which
was frightful to behold, because this fellow of his own accord did not move in
the least, but let the others move his limbs for him. (Sachs: 106 7)
In both cases, there is enacting of characters, because the participation of the enemy or the dead is precluded. Basically, however, these dances are self-referential
to the dancers actual predicaments.
The afnity to theatre is most conspicuous in metaphorical dances, since the
images of the improper terms of metaphors are also imprinted on the bodies of
the dancersfor example, the brandishing of spear and arrow in dances representing sexual intercourse: When the men and women of the Usiai of the Admiralty Islands do a circle dance, the men hold spears and the women hold
mother-of-pearl shells, the symbol of the vulva (Sachs: 90). The image of the
spear, which is an unmistakable phallic attribute (90), is represented by a real
spear. It metaphorically describes the penis just as the real shell metaphorically
describes the vulva. Not only the objects but also the accompanying movements
are part of the metaphor. Such metaphorical images, imprinted on real objects,
are found in theatre too. Also, Sachs uses the term symbol for what is today
termed metaphor, thereby reecting the same rhetorical tradition as Freud
and Piaget. The spear and the shell may also be conceived as symbols of the male
and female genitalia because of their frequent recurrence in such metaphorical
descriptions.
How far can we retrace the steps of history with regard to dance? Sachs assumes that the origins of human dancing should be traced back to the animal
world (208). He believes, however, that [o]bservation of the apes would lead us
to think that the imageless dance came rst, and the imitative, mimetic dance followed (58). Moreover, The dance of the animals, especially that of the anthropoid apes, proves that the dance of men is in its beginnings a pleasurable motor
reaction, a game forcing excess energy into a rhythmic pattern (55). This is consistent with the conjecture that the use of iconic images reects abstraction (i.e.,
signication), which basically depends on natural language. It is clearly possible
that embryonic forms of imagistic representation are found in animal bodily behavior, particularly that of apes.
The afnity between prehistoric dance and embryonic theatre is not based
on movement or music but on their shared iconicity. If it is true that in these
domains imprinted images are generally used for magico-religious purposes,
this could be effected only if these images are basically used in their descriptive
capacity.
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The Rock Paintings and Engravings at Tassili

In 1991 George Cristea published his ndings on possible indications of what he
calls pre-theatre in rock paintings and engravings in Central Sahara (Tassili n.
Ajjer). Most of these gures were made during the fourth and fth millennium
b.c., and some during the sixth or seventh millennium b.c. At that time Central
Sahara seems to have been the nucleus of a thriving civilization, blessed by a propitious climate and, according to some pictures, plenty of water.
Cristea focuses on paintings and engravings that denitely portray people
in peculiar postures, gestures, and clothing that cannot be explained in terms
of instrumental activities: A large part of the Tassilian rock paintings and engravings discovered up till now display human gures performing typical encoded gestures with . . . signications (which we can only guess): masked men,
masks, processions, danceswhich prove beyond any doubt that in those ancient times the performance of rituals in Tassili was general, being part and parcel of the daily social life of its inhabitants (151). Cristeas report is highly cautious and precise in reecting uncertainty with regard to the exact referents of all
these images, but ritual, dance, and drama immediately come to mind. Although
he does not attempt to impose a theatrical interpretation on these images, he
denitely insinuates such a possibility and concludes that [t]he connection between ritual and theatre constitutes one of the main problems in the history of
the theatre (151).
In these pictures, the images of masks, masked people, dancing groups, and
jesters all seem to provide possible indications of theatrical activities.

1. the use of masks

The representation of the oldest and simplest mask in Tassili is found in a
painting at Sefar, dating from an archaic epoch (ca. 6000 b.c.):
Though very old the painting has been well preserved, and its details can be
observed without difculty. It represents a woman (Fig. X) performing a ritual we cannot explain: she has in her arms a long object, like a piece of dough
or a small swaddled child. The womans eyes are covered by a rectangular piece
of leather (it will be hazardous to say linen for the year 6,000 b.c.). It would
appear that the performer should not see what happens to the object in her
hands as the mask has no holes for the eyes. Not having found a similar mask
anywhere else, we have no possibility for comparison or reference. (Cristea:
139 41)

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Whether this is indeed a mask or, perhaps, a rudimentary womans veil (like that
of Muslim women) is not at all certain. Moreover, while it is assumed that she is
performing a ritual, this is not certain either.
Other pictures (ca. 5000 3500 b.c.) feature unmistakable masks, whose typical ornamentation later became clearly associated with rituals; according to
Henri Lhote, they may be the oldest examples of the mask cult still practiced in
the ceremonies of South Saharan tribes (Cristea: 141). Some of the masks are depicted without wearers. Other pictures show human gures with masks representing heads of animals, such as a mask of a jackal head (ca. 4000 3500 b.c.).
Cristea suggests that it may depict a shaman or an initiation mask (138 41). All
these examples are assumed to be ritual masks. Although in itself the use of
masks is not a certain index of theatre (chapter 11), or of ritual for that matter, because of their dissimilarity to human facial features it is sensible to assume that
these are ritual masks. Viewing masks as indicating a possible early theatrical activity, however, has been based on the assumption that ritual and theatre are intimately connected, if not essentially the same. This is precisely the assumption
that has been the object of criticism throughout this study. Although these ancient pictures possibly reect a genuine use of ritual masks, there is no reason to
infer from it the existence of even rudimentary theatrical forms without additional evidence.
Leaving aside the question of whether or not this reects some kind of pretheatre, the imprinted images on the masks reveal that the Tassili inhabitants did
employ an iconic system of representation, in which the roots of theatre can be
recognized.

2. dancing groups
Dancing groups are clearly discernible in several Tassili images: In these
paintings a certain order in the movements, the specic position of the body and,
mostly, of the legs, the balanced dynamism of the characters, all make us believe
that they represent ritual dances (Cristea: 142). With regard to some of the pictures, the spatial relations between the human gures should also be taken into
consideration. For example, Cristea suggests that one engraving and two rock
paintings (ca. 3500 3000 b.c.) possibly depict a ritual war dance, although he
does not exclude the possibility that they could equally well depict a real ght between enemies. If indeed they depict a war dance, they should be understood as
iconic representations on two accounts: on the levels of both the dance itself and
the picture of the dance. Similar considerations apply to dances depicting activities other than war (plate 3, d, e, f, and g); and, for the sake of comparison, to the

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329

Paleolithic rock painting of Cogul, Spain, which seems to represent a [w]omens

dance around a man, as an image of courtship, as suggested above (cf. Sachs:
plate 2). All these count as additional instances of double iconicity.
These examples are most persuasive. The objections, however, remain the
same: although these dances may depict war or courtship, whether for ritual purposes or not, their relationship to theatre is nonetheless highly doubtful. Any
such conclusion would have to be based on what I believe must reveal itself to
be an invalid assumption: although mimetic elements can be detected in these
dances, mimesis itself is not enough to indicate theatre. The only conclusion that
can be drawn from these pictures is, again, the use of an iconic system of representation that can be seen as an additional indication of the imagistic roots of
both dance and theatre.

3. images of jesters
Jesters, or perhaps more appropriately comedians could indeed reect an
elementary form of acting, at least in some aspects of their performance. Cristea
suggests the possible interpretation that several images represent such a jester
(ca. 4000 3500 b.c.; g. 16a and 16b); but, with characteristic honesty, he refuses
to commit himself: Are these images the work of the imagination of a humorous artist, or are they a portrayal of actual characters who dressed comically, who
wore masks with long noses, padded out their stomachs, and wandered from
place to place to amuse the community with a monologue or dance? Moreover,
[a]re they part of a dramatic act? Are they the predecessors of the clowns?
(144). The physical distortionthe long noses and swollen bellies does indeed
remind us of comic actors depicted on vases since the beginning of the sixth century b.c. Unfortunately, the lack of identifying verbal descriptions that plagues
these early Greek images also affects the images at Tassili. Furthermore, jesting is
not necessarily acting and seldom is. Nevertheless, the images are intriguing and
probably related in some manner to rudimentary forms of theatre. In any case,
these images do reect the use of an imagistic method of representation.

Paleolithic Cave Paintings

In retracing the steps of history, we encounter paintings that are as old as any
trace of human skill (Gombrich: 22). The next picture to be examined is the one
usually called The Sorcerer (ca. 14,000 b.c.) found in the Cave of the Trois
Frres in the French Pyrenees (Ruspoli: 88 89) and discovered by the French ar-

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chaeologist Abbot Henri Breuil in 1914. The well-known reproduction was made
by Abbot Breuil himself, who had to reconstruct the image because the original
was rather faded. The possibility of his having added some lines of his own thus
cannot be discarded. The drawing clearly reveals the contour of an animal, possibly a deer, with a head crowned by antlers, which encloses the contour of a
human being, as if the artist wanted to show both what is visible and what is hidden beneath a disguise. The shape of the hind feet possibly indicates a human
gure too.
Cristea comments that [t]he drawing may represent a religious ritual or, simply a hunter disguised as an animal to lure his prey (123). It could equally well
be a totemic or shamanistic ritual of identication, or simply an unskilled or altered drawing. In any case, although this is considered by many scholars the earliest theatrical extant document, it is difcult to see in it any reference to acting,
unless one uncritically presupposes that there is a rm connection between disguise and theatre. Even if the sorcerer indeed used to enact an animal for a selfreferential metaphor, it could have been no more than a case of a rudimentary
use of the theatrical principle of representation for ritual or other purposes.
What is assumed to be most prominent in cave paintings is the connection between prehistoric ritual and painting or engraving. Such pictorial representations, however, were never considered to have originated in ritual. For example:
In the past . . . paintings and statues . . . were not thought of as mere works of
art but as objects which had a denite function. . . . we are not likely to understand the art of the past if we are quite ignorant of the aims it had to serve. The
further we go back in history, the more denite but also the more strange are the
aims which art was supposed to serve (Gombrich: 20). Among prehistoric peoples, Gombrich contends, there is no difference between building and imagemaking as far as usefulness is concerned. Their huts are there to shelter them from
rain, wind and sunshine and the spirits which produce them; images are made
to protect them against other powers which are, to them, as real as the forces of
nature. Pictures and statues are used to work magic (20). These peoples do not
consider pictures as something nice to look at, but as something powerful to
use (20; emphasis in original). These pictures probably are the oldest relics of
that universal belief in the power of picture-making; . . . these primitive hunters
thought that if they only made a picture of their preyand perhaps belabored it
with their spears or stone axesthe real animals would also succumb to their
power (22).
The Sorcerer may indeed represent a man in an animal skin or disguise for
magico-religious purposes. Gombrich stresses the deep seriousness with which

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331

these tribesmen look on their relationship with the totem, as they call their animal relatives. For it seems that they sometimes live in a kind of dream-world in
which they can be man and animal at the same time. Many tribes have special
ceremonies in which they wear masks with the features of these animals, and
when they put them on they seem to feel that they are transformed, that they have
become ravens, or bears (22 23). Obviously, forms of ritual other than totemic
are possible.
According to our denition of the medium of theatre, even if the sorcerer is
disguised, whether for purposes of totemic identication or hunting, he is still
not acting. There is no indication that he is representing the animal by imprinting its image on matter similar to the model or that he is deecting reference. The
disguise was probably meant to be self-referential to the sorcerer himself. Theatrical representation requires, in contrast, that animal actors enact real or ctional animals. For example, in the Passion of Esparragueras, Catalonia, which is
still being performed today, Jesus enters the stage riding a real donkey. A eshand-blood actor and real donkey enact historical Jesus and his donkey. Even the
metaphorical dove that represents the Holy Ghost is enacted by a real dove,
which ies onto the stage and rests on the holy chalice, in the typical manner of
stage metaphor. Dolls, stuffed animals, or human actors may enact animals, but
only on the grounds of theatrical convention.
The Sorcerer, however it is interpreted, cannot be part of a ritual on the
same grounds as a picture of an animal can. At most it is a picture of a human
(the referent) performing a ritual, and not an object used for ritual purposes. The
depiction of a desired object, such as a bison or a horse in the caves of Altamira
or Lascaux (Ruspoli), can easily be understood as an act of magic, but the picture
of the performer of a ritual is akin to an iconic description, typical of art, with no
intrinsic ritual intentions and purposes. Sachs wonders why rock paintings of
ritual dances are so scarce. His own tentative response is that since the Paleolithic painter usually makes wish pictures in order to obtain by this means certain effects of sympathetic magic, he will have little reason to reproduce dances
which serve the same purpose by other means (Sachs: 207). His answer implies
that depictions of rituals are ritually redundant. Since these are reproduced,
however, and the Tassili paintings provide further examples, an alternative reading is possible: even if some rock paintings were created for magic purposes,
these could not have been operative unless they reected the use of an iconic medium. In order to be effective they had to be descriptive. It is the conjunction of
a brain that spontaneously produces images as units of thinking and a brain that
invented natural language, and is conditioned by it, that creates the possibility of
imprinted images carrying meaning.
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The aforementioned painting at Cogul depicting women dancing around a

man, clearly identied by his penis could indeed be a description of a ritual.
Such an interpretation, however, does not contradict the magico-religious use of
painting since, by denition, ritual may employ any medium for its purposes.
There is a clear afnity between Paleolithic art and childrens drawings. It is
natural, therefore, to regard it as the direct expression of the natural tendency
to representation, of an inborn sense for line and colour (Eng: 208). Similarity
applies not only to the outstanding achievements in prehistoric caves, such as Altamira and Lascaux, but also to the early instances of this art (Eng: 201). In both
domains, drawings are minimalist to the point of including only what is absolutely necessary for the identication of the referent (human or animal) and
predication. These features indicate that rather than representing a striving for
accuracy or aesthetic effect, not to mention naturalism, the intention is representation and articulation of thinking. In contrast to their representational common nature, explanation of Paleolithic art in terms of ritual function cannot apply to childrens drawings. Furthermore, this similarity supports the principle of
ontogenetic replication of phylogenesis as well.
* * *
The so-called Egyptian drama, although it may feature theatrical elements, essentially is self-referential ritual and not drama. Traces of prehistoric dance suggest that hardly any element can be construed as properly theatrical. Theatrical
elements are even impossible to detect in rock and cave paintings and engravings,
whether in Central Sahara or in Europe. In general, it is as pointless to derive
one art from another as it is deriving theatre or any other art from ritual. Instead of searching for a redeeming unitary principle, we should stress the variety of embryonic media employed by archaic rituals. The afnity between most
of them attests to their common roots in the mental imagery spontaneously produced by the human psyche.
The coronation narrative, prehistoric dance, rock engravings, and cave paintings possibly attest to the existence of rituals in which acts of magic, with expected consequences in the real world, were performed by means of various
methods of representation. These eventually developed into independent arts:
storytelling, dance, music, painting, engraving, sculpture, and even architecture,
since the use of caves for religious purposes reects architectural considerations. It would not be surprising, therefore, if indications of embryonic theatrical forms of representation were also to be found in those early days of humanity. It is in this transitional phase in the development of culture, which assumedly
conjoined incipient language and imagistic thinking, probably paralleled in
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333

dream, daydream, mythmaking, and childrens imaginative play and drawing,

that we may nd the roots of the medium of theatre.
All these forms of representation and expression, which developed into independent media and arts, eventually outlived the cult forms in which they were
initially employed. Despite the use of all these embryonic arts in prehistoric rituals, only theatre has been accorded the groundless privilege of originating in
ritual.

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17
Reections
and
Conclusions



In the quest for the origins of theatre, the obstacles faced by historical methodology are notorious. Scarcity of documented evidence hinders the search for
both the origins of tragedy and comedy and the nature of the rituals from which
they are alleged to have originated. Lack of conclusive evidence casts its shadow
even on the origins of medieval theatre, despite its relative proximity to the present. It is difcult to imagine any historical method that could overcome this state
of affairs.
In its various trends, anthropological methodology also proves disappointing.
While it attempts to provide additional and alternative sources of evidence from
present rituals in various parts of the world, assuming their phenomenology to
be similar to the phenomenologies that generated theatre, in fact it builds combined models that hardly t even the cultures from which they were partially
abstracted. In more recent developments anthropology has moved away from
denitions of ritual in the religious sense, which underlie the original theories of
theatre origin, to include secular customs. Moreover, new theories followed the
footsteps of anthropology in suggesting certain fundamental bonds between ritual and theatre. Unfortunately, combining historical and anthropological methodologies simply multiplies the limitations and fallacies of each.
Even if abundant evidence did exist and more sensitive methods of research
were available, however, the underlying assumption that one distinct cultural entity can originate in another would still be unacceptable. Instead I have suggested
a theory of roots, generative in nature, which attempts to derive the creation of
the theatre medium from an innate method of representation or, rather, thinking. This nal chapter sums up my conclusions.

The Ritual Fallacy

The School of Cambridge fails to demonstrate the origins of the theatre medium
in ritual because of its focusand this is its fundamental fallacy on features of
the ctional world. Traces of the origins of theatre cannot be found in recurrent
features of narratives, mythical or otherwise, because worlds (real or ctional)
and media, including theatre, are independent of each other. An additional crucial error is that, instead of seeking traces of the many different kinds of myth,
they assume that all myths of heroes and godsin ritual, dithyramb, and ancient dramaare variants of the aition of Dionysus and its pattern of death and
resurrection. Derivation of all myths from a single one is reductive: it diminishes
the variety and richness of mappings of the psyche or reality.
Following their logic, Gilbert Murray suggests a six-fold model, which ts neither Dionysiac ritual nor the dramatic genres that it aims at explaining. This leads
to the conclusion that, rather than being inferred from actual data, the model was
in fact invented from supercial impressions gained from all these cultural entities, combined, and eventually imposed on each of them. In principle, a model
that does not correspond to anything is acceptable, provided that it has explanatory power. This model, however, fails to explain either ritual or drama, not to
mention theatre. Subsequent theories of origins suffer from the same deciencies; particularly Kirbys model, which is a construct of features abstracted from
all possible shamanistic cultures and which proves inadequate not only for theatre but also for the allegedly generating rituals themselves.
The School of Cambridge, like many theories that followed, also fell short
in operating a reductive notion of ctional structure. A sequence of type-events
neither is a structure of a ctional world nor reects a structure. Structures of
ctional worlds mirror typical response patterns of the audience; in this sense,
the same sequence of events may be structured by different principles leading to
different and even contrasting experiences.
Francis M. Cornford assumes that theatrical forms must have evolved from
previous activities already featuring dramatic (in the sense of theatrical) qualities.
This is a self-defeating principle, if true: regression would be innite. Subsequent
theories commit the same error when seeking theatrical qualities in archaic ritual. In contrast, the origin of tragedy in choral storytelling, possibly dithyramb,
proves that theatrical forms could also have evolved from nontheatrical forms,
the enactment of characters in oral storytelling in particular. In fact, the traces of
tragedys origin in choral storytelling lie in its nontheatrical elements, especially
the chorus.
The creation of the medium of theatre clearly did not coincide with the birth
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of tragedy or comedy. Revealing the origins of particular dramatic genres, although legitimate in itself, has no bearing on the origins of theatre, since their
shared medium could have been adopted from previous forms or generated
spontaneously from theatres roots. This is probably also true for Megarean farce.
The School of Cambridge explicitly restricts its research to the origins of Attic
tragedy and comedy, and in this sense its endeavor is partially justied. The problem is that in its quest it also involves considerations of medium.
The School of Cambridges failure to prove that specic dramatic genres originated in Dionysiac ritual does not entail confutation of the ritual thesis. Indeed,
later theories have continued to search for such a ritual origin, not only of typical ctional worlds found in theatre, but also of the medium itself. If ritual is conceived in terms of action, however, with specic purposes and particular use of
various media, the very use of these media logically presupposes their existence.
The set of media that may be employed in ritual, in addition to plain natural
language, includes dance, music, design, sculpture, poetry, storytelling, architecture, and theatre. Ancient ritual was probably an aggregate of texts in various rudimentary media; but, except for theatre, no other medium has been conceived
as originating in ritual. Claiming that theatre originated in ritual, therefore, is as
absurd as claiming that natural language, music, or design originated in ritual.
I contend, therefore, that the theatre medium could not have originated in ritual, since theatre and ritual are entities on different levels of human activity. Theatre is a medium that can serve different intentions and purposes; and ritual is a
particular mode of action, with denite intentions and purposes, which can use
any medium. Ritual and theatre do not constitute a binary opposition: they operate on different ontological levels. In this study, a ritual is conceived as a complex text that combines several methods of signication and communication, including body language and verbal and iconic media, in literal and metaphorical
capacities. Such a complex text is used as a macro-medium act, indicating an action and aiming at achieving specic effects in the divine or other sphere for the
benet of a real community. In contrast, theatre is conceived as a specic imagistic medium, characterized by imprinting images (iconic signs) on materials
similar to their real models. This principle is most conspicuous in the use of real
human beings (actors) for imprinting human images. In this sense, theatre
may be understood both as a cultural medium (or code) and, in different terms,
as a method of thinking and communicating thinking. As ritual is essentially indifferent to the specic medium used (since it can use any medium), so too is the
theatre medium, which is essentially indifferent to the act for which it is employed. Ritual and theatre are mutually independent.
The notion of acting, which should be extended to any object on stage, has
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337

proven to be the best tool for distinguishing theatre and other imagistic media
from any other activity: ritual, other arts, or even real behavior. In particular, this
applies to its denition in terms of imagistic signication, iconic imprinting, and
deection of reference. Acting is characterized by a fundamental duality, of
which the audience is always aware: actors performing a text, which they inscribe
on their own bodies, and descriptions of real or ctional characters distinct from
themselves. Even actors enacting themselves are essentially different from their
real selves and from anyone projecting an image of themselves in real behavior.
On these grounds, Kirbys claim that human acting, the specic difference of
theatre, originated in ritual ecstatic practices such as shamanism cannot be substantiated either, because these are essentially different phenomena and cannot
be reduced to or derived from each other. The vogue of theatrical naturalism was
probably responsible for equating acting with far-reaching similarity and even
identication. Whereas ecstasy (being one of rituals possible means) is indexical
and self-referential, however, acting is iconic and deects reference. The moment
the shaman is grasped as impersonating a healer and faking a spirit, efcacy vanishes. In its ethical sense, impersonation applies neither to shamans nor to actors. Kirbys attempt to explain the transition from shamanism to theatre on such
grounds is self-defeating: if theatre originates in disintegrated shamanism, it cannot be said to have originated in ritual.
Spontaneous theatrical elements should also be distinguished from theatre as
an art. Whereas spontaneous theatrical elements can be detected in some kinds
of ritual, such as the Egyptian Coronation Drama, they are always functionally
subordinated to its overall ritual intent, which is self-referential in nature. In
contrast, in artistic theatre, which is dened by its medium, the medium is exclusively used in its descriptive capacity, for the sake of thinking about the world.
Performance-texts may refer to the spectator only by mediation of the ctional
worlds they describe. The difference between the world of the spectator and the
ctional world can be bridged only by the principle of metaphorical description.
Theatre art is dened by its medium and cannot be imagined without it. Whereas
ritual basically aims at affecting states of affairs in the divine sphere or another,
theatre art only aims at affecting the perception of states of affairs or, rather,
thoughts about them.
Experiencing theatrical texts in their typical method of representation is a collective form of experimenting with thoughts and feelings, enabling the audience
members ultimately to create, reafrm, or refute their own beliefs about and attitudes to themselves and the world. In particular, refutation is unthinkable in
the realm of ritual, which presupposes the truth of its own beliefs and attitudes

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to the world. Consequently, ritual and theatre may have overlapping functions,
such as validating beliefs; but even in the fulllment of these they behave differently. Theatre can also invalidate beliefs.
It is my contention, following Benjamin Hunningher, that, rather than generating theatre, religions could only have adopted or rejected it. Hunninghers
main thesis is that Christianity could not have recreated theatre, owing to an already existing theatrical tradition. This is also corroborated by the birth of Jewish theatre. Both traditions share a long history of consistent animosity to theatre
and reveal the same historical pattern of rejection, adoption, and eventual secularization. Cohens law is thus clearly refuted. I suggest instead that the model
of rejection or adoption, in whatever order, is the general principle underlying the relationship between ritual and theatre, which also applies to the beginnings of Greek theatre. Evidently, paganism was sufciently permissive and benevolent, as it was to philosophy and science, to enable theatre to develop.
Theatre is a medium and as such can serve any creed or ideology. Hunninghers assumption that a religion can be fundamentally incompatible with theatre
is therefore not only unacceptable but also absurd. Christianity, for example, has
shared fortunate moments with theatre. Religions may exercise a promoting
or inhibiting function with regard to theatre, or any other medium, within their
ritual discourse, but they have nothing to do with its creation. O. B. Hardison
claims that [t]he view encouraged by [Chamberss] The Medieval Stage is that
drama originated in spite of Christianity, not because of it (Hardison: 16). The
same applies to Jewish theatre.
Although the School of Cambridge fails to prove the ritual origins of tragedy
and comedy, the persistent belief in the ritual thesis of theatre origins demonstrates that a lack of evidence and an uninhibited exibility in the application of
terms are not sufcient to refute it once and for all. Similar considerations apply
to shamanistic origin and Christian recreation theories. What is the secret of the
strong appeal of this thesis? Ronald W. Vinces answer is illuminating: However
inaccurate as a record of the historical origins of the theatre, the ritual theory appeals on a metaphorical level to unconscious patterns and longings in our own
psyches and we nd drama considered in its terms a richer and more satisfying
experience than it might otherwise be (Vince 1984: 16). I have suggested that the
spell cast by theatre resides not in the metaphorical aura of ritual but in the
spectators involvement in the actual experience of confronting a metaphorical
description of themselves.
Vince also notes the sometimes desperate attempts of much avant-garde theatre of our own day to make something holy out of the theatre, to reinvest the

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339

entertaining shell with signicance (1984: 9). This is absolutely accurate for
avant-garde theatre. With all its innovations, however, avant-garde theatre is unable to reintroduce ritual participation into aesthetic theatre because it never
featured ritual participation in the rst place. The so-called homemade ritual
elements, which deserve further theoretical study, are essentially different from
ritual, although, as practice demonstrates, they certainly belong in theatre.

The Overabstraction Fallacy

In contrast to the explicit theories of origins, another set of theories attempts to
tackle this problem by creating all-inclusive categories that actually blur the
boundaries between cultural entities, including ritual and theatre, which eventually developed into distinct and separate domains of human activity. Schechner
suggests the supercategory of performance, which may be useful for sociological purposes but tells nothing about the various types of its embedded activities.
Schechner presupposes that by creating a wide category he is revealing the common denominator of the comprised subcategories, whereas in fact he only indicates their common social circumstances of performance. The assumption that
ritual and theatre are fundamentally different is shared even by certain theories
of origins. Forcing similarity on two types of cultural entities which became so
distinct in later centuries is therefore puzzling at the very least. Furthermore,
what theorists employing anthropological data forget to mention is that in most
archaic cultures there is no theatre. Even the similarly overbroad category of actuality cannot obliterate this fact. It would be more sensible to assume that in
archaic cultures various cultural phenomena featured in undifferentiated aggregates, subordinated to ritual acts, and that later developments encouraged
the emergence of their distinct natures. The use of overbroad categories or denitions, despite their apparent philosophical appeal, simply restores primeval
nondifferentiation and makes their use devoid of explanatory power.
The application of broad categories also extends to the notion of audience,
which has been alleged to include ritual communities as well as casual gatherings
of onlookers. Nonetheless, nothing can change the fact that the individuals who
participate in Dionysiac ritual or the shamans act do not constitute an audience
but a participant believing community on whom the efcacy of the act depends.
Although there is participation in both ritual and theatre, its meaning and
function are different in each domainsharing an act for its efcacy in the divine sphere in the former; and producing meaning by means of a joint creation,
by director and spectator, of a theatrical experience in the latter.
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Johan Huizingas notion of play is an equally overabstracted category, which

fails to disclose anything of substance about its alleged subcategories. Even if we
agree that contest is the common element linking play, theatre, ritual, and other
activities, we can learn nothing about these, apart from detecting a universal competitive drive that pervades even nonplay. Moreover, imaginative play, whose afnity to theatre is quite evident, does not reect the principle of contest. Cailloiss
inclusion of mimetic play in his classication only acknowledges the duality
play/game, without solving the problem.
In itself the spirit of playfulness typical of carnival also reveals nothing about
the roots of theatre. The use of masks, apart from an apparent common message
on a very abstract level, does not indicate any shared function in ritual, carnival,
and theatre. The use of mask and disguise, like the chorus, is equally nonessential to theatre. Although the spirit of carnival is conducive to a mood that propitiates the use of theatrical elements, such as the parody of ritual conducted by the
Bishop or Pope of Fools and the Purim-Rabbi, these only indicate that elementary theatrical forms can be used in ritual as well as in cathartic antiritual. Moreover, if elementary theatrical forms are used in a ritual, they most probably reect the existential roots of theatre.
Blurring the boundaries between real behavior and acting, following Erving Goffmans approach and probably against his own intention, also results in
conclusions that are of no avail in understanding either acting or, possibly, human behavior itself. Real human interaction, even in cases of improved selfpresentation, is essentially different from theatre. It is not only based on a different system of signication and communication (namely indexical) and different
principles of reference but also results in a projected self-image and not in a description of a character. Moreover, the relation between acting and real behavior is inherently asymmetric: acting presupposes real behavior but not vice
versa. The use of the analogy to the theatre is thus irrelevant and misleading.
Theatre, which affords a means for description of worlds, whether real or ctional, draws its raw materials from real life and operates an iconic medium
whose main principle of signication is similarity to real phenomena on both the
imagistic and material levels. It is hardly surprising, therefore, that even scholars are misled into considering an analogy between theatre and real life. Such an
analogy cannot abolish the ontological gap between life and description of life
in other words, between the world and thinking about it. The roots of theatre,
therefore, most denitely cannot lie in real human behavior. Schechners social
drama can never share the quality of theatre. At most, theatre can be a trite
metaphor of life.
The creation of supercategories and the assumption of complex ur-cultural
{ Reections and Conclusions }

341

entities, such as Kirbys concept of shamanism, which allegedly begot all the
known performative modes, do not explain anything. After all, why should distinct phenomena have their roots in other distinct phenomena? Why are none of
these theories aware of their possible reductive nature? Why not suggest, in this
vein, a theory of origin of all the arts in theatre, on the grounds of the widely accepted belief that it includes them all? All such assumptions must lead to absurd
conclusions and result in absolute theoretical chaos. Such approaches appear to
be more interested in nding a magical principle that explains all (i.e., in satisfying an aesthetic drive) than in achieving actual knowledge.

A Generative Theory of Roots

In contrast to these two types of theories, I suggest instead a theory of roots, in
the sense of revealing the necessary psycho-cultural conditions for the medium
of theatre to come into existence. The search for primordial cultural realms that
could have originated theatre is thereby replaced by a search for primary phenomena that share the same principles of signication and communication,
thereby reecting the same roots. Following this line of thought, I contend that
the theatre medium is rooted in an innate method of signication based on the
operation of mental images, which should be conceived as tools of thinking
(Langer: 41)as units of representation, replacing real objects, for the sake of
thinking about them, in mental manipulation of reality. Because images (signiers) bear meanings (signieds), they enable thinking about reality. This method
of representation is usually thought of as having been superseded by natural
language.
The brain spontaneously produces images and connects them with abstractions, which thus become units in thinking processes. The fundamental deciency of such images resides in their immateriality, which precludes their communication. Imprinting them on matter transforms such intangible images into
iconic signs and enables their communication. In addition, mediation of words
endows them with socially controlled meanings (signieds). In its innate form
of mental imagery, this method of representation is operated in dreams, daydreams, and hallucinations. Dreams in particular employ mental images in
their elementary form, without concrete signiers (imprinting) and cultural
control (mediation of natural language). Their use in an admixture of literal,
symbolical, and metaphorical capacities, with no specication of reference, lends
them their peculiar absurd appearance. Such primeval manifestations of this

342

{ A Theory of Roots }

method probably reect very early stages in human and perhaps animal evolution. This method of representation, assumedly superseded by language, is probably banned into the unconscious, together with the unconscious contents, to
which it lends formulation.
I assume that before the advent of language this method of representation was
used predominantly in wakeful thinking and that its connement to dreams and
daydreams is a result of suppression of what is considered, from the viewpoint of
consciousness, an inefcient method of thinking. Considering both its representational and thought aspects, myth is probably the most direct evidence of the
cognitive function of imagistic thinking. It proceeds by creating ctional worlds
that are metaphorical mappings, not inherently false, of inner or outer realities.
Myth can be seen, therefore, as a reection of a particular way of conceiving the
world, couched in images, in literal, symbolical, and metaphorical capacities.
Myth, as the ctional worlds of dream and theatre, is the thought (content) correlative of the imagistic system of signication and not of ritual.
Myth, as we know it, combines two complementary elements: a mythos (a
ctional mapping of the world) and a logos (a discursive reection of social values), which are mutually independent. Without a logos myth is mere dreamlike
material. In addition, in its culturally registered forms it is always formulated in
a given medium (verbal or iconic). With its formulation, in any medium, the
original imagistic mode, which reects the spontaneous creativity of the psyche,
is transmuted into a specic cultural phenomenon. Myth is unknown in any
form other than storytelling or drama. Although it can be communicated by any
medium, without a medium it may exist but is inaccessible. There is thus no difference between ritual myth and a work of art based on myth, since the latter is
always a narrative based on dream material and a logos. Religion is a particular
kind of logos. Ritual, dened as action with religious or civic purposes, can and
usually does make use of myth, whether in literary or theatrical form, but there
is no intrinsic relationship between them. Myth can equally be used to cement
faith or to undermine it. Theatre, dened as a medium, may or may not choose
to use myth as material. Myth and ritual, or art, including theatre, are mutually
independent.
The human psyche spontaneously formulates thoughts in the shape of ctional worlds (i.e., worlds populated by characters and their actions). The triple
combination of mythos, logos, and medium is indivisible, unless analytically. It
is, however, the original imagistic element that reveals the innate method of representation in which the roots of theatre can be perceived. This is reected in the
fundamental afnity between mythical imagination and iconic media, in partic-

{ Reections and Conclusions }

343

ular theatre. Although natural language can also convey mental images, it does so
by the limited evocative capacity of words. Theatre, in contrast, affords an imagistic medium for imagistic thinking.
In the cultural form of this medium, the operation of imprinted mental images (i.e., of an iconic medium) is not only found in theatre but also found in
childrens imaginative play and drawing, prehistoric mimetic dance, Paleolithic
rock painting and carving, and ancient oral storytelling and in the distinct and
developed forms of the various iconic arts. All these diverse activities eventually
outlived the forms of cult in which they were used and developed into independent cultural entities, particularly the various arts. Despite the use of such arts in
embryonic state in archaic rituals, only theatre has been accorded the dubious
and groundless privilege of originating in them.
Piaget provides empiric proof of the use of imprinted images in early childhood as units of representation in thinking processes. He nds them in imaginative play, which is assumed to reect on the ontogenetic level the phylogenetic
history of humankind. Nietzsches phylogenetic thesis suggests that dreaming is
a primeval way of thinking, characteristic of prelinguistic humans while awake,
thereby hinting at the common roots of dreaming and theatre. If imagistic thinking was suppressed after being superseded by discursive thinking based on natural language, it clearly reemerges in the form of various cultural media, particularly the iconic arts. If indeed ontogenesis reects phylogenesis, Piagets ndings
are equally applicable to the early stages of human development. The only missing link, to which we have no direct access in the present, is the use of imagistic
thinking for instrumental purposes in waking life, although in some cases it still
creeps into discursive thinking. Silberer demonstrates that the mind reverts to
this method of thinking whenever the control of consciousness relaxes (Freud
1978: 460).
Piaget correctly criticizes both Freuds theory of dreams and Grooss theory of
play for focusing on the contents of these activities and not on their methods of
representation. The same criticism applies to theories of the origins of theatre,
including the School of Cambridge and its followers. From the viewpoint of representation, following Piaget, I see in the spontaneous creation of immaterial images in the psyche the genuine roots of theatre. These roots are not to be found
in the contents of domains such as dreaming, mythmaking, or imaginative play
but in their method of representation. None of these domains generated the theatre medium, but all of them reect the same method of representation, including the principles of imprinting and mediation of natural language. All these media have one very essential thing in common: they lend a concrete dimension to
mental images (in the sense of signiers) that operate in dreams, mythmaking,
344

{ A Theory of Roots }

imaginative play, and imagination in general. Imagination and the fundamental

possibility of its communication are the existential roots of theatre.
We may envisage a development from an innate faculty of imagistic thinking,
preserved in dream and daydreaming, through a mediating phase of imprinting
in childrens imaginative play, to eventual crystallization in theatre. Daydreaming
probably is the real residual form of thinking in images presupposed by psychoanalysis for prelinguistic humans. Raw narrative materials, which are the thought
aspect of imagistic texts, are the creations of all: dreaming, daydreaming, mythmaking, childrens imaginative play, and theatre. Logos is missing only in the elemental form of dreaming. The imprinting of images on bodies is shared by imaginative play, mimetic dance, and theatre. On the thought level, this development
aims at inclusion of a cultural logos; and on the medium level, at acquisition of
communicative ability. Imaginative play goes from indirect self-referentiality, by
creating its own ctional worlds, to indirect self-referentiality mediated by actors
performing descriptions of ctional worlds. The spectators should thus be conceived as the actual players, thinking by means of an imagistic medium, and the
actors as their proxies.
My own theory, presented here, is generative in the sense that the process
leading from the roots of theatre to its institutionalized forms cannot be duplicated or reproduced under laboratory conditions. It does afford, however, a set
of principles or, rather, a model that is congruent with the facts and explains the
traces of these roots in both innate human mental activity and the distinct and
developed forms of theatre.

The Theatrical Experience

We should distinguish between the medium of theatre and the performancetexts that it can generate, particularly within the boundaries of the art of theatre,
which is dened by its medium. The typical theatrical experience obviously regards the latter. As text, a theatrical performance is a combination of specic raw
narrative material, logos, and the theatrical medium, forming a triangular relationship equivalent to that found in literature as a verbal art. Such a text is not
restricted to mythical materials, and these are not restricted to the theatrical medium. Fictional worlds and media are mutually independent. Mythical thought
and the theatre medium reveal a fundamental afnity, however, since the former
is based on personication and the latter lends a special dimension to personication by imprinting such images on live actors.
As experience, a theatrical performance is an interaction between a stage-text,
{ Reections and Conclusions }

345

an actual description of a ctional world, and an actual audience. In contrast to

the classic semiotic approach, the audience does not only decode the text but also
complements it by providing, in addition to reading prociency, a variety of
associative materials, which are no less important than those provided by the
text. Drama shows a clear preference for mythical thoughts, which combine a
ctional representation of unconscious contents and a logos, in the sense of a
thematic context that enables their assimilation into the audiences system of values and beliefs. These mythical materials should be seen as elementary mappings of psychical reality. Exposure to materials of this nature, made accessible by
the theatre medium, may explain the immediate and forceful involvement of
entire audiences, due to the confrontation of spectators with interpretative descriptions of their own psyches. The interaction of mythical material, which
represents the unconscious stirrings of the psyche, with the typical logos of the
spectators culture indicates that the ultimate aim of such ctional worlds is to
provide an opportunity for a culturally controlled encounter between spectators
and the deeper layers of their psyches and to integrate most disturbing contents
into their conscious discourse. Drama based on myth is a complex object of experience, which enables spectators to confront their unconscious selves, while
protected by the shield of culture, and to transmute such confrontation into an
aesthetic experience. This principle applies also to conscious disturbing or even
subversive contents.
The basic relationship between spectators and the stage thus ceases to be the
widely accepted one of watching a world of others with which one can identify or
not. It becomes instead a confrontation with ones own inner being, including
conscious and unconscious layers, in the shape of a mytho-logical-theatrical description. Such a relationship is not one of identication, since it is the very same
spectators on two levels: being and self-description. This activity, in which the
psyche is the source of the raw material, the source of the system of signication,
and the ultimate referent of the text, is also found in dreams, daydreams, and
imaginative play and could well apply to other types of text in the iconic arts.
In the normal development of the individual, all imagistic activities become
suppressed: dreaming, daydreaming, imaginative play, and infant-drawing. Each
child experiences the shortcomings of the imagistic method of representation in
its crude form and the pressure exerted by society to abandon it. Theatre can be
conceived as a socially permitted way of openly enjoying imagistic thinking. It is
thus both the development of a relic of an innate form of thinking and a way to
communicate with suppressed or semisuppressed contents of the psyche. Culture, unable to overlook the power of nature, recognizes the need for such an
outlet and for some kinds of inner and intersubjective communication.
346

{ A Theory of Roots }

The impact of the art of theatre as a social institution can thus be understood
on two grounds: (1) it provides a social permit to confront even subversive and
suppressed drives originating in the unconscious, within the context of a collective experience that lends them some kind of legitimation, on condition that they
are incorporated into a conscious and more complex concept of life; (2) it provides a social permit to use and enjoy a suppressed method of representation or
thinking, which has become conned to and therefore is typical of the unconscious. This permit makes theatre a social and institutionalized form of imagination. Consequently, within the social circumstances of a theatre performance,
both suppressed factors are recognized as fundamentally human, and the individual existential feeling of otherness is thus transmuted into a feeling of belonging to a society, despite otherness and including otherness. In this way a theatrical experience may also become an act of subordinating the unconscious to
consciousness and, by the same token, an act of communion. In other words, it
becomes an act of experiencing inner and outer harmony (or disharmony, if the
author aims at the opposite experience) in the realm of aesthetics and therefore
in principle enjoyable.
The art of theatre can dramatize the borderline between the unconscious and
consciousness, between mythos and logos. The permission to use a suppressed
method of thinking, and the attraction that most people feel to it, probably indicates that this method enjoys a very important status in our psyche and retains
its basic vitality. The theatre experience is an arena where culture confronts and
subdues nature.

{ Reections and Conclusions }

347




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Index

Abbot of Unreason, 218

absurdity, 46, 59, 263 65, 305; ctional,
263 65; imagistic, 263 65
acting, 21; mimetic, 180 82; transformational, 180 82
action, 19196
actual performance, 169 72
adoption of theatre, 90, 98, 100, 108
Aeschylus, 46, 52, 56, 140 45, 306; Oresteia, 56
aesthetic function, 275, 304
aesthetic theatre, 173 78
Agon, 33 36, 49 58, 233
Ahashverosh shpil, 135 37, 224
aition, 18, 29 48
alazoneia, 59 61, 155
allegory, 92, 249, 255, 265
Altamira, 332 33
animal drama, 203 4
animal ritual, 13
animism, 181
anthropological methodology, xiixiii
anti-Aristotelian theatre, 172
antiritual, 216 17
Apollo, 43, 149
archetype, 302
Aristophanes, 49 68, 156 60; Acharnians, 52 53, 157; Clouds, 52, 63; Frogs,
52, 158; Plutus, 52; Wasps, 63
Aristotle: Poetics, xii, xviii, 3, 13, 23, 29
48, 49 65, 84 86, 105, 140 61, 277
Austin, John L., xviii, 9, 16, 192
avant-garde, 26, 66, 173, 180 81, 184
Bacchylides, 35, 145 51
Bakhtin, Mikhail, xviii, 206 11

Barca, Caldern de la, 185; La vida es

sueo, 106; The Great Theatre of the
World, 185
bard, 15153
Beardsley, Monroe C., 249
Bell, Catherine, xviii, 4 15
Benedict, Ruth, xviii, 10
Black, Max, 249
body language, 16, 325
Book of Esther, 129 39, 220 24
Brecht, Bertolt: Mother Courage, 168 72
Brody, Alan, 112, 12728
Brook, Peter, 26
Burkert, Walter, xviii, 718, 302, 308
burlesque, 156 60, 217, 223 35
Caillois, Roger, xviii, 167, 240 43, 341
carnival, 129 39, 206 11
Cassirer, Ernest, xviii, 247, 256, 297
catharsis, 12, 45, 84, 121, 130, 138, 210, 228,
304
Chambers, Edmund K., xviii, 94 95,
108 9, 112 28, 339
character, 195 96
Chekhov, Anton, 306
Chomsky, Noam, 253, 299
choral song, 140 61
choral storytelling, 145 51
chorus, 153 55
Christianity, 90 110, 11128, 129 39,
206 18
Christmas, 34, 11128, 215; Father Christmas, 112, 114, 122 25
church, 5, 90 110, 11128
City Dionysia, 35, 151
clowning, 84, 97

cognitive function of myth, 248 53, 293

300
Cogul, Spain, 324, 330, 333
Cohen, Gustave, 90 110, 139, 339
Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 87
comedy, 29 48, 49 68, 156 60
commedia dellarte, 214
consciousness, 247 62, 27176, 282
contest, 232 35
Cornford, Francis M., xviii, 26, 49 68,
114, 151, 336
coryphaeus, 46, 63, 141 45
costume, 76 77, 94, 113 15, 214 15. See
also disguise
Country Dionysia, 52
creative writer, 270 76
Cristea, George, 328 30
cult of heroes, 36, 315
Damasio, Antonio R., xviii, 248, 281, 286
dance, 181, 276, 323 27, 330 31
Davidson, Israel, 133 35, 223
daydream, 247 69, 270 76
demon play, 83 85
Dijk, Teun van, xviii, 9
Dionysus, 18, 26, 29 48, 49 68, 69, 85
86, 105 8, 114, 140 61
disguise, 94, 134, 144, 21115, 33132. See
also costume
dithyramb, 145 51
Don Juan, 303
drama, 23 24
dramatic arts, 24
dramatization of social life, 1112, 24
dran, 32, 140
drawings by children, 288
dream, 247 69
dream-symbolism, 253 60
dream-text, 253 67
dream-thought, 253 61
dromenon, 7, 18, 32, 86, 140, 236
Durkheim, Emile, xviii, 4, 12, 307
Easter, 34, 90 110, 207
Eco, Umberto, 209, 212
358

ecstasy, 34, 69 77, 105, 114, 120, 139, 238

efcacy, 172 76
Egyptian Coronation Drama, 315 23
Elam, Keir, 24
Electra, 303
Eleusis, 55, 314 15
Eliade, Mircea, xviii, 17, 70, 182, 295
Else, Gerald F., xviii, 35, 43, 140 55
eniautos daimon, 29 32, 36, 51
entertainment, 172 76
epic poetry, 13, 23739
epiphany, 33, 54 55
Euripides, 29 48, 56 58, 141 45, 264;
Alcestis, 42, 56; Bacchae, 38 40, 58, 62,
86, 155; Hippolytus, 33, 38, 40 41, 46,
62
expressive function, 293
Fairman, H. W., 315 23
fantasy, 270 76
farce, 62 64, 120 26, 156 60
Feast of Fools, 133, 207, 211, 215 18
Feast of the Ass, 207
fertility, 51, 54 55, 64, 93, 115 16, 314, 326
ctional world, 303
folk culture, 207, 209
folk-play, 51, 57, 62 64, 110, 11128
fool, 121, 218, 221
Frazer, James G., xviii, 3, 30, 32, 53 54,
107, 114, 184, 314
Freud, Sigmund, xviii, 247 69, 270 76,
291, 300 4, 327, 344
Frye, Northrop, 59, 263, 266, 295, 303,
307
Gadamer, Hans-Georg, xviii, 270, 288
90
game, 226 46
Gaster, Theodor H., xv, xviii, 130 31,
315 23
Geertz, Clifford, xviii, 4, 10, 83, 319
Gennep, Arnold van, 8, 12
Goffman, Erving, xviii, 185 205, 215, 341
Gombrich, Erving H., xviii, 323, 330 31
Greater Dionysia, 35, 144

{ Index }

Gregory, R. L., 248

Groos, Karl, xviii, 270, 276 79, 292, 344
grotesque, 121, 156 60, 209
Grotowski, Jerzy, 26, 175
Halliwell, Stephen, 23, 29 48, 49 64, 84,
140 61
hamartia, 59 61
Hamlet, 203
Hardison, O. B., x, xviii, 92, 104, 1079,
233, 339
harmonious experience, 46, 59, 305
Harrison, Jane E., xviii, 725, 29 48,
55 66, 104, 140, 151, 236, 315, 323 24
Hegel, G. W. F., 239
hero, 273
Herodotus, 315, 323
historical method, xixii
hobby-horse, 11718
Homer: Iliad, 15153, 156; Odyssey, 151
53, 156
Horace, 143
Horus, 315 23
hubris, 59 62
Huizinga, Johan, xviii, 167, 212 13, 226
46, 270, 341
Hunningher, Benjamin, x, xviii, 90 110,
127, 139, 339
icon, 192
iconic sign, 252
ieros gamos, 5153. See also sacred marriage
illusionism, 81 82
image, 19
imagination, 252 53
imaginative play, 183, 213, 229, 241 43,
270 76
imagistic representation, 25153, 279 88,
294
imagistic thinking, 250 53
imitation, 194
impersonation, 21, 74
interior language, 281
Isaac, 46, 136, 220, 296, 303 5

Jesus, 105 8
Jewish theatre, 129 30, 135, 139
Jocasta, 305, 311
Judaism, 129 39, 219 24
Jung, Carl G., xviii, 251, 258, 260 61, 266,
3013
Kalends, 216
Kirby, Ernest T., x, xiii, xviii, 26, 69 89,
11128, 211, 232, 336, 342
Kobialka, Michal, 103
Kosslyn, Stephen M., xviii, 248
Kowzan, Tadeusz, 13
Lang, Andrew, 297
Langer, Susanne K., xviii, 14, 247 48,
25152, 282, 291, 342
Lascaux, 332 33
Leach, Edmund R., xviii, 6 18
Lvi-Strauss, Claude, xviii, 297300
Lewis, Gilbert, xviii, 6 17
license, 129 39
literature, 22, 309
liturgical drama, 103. See also ritual
drama
Living Theatre, 175
logos, 294, 304 9
Lord of Misrule, 218
ludic activity, 233, 279
lyric poetry, 23739
Macbeth, 185
magic, 7 8, 323 27
Malinowski, Bronislaw, xviii, 7, 11, 15,
293 96, 300, 306 7
mask, 21115, 328 29
Mass, 3, 26, 90 110, 129, 217
McConachie, Bruce, 27
Medea, 303
mediumship, 69, 81, 88
Megarean farce, 63 64, 156 60, 224
Memphite drama, 320 23
metaphor, 249, 253 60
miasma, 60
mimes, 97100, 127, 159

{ Index }

359

mimesis, 12 13, 30 33, 42, 86, 141, 169

mimetic play, 229
mimetic ritual, 12, 32
mimicry, 221, 224, 240 42, 326
misrule, 132 35, 215, 223
Molire, 122, 175
Molina, Tirso de: El Burlador de Sevilla,
57
morality play, 106
mummers play, 11128
Murray, Gilbert, 26, 29 48, 49 68, 107,
114, 336
mystery play, 136, 316, 323
myth, 1718, 293 313
myth-making, 297, 300 1
mythology, xiv, 293 313
mythos, 304 9
Nagler, A. M., 102 5
naturalism, 75, 88, 215, 262
neurobiology, 248
neurology, xiv, 281; research, 252
Nicoll, Allardyce, 64, 9798, 156, 159 60
Nietzsche, Friedrich, 43 44, 250, 268,
301, 344
numinous, x, 295, 304
Oedipus, 43, 46, 60, 62, 264, 303, 306, 310
ontogenesis, 251, 333
Osiris, 30, 33, 38, 107, 303, 315 23
Othello, 195
pagan rites, 3, 93, 110, 216
paleolithic engravings, 330 33
paleolithic paintings, 330 33
Parabasis, 57
paratheatrical practices, 79 81
Parian Marble, xii, 144
Parker, Robert, 60
parody, 119 22, 129 31, 136, 206 25
participation, 8, 27, 77, 79, 119, 174, 184,
201
passion play, 37, 82, 106, 323, 332
Peirce, Charles S., 20, 192, 256, 299
performance, 165 84
360

Performance Group, 168 72, 178

performance-text, 22 24
personality, 188 89, 192, 194, 195 96
personication, 304
Phales, 51, 53 54
phallic rites, 49 52
phallic songs, 3, 140, 156 57, 160
philosophy of language, xiv
phylogenesis, 251, 268, 333
Piaget, Jean, xviii, 257, 270, 279 88, 327,
344
Pickard-Cambridge, Arthur W., ix, xviii,
29 48, 51 68, 140 61, 316
Plautus: Miles Gloriosus, 126
play, 226 46
play and game theory, xiv
play-text, 23 24
poetic creativity, 270 76
poetic justice, 60, 131
poetry, 238 39
possession, 69 77
prattein, 140
pretense, 21, 74, 91, 127, 198, 204
profane, 5
Propp, Vladimir, 308
prototheatrical practices, 79 81, 118 19
psychoanalysis, xiv, 285
psychoanalytic method, 253, 257, 261
puppet theatre, 19, 196, 278
Purim, 129 39, 219 24
Purim Rabbi, 134, 219 22
Purim-shpil, 129 39, 222 24
Quem Quaeritis, 13, 1015, 126 27, 130,
139
Racine, Jean: Esther, 136
reafrmation, 11, 17, 58, 77, 217
recreation, 90 110, 126
reenactment, 92, 217, 324
reference: deection of, 21, 73 87, 193
95, 278; self-, 16 17, 73 87, 193 95,
226 27, 278, 284
Regularis Concordia, 1019
reindeer shaman, 181

{ Index }

rejection, 109, 129, 139

religion, 5
Ricoeur, Paul, 255 58
Ridgeway, William, 36, 55, 149, 314
rites of passage, 8, 12, 72, 177
ritual, 5 18, 172 76; civic, 6, 22, 78, 207,
323; drama, 54, 64, 92, 104, 315 23; religious, 5 6; secular, 5 6; symbolization, 9 11
romanticism, 75, 90, 93, 234
rule-governed activity, 182 83, 228 30
sacer ludus, 31, 38, 56
Sachs, Curt, xviii, 323 27
sacred, 5
sacred marriage, 5153, 55, 314 15
safety-valve, 208, 218, 224
Sais, 315
Sartre, 195
satire, 57, 156, 209, 218
Saturnalia, 133, 216
satyr-play, 56
Saussure, Fedinand de, 257, 279, 299
Schechner, Richard, x, xviii, 24 26, 165
84, 200 3, 226, 230, 232, 340
School of Cambridge, ix, xviii, 29 48,
49 68, 69, 72, 77, 85, 88
science of religion, xiv
Searle, John R., xviii, 9, 16, 182, 249
seasonal festivals, 323
Sebeok, Thomas A., 299
secular theatre, 1079
self-image, 194
self-presentation, 185 205
semiotic act, 16 17
semiotics, xiv, 18
Set, 31723
Shakespeare, 76; As You Like It, 185;
Hamlet, 240; Macbeth, 172; Romeo
and Juliet, 77
shamanism, 69 89, 11128, 170, 21113
Shmerok, Chone, 135 37, 223
social drama, 200 5
social interaction, 185 205
social permit, 208 13, 268, 287

sociology, xiv
Socrates, 43
Sommi, Leone de, 137
Sophocles, 46, 56, 141 45, 306; Theban
Plays, 56
Southern, Richard, x, xviii, 113 14, 116
spectatorhood, 77, 119, 201, 266 67
speech act, 9, 15 16, 24, 192
Spring-daimon, 29 48, 50 51, 59, 62,
114 18
St. George, 113 25
stand-up comedy, 171
storytelling, 44, 148, 151, 153, 161
structuralism, xiv
surrealism, 264
symbol, 253 60
symbolic play, 270 76
symbolism, 253 60
synagogue, 129, 133, 138, 219, 224
taboo, 202, 326
Tassili n. Ajjer, 328 30
theatre, 18 23, 172 76
Theatre of the Absurd, 264 65
theophany, 33, 56
Thespis, xii, 3738, 45, 62, 65, 140 61,
214
Tiddy, R. J. E., 112, 117, 124
totemism, 3, 181, 33132
Tractatus Coislinianus, 59
tragedy, 29 48, 141 45
trance, 69 77
Trois Frres cave, 181, 330
troparium, 99
trope, 100 1
Turner, Victor, xviii, 8, 12, 26, 165, 200
unconscious, 247 69
unconscious symbolism, 285 87
ur-myth, 35
ur-theatre, 69, 267
Vega, Lope de: La hermosa Ester, 136
verbal thinking, 257, 270, 279, 282 83,
298

{ Index }

361

Vince, Ronald, 30, 41, 68, 88, 99, 108, 110,

184, 339
Wagner, Richard, 81
Walton, J. Michael, 15153, 161
Webster, T. B. L., 31, 146 47
Weimann, Robert, xviii, 11128

362

Welsford, Enid, 133, 206 25

Willeford, William, 207 8
Winnicott, D. W., xviii, 202, 270, 290 91
Year Spirit, 35, 41, 55
Yom Kippur, 3, 16
Young, Karl, 9193, 101, 129

{ Index }

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