Between Jerusalem and Athens: Israeli Theatre and the Classical Tradition (Classical Presences) [Illustrated] 9780198746676, 0198746679

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CLASSICAL PRESENCES General Editors LORNA HARDWICK

J A ME S I . P OR T E R

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CLASSICAL PRESENCES Attempts to receive the texts, images, and material culture of ancient Greece and Rome inevitably run the risk of appropriating the past in order to authenticate the present. Exploring the ways in which the classical past has been mapped over the centuries allows us to trace the avowal and disavowal of values and identities, old and new. Classical Presences brings the latest scholarship to bear on the contexts, theory, and practice of such use, and abuse, of the classical past.

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Between Jerusalem and Athens Israeli Theatre and the Classical Tradition

Nurit Yaari

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Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX2 6DP, United Kingdom Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries © Nurit Yaari 2018 The moral rights of the author have been asserted First Edition published in 2018 Impression: 1 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by licence or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press 198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Data available Library of Congress Control Number: 2018933075 ISBN 978–0–19–874667–6 Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY Links to third party websites are provided by Oxford in good faith and for information only. Oxford disclaims any responsibility for the materials contained in any third party website referenced in this work.

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In memory of my parents who epitomized the encounter between Athens and Jerusalem —and conveyed its power to me

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Preface and Acknowledgements The cultural encounter between ‘Jerusalem’ and ‘Athens’ was an integral part of my childhood. My mother, Genny Yaari (1921–2003), née Florentine, was born in Thessaloniki to a Jewish family of Spanish descent (descendants of those expelled from Spain in 1492), who arrived there in the late seventeenth century after 200 years in Florence. My father, Hai Yaari (1915–98), was born in the Crimea, and was a fervent Zionist throughout his life. After learning Hebrew at an early age, he joined the Hashomer Hatza’ir (‘Young Guard’) movement, and immigrated to Israel in 1932, at the age of 17, as part of a group that established Kibbutz Kfar Masaryk. A few years later, he left the kibbutz and studied economics at the Hebrew University. In the Second World War, he joined the British Army. Towards the end of the war, he was stationed in Thessaloniki, where my mother had returned with her family, having sought shelter in Athens during the war. They met at a local WIZO (Women’s International Zionist Organization) club in 1946, married in Thessaloniki, and made their home in Tel Aviv. Since my mother’s family remained in Thessaloniki, my sister Ariela and I were fortunate to travel there frequently for family visits. During these trips, which often extended to visits to archaeological sites of Greece, the heroes of Greek mythology—whom we had learned about from the stories recounted to us by our parents—came to life. But these stories were always interlaced with stories from the Hebrew Bible. Thus, as we walked among the ruins of Knossos, our father talked about the Philistines who sailed from Crete and settled along the southern coasts of Canaan; as we gazed at the stones of Mycenae, he told us about the stones of the Western Wall of the Temple courtyard in the Old City in Jerusalem, to encourage us to imagine the majesty of these sites, the greatness of classical Greece and the glory of ancient Jerusalem. These were followed by exciting hours spent at the ancient theatres at Epidaurus, Herodius Atticus in Athens, and the theatre at Delphi, marvelling at their extraordinary acoustics, at how they opened up to the surrounding landscape, and above all, at the orchestra, where every motion slices the air, stirs the soul, or, at particularly powerful moments,

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PREFACE AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

induces a physical reaction, and raises spectators from their seats in surprise. After a few such performances, my fate was sealed: as soon as I completed my military conscription, I went to Tel Aviv University where I enrolled in Classical Studies and at the Department of Theatrical Arts (DTA). Here, I was blessed with three exceptional teachers, whose spirit pervades the chapters of this book—Ruth Neuberger, who taught me ancient Greek, theatre director Edna Shavit, and Moshe Lazar, founder of the Faculty of the Arts and expert on the history of Western theatre. They became my mentors, and steered me in my long-winding path in academia. The present study emerged many years later, based on my childhood sights in Greece and following many years of study and research of classical Greek theatre and Israeli theatre. As an interdisciplinary study, it draws its inspiration from the histories of these two neighbouring yet very distant cultures in the past and in the present, and from persistent combination of theory and practical experimentation in theatre. Financial support by the Israeli National Science Fund made this research possible and I am most grateful for their help. At the start of my acknowledgements, I would like to thank Hilary O’Shea, Lorna Hardwick, and James Porter at Oxford University Press for believing in this book from the outset, and accepting it for publication in their series. My gratitude to the anonymous reader whose comments on the book proposal and on the manuscript as a whole helped me find the proper articulation of my arguments. I thank my excellent copy-editor Joanna North for her proficiency and eye for detail. I am particularly indebted to Charlotte Loveridge and Georgina Leighton for their invaluable guidance at all the stages of the work. Without their devoted work, the manuscript would not have reached a safe harbour. Two research assistants—Yana Kor and Adi Chawin, graduate students at the DTA—scoured the archives, methodically collating all the information about Israeli productions of classical Greek theatre, and stage designers Yael Rosen-Tal and Dina Konson collected the visual documentation of the performances. I am indebted to them for their dedicated work and interesting discussions of their findings. My thanks also go to my many students who explored the encounter between the classical Greek and Hebrew cultures during their studies in the past decade, as well as all those who took part in the research laboratories on theatrical performance in 2012–15. Their enthusiasm, focused questions,

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and contemporary perspective of the classical tradition surprised and challenged me on a daily basis. I am also grateful to Jonathan Orr-Stav for his wonderful translation of the manuscript and of the various excerpts of plays used throughout the book: our correspondence raised many issues of content and form, and helped to illuminate the discussion and expand my horizons. It is a great pleasure to thank all my friends, colleagues, and theatre folk who helped me throughout the research and writing of the book. First and foremost are theatre makers Edna Shavit, Hanoch Levin, Nissim Aloni, Zaharira Harifai, Hanna Maron, Roni Toren, Yossi Yizraely, Rina Yerushalmi, and Ruth Kanner—some of whom I was fortunate enough to work with, and all of whom engaged me in long conversations after reading their plays, or watching their rehearsals and performances. They were always available to respond to my questions, and provided insights into their work at the theatre. Deep thanks are also due to Hannah Naveh, former Dean of the Faculty of the Arts and a close friend, who read the manuscript in its entirety, and whose questions and comments helped me bring the text into sharper focus. Thanks are also due to Dan Urian and Freddie Rokem who read parts of the manuscript and discussed them with me. Particular thanks to David Wiles for his reading, mentoring, discussions, and critiques, and to Lorna Hardwick, who read and responded to various passages during my research, and published earlier chapters in the books that she edited. Special thanks are due to Oliver Taplin, who proved to me in his important publications and in meetings in Oxford and in Athens that linking classical drama to historical artefacts and theory to practice is not only possible, but necessary. I am deeply indebted to my friend and colleague Jeannette Malkin for our weekly talks, for her support and help in moments of indecision, and for her careful reading of several chapters. Versions of various chapters were also read and discussed by friends and colleagues: I am profoundly grateful to Dorit Yerushalmi, Shimon Levy, Sabine Bossan, Jacqueline Carnaud, and Miriam Mottes for their friendship, discussions, and advice. Over the years, this research has been presented as a work in progress at conferences in Tel Aviv, Beer Sheva, Haifa, Athens, Thessaloniki, Paris, Lille, and New York, and at meetings of the historiography group of the International Federation of Theatre Research in Barcelona and in Warwick. My thanks go to all participants who enlightened me with their comments.

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Finally, my thanks and gratitude go to the staff at several archives, who were generous enough to help me in collating the information for this research. First and foremost, to the wonderful team at the Israeli Center for the Documentation of the Performing Arts (ICDPA) at Tel Aviv University: to former director Shelly Zer-Zion; the present director Olga Levitan; and to Yana Kor, Shay Markus, Sophia Zilber, and Hadas Kramer-Sherman. Also to the directors of the Cameri Theatre Archive Avi Blecher and Yoram Amir, the archive staff at Habima Theatre: founder Hanni Zeligson, and its present director Rami Semo, and the archive staff of Batsheva Dance Company at Beit Ariela. Acquiring the images for the book was a serious challenge. On occasion, a single image required a chain of correspondence across continents and oceans. In particular, I wish to thank Michaela Mende Janco for her support and encouragement in the long journey to locate the image of the set designed by Marcel Janco for the Antigone production of 1946, and Noam Semel for his generous agreement to publish it. Special thanks are also due to the photographers Srulik Haramaty, Gérard Alon, Tzachi Ostrovsky, Keren Rosenberg, and Adi Alon; to David Alexander and Dubi Nattiv who dug through drawers to find the images of the Antigone production of 1969; to Guy Godorov, who curated the images from the university theatre archive; and to stage designers Roni Toren and Dina Konson, who provided me with photographs of the plays that they designed. Finally, my love and gratitude to those who served as my ‘protective buffer’ during all the years of research and writing: my beloved sister Ariela, who shared with me the memories of those summers in Greece and supported me in times of crisis; my son (in all but name) Assaf and my beloved niece Maya; and last but not least Natan, my beloved spouse and life partner, who stood by me and for me with endless love and devotion.

Previous Publications Earlier versions of several chapters have been previously published in various modified forms: • Parts of Chapters 6 and 8 were published in ‘Aristophanes in Israel: Comedy, Theatricality, Politics’, in Ancient Comedy and Reception: Essays in Honor of Jeffrey Henderson, ed. S. Douglas Olson (Boston: De Gruyter, 2014), 964–83.

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• Parts of Chapter 7 were published in ‘Theatrical Responses to Political Events: The Trojan War on the Israeli Stage during the Lebanon War 1982–1984’, Journal of Theatre and Drama 4 (1998): 99–123, and in ‘Constructing Bridges for Peace and Tolerance: Ancient Greek Drama on the Israeli Stage’, in Classics in the Modern World: A Democratic Turn?, ed. Lorna Hardwick and Stephen Harrison (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 227–44. Reproduced by kind permission of the Journal of Theatre and Drama (JTD) (Professor Avraham Oz in the capacity of Editor). • Part of Chapter 9 was published in ‘Staging Dying: Hanoch Levin versus Aeschylus on Human Suffering’, in On Interpretation in the Arts, ed. Nurit Yaari (Tel Aviv: Assaph Book Series, 2000), 327–43.

Transliterations Israeli names are transcribed phonetically, unless the person in question has a preferred spelling of their name in English—hence, for example, Yitzhak, and not Isaac. The dropped final h in names such as Habima and Lea [Goldberg] is in keeping with past conventions of transliteration.

Hebrew-Language References To avoid excessive repetition of the qualification ‘(in Hebrew)’ at the end of every Hebrew-language reference, all Israeli publications referenced in the notes and Bibliography should be assumed to be in Hebrew, unless otherwise stated.

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Contents List of Illustrations

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1. Introduction

1 3 7 15 17 22 26

Between Athens and Jerusalem Weaving Together Histories and Traditions Israeli Theatre and Its Audiences A Survey of Scholarship Scope of the Study Book Structure

2. Habima: Outsidedness as a Catalyst of Creativity First Encounters with the Greek Classical Repertoire In Lieu of Summary: The Nissim Aloni Effect

3. The Cameri: In Search of Local Theatrical Identity A Modern Hebrew Theatre in Tel Aviv Summary

4. Experimentations: Putting the Aesthetics of Performance into Practice Arieh Sachs: Experimenting with Ritual Theatre Yossi Yizraely: Experimentations with Stage Imagery Edna Shavit: Experiments with Classicism Summary

5. Aristophanes and the Occupied Territories Text and Socio-Political Context Hanoch Levin: Contention, Defiance, and Protest Summary

6. The Trojan War and the Israeli–Palestinian Conflict Theatrical Responses to the Six Day War (1967) Theatrical Responses to the Lebanon War (1982–5) Summary

7. Lysistrata: Between Entertainment and Protest Lysistrata on the Israeli Stages Summary

8. Nissim Aloni: Oedipus Tyrannus in an Immigrant Society The Myth of King Oedipus: Migrant and Autochthon Summary

29 33 59 63 63 93 97 99 110 129 140 143 145 158 173 175 175 186 210 211 211 242 245 248 273

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CONTENTS

9. Hanoch Levin: From Ancient Myths to Modern Tragedy Israel in the Aftermath of the Six Day War (1967) The Israeli Theatre in the Aftermath of the Six Day War Levin’s Dialogue with Euripides Levin’s Dialogue with Aeschylus: The Moaners (1999) In Search of Meaning—of Tragedy, and of Theatre Summary

10. Classical Presences and ‘Post Dramatic’ Performances Ruth Kanner: Processing Communal Grief Troy Revisited in the Third Millennium Ilan Ronen: Theatre as a Memory Machine Rina Yerushalmi: Lessons of the Past Hanan Snir: From Politics to Psychodrama Summary

11. The Classical Tradition in University Theatre First Encounters: Sophocles’ Antigone (1969) Students Tackling the Classical Heritage (1970–80) From Theory to Practice: Yizraely Reads Aristotle Graduation Projects in the Third Millennium A Practical and Theoretical Research Laboratory (2011–14) Research and Practice: Greek Tragedy In Lieu of Summary: The General and the Sea (2015)

277 279 282 284 300 312 316 319 321 328 329 336 347 360 361 363 368 372 374 379 380 386

12. Israeli Theatre: A Snapshot of Today and Future Prospects

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Appendix: Performances of Greek and Roman Drama in Israel Bibliography Index

401 421 451

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List of Illustrations 2.1 Oedipus Tyrannus by Sophocles, Habima Theatre (1947). Director: Tyrone Guthrie; stage design: Shalom Sebba. The opening scene: Oedipus (Shimon Finkel), and a group of citizens in the ritual of supplication.

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Courtesy of the Habima Theatre Archive.

3.1 Electra by Euripides, The Cameri Theatre (1964). Director: Gershon Plotkin; stage design: Dani Karavan. Pictured: Orna Porat (Electra); Ori Levy (Orestes); and the chorus of women.

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Photograph by Srulik Haramaty.

4.1 Bacchae by Euripides, The Actors’ Stage (1968). Director: Arieh Sachs; stage design: Ada Hameirit. Pictured: Aliza Rosen (Agave) and her chorus of Bacchantes.

104

Photograph by Srulik Haramaty.

4.2 Medea by Seneca, The Cameri Theatre (1971). Director: Yossi Yizraely; stage design: Igael Tumarkin. Cast: Hanna Maron (Medea); Zaharira Harifai (The Nurse); Ze’ev Revah (Jason).

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Photograph by Srulik Haramaty.

4.3 Iphigenia at Aulis by Euripides, Theatre Ensemble Herzliya (2009). Director: Yossi Yizraely; stage design: Frida Klapholtz-Avrahami; musical arrangement: Adi Zisman. Cast: Gdalia Besser (Agamemnon); Salwa Nakara (Clytemnestra); Naomi Promovitz (Iphigenia); Odelia Segal (The Chorus).

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Photograph by Gérard Allon.

5.1 Peace by Aristophanes, The Actorsʼ Stage (1968). Director: Arieh Sachs; stage design: Ada Hameirit. Cast: Amnon Meskin (Trygeus); Ofra Ben-Ami (Peace); Levana Finkelstein and Benzi Munitz (chorus).

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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Photograph by Yaacov Agor. Reproduced by courtesy of the Yaacov Agor Collection, Israeli Center for the Documentation of the Performing Arts, Tel Aviv University.

6.1 The Lost Women of Troy by Hanoch Levin, The Cameri Theatre (1984). Director: Hanoch Levin; stage design: Roni Toren. Cast: Zaharira Harifai (Hecuba): Yosef Carmon (Agamemnon); Judith Yanai (Astyanax).

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Photograph by Srulik Haramaty.

7.1 Lysistrata by Aristophanes, The Cameri Theatre (1969). Pictured: Orna Porat (Lysistrata), and the conflict between the two choruses—the men and the women.

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Photograph by Srulik Haramaty.

8.1 Eddy King by Nissim Aloni, Habima Theatre (1975). Director: Nissim Aloni; stage design: Shalom Vitkin. Cast: Yossi Banai (Eddy); Stella Avni (Giocasta); Raphael Klatzkin (Joe); Nahum Buchman (Creone).

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Photograph by Yaacov Agor. Reproduced by courtesy of the Yaacov Agor Collection, Israeli Center for the Documentation of the Performing Arts, Tel Aviv University.

9.1 Everybody Wants to Live by Hanoch Levin, The Cameri Theatre (1985). Director: Hanoch Levin; stage design: Ruth Dar. Final scene: ‘A Grotesque Epiphany’.

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Photograph by Srulik Haramaty.

10.1 Eumenides by Aeschylus, Department of Theatre Arts, Tel Aviv University (1996). Director: Ruth Kanner. Cast: Yoav Michaeli (Orestes); Shirly Gal Segev, Tali Kark, Lilach Englestein, and Sharon Harnoy (the Erinyes).

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Courtesy of Ruth Kanner Group Archive.

10.2 À la Guerre Comme à la Guerre created by Ilan Ronen, Habima Theatre (2002). Director: Ilan Ronen; stage design: Miki Ben Cnaan.

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Photograph by Gérard Allon.

10.3 Mythos created by Rina Yerushalmi, Itim Ensemble (2002). Director: Rina Yerushalmi; stage design: Rafi Segal and Eyal Weitzman. Pictured: The Dance of the Erinyes. Photograph by Gérard Allon.

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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

10.4 Antigone by Sophocles, co-production by Habima Theatre and The Cameri Theatre (2006). Director: Hanan Snir; stage design: Roni Toren.

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Courtesy of the Habima Theatre Archive.

10.5 Oedipus: A Case Study, created by Hanan Snir, Habima Theatre (2015). Director: Hanan Snir; stage design: Roni Toren. Pictured: the final scene.

356

Photograph by Gérard Allon.

11.1 Antigone by Sophocles, Department of Theatre Arts, Tel Aviv University (1969). Director: Edna Shavit. Cast: David Alexander (Creon); Gita Zeltzer (Antigone); Haya Lipshitz (Ismene); and Chorus.

364

© Photograph by Tzachi Ostrovsky.

11.2 Antigone by Anouilh, Department of Theatre Arts, Tel Aviv University (2004). Director: Shir Goldberg; stage design: Dina Konson.

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Photograph by Dina Konson.

11.3 Medea by Euripides, Department of Theatre Arts, Tel Aviv University (1999). Director: Edna Shavit; stage design: Liat Reichenberg-Oron. Cast: Hila Shikman (Medea); Guy Mannheim (Jason).

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Photograph reproduced by courtesy of the Tel Aviv University Theatre Arts Department Archive.

11.4 Cassandra, choreography by Ronit Ziv (2013). Dancers: Gefen Lieberman and Sophie Krantz.

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Photograph by Adi Alon.

11.5 The General and the Sea created by Yonatan Levy and Noam Enbar, The Interdisciplinary Art Arena (2015). Pictured: Menashe Noy (The General), surrounded by the chorus of sea waves. Photograph by Keren Rozenberg.

389

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1 Introduction Tragedy is not only an art form; it is also a social institution that the city, by establishing competitions in tragedies, set up alongside its political and legal institutions. —Jean Pierre Vernant¹

On 9 February 1947—in the final days of British Mandatory rule in Palestine—Oedipus Tyrannus,² the first production of a classical Greek tragedy in Hebrew, premiered at the Habima Theatre in Tel Aviv.³ The event took place between two other milestone events in the history of Hebrew/Israeli theatre: twenty-five years after the premiere of Shlomo Ansky’s The Dybbuk in Moscow (1922), under the direction of Yvgeny Vakhtangov—commonly regarded as the birth of professional Hebrew theatre in the modern era—and a year before Moshe Shamir’s He Walked Through the Fields (1948), directed by Yossef Milo, marking the dawn of native Israeli theatre, at the height of Israel’s War of Independence.⁴ This encounter of the Hebrew theatre, an important Zionist cultural tool, with Oedipus Tyrannus, the classical Greek tragedy and widely regarded universal masterpiece, proved to be a seminal moment in Israeli theatre. Coinciding as it did with the birth of Israeli society as an independent,

¹ Jean-Pierre Vernant, ‘Tensions and Ambiguities in Greek Tragedy’, in Jean-Pierre Vernant and Pierre Vidal-Naquet, Myth and Tragedy in Ancient Greece, trans. Janet Lloyd (New York: Zone Books, 1990), 32–3. ² In Hebrew, the title of the play translates literally as ‘Oedipus the King’; Guthrie refers to his production at Habima using the Latin title Oedipus Rex. In reference to Sophocles’ play, I shall use the title Oedipus Tyrannus. ³ The original rendition of the theatre’s name in English was Habimah (see Mendel Kohansky, The Hebrew Theatre: Its First Fifty Years (Jerusalem: Israel Universities Press, 1969)). Today, however, it is spelt Habima without the final ‘h’. See the theatre’s official website, (accessed 23 September 2016). ⁴ The Study was supported by The Israeli Science Foundation (Grant no. 797/09).

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BETWEEN JERUSALEM AND ATHENS

modern, and democratic political and cultural entity, Oedipus Tyrannus pointed to the historical alliance between tragedy and democracy, as suggested by Vernant.⁵ Its importance for Israeli culture is, in my view, easily on a par with the staging of Oedipus Rex in Vicenza in 1585, which is commonly regarded as marking the introduction of classical Greek tragedy into Renaissance Italian culture with its captivating blend of repetition, interpretation, and innovation, and the multidisciplinary and multi-layered dialogue that it precipitated in the years to come.⁶ Many of the questions that emerged in the course of my research into the reception of classical Greek drama in Israeli theatre can also be posed in relation to the 1947 production of Oedipus Tyrannus. These include: Did its creators imagine it as an example of a universal tradition, or as an experiment in the construction of a new, local tradition? Was it seen by Israeli critics as a foreign import, or as an example of local assimilation and appropriation? How was it received by the wider public? Could a collective of actors that had begun as a touring troupe serve as a representative national institution? Was the production inevitably a reflection of a foreign transplant, or an experimental laboratory for developing a local theatrical language—or both? While the critics raved about the production, the audience’s reaction was mixed: some were favourably disposed towards such classical repertoire as an example of ‘elite culture’ and saw it as an essential contribution to the Bildung of the country’s educated bourgeoisie, while others were bemused and alienated by the world depicted on stage. The grand biblical register of the Hebrew translation, the issues raised by the plot, and the ornate set that echoed and magnified the power of the verbal images, were all utterly foreign to many in the audience who felt that the production was foreign to the hegemonic Zionist culture of the time. This mixed response may explain why the repertoire of classical Greek drama in Israeli theatre productions has been comparatively limited in its first seventy years—even though theatre as a whole has firmly established itself as an important hub of Israeli culture, and enjoys excellent attendance figures by international standards. The mixed response also gave rise to two contrasting trends that subsequently emerged in the choices of repertoires and styles made by theatre professionals with regard ⁵ See the epigraph to this chapter. ⁶ Pierre Vidal-Naquet, ʻOedipus in Vicenza and in Parisʼ, in Vernant and Vidal-Naquet, Myth and Tragedy, 361–71.

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INTRODUCTION

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to classical plays: one that strictly respected the textual and performative challenges posed by the classical text while seeking a contemporary theatrical means of dealing with its elements, the other seeking to make the performances accessible to the wider public by adapting their plots to make them relevant to modern Israeli social and political reality. Thus, plays such as Oedipus Tyrannus, Electra, Medea, and The Bacchantes were chosen for exploration of, and experimentation with, dramaturgical and artistic issues, while plays such as The Persians, Agamemnon, Antigone, Women of Troy, Iphigenia at Aulis, and Lysistrata were chosen for their dominant theme of war as a backdrop to the plot, underscoring their political relevance to the daily reality of Israeli audiences. Indeed, one might say that these two trends have governed how classical Greek drama is received in Israeli theatre to this day.

Between Athens and Jerusalem Theatre, as an art, a community event, and a cultural institution, is entirely ‘Athens’ in nature: that is where it was first created in the late sixth century BCE, and where it acquired its form, conventions, and concepts.⁷ As a visual and performative art, it is rooted in all aspects of classical Greek art—poetry, music, dance, sculpture, painting, and architecture; indeed, their fusion is what gave rise to this independent and unique art form. As a civic institution, theatre is founded on the values of democratic Athens and its public realm (education for excellence, collective responsibility, independent and critical thinking and cultural openness, a sort of Mediterranean ‘universalism’), which were manifested in one form or another in every play and every performance at the Great Dionysia Festival.⁸ Western drama evolved through a dialogue with classical Greek and Roman drama—one which eventually became a multi-layered theatrical tradition. Walter Burkert defined the term ‘myth’ as a traditional retelling ⁷ Vernant and Vidal-Naquet, Myth and Tragedy, 23–8, 29–48. ⁸ Charles Segal, Tragedy and Civilization: An Interpretation of Sophocles (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1981); Nicole Loraux, The Invention of Athens: The Funeral Oration in the Classical City, trans. Alan Sheridan (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1986); Froma I. Zeitlin, ʻThebes: Theatre of Self and Society in Athenian Dramaʼ, in Nothing to Do with Dionysos? Athenian Drama in Its Social Context, ed. John J. Winkler and Froma I. Zeitlin (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1990), 130–67; Simon Goldhill, ʻThe Great Dionisia and Civic Ideologyʼ, in Nothing to Do with Dionysos?, ed. Winkler and Zeitlin, 97–129; Simon Goldhill and Robyn Osborne, eds, Performance Culture and Athenian Democracy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999).

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BETWEEN JERUSALEM AND ATHENS

of meanings that are relevant to a given community, recounted to meet communal needs, and thereby attaining cultural power.⁹ Greek drama demonstrates the power and modus operandi of myth, since it constitutes a verbal core of sustained shared traditions and a set of stories that shapes our perception of man and the world, through repeated, translated, and rewritten presentations.¹⁰ However, the dialogue of Western drama with that of classical Greece is a complex one, marked by ideological repression, negotiated anxieties about influence, and always within the continuum of a wider historical and critical context.¹¹ In the twentieth century, this dialogue captivated playwrights such as Eugene O’Neill, William Butler Yeats, Hugo von Hofmannsthal, Jean Cocteau, André Gide, Jean Giraudoux, Jean Anouilh, Jean-Paul Sartre, Heiner Müller, Wole Soyinka, Sarah Kane, Martin Crimp, and Charles Mee. It also informed the interpretations of classical Greek tragedies by innovative theatre directors such as Max Reinhardt, Leopold Jessner, Tyrone Guthrie, Martha Graham, Michel Saint-Denis, Karolos Koun, Richard Schechner, Peter Hall, Peter Stein, Klaus Michael Grüber, Einar Schleef, Ariane Mnouchkine, Theodoros Terzopoulos, Julie Taymor, Włodzimierz Stanievski and Jan Fabre—to name just the most notable. All these artists chose to revisit the plots of classical tragedy because its portrayal of the human condition resonated with them, and because they were inspired by its poetic, aesthetic, and theatrical qualities, and by the challenges that it posed to contemporary theatre.¹² In contrast, theatre is intrinsically alien to ‘Jerusalem’—both as an art form and as a cultural institution. Herod (the Great) introduced Roman theatre into Judaea as a form of public entertainment in the Second Temple period, when he incorporated one in the seaside town of Caesarea that he built between 22 and 10 BCE and dedicated to Augustus, the Roman emperor. Subsequently, he is said to have built another one in Jerusalem (although it has yet to be found). By the third century CE, many ⁹ Walter Burkert, Structure and History in Greek Mythology and Ritual (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1979), 22–3. ¹⁰ Northrop Frye, Myth and Metaphor: Selected Essays 1974–1988 (Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1988); George Steiner, Antigones (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984). ¹¹ Roland Barthes, Image, Music, Text (New York: Hill & Wang, 1977); Harold Bloom, The Anxiety of Influence: A Theory of Poetry (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997); Mikhail M. Bakhtin, The Dialogic Imagination (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1990). ¹² Jean-Paul Sartre, ʻForgers of Mythsʼ, in Playwrights on Playwriting, ed. Toby Cole (New York: Hill & Wang, 1961), 116–24.

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such Roman theatres had been built throughout the country¹³—but performances were attended mostly by the non-Jewish population. Throughout the history of Jewish culture, theatre oscillated furtively between prohibition and fascination. Even a cursory survey of the history of Jewish culture is sufficient to note the conspicuous absence of a theatrical tradition. Indeed, the very term ‘Jewish theatre’ might be regarded an oxymoron, since it ostensibly violates the second commandment’s prohibition of any kind of representation: ‘Thou shalt not make thee any graven image or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath’ (Deut. 5:8). Deut. 27:16 repeated its denunciation of anyone ‘that maketh any graven or molten image’; Deut. 22:5 forbids men from wearing women’s clothing, sharing women’s accessories, or swapping gender roles; and Psalms 1:1 praises he who refrains from sitting ‘in the seat of the scornful’. Moreover, the rabbinical authorities in the early centuries of the Common Era and in early and late Talmudic literature repeatedly banned the staging or even attending of theatrical productions, on the grounds that it was a form of idolatry or pagan worship, thus making theatre the quintessential illustration of the dichotomy between ‘Athens’ and ‘Jerusalem’.¹⁴ Researchers explain the absence of Jewish theatre in previous centuries on grounds of ritual or theology; the abstract nature of Judaic monotheism; for philosophical or historical reasons; or because of particular social and political circumstances.¹⁵ As Gershon Shaked, a noted Israeli literary critic and scholar, pointed out: [Theatre] was rejected by the Jewish people because it ran counter to the very spirit of Judaism: monotheism does not tolerate dramatic polarity that is founded on myth. Others have preferred a socio-historical explanation: drama cannot develop in a people with no homeland or theatre.¹⁶ ¹³ According to Arthur Segal, at present we know of eleven theatres in Roman Palestine, west of the river Jordan: Sepphoris (Tzipori), Dor, Legio, Scythopolis (Beit She’an), Shuni, Caesarea, Samaria (Sebaste), Neapolis, Antipatris, Jericho, and Elusa. See Arthur Segal, Theatres in Roman Palestine & Provincia Arabia (Leiden: Brill, 1995), 3. Of these, Caesarea, Shuni, and Beit She’an have been restored or reconstructed, and serve as venues for live performances today. ¹⁴ Talmud Yerushalmi: Brakhot 4b. See also Esther Dvorjetski, ‘The Theatre in Rabbinic Literature’, in Aspects of Theatre and Culture in the Graeco-Roman World, ed. Arthur Segal (Haifa: University of Haifa, Faculty of Humanities, 1994), 51–68. ¹⁵ Ahuva Belkin, The Purimspiel: Studies in Jewish Folk Theatre (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 2002), 870–1. ¹⁶ Gershon Shaked, The Hebrew Historical Drama in the Twentieth Century (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1970), 9.

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The reasons, then, are diverse, but the result is clear: although a handful of Jewish dramas were written over the centuries—in various languages, genres, and styles, and at different times and locations—they did not amount to a sustained continuum that might be regarded as a tradition. It is only in the aftermath of the Jewish Enlightenment movement at the end of the eighteenth century and the religious reforms of the early nineteenth century, that Yiddish theatre emerged in the final quarter of the nineteenth century, as a form of popular entertainment for Jewish communities of Central Europe. Hebrew theatre, for its part, emerged at the beginning of the twentieth century in Moscow and Eretz-Yisrael (Hebrew, ‘the Land of Israel’) as a key contribution in the rebirth of Hebrew as a living language and the realization of Zionist vision and Jewish national aspirations.¹⁷ Theological philosophers and historians have written much about the ‘Athens’ and ‘Jerusalem’ divide—either by highlighting the significance of both cultures as pillars of Western civilization,¹⁸ or by theorizing about the ‘mirror condition’ that formed at the interfaces between the two cultures as turning points in the self-definition of Jewish culture. Yaacov Shavit’s seminal book Athens in Jerusalem: Classical Antiquity and Hellenism in the Making of the Modern Secular Jew, shows how the encounters between these two cultures were formative in the creation of modern Hebrew culture.¹⁹ According to Shavit, this ‘mirror condition’ first emerged in the troubled encounter between the Greek and Hebrew cultures in Israel of the Hellenistic period. This led to the need of Jews to separate themselves from all things Hellenic and foreign: to shape Judaism as a religion, nationality, and culture, and to define and fix the collective memory by compiling the biblical canon, and, in subsequent centuries, the teachings of the Talmud. The second encounter occurred in the nineteenth century in Germany during the Enlightenment period, when philologists and ¹⁷ Kohansky, The Hebrew Theatre, 141–5; Shimon Lev-Ari, ‘The Beginnings of Theatre Performances in Eretz-Israel 1889–1904’, in Theatre in Israel, ed. Linda Ben-Zvi (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1996), 403–13; Freddie Rokem, ‘Hebrew Theatre from 1889 to 1948’, in Theatre in Israel, ed. Ben-Zvi, 51–84; Glenda Abramson, Drama and Ideology in Modern Israel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998). ¹⁸ Leo Strauss, ‘Jerusalem and Athens: Some Preliminary Reflections’, in Studies in Platonic Political Philosophy (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1983), 147–73. ¹⁹ Yaacov Shavit, Athens in Jerusalem: Classical Antiquity and Hellenism in the Making of the Modern Secular Jew (London and Portland, OR: The Littman Library of Jewish Civilization 1997), 355–75.

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historians established the role of classical Greek culture as the bedrock of Western civilization and a cornerstone of the education of young intellectuals. This time, the ‘mirror condition’ came about when educated Jews, who had left the insular Jewish community, became acquainted with classical Greek culture, and by juxtaposing it against its Jewish counterpart, laid the groundwork for the modern Jewish identity.²⁰ In this book I focus on the encounter between these two cultures in the twentieth century, in the context of Israeli theatre in the State of Israel. I refer to them as ‘Athens’ and ‘Jerusalem’ as a shorthand for the two distinct spheres of influence in the Jewish national renaissance in modern times, as encapsulated in the titles of two famous Hebrew poems: In Front of the Bookcase by Haim Nahman Bialik, which presents the Jewish bookcase, namely scriptures and sacred texts, as the basis of Jewish identity, and In Front of the Statue of Apollo by Shaul Tchernichovsky, which presents classical Greek culture as the foundation of a universal humanistic identity for enlightened Jews. This notion was echoed in the inscription left by David Ben-Gurion in Habima’s guestbook at the premiere of Aristophanes’ Lysistrata in 1958, where he linked Lysistrata’s vision of peace with the vision of the Jewish prophets.²¹ My contention is that the encounter with ‘Athens’—in the guise of classical Greek drama— has been a driving and inspiring force in the past seventy years, by spurring Israeli theatre artists to question issues of cultural identity, and encouraging them to engage in an intellectual, artistic, and political dialogue with both Jewish culture (the particular) and classical Greek drama (the universal).

Weaving Together Histories and Traditions The lack of a continuous theatre tradition in Jewish culture created an anomaly that differentiates Israeli theatre from many other theatre cultures. Over the decades, parallel forms of drama emerged, distinguished by time, space, language, and theatrical venues: ‘Jewish drama’,

²⁰ Tessa Rajak, The Jewish Dialogue with Greece and Rome (Boston and Leiden: Brill, 2002), 535–57; Miriam Leonard, Socrates and the Jews: Hellenism and Hebraism from Moses Mendelssohn to Sigmund Freud (Chicago, IL and London: University of Chicago Press, 2012). ²¹ See epigraph at the start of Chapter 7.

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‘Hebrew drama’, and ‘Yiddish drama’, written and performed around the Mediterranean and in Europe; and since the end of the nineteenth century, Eretz-Yisraeli and Israeli drama, produced before or after the establishment of the State of Israel. Israeli theatre scholars have sought to piece together the fragments of this theatrical past. Shaked saw a clear and strong association between the emergence of Hebrew drama and Israeli national rebirth, and highlighted the clear departure of ‘Hebrew theatre’ from the ‘Jewish theatre’.²² Ahuva Belkin and Gad Kaynar use the term ‘Jewish theatre’ to denote all plays written and performed in Hebrew or Yiddish over the centuries;²³ they cite the first student performance in Hebrew at Lemel High School in Jerusalem in 1889 as the birth of amateur ‘Hebrew theatre’ in EretzYisrael, and hail the Cameri production of He Walked Through the Fields as the ‘starting point of any discussion about Israeli theatre’.²⁴ Conversely, in his recent book Jewish Drama & Theatre: From Rabbinical Intolerance to Secular Liberalism, Eli Rozik applies the label ‘Jewish theatre’ to all plays penned by Jewish authors between the second century BCE and 1981—on the grounds that they all have a particular configuration of five elements in common: the medium of the theatre; a Jewish or Judaized narrative; a Jewish set of beliefs and/or values; a Jewish language (including non-verbal codes shared by playwrights, actors, and spectators); and a clearly Jewish author (playwright or director).²⁵ The various questions arising from these ‘histories’ are beyond the scope of this book, but collectively they highlight the problems involved in presenting the history of Israeli theatre, and how it relates to its various traditions. Based on my premise that plays and performances should be read within their social, political, cultural, and intellectual contexts, I will use the key terms ‘Jewish theatre’, ‘Hebrew theatre’, ‘Eretz-Yisraeli theatre’, and ‘Israeli theatre’ to piece together the fragments of the past into a more or less coherent, stratified genealogy of Israeli theatre, and trace the layers of its fragmented traditions.

²² Shaked, The Hebrew Historical Drama, 12–13. ²³ Ahuva Belkin and Gad Kaynar, ‘Jewish Theatre’, in The Oxford Handbook of Jewish Studies, ed. Martin Goodman, Jacob Cohen, and David Sorkin (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 870–910. ²⁴ Belkin and Kaynar, ‘Jewish Theatre’, 882–8. ²⁵ Eli Rozik, Jewish Drama & Theatre: From Rabbinical Intolerance to Secular Liberalism (Brighton: Sussex Academic Press, 2013), 2.

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Jewish theatre The term ‘Jewish theatre’ is an inclusive label encompassing plays of different historical periods, languages, and countries. Its Jewish nature, therefore, is derived from the identity of the playwright, and/or the play’s themes, or language—in other words, if what is portrayed involves the history, lifestyle, or key questions confronting Jewish individuals or communities. One important example of this is Exagoge by Ezekiel—a Jew in Alexandria of the second century BCE—who rewrote the Exodus story as a classical Greek drama, and which might be regarded as the first Jewish play.²⁶ Another example is the sixteenth-century amateur tradition of the Purimspiel (‘Purim play’), in which young rabbinical students performed short satirical sketches as part of Purim, the Jewish ‘fools’ day’—the only day in the year when disguise and performances were permitted.²⁷ It was only in the late nineteenth century that we see the establishment of a Yiddish theatre in Eastern Europe, by Abraham Goldfaden (1840–1908)— poet, playwright, stage director, producer, musician, and ‘father of Jewish theatre’.²⁸ In 1876, he staged a performance in a wine cellar in the town of Iași, Romania, an event which many regard as the birth of Yiddish theatre. Goldfaden’s plays and his involvement in the establishment of Yiddish theatre clearly reflected the ideas of the Jewish Enlightenment movement and the trends of modernization and secularism within Jewish society in the late nineteenth century.²⁹ His troupe performed in large towns throughout Romania and Tsarist Russia, adding a new dimension to Yiddish culture and providing its audiences with a modern collective experience.³⁰ In total, he wrote around fifty plays: some of a light populist nature—such as the musical play The Witch (1879) and the comedy Two Kuni Lemel (1882)—and some with a more serious, national, message,

²⁶ Howard Jacobson, The Exagoge of Ezekiel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983); Katharine B. Free, ‘Thespis and Moses: The Jews and the Ancient Greek Theatre’, in Theatre and Holy Script, ed. Shimon Levy (Brighton: Sussex Academic Press, 1999), 149–58. ²⁷ Belkin, The Purimspiel. ²⁸ Belkin and Kaynar, ‘Jewish Theatre’, 873. ²⁹ Seth L. Wolitz, ‘Goldfaden: Theatrical Space and Historical Place for the Jewish Gaze’, in Jewish Theatre: Tradition in Transition and Intercultural Vistas, ed. Ahuva Belkin (Tel Aviv University: Assaph Book Series, 2008), 59–72. ³⁰ Jewish immigration from Poland to Odessa in the nineteenth century made that city the seat of the largest Jewish community in Russia, and an important cultural hub of Hebrew literature.

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such as Shulamit (1880). Following the success of his troupe and the great demand for such theatre within the Jewish community, many theatre groups sprung up in Eastern and Central Europe and in the United States. In subsequent decades, the impact of professional Yiddish theatre extended even further—influencing, in part, the evolution of the American musical, and the decision by the Habima theatre troupe in Moscow in the 1920s to perform in Hebrew.

Hebrew theatre The term ‘Hebrew theatre’ refers to early efforts to bring together ‘Athens’ and ‘Jerusalem’ on stage by combining themes and dramatic templates of classical Greek drama with the Hebrew language. As an artistic phenomenon, it dates back to the Italian Renaissance play Tsahut Bedihuta de-Kidushin (‘A Comedy of Betrothal/Wedlock’), which Israeli scholar Haim Schirmann dubbed ‘the first Hebrew play’.³¹ Written in Hebrew by Yehudah ben Yitzhak de’ Sommi (Leone de’ Sommi) of Mantua (1527–92), the play featured numerous references and allusions to the Hebrew Bible and the Talmud, but set in the mould of ‘New Comedy’.³² The seventeenth century saw several allegorical plays written in Hebrew by Jewish authors: The Foundation of the World by Moshe Zacuto in the 1660s in Italy, Prisoners of Hope in 1667 by Yosef Felix Penso de la Vega in Amsterdam, and three allegorical plays by Moshe Haim Luzzatto of Padova: The Life of Samson (1727), Praise of the Righteous (1743), and Tower of Strength. However, all these plays were probably written for reading only, as was customary at that time, and we have no evidence that they were ever performed. From the 1880s onwards, as the first Zionist enterprises got under way in Palestine, several plays were written in Eastern Europe that championed the idea of Jewish national rebirth. However, the lack of a theatrical tradition that might furnish the new playwrights with dramaturgical

³¹ Haim Schirmann, Tsahut Bedihuta de-Kidushin (Jerusalem: Tarshis-Dvir, 1965). ³² See Ahuva Belkin, ed., Leone de’ Sommi and the Performing Arts (Tel Aviv University: Assaph Book Series, 1997); Yair Lipshitz, The Holy Tongue, Comedy’s Version: Intertextual Dramas on Stage in a Comedy of Betrothal (Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2010), 54–61.

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forms and techniques proved to be a serious obstacle. As Gershon Shaked explains: The productions of that time bore upon their narrow shoulders the grand visions of the generation—but buckled under the strain. The vision was greater than the productions; the concept was willing, but the execution was weak. Here, perhaps, lies the answer to the mystery why this chapter of our literature failed to endure. Nonetheless, these playwrights who valiantly attempted to tackle the vision of the generation without the benefit of a tradition of ‘productions’, were early harbingers of a nation coming to terms with the burden of its past, and seeking to find a suitable expression for the drama of its resurrection.³³

The sea change that truly paved the way to the establishment of a professional Hebrew theatre took place only in the early twentieth century. In 1913, in Białystok, Nahum Zemach called for the creation of Habima Ha’ivrit (‘The Hebrew Stage’), and put together a group of actors who set themselves the task of staging performances in Hebrew. In 1917, he managed to persuade the celebrated Russian director Constantin Stanislavsky to accept his troupe into the network of artistic theatre ‘studios’ that Stanislavsky had established, and the ‘Habima Hebrew studio’ was born.³⁴ From the outset, Habima was constantly reviewing its repertoire and artistic choices. In 1929, in Berlin, the national poet Haim Nahman Bialik and the philosopher Martin Buber debated the question of Habima’s artistic future and its ideology. Bialik argued that it should perform Jewish plays that recount Jewish history and traditions, while Buber maintained that it must take part in the universal theatrical tradition. The Habima actors, who ran the theatre as a collective, were persuaded by Buber’s arguments, and took on plays from the European repertoire, such as Los Cabellos de Absalón by Pedro Calderón de la Barca, adapted in Hebrew, under the title of David’s Crown (1929), and Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night (1930). This decision brought them, by the mid-1940s, to Racine’s Phaedra and Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus.

³³ Shaked, The Hebrew Historical Drama, 15. ³⁴ Itzhak Norman, ‘Habima between Workshop and Theatre: The Problem of Lack of Artistic Leadership’, in The Genesis of Habima: Nahum Zemach, the Founder of Habima in Vision and in Practice, ed. Itzhak Norman (Jerusalem: The Zionist Library 1966), 149.

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Eretz-Yisraeli theatre The term ‘Eretz-Yisraeli theatre’ denotes the Hebrew theatre that developed in Palestine during the Yishuv (pre-independence) period,³⁵ from the initial amateur productions of the first Zionist pioneers onwards. The genesis of this theatre was a joint effort of Eliezer Ben-Yehuda (the ‘reviver of the Hebrew language’), and the teacher David Yelin. From 1889 onwards, especially on Jewish holidays, students at schools in Jerusalem, Rishon Lezion, Zichron Yaacov, and Petah-Tikva staged plays that had been translated into Hebrew, in a bid to promote the use of Hebrew as an everyday spoken language, to forge a community and collective identity, and to experience drama featuring themes and events from Jewish history.³⁶ Following the Second Aliyah (the immigration wave of 1904–14) and the founding of adult amateur theatre troupes, the number of plays and performances that were either written in Hebrew or translated into it from Yiddish grew rapidly. It was during this time that the various disparate amateur groups gradually coalesced into a professional theatre, and the artistic field took shape.³⁷ Israel’s Declaration of Independence in 1948 indicated that Israel’s founders were intent on establishing a state along the lines of Western democracies, such as Britain, to which they felt a deep bond and strong appreciation.³⁸ This intent had been established early on, in the resolutions of the First Zionist Congress (1897), which set out the institutions of the future state: an executive government headed by a Prime Minister, a legislature known as the Knesset (the parliament), and a judicial system headed by a Supreme Court. The choice of the democratic Western state model was also due to the fact that Israel’s social and cultural institutions were founded on the notions of modernization and secularism, and the values of the Jewish Enlightenment movement. The establishment of a countrywide educational system, and the decision to use Hebrew as the country’s lingua franca, were the basis for the ‘melting pot’ approach to assimilating the immigrants who quickly established the Eretz-Yisraeli

³⁵ The Yishuv refers to the Jewish community in Palestine in the period between the First Aliyah (wave of Zionist immigration) in 1882 and the founding of the State of Israel in 1948. ³⁶ Lev-Ari, ‘The Beginnings of Theatre Performances’; Rokem, ‘Hebrew Theatre’, 52–7. ³⁷ Rokem, ‘Hebrew Theatre’, 58–61. ³⁸ Anita Shapira, Israel: A History (Waltham, MA: Brandeis University Press, 2012), 180.

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bourgeoisie, educational system, and culture.³⁹ Many flagship institutions were set up years before the State was formally established. These included the Hebrew Gymnasia Secondary School in Jaffa (1906), the Bezalel School of Art (1906), the Hebrew Gymnasia in Jerusalem (1909), the Re’ali Secondary School in Haifa (1914), the Technion Institute of Technology (1914), and the Hebrew University (1925), the first Yemenite Ecstasy dance recital (1920), the Hebrew Theatre (1920), the EretzYisraeli Theatre (1925), the Ohel Theatre (1926), the satirical theatres HaKumkum (‘The Kettle’, in 1927) and HaMataté (‘The Broom’, in 1929), the Habima Theatre in Tel Aviv (1931), the Philharmonic Orchestra (1936),⁴⁰ and the Cameri Theatre (1944). These institutions were founded by immigrants who had arrived long before the Second World War, mostly from Eastern and Central Europe, and who sent their grown-up children to Europe (to Germany and France, in particular) to study the arts and return to Palestine to maintain and further develop the local arts and help create a cultural infrastructure similar to that which they had known in their countries of origin.⁴¹ The repertoire of the mainstream theatres of this period was drawn primarily from four distinct sources: translated plays from various European languages and the Yiddish theatre; adaptations of literary works— especially those by Mendele Mocher Sforim and Shalom Aleichem; Western theatre classics (Shakespeare, Calderón de la Barca, Molière); and original works featuring biblical stories or scenes, or the lives of modern-day settlers in Palestine.⁴²

Israeli theatre This term refers to the Hebrew theatre since the establishment of the State of Israel.⁴³ The distinction is, in part, purely nominal and ³⁹ Ibid., 133–52. ⁴⁰ ‘An orchestra is born’: the founding of the Palestine Orchestra as reflected in Bronislaw Huberman’s letters, speeches, and articles, compiled from the Huberman Archives in the Central Music Library in Israel. ⁴¹ Yoav Gelber, New Homeland: The Immigration of the Jews of Central Europe and Their Absorption, 1933–1948 (Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1990), 385–472. ⁴² Dorit Yerushalmi, ‘Le Cameri et son Fondateur’, Yod 13 (2008): 203–29. ⁴³ Nowadays the Israeli theatre speaks many languages: Hebrew, Arabic, Russian Yiddish, Marocan, Amharic, etc. This is a new phenomenon that emerged at the end of the 1980s with the establishment of several theatres—The Yiddish Theatre 1987, Gesher Theatre 1990, El Meidan Theatre 1994—and amateur groups in different languages in the new millennium.

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technical: as we have seen, the spectrum and character of Israeli theatre—including its institutions and components—were established during the pre-State period. However, inasmuch as theatre is a reflection of its social, political, and cultural context, the birth of Israeli theatre proper is commonly linked by historians to the production of He Walked Through the Fields, performed at the height of the War of Independence, on the cusp between the two periods.⁴⁴ Written by author and playwright Moshe Shamir and based on his first novel of the same title, He Walked Through the Fields premiered at the Cameri Theatre in Tel Aviv on 31 May 1948, two weeks after the State of Israel was proclaimed, and was immediately hailed as a watershed event in the history of Israeli theatre. The play represents the sacrifice of the young soldiers who died in the battle for the State of Israel—the proverbial ‘silver platter’ on which the Jewish state was delivered, as Natan Alterman wrote in his famous poem of the same name—and echoed past mythological sacrifices such as the Binding of Isaac in the Book of Genesis.⁴⁵ However, the plot and characters were not the only reason this play proved to be such a seminal event: it was also— if not primarily—because of the immediate relevance of the plot to the Israeli reality outside the theatre, and because its Hebrew, acting style, and production values proclaimed a new local theatrical language that struck a chord with performers and audiences alike. Moreover, the fact that it was staged at the height of hostilities (indeed, many of those in the audience were in uniform), meant that, as they watched the play, audience members felt they were taking part in a historic moment in which off-stage reality and on-stage fiction merged and became one. In the nation-building enterprise of the early 1950s, theatre became one of the chief venues for the forging of a communal Israeli identity. Home-grown, Israeli plays, written during and immediately after the War of Independence, sought to reflect everyday reality in the new State and explore the relationship between national rebirth, independence, and personal sacrifice, and established the mind-set of a perpetual state

However, all the performances of classical Greek drama were presented during these years only in Hebrew. ⁴⁴ Rokem, ‘Hebrew Theatre’, 70–83. ⁴⁵ Yael S. Feldman, Glory and Agony: Isaac’s Sacrifice and National Narrative (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2010), 131–82.

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of war which equated the word ‘Arab’ with ‘enemy’. In interviews, their creators spoke of how important it was to recount the ‘historic moment’ in ‘well-made’ plays, that reflected the hegemonic discourse involving quintessentially Israeli archetypes of that period, such as the kibbutznik, the sabra (an Israeli-born Jew), the Palmachnik (a member of the Jewish pre-independence elite militia), the Holocaust survivor, the new immigrant, and the Arab. Notably, the plots were always set far from Tel Aviv—in the rural setting of the kibbutz or on the battlefield—so that theatregoers felt that they were sharing the big historic moment of the birth and the initial steps of the State. Looking back at these plays today, with the benefit of hindsight, it is clear that while they were defining the figure of the Israeli soldier, they were also securing the place of Israeli theatre in Israel’s social, cultural, and political milieu, by subscribing to the national agenda. However, besides celebrating the bond between community, theatre, and country, the repertoires of Israeli theatres at that time reveal that they also provided an important encounter with Western theatre. Although the categories of productions were ostensibly similar to those of the pre-State period, their composition was clearly different. Plays about Jewish culture and lifestyle now made way for works by modern playwrights, such as Henrik Ibsen, Arthur Miller, Tennessee Williams, Federico García Lorca, Sean O’Casey, Clifford Odets, and Jean Anouilh—as well as classics by the likes of Shakespeare, Molière, Racine, Goldoni, and Beaumarchais. No less significantly, adaptations of classical Greek tragedies such as Phaedra by Racine (Habima, 1945) or Antigone by Anouilh (the Cameri 1946), and classical Greek plays such as Oedipus Tyrannus by Sophocles (Habima 1947), and Aristophanes’ Lysistrata (Habima, 1958) were staged in Hebrew for the first time, heralding similar productions in the years to come, and marking Habima’s new shift towards the main pastures of Western theatre. These productions, and their reception by the Israeli public and critics, demonstrate how theatre tackled the profound questions of representation, theatricality, and style, and define the body of work that I shall analyse in this study.

Israeli Theatre and Its Audiences The theatrical event is an encounter between actors and spectators around a fictional plot that stimulates observation, investigation, and critical

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inspection of themes, templates, and mechanisms that form the sociopolitical and cultural reality of their everyday lives. For such an encounter to take place, and for the theatre to function as a ‘memory machine’⁴⁶ and as a ‘reality check’ mechanism, a common cultural foundation must be in place—built, layer by layer, over years of repeated encounters of this sort. The rapid formation of Israeli society in the twentieth century through consecutive waves of immigration, with each group obliged to shift roles quickly from newcomers to assimilators, and the accommodation of Palestinian Arabs⁴⁷ who found themselves within Israel’s borders at the end of the 1948 war⁴⁸ and have since become part of Israeli society, made it difficult to maintain a continuous linear dialogue between the theatre and its audience, and posed yet another challenge to local theatre makers. Thus, in its short history, Israeli theatre has become a major social and cultural device in the forging and consolidation of Israeli society. During the performances before such a varied audience, questions about the existence of a common denominator between the spectators and performers come into play. In Israeli society, which appears at times to be almost intravenously attached to the news (through radio, television, printed press, and now through the internet and mobile devices), the chief common denominator is the political and social reality of the day. Hence, the most crucial question in repertory choices was, and remains, ‘What does this (the play) have to do with us here and now?’— i.e. how are its themes and plot relevant to the Israeli social and political context? The various artistic responses given by Israeli directors, translators, actors, and scenographers to this question, while reading, practising,

⁴⁶ Marvin Carlson, The Haunted Stage: The Theatre as Memory Machine (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2003), 52–95. ⁴⁷ The Palestinians within Israel have been referred to in various ways: ‘the Arabs in Israel’, ‘the Arabs of 1948’, ‘Israel’s Arabs’, ‘the Palestinian Arabs in Israel’, ‘the Palestinians in Israel’, ‘the Palestinian minority’, ‘the Arab minority’, and ‘internal Arabs’. ‘All these have different meanings’, write Nadim N. Rouhana and Areej Sabbagh-Khoury, ‘since they relate to different forms of political representation. These terms do not only reflect the identity of Palestinians within Israel, but also the analytical views of the people using them.’ Nadim N. Rouhana and Areej Sabbagh-Khoury, eds, The Palestinians in Israel: Examinations of History, Politics, and Society (Haifa: Mada al-Carmel, 2011), 11. ⁴⁸ After 1948, approximately 160,000 Palestinian Arabs found themselves within the boundaries of the nascent Israeli state, representing 13% of the total population after the postindependence influx of Jewish immigration. See Oren Yiftah’el, ‘Palestinian Arab Citizenship in Israel’, in The Palestinians in Israel, ed. Rouhana and Sabbagh-Khoury, 127–33.

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and experimenting with classical Greek drama on behalf of Israeli audiences, are the core and essence of this study.

A Survey of Scholarship Between Jerusalem and Athens: Israeli Theatre and the Classical Tradition lies at the nexus of the arts, humanities, and social sciences. It is inspired by the study of classical Greek drama in its social, cultural, and political contexts; the theory and practice of theatrical arts; performance analysis; and theatre historiography and the reception of classical drama in modern theatre. Accordingly, the reading and analysis of the staging and rewriting of classical Greek drama is conducted within the productions’ respective social, political, and cultural contexts, using the interpretative approach put forward by Jean-Pierre Vernant and Pierre Vidal-Naquet,⁴⁹ Nicole Loraux,⁵⁰ and Froma Zeitlin.⁵¹ In the past twenty years, this has extended to studies of the contextualization of theatre within the intellectual, cultural, and performative trends of classical Athens.⁵² In the 1980s, when performance analysis emerged as a new avenue of theatre research,⁵³ its founders based their work on semiotics and phenomenology.⁵⁴ This approach clearly shifted the focus from dramatic ⁴⁹ Jean-Pierre Vernant, Myth and Society in Ancient Greece (Sussex: Harvester Press, 1980); Vernant and Vidal-Naquet, Myth and Tragedy; Pierre Vidal-Naquet, The Black Hunter: Forms of Thought and Forms of Society in the Greek World (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1986). ⁵⁰ Loraux, The Invention of Athens; Nicole Loraux, The Children of Athena: Athenian Ideas about Citizenship and the Division between the Sexes, trans. Caroline Levine (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press). ⁵¹ Zeitlin, ‘Thebes: Theatre of Self and Society’; Froma I. Zeitlin, Playing the Other: Gender and Society in Classical Greek Literature (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1996); Froma I. Zeitlin, ‘Dionysus in 69’, in Dionysus Since 69: Greek Tragedy at the Dawn of the Third Millennium, ed. Edith Hall, Fiona Macintosh, and Amanda Wrigley (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 49–75. ⁵² Goldhill, ‘The Great Dionysia and Civic Ideology’; Goldhill and Osborne, eds, Performance Culture and Athenian Democracy; Simon Goldhill, Who Needs Greek? Contests in the Cultural History of Hellenism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002). ⁵³ Marco De Marinis, The Semiotics of Performance (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1993). ⁵⁴ Marvin Carlson, Theatre Semiotics: Signs of Life (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1990); Erika Fischer-Lichte, The Semiotics of Theatre (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1992); Patrice Pavis, Voix et images de la scène: Vers une sémiologie de la réception (Lille: Presses Universitaires de Lille, 1985).

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writing to theatrical practice and paved the way to inter-art and intermedia research.⁵⁵ By the end of the decade, the field had expanded to include the historiography of theatrical practice in Western theatre,⁵⁶ and sparked interest beyond the coterie of theatre scholars. Classicists, too, began to look upon classical Greek drama as the performative expression of classical Greek culture, and the visual images and theatrical language of the texts generated further studies on space, scenography, movement, acting, and masks in classical Greek drama.⁵⁷ In the past thirty years, the reception of classical Greek and Roman theatre in Western culture has been a vibrant area of research and instruction in classical studies and theatre arts departments in universities throughout the world. This is evident in the extensive and diverse research literature published in the past two decades; in the range of academic periodicals promoting multidisciplinary debates; in the development of innovative syllabi; and in theses by postgraduate students on the fusion of dramatic writing and performance. The research of performance history is founded on the collection and analysis of primary materials. In Oxford in 1996, Edith Hall and Oliver Taplin founded the Archives of Performances of Greek and Roman ⁵⁵ Eli Rozik, Generating Theatre Meaning: A Theory and Methodology of Performance Analysis (Brighton and Portland, OR: Sussex Academic Press, 2008); Eli Rozik, Metaphoric Thinking: A Study of Non-Verbal Metaphor in the Arts and its Archaic Roots (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University, Faculty of the Arts, 2008); Eli Rozik, The Fictional Arts: An Inter-Art Journey from Theatre Theory to the Arts (Brighton and Portland, OR: Sussex Academic Press, 2011); Nurit Yaari, ed., Inter-Art Journey: Exploring the Common Grounds of the Arts (Brighton: Sussex Academic Press, 2015). ⁵⁶ Erika Fischer-Lichte, ‘Theatre and the Civilizing Process: An Approach to the History of Acting’, in Interpreting the Theatrical Past: Essays in the Historiography of Performance, ed. Tom Postlewait and Bruce A. McConachie (Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 1989), 19–37; Erika Fischer-Lichte, ‘Theatre Historiography and Performance Analysis: Different Fields, Common Approaches’, Assaph 10 (1994): 99–111; Erika Fischer-Lichte, The Show and the Gaze of Theatre: Studies in Theatre History and Culture (Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 1997); David Wiles, A Short History of Western Performance Space (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003); Edith Hall, The Theatrical Cast of Athens: Interactions between Ancient Greek Drama and Society (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006); Edith Hall and Stephen Harrop, eds, Theorising Performance: Greek Drama, Cultural History and Critical Practice (London: Bloomsbury, 2010). ⁵⁷ Paulette Ghiron-Bistagne, Recherches sur les acteurs dans la Grèce antique (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1976); Oliver Taplin, The Stagecraft of Aeschylus (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1977); David Wiles, Tragedy in Athens: Performance Space and Theatrical Meaning (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997); David Wiles, Mask and Performance in Greek Tragedy: From Ancient Festival to Modern Experimentation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007).

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Drama—an interdisciplinary research project on the international history of classical Greek and Roman drama in performance. The materials collected, the research they generated, and the international conferences held at the Archives have produced important studies that have greatly broadened the field—as evident in the reception of specific works such as Medea, Agamemnon, Aristophanean comedy in performance, and the effect of tragedy on the creation of theatre culture.⁵⁸ In 2004, a project on ‘the reception of Greek and Roman drama performances’ was launched, and the Archives grew into a major research hub of such studies, offering lectures, seminars, and international conferences. In the past decade, the Archives’ information has yielded research books and papers on the reception of classical drama in various cultures and media, all contributing to the establishment of this important research domain. Studies have included practical and theoretical aspects of modern productions of classical Greek texts,⁵⁹ and performances of classical Greek tragedy in film,⁶⁰ in pantomime,⁶¹ and in dance in the modern era.⁶² At the same time, in the wake of cultural studies and the readerresponse and reception theory of Hans Robert Jauss and Wolfgang Iser, reception studies have made their way into the Classics.⁶³ The Department

⁵⁸ Edith Hall, Fiona Macintosh, and Oliver Taplin, eds, Medea in Performance 1500–2000 (Oxford: Legenda, 2000); Edith Hall and Fiona Macintosh, Greek Tragedy and the British Theatre, 1660–1914 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005); Gonda Van Steen, Venom in Verse: Aristophanes in Modern Greece (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000); Gonda Van Steen, Theatre of the Condemned: Classical Tragedy and Greek Prison Islands (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011). ⁵⁹ Erika Fischer-Lichte, Theatre, Sacrifice, Ritual: Exploring Forms of Political Theatre (Abingdon: Routledge, 2005); Hall, Macintosh, and Wrigley, eds, Dionysus Since 69; Fiona Macintosh, ‘Tragedy in Performance: Nineteenth- and Twentieth-Century Productions’, in The Cambridge Companion to Greek Tragedy, ed. P. E. Easterling (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 284–323. ⁶⁰ Marianne McDonald, Euripides in Cinema: The Heart Made Visible (Philadelphia: Centrum Philadelphia, 1983); Peter Burian, ‘Tragedy Adapted for Stages and Screens: The Renaissance to the Present’, in The Cambridge Companion to Greek Tragedy, ed. Easterling, 228–83; Hadassa Shani, ‘Expressions of Self-Reference in Ancient Greek Tragedy and their Transition onto the Screens’, in On Interpretation in the Arts, ed. Nurit Yaari (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University, 2000), 147–68. ⁶¹ Edith Hall and Rosie Wyles, eds, New Directions in Ancient Pantomime (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2008). ⁶² Fiona Macintosh, ed., The Ancient Dancer in the Modern World: Responses to Greek and Roman Dance (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010). ⁶³ Lorna Hardwick, Reception Studies: Greece and Rome, New Surveys in the Classics No. 33 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003).

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of Classical Studies at the Open University in the United Kingdom has established a project titled Classical Receptions in Drama and Poetry in English from c.1970 to the Present. This, in turn, has led to the formation of a database of modern English-language productions of Greek drama and research papers in the reception field, as well as the publication of two electronic journals: New Voices (focusing on studies by young researchers), and Practitioners’ Voices (featuring interviews of, and articles by, practitioners involved in studying the performance of these plays). One example of the growing presence of reception studies is A Companion to Classical Receptions,⁶⁴ featuring essays on issues such as reception, transmission, acculturation, and translation, in literature, philosophy, education, drama, theatre, film, and cultural politics. In the past decade, considerable research has also been published on the context, theory, and practice of modern and postmodern performances of classical Greek drama in an increasingly globalized world.⁶⁵ The historiography of Jewish/Hebrew/Israeli theatre has, until recently, dealt primarily with Yiddish and Hebrew drama in Europe and in Palestine/Israel since the late nineteenth century, with particular focus on the themes that it presents, the plays’ historical backgrounds, and the deep structure of their plots.⁶⁶ This has shown that the power of Hebrew-Israeli theatre lies in its portrayal of the formative events that have shaped Jewish and Israeli identity.⁶⁷ Although a number of recent ⁶⁴ Lorna Hardwick and Christopher Stray, eds, A Companion to Classical Receptions (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008). ⁶⁵ Lorna Hardwick and Carol Gillespie, eds, Classics in Post-Colonial Worlds (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2007); Hall and Harrop, eds, Theorising Performance; Erin B. Mee and Helene P. Foley, eds, Antigone on the Contemporary World Stage (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011); Helene P. Foley, Reimagining Greek Tragedy on the American Stage (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2012); Erika Fischer-Lichte, Dionysus Resurrected: Performances of Euripides’ The Bacchae in a Globalizing World (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014). ⁶⁶ Shaked, The Hebrew Historical Drama; Belkin, ed., Jewish Theatre. ⁶⁷ Abramson, Drama and Ideology; Shosh Avigal, ‘Patterns and Trends in Israeli Drama and Theatre, 1948 to Present’, in Theatre in Israel, ed. Ben-Zvi, 9–50; Belkin and Kaynar, ‘Jewish Theatre’; Ben-Ami Feingold, Israeli Theatre and the 1948 War of Independence (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2001); Gideon Ofrat, The Israeli Drama (Tel Aviv: Tcherikover Publishers, 1975); Gideon Ofrat, Earth, Man, Blood (Tel Aviv: Tcherikover Publishers, 1980); Haim Shoham, Challenge and Reality in Israeli Drama (Ramat-Gan: Bar Ilan University Press, 1975); Shimon Levy and Corina Shoef, The Israeli Theatre Canon (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2002); Zehava Caspi and Gad Kaynar, eds, Another View: Israeli Drama Revisited (Beer-Sheva: Ben Gurion University Press, 2013); Avraham Oz, Fields and Luggage: Hebrew Drama and the Zionist Narrative (Tel Aviv: Resling, 2014).

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studies have dealt with acting styles, modes of directing, audiences’ reception, and visual aspects of the production,⁶⁸ theatre discourse in Israel is still dominated by play analysis of this sort and its relationship to Israel’s hegemonic ideology. While I draw upon these studies in this book—especially their dramaturgical, thematic, and social analyses— I expand the debate by including the views of spectators and the (often heated) reactions of critics, and the relationship of these works to new issues in the social, political, and cultural context. With regard to the evolution of Israeli theatre since the establishment of the State and the questions that it raises about Israeli society and culture, I draw upon the historiographical research that has been done to date,⁶⁹ and upon sociological studies of the emergence of various social groups within the theatre.⁷⁰ To trace the changes in these sources over the past seventy years, I look in particular at the research questions raised by historians and sociologists about the rifts that have emerged within Israeli society, and about the role of ‘others’—women, communities of nonWestern origin, immigrants, Orthodox Jews, Arabs, and Palestinians—in the Israeli public discourse.⁷¹ Reception studies provide the theoretical and practical tools used in this book for analysing aspects such as translation, transmission, and adaptation. Phenomenological approaches are applied to elements such

⁶⁸ Shosh Weitz and Shosh Avigal, ‘Cultural and Ideological Variables in Audience Response: The Case of The Trojan Women, Tel Aviv 1982–1983’, Assaph 3 (1986): 7–42; Shimon Levy, Israeli Theatre: Spaces, Times and Plots (Tel Aviv: Resling, 2016). ⁶⁹ Yelena Tartakovsky, Habima: The Russian Heritage (Tel Aviv: Safra and Assaf/ Research 2013). Dorit Yerushalmi, The Directors’ Stage: On Directors in Israeli Theatre (Or Yehuda: Kinneret, Zmora-Bitan, Dvir Publishing House and Heksherim Institute, Ben Gurion University of the Negev, Beer-Sheva, 2013), focuses on the life histories of directors of the mainstream of Israeli theatre, and considers the directorial discourse arising from their stagecraft. The importance of this book stems from it being the first and only book to date to construct a historiography of a practical aspect of the theatrical art—namely, direction. ⁷⁰ Dan Urian, The Arab in Israeli Drama and Theatre (Amsterdam: Harwood Academic Publishers, 1977); Dan Urian, ed., Palestinians and Israelis in the Theatre (Amsterdam: Harwood Academic Publishers, 1995); Dan Urian and Efraim Karsh, eds, In Search of Identity: Jewish Aspects in Israeli Culture (London: Frank Cass, 1999). ⁷¹ Meron Benvenisti, The Dream of the White Sabra (Jerusalem: Keter Books, 2012); Uri Ram, The Changing Agenda of Israel: Sociology, Theory, Ideology and Identity (New York: State University of New York, 1995); Rouhana and Sabbagh-Khoury, eds, The Palestinians in Israel.

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as the actor’s body and movement, stage space, mise-en-scène, scenography, and material aspects of the stage and auditorium. Historiographical approaches are used in the study of Israel’s seventy years of statehood and the histories of the Jewish, Hebrew, and Israeli theatre. Audience and critics’ responses are examined through compilations of written, recorded, and online materials about the plays and performances, with the help of methods developed in reception studies.⁷² Historical surveys, sociological theory and practical research are used to investigate the various waves of immigration to Israel and the transformation of its (Jewish) society from a nearly homogeneous population of East- or Central European ancestry to its multicultural character of today.⁷³

Scope of the Study This volume enters a thoroughly researched field of the reception of classical Greek drama in modern theatre and performance. What sets it apart is its focus on Hebrew/Israeli theatre, which lacks the foundations of dramaturgy and performance practice that other Western theatre cultures developed over centuries of dialogue with ‘Athens’ and with each other, and uses its dialogue with classical Greek drama to tackle questions raised by its complex reality. It is a theatre that reflects the history of modern Israel before and after independence, revealing its external and internal struggles as it seeks to define itself as a modern, enlightened, Jewish and Western democracy. An examination of the ⁷² Apart from the importance of reviews as a form of historical document, I place great importance on the role of theatre critics in understanding the reception of the productions that I research. The reasons for this are threefold. One is that, although each review is first and foremost a subjective reading of the production, most theatre critics in Israel are, and have been, individuals with a profound interest and knowledge in matters of culture and art—knowledge which they often share with their readers while addressing the specific production they are writing about. The second reason is that theatre critics are a committed group of spectators, who attend theatre productions every evening, and share their impressions of such productions’ first encounter with the audience. Thirdly, their influence as cultural agents has always been, and remains, a significant factor in the reception of theatre productions in Israeli culture. ⁷³ Yoav Peled and Gershon Shafir, Being Israeli: The Dynamics of Multiple Citizenship (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University Press, 2005); Yossi Yonah and Yehuda Shenhav, What is Multiculturalism? The Politics of Difference in Israel (Tel Aviv: Babel and Miskal Publishing Houses, 2005); Uri Ram, The Globalization of Israel: McWorld in Tel Aviv, Jihad in Jerusalem (Tel Aviv: Resling Publishing, 2005).

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reception of classical Greek drama in Israeli theatre is possible, I believe, only in light of the social, political, and cultural processes that have taken place in the seventy years since Israeli independence. This volume’s essential premise is that, apart from the dramatic and aesthetic values of classical Greek drama, Israeli theatre makers have been inspired by the essential bond between classical Greek drama and Athenian democracy, and the lessons it can offer in relation to the chief moral and political dilemmas facing Israel since independence, namely ‘the need to choose between the two cardinal principles of its political culture: the particularistic commitment to being a Jewish State and the universalist commitment to being a Western-style democracy’.⁷⁴ The reception of classical Greek drama deals not only with the analysis of the texts, ideas, worldview, and material culture of Greece and Rome, but also with how these texts have been read and interpreted, engaged in dialogue, rewritten or performed in the period from ancient Greece to the present day.⁷⁵ Accordingly, in this study, I examine different approaches chosen by internationally acclaimed theatre directors and local theatre makers who chose to engage with classical Greek drama and experiment with its dramatic and performative elements to activate social, political, and aesthetic questions posed by the works. The main purpose of the book, therefore, is to frame and map out the unique repertoire that has emerged in Israeli theatre from the encounter between ‘Jerusalem’ and ‘Athens’, and to explore this juxtaposition in Israel’s social, political, and cultural character. Specifically, it examines a distinctive corpus of plays and performances written, created, and produced by internationally acclaimed and local theatre directors, playwright/ directors, post-dramatic authors, actors, scenographers, production teams, and choreographers and dancers. All of these regarded classical Greek drama as a site for exploration and as a source of inspiration; a laboratory for experimentation with the theatre arts; a space for tackling questions

⁷⁴ Ze’ev Sternhell, The Founding Myths of Israel (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1998); Adi Ophir, ed., Fifty to Forty-Eight: Critical Moments in the History of the State of Israel (Tel Aviv: The Van Lear Jerusalem Institute/Hakibbutz Hahmeuchad Publishing House, 1999); Ze’ev Tzahor, The Shaping of the Israeli Ethos (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 2007). ⁷⁵ Goldhill, Who Needs Greek?, 1–13; Hardwick and Stray, eds, A Companion to Classical Receptions, 1–9; Lorna Hardwick and Stephen Harrison, eds, Classics in the Modern World: A Democratic Turn? (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013).

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of national identity and cultural legacy, and of the international scene and its theatre traditions; and an effective means of taking an active part in the social and political discourses that have preoccupied the Israeli public over the past seven decades. The book’s historical starting point is the 1945 production of Racine’s version of Phaedra at the Habima Theatre, and concludes with two productions in 2015: Oedipus—A Case Study (an adaptation of Oedipus Tyrannus, directed by Hanan Snir at Habima Theatre), and The General and the Sea—a musical drama in a template of archaic dithyramb—by Yonatan Levy and Noam Enbar produced by the Hazira Performance Art Arena in Jerusalem. In the book, I cover an important spectrum of theatrical creativity: translations, adaptations, and productions of the classical texts, tragedy and comedy, and rewriting rooted in the classical heritage. To date, twenty-two different plays of classical Greek drama have been presented on Israeli stages, in eighty-six different productions,⁷⁶ in three broad genres in terms of their relationship to the sources: classical Greek drama (in translation or after dramaturgical adaptation); Israeli plays created through rewriting or in dialogue with classical Greek drama; and ‘postdramatic’ productions that are based on classical Greek myths or dramatic plots, and executed in various artistic forms in the realm between theatre, storytelling, and performance.⁷⁷ These productions were staged in diverse settings—from mainstream theatres (Habima National Theatre, the Cameri Theatre of Tel Aviv, Haifa Municipal Theatre, BeerSheba Municipal Theatre, and Gesher Theatre), through fringe venues (Tzavta, Hasimta, Tmuna, Karov, Psik), to student productions of the Department of the Theatre Arts at Tel Aviv University and the School of Drama of the Kibbutzim College of Education. These three types of settings differ greatly from one another in terms of administrative structure, budget, position in the Israeli cultural hierarchy, and cultural and educational agenda, but collectively constitute a large body of theatrical outlets.

⁷⁶ The Oresteia has been staged twice in its entirety, and its three constituent parts— Agamemnon, Libation Bearers, and Eumenides—once each. ⁷⁷ Marvin Carlson, Performance: A Critical Introduction (London: Routledge, 1996), 1–9, 123–43, 187–99; Hans Thies Lehmann, Le Théâtre Postdramatique (Paris: L’Arche, 2002), 128–70.

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While this goal is a complex one, the path towards it was clearly defined along the way by several specific questions, such as: How is this corpus distinctive from other dramatic genres and artistic styles of Israeli theatre? How does the artistes’ engagement with classical Greek drama and its universal elements affect their dialogue with ‘Jerusalem’ (the Jewish-specific aspects of Israeli culture)? How, within this corpus, did the encounter between ‘Athens’ and ‘Jerusalem’ become a fertile constructive force that produced a broad canvas of contexts, dialogues, intertextuality, and intercultural integration? How does one deploy such resources on stage to forge a cultural identity? What role do the material, practical elements (such as body, movement, voice and space composition on stage) play in the creation of socio-cultural codes that make it possible to pose questions about ‘identity’ and ‘otherness’ in the cultural and artistic arena? How are these codes expressed in this corpus, and how do they contribute to the dialogue with a mixed audience of theatregoers from a wide range of cultural backgrounds and traditions? How are these theatre makers participating in the wider political, social, and cultural debates in the Israeli public domain? What has been their contribution to the creation of a theatre tradition in Israel, and how are they received on the international scene? Posing these questions as the milestones of a long journey of research and writing highlights another objective of this book: through a critical reading of dramaturgical and aesthetic attitudes and directorial approaches in the performance of classical Greek texts, another area of research is involved—that of scrutinizing the conversion of a dramatic text into a theatrical one. This involves the study of the transformation that a dramatic text undergoes in a stage performance, especially through the dramaturgical operations of adaptation, rewriting, and the underlying ‘classical presence’ that is manifest in intertextual strategies between dramatic texts and various performances of the same text in different productions. This area of research is conducted in full view of the audience, and adds yet another layer to the reception of the work. I chose to add an epigraph to each one of the chapters. I wish to offer readers a clear entrance into the questions examined in the chapter, to give a perspective to the discussion, and to propose a central problem that will unite theory and practice, politics and dramaturgy, text and aesthetics. There will generally be a reference to each epigraph during the discussion.

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Book Structure The book covers the years 1945–2016 from three broad aspects. Chapters 2–4 focus on the first encounters of Israeli culture with classical Greek theatre. They highlight the seminal nature of these first encounters in the theatre; the influences of Russian, British, and American cultures; and the inner creative drive of the first generations of Israeli creators. Chapter 2 describes the journey of Habima Theatre from Jewish drama to Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus. Chapter 3 deals with the founding of the Cameri Theatre and the challenges posed by Greek tragedy for actors with no tradition in classical acting. Chapter 4 examines how the first generation of native Israeli directors deciphered, interpreted, and experienced classical Greek drama while forging their own aesthetics and stage language. The book then moves on to examine various tragedies and comedies of the classical Athenian repertoire that were performed against the backdrop of Israel’s military conflicts in the twentieth century. Chapters 5–7 explore the contexts of theatre and society, and theatre and war, providing a contrasting portrait of Israeli identity in the 1960s and 1970s: the outgoing, sociable, can-do attitude versus the ability to look reality squarely in the face and respond explicitly to social and political current events. This demonstrates how a political reading of tragedy and comedy makes theatre a place where stage and audience can engage in a direct exchange of criticism and social and political dissent. Chapter 5 deals with Arieh Sachs’ adaptation of Aristophanes’ Peace; and with three political satires written by Hanoch Levin in the footsteps of Aristophanes’ peace comedies. Chapter 6 examines plays about the Trojan Wars, and Chapter 7 discusses various interpretations of Lysistrata, ranging from light entertainment to scathing satire and protest. Chapters 8–11 examine the role of theatre in turning myths and historical communal events into artistic and cultural materials that establish and fuel a collective memory. In these chapters, we see the works of auteurs seeking new forms of encounter between ‘Jerusalem’ and ‘Athens’, through the rewriting of classical Greek drama, revealing a web of influences of previous generations and the attempts by young creators to forge a local, independent Israeli theatre art. Chapter 8 is devoted to Nissim Aloni, a ground-breaking playwright, translator, and theatre director in the post-independence period, and his experimentation with

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interweaving the Oedipus myth in several of his well-known plays. In Chapter 9, we examine the dialogue engaged by Hanoch Levin, the most prolific and innovative of Israeli playwrights, with Euripides—around The Trojan Women, Alcestis and Ion, and with Aeschylus around Agamemnon, a dialogue which preoccupied him throughout his working life. Chapter 10 focuses on the response of theatre makers to the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin and the collapse of the Oslo Accords, and the difficult events and military conflicts that followed. In it we revisit the tragedies about the Trojan Wars, which auteur-directors rendered into post-dramatic performances. Chapter 11 documents the introduction of the classical tradition into the curriculum of the Department of Theatre Arts of Tel Aviv University—the first of its kind in Israeli academia—and the performance field that has emerged in its home-grown university theatre, which has enabled generations of theatre makers and researchers to make the classical tradition into a daily, creative endeavour of research and performance. The chapter also presents the innovative and original work of Yonatan Levy and Noam Enbar, who research the dramatic form of dithyramb to tackle new myths and create an etude for a contemporary Israeli tragedy. The book’s conclusion, Chapter 12, notes the traces of the classical Greek tradition in the shifting sands of Tel Aviv, and the foundations on which the Israeli theatre tradition may henceforth be constructed and documented.

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2 Habima Outsidedness as a Catalyst of Creativity

In the realm of culture, outsidedness is a most powerful factor in understanding. It is only in the eyes of another culture that foreign culture reveals itself fully and profoundly. —Mikhail Bakhtin¹

Three repertory theatres operated in British Mandatory Palestine, or Eretz-Yisrael (‘The Land of Israel’) as it is known in Hebrew, in the mid-1940s: Habima, the Ohel, and the Cameri.² All three sought to promote the theatre arts as part of modern Hebrew culture, but each had its own artistic-cultural agenda and vision. Habima, with its clear quest of taking part in the Zionist vision of building a nation, and its aspirations to become Israel’s national theatre, was the first to produce a cultural and artistic encounter between ‘Jerusalem’ and ‘Athens’. To this end, it introduced classical Greek tragedies into its repertoire in the middle of the 1940s: Racine’s neoclassical tragedy Phaedra (1945) and Oedipus Tyrannus by Sophocles (1947).³ To fully appreciate the pivotal change of repertoire that this decision represented, one must understand

¹ Mikhail M. Bakhtin, ‘Responses to a Question from Novy Mir Editorial Staff ’, in Speech Genres and Other Late Essays, trans. V. W. Macgee, ed. C. Emerson and M. Holquist (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1960), 7. ² On the history of the Hebrew theatre in Eretz-Yisrael between the first Zionist emigration in 1882 and the establishment of the State of Israel in 1948, see Lev-Ari, ‘The Beginnings of Theatre Performances in Eretz-Yisrael, 1889–1904’, and Rokem, ‘Hebrew Theatre from 1889 to 1948’. ³ In this book, the title Oedipus Tyrannus refers to Sophocles’ original play, while Oedipus Rex will denote specific stage productions which used the Roman title of the play.

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Habima’s artistic ethos, as forged at its birth in Moscow in 1917,⁴ under the auspices of the ‘Moscow Art Theatre’. From 1912 onwards, Constantin Stanislavsky encouraged the creation of drama studios of various cultural minorities in the spirit of change, renewal, and artistic freedom that characterized Russia in its early, post-Revolution years.⁵ An important aspect of these drama studios—beyond their use of Stanislavsky’s method of acting—was the intercultural encounters that they each fostered, and their exploration of new artistic languages through theatrical experimentations.⁶ The artistic ethos of the Habima troupe—which started out as a drama studio, then became a collective where all the actors made joint decisions about repertoire and management⁷—emerged as a result of questions they asked about various levels of their theatrical endeavour. At the ideological level, they sought to use their theatrical experience to help promote the goal of national self-determination.⁸ This led to the troupe’s primary and most significant resolution—namely, to perform in Hebrew,⁹ which shaped its artistic character and distinguished it from other Jewish theatrical troupes in Eastern Europe of that period, such as the Vilner Troupe,¹⁰ or the Moscow State Jewish Theatre (GOSET),¹¹ which chose to perform ⁴ Following Nahum Zemach’s failed attempt to establish a dramatic group in Vilna, Lithuania, in 1913. ⁵ Constantin Stanislavsky, My Life in Art (New York: Meridian Books, 1956), 531–41; Andrei Malaev-Babel, ed., The Vakhtangov Sourcebook (London and New York: Routledge, 2011), 35–7. ⁶ Yelena Tartakovsky, ‘Habima between Workshop and Theatre: The Problem of Lack of Artistic Leadership’, Mikan 7 (2006): 29–49. ⁷ Ibid., 35–7. ⁸ ‘Only in Hebrew could Israel express its theatrical story’, wrote A. Kugel, stressing the national significance of this decision. A. Kugel, ‘The Stage of the Liberating Spirit’, in The Genesis of Habima, ed. Norman, 281. ⁹ Norman, ed., The Genesis of Habima, 36. ¹⁰ The Vilner Troupe was founded in Vilna in 1915 by director Lev Kadishson and actors Alexander Azaro and Yaacov Sherman. The group operated in Warsaw until 1923, when it moved to Bucharest and merged with the Romanian Yiddish theatre until its dissolution in the early 1930s. It became famous following the staging of Anski’s The Dybbuk (1920). Its repertoire included Jewish plays by Anski, Shalom Aleichem, and Shalom Asch, and masterpieces by Molière, Ibsen, and Gorky—all in a Realist style. ¹¹ The Moscow State Jewish Theatre (GOSET) was founded by Alexander Granovsky, and began as a Yiddish theatre workshop in Petrograd in 1919. In 1920, it moved to Moscow and became The Jewish Cameri Theatre (inspired by Reinhardt’s Cameri Theatre and the Cameri Theatre of Tairov); in 1925, it became a state theatre. Its repertoire included Jewish plays by Goldfaden, Shalom Aleichem, Y. L. Peretz, and Mendele Mocher Sforim, performed in an Expressionist style forged from a combination of Granovsky’s direction

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in Yiddish.¹² A second key decision was to use the Sephardic pronunciation of Hebrew, as practised in Palestine, rather than the Ashkenazi pronunciation of Eastern Europe.¹³ The issue of repertoire was supposedly deliberately left open, but in reality it reflected the comparative lack of a theatrical tradition in Jewish culture.¹⁴ At the artistic level, Habima’s identity was established by Yevgeny Vakhtangov, one of Stanislavsky’s leading disciples, who served as the troupe’s instructor and director of its plays from 1917 until his death on 29 May 1922. Habima’s actors remained in Moscow until 1926, performing five plays: The Eternal Jew by David Pinsky, directed by Vakhtang Levanovitch Mchedelov (1919); The Dybbuk by Shlomo Anski, directed by Vakhtangov (1922); The Golem by H. Leivik, directed by Boris Vershilov (1925); Jacob’s Dream by Richard Beer-Hoffmann, directed by Boris Sushkevitch (1925); and The Flood by the Swedish playwright Johan Henning Berger, codirected jointly by Vershilov and Yelizabeta Talishova (1925).¹⁵ The list and the unique acting of Solomon Mikhoels and Benyamin Zouskine. Granovsky left Russia in 1929, and Mikhoels continued to run the theatre until he was murdered in 1948, after which the theatre closed. Nina Gourfinkel, ‘Les Théâtres Hébraïque et Yiddish à Moscou’, in L’Expressionisme dans le Théâtre Européen, ed. Denis Bablet and Jean Jacquot (Paris: Editions du Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique, 1984), 311–28. ¹² Simon Goldhill’s interpretation of Heidegger’s statement ‘Die Sprache spricht’ (‘Language speaks’), underlines the importance of the decision to Habima’s artistic ethos as it affects not only speech but also movement and gesture. See Simon Goldhill, ‘Cultural History and Aesthetics: Why Kant is No Place to Start Reception Studies’, in Theorising Performance, ed. Hall and Harrop, 62. ¹³ Norman, ed., The Genesis of Habima, 36. The decision to use the Sephardi pronunciation had been taken in Palestine as part of the conception of modern Israeli culture. See Itamar Even-Zohar, ‘Construction of Culture as an Infrastructure for the Establishment of the State’, in Jewish Time: Jewish Culture in a Secular Age—An Encyclopaedic View, vol. 4, ed. Yirmiyahu Yovel, Yair Tzaban, and David Shaham (Jerusalem: Keter Books, 2007), 215–20. The decision by Habima’s members to emulate that initiative was therefore not a trivial one, but a daring and avant-garde statement of cultural and national revival. ¹⁴ Norman, ed., The Genesis of Habima, 37–41; Menahem Gnessin, My Life with Habima (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 1946), 116–77. ¹⁵ The Eternal Jew (1919, then in a new adaptation in 1923): director—Mchedelov; set and costumes—Georgy Yakulov; music—A. Crane; The Dybbuk (31 January 1922): translation—Haim Nahman Bialik; director—Yevgeny Vakhtangov; set and costumes— Natan Altman; music—Yoel Engel; choreography—Leshchilin; The Golem by H. Leivik (15 March 1925): translation—B. Caspi; director—Boris Vershilov; set and costumes—Ignati Nivinsky; music—Moshe Milner; Jacob’s Dream by Beer-Hoffmann (12 December 1925): translation—S. Ben-Zion; director—Boris Sushkevitch; set and costumes—Reuven Falk; music—M. Milner; The Flood by Johan Henning Berger (20 November 1925): translation— B. Caspi; director—Boris Vershilov and Yelizabeta Talishova; set—A. A. Schierichter; costumes—Immanuel Luftglass. See Kohansky, Hebrew Theatre, 9–85; Nick Worrall,

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of directors and creative teams reveals two of the troupe’s key features: creativity through a blend of cultures—Russian, Armenian (directors and designers), and Jewish (actors and musicians); and linking a cultural minority (Jewish culture) to the universal (European theatrical tradition). While Habima’s repertoire initially tended to echo Jewish national aspirations, its stagecraft, acting style, and the creation of the production’s ensemble were determined by Vakhtangov and the other directors, who used the stage and the actors as a laboratory for original and innovative artistic exploration that deconstructed the insular religious society and culture, and appealed to the personal and universal—especially in the post-Revolution era.¹⁶ This particular combination shaped the character of the troupe, which established its new home in Tel Aviv in 1931, and soon became a key and influential cultural institution. Many of Habima’s actors have left us detailed descriptions of their working methods at the studio with Vakhtangov as well as the directors of the five productions they worked on in Moscow.¹⁷ These testimonies clearly reflect the influence of these directors on Habima’s collective identity and acting style. However, for an accurate idea of Habima’s artistic ethos, one must look beyond Moscow, and trace Habima’s artistic evolution as it toured the Jewish communities of Eastern Europe and Berlin, where it won many fans among theatrical circles and the intelligentsia. The subsequent debates about its performance style, its distinctive features, and its future goals, were also influences that shaped Habima’s national identity and gained it international fame.¹⁸ Habima was viewed in Europe (and subsequently in the United States) as a beacon of artistic excellence, with an international reputation, and a world-renowned star Hanna Rovina. It was a theatre group with symbolic assets, ideological recognition, and a single purpose—to make a significant contribution to modern Hebrew theatrical culture. However, Modernism to Realism on the Soviet Stage: Tairov–Vakhtangov–Okhlopkov (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1989). ¹⁶ Gad Kaynar, ‘National Theatre as Colonized Theatre: The Paradox of Habima’, Theatre Journal 50 (1998): 1–20. ¹⁷ Gnessin, My Life with Habima; Moshe Halevi, My Life on Stage (Tel Aviv: Massada, 1955); David Vardi, In My Way (Tel Aviv: Eked, 1982); Shimon Finkel, On Stage and Backstage (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1968). ¹⁸ Shelly Zer-Zion, ‘The Jewish-German Elite of the Jewish-Zionist Theatre, 1916–1933: Habima and the Eretz-Israeli Theatre in Berlin’, doctoral dissertation (Jerusalem: Hebrew University, 2006).

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the troupe’s notion of national revival and cultural rebirth was not solely about developing local Hebrew culture, but was based on a broad concept of national culture that linked Judaism with universalism, and national culture with international theatrical tradition. Notably, it was exactly this ethos that underlined its foreignness in Tel Aviv’s theatrical scene, when it visited Palestine for the first time in 1926—a foreignness that only became more pronounced when it chose to settle in Tel Aviv in 1931.¹⁹

First Encounters with the Greek Classical Repertoire Habima’s first encounter with ‘Athens’ occurred only in the mid-1940s, amidst public debates about its repertoire and lack of artistic leadership, especially its artistic identity. The principles put forward by Max Brod— the theatre’s literary-repertory adviser from 1939 onwards—included a mix of masterpieces of world drama, traditional Jewish drama, modern (foreign) drama, and modern Hebrew drama and literature, providing scope for a wide choice and a diverse theatrical experience.²⁰ Critics of the theatre, however, accused it of having lost itself in the gulf between ‘there’ (i.e. the Jewish repertoire of its early days in Moscow, which it continued to perform both in Palestine and abroad) and ‘here’—namely, a repertoire reflecting the Eretz-Yisraeli reality of Zionism, immigration, and the difficulties encountered by newcomers, as befits a group purporting to be the country’s leading national theatre. As for the audience, the Yishuv²¹ still saw itself as a largely homogeneous, Jewish-European, cultural entity—notwithstanding the endless ¹⁹ In 1929, while on tour in the United States and in the face of the economic and social crisis, Habima split into two: one part remained in New York and joined the Yiddish theatres that operated there at the time, while the other part immigrated to Palestine and settled in Tel Aviv in 1931. See Mendel Kohansky, Hebrew Theatre, 81–5; Carmit Gai, Hanna Rovina (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1995), 134–89. ²⁰ Shimon Lev-Ari, ‘Max Brod’, Catalogue of Theatre Professionals, the Israeli Center for the Documentation of the Performing Arts (henceforth ICDPA), portfolio #29.4.9; Freddie Rokem, ‘Max Brod as Dramaturg of Habima’, in Proceedings of the Centenary Max Brod Symposium, ed. M. Pazi (Bern and New York: Peter Lang, 1987), 177–92. ²¹ The Yishuv (short for HaYishuv Hayehudi BeEretz-Yisrael—‘The Jewish Settlement in the Land of Israel’), is the common Hebrew name for the pre-independence Zionist Jewish community in Palestine—as distinct from the Hayishuv Hayashan (‘The Old Yishuv’), who were either ‘Pure Sephardi’ descendants of the Spanish Expulsion of the 1490s, or Orthodox (and often anti-Zionist) Ashkenazi Jews.

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squabbling between those of Eastern European versus Central European background, farmers and townsfolk, labourers and merchants, etc. The artists catered to an audience that they were familiar with, and treated it as such. However, due to the lack of theatrical tradition in Jewish culture in general, and in Eastern Europe in particular, Greek plays were regarded as ‘foreign culture’—upmarket, perhaps, but still ‘foreign’.²² The Israeli public’s encounter with the classical Greek repertoire prompted two recurring questions from theatre critics, scholars, and viewers. The first was over the choice of repertoire: How relevant is this (Greek tragedy) to us, in these critical times? This question underscored the plays’ historical-cultural context, and the ‘Athens/Jerusalem’ dichotomy, contrasting ‘inward’ examination with an ‘outward’ outlook— i.e. the notion of engagement with Western culture. The second question was: To what extent were the professional and cultural skills of the production’s creative team and Habima actors up to the task of tackling Greek classical tragedy for the first time, given the inherent challenges posed by issues of interpretation and translation, pronunciation and movement, set design, choreography, music, and mise-en-scène? A related question was: How successful were they in stimulating the public into engaging with the production offered, and in fostering the play’s reception by critics and public alike? With Phaedra and Oedipus Tyrannus, Habima entered previously unknown theatrical territory of Greek tragedy and French neoclassical drama²³—worlds that hitherto had not only been thought of as foreign, but which also compelled the production’s creative team and spectators to make an unaccustomed leap back in time, and grapple with the unfamiliar theatrical style, performance, and conventions of neoclassicism. Moreover, the importance of these two encounters with Western classical theatre lay in the fact that these were aesthetic challenges of the sort that Habima had previously experienced only with works such as those of Calderón de la Barca, Shakespeare, Molière, and Schiller.²⁴

²² Moshe Lissak, Studies in Israeli Social History (Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 2009), 15–157; Shmuel N. Eisenstadt, Tradition, Change and Modernity (New York: John Wiley, 1973), chapter 4. ²³ Notwithstanding a secondary school production of Racine’s Esther by the earliest Zionist settlers in the 1890s. See Rokem, ‘Hebrew Theatre from 1889 to 1948’, 57. ²⁴ Calderón de la Barca—David’s Crown, directed by Alexei Diky, 1929; Shakespeare— Twelfth Night, directed by Michael Chekhov, 1930, and The Merchant of Venice, directed by

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These challenges distanced it from both the Jewish tradition and the Israeli context, raising fundamental questions for the troupe and its various directors about aspects of the theatrical enterprise—such as translation, directing, acting, stage design, costumes, lighting, and music.

Racine’s Phaedra: first encounter, by proxy (1945) Phaedra by Racine (1677), staged by Habima in 1945, was an example of a neoclassical ‘rewriting’ of Euripides’ Hippolytus and Seneca’s Phaedra, in the language, conventions, and style of seventeenth-century French theatre, but translated and directed to suit the cultural mind-set of a contemporary Tel Aviv audience.²⁵ The decision to stage this particular play is surprising, due to the fact that neither the production’s creative team nor the audience had any experience with ancient Greek tragedy or neoclassical French tragedy.²⁶ So why was this particular play chosen? The artistic biography of director Zvi Friedland and the list of plays that he directed in the 1930s and 1940s offer no clear answer. This is all the more intriguing, given that he never again staged a classical Greek or a Racine tragedy, despite Phaedra’s popular and critical acclaim in Israel and Paris. In his outline of Zvi Friedland’s artistic career years later, actor Shimon Finkel dubbed him ‘an actors’ director’—one who chooses plays with major parts to suit the stage persona of the troupe’s leading actors.²⁷ In this instance, Friedland chose Phaedra because it provided a lead role for Habima’s star, Hanna Rovina, and challenging roles for her partners: Shimon Finkel, Aharon Meskin, Ina Govinskaya, Fanny Lubitsch, and Yehoshua Bertonov.²⁸ Each of them entered the stage with their own Leopold Jessner, 1936; Molière—The Imaginary Invalid, directed by Leopold Lindberg, 1934; and Schiller—William Tell, directed by Leopold Jessner, 1936. ²⁵ The premiere was held on 28 April 1945: director—Zvi Friedland; translator—Natan Alterman; stage design—Ishay Kolibiansky; lighting—Y. Kuperman; music—A. A. Boskovitz. In the leading roles were: Hanna Rovina (Phaedra); Shimon Finkel (Hippolytus); Aharon Meskin (Theseus); Ina Govinskaya (Oenone); Fanny Lubitsch (Aricia); and Shlomo Bertonov (Theramenes). ²⁶ To this day, Phaedra is the only play by Racine—and the only neoclassical tragedy— that has been translated and staged in Israel. ²⁷ Shimon Finkel was one of Habima’s leading actors. An intellectual and artistic leader, he became the theatre’s artistic director (1970–4) following the dissolution of the collective in 1969. In his eleven books he documented Habima’s achievements as well as his own, thereby making a valuable contribution to Habima’s historiography. ²⁸ It is interesting to note that although Habima’s actors were active in Moscow until 1926, they do not mention in their biographies if they saw performances of classical Greek

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individual artistic image created from the roles that they had portrayed in the past and which had imprinted on the spectators’ memories over the years.²⁹ Friedland, who had begun his career as an actor in Habima and was profoundly influenced by Vakhtangov’s ideas, saw actors as ‘priests’ who served at the altar of theatrical arts by awakening the ‘enhanced soul’ within them.³⁰ This guided both his work as a director of Habima’s actors, and his decision to train budding actors in a drama studio established within the theatre.³¹ The play was translated by Israeli poet Natan Alterman.³² It was his second translation for the theatre, and proved to be one of the production’s most significant achievements.³³ In an introduction to the play’s publication in Hebrew, he wrote: The play Phaedra was [originally] written entirely in rhyming verse. This translation does not rhyme, with the exception of a few passages—mainly monologues. The idea of combining rhyming passages with a straightforward translation is one that I borrowed from the Russian translator of Phaedra, Baryusov—I also followed his cue in the choice of the rhyming passages as well, and am obliged to his translation for help in a number of other details, as well. In the transliteration of the names I went according to what suits the contemporary Hebrew ear rather than their Greek pronunciation.

drama by other directors—such as Alexander Tairov’s innovative Phaedra performed at the Kamerny Theatre in Moscow (1922), or Smyshiálev’s Oresteia by Moscow Academic Art Theatre II (1926). See Dimitry Trubotchkin, ‘Agamemnon in Russia’, in Agamemnon in Performance 458 BC to AD 2004, ed. Fiona Macintosh, Pantelis Michelakis, Edith Hall, and Oliver Taplin (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 255–71. ²⁹ Carlson, Haunted Stage, 52–95. Rovina, for example, took the stage with the popular title of ‘Mother of the Nation’, following her roles as the mother in Pinsky’s The Eternal Jew, Irwin Shaw’s Mutiny of the Dead, and in Capek’s The Mother. ³⁰ ‘Enhanced soul’ is a Judaic notion linking the soul to the idea of devotion and holiness. It stems from the belief that on the Sabbath, every Jew receives an ‘extra’ or ‘enhanced soul’ for the duration of the Sabbath. ³¹ From Vakhtangov’s diary on 3 November 1917, as quoted by Shimon Finkel, Glittering (Tel Aviv: Eked, 1985), 65–6. ³² Natan Alterman (1910–70) was a noted poet, journalist, and translator. His first introduction to the stage world was when he wrote songs for the cabaret programmes of the satirical theatre Hamataté (‘The Broom’), established in 1928. His success there (over ten years and twenty-eight programmes) won him the titles ‘Prince of the Ditty’ and ‘Poet of the Lightness of Life’. In the early 1940s, he began translating plays for the major theatres— from English, German, French, and Yiddish. See Dan Laor, Natan Alterman: A Biography (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 2013). ³³ Alterman’s translation remains the only translation of the play into Hebrew, and indeed the only translation of any play of Racine’s into Hebrew.

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Alterman’s translation was faithful to Racine’s original, verse by verse, but pitted neoclassical French with modern Hebrew. Racine’s alexandrines were rendered into contemporary poetic Hebrew that combined grandeur and simplicity—a balanced verse with the metre characteristic of modernist Hebrew poetry of the 1930s and 1940s, as pioneered by Avraham Shlonsky and Alterman himself, and which they also introduced in their translations of Shakespearean drama.³⁴ ‘He [Alterman] has created a supreme yet comprehensible literary idiom’, wrote theatre critic Emil Feuerstein.³⁵ Alterman changed the names of the characters from their French versions (Thésée, Hippolyte, Aricie, and Théramène), to their more familiar Latin versions (Theseus, Hippolytus, Arikia, and Theramenes), thereby directing the spectators to Racine’s own sources, Euripides and Seneca, and highlighting the diverse perspectives involved in staging a Greek play in Israel via France. Some critics commented on this decision, and felt the need, as cultural agents, to express regret that Racine’s Phaedra had been translated into Hebrew before Euripides’ Hippolytus.³⁶ Most importantly, however, the translation was geared towards the actors and the audiences, in recognition of the legitimacy of spoken Hebrew and the need for the text to be readily comprehensible to the spectators. ‘The actors’ role has been made easier by Alterman’s wonderfully communicative translation, which manages to render Racine’s refined—at times near-pedantic—idiom, without, thankfully, slavishly attempting at maintaining continuous rhyming for its own sake’, wrote P. Munk.³⁷ Lea Goldberg added: Alterman’s translation has given the actors a wonderful opportunity to deliver poetry clearly, logically, with varied emphasis of emotion. It is a significant achievement—not only for the Hebrew stage, but for Hebrew literature in general, which has gained a classical addition.³⁸

³⁴ See ‘Shakespeare’s Plays in Hebrew’—a series of articles by Dan Miron in Haaretz, May–June 1963. ³⁵ Emil Feuerstein, ‘Phaedra at Habima’, Gazit 8–9, vol. 7 (1945): 8–10. ³⁶ Baruch Bachstitz, ‘Hippolytus and Phaedra’, Bamah 1 (January 1946): 54–7. ³⁷ P. Munk, ‘Phaedra by Racine’, Hagalgal, II. 34 (17 May 1945): 16. S. Bar-Mordechai, ‘Phaedra at Habima’, Haboker, 11 May 1945. ³⁸ Lea Goldberg, ‘Phaedra’, Al Hamishmar, 13 May 1945. Goldberg (1911–70) was a noted poet, author of prose for adults and children, playwright, translator, and scholar, as

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Phaedra’s translation caused a stir in local theatre circles at the time. Theatre critic Haim Gamzu—who, like Alterman, had studied in Paris and shared his fluency in French—wrote: Alterman’s translation is a re-creation: the liberty that he has taken with Racine’s text in various passages, and his decision to forgo rhyming throughout most of the play, are not surprising to anyone comparing the original with the translation. It stems from a communion with the playwright’s spirit, and the sacrifice is not one of literary substance, but a kind of release from shackles, whose preservation might have robbed the poetry of its flight.³⁹

While the translation marked the birth of a new and poetic stage Hebrew, far removed from the everyday Hebrew normally used in local playwriting at that time, the production itself was not particularly innovative. In fact, it repeated Habima’s East European conventional set design, costumes, makeup, and wigs that were employed in productions of historical plays, and as such was much like most of the previous Habima productions. The production’s set design demonstrated how director Friedland and designer Ishay Kolibiansky managed to convey the temporal remoteness and the compounded cultural foreignness of ancient Greece in a romantic setting that was nevertheless readily accessible to all. It was suggestive of an abstract archaic place, with a white statue of the goddess Athena serving as the place of worship for all gods. Phaedra kneels beside it in prayer to a ‘begrudging Aphrodite’ (Act III, Scene 2), and Theseus to Poseidon (Act IV, Scene 2). The set, lighting, mise-en-scène, and vocal orchestration provided ‘a wonderful framework for the drama taking place in the hearts’.⁴⁰ Friedland used lighting to highlight the characters’ mental states—such as Oenone, devastated, standing at the gate overlooking the sea with her back to the audience, or Theseus at the gate, lit from behind to suggest a silhouette of a figure full of sorrow.⁴¹ The musical

well as a literary and theatre critic. See Jewish Women’s Archive, (accessed 18 July 2016). ³⁹ Haim Gamzu, ‘Phaedra at Habima Theatre’, Haaretz, 4 May 1945. Dr Gamzu (1910–82) was a leading art and theatre critic, who went on to found the Beit-Zvi School of Drama, and co-found the Tel Aviv Museum, and serve as its first director for fifteen years (1962–77). ⁴⁰ Feuerstein, ‘Phaedra at Habima’. ⁴¹ Gamzu, ‘Phaedra at Habima Theatre’; Bar-Mordechai, ‘Phaedra at Habima’.

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interludes between the scenes were ‘ceremonial and with the right degree of pathos as befits the tragic plot, without calling attention to itself ’.⁴² This composition of the stage image was characteristic of Friedland and Habima’s productions at that time. Unlike the traditional static character of neoclassical productions, Friedland’s mise-en-scène was full of movement. Each scene began with a set piece, with dramatic moments emphasized by the actors flinging themselves to the ground, and Phaedra alternately kneeling and reclining, in a manner reminiscent of the mise-en-scène of The Eternal Jew.⁴³ According to Dorit Yerushalmi, ‘this is a theatrical aesthetic that produces romantic stage spectacles that have cemented Habima’s artistic preeminence among critics, and hence, too, its national image, during the 1930s and first half of the 1940s.’⁴⁴ Thus, through its own aesthetic ethos, Habima’s theatricality embraced Racine’s neoclassical tragedy and brought Phaedra to the stage. Lea Goldberg thought Friedland’s choices to be a gross deviation from the traditional performance style of Racine’s tragedy, and rightly reminded her readers of the importance of restraint in the neoclassical acting style.⁴⁵ Her review highlighted the clash between the immobility of French neoclassic acting style that grew out of Racine’s dramatic form, and the excessive movement of Friedland’s mise-en-scène in Habima’s traditional acting style. However, she misunderstood the reasons for Friedland’s choices, and ignored his wish to use the acting style to overcome the foreign nature of the world of Greek classical tragedy and neoclassical tragedy for his actors and spectators. To understand what Friedland and Habima’s actors brought to their respective parts when portraying Racine’s tragic characters, we must apply Barthes’ observation of the ‘text’ as ‘a tissue of quotations drawn from innumerable centers of culture’, to the notion of a performance text ⁴² Goldberg, ‘Phaedra’. ⁴³ A photo from the first performance of The Eternal Jew shows Zvi Friedland in the role of the prophet, and Hanna Rovina as the Messiah’s mother, kneeling at his feet, arms extended towards him in a pleading or appealing gesture—a recurring pose in many of her roles. ICDPA portfolio #4.4.4. ⁴⁴ Dorit Yerushalmi, ‘Mainstream Theatre from Mandatory Palestine to Present-day Israel through the Narrative of Directors and Directing Patterns’, doctoral dissertation (Tel Aviv University, 2004), 66. See also M. Bronzeft, ‘The Art of Set Design at Habima’, Bamah 4–5 (1937): 57–63. ⁴⁵ Goldberg, ‘Phaedra’.

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and the practical experience of acting, and hark back to Moscow, to the instruction that Habima’s actors received from Vakhtangov.⁴⁶ For them, Vakhtangov had been teacher, director, leader, and educator.⁴⁷ He taught them what he had learned himself from his teachers Stanislavsky and Leopold Sulerzhitsky: not to separate the physical image from the mind; to combine inner work (developing the internal imagination, and the actor’s sensory and emotional ability) with external work (physical work, rhythm, sound, and development of the physical memory hidden in the actor’s body), to reach a creative state and uncover the character’s human truth lying hidden within the fabric of the play, and the actor’s creative individuality.⁴⁸ As a director, Vakhtangov had learned from Stanislavsky the need for dynamic search and artistic study, so as not to lose sight of the truth during the artistic styling of the mise-en-scène. After 1918, he was also influenced by Meyerhold’s explorations of theatricality and Theatre of the Grotesque.⁴⁹ After staging Ibsen’s Rosmersholm, which he directed at the first studio of the Moscow Art Theatre,⁵⁰ he went on to experiment with Fantastic Realism—the distinctive directing style that he developed and expanded during his work with Habima’s actors on The Dybbuk. The partnership forged between Vakhtangov and the Habima actors was undoubtedly formative for both parties.⁵¹ Vakhtangov focused on developing their physical expression and musicality of movement, shaping the actors’ movement in the stage space, while deepening and enhancing the Jewish cultural attributes that they brought with them from their Jewish background—the body language, movement, and voice ⁴⁶ Barthes, Image, Music, Text, 146. ⁴⁷ Baruch Tchemerinsky, ‘Yvgeni Vakhtangov (On His Moral Form)’, Theatre & Art 12–13, ‘The Habima Issue’ to mark its first decade, 1918–28 (15 December 1928): 5–6. ⁴⁸ Malaev-Babel, The Vakhtangov Sourcebook, 9–27. ⁴⁹ For Vakhtangov, ‘Grotesque’ acting was not one of exaggerated or vulgar style, but a technique that made it possible to express the profound and secret content of a work through extreme expressiveness. The name that he gave this style—‘Fantastic Realism’— echoes its blend of realism and theatricality. Odette Aslan, ‘Vakhtangov, Le Dibouk’, Les Voies de la Création Théâtrale 7 (1979): 155–241 (189, n. 75). ⁵⁰ The Dybbuk catapulted Vakhtangov, Altman, and the troupe’s members onto the world stage. In it, Vakhtangov orchestrated every stage cue into a visual symphony of a plainly Expressionist style—from the actors’ physical and vocal work, through Altman’s set with its somewhat fantastical and distorted ‘interworld’ stage image, to the actors’ makeup, which was more like a painted mask than conventional theatrical makeup. ⁵¹ Jeanette R. Malkin, ‘Transforming in Public: Jewish Actors on the German Stage’, in Jews and the Making of Modern German Theatre, ed. Jeanette R. Malkin and Freddie Rokem (Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 2010), 151–73.

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and the emotional patterns of Jewish culture in which they had grown up—and forging them into a significant element of their acting art, which in the main was a mixture of ecstasy and expressiveness. ‘The artist assimilates the symbols and distils them to the point of total expression’, he repeatedly told them.⁵² This expressiveness was best illustrated in Habima’s third staged production, The Dybbuk, which premiered in Moscow on 31 January 1922. The Dybbuk evoked a Hassidic, Eastern European world, in which piety, sanctification, and communion with God were expressed through prayer, movement, dance, and ecstasy—hallmarks that Vakhtangov imprinted upon the style that he formulated for the actors: ‘The hands are the eyes of the body. Think about the hands that your characters must have. Love the physical image that you present, connect to its deep meaning’, he told them.⁵³ As for speech, Vakhtangov drew upon the musical resonance of synagogue prayers—something close to the hearts of the actors and their audiences. ‘How did Habima manage to penetrate to the deepest recesses of the authentic popular Jewish culture, and how did Vakhtangov, a man who in his blood was foreign to that culture, capture the musical, gripping, searing and erupting spirit of Judaism?’ wondered the poet and literary critic Georgy Adamovich, after watching The Dybbuk in Paris in 1937, reminding us of the important role of the ‘foreign regard’ that Bakhtin suggested in his notion of ‘outsidedness’.⁵⁴ Vakhtangov’s approach was not technical: when working on the text he focused on intonation, harmony, and the punctuation of words, movements, and gestures. All these, he said, were essential to producing a clear and convincing dialogue. He translated the Hassidic Jewish body language into Habima’s stage language.⁵⁵ This performance language became the acting style and technique of all the troupe’s actors. The power of this language was evident in the enthusiasm and excitement ⁵² Gourfinkel, ‘Les Théâtres Hébraïque’; Yevgeny Vakhtangov, ‘Fantastic Realism’, in Directors on Directing, ed. Toby Cole and Helen Krich Chinoy (New York: Bobbs-Merrill, 1963), 185–91. ⁵³ Gourfinkel, ‘Les Théâtres Hébraïque’, 320. ⁵⁴ See Bakhtin’s epigraph to this chapter. See also Olga Levitan, ‘The Dybbuk: Documents and Testimonies from the Russian Discourse’, in Please Do Not Exorcise Me: A Re-examination of the Dybbuk, ed. S. Levy and D. Yerushalmi (Tel Aviv: Assaph/Theatre Studies & Safra Publishing House, 2009), 57–8. ⁵⁵ Malaev-Babel, The Vakhtangov Sourcebook, 58–64.

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that gripped spectators as they watched The Dybbuk, in Moscow, Berlin, Paris, or Tel Aviv. Yitzhak Katzenelson wrote: Vakhtangov has shown Man’s ‘face’ and his organs—from soul to flesh: arms extended, folded, moving, suggesting, talking—hand-souls, as it were. How poetic is the human face with Vakhtangov!⁵⁶

Meyerhold noted that ‘the language of gestures in dance, while the music is playing, is astonishing’.⁵⁷ Nikolai Evreinov wrote that ‘although I don’t understand Hebrew, I was repeatedly—rhythmically—shaken by the power of the theatrical plot, and at times got swept along with the actors into an excited state of self-forgetfulness.’⁵⁸ Max Reinhardt marvelled: The dance of the beggars, with all its fantasy, has the effect of a religious frenzy that is out of this world. Only total devotion to art makes such acting possible. This fervent belief of the actors in the art is the most characteristic component of this troupe.⁵⁹

After watching The Dybbuk, Evreinov predicted that Vakhtangov would remain forever within the bodies of Habima’s actors—like a proverbial dybbuk. He was right: they brought the psychophysical method of working that he had developed with them to each of the productions that they performed in. This was very apparent in Phaedra, since Friedland, too, had studied and grown up with them under Vakhtangov’s wing— in line with his championing of ‘internal direction’⁶⁰—and he directed ⁵⁶ Yitzhak Katznelson, ‘Vakhtangov’s The Dybbuk’, Theatre & Art 12–13 (December 1928): 10. Similar views were expressed in the reviews by Kugel, ‘The Stage of the Liberating Spirit’, 282, and A. L. Valinsky, ‘Theatre of Jews’, in The Genesis of Habima, ed. Norman, 268–78. Katznelson’s powerful description, in which the entire body is summed up as a profound ‘image’ of the ‘face’, anticipates the notion of face in Emmanuel Levinas, Totality and Infinity: An Essay on Exteriority (The Hague: M. Nijhoff, 1979), 187–203. See also Judith Butler, Precarious Life: The Powers of Mourning and Violence (London: Verso, 2004). ⁵⁷ Vsevolod Meyerhold, A Bogus Teacher and the Issue of Performance Built on Music: Articles, Letters, Speeches, Conversations (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1968), 86. ⁵⁸ N. Y. Evreinov, ‘The Theatrical Tetragrammaton’, in The Genesis of Habima, ed. Norman, 264–5. ⁵⁹ Max Reinhardt, in an interview in Vienna 1926, in The Genesis of Habima, ed. Norman, 341. ⁶⁰ The ‘internal direction’—namely, choosing the ‘resident director’ from among the troupe’s actors—was one of the collective’s artistic innovations. It was first used in George Bernard Shaw’s The Devil’s Disciple, directed by Zvi Friedland in 1931, and produced two of the theatre’s leading directors: Friedland, who directed some fifty plays, mostly from the world repertoire, and Baruch Tcherminsky, who directed twenty plays—especially adaptations of Jewish fiction for the stage. See Yerushalmi, ‘Mainstream Theatre’, 51–72, and

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the play with emphatic use of their voices and stage movements. Thus, the apparent clash between the static acting of Racine’s neoclassical French style and the over-expressive nature of Habima’s acting style that Goldberg remarked upon was in fact a theatrical dialogue between Racine’s interpretation of ‘Athens’ and Vakhtangov’s perception of ‘Jerusalem’. The resulting encounter between Habima and Racine’s Phaedra met with a mixed reception among critics. Munk praised what he regarded as a successful distinction maintained between the two cultural traditions of ‘Athens and Jerusalem’. Gamzu suggested that Rovina’s name was worthy of being cited alongside those of Rachelle and Sarah Bernhardt—two Jewish actors who had played the role of Phaedra with great success on the French stage—but thought that the result was a hybrid, in which Rovina came across ‘not so much Phaedra of Crete, but as a Jewish queen’. As for Meskin, he wrote: Meskin/Theseus, with his acting mannerisms, is more akin to King David than to Theseus King of Athens—David the victorious warrior, rich in love adventures, but especially to David who is bitterly mourning his son’s death. Because in no poetry, anywhere, has drama given such powerful expression to a father’s pain, as it is in the Holy Scriptures.

Despite these reservations, the production was a great success with critics and spectators alike: ‘The poetic translation, the expressive speech— particularly once it gets into its stride—are capable of making Phaedra one of Habima’s greatest artistic achievements’, concluded Gamzu. Particularly commended were the rhythmic speech, the clear diction, and the expression of the characters’ inner colourfulness in the production’s vocal orchestration: ‘The people’s voices are the true struggling characters here’, wrote Goldberg. As usual, Rovina won the greatest plaudits: ‘It is difficult to imagine a character whose carriage, voice, her entire figure and appearance are more suited to this role. There is a perfect match here between the actor’s personality and the role she is playing’, wrote Goldberg. ‘Phaedra is one of Hanna Rovina’s most polished roles, offering more subtle and varied

Dwora Gilula, ‘The First Greek Drama on the Hebrew Stage: Tyrone Guthrie’s Oedipus Tyrannus at the Habima’, Theatre Research International 13.2 (1988): 131–46.

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emotional transitions than any other role she has portrayed in recent years’, wrote Bar-Mordechai.⁶¹ Several themes repeatedly arose in the reviews: the dramaturgical decisions; the importance of cultural values to be included in the neoclassical masterpiece and the universality of its meaning; the importance of engaging with ‘foreign’ cultures—ancient Greece and seventeenth-century France—for the development of Israeli theatre; and the inevitable comparisons that one makes between ‘Athens’ and ‘Jerusalem’ while watching the performance. The question of the play’s ‘foreignness’ also cropped up repeatedly in the critics’ reviews as part of a wider debate about ‘foreign influences’ on Jewish art.⁶² The need to bring the audience closer to the mythical world depicted in the neoclassical play is clearly evident in the performance’s programme notes and in the reviews by the learned theatre critics, who saw themselves as playing an important role as cultural agents supporting the introduction of neoclassical theatre into Habima’s repertoire. Thus, in addition to discussing the play itself, the critics’ reviews also provided explanations about the mythological world it portrayed. Gamzu, for example, used the romantic, soft, and seductive style of a children’s fairy tale to invite spectators to familiarize themselves with the world of Homer. He went on to give a detailed account of the background to Racine’s storyline, and outlined his innovations, the hallmarks of Corneille’s and Racine’s neoclassical writing, and the poetic style, rhyming metre, and light-hearted tone of Racine’s tragedy. Only after this extensive background briefing did he begin commenting on the ‘direction, set, and musical accompaniment’—as though acknowledging the important role he played as a cultural agent and as intermediary between the work and the audience. The production marked a new direction for Habima, and a promising future: ‘Phaedra is an important and valuable artistic-literary event, which will likely have a positive impact on the Yishuv’s cultural life’, wrote Feuerstein.⁶³ Indeed, to some extent this success was what made it possible, a year later, for Habima to invite Tyrone Guthrie to direct Oedipus Tyrannus.

⁶¹ Bar-Mordechai, ‘Phaedra at Habima’. ⁶² Munk, ‘Phaedra by Racine’. ⁶³ Feuerstein, ‘Phaedra at Habima’.

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Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus: the first direct dialogue (1947) In her survey of the productions of Oedipus Tyrannus in the Western theatre, Fiona Macintosh notes the significance of the staging of that tragedy in the immediate aftermath of the Second World War: Sophocles’ tragedy clearly spoke to the audiences of Europe in the immediate post-war period, because it showed an exemplary hero embattled and yet ennobled by his suffering at the hands of a seemingly arbitrary fate.⁶⁴

She goes to quote the words of the director Michel Saint-Denis, who had directed Oedipus Rex at the Old Vic in 1946: I put on Oedipus Rex just after the war, because the tragedy of the hero caught in the snare of Fate seemed to me to correspond to the tragedy in our time.⁶⁵

Oedipus Tyrannus premiered in Tel Aviv at a turbulent time in Palestine, both socially and politically. After the Second World War, the Yishuv redoubled its efforts to put an end to British Mandatory rule and to hasten the departure of the British from the country. Rehearsals were conducted amidst attacks by the Jewish underground organizations Irgun and Lehi against the British, and generally by efforts of Jewish and Arab militant groups to gain control of the region. The premiere took place three months before Israel’s declaration of independence, and the ensuing outbreak of its War of Independence and the arrival of Holocaust survivors who had been held in displaced persons (DP) camps in Cyprus after being denied entry into the country by the British military. Guthrie later recounted how the context of these events gave the rehearsals a theatrical framework.⁶⁶ Theatre critic Mendel Kohansky, who attended the premiere, described the dangers facing spectators as they left the theatre at the end of the show: ‘We heard explosions outside the theatre, and a British armoured car drove by and sprayed the street with bullets.’⁶⁷ Although there was no hint on stage of the events taking place outside the theatre at the time, Oedipus Tyrannus came to ⁶⁴ Fiona Macintosh, Sophocles: Oedipus Tyrannus (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 148. ⁶⁵ Michel Saint-Denis’ production of Oedipus Rex was staged in a translation by W. B. Yeats at the New Theatre in London in October 1946, with Laurence Olivier in the title role, and Sybil Thorndike as Jocasta. ⁶⁶ Tyrone Guthrie, A Life in the Theatre (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1959), 262–5. ⁶⁷ Kohansky, Hebrew Theatre, 139.

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symbolize an entire nation in a tragic trap, fighting to control its fate and to survive, in the face of the challenges that it faced in the first half of the twentieth century. Tyrone Guthrie was the first foreign director to be invited to direct at Habima after the Second World War. His choice of Oedipus Tyrannus was for purely artistic reasons, and had nothing to do with the historical context of Habima in Tel Aviv. However, as he later explained in his autobiography, ‘foreignness’ and cultural distance played an important role in his repertory choice: It seemed sensible to suggest a classic, but not an English classic; something which should be as foreign to me as to Habima, but which should be of sufficiently universal significance to transcend the geographical and racial differences between us and the temporal difference between all of us and the play. We agreed upon Oedipus Tyrannus.⁶⁸

The accounts given of the rehearsals and the performance, the reviews in newspapers, and the memoirs of the director and cast, reveal a sense of foreignness in the creative team but also a sense of challenge. Guthrie, a noted Irish director and artistic director of the Old Vic Theatre, had first encountered the Habima troupe in 1937, during their tour of Europe, and was so taken by their performance that he went up to the stage afterwards to congratulate them, much to their delight. Ten years later, they invited him to Habima. The decision to stage Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus was therefore fundamentally an artistic one: he knew what the actors were capable of, and that the play would provide a worthy challenge to their performance skills, and serve both as a common ground and a creative driver.⁶⁹ For him, the Western theatrical tradition served as a common denominator between himself, the actors, and the audience—one that would allow them to transcend, as he put it, ‘the geographical and racial differences between us’.⁷⁰ He knew little about Jewish culture, nor was he troubled by whether local audiences could

⁶⁸ Guthrie, A Life in the Theatre, 259. However, it is evident that by making this choice, Guthrie unknowingly turned Bakhtin’s insight (see the epigraph to this chapter) into theatrical practice. ⁶⁹ For similar reasons, Guthrie decided to cast Charles Laughton in the role of Macbeth at the Old Vic in 1933, although Laughton had never performed a Shakespearean role before. Guthrie, A Life in the Theatre, 118–19. ⁷⁰ In keeping with the language of the period, by ‘racial’ he meant ‘cultural’.

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relate to certain parts of the play or were alienated by it. As he saw it, the difficulties in directing the play boiled down to the differences between English classical plays and Greek classical plays, to the geographical distance between London and Tel Aviv, and to the distance between ‘today’ (i.e. 1947) and ‘then’ (namely, 429 BCE)—much as they would be had he directed the play in Stockholm, London, or Stratford in Canada (as, indeed, he went on to do, on six more occasions in his extensive theatrical career).⁷¹ Guthrie’s matter-of-fact pronouncement, however, still begs the question: How did the actors see the play? Did they think that Oedipus was ‘a hero wrestling with his fate’? Even if they shared Guthrie’s belief in the play’s significance as a masterpiece of Western theatre tradition, did they feel it was part of their own tradition? Why did they accept Guthrie’s choice of play? The evidence suggests that the Habima actors eagerly rose to the artistic challenge that he placed before them, and that it suited their reputation as a troupe that was noted for the quality of its artistic performance, and as the nation’s flagship theatre constantly on the lookout for artistic and aesthetic challenges. No less importantly, ever since their time with Vakhtangov in Moscow, they were a troupe in search of a director-leader—someone who could lead them to new challenges, and to a new theatricality through which they could develop and enrich the exceptional skills that they had developed under their previous directors.⁷² And they found what they had been looking for. Working with Guthrie proved to be a period of great enthusiasm and theatrical celebration.⁷³ Finkel described it as ‘rare’, concluding: ‘We all had the feeling that Guthrie was opening up a brave, new and wide-open world for us—one that we had never had in our theatres, and which eclipsed

⁷¹ It is interesting to note the evolution of Guthrie’s theatrical language through his directing of Oedipus Tyrannus. Several months after its run in Tel Aviv, Guthrie directed the play at the Swedish Theatre in Helsinki, in a production very similar to the one in Tel Aviv in terms of set, lighting, and mise-en-scène—but on a different scale, thanks to a much larger stage, and with very different, very Nordic costumes. By 1956, however, his production in Stratford (Ontario), featured a completely different stage language. ⁷² From the time they left Moscow, the Habima actors had worked with well-known directors and tried to interest them in managing the troupe—including Russian directors Aleksei Diky, Mikhail Chekhov, and Alexander Granowski, and German directors Leopold Lindberg and Leopold Jessner—but all chose to leave the group after directing one or two plays. See Tartakovsky, ‘Habima between Workshop and Theatre’. ⁷³ Max Brod, ‘Habima behind the Scenes’, Hagalal IV. 31 (27 February 1947): 11.

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everything we had previously done.’⁷⁴ Like Vakhtangov and other foreign directors who had worked with Habima in Moscow, Berlin, and Tel Aviv, Guthrie did not speak Hebrew, so the actors chose the Hebrew translation themselves. The only translation of the play from ancient Greek at that time was by leading Hebrew poet and translator, Shaul Tchernichovsky, published in 1929.⁷⁵ Tchernichovsky, who in his poetry had blended Jewish tradition with an admiration for ancient Greek art and the Hellenic ideal of beauty, had translated Oedipus Tyrannus (and many other works of ancient Greek literature, including Homer’s The Iliad and The Odyssey) out of a sense of Zionist mission and in the somewhat romantic hope of establishing a library of national epics in Hebrew. However, his approach to translation was different from that of his contemporaries, because his notion of Enlightenment was universal. As Aminadav Dykman put it: Tchernichovsky was the first to feel utterly committed to the original, full text [ . . . ] While other translators of the Jewish Enlightenment era would ‘Judaize’ the texts, for one reason or another, by omitting certain passages or history and adding words of their own [ . . . ] Tchernichovsky would truly translate—in the full sense of the word—matching the original text, word for word, with Hebrew equivalents.⁷⁶

Tchernichovsky had opted to translate the play into biblical Hebrew, thinking that this would allow him to convey the linguistic archaic richness of the ancient Greek and its musicality—‘melody, metric, pace, rhythm and tone’⁷⁷—and provide the necessary bridge between ‘Athens’ and ‘Jerusalem’. The result was that the actors who first played the parts of Oedipus, Creon, Jocasta, Tiresias, and the chorus spoke the language of the Prophets. One might say that Tchernichovsky’s translation glorified the original text and sought to convey it in a verse-by-verse translation faithful to biblical Hebrew language and culture. He preserved ⁷⁴ Finkel, Glittering, 11. ⁷⁵ Shaul Tchernichovsky (b. 1875 in the Crimea, d. 1943 in Tel Aviv), was one of the leading Hebrew poets and translators of the first half of the twentieth century. He was fascinated by Hellenic civilization—especially the Hellenic ideal of beauty—which he expressed in his famous poem In Front of the Statue of Apollo. ⁷⁶ Aminadav Dykman, ‘A Great Poet, a Great Translator’, Haaretz–Books, 9 June 1999. ⁷⁷ Oliver Taplin emphasized the importance of these elements in the textual fabric/ substance of the Greek tragedies and the challenge they offer to contemporary translators in his paper ‘The Harrison Version: “So long that it’s become a song” ’, in Agamemnon in Performance, ed. Macintosh et al., 235–51.

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the original line structure, and took an anthropological approach by choosing words that underlined the plot’s archaic tone. At the same time, he steered the plot to the theatrical space between ‘Athens’ and ‘Jerusalem’—for example, by frequently referring to the god by his Hebrew name Elohim, and carefully choosing words full of emotion and compassion in Oedipus’ response to his fellow countrymen’s appeal. Despite its many virtues, Tchernichovsky’s translation underlined the challenges of performance. The fact that the translation was done in the Ukraine before he had immigrated to Palestine highlighted the differences between the Hebrew of the Eastern European diaspora and that which had evolved in Palestine since 1896, in terms of vocabulary and pronunciation. The actors soon found that they had to make many revisions to Tchernichovsky’s text to create a performance text that they could fluently declaim, and which the spectators could readily understand at first hearing. Since Tchernichovsky was no longer alive, they turned to one of the leading poets of the new generation, Avraham Shlonsky—a young innovator of the modern Hebrew language and a Hebrew poetry modernist—to convert Tchernichovsky’s biblical prose into theatrical text. Not knowing Greek, Shlonsky followed Tchernichovsky’s verses, and managed to infuse the text with a fluent cadence that was familiar to the ears of Eretz-Yisraeli audiences. The result was a celebration of the Hebrew language. Tchernichovsky’s translation struck a chord with local audiences and the self-appointed ‘cultural agents’ alike, and was rapturously received: ‘A supreme achievement for the Hebrew language, which conveys the nuanced richness of the Greek original with wonderful musicality’, wrote Munk.⁷⁸ And Dov Ber Malkin praised it enthusiastically: It is a cause for celebration for Hebrew poetry that one of its greatest poets [Tchernichovsky] has put such words in the mouth of this great Greek, and the idioms of the language reborn in the twentieth century after the Graeco-Hebrew ‘revolution’ has become a means of expressing [ . . . ] a work dating back to its early days, to the days of the wise men of Athens and the prophets of Jerusalem. Tchernichovsky was no doubt smiling that evening from his seat in the lofty reaches of Olympus to the Arts Hall of a new town.⁷⁹

⁷⁸ P. Munk, ‘Oedipus Tyrannus at Habima’, Hagalgal IV. 32 (6 March 1947): 17. ⁷⁹ Dov Ber Malkin, ‘Oedipus Tyrannus in Habima’, Al Hamishmar, 28 February 1947.

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When Guthrie arrived in Tel Aviv, he was already a well-known director in Britain and elsewhere. His innovations in Shakespearean theatre direction had stemmed from his recognition of the limits posed by the proscenium stage when it came to staging Shakespearean plays, and his focus on issues of scenery and the mise-en-scène.⁸⁰ When it came to set design, he opted for functionality over illusion. Thus, he preferred to build a central structure with elements such as balcony, windows, or stairs—which are necessary in most plays, and allow for a variety of heights. In his mises-en-scène, he favoured creating key stage images, and compositions that allowed for a good flow on stage, the clustering of actors into groups, and circular patterns of movement around an axis of dramatic focus at any given moment. He focused on constructing stage images with a clear visual hierarchy, with the central character positioned at a different height from that of other characters, to draw the spectators’ attention and to lead the scene to its dramatic climax.⁸¹ All these featured in the set design and mise-en-scène that he prescribed for Oedipus Tyrannus at Habima—for the first time in a Greek tragedy, since, prior to his work at Habima, he had never directed an ancient Greek tragedy. For Guthrie, this was a chance to demonstrate an alternative to the naturalistic style of Saint-Denis’ Oedipus Rex, which he had seen the previous year, and to Laurence Olivier’s style of acting.⁸² With Habima’s actors, he knew that he could pursue a different artistic direction. Photographs from the production clearly convey the power of the stage image—the result of a fruitful dialogue between the director and set designer Shalom Sebba.⁸³ Guthrie had sent Sebba long letters outlining his ideas for the stage design and costumes. Sebba endorsed the stage design ideas, but rejected the suggestions for costumes and accessories: ‘I cannot abide Realismus’, he told Guthrie at their first meeting, and Guthrie agreed, assuring him that neither could he.⁸⁴ The visual stage image of Oedipus Tyrannus featured all the components of the conventional model of ancient Greece theatre—columns, steps, orchestra, an altar—but in an innovative artistic composition. The stage was simple

⁸⁰ Guthrie, A Life in the Theatre, 207. ⁸¹ Ibid., 209–10. ⁸² Macintosh, Sophocles Oedipus Tyrannus, 145–53. ⁸³ Shalom Sebba was a painter, architect, and set designer, who worked at various theatres in Berlin and Stockholm before immigrating to Palestine in 1936. ⁸⁴ Guthrie, A Life in the Theatre, 260.

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Figure 2.1 Oedipus Tyrannus by Sophocles, Habima Theatre (1947). Director: Tyrone Guthrie; stage design: Shalom Sebba. The opening scene: Oedipus (Shimon Finkel), and a group of citizens in the ritual of supplication. Courtesy of the Habima Theatre Archive.

and grey, but the impact was monumental and powerful (Figure 2.1).⁸⁵ Four broad stairs were positioned upstage and stage right, and angled in such a way as to suggest a much larger, rectangular orchestra stretching beyond the spectators’ field of view, stage left.⁸⁶ The stairs led to a raised stage-like platform, upon which five columns were erected which, like the stairs, extended up beyond the audience’s field of vision, suggesting a monumental archaic colonnade leading to the palace entrance, stage right.⁸⁷ Thus, the stage space was divided into three distinct acting zones: the elevated area in front of the palace entrance, the stairs, and the orchestra. On the orchestra, stage left, stood the altar, purposely positioned off centrestage to heighten the illusion that the stage was twice as large as its visible portion. A painted backdrop of a mountainous landscape accentuated the classical architectural structure in the foreground. Sebba designed the lighting to highlight the costumes and makeup, movement and voices, to create ⁸⁵ Munk, ‘Oedipus Tyrannus at Habima’. ⁸⁶ ‘Stage left’ and ‘stage right’ refer to the actors’ left and right, respectively, while facing the audience. ⁸⁷ Shimon Finkel, In the Maze of My Theatrical Roles (Tel Aviv: Eked, 1971), 80.

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a modern and unique theatrical space that suggested ‘classical Greece’ through a modern composition of its archaeological remains.⁸⁸ As for the costumes, Sebba drew his inspirations from classical designs, as depicted in ancient Greek sculpture and vase paintings. Over a white chiton-like undergarment, the actors wore colourful mantles that stood out against the set’s grey background: red in the case of Oedipus, blue for Creon. In all of them, the abundant fabric created multiple folds that were joined together with a pin at the shoulder—the left shoulder for the men, right shoulder for Rovina. The wigs were styled with ‘classical’ curls— black for the young characters (except the messenger from Corinth, who was also beardless), white for the older ones. Beards, too, were curly—a black one for Oedipus and Creon, white beards for the Chorus leader and elders, the old shepherd, and the priest. Tiresias’ beard was tousled, merging with the hair on his head to frame his face in singular fashion. Makeup was in the heavy expressionistic style characteristic of Habima’s performances. On stage, this heavy makeup gave the impression of a ‘mask’, which is clearly evident in photos of the production. Interestingly, Guthrie—who as mentioned earlier went on to direct six more productions of the play at various venues throughout the world—opted for real masks for the actors in his famous production in Stratford, Ontario in 1956.⁸⁹ Guthrie’s interpretative approach and directing style in this production were notable in two key respects. One concerned the Chorus: he abolished its traditional monolithic vocal uniformity, rendering them instead a group of individuals, each with their own distinct personal attributes. As he later recalled:⁹⁰ When eventually the Aged Thebans took the stage, there never was seen such a medley of crutches, poles, cudgels, knobkerries and Hellenic al-penstocks a gnarled and leafless Birnam Wood clumping and thumbing up the palace steps.⁹¹

⁸⁸ This innovative composition can be better understood when compared with the stage image in La Comédie Française’s 1881 famous production of Oedipe-Roi with Monet-Sully as Oedipus. Using the ‘classical’ components of palace, temple of Apollo, and the Acropolis, Monet-Sully’s stage image was a throwback to nineteenth-century stage pictorialism, while Sebba’s stage composition—inspired by the staging and lighting approaches of Adolphe Appia and Edward Gordon Craig—created a three-dimensional ‘theatrical’ place. ⁸⁹ Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex on DVD, directed by Tyrone Guthrie, Oedipus Rex Productions, Chatsworth, Canada, 1957. ⁹⁰ Emmanuel Levy, Habima: Israel’s National Theatre 1917–1977 (Tel Aviv: Eked, 1979), 322, n. 16. ⁹¹ Guthrie, A Life in the Theatre, 260–1.

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Critics, of course, took notice: ‘The Chorus has been transformed—from ceremonial, sacred stasis to individual and human diversity’, wrote Munk.⁹² A. B. Yaffe elaborated: As for the ‘problem’ of the Chorus, Guthrie has hit upon a most original solution. Unlike other modern directors who have done away with the Chorus completely when staging Greek tragedies, Guthrie has sought to give the Chorus a standard role that isn’t out of the ordinary even in a modern context—by intelligently distributing the texts between several actors.⁹³

The second key hallmark of Guthrie’s approach was to create powerful stage images. Critics and spectators alike were profoundly struck by the opening scene, in which the priest and citizens lay prostrate on the steps, front stage, as supplicants, while Oedipus appears at the palace entrance above their heads. Dov Ber Malkin described its composition in detail: [ . . . ] in the wonderful opening featuring a ‘prostrate mise-en-scène’; in the musical and plastic matching of the Chorus members with their respective heights and voices; in the ‘magnification’ of the spatial dimensions; in the correct placement of the actors in perfect accordance with their lines—which after careful consideration seems perfectly natural; and above all, in the artistic attention to every detail of the acting, to extract the full ability of each actor.⁹⁴

During the performance, the Chorus members assumed their conventional double role: in their dramatic role of involved citizens they highlighted the fact that the investigation was an important public affair. They ‘reacted constantly and appropriately to what happened, with amazement, encouragement, terror, hope, despair, or pleadings’; in their theatrical role, their kinetic movements as a group and as individuals, they helped in the creation of rich stage images: ‘They filled the stage space and composed with their bodies a living décor, which constantly changed its form by moving from one spot to another.’⁹⁵ As customary in the Habima collective, casting was decided by the group at a general meeting. The acting roles in the play were given to the ⁹² Munk, ‘Oedipus Tyrannus at Habima’. ⁹³ A. B. Yaffe, ‘Oedipus Tyrannus at Habima’, Bamah 2 (1947): 12–16. ⁹⁴ Besides its accuracy and forcefulness, Malkin’s description reveals an important aspect of the theatre reviews of that period—namely, that the critics saw themselves as not merely theatre critics, but as recorders, curators, and educators of present and future audiences, whose writing had to combine an abiding interest in the play and an in-depth knowledge of the world and of the workings of theatre. ⁹⁵ Gilula, ‘The First Greek Drama on the Hebrew Stage’.

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troupe’s veterans: Shimon Finkel (Oedipus), Hanna Rovina (Jocasta), Aharon Meskin (Creon), Haim Amitai (Tiresias), Nahum Buchman (Messenger from Corinth), and Yehoshua Bertonov (the Old Shepherd). Another veteran—Fanny Lubitsch—was chosen as translator and assistant director. Others were cast as the Elders of Thebes in the Chorus: some were veteran members of the troupe; others were students of Habima’s drama school, founded by Zvi Friedland in 1945 to train the next generation of Habima actors. The method by which Habima’s actors were accustomed to work—as first formulated in their Moscow period—consisted of protracted rehearsal periods that allowed for extended and detailed debates about the text, personal and detailed work with each actor individually, and a gradual formulation of the ensemble of movement of the actors on the stage. Guthrie, however, had his own ideas: rehearsals over no more than five weeks, and no analysis of the play during the first rehearsal. When the actors insisted that Guthrie analyse the play and reveal his interpretation of it during the first rehearsal, he was taken aback, and asked that they get to work immediately. Finkel later described the incident as follows: Contrary to Stanislavsky’s mantra: ‘To understand means to feel’—Guthrie argued: ‘First do—then you feel’, and this was supposed to apply to my work on Oedipus. I began to feel him only during the acting.

For Guthrie, Oedipus Tyrannus was about the transformation of a victorious king into a scapegoat, and in the mise-en-scène he translated this sacrificial process into powerful stage images through physical, vocal, and spatial relationships between the actors. Finkel cites some important examples: in the conflict between Tiresias and Oedipus (lines 300–462), for example, the prophet derived profound pleasure from his position and his power over the king, condemning him with a vengeance, and using his knowledge and wisdom to oppress, insult and humiliate him, casting his terrible revelations in Oedipus’ face—not with sorrow, but with an ironic and insulting sneer.

Thus started Oedipus’ physical downfall: his revelation to Jocasta of his unfortunate past and his killing of Laius (lines 771–883) was done ‘in a subdued tone, almost in whisper, lying down, as though reclining’, and then, after blinding himself, as he came out of the palace (line 1297), he appeared ‘on all fours, like an animal’; finally he exits, a crowned scapegoat

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(line 1522), as ‘part of the Chorus lifted him up in the air and the others with their palms formed a crown around his head’.⁹⁶ Anyone familiar with the Habima acting style would have no trouble imagining its distinguished members on stage, performing with their profound Jewish-Russian tragic style, heavy Russian accents, and a fullhearted and fervent desire to move the spectators—elements that collectively formed an acting style dubbed by Bert O. States as the self-expressive mode.⁹⁷ This was evident both in rehearsals and in the performance. Finkel remembers Guthrie once telling Rovina: ‘You must portray a fighting lioness—not a weeping Jewish mother.’ The comment reveals the extent to which Habima’s ‘Jerusalem’ had encroached upon ‘Athens’ in the members’ acting habits: the weeping that Guthrie thought was inappropriate for Jocasta in Oedipus Tyrannus was, after all, a trademark of Rovina’s ‘Jewish’ performances.⁹⁸ From the critics’ reviews, it is clear that the stage was awash in emotional turmoil: ‘We will not easily forget scenes such as this, in which she pours her pleas out to the gods by the burning incense, or lets out a desperate cry on learning the truth about Oedipus’, wrote A. Batz.⁹⁹ In his book, Guthrie himself remarks that the play was marked by ‘throbbing pulses of Jewish emotion that powered Habima’s production like a steamship engine’.¹⁰⁰ But aside from the weeping and ‘throbbing pulses of emotion’, it was the music and the human voice that stood out in Guthrie’s production and were raved about by critics and spectators: ‘With the voices, he has constructed a symphony’, wrote Yaffe, adding: He appealed to the musical sense within us, as much as to our intellect. The wonderful harmony of the vocal exchanges touched us perhaps even more than the meaning of the words. The director’s magic wand brought it all together, to

⁹⁶ Finkel, In the Maze of My Theatrical Roles, 823–4, and Shimon Finkel, Transformations (Tel Aviv: Eked, 1977), 70–92; Gilula, ‘The First Greek Drama on the Hebrew Stage’, 137–9. ⁹⁷ Bert O. States, ‘The Actor’s Presence: Three Phenomenal Modes’, in Acting (Re) considered, ed. Phillip B. Zarilli (London and New York: Routledge, 1995), 22–42. ⁹⁸ During Habima’s tour in London in 1938, critic Y. M. Nieman of the London Highgate newspaper wrote: ‘Watching Rovina’s weeping, one thinks that this is how the Israelites wept by the rivers of Babylon, this is how the fabled ministering angels weep. This is how Rachel in the Bible must have wept.’ Quoted in Carmit Gai, Hanna Rovina (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1995), 196. ⁹⁹ A. Batz, ‘Oedipus Tyrannus at Habima’, Bamah 51 (May 1947). ¹⁰⁰ Guthrie, A Life in the Theatre, 271.

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create an ensemble that totally obeyed his hand that soothed, healed and created perfect coordination.¹⁰¹

Dov Ber Malkin noted the ‘intonations and melodies of a kind that we haven’t heard for a long time [ . . . ] the natural transitions from speech to recitals, from story to prayer, from monologue to lyrical tunes’.¹⁰² Guthrie was pleased with his work with Habima, and in an article for the Palestine Post, on his return to the United Kingdom, he wrote: I learned an important lesson: I had been embarrassed to remember the effects that I had used on other occasions simply to please the audience—and this time I was further than at any other time in adapting to the taste of the street.¹⁰³

‘A Celebration of Eretz-Yisraeli Theatre’, declared the headline of Dov Ber Malkin’s review in the daily Al Hamishmar, the morning after the premiere on 28 February 1947. Other critics agreed, noting its ground-breaking nature by focusing first and foremost on the cultural encounter that it entailed. Malkin wrote at length about the significance of the event’s date, twenty-five years after The Dybbuk, and compared the two ‘Gentile’ directors—Vakhtangov and Guthrie—in terms of their work with the Habima actors. One, he noted, was an Armenian (the son of another persecuted nation), working in the wake of the October Revolution with a group of actors who dreamed of ‘the resurrection of their persecuted people’, on a play based on ‘a popular Jewish myth about the righteousness of love and the pursuit of justice’. The other—a British director, ‘the son of a ruling nation’, working at the time of the newlycreated United Nations and (British Foreign Secretary) Bevin, when ‘tanks roamed the streets of Tel-Aviv and the roads of Eretz-Yisrael’, with ‘the leading members of the Hebrew theatre, in the land of its redemption, [to stage] a classical Greek myth about the cruelty of love and the twists of Fate’.¹⁰⁴ A. B. Yaffe hailed the importance of the event, noting the complexity of the encounter between the classical play and the spectators’ contemporary reality. For him, Oedipus Tyrannus was not just another classical play, or another good production, but a work that emerged from the encounter between the two cultures:

¹⁰¹ A. B. Yaffe, ‘Oedipus Tyrannus at Habima’, Bamah 2 (1947): 12–16. ¹⁰² Malkin, ‘Oedipus Tyrannus in Habima’. ¹⁰³ Guthrie, ICDPA portfolio #5.4.7. ¹⁰⁴ Malkin, ‘Oedipus Tyrannus in Habima’.

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The event was festive. The atmosphere in the hall was one of elation. There was a kind of frisson of anticipation, a feeling that this was no ordinary theatrical production. And indeed it was a most original and singular experience. Various factors, internal and external, came together to make it a success. A fateful, reconciliatory, encounter between the Hebrew and Greek cultures, separated by a generations-old dispute; a joint artistic effort of Hebrew stage professionals, and a guest director from a nation locked in a bitter dispute with ours; and for some of us—another encounter with Oedipus, the hero who has happened to come our way, and whom we occasionally identify with, at various junctures of our lives—[now] infinitely closer, more understandable, and more human than on many previous occasions [emphasis in the original].¹⁰⁵

In Dvar Hapoelet,¹⁰⁶ Rivka Gurfein recounted the plot, underlining the contrast between the pagan Greeks and the monotheistic Jews, and praising the moral superiority of the Jewish faith through repeated (and, alas, inaccurate) references to the Old Testament: In all of this glorious classical literature, which knows how to recount the torment of a man writhing in the grip of fate and lust and eternal punitive torment—there is not one spiritual giant such as the prophet Ezekiel, who dared to rebel against the sacred principle of ‘visiting the sins of the fathers on the sons’, by asking the rebellious and shocking question: ‘If the fathers have eaten a sour grape, should the children’s teeth be set on edge?’, and who put forward the revolutionary, groundbreaking principle of ‘Every one shall die for his own iniquity’.

She also dwelt upon the universal message conveyed by the play and performance: We were very pleased to see a play that unsettles the spectators’ mental equilibrium, that transcends the generations to bind us to the eternal questions of Man, to different ways of perceiving fate, to the juxtaposition of forces within Man and without [ . . . ] Here, in this production taking place on the stage and within our souls, art’s great triumph is confirmed, raising the seeds of man’s fate above the times, the periods, the worldviews and life, and conferring a certain unity on earth.¹⁰⁷

Reading these reviews, one gets the impression of a festive event that marked the beginning of a dialogue between Jewish culture and its Greek counterpart; the sense of standing on the threshold of a new era of integration of the theatrical past with the Israeli present; and the birth ¹⁰⁵ Yaffe, ‘Oedipus Tyrannus at Habima’. ¹⁰⁶ A leading women’s monthly (founded in 1934), affiliated with the Labour Party. ¹⁰⁷ Rivka Gurfein, ‘Oedipus Tyrannus at Habima’, Dvar Hapoelet, 28 February 1947.

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of an original, new, and quintessentially Tel Avivian performance. This is, however, a somewhat misleading impression. The memoirs of the actors and critics’ reviews written years later offer a different picture. Although the play ran for fifty-five performances and was acclaimed by theatre critics, theatre professionals, artists, and spectators from the cultural elite with a broad classical education and abiding interest in the theatrical arts, it failed to strike a chord with the wider public, nor did it spark any interest outside of Tel Aviv. In box office terms, it was not a great success. To understand why there was such a disparity in the reception of the play by the cognoscenti versus the general public, one must understand the nature of the audience. This was no longer a homogeneous group, but a mosaic of cultures: native Israelis—born of families who had been in the country for several generations or who had arrived in the first waves of immigration to Palestine in the modern era—alongside new immigrants who had arrived from Eastern and Central Europe immediately before, or after, the Second World War. It is hard to say how many of those in this diverse audience were truly familiar with classical culture, or saw it as an integral part of their own. Although the Cultural Department of the Histadrut (Israel’s powerful Trade Unions Federation) did its part to introduce and familiarize the greater public with theatre by selling subsidized tickets to its members, many spectators were far removed from the intellectual circles that enthused over the production. Finkel provides a revealing anecdote that illustrates the foreignness of the play to the wider public: When we performed in Petah-Tikvah,¹⁰⁸ few tickets were sold, and we got a phone call that we had no choice but to postpone the performance. The late Yehezkel Feinberg, Habima’s Administrative Director, shouted into the telephone: ‘How is it possible that, after all that’s been written up in the papers, we can’t scrape together an audience for a single performance in Petah-Tikvah?’ The ticket office clerk at the other end replied: ‘What can we do? We don’t have any Greeks in Petah-Tikvah!’¹⁰⁹

The disparity between the enthusiastic artistic reception of Oedipus Tyrannus by theatre critics and cultural agents and the indifference of ¹⁰⁸ The town of Petah-Tikva (Hebrew, ‘Opening of hope’—from Hosea 2:15) was founded in 1878 by religious pioneers. It was the first modern Jewish agricultural settlement in Ottoman Palestine, and became the training ground for thousands of pioneer workers, who learned the craft of farming before venturing out to build other new Jewish towns and villages. ¹⁰⁹ Finkel, On Stage and Backstage, 204.

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the general public was a painful disappointment for Tel Aviv’s cultural elite. Over the next twenty years, whenever critics wrote reviews about performances of classical Greek plays, they waxed wistfully over Habima’s Oedipus Tyrannus. In his review of Frye’s production of Euripides’ Medea in 1955, for example, M. Geis reminded his readers of ‘Tyrone Guthrie’s unforgettable production’.¹¹⁰ In 1958, in his review of Lysistrata, directed by Greek director Minos Volonakis at Habima, Y. Saaroni wrote: Aristophanes speaks for himself. And even the most blinkered folks will be struck dumb! And the audience, which had been incapable of understanding Oedipus Tyrannus—one of Habima’s most illustrious and magnificent productions ever— should enjoy the light-hearted and witty Lysistrata.¹¹¹

In 1965, in a long and detailed preview of Yosef Milo’s production of Antigone at Haifa Municipal theatre, Michael Ohad still recalled the contrasting reception of Oedipus Tyrannus by the critics and the public.¹¹² The experience of acting Greek tragedy, more than any other genre, brought the Habima actors face to face with the fundamental roots of their craft. In Phaedra and Oedipus Tyrannus Habima actors gave freely of and from themselves to their experience with classical tragedy, their Jewish souls engaging with the world of tragedy, raising the tantalizing prospect of an original and distinctive theatrical style arising from this encounter between such diametrically different cultures through an original dialogue between the local and universal. This dialogue was indeed taken up later by Nissim Aloni, the last of the Habima’s quintessential disciples.

In Lieu of Summary: The Nissim Aloni Effect The absence of a dramatic tradition was keenly felt in the aftermath of the War of Independence. While poetry and literature were able to follow the battles, glorify the courage of the soldiers, and lament the dead, it was clear that the theatre needed a new kind of repertory to imprint the historical ‘moment’ on the collective national memory. It was with this aim in mind that well-known authors began writing for the ¹¹⁰ M. Geis, ‘Medea at Habima’, Davar, 11 November 1955. ¹¹¹ Y. Saaroni, ICDPA, portfolio #5.4.7. ¹¹² Michael Ohad, ‘And then they all went down to the beach’, Haaretz, March 1965.

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stage. Nissim Aloni was one of them.¹¹³ His short stories first appeared in BaMahane,¹¹⁴ in the literary journal Ashmoret, and in the flagship broadsheet Haaretz. In 1950, writer and critic A. B. Yaffe hailed Aloni as ‘the most significant young writer among the soldiers of the 1948 war’.¹¹⁵ In 1951, Aloni prepared his entrance on stage. His first two articles on theatre concentrated on Habima. In the first he described his visits behind the scenes at Habima: ‘An author who is trying to write for the stage should know the backstage of a real theatre: the director’s approaches, the use of manipulation and artifice, and even the methods of acting’, he concluded.¹¹⁶ In his second article he took up the debate about Habima’s repertoire and directorial problems.¹¹⁷ In 1953—five years after the staging of Oedipus Tyrannus—Aloni, then a young man of 27, approached actor-director Shraga Friedman, one of Friedland’s leading students, with the first of his plays—Most Cruel The King (1953). Although the play has nothing to do with classical Greek tragedy—it is about the biblical story of the breakup of King Solomon’s kingdom into ‘Judaea’ and ‘Israel’—the influence of Greek tragedy, via its revival in French twentieth-century drama, is apparent from the outset: in its use of a Prologue and of the biblical story as a myth; in its division between actors and chorus; and in its archaic biblical-like poetic language. The production was a success—but much to Aloni’s dismay, critics and audiences alike saw the play as a purely local, political drama. While working alongside Friedman at the rehearsals, Aloni was drawn into the world of Habima’s actors, and drawn to the spirit of theatrical tradition that pervaded their performances. He subsequently went to Paris to study with the French actor and director Jean-Marie Serreau—until 1957, when he was called back to Habima as a member of the artistic board.

¹¹³ On Aloni’s plays and performances see Chapter 8. ¹¹⁴ BaMahane (‘At the Base’) was a weekly magazine published by the Israel Defense Forces (IDF), founded in December 1934 by the Haganah (the paramilitary of the mainstream Jewish community). Notable writers, such as Natan Alterman and Lea Goldberg, wrote articles for it. At the end of 1947, it became the Haganah’s national publication. In 1948 Moshe Shamir became its chief editor. With the founding of the IDF, Bamahane became the soldiers’ weekly magazine and continues to be published to this day. ¹¹⁵ A. B. Yaffe, ‘Literature and War’, BaMahane, 27 July 1950. ¹¹⁶ Nissim Aloni, ‘Visiting the Backstage of a Theatre’, Ayin 14 (August 1951). ¹¹⁷ Nissim Aloni, ‘The Debate over Repertory and Directing Problems’, Ayin 15 (October–November 1951).

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That year was a time of crisis at Habima Theatre: its legendary actors were being criticized for their allegedly fossilized repertoire and style of acting, while the Cameri Theatre was seen as offering a vibrant, young, and feisty theatre. Aloni, nonetheless, opted to work with Habima, writing for its actors, and directing his own plays with them. In The Emperor’s Clothes (1957), Aunt Liza (1969), The Gypsies of Jaffa (1970), and Eddie King (1975), Aloni drew out the old Habima actors, theatrically speaking, as they made the transition from the ‘old country’ to the present one. He made use of their gifted voices and body movements, to create a unique theatrical language of his own—his own dialogue, as it were, with Oedipus Tyrannus. Under the attentive stewardship of this young and daring playwright and director and his young and talented creative team, the old actors blossomed, and the new generation of Habima actors found their proper place on stage. By merging the ‘old’ and the ‘new’ in this way, Aloni maintained the Habima tradition and broke new ground for original and contemporary Israeli theatre. There is no clear-cut answer as to how a local theatrical tradition comes into being. The assimilation of Habima into the native Israeli theatrical scene, and its contribution to the Israeli theatrical tradition, is, in my view, the product of two separate theatrical initiatives. One was Zvi Friedland’s establishment of the Habima acting studio in Tel Aviv, with a view to training a generation of Israeli-born actors to continue Habima’s legacy—but the other was undoubtedly Aloni’s theatrical vision, which turned Habima into a breeding ground of new creative talent.

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3 The Cameri In Search of Local Theatrical Identity

My intuition and logic told me that as long as Habima and Ohel Theatres kept a tight grip on the sanctuary and a monopoly over theatrical endeavour, the theatre arts would not break free of its provincial mindset. —Yosef Milo¹

A Modern Hebrew Theatre in Tel Aviv The Cameri Theatre—the young, energetic, and quintessentially Tel Avivian response to Habima and Ohel theatres—was established in 1944 by Yosef Milo (né Pasovsky),² along with four actors: Avraham Ben Yossef, Batya Lancet, Rosa Lichtenstein, and Yemima Milo. These actors came from a very different background from that of the members of Habima and Ohel. Most Habima actors—including the founder of Ohel Theatre, Moshe Halevi—hailed from Moscow and had learned their craft, as a group, from Vakhtangov in accordance with the Stanislavsky acting method.³ The Cameri’s members, by contrast, had all been born

¹ Yosef Milo in a letter to President Yitzhak Navon in the 1980s. In Ori Levy, First Person Theatre (Tel Aviv: Kavim, 2012), 73. ² Yosef Milo, actor, puppeteer, director, translator, and adapter (1916–97), was born in Prague, Czechoslovakia. He was one of the founders of the Cameri Theatre, and its artistic director in the years 1944–58; founder of Mo’adon HaTéatron (‘The Theatre Club’) in Tel Aviv and Haifa (1958); founder of the Haifa Municipal Theatre and its artistic director from 1961 to 1966; and 1968 Israel Prize Laureate. ³ Moshe Halevi founded the Ohel Theatre in 1926 as a ‘workers’ theatre’. The actors he chose were Jewish immigrants from various parts of Eastern and Central Europe who worked as labourers, and had no experience in theatre. He trained them in the Stanislavsky tradition.

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in Central Europe (Czechoslovakia, Germany, or Hungary), arrived in Palestine at an early age, grew up in Tel Aviv, went through the Hebrew educational system, studied acting either with Zvi Friedland at the Habima acting studio, or other private acting studios, and had started their theatre careers on the Hebrew stage. The sole exception was Rosa Lichtenstein, who had studied acting at the National Theatre Academy in Berlin and had performed in professional theatre there before immigrating to Palestine.⁴ Yosef Milo, the director and leader of the young troupe, exemplified this new kind of actor: he had arrived with his family in Tel Aviv in 1920 at the age of four. The family subsequently went back to Prague for a few years due to his father’s work commitments there, but returned to Tel Aviv in 1934, where Milo attended the Herzliya Hebrew Gymnasia,⁵ studied acting at Mordecai Speicher’s drama studio, and, in 1939, began working at the Lehakat Ha’Etz (‘The Wooden Troupe’) puppet theatre founded by the multidisciplinary artist Dr Paul Levi.⁶ In the three years that he worked for Levi, Milo learned and mastered various aspects of the art of the theatre: not just how to operate puppets, but how to construct their stage world: choosing a repertoire; designing the set, costumes, objects, and props; designing and implementing the lighting and music—and orchestrating all of these into a coherent stage composition. Levi also taught him ⁴ Rosa Lichtenstein (1887–1956) arrived in Israel with an impressive professional résumé. She had studied acting at the National Theatre Academy in Berlin, and had performed as a member of the Duke of Saxe Meiningen troupe at the National Theatre in Düsseldorf and at the Folksbühne. She immigrated to Palestine in 1933, performing at the Ha’Ivri (‘The Hebrew’) Theatre in 1936 and at the satirical theatre HaMataté (‘The Broom’, 1936–45), until settling in at the Cameri Theatre (1945–56). ⁵ The Hebrew Gymnasia had been founded in 1905 in Jaffa, and was the first secondary school in the world in which all studies were conducted in Hebrew. (The word gymnasia (Gymnasium, ancient Greek) arrived in Israel with the German-speaking immigrants. In those days it was the generic term for an academically oriented secondary school.) In 1909, it moved to Tel Aviv and was renamed the ‘Herzliya Hebrew Gymnasia’—after Theodor Herzl, the ‘father of modern political Zionism’. It played an important role in establishing a local Israeli culture, and some of its first graduates went on to become leading public figures (such as Moshe Sharett, Eliyahu Golomb, Dov Hoz, and Moshe Menuhin), or cultural icons (such as Natan Alterman, Yosef Milo, and others). See Baruch Ben-Yehuda and Uriel Ofek, eds, The Story of the Gymnasia Herzliya (Tel Aviv: Gymnasia Herzliya, 1970). ⁶ Paul Levi (1886–1971) was a lawyer and multidisciplinary artist who founded Lehakat Ha’Etz while still in Czechoslovakia. In 1938 he arrived in Tel Aviv with his family and puppets and began performing. He created the puppets himself, and designed the costumes, sets, props, and lighting for his productions. He went on to design sets and costumes for the Cameri, Habima, and Ohel theatres, and the Israeli Opera.

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the principles of Modernist lighting, and introduced him to the work of Modernist directors in Europe, such as Reinhardt and Brecht, Moissi and Jouvet.⁷ Unlike the Habima actors, who continued to adhere to a repertoire of Jewish and modern and classical European plays, and unlike Moshe Halevi, who opted for local playwriting and plays on biblical themes,⁸ the founders of the Cameri Theatre saw theatre from the viewpoint of the ‘here and now’ of life in the 1940s, the Hebrew language, and the emerging Tel Avivian culture. In their study of the history of Tel Aviv, Yaakov Shavit and Gideon Bigger describe the transformation that took place in the 1930s and 1940s that made the city the cultural hub of the Jewish community in Palestine: Jerusalem had established itself as a centre of philosophy and research around the Hebrew University, but Tel-Aviv became the largest concentration of artistic creators and performers in the field of literary fiction, theatre, music, and the plastic arts. It is in Tel-Aviv that most of the important art works were created in those fields, where the liveliest literary and artistic activity was to be found, and where the largest number of consumers of Hebrew culture lived, in Eretz-Yisrael [Palestine] and in the Jewish world.⁹

Shavit and Bigger’s chapter on the cultural life in the city at that time is a broad and colourful canvas of artistic activities that included music, literature, artistic dance, repertory theatre, cinema, light entertainment, plastic arts, journalism, libraries, cafés, a zoo, and sports.¹⁰ It is little wonder, therefore, that the founders of the Cameri Theatre, who had grown up in this dynamic environment, wanted to create a new, contemporary theatre, and set out in search of a new repertoire that expressed the burgeoning Israeli culture in Tel Aviv in those years.

⁷ Dorit Yerushalmi, ‘ “Palestine is no place for flying circuses”: Paul Levi’s Lehakat Ha’Etz’, in Between Homelands: The Yekkes When They’re at Home, ed. Moshe Zimmermann and Yotam Hatam (Jerusalem: The Zalman Shazar Center, 2006), 167–77. (A yekke is a traditional, affectionate epithet for Jews of German-speaking origin, who are known to be highly methodical and fastidious.) ⁸ Halevi, My Life on Stage, 98. ⁹ Yaacov Shavit and Gideon Bigger, The History of Tel-Aviv, Vol. 2: From a City-State to a City in a State (1936–1952) (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University, Ramot Publishers, 2007), 235. ¹⁰ Ibid., 235–77.

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I established the Cameri Theatre not because I wanted to direct or to act, but because [ . . . ] I was amazed at how oblivious the Hebrew theatre was of all the new artistic trends—how old-fashioned and resting on its laurels.¹¹

In establishing the Cameri Theatre as a modern Hebrew theatre, Milo was breaking new ground, and cultivating a generation of talented actors. As actor and director Oded Kotler put it many years later: What was new about the Cameri at that time was the fact that it presented a new lineup of exceptionally talented actors [ . . . ] such as Yosef Milo, Avraham BenYosef, Batya Lancet, Yossi Yadin, Orna Porat, Shmuel Bonim, and Gershon Plotkin.¹²

The first production by the young troupe, which initially operated under the name of Lehakat Hama’arkhonim (‘The One-Act Troupe’) before changing its name to the catchier Te’atron HaCameri (‘The Cameri Theatre’), was Me’az Ve’ad Hayom (‘From That Day to This’). Its first performance was held on 24 October 1944, and consisted of four one-act plays, in the tradition of the first productions at Habima and Ohel.¹³ In all other respects, however, it was different: the Cameri’s repertoire was drawn exclusively from early twentieth-century short plays by modern European playwrights,¹⁴ and there were performative innovations, too— i.e. in the acting style, pronunciation, and performance style. These marked a dramatic departure from the established theatrical practice of Habima and Ohel, and were very popular with audiences—as evident from Lea Goldberg’s review following its premiere: On the small stage, with a modest, understated set design, a few people—two or three—speaking Hebrew with a clear and fluent diction, with few unnecessary grand gestures, and straight away you feel you are in an atmosphere of good taste and goodwill—two things that make you more forgiving, and more favourably disposed, from the outset.¹⁵

¹¹ Levy, First Person Theatre, 73. Yosef Milo considered both Habima and Ohel old and provincial institutions. See also the epigraph to this chapter. ¹² Oded Kotler, ‘What is New about The Cameri?’ Maariv, The Cameri Theatre 25th Anniversary Special Supplement, 16 January 1970. ¹³ The very first performance of the Habima troupe, in Moscow (Neshef Bereshit—‘The Genesis Ball’), and the first production at Ohel Theatre (Nishfei Peretz—‘Peretz’s Balls’) were compilations of one-act plays by Jewish writers and playwrights. ¹⁴ Oscar Wilde, Serafin and Joaquín Álvarez Quintero, Martin Boat, Gregorio Martinez Sierra, and Georges Courteline. ¹⁵ Lea Goldberg, ‘From That Day to This’, Al Hamishmar, February 1945.

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Generally, the list of productions in the theatre’s first year gives the impression of a repertoire chosen by an artistically inclined director seeking a suitably Modernist artistic direction for the young theatre that he had established.¹⁶ Among the first plays that Milo directed at the Cameri was Anouilh’s Antigone—an inventive and avant-garde play, Anouilh’s modern reading of Sophocles’ Antigone.¹⁷ In this chapter, I discuss the encounter of the first generation of Israeli theatre creators with classical Greek tragedy, in the context of a new theatre—the Cameri. By examining three productions—Anouilh’s Antigone (1946), Euripides’ Electra (1964), and Sophocles’ Antigone (1965)— I aim to define the theatrical questions and practical problems that arose as they transposed the old masterpieces to their new culture, and describe their quest for an artistic, theatrical identity.

Anouilh’s Antigone: a modernist production (1946) Anouilh’s Antigone was first staged in Paris in 1944, during the German occupation. It is one of Anouilh’s ‘Black’ group of plays,¹⁸ and grew out of Anouilh’s dramaturgical experimentation with dramatic situations, characters, and language, coupled with dark messages of despair. According to Sartre, the play was understood in two very different ways when it was performed.¹⁹ One was Sartre’s Existentialist interpretation—that the play explores the notion that Creon gives Antigone the chance to change her fate by complying with his demands, but as events unfold, the spectator gains a deeper understanding that Antigone cannot do so because she is true to herself. This is underscored by her choice of death over compliance, and the recognition that one cannot change the fate that is inscribed in one’s nature, and that freedom is an illusion.²⁰ The alternative interpretation, which reflected the play’s political context, was that Anouilh’s ¹⁶ The Cameri’s repertory in 1946 included: The World We Live In by Karl and Joseph Capek (25 February 1946); Blood Wedding by Federico García Lorca (28 July 1946); and Charley’s Aunt by Brandon Thomas (16 September 1946). ¹⁷ The premiere took place on 30 December 1946. Translated by Natan Alterman and directed by Yosef Milo, the set design was by Marcel Janco. It featured Jemima Pasovsky (Antigone), Avraham Ben-Yosef (Creon), Hanna Sukenik (Ismene), Rosa Lichtenstein (the Nurse), and Natan Kogan (the Guard). ¹⁸ Anouilh classified his plays according to their tone of writing: ‘Black’; ‘Baroque’; ‘Brilliant’; ‘Grating’; ‘Rose’; and ‘Full of secrets’. Michel Corvin, Dictionnaire Encyclopédique du Théâtre (Paris: Bordas, 1991), 44. ¹⁹ Sartre, ‘Forgers of Myths’, 116. ²⁰ Ibid., 118–19.

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Creon defeats Antigone by making her problem an administrative one that is resolved through bureaucracy. According to George Steiner, it is the latter interpretation that allowed the play to be staged in Paris under German occupation.²¹ The decision to perform Anouilh’s Antigone only two years after its run in Paris and concurrently with its performance in New York is indicative of the youthful and innovative spirit of the Cameri’s plays in its early days—especially given Habima’s choice to stage Racine’s Phaedra the year before. Reviews of the Cameri’s production focused on Anouilh’s own adaptation and the political circumstances of its writing. Sartre’s article, ‘Forgers of Myths’, had been included in the theatre programme notes, and the critics drew on its themes as the basis for their own views for or against the play and its novel ideas, as they described its modern characters and linked the changes that Anouilh had made to Sophocles’ original play to the circumstances of the play’s writing (Paris under German occupation) and to the dramaturgical innovations introduced by France’s young playwrights at that time.²² Critic Ezra Zussman concluded his review by stressing that ‘Anouilh’s play must be seen not as a tragedy, but as a kind of a variation on the theme of tragedy—a modern take’,²³ while Dov Ber Malkin dismissed the Cameri’s production as a fashionable and ultimately insignificant expression of what he dubbed the ‘Sartre disease’ or ‘the latest Parisian fad’.²⁴ Natan Alterman had translated the play for the Cameri, just as he had translated Phaedra for Habima the year before. A comparison of the two translations demonstrates Alterman’s versatile talent as a translator, his impressive command of Hebrew, his ability to adapt the language to the writing style of the original, and above all, his ability to ‘step into the actors’ shoes’, as it were—i.e. to fully appreciate their rhetorical abilities and acting style. In Phaedra for Habima, he had used a refined and poetic language, and closely adhered to the original in terms of meaning and metre (in sentence structure and sound, if not in alexandrine rhyme)—as ²¹ Steiner, Antigones, 194. ²² The programme notes began with a notice from the Cameri Theatre management: ‘We are pleased to present to our visitors an expanded programme, in order to explain the background of our productions in greater detail.’ A synopsis of Sartre’s essay was also included. ²³ Ezra Zussman, ‘Antigone at The Cameri’, Davar, 5 January 1947. ²⁴ Dov Ber Malkin, ‘Sartre’s Disease—or the Latest Fashions from Paris’, Al Hamishmar, 10 January 1947, and ‘Anti-Antigone, or Neo-Fascism on Stage’, Al Hamishmar, 17 January 1947.

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befits the translation of a neoclassical play. With Anouilh’s modern idiom, however, he felt free to use the colloquial and contemporary Hebrew of modern Tel Aviv. Critic Haim Gamzu thought very highly of the result: ‘The translation is by Alterman—that is to say, [it is] brilliant in its lightness, succulence, and innovations.’²⁵ Ben-Ami Feingold, however— theatre critic of the Haboker newpaper—sniffed at the use of the word lekayef (‘to have fun’), which is a slang word derived from the Arabic: Natan Alterman uses a language that it is wholly unworthy of the noble character of the play. While one might accept a soldier talking about ‘lekayef ’, it grates on the ear to hear a Tel-Avivian term of this kind being voiced by the main protagonists [ . . . ]. One expected something more becoming from the translator of Phaedra and The Merry Wives of Windsor.²⁶

Like all mises-en-scène in the Cameri Theatre productions in its early years, the performance was held at the Mughrabi Hall, a venue that served both as a cinema and for theatre performances. The set design was by artist and architect Marcel Janco,²⁷ which was indicative of the Modernist character that Milo had in mind for the production. The result was light and minimalist, consisting of a single leaning column in front of a building facade. In conceiving the stage image, Janco deconstructed the traditional components of the set design of Greek drama in the first half of the twentieth century—columns, orchestra, stairs—and recast them such that none of them served in its usual function, but rather formed a Dadaist composition that extended to the costume design and illustrated the active role that the set design played in the production. Not all critics, however, were favourably impressed by the interplay between stage set, costume design, mise-en-scène, and actors’ performance. Ezra Zussman wrote approvingly that: Janco’s set designs are innovative and architecturally stylish and artistic. It is not a Monumental-tragic style, but a light and easily illuminated construction, somewhat mild and conducive to acting—a construction in keeping with the spirit of the play.²⁸ ²⁵ Haim Gamzu, ‘Antigone at the Cameri Theatre’, Haaretz, 5 January 1947. ²⁶ Ben-Ami Feingold, ‘Antigone at the Cameri Theatre’, Haboker, 5 January 1947. ²⁷ See the image on the Book cover Marcel Janco, painter and art theorist (1895–1984), was born in Romania, and became one of the founders of the Dada art movement, and among the leading exponents of Constructivism in Eastern Europe. He immigrated to Israel in 1941, and in 1953 was among the founders of the Ein-Hod artists’ colony. He was awarded the Israel Prize for Art in 1967. ²⁸ Zussman, ‘Antigone at the Cameri Theatre’.

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Haim Gamzu, however, pointed to certain shortcomings in terms of stylistic uniformity and verisimilitude: The leaning column is a nice touch—symbolizing, as it were, the decline of the world of the past. However, Antigone’s threat to throw herself off the wall is unconvincing, since the wall is too low . . . In addition, the drapes, with their hanging tassels, strike us as somewhat parochial. Most distracting is the inconsistency in the costumes. A ‘style-less’ uniformity might have been acceptable, but the hotchpotch of costume styles that is there is not.²⁹

Milo controlled all aspects of the production, and created a stage set that stimulated the actors’ imaginations. In an interview held decades later, Natan Kogan, who played the Guard, still vividly recalled the combination of elements that created one of the special moments of the play— Antigone’s imprisonment: The stage was large—nearly empty. It was at the Mughrabi [Hall]. [ . . . ] The stage front was built so that there was a strip of concrete as part of the building. In my role, as the Guard, I wore hobnailed army boots. In that universal quiet—the sort of quiet you feel as though it were gripping you like this—and that small woman [Antigone] talks about her suffering, what she’s been going through, and about worldly and weighty matters, while that big galoot of a guard makes all these crude remarks—crude in the sense that they were so banal, the precise opposite. That kind of dialogue, set against the backdrop of that walking, of me walking on that strip and hearing the clicks against the concrete—for me, that was a great scene [ . . . ] the contrast between the two worlds, that crudeness and spirituality. That’s what I remember.³⁰

The Cameri’s new repertoire was matched by equally innovative casting and acting style—but here, too, critical reactions were mixed. As Haim Gamzu put it: Mr. Pasovsky [Milo] is no doubt aware that a change of repertoire does not, in and of itself, constitute a fundamental change in what theatre is all about. The only thing new that we can see in the Cameri Theatre is the presence of several new faces on stage.³¹

²⁹ Gamzu, ‘Antigone at the Cameri Theatre’. ³⁰ Lea Gilula, The Cameri Theatre from its Founding Through 1961 (Jerusalem: Yad Yitzhak Ben-Zvi, 2014), Appendix: Transcripts of interviews with Natan Kogan (16 December 1998; 30 December 1998; 17 July 2001). ³¹ Gamzu, ‘Antigone at the Cameri’.

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In general, the young actors were commended—especially Yemima Milo, whose portrayal of Antigone was singled out for particular praise. Ha’Olam Hazeh’s critic wrote: Yemima Milo surprised us. Working only with the words [ . . . ] and appearing with empty hands, without [the benefit of] music or special lighting effects, she presented Antigone’s tragedy to us in all its bloody brutality.³²

Nonetheless, the actors’ inexperience—particularly with regard to their diction and movement on stage—was commented upon by all reviewers. Their critiques, however, reveal how they used the grandiose acting style of the Habima actors as their benchmark, with little appreciation for the direction that the young troupe was trying to pursue. With regard to Yemima Milo, for example, Gamzu wrote that: Yemima Milo is undoubtedly talented and ‘soulful’—but she lacks theatrical training: her diction leaves much to be desired; her voice is somewhat unpolished and insufficiently inflected—resulting in a wearisome monotone. When she does vary her intonation, she does so haltingly and abruptly, without transition or gradations—from a ceremonial tone befitting a tragedy, to one of a young Tel-Avivian woman. She has a pleasant laugh, but must make a more thorough study of tragic acting and the options available to her in dramatic portrayal.

About Hanna Meierzak (later, Maron), who played the role of Ismene, he wrote: ‘She has a pleasant face, but must learn to carry herself on stage—a skill not to be underestimated.’ The actors’ delivery was also faulted. Ben-Ami Feingold wrote that: On the Cameri Theatre stage, the set has almost a leading role—since the word, as enunciated by most of the actors, comes out blurred and uneven [ . . . ]— rendering the entire meaning of the play almost obscure and unintelligible.³³

Clearly, while Habima’s production of Phaedra had been deemed a great success, in Israel and abroad, the Cameri’s Antigone was regarded, by the public and critics alike, as a clumsy production put together by impulsive upstarts.³⁴ The Cameri Theatre embodied the quest for a modern performance by actors who lacked a theatrical tradition, in a society that was also searching its way. Reading the reviews of the Cameri’s Antigone, one can readily understand the questions that arose in its members’ minds as

³² Ha’Olam Hazeh, January 1947. ³³ Feingold, ‘Antigone at the Cameri Theatre’.

³⁴ Kohansky, Hebrew Theatre, 153.

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they grappled with Anouilh’s play: What should be the relationship between the text (in its Hebrew rendition) and the performance (the acting style, and production), and how would these affect the audience’s reception of the play? Unlike Habima’s actors, who had learned their craft by tackling classics of the Russian-German tradition, and had deep Russian accents and a theatrical pathos that facilitated a stylish and ‘grand’ performance, the young cast members at the Cameri—even those who had been trained at the Habima acting studio—were still trying to reconcile the ‘acquired’ (i.e. their instructors’ European tradition) with the fast-changing culture of Tel Aviv that they were familiar with. Their theatrical search, driven by their ardent desire to contribute to the emerging Israeli theatre culture, was inspired by the Zionist ideology of rejecting anything that smacked of the Diaspora.³⁵ They were finely tuned to their surroundings, their Hebrew was different, and so, too, was their native Israeli delivery and body language. These questions hint at broader issues: How is an artistic identity formed? What are the local ingredients for a distinctly Israeli stage image? How do the local light and colour affect the stage image? Although these questions were not yet being asked explicitly, they were emphatically highlighted by the critics who attributed the problems to the actors’ lack of experience, or to the audience’s failure to understand classical tragedy.³⁶ No discussion of Antigone can be complete without noting the moment when the Cameri Theatre claimed its place in the mainstream of Israeli theatrical culture. Significantly, this occurred not by engaging with Greek tragedy, but two years after its production of Antigone, with a quintessentially local and contemporary play—Moshe Shamir’s groundbreaking He Walked Through the Fields—directed by Yosef Milo. The plot takes place in a kibbutz during Israel’s War of Independence, featuring familiar characters of the Jewish community in Palestine— sabras (native-born Israelis), kibbutz pioneers who arrived from Europe ³⁵ See Eliezer Schweid, ‘Rejection of the Diaspora in Zionist Thought’, in Essential Papers on Zionism, ed. Jehuda Reinharz and Anita Shapira (New York: New York University Press, 1996), 130–57. See also Sternhell, Founding Myths. ³⁶ In his review, Michael Ohad wrote that the Antigone production at the HMT in 1965 was no better than the Cameri’s Antigone in 1946: ‘The play failed because the audience was not ready then for Anouilh, any more than it is ready for Beckett today.’ Ohad, ‘And then they all went down to the beach’.

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decades earlier to establish Jewish life in Israel, and Holocaust survivors, who arrived in Israel after the Second World War. Particular focus was given to the figure of the fighting sabra who sacrifices himself for the community, in the struggle for independence. This theme, which lies at the core of many of the ‘War of Independence plays’,³⁷ gave dramatic expression to the poignant exchange presented at the end of Alterman’s famous poem, The Silver Platter, when the nation asks a young woman and man, ‘Who are you?’, and they reply: ‘We are the silver platter on which the State of the Jews was given to you.’ Thus, the hero of He Walked Through the Fields represented at that time, and for many decades afterwards, the consecrated martyr that the nation sacrificed to enable the state to be born.³⁸ The premiere of He Walked Through the Fields was held on 31 May 1948—approximately two weeks after the Israeli Declaration of Independence, while the war was still raging. The play instantly resonated with the audience, and forged a bond between it and the stage—indeed, many of those in the audience were reportedly soldiers on short leave from the battlefield, who sat in their uniforms and rushed back to their units as soon as it was over. Ostensibly, He Walked Through the Fields and Antigone had much in common—a story set against the backdrop of a fight for survival; war as a state of emergency; the conflict between an individual or a family and the state. But He Walked Through the Fields was far more intimately related to the spectators’ own reality, and the production was in the Massekhet tradition of home-grown kibbutz productions,³⁹ with a theatrical style, direction, and set design that were familiar to local audiences. Overnight, the play became a cornerstone of Israeli theatre mythology.⁴⁰

³⁷ Feingold, Israeli Theatre. ³⁸ Shimon Levy, ‘ “Slain upon thy Altars”: The Dead in Israeli Theatre’, in The Altar and the Stage (Tel Aviv: Or-Am, 1992), 170–80. ³⁹ Massekhet—‘a unique Israeli ritual genre, performed in the kibbutzim on seasonal agricultural celebrations’, Gad Kaynar, ‘The Pigeon in A Pigeon and a Boy: A Book, Stage Adaptation, Performance—or: The Apolitical Political Imports of a Subversive Rhetoric and Self-Centered Aesthetics’, in Inter-Art Journey, ed. Yaari, 98–9. ⁴⁰ Thus, in the annals of Israeli theatre, The Dybbuk is considered the first ‘Hebrew theatre’ production, while He Walked Through the Fields was the first example of the new ‘Israeli theatre’. See Gad Kaynar, ‘The Play He Walked Through the Fields, and Its Place in the Israeli Theatre’, Jewish Studies 39 (1999): 67–76; Michael Gluzman, ‘Mutilated Body Aesthetics: On the Culture of Death in He Walked through the Fields’, in Sadan: Studies in

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Possible responses to the criticisms raised by the reviewers of Antigone about the actors’ lack of experience when attempting tragic acting could be tested and contested only through performance and experimentation. However, the Cameri Theatre did not revisit these questions for a long time, and as the years went by, its composition changed radically. From 1946 to 1958, Yosef Milo directed most of its plays, but others joined him in the course of that decade—including Tuvya Grinbaum (from 1947 onwards), Peter Frye (from 1949), Gershon Plotkin (from 1950), and Shmuel Bonim (from 1953). The repertoire became mostly European or American plays, interspersed with a handful of plays by the ‘Independence Generation’ of Israeli playwrights as they made their first attempts at portraying the country’s ‘historic moment’ on stage. In 1958, however, when the theatre encountered serious financial difficulties, an ‘insurrection’ of sorts took place, and Milo and his long-standing managing director, Yitzhak Kadishzon, who were seen as the chief culprits for the theatre’s plight, were asked to go on indefinite leave—in effect, to step down. Cameri historian Gad Kaynar listed the reasons for the crisis as follows: The haphazard and misguided choice of repertoire, and poor allocation of resources and of artistic and technical manpower, led to a wasteful dissipation of efforts, and consequently a drop in artistic quality, which began to erode the theatre’s reputation.⁴¹

At the instigation of a group of actors, a ‘Theatre Council’ of eleven leading actors and directors was assembled, which in turn appointed a new board of directors for the theatre, comprising actors Orna Porat and Yossi Yadin, director Gershon Plotkin, and producer Yaacov Agmon (the latter having been personally approached to save the theatre, and appointed as its new Managing Director). In the ensuing efficiency drive, the staff and actors roster was slashed, the troupe was reduced in size, operational procedures were overhauled, and the actors were given first say in the choice of repertoire. Although he was invited to stay on at the Cameri in a directing capacity, Yosef Milo declined and left.

Hebrew Literature, vol. 5, ed. Hannah Naveh and Oded Menda-Levy (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University Press, 2002), 347–77. ⁴¹ Gad Kaynar, ‘The Cameri Theatre: The First Fifty Years’, in The Cameri of Tel-Aviv: 50 Years of Israeli Theatre, ed. Rebecca Meshulah (Tel Aviv: Daniella De-Nur Publishers, 1997), 12.

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Euripides’ Electra: a ‘Mediterranean’ production (1964) Euripides’ Electra—the first classical Greek tragedy performed at the Cameri Theatre—premiered on 4 November 1964. It was the first and only time its director Gershon Plotkin attempted a Greek tragedy.⁴² Plotkin was born in Moscow in 1917, immigrated with his parents to Palestine in 1924, and had studied acting at Zvi Friedland’s acting studio at Habima Theatre, then with Erwin Piscator in New York. In 1949, he began working as assistant director to Leopold Lindberg at the Cameri Theatre, and in 1950 directed his first production—J. B. Priestley’s Ever Since Paradise—which was so well received that he was promoted to inhouse director. For Plotkin, the text, rather than the performance, was the most important component of a theatrical production. His first objective, therefore, was to promote home-grown Hebrew drama. But judging by the creative team that he brought together to produce Electra, he clearly also placed great emphasis on the development of a local theatrical language. Reading and analysing his performance today, it is clear that he chose to stage Electra in a modern performance idiom, with an emphasis on the Mediterranean landscape and contemporary Israeli art. The rehearsal text for Electra stated that it was ‘Based on Euripides, adapted and translated by Dan Miron’. The reasoning behind the choice of this particular play is complex, as was the treatment of the text, and the decisions made with regard to the acting and production styles. At this time (the mid-1960s), as in 1947 with Oedipus Tyrannus at Habima, staging a Greek classical tragedy was still regarded as a culturally important event in its own right. This is apparent from Ben-Ami Feingold’s review: One could say that this is a worthy attempt—a feather in the theatre’s cap. Since we are unaccustomed to seeing Greek tragedies on our stages, it is best that we see such a play in its original form, so as to get at least a taste of the greatness of Greek tragedy.⁴³

⁴² Director: Gershon Plotkin; set—Dani Karavan; costume design—Molly Gordin; choreography—Alida Gera; musical score—Yehezkel Braun. Cast: Avraham Ben-Yosef (the Peasant); Orna Porat (Electra); Ori Levy (Orestes); Rachel Marcus (Clytemnestra); Aharon Almog (Pylades); Moshe Hurgl (the Old Tutor); Margalit Stander, Zivit Abramson, Ofira Amir, and Liora Rivlin (Chorus). ⁴³ Ben-Ami Feingold, ‘Electra at The Cameri’, Haboker, 13 November 1964.

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Ezra Zussman echoed these sentiments: In this period of easy successes with musical and non-musical comedies where no mental or spiritual effort is required on the part of the theatre or the audience, this play reminds us that there is another kind of theatre, and another kind of audience commitment. At a time when death dominates the stage, in the face of bloody annihilation, the poetry of theatre is carried, as it were, beyond all that is mortal and ephemeral.⁴⁴

Choosing a Greek tragedy also made it possible to continue to pursue issues that had preoccupied Cameri actors in the first decades of its existence—testing various stage languages, searching for new forms, and finding an acting style that suited the noble character of the classical text. Another reason for choosing Electra in particular, of all the surviving Greek tragedies, was the recent success of Michael Cacoyannis’ film of the same name in 1962, which had made a great impact on audiences worldwide and won many international awards.⁴⁵ Cacoyannis, like the theatre director Karolos Koun, had restored the tragedy to the Greek landscape—to characters who looked as though they had been hewn from the rock of the local mountains and forged from the profound pathos (suffering) of its inhabitants—and had fundamentally changed the style of its production and its reception among many audiences. The fact that the plot was familiar to anyone who had watched the film was undoubtedly very helpful in preparing theatre audiences in Israel for the encounter with the play. TRANSLATION AND ADAPTATION

In 1964 there was, as yet, no Hebrew translation of Euripides’ Electra.⁴⁶ Accordingly, Dan Miron—one of Israel’s leading literary critics and scholars, and a member of the Cameri’s artistic board at that time— translated and adapted the play, by working with several existing translations, and in consultation with the director, Gershon Plotkin. The result illustrates the translation’s dual objective of preserving the rich and poetic language of Euripides’ text, while making it accessible to the

⁴⁴ Ezra Zussman, ‘The Hebrew Euripides’, Davar, 13 November 1964. ⁴⁵ The film, with Irene Papas as Electra, and Giannis Fertis in the role of Orestes, won First Prize at the 1962 Thessaloniki Film Festival, Cannes Film Festival, the Edinburgh Festival, and the 1963 Berlin International Film Festival. ⁴⁶ Aharon Shabtai’s first Hebrew translation of Euripides’ Electra was published in 2001.

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actors and the audience—i.e. to convey it in a language that would spark the actors’ imagination and allow them to express the intensity of their feelings, while remaining easily intelligible to the audience.⁴⁷ In the programme notes, Miron explained this approach, arguing that a revival of the classics cannot be done honestly and with full personal observation, without [it] being a two-way endeavour: [bringing] the theatre to the original world of the work, and bringing the drama itself, at a technical and dramatic level and otherwise, to the present day [reality] of its performers.⁴⁸

Reading the adaptation reveals many interesting qualities: first and foremost, a visual and auditory richness that critic Haim Gamzu dubbed ‘colourful’,⁴⁹ and a language that was a blend of biblical Hebrew and refined poetical Hebrew. Thus, while the protagonists, gods, and place names in the text appeared with their original Greek names, the adaptation was cast in a biblical-sounding idiom and tone, not unlike the translation of Oedipus Tyrannus at Habima. The nearest equivalent in English would be a blend of King James or Shakespearean English with phrases evocative of early modern poetry—e.g. victuals (rather than ‘food’), and firmament (instead of ‘sky’), or lines in the Hebrew equivalent of ‘Verily, Aegisthus had a hand in’t’(p. 4); ‘Why spend thy strength?’ (p. 4); ‘Aegisthus hath delivered her unto a man’ (p. 5); ‘On yonder Knoll of Sacrifice I poured the blood of a slaughtered sheep’ (p. 6), coupled with lines such as ‘He would wander lonely through the water’d gardens/and pick tender shoots of citrus’ (p. 38). In addition to this linguistic mélange, Miron also used Hebrew words that evoked the Western Europe of feudal times or even fairy tales, such as ‘prince’, ‘noble’, and ‘lord’, and lines such as ‘How disgraceful to exploit the calamity of a noble girl’, which is said about Electra, or the peasant’s sardonic ‘I shall be tending my fields, while the illustrious lords tend here, before ye, to acts of revenge and honour.’ Then, in the peasant’s prayer in the Epilogue (added by Miron to provide a kind of closure to the Prologue), the language abandons its biblical quality for something more akin to the contemporary Hebrew poetry of Alterman and Shlonsky, or Alterman’s play Pundak ⁴⁷ Euripides, Electra, Rehearsal Text, The Cameri Theatre 1964, ICDPA, portfolio #2.5.3. ⁴⁸ From Dov Bar-Nir’s review, ‘From Tragedy to Television’, Al Hamishmar, 11 November 1964. ⁴⁹ Haim Gamzu, ‘Euripides Electra à la Cameri’, Haaretz, 13 November 1964.

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Haruhot (‘The Inn of Ghosts’) that had been staged two years before (also under Plotkin’s direction): Let not the sun halt on the field, Apollo Let not the song cease, nor the folly Let the heavy wheel of life turn to-morrow, too Of bread and toil and injustices, and the sound of people talking Pray do not withdraw from our hills Do not take with you into the dark All the blighted and bitter roots of our days Of foolery, sun, and song. (p. 66)

The adaptation is notable firstly for its preservation of the original plot and key actions of the characters and Chorus songs—albeit in considerably abridged form. It consists of three scenes, each at a different time of day— the first before dawn, the second in the early afternoon, and the third in the late afternoon—with stage directions at the start of each scene noting the changing light from one scene to the next. Each scene focuses on one key aspect of Electra and Orestes’ revenge for the murder of their father: in the first, their conferring and decision to avenge their father; in the second, the killing of Aegisthus; in the third, the killing of Clytemnestra. Judging from the play as a whole, Miron appears to have preferred the familiar structure of modern French adaptations of Greek tragedies—a ‘well-made play’ (une pièce bien faite) by the likes of Cocteau, Sartre, Camus, Anouilh, and Giraudoux, about an ancient myth that echoes the present, using solid rhetoric devices and a mix of psychological realism and controlled violence and sarcasm, without compromising the power of the tragic action. These dramaturgical changes suggest that Miron and Plotkin were attempting to adapt the plot to the conventions of Realistic theatre without compromising the power of the tragic action. For example, one dramatic technique that Miron chose was to break up the characters’ speeches into multi-layered scenes. Thus, the Peasant’s 53-line prologue in Euripides’ play is rendered into a long scene with a complex dialogue structure, providing a kind of framework for the entire plot. He begins by telling the audience about himself and his life as a peasant, in thrall to the vagaries of the seasons, and about his dramatic role as the person charged by the playwright to deliver the Prologue: I am the peasant whom the poet has directed to open this play: A story of kings and princes Of cursèd fate, and bloodied hands, who speak in a very refined language indeed. (p. 2)

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At the moment he mentions Electra’s name, sounds of her lamenting burst from the hut onto the stage space (reminding the spectators of similar opening scenes of Euripides’ Medea, or Hippolytus), prompting the Peasant to begin recounting what had befallen Electra and Orestes, and to describe the cycle of violence that culminated in the destruction of their entire family—a story that Electra herself takes up as she emerges from the hut on her way to the spring. Miron repeats this technique at several other points in the play—e.g. when Orestes and Pylades first appear, he changes Orestes’ long speech in the original text (lines 82–109) to a dialogue between him and Pylades, with Pylades’ questions or comments being repeated by Orestes, and prompting him to continue. In the scene where the Dioskouri appear (lines 1234–1336), Castor’s lines (the only one who speaks in that scene in the original play) are shared with Polydeuces. However, wherever there is direct dialogue in the original Greek text, in the form of several lines or stichomythia, Miron preserves the same structure, albeit occasionally in abbreviated form. Another noticeable departure from the classical text is Pylades’ transformation into a far more significant character. This is particularly apparent in the dialogues that Miron creates between Orestes and Pylades, in the dramaturgical decision to cast Pylades in the role of ‘the Messenger’ who informs Electra of the murder of Aegisthus, and in the relationship that forms between him and Electra in that scene. The Chorus loses most of its lines and becomes a group of moving bodies that dance, recite, and sing. In scene one, its part is reduced to very few lines, but in scenes two and three it plays a more important role—especially in the encounters between Electra and Pylades, and Electra and Clytemnestra. Finally, Miron ends his adaptation with a 48-line Epilogue that he adds to the Euripidean version, in which the Peasant concludes the story by summing up the day’s events, and prays that tomorrow the sun will once again shine upon his fields. Critics were divided as to the merits of the translation, but deemed the adaptation as a whole to be unworthy of recognition or discussion in its own right. This seems odd, since presumably they were familiar with the original. One can only conclude that they saw the adaptation as merely another aspect of the conversion of the original to the staged version in a bid to make the staged world more accessible to the spectators. This is a good point to note the relationship between Israeli theatre at that time and the theatre critics, who saw themselves as cultural agents to all intents and purposes. Reading the reviews, it is apparent that,

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despite (or perhaps because of ) their knowledge of literature, drama, and the arts, their authors did not pause to appreciate the intricate theatrical undertaking involved in transferring the classical play from the library shelf to the stage, with all the actors, and the practical and artistic complexities that it entailed. Instead, they preferred to limit themselves to learned discussions of the themes in the plot, and to give marks for the results that they witnessed at the opening night, at face value. Accordingly—and despite the generous column space given over to theatre reviews in those days in the daily newspapers, weeklies, and magazines—most of the critics did not take advantage of this opportunity to try and fully understand the production team’s artistic choices, to appreciate the experimentation or attempts at innovation, to discuss the artistic questions arising from the performance itself, and to use their insights to enlighten the audience and prepare for a more engaged, sophisticated, and enriched viewing. Thus, an interesting adaptation that tackled the challenge of introducing a Greek tragedy to a contemporary audience with little knowledge of theatre styles, was dismissed as a ‘mishmash’, ‘primitive’, and ‘unsatisfying’. Moreover, the critics’ refusal to acknowledge the adaptation as an important aspect of the production in its own right was even more pronounced with regard to its other performative aspects, such as the musical score and choreography. Haim Gamzu, as previously noted, thought the translation was ‘colourful’, and argued that ‘purists of classical works might have a dim view of such “secular” speech, but “secularity” of this sort is preferable to dreary recitation’.⁵⁰ Ben-Ami Feingold, however, was disappointed by the play’s ‘lack of style and of poetry’,⁵¹ while Ezra Zussman complained about the incongruity ‘of such refined language being uttered by a simple peasant’,⁵² and Eli Yariv dismissed the result as ‘a linguistic mishmash’.⁵³ THE PRODUCTION

Complaints about stylistic inconsistency and mismatch between the various elements of the production extended to the performance itself: ‘A certain noble unflappability, a curious mental distancing, stood between

⁵⁰ Gamzu, ‘Euripides Electra à la Cameri’. ⁵¹ Feingold, ‘Electra at the Cameri’. ⁵² Zussman, ‘The Hebrew Euripides’. ⁵³ Eli Yariv, ‘Electra at the Cameri’, Herut, 4 December 1964.

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us and the torrent of violent emotions that exploded on stage’, wrote Dov Bar-Nir.⁵⁴ Nahman Ben-Ami explained it as follows: Electra’s titanic struggle—with herself, with her fate and with those around her, in her hellbent resolve to have her revenge—is handled by director Gershon Plotkin in such a genteel and stylized manner, that her primal scream is often nothing more than a recited literary mannerism [ . . . ] What is lacking, in order to turn the aesthetic enjoyment into a true experience, is a little more soul, a little mayhem in this world of pre-ordained fate—a little blood in this bloodsoaked plot.⁵⁵

Ben-Ami Feingold thought that: One feels the absence of a guiding hand here, one that would draw together all the components of the production into a coherent artistic whole, without which Greek drama is but a shadow of itself. [ . . . ] The director did not imbue the relevant situations with their full tragic symbolism.⁵⁶

Poet and critic Dahlia Ravikovitch was more damning, lambasting the play for its preoccupation with theatrical mannerisms at the expense of its psychological messages, for its monotonous character, and its bland mise-en-scène and movement: Perhaps the way to present Greek tragedy—be it an adaptation or otherwise—is indeed through utter simplicity. But one must not [ . . . ] adopt the approach of utter primitiveness—and such, alas, is the bitter fate of the play Electra.⁵⁷

To understand why the critics reacted in this way, we must examine the choices that the director made in his work with the actors and the designers (of the sets, costumes, music, and movement), and the overall impression created by its many components. The most notable aspect of the stage design and production style was its total rejection of the artistic approach behind Habima’s production of Oedipus Tyrannus—the only precedent at that time of a Greek tragedy production on the Israeli stage. While the text was similar in its biblical linguistic quality and structure as that in Habima’s Oedipus Tyrannus and Aloni’s Most Cruel the King, the production itself adopted an innovative direction that critics—who were unfamiliar with the exploratory ⁵⁴ ⁵⁵ ⁵⁶ ⁵⁷

Bar-Nir, ‘From Tragedy to Television’. Nahman Ben-Ami, ‘Euripides Electra, à la Cameri’, Maariv, 9 November 1964. Feingold, ‘Electra at the Cameri’. Dahlia Ravikovitch, ‘Kiss of Death for Electra’, LaMerhav, 13 November 1964.

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attempts being made at that time in artistic fields outside the theatre, such as modern dance, and contemporary painting, sculpture, and music— dismissed as ‘discordant’. Plotkin’s Electra was a first attempt at establishing a home-grown and contemporary Israeli theatrical language for presenting Greek tragedies, which took into account the body language, movement, and voices of young actors, and the sights and sounds of the local scenery. The latter were evident in the sets by designer Dani Karavan, and in the musical score by composer Yehezkel Braun—both young Israeli artists who had recently returned to the country after years of study in Europe and the United States, and applied their own approach and style to the productions that they worked on. This quest for a language also extended to the choreography and acting styles of the Cameri’s productions. The production’s particular style, in terms of its scenery and choreography, was also indicative of the enormous influence that the modern dance choreographer Martha Graham had on dance in Israel. Graham first visited Israel with her troupe in 1956, where their performances—based on ancient Greek myths and drama, and featuring stage design by Isamu Noguchi and lighting by Jean Rosenthal—were met with unprecedented acclaim. In 1964, when she founded the Batsheva Dance Company, her ‘Greek Cycle’ dances formed an important part of the Company’s repertoire.⁵⁸ Batsheva’s performances were well received throughout the country, and it quickly became one of the cornerstones of Israeli culture in the 1960s.⁵⁹ THE STAGE DESIGN

Dani Karavan epitomized an entire generation of artists who grew up in Israel in the 1940s. His parents had arrived in Palestine in 1920 and settled in Tel Aviv, where he was born in 1930. His father was Chief Architect of Tel Aviv’s parks and gardens from 1940 to 1960. Like many of his contemporaries, Karavan was a member of the Hashomer Hatza’ir (‘Young Guard’) youth movement in his teens, did his military service in the Nahal Corps, and spent a brief period on a kibbutz as a young man. ⁵⁸ Rena Gluck, Batsheva Dance Company, 1964–1980 (Jerusalem: Carmel, 2006), 41–81. On Graham’s Greek Cycle dances, see Nurit Yaari, ‘Myth into Dance: Martha Graham’s Interpretation of the Classical Tradition’, International Journal of the Classical Tradition 10.1 (Fall 2003): 221–42. ⁵⁹ See Dani Karavan, ‘The Moment When It All Came Together into a Work of Art’, Haaretz, Culture & Literature Supplement, 13 January 2011.

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He then attended the Bezalel Art Academy in Jerusalem, and apprenticed with Israeli artists who had studied in Europe and worked in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. In 1956, he himself pursued further studies in Florence and in Paris. His artistic explorations eventually led him, in the 1960s, to design sets for theatre, and dance companies (such as Inbal Dance Theatre and Martha Graham’s Dance Company) and the Israeli opera. His designs for the set of Electra were inspired, in part, by Isamu Noguchi’s designs for the Martha Graham Dance Company. One of the tenets of Karavan’s stage design was that it should function not only as a backdrop to the plot, but also as an autonomous world that is evoked through a set of discrete and distinct symbols. In interviews with journalists who previewed the Electra production, he spoke of a ‘rocky, remote, godforsaken, sun-drenched mountainside’, and ‘a sense of loneliness and a majesty of high elevation’.⁶⁰ To Shraga Hargil of the French-language newspaper L’information d’Israël, he said: ‘I wanted to create an ancient Greek village—but one that could be anywhere, in any time period. The audience will decide whether I have succeeded [in doing so], or failed.’⁶¹ In Electra, the stage became a sculpted space, worthy of the definition of stage design: the materials gave the appearance of a sparselyvegetated rocky terrain suggestive of a primeval setting that directed the actors’ movement (Figure 3.1). The lighting, he explained, was projected from a single source throughout the play, to simulate how ‘the sun’s rays govern the set’s appearance through its constantly changing shadow’. The resulting design made a great impact—as is clearly evident from P. Arnon’s detailed description: The moment when the curtain rises is truly breathtaking: the stage is so rocky, and ancient, and full of tragic forebodings. The arid Mycenaean landscape, the naked stones, the wind-eroded columns, the meagreness of the hut. The set is particularly impressive in moments of twilight and darkness.⁶²

Accentuating this space, the characters were dressed in black and grey, or in earthy colours: Electra in a black robe; Orestes and Pylades in grey

⁶⁰ Haaretz correspondent, ‘Judge Proposes, the People Disposes’, Haboker, 2 November 1965. ⁶¹ Shraga Hargil, ‘Derniers préparatifs au Cameri avant la première d’Électre’ (‘Final preparations at the Cameri before the premiere of Electra’), L’information d’Israël, 6 November 1965. ⁶² P. Arnon, ‘Electra: Plotkin and Orna Porat’, Kol Ha’am, 20 November 1964.

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Figure 3.1 Electra by Euripides, The Cameri Theatre (1964). Director: Gershon Plotkin; stage design: Dani Karavan. Pictured: Orna Porat (Electra); Ori Levy (Orestes); and the chorus of women. Photograph by Srulik Haramaty.

cloaks clasped at the shoulder; the Chorus in grey robes; Clytemnestra in a rust-coloured one; and the Old Peasant in a brown hessian shirt. Overall, the stage image was striking, heroic, and powerfully archaic. Some, however, questioned the restricted confines of the space. Ben-Ami Feingold complained that the set cramped the mise-en-scène: ‘Dani Karavan has created a solid and impressive set design, but it limited the director’s room to manoeuvre, forcing him to accommodate the play within chamber-like dimensions.’⁶³ THE MUSIC

The musical score was written by Yehezkel Braun (1922–2014), a particularly prolific composer of vocal, orchestral, and chamber works that have been greatly influenced by traditional Jewish and Middle Eastern music. Plotkin’s decision to work with Braun and Dani Karavan clearly signalled his intention to create an interpretation with a distinctly Mediterranean feel that is common to Greece and Israel. Braun was a disciple of Alexander Uria Boscovich, a pianist, conductor, composer, ⁶³ Feingold, ‘Electra at The Cameri’.

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and music critic who coined the term ‘Mediterranean music’ for his compositions. Boscovich, who was influenced by Bela Bartok’s folkloristic style, schooled his students at the Academy of Music in Tel Aviv in modality, harmony, and counterpoint, and created many compositions for the Inbal Dance Theatre Company.⁶⁴ In 1953, he wrote: Does this new reality require a new musical language, or new auditory symbolism? [If so], what, then, is the nature of this new musical language? Where does it draw its raw material? [ . . . ] Our composer must acclimatize to this Mediterranean country, whose nature, light, colours, weather and scenery are all different from what we are accustomed to before [ . . . ] Conveying this reality cannot be done with the means of expression we were accustomed to in Europe.⁶⁵

While they discussed the set and the acting at length, the critics had little to say about the musical score. It was, however, clearly very different from that which they had been accustomed to hear at the theatre—as evident in Feingold’s opinion that it was ‘alien to the play [ . . . ]—almost to the point of creating a weird grotesque effect’.⁶⁶ THE CHOREOGRAPHY

One of the production’s significant innovations was the choreography of the Chorus. ‘Electra [ . . . ] introduces an important new element to the Hebrew stage—namely, dramatic movement’, noted the critic for the newspaper Haboker in his preview, who took the opportunity to introduce his readers to the choreographer Alida Gera—a dancer and choreographer who had immigrated to Israel from New York in 1964. ‘I saw her work with the group of girls that made up the classical Greek “chorus”—it was a veritable work of art.’⁶⁷ Critics agreed that the opening scene, with ‘young women [ . . . ] scattered over the stage, like black birds, in very expressive poses of sleep before ⁶⁴ The Inbal Dance Theatre Company was a unique dance company in Israel at that time, whose dance vocabulary was inspired by that of Yemenite folk dancing. Its dances were also of a strong local ethnic character, on themes drawn from the Hebrew Bible and the local landscape. ⁶⁵ Alexander Uria Boscovich, ‘Problems with Original Music’, Orlogin: A Forum on Literary Matters 9 (November 1953): 281. ⁶⁶ Feingold, ‘Electra at The Cameri’. ⁶⁷ Haaretz correspondent, ‘Judge Proposes, the People Disposes’, Haboker, 2 November 1964.

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dawn’, was striking—but beyond that, the Chorus made little impression. ‘The Chorus was hardly noticeable as a theatrical element in the play’, wrote Arnon.⁶⁸ ‘A strident performance’, was Gamzu’s verdict, and Dov Bar-Nir argued that their choreographic impact was superior to their declamatory or singing abilities: ‘While their movement here and there was in keeping with the climaxing atmosphere, the moment they opened their mouths to speak or sing, their amateurish quality spoiled it all.’⁶⁹ THE ACTING

Orna Porat was already a familiar and much beloved actor of theatre audiences when she was cast in the role of Electra. Spectators warmed to her personal story: an ethnic German by birth, she had grown up in Cologne and was working at the theatre in Schleswig when she met her future husband, Joseph Protter, an intelligence officer in the British army, and immigrated with him to Palestine in 1947, where she converted to Judaism. The following year she was taken on by the Cameri Theatre and began acting in Hebrew. Milo cast her in a number of important lead roles (George Bernard Shaw’s Joan of Arc, Brecht’s The Good Woman of Szechuan, and Schiller’s Mary Stuart), that displayed her talents as a tragic actor who combined poetic ability, intellect, emotional and expressive control, and an extraordinary voice. Porat knew how to translate symbols into body movements, gestures, and voices. In her portrayal, Electra came across as a figure of mythical power, an earthy woman who screams silently in the pain of her grief over her father’s death and her hatred of Clytemnestra and Aegisthus. Unbowed in the face of the humiliation inflicted on her by her enemies, she is determined to take revenge, accentuating Clytemnestra’s disingenuous attempts at reconciliation and protestations of maternal love. Performing alongside experienced actors such as Rachel Marcus (Clytemnestra), Avraham Ben-Yosef (the Peasant), and Moshe Churgl (the Old Tutor), Porat clearly matched them in intensity and theatrical skill. However, younger members of the cast—such as Ori Levy (Orestes) and Aharon Almog (Pylades), who had been trained exclusively in the Realism acting style and lacked experience in classical plays, paled by comparison—creating a sense of imbalance and

⁶⁸ Arnon, ‘Electra: Plotkin and Orna Porat’. ⁶⁹ Bar-Nir, ‘From Tragedy to Television’.

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incongruence. Critics repeatedly remarked upon this discordant disparity of performance styles. Mendel Kohansky wrote: What irked me more was the use of two contrasting acting styles: Electra performed in a ‘classical’ stylized manner, while the others—especially her brother Orestes—adhered to the Realism school.⁷⁰

Michael Ohad’s criticism was the most scathing: Hebrew theatre has taken one step forward, and two steps back. It knows how to present a musical. It knows how to present a modern play. [But] it is incapable of doing Shakespeare—our Shakespeare is a parody—and it is manifestly incapable of performing a Greek tragedy. This fact did not stop the audiences from flocking to the Cameri’s Electra. Let not a word be said against our audiences! They are ready to gobble up culture with a spoon, like medicine—as long as it is bitter.⁷¹

The interesting thing about Ohad’s criticism is what this ‘incapability’ tells us about how these young performers tackled classical Greek drama in its various forms. For the critics and the majority of the spectators, classical Greek drama, like Shakespearean drama, is an essential part of the repertoire of any established theatre, and a cornerstone of ‘culture’. But none of them appeared to consider the degree of practical experience needed to confront the practical problems that a director faces with the Chorus, and the vast professional experimentation an actor has to undergo to give vocal and physical expression to the density of the cultural materials embedded in the text’s poetic metaphors. Rather, they looked for quick results—and the audience, for an immediate sensation—but the artists, the first victims of the lack of tradition, needed more time, more encounters, and more performances of that same material. They needed to experiment and define their own connection between the classical play and their cultural context—and for them, this was just the beginning.

Sophocles’ Antigone: a ceremonial production (1965) The shakeup at the Cameri Theatre in 1958 in the wake of its financial crisis resulted in the departure of Yosef Milo and the dismissal of many members from the troupe. Milo decided to accept the invitation ⁷⁰ Mendel Kohansky, ‘Electra in Two Styles’, Jerusalem Post, 13 November 1964 (in English). See also Ravikovitch, ‘Kiss of Death for Electra’, and Evron, ‘Cycle of Murder’. ⁷¹ Ohad, ‘And then they all went down to the beach’.

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by Abba Hushi, the mayor of Haifa, to establish a municipal theatre in that city⁷²—and on 12 September 1961 the newly minted Haifa Municipal Theatre (HMT), Israel’s first municipal theatre, held its first premiere—a production of Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew.⁷³ Milo’s new ensemble included young actors such as Zaharira Harifai, Haim Topol, Ilan Dar, and Ruth Segal, as well as veterans such as Yemima Milo, Giora Shamai, and Natan Meisler. At the instigation of the mayor, who was anxious to attract cultural talent to the city, the new theatre’s actors were also offered residential accommodation if they relocated to Haifa. Artistically and in terms of its repertoire, the HMT was similar to the Cameri Theatre at its best. Milo put all his skill and most of his artistic energies into the new venture. Initially, its repertoire leaned towards masterpieces of the Western theatre tradition, much as the Cameri had done under his direction. The theatre’s second production—The Caucasian Chalk Circle, with Zaharira Harifai as Grusha and Haim Topol as Azdak—premiered in December 1962. It was a great success, and in its wake—and with the introduction of a membership scheme (the first of its kind in northern Israel)—the young theatre, under Milo’s management, entered the mainstream of Israeli theatre, alongside its older counterparts: Habima, Ohel, and the Cameri. In 1965, Milo made another attempt at staging Antigone—this time in its Sophocles rendition—and turned to the classical productions and tradition established by Guthrie at Habima.

⁷² Abba Hushi (1898–1969) was a member of the first Israeli Knesset, a founding member of the Histadrut (Trade Union Federation), mayor of Haifa from 1951 to 1969, and enthusiastic promoter of higher education and the arts. As mayor, he created Beit Hasofrim (‘The Writers’ Residence’) in 1953; offered financial support for writers who relocated to Haifa (including S. Shalom, Yaacov Orland, Gershon Shofman, Yehuda Burla, Avraham Kariv, and Shimshon Meltzer); and established the Haifa Municipal Theatre, the Municipal Youth Orchestra, the Carmelit underground funicular railway between the downtown and the Carmel, and the University of Haifa (laying the cornerstone on 21 October 1965). ⁷³ On the tenth anniversary of the Cameri Theatre, Milo outlined his vision of its future: a network of municipal theatres throughout the country—in Haifa, Jerusalem, and the rural settlements in the north and south—collaborating with each other. The Haifa Municipal Theatre might be regarded, therefore, as the first step towards fulfilling that vision—and only today, when such a theatre network does indeed exist in Israel, can the power of that vision be appreciated. See Kaynar, ‘The Cameri Theatre’, 22.

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A NEW HEBREW TRANSLATION

Antigone premiered at the HMT on 2 March 1965.⁷⁴ Milo’s decision to commission the poet T. Carmi to translate the play was indicative of his wish to preserve the poetic language while making it accessible to the general public. Carmi based his rendition on the English translation by Dudley Fitts and Robert Fitzgerald—two American poets who had profoundly changed the modern approach to translating Greek drama.⁷⁵ Carmi believed that the primary purpose of Fitts and Fitzgerald’s text was to provide an English version that was at once coherent and plausible, clearly poetic yet credible as a play, literal enough to convey the texture and metre of the original Greek here and there, but free enough to paraphrase if necessary. As Carmi noted in his Afterword to the published edition of the translation: I sought to maintain the lyrical and dramatic pathos, without falling into an archaic style—to construct a sentence that possesses the music and feel of modern Hebrew poetry, while being faithful as much as possible to the spirit of the original. Although I know this spirit only second hand, I hope I have been able to capture some of its character in my translations.⁷⁶

Carmi indeed followed Fitts and Fitzgerald’s lead, and occasionally went further, as he himself admitted, by omitting mythological allusions that were likely unfamiliar to the average Hebrew spectator if they threatened to disrupt a given line of poetry—or by not attempting to follow the original metre: [ . . . ] since the two metric methods are fundamentally different: the [ancient] Greek metre was quantitative (consisting of short and long syllables), while the modern Hebrew metre is syllabo-tonic (consisting of stressed and unstressed syllables). This is not to say that the Hebrew translation is entirely ‘free’ in terms of rhythm and metre: it does have a rhythm, which varies with the spirit of what is being said, the situation and the characters involved. Occasionally it falls into

⁷⁴ Set design—Aryeh Navon; musical score—Abel Ehrlich. Cast: Zaharira Harifai (Antigone); Giora Shamai (Creon); Shlomo Biderman (Haemon); Natan Meisler (Teresias); Eliav Naharin (Chorus Leader), Natan Meisler, Baruch Berkin, Yeshayahu Kleinman, Eliav Naharin (Chorus). ICDPA, portfolio 3.5.8. ⁷⁵ Dudley Fitts and Robert Fitzgerald, The Oedipus Cycle (New York: Harcourt, Brace & Co., 1939). ⁷⁶ Sophocles, Antigone, trans. T. Carmi (Tel Aviv: Dvir, 1970). In the Afterword (pp. 107–15), Carmi lists other translations that he had consulted in addition to the one by Fitts and Fitzgerald.

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very defined patterns, where it seemed—or rather, sounded—crucial to me for dramatic reasons. The odes, for example, follow a strict metre—with descriptive ones being naturally different from meditative ones, and lamentations different from love paeans.⁷⁷

Carmi described his translation as an encounter between ‘Athens’ and ‘Jerusalem’, and underlined the importance of using biblical Hebrew: The play naturally lends itself to a biblical idiom—the fount of Hebrew pathos. The exchange between Creon and Haemon in Scene III, for example, immediately brings to mind verses from the Book of Psalms about honouring one’s father, the value of wisdom, and educational practices; some of the songs by the Chorus leader and the Chorus inexorably conjure up the ambience of the Book of Ecclesiastes (such as the closing song of the Chorus leader) or the Song of Songs (for example: Ode III). As a result, a stylistic tension is created between this Hebrew ‘atavism’—the pull towards biblical poetry—and the flavour and freedom of contemporary dramatic poetry.

The result drew many plaudits and admiration from the theatre critics: ‘[ . . . ] then all of a sudden, T. Carmi comes along—and suddenly it rings! And it’s Hebrew, and intelligible—one understands every word!’ gushed culture reporter Michael Ohad with evident delight.⁷⁸ Haim Gamzu agreed, in his characteristically more measured tone: In T. Carmi’s excellent modern rendition, most of the elements of the original are preserved, without the tortuous language that makes it less intelligible to the spectator or listener, who is far removed from the metaphors and mythological allusions which, due to the lack of any instruction in ancient Greek in our high schools, are naturally foreign to our audiences—especially with regard to the ancient images and the prosodic rules governing classical poetry.⁷⁹

While Carmi clearly succeeded in his bid to provide a modern Hebrew poetic translation of the play, the shortcomings of the acting became all the more evident, highlighting the actors’ inexperience in performing classical, poetic, text. Gamzu identified the performative difficulty as follows: But Carmi’s text, being full of poetry, does not allow the actor to lapse into hollow prosaic expression. Although this runs the risk of turning the poetry into pathos, the more natural simplicity of dialogue would have [ . . . ] robbed the lines of the

⁷⁷ Ibid. ⁷⁸ Ohad, ‘And then they all went down to the beach’. ⁷⁹ Haim Gamzu, ‘Antigone by Sophocles at the Haifa Municipal Theatre’, Haaretz, 19 March 1965. See also Carmit Miron, ‘Not Quite Up to Antigone’, Kol Ha’am, 26 March 1965.

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psychological insight that pervades the entire play [ . . . ] The woeful diction of Milo’s actors made one have doubts not about Antigone, but about the future of the Haifa Theatre.⁸⁰

Carmit Miron was more blunt in her conclusion: ‘Poetry, it seems, can be translated, after all—what a pity, then, that it was not given to actors who can deliver it to us.’⁸¹ THE PRODUCTION

‘Antigone is an introverted play’, wrote Milo in an article about the production in the journal Téatron (‘Theatre’), published by HMT— ‘and that’s how I would like to present it’. He also highlighted two questions that challenged his interpretation of the play: What is the point beyond which a modern interpretation harms the classical work itself, and what form should the Chorus—the most troublesome element for a modern director—take? On this occasion, he decided to keep the Chorus in its classical form—including the stipulation that its members should wear masks—and to look for a suitable type of movement that would allow it to play a part on stage: ‘I focused our efforts on searching for ways to make the Chorus’s responses more dynamic, and to present certain parts of the play with dramatic tension.’ THE STAGE DESIGN

The combined effect of all the performance’s elements gave the stage image of Milo’s Antigone production a ceremonial feel. The modern stage walls of HMT were covered in black cloth, which served both as a dark backdrop to accentuate the various set components and to set off the colours of the costumes and masks, and as a ceremonial device for portraying classical Greece on a modern stage through the use of conventional hallmarks such as a palace entrance, a flight of stone steps in front of it, and an altar. Arieh Navon’s stage was decked out in hues of volcanic rock and galvanized metal sheets, giving the archaic setting a somewhat modern appeal.⁸² This was also reflected in the costumes and masks: the costumes were mainly in shades of black or grey, and the front of the Chorus members’ robes featured long white-coloured weaves that ⁸⁰ Gamzu, ‘Antigone by Sophocles at the Haifa Municipal Theatre’. ⁸¹ Miron, ‘Not Quite Up to Antigone’. ⁸² Gamzu, ‘Antigone by Sophocles at the Haifa Municipal Theatre’.

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echoed their masks and the Elders’ hair—such that, against the black fabric backdrop behind them, all that was visible was that white band topped by their golden masks. Creon’s robe, meanwhile, was covered in purple in the last scene.⁸³ Within this highly ceremonial setting, Zaharira Harifai’s Antigone looked extremely young, vulnerable, and alone in the face of the towering injustice inflicted upon her. Overall, Navon’s stage design made several references to Guthrie and Sebba’s stage design for Oedipus Tyrannus at Habima: there, too, there had been steps and a palace entrance in the corner, stage right, and an altar at the front, stage left. The set materials and colours recalled the sculptural character of Dani Karavan’s set in Electra. T. Carmi commended the artistic collaboration involved in the production: To my mind, this production involved a unique kind of collaboration. I have a feeling that there is a deep connection between the proportions of the play, Arieh Navon’s set, Abel Ehrlich’s music, and my translation—although, of course, that’s not for me to say. With Navon’s set you get the sense of space—and not just any space: Navon works for living people, and his space must be filled with words.⁸⁴

The stage design was praised by critics, as well—as was Milo himself. He skilfully orchestrated the actors’ movement within the large space, and the Chorus’ rhythms and movement,⁸⁵ producing impressive stage images. ‘After Haemon’s suicide, Creon carries him in his arms on stage, and stands in mourning, above him [ . . . ]—a strikingly vivid image’, wrote Michael Ohad, approvingly.⁸⁶ The music, on the other hand, attracted little comment. Dahlia Ravikovitch noted: ‘The music was completely unremarkable—at least, to the ears of a layperson such as myself.’ THE ACTING

While critics of the Cameri’s Electra had complained of a disparity in acting styles, in the case of HMT’s Antigone they were even more scathing. Thus, Ohad: Antigone at the Haifa Municipal Theatre is a real tragedy—albeit not necessarily a Greek one. Everything is here: one of the great masterpieces of world literature;

⁸³ Ohad, ‘And then they all went down to the beach’. ⁸⁴ Ibid. ⁸⁵ Gamzu, ‘Antigone by Sophocles at the Haifa Municipal Theatre’. ⁸⁶ Ohad, ‘And then they all went down to the beach’.

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a translation that surpasses anything we have read in this field [ . . . ] and a spectacular set design that does not overwhelm the actor, but provides a framework in which to operate. But, alas, it is a frame without a picture, because the actor is missing.⁸⁷

Carmit Miron aimed her barbs at the Chorus: ‘The Chorus, which appears with masks, dressed in foreboding black, seems so promising— but then they open their mouths [ . . . ]—and the spell is broken.’⁸⁸ The harshest criticism was levelled at Zaharira Harifai: ‘Her entire conduct on stage was purely perfunctory. Her speech was hollow, her cries were shrill, her weeping—off the mark’, wrote Gamzu.⁸⁹ Carmit Miron tried to be as generous as possible: Perhaps she is too young and lacking in stage experience to take on the role of a classical Greek figure—especially as she could not rely on support by her fellow actors. As soon as she enters, she begins uttering restless shrieks, and when the really big dramatic moments arrive, when she is led to her deathbed—her voice and strength fail her completely, and her suffering and fears are unconvincing. In the second half of the play—the truly shocking moments—she still lacks the stage culture and experience necessary to portray Antigone properly.⁹⁰

Michael Ohad summed it up as follows: What can you do? You cannot put on a Greek tragedy without actors. Indeed, without actors you cannot do theatre—full stop. So what is left? Zaharira Harifai’s acting? Zaharira is one of our greatest actresses. Perhaps she might have risen to the challenge of her role if she had someone to act with.⁹¹

Summary The reviews of the Cameri’s Electra and the HMT’s Antigone underline the criticisms made by critics about the Cameri’s production of Anouilh’s Antigone, and highlight the fundamental problems that arise whenever Israeli theatre makers tackle Greek tragedy. In the absence of a theatrical tradition to draw upon, Milo, Plotkin, and the Cameri actors were obliged to contend on their own with the challenge of bringing their spectators

⁸⁷ ⁸⁹ ⁹⁰ ⁹¹

Ibid. ⁸⁸ Miron, ‘Not Quite Up to Antigone’. Gamzu, ‘Antigone by Sophocles at the Haifa Municipal Theatre’. Miron, ‘Not Quite Up to Antigone’. Ohad, ‘And then they all went down to the beach’.

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closer to Greek drama, and of laying the foundation of a tradition that would be common to them and their audiences. However, classical Greek tragedy was an obstacle and challenge not just for Israeli audiences, but also, and particularly, for the actors and creative team—and it is here that significant discrepancies between different artistic fields quickly became apparent. While the realms of the plastic arts and music had been given a chance to evolve as legitimate pursuits in various Jewish communities, and had produced a tradition of artists, the fields of theatre, artistic dance, performing arts, and bodybased performance had all been regarded as anathema to Jewish culture until the late nineteenth century, which prevented the development of a coherent tradition and performance styles in areas such as acting and artistic dance. It is little wonder, then, that while Israeli stage designers were able to create, experiment, and innovate in painting, sculptural, or design styles that could evoke images that linked the ancient works both to the Israeli landscape and to contemporary global artistic trends and find interesting ways for their execution, and while Israeli composers could conjure up musical scores based on existing styles, and move freely between Western European and Mediterranean music, the chief problem in performing classical tragedies lay with the actors themselves. Here, the absence of tradition proved to be a glaring deficiency in their ability to present tragedy in voice, body, and gestures—a shortcoming repeatedly harped upon by critics, along with issues of coordination between translation and delivery, between tone and the poetic language of the translation, and between the speech and the actors’ bodily expression. Habima’s and HMT’s productions of Antigone and the Cameri’s Electra illustrate the challenges of synthesizing a play, its translation, and its artistic performance language, and highlight the need for a wide range of artistic sources of inspiration and a scope for future artistic explorations. The choices made in these productions raised new but familiar questions: What should be the relationship between the original Greek work and contemporary Hebrew? How should we define ourselves in relation to such materials? What can we learn from them about the theatrical performance? What tools should the theatre develop in order to deal with them? For the first time, questions were being asked on the Israeli stage about what it is that links together the play, its translation, and its performance in relation to two areas of concern that had been highlighted in the

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critical reviews: the development of an Israeli acting style, and cultivating the audience’s taste for classical works. Between the experimentation and its critique, certain needs were identified, in terms of how to deal with local materials, how to forge a distinctively Israeli diction and delivery, and how to make a breakthrough of some sort that would enable Israeli theatre to continue in its quest for a distinctive and contemporary performance language.

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4 Experimentations Putting the Aesthetics of Performance into Practice

The classics are the only measuring rod by which the stature of an actor or a director can be measured. —Tyrone Guthrie¹

To say that the art of the theatre operates on three different levels—text, production, and theatrical event—and that these three facets are interdependent and the theatrical oeuvre is not finished until they all truly come together is, by now, a cliché. However, during the practical preparation of a performance, this truism is what underpins an extensive and multifaceted dialogue—between the artists of the creative teams, and between the actors and the audiences. While this is true of performances of contemporary drama, it is far more complex in performances of classical Greek drama, where significant questions arise in the gulf between the ‘there and then’ and the ‘here and now’. These include: What information should one gather about the classical Greek drama to present to a contemporary audience? How should one interpret the place and role of the mythological stories that form the play’s context and the essential materials that the chorus imparts to the audience in its songs? Indeed, what should one even do with the chorus? And considering Guthrie’s significant claim (cited in the epigraph), we can also ask about the challenges that the experimentation with classical texts offer young actors and directors in their voyage to become professional theatre artists. ¹ Guthrie, A Life in the Theatre, 177.

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On the latter point, productions in the first half of the twentieth century—such as Cocteau’s Oedipus Rex, or Anouilh’s Antigone—chose to use a single actor for the purpose, while in the second half of the century, directors such as Karolos Koun, Peter Hall, Peter Stein, Ariane Mnouchkine, and Einar Schleef (to name but the most notable), returned to using a group of one sort or another. And today? At a workshop that theatre director Ruth Kanner and I ran between 2010 and 2014, we experimented with chorus songs in Oresteia and Oedipus Tyrannus with graduate students of the Department of Theatre Arts of Tel Aviv University. Their greatest challenge, they told us, was doing things in unison—standing together as a group, moving as one, speaking in one voice—so much so, that at times it seemed oppressive. Other questions that arise in relation to the delivery of the poetic language of tragedy are issues of translation, pronunciation, diction, recitation, and the aesthetic choices of theatrical language. What is the appropriate relationship between textual interpretation and practical experimentation—or between the sound of the spoken word and its meaning? How should one prepare the cast to tackle the poetic text, and how does one coax the audience into accepting the director’s and cast’s invitation to join them in their play of references and intertextuality between the text as performed and other cultural texts—such as myths, poetry, painting, dance, etc.? One of the most important aspects of theatre work is experimentation— namely, the ability to research by applying theatrical traditions and innovative artistic languages in the various artistic fields involved in theatre.² Given that Israeli theatre began as a European import abruptly transplanted to the Middle East, it is little wonder that the first generations of Israeli-born directors who chose to tackle classical Greek tragedies struggled with the birth pangs of a new tradition. In this chapter I review the work of three directors—Arieh Sachs, Yossi Yizraely, and Edna Shavit—who began directing classical Greek and Roman tragedies in the 1970s, and paved the way for the next generations.³

² See, for example, Zeitlin, ‘Dionysus in 69’; and Fischer-Lichte, Dionysus Resurrected. ³ Truth be told, experimentation with Roman drama proper has been very limited— essentially nothing more than Seneca’s Medea, directed by Yizraely, and explorations of Plautus’ comedies Menaechmi and Amphitryon in various university productions (see Chapter 12).

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The three had much in common in terms of their biographical background: they were all members of the first generation of born-and-bred Israeli directors, with an intimate knowledge of the local scene; all three had completed their academic training in Israel or overseas, and continued their professional development at leading theatrical centres in Europe or the United States. All three taught at universities while working as theatre directors, and turned to classical Greek and Roman drama in the belief that it would facilitate training and experimentation with theatrical languages. All three, as I see it, also took up the challenge of classical Greek and Roman drama, in a bid to learn how the stage, with its multidisciplinary vocabulary, might expand its scope beyond the confines of realistic drama that Israeli theatre had become accustomed to, and experiment with languages and styles that enable the production of classical works, as their counterparts were doing overseas.

Arieh Sachs: Experimenting with Ritual Theatre Arieh Sachs (1932–92) was born in Tel Aviv, fought in Israel’s War of Independence (like many of his contemporaries), then travelled abroad. He studied philosophy, literature, and art history at Johns Hopkins University (1952–5) in the United States, followed by philosophy and New French Literature at the Sorbonne in Paris (1955–6), and English Literature at Cambridge University in the United Kingdom (1958–60). On his return to Israel, he completed his studies in English Literature, and in 1962 was awarded a PhD at the Hebrew University for his research on the works of Samuel Johnson.⁴ In 1971, he founded the Department of Theatre at the Hebrew University, which he headed until 1990. He was a man of many parts: he wrote poetry, translated and edited books of poetry, translated and adapted plays for the stage, and directed plays at various venues. Sachs began his theatre directing in the latter half of the 1960s. At first, it involved student productions at the Khan Theatre in Jerusalem: The Flood (1966), Alice in Wonderland (1967), and Everyman (1969).⁵ ⁴ See Arieh Sachs, Passionate Intelligence: Imagination and Reason in the Works of Samuel Johnson (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1967). ⁵ Nurit Kahanski, ‘Every Man’s Dialogue with Death’, Haaretz, 22 February 1969; Nahum Barnea, ‘A Professor in Jeans’, Davar, 26 September 1969; Thelma Yagol, ‘The

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Although he was not the only theatre maker to engage in innovative and experimental theatre in Israel at that time,⁶ he was the first to do so with canonical texts from the annals of Western theatre—medieval plays and classical Greek drama—rather than modern works. In 1968, concurrently with his work at the Khan, Sachs accepted Oded Kotler’s invitation to work with the actors of the independent troupe Bimat Hasahkanim (‘The Actors’ Stage’), for whom he translated and adapted Aristophanes’ Peace (1968).⁷ In 1971, he directed Euripides’ Bacchae at the Cameri Theatre of Tel Aviv.⁸ He went on to direct Dr Faustus there (1973),⁹ and a repeat of The Flood that he had directed at the Khan Theatre in the previous decade, with a mixed cast of students and professional Khan actors (1975).¹⁰ Disheartened by disparaging reviews by theatre critics and fellow artists, he left mainstream theatre to focus on teaching and work in the fields of poetry, translation, and writing about the theatre.¹¹ In 1982, he returned to direct Everyman—this time with inmates of Ramleh Prison,¹² and in 1985 he staged The Pink Trio—an evening of his poetry—at the Israel Festival, in the auditorium of the Diplomat Wonder of Creation versus the Fear of Death’, Yediot Aharonot, 8 May 1970; Uri Kesari, ‘Everyman or: The Importance of a Production’, Haaretz, 20 February 1970. ⁶ No discussion of innovation in Israeli theatre in the 1960s would be complete without mentioning Michael Almaz (1921–2012)—founder of Zira, Israel’s first fringe theatre (1949–58), where the first wave of Theatre of the Absurd plays were staged concurrently with their run in Paris—and Amos Kenan, whose play The Lion was included in the first edition of Martin Esslin’s ground-breaking book, The Theatre of the Absurd (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1961),190–1. ⁷ For more on this production, see Chapter 6. ⁸ See A Guide to 100 Years of Israeli Theatre, ICDPA, Tel Aviv University (Accessed 5 May 2017). See also Joseph Galron-Goldschläger, ed., Modern Hebrew Literature: A BioBibliographical Lexicon, Ohio State University Library, (accessed 29 September 2015). ⁹ Talila Ben-Zakai, ‘An Interview with Arieh Sachs: “They asked for Shakespeare— I gave them Marlow” ’, Maariv, 26 April 1973. ¹⁰ Orna Elstein, ‘The Flood at the Khan’, 24 December 1975; Yaacov Bar-On, ‘A flood brought on by [ . . . ] a sickness’, Maariv, 8 January 1976; Haim Gamzu, ‘An Amiable Amateur Play Production’, Haaretz, 13 January 1976; Meira Eliash, ‘A Flood from the Middle Ages’, Al Hamishmar, 21 January 1976; Boaz Evron, ‘A Problem of Perspective’, Yediot Aharonot, 13 January 1976. ¹¹ Arieh Sachs, Drama Research (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1967); Arieh Sachs, Decline of the Fool: Studies and Plays According to Religious Sources (Tel Aviv: Sifriat Hapoalim, 1978); Arieh Sachs, A Lightness of Mind: Personal notes about the theatre (Tel Aviv: Zmora Bitan, 1988); Arieh Sachs, The Essence of Theatre (Tel Aviv: The Broadcast University, Chief Army Education Office, 1989). ¹² Yitzhak Ben-Ner, ‘It Could Happen to Anyone’, Maariv, 7 May 1982.

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Hotel in Jerusalem, and subsequently in the grounds of the Tel Aviv Museum, as well.

Euripides’ Bacchae: Dionysus on Mount Carmel (1971) Bacchae premiered in the Cameri Theatre’s large auditorium on 20 February 1971. The archival record notes that Sachs translated, adapted, and directed the play.¹³ The stage design was functional: a metal construction of ladders, landings, and steps, scaffolding, and ropes. The colour was invested all in the costumes: Dionysus entered the stage wearing a white robe, which he quickly discarded to reveal a tiger skin, which in turn, in his final appearance before Agave, was replaced by a very elegant black cloak. Pentheus initially wore a uniform, which Dionysus later replaced with a woman’s dress. The Bacchantes initially wore black robes, which Dionysus later replaced with purple ones. In addition, masks were used in the ecstasy scene on Mt Cithaeron. The musical score was a mix of classical, modern, and folk music: the play began and ended with William Blake’s poem, The Sick Rose, set to music by Benjamin Britten and performed by Dionysus (Lior Yeni),¹⁴ followed by Britten’s Serenade for Tenor, Horn and Strings. Greek, Spanish, and African drum music also featured in the production, to offer spectators a hint of ritual as a link between nature and culture and the common denominator of human universal culture. During his continual exploration of the world of theatre, Sachs had witnessed and taken part in Richard Schechner’s Dionysus 69 at a garageturned-fringe-theatre venue in New York—a universally acknowledged landmark event in environmental theatre and a cornerstone of Schechner’s Performance Studies research.¹⁵ In interviews he gave before the Bacchae’s premiere, Sachs revealed that he had watched Dionysus 69 three times, and it had made a profound impression on him—especially with its fast pace and its cast’s sense of total abandon.¹⁶ As he told Emanuel Bar-Kadma:

¹³ Set design—Ada Hameirit; lighting design—Yehiel Orgal and Yossef Spinesi; musical score—Yossi Mar-Haim; choreography—Gaby Aldor. The cast included Lior Yeni) Dionysus); Yair Rubin (Pentheus); Moti Baharav (Cadmus); Amiel Schatz (Tiresias); and Aliza Rosen (Queen Agave). Nancy Prime, Gilgi Rotfield, Diana Greville, Ruth Doron, Leah Makhnes, Ruhama Regev, Nurit Amir, and Sarit Yishai (Chorus). ¹⁴ Lior Yeni was a well-known Israeli singer before working with Sachs. ¹⁵ Hall et al., Dionysus Since 69. ¹⁶ Yaacov Haelyon, ‘A Production Like No Other’, Maariv, 18 February 1971.

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In the age of cinema, there is no longer any tolerance for a sedate, leisurely, salon-like theatre—there simply isn’t any patience for it. There is, however, room in our permissive society for a release of man’s most primal urges—on stage, at least.¹⁷

Although many theatre critics have written about Schechner’s influence on Sachs (some even castigating him for it without understanding how influence and hybridization work in artistic ventures), it is clear when one reviews his directorial work as a whole that the Bacchae was a direct extension of the artistic path that he had embarked upon with his first productions. As he said in an interview with journalist Yaacov Haelyon: I think that Bacchae is one of the best of Euripides’ plays, and I believe that the form that we have given it will be different from any other production that has been staged here. At the same time, it is a natural follow-on to Everyman: in both plays, the central theme is the same—the religious ritual. There [in Everyman] it was about the Christian religious ritual—here it’s about pagan rituals—a less familiar religion, but a more savage one [ . . . ] The whole production is based on acting and movement, in a kind of stylized frenzy, like the primitive ecstatic rituals of the Dionysian priestesses. Verbal and graphic depictions of these appear on ancient Greek vases, and incidentally, those kinds of rituals carried on until well into the Middle Ages—with appropriate changes to fit the period, of course. One such example is the satanic fanaticism of the Saint Vitus Dance.¹⁸

As a theatre director who combined theory with practice, Sachs saw theatrical productions as total events: ‘What fascinates me about theatre is not the literary interpretation, but the medium that draws on all available artistic resources’, he said.¹⁹ For him, the theatrical script had two layers to it—a dramatic text that exists in its own right, and a stage text that is multidisciplinary and multi-media in nature, and which emerges in the course of the preparation for the production, with auditory and visual elements that work together and combine into a stylistic complexity aimed at stirring the spectator’s soul. He added: I bring to Bacchae the cinematic arts, as well, which not only adds another aspect to the multifaceted ensemble that is theatre, but also makes it possible to

¹⁷ Emanuel Bar-Kadma, ‘Prof. Sachs, director of Euripides Bacchae: “I chose this play because it is topical” ’, Yediot Aharonot, ICDPA, Portfolio #126.2.7. ¹⁸ Haelyon, ‘A Production Like No Other’. ¹⁹ Sachs in an interview with Michael Ohad, ‘To the Master of the Orgies’, Haaretz, 12 February 1971.

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provide the spectator with things that you cannot deliver by conventional theatrical means.²⁰

Accordingly, his reading of Euripides revealed the performative questions that arise in the text, which he commended to any director who wished to work with it and to experiment with the elements of theatrical language.²¹ One of the hallmarks of Bacchae is the pivotal role played by the Chorus—headed by Queen Agave. In Sachs’ production, the Chorus is mainly one of sound and movement, and a crucial part of the production language. The original Euripidean lines for the Chorus were replaced with movement, dance, and performance. The Chorus members—the Bacchantes—were very active throughout the production, donning or discarding leather costumes, climbing or descending the various wooden levels of the stage set (representing Pentheus’ Palace, or Mt Cithaeron). They danced and moved as they acted out the ritualistic images given in Euripides’ text and on the ancient Greek vases that depict the Bacchaean ecstasy. Critic Amos Keinan described it as: [ . . . ] a hypnotic monotonous sound; rhythms of whispers, sighs and shrieks; bodies that become a sculptural, moving and living mass; a text that flows like electricity that powers the screeching sculptures; and a terrible and terrifying beauty.²²

Another feature of Sachs’ production was his decision to depict events that Euripides had opted to keep hidden behind the scenes—such as the Bacchantes’ departure for Mt Cithaeron (which in the original version is merely described by the first Messenger), and their pursuit, capture, and gruesome killing of Pentheus (tearing his body apart, limb from limb) after he is caught spying on them dressed as a woman. Critic Boaz Evron, who had initially objected to Sachs’ decision to depict what Euripides sought to keep unseen, praised this scene, in which the Bacchae cluster around Queen Agave, forming a kind of writhing snake-like pyramid of bodies and arms (Figure 4.1) noting that ‘it indeed exudes something of the animalistic nature that we identify with all things Dionysian’.²³ ²⁰ Haelyon, ‘A Production Like No Other’. ²¹ Such a division between dramatic text and performance text, which is common practice today in the research literature of adaptation and rewriting of texts for performance, was not yet ‘acceptable’ in Israeli theatre of the 1970s—as evident from the critical reviews which lambasted Sachs for daring to change Euripides’ text. ²² Amos Kenan, ‘Finally—an International Event’, Yediot Aharonot, 15 February 1971. ²³ Boaz Evron, ‘How Euripides was Sacrificed on the Altar of Fashion’, Yediot Aharonot, 15 March 1971.

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Figure 4.1 Bacchae by Euripides, The Actors’ Stage (1968). Director: Arieh Sachs; stage design: Ada Hameirit. Pictured: Aliza Rosen (Agave) and her chorus of Bacchantes. Photograph by Srulik Haramaty.

In Sachs’ production, these two scenes, which in Euripides’ play were climactic in terms of the plot and their use of the convention of a messenger to describe horrific sights that had taken place off-stage, were climactic for other reasons—namely, the complexity of their theatrical

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language, and their defiance of the audience’s expectations. The former was achieved through a blend of cinema and theatre, and the latter through interaction of the Chorus with one of the characters, and an orchestration of voice and movement. In his review, critic Stephan Gilbert noted: The idea behind the directing [in this case] was based on the premise that everything needed to be visible to the spectator. It was with that principle in mind that artist Ada Hameirit designed the general framework of the stage set, and conceived and built the functional structures. It also means that the production will make much use of masks—particularly in the ecstasy and bacchanalia scenes.²⁴

In the first of those two scenes, Sachs sought to use the Dionysian ritual to enrich his stage language, to repeat the first Messenger’s description, and to enact the bacchanalia on stage. To this end, a short eight-minute film, entitled Cithaeron²⁵ (which Sachs had also directed) was screened on stage, next to the Messenger who delivered his speech, showing the Bacchantes performing their snake ritual and running amok on Mt Carmel, near a number of caves that are known to date back to the Stone Age. That film has, alas, been lost,²⁶ but some of it may be imagined from the description given by its creators, journalists, and critics.²⁷ Michael Ohad, for example, wrote: The Dionysian ritual on Mt. Cithaeron was filmed featuring eight young women in the forests of Mt. Carmel. At the beginning of the film, they are lying about, nude, in the shade of the trees—but when the sounds of the god’s flute echo in the forest, and he is revealed to his devotees in the form of a python (which they play with), or as Dionysus emerging from the bushes and laughing his satanic laugh, the women fall under his spell into an ecstatic trance, they pounce on a herd [of goats and cattle] (the bull being another personification of the god), decapitate the bull, drink its blood and smear their bodies with it.²⁸

In that scene, the actresses had been asked to dip their hands in the eviscerated intestines of a slaughtered bull, and smear the blood on their

²⁴ Steven Gilbert, ‘Bacchae as a Modern Tragedy’, Al Hamishmar, 3 February 1971. ²⁵ Co-directed by choreographer Gaby Eldor and camera man Yakhin Hirsch. ²⁶ In an interview given by Gaby Aldor to journalist Sarit Levi after Sachs’ death, she admitted she had no idea what has happened to the film: ‘It must be lying, forgotten in some corner of the Cameri’s warehouse, or among Arieh’s belongings.’ ²⁷ We must, however, bear in mind the limitations of these accounts, as Thomas Postlewait points out in his article, ‘Historiography and the Theatrical Event: A Primer with Twelve Cruxes’, Theatre Journal 43.21 (May 1991): 157–78. ²⁸ Ohad, ‘To the Master of the Orgies’.

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faces and naked bodies. After two of them refused to do so, they were filmed caressing each other’s bodies and kissing each other, while another actress suckled a kid goat that was subsequently butchered as well. The second scene—the killing and tearing apart of Pentheus’ body by Agave and the other Bacchae—was carried out in full view of the audience: A red light lit up upon Mt. Cithaeron, [with] the Bacchantes writhing like snakes and moaning, like animals on heat. Pentheus asks if he can take part in the alluring ritual. His true identity is discovered, and the hunt begins: he who had sought only to gain a glimpse of the proceedings is now the victim. The Bacchantes give chase, capture [him], tear off his dress and the flesh beneath it, and finally Pentheus is hung upside down on a scaffolding, like an inverted Christ, his feet above and his head below, his blood pouring out like that of the slaughtered bull in the film—as the Bacchantes whoop and drink.²⁹

After the ecstasy—the awakening. Agave returns, carrying her son’s head— ‘the red-striped white tiger’ that she had hunted down in her temporary madness. She then comes to her senses, and seeing her son lying at her feet, asks: ‘Who tore him apart like this? Who brought him here?’ Michael Ohad praised Aliza Rozen’s portrayal of Agave, noting that in this scene she achieved a pinnacle of acting that ‘in the days of the [pre-independence] Hebrew stage would have been dubbed “Rovina-like”’. Finally, Dionysus reveals himself to Queen Agave in all his glory, and sings William Blake’s poem The Sick Rose, to the music of Benjamin Britten.³⁰ THE REVIEWS

Reactions to Sachs’ Bacchae were mixed from the outset. In a laconic news item on 3 March 1971, the daily broadsheet Davar noted only: Calls of ‘Boo!’ and ‘Disgusting!’ as well as applause were heard at last night’s premiere of the Bacchae by Euripides, in an adaptation by Dr Arieh Sachs, performed by the cast of the Cameri Theatre for the critics, press and invited guests. The booing was heard mainly during the erotic scenes, in one of which the female members of the cast were seen in a film of an erotic nature, in which one of them suckled a calf. At the end of the performance, the mixture of boos and applause was heard once again.³¹

The reviews were many, ranging from outright condemnation to fulsome praise—not unlike the furore surrounding Hanoch Levin’s Queen of a

²⁹ Ibid.

³⁰ Ibid.

³¹ ‘Boos at Bacchae’, Davar, 3 March 1971.

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Bathtub in the previous year.³² What is interesting and somewhat enviable about this controversy is the sheer number of critics and artists arguing for and against the production, the fervour with which they each defended their position, and the alacrity with which they each switched from criticism of the production itself to a full-on assault on the state of theatre in Israel. This war of words continued well after the play itself had ended its run of only twenty performances. Critic Haim Gamzu castigated the production for the performance’s ‘lack of professionalism’. He deplored the ‘earsplitting shrieks’ that the audience was subjected to, the faulty diction, the hysterical shouting, and the fact that the Dionysian ritual was presented in the form of scantilyclad actresses in an ‘aesthetically displeasing’ display, given the ‘unprepossessing sight of their poor bodies’ on stage.³³ Critic Boaz Evron railed against Sachs’ adaptation of Euripides’ text: This, in my view, is just pure insolence! There’s a limit to the ‘poetic licence’ that a director may take. We came to see a play by Euripides—not some ‘stage innovations’ by Prof. Sachs. If the director’s intention was merely to show off his dubious innovations, it would have been better if he had not taken the name of Euripides in vain.³⁴

The artist Igael Tumarkin thought the production was ‘symptomatic of the malignant scourge of provincialism’, that the film featured in it was a ‘neo-Rousseauistic fantasy on the slopes of Mt. Carmel’, and that the production as a whole was nothing but an assortment of ‘foreign clichés’.³⁵ Idit Zartal wrote that ‘Euripides’ drama has been reduced to a series of individual and group gymnastics’,³⁶ and Carmit Miron—who summed up the production as a ‘failed attempt’, noted that: Arieh Sachs’s adaptation, which was nothing more than a wholesale axing of important poetic monologues and dialogues, resulted in the fact that many key

³² Today this controversy makes one nostalgic for the days when theatre was still the proverbial ‘campfire’ of society, theatre reviews filled an entire page of the newspaper, and any play or production of an innovative nature in terms of content or form could spark a furore that might continue well after its run on stage. ³³ Haim Gamzu, ‘The Four Victims of Bacchae’, Haaretz, 15 March 1971. ³⁴ Evron, ‘How Euripides was Sacrificed’. ³⁵ Yigael Tumarkin, ‘The Professor and Provincialism’, Yediot Aharonot, ‘Week Nights’ weekend supplement, 5 March 1971. ³⁶ Idit Zartal, ‘Sachs vs. Euripides’, Davar, 15 March 1971.

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events in the play were unintelligible—both because of the brevity of the scenes and the untheatrical diction of most of the cast.³⁷

It is clear from these reviews that most critics were unable to accept the artistic licence that Sachs had taken with the production, or his radical rejection of the ‘classical ideal’ that dominated the theatrical medium at that time. Some, however, did praise his approach. Journalist Michael Ohad wrote that the production ‘shatters the prevailing classical ideal that has held our stages in its thrall since Tyrone Guthrie’s impressive Oedipus Tyrannus, to the less impressive Antigones and Electras of the likes of Yossef Milo and Gershon Plotkin’.³⁸ Writer and journalist Amos Kenan was even more emphatic in his approbation: This week, for the first time ever, we saw an Israeli production that is a truly international theatrical event. Euripides’ Bacchae, directed by Arieh Sachs, is exceptional not only by the standards of Israeli theatre—it is a spectacular Israeli answer to the artistic & social crisis that has beset [the world of] theatre throughout the world.³⁹

Theatre and art critic Gideon Ofrat wrote two reviews about the production. In the first, he complained of boredom: ‘The sparse and lightweight language and the usual conventional mise-en-scènes render the middle part of the production repetitive and boring’, he wrote.⁴⁰ In his second review, however—which was longer and more detailed—he responded to some of the critical reactions to the film: ‘Who said that theatre is a place where we’re supposed to feel pleasantness? Perhaps mental shock is the purpose of it all—entertainment that shakes us out of our day-to-day composure.’ After praising the cast and the musical composer ‘whose music goes above and beyond its purpose in the production, and is worthy of recognition as an artistic piece in its own right’, he summed up: Bacchae is a production that has both good and bad: a compelling beginning and finale set in a gripping ritualistic spirit, and a long and rather boring middle. The interesting challenge that Arieh Sachs has undertaken has not been fully accomplished, since he has adhered rather too closely to various theatrical tenets ³⁷ Carmit Miron, ‘A Failed Attempt’, Kol Ha’am, 8 April 1971. ³⁸ Ohad, ‘Master of the Orgies’. ³⁹ Kenan, ‘Finally—an International Event’; Amos Kenan, ‘The Bacchanalia’, Yediot Aharonot, 2 April 1971. ⁴⁰ Gideon Ofrat, ‘Comic, Lighthearted Adaptations’, LaMerhav, 19 March 1971.

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that have guided him until now. In its staging of Bacchae, the Cameri Theatre has proved itself to be a modern and bold theatre—albeit a very conventional one, as well.⁴¹

The religious (Jewish Orthodox) parties also pitched into the debate, and as usual did not confine their views to the printed press, but launched an all-out offensive. At the opening night of the play in Jerusalem on 22 March 1971, some three hundred ultra-Orthodox yeshiva students of the Neturei Karta sect, headed by Rabbi Amram Blau, burst into the lobby of the Beit-Ha’am Theatre, shouting, ‘Debauchery! Lechery!’ and using various abusive language. The commotion caused the performance to be halted for a few minutes, while the ushers tried to prevent them from entering the auditorium. Police were called, removed the demonstrators from the theatre lobby, and arrested the rabbi and some of his more aggressive followers. The following day, however, the Jerusalem Municipality gave in to the demands of the Orthodox community and banned any further performances of Bacchae in the city. The municipalities of Petah-Tikva and Rehovot followed suit, cancelling the scheduled performances in those towns, as well. The Cameri Theatre responded swiftly and angrily to the ban. On 8 April, the mayor of Jerusalem, Teddy Kollek, publicly admitted that he had made a mistake by giving in to the demands of the Orthodox groups over Bacchae, and announced that under a new council resolution, Jerusalem Municipality would henceforth permit the staging of any production that is approved by the National Film Review Board.⁴² Ultimately, the Cameri Theatre had its say in the matter, as well. In an article published in the magazine At in May 1971, its General Director, Yeshayahu Weinberg, responded to those who had denounced the Cameri for allowing Sachs to stage Bacchae by first addressing the extent of the reaction to it: Go and see what happened to this experimental production. Throughout its run, a public furore raged far in excess of the usual journalistic treatment of theatrical productions: people who normally have nothing to do with theatrical criticism rallied together—either to attack it furiously, or to put up a staunch defence in its

⁴¹ Gideon Ofrat, ‘A Beginning and End, and no Worthy Middle’, LaMerhav, 19 March 1971. ⁴² Teddy Kollek, ‘I was wrong to give in to the religious [community] regarding Bacchae’, Haaretz, 8 April 1971.

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favour. Among its detractors we find not only Neturei Karta and officials of the Agudat Yisrael [Orthodox] Party, but also members of the liberal intelligentsia, and even some women from the bohemian set, who usually present themselves as non-conformist rebels.

He went on to explain why the production had sparked such strong feelings: I believe that the sheer intensity of the controversy—especially of the reactions against the play—has but one explanation: the production of Bacchae had an enormous emotional impact on many of the spectators. In most it sparked outrage, but it is the very intensity of that opposition that attests to the strength of the impact.

Finally, he drew certain conclusions: An experimental theatre is usually more suited to a small venue. It is quite possible that Bacchae might have met with a much more benign—and possibly even positive—reception had it been put on at the Khan [Theatre] or even at Tzavta, or at one of the universities, it is not inconceivable that many of its infuriated detractors today might have even praised the production for its ‘boldness’.⁴³

Weinberg’s article, and the controversy that raged around the production in reviews and newspaper articles, give us a glimpse into the impressive vitality of Israeli theatre in the 1970s, and underscore how radical Sachs’ innovative approach was for that time, and the willingness of the Cameri Theatre—a mainstream repertory theatre with a large subscriber base—to enable young theatre makers to follow their artistic dream and introduce new readings of classical texts to the country.

Yossi Yizraely: Experimentations with Stage Imagery Yossi Yizraely is a director, poet, and Professor Emeritus of Directing at the Department of Theatre Arts of Tel Aviv University. He was born in Jerusalem on 10 December 1938, served in the Nahal Corps in the army (through Kibbutz Ein-Gev), and studied Jewish and General Philosophy at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, followed by Drama Studies at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art in London (1960–2), and at the Department of Theatre Arts of the University of Bristol (1962–5). He then

⁴³ Yishayahu Weinberg, ‘Requiem for a Maligned Production’, At, May 1971.

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pursued his doctoral studies at the Carnegie Mellon School of Drama in Pittsburgh (founded in 1914—the first of its kind in the United States), and was awarded a PhD for his dissertation on Vakhtangov’s directing of The Dybbuk by Habima Theatre.⁴⁴ On completing his studies, he returned to Israel and accepted various directing positions, but remained in touch with his Pittsburgh alma mater—culminating in his appointment years later as its Chair of Directing, from 1989 to 1992. Yizraely’s professional directing career began at the Cameri Theatre in 1965, with the children’s musical Utz-Li Gutz-Li, by the noted Israeli poet and translator Avraham Shlonsky—a production that remains one of the most cherished works in the theatre’s repertoire to this day.⁴⁵ In 1970, he began teaching at the Department of Theatre Arts of Tel Aviv University. In 1975, he was appointed artistic director of Habima Theatre—the first outsider ever appointed in that role—where he served for two years. In 1984–7, he served as artistic director of the Khan Theatre in Jerusalem, where he also established the Laboratory of Jewish Theatre.⁴⁶ Yizraely’s theatrical work is a good example of that of a director who moves freely between ‘Jerusalem’ and ‘Athens’, is stimulated by the encounter between the two cultures, and works within it. The range of productions that he has directed in Israel and abroad includes European classics, such as those of Corneille, Shakespeare, Ibsen,⁴⁷ Strindberg, Pirandello, Lorca, and Beckett, stage adaptations of non-dramatic Jewish works, such as There Once Was a Hassidic Man (1968—based on songs, stories, and Hassidic melodies, edited by Dan Almagor); the works of Rabbi Nahman of Breslov (adapted by Yizraely himself, 1979); Nothing is More Whole Than a Broken Heart (Heidelberg Municipal Theatre and Festival of Berlin, 1984); and Breslau-Beethoven-Breslau (Incubator Theatre, Israel Festival 2014). In addition, he adapted and directed The Bridal Canopy (a novel by Shmuel Yosef Agnon,⁴⁸ set in a Jewish town in ⁴⁴ Yossi Yizraely, ‘Vakhtangov Directing The Dybbuk’, doctoral dissertation (CarnegieMellon University, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, 1971). ⁴⁵ The production notes still state: ‘Original production script: Yossi Yizraely’. ⁴⁶ Yossi Yizraely, ‘Towards a Jewish Theatre: A Broad Outline’, Itton 77.59 (1984): 46. ⁴⁷ ‘Yizraely might even be considered as Ibsen’s “in-house” stage interpreter’, wrote Dorit Yerushalmi, in her book The Directors’ Stage, 320. See also Gad Kaynar, ‘Translation and Realization of Scripted Action: Yossi Yizraely’s Reading of Ibsen’s The Lady from the Sea’, Assaph 16 (2000): 45–64. ⁴⁸ Shmuel Yosef Agnon (1888–1970) was Nobel Prize Laureate writer (1966) and a central figure of modern Hebrew literature.

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Eastern Europe) at Habima Theatre in 1972. The latter’s success paved the way for more productions based on Agnon’s short stories, and for other directors and writers to adopt stories from the cultural legacy of Eastern European Jewry.⁴⁹ Other Agnon works followed: A Simple Story (an Agnon novel adapted by Shlomo Nitzan and Yitzhak Goren—at Habima in 1979); Only Yesterday (Habima, 1982); and Tehilah (Khan Theatre, 1984)—as well as Anski’s The Dybbuk (1985). ‘Breslov, Kafka, and Agnon—those are the three cornerstones of what I believe is my Jewishness, my Hebrewness’, he said.⁵⁰ Since the 1970s, Yizraely has also directed plays from the Greek and Roman canon: Seneca’s Medea at the Cameri Theatre in 1971; Oedipus Tyrannus at Haifa Theatre, 1996; Antigone as an acting workshop at the Department of Theatre Arts at Tel Aviv University in 1997 and, that same year, as a full-scale production at the Pittsburgh University Theatre; and Iphigenia at Aulis at the Herzliya Ensemble Theatre in 2009. Yizraely is also an example of a theatre maker who is never fixated on a particular style, but continually exploring the dramatic text in search of the most appropriate direction. His productions are marked by an innovative and original reading of masterpieces, with a particular focus on the boundaries between the dramatic and the epic. Each of his productions offers a dense language, rich in stage imagery and metaphors, complex mises-en-scène made up of elements from various disciplines, encoded in meta-theatrical devices that allow the theatre to be constantly re-examined both as a medium and as a performance, and revealing the many perspectives encapsulated within the literary or dramatic text. In the past ten years, Yizraely has been writing poetry and directing plays of his own—Mother’s Weddings (2006); Rehaviah (2009); Dreams of Anonymous (2011); The Bible Teacher (2012); Magentza (2013); Love in the Lower Winter (2014); and Prospero in Jerusalem (2016)—that depict powerful family conflicts in the context of Israeli society and culture. He regularly stages these plays at the Tmuna Fringe Theatre, in ⁴⁹ Drama and literary scholar Gershon Shaked saw The Bridal Canopy as ‘an attempt by Israeli youth to come to terms with the society of the shtetls [small Eastern European towns or villages with a predominantly Jewish population] and [their] cultural heritage’. See Shaked, ‘Portrait of a Director as Literary Commentator: Yossi Yizraely’s Commentary, and the Reception on Stage’, Bamah 115 (1989): 41–64. ⁵⁰ Naama Berman, ‘The Art of Cramming into the Life-Fulfilling Experience’, interview with Yossi Yizraely, Téatron 37 (Winter 2014), 66.

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which he performs as well as directs, surrounded by young Israeli actors and dancers. Yizraely’s first encounter with classical Greek drama (and which piqued his interest in the field) occurred when he studied under Professor Kitto at Bristol University. Kitto, he said, a Classical Literature scholar and lecturer at the Classical Studies Department, instilled an enthusiasm in his students by showing them how tragedy is a living and vigorous drama—which is a message that Yizraely has tried to convey in each of his own productions. His first production of a classical play was Seneca’s Medea—an experimental production with a particularly complex text, which to my mind encapsulated the questions that drove his subsequent investigations. These had to do with the character of Medea and the preparatory work done by the actress in the title role, and revealed the questions that professional actors must face when dealing with classical texts. At the same time, it is also a highly illustrative example of how a director and an actor can respond to a tragic intervention of Israeli reality into a theatrical production, and use the events as turning points and inspiration in their artistic quest. Descriptions of other directorial experiments by Yizraely—such as Oedipus Tyrannus at the Haifa Municipal Theatre in 1992, and Iphigenia at Aulis at the Herzliya Ensemble Theatre in 2009—will follow.

Seneca’s Medea: experiments with the power of revenge (1971) Medea was a watershed event in the theatrical careers of Yossi Yizraely and its leading actor, Hanna Maron. For Maron, it was her first and only opportunity to portray a character from both classical Greek and Roman drama—which is odd, given that she was one of Israel’s leading stage actors.⁵¹ It also involved a great personal tragedy, because just as she began preparing for the role, she was gravely injured in a terrorist ⁵¹ Hanna Maron (1923–2014) was born Hanna Meierzak in Berlin in 1923. At the age of four, she was declared a child prodigy, and with her mother’s encouragement, began acting in children’s theatre, appearing at the Deutsches Theatre in plays directed by Max Reinhardt. At the age of nine, she played the role of Teentsy Weentsy in Teentsy Weentsy & Anton by Erich Kastner, directed by Gottfried Reinhardt, and in Fritz Lang’s film M. In 1933, her family left Germany—first for Paris, and then, in 1934, to Palestine. At seventeen, she enrolled in the Habima acting studio. In 1942, she volunteered for the British Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps (WAAC), and served in Egypt. In 1944, she joined the Jewish Brigade’s entertainment troupe. In 1945 she joined the Cameri Theatre, and became one of the leading actors of Israeli theatre.

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attack in Munich.⁵² Despite the serious disability that she suffered as a result, she forged ahead, both in terms of engaging with this complex and tragic character, and adjusting to her new physical condition, and successfully completed her preparations for the role which she performed throughout the production’s run, to triumphant acclaim. For Yizraely, too, the production was a challenge, as it was the first time that he had tackled a classical Roman tragedy. Indeed, directing Medea marked the starting point of a quest that would preoccupy him in all subsequent productions: the search for a special syntax of a theatrical language that captures all the visual images with the spoken word, to the extent that they each have a full artistic presence, in their own right, without the one serving as an illustration for the other. The aim of this syntax was to turn spectators into active participants, by encouraging them—through associations, memories, and personal contexts—to decipher the situations, images, and metaphors presented on stage.⁵³ Critics described the production as ‘challenging to watch’—dense, and possessing ‘a dramatic tension that we have not witnessed on our stages for a long time’, wrote Emil Feuerstein.⁵⁴ The effect on the audience was very powerful. Moshe Natan wrote: I emerged this week from the second performance of Medea at the Cameri Theatre, shellshocked and uneasy. Antonin Artaud once said that when you come out from a good [piece of] theatre, you should feel the ground stirring beneath your feet, and that the sky may fall on your head at any moment. I felt something of that trembling sensation at the end of this violent, dense and cruel evening.⁵⁵

The history of the production is intricate, and tracing it allows us to gain a glimpse into the theatre’s internal workings. The Cameri Theatre had initially planned to cast Maron as Medea in Euripides’ version of the ⁵² Her injury resulted in her right leg having to be amputated at the knee, requiring her to use a prosthesis for the rest of her life. ⁵³ Yizraely’s production of Medea used the poetic Hebrew translation by Raphael Eliaz. Stage design—Yizraely, based on an idea by the sculptor Igael Tumarkin; costume design— Ruth Dar; musical score—Yossi Mar-Haim. Appearing alongside Hanna Maron were Ze’ev Revah (Jason), Zaharira Harifai (the Nurse), and Yossi Graber (Creon). The Chorus was made up of the young members of the Cameri troupe—Yossi Alfi, Oded Ben-Ami, Batya Barak, Yossi Zilber, Raffi Taylor, Mashiah Yaacobi, Kennie Semo, Pinhas Koren, and Issachar Tamuz. ⁵⁴ Emil Feuerstein, ‘Medea at the Cameri’, Hatzofeh, 25 June 1971. ⁵⁵ Moshe Natan, ‘The Cult of Horrors at the Cameri’, Maariv, 25 June 1971.

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play, with a certain guest director. However, a short time later that director announced that he would not be available, and when Yizraely was appointed in his stead, he opted to use Seneca’s Medea, instead. For him the choice was obvious: Seneca, he said, tells the story without wallowing in a sea of superfluous sentimentality: Seneca was a consummate writer, and raised in an environment that cherished the written word above all else. For him, the best speech had to be effective, to say things succinctly, yet in the most eloquent way possible. The result is an absolute pearl of a text: modern, while sufficiently archaic for my purposes.⁵⁶

Maron immediately agreed to Yizraely’s proposal, ‘because with Seneca the political aspect is the strongest’. Seneca’s Medea is extremely difficult to perform. Its complex structure features powerful verbal expression of spectacular but horrific scope, which poses a challenge to the production’s director, actors, and designers. Yizraely looked for a stage language that would convey both the power and the horrors in a coherent set of images. For him the production had another, meta-theatrical dimension that underlined the dual nature of a theatre production: My starting point was a concert: it was supposed to resemble a concert-like, introspective, documentary evening as closely as possible—to relate precisely what had happened in the most eloquent way possible. There are no epic or ritualistic elements in the play. It is really a small analytical study of an act of revenge. The magnitude of Medea’s act is obvious and apparent even without torrents of blood. To enliven the sequence of speeches a little, I inserted a few theatrical elements— which meant, in part, building things up in segments—like a play within a play.⁵⁷ PATHFINDING : PHASE I

The first stage in the rehearsals was to establish the production’s physical and visual language. This involved a great deal of physical work at first— examining how the characters moved and the situation’s physical appearance. But in Yizraely’s case, this experimentation—which is par for the course in the actors’ preparation—had a further purpose, to find a ⁵⁶ From Emanuel Bar-Kadma, ‘Medea—interview with Yossi Yizraely’, Yediot Aharonot, 25 June 1971. ⁵⁷ From the author’s interview with Hanna Maron on 1 December 1993. See Yaari, ‘The Materials of Medea: An Actress and Director Grappling with the Classical Legacy’, for the exhibition catalogue of The Role of an Actress: Hanna Maron, held at The Genia Schreiber University Art Gallery, Tel Aviv University, December 1994–March 1995.

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distinctive theatrical style for this particular tragedy, by formulating a distinctive bodily expression for it. However, the rehearsals, which had begun at a leisurely pace and without external interference, were suddenly brought to a halt by reallife tragedy: shortly before the general rehearsal, Maron acceded to Haim Topol’s repeated requests, and flew to London to audition for the role of Golda in the stage version of Fiddler on the Roof. The trip, which was meant to last only two days, ended disastrously during a layover in Munich: as she and other El Al passengers (including the actor and filmmaker Assi Dayan) made their way to the bus that was to take them to their London flight, they were attacked by terrorists.⁵⁸ Maron was rushed to hospital, with life-threatening injuries. PATHFINDING : PHASE II

At the hospital, Maron continued her preparations for the Medea role— albeit in an entirely different manner. Since every aspect of an actor’s life is ultimately tied into their stagecraft, it is difficult to draw the line between work-related experimentation and the tapestry of an actor’s personal life, which provides a broad canvas of associations, understandings, and feelings that may one day find their expression on stage: Most of the time I was unconscious, but I do remember a few things that strike me as being very relevant to my story in relation to Medea. The first thing that happened to me had to do with the fact that I’m an actress. [ . . . ] When they brought me into the emergency ward, I was on the brink of death because I had lost a lot of blood. The nurses tried to keep me awake with all kinds of questions, and the first thing I shouted, and in German, was ‘Ich bin Schauspielerin, Ich bin Schauspielerin [I’m an actress]!’—which is interesting: (a) because I had spoken in German (which is my native tongue—i.e. it was my natural state); and (b) because I shouted that I’m an actress—because that, too, is my natural state. That’s what I am—an actress! It must have been very important. [ . . . ] And something else happened, as well: as I lay there, I was constantly drifting in and out of consciousness. And there was a moment—I suppose because of the loss of blood—when the urge just to give up and let go, suddenly emerged. I felt a kind of lightness—like something blue and beautiful was pulling me inwards—it was a

⁵⁸ See ‘Three Arabs suddenly burst towards the El-Al passengers, throwing handgrenades and shouting, “Put your hands up!” ’, Yediot Aharonot, 10 February 1970. See also Yaron Druckman, ‘The terrorist attack in Munich: Hanna Maron and the heroic airline captain’, , 8 February 2014 (accessed 6 December 2015).

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pleasant feeling. And then suddenly another, opposite, force arose: something within me said that this blue [thing] was bad . . . so I began to fight it. That’s what kept me alive—that woke me up, because I was already a little out of it. I didn’t feel any pain by this point. I had this strange feeling, and I remember that I felt around with my hand for the bed, and there was a red lake there. I actually felt redness—I saw this beautiful dark red, and I felt something sticky. And then this clear thought suddenly struck me: ‘So this is blood—this is Medea . . . ’ At that very moment, the knowledge that I’m an actress, and the sensation of blood, and the connection to Medea, all came together—and it all stayed with me throughout the production.⁵⁹

Time went by, the surgeries failed, and there was no choice but to amputate one of Maron’s legs, and for her to become accustomed to using a prosthesis. It was a very difficult period—and although she had more pressing issues to deal with during her time in the hospital in Munich, she continued to think about Medea throughout this time: I understood that the physical work that we had originally had in mind was now out of the question. At the same time, another train of events came into play—and once again, this was a coincidence. A rumour started going round that Hanoch Levin’s Queen of a Bathtub was being staged,⁶⁰ and had caused an uproar, and that there were riots, and things began getting mixed up in my head. I admit that up until that time—although one can’t live in Israel without being politically involved, and even though we’re all in favour of peace and all that, political involvement wasn’t an important part of my life, and I certainly didn’t associate it with Medea by Euripides or Seneca—even though I knew when we began that Seneca’s play is political. But this is where the association began to form between the experience that I had gone through and the blood, and the physical and mental injury, the fear that I wouldn’t ever again perform on stage, the fear of disability, the feminine jealousy—I never dreamed that I would actually go back to perform on stage, and just focused on the interview so as to keep myself occupied. About a year after the terrorist attack we premiered Medea.⁶¹

Maron returned to rehearsals at the end of April 1971—and her arrival imposed new conditions on the entire production. Yizraely did not want her to move about the stage that Tumarkin had built on an incline, for fear that it would be too physically challenging for her, so the original idea of

⁵⁹ Author’s interview with Hanna Maron. ⁶⁰ Hanoch Levin’s satirical cabaret—Queen of a Bathtub, directed by Davin Levin, Cameri Theatre, 1970. See Chapter 5. ⁶¹ Author’s interview with Hanna Maron.

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having her moving about energetically on the stage was now commuted to a notion of inner turmoil. Maron’s Medea did move—constantly—but with her feet planted firmly on the stage. ‘I channelled [the notion of being] stationary’, she explained. The result surprised her, as well: I felt ten times bigger. It gave me a kind of physicality, a kind of restraint. Initially during the rehearsals, before the injury, I thought that a flowing movement was the way to go. But later, after the injury, I didn’t flow—I was stuck, planted like a tree, everywhere—rooted to the ground. That tree, with its roots, was, for me, the political meaning of the play.⁶²

In these words, perhaps, we see the true mark of an actor—namely, assimilating the analysis and study of the text within one’s own personal experience, and extracting the body’s particular tangible expression from it. Medea premiered on 19 June 1971. The set design was born of the notion of a dual observation—a theatre within a theatre. Unchanged throughout the production, it consisted of a raised bronze platform, with an enormous, gleaming conch shell-like structure in the middle, at the open end of which stood another raised, round platform as a kind of symbolic altar. Surrounding it were several white benches, on which the actors and the members of the chorus sat and watched the performance as on-stage witnesses and experienced events as they unfolded. Theatre critics, however, were thoroughly bemused by the set, and cast around for suitable analogies amidst (at times sardonic) references to the ‘real’ world. Emil Feuerstein thought it ‘resembles the hold of a jumbo [jet]’,⁶³ while Michael Ohad wrote that ‘Medea lives inside an [oldfashioned] gramophone, ca. 1903—all that was missing was the little puppy listening to His Master’s Voice.’⁶⁴ Idit Zartal noted simply that the ‘backdrop was of a white, sterile room with a space-like set’.⁶⁵ Despite their difficulty in appreciating that Yizraely had simply sought to construct a theatrical space rather than a readily identifiable place in the real world, the critics did nonetheless clearly appreciate the complex and special visual tapestry forged from the complex interplay of set, miseen-scène, and actors’ movements, mimicry, and voices. Above all, they were struck by the distinctive look that Yizraely and Maron had created for Medea as a character (Figure 4.2). ⁶² Ibid. ⁶³ Feuerstein, ‘Medea at the Cameri’. ⁶⁴ Michael Ohad, ‘Greek Tragedy’, Haaretz, 2 July 1971. ⁶⁵ Idit Zartal, ‘Cherishing Hanna Maron’, Davar, 27 June 1971.

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Figure 4.2 Medea by Seneca, The Cameri Theatre (1971). Director: Yossi Yizraely; stage design: Igael Tumarkin. Cast: Hanna Maron (Medea); Zaharira Harifai (The Nurse); Ze’ev Revah (Jason). Photograph by Srulik Haramaty.

The actors sat on stage throughout the play, rising and sitting in their order of appearance and in accordance with their role within the various events. The fact that they all clustered around the small platform did not hinder their reactions to events—on the contrary, they saw (or rather, felt) what happened all the better. They spoke not to one another, but directly, to the audience: There is virtually no dialogue in this play. The characters talk to each other by ceremonially addressing the audience. Most of the time they are physically distant from one another—suggesting a kind of stylized estrangement. They listen to each other’s actions—not face to face, but in a dream. When Medea murders her children, Jason is thrashing about in his seat in agony, as he watches what she is doing in his dream.⁶⁶

⁶⁶ Natan, ‘The Cult of Horrors at the Cameri’.

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The stylized, theatrical approach extended to the design of the costumes, hairstyles, makeup, masks, and props, as well. The stage world was broadly divided into black and white, with occasional streaks of colour and spreading blood stains, to represent what was happening to the characters. Creon and Jason were both dressed in white linen—Creon in a broad cloak, and Jason in a tunic and breeches of linen and brown leather, which gave him a somewhat military air. Medea and the Nurse were dressed in black—a plain black gown for the Nurse, and a more elaborate embroidered full-length dress for Medea, similar to those worn by Bedouin women. Medea’s hair was also red and wild. ‘The dress was my idea’, said Maron. ‘It represents the Mediterranean, the Eastern aspect that I wanted so much to emphasize.’⁶⁷ The Chorus members all wore white gowns, white paint on their faces, and large white masks designed to give them a child-like appearance, as they described the love rituals between Jason and Glauce. Two of them wore masks with large eyes, to represent Medea’s two children. Colours played an important part in the production’s overall look. The Chorus leader’s hands were painted blue, which stained his drum as he drummed, as a kind of talisman to ward off the evil of Medea the witch. Creon’s face was covered in a black cloth as the Chorus told the story of the poisoned dress that sparked the fire that destroyed him and his home. Blood stains spread on the robes of the two Chorus members who portrayed Medea’s children. The only props in the production were the masks and the musical instruments that the Chorus members played as they sang. Hanna Maron’s preparation for the role—in terms of her appearance, the stylized manner in which she moved about to form a unified stage presence, and her interpretation of the character—were rooted in her personal experience. As she told Moshe Natan just before the premiere: Medea, in my view, is just a symbol—a symbol of the injustices that nations inflict on one another, that one race inflicts on another. There are whole passages there about political injustice that is done to [various] nations. Anyone who can read between the lines a little and feel my words and hear will easily spot these messages in the play. Which is why Medea is so wretched: she suffers—and yet she is still not right. Because if we say that the solution for all the terrible injustices is violence—the world is doomed, it would perish. The infanticide that Medea commits is, to my mind, not just the murder of children, but signifies

⁶⁷ Author’s interview with Hanna Maron.

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the end of the world: if you kill the youth, if you kill the next generation—the chances of a better, more just world—you are killing hope. So, you might as well drop the hydrogen bombs from the superpowers’ reserves, and be done with it once and for all. Absolutely. What happened to me personally contributed a lot to how I perceive the character and the violence.⁶⁸

The two key scenes in the production—the one where the poison is concocted and that of the murder of the children—give us an insight into Maron’s role within the general syntax of the stage language that Yizraely created for the production. In the poisoned concoction scene and blood ritual, Medea stood in front of the round altar, after the feverish rage that boiled within her had coalesced into a firm resolve to commit the murder. With her wild red hair, she looked like a witch, or a priestess whipping herself into a frenzy as she conducts the rite and summons the gods of the darkness to help her in her deeds. The vows that she whispers prepare the altar for the role that she intends for it—a bloody sacrifice. Suddenly, in a ceremonial gesture, she tears her black dress—a ragged worn garment—and pulls out the red lining within. As she does so, she says she is pulling out a knife and stabbing her arm to see if she can withstand the sight of the precious blood she intends to spill. However, instead of literally doing so, Maron symbolically tears her sleeve and pulls out a red string similar to the one that Martha Graham’s Medea danced with⁶⁹—except that in Yizraely’s production it is wrapped around her arm like the straps of a Jewish prayer phylactery.⁷⁰ In the murder scene, the two Chorus members representing the children wore masks on their faces with large, child-like eyes caught in a surprised expression—as if to underline that this was not the actual event, but an enactment. This distancing between the act and its theatrical representation had the dual effect of making it easier for the actors to perform the murder scene in front of the audience, while underscoring

⁶⁸ ‘During the attack at the airport, I found myself facing three living Medeas’—from Moshe Natan, ‘Interview with Hanna Maron’, Maariv, 11 June 1971. ⁶⁹ Martha Graham, Cave of the Heart, a 24 minute dance based on Euripides Medea (music—Samuel Barber; stage design—Isamu Nogoshi; costumes—Edthe Gilfond; lighting—Jean Rosenthal). In the video version of the dance the role of Medea is performed by Takako Asakawa (Video by Merril Brockway, ‘Martha Graham & Dance Company, Dance in America’ (WENT TV, New York, 1976). ⁷⁰ Natan, ‘Interview with Hanna Maron’, note 3.

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its horror and heightening its effect on the audience. The two ‘children’ knelt and leaned on the round altar, their bodies covered in white robes. Medea then spoke about the murder of the first, and the white robe of one of the children was suddenly covered in blood. At that moment, at one end of the stage, the Nurse’s body stiffened as though she herself had been stabbed by a dagger. At the other end Jason saw the murder as in a dream: he stood in front of his wife whose eyes were lighting up in pleasure at the sight of her revenge and begged for the life of the second child—when the white robe of the second child is also suddenly covered in blood. When the two children removed the masks from their faces, they looked as though all their blood had drained from their bodies. When Medea spoke about how she threw the bodies of her children at their father’s feet, the children removed their bloodied robes, to reveal mangled and bloody bodies beneath. In the final scene, the conch shelllike form in the background opened up, and Medea walked towards it, a yellow light shining from within, blinding the spectators, burning around her like a wheel of fire, until she disappeared from view, engulfed by vistas beyond our comprehension—a stunning yet horrific sight. Moshe Natan shared his impression with his readers: When Hanna Maron’s Medea completes the horrifying ritual of murdering her children, she leaps towards the opening at the end of the metal cone that is lit up by a blinding light like a sun’s orb. When the opening closes in on her like a guillotine, I felt for a moment as though I had been plunged into the godless depths in which Medea finds herself.⁷¹

Critics could not deny the power of the performance: all the elements that had been painstakingly developed through joint effort had come to fruition on stage, highlighting its unique character. Emanuel Bar Kadma wrote: Hanna Maron’s Medea is a character that has been beautifully assembled, piece by piece. Only the complete, final scene, which emerges from this great assembly operation, shows it to us in its entirety: a most violent monster. The individual elements—pain, injured pride, refusal to come to terms, female cunning, resourcefulness and scheming born of long-term experience—are not simply thrown together willy-nilly, but are building blocks that come together in the final Act to form the terrible killing.⁷²

⁷¹ Natan, ‘The Cult of Horrors at the Cameri’. ⁷² Bar-Kadma, ‘Medea—interview with Yossi Yizraely’, note 6.

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Critic Haim Gamzu praised Hanna Maron’s portrayal, noting that her success was due to her sharp and vivid image of the character that she had managed to convey to the audience: The unruly wig that covers Hanna Maron’s head gives her the air of a maddened, bloodthirsty she-wolf full of fury and rage; she fights with cunning, flattery and humiliation for her right to avenge. Her clothes are black, wrinkled, and soon to be covered in the blood of her children and the tears of her husband as he plunges into the depths of despair. She shrieks more than she speaks, the hatred dripping from her lips like poison, all the forces of hell combining with the magical powers that she was born with to produce murder, grief and powerful revenge [ . . . ] Bit by bit, the spectator adjusts to this unusual character, and slowly understands Medea [ . . . ] sensing that they are witnessing a great, genuine actress whose identification with her role is dearer to her even than the audience’s immediate appreciation. An actress who is striving to impose this tragic figure’s domination of the stage, despite all her sins and crimes.⁷³

The production received rave reviews—as did Hanna Maron personally. Its success was unquestionably due to the connection between Maron’s personal story and the manner in which she performed the role, and from the special bond between her and the director. Although other actors were also highly praised, the stage was hers, and Medea proved to be among the highlights of the careers of both Hanna Maron and Yossi Yizraely. It ran for 114 performances, finally ending on 31 January 1972. The production also returned Maron to full-time work at the Cameri Theatre, and sparked great interest in classical theatre and the distinctive theatre language that Yizraely had developed in the course of contending with Seneca’s tragedy and Maron’s physical handicap. Judging by the materials that he dealt with in the years following Medea, it appears that his experience with ancient tragedy prompted him to explore his own culture. From 1972 through 1984, Yizraely examined the literary works of Agnon—among the most venerated of ‘Jerusalem’ writers—and the stories of Rabbi Nahman of Breslau, and experimented with various theatrical means by which epic works could be turned into a drama productions. Meanwhile, the experience of dealing with Maron’s physical handicap led him to experiment with minimalism, both on stage and in the actor’s work.

⁷³ Haim Gamzu, ‘Medea by Seneca at the Cameri Theatre’, Haaretz, 27 June 1971.

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Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus: experiments with minimalism (1992) In 1992, Yizraely returned to classical tragedy with Oedipus Tyrannus by Sophocles, which he directed at the Haifa Municipal Theatre, and two workshops of Antigone by Sophocles—one with third-year drama students at the Department of Theatre Arts at Tel Aviv University, the other with the student theatre of the University of Pittsburgh. What linked all these productions together artistically was Yizraely’s continual attempts at minimalism—i.e. keeping the cast, the stage space, sets, and props to a minimum, in a bid to leave the stage for the actors and Sophocles’ text. This meant that the casting of Oedipus Tyrannus was critical, and underwent many changes. Rehearsals began in April, and the production premiered on 19 September.⁷⁴ Yizraely appears to have aimed for a production in the spirit of two traditions: the ancient tradition of a minimal cast (three actors—albeit not only men—portraying all characters of the play, as common in Athens of the fifth century BCE), and a modern tradition of having the Chorus played by a single actor, as in Anouilh’s Antigone or Cocteau’s Oedipus Rex. The play was staged in a small theatre hall with a diminutive stage—Haifa Municipal Theatre’s Stage 2 in the Wadi Salib neighbourhood—and no stage set. The audience surrounded the stage on three sides, very close to the actors. Oedipus and the Chorus remained on stage throughout the performance, while Hava Ortman and Mohammed Bakri went in and out, changing costumes, delivery, and body movements to suit their various roles. The result made the audience shift uneasily in their seats. As Michael Handelzalts noted: The spectator, who sees the actors changing costumes and bodily behaviours, immediately asks himself ‘Why?’ One possible answer is that this is the story of one man, Oedipus, while the other characters are merely perfunctory and minor—playthings of Fate, as it were. But the fact that Ortman and Bakri repeatedly leave the stage and return in various odd guises doesn’t really fit in with that interpretation. So the question remains unanswered, which forces the

⁷⁴ Doron Tavori (Oedipus); Hava Ortman (played three roles: Jocasta, the Old Shepherd, and the Messenger); Mohammed Bakri (played three roles: Creon, Tiresias, and the Messenger from Corinth); Menahem Einy (the Chorus).

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actors to adopt an exaggerated externalized form of acting in at least two of the three roles that they each portray.⁷⁵

All in all, Yizraely’s attempts to achieve a minimalist and expressly nonrealistic performance style failed, mainly because it placed the entire onus of the production on the actors, who had been trained in the tradition of Realist theatre, had never before appeared in a Greek tragedy, and were unaccustomed to switching roles as rapidly as required in this production. This was the production’s Achilles’ heel, as it were—with the result that while the critics welcomed the attempt to tackle an important tragedy such as Oedipus Tyrannus (an uncommon event in Israeli theatre, after all) they minced no words in their criticism of the director’s work with the actors. Critic Yehudit Oriann praised the translation for being ‘picturesque, elastic and not unduly archaic’,⁷⁶ but complained that the actors were not doing justice to the text ‘because the words come out of their mouths all sticky and thick’. Elyakim Yaron noted that the audience’s proximity to the stage ‘exposes flaws in the acting concept’.⁷⁷ Yaron’s comment is significant because it highlights not only the difficulty raised by the proximity of the audience to the stage, but also the key difficulty in the performance by Israeli actors of a tragedy of this sort. With hindsight, the production was probably unsuited in several important and irreconcilable respects for a mainstream theatre with its own repertoire such as the Haifa Municipal Theatre, which had built its reputation since the 1970s as a major venue of predominantly political and documentary Israeli playwriting, with no experience whatsoever with classical tragedies or atemporal classical, poetic plays. It is fairly evident that the artistic objective that Yizraely had established at the outset of the production of Oedipus Tyrannus—three actors and a Chorus of one—was contingent upon the cast’s ability to perform a sombre poetic text that is highly concise and densely packed with verbal imagery and rich musical sounds, while also requiring them to flit constantly between various roles, within a very restricted space and timeframe. None of the excellent actors who came together to work in this production had ever performed a classical Greek tragedy before—most had appeared only in modern or Israeli plays—and while they were accomplished in many ⁷⁵ Michael Handelzalts, ‘It Works Despite the Performance’, Haaretz, 28 October 1992. ⁷⁶ Yehudit Oriann, ‘The Perfect Tragedy’, Yediot Aharonot, 28 October 1992. ⁷⁷ Elyakim Yaron, ‘Underplayed’, Maariv, 29 October 1992.

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respects, they had never had to contend with the artistic questions presented by the performance of a Greek tragedy. The critics’ reviews, then, were a mixture of praise and reproach—praise for the choice of the play, and criticism of the acting. The title of Handelzalts’ review—‘It Works Despite the Performance’—clearly reflects the problems that were well apparent in the result. Of Doron Tavori— undoubtedly one of Israel’s leading actors—he wrote: And so we are left with Doron Tavori in the lead role—the aspiration of every actor. Tavori has been one of the outstanding actors in Israeli theatre in the past fifteen years, with several notable roles in the history of theatre to his name—such as Otto Weininger in A Jewish Soul, [and] his two portrayals of Mr. Mani by A. B. Yehoshua. He is, without doubt, an actor of rare technical ability, great boldness and profound intelligence—and yet all that has failed to add up to a memorable performance [in this case].⁷⁸

The Haifa Municipal Theatre had chosen Yizraely for his impressive track record of artistic successes in mainstream theatre, and had expected a tragedy production of rich and colourful stage language—but was disappointed. Yizraely had no intention of repeating his past experiments, but had embarked on a new exploration of artistic questions more suited to experimental, laboratory-like theatre. Although the choice of venue— Haifa Municipal Theatre’s Stage 2—and the comparatively long rehearsal period (five months) were suggestive of an ‘experimental laboratory’, the critics, and the HMT management board, treated it like any of the theatre’s repertory productions. It was not all in vain, however: in due course, the HMT’s foray into Greek tragedy gave rise to two new and interesting experimental productions: Doron Tavori’s one-man production of the full Oresteia trilogy by Aeschylus in 1994, and Yizraely’s Iphigenia at Aulis in 2009. Both of these went against everything that mainstream theatre management, audiences, and critics had come to expect of ancient Greek tragedy, by paving a new approach to staging such works before a contemporary audience. Tavori’s Oresteia was an astonishing three-hour-long, one-man show, in which he portrayed all the roles. It was held at various unusual venues: in classrooms of university departments of law, theatre, literature, or philosophy; in the living rooms of private homes in front of an audience

⁷⁸ Handelzalts, ‘It Works Despite the Performance’.

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of thirty or forty people eager to participate in a private viewing of Aeschylus’ immortal play; and at the Tzavta Club (one performance).⁷⁹ Performing the entire trilogy (in Shabtai’s translation) without changing a word, and with a clear and fluid delivery, Tavori sat in everyday clothes on a chair in the same circle as the spectators, acting every part, changing characters with astonishing virtuosity by altering his angle of sitting, raising or lowering his gaze, or changing his pace of speech. ‘Tavori needs no set, props, or lighting effect’, wrote Hanna Scolnikov, in admiration. ‘The actor is the performance.’⁸⁰ It was a huge hit with audiences, who were also treated to a discussion with Tavori after each performance about the issues involved in performing a Greek tragedy. Tavori’s production was proof of the vitality of Greek tragedy and its ability to engage contemporary audiences even without rich production sets, in small spaces and in a personal, almost intimate encounter between an actor and a small number of spectators.

Euripides’ Iphigenia at Aulis: ‘condensed autonomous present’ (2009) Despite the problems he had experienced with staging Oedipus Tyrannus at the Haifa Municipal Theatre, Yizraely felt that staging the production at such a small venue could potentially make the performance of a classical Greek tragedy more accessible to actors who are unaccustomed to such works. Determined to explore these possibilities, he left mainstream theatre for six years, and devoted his spare time to studying Aristotle’s Poetics and developing his own dramaturgical approach to reading classical Greek tragedy for performance. This involved viewing drama as an art that acted as a kind of ‘condensed autonomous present’, and theatre as ‘the realm between heaven and earth, immune to the ravages of time’. As he explained: Aristotle somehow—in a simple and amazing, ingenious way—discovered the ‘DNA’ of the dramatic event that is embedded in the human condition—in ⁷⁹ Eitan Bar-Yossef, ‘Symphony for Orchestra with Violin’, Yediot Aharonot, 16 April 1993. ⁸⁰ Hanna Scolnicov, ‘One Man Trilogy: Oresteia, by Doron Tavori’, Bamah 139–40 (1995), 36–41. Tavori’s Oresteia was never properly reviewed by the press, and was the subject of only a few reports, and never documented. However, on Ilana Zuckerman’s radio programme on 3 and 10 December 1994, certain passages were broadcast, and an interview was held with Tavori and the translator Aharon Shabtai. The Tzavta Club performance was held on 9 September 1995. See ICDPA portfolio #136.3.4.

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varying degrees in various cultures. Some cultures developed their epic side, while others developed a more dramatic outlook—each according to their own perception of time. I am Aristotle’s servant: I expanded on his theory in my own terms, of an ‘autonomous condensed present’.⁸¹

Yizraely’s staging of Iphigenia at Aulis at the Herzliya Ensemble Theatre in February 2009 was a natural extension of his method and experimentation with Antigone at Pittsburgh. It featured Shimon Buzaglo’s translation, which uses a more colloquial language than his predecessors, and strives to transform the words into dramatic action. The set was minimalistic: a stage upon the stage, and on it two elements: a khaki canvas (which initially represented the front of a tent, and subsequently became the sail of a ship), and a piano (Figure 4.3). The Chorus was actor-singer Odelia Segal, who sang Euripides’ words to the music of Bach (played by

Figure 4.3 Iphigenia at Aulis by Euripides, Theatre Ensemble Herzliya (2009). Director: Yossi Yizraely; stage design: Frida Klapholtz-Avrahami; musical arrangement: Adi Zisman. Cast: Gdalia Besser (Agamemnon); Salwa Nakara (Clytemnestra); Naomi Promovitz (Iphigenia); Odelia Segal (The Chorus). Photograph by Gérard Allon.

⁸¹ Naama Berman, ‘The Art of Compression into an Experience of Life Fulfilment’, interview with Yossi Yzraely, Teatron 37 (Winter 2014): 56–66.

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Adi Zisman on the piano), with the Messenger joining her at the end. Yizraely described it as follows: In Iphigenia, I searched for the music: Johann Sebastian Bach. Something told me, which I felt in a way that is hard to explain. Agnus Dei talks about the sacrifice of the lamb; Iphigenia at Aulis is a Mediterranean version of that sacrifice. I sat for a long time and selected pieces from Bach [for a] Euripides text that is sung by the Chorus. When you bring together two pinnacles [of excellence]—it works: the actress speaks and sings, while the pianist on stage plays Bach.⁸²

The production was hugely successful in Israel, and was invited to the Cyprus International Festival of Ancient Greek Drama.

Edna Shavit: Experiments with Classicism Edna Shavit (1935–2015) was born in Haifa, and attended its acclaimed Reali Secondary School and its drama programme. In her military service she served in the Nahal Corps (Entertainment) Troupe, and appeared on the entertainment programme, Ha’ikar Shenifgashim (‘As Long As We Get Together’) in 1954. In 1955, she joined the Zirah Theatre in Tel Aviv,⁸³ playing the part of Lucky in the first Israeli production of Waiting for Godot, directed by Michael Almaz. She went on to study English Literature and Philosophy at the Hebrew University, then continued her studies at the Department of Theatre Arts at Tel Aviv University.⁸⁴ In the 1960s, Shavit began work as a journalist at Galei Tzahal (IDF Radio), as editor and presenter of a weekly arts magazine and presenter of a personal programme of investigative reporting and in-depth interviews in various fields. During this time, she translated and directed dozens of radio dramas for Kol Israel (Israeli state radio) and Galei Tzahal. She then travelled to the United States to study motion picture editing and television. On her return to Israel, she wrote the scripts of several successful Israeli films, and began teaching at the Tel Aviv ⁸² See Yossi Yizraely’s lecture, ‘An Israeli Theatre Director Reads a Classical Tragedy’, The Classical World and Us, Israel Society for the Promotion of Classical Studies, Polmos III: Dionysus in Tel Aviv, 10 June 2014 (accessed 6 March 2018). ⁸³ The Zirah (Hebrew, ‘Arena’) Theatre in Tel Aviv was founded in 1949 by playwright and director Michael Almaz, as a fringe theatre in the mould of those of Paris and New York. Until its closure in 1959, it staged the leading Theatre of the Absurd plays by the likes of Beckett, Ionesco, and Arrabal. ⁸⁴ Tom Levy, ‘A Researcher Presents an Artiste: Edna Shavit’, Motar 12 (1996): 91–100.

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University Department of Theatre Arts. In 1966, she directed Waiting for Godot at the department, with Shimon Lev-Ari as Vladimir, and Eli Cohen as Estragon—a highly acclaimed classroom production at the Gilman Building, which in years to come became the Schottlander Auditorium—the department’s official theatre hall. In 1968, she directed her first mainstream theatre production—A Streetcar Named Desire—at the Ohel Theatre. This was followed by You and Me and the Next War (Hanoch Levin’s first satirical cabaret) at the Barbarim Club in Tel Aviv and at various kibbutzim throughout the country—a hugely controversial production that established Shavit’s and Levin’s credentials as key players in the Tel Aviv political theatre scene. From there, she went on to direct other satirical shows, such as How Do We Look (1972), which held up a mirror to Israeli society on the eve of the Yom Kippur War. This was followed by Status Quo Vadis in 1973 by Yehoshua Sobol, at the Haifa Municipal Theatre, with short scenes that revealed the deep chasm between religious and secular Jews in Israel. In 1974, she directed For I Still Believe in You (1974)—‘a topical play about Israeli society’⁸⁵ by Amos Keinan, at the Cameri Theatre in conjunction with the Tzavta Club, featuring actors Batya Barak, Yisrael Gurion, Yosef Carmon, Assi Hanegbi, and Reuven Sheffer, and set design by Eli Sinai.⁸⁶ In the course of her extensive career as a director, Shavit directed approximately a hundred plays from the canons of Israeli and world theatre. Of these, the number of classical Greek plays was modest but consistent—some in mainstream theatres, some with students at the Department of Theatre Arts of Tel Aviv University, but always guided by a clear exploration of how a formative dramatic text should be performed, and conducted like a laboratory research study. As a director and as a teacher, Shavit always approached things methodically. She explained to her students that she had attended ballet lessons from the age of four, and the repeated drills that that entailed instilled in her the recognition that discipline is the foundation of all performance arts. She was a perfectionist in her demands, and expected a professional and respectful attitude to the art from all the students and actors she worked with. She repeatedly reminded her acting students that

⁸⁵ Haaretz, 4 June 1960.

⁸⁶ Ibid.

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they must train their bodies and their voices on a daily basis, to expand their training and develop their imagination, because those were their creative tools. ‘Accomplishments’, she said, ‘are the result of hard, demanding, and painstaking work—that’s how you achieve the inner awareness, and learn self-control.’ Before she directed a play, she researched it thoroughly. She read vociferously, and worked long hours with the creative team. ‘When I arrive at rehearsals’, she told Ruth Hazan, ‘everything is ready. I know exactly what I want.’⁸⁷ From her earliest days as a director, Shavit was noted for her ability to analyse the dramatic text. She placed the conflict at the centre of the dramatic action, highlighted the ‘unity of contrasts’ involved in the characters’ portrayals, and delved deeply to identify the emerging ideas in the text and the questions arising from the plot. As a performer, director, and translator, she was thoroughly familiar with the Western theatre tradition, with the plays of various periods of history, and with how modes of performance were conceived, forgotten, rediscovered, and redefined over the centuries. Every lesson with Edna Shavit was a literary, artistic, and cultural journey, thoroughly explained and annotated, and every scene the basis for acquaintance with the masterpieces that inspired her or were reflected in her work. Shavit took up classical Greek tragedy early on in her directing career, in 1969, when she directed Antigone with the third-year students of the Department of Theatre Arts at Tel Aviv University.⁸⁸ This first encounter with Antigone defined her subsequent approach to all classical Greek drama: a close reading of the text in its Hebrew translation; an innovative interpretation based on a verbal definition of the conflicts driving the plot; and a focus on the actors whose performance on stage must make the play accessible and comprehensible to the audience. These principles ultimately extended to her experimentations in mainstream theatre and university theatre productions. As a testament to the recognition that she received for this body of work, Shavit was invited by Habima Theatre, eight years after Antigone, to direct its production of Oedipus Tyrannus— the first woman director in Habima’s history.

⁸⁷ Ruth Hazan, ‘Edna Shavit in a Private Scene’, Al Hamishmar, 3 February 1978. ⁸⁸ See Chapter 12.

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Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus: in the footsteps of Guthrie (1977) Oedipus Tyrannus was staged at Habima Theatre in 1977, under the direction of Edna Shavit, and in a translation by Aharon Shabtai, thirty years after Guthrie’s renowned production of Shaul Tchernichovsky’s translation. The considerable interval between the two productions is, alas, a recurring theme and one of the key problems in the staging of Greek tragedies in Israel: the third production of this play followed only in 1992, and the fourth and most recent one only in 2015. Like most productions at Habima at that time, Shavit’s Oedipus Tyrannus was the product of the in-house creative team.⁸⁹ A NEW HEBREW TRANSLATION

Aharon Shabtai’s Hebrew translation of Oedipus Tyrannus was an important impetus for this production. It was the first of his Hebrew translations of classical Greek plays, marking the beginning of an important body of work over thirty years that encompassed the translation of all surviving classical Greek tragedies into Hebrew.⁹⁰ Shabtai’s translation of Oedipus Tyrannus marked a new era in the translation of classical Greek tragedies into Hebrew and their performance on stage.⁹¹ In an interview with Meira Eliash, he explained: Previous translations of Greek drama saw [tragedy] as something classical and sublime. All these translations belong, in terms of their approach, to the nineteenth century, which ended with Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot. These are translations that see literature as an arithmetic essay of beautiful words of a static nature: each word is worth such-and-such in its own right, like a gem. When you choose a word based on its beauty rather than according to the situation, the result is a dead syntax. In my case, words have a dynamic value: their value is a

⁸⁹ The set (a series of steps covering the entire stage area) was constructed by the theatre’s chief carpenter, Shlomo Leibovitz; costume design was by Adina Reich (based on drawings by S. Sebba for the 1947 Guthrie production); musical score was by Poldi Schatzman; and lighting was by Natan Panturin. In the leading roles were Misha Asherof (Oedipus); Tova Pardo (Jocasta); Alex Peleg (Creon); Shoshana Duer (Tiresias); Yehuda Efroni (the Priest); and Israel Rubintchik (Old Shepherd). The chorus was portrayed by three young actors—Benny Nadler, Tami Eschel, and Aliza Chen—with the addition of the professional soprano singer Adi Etzion. ⁹⁰ These were published individually, each with a thorough introduction and detailed commentary and translations of excerpts of epic and lyric poetry on themes related to the play. ⁹¹ A decade later, he revisited his translations of Oedipus Tyrannus and Antigone and made amendments for new productions.

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product of their context. Beautiful words are a myth—much as Oedipus is a myth. Prior to Freud, Pound and Eliot, words and concepts were static—they made them flow. My translation is the post-Modernist revolution: I am faithful to Sophocles, who didn’t write an essay of 500 beautiful words, but created action, a ‘thriller’ in words. Man is a creature of speech, poetry and language are [a form of] activity, so the value that words have is fluid.⁹²

Shabtai sought to achieve a literal translation, painstakingly comparing the Greek with the Hebrew, line by line, while preserving the metre, rhythms, and style of the tragedy—albeit with a dynamic approach: The iamb, for example, which is the fundamental unit of metre in Greek tragedy, exists in my translation, as well—but in a very improvisational manner, rather than static or mechanistic. So, too, in Greek. In translating the Chorus passages, I created a weave of various metres—a mosaic, as it were, where at any given moment a different metre is dominant—just as in the Greek.⁹³

However, as evident from the critics’ reviews, the beauty of a translation depends on the actors’ ability to convey it to the audience in a manner that is at once clear and intelligible yet meaningful and multi-layered. As an actor, Shavit was acutely aware of this problem, and devoted many hours to meetings with the actors and the translator. Accordingly, although Shabtai had intended to sit in only at the first read-through rehearsals, he ended up attending all of them, because he felt that the read-throughs had not really ended, and because he found the work with the cast interesting and helpful in his own work. By and large, the critics were appreciative of Shabtai’s work. Michael Handelzalts wrote: ‘Every word in Aharon Shabtai’s translation is clear as a bell—and so it sounds.’⁹⁴ Nahman Ben-Ami praised it: ‘This is a bold attempt to present Sophocles in a Hebrew that is intelligible to everyone’,⁹⁵ and Boaz Evron noted that: Aharon Shabtai’s translation strikes me as generally simple and colloquial—albeit not sufficiently poetic. Although the simplicity is perhaps not in keeping with the august nature of the original, it was easy to listen to and understand, and the style did not get in the way between the play and the audience.⁹⁶

⁹² ⁹³ ⁹⁴ ⁹⁵ ⁹⁶

Meira Eliash, ‘Beautiful Words are a Myth’, Al Hamishmar, 4 January 1978. Ibid. Michael Handelzalts, ‘The Play and the Image’, Haaretz, 25 January 1978. Nahman Ben-Ami, ‘Without Pomp’, Maariv, 13 March 1978. Boaz Evron, ‘Oedipus without the Modern Complex’, Yediot Aharonot, 26 January 1978.

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Shavit saw the classical Greek tragedies as monolithic, almost ‘sacred’ masterpieces, that she had to delve into to retrieve their immanent style, ideas, and views of man and the world, and transfer them to the stage in a formal, stylistic interpretation, without dramaturgical intervention. When people asked her, ‘What is it you wanted to say about Oedipus?’, she replied: ‘What can I possibly say that Sophocles has not already said in the play?’ ‘One thing was clear to me’, she said, ‘that one should perform the play simply as it is written’, adding, in allusion to Heinrich von Kleist’s observation about marionette theatre, ‘Oedipus is a type of a simplicity born of the profound wisdom that comes after knowledge. Real wisdom encapsulates a range of symbols, sees man as a highly complex creature, and without exposition—and the riddle remains.’⁹⁷ As a director, Shavit took the word performance very seriously, in that she saw her role as giving the play a stage form, and steering the cast and creative team to realize that form on stage in a professional manner and with the utmost sense of responsibility. Her method of tackling a play was direct and frank, with no desire to impress or glorify her creative ability over the work’s inherent truth that impinges directly on each and every spectator in the audience. As someone with a profound knowledge of Western theatre and who treated everyone involved with the greatest respect, she believed that she must study the principles with which past directors approached these masterpieces, and use them as inspiration for her own work. Her Oedipus Tyrannus was a tribute to Tyrone Guthrie’s seminal production thirty years earlier—yet her production had its own distinctive artistic value thanks to the interdisciplinary interaction on stage. The actors’ movements on stage were dictated by the arrangement of steep, black steps on the stage, one of which featured a pedestal with a statue of Apollo as a symbol of the god’s constant presence in the plot.⁹⁸ As critic Sarit Fuchs eloquently describes, Shavit skilfully used the various stage elements to amplify the colour, movement, and sound of the play’s text: The rising stepped structure also suggests the notion of a power scale [with] Oedipus standing on his own at the top step in the early part of the play. [ . . . ] In

⁹⁷ Hazan, ‘Edna Shavit in a Private Scene’. ⁹⁸ In his review, Boaz Evron noted that the statue’s diminutive dimensions were at odds with the ‘majesty and mystery’ required of this tragedy. ‘If one goes to the trouble of setting up a statue of Apollo, it should at least have an imposing presence on stage’, he wrote. See Evron, ‘Oedipus without the Modern Complex’.

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the confrontation scene between Creon and the king, Creon attempts, in the heat of the argument, to climb to the top of the steps saying: ‘I, too, have a place in this city—not only you!’, [and] Oedipus prevents him from doing so.

After blinding himself, Oedipus descends to the bottom of the steps: Oedipus—Misha Asherof—totters about with the help of a walking stick, his two eyes only gaping red holes, from the topmost step to the bottom, alternately falling and crawling. By the end of the play, Creon stands at the top of the structure. [ . . . ] The costumes also contribute to the notion of a ritualistic tableau: before Oedipus blinds himself, the cast and chorus are dressed in faded grey rags; after he does so, the stage springs to life: everyone suddenly appears in colourful, festive cloaks, while Oedipus himself is dressed entirely in white—and even his hair has gone grey.⁹⁹

What made Shavit’s production of Oedipus Tyrannus particularly notable was the balance struck on stage between the dialogues and the Chorus songs, and the power of the Hebrew, which was poetic yet clear and highly accessible, thanks to the new and innovative translation, and the considerable work invested in the actors’ diction. Shavit’s appreciation of the musical aspects of the Greek tragedy meant that her interpretation of the Chorus songs involved close collaboration with Poldi Schatzman, the composer of the musical score, and the translator Aharon Shabtai. As the latter attested later: Edna made an important step by trying to convey and resolve the Chorus’s function. She conveyed its dual-genre nature, the two states of matter of Greek drama— namely, the sung condition and the spoken condition. The composer Poldi Schatzman wrote music expressly for the play. The Chorus represents the music’s presence of the play [ . . . ] There is an important statement here, in that it is a Chorus that sings rather than appearing as a enfeebled organ. In this way, ‘the birth of tragedy from the spirit of music’, as the philosopher Nietzsche put it, is underlined.¹⁰⁰

The close collaboration between the director, composer, and translator was challenging. They would sit for hours on end in the rehearsal room, and the music emerged as they went along. Poldi Schatzman delved deeply into the history of ancient music, studying the modes of ancient Greek music that were later taken up in religious Catholic chants and folk music. The music that he ultimately wrote was modern in character, but inspired by the ancient Greek music. The entire production was ⁹⁹ Sarit Fuchs, ‘Oedipus on the Steps’, Maariv, 23 December 1977. ¹⁰⁰ Eliash, ‘Beautiful Words are a Myth’.

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accompanied by music and rhythms that were played on flute, drums, triangle, bells, gongs, and castanets, which suggested a ‘primeval sensuality’.¹⁰¹ Later, soprano singer Adi Etzion joined the Chorus, and when Schatzman first heard her sing, he was so blown away, he threw away the first part of the music that he had written and sat down to recreate it to suit the higher registers of Etzion’s voice. It is not every day that a composer has the opportunity to write music for a professional singer whom he regards as supremely accomplished.¹⁰²

The end result was a production that was entirely different from that of Guthrie’s, or any other past Israeli production of Greek tragedy. The Chorus in Shavit’s Oedipus Tyrannus sang concert-like music, gave artistic form to the duality of the discourse in tragedy, and underlined the fusion of the various arts involved in the production. Critic Michael Handelzalts wrote about the pivotal role that the music played in the production, and vividly recorded his impressions: The Chorus, headed by the singer Adi Etzion, presents a kind of very impressive theatrical concert of modern music, designed to enhance and amplify the experience, while at the same time putting it on a different plane from that of the plot. I am not sure this approach was suited to all parts of the play. To my mind, the music and the vocal work were impressive, and there were some very effective passages. At the same time, there were scenes where this distinctive and somewhat distorted ‘style’ was sharply at odds with the general tone, and diverted one’s attention from the play.¹⁰³

For the actors, working with Shavit was gruelling: her emphasis on clear diction required them to work long and hard on their verbal delivery. As Shabtai noted: Actors are used to naturalist acting. In a text by Ibsen, for example, the actors have a lot of material around them to use as aids. Sophocles’ text, however, is abstract. It’s a [form of] blank theatre, based on what is not there: an empty stage, and the unflamboyant translation means that the actors found it very difficult at first.¹⁰⁴

Secondly, there was a problem with the realistic style that the actors were accustomed to adopting. Shavit insisted that they preserve the iambic

¹⁰¹ ¹⁰² ¹⁰³ ¹⁰⁴

Fuchs, ‘Oedipus on the Steps’. Fuchs, ‘Oedipus Tyrannus Hosts Adi Etzion’, Maariv, 10 November 1977. Handelzalts, ‘The Play and the Image’. Eliash, ‘Beautiful Words are a Myth’.

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metre where it appeared in the translation, and the actors saw this as unauthentic and declamatory. They asked questions such as ‘What does this pagan world mean to us?’, Or ‘Who is Oedipus—Peres, or Rabin?’¹⁰⁵ They were particularly keen to know her political interpretation. As she later told Ruth Hazan: People always expect a political interpretation from me—but I had no such interpretation at the time. Politics is just one of many themes in the play—but it is not what Oedipus was really about. The main theme in Oedipus is ‘Know thyself ’.¹⁰⁶

However, judging by the review by critic Boaz Evron, Shavit’s aims came through to the audience loud and clear: Shavit has studiously avoided modernizing the play. There is no Oedipus here in the garb of an American general, or a Creon in an SS uniform, or any other such cheap gag. Instead she tries to grapple with the original meanings of the play— which is, indeed, the only way that one should approach classical material. Secondly, by and large the appropriate balance was struck between stylization and expressiveness, in that the characters acted rather than declaimed, and even though their movements were measured and stylized, it was hardly noticeable, and the general impression was of an unfettered acting.¹⁰⁷

Predictably, critical reviews of the production were divided between those that praised it for its classicist style and those who faulted it for reasons that had more to do with the general framework of the event. Ruth Hazan noted that the production was: surprising in its simplicity, in the aesthetic severity of the performance, and perhaps particularly for its musicality (genuine singing in the chorus pieces, with the wonderful Adi Etzion as soloist, and surprising melodiousness of the text as performed by the actors).¹⁰⁸

Michael Handelzalts wrote: This is, without doubt, a direct and sincere treatment of the play and with the image of the play as perceived by the audience, in a manner that does not set out to impress or glorify for appearances’ sake, but rather express the truth of the play at an everyday level.¹⁰⁹ ¹⁰⁵ A reference to the long-standing rivalry between Shimon Peres and Yitzhak Rabin over the leadership of the ruling Labour Party at the time. ¹⁰⁶ Hazan, ‘Edna Shavit in a Private Scene’. ¹⁰⁷ Evron, ‘Oedipus without the Modern Complex’. ¹⁰⁸ Hazan, ‘Edna Shavit in a Private Scene’. ¹⁰⁹ Handelzalts, ‘The Play and the Image’.

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The cast and their respective roles were noted in all the reviews, but without anyone being singled out for particular praise. The qualified and fairly restrained praise that Misha Asherof as Oedipus received from Boaz Evron was typical of many reviews: Misha Asherof gives a performance that is generally strong and disciplined— albeit not always at precisely in line with the text. The rest of the cast also gave a somewhat restrained performance—of particular note was that of Yehuda Efroni as the head of the Chorus, Tova Pardo as Jocasta, Alex Peleg as Creon, and Shoshana Duer as Tiresias.¹¹⁰

Michael Handelzalts thought that: Misha Asherof ’s performance in the lead role might be said to be somewhat unpowered—while very impressive, one gets the impression that he is performing at maximum intensity, with no ability of going any higher (which perhaps was the intention). Also notable was the performance by Alex Peleg, which was impressive precisely for the quiet power of his character, and that of Shoshana Duer as Tiresias, and Israel Rubinczyk as the Old Shepherd.¹¹¹

Mendel Kohansky wrote: Misha Asherof, in the role of his life—of any actor’s life—reaches a high degree of expressiveness, especially in the final scene. I could not find in him the greatness, that quality of being more than a mere human being, which we expect from the person who plays Oedipus.¹¹²

In his review, Nahman Ben-Ami noted that the production was ill served by its venue: It is quite likely that even before the curtain rose, as one entered into the auditorium, the production of the play was at a disadvantage. When one goes to see something that one knows ahead of time is a tremendous play—one of the cornerstones of Western civilization, and such a profound experience that it has been preserved and maintained its vitality for thousands of years—one inevitably associates it with a grand scope. But when one enters the diminutive auditorium of Habima, and faced with its small stage, everything suddenly contracts—[as though it were] a chamber-like version of destiny. [ . . . ] A gaggle of actors, somewhat crammed together on a comparatively small stage, gives one the

¹¹⁰ Evron, ‘Oedipus without the Modern Complex’. ¹¹¹ Handelzalts, ‘The Play and the Image’. ¹¹² Mendel Kohansky, ‘Complex Oedipus’, Jerusalem Post, 3 February 1978 (in English).

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impression of petty ‘crowdedness’, when what is required is boundless spaces around every individual and creature.¹¹³

Shavit, who was always the sternest critic of her own work, summed up the experiment with a firm belief: ‘Today I know that I could have made Oedipus Tyrannus every two years, and in a different way on each occasion—because Oedipus is Everyman.’

Sophocles’ Antigone: appealing to high-school spectators (1978) In 1978, as a follow-up to her Oedipus Tyrannus production, and in her fervent belief in the importance of introducing younger audiences to theatrical masterpieces, Shavit created renditions of two key genres of theatrical art for children’s and youth theatre: a classical Greek tragedy (Antigone by Sophocles), and a Theatre of the Absurd play, Frenzy for Two by Eugène Ionesco.¹¹⁴ In them, Shavit served as adapter and director, set design was by Yisraela Raleigh, and the leading roles were performed by Anat Yakir, Yael Shamir, and Azriel Asherof. The two productions were staged as part of the theatre’s so-called ‘Team Performances’, in which a small team of actors performed the play in fifty minutes (the duration of a typical class lesson in Israeli public schools) before the school’s students, in a classroom or at the school’s gym.¹¹⁵ In Antigone, Shavit gave the students a glimpse of the issues that arose during her direction of Oedipus Tyrannus: the translation, the power of the play and its ideas, the actors’ performance. The play was not performed in its entirety, but in the form of selected excerpts which gave a sense of the general plot, the dramatic conflict, and the clashing entities within the play. In composing these scenes, Shavit combined various translations—such as those of Kaminka, Dykman, and Carmi—so that the students might see how the nature of the language in translation affects the actors’ portrayal of the characters. Between each scene, she inserted explanations that clarified what each scene was about. This ¹¹³ Ben-Ami, ‘Without Pomp’. ¹¹⁴ The Children and Youth Theatre is a repertory theatre supported by the Ministry of Education, which was founded in 1970 by actor Orna Porat and the then Minister of Education Yigal Alon. Its mission—as stated today on the theatre’s website—was to offer students and teachers theatre productions at a high artistic standard, with a view to providing them with ‘aesthetic, artistic and humanist values’. See (accessed 23 December 2105). ¹¹⁵ A type of production that Shimon Levi dubbed a ‘hartzagah’ (‘playcture’).

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production—especially the Antigone scenes—was critically acclaimed, and performed in schools throughout the country. Shavit went on to direct theatrical masterpieces in mainstream theatre, but never again had the opportunity to direct a classical Greek tragedy at such venues. She did, however, direct Medea by Euripides and The Lost Women of Troy with the students of the Department of Theatre Arts at Tel Aviv University.¹¹⁶

Summary Israeli theatre of the 1970s was set in its ways, bourgeois, and highly conservative. Its repertoire was largely dictated by the two Tel Aviv theatres, Habima and the Cameri, while the Haifa Municipal Theatre chose to develop original Israeli drama with a socio-political agenda.¹¹⁷ At the time, there were still no permanent venues for experimental or fringe theatre, which was limited to small, ad hoc initiatives of a director and a group of actors such as the Zira Theatre (1949–59), HaOnot Theatre (1961–5), The Actors’ Stage (1965–70), and the Open Theatre (1969–72). Without governmental or municipal financial support, however, all of these were forced to close within a few years, with their founders mostly absorbed into mainstream theatre.¹¹⁸ The common denominator of the work of the three directors discussed in this chapter—Sachs, Yizraely, and Shavit—was their constant search and experimental approach to theatre directing. For them, theatre was a place for conducting dialogues between the arts, a laboratory for studying the languages of theatre, and for experimenting in methods of acting and directing. For all three, the encounter with classical Greek drama highlighted the questions of style and language, and helped them to forge a unique theatrical language with their own personal stamp. Although this might strike us today as a worthy, innovative, vigorous, and promising

¹¹⁶ See Chapter 12. ¹¹⁷ For more on the Haifa Municipal Theatre, see Yerushalmi, The Directors’ Stage, 354–402. ¹¹⁸ Michael Almaz left for London, where he founded a theatre group called The Artaud Company, and the London Café Theatre in Leicester Square; Nissim Aloni, Avner Hizkiyahu, and Yossi Banai returned to Habima; the cast of Bimat Hasahkanim joined the Haifa Municipal Theatre after Oded Kotler became its artistic director; and Hillel Ne’eman, founder of the Open Theatre, returned to the Cameri.

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endeavour, the critics, cultural agents, and audiences of Tel Aviv in the 1970s were not ready for it, and experimental theatre was thwarted in its efforts to bring its work into the mainstream. This is unfortunate, as Israeli theatre could have greatly benefited from the work of these directors and could have expanded its boundaries—instead, they were, and remain, outsiders. Not surprisingly, all three chose to return to academic settings at the Hebrew University and Tel Aviv University, where, in the curriculum and student productions, they found a conducive environment for their experimentation with tragedy.¹¹⁹

¹¹⁹ The topic of student productions at the universities is discussed in Chapter 12.

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5 Aristophanes and the Occupied Territories Dicaeopolis: Do not resent it, men of the audience, If I, a beggar, speak to Athenians Concerning Athens in a comedy. For even comedy knows what is right, And what I’ll say, though startling, will be right. For this time Cleon won’t accuse me of Abusing Athens when foreigners are here. We’re by ourselves; it’s the Lenaion contest; No foreigners are here yet, for the tribute And allies from the cities have not come. (Acharnians 497–506)¹

Israeli theatre is inherently political by nature.² It springs from, and constantly reflects, the complex realities of modern Israeli society—be it the continual wars that follow each other in worrying regularity since the War of Independence (1948), innumerable cease-fires, ad hoc peace agreements, territorial occupations, military operations in response to terrorist attacks, and painful and disappointing attempts to reach permanent agreements and peace in the region. Accordingly, it is not

¹ Douglas M. MacDowell, Aristophanes and Athens (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), 59. ² I use the term ‘political theatre’ here in its broadest and most conventional sense of theatre that ‘is constructed from the associations between the theatrical event and the ceremonial and symbolic aspect of political events in reality’. See Avraham Oz, Political Representations in the Theatre: Prejudice, Protest, Prophecy (Tel Aviv: Zmora-Bitan Publishers and Haifa University Press, 1999), 12–13.

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surprising that Israeli playwrights and directors who have searched for a suitable response to the Six Day War (1967) and the occupation have chosen Aristophanes as a teacher, guide, and mentor—since Aristophanes was a master at using theatre to respond in real time to difficult issues that arose during the Peloponnesian Wars, and to pose hard-hitting questions about democracy, leadership, and personal responsibility. To date, only four of Aristophanes’ comedies have been staged in Israel: Lysistrata, Peace, The Acharnians, and The Knights. These were always performed in times of war (between Israel and Arab countries, or between Israelis and Palestinians), and in the form of adaptations that highlighted the social and political issues surrounding the endless wars and occupation of the West Bank and Gaza. Thus, staging an Aristophanes comedy is a clear case of choosing ‘Athens’ for its relevance and political power. Lysistrata, directed by Minos Volonakis and performed by the Habima Theatre in 1958—two years after the Sinai Campaign (1956)—was the first Aristophanean comedy to be performed on the Israeli stage in the first decade after the War of Independence. Peace was staged only once— in 1968, during the War of Attrition (1967–70)—adapted and directed by Arieh Sachs, at the Cameri Theatre. The Acharnians was the inspiration for the comedy The Chosen by Yaacov Shabtai, performed by the Municipal Theatre of Haifa in 1975, after the Yom Kippur War (1973). Knights featured as a subplot in the comedy Fighting for Home—a multilayered plot that also incorporated scenes from The Acharnians and Lysistrata. Written by Ilan Hatzor and directed by Michael Gurevitch at the Khan Theatre in Jerusalem in 2002, it was produced in the atmosphere of despair that prevailed following the assassination of Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin in November 1995, the disintegration of the Oslo Accords, and the outbreak of the second intifada (Palestinian uprising) in October 2000.³ This chapter provides a sampling of Israeli responses to the political situation of 1968 that were inspired by Aristophanes’ comedies. The first

³ For a discussion of The Chosen by Yaacov Shabtai, see Nurit Yaari, ‘Aristophanes in Israel: Comedy, Theatricality, Politics’, in Ancient Comedy and Reception, ed. S. Douglas Olson (Berlin and Boston: De Gruyter, 2014), 964–84. For a detailed analysis of Ilan Hatzor’s Fighting for Home, see Nurit Yaari, ‘Aristophanes between Israelis and Palestinians’, in A Companion to Classical Receptions, ed. Hardwick and Stray, 287–300.

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is Arieh Sachs’ adaptation of Aristophanes’ Peace—a comic fantasy about the severe clashes that occur in an ever-changing and confusing reality. The second response is a trio of political cabarets written by playwright Hanoch Levin, using elements of Aristophanes’ dramatic technique to take aim at the country’s leadership, military commanders, and the audience, and to wake them up to the new ugly reality, expose its workings, highlight its failings, and spur them into understanding the complex and potentially disastrous situation. Both Sachs and Levin were born-and-bred Israeli writers who had served in the army, fought in wars, and lived through the consequences, and each found his own distinctive way to respond to the new reality that dawned in Israel following its victory in the Six Day War and the Occupation—with Aristophanes serving them as a guide. In Sachs’ case, it was through the translating, adapting, and staging of Peace that he was able to engage with the richness embodied in Aristophanes’ theatrical fantasies and learned to move efficiently between the written word and the visual image. Levin, for his part, learned from Aristophanes’ dramatic technique how to turn a political situation into an absurd fantasy, combine comedy, satire, and farce, crude (below the belt) humour with poetic text, and scathing critiques of political and military leaders and Israeli society, with practical experience in a variety of theatrical styles and meta-theatrical templates.⁴

Text and Socio-Political Context On the face of it, the Israeli social and political context when Peace was staged in 1968 was fundamentally different from that of Athens of 421 BCE. In Athens, the play was first performed after the Athenians’ defeat in two battles—at Delion in 424 BCE, and at Amphipolis, two years later, when a belligerent leader on each side was killed (Cleon in Athens,

⁴ It is important to note that, following and in parallel with Levin’s three satirical programmes, several satirical, absurd, and apocalyptic plays were staged in Tel Aviv following the 1967 victory, and were important markers of contemporary responses to the change that had taken place in the country and society. The most notable of these were What Goes Around (1970), and The Governor of Jericho (1975) by Yosef Mundi; Perhaps an Earthquake (1970), Friends Talk About Jesus (1972), and For I Still Believe in You (1974) by Amos Kenan; and Status Quo Vadis (1973) and The Armageddon Show (1977) by Yehoshua Sobol.

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and Brasidas in Sparta) and popular demands for Athens to end the war were growing.⁵ Tentative feelers for a peace agreement put out that year resulted in an accord known as the Peace of Nicias, just a few months after Aristophanes’ play Peace was performed at Dionysos Eleuthereos theatre and won second prize in the competition.⁶ In contrast, Israel’s war in the summer of 1967—pre-empting a concerted offensive by Egypt, Jordan, and Syria against Israel—had lasted all of six days (hence its name), and ended with a stunning victory by Israel and conquest of territories from all three of its adversaries: the Sinai Peninsula and Gaza Strip from Egypt, the West Bank from Jordan, and the Golan Heights and Mt Hermon from Syria. A war that had begun with dire warnings about Israel’s imminent demise ended with an unprecedented triumph, transforming the image of Jews throughout the world from helpless victims of exile and the Holocaust into valiant defenders of their homeland, and inspiring comparisons between the modern-day state and its heroic biblical past.⁷ In this respect, in terms of self-image, Israel’s 1967 war was perhaps an even greater watershed than its War of Independence.⁸ It prompted the opening of peace talks between the two sides, and the passing of Resolution 242 at the United Nations Security Council on 20 November 1967.⁹ In reality, however, for both ancient Athens and modern Israel, the aftermath of the war did not bring about the desired results. The Spartans renewed hostilities in 413 BC,¹⁰ and in 1968, new skirmishes ⁵ MacDowell, Aristophanes and Athens, 186–92. ⁶ Michael S. Silk, Aristophanes and the Definition of Comedy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 19. See also Dwora Gilula, ‘Aristophanes’ Peace: Towards the Production at The Actors’ Stage’, Haaretz, 18 April 1968. ⁷ Shapira, Israel: A History, 307–25. ⁸ In 1948, the country’s Jewish community numbered only 600,000. European Jews who had survived the Second World War were still scattered in refugee camps across Europe, or had been sent by the British to camps in Cyprus and began arriving in Israel only after the end of the British Mandate. Jews from the Diaspora in Arab countries arrived in the second half of the 1950s. On the different waves of the immigration to Israeli after the War of Independence see Shapira, Israel: A History, 222–3; and Tom Segev, 1949: The First Israelis (Jerusalem: Domino, 1984), 105–55. ⁹ Security Council Resolution 242, which was based on the principles of the UN Charter that require the creation of a just and lasting peace in the Middle East. See Itamar Rabinovich and Jehuda Reinharz, eds, Israel in the Middle East (Waltham, MA: Brandeis University Press, 2008), 242–3. It served as the basis for political discussions during the first decade after that war, and in fact is still valid today, with additional resolutions added to it since. It was ratified by Egypt and Jordan almost immediately; Israel did so in December 1967; Syria ratified it only in 1970, after Hafez al-Assad’s rise to power. ¹⁰ Silk, Aristophanes and the Definition of Comedy, 20.

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broke out between Egypt and Israel that turned into a War of Attrition that went on for a year and a half until the next cease-fire, on 7 August 1970. That, too, however, did not herald peace to the region. Meanwhile, within Israeli society, a rift opened up between those who sought to make peace with the Arab inhabitants of the Occupied Territories, and those who saw the war’s outcome a sign of redemption and fulfilment of the promise by God to Abraham at the Covenant of the Pieces (in Hebrew, Brit bein habtarim—Gen. 15:18), and the territorial integrity of the Land of Israel a biblical imperative.¹¹ The year 1968 was therefore a particularly tumultuous one in Israel. Amidst the euphoria of victory, there were also a few who understood that the new situation harboured risks and dangers, and tried to put their stamp on the emerging new present. I shall note the most prominent of these to illustrate the multi-layered political scene, the activist atmosphere and the ideological clash and disputes that exploded that year into an unprecedented medley of voices and opinions that brought about a schism in the Israeli society. As early as the end of June 1967, Lyova Eliav, the then deputy Trade & Industry Minister and long-time member of the ruling Labour government and administration, believed that the conquest of the territories offered an opportunity to resolve the issue of the Palestinian refugees. To study the subject, he resigned his government post, toured refugee camps and met with Palestinian leaders. On completing his tour, he approached the Prime Minister, Levi Eshkol, and Golda Meir, then party Secretary, in early 1968, and proposed that they take advantage of the moment to negotiate with the Palestinians. He also offered to head a national authority to resolve the Palestinian refugee problem. However, his suggestions fell on deaf ears. Meanwhile, in September 1967, the Eretz Yisrael Hashlemah movement (lit. ‘The Entire Land of Israel’, aka ‘Greater Israel’) was established by a group of nationalist public figures and intellectuals. It called upon the government to hold on to all the conquered territories, and establish Jewish settlements in them. Initially it was a non-partisan movement, comprising figures from both the Labour party leadership and the right-wing Revisionist movement, as well as writers and poets led by the poet Natan

¹¹ Shapira, Israel: A History, 315–16.

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Alterman.¹² Its founding manifesto, which was signed by over fifty individuals, stated, in part: The victory of the IDF [Israel Defense Forces] in the Six Day War has placed the nation and the state in a new and fateful period. The Greater Land of Israel is now in the hands of the Jewish people, and just as we have no right to renounce the State of Israel, so too we must realize what we have received from her—the Land of Israel.¹³

A year later, on 10 July 1968, the Palestinian Council convened in Cairo, and reworded the Palestinian National Charter that had been drawn up at the first Palestinian Congress in Jerusalem four years earlier, in May 1964. The revised Charter stated that the Palestinians had exclusive rights to Palestine, and demanded the annulment of the 1947 partition plan and the establishment of the State of Israel.¹⁴ Meanwhile, the activities of the far-left Matzpen (‘Compass’) organization grew in Israel and abroad. Established in 1962 by former members of the Israeli Communist Party, it called for a socialist revolution based on elected labour committees, opposition to Zionism, and recognition of the national rights of the Palestinian people. In 1968, its membership met at every opportunity and held well-planned and well-publicized demonstrations.¹⁵

Aristophanes’ Peace: Negotiations as Carnival (1968) Sachs’ adaptation of Peace was staged in 1968 at the Cameri Theatre amidst acute public controversy over the Occupied Territories that broke out in the press, at rallies, conferences, and at Friday evening cultural events.¹⁶

¹² Among the signatories: poets and authors Natan Alterman, Aharon Amir, Haim Guri, Rahel Ben-Zvi, Moshe Shamir, Yaacov Berland, Zeev Vilnai, Itzhak Shalev, Zrubavel Gilad, Uri Zvi Greenberg, S. Y. Agnon, Haim Hazaz, and Yehuda Burla; the philosopher Yisrael Eldad; Rabbi Tzvi Neria; retired generals Dan Tolkowsky, and Abraham Yaffe, spymaster and former director of the Mossad Isser Harel; Knesset members Shmuel Katz, Zvi Shiloah, and others. ¹³ See Amos Elon, ‘The Poets as Conquerors’, Haaretz, 10 November 1967. ¹⁴ See the Palestinian National Charter, 17 July 1968, in Rabinovich and Reinharz, eds, Israel in the Middle East, 243–6. ¹⁵ Ehud Sprinzak, Early Signs of the Politics of Delegitimization of Israel in 1967–1972 (Jerusalem: Hebrew University, 1973); Nira Yuval-Davis, Matzpen: The Socialist Organization in Israel (Jerusalem: Hebrew University, 1977); see also ‘The Socialist Organization in Israel—Matzpen’: . ¹⁶ The practice of holding cultural discussion evenings on political and spiritual issues had begun as early as the 1940s, well before independence. These were typically held on Friday nights and Saturday mornings, at public halls, recreation centres, or town halls, which became modern versions of the ancient Greek agora. Tzavta Hall was established in

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Arieh Sachs, a professor of English Literature and Drama at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, saw the theatre as a modern-day version of the classical Greek agora, and believed that it was his duty to hold up an artistic mirror to what was happening in the public domain. His adaptation of Aristophanes’ Peace was notable on three counts: (1) his ability, in real time, to detect, define, and highlight the causes that would bring about the perpetuation of the cycle of violence; (2) his knowledge of how to exploit the dramatic elements of ancient comedy, and to combine direct speech with overt theatricality; and (3) his success in rendering the ideological, religious, and political turmoil into a production that appealed to many and diverse audiences. Although Sachs’ text, created through rehearsals with the actors, was presented as a ‘translated and adapted’ version of Aristophanes’ Peace, in reality the Aristophanean text was treated ‘as a kind of libretto—a kind of skeleton’ for a contemporary Israeli production.¹⁷ In the programme notes, Sachs told the audience that his intention was to ‘stage a modern comedy, through a contemporary performance’.¹⁸ Judging by the critical reviews, he clearly succeeded. As critic Moshe Natan put it: ‘The original text served him as nothing more than a base from which to launch the fireworks, the brilliant pirouettes, and satirical missiles.’¹⁹ Sachs’ production comprised eight young actors, members of the Actors’ Stage Ensemble, each of whom played several characters, as well as a role in the Chorus. Actor Tuvia Tsafir, wrote Carmit Miron, ‘was outstanding in his four small roles, and was particularly notable for his portrayal of Trygaeus’ daughter’.²⁰ The cast included professional actors, young actors, and other creative artists—Ben-Zion Munitz, for example, the lighting designer, took part as well, and garnered much praise. Critic Yoram Kaniuk commended the lighting, and added that Munitz ‘excelled in his acting’, and that ‘Amnon Meskin’s portrayal of Trygaeus was superb’. He summed up the ensemble’s style as follows: Apart from Amnon Meskin, whose vaudeville and comedic talent was once again brought to full professional and enjoyable fulfilment, this production has no star. Tel Aviv in 1956 by the Centre for Progressive Culture, at the instigation of the poet Avraham Shlonsky and the Hashomer Hatza’ir movement. ¹⁷ Emanuel Bar-Kadma, ‘Peace has Emerged from the Mire’, Yediot Aharonot, 26 April 1968. ¹⁸ Programme notes, The Cameri Theatre, 26 April 1968, ICDPA portfolio #16.1.2. ¹⁹ Moshe Natan, ‘A Parade for Peace’, Davar, 26 April 1968. ²⁰ Carmit Miron, ‘Peace Upon You, Dr. Arieh Sachs’, Kol Ha’am, 4 June 1968.

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The entire troupe, as a team, under Arieh Sachs’s gem of a production of intrigue and poetry, are the stars.²¹ SACHS ’ DIALOGUE WITH ARISTOPHANES

Aristophanes’ Peace was staged in the city Dionysia—that is to say, in the performance conditions that existed in 421 BC at the Dionysus Eleuthereus theatre. In Sachs’ production, the set provided a modern and diminutive image of that theatre: an architectural structure of four deep curved steps forming a miniature Greek theatre-like structure and a kind of orchestra on stage, with a truncated Doric column at the top step, and two or three large boulders scattered beside it. On either side of the structure stood two enormous masks of Dionysus with an open mouth (not unlike the Hell mouth in medieval productions). The stage design, therefore, both prepared the audience for a Greek comedy, and served as a pastiche of a Greek theatre, coupled with a modern statement that ‘A stage is a stage is a stage’, and offered several distinct acting areas. Sachs’ adaptation closely followed the pattern of the original plot, maintaining its five stages: discontent, quest, conflict, victory, celebration.²² The device of direct speech to the audience—which in ancient comedy was reserved for the parabasis—was used throughout the performance. The language used was a mélange of biblical, medieval, and modern Israeli Hebrew expressions, resulting in a doubling or tripling of the worlds. Through it the spectators oscillated between the Greek character of the plot—i.e. Trygaeus’ flight to Zeus, represented by the language of the Hebrew Scriptures—and contemporary Israeli slogans. The result was a deliberately incongruous juxtaposition, as in Trygaeus’ proclamation as he mounts the dung beetle: The beetle shall be my chariot. And when I bring Peace, the lowly will be raised on high, the crooked shall be made straight,²³ the rank will smell of roses, nard, and saffron [ . . . ] Ho, people of Athens, for ye I risk my life! The finest for the Air!²⁴ ²¹ Yoram Kaniuk, ‘The Wars Goes [sic] on, Peace Stalls’, Davar, 26 April 1968. ²² Silk, Aristophanes and the Definition of Comedy, 263. ²³ And Crooked Things Were Made Straight (in Hebrew, Vehayah He’akov Lemishor)— the title of a well-known Hebrew tragic novella by the leading Hebrew author S. Y. Agnon during his first stay in Palestine in 1912, which in turn was inspired by Isaiah 42:16: ‘I will make darkness light before them, and crooked things straight’—a comfort prophecy describing the re-gathering of the Israelite people from the Diaspora, and the ever-growing greatness of God in the face of the wonders of Creation. ²⁴ Peace—the production script, ICDPA portfolio #16.1.2, p. 6. The expression The Finest for the Air! was the recruitment slogan for the Israeli Air Force for many years.

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One of the devices used to illustrate the humour, high jinks, and general manic atmosphere of this adaptation of Peace was its carnivalesque blend of various layers of language, through which Sachs engaged with Aristophanes’ complex language while celebrating the richness of Hebrew. It offered a potpourri of formal Hebrew, biblical or biblical-sounding expressions, street slang intermixed with Arabic (e.g. harah [shit], jorah [sewage pipe/‘piehole’], Abu Mega Idiot [The biggest idiot]; Yiddish (e.g. shpion [spy], feig [coward], proteksia [friends in high places]), and English (patzifist [pacifist], frigidit [frigid]), a mixture of sounds that added colour to the show’s carnival-like atmosphere, but also reflected the multicultural character of Israeli society. Just as Aristophanes had made liberal allusions to, and quoted directly from, Euripides’ tragedies, Sachs drew liberally from the Hebrew Bible, paraphrasing verses through wordplay of sounds, distortions, or combinations. Examples of this include: ‘My bowels, my bowels! I am pained at my very heart; my heart maketh a noise in me; how can I hold my peace?’ (Jer. 4:19); ‘Wilt thou forsake me?’ (cf. ‘Forsake me not’ in Psalms, e.g. 27:9; 38:21, 71:9, 18; 119:8, 138:8); ‘Shalt thou prefer crows and flying storks over thine only daughter whom thou lovest?’ (like ‘Take now thy son, thine only son Isaac’—Gen. 22:2); ‘Woe is me that my eyes have seen this’; ‘Hear me, o God ’ (as in ‘Hear me, o Lord’ in I Kings 18:37; Psalms 13:3, 30:10, 69:13, etc.). When Peace arises from the pit, Trygaeus said: ‘Who is this that riseth out of the pit like pillars of smoke, perfumed with myrrh and frankincense?’ (cf. Song of Songs 3:6, ‘Who is this that cometh out of the wilderness?’ etc.)—and Peace replies: ‘Dost thou not know me? I am Peace—as in “Peace Upon Ye,” “We come in peace!” “Peace and Welcome!”—and all that’. At the wedding of Trygaeus and Peace,²⁵ the verses from the Song of Songs are repeated once again (31), and the Chorus breaks out in a modern-day folk song for the Jewish festival of Shavuot—‘Our baskets are on our shoulders, we bring first fruits’, etc. (21). These examples demonstrate the nuanced dialogue that Sachs conducted with his spectators: on the one hand, the biblical language was a reassuring reminder of the common cultural denominator between audience and performers; on the other hand, in light of the birth of the Greater Israel movement, it was a dark allusion to the slogans of nationalists, and the political controversy surrounding the Occupation. ²⁵ In Sachs’ version of Peace, Opora and Theoria are absent, and Trygaeus marries Peace.

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Trygaeus’ literal ‘flight’ to Zeus, which Aristophanes had simulated by means of a machine (mechane), involved an impressive theatrical scene that highlighted the multi-layered theatrical nature of that ‘moment’ in the comedy. Sachs knew that most of the audience would be unfamiliar with the story of Euripides’ Bellerophon,²⁶ but was unwilling to give up on the use of the machine, so he used it to advantage to make three meta-theatrical references to Euripidean tragedy. In one, Trygaeus addresses the audience in modern discourse terms of interpretation, genre, and style: No doubt there is someone in the audience [points with his thumb] who is a literary type, a lover of classics, a lover of symbolism, who just has to understand the hidden meaning, and they’re asking themselves right now: ‘But what does this all mean? Is there some kind of satirical intention here? ’²⁷

In the second, Trygaeus’ daughter tries to dissuade him from taking off, warning him: ‘Mind that you don’t crash into something and fall from the sky—if you hurt yourself and become disabled, Euripides will make you the hero of a tragedy . . . ’. In the third, he mounts the machine and, not unlike Aristophanes’ Trygaeus, yells to the machine operator (lines 173–6): ‘Be careful, OK? If not, I’ll crap myself, and the beetle will have a free meal. So no crapola payola—capish?’,²⁸ confirming the age-old adage that human comedy is rooted in the physical, scatological, and primal (hunger, lust, survival). In Aristophanes’ Peace, the encounter with Hermes marks the start of a debate about the reasons for continuing the war, with Aristophanes castigating the Athenians for not seizing the opportunities to reach a peace agreement. When Trygaeus asks why the gods have left, Hermes reminds him of the repeating bouts of war, that everyone in the audience knew very well, and sarcastically lists all the repeated missed opportunities ²⁶ MacDowell, Aristophanes and Athens, 181. ²⁷ This was a tacit reference to the historic flight (deemed ‘fantastical’ at that time) of the Israeli pilot and the peace activist, Abie Natan (1927–2008) to Egypt on 28 February 1966. Nathan had flown his private plane Peace 1 to meet President Gamal Abdel Nasser and deliver a petition to him calling for peace. He was arrested upon landing in Port Said, his request to meet with the Egyptian president denied, and immediately turned around and sent back to Israel. Opinions about the flight were divided: many saw it as a cheap publicity stunt, while others praised him for the initiative and action. Ben-Gurion wrote: ‘It was an event of moral and political importance—dignified and not ridiculous’ (see Abie Nathan’s site: , accessed 11 April 2015). ²⁸ Peace, production text, 6–7.

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for a peace agreement (lines 203–20)—which, according to MacDowell, was designed to make the audience uneasy.²⁹ Hermes goes on to describe how War had imprisoned Peace in a deep cave, and had found a large mortar and pestle with which he intended to grind all of the cities in Greece into a paste that he would eat with great relish. Then Battle rushes onto the stage with said utensils, and presents a graphic illustration of war, as he angrily threatens the inhabitants of Greece while casting various foodstuffs (symbolizing its cities) into the mortar, and prepares to pound them—with Trygaeus, a hidden witness to the events, heightening the menace with his alarmed expressions. Without explicitly referring to the allegory, Sachs uses Battle’s description to declaim familiar slogans that the audience had heard repeatedly since the War of Independence in 1948 during every round of war between Israel and the Arab countries. Flitting freely between past and present, and between history and politics, Sachs’ Trygaeus recycles the threats: Round 1: The Athenians call for peace, the Spartans reply: ‘No, we’ll throw you into the sea’.³⁰ Round 2: The Spartans are quiet—the Athenians refuse to help the refugees of Laconia to resettle.³¹ Round 3: and so it goes on. Read it in the book: it’s called The Peloponnesian Wars. You learn about it at school: there’s no end to it—you can’t remember the details. Look, only yesterday I was reading a letter published [reads]: ‘I find it odd the government of Athens declares day and night that it wants to make peace with Sparta, and that she— Sparta, that is—vehemently rejects our government’s offer of peace.³²

Sachs then has Zeus (comically portrayed by one actor standing on the shoulders of another), come onto the stage as an old apathetic man who is pro-war, hates peace, and has no interest whatsoever in the fate of mankind. His slaves—War A and War B—enter the stage bearing a medley of props from the First and Second World Wars, and wearing ‘gas masks from World War I and Nazi insignia’,³³ and proceed to tear Peace (or a ²⁹ MacDowell, Aristophanes and Athens, 182–3. ³⁰ The standard intimidatory threat that had been used by Arab leaders before each war. ³¹ The issues of the resettlement of refugees and their right of return are the fundamental questions of any peace talks between Israel and the Arabs. ³² Peace, production text, p. 9. ³³ Boaz Evron, ‘Aristophanes? Who Cares?—as Long as There’s Mayhem . . . ’, Yediot Aharonot, 24 April 1968.

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mannequin of her) to pieces and throw these into a pit. They then proceed to run amok on stage, vowing to destroy everything in their path, but fail to find any ammunition. As they rush to Athens and Sparta in search for such, they discover that in both cities, everyone’s only talking about Peace. In Aristophanes’ Peace, Trygaeus’ victory meant saving Peace—and freeing her from imprisonment in the cave he needed the help of the Chorus. Trygaeus wants peace, but unlike Dicaeopolis in Acharnians— who arranges a private peace for himself and his family—Trygaeus wants everyone to help out. He appeals to farmers, traders, nationalists, ploughmen, converts and foreigners, and the inhabitants of the islands, and even points to those in the audience whom he can trust to cooperate with him in the endeavour. At this moment the Chorus enters, and with Hermes’ help, the plan to rescue Peace from the pit is put into effect. At this point, however, Sachs parts ways with Aristophanes. He is not interested in pointing out the mistakes of the past, preferring instead to extol the great virtues of Peace and to point to those who jeopardize it. The transition from war to peace occurs between the two parts of the Chorus’ song (Figure 5.1). Sachs’ Chorus consists of six actors carrying twelve traditional masks (one for tragedy, the other for comedy). Its song is written in short phrases, in a lofty, biblical-like language and irregular rhyming. In the first half of the song, they wear the tragic masks, and mourn the fate of Peace. But when Trygaeus promises that Peace will reappear and her dismembered body made whole again, the Chorus don their comic masks and sing about days of hope—in verses suggestive of the courtship and love of the biblical Song of Songs—and launch into a dance. The production then shifts into its second half—a denunciation of those willing to perpetuate war in pursuit of their delusionary ambitions. References to the Israeli political reality abound throughout the text, but once the Chorus comes on the scene, they become more explicit—for example, the founders of the Greater Israel Movement are dubbed ‘pie-in-the-sky poets’, who seek ‘inspiration in cloud-cuckoo land’ (21). Sachs also ridicules the bluster of the military high command at the end of the war, who vow they will ‘smash, crush, shatter, blitz, pound, wreck blast, raze, demolish, scuttle, quash, devastate, destroy, wound, and sweep away all the cities of Greece’.³⁴ ³⁴ A riff on the victorious address of General Shmuel Gonen (Gorodish) to his soldiers at the end of the 1967 war.

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Figure 5.1 Peace by Aristophanes, The Actorsʼ Stage (1968). Director: Arieh Sachs; stage design: Ada Hameirit. Cast: Amnon Meskin (Trygeus); Ofra Ben-Ami (Peace); Levana Finkelstein and Benzi Munitz (chorus). Photograph by Yaacov Agor. Reproduced by courtesy of the Yaacov Agor Collection, Israeli Center for the Documentation of the Performing Arts, Tel Aviv University.

The polarization of Israeli society into left and right is reiterated throughout the play: for example, when Trygaeus and Chorus work together to pull Peace out of the pit, Trygaeus says: This is all wrong. Some are pulling to the right, some are pulling to the left. How can anyone make peace like this? [ . . . ] There are always those who prefer war! They always forget the previous one, and each pulls his own way.

The most scathing derision, however, is reserved for the army’s Chief Rabbi Shlomo Goren, who was among the first to arrive at the Western Wall in 1967 with the soldiers who had captured the Old City, blew the shofar (ceremonial ram’s horn) and proclaimed to the world: ‘Temple Mount is ours!’ Appearing in the guise of Hierocles, an oracle monger, he is dubbed ‘the blind false prophet, the filthy war pig of Oreus’. ‘His voice reminds me somehow of a shofar’, says Sachs’ Trygaeus, and promises:

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‘When we bring out Peace, thou shalt forever not eat sacrifices, and no one will pay for thy false prophecies.’ Sachs’ satire also firmly transposed the wrangling between Trygaeus and Hierocles to the theatre’s public space, by having their lines improvised on a daily basis by the actors to reflect the public statements of representatives of the two sides of the Israeli political spectrum while the play was being staged. ‘In the second part of the evening, the adaptation turns Aristophanes’s original into a tremendous topical satire of chauvinist fanaticism, fascist demagoguery, and militaristic phraseology’, wrote Moshe Natan. THE PRODUCTION

The success of the production, which ran ninety-six times to full houses, was likely a result of its combination of lampooning the political reality and public discourse of the time, and the sheer joie de vivre, theatricality, and sense of liberation that burst from the stage onto the audience. However, this was also its secret weakness as a political performance. If there was any criticism on the part of the audience, it was from the prim and conservative sectors of the population. As one indignant reader—the Israeli equivalent of ‘Outraged of Tunbridge Wells’—wrote in a letter to the Editor of the flagship broadsheet Haaretz: From the moment the actors came out to the stage and burst into a torrent of profanities and obscenities, we sat there in shock that lasted until the end of the performance. [ . . . ] Does the stage serve everyone who seeks to just run amok and swear their head off on the pretext of theatre-making without anyone in authority having anything to say about it?³⁵

The national religious newspaper, Hatzofeh, focused its coverage of the production on upbraiding the censors for allowing the production to be staged with Peace appearing in the nude; on the wrangling of the town council in Jerusalem over finding a suitable venue for the production in that city; and on repeated appeals to the Film & Theatre Review Board to withdraw its approval of the production.³⁶

³⁵ Letter to the Editor, Haaretz, ‘Is this what passes for theatre?’, 22 May 1968. ³⁶ Hatzofeh’s Jerusalem correspondent, ‘Peace Production to be Discussed Again by Theatre Review Board’, Hatzofeh, 23 April 1968 and A.D., ‘Peace is Naked’, Hatzofeh, 19 May 1968.

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Most theatre critics, however, complimented the production for its success in holding up a mirror to political reality, and praised it for its experiential theatricality. Writing for the French-language newspaper L’information d’Israël, Ze’ev Rav-Nof praised the adaptation and its multiplicity of theatrical styles, and pointed out that the production was a vociferous broadside against the proponents of ‘A Greater Israel’: ‘The term “Greater Athens” was presented as a tragic and funny expletive’, he wrote.³⁷ Critic Boneh wrote: I prefer to see this rendition of Peace as a purely political show—because it deals with a burning issue and takes an unequivocal position about it, and because of the very unsubtle way it makes fun of speeches by people such as Yisrael Eldad and all the ‘We should give back/No we won’t give back’ debate, and blaming the Arabs and the Israelis for there being no peace in the region, and so on.³⁸

Still, the praise was not unanimous. Some critics did venture to question the political message of the theatrical experience. Most impassioned of all was the angry review by Ben-Ami Feingold, who lambasted Sachs for misunderstanding the Aristophanean message: Arieh Sachs, as man of literature in whom the ideologue has corrupted the artist, was perfectly aware that Aristophanes was not ‘a good fit’ for his desired interpretation. So he made things easier for himself by freely distorting, adding, etc.—for example, expressions such as ‘We have ancestral rights!’, ‘A miracle has happened! A miracle has happened!’, ‘We shall not give back!’, ‘For the integrity of the country!’, ‘In blood and fire arise and inherit!’, etc.—and hey presto, there you have a topical warmongering theatre that has absolutely nothing to do with art, because what is achieved [is done] through direct rhetorical appeal, though simple and crude forging of the original—in the classic tradition of cheap and lurid pamphleteering.³⁹

By and large, however, Peace appealed to many spectators. It was the first production to make a connection between Aristophanes and Israeli reality, using Aristophanes’ writing devices—a direct response to the political situation in real time, tomfoolery, and the freedom to swear and curse, to reference and to mock. It was received as a highly local affair, with

³⁷ Ze’ev Rav-Nof, ‘La Paix d’Aristophane’, L’information d’Israël, 10 May 1968 (in French). ³⁸ Boneh, ‘The Actors Stage—Peace, a Comedy by Aristophanes’, Epsilon 7, June 1968. ³⁹ Ben-Ami Feingold, ‘Aristophanes and the Greater Israel Movement’, Yediot Aharonot, 7 June 1968.

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a few harmless political shots across the bow. It ‘certainly sparked a few arguments here and there, but ultimately Trygaeus delighted many and played to full houses’.⁴⁰ Sachs’ Peace may be regarded as a first attempt at a direct, comedic, Israeli dialogue with Aristophanes’ Peace, and as such an important example of the reception of classical Greek drama on the Israeli stage. However, its reception demonstrates clearly that although his adaptation was full of direct references to the political consequences of the 1967 war, his use of extreme performance styles and festive carnival-like atmosphere weakened the play’s political message, and obscured the serious consequences of the Occupation. By choosing Aristophanes, Sachs was exploiting a classical platform of high cultural authority and tradition, and references to a society where theatre enjoyed high artistic status and political influence. His choice indicated the wish of Israeli theatre makers in the late 1960s and throughout the 1970s to create a significant and politically involved theatre, one that engages in the political debate in the public realm.

Hanoch Levin: Contention, Defiance, and Protest The political cabarets of Hanoch Levin, presents another Israeli dialogue with Aristophanes—one based on Aristophanes’ dramatic technique rather than his plots: direct speech, a debate of serious issues, and sharp and painful textual and visual images. To fight—just because there is no other way out— Makes death no more attractive to me And another thing is clear: if I don’t live, No one will live for me. Because even in a just war The dead have but one plot And anyway, life is just. At home they’re waiting for me to arrive.⁴¹

⁴⁰ ‘Trygaeus at the Actors Stage’, Kol Ha’am, 16 May 1968. ⁴¹ Hanoch Levin, Why Should the Bird Care?: Songs, Sketches and Satires (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, The Hebrew Book Club, 1987), 16. All excerpts from Levin’s political cabarets are translations by Jonathan Orr-Stav.

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These words, from the song Because Even in a Just War, stunned the modest audience that gathered at the Barbarim [Barbarians] Club in Tel Aviv in August 1968 to attend the premiere of Levin’s political cabaret, You, Me and the Next War, directed by Edna Shavit with a group of students, graduates of the Theatre Arts Department of Tel Aviv University.⁴² Israel, at that time, was still resting on the laurels of its recent dramatic victory of 1967, utterly oblivious to its future political, moral, and economic consequences, when suddenly a different voice was heard—that of Hanoch Levin, a young, unknown playwright of twenty-three—a personal and pained voice affirming life and rejecting war. Echoing the words of Dicaeopolis at the people’s assembly in Athens in The Acharnians (ll. 40–2), and of Trygaeus in Peace (ll. 289–300), Levin’s cabarets engaged with Aristophanes at the intersection of rage and mockery, and between castigation of national leaders and compassion for the hardships of ‘the ordinary citizen’, and sparked an unprecedented firestorm of controversy in Israeli theatre. In the aftermath of the 1967 war, Levin wrote three political cabarets— You, Me and the Next War (1968), Ketchup (March 1969), and Queen of a Bathtub (April 1970)—in a wave of productions that both triggered furious reactions and catapulted him to fame as Israel’s leading political playwright.⁴³ His insistence to keep on satirizing his fellow citizens in an effort to make them realize the tragic situation they were creating with their blinkered attitudes qualifies Levin to be considered a worthy successor to Aristophanes’ comedies. ‘Man is but a mould of his native landscape’, wrote the poet Shaul Tchernichovsky in the opening line of one of his best-known Hebrew poems of the modern era. But the native landscape of every Israeli of Levin’s generation was war—the Second World War, the War of Independence, the Sinai Campaign, the Six Day War, the Yom Kippur War, the Lebanon Wars, the Palestinian intifadas, the campaigns against Gaza.⁴⁴

⁴² Edna Shavit (b. 1935), actor, theatre director, and Professor Emerita in the fields of acting and directing (see Chapter 4). ⁴³ Ketchup and Queen of a Bathtub were both directed by Levin’s brother, David Levin. For staged plays, the date in parentheses is the year of the first performance; for unstaged plays, it denotes the year of writing. See Yitzhak Laor, Hanoch Levin (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2010), 297–9. ⁴⁴ Israeli readers of Levin’s plays, these days, might add several more conflicts to this list—the second intifada, the Second Lebanon War, and the three military operations

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These were wars whose repercussions, for Jews and Arabs, were immigration, deportation, refugees, and a daily combat for physical, emotional, and economic survival. War is a recurring theme in Levin’s plays, and his stage was a test laboratory for exposing and examining the nature of aggression and violence in Israeli society. In his political cabarets, he warned against the consequences of the victorious June 1967 war, exposed the political myths and ideologies that fostered the violence, and challenged their right to interfere with his life and turn him into an active agent in a never-ending cycle of ‘blood and fire and blood and fire and blood and fire and blood’.⁴⁵ The opposition to war is a significant element in any political satire, from Aristophanes to Brecht, and Levin certainly learned from both. Levin’s cabarets are harsh, brutal, and painful, because he wrote them for a direct and raw encounter with the audience, in the manner of a dysfunctional family reunion. Just as Aristophanes staged much of his comedy—Acharnians, Knights, Wasps, Lysistrata, Frogs—for the benefit of an exclusively Athenian (i.e. local) audience, Levin wrote his satire strictly for the Israeli public, to open its eyes and mind to the evils of occupation and its consequences. For that reason, he adamantly refused at that time to endorse their translation into any other language.

You, Me and the Next War (1968) The scenes and songs included in this cabaret challenged the cherished Israeli notion of a ‘just war’, and took square and unflinching aim at all the sacred cows of Israeli society. They featured familiar stock figures such as military officers using the war to make a name for themselves; politicians making political capital out of the dead; professional funeral mourners; widows prevented from returning to normal life by a society that insists on foisting the label of ‘widow’ upon them; and others. All these revealed a society still giddy in its arrogance and overconfidence and loss of moral values. One of the most difficult scenes to watch was the Victory Parade of the Eleven-Minute War: General: Division soldiers and commanders, my heroic brothers-inarms, my sons, my ancestors!

against Gaza in recent years—Operation Cast Lead, Operation Pillar of Fire, and Operation Protective Edge. ⁴⁵ Levin, ‘Tango of Fire and Blood’, in Why Should the Bird Care?, 39.

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Eleven minutes ago we left, shoulder to shoulder, as one heart, to meet the enemy. We went out to defend the sovereignty of our country, our national heritage, the lives of our loved ones at home and our own lives. We engaged an enemy that was more numerous than us, and stood up to it by virtue of the surging spirit within us. In eleven minutes we destroyed, demolished, dispersed, pounded, crushed, quashed, shattered, chopped up and squashed our enemies. Admittedly, it was not an easy campaign. We paid a heavy price in blood. But on facing Death we looked it straight in its eyes, laughed in its face, spat at its scythe and defiled the holes in its skull until its own mother was ashamed of it. Indeed, the battle was heavy, hard and stubborn. Eleven minutes ago you left here—an entire division with all its weapons and equipment, never to return. None of you have returned, and I now stand and . . . am talking . . . to an empty . . . [Pause] . . . lot. [Scans the grounds with his eyes for someone on the field and tries to carry on with his speech] Men! . . . [Pause] Men . . . [Pause] Men . . . [Stands, momentarily at a loss, then suddenly looks up at the sky] Men! [Salutes] The audience immediately recognized this scene as a parody of the victory speech by General Gorodish on Mt Lubani in the Sinai Desert at the end of the Six Day War—one that also featured in Sachs’ Peace. It also relied heavily on many of the catchphrases of the military and political discourse in Israel since the Independence War: ‘The Few Against the Many’, ‘Protecting Our Sovereignty’, ‘Our National Heritage’, ‘Our Just Cause’, ‘Purity of Arms’, ‘Protecting Our Loved Ones’, and, of course, the importance of ‘The Surging Spirit Within Us’. These were (and remain) familiar to every Israeli child, and they were repeatedly used by Israeli politicians, military officials, intellectuals, and journalists to describe Israel’s conduct in wars and to shape the discourse about the so-called ‘no choice war’, the importance of self-sacrifice, mental

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fortitude—and, in particular, the high morality of every soldier in the IDF. However, in Levin’s scene, these words are delivered after the unit has ‘run out’ of soldiers, and in front of an empty lot, and Levin uses them to mock the justification for war, to challenge the perpetuation of this discourse, and to shock his spectators. In Sachs’ Peace, the parody of Gorodish’s speech is incorporated into the scene where the mythical figure Battle describes how he will pulverize the cities of Greece; in Victory Parade of the Eleven-Minute War they serve for a victory ceremony that is unexpectedly revealed to be a memorial service for an entire division. However, the cabaret was not only about the war, but also about the controversy over the Occupied Territories that was deeply dividing the public. In the duet, What Did We Fight For?, Levin shows how the arguments over whether the Occupied Territories should be retained or relinquished were held not only in the Knesset (Israeli Parliament), but in the common areas of every apartment block. In it, two neighbours— a man and a woman—meet in the stairwell, and each gives good reasons why the Occupied Territories should or should not be given back. For both, the basic question boils down to: ‘What did we fight for? What did we shed our blue and white blood for?’⁴⁶ Each of them purports to speak on behalf of the nation, and each sticks stubbornly to their position. Overhearing them, a third neighbour joins in, and, with a breaking voice, recounts the death of her son in the war: My dear Sir and Madam: what did we fight for? Why did we shed our blood so dear? The conquered land is in our hands, But my son is not in mine So, in his name, I must say: Only those who have died—will never be returned.

It was important to Levin to show that the debate over the territories was not a balanced one, and that the desire to hold on to the Jewish holy sites in the Occupied Territories (the Western Wall, the Cave of the Patriarchs, Rachel’s Tomb, etc.) will result in never-ending cycles of war and with heavy death toll. Thus he sets out to attack the notion of

⁴⁶ A reference to the colours of the Israeli flag, which is based on that adopted in 1897 by the first Zionist Congress in Basle, Switzerland.

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‘Holy Places’ by using the common slang euphemism for ‘toilet’—‘the holy place’, as in the final stanza of the song Visit to the Holy Places in Aristophanean fashion: You’ve locked the door and you’re on the throne, Your pants are down, the paper’s in your lap, Once again the bathtub to one side, the basin on the other, And you in the middle—and your gut sets the tone.⁴⁷

The metaphor, delivered as a sucker punch to the spectators’ stomachs, was so shocking and unexpected that it caused an involuntary guffaw, followed by acute discomfort and feeling of inappropriateness. By associating holiness with bodily wastes and ‘calls of nature’, Levin, in the best Aristophanean tradition, was linking together the high and exalted with the low and contemptible, and decrying the use of the term ‘holy place’ for political and materialist ends.⁴⁸ His critics repeatedly assailed him for such ‘obscenities’, but, as Shimon Levy points out in his introduction to Hanoch Levin: The Man with the Myth in the Middle, few people understood the profound cultural and theatrical devices that Levin was using in these moments of humour.⁴⁹ In Poem of the Scattered Casualty, Levin riffs on a well-known poem by the medieval Spanish Jewish poet Judah Halevi—‘My heart is in the East and I am at the end of the West’—which speaks of being torn, with one’s body in a foreign land (in Halevi’s case, Spain) and one’s heart in Jerusalem, to remind the spectators of the poem they all know by heart and relocate it to the battlefield, to graphically portray the horrors of war: My right hand’s in the East, and my left hand at the end of the West I lifted my eyes to the mountains, my heart turned within me, The vulture now plays on my vocal cords, My ears cannot hear what my mouth is not saying.⁵⁰

In the Poem of the End of Days, the biblical utopian image of ‘The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb’ (Isaiah 11:6) is recast as a huge military cemetery, ⁴⁷ Levin, Why Should the Bird Care?, 29. ⁴⁸ See Jeffrey Henderson, The Maculate Muse: Obscene Language in Attic Comedy (Ithaca, NY: Yale University Press, 1975, second edition 1991). ⁴⁹ Shimon Levy, ‘Introduction: Notes on the Comparative Greatness of Beckett and Levin’, in The Man with the Myth in the Middle: The Theatre of Hanoch Levin, ed. Shimon Levy and Nurit Yaari (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2004), 9. ⁵⁰ Levin, Why Should the Bird Care?, 24.

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where ‘The private dwells with the sergeant-major / and sergeant-major shall lie down with the Chief of Staff / and a little child shall cover them / thus saith the Lord of hosts.’⁵¹ You, Me and the Next War was staged at the Barbarim Club, a small hall in the heart of Tel Aviv, where the players stood ‘face to face’ with the spectators and recounted, spoke, and sang to it, with no set design, costumes, or anything else that might obscure or soften the impact of the harsh words they were declaiming. The soft music accompanying them only magnified their horrendous message, as in the works of Brecht and Weill. It also played at several kibbutzim.⁵² The audiences, even when modest in size, usually reacted angrily, and often the performances were halted by spectators—especially when the subject of bereavement came up—and stormy discussions usually ensued. At Kibbutz Netzer-Sereni, veteran kibbutz members threw chairs at the performers during the performance and began dismantling the temporary stage—but the younger members insisted that the show go on, so it was continued outside, on the lawn outside the communal hall. Scathing and condemnatory reviews also appeared in the newspapers—however, there were also some journalists and theatre critics who praised the cabaret and the young playwright.

Ketchup (1969) Ketchup was staged at the Satirical Cabaret in Tel Aviv, against the backdrop of the low-level War of Attrition (1967–70) between Israel and Egypt and two years of peace talks between the two countries that had led to a dead end. In the two years since the Six Day War, nothing much had happened at the political level. The play, directed by David Levin, brother of Hanoch Levin, with veterans of army entertainment troupes, presented the peace talks as a boxing match between Mahmoud Riad, the Egyptian Foreign Minister, and Abba Eban, his Israeli counterpart, with ‘Big Gu’ (Gunnar Jarring, the UN’s envoy to the peace talks) as the referee. In between the boxing rounds were sketches and songs that revived the public debate over the return of the Occupied ⁵¹ Ibid., 25. ⁵² In the 1960s, the kibbutzim (communal villages) were considered elite audiences and optimal venues for theatrical performances. Theatre companies preferred to travel around the country to perform there, despite the usually poor stage conditions of the performances, which often consisted of nothing more than a provisional stage in the communal dining hall.

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Territories, pillorying the political leadership for its irresponsibility, presenting the delegates at the peace talks as being deaf, and mocking the public’s blind admiration for the military. The socio-political backdrop of Ketchup was the links made by the political and religious leadership at that time between current events, the war and occupation, the liberation of the holy places, and the staunch refusal by the political right to give up any part of the Holy Land. Levin’s parodies were aimed squarely at the slogans that sanctified such associations—such as ‘the holiness of the land’, ‘redemption of the people and the land’, and Eretz Yisrael Hashlemah (‘Greater Israel’). In this, Levin was siding with Professor Yeshayahu Leibowitz—a renowned Orthodox Jewish scientist and philosopher at the Hebrew University, and the most prominent voice in the public debate against the Occupation. Like latterday prophets of doom, both were already at the gate, reading the situation, issuing dire warnings, and exposing all the historical, psychological, and religious ills behind the public’s refusal to reach a decision. Leibowitz was the first to speak out against the Occupation, and against the idea of a ‘Greater Israel’—a stance that was no surprise to those familiar with his views. As far back as October 1953, after the IDF retaliatory operation in the West Bank village of Kibiyeh, he had vociferously objected to the use of the word ‘holy’ in connection with social, national, and political issues. He also argued against the morality of the operation, likening it to the biblical story of Shechem and Dinah (Genesis 34).⁵³ In a series of articles published between 1959 and 1966, Leibowitz had also spoken—from his perspective as a religious man—about the imperative of separating religion and state, thereby provoking the ire of both the religious and secular, and left and right of the political spectrum.⁵⁴ His categorical opposition to the Occupation was founded on arguments to do with the identity of the state, its relations with the Jewish world overseas, as well as political and social reasons: Our real problem is not the territory but rather the population of about a million and a half Arabs who live in it and over whom we must rule. Inclusion of these ⁵³ Yeshayahu Leibowitz, ‘After Kibiyeh’, in Judaism, Human Values and the State of Israel, trans. Eliezer Goldman, Yoram Navon, Zvi Jacobson, Gershon Levy, and Raphael Levy (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press 1992), 185–90. ⁵⁴ Leibowitz, ‘A Call for the Separation of Religion and State’, in ibid., 174–84.

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Arabs (in addition to the half a million who are citizens of the state) in the area under our rule will effect the liquidation of the state of Israel as the state of the Jewish people as a whole; it will determine the social structure that we have created in the state and cause the corruption of individuals, both Jew and Arab.⁵⁵

His conclusion was unequivocal: Out of concern for the Jewish people and its state we have no choice but to withdraw from the territories and their population of one and a half million Arabs; this action to be done without any connection with the problem of peace. I speak of withdrawal from the territories and not ‘returning them’, because we have no right to decide to whom to return them: to Jordan’s King Hussein? To the PLO? To the Egyptians? To the local inhabitants? It is neither our concern nor our obligation nor our right to decide what the Arabs will do with the territories after we withdraw from them.⁵⁶

Like latter-day prophets of doom, both Leibowitz and Levin were already at the gate, reading the situation, issuing dire warnings, and exposing all the historical, psychological, and religious ills behind the public’s refusal to reach a decision. However, they were each approaching the issue from a different angle: Leibowitz as an Orthodox Jew guided by the tenets of the Jewish Scriptures, while Levin in his satirical revues attacked those, too, as the root (as he saw it) of all the future evils. While crafting his ridicule of religious directives that prompted people and officials to commit amoral political acts, Levin employed the wording of the directives themselves. Just as Aristophanes cited from or alluded to Euripides or Aeschylus to underline his message and lend credibility to his satire,⁵⁷ Levin used quotes from the Hebrew Bible, the Talmud, and other Jewish Scriptures and literature, and numerous references to Jewish history, to condemn the use of religion in the political ‘here and now’. His song, I Don’t Keep God’s Promises to Abraham, is typical:⁵⁸ Here is the whole country that God promised Abraham, to him and his descendants who would be ‘like the sand upon the seashore’; But I am no sand upon the seashore, And I don’t keep God’s promises to Abraham. I’ve never dreamed of Hebron, and I have no concerns about Nablus

⁵⁵ Leibowitz, ‘The Territories’, in ibid., 225. ⁵⁶ Ibid., 226. ⁵⁷ See Silk, Aristophanes and the Definition of Comedy, 39–41. ⁵⁸ Levin, Why Should the Bird Care?, 44.

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What concerns me is to get through life in one piece For I am no sand upon the seashore, And I don’t keep God’s promises to Abraham. My home is not on the Nile, and my wife doesn’t sit on the Euphrates, (I’m stretched enough as it is every morning between Metulah and Eilat) For I am no sand upon the seashore, And I don’t keep God’s promises to Abraham. Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, now rest peacefully in their graves, and I have no desire to dig my own grave beside them— For I am no sand upon the seashore, And I don’t keep God’s promises to Abraham. Here’s the whole country, for which I shall not give my life, And what God promises—let Him fulfil at his own expense; For I am no sand upon the seashore, And I don’t keep God’s promises to Abraham.

As one reads this text today, in light of current events, it is important to remember that he wrote it in 1969—well before the decisions that have led to fifty years of occupation (and counting). At that time, the nationalist movement Gush Emunim (‘Bloc of the Faithful’) had not yet been born,⁵⁹ and there was still not a single Jewish settlement in the West Bank⁶⁰—and yet the row over the Occupied Territories was already raging, creating a rift between those who saw them as ‘liberated’ and those who viewed them as ‘occupied’. Ostensibly, everything was still up for debate, and open to discussion and criticism—but Levin, a poet and playwright writing in real time, was already harnessing his theatrical writing and Aristophanes’ artistic devices to hold an absurdist mirror in front of fateful reality, to reveal the depth of the nation’s wilful blindness to the situation.

Queen of a Bathtub (1970) Queen of a Bathtub marked Levin’s transition from the margins to the mainstream of Tel Aviv theatre. The Cameri Theatre had already secured its position as the second largest and most important theatre in Tel Aviv,⁶¹ ⁵⁹ Gush Emunim was established on 25 February 1974. ⁶⁰ The first settlement to receive government approval was Alon Moreh on 8 December 1975. ⁶¹ Habima acquired the status of a National Theatre in 1958. In 1970, the Cameri acquired the status of a municipal theatre and officially changed its name to ‘The Cameri Theatre of Tel Aviv’.

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and—ever since Moshe Shamir’s ground-breaking play, He Walked Through the Fields, in 1948—was identified as the venue that represented the courage and high morality the new Israeli youth, the sabra (native-born Israeli) determined to protect his homeland. By presenting this cabaret at this particular venue, Levin was ensuring his message would be heard, loud and clear, deep within the theatrical establishment, by its middle-class and very faithful following. The cabaret’s subtitle—Brethren Dwelling Together in the Shadow of Guns⁶²—hinted at its portrayal of war as a permanent condition. Its scenes and songs speak of war as an integral aspect of civil society in the future, of the fate of the children growing up in its shadow (It Was the Age of Three), falling asleep to militaristic lullabies (Goodnight, Said the Fighter Plane), and growing into cocky youngsters who are in love with themselves but deaf, inarticulate, and obtuse, to the point of being incapable of expressing an idea or a personal opinion on matters that decide their fate (Courtship). In the cabaret, Levin turned his attention to Israeli society in the aftermath of the 1967 war, revealing its hierarchical structure and class/ethnic distribution between the ‘OK folk’ and ‘Others’—namely, the Mizrahi Jews, and far below them, the Arabs. The Mizrahis— represented by the Chambalulu brothers (a deliberately Third Worldsounding name, to mark them out as ‘uncultured’, not ‘one of us’)—are positioned low down on the professional and economic totem pole, with no chance of moving freely into the bounds of middle-class well-being. The war serves as a kind of temporary bonding glue: Every ten years or so they hold a war for us and for one tiny, fleeting moment we are with you, shoulder-to-shoulder. However, as soon as the war ends, the demarcation lines return: and we return (not everyone, of course) You over here, and we over there and a lot of sand covering the blood.⁶³

⁶² A play on the utopian vision of Psalm 133:1 (and lyrics of a modern folk song), ‘Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together’. ⁶³ Levin, ‘Chambalulu’, Queen of a Bathtub, in Why Should the Bird Care?, 77–9.

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The eponymous scene, ‘Queen of a Bathtub’, is a further important example of the evolution of Levin’s dramatic writing—from a single scene to a full-scale dramatic metaphor combining historical, psychological, sociological, and religious layering with allegorical figures and metaphorical situations of powerful visual drama.⁶⁴ Here, the association between ‘the holy places’ and ‘toilet’ serves as the framework for the dramatic action and the visual imagery of the entire piece. In one broad stroke, the piece maps out Jewish–Arab relations within the country between independence and the Six Day War. The dramatic situation involves an Israeli family ‘occupying’ their bathroom to prevent their tenant from using it. In it, Levin draws a parallel between the common practice in the 1950s of hosting a lonely family member, or a new immigrant as tenant in one’s modest city apartment, and the political situation vis-à-vis the Arabs. On this simple dramatic framework, a multi-layered plot is built. Levin pours scorn on the political moves that make the Occupation possible, tracing the origins of the current political situation to elements of Jewish history, education, and tradition, and the existential anxieties arising from all of these. Thus, the Occupation takes place in the home of a typical middle-class family—mother, father, son, and daughter—where the husband’s cousin also resides.⁶⁵ The wife, who wants the entire house for herself and her family, at first tries to expel the cousin from the house: when he strenuously objects, she leads the family to occupy the bathroom and toilet, where they declare ‘The kingdom of the Greater Bathroom is in our hands!’ The dialogue between the family members during their act of aggression echoes the nationalist justifications and violent operations on the ground, and links the persecution of the Jews in European history with their present-day arrogance and immoral behaviour, thus turning a family feud into a socio-political metaphor that is at once mad and ominous, ludicrous and metaphysical. At the end of the piece, the wife is sitting on the toilet and holds forth with a speech that is a caricature of

⁶⁴ Levin, ‘Queen of a Bathtub’, Queen of a Bathtub, 93–7. ⁶⁵ The word ‘cousin’ here is a play on words. On the one hand, it is a reference to the Jewish immigrants who flooded into the country during the first decade after independence, and who were put up in the apartments of existing inhabitants until they could manage on their own. However, it is also a colloquial euphemism for ‘Arab’, since Ishmael (the biblical forefather of the Arabs) and Isaac were both sons of Abraham.

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the speeches delivered on more than one occasion by the then Prime Minister Golda Meir in favour of peace: From this important platform, I address an emotional appeal to our cousins, wherever they may be. Peace is our destination. Peace is all we ask for. Bring us peace. We want peace. Peace is our only concern. Give us peace. We seek peace. Bring us peace.

Levin’s attack is meant to show his audience not only ‘how we look’, but has a much deeper purpose of using the theatre as a public space for encounter and debate—thus invoking the culture of theatre in classical Athens. As a playwright he understands the importance of deciphering the historical layers that form the collective subconscious of his spectators, to prompt the community to examine itself. For this reason, he encodes events, beliefs, myths, and fixed ideas. The son’s name, in Queen of a Bathtub, is ‘Magentza’, and the daughter’s name is ‘Fleischer’— foreign, European names, each with its own associations. Magentza is the traditional Jewish name for the German city of Mainz, and Fleischer means ‘butcher’ in Yiddish but is meant to evoke fleisch (flesh). In Israeli consciousness, Magentza—known to most Israeli high school students from Tchernichovsky’s ballad Baruch of Magentza—is associated with life in the diaspora, pogroms, forced conversions to Christianity, and the dual revenge of the protagonist of Tchernichovsky’s ballad: first against the rampaging Gentiles, and then against himself, when in a moment of grief-stricken insanity, he murders his daughter with his own hands, as he recounts over his wife’s grave at the end of the bloody day. Magentza, in Levin’s sketch, is the more proactive of the two children: a plumber by training, he sleeps with an adjustable wrench by his side. Although still of tender age, the daughter, Fleischer, already embodies two aspects of the female body: the ability to seduce, and vulnerability to the cousin’s sexual assault.⁶⁶ Thus, in a short sketch, Levin points to the sources of the present violence while criticizing the blindness of the citizens and their leaders, and alerting against its fatal consequences. Politically, Queen of a Bathtub may be seen as a reflection of Levin’s ferocious attack on the emerging messianic national-religious discourse that in his view was the chief reason for the major political decisions being made about the territories, and on which he brings his entire rage ⁶⁶ Levin, Queen of a Bathtub, 94.

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to bear through the ultimate insult of linking holiness to bodily waste. This rage would also lead him to launch an attack on the Jewish myths underpinning the political decisions and the country’s conduct at that time: the Binding of Isaac, the promise in the Covenant of the Pieces, the Ten Commandments, and the giving of the Torah in Sinai. He saw the expression ‘Thou hast chosen us’—which recurs in the prayers of all three main Jewish festivals—as encapsulating the dangers inherent in national insularity as a result of those myths, and the narrow-minded provincialism that it gave rise to. As early as 1967, he understood the dangers that lurk in combining the religious and the political, and responded by challenging the religious and ritualistic diktats and codes of canonical Jewish culture—highlighting the rift that, ten years later, led to his own attempt at writing a tragedy in the footsteps of Euripides.⁶⁷ Two intentions are discernible in Levin’s use of the Jewish tradition in his texts: one is to serve as the common ground between playwright and audience, the other is the aversion to the cynical use of holy entities, divorced from their religious context, for political ends in historical reality. To this end, he uses the materials that held the Jews together over its two thousand years’ exile—the binding element that is instilled in children from preschool to military service, and which form the collection of Jewish images underpinning Israeli culture. The story of the Binding of Isaac is perhaps the greatest and most striking example in Jewish tradition of unwavering faith in God, as demonstrated by Abraham, the ancestral forefather. Its association with the Covenant of the Pieces, and the divine promise ‘Unto thy seed have I given this land, from the river of Egypt unto the great river, the river Euphrates’ (Gen. 15:18), has made it one of the cornerstones of Jewish tradition. In the twentieth century, it is a repeated theme in Hebrew poetry and Israeli literature in general, in the guise of young men who sacrifice their lives for the sake of the nation’s return to, and reconstruction of, the homeland.⁶⁸ Little surprise, therefore, that Levin’s sketches

⁶⁷ In 1979, Levin turned to studying tragedy, and embarked upon a dialogue with Euripides and Aeschylus. See Chapter 10. ⁶⁸ The plays of 1948: He Walked Through the Fields by Moshe Shamir, and In the Plains of the Negev by Yigal Mosinson. See also Shimon Levy, ‘Slain Upon Thy High Places: The Portrayal of the Dead in Israeli Theatre’, in Levy, The Altar and the Stage (Tel Aviv: Or-Am, 1992), and Feldman, Glory and Agony, 131–82, and 215–40.

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The Binding and The Promise feature two traditional paradigms, through which he demonstrates the crisis of faith, reveals the sense of the absurd, and throws down the gauntlet in the song I Don’t Keep God’s Promises to Abraham. In them, he rejects the calls for a ‘Greater Israel’ and the mythical divine ‘promise’, in favour of a desire for a peaceful life in the present. In stark contrast to the biblical story, in his take on The Binding of Isaac, the son, Isaac, encourages his father to kill him, with no accusation or rancour, while Abraham complains that he, in fact, is the victim in the story. But the song Dear Father, When You Stand At My Grave—in which the dead son appeals to his father and objects to being sacrificed on the altar of turning myths to reality— links the past with the present, and underlines the calamitous consequences of blind adherence to the past. Sure enough, the most vehement reactions to the production were over the latter: Dear Father, when you stand at my grave Old, tired and very lonely, You’ll see them burying my body in the ground And you standing over me, Father. Do not stand so proud, and do not hold your head erect, my father We now remain, flesh facing flesh And this is the time to cry, Father. So let your eyes cry over mine, and do not stay silent for my sake Something that was more important than honour now lies at your feet, Father. And do not say that you’ve made a sacrifice For it is I who have sacrificed, And pray say no more lofty words For I am now very low, Father. Dear Father, when you stand at my grave Old and tired and very lonely, And you see how they bury my body in the ground— Ask for my forgiveness, Father.

The verbal assaults on Levin and the Cameri Theatre began no sooner had the text been submitted to the Israeli Film & Theatre Review Board and the content of the cabaret became common knowledge. Stormy meetings were held at Tel Aviv Municipality while rehearsals were going on, with

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representatives of the religious parties on City Council demanding that the show be cancelled.⁶⁹ In a majority decision, the Review Board—over the objection of dissenting voices within its ranks—voted to allow the production to continue, on condition that two scenes be removed: The Binding of Isaac and The Widow.⁷⁰ The Cameri Theatre refused to accept this, however, and appealed to the Supreme Court of Appeal, which approved the text in its entirety. As a result, throughout the production’s run from the premiere onwards, performances were beset by violent protests, shouting, physical assaults on actors by spectators, and stink bombs hurled at the stage. In many instances, the anger mounted to the point of mass hysteria, performances were repeatedly halted, and the auditorium became a battlefield. Far beyond the theatre walls, heated debates raged between public officials and theatre staff through the printed media and on radio, and questions were raised in the Knesset.⁷¹ Finally, after nineteen performances, the Cameri succumbed to demands by the public and some of its own actors, and shut down the production.

Summary Despite the differences between Aristophanes’ Peace and Hanoch Levin’s three satirical cabaret productions, they do have one key thing in common, which bears upon the socio-political role played by classical Greek theatre. In these plays and those that followed, theatre served as an agora for a stormy and, at times, violent debate over fundamental national and cultural questions. In this way, theatre cast its full weight into the political arena, in the best Aristophanean tradition, and in line with Aristophanes’ notion of the role and commitment that a playwright has to his fellow citizens. Levin’s three cabarets marked the start of his theatrical career and his dialogue with the classical tradition, but also of his dialogue with his audiences, and his role as a ‘prophet at the gate’. Over the next thirty

⁶⁹ The theatre had just been renamed ‘The Cameri Theatre of Tel Aviv’. ⁷⁰ A scene in which a married couple uses powerful arguments to persuade their friend, a widow, to remain as such, and not move on with her life or let go of her dead husband. ⁷¹ See, for example, Haaretz of 19 April 1970; Eitan Lowenstein, Haaretz, 4 May 1970; Maariv, 28 May 1970.

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years of productive writing, during which he wrote plays of various genres and began to direct his plays himself, he would continually revisit the issue of the Occupied Territories and the Arab–Jewish conflict in plays such as Shitz (1975), The Patriot (1982), Murder (1995), and The Thin Soldier (1999).⁷²

⁷² Also translated as The Skinny Soldier.

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6 The Trojan War and the Israeli–Palestinian Conflict He who sees the dead, has nothing to say He goes aside and carries on living as someone who has lost. —Hanoch Levin¹

Theatrical Responses to the Six Day War (1967) Life in the shadow of war is one of the themes linking Jerusalem of the mid-twentieth century CE and Athens of the fifth century BCE. It is not surprising, therefore, that classical Greek tragedies that featured a wartime setting and dealt with issues of violence and its consequential suffering and loss, began to pique the interest of Israeli theatre makers in the aftermath of the Six Day War (1967). After Israel’s decisive victory in that war and the conquest of the West Bank, Golan Heights, Gaza Strip, and Sinai (collectively, the Occupied Territories), Israelis found themselves confronting both the Arab countries—who saw the 1967 defeat as a profound insult to their honour, which they subsequently sought to appease through the Yom Kippur War (1973)—and Palestinian insurgents of the Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO), which launched terrorist attacks against Israeli targets at home and abroad. The 1970s was also the decade when Israeli society became sharply

¹ Levin, Why Should the Bird Care? When the whole country was celebrating the 1967 victory with parades, victory songs, victory photographs, and war albums, Levin in these two lines shed light on the dark side of this same victory: the dead soldiers, the wounded, the widows, and the orphans. This epigraph sums up for me, and I believe for most of my generation, the painful experience of living in the shadow of wars, and as such becomes the overall image of this chapter.

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divided—first over the issue of the Occupied Territories, and then on whether Jewish settlements should be allowed to be established there. It also saw the birth of both the nationalist Gush Emunim movement (1974), which pushed for the renewal of Israeli settlements throughout the Occupied Territories, and the Peace Now movement (1978), which called for a peace based on two states for two peoples. It was also the decade of the Mahapakh (‘Upset’) when, in 1977, the decades-long hegemony of the Israeli Labour Party gave way to rule by the right-wing Likud party, headed by Menahem Begin—followed by a historic visit by Egyptian president Anwar Sadat to Israel (the first official visit by an Arab leader in Israel). Although a peace accord was signed with Egypt that same year, the events of that decade also paved the way for another war, of another kind—the First Lebanon War. This chapter looks at Israeli productions of classical tragedies between 1970 and 1985, against the backdrop of four wars: the Six Day War (1967), the War of Attrition (1967–70), the Yom Kippur War (1973), and the First Lebanon War (1982–5). The tragedies in question recount two fateful and bloody wars of antiquity: the second Persian offensive against Greece (480–479 BCE) which serves as the background to Aeschylusʼ The Persians (472 BCE), and the Trojan War—the prehistoric battle immortalized by Homer in The Iliad and The Odyssey, and in the tragedies of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides.

Aeschylusʼ The Persians: the power of lamentation (1970) In May 1970, The Persians by Aeschylus was staged at the Beit-Zvi School of the Performing Arts, in a translation by Michal Govrin, adapted and directed by Haim Shiran, and with a musical score by Daniel Shalit.² It was the first performance of a classical Greek tragedy that linked the Athenian past with the Israeli present. Watching The Persians, the Athenian spectators in Aeschylus’ time could reflect on the consequences of war and the price of the enemy’s defeat—but they could also experience the dangers of hubris, at a time when Athens was embarking on building an empire. It was for all these reasons that Govrin and Shiran had chosen this particular play. In their rendition, the depth ² By including Aeschylus’ The Persians in a chapter about the Trojan War, I am opting to use Euripides’ perspective, in order to link the war that he lived through (the Peloponnesian War) with the Trojan War—‘the mother of all wars’ in Western culture.

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of the Arab defeat was underscored, as well as the risks inherent in the atmosphere of euphoria among Israelis after the victory in the 1967 war. In the performance these associations were echoed in the laments by Xerxes and the Chorus, which were rich both musically and choreographically. According to the programme notes: Stylistically, The Persians is an attempt to combine Eastern elements with Western material. The music, which accompanies the entire performance, and the chorus songs, were written in Eastern scales and rhythms. The movement consists of steps and moves that are common among Mediterranean peoples, and thus the production resembles the original in some respects, while also underscoring the analogy between the historical event and our reality.³

The social and political message came through loud and clear. In his review of the production, theatre critic Giora Manor cited passages from the play, while drawing parallels between the Egyptian leader Gamal Abdul Nasser and the Persian leader Xerxes, and between the defeats that the two leaders brought upon their respective nations.⁴ The small audience in the Beit-Zvi studio found the production moving, in part because of its messages, but mainly because of its artistic qualities, despite its use of student actors. Three years later, in his review of The Persians at the Khan Theatre in Jerusalem, Manor recalled that ‘The acting, at that time, by the Beit-Zvi students was not [as] accomplished as the Jerusalem production—but the production’s topical significance was startlingly clear.’⁵

Aeschylusʼ The Persians: a lesson to remember (1974) The second Israeli production of The Persians was staged in June 1974, at the Khan Theatre in Jerusalem, by a young theatre troupe established by artistic and stage director Michael Alfreds.⁶ In the four years that had elapsed since the previous production, Israel’s socio-political landscape ³ For the programme, performance text, and musical score, see ICDPA portfolio #14.1.15. ⁴ Giora Manor, ‘Nasser! Nasser! Nasser! 2500 Years Ago’, Al Hamishmar, 10 May 1970. ⁵ Giora Manor, ‘Woe to the Victors!’, Al Hamishmar, 28 June 1974. ⁶ Michael Alfreds (b. 1934), a British theatre director, has been one of the foremost influences on Israeli theatre since the 1970s. He directed at the Haifa Municipal Theatre, at the Cameri Theatre, and at Bimot Theatre; taught acting and directing at the Department of Theatre Arts of Tel Aviv University; and contributed a great deal to the development of young Israeli artists in the fields of acting, directing, and theatre studies.

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had changed dramatically. The Yom Kippur War of 1973, which began with a coordinated offensive by the Egyptian and Syrian armies on the Jewish holy Day of Atonement on 6 October 1973, caught the Israeli leadership and military completely by surprise, due to a failure of Israeli intelligence. Although Israel managed to halt the offensive and ultimately push the Egyptians and Syrians back, it was a hard-fought affair, and losses were heavy: 2,222 killed, 16 missing in action, 7,251 wounded, and 301 prisoners. In light of the many casualties and accounts by reservists of failures of command at the front, a groundswell of demands within the Israeli public to investigate the Yom Kippur debacle led to the government establishing a Commission of Inquiry headed by Supreme Court Justice, Dr Shimon Agranat in November 1973. After months of hearings, the Commission released its findings in a series of three reports. The first, in April 1974, focused on the degree of personal responsibility of the senior command of the IDF and of the political leadership (specifically Prime Minister Golda Meir and Minister of Defence Moshe Dayan); on institutional recommendations regarding the division of responsibility between the political leadership and senior military command; and the conduct of the government and of the intelligence community. The two other reports—in July 1974, and February 1975, respectively—detailed the reasoning behind the Commission’s conclusions and addenda, and were submitted in camera to the Cabinet and to the Knesset Foreign and Defence Committee. The Commission’s findings led to substantial changes at the political and military level: in April 1974, the government of Golda Meir resigned, and a new one headed by Yitzhak Rabin was established, with Shimon Peres as Minister of Defence. Chief of Staff David Elazar resigned, and Mordechai (‘Mota’) Gur was appointed in his place. The Israeli public, however, was not placated by these changes— indeed, public unrest grew as suspicions arose that the Commission had scapegoated the military command.⁷ The year 1974 was therefore a stormy one, fraught with much public soul-searching and demonstrations⁸—all of which was reflected in this production of The Persians. ⁷ Findings of the Agranat Commission into the Events of the Yom Kippur War, IDF Archive, Israel’s Campaigns, (accessed 20 August 2015). See also, ‘Agranat Commission, Interim Report’, in Rabinovich and Reinharz, eds, Israel in the Middle East, 278–84. ⁸ See Motti Ashkenazi, ‘The Protest Movement in the Aftermath of the Yom Kippur War’, in Israel in the Middle East, ed. Rabinovich and Reinharz, 284–6.

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The history of the Khan Theatre building, which dates back to the nineteenth century, sheds light on the nature and style of the theatre’s productions. According to the theatre’s archives, the precise origins of the building are uncertain. In one account, it served as a travellers’ inn (khan in Arabic) in the Ottoman period; according to another, it was erected in the nineteenth century by the Greek Orthodox Church as a factory for the production of silk (in Arabic, haririyah) and cultivation of strawberries. Like many other factories in Jerusalem, it was built next to religious institutions, with a view to encouraging active trade outside the Old City walls.⁹ What is certain is that the building changed hands many times before it was turned into a theatre. In 1965, theatre director Phillip Diskin discovered the building and, captivated by its charms,¹⁰ approached the then mayor of Jerusalem, Teddy Kollek, with a proposal to convert it into a centre for performing arts, with a permanent theatrical troupe, and various cultural and touristic activities. Kollek agreed, and the Khan Theatre was officially launched on two separate gala nights at the end of October and early November 1967, and made its first steps to becoming the first theatre in Jerusalem.¹¹ Today, even after extensive renovations, the original Ottoman architectural features of a stone edifice with broad arches and heavy columns that encompass both the stage and the auditorium are still clearly in evidence. These distinctive features have influenced the work of the directors, designers, and actors working in it, as well as the audiences’ viewing conditions. Diskin and his troupe staged André Obey’s play Noah, but the following year, Diskin left Israel for the United States, and Michael Alfreds was appointed the theatre’s new artistic director. He established a permanent group of young and talented actors, and began building a repertoire that combined political theatre with classical European plays. The Persians was their third production.

⁹ See Khan Theatre website archive, (accessed 27 August 2015). ¹⁰ Diskin was a director and entrepreneur in the field of theatre and culture. He established the amateur theatre Hamaagal, which performed at the Bacchus Club, with a focus mainly on European plays, such as those by Alfred Jarry, Eugene Ionesco, Witold Gombrowicz, and Andrée Obey. ¹¹ Diskin established the Khan Theatre with the support of the mayor of Jerusalem.

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The director, Alex Klatchkin, directed the performance on an empty stage, with a flight of steps linking it to the audience, and six actors facing the audience and playing their parts, as translated by Nachmi Drimer. Drimer avoided archaic idioms, opting instead to tailor the text to the ears of the Israeli audience, while weaving in topical hints that allowed the spectators to make sense of the references and understand the context.¹² Thus, for example, towards the end of the last scene, as the lights came on, Xerxes turned to the audience and said ‘Go home!’—as if to say, ‘Recognize the Other’s defeat, and think about your own.’ The spectators were intrigued by the parallels drawn by the production between the Persian War and the Yom Kippur War (1973), and later approached the director and the actors with questions about their artistic choices. Yaacov Haelyon wrote: ‘The audience remained after the show to talk with the director and the actors—and subsequently the management decided to make this a permanent custom, with a discussion about “topical theatre” facilitated by Dr. Uri Milstein.’¹³

Aeschylusʼ Agamemnon: a chorus of Jews and Arabs (1979) The first Israeli production of Agamemnon—a joint effort of the Haifa Municipal Theatre and the Khan Theatre in Jerusalem, directed by Steven Berkoff—premiered on 29 December 1979.¹⁴ The performance text, which had been written by Berkoff and his London Theatre Group in the United Kingdom over many years, was based on Aeschylus’ original play. Berkoff and his group first staged it on an experimental basis in 1973, and three years later at the Greenwich Theatre in London.¹⁵ The Israeli production used a Hebrew translation of that text, by theatre scholar and translator Avraham Oz.¹⁶ Berkoff directed the play and

¹² Yaacov Braun, ‘Alex Klatchkin Discovers The Persians’, Davar, 28 August 1974. ¹³ Yaacov Haelyon, ‘A Show of Self-Confidence’, Maariv, 8 July 1974. Uri Milstein is a military historian and theorist. ¹⁴ Steven Berkoff, a British actor and director of Russian-Romanian Jewish origin, first came to fame in the English theatre in the late 1960s for his adaptations of Kafka’s works (Metamorphosis (1969), In the Penal Colony (1969), The Trial (1970)); Greek tragedies (Agamemnon (1976) and Greek (1980)); and Hamlet (1979). ¹⁵ For more information, see Agamemnon (1976) at (accessed 24 August 2015); and Macintosh et al., eds, Agamemnon in Performance, 396–7. ¹⁶ The translation was published in Bamah 97 (1984): 43–63.

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designed the set.¹⁷ Preparations for the production lasted five weeks, and rehearsals were intensive. The production’s promotional materials stated that Berkoff was the adapter and director—in line with the traditional theatrical view that a stage production is based on a written play that is interpreted on stage by the director, the cast, and the creative team. This notion, which was the predominant one in most mainstream theatre productions of the period, was being challenged at that very time, in Europe and in the United States, by the work of groups of young, innovative creators who had begun collaboratively creating stage and theatrical texts based on dramatic, literary, or historical materials.¹⁸ Berkoff, who had studied under Jacques Lecoq in the 1960s, had forged his theatrical worldview by combining the principle of representation in Brecht’s ‘epic theatre’, the notion of the actor’s physical work from Antonin Artaud’s ‘theatre of cruelty’, Jean-Louis Barrault’s practice of ‘total theatre’, and Jacques Lecoq’s training approach of having his students work together as a group. The result was a complex blend of various kinds of theatre—of movement, of masks, of pantomime—which Berkoff applied in his experimental work, both as an actor and as director with his troupe, in works that won him acclaim and recognition, and which he returned to many times in his professional career. One of the hallmarks of Berkoff ’s work was that every performance text evolved over a long period, in gruelling rehearsals involving Lecoqstyle improvisations and physical exercises, in a bid to enhance the work of the individual and the group’s cohesiveness. Another characteristic was his study and examination of the original text on which the production was based. His aim was for his actors to study the play thoroughly and learn it inside-out, so they could use it freely in their improvisations. During rehearsals, the performance text went through numerous changes ¹⁷ Musical effects by Zohar Levy; costumes by Gila Lahat; lighting: Yehiel Orgal; actors: Joanna Peled (Clytemnestra); Asher Sarfaty (Agamemnon); Shmuel Wolf (Watchman); Amos Lavie (Herald); Tchia Danon (Cassandra/Helen); Aharon Almog (Aegisthus); Zeev Shimshoni (Paris); Chorus: Shabtai Konorti, Aharon Almog, Tchia Danon, Shmuel Wolf, Suhil Haddad, Makram Khouri, Amos Lavie, Dani Muggia, Avinoam Mor-Haimm, Zvika Serper, Zeev Shimshoni. ¹⁸ Well-known examples of such work in these years include: Jerzy Grotowski’s work with his troupe in Akropolis (1962), The Constant Prince (1965), and Apocalypsis Cum Figuris (1969); Richard Schechner’s work with his group on Bacchae (1969); and Ariane Mnouchkine’s work with her troupe, Théâtre de Soleil since 1789 (1974).

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and was even tested in ‘work-in-progress workshops’, long before its official opening. The result was that a prodigiously long time elapsed between the start of rehearsals and opening night—three years, in the case of both The Trial by Kafka, and Agamemnon, for example. However, after opening night, the performance text became fixed and immutable, and rigidly adhered to in all subsequent performances. Thus, the joint production by the Haifa Municipal Theatre and the Khan Theatre was a repeat of the performance text of Berkoff ’s Agamemnon in London— and he was able to complete rehearsals in Israel in just five weeks of intensive work, during which time he trained the actors to execute the text he had created. In light of all the above, one might say that the word ‘adaptation’ falls short of describing the work that Berkoff presented to the audience, and that a new term was needed, such as rewriting ‘a contemporary response to Aeschylus’, or ‘a newly created performance text based on the ancient one’, to describe the true relationship between what the audience saw in Haifa and Jerusalem and Aeschylus’ Agamemnon. The critics, however, ignored the essential difference between the two texts in their reviews, or the issue of Berkoff ’s unique theatre style when developing his version. They noticed the liberties that Berkoff had taken with Aeschylus’ text, but failed to grasp the artistic novelty of the outcome. As a result, they dismissed it with statements such as ‘Aeschylus’ tragedy has become a Berkoff play’;¹⁹ ‘Not Aeschylus’ ancient tragedy, but a new tragedy by Berkoff ’;²⁰ ‘Aeschylus’ sophistication replaced with Berkoff ’s simplification’;²¹ and ‘a production that breaks the “classical” moulds’.²² Only Elyakim Yaron understood that he was witnessing a new kind of theatrical experience, and concluded enthusiastically: ‘Berkoff has delivered an experience of contemporary theatre to the Israeli stage.’²³ In her essay, ‘Two Sides to a Myth’, theatre scholar Dwora Gilula examined Berkoff ’s work in depth and pointed out its three layers: the dramaturgical (the decision to use Aeschylus’ plot and characters, and occasionally his artistic language as well); the theatrical (the creation of a ¹⁹ Hava Novak, ‘The Trojan War According to Berkoff ’, Davar, 10 January 1980. ²⁰ Michael Ohad, ‘The Trojan War’, Haaretz, 11 January 1980. ²¹ Boaz Evron, ‘An Impressive Production, but . . . ’, Yediot Aharonot, 13 January 1980. ²² Dov Bar-Nir, ‘Agamemnon at the Haifa Theatre in Collaboration with the Khan’, Al Hamishmar, 5 January 1980. ²³ Elyakim Yaron, ‘Agamemnon for Our Time’, Maariv, 9 January 1980.

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performance text through experimentation with his actors); and the ideological (conveying an anti-war message by depicting the horror and violence involved in war, to shock spectators and heighten their awareness of what is happening around them).²⁴ Berkoff ’s Agamemnon was an innovative production in terms of its artistic and topical style and its political statement. The dramaturgical changes that he made to the original play stemmed from his reading of Aeschylus at a particular point in time, from a different viewpoint and for the benefit of a different audience—that of people of his generation, the generation of the Vietnam War (or any other war of that period, anywhere in the world). To that end, his rendition featured references to modern tools of warfare—a ‘war of deadly gas, rockets, atomic radiation, submachine guns, tanks, and arrows’—and forcefully expressed his antiwar sentiments as the basis for his reading of Aeschylus. Berkoff made three significant changes to Aeschylus’ text. First, he replaced the opening scene of the watchman standing on the roof of Atreus’ house with a prologue describing Thyestes’ banquet with all its gruesome detail, and the violent events leading up to the curse upon Atreus’ house. Second, Agamemnon and Clytemnestra display the violence and lust that were well hidden in Aeschylus’ play behind a poetic cloak of ambivalence. In Aeschylus’ version, Agamemnon returns home a victorious king, who is only briefly seen by the people as he tries to avoid walking on the red cloths that Clytemnestra has spread out before him— but finally relents, and enters the palace, where he meets his demise. In Berkoff ’s version, Agamemnon is a brutal military man: ‘Asher Tzarfati, as Agamemnon, has a voice like an old sergeant major—hoarse from years of bellowing’, and ‘compels his troops to laugh at his stupid jokes’. In the original play, Clytemnestra’s plan of revenge is cloaked behind professions of loyalty to Agamemnon and of her longing for his return; in Berkoff ’s version, her lust for Aegisthus, and her hatred of Cassandra, are blatant and emphasized. Generally, Berkoff ’s rendition is full of violence, cruelty, and sexual desire. Finally, in Aeschylus’ version, the murder takes place behind the scenes, while Berkoff prepares a surprise: as Agamemnon prepares to take a bath and the Chorus whispers a warning, Clytemnestra

²⁴ Dwora Gilula, ‘Two Sides to a Myth’, Bamah 97 (1984): 36–40.

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murders him, in plain view of the audience. With pantomime motions she covers him with a hidden net and wields an axe on his naked body. As director, adapter, and set designer, Berkoff conceived of a scene image comprising a black stage, whose materials were the actors’ bodies, clad in dark clothes, and iron (the throne on the stage was made of iron rods). The stage, clear of any massive sets, was in the style of performances that sprang out of the collaborative works of the 1960s and 1970s.²⁵ At the back of the stage stood metal ladders that alternately served Clytemnestra, Agamemnon, and Aegisthus. The costumes, designed by Gila Lahat, were all monochrome: the Chorus members wore grey, which to spectators looked like uniforms of various sorts: ‘All the cast wore what looked like grey tracksuits and running shoes—as though to indicate that these are working people’, wrote Idit Ne’eman.²⁶ Michael Handelzalts thought that ‘the Chorus [members] were dressed in what seemed like footballer garb’,²⁷ while Hava Novak saw it as ‘a uniform reminiscent of athletes’ training gear—or the uniform of some anonymous army’. The common theme of all these reviews is the key contribution of these costumes to the Chorus’ energetic movement throughout the performance—‘a wonderfully attractive and very plastic movement whose rhythm Berkoff wove into the internal rhythm of the plot’.²⁸ Berkoff indeed used the cast as live stage sets. According to Idit Ne’eman, the Messenger’s arrival becomes a theatrical movement that builds the action in the present: The marathon runner, Amos Lavie, does some serious mileage on stage. Dressed in a grey tracksuit and white, girls’ running shoes, he ‘runs’ the distance while remaining in one place, picks up speed, increases his breathing, with the gang on stage breathing in and out in unison with him and cheering him on—‘Just a bit more, you’re almost there . . . ’—finally, utterly exhausted and out of breath, he arrives and brings the people in Greece the news about Agamemnon’s victory over Troy.²⁹

²⁵ Peter Brook’s book The Empty Space (London: MacGibbon & Kee, 1968) set the tone of the new approach to directing—as illustrated in his direction of King Lear and his innovative productions in Paris at the Bouffes du Nord theatre. Other examples of this approach include Grotowski’s plays, which arrived in Western Europe in the 1970s. Dionysus 69, directed by Schechner, is one of the best American examples of this approach. ²⁶ Idit Ne’eman, ‘Tragedy as the Essence of Energy’, Yediot Aharonot, 11 January 1980. ²⁷ Michael Handelzalts, ‘Napalm in Troy’, Haaretz, 9 January 1980. ²⁸ Novak, ‘The Trojan War According to Berkoff ’. ²⁹ Ne’eman, ‘Tragedy as the Essence of Energy’.

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The same was true of the purple fabrics laid out for Agamemnon’s march towards the palace: Berkoff created a spectacular stage image of a carpet made up of the bodies of the soldiers—an allusion to those whose deaths had paved the way to Agamemnon’s victory. The lead characters appear in black, modern outfits. According to critic Idit Ne’eman, Clytemnestra was ‘made up in the garish colours of a professional witch—her frizzy, fair hair forming a manic halo, her overgrown nails drawn’.³⁰ Agamemnon wore black, Greek-like breeches and helmet, with the addition of a modern infantryman’s webbing that highlighted the contrast between classical and modern. ‘Apart from her [Clytemnestra] mask of horror and the purple helmet of King Agamemnon, there were no masks.’ In the murder scene, the lighting designer Yehiel Orgal flooded the stage with blood-red light, and composer Zohar Levy filled it with musical and vocal effects that underscored the Chorus’ transitions from whispers to thunderous voices, and from speech to singing, with the help of ancient musical instruments and various percussion devices. Another characteristic of Berkoff ’s stage productions is the use of the Chorus’ collective body in relation to the lead character or characters, at both the plot level and in the mis-en-scène. In his rendition of Agamemnon, the Chorus are young men (troops who have returned with Agamemnon from the war), so Berkoff cast actors with both dance and vocal ability who can work together ‘as one man’, and who fill the stage with intensive movement activity—in the United Kingdom, and in Israel. As Michael Ohad described it: The Chorus steals the show. In Act II they return from the front, as though they have taken a masterclass with Marcel Marceau: riding invisible chariots, in Troy they fight in a forest of spears, and then the spears become walking sticks for the old men, who have remained at home. When the soldiers taunt Cassandra the mad prophetess, they act like hoodlums pestering a young woman. When they jeer at Clytemnestra, who fawns over Agamemnon, they laugh like mischievous young boys, and the monstrous Queen becomes a doll in their hands. This Chorus is a perpetuum mobile—running, panting, rolling on the floor. When the Greek navy is sailing off, it grabs oars and rows; when a storm is raging, it lives it with every fibre of its being. It grabs you. It’s never boring for a single instant—although the actors’ relentless physical effort wears out the audience.³¹

³⁰ Ibid.

³¹ Ohad, ‘The Trojan War’.

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Critic Sarit Fuchs agreed: Steven Berkoff put on a spectacle of voices and shattered words and bodies that [together] serve as stage set: at one point, they’re a carpet that Agamemnon walks on on his way to Troy; at another, they are horses bearing down madly on Agamemnon; at another, they are his bath water; and at another, they are a fascist army troop, whose rhythmic shouts Agam-memnon! ring out like the shouts Hitler, [il] Duce! Hitler, [il] Duce! [sic]³²

Berkoff ’s Agamemnon was, above all, a tour de force of group work—a highly-trained Chorus of impressive physical prowess; actors with strong personalities; theatrical talent and directorial experience. According to the critics, the performance impressed the spectators, and ‘ran for a fairly long time’.³³ With hindsight, one might say that Berkoff ’s production was the first sign of a change in the attitude of Israeli theatre towards innovative approaches to classical Greek drama. Arieh Sachs’ attempt to do something new in Euripides’ Bacchae (1972) through physical group work with the Chorus and combining theatre and cinema had been summarily rejected by audiences and critics at that time. After Berkoff ’s production, it became clear to everyone that a social or political statement can, and indeed, must be, combined with innovative theatrical language, and implemented in the mise-en-scène, in the acting, and the design, as core values in contemporary artistic expression.

Theatrical Responses to the Lebanon War (1982–5) Discontent over the government’s handling of the Yom Kippur War and over the conclusions of the Agranat Commission were the first signs of the disaffection felt by many parts of Israeli society with the Labour Party that had dominated local politics since its founding in 1930. The consequent rise to power of the right-wing Likud party, headed by Menahem Begin, in the elections of 1977, not only shattered the illusion of the Labour Party’s eternal hegemony in Israel, but also revealed the profound social, economic, and community rifts that had emerged in society. ³² Sarit Fuchs, ‘The Body Traders’, Maariv, 11 January 1980. ³³ Gilula, ‘Two Sides to a Myth’.

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During Begin’s term in office (1977–83), two trends emerged: accelerated settlement by Jewish nationalists in the Occupied Territories, and a series of terrorist attacks by the PLO. These were coupled with two major events: the peace agreement with Egypt (1977), and the First Lebanon War (1982–5). The First Lebanon War broke out on 6 June 1982 and (officially) ended three years later. It is difficult to explain this war— Israel’s first in the Lebanon—without revisiting two critical events of the previous decade. The first of these was in Jordan, which since the 1960s had hosted many terrorist organizations under the PLO banner, headed by Yasser Arafat. In September 1970, after its failed attempt to assassinate King Hussein of Jordan, the Jordanian army cracked down on Palestinian PLO activists, and in a military operation subsequently dubbed Black September,³⁴ drove them out of Jordan in 1971, whereupon they moved their operations to Lebanon. There, on 13 April 1975 a prolonged and bloody civil war broke out between the Christian and the Muslim populations—the second in that country’s history—which reduced the country to a patchwork of ethnically controlled enclaves. During this long conflict (which ended only in 1990), the PLO became a major force that effectively ruled the coastal region from Tyre in the south to western Beirut. Its guerrillas began to harass the Jewish communities of northern Israel, with occasional terrorist attacks within Israel and abroad. Meanwhile, as early as May 1976, Israel began helping Maronite (Christian) residents of villages along Lebanon’s southern border with Israel in various ways—from strictly humanitarian aid, granting permits to work in Israel, and establishing ‘Good Fence’ border crossings between southern Lebanon and Israel, to equipping and training Christian Lebanese militia. For its part, the PLO continued to launch attacks. On 11 March 1978, members of Fatah (the leading organization in the PLO coalition) managed to arrive by sea, and attacked a bus on the main Tel Aviv–Haifa highway, resulting in thirty-five dead and seventy-one wounded. Israel responded with Operation Litani, in which its troops attacked Palestinian targets in southern Lebanon over six days. In the wake of UN Resolution 425, the IDF pulled back to the international border, and a UN peacekeeping force, UNIFIL (United Nations Interim Force in Lebanon), took up positions along the border.

³⁴ This was also adopted as the name of one of the Palestinian terrorist organizations.

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On 3 June 1978, an organization calling itself the ‘Abu Nidal Group’ tried to assassinate Israel’s ambassador to Britain, Shlomo Argov, who was injured in the attack. In retaliation, the Israeli Air Force attacked various PLO targets in Lebanon, and these responded with rocket attacks on the northern Israeli communities. The IDF responded with a full-scale ground troop invasion, marking the beginning of what we now know as the First Lebanon War (or, as Begin’s government euphemistically referred to it, ‘Operation Peace for the Galilee’).³⁵ Protests within Israel against the war began immediately with the invasion of IDF troops into Lebanon, and grew steadily as it became clear that the government was not honouring its commitment to remain within the ‘40 kilometres of the border’, as Begin had promised the Americans. To many Israelis it was clear that, from the moment the IDF entered Lebanon, it would find itself increasingly mired in the ethnic and religious conflicts of that country, thus thwarting any hope of achieving the operation’s objectives, and inevitably resulting in heavy casualties on both sides. This fear was borne out when Bashir Gemayel, the commander of the Christian Phalangist militia, who was elected President of the Republic of Lebanon on 23 August 1982, was assassinated the following month by a member of the Syrian Socialist National Party. The IDF responded by seizing control of West Beirut and delegating the Phalangist forces to clear Palestinian fighters from the Palestinian refugee camps. The Phalangist forces obliged, by entering the refugee camps of Sabra, Shatila, Burj Al-Raja, and the Al-Fachani neighbourhood of West Beirut on 16 September, and proceeding, over the next two days, to massacre between 762 and 3,500 civilians, mostly Palestinians and Lebanese Shiites, as the IDF stood by and did not intervene. The incident marked the climax of Israel’s entanglement in Lebanon, and the response of many citizens of Israel was not long in coming. In the wake of the Sabra and Shatila massacres, a massive protest rally, known as the ‘400,000 people demonstration’, was held in the plaza in front of the Tel Aviv Municipality on 26 September 1982. From that day on, until a ‘National Unity’ government was established two years later,

³⁵ See Ariel Sharon, ‘The War in Lebanon’, in Israel in the Middle East, ed. Rabinovich and Reinharz, 399–402, and ‘Report on the 1982 War in Lebanon’ by the Kahan Commission on 7 February 1983, ibid., 402–9.

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a sizeable part of the population took part in demonstrations against the war. The Israeli theatre played an active role in this civil protest. During that period (1982–4) three different theatres in Israel performed ‘Trojan’ plays before an Israeli audience, who were witnessing a war on two fronts: by the IDF in Lebanon, and internal warring between divergent sectors of society over the necessity of that war. On 19 February 1983, Israel’s National Theatre, Habima, launched its production of The Trojan Women, based on Jean-Paul Sartre’s adaptation of Euripides’ play, as translated and adapted by Eli Malka. In February 1984, the Cameri Theatre followed with its own contemporary Trojan play—an original work by Hanoch Levin titled The Lost Women of Troy, based on Euripides’ The Trojan Women and Hecuba.³⁶ In October 1984, the Haifa Municipal Theatre staged its own ‘Trojan’ production—Yehoshua Sobol’s translation-adaptation of Jean Giraudoux’s La guerre de Troie n’aura pas lieu (English title: Tiger at the Gates). All three productions were meant to join the wave of political protest against the futility of the war in Lebanon and its tragic results for all involved. The Trojan Women has conveyed Euripides’ denunciation of war for over two and a half millennia. It consistently decries the futility of war and the suffering that it entails, and pleads for its victims. The fact that it is repeatedly staged around the world is no accident: the importance of its message is such that it is always chosen deliberately, whatever the circumstances. So it was in 1938, when Giraudoux wrote La guerre de Troie n’aura pas lieu; in 1956, when Sartre decided to translate Euripides’ play into French and adapt it, to alert French audiences to the brutality of the war in Algeria (1965); and again, in 1984, when Hanoch Levin wrote The Lost Women of Troy, against the backdrop of the Lebanon War. It is important to note that the choice of classical Greek drama in this case was made not for the purposes of a general political comparison, for aesthetic reasons, or out of simple appreciation for a theatrical tradition, but in a deliberate and conscious attempt to spark a civil movement in the public domain through theatrical performances, based on classical Greek sources. ³⁶ Levin’s insertion of the word Lost in Euripides’ original title was meant to suggest that the women’s situation at the hands of the Greek victors was both hopeless and helpless. This can present problems in other languages: in the French translation, for example, the translators chose to omit the word and rendered the title simply Les Femmes de Troie because of the cultural connotations of ‘femmes perdues’.

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Sartre’s The Trojan Women: equals in suffering (1983) Sartre’s adaptation of Women of Troy opened at Habima Theatre on 19 February 1983—five months after the large anti-war rally in the Tel Aviv Municipality plaza.³⁷ The decision to use Sartre’s adaptation was due to the dramaturgical changes that he had introduced to modernize the play, which made it easier to transpose it to Israel. Eli Malka, the dramaturge at Habima Theatre, had translated the work from French to create a version that contained traces of previous renditions—by Homer, Euripides, and Sartre—while appealing to contemporary Israeli audiences who watched the play while the events in the Lebanon War unfolded on television, radio, and printed media. In keeping with Sartre’s version, Malka retained all of Euripides’ characters, but changed the play’s structure by breaking it into twelve scenes, and took further dramaturgical steps. Poseidon’s role was reduced, and some of his lines were delivered by Hecuba. Like Sartre, Malka also emphasized the erotic elements in the text more than Euripides had allowed, and permitted Andromache to launch a verbal attack on her mother-in-law Hecuba, in keeping with the more modern—perhaps political—approach of contemporary France. Also, while Sartre used a rather literary French to preserve an aesthetic distance, Malka used a mix of highbrow and colloquial Hebrew, to avoid too great a distancing and perhaps to intensify the impact of the political message and the contrast between the universal appeal of the ancient past and its immediately modern appeal. Under the direction of Holk Freitag, Sartre’s The Trojan Women was transposed to the Middle East, with no attempt whatsoever to relate to Troy, ancient Greece, Euripides, or any other classical model or image. The stage became a ‘living’ reality, in the most brutal sense of the word. Visually, it had the appearance of a huge tent: an elaborate construction of pipes covered the stage and ceiling, and an enormous khaki canvas sheet hung from above. The rear wall was black, and the rest of the stage was also painted black and various shades of brown. The stage itself was divided into two tiers: the lower two thirds were covered with packed sand, and strewn with ropes, sacks, and canvas, with which the women ³⁷ Translated by Eli Malka, directed by Holk Freitag, stage and costume design by Angelika Edingen, lighting by Nathan Panturin, music by Ofer Shalchin. The cast included Orna Porat as Hecuba, Gila Almagor as Cassandra, Razia Israeli as Andromache, and Anat Harpazi as Helen.

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erected their tents; at the back, a raised platform ran along the entire width of the stage. The general impression was one of a military encampment at some deserted location. At the back of the stage, on the right, close to the raised platform, stood a field stove with a charcoal fire; on the left, two flights of stairs led up to a raised platform. At the front left stood a glass cubicle, used to confine Helen—it, too, was reached by some stairs. Not far from it, just off-centre, stood a black crate: this was Hecuba’s place. Each woman arrived on stage with her own luggage— either a suitcase or a crate. The division of the stage space was highly significant from the outset: the soldiers were positioned above, the women below, in keeping with their respective roles in the drama, as oppressors and victims. The stage was lit throughout the performance by varying degrees of yellow lighting (reinforcing the tones of the sand and costumes): the far wall was dark; the raised platform was dimly lit; the main light focused on centre stage and off-centre—primarily on Hecuba—from which it faded to the periphery. The music was a medley of contrasting Western and Middle Eastern sounds. The very contemporary sound of aircraft taking off was heard, followed by the women’s entrance—a piercing sound, with a clearly Mediterranean rustic melody. These were juxtaposed with Western sounds, such as a synthesizer and perhaps a clarinet, and yet another type of music— songs with a complex melody sung, a cappella style, by the women (Hecuba, Cassandra, and the Chorus), and a mournful dirge-like lament, which they occasionally accompanied, in Middle Eastern fashion, by drumming on the surrounding luggage or crates. The first twelve minutes of the performance were performed with no verbal text, forming an audiovisual prologue that provided the audience with the director’s guide to the performance. The play opens with a prolonged silent scene, in which the women of Troy are brought to the camp by khaki-clad soldiers, amidst the deafening roar of aircraft and other sounds of modern warfare. They are led inside with brutality and violence, with rods and rags thrown in after them with which they set up their miserable tents. There is great power in this picture, in which not a single word is uttered.³⁸ A key aspect of the production was its carefully considered casting. The cast included some of the best and most popular actors in Israel, for ³⁸ For a detailed description of the first twelve minutes of the performance, see Weitz and Avigal, ‘Cultural and Ideological Variables in Audience Response’.

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maximum audience identification with the characters. Orna Porat, one of Israel’s leading actors at the time, was chosen to play Hecuba. Everyone in the audience knew Porat’s own story: a young German actress who had fallen in love with a young officer of the Jewish Brigade of the British Army at the end of the Second World War, converted to Judaism and followed him in 1947 to Palestine, where they married and she became one of the leading members of the Cameri Theatre. Gila Almagor, who played Cassandra, was famous for both her stage and screen performances, and Razia Israeli, who played Andromache, was a very popular and promising young performer. As for the male roles, it is important to note that all the actors were native-born Israelis and army veterans, well acquainted with the military, whose training was felt in every movement of their bodies. The casting thus infused the performance with tremendous Israeli energy that underlined the localization of the plot right from the outset. The men’s costumes were clearly military in character, closely resembling Israeli regulation army uniform, down to the boots. Each wore an assault rifle slung over his shoulders—probably an AK-47, the archetypal mark of a modern-day soldier. To differentiate between the characters, additional clothing or props were used—such as Talthybius’ Ray-Ban sunglasses (a favourite accessory with Israeli officers and air force pilots at the time), or Menelaus’ black boots, which were reminiscent of those worn by the Nazi officers. The women wore simple dresses of dark rough material. Hecuba wore a full-length black dress, in a Palestinian style, a medallion on a silver chain, and short, uncombed hair. Cassandra was similarly dressed, but with a sleeveless robe of thin black material; her hair was long and dishevelled. Andromache wore a dark purple dress, and her hair was loosely tied. The other women wore similar dresses, of black, dark blue, or beige colour, giving an overall impression of Palestinian refugees. Certain characters, such as Helen and Astyanax, wore distinctive clothes. Helen appeared in a long, black evening dress, with thin straps—the archetypal society woman, very conscious of her own beauty, eager to party and enjoy life. Astyanax wore long white trousers, a light-coloured shirt, and Gali running shoes³⁹—representative of any other child in the region, Jewish or Arab, Israeli or Palestinian. ³⁹ Gali is a well-known brand of Israeli running shoes, readily recognizable by its green crocodile logo on the side. Similar sports shoes were sold in shops of the Palestinian refugee camps, as well as in Lebanese and Israeli villages.

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There was a stark contrast between the active movements of the men, who controlled the stage space, and the passivity of the women, who appeared to be frozen in their designated positions on the lower part of the stage, with Hecuba in their centre. Hecuba and the other women expressed their grief in characteristic, obsessively repeated movements: even when sitting, they swayed from right to left, one hand touching the earth; or backwards and forwards, with both hands extended brushing the ground. When standing, they swayed in a circular motion. The soldiers and commanders with their weapons; the child’s Gali running shoes; Helen’s glass cage; the encampment; the women’s black dresses; and the battered suitcases, all contributed to the production’s overall theatrical image. The army surrounded the women, in a threedimensional space of stage, status, and power. In a pointed reversal of the apparent banality of this image, one detail in the scenery belied this seemingly natural order. While the tents, canvas, sand, and black clothing all merged into a single symbol (that of Palestinian refugees living in a camp set up by a conquering army that had driven them out of their villages), one scenic element—the glass cage—belonged to a different paradigm. For the Israeli public, it was highly symbolic, as it clearly evoked the glass cubicle where Adolph Eichmann, the Nazi war criminal, sat during his trial in Jerusalem in 1961.⁴⁰ While the ropes and canvas evoked the image of Palestinian refugees, the suitcases and stockades belonged to yet another paradigm—that of the plight of European refugees during and after the Second World War: wandering Jews on their way to the concentration camps, or, further back in history, of the mass Jewish refugees after the pogroms in Eastern Europe, immigrating from Europe to the United States or Israel at the beginning of the twentieth century. Suitcases are also integral to the Israeli image of the Jewish European immigrant.⁴¹ Thus these diverse scenic elements combined on stage to suggest an equivalence of suffering between Jewish and Palestinian refugees, charging the theatrical image with inherent possibilities by interchanging the conquered and the conqueror.

⁴⁰ The United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, (accessed 3 September 2015). ⁴¹ Suitcases and packages are recurrent existential symbols of refugees or immigrants throughout the latter half of the twentieth century in theatre productions by Tadeusz Kantor, Hanoch Levin, Yehoshua Sobol, and others.

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The performance clearly illustrated how, in their attempt to respond to the Lebanon War and the fate of the South Lebanese villagers, Freitag and Edingen were highlighting the similarity of the ‘other’ refugees’ fate with that of the Jews in the Holocaust, by juxtaposing the images of the past exile with those of the present. Freitag’s major question to those in the audience willing to hear him was: ‘Doesn’t your present behaviour indicate that you have forgotten the past?’ Or, in other words: ‘Look at yourselves now, and remember where you have been before.’ The representation of the Jewish soldiers, in particular, echoed the sentiment that was indeed quite prevalent at the time—that the victim had become the oppressor. In terms of the message conveyed to the audience, therefore, Freitag and Edingen were giving spectators the opportunity to reconsider their understanding of their own reality through the images they saw on stage. The production’s programme guide confirms that the images were indeed being used, in a highly calculated way, as a political instrument by the adaptor-translator, director, stage designer, and theatre management. The ensuing outcry against the performance by right-wing journalists and spectators, who accused it of ‘violating the consensus’, was indicative of how well it had succeeded. The reviews of the Habima production were predominantly drawn along the political divide. Left-wing critics such as Uri Rapp praised it: ‘In Israel today the theatre has become one of the few rallying points of opposition to the prevailing climate of opinion’, he wrote approvingly, adding that the audience seemed to love the performance, as well.⁴² In contrast, Michael Ohad asked somewhat rhetorically whether the (Israeli) government was obliged ‘to subsidize a theatre that cruelly spits in its face?’⁴³ Elyakim Yaron pointed out that ‘there are productions whose emotional impact on the spectators depend primarily on what the spectators bring along with them to the show’—in reference, presumably, to the atrocities of Sabra and Shatila and other familiar and horrendous pictures from the ongoing war.⁴⁴ Nor were the comments limited exclusively to the Lebanon War. Shosh Weitz, acknowledging the important message of Habima’s Trojan Women, noted that such a contemporary anti-military presentation can appear as either audacious and brave—or ⁴² Uri Rapp, ‘Woes’, Jerusalem Post, 8 April 1983 (in English). ⁴³ Michael Ohad, ‘The Final Provocation’, Haaretz, 18 March 1983. ⁴⁴ Elyakim Yaron, ‘The Victors are the Vanquished’, Maariv, 3 March 1983.

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almost treasonable.⁴⁵ She also detected a latent, perhaps subversive sexist message—a deliberate anti-feminist subtext in the mise-en-scène and spatial positioning of the women—in the fact that Hecuba, for instance, was placed lower than her molesters.⁴⁶ Sara Arnon, however, discerned an ethnic, rather than feminist message in the subtext, claiming that the line ‘You Europeans scorn Africa and Asia . . . ’ as an allusion to ethnic tensions between Israelis of Western and Middle Eastern origin. Her concluding verdict was very favourable: ‘When I saw Emil Greenzweig’s bereaved mother at the Peace Now demonstration in Jerusalem last week,⁴⁷ I understood how important this production is.’⁴⁸ On the political right, critical reactions focused on the overall message. Playwright Moshe Shamir wrote that ‘The Trojan snakes [ . . . ] actually shove the bitter truth right in our faces: that Israelis epitomize merciless and bloodthirsty conquerors, [and] Palestinian women symbolize suffering, besieged humanity.’⁴⁹ Benjamin Galai was even more scathing: [ . . . ] but the pig that mounts the stage of the National Theatre every evening cannot be covered with the scent of Mimosas. Its stench is far-reaching. The German [director Freitag] is certainly sensitive to the outcries of the oppressed, but whoever appointed him to deliver his humanist message to us, is nothing more than an insensitive so-and-so!⁵⁰

This invidious aspect of a ‘German preaching to us’ was deplored by Yosef Lapid, then head of the State Broadcasting Authority, who remarked that ‘this production should be performed at the PLO conference in Algiers’, and was furious that a German director should dare to direct an anti-Israeli show. In similar vein, Hava Novak wondered whether it was ‘appropriate for a German director to press so hard on the analogy [between Israelis and Nazis], while his private associations ⁴⁵ Shosh Weitz, ‘Apocalypse Now’, Maariv, 25 February 1983. ⁴⁶ Shosh Weitz, ‘Smokescreen in Your Eyes’, Noga 13 (Winter 1987), 15–50. ⁴⁷ Emil Grunzweig, a teacher and a key Peace Now activist, was murdered by a grenade thrown by right-wing activist Jonah Avrushmi on 10 February 1983 at a protest march of the Peace Now movement that demanded the then Prime Minister, Menahem Begin, to accept the recommendations of the Commission appointed to investigate the Sabra and Shatila massacre. See (accessed 8 May 2016). ⁴⁸ Sara Arnon, ‘There are No Victors—Only the Defeated’, Yediot Aharonot, 28 February 1983. ⁴⁹ Moshe Shamir, ‘The Serpents of Troy’, Maariv, 25 March 1983. ⁵⁰ Binyamin Galai, ‘The Incident’, Maariv, 25 May 1983.

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certainly bear upon his own national guilt-feelings’.⁵¹ Freitag himself, however, was never politically explicit in interviews, and only mentioned optimistic, existential, and universal values about man’s loneliness in the world, and that, although the gods are criminals, some hope still remains.

Levin’s The Lost Women of Troy: reinforcing gender battles (1984) Levin’s production of The Lost Women of Troy premiered on 9 February 1984, at the Cameri Theatre in Tel Aviv.⁵² Levin wrote the play from the same point of view that drove all of his political satires—that of an angry observer witnessing the violence and atrocities of war being done in his name. Levin’s adaptation was notable for the absence of the gods as a framework for the plot. Instead of the encounter between Athena and Poseidon, he opened the play with a monologue by Neoptolemus, with a harrowing portrait of the war: The Great Artist up above calmly puts the final touches to the picture of war: smoke billowing from a destroyed house, a dress rolling about in the dirt, a woman with dishevelled hair, being pushed by a soldier towards the square. Here, too, is a dog, rooting around the guts of a rotting human corpse. The picture is divinely perfect. [Chapter I]⁵³

Replacing the gods with the hidden gaze of ‘The Great Artist up above’ profoundly shifts the viewpoint in the plot. In the absence of gods or a single deity who is ‘in charge’, responsibility for the atrocities perpetrated in the conflict between victors and victims falls squarely upon the soldiers, enabling Levin to condemn the Greeks for their loss of moral values and humanity in the Trojan War—and the Israelis in the here and now. Levin also changed Taltybius into a go-between—an agent who, ⁵¹ Havah Novak, ‘Israeli Shock by The Women of Troy’, Davar, 28 February 1983. ⁵² Director: Hanoch Levin; stage and costume design: Roni Toren; music: Poldi Shatzman; lighting: Brian Harris. Cast: Zaharira Harifai (Hecuba); Gitta Munte (Andromache); Rivka Neuman (Cassandra); Yosef Carmon (Agamemnon); Dov Glikman (Neoptolemus); Albert Cohen (Talthybius); Jonathan Tcherchi (Odyseus); Yitzhak Hiskiya (Menelaus); Judith Yanai (Astyanax); Fabiana Meyouchas (Helena); Ronit Ophir, Hani Nachmias, and Haya Pik (Captives). ⁵³ Hanoch Levin, The Lost Women of Troy, in Plays III (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 1998), 193. (All excerpts translated by Jonathan Orr-Stav.) The play has also been translated into French: Levin, Les Femmes de Troie, Théâtre Choisi III (Paris: Éditions Théâtrales, 2004), 91–136.

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after all, only ‘follows orders’—exposing the terrible cynicism in his words to Hecuba: ‘We cannot change the facts—only the words are left to be played with’ (Chapter IV). With this, he consciously touched on a raw nerve in Israeli society, since the Israeli public all too easily associates the words ‘following orders’ with the protestations of Nazi officers after the Second World War, or (serious differences notwithstanding) of Israeli soldiers in Lebanon. At that time, many people were calling on Israeli soldiers to object to fighting in Lebanon, on conscientious grounds.⁵⁴ Levin constructed his play as nine ‘chapters’, in each of which the four women recite, or almost ‘sing’, an aria of suffering. Levin’s plays usually play on the startling contrast between their lyrical, minimalist, carefully weighted language with its difficult, remorseless content, and the often deliberately sumptuous theatrical devices—such as rich costumes, colourful scenery, bright lighting, and pleasing music. These ‘arias’ heighten the sense of alienation, particularly given the depth of suffering and its hyper-realistic, sometimes deliberately flat portrayal. Levin turns Euripides’ protest play into a powerful lament, with a focus on Hecuba, the grieving widow, mother, and grandmother:⁵⁵ Hecuba, wife of King Priam of Troy—henceforth, his widow; Mother of Hector and Paris—the hero princes—henceforth, their bereaving mother. Mistress of kingdoms, the pride of the world—henceforth, a small, dirty puddle of tears, a beggar’s gob by the side of the road. [Chapter I]

In Levin’s performance, Hecuba—in her body movements and her howling, bereaving voice—symbolizes the collective tragedy of the Trojan people, the tragedy of her family, and her own personal tragedy. In the collective Jewish consciousness, she is linked to the image of the Eternal Mother,⁵⁶ of Rachel ‘bereaving her sons’, of the Israeli mother mourning

⁵⁴ At that time, Yeshayahu Leibowitz warned of the young soldiers turning into ‘Judo-Nazis’. . ⁵⁵ Images of the bereaved women at funerals during the Lebanon War—particularly after the Sabra and Shatila massacre—appeared on Israeli television and demonstrated the potency of death rituals as a form of political protest. ⁵⁶ That is, the figure of the ‘Great Mother’—the mythological, universal mother, who straddles space and time, culture and language, and makes direct and immediate analogies possible.

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the death of her soldier son in battle, and of the Palestinian mother mourning the death of her children, when hostilities of war are over. Levin focused on the episodic structure that he inherited from Euripides, and in a sequence of nine short ‘chapters’ draws attention to the clash between men and women as an essential component in the image of war. The war of the sexes is evident in the written play and on stage, in the visual images on stage, in movement, and in rhythm. The chapter titles mark the chief event or protagonist in each case, pitting each woman against the man destined to become her master. Chapter I is the ‘elegy’: ‘Women, the sweet, suffocating moistness from which spring all the poisonous fungi of our soul’, says Neoptolemus when the women, bound and tied like shapeless packages, are led onto the stage; Chapter II— ‘Dividing up the spoils’—begins with the appearance of Talthybius, and features Hecuba confronting Odysseus, who has won her as a slave. In Chapter III (named after her), Cassandra faces Agamemnon, describing his—their—death at the hand of his wife Clytemnestra, summing up the secret of human destiny thus: Ho, people, Fate. The colours of happiness are so vivid Yet the lightest touch, like the swipe of a cloth across a board, and the whole picture disappears—this is what’s so painful. [Chapter III]⁵⁷

Hecuba, standing at the centre of the stage, is notified of the deaths of her loved ones, one by one. In Chapter IV, ‘Polyxena’, she learns of the death of her daughter, who was sacrificed over Achilles’ tomb, ‘to appease his spirit with the blood of a Trojan princess’. In Chapter V, ‘Andromache’, Hecuba and Andromache mourn Hector, but gaze with hope at their son and grandson, Astyanax, ‘the pride of Troy’—which only serves to heighten the horror as he is torn out of his mother’s arms in the following chapter, named after him. In a scene of horrific cruelty, Agamemnon tosses the child like a sacrificial lamb, before taking him off stage, to dash his skull against the city walls (Figure 6.1).⁵⁸ The image of a ‘sacrificial lamb’ is etched deep in the Jewish and Israeli collective consciousness, being linked both to the Binding of Isaac in the Book of Genesis and the contemporary motif of the soldier giving his life on the battlefield to ⁵⁷ Here Levin is incorporating Cassandra’s final words in the original Agamemnon, lines 1327–30. ⁵⁸ The motif of the sacrificial lamb is also a universal motif, since Jesus is also described as ‘the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world’ (John 1:29).

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Figure 6.1 The Lost Women of Troy by Hanoch Levin, The Cameri Theatre (1984). Director: Hanoch Levin; stage design: Roni Toren. Cast: Zaharira Harifai (Hecuba): Yosef Carmon (Agamemnon); Judith Yanai (Astyanax). Photograph by Srulik Haramaty.

protect the land of his forefathers. It is no surprise, therefore, that, as in Levin’s work, notions of ‘lamb’ and ‘binding’ recur as central themes in the protest works of Israeli painters and sculptors, such as Menashe Kadishman and Moshe Gershuni.⁵⁹ ⁵⁹ The soldier dying heroically on the battlefield in defence of the motherland was a recurring theme in Israeli theatre of the ‘Independence Generation’. In two iconic plays— He Walked Through the Fields by Moshe Shamir (1948) and In the Negev Plains by Yigal Mosinzon—death is presented as an inevitable necessity of a just war. After the Six Day War (1967), this myth began to fall apart. In Levin’s work, this was evident in the connection between his skit ‘The Binding of Isaac’, and the dead soldier in his song Father, When You Stand On My Grave in the satirical programme Queen of a Bathtub (1970). It was also reflected in works of painters and sculptors—such as Igael Tumarkin’s sculpture He Walked Through the Fields (1967); Yoram Rozov’s Crucifixion 67 (1968–9), Gershuni’s Behold the Sacrificial Lamb (1980), Sing, Soldier (1981), and Isaac, Isaac (1982); and in Menashe Kadishman’s The Sacrifice of Isaac (1983), Mother Carries Her Sacrifice (1983–4), and The Sacrifice of Isaac II (1986–7). See Feldman, Glory and Agony, 215–63 and 264–309, and Gideon Ofrat, The Sacrifice of Isaac in Israeli Art (Ramat Gan: The Museum of Israeli Art, 1986).

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Although in Execution and in many other Levin tragedies torture and murder are carried out in front of the audience, in The Lost Women of Troy Levin follows Euripides’ example, and has the Greek soldiers kill Astyanax off-stage, with the sense of horror heightened as they bring back his body to Hecuba to mourn over and bury. Hecuba cradles him in her arms, and says: A small head, covered in curls, a flourishing garden in which we— your mother and I—planted endless kisses each morning You once promised me—your lips pressed against my cheeks: ‘Grandma, when you die, I shall snip off a lock of my hair, and lay it on your grave, because I’ll remember you forever’ You’ve broken your promise, my child, and it is I who am burying you, and I who shall remember you. And further I shall remember: those who remember will be forgotten. He had no place in the world. In a world where parents bury their sons, he had no place. [Chapter VI]⁶⁰

Chapters VII (‘Helen’) and VIII (‘Hecuba’) both feature confrontations: between Helen and Menelaus, and between Helen and Hecuba, respectively. These take place in two stages, visually deepening the injustice revealed at the play’s dramatic level. In Levin’s rendition, Helen’s victory is total. What Euripides and Sartre preferred to leave implicit—Menelaus’ total submission to Helen’s beauty, despite the war and its many casualties—Levin shows explicitly on stage. Helen seduces Menelaus and makes love to him, in full view of Hecuba. Later, when it is clear that Menelaus is conquered, she leaves him and moves on to abuse Hecuba, her defeated rival. The final chapter, ‘Women’, sums up the play’s opening war scene, revealing the two faces of man: the smooth baby face ‘that nuzzles in his mother’s bosom’, and the face of the soldier who returns from war and ‘pounces on the woman, his captured spoils’ (Chapter IX). Of the three ‘Trojan Women’ productions of that period, Levin’s was ostensibly the least overtly ‘Israeli’, and the most divorced from the current context. In reality, however, its very dissociation from any of the war’s specific incidents forced the Israeli spectator to grapple with the play’s all-too-relevant themes—be they explicit or oblique—portrayed

⁶⁰ See Gershuni, Behold the Sacrificial Lamb (1980), Sing, Soldier (1981), Isaac, Isaac (1982); and Kadishman, The Death of the Sheep (1982), The Binding of Isaac (1982–5), or Mother Carries Her Sacrifice (1983–4).

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through its language, events, characters, or, in particular, the pointlessness of the agonies portrayed. Interestingly, its audiences did subsequently engage in long debates about whether and how the play was ‘political’. In fact, current events in the real world and the media quite effectively provided all the necessary off-stage topicality of the war— Levin did not have to reproduce them on stage. Given how his previous plays, which were overtly political, had been received, one would have to be particularly obtuse not to understand why he chose to dispense with direct political references in his Lost Women of Troy. Knowing that the performance’s political relevance would be clear to every spectator in the theatre, and in a bid to create a distancing in time and space to enable identification with the victims, Levin and Roni Toren, the set designer, deliberately opted for a highly stylized image of war—gilt spears, timeless and classical. The result is a space that looks like a tripartite environmental installation: a circle made of patches of leather coarsely sewn together, in the shape of a Greek orchestra; a path cutting across the stage at the rear (to allow entrances and exits), and another branching off towards the leather circle; spears, battle standards, and gilt axes fixed here and there in the leather. The juxtaposition of circular orchestra, paths leading to and away from the stage, and military props—all archetypal elements of classical theatre—produced a timeless image of war since time immemorial. Although the physical stage elements were borrowed from classical Greek theatre, the tone and poetic images used by the chorus of Greek commanders created an intertextual dialogue with Israeli wartime poems and ballads.⁶¹ In the big killing fields, we left brother and friend Ho, men, the night will cover them forever Dust and shouts have settled, and the world is calm We departed so many—and returned so few. A woman sends her baby to sleep with a lullaby While another waits, her hair slowly going grey In the big killing fields, we left brother and friend Ho men, the night will cover them forever. [Chapter III]

⁶¹ See, for example, those by Israeli poets Natan Alterman, Haim Guri, Yehudah Amihai, Amir Gilboa, Natan Yonatan, Yonah Wolach, Meir Ariel, and Hanoch Levin himself, to note but the best known.

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With Euripides as his guide, Levin learned to combine the political with the mythical.⁶² In The Lost Women of Troy, he presented the suffering, pain, shame, and humiliation that occur in any situation of war, subjugation, and oppression—by one individual of another, by one country of another, by one culture of another. In it, he deliberately highlighted the stark contrast between the brutality of the scenes on stage and the poetic quality of the language of the text and of the stage—to rouse the audience from the moral torpor it had fallen into, and to encourage it to show tolerance and solidarity with the suffering of others. Since Levin, as playwright and director, had consistently worked with a set group of actors for over fifteen years, the production’s casting was largely predictable: dubbed ‘the Levin actors’, they worked with him in many productions over the years, sharing with him their intimate knowledge of acting and stage language, acquiring knowledge and experience of his artistic world, and helping him forge the distinct theatrical language of his productions. The result was a joint search for a unique, expressive visual language, in terms of movement and gestures, as well as text declamation and theatrical imagery. Although Levin’s play was inspired by Euripides’ Hecuba and The Trojan Women, Levin shifted the focus of his action to the war of the sexes, centring his conflict on the male oppressor versus the female victim. When the women entered the stage they initially had a sexless appearance—covered in sacks or pieces of fabric, tied together like bundles. Only when they were ‘unwrapped’ was their gender revealed, through their light-coloured clothing in sumptuous and richly draped and belted fabrics, with flowing veils—feminine clothes, soft, enveloping, flattering to movement. Some pinned the folds together, as in ancient Greece, while others wore embroidered clothing, as Greek and Middle Eastern women do to this day. They were bedecked in abundant jewellery—necklaces, bracelets, earrings. They were beautiful, pampered women—their hair gathered in headscarves, each knotted differently, and in colours to match their robes. Andromache’s costume featured an elaborate gathered skirt and an armour-like vest made of ribbons woven around her body. As Hector’s wife, she represented female courage. In Levin’s production, she fought the Greeks like an Amazon—but to no avail. Cassandra, as befitting

⁶² For more on Levin’s dialogue with Euripides, see Chapter 10.

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a priestess, was dressed all in white. After resisting Agamemnon’s advances, she tears off her clothes and is left in only her petticoat and dishevelled hair. The men’s clothing was also in keeping with their image—the uniforms of kings at war, opulently decorated. This theme was consistently upheld in slight variations of resplendent military uniforms comprising very wide trousers and leather shoes, and brightly coloured jackets worn under variously-styled long, sleeveless capes of embroidered leather or fur, sometimes embossed with metal studs. Throughout the performance, war was waged on two fronts: between the Greeks and the Trojans, and between the sexes. This dual visual conflict was reflected in the contrast between the women’s round, flowing movements, and the men’s angular, strutting gait. Anyone familiar with Levin’s work knows that the war between the sexes—waged to the death—is one of his central themes. Thus, every word, movement, and gesture in this production was already charged in the Israeli spectator’s mind: ‘Women, women, their sweet choking juices, from which all the poisoned mushrooms of our soul do spring’ announces Neoptolemus in his prologue to the play. Despite, or perhaps because Hanoch Levin was an Israeli witnessing current events as he wrote The Lost Women of Troy, he deliberately distanced himself from the particular present believing that this would help the spectators to identify with and understand the characters. His production was therefore the most ‘classical’ and universal of the three ‘Trojan’ productions staged in Israel at that time, in that it was devoid of any visual references to contemporary situations, or cultural markers that pinned it to a particular place or time. It was contemporary only by dint of the potent images of his poetic language as forged by the events outside the theatre. ‘Fate, my people, fate’, says Cassandra: the colours of happiness are so bright, but the slightest touch, such as that of a damp cloth on a slate and the whole picture is erased: This is what is so painful. [Chapter III]

The production’s many critics were divided—not necessarily along political lines but, rather, over the context of Levin’s prolonged contribution to Israeli theatre in general, and over their impressions from the Habima production of The Trojan Women the previous year. Most readily recognized the play’s political relevance: ‘In the Habima [production], at least a terrible outcry against the war was sounded . . . whereas at the

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Cameri we once again observed Levin’s usual slaughterhouse’,⁶³ complained Elyakim Yaron, while Giora Manor observed that ‘war as a theme has never been too remote from Israelis [ . . . ] but I found myself vacillating between one side of the barricade to the other’.⁶⁴ Some critics, like Manor, rightly pointed out the detailed treatment Levin gave his Trojan women as individuals. ‘It is a play about women: they are the ones who give life, and they are the ones who suffer senselessly in this play.’⁶⁵ Hava Novak noted that Levin deliberately avoided being overtly topical, and that the audience had to derive their own message ‘from home’, adding: ‘The audience mustn’t fear that The Lost Women of Troy might cause it mental anguish, as did last year’s Women of Troy.’⁶⁶ Shosh Avigal remarked that ‘It is not a play about war, but about its results—about people, rather than destiny.’⁶⁷ Other critics spoke about Israeli theatres in general, and how they appeared to be competing over who rendered horror and humiliation most effectively.⁶⁸ Boaz Evron expressed his reservations about this in almost ethical terms: ‘So what are we spectators supposed to do? Resistance is futile [ . . . ] [The play is full of] sadistic delusions, molesting of women, and pornographic images.’⁶⁹ Most outspoken in his opposition was Amir Orian: ‘Superficial and hypocritical, no real challenge to the actuality of the Lebanon War [ . . . ] Soft-core pornography in the beginning, and clichéd preaching at the end.’⁷⁰

Giraudoux’s La guerre de Troie n’aura pas lieu: hope, irony and illusions (1984) Jean Giraudoux’s La guerre de Troie n’aura pas lieu premiered on 1 October 1984, at the Haifa Municipal Theatre.⁷¹ Giraudoux’s play ⁶³ Elyakim Yaron, ‘Humiliation from Troy’, Maariv, 19 February 1984. ⁶⁴ Giora Manor, ‘The Troy Syndrome’, Al Hamishmar, 19 February 1984. ⁶⁵ Michael Handelzalts, ‘Pointless Suffering’, Haaretz, 17 February 1984. ⁶⁶ Havah Novak, ‘Surfeit of Emotion Numbs the Emotions’, Davar, 20 February 1984. ⁶⁷ Shosh Avigal, ‘Disappointment, but . . . ’, Koteret Rashit, 22 February 1984. ⁶⁸ Emil Feuerstein, ‘The Women of Troy at the Cameri’, Hatzofeh, 22 February 1984. ⁶⁹ Boaz Evron, ‘Levin v. Euripides’, Yediot Aharonot, 26 February 1984. ⁷⁰ Amir Orian, ‘The Playwright is Drying Up’, Ha’ir, 17 February 1984. ⁷¹ Director: Michael Gurevitch; stage design: Moshe Sternfeld; costume design: Edna Sobol; music: Yoni Rechter; lighting: Yehiel Orgal. Cast: Tatiana Olier Kanelis (Helen); Makram Khoury (Hector); Tehiya Danon (Andromache); Yigal Naor (Ajax); Geta Luca (Hecuba); Giora Shamai (Priamus).

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had two acts, but in its Hebrew translation by Yehoshua Sobol, these were further divided into scenes, to accommodate director Michael Gurevitch’s directorial needs. Giraudoux totally eliminated the gods, thereby clearly communicating that individuals are solely responsible for their own fate. Giraudoux also dispensed with a chorus, replacing it with twenty characters who emphasize his individualistic approach, including several symbolic characters, such as Peace and Iris (the Greek goddess of the rainbow and messenger of the gods). Euripides’ stratagem of viewing events retrospectively—adopted by Sartre, albeit less so by the Hebrew translator Eli Malka—is employed by Giraudoux from the outset. Starting with the very title of his play— La guerre de Troie n’aura pas lieu—he makes use of his audience’s knowledge of the war’s beginning as well as its end. Drawing on his experience as a professional diplomat, he elegantly employed the somewhat cynical but witty ploy of seemingly detached scrutiny of events leading up to the Trojan War—or any war. In the aftermath of the First World War, and as early as 1935, Giraudoux sensed the danger of a renewed armed conflict with Nazi Germany. The messages in this sophisticated play were effectively conveyed by director Gurevitch’s intelligent mise-en-scène. The ironic Giraudoux dealt with the economic and social causes of the war, as well as the helplessness of decent folk—including the commanders themselves—in preventing it. But his text was performed by an Israeli creative team who truly believed that the country’s leaders had it within their power to prevent the war and that, unlike other Israeli wars, this particular war was ‘optional’. These and other allusions to the Lebanon War were strongly underlined in Yehoshua Sobol’s translation, which retained the greater portion of Giraudoux’s text but peppered it with local expressions typical of the period, to catch the spectators’ ears.⁷² For example, at the start of the play, Cassandra refers to her homeland as ‘We are a small country, by the sea.’ Hector swears that this will be ‘the final war’—a favourite catchphrase of

⁷² Yehoshua Sobol is an Israeli playwright, translator, and theatre director. He is well known for his historical plays in which he analyses crucial ‘moments’ in the history of the people and the land, and poses questions on identity and self-consciousness. See, e.g. The Night of the Twentieth (1985), Weininger’s Night (The Soul of a Jew, 1983), Ghetto (1984), Palestinian Girl (1985), and Jerusalem Syndrome (1988).

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Israeli popular songs. Moreover, many obscenities and political clichés in the original French were translated into Israeli newspaper jargon, into lines from famous songs and into Arabic curses that had become part of the modern Hebrew idiom, such as ‘sons-of-whores’, ‘purity of arms’, and, most conspicuously, the term ‘united Troy’—an obvious allusion to the right-wing Israeli mantra of a ‘united Jerusalem’. In stark contrast to the Greek society in Euripides’ version (but similar to that in Giraudoux’s rendition), the Israeli society during the Lebanon War was divided over the necessity of the war. During that period, conscientious objections for moral and military reasons reached unprecedented levels. For this production of Giraudoux’s play, the entire stage was painted white, with a raised platform, accessed by three steps, extending the full width of the front of the stage. The left half of the stage featured another smaller, round, raised white platform, with three bare, white tree trunks. The right side of the stage was empty, to be filled with props as the action developed. Earth-coloured rocks were scattered about. The backdrop was also of a light hue. Everything appeared white, infused with light. However, as the play progressed, the backdrop displayed increasingly menacing images, such as devastated trees against a red sky, approaching soldiers, or searchlights scanning the sky for aircraft. The entire theatrical space was used for the performance: the spectators were addressed throughout the play as ‘People of Troy’; the Trojans entered the stage through the auditorium; the Elders rushed onto the stage from various parts of the hall to see Helen; and Paris’ sailors were led in from the auditorium to respond to Odysseus’ accusations of Trojan impotence, and to attest to the lovemaking between Paris and Helen immediately after the abduction. The acting was usually conducted at the front of the stage, on the steps near the audience, or near the edge of the stage—especially when Cassandra, Hector, or the Poet addressed ‘the People’. In the second half of the play, a table—stretching the full length of the right half of the stage—was installed. Initially covered with a white cloth, it was first used as a platform on which Iris, the messenger of the gods, proclaimed statements by the gods Aphrodite, Athena, and Zeus, for and against the war. Before exiting, she removed the white covering, revealing the green baize of an official meeting table. At opposite ends of this table, Hector and Odysseus sat as they discussed the options for a peace agreement. Then, at a certain movement, when it became clear that they had

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reached an impasse in the talks, Hector rose, girded his sword, and upturned the table, revealing its legs of barbed wire. With the breakdown of talks, and the failure to achieve a peace agreement, the way was cleared for arrests, detention camps, and refugee camps, all surrounded by the barbed wire, which constituted the new reality. The back of the stage, which came to life primarily in select moments of silence, was used to significant effect by the director and scenographer— e.g. when the children, playing a game of war, playfully attacked Hector and pretended to ‘kill’ him; or when an image of battle and destruction was projected on the rear screen; or in the scene between Cassandra and Helen over the former’s power of prophecy, as soldiers suddenly stormed across the stage; or again, when Ajax was murdered, and fire, smoke, and destitution were projected on the rear screen. As the play approached its inevitable climax, the stage space was divided into two, sometimes three parts. At the end of Act I, when the war gates were closed, all the participants, including the children, gathered together at the front of the stage, and a soldier lifted a child onto his shoulders—an image of peace. Then the scene exploded, with soldiers charging in from the rear, and criss-crossing aerial searchlights being projected on the screen. A similar division occurred when the Greeks reached the shores of Troy: Andromache and Helen stood in front, while soldiers approached from the rear, and red skies and burnt trees were projected on the backdrop. Similarly, in the closing scene, as searchlights criss-crossed the skies against the noise of aircraft and bomb explosions, all the participants, including the children (except Helen and Troilus, who would appear later) came on stage, to create an image of death, out of which arose a new image—of Helen and Troilus kissing. In terms of the musical score, three types of sound were used during the performance: sweet melodies representing childhood innocence whenever children entered, or Priam and Hecuba appeared; trumpets announcing the arrival of Hector, Odysseus, legal advisers, etc., and in formal ceremonies; and the sounds of war, in the form of marching tunes, Israeli war songs, sirens, aircraft, or explosions. The casting of this play reflected the general concept behind the production, and the unique characteristics of the Haifa Theatre. Most intriguing was the casting of the Arab actor Makram Khouri in the role of Hector, in an otherwise all-Jewish cast. Khouri is a permanent member of the ensemble of the theatre of this mixed Jewish-Arab city, where

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an interesting modus vivendi has existed between the two populations for many years. Nonetheless, the casting of an Arab actor in specific roles within certain plays inevitably imbues them with greater meaning. Also significant was the casting of Ajax, who represented the gung-ho warrior. He was portrayed by Yigal Naor, who based his role on one of the senior commanders of Israel’s victory in the 1967 war.⁷³ The rest of the casting was also instructive. All leading Trojans (e.g. Priam, Hecuba, the Advisor for Foreign Affairs), as well as Helen, were played by foreign-born actors whose Hebrew had retained its foreign inflections. In contrast, all the soldiers—be they Greek or Trojan, including Odysseus and Ajax—were portrayed by archetypal native-born Israelis, whose Hebrew bore the intonations of common speech and of the media. Thus, the casting, an important component in every theatre production, contributed to underlining the parallels between Girudoux’s portrayal of the Trojan society and Sobol-Gurevitch portrayal of contemporary Israeli society. In general, the costumes were quite diverse and attuned to the role of the character rather than to any period in particular—although all were clearly modern. Hecuba and Priam wore white evening wear; the Poet was dressed in bohemian fashion—down to his unkempt hair; while Helen wore either an oversized man’s dress shirt, or a revealing evening gown. Ajax, Hector, and Odysseus were dressed as military officers, with Ajax and his soldiers in particular wearing the padded, insulated khaki jackets typical of Israeli soldiers in the country’s northern regions in winter. Hector was dressed in the darker khaki of a Palestinian, with a pistol— not a rifle—on his belt. The only character to wear black was Cassandra. The production also featured many children, who symbolized the cost of war. They opened the play, entering in the first scene, and dancing to the sweet melody that was subsequently heard whenever they appeared. They were dressed in white, garlands in their hair, glowing with health. They skipped about, laughing and full of life, playing games with balls and ropes—the very picture of innocence, which prompts Andromache to tell Cassandra: ‘There will be no Trojan War, Cassandra!’

⁷³ From Naor’s subsequent portrayal of General Gorodish in Hillel Mittelpunkt’s Gorodish at the Cameri Theatre ten years later (1993), it became clear that his portrayal of Ajax in Giraudoux’s production had been based on the public image of that highly controversial figure.

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What particularly distinguished this production from the others was the use of scenic devices to create a reversal of roles between executioner and victim, and the seeming deliberate ambiguity between conquerors and conquered. Just as the mixed images of Palestinian and Jewish refugees sparked mixed emotions in Habima’s Trojan Women, here, too, the associations and allusions were once again far from explicit. On the one hand, Hector resembles a Lebanese officer; on the other, those surrounding him spoke like Israelis. Odysseus, who was clearly an invader, did not appear as such on stage; rather, he came across as an Israeli soldier serving in Lebanon. The Trojans, as previously noted, ‘sounded’ like Israelis. Accordingly, precisely who was being likened to whom remained deliberately obscure. By this, the third production on the ‘Trojan Women’ theme, the critics had become a little jaded with overtly political drama, and many of them made only passing references to the production’s obvious political intentions. Instead, they focused more on the uniqueness of Giraudoux’s rendition, on Sobol’s excellent and overtly topical political translation, and on the artistic qualities of Gurevitch’s direction and his actors. Since it lay somewhere between the overtly political Habima production and the deliberately pseudo-apolitical Levin-Cameri version, the critics treated the Haifa production on a strictly ‘professional’ level, and limited their analysis to the theatrical delivery of the message. Handelzalts noted that we were now invited to identify not with the Greeks, but with Troy—notwithstanding a slight resemblance of the soldiers’ helmets to those of the modern Israeli military.⁷⁴ Michael Ohad, in his preview, provided a colourful background about Giraudoux, dubbing the play a ‘desperate comedy’.⁷⁵ Bar-Kadma noted that this was a third take on the ‘Trojan Women’ theme, and that it featured a mixture of old and new weapons, and showed the children playing with them, just like the adults. Ariela Reuveni interviewed Omri Nitzan, the artistic director, who explained that ‘We chose to pitch [the play] not from a particular political viewpoint, but as a rowdy and funny piece.’ Some critics appreciated Gurevitch’s subtle approach—such as Boaz Evron, who praised the intelligent and restrained direction. Others thought that Gurevitch was not clear enough in his intentions, and that he used gimmicks ⁷⁴ Michael Handelzalts, ‘Troy is Us’, Haaretz, 31 October 1984. ⁷⁵ Michael Ohad, ‘Tiger at the Gate’, Haaretz, 26 September 1984.

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(such as the King of Troy entering the stage on a creaking wheelchair) and theatrical ploys (e.g. Helen with a sailor’s cap) instead of really challenging his material.⁷⁶

Summary What the productions in this chapter all had in common was the desire of their creative teams to demonstrate that the two nations—Israelis and Palestinians—share the same destiny, and similar sufferings and persecution throughout history, and therefore we should be more determined to stop the atrocities of war and to make peace. The execution of this idea on stage was done by combining familiar Jewish cultural or traditional symbols—such as the Binding of Isaac, the glass cage, the old suitcases— with common Arab themes, such as Palestinian attire, the familiar Middle Eastern desert, and atmospheric music and lights. The Euripidean message that in war there are only losers, and that everyone suffers from the failure to achieve and preserve peace, was conveyed on stage by the rapid alternation of images of the ‘Other’ refugees with images of ‘us’—prompting the audience to see a reflection of themselves in their ‘enemies’, as well as the pressing need to end hostilities.

⁷⁶ Ariela Reuveni, ‘Tiger at the Gate has Opened the Season at Haifa Municipal Theatre’, Davar, 3 October 1984.

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7 Lysistrata Between Entertainment and Protest

Lysistrata—though originally of Greek provenance—bore the dream of the prophets of Israel, namely the partnership between Jerusalem and Athens. May her vision come true. —David Ben-Gurion¹

Lysistrata on the Israeli Stages Lysistrata is the most commonly staged of Aristophanes’ comedies in Israel. This is not surprising, given that it is a lurid anti-war comedy, with a plot that combines sex and war, and raises weighty issues such as state management, war fatigue, and the desire for peace, in a fantasy where women take over control of the city. In terms of its themes and dramatic template, Lysistrata might be classed in the genre of comedies about the yearning for peace, such as The Acharnians (425 BCE), and Peace (421 BCE). The ideas put forward in the opening scene—women launching a sex strike to force the men to engage in peace talks, and seizing the Acropolis to control the treasury that funds the war economy—spring from the same imaginary realm that conceived of Dicaeopolis’ private peace treaty or Trygaeus’ flight to Zeus on a dung beetle. But The Acharnians and Peace were shown in the first decade of the Peloponnesian War, when Athens was still confident in its power as an empire and in the loyalty of its allies. Athens of 411 BCE—when Lysistrata was first performed—was very different: the

¹ Yeshayahu Ben-Porat, ‘B.G.: Lysistrata’s Vision Will Come True’, Yediot Aharonot, 21 December 1958.

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disastrous failure of the Sicilian Expedition, the uprisings of its allies in the Aegean Sea, and the rapprochement between Sparta and Persia, had all taken their toll. Contemporary readers of the play—especially in translation—may have difficulties seeing how the light humour surrounding the sex strike and the charming seduction scene between Myrrhine and Cinesias were replete with political hints aimed squarely at the Athenian men in the audience, in a bid to wake them up, get them to look squarely at reality, and to test their resolve to maintain hostilities. Beside the sex strike, which drives the dramatic action, Aristophanes inserted verbal images and theatrical effects designed to disrupt the balance between humour and criticism. For example, the seizure of the Acropolis scene is meant both as an illustration of a kind of inverted world (with women above, men below)—but also as an ominous warning of a conceivable ‘nightmare scenario’, or a glimpse of possible defeat. Similarly, the comparison that the Chorus of Old Women make between cleaning and preparing wool for spinning and weaving, and the organization and management of the polis or civic body (lines 567–70; 572–86) includes dark references to ‘cleaning out stables’ and to the political scheming that undermined Athenian democracy at that time. In the verbal clash between the Chorus of Old Men and the Chorus of Old Women in the middle of the play— fulfilling the role of the parabasis that spectators had become accustomed to in previous comedies—this message is reiterated. With hindsight, we know that Aristophanes failed in his attempt to save the Athenians from the folly of their decisions: ten years later, the Spartan army won the long and difficult war, and the rest is history. But his plays are a testament, to this day, of Athens’ stubborn refusal to negotiate a peace agreement with Sparta, and its decision to continue to fight ‘until the last drop of blood’²—and as such, it sparked the imagination of Israeli theatre makers. Since Israel’s independence in 1948, it has witnessed seven productions of Lysistrata. The first production was by the Habima Theatre in 1958, under the direction of the Greek director Minos Volonakis. Nissim Aloni, a leading Israeli playwright, director, and translator, converted Dudley Fitts’ English version into a modern vibrant Hebrew, with a ² An Israeli expression, not an Athenian one, but one which I allow myself to use here to highlight the similarities between Athens of that time and modern-day Israel.

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blend of fast-paced Israeli speech and poetic language. In Volonakis’ production, the sex strike was made into a celebration of life in the wake of peace and freedom for all humankind—a message the Israeli public was happy to embrace in the country’s first decade. In 1969, Aloni’s translation was used once again for a production at the Cameri Theatre, after Israel’s victory in the 1967 war, reiterating the desire for peace with its neighbours. In 1998, a fringe production was staged, directed by English director Sue Amy Genings, and featuring a mixed Jewish and Arab cast. In 2000, against the backdrop of the second Palestinian intifada (Arabic, ‘shaking off ’), it was staged as part of a double-bill production Lysistrata and Hecuba by third-year acting students of the Department of Theatre Arts at Tel Aviv University, directed by Imri Goldstein. That same year, Anat Gov wrote a Lysistrata-inspired feminist play called Lysistrata 2000, which was staged the following year at the Cameri Theatre, under the direction of Edna Mazia. The performance echoed the growing involvement of the movement Women in Black in protests against Israel’s occupation of the Gaza Strip and the West Bank. In 2002, with the second intifada still raging, the Khan Theatre staged Fighting for Home, by Ilan Hatzor—a blended adaptation of four Aristophanean plays, including Lysistrata. Finally, in 2013, Lysistrata was staged once more, this time at Habima Theatre, in a musical adaptation by Eli Bijaoui, directed by Udi Ben-Moshe. Set against the backdrop of the failure of the latest round of talks between Israel and Palestinians, it was in fact a musical parody of the original, with Lysistrata being surrounded by army commanders who, dressed as women, took part in a mock sex strike. However, whatever peace-mongering or anti-militarist message that Bijaoui and Ben-Moshe wanted to convey was lost under the crude antics of male actors running around in tutu skirts and mockingly impersonating women, and dancing around Lysistrata, the charming goddess of feminine beauty. The fact that fantasy and political criticism intermingle in Aristophanes’ plays is well known, of course, but when it comes to staging the play, the fine balance between the two elements is clearly the product of decisions made with regard to translation, adaptation, rewriting, and interpretation. In Israel, directors tend to stage Aristophanes’ comedies in ‘based on’ adaptations or rewritten form, to ensure that his criticism, which was always written with the previous war in mind—the one that was supposed to have been the last—comes across as topical and

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relevant. To illustrate how Israeli playwrights and directors walked the fine line between humour and criticism, fantasy and the mundane, and how they inspired their spectators to reflect on the social and political reality in Israel of their time, I shall focus on four of these productions of Lysistrata.

Volonakis’ Lysistrata: imagining the colours of peace (1958) Lysistrata, the first Aristophanean comedy to be performed in Israel in Hebrew, premiered at the Habima Theatre on 17 December 1958, ten years after Israel’s Declaration of Independence, nine months after the Sinai Campaign, and two months after the Israeli government had declared Habima to be Israel’s ‘National Theatre’. The production’s Greek director, Minos Volonakis, and set designer Nikolas Georgiadis had arrived in Israel directly from London, where their Lysistrata production had been very successful the previous year at two venues: the Oxford Playhouse (with a cast drawn from two troupes— the Meadow Players and the Oxford Playhouse Company)³ and the Royal Court Theatre in London, with the English Stage Company.⁴ The success of the production in the United Kingdom had sparked great interest in the play amongst Israeli theatre circles. The expectation was that it would be both highly entertaining and of great classical artistic merit. ‘We hope that Minos Volonakis (with the help of Aristophanes and the cast of Habima) will manage to replicate the interest, admiration, enjoyment and laughter that he elicited among thousands of theatregoers in London’ wrote G. Itur in the popular weekly, Olam Hakolnoa (The Film World).⁵ Asher Nahor in Yediot Aharonot agreed: ‘It is good that Habima has returned to the classical Greek repertoire, eleven years after staging Sophocles’ tragedy Oedipus Rex, which still rates as one of its greatest artistic achievements.’⁶ The comparison between Guthrie (the director of the Oedipus Rex production) and Volonakis was an obvious one—both directors were foreigners who arrived in Israel after directorial success in English

³ See Lysistrata, APGRD ID 4185. ⁴ See Lysistrata, APGRD ID 435. ⁵ G. Itur, ‘A Young Greek Director at Habima—Minos Volonakis’, Olam Hakolnoa, 19 December 1958. ⁶ Asher Nahor, ‘The Dream of Peace Achieved By—Women’, Yediot Aharonot, 19 December 1958.

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theatre—but the differences between them were nevertheless profound. Each brought to Habima his own distinctive theatre tradition, world of associations, and artistic language, and each created a completely different production. The local creative team supporting Volonakis also aroused considerable interest. The Hebrew translation was by playwright-director Nissim Aloni, the musical score was by Gary Bertini, and the choreography was by Ruth Harris—all first-class artists in their field. The cast was drawn from the founding members of Habima (who mainly made up the Chorus of Old Men), and young graduates of the Habima acting studio.⁷ In his UK productions of the play, Volonakis had used the English translation by American poet and translator Dudley Fitts, which he proposed using for the Habima production, as well. Fitts’ translation was more of an adaptation than a straight translation, due to the liberties he had taken with regard to sentence structure, the various language registers, and Chorus songs and rhythms. Volonakis also had reservations about its ‘Americanness’: His vision is far more American than I would like. He continually draws parallels between the Peloponnesian war and the American Civil War. His Athenians talk like Yankees, while the Spartans sound like people from the American South. The funny lines that he gives the women are really funny, but more in the tradition of cocktail parties—which is fine in itself, perhaps, but ruins the atmosphere of sundrenched surroundings in which this play could really come to life—and leave an unforgettable impression.⁸

He therefore introduced a number of changes into Fitts’ version and adapted it to produce the performance text: His entire perception of structure of the play is different from mine. With him, the story takes place at four different locations in Athens, while I put up only one set. He deletes entire lines that I think are essential, inserts characters that I think are redundant, etc.⁹

⁷ Shoshana Ravid (Lysistrata); Shoshana Duer (Calonice); Dalia Friedland (Myrrhine); Elisheva Michaeli (Lampito); Nahum Buchman (Cinesias); Yossi Banai (the Spartan Envoy). Two choruses —the Chorus of Old Men led by Meir Margalit and Samuel Rodenski, and the Chorus of Old Women led by Yehudit Amir and Hanna Handler. ⁸ Interview with director Minos Volonakis, ‘The Lysistrata Production at Habima’, Keshet 2 (1959): 133–5. ⁹ Ibid.

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Aloni understood exactly what Volonakis wanted, and set about producing his translation and adaptation accordingly.¹⁰ Israeli theatre in the 1950s was not looking for literal translations of classical texts, but ones that allowed the performers to deliver their lines fluently, and the audience to understand it more readily. Accordingly, the aim of the Hebrew translators was to create a theatrical experience for their audiences, rather than a literary masterpiece to suit the literary tradition. Aloni himself took quite a few liberties with Fitts’ English text—not only in order to comply with Volonakis’ brief, but to suit the form and rhythm of the Hebrew, as well. In particular, he adapted the text to suit the syntax and fast-paced and sweeping rhythm of Israeli speech, and the diverse music accompaniment of many of the Chorus songs. He retained the text’s poetic language, but varied it between speech, poetry, and song, combining high-brow with colloquial language, incorporating rhyming proverbs and idiomatic phrases, and signalling changes in language register through wordplay and sounds that would become hallmarks of Israeli theatrical language. The critics loved the translation and praised it as one of the highlights of the production. Ezra Zussman wrote: ‘The Hebrew translation beautifully conveyed the double entendres (although these became quite unequivocal through repetition), and afforded its speakers great vitality.’¹¹ Nachman Ben-Ami marvelled at how ‘Aloni displayed great lightness, richness and fluency and has produced a work of brilliance.’¹² G. Itur wrote: ‘Aristophanes revelled in racy descriptions, sarcastic allusions and occasional juicy profanities—all of which have been faithfully rendered by Nissim Aloni.’¹³ This production of Lysistrata in Tel Aviv was staged approximately ten years after Israel’s War of Independence, and nine months after the end of the Sinai Campaign.¹⁴ However, there was no hint of either of ¹⁰ Nissim Aloni (1926–98)—playwright, director, writer, translator, and adapter—greatly contributed to the evolution of Israeli theatre and culture in Israel in the second half of the twentieth century. His translation of Lysistrata became the definitive Hebrew translation of the play for reading, teaching, and presentation purposes, until the publication of Aharon Shabtai’s translation from the Greek in 1997. For more on Aloni, see Chapter 8. ¹¹ Ezra Zussman, ‘Lysistrata at Habima’, Davar, 26 December 1958. ¹² Nahman Ben-Ami, ‘Aristo(pro)fanities’, Al Hamishmar, 16 January 1959. ¹³ Itur, ‘A Young Greek Director at Habima’. ¹⁴ The Sinai Campaign (November 1956–March 1957) was conceived and jointly executed by Britain, France, and Israel, in response to the decision by Egyptian President

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these events in Volonakis’ production: his directorial experience was of another culture. Indeed, if anything could be said to be common to Guthrie and Volonakis, it was the fact that the Israeli social and political backdrop and the Israeli–Arab conflict played no significant part in their theatrical interpretations. Their productions reflected more personal artistic concerns. Guthrie was a well-known and veteran director, and his professional world, like his stage innovations, was rooted in the British theatre. He directed Oedipus Tyrannus by carefully constructing magnificent classical scenes as accurately as possible, deconstructing the Chorus, and highlighting the voices of the experienced performers of the Habima Theatre, seemingly oblivious of the battles raging on the streets outside during the rehearsals and performances. Volonakis, for his part, had grown up in modern Greece in the interwar period. He was a disciple of Karolos Koun, the great Greek theatre director and producer whose productions of the classical Greek repertoire had shaped the character of modern Greek theatre. Koun’s cultural-political goal was to remove Aristophanes’ works from the pedestal of Western culture ‘masterpieces’ on which they had been placed by German academia, and restore them to the Greek people and the landscapes of his homeland. This interpretative approach governed his productions and those of his students. To this end Koun deliberately chose demotic, or popular Greek (Dimotiki) for the performance text, rather than the scholarly ‘pure language’ (Katharevousa) of the upper classes, and portrayed Aristophanes’ characters as common folk of the sort you might find in any Athenian taverna. On the role that Aristophanes’ plays have had in the formulation of Koun’s modern Greek theatre we can learn from Gonda Van Steen, who wrote: Aristophanes provides a way to understand modern Greek society. Because his humour is so obviously vulgar and accessible, he brings ancient and contemporary Greece together instead of prying them apart: the ‘noble’ but also ‘elitist’ ancient civilization and the ‘popular’ and down-to-earth modern one. The plays of a long-dead comic poet with strong opinions about state and citizenship, about

Gamal Abdel Nasser to nationalize the Suez Canal Company, and to close the Straits of Tiran to Israeli shipping, which completely paralysed its Red Sea port of Eilat. See Yaacov Herzog, ‘The Background to the Sinai Campaign’, in Israel in the Middle East, ed. Rabinovich and Reinharz, 145–51; Shapira, Israel: A History, 275–7, 281–6.

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language and literature, about women, party politics and modernization help illuminate Greek culture of the nineteenth and twentieth century.¹⁵

In line with Koun’s approach, Volonakis used Lysistrata to restore Aristophanes to his native Greece, with its Mediterranean sun, and characters drawn from among his contemporary compatriots. In London and in Tel Aviv, he filled the stage with Greek music, songs, and dances, and made Greek folk culture the cultural-political context of the play. In conversation with theatre critic Lea Porat on the occasion of the play’s opening night, Volonakis pointed out the difference between his portrayal of ancient Greeks and that of the German tradition: The physical type of the ancient Greeks was totally different from the heroic and imposing figure which was a fanciful invention of German universities of the [nineteenth] century, and that in fact, the ancient Greeks were diminutive, slim, nimble and dark-skinned.¹⁶

The performance did portray a different kind of Greece, as clearly evident in the theatre reviews. For example, Michael Ohad wrote: The director Minos Volonakis has, once and for all, abolished the distorted [image of a] Garden of Eden. He’s done away with the blue sky and marble columns—his sun was yellow, and the sky seemed to be orange-coloured. It turns out that Greece is, after all—a Mediterranean country.¹⁷

Volonakis’ interpretation affected every aspect of the performance. The set, which rivalled that of his British productions in complexity and character, was spectacularly beautiful and colourful.¹⁸ It featured a tripartite structure, with a colonnade in the middle fronted by a broad flight of steps, flanked on the right by a wall-like structure and steps leading up to the upper level, and beyond—and on the left by a similar, if asymmetric flight of steps, against a wall with various niches and openings. The modernity of the set was suggested by its departure from strict classical symmetry and by its interplay of classical elements such as steps, colonnades, alcoves, and openings—but as depicted in the paintings on classical ¹⁵ See Van Steen, Venom in Verse, 4. ¹⁶ Lea Porat, ‘Volonakis: A Classical Play Presents a Serious Problem’, LaMerhav, 16 December 1958. See also Van Steen, Venom in Verse, xiv. ¹⁷ Michael Ohad, ‘Lysistrata: A Musical Comedy from Ancient Greece’, Dvar Hashavua, 24 December 1958. ¹⁸ An architectural drawing of the stage image accompanies the article ‘The Lysistrata Production at Habima’, Keshet 2 (1959): 133–5.

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Greek vases and Hellenistic murals of villas of Pompeii and southern Italy, rather than on the imposing stones of the famous ancient archaeological sites. The many levels, entrances, and exits allowed for performances on many levels, and complex movement on stage. For example, in the scene where the women seize control of the Acropolis, the Old Women’s Chorus stood on the upper level of the central structure, while the Old Men’s Chorus was scattered along the steps of the lower level, stage right.¹⁹ The differences in heights and the imaginary diagonal line formed across the set provided by this positioning of the two Choruses provided an unmistakable stage image of the occupation of the Acropolis and the women’s absolute control of the stage and city space. ‘The [director’s] biggest achievement was the two choruses (of the Old Women and Old Men), which he made into dynamic elements that competed with each other in song and in movement’, wrote Asher Nahor.²⁰ The set’s colour was vested in the costumes: the women’s long, narrow, and colourful gowns looked almost modern, yet still recognizably classical Greek in character, with clasps on one shoulder, and many folds of fabric pinned at the waist. The Old Women’s Chorus performed their roles with masks. Against the classical backdrop, Volonakis presented Aristophanes’ characters as real people, full of Mediterranean spirit and vigour, and flooded the stage with colourful costumes, and familiar (modern) Greek singing and dancing. Thus, Greek folklore served as the cultural context of this modern production: On a light, colourful, sun-drenched Mediterranean stage, the familiar story unfolds before us, accompanied by song and dance, with great vitality, pace, and dynamism. [ . . . ] Throughout most of the play, the director underscores the play’s sensual nature—not only in terms of the plot, but also formally—in colour, costume, movement, melodies [ . . . ] It is a folksy spectacle, improvisational, full of joy, profanities, colour and rhythm.²¹

In Tel Aviv of those days, Greek and Mediterranean folklore did not yet have the significant presence that it has in Israeli culture today—although Greek music was beginning to seep into the public consciousness through ¹⁹ See the feature in Jewish Affairs of January 1959, with a photograph of the set (in English). ²⁰ Asher Nahor, ‘Lysistrata at Habima: Too Much Salt and Pepper’, Yediot Aharonot, 22 December 1958. ²¹ Lea Porat, ‘Volonakis: A Classical Play Presents a Serious Problem’, LaMerhav, 16 December 1958.

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the popular appearances of the singer Aris San at the Arianna Club in Jaffa.²² Nonetheless, the Israeli audiences lapped it all up: the sheer exuberance that burst from the stage, the sauciness of the women’s seizure of the Acropolis, and the seductiveness and sense of liberation conveyed by the music and performers’ movements. For many spectators, in the miraculous dialogue that developed between the stage and the audience during the performance, Volonakis’ Greek celebration of liberty echoed the relief that the Israeli society felt in the aftermath of the Sinai Campaign, given its significant impact on both the Israeli and international consciousness: a UN resolution guaranteeing Israel’s freedom of navigation of the Red Sea, and a strengthening of Israel’s standing in the region and in the international community. The opening night of Lysistrata was a national event. Prime Minister David Ben-Gurion, Cabinet ministers, and many public figures were in attendance. The newspapers reported that Ben-Gurion sat in the middle of the first row, perused the text of the original Greek play during the performance, and laughed uproariously at many moments in the show. Afterwards he met with the cast and the director, thanked them heartily, and even remarked to Aloni that he had made an error in the Hebrew transliteration of the name ‘Lysistrata’. But it is his written comment in the visitors’ guestbook that will be most remembered. Noting the play’s implicit message of hope for peace, it alluded both to the great differences between Athens and Jerusalem and to their similarities, and to war and the hope for peace: ‘Lysistrata—though originally of Greek provenance—bore the dream of the Prophets of Israel, namely the partnership between Jerusalem and Athens. May her vision come true.—David Ben-Gurion.’²³ However, not all the critics shared Ben-Gurion’s approbation. In a review titled ‘Aristo(pro)fanities’, Nahman Ben-Ami lambasted the

²² Greek-born Aris San (né Aristides Seisanas, 1940–92) is credited as the person who single-handedly introduced modern Greek popular music to Israel. He arrived in Israel in 1957 at the age of seventeen, changed his name to Aris San, and began performing at nightclubs with a repertoire of songs in Greek and Hebrew set to Greek music. His music captured the hearts of listeners—including cultural figures and many media personalities— who thronged the Ariana Club in Jaffa. In the following years, many Israeli singers began to travel to Athens, and Greek singers such as Glikeriya, Giorgos Dalaras, Haris Alexiou, Alkistis Protopsalti, and others began appearing in Israel. ²³ Ben-Porat, ‘B.-G: Lysistrata’s Vision Will Come True’.

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production for losing sight of the play’s political message for the sake of light, popular, entertainment: The chief moral of Aristophanes’ story, the issue of war and peace, has been forgotten—and all that remains is a spectacle of love and lust in the guise of a ragbag of pseudo-‘ancient Greek’ features and rude cabaret licentiousness.²⁴

Haim Gamzu took a similarly dim view of Volonakis’ attempt to use modern Greek folklore (especially singing and music) to link the ancient world with its modern counterpart: Someone is suggesting that we accept this concoction of contemporary Greek folk songs and echoes of the music of ancient Greece as though they were of equal merit—[if so] we would get a most peculiar image of Hellenism, which cannot, under any circumstances, be reconciled with our notions of it, nor with the love of ancient Greece—nor, come to that, with its modern counterpart.²⁵

Other vociferous complaints about the production appeared in the press and even in parliamentary debates, to the effect that Volonakis had got the balance wrong in his criticism of the ravages of war versus the desire for peace and the sex strike, and that audiences were shocked that a Habima production would feature scenes of sexual seduction. On 27 January 1959, the flagship daily Haaretz quoted Zalman Susayeff of the General Zionists party, who in a speech at the Knesset assembly suggested that one lira be symbolically deducted from the grant of 100,000 lira that Habima was about to receive from the government as the country’s newly proclaimed ‘National Theatre’:²⁶ I must admit that I’ve seen many productions in Israel and abroad, as well as productions that went a little overboard in some respect. But I must say to the House that never before have I seen such a pornographic display of this sort [ . . . ] and if this is how the [Habima] theatre sees its future path, it must know that it has no right to demand support from the state.²⁷

Some spectators also vented their outrage in the daily newspapers. One highly aggrieved reader of Haaretz wrote: I watched the Lysistrata production, and was overcome with shame at the sight of all the actors and actresses bent on parading their sexual lust in the lewdest way ²⁴ Ben-Ami, ‘Aristo(pro)fanities’. ²⁵ Haim Gamzu, ‘Lysistrata at Habima’, Haaretz, 24 December 1958. ²⁶ The Israeli lira (precursor to the modern sheqel) was worth approximately half a US dollar at that time. ²⁷ ‘On Lysistrata at the Knesset’, Haaretz and Yediot Aharonot, 27 January 1959.

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possible. Can this really be the Habima Theatre that we know so well for its artistic cultural quality over many decades? Was it really necessary to stage this play in such a vulgar manner? I have seen various productions in Europe, and even witnessed performances involving nudity, but I have never witnessed such bestial displays as in Lysistrata.²⁸

Feelings of unease were echoed in many reviews, as well—particularly with regard to the scene between Myrrhine and Cinesias: ‘Buchman portrayed Cinesias’ passion for his wife Myrrhine with excessive realism, which the explicit text accentuated still further, to the point that it made spectators uncomfortable’, wrote Asher Nahor.²⁹ Haim Gamzu noted the physical renditions of Aristophanes’ text on the stage: I am not sure if Aristophanes’ rather risqué wording should be placed under a macroscopic [sic] lens—namely, that they are not only vocalized but also fully acted out under cover, with public canoodling that, by its very excessively exhibitionist nature, makes one suspect that it has nothing to do with art.

He concluded with the following warning: If our theatre persists in this path of excessive and graphic eroticism, it will become a showcase rather than a temple of art. [ . . . ] Having love-starved men parade about and dance like a bunch of robotic gorillas is not only crude and disgusting, but hideous in the extreme.³⁰

Such condemnation by the country’s most respected theatre critic is indicative not only of the conservatism of the Tel Aviv bourgeoisie in the 1950s, but also of the solemnity with which theatre (especially that of Habima) was regarded in those years. Theatre was seen then as the standard-bearer of modern Israeli culture, as a mirror of a society that saw itself as possessing certain values, and as an educational means of preserving such a society in the future.³¹ This view of the theatre as an educational tool meant that a heavy responsibility lay upon the shoulders of the performers, who ‘failed to deliver’, according to critics—in the sense that they did not truly act, sing, and dance as though the Greek music, poetry, and folklore were in their ²⁸ Rachel Cohen of Ramat Gan, Letters to the Editor, Haaretz, 4 February 1959. ²⁹ Nahor, ‘Lysistrata: Too Much Salt and Pepper’. ³⁰ Gamzu, ‘Lysistrata at Habima’. ³¹ Similar protests and repeated demands to close the show arose when Hanna Rovina portrayed a prostitute in the production of Periférie by Czech playwright František Langer. See Gai, Hanna Rovina, 178–80.

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bones. The production revealed the gap between the director’s ambitious vision and the performers’ limited abilities. Critics noted the poor quality of the performance, acting, delivery, dancing, and singing. Lea Porat wrote: This is not the first time that the limited and unpolished tools of our theatre result, here and there, in an unfortunate disparity between the director’s vision (especially if he is a visiting foreigner who unaware of the [local] limitations and does not take them into account early on in his planning of the production), and the final product.³²

Asher Nahor also remarked on how ‘the slapdash delivery is the show’s weak point’.³³ One might sum up by saying that, although the complaints of critics and spectators of allegedly louche and unbridled conduct of the characters on stage and about the unprofessional performance of the actors when they perform classical Greek plays are not the same (the former concerns the social sphere, and the latter the professional aspect), they share common ground in terms of their impact, in that they illustrate a kind of rigid and internal censorship and narrow-mindedness. This was particularly notable in the 1960s with the most infamous and absurd ban, in January 1964, of performances by the Beatles in the country,³⁴ and in repeated attacks on Israeli theatre makers who took on classical Greek works in the following decades, over concerns (that persist to this day) about the introduction of classical Greek tragedy in one form or another into the repertoires of local theatres.³⁵

Kotlerʼs Lysistrata: the taste of victory (1969) The second time Lysistrata was staged in Israel was in April 1969, when Oded Kotler—then a young actor and director—directed it at the Cameri

³² Porat, ‘Lysistrata at Habima’. ³³ Nahor, ‘Lysistrata: Too Much Salt and Pepper’. ³⁴ Two arguments were cited by the Ministry of Education’s Committee for Coordination of Foreign Artistes’ Performances in Israel in its decision: one was artistic (after reading articles published in Israel and abroad about the band, the Committee thought ‘that the band has no artistic value’), and the other educational (‘The band’s performances caused hysteria and frenzy among teenagers’). See Eric Bender, ‘Why were the Beatles Not Allowed to Perform in Israel?’, NRG, 9 December 2013. See (accessed 14 May 2016). ³⁵ Examples are discussed in Chapters 2, 9, 10, and 11 of this book.

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Theatre in Tel Aviv. On the opening night—19 April—memories of the IDF’s dramatic victory over the armies of Egypt, Jordan, and Syria in the Six Day War, less than two years earlier, were still fresh in people’s minds, and peace talks had begun between Israel and Egypt. In retrospect, the production reflected the excessive confidence that Israelis felt in the aftermath of that war, which had started as a great threat to Israel’s existence, and ended with a surprise victory that created a false sense of security. Lysistrata of 1969 was more a light-hearted comedy with vague visions of peace and aspirations for gender equality than a political comedy that sought to lampoon the politicians who sought to thwart negotiations or any genuine attempt at producing an agreement to the benefit of both sides of the conflict.³⁶ Lysistrata also differed from Hanoch Levin’s political satires, which satirized the government and military, and outraged spectators. As the vehicle for this production, director Oded Kotler adopted Aloni’s 1958 translation and filled the stage with original Israeli folklore, humour, and movements of the sort popularized by military entertainment troupes and programmes that served as the nation’s proverbial ‘campfire’.³⁷ His primary aim was to make a production that looked and sounded topical, witty, rhythmic, and contemporary. The creative team included Arnon Adar (set design), Rafi Ben-Moshe (musical score), and Galia Gat (choreography). The cast were all actors of the Cameri— veterans and young alike.³⁸ In view of the production’s use of sexual jokes and erotic scenes, the Censorship Board rated it for ages sixteen and up. The nature of the production was apparent from the production’s programme notes, which were cast in the form of a daily newspaper titled Lysistrata, with the strapline The Cameri Theatre’s periodical—the

³⁶ Golda Meir’s appointment as Prime Minister in February 1969 after the death of her predecessor, Levi Eshkol, might have heralded a move towards equality and peace, but in fact she continued her party’s policy of proclamations instead of significant actions. ³⁷ In Israel in the 1950s and most of the 1960s, there were no local television broadcasts. The archetypal sabra (native Israeli) folklore and humour emerged mainly through the performances of military troupes and civilian pop bands, on the country’s sole radio station (the IBA—Israel Broadcast Authority), in stage productions, and local cinema. ³⁸ Main cast: Orna Porat (Lysistrata), Dvora Kedar (Calonice), Liora Rivlin (Myrrhine), and Ofra Fuchs (Lampito). The main male roles were played by Eli Cohen (Cinesias), Abraham David (Mnesilochus); Yosef Carmon, Nissan Yatir, Mosco Alcalay, Yitzhak Hezkiah, Alex Kutai, Tuvia Tsafir, and Eran Baniel as the Chorus of Old Men and the Athenian and Spartan delegates.

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country’s most popular newspaper.³⁹ Featuring alongside the storyline of the play itself was a mock editorial headed Public opinion in Greece is like a pendulum, summing up a series of public opinion surveys in Athens for and against the women’s rebellion. A news item headed The choice: war or women (‘by our Criminal Affairs correspondent’) reported that women had seized the Acropolis and emptied the state’s coffers, and concluded with the statement: ‘No money—no war’.⁴⁰ Other mock articles included a commentary on the war between Athens and Sparta as a struggle between the two alliances for hegemony; an interview with Aristophanes by ‘Our Special Correspondent’; and a list of dates of events in classical Athens until the death of Aristophanes. In this way, Kotler signalled to the audience that his production was a mix of history and current events, documentation and fantasy. The association between the ancient past and the present was made more explicit in the form of a current affairs report, which began its summary of the plot as follows: News of the past few days in brief: after a fairly quiet Saturday (62 dead to us, up to 100 for the Spartans) it looked as though we were in for a routine week, with nothing remarkable to report. Then, on Sunday morning at 6:30 am, at Heroes Square, Ms. Lysistrata—whom our readers will probably recall from her very dubious election campaign last year, when she tried to set foot in the legislature— suddenly turned up.⁴¹

The use of journalistic jargon that the audience would immediately recognize from newspapers or news broadcasts on radio or television⁴² highlighted the differences between the ancient text and the current production. The two central issues—the war between Athens and Sparta, and the battle of the sexes—are stated in the opening sentences, but here Lysistrata is not a homemaker, but a woman trying to get elected to the ³⁹ A take-off of ‘The country’s most popular newspaper’—the perennial slogan of the tabloid Maariv until its closure in 2012. ⁴⁰ In Hebrew, the term used was zuzim—an ancient Mesopotamian denomination that Israelis are familiar with from a popular Passover children’s song. ⁴¹ See production programme notes. ICDPA, portfolio #2.4.6. ⁴² Israel’s sole television channel until 1993—Channel 1—began broadcasting on 2 May 1968. The novelty of the medium at the time is evident from the fact that when director Oded Kotler announced to the audience during his introduction that the performance— including the audience—would be filmed for television that evening, the spectators reacted with great excitement and began combing their hair and adjusting their ties (L’information d’Israël, May 1969; in French).

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legislature. Such flitting back and forth between the ancient past and current events repeated throughout the production—in the performance text, the set design, the costumes, the props, and mis-en-scène. The live music, a mix of disco music and jazz, was performed by an orchestra of four musicians, and all the chorus songs were sung by the actors on stage. The stage itself was bare, apart from an inverted U-shaped steel structure bearing a wooden staircase, against a black backdrop at the rear, with a few scattered and decorative clouds painted on. ‘Arnon Adar’s decor was brilliant and well organized—from a row of sheets at the start, to full-blown swivelling constructions on stage’, wrote Avraham Oz approvingly.⁴³ The latter was a reference to the staircase, which was made in three parts, hinged together to provide three separate flights of stairs that could be reconfigured in various ways to provide different stage images and positioning of the characters on various levels—on the stage, in front of the stairs, or on one of the intermediate landings (Figure 7.1). Lysistrata, for example, ‘entered the stage riding a bicycle, wearing a rather plain backpack, stopped next to a little amphitheatre and skipped seductively on the wooden steps, repeatedly checking her watch’.⁴⁴ The key seduction scene between Myrrhine and her husband was enacted on the stairs on the left side of the stage, with the men assembled at the foot of the stairs below, and the women standing at the top. Various props completed the set: wooden boxes on castors; a large net with which the Chorus of Old Men was captured; large sticks for the men, and submachine guns for the women. Dry smoke from a smoke machine served to create the effect of a battlefield. The mingling of ancient past and present extended to the costumes and other props: Lysistrata’s classical Greek himation and the soldiers’ classical Greek-like helmets jostled with modern accessories: the Greek women spies communicated with walkie-talkies, while the Old Men listened to the news on the radio and girded phallus-like flashlights around their loins as a symbolic reference to their unrequited lust for the rebellious women. In general, the show was full of verbal and visual jokes about sex. In one scene, ‘the Spartan warriors are marching towards the Athenian warriors in battle dress befitting their tragic situation—their helmets covering the ⁴³ Avraham Oz, ‘Lysistrata at the Cameri Theatre’, Masa, LaMerhav, 9 May 1969. ⁴⁴ Maariv, 20 April 1969. Photos by Yaacov Agor.

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Figure 7.1 Lysistrata by Aristophanes, The Cameri Theatre (1969). Pictured: Orna Porat (Lysistrata), and the conflict between the two choruses—the men and the women. Photograph by Srulik Haramaty.

strategic part of their bodies’, wrote journalist Mirit Shem-Or.⁴⁵ Bruria Avidan-Brir provided more detail: Kotler believes that desires must be seen—so in one scene, the sex-starved man turns his back to the audience, opens his robe towards his wife, revealing his ardent member. [In another,] the war heroes of Sparta and Athens strike a peace treaty while their swollen members are covered in robes. When they open their robes, these are revealed to be erect flashlights.⁴⁶

The explicit manner in which Kotler illustrated the men’s unrequited lust did not go down well with audiences. Spectators were scandalized— much as they had been by Habima’s production a decade earlier—and vented their frustration in the newspapers’ letters columns. In one such letter to Yediot Aharonot, on 1 June 1969, one Y. Goldwasser of Tel Aviv

⁴⁵ Mirit Shem-Or, ‘Sex for Peace’, Davar, 30 April 1969. ⁴⁶ Bruria Avidan-Brir, ‘Tongue in Cheek’, La’ishah, 13 May 1969.

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protested that the Cameri Theatre was being subsidized as a municipal theatre and ‘cultural asset’, since what he had seen at this production was debauchery rather than culture: ‘My wife and I were embarrassed to look at our friends in the face, in view of the inexcusably wanton scenes and obscenities.’ Critic Haim Gamzu was also appalled: By now we’re very familiar with these peace activists, with their greed and eye to the box office. What does peace have to do with pornography? Will the obscenities of some Lysistrata hasten the arrival of long-sought peace? Are shameful scenes of violence on stage the sort of propaganda we need to bring about peace? I must admit: I was mortified and ashamed. Lysistrata?! No: more like a travestrata of the amphitheatre arts.⁴⁷

Other theatre critics alluded to the quality of the adaptation of the original, and to the production’s political message. But the positions they provided were mostly superficial, unfocused, and failed to trigger any serious debate. Yoram Kaniuk, for example, wrote that it was: An entertaining and brilliant production [ . . . ] Kotler has quite rightly thoroughly savaged the text, and played with it as he saw fit. Because he is an old stagehand and knows the ins and outs of theatre, the result is good: the mise-enscène was interesting and exhilarating; Arnon Adar’s scenery and set were excellent. Everything was well thought out and highly imaginative.⁴⁸

Dov Bar-Nir thought that: It is clearly obvious that Oded Kotler has ‘transposed’ this comedy, which was [already] 400 years old at the start of the Common Era, and made it thoroughly ‘modern’—but he has also changed its genre from a comedy to a farce, from a farce to burlesque, and from burlesque to a spectacle, with overtones of the Folies Bergère. For all of these, Rafi Ben-Moshe has composed some excellent jazz tunes, which were ably backed up by Galia Gat’s choreography. [ . . . ] Even with the modernisms, however, the director upped the ante, we think, for all the world as though he were trying to épater les bourgeois and shock us every step along the way. [ . . . ] This is not, therefore, the authentic Lysistrata. Instead, we were witnesses to an entertainment spectacle, which was not always entertaining.⁴⁹

⁴⁷ Haim Gamzu, ‘Lysistrata at the Cameri’, Haaretz, 30 April 1969. ⁴⁸ Yoram Kaniuk, ‘Lysistrata at the Cameri Theatre’, Davar, 9 May 1969. ⁴⁹ Dov Bar-Nir, ‘Lysistrata at the Cameri’, Al Hamishmar, 9 May 1969.

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Hava Novak’s criticism was even harsher: ‘What is astonishing’, she wrote, ‘is that—for all its dynamism and many obscenities and colourfulness—it manages to be boring, and not say anything.’⁵⁰ Satirical weekly Haolam Hazeh remarked: And if the bikinis, miniskirts, the shake dancing (sub-machine guns, two-way radios, transistor radios and bicycles) are supposed to be a reminder of the state of war that exists, not only in our region but throughout the entire world, Kotler’s Lysistrata fails to convey the sense that there is a war going on behind the scenes and that women want it stopped at all costs—even at the cost of celibacy. Although this is a ‘musical production in a modern adaptation’, the result is a caricature of what Lysistrata was supposed to be.

The production’s great success lay in its artistic achievements: the engaging translation by Nissim Aloni—who, in the decade since he had first translated the play, had become a celebrated playwright, translator, and director of Israeli theatre; the impressive costumes; the sophisticated movements on stage; the outstanding choreography with two Choruses; and the erotic comedy of the women who join forces with Lysistrata. Once again, however, the quality of the acting was found to be lacking, with critics citing the same problems that had marred the previous production a decade earlier. This time, however, the reviews focused on the huge variability of acting styles and capabilities of the various performers, and the failure of the ensemble work on stage. The women’s magazine At wrote: Orna Porat—as beautiful and as captivating as ever—struggles valiantly to overcome the gulf between her excellent rendition and the overall level of performance. And what, pray, is the point of adapting Aristophanes’ Chorus pieces to Israeli songwriting when none of the participants can even sing properly?⁵¹

Dov Bar-Nir wrote: ‘Within the large group of extras, amidst all the writhing of female bodies [and] the “groping” scenes, the individual acting failed to stand out—which is to perhaps be expected.’ He singled out Eli Cohen and Abraham David for praise, but concluded ‘The rest were swallowed up in the mass scenes, [and only] two young women stood out with their shapely bodies and their dance moves.’⁵²

⁵⁰ Hava Novak, ‘Lysistrata—Disco-Style’, Al Hamishmar, 30 May 1969. ⁵¹ At, May 1969. ⁵² Bar-Nir, ‘Lysistrata at the Cameri’.

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In summary, it appears that while the production was entertaining, its makers sadly failed to tackle the two important themes that were relevant to Israel’s social and political context in the late 1960s. Indeed, it trivialized them—treating war as an excuse for a farcical romp, completely ignoring the dangers of the Occupation that ensued from the conquest of the territories in the 1967 war, and treating the notion of female power as merely a comedic theme, with no acknowledgement whatsoever of the women’s rights movement, which had started to emerge in Israel itself and was already entering its second phase of liberal feminism in the United States and in Europe.

Govʼs Lysistrata: from sex strike to mothers’ protest (2001) Lysistrata 2000 was staged at the Cameri Theatre in Tel Aviv in 2001. Anat Gov had added the subtitle ‘Based on the play by Aristophanes’, which she had read in Aharon Shabtai’s translation, but in her adaptation, Lysistrata was transformed into a New Comedy, by means of postmodern domestic jokes. Directed by Edna Mazia, it set the play in modern-day Tel Aviv, with witty Hebrew, Israeli music, and high fashion. The production’s design team comprised up-and-coming artists of Israeli theatre: Orna Smorgonsky and Dror Herenson (set and costume design), Niv Sadeh (lighting design), Alon Oleartchik (music and lyrics), Ilan Maman (choreography), and Revital Ariel (puppet design). The plot’s setting was the glamorous world of television, and the humour was derived from a wealth of meta-theatrical opportunities offered by the media to denote the liberation of women from their husbands’ yoke. In one of the shows’ more creative moments, the fictional world of the production is shattered by the mobile phone of the actress in the lead role: it is her babysitter, urging her to come home because her son is ill and asking for his mother. After a brief hesitation, she phones her husband, and we hear a phone ringing; her husband, we learn, is also appearing in the play, as the Spartan general. She persuades him to go home and take care of their son. When he does so, she returns to her role, the fictional world resumes, as the rest of the play continues without further interruptions. When Anat Gov had begun writing the play in 2000, nineteen years had passed since the start of the First Lebanon War, and yet IDF soldiers were still posted in southern Lebanon, and the casualties continued to mount every month. By the time the play opened, however, on 19 January 2001 at

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the Cameri Theatre, seven months had passed since the IDF had completed its withdrawal from southern Lebanon, the momentum was gone, and the relief felt by the Jewish public in Israel greatly affected the production and its reception by the audiences. Judging by the interviews with the playwright and the director, and the reviews at the time, it is clear that Lysistrata 2000 was seeking to raise certain political issues and rail against gender injustice. The women and men in the production represented the well-fed and well-dressed Tel Aviv bourgeoisie who would feel equally at ease in modern-day Athens—or indeed Paris or New York. The television studio was the show’s socio-political context. But amidst all the society clichés of television celebrities one could clearly see the contrast between the superficial visibility of their stage appearances and the deeper problems circling them like sharks around a hapless prey. In this respect, the show may be said to have been innovative, and possibly also served a social purpose. The production was also notable in several respects that make it significant for our purposes. First and foremost, it was the first feminist adaptation of an Aristophanes play in Israel. This, of course, was largely due to its creators: Gov and Mazia are well-known figures in the Israeli cultural scene, as are their views on the status of women, and on Israeli society and politics in general, thanks to their journalistic and dramaturgical writings, and their previous theatre productions.⁵³ Secondly, the gender-related and socio-political message that they sought to convey was from their perspective as mothers who were doing their utmost to save their sons from military conscription. In February 1999, Gov had published an article titled ‘Mothers in the Crosshairs’, in which she reacted angrily to a statement made by Rafael Eitan—former IDF Chief of Staff and then member of the Knesset for the right-wing Likud party— about the Four Mothers protest movement: ‘Mothers have no military experience, so they’re in no position to express views in matters of national security.’⁵⁴ In it, she wrote: Every average mother who has served in the army—in any capacity—and whose father, husband, and sons have served in the army and have regaled her with ⁵³ This was new to Aristophanes’ stage productions in Israel, which prior to 2000 had all been produced by men. In general—strange at it may seem, at the start of the twenty-first century—most Israeli theatre directors are men, as are most artistic directors. ⁵⁴ For more on Rafael Eitan, see Chapter 12.

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endless stories about the army (and yes, they do tell) understands matters of national security more than half the ministers in this government.⁵⁵

It is little wonder, then, that she chose Aristophanes’ Lysistrata as a means of communicating this message. Anyone who read or saw Lysistrata 2000 clearly understood that its satirical barbs were directed at the men—on the stage, in the audience, in Parliament, in the Cabinet, and among the military’s top brass. This was reflected in the programme notes, which included poems by women poets about the war, and articles by women scholars about the role of women in Jewish culture and in Israel’s political scene. It introduced the spectators to a different reading of the play compared with previous productions of Lysistrata. In other words, Gov’s Lysistrata 2000 could be read both as a good comedy with an amusing contemporary take on Aristophanes, or as a reflection of the social and political context in which it was written—namely, the nineteen years that IDF soldiers had spent in southern Lebanon, and the toll that it had taken on society at large. The play is constructed in three layers, each featuring a different fictional and medium realm—in essence, a play within a play within a play. In a television news broadcast marking the twentieth anniversary of the war between Sparta and Athens, reports are given of fierce battles and a high number of casualties, and an announcement by the Athenian army chief that they are considering lowering the conscription age to fourteen. Among these reports is also one about an underground women’s theatre that is staging a production of Aristophanes’ Lysistrata. The women’s protest begins, therefore, with the performance of Lysistrata in a fringe theatre, and develops as the wife of the commander of the Spartan army steals into the dressing room of the actress who portrays Lysistrata to congratulate her on her great performance. When the two women discover, during their conversation, that they are both looking for ways to prevent their sons from being conscripted, they decide to realize Aristophanes’ idea, and the women’s strike moves from the stage to the streets. The plot then develops as a struggle between men and women at various levels, and in predefined spaces: The stage is divided in two: one half for the men, the other for the women, separated by a symbolic gap of a few centimetres. To move from one side to the ⁵⁵ Anat Gov, ‘Mothers in the Crosshairs’, Yediot Aharonot, 9 February 1999.

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other you need to leave the stage, and re-enter from the other side. The only ones who can move freely from one side of the stage to the other are [members of ] the chorus.⁵⁶

In the visual stage image, the demarcation between women and men is evident not only by the partitioning of the stage space, but in the costumes, as well: all the women are wearing black robes,⁵⁷ while the men appear in elaborate but somewhat childish and theatrical military uniforms: white skirts covered in chainmail armour and elaborate helmets in the manner of Hollywood films of battles of the ancient world. Gov’s plot makes references to Aristophanes’ plot, and the short scenes follow each other in quick succession, with the characters moving between the various layers of the production: Lysistrata, the actress in the underground women’s theatre in Athens, is also the wife of the Athens army commander, the Great Zayanides. Her ally is Spartacusit,⁵⁸ wife of the great Spartacus, commander of the Sparta army. Among the other women taking part in the revolt is Madame Madamus, who manages a brothel in Athens and advises the women on the men’s sexual habits. The role of the Chorus is played by the television correspondents: a man by the name of Oedipus, and a woman by the name of Aliki,⁵⁹ who report on events, while passing quickly from one camp to the other, and taking sides in the struggle and in the strike in accordance with their gender. In a short scene midway through the play, the gods Zeus, Hera, and Athena also appear, and when Hera and Athena join the women in their strike, Zeus appeals to the God of the Jews for help (who naturally

⁵⁶ Anat Gov, Lysistrata 2000 (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad 2001), 1. ⁵⁷ In reference to the image of Women in Black during their weekly protest. The movement Women in Black was launched in Jerusalem in January 1988, a month after the outbreak of the first intifada (Arabic, lit. ‘shaking off ’, i.e. ‘uprising’). The group’s founders called for the establishment of a permanent protest vigil, to be held every Friday at Kikar Tzarfat (‘France Square’) in downtown Jerusalem. The format of this protest was simple: a small group of women gathered at the same spot, every week—a central square where there is a great deal of traffic, holding black banners with the words, End the Occupation. The idea spread quickly to other parts of the country, and within a few months, protest vigils sprang up throughout the country. See and (accessed 11 April 2013). ⁵⁸ The names ‘Zayanides’ and ‘Spartacusit’ are derived from the Hebrew slang words for male and female sexual organs, respectively. ⁵⁹ In tribute to the Greek national actor and film star Aliki Vougiouklaki, who had captivated audiences around the world in her Greek movies and visited Israel in 1964.

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does not appear, but is only heard)—only to discover, much to his surprise, that He in fact is a She. The play abounds with sexual and political jokes, but suffers from a lack of focus and from a desire to contrast, at any cost, the image of the modern woman with that of the pagan, primitive man, who has changed little over the centuries and remains a war-loving hunter bent on chasing women and conquering them. Although a small grace is granted in the actor’s decision to go home to care for his sick child and enable his wife to go on with the show, in the play as a whole that incident is akin to the phone call that smashed the theatrical illusion— the playwright’s intervention in the story she created—a gimmick that flickers for a moment outside the story, only to disappear when the actor leaves the stage. Judging from the play’s reviews, it is clear that only a small part of the message that Gov and Mazia had sought to convey actually came across. The sense was that they had opted for the easy and superficial route in their anti-war adaptation and production. Zvi Goren praised Gov’s writing—‘Gov’s language is brilliant, lavish and fluid, and even when she isn’t trying to make linguistic puns or situation comedy, she knows what a talking woman sounds like, and she certainly has a good ear for men’s discordant sounds.’ But he was not impressed by the production as a whole: The result is too light, [too] populist—and this is evident at all levels of production. There is a lot of posturing, too little weight, the occasional flash of wit, and only here and there a statement provoking momentary thought.⁶⁰

Other reviewers were even less forgiving. Ben-Ami Feingold wrote: The playwright Anat Gov, who has written a play ‘based on Aristophanes’, had nothing to say. She tried to make it appear like theatre within theatre or within television, using the not-so-sophisticated gimmick of peace slogans that are so much in vogue these days, or populist feminist messages, to produce the most elementary kind of propaganda theatre, with all kinds of shallow and transparent hints about the ‘peace process’, etc.⁶¹

⁶⁰ Zvi Goren, ‘Lysistrata 2000’, . ⁶¹ Ben-Ami Feingold, ‘Aristophanes à la Gov— Lysistrata 2000’, Hatzofeh, 4 March 2001.

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Michael Handelzalts concluded his review as follows: Anat Gov has written a play that flits between Aristophanes’ original and the present day. She has a few clever moments (e.g. when the mobile phone rings within the play), and undoubtedly has the right instincts, politically and entertainment-wise, which is important. For this reason, the message about the futility of war comes through, despite its transgressions against good taste, and poor execution.⁶²

As a female spectator in the audience at the time, I thought then, and believe now, that the production had failed because the adaptation had not taken into account the enormous changes that had come about in the status of women in the twentieth century. Women who have the right to vote, who have served in the army or hold senior positions in Parliament, in government, in the socio-economic system, in education and the media are vastly different from the women in Athens of the fifth century BCE, and any modern-day adaptation written by women must reflect this.⁶³ Moreover, the production did not do justice to the extensive work carried out by women’s groups who had campaigned against the Occupation and war since the late 1980s, often in the face of bitter opposition from the public. The first of these was the Women in Black movement, which was established in Jerusalem in January 1988, a month after the outbreak of the first intifada. Its founders announced that they were establishing a regular protest vigil on Fridays at Paris Square in Jerusalem: The idea was simple: a small group of women gathered once a week at the same time, in the same place—a major square with lots of traffic. [They] carried black signs bearing the words End the Occupation in white letters. The idea spread quickly to other parts of the country. Women found it easy to implement, thanks to the simple nature of the protest. We didn’t have to travel to [Tel Aviv]—we could bring our children along, we didn’t chant, or march. The means was the message. Within a few months other vigils had sprung up all over the country.⁶⁴

The Women in Black protests were not well received by everyone. Many denounced them as ‘traitors’. The women later reported that their repeated

⁶² Michael Handelzalts, ‘Sex, Death, and Bad Acting’, Haaretz, 28 February 2001. ⁶³ Nurit Yaari, ‘Aristophanes, and “based on Aristophanes”: Sober Reflections on Lysistrata 2000 and the Civilian (Political) Role of Municipal Theatre in Israel 2001’, Téatron 5 (2001): 10–12 . ⁶⁴ See the movement’s website, (accessed 1 October 2015).

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vigil, every Friday, with their anti-Occupation signs and banners, prompted some drivers and passers-by to react with jeers, or abuse. After the death of Anna Colombo, one of the movement’s founders, Uri Dromi, wrote: She had immigrated to Israel because she believed that Zionism is the humanist answer to fascism. But she showed up every Friday at Paris Square in Jerusalem, along with a handful of her friends from Women in Black, carrying the sign End the Occupation—which prompted some passers-by to say things such as ‘Shame Hitler didn’t finish the job with you guys!’⁶⁵

Yvonne Deutsch, another of the movement’s founding organizers, spoke about how the women, who dwindled in number over time, were psychologically worn down by the verbal abuse that they constantly subjected to. ‘Whores of Arabs—I hope your children die in a terrorist attack!’ counter demonstrators would shout at them, and supporters of the [ultra-nationalist] Kahane movement waved nooses at them.⁶⁶

The Women in Black movement nonetheless served as an inspiration for other women peace movements that sprung up in Israel and around the world during the 1990s. Organizations such as Women in Green, Four Mothers,⁶⁷ Women and Mothers for Peace, and Women’s Coalition for a Just Peace were founded by women who decided to demand a reexamination of the public agenda. Of the latter organization, Ariela Shadmi wrote: ‘The Coalition reflects [ . . . ] the feminist vision of a truly new order in Israel and in the Middle East, and therefore calls: “The Era of Generals is over—now is the Era of Women.” ’⁶⁸ ⁶⁵ Uri Dromi, ‘Dr. Anna Colombo—One of the Founders of Women in Black— 1909–2010’, Haaretz, 19 February 2010. ⁶⁶ Ibid. ⁶⁷ The Four Mothers movement was established on 4 February 1997, after a tragic accident in which two military helicopters collided in mid-air at night as they transported soldiers to southern Lebanon—killing all 74 personnel on board. Named after the four ancestral mothers of the Israelite nation in the Hebrew Bible—Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah—it was founded by four mothers whose sons had served in Southern Lebanon, to protest against the continued IDF presence there. It attracted widespread support among the public, and continued to operate until Israel’s withdrawal from Lebanon on 24 May 2000. See (accessed 1 October 2015). ⁶⁸ Dr Ariela Shadmi, ‘The Age of Generals is Over—Now is the Era of Women’, 28 December 2000, as quoted in the production programme notes. See ICDPA, portfolio # 109.1.2.

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Hatzor’s Lysistrata in Jerusalem: a city tacked together (2002) In 2002, as negotiations between Israelis and Palestinians reached an impasse, the welcome withdrawal from Lebanon had not yet brought about quiet along the northern border, and the second intifada (2000–5), was once again bringing the Israeli–Palestinian conflict directly into the heart of Israel, with television reports showing devastated civilians and Israeli tanks roaming Palestinian streets.⁶⁹ Disillusion had given way to despair. It was clear that Aristophanes was needed once more, but that Lysistrata alone was inadequate for the task. A more complex plot had to capture the complexity of the current socio-political reality. In my role as artistic consultant and resident dramaturge of the Khan Theatre in Jerusalem at the time, I proposed to the theatre’s then artistic director and principal director, Michael Gurevitch, to merge together several of Aristophanes’ plots into a single multifaceted plot that reflected the complexity of the situation. The Khan therefore embarked on a peace project—Fighting for Home. Gurevitch assembled a creative team of artists, including playwright Ilan Hatzor, poet-journalist Eli Mohar, and composer Yoni Rechter. As they set to work on the adaptation, Gurevitch began working with the Khan’s actors in accordance with his own theatrical method of ‘collective writing’ of the performance by the cast and the production’s creative team. It was clear that the new work would incorporate adapted scenes from three plays—The Acharnians (1–357; 729–835), Knights (1–615), and Lysistrata (1–253)—each relating to a different aspect of the anti-war protest. Other events were then added to the basic thematic/narrative mix. The dramatic principle of creating such a multi-layered plot sprang from the need to reflect the complexity of the socio-political and cultural context. It mirrored the kaleidoscopic, multi-coloured nature of life in Jerusalem: the city’s accretion of innumerable historical, religious, architectural, social, and political layers became the overall metaphor of the production. As we shall see, the multi-layered character of the Khan Theatre’s peace project was used to reflect the complexity of the Israeli– Palestinian conflict and Israel’s contemporary environment.

⁶⁹ The title of this section is a riff on the oft-repeated slogan after the Six Day War, ‘Jerusalem: A City Reunited’—tacked (in the sense of a quick, temporary stitching that is destined to be removed) being the operative word.

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No visitor to the Khan Theatre in Jerusalem can ignore its architecture—a style that appears to reflect the multicultural background of the theatre’s audience. Because Israel is a nation of immigrants, the audience on any given night is likely a mix of native-born Israelis and new immigrants from as far as Russia or Ethiopia; religious residents of the ultra-Orthodox Jewish neighbourhood of Mea Shearim and secular couples from the newer western districts; residents of surrounding Israeli villages and small towns; Jewish settlers from the Occupied Territories; and students from the Hebrew University. Thus, every performance is a kind of multicultural event—a fact that the directors working in the Khan Theatre must take into account when planning their productions. As one leaves the theatre to walk around its neighbourhood of Abu Tor, the same diversity can be seen everywhere, in the neighbouring houses or surrounding Jerusalem cityscape: layers upon layers of buildings in architectural styles of various periods, objects and art of cultures that have left an indelible mark on the country’s culture and consciousness, and endless variety of attires, sounds, and smells. In many ways, the Khan Theatre is a nexus of the past and present, of the holy and profane, of contrast and complementarity. In September 2002, Fighting for Home was performed as the second intifada raged in the background. However, the intifada was only the obvious tip of a monumental iceberg made up of tragedy upon tragedy: two peoples living on the same land, which both call ‘home’, sharing fractions of everyday existence but diverging in religion, history, national narrative, and interpretation of events. The prevailing view that this was a zero-sum game— one people’s gain was the other’s loss—inflamed the hostility. A historical paradox had arisen: Israel’s creation, as the home of Jewish refugees who had suffered a history of violent discrimination and persecution, had turned Palestinians into homeless refugees. By returning to their homeland, the Jews had driven out much of the Palestinian people from their own homes. Where the Wandering Jew had finally established roots, he had uprooted Palestinians from their farms, urban residences, and businesses. Victims for the past two thousand years, Jews were now persecutors. This troubling state of affairs, which was familiar to each and every member of the theatre audience and interpreted in accordance with his or her political

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views, underpinned the satire and comic situations made so explicit in Fighting for Home. In September 2002, Jerusalem’s Khan Theatre staged Fighting for Home—a ‘satire based on Aristophanes’,⁷⁰ adapted by the playwright Ilan Hatzor. The director was Michael Gurevitch, the cast from the Khan Ensemble, lyrics by Eli Mohar, music by Yoni Rechter, set and costume design by Frida Klapholz-Avrahami and Judith Bloch, and lighting by Roni Cohen.⁷¹ The comedy’s events were set in Jerusalem a decade later—in the year 2012. After years of fighting, the country is plagued by unemployment, poverty, and hunger. Deprivation and destruction are endemic throughout the country. In the first scene, a Cabinet meeting, the Prime Minister’s assistant presents his report: Two suicide bombers set themselves off near Netanya, bullets were shot across the Tel-Aviv–Haifa highway, mortars fell on the road to Jerusalem, mines exploded in Wadi Ara on the road to the Sea of Galilee, Katyusha missiles landed in BeerSheva, rockets were fired from Lebanon at Haifa and Safed and in Ramat-Gan, the Wildlife Safari’s fence was hit by a missile, allowing hungry lions and tigers to escape. They devoured three residents from the nearby neighbourhood [ . . . ] (Scene 1)⁷²

Fighting for Home presents multilevel reactions to this catastrophic vision. At the political level, national and international responses remain ‘more of the same’: the Prime Minister mobilizes the army and imports foreign mercenaries from the Far East and Africa to fill the ranks of combat units; two Cabinet ministers, searching for the perfect ‘salesman’ to stand for election as the new PM, choose a successful fishmonger from Jerusalem’s market; meanwhile, a Swedish mediator flits between Ramallah and Jerusalem, vainly trying to persuade the respective leaders to sign an accord. At the social level, popular protest is led by the energetic Dr Lizy Strata, who has decided to emulate her ancient namesake and put an end to the war by declaring a sex strike. At the individual level, Malkitzedek, a Jewish Israeli resident of Jerusalem who lives with his wife and child at the border between Israeli and Palestinian neighbourhoods and is fed up with having to live in a permanently crouched position for

⁷⁰ Fighting for Home programme notes. See ICDPA, portfolio #9.99.99. ⁷¹ For a detailed analysis of this production see Yaari, ‘Aristophanes between Israelis and Palestinians’. ⁷² Ilan Hatzor, Fighting for Home, ICDPA portfolio # 9.99.99.

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fear of Palestinian snipers, decides to sign a ‘personal peace treaty’ with the Palestinians. Within this colourful tapestry, The Acharnians, Knights, and Lysistrata are discernible. In all of those comedies, Aristophanes attacked the Athenian civil and military leadership (Cleon and his circle) for their deceitfulness and imperialist greed, the Athenian citizens for their naïve belief in the empty promises of demagogues, and the peace ambassadors for the decadence of their lifestyles and neglect of their public duties. Through his fictional characters of Dicaeopolis, Demos, and Lysistrata, he urged Athenians to protest against the corruption of the politicians who profited from the war, and to translate their desire for peace into action at any cost. As in the case of Aristophanes’ political comedy, the events depicted in Fighting for Home were a reflection of real events. The backdrop of the play was Israel of 2002, at the height of the second Palestinian intifada with suicide bombers blowing themselves up in buses and shopping centres, cars exploding in the streets, and passers-by being stabbed on a daily basis in towns throughout Israel. This horror was the everyday reality of Jews and Arabs, Israelis and Palestinians. By placing the events in 2012 and setting the plot in a reiterative mode of ‘eternal repeat’ (created by repeating the first and last scenes), Fighting for Home demonstrated how nothing had been done in the previous ten years to change the stalemate that had characterized 2002. Moreover, it indicated that the daily agonies of unemployment, poverty, and despair would not change in the next ten years—or the next hundred years, for that matter—unless a clear change was made, which the play charged its Israeli spectators to bring about. Aristophanes had a very clear anti-war agenda, which his political comedies communicated through a mixture of fantasy, vulgarity, blunt satire, and sharp criticism.⁷³ In Fighting for Home, the Khan Theatre group followed suit by mixing critical analysis of the Israeli–Palestinian conflict with grotesque representations of the reality of people’s lives, mocking Israel’s sacred cows—the Holocaust, the Army, the Family— and suggesting a dream-like escape, the possibility of a better world, with ⁷³ Simon Goldhill, The Poet’s Voice (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 167–222; Niall W. Slater, Spectator Politics: Metatheatre and Performance in Aristophanes (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2002), 5–8.

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a peaceful, friendly, euphoric cohabitation of the civic space. Thus, in the middle of the performance, the modern-day Israeli actors sing an ironic song of apology in the form of Aristophanes’ parabasis: We use this opportunity to notify the audience that they watch the performance at their own risk. We are just actors working at this theatre, working to earn our keep. All the characters are fictional, any resemblance to living people or to real events is accidental. We, the actors, and all the creative members of the cast and crew, are firmly opposed to this play and hereby condemn its aberrant allusions to present-day reality. We are confident that the production does not reflect the people, the army or the Israeli reality. But this is what happens when you rely on plays written by a non-Jew, a Goy—Aristophanes.

In contrast to the multi-layered structure of the subplots, very clean, clear distinctions divide the characters. Their names are also significant, being symbolic of their positions vis-à-vis the war/peace dichotomy: Malkitzedek, a biblical name (Genesis 14:18–20 and Psalms 110:4) is a composite of two words, much like Aristophanes’ Dicaeopolis: Melekh (in Hebrew: ‘king’) and tzedek (‘justice’); his wife’s name, Ziona, is derived from Zion, one of the names of Jerusalem (and by extension, the Land of Israel as a whole); their son’s name, Yarden, alludes to the life-giving Jordan River; Zahi (in Arabic: ‘beautiful, brilliant’) is a peaceloving Palestinian who worked with Malkitzedek before the intifada. Zahi, his wife Nadia (in Arabic: ‘tender, delicate’), and their son Nidal (Arabic: ‘armed struggle’) join Malkitzedek in his fantasy about peace. The comic meshing of the subplots underlines the different choices made in the transition from war to peace, and the triumph of the new order. At the national and international levels, the situation only deteriorates: the fishmonger-turned-Prime Minister behaves much the same as his predecessor, using the army to resolve every conflict. At the social level, the popular anti-war sex strike fails because of another woman’s stratagem: to counter Lizy Strata’s protest, the right-wing female Minister of Education declares that she is initiating an alternative movement— to provide men with free sex anytime, anywhere—to maintain the potency of the army’s fighting heroes! Thus, the only prospect for a

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better future for Malkitzedek, Zahi, and their families is to strike a private peace treaty. Soon their common garden flourishes with fruits and vegetables; it blooms even more when visited by Israeli soldiers and the Swedish and Palestinian mediators. The plot, which evolves over the nine months of Ziona’s pregnancy, concludes with a universal symbol of hope—the birth of a new baby. The overall impression created by the production was of a carnival. Using scenic practices in the vagabond tradition, ten actors played twenty multinational, cross-gender roles, including the three choruses: the Generals, the Women, and the Settlers. The stage space changed rapidly from the public to the private: the Prime Minister’s kitchen (an allusion to Prime Minister Golda Meir’s practice of holding meetings with Cabinet ministers and foreign dignitaries in the small kitchen of her apartment in Tel Aviv); Malkitzedek’s household; the gates of the Knesset and its cafeteria (a place where bargaining is informally conducted); a West Bank settlement; and—the setting of the final scene—the garden surrounding Malkitzedek’s house, where Malkitzedek, Zahi, and their families sit, an idyllic space for an ideal peace, with green grass and roses filling the stage. Using Aristophanes’ dramatic strategies, the Khan’s peace project saw its goal as sparking a change in the mind-set of the Israeli populace, in an effort to spur audiences to engage in a deeper reading of the political situation and gain a better understanding of the depth of the leadership’s political incompetence. It also sought to prepare spectators to accepting peace negotiations and to make the necessary concessions in due course. Thus, Fighting for Home took the Israeli public to task for being oblivious to the government’s cynical manipulation of Jewish history of persecutions and the Holocaust, to the government’s corruption, to the jingoism surrounding the national glorification of the Israeli military, and to the everyday sufferings of the Palestinians. But it did more: with the help of Aristophanes’ plot, it used comedy to underline that a key theme of Israeli individual identity—survival at all costs—is essentially a universal human instinct, and the right of every human being, which supersedes any nationalistic/chauvinistic ideology.

Summary Of all the examples we have seen in this chapter, Lysistrata appears to have posed the greatest artistic challenge to the adapters, directors, and

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actors in striking the right balance between satire and comedy, between entertainment and criticism, and between the politics of war and the politics of the bedroom. Most of the productions sought to find this delicate balance while incorporating greater or lesser criticism of the socio-political situation in Israel. Ironically, perhaps, the importance of this kind of statement is most apparent in the failure of a production that sought to eschew any political or social statement in favour of a comedy ‘for all the family’. Eli Bijaui and Udi Ben-Moshe modelled their 2013 production of Lysistrata—a satire of militarism—on drag performances. The opening image of the show was indeed very funny, portraying, as it did, an inverted, confused, and above all embarrassed military world: a meeting of the General Staff in which the senior officers, who have arrived in their immaculate uniforms, are given the unusual order, by an unknown authority—to perform Aristophanes’ Lysistrata in the roles of women, opposite a real woman—Lysistrata, ‘Director-commander, temptress and castrator’ (in the words of theatre critic Michael Handelzalts). In the following scene, all the men are dressed in colourful dresses, and doing their utmost to portray women as men see them in their dreams (or perhaps in their nightmares). Its entertainment value, however, palled very quickly: the feeling among the audience was of something patently artificial—theatre posing as theatre. The rest of the production felt bland and squandered, despite Bijaui’s textual wit, Ben-Moshe’s grandiose direction, and Keren Peles’ ‘Greek-like’ musical score. Lillian Barreto, as Lysistrata, moved decorously about the stage, surrounded by ‘exaggerated crude masculinity in IDF uniforms’, as Handelzalts put it. ‘Commedia della schmatte’ (Yiddish, ‘cheap rag’), was the scathing verdict of the Globes theatre critic, Ron Schwartz, who added that it was ‘disappointing and, above all, not funny’. This is not surprising, as Aristophanean plays require their adapters and directors to demonstrate a responsible and serious attitude, and especially great anger against those who seek to perpetuate war. Lysistrata at Habima in 2013 demonstrated how members of mainstream theatre in Israel had grown weary of criticizing the government, despaired of their ability to influence reality, and—like their audiences—want only to enjoy a bit of mindless entertainment.

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8 Nissim Aloni Oedipus Tyrannus in an Immigrant Society

Theatre is a live encounter. As I see it, theatre is like the last nonreligious synagogue [ . . . ] The biggest potentiality lies in the profound understanding of theatre as an encounter between the stage and a live audience and in its representation of live ‘myths’. —Nissim Aloni¹

In the opening scene of Nissim Aloni’s Eddy King, the eponymous character comes out on stage and informs the spectators that the story they are about to see is an old story but also a new one, and that it takes place in the present, on a night in December, in Brooklyn, New York.² In this way, Aloni was alerting his spectators to the dialogue he was about to engage in with Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus—‘the epitome of tragedy’ since Aristotle’s Poetics—and directing them to an intertextual reading of the play and the performance.³ In doing so, Aloni was also joining a time-honoured European tradition of treating this particular Greek tragedy as a cornerstone of Western theatre, through which he would redefine the image of man and of society, as well as Tel Aviv theatre in the 1970s.

¹ From a conversation with David Alexander, Nissim Aloni, ‘Small amusing dramas and living myths’ (1979) in Notes of an Alley Cat (Tel Aviv: Yedioth Ahronot and Sifrei Hemed, 1996), 253. ² Nissim Aloni, Eddy King (Tel Aviv: Sifrei Siman Kriah, 1975). ³ For a list of translations and adaptations of Oedipus Tyrannus, see, for example, Jane Davidson Reid, The Oxford Guide to Classical Mythology in the Arts, 1300–1990s (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993).

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While European playwrights of the twentieth century worked within a well-established theatrical tradition, a survey of the repertoires of the mainstream theatres in Israel before 1975, when Eddy King was first staged at Habima Theatre, reveals that in Tel Aviv at that time Aloni was effectively operating in a vacuum. Prior to Eddy King, only seven Greek and one Roman classical tragedies had ever been performed in Israel. Aloni was well aware of this, and in an interview with theatre critic Moshe Natan during rehearsals, explained why he had opted to write a new version of the classical tragedy: ‘If I were to present the Sophoclean play as is, it would be merely a museum piece for those seeking to add “culture” to their resumé.’⁴ Aloni’s announcement at the beginning of Eddy King therefore takes on an additional dimension: he was not only declaring his attempt to find common ground between his modern version and the well-known masterpiece, but also that underlining the differences between the ‘there and then’ (i.e. the culture of classical Greece) and the ‘here and now’ (that of modern Israel) was part of his main strategy when writing this new play.⁵ Nissim Aloni was undoubtedly the greatest of the Israeli playwrights of the ‘Independence Generation’,⁶ and a prominent author, journalist, translator, and theatre director. His life and work are rooted in the city of Tel Aviv where he was born, in 1926, to Bulgarian-born parents, and he ⁴ Moshe Natan, ‘Eddy King: A King in a Time of Paupers’, in Magic against Death: The Theatre of Nissim Aloni (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 1996), 122. ⁵ See Aloni’s epigraph for this chapter. On the cobbling together of myths as a dramatic strategy in Aloni’s work, see Haim Shoham, ‘Eddy King as a Myth Play’, in Theatre and Drama in Search of an Audience (Tel Aviv: Or-Am, 1989), 43–60, and Eli Rozik, ‘Isaac Sacrifices Abraham in The American Princess’, in Theatre in Israel, ed. Ben-Zvi, 133–50. Biographies of Aloni can be found in the following sources: S. Levy, ‘Nissim Aloni’, Hebrew Encyclopedia, supplement vol. II (Tel Aviv, 1983), 125–6; ‘Nissim Aloni—Biographical Note’, edited by Ze’ev Shatsky in Natan, Magic against Death, 204–5; Aloni, Notes of an Alley Cat, 257–64; Rachel Aharoni, The Forest Within: The Structure of the Fictional Worlds in Nissim Aloni’s Plays (Tel Aviv: Tag Publishing House, 1997), 229–33; Yitzhak BenMordechai, Ladies and Gentlemen and Ladies (Beer-Sheva: Ben-Gurion University of the Negev Press, 2004), 68–93; Nurit Yaari, ‘Introduction’, in On Kings, Gypsies and Performers: The Theatre of Nissim Aloni, ed. Nurit Yaari (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad and The Porter Institute for Poetics and Semiotics, 2006), 9–32; and Sarit Fuchs, Tiger Burning: The Death and Life of Nissim Aloni (Tel Aviv: Miskal/Yediot Aharonot Books and Hemed Books, 2008). ⁶ On the ‘Independence Generation’ see Anita Shapira, New Jews, Old Jews (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1997), 122–54; Emmanuel Sivan, The Generation of 1948: Myth, Portrait, Memory (Tel Aviv: Maarachot, 1991).

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produced a varied body of work over half a century, until his death in 1998. In his life and his work, Aloni was one of the quintessential shapers of the modern Hebrew culture that developed in Tel Aviv in the 1960s. Aloni broke new ground in Israeli theatre. As a playwright, he was the first of his generation to open up the world of Israeli drama to the Western theatrical tradition, by writing about Israeli reality through stories drawn from the Old Testament, Greek mythology, and Western literature. He also directed his plays—the first Israeli playwright to do so—because he saw directing as a natural extension of his writing. ‘Ultimately’, as he explained to critic Moshe Natan, ‘directing is nothing more than bringing the play to completion.’⁷ Aloni’s theatrical career began with the staging of his play Most Cruel the King at the Habima Theatre in 1953.⁸ For the plot, he used the biblical story of Jeroboam’s revolt against King Rehoboam and the splitting of the Solomonic kingdom (I Kings 11, 12). In it, he raised issues that preoccupied Israeli society in the first decade of independence—such as religion and state, power and corruption, and superstition versus enlightened thinking. Although the issues were contemporary, the Hebrew was in the mould and metre of the Hebrew Bible, and its dramatic structure modelled on the modern French playwriting of Sartre, Camus, and Giraudoux. The production also marked the beginning of Aloni’s decades-long association with Habima Theatre, which subsequently staged most of his plays, with key members of its troupe—Hanna Rovina, Aharon Meskin, Shimon Finkel, Nahum Buchman, and other veteran actors—forming the active core of the so-called ‘Aloni Actors’ at Habima. Most Cruel the King was a revelation when it was first performed before local audiences. Its impact is evident in an article by Dan Miron written ten years later: Only in Nissim Aloni’s first play, Most Cruel the King, do we see a true landmark—a brilliant youthful work, that put an end at its time to the frivolous playwriting that flourished in the benign climate of the first years of the state.⁹

Historiographers of Israeli theatre and research on Aloni’s plays have long contemplated Aloni’s unique position and role within the playwriting

⁷ Natan, Magic against Death, 12. ⁸ Carmit Gai, Hanna Rovina (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1995), 264–5. ⁹ Dan Miron, ‘Spectacular and Disappointing Princess Play’, Haaretz, 23 January 1963.

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of his contemporaries. Most agree that he differed from other playwrights of his generation, but disagree as to precisely when his works took a different path.¹⁰ While his contemporaries sought to extol historic moments and champion the Zionist ideology of the return of the Jewish people to its ancestral land, of putting down new roots and the forging of ‘new Israelis’ in the proverbial ‘melting pot’, Aloni portrayed the Israeli population, as early as the 1960s, as a mosaic of identities, fragments of memory and folkloristic colours in a strange and alienated environment.¹¹ Aloni was intrigued by the Western theatrical tradition. The sense of foreignness and unfamiliarity evoked by Modernist plays magnified his own sense that—as a Jew, an Israeli, and a product of the twentieth century—he was not part of that long tradition. He therefore sought, in his plays, to bridge gaps, to bring together ancient and new myths, and to build the foundations of a modern Israeli theatre.

The Myth of King Oedipus: Migrant and Autochthon European theatre served Aloni as an enormous museum of literary and dramatic traditions, of outlooks on man and society, and of diverse styles of theatrical practice. The dramatic template of Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus, and Freud’s Oedipal model, underpin four of Aloni’s plays: The American Princess (1963), Aunt Liza (1969), The Gypsies of Jaffa (1971), and Eddy King (1975). In The American Princess, the investigation of a father’s murder serves as the framework for stratified subplots. In Aunt Liza, the story of the father’s murder is ostensibly about one character, Yosef Blank, who returns to his family estate after many years abroad, but evolves into a shadow story that threatens all branches of the extended family. In The Gypsies of Jaffa, the investigation into a murder ¹⁰ See ‘Panel on Nissim Aloni’, featuring Michael Gurevitch, Haim Shoham, Shin Shifrah, Gershon Shaked, Bamah 95–6 (Spring/Summer 1983): 69–89; see also Shoham, Challenge and Reality in Israeli Drama, 167–218; G. Shaked, ‘Mask Game: The American Princess by Nissim Aloni’, in On Stories and Plays: Chapters on the Foundations of the Story and the Play (Jerusalem: Keter Books, 1992), 201; Abramson, Drama and Ideology in Modern Israel, 193; Nissim Calderon, ‘Near the Sea’, in Pluralistic in Spite of Themselves: Cultural Multiplicity among Israelis (Tel Aviv: Haifa University Press and Zmora_Bitan Publishers, 2000), 38–9. ¹¹ Natan, Magic against Death, 66–9.

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perpetrated over the breaking of a marriage vow forms a revenge plot that takes place in a nightclub in Jaffa, run by a refugee couple from Europe—a gypsy woman and a Jewish man, sole survivors of communities that had been wiped out—and their children, finding their way in this new world.¹² The fourth play, Eddy King, presents Oedipus Tyrannus in a new, postmodern guise, interspliced with stories about the Italian Cosa Nostra and the new cinematic mythology—dubbed ‘the University of Darkness’¹³—which rendered his dialogue with Sophocles’ tragedy into a kind of roadmap of Western society in the post-Second World War era. Why did Aloni turn to Oedipus? Why was he trying to incorporate that myth into the drama of The American Princess, Aunt Liza, and The Gypsies of Jaffa already in the early 1960s, and why did he choose to present a new version of it in the Tel Aviv of 1975, as a kind of response to Oedipus Tyrannus? My answer to these questions is twofold. One involves the artistic context—Aloni’s need to use the formative dramatic template of Oedipus Tyrannus to hone his dramatic writing, particularly of a modern Israeli tragedy. The second lies in Israel’s social context—Aloni’s desire, through the myth of King Oedipus, to engage with the tragic figure who unwittingly embodies two contradictory notions of identity: the refugee and the autochthon. Oedipus is a refugee because, as a newborn baby, he is taken from his home in Thebes to Mt Cithaeron, where he is supposed to perish from exposure. He is saved by a Corinthian shepherd, who takes him to the royal palace in Corinth, where he is raised as the son of its king and queen. As a young man, he discovers by chance that he is not a native Corinthian. He consults the Oracle at Delphi, only to realize that he cannot return to Corinth, so he continues on his way in search of a new home, not knowing where he belongs, who his parents are, or where he was born. He is an autochthon because the moment he learns of the identity of his parents, he discovers that he is in fact a Theban, i.e. a native of that land. This theme was highly apposite to Israeli society at that time, given its daunting task of assimilating the masses of Jewish immigrants—from Arab countries, as well as Holocaust survivors and other Second World ¹² Ben-Mordechai, Ladies and Gentlemen and Ladies, 11–67. ¹³ Helit Yeshurun, ‘Bergner on Aloni: Snippets of Conversation’, Hadarim 13 (Winter 1999): 49.

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War refugees—who had arrived in the country, doubling its Jewish population within the first three years after independence. This endeavour—proclaimed ‘the most important of all aspects of Israel’s national security and military might’ by Israel’s first Prime Minister, David Ben-Gurion,¹⁴ was conducted under the twin slogans of Returning to the Land of the Forefathers and The Melting Pot.¹⁵ ‘It was certainly a very difficult challenge—one that no other immigration society in the world has had to deal with’, wrote sociologist Moshe Lissak.¹⁶ This understanding casts doubt on the accusations made about Aloni among his contemporaries that he set his plots in foreign lands because he sought to distance himself from the Israeli ‘here and now’. In 1998, to mark fifty years of Israeli drama (i.e. fifty years since the play He Walked Through the Fields), a television documentary was made about significant milestones in the field. All the theatre professionals taking part in the programme believed that one of the hallmarks of Israeli theatre was that it portrays Israeli reality on stage and treats it as dramatic material, in a bid to shape society and convey cultural messages. In his interview, Moshe Shamir, author of He Walked Through the Fields, described Aloni as someone who sought to flee from the fateful reality of his time, in favour of stories about kings, butterfly hunters, and gypsies: The reality here either failed to satisfy him, or was one that he disliked, or posed too difficult a challenge to derive beauty from its mundanity. And Nissim [Aloni] longed for beauty throughout his life. Beauty not necessarily here—in fact, especially not here. And ever since then, he has never ceased to escape.

This allegation was particularly damning, as it was said by one playwright of the Independence Generation about another: both had served in the elite Palmach Brigade of the pre-independence Jewish paramilitary, where the verb ‘to escape’ was synonymous with betrayal, or desertion, and represented a sort of rejection of Aloni and his notions of theatre from the theatrical landscape of the country. In this chapter, I wish to show how Aloni’s plays are, in fact, about the Israeli society of his time—albeit not through a literal or realistic ¹⁴ Segev, 1949: The New Israelis, 106–22. ¹⁵ Schweid, ‘Rejection of the Diaspora in Zionist Thought’; Sternhell, Founding Myths, 3–36. ¹⁶ Lissak, The Great Wave of Immigration in the 1950s: Failure of the Melting Pot (Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 1999), 3–5.

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portrayal, but by responding to it in accordance with the artistic notion of theatre as a place where the human condition is represented through metaphor, myth, and ritual. It is a theatre where, in the words of Antonin Artaud, the audience searches ‘for a poetic state of mind, a transcendent condition by means of love, crime, war or insurrection’.¹⁷ To this end, I shall focus on two of his plays in particular—The American Princess (the first of his plays to incorporate the Oedipus myth), and Eddy King, which was Aloni’s modern response to Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus. Using Sophocles’ dramatic template, Aloni repeatedly revisited the migrant/autochthon dichotomy, and recast it in rich multi-layered subplots where ‘old’ and ‘new’ intermingle and coexist. The old is presented as a distant memory of a lost culture, and the new is what resurrects it. He revives the ancient plot by merging its embedded cultural images with those familiar to the contemporary spectator. The disparities between the old and the new material became a recurring theme in his writing, both in the texts themselves and in their stage performances. As Shlomo Vitkin wrote about the set design for Eddy King: When we began to work, we had a sense that the association between the ancient Oedipus and his modern counterpart must be apparent in the set design, to create a charged atmosphere that spans the ages [ . . . ] The set must not be divorced from the ancient associations—just as Eddy is not detached from the classical Oedipus. [It] had to create an atmosphere, consciously or otherwise, of something that was both distant and near.¹⁸

This strategy is also what gave Aloni’s performances their characteristic meta-theatricality and inter-mediality.¹⁹ All his productions exhibit a keen awareness of theatre’s power and magic—first apparent in The Emperor’s Clothes (1957),²⁰ but clearly crystallized in The American Princess and Eddy King. In each instance, the play’s style shifts between techniques from various arts, while preserving the flexibility of illusion creation and shattering. The audience is made conscious of the fact that it, too, plays an important part, as it is expected to keep up with the quick ¹⁷ Antonin Artaud, The Theatre and its Double, trans. Victor Corti (London: Calder and Boyars, 1970), 81. ¹⁸ Shlomo Vitkin, ‘There Once was an Artist at the Theatre’, Bamah 95/96 (1983): 36–7. ¹⁹ Levy, The Altar and the Stage, 181–94; Shoham, Challenge and Reality in Israeli Drama, 213–18. ²⁰ Aloni, The Emperor’s Clothes—based on Andersen’s legend of the same name. It was the first play that Aloni wrote and directed at Habima.

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switches from drama to history, from legends to current affairs, from one genre to another, and one style to another, and to revel in the inventiveness that this entailed, and in the exhilaration of the surfing, the wind, and the waves.

The American Princess: the playwright as a hunter of myths (1963) On the face of it, the implicit juxtaposition of the Old World of Europe with the New World of America in the title of the play The American Princess is an oxymoron, since there are no kings or princesses in America (except, perhaps, in Hollywood).²¹ This creates a colourful and multi-medial fictional world, and a plot comprising various dramatic materials—a murder investigation, attempts to assimilate in a new society, a recording of memories, and filmmaking—all within a single space—the theatrical stage. There are nine characters in the plot: The King, the Crown Prince, and the Actor are portrayed by two actors—Avner Hizkiyahu played both the King and the Actor, and Yossi Banai played the role of the Crown Prince— a Police Inspector, a Film Director, an Electrician, and a Town Crier, who appear only as recorded voices, and two characters—Marita, the Lady of the Night, and Dolly, the American Princess, who do not appear, and are not represented in any other way on stage. The American Princess echoes Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus, through the complex relationship between an elderly king of the fictional European country of Bogomania and his son Freddie, who live in exile somewhere in Latin America after fleeing Europe following a violent coup d’état in their native country. The plot, which defies a concise description given its many components, layers and meta-theatricality, uses the police investigation of the killing of the father by his son as the dramatic framework. In the opening scene, police officer Miguel Megueras is interrogating Freddie, and accusing him of the premeditated murder of his father: You murdered your father, yesterday, between 8 and 10 pm, at the studio of Jean-Paul Krupnik, on Avenida Bolívar, with five bullets of a 0.38 Browning gun— you better wipe off that smirk, amigo, because what’s waiting for you now is only a

²¹ Nissim Aloni, The American Princess, edited by Dori Parnes (Tel Aviv: Yediot Aharonot and Hemed Books, 2002). The book comprises two versions of the play: one performed in 1964, the other in 1981.

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miserable hangman’s noose, which may be strong, but you won’t get to hang your dirty laundry on it, believe me. You better sing, matador, and save your soul. And pronto.²²

Freddie is in shock, because the murder in question was supposed to have been a staged event for a film about the king’s life, but has happened for real. He tells the officer everything that happened that night, including a detailed description of each of the characters. His story—a series of flashbacks of situations leading up to the event—reveals subplots that reflect each other and are interwoven right until the moment of the fateful killing. In the main plot, Freddie—i.e. Prince Ferdinand—is the son of ‘King Bonifacius-Victor-Felix Hohnschweden—King, by divine right, of Great Bogomania, Prince of Upper Augusta and Marquis of the Puck Region. Formerly.’ The old king is living in exile and earns his living in his new country as a French teacher by the name of Felix van Schwank. The Oedipal incest in this story is a symbolic one: unbeknownst to the old king, he and his son have been sharing the favours of the same lady of the night—a woman by the name of Marita, who lives at Calle de la Luna, near the train station. ‘With Marita, sometimes, I felt like I was his son’, admits Freddie, who was not only fully aware of this state of affairs, but orchestrated it: Until we had fallen under the spell of the American princess, there were no conflicts: Papa visited twice a week, on Tuesdays and Saturday nights—like clockwork, like someone with a membership card—and I would visit on other days of the week, if there were enough pesos.²³

The three subplots interwoven in Freddie’s story reveal the transitions between life in the present, memories of the past, the challenge of turning these memories into a work of art for the benefit of contemporary viewers, and the various types of media used to make these transitions. One subplot involves a wealthy American princess by name of Dolly Kokomakis—a fellow expatriate from the old country. Dolly survived the revolution and moved to New York, but remains an admirer of the exiled king. She writes to him with an offer to make a substantial contribution towards his and his son’s living expenses, if he were to record his memoirs

²² Aloni, The American Princess, Act I, Scene 1. (Translations of all excerpts from Aloni’s plays are by Jonathan Orr-Stav.) ²³ Ibid.

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on tapes that she encloses with the letter, and return these to her. The king accepts the offer, and the recordings are duly made—whereupon Dolly decides to turn the memoirs into a film. The second story, therefore, takes place in the realm of the new medium of cinema—the New World answer to the Old World art of the theatre. To this end, Dolly dispatches the film director and ‘cinema genius’, one Jean-Paul Krupnik, to produce a film about the old king’s life. Freddie readily agrees to play the king in his youth, but the king himself refuses to have anything to do with it: ‘You kill a king in it!’ he tells Freddie when he hears details of the script. So Dolly’s ex-husband—an elderly and once famous actor—is sent to play the king in his old age, and Freddie plays his son. But Krupnik refuses to take no for an answer. Freddie: You see, Capitan, according to Krupnik’s film, the old king must appear in the second half. So what’s going to happen is simple: I stop being my own father, become my father’s son, and pump five bullets into him. In the film!²⁴ A third subplot involves a love, jealousy, and revenge triangle involving the old king, Dolly Kokomakis, and the Actor. The old king decides to use the money that he has received from the American princess to buy off Marita from her pimp, marry her, and take her for a long trip to Paris. However, at this point, the Actor—a former Bogomanian patriot who had secretly supported the revolutionaries before following his beloved Dolly to New York—enters the scene. He used to be Dolly’s husband, but she left him for an American coal magnate, and was now using him only as a messenger for her whims. Humiliated and incensed by Dolly’s fondness for the exiled king, he decides to take revenge: first, he goes to Marita, disguised as the old king, and persuades her to take the money and travel to Paris alone. He then tells the old king that Marita has taken up with Freddie on the film set. Finally, he begs Freddie to let him play the old king in the film’s final scene. The Actor: I, I . . . Your Highness, please hear me out . . . No one will notice . . . No one will be able to tell the difference, Your Highness must believe me, grant me this one grace . . . let me play the King in the final

²⁴ Ibid., Act I, Scene 3.

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scene! Let me die in a final scene! Your Highness must believe me, dying is my specialty, let me . . . The Princess will not know . . . She will not know . . . ²⁵ The Actor then secretly replaces the blanks in Freddie’s gun with real bullets. When the old king finally arrives at the studio and ventures onto the film set, in search of Marita, and into Freddie’s line of fire, real life and the film become hopelessly tangled, with the tragic result of Freddie killing his father: Freddie: It was supposed to be in the film, but it ended up being in real life. The death. The cameras stopped running, and my father was lying there, dead [guffaws]—in real life. That is how you say it, isn’t it, Capitan? Dead—for real.²⁶ Although Aloni’s intertextual references in The American Princess are primarily to Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus, the play also contains numerous allusions to other Greek mythological stories that fill out many points in the plot. Dolly’s lifestyle is reminiscent of that of Persephone, who spends half of each year in Hades as Queen of the Dead, and the other half on earth. As her husband, the Actor, testifies: Your highness, I love her! . . . Seven months she was with me, back there, in the homeland . . . cheerful, singing quietly to herself in the rooms . . . She would go out at dawn to pick flowers, and come back, all glistening with dew . . . And I . . . a great actor! With a face! with a future! One morning, she didn’t return . . . she fluttered away—just like that—poof! . . . with some American coal magnate . . . [Scene 5]

Dolly’s lifestyle frames the plot in a ritual cycle of death and resurrection. Other similarities to Persephone are her persistent absence from the stage; the fact that she is the only one responsible for the old king’s ‘return’ to life; and the fact that she appears only by proxy—through messengers, a letter, a package of audio tapes, and the Actor—all of which are involved in reviving the king’s memory and ultimately result in his death. When, in the final scene, Freddie asks if they have found Dolly, so that she might confirm her responsibility for events, the police inspector is adamant: ‘No one fitting her description has been found . . . [laughs] The earth

²⁵ Ibid., Act II, Scene 6.

²⁶ Ibid.

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has swallowed her up . . . [laughter increases]. The earth has swallowed her up!’²⁷ In response to critics who pointed out that the audience completely missed the references to Persephone, Aloni wrote a revised version of the play for the 1981 production—once again at Habima—which explicitly described the legend of Persephone in a full Prologue, recited by a disembodied voice before the curtain rises. This was followed by a guitar player who came on stage and recounted her life in Tartarus, summing up: ‘Persephone is the Queen of Death. Every year, in the spring, she returns to the land of the living; every year she generously hands out gifts to her loved ones.’²⁸ Apart from the guitar player (who reappears throughout the production), three other secondary characters were added—Diego, Emilio, and Pedro, who are film set workers at the studio, whose job is to construct the mock reality of the cinema world, and who serve as a kind of silent Greek chorus. A second myth incorporated into the plot involves the Actor, Dolly Kokamakis’ ex-husband, who undergoes repeated plastic surgeries to reduce the size of his posterior—a subtle reference to the legend of Theseus, who journeyed with his friend Peirithous to the underworld to capture Persephone so that she may marry Peirithous, and whose buttocks were stuck fast by Hades to a rock.²⁹ Aloni’s added tongue-incheek reference to the Actor as ‘an actor with no backside!’ completes the dual allusion both to this ancient myth and to the obsessive pursuit of eternal youth by Hollywood actors through plastic surgery, and is a wonderful example of the associations he was fond of making between myth and theatre.³⁰ As the literary critic Nissim Calderon noted: When an author succeeds—as Aloni does in The American Princess—to fix one eye on an intimate moment between a father and his son, and the other on the wide world of plastic surgery, the cinema, and America, a rare artistic treasure is created.³¹

²⁷ Ibid. For versions of the Persephone myth, see Robert Graves, Greek Myths (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1960), vol. I, chapter 24. ²⁸ Aloni, The American Princess, version 2 (1981), Act I, Prologue. ²⁹ Graves, Greek Myths, vol. I, chapter 103. ³⁰ Aloni, The American Princess, Act II, Scene 1. See also Natan, Magic against Death, 16, where Aloni talks about his preoccupation with links between the old myths and the new ones. ³¹ Calderon, ‘Near the Sea’, 229.

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The association between the family story and Greek mythology enables Aloni to link the Israeli experience to the universal one. While the story ostensibly takes place in a Latin American country, Aloni does not forget to remind his Israeli spectators, with a wink, that it is, in fact, about them, their surroundings and society, as well. When the king reminisces about past loves, he mentions his beloved Zelda, asking: ‘Zelda, oh Zelda Puzinio, did you ever emigrate to Palestine?’—and in an aside to Capitan Megueras, and to the audience, Freddie explains: ‘A small country in the newly liberated Africa. Very zealous people. Lots of folklore.’³² With this humorous quip, Aloni was signalling to his audience that, although the plot ostensibly takes place in a far-off and foreign continent and involves protagonists of a distant and unfamiliar cultural past, he can nevertheless include them in the theatre’s magical illusion, appeal to their personal experiences, and make the serious point that, for the new immigrants in Israel, the vaunted ‘Return to the Promised Land’ in the works of his contemporaries, was also a new exile—from their native language, culture, and homeland. In his memoirs, the king expresses the sense of rootlessness felt by the first generation of exiles from his country and European culture: Today, the 19th of May, marks 25 years since the death of my beloved wife, Cecilia. Today is my son’s birthday, Crown Prince Ferdinand. At nights in this foreign city, I see steam rising from the bowels of the earth. Lord of the depths, will this exile ever come to an end? I am alone, I have no one—just one solitary, sad, lonely soul, on Marita St. Sometimes, in my dreams, I see her with the face of my dead queen. Marita . . . [Scene 1]

Through Freddie, Aloni casts a jaundiced eye over the feelings of the second generation of immigrants everywhere, who are doomed to roam the earth rootless, while continuing to harbour fierce yearnings for the myths of the old country. Freddie, who plays his father as a young man in the film, turns his father’s memories into his own life story: ‘Listen, Papa, what we’re making here is a film—but it’s not a film about you. You have forgotten. Everything. A long time ago. This is a film about me, about myself, here.’³³

³² Aloni, The American Princess, Act I, Scene 1.

³³ Ibid., Act I, Scene 4.

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The American Princess was a more original and audacious work than anything previously seen in Tel Aviv—certainly in the early 1960s. It became the flagship production of Ha’onot Theatre, and a clear articulation of Aloni’s dramatic and theatrical vision.³⁴ Above all, it was a celebration of Aloni’s poetic Hebrew—a language suffused with imagery, colours, sounds, and effects, which became his trademark. Although elements of this special language also appeared in Most Cruel the King, where it echoed the biblical text, and in The Emperor’s Clothes, where it helped to bridge between legend and reality, in The American Princess it really came into its own, giving the play a unique character and life of its own. The performance also offered several notable revelations and milestones: the ‘birth’ of actors Avner Hizkiyahu and Yossi Banai as archetypal Aloni actors—in terms of their style of acting, staccato vocal delivery, distinctive body language, and the interaction between them; and the creation of a unique stage language through Aloni’s close collaboration with the artist and set designer Yosl Bergner. And yet, despite the rave reviews and the enthusiasm of theatre professionals, the reception of The American Princess reveals the audiences’ difficulty at that time in absorbing the play and the performance: ‘The play ran for over fifty performances’, wrote Moshe Natan, ‘but the audience refused to adopt it, or embrace it. They came, they saw, but failed to understand— and left disappointed and bored.’³⁵ Nonetheless, the play proved to be a turning point in Aloni’s writing, and thereafter its constituent elements appeared regularly in his works, in one form or another. It clearly demonstrated the innovative associations that he drew between dramatic writing and stage imagery, and heralded the birth of a new theatrical tradition in all of his subsequent theatre productions. This involved collaboration with artists with distinctive artistic style, such as Yosl Bergner, Audrey Bergner, and Gary Bertini; stylized work with the finest theatre performers; and the practice of completing the writing of the play during rehearsals, in the belief that the word assumes its rightful place only when it is voiced by an actor, and in the context of the other production elements.

³⁴ Aloni founded Ha’onot (‘The Seasons’) Theatre in 1963. The American Princess was its first production. The theatre closed two years later, however, due to economic difficulties. ³⁵ Natan, Magic against Death, 49.

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Eddy King: Oedipus rewritten for contemporary audiences (1975) Two myths are interwoven in Eddy King: the ancient myth of King Oedipus of Thebes, and the new mythology of the New World—the Sicilian Mafia in America. In the play, Eddy is Don Edoardo—a Sicilian immigrant who has clawed his way to the top of the Cosa Nostra in New York: ‘I came here, eighteen years ago, a poor kid with a big black gun. Like this one. Like Ricci. Straight from there. The old country. To be a hero. In America.’³⁶ The remaining elements of the plot all fit within this equation: Sicily is the world of the past; New York is the world of today. While in the past there were real kings, today the kings are those of the Mob, of finance, of the banks, and of the stock market. The world of the past—Sicily, the mother country—is rural and mountainous, where he-goats come down the slopes ‘and into the girls’ hearts’;³⁷ today’s world, New York, is an urban one with immigrants of all kinds—poor folk, who arrive in it with empty pockets and big dreams. Aloni presents the conflict between the ancient myth and the new through quick transitions between past and present, old and new, and by merging the local and the universal, the literal and metaphorical, the anecdotal and the poetic. By contrasting a distant borrowed culture (of the ancient Greek culture and Western theatre tradition) with a borrowed culture of a more familiar kind (that of the United States, as reflected in American films), he breaks down culture into its constituent parts, and examines their function and significance in the construction of cultural identity in contemporary society. The plot is presented as an old/new story, conjured up as though by magic (Figure 8.1). The play’s multi-vocal nature is established from the outset: the characters’ voices in the scenes are intermingled with those of the actors in the transitions between the scenes. As usual in theatre, the plot of Eddy King takes place in a continual present, and events follow each other in a conventional sequence of ‘here and now’—but on every occasion, someone (a different actor on each occasion) highlights the discrepancy between past and present, by proclaiming the place and events of the scene. Within this duality, each of the characters flit constantly between two planes of time and place, their characters echoing their ³⁶ Aloni, Eddy King, Act I, Scene 3.

³⁷ Ibid., Act I, Scene 1.

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Figure 8.1 Eddy King by Nissim Aloni, Habima Theatre (1975). Director: Nissim Aloni; stage design: Shalom Vitkin. Cast: Yossi Banai (Eddy); Stella Avni (Giocasta); Raphael Klatzkin (Joe); Nahum Buchman (Creone). Photograph by Yaacov Agor. Reproduced by courtesy of the Yaacov Agor Collection, Israeli Center for the Documentation of the Performing Arts, Tel Aviv University.

respective roles in the Sophocles tragedy: Giocasta King—Eddy’s mother and wife—knows that Eddy is the one who killed Don Laios, and yet still falls into his arms when he shows up on her doorstep. She is a lost, forlorn figure, as evident in the theatricality of her gestures in the stage directions: ‘raises her arms, like the tragic actresses’, or ‘Covers her eyes with both hands, and flees while moaning, like a parody of an old scream’.³⁸ Eddy’s adviser and friend, Creone Visconti, is Giocasta’s brother and Don Leonardo’s lackey, who wipes out Eddy King’s entire gang as soon as he comes to power. Giovanni Galante—one of Don Laios’ former henchmen, who is locked up in a lunatic asylum since the killing—is the modern counterpart of the shepherd in Oedipus Tyrannus, who witnesses the killing of Laios and flees to the hills. ³⁸ Ibid., Act I, Scene 4.

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In Aloni’s play, Teiresias, the prophet of Thebes, appears as Teresa—a blind, gay, transsexual television broadcaster and spokesman for Don Leonardo, and one of the most complex characters in the play. In constructing Teresa’s character, Aloni drew on one of the versions of the myth about Teiresias’ blindness,³⁹ and makes Teresa a multifaceted character: like Teiresias, he is experienced in life as a man and as a woman, and mediates between God and mankind through his weekly television programme providing astrological forecasts for all and sundry. Thus, he is not a straight translation of Teiresias into American reality, but a link to Sophocles’ Teiresias. Aloni explained to Moshe Natan: That prophet on the television, for instance, is as self-aware as the rest of us. He talks seriously—but he is also capable of clowning around. I wanted to convey the issue of self-parody throughout the play—not, heaven forfend, because I wanted to make a parody of Sophocles’ tragedy. I just mean that, there is a feeling—since we’re now sort of half-and-half—that we’ve become a parody of ourselves. That is no less tragic—but it is another kind of tragedy.⁴⁰

In addition to the characters who are modern counterparts to those of the Sophoclean tragedy, there are others who expand and change the new template: Don Leonardo, the Godfather, who lives in the mountains, and manages the Mob in New York remotely; Dona Cristina, Don Leonardo’s wife, and mother of Don Laios and Eddy King, who, despite having lived in New York for half a century, still pines for Sicily; Angela del Sol, Don Leonardo’s daughter and Creone’s fiancée, who represents the Mob’s next generation—cool and collected, but appreciative of the importance of the Old World. When Eddy tells her how he came to America to become a hero, she replies: ‘In college, I was taught that heroes existed, like, only in Greece . . . a long time ago.’⁴¹ In addition, there are other gangster figures—Don Leonardo’s men, Eddy’s men, and young gangsters—all jostling, like Eddy King in his day, for control of the city and the kingship. Moshe Natan thought Eddy King was unique in that ‘Aloni is, it seems, the first playwright to transpose the [Oedipus] story to the present day, replanting it in New York, the dungeon of the underworld of a family of

³⁹ Apollodorus cites Hesiod as his source, but does not specify where; the same version is also found in Ovid, Metamorphoses, Book III, lines 316–18. Another account of Tiresias’ blindness appears in Callimachus’ Hymn #5: The Bath of Pallas: in it, Tiresias is punished by Athena because he has seen her in the nude. ⁴⁰ Natan, Magic against Death, 123. ⁴¹ Aloni, Eddy King, Act I, Scene 3.

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gangsters.’⁴² But transposition to present-day New York is only the starting point of Eddy King. Its true uniqueness lies in its relentless, sudden, and heady transitions back and forth between there and here, then and now—underscoring the distance between the two, and creating a sense of longing. Through these sharp transitions in time, the plot becomes a broad canvas of associations, in which old notions of tragedy are echoed by modern counterparts. Sicily is the motherland, the world of the past, the cradle of tragedy. ‘In the old country’, says Dona Cristina, ‘they used to tell how, on stormy nights, wild goats would come down from the hills and enter the hearts of young girls . . . wild, dark goats . . . ’.⁴³ The old country also represents the old culture, and intimates an additional association between tragedy, Dionysus, and the he-goats: the he-goat is a dual symbol, representing both frenetic lust and the god of tragedy. ‘This is an old story—a story about a kid goat who guns down a big he-goat with a submachine gun’, says Eddy, and Giocasta replies: ‘You’re full of evil spirits, from the old country!’⁴⁴ In the old country, hungry children walk about with big dreams—that’s what Eddy was like when he arrived eighteen years ago, that’s what Ricci, who came from there only recently, is like. ‘At home, over there, in the old country, I was a kid. They talked about, drilled it into my head . . . “America, America . . . ” ’, he says.⁴⁵ If Sicily is the old country, New York is the new world: a bewildering metropolis of banks, stock market, politicians and gangsters, gambling, horse races, whores, muggers, cars, guns—and above all a town of roaring subway trains and steaming manholes. It is also a city of technological innovations, and of media—newspapers that hold information about gang members, document their wars and crown the new kings, and of television, as represented by the hybrid-sounding CBF2 & Apollo Inc.—a modern-day Oracle that tells everyone what to think, and what to feel. Throughout the play, Aloni underlines the fact that New York is the pinnacle of immigrants’ dreams, as well as their wondrous place of settlement. It is the town that all poor immigrants flock to: ‘I’m a poor man, a poor king, in a time of paupers . . . that’s Eddy King . . . ’.⁴⁶ The immigration is, of course, a spiritual one as much as physical. ‘We are poor’, says Eddy King, ‘without a king, without God . . . alone.’⁴⁷ ⁴² Natan, Magic against Death, 117. ⁴⁴ Ibid., Act I, Scene 4. ⁴⁵ Ibid. ⁴⁷ Ibid., Act I, Scene 3.

⁴³ Aloni, Eddy King, Act I, Scene 1. ⁴⁶ Ibid., Act I, Scene 6.

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This hard town also holds the symbols of the old myth. It is the Sphinx that Eddy King challenges. ‘A Sphinx’, he says, ‘is like a factory at the entrance to the city . . . it sings songs, poses riddles, and devours young heroes . . . ’⁴⁸—and Teresa adds: ‘This Sphinx chews up a dozen champions on average, every day.’⁴⁹ The city, Metropolis, is a Sphinx, and gang war is threatening to throw it into chaos, like the plague that hit Thebes in Oedipus Tyrannus. In New York, the equivalent of Mt Cithaeron is the sea, separating the old country from the new. It is where Giocasta is drawn to, and finds her death; it is the place of distances, and of ships; it is where Eddy is taken—and returns from. It appears twice in the play: as a barrier—outside, between ‘here’ and ‘there’, represented on stage by the sounds of ship horns—and on tape, as heard on Giocasta’s transistor radio.⁵⁰ In a scene reminiscent of Fellini’s La Dolce Vita (1960), people gather to hear a recording of the sea, while sounds of the sea surf are heard through the window; and like Fellini’s character, Aloni’s Giocasta also meets her death there. In Aloni’s theatrical writing, every element originating in ancient Greece is reproduced in the twentieth century. Both the original and its modern counterpart sit side-by-side in the same scene, in the same sentence, separated by an ellipsis ( . . . )—a trademark of Aloni’s writing and speech, and a kind of interlude for the actor and the spectator to form associations and create an intercultural dialogue based on the conveyance of a dim memory. The inter-medial play (myth-tragedytheatre-cinema-television), in which Teresa reveals the oracles in weekly horoscope programmes; Giocasta killing herself in a recorded sea; and Eddy’s eyes being poked out in a live broadcast as part of an entertainment illusion, all highlight the fact that such self-aware performative elements and self-references are not merely meta-theatrical devices for Aloni, but a basic feature or raison d’être of the entire play, which simultaneously reproduces and negates itself at the same time. It is within these transitions that the uniqueness of Eddy King, and Aloni’s great achievement, emerges: through them, he creates a reference not only to the Sophoclean tragedy, but to the entire imagery surrounding Oedipus, as etched into the collective consciousness of Western civilization by the ⁴⁸ Ibid. ⁴⁹ Ibid., Act I, Scene 4. ⁵⁰ On the inter-medial play and its thematic implications in Aloni’s work, see A. Oz, ‘Nissim Aloni’s Microphones’, Haaretz, 17 February 1967.

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works of Freud, Cocteau, Pasolini, and others. In effect, Aloni’s Eddy King is a dialogue with the echoes and traces left by Sophocles in Western culture in many other artistic works. In Israel of that period, he tries to link the local with the universal, for fear of a narrowing of horizons and cultural introversion. A TIME OF HEROES , A TIME OF IMMIGRANTS

The ritual structure of Eddy King follows the link between myth and ritual in the formation of the Greek tragedy.⁵¹ The action takes place on the cusp between winter and spring, in a cycle of dying and regrowth. Controlling this transition is Don Leonardo, the Godfather. He lives far off in the hills, where he controls the Mob in New York. He is portrayed as a cross between God and Satan—a primeval, ancient force. He dies and returns to life, in a cyclical pattern, like the year’s seasons: ‘My father goes to die every year toward the holiday season . . . almost like some god’, says Angela, his daughter⁵²—indeed, like Dionysus and other fertility gods. At the beginning of Act II, he is seen at the far back of the stage, in the guise of Satan: with horns, a goatee beard, foxlike ears, but dressed like a gangster. In his hands he holds the figures of people being swallowed up in his mouth. Beneath him—a red-hot furnace.⁵³

Don Leonardo is the god who devours his children like the Titan Cronos, or swallows them while suspended above an inferno, like Satan. This, incidentally, is the only time he appears on stage: for the most part, he appears only by proxy—through Teresa, Jack, Creone, or Angela. The plot, which begins with Don Leonardo dying before the winter solstice, ends in the spring. ‘Winter has passed’, announces the actress who plays Giocasta: The sea is calm, trees are blossoming. The city is coming back to life. The people are also going to the movies, and to the theatre. Spring is in the air. Spring in New York, Brooklyn.⁵⁴

⁵¹ See W. Burkert, ‘Greek Tragedy and Sacrificial Ritual’, in Savage Energies: Lessons of Myth and Ritual in Ancient Greece (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 2001), 36; Patricia E. Easterling, ‘Tragedy and Ritual: “Cry woe, woe, but may the good prevail” ’, Metis III, 1–2 (1988): 87–109; Nurit Yaari, ‘ “What am I to say while I pour these offerings of sorrow?”: Stage Image, Word and Action in Aeschylus’ Libation Scene’, Journal of Dramatic Theory & Criticism 14.1 (1999): 49–64. ⁵² Aloni, Eddy King, Act I, Scene 5. ⁵³ Ibid., Act II, Scene 7. ⁵⁴ Ibid., Act II, Scene 13.

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Parallel with the natural cycle of the seasons, is another cycle—one of sacrifice—involving fertility rituals and a power struggle. A titanic intergenerational struggle is taking place in the hierarchy of the Cosa Nostra: Don Leonardo is dying, and as his death approaches, the ground begins to shake, as though before an earthquake, plague, or war. Eighteen years ago, Eddy King killed Don Laios, and now, as the play begins, Ricci, the young gangster, is threatening to dispose of him. This is the mythological foundation of the play, following the ritual pattern of what James Frazer has dubbed the ‘King of the Forest’ tradition.⁵⁵ The ambition to become the next priest or king—the cause of countless cycles of violence since time immemorial—includes, among others, the myth of the son who kills his father and assumes control of the city and its queen. As Don Leonardo’s deputy, Don Laios rules over the Sicilian Mafia of New York and protects his position from his rivals. In time-honoured fashion, Eddy arrives from Sicily, kills Don Laios, and becomes the new king of the Mob: It’s always old riddles: which guy rises, and which one falls? . . . And it always happens—it’s funny, that way—with a son . . . Father . . . ‘Real riddles’, said Joe . . . ‘A son’, Joe said to me, ‘What he has to do in this life is to take out his father . . . Sometimes the father takes him out first . . . In wars . . . I told him.⁵⁶

From the moment that he seizes power, he, too, has to defend his position, because he knows that he may be next. When Ricci arrives, everybody remarks on how he looks like Eddy in his youth: ‘So thin . . . Just like you, Eddy . . . back then . . . ’, says Giocasta. ‘He’s you, Eddy . . . ’. Eddy also sees Ricci as a reflection of himself in the past: ‘Because it seems to me that I am you, maybe twenty years ago.’⁵⁷ But he’s unwilling to cede his place, and instead of waiting, attacks: his men kill Ricci. Ostensibly, he has been saved: instead of the son killing the father, the father has killed the son—but has he succeeded in breaking the immortal pattern? But no: much as Anouilh did with Antigone, Aloni tries to see what would happen if one changes only a few elements—for example, if Giocasta knows that Eddy killed Laios, or if Eddy knows that he killed the previous king, or if Ricci dies. But Fate carries on regardless, and in this play, as in its predecessors, everything happens as preordained. Just as

⁵⁵ J. G. Frazer, The Golden Bough (New York: Macmillan, 1976), 1–11. ⁵⁶ Aloni, Eddy King, Act I, Scene 3. ⁵⁷ Ibid., Act I, Scene 6.

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Oedipus was forced to face the awful truth about his identity and his crime, Eddy King must also come to terms with the knowledge and the acts that he has committed in the modern world in which Aloni has transposed him. The constant shifting back and forth between the two worlds also dictates the dramatic format of Eddy King. Doubting that modern theatre could do justice to classical Greek tragedy, Aloni chose not to engage with Greek tragedy as a dramatic form, nor with the rules and conventions set out by Aristotle. Instead, he chose to tell the story of Oedipus Tyrannus as an old folk legend, and show the possibilities arising from its reappearance and recurrence in the postmodern world, without heeding strict traditional distinctions between the genres. From The American Princess onwards, Aloni tailored the basic story behind Oedipus Tyrannus like a shaman might fashion the myths of his tribe to suit his own needs: cobbling together elements of tragedy, comedy, parody, and the grotesque; adding various dramatic elements, throwing into the mix anything that ‘works’, without any preconceived rules or order, in a jumble that is itself the new order—a kind of lawless constitution of its own. Literary critic Gershon Shaked understood this, and explained it as follows: Aloni’s art is founded on the attempt, in one fell swoop, to bring together hybrid elements of theatre under one roof: not only does he not make any attempt to separate, as he puts it, between ‘tragedy’ and ‘comedy’, but every form of theatrical expression and every acting style is fair game in his eyes—and the more, the merrier. [As he sees it,] the purpose of style, language, and stage space, is to create a unity of contrasts.⁵⁸

With its free association of ideas from different worlds, and its deliberate accretion of words, symbols, shapes, sounds, colours, and images, to create a mosaic of memories, yearnings, and hopes, Eddy King is indeed a clear instance of postmodern writing. At the same time, Aloni uses the play as a form of polyphonic writing—through a variety of voices that combine the subjective and objective, in various voice ensembles: of the characters irretrievably tied to events; of the messengers who cast a foreign and different light on the characters’ points of view; and in the midst of it all, the voice of the Greek chorus, with its ability to switch between different viewpoints—the public, the civic, and the collective.

⁵⁸ Gershon Shaked, ‘Portrait of Oedipus as an Immigrant’, Haaretz, 6 June 1975.

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This polyphony is, in my mind, one of the key achievements of Aloni’s work, and his chief contribution to Israel’s emerging theatrical tradition. However, Aloni’s strategy presented more than just dramatic issues. The absence of an Israeli tradition of performing Greek tragedy led him to reflect on how theatrical language evolves over time, and on the social and cultural role of theatre. In Eddy King, in true Aloni fashion, these musings were also thrown into the mix, processed and woven into the clash between the past and present. If, in the past, tragedy was used to create theatrical mythology, today myths are forged by the media. Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus, as a myth of Western dramaturgy, and Greek tragedy in general as a myth of Western theatre, must now contend with the mythology of the modern world—i.e. the cinema, which creates the fantasies of the modern public, and shapes it as it sees fit. The theatre is the art of the past, of the old country. In the play, the relationship between Eddy King and his father is merely a theatrical blueprint, and the Sophoclean tragedy is the homeland: ‘Your father certainly was theatre . . . Scaring children . . . Over there, in the homeland . . . And you too still have an ancient . . . and scary . . . theatrical sense—the killer with many masks’, Giocasta tells him.⁵⁹ Directly opposite the theatre stage a cinema screen rises, in allusion to the most contemporary, most ubiquitous, art form, which has created the mythology of the Mob, of New York, and the entire detective movie genre. The play’s opening scene—‘A street musician plays the accordion. The curtain opens slowly. On the inner stage: A street handrail, a street lamp. In the far background—a dim sign: Bar. Alfieri. Night.’—and the actor’s direct address to the audience, are reminiscent of film noir of the 1950s, of screeching cars and Creone/Bogart’s trench coat. For immigrants, cinema, not theatre, is the art—an art about endless dreams and lust, and about yearning: Eddy: You probably never got to see poor kids, in some town, at night, after the movie, under the streetlights, in the street . . . Poor kids see movies . . . That’s their college—movies . . . And I bet you never saw poor kids with a black handgun in their pocket talking together secretly, in the street, after the movie, America, America . . . —like people once used to say, Jerusalem, Jerusalem . . . ⁶⁰ ⁵⁹ Aloni, Eddy King, Act I, Scene 3.

⁶⁰ Ibid.

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From The American Princess to Eddy King, in Aloni’s theatre Oedipus becomes a symbol of the wandering immigrant, who must come to terms with being an autochthon. Through the story of Oedipus, Aloni, ever the proverbial ‘butterfly hunter’,⁶¹ and with remarkably prescient recognition, portrays an underground culture of uprooted immigrants (as would finally emerge in Israel only years later, with the belated ‘Mizrahi Cultural Revolution’ of Israel’s North African and Middle Eastern Jewish community,⁶² and the culture of the huge wave of Russian immigrants before and after the fall of the Soviet Union).⁶³ Through their different reactions, the immigrants allowed their feelings of non-belonging to ‘come out of the closet’ and for memories of the worlds they have left behind to become ‘mythological’ and magical, giving birth to a new, original, artistic world in Aloni’s theatre—long before identity politics entered the mainstream of social and political discourse in Israel.⁶⁴ Turning his prophetic diagnosis into poetic and theatrical performance, Aloni highlighted the yearnings and acute sense of absence that haunt those who undergo physical and cultural immigration—and thereby became, in the words of Jean-Paul Sartre, a ‘forger of myths’ himself.⁶⁵

⁶¹ An example of a dialogue that develops in circles: In his book The Emigrants, author W. G. Sebald linked the love of butterflies with exile and memory, as he introduced photographs by the writer Vladimir Nabokov—‘the ultimate example of a writer about exile and memory’ (and an amateur butterfly enthusiast), whose Speak, Memory: An Autobiography (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1951) had enormous impact on Sebald, and clearly also on Aloni who wrote The Bride and the Butterfly Hunter (Tel Aviv: Siman Kriah Books, 1980). ⁶² Preceded by events such as the Wadi Salib Riots of 1959, and the ‘Black Panther’ movement demonstrations in 1971 (led by members of the second generation of those immigrants); see Henriette Dahan Kalev, ‘The Wadi Salib Riots’, in Fifty to Forty-Eight, ed. Ophir, 149–57, and Shalom Cohen and Kokhavi Semesh, ‘The Origin and Development of the Israeli Black Panther Movement’, in Middle East Research and Information Project (MERIP) 49 (July 1976): 19–22. See also Lea Bendor, ‘The Black Panthers’, in Israel in the Middle East, ed. Rabinovich and Reinharz, 234–7. ⁶³ In recent decades, there have been two major waves of immigrations from the Soviet Union or the former Soviet Union: one in the mid-1970s, the second in the early 1990s. Unlike previous immigration waves, where the immigrants were thrown into the proverbial ‘melting pot’ and expected to adopt Hebrew and Israeli culture and suppress the traditions of their country of origin, these immigrants have zealously preserved their Russian identity and made sure to pass on the Russian language and culture to their children, even to the extent of publishing daily newspapers and literary magazines in Russian, and following Russian television broadcasts. ⁶⁴ Cressida Heyes, ‘Identity Politics’, The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Winter 2014), ed. Edward N. Zalta, . ⁶⁵ See Sartre, ‘Forgers of Myths’.

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But Israeli theatre critics at that time were unable to appreciate his profound message. ART IN ‘ A TIME OF PAUPERS ’

Eddy King premiered at Habima Theatre in May 1975,⁶⁶ and was immediately panned by the critics, few of whom understood or had any tolerance for Aloni’s attempt at a postmodernist treatment of the famous Greek tragedy. The play itself was attacked: Aloni was accused of defying the rules of Aristotelian tradition, of dishonouring the tragedy tradition, of creating shallow characters, and of empty dramatic acrobatics—and the performance, too, was pilloried, with neither audiences nor the critics forgiving Aloni for daring to take liberties with Oedipus Tyrannus. ‘The distinguished Habima audience, conscious that it was watching a new important production and an adaptation of Oedipus Tyrannus no less, failed to get the joke’, wrote critic Boaz Evron in his review.⁶⁷ ‘Several spectators left the hall after Act I’, reported the daily Al Hamishmar, adding: ‘some critics denounced the entire play outright, with spectators and critics sharing a furious indignation’.⁶⁸ Thus, both audience and critics had difficulties appreciating the dialogue that Aloni was conducting with Oedipus Tyrannus in his play. Particularly notable were the many epithets used by journalists and critics to describe the relationship between the two works: ‘An Aloniesque paraphrasing of Sophocles’ classic moral play, Oedipus Tyrannus’;⁶⁹ ‘A modern version of the Oedipus tale’;⁷⁰ ‘Aloni’s very free treatment of the ancient Sophoclean legend of King Oedipus’; and ‘A very funny parody of a conventional Greek tragedy’.⁷¹ The sheer diversity of these descriptions reveals the absence of an established and accepted discourse in Israel surrounding translation, adaptation, writing ‘in the manner of ’, about ‘artistic dialogue’ or rewriting, or even about the expectations of playwrights and directors seeking to engage with classical materials. Fans of ⁶⁶ Directed by Aloni; stage design by Shlomo Vitkin; music by Poldi Shatzman. Cast: Hanna Rovina (Donna Cristina), Refael Klatchkin (Joe), Shmuel Segal (Jack), Israel Bekker (Teresa), Yossi Banai (Eddy King), Edith Astruk (Angela del Sol), Nahum Buchman (Creone Visconti), and Stella Avni (Giocasta). ⁶⁷ Boaz Evron, ‘The King in Brooklyn’, Yediot Aharonot, 5 June 1975. ⁶⁸ Al Hamishmar, 4 June 1975. ⁶⁹ Idit Ne’eman, ‘Aloni King’, Yediot Aharonot, 9 May 1975. ⁷⁰ ‘A Modern Version of the Oedipus Tale’, Maariv, 9 May 1975. ⁷¹ Evron, ‘The King in Brooklyn’.

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the production, such as Ruth Hazan, commended it for its theatricality and visual appeal,⁷² while critics, such as Emil Feuerstein and Boaz Evron, censured it for its ‘disrespect’ for the original, or for its failure to preserve what Aristotle regarded as the ‘very essence’ of Sophocles tragedies (as they saw it)—the plot structure.⁷³ Michael Handelzalts blasted it for its simplistic nature: When one sets out to tackle such important myths, which are supposed to form the very cornerstones of our lives, it is only right and proper that this engagement should bring something new to those myths, show them in a new light, give them a new interpretation. In this respect, Aloni has failed throughout the play: he simply recounts the story.⁷⁴

Gershon Shaked was the only critic to recognize that Aloni’s artistic choices were rooted in the characteristic aesthetics of his writing: These mythological combinations are interesting, brilliant, and occasionally create an entire picture—if indeed Aloni was seeking to do so—but here, too, as in his other works, he couldn’t help himself. Had he wished, he might have attained the same coherence that he had achieved in Most Cruel the King, or The American Princess—but his aesthetic sense, through his directorial work, seems to militate against ‘coherence’. It is a deliberately incoherent aesthetic, which tends to pay the price in terms of integrity—because it is seeking a different kind of integrity.⁷⁵

The harsh critical reception revealed Aloni’s difficulties, as a playwright and director, to create a performance that was intelligible and accessible to his spectators. In his effort to convey the characteristic colourfulness and verbosity of his writing, the directorial language of Eddy King linked together various aspects of Greek tragedy productions down the ages— such as an exaggerated acting style of masked theatre (‘Aloni demanded that the actors not speak to each other—but rather to the audience, or to the air—as customary in classical Greek theatre’),⁷⁶ and the rhetorical recitation of words and static acting of the neoclassical style. This intention was not appreciated by the critics. ‘There is virtually no movement whatsoever’, complained Boaz Evron:

⁷² ⁷³ ⁷⁴ ⁷⁵ ⁷⁶

Ruth Hazan, ‘Eddy(pus) King’, Al Hamishmar, 1 August 1975. Emil Feuerstein, ‘Eddy King at Habima’, Hatzofeh, 2 June 1975. Michael Handelzalts, ‘Aloni, the Unwitting Charlatan’, Haaretz, 28 May 1975. Shaked, ‘Portrait of Oedipus as an Immigrant’. Actor Yossi Banai in Idit Ne’eman’s feature, ‘Aloni King’.

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The characters are arranged on stage like statues, virtually motionless, distant from one another, inscrutable, with pained, reverberating and profoundly meaningful voices (although quite what that meaning is is unclear)—and all extremely loud, with very little inflection. It is unclear what it is they are saying, exactly, since it is accompanied by almost no illustrative stage action; nor are the characters addressing one another—only the space, or the audience.⁷⁷

The set design deliberately contrasted the stylized and distant monumental imagery of Greek tragedy with contemporary abrupt transitions between different points in the plot. The critics, however, failed to appreciate this. While some, such as Nahman Ben-Ami, were impressed by the set design— Shlomo Vitkin has constructed a set that is spectacular, but uncluttered: the terrifying dungeon, the television stage, the hall of chandeliers, the site of stalactites, the street of puppets—each and every scene both spectacular and impressive.⁷⁸

—others were sharply critical, arguing that it lacked uniformity.⁷⁹ Feuerstein faulted it for similar reasons: The external appearance—the set—is enormous and monumental, and occasionally very beautiful—but it remains empty of meaning, and the author—who is, of course, also the director, as is usually the case with Aloni’s plays—is unable to blend them together and create any unified whole out of them.⁸⁰

The music, he added, ‘which gives the impression of being both grand and mocking’, tried to reflect the particular combination of sublime and ridiculous, tragic and comical, that characterized the play’s writing.⁸¹ Shlomo Vitkin, the stage designer, hit back. He used the critics’ reviews as an example of their inability to appraise a theatrical performance as an integral theatrical whole: [ . . . ] Instead, they critique each of the visual elements in the play as though they were schoolteachers grading assignments, amidst various inane and unprofessional comments, like ignorant laymen.

⁷⁷ Evron, ‘A King in Brooklyn’. ⁷⁸ Nahman Ben-Ami, ‘Same Thing—Only Different’, Maariv, 1 June 1975. ⁷⁹ Feuerstein, ‘Eddy King at Habima’. ⁸⁰ Ben-Ami, ‘Same Thing—Only Different’. ⁸¹ Feuerstein’s reference to Aloni as a ‘con artist’ is indicative of the extraordinary frustration that he felt about the production: as he saw it, the stage imagery fell woefully short of conveying the integrity or unity that one expects of a Greek tragedy and Greek culture, and which he had hoped Aloni would provide.

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Citing Zartal’s review, he asked angrily: Is this not an example of intellectual obtuseness and lack of basic understanding of what is happening on stage? It’s as I said before: this is school-like ‘grading’, and vacuous criticism, without the tools to see and understand.⁸²

Reviews of the acting reinforced the impression of an eclectic production. All critics—complimentary and critical alike—wrote about the acting only in general terms, focusing more on how the text was conveyed than on the construction of a stage language: A virtuoso performance by Hanna Rovina—but she, too, has nothing to do—nor does the rest of the troupe, since the absence of any plot limits their role to uttering fragmented sentences that float around in the empty space.⁸³

From all these reviews, it is clear that the production was a flop. Overnight, all of Aloni’s previous accomplishments as a playwright and director were forgotten, and the critics’ scorn cast a pall over his entire theatrical oeuvre. Faults were now found in everything he did: his working methods at the theatre, the length of the rehearsals, and the costs of the production. ‘A theatre supported from public funds is not entitled to give any playwright a blank cheque for exercises of this sort’, wrote Boaz Evron, and Handelzalts titled his review ‘Aloni—the Unwitting Charlatan’, blaming the theatres for letting Aloni work without any boundaries.⁸⁴ Eddy King was the last play that Aloni wrote and directed. The faith that theatre had placed in him, and the freedom that had enabled him to write on his own terms, fell away after the double whammy of Eddy King’s commercial and critical failure. As Michael Gurevitch put it in his eulogy of Aloni at a memorial ceremony at Habima Theatre on the day of his funeral: The audience wanted no more fancy trappings, or large magnificent sets (by Yosl and Audrey Bergner and Shlomo Vitkin), or the ancient speech. The audience wanted knickers, and knickers it got—and Nissim Aloni never again wrote any plays.

⁸² Vitkin, ‘There Once was an Artist’, on Idit Zartal, ‘Ghosts and Stories from Life’, Davar, 28 May 1975. ⁸³ Evron, ‘The King in Brooklyn’. ⁸⁴ Handelzalts, ‘Aloni, the Unwitting Charlatan’.

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With an accusing finger at the critics, he then added: Today it should be said: the critics bear some of the responsibility for the standardization, banality and mediocrity that it now accuses Israeli theatre of— as well as for Nissim Aloni’s condition during his years of silence.⁸⁵

In hindsight, Aloni’s Eddy King reads like a complex and challenging postmodern play. Not only is it a complex work that uses ancient material to reflect the human condition in the twentieth century, but it is also— and in particular—a milestone in Israeli theatre’s search for identity. Both in the play and in the production, he provided a dramatic expression of the desire for a genuine, original theatre, while revealing the difficulties that Israeli theatre had to contend with, given its lack of a theatrical language or a tradition of regarding such productions as seminal events of cultural importance. It also marked his entry into the ranks of other twentieth-century playwrights who revisited the classical myths and tragedy in an effort to shape their own cultural landscape and to contribute to the construction of an independent theatrical tradition. Today, looking back, and despite the initial rejection of his proposed dialogue with ancient Greek tragedy, some theatre professionals appear to share his belief that such a dialogue can contribute to the creation of an Israeli theatrical identity. In an interview with the journalist Yehudit Livneh, actor Yisrael Becker, who played Teresa, said: I believe that this play will go into print and become part of the cultural heritage of future generations [ . . . ] It is an important chapter in the life of the theatre, one that opens new horizons. I’m sure that one day we will be approached by our fellow theatre makers in the hope of drawing out from us our memories of this period, which I sum up in one sentence: one great big, and rare, celebration.⁸⁶

Summary Aloni was a trailblazer of Israeli theatre from the 1950s onwards, who broke with conventions and crossed boundaries both in the dramatic writing itself, and in bringing the dramatic writing to the stage. Until his

⁸⁵ Gurevitch’s eulogy was published under the title ‘The King is Dead’, Haaretz, 19 June 1998. ⁸⁶ Yehudit Livneh, ‘Teresa—23 Years of Expectation and Preparation’, Davar, 22 May 1975.

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arrival on the scene, Israeli dramatic writing was confined to realistic writing in the ‘well-made play’ tradition. He, however, saw theatre as a setting for expanding horizons, artistic experimentation, and emotional experience. When his plays challenged the audience while referencing materials that they were familiar with—such as those of Jewish tradition, or the reality of their own lives, as he did in Most Cruel the King, The Bride and the Butterfly Hunter, Aunt Lisa, and The Gypsies of Jaffa, he won praise from the critics, audiences, and theatre managers alike, and became a national treasure. But when he dared to venture outside this framework and seek inspiration in foreign sources—such as Hans Christian Andersen, Mark Twain, Napoleon’s ill-fated campaign in Russia, or in templates of myth or ritual, or Greek tragedy—which gave him artistic freedom to explore dramatic templates and theatrical techniques that were unfamiliar to Israeli audiences, he became known as a searching, questioning, and incomprehensible playwright. In his review of Aloni’s play, The Revolution and the Chicken (The Cameri, 1964), critic Moshe Ben Shaul wrote: The ‘difficulty’ with this play is [in its] communication with the entire audience. Although I believe that I could, for example relate to it—I don’t believe that everyone or indeed many people can. So the sad and recurring question is: In our current reality vis-à-vis original playwriting, etc., can a playwright afford to be disrespectful of many theatre-lovers?⁸⁷

In the decade following that production, Aloni carried on, and scored great successes with The Bride and the Butterfly Hunter, Aunt Lisa, and The Gypsies of Jaffa—but also flops such as Napoleon Dead or Alive (Bimot Theatre, 1970), One Scapegoat (Cameri, 1973), and Eddy King. In short order, admiration gave way to rejection and vocal attacks that wrecked his artistic freedom and ability to create as he saw fit. However, four years after the failure of Eddy King, Hanoch Levin staged his first tragedy—Execution—marking the first step of his own attempt at writing an Israeli tragedy. Although there is no direct evidence that Eddy King’s failure had influenced Levin’s decision to tackle this challenge, and despite the fact that Execution fared no better ⁸⁷ Moshe Ben-Shaul, ‘The Dreaming Scoundrels’, Maariv, 21 April 1964.

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than Eddy King, the dialogue with classical Greek tradition that Levin conducted in the tragedies that he ultimately wrote, from Execution (1979) to The Moaners (1999), attest to the importance of Aloni’s pioneering attempt. Following Aloni’s lead, Levin forged his own path with tragedies of his own, thereby contributing to the development of an Israeli theatrical tradition.

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9 Hanoch Levin From Ancient Myths to Modern Tragedy

As you watch your assailant with terror-struck eyes, steal a glimpse beyond his shoulder, as well. The tips of the trees move slowly, behind them a deep sky; the calm is inexpressible. There is the striking hand, but behind it— there is always something else. Don’t forget to look beyond the shoulder. —Hanoch Levin¹

Hanoch Levin, the most important and prolific playwright in Israel since the Six Day War (1967), embarked in the 1970s upon the theatrical path that Nissim Aloni had blazed before him in the Israeli theatre.² Levin was born in Tel Aviv on 18 December 1943, and died there on 18 August 1999. Born into a religious family—descendants of distinguished Polish Hassidic rabbis—his initial education was religious. He grew up in the working-class neighbourhood of southern Tel Aviv. His father died when he was twelve, compelling him to leave school to help his mother support ¹ Hanoch Levin, The Dreamer, in Plays, vol. 7 (Tel Aviv: Siman Kriah Books, Hakibbutz Hameuchad, and Sifrei Tel Aviv, 1999), 143. Translated by Jeanette Malkin. ² In the history of Israeli theatre, Aloni is regarded as the most important and original playwright of the 1948 (Independence) Generation, while Levin is considered the most important and prolific playwright since the Six Day War (1967).

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the family. He completed high school while working as a messenger. In his military service, he served in an anti-tank unit of the Air Force. He grew up in Israel in the 1950s and 1960s, in a society still in the throes of formation and consolidation. It was a society gripped by tensions arising from acute differences between native-born Israelis and immigrants; between rich and poor; Mizrahis (Jewish immigrants from North Africa and the Middle East) and Ashkenazis (Jews of Northern or East European origin); and Jews and Arabs—differences that intensified even further after the 1967 war. Like many playwrights of his generation, Levin had been raised on the Israeli drama of the ‘Independence Generation’, whose works depicted life that reflected Zionist ideology and the hegemonic discourse, within the dramatic template of a ‘well-made play’. Its purpose was to establish a stage–audience relationship based mainly on the spectators’ ability to identify with what was being portrayed on stage. Levin’s offerings, however, were cast in an entirely different mould. He always placed himself outside the hegemonic discourse, and challenged the prevailing view by presenting the horrors of war from the perspective of its immediate victims, or of a distant and detached observer.³ Reading Levin’s plays today, it is apparent that throughout his writing career, he responded to the social and political processes that became increasingly entrenched in Israeli society during the 1970s. Levin, like Aloni, learned the theatre craft at the theatre. He tried out new materials and learned the stage language while writing and directing his plays. In each play that he wrote in a new style, he used a particular dramatic template that he deconstructed and rebuilt, so that each étude became a play in its own right. He understood also that unlike European playwrights, who forged their dramatic style by responding to their respective native dramatic traditions, he was compelled, in each play, to search for a common ground with his audience before he could engage them in a substantive dialogue. To this end, he constantly shifted between ‘Athens’ and ‘Jerusalem’—i.e. between the Western theatrical tradition with its established templates and conventions, and the Jewish tradition, culture, and ethics that he shared with his audience, from which he drew the historical memory, the

³ For Levin’s political cabarets, see Chapter 5.

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fondness for debate and sophistry, the perennial questioning, and the plaintive cry. Examining Levin’s oeuvre as a whole, it is clear that over the years he entered into an extensive dialogue not only with Aeschylus and Euripides but also with Calderón de la Barca, Shakespeare, Marlowe, Racine, Oscar Wilde, Chekhov, Brecht, Ionesco, and Beckett. Studying their approaches to questions about the materials of drama, the strategies of poetic dramatic writing, and their means and syntax of constructing a visual, metaphorical stage language, he reworked their models, linked them to the Israeli present, and presented a humanistic message to his audiences.

Israel in the Aftermath of the Six Day War (1967) Israel’s decisive victory and the ensuing national euphoria sowed the seeds of the storms that appeared in the following decade (the 1970s)— perhaps the most turbulent period since the War of Independence—and transformed the character and image of Israeli society.⁴ The victory did not give rise to the possibility of peace, but precipitated two further wars within short order, at the instigation of the leaders of the defeated Arab countries: the long and painful War of Attrition (1967–70), and the shocking Yom Kippur War (1973). At the same time, the Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO), in view of the Arab countries’ failure to bring about the return of the Occupied Territories or to resolve the refugee problem, resorted to an armed struggle of guerrilla warfare and terrorist attacks within Israel and without.⁵ These, in turn, prompted Israel to launch the First Lebanon War in 1981. On the political front, the Yom Kippur War exposed the blinkered approach of the political leadership of the ruling Labour Party, and paved the way for a dramatic political upset in May 1977, when the right-wing Likud party, headed by Menahem Begin, won the elections for the first time and came to power. ⁴ As clearly reflected in the title of Tom Segev’s book on the war in its original, Hebrew edition—1967: Haaretz Shintah et Panehah [‘1967: The Country is Transformed’]. In English, the book is known as: 1967: Israel, the War and the Year that Transformed the Middle East, trans. Jessica Cohen (New York: Metropolitan Books, 2007). ⁵ Shapira, Israel: A History, 348.

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But, that very same war brought some hope, as it also ultimately led to the decision by the Egyptian president Anwar Sadat to visit Jerusalem and start negotiations for peace between Egypt and Israel. In the wake of the rapid transition from the fear of catastrophe that preceded the war to the sense of euphoria from its glorious victory— a transition that was perceived in Israel and in the Jewish world as a ‘miracle’—certain political and social processes took hold. Linking politics with religion, they gave theological legitimacy to Israel’s position against the return of the territories occupied during the war; to launching an enterprise of Jewish settlement throughout those territories; to the assimilation of notions such as ‘a just war’, ‘Greater Israel’, ‘returning to the land of the forefathers’, and ‘renewal of Zionist fulfilment’ in social and political discourse; and to the emergence of messianic ideas by rabbis and religious Zionist leaders, such as Rabbi Zvi Yehuda Kook’s declaration, ‘Settling the land hastens the Day of Redemption.’⁶ On the economic front, the 1970s also witnessed powerful economic and social changes: the boost in economic activity and foreign investments pulled the economy out of recession. The government began investing in fortifying the new borders,⁷ in new settlements in the Sinai Peninsula and in the West Bank, and in roads. Because of the speed with which this was all done—without tenders, and with no financial or operational oversight—an entire class of newly rich contractors emerged, as they reaped huge profits from paving roads in the Sinai or managing construction projects in the Occupied Territories.⁸ At the same time, the early signs of economic prosperity began to show in the country at large: the standard of living began to rise, and with the introduction of television broadcasting in Israel (1968), Israelis were introduced to

⁶ Aviezer Ravitzky, Messianism, Zionism, and Jewish Religious Radicalism, trans. Michael Swirsky and Jonathan Chipman (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996). ⁷ Including the Bar-Lev Line of fortifications on the Suez Canal—Israel’s own ‘Maginot Line’—a 160 km-long line of fortifications built along the Suez Canal after 1968, as a first line of defence for the IDF forces permanently stationed along the western shore of the Sinai Peninsula. In the Yom Kippur War (1973), however, the line was overrun by the Egyptians in the first day of their assault. ⁸ Oren Barak and Gabriel Sheffer, ‘The Israeli Military Complex and its Effect’, in An Army With a Country, ed. Gabriel Sheffer, Oren Barak, and Amiram Oren (Jerusalem: Carmel, 2007), 16–44.

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Western-style consumer culture, and economic disparities in the society grew. As Anita Shapira points out: In the reality of the 1970s, with the emergence of a new middle class comprising people from the liberal professions, businessmen, and various types of contractors, and clearly oriented toward capitalism, the old socialist slogans sounded hollow.⁹

One of the most significant trends in the country in the 1970s was privatization.¹⁰ In the wake of the right-wing Likud party’s rise to power in 1977, the economy changed to one founded on a free market based on entrepreneurship and competition, with reduced involvement of the government and other public institutions in the economy and of government oversight of market activities, and sharp cutbacks of public expenditure in those areas.¹¹ This economic transformation also triggered social changes that were ‘primarily about the replacement of the cooperative ethos of the “melting pot” with a more individualistic and liberal one’.¹² At the social level, the polarization between the political right and left and between different sectors of the population became ever more acute. Huge demonstrations were held, demanding the righting of past wrongs and for civil rights to be upheld. These included the Israeli ‘Black Panthers’ protests of 1971; the general strike in the Arab sector and the protest demonstrations in March 1976 throughout the country against the appropriation of Arab lands, which heralded the public, open, and defiant establishment of a new collective (Israeli Arab) identity;¹³ the ‘Tents Movement’ protests that broke out in the poverty-stricken Katamonim neighbourhood in Jerusalem and spread to two other lowincome neighbourhoods throughout the city (1978–81);¹⁴ the founding ⁹ Shapira, Israel: A History, 348. ¹⁰ Asaf Shapira, ‘Key Privatisation Processes in Israel’, Parlament 64, The Institute of Israeli Democracy, 2012, (accessed 30 March 2017). ¹¹ Ibid. In Israel, the term ‘the Third Sector’ (in Hebrew, Hamigzar Hashlishi) is a blanket term for non-profit, non-governmental organizations. See Karin Tamar Sharfman, ‘The Privatisation and Strengthening of the Third Sector in Israel’, Parlament 64, The Institute of Israeli Democracy, 2012, (accessed 30 March 2017). ¹² Shapira, ‘Key Privatisation Processes’. ¹³ Oren Yiftahel, ‘Land Day’, in Fifty to Forty Eight, ed. Ophir, 279–89. ¹⁴ Sami Shalom Chetrit, ‘The Tents Movement’, in Fifty to Forty Eight, ed. Ophir, 291–300.

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of the anti-occupation Yesh Gvul (‘There is a Limit/Border’) movement (1978); the founding of the ‘Peace Now’ movement and its demands that the government begin peace negotiations (1978); the founding of TAMI—the first political party explicitly representing Mizrahi Jews (1978)—and its religious counterpart, SHAS (1982), and their tremendous political success among the Jewish immigrants from North Africa and the Middle East. All these protests revealed the fragmentation of Israeli society that grew ever more acute in the following decades.

The Israeli Theatre in the Aftermath of the Six Day War Israeli playwrights of the 1970s responded to these political, social, and economic changes and used the stage to reflect the emergence of the new reality in the life of the people and of the country. The 1970s were undoubtedly the heyday of Israeli drama—starting with the arrival of Oded Kotler as artistic director to the Haifa Municipal Theatre, where, together with director Nola Chilton and actor Amnon Meskin, they established a breeding ground for young playwrights. This framework gave rise to the staging of Nola Chilton and Mohammed Watad’s production Co-Existence (1970), and the performance of plays by Yehoshua Sobol, Hillel Mittelpunkt, Danny Horowitz, and Yaakov Shabtai.¹⁵ These playwrights consciously took on social and political issues and used their plays to raise weighty questions about the relationships within the different groups that had built Israeli society since its inception, and about attitudes towards the Arabs. Levin was also at the Haifa Municipal Theatre in the first half of the 1970s. It was there that his comedy Hefetz (1972) was first staged, directed by Oded Kotler, and his comedies Krum (1974) and Shitz (1975), which he himself directed. However, Levin was from the start different from the other playwrights. First, he had already burst into the national consciousness with the three political cabarets he wrote after the Six Day War,¹⁶ and following the storm of controversy surrounding his Queen of a Bathtub (1970). Second, in light of the violent reactions of ¹⁵ Yehoshua Sobol (The Following Days, 1971; The Night of the 20th, 1976), Hillel Mittelpunkt (The Last Hope of Nachmani St., 1974; The Monkey and Little Shraga, 1975), Danny Horowitz (Brothers, 1969; Graduation Party, 1976), and Yaakov Shabtai (A Spotted Tiger, 1974). ¹⁶ See Chapter 5.

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audiences to his political cabarets, he had already decided to write plays that would enable him to bring about a change of mind-set in the audience—not by means of a full frontal assault, but by exploring and experimenting with traditional comic and absurd templates. Third, while other playwrights and directors were preoccupied with themes and ideas, Levin was already interested in stage images, and tried to define and enrich his theatrical language. Finally, when most of his contemporaries chose to present the historical and contemporary events in a realistic and documentary style, Levin chose to treat Israeli reality as fiction, and began writing comedies in two traditional forms: the ‘New Comedy’ in the tradition from Plautus to Molière, and the melancholy/plaintive comedy in its various guises from Alfred de Musset to Anton Chekhov. Through these templates, and with distinctive dialogues that revealed subtext rather than text, and humour mixed with pain, Levin showed the audience the social hierarchy of contemporary Israeli society and the gaps between the country’s central region and its periphery; and between the rich and the poor; the powerful, hegemonic elites and the defenceless and poor, widows and orphans, new immigrants and Arabs. These neighbourhood comedies established Levin as a firm favourite of Israeli audiences, and placed his plays at the heart of the theatrical endeavour in Israel. The decision to take up classical Greek tragedy was not an obvious course of action in Israel of the 1970s. By the end of the decade, only nine such tragedies had been staged in the country—mostly in translationadaptation. Few of these were well received by audiences and theatre critics.¹⁷ But, the fate of three performances presented in the 1970s—The Bacchae by Euripides (adapted and directed by Arieh Sachs, 1972),¹⁸ Eddy King (written and directed by Nissim Aloni, 1975), and Oedipus Tyrannus by Sophocles (translated by Aharon Shabtai and directed by Edna Shavit, 1977)—revealed to Levin that tackling classical Greek tragedy was a fascinating creative challenge, and a dangerous one. These three performances were not only critically panned and misunderstood by audiences, but irreparably damaged their authors’ careers: Arieh Sachs and Edna Shavit left the theatre and returned to academic life, and Nissim Aloni stopped writing for the theatre altogether. Levin witnessed their attempts, identified with their pain of rejection, and shaped his own response in ¹⁷ See analyses of these productions in various chapters throughout the book. ¹⁸ See Chapter 4.

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Execution (1979), a ‘cruel operetta’ influenced by Artaud’s vision of the ‘theatre of cruelty’, a ceremonial and metaphorical act. Levin’s decision to tackle classical Greek tragedy was a conscious decision that was both a long journey to the roots of theatre and an attempt to present a humanistic stand against any kind of oppression. Most of the basic ingredients of Levinesque tragic world are already introduced in Execution: the arbitrary nature of human destiny; the existential struggle for survival; the loneliness, violence, seduction, supplication, and humiliation that make up an individual’s fate. The play demonstrated Levin’s search for a universal metaphor of human suffering, and the performance presented Levin’s directorial vision: a powerful stage image—through the actor’s body, voice, and movements, the stage design, costumes, lighting, and music—in an integrated composition of beauty, poetry, and aesthetics that belied the horrors expressed in the words and the violence enacted on stage. Execution was a flop with critics and audiences alike: it ran for only nineteen performances, amid scathing reviews and outright rejection by Cameri theatregoers, who were appalled by its violence and failed to appreciate its poetry and music. Judging by his subsequent plays, the lesson that Levin took away from the poor reception of Execution was that he needed to find a cultural common ground with his audience— one that could serve as a basis for dialogue, albeit still a harsh and unnerving one. Accordingly, he turned to ancient myths and classical Greek tragedy. In this chapter, I present Hanoch Levin’s readings of Euripides and Aeschylus. Analysing Levin’s versions of Euripides’ Alcestis (Everybody Wants to Live) and Ion (The Emperor) and Aeschylus’ Agamemnon (The Moaners), I hope to identify the dramaturgical strategies by which Levin transformed ancient myths into contemporary Israeli tragedies.

Levin’s Dialogue with Euripides When he was still taking his first steps in Greek classical tragedy, experimenting with The Tribulations of Job (1981), and The Great Whore of Babylon (1982), another historic event took place—the Second Lebanon War (1981), conceived as a show of force by the then Defence Minister Ariel Sharon in a deliberate deception of Prime Minister Menahem Begin and the entire nation with regard to its scale. The

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need to respond to this unjust war prompted Levin to study Euripides’ The Trojan Women, and present to the public his own version—The Lost Women of Troy (1984).¹⁹ Levin’s prologue replaced Athena and Poseidon by an absent God—‘The Great Artist up above calmly puts the final touches to the picture of war’,²⁰—and accentuated the cruelty of the war between the Greeks and the Trojans by highlighting the conflict between the sexes and the subjugation of the women. It is not surprising that Levin began by engaging in a dramaturgical dialogue with the tragedies of Euripides—who, in Aristophanes’ Frogs, declared that he trained his audience to reason, examine, think, see, and be constantly vigilant, towards everything.²¹ Euripides, Levin felt, ‘invites a playwright to engage in a dialogue, and his plays are more amenable to adaptation and rewriting than others’.²² Reading Euripides’ Alcestis and Ion from the point of view of a twentieth-century Israeli playwright, Levin found an existential struggle for survival: men’s total domination over women; questions about the boundaries of humanism and a violation of fundamental values such as the basic rights of women and children—the ultimate victims of such crimes. In Alcestis’ offer to die instead of Admetus (as a token of her love and subordination, in blatant disregard of her own right to live, granted her from birth) Levin also saw an act of human sacrifice, and Ion’s cruel fate as symbolic of a sacrificial lamb. Several dramatic and visual elements characterize the versions that Levin created in his plays: first, a fictional world involving representatives of various strata of existence—gods and demi-gods; an emperor; a feudal lord; men, women, and children of various ages; eunuchs, slaves, and maidservants; action based on myths and legends from various cultures. Second, a construction of scenes using both the comic and the tragic, violence and the absurd, melodrama and black humour—to accentuate the sense of destruction and loss of way. Third, the violation of norms in relation to the rights of women and children. Fourth, a search for verbal and visual imagery to highlight the violent metaphorical aspect

¹⁹ See the analyses of these fascinating productions in Chapters 4 and 8. ²⁰ For a detailed discussion of Levin’s The Lost Women of Troy see Chapter 6. ²¹ Aristophanes, Frogs, trans. Alan H. Sommerstein (Warminster: Aris & Phillips 1996), ll. 971–9. ²² Levin, in conversation with the author while working on Open-Mouthed (1995).

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of oppression, the struggle for survival, and human sacrifices. Finally, a deconstruction of the arguments presented in various scenes, and examining them one by one in the light of the play’s context and the audience’s conventional beliefs, and a methodical examination of the vraisemblance, so that spectators cannot seek refuge in fantasy, and are obliged to wake up and respond to what is happening in front of them.

Everyone Wants to Live: contesting Alcestis’ sacrifice (1985) Everyone Wants to Live is based on plays of two different periods: Alcestis by Euripides (produced as a fourth play in 438 BCE), and Everyman—a morality play by an unknown medieval writer.²³ Both plays present a man’s struggle with death. Euripides’ Alcestis is rooted in ancient Greek mythology, and involves a god (Apollo), a hero (Hercules), a king (Admetus), and his wife, the eponymous heroine. Each of them faces death and deals with it in his own way: Apollo leaves the scene when Death arrives (because a god cannot be present with Death in the same space); Admetus accepts his wife’s offer to die in his stead, as a natural gift that he deserves; Alcestis embraces death as her own fate and succumbs without a struggle; and Hercules wrestles with Death, triumphs over it, and brings Alcestis back home. In Everyman, the playwright chooses the Christian dogma as a template on which to construct his morality play. Everyman meets Death twice during his convivial life—and on both occasions, his wishes are granted. At their first meeting, he asks for more time on earth; at their second meeting, he wishes to bring a friend along to ease his journey from this world to the next. When his search for a companion fails, Everyman learns that his ‘good deeds’ are his most important assets, which will gladly go with him to his grave. Juxtaposing the two dramatic plots, Levin examines the theological and cultural attitudes towards life and its values, and death and its losses, and questions the plausibility of Alcestis’ loyalty to her husband, her self-sacrifice and her deliverance.

²³ The production premiered in March 1985. Hanoch Levin directed; stage design was by Ruth Dar; musical score Yoni Rechter; choreography Oshra Elkayam; and lighting Brian Harris. The cast included Yosef Carmon (Pozna), Gita Munte (Poznaboucha), Sasson Gabai (Bamba), Edna Flidel (Pozna’s mother), Avner Hizkiyahu (Pozna’s father), Yitzhak Hiskiya (Angel of Death), Ilan Dar (Gulgalevitch), and Dror Taplitzki as Sof-Tof Rachmaninof. The rest of the cast portrayed villagers and guests at Pozna’s Ball.

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The action of Everybody Wants to Live is set in a remote medieval village, where lords stand in for classical Greek gods and heroes. The character of Admetus is represented by a rural count by the name of Pozna, who lives with his elderly parents, his wife Poznaboucha, who, unlike Alcestis, is not at all submissive, and his children (collectively known as the Poznasmarks). Pozna heads the local social hierarchy, followed by his black slave Bamba, and a host of guests—actors, fortune-tellers, a gravedigger, invalids, and a young boy—the bootblack. Parallel with this medieval village world is a celestial community of angels, headed by Jach Mavetzki as the Angel of Death, his apprentice Gulgalevich whose son Gulgaleh accompanies his father at work during his holidays; and finally Sof-Tof Rachmaninof who, as his name suggests (in Hebrew), is the Angel of Redemption.²⁴ The play begins with Pozna’s litany of complaints after a supper in which—alas and alack—the Hungarian salami was served without Dijon mustard. Just as he comes to the end of his rant with the plaintive cry, ‘O, I cannot go on living without Dijon!’,²⁵ the Deputy Angel of Death appears and tells him that his day has come (‘I have come to release you, as they say, from your misery’—Scene 2). He grips Pozna by the neck with both hands and proceeds to throttle him. However, discovering that his name had been misspelt on his celestial death warrant (Potzna instead of Pozna), Pozna forces the Deputy to summon the Angel of Death himself and inform him of the error. In response, the Angel of Death storms in, grants Pozna three days to find a substitute to die in his stead, and in his fury at the clerical error strangles Gulgaleh in front of his father—who pleads, in vain, ‘Have mercy on him—he’s only a boy . . . [sobs] just a boy . . . ’ (Scene 3). Thus, in the first three ²⁴ The characters’ names in Levin’s plays are distinctive, and play a key part in his playwriting style, as they each evoke the character’s role and occupation, by alluding to particular Jewish or Israeli words or names and specific prefixes or suffixes, rhythm, intonation, and pronunciation. Thus, Mavetzki is a result of appending the typical Polish surname suffix -ski to the Hebrew word for death (‘Deathski’); Gulgalevich (‘Skullson’), and Gulgaleh (‘Skulley’) are also associative with death; Sof-Tof Rachmaninof (‘Ends-Well DeMercy’) is a play on the Hebrew words for end and mercy. The name Pozna (pron. ‘Potzna’) is a reference both to Poznan—an ancient Polish town with a Jewish community dating back to the thirteenth century—but also to potz—the Hebrew rendition of the Yiddish word putz (a foolish or obnoxious person). See Ruvik Rosenthal, Dictionary of Hebrew Idioms and Phrases (Jerusalem: Keter Books, 2009), 413. ²⁵ Dijon mustard, like baguettes and croissants, was emblematic of French cuisine that accompanied the new prosperity in Israel after 1967.

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scenes, Levin frames the dramatic situation—a man facing his fate—and encourages his audience to join him in his examination of human behaviour in face of death.²⁶ But this was only the beginning. By insisting that a play should echo the worldview of its time, Levin not only used his sources as a foundation, but challenged them, as well. From the outset, he reveals his frustration with Alcestis’ ‘invisibility’ to all the other characters in Euripides’ original play, and refused to accept that her actions in that version are believable (‘People do not do such things’)—or that the gods go out of their way to help people. Accordingly, his rendition serves as a compare-and-contrast study between the plays. Euripides’ play begins shortly before Alcestis’ death, when all that remains is for her to perform the farewell rites of mourning and death; the audience is not privy to any misgivings or doubts that she might have had—her decision is not even questioned. Levin, on the other hand, who believes in the sanctity of life above all else, opens his play with Pozna’s comic rant and the hilarious typographical error in the death warrant issued in the ‘celestial world’— which is portrayed as an autonomous realm, stripped of its holiness, where angels live in a parallel, orderly, and strict hierarchy. Just as Levin has lulled his spectators into relaxing in their seats, waiting for a light comedy, he shatters their illusion with the abrupt, cruel, gratuitous murder of the young Gulgaleh, setting a scene where a father begs an executioner to spare his child—a scene immediately recognizable by every Israeli spectator from the testimonies of Holocaust survivors. Another compare-and-contrast study takes place in the scene where Admetus confronts his father. In Alcestis, their meeting takes place at Alcestis’ funeral, and is very emotional. Admetus accuses his father of betraying him by not offering his own life to save his son (lines 706–13). In Levin’s version, Pozna appeals to his parents only after every person he has asked—his black slave, Bamba; a pregnant and abandoned country girl; a hunchback; an amputee; a leper; and a dying man—all refuse die in his place, in full view of the audience, on the grounds that, despite their troubles and afflictions, they prefer to live. In this scene, the key question of whether one should give up one’s life for the sake of another ²⁶ The hierarchy of the Angels of Death in the play provides the vertical axis that Levin had previously established in the comedy A Winter Funeral and in the tragedy The Tribulations of Job, and paves the way to populating the ‘beyond’ in the world of Levinesque tragedy.

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stirs up a host of emotions between the parents and their son, as each one clearly presents his or her reasons for their refusal. The Father: And tell me, my ageing child, how is your life worthier than mine? How is your enema a sublime purpose, while mine is . . . —just an enema? And is it I who must feel ashamed? Anyone sentenced to death knows that that death is his, and his alone, and not a saleable item—only you, you pants-wetter, run and try and pass on your death to someone else, like a hot potato?! Who and what are you? On what grounds? This is your potato— you eat it! ... The Mother: [bursts into tears] My child, I am so ashamed, but in the face of death I, too, am but a baby, and I, too, had a mother; and when I go out into the street after a sleepless night, my old bones also seek the sweet sunlight . . . I am so ashamed, my son, but it is so sweet for me, sweet. ²⁷ The fact that Pozna’s search for a substitute is carried out in full view of the audience allows Levin to explore Pozna’s egocentricity, and to build up to the ultimate confrontation between him and his wife. Unlike Alcestis, Poznaboucha is not willing to sacrifice herself to save her husband—yet, in a moment of weakness, during the ball that she has organized for Pozna, is suddenly struck by nostalgic memories of their love and seized by such strong emotions that she forgets herself and, in a melodramatic tone, exclaims: Poznabucha: O, my man, my love, my little boy—what is my life without you?! [Pozna embraces her] Oh mon Dieu [bursts into a torrent of tears, and wails]—O people, oh humanity, in two days’ time, on Friday, I shall die instead of Pozna my husband!! [Sinks into Pozna’s arms, who stands, thunderstruck]²⁸ However, within moments she recovers, and apologizes for her momentary lapse. In Euripides’ play, Alcestis’ impending death provides a moving scene in which the husband, wife, and children all lament her imminent

²⁷ Levin, Everyone Wants to Live, Scene 10.

²⁸ Ibid., Scene 13.

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departure—but Levin, who questions Alcestis’ noble gesture, subjects such selflessness to further scrutiny, and demonstrates how violent the fight for survival between husband and wife can become. Once she has made the vow, Poznaboucha badgers Pozna in the hope of finding a reason to revoke it—to the point where they come to a horrendous revenge on one another—she by having him castrated for catching him in flagrante delicto with the prostitute Tzitzi (‘Titty’), and he by flinging acid in her face when he discovers that she has decided, after a passionate embrace with the young and healthy gravedigger, not to die in his stead, after all (Scene 24). Levin’s response to Euripides, then, is clear: Alcestis’ sacrifice is absurd, because it is totally at odds with human nature. Life is sacred, and its purpose is a simple one—to live; there is no higher purpose. To take someone’s life is murder, and to give up your own life for someone is self-sacrifice.²⁹ Indeed, while the final scene in Euripides’ Alcestis suggests an implausibly happy ending (Hercules prevails over Death, and brings Alcestis home, however artificial and illusional that may seem), Levin—who refuses to believe in miracles or salvation, and sees Chance as the ultimate arbiter—ends Everyone Wants to Live on a horrible, violent note, offering a young boy as the ultimate innocent victim. Since Pozna has failed to find someone to take his place, the Angel of Death arrives to meet him at the appointed time, grabs him by the throat and begins to strangle him, when suddenly Sof-Tof Rachmaninof, the Angel of Redemption, arrives—in a sort of grotesque deus ex machina— declaring that he has arrived on God’s behalf and that ‘our heroes shall not die’ (Scene 25). But the Angel of Death refuses to relinquish Pozna, because he has a quota to fill. As he speaks, a poor young bootblack happens to pass by at a distance, carrying his gear and calling ‘Shoeshine! Shoeshine! Shine and bright as a killer’s eye!’ Spotting the boy, Rahmaninov whispers something in Pozna’s ear, who calls to the boy: Pozna: Would you like to trade places with me? Boy [giggles, embarrassed]: Who wouldn’t want to own an estate? Pozna: Smart child. [Throws him a coin; points to Mavetski] You see that fellow over there? That’s an angel from heaven. Go and tell him: ‘I’d like to switch places with the Count.’ He may listen to you. ²⁹ As evident in Levin’s poem Because Even in Just War: ‘If I don’t live my life, no one will live it for me’, in Why Should the Bird Care?, 16.

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The boy laughs and shyly approaches the Angel of Death: Boy: Mr. Angel, I would like to switch places with Mr. Count. Pozna: Everyone heard him! [To Mavetski] Did you hear that? He’s willing to change places with me! What are you waiting for?! Mavetzski: [fit to burst with anger at the ruse—then, as though tired of it all] This is a sham, but I’ve had enough—Sheesh! [and in a quick gesture of anger and impatience, grabs the child by the neck and throttles him as he sets out to attend to other problems]. Well—who doesn’t want to die? The swiftness of the short last scene and the cruel deception of the child³⁰—left the spectators aghast. However, that was not all: Levin had prepared for his spectators another surprise, by ending the performance with a beautiful stage image—a theatrical, grotesque vision of empty jackets as invisible angels (Figure 9.1). Everybody Wants to Live was a triumph, both artistically and commercially. Although it contained violent scenes, these were balanced by the humour, parody, and fantasy surrounding the appearance of the Angels, the grotesque dances at the Ball at Pozna’s residence, and the beauty of the stage design, the ceremonial music, and the mise-en-scène. The overall image of the production was that of a folk tale that the spectators and critics were happy to embrace. Michael Handezalts wrote: The angel Sof-Tof Rachmaninof, in the best tradition of the royal operetta, appears at the end to save the protagonists from death, leaving them in tears, ignoble and gutless, to trudge to the beautiful horizon with what they have learned about themselves. The good ending is only salt on the wounds of life— of the protagonists and of the audience alike.³¹

And under the headline ‘Entertained to Death’, Sarit Fuchs wrote: Euripides, Everyman, the wisdom of the Talmudic Sages, a Buddhist parable, Alice Through the Looking Glass, Danse Macabre—all of mythology is grist to Levin’s mill as he pokes fun at Existentialism (which is nothing new in his case): it

³⁰ On the role of the child in Levin’s plays, see Zahava Caspi, Those Who Sit in the Dark: The Dramatic World of Hanoch Levin (Beer-Sheva and Jerusalem: Ben-Gurion University of the Negev and Keter Books, 2005), 79–110. ³¹ Michael Handelzalts, The Theatre of Hanoch Levin (Tel-Aviv: Miskal-Yedioth Ahronoth Books and Chemed Books, 2001), 123.

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Figure 9.1 Everybody Wants to Live by Hanoch Levin, The Cameri Theatre (1985). Director: Hanoch Levin; stage design: Ruth Dar. Final scene: ‘A Grotesque Epiphany’. Photograph by Srulik Haramaty.

is not Death that spurs people to have a meaningful life, but rather Life that prompts people to have a meaningless one—a life of a narcissistic ego bloated with gas.³²

However, the suffering and death of the young, and the unresponsiveness of the adults, continued to haunt Levin.

The Emperor: Ion’s sufferings and spectators’ apathy (1999) Levin’s play The Emperor was written in 1996.³³ Its subheading notes that it is ‘based on Euripides’ Ion’—one of the few tragedies in which Levin explicitly refers to his source. Its didaskalia reads ‘The entire play takes part in one day, between noon and sunset, in front of the Emperor’s palace’, clearly referring the reader and performer to the conventions of classical Greek drama. In Ion, Euripides’ presents the myth of Ion—a key character in the dynasty of Erechtheus, Athens’ first king and personification of Athenians’ ³² Sarit Fuchs, ‘Entertained to Death’, Maariv, 11 March 1985. ³³ Levin, Plays, vol. 8, 109–57. The play has not yet been staged.

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autochthonous identity and their connection to the goddess Athena. While the Greek myth (which the audience hears in the prologue delivered by Hermes) singles out Ion for a glorious future, Ion himself knows nothing about it. The discovery of his identity and the fulfilment of his destiny is one of suffering riddled with misidentification, fatal dangers, great violence, vengeance and murder, and quick reversals from ignorance to knowledge. Only after Ion learns who he really is, he is able to return with Creusa to Athens and assume his rightful place in the royal dynasty. Apollo—who, despite his absence on stage, is responsible for the chain of events and for the characters’ fate, as made clear to the spectators by repeated retellings of the story of the rape by Hermes and by Creusa, by the Chorus’ paeans, and by the priestess of Pythian Apollo, who recounts how she found the baby at the entrance to the god’s temple—enriches the tragedy with overtones of dramatic irony. Gout-Stricken Eunuch: Emperor’s palace

The place is the epicentre of the world—the

The time: one of the pinnacle moments of history—his birthday. From all over the empire, a throng of kings and princes stream in to receive his blessing. Thus, place and time converge before our eyes For an event the likes of which has never been seen before. So it is every year—and so, too, today [Chapter I]³⁴ The world in The Emperor is a social hierarchy, with the Emperor at the top, representing the Father, or God, on earth, and the nobility, commoners, and eunuchs beneath him. Gout-Stricken Eunuch [in a thundering voice]: Who is the Emperor? Why, he is our lord and sovereign We are all, if you will, issued from his loins, And now that we’re born, we stand beneath him, open-mouthed and staring, gazing at the cuffs of his trousers as he descends from the chariot. That’s how high we shall climb —that’s how high a mortal’s power may reach. [Chapter V]

³⁴ The play is divided into twelve chapters.

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The cast of characters is limited: three Eunuchs, a Youth, a Princess, King and Queen, the Queen’s lover, and a woman servant (the boy’s governess). The life story of the Youth—who represents the children and adolescent victims in Levin’s tragedies—is the complete opposite of the mythical mould of a child destined for greatness, as described by Otto Rank in The Myth of the Birth of the Hero.³⁵ In Euripides’ Ion, the eponymous protagonist is cast out of his home and family as a baby into a foreign and alienating environment, where he endures a life of servitude and loneliness until his true identity is revealed—whereupon he finds his mother and returns home to a life of greatness. But in Levin’s The Emperor, the Youth is denied this journey: in the opening scene, he is ‘bent over a laundry tub’, washing the Emperor’s bed linen. Later, he is branded on his forehead with a hot iron for an error that he has made, and subsequently castrated for someone else’s mistake. In Levin’s play, the Eunuchs—a group of servants who share the common condition of castration—are distinguished by their respective medical complaints (Gout-Stricken, Haemorrhoidal, and Ulcer-Ridden), and occupy a special position, at the margins of the action. As such, they are the most explicit representation of the Chorus in ancient Greek drama, physically embodying one of its defining traits: the ability to witness and report, to feel fear or pity—but not act. As the Eunuchs describe further details about the Emperor’s world— the annual festivities in his honour being the highlight of the year; the sanctity of the venue (‘the epicentre of the world’); and how he can foretell the future—the association with Apollo and Delphi is reinforced. At first blush, the Youth, as the washer of the Emperor’s bed linen, whose life is entirely duty-oriented and surrounds the laundry tub, preserved in a state of ‘outside life’, is much like Euripides’ Ion. But on closer inspection the Youth’s laundry washing—a mundane, menial, routine, and simple element—is quite different from Ion’s position as the custodian of Apollo’s treasures, and underlines one of the differences between Euripides’ play and Levin’s, since in the latter there are no gods—only mortals who are worshipped as such, and the movements of their subjects. ³⁵ Otto Rank, The Myth of the Birth of the Hero: A Psychological Interpretation of Mythology, trans. Gregory C. Richter and E. James Lieberman (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004).

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Princess: Have you ever been outside? Youth: No. Princess: I come from outside. From far away. I’m a princess. Youth: I’m happy here—I’m warm. Princess: Look, birds! Youth: I hate birds. They fly overhead, leave droppings on the laundry and foul everything. Princess: Look—flowers! Youth: I hate flowers. They leave pollen and sticky juice on the cuffs of one’s clothes, which don’t come out in the wash. Princess: Laundry and laundry—and life? [Chapter I] The Princess is a young girl, daughter of the king and queen of the North Island. She was sent by her parents to bring their good wishes to the Emperor on his birthday and to take part in the festivities. When she hears that she must wait because the queue for an audience with the Emperor is long, she lies down on a rug that Haemorrhoidal Eunuch has put down for her beside the palace entrance, and asks Gout-Stricken Eunuch to tell her a story. He complies immediately, bidding her ‘Close your eyes and I shall begin.’ Thus, Levin turns the Princess into a spectator who watches the Youth’s story as a theatrical performance. The Princess has a dual role in the play: she is one of the guests who have arrived to celebrate the Emperor’s birthday, but she also acts as a spectator who follows the action that unfolds in front of her, and as the dozing spectator who has difficulty in following the events. She falls asleep between one scene and the next, and awakens with a start only when one of the characters cries out in pain or yelps with joy. The Gout-Stricken Eunuch tells the Princess the story of the boy’s birth (Chapter II), as told in Hermes’ prologue at the start of Euripides’ Ion (lines 1–40). However, it comes with a small, Levinesque addition: the insertion of hope for a happy end. The Eunuchs have an interest in the Emperor’s annual celebrations, because they have been promised that a beautiful maiden will come out of the palace gates and kiss one of them on the lips. Although the Haemorrhoidal Eunuch admits that in the thirty years that he has visited the Emperor’s palace, he has never once seen that happen, he never loses faith, as he thinks this means that his chances are all the greater of being the lucky one this year.

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At the start of Chapter III, the Youth is found to have overlooked a stain on the Emperor’s sheet, and is punished by being bound to the gatepost and told, by Ulcer-Ridden Eunuch, that he ‘will be branded on the forehead with a red-hot iron’. The Princess, who is asleep throughout this entire scene, awakes and asks, with astonishment, ‘What happened? Why has he been tied up? Why is he crying?’ (Chapter III). Then, the Queen arrives (Chapter IV) and gives a synopsis of her misery, much like Creusa in Euripides’ Ion. But when the Youth tries to tell her his life’s story, she admits that she is not interested in his plight, because she is preoccupied with her own. The Princess feels sorry for them both, and falls asleep again. The Queen tells her story, again, to Gout-Stricken Eunuch, but attributes her rape by the Emperor, her baby’s birth and his forfeiture to ‘a friend’, and claims that she’s come to find out what happened to her friend’s baby (Chapter V). The King, the Queen’s husband, arrives. A fortune-teller, whom he had consulted on his way to the festivities, had told him that he would have a son as early as today, and he has come to the Emperor to confirm it (Chapter VI). Contrary to Xuthus in Ion, the King in The Emperor is an old, dying man. Euripides is unconcerned with the passage of time, but Levin is interested in the King’s age and tries to make it plausible by taking into account the years before his arrival in Athens and the time that has passed since his marriage to the Queen, prior to their arrival at the Emperor’s palace. In Chapter VII, the Youth is branded on his forehead, shrieks, and faints. The Princess awakens, is horrified at what has been done to the Youth, then turns to Gout-Stricken Eunuch again, asks him to tell her the rest of the story, and falls asleep elegantly on the rug. The egotism of the main characters surrounding the Youth is obvious; they are mostly concerned with their personal troubles and sorrows, they talk about themselves, prefer monologues to dialogues, and pay no attention to others. However, In Chapter VIII, in the second meeting between the Youth and the old King, Levin changes the pace, and takes time to develop a dialogue that reveals the grotesque atmosphere of the situation. The Chapter opens with the Youth raising his eyes to the heavens and asking, ‘Where are you, my father?’ and he is immediately answered by the dying King who is led outside the Emperor’s reception hall: ‘I am here, my son. Lying beneath you’—a grotesque revelation, in view of the Youth’s suffering. When the King and the Youth try to come to terms

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with the reversal in their lives, Levin tries once again to resolve its implausibility. In Euripides’ play, Ion finds it difficult to believe his change of fortune (l. 520) and questions Xuthus closely as to Apollo’s precise words, the various issues surrounding his birth and his mother’s identity. Even though he learns little from Xuthus’ replies, Ion concludes the discussion by believing in what the god tells him: ‘I suppose it is not reasonable to disbelieve a god’ (l. 557),³⁶ welcomes his father, and expresses the hope that he will also find his mother (l. 565). A similar dialogue takes place in Levin’s play, as well—but while Euripides’ Ion talks about what will happen in the future (ll. 585ff.), Levin’s Youth, as a post-traumatic victim, insists on continuing to dwell on the past: Youth: How can I bridge over all the lost time? How can I look into unfamiliar eyes and call you ‘Father’? You must understand: I’m feeling very bitter: if you are my father, how could you abandon me? If I am your flesh, where have you been all this time? When I was crying in pain, you were out enjoying yourself. There is a great sadness inside me, which will not go away so easily. King: I had seen our meeting differently. I was hoping you would fall into my arms. I had hoped that we would laugh and cry together over all the time we’ve lost. Youth: You’re pitiable and sad. What a miserable meeting this is. How pathetic you are, my father. How pathetic we both are—one at the edge of a pit—the other broken. [Chapter VIII] Later, the Youth understands the problems that would arise from accepting his new identity, and rejects the King’s offer. Thus, the Levinesque character is revealed beneath Euripides’ tragic figure. Youth:

Is this what I’m really aspiring to? I wanted to live a simple life to know who my father is, and who my mother is. And if I am your son, and you love me, Let me choose my path and get away from here.

³⁶ Euripides, Ion, trans. K. H. Lee (Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1997).

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The scene ends on a sour note, as the King retorts angrily: Foolish youth! All your wisdom is summed up in this: That you will live after we die. He then collapses. The Youth, who had meant to leave, hesitates, then sits down beside the dying King. Once again, the Princess awakens, and asks what has happened, her questions reflecting the spectators’ bafflement at the speed of the chain of events. In Chapter IX, the Queen enters with Flesh Jester, her lover, whom Levin has added to the story instead of Creusa’s old servant. When she hears that her husband has a son while she herself is childless, she concludes: ‘I came to ask about a child—and have lost my world.’ The Flesh Jester persuades her to take revenge and, at her bidding, castrates the Youth. At the sound of the Youth’s screams of pain, the Princess awakens again, and once again asks, in fright: ‘What is it now? Why are people shouting now?’ In Chapter XI, servants and eunuchs leave the palace, including the young maid, who is the boy’s nanny. The scene follows the ‘recognition scene’ in Euripides’ Ion which alerts Creusa to Ion’s true identity, but in Levin’s version this recognition takes place after the deed is done, the castration is irreversible, the Youth’s fate has been sealed—and discovery of each other’s identity would change nothing. Their recognition leaves both the Youth and the Queen emotionally spent. Finally, in the last scene, everything reverts to its initial state: the Youth to the laundry tub, the Princess to her audience with the Emperor. But before she enters the palace ‘the Princess holds [the Youth’s] face in her hands and places a lingering kiss on his lips’, in front of the Eunuchs, who ‘shut their eyes and slightly part their lips, as though trying to imagine the taste themselves’. Gout-Stricken Eunuch: Let us enter the palace. Princess: And the story? Gout-Stricken Eunuch: It is over and not over. Everything returns to as it was—and it is always the same story: one person did this, and then he did that.

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Come, princess. The Emperor awaits you. Blessed be the Emperor’s name. [Chapter XII]³⁷ The Emperor—one of the harshest and most horrific of Levin’s plays—was written in 1996, approximately a year after the assassination of Prime Minister Rabin, when the country was still in deep mourning over his death. Although the play makes no direct reference to the political aftermath of the assassination, the sense of alienation and injustice, the arbitrariness of fate and a sense of a near catastrophe suffuse every scene. The character of the lonely boy who lives a life of bleak toil with no succour from anyone surrounding him becomes the central image of the human condition—a life of inexplicable, incomprehensible, and hopeless suffering. Levin’s decision to use the plot of Euripides’ Ion and the myth of Erechtheus allowed him to produce a complex, fascinating, and harsh dramaturgical study. In it, he tears the boy away from his family, his future, and the context of his birth, and casts him into nothingness, subjected to the washing tub, the branding iron, and castration. The removal of the boy from his Athenian background leaves him helpless and at the mercy and whims of everyone around him. But, Levin goes further: he also ruthlessly removes Apollo from the action—and with him, all the background to the tale, which might have given the boy a modicum of meaning, or a chance of deliverance. Without Apollo and the protection of the Erechtheus royal household, the Youth’s suffering assumes monstrous proportions. The myth, Levin signals to us, is the context. It allows the audience to see clearly ‘the bigger picture’ surrounding the protagonists, to understand the reason for their suffering, and to gain a measure of understanding or insight into their own actions. That, after all, is the underlying significance behind the performance of a tragedy, which allows the audience to gain a sense of closure, the chance to see the world returning to a state of equilibrium. The boy in The Emperor—Levin’s ultimate sacrificial lamb—is cut off from all such context and from the god, his father, leaving him only with inexplicable suffering and a purposeless daily existence in an indifferent and arbitrary world, in which the audience, too, can only look on in mute ³⁷ A paraphrase of the common expression in Jewish prayers, ‘Blessed be the Lord’s name’. Thus, the concluding line returns us to the starting point—the issue of the Emperor’s divinity.

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and open-mouthed horror at the horrendous scene, and reflect upon their responsibility for the next generations.

Levin’s Dialogue with Aeschylus: The Moaners (1999) In the final year of his life, as he edited his plays for publication, Levin wrote The Moaners.³⁸ In this characteristically striking play, Levin uses a ‘theatre within a theatre’ device to engage in dialogue with Aeschylus’ Agamemnon. The Moaners was written as Levin was himself battling cancer, as an act of defiance of fate—his own and that of humanity as a whole—and as a dual theatrical performance, through a play of mirrors between dramatic and theatrical templates that he had used in his previous works.³⁹ The play is unique, since it involves both a significant spatial constriction (that Levin himself experienced in his hospital room) with a significant temporal expansion of time (mythical, ceremonial, ritualistic), and an ardent desire for a renewed, final deployment of the dramatic and theatrical materials that had preoccupied him in the previous twenty years. Thus, Levin chose to engage with Aeschylus in a bid to define, in the face of Aeschylus’ monumental work Agamemnon, his own dramatic materials, and the elements of his own artistic language. The plot of The Moaners takes place in a ward in a hospital in Calcutta. A single bed is shared by three men: a Novice Dying Man, a Feeble Old Man, and a Veteran Dying Man, respectively representing the three final stages in a human life cycle. They are being cared for by a full medical team. As the three men lie there in agony, the medical team decides to treat them to a performance of a Greek tragedy—The Tribulations & Death of Agamemnon. The roles are divided between them in accordance ³⁸ In Hebrew, the name of the play—Habakhyanim—shares a similar metre to the Hebrew title of Aristophanes’ The Frogs (Hatzfarde’im). This was meant to hint at the dialogue that he is conducting with Aeschylus in his play, in a kind of dramatic competition similar to that which Euripides conducted with Aeschylus in Frogs. ³⁹ As anyone familiar with Levin’s work knows, the themes of illness and death in The Moaners were not only a reflection of his own illness. His urge to challenge fate, and death, and the associated sense of missed opportunities, characterized his works from the outset. However, the biographical detail about his illness at this time is important, inasmuch as he wrote the play and orchestrated its pre-production from his sickbed at the hospital, and his meetings with designers and even rehearsals with the cast were all part of this endeavour.

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with their medical hierarchy: the Chief Doctor as Agamemnon, the Deputy Doctor as Aegisthus, the Mature Nurse as Clytemnestra, the Young Nurse as Cassandra, the Orderly as the Guard, and the Sub-Orderlies as the guards and servant girls. The cyclical arrangement of events in the play draws the spectators into a ritual of dying and death, which incorporates pagan and Christian elements—from the rites of passage from life to death, through the rituals of sacrificing an innocent lamb, to crucifixion (i.e. the sacrifice of Christ, the ultimate victim in Western civilization). In the course of this ritual, which takes place in the space between physical pain, mental anguish, and fear of death, Levin repeatedly ponders fundamental existential questions—of justice, fate, the presence or absence of God, regret over missed opportunities, the banality of explanations, and the meaning of life and death. Since Levin’s dialogue with Aeschylus’ Agamemnon is presented in the form of a ‘theatre within a theatre’, he divides the stage into performers and spectators, and turns death into a theatrical performance. Thus, the private dying ritual held in the hospital bed (which serves as a surrogate altar) echoes another type of ritual that has been repeated for over two and a half millennia—namely, the performance of a classical Greek tragedy in front of an audience within a theatrical event. Two dramatic archetypes are presented simultaneously in The Moaners— both about man’s suffering and death. One is the dying men’s slow, protracted death, which is portrayed as a kind of rite of passage, or Via Dolorosa, or Passion; the other is Agamemnon’s return from Troy and his death at the hands of Clytemnestra, in a contemporary rendition of Aeschylus’ Agamemnon. The two coexist in the same place (the hospital ward) while one of the terminal patients is about to die, in a unique play of mirrors in which the patients serve as spectators—the prerequisite of any theatrical event—and help Levin dissect and re-examine a theatrical model and its meaning. Like Euripides, Levin presents the paradigmatic outline of his dramatic material—Agamemnon—which is clearly evident to the spectators, but creates a series of disjunctions between the expectations raised by that theme and what actually happens in Levin’s dramatic plot. Through these disjunctions, he dissects the patterns that he discovers, and invites the spectators to re-examine the answers to the meaning of tragedy and the role of theatre.

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The Via Dolorosa of thieves The hospital is set in Calcutta, India: on the face of it, this is a location much like any other—but as it is situated in the Third World, the dramatic situation is accentuated by the evocation of poverty and overcrowded population. It is only in the second part of the play, when the identity of the dying men is revealed, that the conjured image transcends its apparent setting and places the drama squarely in the much wider cultural context of Western mythology:⁴⁰ Novice Dying Man: [clinging to the Veteran Dying Man, sobbing uncontrollably]: I was a petty thief in Calcutta! . . . Imagine: just a tiny little thief in the big, dusty, city with millions of hungry Indians—Calcutta! . . . Is there anything more like a speck of dust? . . . [The Veteran Dying Man groans, and Novice Dying Man clings to him even more] Help me, help me! [Veteran Dying Man groans again] Teach me how to die! . . . Veteran Dying Man [groaning]: Where exactly in Calcutta did you do your stealing? Novice Dying Man: Why do you ask? Veteran Dying Man: Because I was a thief, too. Novice Dying Man: In Calcutta? Veteran Dying Man: In Calcutta.⁴¹ In this implicit allusion to the thieves who were crucified alongside Jesus, Calcutta is suddenly linked to Golgotha, and the story of three men who are about to die is transported from the setting of the Indian health system and to the mythology and imagery of the Via Dolorosa and Crucifixion that has dominated Western culture for two millennia. It is the same theme that, in one form or another, dominates many of Levin’s ⁴⁰ Levin establishes the men’s identity and profession only in the second half of the play, allowing spectators to focus on the image of a hospital setting per se before revealing the wider cultural context. ⁴¹ Levin, The Moaners, Part II, pp. 174–5.

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other tragedies, and is explicitly portrayed in Execution and The Tribulations of Job. As the identity of the dying men is established at the start of Act II, the power of the image also becomes clear: the bed is an altar; the dying is the sacrificial act; and God, the Father, who is being appealed to, is but a feeble old man. In Levin’s play, the dialogue between the dying men implicitly alludes to Christ’s cry on the cross, ‘My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?’: Novice Dying Man [breaks away from him, begins to weep]: Oh God, two thieves from Calcutta! . . . How will God see us?! . . . God created Calcutta, and forgot about it! . . . [Clings to the Feeble Old Man] Help me, Holy Father, help me!⁴² The dying process in The Moaners is not a precise replication of the archetypes that Levin adopts as his theatrical-cultural backdrop. The notions of rite of passage and of life as a journey appear in distorted and disembodied forms in the play: death, as the rite of passage, is nothing more than a process of the body’s disintegration into nothingness, which takes place before our eyes and is manifested in cries of pain. Similarly, the journey is merely a journey into oblivion that begins and ends in a nondescript hospital bed. Dying occurs amidst pain and cries, and death itself is a private, personal event: Veteran Dying Man [trying to lift his head to see]: Here it comes— This is what I’ve been waiting for all my life When I chased away flies, and when I stole things, and when I stared vacantly in the air It’s coming—and it’s simple and it’s coming just for me Oh people, how can you understand . . . Just a mere touch—like the passing of a damp cloth over a board and the whole picture is wiped away Here it comes! . . . [His head sags, and he dies.]⁴³ ⁴² Ibid., p. 175.

⁴³ Ibid., p. 186.

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The image of death as a light wipe with a cloth on a board is borrowed from Agamemnon, from Cassandra’s description of the human condition: Cassandra: Oh, the fate of human beings! When prosperous They’re like a shadow; if misfortune strikes, One stroke of a wet sponge destroys the picture. I pity this more even than our pitiable fate.⁴⁴ Thus, as it draws at once from the archetypal death ritual of classical Greek tragedy and from the Christian notion of a Via Dolorosa-like journey of suffering, this existential and cultural journey in Levin’s play shatters into thousands of small, protracted moments of pain, loneliness, suffering, despair, and fear of death.

Agamemnon: stage and audience In his rendition of Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, Levin chose to focus on two key events which reflect the final two stages in the dying men’s journey: Agamemnon’s and Cassandra’s return home from Troy (which corresponds to the return of the dying men ‘home’ to their deathbeds), and the murder of Agamemnon and Cassandra by Clytemnestra (versus the death of the Veteran Dying Man). Thus, he compares two modes of representing death: the heroic one as depicted by Aeschylus, versus his own, a very common one. Having established the encounter of these two modes on the stage and defined the content, form, and theatrical repercussions of the death ritual, Levin focuses on the fundamental question of the impact of tragedy, as a theatrical genre, on its spectators. By confronting the dying men with Agamemnon, and noting their reactions to the performance, he observes their journey, as spectators, from their actual world (the hospital ward) to the fictional world of the tragedy, and their emotional transition from bemusement to identification. To this end,

⁴⁴ Aeschylus’ The Oresteia, trans. Michael Ewans (London: Everyman, 1995), ll. 1327–30. This image left a powerful impression on Levin. He first used it in The Lost Women of Troy, and in The Moaners he uses it twice: once in Cassandra’s speech in the enactment by the hospital staff, and again in the words of the Veteran Dying Man when describing his own death, quoting the performance he has just watched. In this way, Levin is indicating that although the Veteran Dying Man may not have been aware of it, the hospital staff ’s little theatrical production had helped him.

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he shows their transition through various stages of representation. At first, they reject it outright: tragedy is ‘old stuff ’—it’s ‘Greek’ to them. Then, as the performance progresses, we see them drawn into the events played out in the tragedy before them, until finally they are so absorbed that they lose themselves—and their pain—within the performance. These three stages play out as follows. When the Orderly announces that the medical team is going to perform a classical Greek tragedy, the Novice Dying Man recites a poem in German, and when the Orderly asks what it is about, he explains: ‘It’s German. Also a tragedy’ (p. 160). The poem, which begins with the words Oi, Gott in Himmel (‘Oh, God in Heaven’), is in fact a meaningless hotchpotch of place names, names of people and of food. This nonsensical element within the context of a Greek classical tragedy is symbolic of the dying spectators’ indifference to the theatricality and oratorical nature of the tragedy. Beyond its comic effect, it also provides an opportunity to examine the true power of the dramatic effect, beyond the superficial first impression. The sheer incongruity between the tragedy performance and what the dying spectators think they have seen is mined for further comic effect. Following Agamemnon’s off-stage cry ‘Murder!’ at the end of Act I, the dying men comment on the tragedy they have just seen. From their exchange, it is clear that they don’t think that the production has any relevance to their situation, and so profound is their lack of understanding of the play, they misinterpret what they have heard, thus destroying the tension and the tragic message. The dying men’s reactions subvert the solemn status of the tragedy in the hierarchy of dramatic genres. In their eyes, tragedy is nothing but a lot of noise and poetic nonsense. When the Novice Dying Man declares that he’s going to sleep, the Orderly says: ‘You won’t be able to. We’ll be making a lot of noise.’ Finally, in the intermission between the two Acts of the tragedy enacted by the hospital staff, when the dying men discuss the performance, its outcome and its effect on them, we find that they are not particularly impressed by tragedy in general or with its performance: Veteran Dying Man: It wasn’t funny, that comedy One guy says one thing, and then that guy says another, and then he falls down . . . Novice Dying Man: And then that guy says such and such And then she comes in and says something else . . .

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Yes, this guy said something, and that guy said something They all said something—and then they all bugger off.⁴⁵ Although this inane dialogue provides Levin’s spectators with the necessary comic relief, it also poses a serious question about the power of theatre to reflect reality and leave its mark upon the viewer. Which brings us to what is, to my mind, the most important aspect of Levin’s adaptation of Aeschylus’ Agamemnon—namely, its introduction of the subjective, personal, viewpoint, into the inherently objective characterization of a Greek classical tragedy. Although he emulates Aeschylus’ outline of revenge, he modifies Aeschylus’ characters to suit our time, by revealing their motives, feelings, and memories. As a result, the focus is shifted from the plot to the character, and—through the addition of a psychological dimension, ethos—from the ideas to the emotions. At the start of The Moaners, Levin’s Guard repeats the first lines from the Prologue of Agamemnon. But his monologue is cut short, because he is so tired and bored with waiting that he falls asleep—at the precise moment when his counterpart in Aeschylus’ play sees the torch signal. When Levin’s Guard awakes at the sound of Clytemnestra’s shouts about the fall of Troy, he realizes that he has just botched his once-in-a-lifetime mission.⁴⁶ This is but one of many departures that Levin makes from Aeschylus’ tragedy.⁴⁷ In Levin’s play, the Guard changes from a perfunctory, anonymous character to an individual with a life story, a home, and a family. When Clytemnestra orders him to be killed, he asks for a ‘time-out’ to lament: The Guard: Wait! A lament: my mother will weep! I still have an old mother, who’s waiting for me at home. If she hears the news of victory She’ll make me soup and a roast, and a cake. My mother won’t survive if I don’t come home. This is a desperate and futile lament About a mother and her child and soup, and a roast, and cake, and love.⁴⁸ ⁴⁵ Levin, The Moaners, Part II, pp. 170–1. ⁴⁶ Levin, The Moaners, Part I, pp. 161–2. ⁴⁷ Missed opportunities to fulfil one’s destiny in life are a major recurring theme in Levin’s comedies. See, for example, Yaacobi and Leidental, The Rubber Merchants, The Labour of Life, etc. ⁴⁸ Levin, The Moaners, Part I, p. 162.

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Indeed, all of Levin’s tragic characters undergo a similar change: from objective, self-assured, and distant heroes, they become modern, insecure characters with life stories, memories, and an inner life—eager to share their feelings, hopes, desires, and sorrows. To explore this change to the full, Levin picks apart nearly every minute of Aeschylus’ plot. When Clytemnestra and Aegisthus are about to throw their net over Agamemnon and kill him, Agamemnon interrupts the familiar scene by asking for a ‘time-out’—thus replacing the dramatic tragic moment with a personal, psychological, modern scene. Hoping to talk himself out of his predicament, Agamemnon uses one of the oldest ruses in tragedy—seduction— but in a naturalistic modern guise, by inviting Clytemnestra to reminisce with him about the past, and the conjugal bliss that they used to share in the old days: Agamemnon: Wait a minute, before you kill me, I want to bring up an old memory: You and I stood at the beach, We were young we embraced each other Little did we know that one day While I am on the battlefield, You would cheat on me, And when I returned you would kill me. My eyes search yours, Looking for traces of that girl, That scene on the beach. It’s true that things disappear without trace But the memory remains imprinted within—and it hurts.⁴⁹ However, time has hardened Clytemnestra’s heart. In a modern rendition of the line in the original play—‘hopeful woman who plans like a man’ (l. 11)—she confesses: Clytemnestra: This heart—you won’t recognize: it has become a second brain planning its moves carefully.⁵⁰

⁴⁹ Levin, The Moaners, Part II, p. 176.

⁵⁰ Ibid., p. 177.

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Like Agamemnon, she, too, has a memory that drives her revenge: the sacrifice of her daughter Iphigenia. The pain is so great that she cannot bear to recall it: I will not describe the sharp knife as it passes across her throat The gurgling, the suffocating The throes of death Even now, when I want to hurt you so much I cannot hurt myself so.⁵¹ Thus, in The Moaners, Clytemnestra adopts the lines that Aeschylus had given the Chorus (ll. 176–84), in which she justifies what she has done, and explains why she is taking her revenge on Agamemnon. There is a haunting beauty in how Levin turns Aeschylus’ rhythmic chorus verse into Clytemnestra’s personal, modern poem: Clytemnestra: Learning comes from suffering. At the brink of your death, I shall teach you. At the brink of your death, I shall torture you. Instead of falling into a calm sleep, the sorrow of the memory of suffering now drips in your soul.⁵² In the final scene, Clytemnestra declares her triumph over the bodies of Agamemnon and Cassandra, and citing the words of Aeschylus once again (ll. 1404–6), justifies her function as Iphigenia’s avenger: Clytemnestra: Behold—behold all of you Let the whole world see: Agamemnon, my husband, is a corpse and this right hand has done the righteous deed. This, then, is how things stand.⁵³ The Chorus—one of the oldest elements of tragedy, and yet the first to have disappeared from theatre—always presents a challenge to every

⁵¹ Ibid., p. 178. ⁵² Ibid., p. 179. ⁵³ Ibid., pp. 184–5. Levin read the Greek tragedies in the translation by Aharon Shabtai, and although he made sure to compare it with other translations, he always used Shabtai’s renditions when borrowing from the Greek text.

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contemporary playwright and director. One of the explanations of its role is that it serves as a kind of intermediary between the fictional world of the plot and the real world of the spectators: within the fictional world in the classical plays it represented not only a group of male or female citizens to suit the needs of the plot, but the actual citizens of Athens sitting in the audience, as well. In The Moaners, Levin accomplishes this dual role by making the dying men—in their capacity of spectators of the performance by the hospital staff—representatives of ‘the People’. As they become increasingly absorbed in the fate of the dead soldiers in the Trojan War and identify with Agamemnon and Cassandra’s suffering, they become a true Greek Chorus. This transformation takes place as Clytemnestra makes her triumphant return onto the stage: the dying men, who have fallen asleep with the Guard during the Prologue, wake up and react in panic and confusion at the sound of Clytemnestra’s victory cries: Clytemnestra: The signal! The signal! The fire torches! [The three dying men wake up in panic—the Spectator goes on sleeping] The People No. 2: What happened? Who’s coming? Why are you crying? Have any more corpses turned up? More yelling, more tears, More silence of the dead? ⁵⁴ The dying men’s questions reflect their profound concern for the suffering of the wounded and dead soldiers in battle. By comparing the suffering caused by the Trojan War to the suffering of the dying men in their personal battles with death, Levin creates a moving scene where one fear reflects another. This Chorus brings a very personal point of view to the story: the dying men identify with the casualties of war. In their descriptions and reactions to the war, they always underline the personal and subjective perspective on events.⁵⁵ Thus, when Clytemnestra proclaims the Greek soldiers’ victory over Troy, the dying men talk about the young soldiers who have died, and the grief that their widows ⁵⁴ Levin, The Moaners, Part I, p. 160. ⁵⁵ An emphasis on the personal viewpoint against the war is a hallmark of Levin’s satirical plays, as well. Cf. You and Me and the Next War, The Queen of a Bathtub, and The Patriot.

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and mothers must be experiencing. In this way, Levin’s Chorus shifts the focus from the battlefield to the real victims of the war—the widows— thereby reminding Clytemnestra (and the audience) that in war, any war, there is no victory, only defeat.⁵⁶ The Chorus of dying men has no difficulty sympathizing with the Trojan War victims, whose pain and suffering are similar to their own. As Clytemnestra describes the mixture of the voices of the vanquished and the victors associated with the statement ‘Troy has fallen to Greece’, the Veteran Dying Man identifies with the fallen soldiers and their families, and gives an acute portrayal of the grieving.⁵⁷ The People No. 1: [speaking hesitatingly at first, then gradually more confident, while breathing heavily] Ten years—in every home, distress In every window—an abandoned woman, sitting Silent, her head bowed, waiting. In front of her in the room, as though floating in space The image of her husband who has gone to fight overseas. She begins to hate the walls, The furniture, the empty bed, The years go by, the images fade, go out of focus Only at night, sometimes, she still dreams sinking in vain delusions, thinking that her husband has returned, Sights of beloved routines dance before her eyes and at dawn—the illusion has passed. Ten years—in every home, anguish In many homes even the illusory dream is gone, A familiar face had set out, and in its place— an urn with ashes has returned. The gods send home The sawdust of a man.⁵⁸ ⁵⁶ A comparison with Aeschylus’ response in ll. 429–44 demonstrates Levin’s views on the matter. ⁵⁷ In his description of the Trojan War (here, as in The Lost Women of Troy, for example), Levin’s definite position against war—any war—is very clear. His message that in war there are only losers was reiterated in all his satirical anti-war plays from the very beginning. See Levin, Why Should the Bird Care? ⁵⁸ Levin, The Moaners, Part I, p. 163. The motif of the widow contemplating the image of the dead soldier, her lover or husband, also features in Levin’s song You and Me and the

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The terse poetic power of Levin’s verse is apparent when this wonderful passage is compared with its counterpart in the original—the Chorus song in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon (ll. 429–44). Aeschylus’ imagery is preserved, as is his deliberate succinctness, but the language is contemporary, and the imagery of a grieving widow’s home set the ancient tragedy in a new context that revives its meaning. The Moaners is a play about dying, and about how personal suffering— the common plight of the Greek soldiers in Troy, the Guard, Agamemnon, and Cassandra—is what links the dying men with the protagonists of the tragedy they are watching. When the dying men take on the role of ‘the People’ in the fictional world of Levin’s tragedy, the boundaries of that drama expand to encompass the entire hospital ward. The distance between the audience and the actors falls away, and the spectators in the audience themselves become participants. Only during the intermission between the two parts of the enacted tragedy do the dying men return to being spectators, their absurd commentary providing the comic relief to prepare for the second round—the final phase of the death ritual. The clash between Agamemnon and Clytemnestra is full of references to, and quotations from, Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, mixed in with Levin’s sharp but poetic Hebrew. But Levin diverges from Aeschylus not only in terms of the dramatic design: in this scene, he flouts the conventions of theatrical presentation of tragedy, as well. In Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, Clytemnestra and Aegisthus kill Agamemnon inside the palace, and all that is heard on stage are the vocal exchanges—Agamemnon’s cries and the Chorus’ confused conferring together. When it is over, only the outcome is revealed, as the bodies are shown in a frozen tableau, signifying the conspirators’ final triumph for all to see in the city’s public arena. In contrast, in The Moaners, Levin places the bathtub front and centre, and the murder scene is carried out in front of all spectators— both those on stage and in the audience. By bringing the backstage front and centre, Levin shifts the focus to the violent conflict between the murderer and her victims, encapsulates Agamemnon and Clytemnestra’s desperate struggle, and directs the spectators’ attention to the characters’ feelings, fears, and suffering.⁵⁹ Next War, which also became the title of Levin’s first satirical programme. See Skits & Songs 1, in Why Should the Bird Care?, 30. ⁵⁹ Levin uses this theatrical technique in other plays, as well. See Shimon Levy and Nurit Yaari, ‘The Onstage Atrocities of Hanoch Levin: Israeli Metamorphoses of Greek

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During the enactment of the tragedy, the hospital ward is divided in two, and the stage image is one of a contrast between two sites of death— the hospital bed and Agamemnon’s bathtub. But, not content with this replication, Levin goes further still, depicting Agamemnon’s murder twice in the play—each time in a different manner, allowing him to explore different ways of presenting ancient tragedy on a modern stage. First, the murder is carried out off stage—as in Aeschylus’ version— while on stage all that is heard is Agamemnon’s cries as he is being slain, and the Chorus’ responses.⁶⁰ The second time, the murder is carried out in full view of the audience, in the bath, with all the brutal, bloody, gruesome detail characteristic of horror scenes in contemporary theatre. By presenting these two portrayals of murder, Levin sets the stage for another debate, which is at once theatrical, dramatic, and directorial— namely, how should a murder be presented on stage in the postmodern era, at the end of the second millennium? Is the token nature of a concealed murder still appropriate? Do the atrocities that have been depicted in theatre and dance performances in recent decades mandate a different approach? How does one shock an audience that is exposed to violent images in the media on a daily basis with the horror of the terrible violence depicted on stage? All these questions underpin the contrast between the two staged renditions of the murder. The answers that Levin found as he developed the directorial language that he used in staging of The Moaners are left as a living legacy to all directors seeking to stage the play in future.

In Search of Meaning—of Tragedy, and of Theatre By contrasting the dying men with the heroes of Aeschylus’ tragedy, Levin effectively highlighted the disparity between two dramatic models: in one, tragic heroes set out to exact revenge by fighting and dying for their cause, in the conviction that they are living in a world of justice and responsibility; in the other, a group of men, who are neither heroes nor

Tragedies’, in (Dis)Placing Classical Greek Theatre, ed. Savas Patsalidis and Elizabeth Sakellaridou (Thessaloniki: University Studio Press, 1999), 133–44. ⁶⁰ Agamemnon, ll. 1343–71; Levin, The Moaners, Part I, pp. 169–70.

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have any gods to protect them, nor perform any feats of heroism, die anonymous deaths. Yet when faced with the same fate—the inevitable process of dying and disintegrating into nothingness—the difference between them lies not in how they die, or in its outcome, but in how it is presented: as something tragic, or pathetic. Both depictions illustrate the cruelty of Fate, and point spectators to a meaning of some sort. One is of tragedy, and involves a pivotal discovery (anagnorisis), when the protagonist accepts his responsibility for his actions, and realizes that only through his punishment can order, harmony, and justice be restored to the world. The other is of pathos, in the form of a journey with stations along the way that direct the audience’s hope for meaning, and champion the notion of redemption. The play deals with the meaning of suffering, and the responses to it in Greek tragedy and Christian theology. Levin demonstrates both types of responses as they appear in Western culture, but concludes that he mistrusts them both: the dying men’s Via Dolorosa is a journey to nowhere; their gradual disintegration is not a journey; and Levin’s God—the only one who can grant forgiveness or salvation—does not exist: He ‘created Calcutta, and forgot about it’ (p. 175). Indeed, Levin goes as far as to reiterate his rejection of salvation through his references to another ‘journey’, in which the tantalizing possibility of redemption is ever present, but ultimately remains unfulfilled—rather like Beckett’s central message in Waiting for Godot.⁶¹ Through repeated allusions to Beckett’s depictions of disintegration in his trilogy of Waiting for Godot, Krapp’s Last Tape, and Endgame, Levin portrays the last moments of the final journey. In the tradition of journey plays such as Oedipus at Colonus, Everyman, and Peer Gynt, several elements are used to direct the audience’s viewing: the journey itself— the actions involved moving from one station to the next; the allegory between the physical journey (of the body) and the journey of mind; and in particular the enlightenment, or discovery, that occurs in the latter stages of the journey and provide the hero with meaning—the meaning of suffering, the meaning of the journey, the meaning of life. Levin hints at all of these, but subverts the enlightenment at the end, by using the question mark that Beckett posed to underline his own questioning of ⁶¹ Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot: A Tragicomedy in Two Acts (New York: Grove Press, 1994).

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the possibility of redemption and of spiritual salvation. Thus, in The Moaners, the dying men watch as their bodies slowly perish, marking their gradual demise in strangled groans of pain and anxiety, and counting their remaining heartbeats until death. In the world of Greek tragedy, gods exist, and life and death have meaning. As Zeus tells humans (Agamemnon, ll. 178–9): ‘Learning comes from suffering.’ In Christian dogma, compassion and mercy are offered instead of knowledge. However, while Greek tragedy finds justification for suffering in the knowledge and recognition of human existence, and Christians find it in forgiveness and redemption, Levin makes us understand that none of these can give any comfort to those who are about to die. Thus, the Veteran Dying Man looks bleakly at his dying body, estimating its rate of decline, and counting the last of his heartbeats in a shrill voice. Death, for him, is a very personal and non-heroic experience. Even so, when death does arrive, everything changes: the performance of Agamemnon is immediately halted; the nurses rush to the deceased; the Chief Doctor and his deputy approach and confirm his death; and even the Orderly—who is tired of playing the dead Guard—gets up and joins them.⁶² At that very moment, when the medical staff is surrounding the Veteran Dying Man, the transformation takes place: spectators and actors switch roles, highlighting the delicate balance between theatre and reality. Novice Dying Man: How did we not understand You’re the spectators—not us.⁶³ Contrasting the heroic with the pathetic ends with nothing: the death of the Veteran Dying Man itself becomes a moral lesson about the impossibility of attributing meaning to suffering, and the inability to share what really happens to us when we are about to die. From his own deathbed, the ‘veteran’ Levin sums up his own clear and highly personal vision of dying with a short monodrama, performed by the Orderly: a horse waiting in a knacker’s yard:⁶⁴ an ‘old white horse, worn out and

⁶² Never one to miss a joke, even at the most critical moment in the play, Levin has him say: ‘Thank God, I was so tired of lying down—sheesh!’ ⁶³ Levin, The Moaners, Part II, p. 186. ⁶⁴ A reference to Van Gogh’s drawing, Old Nag (pencil brush in transparent and opaque black watercolour, 1883, Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam, Netherlands).

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emaciated / from a long life of toil / of too much work, and whipping, and hunger’, which shares its final thoughts with us, the spectators:⁶⁵ Old Horse: This was my final appearance, those were my last steps I stood and waited, my head bowed, looking at the world At all of you, in the eyes of everyone who knows and feels that we, too, will one day have to walk through the valley of the shadow of death and that our lives come to an end in tears and white hair. What lies beyond is a great mystery. [Stops playing the horse] Orderly: And that’s the whole show: a tired old horse, a barren plain, the end of the line. and perhaps another old, old, thing: When we see a scene of indescribable grief—a scene of loneliness, wretchedness and misery of the end of everything—suddenly, in our brain a thought pops up—about God! . . . ⁶⁶ Thus Levin concludes his own great performance, with a journey across the history of theatre: from the visually implicit horrors of ancient tragedy, to a realistic depiction of death in a hospital, to a one-man act: an empty stage, a single performer, the end. In summary, we might ask what it is that Levin is telling us in The Moaners about the power of theatre. His answer is manifold. Unlike Aeschylus, he does not believe in a conscious understanding, in lessons learned, in hidden meanings or redemption. Nonetheless, as we have seen in this example, the theatrical ‘miracle’ works in The Moaners— albeit in a subversive, unconscious, sort of way. As they watch the tragedy enacted before them, the dying men do not complain of any pain, nor weep or ask for sedatives, but are magically drawn into the staged world, immersed in the story, sharing their feelings, and identifying with ‘the People’. They become part of the spectacle, fully absorbed within it, and are transported from the physical world into another one—the fictional world of the theatre. During the performance, there is no pain, no suffering, and perhaps even . . . almost . . . no death—because at

⁶⁵ Levin, The Moaners, Part II, p. 187.

⁶⁶ Ibid., p. 188.

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the end of the play, the Veteran Dying Man always returns, as a living actor, to acknowledge the applause. Perhaps, then—like Schiller before him⁶⁷—Levin is saying that the theatre’s power lies in the opportunity that it gives spectators to soar above their physical, material, existence to the realm of imagination, of the supra-sensory—or, as he put it, to a ‘thought about God’.⁶⁸ Ultimately, death does come to the Veteran Dying Man, but for a while he was so engrossed in the story of Agamemnon and the tragic intrigue, that the performance managed to ward off his pain and relieve his dread. The tragedy, in other words, did indeed help him pass the time, and death was (almost) easier.⁶⁹ Levin is a poet and philosopher as well as a theorist of theatre. Above all, however—like Aeschylus—he is a playwright. By leading us back to the hospital bed, he ends the play with a smile, a mixture of melodramatic yearning and comic relief. The Feeble Old Man clings to the Young Nurse while she recites the romantic song that Agamemnon sings to Clytemnestra just before his death—and when that is over, a final nonsensical request is made, returning us to celebrate the physical pleasures of life.⁷⁰

Summary Levin’s purpose in writing and presenting these tragedies faithfully echoes that of the classical Greek tragedians—namely, to break through the walls of indifference built between us, the viewers, and the human world around us, and to shake us out of the mental torpor that we tend to ⁶⁷ As Schiller put it in his essay, On the Pathetic: The depicting of suffering in the shape of simple suffering is never the end of art, but it is of the greatest importance as a means of attaining its end. The highest aim of art is to represent the super-sensuous and this is effected in particular by tragic art, because it represents by sensible marks the moral man, maintaining himself in a state of passion, independently of laws of nature. (Friedrich Schiller, ‘Über das Pathetiche’, Sämtliche Werke, 16 vols. (Stuttgart, 1893–1904), 14:66; see Friedrich Schiller, The Pathetic, ) ⁶⁸ Levin, The Moaners, Part II, p. 188. ⁶⁹ Levin went on working on preparations for rehearsals for The Moaners, meeting with set designers to discuss the production, and even held casting auditions at the hospital, until a few days before he died. ⁷⁰ Levin, The Moaners, Part II, p. 190.

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sink into in the course of our everyday lives, so that we might gain a better view of the complexities of the reality in which we live and work, and encourage us to identify and express solidarity with the suffering of others. He seeks to achieve all this in a broad canvas that combines social, philosophical, and political elements. When we read Levin’s tragedies today—especially their repeated scenes of horror and suffering—it is hard to believe how profound and prophetic was his reading of the reality that he lived in and which has unfolded in the years since his death. How clear and penetrating was his gaze when he soberly pointed out the hazards of perilous situations, of rigid ideologies, and of unilateral actions born of the loss of hope for change and relentless despair. One of the repeating criticisms levelled at Levin’s tragedies has been about their surfeit of violence, the unmitigated horror that they depict, and their continual revisiting of the same themes—the fatal clash between men and women, and the huge disparities between the wealthy and destitute poor, and between all-powerful masters and the children they victimize. In some instances, these aspects of his writing have even been cited as arguments why these works are not true tragedies, or why he failed at this genre. In addition to the public criticism of his work, Levin was also accused of not presenting a balanced portrayal—since he chose not to show the good in the world, or to cushion the horror with displays of compassion that would make it easier for audiences to accept what was being shown, and hope for the best. For me, Levin’s profound reading of the classical Greek tragedies served him well as he studied the most fundamental elements of the genre. As a playwright in the humanist tradition, he also realized that by presenting evil in all its enormity (in the sense of both wickedness and immensity), he might be able to prod the audience into waking up from its lethargy, comprehend the evil, and use compassion and human solidarity to dismantle it before it undermines human civilization. In other words, Levin believed in the power of theatre, and placed the onus of action on the audience watching his plays. Not surprisingly, the audiences’ reaction was mixed: some praised his plays, while others left the theatre midway through the performance, or simply stayed away from his performances altogether. And the catharsis—that same galvanized reaction that tragedy is supposed to spark within its spectators, according to Aristotle’s Poetics—can it

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be said that Levin was trying to induce this among the spectators of his plays? The answer is a qualified yes: Aristotle, as a philosopher, argued that the catharsis is encapsulated in the writing, and can achieve its effect when the play is read. As a poet and contemporary man of the theatre, Levin thought that the written play is but one aspect of a theatrical production, and that the dialogue between the stage and the audience plays a significant part in creating the production’s effect, so he tried to galvanize by combining the fear invoked by the horrible scenes and the compassion that is supposed to be stirred within spectators when their conscience recognizes ‘the human condition’, and by the power of the poetic text and the spectacular stage images that are created on stage.

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10 Classical Presences and ‘Post Dramatic’ Performances The Israeli government announces with shock, with great sorrow and with profound grief the death of the Prime Minister and Defence Minister Yitzhak Rabin, who was murdered by an assassin, tonight in Tel Aviv. The government will meet in an hour’s time for a bereavement meeting in Tel Aviv. May he be of blessed memory. —Eitan Haber¹

The first half of the 1990s was a particularly turbulent period for Israeli society. Troubles followed each other in quick succession, and reactions oscillated between fear and hope, and between hope and despair. It began with Scud missiles fired at the country by Iraq during the First Gulf War (1990–1), continued with the signing of the Oslo Accords in 1993, and ended with a sharp split in society between the political right (which vehemently rejected the Accords), and the left, which regarded them as a first step towards a resolution of the issues at the heart of the conflict with the Palestinians. On 25 February 1994, a Jewish resident of Kiryat Arba in Hebron,² Baruch Goldstein, perpetrated a mass murder of Muslims who had gathered to pray at the Cave of the Patriarchs in the city— killing 29 and wounding 125. When he finally stopped shooting, the surviving worshippers set upon him and killed him. Goldstein’s egregious act of terrorism stunned Israeli society, and in retaliation, Palestinians carried out a spate of terrorist attacks of their own throughout 1994–5, ¹ The official announcement of the death of Yitzhak Rabin on 4 November 1995, by Eitan Haber, chief of staff at the Prime Minister’s Office. ² Kiryat Arba is a Jewish urban settlement in a suburb of Hebron, close to the ‘Cave of the Patriarchs’, one of the holiest places in the Holy Land, believed to be the burial place that Abraham purchased for his family after Sarah died.

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which—while they did not prevent the signing of the Oslo Accords on 28 September 1995, deepened the rift between the political right and left in Israel, and sparked mass demonstrations, riots, and acts of violence by extremist Jews—culminating in a Pulsa diNura ceremony,³ on 2 October 1995, outside the home of Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin in Jerusalem. At a Knesset session three days later, the Oslo Accords were ratified by a very narrow majority of 61 to 59. That evening, supporters of Israel’s right and extreme right-wing parties held a mass rally in Jerusalem’s Zion Square. Standing on the balcony of the main building overlooking the square, right-wing leaders (including Ariel Sharon, Benjamin Netanyahu, Moshe Katsav, Rehavam Ze’evi, and others) called for the immediate revocation of the Accords and the ousting of Prime Minister Rabin. In the square below, hundreds of demonstrators brandished Photoshopped posters of Rabin in the uniform of the German SS, and banners that read ‘Rabin is a traitor’, or ‘Rabin is a murderer’, while others carried torches and burned pictures of him while chanting ‘Death to Rabin’, ‘Rabin is a Nazi’, ‘He’s a traitor’, ‘With blood and fire we will expel Rabin’. The speakers on the terrace carried on with their speeches, claiming later not to have seen the images or banners, or to have heard the chants of the crowds. The demonstration quickly degenerated into an unprecedented riot, as hordes of frenzied young men made their way to the Knesset and tried to force their way into the building—on failing to do so, they vented their fury on the cars of government ministers. Further demonstrations sprang up at various places throughout the country, and verbal attacks on Rabin increased. In an article in the liberal and centre-left Israeli flagship daily Haaretz, journalist Aryeh Caspi warned: ‘The words “Rabin is a traitor” may prompt a right-wing supporter to treat him as such. Anyone who uses that expression knows this.’⁴ Two weeks later, on 4 November 1995, a mass rally in support of the Oslo Accords and Rabin’s government was held by left-wing organizations

³ Aramaic for ‘lashes of fire’, Pulsa diNura is possibly the harshest of curses in Judaism, aimed at bringing about its target’s death within a year of its imposition. According to the Orthodox Jews, the curse is to be used only to thwart or avenge a heinous crime to the Jewish people, and never for personal gain. Ariel Sharon was subject to such a curse when, as Prime Minister, he ordered the removal of Israeli settlements from the Gaza Strip. See

(accessed 10 February 2016). ⁴ Aryeh Caspi, ‘Someone May Yet Kill Rabin the Traitor’, Haaretz, 20 October 1995.

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at the Kings of Israel Square in Tel Aviv, with Rabin and Peres calling for ‘Yes to Peace, No to Violence’. The rally ended with everyone singing the well-known Hebrew song Shir Hashalom (‘Song of Peace’). As Rabin left the podium and made his way towards his car, a young Israeli by the name of Yigal Amir—a law student at Bar-Ilan University, a member of extreme right-wing circles in the Occupied Territories and a disciple of rabbinical leaders of these groups—approached him and fired three shots at him at close range. Rabin was rushed to hospital, gravely injured, and died forty minutes later.⁵ The astonishment that seized Israeli society at the news of Rabin’s assassination; the anger and despair that fell upon the supporters of the Oslo Accords; the refusal of the national-religious public—the chief opponents to the Accords—to accept responsibility for the incitement or the assassination or to undertake any soul-searching over the incident; and the profound and long-lasting impact that this crisis had on Israeli society are the backdrop to this chapter. In this chapter, I shall present the work of four creators-directors—Ruth Kanner, Ilan Ronen, Rina Yerushalmi, and Hanan Snir—who saw Greek classical tragedy as a vast artistic arena where the political, the humanistic, and the artisticperformative merge, encompassing present and past, myth and history. Moreover, classical Greek tragedy allowed them to project their most disturbing concerns about the Israeli present and future by tearing apart the well-known texts, deconstructing their dramatic templates, and editing, adapting, revising, and redesigning their content in the decades after Rabin’s assassination, when hope gave way to despair.

Ruth Kanner: Processing Communal Grief Ruth Kanner is known in Israeli theatre circles as a creative artist who experiments with non-dramatic texts that become dramatic and political through the voice and movement of her actors. She began her acting career at the age of seventeen when she joined the Tel Aviv branch of La Mama.⁶ During her military service, she performed with the IDF Theatre. In 1979, she moved to New York, where she studied body ⁵ Shapira, Israel: A History, 427–36. ⁶ See Daphna Ben-Shaul, ‘The Role of the Narrator: On the Auteur Ruth Kanner’, Motar 12 (2004): 107–18.

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movement at New York University and the Grotowski method at the Performing Garage, and took part in various productions—including The Water Cycle (based on her idea) with Canadian director K. D. Codish at the Theatre of Light & Shadow in New Haven.⁷ The production used water-related images coupled with narrated scientific texts about the water cycle in nature, and extensive use of the actor’s body and orchestration of movement, voice, and sound. On her return to Israel, Kanner completed her undergraduate studies at the Department of Theatre Arts at Tel Aviv University, where she studied with director Nola Chilton, voice coach Hanna Hacohen, and choreographer Ruth Ziv Ayal. Concurrently, she also appeared in several productions, including The Last Labourer (1981), and Straight Light, Returning Light—an experimental production directed by Hanan Snir inspired by the texts of Rabbi Nachman of Breslau (1982). In the early 1990s, while studying for her master’s degree, she directed her own rendition of Winter Ritual by the writer Dan Tsalka (University Theatre, TAU 1993) and wrote her thesis on the topic ‘Storytelling Theatre: Characterization of Stage Techniques’ (TAU 1994). This paved her way as an independent creative theatre maker, with particular focus on the links between research and creative work that are immanent to theatrical art, the constant interplay between historical events and processes and their artistic representation, and between the epic and the dramatic, while blurring the boundaries between genres, styles, and artistic fields.⁸

Aeschylus’ The Eumenides: visualizing hatred (1996) Kanner’s decision in the autumn of 1995 to work on the third part of Aeschylus’ Oresteia trilogy—The Eumenides—in a class production with a group of second-year students at the DTA marked an important stage in the evolution of her theatrical journey, as it tied together her work as a teacher of theatrical acting, as a director, and as an auteur. ⁷ The Theatre of Light and Shadow was founded in 1977 by K. D. Codish, Belinda Beezley, and Ruth Beaumont, as an innovative women’s theatre company devoted to theatre as art and communication, and to feminism as a lifestyle. See (accessed 2 February 2016). ⁸ Daphna Ben-Shaul, ‘Ideology of Form in Storytelling Theatre: The Politics of InterMedial Adaptation in Discovering Elijah, a Play about War’, GRAMMA: Journal of Theory and Criticism 17 (2009): 165–81.

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Work on the production began at the start of the academic year. Kanner remembers it clearly: On 29 October 1995, the academic year began, and a few days later, on 5 November, I had a meeting in the morning with second-year drama students where everyone was pale, and incapable of functioning in class. The previous evening Yitzhak Rabin had been assassinated. That’s how the year of work on The Eumenides began.⁹

The socio-political backdrop to the students’ production in light of the events of the previous year had a decisive impact on the production’s style—especially on how the portrayal of the Chorus of Erinyes serves to drive the plot and move it forward. The rioting, the inflammatory language, the calls and shouts at the demonstrations of the political right—endlessly repeated on local television broadcasts and in the press—served as place markers for the production, and helped Kanner and her female chorus to relate to the metaphorical figures of the Erinyes, and to render the perils of social chaos into a raw theatrical performance whose components—like the Erinyes’ garments—were tacked together, yet properly orchestrated and true to life, to accommodate Aeschylus’ poetical text. Using Aharon Shabtai’s translation (1990), she divided the play into twelve acts, in line with Aeschylus’ own tragedy structure. In her reading of the play, Kanner focused on two issues that arise in the play as a consequence of the chain of events in the two first parts of the trilogy (Agamemenon and The Libation Bearers). One was to briefly present the sequence of murder and revenge as a repeating theme—‘Orestes the son murders his mother Clytemnestra, who had murdered his father Agamemnon, who murdered his daughter Iphigenia’, in the words of the programme notes.¹⁰ The other was to use Orestes’ trial to explore the relevance of its central question—the multifaceted nature of justice, and the eternal struggle between men and women, between reason and passion, and between nature and culture.¹¹ The Eumenides is an important production for this part of my examination of Israeli theatre—not only because it is part of Aeschylus’ monumental trilogy, but because it poses questions about the theatrical ⁹ Author’s interview with Kanner in December 2015. ¹⁰ See The Eumenides, programme notes, ICDPA, portfolio #61.3.3. ¹¹ Blood feuds are familiar in Israel as they are still common in Bedouin society.

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representation of cycles of violence and revenge and of the power of the law in balancing a chaotic socio-political state. This, in any event, is what I said to Ruth Kanner when she consulted me in the summer of 1995 as to the strategy she should use for her work with the students. In choosing the style of the production, Kanner paid close attention to the issue of representation, dualities, and reflections. Her decision to use storytelling theatre techniques created a certain distance between the actors and the characters they were portraying, and relieved them of the need to search for a conventional portrayal of larger-than-life characters, while introducing a complex choreography for the performance of the songs, the dancers, and the Erinyes’ pursuit of Orestes, and placing the actors and their physical and mental work at the heart of the theatrical work. As she put it: My interest is in the person—the actor—and what happens to him. And what happens to the actor physically is very important. I tend to say as much as possible through the body—because to express through the body means to reveal the soul—in the end, what really interests me is the soul.¹²

The Eumenides premiered in May 1996 and ran for several nights in May 1996 and in October of the following academic year, as part of the University Theatre productions. The performance was held at the small, black box theatre-like Auditorium 207a in the Mexico Building of Tel Aviv University. The audience seats were set on wooden platforms at various heights, surrounding a circular acting space, in which dozens of classroom chairs were placed upside down, with their legs pointing up and out to create a jumble of steel projections (Figure 10.1). This was the orchestra—close to the audience, packed full and dense. And on it—within and around these circles of chairs—the cast moved and danced, their every word clearly enunciated and projected through voice and gesture. The central axis of the production was the chorus of Erinyes: in Scene 1, ‘The Awakening’, it consisted of three performers, with two more—those portraying the Pythia and Clytemnestra—joining later, for the chase scene (ll. 254–6). These five, dressed in body suits and tattered old clothes and webbing, ¹² Gad Kaynar and Haim Nagid, ‘The Body’s Movements as Movements of the Soul: Interview with Ruth Kanner’, Téatron 6 (2001): 29. See also Ruth Kanner, ‘Body in War’, in The Human Body—A Universal Sign: Towards Dance Anthropology, ed. Wiesna MondKoslowska (Krakow: Jagiellonian University Press, 2005), 225–9.

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Figure 10.1 Eumenides by Aeschylus, Department of Theatre Arts, Tel Aviv University (1996). Director: Ruth Kanner. Cast: Yoav Michaeli (Orestes); Shirly Gal Segev, Tali Kark, Lilach Englestein, and Sharon Harnoy (the Erinyes). Courtesy of Ruth Kanner Group Archive.

sang the chorus songs in styles ranging from nursery rhymes to songs of hate and abuse, evoking the repeated slogans of the demonstrations on stage, and moved in a fashion that varied from Israeli folk dancing to increasingly violent movements as they quickly shifted from seduction to pursuit of Orestes who was fleeing from them, trying to hide between the chair legs. Of particular interest were the theatrical means Kanner used to produce a sense of the horror, seduction, and incitement, using nothing more than simple and accessible bodily and vocal devices, which began as something familiar, pleasant, and inviting, and suddenly became grotesque and intimidating. The actresses portraying the Erinyes practised making unexpected transitions in movement, rhythm, and layers of changing identities. Each drew on a pool of four or five sources of characterization: seductive women, ‘bitches’, ‘witches’, etc.—unexpected creatures—and the horror lay in the ephemerality and fluidity of the layers as they shifted quickly from one archetype to another. The inspiration for their movements as a group was also drawn from the political right-wing demonstrations being held throughout the country at that

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time, with their recurring and repeated shouts of ‘Death to the Arabs!’ and invective chants. As Kanner explains, they used the pattern of incitement, threats, and hatred seen at those demonstrations to inform the performance of the opening passage of the long chorus song (ll. 490–565) that expresses the dismay felt at the collapse of justice: The vocal patterns of the demonstrations that were taking place around that time—the demonstrations of demand for vengeance—were the basis for the scene that I constructed in lines 490–515. In this way, through doing, I learned how critical it is to decipher the patterns. If we examine a text [. . .] exclusively by its linguistic meaning or even the actions within it—the result is something very generic and hollow, [whereas] the specific pattern of the demonstrations revealed its horrific and intimidating impact.¹³

Thus, an intertextual game was constructed between context and text. The violence that the Erinyes exhibit at the start of the song changes to a suggestion that fear is a positive element (ll. 520–5) that highlights the importance of self-control and measured response, and the song ends (ll. 550–5) with a description of the wrongdoer’s downfall. The final part of the song ‘was very gentle, the sound of a heart in pain—a quiet song with long notes that moved between the singing Erinyes, of a completely different nature to that of some of the demonstrations’.¹⁴ The opening of the trial was the moment when the stage merged with the audience. The court scene created a sense of public justice about the violence involved in murder and various acts of vengeance, and about the difficulties that the law encounters in doing justice to the injured party and to healing the divided society. The fact that the trial of Yigal Amir, Rabin’s murderer, was being held during the performance run of The Eumenides naturally added to a dialogue between what was on stage and the real world. It was clear to both the cast and to their spectators that the punishment imposed on the murderer, however severe, would not allay the trauma that Israeli society had experienced as a result of the assassination. This message of the play was conveyed through two devices: one was the use of spectators to form a panel of civil judges within the performance. Accordingly, immediately before the trial began (between lines 565 and 566) the performers selected twelve individuals from the audience,

¹³ From the author’s correspondence with Ruth Kanner in January 2016.

¹⁴ Ibid.

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and seated them on special seats in the first circle of spectators. This involved picking up and uprighting twelve of the upended chairs—a symbolic allusion to the beginning of construction of social order values. Each of the ‘judges’ received two slips of paper, of different colours, representing a Guilty or Not Guilty verdict, respectively. These were later collected by the goddess Athena in lines 708–10, as she instructed the judges to cast their votes. Later, before line 752, she looked inside the sealed box and ‘read’ the Not Guilty verdict. The second device was to turn the final scene into a cloyingly sweet and celestial ritual ceremony. Athena then engaged in a patient and repeated placatory effort to transform the Erinyes into Eumenides until they eventually acceded, and the performance ended with Athena and Apollo joining the chorus’s song (ll. 1014–47), to a heavenly musical accompaniment that suggests acquiescence, calm, and peace. The production, which was praised by many, proved to be a formative milestone in the artistic careers of the young performers and of Kanner herself. In The Eumenides, she had witnessed the importance of the chorus as a theatrical device, and the power inherent in pitting an individual against a group; in time, these went on to become key elements in her stage works. When she established the Ruth Kanner Group a few years later (in 1998), she chose several of the cast of The Eumenides to form the founding core of the group, along with other graduates of the DTA. In the twenty-eight years since its founding, the group has staged fifteen productions, but The Eumenides has preserved a particular vitality, in that it has been performed repeatedly at various venues. In September 1997, it was performed in Thessaloniki with the original cast at a conference of the International Federation for Theatre Research (IFTR) on the topic ‘Millennium Responses (Dis)Placing Classical Greek Theatre’. The performance was enthusiastically received by researchers and students alike—a great beginning to a long and important reception history. In 2007, Kanner directed the play with the cast of Theatre X-Cai in Tokyo, with the mise-en-scène of the original Tel Aviv production. In July 2012, Kanner was invited to present the Israeli performance of The Eumenides at the 16th International Festival of Ancient Greek Drama held by the Cyprus Centre of International Theatre Institute, where she and the cast had the opportunity to test its production in open theatre

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conditions at the Makarios III Theatre in Nicosia, and at the ancient theatre of Currium. On 9 June 2015, ‘Orestes’ trial’ was performed as part of the conference Law & Theatre: Forms of Testimony, Ceremony and Representation hosted by the Hebrew University, where it proved to be relevant as ever in the way in which it sparked a complex debate by recalling the events of November 1995. On 28 June 2016 it was performed again—this time before a panel of lawyers at the Tel Aviv District Court. The continual demand for performances of Kanner’s The Eumenides since its inception, and the growing interest in it among judicial and law enforcement officials and their ensuing debates, give an insight as to how effectively it raises questions about human nature, family and society, and the nature of justice. These are questions Aeschylus succeeded in observing, defining, and shaping into a timeless and universal theatrical experience in the third part of his trilogy—one that can easily be transposed from Athens to Jerusalem, especially in times when institutions of law, order, and society are under attack.

Troy Revisited in the Third Millennium The year 2000 began with a deceptive calm before the storm. In May that year, the IDF finally withdrew from southern Lebanon, after fifteen years of a troubled occupation with many casualties. For a while, there was a sense of relief and hope for progress in talks with the Palestinians. On 4 July 2000, the then US President, Bill Clinton, invited Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Barak and the President of the Palestinian Authority, Yasser Arafat, to a conference at Camp David, in a bid to make headway towards a permanent accord between Israel and the Palestinians. According to the Oslo Accords, such an agreement was supposed to be signed within five years of the founding of the Palestinian Authority and the instigation of Palestinian autonomy within the Occupied Territories. The conference, however, which lasted from 11–25 July, was inconclusive, and two months later, on 27 September 2000, the second Palestinian intifada began, bringing about the collapse of the Oslo Accords, an escalation of the dispute, and grave damage to the economies of both Israel and the Palestinians. The Palestinians, who were venting their frustration with the stalled peace process and ongoing occupation, launched a series of demonstrations and engaged in violent clashes with Israeli security forces.

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Many Palestinians were killed as the security forces used live ammunition to disperse the demonstrations, and many Israelis were killed in suicide bombings carried out by Palestinians. These incidents grew in number and intensity throughout 2001 and 2002, reaching a peak in March 2002 when 135 Israelis were killed in such incidents within Israel and the West Bank. In the worst attack, at a Passover night celebration at a hotel in Netanya on 27 March 2002, thirty people were killed and 160 injured. Two days later, the IDF launched Operation ‘Wall of Defence’ jointly with Israel’s General Security Service in the West Bank, in an effort to hobble the Palestinian terrorist infrastructure and stop further attacks. This operation went on until 10 May 2002. It was against the backdrop of these events that directors Ilan Ronen and Rina Yerushalmi chose to revisit the Trojan War as recounted repeatedly in Homer’s epics and in the classical Greek tragedies. In these productions, the Jerusalem–Athens encounter became an occasion for collective soul-searching, and a forewarning of a pointless series of wars that would ultimately end in self-destruction.

Ilan Ronen: Theatre as a Memory Machine Ilan Ronen was born in 1948 at Kibbutz Ein-Gev. After his military service, he studied drama at the Beit-Zvi School of Drama, and in 1972 began directing productions there and at Tzavta Club Theatre, while pursuing further studies at the DTA. He began his professional theatre career with Michael Alfreds when Alfreds was appointed artistic director of the Khan Theatre in Jerusalem in 1972. Alfreds brought together a group of young actors¹⁵ to form the Khan Theatre Troupe, and invited Ronen to join them as resident director.¹⁶ The five years that Ronen worked with Alfreds were a period of study and experimentation with the latter’s theatrical methods. First, Ronen learned Alfreds’ approach as a director to the dramatic text—be it the dramaturgical work on an existing play, such as Woyzeck (1973), or

¹⁵ Sasson Gabai, Shabtai Konorti, Aharon Almog, Aliza Rosen, Shifra Milstein, Rachel Hefler-Ronen, Neta Plotzki, Moshe Osem, Sefi Rivlin, Uri Avrahami, and Avi Pnini. ¹⁶ After watching A Thousand Seeing Eyes and Three As One, written and directed by Ronen at Beit-Zvi, and ’Tis Good to Die for Ourselves at Tzavta Theatre.

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Servant of Two Masters (1974), or presiding over the composition of a new theatrical text adapted from various sources on a single topic, such as The Persian Protocols (1972), which was based on the biblical Book of Esther and commentaries thereof,¹⁷ or One City (1973)—a political ‘theatrical work’ about the past and future of Jerusalem as seen by its inhabitants.¹⁸ In the latter case, the script was written by Ronen himself as a mosaic of journalistic interviews of various Jerusalemites by Motti Golan and Dan Margalit of the Haaretz daily newspaper and the actors’ own encounters with Jerusalemites of various communities and backgrounds, and the questions that they asked themselves after such meetings.¹⁹ At the same time, he experimented with Alfreds’ acting method, which was a blend of the Stanislavsky and Laban methods, with particular emphasis on the actor’s physical work, and his role as a storyteller, on the interplay between the actors, and on experimentation with the theatrical practice of a joint group effort (which Alfreds would later dub Shared Experience²⁰)—within performances that are sparse and minimalist in terms of production values (a bare stage, actors with few costumes or props), but rich and complex in visual imagery, movement, and sound. When Alfreds returned to the United Kingdom in 1975, Ronen was appointed artistic director of the Khan Theatre in his stead, and held that position until 1982.²¹ Among the productions that he directed at the Khan during these years were Joseph Heller’s anti-war work Catch-22, and Yehoshua Sobol’s The Wars of the Jews (1981, after the outbreak of the First Lebanon War).²² From the reviews of the period, it

¹⁷ Interpretative texts such as Tractate Megillah, Midrash Esther, and Maimonides. ¹⁸ Following reunification of the city after the 1967 war, the predominantly Jewish western half of the city and the Arab eastern half (which had been under Jordanian rule since 1948) were beginning to explore the ramifications of living together, with all the questions and challenges that that entailed. ¹⁹ See JTA correspondent, ‘Controversial Play “censored” ’, JTA Jewish Telegraph Agency, 3 August 1973, (accessed 18 June 2016). ²⁰ The name of the ensemble that he later established in the United Kingdom in 1986. ²¹ See Motti Lerner, ‘The Khan Theatre Company’, TDR 24.3—Jewish Theatre issue (Sept. 1980): 79–92. ²² The production, which was held at two sites at the Citadel in the Old City, started off in the open on top of the Citadel walls, whence the actors led the audience into a subterranean hall within the Citadel itself, while reciting a lament and personal stories of defeat. The production was distinctive for its dissolution of barriers between stage and

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is apparent that both these works were innovative in their content and theatrical style, and representative of the experimental and exploratory theatrical direction that Ronen pursued in his early professional career, with great success. Ronen’s years of study and experimentation at the Khan clearly helped lay the groundwork for his distinguished career as director and artistic director at the mainstream theatres of the Cameri and Habima.²³ However, it also left him with a penchant for group-produced work, and a propensity to promote young performers and writers that Alfreds had instilled in him during their work together. In 1996, he established and managed the Habima Theatre Young Group, which recruited graduates of drama schools ‘in a bid to create a special framework that encourages and cultivates the theatre’s next generation of actors’.²⁴ What distinguished the group’s work—and the secret of its success—was the fact that while they worked on the theatre’s productions, the actors continued to study and further their professional development with a permanent team of instructors in areas such as movement, acrobatics, stage fights, music, and voice development, and benefited from workshops with guests from abroad. The group’s creative team initially consisted of Ronen himself and stage designer Miki Ben-Cnaan.²⁵

À la Guerre Comme à la Guerre: a post-apocalyptic vision (2002) À la Guerre Comme à la Guerre presented the Trojan War as depicted in the Homeric epics, in Aeschylus’ tragedy Agamemnon, in Euripides’ Iphigenia at Aulis, Women of Troy, and Hecuba; and in various twentieth-century audience (whereby simultaneous scenes enabled each spectator to put together their own personal performance text), and for its use of pantomime, masks, poetry, and dance to the music of Shlomo Bar. ²³ After his departure from the Khan Theatre, Ronen served as artistic director of the Cameri Theatre from 1984 to 1992, where he directed several productions, to local and international acclaim: Waiting for Godot (1983), Michael Kohlhaas (1987–8, based on von Kleist’s novella adaptation); Kestner by Moti Lerner (1988), Mother Courage (1990), and Nora (1994). In 2005, he was appointed artistic director of Habima; the following year, the theatre was accepted as a member of the Union des Théâtres de l’Europe, and in 2011 he himself was elected president of the association. ²⁴ See (accessed 23 January 2016). ²⁵ The group’s first members performed from 1996 to 2003.

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adaptations, such as Sartre’s adaptation of Women of Troy, and Hanoch Levin’s The Lost Women of Troy.²⁶ In the programme notes, prepared by Habima Theatre’s educational department, we read: À la Guerre Comme à la Guerre is told from a woman’s point of view, and the women are its protagonists—they are the victims of the stupidity and arrogance of the men who bring on an unnecessary war, and are taken into captivity and must bury their children.²⁷ INTERWEAVING THE TEXT

The production setting is announced in a brief pre-recorded prologue that is played over the loudspeakers before the performers enter the stage: The year is 2093—years after the War. The world has been laid waste—human civilization has been wiped out. 5.5 billion people. The survivors live in tribes. Memory has been lost—no one remembers what has happened. A wandering troupe of actors performs before the survivors in the ruins of an abattoir, and recounts the story that it has managed to piece together from the rubbish heaps and remnants of the lost civilization.

This is followed by a stage instruction: ‘A wandering troupe of actors enters, dressed in the remnants of the modern world that has been destroyed.’²⁸ The Prologue, therefore, depicts a dystopia—an apocalyptic picture of human society after its destruction—and the theatrical event as a place where people meet to piece together fragments of memories, stories, scenes, and human situations after everything has been lost and gone. Accordingly, the production itself appeared to be a patchwork of passages from Trojan War works in the Western cultural tradition. The performance text was forged from fragments of plays by various playwrights, representing various periods, giving accounts of the Trojan War from various and even contradictory viewpoints, and a condensed synopsis of a long and multi-layered tradition in a two-act structure ²⁶ The project comprised two parts: À la Guerre Comme à la Guerre and Achilles’ Heel. I focus here only on the former, as it is more appropriate to this chapter. ²⁷ Gad Kaynar, ‘Preparatory Notes for Spectators: À la Guerre Comme à la Guerre and Achilles’ Heel’, Habima Theatre Educational Department, ICDPA, production portfolio #30.5.4. ²⁸ Working script of À la Guerre Comme à la Guerre, 3. Ibid.

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Figure 10.2 À la Guerre Comme à la Guerre created by Ilan Ronen, Habima Theatre (2002). Director: Ilan Ronen; stage design: Miki Ben Cnaan. Photograph by Gérard Allon.

(Act I: Beginning of the War; Act II: End of the War). Hence, too, the decision to use a kind of ‘fractured’ Hebrew of different registers: daily speech coupled with paraphrased scenes from The Iliad and The Odyssey; quotes from Shabtai’s poetic translations of the Greek texts of the tragedies; Ronen’s own free translation of Sartre’s French text; and Hanoch Levin’s poetic language. And finally, the theatrical language of the production: a postmodern stage design of an abandoned abattoir, a wandering troupe of actors, a meta-theatrical approach, and an eclectic fusion of styles of various theatrical traditions (Figure 10.2). THE PERFORMANCE

The theatrical language portrayed and mediated in À la Guerre Comme à la Guerre is multicultural and features multiple styles, from seemingly unrelated aesthetics, cultures, and stage conventions: a contemporary take on the notion of a Greek chorus; the syntax of narrative theatre and epic theatre; commedia del’arte; circus and cabaret; melodrama and tragedy. One of the main sources of inspiration is puppet theatre, drawing on such disparate traditions as ancient Bunraku Japanese theatre, the French

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Grand Guignol, the ‘dead’ puppet-like actors of Tadeusz Kantor, and Peter Schumann’s Bread and Puppet Theater—all suggested by presenting the actor as a puppet operated by external forces.²⁹ The project had three explicit aims: to recount the story of the Trojan War and present its grim ending as the consequence of an ‘endless parade of folly’ that traces a single continuous line between prehistoric Troy and contemporary Israel, as a reminder and cautionary tale to the audience; to tell a story encompassing several literary and dramatic works as a testament to the reception of all works about that war into a single cultural ‘legacy’ underpinning modern Israeli culture; and to present the actor as a ‘remembering body’ and an important component of collective memory, and the theatre as a site where images of this memory are played and replayed. The latter objective was also achieved by using the cast both as a group (or, as it were, as a chorus), from whence the characters emerge and are reabsorbed on completion of their role, and as many individual and quickly shifting characters—even to the point of switching sides between Trojan and Greek—thus obscuring the differences between the two sides. Reviews of the production by Ronen and his team were generally favourable, if somewhat muted. The following excerpts illustrate how this project, in which he attempted to create a patchwork piece cobbled together from texts of different sources and styles as a symbolic representation of the injustices of the war, failed, for lack of coherence, and the surfeit of acting styles was perceived by the critics and audiences as a goal, rather than as an artistic device of conveying the message. In particular, there was a debate about the production’s dramaturgical structure and how the texts’ respective character and styles related to each other to obscure the political message. Shai Bar-Yaacov, for example, wrote: Ronen’s adaptation manages to combine the various texts in an organic and interesting way, creating fascinating juxtapositions between parallel situations. At the outset, he presents us with two notions: one that war is the result of the gods’ involvement in human affairs, and the other (more modern) perception that people are responsible for their folly. To underline this message, he presents the characters as being operated like puppets. This creates an alienated, artificial,

²⁹ Kaynar, ‘Preparatory Notes for Spectators’.

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but also highly condensed theatrical language that allows one to relate to the poetic texts and create a persuasive reality.³⁰

Ben-Ami Feingold thought the underlying idea of the production was interesting, but flawed in execution: ‘Despite the good intentions, the result is a kind of “medley” of pieces that actually repeat themselves, with small variations. The play lacks inner tension, variety, and development— everything is obvious and predictable.’ He was, however, very taken with the performance: ‘The various set pieces, against Miki Ben-Cnaan’s impressive set, are very well performed, with particular attention to stylized movement, voices, singing, including elements of circus and puppet theatre. The cast’s acting is very impressive.’ He concludes on a note of disappointment, however: ‘From the outset—despite all its good intentions—it is missing the main thing, which is real drama, which is more than simply collating familiar and recycled pieces and excerpts.’³¹ Elyakim Yaron highlighted the discrepancy between intentions and outcome: The composition of the material is strikingly beautiful, and the work with the group enlightening, as usual. And yet, several artistic problems remain unresolved. Since this is not a true play, but a sequence of pieces, the inexperienced actors cannot construct a role properly. The constant shifts from one part to the next—for all of its fostering of work as a group—only highlight the mediocrity of the acting. [. . .] A considerable amount of creative effort has clearly gone into finding a style for the work as a whole, but collectively, alas, the pieces do not rise above the level of a compilation. Nor does the design help in this regard: Miki Ben-Cnaan’s set is full of pieces of old junk that only fill the space, rather than design it—and the costumes, too, are just a jumble of styles. Many good intentions were invested here, but as À la Guerre Comme à la Guerre, you cannot win with nothing more than the best intentions.³²

The intentions expressed by the production’s creators were clearly admirable, but these were only partly realized in the productions themselves. Reviewing the two projects together, it is apparent how Ronen had fallen captive to the conviction that what happened in the past is what will happen in future—which is not the case. Every event is related to the historical context of the time, place, and circumstances in which it takes ³⁰ Shai Bar-Yaacov, ‘Trojan War: The Hits’, Yediot Aharonot, 22 May 2002. ³¹ Ben-Ami Feingold, ‘Habima Presents À la Guerre Comme à la Guerre’, Makor Rishon, 22 May 2002. ³² Elyakim Yaron, ‘The Best Intentions’, Maariv, 22 May 2002.

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place, and is certainly not identical to another event in another period or context. From a political, intertextual viewpoint, the project certainly uncovered and highlighted the dangers, but prevented any in-depth analysis and courageous insights into current events. From an artistic point of view, the quick flitting back and forth between texts of disparate provenances with no clear plot line, and the colourful, almost circus-like theatricality, prevented the audience from appreciating the perils that it was trying to warn against.

Rina Yerushalmi: Lessons of the Past Rina Yerushalmi is one of the foremost directors of the second generation of Israeli theatre—along with Nola Chilton, with whom she studied in the 1960s, and Edna Shavit, with whom she worked as a drama teacher at the DTA of Tel Aviv University. A theatre and opera director, choreographer, drama teacher, and artistic director of the Itim Ensemble (an experimental theatre that she founded in 1989 with theatre designer Moshe Sternfeld³³), she is an independent theatre maker, and a 2008 Israel Prize Laureate in the field of theatre. In their presentation of that award, the judges said it was: [. . .] for her contribution to the study of the materials of theatre making and its means of production, and for revealing the power of theatre as a means with which society may examine itself and its culture. It is also for her courage and determination that have characterized her particular theatrical journey—the obstacle path of an independent artiste, who produces the works herself at the interface between the Central Region and the periphery, between established theatre and Fringe—who constantly challenges her audiences and invites them to take part in a complex, multivocal and multifaceted aesthetic experience.³⁴

Yerushalmi was born in the town of Afula in the Jezreel Valley, and grew up in Haifa. At age six, she began to dance—first in the Mary Wigman method under Yardena Cohen, then in the Martha Graham method with ³³ Moshe Sternfeld (1949–94) was one of Israel’s foremost painters, and set and costume designers. A graduate of the Department of Theatre Arts of Tel Aviv University, he cofounded the Itim Ensemble with Rina Yerushalmi and was its resident designer until his untimely demise at the age of 45. He was also a founding member of the Association of Israeli Artists. After his death, Tel Aviv Municipality established a prize in his name that is awarded every year to theatre makers at the annual Theatre Award ceremony. ³⁴ Ministry of Education Publications, Israel Prize, 2008, 84–5.

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the dancer Rina Gluck. Following her military service, she embarked on a decade-long journey of studies in which she trained and specialized in a wide range of approaches, techniques, and styles of dance and theatre. In 1959, in London, she studied Laban’s method at the Sigurd Leeder School of Dance (1959–61), and stage management and production at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art (RADA) (1961–2). On her return to Israel, she trained in the Feldenkrais method with Moshe Feldenkrais himself—a technique that subsequently became the foundation of her theatrical thought—in conjunction with Lee Strasbourg’s method of acting under Nola Chilton. In the late 1960s, she began studies at the Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh, where she completed a master’s degree in theatre directing. Her final dissertation—on an adaptation and directing of Woyzeck by Büchner—was supervised by Professor Leon Katz. She then moved to New York, where she joined Ellen Stuart’s La Mama Experimental Theatre Club, and served as its in-house director from 1972 to 1978. In 1972, she was awarded a grant by UNESCO to travel to Japan and study Noh and Kyogen theatre under Yatoro Ohkura—which had a profound influence on her perception of the stage space, movement, and mise-en-scène in her productions. During her time with La Mama in New York, she established the Israeli affiliate of that theatre in Tel Aviv. From 1972 to 1989, she divided her time between teaching acting and movement in the United States (at Carnegie Mellon, New York University, and City College of New York) and in Israel—at the DTA, and at the Kibbutzim College of Education. Yerushalmi has directed productions at various theatres in the United States and in Israel—including world classics by Shakespeare, Büchner, Pirandello, Lorca, Ibsen, Beckett, and Ionesco, as well as a wide range of artistically idiosyncratic projects that she created with the Itim Ensemble, in her quest to explore the elements of stage composition and the relationship between space, time, actor, and audience within a theatrical laboratory-like setting. In her work with the Ensemble, she developed innovative theatre works based on an in-depth interpretation of classical texts. Yerushalmi’s stage productions of masterpieces of the European repertoire involve lengthy workshop preparation. Her productions of Georg Büchner’s Woyzeck (1993), Shakespeare’s Romeo & Juliet (1993), The Bible Project (1996–2000), Chekhov’s Three Sisters (2005), Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream (2006), Anski’s The Dybbuk (2008), Herzl

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(2010), Beckett’s Krapp’s Last Tape (2012), Ionesco’s Exit the King (2013), and Ibsen’s Per Gynt (2015), all reflected the dramaturgical and aesthetic principles of her theatrical work and its characteristic theatrical language— one that is founded on a distinct treatment of speech, on methods of deciphering and delivering the written text, and on the rhythms of stylized movement as choreography.

Mythos: cycles of bloodshed (2002) The theatrical questions that Yerushalmi grappled with in the staging of biblical texts in her Bible Project (1996), led her to classical Greek tragedy: After dealing with the [Hebrew] Bible—which is not a dramatic genre—I revisited the Greek texts, which are the beginning of Western theatre. Since the ‘Greek rules’ of drama hardly correlate with those of modern drama, they present, in that regard, the same problem as the Bible. Even so, taking up with the Greek material seemed to me to be an organic extension of my search for the essence of theatre.³⁵

Mythos, a multimedia performance combining chorus and actors, is Yerushalmi’s adaptation of Greek myths and classical tragedies dealing with the fate of the House of Atreus and of the Trojan War, while also encompassing the many layers (adaptations and rewritings) that were added in the course of the twentieth century—in particular, Electra by Hugo von Hofmannsthal, and Strauss’ opera of the same name based on Hofmannsthal’s libretto, which Yerushalmi had directed at the Israeli Opera (1999). INTERWEAVING THE TEXT

Mythos is an attempt to recount the story of the Trojan War at the dawn of the third millennium, and to engage with the epic and tragic aspects of the wars of modern Israel. Its gestation occurred in stages. The first was to work on several Trojan War-related works—The Oresteia by Aeschylus; Iphigenia at Aulis, The Women of Troy, Electra, and Orestes by Euripides; Sophocles’ Electra; and Electra by Hugo von Hofmannsthal—extract certain scenes and chorus songs from them, and reassemble them into a new

³⁵ Rivkah Meshulach, ‘The Price of Revenge: A Conversation with Yerushalmi’, Mythos programme notes, ICDPA, portfolio #109.1.6.

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performative text, in which Yerushalmi retells the story of the Trojan War by focusing on the ill-fated Mycenaean royal dynasty that led the armies against Troy—from the forefather, Tantalus, to the last of the descendants, Electra and Orestes—and, by implication, the Israelis in the audience. As Yerushalmi put it: The materials I used are all drawn from the Greek myths, but I arranged them is a different manner—by understanding the relationships between the concepts of revenge, punishment, and regret, with all that that entails for the human soul.³⁶

The production text consists of a Prologue and three Acts that present the events in the manner of an archaeological exploration of a ‘heritage’ site—i.e. as an uncovering of layers from the present to the recent and distant past. Act I, Revenge, focuses on the vengeance perpetrated by Orestes and Electra upon their mother Clytemnestra and her lover Aegisthus—indeed, their murder is the starting point of the performance. In Act II, The Pain of Memory, the Erinyes appear, and lead Orestes and Electra down memory lane, reviewing the chain of events that had created the need for revenge—starting with the sacrifice of Iphigenia, Agamemnon’s return from Troy and his murder by Clytemnestra, and Orestes’ revenge which reminds him of his mother’s murder, as though it were playing out before his eyes. Act III, Memory of Troy, depicts the final stage in the journey, and the first of the calamitous violent events of the war, the burning of the city, the murder of the Trojan men, the murder of Astyanax, and the dividing up of the Trojan women as war bounty among the army commanders. Memory conflates the private with the public, family with the war, the young who have survived with the untold number of those who have died at various times in the past, whose deaths enriched the revenge legacy, and who saddle the blame and the punishment upon others. In Mythos, a link is drawn between the family story and the national one: every assault, every revenge carried out within the family—such as the murder of the children of Thyestes, Iphigenia, Agamemnon, Cassandra, Clytemnestra, and Aegisthus—is linked in the final chapter to the national level of Greeks versus Trojans, and reflecting the clash between men and women with regard to war, suffering, and revenge.

³⁶ Ibid.

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In parallel with all this, the ancient works are mixed within the new performance text, between the early readings and the new Yerushalmi reading of the tragic events. Clearly and unequivocally, her performance text is forged from Electra and Orestes’ memories, as the young survivors of the final generation of the Mycenaean dynasty. The result includes scenes from the classical texts that are examined not for their quality in the ancient play, but for their role in the new work, giving the new work a different character—part chronological, part psychological. Each Act contains several scenes and images, each of which recounts from, and alludes to, the old work. Every change in the circumstances on stage lays the groundwork for a new scene. Incorporated into the classical Greek material from which the work is primarily composed is information about the solar system and the stars, drawn from the New York Planetarium. This addition creates a dual effect of giving the human story a cosmic dimension, while contrasting the tragedy discourse with the scientific one: To create the adaptation, I came across a booklet on astronomy which tells the story of the first Apollo mission—Apollo 1—which of course is named after the chief god in the story of Electra and Orestes. The link between Greek mythology and the journey into space led me to the Planetarium in New York, at the Natural History Museum, where I gained a perspective of the insignificance of human tragedy in relation to the cosmic and infinite scale. I understood that we need to distance ourselves in order to see mankind from a celestial point of view, as well. I discovered that I can use the ‘heavens’ as a dramatic tool. Since I couldn’t find a moment of respite in the story of Electra and Orestes itself, I enlisted the beauty of the cosmos to introduce a few moments of consolation, space and beauty. At this wonderful Planetarium I found a quotation that I particularly loved: ‘We are stardust—and every atom in our bodies was created within a star long before the Earth was born.’³⁷

Thus, Mythos is a weave of plots comprising three vantage points: the story of the Trojan War as it has entered Western consciousness; the testimony by Electra and Orestes about events that shaped their lives and fate; and a broader view of the world and examination of the human tragedy on a cosmic scale. But in its theatrical style the performance transgresses the established boundaries between the arts, in its use of interdisciplinary, inter-art and inter-medial strategies.³⁸ ³⁷ Ibid. ³⁸ See Erika Fischer-Lichte, ‘Approaches to Inter-Art Aesthetics’, in Inter-Art Journey, ed. Yaari, 11–26; Dror Harari, ‘Inter-Medialities: Modern and Postmodern’, in Inter-Art Journey, ed.

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THE PERFORMANCE

The first performance took place on 15 August 2002, at Ramat-Gan Theatre. As the audience entered the theatre hall in the town of Ramat-Gan, the stage was dimly lit, with an image of the solar system surrounding a form in the shape of a human baby projected on a screen at the back. The stage itself consisted of four symmetrical piles of stepped wooden sheets at various heights. Some of the top sheets were painted red, to create the impression of a red carpet, or a river of blood. When the wooden sheets were raised, many revealed a mirrored underside, off which images of the Sun, Moon, and stars were reflected. On one such pile, Agamemnon’s bronze helmet was placed, next to an axe wrapped in blood-stained clothes. The set designers, architects Eyal Weizman and Rafi Segal, described its concept as follows: The stage of Mythos is made of hundreds of uniformly-sized wooden sheets that are laid next to each other and piled up to create a system of horizontal surfaces at various heights. Unlike a traditional set, which uses static elements to emulate a concrete reality or symbolic space, this design offers a continuously changing and moving process to create a timeless space—or a specific place. The geometrical infrastructure and arrangement of the raw material on stage create a topography of an artificial landscape built of layers of various materials that are revealed during the play as the sheets are moved on stage. The topography and set design change from one scene to the next—particularly in Parts II and III. The design of the movement of the elements was done according to mathematical patterns, through computerized animation.³⁹

Two choruses provided the production’s framework. One consisted of a single male actor (dubbed ‘The Woman’ in the production script) who entered the stage during the Prologue, dressed as a woman, his face and hairstyle in the manner of a female tragedy mask, then stood at the centre of the stage, and in a high-pitched voice, sang and recited, and made various gestures to denote conventional responses of astonishment (hand over an open mouth), or witnessing suffering, pain, etc. ‘The Woman’ concluded her monologue with several facts: Agamemnon and Clytemnestra had three daughters—Iphigenia, Chrysothemis, and Electra—and one son: Orestes. Then, while singing: ‘Let us sing, let us Yaari, 27–47; Daphna Ben-Shaul, ‘Hybrid Energy: Artistic Insert as Intro-Medial and InterMedial Relations’, in Inter-Art Journey, ed. Yaari, 48–66; Rozik, Fictional Arts. ³⁹ Eyal Weizman and Rafi Segal, ‘Choreography of Material’, Mythos programme notes.

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dance our story’, she sat down on a chair, stage right, and began knitting and observing events, and intervening at critical moments in the play. The second chorus—eleven men and women, dressed in sand-coloured long skirts and waistcoats over white vests, and running shoes—was also present throughout the play, its members alternately breaking away one by one, then re-joining it. As they entered the stage, they repeated the mantra ‘Up and down, hand on hand, arms groping, hands gripping, blood pulsing in the veins’. Their bodies swayed, praying, their hands held on either side of the head like in the drawings on the geometric vases, or beating their breasts in a diagonal movement—right hand on the left and vice versa—as depicted at the start of the Aeschylus’ The Eumenides. Avi Belleli, who composed the musical score, said: In this production I learned once more to treat Hebrew as a kind of music. It’s not easy to draw out the mystery, the sex, and the magical world that exists in Hebrew, as opposed to just its hardness—but if one digs deep and tries to listen to it, it’s possible. I looked for a repeating mantra that changes and carefully evolves. The singing in the production is sensitive to the textual process and to the actors’ expression, and when it is expressed, it turns into a kind of prayer.⁴⁰

The production’s musical aspect was projected primarily through the lamenting human voice, which repeated the ancient text as though citing mantras that contain hidden truths, their rhythms and the manner in which they course through our veins. To a certain extent, this is the general framework of the performance: ‘The Woman’ recounting a good story in a detached, dissociated manner, while the projected image of the stars and galaxies links the tragedy of this particular family to the cosmos, the Solar System, the Moon and the stars. As the Chorus enters the stage, the Moon is projected on the rear screen. One of the Chorus members holds Agamemnon’s bloodied cloak—in a scene reminiscent of the opening scene of The Eumenides or of Sophocles’ Electra—and continues as a kommos between Electra and the Chorus, as Electra, dressed in a black gown, lies prone on the stage, clinging to Agamemnon’s helmet. Suddenly, a great cry is heard—it is Clytemnestra, who has dreamt about an avenger who appears—and Electra shouts back: ‘I’m like a hound on your trail, Mother!’ The projection on

⁴⁰ Avi Belleli, ‘Music for me is something visual’, Mythos programme notes.

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the rear screen changes to one of the planet Earth, accompanied by an explanatory scientific text that is declaimed by one of the members of the Chorus. One of the sheets of wood rises and a projection of the image of the planet Earth is reflected off it, while the rear screen becomes a backdrop to the interaction between Electra and the Chorus. The Chorus moves about in circular motions, like medieval Muslim dervishes—then another sheet of wood rises to serve as another backdrop. One of the Chorus women brings the urn that records the announcement of the death of Orestes (in Sophocles’ Electra), and hands it to Electra. The Chorus continues to move about, murmuring the mantra ‘Blood for blood, blood for blood . . . ’. Electra returns the urn to the Chorus, and raises the axe. If Orestes dies, she herself will avenge him, she vows. Orestes enters, dressed in black, and the text of the encounter between him and Electra is spoken by two of the Chorus members. Electra and Orestes themselves only act: they recognize and approach each other and exchange kisses, while the Chorus members move about in a lament— beating their chests, hands alternately raised and lowered. The Chorus acts as a group—not as one, but as a cluster of individuals. As they appeal to Apollo, god of the sun, the text of scientific information about the Sun at the New York Planetarium appears on two sheets of wood against the backdrop of an image of the sun on the rear screen. The head of Aegisthus is presented to Electra, who bursts into a dance of joy, to a gypsy tune. The Chorus, which splits into pairs, dances in the background, and as it ends, regroups and suggests to Orestes: ‘Lay a trap for her [Clytemnestra]!’ Against a backdrop of pictures of fiery flares on the surface of the Sun, the Chorus members move about on their knees in ritualistic movements, while some flip over several sheets of wood with mirrored undersides. Once again, ‘The Woman’ takes centre stage, chanting ‘A woman must stand by her man’ to the sounds of rap music, ending once again with the words, ‘Let us sing, let us dance our stories’. The heads of Clytemnestra and Aegisthus are brought onto the stage, along with Agamemnon’s blood-stained cloak. The revenge is complete. The first part of Electra and Orestes’ revenge ends with the Chorus concluding ‘Never was there a more accursed house as the House of Atreus’. And once again, the Chorus sways, as in prayer, beating their chests—once to the right, once to the left—and Electra and Orestes leave for exile, as in the opening of Euripides’ Orestes.

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At the start of Act II, ‘The Woman’ is sitting in her usual seat, and knitting. The Chorus is scattered about the stage—each now sporting a blood-stained rag on their clothing, and holding a thin white bone of an animal. One of them collects all the bones from everyone, and hands them to Electra, who places them in a pile and remains near them until the end. The Chorus once again recounts the horrific genealogy of the family. The three Erinyes appear, dressed in blood-stained clothes, and dance. The men begin dismantling the sheets of wood and moving them from one place to another. From this moment on, the stage begins to split into different frames of time and space and action, suggestive of fragments of memory. In one of these images, the scene of the sacrifice of Iphigenia appears for the first time: two young women appear in white gowns, against a backdrop of the images of the bodies of naked and athletic muscular men, and eagerly describe how the heroes have set out to fight Troy, as described by the Chorus of adolescent girls at the start of Iphigenia at Aulis. They go on to describe the arrival of Iphigenia and Clytemnestra, as well: Clytemnestra hangs back, and when Iphigenia reaches centre stage, the memory bursts out and engulfs the stage. The ensuing images play out in similar fashion: in the next image—a sequel to the previous—Artemis, an elderly woman with long fair hair, wearing a wedding dress and long heavy overcoat, comes to take Iphigenia. The Erinyes approach Iphigenia—one member of the Chorus strips off her clothes, another ties her up, and the Erinyes dance around her. The image is constructed such that Electra and Orestes appear to be trapped in the web: Clytemnestra and Agamemnon on the rear plane, the Erinyes and Iphigenia at the front—and in between, Electra stands by the pile of bones, while Orestes leans on the proscenium wall behind her (Figure 10.3). ‘The Woman’ returns to centre stage, and in a rap style, sings the story of the murder of the sons of Thyestes, whilst repeating the words of Cassandra in Agamemnon. Thus, the murders of Iphigenia and of Thyestes’ sons are linked together under the joint theme of infanticide. The Chorus of Erinyes surround Orestes, reminding him of his guilt, while Electra recalls Clytemnestra’s. Thus, one guilt touches another, and one infanticide recalls another. As the audience watches the formation of a memory and the concurrence of the images, the stage becomes an enactment of memory and works accordingly. A well-known story is

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Figure 10.3 Mythos created by Rina Yerushalmi, Itim Ensemble (2002). Director: Rina Yerushalmi; stage design: Rafi Segal and Eyal Weitzman. Pictured: The Dance of the Erinyes. Photograph by Gérard Allon.

rearranged to ensure recognition of the pain and suffering of the new, and last, generation. This is the main syntactical element of Act II. A similar concurrent enactment of scenes and dismantling of the stage recurs in Act III, which focuses on reconstructing the events of the Trojan War. Here, too, images follow each other in quick succession, the stage continues to be dismantled, and members of the Chorus continue to turn over additional sheets of wood that are on stage. Two enormous city columns are projected on the rear screen, flushed in a reddish light that deepens as the city goes up in flames. The stage continues to be dismantled, as some Chorus members move sheets of wood from one end of the stage, while others—at the rear of the stage— use them as stretchers. The Trojan women enter the stage, each delivering a monologue about her tragic fate, and Electra stands among them. Yerushalmi presents the story of the women of Troy as one might remove the bandages from a wound—peeling away layers of guilt and exposing them. The power of the images in Act III lies in the succession

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of horrific scenes from the war and images of the suffering of the women of Troy. Orestes shields his eyes from the light, and holds a bloody handkerchief to his face. One of the Chorus members hands him a coat, and he sets out on a journey of wandering—an outcast, exiled and persecuted, stripped of his rights. The images of skyscrapers are projected on the rear screen and on the sheets of wood held by the actors. The Chorus is scattered across the stage. The audience watches as Electra, covered in blood-soaked clothes, morphs into the goddess of revenge, and breaks into a dance of death that she had promised Agamemnon. In the final scene, they are all on stage, with the exception of Orestes: Electra at the centre, and the Chorus concluding with the song with which it began: ‘Blood hitting temples . . . up and down . . . ’. By disassembling the classical texts and by changing the well-known order of events, a new reality is constructed on stage, encompassing past and present, cause and effect, reality and memory, and synchronous and diachronous observation of fate and significance. This amalgam is, in effect, the essence of the work as a whole. The novelty that Yerushalmi introduces in preparing the texts for the production lies not in revisiting the more or less familiar world of classical tragedy, but in its disassembly and reassembly, as she traces the trajectory of guilt, and the impact of war, murder, and revenge on the recent generation—that of the children. And it is here that Yerushalmi’s political statement as an Israeli, as a member of the second generation of the ‘Holocaust and Resurrection’, and as an auteur seeking to uncover the underlying themes of contemporary Israeli existence, becomes apparent. With a cast of fourteen Ethiopian, Jewish, and Palestinian actors, she examines the actions of her parents’ generation, and those of the many generations before it—who collectively constitute ‘the forefathers’, ‘our ancestors’—and the consequences of their vision, and of the promises and choices that they made for the country’s inhabitants. The implicit but manifold parallels that she draws between Orestes and Electra as victims of the heroic past, as portrayed in the story of the Trojan War and of the House of Atreus, and her own generation—the second and third generation of Israelis—is blunt and hard-hitting. Electra has no choice but to be vengeful, and Orestes cannot help acting against his own interests by murdering his mother to avenge his father’s murder. The expression ‘blood for blood’ means not only that there are no victors in war, as Euripides taught us, but that anyone who engages in

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war or in actions of revenge—willingly or otherwise—ultimately falls victim to it, and is doomed. This is the moral that Yerushalmi conveys in Mythos: I was particularly interested in the human price that these young people pay for the blood revenge that they are obliged to carry out—namely, moral disintegration to the point of self-destruction. And it seems to be true not only for individuals but also for entire societies—even if their motives may be driven by a sense of justice. You may want to avenge, but if you think that you’re also right, then you have a problem. [. . .] How can a society exist without the obligation to avenge blood—and what does one do when everyone is right?⁴¹

Although some spectators found the postmodern production difficult to follow, with its medley of classical tragedies, or to relate to the metaphorical language, or to understand the production’s underlying theme, the critics thought highly of Yerushalmi’s production. They praised the actors’ performance and the highly inventive aesthetic portrayal, the versatile use of sheets of wood, and the spectacular lighting.⁴² In 2003, the production was invited to open the summer festival at the Lincoln Center in New York, and to take part in the festivals in Zürich and in Dublin, where it received excellent reviews.

Hanan Snir: From Politics to Psychodrama Hanan Snir was born in Tel Aviv in 1943. He did his military service in the Nahal Brigade, and in 1964 joined Kibbutz Yotvata in southern Israel, where he lived as a member until 1975. In 1968, he completed his bachelor’s degree in theatre at Tel Aviv University, winning a scholarship from the British Council of Arts the following year. During his studies at RADA in London, he served as intern director at the Royal Shakespeare Company, under director Peter Brook (Midsummer Night’s Dream, 1970). Since 1974, Snir has directed at many mainstream theatres in Israel—first at the Be’er Sheva Municipal Theatre (under the management of its founder, Geri Bilu, 1974–6); then at the Cameri Theatre (1976–81); the Haifa Municipal Theatre (1983); Habima Theatre (from May 1984); the Israeli Opera in Tel Aviv (1985); and the Israel Festival ⁴¹ Meshulach, ‘The Price of Revenge’. ⁴² Michael Handelzalts, ‘But There Was a Play, as Well’, Haaretz, 12 October 2002.

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(1988). In between it all, he has also directed overseas: at the Boston Opera House (1984–5), Stari Theatre in Poland (1988), and the Weimar Theatre in Germany (1997). Since 1984, he has served as resident director at Habima Theatre, and for a year (1990–1) as its artistic director. Considered one of Israel’s leading theatre directors today, Snir has directed dozens of plays from the classical and modern repertoire of Israeli theatre and of the world at large.⁴³ He has adapted and directed literary works, including The Assistant by Bernard Malamud (Haifa 1983), Yentl and Her Demon by Isaac Bashevis Singer (Cameri Theatre, 1980), and the novels of Amos Oz: Elsewhere, Perhaps (Cameri Theatre,1982), Black Box (2003), and The Same Sea (2010). After 2006, he turned his attention to classical Greek theatre—directing Antigone by Sophocles at Habima in 2006; adapting and directing Electra and Orestes: A Murder Trial (based on Euripides’ Electra) at the National Theatre of Cyprus in 2013; and Oedipus: A Case Study (based on Oedipus Tyrannus by Sophocles) at Habima Theatre in January 2015.

Sophocles’ Antigone: Lebanon revisited (2006) Snir’s production of Antigone by Sophocles premiered at Habima Theatre on 10 December 2006, in the wake of the Second Lebanon War, which had taken place in southern Lebanon earlier that year (from 12 July to 14 August), with heavy casualties on both sides. The war had broken out after Hezbollah fighters attacked an Israeli patrol at the Lebanese border (killing three of the soldiers, and abducting the other two into Lebanon), and launched rocket attacks on northern Israel. The IDF retaliated with air strikes and a ground troop invasion, capturing towns and villages in southern Lebanon as far as the Litani River. While the Israeli Air Force attacked targets in Tyre and Beirut, the Hezbollah launched barrages of rockets at communities in northern Israel—including large towns such as Safed and Tiberias, Acre and Haifa, Migdal HaEmek and Kiryat Tivon. On 12 July, UN Security

⁴³ Apart from Spotted Leopard by Yaakov Shabtai (1985), Hard People by Yosef BarYosef (1987), Jehu by Gilad Evron (1992), Most Cruel the King by Nissim Aloni (1997), Snir has also staged Strindberg’s The Father (1989), Lorca’s Blood Wedding (1990), Ibsen’s Ghosts (1995), Turgenev’s A Month in the Country (2004), Ibsen’s Little Eyolf (2009) and Master Builder (2010), and Our Class by Tadeusz Słobodzianek (2014).

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Council Resolution 1701 proposed a cease-fire and deployment of a UN force in southern Lebanon. This went into effect two days later. The conduct of the war and its aftermath drew sharp criticism from senior military officers, journalists, historians, and public figures.⁴⁴ Popular protests broke out, demanding the establishment of a national commission of inquiry into the war and the apparent unreadiness of the Israeli military and of the home front for a war of this sort. The Winograd Commission that was appointed as a result submitted its final report in late January 2007, which faulted the conduct of the Prime Minister, the Minister of Defence, the Chief of Staff, and indeed the government as a whole, and put forward several recommendations and institutional amendments. While the Commission’s hearings and report preparation were going on, the two largest theatres in Israel—Habima and the Cameri—joined forces to stage a production of Antigone by Sophocles. The decision of these two rival theatres to work together on this production surprised many and attracted a fair bit of criticism, since Antigone is a play that every subsidized theatre is supposed to include in its standard repertoire⁴⁵—nor did the size of the requisite cast justify the collaboration of two such large theatres in a major city such as Tel Aviv. The only explanation given for the seemingly curious decision (which has since become almost standard practice for the two theatres with regard to masterpieces) is that staging a classical Greek play requires a long timeline to accommodate the necessary rehearsals and casting, and a large budget, given the use of a chorus and live music—all of which are matters of concern both for management and for the theatre’s subscribers. Collaboration ensured access to two membership rosters, adequate casting talent, and a reasonable budget.⁴⁶ ⁴⁴ See, for example, Amir Rappaport, ‘IDF and the Lessons of the Second Lebanon War’, Middle Eastern Security Studies 85 (September 2010), Begin-Sadat Center for Strategic Studies (BESA), Bar-Ilan University. ⁴⁵ The play had previously been staged a decade earlier, in May 1996, at the Haifa Municipal Theatre, directed by Vardit Shalfi. ⁴⁶ The production team included the translator Shimon Buzaglo; stage design—Roni Toren; costume design—Ofra Confino; musical score—Yossi Ben-Nun; and lighting design—Felice Ross. The cast: Ola Shor-Selectar (Antigone); Hila Feldman (Ismene); Igal Naor/Igal Sade (Creon); Ido Rosenberg (Haemon); Yossi Grabber (Tiresias); Davit Gavish (Euridice); Alex Peleg (Messenger); Alon Dahan (The Guard) Yosef Carmon, Aharon Almog, Yossi Kantz, Sassi Saad, and Avraham Selectar (Chorus).

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Snir’s decision to use Buzaglo’s translation of Antigone was due to his dramaturgical determination to make the classical Greek text more accessible to the multi-generational and multicultural audiences of today. The first of Buzaglo’s translations to be staged at Habima had been Medea in 1998, directed by Robert Woodruff, and had a simplicity and clarity that gave the play a modern flavour and helped the actors accommodate the speech patterns and imagery of classical Greek tragedy. It also allowed new generations of theatregoers to relate to events on stage without the linguistic difficulties they had encountered with Aharon Shabtai’s rich and poetic language. Antigone was Buzaglo’s second translation of a Greek tragedy.⁴⁷ It featured poetic passages (for the Chorus and Tiresias) alongside prosaic ones (the dialogues between the characters), high-register language (e.g. between Tiresias and the Messenger), and comical street talk (the Guard). ‘The translation is very theatrical, easy to understand, and moving’, wrote critic Zvi Goren.⁴⁸ Snir’s most significant dramaturgical intervention—the addition of a Prologue noting key events in the mythical story of the Theban dynasty (the story of Oedipus, the siege of Thebes, the warring brothers who kill each other, and Creon’s subsequent rise to power)—enabled the audience to gain a basic familiarity with the general state of affairs as the drama begins. He also broke up the long monologues by Creon and Antigone, Ismene and Tiresias into shorter passages that he recombined to create fast-paced dialogues that heightened the conflict between the characters, and rendered the lament by Antigone and the Chorus into a song with musical accompaniment, to underscore the power of its words. Critic Eitan Bar-Yossef thought that: Shimon Buzaglo’s fluent translation, coupled with Snir’s robust editing, manages to cast the ancient poetry—rich in images of shipwrecks and imminently breaking trees—into contemporary idioms, without ever disrespecting the original.⁴⁹

⁴⁷ In the first edition of the translation, Buzaglo promised that ‘Antigone is the first in a series to be called The Greek Works.’ True to his word, to date he has produced translations of Iphigenia at Aulis by Euripides (staged at the Herzliya Theatre Ensemble in 2009, directed by Yossi Yizraely), Hecuba and The Women of Troy by Euripides (2011), and Oedipus Tyrannus by Sophocles (at Habima, January 2015, directed by Hanan Snir). ⁴⁸ Zvi Goren, ‘Antigone—Theatre at its Best’, Habama, 7 January 2007, (accessed 20 February 2016). ⁴⁹ Eitan Bar-Yossef, ‘Set Table’, Akhbar Ha’ir, 11 January 2007.

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The production designers—Toren, Konfino, and Ross—were a regular part of many of Snir’s productions. Their collaborative quest for the appropriate visual image of each production was in line with Snir’s interpretation of political, religious, moral, and psychological issues arising from the play. The preparatory work for the stage design lasted many months and went through many stages of research and experimentation. The walls of the set were painted the colour of grey sand; the floor was covered with earth and grey-brown gravel. The top of the rear wall bore an inscription from the final lines of the chorus (1350–1)— ‘THE GREAT WORDS OF ARROGANT MEN HAVE TO MAKE REPAYMENT WITH GREAT BLOWS, AND IN OLD AGE TEACH WISDOM’⁵⁰—in relief, in Hebrew and in English.⁵¹ In the middle of the stage, across its entire width, stood a long, broad, wooden table— effectively a ‘stage within a stage’—at the ends of which were openings that served as entry portals. Three or four large, heavy boulders were placed on either side of the table on its front side, facing the audience. In the middle of the rear wall was a palace opening, through which Creon, Haemon, and Eurydice entered onto the stage, and which, when open, descended like a drawbridge onto the middle of the table. Eleven wooden chairs were scattered around the table. Four lamps hung down from the stage ceiling, casting light on the table. Additional lights illuminated the set walls, while casting heavy shadows on the walls in various scenes. During the play, the table served various purposes—discussions, dinners, ceremonies, as well as a stage for characters to appear and engage in elaborate intellectual debates. The Chorus, too, performed upon it, accompanied by Yossi Ben-Nun’s music on keyboards and samples that incorporated classical and popular modern Greek themes within the melodies and rhythms. In one such piece, its members drummed on the table, in others they sang songs to musical accompaniment. In one particularly poignant fusion of theatre, movement, and voice, Antigone, dressed in a white wedding dress, sang a lament about her short life as she walked along the table, towards her death.⁵² ⁵⁰ Sir Richard Jebb, Antigone (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1891), ll. 1347–8. ⁵¹ As a kind of literal illustration of the expression, ‘The writing was on the wall’ (originally from the Book of Daniel)—i.e. that everything is predictable, and that the consequences of any given action, military operation, or disaster (such as the intifada, Rabin’s assassination, or the abduction of soldiers by the Hezbollah) are obvious to anyone who is willing to see. ⁵² Goren, ‘Antigone—Theatre at its Best’.

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In keeping with Snir’s background in psychodrama,⁵³ the entire cast in his productions remained on stage throughout the play—outside the centre of action, but focusing the spectators’ gaze on the active performers on stage. This created the impression of a performance in a ‘theatre within the theatre’, doubling the number of perspectives created on stage. Snir had used this technique in Antigone, with the Chorus alternating between performing on the table and sitting on chairs scattered around it, watching the clashes between the characters, and intervening in a bid to find a point of equilibrium somewhere between them. Tiresias, too, sat throughout the show on a chair at the front of the stage, watching the scene with his back to the audience, until his moment arrived to intervene—whereupon he left his seat as a ‘spectator’, and climbed onto the table/stage, to confront Creon. The Chorus in Snir’s production consisted of four well-known elderly actors—Yosef Carmon, Aharon Almog, Joseph Kuntz, and Abraham Selektar—portraying retired soldiers of past campaigns, decked out in the uniforms of various militaries and medals. They represented what Snir regarded as the two purposes of the chorus in Greek tragedy: to learn the lessons of the past to better navigate the chaotic world of today, and to intervene in current events in favour of one side or the other, as a real-time response to problems of the ‘here and now’. Accordingly, they side with Creon at one point, and with Antigone at another—particularly as she makes her journey from the palace to the cave tomb, with cries of sympathy, tears, and profound grief. In Snir’s production, Creon comes across as a dynamic leader. The role alternated between two actors: Yigal Naor, who regularly portrays commanders, rulers, and generals in Israeli theatre,⁵⁴ and who played Creon as aggressive and obsessive; and Yigal Sade, known for his portrayal of serious and sensitive characters, and who presented Creon as a more natural, human, and non-inflammatory character. Both performances were praised by the critics, and each offered a different take on the tragic conflict between Creon’s notion of leadership and the decision by ⁵³ Snir has a master’s degree in Psychodrama from Boston University. Psychodrama is a method that was developed by Jacob L. Moreno MD, using verbal therapy and dramatic techniques to explore issues presented by an individual. ⁵⁴ As in Jehu by Gilad Evron, at the Cameri Theatre, 1992—directed by Snir; Gorodish, written and directed by Hillel Mittelpunkt, Cameri Theatre, 1993; and Cruel and Tender, by Martin Crimp, directed by Arthur Kogan, Habima Theatre, 2005.

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Figure 10.4 Antigone by Sophocles, co-production by Habima Theatre and The Cameri Theatre (2006). Director: Hanan Snir; stage design: Roni Toren. Courtesy of the Habima Theatre Archive.

Antigone (portrayed with a blend of childlike sensitivity and pugnacious resolution by the wonderful actor Ola Shor-Selektar) in favour of her family and to fight to the death for her brother’s burial. Snir’s decision to tackle the theme of the Second Lebanon War was made vividly evident in the opening scene, where corpses of soldiers killed in battle were strewn across the table/stage (Figure 10.4). The sight of these bodies covered in white shrouds was the first indication of the production’s strong visual allusion to the war.⁵⁵ These references multiply and become clearer later in the play, in the clashes between Antigone and Creon, Haemon and Creon, and between the family/ private domain and the public-political one. Audible murmurs went through the crowd as Creon proclaimed that the root of human corruption is when someone ‘favours those close to them over the homeland’, or when he declared that ‘money [. . .] destroys countries’. Spectators sensed that Sophocles’ text was relevant to their own lives, and to issues in the public and private domains.⁵⁶ These associations were fully intentional—as Snir

⁵⁵ In keeping with the biblical injunction, ‘Dust to dust, ashes to ashes’, in Jewish burials the body is buried in a shroud, without a coffin. ⁵⁶ Goren, ‘Antigone—Theatre at its Best’.

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made clear in press interviews in which he spoke about the spectators’ socio-political context: Creon’s [blinkered approach] is the same as that of Ehud Olmert, Amir Peretz and Dan Halutz in the last war.⁵⁷ All three, like Creon, are new leaders who, as soon as they took office, sought to ‘hit [the Arabs] hard’, and ‘show them [who’s boss]’, not to give in and to go all the way—without stopping for a moment to think about the cost. This is their arrogance and that of the Hezbollah, and because of it we have all lost out: civilians have died, homes were destroyed—and for what? We set out to retrieve three prisoners—so where are they? Creon also wanted to show how strong he was—and he was destroyed.

The production was a hit with audiences and critics alike, and performed at both theatres to great acclaim. Buzaglo’s free-flowing translation and the actors’ clear delivery contributed to its favourable reception by young high-school students, for whom the play was part of their curriculum. This was a great achievement for both theatres, given the rocky reception their previous attempts at staging classical Greek plays had met in the past. It was also a testament to the success of Snir’s directing and Toren’s set design in conveying political messages through implicit references alone.

Oedipus: A Case Study: psychodrama on stage (2015) Oedipus: A Case Study premiered in January 2015, and was introduced in the programme as ‘by Sophocles, translation by Shimon Buzaglo, production text written and directed by Hanan Snir’. The decision to name the play Oedipus: A Case Study, rather than an adaptation of Oedipus Tyrannus, or an original play ‘based on Sophocles’, indicates that it was intended to be a transposition of the original masterpiece to the field of psychotherapy, where case studies are a common part of research programmes.⁵⁸ The production was held in Habima’s small hall—Habimartef (Bertonov ⁵⁷ In reference to the heads of Israel’s political and military administration when the war began: Prime Minister Ehud Olmert, Defence Minister Amir Peretz, and Chief of Staff Dan Halutz. ⁵⁸ The creative team included: stage design—Roni Toren; costume design—Polina Adamov; musical score—Yossi Ben-Nun; and lighting design—Felice Ross. Cast: Alex Caroll (Oedipus); Gil Frank (Creon); Evgenia Dodina and Maya Maoz, alternately (Jocasta); Dvora Keder and Gil Frank, alternately (Tiresias). Four actors played the role of Chorus, each endowed with a Greek-sounding name—Rizoros, Abdos, Alekos, and Mikulas— changing their identity during the play, as they switch between the medical care team and Greek Chorus and the four supporting characters in the play (the Shepherd and three Messengers).

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Auditorium)—on a small stage surrounded on three sides by seven or eight rows of stepped seating, so the audience sat very close to the performance, and some of the characters entered and exited via the stairs between the three sections. Snir said: Habimartef [a contraction of Habima and martef—the Hebrew word for ‘basement’—NY] is an intimate space that establishes an immediate connection between the actors and the audience. This, in my view, provides for a new and ironic perspective: the audience, to some extent, becomes part of the Chorus and the population of Thebes. This creates a kind of a play-within-a-play, in which the outer context is modern, but the inner play—which is the crux of the matter—is still the same ancient myth. This sets up a constant tension between the (modern) form and (ancient) content—which is particularly evident in the role of the Chorus and how they relate to Oedipus, in the costume design and in the spoken language.⁵⁹

The production underlined this blending of past and present, of tradition and innovation, as it pitted the plot of the classical play (which Aristotle regarded as the archetypal classical Greek tragedy) against the Freudian theory of the Oedipus complex, and the entire field of practice—in psychology, psychoanalysis, and psychodrama—that emerged in its wake, which made Oedipus a symbol of modern man in the twentieth century. This was reflected in the programme notes: Oedipus Tyrannus is the best known and most important tragedy. Aristotle saw the play as the perfect exemplar and model for all Greek tragedies. It is a detective and psychological thriller that resonates well beyond the boundaries of time and place in which it was written: a mysterious prophecy of patricide and incest drives both the characters and the plot. A terrible epidemic claims many victims, forcing Oedipus to investigate its cause—which many attribute to the fact that the murder of the previous king remains unsolved. In Shimon Buzaglo’s new translation and Hanan Snir’s adaptation, we see the childhood trauma that Oedipus goes through, with the help of a group of actors who are part Greek Chorus, part murder investigators, and part therapist team—or all three at once.⁶⁰ ⁵⁹ Noga Ashkenazi, ‘Everything is foreseen, but one is free to choose’—an interview with director Hanan Snir, programme notes, Habima Archive. ⁶⁰ Oedipus: A Case Study programme notes. With the exception of Buzaglo’s article on translation and the interview with the director, everything in the programme notes was in keeping with the traditional content accompanying a Greek tragedy production in Israel: notes about the life of Sophocles; the Oedipal myth; an excerpt from Ovid’s Metamorphoses on Tiresias’ transformation into a woman; and one from Natan Spiegel’s book, A History of Greek Tragedy, noting the main elements of Oedipus Tyrannus that make it the archetypal classical Greek tragedy.

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Figure 10.5 Oedipus: A Case Study, created by Hanan Snir, Habima Theatre (2015). Director: Hanan Snir; stage design: Roni Toren. Pictured: the final scene. Photograph by Gérard Allon.

Accordingly, the play takes place in a psychiatric hospital. The stage was designed as a theatre in a hospital. It was divided in two—front and back—with Oedipus presented as a psychiatric case in the front section, while in the back, behind a glass wall, overlooking the front section, sat members of the medical staff (Figure 10.5). In addition to the white shrouds that they wore in the opening scene, large pieces of black cloth were tied around their waists, in the manner of long skirts—while Creon, Jocasta, and Oedipus each wore a royal cloak. Snir explained the transitions between the roles as follows: Because of the different and conflicting functions of the Chorus (which, for me, also includes Creon), it comes across one moment like a great and empathetic mother who is holding and containing Oedipus, and other times as the voice of the absent father, who represents cosmic law and order. On the one hand, it serves in the traditional role of a Greek Chorus of the external voices of public opinion, morality and social norms, but at the same time it may be regarded as Oedipus’ inner voices—like alter egos, or psychodramatic doppelgängers.

In an interview with Noga Ashkenazi, Snir presented the questions that prompted him to turn to the field of psychotherapy. He began by

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wondering: Where would Oedipus be if he were living among us today, and charged with murder? The answer, he says, is ‘In prison or in a psychiatric institution’⁶¹—and hence there are two levels to the play. Ostensibly, the play is about the epidemic and the need to find King Laius’ killer. But there is also an inner, more subtle level—the true illness that lies hidden within Oedipus and Jocasta, namely, their culpability for crimes that have yet to be exposed, and unavailing grief: I think Oedipus is a play that is first and foremost about blindness—and denial, and repressed memory. At the root of the denial and repressed memory is the question: At what point did Jocasta and Oedipus learn that they are mother and son? Did they know—and lie to themselves and to others? In other words: Did they knowingly do what they did, or was some kind of denial going on—a kind of primitive mechanism that is oblivious of the truth? How could Oedipus and Jocasta have both been blind to the signs?⁶²

This underlying premise governed the choice of a setting, the style of the production, the changes in the identities of the Chorus, and their attitude towards Oedipus’ illness—by fluctuating between empathy and ‘flooding’ him⁶³—i.e. by exposing him to the traumatic events during treatment, which Snir likens to electric shock treatment. Needless to say, he distinguishes between the use of psychotherapeutic techniques as a means of constructing a new interpretation of a play, and as treatment methods in their own right: In psychotherapy there is no theatrical play—neither the facilitator nor the protagonist have any clue how things will pan out, or what the outcome will be. We must remember that in tragedy, on the other hand, the outcome is known in advance. [. . .] What interested the audience back then and what interests audiences today is not what happens—but how it happens.⁶⁴

Reactions to the play were mixed. Critics praised the performance, but had questions and reservations about Snir’s interpretation of Sophocles’ play and about the artistic intentions of what he presented. ‘The

⁶¹ Ashkenazi, ‘Everything is foreseen, but one is free to choose’. ⁶² Ibid. ⁶³ A technique of behavioural therapy for treating phobias and anxiety. ‘The underlying theory behind flooding is that phobia is a learned fear, and needs to be unlearned by exposure to the thing that you fear’; see (accessed 23 June 2016). ⁶⁴ Ashkenazi, ‘Everything is foreseen, but one is free to choose’.

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seriousness and the hard work of all the actors [in the production] are commendable’, wrote Michael Handelzalts, but added: [. . .] the production remains a kind of experiment that is at pains to point out that it is really not a ‘play’, but rather a simulation of a case study that uses a classical play—for reasons I have yet to fully fathom. Unless, of course, it is about psychiatrists who use theatre for their own amusement—in which case, I don’t think they needed to have troubled a Greek tragedy.⁶⁵

Marat Parkhomovsky appreciated Snir’s intentions, and wrote that ‘As far as its intentions are concerned, it is one of the more interesting and distinctive productions that have emerged in our national theatre in recent years.’⁶⁶ Ron Schwartz also focused on Snir’s interpretative approach, noting that: Snir does not ignore the Freudian undertones, but indeed does quite the opposite—he adopts it as the starting point, to draw the viewer into the play’s deeper layers [. . .] As in a scientific experiment, Snir takes Sophocles’ classic and deconstructs it into its constituent elements. Spectators of a more romantic bent will see this as the Achilles’ heel of the production—because, like any scientific experiment, it neutralizes emotion in favour of logic.⁶⁷

Nir Slonim particularly noted the audience’s reaction: Snir gives us credit as an audience and treats us with great respect—perhaps too much respect, because it was clear that some of us felt a little lost, at times. Throughout the play, the audience is illuminated, as well, so that the frightened (and confused) faces become a kind of human backdrop that is certainly appropriate for such a disconcerting play.⁶⁸

Zvi Goren focused mainly on the dramaturgical weaknesses of Snir’s production, and the questions that arose in the course of viewing: At Habima Theatre, Sophocles’ great tragedy is made into a ‘case study’ that, while impressive in its performance, is also problematic. The directing—on the face of it, at least—neither resolves nor deciphers what precisely is Oedipus’ condition at the heart of the case study. He appears to be forcibly hospitalized, ⁶⁵ Michael Handelzalts, ‘Oedipus—The Hand of Chance’, Haaretz, 1 March 2015. ⁶⁶ Marat Parkhomovsky, ‘Oedipus: A Case Study: Intriguing and Thought-Provoking’, Akhbar Ha’ir, 2 March 2015. ⁶⁷ Ron Schwartz, ‘Between Sophocles and Freud’, Globes, 14–17 April 2015. ⁶⁸ Nir Slonim, ‘Oedipus: A Case Study: Mainly for Theatre Buffs’, Mako, 2 March 2015, (accessed 2 February 2016).

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and dangerous (he is brought in handcuffed)—but why barefoot? And what exactly is wrong with him? What persuaded him to play the role of Oedipus— to memorize all those Sophoclean lines? And how exactly was he blinded—and by whom? Perhaps—as implied—he is only a hired actor, and the test case is a generic one, in principle, and has nothing to do with him?

These are interesting questions because they indicate that the ‘case’ in question was not presented in a credible fashion, and also highlight the inherently chaotic nature of Snir’s dramaturgical approach—in marked contrast to the orderly but tragic structure of Sophocles’ play. That latter point is the most interesting aspect of Snir’s interpretation of Sophocles’ play and the relationship between this version of Oedipus Tyrannus and the socio-political situation in Israel in the first decade of the twenty-first century. The most significant change in Snir’s rendition concerns the figure of Oedipus himself. In Sophocles’ play, Oedipus is a king who sees himself responsible for his own actions; who sees himself and is seen by others (Creon, Jocasta, and the Chorus) as a decisive man of action; who is able to set the terms of his own life, his family, and his community; who understands the dangers inherent in the chaos and loss brought on by the plague; and who sets out to solve the murder of King Laius, and the riddle of his identity—and suffers the consequences. Snir’s Oedipus, in contrast, is a medical ‘case’—an ailing individual, suffering from post-traumatic stress, who is entirely under the control of therapists, researchers, and doctors, a victim of circumstances, and who moves about the stage aimlessly without a will of his own, and without a future. It is unclear what it is that he did, or how he reached this condition—or what he, or any of the other characters, is trying to achieve from the treatment that we are observing. The only thing that he does of his own volition— exposing the gaping holes of his bleeding eye sockets—strikes fear in the young students sitting around me in the hall, but does not reveal who gouged his eyes out, or whether that is related to, helps, or comprises the treatment that he has undergone in our presence. And this, I think, is the point that Snir is making—that in this way he is holding up a mirror to the post-traumatic Israeli society of 2015, just as he did with Antigone in 2006 in the wake of the Second Lebanon War. Oedipus: A Case Study is a reflection of a decade of failed social struggles, of stalled negotiations with the Palestinians, and of lost faith in man—a decade of treading water, of passivity, and despair. Thus, in

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Israel of 2015, Snir encourages his spectators to turn their gaze inwards, to recognize their blinkers, and their hubris. He highlights recurring repression as the true cause of their passivity and despair, and suggests a profound psychoanalytical treatment to regain their true identity.

Summary In summary, what distinguished the use of ancient tragedy in Israel in the aftermath of Rabin’s assassination is that, after many years of expressions of hope for peace by placing the Palestinian issue on stage and protesting against the Occupation and the authority behind it, the spotlight was turned around and focused on Israeli society itself, and on the disastrous and self-devastating consequences of Occupation. Focused remonstrations with the government have, in more recent productions, given way to a harsh sense of guilt, failure, and catastrophe, of a nation that has lost its way, and is on a path of self-destruction.

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11 The Classical Tradition in University Theatre For half a century—in France as in other countries—university theatre has been an important agent of theatrical renewal. Yet, very often it is only in hindsight that [one realizes that] its ephemeral nature has meant that it could only enjoy a retrospective existence. —M. Pruner¹

The Department of Theatre Arts at Tel Aviv University was founded by director Peter Frye in 1958.² It was the first of its kind in Israel, and one of the university’s first departments in the first five years of its existence. From the outset, the academic curriculum combined theory with practical studies. In the early years, studies focused mainly on acting, improvisation, and voice. In 1974, Professor Moshe Lazar of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem was invited to establish Tel Aviv University’s Faculty of the Arts, and to serve as its dean. To this end, he merged together the Academy of Music, the Department of Art History, the Department of Theatre Arts, and the Department of Cinema under one roof. Under his leadership, the syllabus of the Department of Theatre Arts was also ¹ M. Pruner, ‘Le théâtre universitaire’, in Dictionnaire Encyclopédique du Théâtre, ed. Corvin, 850–2 (excerpt translation: Jonathan Orr-Stav). M. Prumer’s words in the epigraph accurately describe my purpose in this chapter: to record the history of the Department of Theatre Arts and its theatre productions, to trace the tradition that developed in it, and document the contribution of teachers, artists, and students who worked in it and started a sort of ‘tradition’ that interweaves academic studies with theatre arts. ² Tel Aviv University was established in 1953 by Haim Levanon, mayor of Tel Aviv from 1953 to 1959.

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expanded: theoretical studies were extended, MA and MFA programmes established, and applied studies were divided into areas of specialization: acting, directing, stage design, costumes and lighting, and community theatre.³ In keeping with Pruner’s statement above, I have chosen to focus in this chapter on the evolution of instruction, research, and performance of classical Greek and Roman drama in the academic setting of the Department of Theatre Arts (DTA) at Tel Aviv University.⁴ I do so not only because it has been my home base for many years, but because the DTA has produced some of the more interesting productions of Greek tragedy in Israeli theatre. An examination of the connections, links, and collaborations between teachers and students, and their mutual influences within academia and subsequently in the professional Israeli theatrical scene, shows the potential importance of university theatre departments as sites of tradition and innovation. Since its founding, the DTA has performed classical Greek and Roman plays in various formats—teacher-director productions, student productions, projects, workshops, and laboratory work. Some of these productions can, I believe, serve as an apposite summary of the material in this book, while providing a glimpse of the future. My aim is to show how engagement with classical Greek drama that combines study, research, and practice provides another layer to the training and specialization of young theatre artists in the various artistic professions involved in these productions, and is crucial to the ongoing evolution of theatre and performance traditions of Israeli theatre.

³ By combining theory and practice, the Department of Theatre Arts effectively became Israel’s first academic acting school. The vocational schools for training actors for professional theatre were all founded later: the Beit-Zvi School of the Performing Arts in 1961, by Dr Haim Gamzu; the Nissan Nativ Acting Studio in 1963; the Kibbutzim College of Education’s School of Performing Arts in 1969 (initially just an acting school, with programmes in theatre directing, set and costume design, and theatre in education, added later); the Yoram Loewenstein Theatre Arts Studio in 1988; and the Goodman Acting School in the Negev in 2005. In the past twenty years, more acting schools and many studios have been established throughout the country. ⁴ The two other academic settings are the Theatre Department of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, founded by Arieh Sachs in 1969 (which is primarily a theory programme combined with practical workshops), and the Theatre Department at Haifa University, established in 1995 by Professor Haim Shoham and Professor Avi Oz, along similar lines as the DTA of Tel Aviv University.

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The DTA’s instructors began staging theatre productions with their students as early as the first decade of the department’s existence, in a bid to bring to life masterpieces that the students had studied from a dramatic, thematic, and research point of view—in courses such as History of Drama & Theatre and Play Analysis, and seminars on specific writers and works. One of the earliest productions was Waiting for Godot, staged by Edna Shavit in 1966. Others were of works that do not often feature in repertory theatre—such as classical drama (Greek or Roman), European Jewish drama, modern and post-dramatic plays, and contemporary Israeli drama. In these productions, the instruction centred on the relationship between drama and historic research in the theatre arts, and real-world theatrical practice that is based not only on play-analysis, acting, interpretation, and mise-en-scène, but also on training in diction, movement, and voice coaching, which allows for experimentation with various methods of acting, directing, and theatrical styles. These productions laid the foundation for a university theatre that, over the past quarter-century, has been the venue of dozens of theatre productions and is seen as part of the students’ practical training. Here students experienced work in all aspects of theatre production, took part in the dialogue between the various artistic stage fields, and tackled issues arising from the study of performance. Over the years, a one-day symposium has been added to each of the productions. Today, the DTA has two theatre auditoriums. Schottlander Hall—the larger of the two—seats 250, with a broad and deep stage for productions by directors/teachers, or final productions by graduate students. Where required, retractable bleachers can be brought on stage to provide a smaller acting area and/or a ‘stage-within-a-stage’ configuration. The smaller hall (Auditorium 207a, Mexico Building) is a ‘black box’ type of theatre seating 60–70, and contains stepped platforms that can be moved about in various audience–stage configurations to suit the needs of the director or creative team.

First Encounters: Sophocles’ Antigone (1969) The first classical Greek play staged by the DTA was Antigone by Sophocles in 1969, directed by Edna Shavit,⁵ with third-year undergraduate ⁵ For a discussion on Shavit’s Oedipus Tyrannus at Habima, see Chapter 9.

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students.⁶ The performance was staged in an ordinary university classroom (Gilman Building, Auditorium 140), with seats mounted on steps in front of a stone stage and a large green blackboard for use by the teaching staff. At the centre of the space, between the seats and the podium, stood a small square platform, flanked on three sides by small sets of stairs (Figure 11.1).⁷ Shavit used Shlomo Dykman’s accurate and poetic translation:⁸ she believed it to be more faithful to the spirit of the classical Greek original,

Figure 11.1 Antigone by Sophocles, Department of Theatre Arts, Tel Aviv University (1969). Director: Edna Shavit. Cast: David Alexander (Creon); Gita Zeltzer (Antigone); Haya Lipshitz (Ismene); and Chorus. © Photograph by Tzachi Ostrovsky.

⁶ Most Israeli students enter university at the ages of 20 or 21, after two or three years’ mandatory military service. Accordingly, they are more mature and focused than, perhaps, their counterparts in Europe or North America. ⁷ I thank David Alexander—who portrayed Creon in the production—for sharing his memoirs of that production, and Duby Native for making his private archive available to me. ⁸ Shlomo Dykman (1917–65) was a translator of ancient Greek and Roman poetry and drama into Hebrew. His translations were noted for their rich, poetic intensity that stemmed from his profound knowledge of classical literature, its origins, history, and the various metres of Greek and Roman poetry. His translations of tragedies were well known to be challenging for performers and spectators alike (like those of Tchernichovsky), given

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and that its biblical vocabulary and syntax would make it easier for the students to memorize the text. As usual in her work, there were no dramaturgical interventions, no abridging, and no adaptations for the benefit of contemporary spectators. She treated the text as the basis for the performance, and investigated the drama in terms of how it might be translated onto the stage. Accordingly, all other elements of the production—its visual appearance, and musical embellishments (by Danny Orr-Stav)—were minimalist in nature. At the heart of the production was Shavit’s interpretation of the conflict between Creon and Antigone. Rather than an ideological conflict between the king’s authority and that of the gods, she presented the action as a primal battle of the sexes; instead of a clash between a ruler and his subject, she portrayed it as one between an older man and a young woman. She based her interpretation on a passage from the exchange between Antigone and Ismene in the opening scene, regarding Antigone’s intention to bury her brother: in lines 73–6, Antigone tells Ismene that she would rather lie with her beloved Polynices, as a loved one lies near her lover, than live unfaithful to her principles.⁹ The suggestive play on the words ‘to lie with’ directs the reading of the play as a whole, charging the encounter between Antigone and Creon with erotic overtones: their fast-paced exchange in short, staccato sentences reflecting their intense underlying emotions—like fighters in a boxing ring.¹⁰ In the scene, Creon’s voice gradually rises in volume, until he shouts in frustration (ll. 524–5: ‘Then, go down to hell and love them if you must! While I live, no woman will rule me’). Antigone, in contrast, maintains her self-control and restraint as she sets out her arguments. The clash between Creon and Haemon—who argues on Antigone’s behalf—is an extension of the same conflict. When Haemon learns that his father’s mind is set, he changes tack—from a diplomatic tone to one of impatience and insolence—and Creon in response says harsh things about him, and

his propensity to use biblical Hebrew, and subordinating the Hebrew text to the metre of the Greek original. ⁹ ‘I shall rest with him, loved one with loved one, a pious criminal’ (Antigone, trans. Jebb). See the Perseus Project, (accessed 12 November 2015). ¹⁰ Thelma Yagol, ‘Students Searching for Experimental Theatre’, Yediot Aharonot, 6 June 1969.

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finally slaps and dismisses him with the contemptuous line (746): ‘Polluted creature, submitting to a woman’. The production was very favourably received by the audience. We— my fellow first-year students and I—felt that we were taking part in a landmark event, and witnessing an exciting production and innovative and daring interpretation. But what followed was an equally instructive incident that was etched in the memories of the cast and the spectators. At the end of the performance, Professor David Weisart—a distinguished Classical Studies professor, and a lecturer much beloved by his students, including myself—erupted in indignation, and berated the director over the sexual interpretation that she had given to the play. Shavit remained calm and collected, however, and rather than enter into a shouting match, invited Weisart to engage the class in a direct and frank conversation about the subject. David Alexander, who played Creon, remembers the meeting that took place several days later: The encounter with Professor Weisart, several days after the premiere (which was also the final performance), was fascinating. He started by making a number of well-argued critiques which, if I remember correctly, he recited first in Greek, then in Hebrew. For us third-year whippersnappers who were about to begin our theatre careers, the whole thing was hugely entertaining. But in the end, Professor Weisart admitted that even though Shavit’s somewhat extreme interpretation of the text had no academic justification, it was interesting and provocative, and couldn’t be dismissed out of hand. If I remember correctly, he came away very pleased with his encounter with students who were ‘slightly different’ from those he was accustomed to teach at the Department of Classical Studies. In the years that followed, I talked about this quite a lot with Edna whenever we reminisced about the old times, and she told me that he had gone back to his department full of praises for our department.¹¹

Shavit’s first encounter with Greek tragedy lay the groundwork for her approach to the classical Greek plays that she subsequently taught and directed: a close reading of the text in its Hebrew translation, followed by an interpretation based on the words defining the conflicts that drive the plot, and finally a focus on the actors’ work—pronunciation, diction, and movement—whose performance must make the dramatic action accessible and comprehensible to the audience. These principles ultimately

¹¹ David Alexander, in email correspondence with the author, 28 December 2015.

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extended to her experimentations in mainstream theatre and in other university theatre productions. Following Shavit’s example, other teachers staged classical Greek repertory productions of their own. Thus, in August 1982, Nola Chilton staged an adaptation of Aristophanes’ The Birds, by playwright Yehoshua Sobol, with set design by Eli Sinai, music and voice coaching by Hanna Hakohen, and choreography by Daniela Michaeli. This teacher-driven practice soon changed, however, and the students of those teachers soon took over the tasks of the creative team, under their teachers’ guidance. By 1990, when playwright Miriam Kainy was invited to direct her feminist adaptation of Sophocles’ Antigone at the DTA, the entire creative team consisted of students specializing in the respective fields. This enabled the students to gain first-hand experience of the dialogue required between the various stage arts involved in the production, thereby deepening their understanding of the different artistic languages that come together in the play. Since the early 1990s, with the growing number of published translations of classical plays by Aharon Shabtai, young teacher-directors decided to try their hand at staging tragedies. For example, in 1993 Zvika Serper—a lecturer on Japanese acting techniques and researcher of Japanese theatre— staged a production of Agamemnon that astonished audiences with its meticulous work on the chorus performance and the chorus’ dialogues with Clytemnestra. The performance, which closely followed Aeschylus’ text, was also notable for one scene—inspired by the dramatic template of Noh theatre—in which Iphigenia’s spirit appeared on stage and recounted the story of her sacrifice to Artemis, as told in Euripides’ Iphigenia at Aulis. The musical score was by voice teacher and composer Hanna Hakohen, and set and costumes were designed by Orna Smorgonsky—a DTA graduate student and young designer who was subsequently recruited as stage designer for the Cameri Theatre. The students’ specialization in their respective chosen fields, and the experience that they gained in terms of the dialogue between the various stage arts, had a decisive impact on their work, and their success in these productions paved the way for their artistic careers after university. Edna Shavit recognized the challenges posed by classical Greek drama for young performers. She compared the actor’s work to that of a musician, and demanded that her actors control their bodies and their voices, much as musicians control their instruments. She argued that, just as

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the musician becomes a professional by mastering and experiencing works of various musical traditions, so too theatre creators must master a variety of works of classical drama through experimentation and practice. Many of her students saw the classical tradition as an essential step to becoming professional. In 1994, Ruth Kanner¹²—then a young teacher of acting—staged Amphtryon by Plautus in her own translation/adaptation, as an exercise for third-year students, and as an opportunity to engage with Plautus’ wonderful stage language. That year also witnessed Doron Tavori’s theatrical interpretation of Euripides’ Bacchae, in which the Bacchantes were presented as refugees living in the basement levels of a multi-storey car park of a large shopping mall, whose underground culture threatens the integrity of the city that refuses to acknowledge its outcast nature and wilfully ignores its latent power. In 2002, Imre Goldstein, another acting teacher, directed Euripides’ Hecuba and Aristophanes’ Lysistrata, translated by Aharon Shabtai. By performing the two plays in quick succession, Goldstein’s students were able to experience the battle of the sexes in a dual theatrical exercise involving tragedy and comedy and a quick transition between the two genres. Some of the students were also members of the production’s design team, under the guidance of the design instructors. These productions, and others like them, paved the way for the students to gain a profound and intimate acquaintance with the classical tradition—which grew broader and deeper as they engaged in experimentation, exploration, and practice in various forms—by directing entire plays with contemporary interpretations, and through adaptations and dramaturgical editing. Thus, in university theatre, and without grand designs, a local tradition began to emerge of performing the classical heritage as experimentations in dramatic genres and theatrical styles.

Students Tackling the Classical Heritage (1970–80) These productions allowed the students to engage with classical Greek and Roman plays as part of their theatre directing studies at the DTA, ¹² For a discussion of Kanner’s The Eumenides, see Chapter 10.

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through directorial exercises or full productions. My own experience may be an example of a phenomenon that continued to evolve as part of the studies at the department. When I started my undergraduate studies in 1968, I chose two areas that were close to my heart: Theatre Arts, and Classical Studies. As a graduate student, I chose a programme at the Department of Theatre Arts that combined theoretical studies with a theatre-directing track. At the suggestion of my two graduate studies advisers, Professor Moshe Lazar and Professor Erich Segal, and under the guidance of theatre director Edna Shavit, I opted to direct Plautus’ The Menaechmi while writing my master’s thesis, which focused on the portrayal of twins in comedy (e.g. physical duplication), from Plautus to Goldoni. It was important for me to combine my research on the dramaturgy of Plautus with practical experience of his theatrical language—both in the play itself and as studied and reconstructed by theatre makers in the Renaissance period. The production was staged in March 1976 and was, in effect, an interdisciplinary exercise—since theatre is, by nature, an interdisciplinary art. The play was translated from Latin, in a metre and verse devised by my Classical Studies classmate, Dikla Tadmor.¹³ The musical score was by composer Rafi Kadishson, and set design by Haya Braslavi, an architect and student of stage design. The production was performed at the DTA’s larger auditorium, which was then in the process of being converted from a standard classroom to a proper theatre auditorium with a large and deep stage. The set featured a house situated at either side of the rear of the stage—one belonging to Menaechmus, the other to Erotium—with a thickly woven rope curtain hanging between them (in a graphic allusion to the comedy of errors arising from the confusion between the two twins), and a theatrical space that allowed for frequent ins and outs, hiding, eavesdropping, and chases, as befitting a farce. I took great pride in the fact that I was able to direct the entire play—until the ¹³ Dikla Tadmor was a student and instructor at the Classical Studies Department of Tel Aviv University in the years 1968–74—and one of the first activists of the Israeli feminist movement. She moved to the United States to pursue her PhD in classical linguistics. Shortly before her submission of her dissertation, however, she fell ill with cancer, and died, aged only forty-two. Her translation of The Menaechmi (1972–4) was supposed to be the first of a series of translations of Plautus’ plays in Hebrew. It was subsequently published in the Hebrew literary journal Proza, in a volume devoted to ancient Greece and Rome, edited by Aminadav Dykman and Ahuvia Kahane. See Proza 60/63 (1985): 41–56, with information on metres and commentary by David Weisart, at p. 57.

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penultimate scene—with just a single actor playing the two Menaechmi. My work with Tadmor on the translation encouraged me to delve more deeply into the text and the dialogue with the music composer, and the set designer encouraged me to answer performative questions about rhythm, movement, and style.¹⁴ University productions, of course, are not subjected to critical reviews. However, in its review of the play’s translation, the literary magazine Proza (‘Prose’) wrote: The translation of the play The Menaechmi was carried out in 1972, at the request of Nurit Yaari, for the purpose of her final exam at the Department of Theatre Arts at Tel-Aviv University. The translator, Dikla Tadmor, had two central goals in mind: one was to use colloquial language, in the spirit of the original, and the other was to preserve the metre of the original Latin text. And indeed, it seems that both these objectives have been fully achieved: the play in Dikla’s translation was performed by the Department of Theatre Arts, to considerable acclaim. The translation’s plain language allowed for natural and fluent acting, and was readily accessible to the audience—despite its complex metrical framework. In this respect, it has, without doubt, passed its main test.¹⁵

The experience as a whole was highly instructive and challenging—and although theatre directing did not become my future vocation, having to tackle a playwright-director such as Plautus gave me a valuable insight into the intimate relationship between a play and its staging, and between research and performance. This subsequently became the starting point of my doctoral dissertation, which I devoted to studying the physical duality in theatre as the realization of the act of representation, and encouraged me to combine teaching and research at the university with work as a dramaturge and artistic adviser in the Khan Theatre of Jerusalem. The opportunity that was granted to me at that time, when the theatre directing programme was still in its infancy, became a routine option as the specialization tracks in graduate studies took shape. Those who studied theatre directing in the 1980s could already opt to direct their final project as part of their MFA studies. Thus, in 1989, Yigal Ezrati chose to stage Iphigenia at Aulis as his final project, in which the original ¹⁴ Although our paths parted when we pursued our respective doctoral studies at different institutions, we shared a dream of returning to Tel Aviv and staging Plautus’ comedy, in Tadmor’s translation. ¹⁵ See Dykman and Kahane, eds, Proza, issue 60/63 (1985): 107.

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Euripidean text was preserved, but the performance was a scathing commentary on the political situation in Israel. After his graduation, while teaching acting at the Kibbutzim College of Education, Azarati established the Téatron Mekomi (‘Local Theatre’) troupe with choreographer Gaby Aldor: ‘A theatre with a social-political orientation, dealing with [issues of] democracy, minorities, civil rights and Arab-Jewish coexistence’. In 1998, the troupe merged with the Arab troupe of Al-Saaraya Theatre founded by Adib Jahshan to form Téatron Aravi-Ivri (‘ArabHebrew Theatre’) in Jaffa, which is now known simply as the Jaffa Theatre. In this context, it is important also to note the classical Greek drama productions that Kinneret Noy, a teacher-director, has been staging at the School of Drama at the Kibbutzim College of Education in Tel Aviv. Noy studied acting at the Beit-Zvi School of the Performing Arts, then completed her bachelor’s degree at the Department of English and at the DTA at Tel Aviv University. She then pursued doctoral studies at the Department of East Asian Studies at the University of Pittsburgh, where her dissertation was titled ‘ “Stage”, “Actor” and Dramatic Representation: A Comparative Study of Theatrical Agents in Noh and Classical Greek Theatre’, under the supervision of Professor Mae J. Smethurst of the Department of Classics, and Professor Tom Rimer of the Department of East Asian Studies. Since 2000, she has been teaching at the Department of East Asian studies at the Hebrew University and at the Kibbutzim College of Education in Tel Aviv, where she teaches classical Greek theatre at the School of Drama, and directs plays of the classical tradition. Her first production—with third-year acting students—was Aeschylus’ The Persians (2003), whose primary aim was to examine the poetics of bereavement and the intensity of the audience’s identification with the pain of the Other. The play’s programme notes stated: We wanted to create our own production of The Persians—our own cultural ‘Other’ before whom we examine and define ourselves—and to create a theatrical language that interlaces sounds, colours, movements and images into a complex and cathartic experience.

The production was widely praised. In recognition of the importance of combining the practical, creative level with the theoretical-research aspect, Noy chose to make this synthesis the foundation of her own teaching. Thus, for example, her custom is to take first-year students on a

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tour of the ancient theatre at Sepphoris, and use it to stage various scenes and chorus songs, in situ, so that the students may gain first-hand experience of performing in an open-air theatre and of the special elements that such a theatre offers actors and spectators. In 2011, a group of theatre directing students asked if she would work with them on a Greek tragedy over the summer holidays. Thus, in parallel with the emerging tradition at Tel Aviv University, another tradition was begun at the acting school of the Kibbutzim College of Education, whereby Noy works with theatre directing students on a play from the classical Greek canon, and performs it in one of the school’s open-air spaces. To date, the following productions have been staged: Bacchae (2011), The Eumenides (2012), Hecuba (2013), Clouds (2014), and Electra by Sophocles (2016).

From Theory to Practice: Yizraely Reads Aristotle In 1992, after directing Oedipus Tyrannus at the Haifa Municipal Theatre, Yossi Yizraely left mainstream theatre for six years. During that time, he continued to teach directing at the DTA, but devoted his spare time to studying Aristotle’s Poetics, with the aim of developing a dramaturgical approach to reading classical Greek tragedy for performance. Reading Aristotle led him to define drama as an art of ‘condensed autonomous present’, and as ‘the realm between heaven and earth, immune to the ravages of time’. Yizraely explained his ‘economy of experience’ in tragedy by highlighting the phenomenon at the heart of the very architecture of ancient Greek theatre—where the actor on stage is at once a character in the play, an actor in the theatre, a citizen of the city, and a human being in the world. Tragedy rapidly moves the spectator up and down through all these disparate layers of the actor’s experience, from one layer to the next, with the chorus providing the relevant context in each case: It’s a play about a polis. The polis is very apprehensive—and this anxiety must be appeased. Because outside the polis there is nothing—just the wild, exile. The city is the embodiment of civilization. The Chorus is the main character of the tragedy. And sometimes the backdrop becomes this world—and thereby an integral part of the performance. As a result, the audience sees the landscape

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differently before and after the performance. And by the end of the performance, I, the spectator, understand my place in the world.¹⁶

Yizraely’s method continued to evolve over the years. He taught it to generations of students of theatre directing and acting as a method of reading and interpreting plays in the transition from page to stage. In 1997, Yizraely started an ongoing Greek tragedy workshop with thirdyear acting students at the DTA. Using Sophocles’ Antigone, he focused on an interpretative reading of the speech actions in the text, with particular attention to diction and in a quest for simple and minimal sets of body movements. A small invited audience sat in a circle with the cast members, while the Chorus delivered the text, accompanied by a piano. This is how Yizraely described a key moment in the performance: In Antigone, I gave Eurydice a tragic exit: I deliberately gave her high heels. She came outside and said to the messenger, ‘Tell me what happened—I can take it’. He tells her, and she became like Lot’s wife. She turned her back to the audience, and began to exit the stage. Four steps, five, and suddenly she trembled . . . the heel broke she straightened and left. So you learn from all of these things. These kinds of texts drive the actor—they fill him until he is fit to burst. You just need to read the text.

That same year he left for Pittsburgh, to direct Antigone at the student theatre of the University of Pittsburgh, where he worked with Professor Mae J. Smethurst, of the Classics Department, who served as the production’s dramaturge. She instructed Yizraely and the cast on the lyrical metres, and all the chorus parts were sung, as well as certain exchanges of the characters with the Messenger (such as when the Messenger informs Eurydice of the death of Haemon and Antigone, or between the Messenger and Creon at the end of the play). Yizraely notes that he learned two things from this experimentation at Pittsburgh, and added them to his teaching method: the use of music in the chorus songs, and the character of the Messenger: The chorus in Antigone is very prominent in terms of its dramatic structure. However, since we had learned the lyrical metres, I converted the lyrical metres into music that a Mexican composer had written especially for this production. ¹⁶ Yossi Yizraely, ‘An Israeli Director Reads a Greek Tragedy’, a lecture given in the framework of POLMOS III: Dionysus in Tel Aviv, The Israeli Society for the promotion of Classical Studies, 10 June 2014, (accessed 19 November 2016).

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The second thing was about the Messenger, and making the past present— because the Messenger arrives not because they [the Greek playwrights] did not want to show [violent acts on stage], but because the dramatic yield lies precisely in the fact that they don’t show it. The Messenger has to be performed by the best actor in the cast, because in the penultimate episode, he is the only one who carries the whole plot—and then casts it aside . . . He tells a story, delivers information. But first and foremost, he sings it—it’s a lyrical rhythm. And he is consumed by the fire of his own information.¹⁷

The students of theatre directing were the ones who benefited most from Yizraely’s foreign excursion, since he made them revisit the plays and read them in committed fashion, and reach their interpretation mainly by analysing the texts. They did so, with the result that the university theatre was enriched with further productions of classical Greek tragedy.

Graduation Projects in the Third Millennium In the first decade of the twenty-first century, in the wake of the success of productions of classical Greek tragedies in the previous decade, the completion of Aharon Shabtai’s translation of the Greek tragic canon, and the formation of new MFA programmes from the syllabuses developed by Edna Shavit and Yossi Yizraely for the theatre directing course and the undergraduate and graduate theory seminars, the number of productions of classical Greek plays increased, and the productions themselves became more sophisticated—especially with regard to directing and stage design. In total, six productions of classical Greek drama were staged between 2000 and 2010—with each director posing different questions about the tragedy in question and about its stage language and performance. In May 2002, for example, Yoav Michaeli staged Bacchae as his final graduation project, backed by a full creative team of students that comprised a dramaturge, a set and costume designer, a lighting designer, a musical composer, and a choreographer. One notable aspect of the production was casting the chorus as a group of rampaging bacchantes in frenzied pursuit of Pentheus on Mt Cithaeron, in full view of the audience. In January 2004, the play Trachiniae (The Trachinian Women) by Sophocles was staged—for the first time ever in Israel—by ¹⁷ Ibid.

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Shachar Pinkas, a student of theatre directing who wrote and directed plays of her own, and decided to tackle a Greek tragedy so that she could study its workings. She and the creative team that she assembled chose to focus on the notion of space and place and to highlight the centrality of the palace entrance—with all paths leading to and from it—as a place of danger, where fates hang in the balance and are subject to the vagaries of arbitrary coincidences, misunderstandings, and deception, which leads to the horrible revenge. The production was minimalist in nature, focusing above all on depicting the characters’ situation and the actions that led to Heracles’ death scene at the forefront of the stage in front of the audience. The last four productions at the DTA during this decade were adaptations of Anouilh’s Antigone, Sartre’s The Trojan Women, Phaedra’s Love by Sarah Kane, and Hugo von Hofmannsthal’s Electra by Sophocles. During this period, the Dramaturgy Studies track, headed by Professor Gad Kaynar (a DTA professor, dramaturge, translator, and actor) made great strides, with students of directing and dramaturgy intervening more significantly in the texts that they had chosen for their productions. Moreover, the impact of theatrical research (in terms of reinforcing—and breaching—boundaries between the play text and the performance text), and of German theatre practices (such as strengthening the authority of the dramaturge and introducing him or her as a key contributor to the production process)—all became standard practice at the DTA. The direct outcome was that in theatre directing the adaptation aspect was strengthened as masterpieces were deconstructed and reconstructed, and stage, lighting, and costume designers became more important. One good example of this was Shir Goldberg’s production of Anouilh’s Antigone, in a translation by Doron Tavori in March 2004, at the DTA’s small auditorium. The creative team, comprising a number of students, had a great impact on the production’s theatrical language.¹⁸ Thus, while the text was entirely faithful to the original, the stage was methodically disassembled—gradually demolishing the mise-en-scène—to underscore the emotional upheaval and chaos inherent in Anouilh’s adaptation (Figure 11.2). ¹⁸ The creative team comprised MFA students: dramaturgy—Lihi Barzel-Melamed; stage design—Dina Konson; costume design—Ola Shevtsov; lighting design—Efrat Aravot; and a professional choreography and movement teacher—Marina Beltov.

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Figure 11.2 Antigone by Anouilh, Department of Theatre Arts, Tel Aviv University (2004). Director: Shir Goldberg; stage design: Dina Konson. Photograph by Dina Konson.

In May 2005, Kaynar staged Sartre’s adaptation of Euripides’ The Trojan Women at the DTA’s large auditorium, with senior graduate students. The production’s postmodern, spectacle-oriented direction heightened the intensity of the Trojan women’s reaction to their bitter fate through visual design—with its rust-coloured set (Rina Atlanov), blood-red costumes by Sona Harotinian-Korchak, impressive lighting by Yaron Abulafia, and an inspirational musical score by Yonatan Kenaan accentuating the scenes and supporting the actors. July 2006 saw the staging of Phaedra’s Love by Sarah Kane, based on Seneca’s Phaedra and Euripides’ Hippolytus, translated by Yotam Benshalom, a student in the writing and dramaturgy programme, and directed by Kfir Azoulay, a student of theatre directing, with a large creative team of MFA students.¹⁹ The production was performed at the ¹⁹ Dramaturgy—Riki Hayut; set design—Natasha Tuchman Poliak; costumes—Dina Konson; lighting and light music—Tamar Jasmine Stone; and the actors—third-year acting students. Dan Shapira, who played Hippolytus, was snapped up by the Cameri Theatre upon graduation, and today is considered one of the leading young actors in Israeli theatre.

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DTA’s smaller auditorium, with the audience sitting around a set of what appeared to be gleaming white marble—representing the palace of Theseus and Phaedra—very close to the action, and unable to divert their gaze from the difficult and violent scenes taking place in and around the stage. Another of the performance’s novel elements was its use of video art. The production impressed Rafi Niv—artistic director of the Municipal Theatre of Beer Sheva²⁰—enough to invite Azoulay to teach at the Goodman Acting School established next to the theatre that same year. In 2012, Azoulay was invited to direct Sophocles’ Electra at the Cameri Theatre. The production, in Aharon Shabtai’s translation, was staged in August 2014 at the Cameri’s diminutive basement auditorium used for experimental works, and was a great success. Azoulay and his creative team²¹ created a production that was at once contemporary, topical, and shocking, a portrait of destructive revenge in a cold and alienated space that consumes ever more victims. In the opening scene, on the rear wall, Electra inscribed her mantra: ‘Violence for violence— only murder can redress murder’, and it was difficult for the spectators to avoid seeing how the play reflected real-world events in the world around them. Ola Shor-Selektar (Electra) and Helena Yaralova (Clytemnestra) were lauded for their powerful performances, and the four members of the Chorus who sang the text against a backdrop of video clips by Yoav Cohen and multi-layered lighting, all contributed to a riveting visual and auditory experience.²² For many of the students who took part in these plays, these productions were an important part of the final project of their MFA degree, and were notable for the way in which they required the students to bring together what they had learned from their theoretical and empirical studies and their professional experience in the various artistic fields involved in the theatrical work. Thus, these productions became a place of work experience, collaboration, and

²⁰ The Beer Sheva Municipal Theatre was founded by Gary Bilu in 1973. ²¹ Set and costume design—Polina Adamov; lighting—Keren Granak; musical score— Eldad Lidor. ²² Zvi Goren, ‘Spine-Chilling New Heights’, Bama, 10 August 2014; Yitzhak Laor, ‘The Horrible Beauty of Revenge’, Haaretz, 22 August 2014.

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teamwork (Figure 11.3). The last DTA production in the first decade of this century was Hugo von Hofmannsthal’s adaptation of Electra by Euripides, in 2008 at the DTA’s smaller auditorium—after further adaptation by director Ira Avneri and dramaturge Lihi Barzel-Melamed.²³ Avneri, under Edna Shavit’s supervision, placed the relationship between Clytemnestra and Electra at the heart of the play, with particular focus on the acting and movement. He gave each of the characters and each of the Chorus members their own distinctive pattern of movement to represent their respective strengths and weaknesses, which he then orchestrated into a choreography of hatred.

Figure 11.3 Medea by Euripides, Department of Theatre Arts, Tel Aviv University (1999). Director: Edna Shavit; stage design: Liat Reichenberg-Oron. Cast: Hila Shikman (Medea); Guy Mannheim (Jason). Photograph reproduced by courtesy of the Tel Aviv University Theatre Arts Department Archive.

²³ The creative team comprised set and costume design—Efrat Aravot; lighting—Martin Eden; and sound design—Tony Scott and Ehud Weissbrod. Cast: Shachar Uri (Aegisthus); Michal Falach-Naim (Clytemnestra); Sivan Atzmon (Electra); Nir Shauloff (Orestes); and the Chorus: Meital Ben Yehuda, Clair Wissblat, Maya Yakobson, and Adi Chawin.

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A Practical and Theoretical Research Laboratory (2011–14) In 2010, five DTA teachers-researchers—Freddie Rokem, Ruth Kanner, Daphna Ben-Shaul, Dror Harari, and myself—decided that a dialogue between theory, research, and praxis could revitalize the studies of theatre arts. Based on the premise that the words theory and theatre both stem from the Greek root for ‘observing’, ‘speculating’, and ‘contemplating’, we proposed the establishment of a Practical/Theoretical Research Laboratory (PTRL). This involved a two-year master’s and doctoral study programme, with a new and innovative pedagogical framework for teaching and researching theatre and performance, fostering artistic creativity and theoretical study, in constant interaction with each other.²⁴ The overall aim of PTRL was to develop an integrated curriculum for teaching and researching theatre and performance practices and theories within the department’s existing master’s and doctoral programmes. It was based on a perception of the histories and theories of theatre as a multidisciplinary art form, with particular focus on the performative aspects of these traditions, in order to explore and develop the creative processes of contemporary performance, while deepening the theoretical understanding of these practices. We believed that these aims could be achieved by establishing laboratory courses where practical work and research of theatre and performance are combined and closely integrated, coupled with courses on the theory and history of the theatre. The goal of PTRL was to establish an ongoing dialogue and crossfertilization between the two forms of knowledge and expertise—theory and practice—whereby theoretical issues and concerns inspire and enrich practices, and practice produces and enhances the development of theories. The students in the programme are engaged in intensive course and laboratory studies, workshops, and various extracurricular activities. In keeping with our belief that each laboratory must be conducted by two teachers who are able to teach and supervise the integration of theory and practice, our programme offered two introductory courses

²⁴ For the importance of theatre laboratory experimentations in the twentieth century see Jean-Manuel Warnet, Les Laboratoires: Une autre histoire du théâtre (Lavérune: Editions L’Entretemps, 2013).

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for Performance Research. One was a broad historical overview of Performance Research and of the interaction between theatre and performance with other discursive practices (especially philosophy, history, and psychoanalysis). The other was a colloquium, or bi-weekly forum of reading, including live performative readings and analysis of theoretical and programmatic texts, and student presentations of dissertations or research works in progress. These were followed by three laboratories—about three critical ‘moments’ in the history of the theatre: (1) Approaches to Ancient Texts: Greek Tragedy, conducted by Ruth Kanner and myself; (2) Brecht’s Messingkauf Dialogues, conducted by Freddie Rokem, Ira Avneri, and Moshe Perlstein; and (3) Performance: Site/Self, conducted by Daphna Ben-Shaul and Dror Harari. All students were required to attend two laboratories in the course of their studies, and summarize their work in research reports, seminar papers, smaller performance presentations, and a final performative event. With the encouragement of Hannah Naveh, Dean of the Faculty of the Arts (2006–13) we submitted our programme proposal to the Humanities Fund—Innovation in Teaching,²⁵ the project was approved for funding in 2010, and the programme ran from 2011 to 2014.

Research and Practice: Greek Tragedy Between 2011 and 2014, director Ruth Kanner and I conducted three laboratories on the performance of classical Greek tragedy. This choice was not accidental, but stemmed from our belief that tragedy presents challenges at the theoretical and applied level in theatre, and poses fundamental questions about identity, language, and culture, as well as artistic questions about artistic vocabulary, symbolism, aesthetics, acting, performance, music, and movement. The following is a description of the course, the questions that arose along the way, and some of the outcomes. The first step was to help the students realize that every Greek tragedy, while usually thought of as ‘universal’, is in fact a product of its time, and must be read in the context of its creation. Moreover, that ²⁵ The Humanities Fund was established in 2008 by Yad Hanadiv and the Israeli Council for Higher Education.

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context is crucial to deciphering the social, political, and cultural issues underpinning the plot. For example, we read Oedipus Tyrannus in the light of the recent archaeological discoveries at the Keramikos Cemetery in Athens, dating back to the fifth century BCE, which indicate that the plague in Oedipus’ plot was not mere metaphor but an actual and traumatic event that had been experienced by every member of the audience, who still mourned their great Athenian leader Pericles, who died in that plague.²⁶ This information helped us to examine the variety of terms Sophocles uses in the play in reference to the plague, illness, guilt, physical uneasiness, loss, and suffering—words that are distributed throughout the text at various critical junctures of the plot, and most of which are not translated due to the lack of equally diverse terminology in English or Hebrew. In our laboratory, we guided the students through the maze of text– translation–performance. To define basic theoretical and practical questions about the characters and the chorus, we studied and performed passages from Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, The Libation Bearers, and Eumenides, and Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus. After analysing these plays, we examined issues such as character and action, actor and chorus, speech patterns, metre, rhythm and pronunciation, costumes and masks, dramatic place and theatrical space, acting styles and mise-en-scène. Combining the theoretical analysis and the practical experimentation, we then pursued three parallel levels of performance research, and explored their interrelationships: Level 1: We examined the unique features of the chorus in Greek tragedy, to find ways of expressing these in the stage performance. Specifically, we sought means of expression through words that conjure up fictional worlds and convey extreme emotional intensities, and looked for ways of creating a chorus that articulates a collective memory and a collective sense of urgency and anxiety. These issues were explored through group activities and extensive use of movement, rhythm, music, voice, and singing. Level 2: We analysed selected scenes from individual tragedies, while focusing on key questions of character representation, such as: How does it emerge from the decipherment of inner drives, action patterns, character ²⁶ Robin Mitchell-Boyask, Plague and the Athenian Imagination: Drama, History and the Cult of Asclepius (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008).

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traits, and the meanings of space and stage metaphors? Work procedures were developed, by interpreting profound themes embedded in the text into active work data. At both these levels (1 and 2), our work involved investigation of the substance of the tragedy through academic analyses and debates, and searching for contemporary significance through discussions and improvisations. Level 3: At this final level, which was conducted towards the end of the academic year, we focused on creating contemporary artistic responses to Greek tragedy, whereby the students chose tragic themes and dramatic components that we had encountered during the laboratory work, and created their own personal responses to the tragedy—through acting, choreography, or interdisciplinary production. Many questions were raised during our laboratory work—such as: How does one gather information in Greek tragedy? How can we interpret the mythical stories that the chorus shares with us? What can we do with the chorus today—and how do we perform the choral songs? Of all the exercises that we gave our students, the most difficult and irksome for them was the synchronous character of the chorus: speaking in unison, or standing together as a group were often too difficult, and occasionally too belligerent. These prompted discussions about identity, freedom, community, democracy and civic order, and about the power of the chorus as a group—especially during confrontations with a given character, such as Clytemnestra, Agamemnon, Cassandra, or Oedipus. Other problems we faced concerned the delivery of the high poetic language of tragedy—issues such as pronunciation, diction, and declamation: What do we feel when a particular word rolls around in our mouth? How do we breathe when we must follow the lines of the choral song until we get to the full stop? How does a word’s sound relate to its meaning? What can we learn through performance from the references in the text in order to establish an intertextual dialogue with an ancient myth as it is etched in our collective memory (or in Homer’s epics, Hesiod’s theogony, or Pindar’s victory poems)—and what can we learn from ancient vase paintings about rituals, ceremonies, festivities, and processions? All these questions arose while we read essays written by classicists, historians, and theatre directors, and the students offered their own performative interpretation or analysed the answers given by wellknown actors or directors to the same questions.

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Thanks to the generous budget we received from the Humanities Fund, we were able to invite academic specialists, artists, and performers to give lectures and conduct workshops. These included Aharon Shabtai— the noted translator of classical Greek tragedy into Hebrew, who talked about his experience of translating the Oresteia—and theatre director Rina Yerushalmi, who analysed her work on the Oresteia in Mythos. We offered workshops on biblical cantillation, sound-text events, and folk songs traditions, and experimented with innovative techniques for creating an improvisational chorus. On the topic of space, artist and performer Hadas Ofrat conducted a workshop on performing threshold situations in space, and Dr Tamar Berger took us on a journey along the outskirts of Tel Aviv and showed us how a city defines its own boundaries. In the summer of 2011 we conducted a study trip to Greece, and visited the well-known archaeological sites, theatres, and museums of Athens, Vravrona, Thebes, Delphi, Argos, Mycenae, Epidaurus, and Eleusis. At each of these venues, the students presented papers linking together its mythology and history, and its representation in the visual arts and in theatre. At the theatre in Epidaurus, we watched a contemporary political adaptation of Aristophanes’ Clouds by a young Greek theatre troupe, and experimented with choreographic dance patterns and songs at the theatre of Dionysus Eleuthereus in Athens and the theatre in Delphi. We attended a lecture by Professor Platon Mavromoustakos— head of the Department of Theatre Studies at the National and Kapodestrian University of Athens—on the performance of classical Greek drama in modern Greece. We also visited the Benaki Museum, and were given a guided tour of the new Acropolis Museum. In addition, our students were invited to attend the International Summer Course held by the European Network of Research and Documentation of Performances of Ancient Greek Drama (ARC-Net), conducted by Professors Mavromoustakos and Professor Emeritus Oliver Taplin, of Oxford University. The course is held during the Theatre Festival at Epidaurus, and offers lectures by prominent researchers in the field of ancient Greek drama, meetings with directors and actors, and entry to theatre performances at the open ancient theatre of Epidaurus. Based on our laboratory on Greek tragedy, several theatre and dance projects created by our graduates were subsequently performed before audiences at Tel Aviv University and other venues. Of these, I shall

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discuss two examples: a dance, and a site-specific performance inside the Akko Lighthouse. The dance Cassandra was created by choreographer Ronit Ziv as a duet inspired by Cassandra’s tragic fate in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, and performed by Gefen Lieberman and Sophie Krantz to Brahms’ Concerto No. 1 for Piano and Orchestra. This was one of four short dances that Ziv staged in 2013, and has since become part of her group’s repertoire (Figure 11.4). The starting point for her choreography was the question of how to evoke the verbal images in Aeschylus’ text by the dancers’ movements, and how to express the two facets of Cassandra—the prophet and the captive. Another challenge was how to combine the choreographic requirements with the distinct qualities of each of the two dancers. The result was a performance where the two dancers perform separate solos, simultaneously: one depicting Cassandra as she appears in Agamemnon, and the other giving a freer portrayal. The two interact by periodically mirroring each other’s movements, then disengaging to pursue separate routines, until they meet again in synchronous movement facing the entrance of the palace—her death sentence. The entire four-dance production was highly successful—but critics were particularly struck by the duet Cassandra. After its first run in 2013, critic Zvi Goren wrote: One of the two works premiered was Cassandra, in a perfect rendition by Gefen Lieberman and Sophie Krantz to the music of part of Brahms’ Concerto for Piano. This is a dramatic work, inspired by the line Unhappy maid, I pity you for your divinely predicted fate from Aeschylus’ Agamemnon. As in the two previous works, here, too the precise structure is very much in evidence—but this time, and completely in keeping with the inspiration and the music, Ziv’s work recalls almost forgotten modern-classical works such as those by the choreographers Balanchine and van Manen. It is sweeping, stretching, and polished motion in every respect.²⁷

And dance critic Ruth Eshel wrote: The two dancers dancing in unison that diverge occasionally to reveal the subtle nuances between the decisive, strong Cassandra and her softer, weaker, self. The dance ends with her infamous spitting scene, on seeing that no one believed her that Troy would be destroyed—and yet, all her prophecies came to pass.²⁸

²⁷ Zvi Goren, ‘Marathon 40’, Habama, 6 February 2013. (accessed 11 March 2018). ²⁸ Ruth Eshel, ‘Ronit Ziv Writes Movement as a Playwright Writes Words’, Haaretz, 5 April 2014.

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Figure 11.4 Cassandra, choreography by Ronit Ziv (2013). Dancers: Gefen Lieberman and Sophie Krantz. Photograph by Adi Alon.

In 2014, Lilach Dekel-Avneri created Paradise Lost—a performative, sitespecific piece, inspired by Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound, and performed that year at the Acco Festival. It used elements of Prometheus Bound as raw material for questioning human action, its motives, chain of events, and outcome, and as a basis for the development of a stage language that enables a fresh engagement with the classical text. The programme notes

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stated: ‘The group strives to create new representational forms that correspond with traditional performance methods, which it examines, disassembles into constituents, and uses as inspiration to construct a new work.’²⁹ The production won awards for best performance, set, sound, and performer (actress Leni Shahaf). The critics praised both the performance and the actors: A provocative challenge to ‘old theatre’ [ . . . ] Paradise Lost is a work that aspires to perfection. The way in which Dekel Avneri and her resident dramaturge Liat Fassberg disassembled Prometheus Bound into a surprising, riveting, and provocative theatrical space, is worthy of every possible praise [ . . . ] The performers are all excellent, and the connection that is formed between them and the audience is fascinating [ . . . ] Paradise Lost is a unique adventure, which alone makes going to the Acco Festival this year worthwhile.³⁰

These are only a handful of examples of a wealth of works that have emerged in our laboratories, and only a small selection of many other productions that came out of all the laboratories that we have conducted during these years, which lie beyond the scope of this book. They all, however, clearly illustrate the fascinating opportunities that are opening up before students of theatre today as they encounter masterpieces of classical Greece during these intensive laboratories that combine study with applied practice.

In Lieu of Summary: The General and the Sea (2015) I conclude this chapter, and the book as a whole, with the production The General and the Sea—a contemporary dithyramb for actor and chorus, written and directed by Yonatan Levy and Noam Enbar,³¹ with co-creators Amir Farjoun and Nir Shaouloff, fellow graduates of the DTA’s Practical & Theoretical Research Laboratory.

²⁹ See (accessed 18 November 2016). ³⁰ Marat Parkhomovsky, ‘Paradise Lost’, Akhbar Ha’ir, 14 October 2014. ³¹ Noam Enbar is a musician and composer and member of the folk rock band, Habiluim, which was established in 1996, and whose songs describe Israeli life experience from a critical political perspective. Following the band’s breakup in 2013, Enbar began working with Yonatan Levy and with others.

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In Levy and Enbar’s work I find a combination of insightful observation and exposition of Israeli reality and complexities, and an in-depth study of the dramaturgical and poetic values of sources of classical Greek tragedy. For me, The General and the Sea offers a direct extension of the theatrical tradition of Nissim Aloni and Hanoch Levin, and reveals Levy as the most promising playwright in contemporary Israeli theatre. Born in 1974, Levy is an Israeli poet, playwright, actor, director, and educator. He studied Philosophy and Religions at the Hebrew University, graduating in 1999 with honours, while simultaneously studying anthroposophy at the Harduf Waldorf Teacher Seminar. For his master’s degree he studied at Tel Aviv University’s DTA. As an educator, he co-founded the Anthroposophic High School in Kiryat Tivon, where he teaches Bible, history of art, literature, and theatre, and edits the anthroposophic journal Man-World. He wrote and (with Lior Waterman) staged Man, King of Atlantis (America-Israel Foundation Prize at the Acco Festival 2004), and Mr. Universe (Acco Festival 2007). He wrote and directed Malkitaus and the Bulldozer (2009) and Saddam Hussein—A Mystery Play (winner of the Mayor’s Prize, Best Play, and Best Music awards at the 2011 Acco Festival). He conceived and staged Good Energies—a staging of the transcript of the Knesset Economics Committee regarding the royalties paid to the government by the gas fields in the Mediterranean (Season of Culture in Jerusalem, 2012), and Mayhem in the Ghetto—a similar staging of the transcripts of the Knesset Education Committee about the unruly behaviour of high school students during a performance of Yehoshua Sobol’s play, Ghetto (Season of Culture in Jerusalem, 2013). He also wrote the play Clarification Call (Under the Mountain Festival, Jerusalem Season of Culture, 2013) and the one-man show The Israeli Phoenix (2013).³² The General and the Sea presents the last night in the life of General Rafael Eitan. Born in 1929 in the village of Tel-Adashim in the Jezreel Valley, and universally known in Israel by his nickname ‘Raful’, Eitan is a controversial figure who, for generations of soldiers, shaped the combat character of the Israeli Defense Forces. At the age of fifteen, he joined the Palmach (elite brigade of the Jewish Haganah paramilitary), and ³² See Shimon Levy, ‘The Performative Language of Yonatan Levy’, in Hebrew: A Living Language VII, ed. Rina Ben-Shachar and Nitsa Ben-Ari (Tel Aviv: The Porter Institute for Poetics & Semiotics, Tel Aviv University and Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2016), 261–89.

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subsequently fought in six wars as a commander, and was awarded the Israeli Medal of Courage (1955), and the US Legion of Merit award (1979). In 1978, he was appointed the IDF’s eleventh Chief of Staff, and was serving as such at the time of the 1982 Sabra and Shatila massacre during the First Lebanon War, for which he was subsequently censured by a commission of inquiry for not having prevented. After retiring from the military, he turned to politics, founded the right-wing party Tzomet (which he later merged with the Likud party), and served as a Member of Knesset and Cabinet minister for several years. In 2003, he left politics and began working for the company contracted to build the Ashdod Jubilee Port in Ashdod (known today as the ‘Eitan Terminal’). As the person in charge of the construction of the breakwater, he arrived at the port on 23 November 2004, to inspect the damage caused by a fierce storm the previous night. Later that day, his body was pulled from the water by Navy personnel. In his lifetime, Eitan was a warrior, a man of discipline, taciturn, and blunt-spoken. In the introduction to the play, his widow (and second wife) Ofra Meyerson was quoted, describing his cries and shouts at night as he was plagued by nightmares over the deaths of his troops and comrades in battle. For Yonatan Levy, Eitan’s death was an inspiration—as he revealed in an interview with Tal Gordon of the theatre website Habama Online: This is something that sparked one’s artistic imagination—the thought about what was embodied by this icon, when you have the archetypal Israeli man who, in some ways, represents everything about the old Israel—military, practical, laconic, which bottles up all its feelings and wounds and traumas and doesn’t express them. [ . . . ] The encounter of such a figure with the sea—which is boundless and constantly seeking to break through and flow and move, and which, as it were, represents some kind of depth and horizontal element, in contrast to the vertical element of Raful. And perhaps there is also something feminine about the sea. So this image of Raful facing the sea became a general image of a person’s encounter with life with all its difficulties, and all the emotional intensity that the sea represents.³³

The idea for The General and the Sea came to Levy in 2013, as his work, Saddam Hussein—A Mystery Play was playing at the Acco Festival that

³³ Tal Gordon, ‘Creating a New Myth: The General and the Sea’, interview with Yonatan Levy, Habama Online, 20 October 2014, (accessed 2 March 2016).

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year. He had written several versions, when Noam Enbar, lead vocalist of the band Habiluim, who had been very taken by the play, suggested that they meet. Enbar liked Levy’s new play, as well, and the two decided to stage it together. Subsequently, Amir Farjun and Nir Shauloff, who had worked with Levy in Saddam Hussein, were invited to join, as well.³⁴ The General and the Sea draws on contemporary Israeli reality for its primary material, as the stuff of mythology. The format of a single actor interacting with a Chorus recalls the dithyramb—thought to be the forerunner of Greek tragedy—but in a thoroughly modern rendition. This link between the ancient and the new, between tradition and its renewal, was interesting and challenging for the performance’s creators and audiences alike. The encounter between the General and the sea (the chorus of Waves) as he drowns, allowed for soul searching (Figure 11.5). Eitan’s life flashes before his eyes as the waves engulf his memories and

Figure 11.5 The General and the Sea created by Yonatan Levy and Noam Enbar, The Interdisciplinary Art Arena (2015). Pictured: Menashe Noy (The General), surrounded by the chorus of sea waves. Photograph by Keren Rozenberg.

³⁴ Ibid.

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conjure up images of encounters with people who had been close to him (and played by some members of the chorus). These included those who had fallen in the War of Independence; his grandmother (played by Nir Shauloff in a menacing mask designed by Sagi Azulai); his son Yohanan, who died of an asthma attack at age ten; and his other son Yoram, a fighter pilot who died in a training accident (played by Amir Farjun). Eitan himself was portrayed by actor Menashe Noy with all of Eitan’s distinctive mannerisms, appearance, and speech patterns—brusque, laconic delivery, crossed arms, dour expression, and traditional Israeli farmer’s hat— but with a depth and sensitivity, as well, as befits a tragic figure who grows on stage in front of the audience. The General and the Sea is a musical work for a single character and a chorus of thirteen men and women—actors, musicians, and dancers— dressed in wide, flowing robes of highly pleated fabric, in the variable colours of the sea, designed by Keren Nechoshtan.³⁵ Their dialogue with the Eitan character—a mix of recitation, singing, and speech—is accompanied by loud organ music (played by Noam Enbar), symbolizing the stormy sea within the depths of Eitan’s subconscious. The poet and critic Maya Bejerano wrote: The collapse of the walls between the living and the dead, the breaking of boundaries between land and sea, is also a hint of the flooding of subconscious, of madness and insanity, to the point of longing for death. Again, the waves that he walks upon is [sic] also a symbol of the decisive border between life, civilization and discipline—and boundlessness and infinity. Order versus chaos. The sea represents the catharsis—a forge of primordial divine power that Man is returning to.³⁶

The critics loved the play and the production. Ron Schwartz thought it was ‘exciting theatre that manages to shatter not only Eitan’s armour— but that of the cynical observer, as well’.³⁷ Shay Bar-Yaacov enthused: The mixture of tragedy and parody of contemporary materials and mythological qualities created in [Levy’s] new play, The General and the Sea, is one of

³⁵ Chorus members: Michel Oppenheim, Michal Paulina, Naama Altman, Avshalom Ariel, Tomer Demsky, Ilil Lev-Kenaan, Tomer Linder, Neta Nadav, Ruth Sgan Cohen, Yair Polishok, Nir Shauloff, and Amir Farjun. ³⁶ Maya Bejerano, ‘The General and the Sea at the Hazira Arena’, Itton 77.381 (February/ March 2015): 55–7. ³⁷ Ron Schwartz, ‘Protective Edge No More’, Globes, 7 November 2014.

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the most evocative and most powerful experiences seen in our theatre in recent years [ . . . ] The performance manages to present the enigmatic Eitan as a dual, tragic and derisible character, while still producing an extraordinary artistic achievement.³⁸

Maya Bejerano wrote that ‘It is difficult to sum up this beautiful poetic vision—which ranges from stormy and emotional choral speech that is at times obscure, and at times prosaic and communicative. And Noam Enbar’s ecstatic music is very moving.’³⁹ Ilana Bernstein extolled the acting: Yonatan Levy’s Eitan is portrayed by Menashe Noy better than Eitan [could have] himself—a frighteningly accurate rendition of his mannerisms [ . . . ] and that Raful demeanour familiar to everyone who was there—and in any event constructs a concise and compelling figure with very little text, where every word is significant and attached to well-timed dramatic turning points. [ . . . ] The Chorus fulfils its role precisely as in the tragedies we are all familiar with [ . . . ] recounting to us what cannot be shown on stage—the violence, the horror, the terror. We also single out Noam Enbar for praise, once again, for his complex, hypnotic, repetitive, trance-like, music, and refined harmonies, which manage to convey the message of J’accuse! all on their own.⁴⁰

Although many of Levy’s productions won first prize at the Acco Festival, and Enbar is a highly regarded and talented composer, when they tried to interest Habima National Theatre in staging The General and the Sea, they were flatly turned down. So they turned to the Interdisciplinary Art Arena, instead,⁴¹ and performed it at the Varda Auditorium of the Batsheva Dance Company—amidst considerable media coverage and critical acclaim. Thus, apart from its artistic success and innovative nature, The General and the Sea also highlights a powerful new phenomenon in the past decade in Israeli theatre of young theatre makers seeking out alternative spaces where they are masters of their own destiny, can develop their artistic experiments, and challenge young audiences who have shied away from traditional repertory theatres to follow them instead.

³⁸ Shay Bar-Yaacov, ‘Protective Edge’, Yediot Aharonot, 7 November 2014. ³⁹ Bejerano, ‘The General and the Sea at the Hazira Arena’. ⁴⁰ Ilana Bernstein, ‘Tragic, Heroic Numbskull’, HaOkets, 23 October 2014, (accessed 4 March 2016). ⁴¹ Founded in 1988, the Interdisciplinary Art Arena provides an alternative space for young innovative creation in Jerusalem. See .

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In reality, only a few graduates of dramatic writing, theatre directing, and stage design at the DTA manage to break into repertory theatres and secure a position for themselves in its ranks after graduation. As Kfir Azoulay told journalist Zipi Shohat in an interview in 2012, ‘I hope I will continue to do the things that I love, to develop and to take risks, somewhere where they give me freedom.’⁴² Accordingly, young directors have begun to look for new spaces for their works—first and foremost at the Alternative Theatre Festival, held in Acco (Acre) every year, which allows young theatre people to perform—either as part of a competition, or as part of the fringe.⁴³ Since then, various fringe theatres—such as Tzavta, Hsimta, Jaffa, Tmuna, Nachmani, and the Interdisciplinary Art Arena—have sprung up to capture these new theatrical offerings. Thus, what began as a no-choice option of last resort has begun to redraw the map of Israeli theatre, and develop new, alternative, theatrical spaces that are low in budgets but high in artistic commitment, desire to experiment, and innovation and openness. In her review of The General and the Sea, Maya Bejerano concluded with a nod to the future: A large crowd comes to the performances, and it heartened me to see that some people are willing to listen to demanding dramatic poetry. This is alternative, and excellent, theatre, worthy of continuing to evolve alongside regular repertory theatre. In it, the audience is part of the production, and by simply sitting in a random, unnumbered seating arrangement, is analogous to the sea. Thus, we have a sea both on stage and in the audience—a complete theatrical experience.⁴⁴

I chose to end this chapter with the work of Yonatan Levy and Noam Enbar, because their work The General and the Sea allows us to see how the classical Greek tradition continues to stimulate and inspire the emerging Israeli theatre tradition. Levy and Enbar combine the political and the aesthetic by means of the elements of Greek tragedy, whose poetic, mythical language recasts reality as a symbolic tapestry of words and sound, and creates a theatrical language in which nature and man

⁴² Zipi Shohat, ‘The Takeoff Runway of Director Kfir Azoulay,’ Haaretz, 7 June 2012. ⁴³ The Acco Theatre Festival was founded by the director Oded Kotler in 1980, and has since been held regularly every year, during the Festival of Succot, featuring performances of non-mainstream theatre groups, fringe productions, outdoor performances, performance art, and an arts & crafts fair. ⁴⁴ Bejerano, ‘The General and the Sea at the Hazira Arena’.

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are engaged in a perennial, intertwined, and mysterious dialogue— faithful to the original, without being a documentary. Moreover, in their work, the link between classical Athens and contemporary Israel lies not only at the level of text—in its themes, conflicts, and storylines—but spatially, as well. The colours and sounds of the Mediterranean Sea, the hot sun and fertile earth, which are common to Athens and Israel and form the setting of journeys, wars, and struggles experienced by their legendary heroes—all come together in Levy and Enbar’s work and bring together the two cultures in a new, original, and most impressive way, forging an important new stratum for a tradition that is in constant renewal.

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12 Israeli Theatre A Snapshot of Today and Future Prospects

Myth is a traditional tale with secondary, partial reference to something of collective importance. Myth is traditional tale applied: and its relevance and seriousness stem largely from its application. —Walter Burkert¹

Israeli theatre in 2018 is a vibrant scene, both in artistic forms and in content. It takes place at the Habima National Theatre; the municipal theatres of Beer Sheva, Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, and Haifa; the fringe theatres of Tzavta, Tmuna, Hasimta, Hazira; the regional theatres throughout the country; and various theatre groups operating everywhere from Eilat in the deep south to Kiryat Shmona in the north. These offer a rich and wide-ranging repertoire of classic and modern plays, of original Israeli or foreign provenance, which are performed every evening before full houses comprising mostly regular subscription members. Guests and foreign tourists visiting these theatres and seeing the full crowds in the auditoriums find it hard to believe that the Israeli theatre tradition is a mere hundred years old. (Habima marked a century in 2017.) For me—as I have I tried to show in this book—the repertoire of classical Greek plays has had a significant role in creating this tradition, alongside other sources such as the Jewish classics, world classics, and original Israeli drama that has been written locally since independence. Moreover, I maintain that the classical tradition makes it possible to link ¹ Burkert, ‘A Tale Applied’, in Structure and History, 23.

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together the sporadic fragments of theatre created by Jewish theatre makers—from Ezekiel of Alexandria in the second century BCE, through Leone deʼ Sommi of Mantua in the sixteenth century, to Nissim Aloni, Hanoch Levin, and Jonathan Levy in the twentieth and twenty-first century in Tel Aviv. This corpus of works, forged through engagement with the classical tradition and revisiting ancient myths or renewing them through translation, adaptation, or rewriting, provides a means for their creators to respond to events in their locale, period, and social trends, and to the features and conventions of theatrical art in their time. Accordingly, it is not surprising that the history of reception of classical Greek drama in the emerging Israeli theatre with its piecemeal record of productions at different venues and times, and in response to different events, is more akin to the mosaics uncovered at archaeological sites than a clear demarcated trajectory of causes and effects. Nonetheless, these mosaics manage to provide a portrait of this tradition by reviving writers and works, performances and experiences that would otherwise have been forgotten, whose talent and imagination has enriched modern theatre makers and lay the groundwork for a common, unique Israeli cultural tradition and identity. From an overview of the seventy-two years of reception of Greek tragedy in Israeli theatre (1945–2017), the most important development appears to be that local theatre makers have relinquished previous preconceived ideas about classical Greek drama and performance and of Aristotle’s theatrical doctrine, in favour of personal study, research, and decoding of every aspect of the classical works in terms of their performance before a local audience. This independence contributed to a great expansion of the local range of approaches towards translation, adaptation, and directing, enabling a transferring of the baton from visiting guest directors from abroad to born-and-bred Israeli directors who completed their studies overseas and returned to Israel to work and create in the local scene. The two historical starting points of Israeli theatre in the twentieth century—The Dybbuk and He Walked Through the Fields—highlight the two major sources of Israeli theatre content: Jewish culture and Israeli reality. This was subsequently supplemented by works from the European canon—specifically, Russian, German, French, and English plays. The first encounter with classical Greek drama—held on the cusp of Israel’s independence—was somewhat bemusing and alien to its

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performers and audience alike. Gradually, however, these canonical texts went from being illustrious but somewhat abstruse to theatrical texts that zeroed in on their arcane aspects and offered interpretations. Over time, the classical Greek repertoire became a routine space for examining the differences between ‘Jerusalem’ and ‘Athens’, and a source of inspiration for playwrights such as Nissim Aloni and Hanoch Levin; directors such as Edna Shavit, Yossi Yizraely, and Hanan Snir; and theatre makers such as Rina Yerushalmi and Ruth Kanner. This domain often became a testbed of interpretation and performance of tragedy and comedy, and of the aesthetics of theatrical experience. Dramaturgically, across the Israeli theatre scene, the engagement with classical Greek drama was carried out on three levels at once: staging classical Greek dramas as is, with no intervention whatsoever in their elements or style; the performance of European dramas based on classical Greek plays; and original Israeli works written as a contemporary response to classical drama. In general, the repertoire choices made by local theatres reveal a number of important features of the Israeli reading of classical Greek drama. One is to do with the theatre makers themselves and their selection of plays that would allow their actors to tackle ‘larger than life’ roles and provide an artistic challenge to directors and their teams. A second concerns the relationship between the stage and the audience and the selection of plays that were originally written in reference to the wars of Athens as analogues of wartime events in contemporary Israel. Thus, for example, a strong connection was established between Persia and Greece and the Six Day War of 1967, and between the Trojan Wars and Israel’s first Lebanon campaign. The third hallmark is the transformation that occurred in theatre’s methods of operation and in the transition from imitation to original productions, and between the universal and the local—attesting to a hunger for artistic quests and a desire to grapple with questions of theatre and performativity. With regard to translation, developments closely mirrored the growth and development of the Hebrew language in modern literature, poetry, and theatre. The first generation of translators—Shaul Tchernichovsky, Shlomo Dykman, Aharon Kaminka, and Yitzhak Zilbershlag—were familiar with ancient Greek and the intricacies of classical Greek culture, and chose to translate the classical Greek dramas into the language of the Hebrew Bible while preserving its metre and register, but without taking into account the power of the stage or questions regarding its

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performance. The second generation of poets—Natan Alterman, T. Carmi, and Raphael Eliaz—did not translate the plays from the Greek but took pains to convey the nuances of the text into the Hebrew of modern poetry, in order to bridge the gap between the ancient texts and the contemporary audience. The third generation of translators—ancient Greek drama researchers Dwora Gilula and Ziva Caspi, and poets Aharon Shabtai and Shimon Buzaglo—translated the ancient Greek works into modern Hebrew, specifically with the contemporary reader, actor, and spectator in mind. Although each had their own individual style and texture of language, they all understood that the play is meant to be performed before an audience, and therefore the text, however poetic, must come to life on stage, drive the performer, and reach the spectators’ ears readily comprehensible and accessible. The comments made by Shimon Buzaglo—the most recent translator of Greek classics into Hebrew—in the programme notes of Oedipus: A Case Study, are a good explanation of his approach to translation which distinguishes him from his predecessors, and provide a useful illustration of the current state of the art: ‘Translating a play is not like translating poetry. This may sound obvious, but in practice it is not: most translators tend to confuse classic plays with poetry—perhaps because of the poetic nature of the classical plays.’ He goes on to present two basic premises that underpin his translations of Greek tragedy. One is the belief that the tragedy is part of a theatrical event—in other words, the translation needs to exist as an integral part of the stage performance, which must fit in with the visual elements, the music, and the movement on stage. The other concerns the language of the translation—a key issue with Greek tragedy. Unlike his contemporary Aharon Shabtai, who prefers to use poetic Hebrew that preserves the metre and imagery of modern Hebrew poetry, Buzaglo believes that the language register used in the translation should adapt itself to the language of the period, and be such that ‘a contemporary audience— any audience—will understand what the actors are talking about’. In summary, Buzaglo concludes: ‘A translation of a Greek tragedy—or any classical play—is not a museum piece, or an academic and linguistic work. Its purpose is not to provide an archaeological reconstruction, but to create a living theatrical text.’ In dramaturgy and directing, Israeli theatre has undergone a major transformation, from the ‘import’ of directors (such as Tyrone Guthrie, Minos Volonakis, Steven Berkoff, Holk Freitag), and stage designers

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(Nikolas Gerogiadis and Angelika Edingen), to using native talent who grew up with Hebrew and the Israeli culture and enriched the local theatre by assimilating classical Greek drama in their work. These include the directors Zvi Friedland, Gershon Plotkin, Ariyeh Sachs, Edna Shavit, Yossi Yizraely, Hanan Snir, and Michael Gurevitch; scenographers Ishay Kolibialsky, Shalom Seba, Dani Karavan, Roni Toren, Miki Ben-Cnaan, and Frida Klapholtz; playwright-directors Nissim Aloni, Hanoch Levin, Yaacov Shabtai, and Yonatan Levy; and post dramatic auteurs Rina Yerushalmi, Ilan Ronen, and Ruth Kanner. The history of Israeli theatre has also witnessed a significant transition from grandiose theatrical productions to a contemporary and local artistic language. The treatment of classical Greek drama has fallen into five distinct categories in terms of their adherence or distancing from the original, and in line with trends in European theatre in the past six or seven decades: straight translation and performance of the original text; transcription of the original; adaptation; rewriting; and ‘classical presence’. The two productions of 2015—Hanan Snir’s Oedipus: A Case Study and Yonatan Levy’s The General and the Sea—illustrate these diverse approaches very clearly. In the former, the original plot is preserved in its entirety, but recast as a psychodrama, transposing from a traditional theatrical context to that of psychological therapy. In The General and the Sea, a well-known retired Israeli general faces the sea in what proves to be his final confrontation, in a dramatic composition comprising an individual against a chorus presented in the archaic Greek dithyramb. These two works epitomize the current state of the art of Greek tragedy in contemporary Israeli theatre culture: a recognition of the underpinnings of classical Greek tragedy and using them and their components to forge new works for new audiences, who are adept at reading the layers of time and familiar with the deconstruction and reconstruction of myths and plots and who revel in the intertextual interplay between ‘Jerusalem’ and ‘Athens’. Indeed, any cursory retrospective examination reveals that these linkages between the two cultures are emerging to form a broad creative and challenging expanse in the ever-growing web of traditions that make up the contemporary Israeli theatre tradition. In September 2016, Euripides’ Bacchae was performed at the Tmuna Fringe Theatre (translation: Aharon Shabtai; director: Yair Sherman) in a production that has been hailed by critics as ‘the classics of the foreseeable future’; the Khan Theatre was presenting Heiner Müller’s rendition

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BETWEEN JERUSALEM AND ATHENS

of Sophocles’ Philoctetes (translated and directed by Avishai Milstein) to the delight of audiences ranging from secondary school students to regular theatre members; and the Oresteia trilogy (adapted and directed by Avishai Milstein) was about to be staged at the Notzar Theatre, an avant-garde theatre in the industrial zone of the town of Bat-Yam, which has secured a reputation for its innovative treatment of classical texts. This variety and range of productions is a fitting illustration of the significant journey that local theatre has made in the seventy-odd years since the staging of Oedipus Tyrannus at Habima Theatre. Through repeated experimentation and practice, classical Greek drama is now an integral and inseparable part of the repertoire of Israeli theatre. How things will develop from here on is anyone’s guess. The year and a half since the formation of Benjamin Netanyahu’s most recent government has witnessed the entrenchment of profound rifts in Israeli society, and an intensified assault on the cultural character of the country. The nationalist right has become more extreme in its views, while the political left has grown ever weaker and there are no peace negotiations between Israel and the Palestinians. The ongoing struggles between ultra-Orthodox and secular Jews, between West Bank settlers and those living within Israel’s recognized 1967 borders, and between Jews of Mizrahi origins versus those of Ashkenazi origins have become routine and ubiquitous. The ‘cultural war’ declared by the current Minister of Culture on her appointment to the position, and her declared aim to dismantle the ‘old cultural elites’, underline the need of artists and artistes to stand up once again to protect the cultural values that the Israeli culture is founded upon: freedom of expression, creative freedom, the licence to hold up a mirror to the contemporary socio-political reality, to depict its inner conflicts and to criticize the political efforts to undermine Israel’s status as a democratic country. In this struggle, I believe, the classical Greek repertoire will continue to play an important and significant role.

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Performances of Greek and Roman Drama in Israel The following is a list of productions of Greek and Roman plays staged in Israel in various settings in the years 1945–2016, ordered chronologically by month and year of the first performance. Production information includes details of the productions’ creators: the title of the work; the playwright; translator; adapter; director; stage designer; costume designer; lighting designer; musical composer; choreographer (especially dance but also stage movement); the theatre group or ensemble that staged the play; and the various actors or performers and their respective roles, if known. In the case of productions within educational institutions, acting schools, or in academia, the actors’ names may be cited without reference to their roles (especially when the work was a collective effort). The following abbreviations are used: trans. (translation/translated), adap. (adaptation/adapted), dram. (dramaturgical intervention), dir. (directed), des. (design), comp. (composed), cond. (conducted), chor. (choreography). Since the book also discusses the visual aspects, acting style, and movement or choreography within each production, I also make a point of noting the various members of the creative team—the designers of the stage sets, costumes, lighting, props and masks—as well as members of the cast besides the performers of the main roles. Although the history of productions of Greek and Roman plays on the Israeli stage is comparatively short, this listing is important as it helps to map out the theatre scene in Israel as it evolved, to reveal the circles of artists involved, and the various venues that defined its activities over the years and lay the groundwork of a classical theatre tradition in Israel. This emerging tradition has featured a ‘closed’ repertoire, but has nonetheless transcended space and time, genre and style and facilitates research, experimentation, and innovation. The information in this appendix was collated by Adi Chawin and Yana Kor during their diligent searches through the following libraries and theatre archives in Israel: The Archives of Habima National Theatre; The Cameri Theatre of Tel Aviv; The Israeli Center for the Documentation of the Performing Arts at Tel Aviv University (ICDPA); The Khan Theatre Archive; The Yisrael Gur Archive

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and Museum of Theatre, the Faculty of Humanities at The Hebrew University of Jerusalem; and Yehuda Gabay Theatre Archive, Beit Ariela Library, Tel Aviv. In compiling this list, I was also following the lists in the books by Hall and Macintosh, Greek Tragedy and the British Theatre 1660–1914 (Oxford University Press, 2005); and Macintosh, Michelakis, Hall, and Taplin, Agamemnon in Performance 458 BC to AD 2004 (Oxford University Press, 2005). April 1945

Phaedra by Racine, based on Euripides’ Hippolytus; trans. Natan Alterman; dir. Zvi Friedland; stage and costume des. Ishay Kolibiansky; music comp. Alexander Uria Boskovich and cond. Fordhaus Ben-Tzissi; lighting Yitzhak Kupperman. Hanna Rovina (Phaedra); Aharon Meskin (Theseus); Shimon Finkel (Hippolytus); Fanny Lubitsch (Aricia); Ina Govinska (Oenone); Yehoshua Bertonov/Menahem Binyamini (Theramenes); Shoshana Duer (Ismene). Performed at Habima Theatre, Tel Aviv.

December 1946

Antigone by Anouilh; trans. Natan Alterman; dir. Yosef Milo; stage des. Marcel Janco; costumes Pini Leitersdorf; lighting Yitzhak Kupperman. Karni Bartov Gutman (Chorus); Avraham Ben-Yosef (Creon); Yemima Milo (Antigone); Hanna Maron (Ismene); Rosa Liechtenstein (Nurse); Nathan Cogan (First Guard, Jonas); Haim Polani and Meir Yonish (Guards); Albert Ben-Zvi (Messenger); Esther Margalit/Yossi Yadin (Page). Performed at The Cameri Theatre Tel Aviv.

February 1947

Oedipus Tyrannus by Sophocles; trans. Shaul Tchernichovsky; dir. Tyrone Guthrie; stage and costume des. Shalom Sebba. Shimon Finkel (Oedipus); Hanna Rovina (Jocasta); Aharon Meskin (Creon); Haim Amitai (Tiresias); Menahem Binyamini (Priest); Nahum Buchman (The Corinthian); Yehoshua Bertonov (Old Shepherd); Ari Kutai (Messenger); David Vardi (Chorus leader); Avraham Asseo, Avraham Ninio, Misha Asherov, Yehuda Rubinstein, Ada Tal, Shraga Friedman (Chorus). Performed at Habima Theatre, Tel Aviv.

November 1955

Medea by Euripides; adap. Robinson Jeffers; trans. Yaakov Malkin; dir. and stage des. Peter Frye; costumes Samuel Bak; music comp. Paul Ben-Haim. Hanna Rovina (Medea); Israel Becker (Jason); Shraga Friedman (Creon); Avner Hizkiyahu (Aegeus); Shoshana Duer (Nurse); Menahem Binyamini (Tutor); Amos Avni, Ratzon Sharabi (Children); Elisheva Michaeli, Pnina Perah, Yona Atari (Chorus); Yair Elyakim,

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Yehudai Ben Zion, Amnon Meskin (Soldiers). Performed at Habima Theatre, Tel Aviv. December 1958

Lysistrata by Aristophanes; trans. from English version of Dudley Fitts by Nissim Aloni; dir. Minos Volanakis; stage and costume des. Nicholas Georgiadis; music comp. Gary Bertini; chor. Ruth Harris. Shoshana Ravid (Lysistrata); Shoshana Duer (Calonike); Dalia Friedland (Myrrhine); Elisheva Michaeli (Lampito); Nahum Buchman (Cinesias); Yossi Banai (The Spartan Envoy); Yehuda Effroni (Spartan general); Avraham Furman (Athenian general); Yael Kaplan, Batsheva Rosenbaum, Hanna Hendler, Pnina Perah, Ada Tal, Aza Shneorson, Yehudit Amir (Chorus of Old Women); Meir Margalit, Yossi Banai, Reuven Shefer, Shmuel Rodensky, Uri Kovalski, Avraham Furman, Yehuda Efroni (Chorus of Old Men). Performed at Habima National Theatre, Tel Aviv.

November 1964

Electra by Euripides; trans. from English and adap. Dan Miron; dir. Gershon Plotkin; stage des. Dani Karavan; costumes Molly Gordin; chor. Elida Gera; music comp. Yehezkel Braun; lighting: Yosef Spinezi. Orna Porat (Electra); Ori Levy (Orestes); Rachel Marcus (Clytemnestra); Avraham Ben Yosef (Farmer); Aharon Almog (Pylades); Moshe Hurgel (Old Servant); Margalit Stander, Zivit Abramson, Ofira Amir, Liora Rivlin (Chorus). Performed at The Cameri Theatre, Tel Aviv.

March 1965

Antigone by Sophocles; trans. T. Carmi; dir. Yosef Milo; stage and costume des. Arieh Navon; music comp. Abel Ehrlich; lighting Yehiel Orgal. Zaharira Harifai (Antigone); Giora Shamai (Creon); Rachel Levi (Ismene); Israel Biderman (Haimon); Natan Meisler, Baruch Berkin, Yeshayahu Kleinman, Eliav Naharin (Chorus). Performed at Haifa Municipal Theatre.

April 1968

Peace by Aristophanes; trans., adap., and dir. Arieh Sachs; masks, props, and costume des. Ada Hameirit; chor. Galia Gat; lighting Ben-Tzion Munitz. Amnon Meskin (Trygaeus); Ofra Ben Ami (Peace); Levana Finkelstein, Zisha Gold, Tuvia Tzafir, Ben-Tzion Munitz, Sami Shmuel, Shimon Shefi (Chorus). Performed by the Actors’ Stage Ensemble.

April 1969

Lysistrata by Aristophanes; trans. Nissim Aloni; dir. Oded Kotler; stage des. Arnon Adar; music comp. Rafi Ben-Moshe; chor. Galia Gat. Orna Porat (Lysistrata); Dvora Kedar (Calonice); Liora Rivlin (Myrrhine); Eliava Norman (Lampito); Ofra

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Fuchs, Rina Uziel, Rachel Ravid, Aviva Paz, Atalia Cahana, Maxine Eliaz (Chorus of Old Women); Yosef Carmon, Nissan Yatir, Shimon Siani, Mosko Alkalai, Eran Baniel, Yitzhak Hizkiya, Tuvia Tzafir, Pinhas Koren, Avraham David, Martin Gilat, Eli Cohen (Chorus of Old Men). Performed at The Cameri Theatre, Tel Aviv. June 1969

Antigone by Sophocles; trans. Shlomo Dykman; dir. Edna Shavit; music comp. Danny Orr-Stav. Gita Zeltzer (Antigone); David Alexander (Creon); Haya Liphsitz (Ismene). Uri Liphsitz, Duby Nativ, Danny Orr-Stav (Chorus). Performed by students of the Department of Theatre Arts, Tel Aviv University.

May 1970

The Persians by Aeschylus; trans. and adap. Michal Govrin; dir. Haim Shiran; music comp. Daniel Shalit. Performed by thirdyear acting students at Beit Zvi School of Performing Arts.

February 1971

Bacchae by Euripides; trans., adap., and dir. Arieh Sachs; stage and costume des. Ada Hameirit; music comp. Yossi Mar-Haim; chor. Gabi Eldor; lighting Yehiel Orgal and Yosef Spinezi. Lior Yeini (Dionysus); Aliza Rosen (Agave); Yair Rubin (Pentheus); Moti Baharav (Cadmus); Amiel Shatz (Tiresias); Pinhas Koren (Chorus leader); Nurit Amir, Ruth Doron, Diana Greville, Lea Machnes, Nancy Price, Ruhama Regev, Gilgi Rothfield, Sarit Yeshai (Chorus). Performed at The Cameri Theatre of Tel Aviv.

June 1971

Medea by Seneca; trans. and adap. Raphael Eliaz; dir. Yossi Yizraely; stage des. Igael Tumarkin; costumes Ruth Dar; music comp. Yossi Mar-Haim; chor. Yoram Boker; lighting Yehiel Orgal and Yoseph Spinezi. Hanna Marron (Medea); Zaharira Harifai (The Nurse); Yossi Graber (Creon); Zeev Revach (Jason); Yossi Alfi (Chorus leader); Oded Ben-Ami, Batya Barak, Yossi Zilver, Rafi Taylor, Mashiah Yaacobi, Kennie Semo, Pinhas Koren, Issachar Tamuz (Chorus). Performed at The Cameri Theatre, Tel Aviv.

July 1974

The Persians by Aeschylus; trans. from English by Nachmi Drimer; dir. Alex Klachkin; music Shosh Reisman; stage and costume des. Eitan Levy; lighting Ben-Tzion Munitz. Actors: Moshe Osem, Sasson Gabai, Shifra Milstein, Neta Plotsky, Shabtai Konorti, Sefi Rivlin. Performed at The Khan Theatre, Jerusalem.

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May 1975

Eddy King by Nissim Aloni, drawing on Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus; dir. Nissim Aloni; stage and costume des. Shlomo Vitkin; music comp. Poldi Shatzman; lighting Natan Panturin. Raphael Klatzkin (Jo); Shmuel Segal (Jack); Hanna Rovina (Donna Christina); Israel Becker (Teresa); Yossi Banai (Eddy King); Edith Astruc (Angela del Sol); Rolf Brin (Steve); Baruch David (Al); Eitan Priver (Mack); Nahum Buchman (Creone Visconti); Stella Avni (Giocasta); Zecharia Tubi (Ricci and Salvatore). Performed at Habima National Theatre, Tel Aviv.

March 1976

The Menaechmi by Plautus; trans. from Latin by Dikla Tadmor; dir. Nurit Yaari; stage des. Haya Braslavi; music comp. Rafi Kadishson. Ati Citron (Prologue); Yoni Lukas (Menaechmus I and II); Shula Arad (Erotium); Dubi Yakir (Menaechmus II, last scene); Peniculus (Michael Handelzaltz); Tzadok Tzarum (Messenio); Avraham Sidi (Culyndrus). Performed at The Department of Theatre Arts, Tel Aviv University.

May 1976

The Chosen by Yaacov Shabtai, drawing on Aristophanes’ The Acharnians; dir. Oded Kotler; stage des. Ben Pinchas; costume des. Berta Kvartz; lighting Yehiel Orgal. Uri Zohar (Dikaiopolis); Makram Khouri (Xantias); Rina Rosenbaum (Aspasia); Ilan Toren (Lemachos); Shmuel Wolff (Amphitheos); Ilan Dar (Hiperbulus); Amnon Meskin (Marilades); Shmuel Kalderon (Klaityophon); Mordechai Ben-Ze’ev (Epialtes); Maya Rothschild (Galathea); Itzik Weingarten (Trigaeus); Natan Meisler (Gliokon); Giora Shamai (Kleon). Performed at Haifa Municipal Theatre.

December 1977

Oedipus Tyrannus by Sophocles; trans. from Ancient Greek by Aharon Shabtai; dir. Edna Shavit; music comp. Poldi Schatzman; stage des. Shlomo Leibovitch (based on drawings of Shalom Sebba); costume des. Adina Reich; lighting Natan Panturin; musicians Beni Kadishzon, Noam Buchman. Misha Asherov (Oedipus); Tova Pardo (Jocasta); Alex Peleg (Creon); Shoshana Duer (Tiresias); Yehuda Efroni (the Priest); Israel Rubintchik (Old Shepherd); Benny Nadler, Tami Eschel, Aliza Chen, and professional soprano singer Adi Etzion (Chorus). Performed at Habima National Theatre, Tel Aviv.

February 1978

Antigone by Sophocles; trans. T. Carmi; adap. and dir. Edna Shavit; stage des. Israela Raly. Actors: Azriel Asherov, Anat Yakir, Yael Shamir. Performed by The Orna Porat Theatre for Children and Youth.

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October 1978

Antigone by Anouilh; dir. Avraham Asseo and Roy Isacowitz; stage des. Lydia Pincus-Gani; Daniel Ziff (Chorus); Rachel Galit Mishal (Antigone); Shai Kfir (Creon); Elizabeth Klein (Nurse); Linda Harris (Ismene); Johnny Philips (Haemon); Jonathan Bergman (Guard). Performed by the Jerusalem English Theatre, Jerusalem.

December 1979

Agamemnon by Aeschylus; adap. and dir. Steven Berkoff; trans. Avraham Oz; stage des. Steven Berkoff; musical effects Zohar Levy; costume des. Gila Lahat; lighting Yehiel Orgal. Joanna Peled (Clytemnestra); Asher Sarfaty (Agamemnon); Shmuel Wolf (Watchman); Amos Lavie (Herald); Tchia Danon (Cassandra/Helen); Aharon Almog (Aegisthus); Zeev Shimshoni (Paris); Shabtai Konorti, Aharon Almog, Tchia Danon, Shmuel Wolf, Suhil Haddad, Makram Khouri, Amos Lavie, Dani Muggia, Avinoam Mor-Haim, Zvika Serper, Zeev Shimshoni (Chorus). Performed at Haifa Municipal Theatre, and The Khan Theatre, Jerusalem.

January 1981

Electra by Euripides; adap, dir., and stage des. Moti Averbuch. Rivka Bachar (Electra); Ran Vered (Orestes); Shifra Milstein (Clytemnestra); Dina Limon (Chrysothemis); Idit Zur (Nurse); Yizhak Avraham (Pilades); Eliezer Zeisler (Tutor). Performed at The Creator’s Stage, Tel Aviv.

August 1981

Medea by Euripides; trans. from Ancient Greek by Aharon Shabtai; adap. and dir. David Levin; stage and costume des. Eitan Levy; music comp. Poldi Shatzman; lighting Natan Panturin. Miriam Zohar (Medea); Shoshana Duer (Nurse); Israel Rubintchik (Tutor); Avraham Ronai (Creon); Eli Danker (Jason); Nahum Buchman (Aegeus); Itzik Seidof (Slave); Shai Guretzky, Ram Machnes, Menahem Shai (Children); Yael Druianov, Irit Steinberg (Chorus). Performed at Habima National Theatre, Tel Aviv.

August 1982

The Birds by Aristophanes; trans. and adap. Yehoshua Sobol; dir. Nola Chilton and Daniella Michaeli; music comp. and voice coaching Hanna Hacohen; stage and costume des. Eli Sinai; chor. Daniella Michaeli; lighting Nissan Gelbard; musicians Nili Kris, Shimshon Esev. Actors: Rami Baruch, Noa Cohen-Raz, Michal Nedivi, Albert Amar, Leon Buganim, Pnina Barami, Ruven Haim, Anat Meidan, Tamar Neuhaus, Yaacov Salivai. Co-production performed by students of the

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Department of Theatre Arts, Tel Aviv University and Neve Tzedek Actors’ Group. February 1983

The Trojan Women by J. P. Sartre, drawing on Euripides; trans. Eli Malka; dir. Holk Freytag; stage and costume des. Angelica Edingen; music comp. Ofer Shalhin; lighting Natan Panturin. Eli Danker (Poseidon); Anat Harpazy (Athena); Orna Porat (Hecuba); Udi Buchman (Talthybius); Gila Almagor (Cassandra); Razia Israeli (Andromache); Eli Danker (Menelaus); Anat Harpazy (Helena); Amira Polan, Ahuva Keren, Joanna Reis, Mali Sisso (Chorus). Performed at Habima National Theatre, Tel Aviv.

April 1983

The Island, by Athol Fugard, John Keny, and Winston Ntoshna, drawing on Sophocles’ Antigone trans. into Arabic by Anton Shamas; dir. Amit Gazit; stage and costume des. Charles Leon; lighting Yehiel Orgal. Youssef Abu Warda (Winston); Makram Khoury (John). Performed at Haifa Municipal Theatre.

February 1984

The Lost Women of Troy by Hanoch Levin, drawing on Euripides; dir. Hanoch Levin; stage and costume des. Roni Toren; music comp. Poldi Schatzman; lighting Brian Harris. Zaharira Harifai (Hecuba); Yosef Carmon (Agamemnon); Jonathan Cherchi (Odyseus); Itzhak Hizkya (Menelaus); Dov Glikman (Neoptolemus); Albert Cohen (Talthybius); Rivka Neumann (Cassandra); Gita Munte (Andromache); Yehudit Yanai (Astyanax); Fabiana Meyouhas (Helen); Ronit Ofir, Hani Nachmias, Haya Pick (Captives). Performed at The Cameri Theatre, Tel Aviv.

June 1984

Oresteia by Aeschylus; trans. Dan Miron; adap. and dir. Holk Freytag; stage and costume des. Jorg Domenik; music comp. Ofer Shalhin; lighting Natan Panturin. Nissim Azikri (Agamemnon); Miriam Zohar (Clytemnestra); Eliezer Yung (The Herald); Amira Polan (Cassandra); Moscu Alcalai (Aegisthos); Meirav Garry, Anat Harpazy, Vicki Moran, Ahuva Keren (Clytemnestra’s servants); Ada Tal (Nurse); Yitzhak Aloni, Eliezer Apelboim, Ami Traub (Chorus, Agamemnon); Ami Traub (Orestes); Eliezer Apelboim (Pylades); Meirav Garry (Electra); Anat Harpazy, Vicki Moran, Amira Polan, Ahuva Keren (Chorus, Choephoroi); Anat Harpazy (Pythia); Razia Israeli (Athena); Israel Biederman

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(Apollon); Meirav Garry, Anat Harpazy, Vicki Moran, Amira Polan, Ahuva Keren (Chorus, Furies); Moscu Alcalai, Eliezel Apelboim, Yaacov Ashkenazi, Eliezer Yung (Judges). Performed at Habima National Theatre, Tel Aviv. October 1984

La guerre de Troie n’aura pas lieu by Giraudoux; trans. from French by Yehoshua Sobol; dir. Michael Gurevitch; stage des. Moshe Sternfeld; costume des. Edna Sobol; music Yoni Rechter; lighting Yehiel Orgal. Tatiana Olier Kanelis (Helen); Makram Khoury (Hector); Tchia Danon (Andromache); Yigal Naor (Ajax); Geta Luca (Hecuba); Giora Shamai (Priamus). Performed at Haifa Municipal Theatre.

February 1985

Antigone by Sophocles; trans. and adap. T. Carmi; dir. Barney Simon; stage des. Eli Sinai; costume des. Gila Lahat; music comp. Yossi Mar-Haim; lighting des. Yehiel Orgal. Tatiana Kanalis-Olier (Antigone); Ofra Weingarten (Ismene); Makram Khouri (Creon); Ami Weinberg (Haimon); Ilan Toren (Tiresias); Riki Gal (Eurydice); Yosef Bashi (Messenger); Geta Luca, Mordechai Ben-Ze’ev (Chorus). Co-production by Haifa Municipal Theatre and The Orna Porat Theatre for Children and Youth.

March 1985

Everybody Wants to Live by Hanoch Levin, drawing on Euripides’ Alcestis and Everyman by Anonymous; dir. Hanoch Levin; stage des. Ruth Dar; music comp. Yoni Rechter; chor. Oshra Elkayam; lighting Brian Harris. Yosef Carmon (Pozna); Gita Munte (Poznaboucha); Sasson Gabai (Bamba); Edna Flidel (Pozna’s Mother); Avner Hizkiyahu (Pozna’s Father); Yitzhak Hizkya (Angel of Death); Ilan Dar (Gulgalevitch); Dror Taplitzki (Sof-Tof Rachmaninof). Performed at The Cameri Theatre, Tel Aviv.

July 1986

Iphigenia at Aulis by Euripides; trans., adap., and dir. Igal Ezraty; stage des. Meira Sheffy; costume des. Orna Ben Meir; music comp. Shay Sheffy; chor. Hemed Scholberg. Actors: Doron Linik, Carmel Ben Ephraim, Ayelet Margalit, Dan Turgeman, Julie Goldstein, Lior Heshin, Sigal Levi, Tali Porat, Asher Idan, Gadi Pur, Moshe Ferster. Performed at the Department of Theatre Arts, Tel Aviv University.

December 1989

Iphigenia at Aulis by Euripides; trans. Aharon Shabtai; dir. David Levin; stage and costume des. Eitan Levy; music comp. Ofer Shlahin; lighting Yehiel Orgal. Youssef Abu-Warda

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(Agamemnon); Mordechai Ben-Ze’ev (Old Servant); Yael Bernfeld (Iphigenia); Razya Yisraeli (Clytemnestra); Dror Keren (Achilles); Shalom Shmuelov (Menelaus). Performed at Haifa Municipal Theatre. March 1990

Antigone by Sophocles; trans. Aharon Shabtai; adap. and dir. Miriam Kainy; stage and costume des. Sandra Gutman; lighting Sigal Shalev; music Avi Malka. Actors: Elisheva Greenbaum, Yafa Tusia, Limor Goldstein, Amir Lavy, Shifra Shmulevitch, Danny Marco, Amit Perlman, Amir Levi, David Alkaly. Performed at the Department of Theatre Arts, Tel Aviv University.

May 1990

Iphigenia at Aulis by Euripides; trans. Aharon Shabtai; adap., dir., and music comp. Shosh Reisman; chor. Gabi Eldor; ideas for stage des. Moshe Sternfeld; costume des. Bruria Silberstein; lighting Noa Lev. Carmit Ben-Yisrael (Clytemnestra); Doron Berkovitch/Bentzi Hevroni (Agamemnon); Osnat Yekutieli/Dorit Peres/Noga Prath (Iphigenia); Shlomo Yisrael (Menelaus); Noam Peleg (Achilles), Danny Canto (Messenger/ Chorus leader). Performed by The Kibbutz Theatre.

June 1990

Eddy King by Nissim Aloni; dir. Oded Kotler; stage and costume des. Eitan Levy; music comp. Dori Parnes; lighting Yehiel Orgal; chor. Menahem Einy. Youssef Abu Warda (Eddy King); Ilan Toren (Jo); Menahem Einy (Jack); Tova Pardo (Donna Christina); Makram Khoury (Teresa); Anat Harpazy (Angela del Sol); Yosef Bashi (Al); Michael Kfir (Steve); Shmuel Wolff (Mack); Amnon Meskin (Creone Visconti); Dina Doron (Giocasta); Uri Ravitz (Ricci); Dror Keren (Salvatore). Co-production of Haifa Municipal Theatre and the Israel Festival, Jerusalem.

June 1991

Hippolytus by Euripides; trans., adap., and dir. Doron Tavory; stage and costume des. Miriam Guretzky; music Dori Parnes; lighting des. Yehiel Orgal. Tamir Shwalb (Hyppolytos); Iyar Wolfe (Phaedra); and third-year students. Performed at the Acting School of the Kibbutzim College of Education, Tel Aviv.

May 1992

The Lost Women of Troy by Hanoch Levin; dir. Edna Shavit; stage des. and lighting Dror Herrenson; music comp. Noa Arad and Zvika Hadar; vocal coaching Hanna Hacohen. Actors: Amit Kleinman, Sharon Tzur, Asher Rinski, Zvika Hadar, Shimon Mimran, Rinat Kedmi, Debbie Jovany,

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Noa Arad, Florence Bloch, Adi Even Tov, Yael Raviv, Tami Weissman. Performed at the Department of Theatre Arts, Tel Aviv University. September 1992

Oedipus the King; trans. Aharon Shabtai; dir. and stage des. Yossi Yizraely; costume des. Gila Lahat and Yossi Yizraely; music comp. Dori Parnes; lighting Yehiel Orgal. Doron Tavory (Oedipus); Hava Ortman-Cohen (Jocasta), Mohammad Bakri (Shepherd, Messenger, Tiresias, Creon, and the Shepherd from Corinth); Menahem Einy (Chorus). Performed at Haifa Municipal Theatre.

December 1992

Antigone by Sophocles; trans. Aharon Shabtai; dir. Michael Gurevitch; stage des. Dror Herrenson; costume des. Yehudit Levin; music comp. Yoni Rechter; vocal coaching Rachel Hochman; lighting Niv Sadeh. Odelya Matalon (Antigone); Avital Pasternak (Ismene); Noa Goldberg (Eurydice); Shalom Shmuelov (Creon); Alon Neuman (Guard, Messenger); Hanoch Reim (Tiresias); Shalom Shmuelov, Alon Neuman, Hanoch Reim, Erez Shafrir (Chorus). Performed at The Cameri Theatre of Tel Aviv.

February 1993

Hippolytus by Euripides; trans. Aharon Shabtai; dir. Ofira Henig; stage des. Alexander Lisiansky; costume des. Didi Golan; music comp. Yehuda Poliker; lighting Natan Panturin. Ronit Elkabetz (Aphrodite); Gili Benousilio (Artemis); Liat Goren (Phaedra); Dror Keren (Hippolytos); Asher Sarfati (Theseus); Tchia Danon (Nurse); Michael Koresh (Servant); Offer Zohar (Messenger); Yael Amitai, Lilian Barreto, Katia Zimbris (Women of Troezen). Performed at Habima National Theatre, Tel Aviv.

March 1993

Medea by Euripides; trans. Aharon Kaminka; dir. Vardit Shalfy; stage and costume des. Sandra Gutman; music ed. Dubi Lenz; lighting Sigal Shalev; chor. Rina Badash. Tracy Abramovich (Medea); Tzila Dagan (Nurse); Lior Yeini (Creon and Aegeus); Gil Alon (Jason); Doron Sofer (Tutor). Independent production, performed at ZOA house, Tel Aviv.

June 1993

Agamemnon by Aeschylus; trans. Aharon Shabtai; adap. and dir. Zvika Serper; stage and costume des. Orna Smorgonsky; music comp. and cond. Hanna Hacohen; lighting Ruti Singer. Ruthie Ingerman (Iphigenia/Chorus); Emad Jabarin (Watchman); Netta Yaschin (Clytemnestra); Josh Sadis (Herald);

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Tsafrir Corcia (Agamemnon); Rivi Diamond (Cassandra); Elhai Levit (Chorus and Aegisthus); Itzik Cohen, Sharon Tsur, Tamar Daskal, Lilach Caspi, Tami Jouval, Jonathan Hava (Chorus). Performed at the Department of Theatre Arts, Tel Aviv University. February 1994

Oresteia by Aeschylus; trans. Aharon Shabtai; performed in its integrity Doron Tavory. Independent solo performance, performed at Tzavta Theatre, among other venues such as private apartments and high school and university classrooms.

May 1994

Bacchae by Euripides; trans. Aharon Shabtai; dir. Doron Tavory; stage des. Avi Wurzel; costume des. Monica Goldstein; music comp. Dori Parnes; lighting Amir Brener. Actors: Alon Bohar, Eyal Massad, Erez Gottlieb, Alma Zack, Shahaf Segal, Lani Shahaf, Davit Gavish, Uri Lavy, Simon Krichli, Gilad Anati, Shira Gehan. Performed at the Department of Theatre Arts, Tel Aviv University.

December 1994

Amphitryon by Plautus; trans. from English, adap., and dir. Ruth Kanner; stage and costues des. Ruth Eldad; music comp. Mika Danny; lighting Sigalit Becker. Alex Sandrovich (Mercury); Avi Sharfman (Sosia); Eran Sarel (Jupiter and Amphitryon); Ruth Borenstein (Alcmena); Tamy Yuval (Bromia); Shaul Ezer (Blepharo). Performed at the Department of Theatre Arts, Tel Aviv University.

May 1996

Antigone by Sophocles; trans. Aharon Shabtai; dir. Vardit Shalfy; stage and costume des. Tali Itzhaki; music comp. Shai Ben-Jacob; chor. Marina Beltov; lighting Yehiel Orgal. Tami Dayan (Antigone); Shragit Bikovsk (Ismene); Alex Ansky (Creon); Aviva Ger (Eurydice); Gal Hoyberger (Haemon); Lior Yeini (Tiresias); Yoav Barlev, Alex Vinegart (Chorus). Performed at Haifa Municipal Theatre.

October 1996

Eumenides by Aeschylus; trans. from Ancient Greek by Aharon Shabtai; dir. Ruth Kanner; music comp. Mika Danny. Yael Ben Ari (Pythia); Assaf Dgani (Apollon); Yoav Michaely (Orestes); Milli Ravid (Athena); Sharon Harnoy (Clytemnestra); Shirley Gal-Segev, Tali Kark, Lilach Engelstein, Sharon Harnoy (The Erinyes). Performed at the Department of Theatre Arts, Tel Aviv University.

September 1997

Antigone by Jean Anouilh; trans. Doron Tavory; dir. Gedalia Besser; stage des. Avi Sechvi; costumes Einat Kosh; music

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comp. Oded Zehavi; lighting Amir Brenner. Naomi Fromovich (Antigone); Doron Tavory (Creon); Aliza Rozen (Nurse); Bassam Zu’mot (Chorus); Arie Tcherner (Jonas); Amitay Yaish (Heimon); Tamara Dayan (Ismene); Yoram Yosephsberg (Messenger); Nir Ron (Boudous); Katia Zimbris (Eurydice). Performed at the Khan Theatre of Jerusalem. August 1998

The Phoenican Women by Euripides; trans. from English by Dan Almagor; dir. Kristoff Warlikowski; stage and costume des. Małgorzata Szczęśniak; music comp. Pawel Mykietyn; chor. Saar Magal; lighting Felice Ross. Orna Porat (Jocasta); Miki Peleg (Antigone); Udi Keisary (Menoeceus); Nevo Kimchi (Polynices); Danny Rotenberg (Eteocles); David Shamul (Oedipus); Shabtai Konorti (Creon); Shlomo Bar-Shavit (Tiresias). Performed at Beer Sheva Municipal Theatre.

September 1998

Medea by Euripides; trans. from Ancient Greek by Shimon Bouzaglo; dir. Robert Woodruff; stage des. Miriam Guretzky; costume des. Ana Chruscheva; music comp. Oded Zehavi; chor. Saar Magal; lighting Avi-Yona Bueno (Bambi). Gila Almagor (Medea); Doron Tavory (Jason); Ofer Zohar (Creon); Ora Merison (Nurse); Dudu Ben-Zeʼev (Tutor); Asaf Barak, Noi Barak, On Rangingad (Medea’s Children); Aharon Almog (Aegeus); Lani Shahaff (Messenger); Maya Katsir, Keren Paluli, Leiku Prizand, Shiri Jossifon, Zoe Tuvia, Iris Nice-Hadar (Chorus). Performed at Habima National Theatre, Tel Aviv.

June 2000

Electra—An Opera by Richard Strauss and Hugo von Hofmannsthal; dir. Rina Yerushalmi; stage des. David Sharir; cond. Ascher Fisch. Mary Jane Johnson (Electra); Reinhild Runkel (Clytemnestra); Tina Kiberg (Chrysothemis); Ian Caley (Aegisthus); Claudio Otelli (Orestes). Co-production of The New Israeli Opera and the Israel Festival, performed at Caesarea Roman Theatre.

October 2000

The Moaners by Hanoch Levin, drawing on Aeschylus’ Agamemnon; dir. Ilan Ronen; stage and costume des. Rakefet Levy; lighting Avi Yona-Bueno (Bambi); music comp. Yossi Ben-Nun; voice coaching Rachel Hochman. Makram Khouri (Veteran Dying Man); Dov Navon (New Dying Man); Gabi Amrani (Feeble Old Man); Shabtai Konorti (Very New Dying Man); Asher Tsarfaty (The Chief Doctor/Agamemnon); Yotam Zilberman (The Deputy Doctor/Aegisthus); Yosef Carmon (The Orderly/The Watchman/The Horse);

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Merav Gruber (The Mature Nurse/Clytemnestra); Sandra Schonwald (Young Nurse/Cassandra); Efrat Elazar, Keren Hadar, Shirit-Lee Weiss, Limor Oved, Ana Ini, Hagar Rish (Nurses/Singers); Ronny Alperin, Shay Feinberg, Simon Krichely, Roman Krichely, Boaz Rosenberg (Suborderlies and Guards). Performed at The Cameri Theatre of Tel Aviv. January 2001

Lysistrata 2000 by Anat Gov, drawing on Aristophanes’ Lysistrata; dir. Edna Mazya; stage and costume des. Orna Smorgonsky and Dror Herrenson; music comp. Alon Olearchik; lighting Niv Sadeh; chor. Ilan Maman; puppets design, manipulation, and coaching Revital Arieli and Yael Inbar. Iftach Klein and Elinor Aharon (Television Broadcasters); Limor Goldstein (Lysistrata); Asi Levi-Kofman (Spartacusit); Einat Weizman (Kalonike); Sharon Zelikovsky (Lampito); Avi Pnini (Zayanides); Tchiya Danon (Madame Madamous); Yigael Sachs (Aide-de-Camp); Ilan Maman, Eyal Rubin, Raz Ysijah Saraf, Amit Yunge (Chorus of Men). Performed at The Cameri Theatre of Tel Aviv.

February 2002

À La Guerre Comme à La Guerre, by Ilan Ronen (a theatrical assemblage of scenes recounting the Trojan War written by Aeschylus, Euripides, Sartre, Giraudoux, and Hanoch Levin); ed., adap., and dir. Ilan Ronen; stage and costume des. Miki Ben-Cnaan; music comp. Eran Dinur; chor. Orit and Daniel Beniamin; lighting Meir Alon. Actors: The Young Habima Company: Adi Aisenman, Ofer Amram, Hanna Hagin, Dror Levi, Tamar Michael, Oshri Sahar, Sivan Sasson, Yuval Segal, Luna Yakar, Yael Zafrir. Performed at Habima National Theatre, Tel Aviv.

February 2002

Achilles’ Heel by Ilan Ronen (a theatrical event drawing on the Iliad and Troilus and Cressida by Shakespeare); ed. and dir. Ilan Ronen; stage and costume des. Miki Ben-Cnaan; music comp. Eran Dinur; chor. Orit and Daniel Beniamin; lighting Meir Alon. Actors: The Young Habima Company: Adi Aisenman, Ofer Amram, Hanna Hagin, Dror Levi, Tamar Michael, Oshri Sahar, Sivan Sasson, Yuval Segal, Luna Yakar, Yael Zafrir. Performed at Habima National Theatre, Tel Aviv.

February 2002

Medea by Euripides; trans. Aharon Shabtai; dir. Edna Shavit; dram. Arthur Kogan; stage and costume des. Liat Reichenberg-Oron. Hila Shikman (Medea); Michal Cohen (Nurse); Guy Mannheim (Jason); Guy Shani (Creon/Aegeus);

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Michal Tubi, Karin Tepper, Michal Cohen (Chorus). Performed at the Department of Theatre Arts, Tel Aviv University. May 2002

Bacchae by Euripides; trans. Aharon Shabtai; dir. Yoav Michaely; dram. Shay Shabtay; stage des. Roni Carmel; music comp. Amir Zukerman; chor. Zahala Kores; lighting Sarit Kaminsky-Rusnek. Actors: Adi Meirovich, Dafna Harcavi, Limor Ben Shoshan, Natalie Fainstein, Racheli Zinder, Guy Winer, Tamar Samuel, Tzahi Francis, Adi Schwartz, Michael Rozetsky. Performed at the Department of Theatre Arts, Tel Aviv University.

June 2002

Antigone by Anouilh; trans. Doron Tavory; dir. Gedalia Besser; stage des. Avi Shechvi; costumes Einat Nir; music comp. Oded Zehavi; lighting Amir Brener. Yussef Abu Warda/Gedalia Besser (Creon); Florence Bloch (Queen); Clara Khoury (Antigone); Salwa Nakkara (Nurse); Amnon Fisher (Haemon); Nina Kotler (Ismene). Performed at Herzliya Ensemble Theatre, Herzliya.

August 2002

Mythos by Rina Yerushalmi, an inter-art performance based on Aeschylus’ Oresteia, Euripides’ Iphigenia at Aulis, The Women of Troy, Electra, and Orestes, Sophocles’ Electra, and Hugo von Hofmannsthal’s Electra. Scenes trans. Aharon Shabtai and Shimon Bouzaglo; dir. Rina Yerushalmi; stage des. Rafi Segal and Eyal Weizman; costume des. Anna Chrouscheva; projection des. Idan Levy; music comp. Avi Belleli; lighting Avi Yona Bueno (Bambi). Karin Tepper (Electra); Yousef Sweid (Orestes); Titina K. Assefa (Chorus, Erinys, Hecuba); Noa Barkai (Chorus, Clytemnestra, Trojan Woman); Gal Barzilay (Chorus, Agamemnon); Ruthie Ben-Efrat (Chorus, Cassandra); Itay Ganot (Chorus); Hadas Kalderon (Chorus, Erinys, Clytemnestra, Trojan Woman); Yehuda Lazarovic (Chorus, ‘The Woman’); Michal Kalman (Chorus, Erinys, Clytemnestra); Michael Marks (Chorus); Noa Raban (Chorus, Iphigenia, Trojan Woman); Yuval Rapaport (Chorus); Oded Semo (Chorus). Performed by Itim Theatre Ensemble at Ramat Gan Theatre, Ramat Gan.

September 2002

Fighting for Home by Ilam Hatzor, a satirical comedy drawing on Aristophanes’ Acharnians, Knights, and Lysistrata; dir. Michael Gurevitch; music comp. Yoni Rechter; lyrics Eli Mohar; stage and costume des. Frida Klapholtz-Avrahami and Judith Bloch; lighting Roni Cohen. Lilian Barreto (Tziona); Nir Ron (Malkitzedek); Avinoam Mor-Haim (Prime Minister); Eli Ben-David (Lizy Strata/Yarden/Indian Mercenary/Nidal);

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Liron Barnass (General/Settler/Walid Hamudi); Yoav Hyman (Helmoni/Woman Protester/Mercenary/Settler/Nadia); Yossi Eini (Zahi/Woman Protester/Thai Mercenary/Fishmonger); Yehoyachin Friedlander (Gershoni/Woman Protester/ Mercenary/Settler); Arie Tcherner (Navy General/Woman Protester/African Mercenary); Ohad Knoller (Airforce General /Moshe/Woman Protester/Swedish Mediator). Performed at the Khan Theatre of Jerusalem. November 2002

Hecuba by Euripides/Lysistrata by Aristophanes (double bill); trans. Aharon Shabtai; dir. Imre Goldstein; costume des. Ricky de-Lareina; props Adi Meirovich; lighting Guy Cohen. Actors: Dori Engel, Dafna Harcavi, Adi Meirovich, Guy Salman, Ricky de-Lareina, Michal Shtamler, Natalie Fainstein, Zehavit Fadida, Racheli Zinder. Performed at the Department of Theatre Arts, Tel Aviv University.

January 2004

Women of Trachis by Sophocles; trans. Aharon Shabtai; adap. and dir. Shahar Pinkas; dram. Ori Egoz; stage des. Sona Harotinian-Korchak; costumes Yuli Avraham; lighting Maya Peleg. Actors: Dori Engel, Dafna Harcavi, Adi Meirovich, Zehavit Fadida, Natalie Fainstein, Dvir Scwartzbard, Eyal Shay. Performed at the Department of Theatre Arts, Tel Aviv University.

March 2004

Antigone by Jean Anouillh; trans. Doron Tavory; adap. and dir. Shir Goldberg; dram. Lihi Barzel-Melamed; stage des. Dina Konson; costume des. Ola Shevtsov; chor. Marina Beltov; lighting Efrat Aravot. Guy Salman (Creon); Michal Shtamler (Antigone); Adi Meirovich (Ismene); Ricky de-Lareina (Nurse); Racheli Zinder (Chorus); Eyal Shay (Haemon); Dvir Scwartzbard (Jonas); Anna Posis (Queen). Performed at the Department of Theatre Arts, Tel Aviv University.

March 2004

The Persians by Aeschylus; trans. Aharon Shabtai; dir. Kineret Noy; stage des. Yelena Kerlich; costume des. Diti Ofek; music comp. Shiri Shadmi; lighting Maya Peleg. Maya Han (Atosa); David Bilinka (Messenger); Ron Biterman (Darius); Assaf Kovarski (Xerxes); Keren Orr, Yafit Assuline, Orit Cnaan, Enav Saban (Chorus). Performed at the Acting School of the Kibbutzim College of Education, Tel Aviv.

May 2005

The Trojan Women, by Sartre after Euripides; trans. Eli Malka; adap. and dir. Gad Kaynar; dram. Maya Granit and Zur Peli; stage des. Rina Atlanov; costume des. Sona Harotinian-Korchak; music comp. Yonatan Kenaan; lighting

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Yaron Abulafia. Ricky de-Lareina (Poseidon/Hecuba); Aviv Pins (Athena/Soldier/Menelaus); Dan Shapira (Talthybius); Guy Hermon (Officer); Nilly Sachar (Helen); Hadas Kreidelman (Andromache); Liat Kislovitch (Cassandra/Astyanax); Michal Avraham, Ruth Phinkelman, Michal Shaykovsky, Sima Nusler, Michal Mozer (Chorus). Performed at the Department of Theatre Arts, Tel Aviv University. July 2006

Phaedra’s Love by Sarah Kane, drawing on Euripides’ Hippolytus; trans. Yotam Benshalom; dir. Kfir Azoulay; dram. Ricki Hayut; stage des. Natasha Tuchman Polyak; costume des. Dina Konson; music comp. Yasmin Even; lighting Tamar Orr; video art Evelin Jurist. Dan Shapira (Hippolytus); Shiri Elraz (Phaedra); Guy Hermon (Doctor/Priest); Keren Schechter (Strophe); Gilad Adler (Theseus); Ayelet Halpern, Yoav Amir, Rotem Tikochinsky, Eyal Tal, Almog Pail, Noa Metzner, Ran Heizler (Chorus). Performed at the Department of Theatre Arts, Tel Aviv University.

December 2006

Antigone by Sophocles; trans. from the Ancient Greek by Shimon Buzaglo; adap. and dir. Hanan Snir; stage des. Roni Toren; costume des. Ofra Confino; music comp. Yossi BenNun; lighting Felice Ross. Ola Shor-Selectar (Antigone); Hila Feldman (Ismene); Igal Naor/Igal Sade (Creon); Ido Rosenberg (Haemon); Yossi Grabber (Tiresias); Davit Gavish (Euridice); Alex Peleg (Messenger); Alon Dahan (The Guard); Eitan Greenstein, Meir Dayan, Ziv Klayer (Guards); Yosef Carmon, Aharon Almog, Yossi Kantz, Haim Hova, Sassi Saad, Avraham Selectar (Chorus). Co-production of The Cameri Theatre and Habima National Theatre, performed at both theatres, Tel Aviv.

January 2007

Phaedra’s Love by Sarah Kane; trans. Yotam Benshalom; adap. and dir. Lilach Dekel-Avneri; music comp. Noam Rotem; vocal creation Rif Cohen; sound des. Danny Meir; stage, light, and video des. Iris Mualem; costume des. Alexa Reznik. Lanny Shahaff (Phaedra); Yishai Golan (Hippolytus); Maya Maron (Strophe); Noam Rotem, Yael Zafrir (Chorus). Performed at Tmuna Theatre, Tel Aviv.

March 2007

Agamemnon by Aeschylus; trans. Aharon Shabtai; adap. and dir. Rotem Keinan; stage des. Danny Ashur; costume des. Efrat Aviv; chor. Amit Zamir; music ed. Rotem Keinan and Yehezkel Raz; lighting Martin Adin. Eli Menashe (Agamemnon); Hagai

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Rubinstein (Clytemnestra); Ayelet Lifshitz (Cassandra); Sharon Friedman (Chorus leader); Amit Zamir (Chorus/Messenger). Performed at Hasimta Theatre, Tel Aviv-Jaffa. March 2008

The Trojan Women by Sartre after Euripides; trans. Eli Malka; dir. Shlomo Plessner; stage des. Dana Tsarfaty; costume des. Svetlana Berger; music comp. Galit Florentz; lighting Keren Granek. Nadav Bossem (Talthybius); Itzik Gabay (Menelaus); Maya Har-Zion (Helen); Esthy Zackheim (Hecuba); Odelia Segal (Andromache); Chantal Cohen (Cassandra). Performed at Tmuna Theatre, Tel Aviv.

May 2008

Electra by Hugo von Hofmannsthal, drawing on Sophocles’ Electra; trans. and adap. Ira Avneri and Lihi Barzel-Melmed; dir. Ira Avneri; stage and costume des. Efrat Aravot; music following Tony Scott: Ehud Waisbord; lighting Martin Adin. Shahar Ori (Aegisthus); Sivan Atzmon (Electra); Michal Fallach (Clytemnestra); Nir Shauloff (Orestes); Claire Vaisblat (Chrysothemis); Maya Yakobson, Meital Ben Yehuda, Adi Chawin (Moirai). Performed at the Department of Theatre Arts, Tel Aviv University.

January 2009

Iphigenia at Aulis by Euripides; trans. Shimon Buzaglo; dir. and stage des. Yossi Yzraely; costume des. Frieda KlapholzAvrahami; music adap. and musical management Adi Zisman; lighting Ben-Tzion Munitz. Gedalia Besser (Agamemnon); Icho Avital (Old Man); Yoram Yosephsberg (Menelaus); Salwa Nakkara (Clytemnestra); Naomi Fromovich-Pinkas (Iphigenia); Nimrod Bergman (Achilles); Odelia Segal-Michael, Adi Zisman (Chorus). Performed at Herzliya Ensemble Theatre, Herzliya.

February 2009

Oedipus at Colonus by Sophocles; trans. Sylvia Shizen; adap. and dir. Niko Nitai; music comp. Maxim Svetlov; stage des. Danny Belinson; costume des. Dana Balzer; lighting Jacob Sliv. Niko Nitai (Oedipus) and Andrea Schwartz, Shmuel Wolf, Anat Klauzner, Oded Gugenheim, Omer Etzion, Eran Bohem, Yael Yaacov. Performed at Karov Theatre, Tel Aviv.

August 2011

Bacchae by Euripides; trans. Aharon Shabtai; adap. and dir. Kinneret Noy; stage and costume des. students of stage design study programme; music ed. Orr Ben Ezra; chor. Noa Wagner. Actors: Shachar Orr, Danit Aminof, Or Ben Ezra, Noa Wagner, Hadar Zussman, Chen Miller, Shani Haim. Performed at the Acting School of the Kibbutzim College of Education, Tel Aviv.

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August 2012

Eumenides by Aeschylus; trans. Aharon Shabtai and Shlomo Dykman; adap. and dir. Kinneret Noy; stage des. and costumes by students of the stage design programme; music score Omer Rosehoize; chor. Atara Kish. Aya Rubinstein (Pythia); Tom Vollinitz (Orestes); Shay Skiva (Apollon); Tali Ravid (Clytemnestra); Linoy Elhanani (Athena). Performed at the Acting School of the Kibbutzim College of Education, Tel Aviv.

December 2012

Iphigenia at Aulis by Euripides; trans. Aharon Shabtai; dir. Gadi Roll; stage des. Dina Konson; costume des. Polina Adamov; music comp. Eldad Lidor; lighting Felice Ross. Shiri Golan (Clytemnestra); Gloria Bass (Iphigenia); Amir Krief (Agamemnon); Michal Weinberg (Chorus); Nimrod Bergman (Menelaus); Eldad Fribas (Achilles). Performed at Beer-Sheva Theatre. Beer-Sheva.

February 2013

Cassandra, a dance based on Aeschylus’ Agamemnon; chor. Ronit Ziv; music Brahms’ Concerto for Piano. Dancers: Geffen Liberman and Sophie Kranz. Performed at Susan Dalal Auditorium.

August 2013

Hecuba by Euripides; trans. Aharon Shabtai; adap. and dir. Kinneret Noy; stage and costume des. Zohar Elmaliach and Nophar Drezner; music comp. Omri Dagan and Rotem Kama; chor. Kinneret Noy and Roni Bachar. Nimrod Dagan (Polidoros); Mor Amsalem (Hecuba); Tommy Ben-Ner (Odysseus); Ben Yossifovitch (Agamemnon); Adam Miklaf (Polimestor); Maya Nitzan, Albina Tzizik, Yael Segev, Naama Dunovitch (Chorus). Performed at the Acting School of the Kibbutzim College of Education, Tel Aviv.

July 2014

Electra by Sophocles; trans. Aharon Shabtai; dir. Kfir Azoulai; stage and costume des. Polina Adamov; music comp. and cond. Eldad Lidor; lighting Keren Granek; video Art des. Yoav Cohen. Ola Shor Selectar (Electra); Helena Yeralova (Clytemnestra); Yossi Kantz (Pedagogue); Gloria Bass (Chrysothemis); Yigael Zachs (Aegisthus); Hagar Danon, Mona Mor-Markovitch, Liat Stern, Dana Vishinsky (Chorus). Performed at The Cameri Theatre of Tel Aviv.

August 2014

Clouds by Aristophanes; trans. Ziva Caspi; adap. and dir. Kinneret Noy; costumes and masks des. Liza Strosalsky and Neta Hetzroni; music comp. Yotam Kushnir and Nohar Koren.

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Refael Abas (Strepsiades); Moshiko Sasson (Pidipides); Itamar Mendelson (Socrates); Neta Hetzroni, Naomi Goldstein, Inbal Raz, Nohar Koren (Chorus). Performed at the Acting School of the Kibbutzim College of Education, Tel Aviv. October 2014

Paradise Lost, a site-specific performance by Lilach DekelAvneri, drawing on Prometheus Bound by Aeschylus; dir. Lilach Dekel-Avneri; dram. Liat Fassberg; space and light des. Iris Mualem; sound art Dganit Elyakim; styling and branding Shachaf Dekel. Performers: Dganit Elyakim, Eitan Buganim, Jason Danino-Holt, Adaya Godlevsky, Eran Hadas, Adili Librman, Roy Fabian, Eli Schoenfeld, Lani Shachaf, Nataly Zukerman. Performed by Pathos Mathos Company at Akko Fringe Festival, Akko.

January 2015

Oedipus—A Case Study, drawing on Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus; trans. from Ancient Greek by Shimon Buzaglo; dir. Hanan Snir; stage des. Roni Toren; costume des. Polina Adamov; music comp. Yossi Ben-Nun; lighting Felice Ross. Alex Caroll (Oedipus); Gil Frank (Creon); Ivgenia Dodina/Maya Maoz (Jocasta); Gil Frank/Dvora Kedar (Tiresias); Dov Reizer, Gassan Abbas, Aharon Almog (Second Messenger), and Michael Koresh (Doctors, Chorus Members, and Messengers). Performed at Habima National Theatre, Tel Aviv.

October 2015

The General and the Sea by Yonatan Levy and Noam Enbar, a performance for an actor and chorus, drawing on the form of ancient dithyrambs; written and dir. Yonatan Levy; music comp. Noam Enbar; co-creators Amir Farjoun and Nir Shauloff; costume des. Yonatan Levy and Keren Nechoshtan; mask des. Sagie Azoulay; lighting Omer Sheizaf. Menashe Noy (Raful); Michal Oppenheim, Naama Altman, Avshalom Ariel, Tomer Damsky, Ari Teperberg, Ilil Lev Kenaan, Tamar Linder, Neta Nadav, Ruth Sgan-Cohen, Noam Enbar, Yair Polishook, Amir Farjoun, Nir Shauloff (Chorus). Performed at The Interdisciplinary Art Arena, Jerusalem.

February 2016

Bacchae by Euripides; trans. Ahron Shabtai; adap. and dir. Yair Sherman; stage des. Adam Keller; costume des. Rona Plotek; music comp. Eldad Lidor; lighting Nadav Barnea. Nitzan Rotshild (Euripides our contemporary); Nadav Bossem (Dionysus); Shay Egozi (Pentheus); Avi Pnini (Cadmos); Uri Avrahami (Tiresias); Shiri Golan (Agave); Ora Meirson

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(Messenger); Eyal Heine (Second Messenger). Performed at Tmuna Theatre, Tel Aviv. August 2016

Electra by Sophocles; trans. Aharon Shabtai; adap. and dir. Kinneret Noy; stage des. and costumes by students of stage design programme. Alon Sandler (Orestes); Amir Pirogovsky (Tutor); Dana Farid (Electra); Daniel Rachu (Clytemnestra); Adi Goral (Chrysothemis); Shay Itzkovitch (Aegisthus); Zohar Bosank, Atar Paz, Sapir Mazgaunker, Shir Daniel, Noa Abramovitch (Chorus). Performed at the Acting School of the Kibbutzim College of Education, Tel Aviv.

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Zilberman, Olya. ‘Batsheva Dance Company’, Al Hamishmar, 25 December 1964. Zuckermann, Moshe. On the Fabrication of Israelism. Tel Aviv: Resling, 2001. Zussman, Ezra. ‘Antigone at The Cameri’, Davar, 5 January 1947. Zussman, Ezra. ‘Lysistrata at Habima’, Davar, 26 December 1958. Zussman, Ezra. ‘The Hebrew Euripides’, Davar, 13 November 1964. Internet Sites, Catalogues America-Israel Cultural Foundation (AICF): Archive of Performances of Greek and Roman Drama, APGRD: The Avalon Project: Batsheva Dance Company online archive: The Cameri Theatre website: The Four Mothers movement: Habama website: Habima Theatre website: The Israeli Center for the Documentation of the Performing Arts (ICDPA):

The Israeli Society for the Promotion of Classical Studies: Itim Ensemble website: The Khan Theatre website: The Orna Porat Theatre for Children and Youth, Perseus Project: Ruth Kanner Group website: The Socialist Organization in Israel-Matzpen: The United States Holocaust Memorial Museum: Women Against the Occupation: and Yehuda Gabay Theatre Archive, Beit Ariela Library, Tel Aviv The Yisrael Gur Archive and Museum of Theatre, The Faculty of Humanities, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Media Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex on DVD, directed by Tyrone Guthrie, Oedipus Rex Productions, Chatsworth, Canada, 1957.

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Index Abie, Natan 152 Acting style 14, 21, 32, 39, 41, 43, 55, 66, 68, 70–2, 76, 82, 86–7, 92, 95, 229, 266, 270, 334, 381 The Actors’ Stage 100, 104, 140, 146, 149, 157–8 Adaptation 13, 15, 21, 24–6, 31, 42, 68, 73, 76–81, 101, 103, 106–8, 111, 144–5, 148–51, 156–8, 180, 182, 189–90, 196, 213, 215–16, 228–31, 234–5, 237, 245, 269, 283, 285, 306, 322, 331–2, 334, 337–8, 340, 354–5, 365–8, 375–8, 383, 396, 399 Adar, Arnon 224, 226, 228 Aegisthus 77–9, 86, 181, 183–4, 301, 307, 311, 339, 343, 378 Aeschylus 18, 27, 126–7, 166, 171, 176–7, 182–3, 264, 279, 284, 300–1, 304–8, 310–12, 315–16, 322–3, 325, 328, 331, 338, 342, 367, 371, 381, 384–5 Agamemnon 3, 19, 24, 27, 36, 48, 180–5, 196, 198, 284 Eumenides 24, 322–8, 342, 368 Oresteia 24, 36, 98, 126–7, 304, 322, 338, 383, 400 Persians 3, 176–80, 371 Prometheus Bound 385–6 Aesthetic severity 137 Agamemnon 128, 181, 198–9, 203 Agave 101, 103–4, 106 Ajax 204, 207–8 Akko Festival 384 Alcestis 285–90 Aldor, Gaby 101, 105, 371 Aleichem, Shalom 13, 30 Alfreds, Michael 177, 179, 329–38 Almagor, Dan 111 Almagor, Gila 190, 192 Almog, Aharon 75, 86, 181, 329, 349, 352 Aloni, Nissim 26, 59–61, 81, 140, 212–13, 215–16, 220, 229, 245–53, 255–78, 283, 348, 387, 396–7, 399

The American Princess 246, 248–9, 251–8, 266, 268, 270 Aunt Lisa 274 Eddy King 245–6, 248–9, 251, 259, 275, 283 The Gypsies of Jaffa 61, 248–9, 274 Alterman, Natan 14, 35–6, 60, 64–9, 73, 148, 201, 398 Amitai, Haim 54 Andromache 190, 192, 196, 198, 202, 204, 207–8 Anouilh, Jean 4, 15, 67–9, 72, 78 Antigone 15, 59, 67, 74, 87–94, 98, 108, 112, 124, 131–2, 139–40, 265, 348–53, 359, 363–7, 373, 375–6 Anski, Shlomo 30–1 The Dybbuk 30, 112, 337 Antigone 67–8, 70, 73, 92, 350–1, 353, 356 APGRD 180, 214 Aphrodite 38, 206 Arafat, Yasser 187, 328 Aravot-Shalom, Efrat 375, 378 Argov, Shlomo 188 Aristophanes 7, 15, 19, 26, 59, 100, 143, 162–7, 212, 214, 216–20, 222, 225, 227, 229–30, 235, 237, 239–41, 243, 285, 300, 367–8, 383 Acharnians 143–4, 154, 159–60, 211, 237, 240 Clouds 372, 383 Frogs 160, 285, 300 Knights 144, 160, 237, 240 Lysistrata 7, 15, 26, 59, 144, 160, 211–35, 237, 239–43, 368 Peace 26, 100, 144–6, 148–59, 161–2, 173, 211, 227 Aristotle 127–8, 245, 266, 270, 317–18, 355, 372, 396 Arnon, Sara 195 Artaud, Antonin 114, 140, 181, 251, 284 Asherov, Misha 132, 135, 138 Ashkenazi, Motti 178 Astyanax 192, 196, 198–200, 339

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INDEX

Athena 17, 38, 196, 206, 233, 261, 285, 293, 327 Athens and Jerusalem 3–7, 17–26, 34, 43–4, 48–9, 111, 220, 278, 397, 399 Autochthon 248–9, 251, 268, 293 Avidan, Bruria 227 Avigal, Shosh 20–1, 191, 204 Avneri, Ira 378 Avni, Stella 260, 269 Bachstitz, Baruch 37 Bakhtin, Mikhail 4, 29, 41, 46 Bakri, Mohammed 124 Banai, Yossi 140, 215, 252, 258, 260, 269–70 Bar-Kadma, Emmanuel 101–2, 115, 122, 149, 209 Bar-Mordechai, S. 44 Bar-Nir, Dov 77, 81, 86, 182, 228–9 Bar-Yosef, Eitan 127, 350 Barak, Ehud 328 Barnea, Nahum 99 Batz, A. 55 Becker, Yisrael 273 Beer-Hoffman, Richard 31 Beer Sheva Municipal Theatre 377 Begin, Menahem 176, 186, 195, 279, 284 Beit Zvi school of Performing Arts 38, 176–7, 329, 362, 371 Belkin, Ahuva 5, 8–10, 20 Belleli, Avi 342 Bellerephon 152 Beltov, Marina 375 Ben-Ami, Nahman 81, 133, 138, 216, 220–1, 271 Ben-Cnaan, Miki 331, 333, 335, 399 Ben-Gurion, David 7, 152, 211, 220, 250 Ben-Moshe, Rafi 224, 228 Ben-Moshe, Udi 213, 243 Ben-Nun, Yossi 349, 351, 354 Ben-Porat, Yeshayahu 211, 220 Ben-Yehuda, Eliezer 12 Ben-Yosef, Avraham 66–7, 75, 86 Benshalom, Yotam 376 Berger, Johan Henning 31 Bergner, Audrey 258, 272 Bergner, Yosl 249, 258 Berkoff, Steven 180–6, 398 Bertini, Gary 215, 258

Bertonov, Shlomo 35, 354 Bertonov, Yehoshua 35, 54 Besser, Gdalia 128 Bialik, Haim Nahman 5, 7, 11, 31 Biblical Hebrew 48, 77, 90, 365 Bijaoui, Eli 213 Bildung 2 ‘The Binding of Isaac’ 14, 171–3, 198–200, 210 Black Panthers 268, 281 Black September 187 Bloch, Judith 239 Bodily expression 94, 116 Body movement 25, 61, 86, 124, 197, 373 Book of Ecclesiastes 90 Boscovich, Alexander Uria 84–5 Braun, Yehezkel 75, 82, 84 British Mandate 146 Brod, Max 33, 47 Buber, Martin 11 Buchman, Nahum 54, 215, 222, 247, 260, 269 Burkert, Walter 3–4, 264, 395 Buzaglo, Shimon 128, 349–50, 354–5, 398 Cacoyannis, Michael 76 Caesarea Theatre 4–5 Calderon, Nissim 248, 256 Calderón de la Barca, Pedro 11, 13, 34, 279 Cameri Theatre, The 8, 13–15, 24, 26, 30, 61–84, 100–6, 109–14, 117–23, 130, 144, 148–9, 167–73, 189, 196–9, 213, 223–4, 226–31, 274, 284, 292, 331, 347–9, 352–3, 367, 376–7 Cameri Theatre of Reinhardt, The 30 Cameri Theatre of Tairov, The 30, 32, 36 Camp David 328 Carmi, T. 89–90, 92, 398 Carmon, Yosef 130, 196, 199, 224, 286, 349, 352 Caspi, Aryeh 320 Caspi, Zahava 291 Caspi, Ziva 398 Cassandra 181, 183, 185, 190–2, 196, 198, 202–3, 205–8, 301, 304, 308–9, 311, 339, 344, 382, 384–5

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INDEX

Chilton, Nola 282, 322, 336–7, 367 Choreography 31, 34, 75, 80, 82, 85–6, 101, 215, 224, 228–30, 286, 324, 338, 341, 367, 375, 378, 382, 384–5 Chorus 48, 52–5, 60, 79, 84–7, 90–3, 97–101, 103–5, 114, 118, 120, 124–5, 128–9, 132–3, 135–9, 151, 154–5, 177, 180–6, 191, 201–2, 205, 212, 215–19, 224, 226–7, 229, 233, 242, 256, 266, 293–4, 308–12, 323–7, 333–4, 338, 341–6, 349–52, 354–7, 359, 364, 367, 372, 374, 377–8, 381–3, 386, 389–91, 399 Cinesias 212, 215, 222, 224 Citizen 51, 53, 159, 166, 170, 173, 188, 240, 309, 372 Citizenship 16–17, 22, 217 Classical Greek Tragedy 1–2, 19, 60, 67, 75, 94, 125, 127, 131, 139–40, 176, 223, 266, 283–4, 301, 304–5, 321, 338, 350, 355, 372, 374, 380, 383, 387, 399 Classical Tradition 17, 27, 82, 173, 395–6 Clinton, Bill 328 Clytemnestra 75, 78–9, 84, 86, 128, 181, 183–5, 198, 301, 304, 306–11, 316, 323–4, 339, 341–4, 367–8, 382 Cohen, Albert 196 Cohen, Roni 239 Collective memory 6, 26, 334, 381–2 Compilation 22, 66, 335 Confino, Ofra 349 Controversy 107, 110, 148, 151, 159, 162, 282 Cosa Nostra 249, 259, 265 Costumes 31, 35, 38, 47, 50–2, 64, 69–70, 81, 91, 101, 103, 120–1, 124, 135, 164, 181, 184, 190–2, 197, 208, 219, 226, 229–30, 233, 284, 330, 335, 367, 375–6, 381 Creone 260–1, 264, 267, 269 Creusa 293, 296, 298 Cultural legacy 24, 112, 334 Dada art movement 69 Dance 13, 19, 41–2, 65, 79, 82–3, 85, 94, 98, 102–3, 121, 154, 185, 218–19, 222, 229, 291, 310, 312, 324, 331, 336–7, 342–6, 383–6, 390–1



Danon, Tchia 181 Dar, Ilan 88, 286 Dar, Ruth 114, 286, 292 Dekel-Avneri, Lilach 385 Paradise Lost 385–6 Demos 240 Democracy 2–3, 17, 22–3, 144, 212, 281, 371, 382 Demonstrations 148, 178, 189, 195, 268, 281, 320, 323, 325–6, 328–9 Dicaeopolis 143, 154, 159, 211, 240–1 Diction 43, 66, 71, 93, 95, 98, 107–8, 135–6, 363, 366, 373, 382 Dionysus 98, 101–6, 129, 150, 184, 262, 264, 373, 383 Dr Lizy Strata 239, 241 Dramatic irony 293 DTA–Department of Theatre Arts 27, 98, 110–12, 124, 129–31, 140, 177, 213, 322, 325, 336, 361–2, 364, 369–70, 376, 378 Duer, Shoshana 132, 138, 215 Dykman, Aminadav 48, 369 Dykman, Shlomo 364, 397 Dystopia 332 Ecstasy 13, 41, 101, 103, 105–6 Edingen, Angelika 190, 194, 399 Efroni, Yehuda 132, 138 Eitan, Rafael 231, 387–91 Eldad Yisrael 147–8, 157 Eliav, Lyova 147 Eliaz, Raphael 114, 398 Embodiment 372 Emotional patterns 41 Enbar, Noam 24, 27, 386–7, 389–93 Enlightenment movement 6, 9, 12, 48 Epidaurus Theatre 383 Eretz-Yisrael 6, 8, 29, 33, 49 Eretz-Yisraeli theatre/drama 6, 8, 12–13, 49, 56 Eshkol, Levi 147, 224 Eunuchs 285, 293–5, 298 Euripides 27, 35, 37, 59, 67, 75–81, 84, 100–4, 106–8, 114, 117, 121, 127–9, 140, 151–2, 166, 171, 176, 186, 189, 190, 197–8, 200, 202, 204–6, 279, 283–6, 288–92, 294–301, 331, 338, 343, 346, 348, 350, 367–8, 376, 378, 399 Alcestis 27, 284–6, 288–90

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

INDEX

Euripides (cont.) Bacchae 100–10, 181, 186, 283, 368, 372, 374, 399 Electra 67, 75–87, 92–4, 108, 338–46, 348, 372, 377–8 Hecuba 189–93, 195–200, 202, 204, 207–8, 213, 331, 350, 368, 372 Ion 27, 284–5, 292, 294–9 Iphigenia at Aulis 112–13, 126–9, 331, 338, 344, 350, 367, 370 Medea 3, 19, 59, 79, 98, 112–19, 123, 140, 350, 378 The Trojan Women 27, 189–90, 194, 202–3, 285, 339, 345, 375–6 Evreinov, Nikolai 42 Evron, Boaz 100, 103, 107, 133–4, 137–8, 153, 182, 204, 209, 269, 270, 272 Evron, Gilad 348 Excessive movement 39 Experimentation 3, 18, 23, 26, 30, 67, 74, 80, 87, 95, 97–9, 101, 103, 105, 115–16, 128, 131, 141, 183, 274, 329–31, 351, 363, 367–8, 373, 379, 381, 400 Expressionist style 30, 40, 52 Expressiveness 40–1, 137–8 Ezekiel of Alexandria 9, 396 Exagoge (Exodos) 9 Ezrati, Yigal 370 Fantastic Realism 40–1 Feingold, Ben-Ami 20, 69, 71, 73, 75, 80–1, 84 Feuerstein, Emil 37–8, 44, 114, 118, 204, 270 Finkel, Shimon 32, 35–6, 47–8, 51, 54–5, 58, 247 Finkelstein, Levana 155 Fitts, Dudley 89, 212, 215–16 Flidel, Edna 286 Foreignness 33, 38, 44, 46, 58, 248 Forgers of myths 4, 67–8, 268 Four Mothers Movement 231–6 Frazer, James G. 265 Freitag, Holk 190, 194–6, 398 Friedland, Dalia 215 Friedland, Zvi 35–6, 38–9, 42, 54, 61, 64, 75, 399 Friedman, Shraga 60 Fringe Theatre 24, 100–1, 112, 129, 140, 213, 232, 336, 392, 395, 399

Fuchs, Ofra 224 Fuchs, Sarit 134–6, 186, 246, 291–2 Gabai, Sasson 286, 329 Galai, Benjamin 195 Gamzu, Haim 38, 43–4, 69–70, 80, 86, 90, 100, 107, 123, 221–2, 228, 362 Gat, Galia 224, 228 Geis, M. 59 Gemayel, Bashir 188 Gender 5, 17, 196–203, 224, 231, 233, 242 Georgiadis, Nikolas 214, 399 Gershuni, Moshe 199 Gesher Theatre 13, 24 Gesture 31, 39, 41–2, 66, 86, 94, 121, 202–3, 260, 290–1, 324, 341 Gilbert, Stephan 105 Gilula, Dwora 43, 53, 55, 70, 146, 182–3, 398 Giocasta 260, 262–5, 267, 269 Giraudoux, Jean 4, 189, 204–9, 247 La guerre de Troie n’aura pas Lieu (Tiger at the Gates) 189, 204 Glikman, Dov 196 Gnessin, Menahem 31–2 Goldberg, Lea 37, 39, 43, 60, 66 Goldberg, Shir 375–6 Goldfaden, Abraham 9, 30 Goldhill, Simon 3, 17, 31, 240 The Good Fence 187 Goren, Shlomo (Chief Rabai) 155 Goren, Zvi 234, 350–1, 358, 377, 384 GOSET (Moscow State Jewish Theatre) 30 Gov, Anat 213, 230–5 Govinskaya, Ina 35 Govrin, Michal 176 Graham, Martha 4, 82–3, 121, 336 Granovsky, Alexander 31 Greater Israel Movement 147, 151, 154, 157 Grunzweig, Emil 195 Gulf War I (1990–1991) 319 Gurevitch, Michael 144, 204–5, 208–9, 237, 239, 248, 272–3, 399 Gurfein, Rivka 57 Gush Emunim Movement 167, 176 Guthrie, Tyrone 4, 43–8, 50–9, 88, 92, 97, 108, 132, 134, 214, 217, 398

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INDEX

Habima acting Studio (Tel Aviv) 61, 64, 72, 113, 215 Habima Hebrew Studio (Moscow) 11 Habima National Theatre 24, 29, 33, 52, 189, 195, 214, 221, 348, 358, 391, 395 Haifa Municipal Theatre 24, 59, 63, 88, 90–3, 113, 124–7, 130, 140, 177, 180, 182, 189, 204, 210, 282, 347, 349, 372 Halevi, Moshe 32, 63, 65 Hall, Edith 17, 36 Halutz, Dan 354 Hameirit, Ada 101, 104–5, 155 Handelzalts, Michael 124–6, 133, 136–8, 184, 204, 209, 235, 243, 270, 272, 291, 347, 358 HaOnot Theatre 140 Hargil, Shraga 83 Harifai, Zaharira 88–9, 92–3, 114, 119, 196, 199 Harris, Ruth 215 Hasimta theatre 24, 395 Hatzor, Ilan 144, 213, 237, 239 Fighting for Home 144, 213, 237–40, 242 Hazira Performance Art Arena 24, 390–2, 395 The Hebrew Stage 11, 37, 43, 53, 55, 64, 85 Hebrew Theatre 1, 6, 8, 10–14, 29, 31, 33–4, 45, 56, 63–4, 66, 71, 73, 87 Hebrew translations 36–8, 48–9, 68–9, 76–8, 89–90, 100, 114–15, 132–3, 139, 176, 190, 205–6, 212–13, 215–16, 245, 308, 332–3, 338–9, 349–50, 364, 366–70, 374, 383, 397–8 Hector 197–8, 202, 204–9 Hecuba 189–93, 195–200, 202, 204, 207–8, 213, 331, 350, 368, 372 Helen 181, 190–3, 196, 200, 204, 206–8, 210 Herenson, Dror 230 Herod the great 4 Herzliya Ensemble Theatre 112–13, 128 Hezbollah 348, 351, 354 Hierocles 155–6 Hiskiya, Yitzhak 196, 286 Hizkiyahu, Avner 140, 252, 258, 286 Hofmannsthal, Hugo von 4, 338, 375, 378 Electra 338, 375, 378



Identity Politics 268 Immigrants 12–13, 21, 58, 63–4, 169, 193, 238, 249, 257, 259, 262, 264, 267–8, 278, 282–3 Immigration 9, 12–13, 16, 22, 33, 58, 146, 160, 250, 262, 268 Inbal dance–theatre Company 83, 85 Independence Generation 74, 199, 246, 250, 277–8 Inter-Art 18, 73, 340–1 Inter-Media 251, 263, 322, 340–1 Inter-medial adaptation 322 Inter-medial strategies 340 Interpretation 2–4, 19, 26, 31, 34, 43, 54, 67–8, 82, 84, 91, 98, 102, 120, 124, 131, 134–5, 137, 152, 157, 213, 217–18, 238, 270, 294, 337, 351, 357, 359, 363, 365–6, 368, 374, 382, 397 Intertextuality 25, 98 Intonation 41, 56, 71, 208, 287 Iphigenia 128, 308, 323, 331, 338–9, 341, 344, 350, 367 Iris 205–6 Israeli-Palestinian conflict 175–210, 237, 240 Israeli Society 1, 16, 21, 112, 130, 143, 145, 147, 151, 155, 160, 168, 175, 186, 197, 206, 208, 220, 231, 247, 249–50, 278–9, 282–3, 319, 321, 326, 359–60, 373, 400 Itim Ensemble 336–7, 345 Janco, Marcel 67, 69 Jason 114, 119, 120, 122, 378 Jewish drama 6–8, 26, 33, 363 Jewish enlightenment 6, 9, 12, 48 Jewish theatre 5, 8–9, 20, 30, 111, 330, 396 Jocasta 45, 48, 54–5, 124, 132, 138, 354, 356–7, 359 Judaism 5–6, 33, 41, 86, 165, 192, 320 Kadishman, Menashe 199–200 Kadishson, Rafi 369 Kainy, Miriam 367 Kaminka, Aharon 139, 397 Kane, Sarah 4, 375–6 Phaedra’s Love 375–6 Kaniuk, Yoram 149–50, 228

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

INDEX

Kanner, Ruth 98, 321–8, 368, 379–80, 397, 399 Karavan, Dani 75, 82–4, 92, 399 Katznelson, Yitzhak 42 Kaynar, Gad 8, 20, 32, 73–4, 88, 111, 324, 332, 334, 375–6 Keinan, Amos 103, 130 Khan Theatre, The 99–100, 111–12, 144, 177, 179–80, 182, 213, 237–40, 329–31, 370, 399 Khouri, Makram 181–204, 207 Klapholtz-Avrahami, Frida 128 Klatzkin, Rafael 260 Knesset (Israeli parliament) 12, 88, 148, 162, 173, 178, 221, 231, 242, 320, 387–8 Kogan, Natan 67, 70 Kohansky, Mendel 1, 6, 31, 33, 45, 71, 87, 138 Kolibialsky, Ishay 399 Kommos 342 Konson, Dina 375–6 Kotler, Oded 66, 100, 140, 223–5, 227–9, 282, 392 Koun, Karolos 4, 76, 98, 217–18 Laban methods 330, 337 Labour party 57, 137, 147, 176, 186, 279 Lament 59, 79, 90, 176–7, 191, 197, 281, 289, 306, 330, 342–3, 350–1 Land Day 281 Land of the Forefathers 199, 250, 280 Land of Israel 6, 29, 33, 147–8, 241 Laor, Yitzhak 159, 377 Lavie, Amos 184 Lebanon War (First 1982) 159, 176, 186–90, 194, 197, 204–6, 230, 279, 388 (Second 2005) 159, 284, 348–9, 353, 359 Leibowitz, Yeshayahu 165–6, 197 Leivik, Halpern 31 Lev-Ari, Shimon 6, 12, 29, 33, 130 Levi, Paul 64 Levin, Hanoch 26–7, 106, 117, 130, 145, 158–60, 162–73, 175, 189, 193, 196–203, 224, 277–9, 282–318, 332–3, 387, 396–7, 399 The Emperor 284, 292–6, 298–9 Everybody wants to live 284, 287, 291–2 Execution 200, 274–5, 284, 303 Ketchup 159, 164–5

The Lost Women of Troy 140, 189, 196–204, 285, 304, 310, 332 The Moaners 275, 284, 300–4, 306–12, 314–16 Queen of a Bathtub 117, 159, 167–70, 199, 282, 309 You me and the next war 159–64 Levy, Shimon 9, 20, 21, 73, 163, 171, 311, 387 Levy, Yonatan 24, 27, 386–93, 399 The General and the Sea 24, 386–92, 399 Levy, Zohar 181, 185 Lichtenstein, Rosa 63–4, 67 Likud Party 176, 186, 231, 279, 281, 388 Local tradition 2, 368 Lubitsch, Fanny 35, 54 Lysistrata 211, 213, 215, 220, 223–7, 229, 232–3, 240, 243 Macintosh, Fiona 17, 19, 36, 45, 48, 50, 180 Malka, Eli 189–90, 205 Malkin, Dov Ber 49, 53, 56, 68 Malkin, Jeanette 40, 277 Malkitzedek 239, 241–2 Manor, Giora 177, 204 Marcus, Rachel 75, 86 Maron, Hanna 113–23 Mask 18, 40, 52, 91–3, 101, 105, 120–2, 150, 153–4, 181, 185, 219, 248, 267, 331, 341, 381, 390 Matzpen Movement 148 Mazia, Edna 213, 230–1, 234 Mchedelov, Vakhtang Levanovitch 31 Medea 113–15, 117–23 Mediterranean 8, 75, 85, 120, 129, 177, 218, 387, 393 Folklore 84, 219 Music 85, 94, 191 Universalism 3 Meir, Golda 147, 170, 178 Melting pot 12, 248, 250, 268, 281 Menelaus 192, 196, 200 Meskin, Aharon 35, 43, 54, 247 Meskin, Amnon 149, 155, 282 Meyerhold, Vsvolod 40, 42 Meyouchas, Fabiana 196 Michaeli, Elisheva 215 Michaeli, Yoav 325, 374 Mikhoels, Solomon 31

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INDEX

Milo, Yosef 1, 59, 63–4, 69–70, 72, 74, 86–9, 91–3, 108 Miron, Carmit 91, 93, 107–8, 149 Miron, Dan 37, 75–9, 247 Mocher Sforim, Mendele 13, 30 Modern Hebrew Culture 6, 29, 32, 247 Modernism 32, 228 Mohar, Eli 237, 239 Monotheism 5 Müller, Heiner 4, 399 Philoctetes 400 Munitz, Ben-Zion 149, 155 Munk, P. 37, 43–4, 49, 51, 53 Munte, Gita 196, 286 Music 3, 34–5, 38, 55, 64–5, 71, 82, 84–5, 89, 92, 94, 101, 106, 108, 120, 121, 135–6, 164, 191, 197, 210, 216, 218, 220, 226, 271, 284, 291, 331, 342–3, 349, 373–4 Musical adaptation 213, 228–9 Musical drama 9–10, 24, 87, 111, 218, 390 Musical score 31, 35, 44, 75, 80, 84–5, 101, 108, 114, 121, 123, 128, 132, 135, 176–7, 181, 185, 190, 194, 196, 207, 215, 224, 230, 239, 243, 269, 286, 327, 331, 342, 354, 365, 369, 377, 379, 384, 390 Musicality 40–1, 48–9, 55, 137 Myrrhine 212, 215, 222, 224, 226 Nakara, Salwa 128 Naor, Yigal 204, 208, 349, 352 Nasser, Gamal Abdul 152, 177, 217 Natan, Moshe 114, 119–22, 149, 156, 246–8, 256, 258, 261–2 Naturalist acting 50, 136, 307 Navon, Aryeh 89, 91–2 Neoclassical style 29, 34–5, 37, 39, 43–4, 270 Neoclassicism 34 Neoptolemus 196, 198, 203 Nitzan, Omri 209 Noguchi, Isamu 82–3 Novak, Hava 182, 184, 195–6, 204, 229 Noy, Kinneret 371–2 Noy, Menashe 389–91 Occupation 67–8, 143–5, 151, 158, 160, 165, 167, 169, 213, 219, 230, 233, 235–6, 282, 287, 328, 360



Occupied territories 143, 145, 147–9, 151, 153, 155, 157, 159, 161–3, 167, 169, 174–6, 187, 238, 279–80, 321, 328 Odysseus 198, 206–9 Oedipus 1–2, 27, 29, 48–9, 52–5, 57, 124, 132, 134–5, 137–8, 233, 248–9, 251, 259, 261, 266, 268–70, 350, 355–7, 359, 381–2 Oedipus: A Case Study 348, 354–6, 358–9, 399 Ofrat, Gideon 20, 108–9, 199, 383 Ohad, Michael 59, 72, 87, 90, 92–3, 102, 105–6, 108, 118, 182, 185, 194, 209, 218 Ohel Theatre 13, 29, 63–4, 66, 88, 130 Old Vic Theatre 45–6 Olmert, Ehud 354 The Open Theatre 140 Orchestra 13, 50–1, 69, 150, 201 Orchestration 38, 43, 105, 322 Orgal, Yehiel 101, 181, 185, 204 Orian Amir 204 Ortman, Hava 124–6 Oslo Accords I (1993) 319 Oslo Accords II (1995) 27, 144, 320–1, 328 Oxford Playhouse 214 Oz, Avraham 20, 143, 180, 226, 263 Palestine 5, 10, 12–13, 20, 29, 31, 33, 45, 49–50, 56, 58, 64–5, 72, 75, 82, 86, 113, 148, 150, 192, 257 British Mandatory rule 1, 29, 45 Ottoman Palestine 58 Roman Palestine 5 Palestine Liberation Organisation (PLO) 166, 175, 187–8, 195, 279 Palestinians 144, 147–8, 159, 188, 210, 213, 237–40, 242, 319, 328–9, 359, 400 Palestinian Authority 328 Palestinian Intifada (First 1987–1993) 159, 213, 233, 235, 351 Palestinian Intifada (Second 2000–2005) 144, 213, 237–8, 240–1, 328 Palestinian refugees 147, 153, 160, 188, 192–4, 209–10, 238, 250, 368 Palestinians within Israel 16, 21

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INDEX

Palmach Brigade 15, 250, 387 Pardo, Tova 132, 138 Paris 35, 38, 41–2, 60, 67–8, 83, 99–100, 113, 129, 184, 196, 231, 235–6, 254 Priam 197, 207–8 Paris square (Jerusalem) 235–6 Pathos 39, 72, 76, 89–90, 313, 386 Peace 7, 26, 117, 134, 146–7, 150–7, 164–6, 170–6, 187, 188, 195, 205–7, 210–11, 213–14, 220–1, 224, 227–8, 234, 236–7, 240–2, 279–80, 282, 321, 327–8, 360, 400 Peace process/negotiations 148, 234, 242, 280, 282, 328, 400 Peace Now movement 176, 195, 282 Peleg, Alex 132, 138, 349 Pentheus 101, 103, 106, 374 Peres, Shimon 137, 178, 321 Peretz, Amir 354 Peretz, Y. L. 30 Performance language 41, 94–5 Physical image 40–1 Physical memory 40 Physicality 118 Pinkas, Shachar 375 Plautus 98, 283, 368–70 Menaechmi 98, 369–70 A Play-within-a Play 355 Plotkin, Gershon 66, 74–6, 78, 81–4, 93, 108, 399 Porat, Lea 218–19, 223 Porat, Orna 66, 74–5, 83–4, 86, 139, 190 192, 224, 227, 229 Poseidon 38, 190, 196, 285 Pozna 286–91 Production style 75, 81 Production value 14, 330 Profanities 156, 216, 219 Promovitz, Naomi 128 Pronunciation 31, 34, 37, 49, 66, 98, 287, 366, 381–2 Psik Theatre 24 Psychodrama 347–56, 399 Puppets 64, 230, 271, 333–5 Rabin, Yitzhak 27, 137, 299, 319–21, 323, 326, 351, 360 Racine, Jean 15, 34, 37–9, 43–4, 279 Phaedra 11, 15, 24, 29, 34–8, 42, 45, 59, 68–9, 375 Rapp, Uri 194

Rav-Nof, Ze’ev 157 Ravid, Shoshana 215 Ravikovitch, Dahlia 81, 87, 92 Reception 2, 15, 17, 20–3, 25, 34, 43, 58–9, 72, 76, 110, 112, 158, 231, 259, 270, 284, 296, 327, 334, 354, 396 Rechter, Yoni 204, 237, 239, 286 Recitation 80, 98, 270, 390 Refugee camps 146–7, 188, 192, 207 Reinhardt, Max 42, 65, 113 Repressed memory 357 Research and Praxis 379 Revah, Ze’ev 114, 119 Rewriting 17, 24–6, 35, 103, 213, 269, 285, 338, 396, 399 Ritual theatre 99–110 Rivlin, Liora 75, 224 Rokem, Freddie 6, 12, 14, 29, 33, 34, 40, 379–80 Ronen, Ilan 321, 329–36 À la Guerre Comme à la Guerre 331–3, 335 Rosen, Aliza 101, 104, 329 Ross, Felice 349, 351, 354 Rouhana, Nadim N. 16 Rovina Hanna 32–3, 35–6, 39, 43, 52, 54–5, 106, 222, 247, 269, 272 Rozik, Eli 8, 18, 246, 341 Rozov, Yoram 199 Rubinczyk Yisrael 138 Ruth Kanner Group 325, 327 Sabbagh-Khoury, Areej 16 Sabra and Shatilla massacres 188, 194–5, 197, 388 Sachs, Arieyh 26, 98–110, 140, 144–5, 148–58, 161–2, 186, 283, 362, 399 Sadat, Anwar 176, 280, 349 Saint-Denis, Michel 4, 45, 50 Sarfaty, Asher 183 Sartre, Jean-Paul 4, 67–8, 189–90, 200, 205, 247, 268, 332–3, 375–6 The Trojan Women 21, 27, 189–90, 194, 200, 202–4, 209, 285, 339, 345, 375–6 Scenography 18, 22 Schechner, Richard 4, 101–2, 181, 184 Dionysus in 69 17, 98, 101 Schiller, Frederick 34–5, 86, 316 Schirmann, Haim 10

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INDEX

School of Drama, Kibbutzim College of Education 24, 337, 362, 371–2 Sebba, Shalom 50–2, 92, 132 Segal, Arthur 5 Segal, Odelia 128 Segal, Rafi 341, 345 Segal, Shmuel 269 Self-expressive mode 55 Seneca 35, 37, 98, 112–13, 115, 117, 123, 376 Medea 98, 112–19, 121, 123 Medea 114–15, 117–23 Serper, Zvika 181, 367 Shabtai, Aharon 76, 127, 132–3, 135–6, 216, 230, 283, 308, 323, 350, 367–8, 374, 377, 383, 398–9 Shabtai, Yaacov 144, 282, 348 The Chosen 144 Shaked, Gershon 5, 8, 11, 20, 112, 248, 266, 270 Shakespeare 11, 13, 15, 34, 36–7, 46, 50, 77, 87–8, 100, 111, 279, 337, 347 Shalit, Daniel 176 Shamai, Giora 88–9, 204 Shamir, Moshe 1, 14, 60, 72, 139, 148, 168, 171, 195, 199, 250 Shapira, Anita 12, 72, 146–7, 217, 246, 279, 281 Shapira, Dan 376 Shatzman, Poldi 196, 269 Shavit, Edna 98, 106, 129–31, 137, 139–40, 159, 283, 336, 363–7, 369, 374, 378, 397, 399 Shavit, Yaacov 6, 18, 65 Shem-Or, Mirit 227 Shiran, Haim 176 Shlonsky, Avraham 37, 49, 77, 111, 149 Shoef, Corina 20 Shoham, Haim 20, 246, 248, 251, 362 Shor-Selectar, Ola 349, 353, 377 Silver platter 14, 73 Sinai Campaign (1956) 144, 159, 214, 216–17, 220 Sinai, Eli 130, 367 Six-Day War (1967) 144–6, 148, 159, 161, 164, 169, 175–6, 199, 224, 237, 277, 279, 282, 397 Smethurst, Mae J. 371, 373 Smorgonsky, Orna 230, 367 Snir, Hanan 24, 321–2, 347–60, 397, 399 Sobol, Yehoshua 130, 145, 189, 193, 204–5, 208–9, 282, 330, 367, 387



Sommi, Yehuda Ben Yitzhak, de’ 10, 396 A Comedy of Betrothal 10 Song of Songs 90, 151, 154 Sophocles 11, 15, 26, 29, 45–6, 50–2, 67–8, 87–93, 124, 132–4, 136, 139, 176, 214, 245, 248–9, 251–2, 255, 260–1, 264, 267, 269–70, 283, 338, 342–3, 348–50, 353–5, 357–9, 363–5, 372–5, 377, 381, 400 Antigone 3, 20, 59, 72, 87–98, 108, 112, 124, 128, 131–2, 139–40, 348–54, 359, 363–8, 373 Oedipus Rex 1–2, 45, 50, 52, 98, 124, 214 Oedipus Tyrannus 1–3, 11, 15, 24, 26, 29, 34, 43–51, 53–61, 75, 77, 81, 92, 98, 108, 112, 124–5, 127, 131–6, 139, 217, 245, 247–9, 251–5, 257, 259–60, 263, 265–7, 269, 283, 350, 354–5, 359, 363, 372, 381, 400 Trachiniae 374 Southern Lebanon 187, 230–2, 236, 328, 348–9 Speech patterns 41, 43, 56, 78–80, 93–4, 105, 115, 127, 149–50, 157–8, 161–2, 169–70, 185, 213, 216, 263, 320, 333, 338, 350, 381, 390–1 The Sphinx 263 Stage design 35, 50–1, 81–4, 91–2, 94, 101, 104, 114, 119, 121, 128, 150, 155, 196, 199, 204, 230, 260, 284, 286, 291–2, 333, 345, 349, 351, 353, 354, 356, 362, 369, 374–6, 378, 392 and costumes 50, 132, 181, 196–7, 204, 230, 284, 286, 349, 354, 374–6 and lighting 35, 38, 47, 51–2, 64–5, 71, 82–3, 101, 122, 132, 149, 181, 185, 190–1, 196, 204, 230, 284, 347, 349, 375, 377–8 Stage language 26, 41, 47, 76, 105, 115, 121, 126, 202, 258, 272, 278–9, 368, 374, 385 Stage movement 18, 22, 25, 31, 34, 39, 43, 50, 53–4, 61, 71, 81, 83, 85–6, 91–2, 102–3, 118, 124, 134, 137, 181, 184–5, 192–3, 197, 202–3, 206, 219–20, 224, 229, 284, 294, 321–2, 324, 330, 335, 342–3, 363, 366, 370–1, 373, 378, 380, 384, 398 and dance 41, 103, 338, 384

OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 5/9/2018, SPi



INDEX

Stage movement (cont.) and gesture 31, 39, 41–2, 86, 94, 121, 202–3, 260, 291, 324, 341 and Pantomime 181 and voice 25, 40, 43, 51, 55, 82, 86, 94, 105, 118, 131, 284, 321–4, 335, 351, 381 Stanislavsky, Constantin 11, 30, 31, 40, 54, 63, 330 Steen, Gonda Van 19, 217–18 Sternfeld, Moshe 204, 336 Suez Canal 217, 280 Sushkevitch, Boris 31 Tadmor, Dikla 369–70 Tairov, Alexander 30, 32, 36 Taltybius 196 Taplin, Oliver 18–19, 36, 48, 383 Tartakovsky, Yelena 21, 30 Tavori, Doron 124, 126–7, 368, 375 Tcherchi, Yonatan 196 Tchernichovsky, Shaul 7, 48–9, 132, 159, 170, 364, 397 Tents movements 281 Teresa 261, 263–4, 269, 273 Theatre of cruelty 181, 284 Theatrical identity 63–95, 273 Theatrical language 2, 14, 18, 47, 61, 75, 82, 98–9, 103, 114, 140, 186, 202, 216, 267, 273, 283, 333, 335, 338, 371, 375, 392 Theatricality 15, 39–40, 47, 144, 149, 156–7, 260, 270, 305, 336 meta-theatrical devises 112, 115, 145, 152, 230, 251–2, 263, 333 Theseus 35, 37–8, 43, 256, 377 Thyestes 183, 339, 344 Tiresias 48, 52, 54, 101, 124, 132, 138, 261, 349–50, 352, 354–5 Tmuna Theatre 24, 112, 392, 395, 399 Toren, Roni 196, 199, 201, 349, 351, 353–4, 356, 399 Troilus 207 The Trojan War 26–7, 175–210, 309–10, 329, 331–2, 334–5, 338–40, 345–6, 397 Trygaeus 149–56, 158–9, 211 Tuchman-Poliak, Natasha 376 Tumarkin, Igael 107, 114, 117, 119, 199 Tzavta Theatre 24, 110, 127, 130, 148, 329, 392, 395

Unifil in Lebanon 187 University Theatre 27, 112, 131, 322, 324, 361–93 Vakhtangov, Yevgeny 1, 30–2, 40–3, 47–8, 56, 63, 111 Vernant, Jean-Pierre 1–3, 17 Vershilov, Boris 31 Vilner Troupe, The 30 Violence 42, 78–9, 120–1, 149, 265, 284–5, 293, 320, 324 Violence in Israeli Society 160, 170, 175, 183, 191, 196, 228, 265, 319–21, 391 Violence on Stage 183, 191, 204–5, 228, 293, 296, 299, 304–9, 312, 317, 326, 377 Vitkin, Shlomo 251, 260, 269, 271–2 Vocal orchestration 38, 40, 43, 52, 54, 84, 87, 136, 311 Vocal patterns 326 Voice 25, 40, 43, 51, 53, 55, 61, 71, 82, 86, 93–4, 98, 105, 118, 131, 136, 147, 155, 159, 162, 183, 185–6, 197, 217, 252, 256, 258–9, 266, 271, 284, 310, 314, 321–2, 324, 331, 335, 341–2, 351, 356, 361, 363, 365, 367, 381 Volonakis, Minos 59, 144, 212–21, 398 War of Attrition (1969) 144, 147, 164, 176, 279 War of Independence (1947–1949) 1, 14, 45, 59, 72–3, 99, 143–4, 146, 153, 159, 216, 279, 390 Weitzman, Eyal 341, 345 West Bank Settlements 167, 213, 242, 280, 400 Western Wall 155, 162 The Winograd Commission 349 Women in Black Movement 213, 233, 235–6 Women and Mothers for Peace 236 Women’s coalition for a Just Peace 236 World War II 13, 45–6, 58, 73, 146, 153, 159, 192–3, 197, 205, 249 Xuthus 296–7 Yaffe, A. B. 53, 56–7, 60, 148 Yagol, Thelma 99, 365

OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 5/9/2018, SPi

INDEX

Yanai, Yehudit 196, 199 Yaralova, Helena 377 Yaron, Elyakim 125, 182, 194, 204, 335 Yelin, David 12 Yeni, Lior 101 Yerushalmi, Dorit 13, 21, 39, 41–2, 65, 111, 140 Yerushalmi, Rina 321, 329, 336–40, 345, 354–7, 383, 397, 399 Mythos 338–42, 345, 383 Yesh Gvul Movement 282 Yiddish theatre 6, 9–10, 13, 30, 33 Yiftah’el, Oren 16, 281 The Yishuv 12, 44–5 The Old Yishuv 33

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Yizraely, Yossi 98, 110–15, 117–29, 140, 350, 372–4, 397, 399 Yom Kippur War (1973) 130, 144, 175–6, 178, 180, 186, 279–80 Zemach, Nahum 11, 30 Zeitlin, Froma 3, 17, 98 Zilbershlag, Yitzhak 397 Zionism 33, 64, 72, 148, 236, 280 Zionist ideology 72, 248, 278 Zira Theatre 140 Zisman, Adi 128–9 Ziv Ronit 384–5 Cassandra (dance) 384–5 Zouskine, Benyamin 31 Zussman, Ezra 68–9, 76, 80, 216