Directing Shakespeare in America: Historical Perspectives 9781474289696, 9781474289726, 9781474289719

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Directing Shakespeare in America

RELATED TITLES Anecdotal Shakespeare: A New Performance History, Paul Menzer

Directing Shakespeare in America: Current Practices, Charles Ney Performing Hamlet: Actors in the Modern Age, Jonathan Croall Performing King Lear: Gielgud to Russell Beale, Jonathan Croall Shakespeare in Our Time: A Shakespeare Association of America Collection, edited by Suzanne Gossett and Dympna Callaghan Shakespeare on the Global Stage, edited by Paul Prescott and Erin Sullivan Shakespeare in the Theatre: The American Shakespeare Center, Paul Menzer Shakespeare in the Theatre: Peter Sellars, Ayanna Thompson Shakespeare’s World of Words, edited by Paul Yachnin

Directing Shakespeare in America Historical Perspectives Charles Ney

THE ARDEN SHAKESPEARE Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA BLOOMSBURY, THE ARDEN SHAKESPEARE and the Arden Shakespeare logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2019 Copyright ©  Charles Ney, 2019 Charles Ney has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work. For legal purposes the Acknowledgements on p. x constitute an extension of this copyright page. Cover design: Irene Martinez Costa Cover image: Mr. Daly reading to his company: with the compliments of Augustin Daly, April 19 ’84 / Sarony © Folger Shakespeare Library All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN: HB: 978-1-4742-8969-6 ePDF: 978-1-4742-8971-9 eBook: 978-1-4742-8970-2 Typeset by Deanta Global Publishing Services, Chennai, India To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

Dedicated to the memory of Jeremy and Jay, whose lives have touched so many.

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CONTENTS

List of Illustrations   viii Acknowledgements   x

Introduction 1 1 First American Directors 1870s–1940s 5 2 Directors at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival 1930s–1990s 37 3 Directors at the Old Globe 1930s–1990s; Tyrone Guthrie’s Influence 1950s–1970s 65 4 American Shakespeare Festival Theatre Directors 1950s–1980s 85 5 New York Shakespeare Festival/The Public Theatre Directors 1950s–1990s 113 6 Directors at Shakespeare Festivals and Theatres 1950s–1990s 147 7 Other Shakespeare Directors and Theatres 1950s–1990s 183 Epilogue 217 References 223 Index 239

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Figure 1  Photo of Orsino and the musicians in 1.1, Twelfth Night, directed by Augustin Daly. Printed from the prompt book as produced at Daly’s Theatre, 21 February 1893. Privately printed for Augustin Daly. Source: Royal Shakespeare Company Collection 12 Figure 2  Photo of David Warfield as Shylock in The Merchant of Venice, 1922, directed by David Belasco. Photography Collection, Miriam and Ira D. Wallach Division of Art, Prints and Photographs, The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts 14 Figure 3  Photo of Hamlet, 3.4 with Blanch Yurka (Gertrude) and John Barrymore (Hamlet), 1922, directed by Arthur Hopkins. Photo by Francis J. Bruguiere © Billy Rose Theatre Division, The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts 22 Figure 4  Photo of Uta Hagen (Desdemona), Paul Robeson (Othello) and Margaret Webster (Emilia) in the stage production Othello directed by Margaret Webster. Photo by Vandamm Studio © Billy Rose Theatre Division, The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts 31 Figure 5  Photo of Hamlet (Frank Lambrett-Smith) and ensemble in Hamlet, 5.2, 1947, directed by Angus Bowmer. Photo by Dyer S. Huston. Courtesy of the Oregon Shakespeare Festival 48 Figure 6  Photo of Ted van Griethuysen (Troilus), Jessica Tandy (Cassandra), Pat Hingle (Hector) and unidentified actors in Troilus and Cressida at American Shakespeare Theatre, Stratford, CT, 1961, directed by Jack Landau. Photo by Friedman-Abeles. © Billy Rose Theatre Division, The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts 93



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Figure 7  Photo of the war machine, Len Cariou (Henry V) in the American Shakespeare Theatre production, Stratford, CT, 1969, directed by Michael Kahn. Photo by Martha Swope. © Billy Rose Theatre Division, The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts 98 Figure 8  Photo of Martin Sheen (Hamlet) in Hamlet, 1968, directed by Joseph Papp. Photo by George E. Joseph. © Billy Rose Theatre Division, The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts 116 Figure 9  Strangling Desdemona, with Julienne Marie (Desdemona) and James Earl Jones (Othello) in the New York Shakespeare Festival production of Othello, 1964, directed by Gladys Vaughan. Photo by George E. Joseph. © Billy Rose Theatre Division, The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts 132 Figure 10  Actor Jeffrey Nordling with cast in a scene from the New York Shakespeare Festival production of Cymbeline directed by JoAnne Akalaitis. Photo by Martha Swope. © Billy Rose Theatre Division, The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts 143 Figure 11  The cast of the Guthrie Theater’s production of The Tempest, directed by Liviu Ciulei. Scenic design by Liviu Ciulei and Michael C. Beery, costume design by Jack Edwards. 1981–2 season. Guthrie Theater, Minneapolis. Photo by Bruce Goldstein 189 Figure 12  Photo of Rosemary Harris (Portia) and the company of The Merchant of Venice in the Lincoln Center production, 1973, directed by Ellis Rabb. Photo by Martha Swope. © Billy Rose Theatre Division, The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts 205

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to thank Cassandra Knobloch, who read early drafts of both volumes, offering feedback and encouragement. Jim Volz provided invaluable assistance and support for this study through the years. John Fleming, my former chair and current dean at Texas State University, has also been a staunch advocate for my efforts, as has been Deb Alley, my current chair. I am grateful for the assistance of the following organizations and their staff: the Folger Shakespeare Library (especially Michael Whitmore, Janet Griffin, Camille Seerattan and Betsy Walsh), the New York Public Library for the Performing Arts (especially John Calhoun, Jennifer Eberhardt and Maurice Klapwald), the Oregon Shakespeare Festival Archives and Maria Deweedt, the Library of Congress, the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust Archives and Madeleine Cox. In addition, I thank Texas State University and the Theatre and Dance Department, the Shakespeare Theatre Association, the Shakespeare Theatre Association of America and the Association for Theatre in Higher Education, especially the Directing Program, for their encouragement. I also extend my gratitude to the editorial staff of The Arden Shakespeare at Bloomsbury, especially Margaret Bartley, Mark Dudgeon, Lara Bateman, and Sweda R. at Deanta for their assistance and understanding. I have had several assistants over the years who have helped facilitate my research. They include: Cameron Pelache, Melissa Utley, Robert Wighs, Megan Sullivan, Debbie Swain and Paul Fillingim. My family has been incredibly supportive of my work on this project, especially over the past four years when Current Practices was published and Historical Perspectives was being completed. Thank you for your support and your sacrifices to help make this a reality.

Introduction

How do Shakespeare directors analyse the play script, determine what it means and develop an interpretation? How do they construct a theatrical experience and translate their interpretation onto the stage? What is the director trying to communicate with the production in terms of story/theme/ concept/meaning/experience? How is the production an artistic expression and how does the director achieve it? What approaches and what techniques are used? And what even is a director anymore? Production roles have been changing as actors, voice and text coaches, movement consultants and dramaturges (among others) have carved out parts of what once had been the director’s domain. The idea for this project was born from a combination of influences. As a director and teacher, I believe there is a need for a book that asks basic questions about directing. When reviewing available books on directing Shakespeare, I had a difficult time finding a no-nonsense, technique-based study of practitioners. Exactly how do directors work? What are their methods in rehearsal and in production? What are their values for judging success? How do they approach the various stages of rehearsal? What do they look for in rehearsal? What do they find rewarding and frustrating – both in their own work and in the work of others? What are the historical antecedents for their thoughts and approaches? A number of years ago, I was part of a directing research team put together by Burnet M. Hobgood, a former mentor and teacher. Directing colloquiums were set up at Southern Methodist University and the University of Illinois where professional directors demonstrated their work for subscribers – mainly college teachers and students of directing. In allday sessions, these directors rehearsed and examined scenes with an acting company specifically assembled for this research. In addition, colloquium directors offered information about their careers and experiences in the theatre. They answered questions from those observing. Subsequently, I spent many hours transcribing tapes from these sessions. It was an intensely rewarding and frustrating experience that taught me more about directing than any of my graduate classes had. Unfortunately, the bulk of the information from these transcripts never got published. A

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few copies of the research findings, ‘Framework for Research into the Work of the Director in Theatre’ had a limited distribution in 1980. Shakespeare has always been an interest of mine. I have directed his plays throughout my career, including productions at Shakespeare festivals and at Idaho Repertory Theatre, where I was artistic director and introduced an annual outdoor Shakespeare production. As a teacher, I have taught Shakespeare at several institutions. I currently lead a study abroad programme, Shakespeare in England, for Texas State University. In 2003, I was preparing to teach a graduate directing course on Shakespeare. I came across a series of articles by Michael Feingold on directing Shakespeare in the Village Voice. He declared his disapproval of postmodern directors for taking what he felt were excessive liberties with their direction of Shakespeare and opera. These directors seemed more interested in pursuing their own creative voices and directorial stamp than in simply staging the piece, he argued. Feingold questioned whether contemporary directors had skewed the work by interpreting it beyond the boundaries of what had been directed before. The New York Times’ John Rockwall challenged one of Feingold’s central contentions – that ‘willful directors’ had staged a coup and were ruining classical productions with their interpretations. Differences between approaches were debated. Two competing camps became apparent: (1) honouring the author’s voice and intention; (2) embracing complete artistic freedom in interpretation of the play or opera. This debate led me to consider the state of directing in general and Shakespeare specifically. Was there really such a divide? If so, how did it impact contemporary Shakespearean production? I applied for a grant, unexpectedly received it and began to journey to Shakespeare festivals and theatres. I spent several years talking to directors and artistic directors about their own work and that of their companies, as well as what they had thought of the work they’d seen elsewhere. The answers to these questions are much more complex than I could ever have imagined at the time. It took me more than a decade to compile and organize my research. The results are reported in Directing Shakespeare in America: Current Practices (Ney 2016). The history of directing is not an extensive one, beginning about 150 years ago. While the cultural approaches to Shakespeare can be different, the role of director was born on both sides of the Atlantic during the 1860s and 1870s. What are the roots of American directors of Shakespeare? Who are the major figures that have come before? What did they believe? What were their productions like? The answers to these questions are addressed in this volume of Directing Shakespeare in America, subtitled Historical Perspectives. We will examine the productions and direction of our first director, Augustin Daly, and continue chronologically through the work of directors operating in the 1990s. My original intention was to write one chapter that would briefly review the history of directing Shakespeare in America before presenting a study

I NTRODUCTION

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of contemporary directors. As I researched that history, I realized my work required considerably more attention and space than I had envisioned. As I examined available materials, I noted the extent of the information that either has not been compiled or has been neglected. It was exciting to discover how pertinent many of the techniques and craft of early American Shakespeare directors remain, and how our craft has been passed down from generation to generation, modified, changed and forgotten from practitioner to practitioner. A significant challenge to this study comes from the fact that we live in a vast geographical country with theatres from coast to coast, border to border. Where is the theatrical centre for US Shakespeare? Beginning with the history of New York directors made sense. New York was and remains our theatrical capital. Very little professional Shakespeare production was happening in the regions from the 1870s to the 1930s. What activity that occurred was often the result of a successful production originating in New York City and then brought to major regional cities. In the mid-1930s, the first two theatres dedicated to producing the works of William Shakespeare were born – both of them, coincidentally, out West. The Shakespeare theatre movement slowly began to develop. Along with the regional theatre movement, a geographic distribution of productions across the country evolved. That history became especially difficult to harness with the eruption of new festivals and companies that began in the 1960s and that continued at an ever-increasing rate through the 1990s. I explored several schemes before arriving at the present solution: trace Shakespeare theatre histories in the order of their historical happenstance. This meant reviewing a complete history of such influential and important organizations as the Oregon Shakespeare Festival, the Old Globe, the American Shakespeare Festival Theatre and the New York Shakespeare Festival. In Historical Perspectives, Chapter 1 examines the work of Shakespeare directors in New York City from the 1870s to the 1940s. Chapter 2 discusses the origins and development of the Oregon Shakespeare Festival directors and productions from the 1930s to the 1990s. Chapter  3 investigates the beginning of San Diego’s Old Globe Theatre and appraises the work of its major directors from the 1930s to the 1990s. It also reviews the contributions of Tyrone Guthrie to North America. Chapter  4 analyses the birth of the American Shakespeare Theatre, located just outside of New York City in the 1950s; it operated as a national Shakespeare theatre until it closed in 1982. Chapter  5 investigates Joseph Papp’s New York Shakespeare Festival/The Public Theatre from its beginnings in the 1950s through the early 1990s. Chapter 6 provides an overview of the history of the Shakespeare festival/theatre movement from the 1950s through the 1990s. The first part of Chapter  7 considers the work of Shakespeare directors operating in New York City from the 1950s to 1990s. Then it looks at regional theatre directors of Shakespeare for that same time period.

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In Historical Perspectives, those who wish to learn from our history will recognize distinct antecedents to today’s directorial craft. Readers can discover each practitioner’s work, their desire to be relevant to their contemporary moment and, at times, to be distinct from our fellow Shakespeareans across the pond. Learning about the field’s development can help the reader understand the work of individual directors and groups of directors, who now can be considered within a historical framework. Readers are able to make their own evaluation of each practitioner’s work, embracing, admiring, modifying or discarding the various practices presented.

1 First American Directors 1870s–1940s

Theatre historians generally agree that the German Duke of Saxe-Meiningen was the first theatre director in the modern sense of someone dedicated to making artistic choices and overseeing a production’s development as their major responsibility. Beginning in the 1830s, the duke worked on productions by the Meiningen Ensemble, an amateur court theatre. The group’s influence was considerable, especially after an 1874 tour that demonstrated the effectiveness of having an independent person in charge of production. Soon after, American director Augustin Daly began to execute similar tasks. His career was pivotal, not only as the first American director, but also as a director of Shakespeare. His process – evolved in response to the European theatrical traditions of the late nineteenth century – established the first seminal approach to directing the bard’s work in the United States. Then, in short succession came David Belasco, Arthur Hopkins, Orson Welles and Margaret Webster. While several of these names were key figures in the development of American stage direction, they were also directors of Shakespeare. Their working styles and methods presage much about the future staging of Shakespeare’s plays. Daly, Belasco and Welles were visionary leaders with large egos to match those of any star with whom they worked. Hopkins and Webster had a more temperate, collaborative approach to directing. Collectively, they represent philosophies of directing that continue to the present time. Before launching into a survey of these directors’ work, it is helpful to look at the environment out of which they were spawned. In the 1870s, the actor-manager system was still in full force in America, and tradition governed how rehearsals were handled. A company’s major actor or actress was responsible for supervising the chief management details: hiring, firing,

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as well as overseeing rehearsals. The actor-manager staged the scenes in which they appeared with some consultation with the other chief players. She or he might even have a detailed prompt book in which all of the business of the play would be outlined. It was left to the stage manager to rehearse the remaining scenes with the minor characters and supernumeraries. According to Warren Kliewer, two other methods of rehearsal were common at the time. A modified version of the actor-manager system relied upon an actor or actress in a supporting role who would also be charged with overseeing the production as well as the administration of the company. Company management had two sides to it and directing was viewed as ‘the artistic aspect of theatre management’ (Kliewer 1998: 515). Another method was to consult the company’s previous productions’ prompt books for notes on blocking and other business. Situated at stage right, the stage manager or prompter was charged with ensuring that the actors followed the stage directions. These monitors did not particularly have much power in the rehearsal hall, but the prompt books they consulted held considerable authority. By the early 1900s, cracks had begun to appear in the foundation of this system. Julia Marlowe and E. H. Sothern, considered to be the foremost Shakespearean actors of their day, were well versed in the actor-manager traditions. In 1909, they began work on a production of Antony and Cleopatra, in which they were to star. The production was to open the New Theatre in New York, with thoughts that this grandiose new building might become America’s national theatre. In his landmark Shakespeare on the American Stage, Charles Shattuck details a misunderstanding that arose at the very first rehearsal. Marlowe and Sothern assumed the arrangement would be business as usual: [They would] handle the staging of not only their own scenes, but also those of the entire company. To that end, Miss Marlowe scrupulously prepared a promptbook. ‘She cut and arranged the text as seemed best for a three hour presentation. She settled every movement and essential stage business. She marked every line for verbal emphasis’. Unfortunately her efforts were thwarted because at the first meeting with the stage manager Louis Calvert, the English actor/producer, took one look and ‘smilingly returned it with the words to the effect that “we won’t need that, dear lady”’. (Shattuck 1987: 279) It immediately became clear that Calvert was not just a stage manager, but was also going to operate as a director. The collaboration did not improve. Marlowe and Sothern insisted that Calvert had violated their contractual rights and forced him to depart the production. Still, the existing system was challenged and its days were numbered. B. Iden Payne in his autobiography provides another account of the actor-manager system.

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At this time ‘producing’ (or ‘directing’, to use the American term) meant no more than arranging the movements of the actors on the stage. This was the prerogative of the leading actor, often partly in consultation with other actors in important parts, especially the leading lady. The reading of the lines was left almost entirely to the judgment of the actors themselves. Touches such as tempo and pauses were expected to develop spontaneously. (Payne 1977: 58) He credits the plays of Ibsen and Shaw with the reason directors were needed. Not only did the complexities of production demand more supervision, but character motivation became more difficult for actors to determine in these texts than with earlier writers. The situation required clarification and supervision by a non-performer. Also, achieving the appropriate ‘atmosphere’ was a central consideration in the production of many plays and the theatre needed someone who could help create it (Payne 1977: 58). The first directors had to be strong, sometimes ruthless, in order to justify and maintain their power. While instilling the changes they sought in their companies, tensions often arose in rehearsal halls and on stage as the American theatre struggled with, but ultimately assimilated a very different administrative structure, along with a new set of rules. Their most significant innovation to the old actor-manager system was that the director now held the power for decisions with the company.

Augustin Daly By 1890, Daly had been a successful producer and director for several decades. A reference to Daly gives an example of an early use of the term ‘director’. The 9 August 1890 the Illustrated London News, reviewing his production of As You Like It at Daly’s Theatre, remarked: ‘In some instances, an independent director is possibly the very best thing for the art in which he is interested’ (The Playhouses 1890). In listing advantages, the writer argues: ‘Mr. Augustin Daly is not an actor at all. He is a man of letters, a Shakespearean student, a collector and maker of valuable books; he was once a very eminent dramatic critic, and strange to say, to all these gifts he adds a very excellent business head’ (The Playhouses 1890). The writer claimed that an independent director might offer a considerable advantage to a production: ‘The director, not being an actor, does not buttonhole a rival artist, and suggest that he should speak his lines inaudibly, in order that he, the actor-manager shall have the pull. No; the play is the very first consideration, and the players have to fall into the general scheme of presenting it’ (The Playhouses 1890). In a 1 June 1882 letter to William Winter, Daly outlined his primary goal: ‘We want to make Shakespeare attractive to the masses, and to that end … we must concede something to them’ (Winter 1882). He meant to

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create productions that were visually attractive and charming and ‘clean’ (Winter 1882). Throughout his career, Daly maintained a close partnership with Winter. Although a theatre critic for the New-York Tribune, Daly paid him to cut and prepare production texts. Although the arrangement was ethically questionable, Winter’s work included ‘vetting the texts of plays’ that Daly was producing as well as composing forewords to his ‘acting editions’ (Shattuck 1987: 57). Shattuck discovered that Winter often prepared his review in advance of the opening. Winter’s ‘principles of emendation’ for the acting editions started with the dictate that one should avoid ‘touch[ing], even in the most reverent spirit, the work of “the divine William”’ (Winter 1885). Nevertheless, he argued that the texts could be improved: ‘It is impossible to act Shakespeare precisely as the text is written’ (Winter 1885). He cut the plays to three hours. This task was more difficult than it might seem, as the final running time had to figure in the lengthy scene changes that were typical in Daly’s Theatre. Since it was believed the scene design itself was most effective at establishing the setting, certain passages of dialogue that described the location were eliminated. In addition, offensive and lewd utterances, and any erudite sections that slowed the action were struck. Under Daly’s supervision, Winter censored anything that was sexual, religious or what an audience might find distasteful or controversial. Shattuck lists some of the words and phrases in The Merry Wives of Windsor that were considered objectionable: ‘God, by’r Lady … entrails, urinals, foul … guts made of puddings … fornication, boarding, keep him above deck … whore, bitch, my doe with the black scut’ and so forth. Of all the Victorian and nineteenth-century prompt books Shattuck studied, he found Winter’s versions to be the ‘cleanest’ (1987: 63). Although Winter’s text was quite prudish, Daly could be adventurous in other ways. He was determined to break with the antiquated practices of the nineteenth-century stock company wherein actors were hired according to their ‘lines of business’. This phrase referred to the character types for which actors were best suited. Daly challenged his players to stop thinking of stock parts. He often made atypical casting choices, such as Ada Rehan as Helena in A Midsummer Night’s Dream (instead of a more likely Hermia), the Falstaff of Charles Fechter (played as a kind of Father Christmas) and James Lewis assigned to Toby Belch and Bottom. It was rumoured that Lewis’ duty to play Falstaff in his later years contributed to his death as Lewis could be described as ‘a bony, chirrupy little man’ (Shattuck 1987: 59). Daly was often a tyrant in his dealings with actors and the other theatre artists involved in his productions. To affect change, Daly could be harsh. Shattuck provides this portrait of him: ‘Humorless and dictatorial, insatiably egocentric … less a play-director than a lion-tamer’ (1987: 21). Obsessed with the need for justifying stage action and business, he was determined to exert his absolute will on his company at all times. He was a serious-minded despot who was referred to as ‘The Governor’ by his company (Shattuck 1987: 57). By some accounts, Daly was a frustrated actor. ‘He used his

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performers to do what he himself longed to do but could not. A performer who did not respond to his direction as a fine violin to a master fiddler would not thrive in his company’ (Shattuck 1987: 54). The first rehearsal began with Daly reading the play to the company. He ‘elucidated the full meaning of the text, made every character visible and comprehensible, and indicated the stage business suitable to each person and scene’ (Winter 1915: 276). He posted rules in the rehearsal hall, fined actors who dared to transgress them and humiliated anyone who questioned his authority. According to Shattuck: ‘When Charles Fechter once insisted on having his own way in a certain scene, said Daly, “I turned to him and told him what I thought of him and of his acting and his conduct, and I made it perfectly clear that I intended to be, at all times and in all circumstances, the manager and absolute master of my theatre. We never had any trouble after that”’ (Winter 1915: 235). Daly also fought against any notion of stars in his company. He once remarked to a reporter, ‘I put them all in a line, and then I watch, and if one head begins to bob up above the others, I give it a crack and send it down again!’ (Shattuck 1987: 59). A preoccupation with finding logical behaviour in every single moment dominated his directorial choices. He could be relentless in his search for the truth within the circumstances of the play. Clara Morris, who worked with Daly from 1871 to 1873, gave this account of his directing: I realized that he had the entire play before his ‘mind’s eye’, and when he told me to do a thing, I should have done it, even had I not understood why he wished it done. But he always gave a reason for things, and that made it easy to work under him. His attention to tiny details amazed me. One morning, after Mr. Crisp had joined the company, he had to play a love scene with me, and the ‘business’ of the scene required him to hold me some time in his embrace. But Mr. Crisp’s embrace did not suit Mr. Daly – no more did mine. Out he went, in front, and looked at us. ‘Oh’, he cried, ‘confound it! Miss Morris, relax – relax! Lean on him – he won’t break! That’s better – but lean more! Lean as if you needed support! What? Yes, I know you don’t need it – but you’re in love, don’t you see? And you’re not a lady by a mile or two! For God’s sake, Crisp, don’t be so stiff and inflexible! Here, let me show you!’ Up Mr. Daly rushed on to the stage, and taking Crisp’s place, convulsed the company with his effort at acting the lover. Then back again to the front, ordering us to try that embrace again. ‘That’s better!’ He cried, ‘but hold her hand closer, tighter! Not quite so high – oh, that’s too low! Don’t poke your arm out, you’re not going to waltz. What in----are you scratching her back for?’ (Morris 1901: 326–7) She contrasted this episode with the practices of the previous system. ‘Now in the old days, the stage director would simply have said: “Cross to the

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Right”, and you would have crossed because he told you to; but in Mr. Daly’s day you had to have a reason for crossing’ (Morris 1901: 327). Daly could be compulsive in his search to justify a bit of business. Morris recalled an instance in which six different motives for a stage cross were investigated and discarded. Finally she blurts out ‘I suppose a smelling-bottle would not be important enough to cross the room for?’ This suggestion immediately won the day (Morris 1901: 328). Daly found in actress Ada Rehan his most perfect collaborator – one who would never question, but would serve as a willing conduit for Daly’s directions and ideas. She became his leading lady for many Shakespeare comedies including Katherine in The Taming of the Shrew, Rosalind in As You Like It, Viola in Twelfth Night, Mistress Ford in The Merry Wives of Windsor and Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing. Critics Nym Crinkle and George Bernard Shaw remarked on the unique, one-way relationship between Daly and his chief actress, controlling her every thought and gesture. She joined his company in 1879 and stayed with him until his death in 1899. Winter, who spent considerable time observing Daly in rehearsal, considered his direction of novices to be ‘exceedingly serviceable’, but with veterans, he believed Daly’s direction could be effective. Winter also pointed out flaws in the approach: ‘Sometimes he marred individual performances by checking spontaneity and suppressing originality, and sometimes he wrought injustice by arbitrary forbiddance of the right and proper exaltation of a character’ (1915: 273). There was an edge to the atmosphere in the rehearsal room. The company ‘worked under a painful nervous tension, which could not be otherwise than injurious, at least to some individuals’ (Winter 1915: 273). He insisted that his actors treat each rehearsal as a performance, and avoid the practice of saving oneself for the audience. Winter recorded this heated exchange: ‘Don’t tell me you’ll be “all right at night!” I once heard him exclaim, to an actor on his stage. “If there’s anything I hate, it’s that! If you’re ever going to be ‘all right’ you can be ‘all right’ now!”’ (Winter 1915: 277). The ‘governor’ monitored his company’s every action at all times (Winter 1915: 273). ‘[He] was feverishly secretive about his work, his plans, his methods. Members of his company were enjoined “never to allow a reporter to interview [them] on any pretext whatever”. Rehearsals were strictly closed’ (Shattuck 1987: 58). Daly was seen as the ‘principal American purveyor’ of Shakespeare in his day, especially of the comedies (Shattuck 1987: 54). In his early career, from 1869 to 1877, he was a producer for such notable Shakespearean actors as Mary Scott-Siddons, Edwin Booth and Adelaide Neilson in limited runs. By 1877, he had presented The Merry Wives of Windsor, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Love’s Labour’s Lost and As You Like It with his own company. Subsequent financial difficulties and bankruptcy forced him to close his theatre. After a short hiatus, he resumed producing and directing again in 1879, but avoided Shakespeare until he had restored his company financially

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and artistically to its former glory. His last Shakespeare productions came after 1886, during which time he mounted ten comedies. His The Merry Wives of Windsor production was richly beautiful, romantic and nostalgic, but he used actors who were too young for the roles. Shattuck notes it was ‘as jolly and innocent as a set of chapters out of Dickens’ with Falstaff played as a kind of ‘father Christmas’ (1987: 63). Its gentility was not at all reflective of the sexual and coarser text that Shakespeare wrote. In what was to become typical Daly fashion, he reduced the acts (by one) and compacted the scene changes – using six less than the twenty-two Shakespeare had written. He transposed several scenes and speeches. He also added lines to some of the roles to which he wished to give more emphasis. In addition to eliminating offensive words, he cut lines and expunged scenes in their entirety. Despite all his improvement, the play received mixed reviews and closed after thirtyfive performances. Conversely, his Taming of the Shrew played 121 nights, its considerable success due in part to the charged chemistry between Ada Rehan and John Drew in the lead roles. The production was also hailed as the first time one could see the play as Shakespeare wrote it. Daly was praised for restoring the Bianca love scene and the induction. Yet, Winter’s acting edition cut it to four acts (one more than the standard Garrick version) and featured his usual cleansing of the rougher language. In order to reduce scene changes, Daly transposed scenes and grouped them together as much as possible. The lavish banquet scene was modelled after the Veronese painting, The Marriage Feast of Cana. Throughout, he emphasized the equal nature of the relationship, underscored by a happy ending in which Petruchio raised Kate up as his equal partner. His namesake theatre in London opened with this production; it also played at Stratford-upon-Avon. Shattuck thought Daly brutally cut A Midsummer Night’s Dream ‘with a carving knife’ (1987: 71). He describes Daly’s efforts to trim the piece as ‘eviscerating the poetry with murderous care’ (Shattuck 1987: 71). He made atypical casting choices for Hermia, Helena and Bottom; Oberon was played by a woman. He also used the latest staging techniques such as a wire so Puck could make his ‘girdle round the earth’. He was one of the first producers to use electricity and gas. ‘By change of light upon gauzes he could reveal scenes or wipe them out’ (Shattuck 1987: 72). He even employed a panorama at the end of Act 4 to depict Theseus, Hippolyta and the lovers on an improbable journey by barge from the forest back to Athens. Daly’s As You Like It featured a ‘genteel’ Rosalind in a ‘joyous’ production that broke with a convention tracing back to English actress Helen Faucit’s melancholy approach to the material. He directed a faster tempo for all of the play’s songs. ‘He ordered his band of exiles to be “as merry as gypsies”’ and, ignoring nineteenth-century tradition, he reinserted lines and sometimes whole scenes (Shattuck 1987: 76). These included the Jacques/Rosalind scene in Act 4, the Jacques eavesdropping on Touchstone/

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Audrey’s courtship scene and the epilogue. The production received mixed reviews in the United States, but was a critical success in England. For Twelfth Night, he ‘disassembled the play and rebuilt it, cleansed it of every grossness, doubled the amount of music that Shakespeare called for (but canceled that too gloomy song “Come away death”), hired Graham Robertson to costume it in the high esthetic mode, and invented the most striking scenic effects, from violent storm to rose garden by moonlight’ (Shattuck 1987: 82). In all, he excised over 600 lines ‘that might endanger the “poetry” and “beauty”’ (Shattuck 1987: 82). He rearranged scenes – again, to reduce scene changes – and added material from another play, The Tempest. He started the production with a storm sequence, and then introduced a chorus singing Ariel’s ‘Come unto these yellow sands’. Next Sebastian and Antonio, who usually enter at the top of Act 2, materialized. There followed another chorus of ‘Come unto these yellow sands’ and then Viola’s entrance. In the following scene, Orsino appeared with nine attractive female dancers, singers and musicians (see Figure 1). Daly lengthened it with ‘a full concert rendition of Sir Henry Bishop’s setting of the twenty-fifth stanza of Venus and Adonis’ whose purpose was to cover Viola’s costume change (Shattuck 1987: 84). True to Daly protocol, he prettified the raunchy drinking scenes of Sir Andrew, Sir Toby and Feste, and cut the later Malvolio scenes because he could find no comedic purpose for them. He also reduced Acts 4 and 5 to one act.

FIGURE 1  Photo of Orsino (on daybed) and the musicians in 1.1, Twelfth Night, directed by Augustin Daly. Printed from the prompt book as produced at Daly’s Theatre, 21 February 1893. Privately printed for Augustin Daly. Source: Royal Shakespeare Company Collection.

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Daly’s objective for this production was ‘to feed the public appetite for prettiness and sentiment. He gave them lovely scenery bathed in atmospheric sweetness, pretty costumes … beautiful women, nothing to embarrass or worry anyone, and over all a wash of lovely music gathered ad libitum from anywhere’, a list that could serve as a summary of his career’s intentions (Shattuck 1987: 89). After Twelfth Night, Daly’s reputation faded as the members of his company retired, defected or passed away; what was left of his original company, along with the scenery, costumes and special effects, no longer enchanted audiences. Productions of Love’s Labour’s Lost, Much Ado About Nothing and The Merchant of Venice were not the successes his earlier comedies had been.

David Belasco The naturalistic approach to production design reached its apex in the work of David Belasco, ‘America’s principal exponent of naturalism’ (Marker 1975: 5). During his career, Belasco directed 95 productions and was involved in at least 123 Broadway productions. His approach has been variously labelled as atmospheric, emotional, romantic, colourful and picturesque. Frequently, he placed the action in a specific environmental context that served as a counterpoint to the visual setting. Obsessed with achieving appropriate and spellbinding lighting effects, his Madam Butterfly is remembered for its fourteen-minute sunset to sunrise vigil by the heroine patiently waiting to see the father of her child. No dialogue was spoken in the scene, but the mood and lighting constantly shifted. His reputation as a director of Shakespeare rests exclusively on his production of The Merchant of Venice, which opened on 21 December 1922. In the words of Belasco’s biographer, his Merchant was ‘a pinnacle in his long career in the theatre. In its style, moreover, this performance represents a significant culmination … of the venerable tradition of producing Shakespeare with pictorial fidelity, in a setting as veritably real and as splendidly authentic as possible’ (Marker 1975: 179). Belasco much admired the work of English directors such as Henry Irving and Herbert Beerbohm Tree, as well as Daly. All three were steeped in the Victorian tradition of lavish scenery and elegant costumes with an accompanying obsession for historical accuracy and great specificity. Belasco’s innovation to this tradition focused less on the ‘archeological verisimilitude’ and more on staging ‘opulent pageantry’ (Marker 1975: 188) (see Figure 2). The production book for Merchant along with a commemorative book of photographs records Belasco’s intentions. As was his custom, he did extensive research, even consulting a prominent Shakespearean scholar for advice. From such actor-managers as Charles Kean and Irving, Belasco inherited a tradition of depicting real locations on stage. He chose to set his Merchant in the Golden Age of Venice, a time when the city was at

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FIGURE 2  Photo of David Warfield (right-centre) as Shylock in The Merchant of Venice, 1922, directed by David Belasco. Photography Collection, Miriam and Ira D. Wallach Division of Art, Prints and Photographs, The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts.

the peak of its influence. Rather than duplicating such locales as Venice’s Rialto and the Piazza San Marco exactly, he pursued a ‘pictorial authenticity closely allied with a mood of romantic color and picturesque remoteness’, which was communicated as much through the elaborate stage business as through the settings (Marker 1975: 185–9). Most critics remarked on the amorous tone and the exquisitely designed scenery and costumes. Belasco also followed Irving’s lead in restoring Act 5 to the performance. Before Irving, the play had traditionally ended after the trial scene in Act 4. Belasco disliked the new stagecraft that was just coming in vogue, a movement that sought to overturn many Victorian traditions. Proponents rejected historical authenticity, realism and naturalism. Instead, they urged simplification, evocation of mood, concentration and abstraction in their work, all of which were to be realized in unobtrusive backgrounds and unit sets. He was also against the movement led by the Englishman, William Poel, who sought a return to the theatrical conventions of Elizabethan England. Poel believed that a stage filled with scenery and scenic representation was anathema to Shakespeare. Instead, Poel sought a return to the staging conventions used at the Globe and the other Elizabethan theatres. Belasco believed in using all of the latest technology and innovations that the modern theatre could afford. He suggested that if Shakespeare were writing at that time, he would incorporate every advance and resource available. Belasco’s

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goal was ‘to approximate nature and present as lifelike a scenic milieu as possible’ (Marker 1975: 182). His colossal, three-dimensionally solid scenery required equally weighty scene changes. In order to ‘approximate nature’, Belasco rearranged the scenes in order to consolidate where those breaks would occur. For instance, he grouped the Shylock scenes and the Belmont scenes together. Instead of the very specific locations usual in the Victorian approach, he strove for a general Italianate feel that made some concessions to the new approach: drapery was juxtaposed next to the three-dimensional scenery, which heightened the theatricality of the event. Instead of relying on scenery alone to depict the world of the play, he often arranged supernumeraries in a blocking scheme that established the scene’s environmental atmosphere. These were often elaborately staged mise-en-scènes with extended and complex pantomimes, such as staging a prologue with street vendors awakening a sleepy town or members of a synagogue arriving for an impending service. In these bits of supplemental action, Belasco would introduce extra characters not called for in the text. The pantomimes would highlight and frequently foreground the main action of the play. He staged shorter scenes with fewer characters in compact spaces and rendered them abstractly. This allowed for large set changes to be executed contiguously, aiding the flow of the production. As in his other productions, lighting was extremely important to Belasco. For the synagogue scene, he used subtle, constantly shifting shafts of light and colour to create an emergent sunset that, once achieved, melted into an ominous darkness. The lighting seemed to reflect his ‘preference for strongly accentuated and heightened emotionality’, more romantic in its total effect than strictly naturalistic (Marker 1975: 192). Overall, he sought an amalgamation of ‘light, sound, and movement in order to place the play’s dramatic content in high relief’ (Marker 1975: 194). At times, Belasco played with the audience’s perspective. One instance was the elopement scene. At the end of the dialogue, revellers flooded the stage and celebrated. As they receded, the lonely worn-out figure of Shylock slowly approached. At the door to his home, he ‘raised his hand to grasp the knocker’ (Marker 1975: 195). The lights then faded. In the darkness, unseen by the audience, the scenery shifted. When the lights came up again, the audience saw the interior of Shylock’s house at the same moment as when the lights began to fade. They heard Shylock’s cries ‘Why, Jessica, I say!’ as well as his thumps. The door opened and he stood ‘amazed at finding his dwelling unguarded and open’ (Marker 1975: 196). The revellers, whose voices were heard faintly in the distance, got closer again. Suddenly, Shylock saw a set of keys, then a ring on the floor. Now shaken and worried, he found Jessica’s note. He raced through it, howling ‘a piercing cry’, and said: ‘Fled with a Christian! – O, my Christian ducats! – / Justice! the law!, my ducats! and my daughter!’ as he realized the double betrayal (Marker 1975: 196). He left as the lights faded.

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Belasco usually began the production process with his own rudimentary drawings of the location, the architecture and the furnishings. He would then meet with the scenic artist for intensive consultations. These sessions might last a week or so. He would perform the whole play, while at the same time dissecting it for necessary elements and ways in which it could be staged. Eventually, he added the other designers to the conferences. His goal was ‘to keep as close to nature as possible’ (Belasco 1919: 63). Obsessed with a need to recreate every naturalistic detail, his productions were hailed for their authenticity. No effort or expense was spared in order to achieve the desired effect. An anecdote that has been retold countless times has him purchasing a complete set of clothes from a woman he encountered on the street, even procuring her stockings, as they were precisely what he had envisioned for a character. The designs for his productions were notable for the lighting effects and the creation of a specific and detailed atmosphere and tone. Like Daly, Belasco operated under some secrecy with his actors. Typically, he lectured the company at the first reading on the need to be team players. He wanted the evening to conclude with each actor having gained a ‘clear conception of the play and its characters’ (Belasco 1919: 68). He stressed character psychology in the work. He then spent a week reading the play, carefully observing the actors for strengths and weaknesses and made a plan as to how to work with each one. After his actors achieved a comprehensive knowledge of the play and their characters, he turned rehearsals over to his stage director – an assistant – who was instructed to give no suggestions or directions to the actors. Belasco wanted the cast to explore their own choices in order to instil a strong sense of ownership. After several such rehearsals, he returned and commenced an intensive period of scrutiny. In a similar approach to Daly, he worked every line and bit of business: I have kept my people on the stage twenty hours at a stretch, making some of them read a single line perhaps fifty times, experimenting with little subtleties of intonation or gesture, and going over bits of business over and over again. Infinite patience is needed to make others understand the soul of a character as the author or producer conceives it. I have never resorted to bullying in order to make my actors do as I wish. I have always found that the best results can be gained by applying subtly to their imagination. I can convey more to them by a look or a gesture than by a long harangue or a scolding. (Belasco 1919: 69) Unlike Daly, he liked to discover the actors’ ‘peculiarities … the result of [their unique] temperament and personality’, which he transferred to his productions (Belasco 1919: 70). He usually spent a week to ten days refining each act. He would tell his actors not to memorize any lines until the ‘conception of them is fully formed’ (Belasco 1919: 72).

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Belasco spent enormous resources on achieving naturalistic scenic, lighting and costume authenticity. Yet, he claimed he did not want those elements to overshadow the play or the work of the actors: ‘All these adjuncts of lighting, color and costumes, however useful they may be, and however pleasing to an audience … I count them as valuable only when they are held subordinate to the playing and the acting’ (Belasco 1919: 194). The play was the most important part of the equation. Ultimately, Belasco relied ‘on a rich weave of recognizable, naturalistic detail and motivation in which to catch his audience, and with which to bring theatrical “truth” to Shakespeare’s poetry’ (1919: 202).

Arthur Hopkins Arthur Hopkins’ reputation as a director of Shakespeare derives from his work on four productions, Richard III (opened 6 March 1920), Macbeth with Lionel Barrymore (17 February 1921), Hamlet featuring John Barrymore (16 November 1922) and Romeo and Juliet with Ethel Barrymore (27 December 1922). He also had an extensive career directing new plays from Europe and America as well as other non-Shakespearean classics. Hopkins explains his directing approach in two books: How’s Your Second Act (1918) and Reference Point (1948). Hopkins had enormous respect for the play, the actors and the audience. He believed the play is the source for all that subsequently happens. Like Belasco, he believed directors should treat their texts with great reverence. Actors were the second major focal point of his theatre. Unlike Daly and Belasco, he did not impose his directorial ideas on them. He saw the audience as capable of responding to the production in unison if the work appealed to their unconscious minds. Furthermore, he argued that good directing means an absence of direction. The director should be almost non-existent, while treating all collaborators with dignity. Hopkins formulated several precepts and goals as the result of having worked on many productions. He published his conclusions in How’s Your Second Act?. He labelled his approach ‘unconscious projection’, meaning the director should aim for ‘complete illusion’, using all the production elements at his or her disposal (Hopkins 1918: 24). The goal of his method was to appeal to the ‘unconscious mind’ of the audience (Hopkins 1918: 24). If one is successful, then the audience responds as a whole. He did acknowledge there are some ‘intellectual plays’ that appeal directly to the conscious intellect, such as the work of George Bernard Shaw (Hopkins 1918: 24). However, the conscious mind really had no place in the theatre, as it prevented the audience from experiencing the play on a deeper level. ‘In the theatre I do not want the emotion that rises out of thought, but the thought that rises out of emotion’, he contended (Hopkins 1918: 24–5).

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Hopkins monitored rehearsals closely: [He wanted] every phrase so unobtrusively, so free from confusing gesture, movement and emphasis, that all passing action seems inevitable, so that [the audience is] never challenged or consciously asked why. This whole treatment begins first with the manuscript, continues through the designing of the settings, and follows carefully every actor’s movement and inflection. If, throughout, this attitude of easy flow can be maintained the complete illusionment of the audience is inevitable. (Hopkins 1918: 25–6) Whenever the audience became conscious of a moment or sequence – in essence becomes aware of the theatrical nature of the event – they would disconnect. ‘It may be a very tiny thing – a movement at a time when all should be still – a speech when there should be silence – a pause when something should be happening – an unwarranted change of tempo, or any one of a hundred minor or major things that remove concentration from the whole’ (Hopkins 1918: 31). The goal was complete veracity in all that is executed. ‘Do things as they should be done and let the results take care of themselves’ (Hopkins 1918: 61). Hopkins believed that casting was the director’s ‘most valuable contribution’, so it was crucial to get it right. He must be certain that ‘he can get what he wants from the people he has selected’ (Hopkins 1918: 29). Hopkins described many of his beliefs about working with actors. He thought that everyone has ‘the creative urge’ in them, and that talent is ‘evidence that the possessor has made way for [it] … to break through’ (Hopkins 1948: 50). He was against imposing a performance on an actor as this is like ‘false fruit wired to a tree that has not flowered’ (Hopkins 1948: 51). He did not believe in blocking, as this practice treats the actors as ‘set pieces, obviously manipulated by wires’ (Hopkins 1948: 51). Directors should guard against giving too many directions. He blamed the director if the actor could not achieve the director’s vision. It was not the actor’s fault; all ‘sensitive’ actors strive to do well. They also fear failure. ‘The director should free them of this fear’ (Hopkins 1948: 52). He was against actors relying on their technique, as it ‘substitut[es] effect for cause’ and leads to ‘dependence upon externals. Externals develop into tricks. Tricks are the pitfall of art’ (Hopkins 1948: 57). He also did not want his actors to understand exactly how he was directing them. He abjured several directorial lures: I must renounce at the outset all temptation to be conspicuous in direction, to issue commands, to show how well I can read a line or play a scene, or slam a door; to ridicule or get laughs at a confused actor’s expense, to openly criticize. I must renounce all desire to be the boss, or the great master, or the all-knowing one. (Hopkins 1918: 28–9)

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Instead, he strove to ‘guide the ship by wireless instead of attempting to drag it through the water’ (Hopkins 1918: 29). Much of Hopkins’ approach is the direct opposite of Daly’s or Belasco’s. Rather than heap copious amounts of scenery on stage, he stripped the visuals down to essentials. He also did the same with the acting, eradicating clichés from the beginning of rehearsals: ‘I eliminate all gesture that is not absolutely needed, all unnecessary inflections and intonings … all the million and one tricks that have crept into the actor’s bag, all of them betraying one of two things – an annoying lack of repose, or an attempt to attract attention to himself and away from the play’ (Hopkins 1918: 31). For Hopkins, the play was the ultimate guide and source. He did not believe the director should waste time consulting others’ opinions about the play, but rather spend as much time as possible reading and understanding it. The pitfall of researching scholarly criticism and analysis ‘is to fall into a pattern which our own experience denies’ (Hopkins 1948: 31). He worked to have the scenery, costumes and lighting ‘as unobtrusive as possible’ as its ultimate purpose is ‘to harmonize with the mood’ so that the play could ‘predominate’ (Hopkins 1948: 31). All involved with the production should become ‘servants of the play’ (Hopkins 1918: 26). Their goal is to ‘resist every temptation to score personally’ (Hopkins 1918: 26). Instead, they should become ‘free, transparent medium[s] through which the whole flows freely and without obstructions’ (Hopkins 1918: 26). For theatre practitioners, it necessitates ‘a complete surrender of selfishness’ (Hopkins 1918: 27). He had another recommendation for directors: actors quickly read a lack of confidence within the director. ‘Paranoia breeds easily on rehearsal stages. Constant nagging helps it along’ (Hopkins 1948: 52). Therefore, it was imperative that the director ‘know[s] exactly what he wants’, for there is a price to be paid if he does not: ‘Uncertainty in performance’ (Hopkins 1918: 29). Hopkins summed up the essential qualities of a director: He ‘knows what he wants, knows how to recognize actors who can give it to him, knows how to arouse their interest in what they are doing, knows how to guide with a friendly hand convincing the actor that he can succeed’ (Hopkins 1948: 53). Hopkins began each rehearsal process with reading and rereading the script. In early rehearsals, he rarely stopped the actors to give them direction, but instead had them continuously read the text. He referred to this as the ‘basting process’ (Hopkins 1948: 62). It was aimed at making the cast ‘saturated with the flavor of the play’ (Hopkins 1948: 62). The only corrections he gave were to correct meaning or intention. He ignored emphasis ‘as long as the meaning is clearly conveyed’ (Hopkins 1948: 62). In the next stage of rehearsal, Hopkins had the actors get on their feet. I have previously settled in my mind about where the areas of action are to be. Now without stopping for reading values, the actors are shown the

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general movement and position of the first act. This usually takes about an hour. I keep the actors on this act for about two days, going over and over it, with few stops. (Hopkins 1948: 67) Some actors got no direction from him. If he had an actor who needed more, Hopkins would privately ‘show him where I feel he is going wrong’ (1948: 67). He believed that the director should publicly praise actors who were doing what he wants of them. He did not move to the next act until ‘the script and performance of the first act approximate their final form’ (Hopkins 1948: 67). Then he scheduled a run-through, approximately ten days into rehearsal. ‘This leaves two weeks for the polishing and liberating processes’ (Hopkins 1948: 68). Throughout the process, he maintained a sense of purpose. At all costs, the director must ‘avoid uncertainty and confusion’ in order to foster ‘inner peace and quiet’ in the rehearsal hall (Hopkins 1948: 68). Hopkins strove for a different kind of rehearsal than those overseen by Daly or Belasco. For Daly, obedience was imperative, and innovation and ownership were reserved for the director. Belasco was somewhat freer, allowing for idiosyncratic behaviour and ownership during the ‘no directions’ period of rehearsal when he was absent from the rehearsal hall. Still he maintained the right to have a firm last word, and actors were kept on a short leash. Hopkins’ approach to the physical setting was also quite different from Daly’s and Belasco’s. He embraced the new stagecraft of Robert Edmund Jones, a close collaborator, and rejected scenic realism and naturalism. He maintained that putting realistic sets on stage invited the audience to compare them with what they knew of the original structures and places. As a result, the audience focused its attention on the differences, and this caused them to disconnect from the action of the play. Thus, conscious comparison of real and unreal disassociated them from ‘unconscious perception’ of the playwright’s story. Hopkins argued that much of the current usage of the fourth wall lacked logic. Actors should not ignore the circumstance of the wall in their actions such as when they read letters facing forward as if they were special asides to the audience. Nor should directors’ staging have little to do with adhering to the logic of that wall, such as when they line actors up downstage facing the audience to play a scene. These staging conventions violate the given circumstances of the fourth wall. The lack of logic ‘in no sense removes from the stage director’s responsibility the fact that the wall is still there’ (Hopkins 1918: 58). Hopkins’ most famous Shakespearean production was his Hamlet, which opened on Broadway on 16 November 1922. It set a new attendance record, beating Edwin Booth’s run by one night (101). Hopkins collaborated closely with Robert Edmond Jones, the scenic designer with whom he had also done Macbeth and Richard III. John Barrymore starred as the Danish prince. The production toured the country and then travelled to London.

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In his New York Times review, John Corbin described a ‘historic happening … unmistakable as it was indefinable. It sprang from the quality and intensity of the applause, from the hushed murmurs that swept the audience at the most unexpected moments. … In all likelihood we have a new and lasting Hamlet’ (1922). In a New York World review, Heywood Broun called Barrymore’s Hamlet ‘the finest Hamlet we have ever seen. He excels all others we have known in grace, fire, wit, and clarity’ (1922). According to Corbin, the production had some rough edges. ‘The setting … though beautiful as his setting for Lionel Barrymore’s Macbeth was trivial and grotesque, encroached upon the playing space and introduced incongruities of locale quite unnecessary. Scenically, there was really no atmosphere’ (Corbin 1922). He also criticized the storytelling: ‘Many fine dramatic values went by the board and the incomparably stirring and dramatic narrative limped’ (Corbin 1922). He noted an effective approach to the language: The ‘reading’ of the lines was flawless – an art that is said to have been lost. The manner, for the most part, was that of conversation, almost colloquial, but the beauty of rhythm was never lost, the varied, flexible harmonies of Shakespeare’s crowning period in metric mastery. Very rarely did speech quicken or the voice rise to the pitch of drama, but when this happened the effect was electric, thrilling. (Corbin 1922) Alexander Woolcott observed: Certainly here is … Hamlet reborn and one that, for all its skill and graphic artfulness, is so utterly free from all that is of the stage stagey. Issuing from his lips, the very soliloquies which have so often separated out from the rest of the play as set pieces of oratory seemed to have been spoken for the first time last evening, seemed to have been thought for the first time, and in the complete silence that was their audience’s tribute to something genuine and alive they seemed for once just a lonely, unhappy man’s thoughts walking in the silent darkness. … It is the realest Hamlet we have known. (Woolcott 1922) Many observers thought the closet scene suggested a Freudian Oedipal relationship (see Figure 3). When the production opened in London on 19 February 1925, James Agate noted, ‘Mr. Barrymore’s Hamlet draws fewer tears than Forbes-Robertson’s’ (1925). He added: ‘It is nearer to Shakespeare’s whole creation than any other I have seen. … This is Hamlet’ (Agate 1925). He praised the play-within-the-play scene, describing its culmination as ‘a miracle of virtuosity’ (Agate 1925). His word for the closet scene was ‘perfection’ (Agate 1925). ‘Much of the latter was spoken on Gertrude’s breast, and the pathos was overpowering. And from here right on to the end I thought the performance magnificent. It gathered power,

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FIGURE 3  Photo of Hamlet, 3.4 with Blanch Yurka (Gertrude) and John Barrymore (Hamlet), 1922, directed by Arthur Hopkins. Photo by Francis J. Bruguiere ©Billy Rose Theatre Division, The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts.

coherence, and cumulative effect; in short, we knew ourselves to be in the presence of a fine and powerful mind’ (Agate 1925). As a director of Shakespeare, Hopkins operated in vastly different ways from his predecessors. He ventured into new territory with his beliefs and methods. He upheld the integrity of the script and actors, rejected many acting and scenic clichés and treated his collaborators with dignity. He fervently believed a respectful humane approach would unlock a pathway to the best artistic results.

Orson Welles Much has been written about Orson Welles, especially his work as a film director. His reputation as a theatre director of Shakespeare comes primarily from three productions: Macbeth, sometimes referred to as his ‘Voodoo’ Macbeth (opened 14 April 1936); a version of Julius Caesar entitled Caesar: The Death of a Dictator (opened 11 November 1937); and Five Kings, a compilation of the history cycle plays Richard II, Henry IV Parts 1 and 2, Henry V and Richard III. It was seen in Boston, Washington, DC, and Philadelphia during the winter/spring of 1939, but never opened in New York. Roger Hill introduced Welles to Shakespeare at the Todd School for Boys in Woodstock, Illinois. He completed his formal education there under

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schoolmaster Hill’s tutelage. He read and performed Shakespeare as part of his studies, and this experience influenced his subsequent career. While still in his teens, he co-edited and co-adapted Everybody’s Shakespeare: Three Plays with Hill in 1934. The book contained performance versions of Julius Caesar, The Merchant of Venice and Twelfth Night. In the margins, next to the text, appear miniature sketches by Welles of characters and significant moments from the plays – some original, some inspired by previous productions’ choices. In the introduction, Welles shares that he and Hill tried to include ‘as many ideas as we could’. He then argued: ‘Your idea is as worth trying as anyone’s. … Remember that every single way of playing Shakespeare – as long as the way is effective – is right’ (Hill and Welles 1934: 27). The texts are truncated and offer updated rewordings for less accessible and obscure passages. The manuscript provides early evidence of Welles’ iconoclastic and irreverent approach to the source material. The Shakespeare productions that Welles directed were produced in vastly different environments. Macbeth was a product of the Works Progress Administration’s Federal Theatre Project. It opened in a Harlem theatre, the Lafayette, as the first production of the Negro Theatre Project unit. With a rehearsal period of four months, it featured a cast of over 100, of whom only four were professionals, the rest community amateurs. Caesar (simplified from Shakespeare’s The Tragedy of Julius Caesar) opened on Broadway, the first production in Welles and John Houseman’s new venture, the Mercury Theatre. The rehearsal period lasted a mere four weeks. His last theatre project, Five Kings, had a five-week rehearsal period and then began a commercial out-of-town preview route with the intention of opening in New York. It was a joint venture with the Theatre Guild, a theatrical society founded in 1918 that had considerable influence on the New York theatre; its board of directors produced over two hundred plays on Broadway, many of them non-commercial. Welles was barely twenty when his first production opened, and twenty-four when Five Kings closed. To many, he seemed a boy wonder, an impression aided by his youthful round face. He asserted his authority through his remarkably strong baritone voice and manic energy that made it difficult for anyone to stay ahead of his game. Known for his unorthodox methods, his approach has been labelled ‘organized, inspired chaos’ (Smith 2008: 506). Often, he would begin rehearsals in the middle of the night and work towards dawn. In part, this was due to his radio schedule that consumed his days, but it was also a result of his predisposition to follow his personal whims. Sometimes, he would work all night, especially when he was inspired, or needed to solve a nagging problem the solution of which was elusive, or a deadline was looming. His nocturnal habits were not a problem for his first two productions. The Works Progress Administration as producer was not concerned with unions and rules. Also, it was generous with its budget, the intention being to employ as many people as possible. Caesar had a shorter rehearsal

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period, a much pared down production size, a smaller company and less expensive sets and costumes. But, Welles’ unorthodox rehearsal habits, his refusal to simplify the complicated mechanistic scenic approach and his lack of communication with the producer led to the demise of his complex and lengthy Five Kings. Possessing an inexorable drive, Welles sometimes lacked organizational skills in his relentless pursuit of his vision. ‘Ideas came to him … catch-ascatch-can, with everything and anything being integrated into his production schemes’ (France 1977: 55). His creativity did not easily recognize boundaries or limits. He was possessed of an insatiable energy by which he controlled the agenda as well as the people and resources surrounding him. He ‘preferred to work at a breathless pace, attacking in all directions at once’ (Smith 2008: 496). He also had a ravenous appetite, so food was constantly being ordered and brought into rehearsals. His relentless hunger paralleled his urge to find brilliant solutions to the problem du jour. Critics accused Welles of making Shakespeare’s characters part of the production imagery, rather than fully fleshed out three-dimensional people. While he was totally uninterested in developing the actors’ performances, he could reprimand them severely. ‘His manner was calculated to be humorously high-handed, shouting out admonitions – “shame on you!” a favourite – if the actor’s work wasn’t to his liking’ (Callow 1995: 326). Norman Lloyd, an actor in the Caesar cast, quoted Welles as telling him: ‘I may not be able to direct actors very well, but once an actor gives me something, I know how to stage it’ (Callow 1995: 328). The purpose of rehearsals was to realize through staging what he saw as the play’s iconic metaphors: ‘A specific and precise visual notion … . He improvised the physical action, constantly altering the moves to achieve the desired shape … . There was no discussion of character motivation, simply a dedication to discovering what Brecht had called the “gestus”, or the gesture, of the scene’ (Callow 1995: 327). His treatment of actors in the ensemble echoes Daly’s. They had to work within narrowly defined concepts, steeped in contextual worlds such as fascist Italy for Caesar, or early-nineteenth-century Haiti for Macbeth. Welles fashioned Macbeth after real-life Haiti dictator, Henri Christophe and his revolutionary court. In his version, Macbeth’s fate is predetermined in the first scene. The witches, led by a male Hecate voodoo priest, enact a spell. Multiple times, Hecate and the witches appear, sometimes on top of the palace wall. This blocking emphasized their power over the world. At the end of the first part – immediately before intermission – Hecate curses Macbeth: ‘I will drain him dry as hay / Sleep shall neither night nor day / Hang upon his penthouse lid; / (Drums stop) / He shall live a man forbid’ (France 1977: 60). A single drumbeat punctuated the last line, and then blackout. Thus, Welles eliminated any sense of conscience and free will from Macbeth’s character. Lines were cut and transposed to underscore this decision. The actors’ innate idiosyncrasies were allowed to colour their performances. Welles confided, ‘I never once suggested an intonation to the

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actors. The blacks invented the whole diction of Shakespeare. It was very interesting and very beautiful. I didn’t suggest anything about Shakespearian tradition or the white way of reciting Shakespeare’ (Smith 2008: 497). Diction, intonation and the use of verse tools were ignored. Welles was proficient in the latest sound, lighting and media technology, and ‘borrowed from radio the technique of introducing music into a scene as a kind of emotional prelude to the scene ahead’ (France 1977: 55). In Macbeth, he moved from a coronation waltz to voodoo drums ‘after the transition from one scene to another has been completed’ (France 1977: 56). He manipulated the lighting and scenery transitions to achieve the same effect on stage as a theatrical film dissolve. Music was also a central feature. He had a group of thirteen voodoo drummers supplement the orchestra and the other sound effect instruments. The incessant drums of the jungle, as well as the constant thunder and lightning, encircled the more civilized court world, instilling a sense of impending doom throughout. The actors generally acquiesced to his directives, but there was considerable tension and friction with the designers. ‘Production by Orson Welles’ was what the programme always said, but this statement, defended by his producing partner John Houseman, was perceived as an affront to the work of the visual collaborators. It did reflect his attitude that the director was the god of this universe, who ruled over the artistic terrain because he knew better than anyone else what decision should be made or what was needed in a situation. Designers, however, resented the subjugation of their own creative instincts to the grand master: ‘Welles visual confidence is rare among directors. His own skills as a graphic artist, coupled with his experience in designing and building … made him a daunting prospect for a designer’ (Callow 1995: 325). According to Jean Rosenthal, his lighting designer, Welles was ‘one of the first to dominate every single aspect of a production’ (Callow 1995: 325). The situation was not helped by the fact that Welles often sketched the play’s settings and established the play’s visual direction before design meetings (Callow 1995: 325). The most memorable moments in Caesar were tightly executed, choreographic, living tableaus that Welles moulded with the company. The murder of Caesar was one such moment: The conspirators are positioned in a diagonal line across the stage. Caesar, rolling from one to another in a kind of broken-field run, is, in turn, stabbed by each of them. Finally, he reaches downstage. There is only one person left to run to – Brutus, standing like a column against the proscenium wall. His knees buckling, Caesar turns to him as his final haven of safety. Without a word Brutus’ hand comes out of his overcoat pocket and he stands there clutching a knife while Caesar hangs on to his lapels. The enormous figure of Brutus gives no ground to the cringing Caesar, whose face registers the question – will he save me? Caesar’s own answer, barely audible, is one of absolute resignation: ‘Et tu Brute? Then

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fall Caesar.’ The knife goes in and Caesar slumps to the ground. It was more climactic than the most piercing scream, for when Caesar finally spoke it was simply to verbalize the statement that the entire scene had already made. (France 1977: 111) At times, the staging eluded the director. Initial attempts by Welles to block Cinna’s murder scene were frustrating. After disagreements with actor Norman Lloyd (whose interpretation of the character was the exact opposite from the romantic hero Welles had sought), the director avoided rehearsing the scene. Later, he assigned his composer, Marc Blitzstein, to develop a living soundscape with the actors that might create a solution. Following a disastrous first preview in which the Cinna scene was cut, Welles finally decided to embrace Lloyd’s approach and to employ all of his directorial instincts to solve the scene. Suddenly, the doors were unlocked to a poignant solution that became a coup de theatre for the production: Now the arc of the scene ran … from comic pathos to grotesque horror. Lloyd opened the scene playing Cinna as a Chaplinesque clown, looseleaf sheets spilling from his pockets, imagining himself a great artist amidst admirers. Then, suddenly, the derisive mass chanting began and increased in intensity, the lights turned red, the mob turned vicious. Surrounded now on all sides, Cinna screamed his last words – ‘The poet!’ – and disappeared down a trap, only his hand visible in the blood-red light. The sudden, starkly political reversal captured the sensibility of the whole production. (Smith 2008: 501) The effect was worth the struggle. Several critics found the scene to be the most powerful image in the entire production. This was Welles at his finest, his company an integral part of the scenic moment. Welles excised large sections of text when they did not serve his vision. Caesar was approximately ninety minutes in performance and was played without intermission. The production cut most of Shakespeare’s Acts 4 and 5. Welles interpolated passages from other plays, such as Coriolanus, to support his themes. He transposed lines from one scene to another when they could strengthen a particular point of view he wished to underscore. And he would reassign a character’s lines, and change the order of scenes, when doing so bolstered a position or effect he was striving to achieve: ‘Scenes and characters [were] slanted to make only the points he wanted them to make. Soliloquies were either sharply pared or converted into dialogues’ (France 1977: 107). While Welles was successful with Macbeth and Caesar, he encountered nothing but difficulties with Five Kings. Here, his penchant for ignoring practical objections became the source of his downfall. A spokesperson for the Theatre Guild, his producer, predicted scenic disaster at the first design presentation. ‘I remarked that it would be quite impossible to tour the play,

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as it would take at least two days to set up this cumbersome scenery in a theatre, in travelling from one town to the next’ (Callow 1995: 428). Since Welles encouraged an atmosphere of artistic genius overcoming any obstacle, the warning was ignored; the other members of the production team were excited by the possibility of rapidly and fluidly moving among the many locales with the planned turntable and scenery. Then rehearsals started. ‘The difficulty with productions that are inextricably linked to machinery is, first, that the machinery must work; and secondly, that the action must be rehearsed on it. Neither condition obtained on Five Kings … Welles found that there was little he could do in terms of staging, so he simply stayed away for a great deal of the allocated five weeks’ (Callow 1995: 429). The result of this tactic was ‘crippling’ (Callow 1995: 430). When the production opened in Boston, the turntable moved too quickly and actually threw actors off. In Philadelphia, it revolved at a snail’s pace, leaving actors who had finished their speeches to stand and wait until the proper revolution was complete. Both seriously impaired the movement and rhythm of the production. It opened in Boston with a running time of four and a half hours and, in spite of additional cuts, closed in Philadelphia clocking in at a still considerable three and a half hours. Like the actor-managers of the nineteenth century, Welles played major roles in two of the productions he spearheaded. In Five Kings he was Falstaff, and in Julius Caesar he portrayed Brutus. His dual responsibilities of director/actor could create issues for the other actors as Welles’ focus was almost entirely on directing the production. When performances finally began, there was a feeling of extemporization to his acting; he did not stick to the blocking used by his stand-ins, nor was he faithful to the script. Welles relished improvisation, and his performances had an off-the-cuff feel, often making other actors tense. After relocating to Hollywood, Welles returned to produce and direct some of the same plays. He made a film of Macbeth and another based on his Five Kings, entitled Chimes at Midnight. His direction was expressionistic, political, subversive, melodramatic, suspenseful, thrilling, sensational and theatrical. Welles’ theatre was a theatre of striking visual imagery and dramatic visceral effects that often overpowered a truncated text. It was also one in which he continued to push the boundaries of current practice, a trait that other directors would imitate in the years to come.

Margaret Webster Margaret Webster was a prominent Broadway director of Shakespeare in the late 1930s and 1940s. She was born in New York City and raised in England, where she began her theatrical career. She aspired to become a famous actress in London and had some success, but nothing that might thrust her into the ranks of the likes of Peggy Ashcroft, Edith Evans, Sybil

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Thorndike or Gertrude Lawrence. While playing a minor role in a play about the Irish politician Charles Stewart Parnell, she was asked by Maurice Evans, a young Englishman, to direct Richard II on Broadway. He was to star in the production and had just received a check for $35,000 to produce the endeavour. The play might be considered an improbable choice for Broadway. Shakespeare had been infrequently performed there and Richard II had not been produced on Broadway since 1878. However, King Edward VIII had just abdicated in order to marry Mrs Wallis Simpson. Evans gambled that Richard II, which also was about a king who gives up his crown, would resonate with audiences. This venture was an unusual project for Webster as she had no Broadway credits, nor had she directed in London’s West End. The arrangement was intended to be a partnership among unequals. Searching for a director, Evans believed there were no directors in New York capable of directing Shakespeare. Evans had known the Webster family well, and with assistance from May Whitty, Webster’s mother, had broken into the Old Vic Company. He had also heard that Webster had a reputation as somewhat of an authority on Shakespeare. She had recently made her directing debut in England with Henry VIII and had acted in several Shakespeare plays, including Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet, The Merchant of Venice, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Richard II and As You Like It. According to Milly Barranger, Webster’s biographer, Evans confessed that he asked her in part because he thought he would have more control over the project by hiring a young, relatively inexperienced director. He also reasoned he could get Webster to play the duchess of York and save the production some expense. Webster was not the typical strong-armed Broadway director. She fashioned ‘a free and easy atmosphere that encouraged actors to experiment; she grew stern only when an interpretation or line reading was off. The result was a thoroughly gutsy production’ (Barranger 2004: 69). When comparing English and American actors, she discovered American actors ‘worked harder and were more concentrated, although they were more self-conscious’ (Barranger 2004: 70). The English, on the other hand, were used to ‘tossing Shakespeare’s verse around’ but she observed ‘it awed Americans. In Webster’s estimation, the essential difference was that Americans approached the characters as people, not as “mouthpieces”. They had less gloss than their English counterparts … “but more reality and more guts”’ (Barranger 2004: 70). The production opened in 1937 and launched Webster’s US professional directing career. It was a financial and critical success. New York Times critic Brooks Atkinson declared: Margaret Webster has directed it with brilliance and versatility, and it sweeps across the stage with the story heart and power of Shakespearean verse. … The supple staging, the musical flourishing, the imaginative costuming, the unobtrusive scenery have all been gathered up in Miss

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Webster’s fresh-minded direction and thrust across the footlights in a vibrant performance of a stirring play. (Atkinson 1937) Part of the production’s success was that she staged a physical closeness that was not present in the current Broadway theatres. An essential feature that the Globe stage offered its Elizabethan audiences, she believed, was intimacy. For Richard II, she decided to extend the stage over the orchestra pit and stage monologues and other personal scenes on it. Webster and Evans collaborated on several other productions. Their next project was Hamlet. The complete text was to be performed at least twice a week during the run; a feat that, according to Webster, had never been done professionally in New York. Later, she reflected: There are, and always will be, a hundred different ways of interpreting the play, all of them hotly arguable, none (or very few!) totally ‘wrong’, none definitively ‘right’. We had to make decisive choices long before the play ever went into rehearsal. I had seen it, played in it, read and studied it at length for months without discovering what two weeks of rehearsal later taught me. … [But] decisions have to be made, all the same. In what period should we do it? (Webster 1972: 24–5) After consulting with her designers and Evans, they chose to place it in an Elizabethan setting. She had seen, she calculated, about twelve Hamlets and had acted in two, with John Barrymore in London and John Gielgud at the Old Vic. She didn’t want to simply ‘reproduce’ the choices of other productions ‘unless they sprang naturally and inevitably from prepared soil’ (Webster 1972: 25). She also wanted to set her own course: ‘I saw no reason to avoid an illuminating piece of action just because it had been done before’ (Webster 1972: 25). But what should be her source? The scholars, while making some points worthy of note, were of no help in this process. ‘Eventually I began to shun the academic commentators. … I shut the books and went back to the text’ (Webster 1972: 25). But which text? She examined Hamlet’s possible sources: First Folio, First Quarto and Second Quarto. Dismissing the First Quarto (sometimes considered the ‘bad quarto’ due to significant discrepancies with the other two versions), Webster brought her actor’s sensibilities, theatrical experience and knowledge of stage practices to the play’s disputable issues. ‘Sometimes the knotty problems of the printed page resolve themselves quite easily in this context. I began to be pretty much a partisan of “F1” just because it does seem to be the playhouse version for playhouse reasons’ (Webster 1972: 26). She did include famous passages that F1 excluded. The production came at a time when there was increased tension across the Atlantic. ‘With all the alarums and uncertainties in Europe, the Hamlet production attained a new significance, and many lines addressed the encroaching world war: “If it be now, ‘tis not to come; if it be not to

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come, it will be now; if it be not now yet it will come. The readiness is all”’ (Barranger 2004: 89). Hamlet opened on 12 October 1938 with many observers declaring it ‘the most all-round satisfying show they had ever seen’ (Barranger 2004: 91). Atkinson argued it was an event of the utmost importance: ‘No one has really seen Hamlet until he has sat enthralled before the uncut version’ (Atkinson 1938). Of Webster’s staging, he lauded ‘the design of the performance and the swift tempo’ (Atkinson 1938). Stark Young also praised Webster’s staging that ‘spread the many scenes of the play into a singularly comprehensive pattern, flexible, never banal and often eloquent. The unobtrusive distribution of her stage movement was remarkable’ (Young 1948: 212). The Broadway production ran for ninety-six performances, almost matching Barrymore’s record. Webster directed 1  Henry IV with Evans playing Falstaff. It opened on 30 January 1939. She also directed Twelfth Night that opened on 19 November 1940. Once again, Evans was a part of her cast, this time as Malvolio. The production received mixed reviews, but nevertheless played for 129 performances on Broadway, followed by a seventeen-week tour. Her Macbeth opened on 11 November 1941 and ran for 225 performances with Evans in the title role. A national tour followed. Other Shakespeare productions – all without Evans – included the longest-running Broadway production of The Tempest that opened on 25 January 1945 and Henry VIII, one of the three offerings for the first season of a new venture, the American Repertory Theatre. It was launched on 6 November 1946. After that theatre failed, she formed her own company in 1947, Marweb, and directed all of its productions. It toured across the United States for two years performing Hamlet, Macbeth, Julius Caesar and The Taming of the Shrew. Her greatest triumph was Othello with Paul Robeson in the title role. He had played Othello before in London in 1930, but became the first black actor to play the role on Broadway. Four years in the making, Webster’s production broke box office records. Today, it remains the longest-running Shakespeare production on Broadway; it played a total of 296 performances. Evans refused her offer to play Iago, believing audiences were not quite ready for such an event, nor to see him in a non-leading role. She eventually cast José Ferrer as Iago and Uta Hagen as Desdemona. Webster played Emilia. Producers were reluctant to fund the venture, believing it too risky due to the interracial relationship with Desdemona highlighted by casting Robeson as Othello. She and Robeson had to finance the production themselves. She also had trouble booking a tryout theatre with the usual venues outside of the city. Finally, she negotiated with two college theatres, the Brattle Theatre on the Harvard campus and the McCarter Theatre at Princeton. After a mere two weeks of rehearsal, the production opened in the Brattle to great acclaim. Students stomped their feet with approval and ‘yelled wave after

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wave of “Bravo!”’ (Barranger 2004: 138). The production had a similar response at Princeton. Othello opened on Broadway fourteen months later with the Theatre Guild as producers (see Figure 4). The delay between out-of-town tryouts and the Broadway opening was due to Robeson’s prior contractual obligations. Once he became available, the production embarked on a sixweek rehearsal period. It also had an additional preview period of four and a half weeks performing in New Haven, Boston and Philadelphia. There was considerable tension within the company due in part to the Theatre Guild’s attempt to hire replacements for Ferrer and Hagen; Robeson refused to continue without them and management relented. Othello finally opened on 19 October 1943. ‘When the curtain came down, the audience erupted into cries of bravo and applauded for twenty-two minutes’ (Barranger 2004: 145). Critics raved and the production became Webster’s greatest success. The New York Times lauded Webster’s staging as ‘excellently done both in the production and in the acting … one of Margaret Webster’s best’ (Nichols 1943: 18). The production also had a thirty-six-week tour to forty-five cities in North America.

FIGURE 4  Photo of Uta Hagen (Desdemona), Paul Robeson (Othello) and Margaret Webster (Emilia) in the stage production Othello directed by Margaret Webster. Photo by Vandamm Studio ©Billy Rose Theatre Division, The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts.

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Webster wrote extensively on her views about directing and performing Shakespeare in Shakespeare without Tears and Don’t Put Your Daughter on the Stage, as well as in several articles. Considered a Shakespearean expert, she also gave interviews on the subject. She believed a director’s preparation for rehearsal was the most difficult and intensive part of the job. She devoted countless hours to ready herself for that first day. ‘Through long experience first as an actor and then as a director, she concluded that the director must know at the outset what she is setting out to do, what characterization she wants, what tempo, climaxes, and movements, and also how the mechanics would be handled’ (Barranger 2004: 94). She felt trust was essential and acknowledged that when the production finally opens, the actors control what happens on stage and ‘the happier they feel, the better they will play’ (Webster 1938: 348). She maintained that a director must follow certain ‘guidelines’ or ‘principles’. Of utmost importance was this dictate: ‘First and foremost, I never set out to impose myself on a play, but always to reveal it’ (Webster 1972: 89). She explained, ‘I never found it desirable to “gimmick” the plays in order to bring them up to date or make them what is hideously known as “relevant”. You can only be contemporary for a year or so at a time. It is more difficult to achieve a universal “relevance”; but it is there, if you begin at the beginning, that is to say, with the author’ (Webster 1972: 89). At the same time, she admitted: There have always been and always will be twenty different ways of producing Hamlet, each of them faithful to a different valuation of the text, and to a varying concept of how best to make it vivid to a contemporary audience in terms of theatre. There is no right or wrong in the choice, other than the answer to the question: which of them, in effect, presents to the audience to which it is played the best theatre and the most vital illustration of the play Shakespeare wrote? (Webster 1941: 443–4) She cautioned that the director must steer clear of two extremes: ‘The overeager search for novelty at any price and the too great reverence for the traditions. She argued for a middle ground between the liberty of unlimited textual alterations and the scholarly view that regards the Shakespearean canon as Holy Writ’ (Barranger 2004: 93). As an extension of this principle, she thought the director must only cut when there is a clear theatrical need: ‘A director should never make a cut or a transposition without weighing the possible loss of speed, meaning, impact, or clarity’ (Barranger 2004: 93). The same concerns should govern the director when contemplating blocking and business. Although she disliked the imitation Globe stages, she contended that regardless of where one stages the play – and she believed it could be done in a variety of settings: arena, proscenium, three-quarter thrust, literally anywhere – the stage should not be filled with extraneous items which might

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interfere with ‘spatial freedom’ (Webster 1955: 68). Additionally, directors must not stop the action to set up the next scene, a practice non-existent in the Elizabethan theatre where one scene melted into another. Webster argued that rapid pace is crucial and Shakespeare’s ‘time rhythm is badly jarred by our scene waits’ (1955: 68). She warned that careless placement of intermissions could impede Shakespeare’s dramaturgy, as he wrote them to be performed without intermission. It was only with the introduction of the indoor stages towards the end of his career that he began to use music in short breaks. Also, the Folio divides some of the plays into acts, but that structure was not Shakespeare’s. Eighteenth-century editor Nicholas Rowe created the scene divisions that most published texts retain for aid with orientation and citation. The director should look beyond them to ‘the unbroken flow’ of his play texts (Webster 1955: 69). Directors ought to remove as much as possible ‘the breaks and checks which scene changes impose on’ the play (Webster 1955: 69). Contemporary views on ‘time in terms of relativity’ were not a problem to Webster’s audiences, but practitioners had difficulty in applying relativity to the use of space in designing the sets (Webster 1955: 71). Shakespeare’s theatre did not use much scenery, so he used the character to change location instead of ‘transporting the actor to the place’ (Webster 1955: 72). Changes of location were easily, if crudely, achieved through use of the various parts of the Elizabethan theatre, although Shakespeare does not appear to have prescribed exactly where each scene should take place. Simultaneous staging of protagonist and antagonist and their armies also solved problems of dramaturgy, as the stage could be condensed to contain two enemy factions. ‘Richmond and Richard, Hotspur and Henry IV will pitch their embattled camps within touching distance of each other’ (Webster 1955: 72). Because he used words, not scenery, to paint the landscapes where the action takes place, modern designers are challenged to find ways to incorporate features of his theatre with contemporary practices. But, she felt that modern lighting design has liberated Shakespeare ‘from the imprisonment of realism’ (Webster 1955: 76). The character must have ‘space and generally a sense of the sky’, which is very different from the drawing-room settings of more recent times (Webster 1955: 76). She offered guidance to the director concerning cutting the text. She did not believe in cutting something just because a contemporary audience could no longer understand it. Even though there are words of the text that are practically indecipherable to a modern audience, she argued that each word ‘remains essential to the pattern or sequence of the scene’ and therefore should not be cut, but afforded its own characteristic contribution (Webster 1955: 82). Also, excision cannot be done completely before meeting the actors. It is their initial performance and sounding of the lines that should help determine what can and cannot be cut. Some deletions may return to the production while others will need to happen because the actor cannot execute them properly.

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She cautioned the director against following too rigid of a plan before meeting the actors and apprising their talents. She also warned the director to beware of permitting ‘Shakespeare’s pattern as far as he can divine it, to be thrown out of focus by one actor’s personal predilection’ (Webster 1955: 110). Contemporary audiences cannot experience Shakespeare’s most magnificent characters ‘fresh, newly blazing from the mint of his mind’ because of their familiarity with them (Webster 1955: 82). Therefore, the actor should strive for ‘an interpretation that is fresh, arresting, genuine’ and will not compete with nor reproduce other actors’ performances but offer new breath to the character (Webster 1955: 83). She believed Elizabethan actors were richer and ‘physically freer’ having evolved from performing in inn yards with considerable noise bleed from the surrounding area. Vocally, Elizabethan actors ‘were both fuller and faster than we are’ (Webster 1955: 87). The verse demands that they be. Shakespeare exploits his poetry ‘for speed and force and pressure, for the shading of comedy, as swift and delicate as shot silk, for verbal thrust and parry’ for which we have no contemporary models (Webster 1955: 87). Often, contemporary actors do not have enough breath, ‘end-stopping the verse and in splitting the prose clean against the mathematical involution of its phrasing’. This is due to an untrained diaphragm, which, once exercised, ‘makes of his voice the flexible and resonant instrument’ required by Shakespeare’s writing (Webster 1955: 87). Because there is a world of difference between a Shakespeare audience’s aural abilities and our audience today, she believed the actor must slow the rate of delivery and speak more slowly. Shakespeare’s language supports the actor by giving an ‘infinite variety of stress, phrase, pause, and emphasis’ (Webster 1955: 89). He also provides a ‘framework’ for a character’s ‘thinking exactly planned and provided for’ (Webster 1955: 89). Of the many complex lengthier speeches, the actors must use their minds to maintain ‘the thought line, of a long speech clearly held through the lavish involution of metaphor and elaboration with which Shakespeare will surround it’ (Webster 1955: 89). She also stressed the importance of the actor choosing ‘key words’ while also diminishing the unimportant ones (Webster 1955: 90). There is a potential trap, though, if ‘clear thinking results in commonplace speaking’ (Webster 1955: 91). It will prevent ‘Shakespeare’s imagery, his wealth of metaphor and word fantasias’ from transporting an audience to a place beyond realism (Webster 1955: 91). ‘The heart and passion of the lines is often conveyed in terms of sheer musical sound and harmony. Their power to stir the emotion of the hearer lies in rhythm and music, just as the dictionary meaning of the phrase expresses its intellectual content’ (Webster 1955: 91). She argued for finding the proper balance between clarity and the lyrical needs of the language.

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Finally, Webster warned practitioners of reducing Shakespeare’s language to ‘generalizations’ that ‘can be challenged at every point’. Analysis through scansion and stress and pause alone is not useful: The actor must read the lines with his eyes and his ears, his heart and his mind, till they have come to be a part of him, till he can express their meaning in no other possible way. He must then clear from his own consciousness all the cluttering egotisms either of arrogance or fear. He must not take pride in his own fine-sounding chest notes nor reduce the more poetic flights to a trivial level of common sense. Only then can Shakespeare fill his heart and speak the immortal music through his lips. (Webster 1955: 92) As a teacher and director, I find her advice to be relevant and still potent for today’s directors and actors. As a director, she prepared extensively for rehearsals. She argued that a director should spend more time examining the text rather than consulting expert scholarly opinion. She created a relaxed atmosphere in the rehearsal room, encouraging exploration. She worked for a rapid delivery and pace in performance. She thought Shakespeare’s text offered the actor infinite variety as well as a poetic framework. The actor should also communicate the thought line. She believed in moving scenes closer to the audience in order to create a greater intimacy for them. Her staging was ‘supple’, ‘unobtrusive’ and ‘eloquent’, executed on an uncluttered stage unimpeded by extraneous items. Webster left a remarkable legacy to the American theatre. Her Broadway productions continue to hold some of the highest attendance records. Her Othello remains the longest-running Shakespeare in the history of the American theatre. She produced a significant two-year national Shakespeare tour, reaching populations and regions not traditionally served. Her career was at a pinnacle when she encountered the House Committee on UnAmerican Activities and was blacklisted. Unfortunately, this occurred at precisely the moment when the country began to be interested in producing more Shakespeare. Still, Webster was not finished with her contributions to the field. She wrote extensively on the challenges of directing and performing Shakespeare, offering advice carefully crafted and imparted in her books.

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2 Directors at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival 1930s–1990s

This chapter examines the work of several directors who affected Shakespeare production outside of New York. B. Iden Payne was significant to that history. His impact continues to be felt in approaches that exist to this day. Additionally, native-born directors Angus Bowmer, James Sandoe and Allen Fletcher made significant contributions to the field’s expansion. As such, they were pioneers in the regional theatre movement that sought to fill a void left by the end of the old stock companies. As the Oregon Shakespeare Festival (OSF) continued to produce Shakespeare in the 1950s through the 1990s, prominent directors working there included Jerry Turner, Laird Williamson, Jim Edmondson, Audrey Stanley, Pat Patton, Henry Woronicz and Libby Appel.

B. Iden Payne Payne affected the staging of Shakespeare wherever he went. Arriving in the United States in 1913, he lectured on his ideas at the newly formed college and university drama departments, which included the Universities of Iowa, Michigan, Missouri, San Diego State College and Washington and the Banff School of the Arts in Canada. He advocated the repertory system and argued for new staging methods based on a closer examination of the texts. He eschewed massive scenery with its cumbersome scene changes inherited from the Victorian and Edwardian eras, objecting to interruptions in the flow of Shakespeare’s texts and dramatic storytelling. Instead, he preached a return to simpler, more efficient staging methods. He called his approach the ‘modified Elizabethan method’ (Payne 1977: 162). He believed that the author’s intention must be respected and the director should resist

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interpolating irrelevant additions to the text. The director’s responsibility is to translate a play ‘faithfully’ and resist showcasing his or her individual creativity (Payne 1977: 185). Shakespeare’s aim, he believed, was to preserve a continual rate as well as a ‘total fluidity of the action’ (Payne 1977: 189). Many of his ideas were influenced by William Poel, a man dedicated to more faithful renderings of Shakespeare’s plays through techniques that were in opposition to the mainline practices of the Victorian/Edwardian theatres of his time. In 1907, Payne became artistic director of the Manchester Playgoers’ Theatre, Miss A. E. F. Horniman’s attempt to establish ‘the first modern repertory theatre in England’ (Hildy 2003: 326). In 1908, he invited Poel, known for his authentic staging of Shakespeare, to direct and act in a production of Measure for Measure. The company was less than enthusiastic about Poel’s approach, and ridiculed his attempt to instil in them the proper ‘tones’ for line readings of the text (Payne 1977: 88). His system required certain words be marked with either upward or downward pointing arrows, signifying a raising or lowering of pitch on that word. The actors mostly ignored Poel’s instructions and aural design. To the company’s surprise, the critics were impressed with the production. More importantly, the production introduced Payne to the beliefs and methods of Poel. Poel became the major figure in a movement to re-examine how Shakespeare’s plays were originally performed. He forsook reliance on realistic scenery that the Victorian theatre of his time had embraced. Scenic shifts could be quite lengthy. Strategies to combat this problem included rearranging the order of the scenes, dropping scenes or joining them with others in order to reduce the number of scene changes. Poel advocated restoring Shakespeare’s original texts. He believed that the plays were best performed in a context that utilized Elizabethan theatrical conventions. He experimented with what was called a ‘fit-up’ stage, adapting features of the Elizabethan stage to ‘fit’ into any performance space (Payne 1977: 85). In 1895, he founded the Elizabethan Stage Society as a vehicle to experiment and advocate Elizabethan original staging practices. The movement was not isolated to England. As early as 1895, Harvard experimented with transforming proscenium spaces into Elizabethan theatres. Other universities that explored Elizabethan stages included Stanford, Carnegie Mellon, the University of Washington, the University of Illinois at Champaign-Urbana and Hofstra. Payne had experience with only one Shakespeare production directed by Poel, Measure for Measure. At the time, he found it interesting and novel, but not more impressive than other methods. While he did not immediately embrace Poel’s approach, the experience was to have a significant impact on Payne’s future direction of Shakespeare. He began to experiment with isolated characteristics of Poel’s method. In his second season at Manchester, he directed a Christmas production of Much Ado About Nothing. Upon closely examining the text, Payne concluded it had ‘a rhythmic flow’ as the sequence of events unravelled,

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what he later would refer to as ‘the melodic line of scene development’ that could be damaged by eliminating scenes or swapping scenes to reduce scene changes. ‘I saw that these liberties with the text chopped up the action’ (Payne 1977: 103). He argued instead that each scene must be presented in its textual order to generate the appropriate ‘rhythmic progression of action’ (Payne 1977: 103). He decided to amend the standard realistic approach to scenic representation by staging linking scenes downstage of light-coloured curtains that were closed just above the proscenium. By using a slit in the centre, and the curtained openings stage left and stage right for entrances and exits, he discovered this technique allowed for a better flow of action from scene to scene while offering the possibility of covering scene shifts behind the curtains. In 1913, Payne came to the United States to be artistic director for The Chicago Theatre Society, a venture that was not to last beyond the original eight-week contract. A fateful meeting that same year led to a lifelong partnership with Thomas W. Stevens, the founder of the first US theatre programme at Carnegie Mellon University. It wasn’t until Stevens left Carnegie in 1925 that Payne was able to begin to experiment with his ideas for adapting contemporary stages to Elizabethan ones. This was due to Stevens’ contemporary design approach. Once Stevens departed, Payne was free to explore his ideas on how to stage Shakespeare. He used an Elizabethan facsimile stage transposed to the Carnegie Mellon proscenium theatre over the next nine years. Poel focused on recreating an Elizabethan theatre instead of amending its features to existing performance spaces. Payne discovered that the earlier use of a neutral curtain across the stage now proved unsatisfactory: To understand Shakespeare’s plays, continuously unfolding action was a requirement. ‘But the spectator’s subconscious association of closing curtains with the idea of one thing ending and another being about to start destroyed the melodic line’ (Payne 1977: 158). He explored how using certain characteristics of an Elizabethan stage, transposed to a contemporary theatre, could support the continuous flow essential to performance. Payne examined the topographies of inn yards where plays were performed before Elizabethan playhouses existed. He noted that performances were given during the day and audiences watched from three sides as well as from galleries surrounding the action. It was impossible, he concluded, to use curtains or lighting to cover and reveal scenes. Rather, the performance’s action had to be unbroken. Considering the large number of scenes in an Elizabethan play, actors and writers had to find another means than scenery to communicate a given place or location. The solution in the text was to have the character name the location. ‘In moving between scenes, from one place to another, actors simply told the audience where they intended to go and then accounted their arrival when they got there’ (Payne 1977: 161–2). In developing Payne’s ‘modified Elizabethan staging’ methods, he did not seek to recreate the Globe Theatre’s stage. He recognized that not much

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is known about it and much more is still conjecture. Rather, his goal was to follow Poel’s essential precept for ‘complete fluidity of action’ (Payne 1977: 162). Based on his studies, he defined the parts of the theatre. The penthouse was a roofed area supported by two columns that separated the stage into four areas: The middle stage, beneath the roof, is the largest area; the fore stage a fairly narrow, apron like area, lies in front of it; two side stages extend on either side of it, with a door giving onto each from the tiring house. Behind the middle stage are two shallow curtained inner stages, entered from either side. … The inner above corresponds to the modified second gallery of the inn yards as it was almost certainly perpetuated in Elizabethan theatres. The inner below is more problematic. There is little doubt that they were at the back of Elizabethan stage doors through which the actors could enter, and also a curtained area used for ‘discoveries’. (Payne 1977: 164) Payne argued the need for a discovery area, using the scene in The Merchant of Venice in which Portia reveals the three caskets as an example. He suggested the inner stage is more accommodating and functional than using central doors upstage centre. Payne’s division of the stage led him to a theory he called ‘zones of influence’ (1977: 162). He partitioned the stage into the six areas corresponding to the six parts of the Elizabethan theatre. He called them ‘zones’. Each scene was assigned to the appropriate zone, based on its type and function as well as how it might assist or impede the overall flow of the action. Payne believed there should be director flexibility in scene assignments to each area, as long as the choices did not interrupt the unfolding events. Scene placement should allow for a rapid shift in location from zone to zone. As one scene ended and another began, there should be slight overlapping of the action/lines between the scenes. Clever manipulation of the entrances and exits, as well as the traffic patterns, was a way to encourage a continual ‘fluidity of action’ – the major ingredient necessary for success. This technique helped audiences to decipher the location for each scene. Sometimes, editorial descriptions of scene locations were at odds with where his process suggested the scenes be set. He felt editor directions were suspect and scenes should be adjusted to his overall scheme. Hildy has suggested that in practice Payne’s method was as much intuitive as it was scientific (2003: 335). Borrowing a staging technique from Poel, Payne utilized boys and girls to open and close the curtains that were hung from the penthouse. He admitted that it was doubtful the Elizabethan theatre had these curtains, but they helped him achieve the continuous flow he thought so essential. He described the technique: ‘After opening the curtains to the middle stage [the operators] retired simultaneously to the nearest doors. Near the end of a scene they would enter unobtrusively, again at precisely the same moment,

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and close the curtains on cue’ (Payne 1977: 164). Each ‘curtain’ boy or girl was assigned to one of the columns. After some experimenting with the use of the forestage, Payne realized it was ‘entirely unlocalized’ and could be used for six types of scenes when the curtains were closed: (a) short scenes used mainly to indicate a lapse of time between previous and following scenes, (b) scenes in which characters are on their way somewhere, (c) long soliloquies, particularly when they are expository, (d) processions, which move from one side door across the fore stage and out the opposite side door, (e) expository scenes of plot development, and (f) low-comedy scenes. (Payne 1977: 165) The forestage offers the actor ‘the closest possible contact with his audience’, especially important in comedy (Payne 1977: 166). When one adds the side stages to this area, it presents ‘the longest space for a continuous movement’ (Payne 1977: 166). When the penthouse is uncurtained, ‘the forestage becomes a forward extension of the middle stage’ (Payne 1977: 166). Another feature of the Elizabethan stage was two columns that held up a ‘penthouse roof above the stage’ (Payne 1958: 5). The columns often became a central feature in his staging. They could be obstacles around which characters might be chased. More importantly, ‘they could be used to give a sense of aesthetic separation’ (Payne 1958: 5). For example, a director could stage Iago ‘standing outside one of the pillars with the pillar between him and Cassio and Desdemona, who are in the middle stage’ (Payne 1958: 5). How much easier it is for him ‘to utter his sarcasms’ using the pillar as a barrier than if there is nothing else there (Payne 1958: 5). He also discovered other ways to use the pillars. They could be prop trees for Orlando’s notes or the gallows where Aaron might be hanged (Gelber 1997: 157). Payne recognized that in many situations, it is best to modify a modern stage by introducing Elizabethan stage features. He suggested various ways to aid such an adaptation. Entrances from each side can be variously accommodated. ‘Doors can be set at any point up or downstage, and can be raised, to be approached by steps. Alternatively, open wings can be substituted for doors’ (Payne 1977: 165). While the Elizabethan theatre mainly took advantage of daylight for lighting, Payne used modern lighting instruments in order that audiences could see faces. He argued that Shakespeare would have used lighting, if it had been available to him. He did not recommend recreating the lighting techniques (torches, candles) of the indoor Elizabethan theatre. However, he cautioned that one should restrict how artificial lighting could be used. He limited his use to depicting time or varying a scene’s ambiance. By borrowing certain architectural features of Elizabethan stages, Payne de-emphasized scenery and visual effects, believing the stage should be ‘unencumbered by scenic devices’ (1977: 174). He was not so much interested

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in recreating the specifics of Shakespeare’s stage as in uncovering the characteristics of dramaturgy embedded in the text that were fundamental to the staging of the play. He also held that the director could cut verse lines as long as ‘both the sense and the meter are undamaged’. He never cut entire scenes ‘in order to respect the “melodic line” of the action, as well as the pace’ (Payne 1977: 190). But like Poel, he frequently shortened plays in order to drive the action forward and keep the production accessible for a contemporary audience. This aspect of his directing can be seen in his prompt books at OSF, in printed versions of severely truncated plays performed at the Chicago World’s Fair and in a student thesis from 1934 that included Payne’s prompt book for The First Part of King Henry the Fourth produced at Carnegie Mellon University. The Henry the Fourth prompt book reveals these details on his staging approach at that time: The ‘heaven’ of the Elizabethan theatre was eliminated, and the penthouse was given a sloping roof as contrasted with the usual conception of a flat roof. The inner below was included, and the inner above was limited to a small section corresponding in size with the inner below, instead of a long balcony. The set was built so that it could be changed slightly as was necessary for the production of any particular play. It has never been exactly the same as any previous year, and is usually repainted and hung with different curtains in harmony with the mood of the bill. (Heller 1935: 37) Curtain and wall colours were changed from production to production. Hung above the set were shields featuring the coat of arms for important characters in the production. Payne spent considerable time working with the actors on their delivery and sought to make sure that the meaning was always comprehensible. He was fond of lecturing and demonstrating to his casts the proper way to speak the verse: First, he read the whole play to us, stopping to make comments and to give information about character relationships, Elizabethan customs, word meanings, and so on. Then he read each scene with more comments, and finally, he read each speech in the scene before it was read by the person cast, correcting inflections, explaining character and meanings. After the first speech was re-read by the actor, the second speech was first read by Mr. Payne, then by the actor, so alternating through the scene. (Bowmer 1975: 29) Payne insisted his actors speak clearly, but quickly – mostly without pauses between character lines – and with ‘a smooth rapidity’:

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Each actor was forced to pick up cues immediately, which meant that the intake of breath which accompanies the preparation for the articulation of a new idea had to come during the previous speech prior to the word cue. This even extended to the first line of a new scene, which had to come on word cue from the last line of the previous scene. (Bowmer 1975: 30–1) Entrances for the next scene were superimposed on the characters’ final lines in the existing scene. Another technique was encouraging direct audience contact, particularly in asides and soliloquies. To Payne, directing Shakespeare was about the players replicating the architectural, aural and performance characteristics that best demonstrated Shakespeare’s original intentions.

Angus Bowmer In 1935, the first of two North American companies devoted to producing the work of Shakespeare was born as outdoor theatres: the OSF and the Old Globe (covered in Chapter  3). North America had a history of cultural and educational events delivered al fresco, such as the Chautauqua movement, re-enactments of battles/events/biographies from history and political debates (Engle, Hardison Londre and Watermeier 1995: xiv). Since Shakespeare’s primary theatre was an open-air one, it could be argued that whenever possible his works ought to be presented in parks and courtyards and on lawns. A professor from Southern Oregon Normal School in Ashland, Bowmer thought the old Chautauqua ruins near Lithia Park looked similar to sketches of an Elizabethan theatre. ‘The dome had just been taken off, and it gave me the impression of a sixteenth-century sketch of the Globe Theater. I began to do some research and got excited about the possibility of doing a Shakespearean work there’ (qtd in Oregon Shakespeare Festival n.d.). He began to do plays in alternating repertory during the summers, beginning with a production of Twelfth Night and The Merchant of Venice in 1935. He had already produced Merchant during the academic year at Southern Oregon University, so he remounted that production with plans to add an additional comedy for the first season. He played Shylock in Merchant as well as directed the play. Thus began a tradition of acting as well as directing productions, a practice that he would continue for many years. He was also intent on performing Shakespeare in a festival ambiance. Bowmer seized on an opportunity for free publicity by connecting his festival to the Ashland July Fourth festivities. He had convinced the Celebration Committee to sponsor his festival with a $400 contribution, but members were concerned that the Shakespeare productions would leave them with a

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budget deficit. So, they pressed Bowmer to allow boxing matches on the same stage to help defray what they anticipated would be losses from producing the Shakespeare festival. He agreed. To the committee’s surprise, the Shakespeare performances made a profit and covered the substantial shortage from the boxing competitions. From these meagre beginnings, OSF was born. Bowmer had been a student of Payne’s at the University of Washington in 1930. Payne’s mentorship had been ‘seminal’ in developing many of his own ideas and practices. Bowmer learnt from Payne the delight of performing Shakespeare’s texts ‘on a stage which conceptually resembled the one for which they were written’ as well as ‘the necessity of suiting the action to the word’ (Bowmer 1978: 10). Like Payne, Bowmer believed in a tempo that rapidly drove the action forward, imparting ‘a kind of continuum of action from the beginning of a play to its end’ (Bowmer 1978: 10). He distilled several other beliefs from his association with Payne. He embraced the idea of direct audience contact ‘especially in soliloquies and asides’ (Bowmer 1975: 30). He borrowed Payne’s use of pages to open and close the curtains located mid-stage between two pillars on an open Elizabethan stage. Performances began with a formalized set of bows at the top of the evening. Then the pages opened the curtains for that night’s production. This gave the effect of presenting the production to the audience. Bowmer also borrowed the idea of an inner above and inner below, both areas curtained to accommodate scene changes that helped the flow. Payne taught him how to instil physical as well as cerebral effects in his acting and coaching. The ultimate lesson was how to scour the text for staging and performance clues, and to have faith that Shakespeare knew what he was doing in his dramaturgy. While Bowmer subscribed to recreating characteristics of an Elizabethan stage for his outdoor space, he recognized that the Ashland stage evoked a Greek theatre more than an Elizabethan one due to the original Chautauqua auditorium’s shape. Yet, when he drew up plans for his first stage, he later found that the width resembled the size of the Fortune Theatre at about 55 feet. By 1978, the stage consisted of ‘a wide platform, the central part of which … thrust into the audience in a large truncated pyramid’ (Bowmer 1978: 18). Two columns, several feet from the stage front, held up ‘a gabled penthouse structure’ (Bowmer 1978: 18). Enclosing the stage was a wall that exemplified typical Elizabethan ‘black and white’ building design. ‘Through this wall [were] seven openings: two large doors placed at a forty-five degree angle at the extreme upper left and right corners of the platform, above which [were] two mullioned, leaded windows, hinged to open on stage. At the back, under the penthouse [were] two curtained balconies, below which [was] another curtained space at stage level’ (Bowmer 1978: 17). Bowmer stressed that this was a ‘basic’ version of the stage because there have been many alterations throughout the years. Bowmer discovered in performing specific moments – such as the entrance of the Ghost in Hamlet – that Shakespeare’s dramaturgy took into

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account the topography of the Elizabethan playhouse stage, as well as the practicalities of the text covering backstage crosses. As the Ghost, he found that the time it took for him to cross from one door to his entrance at another was covered by the exact number of lines Shakespeare provided in the text (Bowmer 1978: 19). This convinced him even more to closely study the texts for staging clues. He found economic advantages to using an Elizabethan stage, especially with the scarcity of resources available to him. Using the same stage year after year meant OSF could have a lower budget for scenery. Using Elizabethan period costumes and props for all of the productions was a further way to shrink expenditures, as they could recycle items from production to production. Bowmer borrowed Payne’s method of ‘zones’, the use of which, he found, created conflict and friction between the various areas. ‘Like magnets they sometimes link together, and sometimes repel each other causing a separation of the areas’ (Bowmer 1978: 22). An especially effective use of the middle space/inner below was in a production of Richard III where the two opposing armies were far stage right and stage left. The ghosts in Act 5 Scene 5 appeared centre through the inner below and, with the use of lighting, seemed to appear and disappear in a void. The staging created considerable tension among the three areas. He believed that the columns, which helped separate the space, could also provide opportunities for staging that could add to the tension. They were extremely flexible and could offer a place to deliver an aside or provide a space to watch a scene while hidden out of view; or they might represent a physical impediment for a character. Bowmer believed that the columns were ‘a focal point of action’ capable of generating ‘natural patterns of stage movement like magnetic fields’ (1978: 24). He found that an individual zone could become more powerful when joined with other zones. He did not recommend the use of stairs to connect the zones, such as joining the inner above with the main stage. Several directors had tried it, but the stairs created sight line issues, especially for the inner below, as well as limiting the use of the middle stage. Bowmer eventually abandoned using the pillar curtains to change scenery or indicate a change of place while a scene was played downstage. Instead, he used other approaches to placing furniture middle stage: Means have been found to have actors bring on such furniture without slowing up the scene transitions; also a slip stage has been constructed as a part of the six inch high platform that forms the lower floor of the pavilion. A bench, throne, or other piece of furniture can be set up behind the curtains within the pavilion and, as they part, the slipstage [sic] can be winched out smoothly to place the furniture in the center of the middle stage. (Bowmer 1978: 34) Another development over the years was the gradual movement of many scenes to the downstage zone. This was due to the elimination of the use

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of the pillar curtains that had created a more proscenium-like approach to staging and were responsible for poorer sight lines as the number of auditorium seats steadily increased. Bowmer rejected Payne’s practice of using two intermissions. In his lessons, Payne had emphasized there ‘were no indications … that [the plays] were intended to be presented with intermission’ (Bowmer 1975: 76). Yet, Payne insisted on them because he was worried modern audiences would not be able to sit without a break for two to two and a half hours. However, he instilled in Bowmer the idea that directors should follow the original Elizabethan production practices as much as possible. Bowmer embraced this precept and did not use intermissions: I ran an experiment the first three years of the Festival. We knew that being at the bottom, we had nothing to lose by experiment. I noted places for intermissions, but told the stage manager not to call them unless I said to. I then applied my eye to a knot hole every time I was off stage, and for three seasons I found no signs of restlessness to warrant an intermission. (Bowmer 1975: 76) So, Bowmer’s Elizabethan Theatre did not have intermissions. Payne imparted other lessons to Bowmer. They included doing a close examination of word definitions, themes and actions ‘as they would apply to an Elizabethan audience’ (Bowmer 1975: 32). One needed to consult the original textual sources and treat as suspect any editorial improvements. The director should also encourage the company to examine the ‘close relationship of prosody and meaning’ (Bowmer 1975: 32). A detailed script analysis was necessary to interpolate Shakespeare’s theatrical practices into a contemporary production (Bowmer 1975: 32). He felt that the aural and visual elements of the actor’s environment informed their situation and affected ‘the intellectual and emotional impact’ of their language and actions (Bowmer 1978: 36). Consequently, as each moment and part of the play created its own idiosyncratic impression, the director should supply ‘appropriate colors, movements, shapes and sounds to enhance (but not interfere with) the emotional and intellectual impacts of each play, each scene and often each moment’ (Bowmer 1978: 36). He believed that the approach to performance must be a theatrical one as the performer simultaneously is both an actor and the character on stage. The actor who plays Bottom, the Weaver, must persuade the audience to imagine that he is that character, but, as an actor he must be aware of where the audience is likely to laugh, how long they will laugh, and he must judge just when to break into laughter in order to keep the scene going at a proper tempo. (Bowmer 1978: 44)

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He thought the stage itself operated with this same theatrical duality. When a character such as Rosalind declares ‘Well, this is the Forest of Arden’, the audience recognizes the stage convention that this is the location where the scene will take place. Simultaneously ‘we know and accept the real fact that Rosalind and her companions are actually standing on a wooden platform which is an integral part of a functional architectural structure’ (Bowmer 1978: 45). The audience must acknowledge that the scene is in the Forest of Arden and it is happening on a stage. With but one exception – Hamlet – Bowmer refused to cut the productions, no matter how obscure a reference or misplaced a scene might seem. This was a departure from Payne and Poel, both of whom would not hesitate to make cuts if they felt it made their production more palatable to their audience. ‘I was not against cutting per se, but I believed that if every time we discovered a problem, we simply cut that part of the script, we never would learn how to solve those problems which were solvable’ (Bowmer 1975: 166). He was critical of other directors, such as Peter Brook and Tyrone Guthrie, for imposing their aural and visual effects that he felt were not in the text and should not be done in a Shakespeare theatre with an Elizabethan stage (Bowmer 1975: 184). He came to believe that a ‘definitive’ production was not possible (Bowmer 1978: 8). Yet, he favoured Shakespearean productions staged in an Elizabethan-style theatre because of the flexibility it supplied (see Figure 5). He attributed a great deal of OSF’s success to the stage’s plasticity and design that encouraged ‘a continuous story-telling tempo so essential in recapturing Shakespeare’s original intent’ (Bowmer 1978: 44). He disliked a representative approach to scenery as well as a realistic scene milieu that communicates location through inessential elements, ‘visual devices which indicate change from one place to another tend to jerk the audience’s attention from the smooth transitions which Shakespeare accomplishes with words’ (Bowmer 1978: 44). He was fond of pointing out that in the original source texts, Shakespeare never provided a stage direction that described the location or setting before a scene began. Bowmer encouraged a second generation of Shakespeare directors. Unlike other artistic directors who remain firm in their aesthetic beliefs, Bowmer was passionate about learning as much as he could, eagerly discovering new techniques from those with whom he came in contact. When it came to producing and directing Shakespeare, he was a humble man, freely admitting that he did not have all the answers. After a disastrous Hamlet that was ‘so far from what we were trying to do in Ashland’ in the 1947 season (the first season after the festival’s Second World War hiatus), Bowmer demanded each director submit their production prompt book along with ‘a written explanation of what he intended to do with his assigned script; and I required it be in my hands long before the director arrived in town’ (Bowmer 1975: 168–9). It also led him to choose directors who subscribed to and believed in the theatre’s philosophical approach. As a consequence of reviewing these plans, Bowmer continued to

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FIGURE 5  Photo of Hamlet (Frank Lambrett-Smith) and ensemble in Hamlet, 5.2, 1947, directed by Angus Bowmer. Photo by Dyer S. Huston. Courtesy of the Oregon Shakespeare Festival.

learn staging techniques from other directors. Many of these prompt books are in the archives at OSF and detail directors’ interpretations and staging. In addition, there is considerable correspondence from one director, James Sandoe, which describes the process and interpretative development of his approach to the productions. From Allen Fletcher, Bowmer learnt how to make the productions more physically dynamic. He observed how Fletcher could take a few company actors and make them look like an entire army through the use of staged choreography. ‘Allen … always sent his scripts with all the stage groupings indicated, not with customary diagrams, but with stick figures arranged in perspective pictures’ (Bowmer 1975: 202–3). Bowmer studied Fletcher’s drawings for ‘the minutely detailed choreography in the crowd scenes’ (1975: 203). He credits Fletcher with helping OSF combat the inert nature of their productions for which they had been criticized. Fletcher interpolated movement into the speeches ‘to utilize … the exciting strength of a long movement directly down stage from the inner-below to the front of the forestage’ (Bowmer 1975: 203). Bowmer felt Fletcher was responsible for revealing an enormous number of staging possibilities, as well as finding greater flexibility in OSF’s Elizabethan Theatre. Sandoe also introduced innovations. He believed the directorial responsibility was about teaching oneself, a view that Bowmer shared.

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Directing the plays was ‘a search for, rather than a proof of, methods of fitting together the scripts and the stage’ (Bowmer 1975: 204). Sandoe also found a way to get more stage time during rehearsals by typing his notes overnight, and delivering them to the actors at the next rehearsal. Individual attention to each actor’s development, as well as Sandoe’s carefully considered review of the previous rehearsals work, made for notes that were unmistakably communicated, inspiring and useful (Bowmer 1975: 204). One other dynamic contributed to the company’s new aesthetic. In 1948, Bowmer seized upon the idea of presenting Shakespeare’s ten history plays in the order in which the events they depict occur: one history to be performed in each season. These not only included the two tetralogies of Richard II, Henry IV Parts 1 and 2, Henry V, Henry VI Parts 1, 2 and 3, Richard III, but also King John and Henry VIII. Production of the history plays gave the company and its audiences a sense of closure as well as a feeling of commitment to a Shakespeare festival. They realized Shakespeare was an expert practitioner ‘whose scripts could be taken literally’ (Bowmer 1975: 221). Moreover, when a play presented production challenges or interpretation issues, a close study of the text provided the clues to resolving them. Individual productions now pursued the question: ‘“How can we make this production more like the one Shakespeare saw?” instead of “How can we invent some ingenious way of making it different for the sake of variety?”’ (Bowmer 1975: 221). Bowmer would argue that other theatres boast that they have performed Shakespeare’s complete oeuvre, but they have not produced all three of the separate plays in the Henry VI trilogy in separate productions as OSF had done. Angus Bowmer was artistic director of OSF from 1935 until 1971. He continued to direct and act frequently through the 1960s. His last production, The Merchant of Venice, opened the Angus Bowmer Theatre in 1970. Set in early-nineteenth-century Vienna, this production established a new tradition for OSF: more venturesome settings in a new indoor theatre. According to Carey, despite the change in period, the production was ‘traditional in general interpretation’ (1970: 461). A programme note from the director informed: ‘(1) The play is a Comedy. (2) It is not a play about Shylock, but rather about “the Merchant” (i.e., Antonio) and his friends. (3) Shylock is not a good Jew for more reasons than the fact that he goes to eat with the prodigal Christian, or plans to cut out a man’s heart’ (1970: 461–2). After the trial scene, attention was focused on the lovers’ reunion and friendship. Carey thought this production was remarkable ‘in that, seeking to solve no particular problem of the play, it ended by solving most of them’ (1970: 462).

1950s to the 1990s Between 1950 and the mid-1990s, there was considerable growth and change at OSF. Audiences continued to expand, as did the size of the production company and the number of productions offered each season.

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College students and faculty from drama departments predominated the companies at first, but OSF slowly became more sophisticated, moving from a company of amateurs to one dominated by professionals. By the 1980s, plays regularly featured age-appropriate actors. Experimentation with staging techniques continued on the outdoor stage. Some of it derived from Elizabethan practices while some of it did not. Directors used dynamic staging, special effects and strongly presentational methods to combat an acting company that did not always have the skills or the maturity to play Shakespeare’s great roles. Horn believed the company needed more emphasis on voice, lacking a ‘full-sounding of vowels’ and ‘the deep-hidden meanings of words’ that offered ‘profound insight into human nature’. He also wished the actors were more alert to ‘the swing of the blank verse’ in their speech (Horn 1956: 417). Responding to the 1957 season, he praised the ‘harmony of diction … unmarred by affected utterance’ and ‘a new, fresh exuberance’ when compared with English actors. English speakers had a superior ‘delicate chiseling of English’ in comparison with Americans. Regardless, he liked the laidback genuineness of the ‘speech and action … the product of good sense and experience’ (Horn 1957: 527). In 1960, Horn noted that a central purpose of the theatre was to serve as ‘a laboratory in which to study production practices at the Globe and the Fortune’ theatres (1960: 478). Considerable research and critical analysis of the physical characteristics of the Globe and the Fortune led OSF to base architectural decisions on the Fortune contract. Horn also remarked that ‘novelties and experimentation in staging and costuming’ were inconsistent and obtrusive at times (1960: 480). After viewing the 1964 season, Ogden considered the company to be in transition from ‘dedicated amateurism’ to one with ‘more professional standards and attitudes’. He found that frequently the ‘stage picture overshadows company performances’ and depth of character and variety of humour are rarely anything more than what is obvious (Ogden 1964: 413). By 1974, Carey wrote that OSF audiences have moved beyond expecting to attend plays whose goal is ‘to preserve and to revive, traditional mountings and interpretations’ (1974: 419). He thought the acting company to be ‘a mature, well-balanced, and talented’ one not seen there before (Carey 1974: 421). Reviewing the 1981–4 seasons, Frey objected to an approach that favoured ‘velvet and ogle broad acting, [and sought] to trade sight for sound, to skim the shallow and skip over the deep’ (1982: 400). He marked a culture steeped in bardolatry. Bowmer’s ‘concept of an acceptable playing area included an Elizabethan stage façade and some 1200 shallow-banked seats which place the bulk of the spectators farther from the stage than the rear wall of the Fortune Theatre was from its stage’, frustrating any sense of intimacy (Frey 1982: 400). Working within this space, actors ‘resort to bellowing and to gestural caricature. Costume designers tend to follow suit, swathing the actors in bright pageant-stuff, and directors arrange the scenes for far-off display’ (Frey 1982: 400). With no vocal coaches to advise, actors

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abuse their instruments. He disapproved of the ‘antiquarian orthodoxy’ that the festival works so hard to maintain: essentially an ‘olde merrie Englande’ ambiance that ignores ‘a more problematic complex Shakespeare with occasional disorientation, indefinition, irony, and doubt’ (Frey 1984: 352). The productions did not reflect an American sensibility or even anything ‘audience revealing’ in their work (Frey 1985: 488). ‘If they held a mirror up to our natures, then our natures are reflected in Britishy stage accents, thick defensive surfaces of costume, and an unwillingness to experiment or to vary the formula toward a less super-technical production style’ (Frey 1985: 488). He longed for a ‘propless, decorless, street-clothes acting’ with perhaps ‘a native accent and tonality’, which would be a ‘less showy, less unified, less pseudo-confident rendition of ourselves’ (Frey 1985: 488). While Frey lambasted the OSF work, other reviewers found much to celebrate in the work of their best productions.

Robert Loper, Rod Alexander, Richard Risso Although OSF supported the careers of numerous freelance directors, most did not write about their directing philosophy and methods as Payne had done. Nevertheless, reviewers from Shakespeare Quarterly and Shakespeare Bulletin frequently critiqued the work. From the mid-1950s to the mid1960s, the work of several directors – Robert Loper, Rod Alexander and Richard Risso – impressed reviewers. With the completion of the 1958 season, OSF had produced the entire Shakespeare canon. According to Johnson, the hit of the season was Robert Loper’s King Lear: ‘Dramatic tension … was so skillfully built up that it swept the audience swiftly and steadily forward from one emotional peak to another. Rarely was this tension broken’ (1958: 544). The play was produced without elaborate effects. ‘A thunder sheet alone gave atmosphere to the storm scene’ (Johnson 1958: 544). Johnson thought the balcony was overused and led to some awkward staging, exploited merely because of its convenience, not because a line or location suggested it. Also, the pace of action and line delivery was so rapid that ‘many crucial lines were tossed away’ during the frequent entrances and exits (Johnson 1958: 547). Horn found Alexander’s Comedy of Errors the most outstanding production of the 1962 season. The director had based his approach on characteristics of commedia dell’arte intermingled with medieval theatre’s representation of good, evil and temptation. He employed a simultaneous staging approach using stations or houses as scenic background. There were two such structures: ‘Ill Fame’ and ‘Holiness’ that helped underscore this approach (Horn 1962: 551). A neat staging showed both sets of twins in ‘a rapid counterpoint of appearing and disappearing that used all the resources of doors and windows’, which allowed the audience to view ‘both pairs of twins without their being aware of each other’ (Horn 1962: 551). Another

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effect was a puppet-like approach to the two Dromios: ‘Pulled by invisible wires – arms, legs, eyebrows, wide, cackling, gabby mouths, tasseled caps and crinkly hair, all responding as jerky mechanisms. At times, master and man merged into one multiple-limbed creature under the pressure of bewilderment’ (Horn 1962: 551). While Loper’s Romeo and Juliet was a strong production in the 1963 season, Alexander’s Love’s Labour’s Lost was ‘the artistic triumph’ according to Prosser (1963: 452). One talented bit of staging was achieved in the letter scene ‘in which every lover reads his love letter … and then is surprised and hides’ (Prosser 1963: 453). It became a complicated competition ‘of musical chairs, each [character] frantically scooting to a new vantage point as he was about to be discovered. Rosaline’s little “Thou canst not hit it” exchange with Boyet … became a teasing dance with the four girls circling the suave courtier, who clearly enjoyed a relationship of affectionate intimacy with his charges’ (Prosser 1963: 453). Prosser appreciated the way the director accepted the play ‘on its own terms’ as well as approached ‘the serious ending seriously’ (1963: 453). Risso’s Macbeth was the highlight of the 1965 season. Nichols felt it was directed ‘with so much skill, so rich an imagination that it held the suspense even through the series of final battle scenes, up to the last instant’ (1965: 343). She also thought the apparition scene was inspired: Tall kings in black robes and crowns, hands crossed like tomb effigies, paced from a far door to encircle Macbeth – the charm wound up. The Weird Sisters, even in a daylight opening, were figures of the earth and beyond nature. Their crooked staves caught the light and made patterns of confused triangles, the accent of the lies suggested incantation without falling into doggerel. (Nichols 1965: 343) Risso’s handling of the play’s ending solved several of the piece’s thornier issues. Rather than stage Burnam Wood coming to Dunsinane, the director had Malcolm direct his order ‘your leafy greens throw down’ to an offstage army. Risso utilized the stage’s many parts, including the above and below areas, to provide a ‘sense of attacking the castle, of closing in’ (Nichols 1965: 344). For the climactic fight between Macbeth and Macduff, Risso had Macbeth circled by his adversaries who watched his last moments intently. As soon as Macduff slew him, the stage transformed into celebration. A ‘light that shone down on the head drooping from a pike on the gallery suddenly picked up the glittering sword of the young king pointing up at it’ (Nichols 1965: 344). An exciting and effective production, Nichols thought.

Jerry Turner Jerry Turner became artistic director in 1971, replacing Bowmer. He had been an actor at OSF in the 1957 season and began directing in 1959. Before

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coming to OSF, he was chair at the University of California at Riverside and at Humboldt State College. Not long after the Bowmer Theatre opened, critics remarked that Turner seemed to excel with the productions he directed in that venue. Turner was known for his novel settings, his manipulation of the text, interpolations and transposing of scenes: Theatre is supposed to be disturbing. … Expanding an audience’s horizons doesn’t necessarily mean doing new work … American theatre in recent years has tended to turn away from the rich heritage of the past. The danger isn’t so much not doing new work as in ignoring the old work. Besides, just because a play was written a long time ago doesn’t make it old. There won’t be anything old about The Shoemaker’s Holiday once we get through with it here. (Oregon Shakespeare Festival n.d.) He also defined what he thought a ‘vivid production’ was: ‘I’d say it’s the controversy outside the theatre’. He believed in approaching plays ‘with our own 20th-century skills and insights to bring them forcefully into our consciousness as living documents’ (Oregon Shakespeare Festival n.d.). He ended Bowmer’s uncut, intermission-less productions in the outdoor Elizabethan Theatre. Under Turner’s leadership, OSF received the Tony Award in 1983 for outstanding work as a regional theatre. Ogden thought his 1 Henry VI was ‘a rich Elizabethan pageant’ with a memorable opening sequence: A muffled drum beat a dead march in the darkness as torches appeared on stage and the lights came up on the draped coffin of Henry V, rolled forward and eventually surrounded by the heavy-robed leaders of the English court. Majestically the stage picture came alive with the dispute between Winchester and Gloucester, and the pace reached a crescendo as, one after the other, messengers delivered the news of French revolt and Talbot’s defeat. And out of the local quarrel evolved a real sense of urgency with the running messengers and the more staccato movements and speeches of the courtiers. The pictorial composition and the tempo of the scene were handled with taste and dignity. (Ogden 1964: 412) While the opening was promising, Ogden thought subsequent scenes suffered from insufficient attention and detail. Turner’s 1977 Measure for Measure emphasized the characters’ psychological motivations throughout the production in an early-twentiethcentury Vienna. He staged an intriguing opening sequence, executed before the first line was uttered:

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After the brief appearance of a nun, the Duke … descended a staircase, seated himself, and pondered his book of state while Viennese waltzes played in the background. When the music turned discordant, Kremer rapped his leg with a riding crop in obvious anguish; the audience then saw behind him the shadowy figure of a naked woman, hanging by her wrists, being whipped. Ultimately, the Duke broke off this vision and, in a shaken voice, called out for Escalus … delivering the speeches that constitute the bulk of 1.1 in hurried anguished tones. (Dessen 1978: 279) There were also many comic moments with Pompey, Elbow, Froth, Mrs Overdone and Barnadine. Lucio was depicted as a ‘smooth, witty gentleman who toyed with everyone on stage’ (Dessen 1978: 279). Turner ended the production with an equally controversial staging. He rejected all comedy by painting a picture of no happy couples. Isabella had ‘a mournful expression’; Escalus had his back to the Duke, feeling like he’d been used; ‘a disconsolate Angelo’ was sitting, with Mariana next to him, ‘staring off mournfully’; Claudio and Juliet were standing ‘subdued, seemingly defeated or stricken’; Vincentio offered his hand to Isabella, ‘sustained this posture for several beats (while no one else moved), and finally, as the lights went down, let his hand drop slowly’ (Dessen 1978: 279). In 1978, OSF celebrated a second completion of Shakespeare’s canon with Turner’s production of Timon of Athens. The programme suggested audiences ‘view the authors work, not as something perfect, but as something flawed, experimental, and in process’ (Dessen 1979: 253–4). The first act was played in a sumptuous ultra-contemporary living room. Characters were dressed in white ‘business suits, leisure outfits, [or] Arab dress’, supporting the notion that they were in the oil and shipping business (Dessen 1979: 254). At the end of part one, Timon chased his would-be flatterers around the stage, pulling off their clothes and ripping apart his living room. Just at the moment when the flatterers were escaping, the entire set revolved to show the rough backstage view of the set, similar to a production of Noises Off. ‘Turner’s first act ended with Timon rising out of the darkness above (still in his white suit) to deliver over the heads of the audience his tirade against Athens (4.1) while stripping off most of his clothes’ (Dessen 1979: 255). Subsequent costumes had a radically different look from the ‘opulent’ look of part one: ‘Figures were now clothed simply, at times in “rehearsal dress”, with Alcibiades and the two whores in olive drab fatigue uniforms, the thieves in makeshift array, the Senators in dark business suits, Timon in loin cloth and striped gown (a Moses in the wilderness)’ (Dessen 1979: 255). In the final scene, upon learning the senators were only meeting with Timon because he was needed to rescue Athens from Alcibiades, ‘the anger and misanthropy of his final speeches became even more powerful. … “Lips, let four words go by and language end!” [which he accomplished] by biting out his tongue. … [This led to] a powerful and stunning climax to

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the vituperation and verbal anguish that dominated the second half of this production’ (Dessen 1979: 255). Dessen’s review of OSF’s 1980 Coriolanus praised Turner as a master at using the Bowmer Theatre. He found Coriolanus to be one of the most effective and persuasive productions in seven seasons of visits. The director took many textual liberties through rewrites, changing poetry into prose, ‘transposing elements to simplify syntax and meaning, substituting modern words for archaisms’. He wrote that the excisions and substitutions were meant to impart lucidity and precision instead of to aid a concept. In the opening sequence ‘the audience, seated in total darkness, heard violent crowd noises and then saw a scruffy mob storm through a rope barrier (a sight calculated to conjure up recent images of Iran and other turbulent places)’ (Dessen 1981: 271). Dessen thought the scene with Coriolanus and Volumnia (3.2) the best of the season: At the outset, Coriolanus was seated alone, sword in hand, musing on his mother’s lack of support for his non-compromising stand – an apparent rock of stability and purpose. At Volumnia’s entrance, he began to justify himself … but already the spectator could see signs of the rock beginning to crumble. … At Menenius’ ‘repent what you have spoke’, [Coriolanus] leapt up, his back to us, reacting violently to any such bending … but now Volumnia began to dominate the stage … and in the process molding her son into a shape she could handle, manipulate. … The man who was a rock for everyone else had become putty in his mother’s hands. After his capitulation … [Volumnia] turned to go and, with powerful, deadly sarcasm, delivered her exit line – ‘Do your will’ – which became for me the most telling single line in the production. This striking exit … was then followed by Coriolanus’ equally telling departure; his final ‘mildly’ was an angry, frustrated shout that … had an ominous ring that prefigured his almost inevitable failure to live up to his pledge in the next scene. (Dessen 1981: 272–3) In the confrontation scene between Coriolanus and the plebeians (3.3), Menenius, Cominius and Coriolanus ‘stood upstage and slightly elevated’ while the mob was downstage ‘strung out along the lip between the audience and Coriolanus’. The effect was arresting. Using a microphone, Sicinius ‘baited Coriolanus into the self-destructive responses’. As tension reached a peak, Coriolanus stopped Cominius from speaking in his defense, stared down at the mob in disgust … and delivered his ‘I banish you’ speech with a stunning combination of passion and quiet, lethal contempt. As the mob started to chant, he turned to go, stopped for one last look, and then left the stage to the sound of their ‘It shall be so!’ Turning to the audience, the mob continued their chanting and ended Turner’s first act with a powerful ‘Banish!’ (Dessen 1981: 273)

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Dessen thought the final scene offered the production’s ‘most striking and controversial moment’. The director made two substantial alterations. He disregarded the text’s stage direction depicting Coriolanus’ death, and he deleted the lords as well as many of their lines; most of what remained was reassigned to the conspirator. Turner had the murder carried out by both commoners and conspirators, in essence pitting everyone on stage against Coriolanus: [That choice gave Coriolanus] the opportunity to act as an almost superhuman figure who, although given a series of mortal wounds, kept getting up, kept moving on, and eventually (in high heroic fashion) leapt to his death – in effect, choosing his own moment to die rather than being brought down by lesser men … the voices of restraint and the comments upon the murder provided by the lords were eliminated. Rather, the spectators at this performance saw everyone on stage pitted against one heroic individual, standing and falling alone, whose death thereby enhanced his stature (an effect denied by the Folio stage direction, especially with its image of Aufidius standing or treading on the prostrate body). (Dessen 1981: 273–4) This production’s text changes aside, Dessen thought this Coriolanus was ‘exciting, gripping, and theatrically very successful’ (1981: 274). Turner delivered an updated Julius Caesar in the 1982 season. ‘A series of roman-arched colonnades at the rear and sides of the stage framed several sets of steps and blocks for the playing area, and a roll of barbed wire was suspended high across the rear of the stage. An array of Arab, Western, and military garb suggested the contemporary Near East or North Africa’ (Streitberger 1983: 348). Turner’s concept was informed by the recent assassination of President Sadat of Egypt. Turner employed visceral effects throughout. The famous Philippi battle was reconstructed with arresting special effects suggesting modern artillery, helicopters, grenades and bombs that one might see on any evening news show’s coverage of war. Brutus wore a suit and tie, glasses without rims ‘an unheroic but intensely serious professor type’ who would intellectualize Caesar’s assassination (Streitberger 1983: 348). ‘His hesitation in striking the final blow into the dying Caesar, his horror and struggle with momentary remorse directly after, his wrestling with doubts in the scene with Portia and his essential kindness during the argument with Cassius provided some of the most moving moments in the performance’ (Streitberger 1983: 348). Other contemporary touches included a jogging Mark Antony (with suit and sweatband), a Portia dressed like a Philadelphia society doyenne. Few lines were excised. Other character changes included a bag lady soothsayer and a female Casca in a ‘military jacket, tight skirt, heavy makeup, and severe hair style’ (Streitberger 1983: 348). She was the first to stab Caesar, which she thrust into his neck, the gesture full of sinister sexuality. Soldiers guarded

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the theatre’s exit doors during the murder. While Mark Antony eulogized, actors looked expectantly to the audience for a reaction. At Philippi, the sounds of bombs dropping were punctuated with smoke drifting through the space. The production had a potent ‘tension between dialogue and costuming’, echoing a subterranean strain between the director’s choices and the contemporary world (Streitberger 1983: 349). Streitberger objected to the setting’s transposition and production updates, arguing, ‘We lost the distances we needed in order to appreciate the timelessness of the action’ (1983: 349). But Turner’s directorial purpose was to find relevance in Shakespeare’s text through contemporary parallels that often provoked controversy. His work was never about aesthetic ‘distances’.

Laird Williamson, Jim Edmondson, Audrey Stanley The most gripping production of 1973, according to Carey, was Laird Williamson’s Henry V, ‘a lengthy but compelling production that combined good acting with a controlled and comprehensive directorial vision’ (1973: 440). One of its most effective scenes was the battle at Agincourt: A few clashes of swords preceded an impressive march of darklycostumed, dimly-lighted soldiers, their spears thudding in tempo on the stage floor as they marched. The crescendo of pounding spears climaxes in an explosion of white light spotted on the torn and bloody bodies of the English boys. The soldier’s spears, discarded onstage as each exited, were collected from both sides of the stage in formal movements as background to Henry’s reading of the lists of the dead. (Carey 1973: 440) For scene changes, the company moved two tall square edifices to signify the many locations in the play. The director began with a prologue and ended with an epilogue, using a similar Latin hymn that at the start, merged into Shakespeare’s opening lines – the chorus’ text being uttered by the entire company. Similarly, the final ‘Chorus’ lines were also spoken by the company. For both scenes, a kind of moving tableau vivant depicted Henry and Katherine attempting to touch each other without success. Audrey Stanley directed an impressive The Winter’s Tale in the 1975 season. Dessen felt the production’s success was due in part to the fine acting by Edmondson (Leontes) as well as the director’s ‘control of blocking and detail’. He praised her rendering of Shakespeare’s separate looks for The Winter’s Tale’s several parts. The first was Sicilia’s icy tragic look, next came Bohemia’s country rendition of springtime and finally ‘the transformed world of the final scenes’ (Dessen 1976: 91). ‘The stylized, formal activity of Leontes’ court (with the King gradually isolating himself) was contrasted

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to the informal, rustic energy of the sheep-shearing feast with its maypole, merriment, and sense of community’ (Dessen 1976: 91). The scenery, costumes and lighting were strikingly coordinated (Dessen 1976: 91). Dessen remarked that the final scene ‘produced one of the most moving moments I have experienced in the theater’ (1976: 92): Hermione rose from below in a curtained kiosk, her motionless posture so convincing that members of the audience were continually looking at the programs to determine if indeed they were looking at a statue. When Paulina finished her plea for the descent, Hermione delayed, leaving the viewer in suspense for a telling moment. The graceful movement downward, the joining of hands … and the subsequent revelations were then controlled by Edmondson through face, voice, and gesture. All the details here (and in the scenes building up to this moment) were carefully orchestrated to produce the maximum effect – Shakespeare’s effect  … Stanley was working with an almost uncut text. … The technical expertise and virtuosity were not used to update or transform this play. Rather, thanks to the director’s sure hand, this production successfully realized the spirit and meanings of the text for a modern audience that, informed or uninformed about the nature of romance, could (and did) respond feelingly and appropriately to the final scene. (Dessen 1976: 92–3) Sets and costumes highlighted an ageless approach rather than depicting any specific time. Through the use of adjustable platforms and arches, the set design rendered each new scene, offering a sense of cohesion through the use of the same structures while providing distinctly separate looks. A ‘visually stimulating production with marvelous color’ (Dessen 1976: 86), Edmondson’s 1975 Romeo and Juliet was notable for the director’s interpolation of continual movement to the text. An exciting opening depicted ‘a bustling street scene … which built to an elaborate brawl sweeping back and forth across the stage; not only Montagues and Capulets but also innocent bystanders were drawn in, in particular a child who was discovered killed once the fray was over’ (Dessen 1976: 86). The ball scene was ‘lavishly and tastefully’ rendered, complete with Italian Renaissance dances in between ‘cross-currents of action and dialogue’ (Dessen 1976: 86). Placing the bed on the balcony gave the parting scene some nice moments, but created some awkward ones when Juliet’s body is discovered as Capulet ‘had to exit and reappear above, thereby drawing out the bombastic reactions that are best delivered quickly’ (Dessen 1976: 88). He also found the last scene’s staging to be deficient due to a set design that exploited two large grates for the tomb. ‘Consequently, the many references in the text to opening, enforcing, digging, and descending were cut, as were the mattocks and crowbars Shakespeare gives to both Romeo and the Friar’ (Dessen 1976: 88). The fight between Paris and Romeo was ‘woefully weak’, making

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Romeo more ‘romantic, less distracted’, lessening the dimensionality of his character (Dessen 1976: 88). Edmondson directed a solid Much Ado About Nothing in the 1976 season, which Dessen believed to be ‘the most fully realized script’ of that season (1977: 246). The director fixed on a central production image: ‘The shuffling of several decks of cards’ (Dessen 1977: 247). The boisterous humour was given space, but also the more serious moments were rendered. A programme note explained that the production would stress role-playing in ‘a world which places greater value on the manners, formalities, and ceremonies of relationships than on their human essence’ (Dessen 1977: 247). The splendid Renaissance costumes and visuals ‘flowed from a vision of the play fully justified by the script’ (Dessen 1977: 247). A particularly humorous moment was Benedick attempting to read ‘his prepared remarks from sheets of paper that kept slipping away or getting out of order’ (Dessen 1977: 247). This was presented on the upper stage, while below, Claudio and Don Pedro snickered at his attempts. Frey thought Edmondson’s 1  Henry IV (1981) in OSF’s Elizabethan Theatre was ‘shrewd and stylish’ (1982: 403). Substantial textual excisions reduced the number of characters and ‘speeded up the pace’ (Frey 1982: 403). However, he listed scenes he was sorry to lose, which included ‘the Carriers’ innyard scene (2.) and that between York and Sir Michael (IV.iv)’ (Frey 1982: 403). The climatic combat scenes were effective ‘with smoky hordes of extras in ceremonial movements played off against individual and athletic swordfights’ (Frey 1982: 403). He précised that many of the production choices ‘propelled the play in the direction of universalized, too-timeless comedy’, a criticism he had for most of the OSF work (Frey 1982: 404). Edmondson’s Macbeth was presented in the outdoor Elizabethan Theatre in the 1987 season. There were few cuts and ‘an almost full script [was] presented clearly and audibly’ (Dessen 1988: 218). A distinctive staging feature was Seyton’s ‘enhanced presence’ in which he appeared in many more scenes than Shakespeare’s text assigned him (Dessen 1988: 218). The origin of this idea came from a line in 3.1: ‘There’s not a one of them but in his house/I keep a servant fee’d’. Edmondson interpreted that to denote that this person is a spy and might also be in Macbeth’s house as well. Beginning with 1.4, Seyton was a shadowy menacing manifestation ‘lurking around the Macbeth’s household’ (Dessen 1988: 218). He announced to Lady Macbeth that Macbeth is almost there. He also appeared in brief moments in other scenes, such as serving as a messenger sent off by Macbeth, or watching Macbeth talk to Banquo. After Duncan’s murder, Seyton came down the stairs and became the Porter, even reacting to some drops of blood remaining from before (‘he wipes them off with his glove’, Dessen 1988: 218). He became ‘increasingly surly and hence slow to react to orders’ from his boss (Dessen 1988: 219). After being dismissed, he watched the two murderers scene, and then joined them as the third murderer. Seyton

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took many of Hecate’s lines with a few word adjustments. By including Hecate, Dessen believed Edmondson gave ‘a fresh look at an old problem (the witches, the nature of evil, the powers at work in this tragedy)’ (1988: 220). After Seyton/Hecate leaves, the cauldron scene (4.1) unfolded. Seyton was ‘an inhuman someone or something’ and while the witches at this point disappear from the play, Seyton remained very much involved (Dessen 1988: 219). In 5.2 and 5.3, ‘a lurking Seyton observes the sleepwalking from above’ (Dessen 1988: 219). No longer helping his leader, he continued to resist Macbeth’s ‘repeated calls for the armor’ (Dessen 1988: 219). Seyton watched Macbeth deliver the ‘tomorrow’ speech’ from the same position where he stood during Lady Macbeth’s sleepwalking scene (Dessen 1988: 219). The Folio does not mention Seyton again, but Siward’s lines ‘This way, my lord’ and ‘Enter, sir, the castle’ became Seyton’s as he beckoned Macduff up the stairs and into Macbeth’s castle (Dessen 1988: 219). The director’s treatment of Seyton suggested that ‘some forces are always there, waiting’ (Dessen 1988: 220). This was underscored in Seyton’s last appearance, in which he watched Macduff enter with Macbeth’s head. The lights faded, leaving ‘an overall sense of weariness rather than eeriness. The director placed no special emphasis upon Seyton (above) in the final moments, but he was there, so some issues have not been resolved’ (Dessen 1988: 220). For Dessen, Seyton’s continual presence insinuated that someone with a relationship to the witches is ‘still lurking, hovering … so that one figure linked to the moral-political pollution remains in sight’ (1988: 220). Thus, the production left the audience considering whether the cycle will begin over again. Williamson and Edmondson have continued to direct at OSF up to the present time. Williamson is a freelance director. Edmondson is a regular company member, with a history of acting and directing in most seasons. Audrey Stanley, a professor emerita at the University of California-Santa Cruz, co-founded Shakespeare Santa Cruz where she was artistic director from 1982 to 1986 and maintained a long association with that company.

Pat Patton Pat Patton’s credits at OSF go back to 1964 when he was production stage manager. Later, he directed, and became associate artistic director for the company, where he remained until 1995. His 1976 King Lear allowed for the text’s varied colours and tones, ‘giving full rein to the horror and brutality’ as well as the ‘love and sympathy’ according to Dessen. He complimented Patton’s ‘use of the upper stage to increase narrative intensity’. The director employed ‘a cross-cut technique’ by varying the use of the above and below areas to help with maintaining rapid scene changes. Sometimes this contributed to a ‘loss of intimacy’ with such moments as an Edgar soliloquy above, but the loss was countered by

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‘gains in narrative flow’ (Dessen 1977: 248). The last scene was performed ‘straight … with no distinctive innovations and a basic simplicity of presentation’. Lear’s first two ‘howls’ were sounded offstage ‘with everyone on stage frozen by the sound’. Then a compelling entrance: [Lear held] Cordelia in both arms, rarely looked away from her face and crooned many of the lines at her, especially during his last speech. … The final lines were delivered softly with only a touch of excitement, so Arndt [Lear] did not guide the audience to any of the many interpretations of what Lear sees or thinks he sees. The effect was fitting and moving without being insistently transcendental or illusory. (Dessen 1977: 251) Dessen thought Patton’s production ‘unpretentious, well acted, well paced, and gripping’ (1977: 252). He lauded the production’s lack of a directorial concept as ‘for once the play was allowed to speak for itself with relatively few preconceptions imposed upon it’ (Dessen 1977: 252). Patton staged 3  Henry VI for OSF’s Elizabethan Theatre in the 1977 season. Given possible audience uncertainty concerning the identities of the historical characters and lack of familiarity with the events of the play, the director was able to clarify through use of clever colour schemes with the costumes and properties as well as through ‘clear blocking of the opposing sides in the big confrontation scenes’, a considerable challenge on the Elizabethan Theatre’s wide stage (Dessen 1978: 283–4). Patton’s company delivered energetic performances, with a strong forward pace instilled by the director and aided by judicious cuts. Patton underscored Henry’s isolation throughout by showing him in between the warring parties or ‘placed above the fray … with no effect upon the action’ (Dessen 1978: 284). Particularly well staged were the many battles depicting ‘the never-ending cycle of violence and brutality’ (Dessen 1978: 285). According to Dessen, Patton’s work was a thorough exploration of the text’s images and ideas. Dessen praised Patton’s ability to ‘tell a story swiftly and forcefully’ in his review of the 1979 season (1980: 278). His Macbeth, running without an intermission, was two and a half hours long. The intention was to ‘assault’ the spectators by ‘wrapping them around with sound and hitting them with spots and strobes and flashing lights’ (Dessen 1980: 279). The murder of Banquo was performed in ‘total darkness’ after which strong lights were brought up for the banquet scene ‘already in place’ (Dessen 1980: 279). Sombre moments were emphasized by flickering lights, such as during the murder of Macduff’s family. ‘Also quite successful was the jolt back to the “real” world in 4.1, when, after the sudden departure of the witches, normal light reappeared from the audience and for a confused, disturbed Macbeth’ (Dessen 1980: 279). In the final moments, Patton staged the three witches hovering over Macbeth’s body ‘as if feeding upon him’ (Dessen 1980: 279). The strongest scene was Lady Macbeth’s sleep walking scene. At first, the actress spoke in ‘a matter-of-fact tone’ but then began to vary the rhythms

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and employ different voices in the half phrases ahead (Dessen 1980: 280). On ‘Who would have thought the old man to have so much blood in him’, there was ‘a fearful sobbing not heard before’, followed by a ‘high-pitched child’s voice’ (Dessen 1980: 280). Her last ‘give me your hand’ was delivered to the audience ‘accompanied by a slight moving of the fingers that recalled the blood, the spot that remained’ (Dessen 1980: 280). Streitberger praised Patton’s 1982 Henry V, produced in the outdoor Elizabethan Theatre. ‘The cast played with such imaginative power and generated such intensity that costumes [jeans and tennis shoes] were superfluous and foul weather a mere inconvenience’ (Streitberger 1983: 350). He applauded Bruce Gooch’s Henry for achieving a ‘psychological depth’ that revealed varied colours in scene after scene (Streitberger 1983: 350). Throughout the performance, Gooch played Henry with ‘complexity and intensity’ (Streitberger 1983: 350). The actor’s presence was, in fact, so compelling that it ‘quite subdue[d] the text’s rather undramatic series of triumphs’ (Streitberger 1983: 350). Overall, he thought the director ‘gave us a vigorous production. His cuts, such as the history of the Salic Law, slimmed down the longer speeches’ (Streitberger 1983: 350). He disliked superfluous appendages in the early scenes such as ‘Falstaff reveling at Gloucestershire, receiving the news of Hal’s coronation’ (Streitberger 1983: 351). He also disapproved of the ‘interpolated coronation scene’ and Henry’s rejection of Falstaff (Streitberger 1983: 351). He found poignant Falstaff’s ‘I shall be sent for soon at night’ (Streitberger 1983: 351). Streitberger thought this production was the season’s best and worthy of a laurel. In fifteen seasons, the 1991 season had the most ‘tinkering’ with received texts, Dessen wrote (1992: 474). All four OSF productions ‘provided substantial evidence of a resistance to the script’ (Dessen 1992: 474). The Henry VI trilogy was condensed into two parts with the second production to be offered the following season. ‘As an adept storyteller, Patton therefore made a strenuous (and often successful) effort to find an integrity and continuity in this play-and-a-half (up through the death of Suffolk in 4.1), so that it could stand on its own legs as a discrete unit’ (Dessen 1992: 475): The increased pace and the many cinematic crosscuts (wherein one part of the stage was darkened so that other figures could appear above or on a set of stairs) heightened the many divisions among the English … a process aided by Patton’s skillful use of banners, roses, color-coded maps, and other aids for the untutored playgoer. Patton also got a great deal of mileage out of the supernatural events, as with Joan’s standoff in combat with Talbot in 1.5 (where she avoided an apparent defeat by a magical touch, then kissed him), her appeal to the fiends in 5.3, her spectacular burning at the stake (surrounded by the fiends), and the invocation of spirits by Marjory Jourdain in 1.4. (Dessen 1992: 476)

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Because of the condensing required, ‘Patton’s script yielded even more action and business per square inch than the original’ (Dessen 1992: 476). To aid in the necessary compression, he regrouped scenes by location, eliminated alternating episodes, but used ‘cinematic crosscuts’ between the two (Dessen 1992: 476). Dessen thought the Henry VI the strongest of the season because ‘what was presented onstage did work and was theatrically exciting’ (1992: 477).

Henry Woronicz Henry Woronicz was a company member who had more of a reputation for his acting than his directing. He was chosen as artistic director to replace Turner, who retired in 1991. He directed an outstanding 2 Henry IV for the 1989 season. Dessen listed a common tactic other productions used in tackling this piece: to pare down the rebel scenes. But director Woronicz, while excising some of the speeches and toasts in 4.2, kept those scenes in ‘a lightly cut script’ (Dessen 1990: 358). Henry IV’s death was moved onstage in 4.5. Dessen found this to be a powerful choice. Another change the reviewer applauded was the director’s merging of some of the lords’ characters ‘so as to reduce the number of actors needed and to avoid confusion’ for a US audience unversed in British royal history (Dessen 1990: 358). The director also added a prologue featuring a company of players. They arrived ‘with their costumes and properties to join in the final chorus and ease into the first scene’ (Dessen 1990: 359). Those not involved, watched from the sidelines, occasionally tossing a cue to an actor or reminding someone to exit. A player introduced each scene, informing the audience of the location. Characters, such as Henry IV and Silence, who die onstage, stood and left the playing area afterwards ‘so as to remind us of “theatricality”’ (Dessen 1990: 359). Scenes were repositioned, some conjoined together. The director underscored a darker, more violent side to the tavern characters, such as Doll and Pistol. Even Falstaff attacked Coleville ‘by catching him unawares and driving his head into a post so as to draw considerable blood’ (Dessen 1990: 359). Woronicz also moved a scene with Henry and various lords to earlier in the play, allowing for Henry’s presence well before his usual appearance in the second half of the text. [In 1.3. the Archbishop] moved from below to above to deliver the lines describing Richard II (a forceful moment that, in effect, evoked the image of the previous king). During this speech … Ramirez’s Henry IV moved slowly downstage below in a half-light, so that this troubled figure was in view during the Archbishop’s evocation of the kingdom’s present ills. … At the close … Ramirez moved above to take a seat on the throne that remained in view throughout the show, staying motionless in regal silence until the middle of 2.3, when he slowly took off his robe, gloves,

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and other accouterments to become one of the drawers at the beginning of 2.4. Near the end of that tavern scene, he again donned his regal robes so as to deliver the speech that begins 3.1. (Dessen 1990: 359–60) Thus, Henry’s physical presence in the play was much earlier than scripted. The director ‘used his brooding presence to underscore the diseases of the kingdom’ (Dessen 1990: 360). Woronicz echoed this staging by having Henry V ascend the throne at the end ‘stony-faced and regal’. Falstaff’s line ‘I shall be sent for soon at night’ was his last (the lines that follow were interpolated earlier). ‘A dubious Shallow, Pistol, Bardolph and the boy’ eventually wander off, but an insistent Falstaff lingered, ‘waiting, even though no change was to be seen in Henry V above’ (Dessen 1990: 360). Finally, the travelling players frame returned, with all actors striking their props and costumes and exiting. Falstaff remained, watching and waiting. At last, ‘the actor started to take off his ruff, turned upstage, looked above at the unmoving figure, and began to depart into the darkness … Henry V had not sent for him … an enormous burst of sound (a huge door slamming?) and darkness (with no visible movement from Barricelli’s king)’ (Dessen 1990: 360). Dessen thought this ‘a powerful climax to a difficult script’ (1990: 360). Libby Appel took over as artistic director in 1995. When she retired in 2007, Bill Rauch became artistic director. He recently announced that he will become artistic director for New York City’s Ronald O. Perelman Centre for the Performing Arts, leaving OSF in August 2019. (For more information on Woronicz, Appel and Rauch, see Ney 2016.) The influence of OSF in the United States is considerable. It is the oldest continuously producing Shakespeare festival in North America. Many notable actors and directors got their start there, including Stacy Keach, George Peppard, William Ball, Elizabeth Huddle, Nagle Jackson, Dick Cavett, Ann Guilbert, Joan Darling, Richard Graham, Monte Markham, Michael O’Sullivan, Philip Hanson, Laird Williamson, William Oyler, James Edmonson and Jon Jory. In his autobiography, Bowmer boasts that, of twelve resident theatres listed in Who’s Who in American Theatre for 1965, ten of those theatres had hired OSF alumni. During the same period, there were sixty-nine productions in New York with at least one former member of OSF. Since then, its sway on US theatre has continued to grow. It employs more Equity actors than any other theatre in the United States. Its educational arm has introduced hundreds of thousands of students to Shakespeare. The company has contributed substantially to the growth of Shakespeare audiences and Shakespeare theatres across the country.

3 Directors at the Old Globe 1930s–1990s; Tyrone Guthrie’s Influence 1950s–1970s

Craig Noel, the First Old Globe Directors At the 1933–4 Chicago World’s Fair, one of the most popular international exhibitions was a replica of Shakespeare’s Globe. Nineteen of Shakespeare’s plays were performed in approximately forty-minute versions. For this project, Thomas W. Stevens and B. Iden Payne formed a young company known as the Old Globe Production Company. Stevens designed a theatre fashioned after the Globe and Payne prepared a thirty-six-minute Comedy of Errors and a thirty-seven-minute As You Like It. The original plan was for Payne to direct several other truncated versions of plays, but he could only direct one of them, As You Like It, because he was hired as artistic director for the Stratford-upon-Avon Memorial Theatre. The popularity of the Chicago exhibit inspired imitation stages in several cities including San Diego, Cleveland and Dallas, where the same company, the Old Globe Players, played for the public. Performances on these facsimile stages were based on Payne’s existing knowledge of original Elizabethan staging techniques, which emphasized the flow of action and used minimal scenery (Payne 1977: 187; Hildy 2003: 323, 334; Noel, interview). San Diego’s California Pacific International Exposition (CPIE) sent representatives to the Chicago Fair in order to scout for the most popular acts. They had heard about the Old Globe Players performing in a reconstructed Elizabethan village. CPIE subsequently hired the production company in 1935 to perform their entire nineteen-play repertory on an outdoor stage in San Diego (Noel, interview).

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Although the new theatre was not finished when the Globe Players arrived, it was soon completed, opening on May 29. The replica, as promised, was faithfully based on Shakespeare’s fabled Globe Theatre in England. That meant that, at first, from the May 29th opening, there was not a roof and audiences were uncomfortably hot. The afternoon sun was blinding, and a trial canvas was put on top of the Wooden O. Eventually, a real roof was added to shield audiences from the sun and noise. (Davies 2015) Several abbreviated Shakespeare plays were performed each day with a short intermission in between them. Joe Callaway, a Globe Player, remembered that ‘intermissions, scene changes and curtain waits were eliminated so that the condensed versions were paced with cinema-like speed’ (quoted in Davies 2015). Audience member Katherine Drummond Garretson, who frequently attended the performances, remarked that, though they were cut, ‘the essence of each play was there. That was when I learned to understand and to love Shakespeare. We saw the plays again and again. I discovered something new each time’ (Moir 1985: n. pag.). The San Diego Old Globe’s production history lists thirteen plays performed that first year, including All’s Well That Ends Well, As You Like It, The Comedy of Errors, Hamlet, Julius Caesar, Macbeth, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, The Merry Wives of Windsor, Much Ado About Nothing, The Taming of the Shrew, Twelfth Night and The Winter’s Tale. As the Globe Players moved to another exposition in 1936, the Fortune Players stepped in to perform a second season of short plays, all directed by Stevens: The Comedy of Errors, King Henry VIII, Life and Death of Falstaff (adaptation), Romeo and Juliet, The Tempest and The Two Gentlemen of Verona. In 1937, the San Diego Community Theatre was formed, and they began to produce contemporary plays. The Second World War interrupted operations as the military requisitioned the theatre’s facilities in 1941. The fledging theatre was not able to return to their performance space until 1947, when the Navy finally relinquished it. After a period of no Shakespeare, the Old Globe initiated a summer Shakespeare Festival in 1949, called the ‘San Diego National Shakespeare Festival’. Payne played a part in the advent of yet another Shakespeare organization that was to become a major theatrical force on the West Coast. He was invited to direct the inaugural production, Twelfth Night. In 1950, he returned to direct Taming of the Shrew and Romeo and Juliet. In 1951, he directed Much Ado and Merry Wives, and in 1952, he spearheaded All’s Well That Ends Well and As You Like It. Later, the word ‘National was dropped’ and it became known as the ‘San Diego Shakespeare Festival’. For a few seasons, the productions were a joint enterprise between the theatre and San Diego State College. Due to financial concerns, the summer Shakespeare festival was suspended in 1953 and Craig Noel produced Mr. Roberts in the

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outdoor theatre instead of Shakespeare. The production was a tremendous success and helped the theatre secure much needed funding. Still, elements within the San Diego population were unhappy at the loss of their summer Shakespeare, so in 1954, Noel once again hired Payne to direct Measure for Measure and relaunch the summer Shakespeare festival. Payne returned to direct the 1957 and 1963 seasons, directing The Tempest and Much Ado About Nothing, respectively. The 1955 Hamlet directed by Alan Fletcher with William Ball in the lead ‘became one of the most memorable in the theatre’s history. Ball as the Dane proved an inspired performer’ (Sellman 1956: 420). In 1957, Fletcher directed a successful King Lear that featured Don Gunderson in the title role. Gunderson’s credits included work at OSF and the Goodman Theatre. With the 1959 season, San Diego became an Equity house. Noel, Fletcher, Ball and Ellis Rabb began to direct regularly. In 1970, Jack O’Brien directed his first production for the festival, The Comedy of Errors. By 1981, he would become its artistic director. Throughout the 1970s and 1980s, O’Brien and Noel frequently directed. Other freelance directors were also hired. The theatre expanded from exclusively producing Shakespeare in the outdoor theatre to also producing his work from time to time in their indoor main stage season. Virgil K. Whitaker found much to commend in Fletcher’s 1961 staging of The Merchant of Venice. The production featured Morris Carnovsky as Shylock. Whitaker described several chilling moments in the trial scene: As Portia awarded the pound of flesh, Antonio was spread-eagled on his back across the railing at the front of the stage, with his arms bound to the paling on the audience’s side. As Shylock bent to collect the forfeit, his knife was pointed not only at Antonio’s upturned breast, but straight into the eyes of the audience. … The effect was genuinely terrifying, and Portia’s ‘Tarry a little’ came at the last possible moment. But still more was to come. … If Shakespeare had meant Shylock to be genuinely tragic, he would have had to make him say, in effect, ‘All right. Let me have my revenge, then punish me as you will’. Allen Fletcher, the director, evidently pursued this same logic. As Portia sprung her legal trap, Carnovsky mingled bewilderment and hatred. Portia urged ironically, ‘Why doth the Jew pause? Take thy forfeiture’. The irony was lost on Shylock. He started forward, and once again the knife pointed at Antonio and the audience. Those on the stage recoiled in horror. Then, once again at the last possible moment, Shylock weakened and staggered away, steadying himself stage right on the post supporting the Heaven. (Whitaker 1961: 405) Whitaker also observed that Fletcher had made the play Portia’s, with Belmont receiving at least equal billing with Shylock. ‘For the first time I saw all the casket scenes played as written, neither combined nor condensed’

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(Whitaker 1961: 405). Fletcher approached the staging of Bassanio’s choice with humour and irony: ‘The curtain of the rear stage was drawn to reveal not only the caskets but also singers lined up behind, who sang “Tell me where is fancy bred” in a way that made the rhymes an obvious hint to Bassanio’ (Whitaker 1961: 406). In that same season, Whitaker admired a production of Twelfth Night directed by Ball: Early in the performance I found myself laughing lustily, along with the whole audience, at a typical Shakespearian bawdy joke that I had never noticed in studying the play. The lines were delivered with just the right nuance. … In fact, I have never seen another Shakespearian performance of which I felt to the same degree that every actor knew exactly what every line meant, not merely in itself, but as part of the whole play. (Whitaker 1961: 406) He considered the production to have ‘broader fun’ than any other he had seen, with the exception of a 1958 Old Vic production. The San Diego version, he thought, ‘more genuinely human’ and thus for him the superior production (Whitaker 1961: 407). Eleanor Prosser thought the best production in the 1963 season was Rabb’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The play started ‘with every conceivable handicap’, but once the scenes moved to the forest, ‘madness ensued’ (Prosser 1963: 447–8). By paying close attention to the text, Rabb’s direction of the mechanicals was ‘glorious nonsense’ (Prosser 1963: 448). An example could be seen in the Pyramus and Thisbe scene: Starveling’s Moon created the funniest sequence I have seen in this play. In utter disgust at the chaos he had known was inevitable, poor Moon had indignity heaped on indignity as Thisbe, with characteristic abandon, hurled ‘her’ scarf on his thorn-bush. For one frantic, full minute he tried unobtrusively to shake it off and then, the ordeal over, gave up and exited – too soon – thus spoiling Bottom’s pathetic climax. (Prosser 1963: 448) Prosser praised other instances in which a directorial choice was ‘so clearly right that you are startled you had never thought of it before’ (1963: 448): Oberon charmed the sleeping Titania and Demetrius in song. … The four lovers did not all become conveniently drowsy in III.ii. Puck put them to sleep … and each in a different way. With wry disdain for the foolish children, he would become tired of their moanings, lead each, by magic gesture, to his appropriate station, and then down Lysander with a pointed finger or fell Hermia at ten paces with a well-aimed ‘poof’ of

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air. The final scene was luminous. As the children tossed gold dust in the fading light, the fairies vanished like a dream until only Puck was left, a lonely little figure crouching on the apron in a dim spot. The epilogue was tender, wistful, a little sad. (Prosser 1963: 448) Having seen the season at both OSF and San Diego that year, Prosser offered his insights on the tenor of the work at San Diego: ‘Because of the intimacy of the small stage and auditorium (seating 420), actors are tempted to delight in the hushed tone, the slow cross, the pregnant silence. The audience often seems forgotten as lines become inaudible and the pace, especially in the final scenes of serious plays, drags to a ponderous crawl which defines physical endurance’ (1963: 446). She found this to be particularly true when directors had to leave a production after opening night. She surmised that other issues with the San Diego productions, such as ‘problems of overacting or of unfocused interpretation evolved during the run, as actors began to savor their individual roles’ (Prosser 1963: 446). Milton Katselas’ 1965 Coriolanus was the strongest production of that season. ‘This was a unified whole, gripping throughout its choppy scenes, leaving an impact’ (Nichols 1965: 346). The director executed clever staging through ‘imaginative massing of groups’ in such a way that ‘the Roman army seemed to pass over the stage, the mob range through the streets of Rome. The action was full of energy, fast-moving, noisy’ (Nichols 1965: 346). In spite of some focus and sight line issues, many solutions were effective. The moment when Aufidius disclosed his double-crossing intentions, ‘he stood center stage, the light falling on the striking blue of his costume, his followers in shadow, and delivered the speech point blank’ (Nichols 1965: 346). Peter Smith thought the 1966 season’s Romeo and Juliet, directed by Mel Shapiro, was captivating. ‘First-rate performances by the principals, and some excellent acting in lesser roles were combined by thoughtful and cleverly-paced direction to produce something deeply convincing’ (Smith 1966: 411). One issue Smith found was ‘the lack of any sense of the magnificence of these families and their prince … the inability to cope with ceremony’ (1966: 411). Decorum was lost ‘because princes don’t know how to stand, doges to walk, courtiers to bow, processions to proceed’ (Smith 1966: 411). Another criticism was that the director employed ‘some rather “stagey” moments’ that failed to impress (Smith 1966: 411). For the 1969 season, Homer D. Swander felt Rabb’s Macbeth far superior to the other offerings. Still, he roundly criticized it because of what he saw as rewrites by the director. ‘While he retains the names, some of the events, and most of the words, his story, plot, design, and meaning are all foreign to Shakespeare’ (Swander 1969: 463). This production was ‘not about Macbeth. It is, instead, about four intense if not neurotic people who, for reasons that the characters – arbitrarily limited to Shakespeare’s words – cannot reveal, decide to destroy Mr. and Mrs. Macbeth’ (Swander 1969:

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463). They take on the role of Hecate and the three Witches, as well as the Bloody Sergeant, the Doctor, the Porter, Angus, the Gentlewoman and Seyton in order to carry out their intent. He also cut several characters including Donalbain, Siward, Lady Macduff and her son, the English Doctor and the Murderers, among others. The effect is drastically to reduce the sense of a social or political context, and equally to reduce the importance both of Macbeth’s inner conflict and of Lady Macbeth’s influence upon him … it presents a world wholly controlled … by consciously and single-mindedly evil conspirators, a world … in which such evil goes fundamentally unchallenged by any powers natural, human, or divine. (Swander 1969: 464) Swander’s fundamental criticism of the production was that he thought Rabb’s substantial changes to the text made him the playwright rather than Shakespeare. For the 1971 season, Eric Christmas’ A Midsummer Night’s Dream and Nagle Jackson’s The Taming of the Shrew were the highlights, according to the Shakespeare Quarterly reviewer: [Midsummer] beautifully combined the dreamy nostalgia of a past era with a mysterious, captivating group of fairies. The play opened on a set suggesting opulent late Victorianism, dominated by a red velvet chaise and a large Victrola. From the speaker issued a few lines from the scene in which the lovers try to understand what has happened in the forest, the record becoming stuck on ‘we dream … we dream … we dream …’. (Horobetz 1971: 385) Shrew ‘emphasized the concept of the “play-within-the-play”, rightly asserting that Shrew is about people who play roles, who are not what they seem to be. The Sly scenes from The Taming of a Shrew were included’. The pretext for the production was that a company of actors put on the play. At the end, ‘as Sly turned for home to tame his own shrewish wife, he saw the troupe of players leaving town. A Jack Benny take, and the point was well made: “Do I dream? Or have I dream’d till now?”’ (Horobetz 1971: 386). The 1974 season hit was 2 Henry IV with Edward Payson Call directing. Horobetz had seen and liked Call’s previous productions and found this one equally ‘brilliant and moving’ (1974: 417). He thought the Shallow and Silence scenes particularly strong, noting, ‘I have never seen the Gloucestershire scenes better presented’ (Horobetz 1974: 417). Also, he found one of Falstaff’s entrances to be highly effective due to the dynamic staging. ‘The heroically bandaged Knight, accepting the embraces and tributes of the citizens, calmly picks their pockets. But, left alone after the noisy tribute, Falstaff collapses wearily; he grows too old and creaky to sustain for long the cheerful front’ (Horobetz 1974: 417). Directorial lapses

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included ‘an occasional inattention to detail and a tendency to exaggeration and flamboyance in staging’ (Horobetz 1974: 417). The 1975 season was a particularly strong season, with solid performances by two of the season’s productions. Stephen Booth thought Rabb’s The Tempest and Diana Maddox’s Measure for Measure were not only the best two productions in the San Diego season, but the best out of forty-two other productions he had seen that year. Besides directing The Tempest, Rabb also played Prospero. Booth applauded Rabb for ‘putting all Shakespeare’s ideationally incompatible signals out on a stage and trusting the play to control them’ (1976: 95). The director resisted the temptation to submit the production to a strong conceptual interpretation. He also solved one of the play’s other challenges, how to treat the clowns. Booth believes ‘the comics are not funny and are repellent’ (1976: 95). Rabb embraced the play’s text to address this issue as seen in his approach to the songs. ‘Rabb’s Stephano and Trinculo punctiliously staged the songs for their own and Caliban’s delight. They did elegant and just-barely-awkward dance steps as they sang. They were entertaining, charming, inept, and ridiculous; and Rabb felt free to leave their other activities as uncomfortably monstrous as the text makes them’ (Booth 1976: 95). The play also presents another challenge for the director: how to treat Caliban and Prospero. Rabb embraced the play’s view of Caliban: ‘A linear Caliban who evokes different kinds of responses from moment to moment’ (Booth 1976: 95). Rabb’s Prospero emphasized decorum in his comportment ‘but never tried to give the audience illicit insights into his motivations’ (Booth 1976: 96). Booth noted that Measure for Measure is a more difficult play ‘to trust’ than Tempest. Diana Maddox’s Measure for Measure avoided the trap of presenting ‘a directorial essay on the philosophical and moral conclusions’ that exists within the text (Booth 1976: 96). Rather the production’s ‘artistic coherence’ sprang from ‘its wantonly self-confident central character, the Duke of Vienna’ (Booth 1976: 96). Booth thought David Ogden Stiers characterization was effective due to the director and actor choosing a ‘straight’ approach (1976: 96). Stiers background playing comic roles prepared him to tackle the Duke as ‘comic actors are used to playing characters whose behavior patterns are known only to themselves’ (Booth 1976: 96). Maddox’s Measure ‘was as full and fully as interesting as the play is when read. It was more pleasurable … than Measure for Measures usually are … this production was moving, funny, and whole’ (Booth 1976: 96). Booth thought Daniel Sullivan’s 1976 Othello ‘was ultimately more satisfying than other Othellos I have seen’. What impressed him was the director’s willingness to sacrifice ‘incidental gratification’ in order to gain ‘larger felicities for which he was most unlikely to get applause’ (Booth 1977: 234). Take for instance the placement of the bed: In this production the bed was down stage close to the audience; it figured in IV.ii … and was on stage from then on. That meant that until Othello’s

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entrance for the final scene the bed lay between the audience and much of the action. … As a result of our distance from everything but the sleeping Desdemona at the darkened front of the stage, and as a result of the physical obscurity of the events behind the gauze, we had to strain to see and understand … events that were variously and disastrously hidden from – and thus beyond the control of – Othello, Desdemona, Cassio, and Roderigo. The awkwardness of Sullivan’s solution to the awkward problem of the bed contributed hugely to the rightness and the emotional grip of the production; it made the ineluctability of Iago’s plot and the inevitability of the strangulation scene a part of the audience’s own experience of the action of the play. (Booth 1977: 234–5) Booth commended Sullivan for ‘temporarily losing the good will of this audience in order to enhance its satisfaction with the whole’ (1977: 235). In the same season, Booth considered Call’s Troilus and Cressida to be ‘excellent’, especially as one rarely sees effective productions (1977: 235). Inventive choices such as ‘placards and charts’ used as visual aids in Ulysses’ ‘degree’ monologue and a steam bath meeting of the Trojans ‘neither added much to, nor detracted much from’ the production (Booth 1977: 235). Booth found it ‘unusual’ but admirable that Call emphasized ‘the parallel between Pandarus and Ulysses without exaggerating it’ (1977: 235). He thought this Troilus ‘a generally taut, fast-moving, lively presentation of the actions and reactions of characters … convincingly depicted as, limp and lethargic’ (Booth 1977: 235). Noel’s Two Gentlemen of Verona (1978), set in the 1830s, stressed ‘romanticism and innocence of the play’ (Wilds 1981: 252). A programme note explained that the setting was a circus to highlight the notion that theatre and life are about discovery. Two tents were used and hoisted to let the audience know in which city a scene was played: When the action was in Verona, the Verona tent was raised; when the action moved to Milan, the Milan tent went up and the Verona tent was pulled down. Circus posters advertising one circus then the other were hung and removed by clowns. There was also a large, three-sided, freestanding billboard that swiveled to identify the three locales: Verona, Milan, and ‘A Forest’. The effect was of marvels and rapid change. Actors were constantly changing into and out of costumes, and talking while they changed … Noel’s romantic circus was a circus of possibilities without real, threatening undertones. (Wilds 1981: 252) The director added lightness and humour throughout. Even in the final scene, the quixotic setting obscured any darkness suggested by the text. In 1977, Stephen Booth praised the Old Globe for producing ‘the most consistent and most consistently satisfying Shakespeare … in the United States’ (1977: 230). His comment was based on observations of thirteen

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seasons. He found that in season after season, the company achieved a dependable level of quality. The San Diego festival achieves what the projectors of the Stratford, Connecticut festival hoped to achieve – Theatre Guild production values, the sureness of actors and directors who in the wintertime are successful in commercial theatre, and a policy of mixing productions of Shakespeare’s crowd-pleasers … with plays that were it not for summer festivals, would never get much chance to be clapper clawed. … Of the thirty-nine San Diego productions I have seen since 1964, better than half have been worth a long, special trip; that is a remarkably high rate of success. (Booth 1977: 230) He added that the rest of the Old Globe’s productions were at least acceptable, the highest percentage of success that he has found anywhere.

Jack O’Brien A major force behind the Old Globe in the last decades of the twentieth century was Jack O’Brien. In 1981, he became the artistic director, a position he held until 2007. His first experience at the theatre was as an assistant to Rabb in 1966. He started directing Shakespeare at the Old Globe in the 1969 season with a production of The Comedy of Errors. In 1977, he directed ‘a lean classical Hamlet starring Mark Lamos and Maureen Anderman’ (Harmetz 1981). In 1984, the Old Globe received a Tony Award for Outstanding Regional Theatre. By 1991, he had directed thirty-seven productions. His 2003 Henry IV (with Kevin Kline as Falstaff, Ethan Hawke as Hotspur, Richard Easton as Henry IV and Michael Hayden as Hal) won the 2004 Tony Award for Best Direction of a Play. That same year O’Brien won the Drama Desk Award for Outstanding Director of a Play for Henry IV. When he took over from Noel, his goals included hiring ‘a healthy group of American actors with genuine technique and appetite who really want this kind of experience and need it’ (Harmetz 1981). Through tweaking the production scheduling, he predicted ‘I will make it easier for them to come’ and participate (Harmetz 1981). Another goal was for developing audiences: ‘I want to make the classics healthier and closer to our own diet’ (Harmetz 1981). In 1977, O’Brien directed Hamlet for the San Diego Shakespeare Festival. Montgomery noted O’Brien circumvented two common approaches: the Freudian interpretation and the brooding romantic one. ‘It avoided depicting Hamlet as neurotic or weak and allowed Mark Lamos [Hamlet] to portray him as moving with increasing determination toward action’ (Montgomery 1978: 257). He also described the production’s ‘richly somber costuming

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(most of the male actors wore lush gray), spare props and scenery and excellent lighting effects’ (Montgomery 1978: 258). The interpretation of the first scenes was ‘both pedestrian and strange’, according to Drake, but that the production got stronger as it progressed (Drake 1977). The director cut the first seventy lines of 2.1, an unfortunate cut, according to Montgomery, ‘that had the effect of obscuring Polonius’ habit of spying’ (1978: 258). Both reviewers felt the dumb show had been particularly well staged. Drake believed it had been designed ‘exquisitely in a quasi Kabuki style, with the players’ flowing white apparel – standing out starkly against the uniform gray of all the other costumes’ (Drake 1977). Montgomery found the ‘contrast with the rest of the play was startling: slow, ballet-like movements produced an effect of dream inserted amidst Hamlet’s (and the audience’s) high excitement at the beginning and end of the scene’ (1978: 258). Drake also praised the final death scene as ‘among the most skillful and moving in memory’ (Drake 1977). She found Lamos played Hamlet ‘much too romantically at first’, but ‘shined later in the scenes that call upon his wit and cynicism’ (Drake 1977). Ophelia’s mad scenes were ‘quite gripping … especially the final one where her anguish and pathetic confusion are so absolute as to stimulate a very real compassion’ (Drake 1977). But the performance that most impressed her was the Gertrude of Maureen Anderman: ‘Sensuous but not lascivious’ (Drake 1977). Throughout the closet scene, Gertrude seemed to corroborate Hamlet’s issues with Claudius internally, and this led her to ‘a reassessment of her marriage’ (Drake 1977). She began to avoid ‘Claudius’ touch and, as much as possible, his presence, we see a woman of character who may have been duped by her sense for a while but who cannot shut her eyes to the truth’ (Drake 1977). Drake adds, ‘It’s a performance that carries with it anger and a profoundly Greek sense of doom’ (1977). The best Old Globe production of 1978 was O’Brien’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, according to the Shakespeare Quarterly reviewer. The direction was ‘skillful’ and the production ‘iridescent’ with the director embracing all aspects of the newly built outdoor stage (Stodder and Wilds 1979: 243–4). Sullivan thought the atmosphere, ‘amid the trees of Balboa Park’, facilitated the production’s comedy (1978). He also thought the director staged the play ‘with fluency and a fine sense of surprise’ (Sullivan 1978). The minimal set helped the director orchestrate the comedy. Except for [two] posts, the stage was entirely bare; trees growing in the park behind combined with the night sky to become an integral part of the fabric of the dream, blurring the boundaries of the play world. The posts also appeared to be bare, but each was in fact encircled by an unobtrusive open iron stairway that formed almost invisible platforms at several different levels. (Stodder and Wilds 1979: 243) The human world was relegated to moving exclusively on the horizontal part of the stage. The fairy world could move vertically as well, with characters

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often perched above to observe the humans below. Sullivan noted, ‘Oberon and Titania are constantly popping on from nowhere to see how things are going, and Puck zips across the horizon like a telegraph boy after a bicycle thief’ (1978). O’Brien began the production with a humorous depiction of romantic relationships between the sexes: Hippolyta, exquisitely gowned but staggering under the weight of a huge blunderbuss, rushed repeatedly across the stage leading a pack of dogs and huntsmen, while … Theseus, his head swiveling to follow each passage, was trapped, trying to settle the business of Hermia’s future. When he made good his escape and caught up to his huntress queen, he was out of breath and dignity. She, by then, was draped about with trophies of the hunt: small animal pelts and feathered creatures. Suddenly the air was filled with falling pheasants and other varieties of fowl. As Theseus scrambled to help pick them up, it was obvious that the lady was absolutely, if comically, in control. (Stodder and Wilds 1979: 244) In his version of Midsummer, O’Brien emphasized that women dominate in the corporeal world. That theme was continued into the fairy world with a twist. In order to dominate Titania, Oberon has to resort to the love juice of the magic flower. When used on the mortals, the effect was immediate; on Titania, the response was different as the director enhanced the moment with an added twist. ‘When she was awakened by Bottom’s braying, she hesitated a moment before the word “Angel”. “What (slight pause) angel wakes me from my flow’ry bed?” There was the same pause before “enamoured” and “enthralled” (in “Mine ear is much enamored of thy note; / So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape”) and another pause before “I love thee”’ (Stodder and Wilds 1979: 244). Titania fought the flower’s effects, but ultimately was overcome. Stodder admired the director for avoiding beating the audience over the head with his concept. ‘Under O’Brien’s skillful direction it rested lightly under the comedy, adding richness and complexity but not diminishing the pleasure’ (Stodder and Wilds 1979: 244). Sullivan also thought O’Brien had established a balance in the acting company and the ‘terrible’ Pyramus and Thisbe play was ‘funnier than usual’ (1978). O’Brien set his 1980 Romeo and Juliet in the Elizabethan era with ‘sumptuous costuming’ in a darkly lit Verona (Wilds 1981: 252). Sullivan approved of the ‘dramatic lighting from all angles’ (1980). While finding fault with several of the main characters, he considered the supporting company’s work ‘lustrous’ (Sullivan 1980). Overall, he thought the production ‘satisfying, if not compelling’ (Sullivan 1980). Wilds admired O’Brien’s production, deeming it ‘an uncluttered vision’ (1981: 253). Unlike Sullivan, she thought much of the lighting was irritating:

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There were times when it was difficult to see what was happening on stage; Paris in Juliet’s tomb, for example, arrived, spoke, fought with Romeo, and died in darkness without the audience being able to distinguish a feature of his face. At other times, the stage lights would dim and a ring of bright lights would appear at the back of the stage, throwing the action into silhouette, and also incidentally, blinding the audience. (Wilds 1981: 253) Having observed several of O’Brien’s productions, she complimented the director as one ‘who listens carefully to what a playwright has to say’ (Wilds 1981: 253). His productions are ‘shaped by his firm hand’ (Wilds 1981: 253). O’Brien’s 1981 King Lear ‘was carefully thought out, richly detailed, and sensitively cast’ with David Ogden Stiers playing Lear. According to Stier, his Lear starts as a ‘peremptory chairman of the board’ and then is ‘diminished to bewildered child’ (Harmetz 1981). Sullivan wrote, ‘he helps us to see King Lear steadily and to see it whole’ (1981). O’Brien created a prologue underscored with dissonant music: Lear … staggered alone onto a spare, circular, steeply-raked, darksurfaced stage, which immediately began to fill with richly-clad players. Goneril and Regan took their places at each side, and Cordelia stood in the center facing Lear, who had his back to the audience. There was scarcely time to notice a centrally-placed throne, with a back formed of a stylized, three-part map of England, or to recognize anyone else until the Fool leaped on the stage to crouch at Cordelia’s side. Suddenly everyone applauded simultaneously and the stage emptied abruptly, except for three figures. One of the older men spoke, ‘I thought the King had more affected the Duke of Albany …’, and the play proper began. (Wilds 1982: 382–3) As the stage replenished, Cordelia held tightly onto the Fool’s hand while waiting to answer Lear’s question, ‘her mounting tension and pain’ evident to the audience (Wilds 1982: 383). She kept her back to Lear ‘unable to face him directly as she spoke’ (Wilds 1982: 383). His response was to grab her portion of the map and shatter it, her sisters and brothers-in-law scrambling for the pieces. Other heartbreaking moments included Lear comforting a blinded Gloucester in his arms, the Fool’s death from exhaustion in following Lear, and Gloucester’s suicide jump as well as subsequent rescue by Edgar. Sullivan thought Stiers ‘a solid Shakespearean actor, able to carry this enormous part without fatigue’ (1981). But early in the production, he believed the actor to be ‘too contained and hardfisted’ to elicit empathy (Sullivan 1981). However, as Lear disintegrates, he found that ‘we begin to participate in his fright and his dismay’ (Sullivan 1981). Finally, ‘it’s the moment of hope that makes the last scene so heart-breaking. Stiers and

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Leslie Geraci as Cordelia embrace with the beautiful memory in both their minds of a young father hugging his child, and the image is in the audience’s mind, too’ (Sullivan 1981). Sullivan added, ‘One sees why the 19th Century wanted the play to end right there’ (1981). The New York Times opined, ‘Mr. O’Brien has shaped a King Lear that is crystal clear and unusually simple to follow. He has tidied up the play’s diffuseness and driven it in a straight line. Even the usually amorphous servants are specific and tied to their masters’ (Harmetz 1981). Sullivan’s review named O’Brien ‘one of the best directors of Shakespeare in the United States’ (1981). For his 1984 Othello, O’Brien cast an actor who had not made a career of playing the Moor, but who delivered a powerful performance. O’Brien presented ‘a clear, untrammeled production, focusing on Iago’s psychological complexity, Desdemona’s maturity, and the exotic Cyprian atmosphere which permeates the play’ (Flachmann 1985: 232). Jonathan McMurtry’s Iago was ‘one of the most believable and frightening Iagos’ Flachmann had ever seen (1985: 232). ‘A textbook socio-psychopath … McMurtry’s Iago was alternately charming, loquacious, blunt, and solicitous – a man who had successfully integrated evil into the texture of his life’ (Flachmann 1985: 232). There were clever bits of staging. The senators looked like ‘stately chess pieces’ as they moved about the stage, ‘richly clad … in their huge, ornate gowns’ (Flachmann 1985: 233). Richard Seger’s spare set was on a rake, the floor ‘the color and texture of blood-red marble’ (Flachmann 1985: 233). During the first act the bare stage ‘add[ed] depth and resonance to the dramatic action’ (Flachmann 1985: 233). Overall, Flachmann deemed it a ‘brave and powerful’ production (1985: 233). O’Brien’s ‘choice of the bare, raked stage, the Fortuny costumes, the relative maturity of Desdemona, and the strong performance of Paul Winfield in the title role focused audience attention on the characters rather than the action’ (Flachmann 1985: 233). Flachmann thought the production ‘riveting’ and helped to clarify ‘this complex, disturbing play’ (1985: 233). The 1985 opening of the Lowell Davies Festival Theatre (after fire destroyed the previous theatre) was a revival of O’Brien’s 1978 production of Midsummer. This version was set 100  years later, at the turn of the nineteenth century. Costumes employed the ‘Empire style of breast-revealing bodices and loosely flowing gowns’ that gave ‘the women a light-hearted sexiness’ which fit perfectly ‘the production’s light-hearted tone about sexual desire’ (Deese 1985: 16). The Empire clothing could also be seen in Theseus’ costume that suggested ‘some Napoleonic pretensions’ in the first act (Deese 1985: 16). The fairies were costumed in the style of Arthur Rackham while ‘two large, winged, malevolent-looking creatures … silently shadowed Oberon’s every movement on stage’ (Flachmann 1986: 503). Sullivan wrote, ‘We don’t get the feeling of something pulled out of the trunk. Everything’s fresh and light … [with] airborne spontaneity’ (1985). [The set was] a playing space reminiscent of a vast, attenuated green marble ballroom floor surrounded by a darkened forest. Located at stage

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right was a black, vine-encrusted spiral staircase, while up left were two huge open doorways that dwarfed the actors and gave a slightly surrealistic tone to the sparsely furnished stage. Oversized, weed-like lanterns, six-foot-tall squirrels, and a gigantic wagon serve as mythic props in the fairy world. (Flachmann 1986: 503) Dodging the excesses of slapstick and psychology, O’Brien’s Midsummer was ‘light, delicate, and elegant: a romantic, airy, dream-like world’ (Flachmann 1986: 505). O’Brien’s actors established ‘links between the ethereal and the natural’ (Sullivan 1985). He also defined the four lovers so explicitly, that ‘we never lose track of who belongs to whom’ (Sullivan 1985). The ending was a satisfying one, with the lovers ‘well-bedded’ and the Athenian workmen’s attempt at amateur theatrics successful (Sullivan 1985). O’Brien directed another Hamlet in 1990, starring Campbell Scott. Davies thought both actor and production ‘were electric in the effect they had on audiences’ (Davies 2015). This was a sumptuously appointed staging. Drake notes that the director ‘has done some fancy footwork with the script, cutting, shuffling and juxtaposing’, which she finds ‘streamlines and clarifies’ the story and ‘will offend only the purist’ (1990). While praising the ‘visually rich’ décor, she added that O’Brien ‘opens no unusual windows on the text’ (Drake 1990). She found a defect in the way Hamlet rushed through the lines. ‘O’Brien makes the most of the play as character study, an effort thwarted, to some degree, by his leading man’s reckless haste’ (Drake 1990). Drake praised O’Brien’s staging, ‘such as using the top of the long table as a platform stage (particularly by Hamlet and the itinerant players)’, but thought the production sometimes lacked ‘attention to emotional detail’ (Drake 1990). An example she cited was ‘Fortinbras’ casual look at the devastation of corpses he finds at the Danish court’ (Drake 1990). She found it ‘jarringly out of step with the words he speaks’ (Drake 1990). While acknowledging that this was a viable choice, she argued ‘the cynicism must be clearly underscored’ (Drake 1990). As a director, O’Brien likes to transpose Shakespearean plays from their original setting to what he hopes will be an analogous, effective environment for the action of the play. With his design team, he creates strong contrasts in a production’s visuals, including juxtaposing light and dark, working with height differences and using depth to help tell the story. Similarly, he will make changes in the text in order to accommodate a particular setting. He is not afraid of making considerable cuts in the text in order to serve the clarity of the dramatic storytelling. He has played with the traditional scansion of lines in order to support a production’s current slant on a character or scene. His direction is noted for fluent staging that effectively handles large casts. He is a choreographic director, capable of delivering ballet-like sequences, elaborate prologues that establish the backstory and using Eastern theatre techniques such as Noh and Kabuki to enhance the staging. Frequently, he

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employs theatrical and inventive solutions, such as in his opening sequence for his Midsummer or the Noh/Kabuki dumb show in Hamlet. He creates moments of surprise that lend a dynamic character to his productions. He is equally adept at working in the outdoor environment of the Old Globe as well as a range of interior theatres. He works with actors on finding superb performances of complex characters. He is able to make audiences identify with and care about the characters and their plight. Reviewers have observed that he listens carefully to the playwright and the text for advice in solving theatrical problems.

Tyrone Guthrie Tyrone Guthrie embraced a theatrical style that was larger than life. He sought a physical theatre that was equally immense for it had to accommodate his sweeping ideas about staging and use of colourful designs. He excelled at choreographic staging and establishing decorative pictures. He accidentally discovered the potency of a new audience/actor relationship in a 1937 performance at the Castle of Kronberg, starring Laurence Olivier as Hamlet. Originally, it was scheduled to perform in an outdoor courtyard, but on the afternoon of the performance, it was pouring rain. Because of the importance of the occasion (the audience would include the Danish royal family, ambassadors and critics from London and Paris, as well as Denmark), the production was moved to the ballroom of a hotel. There was no stage and the audience had to encircle the actors. The resulting performance was, according to several reports, a triumph – an unforgettable electrifying experience for actors and audience. For Guthrie, it was a revelation about theatre architecture and everything that was wrong with the theatres of the day. A more open actor/audience relationship could facilitate scene changes and be more conducive to playing Shakespeare, he argued. Scenery could be minimized and all that was needed were costumes, props, perhaps a few banners. After the Second World War, he had a chance to try out his ideas about thrust stages when he directed for the second Edinburgh International Festival in 1948. It was an opera, David Lyndsay’s Ane Satyre of the Thrie Estaitis, staged in the General Assembly Hall of the Church of Scotland. His discoveries would lead him, a few years later, to his landmark contribution to the North American theatre: open-stage theatres with a three-sided actor/ audience relationship. He became an advocate for the non-pictorial, non-proscenium stage that would have a deep thrust pushing well into the area where traditionally the audience had sat. It would be a permanent architectural structure – functional and generic – where he could facilitate entrances and exits through architectural tunnels and the action would be able to shift quickly from scene to scene, played against ‘permanent façade settings’ (Leiter 1994: 131).

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With the advent of Stratford Shakespeare Festival in 1953, he was able to implement his ideas. The theatre opened with a production of Richard III with Alec Guinness as the lead. The new space was, Guthrie believed, a democratic space, more suited to the times than the class-conscious proscenium stage. Furthermore, in such a space, audiences could be aware of the fact that they were watching a play. A permanent theatre was built and opened in 1957. Guthrie believed the new architecture would foster the idea of theatre as ‘a ritual in which actors and spectators are alike taking part’ (1959: 336). He served as artistic director for the Stratford Festival until 1956. Later, he argued his open stages were conducive to the ritual and dance aspects of theatre that could be traced to the ancient Greeks. He explored these characteristics in several of his productions, including his landmark Oedipus Rex (1954–5), and in several Shakespeare productions that included Measure for Measure, The Taming of the Shrew, Julius Caesar and The Merchant of Venice. He sought to transport the audience out of their everyday selves. He believed the theatre should be ‘a temple’ and theatre artists were ‘ministers … that bring healing and knowledge’ (Guthrie 1959: 145). In 1963, he had an opportunity to try out another rendering of a deep thrust theatre with the opening of the Minneapolis Guthrie Theatre. Labelled as ‘conceivably the most important theatre opening of a generation’ by Newsweek, and ‘a miracle’ by Life Magazine, the occasion gave a needed shot in the arm to the fledgling US regional theatre movement. The event represented not only an attempt to launch a theatre in the middle of the United States, but also featured a director of international fame firmly at the centre of the venture. In A New Theatre, he explained his objectives for the space: First, our intended program is of a classical nature, and we believe that the classics are better suited to an open stage than to a proscenium one. Second, the aim of our performance is not to create an illusion, but to present a ritual of sufficient interest to hold the attention of, even to delight, an adult audience. Third, an auditorium grouped around a stage rather than placed in front of a stage allows a larger number of people to be closer to the actors. Fourth, in an age when movies and TV are offering dramatic entertainment from breakfast to supper, from cradle to grave, it seemed important to address the differences between their offering and ours. (Guthrie 1964: 182) He directed the Guthrie Theatre’s premiere production, Hamlet. It featured George Grizzard as the prince, Ellen Geer as Ophelia and Jessica Tandy as Gertrude. Tanya Moiseiwitsch designed its contemporary dress costumes. Critic Dan Sullivan wrote: ‘Despite the tennis rackets and umbrellas, it is in the best, nonacademic sense of the word, a traditional performance.’ It was ‘virtually uncut’ and lasted slightly under four hours. Sullivan appreciated

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the overall rhythmic structure of ‘tension, relief (often comic relief) and greater tension’. Guthrie kept all the minor characters that Sullivan thought offered ‘a balanced picture of a world off-balance’ (1963). Brustein observed that, based on the design choices, he could decipher that the production was happening in a recent period and guessed ‘probably Victorian’. The play was staged effectively, taking advantage of the building’s deep thrust, ‘but it was not always very coherent’. The choice of costumes at times could be confusing: With Hamlet delivering his soliloquies in smoking jackets and Italian suits, with Laertes costumed like an I.R.A. man in trenchcoat and boots, with the Danish soldiers in Graustark uniforms and the ministers in cutaway coats, and with Fortinbras dressed like the German Kaiser and his aides-de-camp in the khakis of the British Expeditionary Forces, I was never very clear about which country was embroiled in which squabbles at what particular time and place. (Brustein 1965: 240) Brustein mainly recognized the production’s anachronistic details: ‘Ghosts in an age of rationalism, swords in an age of dynamite, peculiar hostilities between Norway and Poland, etc.’ (1965: 240). He grudgingly admitted there were ‘some interesting performances occasionally inspired by the scheme’ (Brustein 1965: 240). And he thought the production ‘ignited’ during ‘external action’ scenes, ‘especially in the play scene – a panic of scrambling courtiers blinded by leiko lights – and the duel scene – the most exciting version of the Hamlet-Laertes fracas I have yet witnessed’ (Brustein 1965: 240–1). But he found the ‘internal action … neglected’ due to an absence of ‘psychological detail’ as well as George Grizzard’s (Hamlet) performance – ‘a callow Hamlet: sullen instead of noble, peevish instead of witty, self-pitying instead of melancholy’ (Brustein 1965: 241). Sullivan, who saw the same opening night performance, believed Grizzard’s performance was ‘excellent’: [It] convey[ed] best the hero’s youth, his sense of fun, his basic decency, and most important, his strength. Grizzard’s Hamlet is no moony sentimentalist dripping self-pity at every pore. He is a sturdy, fine young man for the first time up against one of the ugly facts of life. That he is unable to cope with them illustrates more their power than his weakness. (Sullivan 1963) Sullivan believed Grizzard’s approach was ‘basically realistic. The famous soliloquies … are not set pieces; they flow naturally from the mind of the man’ (Sullivan 1963). He found Guthrie’s deep thrust staging of the playwithin-the-play daring: Guthrie provided an] audacious use of his semi-arena stage in the playwithin-the-play sequence. The lords and ladies ringing the platform hush

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Hamlet’s taunting of Ophelia; they came to see a show. The bone-white beam of a portable spotlight makes the Player Queen’s ‘None wed the second but who killed the first’ a shocking breach of social decorum. Claudius … purples as he gets the point. He lunges at his nephew and the stage – the theatre, too, it seems – and explodes in panic. (Sullivan 1963) Sullivan thought the duel to be ‘beautifully staged’ (1963). The opening of the Guthrie Theatre in Minneapolis was a pivotal moment in which many realized professional theatre could occur outside of New York City – in the middle of the country in point of fact. The event was a considerable contribution to the budding regional theatre movement that was changing the landscape of the American theatre. Guthrie served as its artistic director from 1963 to 1966 and continued to direct at his namesake theatre until 1969. Besides Hamlet, his productions included Henry V as well as non-Shakespearean epics such as St. Joan, The Caucasian Chalk Circle, The Three Sisters, The Resistible Rise of Arturo Ui and The House of Atreus. Throughout his career, Guthrie directed over 400 productions. He fostered a new approach to theatre architecture that influenced a generation of new theatres. He also helped the regional theatre movement gain much needed attention. His direction frequently uncovered memorably revealing moments. One such example was ‘when he had the ghost in Hamlet whisper his message into his son’s ear as if poisoning him with ideas of revenge, just as Claudius had poisoned the ghost himself’ (Leiter 1994: 132). At times, his innovative choices went overboard and could obfuscate a scene or a moment, but his productions were full of pageantry and excitement. He preferred white light to gel colours, although he insisted on using footlights as a superior way to show actors’ facial features. In later years, he disliked read-throughs, often getting the actors on their feet after ten minutes or so. Similarly, the blocking period of his rehearsals was done very quickly. It was not uncommon for Guthrie to pick up an actor and place them on the spot where he wanted them to be on the stage. On the other hand, he did not want the actors to record the blocking, as he believed that if correct, they would remember it. He also wanted the lines memorized as soon as possible after the start of rehearsals so that actors could invest fully in their performances as early as possible. He did give line readings, but also afforded time for exploration. He was most at home in directing classical plays, particularly the Greek tragedies and Shakespeare. He frequently updated productions, moving the time period much closer to the present. His 1954 Wild West The Taming of the Shrew was set at the turn of the nineteenth century in the Northwest. A Troilus and Cressida (1956) had a pre-First World War setting ‘to suggest the decadence of European society on the brink of its downfall’ (Leiter 1994: 132). His reason for transposing a play’s setting was to help contemporary audiences understand class and rank distinctions, as well as the jobs held by the play’s characters.

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Technique, he felt, was superior to emotional memory or the method. He abjured contemporary psychological realism. He privileged the actor’s voice above all other elements: ‘[It] should have color, clarity of diction, and excellent breath control. He wanted actors who could bring a musical awareness to their lines; the values of pausing, rhythm, pitch, volume, and timbre were strongly emphasized’ (Leiter 1994: 132). Similar to Payne and Bowmer, he also subscribed to a notion of quick delivery. In the 1950s, he introduced the Stratford Shakespeare Festival (Ontario) to an approach he had used earlier at the Old Vic – and was to employ again at the Guthrie Theatre in Minneapolis. The actors spoke swiftly until, suddenly, they would stop to make a point or emphasize a line, delivering the text with the utmost emphasis. Then they continued their rapid delivery until they reached the next line that was to be highlighted in a similar manner. In a 1962 lecture on directing, delivered to the West Side YMCA in New York, he explained: Any scene must be arranged so that the climax comes at a certain point. Dialogue must be arranged, to some extent orchestrated, because the dialogue is its music upon which it lives, and the pace of that music of the evening. And just as an orchestra cannot play a symphony without a conductor for very obvious reasons, so a company cannot play a play without somebody who’s going to regulate the music of the play; who says it’s going to get steadily louder, faster, faster, faster, faster, faster, faster, mounting to that point; pause, and then begin and you start building again. (Guthrie 1962) To Guthrie, pacing and rhythm were of the greatest concern, and he shaped each scene to achieve the proper cadences, frequently overshadowing the verse and meaning. For large portions of the text ‘he didn’t care if the audience heard exactly what was said. He aimed for a general impression. … So there’d be a great impression of brouhaha, confusion, noise, embattled opinion, out of which one vital line would emerge – bang! – like that, and hit you with a wallop. He’d throw away twenty lines to achieve one which would slam you in the face’ (Rossi 1997: 19). He believed Shakespearean plays were ‘great complicated cathedrals’ and the director must ‘supply the architecture of the scene’ (Guthrie 1962). While they had a definite shape to them, he admitted the scenes could be interpreted in many different ways. He disliked the lecture method that he felt was more ‘an expression of the director’s egotism rather than a plan of action’ (Guthrie 1959: 149). He was interested in maintaining the proper ‘creative atmosphere’ in the rehearsal hall. Although he was known to have a sharp temper, his rehearsals were generally joyful and entertaining. He pushed rehearsals along speedily, just as he did with the dialogue. He felt the director was the chairman of the enterprise, but should never be ‘autocratic’ (Guthrie 1962). He also did

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not believe in being too reliant on discussion ‘which should be held to a minimum’ (Guthrie 1959: 148). He believed the director should ‘make everybody feel that they are part of a oneness’ and most importantly, ‘not become a bore’ (Guthrie 1962). Frequently, he would respond to the actors’ work through ‘eccentric’ vocalizations ‘supplemented by handclaps and finger clicks’ (Leiter 1994: 133). He sought to foster and develop the actors’ performances, ‘not to demand them’, and his directions had mainly to do with ‘pace, mood, business’ (Leiter 1994: 133). While Payne, Bowmer, Noel and O’Brien believed in not violating the playwright’s intentions, Guthrie did not believe one could ever completely know what those were. The director must, by necessity, subjectively interpret the play and give it its own slant.

4 American Shakespeare Festival Theatre Directors 1950s–1980s

John Houseman, Jack Landau, Allen Fletcher A major attempt to start a national Shakespeare theatre in North America began in 1951. It became known as the American Shakespeare Festival Theatre. It lasted several decades, and regularly produced Shakespeare until 1982, when the theatre closed. The American Shakespeare Theatre (AST) employed many of the most accomplished actors and directors of its day, spent substantial resources on the productions and exerted considerable influence on the direction of Shakespeare in the United States. A primary challenge at AST was the continual redesign of the stage, signifying artistic dissatisfaction with the architectural space that persisted over several artistic directors’ reign. The venue was intended as a multipurpose one, to accommodate concerts as well as dance and opera performances. Throughout its history, the principle playing area moved closer and closer to the audience. This was the result of a perceived remoteness in the relationship between the actors and the audiences as well as auditory weaknesses. The undertaking also went through three name changes meant to signify new directions for the organization. It opened as the American Shakespeare Festival Theatre and Academy, then the American Shakespeare Festival Theatre in 1963, and finally, in 1972, the name became the American Shakespeare Theatre. Throughout this chapter, I will refer to this theatre as AST to avoid confusion with other Shakespeare organizations. Ultimately, this effort proved unsuccessful despite changes in artistic leadership and continual management strategies to correct issues. Rather than being founded by an artistic director with a distinct vision for the theatre, its origin was largely due to the efforts of producer Lawrence Langner. He helped found the Washington Square Players in 1914 and was

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instrumental in the work of the Theatre Guild. He had encouraged the Guild to produce Shakespeare, which they did with such actors as Alfred Lunt, Lynne Fontanne, Maurice Evans, Paul Robeson and Jose Ferrer. He established two companies that would include Shakespeare as part of their repertory: the New York Repertory Theatre in 1932 and the Acting Company with the Theatre Guild in 1944. Neither one lasted. In 1950, Langner began to develop the blueprint for AST. The idea for the theatre came from a visit to Stratford’s Memorial Theatre in England, where he and his wife observed younger audience members eagerly responding to Shakespeare and Restoration plays – a cultural opportunity they thought was missing in the United States. That was when Langner decided ‘to start a National Shakespeare Theatre’ (Cooper 1986: 17). An organizational meeting was held in 1951, shortly after the governor signed the non-profit charter for AST. The former British ambassador chaired the national campaign. Many dignitaries and power brokers from business and theatre were involved on the board, the national sponsoring committee or the Theatre Committee. They included Maurice Evans, Robert Whitehead, Marshall Field, Bernard Gimbel, Helen Hayes, Conrad N. Hilton, Herbert Hoover, Edward F. Hutton, Charles F. Kettering, Joshua Logan, Alfred Drake, Jose Ferrer, Dorothy and Lillian Gish, Rex Harrison, Katharine Hepburn, Gertrude Lawrence, Eva Le Gallienne, Alfred Lunt, Lynne Fontanne, Edward G. Robinson, Elia Kazan, Margaret Webster, Oscar Hammerstein II and Richard Rodgers. Langner successfully appealed to the Rockefeller Foundation, the Old Dominion Foundation, the New York Foundation, CBS Foundation, Lily Endowment and US Steel for support (Cooper 1986: 19). He planned for the theatre to be a modern recreation of Shakespeare’s Globe, where along with a building, there would be a theatre company, a season and a training programme. Rather than look to the budding regional theatre movement for its inspiration and structure, AST embraced Broadway as a business and theatrical model. Before the building opened, the board members made continual changes to Langner’s original theatre design. Not wanting to rely on just producing Shakespeare, the board directed that a theatre be built that would be flexible enough to accommodate Shakespeare as well as a variety of other kinds of productions, including dance, opera and concerts. The resulting performance space was acoustically challenging, and the audience–actor relationship was one of remoteness and distance. Part of the problem seemed to be the excessive depth of the stage – which extended some 42 feet from the proscenium arch. ‘It combined an enormous, unraked proscenium stage with a fourteen-foot-deep thrust that extended the entire ninety-two-feet width of the theatre. … The backstage area, one of the largest in the country … providing ample space for sets on wagons. Side galleries placed outside of the proscenium were to be used for staging and scenic elements’ (Cooper 1986: 23). With the completion of his building, a constant series of fixes began, attempting to correct the inadequacies of the theatre space.

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For its 1955 inaugural season, British director Denis Carey was hired. According to board minutes, no suitable American director was to be found. The first year was deemed a critical disaster. Brooks Atkinson, discussing that first season and a production of The Tempest, offered this assessment: At best, this year’s troupe will have to be set down as a holding operation: holding the franchise while the parent organization tries to discover what it is doing. For Lawrence Langner and his associates, who have been industriously collecting money and heroically building a new theatre in a rush do not yet have an artistic policy. … With all proper respect for the good things evident in the current production of The Tempest, neither the director nor most of the actors have much command over the lyric beauty of the comedy. … In its first season the new Shakespeare organization has not been able to master a poetic masterpiece. (Atkinson 1955) Subsequently, the board hired John Houseman, along with his assistant Jack Landau to help the organization, in essence, start over. Houseman’s tenure as artistic director lasted from 1956 until 1959. In an attempt to make the performances more intimate, Houseman oversaw the building of a raked platform that extended out from the front of the existing stage. To make the playing space more flexible and more aligned to an Elizabethan stage, he added several entrances and exits. In all, there were a total of eighteen possibilities to access the stage. Two pillars were built at both sides of the raked platform. A large trap helped the frequent scene changes and served as another entrance to the stage. A series of horizontal wooden slats were also used as a formal multipurpose background that reduced the need for excessive scenery, as they could be raised and lowered in multiple configurations. During Houseman’s second season, a subsequent modification made the space even more flexible with three mechanized platforms for moving stage scenery that allowed for striking a vista effect. For their third season, a permanent gallery was created upstage, adding inner below and inner above areas. ‘It is no accident that, of Houseman and Landau’s twelve productions, it was Julius Caesar, the first, that was set the farthest upstage, and the twelfth, The Winter’s Tale, which played more of its vital action farther downstage than any of its predecessors’ (Houseman and Landau 1959: 48). Houseman had no great philosophical theories about his approach to Shakespeare, but was considered practical in his directing. He simply wanted ‘to make the plays lively’ and ‘seductive’ for his audience, many of whom had limited experience in seeing any Shakespeare (Cooper 1986: 36). An article, written for the New York Times, introduced his second season. Houseman shared his ‘growing impatience with the limitations of the naturalistic theatre’ and the ‘general desire for a freer, more fluid and more lyric communication between … the theatrical creation and its audience’ (1956). He then outlined his intentions for upcoming productions:

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Here we hope to combine the blunt immediacy of the Elizabethan platform stage with the visual variety that lies within the depth of a dramatically lighted proscenium arch. This is no unit set, but a functional stage-form within which each production will be free to develop its own individual quality – its size and shape and color – and above all its own particular style, through which it can most clearly and eloquently communicate its message to a contemporary American audience. (Houseman 1956) Houseman felt that the dominant American acting approach, the method, while possessing uniquely American roots, was not conducive to realizing the poetry in classical texts and ignored more traditional approaches to performance. ‘In the past two generations most of our best young actors have been preoccupied almost exclusively with the inner mechanics of expressing emotions – the much discussed “method” and its derivatives. The results have been stimulating and far-reaching’ (Houseman and Landau 1959: 72–3). He identified a new movement back towards ‘a more styled and eloquent theatre’ (Houseman and Landau 1959: 73). As artistic director, Houseman developed a company whose work was dynamic and whose performances emphasized meaning and lucidity over poetic expression. The productions became known for their costly production designs that included a large company, lavishly costumed productions, striking visual effects and canny stage behaviour. AST’s first success was the 1956 Measure for Measure, directed by John Houseman and Jack Landau. The production successfully transferred to Broadway in 1957. Houseman and Landau transposed the era from Shakespeare’s fifteenth/sixteenth-century setting to nineteenth-century Vienna, in order to focus on the play’s ‘irony rather than terror’ and to support a lighter approach to the piece (1959: 54). The production had a late-nineteenth-century Edwardian look, with a setting that, according to Atkinson, consisted of ‘a series of lattices that take light and let light through and give an effect of neutral modernism’ (1957a). He also complimented the directors for using the stairs to the orchestra pit to achieve ‘speed, decision and spontaneity’ in entrances and exits (Atkinson 1957a). The focus of this Measure was firmly on the comedy, although there were brief moments suggesting a darker tone. The characters were crafted as comedic, often bordering on farce. Saturday Review’s Henry Hewes wrote: The duke as played with Mack Sennett merriment by Arnold Moss becomes a practical joker off on a spree. Kent Smith’s Angelo appeared a cowardly Puritan whose repressed existence is suddenly complicated by romantic whim. And Nina Foch’s Isabella seems a naïve young goody goody who learns very quickly to jump from saintly virtue into blackmail and perjury. (Hewes 1956)

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The Angelo/Isabella first scene was staged ‘across the green baize of his official table’ (Houseman and Landau 1959: 54). Their second encounter was performed ‘in the small circle of light bounded by a Biedermeier bentwood sofa and one straight-backed chair’ (Houseman and Landau 1959: 54). The prison scene had ‘a maze of bars and dungeons, lighted to suggest a small-scale Piranesi prison’ (Houseman and Landau 1959: 55). Vienna’s seedier scenes featured Toulouse Lautrec-styled posters and were underscored with music played on a player piano. The costumes were effectual and clearly detailed each character. Norman Lloyd’s Lucio was rendered as ‘a dude in white gloves, bowler hat, four-button suit, spats, and (in the dénouement) carrying a bamboo cane’ (Hosely 1956: 401). ‘Pompey was bowler-hatted with a red-and-white striped silk shirt; the Duke departed the capital complete with hunting stick, dog and caged bird, in a pelisse and hat of Tyrolian green; Angelo, out of office, wore a Prince Albert – in office, his costume was modeled after a photograph of Jean Cocteau the day he was admitted to the French Academy’ (Houseman and Landau 1959: 54–5). The direction underlined the production’s emblematic elements. At times, the staging was intricately choreographed and ironic: At the end of the scene in which Isabella and the Friar arrange the bedtrick with Mariana, the three are grouped at the front of the stage. The ladies curtsy simultaneously and begin to exit by passing each other en route to the opposite wings; the Friar is descending the front stairs. Suddenly Isabella stops, exclaims ‘Oh!’ and holds up the key to Angelo’s garden, which she has forgotten to give Mariana. Mariana, having also stopped, turned, and seen the key, echoes her ‘Oh!’ and returns to receive the key. … The Friar, having turned to see what is happening, says ‘Oh!’ in benevolent understanding. The actors then continue their exits three several ways. (Hosley 1956: 402) Other comic moments included the Provost ‘bounding elatedly’ around with the severed head in a hatbox, Pompey’s showing ‘feelthy peectures’ with which he successfully tempts a policeman and Mistress Overdone ‘smoked a cigar and rode herd on a group of sportive ladies pleasantly reminiscent of Toulouse-Lautrec’ (Hosley 1956: 402). Additional productions under John Houseman’s artistic leadership, mainly comedies, included The Taming of the Shrew directed by Norman Lloyd (1956); The Merchant of Venice starring Morris Carnovsky as a sympathetic Shylock (1957); a nineteenth-century south Texas Much Ado About Nothing with Katherine Hepburn, Alfred Drake and Carnovsky (1957); A Midsummer Night’s Dream (1958); The Winter’s Tale (1958); and The Merry Wives of Windsor (1959). Landau directed The Merchant of Venice and A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He co-directed Much Ado About Nothing as well as The Merry Wives of Windsor with Houseman.

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Atkinson thought the direction of Much Ado About Nothing was ‘inventive in any number of minor details – occasionally too arch for comfort, but it brings the whole performance into intelligible focus’ (1957b). The setting was the Southwest: Messina Texas. Rouben Ter-Arutunian’s set was subtle and did not overpower the audience with its Spanish Colonial American details. Atkinson admired the ‘light sketch of a ranch house with a balcony of lattice doors leading into unseen private rooms above the wide rooms downstairs’ (1957b). Leiter thought the production ‘bright, funny and brash, alternating between moments of romantic comedy and broad farce’ (1986b: 505). At the start of the show a gun was fired. Soldiers with saddles on their shoulders entered, returning from a ‘victorious … skirmish with some desperadoes’ (Leiter 1986b: 505). The production featured ‘flamingo guitar music, hat dances, and New World naiveté’ (Leiter 1986b: 505). Indian servants waited on ‘ladies in their white mantillas and the elegantly dressed gentlemen’ (Leiter 1986b: 505). Katharine Hepburn played Beatrice and Alfred Drake played Benedick. Their scenes were staged close to the audience, making the relationship an especially ‘intimate’ one (Leiter 1986b: 505). Drake’s Benedick started out as a ‘supercilious coxcomb’ but evolved into a ‘more mature and relaxed young man’ in the last scene, making evident his personal growth (Leiter 1986b: 505). Hepburn’s ‘flat, astringent voice’ gave a boost to the play’s witty comic prose (Atkinson 1957b). ‘Her worldliness makes the impudence of Beatrice tart and biting. Since Beatrice has a nimble mind as well as a quick sense of humor, the part suits Miss Hepburn perfectly’, Atkinson wrote (1957b). The stage blocking had many farcical elements. They included Hepburn hiding under a table in her eavesdropping scene, moving it about the stage in order to find a better vantage point in which to hear. There was even a chase scene in which the sheriff (Dogberry) and his deputies pursue Don John around the stage before capturing him (Leiter 1986b: 505). Carnovsky played Shylock for Landau’s Merchant of Venice. Lewis Funke complimented the director for not adding ‘any special stunts. Instead, he has delivered to us a performance that is a beautiful counterpoint of comedy, romance, melodrama and pathos’ (Funke 1957a). He had high praise for Carnovsky’s Shylock: Mr. Carnovsky is able to render [Shylock] a completely comprehensible human being, capable, in fact, of wringing from us a sympathy and empathy that Shakespeare writing in the time he did could hardly have intended. With a shrug of a shoulder, the raising of an eyebrow, the dropping of a lip, the wave of a hand, Mr. Carnovsky conveys the contempt that Shylock feels for the Christians who have upbraided him and called him dog. When he refuses to eat with them, when he reminds them that in flesh and blood he is not unlike them, when he recalls the slurs and anguish inflicted upon him, his deep resonant voice is the voice of a man who has known the torture of insult, hatred and vilification.

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This is a Shylock of intellect and dignity, even if it is a Shylock that is unbending in his resolution to have his bond. (Funke 1957a) He found that Rouben Ter-Arutunian’s setting effectively supported the action. The permanent latticework backdrop was supplemented by ‘a simple bridge of steps’ that served as the playing area for the many scenes of the play, including the magistrate’s area for the trial (Funke 1957a). The designer added a couple of ‘simple windows’ with ribbons as drapes and ‘a touch of gilt’ to express ‘Venetian elegance’ (Funke 1957a). Motley designed a carnival of colours for the actors’ costumes and the lighting designed by Jean Rosenthal was ‘magical’ (Funke 1957a). Landau’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream was, by most accounts, a triumph. Critics thought the production had dynamic acting, staging and choreography, enthralling décor and the music was delightful. Clurman deemed it ‘the pleasantest performance I remember seeing at the festival since its inception’ (1958) and McGlinchee opined, ‘A better casting of the tradesmen can scarcely be imagined’ (1958: 541). There was a range of responses regarding the approach to the lovers, with McGlinchee finding it too farcical ‘as if they were part of a burlesque’ (1958: 541), while others believed the work had ‘refreshing lust and vigor’ (Hewes 1958). Reviewers also noticed weak verse skills. Atkinson wrote, ‘Mr. Landau might do better to concentrate on the lyricism. … Excepting in the case of Richard Waring, as Oberon, the poetry is not musically or beautifully spoken’ (1958). On the other hand, he began his review by suggesting the Pyramus and Thisbe scene had never been better. For the 1959 season, John Houseman and Jack Landau co-directed another comedy, The Merry Wives of Windsor, traditionally set in the Elizabethan era. Critics considered the directing to be effective and expertly executed. Funke argued that the play ‘has a tendency to repeat itself’ and ‘can get wearisome in its progress’ (1959). A good production of it requires ‘sound staging’ (Funke 1959). He thought the AST version ‘in the hands of John Houseman and Jack Landau’ had such a staging which also avoided another trap, an over emphasis on the play’s ‘shenanigans to the point of foolishness’ (Funke 1959). Instead, the directors created ‘a gay, lighthearted escapade that makes the most of every humorous situation but refrains from the evils of excess’ (Funke 1959). McGlinchee found Falstaff’s scene ‘sitting with his feet in a mustard bath after having been dumped into the Thames … monstrously funny’ (1959: 575). She had high praise for AST’s work with farce and comedy, as well as with fantasy. Critics were effusive in their praise of Larry Gates’ Falstaff. They were captivated by ‘the twinkle in his eyes and to a tongue which constantly licked its lips in anticipation of lusty pleasures and which also derived full effect from Falstaff’s richly comic dialogue’ (Leiter 1986b: 458). The rest of the company received accolades for their comic performances of fully realized characters.

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Due to his success, Houseman was interested in forming a classical repertory company that would develop technical skills for classical theatre. He hoped it would employ actors all year. The board’s reluctance to support this idea eventually led to his sudden resignation in 1959. The board decided not to hire another artistic director, but rather retain the services of Landau as the associate producer. His philosophy, according to the AST souvenir programme, was to investigate Shakespeare’s plays ‘in terms of our own time and an audience largely unfamiliar with the plays or their performance’ (quoted in Cooper 1986: 64). Again, modifications to the stage were made which consisted of a sort of shell cyclorama composed of ‘1,000 twelve to eighteen-inch translucent plastic chips’ (Cooper 1986: 66). From 1960 to 1961, Landau directed two-thirds of the productions in his final two seasons with AST. One of his best productions was the historically accurate Antony and Cleopatra starring Hepburn and Robert Ryan in 1960. The production was not critically well received, but enormously popular. McGlinchee thought that neither of the two leads ‘completely measured up’ (1960: 471). She complained that ‘some strange things were done to the text, in the way of cuts, displacements, and even actual lines written into the play to bridge gaps’ (1960: 472). She ceded that it is a ‘long and complicated’ play, but found the cutting ‘crudely done in a way to give the impression that the actors had forgotten certain lines’ (McGlinchee 1960: 472). While Funke considered the production to be ‘an honorable’ event, he also said it was ‘not a memorable’ one (1960). He felt Landau’s direction was ‘sensitive, though on occasion somewhat spotty … it sparkles more than it splutters, and its defects are outshone by its virtues’ (Funke 1960). He also found that the second act ‘sags’ and ‘comes perilously close to being tedious’ (Funke 1960). Landau’s bold civil war Troilus and Cressida was controversial and generated strong responses, both pro and con. At the time, it was much reviled, but several critics accepted the parallels between the two periods, acknowledging a workable directorial concept for the production (see Figure 6). In a memorandum to AST staff, Landau explained his approach: To an American audience, the difference between Greek and Trojan is not particularly interesting or significant if it is merely represented by different designs on the shields or different colors of the armor. How to present meaningfully the real significance of the opposing forces? It is a [contemporary Elizabethan] Civil war which Shakespeare has written about – indeed brother against brother – with the same language, the same religion and beliefs. … Shakespeare’s Troilus and Cressida is not a play about the American Civil War (that is the reason there are no slaves in it) nor is it being presented that way. … What we are trying to do is use the symbols of American history to make certain ideas in this very complicated, difficult and beautiful play a little more immediate. (Landau 1961)

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FIGURE 6  Photo of (left to right) Ted van Griethuysen (Troilus), Jessica Tandy (Cassandra), Pat Hingle (Hector) and unidentified actors in Troilus and Cressida at American Shakespeare Theatre, Stratford, CT, 1961, directed by Jack Landau. Photo by Friedman-Abeles. ©Billy Rose Theatre Division, The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts.

Taubman disliked the civil war setting, but admitted those who like novel Shakespeare transplanted settings would enjoy it, at least up to the battle scene. ‘But when the shooting begins, when cannon are deployed and rifles pop, when soldiers roar across the stage, giving off Rebel yells, the production verges on puerility. It achieves a noisy silliness worthy of Westerns but not of Shakespeare, particularly the Shakespeare of Troilus and Cressida who scorned heroics’ (1961b). McGlinchee praised the performances of several actors, including Carrie Nye’s Cressida, Hiram Sherman’s Pandarus, Donald Davis’ Achilles and Jessica Tandy’s Cassandra. She admitted that the play is ‘a difficult play to stage, to act, or even to read. It is very long and complicated’ (McGlinchee 1961: 421). She acknowledged that Shakespeare’s ‘slight opinion of both the Greeks and the Trojans makes the interest hard to sustain’ (McGlinchee 1961: 421–2). However, she criticized AST’s unique setting because it ‘so distracted the audience, as it strove simultaneously to keep the cast list straight, and to match these ancient figures with their intended counterparts in our Civil War, that the process was exhausting’ (McGlinchee 1961: 422). The Saturday Review, on the other hand, relished the parallels:

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Troy, which fought the ignominy of being forced to give up an abducted possession, bears some similarity to the Confederacy, which resented being told to give up its slaves. Furthermore, the behavior of the preChristian lovers seems most understandable among the elegant manners of the Southern belles and gentlemen, which encouraged full-blooded passion by permitting it to happen decorously. And of course the final pillage of Troy had its tragic echo in the American South of a Century ago. (Hewes 1961) The Daily News, Newsweek and AP also found the production intriguing. Landau directed a successful Macbeth that same season. The two leads were not quite up to par, according to the reviews, although Tandy’s Lady Macbeth, while lacking a ‘fiendish’ sensibility in the first part of the play, was ‘a triumph’ in her sleepwalking scene (McGlinchee 1961: 421). Pat Hingle’s Macbeth suffered from a repetitive ‘gesture of flaying the air’ and poor reading of the soliloquies (McGlinchee 1961: 421). But there were no ‘illadvised cuts, and the play was free of gimmicks’ (McGlinchee 1961: 421). In 1962, the board hired freelance director Allen Fletcher. Prior to AST, Fletcher had directed at OSF and at the Old Globe. At Stratford, he staged a celebrated King Lear with Carnovsky. Robert Speaight wrote: ‘This is probably the finest Shakespearean performance to be seen on the American side of the Atlantic after the second world war’ (1973: 241). The scene designer, Will Steven Armstrong, highlighted ‘the savage period’ primarily ‘to suit the mood of wildness in the scenes of eye gouging and bloodletting’ (Atkinson 1963). There were ‘movable metallic settings … picking up Tharon Musser’s lighting to provide foreground areas of action in which the performers could emerge from the darkened surrounding areas’ (Leiter 1986b: 316). According to an interview with Fletcher, his goal was to fuse ‘a rather primitive barbarism … [with] a rather sophisticated physical luxury’ and create ‘a visual concept that would allow for Christian morals in a Pagan society’ (Cooper 1986: 90). The staging was much praised. ‘To emphasize Lear’s pitiable sickness, director Allen Fletcher chose to end the first half of the play in mid-heath and to begin the second part with a continuation of the scene’ (Leiter 1986b: 316). Very little was cut from the play; only three lines of Carnovsky’s Lear were deleted. Fletcher avoided imposing an overt conceptual approach. He focused on the story and the characters as human beings, as well as their relationships with each other, letting the company investigate their characters from ‘their own points of view, not from Lear’s’ without dictating choices and solutions (Novick 1968a: 305). Actress Rosemary Murphy, who played Goneril, recalled that at the first rehearsal ‘Fletcher stressed that our job with the play was to tell its story, to play the lives of passionate men and women, who are all part of a great legend that is very real and very modern, and that is not a complicated metaphysical idea’ (1963). Critics praised the strong performances that demonstrated a close collaboration by the company. ‘The final judgment was that here was

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a King Lear that tried for grandeur, with only some success, but one that did have considerable sweep and feeling, erring on the side of boldness, and attaining a good measure of size, with a Lear of touching humility’ (Leiter 1986b: 316). After the 1964 season, Fletcher was hired as the next artistic director. His productions demonstrated a clear upfront style that was comprehensible to audiences, using actors who were praised for their solid diction. Bernard Beckerman took note of his directorial skills evident in the 1965 season: The productions, especially those of Coriolanus and Lear, were lucid. They did not distort Shakespeare’s work. Even more, Allen Fletcher, who directed all the plays save The Taming of the Shrew, proved extremely able in defining the essential outline of each play. The actors made sense when they spoke. The relevant action was clearly etched so that the untutored auditor could readily follow what was happening. (Beckerman 1965: 329) While Beckerman appreciated the clarity, many critics found the productions uninspiring. The primary objection was that the work as a whole lacked a strong voice or interpretive stamp: Lacking is a sufficiently commanding approach towards the staging of Shakespeare’s plays. Instead, a loose eclecticism prevails. Each production goes its own way, unable to draw strength from a store of common purpose. Credibility and invention, so necessary to a vital presentation, have no depth. Therefore, though the productions are often tasteful and occasionally stirring, they do not create unforgettable images, they do not give fresh voice to Shakespeare’s enduring eloquence. (Beckerman 1965: 333) After bland reviews in the 1965 season, the board decided, once again, to forgo an artistic director for its next season.

Michael Kahn In 1967, Michael Kahn came to an organization newly renamed the American Shakespeare Festival Theatre. He had a reputation as an innovative director with a modern sensibility. Influenced by Brecht, Jan Kott and Julian Beck, he was a conceptual director and tackled Shakespeare with a revisionist view of the plays. This was in considerable contrast to the work of most previous directors at AST, who were focused on scenic and decorative ideas. Kahn was interested in interpreting and reworking Shakespeare’s plays for their relevancy to contemporary issues. Kahn created productions that made previous AST offerings appear dated and dull. In the 1967 souvenir programme for The Merchant of Venice, Kahn wrote that every generation and time period must uncover two

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fundamentals within Shakespeare’s work: ‘1) Discover in them what makes them specifically of their own historical era. 2) Discover in them that which specifically prophesies social-cultural configurations of our own era’ (quoted in Cooper 1986: 131). Shakespearean plays defy outmoded nineteenth-century Victorian ideas of good and evil and they relate more to our contemporary times than most people realize, Kahn asserted. Also, he argued that Shakespeare was critical of much of Elizabethan England. His production of Merchant was to be a black comedy that was ‘highly critical of a society based on currency values, in which people treat each other as objects. It’s like those games people play, like putting each other on. The game goes too far and then the people become destructive’ (Funke 1967). His interpretation of Shylock’s character was both compassionate because he was ‘a victim of cruelty and abuse’, but also ‘terrifying’ because he was unforgiving and greedy (Cooper 1986: 131–2). Reviewers criticized Carnovsky’s performance, with Beckerman regarding it ‘detached’ (1967: 405) and Sullivan believing it too ‘realistic’ (1967b). The rest of the cast was not considered up to the level of Carnovsky. A programme note for Kahn’s 1968 Richard II stated his purpose: uncovering issues in Shakespeare’s text that still resonate today. The note included a quote from Jan Kott, whose influence on the young director was considerable. The staging of Richard’s first entrance was mirrored at the end during Bolingbroke’s coronation ceremony, a nod to Kott’s ‘cyclical view of history in Shakespeare’s chronicle plays’ (Cooper 1986: 137–9). Critics questioned some of Kahn’s other staging choices. Beckerman wondered why Richard, after Exton stabbed him, suddenly ‘fall[s] against the portcullis of his prison, arms outstretched in a crucifixion pose, head bathed in celestial light’. He thought the moment ‘inorganic and gratuitous’ (Beckerman 1968: 378). Sullivan praised Kahn for ‘moving [the production] smartly ahead, with an occasional rest stop for poetry’ (1968a). He thought the ‘quickmarch pacing’ was ‘a little mechanical, but at least it avoids the drowsiness so often induced by productions of Shakespeare’s history plays’ (Sullivan 1968a). He found incredulous the choice to have ‘Richard [shrink] from a peroxided fop to a stuttering coward. Then as if from nowhere, [comes] the nobility of the prison scene’ (Sullivan 1968a). A contemporary Love’s Labour’s Lost, which Kahn also directed in 1968, emphasized current manners, clothing and music. Originally, he planned to set the production in the fourteenth century, but because of limitations in the abilities of his actors, he switched concepts to better suit the cast. The production was set in India, with sitars, yoga sessions, paparazzi chasing a Beatles-like trio trying to escape the world, spoofs of contemporary musicians and an overall cultural send-up of what the director note referred to as the ‘affectations’ of the times (Cooper 1986: 140). Critics did not care for the production with Beckerman writing, ‘The execution … did not fulfill the potential’ (1968: 380) and Vincent Canby labelling it ‘a desperate effort to give a contemporary look, if not meaning, to Shakespeare’s original’ (1968).

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Canby goes on to say, ‘the result is rather more condescending than bold. Although there are some individually stunning things in this production, the conception itself is such a flat denial of the original that it becomes an elaborate apology for anyone’s being caught alive doing the play’ (1968). In 1969, the AST board hired Kahn to serve as its official artistic director. He spoke of his philosophy of directing Shakespeare in two interviews. To Kevin Kelley of the Boston Globe he explained: ‘What I’m trying to evolve in my own direction of his plays is a feeling of such searching and of first encounter. The feeling of confrontation between the audience and Shakespeare’ (quoted in Cooper 1986: 146). To the Philadelphia Inquirer’s William Collins, he stated: ‘I don’t think the purpose of the theatre is to reassure the middle class. … They’ve got television. Art should increase our modes of perceptions, enabling us to view things differently. … There’s an enormous untapped audience of young people who feel that Shakespeare doesn’t relate to them’ (1969). For his first season as artistic director, he chose Henry V, interpreting it as an anti-war play. Kahn intended to shake things up at Stratford, rejecting Olivier’s post-Second World War nationalistic interpretation of the famous king. In a 22 May 1969 letter to Stratford patrons, he stated his goal was to create astonishing stage pictures and to amaze audiences in a similar fashion to what Shakespeare’s audiences experienced (quoted in Cooper 1986: 148). In a 30 July 1969 letter, Kahn wrote his goal was to show Shakespeare’s interest in the ‘ambiguities and contradictions inherent in men in the political arena’ (quoted in Cooper 1986: 148). Kahn’s programme note provided additional context: The play is set on a stage which is a playground, which is an arena, which is a battle-ground. The games of this play are the games of war, of conquest, of power, of betrayal and of love – games played every day in the playground – and the space is transformed, as the playground is, into whatever or wherever the players want it to be. (Smith 1969: 449) Kahn crafted an elaborately improvised opening prologue in which he introduced the audience to the play’s world: Some twenty minutes or so before the play itself begins, members of the company gradually come on stage – dressed mostly in well-worn teeshirts and dungarees – and use the area purely as a playground. These young people … dribble and pass basketballs, throw Frisbees, … play swing ropes and hang by their heels from the top of the stage. Some of them make rhythms with a tambourine, rattle, triangle, maracas, and a pair of claves. Eventually there are some two dozen young people, and a crescendo of rhythmic pounding sounds as though we are soon to witness a gang ‘rumble’ from West Side Story. Finally, they lie on their backs, kicking their feet in the air and hissing. And the Prologue is delivered by

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several individuals, the group periodically interjecting its first phrase, ‘O for a Muse of fire,’ as a refrain. (Titcomb 1969) Other elements of the production included characters costumed like children’s renderings. Brechtian anti-war subtitles denoted the beginning of each scene and were delivered by the actors. Ritualized executions were repeated to reinforce a point. French dialogue was interpreted by United Nations resembling translators. The fights were done with wooden sticks and other materials from the playground. Soldiers were costumed in multiple periods’ clothing (see Figure 7). The list of the dead was read while masked actors entered the stage. The dead eventually joined together in a line and marched downstage, while shifting from left to right in a haunting scene as they moved towards the audience. Many reviews were unfavourable, with a typical reaction being: ‘It certainly wasn’t Shakespeare’s play’. Titcomb criticized many of the director’s choices, but admitted the production ‘never fails to hold the attention’ (1969). Still, he disparaged: Unwilling to trust the play, Kahn has cut the text liberally, transposed lines, distributed the one-man Chorus speeches among four persons, imported

FIGURE 7  Photo of the war machine, Len Cariou (Henry V) in the American Shakespeare Theatre production, Stratford, CT, 1969, directed by Michael Kahn. Photo by Martha Swope. ©Billy Rose Theatre Division, The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts.

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dialogue from the end of 2 Henry IV (delivered over loudspeakers), and added lines of his own by way of scene descriptions. And there is a steady parade of gimmicks and odd bits of business, borrowed from such sources as the plays of Brecht, Genet’s The Balcony, and the Living Theatre’s Mysteries and Smaller Pieces. (Titcomb 1969) Walter Kerr summarized what many reviewers felt was the central difficulty with the production: What is wrong here is not that the director has a conscience about certain contemporary events but that he has no conscience at all about the play he is directing. He didn’t have to do Henry V. He could have done Bury the Dead. To do one as though it were the other simply destroys the first without giving the second a proper hearing. Everything is compromised, and it doesn’t really matter that the play billed is by Shakespeare. No director should do any play in which he doesn’t believe, not even to kill it. Killing, after all, is what Mr. Kahn means to be against. (Kerr 1969) While many critics did not like Kahn’s interpretive choices, most praised the company’s acting work. Some also admired the production for its innovation and creativity. Barnes felt Kahn’s interpretation was ‘greatly flawed’, but thought it was ‘honestly enterprising, the individual detailing was often extremely good’ and the comic scenes ‘deft and accurate’ (1969). He added, ’Aside from his gimmicks, he also produced many very good dramatic effects. There was a real quality here, and the ensemble playing was notably smooth’ (Barnes 1969). Another reviewer thought it the ‘highlight’ of the summer, finding the major strengths of the production in ‘the brilliant use of the stage’ and Len Cariou’s Henry (Smith 1969: 449). He applauded Cariou’s choice of ‘playing it straight, but drawing out of it more variety and subtlety than one ever guessed were in it’ (Smith 1969: 449). He also approved of Kahn’s choice ‘not to involve Henry in the anti-war attitudes except where the words make involvement inescapable’ (Smith 1969: 449). The production generated considerable debate. Regardless of their individual issues with Kahn’s choices, most critics recognized a young talented director at the core. During his artistic directorship, Kahn sought to change Stratford’s Broadway-like commercial outlook to a non-profit resident theatre model. At the same time, he pursued a course that would ‘challenge, stimulate, even confront’ his audience (Cooper 1986: 156). As an artist, he sought ‘new dimensions’ instead of presenting ‘well-acted, entertaining’ pieces (Cooper 1986: 156). He refused to let contemporary ‘Living Theatre’ techniques eclipse the language and the poetry. He sought a marriage of the spoken word with physical techniques. To Marilyn Stassio he said: ‘I don’t set about specifically to do a particular kind of production in a distinct personal style.

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I look at each play differently. An experimental approach is not necessarily the only way to do Shakespeare’ (quoted in Cooper 1986: 157). Like Houseman before him, Kahn wished to develop a company of resident actors. In order to help build the company’s abilities, he offered classes and workshops. He moved away from the cynicism and harshness of his previous productions, and began to explore healing and sympathy in his work. His All’s Well That Ends Well was a fairy-tale romance with extravagant costumes and settings that were picture book. He thought the play ‘a very wise fable, closer to a romance’ (quoted in Smith 1970: 452). But, as the Shakespeare Quarterly reviewer noted, ‘If you are going to have a fable or a romance you surely have to have a convincingly romantic hero and heroine, and these the production lacked’ (Smith 1970: 452). Kerr applauded Kahn for pulling back from the previous season’s overadventurous approaches to Shakespeare, and for a more cerebral style. Critics found his direction of Othello to be ‘unobtrusive’ and ‘patient’ (Smith 1970: 453) by giving Shakespeare more room instead of ‘trying to constrict the plays into a pre conceived production design’ (Kerr 1970). Barnes observed that Kahn was now exploring ‘simplicity’ in his approach to the play (1970). To several critics, this Othello was the finest version they had ever experienced, many attributing its success to Gunn’s Othello. Kerr detailed the chief features of the performance: There’s more to a line than the mental luggage it is meant to carry. … The words are tasted before they are permitted beyond his teeth. They are savored not only for sense but for syllable, with each piece of a word given its separate, surprising value. When … he comes to ‘She thanked me, And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, I should but teach him how to tell my story’, the words ‘teach’ and ‘tell’ and ‘story’ seem to lift themselves on stilt to tower over the council chamber and to make in the air a kind of sea wave of sound. The words are so plain that there is no need to study them. It is the melody we are borne on, buoyantly, breathlessly. We know, in this moment, that we are listening to an aria. We also realize, at the moment, that Othello is in very large part composed of arias. That is an easy thing to forget when we busy ourselves with character motivations and all the paraphernalia of textbook criticism. And we intuit – correctly that Mr. Gunn has made a particular point of elevating caressed sound at this juncture because he means to use it and to build on it again and again in the play. (Kerr 1970) After expressing his preference for a white actor’s Othello, Barnes found much to admire in Gunn’s performance: Mr. Gunn has a look of handsome arrogance about him – he seems a natural soldier, a natural leader. He makes Othello proud, even vain. He makes Othello conscious of race, sensitive to the differences around him.

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This is a sports star or entertainment idol of an Othello making it in a white world, proudly aware of acceptance, haughty, disdainful, and shockingly vulnerable. He makes Othello trusting and simple. (Barnes 1970) The affected manner in which Gunn spoke made for ‘an Othello of pain rather than passion’ (Barnes 1970). Noting that Gunn plays Othello from ‘a deliberate position of black consciousness’, Barnes thought Gunn’s work ‘gratifyingly complex’ with many ‘layers’ (1970). Critics lauded Kahn’s newly discovered ability to resist tinkering with a concept and subverting the actors’ work to his great idea. It allowed him to focus on directing the actors’ performances as well as clarifying the story. In 1972, Kahn staged both Julius Caesar and Antony and Cleopatra as studies in the nature of politics. Using identical sets and costumes, he employed the same actors where their characters appeared in both plays. Kahn’s emblematic approach could be seen in the scenery: a raked stage with a rear brick wall. This was visually minimal Shakespeare. The actors wore Roman and Egyptian costumes. Kerr and Barnes disagreed about the merits of Kahn’s direction of the two Roman tragedies. Kerr, while finding ‘a few striking moments’, disliked the misuse of ‘slow motion’ (1972b). Its use in Caesar’s assassination, reminded him that ‘the theatre [has] come tardy to the obligatory clichés of current films’ (Kerr 1972b). He found the second half of the three and a half hour production to be an ‘elongated hush’ (Kerr 1972b). The main culprit was the actress playing Cleopatra, who began ‘to play her death scene at the very opening of the second half’ (Kerr 1972b). Barnes thought Kahn’s staging was ‘confident and assertive’ (1972a). He commended Kahn for the ‘simplicity’ of his approach, and for being ‘that comparatively rare Shakespearean director who wishes to push Shakespeare rather than himself’ (Barnes 1972a). Harley labelled the two productions ‘“solid”, “worthy”, “decent”, “workmanlike”’, but ultimately found they were not ‘exciting or engaging’, although admitting they were ‘hardly ever boring’ (1972: 397). In the 1973 souvenir programme, Kahn maintained that Shakespeare possessed a ‘truly amazing awareness of the richness and variety of human experience’ (quoted in Cooper 1986: 172). Kahn now believed Shakespeare was an interrogator of human nature, often exploring ambiguities of a situation in his plays rather than answers. He admitted: ‘One … approaches Shakespeare with the knowledge that he can never “solve” him, that he is larger than you are and that he can never be tamed or encircled. All one can do is try to be as true to the play and one’s responses to it as one can be’ (quoted in Cooper 1986: 172). For that season, Kahn directed a ‘balanced’ Measure for Measure as well as a non-conceptual, Jacobean/modern Macbeth. Smith thought the Measure for Measure designs had successfully rendered ‘a seedy, ugly, overripe, and vicious’ Vienna (1973: 412). The issue he had with the production was a lack of conviction from three characters at the core of

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the story: Duke, Angelo and Isabella. He also found that Kahn’s direction failed to integrate ‘theatrical exploration’ and ‘originality … with the rest of the production’ (Smith 1973: 412). Barnes complimented Kahn’s ‘splendid staging’ that ‘seizes upon the corruption of the city … for its back cloth; and then the motives, mostly venal, of his characters for his front stage’ (1973b). He believed the interpretation to be contemporary and surmised that Shakespeare ‘would surely have approved’ (Barnes 1973b). He added, ‘Power and Sexual appetite are Mr. Kahn’s dual themes, and the play responds like a struck tuning fork’ (Barnes 1973b). Kahn dressed his Macbeth in seventeenth-century Jacobean costumes that were mainly black. Duncan wore white and after their coronation Macbeth and Lady Macbeth wore red. The modern setting had two large steel panels that functioned as entrances, and through which a large moon could be seen. Various projections on its surface reflected the tenor of the supernatural moments. The furniture was also made of steel. The witches were three ladies of the court – women who thought they were witches, but were not necessarily witches. The second witch scene with Macbeth was placed at the end of the banquet scene and was meant to be a figment of Macbeth’s imagination. Barnes thought this ‘a fantastic choice’, one he had never seen before (1973c). He also thought Kahn saw Macbeth ‘as a domestic tragedy, where the church is negligently fighting the powers of evil. The stage, incidentally, is full of crucifixes’ (1973c). The production seemed to highlight the conflict between Christian righteousness and pagan evil. Depending on the reviewer, opinions about the leads’ performances ranged from brilliant to respectable. Novick acknowledged that Kahn had come up with ‘some good directorial ideas’ for the production: But not all of his ideas seem to have a great deal to do with one another; he has not been able to imagine a whole production that would stem naturally out of the world of Mr. Schmidt’s designs. The scenery, with its geometric shapes and metallic surfaces, has a technological, ‘Modernistic’ air about it; it looks a little like an illustration from a book on the epoch-making Russian set designers of the 1920’s. It is like an image of the far future as seen by the recent past – though no less potent for that. … Mr. Schmidt’s setting, impressive and evocative as it is, poses a formidable problem to anybody trying to direct Macbeth on it. (Novick 1973) He also believed Kahn had ‘a good idea about the witches’ being court ladies (Novick 1973). But that idea ‘is not explored as far as it might have been’ (Novick 1973). Barnes noted that Kahn’s approach to the witches is difficult to make prominent as the text gives them no lines at court. Besides, ‘the idea of a Macbeth destroyed more by necromancy than ambition takes away something from Lady Macbeth. In most versions she is an equal partner; here she has to be merely a collaborator to Macbeth’s doom’ (Barnes 1973c).

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In a 1984 conversation with Cooper, Kahn reflected on his final years at Stratford. He realized that his thoughts and impressions were not as appealing as Shakespeare’s, that his attention must be focused on the texts: ‘It was very important to me to stop imposing so much. … Maybe I also didn’t have the things to say that I did when I was younger’ (Cooper 1986: 172). Kahn’s later productions demonstrated that he had softened from his earlier brash and angry era. In a 1977 interview, he told Ralph Berry: There are many things that I don’t do any more when I’m working on Shakespeare, that I used to do. I no longer thought that Julius Caesar has a particular point of view or that I would bring a point of view to Julius Caesar. What I found interesting about Julius Caesar was the fact that it was an investigation into … rather than the definition of a situation. Of course, at the time I could not help but think that George McGovern and Brutus were rather similar, but I didn’t any longer say that I must make the audience know that Brutus was George McGovern … I guess that what I’m really saying is that I am no longer sure that the director’s job in Shakespeare is to interpret it. (Berry 1977: 76) In his final AST productions, he rarely edited the plays before rehearsals began; the work with the acting company determined deletions. ‘This was perhaps due to the “pressures” of the AST situation rather than “an expression of his evolving staging philosophy”’ (Cooper 1986: 186). In his final three seasons, Kahn had to make do with severely restricted budgets. Fewer Shakespearean productions were offered to the public. In 1974, he directed a Risorgimento 1860s Romeo and Juliet that featured Verdi music. It contributed to ‘a vaguely operative quality of the production’ (Saccio 1975: 402). Reviewing the season for Shakespeare Quarterly, Saccio summed up his impressions of the two productions. They ‘offered some good acting, occasional pleasant speaking, rather a lot of dubious solemnity, and above all an object lesson in the dominance of set’ (Saccio 1975: 401). Saccio argued that the director’s role is to come up with a ‘governing idea’ with which the audience is to view and interpret the production (1976: 47). Saccio found Kahn had an especially effective notion for his Winter’s Tale. ‘The pattern of loss and restoration, of passion and repentance, of destruction and renewal emerged visually as a circle. Human action, under divine guidance, curved back upon itself to close where it had begun’ (Saccio 1976: 49–50). He commended the director and the scene designer for determining ‘a governing idea from the very shape of the play and express[ing] it through all available means: set, costumes, blocking, drops, and especially through the doubling of Hermione with Perdita and through an expansion of the choral role of Time’ (Saccio 1976: 49). In almost all production details, Saccio felt the governing idea was commendably achieved. He also noted it was the best of the four Winter’s Tales he had seen.

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In Kahn’s last season with AST, the theatre was experiencing serious economic difficulties. Media appeals for support to get a matching grant were successful, but the number of performances significantly reduced. These factors contributed to the revival of the previous season’s Winter’s Tale as a means to save money. A new production of As You Like It was mounted with a 1790s seasonal (autumn to summer) setting. Saccio thought it ‘adequate but uninteresting. The audience appeared to enjoy itself, but I was bothered by signs of haste and carelessness: the vocal clash between an English Rosalind and a New York Celia, the visual clash between rectilinear blocking and a circular set, some rather easy characterizations (e.g. Jacques is sour because he is physically lame)’ (1977: 210). Kahn provided the longest artistic direction of any of the directors who passed through AST. His approach to directing Shakespeare shifted and matured throughout his decade working there. A theatrical innovator, he began as a strongly conceptual director, exploring production ideas based on contemporary observations; these became ruling ideas for his powerful evocative productions. When he started directing at AST, all choices were subservient to his concept (Merchant of Venice, Richard II, Love’s Labour’s Lost and Henry V). As he developed more experience, he let go of the need to impose on the plays. Instead, he sought to reveal what he thought Shakespeare had written. He was quite good at casting. He also valued clear, well-spoken language and verse, as well as the ability to explore justifications for a character’s actions. He became more and more expert in shaping the production’s pacing. His ability to work with space became finely tuned with extensive experience working on an enormously difficult AST performance space. Finally, he grew as an acting coach, sensing actor’s impulses and encouraging them to employ their finest instincts and skills.

Gerald Freedman and Peter Coe Due to severe financial issues, AST had a dark season in 1977, although other arts programming was scheduled in the theatre. After the dark season, Gerald Freedman was hired to direct Twelfth Night for the 1978 season. It was the only production offered and its popularity led to his being engaged as the next artistic director. Unlike Kahn, Freedman came with considerable experience, having directed almost half of the canon. Previously he had served as artistic director of the New York Shakespeare Festival under Joseph Papp’s supervision, and then held the same position at Julliard’s Acting Company with John Houseman as producer. Like several directors before him, Freedman sought to develop an American approach to Shakespeare. In a March 1978 statement for a National Endowment for the Arts grant, he declared, ‘American artists possess a vitality, energy, and a new acting tradition that is unique and varied  … a modern,

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uncluttered look eschewing a dependence on elaborate scenic and costume effects’ (quoted in Cooper 1986: 220). To Bridgeport Post’s Tim Holley he expressed a desire ‘to communicate the playwright’s intentions rather than my appliqué of decorative idea’ (quoted in Cooper 1986: 221). Freedman seemed to echo Kahn’s later position. He abjured ‘“gimmicky” or “decorative” Shakespeare – an arbitrarily Edwardian Hamlet, say or a Macbeth in modern dress’ (Berkvist 1978). He thought the director could ‘use any idea that will help make the play clearer and more accessible’ (Berkvist 1978). He thought it a ‘crime against Shakespeare’ if one attempts ‘to manipulate him. I believe in exploring the text for what it has to say about human behavior’ (Berkvist 1978). In a New York Theatre Review article, he laid out some of his methods: I approach the text and an understanding of it through an exploration of relationships. Much that seems incomprehensible and dated becomes transparent and relevant when it is revealed by behavior. … I like the complications, the richness of the subplots, and crosscurrents that constantly reflect and illuminate one another in Shakespeare’s comedies. I love the ruder aspects of Shakespeare that always accompany his sublime poetry. I do not consciously try to smooth out the contradictions or eliminate any of the layers. In short, I like to keep the rough edges of Shakespeare intact. (Freedman 1978) He also believed he must bring to Shakespeare a sense of a play’s theatricality and explore how it works on the stage. His first production for AST, Twelfth Night, exercised many of these ideas. He decided to set it in the early eighteenth century ‘primarily to get away from an Elizabethan look, which I was afraid would lead us into a conventional approach. A lot of conventional Shakespeare is dictated by costume. I’ve seen so many roistering productions of this play – the style stemming as much from the costumes as anything else – that I decided to set it in another period, needed to clear my head of those old cluttered images’ (Berkvist 1978). This was a lighthearted Twelfth Night, steeped in twelve days of Christmas ambiance. He staged the play to be performed entirely at the front of the stage because of the continuing terrible acoustics of the space. Scene changes were in full view of the audience and were signified by flying arrases in and out, adding and removing furniture pieces, and by the use of clever props, such as large potted trees used in the eavesdropping scene or a pirate’s eye patch and peg leg to disguise Antonio. Music played a pivotal role in this production. Freedman viewed Shakespeare’s plays as the musicals of their time. He believed their structure was similar, and compared soliloquies to arias. He maintained that Elizabethan performers also had to be multitalented in singing, dancing, playing instruments and reciting poetry. In an interview with Holley, he stated:

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I think a lot of directors engaged in classical theatre don’t have musical experience. They don’t know how to really integrate music with the material. You see music in these plays but often it is stuck in like raisins in a bun rather than being part of the texture and being considered part of the texture. Shakespeare wrote that format; he just didn’t say put a song here or there. (quoted in Cooper 1986: 224) In his review, Saccio thought that ‘the most important members of the cast were the chorus, a young, attractive, vocally-accomplished quartet who swelled every song into a production number’ (1980: 188). While admiring the quality of the music, he believed the production relied too much upon it: In ‘Come away, death’ the four mastersingers became a chattering chorus strongly reminiscent of the one in Stephen Sondheim’s A Little Night Music. Indeed, there were production numbers all over. The chorus, assisted with dancers, began the show with lengthily-developed courting songs and a highland fling, and they concluded the evening with ‘it was a lover and his lass’. I see I have called the productions a ‘show’. Well, it was: a modern musical comedy of the kind that is usually advertised as ‘merry’, ‘bawdy’, ‘lusty’. (Saccio 1980: 188) Markland Taylor complained that the evening ‘began with a lengthy concert by a young clear-voice quartet of singers. By the time Orsino strode on and announced, “If music be the food of love, play on”, we were downright impatient of music’ (1979: 184). He observed that Freedman apparently took his conceptual cue from Orsino’s initial line. Taylor thought the production ‘visually beautiful’ with the Duke’s eighteenth-century salon, designed by Ming Cho Lee, continuing a considerable distance upstage, maximizing the sense of depth (1979: 183). The costumes, designed by Jeanne Button, were ‘lavishly exquisite, paying enchanting homage to Watteau, Gainsborough, and Fragonard’ (Taylor 1979: 183). A problem with the set was that it also had to depict the scenes at Olivia’s, but instead looked like ‘an entertainment at Orsino’s palace, a result that couldn’t help but limit its impact’ (Taylor 1979: 183). Richard Eder, in his review, labelled the production ‘cheerful’ with ‘a broad style of comedy’ (1978b). He observed that ‘Mr. Freedman strenuously makes the point that Shakespeare can be fun. The trouble is, the harder you make that point the less fun he turns out to be’ (Eder 1978b). He found the final product to be ‘rambling, uneven’ and one ‘that makes little attempt to harmonize the work of a group of actors of very mixed abilities’ (Eder 1978b). He deemed Freedman’s staging to be ‘notably weak’, while praising the carousing scene with Sir Toby, Aguecheek, Maria and Feste; Viola’s duel; and a couple of the exits (Eder 1978b). Critics disagreed about the effectiveness of Lynn Redgrave’s Viola, with Taylor finding it ‘vibrant with wit and buoyancy’ (1979: 184) and Eder believing it ‘not very suitable’ (1978b).

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For the 1979 season, Freedman reprised his popular Twelfth Night. He also directed Julius Caesar and The Tempest. Julius Caesar had a contemporary Latin American setting that made extensive use of multimedia elements. There were projections of photo images, and film sequences of actual events, as well as an elaborately textured soundscape. The visuals were cast onto several screens and sounds heard on speakers placed throughout the auditorium and in the lobby. Large images, projected above and behind the actors, juxtaposed the play’s action events with political images of the day, thereby underscoring the relationship between them. With the exception of one minor change, the text was kept intact. The reviews were mixed, but those who approved, applauded the connections and relevancy of the relationship between onstage action and real-life politics. Eder noted that during the funeral speeches by Mark Antony and Brutus ‘we see the actors’ faces projected above them as if we were watching the television evening news’ (1979). He thought a couple of the theatrical effects were ‘quite stunning’, but found that ‘even the best tend to be intrusive’ (Eder 1979). He admired Freedman’s staging of the assassination, ‘particularly the moment of utter stillness that follows it’ (Eder 1979). Also effective was the choice to put the crowd behind the audience: ‘Risky, but it works. The varying and mounting responses are impressively handled’ (Eder 1979). While enjoying the projections of Mark Antony and Brutus on a large screen upstage, he thought the images competed with the live actors and found it hard to watch anything but the screen. Saccio, on the other hand, found the scene potent: ‘The real Antony, although much smaller, was live and observable in much more detail. He was not a public image but a calculating politician, whose flickering eyes and tiny gestures betrayed the manipulator engineering his effects with cool, disdainful intelligence … the device was truly dramatic’ (1980: 189). Ultimately, he thought the production a ‘hodgepodge’ of ideas and most of the effects ‘a batch of op-ed pages thrown at the audience’ (Saccio 1980: 190). Julius Caesar played to very poor houses. The Tempest, on the other hand, had strongly positive word of mouth among its audiences. In his programme note, Freedman wrote about his simple concept for the production: I want to let the audience in on [the process of creating the world of the play]. I want to start with something very neutral, something almost like a rehearsal, and then build on that … I want to let the audience see the building up … of the grand illusion, so that by the time of the masque … the illusion should be complete: a Stuart period production of The Tempest, with all the trappings of a fantastical, iridescent island kingdom. It is at this point in the play that Prospero reminds us that it is, after all, only an illusion. … The building up and stripping down of the magic of the theatre parallels the arc of the play. (quoted in Saccio 1980: 190–1)

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The concept was fairly simple, a gradual buildup of theatrical artifice. The production was to begin as if in rehearsal, with actors slowly, through the course of the evening, emerging into their final guises by the masque scene. The concept did not work well mainly because Julius Caesar consumed most of Freedman’s attention. During previews it was discarded and what the audience saw was different from the frame the programme note suggested. Gussow, who saw opening night, complained about the sloppy execution: Mr. Freedman is an experienced stager of Shakespeare, but this time his theorizing is not realized by his production. Some of his conjuring tricks are good ones – when Miranda falls asleep, she appears to levitate, and cloth suddenly turns into a banquet table. However, the production lacks unifying concept or a consistent quality of performance that would make it better than average. The evening begins in a fury, with swaying seamen holding fast to rippling ropes. The background is scored for turbulence. In fact, the storm is so loud that it submerges the speech of the actors. As the play begins to unfold, the performance is becalmed. This becomes a windless, still Tempest, one that is more likely to lull an audience than to stir it to a passion. The ship seems rudderless. It is as if Mr. Freedman, having chosen his actors has let them proceed in whatever direction they choose. … Words fly up; diction is in danger of drowning. … Many of the speeches have the appearance of a first, or certainly an early reading. Acting is individual and not always in consort. (Gussow 1979) Saccio, however, perceived much of what Freedman intended and came to different conclusions: This Tempest grew more solid as it proceeded; it gained depth. The storm, lively as it was, received flat frontal presentation way downstage, and the sailors wore actors’ warm-up clothes. Succeeding scenes of the first half were played largely in profile. … Then, in the second half of the play, the harpy scene exploited the full stage, all of which was alive. This development climaxes in the full glory of the masque: music, song, dancing by eight attendant spirits, and the overwhelming effect of Juno on the upper stage with the sunburst in the depths behind her. We were brought fully into the created world of art, which then of course ‘melted in to air, into thin air’. wholly in period. Moreover, it was faithful to the richness of the play. (Saccio 1980: 191) Saccio went on to praise Freedman’s direction, extolling specific production details: The big scenes were impressive and flawlessly executed. Sound effects, ropes, and acrobatic actors created a simple but effective storm. In the

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banquet scene, Ariel was a vast, rather Incan harpy with a twenty-foot wingspread. He perched on the upper stage (the top of a trapezoidal structure enclosing Prospero’s cell), with fireworks flaring at precisely the moment to dazzle us as the banquet disappeared. The vision scene was a full Jacobean masque in lavish Inigo Jones costumes, brilliantly sung to appropriately operatic music and ending with Juno, magnificent on the upper stage, backed by a sunburst that covered nearly the whole cyclorama. … Prospero as artist creating a performance – a performance startling the shipwrecked courtiers and redeeming some of them – that is an action that can be embodied in time and space, by words, music, costume, and above all movement. The entire evening’s traffic of our stage can express it, and in this case did so most satisfactorily. (Saccio 1980: 190) He thought the Trinculo-Stephano-Caliban scene the funniest version he had ever seen. Unfortunately, disastrous box office receipts for this season led to another artistic director’s resignation. The theatre, while in a series of increasing financial crises, limped along with a production of Richard III in 1980, directed by Andre Ernotte and co-produced with Michael Moriarty’s New York company, Potter’s Field. It flopped miserably. Saccio decried, ‘It was the worst professional production of Shakespeare that I have ever seen. … Producers of Shakespeare these days are fond of politically significant interpretations, and they love psychologically daring ones, but I don’t think I have elsewhere encountered a combination of these bright ideas that contrived so thoroughly to distort a text and disregard the complexity of human affairs’ (1981: 193–5). One problem seemed to be the interpretation of Richard, played by a good actor, Moriarty, who had distinguished himself in other projects. The New York Times believed his performance to have ‘a streak of insane cheer, a man with an Ed Wynn giggle, who constantly moves his hands as though they are madly rustling treetops and is bitchy rather than deeply-dyed malevolent … it makes the tragedy laugh at itself. … So much talent and so little effect’ (Shepard 1980). Musicals and New York City Opera singers were also presented at Stratford in 1980. After this shared season, AST hired British director Peter Coe as its last artistic director. Like other artistic directors before him, he oversaw changes to the Stratford stage, introducing an adaptation of an Elizabethan facsimile stage. He used as his model a previously designed stage arrangement by Edwin Howard. The set for both Henry V and Othello was a ‘neutral background’. In a programme note for Henry V he wrote, ‘The author obviously envisioned a bare stage and an acting company armed with nothing but words’ (quoted in Kastan 1982: 216). Coe wanted to emphasize language and text, and stage the plays for those who had never seen them before. Or so he said.

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He held that there were only two ways of doing Shakespeare: (1) a conceptual approach ‘that usually means putting it in some locale or period quite foreign to Shakespeare’s intention’, or (2) an ‘authentic’ one, ‘to interpret the play from the text and to interpret it through Shakespeare’s own vision as to how the play would have been staged in his day’ (Corry 1981). He announced an era in which his idea for ‘good, solid, authentically interpreted Shakespeare’ would prosper (Corry 1981). In other words, period productions that were clear-cut and uncomplicated versions of the play would receive full voice. For his first season, he directed Henry V starring a middle-aged Christopher Plummer, who doubled as the Chorus and received excellent notices, and Othello, starring James Earl Jones with Plummer as Iago. The latter production was considered one of the best productions AST ever produced. With two such strong actors at the core of the company, any blemishes in Coe’s work were temporarily covered. Though Coe had mentioned his commitment to authentic Shakespeare, he freely rearranged scenes, cut lines and reinterpreted/reshaped famous moments. David Scott Kastan derided his Henry V: Coe seemed to have no clear idea of what the play was about. He cut and adapted the text to simplify Shakespeare’s complex design. … Other changes seemed to result from Coe’s fear that the printed text does not always play well. The scene at Southhampton in which the traitors are discovered was shortened by having only Scroop speak his confession. But if Coe’s goal here was clarity, he miscalculated by having Scroop speak Cambridge’s lines rather than his own. (Kastan 1982: 214) Other than Plummer’s performance, the rest of the Henry cast received terrible notices. According to Cooper, part of the problem was the staging: They were instructed to deliver their lines slowly, facing forward and standing still. The measured, straightforward delivery was related both to Coe’s avowed emphasis on Shakespeare’s language and his attempt to combat the Theatre’s acoustics. It also reflected his interest in and emulation of the techniques of Kabuki theatre. Nevertheless, the approach resulted in a frequently flat, static background against which the vigor and dominating presence of Plummer stood out in sharp relief. (Cooper 1986: 250) While deriding the subsidiary performances, critics praised the stronger vocal clarity evident in the company’s performances. Coe’s production of Othello also had glitches. Problems included the need for a clear concept and, other than the two magnificent leads Plummer and Jones, stronger supporting performances. ‘The two central performances are

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so strong and other aspects of the production are so negligible that the lesser characters are all but obliterated on stage. As director, Peter Coe does little to expand the canvas. Subplots, subtleties and atmosphere are minimized’, complained Gussow (1981). On the other hand, Kerr saw ‘intelligent confidence’ in Jones’ Othello and ‘sometimes grave, sometimes archly witty, always superb animation’ in the Iago as performed by Plummer (1981). ‘These two men not only serve as models to help identify and establish a new style for the Stratford assembly, they complement and counterpoint each other so richly, so bitterly, so deftly and with such swift challenge that they end up creating … a venture that commands continuing attention’ (Kerr 1981). Kastan thought the last scene was the director’s finest: All the forces of the play resolved, like lines of perspective, in the bedroom. Othello tenaciously held out against the knowledge of his error, and when the truth could no longer be evaded he looked at Iago and piteously cried, ‘No!’ The fragility that had always lain beneath his imposing authority was laid bare as he stood majestically but with the fear and confusion of a small boy. Until at last he did understand, and that understanding demanded the terrible justice he executed upon himself. Jones pulled a knife from the folds of his sleeve and almost ritually disemboweled himself. It was impressive theatre, and evidence of what might have been achieved. (Kastan 1982: 215–16) The success of this Othello spawned a tour to several cities and eventually a successful run on Broadway. For the 1982 season, Coe directed 1 Henry IV and Hamlet. His company included Christopher Walken, Anne Baxter, Fred Gwynne and Chris Sarandon. As Walken was not yet well known, there was no one of the calibre of the previous season’s luminaries. And in spite of promises that he was doing ‘authentic’ Shakespeare, it became clear he was directing a strongly interpreted Shakespeare. He extensively cut his Hamlet with approximately 30 per cent of the text excised. He also transposed and rearranged many scenes and soliloquies. Critics noted in both productions the static nature of the blocking. Gussow exclaimed that the production was ‘undermined by Peter Coe. Despite the presence in the cast of some otherwise talented actors, this is as close to a travesty of Hamlet as I have seen. … He has cavalierly cut and rearranged the text. … The effect is to disorient the characters and distort motivation’ (1982b). Kastan lamented, ‘In his treatment of the text of Hamlet Coe behaved like Polonius, relentlessly interpreting and always with the fatuous confidence that he had discovered motive and meaning. The problem was that the interpretations could not be justified or sustained’ (1983: 102). Also his ‘freeze-frame effects’ in the combat scenes, used previously in the season before, were not well received in the new one (Cooper 1986: 262). Without Plummer and Jones to deflect attention away from the staging and onto their virtuoso performances, Coe’s

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poor directorial choices were much more apparent. After the 1982 season, AST closed its doors and the enterprise was essentially over. The AST productions, and their many varied approaches, entertained, challenged, confused, angered and educated their audiences to an increasingly complex and sophisticated climate for Shakespeare in North America. Among the problems AST had as an organization, probably the most affecting was an ensconced micromanaging board that employed a Broadway business model instead of a non-profit regional theatre one. The situation was not abetted with a consistent pattern of replacing artistic directors at the first sign of a box office issue. An enduring artistic vision for this company was never allowed to fully develop. Despite all its problems and instability, AST’s twenty-seven seasons significantly impacted the work of artistic directors, directors, other practitioners and audiences. Houseman went on to Julliard as co-artistic director with Gerald Freedman of The Acting Company, Fletcher to a healthy freelance career in the regional theatre, Kahn made his way to the Folger Theatre Group that eventually morphed into the Shakespeare Theatre Company, and Freedman to the Great Lakes Theatre Festival (formerly Great Lakes Shakespeare Festival) as artistic director for more than a decade.

5 New York Shakespeare Festival/ The Public Theatre Directors 1950s–1990s

By the late-1950s, there were five US theatres regularly producing Shakespeare outside of Broadway. They were the Oregon Shakespeare Festival, the Old Globe, the American Shakespeare Theatre, the Colorado Shakespeare Festival and the New York Shakespeare Festival. The first two theatres were founded in the mid-1930s as discussed in Chapters 2 and 3. Directors at AST were reviewed in Chapter 4. The Colorado Shakespeare Festival will be examined in Chapter 6. One other theatre devoted to Shakespeare began in New York City in 1954, the New York Shakespeare Festival. It is often referred to as Shakespeare in the Park because of the outdoor theatre where performances took place. After 1967, it became known as The Public Theatre. Here, it will be referred to as ‘NYSF’. This chapter considers the work of its founder, Joseph Papp, as well as several of the other directors he hired.

Joseph Papp Joseph Papp founded the Shakespeare Workshop in 1954. From its inception, it began offering free Shakespeare performances in city parks. Papp vigorously pursued and defended an Americanized Shakespeare while simultaneously building an institution that regularly produced theatre for the public. A central goal was that neither race nor creed nor economic ability to pay should hinder audiences’ ability to attend. This was a markedly different approach from the commercial world of Broadway where each production is its own business enterprise whose primary function is to make money for investors. A cadre of New York theatre institutions shared

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Papp’s concern for doing work that addressed the future of theatre as an art form, such as the avant-garde theatres Café La Mama, the Negro Ensemble Company and the American Place Theatre. Papp became known for innovative production concepts. He frequently reset the plays in other periods and locations besides Elizabethan England, particularly those reflecting a historical or contemporary aspect of American culture. He rejected traditional approaches with the plays that had been featured on Broadway, along with the accompanying emphasis on ‘received pronunciation’ and other historical practices. He repudiated anything having to do with Shakespeare examined through an English lens. He favoured athletic American actors and wanted his companies to reflect this country’s diversity. His interest in multicultural casting can be traced to a 1952 production of three Sean O’Casey plays, produced at the Yugoslav American Hall offBroadway. He cast African American actors as Irishmen because of their acting abilities, not to make a political statement (Horn 1992: 10). The production received a negative review by Atkinson in the New York Times, who criticized the acting as ‘frantically inadequate’ and the director for lacking ‘any sense of genre style for Irish drama’ (1952). In a clear reflection of an attitude Papp would come to despise, Atkinson concluded, ‘They need to be staged and acted exclusively by geniuses preferably nurtured on the old sod and saturated in Yeats and Synge’ (1952). ‘Free Shakespeare’ was a part of Papp’s mission from its inception. He envisioned productions with no financial barriers for audiences and with equal access to all who wished to attend. He felt this was as important to the cultural health of the city as any library. Achieving this right for his audiences consumed Papp in the first decade of Shakespeare in the Park. By 1957, he began to tour productions throughout the five boroughs and introduced the Mobile Spanish Theatre, a travelling company that presented Shakespeare in Spanish translations. In July 1957, a truck breakdown in Central Park eventually provided a route to free performances. It also led to the building of the Delacorte Theatre in Central Park, which opened in 1962 after a series of well-publicized battles with city officials. Throughout the ordeal, Papp tirelessly defended the public’s right to free Shakespeare. In his opening night remarks, he stated, ‘By keeping these plays free … we have defended the very core of democratic philosophy: the greatest good for the greatest number’ (Gardner 1962). The occasion signalled to many an acceptance that free Shakespeare would now become an institutional force in the cultural life of the city. With the acquisition of the downtown Astor Place complex in 1967, Papp’s theatre had a permanent home. He now produced productions under the label ‘The Public Theatre’. The arrangement allowed Papp to expand his work to include new plays and experimental pieces. Papp became known for his unwavering commitment to stages reflecting the multiplicity of ethnicities in the New York City area. He frequently

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featured interracial casts showcasing America’s diversity. Actors spoke with an array of decidedly American dialects. A pioneer in what became known as ‘colourblind casting’, his stages became a model with James Earl Jones as Lear (1974), Raúl Juliá as Othello and Petruchio (both productions in 1979) and Morgan Freeman as Coriolanus (1979). Regardless of audience expectations, Papp cast his productions with actors reflecting a diversity of ethnicities and types. This became a signature feature of Papp’s style, serving as a model for other theatres. As a producer, Papp was a strong-armed, publicity-conscious administrator who rarely let go of his control over a production. He often intruded on directorial territory – especially in the first few decades of his young theatre. New York Magazine reported that he ‘hires, fires, rants and carries on with the élan of an old-time movie-studio head’ (Brenner 1982: 32). One of his directors disclosed: ‘I was constantly screamed at … . “If you don’t fire that actress, you’re out, you’re out, you’re out”’ (Brenner 1982: 32). Papp softened his approach in later years. Don Shewey in The Village Voice offered a portrait of a more seasoned and kinder Papp: ‘I see director’s work sometimes, and I know they’re going the wrong way. In the old days, I used to come in and take the play away, fire the director. What you do is antagonize the cast. You undermine their confidence. You’ll never win’ (1990: 35). Papp directed and co-directed many productions for NYSF. At first, his productions were conventional, much less adventurous than when he directed Naked Hamlet (1967), As You Like It (1973), Henry V (1976), Hamlet (1982 with Diane Venora), Measure for Measure (1985) and 1  Henry IV (1987). While many were directed for the outdoor Delacorte Theatre, Naked Hamlet and the Venora Hamlet were performed downtown at The Public Theatre in the Astor Place complex. Naked Hamlet represented a watershed moment for Papp and NYSF. He made extensive excisions to the text and broad changes to the setting that are well documented in several sources, including his book, William Shakespeare’s ‘Naked’ Hamlet (1969), in reviews, in Papp’s responses to the reviews and in Epstein’s biography of Papp (1994). Naked Hamlet was a controversial production with its prison/interrogation room setting, absurdist elements (such as the Ghost’s ventriloquist manipulations of Hamlet) and use of contemporary costumes (see Figure 8). There were burlesque hall entertainment numbers. Ophelia appeared in fishnet stockings soulfully singing in her mad scene. Papp’s production was full of theatrical tricks aimed at ‘keep[ing] the spectator from dropping off’ (Lennox 2008: 317). At the start, a handcuffed Hamlet, in a coffin, was positioned near Claudius and Gertrude’s bed. After a tug of war over a blanket with his stepfather and mother, he exclaimed, ‘Oh! That this too too solid flesh would melt.’ Horatio entered, dressed in prison stripes, and his father’s ghost wore sneakers. Played by Martin Sheen, Hamlet had several identities and would sometimes take on a Puerto-Rican accent. Papp freely rearranged the order of Shakespeare’s scenes. The production lasted a mere ninety minutes

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with no intermission. Papp tried unapologetically to appeal to the younger members of his audience who had so strongly supported The Public’s recent hit Hair. That he was successful in reaching that audience could be seen in the diverse young audiences that nightly gave the production standing ovations throughout the preview period. It was also there in the rapturous response from the special preview performance given for the Board of Education, whose sole purpose was to determine the appropriateness of Naked Hamlet for NYC high school students. The production received positive reviews from most newspapers. Harold Clurman stated he was drawn to this production more than to other ‘starstudded productions’ and approved of its dual goals ‘to be funny and to elucidate the play in all its ambiguities for a mod audience’ (1968: 92). Michael Smith in The Village Voice wrote, ‘It’s not a “modern-dress” Hamlet but a now Hamlet, with access to the full range of attitudes that clutter the modern mind. … You have to be sadly uptight about Shakespeare not to get great fun out of it’ (1968: 29). Alan Rich praised the reworking of the text: ‘His Hamlet is a gathering of fantasies, envisaged by the leading players. The fantasies seldom interlock; emotions are inner, private and unshared, until they clash in a series of brutal, shattering collisions. Shakespeare’s language remains undisturbed in this version, but Papp’s imaginative scissoring and repasting has sculptured a Hamlet of crystalline intensity’ (1968: 65). Brustein thought Papp’s approach ‘courageous’ and predicted

FIGURE 8  Photo of Martin Sheen (Hamlet) in Hamlet, 1968, directed by Joseph Papp. Photo by George E. Joseph. ©Billy Rose Theatre Division, The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts.

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the production would ‘have an effect on theatrical consciousness for some time to come’ (1968: 23). While most newspapers were supportive, the New York Times critics attacked the production and Papp’s direction with abandon. They seemed to be defending the theatrical establishment, its values and traditions, as well as the play’s heritage. The first Times review to be published was by Barnes. He condemned Naked Hamlet for its ‘pitiful attempt at avant-garde theatrical devices. … Mr. Papp’s directorial tic of wherever possible having some lines spoken directly at individual members of the audience – done to crazy undergraduate excess – is more likely to embarrass an audience than involve it’ (Barnes 1967). He attacked Sheen’s ‘To be or not to be’ delivery because it was ‘spoken with a sham Puerto-Rican accent, which, after all, is one way to give it variety’ (Barnes 1967). He ceded that Papp demonstrated some ‘skill and flair’, citing his choice to show ‘Claudius conned while drunk into playing the play scene himself was brilliant’ (Barnes 1967). But overall, he found the direction to be ‘too concentrated on cheap laughs’ (Barnes 1967). Finally, he suggested that it might have been more interesting as a rock musical, reminding readers of Hair, The Public’s first production in its new facility. He also delivered a patently sexist remark about the actress playing Ophelia by admiring a certain feature of her body, referring to it as the best part of her performance. Walter Kerr wrote the second Times review. Even more conservative in his theatrical tastes than Barnes and a purist, he found nothing humorous in it. Instead, he delivered a lecture on comedy aimed squarely at Papp and the entire avant-garde theatrical movement. His main point was that ‘comedy is an exceedingly literal form. Symbolism kills it’ (Kerr 1968a). The imagery with which Papp ‘has stuffed’ the production is not humorous, he claimed (Kerr 1968a). None of Papp’s subsequent productions was as controversial. NYSF produced its rock adaptation of Two Gentlemen of Verona in 1971 and its Americana 1905 version of Much Ado About Nothing in 1972. By then, changes to the text and transposed settings seemed not only palatable, but mainstream. Both productions transferred to Broadway due to their popularity. In Papp’s 1976 Henry V, Richard Eder thought ‘some of the anecdotal scenes work well’ and that there were ‘stretches of dramatic excitement’ (1976). Also ‘the advance of the two armies is excitingly done’ and ‘the battle scene is impressive’ (Eder 1976). Eder had high praise for a ‘stunning bit of staging when Henry, going to talk with his soldiers, makes a great counterclockwise approach that declares the tension of his effort’ (1976). Most reviewers mentioned ‘the Bicentennial pageantry’ (Charney 1977: 214). However, some believed the approach was ‘distracting’ and too literal. Writing for the Philadelphia Inquirer, Collins observed: ‘When the Chorus asks his listeners to see in their mind’s eyes the flags on the masts of the ships in the English invasion fleet, real flags are immediately raised in the background. The noblemen named by King Henry in the St. Crispin’s Day

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speech rise as they are named, as in a roll call’ (quoted in Charney 1977: 214). Papp’s production ‘put epic and Empire back into the work with a vengeance, as if they had tried to stage not so much Shakespeare’s play as Olivier’s movie’ (Simon 1976). Papp’s 1982 experiment casting Diane Venora as Hamlet was applauded by most critics. The theatre space, sets and costumes were also praised. Several had concerns about how that choice affected the rest of the production. There were questions about how the audience was to perceive a female playing a male role as a male. At the core was the issue of how convincing Venora was at playing a male, and secondarily how well she fit into the production. Papp’s casting choice was highlighted in ways not always helpful as Venora was the only character cross-gendered. Arthur Ganz summed up what many critics felt: Venora … was by no means incompetent or ridiculous as Hamlet. But she was not convincing either … nor was Miss Venora’s appearance (her voice a suitably well-pitched contralto) entirely helpful. Obviously athletic and with a notably boyish figure, she was nevertheless not particularly taller than the other women in the cast and thus seemed more what she was, a thirty-year old woman in trousers, than a delicate and tender prince. (Ganz 1983: 106–7) Venora’s scenes with Gertrude and Ophelia stretched credulity beyond believability. It was also a problem when a petite Venora shared the stage with Papp’s casting for Horatio, an exceedingly tall James Cromwell. Another problem, according to Kerr, was that ‘no two pieces, no two interlocking scenes, hang together’ (1982). He summarized: ‘It’s possible that no overall urgency has been found for Shakespeare’s turmoil because everyone’s energy went into what was conceived to be the central problem, maybe the only problem: making the attractive girl in Hamlet’s tunic and tights a persuasive princeling’ (Kerr 1982). The production was, nevertheless, an important milestone in exploring greater gender diversity. Papp’s Measure for Measure was set in the early nineteenth century, in the time and place of the emperor Franz Josef. Most reviewers thought ‘the prewar era provides … an especially appropriate backdrop for Shakespeare’s dramatic rendering of the moral center that cannot hold’ (Lusardi and Schulueter 1985: 8). Critics also praised the staging and conception: [The characters] all move through the complex action of the play on the six levels of a latticework palace with the grace, precision and speed of dancers. The deliberate evocation of the comic opera, in the costumes and setting, signals Mr. Papp’s reading of the play: no matter what conflicts or wrenching conscience it involves, it is a comedy and he will pursue the compassionate wisdom of its last act through laughter more than through pain or puzzlement. (Bruckner 1985)

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The comic approach was also applied to the character of the Duke, who was non-traditionally cast as a younger than usual 30ish ‘likeable busybody with a touch of innocence, easy-going, amused by life and fond of a smile’ (Bruckner 1985). Reviewers thought the Duke’s scenes were much more believable than when an older, stately man is cast as the Duke. ‘By focusing the play on a Duke so conceived, Mr. Papp has rationalized the contrivances of the plot, lifted some emotional pressure from the painful stories of Claudio, Angelo and Isabella and given a remarkable unity to the play’ (Bruckner 1985). The other key to Papp’s production was his interpretation of the Duke’s assistant, Angelo: [The character was portrayed] not so much as a despicable hypocrite (which he certainly is) as a prim bureaucrat, a stuffed shirt who can scarcely comprehend his lapse from a long-imposed uprightness. Mr. Jordan plays him as a straight-backed stiff-necked functionary whose unscrupulous misuse of delegated power is almost as incomprehensible to him as it is frightening to the importunate Isabella. He wears his authority like a new suit. (Beaufort 1985) The scenes between Isabella and Angelo were riveting, as noted by more than one reviewer. When juxtaposed ‘with the sly maneuverings of the masquerading duke, in his own jolly way’ the Duke becomes another ‘seemer and schemer’ (Beaufort 1985). In a 1963 lecture, ‘The Method and William Shakespeare’, sponsored by the Stratford (Canada) Festival Theatre and the Universities of Canada, Papp discussed his approach to directing Shakespeare. He offered insights about the challenges he faced in working with contemporary actors. He also listed a litany of problems with the method. Papp believed the method actor’s goal was a non-verbal representation of reality. To perform Shakespeare well, he argued, ‘one must be highly articulate’ and specific – not ‘obfuscate’ (Papp 1963: 85). He noted that the method actor often times feels superior to the text and this is not a helpful attitude when approaching Shakespeare. The organic approach, working from the inside out, is ‘detrimental to the task of performing the classics’ (Papp 1963: 86). He observed that method training is mostly insulated from the professional theatre, offered in classrooms and away from the rigours of the stage. The American method’s focus ignored about half of what Stanislavski outlined in his writings: work on the actor’s vocal and physical self. One of its central precepts was this notion of ‘separation of acting from the text’ (Papp 1963: 87). While improvisational explorations of actions and intentions can be enjoyable, the method held that ‘language stands in the way of the performance’ (Papp 1963: 90). After working on an improvisation of a scene, the actor’s work can become more problematic. ‘Even though the director may get his people into conflict, and feels he’s got his scene just the way he wants it, the actors must then go back and fit this to the structure

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that’s already been conceived by the playwright. And I think that’s extremely difficult, if it’s at all possible, for them to do’ (Papp 1963: 90). He believed the text and subtext are one in Shakespeare. ‘Adjustments and changes in approach to a particular objective must be done only through manipulation of the speech’ (Papp 1963: 91). Thus, alterations and transitions should be ‘on or about the playwright’s words’ (Papp 1963: 92). Rather than impose one’s own traits onto a Shakespearean character, the actor must focus on ‘that aspect of human nature conceived by the playwright’ (Papp 1963: 94). Papp recounted working with an actor who came to rehearsal having written several hundred biographical pages on his character. He found this to be of ‘no value’ and actually created an obstacle to the work, because ‘by creating this other life for his character, it tended to intrude on the life that was in the play’ (Papp 1963: 94). He added, ‘It took me months to get rid of the shadow’ (Papp 1963: 94). He strenuously objected to the current trend of psychoanalysing roles, and observed that that approach made psychoanalysts of directors. This is a role for which they are not trained, and one ‘which is anathema to creative probing’ (Papp 1963: 96). Shakespeare requires two things from the actor: ‘The correct reading of verse’ along with ‘emotional interpretation of poetic images’ (Papp 1963: 96). Method acting ‘destroys the formal meter of the line as well as the dramatic life-rhythm inherent in the emotional life structure erected by the poet’ (Papp 1963: 96). One should reach for emotional depth, while at the same time recognize that delivery of the line ‘will be controlled by the situation in which [one] finds [oneself], and also by the image that exists within the line’ (Papp 1963: 97). Thus, a paradox exists in the performance: one finds firm ‘discipline’ while at the same time there is ‘infinite variation’ (Papp 1963: 98). Papp yearned for an approach to classical acting that encompassed both aspects. He pointed out that the American method of the 1950s had its roots in the work of the Group Theatre from the 1930s, and yet, of all the professional actors produced by the Group Theatre, only one – Morris Carnovsky – went on to a classical career. While Papp was critical of the American method, he cast young stars from film and television to enliven the appeal of outdoor Shakespeare productions. Over the years, he developed a corps of actors whose Shakespeare skills he nurtured and whom he would cast whenever their careers allowed it. They included George C. Scott, Martin Sheen, Colleen Dewhurst, James Earl Jones, Sam Waterston, Blythe Danner, Morgan Freeman, Meryl Streep, Kevin Kline, Raúl Juliá and Christopher Walken. A few had made their stage debuts with him. Many had become part of the lifeblood of his theatre. He established close relationships with them. They returned often and increasingly improved their Shakespearean chops. Papp was a conceptual director, bringing to his productions a decidedly American slant – a novel idea for a play’s setting, often responding to something in the contemporary culture of the time. His Naked Hamlet

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reflected the late 1960s counterculture movement and his Henry V resonated the bicentennial celebrations of 1976. Frequently, he was praised for his handling of the spectacle, such as battle scenes and pageantry. Barnes remarked that Papp is stronger with ‘form rather than content’ (1976a). Papp would come up with a ruling idea for a production that then established a dominant mood or tone, such as his Measure for Measure (it really is a comedy). Throughout his career, he demonstrated considerable skill in directing comedy. Above all, Papp wanted the actors on stage to reflect the great diversity of the US population and New York City in particular. One could hear an array of dialects in his productions, which provided another kind of diversity. Some critics complained that his actors did not always understand the sense of the text and words they were speaking. And Papp frequently cut characters and excised sections of scenes that might have explained a situation. Also, he was criticized for the pacing of his productions. Yet, his actors could make certain moments mesmeric – often the more intimate ones. Papp aided the careers of many young directors. They included Stuart Vaughan, Gerald Freedman, Gladys Vaughan, A. J. Antoon, Wilford Leach and JoAnne Akalaitis. Vaughan worked for Papp in the late 1950s, Freedman and G. Vaughan directed in the 1960s, Antoon from the 1970s to 1990 and Leach was principal director in the 1970s and early 1980s. In 1989, Papp hired Akalaitis to direct her first Shakespeare production for NYSF. She subsequently ran The Public Theatre for a brief tenure: 1991–3.

Stuart Vaughan In 1956, Papp hired Stuart Vaughan to direct Julius Caesar and The Taming of the Shrew in an outdoor amphitheatre in East River Park. Colleen Dewhurst played Kate. Those summer productions were the beginning of NYSF. No admission fees were charged and the actors did not receive any compensation. The New York Times reported that the company ‘all feel richly rewarded by the over-whelming enthusiasm of their nonpaying audiences on the Lower East Side’ (Gelb 1956). Joseph Papp estimated that the two productions, performed for a total of seventeen performances, had already been seen by an audience of 20,000, ‘of whom 90 percent had never beheld a live theatrical production’ (Gelb 1956). For the following season, Papp hired Vaughan to direct three productions: Macbeth, Romeo and Juliet and Two Gentlemen of Verona. Critics thought Vaughan excelled with his unsubtle and boisterous Two Gentlemen of Verona. The play had not received a performance since an 1895 staging by Augustin Daly. According to Lewis Funke, ‘There is barely a line of comedy that isn’t underscored. Nor is an opportunity for a sight laugh overlooked.’ He found the constantly accented moments ‘a little tedious’ at times ‘and occasionally even a touch of silliness creeps in’. Regardless, he acknowledged

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the robust reactions of ‘the more than 1,500 spectators’ in attendance (Funke 1957b). Clurman lauded Vaughan for ‘[understanding] the basic tenets of Shakespearean production: everything must be activated. … The keynote is virility. Here obscenity is preferable to a vapid prettiness. … The clowns were really funny. The lovers, handsome and winning … without either of the two besetting sins in such performances – cuteness and stuffiness – and their lady loves were robust’ (Clurman 1957). Critics recognized Vaughan’s comic expertise and ability to delineate character types. In November 1957, his Richard III opened. The cast featured George C. Scott. Alice Griffin complimented Vaughan for his ‘ability to make a Shakespearean play move, to sustain the tension and excitement and to maintain clarity in action and dialogue for his unsophisticated, non-paying audience’ (1958: 531). The production was criticized for a severe excision in Act  5, Scene  5 where the ghosts appear. The director’s cuts made the dialogue seem too abrupt. After each ghost’s ‘despair and die’ was delivered to Richard, they too quickly gave encouragement to Richmond, and then vanished. Atkinson thought Vaughan’s direction to be noteworthy, designing ‘an original headlong performance that races through the script and refuses to pay lip-service to the academic tradition’ (1957c). He observed that many of the actors were inexperienced and unable to ‘keep pace with the direction without losing a good deal of the poetry and many aspects of the story’ (Atkinson 1957c). For the first half, Scott’s Richard was ‘a sardonic knave’ without cynicism, ‘a sneering mischief maker who takes the audience into his confidence at the same time that he is confounding his victims’ (Atkinson 1957c). While this works perfectly in places, it depicted a Richard who was too inconsequential ‘to lead so bloody a play’ (Atkinson 1957c). Also, ‘shouting’ marred the first half, with many in the cast ‘so intent upon being alive and interesting that the political intricacies of the plot are overwhelmed, and all the characters seem to be uniformly out of their minds with cursing and bellowing’ (Atkinson 1957c). Atkinson found the latter part to be superior, due to the director’s ‘over-all plan of movement, process, alarums and flourishes’. He described Vaughan’s directorial imprint as ‘roaring Shakespeare’ and the production to be ‘stirring theatre’ (Atkinson 1957c). Vaughan’s 1958 As You Like It was thought to be just as spirited as his Richard III. It also featured George C. Scott who created a ‘memorable Jacques’ (Griffin 1958: 532). Griffin reported the production as ‘somewhat ragged at the edges’, yet ‘always alive and immediate’ (Griffin 1958: 532). While she believed the Hepburn version to be ‘pretty as a Valentine’, she thought that rendition was ‘reverent, removed and dull’ (Griffin 1958: 532). She considered Vaughan’s As You Like It to be ‘superior’ (Griffin 1958: 532). She regarded Scott’s ‘meaningful and impressive’ rendering of the Seven Ages of Man speech ‘a high point of the evening’ (Griffin 1958: 532).

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The following season, Vaughan directed Julius Caesar. Griffin deemed it ‘rousing, theatrical and clear cut’ (1959: 572). She thought Marc Antony’s speech over Caesar’s body to be ‘vividly staged’: The crowd, with their backs to the audience, surrounded the curved stage on all three sides at its edge, so that they were the vanguard of a larger crowd that was the audience. Antony faced the crowd (and the audience) at close quarters, and so could much more effectively spread the contagion of this speech. … The assassination of Caesar was almost ritualistic, as Caesar spun silently from one conspirator to the other, the only sound his grunts as they stabbed him. Then came the uproar after he faced Brutus. Mr. Vaughan likewise contrasted movement and stillness. The first entry of Caesar was so effective that the audience caught the excitement and cheered along with the stage crowd when he appeared. (Griffin 1959: 572) Vaughan did not direct for NYSF for another decade. In 1970, he was assigned a tetralogy cycle: the three productions of King Henry VI (divided into two parts) along with a Richard III ‘tacked on’. It received poor notices. Leiter summarized the consensus that ‘the unimaginative production left much to be desired’ (1986b: 235). Audience tastes were becoming more sophisticated. Vaughan’s next productions for NYSF were in the late 1980s: Two Gentlemen of Verona (1987), Julius Caesar (1988) and King John (1988). Two Gentlemen of Verona featured Elizabeth McGovern as Juliá. King John starred Kevin Conway, and Al Pacino played Mark Antony in Julius Caesar, which also featured Martin Sheen as Brutus. Of Vaughan’s later productions, the strongest was Two Gentlemen of Verona. Rich wrote, ‘The smitten young men and women … are every bit as silly as Shakespeare intended them to be, and yet, for all their incontestable inanity, they are impossible to dislike. Mr. Vaughan understands that the playwright is sending up romance, not excoriating it’ (1987). Michael Popkin found McGovern’s Julia ‘of particular interest’ (1987: 20). In order to disguise herself as a male, she ‘simply piles her hair up and puts on a hat, and in the last few scenes – has this ever been done before? – she even removes the hat. Of course, she is still not recognized in Milan by a lover who, in this production, seems to have spent his last night in Verona in bed with her’ (Popkin 1987: 20). Rich praises Vaughan for his ‘light touch’ with ‘a youthful, guileless acting company’ and ‘uncorks the fresh humors of a comedy in which innocence, rather than love, can conquer all’ (1987). Not every moment ‘sparkles … but it’s hard to imagine how anyone could squeeze more sexiness and laughter out of Two Gentlemen than Mr. Vaughan does’ (Rich 1987). A difficult scene to pull off in any production is the final scene in which Silvia is almost raped, and still view the production a comedy: [The director] almost makes credible (and definitely makes funny) [the] preposterous last-act about face, in which Valentine momentarily gives

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up Silvia to Proteus in the higher interests of friendship. Without making a gay case of it, the director bolsters the actor in this feat by accentuating the title characters’ brotherly affections. Pine for Silvia as they may, Proteus and Valentine respectively drop her to the ground and hurl her roughly across the stage in their haste to affect their own reconciliatory embrace. (Rich 1987) Rich praised the production for its ‘sweet incidental score’ as well as ‘a picture-book simple physical production’ (1987). In addition to his work with Papp, Stuart Vaughan directed Shakespeare for the Phoenix Theatre and was the founding artistic director of Seattle Repertory Theatre, the Repertory Theatre of New Orleans and the New Globe Theatre, an organization that toured the United States. Reflecting on his experience directing Shakespeare at NYSF and elsewhere, Vaughan discussed his beliefs and methods in A Possible Theatre, published in 1969. It details his approach to Shakespeare as well as his opinions on the state of contemporary production. Vaughan argued that American actors should develop their own distinct mode of pronunciation. He rejected an approach in which actors ‘grind Shakespeare through their own contemporary mill’ and make the verse garbled with inarticulate speech patterns and rhythmic phrasing that disregards poetic structure (Vaughan 1969: 46). He observed actors who were unable to wear a well-designed costume with the appropriate comportment and dignity. He was often disturbed by the handsomeness and picturesqueness in the scenery that he thought not appropriate to defining the world of the play. He opposed the idea, in vogue at the time, that one could direct a ‘neutral’ version of the plays. In other words, produce Shakespeare ‘as directly, simply, and straight-forwardly as possible’ (Vaughan 1969: 47). He questioned how one could produce a play and not have an opinion or view about it. He stated that the director should make choices that are well informed, distinct and ‘derived from his own deep convictions’ about the piece (Vaughan 1969: 48). He disagreed with directors who rework the play in such a way that it becomes an adaptation to suit some personal theory or idea. If that is the approach, the director competes with Shakespeare for authorship: ‘Henry V … as a pacifist play, or Measure for Measure … as an attack on prudery’ (Vaughan 1969: 48). This is not directing Shakespeare’s play, but altering it without regard for the playwright’s intentions. Instead, the director should search for ‘a core of meaning’ akin to what the playwright ‘intended’ (Vaughan 1969: 48). It must reinforce, intensify and elucidate every moment and every scene. It also should supply a suitable ‘relationship between subplot and main plot’ as well as ‘an ambience in which the serious and comic elements can live together’ (Vaughan 1969: 48).

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The director should ‘relate’ all casting and design selections to this essential core (Vaughan 1969: 48). It must be incorporated into the production so that contemporary audiences find it understandable and relevant. Next, Vaughan determined the play’s spine, which comes from the ‘world view’ that the play emphasizes (1969: 48). He believed strong plays are based on ‘elements from the real world’ that must be put ‘in conflict with one another. The collision produces a result; the story always has a moral’ (Vaughan 1969: 48–9). He argued that the play was not a treatise ‘but an imaginary world, whose God, the author, has set its characters in motion and firmly predetermined their actions’ (Vaughan 1969: 49). Vaughan held that the purpose of his direction was to absorb or come close to the playwright’s ‘world view’ and recreate it on stage (1969: 49). Shakespeare inherited a tradition that spelled out moral themes explicitly. Every character in Shakespeare possesses ‘a keen and darting mind, conscious of the humor, beauty, and precision of language … piercing to the core of the character’s situation’ (Vaughan 1969: 50). Actors should speak the verse as if the words and the thoughts surface as they are uttered. He argued that one can follow all the playwright’s rules for speaking verse correctly and have the audience comprehend it without ‘resorting to selfconscious music or some kind of “stage diction”’ (Vaughan 1969: 51). He defined style as either referring to a specific period, such as the Elizabethan era, or as an approach suggesting a ‘relationship to reality’ such as realism, romanticism, expressionism, etc. (Vaughan 1969: 51). For Shakespeare, Vaughan searched for ‘natural human behavior’ with the costumes and properties: ‘The realistic behavior of the character as a person living in a particular time’ (1969: 51–2). To determine the style, he examined whether the play was to be presentational (‘a piece of theatre’) or representational (‘a fourth wall behind which the characters move as if they were in real life’) (Vaughan 1969: 52). Shakespeare productions choose either modern dress or a specific historical period. The director can set Shakespeare in practically any period and style. Vaughan preferred to place his productions earlier than the beginning years of the seventeenth century. He was irritated with productions, such as a Troilus and Cressida set in the American Civil War. Such productions are produced because all involved – actors, director, etc. – ‘are jaded with the play’ and believe they must ‘jazz it up’ through ‘the injection of a new set of clothes and manners’ providing excitement and inspiration to a piece that’s been around a long time (Vaughan 1969: 53). If the director’s choice is to approach the play in a presentational manner, soliloquies and asides should be performed as direct address to the audience, the actor acknowledging the audience’s existence. However, the actor must never be artificial, but rather report to the audience realistically. Moreover, to behave persuasively in period costume the actor must master the manners of the period, but never as an end, only as a means to realistic human behaviour.

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He believed an intimate physical relationship between audience and actor was necessary, similar to what occurred in the Elizabethan public theatres. Poetic language ‘demands a heightened awareness and a heightened intellectual energy … to transmit the full color of the heavy-laden speeches’ (Vaughan 1969: 55). When the audience is in close proximity, it is easier for them to experience the performer’s charisma, their expressive facial features and vocal ‘nuances of the voice’ (Vaughan 1969: 55). A distance between actor and audience diminishes these possibilities. Vaughan understood why producers built a temporary stage onto the apron of a proscenium house. It was to encourage the actors to locate themselves as close to the audience as possible. He rejected this scheme at times, opting for the representational production in which the play’s events occur ‘in a real place’, which can offer more honesty than when producers employ ‘fanciful arrangements … invented in the name of “unity” or “neutrality”’ (Vaughan 1969: 56). Vaughan’s ultimate goal was to present a production that was honest, stimulating, natural, unaware of itself as a work of art and direct. He sought a bond of understanding between audience and performers. He wanted a production so effective that reviewers would experience it without preconceptions, as if they had never seen it before. Vaughan manipulated the atmosphere, colour and passion in each scene to skilfully shape the mise-en-scène. He sought performances that depicted real human beings rather than two-dimensional caricatures. He was clever at casting all strata of characters, with a particular sensitivity for painting lower-class earthy characters. He clarified motivations and worked to intensify underlying tensions. He could underscore a scene with lively stage business, particularly in the comic plays. He skilfully managed crowd scenes and created pleasing stage pictures. He found consistency in his casts’ delivery of Shakespeare’s language, even when members of the company lacked diction or verse skills. He worked to eliminate pseudo-British accents and performance attitudes. His best productions were described as ‘alive’, ‘stimulating’, ‘immediate’ and ‘visually inviting’. His work was lauded for its balance, intelligence and ensembles that served the playwright, rather than the individual artist-interpreters.

Gerald Freedman Gerald Freedman was leading artistic director of NYSF from 1960 to 1967. He was artistic director from 1967 to 1971. He was also the artistic director of AST (1978–9) and of the Great Lakes Theatre Festival (1985–97). He directed twenty-five of Shakespeare’s plays (Simonson 2000). Other credits include co-artistic director of The Acting Company (1974–7), dean of the Drama School at University of North Carolina School of the Arts (1991– 2012) and teacher at the Julliard School and the Yale School of Drama. In

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2000, he became the first American to direct at London’s Globe Theatre – a production of Antipodes by Richard Brome (manservant to Ben Jonson). He won an Obie for the direction of his 1960 The Taming of the Shrew for NYSF. Brustein called it ‘the finest production of a Shakespeare comedy I have ever seen’ (1965: 226). Gelb found it to be ‘rowdy, bawdy and convulsively funny … a carnival of broad comedy as the Elizabethans must have seen it, with nothing polite or restrained about it except the well-mannered audience’ (1960). Brustein extolled the ‘joyous, exuberant farce style’ borrowed heavily from the humour of the Marx Brothers, Mack Sennett and cartoons (1965: 226). Once Christopher Sly was ejected from the alehouse, ‘the production roared along with a speed and inventiveness which I have seen surpassed on the stage only by the Piccolo Teatro di Milano’. He added: It is impossible to describe all the splendid lazzi, including pratfalls, beatings, tumblings, and brawls, which made this production such an uninhibited delight. … I remember them with the same intense gratitude that I remember certain devices of Chaplin, Keaton, Fields and all the other greats who knew how the physicalness of man could be the source of our wildest laughter. (Brustein 1965: 226–7) Griffin found it ‘fast-moving and the humor, if broadly interpreted, was inventive’. A trademark of Freedman’s work has been his shaping of first-rate performances. Griffin observed that in this Taming of the Shrew, ‘almost all the subsidiary comic roles were well done’ (1960: 468). ‘Clear, distinct, individualistic performances were a hallmark’, notes Leiter (1986b: 670). Gelb wrote that ‘all contribute solidly comic performances in a huge cast that is just about flawless and plays with the assurance of a superlatively trained repertory company’ (1960). Brustein admired Freedman’s direction of the scene changes as well as his work on staging crowd scenes – in the vein of ‘Gene Frankel, but now brought to its stylistic perfection’ (1965: 226). Leiter described the production’s style as ‘unique American in its robustness and its comedy’ (1986: 670). Gelb complimented the direction as having ‘a vitality, authority, clarity, pace and style that can’t be touched. Every ounce of comic value that can be wrung from a crowded gallery of clowns and a plot that is deathlessly funny has been extracted by director Gerald Freedman’ (1960). His Comedy of Errors also received excellent notices. Sullivan commended Freedman for his confidence in, as well as his trust of, Shakespeare’s text: Mr. Freedman avoids two current pitfalls in staging Shakespearean Comedy. He does not try to make the play ‘relevant to a contemporary audience’ by imposing an eccentric point of view on it. And he does not clutter up the stage with so much extracurricular horseplay as to suggest

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that the story would bore us to tears if we really had to pay attention to it. (Sullivan 1967a) Kuner cited the production as ‘an outstanding example of what happens when an inventive and original director is inspired by a Shakespeare text without feeling the necessity to tamper with its mood’. Kuner thought the production ‘one of the funniest, freshest, and breeziest within memory’ (1967: 412–13). The play contained difficult passages that ‘would ossify anyone but a specialist in Elizabethan Bawdry’ (Sullivan 1967a). Freedman used ‘sight gags’ that he exploited to sustain the audience’s attention. ‘But his sight gags know their helpful place – and generally stay there.’ Sullivan praised the director for paying attention to ‘the play’s tone’ with a consistent ‘tonguein-cheek’ attitude, ‘but not conspicuously so’ (1967a). Kuner thought the basis of Freedman’s approach was his coaching of the actors to be ‘deadly serious about their predicament. … Their individual anguish when they were caught in the problem of mixed identities suggested high tragedy; and it was precisely this contrast between the preposterous, incredible situation and the very real perplexity of the characters involved that made the whole so comical’ (1967: 412–13). We believe the actors playing the two sets of twins to be ‘dead ringers’ according to Sullivan, ‘partly because of Theoni Aldredge’s carbon-copy costumes but mostly because the rest of the cast is so stunned by the resemblance that it would be impolite for us to doubt it. Consensus breeds illusion’ (Sullivan 1967a). Freedman outlined his intentions for his 1967 Titus Andronicus: The choice of music, mask and chorus seemed inevitable to me in order to make the violence, gore and horror … more meaningful and emotional to a contemporary audience. The solution to a more immediate response seemed to lie in a poetic abstraction of the events existing in an emotional compression of time and space. … I wanted the audience to accept the mutilations and decapitations and multiple deaths with disbelief instead of humor. … The solution had to be in a poetic abstraction of time and in vivid impressionistic images rather than in naturalistic action and this led me to masks and music and ritual. The abstractions were bold and assertive from the beginning. The setting was non-literal but inspired by the sense of decay and rot seen in the ruins of Roman Antiquity. The costumes recreated an unknown people of a non-specific time. The inspiration was Roman-Byzantine and feudal Japanese although again there was no literal use of any specific detail. (Leiter 1986b: 739–40) Sullivan thought Freedman’s production was ‘not only audacious’ but ‘also convincing … an awesome ritual of blood and night … a powerful, disturbing evening of theatre’ (1967c). Kuner reported on the ritual aspects: Masks designed, together with the silver and black costumes … choreographic effects … the music of drums … and a precision of

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movement and vocal declamation proper to a spectacle. But a real spectacle, not showy, noisy or eccentric but one in the mode of a liturgy which could have been devised by Antonin Artaud. The result was total theatre. (Kuner 1967: 414) While criticizing an approach that was, at times ‘too arty to sustain the mood’ with this ‘bizarre story’ that can result in ‘chuckles’, Sullivan noticed that ‘such moments … came far less frequently than a simple reading of the text might suggest. And, though interrupted, the spell was never completely broken.’ Reviewers acknowledged the difficulty of staging this piece, but they found the most challenging moments (hands chopped off, a tongue cut out, throats slit, etc.) to have been most effectively staged. Freedman’s adoption of a symbolic approach, borrowed from Asian theatre, ‘serve[d] to signify an action without actually illustrating it’ ( Sullivan 1967c). One of the most difficult stage directions has Lavinia entering ‘ravished, with her hands cut off and her tongue cut out’. Here, she arrived ‘like a Kabuki performer, complete with scarlet chiffon trailing from her mouth arms and body; what would have been, to a modern-day audience, absurd to the point of laughterinducing, became oddly moving, as though one were witnessing a universal agony set to a formal dance pattern’ (Kuner 1967: 414). The final scene was also treated symbolically. Sullivan described: ‘A shadowy chorus envelops each figure in a billowing red cloth, which unwinds to reveal a black cloth underneath. Instead of pitching forward, the victims – head and shoulders now swathed in black – remain vertical: statues instead of corpses. The effect is powerful, dignified and almost liturgical.’ Kuner remarked ‘symbolism rather than gory realism was what made this production so stunning’ (1967: 414). Freedman’s approach encouraged ‘the individual players to acts as broadly, as grandly, as possible’. Through their collective efforts, this company ‘transformed a dreadful play into a play of dread’ (Sullivan 1967c). In 1968, Freedman directed both parts of Henry IV. According to Sullivan, ‘Freedman’s production of the first part of the play … buzzes with low life and high adventure’ (1968b). It had ‘point and pace’ and ‘serves the play without calling attention to itself’ (Sullivan 1968b). Kerr dubbed the second part, 2 Henry IV, ‘a thoroughly satisfying production’ (1968b). Sullivan was equally enamoured: ‘That rare thing, a sequel that does not disappoint … as solid and vivid as … Part 1’ (1968c). Kerr described the opening entrance of Rumor, a character ‘in a clown’s cap and streamers, high above the scene, crooking a leg casually and grinning maliciously as he surveys the wanton damage’ (1968b). Critics found the scene between the dying King Henry and Hal to be particularly poignant. ‘When Prince Hal has innocently tried the crown on, only to be caught out by his dying father, the King’s savage physical assault on the boy, catching him with a clout while he is still suppliant on his knees, is genuinely shocking’ (Kerr 1968b). Sullivan believed the scene to be played ‘with great force and, eventually, tenderness’. He was particularly touched by Hal’s rejection of Falstaff.

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So Falstaff falls. As Stacy Keach plays him, the fall is stunning. All Mr. Keach actually does is to draw back his head a little at Hal’s sentence and kneels as the royal procession sweeps past him. But he kneels as though he will never rise again; and when he does get up he has started to die. (Sullivan 1968c) Several reviewers were surprised by the comedy in 2 Henry IV: ‘Falstaff’s visits to Justices Silence and Shallow are something to howl about’ (Sullivan 1968c) and ‘some of the funniest moments in the play’ (Kuner 1968: 386). Freedman excelled at identifying new sources of comedy in 2 Henry IV – something with which most other productions have struggled. Freedman also directed a full-length Hamlet in 1972 with Keach as his Hamlet. It ran nearly four hours. Barnes thought it was ‘very possibly the best Shakespearean production’ by NYSF. ‘Mr. Freedman’s staging is full enough and fast enough to let us forget time. This is a remarkably cogent Hamlet – and a production that does not concentrate on any particular aspect of the play but rather lets Shakespeare speak up for himself’ (Barnes 1972b). Not all critics agreed. Novick argued that ‘the staging has some minor awkwardnesses’ and he wished the text would have been cut more, while admitting there were ‘some clever ideas’. He observed ‘more fun with the Players … than any Hamlet-director within memory’. He criticized the production for lacking a ‘noticeable point of view, no special context, no “concept”. What it offers instead is some very, very fine acting.’ He grudgingly acceded ‘a fair exchange’ (Novick 1972). Barnes remarked that ‘Mr. Freedman and the Shakespeare Festival have gathered together one of the finest casts I have ever seen for the play, and with no fuss or affectation these actors are permitted to do their abundant best’. He also praised the company for achieving ‘a specific style of ensemble playing – the feeling that one is watching a company of actors rather than an assembly of actors’ (Barnes 1972b). Unlike Stuart Vaughan, Freedman said little about his approach. A 1968 article quotes him as saying Shakespeare ‘is a lyric theater of the best order, demanding music, dance and movement’. So he would ‘bring in people from the musical theater, who are great for this Elizabethan theater’ such as Jane White, Joseph Bova and Phil Bosco (‘It’s Spring’ 1968). Freedman has frequently been praised for the integrity and clarity of his direction. Reviewers have commended him for respecting Shakespeare’s text – for withholding from commenting on it or imprinting the production with clever directorial choices. He worked to illuminate the text and the dramatic moment organically. Several observers admired his dynamic pacing that kept the action flowing. He could take a disparate group of actors and coalesce them into a solid ensemble. His establishment of a persuasive tonal sensitivity helped the audience enter into the world of the play. He was an actor’s director, encouraging first-rate performances from his company, sometimes to the detriment of a concept or approach. (His productions at AST, as described in Chapter 4, were much more concept driven.)

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Gladys Vaughan Papp hired Gladys Vaughan in 1962, the first female to ever direct at NYSF. She co-directed two productions with Papp: The Merchant of Venice with James Earl Jones and George C. Scott, and King Lear. Her first full-time directing assignment was a touring company production of Macbeth to schools, also in 1962. Richard Watts admired the staging, which he thought demonstrated ‘a fine relish for melodramatic excitement’ (1962). He also praised G. Vaughan for addressing [the play’s] ‘qualities of tragic power and eloquence … a vital and wonderfully exciting Macbeth, brilliantly played in its leading roles, spoken with clarity and understanding, and always vivid and alive’ (Watts 1962). Another reviewer thought she ‘directed something of a swashbuckler, a production in which introspection and poetry are subordinated to action. The substance of the play is never betrayed, however, and only occasionally disturbed by unsatisfactory work in the minor roles’ (Morgenstern 1962). Milton Esterow found that performance to be ‘vividly acted’ and noted, ‘a first-rate cast captures the brooding eloquence of the play’ (1962). For the 1963 season, Papp hired G. Vaughan as full-time director of The Winter’s Tale at the Delacorte Theatre. A year later, he produced her Othello, also in Central Park. That production featured James Earl Jones. The production became an instant hit, not only with festival audiences, but also with those who attended one of the production’s 224 performances in Broadway’s Martinique Theatre, reopening in October. Critical response was mostly positive. Lewis compared the production to previous Othellos: Stage magic, rare and wondrous, was at work on the memorable night of October 19, 1943, at the Shubert Theatre, when Paul Robeson, Uta Hagen, and Jose Ferrer offered New Yorkers Othello. It is again at work near the Belvedere Tower on a hillock in Central Park. For this Joseph Papp production of Othello, directed in virile, clean-cut fashion by Gladys Vaughan, is a very good one indeed. The Jan Hus production in 1953, the New York City Center one in 1955, the Stratford, Conn., revival in 1957, and the Papp presentation in 1958 all lacked the excitement and passion of this Shakespeare-in-the-Park conjury. (Lewis 1964) Danziger thought ‘the pentameters proved too much’ at times for Jones in G. Vaughan’s production (1964). The reviewer criticized the way Jones ‘smiled vacuously throughout the first part in order to emphasize his anguished frowns in the second’ (Danziger 1964). Still, she believed the director and cast overcame these inadequacies later, as they found ‘a certain intimacy as well as poignancy … in the last great scenes between Othello and Desdemona’ (Danziger 1964). Martin Gottfried maintained that G. Vaughan’s take on the story was passionate and sexual:

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Its running theme is desire, its parallel lovers (Othello-Desdemona, IagoEmilia, Cassio-Bianca) are careered in comparative streams of passion. And it is within these liquid lusts that Gladys Vaughn, the director, mixed her Othello with a twist of lemon or some bitter fruit. Iago is made a homosexual. While the Venetian military set is running around in vividly heterosexual circles, he is quietly going counter-clockwise. … A superlative production. … It is visually handsome and excellently performed – it is emotionally and intellectually exciting. (Gottfried 1964) Most reviewers thought her staging was exceptional, with minor flaws occasionally noted. Miles Kastendieck believed the enactment had been done ‘fluidly and intelligently … though permitting the pace to slacken here and there’ (1964). Norman Nadel admired her ‘visual embellishments’ while missing the ‘refinements of acting’ (1964). Taubman judged the production ‘an Othello that would be a credit to the most illustrious companies. It is an Othello full of tempestuous passions and anguished tenderness. Staged by Gladys Vaughan in a straight, dramatic line, with only one or two bursts of excessive theatricalism to mar it, this Othello has a cast of uncommon force and character’ (1964) (see Figure 9). According to Jones, Papp had criticized the director for ‘giving him an Othello that was an Eisenhower, and that he wanted an Othello who was a

FIGURE 9  Strangling Desdemona, with Julienne Marie (Desdemona) and James Earl Jones (Othello) in the New York Shakespeare Festival production of Othello, 1964, directed by Gladys Vaughan. Photo by George E. Joseph. ©Billy Rose Theatre Division, The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts.

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Malcolm X. She replied that she didn’t want to go that way, because Othello cannot be a negative person – and Malcolm X started out as a negative entity, caustic in his criticisms’ (Carson 2013: 115). Jones and G. Vaughan worked closely together, but they did not always agree, especially on this issue: Gladys and I argued one whole night long about the ending of the play. Why does Othello not take vengeance on Iago, I wanted to know. Shakespeare did not want that for some reason, Gladys observed. But even though Shakespeare did not write vengeance into the play, I contended that in the current atmosphere, it did not work for a black man to be forgiving. ‘You’ll get yours – Leave you to heaven – ’ That attitude did not wash in the midst of the civil rights tensions of 1964, despite what Shakespeare may have intended. (Jones and Niven 2002: 167) Jones also observed the difficulties G. Vaughan faced when working with producer Papp: Her direction resulted in wonderful success for all of us, one of the most successful productions of Othello New York had ever seen. Joe Papp relished the success, but he would often try to take over a production, even from a director as effective as Gladys. Out of his responsibility as a producer, Joe tried to reclaim the production and impose some of his vision on it. (Jones and Niven 2002: 167) Papp hired G. Vaughan to direct Coriolanus the next season. The production featured Robert Burr as Coriolanus and Jones as Junius Brutus. Reviews referred to the racial tensions of the times and offered insights into G. Vaughan’s interpretation and staging. Lewis complained that G. Vaughan focused on ‘a portrait of a city’ and not on ‘a tragic tale of a hero or a villain’ (1965). He commended the director for her clever staging of the multiple mob scenes, noting that there were resonances with the current unrest of the time. ‘She has used a large number of Negro performers in these crowd scenes, so that the bitter clashes are sometimes startlingly suggestive of Bogalusa or Selma’ (Lewis 1965). Lewis thought this Coriolanus to be ‘the finest production of this Shakespeare play within memory’ (1965). Crist also admired Vaughan’s emphasis on ‘individual citizens in the crowd … who dominate the stage and point to the power of mobs’ (1965). She relayed: ‘Mobs swirl, swords and armies clash and the blood flows free and bright. … None of this is excessive, all of it is part of the excitement generated by this handsomely dressed, fast-flowing production’ (Crist 1965). Nadel attacked the inclusive casting: ‘While there is competence here and there in the rest of the cast, director Gladys Vaughan hasn’t achieved anything like integration. Dramatic integration, that is. The racial variety is conspicuous, as if she and producer Joseph Papp had selected white and Negro performers, in even alternation, as the first consideration in casting’ (1965). Robert Pasoli thought

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it a bit too tempestuous at times. G. Vaughan ‘concentrates her energy, which is considerable, on producing energy on the stage, which is prodigious. The hustle and commotion – every exchange a quarrel, every quarrel a fight, every fight a battle, or so it seems – sets up a clamorous din from which one is willing to steal away at the end’ (1965). Taubman noticed that for the first part of the evening, ‘the production tries too hard for momentum’, but ‘in the best passages the performance builds with power and tension’ (1965). Griffin, citing the director’s program note, found it set the perfect tone for this production: ‘powerful forces not only in conflict with each other, but with inner turmoil as well’ (1965). The company achieved this goal ‘with clarity and effectiveness’, rendering the play’s two ‘factions objectively, and brought out the rights (and wrongs) of the aristocrats and the common people’ (Griffin 1965). Ethnic casting of the Tribunes emphasized ‘a local as well as general timeliness’ to the proceedings (Griffin 1965). ‘Jones … was an outstanding Junius Brutus, blending the aggressiveness and humanity of this Tribune’ (Griffin 1965). She lauded ‘Miss Vaughan’ for staging the mob scenes ‘with an almost frightening realism’ (Griffin 1965). Jack Thompson agreed, stating that G. Vaughan ‘handled most of the crowd scenes with her usual brilliance’. Occasionally, the director ‘cluttered’ the stage and ‘the battle scenes look more like street rumbles than actual war’ (Thompson 1965). Some actors lacked ‘an ability to speak Shakespeare’s magnificent words’. Regardless, he noted ‘this is probably as good a production of the play as you are likely to see – it’s the best we ever saw’ (Thompson 1965). G. Vaughan made major contributions to NYSF in the early 1960s. She was one of only a handful of female directors at the time, and the first female to direct for NYSF. She worked closely with actors in major Shakespearean roles and helped them shape performances that generated visceral responses in the audiences. She directed under the microscopic lens of her producer, who constantly pressured her to make changes; she held her ground, defending her approach and interpretation when it mattered most. She frequently established a rapid pace, and her staging involved an intricate mapping of the company’s comings and goings from every part of the stage to keep the action flowing, especially with large casts, and battle or mob scenes. She brought out strong emotions as well as compelling ideas in her productions. Along with Papp, she was an early supporter of complete stage integration. Despite the accolades her productions received, Papp turned to other directors and she was relegated to directing a second school tour, a production of Macbeth in 1966. That would be her last production for Papp.

A. J. Antoon A. J. Antoon was a director of classics as well as original plays, working mainly for Papp. His Shakespeare productions included Cymbeline (1971),

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Much Ado About Nothing (1972–3), A Midsummer Night’s Dream (1988) and The Taming of the Shrew (1990). He died in 1992. His most influential production was his Much Ado About Nothing, which won Tony nominations for Barnard Hughes’ Dogberry and Kathleen Widdoes’ Beatrice. Critics were effusive in their praise. It had ‘razzledazzle hilarity and outrageous charm … naughty but enchanting’, said Barnes (1972c); ‘so close to an exceptional reading of Much Ado … often remarkably perceptive’, thought Kerr (Kerr 1972c); and Leiter found it ‘brilliantly conceptualized’ (1986a: 146). Gussow provided a detailed picture of the atmospheric setting: Antoon has transposed Shakespeare’s Messina to a small town in Middle America. This is pre-World War I America – marked by chauvinism, selfconfidence, and suddenly requited love. The gentlemen wear spats and carry pocket flasks. The ladies sneak a shared cigarette and clear the smoke away before the father of the house enters. Almost everyone is inhibited by social conventions – yet everyone is having a glorious time. As sparklers flare, the couples dance, Donald Saddler dances by the light of Japanese lanterns – and the Central Park moon could be part of the set. (Gussow 1972) Leiter praised Sam Waterston’s Benedict and Widdoes’ Beatrice for their ‘believable characterizations and natural performances that seemed easy and unforced and helped make the show a popular one with the public’ (1986a: 146–7). After the summer, the production moved from the Delacorte Theatre to Broadway. On 2 February 1973, it was broadcast on CBS, which may have led to a sudden drop in audience attendance, hastening its Broadway close (Knight 1973). Still, it ran for an impressive 136 performances. Barnes maintained that anyone can have the idea to transpose Much Ado to Teddy Roosevelt’s America. ‘The trick is to pull off the period style and flavor with certainty, and to make it relevant to Shakespeare.’ He not only considered the production successful, but found that the director had uncovered a truly American approach: The style is impeccable and works fine for Shakespeare – never have Renaissance men been turned into Roosevelt Republicans with such grace. And yet Mr. Antoon is careful to let Shakespeare have his own voice. I firmly believe that Shakespeare is America’s greatest playwright as well as England’s – you annex a literature with a language – and this American-style production, with its unaffected American accents that sound so right for Shakespeare’s poetry, is a striking confirmation of this. The Shakespearean acting here is American and beautiful. (Barnes 1972c) Having seen the earlier Delacorte production, Kerr affirmed ‘that most of [Antoon’s] actors speak with a clear command that makes Shakespeare intelligible’ (1972d).

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Kerr commended Antoon for addressing ‘the play’s curious and difficult double-tone’, reminding the audience that ‘there are passages ahead that will embroil these masters of insult in slander, the rejection of a bride at the altar, tombside elegies’. He praised Antoon’s efforts, ‘constantly looking for grace-notes that will warm the background and pave the way for a degree of sentiment’ (Kerr 1972d). Antoon conveyed moments – such as Beatrice and Benedick at the ball – with such devices as having a ‘tow-headed girl’ observe the scene from above, suggesting ‘a soberer life behind the badinage’. He also instilled ‘a thoughtful pause’ before Don Pedro (as Benedick’s surrogate) asks Hero to marry him. The moment reads like ‘transparent sincerity’. After Hero declines, Don Pedro has a painful but ‘graceful’ moment ‘of polite rejection’. Almost imperceptibly ‘the play takes on a dimension slightly disturbing for high comedy’ (Kerr 1972d). In the scene where Claudio spurns Hero at the altar, Kerr argued that ‘most directors glide past the episode as quickly as possible: if it is to be taken seriously, it is inadequately motivated and it makes Claudio a hopeless churl’. But in this production, Antoon made a different choice: [The nuptial entourage] enter[s] at a rate stately enough for a coronation; by the time we have got to the unpleasantness we have almost lost the sense of another world, a comic world, entirely; a long coiling rhythm has led us to the possibility of real angers and real anguish. In effect, the sequence has been isolated by its timing; in its isolation, it works. (Kerr 1972d) Finally, the production rediscovered its comic vein with Beatrice ‘through seriousness’: She is arresting again in the fierce womanly fury she is willing to spend on the very thought of Claudio. And it is at this point that something odd, and in a way almost miraculous, happens: her climatic ‘Kill Claudio!’ comes out thunderously funny, perhaps because she is playing the scene straight. For a moment there is an almost exact mating of seriousness and humor. (Kerr 1972d) Ultimately, Kerr did not believe ‘the two moods fuse easily’: Mr. Antoon does isolate them from one another, solving his problem by taking his time, shifting gears delicately. But this means that the play as a whole becomes a kind of Tale of Two Countries, a guided tour in which we now see heartbreak and now see hilarity. There is implied richness of feeling somewhere in the background, not thoroughly surfaced, and there is richness of wit standing foursquare out front. Provocative. Yet the house remains somewhat divided against itself. (Kerr 1972d)

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Still, Kerr congratulated Antoon for successfully moving from one mood to the other with directorial finesse. According to Rich, Antoon’s inspiration for his 1990 Taming of the Shrew ‘seems to be the airiest of Hollywood westerns. His Shrew never quite becomes a parody like say, Cat Ballou or Blazing Saddles, but it does evoke the bucolic interludes of John Ford movies, which themselves had a bawdy Elizabethan sense of rustic comedy’ (1990). Rich thought many actors in the company created hilarious characterizations: Tom Mardirosian’s deadpan Hortensio (who doubles as the town sheriff) and Robert Joy’s cigar-chomping Tranio stand out among the younger generation of Paduan clowns, though even they are upstaged by a delightful pair of older pros: Mark Hammer as the creaky, unreconstructed skirt-chaser Gremio, and William Duff-Griffin as a tipsy, itinerant ham actor made up to resemble W. C. Fields at his most pink-cheeked and Dickensian. (Rich 1990) Rich also admired Tracey Ullman’s ‘A woman moved is like a fountain troubled’, finding it had ‘just the right twinkle of irony and is capped by an ingeniously managed physical gag that allows Kate to have her man and her feminist independence, too’ (1990). By achieving both aims, ‘Ms. Ullman ends up in Mr. Freeman’s arms – in a romantic embrace both passionate and erotic – Mr. Antoon’s Shrew hardly seems a war between the sexes … Mr. Freeman [Petruchio] and Ms. Ullman leave the audience with the unambiguous feeling that the good guys, man and woman alike, have won’ (Rich 1990). Linda Winner thought Antoon ‘pretty smart to put the story in a time when menfolk are remembered kindly for having always been out there taming something – the wilderness, the livestock’ (1990). The Christopher Sly induction is cut to better emphasize the central plot and relationships. Language is changed to accommodate the Southwest setting: ‘“mi perdonato” becomes “con permiso”, “gramercies” becomes “much obliged”’ with the cast speaking in Western accents to underscore the setting. She held that Antoon’s hilarious company entices the audience ‘with gusto, good humor and a ready holster’. The action is played on ‘an achingly beautiful set by John Lee Beatty, a mural of wild mustangs painted on planks of an old Western façade, from which pop-ups and trap doors are used magically and sparingly’ (Winner 1990). Antoon was an inventive and creative director, unafraid to explore bold concepts and unconventional settings. He extrapolated the consequences of his ideas, no matter where they might lead him. He explored the nuances of the world in each play, and discovered fresh and provocative choices that often lent an air of originality. Yet, he also had a knack for helping actors develop believable characters entrenched within the given circumstances.

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He could skilfully juxtapose comic with tragic moments. He prepared the audience for unexpected actions that could take a comedy into dark places, a hopeless moment back into comedy, by orchestrating the tempos and rhythms. He manipulated tone expertly. He was always concerned with making Shakespeare relevant.

Wilford Leach Wilford Leach, the principal director at NYSF at the end of the 1970s, directed there until the mid-1980s. His productions included All’s Well That Ends Well and The Taming of the Shrew (both in 1978), Othello (1979), Henry V (1984) and Twelfth Night (1986). Leach was also a scenic designer, designing productions as well. His first Shakespeare for Papp was The Taming of the Shrew, starring Raúl Juliá and Meryl Streep. The Christopher Sly induction prologue was played in modern dress. During the rest of the play, the actors wore Elizabethan costumes. There were very few textual cuts. According to Schonberg, ‘Leach and his brilliant cast carry it off’ (1979: 383). He described Meryl Streep’s Kate as ‘proud, handsome, willful, smart … the perfect foil for Petruchio’. Schoenberg found the ‘remarkable tantrum … where she all but kicks a hole in the stage’ as one of the most humorous bits of stage action he had ever seen. The final monologue had ‘grace’ and was adeptly delivered: ‘In this day of Women’s Lib, it is a hard speech to take. Miss Streep starts with tongue-in-cheek, surprising even Petruchio. After a while, she does get more serious, but at the end there is no doubt that, tamed as she is, Petruchio still has a bit of a cat on his hands’ (Schonberg 1979: 383). He praised Juliá’s Petruchio, who ‘dominates the stage. Handsome, full of sexuality, strong with a resonant voice (much as one could guess from the wretched sound system of the Delacorte Theater), and with a twinkle in his eye. … More: his verbal as well as dramatic rhythms are infallible; the pentameters roll out like oil without the least suggestion of choppiness’ (Schonberg 1979: 383). Schonburg considered the production to be ‘unusually effervescent, idiomatic … witty, civilized, relying on Shakespeare rather than on gimmicks to make the points’. He applauded the approach to the language: ‘And – mirabile dictum! – nearly all the actors enunciate with a feeling for the verse and the shape of the phrase. For once, Shakespearean blank verse is served by American actors’ (Schonberg 1979: 383). His review urged that the entire operation be transferred to Broadway without changing anything. Papp refused to let critics into the production before the end of the run. Regardless, Barnes snuck in and found it to be ‘a sturdy, modestly amusing staging’ (1979b: 185). He reported that ‘most critics boycotted the performances, but curious as ever, I crept into one of the last, and was rewarded by robustious [sic] and amusing performances from Meryl Streep

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as Katherine and Juliá, as Petruchio. It was conventional enough’ (Barnes 1979: 185). Rarely a man of few words, that was all he wrote. Leach also directed Othello for the 1979 season. Juliá played Othello, Richard Dreyfuss was Iago, Frances Conroy portrayed Desdemona and Kaiulani Lee was cast as Emilia. The production, wrote Gussow, ‘radiates confidence’ and Juliá was ‘the most romantic Othello within my memory, one who could charm a city of Desdemonas’ (1979). Leach’s direction of the actors was with a ‘restrained hand’. Gussow applauded the ‘quintet of exceptional performers [who] act in harmony’ (1979). He thought the lengthy production effectively ‘charges to its conclusion’ due to Leach’s handling of the unfolding events and pacing (Gussow 1979). Leach also ‘manages to convey subtler shadings, questions of which there are only hints in the text’ such as in the scene between Cassio and Desdemona. ‘There is a spark of a romantic relationship between them, which in retrospect can only incite Othello’s wrath’ (Gussow 1979). He had praise for Juliá’s Othello and its ‘sizable emotions and clear lines of conflict … a forceful performance’ (Gussow 1979). He also complimented the speech skills which offered ‘renewed proof that an American Company’ can deliver Shakespearean text successfully (Gussow 1979). David Ansen extolled Dreyfuss’ Iago as a man who ‘emerges as the ruthless ringmaster in this circus of deception’ (1979). He was ‘a feisty Machiavellian dissembler who confides in the audience with the withering scorn of a treacherous stand-up comedian’ (Ansen 1979). In scenes with those upon whom he preys, Dreyfuss demonstrated the reason why so many consider him ‘honest’: ‘He is an ardent hypocrite, an actor who conceals his true nature in the veils of performance’ (Ansen 1979). Although Ansen found Conroy’s Desdemona was ‘a bit stolid’, he also thought she provided ‘one of the loveliest moments of the evening – a haunting rendition of the willow song … that [was] mesmerizing in its simplicity’ (Ansen 1979). He believed Lee’s performance a vigorous inexperienced take on Emilia. Yet, her dismay and fury at her husband’s betrayal ‘opens the emotional floodgates. “Nay, lay thee down and roar!” she bellows to the desolate Othello, and perhaps at no time do we feel his grief more keenly than at the command of her fury’ (Ansen 1979). He considered the production ‘handsome, intermittently powerful’. Even with its exceptionally delineated ‘atmosphere and wit’, he believed it ‘too often substitutes sheer noise for feeling’ (Ansen 1979). Other positive reviews included Beaufort: ‘Gripping and emotionally stirring’ (1979); and Siegal: ‘Incredible … some of the crispest, most credible Shakespeare I’ve seen’ (WABC-TV 1979: 173). Negative responses included Howard Kissel: ‘A tepid production in which none of the play’s emotional complexities and tensions are brought to the surface’ (1979); Leiter: ‘Oldfashioned, undisciplined, and unmoving’ (1986b: 546); and Edith Oliver: ‘There is no tragedy – no stature and no mounting tension’ (1979). These last comments aside, the majority of responses were positive.

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Kissel criticized the actors’ speech: ‘High points are indicated only by actors rasping out their words, running their vocal cords to sandpaper’ (1979). But, he also recognized that ‘our actors are no longer trained for heroic roles – they have neither the technique nor the intelligence to delve into parts like these’ (Kissel 1979). He carped that the director focused too much of his time on ‘blocking the play rather than bringing out its drama. At no point has he made his actors catch fire’ (Kissel 1979). However, Beaufort found the production to have ‘narrative excitement and cumulative impact’. He admired Dreyfus’ portrayal of Iago as ‘an extraordinarily effective villain … a small, athletic figure, Mr. Dreyfuss moves with brisk grace and precision’ (Beaufort 1979). Beaufort praised ‘the well-cast production [which] benefits from a notable consistency of performance’ (1979). One of Leach’s best productions was his 1984 Henry V. A straightforward production, set in the Middle Ages, Leach staged the action before a castle. James Loehlin thought the production was the apogee of ‘the tradition of noble American Henrys’ (1996: 156). He attributed much of the success to Kevin Kline’s performance. Kline, who possesses ‘romantic good looks, intelligence and great personal charm … made Henry at once humane and heroic’ (1996: 156). He was ‘full-throated in the breach, earnest in soliloquy and sexy in wooing the Princess’ (Loehlin 1996: 156). Most critics found the second half to be superior to the first. The comedy often faltered in the beginning: Yet, the comedy was effectual in the Fluellen and romance scenes (Leiter 1986b: 229). Rich observed, ‘Once spurred by battle in the second half, Mr. Leach’s direction hits its fastest and most imaginative stride. The comic scenes start to spark, too’ (1984). He also found deficiencies: ‘Both the actor and the director seem uncomfortable with Henry’s bloodthirsty excesses. Mr. Kline’s violent ultimatum to the town of Harfleur is mechanically shouted; the star leavens Henry’s coldblooded decision to execute two former cronies for looting with a pregnant pause of regret’ (Rich 1984). Leiter complained that ‘Leach’s lightly edited production did not give [Kline] completely solid support’ and was ‘too straightforwardly unironic, inconsistent, and generally uninspiring’ (1986b: 228–9). Ganz thought Leach to have delivered a ‘direct and well-paced’ production, while observing that some in the company were ‘disappointing’ (1984: 470–1). Nightingale commented that the production was ‘unusually strong in its handling of the French’ while being ‘more uneven and uncertain when it comes to the English’ (1984). He criticized a lack of a unified approach to the accents, as well as Pistol’s inability to ‘point a line or a joke’, which is ‘damaging’, but ‘not fatally so, since the rest of the English military has more character’ (Nightingale 1984). Once again, the set received praise, with one observer finding parallels to the Elizabethan public theatres: ‘An irregularly shaped thrust platform was backed by a battlemented wooden “tiring house” (in a dull red, relieved by some painted Elizabethan ornamentation) dominated by the

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two rounded doors of the “Swan” drawings.’ Because the space was almost always ‘unchanging’, the audience was in a better position to ‘accept more readily the consistent artifice of the verse’ (Ganz 1984: 470). Just before the French and English battle at Agincourt, the structure split apart ‘to reveal a holocaustal smoke-sound-and-light display that is a frightening plunge into war’s abyss’ (Rich 1984). The effects masked the English militia, who were ‘shrouded in smoke and flourishing banners’, and who could then ‘charge victoriously downstage’ (Ganz 1984: 470). Several reviewers mentioned the efficacy of this moment. Leach oversaw the development of outstanding performances by some of America’s best actors. He created an atmosphere that encouraged actors to think deeply about their roles. He was able to help clarify the relationship and tension between key characters in a production, such as Kate and Petruchio or Othello and Iago. As a designer, he had a strong eye for dazzling settings and novel approaches; at times, overpowering the performances, according to some sources. But, he could stage action that was organically born out of the world created by the scenery. Critical response for the actors’ approach to language/text ran the gamut from those who thought his companies demonstrated an excellent sense to those who heard poor vocal support and raspy sounds. Some criticized him for working too much on blocking the action, while others found too many static moments. Leach did not cut much text for his productions. Instead, he enlivened the pace and action in ways that kept his audience engaged.

JoAnne Akalaitis JoAnne Akalaitis came to NYSF with an extensive background in directing and production. She had been co-founder and actor with Mabou Mines, ‘an artist-driven experimental confederation, generating original works and re-imagined adaptations of classic works through multi-disciplinary, technologically inventive collaborations among its members’ (Mabou Mines n.d.). Productions used multiple tracks to communicate distinctively through technology, movement, sound, design and performance. Akalaitis began directing for Mabou Mines in 1975 with a production of Samuel Beckett’s radio play Cascando, for which she won an Obie Award. Another important production was Dead End Kids in 1980, an antinuclear piece that was also made into a movie and earned her another Obie. She received other Obie Awards for her direction of Dressed Like an Egg, Through the Leaves and Southern Exposure. Her style has been described as ‘bold, visual and physical’ (Green 1994: 90). Her background includes a notoriously controversial Endgame, vigorously challenged by playwright Samuel Beckett. He objected to Akalaitis’ transposed setting: a deserted subway station.

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Never having directed Shakespeare, Papp invited Akalaitis to direct Cymbeline in 1989, where she brought her Mabou Mines approach – revisionist productions of modern classics – to Shakespeare. Her research led her to Granville-Barker’s 1946 Preface to Cymbeline, in which he suggested Shakespeare may not have written the entire play. Regardless, he maintained that one should embrace Shakespeare’s ‘fertile carelessness’ as well as his ‘winking at the audience’ seen in Cymbeline’s many ‘anachronisms, improbable behavior, and other “frank artifices”’ (quoted in Green 1994: 92). Colette Brook’s graduate school paper on Cymbeline, ‘Through the Leaves’, was another influence. It argued that the play is ‘a conscious clash of real and idealized elements’ and Brooks labelled it ‘a successful “grotesque”’ (Green 1994: 93). Akalaitis found reading the play difficult and confusing. Subsequent passes helped formulate her interpretation: [She began] to think of the play as a Victorian novel, rich and dense with plot, character, and intrigue. … Her research … led to the discovery that, contrary to popular stereotypes of strict morals and timid ladies, the Victorians were a very bold, adventurous, physical people. They were real explorers. Cymbeline’s strong melodramatic plot, its exotic locations, and its plucky heroine reflected the director’s emerging concept of life in England in the mid-nineteenth century. (Green 1994: 93) This Cymbeline was set ‘in the midst of Celtic ruins – a Romantic Fantasy in Victorian England’ (programme note quoted in Rich 1989). Rather than a realistic recreation, Akalaitis’ Cymbeline sought to depict the Victorian past ‘through a late-twentieth-century prism’ (Green 1994: 93) (see Figure 10). Theatrical devices, like ‘footlights, movable scenery, thick red velvet curtains, and crisply delineated heroes and heroines’ were juxtaposed with ‘electronic music, cinematic scene cuts, and interracial casting’ (Green 1994: 93). Akalaitis staged Shakespeare’s tale in a nineteenthcentury setting, using a contemporary filter as well as a melodramatic style. Her Cymbeline mingled time periods: ‘Elizabethan language and dramaturgy, gushingly romantic Victorian characters and situations, and an aggressively fast-paced and electronically modulated production style’ (Green 1994: 93). Despite a background of reworking textual material, Akalaitis was deferential to Shakespeare’s text. She had a ‘reverential’ relationship with the text – the ‘integrity’ of which she greatly respected. She refused to excise abstruse words and lines, and made no emendations to smooth along problematic passages. Like some other directors, she argued that Shakespeare does not have subtext: ‘All you have to do is figure out how to put it out … you just have to make it clear’ (Green 1994: 95). Her directorial choices did not strive to synchronize the disparate and anachronistic elements of the

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FIGURE 10  Actor Jeffrey Nordling (top right) with cast in a scene from the New York Shakespeare Festival production of Cymbeline directed by JoAnne Akalaitis. Photo by Martha Swope. ©Billy Rose Theatre Division, The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts.

play. ‘We were not doing a take on the play. We were not doing a version of the play. We did the play. I think I changed the order of something in it, but we thought it was even rather conservative. We never thought we were doing anything radical’ (Green 1994: 98). Upon entering the theatre, the audience heard a violent thunderstorm. The opening exposition sequence was ‘blocked like the first scene of a well-made play’ (Green 1994: 93–4). Before the curtain ‘two men in suits … carrying wet umbrellas, meet and begin to gossip about Posthumus’ … marriage and birth … the lighting sinister (Batmanish), they whisper and move slowly stage right, toward the shadows. … When the curtain rises … George Tsypin’s phantasmagorical moody setting and Philip Glass’ eerie music prove a delight to the senses’ (Frank 1989: 13). A smokefilled stage slowly dissipated ‘through which could be seen a family, palefaced and silent, hurry across the stage and off stage left’ (Frank 1989: 13). They returned from time to time until Act 5, when it finally becomes clear, during Posthumous’ prison dream, that they were the spirits of his ancestral lineage. The set consisted of two columns with four sides that revolved to suggest a court, a Roman bathhouse, Imogen’s bedroom and the woods. An upstage cyclorama had projections designed by Stephanie Rudolph: ‘A

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garden, trees, decaying ruins, and other landscape collages’ (Green 1994: 94). Philip Glass’ music underscored scene changes. According to Green, ‘the rich juxtaposition of real and fantastic, flat and three-dimensional, stationary and mobile elements conjured up a dense and purely theatrical universe for the unfolding of Shakespeare’s deliciously convoluted plot’. There were other theatrical elements. Imogen and Pisanio travel by scooter and bike; Cymbeline’s throne flies in and out; Guiderius and Arviragus wear ‘loincloths and war paint’ (Green 1994: 94–5). The Act 4 battle ‘was played as a slow-motion ballet with freeze-frame tableaux and synchronized strobe lighting effects. … Completely nonrealistic, the carefully choreographed scene captured the agony, suspense, and adrenaline of combat in visually arresting, moving stage pictures’ (Green 1994: 95). Throughout, she explored the plays repetitions – each character’s take on the play’s events provided a new perspective for the audience. This culminated in the final scene where the play dramatizes numerous retellings and discoveries by the characters – all of which the audience already knows. Here, Akalaitis did not cut a single word, and rehearsed the scene with ‘precision’ and carefully orchestrated choreography (Green 1994: 101). Her Imogen was not the ‘delicate, fragile, and helpless’ traditional choice. She cast Joan Cusack as the Victorian ideal of beauty – ‘witty, brave, feisty, humorous’ (Green 1994: 100). Also, controversy arose over her casting of the ethnic roles. She cast a black Cloten, a choice that generated pointed criticism from such reviewers as Rich, who called it ‘bizarre’ (1989). He approved of her selection of a black actor, but argued ‘doesn’t credibility (and coherence for a hard pressed audience) demand that his mother also be black?’ Rich maintained that casting a Cloten who is ‘black and pudgy’ with a ‘Posthumus white and slim’ stretches credulity for the headless corpse scene where the audience must believe the two resemble each other enough to make Imogen mistake Cloten for Posthumus, with Cloten’s body clearly before her. He questioned how the audience could ever believe ‘that Imogen would mistake Cloten’s decapitated torso for her husband’s’ despite ‘the conflicting races of the confused corpses’. He then attacked Akalaitis’ casting as ‘arbitrary tokenism rather than complete and consistent integration that mock the dignified demands of the nontraditional casting movement’ (Rich 1989). Rich excoriated the production because Akalaitis ‘set it down in Celtic ruins (represented primarily by cloudy slide projections of Stonehenge) and then straitjacket[ed] it in the cloak of Victorian England’, the effect of which was ‘to annihilate a work that belongs to the full spectrum of a playwright’s autumnal imagination rather than to any narrow directorial idée fixe’ (1989). He ridiculed the director for reducing ‘everything to the low common denominator of her campy evocation of Victorian melodrama, as represented by George Tsypin’s inky, Edward Gorey-esque set, wandering ghosts out of “The Addams Family”, crashing organ chords and antique

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stage machinery’ (Rich 1989). He also attacked her ‘sniggling music-hall gags at the text’s expense’ and noted that ‘the prissy slow-motion battle scenes seem sanitized’ (Rich 1989). He characterized the production as ‘a parodistic penny dreadful’ (Rich 1989). While Rich dismissed the scenic approach, Glenda Frank praised the production for its ‘visually lush, uncut [perspective] … set in Victorian England although costumed in a hodge-podge of periods, merely nods at Shakespeare the poet and Shakespeare the psychologist but brings us a new identity, Shakespeare the surrealist’ (1989: 13). While finding fault with it as a Shakespearean production, Frank believes it thrived as a theatrical piece: ‘Imogen … dressed in a nightgown, looks like a sixties flower child. As in several other scenes, she deliberately pushes the sentiment until it becomes campy. It’s a Brechtian touch and works well here to cut through the saccharine without destroying the motion.’ She also found effective ‘the ghosts of Posthumus’ family … ashen visitors who haunt the play. … Their continual presence is a reminder of death’ (Frank 1989: 13). Several actors were criticized for poor verse delivery, including Cusack. Frank felt the cast was inconsistent with language, citing metre and diction weaknesses. She deduced that ‘purists will, undoubtedly, condemn Akalaitis’ attempt because the visual superseded the aural and movement superseded acting’ but concluded ‘Akalaitis’ greatest contribution may be a gift for the memory, an enrichment of subsequent readings when the scenes, no longer crippled by faulty enunciation and clumsy interpretation, regain their music and come alive, set in Tsypin’s lush landscapes’ (Frank 1989: 14). The production was enormously popular. Its treatment of colourblind casting pushed perceptions in ways that irritated some. The fact that Akalaitis embraced a mixture of styles and conflicting elements within one production also caused controversy. Her conceptual approach was not about unifying the disparate parts. Instead, she suggested one could examine the text at face value (no subtext) and distil the play’s characters, environments and characteristics into reflective icons from American, Victorian and Elizabethan cultures, regardless of how these different worlds might live together in one production. Akalaitis’ Cymbeline played to sold-out houses, was lambasted by most of the critics, defended by most theatre practitioners and generated a heated ‘mudslinging’ debate over the value of the enterprise. American Theatre devoted an entire issue to arguing the merits of her Cymbeline. Ultimately, her production pioneered new ways of approaching Shakespeare’s texts that a few years later would be considered acceptable to contemporary tastes. In light of such productions as Papp’s Naked Hamlet and the controversies it spawned, it is understandable how Papp could be drawn to a kindred spirit who had caused considerable controversy by directing a non-conventional Cymbeline, pushing theatrical limits for audiences. He had a similar history of battling convention. In 1991, Papp chose JoAnne Akalaitis to succeed him

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as artistic director of The Public. After a stormy two years, the board fired her in 1993. The artistic leadership was passed to George C. Wolfe, who successfully led The Public until 2005, when Oskar Eustis took over. While Wolfe had a fairly calm tenure at The Public, Eustis has had his share of controversies, including a 2017 season in which performances were heckled by audience members disagreeing with interpretive choices in his production of Julius Caesar. Joseph Papp would be proud.

6 Directors at Shakespeare Festivals and Theatres 1950s–1990s

This chapter explores the Shakespeare festival movement, its influential artistic directors and directors, their philosophies and most significant productions. These companies include the Colorado Shakespeare Festival (CSF), Utah Shakespeare Festival (USF), New Jersey Shakespeare Festival (NJSF), Alabama Shakespeare Festival (ASF), Shakespeare & Company, American Players Theatre, Chicago Shakespeare Theatre (CST) and the Shakespeare Theatre Company (STC). Space limitations make it impossible to include many other worthy organizations and directors. The intent is to paint a broad picture of (arguably) the major players. Most of the directors covered are also artistic directors of a theatre, leading its mission and agenda. A few do not have an institutional approach or do not have an artistic director who implements a specific vision for producing Shakespeare’s work. Pioneers in the Shakespeare festival movement often inspired other directors to establish Shakespeare festivals and theatres in parts of the country where none existed. New festivals were inspired by the work at Oregon Shakespeare Festival (1935–), the San Diego Shakespeare Festival (1949), the New York Shakespeare Festival (1954), the American Shakespeare Festival Theatre (1955–82), the Antioch Shakespeare Festival (1952–8) and the Colorado Shakespeare Festival (1958–). These early theatres encouraged future directors and producers to initiate festivals in the 1960s, which included the Kentucky Shakespeare Festival (1960–), Utah Shakespeare Festival (1961–), Great Lakes Shakespeare Festival (1962–), New Jersey Shakespeare Festival (1963–) and Classic Stage Company (1967). The steady proliferation of festivals throughout the 1960s led to an increased rate of founding of Shakespeare theatres during the 1970s. By 1975, at least twenty-six organizations devoted to producing Shakespeare

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were featured in The Shakespeare Complex. It lists the directors at AST as Joseph Anthony, Word Baker, John Dexter, Michael Kahn, Stephen Porter, Ellis Rabb, Cyril Richard and Edwin Sherin. At the Old Globe in San Diego, Craig Noel, William Ball, Allen Fletcher, Stephen Porter, Ellis Rabb and Mel Shapiro directed regularly. The Stratford Festival in Canada had Douglas Campbell, Peter Coe, Jean Gasçon, Sir Tyrone Guthrie, John Hirsch and Michael Langham (Loney and MacKay 1975: 16). New Shakespeare theatres that formed during the 1970s included the Theatre at Monmouth (1970–), Shakespeare at Winedale (1971–), Alabama Shakespeare Festival (1972–), the Shakespeare Festival of Dallas (1972–), Will Geer’s Theatricum Botanicum (1973–), Montana Shakespeare in the Parks (1973–), California Shakespeare Festival (1974–), Atlanta Shakespeare Festival (1979–), Houston Shakespeare Festival (1975–), Idaho Shakespeare Festival (1977), North Carolina Shakespeare Festival (1977–2014), American Players Theatre (1978–), Shakespeare & Company (1978), Theatre for a New Audience (1979) and Shakespeare Orange County (1979–; founded as The Grove Shakespeare Festival). These theatres generated an even more rapid rate of growth in the 1980s and 1990s. Among the newcomers were Three Rivers Shakespeare Festival (1980–95), Shakespeare Santa Cruz (1981–), San Francisco Shakespeare Festival (1982–), Shakespeare Theatre Company (1986–), Chicago Shakespeare Theatre (1986–), Texas Shakespeare Festival (1986), Nebraska Shakespeare Festival (1986–), American Shakespeare Centre (1988–; founded as Shenandoah Shakespeare Express), Orlando Shakespeare Theatre (1989–), Marin Shakespeare Company (1989–; earlier incarnation in 1961) and Tygres Heart Shakespeare Company (1989–2002). By 1990, according to two reports, there were even more theatres in North America devoted to the production of Shakespeare’s plays. Leiter reported that there were ‘over 80’ theatres in his study (Leiter 2000: 470) while Londré found 125 such theatres (Londré 2003: 1227). Londré’s count is probably more accurate as she had just completed a multi-year study of festivals in the 1990s that was well researched with collaborators Daniel J. Watermeier and Ron Engle. Some of the theatres that started in the 1990s include the Long Beach Shakespeare Company (1990–; formerly The-Bar-in-the-Yard), Aquila Theatre Company (1991–), the Seattle Shakespeare Company (1991–), A Noise Within (1991–), the Folger Shakespeare Theatre (1992–), Pennsylvania Shakespeare Festival (1992–) and the New Orleans Shakespeare Festival (1994–). The 1990s also witnessed the inception of companies that serve special populations, addressing such issues as gender, race and prison populations. They include Los Angeles Women’s Shakespeare Company (1993–2017), Judith Shakespeare Company (1995–2015), Shakespeare Behind Bars (1995–), African American Shakespeare Company (1996–), Classical Theatre of Harlem (1999–) and Harlem Shakespeare Festival (2012–). Sadly, two theatres that serve female Shakespeareans – the Los

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Angeles Women’s Shakespeare Company and Judith Shakespeare Company – have recently disbanded. When I started this project in 2004, I found approximately 160 festivals and theatres. While some have ceased operations, the total continued to increase for the years in which I tallied the numbers. Today, I estimate that there are at least two hundred Shakespeare theatres and festivals in North America devoted to Shakespeare as a major portion of their season. The opportunities these festivals provide for practitioners to work on Shakespeare and improve their skills are invaluable. Undoubtedly, they will exert a significant influence on future generations of directors, actors and designers. Many of the directors covered here are also the artistic director of a theatre, leading its mission and agenda. A few theatres do not have or have not had artistic directors who implement a specific vision and/or approach for producing Shakespeare’s work.

Colorado Shakespeare Festival The outdoor theatre, on the campus of the University of Colorado at Boulder, dates from 1939, although there is evidence of alfresco Shakespeare as a part of commencement activities as early as 1897. Starting in 1944, with a production of Romeo and Juliet directed by James Sandoe, the university sponsored an annual summer Shakespeare production. CSF began regular operations in 1958 when an English professor, J. H. Crouch, became the first executive director and produced a season of three plays: Hamlet, Julius Caesar and The Taming of the Shrew. The basic shape of the theatre remained the same up until 1966, when the space became less sacred and universityfinanced improvements to the space began to occur. The next significant alteration happened in 1977 when Dan Dryden was commissioned to design a new stage that would accommodate all three of the season’s productions. ‘Dryden’s original design underwent several modifications over the years, but its central element, a 36-foot-wide raked disk, remained virtually unchanged’ (Engle, Londré and Watermeier 1995: 91). Within ten years, twenty-six of Shakespeare’s plays had been produced at CSF. Richard Knaub became executive director in 1966. Under his leadership, the next phase was devoted to producing the remaining unproduced plays in the canon along with reviving the most popular Shakespeare plays to maintain support. By 1975, a production of Cymbeline marked the completion of the entire Shakespeare canon, ‘one of only seven companies in the world’ (Engle, Londré and Watermeier 1995: 91) and the third university to do so – Antioch College and the University of Michigan being the other two. The general aesthetic approach in the festival’s early years was historical recreations in the vein of Payne, as implemented by Bowmer at OSF. Sandoe, a resident professor, worked closely with Bowmer for a number of seasons and had directed several productions for OSF.

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In 1977, a new executive director, Daniel S. P. Yang, brought in nationally respected directors. They included Robert Benedetti, Robert Cohen, Michael Kahn, Tom Markus and Audrey Stanley. Yang also began to employ professional designers and technicians. Increasingly sophisticated production designs, starting in the 1973 season, sought to amend the basic shape of the theatre and portray specific settings for each play (Loney and MacKay 1975: 112). An acting pool that included graduate students from universities across the country, and the introduction of a guest artist Equity contract in 1982 (later expanded to five contracts annually in 1989), have greatly increased the quality of the work. Under Yang, CSF’s goal was to present Shakespeare and classics ‘in a variety of production styles, ranging from the historical to contemporary post-modernism’ (Engle, Londré and Watermeier 1995: 91–3). Jerry Turner (artistic director at OSF) reviewed the 1980 season for Shakespeare Quarterly, which included 2 Henry IV, A Midsummer Night’s Dream and King Lear directed by Tom Markus, Ronald E. Mitchell and William Glover, respectively. He noted significant changes from previous seasons’ academic slant: The Colorado Shakespeare Festival seems willing to step out of its academic cocoons. Gone are the Elizabethan trappings, the emphasis on language and poetry, the dependence on Shakespeare’s text. Under Dan Yang’s leadership the Festival has expanded. It is seeking out new audiences and adapting to changing fashions and developing perceptions. (Turner 1980: 251) The best production of the 1981 season, according to one critic, was Yang’s Love’s Labour’s Lost, cited as ‘[a] triumph of graceful directing, ensemble acting, and elegant design’ (Mullin 1981: 244). Mullin reported that audiences were enraptured by the production ‘as it transformed what is often thought of as an arcane Elizabethan in-joke’ into a delightful theatre outing (1981: 244). Artistic director Yang painted the court of Navarre and the French delegation with ‘authority as well as elegance and wit’: One felt that, handsome as the assembly were, they were also concerned with affairs of honor and importance, making their confusions and embarrassments hilariously credible. … The eighteenth-century style worked especially well. The self-conscious wit of the text and the actors’ bella figura posing and posturing made the improbabilities of the plot plausible, setting just the right tone. … The play rolled along so merrily that, by the time the Nine Worthies were putting on their hopelessly amateurish pageant, we were set up (as Shakespeare doubtless meant) for a nice, happy ending. Mercade’s entry and his message snapped the play back into the real world – not a gloomy world, but one in which the fun and games would have to wait for more serious matters. Witty, elegant,

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and often hilariously funny, this Love’s Labour’s Lost satisfied in every way. (Mullin 1981: 244–5) Yang’s eclectic approach to hiring directors meant vastly different styles of production. In the 1981 season, Kahn’s All’s Well That Ends Well was reset in the Victorian era. ‘In that period, with its witty, self-aware women and its peacock males longing for the glories of a commission in the dragoons, the play made delightful sense’ (Mullin 1982: 374). Scene changes were well executed. Mullin also noted that ‘the playing space could fill quickly with a score of actors and just as swiftly empty, making for a brisk, uptempo production rhythm’ (1982: 374). The director used blithe music to underscore moments and scene changes, with ‘the extravagant comic business for Lavache, Parolles, and the madcap Italian soldiery’ creating ‘the air of a Ruritanian operetta’ (Mullin 1982: 375). In addition, ‘Kahn and his actors kept Shakespeare’s fantastical plot clearly in the foreground and made every character credible and interesting throughout’ (Mullin 1982: 375). The 1982 season produced the scandalously popular ‘topless Macbeth’, directed by Robert Cohen: Macabre, beautiful, and indeed, topless, the Witches set the keynote. Macbeth’s eloquence and hallucinations came as much from champagne as from the horror of his deeds. Lady Macbeth’s power over him was openly sexual, underlined by her slinky gowns and her uninhibited sexuality … . ‘Experiment’ had full play, and the audience – alert, startled, sometimes amused – relished director Robert Cohen’s sensational approach … explicit sexuality abounded: the topless witches often danced between scenes, the Hecate scene provided an occasion for a bacchanalian dance, and, to name but one other bit, at the end of her sleepwalking, Lady Macbeth flung herself on the Doctor and kissed him long and frankly, as she had her husband. Ripe and raunchy, the production was nonetheless not distasteful nor merely sensationalistic. (Mullin 1983: 341–2) There were a variety of styles and insinuations employed that made for a great performance if not a ‘deep tragedy’ (Mullin 1983: 342). David Knight’s 1983 Elizabethan The Comedy of Errors was the strongest production of that season, using exaggerated humorous costumes. Much of its success was due to the ‘deft timing and ensemble acting’ by the actors (Mullin 1984: 230). ‘As the plot unfolded from one bafflement to the next, the seriousness with which the utterly credulous characters tried to cope made everything fresh’ (Mullin 1984: 230). Both the Napoleonic Romeo and Juliet and the farcical The Merry Wives of Windsor in 1985 were sound productions, directed by Will York and Paul Gaffney, respectively. The programme note for Romeo and Juliet described York’s overall take on the play: ‘A romantic tragedy’ (Mullin 1986: 400). Mullin thought the production ‘in every detail’ pursued this objective (1986:

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400). The director established a ‘swift pace’ that was aided by rapid scene changes and ‘staging [that] made it all look easy and natural’ (Mullin 1986: 400). Mullin also applauded another of York’s directorial tactics: ‘With a young cast, find ways to engage the audience’s romantic sympathies and the play will work its powerful magic’ (1986: 401). For The Merry Wives of Windsor, director Gaffney established ‘clear lines of characterization’ for his actors and unabashed laughter for his audience (Mullin 1986: 401). Design elements communicated a ‘homey atmosphere’ in which ‘broad acting along the lines of television or film sit-com’ flourished (Mullin 1986: 401). The production was less than two and a half hours long with the director excising Latin puns as well as ‘many of the topical wisecracks’ (Mullin 1986: 401). Mullin thought the production ‘a good farce, the details … mattering less than the actors’ and audience’s agreement to make fun of it all’ (1986: 401). For the 1987 season, all three directors attempted ‘straight … full, balanced productions’. The ‘most satisfying’ of the three was Yang’s Merchant, which Mullin found outstanding in almost every aspect: Imagination touched everything, so that again and again fresh vistas opened. To name but a few: when begging for a loan, Bassanio’s bit about the arrows provoked a wry smile from Antonio and a cynical laugh from the audience. Shylock’s graphic explanation about Laban’s rams and ewes disgusted the finicky Antonio. Gobo’s awkward farewell to Jessica got a sympathetic laugh when, groping for words, he called her a beautiful pagan. Tubal gave Shylock a receipt and collected reimbursement (which he counted) as part of his report on Jessica. Shock and turmoil rippled through the courtroom when characters realized that Shylock really meant to slice up Antonio’s bare chest. … What underlay Yang’s idea of ‘Shakespeare straight’ [was] a willingness by all concerned to realize the script’s dramatic possibilities. … The production held its audience minute-by-minute, building the tension (Bassanio’s and Portia’s joy when he chooses the right casket, for example, stilled the house), then releasing the tension with peals of laughter. Shylock and his story never took over the dramatic center. … A production to be remembered, and one that, to my mind, can stand with the best anywhere. (Mullin 1989: 224) Yang was artistic director until 1983 when he left to become artistic director of the Hong Kong Repertory Theatre. Martin Cobin, Department of Theatre & Dance chair, led CSF from 1982 to 1985. Yang returned to CSF in 1986 and served as artistic director until 1989. Yang had a catholic view of how Shakespeare could be produced, embracing all styles and methodologies. He supported each director’s vision and provided complete artistic freedom. Dramatically savvy, his productions were characterized by smart and fresh interpretations of text, clever staging of the dramatic action, expert manipulation of tension, ensemble acting and striking designs. He also had a robust sense of humour. Richard Devin, who became artistic director in

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1990, continued Yang’s approach, adding non-Shakespeare classics and related contemporary titles (Tom Stoppard’s Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead) to the repertoire (Devin 2004). Under Yang and Devin’s leadership, CSF matured considerably as an organization and garnered national respect. In 1992, Time magazine named CSF one of the best festivals in the country and that same year they also won ‘Best Season for a Theatre Company’, a Denver Drama Critics Circle Award. Since 2006, Philip Sneed (2006–12) and Timothy Orr (2013–) have continued artistic leadership of CSF.

Utah Shakespeare Festival Fred Adams founded the USF in 1961 after talking to the artistic directors of existing Shakespeare festivals in North America. They included OSF’s Angus Bowmer, Stratford Festival’s (Ontario) Michael Langham, San Diego Shakespeare Festival’s Craig Noel and AST’s Jack Landau. He sought expert advice for establishing a Shakespeare theatre. He also asked, if the founders were able to go back and start over again, what would they do differently. He was urged to forgo the star system and focus on building a company as well as an ensemble, to never operate on a deficit and to produce rotating repertory. He formed a close relationship with Bowmer, spending considerable time in Ashland observing OSF’s operations first hand. The argument for avoiding hiring a star was that once you bring someone in, the audience expects you to do it for every production, or they lose interest. Rotating repertory is important given his location and it takes almost the same effort to sell four plays as it does to sell one. These lessons became the basic blueprint for USF (Adams 2004). Throughout its history, USF’s organizational structure has been unique in comparison with many other festival theatres. Adams is responsible for maintaining USF’s mission and for overseeing development activities. USF has often had multiple producing artistic directors operating at the same time. For many years, Douglas Cook and Cameron Harvey acted as producing artistic directors, with Cook overseeing the design and visual aesthetics, while Harvey was in charge of production management and scheduling. The company’s first managing director, R. Scott Phillips, served the company from USF’s first days, and retired from that position in 2017. Brian Vaughan and David Ivers were named joint artistic directors in 2010. Ivers recently departed in 2017 to head another theatre, while Brian Vaughan continues as artistic director. Fred Adams currently serves USF as executive producer emeritus and director of the Capital Campaign. For much of its history, Adams was responsible for hiring the directors, like many other artistic directors at other Shakespeare festivals. USF’s original mission was to maintain historical authenticity through setting the plays in and around Shakespeare’s lifetime. The architecture of the Adams Theatre, a 1977 replica of Shakespeare’s Globe and USF’s original outdoor theatre, dictated a

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historical approach. The building was considered an outstanding recreation of an Elizabethan theatre, so much so that in 1981, BBC decided to film a part of their series on Shakespeare on the USF Adams stage. Due to continued audience growth, a second theatre was built. Opening in 1989, the more contemporary design of the Randall Theatre allowed Shakespeare productions set in any period. Cutting the plays was now permissible (Engle, Londré and Watermeier 1995: 345–7). The Adams was replaced by a new facility in 2016, the outdoor Engelstad Shakespeare Theatre. A new studio theatre is part of the complex. Like OSF, USF has become a destination theatre due to its location between several national parks. Its rotating repertory allows audiences to attend multiple productions over a several day stay. It has also had a considerable impact on future generations of Shakespeareans through its employment of theatre artists and technicians, its development of audiences and its extensive internship programmes, often filled with university students from across the country. In recognition of their substantial contribution to the American theatre, USF was awarded the Tony for Outstanding Regional Theatre in 2000. Scholar Stephen Booth wrote that he ‘enjoyed’ the 1976 season that featured productions of Love’s Labour’s Lost, Julius Caesar and The Tempest and offered this assessment of the company: The Utah festival, although not new, was new to me. It is now at a stage in its development where the Oregon festival was in 1962, the year the Utah festival began. This is a good stage to be at; the Utah productions have the freshness of amateur production and the sureness of professional ones. The festival at large has the same confident vitality that the productions have. (Booth 1977: 243) He found the productions ‘too often seemed designed as laboratory demonstrations for students of theatre arts’ (Booth 1977: 242). Of all the festivals he has attended, Booth felt USF was most successful in executing and embracing a proper atmosphere for the ‘greenshows’ – pre-show entertainment that warms up the audiences with song, dance and skits (1977: 243). One of the strongest USF productions during the 1970s was Coriolanus. Produced in the 1977 season, the Shakespeare Quarterly reviewer found the production ‘handled the class conflict with compelling authority and lucidity’. He thought it suffered from ‘[an] occasional neglect of psychological nuance’ because the director apparently was ‘more interested in the social import of the play’. Regardless, he praised the production and Richard Risso’s direction profusely: Through skillful casting, vocal orchestration, and blocking, he molded the mob into one body with many heads (I counted sixteen) – a true hydra, as Coriolanus says. So ‘greasy’ in appearance one could almost smell them … they raged and exulted, sulked and vacillated with all the fine complexity of a single powerful antagonist – which is what they must

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be if the play is to have a firm dramatic center. Their Tribunes … also struck just the right note of moral ambiguity, seeming at some moments to be merely self-serving rascals, at others to be conscientious guardians of the people’s rights. … Risso brought to bear upon the text a superb controlling intelligence, as well as impeccable taste and judgment in the deployment and manipulation of theatrical means. The result was a production free of obtrusive directorial display, but one not a whit less ‘creative’ for all that. (Mills 1978: 255) Mills thought Sam Tsoutsouvas was particularly well cast as Coriolanus. Because of his short height, the actor initially did not seem like a good choice for the lead. But that impression quickly disappeared as the reviewer ‘began to think of Coriolanus as a man driven to excel by what has been called a “Napoleon Complex”’ (Mills 1978: 255). The actor’s stature was particularly effective in the scenes with his mother: To see her tower over him by a full six inches was to understand how Coriolanus might have been torn apart by conflicting claims and desires: on the one hand, the natural longing to remain forever a boy, physically reinforced in his case every time his mother embraced him; on the other, the unequivocal command, issuing from the very object of his boyish longing, the command to ‘Be a man!’. (Mills 1978: 255) At the end, Aufiduius’ lines ‘Thou boy of tears’ created an intense obsessive response by Tsoutsouvas, ‘Boy! O Slave! … Boy! False hound! … Boy!’, illustrating how deeply he was hurt: ‘A man who has dared all and won all only to be accounted in the end merely a boy after all – and by the man he respected most in the world’ (Mills 1978: 255). Mills thought Tsoutsouvas’ performance to be ‘acting of rare power, acting of the sort for which one reserves the term “great”’ (1978: 255). In 1978, Brian Hansen directed an imaginative Midsummer. The director appropriated the Elizabethan idea of hierarchical degrees into the play’s world order: the fairy world governing the nobility, the nobility governing the mechanicals. Goodfellow thought the play’s success was due in large measure to the director’s inventive choices: ‘Egeus constantly forgetting his prospective son-in-law’s name and having to be prompted; Puck dragging the lovers onstage, unbeknownst to them, by an invisible rope, Hermia’s clever puppet-play with Lysander; and nearly the entire fabric of “Pyramus and Thisbe”’ (1979: 231). Wooley, reviewing the 1980 USF season, conceded there was growth in the company, but he also noted deficiencies. The primary issue had to do with the ability to cast age-appropriate actors: The Festival has not been able to afford to attract many mature, accomplished performers – this year’s company featured only one member

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over thirty – and the result in 1980, was college-theatre-in-the-summer. … Virtually all the problems of this summer’s productions could be traced to the youthfulness and relative inexperience of the acting company and directors. (Wooley 1981: 248) That season’s strongest offering was Leslie Reidel’s Measure for Measure: Many versions … have tended to concentrate on Angelo and to slight Duke Vincentio. Reidel and actor Jeffrey Rubin refused to allow this to happen. Rubin’s excellent Vincentio was an aging, benevolent ruler whose chief concern was that his previous laxity had led to an alarming degree of moral slackness in his realm. His motive in turning the dukedom over to Angelo was entirely beneficent – the deputy would, if all went well, improve the moral atmosphere. (Wooley 1981: 249) Reidel, instead of dwelling on the problems of the play, directed a ‘straightforward, controlled, sensitive’ production that challenged its audience to contemplate the allegorical aspects of the piece (Wooley 1981: 249). Writing about the 1981 season, one observer detected that USF ‘tends to rely on a few strongly-cast roles (often performed by Equity members) to carry much of the production’s momentum. When this gamble is successful, the more accomplished actors are able to draw the supporting players into the orbit of their own performances and charge the whole enterprise with energy’ (Weller 1982: 378). The Falstaff of Alex Henteloff in 1 Henry IV did exactly that, making the production a memorable one. The best production of 1983 was Two Gentlemen of Verona directed by James Edmonson. What set it apart was ‘a spirit of protean play, taking its cue from the name (and nature) of one of the title characters. A carnival scene in the marketplace of Verona supplied a kind of prologue, announcing both the themes and the mood of the action, setting up a continuous improvised performance’ (Weller 1984: 350). The servants were given ‘inventive physical comedy – the kind which illuminates rather than competes with the dialogue’ (Weller 1984: 350). Throughout, Edmonson highlighted ‘strolling theatre’ and the fact the characters were giving ‘a continuous improvised performance’ (Weller 1984: 350). When Valentine challenges Proteus in the final scene with infidelity Launce, Speed, and (more mysteriously) Lucetta looked on as interested observers from an elevation … and not only pantomimed their own responses but coached Valentine’s, prompting him with shrugs and grimaces to forgive his friend’s delinquency. As a result, Valentine too seemed to be performing an impromptu scene, and the emphasis on performance relieved some of the embarrassments that normally accompany Valentine’s grandiloquence at this moment: ‘All that was mine in Silvia I give thee’. (Weller 1984: 350)

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Libby Appel’s Troilus and Cressida was the outstanding offering of the 1984 season. A reviewer marvelled at the director’s effective opening sequence that resonated throughout, in scene after scene: Pandarus … toyed with a decaying corpse in armor, which, like the corpse in ‘goodly armor’ discovered by Hector later in the play, effectively emblematized the rotting reality beneath the war’s veneer of chivalry. Cassandra, hauntingly … then spoke the prologue and remained on the balcony above the main stage during much of the action to function as a chorus. In the play’s concluding scene, she was joined by Thersites and Pandarus to utter in a choric chant Pandarus’ bitter farewell to the audience. (Aggeler 1985: 230) The director and actors gave Troilus and Cressida enlarged character arcs, especially Cressida’s. In so doing, the director took some liberties with Shakespeare’s text: Troilus … developed plausibly from an adolescent voluptuary into a man chastened by painful experience. … Cressida, a girl who had perhaps seen too much in a city under siege, was a figure with whom an audience could sympathize. Director Appel was apparently concerned with maximizing this response, and to this end she excised much of the bawdy exchange between Cressida and Pandarus in I.ii. She also took some rather questionable liberties with the text to convey an impression of Cressida as hapless victim in the scene in which she enters the Greek camp (IV.v). Disregarding Ulysses’ description of Cressida’s insinuating manner (‘There’s language in her eye, her cheek, her lip …’), Appel made the scene into something resembling a gang-rape, with the girl being literally thrown from one Greek hero to another. That Shakespeare may have intended the scene to convey a very different impression of Cressida is suggested not only by Ulysses’ scornful assessment of her but by the line which follows it as a kind of summation: responding to the sound of a trumpet, all of the Greeks cry out together, ‘The Trojans’ trumpet’, which can only come out as ‘The Trojan strumpet!’ Appel gave this line to the ever present Cassandra in her role as Chorus in an apparent attempt to avoid its cruelly comic effects. (Aggeler 1985: 230–1) Aggeler thought these excisions a significant flaw in what was otherwise a ‘fascinating and effective production’ (1985: 231). Like OSF and CSF, USF in its first three decades started modestly. The organization focused its energy on developing gradually in order to sustain success and viability. Perceived authenticity was the goal, using very little scenery, minimal props and Elizabethan or Jacobean costumes. This simplified the design process. It also meant a focus on language and text to communicate approach, rather than on scenic setting to convey meaning.

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Over its first few decades, performers acquired experience and their technical skills grew. The company struggled with attracting older and ethnic actors to the perceived isolation of Cedar City, Utah. Still, the productions have been entertaining and enjoyable, with the best directors addressing textual and character issues head on.

Paul Barry/New Jersey Shakespeare Festival Founded in 1963 by Paul Barry, NJSF’s first production opened in the Cape May Playhouse. Barry presented both classics and modern plays in the first two seasons. From 1965 to 1967, Barry began offering two Shakespeare productions along with a third contemporary play in repertory. The historic theatre was demolished after the 1968 season and the company spent the next couple of years touring schools in the region. They attempted another season in the ballroom of the Lafayette Hotel, but due to safety concerns, the hotel was razed at the end of that season. In 1971, the president of Drew University offered to host the theatre, with plans to build a performing arts centre. The NJSF 1972 season opened in Madison in an old converted gymnasium, producing a repertory of five plays over an eleven-week season. The popularity of the company led to an expansion of the season to twenty-one weeks in 1975 (Engle, Londré and Watermeier 1995: 210–11). Barry’s 1973 Coriolanus, set in the Second World War, had ‘tension, dramatic excitement, a sharp sense of psychological conflict’ (Beaufort 1973). Shakespeare Quarterly found it ‘fast-moving, well-knit, enjoyable’ (Lyles 1973: 447). Barry’s staging of crowd scenes was effectual, as was his handling of the choral roles. ‘A pantomime between Coriolanus and Aufidius when Coriolanus is captured was particularly well done’ (Lyles 1973: 447). Barry used innovative settings such as transforming Aufidius place ‘into a café, with beer-drinking soldiers and their dates’ (Lyles 1973: 447). One of the most striking effects was after curtain call: ‘As the audience arose and started to leave, five or six Roman soldiers were seen still on stage, guns on shoulders, standing guard as the audience walked away’ (Lyles 1973: 447). Bruce Chadwick of the New York Daily News found his 2  Henry IV to be ‘superb as a political drama’ (8 July 1975; quoted in Engle, Londré and Watermeier 1995: 211). His production of Cymbeline was considered ‘fresh, high spirited and well spoken’ by Joseph Catinella (New York Times 19 July 1981; quoted in Engle, Londré and Watermeier 1995: 211). Frank Occhiogrosso, however, found a lot of choices stole focus from the action of a scene, such as a nude nymph ‘strolled wantonly’ while Iachimo and Posthumous argued about Imogen’s morality. He also thought a ‘gratuitous pseudo-realism’ approach to Cloten’s decapitated head was unnecessary (Occhiogrosso 1982: 223).

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By the early 1980s, Daniel J. Watermeier found that Barry’s work ‘had developed a reputation for imaginative, thoughtful staging of Shakespeare’ (Engle, Londré and Watermeier 1995: 212). One of the artistic director’s most notable enterprises was a 1983 production of The War of the Roses, featuring all three parts of Henry VI as well as Richard III performed over three evenings and lasting some nine hours. There were seventy actors in all, along with the extensive necessary production resources to support the endeavour – an impressive event for any theatre, but more remarkable for its accomplishment by a humble company with limited means (Engle, Londré and Watermeier 1995: 212–13). Critical response was mainly positive: ‘Easily the theatre event of the year’ wrote Bruce Chadwick of the Daily News (28 August 1983; quoted in Engle, Londré and Watermeier 1995: 212) and ‘everything about it works to perfection’ lauded Laura Haywood from the Princeton Packet (20 July 1983; quoted in Engle, Londré and Watermeier 1995: 212). The New York Times found fault with most of the performances and criticized some of the staging: ‘In all the battle scenes, most of which are clumsily negotiated, Mr. Barry’s direction is short on climaxes, lumbering along at a ponderous pace.’ Occhiogrosso complained that the director ‘upstaged his actors by creating distractions during soliloquies’ such as actors moving Henry’s coffin offstage during Richard’s monologue (1983b: 477). With the exception of a couple of actors, he felt the acting was weak. He praised Barry’s editing of the text: Rather than cut many scenes, [Barry] managed to keep almost all of the action while cutting down the speeches, the net result being a sense of quick movement. In rapid succession we went from the funeral of Henry V to the Temple Garden scene to the arrival of Joan la Pucelle to succor the beleaguered French; yet the pacing still allowed the major characterizations … all to emerge and develop fully. (Occhiogrosso 1983b: 476) Barry’s 1982 Timon of Athens was set in the Roaring Twenties, which Occhiogrosso found ‘strikingly appropriate, not only through its evocation of the Gatsby era, with its movement from profligate excess through crash to bitter depression, but even more so because of its suggested link between Timon and Gatsby himself, who sought to buy his dreams only to be ultimately abandoned by those who flocked to him when he was spending freely’ (1983a: 107–8). Barry also played Timon for the production. ‘He adopted the smiling, benign ease of manner of a sugar daddy casually distributing gifts; but when he became Timon Enrage, that low-keyed ease disappeared and he was transformed into an arresting presence on stage’ (Occhiogrosso 1983a: 108). Barry’s 1986 production of The Two Noble Kinsmen was ridiculed by the New York Times. Costumed in the Confederacy era, it ‘exists in a nebulous period, which compounds a viewer’s confusion. … The director’s

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tone … seems uncertain. Is it tongue-in-cheek? Serious?’ The reviewer also thought the performances ‘exist in limbo’ (Klein 1986). Another reviewer thought the production ‘lively, clever, well-acted’ and noted it emphasized the humour (Gould 1987: 21). He also praised Barry’s text: ‘Much of the first act was cut, eliminating, to a large extent, the “subplot” of the conflict between Athens and Thebes. Emilia’s speech about her childhood playfellow and Palamon and Arcite’s discussion of their unhappiness in their native Thebes were also excluded. These deletions served to remove much of the heavy rhetoric and seriousness from the play’ (Gould 1987: 21). Instead, the director emphasized the relationship between Palamon and Arcite as well as focusing on the Jailer’s Daughter. He also concentrated on ‘the theatricality and humor’ of the piece (Gould 1987: 21). ‘The scene in which the kinsmen arm each other and politely and hesitantly commence their duel was the highlight of the production’ (Gould 1987: 22). Barry published A Lifetime with Shakespeare: Notes from a Director from an American Director of all 38 Plays, offering information about the problems he encountered in his productions as well as potential solutions. In the preface, colleague Harry Keyishian remembers Barry ‘insisted that his actors speak standard American English, not imitation British, unless a specific accent – Welsh or Irish or French – was required. This was by way of demonstrating that American Actors could achieve excellence within the framework of their own language, through the sheer power of performance’. Keyishian also praised Barry’s expertise in fight choreography due to his experience staging fights for the entire canon and ‘his [substantive] knowledge of medieval weaponry’ as well as his personal drive to ensure his fights were based on original research (Barry 2010: 2). Distilling his extensive experience, Barry defined essential practices for directing Shakespeare: ‘Keep the action flowing at a pace of 18 to 20 lines per minute, take no breaks between scenes, rely on doubling actors, costumes, props, sound and lights rather than elaborate scenery’ (Barry 2010: 13). In addition, he favoured a thrust stage with ‘the audience surrounding the actors in a 216-degree semi-circle’ (Barry 2010: 13). He also advised, ‘I wouldn’t say there’s only one way to produce a Shakespeare play – I’ve been accused of such a stand – but there are precious few ways that maintain the integrity of the Playwright’s intent’ (Barry 2010: 13). Other recommendations include making an exhaustive list of each play’s needs, thoroughly research what the director does not know, focus on the play as ‘the primary objective’ and serve the playwright – the director’s ultimate responsibility (Barry 2010: 14). He does not believe in cutting or emending. ‘Rather, it’s the director’s job to make the entire text work, every stage direction work – to stay out of the way of the magic reciprocity between the script and the actor. Many Shakespeare productions are damaged, made unintelligible by clockconscious directors who cut lines simply because they don’t understand them or they don’t fit their “concepts”’ (Barry 2010: 14). He believes the purpose of rehearsals is to ‘define … the action of the plot and identify its elements’

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for the actors and directors, who are working together to ‘define the backstory of each play’ (Barry 2010: 14). As the production unfolds, ‘the actors reveal plot points, almost accidentally. Actors need not telegraph the action … Shakespeare doesn’t telegraph: he plants dramatic possibility early in the plot, and he unfolds action as it happens’ (Barry 2010: 14). Finally, he has evolved a structure that breaks the rehearsal schedule into five parts: onefifth is for work on the text, three-fifths for ‘the evolution of the staging’ and the last fifth for technical and dress rehearsals (Barry 2010: 15). Despite his many achievements, financially dismal box office receipts in the late 1980s, combined with a determination to stage Shakespeare’s entire canon, led to his subsequent departure in 1990 from the company he founded. Nevertheless, Barry is the first American to direct the entire Shakespeare canon and is said to have mounted sixty-five Shakespeare productions. The Shakespeare Globe Centre of North America awarded him a lifetime achievement honour – the third American to ever receive one (Engle, Londré and Watermeier 1995: 213). Joseph Papp and Michael Kahn were the other recipients. Since 1991, Bonnie Monte has been the artistic director at what is now called The Shakespeare Theatre of New Jersey. She also has received considerable critical acclaim from the New York press for her productions with a decidedly different aesthetic. (More about her working methods can be found in Directing Shakespeare in America: Current Practices [Ney 2016].)

Martin Platt/Alabama Shakespeare Festival Martin L. Platt founded the ASF in Anniston in 1972. According to Londré, ‘Platt’s idea for a Shakespeare festival arose from his own desire for summer employment and from the realization that there was no Shakespeareproducing organization in the southeastern United States at that time’ (Engle, Londré and Watermeier 1995: 1). It was an inauspicious beginning, playing to two patrons in its first Anniston Alabama performance – and they happened to be a critic and his spouse. Platt directed all of the productions in its first five seasons. He also oversaw ASF’s move to Montgomery in 1985, the result of a remarkable gift of $21.5 million, as well as the building of an impressive two-theatre, eight-level complex. He remained its artistic director until 1989. His style, in his own words, was to create ‘bold and risky productions’. By ‘bold’ he meant ‘changes in locale’, the use of ‘anachronistic music and songs’ or ‘exotic interpretations’ (Volz 1986: 11). However, Platt is fond of pointing out that, although ASF wanted to make the plays ‘“live for modern audiences,” the text is always “Shakespeare word for word”’ (Volz 1986: 11). His 1973 season presented a rock musical version of As You Like It with ‘colorful, contemporary [costume] designs with “bows to the Elizabethan era”, and sported long hair, sandals, and beach balls’ (Volz

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1986: 13). It also included a Civil War Much Ado About Nothing set in the South with 1860s costumes and music. ASF also presented productions of Macbeth and Tartuffe. Platt sought to make the plays not only relevant, but also exciting for an audience whose first experience with Shakespeare was often in an English classroom and dull. A statement of his 1974 artistic goals proclaimed, ‘In these first three seasons, I have attempted to present a cross-section of the Bard’s plays and find a specific production scheme for each play that will enhance the important qualities of each play for contemporary audiences’ (Volz 1986: 18). In 1975, Platt changed his approach and embraced ‘more traditional, Elizabethan-period productions’ (Engle, Londré and Watermeier 1995: 2). He wrote, ‘This year … we have done almost no cutting at all and we have fun with the plays in their period. Sometimes people twist them so far out of their periods that they no longer mean the same things’ (Volz 1986: 22). Thus began an approach that he would hold for the rest of his tenure at ASF. In 1976, ASF hired its first Equity actor and received its first New York Times review. Of King Lear, Roy Reed reported, ‘Sunday night’s performance tore and wrenched the audience, and when Charles Antalosky took his bows for Lear, they rose to their feet shouting.’ The newspaper referred to Platt as ‘a brash, brilliant director’ (Reed 1976). Carol McGinnis Kay, who had reviewed Platt’s work over several seasons, wrote. ‘Reflecting but not reproducing the Jan Kott-Peter Brook stark comfortless vision of Lear, the ASF production showed us the beast unleashed and in so doing achieved one of those rare evenings of power for which we all keep returning to the live theatre’ (1977: 222). Platt had established a fast pace, ‘the sense of building rapidly and inexorably to a holocaust with smaller climaxes of villainy along the way’ (Kay 1977: 222). The actor who played Lear was outstanding. ‘Anatalosky’s Lear moved his audience to pity, but, significantly, he moved us even more to an appreciation of man’s strength and his potential for growth, knowledge, and sensitivity’ (Kay 1977: 223). Platt made few changes to the text, but added compelling actions and behaviour: The Fool … appeared in the opening scene, listening and responding to everything said as he huddled by the throne, clasping his bauble (with his face on one side and Lear’s on the other to her). His silent distress over Lear’s foolish banishment of Kent and Cordelia was both funny and sad; thus he guided our response to Lear even before he spoke. Later in the storm scene the Fool collapsed after making his prophecy; Lear first supported, then carried him, only to abandon him for the ‘learned Theban’ Edgar. The Fool, carried into Glouscester’s farmhouse by Kent, tried desperately to recover Lear’s attention and affection, but in vain. After lying down at Lear’s feet to ‘go to bed at noon’, he simply did not awaken again, a victim of exposure, stress, and loss … a neat explanation of the Fool’s disappearance. (Kay 1977: 222)

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ASF continued to grow and flourish. By 1978, the company had eleven Equity contracts and by 1980 had achieved League of Resident Theatres (LORT) status. A 1979 artistic statement announced Platt’s then current intentions, ‘We are not, and never will be, a theatre where a director or an actor will pervert or alter the playwright’s wishes. This is a theatre which always believes that our job is to serve the genius of the playwright, not impose our personal perceptions on him’ (Volz 1986: 45). The best production in the 1980 season was Platt’s Cymbeline, ‘a grandly prepared offering’ (Fulton 1981: 225). Platt used startling visual effects. ‘The Leonati appeared in statuary openings in a semicircle on the second level … creating a monumental atmosphere. Draped head to toe in white gowns and lit from the back, they … intoned their petition to Jupiter, sepulchral organ music playing the while. The god manifested himself in spectacular strong, deep voice proclaimed the future happiness of Posthumus’ (Fulton 1981: 226–7). The director’s tactic was ‘to let [Cymbeline] be what it would. He neither encouraged us to snigger at its heterogeneous nature nor attempted to fake a smoothness about it’ (Fulton 1981: 227). He repeated a technique he discovered in his earlier Cymbeline (1976), imaginatively underscoring the battle scenes (Drake 1976). ‘The 1983 season simply fell into place as one of the most well-balanced, artistically diverse, and theatrically exciting seasons that we have produced’, boasted Platt (Volz 1986: 59). The critics agreed, with the Washington Post’s Richard L. Coe gushing, ‘What a marvelously varied feast is this 12th Alabama Shakespeare Festival! These five productions of obvious professional skills have something for everyone … The ASF is proving itself to be in at least the upper quarter of American regional theatres.’ The Atlanta Constitution’s Helen C. Smith crowed, ‘It is the best balanced and most rewarding festival ever staged here’ (quoted in Volz 1986: 62). Kay, who had witnessed several seasons in Anniston, wrote about Platt’s approach for Shakespeare Quarterly. His artistic direction demonstrated ‘little tampering with the text (usually the Arden edition of a play); gorgeous costumes; spare, effective sets on a thrust stage; a rapid pace, and exuberant sophisticated staging of the comedies’ (Kay 1983: 249). Sometimes, when cutting sections of a play’s text because they ‘don’t advance the plot’, Platt can damage the play’s tone or confuse a thematic purpose, as was the case in his Richard II where he removed any reference to Aumerle’s revolution (Kay 1983: 249). She also observed that his edits were ‘usually made to avoid problems or simplify matters for a contemporary audience’ (Kay 1983: 249). Other changes to Shakespeare’s texts had to do with embellishments, especially noticeable in ASF comedies. Insertions could be simple lines or words, such as were added to the 1974 The Taming of the Shrew ‘in which the Italian strolling players swore vigorously with opera titles, “Cosi Fan Tutte” and “A-iiida”’ (Kay 1983: 251). They could be a clever bit of action or an extended bit of stage business, such as the prologue that was created

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for the beginning of Love’s Labour’s Lost. Each season offered at least one production, ‘usually a comedy, sometimes a romance’, where the director reset the action to another environment (Kay 1983: 252). Love’s Labour’s Lost was relocated ‘to the South of France on precisely April 10, 1932. … Set, costumes, music, and elaborate stage business quickly established an artificial world of Noel Coward elegance’, which included a grand piano (Kay 1983: 251). Kay found the shift to be effective. Platt resigned in 1989 to pursue other interests and Kent Thompson became artistic director. A 1991 mission statement by Thompson stated that the festival ‘is first and foremost committed to artistic excellence in the production and performance of classics and outstanding contemporary plays, with the works of William Shakespeare forming the core of our repertoire’ (Engle, Londré and Watermeier 1995: 6). He affirmed ‘a commitment to a company of resident artists’ as well as to rotating rep, ‘which we believe to be the most demanding, stimulating and rewarding form of theatre’ (Engle, Londré and Watermeier 1995: 6). He also identified his approach to Shakespeare: Making these texts directly relevant to a Southern audience. Rather than imposing a sweeping conceptual rule such as traditional Shakespeare or radical updating of text, we will produce our classics in a variety of styles, periods, and concepts, each chosen to illuminate the particular play and stir greater awareness and identification in our audiences. Most importantly, these plays should provide us with a renewed perspective on our lives and the times in which we live. (Engle, Londré and Watermeier 1995: 6) Thompson served as artistic director until 2005. Geoffrey Sherman followed him and served until retiring in 2017. (See Directing Shakespeare in America: Current Practices [Ney 2016] for more on Thompson’s approach to Shakespeare.)

Tina Packer/Shakespeare & Company An actor with credits from the Royal Shakespeare Company (RSC) and a BBC TV series, Tina Packer began a trans-Atlantic company investigating ‘new approaches to the text that require[d] re-training in actual acting methods’ in 1973 (Epstein 1985: 35). Her efforts were funded through grants from the Ford Foundation and CBS Foundations. Experimenting with leadership approaches (‘she loathed the display of authority’), the company received favourable responses in England, but got lukewarm to hostile reviews for its performances in the United States. Due to Packer’s reluctance to impose direction on the democratically operated company, an unhappy group of actors inundated the company’s artistic progress with increasingly frequent policy meetings. Packer was searching for a female model of governance,

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but at the time, there were almost no theatrical prototypes where women were in charge (Epstein 1985: 46–7). After retreating to a country haven for a period of introspection and rejuvenation, a second attempt at forming the company in 1978 was successful. She established Shakespeare & Company in the Berkshire area of Western Massachusetts and co-founded the company with Kristin Linklater, B. H. Barry, John Broome and Dennis Krausnick. The commitment was ‘to create a permanent Shakespeare Company in America that performed as the Elizabethans did – “in love with poetry; physical prowess through fighting and dancing; and an unlimited vision of man’s ability to explore the universe”’ (Engle, Londré and Watermeier 1995: 186). Packer emerged as the artistic director, a position she held until 2009 when she retired. Up until 2000, performances were at The Mount, Edith Wharton’s home. Afterwards, the company moved into a three-theatre complex with administrative offices, housing and rehearsal space. Packer’s goal in founding the theatre was to fuse ‘the power suits of British actors and American actors: the spoken word and the physical body’ (Gregio 2004: 106). She succeeded in establishing one of the most important Shakespeare theatres in the United States. From its first days, Packer conceived of the company as a partly performing, partly training operation. By 2004, there were over 150 company members producing Shakespeare and ‘generating opportunities for collaboration between actors, directors, and designers of all races, nationalities, and backgrounds’ (Gregio 2004: 107). A substantial educational mission was a crucial part of her goals. She persuaded several teachers from the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, where she had studied, and the London Academy of Music & Dramatic Art, where she had worked, to join her. They included Barry, Broome and Trish Arnold. She convinced John Barton to offer classes for the first incarnation of Shakespeare & Company in 1973. To these teachers she added Linklater, a respected and well-connected vocal coach with international ties. Packer met Linklater on her first trip to New York, and they found considerable common ground. Linklater was intrigued by Packer’s energy and plans (Epstein 1985: 8–11). She would become her artistic partner for a time, and a second significant force for the company. Shakespeare & Company became widely known as one of the preeminent training programmes in the country. Classes included ‘Linklater voice technique, text analysis, Alexander movement, fight, dance, clown and Tina’s own singular exercises, including “dropping-in” … combined to offer a personal exploration of the relationship between the actor and the audience’ (Gregio 2004: 109). Shakespeare & Company students have trained generations of new students who have gone on to found theatres as well as train others. Like Houseman and Kahn, Packer sought to build a permanent company that would also be involved in training – of both themselves and others.

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Unlike other artistic directors, she believed that training would be the key to keeping her company financially supported. It would give them the livelihood they needed when roles were not available. She also thought that company members should be free to leave and work elsewhere, which they often did. She welcomed them back whenever they returned. This provided an opportunity to continue to hone their skills, share what they had learnt or gather inspiration for their external careers. Packer developed a company that emphasized the vocal aspects of training. Working closely with Linklater in the early years, she felt vocal work, for the most part, had been ignored in American training (Epstein 1985: 51). Having grown up in the Birmingham/Nottingham areas, she embraced regional differences rather than worked to obliterate them. ‘There’s no point in eradicating your own accent: it’s part of who you are. The idea is to lend what you have to the demands of Shakespeare’ (Epstein 1985: 20). Also, she believed ‘when the emotion is right, the rhythm of the verse is right, and vice versa’. This was an uncomplicated idea, but she admitted it ‘takes some time to put into practice’ (Epstein 1985: 36). Scottish native Linklater brought to the work a philosophy that everyone has within them a free, uninhibited voice – rich and infinitely varied – that when accessed, will reach every corner of an auditorium, no matter the size, and retain all of its nuanced thoughts, emotions and actions. Actors were encouraged to use their natural voices, which are rediscovered or uncovered after years of physical, mental, emotional abuse and neglect. The training focused the performer’s energies – emotional, physical, mental – on their vocal instruments as well as the words and the text. In the mid-1990s, Linklater left the company to pursue other interests. In addition to voice training, Shakespeare & Company provided classes in an array of other skills necessary to perform Shakespeare. These included movement, fencing, dancing, clowning, masking and speaking Elizabethan prosody. Packer warned actors that it was not easy to be a Shakespearean actor. One had to master many abilities. Productions began with a unique technique pioneered by Packer called ‘dropping in’. As part of her study of Packer, Nancy Taylor underwent training sessions at Shakespeare & Company. She described the process in some detail. The director or coach took a word, like ‘sleep’ in a Lady Macbeth/Macbeth scene: He asked some of the following questions, always following the question by repeating the word ‘sleep’ and pausing for the actor to vocalize this word in response. The coach always signaled the shift to a new word by simply saying it once and having the actor repeat it after him before free associating a list of questions: Sleep. [The actor says, ‘Sleep’, etc.] When was the last time you were asleep? Sleep.

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How did you sleep last night? Sleep. What is it like to go for a long time without sleeping? Sleep. What has your sleep been like in Scotland these last few weeks? Sleep. When will you sleep again? Sleep. What is it like to sleep with Lady Macbeth? Sleep. Do you sleep in the same bed with her every night? Sleep. Who usually initiates sex when you sleep together? Sleep. What is your sexual relationship like? Sleep. Would you rather be sleeping with the person across from you right now rather than doing this exercise? Sleep. Every important word or image was thus explored in this way. Taylor observed that about eighty lines an hour were explored using this technique. Once the actors have investigated the text in this manner, they begin to explore the poetry and language structures of the text. The technique was controversial and, according to Taylor, had been criticized as ‘therapy, too emotionally wrenching’ (2005: 53). Taylor believed it required an absolute trust between actor and coach. Packer argued this process ‘creates as deep a connection between the actor and the text’ in a way unlike any other company (Taylor 2005: 54). She entered the rehearsal hall with very little preparation. ‘She goes in without preconceived notions, and her actors almost never hold scripts. Instead they are fed lines when necessary, allowing them to establish eye contact and a personal connection as they rehearse’ (Fliotsos and Vierow 2008: 334). As a director, she held that actors have ‘the emotional truthfulness of each character within them’ (Fliotsos and Vierow 2008: 334). It was her responsibility ‘to facilitate its release’ (Fliotsos and Vierow 2008: 334). Another important part of Packer’s system was ‘the relationship with the audience … the key relationship in any Shakespeare play’ (Taylor 2005: 138). The resulting connection was vital to the process. It was mined extensively. She believed ‘that what happens onstage happens in the world and vice versa’. Her staging frequently underscored this point (Taylor 2005: 140). Also, she believed there most definitely was subtext in Shakespeare, ‘that what is not said is just as important as what is’ (Taylor 2005: 142). She had no philosophical or theoretical system about cutting the text, but rather ‘cuts what bores her’ (Taylor 2005: 55). Interpretively, she sought to dig into ‘the deeply feminine part of Will Shakespeare’. What she found is that ‘the plays are embedded in the patriarchal structure … all great art is actually not invented in the structure. … What I see great artists do is align themselves to their feminine sides, which is why women are represented [as important in the plays].’ Ultimately, she sought to reorder the social order ‘so people can live creative lives’ because ‘breaking out of patriarchal structures requires creativity’ (Taylor 2005: 56). Packer’s productions have frequently received excellent reviews. ‘Clarity, both of speech and meaning, is one of the hallmarks of this company’s

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productions’ (Leiter 1986b: 710). Her staging was often seen as effective. Littlefield thought her 1979 Winter’s Tale ‘established the artificiality of romance, but built a tapestry that came alive in real flesh, real mind, real passions’. The image of Hermione at the end underscored the approach. ‘Guilo Romano’s statue of Hermione seemed contiguous with the fabric of the play when it came to life. … The statue scene was not a piece of clunking dramatic machinery but a metaphor for the notion that romantic artifice and dramatic reality are two sides of a single vision’ (Littlefield and Maclean 1980: 182–3). Packer’s opening sequence for her Tempest (1980) was ‘spectacular’ and the outdoor playing space ‘was used to maximum advantage’ (Erickson 1981: 189). The audience was surrounded by the action. On the roof of the Edith Wharton mansion and behind the audience appeared Ariel, orchestrating the storm (sound effects) ‘with beautiful abstract gestures’ (Erickson 1981: 189). Below him, in front of the mansion was the ship ‘complete with a sail and rigging draped on the side of the building’ (Erickson 1981: 189). The multilevel stage in front of the audience became Prospero’s cell. A pine grove was another stage that featured ‘a path used as one of a seemingly infinite variety of entrances and exits’ (Erickson 1981: 189). Commenting on Shakespeare & Company’s third season, Terry Curtis Fox of the Village Voice boasted: For the past three summers, the best theater I have seen has been at The Mount in Lenox, Massachusetts. Packer’s production is a model of insight, clarity, vision – well magic. … Using Linklater’s vocal technique, the actors have become so comfortable with the rhythms and structure of the verse that their speech sounds truly idiomatic, their poetic diction so direct that character and ideas emerge as if from conversation. There is no pompous breaking of meter; no pausing for Art. There are simply actors who are at home in the language, using its subtle shifts of rhythmic intensity to make the essential textual points clear. (Quoted in Epstein 1985: 94–5) Shakespeare & Company’s reputation is firmly entrenched as an actor-centred theatre. Packer’s productions demonstrate a union of physicalized Shakespeare with emotional truth, of energetic creativity with analytical language skills. She successfully engenders ‘accessible Shakespeare, clearly spoken and connected to meaningful emotional expression’ (Fliotsos and Vierow 2008: 336). Most of all, her influence on American Shakespeare can be seen in her students, working nationally and internationally: Karen Allen, Gillian Barge, Richard Dreyfuss, Jennifer Grant, Karen Grassle, Andie MacDowell, Bill Murray, Keanu Reeves, Alicia Silverstone, Anna Deavere Smith, Courtney Vance, Sigourney Weaver and Raquel Welch (Engle, Londré and Watermeier 1995: 186; Shakespeare & Company n.d.). Many have developed companies and

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taught generations of students elsewhere, spreading her influence throughout the profession.

Randall Duk Kim, American Players Theatre Randall Duk Kim, Anne Occhiogrosso and Charles J. Bright founded the American Players Theatre. For three years, they searched for a site where they could produce Shakespeare a vista. After considering nearly 200 possibilities, they settled on a hilltop outside of Spring Green, near Frank Lloyd Wright’s Taliesin (Engle, Londré and Watermeier 1995: 372). ‘One person walked to the base of a steep hill and began to read; his voice reached those above with uncanny clarity’ (American Players Theatre n.d.). Thus began an abiding commitment to the text and to the voice. They set about forming an actors’ theatre focusing on the classics and Shakespeare, ‘not edited for modern tastes, not maimed by intrusive directorial interference, and not hampered by elaborate, extraneous production concepts’ (Kimbrough 1985: 352). APT’s first season opened in 1980 with a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. As APT’s first artistic director, a position he held until 1991, Kim refused to cut the plays: ‘I want to be able to play the music whole. I don’t want to miss a note of it. I want to know where the transitions are, how a character goes from one moment to the next. With a cut script, I wouldn’t get close enough to what the playwright had in mind’ (Engle, Londré and Watermeier 1995: 373). Very early in their history, APT received a Tony nomination (1985), but also weathered a near catastrophic financial collapse that almost closed the theatre before the 1987 season. After receiving a $750,000 loan from the State of Wisconsin, which was dependent on matching that amount in donations, APT successfully met the goal and has been financially stable ever since (Engle, Londré and Watermeier 1995: 373). According to Kimbrough, APT’s 1984 Romeo and Juliet featured some clever staging. ‘Under Kim’s watchful eye, the pace was tightened, the emotions of the lovers came off young and heady to the point of heedlessness, and the banquet/ball was held off-stage while the mainstage became an antechamber to which the principals retired to speak their thoughts while music, laughter, and light flowed in from the great hall’ (Kimbrough 1985: 351). The effect of the stage fights was always ‘startling’ and the direction of them aimed for authenticity. The fight director, Brad Waller, consulted ‘sixteenth-century manuals of “defense” to create his own movements, which combined modern safety and artistic techniques with the actual positions and executions advocated within five rival Elizabethan schools of fight (defense)’ (Kimbrough 1985: 351).

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Kimbrough remarked that APT could be seen as ‘a vestige of the actormanager company’. Kim’s sway and impact are sensed in all of the work, even when he does not appear. ‘His influence is by example, not by demand, and the dominant aspect of that influence is intelligence.’ For example, APT’s The Merry Wives of Windsor was one of the two best productions of the 1984 season; one of the reasons was that it featured Kim as Falstaff. Over past seasons, Kim played many ages and types of characters for APT, and he has excelled in his varied assignments. The ‘handsomest show’ of the 1984 season was a revival of the company’s 1983 Love’s Labour’s Lost, directed by Kim and Ollerman. In the 1983 version, the comic characters were most effective: The band of zanies … bristle[s] with individual style, Robert Pescovitz’s bluntly outspoken Costard breaks up every scene he enters, while the cunning Charles Stransky renders the deranged pedant Holofernes with masterful nuance. Michael Tezla makes the doddering Don Aramado’s redundancies fun; Randall Duk Kim (Nathaniel) and John Aden (Constable Dull) get big laughs in small roles. Finally, JoAnn Rome, fluttering like a small, nervous bird, creates a memorably light-headed Moth. (J. Daglish, Isthmus, 5 August 1983; quoted in Leiter 1986b: 352) For the 1984 version, the women were the main strength of the production. Alexandra Mitchell as the Princess, wearing a red ‘Elizabethan’ wig, exercised a poised, regal control over herself and her ladies through an internalized strong demeanor. And just as she controlled her followers, so they controlled their men. Thus, when the death of the King of France was announced, we were prepared for a change of tone at the end. A sense of death was incorporated into the action rather than becoming the cause for a new plot direction. (Kimbrough 1985: 352) For this revival, the men demonstrated ‘a better sense of the special rhetoric’ of the text and the director provided more detailed blocking than in the previous season (Kimbrough 1985: 352). The Princess’ reaction to her father’s death was as if she were called to rule, ‘finally allowed and able to do’ so (Kimbrough 1985: 352). A greater sense of purpose ‘gave a sense of solidity to the women and to the genuine but so far bathetic loves of the men. The men finally, for the first time, were forced to really think and feel and to take love seriously. The effect was stunningly beautiful’ (Kimbrough 1985: 352). Leah S. Marcus’ review of the 1985 Merchant of Venice directed by Occhiogrosso and Ollerman, detailed a production that ‘refused to make excuses for any of its central characters’: The racism of Antonio and Portia was revealed with scathing clarity, and Shylock fared no better … the Jew emerged as a man almost completely

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self-effacing, rising to occasional outbursts of passion that surprised even himself. … And yet this effacing of the Jew did not come across as a cheap trick for reducing Shylock’s tendency to disrupt the comedy; rather, it called attention to the faults of the Christians. (Marcus 1986: 240) She detected two simultaneous plot lines as well as a multiplicity of responses by individual characters depending on their point of view: No one character dominated the play; the ‘tragedy’ of Shylock emerged as a parallel to the ‘tragedy’ of Antonio … a tall, brooding figure whose attachment to Bassanio was strong but ill-defined. … But the most masterful moments of the play came in the Trial Scene, which displayed attitudes as various as the number of those in attendance. Portia’s judgment upon Shylock did not win universal acclaim. It was greet[ed] by Bassanio with strong consternation: clearly for him, she had gone much too far. At the same time Gratiano’s bellowing approval from the gallery sounded embarrassingly like the slurs of a twentieth-century redneck. (Marcus 1986: 240) The varied responses fed the rich and varied textures of the whole production. After her 1987 onsite visit, Londré complimented the company’s productions for their ‘verbal clarity, sumptuous costuming, and a company skilled at playing a range of styles’. She provided the following account of the Hamlet she attended: A matinee performance … elicited laughs early in the play with lines like ‘Tis bitter cold’ and ‘I am too much in the sun’, but the audience remained rapt throughout the four-hour performance under a cloudless sky. With the temperature over 100°F on stage, a precurtain announcement explained that the actors would not be wearing as many layers of costume as usual. Kim delivered Hamlet’s soliloquies from center stage, without blocking or gestural embellishment, but giving full value to every word. The character had become quite overwrought by the time he was sent to England, but, on his return, he had pulled himself together to start afresh; the ‘readiness’ was apparent. Hamlet died sitting up in Gertrude’s throne; delivering his last line with his head back, looking up at the sky. Although the scene was set inside the palace, the attitude seemed to unify the story and the outdoor setting, as if one were in the presence of a soul rising to heaven. (Engle, Londré and Watermeier 1995: 374) A close marriage of actor and landscape made this performance a remarkable and memorable one. After Kim’s departure, David Frank became artistic director in 1991. He was appointed producing artistic director in 2005, a position he held until his retirement in 2015. The current artistic director is Brenda DeVita.

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(Frank’s approach is detailed in Directing Shakespeare in America: Current Practices [Ney 2016].)

Barbara Gaines/Chicago Shakespeare Theatre Frustrated with the lack of professional Shakespeare in the city, Barbara Gaines founded the CST. The Chicago Civic Shakespeare Society had performed nineteen of Shakespeare’s plays between 1930 and 1931, the organization disbanded shortly thereafter, and it would be another fiftyfive years before another organization dedicated to producing Shakespeare was formed. Gaines’ theatre began as a Shakespeare workshop for a dozen or so participants while she was recovering from knee surgery in the early 1980s. A few years later, it morphed into a full-blown theatre company – the Shakespeare Repertory – in 1986. Her first production, Henry V, was staged on the rooftop of the Red Lion Pub, located north of downtown. Within a year, the company was performing regularly at the Ruth Page Theatre. In 1999, they moved to their present two-theatre multistorey facility on Navy Pier – an imposing building with an impressive view of the Chicago skyline from the shore of Lake Michigan. That same year, the name changed to the Chicago Shakespeare Theatre. CST has performed on stages throughout Asia, Africa, Australia and Europe, including the RSC’s Complete Works Festival in 2006 and at London’s Globe, representing North America for the 2012 Cultural Olympiad. The theatre is a recipient of the 2008 Tony Regional Theatre Award, three Laurence Olivier Awards and eighty Joseph Jefferson Awards – Chicago’s version of the Tony Awards. CST just opened a new space, The Yard at Chicago Shakespeare in 2017, which they boast ‘will change the shape of theatre-making’ (Chicago Shakespeare Theatre n.d.). With an invitation to Czechoslovakian director Roman Polak to direct Macbeth, Gaines introduced an important initiative of the theatre: collaborations with foreign directors and companies to bring their work to Chicago. The WorldStage Series, begun in 1992, has brought numerous world-class performances by internationally acclaimed companies to Chicago (Gaines 2004). By the late 1990s, WorldStage Series productions included Peter Brook’s Hamlet, Mark Rylance’s Twelfth Night and CST originated productions directed by Michael Pennington, Michael Bogdanov, Peter Hall and Trevor Nunn (Taylor 2005: 75). Gaines’ productions have been praised for their ‘accessibility, clarity, and elegant staging’ (Taylor 2005: 72). One of her first productions to receive acclaim was the 1987 Troilus and Cressida, nominated for several Joseph Jefferson Awards. Richard Christiansen, while criticizing the production for ‘surrender[ing] its tough intelligence to some weak, self-conscious humor’,

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praised the ‘clear, forceful vision of the ironic masterpiece … presented lucidly and engrossingly by a stirring ensemble. Gaines’ (and her actors’) greatest accomplishment is the ability to present the language naturally and poetically. … The speeches here are rich and complex, but never unclear. Consequently the action, as well as the eloquence, moves forward with urgency and excitement’ (Christiansen 1987). Her 1989 The Tale of Cymbeline was cited by the Chicago Sun-Times and the Chicago Tribune as one of the best productions of the year (Engle, Londré and Watermeier 1995: 149). Christiansen applauded the set as ‘a master stroke of theater design’ and described it as a ‘plain, powerful wooden environment that thrusts into the audience from a huge backdrop of doors and sliding panels’ (Christiansen 1989). Hedy Weiss observed: The special effects in this production are beautifully done – from the haunting synthesized score by Robert Neuhaus to the fireworks and clouds of smoke. … Gaines has turned the story into a tale worthy of the Grimm Brothers or an Elizabethan equivalent of ‘Raiders of the Lost Ark’ … you have a production that is a visual as well as a verbal treat. … Gaines’ ballet of banners … summons up a war without a single drop of blood. (Weiss 1989b) Gaines told Weiss that Cymbeline is ‘about the struggle of just getting through the day … the characters not only persevere, but they come to the enormous revelation that if they let go of their pain and their animosity, they are able to forgive. And with forgiveness comes light’ (Weiss 1989a). Gaines’ artistic aesthetic comes from a basic belief that Shakespeare in his writing demonstrates an enormous comprehension and compassion for humanity in all its emotions and complexity ‘better than any other writer’. She believes that ‘only through the exploration of human behavior’ with Shakespeare’s plays can productions ‘redefine, refocus and enrich our own lives’ (Engle, Londré and Watermeier 1995: 149). Gaines developed her approach to performing Shakespeare’s language in the 1980s. Her belief is that the First Folio text, published in 1623, is the closest one can get to the acting choices made by Shakespeare’s company. If scrutinized closely, it contains performance clues. The text’s spelling guides pronunciation; punctuation helps the actor phrase thoughts as well as suggests places to inhale; capitalization recommends word stress; and line borders in the Folio, particularly in verse, offer places to pause. These elements can be analysed to unlock and inform the performance. It’s very text based. We work with the First Folio technique. It’s a technique developed by John Barton and Patrick Tucker in London. It is sort of gleaned from the tradition of the ages. It’s very technical in some ways, and rather spiritual in others. It’s just unlocking the text to find out meaning and try and peel away the layers. It’s instilling the First Folio

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punctuation. What is there that is capitalized? Assonance and alliteration and antithesis. Heightened vs. direct speech. We sit around the table for some time, depending on the play. It could be a week or two. We spin through every line, every bit of it until we inhale it, ingest it, and try and understand it. And then the plays really direct themselves. Once the language is fully inside of you, and it feels good, directing it in terms of the staging is quite joyous, because there’s so much knowledge around the table by that time. (Gaines 2004) Actor Lisa Dodson (Imogen in Gaines’ 1989 Cymbeline) described Gaines’ Folio technique in rehearsal: Early on, we started out with a particular attention to breathing and phrasing of the lines, the stops, and the capitalization of words. Particularly in Cymbeline, I remember, there are just incredible speeches. The headless man speech, for instance. I started work on just using the Folio technique and found that really when I paid attention and only breathed when I was told to breathe and pushed through with no pauses, no acting between the lines, Imogen just passes out at the end of that on top of the headless man’s body. … If you have the strength and the power to do what that monologue asks of you, when you get to the end of it you really were light-headed and hyperventilating a little bit. But Barbara would be the first one to say, ‘Yes, but there are exceptions to the rule’. We really tried to stick to that, and I think what helped me in particular was the idea that what was going on in my head could just come out on the line, that the audience didn’t need five minutes to watch my thoughts grow in my head. (Shurgot 2007: 158–9) Gaines argues that the plays must be experienced in live performance to be fully understood. Furthermore, she contends her work must somehow engage in dialogue with the [contemporary] world … representing her impressions of and response to that world. Asked whether she designs her productions to fit the times or chooses the plays in concert with sociopolitical events from the start, Gaines replies, ‘Anything can set me off – it can be something in the newspaper, a painting, a dynamic between two people. I am here in the present, and the present catapults me into these shows’ (Buccola and Kanelos 2013: 34). Taylor finds Gaines has a ‘universalist, populist approach to Shakespeare’ that is ‘anti-literary and anti-academic’ at times. Gaines argues that her readings of the text ‘are all based on common sense, that every clue … is from the text’. She also relies on ‘pure instinct’ when deciding what to cut and what to keep (Taylor 2005: 213). Buccola asserts: ‘As a feminist performance studies scholar, I often find Gaines’ casting and directorial choices to contain powerful, pointed, politicized representations of the female characters, their relationships to the male characters, and their place within the world of the

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play’ (2013: 37). She cites Gaines’ belief that Cressida is ‘gang-raped the moment she entered the Greek camp’ as well as Gaines’ ‘keen interest in the complexity of the female characters’ in such plays as Measure for Measure whose Isabella is full of ‘self-possession and verve [which] certainly bolsters the critique of patriarchal hegemony’ (Buccola and Kanelos 2013: 38–41). Gaines typically goes into rehearsal with some general idea about the play and some specific visuals she wants to create that usually end up in the final production. ‘When Gaines began directing Cymbeline, she knew that it would be a fairy tale, that there would be snow at various points, that the time frame would go from winter to spring, that the battle at the end would be stylized with flags’ (Taylor 2005: 212). She does not do any research. ‘I love starting without having any information about any other production or any take’ (Taylor 2005: 211). She has the actor talk directly to the audience when delivering a soliloquy. ‘“I want you to know how I feel.” That’s what I tell the actors. I want everyone in the house to be pulled in by your eyes. You need their help as the actor. “I need your advice. What would you do?”’ (Taylor 2005: 214). She has also become more collaborative over the years. Whereas she used to dictate actor performances, she now works with the actors in rehearsal to create their performances; ‘some ideas “never see the light of day” because the actors either disagree with them or are not capable of performing them’ (Taylor 2005: 213). For Gaines, rehearsals are about exploring ways to activate each scene with the actors as collaborators. She is fond of inserting prologues and epilogues that help set the stage for the world of the production or comment on the action: ‘No added words, but it’s still very powerful’ (Buccola and Kanelos 2013: 31). Examples include a Richard III with a family portrait at the beginning and a King John epilogue in which a janitor rips off the old poster of King John and replaces it with one of Prince Henry ‘designed to the exact same specifications’ a staging that suggests the new order will be the same as the old one (Buccola and Kanelos 2013: 31). By using added epilogues and prologues, Gaines can buttress her translations of the text on stage in visceral ways. She also uses intercuts to enliven scenes. One example from her production of King John evoked ‘a media frenzy of contemporary sound-bite political culture’ (Buccola and Kanelos 2013: 31). In 2.1, the play has two very long monologues, delivered by the French and English kings to the people of Angiers. Gaines brought the lights up on the auditorium to make it clear the audience represented the townspeople. The two kings were ‘debating at podiums’, their speeches ‘edited and intercut, so that … when France brought Arthur downstage and offered to go home if Angiers accepted him as king, John quickly returned to his podium to interject “Which trust accordingly” into his microphone. As they grew more strident, they spoke simultaneously, each trying to drown the other out’ (Brailow 2004: 92). Gaines is a visionary director who searches for the truth contained within Shakespeare’s text. Her direction, although built on a careful

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examination of that text for clues from the past, often transcends that work through her use of strong visuals and powerfully theatrical images. She also searches for a strong human connection from her own life or in what is happening in the world around her in order to arrive at her personal take on a production. In addition, she employs prologues and epilogues to help set the stage for Shakespeare’s story, or to hint at what is to follow. She is not afraid to intersperse dialogue or make cuts if they help a contemporary audience to better understand the play. She collaborates with the actors in rehearsal by making adjustments if and when she senses the actor is not able to connect with her own idea. She continues to bring in companies from other parts of the world to share with her audience new perspectives, new styles and new approaches. (See Directing Shakespeare in America: Current Practices [Ney 2016] for more information on Gaines’ ideas and methods post-2000.)

Michael Kahn/The Shakespeare Theatre Company STC, located in Washington, DC, performs in two-theatre spaces, the Lansburgh Theatre and the Sidney Harman Hall. The company’s history includes more than 150 productions to over 2.5 million audience members. Its goal is a simple one: to become ‘the nation’s premier classic theatre’. Through producing the work of Shakespeare, other Elizabethan playwrights as well as major contemporary classics, STC seeks ‘to bring to vibrant life groundbreaking thought-provoking and eminently accessible classic theatre in a uniquely American style’. Winner of the 2012 Tony Regional Theatre Award, STC has also been recognized with 395 Helen Hayes Award nominations and 85 Helen Hayes Awards – Washington, DC’s version of the Tony Awards. Guest artists have included Patrick Stewart, Stacy Keach, Marsha Mason, Elizabeth Ashley, Hal Holbrook, Richard Thomas and Avery Brooks (Shakespeare Theatre Company n.d.). STC began life as the Shakespeare Theatre at the Folger Shakespeare Library. Built in 1932, it had an Elizabethan-style indoor theatre attached at one end. The space was rarely used until the late 1960s. It was not intended to be a theatre, but rather more of a lecture, music programme and recital space. Nevertheless, after receiving the fire marshal’s blessing, a theatre company, the Folger Theatre Group (FTG), launched their premiere season in August 1970 with a production at St Mark’s Church, just a block from the Folger. FTG’s second production – Natural and Unnatural Acts, a play about Lord Byron – opened in the library theatre. The company primarily comprised of theatre students from local universities with a few professional actors and technicians with experience at area theatres. Louis Scheeder was hired in 1973 to be artistic director and over the next ten years, the company

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became known nationally ‘for its innovative, youthful interpretations of Shakespeare and its presentations of new, often provocative, contemporary American and British plays’ (Engle, Londré and Watermeier 1995: 109). By 1983, FTG was producing three Shakespearean productions a season. Some financially turbulent times ultimately led the Folger Library Trustees to decide the theatre would be closed in June 1985. Outraged citizens as well as the Washington Post fought to save the company. As a result of their efforts, The Shakespeare Theatre at the Folger was born. Michael Kahn became the artistic director of a financially independent theatre with its first season opening in 1986 (Engle, Londré and Watermeier 1995: 110–11). He has continued in this position up to the present, recently announcing he would retire in 2019. Kahn’s background included directing for Joseph Papp and serving as artistic director for AST (see Chapter 4). In addition, he oversaw the McCarter Theatre Company and directed for the Acting Company before assuming the mantel at the Shakespeare Theatre at the Folger. His first production was Romeo and Juliet. ‘Under Kahn’s directorship, The Shakespeare Theatre quickly began to build a reputation for innovative, thought-provoking, but also accessible productions’ (Engle, Londré and Watermeier 1995: 112). After a few seasons playing to overcapacity audiences, in 1992 the new company moved to a larger space, the 451-seat Lansburgh Theatre in downtown DC. In 2006, they opened a second space, the Harmon Centre, located near the Lansburgh. In 1991, a revival of The Merry Wives of Windsor instituted free Shakespeare in the Carter Barron Amphitheatre in DC’s Rock Creek Park, playing to over 30,000 audience members each summer (Engle, Londré and Watermeier 1995: 112). Having witnessed several seasons of work, Johnson-Haddad remarked that STC productions ‘have rivaled and in some cases surpassed anything that I have seen in New York or Stratford, Ontario’ (1992: 472). She found Kahn’s 1989 British Raj setting for Twelfth Night extremely enticing and the production ‘one of the strongest … in four years of regular attendance at the Shakespeare Theatre’ (Johnson-Haddad 1990: 508). She was equally enamoured of a ‘more traditional Richard III [1990] in which Keach played Richard strongly and compellingly “in all his wonderful villainy”’ (Johnson-Haddad 1991: 475). Johnson-Haddad concluded that Kahn’s skill in directing such plays as Richard III and King Lear was due to his ‘clear vision of each play and a thoroughly developed understanding of how he wanted to produce’ them (1991: 484). Multiple seasons observing Kahn’s work led her to conclude that he tended to establish and emphasize ‘nonverbal stage business’. When the audience is first introduced to a character, it becomes immediately clear that they have been immersed in a rich backstory and an attempt to fully explore previous action with the other characters; relationships are communicated silently with looks, gestures, a certain bearing and body state. ‘Whether or not a character is speaking, he or she conveys information to the audience

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that is crucial to Kahn’s interpretation, and the nonverbal gestures and signs frequently tell us as much as the spoken words’ (Johnson-Haddad 1991: 480). Like Gaines, Kahn has often used prologues to set the environment and frame the action. ‘In an odd way, in order to get people to really listen to Shakespeare, you have to break their expectations. … Sometimes one goes overboard doing it; sometimes one finds the right way’ (Loney 1990: 107–8). Sometimes, the way to break expectations is to make the audience believe ‘they have tickets for the wrong production’ and then they listen better (Loney 1990: 108). As soon as the house lights lowered and the play began for his Richard III, a choreographed sequence unfolded in which the shadows of two figures were projected onto a white curtain; one (Richard) thrusts a blade into the other: The king [King Henry VI] staggered forward and grasped the curtain, bringing it down with him as he fell to the floor. The curtain then became his winding-sheet, and he was carried offstage as the rest of the cast entered for the coronation of Edward IV, adapted from the final scene of 3  Henry VI. This bit of borrowing helped the audience understand the actions out of which Richard III emerges. The blocking of this borrowed coronation scene was exactly reproduced (the King above, a banner unfurled behind him, supporters grouped below) two subsequent times during the course of the production, for the coronation of Richard III (4.2) and finally, the coronation of Henry VII at the end of the play. (Johnson-Haddad 1991: 473) Kahn also ends a production’s first act by orchestrating a ‘rousing conclusion’ to keep the audience involved so they will return after intermission (JohnsonHaddad 1991: 476; Kahn 2004). He wants them ‘a little off balance, not sure of what is coming next and loving the feeling of being on the edge of their seats’ (Tocci 1991: 28). Johnson-Haddad praised Keach and Kahn for ‘stay[ing] within the limits of the play itself, resisting the temptation to make the play seem to say more than it actually does, or to imbue the character of Richard with undue psychological complexity and depth’ (1991: 476). Rather, director and actor sought to make Shakespeare’s version of history ‘as compelling and accessible as possible’ (Johnson-Haddad 1991: 476). Londré and Watermeier described a production of Measure for Measure (1992) at the Landsburgh that they found quite effective: A full-scale reproduction of Jean Léon Gérôme’s strikingly sensual Pygmalion and Galatea decorated Vincentio’s study, visually emphasizing the repressed erotic desires underlying the action of Measure for Measure. Lewis Brown’s handsome costumes evoked both official finde-siècle and its seamy underworld as well. Drawing on Brecht as much

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as on Shakespeare, director Kahn effectively created a believable ‘world’, while simultaneously clarifying the character relationships and narrative significance of Shakespeare’s difficult, troubling play. (Engle, Londré and Watermeier 1995: 114) Kahn likes to read a Shakespeare play with the idea that it is a new play, freshly penned. He feels that it is also important the audience share that new play perspective as they experience it for the first time. Subsequent readings provide him with an understanding of the play’s structure and ‘what is the center’ of the piece (Loney 1990: 95). He believes Shakespeare gives the director ‘a choice of what to stress within a production, because Shakespeare is so extraordinary in that sense of being ambiguous and complicated and complex but not organized as tightly as some other playwrights. I find now that I can use that freedom’ (Loney 1990: 95–6). Like Gaines, Kahn selects plays for production that resonate with him at a given time. ‘I’ve always tried never to do a play that doesn’t engage me. … And I think that some plays of Shakespeare engage one at different times. … I think that it has to do with one’s relationship to the world at that given moment, as to what concerns me the most. I think it’s very personal’ (Berry 1977: 75). Kahn hates settling on the designs ahead of rehearsals. He would prefer to wait until the third week of rehearsal ‘when one has some idea about what is needed and what one would like’ (Loney 1990: 103). To counter this problem, he pursues ‘as neutral an atmosphere as possible … with a texture that somehow relates to the major color of the play’ in order to avoid making too strong a statement with the design (Loney 1990: 103–4). He seeks to minimize the size of the stage in order to avoid manufacturing spectacle for every part of it. He also believes the playing space should be reduced, usually to the middle and towards the front of the stage. He thinks a large auditorium does not have to dictate ‘“operatic” performance in a theatre that seats 1,500 people’. The actor must use his entire body to deliver a physical performance to avoid ‘having to “emote largely”’ (Loney 1990: 99). He is against amplification and argues that actors need to be able to project their voices. He points to Shakespeare’s company who had to speak over a much wilder, raucous audience than contemporary performers do. ‘They had to reach quite a way, and I think that is the actor’s responsibility’ (Loney 1990: 100). Kahn sees three possible settings for Shakespeare in terms of its style, dress and décor. ‘One would be to do the play in the period in which it was written – Elizabethan or Jacobean. Or, to do it in the period it was written about, or to do it in modern-dress – since the plays were obviously moderndress productions when they were done in Shakespeare’s time’ (Loney 1990: 101–2). He dislikes productions in which that choice interferes with the sense and meaning of the play. Kahn began his career directing ‘relevant’ productions of Shakespeare, but his work at STC is of a very different nature. ‘Now I’ve come to find

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that sort of thinking pigeon-holes Shakespeare and makes it smaller and less “relevant”, because it replaces Shakespeare’s mind with substitutes’ (Loney 1990: 109). While his approach can be very eclectic, he never starts out with a particular style in mind: ‘I never think that I am going to do an avantgarde production or a traditional production’ (Loney 1990: 114). Rather ‘a play strikes you at a given time in a given way’ (Loney 1990: 114). If he doesn’t have a purpose for directing a particular play, he won’t direct it. ‘It will either come out rock-and-roll, or come out whatever, because that play at that moment is important to me’ (Loney 1990: 114). Kahn also has definite ideas about the challenges of American actors speaking verse. It is not purely a technical exercise, nor should allowing feelings to surface mean ignoring the verse. Kahn wants both in the actor’s performance. He wants his actors to master ‘all the poetic devices that are found in the verse’. He also directs them to ‘head to the full stop because that’s where you hear the sense’ (Shurgot 2007: 92). Andrew Long shared his insights on how Kahn works with actors. Kahn is a director ‘who wants it artistic yesterday’, which means actors must memorize the lines as soon as possible (Shurgot 2007: 95–6). ‘So the earlier you can be off book and the earlier you can be making strong choices, the more he can concentrate on areas in the play that actually need to be fixed’ (Shurgot 2007: 96). Long also discussed how obsessed Kahn can be in demanding total commitment from his actors. You have to bring you’re A game into his rehearsal. And if anybody does something tentative, he feels it. You’ll scratch your head and if you don’t know why, he’ll go [clap] and it could be way over on stage left or right, and he would be watching the scene here. He just gets into a zone and completely consumed by the play he’s working on. (Shurgot 2007: 96) Asked if the actor can challenge Kahn on a given choice, Long disclosed: You have to have a good reason if it’s contrary to what he’s already asked of you. You have to be able to back it up and give him a reason why. And he’s always willing to let you try whatever you want to try; he doesn’t want you to be set in stone early in the process; he wants you to keep experimenting. But he also wants it to be right. A lot of times, he’s let me fail a long time, and then it will be like week four, and I’ll get this wry look from him and something like, ‘I’ve been waiting for you to figure that out’. But you can’t be lazy. And that’s the thing I probably admire about him the most. His presence in the room is palpable. Everybody sits up straight. If you are bringing lazy work into the room, he will identify you. And usually, when he’s scratching something a little bit, he’s right. It’s something that’s a habit, or it’s something that you’ve done before, or you’re not challenging yourself in a certain way. (Shurgot 2007: 97)

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According to Long, Kahn makes actors improve, ‘If you have thick enough skin to endure it, he’ll make you better’ (Shurgot 2007: 97). He also admires that Kahn ‘makes the play better every day. Every rehearsal he makes the play better almost every time’ (Shurgot 2007: 96). Kahn is less interested in how a production is done than why he is interested in doing it. His direction focuses on specific physical behaviour that can communicate as much as the words. He is a master at thrusting the audience into the world of the play right from the start, establishing the situation through action and powerful imagery and incorporating previous action into the present world. He demands his actors give their fullest commitment to their performances in every rehearsal. (See Directing Shakespeare in America: Current Practices [Ney 2016] for more information on his ideas and methods in subsequent years.)

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7 Other Shakespeare Directors and Theatres 1950s–1990s

Here we examine directors working in two contexts. The first part of the chapter looks at the work of four influential regional theatre directors who have not been discussed previously. Then follows a discussion of New York City Shakespeare theatres and directors not covered elsewhere.

Regional theatre directors William Ball, Liviu Ciulei, Garland Wright and Mark Lamos earned their reputation at theatres outside of New York City. Two of these directors, Ciulei and Wright, were not a part of the Shakespeare theatre scene. The other two, Ball and Lamos, directed their first Shakespeare productions in festival settings, then later worked in regional theatres. The early 1960s saw very little regional Shakespeare produced, but activity quickly increased.

William Ball The first production William Ball directed was As You Like It, produced at San Diego Shakespeare Festival (the Old Globe) in 1955. A year later, he directed Twelfth Night for Arthur Lithgow’s legendary company at Antioch Shakespeare Festival. Ball then began directing classics across the country at regional theatres. One of his first successes was The Tempest at AST in 1960. Griffin thought it ‘enchanting’ and praised Mr Carnovsky for being ‘effective as a well-spoken, philosophic Prospero’. She also applauded the staging of the masque: ‘An impressive spectacle, with costumes based on seventeenth-century designs’ (Griffin 1961: 84). Atkinson remarked that it demonstrated considerable growth in the quality of the work:

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William Ball has staged this one on an uncluttered platform in terms of legend, masque and poetry. Inside the enchanted grotto of the permanent setting … a series of platforms, decorated by banner like cloths that suggest the foliage of an exotic island. … Although the production is modern, it has captured the softness of Shakespeare’s thoughtful fairy story. The costumes are both extravagant and beguiling; the acting is benign and delightful. (Atkinson 1960c) Missing, Atkinson observed, were ‘inner vitality’ and ‘the lyricism of fine poetry’, but he also wrote that the company was maturing in its abilities (1960). In 1965, Ball founded the American Conservatory Theatre (ACT) in Pittsburgh. He later moved the company to San Francisco, where they settled into a new home, with Ball as artistic director. He led that company until 1986. ACT became known for its versatility and inventive productions of a wide range of play styles in true rotating repertory. Ball also established one of the nation’s premiere actor training programmes. The company was known for its physical, movement-oriented approach that was grounded in the Alexander Technique, an approach whose purpose was ‘to rid the body of muscular tension’ (Leiter 1994: 12). At ACT, his Shakespeare productions included Twelfth Night (1968), Hamlet (1968), The Tempest (1970), King Richard III (1974), The Taming of the Shrew (1976) and The Winter’s Tale (1978). Ball’s programme note for Richard III explained that the world was ‘a fantasy of evil forces and compensating good forces … a parody of reality’ (quoted in Sullivan 1974). The production was inhabited by ‘creatures suggesting Kabuki witches, sinister playing cards and “The Rocky Horror Show”. Everyone is more or less in chains … Everyone is more or less a grotesque’ (Sullivan 1974). By the end of the first half, Richard is ‘clambering around like a monkey’ and keeps ‘his dead-eyed queen’ shackled (Sullivan 1974). Sullivan complained that the many casualties in this production are ‘apt to occur in slow motion under a red light, with the organ stuck in bass register’ (1974). Margaret curses ‘with skin-crawling effect, each line starting a new note of the scale until she is almost screaming’ (Sullivan 1974). In ‘My kingdom for a horse’, the horse is Richmond ‘who – chest straining like Superman’s – kills him in slow motion’ (Sullivan 1974). Sullivan found the production to be ‘excessive, impulsive, repressive’ (1974). He also thought the language was delivered with skill, ‘thoroughly American’, and avoided any semblance of mid-Atlantic (Sullivan 1974). The most influential production Ball directed was his legendary and unconventional The Taming of the Shrew (1976). It was so successful that PBS filmed the stage production and broadcast it nationally. The physical and visceral production owed much to Ball’s commedia dell’arte staging, evident from the very first moment, when ‘a troupe of clowns glittering black masks

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tumbl[e] pell-mell onto a platform … beyond which are the sails and rigging of a harbor of ships. … [They] flood the stage. Then [just] as quickly they are driven into the rigging of the boats in the harbor where they become the audience to the play’ (Smith 1976). Throughout, the action was underscored with ‘horns, triangles, clackers, cymbals, gongs, drums, slide whistles (and what else?) – punctuated pratfalls and words’ (Rothwell 1976: 1). Ball made extensive cuts ‘with merry abandon’, excising entire scenes as well as words and phrases. O’Connor noted that ‘what’s left is delivered with clarity’ (1976). Smith wrote, ‘The real miracle of this production is that despite all the hijinks … the play itself … pours out of the tube abundantly clear, the language soaring and precise’ (1976). Rothwell also commended the company’s ability to speak the language ‘crisply and sharply’ while executing complicated physical blocking (1976: 1). Leiter praised Ball’s production because ‘the idea did not wear thin’ while noting other companies with analogous concepts would not be able to sustain their efforts (1986b: 675). Part of the success was due to the production’s rapid pace. ‘The actors did not wait for the laughs based on their pratfalls. There was not time; they were on to the next bit’ (Leiter 1986b: 675). In keeping with the bold and outrageous tone, Petruchio’s first entrance was audacious: ‘[He] swung onto the stage on a rope, like Tarzan on a vine’ (quoted in Leiter 1986b: 675). O’Connor thought Mark Singer’s Petruchio ‘the most startling, and dominating, characterization’ in Ball’s Shrew. For the wooing scene, Singer ‘strips down to a pair of tight pants and a necklace. In this instance, it is the hero instead of the heroine who is obviously flaunting what used to be called … an amply endowed chest’ (O’Connor 1976). Singer was also ‘a superb gymnast’ who ‘executes wild leaps, swings onto ship spars and hangs over the scene or hoists his angry Kate onto his shoulder and bounds off with her in wild leaps’ (Smith 1976). While his ‘taming’ of Kate was severe and harsh, Singer accentuated moments in which he revealed he was ‘really taken with this woman, that there’s love behind every slap to her backside, every morsel he steals from her’ (Smith 1976). In A Sense of Direction, Ball conveyed his views of appropriate goals and methods for working with actors. Like Guthrie, he thought the director should avoid the trap of speaking more than is necessary. Lengthy discussions were to be avoided. He advocated treating his actors with respect, protecting their self-esteem and confidence, and worked to eliminate or diminish their fear of failure. He would begin and end every rehearsal with touching each actor in a supportive way – with a handshake or hugging them – believing it important to reinforce a positive connection to every member of the company. He encouraged the actor’s creativity by allowing them to explore any suggestions they had. He also held that the director should concede to the actor if a dispute arose. They should put themselves in the shoes of the actor as much as possible. He was against giving line readings or showing the actor what the director meant. One could use any means to suggest the desired end, but ‘never do it for the

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actor’ (Ball 1984: 63). Acceptable tactics were paraphrasing the line, suggesting the operative in a sentence ‘or even whistling the inflection’ (Ball 1984: 63). He would ask the actors questions, but never answer their questions directly. ‘The answer to the question is not in the director; the answer to the question is in the actor. Answer the question by asking another question. Allow the actor to resolve the difficulty’ (Ball 1984: 49). He embraced Stanislavski, but disliked the method. The ‘golden key’ to developing a character is exploring ‘the character’s system of wants … . Wants are the very energy of human life and the System of Wants is the aspect of character to which the actor gives his relentless and obsessive attention. The actor tracks down the wants. Everything else is classified as a condition’ (Ball 1984: 76). A character’s want is their objective. Ball argued that the director’s primary purpose was ‘to draw the actor to a more meaningful and appropriate choice of objectives, and then to persuade the actor to lend his full commitment to those objectives’ (1984: 89). Ball prepared extensively before entering into rehearsals. Textual cuts were made before the first day. He would use toy soldiers to help him discover blocking. But, he was willing to discard all of his pre-planning in favour of the actors’ discovery of the physical shape of a moment. Rehearsals began at table, with the entire company a part of repeated readings. He used the readings to uncover objectives and explore backstories or biographies. He might suggest a bit of blocking but only as a catalyst for the actor. When working with designers, he liked to find a metaphor for the production, embedded in and throughout the play’s text. Ball then would communicate it to the rest of the team. He would choose a picture or photo that spoke to the heart of a concept, a slant or interpretation. This would then determine the colour palate for the design team and unify the production. Sometimes excessive activity and business, high-speed pacing, inappropriate humour, unnecessary tableaus, obvious underscoring and overblown vocal effects could damage the tone and sense of the text, especially in Ball’s later work. But at his best, Ball’s productions were imaginative, energetic, physical, visually lavish, chic, theatrical, meticulously staged, with extensive use of minor characters and supernumeraries in scenes beyond the ones in which they were scripted. His productions were noted for their crystal clear dialogue. He made effective use of underscoring with sound and music. His productions frequently employed ‘slow motion, freeze-frame, acrobatic, and dancelike touches’ that were staged in ‘relatively spare scenic environments in which costumes, and movable props were the preeminent visual forces’ (Leiter 1994: 12).

Liviu Ciulei A noted Romanian film and theatre director, Liviu Ciulei’s first Shakespeare production in the United States was Hamlet, directed for Arena Stage in

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1978. It was well received, with one critic calling it ‘not the triumph of a season but of a decade’ (Eder 1978a). In 1980, Ciulei was appointed the artistic director of the Guthrie Theatre. He had a relatively short, controversial, but significant tenure, leading that company until 1985. While in Minneapolis, he staged four Shakespeare productions: The Tempest, As You Like It, Twelfth Night and A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He later redirected Hamlet for The Public Theatre in 1986, which featured Kevin Kline in the leading role. While Ciulei’s work with the Public Theatre’s Hamlet was less celebrated, his other work was applauded for the remarkable new perspectives he presented for American audiences. Barnes labelled him ‘one of the most imaginative directors in the world’ (quoted in Weber 2011). Ciulei pushed traditional boundaries and his productions were highly theatrical. His productions at the Guthrie Theatre were ‘uniquely physical and daring theatrical interpretations’ of the classics (Guthrie Theatre n.d.). His direction was noted for its ‘precise visual sense’ (Weber 2011). Many critics observed Ciulei’s impressive design proficiencies that contributed prominently to his productions. Yet, he was also meticulous with the blocking and staging of his actors’ movements. Eder thought Ciulei ‘achieves a visual expressiveness that is as precise, varied and disciplined as that of the best mime theater’ without being ostentatious (1978c). While he was a master of manipulating special effects, he employed them to achieve ‘emotional authenticity’, his chief objective being ‘to find the dramatic core of the play’s thoughts and actions [and] to use his inventions to convey’ that essence (Eder 1978c). In spite of what may seem at times like theatrical audacity, ‘he is, in the best sense of the word, a conservative director’ (Eder 1978c). Eder maintained that Ciulei ‘may use spectacular and apparently incongruous tactics but it is for the purpose of concentrating emotion, not contradicting or dispersing it’ (1978c). He believed that ‘physical form suggested meaning’ in design as well as in acting (Weber 2011). ‘Rather than having actors create actions to suggest the emotions of a moment, he encourages them to begin with the actions and seek their psychological underpinnings’ (Weber 2011). Zelda Fichandler admired how in his work ‘every moment was born out of a form, a shape. … He would say, “Now she puts her head down, so her hair falls over her face”, and he taught actors to find what generated the cause of that action’ (Weber 2011). His direction of actors has been labelled ‘extraordinary’; Eder thought Ciulei directed actors to ‘make the most of their abilities and sometimes, it seems, more than that … working with Mr. Ciulei good actors become superb ones’ (Eder 1978c). His 1978 Hamlet was set in the late nineteenth century in a ‘Bismarkian’ world in which he created ‘a real world, void of abstractions’ while also peopling it with ‘characters human and recognizable’ (Programme Note, quoted in Leiter 1986b: 157). The court was Germanic and ‘the manners are

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stiff and unbending … a whiff of absolutism to the place’ (Eder 1978a) with ‘constant threats to this superficially elegant and orderly world’ (Roberts 1979: 193). Ciulei was known for startling environmental settings in his productions and this Hamlet was no exception: The instant visual message of the set was the bare, well-lighted rectangular living space created by human endeavor was mined with rough-hewn underground corridors only partly perceived, and surrounded by a chaotic darkness whose confines were unset and unknown. Out of the dark recesses of the underground the Ghost rose. Hamlet erupted from below, bent on revenge as he happened on the praying King. Polonius was killed in the cellar, and Laertes rushed impetuously from the bowels of the earth to avenge his father. Finally, in the narrowed aperture the dead Ophelia was lowered to her grave. Occupied or unoccupied, visible or covered over, the space below yawned like an abyss – threatening the established order and reminding the audience of repressed passion and impending death. (Roberts 1979: 194) Roberts admired the pacing – ‘everything moved quickly and relentlessly to the final scene’ – and felt the reasonable excisions and reshuffling (such as the plotting of Hamlet’s death staged by Ophelia’s grave) were appropriate (1979: 194). His first Guthrie season opened with a restaging of The Tempest (see Figure 11), which he had previously directed for Romania’s Bulandra Theatre. In a programme note, he explained his take: ‘Prospero’s magic is for me a metaphor for the power of Art; and his terrain is a studio or laboratory where he, the magician-artist-scientist, will explore the limits of Man’s mind, soul and morality’ (quoted in Leiter 1986b: 711). Tolman interpreted Ciulei’s note as a rationale for design choices: ‘In our time, more than ever before, the traditional and the new coexist, creating an eclectic landscape of forms. … Once we are freed from outdated images, it may be possible to shed light on the amazing modernity of this work. … I try to discover the questions which have a resonance in our time’ (1981: 544). Clayton provided a graphic description of the environment: The stage visible as one entered the theatre was like a surrealist landscape, with a rectangular platform set on or in a sea, or moat, of ‘Red blood filled with the half-submerged relics and debris of our cultural heritage and our wars’ (Director’s Note), which were also spilling out of a open drawers in the platform’s sides; the Daliesque remains of a rowboat on stage right … a suit of armor with the legs on forestage right the upper body in the moat; an antique clock … forestage center; and at forestage left an Elgin Marble Horse’s head, an old sewing machine, a Rauschenberg stuffed chicken, and paint cans. Other objects and fetishes included works and

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FIGURE 11  The cast of the Guthrie Theater’s production of The Tempest, directed by Liviu Ciulei. Scenic design by Liviu Ciulei and Michael C. Beery, costume design by Jack Edwards. 1981–2 season. Guthrie Theater, Minneapolis. Photo by Bruce Goldstein.

instruments of art, craft, commerce and violence – in close proximity. For example, in the moat at the center: a typewriter, candle-holder, books, French-horn case, lute, bicycle-rim, with recorder, German helmet, boltaction rifle, a Mona Lisa partly submerged with antique cash register behind, a pile of books at the right-center corner, and at left a globe. Still others were a (floating) violin, sculptures of women, a hunting horn, a skull: human history in little in a motivated random survey of its artifacts. (Clayton 1982: 368) While the environment represented a revolutionary approach, Clayton thought Ciulei’s cuts ‘were mostly benign’ and that the director handled the text ‘with imaginative respect even in cases of departure’. He supported Ciulei’s contention that the director was revealing the play’s genuine emotional core (Clayton 1982: 370). William Henry called Ciulei’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream ‘an idiosyncratic and brilliant Dream that is probably the best since Brook’ (1985). Clayton found it to be ‘a major production by any measure and certainly one of the most systematically conceived … Ciulei’s “fierce vexation of a dream”’ (1986: 230). Weber felt it ‘underscored a psychological savagery and sadism in the play’s romantic roundelay, depicting Bottom, the leader

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of the jesterlike players as humiliated to the core by the indifference of his royal audience’ (2011). The opening scene depicted other savagery: Hippolyta … garbed as a soldier and coiffed with a Grace Jones-style Mohawk, stands mute yet defiant as the guards of Duke Theseus … surround her. They tear off her uniform and toss it onto a fire, revealing her torso clad in a confining, seductive undergarment: she is being turned from a woman into a girl … Hippolyta’s fury abates but never completely dies. (Henry 1985) There were other distinctive elucidations: ‘Trauma was particularly vivid when Oberon pointed to Bottom … and told Titania, “There lies your love!” and she gave a long, piercing scream, falling to the ground in convulsive shock’ (Clayton 1986: 232–3). Oberon’s use of Bottom to humiliate Titania ‘becomes the symbol of all the self-destructive cruelties committed in the name of love’ (Henry 1985). Eder argued that Ciulei’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream offered a broad perspective of history: Not just a theatrical mind, but one that has taken in a fair amount of the world’s present and past miseries and grandeurs. All of Mr. Ciueli’s theatre that I have seen has a social, an esthetic and a humane context to it. It is not a partisan context; it is an awareness that performances and plays do not stand in isolation but reflect and reflect back upon a considerable stretch of man’s history and culture. (Eder 1978a) Ciulei once confided that ‘he will do anything to make his productions provocative and surprising’ and break ‘predictable habits’ to engage the audience more completely (Steele 1985: 11). In answering a criticism that he unsettles audiences, he responded, ‘I think there is, in this country, a certain prudence or refusal to be troubled, much encouraged by TV. … Many people still want the theatre to be like cool lemonade when it’s hot’ (Weber 2011). He believed that the American theatre ‘is still too dutiful towards the British experience’ (Steele 1985: 11). He argued, ‘It’s the wrong starting point’ and becomes ‘a heavy burden’ (Steele 1985: 11). He also saw a similar problem in his native Romanian theatre. Both theatres have relied on Stanislavski to inform their work. ‘But to remain stuck there is wrong. It brings an epigonic result, a second-hand result’ (Steele 1985: 11). Clayton saw ‘an inventiveness, scope, conviction, and intensity’ in Ciulei’s work (1986: 236). Much of his imagination and indirectness, on the one hand ‘destabilized our theatre’, and on the other ‘made it more vital as well as disconcerting’ (Clayton 1986: 236). Ciulei disavowed he had a particular style. ‘My style has to keep changing to follow what’s happening in the world. I want to express the styles of my time, and I’m suspicious of routine, of using the things I know and imposing

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them as sure results. My work is permanent research’ (Steele 1985: 8). His goals were ‘to expose the audience to many very different styles, to enlarge the dialogue between the audience and the works, to catch the aesthetic of our time and, through that, encourage a specifically American theatre’ (Steele 1985: 11). Ciulei’s approach was to penetrate the core of a play text, to communicate its humanness. His environmental landscapes combined iconographic images of the old with the new, usually juxtaposed in startling visual ways. His work with the performers and the staging was precise. He focused on finding the correct physical form of a moment, of a scene; all else, he believed, would be revealed, would follow from this essence.

Garland Wright Garland Wright’s first job out of college was as a journeyman actor with Michael Kahn at AST. After one year, he was hired as an assistant director. Observation of other directors taught him his most important lessons. A group from AST put together the Lion Theatre where he directed his first Shakespeare productions, The Tempest (1974) and Twelfth Night (1975). These were sparse productions with severely limited resources. As Wright remembers, the 1974 Tempest was ‘done in Levi’s with twelve actors and nothing else’ (Bartow 1988: 28). Howard Thompson thought it was ‘an imaginative, sensitive version’. Stripped to essentials, there was ‘not one visible leaf, the merest props and the members are clean, casual cast in modern garb’ (Thompson 1974). Howard praised ‘the sharply graceful tempo and pungence of Garland Wright’s staging’ (Thompson 1974). In 1980, Wright became associate artistic director of the Guthrie Theatre – the same year Ciulei became artistic director. In 1985, Wright assumed the artistic director position when Ciulei left, and directed as well as produced at the Guthrie over the next decade. His later productions included an Arena Stage Tempest in 1984 and Guthrie Theatre productions of Hamlet (1988) and Richard III (1988). He also mounted Richard II, Henry IV (both parts reduced to one play) and Henry V – all produced in 1990, co-directed with Charles Newell. They were cobbled together from the second Henriad. In 1994, he directed his last Shakespeare, King Lear. Moving beyond earlier spare productions, Wright favoured scenic invention and theatrical antics over textual matters and plot in his 1984 Arena Theatre staging of The Tempest. Critical response included ‘opulently overblown’ (Brown 1984) ‘bereft of deeper enchantment’ (Richards 1984) and ‘distracting’ (Collins 1985: 222). Wright credits Ciulei with making him aware of the distinction between being a director and being an artist: ‘The difference between “putting on plays” and participating in the world through theatre’ (Bartow 1988: 338). He discovered that the work must be prized above all else.

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Before he can direct a piece, he first has to determine the ‘interior of the play from a personal place’ (Bartow 1988: 335). When asked about why he was doing Hamlet, he confided that certain plays ‘nag’ him. Once he gives over and begins to work on a piece, ‘I discover what that nagging was … . Then I can usually locate the visual life’ (Bartow 1988: 334). He had avoided directing Hamlet and had rejected it every time someone in the Guthrie organization suggested it. Finally, he realized ‘I get it. Hamlet is a play about me not wanting to direct Hamlet’ (Bartow 1988: 335). He directed Richard III because he believed it was ‘about the art of acting’, a subject for which he cares deeply (Bartow 1988: 335). The finest actor ‘gets to be king, or to be close to the king’ (Bartow 1988: 335). He also saw the play as a ‘casebook’ on how we rationalize our principles in response to a given situation and ‘negotiate away [our] own ethics’ (Bartow 1988: 335). But also the play examined ‘deformity’ (Bartow 1988: 335). The titular character was a symbol: ‘Lives get misshapen when values are misplaced’ (Bartow 1988: 335). Compared with traditional period productions, Wright felt the designs for Richard III were a parody of those productions. The team came up with decisions ‘incredibly strong and seemingly contradictory’ (Bartow 1988: 336). When collectively amalgamated, their choices communicated a dramatically effective meaning. Costumes ‘were period’ but were hyperbolic and were ‘represented in “acid” colors’ instead of muted shades (Bartow 1988: 336). The overall feel was one ‘of cheap pageantry’ (Bartow 1988: 336). The incidental Bartok music conflicted with ‘the period approach’; ‘1930s impressionist film lighting’ was also used (Bartow 1988: 336). The stage was bare, a visible stage wall upstage, a few furniture properties and a couple of stage drops. A large ‘nonperiod’ column off to the side ‘weeped blood throughout’ (Bartow 1988: 336). His next Shakespeare was an epic Richard II, Henry IV (both parts combined) and Henry V. Critics were astonished at ‘its sheer scope and ambition … that enmeshes you in a half century of British history’ (Steele 1990). He moved beyond earlier spectacles to ‘intimate probings into the contrasting characters of the three kings’ (Steele 1990). Steele remarked on the advances he now saw in the Guthrie acting company. ‘This troupe speaks clearly and meaningfully, individual efforts meshing and intertwining with the total ensemble in a shared adventure, the acting for the most part bravely straightforward, unaffected, openly theatrical yet emotionally honest and meaningful’ (Steele 1990). All three productions opened on one day. ‘Inspired, perhaps, by the historical nature of the plays themselves, Wright used these productions to evoke the Guthrie’s own history by restoring the original heptagonal stage as designed by Tanya Moiseiwitsch for Sir Tyrone Guthrie’ (Close 1990). The designs depicted a unique visual environment for each. ‘In Richard II, the stage and multi-faceted rear wall are covered by copper sheets; the effect is strikingly formal. Dark grey wood replaces the copper in Henry IV which

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brings us into the Eastcheap tavern where Falstaff holds court … costumes reinforce … sets … . Those of Henry IV rely on coarser materials and darker tones’ (Close 1990). The productions shared several other unifying features: At the beginning of Richard II and Henry IV, the stage is bare except for a single piece of furniture: the throne. The throne is present, too, at the start of Henry V, though it is no longer alone. Each of the three kings delivers a soliloquy in which he reflects on his relationship to the crown. Richard II, deposed and imprisoned, ruefully ruminates over his squandered reign; Henry IV sleepless and melancholy, utters his memorable ‘Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown’ speech; Henry V, too, sizes up the heavy responsibility of monarchy on the eve of his great military triumph at Agincourt. The three soliloquies have been unified by lighting: As each monarch speaks, the surrounding lights fade to darkness, leaving a single spot focused on the king himself. (Close 1990) While there were similarities in the productions, there were also significant differences. The Richard II set was ‘perfectly symmetrical’ and surrounded by brass (Green 1991: 73). ‘Whenever the throne appears, it is situated on a large cube protruding from the center rear of the stage. The whole set symbolized impermeable power and authority. The characters that move across it seem to live in a world of absolutes that finally dissolve in the light and shadow of the prison scene’ (Green 1991: 73). Richard appeared ‘like a gold-leaf medieval portrait’ up to intermission (Green 1991: 73). His obsequious supporters – Bushy Green and Bagot – wore ‘peacock-like garb on the same period’. At the end, all of the characters were dressed in ‘thick, coarse wools and burlaps’, helping to reflect the shift in worlds, and tone (Green 1991: 73). In Henry V, the treatment of the stage was as if a rehearsal was being conducted. The audience saw a naked theatre. ‘Risers, with all their hackmarks and tape’ clearly evident: ‘The musician, the costumes, scraps of preceding sets are all visible’ (Green 1991: 73). The English were in rehearsal clothes with the random addition of a cape or mantle thrown over to show position. When a scene was set in the French court, it was ‘opulently overstuffed and narcissistic’ and when characters entered, ‘an unfurling gold groundcloth … billows out in front of them’ (Steele 1990). This treatment of the French echoed back to Richard II’s court in the first play of the Henriad: ‘Smugly self-confident and superior but self-deluded an easy prey for Henry’s charged, nationalistic forces’ (Steele 1990). The Chorus was composed of the ‘plainclothes company … sometimes alone, sometimes in small groups, and sometimes en masse’ (Green 1991: 73–4). Since they represented the English people, they ‘even tend to talk in less stagy voices and accents’ (Green 1991: 74). Wright’s intention was that the audience saw itself in the Chorus so that we ‘are always aware of our contribution to the proceedings’ (Green 1991: 74).

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Wright’s last Shakespeare was his 1995 King Lear. He maintained that the king’s ‘“pathetic fallacy” – that Nature feels with him and that, as the microcosm goes, so goes the macrocosm’ – was not a delusion. ‘His mad rage evidently causes the storm in act three; his psychological disintegration provides the disintegration of his kingdom. … This pre-Christian ruler is as much magus as monarch, and his tragedy thus arises … because the man was unequal to his power’ (Kramm 1996: 21). When Lear is angry with Goneril or Regan in the first scenes, the audience heard rumblings of thunder, signifying Lear’s displeasure echoed through his link to nature, ‘as if the anger in his mind creates an immediate result in the theatre’ (Kramm 1996: 21). These choices had significant implications in Act 3’s storm scene, ‘Here the King is not deliriously out of touch with reality, insanely imagining that he can orchestrate the weather. Instead, Lear, in some mysterious way, is the author of his own punishment, as well as the scourge of the kingdom’ (Kramm 1996: 21). There was a literal connection between the storm in his mind and the storm outside. The effect of the lightning was further amplified by a large upstage wall made of iron grating and stained glass. Lear, Edgar (Poor Tom) and the Fool stood shaking downstage in a large bare space with Samuel Beckett-like isolation, against this backdrop of lightning flashing from time to time to break the stark blackness all around them. Kramm wrote, ‘Never have the storm scenes affected me as much as in this production’ (1996: 21). In an earlier interview with American Theatre’s Don Shewey, Wright shared thoughts on his fundamental beliefs and relationship to theatre: I don’t stand with those who say the death of theatre is knocking at the door, but I do see that it’s possible to endanger not only the theatre but a culture itself if one cannot – and this is deeply, deeply unfashionable to say – if one cannot speak from the heart in some way. When you do speak from the heart and nothing comes back to you, no one hears you, you can also begin to perceive things about your own life – what doesn’t matter, what you’re obsessed with that’s basically your own problem and not the world’s. It’s not that I use the theatre as therapy, but I think it’s possible to find oneself through this engagement, but only if you’re speaking from a personal place. (Shewey 1987: 28) Wright also believed the character of plays transforms over time, as do directors. He had directed The Tempest in three very different productions. The first was about ‘making magic’ while the last had to do with ‘how magic doesn’t really solve the problem for the magician’ (Bartow 1988: 333). His goal for the rehearsal period was to come to a place: ‘Where everyone understands the same idea and is trying to share that idea with the audience’, which means the company comprehends what the production intends

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‘at any given moment’ (Bartow 1988: 337). He warned that a director must not overlook the audience. He considered such an approach to be ‘pretentious’ and ‘slightly ignorant’ of the nature of theatre (Bartow 1988: 329). Conversely, to play down to them because audiences comprehend less and less is suicide. He believed that the playwright ‘is embedded in the play which has made the playwright live. Not just historically – the person himself is actually embedded there [and] is reawakened through exploration, like in mummy movies, when they oil the tana leaves to make the corpse come back to life’ (Shewey 1987: 26–7). Wright explored theatrical metaphors in his productions, finding approaches to the text based on the art of acting, rehearsal conventions, sound effect amplification, scenic atmospheres and the juxtaposition of unique but related scenic environments. Over his career, he moved from an approach that commented on the theatrical relationship to a place where he spoke, and hoped his company would speak, from the heart. In his last productions, he was acutely aware of the potential death of the art form – even his own eventual demise – that informed his interpretations.

Mark Lamos Starting as an actor, Mark Lamos played several Shakespearean roles, including Hamlet. He oversaw the California Shakespeare Festival for a few seasons, leaving in 1980 to serve as artistic director for Hartford Stage, where he remained for the next sixteen years. While at Hartford, he directed fourteen of Shakespeare’s plays and the theatre won the 1989 Tony Award. He was nominated for a Tony Award for his direction of Our Country’s Good that transferred from Hartford to Broadway. After leaving, he continued a freelance directing career in theatre and opera. Since 2009, he has been artistic director of Westport Country Playhouse. Not every director succeeds at establishing conceptually striking theatrical metaphors and carefully delineating Shakespeare’s language. Lamos became known for theatrically eclectic productions as well as meticulous attention to language. Several of his 1980s productions demonstrated his strong conceptual takes. Wilmeth described his work as ‘expansive … emphasizing the spectacular and the fantastic’ (Wilmeth and Miller 1993: 272). Lamos has also been praised for his keen sense of tempo-rhythm. He is concerned with textual fidelity, while not afraid to ‘alter periods, settings, and moods’ (Wilmeth and Miller 1993: 272). Lamos is known for developing effective and powerful performances. Critics remarked that his 1980 production of Hamlet for the California Shakespeare Festival presented a rarely successful portrayal of the prince. ‘I’ve never seen a Hamlet where I’ve felt the pressure on Hamlet more’, Sullivan exclaimed (1980). Wilds noted, ‘Surovy’s Hamlet projected a powerful physicality, brutally frustrated by the irresistible puzzle posted by

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his intellect. I have never seen the struggle so patently manifested’ (1981: 253–4). Sullivan felt the director gave the actor the latitude to develop his character even though the director had a clear design for the character’s arc (1980). Still, he sought uniqueness in each actor. He believed the director’s objective must be ‘to unlock [the actor’s] special gifts’ during rehearsals (Bartow 1988: 184). At the same time, the director must mould the actors to realize the conceptualization. The setting for Lamos’ Hamlet was a Viennese court in 1900. Sullivan wrote, ‘Claudius’ marble castle is so shiny it squeaks. … The atmosphere is heavy with gaiety and corruption. It’s no surprise that Hamlet’s father was poisoned while sleeping in the garden. You would want to lock your door in this place’ (1980). The designs were inspired by Otto Wagner’s architecture ‘whose mausoleum-like structures’ were antecedents to the Bauhaus designs. ‘The decorative aspects are derived from Gustav Klimt. These artists said something about decadence, repression, and magnitude that seems right for this production’ (quoted in Wilds 1981: 253). Several critics noticed similarities with Tyrone Guthrie’s 1963 modern-dress Hamlet in Minneapolis. Lamos takes the idea of corruption and passivity further than Guthrie did, though. The palace is sick for a leader, panting for someone to click its collective heels to. If not Claudius, if not Hamlet, then Fortinbras, as he makes his last entrance. With the click of the heels, something in the play clicks, too, that I’ve never heard before. It becomes a public play as well as a private one. (Sullivan 1980) Harvey compared Guthrie’s ‘[limpid and deceptively simple’ production with Lamos’ ‘eclectic, semi-digested assemblage of provocative tidbits’, but was irritated by the director’s ‘cramming too much into the political sphere of Hamlet … forcefully linking Fortinbras with looming Fascism, specifically Nazism’ (1981: 121–2). Wilds, however, argued the ending was ‘a shocking, numbing’ one: ‘With Claudius, Gertrude, and Laertes dead and Hamlet dying, the members of the court were positioned variously on the stairs with their backs turned on the tragedy. They all turned to face Fortinbras as he and his men came striding in, Fortinbras, clicking his heels and giving the fascist salute. All bowed to him, acquiescent and agreeable’ (1981: 254). For his first season at Hartford Stage, Lamos directed Cymbeline. Gussow thought it ‘stirring … evidence of his ability and his imagination as a director of Shakespeare’ (1998b: 390). Lamos emphasized the spectacle, downplayed the tragic moments and directed the play as a romantic piece. He shaped the tempo-rhythms to drive rapidly forward to the play’s final reconciliations and forgiveness. Once the major plot elements were in place, ‘the journey is inexorable, and the climax becomes a Shakespearean wellspring of joyful tears and laughter. Our pleasure comes from being several steps ahead of the characters. We watch the astonished reactions as revelation tumbles

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after revelation until Cymbeline awakens from his dotage to issue a pardon to everyone’ (Gussow 1998b: 391). Lamos also emphasized the plight of Imogen: ‘The heroine and the catalyst of the entire evening’ (Gussow 1998b: 391). Gussow had high praise for Mary Layne’s Imogen who ‘never loses her purity of vision’ despite facing increasingly formidable obstacles (1998b: 391). He thought her believable throughout the many challenges the role demands. For Twelfth Night, Lamos and the scenic designer struggled with their initial ideas. They thought an Eastern philosophy and mien might work. When the costume designer looked at the set model, he said, ‘Gee it looks like a place where a party happened. It looks like a ballroom or something’. Unknowingly, the designer hit upon the director’s intuitive response to the play: ‘The end of partying, the end of youth, the beginning of responsibility’ (Bartow 1988: 189–90). That idea led the team to the production’s identity, which then informed every scene and every decision. Gussow found the environment ‘intoxicating … life is a perpetual New Year’s Eve party at an exclusive after-hours club’ (1985). He admired the milieu: ‘The revels are not ended until the last glass of champagne is consumed and the last prank has been played’ (Gussow 1985). The tone was mainly celebratory, but Gussow noted that while ‘romance unites true lovers with tears of happiness … melancholy also permeates the air. … Even as the fool sings his farewell “hey, ho”, we hear an echo of Malvolio’s vow of vengeance’ (1985). He extolled Lamos’ decision to portray Illyria with a ‘modernization that captures the play’s essence’ (Gussow 1985). There were many fertile concepts, from Orsino’s ‘“If music be the food of love, play on”, addressed to a Cole Porter-ish pianist, and extending to the closing image, the fool’s childlike enrobing of himself in voluminous parachute silks of slumber’ (Gussow 1985). Gussow hailed Lamos for being ‘enraptured by Twelfth Night, and … able to transmit that rapture through his actors to the audience’ (1985). The production featured unique slants to some of the characters. When the audience first saw Feste, he held a suitcase. Maria attacked him for abandoning the household. ‘While Maria berates him for his absence, Feste opens his suitcase, adjusts his clown make-up, and physically prepares to re-enter the world of the play. He offers no explanation for his absence, but his whole countenance suggests that important self-knowledge had been learned on the journey’ (Vick 1986: 229). As the plot further unfolds, ‘Feste’s wisdom increases as he becomes hard to find yet somehow everywhere: unnecessary to any essential activity while absolutely essential to keeping life in Illyria in perspective’ (Vick 1986: 229). Hall’s clown had ‘extraordinary, winsome intelligence’ (Vick 1986: 229). Vick was also effusive in her praise for Malvolio: Mr. Stewart fills his character to overflowing with both absolute arrogance and an absolute ignorance of a sense of himself in society. In

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the ‘Hold Thy Peace’ scene in Act II … [a] succession of hilarious musical and visual events culminates in Malvolio’s turn to stalk up and off the stage, nightgown flying, unaware as he does so that he gives one and all a completely unobstructed view of his bare bottom. Surely no other Twelfth Night has ever so effectively exposed this puritan steward. (Vick 1986: 229–30) For his Pericles, Lamos set the play ‘in a modern Mediterranean never-never land where Pericles mingles with glitterati, Arab terrorists, street punks, cruise-ship tourists, prostitutes, vestal virgins, blue collar fishermen and an Elizabethan narrator who tells our hero’s story’ (Kuchwara 1987). Lamos and his design team created potent visuals: The stage floor of sky blue with fluffy clouds is bordered by a movable string of caged ‘footlights’, juxtaposing the infinite and the mechanical. A pair of white side panels, one on a swing door, suggests the familiar. Between them a half length red curtain, when lowered, also draws to frame a number of dumb shows. Two orange wooden rockers, one an adult’s and the other a child’s, are suspended above the forestage and backstage. They match three such chairs on stage and underline the motif of the storyteller. A huge plaster face of Diana, mounted on a scaffold, unites the ancient and the modern. Unveiled, it comments on misfortune or evil. It divides at a slight angle, and the white top half lifts and turns away disapprovingly. The stationary bottom half, with peach-tinted rouge on one cheek and lips of red-orange, suggests that the unfinished work of the artist will conclude happily. (Cook and Cook 1987: 17) Gussow noted that ‘Magritte men in tails and bowler hats’ soon appear (1987). Lamos established a family theme with fathers, mothers and daughters repeatedly appearing and ‘played by the same quick-changing actors’ (Gussow 1987a). Later, the look changed from Magritte to Fischl: While waiting for the start of the business night, the pander, the bawd and their henchman sit in a kitchen with a laundry line of black negligees in the background. The bordello itself is represented … by a single, seedy mattress on the floor. … In this and other scenes, Magritte has been replaced by a contemporary Neo-Expressionist such as Eric Fischl  … the surface is as clear and identifiable as a highway billboard, but in odd corners of the canvas bizarre and terrifying events are taking place. (Gussow 1987a) Wilmeth thought the production was ‘dreamlike … [with] borrowed imagery from both Magritte and the Neo-Expressionists’ (Wilmeth and Miller 1993: 272). Michael Kuchwara wrote that this Pericles had ‘a surreal, bifurcated

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environment where dreams and reality exist side by side and nothing is quite what it seems to be’ (1987). Lamos attacked those who think ‘there’s one way to do Shakespeare’ as well as those who think ‘the text is a blank canvas for some kind of experimentation’ (Bartow 1988: 186). Because much of Shakespearean language is poetry, there are guidelines that must be observed which do not need to hamper the actor or director. Rather ‘if you see the rules as clues … it informs the acting of the moment’ (Bartow 1988: 186). He believes there is no separation between the words and the character’s thoughts. As the actor speaks the words, they voice their thoughts. When speaking Shakespeare’s lyrical language, the sound of the vowels and consonants, ‘create[s] an emotional effect’ because of the intuitive ‘effect of pure sound’ (Bartow 1988: 186). The director should attend to the ‘thematic architecture’ of a play, its ‘mandala’, Lamos argues (Bartow 1988: 180). Every scene is ‘a variation’ on the play’s core theme. Once Lamos knows the core, he can ‘change words that might be unclear to a modern audience and occasionally rewrite lines’ (Bartow 1988: 180). He might shuffle scene order or combine scenes. As a visual director, Lamos employs highly theatrical metaphors to transpose Shakespeare’s plays in modern terms that speak to current audience sensibilities. His musical background has attuned him to the subtle rhythms, accents and nuances of Shakespeare’s language. It has also instilled in him the importance of discipline and technique. He argues that American actors can be just as effective as the English with Shakespeare. His experience as an actor and dancer has informed his ability to work well with performers; he can readily relate to their struggles, while firmly shaping their emerging characterizations. (Lamos’ current views can be found in Directing Shakespeare in America: Current Practices [Ney 2016].)

New York Theatres and Directors During the 1950s, NYSF was in an embryonic stage of development as a nonprofit organization in New York City. So was the commercially structured AST in Stratford, Connecticut, located a short distance from the city. (See Chapters 4 and 5 for more on these companies.) In New York, Off- and OffOff Broadway companies such as the Phoenix Theatre and the Association of Producing Artists (APA) produced Shakespeare. A 1964 production of Hamlet, starring Richard Burton and directed by John Gielgud, was a rare Shakespearean revival on Broadway. In 1967, another off-Broadway theatre, Classic Stage Company (CSC), was founded. CSC’s repertory featured the classics, including Shakespeare. Lincoln Centre also produced Shakespeare regularly from the late 1960s through 1977 – part of that time with Papps’ Public Theatre in residence. Theatre for a New Audience (TFANA) began

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producing classics by 1980, almost half of which were by Shakespeare. Like the Phoenix Theatre, TFANA’s mission included new plays.

The Phoenix Theatre: John Houseman and Stuart Vaughan The Phoenix Theatre opened on 1 December 1953 and Shakespeare was a part of its first three-play season. The theatre had a mission of producing plays offBroadway using an ensemble approach without stars in limited runs at lower ticket prices. Unlike Broadway, funding was sought for the entire season, not for each production. Throughout its existence, the Phoenix presented a mixture of classics with contemporary and new pieces. While abjuring the star system, many prominent actors participated in award-winning seasons. On 19 January 1954, John Houseman opened a production of Coriolanus at the Phoenix Theatre ‘with dash and clarity’ in a production that Atkinson called ‘simple, vehement and powerful’ (1954). He thought scene designer Donald Oenslager’s set was ‘uncluttered’ (Atkinson 1954). Considered an architectural innovation for its time, it cleverly transcended the confines of a proscenium theatre through ‘a series of ramps and platforms into the orchestra pit. Upstage the designer placed a large arch, what looked like a bridge of stone from which descended more ramps and stairs. Draped with curtains or isolated in light, the various parts of the set provided flexible movement and a wide range of locales’ (Leiter 1986b: 88). William Hawkins observed, ‘With lights and the use of the pit, John Houseman has directed the company into a remarkable picture show. Intimate scenes come close to the audience. Battles and rabble’s rebellion spread high and deep onto the stage’ (1954; in Leiter 1986b: 88). Sprague wrote: Steps and platforms had been built in the orchestra well, which became in effect a sort of apron stage. Menenius, telling the unruly plebeians his fable of the good belly, found them grouped both above and beneath him as he stood at the top of these stairs; and while Coriolanus spoke of the strange importance of the ‘voices’ for whom he had watched and fought, we saw, ominously for him, a long row of listening heads appear against the footlights. (Sprague 1954: 313) While Houseman’s Coriolanus did not have many textual cuts, Sprague took issue with ‘the complicated fighting in and about Corioli [which] was … reduced to little more than the single combat between Marcius and Aufidius’ (1954: 313). He also criticized the elimination of 4.1 – an important scene in which Coriolanus says farewell to his family and Rome. Nevertheless, he thought this Coriolanus to be ‘a brilliant production … and better still, one true to the spirit of the play’ (Sprague 1954: 314). To some, Robert Ryan’s performance of the lead character marred the production. Kerr remarked

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that he was ‘visually handsome but vocally harsh, and the incessant snarl takes from this haughty intellectual any real suggestion of intellectuality’ (1954; quoted in Leiter 1986b: 89). In the early 1960s, Stuart Vaughan directed productions of 1  Henry IV and 2  Henry IV (1960) as well as Hamlet (1961) at the Phoenix. Atkinson found 1  Henry IV to be ‘one of the Phoenix’s most enjoyable works’ (1960a). He praised Vaughan’s direction and noted that he was ‘invariably in top form with Shakespeare’ (Atkinson 1960a). He described the production as ‘visually inviting … the costumes are pithy and decorative … incidental music is animated without being mannered. All the elements of a first-rate production have been gathered on the Phoenix stage’ (Atkinson 1960a). He praised the director for removing most of the ‘cant’ that actors adopt when they are cast in Shakespeare and found this production to be ‘full of humanity in individual scenes’ (Atkinson 1960a). He applauded 2  Henry IV because ‘the clowning runs away with 2Henry IV even more joyfully than 1Henry IV’ (Atkinson 1960b). Many critics considered both productions to be two of the most exceptional the Phoenix had ever done. Several commended Vaughan for creating a ‘dynamic’ 2 Henry IV ‘despite its reputation as a potboiling sequel to a masterpiece’ (Leiter 1986b: 188). Brustein acknowledged the direction did not have ‘any striking interpretive blunders’ (1965: 223). He praised the ‘gray and twinkly Shallow, though sometimes a trifle too sweet, [he] is full of brilliant comic invention. … Silence is a gem of palsied and owlish somnambulance; … Doll Tearsheet [is] like a disordered, staggering Piccadilly whore; … [and] Pistol firks and foins with robust salacity’ (Brustein 1965: 223). However, he thought the actor playing Falstaff dominated the production’s ambiance with his ‘upperclass mannerisms’ more appropriate for a Restoration piece (Brustein 1965: 224). Most reviewers felt the comic scenes portrayed ‘a wealth of accurately and hilariously observed low-life characters’ (Leiter 1986b: 190). Alice Griffin acknowledged that the direction in 1 Henry IV was ‘forceful’, but that ‘the director as well as the actors seemed to be most interested in the comic scenes’ to the detriment of the court scenes which ‘seemed so slow that one could not blame Hal for preferring to be elsewhere’ (1960: 467). Vaughan’s 1961 Hamlet had few cuts. As a consequence, the tempo ‘sped along at breakneck pace’ (Leiter 1986b: 136). Some critics thought speed conflicted with the play’s increasing intensity and arc. Crucial scenes were ‘rushed through without the proper finesse’ (Leiter 1986b: 136). One such example was the Hamlet and Gertrude scene ‘in which much of the dialogue was garbled’ (Leiter 1986b: 136). The approach did not concern other reviewers, but a few believed the pace ‘damaged the revival irrevocably’ (Leiter 1986b: 136). Taubman had high praise for Donald Madden’s Hamlet: A slim figure in black with a rumpled blond wig, a lean pale face and haunted, penetrating eyes, this Hamlet is instinct with passion. But the

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surging emotions are under control. Mr. Madden is thus able to give the role a sense of growth and intensification. … His words and action have an indivisible unity. He can speak one soliloquy as he scarcely suppresses an almost ungovernable impulse to writhe and pound his head on the ground, and he can turn to another like ‘To be or not to be’ and make it a whispered, anguished meditation. There is a brave, eager youthfulness in this Hamlet. He flings himself against a wall with abandon and gives the players their instructions with a feverish vivacity that does not conceal the thought behind the planning. But he also stands quietly and speaks the lines to the skull of poor Yorick with affecting simplicity. (Taubman 1961a) Taubman credited Vaughan as much as Madden for the performance, adding ‘The director has shaped the production with a command of the grandeur of the drama. The parts are well composed … [the] stage … conveys mood, color and fervor in individual as well as ensemble scenes. … The essential feeling for the curve of the drama is the director’s’ (1961). Remarking that American actors struggle with diction and skilfully speaking the verse, he applauded Vaughan for achieving ‘a semblance of consistency’ from the actors (Taubman 1961a).

Ellis Rabb Ellis Rabb, founder and artistic director of the APA (1960), sought to adopt the English system of repertory acting of the classics using American talent. Rabb had a penchant for classical theatre, ‘of which he was generally considered one of the nation’s foremost interpreters, despite an occasional tendency to seek oddly unconventional approaches’ (Leiter 1986a: 207). Some of APA’s productions went to Broadway and some toured the United States. In 1964, APA joined forces with the Phoenix Theatre on joint projects such as The School for Scandal, Right You Are If You Think You Are, The Wild Duck, War and Peace, Pantagleize, Exit the King, The Cherry Orchard, The Cocktail Party, The Misanthrope and Hamlet. Rabb’s 1968 Hamlet at the San Diego National Shakespeare Festival, directed a year before the APA/Phoenix production, was well received. Marco St John played Hamlet. Novick praised St John’s Hamlet as the best of all the Hamlets he had seen. This version was ‘a harsh and nasty production’ (Novick 1968b). Novick thought it ‘furiously swift’ with a text that was severely pared (1968b). After many years of seeing disappointing Hamlets, Novick found ‘an excitement, a spontaneity, a sense of emotion let loose, that the play has not had for me since the night, years ago, when I first saw it’ (1968b). He thought St John’s characterization was unique: ‘An untidy, unlovable, desperately unhappy young man. He is not at all presentable; he has no sense of decorum. … This is a Hamlet like a live grenade that might explode in any direction at any moment. And somehow, Mr. St. John makes

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those too familiar speeches fresh again, as if they had just come into his head’ (Novick 1968b). Novick concluded that St John is ‘the best’ of the many Hamlets he had seen over the past ten years and ‘Amy Levit’s Ophelia is the least insipid I have ever seen. Hamlet is attracted to this Ophelia not because she is such a soothing Scandinavian cow, but because she is just as neurotic as he is’ (1968b). Still, for all that he believed was effective, Novick was left with a nagging question: ‘We never quite know what’s eating him’ (1968b). Surely, he suggested, somewhere in all those textual cuts might have been a hint. And what signs that are still left get brushed away by the actor’s ‘whirlwind of bitterness’ (Novick 1968b). He thought Rabb’s approach was an unfinished one, avoiding the play’s lighter moments and ‘lyricism’ (Novick 1968b). Yet, he commended Rabb for stressing those elements that forcefully resonate with our ‘present mood’ (Novick 1968b). Nothing in that production prepared Rabb for the reception he would receive for his 1969 Hamlet with APA/Phoenix. Rabb produced, directed and starred in the production. He told Gussow, ‘If you want to destroy your career as actor, director and producer, all in the same night, direct yourself in Hamlet for your company’ (1998a). The reviews were terrible. John Simon derided: ‘The text is vile, the cutting is vicious, and the staging, acting, and elocution could not be disimproved on. … Watching Rabb’s Hamlet places one at the mid-point between uncontrollable laughter and intense nausea, which cancel out into stunned silence’ (1969: 50). The reviews were so disastrous that the company disbanded upon closing. Ironically, the theatre received a Tony Award for special achievement that spring. Rabb next directed Shakespeare for The Repertory Theatre of Lincoln Centre under the direction of Jules Irving. The company produced Shakespeare productions in the late 1960s and early 1970s that included a King Lear in 1968, a Twelfth Night in 1972 and The Merchant of Venice in 1973. Rabb directed the latter two. Tom Leitch believed Rabb’s direction of Twelfth Night was ‘loving, original, clever, and something more clever’ (1972). Not always sure of how the comedy ought to work, Rabb’s mixture of ‘Shakespeare’s sunny tone … stippled with darkness’ in this production sometimes misses (Leitch 1972). Even though he did not always capture the right degree of humour or vulnerability in certain moments, Speeches and scenes are paced admirably. Ensembles move with fluidity and even grace, a commodity usually in scarce supply at the Beaumont. Rabb has not entirely eliminated the nervous jumping around that often substitutes for dramatic vitality in this company’s productions, but he retains a reasonable decorum, and his choreography is relatively unobtrusive. Above all, this production is never dull. (Leitch 1972) While Leitch gave a favourable review, Kerr thought Rabb’s production suffered from a lack of humour. ‘Except for the final round-robin of discovered

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identities, which is amusingly staged and is incorruptibly funny anyway, this is a Twelfth Night from which present laughter would seem to have been rigorously, quite deliberately, excluded’ (Kerr 1972a). Although objecting to many of his choices, Kerr complimented Rabb for his use of the ‘cavernous’ upstage areas (above the proscenium) that have baffled other directors. He warned Rabb not to ‘let his people act in them: the moment they pass the proscenium line they become inaudible’ (Kerr 1972a). He applauded Rabb for creating ‘an open, airy starlit place in which [the characters] can breathe freely and slip away gracefully’ (Kerr 1972a). He also noted that the director realizes ‘efficient use of the curving stage-segments that travel people and props at will, criss-crossing when they please: four handsome-leaved trees glide toward us just in time to serve as hiding places for cronies bent on skullduggery’ (Kerr 1972a). He found the nominal scenery ‘handsome’ and complimented Rabb for his effective stage compositions ‘in the sparkling void’ (Kerr 1972a). Rabb’s strongest Shakespeare production, and most controversial, was his Merchant of Venice, set in 1960s Venice, reminiscent of Fellini’s La Dolce Vita. He had previously directed an earlier incarnation of this Merchant for ACT in 1970. Much of that production served as a model for Lincoln Centre. Rabb’s Merchant was a world of spoiled playboys – filthy rich, bored partyers, desperate for liaisons and diversions. This rendering of the characters as ‘melancholy isolated victims of unconsummated passion’ who resided within a decadent Venice was fundamental to his concept: Antonio and Portia love the inaccessible Bassanio. Shylock loses his daughter Jessica to the gentiles just as Lorenzo in turn loses her because she is unhappy apart from her own people. Jew is alienated from Christian; father is separated from daughter; men, happier among men, are removed from women. In emphasizing the play’s homosexual undercurrents, in making explicit Antonio’s longing for Bassanio, Rabb discovered a thematic reinforcement for the play’s traditional religious conflict. In Rabb’s modern, disenchanted Venice, hostility between the sexes was as elemental as that between Christian and Jews. (Foster 1973: 511) Rabb’s view of the characters’ charmed lives was both fascinating and repulsive. ‘Bassanio and his friends had youth and beauty’, but they lacked purpose and ‘were soulless pagans’ (Foster 1973: 511). It became clear that the audience was to think them abhorrent when they ‘contaminated Shylock’s beloved daughter’ (Foster 1973: 511–12). According to Foster, that scene was the most arresting of the production: ‘An interpolated Black Mass, [in which] Jessica was initiated into Bassanio’s set. Becoming one with the gentiles, a participant in a bacchic carnival, she betrayed her birthright as Shylock, a Jew revolted by gentile excess, looked on with horror’ (Foster 1973: 512). The staging made Shylock a victim who despised the wicked

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decadence of the Christians, trying to protect his daughter from their extreme behaviours. Much of the action took place on a yacht, the Belmont. Portia was an older, ‘more matronly’ Portia than usual (Leiter 1986b: 443). Her suitors lounged around the deck (see Figure 12) overhearing her callous comments about them. The insensitivity of her remarks was doubly underscored with her notorious ‘let all of his complexion choose me so’ delivered in full earshot of Nerissa, who was black. Lorenzo and Jessica’s final scene was also aboard the yacht; the couple was seasick as well as disappointed with their relationship. Foster found this staging of the scene to be an atypical but effective reading, markedly different from a traditional emphasis on Shakespeare’s exquisite language. In the trial scene, Shylock arrived as a distinguished, elderly, hunched but patient victim. He was forced to utter his line ‘I am content’ not once, but twice, purportedly because the Christians could not hear it the first time, which highlighted the pain of his forced statement. After losing almost all he had, he became a defeated, bent and feeble old man (Leiter 1986b: 443).

FIGURE 12  Photo of Rosemary Harris (Portia) and the company of The Merchant of Venice in the Lincoln Center production, 1973, directed by Ellis Rabb. Photo by Martha Swope. ©Billy Rose Theatre Division, The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts.

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After Shylock’s trial scene, the play has another full act as we return to Belmont. Foster wrote his take on Rabb’s interpretation of it: Bassanio got the second chance that the doomed Jessica missed: Portia ‘rescued’ him from the party life. Bassanio left reluctantly, though and it was clear that the union between an indulged bisexual young man and a mature, sexually insecure woman of the world, would not be easy or happy. As he went off with his new wife, Bassanio looked, with quick, deep intimacy, at Antonio. The play closed with Antonio abandoned on the darkened stage: the lover left behind but not scorned. Antonio, ever brooding, slowly, stylishly, extinguished his last cigarette. (Foster 1973: 512) Rabb left the audience extremely uneasy about the characters’ futures. Along with the underlying tension between the religious clans, his production portrayed a particularly uncomfortable tension between and among the sexes. Not all critics approved of Rabb’s choices. Barnes remarked that the production had ‘more chic than sense … push[ing] credulity to the limit’ (1973a). He thought certain additions to the text, such as an added bit of dialogue ‘Auf Widersehen’ to be jarring and unnecessary. He complained that the excisions were excessive: ‘Mr. Rabb has gone to Shakespeare with a knife so sharp that Shylock himself might have envied it’ (Barnes 1973a). He also objected to Rabb’s sympathetic treatment of Shylock, ignoring how Shakespeare crafted the character. Jack Kroll, however, thought Rabb’s staging had ‘power and poetry as an ambience for the play’s moral and ethical ambiguities’ (1973). He remarked that the production was ‘really interesting’ and ‘Lincoln Center’s most intriguing Shakespeare ever’ (Kroll 1973). Foster observed that ‘Rabb is a tricky, idea-happy director, but he is never dull, and he is never out of touch with the center of a play’ (1973: 511). He found the director’s concept ‘at times pushed against the text in ways that illuminated rather than betrayed the spirit of Shakespeare’s light-dark problem comedy’ (Foster 1973: 511). Along with A Streetcar Named Desire – also directed by Rabb – Kroll claimed the two productions as ‘the finest of the New York season’ (1973: 511). Richard Council, an actor who was in the ACT Merchant, shared this memory of Rabb: [He] bore himself like a true southern gentleman, a Memphis Aristocrat, tall, thin, almost gangly but graceful with a charming easy manner about him that concealed a mercurial mind and a ready wit. He was old style brilliant as a director and quite flamboyant. Before the first rehearsal, with the company gathered in the house, he said, ‘You are a company assembled by God!’ He bred confidence and esprit de corps in the production and

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never despaired of or belittled his actors no matter the size of one’s role. He was always kind and gentle and never pompous or petulant. You never heard his voice raised in anger. He would make amusing asides and provoke general laughter at no one’s expense. He could orchestrate the most difficult scenes with flair and panache. He was a master of the art of presentation for the stage and a joy to work with. (Council 2017) Rabb has been praised for his novel effective staging, as well as his creative use of space. He has been both extolled and ridiculed for his fresh innovative interpretations of classics. He had a keen ability to make production choices that registered with his audiences. He could connect to the centre of a play and keep that connection front and centre to help anchor a production. He cut Shakespeare’s text, sometimes severely, giving the production a rapid swift pace. He helped his actors achieve creative and groundbreaking interpretations of timeworn characters in a nourishing atmosphere in which they felt safe. His directorial choices often shed fresh light on scenes and dramatic moments.

Classic Stage Company During the 1970s, one additional off-Broadway company regularly produced Shakespeare. It was the newly formed CSC. Barnes commended CSC and its artistic director, Christopher Martin for his twelve years of determination to build a repertory company. His Shakespeare productions included Richard II, 1 Henry IV, 2 Henry IV, King Lear, Hamlet, Pericles, Julius Caesar, Titus Andronicus, Twelfth Night, Measure for Measure, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, The Tempest, Merchant of Venice, Macbeth as well as many other classical plays. For their 1978 season, CSC staged The Hollow Crown Trilogy, featuring Richard II, 1  Henry IV and 2  Henry IV – an ambitious project for any theatre. Barnes praised the modest company whose skills were improving and whose productions attracted a devoted audience. ‘An intellectual director rather than an instinctive one’, Martin created some imaginative staging to establish the backstory for Richard II (Barnes 1979: 187). ‘[He] brilliantly set the scene of treachery and murder by adding … a scene from the apocryphal Shakespearean play, Thomas of Woodstock, showing the murder of Thomas Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester, which leads naturally into Shakespeare’s opening but also describes something of the history that went before’ (Barnes 1979: 187). He ended his trilogy with the Henry V scene in which Hal returns the Dauphin’s tennis balls while affirming his intention to rule France. In between, ‘Martin created a vivid image of the Shakespearean concept of kings and death, power and corruption, empty battles and solemn torment. And above all, the destiny of kingship’ (Barnes 1979: 188).

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Arthur Ganz described the Elizabethan traits of the CSC stage in a 1983 review: Entering the CSC’s theatre – a large, darkly-painted room – one is immediately struck by the proximity of the stage itself, a bare platform roughly thirty feet square, with most seats steeply raked in front of it and a few extending part way around two sides. In this setting the physical relationship between spectators and performers approximates more closely that which must have prevailed in the Elizabethan playhouses than in any other theatre I have seen … this theatre gives an ease of vocal communication (even for a cast of generally moderate competence, problems in projecting the verse simply ceased to exist) and a directness of visual focus (the actors isolated on the broad platform, yet thrust forward and almost palpable) impossible on proscenium stages and even on thrust stages of more commercially ambitious dimensions. (Ganz 1983: 104–5) King Lear, directed by Martin in 1982, featured Robert Stattel as a superior Lear. ‘He is the only Lear of my experience to evoke something of the real grandeur of the storm scenes and to refrain – not surprisingly – from simply screaming himself hoarse (assisted by a director who, for once, had the common sense to go easy on the thunder sheets)’. Gussow thought his ‘always-articulate performance harnesses the production’ (1982a). Ganz believed the performance suffered from Stattel’s inability to do ‘the fine shaping of individual lines and phrases. As a result his Lear, justly conceived and well executed, was somewhat generalized, never quite illuminating’ (1983: 105). Still, he thought the enterprise a ‘notable achievement, receiving from the CSC company at least a passable supporting production’ (Ganz 1983: 105). Gussow praised several aspects of the staging. Edgar and Edmund’s duel was ‘an instance of one of several freewheeling CSC interpretations. Mr. Martin leashes the brothers together with a short rope. They pull each other about as they grapple for their swords, a battle that is staged with a growing sense of danger’ (Gussow 1982a). He also observed that the director’s approach to the design was successful: ‘The bare brick wall at the rear of the stage is an effective backdrop. Scenery is scant and utilitarian, music is unobtrusive and the storm is reduced to a few flashes of light and offstage static’ (Gussow 1982a). In 1985, Martin left for a freelance career of directing, designing, composing and acting abroad. Carey Perloff was appointed artistic director in 1987 and produced twentieth-century plays by Bertolt Brecht, Harold Pinter and Samuel Beckett as well as other non-Shakespearean classics. David Esbjornson and Barry Edelstein continued this policy through 2003, when Brian Kulick took over and reintroduced Shakespeare into the repertory.

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Theatre for a New Audience Another New York theatre devoted to Shakespeare, the classics and new plays, was TFANA, founded in 1979 by Jeffrey Horowitz. He had studied at the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art. He admired the National Theatre, the Royal Shakespeare Company and the Group Theatre as dedicated theatre companies that established permanent companies, held long rehearsal periods and offered continuing training opportunities for the company. Not finding analogous models in New York, he started his own theatre that would ‘bring productions of Shakespeare, other classics from the world repertoire, and contemporary plays to a culturally diverse audience of all ages’ (Engle, Londre and Watermeier 1995: 252). To achieve his vision, he developed a company that was multi-ethnic and would ‘explore new ways of communicating classical texts to a contemporary audience’ (Engle, Londre and Watermeier 1995: 252). He built a theatre that would welcome his ensemble of emerging actors, playwrights, directors, designers and composers, a place that would sustain ‘their creativity by providing adequate development and rehearsal time and a program of ongoing training’ (Engle, Londre and Watermeier 1995: 252). He disagreed with the widespread notion that American actors are inept when performing Shakespeare. ‘With companies such as the 1930’s Group Theater, the American actors became known for physical and emotional power, but they were also labelled as inarticulate. This was nonsense. There is no one way or accent to speak Shakespeare. No one culture owns the classics.’ He believes that the actor is ‘the primary communicator of the author’s language’ (Hedges 2003). His company receives extensive feedback on their performance of the text. ‘The actor has to be able to express great language, to respond to its rhythm, the way a pianist has to train his or her fingers to play’ (Hedges 2003). He also believes the classics cannot exist in a vacuum, but must, not only reflect but also ‘resonate’ with the world today (Hedges 2003). Because ‘the classic theatre does not live in the past’, he avidly reads newspapers as well as the new plays he is considering for production (Hedges 2003). He continues to include productions of Shakespeare as part of his annual season. For the first four years of its existence, TFANA took performances to colleges and schools in the Northeast, performing ‘collages of scenes, soliloquies, and songs from Shakespeare’ (Engle, Londre and Watermeier 1995: 252). An opportunity for greater visibility came when they received an invitation to perform Amy Saltz’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream at The Public Theatre in 1984 – a seventy-five-minute version with eight actors. The production ‘incorporated masks, puppetry, and costumes designed by [Julie] Taymor. This production established TFANA’s reputation as one of off-Broadway’s up and coming companies’. After a season without Shakespeare, TFANA produced The Tempest along with Home Street Home, a musical satire in 1986. The Tempest,

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directed by unknown novice director Julie Taymor, was so well received that it was invited to perform at AST in Connecticut. TFANA seasons developed a pattern in which they offered one or two Shakespeare productions along with a new piece annually. TFANA’s nomadic company soon began producing ‘imaginative and always clear interpretations of Shakespeare’ regularly (Engle, Londre and Watermeier 1995: 253). Taymor directed her second production, The Taming of the Shrew, also to critical success. Stephen Holden lauded the company for speaking ‘Shakespeare’s verse with a down-to-earth conversational gusto that keeps the momentum at a brisk clip’ (1988). Barnes praised TFANA’s 1989 Macbeth, directed by Nicholas Mahon, as ‘simple, powerful, and direct – Shakespeare at its most unaffectedly effective’ (quoted in Engle, Londre and Watermeier 1995: 253). The cast featured two unknown actors, Joseph Ziegler and Nancy Palk, as the couple Macbeths. They had just come from the Stratford Festival of Canada. Beginning in 1990, Horowitz brought in several seasons of English directors, including William Gaskill (Othello – 1990; The Comedy of Errors – 1992), Bill Alexander (Romeo and Juliet – 1991), Barry Kyle (Henry V – 1993), Michael Langham (Love’s Labour’s Lost – 1993) and Mark Rylance (As You Like It – 1994). The New York Times thought Gaskill’s staging of Othello was clear-cut and uncomplicated. Hampton felt the pacing lent ‘urgency’ to the first half, but that it lagged somewhat in the latter portion of the play (1990). Langham cast many former students from Julliard in his Love’s Labour’s Lost. According to Gussow, it demonstrated a director and acting company in sync with one another – more so than other TFANA productions (1993). He also thought the director ‘orchestrated ardor … on this pun-filled and poetic landscape’ (Gussow 1993).

Julie Taymor TFANA’s most acclaimed productions were directed by Taymor, a director, designer and puppeteer. Her work was heavily influenced by foreign theatrical traditions, particularly those of Indonesia, India and Japan. Her background included a remarkable and eclectic blend of inspirations. At Oberlin College, she worked with the Bread and Puppet Theatre as well as with Herbert Blau’s Kraken. After obtaining her bachelor’s degree, she travelled to Eastern Europe, Indonesia and Japan and examined those cultures’ traditional and experimental theatre, including their ties to religion and shamanism. She investigated forms of puppetry in each country. From Jerzy Grotowski, she learnt to work with limited resources and how poor theatre can produce exciting productions. Her work with the Bread and Puppet Theatre also gave her skills to transcend physical limitations. Blau introduced her to the ‘ideograph’, a technique that she frequently used. He would distil a work down to a simple gesture or movement

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that then became the central motif or symbol for a piece. This was done through exercises in which the actors freely improvised to uncover what that gesture or movement might be. In Taymor’s words, it was ‘an essence, an abstraction. It’s boiling it right down to the most essential two [or] three brush strokes … one beautiful, little, sculptural, kinetic move. … It can operate in a naturalistic world, but heighten that naturalism to the point where it adds another layer’ (Schechner 1999: 39). In working with actors, she learnt that the results were powerful and could have considerable impact on the emerging production. She acknowledged that what the actor discovers ‘was not my idea; this was the actor’s idea’ (Schechner 1999: 39). Yet, she found that the ideograph would inform the production in surprising and fundamental ways. It becomes the concept that informs each encounter the characters have. ‘An ideograph is like a musical motif. And it’s the actors’ own unique, characterological relationship or thing’ (Schechner 1999: 39). She used this technique in her work with the actors on Titus Andronicus: For the first four or five days I didn’t have the actors work on characters. I say, ‘Okay, let’s really look at the themes of the piece, and whether it’s violence, racism, blah, blah, blah’. And then in an extremely abstract way, I have the actors create ideographs. What I find from those things, whether it’s for them or for me, is a visual style for the show that I can use and work in. It also helps them understand. And, it brings the actors together without too much competition: who’s the star, who’s this, who’s that? Instead, all of a sudden we’re all saying, ‘Why are we doing this piece?’ (Schechner 1999: 38) The approach helped her shape the intensity of the production. What many see as Taymor’s signature innovation was her use of puppets and puppetry. Using techniques from a variety of cultures, and masks suggesting characters’ iconic roots, her production designs exploited an exaggerated style, enormous scale disparities, imaginary surrealistic figures that can be seen as mythic and iconic representations, often using non-Western images and placed in non-Western stories. Most often, she did not use the mask to obscure the performer, but rather wanted the audience to see the actor underneath the mask, manipulating its mechanics. If the audience perceived how it was achieved, they would quickly accept the convention, stop watching the actor’s technical executions and become better able to immerse themselves into the world of the play. ‘Revealing the mechanics of the theatre creates its own alchemy, its rough magic, and the audience willingly plays “makebelieve”’ (Carson 2013: 468). Taymor’s Tempest was a jaunty ninety-five minutes. The opening sequence familiarized the audience with The Tempest’s world. It also established the

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production’s conventions. As the audience took their seats, the actor playing Prospero watched with the house lights fully up. Then: [He] paces in a circle, his long staff digging a path into the black sand. … At the top of the steep incline, the silhouette of a young girl … building a sand castle … Prospero suddenly turns upstage, his eyes riveted on a small white ship sailing across the horizon. … Prospero motions with this staff … two figures in black carrying two black garden watering cans run on-stage. One comes to Prospero, who stands in the middle of his circle, which is now delineated by light. The other runs to Miranda. They both begin to pour water from their cans. Ceremoniously Prospero cups his hands to receive the water, while Miranda watches the water descend upon her sand castle. By a simple shift of focus, the light … now illuminates only the falling water; it is raining. Prospero washes his hands and face … Miranda watches in dismay as the rainfall washes away her beautiful castle. The ship has by now sailed so close to Miranda that it appears to graze her shoulder. Prospero … with a violent gesture calls forth the tempest. (Blumenthal and Taymor 1995: 115) In this evocation of the opening sequence, the major components of Taymor’s production become evident. Prospero is the puppetmaster, ‘engineer of illusions’ (Carson 2013: 468). He works in light, and light signifies awareness, contemplation and empathy. The prologue has both mechanical and illusionary aspects to it. Victor Gluck jotted down some of his impressions. ‘Accompanied by other-earthly music … Ariel … arrives as a mask floating through the air, manipulated by an actress dressed in black with a hooded face (Asian style). The Shipwreck is enacted puppet style, with a white ship crossing the horizon, then sinking below it’ (1986: 9). Taymor’s Tempest also explored the relationship of actor to mask. The rendering of Ariel as a bunraku puppet was efficacious. ‘a delicate white head float[s] about the stage working magic on everyone until the final scene, which becomes deeply moving when, as Prospero frees the spirit, he also frees the puppeteer’ (Bruckner 1986). As a potent symbol of release, Prospero removed the mask that Ariel wore and then took off the black veil covering the actor playing Ariel. The actor walked silently through the audience and out of the theatre – a strong theatrical metaphor for freedom. The island’s other native inhabitant, Caliban, made a dramatic entrance by ‘pushing his way up through the sand as though ascending from a subterranean kingdom’ (Gluck 1986: 9). Peter Callender, an African American actor, portrayed Caliban. He was ‘encrusted in white chalk, his head encased in an egg-shaped mask’ (Gluck 1986: 9). In the scene where Trinculo and Stephano get him drunk (for his first time), Caliban broke his stone mask, revealing a face ‘with red lips and teeth’ (Gluck 1986: 9). From this point on, ‘his chalky exterior’ faded and he slowly revealed his true

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self (Gluck 1986: 9). Gluck also approved of a new illumination technique used by the production: ‘Lights of various colors and shapes … played on rows of invisible black curtains. As the curtains move … a ballet of light … seems to be floating in air.’ He found this new technique to be ‘hypnotic’ (Gluck 1986: 9). Stephano and Trinculo were played by actors with real clown experience (the Barnum and Bailey kind) noted Bruckner, and ‘the outlandish conduct of the knaves … exactly suit[ed] their commedia dell’arte masks and costumes’ (1986). Bruckner thought the production ‘fresh, intelligent and elegant’ (1986). He complained that the production text reduced ‘the complications … along with many of its exuberant speeches’, but appreciated the way Taymor ‘preserved the rhythms and balances of the fantastic story, along with Shakespeare’s language’ and underscored ‘the play’s kind, healing spirit’ (Bruckner 1986). In 1994, Taymor directed a stage production of Titus Andronicus; in 1999, she directed a film version. While the theatre version was performed in a small theatre (TFANA) in a limited run, the film – widely available – gained considerable attention. It also increased awareness of her stage version, with which it was frequently compared in a number of interviews with the director as well as in national reviews. Taymor shared that, upon first reading Titus Andronicus, she did not care for the play, but that response changed: ‘If you direct Shakespeare, you fall in love. It has to happen. You learn it while you’re doing it’ (Johnson-Haddad 2000: 34). With her eclectic design choices, Taymor set her stage production in several eras, including ancient Rome, 1930s Fascist Italy and 1950s Americana. She also used contemporary elements, such as costuming Chiron and Demetrius as 1990s skinheads. Characters wore heterogeneous outfits, reflecting distinct behaviours distilled from each scene translated into an iconic look. Titus, for example, initially wore Roman warrior garb, then a 1950s high military (general’s) coat, later a cardigan sweater, still later a bathrobe and finally a chef’s outfit for the final scene. The production was staged behind a gold frame with a red curtain in a small space without a proscenium. A 1950s formica-topped kitchen table was used variously, including as a table for the boy’s play with the soldiers in the prologue, then as an altar and finally as the banquet table at the end. A bathtub was similarly employed; it became a place for ritual washing; then later it was Bassanio’s pit; still later it was used for Titus’ bath. The music, ‘heavy on dissonant fanfares’, was performed ‘by three carnival musicians who added a touch of Fellini’ (Richards 1994). Taymor’s purpose in doing Titus was to explore the role of violence in society, the way it repeats over and over through the ages. She wanted to comment on the way barbarity has been portrayed in contemporary films and media, that Titus Andronicus ‘would be an antidote to the make-believe blood and guts of most modern movies’ (Stanley 1998). She also argued that violence in Titus has a present-day relevance to our own world as we

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continually deal with bloodshed and carnage in such conflicts as Bosnia ‘or whatever the latest outrage is’ (Schechner 1999: 45). The treatment of violence in Titus is unique in Shakespeare’s work. ‘You don’t think about the violence in Richard III. It just happens and it goes’ (Schechner 1999: 45). And the degree of the violence in this play is also distinctive: ‘The violence is so … gruesome. Cutting off hands, and tongues, and rape. It’s not just smothering your wife with a pillow’ (Schechner 1999: 45). For Taymor, violence is the core of the piece: ‘Violence as war. Condoned violence. Ritual sacrifice. Then it has father-to-son violence, which is the patriarch thing. Violence as an act of passion and anger, accepted because it was an irrational act of passion. Then violence as art, which is what Aaron does when he thinks about the art of violence’ (Schechner 1999: 45). She also believes that ‘if there’s any Shakespeare play that really speaks to what’s going on today, with race and violence, this is it’ (Johnson-Haddad 2000: 34). She sees the story as being about ‘a good man, powerful man, your chief of state. You want him to be your president. But he behaves exactly the same as the worst of the worst’ (Schechner 1999: 45–6). In previous productions, she would stylize the violence as a way to dissociate the audience from the enactment of it. This allowed them to ‘receive it’ on several levels. ‘Their minds and hearts are affected instead of their gut’ (Blumenthal and Taymor 1995: 186). She found insinuation is more disturbing than reality. But with Titus, there was so much violence on and off the stage that she wondered about exploring two approaches within the same production. After all, ‘a good display of stage blood spurting forth will engage [the audience’s] bodies, sending their adrenaline rushing’ (Blumenthal and Taymor 1995: 186). She decided she would pursue ‘both reactions … both inside and outside the events, reeling with the horror in their bellies and challenged with the dilemmas in their minds. I also wanted the audience to experience the danger and unease of not knowing what form the acts would take’ (Blumenthal and Taymor 1995: 186–7). Consequently, she included stylization of violence and a realistic representation of violence in the same production. This became her concept and permeated every element of Titus, ‘from design to choreography to actors’ performances’ (Blumenthal and Taymor 1995: 187). She added what she calls ‘penny arcade nightmares’ (or PANs) to the play’s text. These are brief inserted moments – short scenes that are not always in Shakespeare’s play, and frequently illustrate the results of the extreme violence in a scene. One such example is a striking visual of Lavinia after the rape. She stands on a pedestal, in a blood-stained shift, wearing gloves that have twigs for fingers. Instead of a literal depiction of her rape and mutilation, Chiron and Demetrius operate puppet tigers that attack Lavinia  – a metaphor for the violence she has experienced rather than a literal depiction of it. In the concluding ‘score-settling’ banquet scene, ‘the actors [are] in pristine dinner dress, the better to show off the geysers of blood’. Richards

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described the ending. ‘A hooded executioner casually passes among the dead bodies, covering them with sheets of dirty plastic. In this production, as in the play itself, gore is all. There are no grand speeches, no flights of poetry, only revenge begetting revenge begetting revenge’ (Richards 1994). Taymor created a gold frame for the production and used a red curtain. The establishment of a frame allowed her to connect the PANs – used throughout the piece – to vaudeville theatres and ‘revenge theatricals of old’. It provided a ‘traditional framing device’ through which the audience can observe the action and know ‘this relationship to the play will not change’ (Blumenthal and Taymor 1995: 198). However, she also believes Shakespeare plays have this ‘tension between the audience as objective observers and subjective participants in the drama’ (Blumenthal and Taymor 1995: 198). It can be seen most readily in soliloquies and scenes with asides. It also exists in the concurrence of comedy/farce with serious drama in the plays. It requires Shakespeare’s audience quickly shift their involvement with the piece as each moment demands. Taymor’s productions at TFANA were on a small stage, requiring innovative and striking solutions. She became known for uniquely blending theatrical techniques, styles, time periods and symbols from multiple sources. Her productions generally privileged imagery over language. The style was often exaggerated and anthropological. Her work with puppetry and masks was innovative and distinctive, influenced by theatrical traditions of several non-Western cultures to convey stories steeped in cultural mythologies, ritualized cycles and political issues. Productions employed striking theatrical means to portray light, air, earth, water, fire, nature and life cycles. Her work had considerable influence on the re-theatricalization of the theatre movement of the late 1980s and 1990s.

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The first American directors of Shakespeare began by justifying the very existence of a director. Their new profession challenged traditional power structures. Strong personalities, commanding directions and submissive players were necessary in order to implement changes to the system that would accommodate a director. Almost immediately, significant differences were introduced to the rehearsal room. These alterations included who was in charge of that room, instilling an arduous work ethic in a company and demanding actors become vulnerable in rehearsals – not wait for the inspiration of performance – to reveal what they intended to do. Daly introduced systematic and specific examination of scenes and moments, abjuring the old system’s rough blocking of a scene. Everyone in the rehearsal room operated under the same rules. This was a significant change from before, where the system had some rules for more important players and another set for subsidiary actors. Throughout this history, one can identify two opposing methodologies to directing Shakespeare. The first is to exploit contemporary resources and the latest technology to translate Shakespeare’s texts to a given time period’s audiences, to use every theatrical practice at one’s disposal in bringing Shakespeare’s works alive for present-day audiences. Guthrie endorsed this approach and argued that it is impossible for us to ever know what Shakespeare really intended. His advice was not to waste any time trying. Rather, directors should employ any available means to enliven the play to speak more fully to contemporary audiences. Daly was the first to do this, preparing visually romantic and nostalgic productions with songs and music, inserted here and there. Belasco was concerned about achieving the proper atmosphere and stage pictures, using the latest scenery and lighting equipment to accomplish his aims. Welles was obsessed with portraying the correct look and feel of a production, such as in his Haitian ‘Voodoo Macbeth’. Since the mid-twentieth century, other directors who followed this practice include Rabb, Kahn, Turner, O’Brien, Ball, Antoon, Ciulei, Wright, Gaines Akalaitis and Taymor. The second method examines Shakespeare’s texts, as well as what is known about Elizabethan theatre practices. These are combed for clues as to how the plays were presented in Shakespeare’s day. The director’s goal is to

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employ these customs in order to uncover Shakespeare’s dramaturgy so that current audiences can appreciate his plays performed within something akin to the original context. It assumes we can discern Shakespeare’s production intentions through establishing an intimate relationship with his texts, and that those texts contain the means and methods to performing them. Adherents abjure contemporary technology, lighting and scenic practices in a recreation of sixteenth- and early-seventeenth-century staging practices. Payne promoted these ideas, experimenting at Carnegie Mellon University with what he had learnt from Poel. He subsequently proselytized his methods to any who would listen, lecturing across the country at universities, spreading the use of Elizabethan staging conventions. He would inspire one of his students, Bowmer, to dedicate his career to pursing these ideals at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. Payne also played a part in the founding of the Old Globe, which adhered to similar goals in the first years of its existence. A second wave of original practice devotees sprang up in the 1980s. Focus on how best to achieve original practice has been justified by each theatre’s unique circumstances and goals. For Jeff Watkins at Atlanta Shakespeare Company, the driving force has been economic: less expense for sets and costumes, and a primary concern for making money, just as the Lord Chamberlain’s Men had done. For Ralph Alan Cohen at the American Shakespeare Centre, it began as an aesthetic exercise, with a touring group of young actors performing forgotten values in original performance conditions essential to Shakespeare’s dramaturgy. Techniques included performing at a rapid pace, allowing no pauses between lines, wearing contemporary clothing and reducing sets to a few blocks. The recreation of the Blackfriars Theatre, which opened in 2001 in Staunton, Virginia, has taken their approach to a new level. They use the same performance rules as before in an indoor Elizabethan playhouse that does not change from production to production. Interestingly, the theatre opened a few years after London’s Globe Theatre was built. The two theatres explore original practices on facsimile stages on both sides of the Atlantic. While original practice is concerned with exploring Elizabethan staging practices, there are limits to the extent to which they employ them. Almost no one is using the Elizabethan theatrical conventions of boys playing females, eliminating all intermissions and exclusively lighting the productions with daylight or candles, as Shakespeare’s theatre did. There are other values that can be traced through the history of directing Shakespeare in America. They will repeat in the work of a director over a series of productions, and often recur throughout their career. Related to the original practice approach, but distinct from it, is a language- and text-centred approach involving close scrutiny of the text, for which there is tremendous reverence. The intent is to come as close as possible to capturing Shakespeare’s intentions for performing the text as recorded in ‘received’ texts – those texts that have come down to us from Shakespeare’s time. Bowmer subscribed to this idea of an intimate

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examination of the scripts for performance clues. Additionally, Payne influenced the Old Globe with a similar approach. Noel hired Payne to help ensure continued success of the San Diego Shakespeare Festival. But, Hopkins also held the text in great esteem and Webster believed textual fidelity was important to her work. She directed Shakespeare’s complete uncut Hamlet in the 1940s, which had probably never been done before in New York. Textual fidelity was also important to Fletcher, Guthrie, Stuart Vaughan, Freedman, Lamos and Cohen. Interestingly, postmodernists Akalaitis and Appel revered Shakespeare’s texts. Akalaitis changed very little in her controversial Cymbeline and Appel decided to base an entire production of King Lear strictly on the First Folio text. Gaines and Packer, two directors interested in powerful representations of women on stage, have also demonstrated considerable esteem for the text. Each generation’s tastes have dictated excisions and transpositions. A long tradition of textual manipulation to suit present needs reaches back to the seventeenth century. That tradition was not lost on the first American director, Daly. He commissioned Winter to adapt the received texts. He sought a clean untroubled Shakespeare script that would insult no one. Changing the text became a prevalent practice throughout Daly’s career. Belasco altered the order of scenes for his Merchant of Venice in order to accommodate his scenic vision of realistic depiction of real places on stage. Papp, obsessed with reaching a diverse New York City audience, prepared his revolutionary Naked Hamlet in 1967 for a new generation. Welles had done a similar thing with his fascist Julius Caesar in the 1930s. Both productions focused on contemporary parallels and technological innovation and both freely rearranged, adapted and commented on the received text, reducing playing time to 90  minutes or less. Neither was much concerned with language nor Shakespeare’s thematic ideas, except as it served their contemporizing purposes. Papp juxtaposed styles and introduced elements of pop culture – perhaps creating the first American postmodern Shakespeare. Such innovative directors as Ciulei and Taymor have continued along similar paths of exploration, using varying and distinctively different production elements. Rabb, Kahn (especially in his early career), Ball, Antoon and O’Brien also made changes to Shakespeare’s text in order to accommodate their particular vision. Directors have adopted traditional English methods of approaching Shakespeare through analysis of the text’s rhetoric and thoughts, scansion of his poetry and scrutiny of his prose. A related focus for these directors is instilling in an acting company effective means of vocal production (regardless of size of auditorium), stillness in delivery, appropriate physical comportment, correct tempo-rhythms and effective emphasis of imagery. Directors that subscribed to these values include Webster, Woronicz, Maddox, Guthrie, Gaines, Coe and Lamos. Some directors believe they should apply a specifically American sensibility to Shakespeare production. They highlight behaviour, physicality,

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subtext, method acting, sense memory and the emotional nature of images. A continuing thread can be seen in the work of Hopkins, Welles, Houseman, Ball, O’Brien and Antoon. It can also be identified in Papp’s directing, although he adamantly rejects ‘the method’ as an effective means of exploring Shakespeare. A strongly physical approach to acting is argued in the work of Hopkins, Welles, Papp, Ball, O’Brien, Packer and Ciulei. A nagging concern has been, how to unite the strengths of both native physical prowess and emotional freedom with the traditions and skill of English actors that have been handed down, generation after generation. An attempt to marry the English and American practices is a focus for Webster, Rabb, Ball, Wright, Packer and Horowitz. Still another value centres on proper pronunciation of Shakespeare’s text. American directors have argued for a more indigenous informal pronunciation of the text, even embracing regional differences. They wish to avoid such artificial approaches as mid-Atlantic pronunciation (which is based on the idea that actors should neither speak with purely English accents nor American, but locate a sound somewhere in the middle). Papp, Vaughan, Ball, Antoon and Packer are strong advocates against mid-Atlantic and proponents of idiomatic pronunciation. Related to the issue of pronunciation is achieving the proper temporhythm in performance. Many directors favour a general rapid delivery of text, and using a slower tempo for emphasis in select places. Directors advocating this viewpoint are Webster, Guthrie, S. Vaughan, Rabb, Ciulei and Lamos. The need to establish spatial intimacy when performing Shakespeare is particularly important for Webster, Guthrie, Vaughan and Horowitz. They note that the Elizabethan playhouses had this intimacy and it is an essential feature of Shakespeare’s dramaturgy. One reading of the history of the American Shakespeare Festival Theatre (AST) is that it was a movement towards increasing audience–actor intimacy within an architectural space that ignored it. Another theme is how directors work with actors. The early history reveals that the first directors dictated almost exclusively. But by the 1920s and starting with Hopkins, continuing through Ball and Rabb, directors were advocating an opposite approach. They sought to create a safe atmosphere for actors to be vulnerable in rehearsal. One can trace both schools of thought forward through the 1990s and into the present century. A desire to comment on the text can be seen in Papp’s Naked Hamlet (as discussed earlier). The belief that there are no neutral productions – the director must bring a point of view to the production; Ciulei’s work that combines traditional with new in environmental settings; Akalaitis’ Cymbeline that mixes time periods and styles; Taymor’s Tempest and Titus Andronicus that fuses, not only styles and time periods, but also cultural symbols.

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Undoubtedly, readers will find additional strains and connections that escape me presently. The history of directing Shakespeare in America has been a fractious one. It is not a straightforward development of ideas and approaches to directing, the work of one director building upon another. Frequently, the same ideas and methods are repeated, rediscovered, with directors often unaware that their ‘new idea’ has been done before and has a history. In pursuing their goals, practitioners usually work in isolation across the vast expanse of this country. Seeing each other’s work has, for the most part, been out of the question. Even when working in New York City, the demands of running a theatre or keeping a freelance career going have isolated directors from regular attendance at the work of their peers. They can read about it, or watch clips online, but it is not the same as experiencing the production live. Thus, directors are not always aware of what their contemporaries are doing. They also have been, for the most part, ignorant of what previous generations have achieved. I can find no better rationale for this book.

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INDEX

The Acting Company  86, 104, 112, 126, 177 actor-manager system  5–7 Adams, Fred  153–4 African American Shakespeare Company  148 Akalaitis, Joanne  121, 141–6 artistic director, The Public  146 Cymbeline  142–5 Mabou Mines  141–2 Alabama Shakespeare Festival (ASF)  147, 148, 161–4 bold and risky approach  161–2 founding and early history  161–3 Platt, Martin  161–4 Sherman, Geoffrey  164 Thompson, Kent  164 traditional approach  162–4 Alexander, Rod  51, 52 The Comedy of Errors  51 Love’s Labour’s Lost  52 All’s Well That Ends Well  66, 100, 138, 151 American Conservatory Theatre (ACT)  184 American Players Theatre (APT)  147, 169–72 Bright, Charles J.  169 founding the theatre  169 Kim, Randall Duk  169–71 Occhiogrosso, Anne  169–70 Ollerman, Fred  17 American Shakespeare Theatre (AST)  3, 8, 9, 85–112, 113, 126, 130, 147, 177, 183, 191, 199, 210, 220 Carey, Denis  87

Coe, Peter  104, 109–12, 148, 219 Ernotte, Andre  109 Fletcher, Allen  94–5 founding and early history  85–7 Freedman, Gerald  104–9, 112 Houseman, John  87–92 Kahn, Michael  95–104, 112 Landau, Jack  8, 85, 87–94 Langner, Lawrence  85–7 Ter-Arutunian, Rouben  90, 91 Ane Satyre of the Thrie Estaitis  79 Antioch Shakespeare Festival  147, 149, 183 Antony and Cleopatra  6, 92, 101 Antoon, A. J.  121, 134–8, 217, 219 Cymbeline  134 A Midsummer Night’s Dream  134 Much Ado About Nothing  134–5 The Taming of the Shrew  135 Appel, Libby  37, 64, 157, 219 Troilus and Cressida  157 Aquila Theatre  148 As You Like It  7, 10, 11, 28, 65, 66, 104, 115, 122, 161, 163, 187, 210 Association of Producing Artists (APA)  199, 202, 203 Atlanta Shakespeare Festival  148 Ball, William  64, 67, 68, 148, 183–6, 217, 219, 220 American Conservatory Theatre  184–5 character system of wants  185 Hamlet  67, 184 King Richard III  184 production metaphor  185

240

A Sense of Direction  185 The Taming of the Shrew  184–5 The Tempest  183–4 treating actors with respect  185 Twelfth Night  68, 183, 184 The Winter’s Tale  184 Barry, Paul  158–61 Coriolanus  158 Cymbeline  158 essential practices for directing  160–1 integrity of playwright’s intent  160 A Lifetime with Shakespeare  160–1 rehearsal scheduling  161 Shakespeare Globe Centre award  161 The Two Noble Kinsmen  159–60 Timon of Athens  159 unfolding action  161 The War of the Roses (1, 2, 3 Henry VI, Richard III)  159 Barrymore, John  17, 20–2, 29, 30 Barton, John  165, 173 Belasco, David  5, 13–17, 19, 20, 217, 219 anti-Elizabethan conventions  14 elaborate stage business  14–15 lighting  13, 15 The Merchant of Venice  13–15 pictorial authenticity  14 recreating naturalistic details  16 rehearsal process  16 three-dimensional scenery  15 Blackfriars Theatre  218 Bowmer, Angus  37, 42, 43–9, 50, 52, 53, 55, 64, 83, 84, 149, 153, 218 against cutting texts  47 founding of Oregon Shakespeare Festival  43–4 Hamlet  44–5, 47 importance of script analysis  46, 49 influence of Allen Fletcher  48 influence of B. Iden Payne  44–7 influence of James Sandoe  48–9 The Merchant of Venice  49

I ndex

producing all ten history plays  49 production prompt books  47–8 Richard III  45 text as source for staging clues  44–6 Broadway  13, 20, 23, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 35, 86, 88, 99, 111, 112, 113, 114, 117, 131, 135, 138, 195, 199, 200, 202 Brook, Peter  47, 162, 172, 189 Caesar: The Death of a Dictator  22, 23–4 California Shakespeare Festival  148, 195 Call, Edward Payson  70–2 2 Henry IV  70–1 Troilus and Cressida  72 Calvert, Louis  6 Carnovsky, Morris  67, 89, 90, 94, 96, 120, 183 Chicago Shakespeare Theatre (CST)  147, 148, 172–6 founding and early history  172 Gaines, Barbara  172–6 King John  175 The Tale of Cymbeline  173, 174, 175 Troilus and Cressida  172–3, 175 WorldStage Series  172 Chimes at Midnight  27 Ciulei, Liviu  183, 186–91, 217, 219, 220 As You Like It  187 blocking and staging  187 finding dramatic core and convey  187 goal: unsettle audiences  190 Hamlet  186, 187–8 A Midsummer Night’s Dream  187, 189–90 The Tempest  187, 188–9 Twelfth Night  187 Classic Stage Company (CSC)  199, 207–8 Edelstein, Barry  208 Esbjornson, David  208 Kulick, Brian  208 Martin, Christopher  207–8

Index

Perloff, Carey  208 theatre space  208 Classical Theatre of Harlem  148 Coe, Peter  104, 109–12, 148, 219 adapting Elizabethan facsimile stage  109 authentically interpreted Shakespeare  109 conceptually interpreted Shakespeare  111 Hamlet  111 1 Henry IV  111 Henry V  109–10 Othello  110–11 Cohen, Ralph Allen  218, 219 Colorado Shakespeare Festival (CSF)  113, 147, 149–53 Cobin, Martin  152 Cohen, Robert  150, 151 completion of the canon  149 Crouch, J. H.  149 Devin, Richard  152–3 founding and early history  149–51 Gaffney, Paul  151–2 Glover, William  150 Kahn, Michael  150, 151 Knaub, Richard  149 Knight, David  151 Markus, Tom  150 Mitchell, Ronald E.  150 Orr, Timothy  153 Sandoe, James  149 Sneed, Philip  153 Yang, Daniel S. P.  150–3 The Comedy of Errors  51, 65, 66, 67, 73, 127–8, 151, 210 Coriolanus  26, 55–6, 69, 95, 115, 133, 154–5, 158, 200–1 Cusack, Joan  144–5 cuts and cutting  6, 8, 12, 24, 27, 33–4, 42, 47, 58, 61, 62, 66, 70, 74, 78, 92, 94, 98, 110, 111, 138, 154, 159, 160, 162, 163, 167, 174, 185, 186, 189, 203 Cymbeline  134, 142–5, 149, 158, 163, 173–5 196–7, 219, 220

241

Daly, Augustin  2, 5, 7–13, 16, 17, 19, 20, 24, 121, 217, 219 As You LIke It  7, 10, 11–12 break with antiquated practices  8 first rehearsals  9 flaws in his approach with actors  10 goal: make Shakespeare attractive  7 The Merry Wives of Windsor  8, 10, 11 A Midsummer Night’s Dream  8, 10, 11 partnership with Winter  8 search for logical behaviour  9–10 The Taming of the Shrew  8, 10, 11 Twelfth Night  8, 10, 12 Delacorte Theatre  114, 115, 131, 135, 138 Dewhurst, Colleen  120, 121 Edmondson, Jim  37, 57–60 1 Henry IV  59 Henry V  57 Macbeth  59–60 Much Ado About Nothing  59 Romeo and Juliet  58–9 The Two Gentlemen of Verona  156 Evans, Maurice  28, 29, 30, 86 Ferrer, Jose  30, 31, 86, 131 First Folio  29, 33, 56, 60, 173–4, 219 Five Kings  22, 23, 24, 26–7 Fletcher, Allen  37, 48, 67, 68, 85–95, 112, 148, 219 characters as human beings  94 clear story  94 Coriolanus  95 Hamlet  67 King Lear  67, 94–5 loose eclecticism  95 The Merchant of Venice  67–8 Folger Shakespeare Theatre  x, 112, 148, 176, 177 Freedman, Gerald  104–9, 112, 121, 126–30, 219 The Comedy of Errors  127–8

242

communicate playwright’s intentions  105 Hamlet  130 Henry IV (Parts 1 and 2)  129–30 Julius Caesar  106–7 modern, uncluttered production look  104–5 music and Shakespeare  105–6 relationships and behaviour  105 The Taming of the Shrew  127 The Tempest  107–9 Titus Andronicus  128–9 Twelfth Night  105–6 Freeman, Morgan  115, 120, 137 Gaffney, Paul  151–2 The Merry Wives of Windsor  151–2 Gaines, Barbara  172–6, 178, 179, 217, 219 female character treatment  174–5 First Folio Technique  173–4 focus on human behaviour  173 King John  175 Measure for Measure  175 plays in dialogue with contemporary world  174 prologues and epilogues  175 soliloquies  175 Richard III  175 The Tale of Cymbeline  173, 174, 175 Troilus and Cressida  172–3 Great Lakes Theatre Festival  112, 126, 147 Guthrie Theatre  80, 82, 83, 187, 188, 189, 191, 192 Guthrie, Tyrone  3, 47, 65, 79–84, 148, 185, 192, 196, 217, 219, 220 on actor’s technique, delivery, pacing  83–4 as artistic director  80–2 Guthrie Theatre  80–2 Hamlet  80–2 open stage theatres  79–83 rehearsals  82 Stratford Shakespeare Festival  80 The Taming of the Shrew  82 Troilus and Cressida  82

I ndex

Hamlet  17, 20–2, 28, 29–30, 32, 44, 47–8, 66, 67, 73–4, 78, 79, 80–2, 105, 111, 115, 116, 117, 118, 120, 130, 145, 149, 171, 172, 184, 186, 187, 188, 189, 191, 192, 195, 196, 199, 201, 202, 203, 207, 219, 220 Harlem Shakespeare Festival  148 Henry IV  73, 129, 191, 192, 193 1 Henry IV  30, 59, 111, 115, 156, 201, 207 2 Henry IV  22, 49, 63, 70, 99, 129–30, 150, 158, 201, 207 Henry V  9, 22, 49, 57, 62, 64, 82, 97, 98, 99, 104, 109, 110, 115, 117, 121, 124, 138, 140, 159, 170, 191, 192, 193, 207, 210 Henry VI 49, 62, 123, 157, 178 1 Henry VI  49, 53 2 Henry VI  49 3 Henry VI  49, 61, 178 Henry VIII  28, 30, 49, 66 Hepburn, Katherine  86, 89, 90, 92, 122 Hill, Roger  22, 23 The Hollow Crown Trilogy  207 Hopkins, Arthur  5, 17–22, 219, 220 an absence of direction  17–18 complete veracity in behaviour  18 goal: to engage unconscious mind  17–18 Hamlet  20–2 rehearsal process  19–20 work with actors 18–20 Horowitz, Jeffrey  209–10, 220 Houseman, John  23, 25, 87–92, 100, 104, 112, 165, 200–1, 220 American Shakespeare Theatre  87–92 Coriolanus  200–1 goal: ‘lively’ ‘seductive’ productions  87 Julius Caesar  87 Measure for Measure  88–9 Merry Wives of Windsor (co-director)  89, 91 Much Ado About Nothing (co-director)  89, 90

Index

performance and company characteristics  88 Phoenix Theatre  200–1 The Winter’s Tale  87 Houston Shakespeare Festival  148 Idaho Shakespeare Festival  148 Jones, James Earl  110–11, 115, 120, 131, 132–4 Judith Shakespeare Company  148, 149 Juliá, Raul  115, 120, 138–9 Julius Caesar  22, 23, 27, 30, 56, 66, 80, 87, 101, 103, 107, 108, 121, 123, 146, 149, 154, 207, 219 Kahn, Michael  95–104, 105, 112, 148, 151, 161, 176, 177, 178, 179, 180, 181, 191, 217, 219 American Shakespeare Theatre  95–104 All’s Well That Ends Well  100 Antony and Cleopatra  101 As You Like It  103–4 confronting audiences  97–9 Henry V  97–9 Julius Caesar  101 Love’s Labour’s Lost  96–7 Macbeth  101, 102 marriage of spoken word with physical techniques  99 Measure for Measure  101–2 The Merchant of Venice  95–6 non-conceptual/interpretive approach  101–3 Othello  100–1 revisionist views  95 Richard II  96 Romeo and Juliet  103 The Winter’s Tale  103 Shakespeare Theatre Company  177–81 actor’s view of rehearsals  180–1 American actors and verse  180 handling design challenges  179 King Lear  177

243

Measure for Measure  178–9 nonverbal business and signs  177–8 plays that personally resonate  179 possible settings for Shakespeare  179 Richard III  177 ‘rousing’ an audience before intermission  178 Twelfth Night  177 use of prologues to set/frame action  178 Keach, Stacy  64, 130, 176, 177, 178 Kentucky Shakespeare Festival  147 Kim, Randall Duk  169–72 A Midsummer Night’s Dream  169 Hamlet (Hamlet)  171 Love’s Labour’s Lost (co-director)  170 Merry Wives of Windsor (Falstaff)  170 Romeo and Juliet  169 King John  49, 123, 175 King Lear  51, 60, 67, 76–7, 94–5, 131, 150, 162, 177, 191, 194, 203, 207, 208, 219 Kline, Kevin  73, 120, 140, 187 Kott, Jan  95, 96, 162 Lamos, Mark  73–4, 183, 195–9, 219, 220 Cymbeline  196–7 Hamlet  195–6 Hartford Stage  195, 196–8 Pericles  198–9 speaking Shakespearean language  199 thematic architecture of a play  199 Twelfth Night  197–8 Landau, Jack  85, 87–94, 153 Antony and Cleopatra  92 investigate plays in terms of our own time  92 Macbeth  94 A Midsummer Night’s Dream  89, 91

244

The Merchant of Venice  89, 90–1 Merry Wives of Windsor (co-director)  89, 91 Much Ado About Nothing (co-director)  89–90 Troilus and Cressida  92–4 Langham, Michael  148, 153, 210 Langner, Lawrence  85, 86, 87 Leach, Wilford  121, 138–41 All’s Well That Ends Well  138 Henry V  138, 140–1 Othello  138, 139–40 The Taming of the Shrew  138–9 Twelfth Night  138 Lewis, James  8 Life and Death of Falstaff  66 Lincoln Centre  199, 203–6 Repertory Theatre of  203–6 Linklater, Kristin  165, 166, 168 Long Beach Shakespeare Company  148 Long, Andrew  180–1 Loper, Robert  51–2 King Lear  51 Romeo and Juliet  52 Los Angeles Women’s Shakespeare Company  148, 149 Love’s Labour’s Lost  10, 13, 52, 96, 104, 150–1, 154, 164, 170, 210 Macbeth  17, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24–5, 26, 27, 28, 30, 52, 59–60, 61–2, 66, 69–70, 94, 101, 102, 105, 121, 131, 134, 151, 162, 166–7, 172, 207, 210, 217 Madden, Donald  201–2 Maddox, Diana  71, 219 Measure for Measure  71 Marin Shakespeare Company  148 Martin, Christopher  207–8 Classic Stage Company  207–8 Hamlet  207 1 Henry IV  207 2 Henry IV  207 The Hollow Crown Trilogy  207 Julius Caesar  207 King Lear  207, 208

I ndex

Macbeth  207 Measure for Measure  207 The Merchant of Venice  207 A Midsummer Night’s Dream  207 Pericles  207 Richard II  207 Titus Andronicus  207 Twelfth Night  207 Measure for Measure  38, 53–4, 67, 71, 80, 88, 101–2, 115, 118–19, 121, 124, 156, 175, 178–9, 207 The Merchant of Venice  13, 14, 23, 28, 40, 43, 49, 67, 80, 89, 90–1, 95–6, 104, 131, 155, 170, 203, 204–6, 207, 219 The Merry Wives of Windsor  8, 10, 11, 66, 89, 91, 151–2, 170, 177 A Midsummer Night’s Dream  8, 10, 11, 28, 66, 68–9, 70, 74–5, 77–8, 79, 89, 91, 135, 150, 155, 169, 187, 189–90, 207, 209 Mobile Spanish Theatre  114 Moiseiwitsch, Tanya  80, 192 Montana Shakespeare in the Parks  148 Morris, Clara  9–10 Much Ado About Nothing  10, 13, 38–9, 59, 66, 67, 89, 90, 117, 135–7, 162 Naked Hamlet  11–17, 120–1, 145, 219, 220 A Noise Within  148 Nebraska Shakespeare Festival  148 New Jersey Shakespeare Festival  148, 158–161 Barry, Paul  158–61 founding and early history  158 Monte, Bonnie  161 New Orleans Shakespeare Festival  148 New York Shakespeare Festival  3, 104, 113–46, 147 Akalaitis, JoAnne  121, 141–6, 217, 219, 220

Index

Antoon, A. J.  121, 134–8, 217, 219, 220 Freedman, Gerald  104–9, 112, 121, 126–30 Leach, Wilford  121, 138–41 Papp, Joe  104, 113–21, 124, 131, 132–3, 134, 138,142, 145, 146, 161, 177, 199, 219, 220 actors and culture  114, 119–21 control as a producer  115, 132 diversity in casting  114–15 free Shakespeare in the Park  113–14 Vaughan, Gladys  121, 131–4 Vaughan, Stuart  121–6, 200, 201, 219, 220 Noel, Craig  65–7, 72, 73, 84, 148, 153, 219 The Two Gentlemen of Verona  72 North Carolina Shakespeare Festival  148 O’Brien, Jack  67, 73–79, 84, 217, 219, 220 The Old Globe The Comedy of Errors  73 Hamlet  73–4, 78 Henry IV  73 King Lear  76–7 A Midsummer Night’s Dream  74–5, 77–8 Othello  77 Romeo and Juliet  75–6 Occhiogrosso, Anne  169, 170–1 Hamlet (co-director)  171 The Merchant of Venice (co-director)  170–1 Old Globe  3, 43, 65–79, 94, 113, 148, 183, 218, 219 abbreviated Shakespeare plays  66 Call, Edward Payson  70–2 Christmas, Eric  70 Fortune Players  66 Jackson, Nagle  64, 70 Katselas, Milton  69 Maddux, Diana  71 Noel, Craig  65–73 O’Brien, Jack  73–9

245

Payne, B. Iden  65–7 Rabb, Ellis  67, 68–71 San Diego Community Theatre  66 San Diego Shakespeare Festival  66–73, 147, 153, 183, 219 Shapiro, Mel  69, 148 Sullivan, Daniel, Othello  71–2 Old Globe Players  65–6 Ollerman, Fred  170–1 Love’s Labour’s Lost (co-director)  170 The Merchant of Venice (co-director)  170 Oregon Shakespeare Festival  x, 3, 37, 43–64, 113, 147, 218 Alexander, Rod  51–2 Bowmer, Angus  43–9 Edmondson, Jim  57–60 Loper, Robert  51, 52 Patton, Pat  60–3 Payne, B. Iden  37–43 Risso, Richard  51, 52 Stanley, Audrey  57–8, 60 Turner, Jerry  37, 52–7 Williamson, Laird  57, 60, 64 Woronicz, Henry  63–4 Orlando Shakespeare Theatre  148 Othello  30–1, 35, 71–2, 77, 100–1, 109, 110–11, 115, 131–3, 138, 139–40, 141, 210 Packer, Tina  164–9, 219, 220 The Tempest  168 The Winter’s Tale  168 Papp, Joseph  3, 104, 113–21, 124, 131, 132–3, 134, 138, 142, 145, 146, 161, 177, 199, 219, 220 As You Like It  115 Hamlet (with Diane Venora)  115, 118 1 Henry IV  115 Henry V  115, 117–18 Measure for Measure  115, 118–19 ‘The Method and William Shakespeare’  119–20 Naked Hamlet  115–17 paradox: discipline and infinite variation  120

246

Patton, Pat  37, 60–3 Henry V  62 3 Henry VI  61 Henry VI  62 King Lear  60–1 Macbeth  61–2 Payne, B. Iden  6–7, 37–43, 45, 46, 47, 51, 65, 66, 67, 83, 84, 149, 218, 219 cutting texts  42 director’s responsibilities  38 The First Part of Henry the Fourth  42 Measure for Measure  38 modified Eizabethan method  37–42 parts of the theatre  40–1 work with actors  42–3 zones of influence and staging  40–1 Pennsylvania Shakespeare Festival  148 Pericles  198–9, 207 Phoenix Theatre  124, 199, 200–2, 203 Houseman, John  200–1 Vaughan, Stuart  200–2 Platt, Martin L.  161–4 As You Like It  161–2 Cymbeline  163 King Lear  162 Love’s Labour’s Lost  164 Much Ado About Nothing  162 Richard II  163 The Taming of the Shrew  163–4 Plummer, Christopher  110–11 Poel, William  14, 38, 39. 40, 42, 47, 218 Prompt book  6, 8, 12, 42, 47, 48 Public Theatre  3, 113, 114, 115, 121, 140, 187, 199, 209. See also New York Shakespeare Festival Rabb, Ellis  6, 68–70, 71, 148, 202, 203–7, 217, 219, 220 American Shakespeare Theatre  68–71 APA/Phoenix Theatre  202–3 Hamlet (1968)  202–3

I ndex

Hamlet (1969)  203 Macbeth  69–70 The Merchant of Venice  204–7 A Midsummer Night’s Dream  68–9 Repertory Theatre of Lincoln Centre  203–6 The Tempest  71 Twelfth Night  203–5 Rehan, Ada  8, 10, 11 Richard II  22, 28–9, 49, 63–4, 96, 104, 163, 191, 192–3, 207 Richard III  17, 20–1, 22, 45, 49, 80, 109, 122, 123, 159, 175, 177, 178, 184, 191, 192, 214 Risso, Richard  51, 52, 154–5 Coriolanus  154–5 Macbeth  52 Robeson, Paul  30–1, 86, 131 Romeo and Juliet  17, 28, 52, 58, 66, 69, 75–6, 103, 121, 149, 151–2, 169, 177, 210 Rosenthal, Jean  25, 91 Ryan, Robert  92, 200 Rylance, Mark  172, 210 San Diego Shakespeare Festival  66–73, 147, 153, 183, 219 San Francisco Shakespeare Festival  148 Sandoe, James  37, 48, 49, 149 Scott, George C.  120, 122, 131 Seattle Shakespeare Company  148 Shakespeare & Company  147, 148, 164–9 dropping in technique  166–7 educational mission  165–6 founding and early history  164–6 Linklater, Kristin  165, 166, 168 Packer, Tina  164–9 Shakespeare at Winedale  148 Shakespeare Behind Bars  148 Shakespeare Festival of Dallas  148 Shakespeare in the Park  113, 114, 131 Shakespeare Orange County  148 Shakespeare Santa Cruz  60, 148 Shakespeare Theatre Company  112, 147, 148, 176–81 choice of plays  179

Index

founding and early history  176–7 free Shakespeare in the park  177 Kahn, Michael  177–81 Shapiro, Mel  69, 148 Romeo and Juliet  69 Sheen, Martin  115–17, 120, 123 Stanley, Audrey  37, 57, 58, 60, 150 The Winter’s Tale  57–8 Stiers, David Ogden  71, 76 Stratford (Shakespeare) Festival  80, 83, 119, 148, 153, 177, 210 Streep, Meryl  120, 138–9 The Taming of the Shrew  10, 11, 30, 66, 70, 80, 82, 89, 95, 121, 127, 135, 137, 138, 149, 163, 184–5, 210 Tandy, Jessica  80, 93–4 Taymor, Julie  209, 210–5, 217, 219, 220 approaches to violence  213–15 ideographs  210–11 penny arcade nightmares (PANs)  214 puppetry and masks  211–13 The Taming of the Shrew  210 The Tempest  211–13 Titus Andronicus  213–15 The Tempest  12, 30, 66, 67, 71, 87, 107, 108–9, 154, 168, 183, 184, 187, 188–9, 191, 194, 207, 209, 211–13, 212, 220 Texas Shakespeare Festival  148 Theatre at Monmouth  148 Theatre for a New Audience  148, 199–200, 209–15 English guest directors  210 founding goals  209 Horowitz, Jeffrey  209–10, 220 Mahon, Nicholas  210 no culture owns the classics  209 Taymor, Julie  209, 210–15 Three Rivers Shakespeare Festival  148 Timon of Athens  54–5, 159 Titus Andronicus  128–9, 207, 211, 213–15, 220 Troilus and Cressida  72, 82, 92–4, 125, 157, 172–3

247

Tsypin, George  143, 144–5 Turner, Jerry  37, 52–7, 63, 150, 217 Coriolanus  55–6 1 Henry VI  53 Julius Caesar  56–7 Measure for Measure  53–4 Timon of Athens  54–5 Twelfth Night  10, 12, 13, 23, 30, 43, 66, 68, 104, 105–7, 138, 172, 177, 183, 184, 187, 191, 197–8, 203–4, 207 The Two Gentlemen of Verona  66, 72, 117, 121, 123–4, 156 The Two Noble Kinsmen  159–60 Tygres Heart Shakespeare Company  148 Utah Shakespeare Festival  147, 153–7 Adams, Fred  153 Appel, Libby  157 Edmonson, James  156 founding and early history  153–4 greenshows  154 Hansen, Brian  155 Reidel, Leslie  156 Risso, Richard  154–5 theatres and architectural features  153–4 Vaughan, Gladys  121, 131–4 Coriolanus  133–4 King Lear (co-director)  131 Macbeth  131 The Merchant of Venice (co-director)  131 Othello  131–3 The Winter’s Tale  131 Vaughan, Stuart  121–6, 130, 200, 201, 219, 220 A Possible Theatre  124–6 As You Like It  122 definition of style  125 Hamlet  201–2 1 Henry IV  201 2 Henry IV  201 Julius Caesar (1959)  123 Julius Caesar (1988)  123 King John  123

248

make choices from deep convictions  124 New York Shakepseare Festival  121–6 Phoenix Theatre  199–200 play’s spine and world view  125 on pronunciation of Shakespeare  124, 125 Richard III  122, 123 search for playwright’s core meaning  124 soliloquies and asides  125 The Two Gentlemen of Verona  121, 123–4 The War of the Roses  159 Webster, Margaret  5, 27–35, 86, 219, 220 actor skills needed  34 comparing American and English actors  28 cutting the text  33–4 director’s guidelines and principals  32 Don’t Put Your Daughter on the Stage  32 Hamlet  29–30 1 Henry IV  30 Henry VIII  30 language challenges  34 Othello  30–1 preparation for rehearsal  32–3 Richard II  28–9 Shakespeare without Tears  32 staging and stages, scene changes  32–3 The Tempest  30 Welles, Orson  5, 22–7, 217, 219, 220 Caesar  25–6

I ndex

Chimes at Midnight  27 Everybody’s Shakespeare: Three Plays  22–3 Five Kings  24, 26–7 Macbeth  24–5 production circumstances  23 purpose of rehearsals  24 unorthodox working methods  23–4 use of technology  25 Will Geer’s Theatricum Botanicum  148 Williamson, Laird  37, 57, 60 Henry V  57 Winter, William  7–9, 10, 11, 219 principles of emandation  8 The Winter’s Tale  57, 66, 87, 89, 103, 104, 131, 168, 184 Woronicz, Henry  37, 63–4, 219 2 Henry IV  63–4 Wright, Garland  183, 191–5, 217, 220 directing from a personal place  192, 194 Hamlet  192 Henry IV (both parts)  190, 192–3 Henry V  191, 192, 193 King Lear  194 rehearsal goals  194–5 Richard II  191, 192, 193 Richard III  191, 192 The Tempest (1974)  191 The Tempest (1984)  191 Twelfth Night  191 Yang, Daniel S. P.  150–3 All’s Well That Ends Well  151 Love’s Labour’s Lost  150–1 The Merchant of Venice  152