Seduction and Power: Antiquity in the Visual and Performing Arts 9781441177469, 9781472555748, 9781441190659

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Seduction and Power

Seduction and Power Antiquity in the Visual and Performing Arts Edited by Silke Knippschild and Marta García Morcillo

Bloomsbury Academic An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 1385 Broadway New York NY 10018

50 Bedford Square London WC1B 3DP UK

USA www.bloomsbury.com First published 2013

© 2013 edited by Silke Knippschild and Marta García Morcillo 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. Silke Knippschild, Marta García Morcillo and the contributors have asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Authors of this work. No responsibility for loss caused to any individual or organization acting on or refraining from action as a result of the material in this publication can be accepted by Bloomsbury Academic or the authors. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN: 978-1-44119-065-9 Typeset by Fakenham Prepress Solutions, Fakenham, Norfolk NR21 8NN

Contents Acknowledgements List of Contributors List of Figures

vii viii xiii

1

Seduction and Power: An Introduction Marta García Morcillo and Silke Knippschild

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2

Power and Seduction in Babylon: Verdi’s Nabucco Michael Seymour

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‘Go East Young Man!’ Jewel-in-the-Bellybutton-Orientalism in Oliver Stone’s Alexander Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones

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Modern Dance and the Seduction of Minoan Crete Nicoletta Momigliano

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Trojan Lovers and Warriors: The Power of Seduction in Age of Bronze 57 Eric Shanower

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Dark Ladies, Bad Girls, Demon Queens: Female Power and Seduction from Greek Tragedy to Pop Culture Martina Treu

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The Eroticism of Power in Jordi Coca’s Ifigènia (2009) Maite Clavo

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‘Prince of Painters’: The Grimacing Mask of Power and Seduction in Aristophanes’ Assemblywomen Andrea Capra and Maddalena Giovannelli

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Redefining Catharsis in Opera: The Power of Music in Birtwistle’s The Minotaur and Amargós’ Eurídice y los títeres de Caronte Jesús Carruesco and Montserrat Reig

10 The Self in Conflict with Itself: A Heraclitean Theme in Eliot’s The Cocktail Party James H. Lesher

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11 Three Queens: Helen, Penelope and Dido in Franco Rossi’s Odissea and Eneide Martin M. Winkler

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12 Claudia Quinta and Publius Cornelius Scipio Nasica: Exempla virtutis in Vienna under Leopold I (1657–1705) Pepa Castillo

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13 The Stolen Seduction: The Image of Spartacus in Riccardo Freda’s Spartaco, gladiatore della Tracia Óscar Lapeña Marchena

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14 The Great Seducer: Cleopatra, Queen and Sex Symbol Francisco Pina Polo 15 Seduced, Defeated and Forever Damned: Mark Antony in Post-Classical Imagination Marta García Morcillo

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16 Power Beyond Measure – Caligula, Corruption and Pop Culture Martin Lindner

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17 Constantia Memoriae: The Reputation of Agrippina the Younger Mary R. McHugh

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18 Prostitute, Saint, Pin-Up, Revolutionary: The Reception of Theodora in Twentieth-Century Italy Filippo Carlà

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19 The Spell of Antinous in Renaissance Art: The Jonah Statue in Santa Maria del Popolo Rosario Rovira Guardiola

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20 History, Moral and Power: The Ancient World in NineteenthCentury Spanish History Painting Antonio Duplá

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21 The Lure of the Hermaphrodite in the Poetry and Painting of the English Aesthetes Charlotte Ribeyrol

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22 Seduction and Power in Postclassical Reception: Traditions and Trends 311 Silke Knippschild Bibliography Index

325 351

Acknowledgements This volume is the outcome of the shared interest and enthusiasm, the fruitful exchanges and interactions that made possible the holding of the conference Seduction and Power in 2010. Accordingly, our thanks belong first and foremost to the contributors to this volume. The conference would not have been possible without the generous support of the Institute of Greece, Rome and the Classical Tradition (University of Bristol), the Department of Classics and Ancient History at Bristol and Professor Gillian Clark, then the Head of Subject and the first person to express enthusiasm and offer financial help to get this show on the road. The University of Wales Trinity Saint David contributed liberally to the conference. The Universidad de la Rioja, Professor Pepa Castillo and the Gobierno de la Rioja were equally helpful. We are grateful for their support and extend our thanks to all of them. We also thank all institutions, museums, enterprises and individuals who very kindly granted us permission to reproduce images in the volume. Alberto Martí is the person who makes the web-page of the Imagines Project run (http://imagines-project.org). We are grateful for his skill, patience, creativity and above all his dedication to the project. On that count, we also express our appreciation to all members of Imagines Project, now operational since 2007 and going strong, for their ongoing interest, collaboration and backing. We further owe recognition to Rachael Pearce for her careful reading of the manuscript and her help with the formalia. At Continuum Press we extend our thanks to Michael Greenwood for his enthusiasm and constant support. We are equally indebted to Dhara Patel at Bloomsbury Publishing and to Kim Storry and Barbara Archer at Fakenham Prepress. Silke Knippschild thanks her husband Stephen for his patience, understanding, humour and countless cups of tea.

List of Contributors Andrea Capra is a lecturer of Greek Language and Literature at Milan State University. His research focuses on Plato, Aristophanes, early Greek lyric poetry and the Greek novel. His publications include two books on Plato’s Protagoras (2001, 2004), a commentary on Aristophanes’ Assemblywomen (2010) and the co-edition of a book on Homeric reception in classical theatre (2004). He is currently working on the monograph Plato’s four Muses and the Poetics of Philosophy (forthcoming). Filippo Carlà is a junior professor at the Department of History of the University of Mainz. His works focus on Late Antiquity and on classical receptions in modern culture, particularly in film, theatre, re-enactments, role games and theme parks. His publications include studies on Pasolini and on modern receptions of Byzantium. He is currently editing a book on Antiquity in comics (2013) and a book on the reception of Late Antique Empresses and Queens from the Middle Ages to Postmodernity (2014). Jesús Carruesco is a lecturer in Greek philology at the University of Tarragona and a research fellow at the Catalan Institute of Classical Archaeology. He is co-ordinator of a project on conceptions of Space in Ancient Greece and Roman Egypt and has co-edited three books on this subject. He collaborates with a research group devoted to modern receptions of Greek drama (University of Barcelona) and is author of several works on the cult of Aphrodite and of numerous articles on modern receptions of Greek literature. Pepa Castillo is a professor of Ancient History at the University of La Rioja and co-founder of Imagines. She is specialized in Roman land-surveying and is a collaborator of the international Project Topoi (Berlin), devoted to the study of space and its transformation in Antiquity. She is co-editor of the first Imagines volume (2008) and is author of several works on the reception of Antiquity in Baroque opera, including a monograph in preparation. Maite Clavo is a professor of Greek Philology at the University of Barcelona.



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Her research focuses on Ancient Greek Literature and Myth, particularly on ancient and modern dramaturgy, and she is a member of the research Group ELGAR, devoted to the modern reception of Greek literature. She has edited and co-edited several collective works and didactic DVDs on these subject matters. Antonio Duplá is a professor of Ancient History at the University of the Basque Country (Vitoria). His research interests focus on politics and institutions during the Roman Republic. Antonio works also on ancient and modern historiography and is author of several works on Classicism and modern Nationalisms and Fascism, as well as on the reception of ancient Rome in film, including most recently a monograph on twenty-first-century cinematic Romans (2012). Marta García Morcillo is a senior lecturer in Ancient History at Roehampton University (London). She works on Roman economy and on classical receptions in the arts, particularly in films. Her publications include the co-edition of the first Imagines volume, and Hellas on Screen (both 2008). She is currently co-editing (along with P. Hanesworth and O. Lapeña) a book on the representation of ancient cities in film. Maddalena Giovannelli is a theatre critic and a classical philologists from Milan. Her PhD (Milan) was devoted to Aristophanes. She is particularly interested in the reception of classical texts in contemporary Italy. She is founder and co-editor of Stratagemmi, an interdisciplinary journal dedicated to theatre studies (www.stratagemmi.it), collaborates regularly with the online journal Dionysus ex Machina (dionysusexmachina.it) and with the Associazione Italiana Nuova Critica (AINC). Silke Knippschild is a senior lecturer in Ancient History at the University of Bristol. Her main research interests lie in the field of intercultural relations and cross-cultural influences between Ancient Western Asia, Greece and Rome. She also works on the reception of ancient art and on Antiquity in opera. Silke is co-founder of Imagines and co-editor of Imagines I (2008). Oscar Lapeña Marchena is a lecturer in Ancient History at the University of Cádiz. His research focusses on the reception of Antiquity in film and he is author of numerous articles and book chapters on this subject matter, including

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a monograph on the myth of Spartacus in cinema (2007) and a guide on the peplum genre (Rome 2009). Oscar is currently co-editing (along with M. Garcia Morcillo and P. Hanesworth) a collective book on the representations of ancient cities in film. James H. Lesher is a professor of Ancient Philosophy at the University of North Carolina Chapel Hill. He is author of Xenophanes of Colophon (1992), The Greek Philosophers: Greek Texts with Notes and Commentary (1998), From Inquiry to Demonstrative Knowledge: New Essays on Aristotle’s Posterior Analytics (2010), and co-editor of Plato’s Symposium: Issues in Interpretation and Reception (2006), as well as author of more than 60 articles on topics relating to ancient Greek philosophy Martin Lindner is a lecturer in Ancient History at the University of Göttingen. Martin specializes in the reception of Antiquity in film. His PhD thesis (published in 2007) was devoted to the representation of Roman emperors in cinema. He is also co-editor of Drehbuch Geschichte (2005), Nationalismus und Antikenrezeption (2009) and of Tempelprostitution im Altertum, Fakten und Fiktionen (2009). Among his current projects is the study of ancient Barbarians in film and popular culture. Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones is a senior lecturer in Ancient History at the University of Edinburgh. His research interests are Persian and Greek cultural history, ancient gender and the reception of Antiquity in popular culture. He is the author of Aphrodite’s Tortoise: The Veiled Woman of Ancient Greece (2003) and Creating a Hellenistic World (2010). He has edited Women’s Dress in the Ancient Greek World (2002), and The Clothed Body in the Ancient World (2005). His most recent publications include Ctesias’ History of Persia (2010), King and Court in Ancient Persia (2013) and The Greeks and Their Past in the Archaic and Classical Age (2013). Mary R. McHugh is associate professor of Classics at Gustavus Adolphus College in St Peter, MN and works on mainly on Roman social history and historiography. Her dissertation dealt with the commemoration and defamation of women in the Julio-Claudian family. She is the author of several works on Tacitus and is currently working on a project on street food in the Roman world. Nicoletta Momigliano is a reader in Aegean Prehistory at the University of Bristol. Her research interests are Aegean Bronze Age archaeology (especially



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Minoan Crete and western Turkey) and the history of Aegean Bronze Age studies, and she has published many articles and several books on these subjects. From 2007–10 she was editor of Annual of the British School at Athens. She is also interested in modern receptions of the Aegean Bronze Age. Her works on this subject include Archaeology and European Modernity: Producing and Consuming the ‘Minoans’ (2006), co-edited with Y. Hamilakis. Francisco Pina Polo is a professor in Ancient History at the University of Zaragoza. His main research interests lie in the field of Republican Rome. His publications include two monographs (1989, 1996) and several articles on public oratory in the Roman Republic, as well as monographs on Cicero (2005, 2010), the Crisis the Roman Republic (2009) and the Roman consulate (2011). Montserrat Reig is a lecturer of Greek Philology at the University of Barcelona. She is collaborator of the research group ELGAR, dealing with the study of Greek Literature and its reception. She is author of various works on antiquity in modern literary fiction, theatre, opera and cinema, including two didactic DVS on Aeschylus’ Eumenides and on Medea in Art and Literature. She has recently co-edited (with M. Jufresa) a book on animals and space in Ancient Greece (2011). Charlotte Ribeyrol is a lecturer in nineteenth-century English literature and art history at the Sorbonne University (Paris). Her research focuses on Hellenism and Aestheticism in English literature and painting in the second half of the nineteenth century and particularly on the works of A. C. Swinburne, Walter Pater, and John Addington Symonds. Her recent publications include ‘Etrangeté, Passion, Couleur’, L’hellénisme de Swinburne, Pater et Symonds (2013) and Inventer la peinture grecque antique (with N. Phillippe and S. Alexandre 2012). Rosario Rovira Guardiola is a member of the Institute of Classical Studies Library (London) and collaborator of the British Museum. She has been involved among others in the exhibition Hadrian. Empire and Conflict (2008). She holds a PhD in Ancient History from the University of Barcelona and is a member of the Monte Testaccio Project (Rome). Her research focuses on Roman trade and on the reception of Roman antiquity in literature and in the arts. She has worked on M. Yourcenar’s Mémoires d’Hadrien (2008) and her current projects include a study of Hadrian’s Villa and its reception.

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Michael J. Seymour is Research Associate in the Department of Ancient Near Eastern Art, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. His research focuses on the history of archaeology in Iraq, and on the reception of ancient Mesopotamia in European culture. He was co-curator of the British Museum exhibition: Babylon: Myth and Reality and co-editor of its catalogue (with I. L. Finkel 2008). His own book, Babylon: Legend, History and the Ancient City, is due to appear in 2013. He is a consultant to the World Monuments Fund on the site of Babylon, and co-editor of the journal Iraq. Eric Shanower is an artist, writer, cartoonist and illustrator based in San Diego (California). His current graphic novel series Age of Bronze (Image Comics) is a comprehensive retelling of the Trojan War in seven volumes that is inspired by different literary traditions, from Homer to Shakespeare, and by archaeological and iconographic sources. Age of Bronze has garnered several prestigious prizes, including two Eisner Awards, and has been translated in several languages. Shanower is also adapting Frank Baum’s series of Oz books to comics for Marvel Comics (http://ericshanower.com/). Martina Treu is a lecturer in Ancient Greek Literature and teaches Ancient Theatre at the IULM University (Milan). She is founder member of CRIMTA (Research Centre in Ancient Drama) at the University of Pavia and collaborates with Italian theatre companies and playwrights. Her publications include monographs on Aristophanes (1999) and Mythology (2008, 2009, 2011), as well as two books on modern staging of Greek Theatre: Cosmopolitico (2005) and Il teatro antico nel Novecento (2009). Martin M. Winkler is University Professor and Professor of Classics at George Mason University. His research interests are Greek and Roman literature, classical mythology, Roman history and the classical tradition. He is author or editor of numerous works including Classical Myth and Culture in the Cinema (2001), Gladiator: Film and History (2004), Troy: From Homer’s Iliad to Hollywood Epic (2006), Spartacus: Film and History (2007), The Fall of the Roman Empire: Film and History (2009), Cinema and Classical Texts: Apollo’s New Light (2009) and The Roman Salute: Cinema, History, Ideology (2009).

List of Figures Figure 1. Alexander in the Babylonian Harem, Alexander (O. Stone 2004). Courtesy of The Kobal Collection. 29 Figure 2.1–5: 1) Portrait of Isadora Duncan by Léon Bakst (Ashmolean Museum, University of Oxford); 2) Nijinsky, final scene with nymph’s scarf in L’Après-midi d’un Faune (photo Adolf de Meyer); 3) Knossos, ‘La Parisienne’ fresco (after Evans 1900–1; Ashmolean Museum, University of Oxford); 4) ‘The Dancer’ fresco (after Evans 1901–2; Ashmolean Museum, University of Oxford); 5) ‘Theatral Area (after Evans 1902–3; Ashmolean Museum, University of Oxford). 36 Figure 3.6–10: 6) Nymphs in L’Après-midi d’un Faune (photo Adolf de Meyer); 7) Bakst’s design for nymph’s costume in L’Après-midi d’un Faune (New York Public Library); 8) Bakst’s design for nymph’s costume in L’Après-midi d’un Faune (Wadsworth Atheneum, Hartford, Connecticut); 9) ‘Phi’ and ‘Psi’ Mycenaean figurines (based on Schliemann 1976); 10) Bakst’s design for the cover of the ballet programme for L’Après-midi d’un Faune (Wadsworth Atheneum, Hartford, Connecticut). 41 Figure 4.11–15: 11) Bakst’s design for the set of Hélène de Sparte (1912) (Musée d’Art Moderne, Paris). 12) Bakst’s design for Menelaus’ costume in Hélène de Sparte (1912) (Collection of Prof. Boris Stavrovski, New York) also used in the ballet Daphnis and Chloe. 13) Bakst’s design for Helen’s costume in Hélène de Sparte (1912) (private collection, akg-images/Erich Lessing). 14) Pottery from Knossos (after Evans 1921–30, vol. IV.1, Figure 216). 15) Pottery from Knossos (after Evans 1921–30, vol. IV.1, Figure 220). 43 Figure 5.16–17: 16) Bakst’s design for the set of Phaedre (1923) (ThyssenBornemisza Collection, Madrid); 17) Bakst’s design for the set of Phaedre (1923) (Musée de L’Opéra, Paris). 46 Figure 6.18–22: 18) Bakst’s costume sketch for female character in Phaedre (1923) (private collection, after Spencer 2009, p. 166); 19) Reconstructed fresco from Tiryns (after Rodenwalt, G. Tiryns: die Ergebnisse der Ausgrabungen des Instituts (Band 2): die Fresken des Palastes, pl. VIII, available from http://

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digi.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/dilit/tiryns1912a); 20) Bakst’s sketch for costume of male character in Phaedre (1923) (private collection, after Spencer 2009, p. 92 top right); 21) Bakst’s sketch for costume of nurse in Phaedre (1923) (private collection; akg-images/Erich Lessing); 22) Bakst’s sketches for props in Phaedre (1923), showing Minoan inspiration (private collection: after Spencer 2009, p. 93, right). 47 Figure 7. Sex in Troy. Age of Bronze issue #29, page 3 © 2009 Eric Shanower.

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Figure 8. Kassandra recounts their past to her twin brother Helenus. Sacrifice, page 36. Image copyight © 2004 Eric Shanower. 69 Figure 9. Father and Daughter. Ifigènia (J. Coca).

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Figure 10. The men’s game. Ifigènia (J. Coca).

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Figure 11. Death and the Bride. Ifigènia (J. Coca).

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Figure 12. Mother in mourning. Ifigènia (J. Coca).

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Figure 13. Fragment of Attic krater found at Taras, possibly by the Pronomus Painter, c. 400 BC. Martin von Wagner-Museum H4781, from Taplin 2007: 30. 96 Figure 14. Drawing of the Choregoi Vase by Luana Rinaldo. Apulian bell-krater, c. 390 BC, J. Paul Getty Museum 96.AE.29.101 Figure 15. Birtwistle’s The Minotaur. Opus Arte © Bill Cooper.

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Figure 16. Birtwistle’s The Minotaur. Opus Arte © Bill Cooper.

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Figure 17. A screenshot of Odissea. Helen (Scilla Gabel) in the tholos-like palace of Sparta. 136 Figure 18. A screenshot of Odissea. Penelope (Irene Papas) scrutinizing the beggar about whose identity she is wondering. 139 Figure 19. A screenshot of Odissea. The closing moment in the reunion of Penelope (Irene Papas) and Odysseus (Bekim Fehmiu). 143 Figure 20. A screenshot of Eneide. Dido (Olga Karlatos) in profile.

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Figure 21. A screenshot of Eneide. Dido (Olga Karlatos) and Aeneas (Guilio Brogi) together for the last time. 149 Figure 22. A screenshot of Eneide. Dido (Olga Karlatos) abandoned. A symbolic flame is just visible top left. 149



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Figure 23. Cleopatra. Sculpture. Staatliche Museen en Berlin. Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Antikensammlung, Inv.n. 1976.10. Taken from Andreae 2006. 185 Figure 24. Cleopatra (G. Reni, Palazzo Pitti). Courtesy of The Picture Desk.

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Figure 25. Sarah Bernhardt as Cleopatra (V. Sardou 1899).

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Figure 26. Theda Bara in Cleopatra (1916).

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Figure 27. Claudette Colbert in Cleopatra (1934). Courtesy of The Kobal Collection.191 Figure 28. Cleopatra (Taylor) and Antony (Burton) during the banquet at Tarsus (Cleopatra 1963). Courtesy of The Kobal Collection. 192 Figure 29. The Second Triumvirate, engraving on wood by Kenny Meadows, The Works of Shakespeare, London 1844. Courtesy of the Roderic Bowen Library and Archives (Lampeter). 201 Figure 30. Antony’s (Brando) funeral speech in Julius Caesar (1953). Courtesy of The Kobal Collection. 205 Figure 31. Caligula (1979). Courtesy of The Kobal Collection.

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Figure 32. Cover from the table game Caligula © Post Scriptum Giochi.

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Figure 33. Statue of Agrippina the Younger, detail. Vatican Museums.

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Figure 34. A screenshot of Alberto Sordi as Nero with portrait busts of Seneca, Poppaea and Agrippina, Mio Figlio Nerone (1956).236 Figure 35. Photograph from the 2010 Berlin Staatsoper production of Handel’s Agrippina. Alexandrina Pendatchanska plays Agrippina and Dominique Visse plays Narcissus © Monika Rittershaus. 238 Figure 36. Photograph from the 2010 Berlin Staatsoper production of Handel’s Agrippina. Alexandrina Pendatchanska plays Agrippina and Jennifer Rivera as Nero © Monika Rittershaus. 239 Figure 37. Detail of a fresco by Galileo Chini for the International Art Exposition of Venice in 1909. 246 Figure 38. Illustration by Giuseppe Pigna for the cover of the book Teodora by Italo Fiorentino (1886). 247 Figure 39. Fiorentino’s Theodora illustrated by Sebastiano Craveri 1927.

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Figure 40. Image from M. Manara’s Bolero. Edizioni Di, Castiglione del Lago (1999).256 Figure 41. Statue of Jonah in the Chigi Chapel of the Church of Santa Maria del Popolo, by Raphael and Lorenzetto. Photograph by M.-L. Nguyen. 264 Figure 42. Statue of Jonah in the Chigi Chapel of the Church of Santa Maria del Popolo, by Raphael and Lorenzetto. Photograph by M.-L. Nguyen. 265 Figure 43. Cincinnatus leaving the plough to bring Law to Rome by J. A. Ribera © El Prado Museum. 285 Figure 44. Death of Viriathus, by José de Madrazo. Courtesy of The Picture Desk.286 Figure 45. The final Day of Numantia, by A. Vera Estaca © El Prado Museum. 288 Figure 46. Death of Lucretia, by Eduardo Rosales. Courtesy of The Picture Desk.289 Figure 47. Burne-Jones’ Phyllis and Demophoon (1870) © Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery. 299 Figure 48. Burne-Jones’ The Tree of Forgiveness (1881). Lady Lever Art Gallery © National Museums of Liverpool. 300 Figure 49. Borghese Hermaphrodite from Louvre, detail. Roman marble statue on a mattress sculpted by Bernini. Photograph by M.-L. Nguyen. 301

1

Seduction and Power: An Introduction Marta García Morcillo and Silke Knippschild

The study of the reception of antiquity plays at present a major role in the humanities. Apart from its traditional abode in subject areas centring on antiquity itself, such as Classics, Ancient History and Archaeology, the interest in its legacy spans a wide range of fields of scholarship, such as Historical Studies, Languages, Philosophy and Art History. This interdisciplinary focus on antiquity in modern and contemporaneous societies may serve to counterpoint the frequently exclusive attention on the sciences we experience in our world today, concentrating on rapid developments and the future. Ever since the Renaissance, antiquity functioned as a model of public and private virtue, moral reference, cultural, political and juridical frame of reference. In this function, the legate of antiquity challenges the forces of a present intent on ignoring its roots, its past and its identity. Power and seduction, the focus of this study of the reception of antiquity, are fundamental elements defining human relationships; both of them are a key to understanding our relationship with the past. Seduction is generally perceived as an instrument of power, an effective medium that today enjoys recognition as a social force in modern societies.1 The relationship between power and seduction is a complex phenomenon, featuring many layers and different forms of interaction. Accordingly, this multifaceted relationship finds a significant echo in modern social studies, with the influential History of Sexuality (1976) by Michel Foucault and Jean Baudrillard’s controversial essay Seduction (1979) being two of the most relevant examples.2 This book takes into account these and other perspectives and trends associated with the complex interplay between power and seduction, focusing on the reception of the myths, characters, events and commonplaces of Classical Antiquity. The wide range of case studies included in the volume cover different epochs, from the Renaissance to the twenty-first century, and diverse artistic representations,

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from theatre to opera, ballet and cinema, from sculpture to painting and to graphic novels. One of the aims and objectives of this volume is the fostering of critical discussions about traditional associations between seduction, gender, sex and eroticism – phenomena featuring especially in post-classical reception studies.3 Accordingly, one of the leitmotivs of the book is the image of influential and strong women such as Helen of Troy, Penelope, Clytemnestra, Cleopatra, Agrippina and Theodora in the visual and performing arts. These women are compared to the representation of their male counterparts who are portrayed as seducers in their own right, or just as victims of the irresistible lure of their female partners. Why is seduction an attribute traditionally associated with powerful women and eroticism? Should we reduce the character of the seduced to that of a simple victim of the seducer? To what extent does the reception of these points reflect stigmatizing and moralizing prejudices across cultures and epochs? These questions constitute the starting point of this book and are important aspects of discussion in many contributions. Further, men in power, rulers and leaders immortalized by the arts, such as Achilles, Agamemnon, Spartacus and Caligula, play a prominent role in the book in their own right. The contributions presented here include a look at, but also beyond, traditional topoi and explore aspects such as the magnetism of authority and power, the appeal of rulers and leaders, the allure of their charisma and the corruption and perversion of power. In addition to the reception of mythical, literary and historical figures, the volume also includes several essays exploring in heterogeneous ways the idea of the power of seduction and of seduction as a form of subversion and simulation. The seduction of exotic and foreign places and cultures, such as Babylon and Crete, but also of idealized concepts and forms of Greek and Roman art by the artists of the Renaissance and by the English Aesthetes, constitute a further theme of this book. Seduction and Power intends to integrate new voices, debates and ideas arising from current research, but also from recent artistic creations and cultural phenomena. It is within the constant dialogue across cultures and epochs, between the ancient and the modern world(s) that we can try to find answers to subjects that are and will always constitute key features of human relationships. This volume emerged from the conference Seduction and Power, held at the University of Bristol in September 2010, and represents the second collective contribution published by Imagines-Project, an interdisciplinary and



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international research network focusing on the reception of antiquity in the visual and performing arts. While the first Imagines conference and volume (Universidad de La Rioja 2007, published in 2008), took a broader and more general approach to the field, it became readily apparent that a specific focus was necessary to draw the diverse and varied subject matters together. This volume aims to do that by concentrating on a challenging topic that is thematically consistent, yet integrative enough to provide room for open discussions and new perspectives. The book opens with two contributions dedicated to Orientalism and to ancient Babylon as a centre of power and seduction. Michael Seymour’s ‘Power and Seduction in Babylon: Verdi’s Nabucco’ explores the biblical and modern construction of Babylon as the city of corruption and oppression. Verdi employs the biblical story of Nebuchadnezzar and the Captivity of the Jews in his opera Nabucco to resonate with Italian nationalism and the patriotic movement of the Risorgimento. The allegory of Babylon as the city of sin is perhaps most visible in the female character of the seductive and ambitious Abigaille. The subject of reception and Italian politics, including and going beyond the Risorgimento, will later reappear in the chapters of Lapeña and Carlà. The theme of power-hungry women and their representation is further addressed in Treu’s contribution. Babylon as a place of seduction is also the subject of Lloyd LlewellynJones’ study ‘“Go East Young Man!” Jewel-in-the-Bellybutton-Orientalism in Oliver Stone’s Alexander’. Using as a starting point Edward Said’s concept of Orientalism as a representation of Otherness, the author chooses the 2004 film – in which he was involved as historical adviser – as a case study for his analysis of the harem as a typical Western image of the supposedly effeminized East. His discussion also encompasses the historical background of this important institution of the Achaemenid court as well as an analysis of the film’s dress and set designs. Stepping back in time, we now enter the Mediterranean world with Nicoletta Momigliano’s chapter ‘Modern Dance and the Seduction of Minoan Crete’. Momigliano studies the reception of Minoan Crete, which was seen as a ‘primitive’ (and therefore modern) manifestation of Greece. Focusing on dance, notably on Isadora Duncan and Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes, she shows how antiquity was connected to eroticism and how scholars and audiences were seduced by the artefacts themselves, by their links to Greek myths and by their reception. This chapter is linked to the one by Ribeyrol through the discussion of the interest in primitivism and the psychology of sexuality during the late nineenth and early twentieth centuries.

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Eric Shanower’s ‘Trojan Lovers and Warriors: The Power of Seduction in Age of Bronze’ continues with the theme of Greek myths in the context of his Eisner award winning comic series Age of Bronze. Upon completion, this work will present the entire story of the Trojan War. Shanower highlights the interconnection of power and seduction and their appearance as a linking thread and leitmotiv in the characterization and fate of Trojans and Achaeans. The mutual seduction of Paris and Helen, the seduction by power directing the actions of ambitious Agamemnon, the impotent powers of Cassandra, and the seductive power of Achilles, who both seduces and is seduced by others, are some of the perspectives and themes incorporated by the author in this colossal and fascinating work. Martina Treu studies extensively the reception of dark ladies – quoting her title – immortalized by Greek tragedy, continuing the theme introduced by Seymour. Her contribution provides some keys to an intriguing question: why is seduction as an instrument of power traditionally associated with female protagonists on the stage, such as Clytemnestra, Medea and Antigone, and systematically linked to sex, persuasion and trickery? In her treatment of Lysistrata, the Assemblywomen and the Eumenides she interconnects with Capra and Giovannelli. A reversal of Treu’s approach is the focus of Maite Clavo’s essay on Ifigènia (2009), an adaptation of Euripides’ and Aeschylus’ tragedies recently staged by the Catalan playwright Jordi Coca. The play proposes a challenging revision of the discourse of absolutist power embodied by the tyrant Agamemnon who sacrifices his daughter to fulfil his ambitions. Here Agamemnon follows his compulsive desire of possession through a form of perverse eroticism, which leads Iphigenia to a marriage with Death. A further contemporary performance based on ancient theatre is the centre of attention in ‘“Prince of Painters”: The Grimacing Mask of Power and Seduction in Aristophanes’ Assemblywomen’. Andrea Capra and Maddalena Giovannelli focus on the power of distortion and the transfiguration of masks in the comic genre. Their case study links a close discussion of the play to a modern adaptation of Assemblywomen by the Atir Company, in which the attempted seduction and sexuality embodied by the hags and their masks in the original are underlined by the dress codes and the use of cosmetic disguise. In ‘Redefining Catharsis in Opera: The Power of Music in Birtwistle’s The Minotaur and Amargós’ Eurídice y los títeres de Caronte’, Jesús Carruesco and Montserrat Reig choose two recent opera productions to discuss the current rediscovery of ancient myths and tragedies in this genre. Seduction, violence



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and desire are some of the motives transfigured and subverted in these works, which put forward new forms of looking at traditional themes and human dramas, such as the introduction of puppet theatre in the opera. In his contribution on T. S. Eliot’s play The Cocktail Party, James H. Lesher goes beyond the tragic elements influencing this work and explores the deep philosophical roots of the love theme that is the leitmotiv of the story. The author interprets the supernatural power guiding human passions and the tensions provoked by the impossibility of mutual love as elements connected to Heraclitus of Ephesus. The topos ‘women in love’ ties Helen, Penelope and Dido together, here represented by Franco Rossi’s less well known TV-films based on the Odyssey and the Aeneid. Martin M. Winkler discusses the consistent and complementary portrait of the three queens by the Italian director, his successful portrayal of three strong women who are characterized by their complexity and their human qualities beyond clichéd depictions such as those of the treacherous seducer or the passive and patient wife. Accordingly, in these films powerful women do not appear as demon queens, thus balancing Treu’s picture. As Rossi’s interpretation of Homer and Virgil can best be understood in the context of intellectual films emerging in Europe in the 1960s and the 1970s as alternatives to Hollywood and to peplum, the political and ideological context of Vienna under the Habsburgs is the background of the next contribution to this volume, leading to Roman historical subjects. Pepa Castillo’s ‘Claudia Quinta and Publius Cornelius Scipio Nasica: Exempla virtutis in Vienna under Leopold I (1657–1705)’ chooses as a case study the opera Il fuoco eterno custodito dalle Vestali by the librettist Nicolò Minato. Power, legitimacy and loyalty, love, treason and above all female virtues in Republican Rome feature here. Rome menaced by Carthage during the Second Punic War functions as a parallel to the court of Leopold facing the expansionism of France under Louis XIV. Oscar Lapeña’s essay on the Italian film Spartaco, gladiatore della Tracia (Riccardo Freda, 1953) focuses on another famous event taking place in the Roman Republic. The revolt of Spartacus in Capua is analysed here in a little known film, which was overshadowed by Kubrick’s blockbuster Spartacus (1960). Freda’s Spartacus shows the influence of the reception of the Thracian hero in the Italian tradition and its links with the rise of Nationalism, linking back to Seymour. The film incorporates female seduction and eroticism as an important and original element of the plot and as a key to understanding the moral integrity of the popular leader.

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No doubt the best known historical embodiment of female seduction and power is Cleopatra VII. In his contribution about the Queen of Egypt and last ruler of the Ptolemaic dynasty Francisco Pina Polo studies the different visual traditions of Cleopatra and the influences of the pictorial arts of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries on cinema. He goes beyond the stereotypes and discusses the political figure behind the image of the erotic seducer. As a cinematic icon par excellence from the silent era to the twenty-first century, the attraction of the queen in the visual and performing arts has inevitably clouded the post-classical reception of her lover Mark Antony. Marta García Morcillo’s chapter picks up where Pina Polo leaves off, focusing on the general and triumvir, and looking beyond the long shadow of Caesar and Cleopatra. Concentrating on Plutarch, Shakespeare, painting and cinema, García discusses the lure of a historical character guided by his political ambitions and his human passions who was inexorably tainted by an undeserved reputation as the eternal seduced and defeated. The bad reputation attributed to Roman emperors condemned by ancient literary traditions was generally associated to topoi such as eccentricity, tyrannical behaviour and sexual depravity. The emperor Caligula personifies all of these features. He is perhaps the Roman ruler who best represents the image of madness both in ancient tradition and in modern receptions. Martin Lindner’s ‘Power Beyond Measure – Caligula, Corruption and Pop Culture’ discusses films, comic, anime, caricature and computer games dealing with the proverbial excesses of the emperor. The chapter deconstructs the image of the bad ruler in pop culture and identifies through this example trends in popular classical reception. Caligula has been traditionally regarded as an incomplete precedent of Nero, the bad emperor par excellence. The image of Nero can only be understood when taking the long shadow of his mother Agrippina the Younger into account. The sister of Caligula, last wife of Emperor Claudius and descendant of Augustus, Agrippa and Germanicus, has been traditionally attached to a mala memoria. Mary R. McHugh explores the roots of Agrippina’s ancient and modern bad reputation as part of a tradition associating powerful and ambitious women with a manipulative and cruel character and with the seduction of men, thematically connecting to Treu’s contribution. Further, the use of sexuality and of topoi, such as being a poisoner, associated with Agrippina made her the perfect incarnation of the femme fatale so often conveyed by cinema. Just as Agrippina’s posthumous negative reputation parallels that of Cleopatra in a number of ways, both correspond also to the depiction of Empress



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Theodora. However, despite their negative depictions in ancient literature, the figures of Cleopatra and Theodora have enjoyed some degree of rehabilitation in post-classical traditions. Just as Shakespeare – following Plutarch – contributed to the positive revision of the image of the Egyptian queen, the depiction of the Byzantine empress found amendment in the famous play by Victorien Sardou, which provided a contrast to the simplistic demonization of Theodora in Procopius’ Secret History. Filippo Carlà’s chapter analyses the precedents and the influences of these works in the visual and performing arts, including film and graphic design, as well as their connection to the reception of Byzantium in European society of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. The controversial seductive lure of Byzantium as a place of exoticism and luxury, but also of the decline of Rome, contrasts with the idealization of the Roman past that became a topos in nineteenth-century Spain. Antonio Duplá analyses the themes and the motivations behind the commissioning and the exhibition of large format pictorial works by rulers, members of the court and aristocrats. The connections between power, legitimacy and the search for moral and historical exempla in ancient Rome, as also discussed in Castillo’s chapter, represented collective and national values. Duplá contextualizes them with the contemporary European Zeitgeist, which was culturally and ideologically influenced by the impact of the Enlightenment, the French and American Revolutions and the rise of Nationalism in the nineteenth century, thus providing parallels to Carlà and Lapeña. In Spain, the concept of power seduced by history is embodied especially by Roman Republican themes and heroes, such as Cincinnatus and Lucretia, as well as by memorable events and characters closely linked to Spain and its history, such as Viriathus and the sieges of Numantia and Saguntum. The next contribution takes the reader to a different historical location: the Italian Renaissance and the aesthetic inspiration the artists of that period found in Greek and Roman art. In ‘The Spell of Antinous in Renaissance Art: The Jonah Statue in Santa Maria del Popolo’, Rosario Rovira Guardiola chooses as a case study the Jonah statue in the Chigi chapel of the church of Santa Maria del Popolo, designed by Raphael and Lorenzetto. The author’s main point is that the use of Antinous as an aesthetic inspiration for Jonah was not directly connected to a specific interest in the historical figure of Hadrian’s lover, but to the appeal of his perfect beauty as a source of inspiration. In her chapter ‘The Lure of the Hermaphrodite in the Poetry and Painting of the English Aesthetes’, Charlotte Ribeyrol explores in depth this subversive movement emerging in the conservative and moralizing Victorian era. Her

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study focuses on their search for perfect beauty and on the elevation of the hermaphrodite and of androgyny as an aesthetic ideal that found a source of inspiration in Ovid and was represented by authors and artists such as J. A. Symonds, W. Pater, A. C. Swinburne, S. Solomon and E. Burne-Jones. In her discussion of female sexuality and the Cambridge Ritualists she links closely to Momigliano’s study. Silke Knippschild’s concluding chapter brings this volume to a close. Here the author develops and discusses some of the principal themes that have emerged from the contributions of this book, analysing the different concepts of power and seduction in social studies, the connections to charisma, persuasion and simulation, the allure of nudity and exoticism, and the theme of eroticism as a typical attribute of seduction. Along with these subjects, the author discusses the traditional image of women of power in myth and history and their postclassical reception in the visual and performing arts. Other themes developed in different contributions, such as the seduction of power, the relationship between seduction, power and legitimacy, and the seduction of the past and its places and cultures are also covered in this final chapter.

Notes 1 See, for example, Duthois’ analysis of the rules of advertisement as seduction, 1996: 33–50. On the definition and conceptualization of seduction see Knippschild, this volume. 2 See Knippschild, this volume. 3 See, for example, Blanchard (2010) who explores the traditional tendency in post-classical receptions to associate power relationships in antiquity with eroticism.

2

Power and Seduction in Babylon: Verdi’s Nabucco Michael Seymour

Introduction I begin with a note of thanks. In 2008–9 a series of three major exhibitions on Babylon was held, at the Musée du Louvre, the Pergamon Museum in Berlin, and – the version with which I was primarily involved – in London at the British Museum.1 Although wide-ranging, the exhibition was of necessity extremely selective in its subject matter, and among the many topics to which we would have liked to pay greater attention was Babylon’s life on the stage. We felt this particularly because Paul Frattarolli, a member of British Museum staff and a passionate fan of Verdi, voluntarily collected material relating to Nabucco and kindly offered this research freely to the exhibition team. It was a great shame that we were unable to make use of that material in the exhibition, and so this contribution is somewhat by way of acknowledging that Paul was quite right: Nabucco contains worlds. ‘Power and Seduction’ is a welcome theme for anyone with an interest in Babylon’s reception and representation; perhaps the particular beauty of Nabucco as a topic is that it packs in so much of both. In some respects the opera can stand as a general example of what happened to Babylon over its long afterlife, the almost two thousand years between the demise of the city itself and its archaeological exploration in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. It happens that Nabucco sits at the very end of this period: it was first performed in 1842, just as the great age of Mesopotamian excavation was getting underway. At the time Verdi was writing, nothing grand enough was yet known of ancient Mesopotamia itself to provide a starting point for costumes and settings. Within a decade this had changed completely: with the great Assyrian excavations of

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Paul-Émile Botta and Austen Henry Layard a wealth of ancient Mesopotamian art had become accessible to the European public, through the excavators’ publications, the popular press, and even the arrival of the sculptures themselves in London and Paris.2 Fifty years later Robert Koldewey would be excavating the centre of Babylon itself.3

The opera Nabucco was the opera that made Verdi. At the time of its composition he had been through a series of disasters, the greatest of which was bereavement: at the very young age of 27 he had lost his wife and two young children. He had also suffered a first taste of public and critical rejection. Nabucco was to change Verdi’s fortunes. The opera can fairly be considered the greatest popular success in the history of La Scala: authorities differ as to the exact number of performances in its first year, but at an absolute minimum of 55 (and a more probable figure of 65) it far outstripped any competitor.4 Alongside its incredible popularity this innovative, even revolutionary, new work also achieved critical acclaim.5 Before very long Verdi had already achieved his status as an Italian national treasure. Indeed, his association with the Italian nationalist ideal is a subject connected to Nabucco’s success. The libretto, written by Temistocle Solera, was originally intended not for Verdi but for Otto Nicolai, who rejected it.6 It was based upon an existing play (Nabuchodonosor by Auguste Anicet-Bourgeois and Francis Cornue) and ballet (Nabuccodonosor by Antonio Cortesi). The original full title of Verdi’s opera was also Nabucodonosor, the normal Italian spelling of the name of the king we know in English as Nebuchadnezzar II. To the Babylonians themselves he was Nabu-kudurri-uşur. He was one of the city’s most successful rulers: over his long reign (605–562 bc) he presided over the consolidation of the Neo-Babylonian Empire and the rebuilding of its capital. The great monuments found by archaeologists at the site during the twentieth century are largely his work. This is not how the nineteenth-century world knew him, of course. Instead, where Semiramis comes to us from classical sources, Nebuchadnezzar was known through the Old Testament. To give a very brief synopsis of the opera’s plot: the story begins in Jerusalem, as the city is about to be sacked by the Babylonians. Fearing the coming onslaught, the populace look for leadership to Zaccaria, a wise elder who is perhaps as near as Solera dared come to representing the prophet Jeremiah.7



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He has taken Nabucco’s daughter and heir, Fenena, hostage, but despite this Nabucco succeeds in taking the city and deporting the populace to Babylon. Nabucco’s other daughter, the marvellously devious Abigaille, is jealous of Fenena. Not only do they both love the same Judaean, but because Abigaille is illegitimate and of slave blood Fenena will inherit Nabucco’s throne. Abigaille plots with the High Priest of Baal,8 and pretending Nabucco is dead seizes the throne with a view to having Fenena and the Judaeans executed. Nabucco bursts in, but in asserting how very definitely he is king goes somewhat too far and declares himself also to be a god. At this point God himself intervenes, striking madness into Nabucco and allowing Abigaille to claim his crown. Now Nabucco is imprisoned and insane, Fenena (who has by this point converted to Judaism) is shortly to be executed and Abigaille has destroyed the evidence of her slave background. All seems hopeless, but when Nabucco, grieving for the fate of his beloved daughter, resorts to the desperate measure of praying to the Hebrews’ god, his madness is cured. He is able to save Fenena from execution and, fired with passion for the god of his prisoners, has the statue of the great god Baal destroyed. Abigaille, a defeated shadow, collapses, and at last Nabucco frees the Judaeans, promising to rebuild the temple in Jerusalem.

Biblical and historical background Nebuchadnezzar’s destruction of Jerusalem and the removal of a large part of the population to Babylon are of course real events, and the root cause of the less than glowing press given to Babylon in the Old Testament (choice examples of which come in the form of the passages from Jeremiah which preface each act of Nabucco’s libretto).9 Other events in the opera are not historical but still echo biblical narratives. Nebuchadnezzar’s madness comes from the book of Daniel, for example.10 The release of the captive peoples and rebuilding of the temple are also biblical, although in the Bible it is the Persian conqueror of Babylon, Cyrus, who allows this.11 It seems that the historical Cyrus did indeed allow captive populations to return and rebuild their shrines, although the famous Cyrus Cylinder does not actually mention Jerusalem; all the examples it gives are Mesopotamian.12 It is also worth noting that while the Babylonian and Old Testament sources basically agree on the event, there is a great difference in emphasis. The emotive story of the Captivity is a central, structuring event in the Old Testament. The event did not have the same prominence for the Babylonians at all: for them such deportations were a normal part of controlling

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and managing an empire. The deportees ended up in many different roles, from slaves to courtiers, and this too is reflected in the Bible. From the tone of some passages in Isaiah and Jeremiah, however, and from the powerfully affecting Psalm 137, By the Rivers of Babylon We Sat Down and Wept, the idea developed that the Judaeans were simply enslaved as a people. The treatment of Babylon and the Captivity in art and literature ever since has reflected this view, though from a historical perspective it seems likely that the new arrivals simply integrated into the general cosmopolitan mêlée that was Babylon. Moreover, the return to Jerusalem was only made by some: many, almost certainly most, Judaeans stayed in Babylon, as a direct result of which Iraq had a large Jewish population until very recent times. The golden statue Nabucco destroys is an echo of a story in Daniel in which three Hebrews are thrown into a fiery furnace for refusing to worship an idol set up by Nebuchadnezzar; the biblical story in turn refers to the cult statues of Mesopotamian temples.

Artistic background Ancient Mesopotamia was not a strange subject for the European stage.13 Verdi may himself have seen a performance of Rossini’s celebrated Semiramide, the opera in turn derived from Voltaire’s play Sémiramis. Rossini’s Mosé in Egitto was an important source of musical inspiration,14 and its own Exodus story has obvious parallels with that of the Babylonian Captivity, with which Nabucco is concerned. As for Nebuchadnezzar in particular, Giovanni Battista Niccolini’s Nabucco, written in 1816 and first performed in London three years later, was a highly politicized tragedy, which used its theme to criticize secular and religious despotism: it was understood as an attack on both Napoleon and Pope Pius VII.15 Solera’s Nabucco libretto, as mentioned above, derives ultimately from the play Nabuchodonosor of Auguste Anicet-Bourgeois and Francis Cornu, first performed in Paris in 1836. This too had its political component, a reflection on nationalism and resistance to oppression that again related, despite its later date, to the deeds and reputation of Napoleon.16 The play was adapted as a ballet (Nabuccodonosor, ballo storico) by Antonio Cortesi and performed in Milan at La Scala in 1838 – presumably the form in which it first came to the attention of Solera and of Verdi. Nabucco’s dramatis personae are those of Cortesi’s ballet and thus of the Anicet-Bourgeois/Cornu play, in which originate the characters of Abigaille, Fenena and Zaccaria, among others. Like its predecessors, Verdi’s Nabucco would allude to contemporary politics; in this case, however, the



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political aspect of the work was to prove more powerful and enduring than anyone could have foreseen.

Power: The Hebrew chorus Despite the strength of its principal parts, the musical innovation for which Nabucco is best known is the elevation of the chorus to a central role in its own right. Lamenting their fate and singing of their homeland, the chorus is given a central role dramatically and musically. The chorus sections are both sad and stirring, drawing on biblical imagery and voicing direct appeals to a spirit of patriotism in the face of oppression. One, in particular, was to take on a powerful life of its own: Va, pensiero, sull’ali dorate (‘fly, thought, on wings of gold’): Fly, thought, on wings of gold; go settle upon the slopes and the hills, where, soft and mild, the sweet airs of our native land smell fragrant! Greet the banks of the Jordan and Zion’s toppled towers. Oh, my country so lovely and lost! Oh, remembrance so dear and so fraught with despair! Golden harp of the prophetic seers, why dost thou hang mute upon the willow? Rekindle our bosom’s memories, and speak of times gone by! Mindful of the fate of Jerusalem, either give forth an air of sad lamentation, or else let the Lord imbue us with fortitude to bear our sufferings!

The parallel implied – between the plight of the Judaeans under Babylonian rule and of Italy under Austrian Habsburg dominion17 – was here given emotional, hymnic resonance. Va, pensiero became an anthem of the Risorgimento, encapsulating a longing for homeland, unity and justice.18 Nor was this politicized chorus an isolated case for Verdi; rather it is a notable characteristic of multiple works: ... crucial for Verdi as an artist and for that creation of a national culture integral to the ideological programme of the Risorgimento are instances in which his chorus achieves not merely individuality but dramatic stature. This occurs most

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Seduction and Power frequently when the choral representation has a political basis, one that could be reinterpreted by contemporary audiences: the lament of the Hebrew slaves in Nabucco, the fiery chorus of rebellion in Ernani, the poignant chorus of Scottish exiles in Macbeth. It was presumably in these passages that Giusti [the poet Giuseppe Giusti, writing after the premiere of Verdi’s Macbeth in 1847] identified the Verdi whom he urged to sing of ‘the pain of a people who feel the need of a better future’.19

The particular potency and danger in Verdi was his capacity to stir audiences with the powerful emotion and drama of his work; not merely the political message but the moving, passionate medium by which it was conveyed. Verdi’s music was emotional and direct. It simplified or disregarded much of the structure established by Rossini to produce something more urgent and more flexible, a form in which there was greater freedom for the music to follow the drama in tone.20 These qualities arguably remain key to Verdi’s popularity today; certainly they form a major part of his claim to revolutionising the medium in which he worked, and go some way to explaining the enormous emotional impact of his operas on contemporary audiences. Nabucco had a power born of simplicity. If the spirit of the Risorgimento was fuelled by Verdi’s work, so too Verdi himself was a product of the age, and his genius shaped by his times. The phenomenon of Verdi is unthinkable without the Italian Risorgimento. It matters little or nothing for our purposes whether or not he played an active part in it, he imbibed its tone and atmosphere. At this time, there is no doubt, religious feeling was at a low ebb: it was replaced by a passionate love for the fatherland, the Patria.21

This last point has special relevance in the case of Nabucco, where the language and moral force of the Bible were channelled directly into building this patriotic, nationalist feeling. If Patria could to some degree command the loyalty of religion, there is no better illustration of the phenomenon than the Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves the transformation of a Psalm into a nationalist touchstone. Va, pensiero was famously sung at Verdi’s funeral, where the chorus of La Scala led a crowd of tens of thousands in a rendition. There is a story that on Nabucco’s first performance there was a great outcry for an encore of this chorus – encores were banned at the time and so the act was inherently a rebellious one. Scholars now think that this did not happen, although there probably was a call for an encore of another of the choruses, Immenso Jeohva.22 Whatever the case, the chorus became enshrined in Italian nationalism, is widely considered



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an unofficial national anthem, and is still regularly wildly cheered and given encores when performed today. Verdi himself became an iconic figure in Italian cultural life. In 1913 the centenary of the composer’s birth was marked by a grand exhibition in Parma, the most elaborate of many celebrations organised across Italy: Trieste, Bologna and Rome held memorial ceremonies and commissioned busts of the composer; Genoa and Florence issued commemorative medals. In Busseto, Verdi’s birthplace, gifts were made to the local mutual aid association. Three weeks of celebrations in Milan revolved around a series of concerts conducted by Tullio Serafin and Edoardo Mascheroni; the high point was a national procession to Verdi’s tomb by representatives from all 8,000 Italian comuni. Even the fledgling Italian movie industry invested in the Centenary, with films about Verdi and his birthplace produced by companies in Milan and Parma.23

The Parma exhibition by no means confined itself to musical or even cultural matters. By this time Verdi’s part in national life was considered far broader, and it made sense to harness his image as a national hero to patriotic projects such as the agricultural renewal promoted by the exhibition.24 The link to homeland is well illustrated by the adoption of Va, pensiero by Italian speakers from Istria and Dalmatia driven into exile by atrocities committed against them under Tito.25 Today attempts to appropriate Va, pensiero are made by groups on the Italian far right.26

Censorship The biblical subject matter has undoubtedly affected the opera’s reception in other ways. Nabucco himself is the only biblical character in the opera, however even this was enough to cause problems. There was a place for biblical subject matter, and indeed the opera was first performed at Lent, considered the appropriate time for ‘sacred dramas’. This was not Verdi’s preference, and he had argued unsuccessfully with the impresario, Bartolomeo Merelli, on the subject,27 though in practice the timing served the opera’s popularity extremely well.28 For performance in England the opera had to be secularized, its biblical context elided: the conflict now became one between Babylon and Assyria and the biblical title role changed to the classically derived Nino or Anato.29 As for the domestically more contentious issue of the opera’s politics, it seems that the Austrian censors were aware of the allusions made, but still permitted the

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production. Of course, the censors were faced with a difficult problem. On the one hand, it was hard to censor works that ‘became offensive only by allusion’.30 On the other, the dangers were quite real, partly because of the role played by opera houses themselves in the lives of Italian towns: centres that were as much social as cultural, attended by a very broad social spectrum, noisy and highspirited. It was into this civic context that Verdi launched his operas with their revolutionary sentiments. Nabucco was followed in 1843 by I Lombardi and in 1846 by Attila, both of which used historical subject matter to veil their politics in much the same way.31

Seduction: Abigaille and Nabucco The high patriotic virtues of the Hebrew Chorus still occur, it should be remembered, in an opera centred on a megalomaniacal king and a scheming seductress. There is a biblical background to the story, and some of that biblical background fits well with the Babylonian sources. Nabucco, however, is a thoroughly modern creation, one that picks and chooses to make a new story. Those elements of the story with no biblical precedent have their own interest, since they are perhaps where we can see most clearly what Babylon means to the modern imagination. The great and terrible, mad and changeable Nabucco is one part of this, but what of Abigaille? This princess of Babylon is a seductress, a plotter, usurper of the throne. Her role is central both in the narrative and musically, to the extent that Abigaille is among the most prestigious – not to mention demanding – of all soprano roles. She is a complete invention, but entirely in keeping with longstanding European conventions for the representation of ancient oriental women. One part Semiramis, she leads disguised soldiers on a sneak attack into Jerusalem and ruthlessly seeks the throne; one part Salome, she betrays and seeks to kill out of jealous love. Abigaille is power, sin and seduction personified, an archetypal orientalist fantasy. She is a nineteenth-century creation, but for most people figures in the mould of Abigaille epitomize Babylon, that byword for luxury, sensuality and sin.32 This identity, and that of Nabucco in his more despotic moods, suited Verdi’s purpose ideally. He was concerned in much of his work with issues of government and politics, but also with the role of virtue and the problems of corruption,33 all of which can be seen in Nabucco. Against the shadow of Abigaille is held up the light of her sister Fenena.34 Though a Babylonian, she is all virtue, and almost a martyr after her conversion to Judaism comes close to earning her execution at Abigaille’s hands. Fenena is



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also a sort of patron saint for the Hebrew slaves, who appear in massed ranks and whose own execution would follow hers. (Unlike any previous opera, however, these massed ranks also have a powerful voice of their own.) If Fenena is purely virtuous, Zaccaria is the brave leader who is also a pragmatist, willing to kidnap and threaten to achieve his aims. The role of Nabucco himself is more complicated still, beginning as the villain of the piece and travelling through madness to arrive at a conclusion in which his restoration to the throne brings justice and resolution. It is interesting to see this kind of redemption, since the classic tale of the ancient Mesopotamian despot was that of Sardanapalus, as seen in Byron’s 1821 play of the same name. Following the creative fourth-century account of Ctesias of Cnidus,35 Byron presented the downfall of a corrupt Eastern king. Sardanapalus, the product of many generations of the supposed softness and luxury Greek observers of the Near East so distrusted, perishes in flames as his city, Nineveh, falls around him. Nabucco is rather different, containing both the vices and the virtues a ruler might potentially show. It contains the possibility of redemption, for Nabucco if not for Abigaille, and for justice to be done through enlightened leadership. Coincidence up to a point perhaps, but nonetheless an ideal vehicle through which to express the hopes of a nation.

Productions The timing of the 1842 production was such that there could only be eight performances before the end of the season; this was more than enough to assure Nabucco’s popularity, however, and if anything allowed a build-up of anticipation for its revival in the autumn season.36 The initial run had its problems. Giuseppina Strepponi, the star soprano playing Abigaille (and later Verdi’s second wife), had in a short but crowded career overworked her voice. It was only through a combination of great effort and good fortune that she was able to manage all eight performances of Nabucco. The production as a whole had to be prepared at speed and with compromises: scenery was recycled, quite possibly from Cortesi’s Nabuccodonosor of 1838.37 With the opera’s success established, the autumn production was apparently better supported by Merelli, with a strong cast and favourable scheduling. Nabucco has been revived many times, perhaps most importantly in 1948 as the first opera performed in the repaired La Scala following World War II. The scenery, designed by M. Zampini, incorporated ancient Mesopotamian imagery, one set featuring the blue-glazed bricks and relief bulls and dragons of the Ishtar

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Gate (excavated at the beginning of the twentieth century by Robert Koldewey, though only reconstructed and on display in Berlin from 1930) and a giant statue of Baal based on ancient Mesopotamian votive statuettes.38 The costumes, aiming at authenticity and apparently drawing heavily on Assyrian reliefs, were the work of the celebrated set and costume designer Caramba (Luigi Sapelli). These were far from the earliest attempts to insert such authentic historical touches, however. La Scala set designer Filippo Peroni’s drawings showing costumes and architecture based on the Assyrian reliefs date from the 1850s. By this time the reliefs, of which nothing had been known when Nabucco was composed in 1841, had been not only excavated but shipped back to London and Paris and displayed in the Louvre and British Museum.39

Conclusion The modern political transformation whereby the fate of Nabucco’s Hebrews becomes tied up with that of the Italian nation epitomizes one of the most interesting qualities of antiquity in Western culture: its capacity to transcend and change its original context. The Babylonian policy to deal with upstart small states on its borders became the story of Jerusalem’s oppression, expressed in psalms and prophecies. Gradually it became something far larger than itself, relevant beyond its immediate historical and geographical context. When St Augustine wrote of the Earthly City and the City of God, these were Babylon and Jerusalem, a Babylon and Jerusalem that could exist anywhere, at any time and among all people. In this sense their story is one ideally suited to political allegory. The Hebrew chorus draws on material already understood as universal, and is used to create a potent mix of feelings, bringing the religious and spiritual together with the nationalist and patriotic. When thinking of power and seduction in the context of Nabucco, it is natural to think first of Abigaille, aiming to seize the throne by the most underhand means. There is, however, a very different seduction at the heart of the opera’s success. In bringing together narrative and musical drama, historical allegory and patriotic feeling, Verdi creates and fosters in his audience that sense of Patria and national unity against an outside oppressor. It is a manipulation of the heart as dextrous as any, and a seduction whose success is felt wherever Va, pensiero succeeds in stirring nationalist sentiment. The subject matter is ancient, the oriental seductress is even present, but the great seduction is modern, and is Verdi’s.



Power and Seduction in Babylon: Verdi’s Nabucco

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Notes 1 The relevant catalogues are André-Salvini 2008, Marzahn et al. 2008, Wullen et al. 2008 and Finkel and Seymour 2008. For the European reception and representation of Babylon more generally see these and Seymour (2013). 2 On the Assyrian excavations see especially Larsen 1996, Chevalier 2002. On the reception of the discoveries see especially Bohrer 1989, 1992, 1998, 2003. The excavators’ own publications include the lavish Monuments de Ninive (Botta 1849) and Monuments of Nineveh (Layard 1849a, 1853), but also Layard’s spectacularly popular Nineveh and its Remains (1849b, see also Layard 1852). A further key resource for British reception is the Illustrated London News, which during the 1840s and 1850s gave extensive coverage to both the excavations and the sculptures’ arrival in London. 3 See Koldewey 1913 (in English translation Koldewey 1914) for the excavator’s own account of the Babylon excavations and their significance. 4 Martin 2003: 230. For possible audience figures see Martin 1965: 91. 5 For a summary of contemporary critical reaction see Phillips-Matz 1993: 126–7. 6 Weaver 1980: 122–3. 7 ‘The High Priest Zaccaria, if not historically Jeremiah, is an eloquent epitome of that outspoken, unbudging, terrifying, ruthless yet wholly God-fearing figure: the Old-Testament Prophet’ (Godefroy 1975–1977, I: 18). Musically the role parallels and is perhaps inspired by the Moses of Rossini’s Mosé in Egitto (Martin 1965: 89). 8 Ancient Greek accounts understood the ‘Babylonian Zeus’ to be named Bel, in fact a title meaning ‘lord’ by which Marduk, patron deity of Babylon and head of the pantheon, was commonly known. 9 Jeremiah 34: 2, 30: 23, 50: 39 and 50: 2, although oddly only the second of these passage numbers is given correctly in the libretto. 10 Daniel 4. The ‘madness’ story does not relate to the historical Nebuchadnezzar, but seems instead to be derived from events in the life of a later king, Nabonidus (see Finkel and Seymour 2008: 161–5). 11 2 Chronicles 36: 22–3; Ezra 1. 12 See Michalowski 2006 and http://www.britishmuseum.org/explore/highlights/ article_index/c/cyrus_cylinder_-_translation.aspx (accessed 26 January 2012). 13 For an overview see McCall 1998. For Nabucco in particular see Ley 2010. 14 Baldini 1980: 70–1; Kimbell 1981: 327; Ley 2010: 147–9. 15 Ley 2010: 15. For another attack on a pope, in this case Clement XI, through historical subject matter see McHugh, this volume, on Handel’s Agrippina. 16 Ley 2010: 55–6. 17 Robinson 1993: 139. 18 See especially Martin 1988: 3–28.

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19 Gossert 1990: 52. 20 See, for example, Martin 1965: 87; Rosselli 2000: 41–2. 21 Dallapiccola 1980: 194. 22 Parker 1987; Gossert 1990: 56. 23 Basini 2001: 142–5. 24 Ibid., 148. 25 Bertoglio 2009. 26 Nicoletta Momigliano, pers. comm. 27 Rosselli 2000: 33. 28 Martin 1965: 90. 29 Martin 2003: 230. As Nino the opera received a highly favourable critical and popular reception when staged at Her Majesty’s Theatre, Haymarket, in 1846, notwithstanding the well known objections to Verdi of the leading English critic Henry Fothergill Chorley (Bledsoe 1985: 644). 30 Martin 1980: 21. 31 Ibid., 22–3. 32 For an example from contemporary culture see Llewellyn-Jones, this volume, on the Persian king’s harem at Babylon in Oliver Stone’s 2004 epic Alexander. 33 Martin 1980: 23. 34 On the stage such contrasts can be made literally, and in the production I discussed at the Seduction and Power conference (Teatro Municipale di Piacenza 2004) the costumes employed strong colour coding. The palette for Abigaille was red, black and gold, that for Fenena pale blue and for Nabucco purple and gold – symbolizing seductive sexuality, innocent virtue and imperial power respectively. For more on the use of colour in defining character see Treu, this volume. 35 Known through Book II of the first century bc Bibliotheke Historica of Diodorus Siculus. 36 Martin 1965: 90. 37 Phillips-Matz 1993: 115. 38 A photograph of this set is held in the archives of the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden. 39 Peroni’s are the earliest surviving illustrations for any production of Nabucco. No illustrations are known to survive for the first production (Ferrero 2002: 96).

3

‘Go East Young Man!’ Jewel-in-the-BellybuttonOrientalismin Oliver Stone’s Alexander Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones

I’m gonna go where the desert sun is; where the fun is; where the harem girls dance. Go where there’s love and romance – out on the burning sands, in some caravan I’ll find adventure where I can. To say the least, go East, young man. You’ll feel like a Sheik, so rich and grand, with dancing girls at your command. When paradise starts calling, into some tent I’m crawling. I’ll make love the way I plan. Go East – and drink and feast – Go East young man!

Elvis Presley sang these lyrics in his musical movie of 1965 Harum Scarum (also known as Harem Holiday; dir. Nelson), playing the role of Johnny Tyronne, an action-movie star and ladies’ man, travelling through the Middle East on a goodwill tour to publicize his latest film, The Sands of the Desert. In the process of his Arabian Promotion Tour, he somehow manages to fight off wicked sheiks and bandits and to encounter all the mysteries of the east embodied in a bevy of sexy lovelies named Emerald, Amethyst and Sapphire, the sultry concubines of a sultan’s harem, before falling head-over-heels in love with the Princess Shalimar, whom he marries and takes home to the West – to liberation – to America. In effect, the film’s plot fulfils the theme-song’s promise that going east will reward a young man with all his desired fantasies, or with 1001 Swingin’ Nights, as the film’s publicity campaign promised.

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Of course, the Presley film is a piece of trivial hokum, but in many ways Johnny Tyronne’s fantasy of the East bears a close relationship with that of Alexander the Great, at least as Oliver Stone envisages things in his 2004 movie Alexander. ‘Go East young man; you’ll feel like a Sheik, so rich and grand, with dancing girls at your command’ seems to voice Alexander’s sole motivation for his conquest of Persia. Take for example scene 36 of Alexander, as it appears in the fourth edition of the shooting script (dated 21 August 2003). The scene is set in the royal apartments of Darius III’s palace in Babylon: Music of pipes and flutes can be heard coming from a garden below them [Alexander and his companions] … Intrigued by the music, Alexander moves down a staircase into … a cool garden paradise. As Alexander descends, Darius’ lovers appear, in ones or twos, then threes, accumulating quickly like flowers in their curiosity to set eyes on the young conqueror … to Alexander’s enchanted eyes, it’s a vision of Paradise more than a harem. The Persians have constructed a world from water pools, to food, fragrance, music, clothes, and love, all designed to seduce the senses. PERDICAS (agog) By the gods! What is this?! CRATEROS I venture one for each night of the year! No wonder Darius ran – when he had this to come back to! CASSANDER (aside) Time for a woman, Alexander? ALEXANDER I think you’ll manage well without me, Cassander. The fat, older eunuchs prostrate themselves, their world aflutter at this invasion of throbbing Greek masculinity. Women keep appearing from small apartments – partially concealed by foliage and rock – and several play flutes and various shapes of lyres, luring the men. LEONNATUS Help me Aphrodite! How will I ever go back to Lysidea after this? NEARCHUS I advise you not to touch, Leonnatus. I’ll take care of it for you. The men ravish the women with their eyes, their tastes different, their lust similar …



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The script is peppered with unashamed Orientalist clichés: ‘from water pools, to food, fragrance, music, clothes, and love, all designed to seduce the senses’, it reads. In the final cut of the film shown in cinemas worldwide, the sledgehammer stereotypes are even more painfully obvious, as will be demonstrated below. Numerous questions arise out of this set up: why did Stone indulge himself with these outmoded and, essentially, historically inaccurate visions of the East and how do these cinematic perceptions of the Orient fit in with a bigger Hollywood convention of picturing the East? In this chapter I will explore how Alexander utilizes the image of the harem and I will question the functions it serves in the film’s visual and narrative dialogues. I will explore Stone’s stereotyping of the effeminized East and his relationship to the historical reality of Achaemenid women and, in particular, the royal harem. At the heart of this chapter lies the raison d’être for this entire volume: the harem image encapsulates perfectly the interplay between seduction and power, but whether the seduction is that of the harem femmes fatales over the male protagonists or over the movie audience is ambiguous, as is the question of who holds the power – the males conquering the female-only space? Or the harem women’s hold over the erotic fantasies and aspirations of the spectators? That Alexander’s narrative essentially follows the military occupation of an apparently weakened – if ancient – Eastern civilization by a young and energetic Western superpower (‘Operation Persian Freedom’, as The New Yorker put it),1 forces us to consider the movie within the larger colonialist/imperialist framework which so often comes to the fore in Hollywood’s rendition of East–West encounters, wherein the East is portrayed in a negative light. As Max Alvarez has noted, ‘the culture for which Hollywood has shown its greatest contempt has been the Middle East[ern] culture’.2 It was in 1978 that Edward Said famously broached a theory that film critics, among others, could use to explain the negative, exotic and often erotic settings that Hollywood’s vision of the east routinely promotes. Orientalism describes a method by which Western colonialist discourse has represented the ‘colonies’ and cultures of the Middle Eastern world as a way of justifying and supporting the West’s imperialist enterprise. Put more succinctly, Orientalism is an idiosyncratic means of representing ‘Otherness’. ‘The Orient’, wrote Said, ‘was almost a European invention, and has been since antiquity a place of romance, exotic beings, haunting memories and landscapes, remarkable experiences’.3 While his focus concentrated on European literature – academic writing, travel reports and novels – his theory has been applied readily to the visual arts and even to popular culture, like film.

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Any engagement with Alexander the Great’s life, including cinematic portrayals, cannot just accept a prima face imperialist/Orientalist reading; there is more to Alexander than the sum of his parts. While the ‘imagining’ of the East which Said articulates is central to this chapter, it is important to qualify both the embedded duality and hostile relationship outlined in Orientalism and to emphasize that the ‘Other’ is part of the totality as a defining aspect of the ‘Self ’. In other words, Orientalism is compulsory, for while the East gives the West its identity, in return the West defines itself by looking at the East. It follows therefore that the Orient, and for us the Persians especially, have to be seen as part of the totality of the Western narrative and must be moved from an essential ‘Other’ to an integral part of the ‘Self ’. The scenes in Alexander which are set in the East (Babylon, Bactria, India) serve to define the Western scenes (exclusively Macedonia). The Eastern narrative is an essential part of the whole film since it qualifies Alexander’s achievements, the man he becomes, and the future he aspires to. Nonetheless, while recognizing the complex discourse between East and West in Alexander’s character and in aspects of the film narrative, the way in which Oliver Stone, together with his design team, chose to articulate that dialogue in visual terms is at loggerheads with a more sophisticated understanding of and response to Orientalism. The look of the film’s Eastern scenes is acutely disappointing, not so much in the painstaking details of sets and costumes, but in the general and overall visualization of the East, which relies too heavily on hackneyed Orientalist clichés. Essentially this film falls into a category of particularly low, passé and even offensive visualization of the East, which we might term the ‘the jewel in the bellybutton’ school of Orientalism. If we consider, as we will below, how Stone steeps his audience in an on-screen vision of a fantasy-East, then his reading of the East–West dialogue is no more sophisticated in its depiction of the Orient than that of Harum Scarum. Why was such a clichéd vision of the East formulated in Alexander’s production design? It was not the production design per se which was at fault, and neither set design nor costume design was wholly responsible for the clichéd ‘look’ of the East. I suggest that the burden must lie in the mise en scène of Alexander’s harem scenes and the way in which the women of Persia were utilized in the on-screen vision of the East.



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Open Sesame: Alexander’s Fantasy Harem That the word ‘harem’ is problematic is undeniable. Influenced by vague notions of the Turkish seraglio, today we have a tendency to imagine Eastern women as shut away inside palaces, out of the sight of men (but not necessarily out of harm’s way). The image of an Ottoman-style harem, a secluded and closely guarded pleasure-palace filled with scantily clad, nubile concubines idling away their days in languid preparation for nights of sexual adventure in a sultan’s bed, has become an integral part of the West’s fascination with the mysterious East. The impetus for stories of the ‘lustful Turk’ and his concubines was fuelled in the mid-eighteenth century when free translations of the Arabic Alf Leila wa Leila were published under the title Tales of a Thousand and One Nights. These racy – and highly inaccurate – versions of the Arabic stories immediately satisfied the European taste for a passionate and violent Orient.4 Thus in his introduction to The Arabian Nights Entertainments, B. R. Redman commented that the setting of the stories, is a world in which all the senses feast riotously upon sights and sounds and perfumes; upon fruit and flowers and jewels, upon wines and sweets, and upon yielding flesh, both male and female, whose beauty is incomparable. It is a world of heroic, amorous encounters […] Romance lurks behind every shuttered window; every veiled glance begets an intrigue; and in every servant’s hand nestles a scented note granting a speedy rendezvous [… ] It’s a world in which palaces are made from diamonds, and thrones cut from single rubies […] in short, it is the world of eternal fairy tale – and there is no resisting its enchantment.5

Yet the real allure for the erotic East finds its most vivid expression not in literature, but in nineteenth-century Orientalist paintings.6 By the early twentieth century harem fantasies were being played out on the stages of the West in performances as ‘highbrow’ as Diaghilev’s 1910 Ballet Russes’ Paris premiere of Scheherazade7 or as popular as the hoochy-cooch ‘belly dance’ of Little Egypt at the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair. Here the audience was promised scenes of ‘Life in the Harem. Dreamy Scenes in the Orient. Eastern Dances. The Sultan’s Diversions’.8 Western cinema quickly appropriated the harem fantasy too and from the mid-1910s Hollywood created the harem stereotype adjacent to, and dependant on, the canvases of the Orientalist artists of the earlier century. Thereon in, Hollywood’s view of the East has not simply been symptomatic of colonialist

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imagination, but also a product of the (Western) male gaze. The Hollywood rescue fantasy films, like Harum Scarum or The Sheik (1921; dir. Melford), metaphorically renders the East as a female who is saved from her own destructiveness, while also advancing the narrative of the rescue of women (Eastern or Western) from ‘Arab’ men. Gender is therefore an essential component of Orientalism, and the veiled and ‘secluded’ harem girls in Orientalist films and paintings ironically expose more flesh than they conceal. The processes of exposing the female ‘Other’ serves to allegorize the Western male’s ability to dominate and possess her, and, as a symbol or metaphor of the East, the harem girl is ripe for Western domination through, it is to be assumed, penetration. This desire to project the Orient as feminine is formulated as early as Griffith’s Intolerance where Babylon signifies sexual excess by drawing on the New Testament vision of ‘Babylon the Great, the Mother of Harlots and the Abominations of the Earth’.9 Griffith himself was deeply inspired by Delacroix’s epic 1827 canvas The Death of Sardanapalus, depicting the demise of the Assyrian king amidst the brutality and sensuality of his court.10 Griffith used the painting to recreate ‘Babylon’s last bacchanal’.11 In Alexander, Babylon also represents feminine excess. The Macedonian army enters through the lavish Ishtar Gate to a thundering anthem of gongs, cymbals, drums and brass composed by Vangelis and called The Dream of Babylon. The final edit of the film adequately captures the vision of what Stone’s script (scene 34) demanded: Subtitle: Babylon, Persia. 331 BC Resplendent with finery, Alexander … hair crowned with gold laurel, royal purple cloak clasped with jewels, surrounded by his closest companions [enters] through the blue-tiled Ishtar Gate. Crowds on the parapets cheer and shower flowers upon him as the cavalry and infantry saunter in to the lilting sound of flutes, drums, and horns. Thousands of people are jammed together in the vast square, all shouting, hypnotically – ‘Sikander!’ Never has he been so adored! Alexander’s amazed, overwhelmed. Inside the gate – the streets are filled with crowds of mixed races, many performing the Persian ‘proskynesis’, sending a kiss to the king from their lips, some, of lower rank, prostrating themselves to their knees. Gifts have been brought from all over the kingdom – caged lions, leopards and livestock … Alexander feels himself sucked into the eyes of the populace, feeling its beastly love.

As Alexander progresses through the streets, Stone opts to focus on Colin Farrell’s face. In slow motion, and at an unusual skewed angle, the camera



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captures Alexander’s obvious bliss – with closed eyes and smiling lips – while he is bathed in a shower of pink and red rose petals; this is Alexander in an ecstasy bordering on sexual delight. With this shot, Vangelis’ theme changes: a harp glissando introduces a musical dream-state with a bewitching use of percussion, female choir (no male voices at all), and harp; it reflects Alexander’s erotic reverie. A voice-over from the narrator, Ptolemy, accompanies the scene: So it came to pass, in a dream as mythical to all Greeks as Achilles defeating the Trojans, Alexander entered Babylon. […] But in the end I believe Babylon was a far easier mistress to enter than she was to leave.

Here the city is alluded to as a ‘mistress’, with all the sexual connotations of the word, so that Alexander’s conquest of her (his entry into her) has to be regarded as an act of sexual penetration. But Babylon is a willing mistress, and the girls of the royal harem, as we will see, are envisaged as an extension of the city’s sexual compliance. The visual infatuation that Alexander has for Babylon’s material abundance, emphasized through the mise en scène of monumental architecture, exotic costumes, flora and fauna, as well as details of strange social customs, cannot be divorced from the Orientalist colonial travel reports which are so obsessively smitten by the details of perceived Eastern sensual overindulgence. Thus Alexander visually reproduces what Said refers to as the ‘imaginative geography’ of Orientalism and the feminization of the East, symbolized by ‘the sensual woman, the harem, and the despotic – but curiously attractive – ruler’, in this case Raz Degan’s good-looking King Darius.12 In Alexander we accompany, quite literally, the perspective of the ‘discoverer’ – and it is precisely this point of view that defines his historical position. In Alexander the camera relays the hero’s dynamic movement across a passive space, in this case the public spaces of Babylon and then Darius’ private palace, stripping those spaces of any mystical enigma as the spectator gains access to the treasures of the East through the eyes of the discoverer-protagonist. Alexander’s progression through city and palace becomes increasingly more intimate as the conqueror and his companions penetrate into the heart of the palace. According to the script, scene 34 (as we have seen) is set at the Gates of Babylon; scene 35 takes us to the King’s Apartments inside the Babylon Palace; scene 36 takes us to the Interior Babylon Garden of the King’s Palace, the harem. In Alexander the image of the harem offers an ‘open sesame’ to an unknown, alluring world – although as a director, Oliver Stone is not alone in this regard: other historical epics like Alexander the Great (1956; dir. Rossen) and Solomon and Sheba (1959; dir. Vidor), as well as musicals such as Kismet (1955; dir.

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Minnelli) and The King and I (1956; dir. Lang) use the motif of the ruler or conqueror within his harem to transmit the idea of the autocracy and sexual authority of the male protagonist. The harem sequence in Alexander propels the audience, like Alexander himself, into the unknown world of the East, although it should be noted that the scene as it appears in the final film does not necessarily replicate the original script unchanged. The first hint the film’s audience gets of the Oriental pleasures to come occurs in scene 35 (according to the script enumerations): Darius’ bedchamber. Alexander and his companions are discussing the necessity of capturing the defeated Persian king in order to legitimise Alexander’s rule over his empire, but they also pause to marvel at the material manifestations of an age-old civilization: ALEXANDER (in wonder) Imagine the minds that conceived this! With architects and engineers like these we could build cities such as we’ve only dreamed! PTOLEMY Aristotle might have called them barbarians, but he never saw Babylon.13

But all thoughts of the reality of conquering and controlling ‘a world far older than ours’, as Alexander puts it, are pushed aside when, distracted by the music of pipes, flutes, harps and light female laughter coming from a garden below them, Alexander and his men move down a staircase and into a garden-harem. The antiquity and nobility of the East is suddenly subordinated by a vision of hedonistic enchanted decadence as Vangelis’ score, ‘Gardens of Delight’, begins with a dreamy female solo voice accompanied by harp, strings and delicate finger-cymbals, and sets the mood for a scene of sensual pleasures. As Alexander and the companions enter the harem they are greeted with an exquisite sight. The camera privileges the Macedonian position as we see the harem from above, from Alexander’s viewpoint, and we gaze down into the lushly planted hothouse, where the women display themselves like rare orchids: PERDICAS (agog) By the gods! What is this?! CRATEROS No wonder Darius ran – when he had this to come back to! I venture one for each night of the year! LEONNATUS Help me Aphrodite! How will I ever go back to Lysimache after this?14



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NEARCHUS I advise you not to touch, Leonnatus. Here, I’ll take care of it for you.

Nearchus makes to move on the girls, but he is held back by Alexander who silently asserts his authority and forbids his men to rough-handle them. The camera now concentrates on the soft, sultry and sensuous delights of the harem (Figure 1): the bodies of the concubines themselves and the camera privileges the male point of view as it spotlights individual women. Through a series of fluid edits, like Alexander’s men, we focus first on a dark-eyed girl lightly strumming a lyre, then a fair-haired girl coyly lifting her peacock-feather fan to her cheek, and next a loose-limbed beauty stroking the soft white fur of her fat Persian kitten. The rapid cutting means that the women of Darius’ harem change from the active observers as visualized in the script (‘Darius’ lovers appear … quickly … in their curiosity to set eyes on the young conqueror’) to the passive observed of the camera’s lens/Alexander’s gaze. Oliver Stone’s use of the camera and of editing to capture the exotic beauty of individuals within the harem pays homage to D. W. Griffiths’ Intolerance wherein the girls of Babylon are put on display for public auction, a scene in turn inspired by Edwin Long’s epic 1875 painting The Babylonian Marriage Market.15 Griffith’s setting is more crowded than the painting but the director compensates for this through the

Figure 1. Alexander in the Babylonian Harem, Alexander (O. Stone 2004). Courtesy of The Kobal Collection.

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skillful use of the moving camera and slick editing. There are no fewer than 60 shots used in this sequence, fifty-seven of which are rapid cuts allowing the audience to move ‘through the looking-glass of nineteenth century painting into the reality of the magic world of the movies.’16 Griffith uses his camera to pan along a line of girls stretched out on the floor in front of the auction podium and one by one he lets his audience see them toying with their mirrors, wafting their fans, or merely gazing at the ground, for like Stone’s harem girls, Griffith’s seraglio of beauties are busy doing nothing, simply basking in their gorgeousness and languidly waiting for their sexual adventures to begin.17 In terms of costume, the girls of 1916 and 2004 have much in common: they wear the same standard Hollywood fantasy-harem ensembles of low slung skirts which show midriffs and hips, wrap-around brassier-tops, a variety of gossamer veils, and an abundance of tinkling jewellery. As in the Orientalist harem paintings, the exposure of flesh is paramount. After allowing the camera to linger on the harem inmates, Vangelis’ ‘Gardens of Delight’ theme now picks up with a laid back and rhythmical Easternsounding percussion, and it is at this juncture that the film’s clichéd image of the harem descends to its nadir as each harem girl begins to sway her hips, rotate her abdomen, and twist her arms in a slow and sensual belly-dance. The girls of Darius’ harem are very willing performers it seems; they bloom before the rugged Macedonian invaders and dart liquid glances into the eyes of the welcome intruders, inviting them to share in the sensual delights of this secret world of women. The image created by Stone puts one in mind of Sir William (Oriental) Jones’ eighteenth-century conception of the harem as a grand brothel, with the inmates performing in an erotic costume drama: A thousand nymphs with many a sprightly glance Form’d round the radiant wheels an airy dance Celestial shapes! In fluid light array’d Like twinkling stars their beamy sandals play’d; Their lucid mantles glitter’d in the sun (Webs half so bright the silkworm never spun) – Transparent robes, that bore the rainbow’s hue, And finer than the nets of pearly dew That morning spreads o’er every flower.18

The confusion between harem and brothel is a common one: Emmett Murphy, for instance, includes a chapter on the harem in his book Great Bordellos of the World, arguing that, ‘although not every harem is a bordello […] not every



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[…] house of women is a harem […] The Turkish word for inn, serai, will be accepted in the Islamic world for hostelry and whorehouse, this [later] became known in the West as the seraglio.’19 Similarly, in the popular imagination of the West there is little difference between concubine and courtesan. Alexander’s men undoubtedly regard the women as sexually available – not surprising given the obvious come-ons the girls exude. ‘I venture one for each night of the year!’ is Crateros’ wide-eyed observation – and here the script draws on the popular ancient Greek perception that the Great King was surrounded by 360 enthusiastic concubines – one, almost, for every night of the year.20 ‘Help me Aphrodite!’ is an appropriate plea. The Western male dream of the wanton and available odalisque is promulgated by Stone in a fashion worthy of Delacroix and Ingres or – by direct descent – Edwin Long. Orientalist art, and by extension Orientalist cinema, prioritizes male visual pleasure, a form of gratification bound up in imperial identity – seduction and power combined. Adding the gloss of antiquity to the Orientalist image, especially the decadence of Babylon and the ubiquitous image of the harem, supports the ideology and gives the Western prejudice over the East a rich pedigree, seemingly steeped in historicity. In this regard, Stone’s Alexander has to be seen as the latest in a long line of beautiful, if deeply misunderstood and dangerous, Orientalist clichés. Two specific points arise from Stone’s portrayal of the harem which seriously undermine the historical reality of the institution.21 First, Stone opts for the glossy Hollywood fantasy harem and thereby writes out of history the type of people who actually constituted the inner court: mothers, daughters, sisters, grandmothers. This cinematic harem is filled with young and, presumably, fertile concubines while the older women of the inner court, the mature females, the mothers and their children, are written out of Stone’s vision. In careful consultation with the assistant director I had strongly suggested that the harem be comprised of women and children of diverse ages and divergent social strata (king’s wives, sisters, daughters, concubines, children, eunuchs and slaves), and indeed the script does call for ‘young and old women, eunuchs, slaves … and … females of the extended royal branch’. The vision I had in mind resembled the type of extended family I had been privileged to encounter among a nomadic tribe in modern Iran, in which the andarūnī consisted of all the males of the family (fathers, sons and brothers) and their respective wives (who were also mothers), of grandmothers, and a whole array of male and female offspring ranging from infants to adolescents. But when the time came to film the Babylon harem sequence at Pinewood Studios, the older women and the children disappeared from the scene.

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Secondly, Stone does not understand the idea that being seen by unrelated males would bring great shame upon the women of the royal household. Alexander and his men violate their domestic space and thereby affront the personal honour of the inhabitants of the inner court; we should expect the women to act accordingly.22 But not here: these harem girls are brazen; they dance and coquettishly interact with the conquerors. Why do they not flee in terror? Why do they not veil themselves? Why do they not resist? Instead they capitulate; more than that, the concubines willingly open up and blossom. Interestingly the Turkish director Ferzan Özpetek deals with a very similar scenario differently. His 1999 film Harem Suare (The Last Harem) traces the daily life of the imperial harem in Istanbul at the twilight of the Ottoman Empire. The story follows Safiye, the Sultan’s favourite concubine, as she gains power and authority within the inner court by overcoming plots and intrigues until she secures her position by bearing the Sultan a son and becoming an official wife. When the empire falls, the Sultan escapes to Europe, leaving all his wives and concubines behind in Istanbul, and it is left to Safiye to fight for their rights under the new and indecisive Republic. The most remarkable scene in the film occurs immediately after the Sultan has fled the Dolmabahçe Palace, as the Republican guards enter the private heart of the complex to issue orders that the harem is to be disbanded and the women are to leave the security of the palace and return to their natal homes. As the guardsmen enter into the sanctity of the domestic space, the concubines huddle together for protection, terrified at the fate that may befall them and, humiliated at this breech of propriety, they clutch for their veils or any makeshift covering which will protect them from the violations of the unwanted male gaze, until Safiye orders the guards to show respect and withdraw, which they eventually do. Commenting on the nature of his film, Özpetek has stressed that his main concern was to ‘unravel one of the most crucial knots of my original culture: the end of the Ottoman Empire, portrayed in one of the places dearest to the imagination – the harem’.23 But he does not choose a belittling course; the disbanding of the last harem represents for Özpetek the breakdown of the old order, because he recognizes that the inner court represents the heart of the Ottoman Empire and with the destruction of harem the political relevance of the sultanship ceases to matter. Oliver Stone, however, fails to realize the political value of the inner court of Achaemenid Persia, let alone the dynastic consequences of Alexander’s acquisition of Darius III’s harem. The possession of a predecessor’s harem, and in particular the females of the household, ensured the successor’s hold on the throne and the control of the harem gave a new ruler the potential to legitimise



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his reign through the physical possession of a former monarch’s household.24 For Darius III, the Macedonian king’s seizure of the Persian royal harem heralded the end of Achaemenid rule, for Alexander’s appropriation of the reproductive capabilities of the women of the inner court immediately jeopardized the legitimacy of Darius’ reign. In this respect, Oliver Stone’s trivialization of the royal harem as a brothel-like pleasure palace fails to do justice to a decisive moment in Alexander’s political career.

Conclusion Alexander displays all the familiar Orientalist notions about the inferiority and picturesqueness of Eastern societies. The lure of the East as set out in Alexander has two dimensions: one of space – the call of far-distant lands and alien peoples; and of time – the pursuit of the historical ‘other’. The unifying factor of both dimensions is the portrayal of the Eastern woman, and in particular the ‘harem woman’ who combines most rigidly the mythic elements of the Western perception of the Orient: domestic submissiveness, erotic willingness, exotic sensuality and, of course, power and seduction. Alexander is the story of a Western man caught up in an Oriental fantasy of his own making and thus in terms of its portrayal of East–West relationships the film is a stale cultural statement and a worn-out reflection of the continuing Western preoccupation with an imaginary exotic Orient. As such, Alexander has within it the hollow ring of Elvis Presley’s encouragement to ‘go East young man!’

Notes 1 The New Yorker, 29 November 2004. 2 Alvarez 1998: 27. For a detailed examination of Hollywood’s use of Middle Eastern culture see Shaheen 2003. 3 Said 1978: 1. 4 For the Orientalist ideology within the European translations of the Alf Leila wa Leila see Kabbani 1986. See also, Mernissi 1997, 2001. 5 Redman 1932: ix. 6 Davies 2005: 247. For Ingres’ Eastern women see Lemairs 2000: 198–203 and Ribiero 1999: 197–236. More generally on women in Orientalist art see DelPlato 2002 and Thornton 1993. On the Ballet Russe see also Momigliano, this volume.

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7 Mernissi 2001: 68–9. 8 Çelik 2000: 81. 9 Revelations 17.5 10 For a discussion of the painting and a background to the nineteenth-century mania for the ancient Near East see Bohrer 2003: 54–9. 11 Drew 2001: 68–9 12 Said 1985: 90, 103. 13 In the script (fourth draft) the scene reads: ‘PTOLEMY: Aristotle might have called them barbarians, but he never saw Babylon. ALEXANDER (in wonder): Imagine the minds that conceived this, Ptolemy! With architects and engineers like these we could build cities such as we’ve only dreamed!’ 14 In the script (fourth draft) Leonnatus names his wife as Lysidea. 15 See Leighton House 2004 and Bills 1998: 105–8. 16 Hanson 1972: 506. 17 McCall 1998: 210. See further Bahrani 2001. 18 Jones 1772, cited in Lytle Croutier 1989: 71. 19 Murphy 1983: 109. 20 Deinon FGrH 690 F 27; Plut. Art. 27. 2; Heracleides (FGrH 689 F1) notes 300 concubines. Olmstead 1948: 424 argues that the presence of 360 concubines can be linked with the number of days in a calendar year, but the figure is too convenient to be taken seriously and is probably a Greek fantasy on the number of women available for the Great King’s pleasure. The number of concubines in the royal household probably fluctuated and it is possible that at times they actually exceeded 360 in number; see Llewellyn-Jones (2013). 21 On the historical Achaemenid harem see Llewellyn-Jones and Robson 2010: 84–6 and Llewellyn-Jones (2013). 22 For a full discussion of female shame and its connection to domestic space see Llewellyn-Jones 2003: 155–214. 23 http://www.filmfestivals.com/cannes99/html/regard20.htm (accessed May 2006). 24 Brosius 1996: 47–64; Ogden 1999: 45; Solvang 2003.

4

Modern Dance and the Seduction of Minoan Crete1 Nicoletta Momigliano

Since the first decade of the twentieth century, the material culture of Minoan Crete has been a rich source of inspiration for modern writers and artists, as various articles and books on this subject testify.2 But the Minoan influence on the performing arts, such as dance and theatre, has not yet received equal attention: whereas the Greek elements in the works of famous early twentiethcentury dancers such as Isadora Duncan and members of Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes are relatively well known, this chapter explores the connections between Minoan Crete and these representatives of modern(ist) dance.

A scandalous present and scandalous past: modern dance and the Minoans In the first two decades of the twentieth century the innovative dancing of Isadora Duncan and of Sergei Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes shocked and seduced audiences in European capitals and beyond. Isadora Duncan’s free movements, bare feet, and semi-transparent tunics (Figure 2.1), coupled with her ideas about women and marriage, raised many eyebrows (despite her self-confessed puritanical streak), while the deliberate and explicit eroticism of Diaghilev’s Russian Ballet caused considerable scandal.3 For example, in the ballet Cleopâtre, one of the sensations of the first Ballets Russes season in Paris of 1909, the veil-wrapped, mummy-like body of Ida Rubinstein, appearing in the title role, was carried onto the stage in a chryselephantine sarcophagus by black slaves, who then unravelled the veils, turning the scene into a kind of strip-tease.4 In addition, the choreographer and dancer Mikhail Fokine had

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Figure 2.1–5:  1) Portrait of Isadora Duncan by Léon Bakst (Ashmolean Museum, University of Oxford); 2) Nijinsky, final scene with nymph’s scarf in L’Après-midi d’un Faune (photo Adolf de Meyer); 3) Knossos, ‘La Parisienne’ fresco (after Evans 1900–1; Ashmolean Museum, University of Oxford); 4) ‘The Dancer’ fresco (after Evans 1901–2; Ashmolean Museum, University of Oxford); 5) ‘Theatral Area (after Evans 1902–3; Ashmolean Museum, University of Oxford).



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arranged a wild Bacchanal dance for this ballet, in which girls were pursued by satyrs: the dancer Vera Fokina ‘sweeps across the stage like a whirlwind, while Sophia Feodorova freezes into sensual poses. As the pace quickens, all revolve like a maelstrom, and the girls throw themselves on the floor in attitudes of suggestive abandon, while the satyrs hang over them lasciviously. Many people are shocked by this’.5 But the most famous example of the Russian sexually explicit and shocking ballets is, arguably, L’Aprés-midi d’un Faune. The ballet had its premiere at the Théâtre du Châtelet in Paris, on the 29 May 1912: the music, by Claude Debussy, was composed in 1894 and was inspired by Mallarmé’s 1865 eponymous poem (cf. Ribeyrol, this volume); the sets and costumes were by Léon Bakst. This ballet scandalized the audience of its Parisian premiere with its unusual angular movements, frieze-like poses in profile, and, above all, with its final scene, in which the ballet’s choreographer and principal dancer Vaslav Nijinsky fulfilled his sexual awakening and desire by masturbating with a nymph’s scarf (Figure 2.2) – an act that was described at the time as an expression of ‘erotic bestiality’.6 A few years earlier, the excavations by the British archaeologist Sir Arthur Evans at Knossos, which had started in the spring of 1900, had sparked a remarkable interest in Minoan Crete, and his discoveries had reached a very wide audience through articles in established newspapers and art magazines.7 Evans’ discoveries, like Duncan’s and Nijinsky’s dances, had shocked and seduced the scholarly and general public with their imagery, which showed provocatively bare-breasted, snake-wielding, red-lipped and kiss-curled females, such as the so-called Snake-goddess figurines and the wall-painting known as ‘La Parisienne’ (Figure 2.3), after the following description published by the French archaeologist Edmond Pottier soon after her discovery: What would Racine or even Euripides have said, had they been introduced to this authentic image of a relative of Phaedra? … Her dishevelled hair, the provocative “kiss curl” on her fore-head, her enormous eye and sensual mouth, stained a violent red … the mass of ribbons tossed over her shoulder in a “come-hither” gesture, this mixture of naïve archaism and spicy modernism … this Pasiphaë who looks like an habitué of Parisian bars – everything about this work conspires to amaze us; in sum, there is something about the discovery of this unheard-of art that we find stunning, even scandalous.8

But, apart from the real and/or perceived eroticism, and accompanying whiff of scandal, are there any other significant connections between early twentiethcentury modern dance and the material culture of Minoan Crete?

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The connections between ancient Greece and the work of Isadora Duncan and the Ballets Russes are relatively well known. Duncan’s obsession with Greece, which was partly influenced or, at least, intensified by her reading of Nietzsche, is well documented,9 and several scholars agree that some of her Hellenic enthusiasm directly influenced the Ballets Russes, especially their ‘Greek’ ballets: Daphnis et Chloë, Narcisse, and the already mentioned L’Après-midi d’un Faune.10 But how does Minoan Crete fit into this? To put it differently: is there any concrete evidence suggesting that these artists were interested in Minoan Crete and, if so, why were they fascinated by this ancient culture? I would like to suggest that connections between early twentieth-century dance and this ancient civilization occur at two interconnected levels. On the one hand, there is what one might call a direct or explicit level (the concrete evidence), illustrated, for example, by Duncan’s impromptu dance at the site of Knossos and by the scenes and costumes designed by the Russian artist Léon Bakst (a prominent member of Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes), which were directly inspired by specific aspects of Minoan material culture. On the other, there are connections at an indirect, broader but, arguably, deeper level, which were created by the intellectual climate of late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century modernism, and more specifically by the emerging fascination with primitivism, sexuality, gender relations and especially with animal urges, female sexuality and power. These emerging concerns made Minoan Crete particularly seductive to writers and artists, for reasons discussed below, and also helped to produce modernist perceptions of Minoan Crete, such as Pottier’s description of ‘La Parisienne’, quoted above.

The direct level Duncan’s visit to Knossos In chronological fashion, I shall start my discussion of the direct level of connections with Duncan’s visit to the ‘Palace of Minos’, and her impromptu dance inside the reconstructed ruins. The exact date of this event is unclear, since no visits to Crete are recorded in her 1928 autobiography (My Life), but it was probably around 1903–4, i.e. when she was living in Athens and Evans’ discoveries were gaining wide publicity both in the archaeological world and among the wider public. One should also bear in mind that by this date Evans had brought to light frescoes of women dancing (Figure 2.4),11 and had even



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claimed that the stepped area at Knossos, dubbed the ‘Theatral Area’ (Figure 2.5), was the actual choros or dancing place of Ariadne, who, in his evolutionary vision, was none other than a Greek remembrance of the female divinity (a Great Mother Goddess) who had presided over the origins of drama, before being replaced by a male god: [I]t is difficult to refuse the conclusion that this first of theatres, the Stepped Area with its dancing ground, supplies a material foundation for the famous “choros” [of Ariadnê’] … It is symptomatic of the increased importance attached to male divinities in the later religion of Greece that ‘choros’ and theatre should pass from the Goddess to the God. In the more recent cult the ‘choros’ of Ariadnê is superseded by that of her Consort Dionysos.12

Our main source for Duncan’s Knossian dance is an account by Evans’ ward, James Candy, which shows that if, on the one hand, this episode did not make a sufficiently deep mark on the American dancer to be recorded in her autobiography, she, on the other, made quite an impression on the archaeologists who witnessed it, especially on Evans’ assistant, Duncan Mackenzie: In the earlier days of the excavations at Knossos, Sir Arthur did not have the time to show visitors around the Minoan Palace, so when the famous dancer, Isadora Duncan, arrived one day, Sir Arthur asked Dr Mackenzie to escort her around the site. She was very impressed with what she saw and on arriving at the Grand Stairway of the Palace, she could not contain herself and threw herself into one of her impromptu dances for which she was so well known. Up and down the steps she danced, her dress flowing around her. Dr Mackenzie was very shocked and told Sir Arthur that he did not approve as it was quite out of keeping with her surroundings. Sir Arthur was very amused and from time to time would tease him about the episode.13

In addition to her impromptu dance, which could be described as the perfect embodiment of her Nietzschean-Dionysian enthusiasm for a certain Greek past,14 especially for primitive, matriarchal Crete, one might also note that she was known to be a great admirer of Mariano Fortuny’s ‘Peplos’ dresses and ‘Knossos’ scarves, thus named because the Spanish artist drew his inspiration from Greek and Minoan imagery.15 I was not able to ascertain, however, whether it was a Knossos scarf that caused her untimely and tragic death by getting caught in the wheels of her car and strangling her.16

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Ballets Russes and Minoan Crete: Léon Bakst Less tragic, but more substantial, are the direct connections between Minoan Crete and the work produced by the Russian artist Léon Bakst for Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes and for members of his entourage.17 Bakst’s interest in things Greek can be traced back at least to the period 1902–4, when he spent much time in the St Petersburg’s Hermitage Museum studying Greek art, which inspired his designs for Ida Rubinstein’s production of Antigone (1902) as well as the stage performances of Merezhkovsky’s translations of Euripides’ Hyppolitus (1902) and Sophocles’ Oedipus at Colonus (1904).18 Merezhkovsky’s translations are part of the contemporary Russian religious and artistic renaissance of the ‘Silver Age’, which included an interest in classical Greece, and was much influenced by Nietzsche’s ideas.19 While working on these productions, Bakst wrote to his wife about his desire to visit Greece.20 He was able to fulfil his wish in 1907, and he published a memoir of these travels in 1923.21 The journey included a visit to Crete, which took place between 16 and 20 May 1907, and left a long-lasting impression on Bakst, as shown by his subsequent artistic productions.22 For example, references to Minoan Crete can be found already in his 1909 cover design of the magazine Apollon (e.g. Minoan-type columns and spiral motif)23 and in his large 1908 painting Terror Antiquus, which some have interpreted as a representation of the destruction of Minoan Crete.24 This painting recalls the Knossian Town Mosaic faience plaques25 as well as the famous Lion’s Gate of Mycenae in some of its architectural details, although the central figure is the statue of an Archaic Greek kore, and other elements also recall Classical Greece. Since, however, the focus of this chapter is on Minoan connections with the performing arts, dance in particular, the following discussion will be limited to Minoan elements in Bakst’s designs for sets and costumes. Readers should note from the outset that, although some of the specific archaeological parallels for Bakst’s inspiration come from Mycenaean Greece, the motifs and iconography are ultimately of Minoan origin. A good starting point is the notorious L’Après-midi d’un Faune (Figure 3.6). Although the influence of Archaic Greece on this ballet is more obvious, especially if one looks at the general appearance of the nymphs – largely modelled on Greek korai – some Mycenaean and Minoan elements seem to have crept in, as can be seen in the details of Bakst’s designs for the nymphs’ costumes. For example, the shape of the nymphs’ dresses in some of Bakst’s sketches (Figures 3.7–8) are closely reminiscent of Mycenaean ‘Phi’ and ‘Psi’



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Figure 3.6–10:  6) Nymphs in L’Après-midi d’un Faune (photo Adolf de Meyer); 7) Bakst’s design for nymph’s costume in L’Après-midi d’un Faune (New York Public Library); 8) Bakst’s design for nymph’s costume in L’Après-midi d’un Faune (Wadsworth Atheneum, Hartford, Connecticut); 9) ‘Phi’ and ‘Psi’ Mycenaean figurines (based on Schliemann 1976); 10) Bakst’s design for the cover of the ballet programme for L’Après-midi d’un Faune (Wadsworth Atheneum, Hartford, Connecticut).

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figurines (Figure 3.9), and the spiral-like motifs are most likely of Minoan inspiration.26 Similarly, some of the costumes actually worn by the nymphs in photographs of the time are decorated with ivy motifs, which are very typical of the Minoan ceramic repertoire, although they also appear in Greek pottery of later periods.27 For other aspects of Bakst’s work for L’Après-midi d’un Faune, however, a Minoan influence might appear, at first sight, more elusive, but still worth investigating. Let us consider the well known image used for the cover of the ballet programme, showing Nijinsky with his piebald costume, holding a bunch of grapes, with a sinuously arranged scarf in the background (Figure 3.10). As Fritz Blakolmer has pointed out, 28 this image looks to many art historians and Aegean Bronze Age scholars ‘most Minoan’, although there is no specific Bronze Age Aegean representation that was the direct model for it: the affinities, in Blakolmer’s opinion, are too vague, and are largely due to ‘coincidence’. In other words, there are unrelated stylistic convergences, similar visual and compositional principles that occur independently in Minoan art and in the work of many modern artists of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, such as Bakst. Yet, I would argue that a Minoan element can be seen in the detail of the spiral-like motif in the scarf; moreover, the Faune is a half-human and half-animal creature: given the piebald pattern of his costume, it is, perhaps, not too fanciful to suggest that the Cretan myth of the Minotaur, and the representations of piebald bulls in Knossian frescoes might have influenced Bakst’s costume in some way. In this context, a passage from Bakst’s account of his Greek travels appears rather intriguing: Greece is so surprising … scattered clumps of dust-grey olive groves, and higher still there are more naked rocks, wild, classical, mottled like a leopard skin, with irregular, dark brown spots.29

In other words, a combination of this memory of the Greek landscape, the Minotaur myth, and piebald bulls in Knossian frescoes – possibly refreshed by Minoan images available in various publications such as La Revue de l’Art30 – could have provided some inspiration for Nijinsky’s costume. I will conclude this brief discussion of the Minoan elements in L’Après-midi d’un Faune with some observations about one of the most characteristic and novel features of this ballet, namely the angular, frieze-like postures of the dancers. These, it is commonly accepted, were inspired by Greek relief-carvings and vase-paintings.31 Depictions of human figures in profile, however, are also common in Minoan and Egyptian art, and these too could have influenced



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Figure 4.11–15:  11) Bakst’s design for the set of Hélène de Sparte (1912) (Musée d’Art Moderne, Paris). 12) Bakst’s design for Menelaus’ costume in Hélène de Sparte (1912) (Collection of Prof. Boris Stavrovski, New York) also used in the ballet Daphnis and Chloe. 13) Bakst’s design for Helen’s costume in Hélène de Sparte (1912) (private collection, akg-images/Erich Lessing). 14) Pottery from Knossos (after Evans 1921–30, vol. IV.1, Figure 216). 15) Pottery from Knossos (after Evans 1921–30, vol. IV.1, Figure 220).

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the ballet. In this context, an anecdote reported by one of Nijinsky’s biographers may be illuminating: while working on L’Après-midi d’un Faune, Bakst and Nijinsky had arranged to meet in the ancient sculpture department of the Louvre, but ‘the painter waited in vain in the Greek section and went away without making contact with the dancer, who was lost in admiration of Egyptian reliefs on the floor below’.32 Beside the posture in profile, one could also note other elements that are similar both in Archaic Greek sculpture and in Minoan iconography, such as the long locks of curly hair. On balance, the nymphs’ appearance probably owes more to Archaic Greece, but the point that is worth making here is that in the work of Bakst, as in the work of many of his contemporaries, as well as later artists, allusions to the past are not always specific and clear-cut: Minoan, Greek, Etruscan, or Egyptian elements are often fused and re-elaborated into some kind of archetypal archaism and primitivism, and all act together as a source of inspiration.33 Interestingly, Eric Shanover also used an Archaic Greek statue (the so-called Peplos Kore) as a model for Helen in his Age of Bronze.34 But with these observations on Minotaurs and primitivism I am hinting at and trespassing into the field of connections that one can see at a broader, indirect and deeper level, to which I shall return later. I shall now conclude this section on direct links between Minoan Crete and the performing arts by looking at two further theatrical productions by Bakst: Hélène de Sparte and Phaedre. These are also, arguably, his most ‘Minoan’ works, the latter in particular. They were not produced specifically for the Ballets Russes, but for a former member of Diaghilev’s company, the aforementioned Ida Rubinstein, who was the heroine of two of their most famous ballets, Cleopâtre and Sheherazade. Rubinstein was also supposed to be one of the nymphs in L’Après-midi d’un Faune, but by 1911 she was collaborating with the Italian poet, dramatist and novelist Gabriele D’Annunzio on the drama San Sebastian (with score by Debussy), and eventually left the Ballets Russes to stage other works as her own impresario.35 Thus, in 1912, Bakst, besides working on L’Après-midi d’un Faune, produced the first of his ‘Minoan’ offerings for Rubinstein, the set and costumes for the play Hélène de Sparte (Figure 4.11), by the Belgian poet Emil Verharen, which tells the story of Helen after her return to Laconia from Troy, where she is pursued by the incestuous passion of her brother Castor. Commenting on this work, Bakst is reported to have said: In my sets I have tried to show the Homeric world as I see it. I did my research on Crete, in the labyrinth of Minos. And I must admit that I found what I hoped



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for there. In fact, I have always thought that early Greek art, which corresponds to the same Egyptian period, did not have that lack of colour which is generally ascribed to the classical period. Statues and monuments were all multi-hued and I have used traces of those vivid, even brutal colours.36

The drawing of the set design preserved by the Museum of Modern Art in Paris (Figure 4.11) is a wonderful concoction of disparate elements, of which the most striking, from a Minoan point of view, are the presence of two ‘Lion’s Gates’, and of several Minoan tapering columns, decorated with Minoan spirals and ‘brutal’ colours. Further Minoan elements can be found in details of the costumes for Helen and Menelaus (Figure 4.12–13), and are mostly derived from pottery motifs common in the Late Minoan repertoire (e.g. papyrus, ‘sacral ivy’, pendant with festoons: cf. Figure 4.14–15).37 As a note scribbled on the sketch indicates (top right corner), the costume for Menelaus was to be reused for three brigands in the ballet Daphnis et Chloë. The most spectacular Minoan allusions in Bakst’s theatrical art, however, can be found in his work for Ida Rubinstein’s staging of the multimedia production of Phaedre at the Paris Opera in 1923 – a work based on the tragedy Fedra written by D’Annunzio in 1909, with music by Ildebrando Pizzetti. That this work shows the strongest Minoan inspiration is not surprising, since in 1922 Bakst was working on the manuscript, published a year later, of his 1907 travels in Greece (cf. above), rekindling therefore memories of his visit to Phaedra’s homeland and, no doubt, finding inspiration from the sketches he had made during that journey. There are several versions of studies for the set of this opera,38 but they all show an abundance of Minoan tapering columns, decorated with running spirals so typical of Minoan art and/or with other quintessential Minoan symbols, such as the double axe and the octopus. The examples conserved in the Thyssen-Bornemisza Collection in Madrid and at the Musée de L’Opéra in Paris (Figure 5.16–17) also make direct reference to the griffins in the frescoes of the ‘Throne Room’ at Knossos, and to the ‘Grand-Staircase’ in the east wing of the palace, where Isadora Duncan had performed her impromptu dance. Concerning the costumes for Phaedre, one designed for a female character is directly based on a reconstructed fresco found in the Mycenaean palace of Tiryns, showing a woman in the characteristic Minoan ceremonial dress, with flounced skirt and tight bodice leaving the breasts exposed (Figure 6.18–19).39 We do not know whether this type of costume was actually used on the stage – probably not, if we take into consideration the fact that even Ida Rubinstein, who

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Figure 5.16–17: 16) Bakst’s design for the set of Phaedre (1923) (ThyssenBornemisza Collection, Madrid); 17) Bakst’s design for the set of Phaedre (1923) (Musée de L’Opéra, Paris).



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Figure 6.18–22:  18) Bakst’s costume sketch for female character in Phaedre (1923) (private collection, after Spencer 2009, p. 166); 19) Reconstructed fresco from Tiryns (after Rodenwalt, G. Tiryns: die Ergebnisse der Ausgrabungen des Instituts (Band 2): die Fresken des Palastes, pl. VIII, available from http:// digi.ub.uni-heidelbegr.de/dilit/tiryns1912a); 20) Bakst’s sketch for costume of male character in Phaedre (1923) (private collection, after Spencer 2009, p. 92 top right); 21) Bakst’s sketch for costume of nurse in Phaedre (1923) (private collection; akg-images/Erich Lessing); 22) Bakst’s sketches for props in Phaedre (1923), showing Minoan inspiration (private collection: after Spencer 2009, p. 93, right).

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was certainly not averse to scandal and showing off her body,40 appears to have opted for something more demure, as indicated by actual photographs showing her in Phaedra’s role.41 Other costumes show, once again, Bakst’s predilection for the Minoan-like spiral and papyrus motifs, and even some of his prop designs include typical Minoan elements, such as the double axe (Figure 6.20–22). Despite the demure costume that Rubinstein seems to have used on the stage, the opera/drama provoked quite strong reactions, at least to judge from some contemporary reports on the performance. These described Bakst’s sets and costumes as ‘barbaric’, with strong colours that were well suited to the dramatic story of Phaedre, and created overwhelming psychological effects. The sets in particular were said to have ‘related to all the conventional images of that nightmare of archaism to which the Ballets Russes inured us, like the viscous anatomy of the octopus’.42

The indirect level The examples discussed so far offer more or less concrete evidence of direct Minoan inspirations for the performing arts in the early twentieth century, from Duncan’s impromptu dancing at Knossos to Bakst’s set and costume designs for ballet and theatrical works. But these examples also hint at connections at a broader and, at the same time, deeper level, which can explain why artists such as Duncan and Bakst were inspired and seduced by Minoan Crete. I should like to suggest that there are complex strands in these deeper correlations, which, for simplicity’s sake, could be brought under the broad umbrella of late nineteenthand early twentieth-century fascination with primitivism (and especially the Dionysian primitivism of Nietzsche), combined with the emerging interests in the psychology of sexuality (especially female), as also discussed by Ribeyrol in this volume. Both Isadora Duncan and Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes propelled the art of dance into European modernity: they represented a conscious break from tradition, which, interestingly and, perhaps, ironically, was partly stimulated by their encounters with and visions of the Greek past, of incorporating Minoan Crete. But the Greek past that inspired Duncan, Nijinsky, Bakst and many other artists of the period was not the serene Greece of Praxiteles, whose art Ezra Pound found so objectionable, because it reminded him of ‘cake-icing and plaster of Paris’ and was only suitable for ‘super-aesthetes and matinee girls’.43 It was, in fact, the Greece of Nietzsche’s Birth of Tragedy (1872), Frazer’s The



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Golden Bough (1890), Lang’s Myth, Ritual, and Religion (1887), Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams (1900), Harrison’s Mythology and Monuments (1890) and Prolegomena to the Study of Greek Religion (1903): primitive and Dionysian, pagan and irrational. It was a Greece that mirrored modern concerns about the relationship between male and female, the tension between Apollonian and Dionysian impulses, and represented modern challenges to the Enlightenment’s rationalism and prevalent Christian values.44 Minoan Crete offered a particularly suitable source of inspiration for artists working in this Zeitgeist. In an age used to viewing societies in an evolutionary, stage-development fashion, Minoan Crete was seen to represent a more primitive stage of Greece, and precisely because of its ‘primitivism’ it was also perceived as more ‘modern’. The bold Minoan artistic vocabulary and imagery showed affinities with the non-classical and ‘primitive’ arts of Africa, India, Japan and Polynesia, which fascinated and inspired artists of the Modern Style, who were reacting against the ultra-refined classicism and aestheticism of the previous decades.45 Other aspects of Minoan society could also be interpreted according to contemporary evolutionary and primitivist notions. For example, as Walter Burkert remarked, [T]he discovery of Minoan civilisation coincided with the period of the Cambridge [Ritualists] School’s greatest influence. Attempts had long been made to search out the original forebears of Greek religion, and now, it seemed, they had come to light, the pre-Greek religion had been uncovered. The antithesis of the Olympian, anthropomorphic and polytheistic world of Homer’s gods was no sooner sought than found: a predominance of chthonic powers, matriarchy, and non-anthropomorphic deities, or a single divine figure [i.e. a Great Mother Goddess] in place of a pantheon.46

This alleged Minoan monotheism, centred on a Great Mother Goddess (an idea now questioned by most scholars, but widely accepted at the time), the abundance of female iconography, and the perceived celebration of the female body (or at least of its breasts, as illustrated by the snake-goddess figurines and other Minoan female imagery) were often construed as a reflection of some kind of a primitive matriarchal society. The archaeological discoveries, interpreted in this way, in turn provided these evolutionary and primitivist trends with more grist to their mill. In addition, Minoan Crete fascinated and seduced modern artists for its perceived embodiment and connection with some of the most famous and intriguing Greek myths. A generation earlier, Schliemann’s excavations had

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given flesh and blood to Nietzsche’s Homeric heroes as ‘blond Germanic beasts’ with a ‘healthy pagan morality’.47 Since 1900, Evans’ excavations had given flesh and blood to well known Greek myths involving female sexuality, power and seduction, such as Pasiphae’s desire for and seduction of Poseidon’s bull, or Ariadne’s and Phaedra’s tragic battles between their sexual and more rational urges – all themes that, yet again, closely reflected modern concerns. As remarked by Ziolkowski, Minoan Crete was seen to offer ‘a culture of elegance and sophistication with a barely suppressed undercurrent of animal violence and sexuality – a tension that seemed almost paradigmatically to foreshadow European civilization as unmasked by such thinkers as Nietzsche and Freud, and the horrors of World War I’.48 For Isadora Duncan, in particular, pagan, primitive Greece and its earlier incarnation, Minoan Crete, offered inspiration for her new modern dance, which she saw as a form of theopraxis, a religious activity in which the human soul could find the highest expression of human ideals, and which could replace the prevalent Christian values that mortified the body, especially the female body.49 One could even suggest that, in the climate of the time, Duncan’s dancing could be seen as a resurrection of primitive rituals, of the kind that Jane Harrison would have approved, especially now that Evans had ‘proved’ that Ariadne, instead of Dionysos, was the older, female divinity presiding over the origins of drama.50 For Nijinsky too, dance was a way of embodying his own religiosity: in words that remind one of Nietzsche, he recorded in his diary that when creating L’Après-midi d’un Faune he felt the presence of God, and also that when he danced he felt ‘I am the bull, a wounded bull. I am God in the bull. I am Apis. I am an Egyptian. I am an Indian. I am a Red Indian. I am a Negro. I am a Chinaman. I am a Japanese. I am a foreigner, a stranger. I am a sea bird. I am a land bird. I am the tree of Tolstoy.’51 Had he visited Crete, like his colleague Léon Bakst, perhaps he would have added ‘I am a Minoan’. Last but not least, for Bakst the ‘brutal colours’ and the scantily dressed women of Minoan Crete offered a suitable match for his eclectic interest in Greece and the Orient, in violence and sex, and for his ‘obsessive’ eroticism.52 It is very appropriate, and perhaps no coincidence, that Bakst’s most Minoan creations were offered to his muse Ida Rubinstein, a very powerful and seductive woman. Also, it is certainly no coincidence that one of the first ‘modern’, and sexually charged interpretations of a Minoan artefact, the fresco known as ‘La Parisienne’, was produced by Pottier in early twentieth-century Paris – a city that in the decades before World War I was the capital and veritable crucible of early modernism in every art form.53



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To conclude, the new material culture of Minoan Crete seduced early twentieth-century artists with its bold colours as well as with its ‘primitive’ and ‘scandalous’ female imagery. Although new and shocking, it was also seen to embody old and familiar myths that resonated with modern preoccupations: it provided an alluring new stage, on which scholars and artists could perform their ideas, anxieties and utopias about gender relations, female power and sexuality. Duncan’s Knossian dance, Bakst’s ‘Minoan’ scenes and costumes, and Pottier’s description of ‘La Parisienne’ as a ‘distant relative of Phaedra … a mixture of naïve archaism and spicy modernism’ forcefully encapsulate this powerful and seductive combination.

Notes 1 Acknowledgements: my thanks are first and foremost to the editors of this volume, for giving me the opportunity to explore the relationship between the Minoans and modern dance. I should also like to thank my husband (Roger Lonsdale), various friends, and colleagues, who provided me with interesting references and/ or commented on early drafts of this chapter (although I am solely responsible for its content and mistakes): Ilaria Caloi, Cathy Gere, Yannis Hamilakis, David Konstan, Regina Llamas, Derek Offord, Liz Prettejohn and Charlotte Ribeyrol (whose stimulating contribution to this volume forms a kind of prelude to my own chapter). Professor Boris Stavroski kindly showed me Bakst’s design for Menelaus’ costume in Hélène de Sparte/ brigands in Daphnis and Chloe, which is currently in his possession. 2 For example, Farnoux 1993, 1996; Hamilakis and Momigliano 2006; Gere 2009; Caloi 2010; Ziolkowski 2008. 3 On Duncan’s ‘shockingly innovative and indeed scandalous’ dances see, for example, Hargrove 2009: 49, 165–9. On Duncan’s self-confessed Puritanism see Duncan 1928: 79, 255, and LaMothe 2006: 110; see also Van Vechten 1977: 28: ‘she called her art the renaissance of the Greek ideal but there was something modern about it, pagan though it might be in quality. Always it was pure and sexless … always abstract emotion has guided her interpretation.’ On the explicit and intended eroticism of Diaghilev’s ballet see, for example, Spencer 2009: 55: ‘Diaghilev was now convinced that what the French audiences wanted and expected from the Russians, were daring tales of sex and violence “gift-wrapped” in superb music, brilliant dancing, and above all the outrageous colours and semi-nudity of Bakst’s imagination.’ On Bakst’s eroticism see also below. 4 Cf. Spencer 2009: 55. 5 Buckle 1971: 103; see also de Cossart 1987: 15–18.

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6 Calmette, the editor of Le Figaro (as reported by Reiss 1960: 106) commented on the ballet as follows: ‘We have seen a faun, incontinent and vile with its movements of erotic bestiality and gestures of heavy shamelessness … the true public will never accept such animal realism.’ 7 See, for example, Sherratt 2009. The widespread popularity, at least among the cultured classes, of Minoan Crete is also captured by references to Evans’ discoveries in contemporary works of literature such as Proust’s Á la Recherche du temps perdu (A L’ombre des jeune filles en fleur: ‘Les géographes, les archéologues nous conduisent bien dans l’île de Calypso, exhument bien le palais de Minos; La côté du Guermantes: ‘ces chambres sans toit et en plein air avaient l’air d’être celles du Palais du Soleil, tel qu’on aurait pu le retrouver dans quelque Crète’; cf. Proust 2002a: 526: Geographers and archaeologists may well take us to Calypso’s island or unearth the true palace of King Minos; Proust 2002b: 152: ‘these airy roofless chambers seemed to belong to some Palace of the Sun, such as might have been found somewhere like Crete’,) and Ford Madox Ford’s 1915 novel, The Good Soldier, (Part I, chapter II: ‘my whole endeavours were to keep poor dear Florence on topics like the finds at Cnossos and the mental spirituality of Walter Pater’). 8 Pottier 1902: 86 (also cited in Farnoux 1993: 105 and Lapatin 2002: 54). On the discovery of the ‘Snake Goddess’ figurines and ‘Parisienne’ fresco see Evans 1900–1: 56 and Figure 17 (‘Parisienne’) and Evans 1902–3: 38–94, esp. 74–7 (‘Snake Goddess’ and votary). On the ‘Snake Goddess’ see also Lapatin 2002. At the risk of reinforcing national stereotypes, the British archaeologist, who discovered the ‘Snake Goddesses’ and ‘La Parisienne’, unlike the French Edmond Pottier, either deliberately suppressed or was completely oblivious to their potential erotic charm, preferring to see them as representations of a nurturing Great Mother Goddess, and an ancestral Virgin Mary (Evans 1902–3: 86). For an historical understanding and critique of Evans’ Mother Goddess see introduction and relevant chapters in Goodison and Morris 1998 and Morris 2006, with further bibliography; see also Hutton 1997. 9 On Duncan’s obsession with Greece see, for example, Duncan 1928, chapter VIII, passim, where she recounts how she and her brother spent much time in the British Museum studying ancient Greek vases; in chapter XII she narrates her first visit to Greece in ecstatic terms, kissing the soil when landing at Karvasaras, and building a ‘temple’ on the hill of Kopanos, opposite the Acropolis, and ‘living under the reign of other kings – Agamemnon, Menelaus, and Priam’. On Duncan and Nietzsche see LaMothe 2006. Duncan’s autobiography notably starts with an epigraph from Thus Spake Zarathustra. 10 According to Duncan, her Russian colleagues started wearing Greek costumes and dancing bare-footed after her first visit to their country (Duncan 1928, chapter XVII: 173–84, esp. at 184). Carl Van Vechten (1977: 32) reports that ‘Fokine



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thanks her for the new Russian Ballet. She did indeed free the Russians from the conventions of the classic ballet and but for her it is doubtful if we should have seen Scheherazade and Cléopâtre. Daphnis et Chloë, Narcisse and L’Après-midi d’un Faune bear her direct stamp’. On Duncan’s influence on Fokine see also Buckle 1971: 35; Spencer 1973: 103; and Hargrove 2009: 170. 11 Evans 1901: 55–8, Figure 28 (‘Dancing Lady’ fresco), where he suggests that ‘it is not difficult to believe that figures such as this, surviving on the palace walls even in their ruined state, may lie at the root of the Homeric passage describing the most famous of the works of Daedalos at Knossos – the ‘Choros” of Ariadnê’. 12 Evans 1902–3: 99–112, esp. 111. Cf. also note above. 13 Candy 1984: 26; see also Momigliano 1999: 68–9. When I interviewed Mackenzie’s nephew, Alistair Bain Mackenzie, in the spring of 1992, he confirmed that his uncle had told him about his meeting with the American dancer at Knossos. Mackenzie’s reaction can be compared and contrasted, to some extent, with the outrage caused by the naked dancers on the Athenian acropolis photographed by Nelly in the late 1920s (Hamilakis and Yalouri 1999: 118–9 and Figure 1; Van Steen 2002: 384 n.37). The ‘Grand Stairway’ referred to by Candy was excavated and restored in the first years of the excavations (cf. Evans 1900–1 and 1901–2). Duncan also influenced to some extent Eva Palmer-Sikelianou’s vision of ancient dance in her staging of Greek drama at the Delphic Festivals of 1927–30 (Wiles 2000: 185–8; Van Steen 2002: 378 n. 14). 14 Cf. Gere 2009: 95. 15 On Duncan, Fortuny, and his ‘Peplos’ dresses and ‘Knossos’ scarves see De Osma 1980, esp. 132; see also Nuzzi et al. 1984 (especially, the contributions by De Osma and Peri). On Fortuny and Minoan Crete see Caloi 2010. 16 On Duncan’s death see, for example, report in The New York Times of 15 September 1927: http://select.nytimes.com/gst/abstract.html?res=F30C10F9355F17738DDDAC 0994D1405B878EF1D3 (accessed 5 December 2010). 17 On Bakst’s artistic production, especially for the performing arts, see Schouvaloff 1991; Spencer 1973, 2009. 18 Spencer 2009: 31, 37–9; de Cossart 1987: 9–11. 19 Rosenthal 1974, 1975, 1986; Scholl 1994: viii and 40–1; Grillaert 2008; Coates 2010. Interestingly, Merezhkovsky also wrote an intriguing book about the Minoans as proto-Christians (Merezhkovsky 1925). 20 Spencer 2009: 37. 21 Bakst 1923. 22 For Bakst’s obsession with Crete and Greece after his visit see also Garafola 1998: 52. 23 Spencer 2009: 25. 24 Spencer 2009: 48.

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25 Evans 1901–2: 14–22, Figure 8. 26 On Mycenaean figurines see French 1971 and 2008. For spirals see, for example, Furumark 1941, Figure 60 and Betancourt 1985, passim. 27 For ivy in Minoan pottery cf., for example, Furumark 1941: 268–74; Betancourt 1985: 98. 28 Blakolmer 2006: 228. 29 Schouvaloff 1991: 54. 30 Cf Pottier 1902. 31 See, for example, Buckle 1971: 164–5. On Nijinsky’s interest in things Greek, see also Nijinsky 1937: 82: ‘I have a daughter Kyra. I gave her this name because I love Greece. I always had a great interest for Grecian Art: it reminds me of my L’Après-midi d’un Faune.’ As Wiles (2000, 188) has remarked, Emmanuel’s La danse grecque antique d’après le monuments figurés (1896) was influential in establishing the idea, very common at the time of Isadora Duncan and the Ballets Russes, that ancient Greek dance could be reconstructed from ancient material culture, especially vase painting. 32 Buckle 1971: 163. Cf. also Buckle 1971: 276, suggesting that in L’Après-midi d’un Faune the ‘basic position … had been that Egyptian combination of a full torso with heads, hands, and legs in profile’. The failed meeting in the Louvre is reported in Reiss 1960: 102, as an anecdote related to the author by Michel Larionov in an interview of July 1954. 33 Cf. also La Rosa and Militello 2006: 249–51. 34 As he explained in the discussion following his paper at the conference, and pers. comm. 35 Spencer 2009: 153; Spencer 1973: 127–56; de Cossart 1987: 15, 24, 44. 36 As cited in Spencer 2009: 86 (cf. Spencer 1973: 144). 37 For ‘sacral ivy’ cf. Furumark 1941: 268–74, esp. Figure 35–6, motif 12.z; for papyrus cf. Furumark 1941: 261 Figure 33, esp. motif 11.1; for pendant with festoons cf. Furumark 1941: 333, Figure 56: esp. motif 38.1 and Betancourt 1985: 142 Figure 108. The motive on the female costume appears to be a combination of an upside-down ‘sacred ivy’ and ‘crocus’ (Furumark 1941: 261, Figure 33, 10.9). 38 See, for example, Schouvaloff 1991 and Spencer 2009. 39 It is actually based on the reconstruction made by E. Gilliéron of fragments coming from different figures: see Immerwahr 1990: 114–5, pl. 55. 40 De Cossert 1987: 11, 16, 18, 20–21. 41 As illustrated, for example, in Spencer 2009: 91. 42 De Cossart 1987: 96, paraphrasing and quoting from Heugel 1923. 43 Pound 1914. On the ‘super-aesthetes’ frowned upon by Pound see Charlotte Ribeyrol, this volume. Also note that Pound’s views on Greek art seem to have been partly shared by Nijinsky, since, according to his wife, he preferred ‘the severity of



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Attic carving, the simplicity and faith of the pre-Phidias sculptors against the charm and elegance of Praxiteles’ (R. Nijinsky 1933, cited in Spencer 2009: 72). 44 On the ‘paradigmatic shift’ from ‘Olympian gods to Chthonian divinities’ at the turn of the twentieth century see also Ribeyrol, this volume. On the importance of Nietzsche and other figures such as Marx, Freud and Frazer, in fashioning certain views of ancient Greece, and in preparing the ground for an enthusiastic (and modernist) response to the rediscovery of Minoan Crete see, for example, Ziolkowski 2008: esp. 14–18, 165 and Gere 2009: esp. 35–8. On Duncan as a devotee of Nietzsche see above. On the interest in primitivism in early twentiethcentury art, music and literature see, for example, Butler 1994, passim and Blakolmer 2006, with further bibliography. On the interest in primitivism especially in the performing arts in the early twentieth century, and the role of Jane Harrison, see Peters 2008, 2009; Wiles 2000: 100. In this context, it may be worth remembering here that exactly a year after the premiere of L’Après-midi d’un Faune Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes presented the even more ‘primitive’ and shocking ballet Le sacre du printemps (Rite of Spring), with choreography by Nijinsky, designs by Nichola Roerich, and music by Igor Stravinsky. On Nietzsche’s influence on Russia see Rosenthal 1986; Grillaert 2008; Coates 2010. 45 For example, Flinders Petrie in a letter of 1890 compared some Minoan pottery with ‘the savage neatness of Polynesian ornaments’ (cited in Fitton 1995: 114). See also Blakolmer 2006: 232 with further references. 46 Burkert 1985: 39. 47 Gere 2009: 35–6. 48 Ziolkowski 2008: 24. 49 Cf. LaMothe 2006: 107–8 50 Cf. above and notes 10–11. Peters 2008: 26 on Harrison’s place in the history of drama/performance studies. 51 V. Nijinsky 1937: 37 and 151. Cf. Nietzsche 2000: 23: ‘In song and dance man expresses himself as a member of a higher communal nature … he feels himself as god’. 52 Spencer 1973: 165: ‘No student of Bakst’s costume designs, especially for the early oriental ballet, could fail to recognise their obsessive eroticism.’ Cf. also Spencer 1973: 69 (on Diaghilev’s and Bakst’s shared interest in sex and violence); Léon Bakst. Sensualismens Triumf (1993); Buckle 1971: 127 (on Bakst eclectic personality and tastes). 53 See, for example, Hargrove 2009: 1 citing Shattuck 1968, and 5, on the remarkable, renaissance-like intellectual and artistic atmosphere of Paris before World War I.

5

Trojan Lovers and Warriors: The Power of Seduction in Age of Bronze Eric Shanower

Age of Bronze is my comic art version of the complete story of the Trojan War, from the days of Trojan prince Paris as a herdsman on the slopes of Mount Ida to the sack of the city of Troy by the Greeks – called Achaeans by Homer – through the ruse of the Wooden Horse. Age of Bronze combines into one coherent storyline as many sources of the story as possible, from the oldest version of the story, Homer’s Iliad, c. eighth century bce, to present day versions. At the same time, Age of Bronze attempts to present the story in the proper historical time and place, the Aegean Late Bronze Age – the thirteenth century bce. The project currently has just over 600 pages of story.1 When it is complete it will run more than twice that. Both power and seduction are strong themes in Age of Bronze. When one thinks of seduction, one usually thinks first of it as sexual, so I will present several examples of sexual seduction and the use of sex to gain power. But power itself can be seductive, so I shall also discuss the seduction of power in the story of the Trojan War.

Paris and Helen: Seduction and Power Most people who know anything about the Trojan War know that it was fought ostensibly over Helen,2 reputed to be the most beautiful woman in the world. Early in the story the Trojan prince Paris sails to Sparta where he seduces Helen, wife of Menelaus, king of Lakedaemon. Some versions of the story have Paris abducting Helen, who remains somewhat unwilling to go.3 But in most versions of the story, Helen seems to be to some degree complicit in leaving her husband

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and daughter and sailing off with Paris.4 In Age of Bronze I present Helen as willing, although she has misgivings. A major difference – perhaps the greatest difference – between Age of Bronze and many other retellings of the story is that I have eliminated the supernatural elements, including the gods. Everything is reduced to a human level. Although the characters worship gods, the gods do not appear in the flesh to interact with the characters. While priests have visions, the visions need not be read as supernatural in origin. This is not a new idea. Writers throughout the centuries have eliminated the gods as actors from their versions of the Trojan War.5 Of course, the gods are major characters in the Iliad and the Odyssey and the lack of gods in Age of Bronze seems to drive some people a little crazy. Perhaps removing the supernatural elements takes all the mythology out of the story and turns it into historical fiction. I do not really mind what label one puts on Age of Bronze; I am simply telling the story in a way that makes sense to me. Without the gods, one has to find alternative reasons for many events in the story. But the tradition of the Trojan War story is so long, with so many variations, that one can usually find a reason if one looks long enough. For instance, the traditional episode of the Judgement of Paris has three goddesses appearing to Paris as real beings. The three goddesses have come to ask Paris to award a golden apple to whichever of them is the fairest. Since I am excluding the supernatural, I had to remove the goddesses and find a different way to handle this episode. That was not too difficult; as the medieval Christian tradition could not accept the concept of three Greek goddesses as real, medieval versions transformed the Judgement of Paris into a dream.6 I took my cue from that tradition. In Age of Bronze the Judgement of Paris becomes the story of a dream that Paris tells to Helen while he is seducing her into running off with him. Paris’ veracity is in doubt, but this strategy allowed me to incorporate the Judgement of Paris as well as a gold-coloured apple into Age of Bronze. Paris kisses and licks a yellow apple as he relates to Helen how the goddess of love promised him the most beautiful woman in the world. Paris takes a bite of the apple and hands it to Helen. His seduction techniques work. Helen leaves home and husband behind, although she takes along her infant son, Pleisthenes, and five serving women. This is not Paris’ first seduction of a woman. As an infant he was left exposed to die in the mountains south of Troy where he was rescued and raised by a peasant couple. As a young cowherd, Paris encounters and eventually seduces a mountain priestess named Oenone. When Paris travels to Troy, however, he discovers there that he is actually a Trojan prince, the son of King Priam and



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Priam’s chief wife, Hekuba. Paris does not actively desert Oenone, but he does not have any desire to return to the mountains, and Priam explicitly dismisses Oenone as a wife for Paris. So Oenone is left alone and pregnant with Paris’ child. Eventually Paris returns to Oenone on Mount Ida, when he is mortally wounded towards the end of the Trojan War. Oenone has told him that she alone has the ability to heal him, but when he appeals to her, her bitterness and sorrow at his desertion of her long ago cause her to refuse to help Paris. Paris is good at getting women into bed, but he is not very good at following through on promises. When Paris first brings Helen to Troy, his father King Priam is no more overjoyed at Helen than he was at the idea of Oenone. One primary reason Priam is angry to see Helen is that she is the wrong woman. Paris was actually supposed to bring another woman home to Troy, Hesione, a sister of Priam, who was long ago captured in an attack on Troy. A generation before the Trojan War, there was a first sack of Troy led by the greatest hero of Greek mythology, Herakles. Priam’s father, the previous king of Troy, had promised his daughter Hesione to Herakles in marriage but reneged on the deal. Never one to take such treatment lightly, Herakles raised an army, sacked Troy, killed the king, took Hesione, and gave her as a gift to his friend Telamon. Hesione’s little brother, Priam, became the new king of Troy, rebuilt the city, and vowed to recover his sister. This is why King Priam of Troy sends his son Paris to the land of the Achaeans to bring Hesione back, ignoring all reports that Hesione, an old woman by this time, has no desire to return to her childhood home. When instead Paris brings back to Troy the younger, beautiful Helen, Priam is not pleased. It is a conflict between power and seduction, and Priam refuses to let Helen enter the city. But seduction trumps power when Priam – to whom family is supremely important – learns that Helen is pregnant with Paris’ child, relents, and welcomes Helen to Troy. Of course, once Helen’s first husband, Menelaus, finds that she has gone off with Paris, he is quite unhappy. One could argue that Menelaus should not be that surprised, for Helen had been an object of desire to many for years. As a child she had been abducted by the great hero Theseus, who wanted the beautiful girl for a wife. That time, Helen’s brothers Kastor and Polydeukes fought a war to recover her. Soon after, Helen’s father began plans to marry her off. Theseus had not touched Helen sexually – her virginity was still intact, so she was still highly desirable as a wife. The offers from Achaean kings and princes came flooding in, for they were all anxious to attain such a prize. In fact, there were so many suitors that her father began to worry that violence would erupt against whoever won Helen’s hand. This led to what is called the ‘suitors’ oath’ – Helen’s

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suitors pledged to stand up for the man who became Helen’s husband if his rights to her were ever attacked. Safety ensured, Helen’s father chose Menelaus as her husband. Later, when Paris runs off with Helen, Menelaus persuades his brother, the High King Agamemnon, to enforce the suitors’ oath. Agamemnon summons the Achaean kings and princes and their men to form a great army bent on decimating Troy to recover Helen.

Agamemnon: Seduction of Power Agamemnon is a prime example of the seduction of power itself rather than sexual seduction. As High King at Mycenae, Agamemnon is already a man of great political power, but when Menelaus comes to him, begging for help to recover Helen, Agamemnon immediately sees greater opportunities. The Achaeans will conquer Troy not only for Helen, but to gain Troy’s wealth. In Age of Bronze, Agamemnon is well aware of how wealthy the Trojans are and he is determined to seize Troy’s hold of the lucrative trading routes to the Black Sea. Archaeology has revealed that Troy lies at the entrance to the sea-lane dividing Europe and Asia.7 Bronze Age merchant ships had to pass Troy, and when you consider the prevailing north-easterly wind that forced east-going ships to wait for long periods until the wind changed, Troy was in an excellent position to profit from beach fees.8 Agamemnon becomes so ensnared, so seduced by this bid for power, that he allows his eldest daughter Iphigenia to die. I would like to share with you how I incorporated the Sacrifice of Iphigenia into Age of Bronze as an example of how I use literary source material. Homer’s great epic poems about the Trojan War and its aftermath, the Iliad and the Odyssey, do not mention Iphigenia. The first mention we have of Agamemnon’s eldest daughter is in the fifth century bce tragedy by Aeschylus, Agamemnon, although there the story of her death is told only in summary. As my basis for the Sacrifice of Iphigenia in Age of Bronze, I turned to a later play, Euripides’ fifth century Iphigenia at Aulis, which presents the entire episode of the girl’s death in agonizing detail. The story is related hence: the Achaean army is camped at Aulis, waiting to sail to attack Troy, but the ships cannot sail because the wind has dropped. The goddess Artemis promises to send a favourable wind if the army’s leader, Agamemnon, will allow his eldest daughter, Iphigenia, to be sacrificed. Agamemnon does not want to, but at last he summons Iphigenia to Aulis on the pretext that he will marry her to the warrior Achilles. Agamemnon’s wife, Klytemnestra, arrives with their daughter and wonders why Achilles does



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not seem very interested in Iphigenia. That blows open Agamemnon’s plot. Achilles, incensed at Agamemnon’s false use of his name, offers to defend Iphigenia from the entire Greek army. But in the end Iphigenia consents to die for the glory of the Greeks. She goes to the altar willingly and the army sails off to conquer Troy. There are two major variants of Iphigenia’s story. In the first, Iphigenia dies and that is the end of her. In the second, just as the knife is about to descend on Iphigenia’s neck, the goddess Artemis appears, sweeps the girl up in a cloud, and takes her off to live with the gods, leaving as a substitute sacrifice a deer or, depending on the particular version, a stag, a goat, a servant, an old woman, or other, as the case may be. Euripides’ Iphigenia at Aulis is a wonderful play, smart and suspenseful and relatively easy to incorporate into Age of Bronze – until one learns that Iphigenia willingly goes to the altar to die. It was difficult to accept that a fourteen-year-old girl would suddenly decide to give up her life for an abstract idea like the glory of Greece. Fortunately there were other sources for the story. In Jean Racine’s 1674 play Iphigenia there were clues that clarified Iphigenia’s motivations. In Racine, Achilles and Iphigenia are already lovers. This idea is further developed in Gluck’s 1774 opera Iphigénie en Aulide, which ends with a chorus of Greek soldiers celebrating the wedding of Iphigenia and Achilles. For Age of Bronze, I combined sections of all the various versions. As in Euripides, Achilles’ life is at stake because he intends to die fighting in Iphigenia’s defence. But here, as in Racine, Iphigenia has fallen in love with Achilles. The reason she sacrifices her life is to ensure his safety. True, she has just met him, and her love for him is closer to hero worship than any mature emotion, but this proved to be a perfect characterization for a fourteen-year-old girl. Another source that was incorporated into this episode is Eugene O’Neill’s trilogy of plays Mourning Becomes Electra, written between 1929 and 1931. It is a retelling of the story of Agamemnon’s family, transplanted to post-American Civil War New England. During a traumatic moment in the play, the character who parallels Klytemnestra makes a speech about her relationship with her husband. That speech directly inspired a scene in Age of Bronze, in which Klytemnestra sums up her relationship to Agamemnon as one of hate. Iphigenia in Age of Bronze, just as in tradition, eventually goes under the knife. Her last words, ‘Father, don’t grieve anymore. The ships can sail’, were inspired by the final lines of a nineteenth-century poem by Walter Savage Landor (1868) entitled, appropriately, ‘Iphigenia.’ Afterwards, Odysseus tells the girl’s mother the story of how the goddess Artemis came down in a cloud and swept Iphigenia away. Of course, Klytemnestra is no fool. She does not believe Odysseus for a moment. But in this way one can incorporate both variations of

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Iphigenia’s sacrifice, the first in which she dies and the second in which she goes off to live with the gods. The ships do sail to Troy and eventually Agamemnon wins a military victory. He does not enjoy it long for when he returns home to Mycenae, Klytemnestra brutally murders him, in part as retaliation for Iphigenia’s sacrifice.

Odysseus: Seduction through Power Another character in Age of Bronze who is seduced by power rather than powered by seduction is Odysseus, king of the island of Ithaka, best known for his adventures on the way home from Troy as told in the Odyssey. Odysseus is a thinking man, a clever man, a trickster. It is Odysseus who comes up with the idea that allows the Achaeans to win the war: the Wooden Horse. If Odysseus could have had things his way at the beginning, he never would have left home – especially when he hears a prophecy that says his reward for going to Troy will be suffering, that after 20 years of hardship and the loss of his companions, he will return home and no one will recognize him. In order to avoid going to Troy, Odysseus pretends that he has gone mad. He harnesses an ox and an ass to a plough and sows a field with salt. When Agamemnon arrives on Ithaka with his party of recruiters, one of them, Palamedes of Nauplia, recognizes that Odysseus’ madness is merely pretence. Palamedes places Odysseus’ infant son in the path of the plough team. To stop from killing his child Odysseus breaks the pretence and halts the team. His ruse is exposed and he is obliged to join the army. But from that moment, Odysseus is an enemy of Palamedes. As soon as he joins the army, Odysseus’ wits are put to use and he finds that he likes it. He explains to his close friend, Eurybates, ‘I want to be here in the middle of it all, planning strategies, directing the moves of men, telling them what to do, how to act, how to think, playing my tricks. I’m good at it. I like it.’9 Odysseus is so self-aware that he recognizes this change is great enough to render him unrecognizable when he returns home to Ithaka, which will partially fill the prophecy that caused him initially to attempt to avoid the war. Odysseus’ joy in his power to think and plan is no guarantee that he will only use it against the Trojans. Odysseus is seduced by his powers of intelligence to wreak revenge on Palamedes for exposing Odysseus’ feigned madness. While the army is besieging Troy, Odysseus frames Palamedes as a collaborator of the Trojans and manages to orchestrate Palamedes’ stoning at the hands of the Achaean army.



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Achilles: Seduction in Spite of Power Odysseus is not always attacking his own side and he is not the only Achaean who tries a ruse to avoid the Trojan War. The young Achilles almost escapes going to Troy by disguising himself as a girl. Achilles’ mother, Thetis, has a vision that her son will die at Troy. In order to prevent this vision coming true, she concocts the brilliant plan to dress Achilles as a girl and hide him among the daughters of the king of the island of Skyros, so that no army recruiters will recognize him. Achilles objects to being dressed as a girl – that is, until he catches sight of Deidamia, the eldest daughter of the king. Achilles and Deidamia are pubescent youngsters, neither of whom is practiced in the art of seduction, but their mutual attraction is powerful. Achilles dares not reveal that he is actually male, and although Deidamia has evidence to see through the disguise, she does not consciously recognize what is underneath Achilles’ clothes. The pressure mounts until during the night of a women’s ritual in a sacred grove, Achilles virtually rapes Deidamia. He is not in love with her – not an ideal recipe for a lasting relationship. She, however, is in massive denial that anything is wrong. She hides her pregnancy from everyone except her nurse, and when the baby is born, she conceals the fact that it is hers. Meanwhile, a prophecy tells the Achaeans that if they want to conquer Troy, Achilles must join their army and that he can be found on the island of Skyros. Odysseus goes to Skyros where, of course, he quickly realizes that the tall gawky one in the group of girls is really a boy. Odysseus tricks Achilles into revealing his true identity and with that he goes off to join the Achaean army. At the army camp, Achilles is joined by Patroklus, the young man who will become the most important relationship in his short life. Achilles and Patroklus were friends as children, but this is the first time they have seen each other in many years. There is tension between them, but Achilles does not recognize what it is. When the army sails to what they think is Troy, impulsive Achilles leads the attack. Unfortunately, the Achaeans land in the wrong place and begin attacking the Mysians, not the Trojans. During the battle, Achilles and Patroklus pledge always to stand by each other in future battles, but they still do not completely acknowledge the powerful attraction that is building between them. After the mistaken attack on Mysia, the Achaean army disperses for a time. Achilles returns to Skyros and his wife and son, bringing Patroklus with him. Deidamia senses on some level what is going on and deliberately snubs Patroklus. During a hot night on the palace roof Achilles squabbles with Deidamia. Seeing Patroklus in the distance, Achilles joins him, only to find that Patroklus is planning to leave the

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uncomfortable situation with Deidamia. At the thought of losing Patroklus, Achilles at last recognizes he is in love with his friend. They run off together while Deidamia watches. It is not a seduction, and it is a little awkward, but nowhere near as awkward as Achilles’ rape of Deidamia. Achilles turns his back on Deidamia and leaves Skyros with Patroklus. He never sees his wife and child again. From that moment on Achilles and Patroklus form a strong bond which lasts until Patroklus dies in battle. Achilles has romantic and sexual relationships with a number of other characters in the Trojan War story. I have already mentioned Iphigenia. This poor doomed girl does not deliberately seduce Achilles, but he is seduced by her. It is not difficult to see why. Underlying Achilles’ character is the choice he must make between two separate life paths: he can choose to stay away from battle and so live a long life in obscurity, or he can choose to fight at Troy where he will die young, but earn everlasting glory. Achilles chooses a short life and glory, basically the same decision Iphigenia makes. She chooses a short life and glory rather than long life and obscurity, and she faces it with calm dignity. Iphigenia becomes ideal in the eyes of Achilles, and this captivates him. Impulsively, he declares that if she were to live he would marry her. But of course, she does die, so they can not marry. Achilles is powerfully attracted to the Trojan prince Troilus, son of King Priam, even though they are on opposite sides in the war. Achilles’ clumsy attempt at seducing Troilus is unsuccessful. Troilus is in love with Cressida and wants nothing to do with Achilles, his enemy. Achilles is not used to rejection, so he kills Troilus, as much from impulse as to fulfill the prophecy that Troy will never fall if Troilus reaches his twentieth birthday. A dispute over a woman named Briseis causes a rift between Achilles and the leader of the Achaean army, Agamemnon. Briseis was not seduced by either of them; she was captured as a spoil of battle and the army awarded her to Achilles as his war prize. Achilles says that he loves Briseis, but it is not clear whether he actually values her for herself or only as a war prize to enhance his glory. The truth is that Patroklus seems to have a warmer relationship with Briseis than Achilles does. Patroklus’ death ends the dispute between Achilles and Agamemnon over Briseis, and after Briseis mourns for Patroklus she fades into the background of the story. After Patroklus dies, Achilles becomes lovers with Antilochus, a son of Nestor, king of Pylos. Antilochus is mostly just a pale copy of Patroklus, however, and dies a similar death at the hands of Memnon, who is subsequently killed by Achilles, much as Achilles slew Hektor after Patroklus’ death.



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The relationship between Achilles and the Amazon warrior queen Penthesilea involves no deliberate seduction whatsoever. It is not until Achilles kills Penthesilea on the battlefield and her helmet falls off that Achilles is struck by the beauty of her flowing hair. In some versions of the story, Achilles attempts to have sex with Penthesilea’s dead body right there in the middle of the battle. Achilles falls for another child of King Priam, this time a daughter, Polyxena. Polyxena idolizes her elder brother Hektor, the greatest of the Trojan warriors. When Achilles kills Hektor, Polyxena is infuriated. She wants revenge, so she takes advantage of Achilles’ attentions by luring him into an ambush, where Paris kills him. But that is not quite the end of Achilles’ power and seduction. After the fall of Troy, Achilles’ son honours his father’s power by killing Polyxena on the top of the burial mound Achilles shares with Patroklus, as much in revenge as to symbolize a marriage between Achilles and Polyxena.

Troilus and Cressida: Seduction Without Power Before his death at Achilles’ hands, the Trojan prince Troilus has a strong and storied relationship with Cressida that involves both seduction and power. The character doing the seducing in this case is neither Troilus nor Cressida, but a third character altogether – Cressida’s uncle, Pandarus. Cressida’s father Kalchas – Pandarus’ brother – has defected from the Trojans to the Achaean army. When this becomes known to the Trojans, Pandarus fears for the safety of his family left in Troy, and especially for his niece Cressida’s safety. Already some of the Trojans have begun to call her a traitor to Troy just like her father. When Pandarus worms from Troilus that he loves Cressida, Pandarus begins a long campaign to persuade his niece to enter a secret love affair with the Trojan prince. Such an arrangement, Pandarus believes, will assure Cressida and all her relatives still in Troy the protection of the Trojan royal family. After running back and forth behind the scenes, cajoling Cressida on one hand and reassuring Troilus on the other, Pandarus finally manages to get the two reluctant lovebirds to declare their love for one another. But even then Pandarus’ job is not finished – he has to give them directions to go to bed together. Finally Pandarus can breathe a sigh of relief. But it does not last long. Cressida’s father Kalchas, justifiably concerned for his daughter’s safety in Troy, wants her to join him in the Achaean camp. All of a sudden Pandarus is powerless to stop the Trojans from turning Cressida over to the enemy. All his work is shattered in a moment.

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Troilus and Cressida, so ineffectual at forging their relationship themselves, are equally helpless to prevent being torn apart. Despite Cressida’s insistence that she will find a means to return to Troilus, once she reaches the Achaean camp she is powerless to leave. Reluctantly but inevitably, Cressida gives in to the advances of the Achaean king Diomedes and becomes his lover. She never sees Troilus again.

Laodike: Powered Seduction Troilus’ sister, the Trojan princess Laodike, often concerned with propriety and promised in marriage to a young Trojan nobleman, seems at first one of the least likely people to turn into a seducer. But when Laodike sees the Achaean prince Akamas of Athens during a peace embassy from the Achaean army to Troy, she is giddy with love. It probably would not have gone any further than that, if not for Philobia, the wife of a king allied to Troy. Philobia facilitates a secret meeting between Akamas and Laodike. Akamas expects to be meeting his grandmother, who is one of Helen’s serving women, but when he sees Laodike, he assumes she is the concubine of Philobia’s husband. Laodike has never been in such a situation before and her seduction of Akamas is nearly accidental. Circumstances tear them apart after only a few hours, leaving Akamas none the wiser and Laodike pregnant with a son.

Kassandra: Impotent Power from Seduction Finding oneself alive after an intense and deadly battle can be a powerful aphrodisiac. On the night after the first battle between the Achaeans and the Trojans, Nestor, king of Pylos, entertains the Achaeans with the story of the rape of the Lapith women by centaurs. Then Achilles sings to the Achaeans the creation story of the sexual union of Earth and Sky and the gods and monsters born from it. The entire Achaean camp seems to plunge into an orgy in response. Meanwhile in Troy, as one of Pandarus’ daughters sings of love, the Trojans seem just as responsive to the spell of sex. In one page from the story (Figure 7) we can see Hektor making love with his wife Andromache, while Troilus masturbates at the thought of Cressida, and the ones who set events in motion, Paris and Helen, are also lovemaking.



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Figure 7.  Sex in Troy. Age of Bronze issue #29, page 3. © 2009 Eric Shanower.

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One character unconcerned with sex this night is Kassandra, the Trojan princess whose pronouncements will never be believed. The earliest versions of Kassandra’s story involve attempted seductions of the girl by a god. In Aeschylus’ 458 BCE tragedy Agamemnon the god Apollo offers her the gift of prophecy if she will sleep with him. Kassandra agrees, but after gaining the ability to foretell the future, she reneges on the deal. In return, Apollo decrees that no one will believe her prophecies. Later versions of the story add nuances – Apollo either kisses Kassandra or spits into her mouth to ensure she will not be believed.10 Other versions alter events slightly – Kassandra already has the gift of prophecy when she falls asleep in Apollo’s temple. When she wakes to find the god Apollo making sexual advances, she refuses him. In return he destroys the credibility of her prophecies. Still other versions of Kassandra’s story contain different twists – for instance, as children Kassandra and her twin brother Helenus are accidentally left in Apollo’s temple, asleep, where serpents lick their ears, conferring the gift of prophecy on both.11 In Age of Bronze I often try to retain as many elements as possible from as many versions as possible. For the story of Kassandra, the main problem was reconciling the supernatural elements. Once I stripped these away, the remaining pattern seemed like an obvious case of sexual molestation of children, based on the fact that no one would ever believe Kassandra. That sounds very much like what child molesters seek to impress upon their victims – that no one will believe them – and all too authentically what child victims believe. So in Age of Bronze (Figure 8), the children Kassandra and Helenus fall asleep in a temple. Not a god, but a man who seems to be a priest tries to molest them. I was able to suggest several elements from my sources – the kiss, the spitting in the mouth, the licking. Most importantly, Kassandra hears that no one will ever believe her – not about the molestation and, by extension, not about anything of substance she will ever say. So Kassandra, though she has power, remains powerless. Age of Bronze is about more than power and seduction, the power of seduction, and the seduction of power. But these ideas are represented in quite a variety of ways within the story, woven through it like coloured threads in a medieval tapestry. One of the things that attracted me to the Trojan War narrative and led to the project of retelling the whole story anew, was its variety of human experience – our experience. Seduction and power are at play among us humans all the time in countless ways. I hope I have captured some of that human experience in Age of Bronze.



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Figure 8.  Kassandra recounts their past to her twin brother Helenus. Sacrifice, page 36. Image copyight © 2004 Eric Shanower.

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Notes 1 The Age of Bronze comic book series published by Image Comics runs to 33 issues at present. The Age of Bronze graphic novels, which collect the material serialized in the comic book series, include these volumes so far: A Thousand Ships (2001), Sacrifice (2004) and Betrayal Part One (2007). 2 I am presenting all names as they are spelled, sometimes idiosyncratically I admit, in Age of Bronze. 3 Some examples: Gantz 1993 says of Makron’s two Attic Red-Figure cups (Boston 13.186 and Berlin: Ch. F2291), ‘Both cups do suggest a certain reluctance on the part of Helen, who must be led along by her would-be lover.’ In Francesco Primaticcio’s painting, Raub der Helena 1530–9, now in the Bowes Museum, Barnard Castle (UK), Paris carries off an obviously protesting Helen. 4 Examples encompass the best known versions of the story, including Homer’s Iliad, the Epitome of Apollodorus, and Proclus’ summary of the Kypria. 5 Examples include two of Euripides’ fifth century bce Greek tragedies that retell Trojan episodes, Hecuba and Iphigenia at Aulis, and have no appearances by supernatural beings. The versions of the Trojan War by Diktys of Crete and Dares of Phrygia from the first century ce are the earliest substantial tellings of the complete story to deliberately remove the gods as actors; most of the medieval European versions of the story that draw on the Diktys/Dares tradition follow suit. Geoffrey Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde, c. 1380s, refers to gods – including the Christian god – but refrains from introducing them as characters. 6 One example is Raoul Lefèvre’s fifteenth century Recueil des Histoires de Troie, cited in Scherer 1964: 15. 7 Heinrich Schliemann’s excavations in the second half of the nineteenth century revealed to the world the ancient site widely accepted as Troy, setting of the Iliad. 8 The earliest English language publication of this theory that I know of is Korfmann 1984. From 1988 until his death in 2005 Manfred Korfmann was the leader of the most recent excavations at Troy. 9 Shanower 2004: 213. 10 As noted in Servius’ commentary on the Aeneid, cited in Graves 1960: 263, n.28. 11 As noted by the scholia on the Iliad, VII.44, cited in Graves 1960: 263–4n. 27, and in Hyginus 83.

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Dark Ladies, Bad Girls, Demon Queens: Female Power and Seduction from Greek Tragedy to Pop Culture1 Martina Treu

The visual and performing arts are today a vital area of research, in which classical studies can develop, gain social support and encounter wider audiences, especially among young people. Classics are considered less and less to be hierarchical and alien to younger generations, a development aided by new teaching modes and the study of adaptations in theatre, cinema, TV series, cartoons and comics, illustrations, photography and so on.2 A good sample of these new perspectives and interactions was presented in the Imagines conference Seduction and Power, which combined different scholars with a wide variety of interests; mine is Ancient Drama, so I will try to connect the general theme and some of the papers delivered at the conference to a few questions I would like to focus on. They are mainly related to the images of Seduction and Power, namely where do they come from, did the dramatists create them or did they receive them from other sources, and what about modern performances of Greek dramas, how do these images come to the stage nowadays? In order to answer these questions, I will draw on my study and my practical experience in adaptations and modern performances of classical dramas: I have worked and am still working on several classical productions, liaising with directors, actors and set and light designers.3 When we read texts and set them on the stage, when someone creates a dress or designs a set, I always try to understand which images come to their minds and why, and which images or symbols are selected and finally included in the theatre production. In my experience, some images are widespread and based on stereotypes, recurring more frequently than others; some are rare and bizarre, obscure and unexpected. They may not be ‘faithful’ to models, nor have direct connections

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to the ancient text, but rather depend on modern interpretations represented by other media. In addition, successful theatre performances may influence other media in turn and create new images. In this wide field of study, I would like to focus on some specific examples: first of all, those images – classical characters, situations, names, functions and symbols – which in my opinion transcend time and space, disappearing and re-emerging after many years or centuries. My work-in-progress aims at finding out where these images come from, where authors find them, how they survive until today and when and why they are used and cited. My research is part of a forthcoming project, DigITAL, which involves a group of scholars of the IULM University (Milan) specializing in the Minoan and Mycenaean Mediterranean, Mario Negri and Erika Notti, as well as a group of classical scholars from the Università Statale (Milan), Andrea Capra and Maddalena Giovannelli. From our larger project and from our common research fields, I chose a sample, fitting the theme of this conference.

A Sea of Images These colleagues and I study classical images in their wider context, both in time and space: from Greece to the Middle East and from the Age of Bronze to Late Antiquity. We see the Mediterranean as a melting pot of images, themes and symbols. In our studies we do not only consider literary texts, but other types of documents as well, such as the ‘visual heritage’ of the ancient world. In this perspective my individual research field – Greek theatre – represents a crossroads between cultures: ancient playwrights, in particular, created images, characters, or plots, by their use of ‘older’ materials stemming from a range of sources. They combined these to create something new, the Attic drama, which in turn proliferated around the Mediterranean. This process can be described with a poetic image, which is consistent with the Imagines project: in the Temple Valley of Agrigento (Sicily) there is a small garden called ‘Colymbetra’ where the Arabs, centuries ago, created a system of watering, which was recently restored and opened to the public. Rainwater and underground springs are collected in deposits and channelled into tiny canals. The water runs down the slopes and is distributed all over the ground, where different plants and trees grow. Branches, leaves, seeds and flowers are in turn carried off by the water and distributed throughout the grounds. Like those materials, images run like rivers from different areas to the Mediterranean Sea.



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From Greece, through the medium of theatre, they are carried and spread all over the world. Some of these images can be used as ‘markers’ in comparing written sources and visual culture. Given the conference theme, Seduction and Power, we focus on some specific features from the common ground of studies of our team (from Minoan Crete to classical Athens). We track the cults of goddesses, female monsters, demons and animals who share symbols of motherhood, fertility and nature (they are often surrounded by beasts, but they may also look like animals themselves). In particular the so-called Great Mother (singular or plural) has the power to give life and death, which scares and attracts at the same time; she is frequently depicted with prominent breasts and belly, but she may also be represented either as a young and beautiful maiden, or an old hag. She holds a prominent role in different cultures, as Erika Notti has recently demonstrated.4 Frequently, the feminine features listed above, ranging from attributes to powers, may be found in ancient monsters: they are mostly female and may share similar faces, animals, weapons, symbols, prerogatives, or skills; they all have the essential power to give birth and death, and are thus connected to blood, immortality and destiny. Creatures like Medusa and the Gorgons share some of these features, as do goddesses like Artemis or demons like Helen (who was originally an ancient goddess, connected to vegetation).5 In my chapter, as in others of this volume, women hold a significant position within the theme of Seduction and Power, ranging from the female characters of the Odyssey6 to historic queens or other female characters, such as Cleopatra7, Agrippina8 and Theodora9, whose real lives were often compared by writers of their own times and later authors to fiction and drama. However, I am not going to discuss historic women or their representation, but rather those characters, which were conveyed to the Athenian stage and from there on transmitted, resulting in long-term effects on the arts, on cultures and on costumes. It is important to remember that Attic drama had a specific code, highly symbolic rather than realistic. We know that the playwrights, actors and the members of the chorus were men, and so were the majority of the audience; if women were in theatre, they were not among the authorities and privileged members. A theatre audience mirrors society, with Athenian women holding very little power in real life, but on stage the situation is reversed, for in Greek theatre, women are the main subjects of seduction and power, which they exercise mostly on men. By ‘men’ or ‘women’ I mean not just the characters, but also the actors in their masks, who actually have the power to capture the

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audience. The first actor, in particular – the only one who wins a prize – may exercise a double type of seductive power: first in the seduction of his words and actions and second, the specific power of his character. This is not necessarily connected to physical or military strength, which is traditionally on the side of men. Women have other ways to conquer and seduce, through sex, words, persuasion and trickery, as in the Oresteia, for instance, where Clytemnestra uses all these means, as we will soon see. But there are examples in comedy too. In Aristophanes’ Assembly Women, Praxagora and her friends take over power through their speech and vote.10 Similarly, persuasion (in addition to the sex strike) is the tool used by women in order to stop the war in Lysistrata. A recent performance of this comedy (Sicily, 2010), stressed the women’s seductive power not only in the (failed) sexual encounter between Myrrhine and her husband, but also through the words of the leading character, a young and sexy actress wearing a red gala dress and sophisticated jewels.11 These women exercise their seduction, and therefore their power, on other characters and on the audience. Others use the same weapons in order to defend themselves or to attack in turn; even when ‘power’ implies violence, seduction may be a way to reach it, as I will demonstrate below.

A Galaxy of Symbols I first approached these themes some years ago when studying dreams in Greek literature.12 In literary dreams, from epic poems to tragedy, the first relevant features are the gender and status of the dreamer. In the Iliad only men dream, while in the Odyssey and in Attic tragedy only women dream, the majority of whom are either queens or their daughters. Their dreams normally contain or imply acts of violence, and in each tragedy they may be considered as a ‘mise en abyme’ of the entire plot. Many literary dreams, moreover, contain symbolic images of animals (such as the serpent in the Oresteia) or objects (such as the sceptre and the tree in Sophokles’ Elektra). I focused on these signs and images, on their relationship with the dreamer, and on their functions within the plot. I found parallels between ancient models and modern texts, especially in the case of those female figures who seem to be particularly involved with seduction and power, for instance between the sleeping Penelope of the Odyssey and Albertine, the wife in Schnitzler’s Traumnovelle (1926)13, or between Clytemnestra’s dream and Lady Macbeth’s last appearance on stage in Shakespeare’s tragedy (Act 5, scene 1).



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On the basis of these I have looked for signs of seduction and power in other female characters, who all share some archaic features connected to the symbolic domains of life and death. I am not interested in psychological qualities, but rather in images which may be considered as an ‘archetype’ when associated to roles, situations, actions and functions, objects, dresses, jewels, animals and any other details that may add something to the picture. When I study each archetype, I proceed backwards (from my specific research field, performances of ancient dramas, to ancient Greek texts), but also onwards, in order to seek connections to modern texts and other media (according to the spirit of the Imagines project). My search is not a mere ‘triviality game’; on the contrary, it is a challenge to contributors and readers to find examples of these images in the visual and performing arts: theatre, opera, cinema, design, arts, architecture, painting, sculptures, photography, TV, comics, pop and rock music, posters, erotic art, burlesque and any other media of the so-called Pop Culture. From this huge pool of images, I chose some examples from Attic tragedy, which I consider particularly relevant to our common theme and connected to the subject of other chapters: but of course there are other cases in Attic tragedy and in ancient comedy, where power comes through seduction, or seduction is power. My three chosen archetypes – the so-called ‘dark lady’, ‘bad girl’ and ‘demon queen’ – are not just abstractions, since they literally live on the stage, with the body and voice of evil women, killers and demons. Their attitudes and behaviour are determined by many factors, but they depend mostly on their relationships with men (such as husbands, brothers, sons and fathers).

Clytemnestra and the Erinyes The first example is Clytemnestra in Aeschylus’ Oresteia. In the first play, Agamemnon, the king of Argos returns home from the Trojan War, after which his wife Clytemnestra kills him and his prisoner of war, Cassandra. In the second play, the Libation Bearers, the queen has reigned with her lover Aegisthus for several years, when her son Orestes comes back to Argos seeking revenge and kills his mother and her lover. The dying Clytemnestra evokes the Erinyes, the female demons of revenge. In the third drama, Eumenides, these monsters, impelled by the ghost of the dead queen, hunt Orestes on his way to Delphi and then to Athens; there he finds a helper in Athena, goes on trial for his mother’s murder, is acquitted and finally returns to Argos.

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Clytemnestra is the only character who has a role in each play of the trilogy, and she has many faces. First of all, she is a queen. In the prologue of Agamemnon, before she appears, the sentinel and the chorus speak about her authority with fear. When she comes out of the royal palace, the old men bow to her with reverence; from now on, her power is clearly stressed by all characters, by her words, by her voice and by her entire appearance throughout the play. In theatrical terms, all this can be represented on stage by modern directors, For example, in a well known German version of the Oresteia, directed by Peter Stein (Berlin, Schaubühne, 1980), she has neither sceptre nor crown, but wears a shiny gold jacket which clearly evokes her royal power: gold is a recurrent colour of queens’ costumes.14 The second distinctive feature of Clytemnestra in the Oresteia is to be a wife. This is of course a role model she shares with other characters, from Penelope in the Odyssey to famous tragic queens like Xerxes’ mother in Aeschylus’ Persians. But the difference between her and other wives is clear: when Agamemnon comes home, she warmly welcomes him, seduces him with gentle words, and persuades him to walk onto a red carpet (this colour too is very important). The Athenian audience already knows that Clytemnestra has many good reasons to hate her husband whom she betrayed during his absence and that she plans to kill him with the help of her lover Aegisthus. For these characteristics, she may be considered an ancestor of the so-called ‘dark lady’, who will have a long life in theatre, cinema and other media. Such a popular character has many variations in reception, of course, but since the beginning we may distinguish, simplifying, two variations: first, the unfaithful wife who plans to have her husband killed by her lover and second, the woman killer – like Clytemnestra – who needs no man to kill her husband and does it all by herself.15 She slaughters Agamemnon and his lover Cassandra with a significant and iconic weapon: an axe. The double axe itself is a Minoan symbol connected to the power of Life and Death.16 She is not just a killer, she may be compared to the goddess of Death; when she comes out of the palace after the killing, she refers to herself as a demon: she is Wrath, the Pursuer of accursed Atreus. She is covered in blood and rejoices: this is the most self-evident reason why, in most versions of the Oresteia, her costume is red, or has at least some red parts (in the 1981 performance directed by Peter Hall, translated by Tony Harrison, she wears one red glove on her right hand). The colour stands for blood, here, and previously for seduction: no wonder that most actresses on stage are dressed in red well before the killing, for example, in the ‘red carpet’ scene, when they play the



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faithful wife who welcomes the husband in a very seductive and provocative way.17 So far, in the Agamemnon, Clytemnestra combines in herself many roles (a queen, a wife, a killer, a demon). Moreover, she is a mother. But she fears the revenge of her son Orestes, who comes to kill her in the second drama of Aeschylus’ trilogy (the Libation Bearers). Here, when the chorus tells Orestes about Clytemnestra’s nightmare, in which a serpent sucks her breast (a symbol of wicked motherhood), he identifies himself with the serpent. Later, when the mother faces the son, she asks for her axe and tries to defend herself. In the central scene of the entire trilogy, motherhood is visually represented through the iconic symbol of the breast; the mother refers to it to her son in order to prevent him from killing her. The power of this image is so strong that in most productions the actress points at her breast or shows it naked to the audience. When Orestes is about to kill his mother, she calls in defence to another female presence deeply connected to her figure: the Erinyes or Furies. These goddesses are known and worshipped in the Mediterranean with various functions since the first millennium bce; they appear in singular and plural form, and personify in our case the curses of victims.18 Clytemnestra and her Avengers share many features, the first is of course blood. The blood of Agamemnon and Cassandra covers their killer in the Agamemnon; the mother’s own blood shed by her son evokes the Erinyes in the second drama; finally, the female monsters forming the chorus of the Eumenides follow the trail of blood: the dead mother appears as a ghost while they are asleep in Delphi and wakes them up. They will follow Orestes like bloodhounds, smelling his blood and trying to drink it. For these features, which they share with animals (and later with vampires), the Furies become a successful model in further reception: they may be associated with many functions, more or less connected to their ancient power of Life and Death (avengers or punishers, serial killers or monsters); they may also appear as beautiful and dangerous women, with a stronger accent on seduction. In this case they may wear a red, sexy dress, while they normally appear in black, after Aeschylus’ description, as they are associated to Death. 19 In reception, many female characters share the same functions (variously associated to law and justice, revenge and punishment, life and death). Apart from revenge, the trail of blood associated to Clytemnestra and the Furies may lead to other characters who punish or kill people (not necessarily parents’ killers, or villains). We may just cite here the female vampires whose common distinctive features are sex, seduction and power, appearing in The Hunger by Tony Scott (1983), in Interview with the Vampire (the book by Anne Rice, 1976,

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and the film by Neil Jordan, 1994), but also in the more recent Twilight saga or in TV series like True Blood or The Gates.

Medea So far I have analysed the archetypes of Clytemnestra and the Erinyes who share many features connected to our theme of seduction and power. I visualize their action in a scheme along two bloodlines, depending on the relationship between the subjects, based on the model of a family tree: the first line can be visualized as horizontal, as it involves a couple – a wife kills her husband (and his lover, incidentally) – while the second is vertical as two different generations are involved (the mother is killed by her son and sends her curses, the Erinyes, to kill him in revenge). In another archetype, Medea, I also find these two bloodlines connected to seduction and power: she is a foreign princess, daughter of a king, who met a stranger, fell in love with him, and followed him into exile. She is a good wife, faithful and true, and yet, her husband betrays her, leaving her to marry a younger princess. But, unlike Clytemnestra, she does not kill him. In Euripides’ tragedy, she kills the new bride (horizontal bloodline), and eventually her own children (vertical bloodline). Medea shares with Clytemnestra the power of persuasion, which is in some modern performances enriched with sexual seduction, for instance, in the Italian adaptation of Medea directed by Fabio Sonzogni (Milan, Out Off, 2008), she seduces three powerful men. In order to gain one more day for her revenge, she seduces the king Kreon (whose very name means ‘Power’ in Greek, but in Milan he is played by an old and trembling man in a wheelchair); then she seduces her husband Jason, in order to send a poisoned gift to his new bride. Finally, she seduces the king of Athens, Aegeus, and receives shelter in her flight. The actress who plays Medea in the 2008 performance is young, beautiful and sexy. Her words, voice and body are her weapons. She wears a red dress, again, but it is open at the front, showing her belly, which stands for her uterus: this is her symbol of motherhood, of the birth and death of her children, and it is also the icon chosen for the poster of the Out Off production. While Clytemnestra on stage often shows her breast to her son and is covered in blood, in this performance the actress kills her children by lying on the ground, in a sort of inverted birth, with labour and delivery. The ‘Medea archetype’ thus combines the seduction of men, aggression against a younger rival, and violence towards children; similar to our earlier



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cases, its reception is renewed and enriched by further elements as it travels through legends and folk and fairy tales, down to modern times.20

Antigone The last female character I will discuss briefly is Sophocles’ Antigone; she is younger than the archetypes cited above, she is not married and she is not bound to marry and have children. Like Medea, she defines herself in opposition to another king, Kreon, whose very name means ‘power’. She stands alone against him. She is apparently weaker than he, as her sister Ismene claims, but in fact her power on stage is overwhelming. She strongly refuses affection, and yet she is loved by the most desirable man in town, the son of king Kreon, prince Haemon, who is seduced in modern versions by what we call her ‘personality’ (stubbornness included). She is often represented on stage as less beautiful than her sister, but more seductive in words and action. In Sophocles, she beats Kreon’s arguments and gradually conquers Ismene with her ideas (in some modern adaptations, and consequently in some productions, this seduction is depicted as incestuous, as one may expect in Oedipus’ family). Antigone’s first feature, the power of ideas and the ability to express them, is the most ‘heroic’ aspect that inspired many cases in further reception and in history; real women followed her example and chose to disobey authority or a law they felt to be unjust. Some of them had their brothers killed, some shared her tragic destiny and sacrificed themselves, from Sophie Scholl in Nazi Germany to Benazir Buttho in Pakistan. But beside these features, there are others, which qualify Antigone as ‘bad girl’ rather than as heroine. She is not only a rebel, but she fights alone. She does not accept the support of her sister, of the chorus or of any other character, and she never embraces her fiancé on stage. In theatrical terms, her seduction is both in her solitude and in her rebellion. A third ingredient, which will play an even greater role in further reception, is the fascination for death. In Sophocles’ tragedy Antigone is buried alive in a cave underground.21 There she hangs herself, and her suicide is part of her seduction of ancient and modern audiences. For the reasons mentioned, Antigone became an icon and a symbol for many ‘bad girls’ in recent times, especially since 1967, when the Living Theatre staged Brecht’s Antigone starring Judith Malina as a manifesto of their group and of their entire generation. Since the late 1960s the drama was adapted and

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staged more and more frequently, along with other selected Greek tragedies, but the ‘bad girl’ archetype played an even larger role in the sexual revolution and in pop culture. At the music festivals of Monterey and Woodstock, women with such features performed along the biggest stars of rock. Janis Joplin, for instance, was a rebellious, excessive and outrageous girl from Texas who cried her love and pain, yelled and screamed like no one before, and of course died too young. Decades later, many other girl singers and all-women groups appeared, such as ‘Antigone rising’:22 they were all captivated to some extent by what I call the ‘young Antigone’ complex.23 Hopefully, most modern ‘Antigones’ will not die young, nor have her instinct for self-destruction, from suicide to anorexia to the pathological refusal of sex. Summing up, regardless of these deviances, Antigone proved to be as seductive and powerful as the other tragic characters discussed above and is as role model that is particularly successful among young girls. I may say in conclusion, ‘good girls go to Heaven, bad girls go to tragedy, tragic women go everywhere’. Despite these last points, however, my study on female archetypes is not meant to be either gender-oriented or ‘feminist’. As every approach to ancient drama and its modern performances, mine too is inevitably influenced by its context, just as each age ‘projects’ its own needs and thoughts onto these dramas. The gender naturally matters and our life choices and conditions necessarily change our perception of antiquity. We should be conscious of that when we study ancient texts in their specific content and context and their receptions in modern ages. I started by choosing what I call ‘fossil’ traces, which in my opinion may be included in the archaic background of the tragic characters I study. In Greek drama, any ‘woman’ may stand for many things, especially for what we call the irrational, the dark side of mankind. Some characters may be considered as archetypes, as each different combination of features catalyses feelings, desires, passion, and thoughts that are shared by many. For these reasons, playwrights and directors often use ancient female characters to talk about contemporary issues. Similarly, minorities – women included – employ them to justify the fight for their own rights. I may add, personally, that Italian women – artists and audiences – still use these archetypes in order to fight for equal opportunities. Many other examples of similar cases are brought up and studied, by women as well as men, in the Imagines project and at its conferences. I believe this is another sign of the growing role of women and of their increasing importance in universities. I find all this very encouraging, both as a woman and as a scholar.



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Notes 1 I thank Silke Knippschild, Marta García, Pepa Castillo, Irene Berti and all members of the Imagines project for their invitation. I am proud to be part of such a project, a unique opportunity for intercultural and multidisciplinary studies across cultures, time and space. 2 In recent times, scholars and audiences have dedicated increasingly more attention to adaptations of the Classics in theatre, opera, movies and comics. See, for example, the volume published by Imagines project – Castillo et al. 2008 and Berti and García Morcillo 2008. In addition, the internet features numerous videos and publications as well as teachers’ and students’ activities in Classics and related field. As for comics, ancient myths and classical history inspired world-famous series like Eric Shanower’s Age of Bronze (see also Shanower, this volume), Neil Gaiman’s The Sandman, Eddie Campbell’s Bacchus, or more recently George O’Connor’s Olympians (olympiansrule. com), Dufaux and Delaby’s Murena, Yoshikazu Yasuhiko’s My name is Nero, and Mimei Sakamoto’s The Roman Empire. For comics see also Lindner, this volume. For a general survey and bibliography see Kovacs and Marshall (eds), 2011. 3 Similarly Llewellyn-Jones, this volume. 4 See Notti 2012 and related bibliographical references, in particular Neumann 1955; see also Notti 2007. 5 See Lindsay 1974; West 1975; Clader 1976; Edmunds 2007; Geoffrey Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde, c. 1380’s (1971). 6 See Winkler, this volume. 7 See Pina Polo and Garcia, this volume. 8 See McHugh, this volume. 9 See Carlà, this volume. 10 See also Capra and Giovannelli, this volume. 11 Treu 2010. On the symbolism and use of red as colour see also Seymour, this volume. 12 Treu 2006. 13 The novel which inspired Kubrick’s film Eyes Wide Shut (1999). 14 See also Seymour, this volume. 15 Both types of ‘dark ladies’ find many examples in reality and in Pop-Culture. An unfaithful wife and her husband kill each other in Orson Welles’ The Lady from Shanghai (1947) (ironically, the leading actress Rita Hayworth was actually the director’s wife at that time), while in Henry Hathaway’s Niagara (1953) Marilyn Monroe tries to have her husband killed by her lover, but the two adulterers are in their turn killed. Similarly, two historical women who were under trial for murder escaped death in 1924 and inspired the story of Chicago (a musical since 1926, and a film since 1928): see http://news.nationalgeographic.com/

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news/2003/03/0321_030321_oscars_chicago.html (accessed 15 March 2013) and http://owenlib.blogspot.com/2011/03/shared-reads-girls-of-murder-city-fame. html (accessed 15 March 2013). In the modern version of the film (2002) they feel betrayed and kill in revenge: Velma personally shoots her unfaithful man and his lover (who is, moreover, her own sister, i.e. her ‘double’), while the adulterous wife Roxie punishes her lover who promised her fame and deceived her. 16 On the Minoan Mother and the double axe see Evans 1921–35; Neumann 1955; (1955), Notti 2009, in particular § 2.3.1–2.4 and Notti 2011. On the Axe, the Snake Goddess and other images related to Clytemnestra and their use by Aeschylus, see Beltrametti 1997. 17 Significantly, Marilyn Monroe in Niagara (see note 15) wears a sexy red dress, which made her famous and is still sold in replicas. See for instance http:// entertainment.howstuffworks.com/marilyn-monroe-early-career12.htm (accessed 15 March 2013). ‘Of all the stunning outfits Marilyn wore in her films, none are as startling in their impact as the red dress she wore in Niagara’ and ‘Rose consistently wears clothes that are variations of black and red – two colours associated with women who are alluring, cunning, and powerful’. For photos and replicas of Marilyn’s red dress see http://www.bigbeautifulbarbarabrown.com/id32.html (accessed 15 March 2013). 18 See Negri 2009. 19 According to their dominant function, ‘they are old hags dressed in black rags, and young women in red robes’ (Potter 2009: 225), even if the second colour might evoke bloodstains rather than sexual appeal. Potter analyses many symbols, which alternately recur in reception (from ancient times to the TV series Xena: Warrior Princess and Charmed) such as serpents, hounds, bloodshed from eyes and fire (the queen invented the system of fire beacons which opens the Agamemnon, and at the end of the Oresteia the female demons will leave the stage with torches). On some recent appearances of the Furies in comics see also Marshall, The Furies, Wonder Woman and Dream: Mythmaking in DC Comics, in Kovacs and Marshall (eds), 2011: 89–101. I may add the examples of two Italian comic series. In Erinni, written by Ade Capone and published by Liberty Edizioni, an attractive woman, professor of Greek literature, turns at night into sexual predator and avenger, bearing the name of ‘Erinni’. Another example in Italian comics, connected to our theme, is the main character of Lilith (written and drawn by Luca Enoch, published by Sergio Bonelli Editore): she has superpowers and travels in time, accompanied by a black dog and disguised as a girl, in order to seduce men before she kills them with her claws. Originally, Lilith is a female demon of the ancient Near Eastern mythology (see Brill 1981) although in a Hebraic tradition Adam’s first wife bears this name too (see Patai 1990 and related bibliography; see also the wide bibliography at lilit.abroadplanet. com/Links.php). The first episode of Lilith is significantly set by Enoch during the



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Trojan War, see http://www.sergiobonellieditore.it/auto/cpers_index?pers=lilith (accessed 15 March 2013). 20 A modern audience, for instance, could find such features in some Disney female villains, imbued with seduction and power (even when sex is rather subtle to accommodate the younger audience): the jealous stepmother (alias Queen Grimilde) in Snow White, and the witch Maleficent in Sleeping Beauty who are both set to neutralise a younger and beautiful rival. The mix of tyrannical power, violence and a weird seductiveness characterizes other female villains with a sophisticated and yet sinister look, such as Cruella de Vil (101 Dalmatians) and Madame Medusa (The Rescuers). They both try to appear seductive to their victims and to their male partners in crime, while they actually cheat and use them, and they both exercise their power on men and animals: Cruella wants to kidnap and kill the dogs for their pelts, and Medusa in the original novel (by Margret Sharp) has two bloodhounds named Tyrant and Torment, while in the Disney film she keeps two alligators on a leash (with the ‘classical’ names Brutus and Nero). 21 See Zambrano 1967, 1983. The cave is, significantly, a symbolic place which hosted cults of female demons and of the Mother Goddess since the Minoan Age. See Notti 2012 and related bibliographical references. 22 An all-female rock band that named itself after Sophocles’ character, see antigonerising.com (accessed 15 March 2013). 23 See Treu 2007.

7

The Eroticism of Power in Jordi Coca’s Ifigènia (2009) Maite Clavo

In this chapter I discuss the role of power and its relationship to eroticism (as a passive form of seduction exuded, but not intended by, the objects of desire), as represented in the work of the Marduix Puppet Company, directed by the playwright Jordi Coca (born in 1947). Coca has created a free version of the Iphigenia theme, mainly following the plot of the Euripidean Iphigenia at Aulis, with a personal staging, an updated meaning, and a new view of eroticism in the theme of the girl’s sacrifice.1 I consider it pertinent to first contextualize the play within Coca’s essays on tragedy, since – if I am right – he consciously composed his Ifigènia according to his own theories on the form and function of Ancient Greek theatre. I will offer a brief account of this.

Theory Coca’s theory on tragedy operates, summarily, due to the synergy of two main factors. The first is his familiarity with classical dramatic texts and their reception.2 The second is based on his methodological approach to the work of the Catalan poet Josep Palau i Fabre (1917–2008)3 – a singular artist, friend and follower of the French playwright Antonin Artaud (1896–1948) – who wrote seminal reflections on tragedy and the tragic.4 On this background, Coca proposes a theory of ancient tragedy focusing on the following points: (i) its relationship with contemporary events; (ii) the formal fusion of different levels of realities, times and languages; (iii) the need for freedom of both society and author as an absolute condition for the production and

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performance of tragedies; and (iv) the pursuit of ‘truth’ as inherent to tragic composition. First, Coca underlines the historicity of Greek tragedy from the viewpoint of its reception in antiquity by citizens in the theatre, and emphasizes the relationship between the performances and the political circumstances at Athens.5 A mythical plot does not allow for explicit historical references, but the lyrical and dramatic language would allow us some access to current affairs. Accordingly, Coca’s tragedies which are based on myth (Antígona, Ifigènia) refrain from identifying specific characters and events. In his Ifigènia, the plot focuses on a tyrant (and father) who sacrifices a relative (a daughter) to further his own interests. He sets out this narrative topic and lets the audience read from the stagecraft its relationship to a current historical context. ‘Reading from the stagecraft’ leads us to the second point: Coca observes that ‘the Attic tragedy fuses the musical, supernatural phenomena, mythical repertory, and democratic debate’.6 We do not have clear-cut evidence for the way in which tragedies were staged in Athens, excepting a few images; but we do know that the chorus, gods and heroes shared scenes in the same play. In his Ifigènia, the author strives to reach a similar synthesis of different levels of reality and language; he particularly links the past and the present to key situations, so that the audience is enabled to recognize its own tragic referent through the mythic conflict. He also uses theatrical devices in the performances to characterize different natures, voices and times and this approach helps to establish the meaning for a contemporary audience. Moreover, according to Coca, tragedy is defined by ‘the tragic’, which is a conflict affecting a collective, where the plurality of views prevents a solution.7 Plurality itself is only possible in a free society and that condition would explain the lack of tragedies in many periods of our cultural history.8 Absolute political authority enforces unitary thought, as Coca and Palau, who experienced Franco’s dictatorship, knew well. On the opposite end of the spectrum, freedom enables political complexity, plurality of voices and the free expression of these voices. In the theatrical realm, these conditions make the distinctiveness of tragedy possible. In Palau’s words ‘Tragedy is ... the (implicit) language of freedom’, ‘the measurable possibility of human freedom’.9 Following this general thought, Coca develops his concept of the sense of tragic composition: ‘it can only refer to the pursuit of truth’. This truth is also inherent to the tragic form, being created by the dialectic confrontation of opposed positions. The tragic play shows a whole set of perspectives, arguments, emotions and interests, all of which are presented on the same level of discursive right and authority. The



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truth is then ‘a set of tensions’, and the task of the tragic poet is to show it: ‘and because truth is not a closed and definitive thing, but a latency, a set of tensions, the tragic poet cannot help but being aware of the many factors that form it’.10 Let me say that Coca’s position as an author, despite eluding a dogmatic attitude, is not as neutral as ‘being aware of the many factors’ of truth. While Agamemnon is represented by Greek authors in a tragic conflict, between his responsibility as the chief of the army on one side and his paternal emotions on the other, Coca’s opposition to the tyrant figure is apparent from the beginning. Accordingly, he strips Agamemnon of character traits his audience can easily relate to and underlines his belief that a promising future must be based on the solidarity of the entire population. Thus, I think he has developed a political play according to his own intellectual trajectory.11

The play Ancient tragedy exposes the complexity of human motivations, embodied by the characters in the plays focusing on Iphigenia.12 Coca’s version adapts the general plot of Euripides’ Iphigenia at Aulis, but eliminates the supernatural intervention by which the protagonist is saved, although the god responsible (Artemis) appears on stage as a puppet.13 The end follows Aeschylus’ version of the myth, with Iphigenia’s death and her mother’s return home. He refers to tradition in an extremely stylized form and superimposes an imprecise location in the Western world over the environment of the myth. The use of puppets or figurines along with actors facilitates the transference to present times. The different strands of the mythical plot are reduced to Agamemnon’s trickery in securing Iphigenia’s arrival at the Greek camp. He lures his daughter, whom he intends to be an expiatory sacrifice to enable his beached fleet to sail off to Troy, and her mother by promising to marry the girl to the handsome and famous warrior Achilles. All other strands of Euripides’ version (Agamemnon’s doubts, his dispute with Menelaus, Clytemnestra’s worries for her daughter’s safety, and Achilles’ presence) appear only in the distance as hearsay or uncertain news. At the same time, the story progresses through successive voices, which provide moral nuances and affective events. Thus, the mythical action is turned into an ethical problem. From this point of view, all the attention is directed onto the figure of Agamemnon, introduced as an ambitious, unscrupulous governor. His longing for power easily conquers the paternal affection of Euripides’ character, which results in a substitution of fatherly love to a possessive desire of

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Figure 9.  Father and Daughter. Ifigènia (J. Coca). having the daughter in his hands – she who now embodies the key to power. The performance represents the possessive desire as disturbingly incestuous through the use of gesture, as the figures below show. Moreover, Agamemnon will not accept that he was at fault when hunting Artemis fawn, which is at the root of all his trouble. That is to say that he does not accept Artemis as a being higher and more powerful than himself, which in turn means that the sacrifice of Iphigenia, which re-establishes the natural order of things in Euripides, is now futile. The collapse of the puppet representing Artemis symbolizes this shift, while also highlighting Coca’s view of the working of religion in society. The action takes place mostly in the second part of the play. Note the ringshaped composition of the episodes: (a) Agamemnon fantasizes he was visiting Iphigenia in the Mycenaean palace (Figure 9). Clytemnestra crosses the stage in slow motion to Aulis. Her movements reflect mistrust, the fear she feels while guiding her daughter to the camp. Her fears are well founded, as we can see. (b) The King and Manipulator have fun playing with the doll-chorus (Figure 10). (c ) In the next scene, Agamemnon returns from a drinking binge. His drunken monologue becomes more and more cynical: Iphigenia should be grateful,



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Figure 10.  The men’s game. Ifigènia (J. Coca). since he is going to make her more famous than Helen. (d) Thrown down by the Manipulator, Artemis collapses onto the stage (c) In view of the remains of the goddess and of the king’s party, a disoriented old woman expresses her pain and horror; the Manipulator starts a melody that will finish as a military march and a discourse by Hitler. (b) Then, we witness Iphigenia’s death (Figure 11) and (a) the return of her mother, Clytemnestra, in mourning (Figure 12). (d) At the end, as a substitute for divine intervention, the old woman instigates a rebellion against the dictatorship. The symmetric composition of this section enhances the meaning by creating visual correspondences: (a-a) The mother comes and goes back as a ghost, announcing the destruction of Agamemnon; (b-b) The men’s game with the maidens of the choir is mirrored by the maiden’s (the daughter’s) marriage to death; (c-c) Tyrant and Citizen confront their opposed views of life; (d-d) The illusionary authority of Artemis is confronted by the old woman’s good common sense. The sequence communicates the feminine reaction to Agamemnon’s abuse, proceeding from the goddess’ punishment to the mother’s revenge, and then to the woman’s bid for democracy. As this summary shows, the composition emphasises the common thread of the plot: absolutist power conflates the borders of public and private affairs, resulting in the violent control exerted over collective institutions and in

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Figure 11.  Death and the Bride. Ifigènia (J. Coca).

Figure 12.  Mother in mourning. Ifigènia (J. Coca). the compulsive desire for possession. In the performance this is manifested through the manipulation and destruction of the ancient divinity, through the arbitrary rape of and violence towards the citizenship by the army, and through the manipulation and paedophile possession of the chorus (Figure 10);



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the progression of this trend towards disorder culminates with the incestuous thoughts of Agamemnon who – in the mood of the Homeric ‘frozen luxury’– leads his daughter to the ‘marriage to death’.14

The stagecraft In this section, we will first study the work on character design regarding dramaturgy. There are two puppets; Artemis and the choir, two veiled figures; Clytemnestra and Iphigenia, and Agamemnon is dressed in contemporary costume. Dialogue or even visual communication between the protagonists of the ancient myth is non-existent: Artemis speaks alone on set, Clytemnestra is a mute figure. A symbolic wall of shadows isolates her on stage (Figure 12). Iphigenia and Agamemnon talk to Death, that is, to themselves. Once the father focuses on the daughter, he follows her movements for a while in the dreamlike scene at Mycenae. In addition to the original cast three new characters, belonging to a vague modern context, have been added: the Manipulator, Death and the Old Woman. The first one is a gentleman who literally operates the puppets. The political dimension of his role is marked by his physical similarity to, and complicity with, Agamemnon. Death, the second new character, makes no alliances; he is a law unto himself. He witnesses the action without intervention, but provides depth to the other characters, since he drives the process of the characters’ self-reflection through questioning their expectations by occupying the final position in each story. The third non-mythical character, the Old Woman, is a victim of the military occupation; she tries to reason with the king, to reclaim her rights, to appeal to justice. We are in an indefinite present, politically identified by the use of Nazi discourse and music; the impotence of a single woman against power echoes a universal subject. Relegated and left on the sidelines, she witnesses the drama unfolding with growing horror, which finally propels her to action. Her role is designed to reflect the feelings of normal people and constitutes the frame of the drama. The interaction of contemporary, timeless and mythical characters suggests that the play is neither conceived as an update of the myth, nor as an abstract and universal moral fable.15 The challenge imposed on the audience by the author is to maintain simultaneously different discursive perspectives and their specific languages and to reflect on the common experience of abuse in the exercise of power.

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The second feature to stress is the characterization of genders. Just like Agamemnon, the abstract figures of the Manipulator and Death are presented as human adult males. Those are the three that have effective power in the drama, since Artemis looses her capacity for intervention after being overpowered by a man, the Manipulator. Among the female characters, the mythical ones have no faces: the goddess is presented as a cloud, Clytemnestra as a lean figure wrapped in cloth, the Chorus is a headless doll, and Iphigenia wears costumes that cover her entirely, even when she is but a body surrendered to death (Figures 9–12). On the contrary, the real character of the Old Woman shows her old deformed body and an expressive face. We could say that this directs the attention of the public towards the fact that only today and in Western culture women have a place in public life, and that the creatures of the myth, like those from the past, are hidden behind the canvas of anonymity. However, there are important differences in the treatment of the faceless characters. To begin with, Artemis and the chorus are taken out of the equation before the end of the play. Thus, they are characterized as relics of ancient tragedy, ineffective in our culture and, consequently, meaningless for the theatrical rewriting. As we have seen, the author juxtaposes their dramatic roles to those of common citizens. Unlike the puppets, Clytemnestra moves and disappears into the shadows by herself, a bulk without voice walking across the stage. Her imposing presence seems to presage a sequel, a ‘this is not the end of the story’. In fact, because of Aeschylus’ Oresteia we know that she will avenge her daughter’s death by killing her husband, the father. Her figure disappears, but not the character of the mother: her resistance, strength and memory are transferred to the Old Woman; with this projection the battered mother-figure transcends time and crosses from myth into our age. Iphigenia is projected into the present in a different way. Autonomous, with human movement and voice, her characterization shows a girl of generic virginal age, the age suitable for a modest bride. Just one detail contextualizes the girl in the historic past as well as in our time: the design of her costume alludes to a burqa.16 If, as Coca states, tragedy acquires its meaning by using contemporary referents that author and audience share, the use of the burqa – its meaning in societies where women are expected to submit to men, its meaning in our society, now in conflict with other cultural traditions – stresses that the young woman is considered as worthless by the man.17



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The choreographic fusion between eroticism and power Dramatists have dealt with Iphigenia’s sacrifice theme in different ways, according to their specific aims and their cultural contexts.18 Coca has chosen to blend the girl’s path to death with a kind of perverse eroticism, which he has underscored by his use of a mute choreographic language. Let us look at the three moments of the mis-en-scène leading towards this reading in sequence. The body language is of special interest here, since it employs the gesture of taking the girls (Iphigenia and the chorus) by their shoulders to signify possession. Figure 9: First, we witness the ghost-like apparition of the king in his Mycenaean palace. After following his daughter’s movements from behind, Agamemnon approaches in order to place his hands on her shoulders. Death is present on the stage, paying attention to the scene, and stops with his gaze the king’s movements just before he reaches the girl. Figure 10: However, he does place his hands on the shoulders of the chorusdoll. The audience watches Agamemnon’s expressive pleasure in listening to the children’s laughter, coming from an unseen chorus; a lively sound that awakens his desire to possess. Accordingly, the Manipulator brings the doll to the king, and they pass it to each other in a cruel form of amusement, which the author’s delicacy only suggests: their fondling of dress and shoulders underscore the paedophile character of this game. Figure 11: The sequence culminates in the representation of Iphigenia’s wedding. We see Death gently resisting the girl’s attempts at escape, until he places his hand on her shoulders. She then turns to Death, who takes the wedding dress off and embraces her. This constitutes a tragic form of irony: the father’s desire to possess, as represented in the previous scene, comes true in the nuptial gesture of Death, her new owner. In this way, Coca creates the semantic equivalence between the maiden’s death and the two preceding scenes. Agamemnon’s mental approach to his daughter and his game with the maiden of the chorus are to be interpreted as erotic. This confusion of boundaries and objects of desire is solely an attribute of the Tyrant, his dominance projected into the image of overpowering masculinity. On the opposite side, a generic woman proposes to avert violence by the use of consensus, solidarity, and good common sense in the form of a democratic government. It is time to come back to Coca’s statement that theatre is a product of its time: nowadays, Western culture has legally banished the subordination of women, but our social reality is a more complex one, both in public and

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private practices. The myth of Iphigenia in Coca’s version attracts the audience’s attention to the exercise of power, linking, not incidentally, gender abuse to absolutist ideology.

Notes On eroticism and the reception of Iphigenia at Aulis, see also Shanower, this volume. For his critical essays, cf. http://www.jordicoca.ppcc.cat/; http://www.traces.uab.es See, for example, Coca 1991; 2002: 1–4; 2003a–c; 2007b, 2008. Palau 1961a; 1961b; 2007. See also Jufresa 2007: 191–4; Reig 2010. Coca 2002: 3; 2007a; ecc. Cf. Malé, 2002: 19–26; Salvat 2006: 258–9; Santamaria 2007: 206–7. 6 Coca 2002: 1. 7 Coca 2002: 4. 8 Cf. Palau 2007: 346–7. 9 Palau 1961a; 1961b. 10 Coca 2002: 4 11 Cf. also his comments on his play Antígona (2003) ‘parlo de coses que ens afecten a tots i, per tant, és una obra política’, in Santamaria 2007: 206; see notes 32, 40, 41 for interview references. Cf. Coca 2010a ‘that has led me to think once more on the role of artists in today’s society. I know that the idea of compromise is discredited today, but trends aside, I find l’engagement is still a valid concept today. And hence Camus dared to denounce two of the dangers of the twenteen century, which we seem to have inherited: dogmatism and frivolity.’ 12 Extant plays: A. Ag; S. El, E. El, I.T., I. A. On fragments and other literary documents Cropp 2000:43–6; Lanza 1997:231–3; on the iconography Kahil 1990: 706–19; on the resolution of Iphigenia’s sacrifice related to historical contexts, Beltrametti 2008: 63–9. 13 For contemporary authors eliminating supernatural intervention in their adaptation of ancient sources see, for example, Shanower, Age of Bronze and Shanower, this volume. 14 ‘Marrying Hades’ is a Greek literary topic to express the death of the not yet married maidens, but it gets too symbolical meanings in some ritual contexts. See Foley 1982: 159–80; Dowden 1989: 9–47; Kearns 1989: 27–33; Andò 2008: 72–3. 15 Coca 2002: 3. 16 On the burqa used as a bridal accoutrement, see also Llewellyn-Jones, this volume. 17 For a recent critical analysis of the question, see Tamzali 2010. 18 On the rewriting of this play in the literary reception, see Gliksohn 1985; Paco Serrano 2001: 275–99. On the use of Iphigenia at Aulis as a prologue for the Oresteia in contemporary French Theatre, Judet de La Combe 2005: 273–6; in the USA, Foley 2005: 316–25. 1 2 3 4 5

8

‘Prince of Painters’: The Grimacing Mask of Power and Seduction in Aristophanes’ Assemblywomen1 Andrea Capra and Maddalena Giovannelli

This chapter discusses the reception of Aristophanes’ Assemblywomen in Italian theatre, especially in a performance by the Milanese theatre company ATIR. The focal points are not only the representation of the individual characters in the play, but also of the metatheatrical character of ancient comedy itself. In order to fully appreciate the different aspects of the reception of ancient comedy, we first need to discuss these features in the ancient play, before moving on to the contemporary performance.

Ancient images Ancient Greek comedy is a fundamentally metatheatrical genre, and this is one of the most important features distinguishing it from its cognate genre, Greek tragedy. Thus, Greek comedy often breaks the dramatic illusion, whereas tragedy sustains it throughout the performance. Undeniably, some scholars, with some right, think it inappropriate to use such terms as ‘metatheatrical’ or ‘dramatic illusion’ when referring to ancient theatre, and yet it is a matter of fact that tragedies never exhibit their theatrical nature, whereas ancient comedies do just that. The pictorial record neatly confirms this opposition. It is relatively easy to identify a comic production in a vase painting, in that theatrical details, including masks, costumes and props, are clearly depicted as such. On the contrary, ‘tragic’ vases are hotly debated, because it is often impossible to distinguish the representation of a given myth from its tragic production. In a tragic performance, actor and character were perceived as

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one and the same thing, and, as a result, painters tended to omit any explicit theatrical reference.2 This state of affairs explains why offstage actors are so often depicted in the act of contemplating their mask: the mask – whose very name, prosopon, means ‘face’– becomes a somewhat alarming new identity, to be looked at with some concern.3 It is probably not a coincidence that the most famous ‘classical’ portrait of a tragic actor with his mask – an Apulian Gnathia fragment (c. 350 bc) attributed to the Konnakis Painter4 – stands out for the realistic ugliness of the ‘real’ face as opposed to the marked beauty of the mask, whereas the actor himself looks perplexed as he stares at it. Seduction, then, is very much in the air when we talk about masks. What is more striking, however, is that once the mask is placed on the actor’s face, his entire body seems to be transformed. Let us look at Figure 13: beautiful female masks can easily turn a group of male

Figure 13.  Fragment of Attic krater found at Taras, possibly by the Pronomus Painter, c. 400 bc. Martin von Wagner-Museum H4781.



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actors into a highly desirable group of young women, whose very bodies display unmistakable signs of attractive femininity, as if under the spell of the masks. So much for seduction, then. Power is of course a closely related concept: as it is seductive, a mask is obviously powerful as well. Nobel Prize winner Dario Fo used to say that the very idea of an actor toying with his mask onstage gives him the shivers.5 Not surprisingly, in the extant tragedies this is never the case, the mask retaining its sacred and magical power: in Athenian tragic contests, masks were probably removed only at the end of the play (or, possibly, even at the end of the tetralogy) as a kind of ‘curtain call’.6 On the contrary, comedies freely toy with masks, and more specifically with their power. 7 One case in point is the Procne scene in the Birds (663ff.): the climax of this overtly sexual scene is no doubt the moment when Euelpides removes Procne’s mask, representing a beaked bird. The removal of that mask signals the power obtained by the human protagonist over the attractive she-bird and her beak, the latter being a focal point of costume interaction in the first half of the play.8 Masks, power, seduction and generic opposition both in genre and in gender: with these concepts in mind, let us now turn to the Assemblywomen. Along with Lysistrata, this play features the deepest entanglement between power and seduction among Aristophanes’ comedies.9 Disguised as a young orator, Praxagora seduces the Assembly and paves the way for a new regime, in which women are in charge and all goods – including sex – are common possessions and strictly administered by the power of the state. Before examining the scene that is most relevant for our present argument, one specific point should be made. The comedy opens at the break of dawn, with Praxagora waiting for the women of the chorus to wake up, rousing and threatening them, until eventually the women show up and reveal their insatiable vitality and appetites. This awakening scene is designed to evoke the beginning of Aeschylus’ Eumenides: there, too, a chorus of women slowly wakes up and is roused to action by the first actor; there, too, the chorus soon reveals all of its unrestrained force; there too, the chorus will change its outfit by the end of the story. For an Athenian audience, such formal analogies made the link unmistakable.10 Let us now proceed to our scene. By now, the bill has passed and the women are in charge. In the first iambic scene, a dishonest citizen tries to undermine the new government by ridiculing an honest man who is handing over his possessions to the new state. He fails, and leaves the scene with a short monologue, whereby he threatens to take part in the communal banquet without handing over his own goods. Then the stage clears for the chorus to sing, after which – according to the most likely reconstruction – enters the first actor, who has

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previously interpreted the role of Praxagora and other characters supportive of the new regime. He now plays the part of an old hag singing sexy songs, in an attempt to hook some man returning from the communal banquet. The hag has a rival: another actor plays the role of a young and attractive woman, whose intentions are just the same. The two women sing in turn, grossly insulting each other, then they disappear, only to hide under the window while waiting for a young man, possibly called Epigenes (i.e. the second actor). Arguably, the whole scene is designed to recreate the atmosphere of a brothel.11 The young man enters: he is drunk, brandishes a phallus-like torch (or a torch-like phallus) and sings. Much like the dishonest man of the previous scene, he hopes he will be able to by-pass the new law, which prescribes that ugly and old people have a priority need for sex: in all likelihood, he and the dishonest citizen are one and the same character, played by the same actor. At first, he seems to succeed: the girl pops up at the window and responds to his song, which results in a love duet that is both sensual and grotesque. Full of hope, he rushes to the girl’s door and knocks furiously, but to his horror he finds the old hag instead, who is eager to take advantage of the new law without further ado. The two actors embark on an exhilarating and obscene dialogue. Among other insults and jokes, the young man pretends to be frightened: the hag’s boyfriend might show up any moment. He refers to this fictitious character as to ‘the prince of painters, the one who paints jars for funerals’ (995). The Greek for ‘jar’ is the familiar word lekythos, a term that shortly afterwards (1101) refers to the hag’s ugly face, presumably because the poet and his audience have leather jars in mind – creased and uneven containers, resembling the wrinkles of old human skin.12 What we have here, therefore, is a reference to the hag’s heavily made up mask: by and large, ancient Greek masks are containers, fully ‘swallowing’ an actor’s head. Moreover, the hag has already pointed to her funerary mask at the beginning of the scene, when she attracted the audience’s attention to her saffron dress (sexy and obscene, by Greek standards) and to her face ‘plastered with white-lead’ (878), the colour of Athenian funerary vases. Aristophanes is warning his audience: masks are going to be very important in the present scene. Eventually, the hag plays her trump card: she produces the decree itself and she reads it aloud: all males are required to lie with an older woman before making love to a younger one (needless to say, Aristophanes conveys the idea in quite explicit language). The young man is horrified, but, to his temporary relief, the girl pops up again: she claims that such a law is bound to give birth to a lot of Oedipuses and scares the hag away. An interesting dialogue follows, which I give here in Alan Sommerstein’s translation13:



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FIRST OLD WOMAN [shaking her fist at the Girl]: you loathsome, loathsome creature, you were jealous of me – that was why you thought up that argument! But I’ll get my own back on you yet! [She withdraws into her house] EPIGENES [to the Girl]. By Zeus the Saviour, sweetheart, you’ve done me a good turn, letting me escape from that old crone! So tonight, in return for your favour, I’ll be giving you a reward – a long thick reward! [As the pair move lovingly towards the Girl’s door, a second old woman comes out of the far (left-hand) door and confronts them. She is even older than the first, heavily rouged, and brandishes a copy of the decree on sexual rights] SECOND OLD WOMAN [to Girl]: Hey, you, where are you dragging this man, in contravention of the law, when it says in black and white that he should sleep with me first? [Epigenes starts back in fright; the Girl, even more terrified, lets go of him and flees off, left.] EPIGENES: God help me! Where have you popped out from, damn and curse you? This evil creature is more horrendous than the last one! SECOND OLD WOMAN [locking her arm round his neck]: Come this way! EPIGENES [unable to turn his head, but thinking the Girl is still somewhere near]: Don’t, I beg you, don’t stand by and let this woman drag me off [There is no reply.] SECOND OLD WOMAN [waving her scroll]: It’s not me dragging you off, it’s the law. EPIGENES: No, it isn’t, it’s a sort of Empousa covered in bleeding blisters! SECOND OLD WOMAN: Hurry up, softie, come with me, and stop jabbering.

Sommerstein’s otherwise splendid translation has a typically modern feature in common with all other versions I know of: the reader is invited to think of a young man confronted by two old women, the latter interpreted by two distinct actors. Each character, moreover, is dutifully registered in the – obviously postAristophanic – list of characters at the head of the play, and the translator/editor credits each of them with some character traits through an apparatus of directions, pointing to emotions such as fear, hope, thinking, etc. But is this really so? A number of details suggest the contrary. To begin with, the ‘character’ known as ‘First Old Woman’ withdraws while threatening to take revenge. Note that it is arguably a general rule of our comedy that characters end up putting in practice, or at least trying to do so, the plans

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they formulate on leaving the scene.14 By and large, their exit words function like guns in a Hitchcock movie: once a gun appears on the screen, it is destined to shoot, sooner or later. According to modern scholars, however, the ‘First Woman’ just leaves the scene, never to show up anymore. To continue, the ‘First Woman’ brandishes the sex decree, and the ‘Second Woman’ produces the very same decree at once. However, the ‘Third Woman’ enters with no decree in her hands (1065): she plays tug-of-war against the ‘Second Woman’ in an attempt to drag the young man to her place, but eventually she loses the fight. This is surprising to modern readers, who take the young man’s words at face value, and thus tend to construe the apparition of the three hags as a climax of both horror and force.15 Finally, Aristophanes has the young man point to the strange look of the alleged ‘Second Woman’: she is an Empousa, covered in blisters. This means of course that her outfit is very different from the saffron vest and chalk mask of the ‘First Woman’: she is probably dressed in black, and her mask must be dotted with blood-red spots. These surprising or slightly problematic details call for a very simple explanation: ‘First Woman’ and ‘Second Woman’ are not characters in the modern sense. Arguably, they are both interpreted by the protagonistes or first actor, who thus toys with his audience as actor – not as a character. The protagonistes withdraws while threatening revenge, with a decree-prop in his hands: he is actually right back with a new (superimposed?) costume and mask, brandishing the very same prop. Predictably, he tries to take immediate revenge. Since he is the first actor, it comes as no surprise that he will get the upper hand in the tug-of-war game, as he does throughout the comedy when he interprets Praxagora, Chremes and probably the Herald and Praxagora’s servant: sooner or later, the protagonistes ends up dominating the other characters – or actors. It is remarkable that all of his roles, if this reconstruction is correct, are favourably biased towards the new regime, that is Aristophanes’ own comic idea. This accounts also for the last ‘monstrous’ detail: the protagonistes is compared to Empousa, that is to a phantom or fury of Greek mythology whose metamorphic quality – or should I say histrionic? – was legendary.16 The mention of Empousa is best interpreted as a metatheatrical note: the protagonistes is right back, but his look has radically changed, and the young man’s words are in fact a praise to his ability to change costume and mask rapidly and successfully. At the same time, the ability of the women to change recalls the transformation of Aeschylus’ furies, who also change colour at the end of the Eumenides and are dressed in red, which is achieved by superimposing a garment over their black outfits.17 We cannot rule out the possibility



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Figure 14. Drawing of the Choregoi Vase by Luana Rinaldo. Apulian bellkrater, c. 390 bc, J. Paul Getty Museum 96.AE.29. that the rapid swapping of masks was somehow visible to the audience. If so, the protagonistes, in contrast to Aeschylus’ furies who retain their identity but change their look through a superimposed red garment, would be breaking the tragedian’s taboo by openly toying with his mask and identity. Is this possible? Let us look for a moment at the famous Choregoi vase (Figure 14), dating to about 390, just like the Assemblywomen. The comic actor disguised as Aegisthus has entered (note the open door on his left), and his right hand is fumbling the top of his head. As Taplin has cautiously suggested, the actor ‘has just put on his whole-head mask and is adjusting it’.18 The same may apply, I think, to our scene. In any case, it is the protagonistes as such, rather than the ephemeral character that is usually referred to as ‘First Old Woman’, who comes back to take revenge with a new mask, so as to show his virtuoso acting while fishing for the audience’s acclamation. With a little imagination, we can almost see and hear them rise to the bait, the crowd standing up in an uproar when he returned wearing a black array and an astonishing mask covered with red blisters. Sure enough, the old poet knew how to give them the shivers!

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Modern images The kind of histrionic and metateathrical interplay between actor and audience we have been discussing is rarely seen on the contemporary stage. In most performances, in fact, the Stanislavskij approach with its character oriented perspective seems to be predominant and influences every modern actor. The aim of this acting method is to achieve total emotional identification between actor and character in order to convey the psychology of the interpreted character precisely. This methodology, the purpose of which is to construct the inner reality of the character, can hardly fit the essence of an ancient tragic or comic character. The inadequacy of the actors and their training for an appropriate interpretation of a classical text is well described by the Italian director Massimo Castri: ‘When I look at our little twentieth century actor, with his typical Stanislavskij approach and his psychological attitude, and I see that he wants to read the ancient text psychologically and to declaim the text in a psychological way and he cannot sing or read in metrics, and he is even short and wears trainers, I feel a surge of anger, disappointment and desperation.’19 Summing up, this approach is quite inadequate for tragedy, and all the more so for comedy.20 The comic genre always plays open-face, and never pretends that the audience is not there, or that a ‘fourth wall’ arises between the public and the actors. Something similar happens today in narrative theatre, which includes the audience in the reality of the performance, thus influencing the communication process.21 The actor never pretends to be the character, and the character is a product of narration rather than of interpretation. This particular way of acting, which differentiates comedy from tragedy, is rarely requested by directors. That is also due to a specific prejudice: when a director chooses a classical text, he or she may feel that they had to achieve something noble and dignified. This approach clashes with the vital force and the carnal nature of comedy, which is reluctant to be embalmed. In Italy, some directors have recently changed direction and focused their work specifically on the fluidity and freedom of action of the comic genre, trying to modulate in this way the relationship with the public. Let us return to the Assemblywomen in order to focus on a play created with this background. The play was directed by Serena Sinigaglia and performed at Milan’s Piccolo Teatro in April 2007. The theatre company, ATIR, is an up-and-coming group



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founded 12 years ago.22 Never satisfied with traditional solutions, they are in constant search of experimental theatrical forms; this does not always turn out to be a quite complete form, but is always impressive. While Serena Sinigaglia leads the way, beautiful examples of teamwork are a distinctive mark of all ATIR performances. The audience is faced by a closely-knit ensemble, which aims to create a synergy oriented towards a choral effect, in such an approach there is no room for individuality, and actors change the character they play within the performance. The performance adopts an exaggerated mode of acting, never resorting to a more conventional tone. The women are characterized by visual means: there is always something peculiar about the way the actresses are dressed up; some of them wear cumbersome glasses, others use wooden spoons as hairpins, and they show off enormous breasts and bottoms stuffed with pillows. The acting is equally designed to alienate: it is intentionally distinctive, grotesque, and resembles the typical commedia dell’ arte style. This is, of course, a far cry from the Stanislavskij-approach. Serena Sinigaglia’s direction also requires the actors to adopt facial expressions resembling circus clowns, and this is further underlined by heavy make-up, evoking the ancient comic mask. This kind of make-up transfigures features and is at the same time open about being a disguise. As in ancient comedy, the actors do not pretend the mask does not exist; in Atir’s performances the actors engage with their transfiguration, which is all the more relevant in a comedy which is based on cross-dressing. This awareness is particularly suitable for the Assemblywomen and its disguises (above). Accordingly, Atir tackles the dressing aspect is very well. The hags’ scene, discussed above, is helpful in understanding the use of masks as well as for other subjects raised in the first part of this chapter. In Aristophanes’ comedy, the three different hags’ masks had to visualize the increased ugliness and age of the characters. The women’s increasingly repulsive looks symbolize the paradoxical nature of the new law: the decree to give precedence to the ugliest women opens a regressus ad infinitum.23 Anyone who is about to satisfy his own sexual desire has to abide by this new law and the duties it imposes on him, over and over again. This kind of decline, in the form of a progressive physical decay represented by the masks, conveys the pivotal theme of the scene: death. The young girl describes the hag’s overdressing as to thanàto melhma, delight for death (905). Before that, when the first hag reaches for the young man’s face, begging for a kiss, he claims that he was afraid of the woman’s fiancé, called ‘the prince of painters’, the one who paints vases for funerals (above). Death becomes,

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in some sense, an absent erotic partner. The scene can be read as a failed attempt at seduction, in which attraction and sexuality are combined with repulsiveness and a dark atmosphere. In particular, the scene parodies literary representations of seduction, in which women are the aggressors; staying with Aristophanes, Myrrhine’s role in Lysistrata is such a case.24 The most vivid example of such a seduction may well have been Euripides’ lost tragedy Hyppolitus Kaluptomenos, in which Phaedra, not as shy as in the second Hyppolitus, explicitly propositioned her stepson.25 In the hags’ scene, the insistence on the mask is of course a significant detail for understanding the prevailing atmosphere of the seduction scene. The first hag, in fact, highlights it in the text. In addition, she is also dressed in yellow: a colour typically chosen by women to catch men’s attention. But the power of dress and mask achieve an effect quite different to the intended one, namely seducing the young man. On the contrary, the mask evokes funerary associations: the man asks her to spread out oregano, bind fillets around her head, bring scent and water for washing as for a wedding – or, in fact, her funeral (1030–3). The presence of the double theme – I mean seduction and death, both visualised by the hag’s face and clothing – is explicit. The opposite poles – youth and love, old age and death – are emphasized in Atir’s performance through the contrast between the young girl and the first hag. Here, the young lover is an unprejudiced girl dressed in pink, using her body sensually and at the same time athletically. She highlights in this way that the role of the lover is appropriate for her age group and not for the hag’s. The first hag remains seated the whole time, in contrast to the perpetual motion of the girl. When the two women start to fight, they resort to dialectic ability, audacity and insolence. Sinigaglia represents the contrast between them through music – a contrast, which is in Aristophanes’ text technically a canto a contrasto, as, can be argued on the basis of the verb antadein.26 Here, the conflict between the generations corresponds to a musical antithesis. The hag switches on a vintage radio to accompany her verbal attacks on the girl with old-fashioned tunes. The girl, on the other hand, follows the rhythm, pacing her invective to a form of rap. In Aristophanes, the young man’s fate is about to get worse. Director Serena Sinigaglia plays with disguises in order to achieve an effect similar to the ancient mask, i.e. something able to transfigure features and to evoke the image of monstrosity. The second hag appears on the stage using a walking frame. The third is in a wheelchair, completely covered with spider webs, and with a leg-prosthesis about to fall off. Contrasting with this progressive appearance of



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decrepitude and the looming of death, the three hags are very strong; when the young man leaves the stage, he is literally dragged away by the three women, unable to resist. This strength is a direct consequence of the new political power, a power symbolised by the decree the women brandish. Of course they are not realistic characters, but comic and grotesque symbolic figures, at the same time, they highlight that they are not really three hags, but three actors in disguise. Italian critics did not appreciate Atir’s performance: the play was considered to be over-simplified and gross. The bold exaggeration, which was one of the most interesting aspects of the mise en scène, was heavily criticized.27 In fact, the bold distortion of human features is consistent with the essence of the comic genre, which is firmly situated in the aischrós. Aristotle defines the laughable in his Poetics as follows: ‘laughable is a species of the base or ugly. It consists in some blunder or ugliness that does not cause pain or disaster, an obvious example being the comic mask, which is ugly and distorted but not painful’.28 The comic genre is indeed a distorting lens, capable of altering the whole of reality, including – as in the case of the Assemblywomen – seduction and power. Through this lens, power becomes an unstoppable and terrifying mechanism, while sexuality stands for imminent death.

Notes 1 (This chapter is the result of a joint effort. However, Capra is the author of part I (ancient images), whereas part II (modern images) is the work of Giovannelli. 2 For example, in a detail of the famous Pronomos vase, one actor is about to put a satyr mask on his face, while the artist has painted an apparently ‘real’ satyr on its right, arguably the actor himself in disguise. Thus, satyr masks, and by implication tragic masks as well (satyr plays were performed as a coda to tragedies, cf. Figure 1), simply disappear once they are ‘on’. On the question as a whole, see Taplin 2007, part I. 3 As such, Greek prosopon is the object of much anthropological speculation. For a recent list of relevant publications (as well as for some interesting insights on the role of prosopon in Plato), see Romani 2006: n. 1 and 27. 4 Reproduced, for example, in Taplin 2007: Figure 3. 5 For example, Fo 2001. 6 Taplin 2010. 7 Cf. Aristophanes, Wealth 1051 and 1065, where the description of an old face refers, quite clearly, to the material look of the actor’s mask. 8 See Compton-Engle 2007.

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9 On the role of seduction and power in both comedies see also Treu, this volume. 10 Note that the Eumenides and the Assemblywomen are the only extant plays of Attic theatre to feature what scholars refer to as an epiparodos: the chorus enters gradually without singing, and only afterwards, while leaving the scene, they sing the proper parodos song, which will take the form of an exit rather than an entrance chorale. The Eumenides were hugely popular in the first half of the fourth century, as is shown by the pictorial record: see Taplin 2007: 58–67, who discusses no less than 11 vases related to these two plays, ranging from c. 380 – c. 350. Finally, both Choephoroi-Eumenides and Assemblywomen draw from one and the same mythological background: see Zeitlin 1999. On the chorus in the Eumenides see also Treu, this volume. 11 See Halliwell 2002. 12 See Lorenzoni 1997. 13 1044–58; Sommerstein 1998: 125. 14 See Capra 2010: 256. 15 Some editors, including Sommerstein himself, go so far as to alter the natural distribution of the roles in order to preserve such a climax. Yet the winner of the tug-of-war game can only be the ‘Second Old Woman’. See Vetta 1989 ad 1066–8 and 1094–5. 16 Frogs 285ff. is the locus classicus. Andrisano 2007 provides a number of illuminating parallels and aptly describes the metaphoric and metatheatrical quality of Empousa in this scene. 17 However, Aristophanes’ women undergo a negative metamorphosis, and the colour red is the final (negative) stage, as opposed to Aeschylus’ Eumenides. Such reversals, even from a visual point of view, are typical of paratragedy: see, for example, Taplin 1993: 40. The change of the Furies is possibly discernable in the pictorial record as well: compare items 10 and 11 in Taplin 2007: 66–7. On the symbolism of colour see also Treu and Seymour, this volume. 18 Taplin 1993: 59. 19 Castri 1993: 155–62. 20 Jordi Coca’s version of the Iphigenia myth (Barcelona Greek Festival 2009) steers clear of this danger: the Catalan playwright chose to replace some female characters with faceless puppets and draped female actors in swathes of fabric, even covering faces, see Clavo, this volume. 21 Guccini 2004: 15–21. 22 See the website www.atirteatro.it, and Giovannelli 2007: 49–101. 23 Cf. Paduano 2001: 26. 24 Cf. Taaffe 1993: 124. 25 Cf. Paduano 1985: 55–77. 26 Vetta 1989: 235.



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27 Cf. Sole 24 Ore, April 2007: 21 (by Renato Palazzi) and Corriere della Sera, April 2007: 21 (by Magda Poli). 28 Poetics 1449a 34–5.

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Redefining Catharsis in Opera: The Power of Music in Birtwistle’s The Minotaur and Amargós’ Eurídice y los títeres de Caronte Jesús Carruesco and Montserrat Reig

In the twenty-first century, opera continues to use Classical myth, as it has done since its beginning. Not only the Orpheus story, the foundation myth of opera itself as a genre, but also the stories of Ariadne, Io, Phaedra, Dionysos and many more continue to seduce contemporary authors, both composers and librettists. For example, Hans Werner Henze (Die Bassariden [1966] based on a libretto by W. H. Auden and, recently, Phaedra [2007]),1 Tomás Marco (El viaje circular, 2002), Wolfgang Rihm (Dionysos, 2010), Aribert Reimann (Medea, 2010), Harrison Birtwistle and Joan Albert Amargós, the latter two being the focus of this chapter, have created during the last decade important works based on those characters drawn from Greek literature. Myth allows these artists to achieve or create something that was done in the past century mainly in the theatre. In other words, they discuss and reformulate the elements that have constituted the operatic genre from Wagner to the end of the twentieth century, by going back to its origins and by questioning the validity of opera through a reformulation of the defining features of tragedy, from the Aristotelic tradition to Nietzsche. Power and seduction are two interconnected themes, central to tragedy, which have consequently been very frequent in the whole history of opera, even since the first preserved work, Peri’s Euridice (1600), or Monteverdi’s L’incoronazione di Poppea (1642), in which power and seduction are the main pillars of the whole drama. Similarly, since a significant element in contemporary opera has been the revision of opera as a genre, it comes as no surprise that the double motif of power and seduction has often been revisited, albeit in shifting, displaced ways. The works discussed in this chapter are good examples

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of this: The Minotaur by Harrison Birtwistle, and Eurídice y los títeres de Caronte (Euridice and the puppets of Charon) by Joan Albert Amargós.2 Though very different in many respects, both works present a world dominated by fear and death, whether through violence or disease, in which no transcendent point of reference, such as God or love, remains. Both works raise questions about the power of music in a dehumanized context, and this entails a renewed interest in the ritual dimension of the dramatic performance, not least through the onstage representation of ritualized practices, such as sacrifice or puppet theatre. At certain moments in the history of opera, the theatricality of this genre has relied mainly on the text and the music.3 In other periods, the mise en scène has become an element of paramount importance. This is certainly the case for contemporary opera. Nowadays, composers work hand in hand with librettists and stage directors, still pursuing Wagner’s ideal of the Gesamtkunstwerk, but dividing among them a whole range of tasks which have become more and more specialized.4 We believe that the study of classical reception in contemporary opera, both new works and restagings, cannot afford to overlook or underestimate this visual dimension, just as no one would do for the staging of a theatrical work.5 In this chapter, then, we will be concerned with music, words and image as interrelated elements of equal importance for the creation of meaning. For a better understanding of the musical and dramatic proposition made by Birtwistle in The Minotaur, it may be useful to summarize his former dealings with Greek myth in his artistic career. In his attempt to recapture the primordial experience of music (just as Klee, an acknowledged influence, had done with painting), Birtwistle has again and again turned to myth and ritual, often with a Greek reference. Thus, in Tragoedia, an instrumental work from 1965, he points out that ‘the work is concerned with the ritual and formal aspects of Greek tragedy rather than with the content of any specific play’.6 In opera, those attempts were first embodied in The Mask of Orpheus (composed 1973–84, first performance 1986), a highly complex and intellectually challenging revision of the genre, in collaboration with Peter Zinovieff as librettist.7 Coming back to the origins of opera (and, beyond that, of music itself), Birtwistle revisits the story of Orpheus, but, more ambitiously than ever before, he tries to recapture all its complexity and multiplicity, including the mythic, ritual and philosophical elements associated with Orpheus. Thus, the myth is told simultaneously in all its contradictory versions, as transmitted by different sources, mainly Ovid (Met. 10, 1–85 and 11, 1–84) and Vergil (Georg. 4, 315–558) (e.g. the death of Orpheus, hanging himself, struck by



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Zeus’ lightning, and torn apart by Dionysos’ Maenads), and its multiple layers of meaning are interwoven: Orpheus as inventor of music, creating the sevenchord lyre; as Argonaut, embarking on a shamanic journey; as king and hero, whose cycle of exploit, decay and sacrifice renews the community; as hapless lover; as oracle and many more. In a similar way, both the ritual practices and the religious and philosophical teachings of Orphism, mainly reflecting eschatologic concerns, are also given prominence. In such an ambitious project, the whole array of opera’s artistic resources was mobilized to show the transition from man to myth, and the power of music as ritualized behaviour to transcend man’s mortal time into a cyclical, atemporal pattern. This aim required that the dramatic action had somehow to synchronise the diverging times of myth, ritual and the everyday human world. To achieve this goal, the work, which is advertised as a lyric tragedy, structurally dismembers and deconstructs the very elements that we have come to consider the basis of tragic (or dramatic) unity. The author multiplies, dismembers, juxtaposes or transposes the characters, the plot (the mythos), space and time, and by so doing he utterly destroys what in the whole Western tradition since Aristotle has come to define tragedy as a literary genre, in order to recapture its ritual, ceremonial and performative origins, the primordial experience of tragedy: the sacrifice of the hero as scapegoat purifying the community. Thus, for instance, each character is divided into three dimensions: mythic, heroic and human, by placing on the stage a puppet (the mythic), a mime (the heroic) and a singer (the human). All of these can observe, alternate or transform into each other. Equally, the contrasts between aria, recitativo and normal speech are also correlated to the contrast between the multiple realities lived and enacted by the characters. Dreams, oracles, memories and masks further contribute to this kaleidoscopic enrichment of reality.8 The simultaneous and repeated representation of the diverse versions of the story on a stage divided into multiple spaces has as a result not only the distortion of space and action, but also a substantial alteration of the function of the thematic motifs of love and the power of music. Thus, on the human level, Eurydice, seduced by Aristaeus in one version, refusing and fleeing him in another, is fatally bitten by a snake. Orpheus consults the oracle of the dead and obtains instructions to rescue his wife from the underworld in exchange for the secret of the power of his music. But both parties deceive and are deceived: the oracle obtains only a pale, ineffective copy of Orpheus’ music, and Orpheus simply dreams that he goes down to Hades. When he awakes and realizes the truth, he commits suicide. At this level, then, music’s power of seduction fails.

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In contrast, at the heroic level the various narrations of the transgressions and death of the characters lead, through ritual re-enactment, to purification, divinization and mythification. The whole work is punctuated by ritual moments or ‘ceremonies’ (wedding, funeral, sacrifice) that transcend and transform the linear time of the story and generate an essentially different mythic and cyclical time pattern. This is suggested by the work beginning and ending with the sound of a bee buzzing. At first, this sound is clearly cosmogonic, as it is followed by Apollo’s and then Orpheus’ voices going from inarticulate sound to language, and to music, which is revealed by the god to the hero. At the work’s end, the Vergilian epilogue telling Aristaeus’ recovery of his bees through the accomplishment of a purification rite (the sacrifice of an ox) functions as a symbol of the successful act of catharsis and atonement restoring the cyclical time of nature. The mutation of the plot into myth transforms in a radical way the meaning and function of the motifs of the power and seduction of music, which are doomed to decay and failure within the story, but become effective in the overall pattern of the work as ritual performance. However, as in Birtwistle’s earlier work Tragoedia, this ritual purification is not so much an Aristotelian catharsis, obtained through emotional involvement in the plot, as a structuralist, Lévi-Straussian ‘catharsis’, consisting in the revelation of a coherent underlying structure that articulates and gives some kind of sense (albeit a purely formal, tautological and not transcendent one) to a bewilderingly complex set of words, sounds, actions and concepts.9 A certain sense of order emerges, mediating between – if not reconciling – seemingly contradictory patterns, but, as in the ultimate degree of Lévi-Strauss’ analysis of myth, this is a purely formal sense, tautological and with no transcendent meaning, a reflection of the alienation of modern man. Many of these elements (e.g. interest in ancient myth, importance of ritual at the level of form and content, formal complexity allied to dramatic expression, disruption and multiplication of space, time and characters) have been further explored in Birtwistle’s later works. A clear instance of this continuity is the chamber opera The Io Passion (2003),10 in which the world of The Mask of Orpheus is revisited. Here, Birtwistle plays again with different levels of reality (contemporary, ritual and mythic), presenting the dramatic work as the place and time where they can meet and exist together. A tale of seduction during a couple’s touristic stay at Lerna restarts the ancient mystery rites of this region of Greece as well as a reenactment of the Io myth, and provokes the intervention of supernatural powers that intrude, like her former lover, in the everyday world



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of the woman’s life.11 Frequent repetitions of a seemingly banal scene of the couple create a temporal pattern of repetition and variations, while the action unfolds simultaneously in different sections of the stage (an upstage ‘shadow world’, a downstage ‘heightened world’, and the stage proper, itself divided in two mirroring halves, inside and outside a door and a window). In The Minotaur, the simplification of the discourse and the staging, as compared to the complexities of the works just mentioned, is evident. The action, to a libretto by David Harsent, is relatively straightforward, retelling the story of Theseus’ arrival in Crete and slaying of the Minotaur, with the single digression of Ariadne’s consultation of the oracle in Psychro.12 From the point of view of the plot (the mythos, in Aristotelian terms), we find fewer instances of coexistence of contradictory versions of the myth, as in the telling of both versions of Theseus’ birth, as son of Aegeus and of Poseidon.13 The duality of both dramatic space and main character is restricted to the dream sequences, in which the Minotaur reflects on his hybrid nature by confronting his own reflection in a mirror, impersonated by a speaking actor, behind which appears Theseus as a silent shadow. Birtwistle’s preference for complex structures is also pared down to a simpler symmetry, consisting of two parallel acts, each one containing a dream sequence of the Minotaur and both ending in a scene of slaughter – of the Athenian youth by the Minotaur, and of the monster by Theseus, respectively – with the Keres entering to prey on the fallen corpses as a kind of horrible, savage coda to each act. Nevertheless, the artistic terms in which the proposed reformulation of the operatic genre is couched in this work follow similar lines to preceding ones. The distortion of the traditional tragic pattern begins with the choice of a pre-Wagnerian structure which recalls early Baroque opera, that is, discrete episodes with the insertion of instrumental intermezzos in the form of toccatas.14 The new rite of opera is here violence and anger15, and through it we witness the transformation from myth to man, in a reversal of the movement we encountered in The Mask of Orpheus. At the musical level, this metamorphosis is expressed by the different uses of the human voice: a hysterical or inarticulate voice for the myth (both for the god, as transmitted by the oracle before being interpreted by the priest, and the monster); a voice between recitativo and aria for the man, with no distinction between heroes and humans; and the speaking voice for man’s conscience. Again, only in the Minotaur can all three types be found. As the title of the opera implies, he constitutes the centre of the work, where all its trends converge. Now Asterios, the Minotaur, will occupy the place traditionally assigned to Theseus as the hero of the story, a tragic, no longer

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epic hero.16 At the level of staging, this is especially evident in the parallel world of dream, where the man and the beast, the inside and the outside of the Minotaur, meet each other and are addressed by his conscience, objectivized as his reflection in the mirror. In that dream-world, he also meets Ariadne and Theseus, who are nothing more than projections of the Minotaur himself, not only as figures he creates in his dream, but also in that only he gives a sense to their lives. Thus, looking at the mirror, the Minotaur sees his alter egos in Ariadne, his sister on his mother’s side, and in Theseus, his brother on his father’s side, as he was the son – perhaps – of Poseidon, like himself. A recurrent theme through the work is oppression and imprisonment. The Minotaur is a prisoner of his own beastly body, as the staging by Stephen Langridge emphasizes (Figure 15) by presenting him as a man inside a cage-like bull head (also a visual allusion to the story of his birth from Pasiphae, a woman hiding inside an artificial cow in order to seduce Poseidon’s bull). Likewise,

Figure 15.  Birtwistle’s The Minotaur. Opus Arte. © Bill Cooper.



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Ariadne sees herself as a prisoner in Crete, with the island mirroring the labyrinth as closed, oppressive spaces which the characters are powerless to escape.17 This involves an inversion of the motif of seduction, which is usually attributed to Theseus in this myth. Here, it is Ariadne who seduces Theseus and treacherously tricks him into taking her away from her prison island, after helping him to kill her half-brother Asterios. What could have been interpreted as an act of seduction induced by love is instead, as revealed by the oracle, a selfish action based on fear. She comes to recognize it herself, as she tells the priest that in this story there is only fear, but no pity, because pity is a lie.18 By eliminating pity, which, alongside fear, constitutes one of the pillars of tragic catharsis in Aristotle’s famous definition, the possibility of the classical tragic form, that is, tragedy as a civic ritual of communal purification through experience of fear and compassion for the hero’s suffering, is denied. By contrast, as in previous works by Birtwistle, the original ritualistic dimension of tragedy is emphasized,

Figure 16.  Birtwistle’s The Minotaur. Opus Arte. © Bill Cooper.

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as the enactment of a sacrifice, the violent death both of a beast and of the hero as scapegoat, here the Minotaur as bull and man.19 Visually, this is emphasized by the ritualized, circular space where the slaughter at the end of each act takes place (Figure 16), an arena recalling a bullring (with a clear allusion to Picasso’s ‘Minotauromachy’), with the people as masked spectators shouting at the violent spectacle and Ariadne officiating as high priestess. This place, the centre of the labyrinth, where ritual and dramatic action attain their climax, is a reflection of the contemporary performance, made of brutality, fear and absence of compassion. Tragedy is now the confrontation with brute violence unleashed, revealing a terrible, senseless reality: death and horror, presented on stage by the irruption of the cannibalistic Keres feasting on human flesh.20 The themes of seduction and treachery in the relationship between Theseus and Ariadne have been radically transformed from the traditional story. Theseus’ subsequent betrayal and abandonement of Ariadne and her liberation by Dionysus are omitted altogether. These changes alter the Dionysiac experience of drama, since they deprive it of the liberating power of its violence.21 As revealed in the oracle scene, humans believe they are in control of their actions, cheating themselves with the traditional fictions of compassion, love or freedom, while they are in fact powerless victims of a cosmic, senseless violence that demands sacrifices and keeps them under the tyranny of fear. J. A. Amargós’ Euridice and the puppets of Charon also emphasizes this use of Classical myth to reformulate opera as a tragic genre22 and to reevaluate its cathartic power in the modern world, dominated by death and the fear of death. In a similar way to Birtwistle’s The Io Passion, the contemporary, ordinary reality of a woman’s sentimental dissatisfaction and fears interacts with the authentic, inner reality represented by myth, in two levels which are sometimes separated, sometimes confused. In Amargós’ work we could even speak of a single, all-encompassing reality, death, which finds metadramatic expression on stage in two contrasting theatrical spaces: the opera theatre where the first preserved opera, Peri’s Euridice, is being staged, with the woman, Sophia, in the main role, and the puppet theatre in the street.23 To these should be added a third space, that of Amargós’ work, a chamber opera, designed for a small hall, an intermediate space where we can ideally attend to and take part in the symbolic battle between two dramatic forms, tragedy and comedy. Tragedy is associated with the elevated myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, which quintessentially represents the operatic genre, but also with the daily, commonplace reality of Oscar and Sofia, through a singing voice combining aria and recitativo. Comedy is represented by the puppets, led by Polichinela,



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a low, popular version of myth, whose voices contrast with those of the human characters because of the use of the swazzle, a device which transforms the human voice into a kind of harsh, grotesque sound. The duality of the action is here the duality of the main character, Sofia; she is both the Eurydice which Oscar, as an Orpheus, wants her to be,24 and, Polichinela, who, like a mirror, projects her authentic inner self.25 The world of the commedia dell’arte negates fate and dares to fight death, even though the apparent freedom of the puppets, who think that there is no puppet-master leading them, in the end reveals its own limit, the necessity of death as represented by Charon. The new opera proposes a vitalist, positive attitude in the face of death completely incomprehensible to the ‘old opera’, which, as represented by Oscar and his resurrection of Peri’s work, is forever bound to the fatalist pattern of Eurydice’s death and her impossible resurrection. Here, it is precisely Oscar-Orpheus who accelerates the tragic dénouement when, with a very Pirandellian dramatic gesture, in trying to force the non-existent puppet-master out, he destroys the puppet-theatre and Sofía is fatally injured. In this work, the theme of power and seduction operates only at the tragic level. Oscar, Sofia’s husband, acts like the characters in his operas: he accuses her of behaving tragically, as a Mimi or a Violetta, but it is he who falls prey to jealousy and desire for vengeance when he realizes that he can no longer control Eurydice, because this woman, Sofia, is no longer dependent on his music. As in Birtwistle’s opera, Orpheus has lost the magical power of his music over life and death.26 By contrast, Sofia is able to lead Charon’s boat with the help of Polichinela and the joyful, strident music of the puppet-show. The conflict between two spaces, two kinds of music, and between Orpheus and Polichinela justifies the cathartic function of contemporary opera in the context of modern reality. The subversion of the motifs of love and the power of music in the Orpheus story, the founding myth of opera, reveals the necessity for contemporary art of reflecting on how modern man can make sense of a world of violence, in which death imposes its ruthless law everywhere. The use of puppets is an important link between Amargós’ and Birtwistle’s works.27 In both cases, this kind of theatre, coming from a ritual and popular tradition different from tragedy, serves the purpose of renovating opera as a dramatic genre.28 However, the violence inherent in the tradition of the commedia dell’arte is treated in very different ways by each author. The naked, brutal violence in Birtwistle’s Punch and Judy29 is in total contrast to the unashamed, liberating violence of Amargós’ puppets, which defeats the fear of

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death and achieves a kind of immortality through the catharsis provoked by laughter.30 Classical reception continues to function in contemporary opera in multiple ways, in new works as well as in restagings of the canonical repertoire. There is a renewed interest in experimenting with different forms which try to recapture the original ritual dimension of drama and reformulate tragedy, confronting it with other dramatic genres, of a more popular extraction or coming from different cultural traditions. This raises questions about the cathartic power of art and the new ways in which opera can still aspire to have some influence on contemporary society.31 Violence, death, power or desire, characteristic themes of tragic myth, are revisited and reformulated in these works as an integral part of a new exploration of opera as a dramatic genre.

Notes 1 For these works, see Carruesco 2007. 2 The Minotaur (2008) has been recorded and commercially released by Opus Arte in DVD in the production of Royal Opera House, staged by Stephen Langridge and conducted by Antonio Pappano. Eurídice y los títeres de Caronte (2001) is recorded by Harmonia Mundi, conducted by Amargós. 3 Studies on opera and classical reception from the point of view of libretto are, for example, Knippschild 2005 and Ketterer 2009 and 2010, and Castillo 2008 and this volume. 4 Examples of a close attention paid by the composer to the stage directions include Szymanowski in King Roger (1926) and Stravinsky in Oedipus Rex (1927). 5 Some important examples on performance and classical reception in drama are Flashar 1991; McDonald 1992, 2003; Colakis 1993; Bierl 2004 (1996); Silva and Hora Marques 2010; Hall et al. 2004; Macintosh et al. 2005; Hall and Wrigley 2007; Treu 2005. 6 Other works showing a similar interest in the ritual aspect of Greek and Latin poetical genres are Nomos (1967–8), Linoi (1968), Nenia: The Death of Orpheus (1970). 7 The opera was premiered at the English National Opera in 1986. There is a recorded version conducted by Andrew Davis with the BBC Symphony Orchestra in NMC. A very useful study, which helps to unravel the complexity of this work, is Cross 2009. 8 The same use of puppets and different kinds of voice is found in his Punch and Judy (1968) and Amargós’ Eurydice (cf. infra). Another study of tragedy with puppets: Clavo’s chapter on Ifigènia by Coca, this volume.



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9 On the relevance of Levi-Strauss theoretical thought for aesthetics, and particularly for the concept of reconciliation, cf. Wiseman 2007: 33–57. 10 It was commissioned by the Aldeburgh Festival, Almeida Opera and the Bregenz Festival where it was premiered in 2004. There is no recording available of the work to date. 11 The writer of the libretto (Stephen Plaice) takes as a starting point a little-known Greek myth, according to which Io had a dream compelling her to go to Lerna, where she was to meet Zeus (Aesch. Prom. 651–4). Plaice connects this myth to the mysteries celebrated at Lerna in honor of Demeter and Dionysos, of which we know almost nothing, but which were probably modelled after the Eleusinian mysteries (Kowalzig 2007: 228 and specially n. 27). 12 An interesting case of Minoan reception, cf. Momigliano, this volume. 13 Plut. Thes. 3–6. 14 The unusual use of the toccata in the context of opera must be seen as a nod to the first masterwork of the genre, Monteverdi’s Orfeo, and, through that connection, as a link to his own The Mask of Orpheus. It may also be paralleled in at least two other important twentieth-century works: the Sea Interludes and Passacaglia in Britten’s Peter Grimes and the Passacaglia in Shostakovich’s Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk. 15 Violence is also an important element in his experimental opera Punch and Judy (libretto by S. Pruslin; premiered in 1968 in Aldeburgh Festival, recorded in 1980 by Etcetera Records). For a detailed analysis of this work see Cross 1994. 16 The focus on the monster has a clear literary precedent in Jorge Luis Borges’ ‘La casa de Asterión’, a tale from his book El Aleph (1949). 17 The parallel between Ariadne’s and Asterios’ imprisonment is emphasized by these words in the scene of the second dream: ‘Minotaur: Are you my keeper? Ariadne: Are you my deliverance?’ (Nine: The Minotaur dreams). 18 In the scene of the oracle (Ten: The oracle of Psychro), Ariadne must explain her reasons: ‘Pity is my reason.’ But the oracle says: ‘You have lied.’ Given a second opportunity, she speaks the truth: ‘Fear is my reason, fear and anger.’ 19 ‘I am Asterios. Man-bull, half-and-half, heat in my balls, murder in my eye’ (Six: The Minotaur dreams). 20 ‘Blood calls for blood’ (Six: The Minotaur dreams), says the reflection of the Minotaur in the mirror. 21 As in the case of Orpheus, though this is not originally a tragic story, it has become one in the history of opera since its beginning (Monteverdi’s Arianna). An important point of reference is Strauss’ and Hofmannsthal’s Ariadne auf Naxos, with Dionysos’ arrival and meeting of Ariadne achieving metamorphosis and reconciling tragedy and comedy. Birtwistle’s interest in Dionysian ritual goes back to The Mask of Orpheus. He has also composed music for a production of Euripides’ Bacchae, directed by Peter Hall (2002).

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22 Amargós and Rumbau, the librettist, are fond of mixing different kinds of drama in their operas: in Eurydice, opera and commedia dell’arte; in Salón de Anubis (2007), opera, cabaret and magic. 23 Death is a puppet in the small theatre in the street, but he is also a puppeteer, as Sofía recognizes: ‘There’s only one real one (puppeteer), and that’s Death’ (transl. V. Lambert). 24 Oscar: ‘You’ll come back to me, Euridice,/you’ll come back to me, Sofía!/And you’ll sing how I want!’ (scene VI). 25 Sofía sings to Polichinela: ‘You are flesh of dreams/and wood of freedom,/you are far-off reality,/you are part of me’ (scene IV). 26 ‘Sofía: ‘I must die like she does,/and there’ll be no Orpheus to save me’. Oscar: ‘I am the new Orpheus!/I’ve saved Euridice from oblivion,/and I’ll save you too!’’ (scenes I and III). 27 It is important here to insist on the common and frequent interest in puppets in the works of the two composers we are discussing. Amargós works with the librettist Toni Rumbau, who has founded La Fanfarra and Teatre Malic (specializing in puppet-theatre) in Barcelona. Rumbau also inaugurated the Festival de Ópera de Bolsillo (1993) where he proposes both a new space and a new, more intimate reception of classical and contemporary opera. 28 S. Pruslin, the librettist of Punch and Judy, states (in the Note to the recording in Etcetera Records, 1980) that what Birtwistle and he wanted to do was ‘a stylised and ritualistic drama’. The inclusion of a choregos as a character in the play confirms the relationship with tragedy. 29 Pruslin defines the plot as ‘a series of increasingly aggressive and apparently motiveless acts of violence’ (Note in Etcetera Records, 1980). The invention of a positive action, the quest for Pretty Polly, does not cancel Punch’s violent behaviour. 30 Polichinela beats Death, the puppeteer, with a stake in scene IV, and Sofia and Polichinela sing together at the end: ‘Long live, long live life! Long live freedom!’ Rumbau explains the meaning of the work with these words: ‘This is the gift that Polichinela offers Sofia: to enter into this intermediate world, a magic, poetic world (…) in which through games and laughter one can laugh at death and burst into lively, sarcastic peals of laughter’ (Notes about the work, Harmonia Mundi, 2003). 31 A nice example can be found in Warlikowski’s restaging of Szymanowski’s King Roger (Paris, 2009), where the Dionysiac element, fundamental in this work based on Euripides’ Bacchae, is radically reinterpreted. The seduction exerted by Dionysos and the power it gives him over humans are reduced to the banal vulgarity of the mass media and to the lower, commonplace channels of homogeneization in our modern consumer system. The Dionysiac experience has ceased to be theatrical and artistic, cathartic and tragic, to become superficial, kitsch and apparently innocuous, like the Mickey Mouse figures into which Dionysos and his followers end up transforming themselves, while they dance the new, updated orgiastic rites.

10

The Self in Conflict with Itself: A Heraclitean Theme in Eliot’s The Cocktail Party James H. Lesher

In his 1949 Spencer Lecture, T. S. Eliot admitted to trying to conceal the source of the main theme of The Cocktail Party (TCP).1 He confessed that he took his theme of a wife who chooses to die for her husband from the Alcestis of Euripides, but some students of the play have suspected that there were other sources as well. Two scholars claim to have found multiple parallels with Plato’s Symposium.2 The circumstance of souls who, midway in life’s journey, have lost their sense of the way forward has reminded at least one reader of the opening scene of Dante’s Divine Comedy.3 Many have linked the Guardians who figure prominently in Eliot’s story with the Guardians of Plato’s Republic, seeing them as a kind of advanced guard of Eliot’s Community of Christians.4 Certainly there is no shortage of Christian symbols: a father-confessor/psychiatrist, a saintly Celia who suffers death by crucifixion, repeated references to devils and angels, a Trinity of superior beings, two Good Samaritans, even the provision of food and drink as a kind of secular Eucharist.5 It is difficult, moreover, to encounter references to Zoroaster and the Buddha without suspecting some Eastern influences.6 Finally, the contrast between persons and physical objects drawn by the Uninvited Guest of Act 17 follows Sartre’s contrast of the human being who exists ‘for itself ’ with the physical object that can exist only ‘in itself ’.8 In what follows, however, I will argue that in developing a vision of the self in conflict, Eliot drew on the teachings of the same ancient thinker whose ideas had figured prominently in the Four Quartets: Heraclitus of Ephesus.9 The most extensive account of the Heraclitus-Eliot connection identifies no fewer than 100 Heraclitus fragments as relevant to the Four Quartets.10 The two epigrams that appear at the poem’s outset combine the themes of living in isolation from the truth with a hint of the paradoxical nature of the pathway to

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a Christian life: ‘Although the logos [word/account/principle] is common, most people live as though they had a private wisdom’ (B2) and ‘The road up and the road down are one and the same’ (B60).11 Read at one level, B60 asserts merely the phenomenon of perspective: what is x from one perspective can be not-x from a different perspective.12 Alternatively, B60 may be read as asserting the reality of cycles such as the progression from fire to air to water to earth reflected in the four poems that make up Four Quartets.13 Another cycle of importance to Eliot comprises the ascending and descending paths of self-assertion and denial that must be followed in ‘working out one’s salvation’.14 The Four Quartets develops Heraclitean themes under three main headings. Under ‘the unity of opposites’, we can compare Eliot’s What we call the beginning is often the end And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from. (‘Little Gidding’, pt. 5)

with Heraclitus B103: ‘The beginning and the end are common on the circumference of a circle’. Similarly Eliot’s ‘United in the strife that divided them’ (‘Little Gidding’, pt. 3) parallels Heraclitus B51: ‘They do not understand how though at variance with itself it agrees with itself ’ and ‘That which opposes is helpful and from things in discord comes the most beautiful harmony’ (B8). Under the rubric of knowledge masked by familiarity we can compare Eliot’s We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive at where we started And know the place for the first time.’ (‘Little Gidding’, pt. 5)

with Heraclitus epistemological B72: ‘They are at odds with the logos with which above all they are in continuous contact, and the things they meet with every day appear strange to them.’15 And with Eliot’s paradoxical unification of the living with the dying We die with the dying: See, they depart, and we go with them. We are born with the dead: See, they return, and bring us with them.’ (‘Little Gidding’, pt. 5)

we may compare Heraclitus B88: ‘The same thing is both living and dead, and the waking and the sleeping, and young and old; for these things transformed are those, and those transformed back again are these.’



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Eliot’s TCP, it seems safe to say, depicts individuals enmeshed in dysfunctional relationships. Edward and Lavinia Chamberlayne have long since ceased loving one another and each has turned to another source of affection. As Act 1 opens Edward finds himself in the awkward position of having to carry on with a cocktail party Lavinia scheduled before she decided to leave him. We soon learn that another guest, Celia Coplestone, has been Edward’s mistress. The remaining participant, Peter Quilpe, declares his love for Celia despite the fact that he has been Lavinia’s lover. An unidentified guest at the party arranges for Edward and Lavinia to be brought to his office where, now revealed to be the physician/psychiatrist Sir Henry Harcourt-Reilly, he seeks to improve their understanding of themselves and their relationships with others. Two other guests, Alexander Gibbs and Julia Shuttlethwaite, assist Harcourt-Reilly in orchestrating the arrivals of the troubled lovers. Edward and Lavinia are made to confront each other and urged ‘to make the best of a bad job’ together. Celia is able to move beyond her sense of isolation but still seeks meaning in her life. With Harcourt-Reilly’s help she chooses a path of service to others that leads eventually to a martyr’s death. At the end of Act 2 the three Guardians – Sir Henry, Alex and Julia – drink a toast to those who have embarked on a new life. In the final Act the original participants reassemble at Edward and Lavinia’s home, two years after the original party. Although Edward and Lavinia appear to have achieved a rapprochement, Alex reports that Celia’s decision to enter a religious order has led to a painful death by crucifixion ‘very near an ant-hill’. This shocking development, evidently even more shocking in the play’s original version,16 provides an occasion for reflection on opportunities missed and the extent of one person’s responsibility for decisions made by others. Although the focus of TCP is the quest for personal understanding and renewal rather than the hidden connections that link events taking place throughout the cosmos, Eliot’s language frequently echoes Heraclitean ideas. There is at least the hint of the epistemological problem Heraclitus had identified in the complaint Alex makes against Julia in the opening lines of TCP: You’ve missed the point, completely, Julia: There were no tigers. That was the point. (9)

Julia’s problem, missing the point, is the precisely the ailment which afflicts the guests who have assembled for cocktails at the home of Edward Chamberlayne. Each fails to realize fully who he or she is, whom they love, and even what it means to live a distinctly human kind of life (although Celia ultimately achieves just such an understanding through her relationship with Edward). A ‘failure to

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realise’ was Heraclitus’ main indictment of ‘the many’: ‘But of this logos which holds forever, people forever prove uncomprehending’ (B1), ‘The many do not understand the sorts of things they encounter. Nor do they recognise them even after they have had experience of them’ (B16); ‘Uncomprehending even when they have heard [the truth about things]; they are like the deaf: the saying/ speech bears witness to them: absent while present’ (B34). When Julia is unable to find her glasses even though are right where she left them (33), she confirms Heraclitus’ diagnosis in B67: ‘They are separated from that with which they are in the most continuous contact.’ A second Heraclitean note is sounded in Alex’s initial declaration: ‘I never tell the same story twice’ (9). For anyone even remotely familiar with Heraclitus, the phrase ‘never … the same … twice’ carries an unmistakable association: in at least some important respects, the things and persons that make up the cosmos lack an enduring identity. In Heraclitus’ words, ‘It is not possible to step into the same river twice’ (B91a) for ‘As they step into the same rivers, different and still different waters flow upon them’ (B12). As an alternative rendering of the same simile makes evident, Heraclitus was not talking only about rivers: ‘We step and do not step into the same rivers; we are and are not’ (B49a). As the Unidentified Guest explains the problem: we are neither precisely what we were nor precisely what we will be: Most of the time we take ourselves for granted, As we have to, and live on a little knowledge About ourselves as we were. Who are you now? You don’t know any more than I do. But rather less, You are nothing but a set Of obsolete responses. The one thing to do Is to do nothing. Wait. (31)

Edward expresses his doubts on just this point when he asks of Celia’s lover: Will it be the same Celia? Better be content with the Celia you remember. Remember! I say it’s already a memory.’ (46)

Celia’s words reveal that she has succeeded in distinguishing between the memory of her lover and the current reality: That is not what you are, It is only what was left Of what I had thought you were. I see another person, I see you as a person whom I never saw before.



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The man I saw before, he was only a projection – I see that now – of something that I wanted – No, now wanted – something I aspired to – Something that I desperately wanted to exist. (67)

As Celia explains her insight she introduces the related contrast of the dream with the reality as well as the notion of a dream-like reality: A dream. I was happy in it till today. And then, when Julia asked about Lavinia And it came to me that Lavinia had left you And that you would be free – then I suddenly discovered That the dream was not enough; that I wanted something more And I waited, and wanted to run to tell you. Perhaps the dream was better, It seemed the real reality. And if this is a reality, it is very like a dream. (62)

The blending of waking with sleeping also figures prominently in several Heraclitean remarks: ‘The rest of mankind fail to be aware of what they do after they wake up just as they forget what they do while asleep’ (B1); and ‘Those who are asleep [I think Heraclitus calls] laborers and co-produces of what happens in the universe’ (B75). Harcourt-Reilly introduces the Heraclitean concept of ‘unity in opposition’ when he states: And now you begin to see, I hope How much you have in common. The same isolation. A man who finds himself incapable of loving And a woman who finds that no man can love her. (125)

When Lavinia observes that: It seems to me that what we have in common Might be just enough to make us loathe one another. (125)

Harcourt-Reilly replies: See it rather as the bond which holds you together. (125)

Eliot’s Unidentified Guest combines the two Heraclitean themes of ceaseless change and living through dying when he observes: Ah, but we die to each other daily. What we know of other people

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Is only our memory of the moments During which we knew them. And they have changed since then. To pretend that they and we are the same Is a useful and convenient social convention Which sometimes must be broken. We must also remember That at every meeting we are meeting a stranger. (71)

Heraclitus asserts a symbiotic relationship between dying and living in fragment B76a: ‘Fire lives the death of earth and air lives the death of fire; water lives the death of air, earth that of water.’ Similarly B76b: ‘Fire’s death is birth for air, and air’s death birth for water’, B77: ‘for souls it is joy or death to become wet … we live their death and they live our death’, and B62 speaks of ‘immortal mortals and mortal immortals who live the death of those (zôntes ton ekeinôn thanaton) and die the life of those (de ekeinôn bion tethneôntes).17 In short, Heraclitus’ striking vision of a cosmos whose opposing elements are united in ceaseless struggle against one another gave Eliot, as it has given to others,18 an apt description of the human condition.19 Heraclitus’ indictment of the failure of most people to grasp the logos – to remain asleep even when awake, to remain uncomprehending even when they have heard, and to fail to notice even that which lies closest to them – provided Eliot with the language with which to express his sense of humankind’s estrangement from itself. We can also turn to Heraclitus for some helpful clues to the identity of Eliot’s Guardians. The notion of the Guardian surfaces in TCP on three different occasions, but in essentially two forms – first as an aspect of the individual person and, second, as one or more superior beings. As Edward introduces the idea, a guardian exists in each of us as a ‘tougher self ’ and ‘stronger partner’: The self that can say ‘I want this – or want that – The self that wills – he is a feeble creature; He has to come to terms in the end With the obstinate, the tougher self; who does not speak, Who never talks, who cannot argue; And who in some men may be the guardian – But in men like me, the dull, the implacable, The indomitable spirit of mediocrity. The willing self can contrive the disaster Of this unwilling partnership – but can only flourish In submission to the rule of the stronger partner.’ (66)

According to the play’s producer, Martin Browne, the original version of TCP



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contained the phrase ‘daemon, the genius’ rather than ‘the guardian’.20 At some point, evidently at Browne’s suggestion, Eliot changed the wording to make it clear that ‘guardian’ could refer either to an inner spirit, as Edward uses the term here, or to external beings such as the trio of Harcourt-Reilly, Alex and Julia. It is clearly Guardians of this second kind who are the honorees of the toast raised towards the end of scene 2 of Act 1: Edward: ‘Whom shall we drink to? Celia: ‘To the Guardians.’ Edward: To the Guardians?’ Celia: ‘It was you who spoke of guardians. It may even be that Julia is a guardian. Perhaps she is my guardian. Give me the spectacles. (69)

A similar toast is raised near the end of the play: Edward: ‘To the Guardians’ Alex: ‘To one particular Guardian whom you have forgotten. I give you –Lavinia’s Aunt. All: ‘Lavinia’s Aunt.’ (188–9)21

Here too ‘Guardian’ appears to refer to the superior creatures who have the power to oversee and influence the lives of ordinary human beings. Heraclitus speaks of spirits (daimones) and guardians (phulakes) in precisely the same two ways. In fragment B119 he declares that ‘Man’s character (êthos) is his daimôn’, asserting, at least on one plausible interpretation, that the power that guides, protects and determines the fate of each human being lies within, in his or her own ethos – i.e. in the combination of knowledge, values, and habits that makes that individual who he or she is. In fragment B63 Hippolytus reports of Heraclitus that: ‘He says that in its presence they arise and become wakeful guardians (phulakas) of living people and corpses’. These guardians may be the same ones ‘slain by Ares whom gods and mankind honor’ (B24).22 Ancient writers describe the nature and function of the daimones in different ways, but the usual idea is that of a race of semi-divine spirits who oversee human affairs for good or ill, typically from the vantage point of their home in the stars, a prerogative earned through good works done during their earthly lifetime. According to Hesiod: they are called pure spirits (daimones hagnoi) dwelling on the earth, and are kindly, warding off evils (alexikakoi)23, and guardians (phulakes) of mortal men; for they roam everywhere over the earth, clothed in mist and keep watch

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(phulassousin) on judgments and cruel deeds, givers of wealth; for this royal right they also received. (Works and Days, 121–6)24 For upon the bounteous earth Zeus has thrice ten thousand spirits, guardians (phulakes) of mortal men, and these keep watch (phulassousin) on judgments and deeds of wrong as they roam, clothed in mist, all over the earth. (Works and Days, 252–5)

In her speech in the Symposium the priestess Diotima explains the roles played by the daimones when she identifies Erôs or ‘Love’ as a daimôn: [Love is] a great spirit (mega daimôn), Socrates, and every spirit (pan to daimonion) is halfway between god and man …They are the envoys and interpreters that ply between heaven and earth, flying upward with our worship and prayers, and descending with the heavenly answers and commandments and since they are between the two estates they weld both sides together and merge them into one great whole. They form the medium of the prophetic arts, of the priestly rites of sacrifice, initiation, and incantation, of divination and of sorcery, for the divine will not mingle directly with the human, and it is only through the mediation of the spirit world that man can have any intercourse, whether waking or sleeping, with the gods. (202d–e)25

In short, the key to understanding the significance of Eliot’s daemons-guardians lies not in Plato’s description of the Guardians of his ideal state but in the daimones of Heraclitus B119 and B63. The dual nature of those Heraclitean daimones– both as soul within and as external overseer – enabled Eliot to transform a depiction of a gathering of friends and strangers into an extended reflection on the conflicts that lie within each human soul.

Notes 1 ‘I was still inclined to go a Greek dramatist for my theme, but I was determined to do so merely as a point of departure, and to conceal the origins so well that nobody would identify them until I pointed them out myself. In this at least I have been successful; for no one of my acquaintance recognised the source of my story in the Alcestis of Euripides.’ Eliot’s lecture (the Theodore Spencer Memorial Lecture at Harvard University) was published as Poetry and Drama, 1951. 2 Yoklavich 1951: 541–2 and Reckford 1991: 303–12. 3 Jones 1960: 154. 4 See Jones 1960: 149 ff.; Browne 1966: 16; 1969: 185 and Smith 1974: 220, among others.



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5 See Rexine 1965: 21–6 and Arrowsmith 1950: 411–30. 6 See The Cocktail Party (TCP) 1950: 145, 183, and McCarthy 1952: 31–55. 7 Cf. ‘Or rather, you’ve lost touch with the person/You thought you were. You no longer feel quite human/You’re suddenly reduced to the status of an object –/a living object, but no longer a person’ TCP, 29. 8 See Sartre’s ‘Existentialism is a Humanism’ in Kaufman (ed.), 1989 and his Being and Nothingness, 1956. In addition, Edward Chamberlayne’s comment ‘Hell is oneself ’ (98) opposes the view of Hell as ‘other people’ expressed in No Exit. According to Browne 1969: 233, Eliot acknowledged the Sartre connection. 9 For accounts of the relevance of Heraclitean ideas to the Four Quartets see Clubb, 1961: 19–33; Le Breton 1965: 518–23; Warner 1999 and Blissett 2001. For information on the extent of Eliot’s familiarity with the surviving Heraclitus fragments, see Blissett, 44n1. At one point (36–7) Blissett compares Julia Shuttlethwaithe’s statement in TCP that ‘In a lift I can meditate’ with Heraclitus’ ‘The way up and the way down are one and the same’, but draws no other comparisons. Riquelme 1991: 331 observes that ‘Heraclitus may be the single most pervasive influence on Eliot’s late poetry’ but makes no mention of TCP. 10 Blissett 2001. 11 Translations of the Heraclitus fragments are my own. The notion of ‘a private wisdom’ (phronêsis) alluded to in B60 would be problematic were it not for the fact that Greek hôs (‘as’) when used with the participle typically indicates the perspective of the person mentioned in the sentence. Thus ‘the many’ believe they have a ‘wisdom all their own’ (as if there could be such a thing). See further Smyth, Greek Grammar 1956: Sec. 2996. 12 A theme arguably developed in Heraclitus fragments B3, 4, 5, 6, 8, 9, 10, 12, 13b, 22, 23, 37, 48, 49a, 51, 52, 59, 61, 62, 79, 82, 84a, 103, 124 and 125. 13 See Eliot’s remarks in Bodelsen 1958: 32–3. 14 It is unnecessary to assume that either Heraclitus or Eliot intended one meaning to the exclusion of the others. According to Charles Kahn 1979: esp. 87–95, Heraclitus was the first writer to exploit semantic ambiguity as a tool for achieving ‘linguistic density’, i.e. creating ambiguities and intending each of them. For Eliot’s thoughts on spiritual paths up and down, see Wheelwright 1949: esp. 100ff. and Hay 1982: esp. 169ff. 15 Similarly, cf. Eliot’s ‘Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge? Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?’ (The Rock, pt. 1) with Heraclitus’ observation (B40) that ‘The learning of many things does not teach wisdom’. 16 The text for the Edinburgh performance mentioned the decomposition of Celia’s body and the villagers’ use of ‘a juice that is attractive to the ants’. Martin Browne comments that ‘It was evident that the physical details which the author intended to reinforce the authenticity of Celia’s suffering were having the effect of distracting

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from what he wanted to say about its meaning: and they were modified to give the present text.’ (Brown 1969: 225–7; similarly 1966: 22–3). 17 As Yokalvich 1951: 541 noted this passage is similar in some respects to Diotima’s description of human beings as ‘always coming and going’ (Sym. 207). But Diotima makes no mention of persons ‘dying to each other’ or ‘dying daily’. 18 For other similar appropriations of Heraclitean materials see ‘That Nature is a Heraclitean Fire and of the Comfort of the Resurrection’ of Gerard Manley Hopkins, ‘The Double Axe’ of Robinson Jeffers, ‘Variation on Heraclitus’ of Louis McNeice, ‘Gift of Heraclitus’ of José Emilio Pacheco, ‘In May’ of Michael Collier, ‘Heraclitus Fr. 16’ of William Olsen, and ‘We are the time. We are the famous’ of Jorge Luis Borges. 19 The point is well stated in Jones 1960: 131: ‘Eliot extends the Heraclitean conception of ubiquitous physical change into the realm of psychology. We cannot step twice into the same river, not merely because the water has flowed on, but because we have become different persons in the meantime.’ Jones does not, however, link the notion of ‘dying daily’ with Heraclitus nor does he comment on the epistemological similarities. 20 1960: 14; 1969: 184. Reckford’s view of TCP as inspired by Plato’s Symposium relies in part on Eliot’s earlier use of the term daemon. Without seeking to show that Eliot did not have the Symposium in mind, I would point out only that the all-knowing Harcourt-Reilly is wholly unlike the Socrates who disavowed knowledge, and Julia is quite unlike Plato’s Diotima. It is true that a cocktail party is a symposium of a sort, although the Greek sumposion took place after dinner rather than before it. Perhaps most problematic is the absence of any of the features that would point unmistakably to Plato’s masterpiece: a series of speeches on the topic of love, two kinds of love relating to the two Aphrodites (Pausanias), love as being united with one’s missing other half (Aristophanes), love as giving birth in beauty and ‘the ladder of love’ (Socrates), etc. Plato’s use of the word daimôn is significant, as we shall see, but it is only a small part of a larger story. 21 Suggesting that Lavinia’s absence at the outset of the play was itself the work of the Guardians. 22 The historian Diogenes Laertius also attributes to Heraclitus the view that ‘All things are full of souls and daimones’ (Lives of the Philosophers IX. 7). The term daimôn also occurs in fragment B79 ‘A man hears himself called silly by a divinity/ spirit (daimonos), as a child does by a man.’ The poet Phokylides declared ‘But there must be daimones in the world, now these and now those, some…to save men from coming ill’ (Clement Stromata 5. 725). Theognis on the other hand blames the daimones for ‘making evil seem good, and what is good seem evil’ (405–6). By far the most extensive set of views on the nature and function of daimones come from the self-styled divinity, healer and philosopher Empedocles of Akragas (see



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Plutarch On Isis and Osiris, 361c; On Exile 607c–d; Obsolescence of Oracles 418e; On Tranquility of Mind 474b–c; and Hippolytus, Refutatio 1.3 and 7.29.9–7.30.4). 23 The meaning of the name ‘Alex’ as ‘he who wards off ’ is noted in Arrowsmith 1950: 412. 24 In his semi-serious etymology in the Cratylus Socrates quotes a portion of the first passage from Hesiod and comments: ‘Now he and other poets say truly that when a good man dies he has honor and a mighty portion among the dead, and becomes a daimôn, which is a name given to him signifying wisdom’ (398b–c). Plato provides additional information on the daimones at Republic 469, Timaeus 90a, and Phaedo 107. 25 Dodds 1951: 40. Dodds once observed that ‘the daemonic, as distinct from the divine, has at all periods played a large part in Greek popular belief (and still does)’.

11

Three Queens: Helen, Penelope and Dido in Franco Rossi’s Odissea and Eneide Martin M. Winkler

In 1927, epic French filmmaker and cinema enthusiast Abel Gance declared in an essay entitled Le temps de l’image est venu: All the legends, all mythology and all the myths … all the great figures of history, all objective gleams of people’s imaginations over millennia—all of them await their resurrection to light [i.e. the light of the moving image] … It is not just a … joke to think that Homer would have published there the Iliad or, perhaps even better, the Odyssey. The Time of the Image has come!1

Classical scholar J. B. Hainsworth 64 years later observed in a book entitled The Idea of Epic: ‘At the beginning of literature, when heroic poetry reached society as a whole … society listened; in the twentieth century society views.’ Hainsworth concluded: ‘the modern heroic medium is film’.2 Today, we all know that Gance and Hainsworth were right and that the image is here to stay. This is especially true for the moving image as a means of storytelling. The cinema has had major implications for how we see, literally and figuratively, the past and how we respond to it intellectually and emotionally. Gance himself pointed this out a year later in another article, called Le sens moderne – comment on fait un film: The most familiar objects have to be seen as if for the first time, producing a transmutation of all our values. This transformation of our way of looking … is in my opinion the most wonderful of modern miracles.3

I will illustrate Gance’s points by the example of three fascinating women who appear in two wonderful modern screen miracles.

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Franco Rossi’s Ancient World: Introduction Italian writer-director Franco Rossi (1919–2000) adapted two of the three most influential classical epics, the Odyssey and the Aeneid. Both films are little known, but they provide us with unforgettable portrayals of three of the most fascinating women to be encountered in ancient epic: Penelope, Helen and Dido. Rossi’s career had an auspicious beginning in the 1950s but declined to such an extent that his name tends to be neglected even in detailed histories of Italian cinema. Rossi came to divide his time between the silver screen, for which he made a number of mainly commercial films, and the small screen of television, where he seemed to come into his artistic own. Between 1968 and 1987, Rossi directed and co-wrote four epic films set in antiquity for public Italian television. The first was an Odissea, a nearly perfect adaptation of Homer. Rossi followed it with an Eneide (1971), the only screen version of Virgil’s epic ever made. In 1985 Rossi directed the longest version of Quo Vadis? The last of his ancient films was Un bambino di nome Gesù (A Child Called Jesus). With the exception of this last one, which runs to about three hours, Rossi’s classical films are each six hours long. Especially in the case of the first two, such length is the precondition of their artistic success, for adherence to the spirit of the original works requires a certain length, breadth and depth, not least when budgets for spectacular settings and large-scale action are outside a filmmaker’s reach. Rather than turning the ancient epics into standard mythological cinema, which had been the case with, for instance, Mario Camerini’s Ulisse (Ulysses, 1954), Rossi and his screenwriters took pains to adapt Homer and Virgil in ways that do justice to their works, if with some unavoidable differences and omissions. Remarkably, these changes are rarely for the worse. I begin with Rossi’s Odissea and two of its queens, Helen and Penelope. I omit the third important queen of the Odyssey, Nausicaa’s mother Arete, because she plays a less important part in Rossi’s film.4 Rossi shows Penelope and Helen less as opposites – the one a faithful wife, the other a seductive adulteress – than as complements: strong women who exert power over their husbands while at the same time dealing with the aftermath of a devastating war.



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Rossi’s Helen In Book 4 of the Odyssey, Telemachus and Nestor’s son Pisistratus visit Menelaus in Sparta in search of information about Odysseus. They arrive during a double wedding, Hermione’s and Megapenthes’, and receive Menelaus’ generous hospitality. Helen is first mentioned after Menelaus has summarized to Telemachus his own sufferings in the wake of Troy’s fall and his grief over all those who died in or after the war. He concludes: But for none… do I grieve so much as for one, who makes hateful for me my food and my sleep, when I remember, since no one of the Achaians labored as much as Odysseus labored and achieved, and for him the end was grief for him, and for me sorrow that is never forgotten for his sake, how he is gone so long, and we knew nothing of whether he is alive or dead.5

Telemachus begins to weep and hides his face at the mention of his father. Now Helen appears in the banquet hall, accompanied by her maidservants. She recognizes Telemachus’ similarity to Odysseus, and so does Menelaus. Further remembrances of Odysseus and his uncertain fate cause everybody to mourn and weep (183–6). Menelaus eventually exhorts all to rejoice again in their meal (212–15), and Helen offers them wine mixed with a drug, which temporarily cures their cares and afflictions (219–32). In Rossi’s adaptation, an aura of suffering and death replaces Homer’s wedding festivities, which are entirely absent. Rossi and his writers shift the focus from Menelaus to Helen, whom we see even before we meet her husband. Somewhat unrealistically, Helen meets Telemachus and Pisistratus upon their arrival outside Sparta, welcomes them, and takes them to the royal palace. Before they reach the city, they speak of Odysseus. The subdued atmosphere that characterizes the visitors’ arrival outside Sparta, filmed on a beachside location, is reinforced by a downright funereal studio set of the royal palace. Menelaus’ residence is nothing like his splendid palace in Homer but resembles a tomb. The set is modelled on the interior of the Bronze-Age tholos at Mycenae, often called the Treasury of Atreus or the Tomb of Agamemnon. In this tholos chamber Menelaus is having his death mask modelled on his face, a visual reference to the famous Mask of Agamemnon that Heinrich Schliemann had discovered at Mycenae. Appropriately, dead Agamemnon’s armour is visible in the background of the tholos. Although nobody weeps, a

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kind of behaviour that ill suits modern sensibilities, Rossi still conveys to us with great empathy the sombre nature of the aftermath of a war whose wounds have not healed. To prepare us for this sequence, the narrator had introduced Helen as la donna funesta (‘the baleful [literally ‘funereal’] woman’) when we first saw her on the screen outside Sparta. Then, in the palace, Helen tells Telemachus about Odysseus’ secret meeting with her in Troy, as she does in Homer (239–64). In a flashback to Troy, we see a much younger if already regal Helen, a woman who can hold her own even against the central hero of the epic in which they appear. In the flashback, too, the atmosphere is dark and stark. Nevertheless, in extreme close-up the younger Helen is ravishingly beautiful. So she must be as the cause of the entire war. Even jaded viewers can believe that countless men had gone to war over her. Both as younger and older woman Helen wears striking eye make-up. The older Helen, with her hair pulled back behind her head, resembles women’s faces and heads in ancient Egyptian art (Figure 17). This makes for a startling appearance, one that fits the Egyptian background of Book 4 extremely well. Its longest section is Menelaus’ account of his sojourn

Figure 17. A screenshot of Odissea. Helen (Scilla Gabel) in the tholos-like palace of Sparta.



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in Egypt on his return from Troy (351–586). Unlike the Helen in Homer’s Iliad, the one in the Odyssey had been to Egypt. Some of the objects brought into the banquet hall by Helen’s maids are said to come from there (125–35), and so does the herb that Helen mixes into the wine (227–32). The narrator specifically mentions this fact. Unobtrusively, Rossi alludes to the wider Homeric context of the scene here discussed. Upon seeing Helen, Christopher Marlowe’s Dr Faustus had famously asked: ‘Was this the face that launched a thousand ships,/And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?’ In Rossi’s Odissea we can indeed ‘behold that peerless dame of Greece, whom all the world admires for majesty,’ and a queen ‘whose heavenly beauty passeth all compare’.6 For once, we encounter a twentieth-century incarnation of Helen concerning whom we may legitimately answer Dr Faustus’ question in the affirmative. This Helen is played by Italian actress Scilla Gabel (originally Gianfranca Gabellini), then about 30. She had for years appeared in costume adventures with ancient and other settings and in Giorgio Ferroni’s cult classic Il mulino delle donne di pietra (Mill of the Stone Women, 1960). Only with her Helen did she come into her own as a serious actress. Since 1968, the year she played the part, she has been married to director Piero Schivazappa, whom some sources credit as Rossi’s co-director. Can it be that romance and marriage blossomed on the set? Major screen incarnations of Helen tend to suffer from various drawbacks such as infelicitous casting or underdeveloped characterization. This is evident in Robert Wise’s Helen of Troy (1956), with underrated Italian actress Rossana Podestà, in John Kent Harrison’s television film Helen of Troy (2003), with a tomboyish Sienna Guillory, and in Wolfgang Petersen’s Troy (2004), with blonde model Diane Kruger.7 Perhaps only two film appearances of Helen come close to Rossi’s Helen. One is by Maria Corda in her husband Alexander Korda’s The Private Life of Helen of Troy (1927), a film that surrounds Helen by sumptuous Art-Deco splendor. The other is by a smoldering and dangerous Irene Papas in Michael Cacoyannis’ The Trojan Women (1971).

Rossi’s Penelope Irene Papas has long been one of the foremost Greek stars of stage and screen and was the cinema’s greatest Penelope in Rossi’s Odissea. Then in her early forties, Papas was about a decade older than the Odysseus of Yugoslav actor Bekim Fehmiu, but she was exactly right to portray as complex a character

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as Penelope: a faithful and loving wife, a woman of mature sexuality, a caring mother and a commanding, if sorely beleaguered, queen. The two plot strands of the Odyssey, that of Odysseus’ journey and that of Penelope’s plight on Ithaca, converge after the hero’s return and end with the reunion of husband and wife, the poem’s emotional climax. Crucial for their reunion is Penelope’s proud affirmation of her rank and dignity as Odysseus’ wife and as queen of Ithaca. This occurs in Books 19 and 23 of the Odyssey and is maintained in Rossi’s Odissea. The film’s dialogue and Rossi’s staging render Penelope’s recognition and acknowledgment of Odysseus as two separate moments. In both Homer and Rossi, the first private conversation between husband and wife after a separation of 20 years occurs in the presence of Odysseus’ nurse Eurycleia, who will soon recognize him by his scar. Since Odysseus is disguised as a beggar and does not reveal his true identity to Penelope, Homer’s listeners or readers may well have asked themselves: does she or does she not recognize him? The Homeric text, while not obviously ambiguous, invites and has received intense speculation about the answer to this question. In the wake of feminism, some scholars have argued that Penelope knows who the unidentified beggar is but does not reveal her knowledge.8 Since Odysseus does not acknowledge his identity to her even after more than sufficient evidence that she has been completely faithful and dedicated to him throughout his absence, she is equally justified not to come clean about recognizing him. The husband-and-wife conversation in Book 19, then, is one of the most tantalizing passages in the history of classical literature: ‘a sequence of complex and puzzling statements and responses’.9 Two scholars, writing together, propose to distinguish between recognition and acknowledgment in both Odysseus’ and Penelope’s words.10 Is Penelope’s announcement to the beggar that the very next day she will choose the winner in an archery contest as her new husband a sign of her suspicion, confidence, conviction or knowledge that he is Odysseus? Why else would she end her delaying tactics now, in effect forcing Odysseus’ hand?11 What does Penelope know, and how can readers be sure to know what she does or does not know? A modern commentator summarizes the scholarly debates: Some modern interpreters of the Odyssey have found Penelope’s behaviour in this book [Book 19] so hard to comprehend that they have adopted the daring hypothesis that she does in some sense recognise her husband here, contrary to the surface meaning of the text … Critics differ on the question of how conscious this recognition is: according to some, she is fully aware of her husband’s identity, and matches his cleverness with a sophisticated game of



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double-bluff; others see her intuition as vaguer, even subconscious; she suspects, but is not yet certain.12

Viewers of Rossi’s film who are familiar with Homeric scholarship may find to their surprise that Rossi and his writers anticipated the question of Penelope’s knowledge well before feminist classicists turned to it. For this Penelope is probing deeply into the identity of the beggar hiding in the shadows (Figure 18). Rossi at first keeps the two firmly separated; for example, he puts one in the foreground and in the light, dim as it is, while keeping the other in the background and in darkness. He may show one in focus and the other as a blurred silhouette when they are both on screen. Or he keeps one off screen. Early, a right-to-left panning shot across the hall emphasizes the distance between Penelope and Odysseus. Later, close-ups predominate. As in Homer (19.185–202), the stranger reports that he knew Odysseus shortly before and during the war, and Penelope demands proof. He tells her about Odysseus’ purple cloak (225–40), which she immediately recognizes. Odysseus’ tale triggers an unexpected realization about the stranger’s identity in Penelope’s mind, a moment Rossi makes visual through a startling zoom into an extreme

Figure 18.  A screenshot of Odissea. Penelope (Irene Papas) scrutinizing the beggar about whose identity she is wondering.

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close-up of her face. Zoom lenses were still new in the late 1960s and had a much more powerful effect on viewers than they do now. The zoom also bridges the spatial distance between the two. Does it also diminish their emotional distance? It does, but only on Penelope’s part. Rossi increases the poignancy of this scene when he has Penelope, who is now immediately before Odysseus, touch his cheek and call him by his name. All the while Odysseus, however, stonily lies to her face – quite literally since she is directly in front of him – and denies the truth. ‘If you are Odysseus,’ she asks, ‘why do you lie to me like this?’ His cunning and coying to be strange will soon come to haunt him. He tells her evasively: ‘Your reputation, queen, is that you are a very strong and brave woman [una donna molto forte].’ Penelope keeps her doubts about his statements, which we know to be false, and she is left hurt and anguished, disappointed and sad, but not without a measure of anger and pride, as another close-up on her almost defiant face from a slightly low angle reveals. She calls Eurycleia to Odysseus, looking at him from the background of the screen, and Odysseus, foreground left, turns his head away as if he could not bear to look her in the face. This shot reveals his uneasy conscience and his awareness that he is making her suffer. The effect is that viewers feel with her, even if the Homeric simile, which the film preserves, had at the beginning made clear Odysseus’ own pain at deceiving her. It is true that he acts in a manner consistent with his characteristic, if not ubiquitous, circumspection, a quality that justifies his most famous epithet polytropos, which had described him in the very first line of the Odyssey. Moreover, Odysseus seems to heed Agamemnon’s warning, received in the Underworld, not to trust even his own wife (Odyssey 11.441–56) and Athena’s exhortation to test Penelope before trusting her – that is to say, not to reveal who he is until the exactly right moment has come – although Athena also assures Odysseus that Penelope is and has been faithful to him.13 But to modern readers of Homer and to viewers of Rossi’s film alike, Odysseus’ caution appears excessive and unjustified. It shows Odysseus in anything but a heroic light, let alone as a loving husband: ‘Homer is in danger of making Odysseus seem inhumanly callous.’14 Rossi makes Odysseus feel guilty. So, we concur, he should feel. The importance of the zoom shot already mentioned is driven home a little later. Odysseus, by now alone, wonders whether Penelope has recognized him. He relives that very moment in his mind, for in an unexpected and very fast flashback Rossi shows us the zoom again. His handling of Book 19 bears out the verdict by two classical scholars: ‘The Odyssey, in fact, is as much Penelope’s epic as it is Odysseus’’.15 In Rossi, Penelope dominates throughout.



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She challenges Odysseus to show himself when she compels him to come into the open – literally, out of the shadows; figuratively, to reveal his identity. She also forces him into action by announcing to him that she will choose a new husband without waiting any longer. This crucial sequence with its emotional power over viewers is among the most haunting in Rossi’s long film. Immense care and thought must have been expended on its writing and staging. Script and direction would have been in vain, however, had not both actors risen to the occasion. Their encounter in the dark prepares viewers for the way in which Rossi stages Odysseus’ and Penelope’s public reunion after the deaths of the suitors told in Book 23 of the Odyssey. In the film perhaps even more so than in Homer, the two scenes parallel each other, because Rossi begins each with very similar set-ups: he has servant women carry two chairs into the hall. In the later scene, powerful close-ups on Odysseus and on Penelope tell us that there exists considerable tension between them, especially on her part. In the Odyssey he still has his beggar’s appearance when they meet after the slaughter, and Penelope is unsure if he is really Odysseus (85–95; cf. 115–16). Only after his bath will he look regal and even divine (153–63). In Rossi this is condensed. Odysseus is no longer in his beggar’s disguise. Penelope, as soon as she appears in the hall, rushes – no, not over to her husband, as we expect, but to her son. She pointedly ignores Odysseus, and Telemachus has to draw her attention to him. His words, though, are considerably toned down from their model (96–103). Homer’s Penelope replies to Telemachus, somewhat defensively: My child, the spirit that is in me is full of wonderment, and I cannot find anything to say to him, nor question him, nor look him straight in the face. But if he is truly Odysseus, and he has come home, then we shall find other ways, and better, to recognise each other, for we have signs that we know of between the two of us only, but they are secret from others.16

Rossi’s Penelope refuses to deal with Odysseus. ‘I don’t know this man,’ she states to Telemachus. She explains that, the day before, she thought that the beggar was Odysseus but that he told her ‘he was Aethon from Crete’. He lied to her, she continues, as if he had no confidence in her: ‘as if I could have betrayed him; I, I, who am his wife. Why? Why?’ The verbal repetitions underscore her anguish, but it is an anguish with an undercurrent of anger. Then she throws Odysseus’ own words back at him: ‘The wife of Odysseus must be a strong and brave woman [una donna forte] … What do you want from me? Some proof

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that I haven’t changed? ... But now it is I who want proof. And the proof I want is something that concerns only him and me’. While uttering these words, Penelope dominates the screen. Odysseus, his face out of focus, is relegated to the background. Her challenge to him is to prove that he, too, has not changed and that he remembers the short time of happiness they had had together when Odysseus did not doubt her ability to stand by his side. Odysseus, now in close-up, listens. He is still being kept at a distance from her. Homer’s Odysseus chides Penelope for her iron heart, which kept her away from her husband. He commands Eurycleia to prepare a bed for him in the hall (166–72), but Penelope orders Odysseus’ own bed to be brought (174–80). The Homeric narrator immediately identifies this command as a test (181). In response to Penelope, Odysseus, angry and insulted, now provides the proof of his identity. He tells her the story of their immovable marriage bed, built by himself into the trunk of an olive tree (183–204). Penelope rushes to embrace him and defends herself against his charge; both break into tears (205–40). Rossi films this climactic moment with great psychological insight into Homer’s characters, while also taking modern sensibilities into account. From the same close-up camera angle on his face just mentioned, Odysseus asks Penelope to have a bed prepared for him and emphatically adds: ‘My bed’. She commands: ‘Prepare the bed of Odysseus and bring it here’. Odysseus interrupts. Addressing Telemachus, he tells the story of his marriage bed while Penelope, at a distance, keeps her back to him as she hears his words. He then approaches her while she is still looking away and continues his account. Their reunion begins when she acknowledges him in an intimate moment of subdued eroticism. Both are facing screen-right in a tight close-up; Penelope bends back her head towards him while closing her eyes and moaning slightly. ‘Then we were young,’ Odysseus adds and embraces her. ‘You were not yet born,’ he says to Telemachus. Penelope turns and puts her arms around his neck. The atmosphere is intense, if without any sentimentality. Odysseus does not weep, but in a particular moment evoking Homer’s Andromache we see Penelope ‘smiling through her tears’ (Iliad 6.484). The bittersweet memory of a young couple’s happiness overcomes the sorrow of the older couple’s long separation and suffering; it leads to a mutual reaffirmation of marital devotion and family (Figure 19). Rossi preserves the simile, which closes the scene in Homer (Odyssey 23.233–9), but he goes beyond Homer. His integration of Telemachus, who is not as important for the reunion scene in the Odyssey, is an instance of successful dramatic liberty taken with a famous source. It increases the scene’s appeal to modern audiences. Rossi also counts on the memory of attentive viewers to heighten the suspense during



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Figure 19.  A screenshot of Odissea. The closing moment in the reunion of Penelope (Irene Papas) and Odysseus (Bekim Fehmiu). Penelope’s test of Odysseus, for he had shown the immovable olive-tree bed on several earlier occasions, if without drawing their attention to its uniqueness. To sympathetic spectators, the reunion of Odysseus and Penelope will be unforgettable; some may even prefer it to its model. Classicists viewing Rossi’s film may in this context have thought of Aeneas’ comforting words to his men, weeping as he utters them: Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit – ‘It may some time be pleasant to remember even this’.17 The Virgilian line echoes the words of Eumaeus to Odysseus: ‘afterwards a man who has suffered/much and wandered much has pleasure out of his sorrows’.18 Both citations fit the subdued emotionalism in Rossi’s scene, with Odysseus and Penelope acquiescing to and accepting earlier loss and suffering.

Rossi’s Dido Rossi was able to maintain the high standard of his portrayal of Penelope with that of Dido in his Eneide, although the later film as a whole is not quite as accomplished as the earlier. In part, this is the result of too much condensation

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of the second half of Virgil’s Aeneid, some unusual costuming choices, and a cast not as uniformly distinguished as that of the Odissea. Although he looks handsome and heroic enough, Giulio Brogi as Aeneas is not the equal of Bekim Fehmiu. Still, the elegant photography of Vittorio Storaro and an unforgettable musical score, discussed below, are major assets. The heart of Rossi’s Eneide is Aeneas’ encounter with Dido in Carthage. To show the primeval dawn of two future societies, imperial Rome as revealed to Aeneas in Book 6 of the Aeneid and its enemy, Carthage, now being born in the wilderness, Rossi avoided most of the visual stereotypes associated with films and paintings set in GrecoRoman antiquity and took a radically different approach. His model may have been two recent films by Pier Paolo Pasolini, Edipo re (Oedipus Rex, 1967) and Medea (1969), in which Morocco stood in for mythical Corinth and Thebes and Cappadocia for Colchis. Pasolini and Rossi made pre-classical history and myth fundamentally alien to their viewers in order to point out the archaic nature of societies in the making and the violent struggles that are necessary for the establishment of order: in ancient myth, the development from chaos to kosmos; in ancient history, that aspect of the foundation of a civilization or empire which can be summarized by Virgil’s famous phrase tantae molis erat Romanam condere gentem, the conclusion of the proem to his epic: ‘Such a hard task was it to found the Roman race’ (Aeneid 1.33). For this reason, the untouched beauty of pre-Roman Latium in Rossi’s Eneide, filmed on pristine Italian locations, contrasts with the non-Western setting of Carthage, filmed in Afghanistan. Rossi’s Carthage is Bamiyan, best known today for the two gigantic statues of the Buddha that were destroyed by the Taliban in 2001. They can be seen in several shots. When Aeneas silently prays to his mother Venus, an unknown woman appears, informs the ‘stranger’, as she calls him, where he is and whom he is about to meet, and then leads him to Carthage. Now we get our first glimpse of a world that is as unfamiliar and strange to Rossi’s audience as Africa must have been to Virgil’s hero. The woman, clad in black, does not reveal her identity to Aeneas, but later we will see that she is Dido’s sister Anna. In a memorable change from Virgil, in which a local girl gives Aeneas the necessary information about his whereabouts and finally reveals herself as his mother (1.314–409), Anna is also Venus herself, for we hear, in voice-over, Venus’ own words addressed to Aeneas although only Anna is visible on screen. The centre of the Carthaginians’ world is their temple-plus-palace, carved into the rock at the feet of one of the Buddha statues. This is an impressive stand-in for the Carthaginian temple that is being built in the Aeneid. The statue in Rossi and the temple in Virgil tell Aeneas that not savages but a civilized if



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still archaic people are living here. Rossi’s Carthaginians look foreign in their striking costumes, which seem to have been based on actual regional dress, but they have a familiar social organization, a monarchy, and their main characteristics are religio and pietas. Aeneas’ first meeting with Dido occurs just after the narrator has recited Jupiter’s prophecy to Venus concerning Aeneas’ safety and the future greatness of Rome, if without any mention of ‘empire without end’ (imperium sine fine; 1.279). Aeneas, a beggar nearly as lowly as Rossi’s Odysseus had been, is sitting in a corner by the entrance to the temple and looking at a procession of Carthaginian elders, which includes Dido. She has just presided over a wedding ceremony, a foreshadowing of her own aspirations regarding Aeneas later on. Dido notices the stranger and speaks to him about an ideal but unidentified country, peaceful and hospitable. Surprisingly, as it turns out, she is quoting Aeneas’ own words to Creusa back in Troy, then asks who Creusa is. Her question prompts Aeneas to think back to the fall of Troy, which we see in a flashback. Dido explains that sometimes she can hear the words spoken by absent people or know other people’s thoughts. The effect is almost eerie, but it works on several levels. It reinforces the power of the supernatural in human affairs, already established in the appearance of a Venus in disguise, even if here we observe a power that is not represented by a divinity. It also indicates that Aeneas’ affair with Dido is almost a love triangle even after the death of his wife and that the Trojans’ past and their future will come between Aeneas and Dido. Finally, it prepares viewers for the fact that a majestic woman is about to eclipse the main character in this part of his story, as was already the case in Virgil. A key aspect in all this is Dido’s musical theme, which dominates the soundtrack. Anna tells Aeneas part of Dido’s story – about Pygmalion, Sychaeus, and her flight – and calls her Elissa. (In Virgil, Venus tells Aeneas all this in the scene mentioned earlier.) According to the Greek historian Timaeus and the fourthcentury Aeneid commentary by Servius, the queen’s Phoenician name was Elissa, but the Carthaginians named her Dido (in Greek, Deidô) for her many wanderings.19 Rossi’s queen explains to Aeneas the meaning of her name Elissa as ‘the Fugitive’, so her name immediately links Dido to Aeneas. Both are or have been fugitive wanderers. One is an epic hero; the other, like Rossi’s Penelope, is una donna molto forte. Dido continues Anna’s report of her past to Aeneas. Dido speaks as ruler, as shots of the rocks and the Buddha accompanying her words tell us. This may be a visual equivalent of Venus’ famous description of her to Aeneas – dux femina facti (‘a woman was the leader of the deed’; 1.364) – and of Venus’ earlier statement: imperium Dido… regit (‘Dido rules the empire’; 1.340). In a

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noteworthy deviation from Virgil, she tells him that Carthage, carved into living rock, had been inhabited but abandoned earlier; she and her people had found it in its current state. This is an elegant explanation of a non-classical setting and its remarkable sculptures in a classical epic context. (Dido informs Aeneas that the giant figure represents a god.) Although she foresees Carthage’s future greatness and fame, Dido has also made a pact with the gods to give shelter to all fugitives from injustice. She includes Aeneas, whose name she already knows, and the Trojans among those for whom Carthage is to be a refuge. Her observance of the concept of hospitality (xenia), one of the cardinal virtues of Greco-Roman culture, marks her as civilized. The pietas that in Virgil is Aeneas’ chief characteristic – pius Aeneas is Virgil’s formulation of this idea, occurring throughout the Aeneid –is more evident in Rossi’s pia Dido, as we might call her. By the end of the banquet during which Aeneas has told the Carthaginians about the fall of Troy and the Trojans’ wanderings, Dido has fallen in love with him. Rossi shows this by drawing attention to her, listening, with close-ups, focus changes and non-realistic lighting. The latter tells us that what appears as the interior of the Bamiyan rock was actually a studio interior. Rossi expresses Dido’s progress from compassion to fascination and finally to love through camera movements between her and Aeneas and through close-ups which bridge the space that separates the two when they appear in long shots. In emphatic close-ups, Dido several times appears in profile (Figure 20). A juxtaposition of her profile with those of women in numerous Greek vase paintings is revealing. The similarities are so close that they may be assumed to be intentional. Once again Rossi has an exceptional actress to play the central female character in his film. Greek actress and singer Olga Karlatou, as she is billed in Greece, or Karlatos, as she is billed internationally, was about 23 years old. She had her greatest part as Dido at an early stage in her career, but like Scilla Gabel she was relegated mainly to a series of generally undistinguished commercial cinema and television films. This is a pity, for she deserved better. Her Dido, like Virgil’s, is fully believable as a public and as a private figure. She is a queen whose authority men can willingly accept and a loving woman with profound emotions. Rossi’s sensitive staging of her scenes makes both sides of her character possible, but Dido would not have been as haunting a figure had it not been for the actress’ beauty and regal bearing. Or for her voice. The film has a memorable score by Mario Nascimbene, who composed the music for a number of ancient epics and for films in many other genres. The Canto di Didone, a simple but haunting melody, is the leitmotif of Nascimbene’s score, repeatedly heard both instrumentally and as a vocalise sung by Karlatos.



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Figure 20.  A screenshot of Eneide. Dido (Olga Karlatos) in profile. ‘Dido’s Theme’, as we may call it, harks back to Dido’s aria ‘When I Am Laid in Earth’, commonly called ‘Dido’s Lament’, in Henry Purcell’s opera Dido and Aeneas, first performed in 1689. The tradition of visual and aural representations of Dido and her tragedy in the history of Western art here finds a worthy culmination on the screen. The sombre atmosphere of Rossi’s retelling of Dido’s and Aeneas’ love has a haunting aural counterpart in Nascimbene’s Canto di Didone. In retrospect or on a second viewing of the film, the plangent instrumental version of it that we hear as Dido for the first time approaches Aeneas is heart-breaking. The music already tells us how this part of the Eneide will end. Rossi handles the fateful encounter in the cave when Dido and Aeneas become lovers with great tenderness. In an almost disquieting shot, Juno and Venus, both haughty and aloof – Rossi films them from a low angle – are standing outside the cave above the lovers, as if eavesdropping on them or, worse, as if rejoicing in their helplessness, especially that of Dido, as victims of their plot. Dido’s undoing is caused by the ruthless conniving of the two goddesses. In Virgil, Juno’s words spell out what is at stake: una dolo divum …

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femina victa duorum est (‘one woman was defeated by the ruse of two divinities’; 4.95). From the very beginning, Rossi has carefully reinforced the atmosphere of insecurity and precariousness that pervades his entire Carthage sequence by having the same actress play Venus and Anna. While he could not put Dido’s and Aeneas’ love-making on the screen, Rossi later shows them in moments of intimacy in Dido’s bedchamber, discreetly in extreme close-ups on their faces and in a mirror reflection as they lie down on her bed. Even now, ‘Dido’s Theme’ hints at future tragedy. A flame that is briefly visible is a token of passion – the fire of love – and of doom: Dido’s body burning on a pyre. Rossi presents the lovers’ last time together as a mournful occasion that is quite different from Virgil. Individual close-ups when only one of them is on screen emphasize the lovers’ intense emotions but keep them separate until one moment of great tenderness occurs. Aeneas, in Tyrian purple, explains to Dido that his descendants are fated to rule; Dido asks if she will be the mother of this new people after having a son by Aeneas. This is an allusion to her wish in the Aeneid for a parvulus Aeneas (‘tiny Aeneas’; 4.328–9). Aeneas gives her no direct answer but tells her that he has to decide between her and his own people. He asks her whether she would decide in favour of him if she were in his situation. In close-up, Dido slowly lowers her head onto her bed. This reaction expresses her defeat as a woman in love, for she now knows that he will leave, but it also expresses her royal side: in his place, we realize, she would leave just as Aeneas must do. Rossi then cuts to the beach from his point of view, and the shell of a Trojan ship appears as if it were waiting to be finished, a powerful visual reminder of the urgency of the lovers’ situation. While Aeneas is at the window looking outside, Dido has risen and is looking at him from her bed. Their faces are on screen together in one close-up and medium close-up. Then she stands behind him and tells him the story of Orpheus losing Eurydice, one of the greatest myths about loss caused by too much love. They do not look at each other, just as Orpheus could not look at Eurydice. Rossi has Dido and Aeneas re-enact, as it were, the Greek couple’s precarious situation, but, regardless of either one’s look, they are fated to lose each other. After this, the final extreme close-up on their faces, close together but worlds apart and gazing in separate directions, is wrenching (Figure 21). ‘Orpheus, I am leaving; I may not go to the light, Hades devours me’, Dido quotes Eurydice, foreshadowing her own fate and indicating to literate viewers why the screenwriters imported this myth from Virgil’s Georgics.20 Dido already seems to have made the decision to die, although later she will be torn between hope and despair. During all of this Aeneas says nothing; he can only leave.



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Figure 21.  A screenshot of Eneide. Dido (Olga Karlatos) and Aeneas (Guilio Brogi) together for the last time.

Figure 22.  A screenshot of Eneide. Dido (Olga Karlatos) abandoned. A symbolic flame is just visible top left.

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When he is gone, Dido has one more close-up, with a flame as a hint at what will come (Figure 22). A distraught Dido learns of Aeneas’ departure from Anna, her sister. Now she no longer wants Aeneas to stay forever but only to delay his departure. With Dido on screen, the narrator quotes Aeneas quoting Anchises on the Trojans’ new home and his – Aeneas’ – own responsibility towards Ascanius, his son and heir. Dido, we realize, is hearing Aeneas’ voice in her mind, a convincing illustration of the familiar phenomenon that we often relive and work through moments of great emotional stress. Dido now reacts with anger: ‘Then go!’ The scene between her and Anna is adapted from Dido’s confrontation with Aeneas in the Aeneid; with this change, however, Rossi keeps the two even further apart than did Virgil. During the tragic climax of Rossi’s Dido-and-Aeneas episode we observe a Dido in loneliness and despair. She looks directly into the camera while addressing an absent Aeneas. The Canto di Didone, sung by Karlatos, is heard softly on the soundtrack. The effect is nearly overwhelming – as if Dido’s very soul were being exposed to us in its turmoil. Over her soliloquy, Rossi cuts to extreme and long close-ups of Aeneas as he is sailing away, thus creating the viewer’s impression that Aeneas can hear Dido’s words or at least imagine her reaction to his desertion. Rossi makes us realize that Aeneas feels guilty and torn over leaving Dido, for he does love her, but the Canto di Didone is silenced when Aeneas is on screen, as if he could not fully fathom her love and despair. Rossi cuts back to a deserted Dido lying on her bed, with flames in the foreground more prominently than before. Then we see Dido at her house altar and in the temple: she has decided to kill herself. Anna comes to her and, over the Canto di Didone rising on the soundtrack, tells Dido that the Trojans are gone. Dido wonders if she should follow Aeneas; in this way the Trojans would have to offer refuge and shelter to her, just as she had provided them with her hospitality. Anna blames herself for causing Dido’s misery. Here Rossi’s casting of one actress as Anna and Venus adds a layer of near cruelty to Dido’s fate, for Dido now realizes the truth. ‘It was a divine deception’, she says, expressing the content of Juno’s words quoted above. Immediately Rossi cuts to a close-up of a dagger. ‘Now go. Let me be alone’, Dido tells Anna. It is the following morning. Rossi cuts to a close-up of Aeneas on board his ship and back to Dido alone in the temple. Her great love and the cruelty of fate, necessitated by the divine master plan for Dido’s and Aeneas’ descendants as predicted in Jupiter’s imperium sine fine, are Dido’s ruin. She is composed and calm in her resolve to die. She curses Aeneas and his descendants, as she



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does in Virgil (4.607–29). Over images of the fleet sailing and another close-up of Aeneas we hear in voice-over, as does he, Dido’s hopeless wish, addressed to him, for a child, now with a quotation of Virgil’s parvulus Aeneas. Dido invokes all the gods and calls for hatred and revenge. She is already enveloped by darkness. Rossi cuts to close-ups of Aeneas and to long shots of the Trojans on board their ships over part of her curse. Readers and classical scholars are in agreement about Virgil’s nuanced portrait of Dido as a tragic figure, someone who has been callously tricked into loving Aeneas, but scholars are divided about the nature of Aeneas as epic hero and, consequently, about the meaning of the Aeneid as a whole. Rossi, while emphasizing Dido’s tragedy and ensuring that his viewers are emotionally on Dido’s side, still takes pains to show that Aeneas sincerely loves her and that he, too, has to pay a high price for the gods’ plan. Rossi turns the conclusion of Virgil’s proem – tantae molis erat Romanam condere gentem, already quoted – into a statement about the incompatibility of personal love and happiness with political or imperial power. The Canto di Didone, chanted over the closing credits of the film’s individual episodes even after Dido’s death, is the key to Rossi’s Eneide. It serves as a constant reminder of the price for power and empire, the most important strand of meaning in the Aeneid.

Alternate Worlds: Antiquity in the Time of the Image Rossi could not have turned his Helen, Penelope and Dido into such unforgettable figures on the screen if it had not been for the extraordinary women who played them. Except for Irene Papas, whose place in stage and film history is assured, Scilla Gabel and Olga Karlatos are not well known. Regrettably, the same is true for Rossi. There is some justification for this, for Rossi rarely had the chance to direct feature films that did justice to his talents, but his television films set in antiquity are altogether a different matter. All, and especially the first two, are labours of love. Rossi did not live to make what had been his favourite film project for many years, an Iliade. His films of Homer and Virgil are notable achievements and represent milestones in the history of screen adaptations of classical literature. Rossi’s Odissea can take its place not beside but above all better-known film versions of the Odyssey. For everybody who values the survival of antiquity in modern media, Rossi’s three queens and the films in which they appear are required viewing.

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In the 1950s, French film scholar André Bazin observed: ‘The cinema presents to our gaze an alternative world that conforms to our desires’. His words are memorably cited at the beginning of Jean-Luc Godard’s film Le mépris (Contempt, 1963), an adaptation of Alberto Moravia’s 1954 novel, whose plot turns on filming the Odyssey. Images – Imagines – bring their inherent seductiveness and emotional power to bear equally on the modern imagination as means to express the appeal of classical antiquity in new artistic and popular media and on our intellectual capacity to understand and interpret as many facets of the ancient cultures as possible. We may use Bazin’s observation as our own motto – preferably, of course, in Greek, if not in Homer’s dialect or meter: ΚΟΣΜΟΝ ΑΝΤΙΣΤΑΘΜΟΝ ΑΛΛΑ ΤΑΙΣ ΕΠΙΘΥΜΙΑΙΣ ΗΜΩΝ ΟΜΟΛΟΓΟΝ ΔΗΛΟΙ ΤΗΙ ΟΨΕΙ Ο ΚΙΝΗΜΑΤΟΓΡΑΦΟΣ

Notes 1 2 3 4

Cited, in my translation, from Gance 1927: 96. Hainsworth 1991: 148. Gance 1928; cited in King 1984: 56. Rossi’s Arete was played by a regal Marina Berti, better known internationally for her Eunice in Mervyn LeRoy’s Quo Vadis (1951). 5 Homer, Odyssey 4.104–10; cited in Lattimore 1967: 68. 6 The citations, in modern spelling, are from scene XIII of The Tragical History of Dr Faustus, first published in 1604. In the order here cited, the lines are spoken by Faustus, the Second Scholar, and the Third Scholar. 7 I examine these three incarnations of Helen in Winkler 2009: 210–50 (chapter entitled ‘Helen of Troy: Marriage and Adultery According to Hollywood’). 8 Modern scholarship on this matter has been extensive since Harsh 1950; a sensible overview, with additional references, is given by Russo 1992: 7–12. See also Steiner 2010; Louden 2011; Reece 1994; Richardson 2011; Vlahos 2011 and Yamagata 2011. 9 Russo 1992: 7. 10 Ahl and Roisman 1996: 37; see further 152–7, 209, 224–8, and 234. 11 Ahl and Roisman 1996: 237: ‘After years of waiting, her haste now is puzzling. She is, in effect, forcing Odysseus’ hand’. Russo 1992: 104–5 (on 19.572–81), surveys the main scholarly attempts at explanation. Russo (7) firmly denies that Penelope recognizes Odysseus, but he acknowledges that Penelope comes close to recognition, emotionally and intellectually (11). See also Rutherford 1992: 33–8,



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with references at 34–5, notes 27 and 29; and now Steiner 2010: 35: ‘Where earlier readings faulted the queen for her inconsistency, her obtuseness and seemingly irrational behaviour (so like a woman …), contemporary Penelopes range from a canny plotter, hoodwinker of those around her, to an unconscious puppet, the instrument of the divine and human figures who orchestrate her moves’ (ellipsis in original). Steiner (37 note 73) lists additional scholarly references on ‘Penelope’s ‘intuitive’ recognition of Odysseus’. 12 Rutherford 1992: 34; cf. 35 and 37. 13 Odyssey 13.335–8; cf. her words a little later at 397–403. Athena even goes so far as to tell Telemachus that women cannot be trusted (15.20–3). 14 Rutherford 1992: 166–7, on line 210. This is the case despite the Homeric narrator’s comment that in his heart Odysseus felt pity for Penelope, which, like his (presumably, inner) tears, he hid behind eyes appearing as if made of horn or iron (19.210–12). 15 Ahl and Roisman 1996: 206. Cf. Steiner 2010: 25. 16 Odyssey 23.105–10; cited in Lattimore 1967: 338. 17 Aeneid 1.203. Here and below, translations from the Aeneid are my own. 18 Odyssey 15.400–1; cited in Lattimore 1967: 235. 19 FGrH 566 F 82 (Timaeus); Servius auctus (Servius Danielis) on Aeneid 1.340. Pease 1935: 16–17, collects the ancient texts on Dido’s name. 20 Virgil, Georgics 4.453–527. The myth also appears in Ovid, Metamorphoses 10.1–85 and 11.1–66.

12

Claudia Quinta and Publius Cornelius Scipio Nasica: Exempla virtutis in Vienna under Leopold I (1657–1705) Pepa Castillo

In the Vienna of the Habsburgs, opera functioned as a vehicle for performing power and status. This was especially relevant for historical operas, such as the one under discussion in this study. The same operas also relied on entangled love stories, seduction and seductiveness, to provide attraction for their audience. To a certain extent, they employed the power of seduction to entice the audience into subscribing to the underlying ideological content. On the death of Margaret Theresa of Spain (1651–73), the first wife of Leopold I, the Holy Roman Emperor had no heir. Accordingly, remedial action became necessary and Leopold married Claudia Felicitas. On 11 of September 1674, the first child of the imperial couple was born: the Archduchess Anna Maria Sophia. Months earlier, to celebrate the upcoming birth of the longawaited heir, Leopold I had ordered his Hofkapelle and its Kapellmeister, Nicolò Minato, to create an opera, Il fuoco eterno custodito dalle Vestali.1 Once he received the commission, Minato immediately started work on the libretto for the opera that would honour the much longed for event. However, even Leopold I, the emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, could not control nature and the expected prince and heir in fact turned out to be a girl. By then, it was too late to start work on a new opera. This chapter will discuss the events that provided the plot for the opera Il fuoco eterno custodito dalle Vestali and analyse the ancient sources the librettist consulted in order to draw attention to the changes introduced in the libretto. In the light of this information and of the historical context of the première, we will expose the political propaganda behind Minato’s new libretto.

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The ‘Heroic Operas’ in Vienna under Leopold I Il fuoco eterno custodito dalle Vestali is a ‘heroic opera’, an opera drawing on an historical event that is often based rather on legend than reality. Like many other characters from Antiquity and the Middle Ages, the protagonists of heroic operas have become part of our cultural heritage, as much for their actions as for their virtues. This was the type of opera the Viennese Imperial Family favoured for celebrating birthdays, days of Saints, marriages and births; in short, for days of festivities in which the performance of a lyrical drama would constitute the main act. They were always premières, were only performed once, and were written and composed in honour of a member of the Imperial Family on a particular occasion, so that the opera was inextricably linked to the specific event. These shows were aimed at the court and nobility, both Austrian and foreign, and were occasionally attended by citizens. Their main function was to enhance the prestige of the emperor in the eyes of his court and in those of any foreign diplomats present: essentially, they were a performance of power. Accordingly, the emperor supervised the preparations in person; he approved the libretto and the music, showing great interest in their production and even collaborating with the composer; he specified the day and the occasion for the performance, and most importantly, he decided who would or would not be invited and even where they would sit. This procedure also applied when the opera was paying tribute to another member of the Imperial Family, because the monarch always appeared as one of the characters or in the final licenza – above all it was his event.2 Opera in Leopold’s Vienna served to highlight imperial ideology, glorify the emperor, his policies and the entire House of Austria at a time when court librettists employed the classics to create libretti functioning as the centrepieces of the performances, more so than the music and the setting. Accordingly, the libretto turned into both a key piece of all operatic performances and a panegyric. The librettist was the poet who inserted the ideological content, underlining power and status of his employer. In librettos with a historical basis, the central theme was always a love story in which the amorous feelings of two or three couples crossed each other. This is where we encounter seduction or seductiveness, the second theme of this volume. These love stories created so many complications in the first act that it was difficult to believe they could be resolved by the end of the play. They needed a setting in space and time as well as plausible



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characters, and it is here where authors such as Herodotus, Livy, Virgil, Strabo, Valerius Maximus, Plutarch, Tacitus or Pausanias came into play. The Greco-Latin sources provided the librettist with the raw material necessary for the construction of his dramatic fiction: memorable facts and exemplary characters. The librettist would then add, remove or modify anything that did not fit his love story, the guest of honour, or the guidelines of official propaganda.3 However much he adjusted the original, the poet would acknowledge his sources and clarify everything che si finge; he even justified, in what seems to be an attempt to apologize to the classics, all unhistorical accidenti verosimili he included. It was in this environment that Minato, one of the most prolific court poets, was commissioned by the emperor to compose an opera to celebrate the birth of his next child.4

Il fuoco eterno custodito dalle vestali: The Plot The historical background of Minato’s drama is the Second Punic War (218–201 bc), set in an exhausted and devastated Italy. In bc 205 the Sibylline Books were consulted; they prophesied that if enemy troops were to enter Italy, they could only be expelled if the ‘Mother of the Gods, from Mount Ida’ (Cybele/Magna Mater), to be found in the form of a rock in Pessinos (Phrygia), was brought to Rome. In light of this revelation, Rome sent five ambassadors to Attalus I, King of Pergamon, to obtain the symbol of the goddess, which was to be found in his territory. The Romans also consulted the oracle at Delphi en route and learnt that Attalus would not present any difficulties and that the goddess should be received upon her arrival in Rome by ‘il migliore di tutti’.5 The Senate, following the oracle’s advice, chose Publius Cornelius Scipio Nasica as optimus vir (‘the best man’), a young man not yet made a quaestor, the son of Cnaeus Scipio who had died in Hispania. The plot continues with a miracle performed by the vestal Claudia Quinta. When the ambassadors obtained the image of the goddess, they returned to Rome, but on arriving at the mouth of the Tiber, their ship ran aground. At this moment, the senators and the matrons of Rome appeared, accompanied by Publius Scipio. The ship could not be moved, until the vestal Claudia tied her sash to it and pulled it out with just one hand. After this miracle, the Magna Mater was taken to Rome and set up in the Temple of Victory on the Palatine Hill.

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Shortly before this miracle occurred, the eternal flame burning in the Temple of Vesta had been extinguished because of the neglect of a priestess. An oracle had predicted that Rome would never come to an end as long as the sacred fire of Vesta continued to burn. Claudia Quinta reignited it by focussing the rays of the sun with a concave mirror. The plot concludes by uncovering all che si finge, such as Publius Cornelius Scipio Nasica falling in love with the vestal Claudia and Attalus offering his daughter Acrisia to the Roman ambassadors as the wife of the man chosen to be the best of the Romans. The same applies to arranging the marriage of Claudia and Mago, Hannibal’s brother, in order to conclude peace with Carthage; a range of Roman senators desire that young Scipio marry Acrisia, while others speak for Claudia, who, after miraculously freeing the ship, relit the extinguished fire in the Tempel of Vesta.6 The central theme of the opera fits the traditional opera plots at the Viennese court: a love story whose protagonists are the vestal Claudia Quinta and the best of the Romans, Publius Cornelius Scipio Nasica, which is complicated by the appearance of another couple, the dictator Quintus Caecilius Metellus and Acrisia, the daugther of Attalus, and also by a betrothal for political reasons between Claudia Quinta and Hannibal’s brother Mago.

Il fuoco eterno custodito dalle vestali: The Sources Minato’s love story centres on two events he relates to each other by attributing them to the protagonist of his drama, the vestal Claudia Quinta, and the events in Rome during the Second Punic War. The sources of Minato, as he himself indicates in the plot of the libretto, are Livy, Valerius Maximus and Ovid.7 The historian Livy gives us a full and detailed account of the arrival of the Magna Mater, but does not mention the miracle performed by Claudia, who is in his version a matron, not a vestal. Livy refers to a rain of stones, which led to a consultation of the Sibylline Books and the discovery of the prophecy that a foreign enemy bringing war to Italy would be defeated if the Magna Mater was brought to Rome from Pessinos.8 The senators immediately linked this to the prophecy of a great Roman victory, which a delegation had brought back from the oracle at Delphi.9 Reinforced by these prophecies, the senators prepared to collect the image of the goddess.10 Rome’s only ally in Asia was Attalus I, the king of Pergamon, with whom they had signed an alliance against a common enemy, Philip V of Macedon.11 The Romans sent a delegation to Asia, which



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stopped en route at Delphi to consult the oracle once more; they learnt that Attalus would give them the object they were seeking and that the goddess had to be received in Rome by the vir optimus of all Romans.12 They were welcomed at Pergamon, from where the king took them to Pessinos, where they collected the Magna Mater. Meanwhile, preparation for her reception by the vir optimus went on at Rome.13 The senate then had to decide who the vir optimus in civitate (‘the best man in the city’)14 was, choosing Publius Cornelius Scipio Nasica, who was not yet old enough to be a quaestor. Livy did not know anything about his merits, because his sources did allegedly not mention him and he did not want to make conjectures.15 Publius Cornelius Scipio Nasica was ordered to go to the port of Ostia to receive the goddess and bring her to Rome, accompanied by all the matrons. When the ship transporting her arrived at the mouth of the Tiber, Scipio set out in a boat to approach it and collect her.16 The goddess was then received by the matronae primores civitatis (‘the best matrons of the city), including among their number the celebrated Claudia, whose chastity had been doubted, and whose involvement in this event ensured her place in posterity.17 This is the only reference to Claudia Quinta in the account; Livy does not mention her miracle and refers only to her chastity. Next, the matrons walk in front of the image hand in hand until they arrive at the Temple of Victory on the Palatine Hill.18 Valerius Maximus does not refer to Claudia Quinta, but he does mention Publius Cornelius Scipio Nasica for his political status and his lineage: his sanctissimi manus (‘the most holy hands’) should receive the Magna Mater. 19 Ovid’s account relays the details and consequences of the miracle; whereas in Livy the figure of Claudia Quinta is included among the other matrons and plays no further role, in Ovid, she is the protagonist, and the optimus vir only merits the phrase Nasica accepit (‘Nasica received her’).20 The first verses of Ovid’s account are an attempt to link the introduction of the cult of the Magna Mater in Rome with the Trojan legend. It recounts the goddess’ love for Troy and for Aeneas and how fate prevented her from following him to Latium. Five centuries later, when Rome was powerful, the priests consulted the Sibylline Books and found that mater abest (‘mother is missing’),21 and casta est accipienda manu (‘chaste hands must receive her’),22 replacing the optimus vir of the prophecy from Delphi. Since Delphi did not specify which deity to seek, the senators sent another embassy and received the clarification that it was the mother goddess found on Mount Ida in Anatolia.23 A delegation was sent to Phrygia, ruled by Attalus, who initially denied their petition. However, the earth shook and from the depths of the sanctuary the goddess spoke, declaring the

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Romans had come for her and should take her, now that Rome was worthy of receiving all the gods, after which Attalus agreed to her removal. After the story of the journey, the second part of the tale begins.24 In Ostia at the mouth of the Tiber a multitude of people had gathered, consisting of senators, quaestors, and the plebs, including also the mothers, daughters, matrons and vestals. The men hauled the ship upriver with difficulty, when the bow ran aground and they were incapable of moving it.25 It is then that the miracle of Claudia Quinta took place, a woman whose chastity was being questioned because of her manner of dressing and her hairstyle. Ovid describes the scene and Claudia’s actions in great detail. Claudia Quinta took water from the river with her hands and wet her head three times, three times she raised her hands to the heavens, she knelt down and, loosening her hair, looked at the goddess and told her that if she was guilty of the accusations against her she would die in the water, but if they were false the goddess should prove it by yielding to her chaste hands.26 Finally, the ship moved and Claudia was radiant because the goddess had confirmed her chastity.27 On arriving in Rome, the Magna Mater, seated on a chariot, entered through the Porta Capena and was received by Scipio Nasica (Nasica accepit).28 Other classical authors also treated the arrival of the Magna Mater in Rome; differences in the roles played by Scipio Nasica and Claudia Quinta were due to their positions in republican or imperial politics.29 Some classical authors, such as Livy, focus on the figure of Scipio Nasica, not mentioning the miracle of Claudia Quinta. If they do refer to her, it is only to emphasize her chastity.30 Other authors follow Ovid and focus exclusively on the chaste matron and her miracle, omitting the optimus vir.31 In addition, some authors give the same significance to both characters.32 The second event Minato used in his love story is the dying of the sacred fire of Vesta in BC 190, in an Italy occupied and devastated by Hannibal’s army. According to Livy this event, caused by the neglect of a vestal, troubled the Roman citizens greatly.33 Valerius Maximus adds that she was not punished, because she was under the protection of Vesta; when she prayed to the goddess, she placed her best veil over the fireplace and the flame suddenly reignited.34

The game of analogies Minato was a master of analogies and, naturally, these are abundant in Il fuoco eterno custodito dalle vestali, an opera intended to celebrate a vitally important



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event for the succession of the House of Habsburg at a moment of critical political importance for the Holy Roman Empire. The analogies are the vehicle of the ideological messages of the opera and constitute often outspoken statements of power in a performance that was both powerful and seductive. The whole drama consists of a game of analogies, beginning with the historical context itself and continuing with the two miracles of Claudia Quinta. We shall now see how they impacted on Leopold’s Vienna at the beginning of 1670. The historical framework chosen by Minato could not be more appropriate for the situation of the Holy Roman Empire at the time. Leopold I ruled over diverse countries and kingdoms; the legitimacy of his power was never in doubt, because he was a formally elected sovereign, an heir to the Caesars and, above all, the head of an empire going back to the rule of Otto the Great in the tenth century.35 However, since his ascent to the throne he had been facing severe challenges: the problem of his succession and the imperialistic policies of his cousin Louis XIV. Leopold was the last Habsburg in the Austrian line, so the future of the dynasty was uncertain if he did not guarantee its continuity and security with an heir. The death of his first wife and the urgency of providing the crown with male descendants forced him to marry his cousin Claudia Felicitas only six months later. They had two daughters; the first, Anna Maria Sophia, was the eagerly awaited heir whose birth Minato’s opera celebrated. However, daughters could not solve the succession problem, while the threat constituted by Louis XIV continued to increase. The main reason for Louis XIV’s attempts to expand his realm was to reclaim an inheritance he believed to be his by rights; the French King and the emperor of the Holy Roman Empire were first cousins on their mother’s side and, from 1666 to 1673, also brothers in law. Accordingly, the Habsburgs urgently needed an heir in order to prevent their empire falling into French hands. In the spring of 1667, Louis XIV attacked the Spanish Netherlands to assert the rights of his wife Maria Theresa over parts of them; the House of Austria began to fear for its future, but did not intervene in the conflict beyond engaging in diplomatic action. The war was a result of Habsburg dynastic policies and opinions were divided in Leopold’s council: some believed the emperor should defend the Spanish Netherlands; others felt he should not do anything without the consent or support of the German princes; and, finally, there were those who thought he should leave dynastic politics be and confront France only if the interests of the Holy Roman Empire and of the Austro-German hereditary countries were

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threatened.36 Leopold chose the third option and from 1670 onwards presented himself as protector of Germany and of Europe against the ambitious French monarch. In contrast to a bold, aggressive and expansionist Louis XIV, the image Leopold projected was that of a protector of the status quo and guarantor of peace. However, in August 1673 the relations with Louis XIV broke down. In this context, we encounter anti-Louis operas such as La Lanterna di Diogene (Minato, April 1674), La Nascità di Minerva (Minato, November 1674)37 and Il fuoco eterno custodito dalle vestali. In this historical framework, the opera presents Louis XIV as the Carthaginian Mago, who appears indirectly through his ambassador, Bomilcar. Bomilcar informs the senate of his master’s interest in a marriage to Claudia Quinta and pressures her to make a quick decision on the matter, saying: ‘Al Delfín/Ciascun si piega./Ei conduce chi assente, et trahe chi nega’.38 Quintus Caecilius Metellus and a faction of the senate were in favour of making peace with Carthage, although this meant losing an outstanding and chaste citizen. This scene is a clear reference to the policies of balance and compromise practised by Leopold up until 1673. However, in the opera the marriage did not take place because of the arrival of the Magna Mater in Rome. The miraculous intervention of the vestal stopped the senate depriving Rome of a virtuous woman beloved by the goddess. Furthermore, Rome now held the deity guaranteeing victory and the expulsion of the Carthaginians from Italy. Just as Rome counted on the Magna Mater, Leopold counted on the support of the Netherlands, the Spanish monarchy and the princes of the Holy Roman Empire against an isolated France. So what meaning did the two miracles of Claudia Quinta have in a Vienna in conflict with France, a Vienna that was anxiously awaiting the birth of an heir to continue the dynastic line? Minato adapted the two miracles to the occasion to be celebrated, the birth of an heir. He also matched them to the imperial propaganda of the time, dictated by the conflict with France and the problem of succession. In scene 8 of the second act, Lucius Lentulus announces that the ship bringing the Magna Mater had run aground in the mouth of the Tiber; in scene 12 a contraption is made to pull the ship out, but achieves nothing. Finally, in scene 18, Vesta appears in the heavens, saying that Claudia will move the ship,39 and a bright light shines onto Claudia’s head. The woman steps into a small boat waiting by the shore and steers it to the silent ship.40 When she arrives, she ties her sash to it and, to the surprise of everyone present,41 easily pulls it ashore. This is not a trial of chastity because nobody questions Claudia Quinta’s pudicitia (‘sexual virtue’); she is able to move the ship bearing the Magna Mater



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because Vesta has chosen her. Minato’s Claudia Quinta represents the Empress Claudia Felicitas, the woman to solve the problems of the House of Habsburg by bearing an heir, just as Claudia solved Rome’s plight. The second miracle, the flame dying at the altar of Vesta and being magically relit by Claudia Quinta, is an allegory for the supposedly everlasting House of Austria. The sacred fire of Vesta represented new life in all its forms and a promise to the future.42 Its dying endangered the very existence of Rome. Roma aeterna (‘eternal Rome’) or in our case, Vienna aeterna (‘eternal Vienna’), depended on this ‘eternal flame’. The ‘magnificent House of Austria’ supported the Holy Roman Empire and when its flame went out, i.e. when Leopold I’s first wife died without a male heir, it urgently had to be rekindled. In this way, the emperor’s second marriage gave new hope for a Vienna aeterna. The Claudia Quinta in the lyrical drama is not the vestal who let the eternal flame go out through neglect, but the virtuous priestess who relights the fire with the help of Vesta’s mediation and through Apollo’s fire, using a concave mirror.43 In short, Claudia was the character who ensured the gods’ promise of an eternal Rome44 – unlike Claudia Felicitas in the case of Vienna, the ‘New Rome’, because the long awaited birth of her first child, the archduchess Anna Maria Sophia, did not solve the succession problem. Minato could not have chosen better. Claudia Quinta belonged to an important Republican family45 and after her miraculous intervention in rescuing the Magna Mater she became a model of chastity, a paragon for virtuous women, faithful to their husbands, modest in clothes and dress and an example of proper public behaviour.46 For Cicero she was a model of chastity among the matrons and the opposite of Clodia, the widow of Quintus Metellus Celer, famous for her scandalous and dissolute life.47 In Ovid, Claudia Quinta is a chaste matron whose beauty did not surpass her nobility, an image he used to defend Augustus´ daughter Julia against gossip about her licentious life.48 According to Pliny, Roman matrons considered her to be the second most chaste woman of Roman history.49 In Propertius, she is included in his gallery of exemplary Roman matrons.50 Claudian defines Claudia’s feat as a ‘dignified act of feminine virtue’.51 And if these were not enough, other stories tell us that the statue of Quinta Claudia in the entrance of the temple of the Magna Mater was miraculously unharmed by the two fires that took hold of the building.52 Accordingly, with the growth of the political importance of the gens Claudia, the tradition of Claudia Quinta as model of chastity became more prominent and elaborate; Ovid’s version is a good example of this.53

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The model of chastity presented by Minato in his theatrical fiction is a Claudia Quinta whose virtue was never in doubt, a noble woman who docilely accepts marriage with Mago to save her homeland; furthermore, she is modest, magnanimous and generous. This is a heroine of exceptional qualities, chastity being one of her most significant features, as is her spirit of sacrifice. Minato’s heroine perfectly fits the tradition of the cult of virtue celebrated in the House of Habsburg, which presented virtue and chastity in marriage as one of the most important aspects. The Habsburgs propagated that the dynasty’s political objectives could be achieved through the rigorous practice of Christian virtues by its members,54 and seen in this light, the virtue of Leopold and Claudia Felicitas’ chastity would guarantee the continuation of the dynasty. Just like the historical Claudia Quinta worked for the gens Claudia, the model was elected to serve the interests of the Habsburgs.55 In this game of analogies, Publius Cornelius Scipio Nasica is the remarkable hero who, in Minato’s fiction, marries the virtuous heroine. He is a member of a prestigious family, which produced great statesmen and generals for the Roman Republic.56 In spite of his youth and not yet having been made a quaestor,57 the senate considered him to be the best of the Romans and therefore responsible for receiving the goddess at the port of Ostia.58 Although he never distinguished himself particularly in his political career, his participation in the arrival of the Magna Mater made him a symbol of republican virtues. Based on this background, Minato constructed a character inheriting faith and obedience from his father, neither afraid of difficult ventures nor scorning easy ones, a self-sacrificing man offering his country all that he had.59 Publius Cornelius Scipio Nasica was the optimus vir of Rome; Leopold was portrayed as filling the same role for Vienna. The republican virtues perfectly fitted the ones of the Christian emperor, whose representations evoked the the pietas (‘piety’, ‘religious behaviour’, ‘devotion’), clementia (‘clemency’), prudentia (‘prudence’) and fortitudo (‘strength’) that he had inherited from his distant ancestors, which were seen as the basis for his government. With his story Livy may have aimed at rehabilitating the Scipiones after their failure in Hispania, or he may have intended to demonstrate the power of a factio (‘faction’).60 Minato, in contrast, simply wanted to show the best of all men, a model of moral behaviour, who received the Magna Mater from the matrons. This goddess personified nature, was a giving and sustaining deity, but also a protector caring for her people in times of war. The reception of the Magna Mater was an event of extraordinary importance in Roman history, as shortly afterwards the Second Punic War ended with a Roman victory, enabling



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the vanquishers to control the Mediterranean; it was to be equally significant for the ‘New Rome’ and for her emperor, the so-called legitimate heir to the Caesars. Minato’s drama intended to flatter the House of Austria, Claudia Felicitas, the woman who would end the dynastic concerns of the Holy Roman Empire, and Leopold I, the emperor who was going to consolidate the power of the House of Habsburg in Europe and defend its subjects from the aggressive and expansionist policies of his cousin, Louis XIV. The importance of the event and the importance of the political messages of Minato’s drama explain the intervention of the emperor himself in the composition of some of the arias. It also justified the publication of a luxury edition, the unusual inclusion of a licenza after each act, and the performance itself, although the child celebrated turned out to be a girl, not the long-expected heir. This court poet of aristocratic origin and with excellent humanistic training could not have chosen a better subject nor more adequate heroes to praise the House of Austria: a goddess symbolizing the power of nature and offering protection in times of war arrives in Rome, with Vienna being the ‘New Rome’. Her arrival signified the end of Carthage, Rome’s great contender for the Mediterranean, standing in for the France of Louis XIV, Leopold’s enemy. The driving force behind all this was the most excellent man of Rome, symbolizing Leopold I, with the help of the most virtuous woman, Claudia Quinta or Claudia Felicitas. To drive the message home, after each act a licenza established the relationship between the heroines. After the first act the text even alluded directly to the empress: the Tiber tries to console itself over the unfortunate destiny of Claudia, namely her wedding to Mago, ‘Così apunto in altra Età/A vn EROE più Fortunato/ Vna CLAUDA più FELICE/Fatta Sposa si vedar’.61 In the second licenza, Truth, banishing the monsters accompanying Deceit, proclaimed ‘Così apunto in altra età/Seguirà/Che di CLAUDIA à LEOPOLDO/Alta Prole il Ciel darà./L´Interesse mostruoso/Così all´or si scaccierà/E l´Inganno fuggirà’.62 The final licenza honoured Claudia Felicitas and made her relationship with Claudia Quinta perfectly clear: both serve virtue, one being joined to the best man of Rome, the other to the best man in the world. It was also a tribute to ‘AUSTRIACA DISCENDENZA, germe d´Eroi’; and finally, the Imperial couple: ‘Godi CESARE,/Godi CLAVDIA,/Godete, sì./Poco andrà inanti,/C´hauran dal Vostro/GERME fecondo/Le Sfere Atlanti,/ Ercoli il Mondo./Hauran dal Vostro/GERME’, and so ended the opera.63 The eagerly awaited crown prince was not born, but the opera was performed to show that the Imperial couple possessed and put into practice the Christian

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virtues necessary to see their hopes for the dynasty fulfilled. However, Claudia Felicitas would die on 8 April 1676 without giving Leopold I a successor; the Austrian court would have to plan a third marriage rapidly. Meanwhile, the performance of operas comforted a court without an heir and in their own way fought against the King of France, his grasp for power and his aspirations to the throne of the Holy Roman Empire.

Notes 1 Music by Antonio Draghi, stage settings by Ludovico Burnacini. 2 For the opera as a propaganda instrument of Leopold I see Goloubeva 2000: esp. 45 ff.; Schumann 2003: esp. 240ff. 3 The Viennese court was an ideal place of work for a librettist; his post conveyed social status, a life of luxury and comfort and a pension after his retirement. To retain these privileges, the librettists followed the imperial propaganda guidelines without fail. 4 On Minato see Hilt 1974; Rutschman 1982: 84–91; Castillo 2008: 124–8. 5 Il fuoco ... On the argomento see libretto available in the Wolfenbuettel Digital Library: http://diglib.hab.de/wdb.php?dir=drucke/hn-4f-11&distype=thumbs, image: 00010 (accessed 3 February 2012). 6 Il fuoco ... Di quello, che si finge: http://diglib.hab.de/wdb.php?dir=drucke/hn-4f11&distype=thumbs, image: 00011 (accessed 3 February 2012). 7 Il fuoco ... argomento: http://diglib.hab.de/wdb.php?dir=drucke/hn-4f11&distype=thumbs, image: 00011 (accessed 3 February 2012). 8 Liv. 29.10.4–5. 9 Liv. 29.10.6. 10 Liv. 29.10.8. 11 Liv., 29.10.1–2. 12 Liv. 29.10.5–6. 13 Liv. 29.10.7–8. 14 Liv. 29.14.6. 15 Liv. 29.14.8–9. 16 Liv. 29.14.10–11; 36.36.3. 17 Liv. 29.14.12. 18 Liv. 29.14.13. 19 Val. Max. 8.15.3; 7.5.2. 20 Ov. Fast. 4.347. 21 Ov. Fast. 4.259. 22 Ov., Fast. 4.260.



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23 Ov. Fast. 4.264. 24 Ov. Fast. 4.291–348. 25 Ov. Fast. 4.293–304. 26 Ov. Fast. 4.305–24. 27 Ov. Fast. 4.343. 28 Ov. Fast. 4.435–7. 29 To name but a few examples, Graillot considers Rome’s critical political situation in the Punic Wars as reason for the introduction of the cult of the Magna Mater, Graillot 1912: 30–2. According to Köves, Livy used Claudia Quinta to balance the rivalry between the gens Cornelia and the Fulvio-Claudian faction, Köves 1963: 321–47. For Gérard, the variants of the story are based on political agendas, namely glorifying either the Cornelii or the Claudii, Gérard 1980: 153–75. Cf. also Thomas 1984: 1505ff.; Roller 1999: 263ff.; Berneder 2004: 40ff. and 65ff. Gruen rejects the interpretation Cornelii versus Claudii, rather focusing on the diplomatic, military and religious context of the story with an eye to the alleged Trojan descend of Rome as basis of her cultural standing in the Hellenistic World, Gruen 1990: 5–33; 1992: 47–8. Contra Gruen, Burton 1996: 36–63. 30 Diod. Sic. 34.33.2–3; Cass. Dio, frag. 57.61; Amm. 22.9.5. 31 Prop. 4.11.51–3; Sen. frag. XIII De matr., 80; Stat. Silv. 1.2.245ff.; Suet. Tib. 2; Herod. 1.11.1–5; Solin., 1.126; Lact. Inst. 2.8; Iulian. Or, 5.159C-161A; De viris illustribus, 46; Claudianus, Carm. 30(29).14–17; 28–30; Sidonius Apollinaris, Carm. 24.41–3. 32 Cic. Har. Resp. 13.27; Sil. Pun. 17.1–47; App. Hann. 56. For the comparison of the accounts of Ovid and Silius Italicus, see von Albrecht 1968: 76–95. 33 Liv. 28.11.1; 6–7. 34 Val. Max. 1.1.7. 35 Berenguer 2004: 15ff. 36 Upper and Lower Austria, Styria, Carinthia, Carniola, Tyrol, Brisgovia or Breisgau and Burgau (Further Austria or West). 37 For the message of these anti-Louis operas, see Goloubeva 2000: 145ff. 38 Il fuoco ... Bomílcar: Act. I, Sc. III: http://diglib.hab.de/wdb.php?dir=drucke/hn-4f11&distype=thumbs, image: 00036 (accessed 3 February 2012). 39 Il fuoco ... Act. II, Sc. XVIII, Vesta: http://diglib.hab.de/wdb.php?dir=drucke/hn-4f11&distype=thumbs, image: 0109 (accessed 3 February 2012). 40 Il fuoco … Act. II, Sc. XVIII, Claudia Quinta: ‘Odi i Voti del mio Cuore,/O Rettor de l´alto Regno./Dona il moto à questo Legno,/Dio, ch´immoto,/Sei del tutto il gran Motore./O Rettor de l´alto Regno,/Odi i Voti del mio Cuore’ (http://diglib.hab.de/ wdb.php?dir=drucke/hn-4f-11&distype=thumbs, image: 0110) (accessed 3 February 2012) 41 There were Publius Scipio, the senators Sempronius, Veturius and Licinius Lentulus;

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the ambassadors Marcus Valerius, Caius Tremilius and Servius Sulpicius; Acrisia, vestals, matrons, Roman senators, artisans and the Roman plebs. 42 Worsfold 1932: 31. 43 Il fuoco ... Act. III, Sc. XIV/ XV: http://diglib.hab.de/wdb.php?dir=drucke/hn-4f11&distype=thumbs, image: 00139–00146 (accessed 3 February 2012). 44 Il fuoco … Act. III, Sc. XV, Cayo Tremilio: ‘Al nobil tuo Regno/Gli Dei fan sostengo’, Il fuoco...: http://diglib.hab.de/wdb.php?dir=drucke/hn-4f-11&distype=thumbs, image: 00139–00146 (accessed 3 February 2012). 45 She may have been the daughter of P. Claudius Pulcher, consul in 248 BC and granddaughter of Appius Claudius Caecus, see R.E. III.2. n. 435, cc. 2899. 46 Those are the three traits characterizing the pudicitia of married women, see Gagé 1963: 147. 47 Cic. Har. Resp. 13.27; Cael. 34. 48 Ov. Fast. 4.305–8. The rumors about the dubious chastity of both women facilitated their identification. Accordingly, Ovid’s exculpation of Claudia was intended also for Iulia, see Porte 1984: 98–9. 49 Plin. NH, 7.35. 50 Prop. 4.11. 51 Claud. Carm. 30.11–16. 52 Val. Max. 1.8.11; Tac. Ann. 4.64.3. 53 Ov. Fast. 4.255–348. 54 On the cult of Christian virtutes, see Goloubeva 2000: 115ff. 55 According to Gérard 1980: 167, the legend of the miracle of Claudia Quinta was fully formed in the early years of Augustus. When the gens Claudia adopted the heir apparent Tiberius, it became expedient to exculpate Augustus’ daughter Julia, whose virtue was very much in doubt. 56 R.W. IV1, n. 350, c. 1494–7. 57 His youth fits neatly into the ideological presentation of iuventus, also exemplified by other members of this gens, see Thomas 1984: 1505. 58 No classical author elucidates the reasons for the choice. Livy considers it remarkable and curious, but he refuses to speculate because of the alleged lack of evidence in his own sources (29.14); Valerius Maximus refers to his moral authority (8.15.3). The key may be the fact that he belonged to an important Republican family without occupying an important political office, which may hint at certain political ‘neutrality’, making the choice fairly acceptable to most factions. See Köves 1963: 323ff.; Gruen 1990: 26; Berneder 2004: 45ff. 59 Il fuoco ... Act. I, Sc. IV, Publius Scipio: http://diglib.hab.de/wdb.php?dir=drucke/ hn-4f-11&distype=thumbs, image: 00037–00038 (accessed 3 February 2012). 60 Köves 1963; Thomas 1984: 323 ff.; Gruen 1990: 21 ff.; Roller 1999: 282 ff. 61 Il fuoco ... Act. I, Sc. XX: http://diglib.hab.de/wdb.php?dir=drucke/hn-4f11&distype=thumbs, image: 00071 (accessed 3 February 2012).



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62 Il fuoco ... Act. II, Sc. XX: http://diglib.hab.de/wdb.php?dir=drucke/hn-4f11&distype=thumbs, image: 00114–00115 (accessed 3 February 2012). 63 Il fuoco ... Act. III, Sc. XX: http://diglib.hab.de/wdb.php?dir=drucke/hn-4f11&distype=thumbs, image: 00158 (accessed 3 February 2012).

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The Stolen Seduction: The Image of Spartacus in Riccardo Freda’s Spartaco, gladiatore della Tracia Óscar Lapeña Marchena

This chapter aims to vindicate a film portraying a familiar, but often not fully understood character, Spartacus. It is important to highlight that Freda’s Spartaco differs significantly from the better known American film Spartacus, directed by Stanley Kubrick in 1960. The reason behind this difference is not just timing (Freda’s film predates Kubrick’s by seven years), but also different literary traditions and political backgrounds, which both influenced Freda’s work and which we will therefore discuss in the outset.1 Predating the genre of peplum films, which did not come into being until 1957, Spartaco aligns itself with post-World War II Italian historical films focusing on the ancient world, such as Fabiola (1949), Messalina (1951), La Regina di Saba (1952), Attila (1954) and Theodora (1954). The title of this chapter seeks to draw attention to two facts. By ‘stolen’ we are underlining that we have been denied the opportunity to view the original film. The current, commercially available version is abridged, although the flow of the narrative has been retained. The original length of this film was 120 minutes; at the premiere it was reduced to 110 minutes.2 ‘Seduction’ refers to the seduction of the hero Spartacus by the dream of independence from Rome and offers of freedom as well as by the allure of the female characters. In contrast to Kubrick’s Spartacus, Freda’s film features a factor of eroticism and female seduction that aimed to humanize the hero, but also to challenge the legitimacy of his leadership as a revolutionary champion of the masses through the confrontation with the vices of a corrupted Roman society. The present contribution will focus on Freda’s film, a production that, as we will see, suffered as a result of censorship. We will further discuss the different

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cultural traditions behind these two twentieth-century cinematic receptions of Spartacus. In contrast to the later Hollywood version, Freda’s film contains few JewishMessianic references, such as Kubrick’s army of the oppressed faithfully following Spartacus/Moses in search of the Promised Land. The same applies to Christian imagery, such as the crucifixion of the survivors along the Appian Way.3 Even before filming started, Il gladiatore Spartaco della Tracia had suffered at the hands of the Italian censors. The premiere of the film saw further censure. Seven years later, the producers of Kubrick’s Spartacus – Byrna Productions and Universal Pictures – took advantage of the American premiere of Freda’s film. To avoid any comparison to or competition with their own version, they bought the rights over the negatives and copies of Freda’s film for $50,000. Thus, they were able to withdraw it from the market for 30 years, preventing a possible new release of the Italian film.4 Freda’s film was thus condemned to an ephemeral life and to cinematic oblivion. The manner in which Spartacus is portrayed in Freda’s film is the result of three traditions from popular culture, one Italian, one Polish and the third US American. From its early days as a nation, the USA were recreating their own Roman tradition. The heritage of classical culture was used to bind together immigrants from the old continent of Europe. The USA not only assumed the role of a new biblical Land of Promise, but also legitimized their right to exist as a legal nation by using Classical references. As would happen later in France, the American founding fathers went back to traditional Roman Republican virtues for their country. In contrast, American propaganda attributed all the vices associated to the declining Roman Empire to the British Empire.5 Thus, the American War of Independence was associated with the virtues of republican freedom in conflict with the imperial excesses of British tyranny. With this background, I will discuss now the portrayal of Spartacus in the early nineteenth century. The theatrical monologue Spartacus to the Gladiators by Elijah Kellogg (1813–1901) constitutes a good example of the nineteenthcentury American literary tradition. This work, premiered in 1846, is a speech by the Thracian hero to his fellows and stresses values such as equality and freedom. Another case is the play The Gladiator by Robert Montgomery Bird (1806–54).6 In the USA, Spartacus´ image is associated with anti-imperialism, the values of democracy, racial equality and the abolition of slavery. The Gladiator was written in 1831 and the title role was performed exclusively by the actor Edwin Forrest. However, the play was not published until 1919, because Forrest objected to the text being publicly available.7 It adapts the story of the



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revolt in Capua to the Roman-style rhetoric of the USA and became an apology for the policy of President Andrew Jackson, who abolished the Electoral College and introduced universal suffrage.8 In Bird’s work, the Romans capture Spartacus and force him to fight as a gladiator, promising that his wife and his son would be set free. Spartacus and his brother Pharsarius lead a successful slave revolt. Finally, trapped between the Roman armies, Spartacus launches a desperate attack, only to die with his comrades at his side. In the play, his family surrounds Spartacus, stressing the tragic character. The Thracian is a strong and charismatic hero who leads a revolt of the oppressed. The Gladiator criticizes slavery forcefully, praising the abolitionists; its debut in 1831 coincided with the start of a campaign against slavery led by the journalist William Lloyd Garrison.9 In addition, Bird’s work draws on the American War of Independence. The slaves appearing on stage represent metaphorically the USA, while the audience associated the corrupt Roman aristocrats with the British Empire. From then on, the citizens of the USA identified with the oppressed of the Spartacus plot; this identification would be a constant in the history of American film and influence Kubrick’s representation of Spartacus significantly.10 This particular view of Spartacus fosters the dichotomy of freedom vs. slavery and makes the Thracian hero a precursor of nineteenth-century abolitionist thinking. These features were translated to the cinema in the twentieth century. In Kubrick’s Spartacus (1960), a voice-over at the beginning of the film emphasizes the importance of condemning slavery. Despite the depiction of Spartacus and the slaves as rather primitive characters11, they are fully aware of their inalienable right to freedom and know that they are being victimized by the inhumane system of slavery. We should not forget that Kubrick’s film is also a reflection on the events of his own time. The years of his persecution in Hollywood as an alleged communist by the Anti-American Activities Committee parallel the proscriptions in the Roman Senate under Crassus. Another parallel may be drawn between the twentieth-century race riots in the USA and the characterization of the black gladiator Draba in Kubrick’s Spartacus.12 As in the case of Italy and the USA, nineteenth-century Poland looked to antiquity for referents and models to back its national identity as modern state. Thus, a new portrayal of Spartacus emerged there in the second half of the century. This responded to a specific social and political reality and could be summed up in the following way: the Polish national identity was at risk because of the territorial aspirations of Prussia and Russia.

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We will begin with the poem Gladjatorowie, written in 1855 by Teofil Lenartowicz.13 In this work a gladiator makes a speech from the centre of an amphitheatre. He describes the greatness of Rome and mentions the blood lust, which captivates the masses and leads to the humiliation of the gladiators. In the poem, Spartacus functions as an allegory. He personifies the enslaved Slavic people struggling against slavery and fighting for freedom. When Lenartowicz composed his poem, he took as a visual reference the statue Spartacus brisant ses chaines by Denis Foyatier (1827).14 The poem Ubi defuit orbis Spartacus was strongly influenced by Gladjatorowie. It was written in 1857 by Cyprian Kamil Norwid. It is another monologue of a gladiator in the arena, given after winning three consecutive fights. The Thracian criticizes the power of Rome, its vices, the institution of slavery and the indifference to the fate of gladiators. He is a fighter for truth; he has power, nobility, pride and confides in the triumph of freedom and human dignity. In neither of these poems, Spartacus leads a revolt; he is in Rome to denounce the injustice of slavery. The character of the gladiator is used to claim certain rights and to condemn slavery. His message transcends time, Spartacus is victorious not by the sword, but through the word. In the nineteenth century Italy also looked to the Classical tradition in order to reinforce its position as a nation. For the intellectual creators of the new Italy, the Romanità gave them a common heritage and an alternative to the political situation they found themselves in. The new unified Italy looked for its legitimacy to the Roman past15 and to the cultural context surrounding the character of Spartacus. Above all, the Thracian was cast as the hero of national unity. The paradigmatic work of this period is the novel Spartaco (1874), written by Raffaello Giovagnoli (1838–1915). Other plays at the core of this tradition are Spartaco (1856/1857) by Ippolito Nievo, in which the Thracian appears as a tragic hero caught between loyalty to his men and his destiny, the almost contemporary Spartacus (1858) by Giulio Carcano, Spartacus (1891) by Pietro Platania, Antonio and Nicolo Ghislazioni Celega, and the later Spartaco, Poema Drammatico in tre Atti (1924) by Gaetano Morano.16 Giovagnoli was an admirer of Garibaldi and a soldier in his service and perceived his work as an act of patriotism. The early twentieth-century editions of the book contained a letter from Garibaldi in the prologue. In 1913 the novel was adapted to film under the title Spartacus, il gladiatore della Tracia (E. Vidali). In 1952, the newspaper Vie Nuove, ideologically close to the Italian Communist Party, reissued the novel with a prologue by Antonio Gramsci, the



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founder of said party. Seventy-five years after its initial publication, Giovagnoli’s work was no longer of any ideological service to the political administration in Italy, but still inspired the political left.17 Giovagnoli’s Spartaco turns a slave-revolt into a personal confrontation between Spartacus and Crassus. The gladiator is here an exceptional witness to the end of the Roman Republic. Spartacus is presented as the champion of freedom and unity, Crassus as a symbol of despotism. Spartacus is a conqueror, a shrewd and intelligent general who has been able to learn from Roman virtues. He sacrifices himself for his people, always putting the common good before his personal feelings. The revolt he leads does not arise suddenly, but is planned and supported by free men and slaves who are dissatisfied with the corruption of Roman politics. Ultimately, the rebellion is quashed by the military power of Rome. However, the novel not only deals with the revolt, but also with the fatal romance between Spartacus and Sila’s lover, Valeria. The novel is a pessimistic story not only because the revolt fails, but also because of the failed romance between Spartacus and Valeria. The treason of a woman who is not able to conquer him aids the vanquishing of Spartacus’ revolt. Accordingly, an ultimately failed seduction on Valeria’s part is here the underlying cause for Spartacus’ loss of power in defeat. Spartacus is presented as a hero defending unity and independence. The novel can be read as propaganda for unification and as a tribute to Garibaldi. Being written just a few years after the Italian revolution, it praises the new unified country. Spartacus, like Garibaldi, is an integrative leader of masses. His concept does not include persecutions, proscriptions or even revenges. He, like Garibaldi, wants to create a new Rome founded on fresh values. Accordingly, the Romans do not appear as intrinsically evil in the novel; Rome is a great power with brave soldiers and skilful generals. However, it is trapped by the corruption of the political system. The failed romance intends here to emphasize the idea of the leader’s sacrifice for the collective values of the new Rome. To sum up, Giovagnoli’s novel is an epic allegory of the events of 1870, featuring Spartacus as parallel character to Garibaldi.18 It conveys the need of a national unity and identity on the base of a common heritage. The work of Riccardo Freda (Alexandria 1909–Rome 1999) was strongly influenced by his studies in painting and sculpture. His career commenced in 1933 when he began working at the Centro Sperimentale di Cinematografia. Four years later he wrote his first scripts. In 1940 he founded the production company Elica Films, and in 1942 directed his first film, Don Cesare di Bazan. After that, he made 43 films in almost every genre, including historical films,

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such as Theodora (1954)19 and pepla like I Giganti della Tessaglia (1960). Artistically, Freda moved away from realism, the basic themes of his films revolving around love, violence, ‘Hollywood-style’ variety shows and terror.20 As a director he asserted that he had no interest in ordinary people and their lives. Instead, he was fascinated by history and heroic figures.21 From October to December 1952, Freda filmed Spartaco, produced by the Consortium Spartacus, API Rome and Rialto Film (Paris). He not only directed it, but, as in the majority of his films, also worked on the staging, personally building some of the small statues appearing on screen.22 Even before filming started, the script was censored by Nicola De Pirro, Direttore Generale dello Spettacolo, and had to be cut, because the Romans appeared as evil and corrupt. De Pirro, who had occupied important positions in the Italian film and theatre industry during the fascist period, continued using similar ‘patriotic’ guidelines to censorship in the post-war years and during the Cold War. In films of the fascist era, Romans had to appear as courageous and virtuous, hence the problems with the release of Ben Hur in Italy (F. Nibblo, USA 1925). In that film, Romans were depicted as idle and cruel, a quite different vision of Romanità to the one of fascism.23 But, as the director said, if the Romans were good and generous, what would be the reason for the gladiators to rebel? Finally, in order to avoid ruin, Freda agreed to change the script and the presentation of the Romans; accordingly, the project was able to proceed.24 Nevertheless, Freda always preferred the original screenplay to the finished film.25 The film’s plot starts with an image of a devastated Thracian city entered by the Roman troops. An incident with a ruler of the city will lead to a fight between two Roman officers. One of them, Spartacus, of Thracian origin, will be condemned ad ludum. He is defended by Sabina, daughter of the consul Crassus, but nevertheless sold to the lanista Lentulus. In the prison of the ludus, Sabina tries unsuccessfully to seduce Spartacus. The gladiators plan to escape. They are forced to fight against lions when the animals are set loose during a spectacle featuring a choreographed naumachia. Here, Spartacus meets one of the dancers, Amitys. Soon the revolt breaks out and the gladiators find refuge on the slopes of Vesuvius. The Thracian is injured, yet Sabina helps him. In the meantime, the senate gives Crassus the power to quash the revolt. He offers Spartacus freedom if the gladiators surrender. The Thracian rejects the offer after the execution of an old slave who turns out to be Amitys’ father and finally decides to lead his army against Rome. Before dying with his men on the battlefield, Spartacus gives his sword to Amitys. The censors ordered cuts for the finished film, including a scene in which



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Sabina lies in bed and with bare legs and orders Spartacus to come close in order to kiss him.26 Italian film critics had little interest in historical or peplum films, often giving them bad reviews.27 Freda’s film was compared to Quo Vadis? (1951), and while the American movie was appreciated for its spectacular effects, Freda’s work was described as ‘comical’.28 A few years later, French critics saw in Spartaco a significant film,29 which combined violence, eroticism and nebulous revolutionary implications.30 The film premiered in the USA under the title Sins of Rome. This title had nothing to do with the content and the audience anticipated a film portraying orgies, excesses and sexual violence, with which the American cinema usually associated the Roman world. The whole movie centres on its tragic hero, Spartacus, who suffers and doubts. In the dungeon scene in the ludus, he functions as a secular martyr, the symbol of a new era after the end of World War II, his representation resembling the iconography of the torture of the partisan in Roma Città Aperta (1944).31 While the first part of the movie focuses on the personal vicissitudes of Spartacus ad ludum and his relationships with Amytis and Sabina, the second develops these relationships during the revolt. The sad and bitter atmosphere of the film is accentuated by the deliberate use of black and white, creating a landscape of light and shadow to underline the lack of a distinct moral message. When Spartacus escapes for the first time from the ludus, he crosses a dark and soulless Rome, which appears empty and bare of its architectural splendour. Soldiers passing through it indicate a city under martial law. Even the town of Crassus and the house of Sabina do not appear as luxurious places. The transparent curtains hanging from the ceiling in Sabina’s house resemble a maze or the backdrop of a deserted theatre. Sabina and Spartacus pass through them as a metaphor for the doubts affecting him especially. These doubts mainly concern the relations between the leader and his supporters, the lack of trust and the ghost of betrayal and erotic temptation that hound Spartacus when he meets Sabina, far away from his people and mission. Spartacus as object of seduction is here presented as contradictory to Spartacus the powerful and honourable leader. The romance between Sabina and Spartacus anticipates the love-story between Cleopatra and Mark Antony in the subsequent film Cleopatra (1963).32 The movie repeats the pattern of a man seduced by a powerful woman who is also assailed by doubts; as Antony turns into an enemy of his own country, Spartacus becomes lost in melancholy reflections on slavery and about his relationship with his supporters. Spartacus takes action only when he is reminded of the cruel reality of slavery, thus overcoming the seduction effected by Sabina and denying her the fulfilment of her sexual whims.

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In terms of genre, the film shares some characteristics with the peplum, although it does not fall completely into this category. These are for instance the inclusion of an orgy displaying the vices of Rome and the concentration of spectacular moments in a few scenes that alternate with dialogues, romance and news about the revolt.33 A typical feature of peplum is also that Spartacus finds himself caught between two mutually opposite and excluding female models: Sabina and Amytis. Amytis’ tragic background alludes to the devastation caused by World War II, especially that affecting the civilian population. She is a kind and courageous woman who is not afraid to takes risks in order to meet Spartacus. Also, Amytis’ exotic dance in the arena is again typical of peplum, the perfect combination of entertainment and eroticism.34 Her seductive qualities are therefore restricted to the arena and are forced on her, much as fighting is forced on the gladiators. She never doubts the commitment of the Thracian to his own people; her love for Spartacus is based on a relationship among equals. Amytis is thus a positive character, but far from the model of a Christian heroine typical of peplum and American epic films. In contrast, Sabina illustrates the cinematic archetype of the Roman aristocrat: cold, cruel and capricious. This explains why Sabina watches with pleasure one of the dancers in the arena being devoured by a lion. She is a seductive woman with a lot of sex appeal who tries to distance Spartacus both from Amytis and his comrades. In her villa, she always appears surrounded by slaves; her body is a cult object, to which the camera has privileged access. In the dungeons of the ludus, Sabina assumes the role of Salome attempting to seduce Iokanan/Spartacus in a scene in which seduction appears as the temptation the Christian martyr needs to resist. Sex and violence come together there – another characteristic of the peplum genre35 – especially when the Roman woman lustfully caresses the wounds of the Thracian. However, unlike the usual end of a peplum, the wicked woman does not receive a final punishment or suffer a religious or moral conversion, although ultimately she is not able to enjoy her whims, because her seduction fails and Spartacus leaves her. It is hard to resist the temptation of briefly comparing the Spartaco of Riccardo Freda and the later film by Stanley Kubrick. These comparisons may be applied to specific aspects, such as the character of Spartacus, the treatment of the rebels, the erotic and the religious content. In the Italian film Spartacus is a Roman officer who becomes a gladiator because he rebels against the corruption dominating Roman society. He is often lost in reflection and is portrayed as an innocent who suffers.36 The film emphasizes that Spartacus fights against the injustices provoked by the excessive ambitions to power of Roman rulers. He



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is a tormented and nuanced character. For him the most important issue is not slavery, but the fight against it, because it is a symptom of the moral decay of Rome. However, in the American version the Thracian initially appears as savage, before turning into a charismatic and Messianic leader.37 The film transferred modern abolitionist ideology to the Roman world. It assigned the dichotomy of slavery versus freedom to antiquity and thus omitted the existence of different forms of dependency known in ancient Rome. The revolt, directly taking on the power of Rome, is an epic struggle between good and evil, i.e. freedom and slavery. This film was greatly influenced by the actions of the Committee on Anti-American Activities in Hollywood occurring at the time of filming.38 Kubrick’s film turns the Thracian into an implacable enemy of corrupt politicians with totalitarian ambitions. In Freda’s film, the rebels remain in the background; the focus lies on the personal trials and tribulations of Spartacus. The rebels only appear in specific scenes, such as the tiring march to Rome, the risky descent from Vesuvius and the slow march to the south. In contrast, the rebels are idealized and very much present in Kubrick’s Spartacus. They do not plunder or steal, but form a strong society, with women, children and old people wandering peacefully through Italy in search of the Promised Land. Just as their leader, they are well aware of the value of freedom against slavery, yet in a twentieth-century sense. Although at the time the censors delighted in speculating about the famous scene of the oysters and the snails, the truth is that in Kubrick’s Spartacus there are no erotic elements, which were frequent elements in peplum or American epic films. Like Hercules or Maciste, Spartacus is an asexual character. In the film the slaves behave in an exemplary fashion; they are not easily carried away by their passions. There is no space for orgies in the film. Only Crassus seems overwhelmed by a powerful sexuality that pushes him to capture his own slaves’ attention and to take possession of Varinia and the city of Rome.39 Therefore, when it comes to erotic content and seduction, this is a film at the opposite end of the spectrum in comparison to the previous Spartacus. In Freda’s film there is an emerging eroticism that will become common in the later peplum. Especially Sabina’s magnetic presence anticipates the negatively presented sensuality characterizing the evil queens of the peplum. All her appearances on the screen are displays of beauty and seductive magnetism. When she is contemplating ecstatically the dancer’s death, her eyes seem to be filled with an undeniable sexual pleasure. In Freda’s film, the lack of moral judgment coexists with the absence of references to Christianity. Here again this film demonstrates a diametrically opposed

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position to that of the US version, which is filled with references to Christian values and symbols. The conversations that Spartacus has about a God for the slaves who must come, the slaves’ steady passage through Italy as if they were the Chosen People led by Moses, and of course Spartacus’ death on the cross are obvious examples of the proto-Christian imagery in Kubrick’s film. The Thracian’s son is the sign of the slaves’ triumph, an invisible chain that binds the twentieth-century audience to the events on the screen. If the end of Spartacus is a song of hope and the triumph of Western values, the closing scene of the Italian film emphasizes the idea of continuing the fight, hence the significance of the sword handed to Amytis by the dying Spartacus. The fight must be continued, resisting corruption and carrying on with the defence of secular values embodied by Spartacus. As we have seen, one of the most interesting aspects of Freda’s film is the narrative about power challenged by seduction. The main character is driven by a double game of temptations. On the one hand, the seductive Sabina tries to manipulate Spartacus and turn him into the object of her possessive desire. On the other hand, he is tempted also by Crassus’ offer of giving him back his identity, his position and wealth. These two forms of seduction characterize the film: power and female sensuality. The growing of this tension and its affects on the characters is what makes Freda’s Spartacus a credible hero beyond the model of other cinematic heroes like Kubrick’s Spartacus. The latter appears instead covered by a messianic wrapper. Freda’s black and white photography also contributes to distance the film from the historical genre and the emerging peplum.40 In the same way, the intimate and moving story of Freda’s Spartacus does not match the typical grandiloquent historical frescoes on the big screen. This is not a film about heroes and villains, but an adventure film in which we can find deeper thoughts about servitude, seduction and power. In these pages we have tried to vindicate a film that has practically disappeared from the market and from collective memory because of the business strategies of the film industry and because of radical censorship. Spartaco, gladiatore della Tracia is not just a film to review, but an expression of a certain tradition in which popular culture portrays the ancient world. Therefore, it is not simply a question of recovering a specific title, but to move beyond and to focus the attention and analysis on how cinema shapes our past, and how this construction may be connected to commercial criteria. The fate suffered by the Italian film illustrates the problem of cultural dominance on the part of the powerful American movie industry. In the same way, this business engine also imposed references from its own cultural tradition. The Spartacus who fights



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for freedom has been generally associated to modern American conceptions of freedom. This powerful idea has no doubt eclipsed the Polish and the Italian traditions. In Poland, Spartacus symbolizes unity and the power of the word rather than the sword, giving a country faced by militarily dominant enemies an identifier. In Italy, the gladiator is likened to a historical figure such as Garibaldi and becomes a fighter for Italian unification. This analysis of Spartaco by Freda also highlights the existence of a fertile genre of historical films about ancient history predating the birth of peplum. These films contributed to the development of the peplum genre, which would make greater use of fantasy and become more detached from historical fact. They used antiquity as a backdrop on which to project concepts that were not entirely free of ideological content, considering how business and marketing strategies affect this visual art form. Above all, we are reminded that there are many facets to film production beyond our basic perception of the end result.

Notes 1 On Freda and Classical reception in twentieth-century Italy, see also, Carlà, this volume. 2 Lourcelles and Mizrahi 1963: 35; Martini and Della Casa 1993: 77. 3 Laura 1961: 77; Combs 1984: 258. 4 Schifano 1995: 66; Familiari 2004: 10, 93. 5 Wyke 1997: 14. 6 Hart 1983: 395. 7 Hart 1983: 284. 8 Mayer 1994: 20. 9 Wyke 1997: 59. 10 McDonald Fraser 1988: 6. 11 Arecco 2004: 60. 12 Legrand 1962: 17. 13 Wozniak 1983: 67ff. 14 Foyatier was commissioned to execute eight statues of great historical characters, among them Spartacus. The sculptures were exhibited in the Tulleries, where Lenartowicz saw it, Benezit 1966: 36. 15 For the use of antiquity in the Risorgimiento, see Seymour, this volume. For its influence on the representation of later periods of antiquity, especially Byzantium, see Carlà, this volume. 16 Notes taken by Alessandro Manzoni in preparation for a tragedy about Spartacus

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around 1823 might be considered as a precedent, although the tragedy was never published, Manzoni 1965: 254ff. 17 Russo 1956: 77. 18 Curiosly, some years earlier in 1861, Frederik Engels had written in a letter addressed to Karl Marx that Spartacus was a great general, yet not a Garibaldi; Guarino 1979: 121f. 19 See Carlà, this volume. 20 Lippi 1984: 61. 21 Lourcelles and Mizrahi 1963: 18. 22 Freda 1981: 98f. 23 Quaragnolo 1987: 32. 24 Freda 1981: 16; Della Casa 1999: 41f. 25 Della Casa 1993: 58. 26 Baldi 1994: 36. 27 Baldi 1994: 36; Della Casa 2001: 312. 28 G. S. 1953: 27f. 29 Zimmer and Duffort 1966: 77. 30 Monthly Film Bulletin 1953: 179. Legrand 1963: 172. 31 Prieto 2008: 196. 32 On Antony and Cleopatra, see Pina Polo and Garcia, this volume. 33 In this film, they consist of the scene featuring the fight between lions and gladiators in the amphitheatre, the flight from the ludus and the final battle. See further Lourcelles 2000: 66 and Cano 1975: 8. 34 Pauer 2009a: 103. 35 Pauer 2009b: 38. 36 Fofi 1993: 31. 37 Combs 1984: 257ff. 38 Above and Baxter 2009: 18ff. 39 Rae Hark 1996: 167. 40 Spinazzola 1964: 76.

14

The Great Seducer: Cleopatra, Queen and Sex Symbol Francisco Pina Polo

The image of Queen Cleopatra is above all that of a great seducer who used seduction to achieve power, and whose own power could in turn be seductive. Most ancient sources, from the triumph of Augustan propaganda onwards, propagated negative characteristics of her as a ‘femme fatale’ who could manipulate at will the great Roman imperatores of the Late Republican period, Julius Caesar and Mark Antony. Thus, for instance, Horace describes Cleopatra as a fatale monstrum,1 while Lucan does not hesitate to discredit her by calling her ‘Egypt’s shame; fury of Latium; to the bane of Rome unchaste’.2 The descriptions of how the Egyptian queen appeared unexpectedly before Caesar, wrapped in a carpet or bundled up in some clothes,3 or how she met Antony (on Antony and Cleopatra from Antony’s perspective see also the article by Marta García Morcillo in this volume), surrounded by luxury and exoticism as if she was Aphrodite,4 are dazzling examples of a type of behaviour which would be more appropriate for a courtesan or a regina meretrix, with whom the last ruler of independent Egypt tends to be identified.5 Thus, the real nature of a complex person is being concealed. She behaved intelligently in a world of men, trying to keep Egypt free from the control of the great Mediterranean power Rome, although she ultimately failed. The pejorative image created by ancient sources from Augustus onwards has been generally accepted and even stressed by modern scholarship, which has focused on Cleopatra numerous times, very often from a biased male, if not blatantly sexist, viewpoint.6 Ultimately, Cleopatra would be the archetype of a woman who achieves her objectives through cunning and, above all, by using her beauty, but not because of her intelligence or education. Yet, Plutarch’s description of the queen meeting Antony in 41 bc in Tarsus indicates that there were records in antiquity of her

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being a learned and cultivated person who had an outstanding ability to master different languages. She could converse with the ambassadors of the peoples who came to meet her without the assistance of an interpreter: For her actual beauty, it is said, was not in itself so remarkable that none could be compared with her, or that no one could see her without being struck by it, but the contact of her presence, if you lived with her, was irresistible; the attraction of her person, joining with the charm of her conversation, and the character that attended all she said or did, was something bewitching. It was a pleasure merely to hear the sound of her voice, with which, like an instrument of many strings, she could pass from one language to another; so that there were few of the barbarian nations that she answered by an interpreter; to most of them she spoke herself, as to the Ethiopians, Troglodytes, Hebrews, Arabians, Syrians, Medes, Parthians, and many others, whose language she had learnt. (Plut. Ant. 27, 2–4. Translation J. Dryden)

Cassius Dio, in his turn, also outlines the charming nature of Cleopatra as a brilliant conversationalist, but unlike Plutarch he emphasizes her unparalleled beauty above all: For she was a woman of surpassing beauty, and at that time, when she was in the prime of her youth, she was most striking; she also possessed a most charming voice and a knowledge of how to make herself agreeable to every one. Being brilliant to look upon and to listen to, with the power to subjugate every one, even a love-sated man already past his prime, she thought that it would be in keeping with her role to meet Caesar, and she reposed in her beauty all her claims to the throne. (Cass. Dio XLII 34, 4–5. Translation E. Cary)

The two Greek authors agree on the extraordinary seductive capacity of the Egyptian queen, but disagree on her beauty which is in any case a relative concept; to Cassius Dio she was uncommonly beautiful, but to Plutarch her beauty was nothing remarkable. We are able to make our own assessment on Cleopatra’s beauty given that coins are preserved with her effigy, accompanied by an inscription that unquestionably identifies her. There are also some sculptures portraying the Egyptian queen that were identified on the basis of artistic and stylistic criteria, which obviously makes their testimony more biased. The sculpture most likely portraying Cleopatra is housed at the Staatliche Museen of Berlin, executed in Parian marble (Figure 23). Cleopatra is depicted wearing her hair in a bun at the back of her head, a common hairstyle for her, as can be seen from the coins, with a diadem as symbol of royalty. The most striking feature is her rather prominent nose. This is equally confirmed by the



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Figure 23. Cleopatra. Sculpture. Staatliche Museen in Berlin. Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Antikensammlung, Inv.n. 1976.10. Taken from Andreae 2006. coinage and leads us to believe that the sculptor tried above all to be realistic. In the other two sculptures that could perhaps be attributed to Cleopatra her nose has been broken off. One of them is preserved in the Vatican Museum and resembles the one in Berlin, both in physical appearance and in the hairstyle and diadem, to the point that they could be considered copies of the same original.7 The other is called Cleopatra Nahman, because it belonged to a collector of this name and remains in private hands to this date. Its identification as the Egyptian queen is much less certain and the subject of debate. The main differences to the previous two portraits are the hairstyle and the lack of the typical royal diadem. This last point is the crucial factor for some scholars. They believe that Cleopatra would never have agreed to be portrayed without the diadem and without thus displaying her role as the only monarch of Egypt. This last issue, as is well known, had been the reason for the conflict with her brother Ptolemy XIII. It could actually be a private portrait of a woman who emulated Cleopatra

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but could obviously not be portrayed wearing the diadem.8 Cleopatra’s age in these portraits has been often discussed. There are no concluding data in this respect, but experts tend to think that they could have been made in the last years of her life, between 34 and 31 bc, depicting Cleopatra as a mature woman in her thirties.9 The catalogue of the recent exhibition on Cleopatra held in Hamburg has revived an issue which had already arisen in the 1950s. It concerns the possible identification of the so-called Esquiline Venus as the Egyptian queen. This renowned sculpture was found in the nineteenth century in Rome and is currently housed at the Palazzo dei Conservatori. It portrays a naked woman whose features and hairstyle resemble the portraits of Cleopatra; she also seems to be wearing a diadem. These characteristics, as well as the fact that an uraeus snake is wrapped around the base, have led some to believe that it might be the Egyptian queen. Arguments against this identification include the facts that the face is narrower than in the bust in Berlin and, above all, that it would be inappropriate and quite extraordinary for a queen to be portrayed naked as if she was a Greek goddess.10 The available data are not conclusive enough to favour either option, and the question will undoubtedly remain open in future.11 Apart from sculpture,12 we also know Cleopatra through the coins, which provide the only image we can with certainty identify as the Egyptian queen, the image on official documents represented by coinage.13 Cleopatra’s profile here is similar to that found in the Berlin portrait: hair in a bun at the back of her head, diadem and prominent hooked nose. The portrait of the Egyptian queen, beyond the greater or lesser quality of the coinage, does not vary much even though the coins were minted in at least 12 different cities over a long period of time. From this it could be gathered that Cleopatra cultivated a somewhat ‘official’ image of her person, through which she wished to be perceived by her contemporaries. Above all, Cleopatra wished to be seen as the queen of Egypt. However, the image which has prevailed in modern and contemporary art is the one transmitted by Augustan propaganda, that is, the image of a woman who used all her charms to conquer and manipulate the powerful men who surrounded her: a beautiful, seductive and cruel woman.14 From the seventeenth century onwards there are plenty of paintings by many authors of a series of scenes depicting, more or less accurately, narrations from ancient sources regarding Cleopatra, mainly taken from Plutarch’s biographies of Caesar and especially Antony. Cleopatra has often been depicted in her famous encounters both with Caesar and Antony, but above all at the moment of her death. Seldom is Cleopatra presented as a respectable figure in her role as queen. Tiepolo



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depicted her with gowns from his own time against a luxurious background in two paintings showing her meeting with Antony and the banquet they shared.15 Cleopatra appears more like a European queen of Tiepolo’s time than as the ruler of ancient Egypt. The banquet scene was also painted in the seventeenth century by Jan de Bray. In this Cleopatra appears serious and demure, surrounded by ladies also elegantly clad as if in an actual official meeting or rather in a reunion of a wealthy Flemish family of the period. This type of representation is actually exceptional. The norm is to show Cleopatra full of eroticism and sensuality. For example, Ottmar Elliger painted Cleopatra in the scene of the banquet with Antony with bare breasts, something quite unnecessary in that context, while Mark Antony, sitting opposite her, wears a full military uniform even including his helmet, and all other characters around the table are fully dressed. Cleopatra is depicted above all as a shameless and seductive woman, exploiting her power of seduction to stabilize her political power. Jean-Léon Gérôme, in 1866, painted the moment when Cleopatra made her surprising appearance before Caesar wrapped in a carpet. The artist shows Caesar’s great shock and implicitly his immediate fascination for the queen, who is only wearing a see-through dress revealing her naked breasts. Again, power and seduction combine to characterize the queen’s nature and ambitions. This eroticism constantly surrounds Cleopatra, even in the scene of her suicide, without a doubt the scene most often depicted since the sixteenth century in paintings of her life. Cleopatra generally appears with the asp on her chest or wrapped around her hands, always as a model of beauty and with characteristics implicitly evoking Venus as the archetype of eroticism, or Eve as the symbol of sin. Significantly enough, Cleopatra is always shown either completely naked or at least with one or both breasts naked as if she was offering them to the snake, although there is no record in ancient sources that she actually died like this.16 The scene of her suicide had already been painted in the first half of the sixteenth century, for example by Giampietrino or Jan van Scorel. The latter depicted Cleopatra completely naked, with a strikingly muscular body, set in a rural landscape with the asp around her right hand, while her left hand insinuatingly rests between her legs. The scene reminds us of Giorgione’s or Titian’s representations of Venus.17 Cleopatra looks distressed and resigned to her death. In the seventeenth century, the image is at times reminiscent of the scenes of Christian martyrs facing their torment, with a mixture of ecstasy and triumph over death, gaining access to immortality. A good example of this is the work of Guido Reni, an artist dating to the first half of the seventeenth century who painted the scene of Cleopatra’s suicide on several occasions. In each one

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Figure 24.  Cleopatra (G. Reni, Palazzo Pitti). Courtesy of the Picture Desk.

the queen looks up to heaven while holding the asp in her hand just before it bites her and the venom takes effect (Figure 24). In Reni’s work we can see, for instance, paintings of Mary Magdalene, penitent or repentant, clearly evocative of the dying Cleopatra. Reni thus created a form of model for this scene, not just for Cleopatra but also for depicting other women, dying or in religious rapture, which was to be repeated with some variations in the centuries to follow. Among other artists painting Cleopatra’s suicide we might mention Guido Cagnacci in the seventeenth century, Jean-Baptiste Regnault in the late eighteenth century,



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Jean-André Rixens in 1874, Reginald Arthur in 1892, Hans Makart in the late nineteenth century and Gyula Benczúr in the early twentieth century. The resulting image, based on four centuries of representing Cleopatra in European painting, was mainly that corresponding to the model of ‘femme fatale’ who led the men surrounding her to perdition.18 The key words in how the image of Cleopatra gradually seeped into the collective subconscious, in particular among the well educated public, who could access art and culture, were sensuality and eroticism. Theatre also made its contribution. For instance, the world famous actress Sarah Bernhardt played the Egyptian queen in 1890 in Sardou’s play Cléopâtre (Figure 25) and in 1899 in Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra, lending the character all the glamour surrounding her wherever she performed around the world.19 The twentieth century consolidated this image and made it popular through films, a much more accessible form of art for a broader audience. About 20 films so far have been made with Cleopatra as the

Figure 25.  Sarah Bernhardt as Cleopatra (V. Sardou 1899).

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Figure 26.  Theda Bara in Cleopatra (1916).

star, many of them based on Shakespeare’s play, from which they drew scenes and dialogues.20 Cleopatra was already portrayed on the big screen back in the times of silent films. The first film about the Egyptian queen was directed by Georges Méliès in 1899, and lasted only about four minutes, but nothing is preserved of it. In 1913, Enrico Guazzoni, who had just shot a version of Quo Vadis with great commercial success, made the film Marcantonio e Cleopatra, supposedly based on Shakespeare’s play, although it was actually quite far removed from it. The most famous silent film about Cleopatra was directed in 1917 by Gordon Edward.21 It cost 500,000 dollars, an extraordinary sum at the time, employed to reproduce an atmosphere of luxury and opulence. It starred Theda Bara (Figure 26), who is said to have sported 50 different costumes in the film. Bara was one of the most popular actresses of her time, particularly famous for her roles as ‘femme fatale’, which earned her the nickname ‘The Vamp’. The slogan used by the Fox studio to promote the film speaks for itself: Cleopatra was ‘the most famous vamp in history’ and Theda Bara was her reincarnation. The film, lost nowadays but for a few surviving stills, was a great success. Thus,



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Figure 27.  Claudette Colbert in Cleopatra (1934). Courtesy of The Kobal Collection.

in collective consciousness Cleopatra was given the attributes of a vamp, that is, of a lascivious woman who used her sensuality to seduce men. This was a decisive landmark which definitely opened the path to what, from then on, was to become the general perception of Cleopatra as sex symbol, identified with actresses who incarnated that very image for the general audience at the time. Her features as a historical character remained mostly constant, while her physical appearance changed with the actresses playing her. The first Cleopatra in sound film was Claudette Colbert, who starred in the great production directed by Cecil B. DeMille in 1934 (Figure 27). As was appropriate for a director with a marked taste for the colossal, the film had spectacular sets, such as the lavish ship used by Cleopatra to travel to Tarsus to meet Mark Antony. Despite the moral constraints of the time, the scene in which Cleopatra seduces Mark Antony on board her ship is highly erotically charged and is, no doubt, the most famous scene of this film. The exotic characters and settings, along with the screen presence of the leading actress, were key to its global success. In 1901, playwright George Bernard Shaw wrote Caesar and Cleopatra. Shaw presented quite a different version of Cleopatra, who was represented as

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Figure 28.  Cleopatra (Taylor) and Antony (Burton) during the banquet at Tarsus (Cleopatra 1963). Courtesy of The Kobal Collection. a teenager learning the secrets of life and government from her lover Caesar. Gabriel Pascal, who some years earlier had already made a film based on another play by Shaw, Pygmalion, turned the play into a film in 1945. The role of Cleopatra in this film was played by one of the great actresses at the time, Vivien Leigh, who had starred in Gone with the Wind some years earlier.22 Many other films have had Cleopatra as the star23 but, without a doubt, the most popular and the one with the highest visual impact on how to portray the Egyptian queen was shot by Joseph Mankiewicz in 1963, with Elizabeth Taylor as Cleopatra (Figure 28). This film, as could only be expected, reproduced the best loved and most spectacular scenes of Cleopatra’s life. But Mankiewicz also tried to go beyond the simple idea of the Egyptian queen as a sensual woman and erotic symbol, depicting her as an intelligent ruler and also as a mother concerned about the future of her son, Caesarion.24 In Mankiewicz’s characterization, actual political power accordingly joins Cleopatra’s stereotypical power of seduction. The original version of the film was too long, which resulted in the studio showing a much abridged version. This was highly detrimental to the



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director’s objective of presenting the characters with more detailed psychological depth, going beyond the characterization normally presented. Nevertheless, the film, which was later released in its original length, has become one of the great milestones in the history of cinema. Cleopatra was above all the queen of Egypt and as such she acted as she thought appropriate for the benefit of her country. She showed great capacity to rule her kingdom, tried to keep the throne under Egyptian control and strove, without success, to maintain Egypt as an independent country. According to the ancient sources, she was a learned person who had an outstanding command of several languages. She was also a mother who cared about her children, in particular about Caesarion. However, the propaganda broadcast by her great rival, Augustus, created the image of an immoral, cruel, seductive and manipulating woman who would not set herself any limits in the pursuit of her goals. Literary representations of Cleopatra contributed to the consolidation of her negative image. In the fourteenth century Boccaccio presented her in his De claris mulieribus as ‘the whore of oriental kings’ and as a woman characterized by ‘avarice, cruelty and lust’.25 Works of literature from the sixteenth to the nineteenth century perpetuated a similar image. The film industry turned Cleopatra into an erotic myth and sex symbol through some of the actresses who brought her to life. Theda Bara, Claudette Colbert, Vivien Leigh and Elizabeth Taylor were the most popular personifications of Cleopatra in films in the twentieth century although, without a doubt, since 1963 Cleopatra is and continues to be above all Elizabeth Taylor. According to some newspaper reports, producer Scott Rudin is going to shoot a film in which Angelina Jolie will star as the Egyptian queen. Will she manage to become the new Cleopatra of the twenty-first century?

Notes 1 Horace, Carm. 1.37.21. 2 Lucan, Phar. 10.59. 3 Plut. Caes. 48. 4 Plut. Ant. 25–7. 5 Bibliography on Cleopatra is vast; listing all titles here would be of little use. The three most recent biographies are by Chr. Schäfer, Kleopatra, 2006; J. Tyldesley, Cleopatra: Last Queen of Egypt, 2008 and D. W. Roller, Cleopatra. A biography, 2010. See also E. Flamarion, Cleopatra. The life and death of a pharaoh, 1997. In

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the last decade two great exhibitions have been devoted to the Egyptian queen. Two catalogues have been published as a result, bringing together partial studies and plenty of iconography: S. Walker and P. Higgs (eds), Cleopatra of Egypt, 2001; B. Andreae (ed.), Kleopatra und die Caesaren, 2006a. 6 See Cid López 2000: 119–37. 7 Andreae 2006b: 26. 8 Andreae leans towards the hypothesis that it is actually Cleopatra, although he acknowledges that the possibility of it being a private portrait cannot be discarded, Andreae 2006b: 26. Roller dismisses the possibility that it is a portrait of Cleopatra, Roller 2010: 176. In this respect, see also Weill 2006c: 126–9. 9 In his biography, Roller considers it likely that the portrait housed in Berlin was made while the queen was in Rome in the 40s of the 1st century bc, therefore as a young woman in her twenties, Roller 2010: 174. 10 Andreae openly declares himself in favour of identifying the Esquiline Venus as Cleopatra, who might not be depicted as a human being but as the personification of Isis-Venus, which could account for her nakedness, Andreae 2006b: 14–47. In contrast, in the same catalogue of the Hamburg exhibition, Weill Goudchaux categorically expounds the reasons why the sculpture could not correspond to Cleopatra: the queen would never have been depicted naked, Venus was a goddess who could not be embodied by a queen, even less so by a foreign queen and the Esquiline Venus has a fuller, straighter nose than that shown on Cleopatra’s coins, Weill Goudchaux 2006b: 138–41. 11 An Egyptian sculpture in black basalt which has been identified as Cleopatra does not add much to the knowledge of the queen, since it is the typical idealized statue of a pharaoh, with no realistic features. Andreae 2006a: 35 cat. 7. 12 The aforementioned sculptures are not the entire repertoire of possible representations of Cleopatra, either in Egypt or in Italy, which includes further sculpture as well as mural paintings and cameos. See a brief list in Roller 2010: 176–9. 13 See the synthesis by Weill Goudchaux 2006a: 130–5; Roller 2010: 179–83. 14 A synthesis of the representation of Cleopatra in painting can be found in Rhein 2006: 204–47. 15 See also Garcia, this volume. 16 The reference to snake venom causing the death of Cleopatra appears in Suet. Aug., 17.8. 17 Rhein 2006: 218. 18 The Egyptian queen has even been depicted in some abstract works, for example, by Alexander Archipenko in 1957, in which Cleopatra is represented lying down, reminiscent of Venus at the mirror by Rubens or Venus at her mirror by Velázquez, again in keeping with the image of the goddess who personifies beauty and sensuality. Cf. Rhein 2006: 212.



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19 On Classical Reception in Sardou’s plays see also Carlà, this volume. 20 See Prieto Arciniega 2000: 143–76. 21 For a poster of the film see cover illustration, this volume. 22 The following year La vida íntima de Marco Antonio y Cleopatra, by Mexican Gavaldón was released. 23 In Italy, for instance, several films were made about Cleopatra, such as Due notti con Cleopatra by Mario Mattoli (1953), Le legioni di Cleopatra by Vitorio Cottafavi (1959), Una regina per Cesare by Piero Pierotti and Victor Tourjanski (1962), the comedy Totó e Cleopatra by Fernando Cerchio (1963) and Il figlio di Cleopatra by Ferdinando Baldi (1964). Also, Charlton Heston directed and starred in Antony and Cleopatra in 1972. This film flopped at the box office, which was mainly due to the unfortunate choice of the actress who played Cleopatra and who could not compete with the ubiquitous Elizabeth Taylor. We must also mention Astérix et Cléopâtra (1968), as well as Astérix et Obelix: mission Cléopâtre (2002), based on the comic by René Goscinny and Albert Uderzo, in which the most outstanding feature of the main character is her famous nose. Cf. Prieto Arciniega 2000: 161–4, 169–71. On Classical reception in comics, see also Lindner, this volume. 24 On the characterization of Antony in this film, see Garcia, this volume. 25 Osterkamp 2006: 194.

15

Seduced, Defeated and Forever Damned: Mark Antony in Post-Classical Imagination Marta García Morcillo

Can we imagine a Mark Antony outside of the shadows cast by Julius Caesar and Cleopatra? Ancient and post-classical tradition frequently transmits a stereotypical image of Antony as the personification of the seduced and defeated. Such simplified depictions draw mainly on the negative propaganda conveyed by Augustan literature. In spite of Plutarch’s colourful biography of the triumvir, Antony appears mainly as Caesar’s deputy and failed successor. Above all, he features as Cleopatra’s lover, as discussed in the previous chapter by Pina Polo. An exception to these shallow readings is of course Shakespeare, who based his plays Antony and Cleopatra and Julius Caesar on Plutarch’s Lives. Both plays explore Antony’s struggles with essential human passions, particularly power and love, which will determine his tragic end. This chapter, intended as a counterpoint to the Great Seducer,1 will study the fate of Antony in the visual arts before and after Shakespeare by paying particular attention to his unequal representations in cinema. I will discuss the films Julius Caesar (1953) and Cleopatra (1963), both directed by Joseph L. Mankiewicz, and their hitherto unrecognized contribution to the rehabilitation of Antony as cinematic and Plutarchian hero. Towards the end of Plutarch’s Life of Antony we meet the former consul and triumvir facing the most important challenge of his life. After his bitter defeat in Actium and his retreat to Alexandria, Mark Antony faces up to his fall. Having been deserted by both his divine protector Dionysus and by his army, Antony contemplates the loss of all glory on the eve of the fatal battle of Alexandria.2 The only option he still has is to die honourably, to die a Roman death. The end of Antony’s dream of empire is visualized now in a poetic and symbolic scene that epitomizes his personality and his life.

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Plutarch’s Life of Antony effectively combines biographical account with psychological portrait.3 Antony’s ambitions of power and greatness, his excesses and passions, but also his popularity, noble character and outstanding military leadership were the main ingredients of Plutarch’s construction of Antony’s personality. Plutarch’s entertaining biography of Antony also emphasizes key chapters of his life, such as his participation at the battle of Pharsalus, his glorious victory at Philippi, the dark times of the triumvirate and above all his often disregarded Parthian campaign.4 The Life also refers to Antony’s progressive detachment from Rome, his predilection for Greece and his well known philhellenism, before moving on to his attraction to the East and Egypt.5 Antony’s seduction by the irresistible Cleopatra represented the turning point of his career and became a recurrent topos for Augustan propaganda and later authors, such as Appian and Cassius Dio.6 According to these simplifying depictions, in embracing Cleopatra and Egypt Antony succumbed to the vices, pleasures and luxury of the feminized East, abandoning traditional Roman virtues.7 The interpretation of his pro-Egyptian attitude as anti-Roman determined Antony’s condemnation and his consignment to oblivion after Actium.8 Accordingly, rather than the battle at Philippi, Actium was adopted by Augustan ideology as turning point for the beginning of a new era of peace under the patronage of Apollo and Augustus.9 Antony’s choice of Dionysus as patron also provided a welcome negative image, symbolizing his alleged lack of moderation and overindulgence in drink.10 However, as a divinity, who was very popular in the East in general, and especially in Alexandria because of the historical connection to the Ptolemies, Dionysus was a logical choice as patron deity. This applied particularly to a ruler intending to legitimize and extend his position of power in the East in the footsteps of Alexander.11 Dionysus abandoning Antony, as narrated by Plutarch, thus represented the end of Antony’s power and of his dream of an Alexandrian empire shared by Cleopatra. The author thus makes clear that Antony’s life and the choices he made were driven first and foremost by his aspiration to emulate Alexander, rather than by his seduction by a woman and her kingdom.12 The imitatio Alexandri in Plutarch influenced also Shakespeare’s characterization of Antony in his Roman plays.13 An example of this is the suicide of Antony in the play Antony and Cleopatra, in which the former triumvir nostalgically recalls once more his Parthian campaign as a symbol of his past glory.14 This is indeed one of the leitmotivs of the play, highlighting Antony’s tribulations and his progressing loss of identity as soldier and conqueror.15



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Just as Actium represented Antony facing desertion and defeat and Alexandria stood for his death, the site of his meeting with Cleopatra in 41 BC, Tarsus, symbolized his irrevocable seduction by the East and the turning point in his biography. Plutarch’s poetic description of the radiant queen and her magnificent courtiers sailing up the river Cydnus in a sumptuous barge, Cleopatra being adorned ‘like a Venus in a painting to meet Antony (Dionysus) for the good of Asia’ has inspired a large number of artists and poets, including of course Shakespeare himself.16 The moment sealing the political and emotional alliance and tragic fate of the couple is one of the most iconic and striking images of seduction and power ever written: the perfect fusion between politics and eroticism, the symbolic triumph of Cleopatra over Antony and of Egypt over Rome. The characterization of the queen as only active protagonist in this transcendent moment has no doubt determined Antony’s loss of relevance and his reduction to the passive object of Cleopatra’s ensnarement in post-classical imagery, particularly from the Renaissance onwards.17 One of the best examples of this tradition is the case of the eighteenthcentury Venetian artist Giovanni Battista Tiepolo, also discussed by Pina Polo. The encounter between Antony and Cleopatra at Tarsus and his return to Alexandria after his triumphal campaign in Parthia inspired a series of paintings and sketches created in the 1740s. The different versions of the Meeting of Antony and Cleopatra and the Banquet of Cleopatra made by the artist feature the universal theme of love and passion framed in an eighteenth-century Venetian setting. The most impressive of these works were no doubt the frescoes painted on the walls of the Palazzo Labia. Instead of Roman imperialism and Egyptian exoticism, the viewer encounters here a glamorous operatic scenario where the two lovers share their desire, while nothing reminds us of the historical drama of the characters and their terrible destiny.18 In The Banquet of Cleopatra, Tiepolo recreated a story already popularized by other artists, such as the Dutch painted Gérald de Lairesse (1689). The banquet drew on a scene described by Pliny the Elder, in which Cleopatra dissolved her pearl earring in a glass of vinegar in order to win a bet with Antony.19 Both works characteristically attribute the active role to Cleopatra, while the seduced Antony is marginalized in the treatment of the theme as well as in the composition of the work. Both the queen and the bright pearl illuminate the scene and attract the attention of the viewer, symbolizing the splendour and the luxuries of the Orient. Accordingly, modern visual representations of the encounter between Antony and Cleopatra at Tarsus established Antony’s degradation from a political and military leader to the part of hapless lover, which also characterizes

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his reception in film.20 The relevance of this key scene in cinema has been analysed in detail by Martin M. Winkler.21 The encounter at Tarsus played an important role in Enrico Guazzoni’s film Marcantonio e Cleopatra (1913), based on Shakespeare, and occupied a central position in the monumental Hollywood versions of the story, particularly in the films directed by Cecil B. DeMille (1934) and Joseph L. Mankiewicz (1963). As Winkler has noted, while DeMille transferred the magnificence of the scene as told by Plutarch and Shakespeare to the timeless splendour of Hollywood, Mankiewicz took particular care with Plutarch’s description and presented the appearance of his Cleopatra to Antony and to the viewer as a ‘divine epiphany’.22 It is obvious that the undeniable appeal of Plutarch’s narration enormously contributed to stereotyping Antony as the passive victim of seduction.23 Nevertheless, one should not reduce the post-classical reception of Antony to this scene and its messages. Taking a closer look at Shakespeare’s treatment of Antony, we should acknowledge the Bard’s enormous contribution to the construction of a complex romantic character moved by his love and passions. Both in Julius Caesar and Antony and Cleopatra, Shakespeare follows Plutarch and explores in depth the character’s virtues and defects as well as his potential as passionate lover and tragic hero, putting him – in terms of prominence – on the same level as a Macbeth, a Lear or a Hamlet.24 In spite of its title, Julius Caesar is not a play about the dictator’s life, but about his death and legacy; the power struggles and moral conflicts unleashed by the conspirators after the assassination of Caesar. While Brutus, the main character of the play, is driven by his convictions and his conscience, Antony shows his loyalty towards Caesar, but also furthers his ambition and showcases his rhetoric power in the central scene of the play: the funeral speech.25 The following events, the triumvirate and the battle of Philippi, display Antony as ambitious and ruthless leader, in contrast to the noble yet tormented (and ultimately defeated) Brutus.26 Shakespeare’s depiction of Antony in Julius Caesar inspired countless engravings, paintings and illustrations highlighting his political ambitions in the play (Figure 29). Antony as passionate philhellene is portrayed best in Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra, a poetic drama of eternal and tragic love and passion set in a hostile world of political ambitions, imperialism and decadence. Shakespeare’s characterization is that of the lover following his passions, even if this implies loosing his former identity as Roman, soldier and popular leader. In this respect, Shakespeare’s use of symbols such as Antony’s sword and armour are intended to underline the figure’s degradation as the plot progresses. Antony’s sword, the



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Figure 29.  The Second Triumvirate, engraving on wood by Kenny Meadows, The Works of Shakespeare, London 1844. Courtesy of the Roderic Bowen Library and Archives (Lampeter). instrument of his power as triumvir and successful general, becomes a souvenir of his former glory when he is in Alexandria, an accessory that proves to be ineffective even in the very moment of his death.27 Despite his defeat and his loss of reputation in Rome, Antony’s accepting his destiny and submitting to love is free of indignity. On the contrary, Shakespeare highlights Antony’s noble qualities and values and elevates the couple to the level of other epic and tragic lovers such as Dido and Aeneas.28 The death of Antony and Cleopatra turns into a self-sacrifice for love.29 Beyond the stereotype of victim of seduction, a close reading of Shakespeare’s plays allows us to recognize in Antony a seductive character in his own rights, whose attraction is based on the quality of his irrational love. This love and the loss of his Roman honour and identity are also behind the desertion of Antony’s troops during the naval battle at Actium, which could otherwise be read as dishonourable behaviour. Shakespeare’s interpretation of Antony leaving the battle inspired the painting Antony and Cleopatra by the Victorian artist Lawrence Alma-Tadema (1883). The foreground shows a forlorn Cleopatra who believes Antony to have died in battle and does not notice the arrival of

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her desperate lover, who has just abandoned his fleet for her. In the background, Roman ships symbolize Antony’s defeat. In contrast to the works on the theme of the Encounter and the Banquet mentioned above, this painting is a rare example of a successful depiction of Antony’s anxieties and passions in an active role, in spite of the obvious shame of the military desertion. Alma-Tadema’s painting no doubt captures the spirit of Shakespeare’s Antony. The popularity and universality of Shakespeare’s characters soon became a guaranty of success on the stage. Accordingly, it is not surprising that early cinema made good use of the potential of both plays, starting with Meliés and his Cléopâtre in 1899. During the fin-de-siècle, female characters were more frequently the protagonists of epics and dramas. At the same time, the character of the femme fatale or vamp emerged as an early twentieth-century star on the big screen. Accordingly, a stereotyped Cleopatra soon became an icon of popular culture, a position she holds unto today.30 As a result of Cleopatra’s modern dominance, the character of Antony lost his edge and Shakespearean depth, which applies especially to the portrayal of the Roman after Philippi and Tarsus. If we take a look at films dealing with both characters in different periods, the vast majority of them convey a stereotyped image of the seduced Antony. In the above-mentioned film Marcantonio e Cleopatra (1913), both the plot and the construction of the main characters are closely linked to Augustan propaganda. While Cleopatra, the dive muette Gianna Terribili Gonzales, appears as an evil and ambitious creature (‘The Serpent of the Nile’), Octavian and his sister Octavia embody noble Roman virtues – chastity and dignity. Torn between Rome and Egypt, East and West, Antony’s is again the clichéd role of the weak victim of seduction. The unequal presence on screen, dominated by the temperamental and physically imposing Terribili Gonzales, and the overall acting also emphasize Antony’s submission to the queen. After his defeat, Antony dies appealing to Rome for mercy. Having abandoned Roman virtue for the vices of the East, Antony is now looking for a redemption that he will only find posthumously, when Octavian, the hero, mourns his body. This deviation from Shakespeare and Plutarch was the result of a pro-Roman reading of the classical story, celebrating the conquest of Egypt as a triumph of civilization. This interpretation had a twentieth-century subtext: the Italian post-unification nationalism and its claims to the inheritance of the Roman Empire and its dreams of conquest. In this context, no doubt Octavian (and not the Philhellene Antony) was a suitable role model.31 DeMille’s Cleopatra (1934) is another example of early Hollywood’s oversimplification of Antony’s character in favour of a colourful depiction of Cleopatra



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as irresistible seducer (Figure 27). Conquered and possessed, Antony also vanished from the film’s posters and advertisements, which were monopolized completely by Claudette Colbert.32 Although the popular impact and the strong female characters are obvious parallels between DeMille and Joseph Leo Mankiewicz’ Cleopatra (1963), the interest for the historical characters and contexts differentiates both movies.33 While Mankiewicz’ portrait of Cleopatra in this gigantic project by Twentieth Century Fox is vivid and powerful, critics and scholars tend to disparage unfairly the poor and weak depiction of Antony. The savage cuts suffered by the original film after Mankiewicz had been forced off the project are no doubt behind such superficial impressions that disregard the efforts made by the director to provide his characters with credibility and depth. Mankiewicz was a film director who was very familiar with the stage as well as with Shakespeare and Plutarch, which explains his commitment in the earlier Julius Caesar.34 The introductory credits of Cleopatra state explicitly that the film was ‘based upon Histories by Plutarch, Suetonius, Appian, as well as The Life and Times of Cleopatra by C. M. Franzero’.35 The omission of Shakespeare surprises at first, although it is perfectly understandable if we consider that Mankiewicz did not aim to present an adaptation of the popular play as opposed to his approach to Julius Caesar, but to follow his own reading of Plutarch and the historical context. Mankiewicz was especially interested in the construction of the complex human relationships, more so than in the monumental grandeur and visual spectacle that stand out in the film. His focus on historical context and ideological conflicts was designed to go beyond the traditional simplistic perspective of East versus West, Rome versus Egypt. It enriches indeed the storyline with a fascinating narrative about Alexander’s heritage and Rome’s conquest of the Hellenistic world, which continues throughout the plot. Accordingly, the film portrays Cleopatra not only as an exotic (from the Roman and modern Western points of view) and attractive Egyptian queen, but also as the legitimate Ptolemaic ruler and the last of the heirs of the Hellenistic kings, Alexander’s generals. This is an important detail, given that the legacy of Alexander represents a leitmotiv in the consolidation of the unions between Caesar and Cleopatra and between the queen and Antony, fuelling their dreams of a Hellenistic empire.36 In the film, their visit to Alexander’s mausoleum showcased and legitimated the alliance. In addition, Mankiewicz took great care to introduce important details of Antony’s character, which he found in Plutarch. For instance, in the abovementioned meeting at Tarsus (Figure 28), Cleopatra remarks cunningly on the Greek clothes Antony wears for the special occasion, to which he replies: ‘I have

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a fondness for almost all Greek things.’ She responds cleverly: ‘As an almost all-Greek thing, I am flattered.’ The scene obviously recalls Antony’s interest in Greek culture, to which the queen links herself and her Macedonian ancestry. With this outwardly slight remark, Mankiewicz employs Plutarch effectively and conveys the essential information about Antony’s philhellenism to the audience, which precedes his passionate encounter with Cleopatra, but also distances him from Caesar’s characterization. Cleopatra is of course at the core of the film’s narrative, but so are Antony’s struggles and internal conflicts. Shortly before his death, Richard Burton, who performed the role of Antony, declared that this had been the best performance of his career as actor.37 Sadly, the subsequent editing detracted much from his colourful depiction: key dialogues and whole sequences were eliminated from the original version during the post-production, particularly affecting the battles of Philippi, Actium and Alexandria. The new DVD edition, containing some of the original scenes, finally enables us to partially appreciate the extraordinary work of Burton. This also applies to Mankiewicz’ portrayal of Antony as equal to Caesar and Cleopatra and to the historical importance attributed to them.38 This is apparent on some of the posters and in the advertising of the film, although both were also influenced by the publicity value of the love affair between Elizabeth Taylor (Cleopatra) and Richard Burton. To name but one example, Life Magazine dedicated a famous cover to the celebrated scene of the encounter of the future lovers at Tarsus. Audiences and critics often disregard the fact that Antony is not such a simple character as in earlier films and traditions. Neither is he a straightforward hero in classical Hollywood terms. On the basis of Plutarch, the depiction of Antony on stage and in film requires the skills of powerful actors capable of transmitting a wide range of emotions and passions, of human ambitions, but also of understandable weaknesses. Antony’s ‘Dionysian’ profile made Burton a perfect fit; the role also attracted ardent and imposing actors such as Charlton Heston, who performed Antony in two versions of Julius Caesar, a 16mm amateur film in 1950 and a British independent film in 1970, and in an Antony and Cleopatra of 1972. Most recently, the HBO series Rome presented Antony, played by James Purefoy, as a character whose complexity and humanity increases as the story progresses across the two seasons.39 The most influential cinematic performance of Antony was doubtlessly Marlon Brando’s in Mankiewicz’ Julius Caesar (1953). It is in this Shakespeare adaptation by MGM that Mankiewicz’ particular interest in Antony’s character first becomes apparent, an interest that would reflect in the later film Cleopatra. In the glorious times of Technicolor, Julius Caesar was filmed in splendid



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black-and-white, emphasizing its theatrical character.40 The film remains the most loyal cinematic adaptation of Shakespeare’s play. Nevertheless, some details in the treatment of the characters and the acting allow us to identify certain deviations from the play, which Mankiewicz and the producer John Houseman introduced. These small changes and additions underline Antony’s ambition and his importance in the political drama, although, as we have seen, Brutus was actually the main character of the original play. In the film, the central role of Antony (and accordingly of Brando) was also highlighted in the posters and advertisements.41 Mankiewicz’ and Brando’s construction of a complex character, worthy of Plutarch, stands out particularly in the splendid funeral speech (Figure 30). The composition of this scene appears to have been inspired by Orson Welles’ revolutionary version of the play, staged on Broadway in 1937, in which setting and costumes suggested a twentieth-century fascist interpretation.42 Antony’s speech in Welles’ adaptation seemed to recreate a public speech by Mussolini. Both the play and the 1953 movie were produced by Houseman, which might explain the presence of intertextual references to twentieth-century totalitarianism in Mankiewicz’ film, references that were explicit in Welles’ play. These were particularly evident in the use of the eagle

Figure 30.  Antony’s (Brando) funeral speech in Julius Caesar (1953). Courtesy of the Kobal Collection.

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standards across the film as symbols of Caesar and the triumvirs in Rome, in contrast to the Capitoline wolf chosen by Caesar’s murderers.43 Coming back to Antony’s funeral speech, Brando’s performance and the composition of the scene suggest an attempt to recreate Antony’s ‘Asiatic taste in speaking’ as described by Plutarch,44 and above all to emphasize his demagogic qualities, again an aspect with powerful twentieth-century resonance.45 The speech is enriched with a very cinematic moment of silence, when Antony turns his back to the crowd and allows only the modern audience to see the ambitious face behind the mask. The extreme close-ups of Brando’s subtle facial expressions reveal the determination of a character with no scruples, but also his emotional depth. Antony’s calculated manipulation of the masses is also explicit at the end of the speech, when Antony reveals Caesar’s will, provoking the anger of the population against the dictator’s murderers. Satisfied with his achievement and fully aware of their consequences, Antony leaves the setting while chaos and violence are unleashed in the background. In the next scene, Antony, already a triumvir, appears in the company of Octavian (called here Octavius) and Lepidus, while they draw up the famous proscriptions’ list. When Antony remains alone, he plays with a bust of the dictator, sitting in a chair with a depiction of the Caesarean eagle. The scene and the use of all three symbols – the list, the eagle and the bust – were added in the film in order to emphasize Antony’s ambition to succeed Caesar. The role of Octavian was intentionally minimized in the film, which directs the plot towards a polarized psychological opposition between the noble yet linear Brutus and his firm moral convictions, and the colourful, ambitious, ruthless and demagogic Antony.46 Underlining this complex set up, Mankiewicz played particular attention to giving Antony a certain Roman dignity in the last scene of the film after Cassius’ and Brutus’ defeat at Philippi. While Shakespeare’s play ends with Octavian’s wish of burying Brutus according to his virtues, in the film Antony’s words in honour of Brutus constitute the epilogue and topos of the film: ‘the noblest Roman of them all’. With this small change, the film manages to transmit the idea that Antony, and not Octavian, is the real political heir and successor of Caesar. If Mankiewicz’ interest in Antony may be perceived as resulting only in small yet significant modifications in his adaptation of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, Cleopatra was designed to explore in depth the many facets of Antony, just as Plutarch portrayed him. The fate of the film’s character mirrored that of the historical Antony: wilful manipulations and omissions/cuts resulted in the representation of his person as a simplistic, clichéd and decontextualized figure.



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However, both films no doubt succeed in transmitting Antony’s undeniable charisma as a man of passions. Antony was no Achilles, no Alexander, not even a Caesar. He has been misrepresented and undervalued by ancient and modern traditions; even so, paradoxically, Antony’s life and character continue to fascinate us. Why? As Shakespeare understood, his greatness and his weakness made him human and a figure one could easily relate to. As Plutarch wrote: ‘He was most like a good and true man when he was unfortunate.’47 Mankiewicz’ fraught involvement in Cleopatra provoked the abortion of another project, which the author and director would later consider as both the greatest challenge and disappointment of his carrier: Justine, the adaptation of Lawrence Durrell’s The Alexandria Quartet in a single film. The script had been revised and approved with enthusiasm by Durrell himself and had convinced the producers of 20th Century Fox to undertake the project. However, when Cleopatra turned out to be a flop, they abandoned the plan.48 One of the leading elements of The Alexandria Quartet, particularly of the first novel, Justine, is the motive of melancholy, symbolized by the decadent and cosmopolitan modern city of Alexandria. This motif appears throughout the story, evoked by images and verses based on Constantine Cavafy’s celebrated poem The God Abandons Antony (1911). This work is the most emotive tribute to Mark Antony – and perhaps to Alexandria – ever written. Directly inspired by Plutarch’s passage quoted at the beginning of this chapter, the eternal verses of The God Abandons Antony explore Antony’s glory in defeat and his cruel awakening from his dream of a Hellenistic empire.49 As in Plutarch, shortly before the fatal battle of Alexandria, Antony finally recognizes in the ceremonial music the futility of his vision of greatness and power, represented by Alexandria, Egypt and her queen: ‘Don’t say it was a dream, your ears deceived you; don’t degrade yourself with empty hopes like these’; ‘say goodbye to her, to the Alexandria you are losing.’50 With this poetic image of glorious defeat, Cavafy went beyond Shakespeare and Mankiewicz in recognizing Antony’s place in history on his own merit, as general, ruler, conqueror, lover and – last but not least – as tragic hero.

Notes 1 Pina Polo, this volume. 2 Plut. Ant. 75: ‘After this, Antony sent a new challenge to Caesar [Octavian], to fight him hand to hand; who made him answer that he might find several other

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ways to end his life; and he, considering with himself that he could not die more honourably than in battle, resolved to make an effort both by land and sea. At supper, it is said, he bade his servants help him freely, and pour him out wine plentifully, since tomorrow, perhaps, they should not do the same, but be servants to a new master, while he should lie on the ground, a dead corpse, and nothing. His friends that were about him wept to hear him talk so; which he perceiving, told them he would not lead them to a battle in which he expected rather an honourable death than either safety or victory. That night, it is related, about the middle of it, when the whole city was in a deep silence and general sadness, expecting the event of the next day, on a sudden was heard the sound of all sorts of instruments, and voices singing in tune, and the cry of a crowd of people shouting and dancing, like a troop of bacchanals on its way. This tumultuous procession seemed to take its course right through the middle of the city to the gate nearest the enemy; here it became loudest, and suddenly passed out. People who reflected considered this to signify that Bacchus, the god whom Antony had always made it his study to copy and imitate, had now forsaken him’ (translation by J. Dryden). 3 Cf. Pelling 1988. 4 Plut. Ant. 8; 19; 22. The campaigns against the Parthians occupy a large number of passages of the Life, see especially 33–53. 5 Plutarch clearly differentiates between Antony’s philhellenism and his role as benefactor in continental Greece from his presence in Alexandria, see Ant. 23 and 24. In Plutarch, Greece occupies a midpoint between Rome and Alexandria in Antony’s life, see in particular Ant. 33. 6 See, for example, Cassius Dio’s description of Antony’s damnatio, 51.19. On Cleopatra’s depiction in ancient literature and in post-classical reception see Pina Polo, this volume (with bibliography). 7 On stereotyping visions of the East, see also Seymour on Nabucco and LlewellynJones on Alexander in Babylon, this volume. 8 On Antony’s Egyptian anti-Romanism and its differentiation to his philhellenism see Swain 1990: 151–7. 9 On Actium as key event in Augustan propaganda see Gurval 1995. 10 See, for example, Horace, Odes 1.37 and Cassius Dio 50.25.2–4. 11 On Antony and Dionysus see Scott 1929: 133–41. On Antony’s imitatio Alexandri, see Michel 1967 and Weippert 1972. 12 Antony’s imitatio was indeed in many ways comparable to Augustan propaganda deployed after Actium see, for example, Engels 2010: 153–7. 13 On Antony’s imitatio Alexandri in Plutarch and Shakespeare see McJannet 1993: 1–18. 14 Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra III.14.69–71. 15 See below. 16 Plut. Ant. 26. See also Pina Polo, this volume.



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17 Cleopatra’s suicide constitutes another key representation in the visual arts; see Pina Polo, this volume. 18 For the interpretation of the painting see, for instance, Fahry 1971: 735–40; Mariuz 2004: esp. 7–29. 19 Plin. Nat. Hist. 9.119. Other versions of the same story by Jean de Bray (1652) (see Pina Polo, this volume), Ottmar Elliger the Younger (1666–1735), Gerald Hoet (1700), Franz Martin Kuen (1771). 20 See Pina Polo, this volume, for further works depicting Cleopatra, for instance at the moment of her death. 21 Winkler 2004: 362–72; 2009: 264–81. See also Pina Polo, this volume. 22 Winkler 2004: 366; 2009: 278. As the author notes, Mankiewicz follows Plutarch closely in aspects such as the reconstruction of the vessel and the musical entertainment, see in particular 2004: 365–8; 2009: 274–80. 23 See, for example, Deleuze 1989: 51. 24 See Stein 1959: 586–606. 25 Shakespeare, Julius Caesar III.2, inspired by Plutarch and Appian. By condensing the sequence of events into a single day, Shakespeare constructed an effective contraposition between both protagonists. 26 The play ends with the death of Brutus, who is honoured by Antony and Octavian as noble Roman, thus ending up as the hero of the play, see Clarke 1981: 71. 27 On the importance of these symbols for Antony’s identity, Jul. Caes. I.1.12. On the ineffectiveness of Antony’s sword in the scene of his suicide, see Jul. Caes. IV.14.79. The use of this symbolic imagery has been scrutinized by Charney 1957: 149–61. 28 See Ant. and Cleo. IV.9.8–22. On the comparison with Dido and Aeneas, see Ant. and Cleo. IV.14.51–4. Further Hamilton 1973: 245–52. On Dido and Aeneas in reception, see Winkler, this volume. 29 On the concepts of honourable death and death for love see Harris 1977: 226 and MacMullan 1963: 399–410. 30 See Pina Polo, this volume. 31 On the ideological background of the film see Wyke 1997: 73–8; 2006: 170–89; De España 2009: 50–1; Cotta Ramosino and Dognini 2004: 105. 32 See Winkler 2009: 264–81. 33 For an analysis of the film see Wyke 1997: 73–109 and Cyrino 2005: 121–58. See also Pina Polo, this volume. 34 On Plutarch’s popularity in film see Bourget 2000: 82–5. 35 On the direct use of Plutarch by Mankiewicz see also Winkler 2004: 365–8. 36 On the importance of Hellenistic culture for the depiction of Cleopatra and Alexandria in the film see Llewellyn-Jones 2002b, especially 282–4; García Morcillo 2008, esp. 225–7. The following dialogue between Caesar and Cleopatra in the first part of the film is an example of Mankiewicz’ interest in the political background

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of the story: Caesar: ‘I have enough of you pretenders parading on ruins of past glories.’ Cleopatra: ‘Alexander understood that from Egypt he could rule the world.’ 37 As Mankiewicz stated in an interview published in the Washington Post in 1986; see Dauth 2008: 167. 38 On the problems and frustrations faced by Mankiewicz and the crew during the filming of Cleopatra, see Dauth 2008: 199. 39 Purefoy’s performance and Antony’s characterization in the TV series deserve further study. 40 On the popular impact of this film see Barthes 2009 (1957): 15–18. 41 Antony’s importance in the film and Brando’s impressive performance were further highlighted in the choice of the actor’s shot for the cover of Life magazine. See further Solomon 2001: 59. Brando was nominated for an Academy Award for his role in the film. 42 As recognized by Welles himself, see interview in Estrin 2002: 153. Further Anderegg 2004: 295–305. 43 On the anti-fascist reading of the film and the intentional use of the eagle and other iconographic elements as symbols of totalitarianism in a modern sense, see Wyke 2004: 58–74. 44 Plut. Ant. 2. 45 On Antony’s demagogy in the film see Wyke: 2004: 63. 46 Deleuze 1989: 51 recognizes Mankiewicz’ contribution to the construction of a dichotomy between the noble yet simple characterization of Brutus and the complex and ambitious Antony. 47 Plut. Ant. 17. 48 Mankiewicz expressed interviews his frustration for the interruption of his most challenging and personal project, see Dauth 2008: 86–8, 199–200. 49 Cavafy saw in Antony the ideal representation of a tragic hero caught between two worlds, and in his fall a metaphor for the end of the Hellenistic world, see further Katope 1969: 125–37; Pinchin 1977: 53–6, 193; Keeley 1996: 6–7, 40–1, 77–102. 50 Cavafy, The God Abandons Antony (1911), transl. by E. Keeley and Ph. Sherrard.

16

Power Beyond Measure – Caligula, Corruption and Pop Culture Martin Lindner

‘So much about him as a princeps, the rest has to be told about the monster.’1

The above quote is part of the Life of Gaius Caligula, written in the second century ad by the Roman historian Suetonius. While his collection of biographies of the first 12 emperors is rich in sinister characters like Nero or Domitian, Caligula, son of Germanicus, easily surpasses them all. The relevance of the sentence cited above is best understood by looking at its position – at the very beginning of the 22nd of the biography’s 60 chapters (with the first seven dealing with the career of Caligula’s father). If we can trust the Historia Augusta, even reading this text could be considered a political statement: Commodus is said to have thrown a man to the wild beasts for such an ‘offence’.2

The Making of the Monster Caligula is one of the archetypical bad guys not only of ancient historiography, but also of modern pop culture. In the popular reception of ancient Rome he ranks on the same level as Nero, by far outdoing potential rivals such as Elagabalus or Julian the Apostate. This is not the place to discuss the authenticity of that image, which is strongly influenced by Caligula’s opposition to the senatorial class responsible for most of the Roman historiography.3 Instead, this chapter aims to represent the characteristic traits of the emperor’s reception in the different media of modern pop culture, focusing on the leitmotif of ‘corruption of (and by) power’. Some, in fact most, of the examples given may not exactly be aesthetically pleasing, but had to be included in order to give a representative sample. However, a study like this is not an end in itself.

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To understand the phenomenon Caligula we would do well to understand the traditions of popular reception that may have influenced our own prior knowledge and that of other scholars. Some introductory remarks to begin with: even identifying the emperor in modern pop culture can be a task much more difficult than most people would expect. This is due to a long tradition of parallels between (or even conflation of) Caligula and Nero.4 Especially in some of the films mentioned below, the result is a kind of ‘compound emperor’, at times even changing names in dubbed foreign releases. Furthermore, several historical novels listed below introduce Caligula as the first persecutor of Christianity. As far as one can dissect stereotypes relating to either Nero or Caligula, the former is more of an aspiring artist, a weak and effeminate character, while the latter is the personification of hubris, a maniac enforcing political and/or sexual perversions. In that regard, even the name itself may function as an icon in modern pop culture, as is the case with a series of sadomasochistic hardcore porn films titled Caligula 2000.5 The modern popular reception of the emperor is based on almost 2,000 years of highly consistent negative judgements. These were cast not only by Suetonius and other ancient historians, but also by Christian authors such as St Augustine.6 They recur in medieval historical dramas or historiographies and in countless modern fictional works. To give but a few examples: in the late fourteenth century John Gower chose in his Confessio Amantis Caligula as the archetype of a despot controlled only by his own lust;7 in the early eighteenth century François Fénelon invented a series of instructional dialogues, including one between Caligula and Nero on the abuse of absolute power;8 the eponymous drama by the young Albert Camus staged Caligula loosing his grasp on reality as an allegory for the zeitgeist of the World War II society. With a few notable exceptions most scholarly approaches were also strongly influenced by this tradition, among them remarkable studies such as Bubi Caligula (Little Boy Caligula) by Hanns Sachs, published in 1930/32. Sachs employed psychoanalytical explanations for the emperor’s actions, but never questioned the basis of the classical image of Caligula as a madman seduced by absolute power into all sorts of antisocial behaviour and sexual perversions.9 As late as 1991 Arther Ferrill still pressed this image in his biography Caligula – Emperor of Rome. Freely quoting Lord Acton, he declared that ‘a famous statement […] seems to apply especially well to Caligula: “power corrupts, and absolute power is even nicer”’.10 The ever so popular discussion of the emperor’s Caesarenwahnsinn (imperial insanity)11 points back to Ludwig



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Quidde with whom our account of reception in modern pop culture is about to commence.

Cartoons, Comics and Photonovels In 1927 Ludwig Quidde won the Nobel Peace Prize for his influence on the trans-European peace movement. About 30 years earlier (1894) he had written one of the most successful German books of all time: Caligula – Eine Studie über Caesarenwahnsinn (Caligula – A Study On Imperial Insanity). In fact it was more of a pamphlet against the political change brought about by Wilhelm II of Germany and his seduction by power. The original version alone was reprinted over 30 times, and countless versions of the English and French translations were used as propaganda in World War I. Wilhelm himself did nothing to invalidate the analogy, giving speeches worthy of Caligula and even having chosen one of the emperor’s sayings as a personal motto.12 Caligula as a synonym for a monarch corrupted by power allowed the authors to evade the censors and functioned as a code word for Wilhelm II.13 So when Wilhelm affirmed his ruinous naval plans with the infamous ‘Hun Speech’ in 1900 and mustered his legions on the Saalburg, a reconstructed Roman fort in Hesse, the parallel with Caligula and his mock campaign in the north was close at hand. Political cartoons picked up Quidde’s comparison and portrayed a mad Roman despot seeking world domination. A particularly good example from October 1900, published in the Swiss Magazine Nebelspalter, showed Caligula with Wilhelm’s famous moustache, his right hand clutching a globe on which the whole world is named ‘Germania’.14 Even Quidde himself was appalled by the amount of attacks using his historical analogy.15 Caligula’s career in Italian pulp comics is even less glamorous. The so-called fumetti have a long tradition dating back to the early twentieth century. Originally they focused on the mostly male readership of youth magazines and were quite often based on historical events. Under the fascist regime the fumetti enforced the propaganda of Mussolini as the second Augustus (who in turn became the first Duce), sometimes showing both figures as the fathers of Italian history in the same panels.16 Caligula turned into a central figure of these comics especially through the Messalina series by Ruggero Giovannini, running from 1966 to 1974, by which time the fumetti had developed into a new type of adult entertainment.17 Few of Caligula’s escapades received detailed treatment, but the series’ political undertone seems very fitting for the late 1960s and early

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1970s. Messalina, Caligula and all the other members of the imperial family symbolize the depravity of the ‘establishment’, a group of undemocratic egomaniacs corrupted by their political omnipotence. A strange oddity is the photonovel Caligula, produced for special home video releases of Caligola: La storia mai raccontata in the early 1980s. The photonovel used dozens of stills from the film, itself an unofficial sequel to the infamous Penthouse movie treated below. It supplied even more drastic dialogues and combined them with visualized cartoon sound effects for scenes of rape, incest and murder. Here, Caligula’s interests are reduced to the thrill of breaking (mainly sexual) taboos, while his intimidated contemporaries fulfil the roles of spectators, accomplices or victims. Several elements of the photonovel show obvious parallels to the genre of historical pulp fiction novels as some of the following examples will demonstrate.

Historical Novels and Pulp Fiction Caligula is not a very popular choice when it comes to historical novels, but there is a considerable amount of texts which introduce him as a character with varying degrees of importance. A by-no-means complete bibliography by Stefan Cramme lists almost 50 titles in nine different languages, with a considerable amount dating to the new millennium. Most of them employ the classic gladiator or damsel in distress plot in the best tradition of the Christian Zeitbilder, while others present themselves as dramatized biographies. Quite often the central theme is Caligula in conflict with the purity of Christian faith and his de facto inferiority when compared to Jesus Christ and the saints.18 A representative example is The Robe, published in 1942 by the American author Lloyd C. Douglas. The text is basically an imitation of nineteenth- and early twentieth-century novels loosely connected to the life of Christ, in this case centred on the story of Marcellus, a soldier who participated in the crucifixion. Douglas’ description of the emperor is one of a restrained youth quickly succumbing to the lure of absolute power: The traditions meant as little to Caligula as the counsel of his dismayed ministers. The stories of his insane egotism, his fits and rages, and his utter irresponsibility swept through the city like a fire. […] Hundreds of thousands were fed and wined and welcomed to the games, which for wanton brutality and reckless bloodshed quite surpassed anything that Rome had ever seen. The



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substantial citizenship of the empire stood aghast, stunned to silence. As for the habitually empty-bellied rabble, Little Boots was their man.19

Caligula resembles a short-sighted demagogue blinded by his arrogance. In the end, Marcellus declares himself a Christian and exposes the emperor as a deplorable tyrant, inferior to the uncorrupted messiah. Caligula orders an execution because he cannot accept the truth, but turns Marcellus into a martyr and a powerful symbol of the new faith.20 Even more successful than The Robe are two fictional autobiographies from the 1930s: I, Claudius and Claudius the God by Robert Graves. Unlike Douglas, Graves abstained from a Christian reinterpretation of historical events and used his excellent knowledge of classical texts to create an intelligent narrative that reads like a crime thriller. Compared to complex characters like Augustus’ wife Livia or the emperor Claudius, Graves’ depiction of Caligula remains rather conventional. He is the spoiled son of the hero Germanicus, but also the true heir of Livia with her penchant for political murder and of Tiberius with his paranoia and depravity. This Caligula behaves like a cruel child drunk with power and fascinated by its ability to push the boundaries. As our narrator Claudius informs us: in the end ‘there can hardly have been a citizen in Rome who did not long for the death of Caligula, or would not willingly have eaten his flesh, as the saying is’.21 The emperor has fallen victim to his own omnipotence and has turned into a monster, just as described by Suetonius. On the lower end of the quality scale lie the products of pulp fiction like Gore Vidal’s Caligula by William Howard. As already indicated by the title, the book is a poor copy of the original screenplay for Caligula penned by the famous American author. (The 1979 paperback edition includes more than 30 stills from the Penthouse movie.) Howard surpasses the film’s directness with more explicit scenes of rape, homosexual intercourse and paedophilia. Even Caligula’s assassination is an immediate effect of sexual insults and abuse.22 Beyond that, the book delivers a cheap mixture of anecdotes and standard pornographic fantasies.23 Pulp fiction like Howard’s novel employs the same strategies as the numerous B-movies, but can afford to include some even more extreme elements. The predominant leitmotif is again ‘corruption by power’, albeit this time without any political undertones. It is merely an excuse for pornographic and violent fantasies.

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Films and TV Series There are more than a dozen epic films and a couple of TV series featuring Caligula as one of the main characters, divided almost equally between mainstream and pornographic productions. Few are based on historical novels like the aforementioned The Robe and I, Claudius or use elements from such texts like Demetrius and the Gladiators, the sequel to The Robe based on the same characters. The mainstream films usually focus on political and religious aspects of the tyrant Caligula’s reign (unsurprisingly there is no attempt at a more positive characterization). Quite often the traditional interpretation of Caligula as a ‘pre-Neronian Nero’ contains narrations about the emperor as the first persecutor of Christianity. One of the best examples can be found in Ponzio Pilato from 1966, an Italian based production with international cast. The story describes the fate and religious self-discovery of Pontius Pilate who finally adopts the Christian faith and is brought before the emperor. Pilate is accused and judged by Caligula in front of the Senate, not so much because he supposedly failed as a governor, but because he is considered guilty of disrespectful behaviour towards his emperor.24 Willingly accepting imminent death, Pilate sends Caligula into fits of rage by denying him the authority to judge religious matters.25 Caligula’s tyranny in Ponzio Pilato and other mainstream films is often presented as a result of psychological illness or at least general mental instability, usually without any specific explanation of the emperor’s motives and only supported by the seductive influence of power. In the far more numerous B-movies the predominant leitmotif is Caligula as the grand master of sex, crime, depravity and corruption. The mixture of these two traditions – mental illness and corruption – is most evident in Caligula from 1979. Its script stemmed from the renowned American writer Gore Vidal, and international stars such as Peter O’Toole, Malcolm MacDowell, Helen Mirren and John Gielgud played the leading roles. Bob Guccione, then boss of the Penthouse empire and in control of the project, must be called to account for the insertion of hardcore porn scenes into the final cut.26 Although most of the actors claimed to have been surprised by these additions, there had already been an explicit initiation scene in the ‘House of Living Statues’ prior to Guccione’s alterations. Here, a syphilitic Tiberius introduces his fascinated heir to the sexual escapades he will be able to experience after his succession (Figure 31).27 The unofficial sequels like Le Schiave di Caligola or Flavia dropped the last remnants of a political context and reduced Caligula’s motives to sexual addiction.



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Figure 31.  Caligula (1979). Courtesy of the Kobal Collection. One of the most recent examples appears in the sixth season of the TV series Xena – Warrior Princess. In the 124th episode, The God You Know, the emperor succeeds in becoming a living god in spite of the opposition by the archangel Michael. Again, a certain conflation of Caligula and Nero takes place: Caligula is supposedly haunted by his murdered mother and enforces the slaughter of Christians, named the ‘Elijans’ in the series. In the end, Xena tricks the immortal emperor into committing suicide.28 Caligula is portrayed as a spoilt youth hungering for power and social acceptance, but is in fact nothing but a weak and effeminate character. (When he achieves godhood by sucking the power out of another deity, his remarkable choice is Aphrodite.29) Xena’s Caligula, as is to be expected from a series aimed at a younger audience in the Anglo-American market, is drunk with power, but not by the realization of his sexual fantasies.

Miscellaneous In a small number of games the emperor again occurs as the archetypical tyrant and madman. The board game Caligula produced by the Italian company Post Scriptum (Figure 32) focuses on the intrigues and power struggles within the

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Figure 32.  Cover from the table game Caligula. © Post Scriptum Giochi.



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elite of Imperial Rome. The players’ goal is to corrupt and bribe as many influential groups as possible and earn victory points through political murders. Conspiracies are initiated by an auction. The winner gets the chance to assassinate the current princeps: Caligula, Claudius, Nero, Galba, Vitellius, Domitian, Commodus, Pertinax, Geta or Elagabalus. With the end of this series of ‘bad emperors’ the game reaches is last and final step, appropriately named ‘The Fall of the Empire’.30 Caligula is also present in computer games like the gory Viva Caligula by Adult Swim Games.31 The players direct a beastly-looking emperor on his killing spree through ancient Rome, with the option to increase weapon damage by screaming into a microphone. The orgy room forms the last stage and the death screen reads ‘Rome is corrupt!’. The game is flanked with merchandising items such as the Caligula coffee mug, the Caligula t-shirt, the Caligula beer stein or Caligula nightwear. Other companies provide similar lines of products such as the What Would Caligula Do? series of underwear.32 The Caligula repertoire also comprises a number of operas from Giovanni Maria Pagliardi (1672) to Gaetano Braga (1873) as well as the musical production Caligula: An Ancient Glam Epic by Eric Svejcar. The latter is marketed as ‘a raucous, glam rock journey filled with murder, sensuality, heart-break, world domination, immortality and absurdly unmitigated ego’.33 This show won the audience award at the New York Musical Festival in 2004 and its Broadway version is meant to open while these lines are written. With Caligula Maximus, a burlesque show by Alfred Preisser and Randy Weiner, yet another current production focuses on the emperor’s excesses, this time concentrating on the last day of the emperor’s life. The cast features an adult film star, several professional body builders and circus artists.34 The most interesting entry of Caligula into the lists of modern pop songs is Caligula Syndrome by Soft Cell. The lyrics adapt several motifs from the emperor’s popular reception for an acidic comment on current pop culture. Caligula’s character is linked to the voyeuristic and sadistic methods of TV entertainment (‘I’ll display you in my game show on TV called “Humiliation And Hypocrisy”’) or to the negative effects of modern star cult (‘Have I become just a little deranged while you’re crawling on your hands and knees like slaves?’). In the by now familiar conflation we once more encounter the compound emperor Caligula-Nero (‘Won’t you dance with me while our empire is falling? Like Nero let’s make music to the fires of Rome’)35 and return to the leitmotif of corruption and power.

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Conclusion The reception of Caligula in pop culture is an enhanced and often radicalized version of previous negative judgements. Hubris and despotism form the main topic, usually interspersed with key anecdotes like incest with his sister Drusilla or his mock campaign and triumph in the north. The modern iconic turn may have increased the power of such images like the ever-present horse as consul or the brothel on the Palatine. The leitmotif of seduction, or better corruption, can be varied according to the context. Quite often it acts as pretence for the inclusion of extreme fantasies of violence or sexual perversions into a historical narrative: Caligula, the unchecked sexual addict. In other cases the emperor becomes the archetype of an intolerant and deranged tyrant: Caligula, the monarch unfit to rule. The common denominator of all these receptions is the morbidly fascinating character of the tyrant corrupted by his omnipotence. In the mid-seventeenth century Eustache Le Sueur was able to give us one of the few positive images of the princeps with his painting Caligula déposant les cendres de sa mère et son frère dans le tombeau de ses ancêtres.36 In modern pop culture of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries not a trace of this dignity remained. Historical novels enforced the image of the intolerant madman, often building on the tradition of Caligula as a second Nero predating Nero. This character provided political cartoons and writings with an obvious and extremely influential analogy. After Ludwig Quidde and Wilhelm II a positive image of Caligula was practically unthinkable. The aspect of sexual depravity is already present in some B-films, comics and books dating back to the 1950s and 1960s. But it was the Penthouse movie Caligula from 1979 with its many direct or indirect sequels and spin-offs that shifted the emphasis from politics and religion to the lure of unconventional sexual practices and sadism.37 There are some indications – like Viva Caligula with its quirky merchandising or Eric Svejcar’s musical – that Caligula might turn into some kind of ‘trash cult hero’. However, the same reasons, which qualify him for that role, stigmatize and ban him from being an acceptable (if harsh) political analogy – but turned him into the perfect insult against former Italian prime minister Silvio Berlusconi during his many sex scandals.



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Notes 1 Suet. Cal. 22.1: Hactenus quasi de principe, reliqua ut de monstro narranda sunt. 2 SHA Comm. 10.2. 3 For a more balanced view cf. Barrett 1989; Yavetz 1996; Wilkinson 2005 and Winterling 2004; for the influence of Seneca in particular cf. Wilcox 2008. 4 Two of the most influential sources for the medieval and modern tradition are Eutropius, who even introduces Nero with the words ‘extremely alike to his uncle Caligula’ (Caligulae avunculo suo simillimus, 7.14.1), and Orosius, who transfers the accusation of incest with the emperor’s sister from Caligula to Nero (7.7.2). Orosius’ version gained additional weight through Gregory of Tours who included it in his Historia (1.25). I thank Emma Southon for pointing out this last passage to me. 5 Other instances include films like Tôkyô Karigyura fujin (Lady Caligula in Tokyo) or Caligula Reincarnated as Hitler, the English title of L’Ultima orgia del III Reich. A Caligula by another name can also be found in the TV movie Cyclops from 2008, which introduces a certain ‘Falco’ as the power-obsessed nephew of the emperor Tiberius. 6 August. De civ. Dei 5.21, with Caligula as the first in a line of bad emperors including Nero, Domitian and Julian. 7 Confessio Amantis 8.199–212 (ed. Peck and Galloway 2004). 8 Dialogues des morts 50, for the concept of the ‘mirror of princes’ cf. Graap 2001: 257–69. 9 At least some of the stories about Caligula’s pride of his own ‘shamelessness’ may originate in the emperor’s humorous and ambiguous boast about adiatrepsía as his best character trait, as reported in Suet. Cal. 29.1 (for possible translations cf. Dubuisson 1998). 10 Ferrill 1991: 10. 11 Countless studies have used the sources at face value in order to identify the underlying medical conditions for Caligula’s supposed madness, for example, alcoholism (Jerome 1923, especially 419), hyperthyroidism (Katz 1972 and 1977), states of anxiety or mania (Massaro/Montgomery 1978 and 1979) or interictal temporal lobe epilepsy (Benediktson 1989). 12 ‘Let them hate me as long as they fear me’, Suet. Cal. 30,1: oderint dum metuant, going back to a quote taken from a source as used by Tiberius. Wilhelm II had even added the inscription to a photograph of himself in the embassy at the Vatican, Holl 2001: 25. 13 For example, in the series Gekrönte Häupter written by the social democrat Felix Schmitt in the last years of the nineteenth century; for the impact of the publication cf. Fesser 2001 and Schlünzen 2009. 14 Drawing by Johann F. Boscovits in Nebelspalter 42, 20 October 1900: 5.

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15 Starting with the 31st edition (1926) the text was published with a commentary by the author explaining his motives and trying to take the blame for World War II off Wilhelm. 16 For examples of fascist ideology in Italian comics cf. Carraba 1973 and Giovanetti 2008. 17 Keller 1999, esp. 136–7. 18 http://www.hist-rom.de/themen/caligula.html 19 Douglas 1999: 453; note the reference to Nero with the stories ‘[sweeping] through the city like a fire’. 20 Douglas 1999: 503–8. 21 Graves 1953: 387. 22 Howard 1979: 212–22. 23 For example, in the graphic description of the ‘wall of pleasure holes’, Howard 1979: 178–9. 24 Ponzio Pilato 2–5 (restored PAL DVD version, EAN 4020628949914), all scenes are cited according to the system explained in Lindner 2007: 22–7. 25 Ponzio Pilato 95. 26 Cf. Janka 2002 (with a rather positivistic approach) and Mary McHugh, this volume. 27 Caligula 9–21 (uncut PAL DVD version, EAN 3512391307080). 28 Xena – Warrior Princess: The God You Know 37–41 (PAL DVD version, EAN 5050582508956). 29 Xena – Warrior Princess: The God You Know 9 and 27. 30 Game rules, p. 7 (‘Caduta dell’Impero’). 31 http://games.adultswim.com/viva-caligula-adventure-online-game.html. 32 Several dozen of these items are compiled in the Caligula Shop at http://shop. cafepress.com/caligula 33 http://www.caligulaonbroadway.com/ 34 https://caligulamaximus.wordpress.com/; I thank Emma Southon for calling my attention to Caligula Maximus and for providing me with a transcript of her interview with Eric Svejcar. 35 The song can be found on the 2002 album Cruelty Without Beauty. 36 Quite often Virgilio Mattoni’s painting Las Termas de Caracalla from 1881 is falsely reported to show a benevolent Caligula as well, cf. Pérez Calero 1996: 25. I thank Marta García Morcillo and Antonio Duplá for introducing me to Le Sueur’s work. 37 In this way, Gideon Nisbet seems to me to choose the wrong categories in his emotional criticism of the film: ‘a confused attempt to have our highbrow historiography and eat it, smeared across the bodies of numerous Penthouse models […], but its relevance is limited’, Nisbet 2009: 164. Even if ‘Caligula was always going to be a peculiar project, and one abject flop never killed a genre on its own‘



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(ibid.), this is not a question of relevance. I do have certain problems with the idea of movies on classical antiquity forming a genre (cf. Lindner 2007: 190–221), but this said, the film did have a remarkable impact on the emperor’s image in modern pop culture – with more recent hardcore porn films such as Caligola, follia del potere or Serenity’s Roman Orgy being only one small aspect.

17

Constantia Memoriae: The Reputation of Agrippina the Younger1 Mary R. McHugh

The historian and moralist Lord Acton famously said: ‘Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Great men are almost always bad men.’ If we are persuaded by conventional – that is to say, in most cases patriarchal – rhetoric, then we may easily adduce any number of women as closely analogous examples. From such a perspective, an attractive, intelligent and ambitious woman is quickly regarded as power-hungry and manipulative and, as a result, is turned almost unavoidably into an enchanting if devious seductress, ruthless in her desire for power either on her own or her children’s behalf. Even worse, she exploits the emotional and moral failings of men. Great women are almost always bad women. Or so misogynistic gossip has persuaded many over millennia. Even historical sources are rarely free from such stereotypical views of women. The film adaptation of John le Carré’s novel The Constant Gardener is a recent example, in a popular medium, of a particular classical rhetorical strategy. Slanderous attacks on the female protagonist, Tessa, mask a deadly conspiracy, one which she had sought to thwart. The strategy employed by her enemies has a long tradition: it was one of the rhetorical topoi used to influence the posthumous memory of women in ancient Rome. Cicero’s use of hostile stereotypes of Roman women in forensic oratory, such as his attack on Clodia in the Pro Caelio, suggests that such negative portrayals became the basis of later defamatory descriptions. The posthumous reputation of Agrippina the Younger may be the most instructive case. Even long after her death, hostile authors delighted in reporting her numerous affairs, including incestuous relationships with her brother Caligula, her uncle Claudius – whom she seduced into marriage – and even her

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son Nero. She is also reputed to have been ruthless in exercising her influence to get rid of her enemies and was blamed for numerous deaths and persecutions. In sources hostile to the Julio-Claudian dynasty, Agrippina’s political acumen and her alleged influence on both her husband’s and her son’s policy garnered her the reputation of being devious and manipulative. In the imperial world of courtly intrigue, power plays and back-door politics that historians like Tacitus and Suetonius describe, what could be a more effective strategy than a posthumous smear campaign? The mala memoria, as we might term it, of a supposedly bad woman has proven so tenacious as to be practically irreversible and irresistible even in a variety of media in modern times – an enduring constant of her reputation (despite several attempts in antiquity to rehabilitate her character).

Ancient Agrippina (Figure 33) Who was Agrippina the Younger? Most importantly, she was a direct descendant of the emperor Augustus. Her parents, Agrippina the Elder and Germanicus,

Figure 33.  Statue of Agrippina the Younger, detail. Vatican Museums.



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were popular with the Roman people, and many assumed they were victims of the unpopular emperor Tiberius. In ad 33, the same year Agrippina the Elder died in exile imposed by Tiberius, Tiberius himself died. Agrippina the Younger’s brother, Caligula, became emperor. In ad 41, Caligula was assassinated, and Agrippina’s uncle Claudius became emperor. After the death of her second husband, Agrippina married her uncle in ad 49. Claudius adopted Nero, her son from her first marriage, in the following year. The historian Cassius Dio claims that Agrippina controlled her husband through a mixture of intimidation and bribery.2 Her ability to gain approval and consensus through the cultivation of useful friends in high places demonstrates her political acumen. For example, she was able to persuade Claudius’ freedmen, whom he trusted more than anyone else, to convince him of the wisdom of her own advice. However, historians such as Tacitus and Dio criticize Agrippina’s political skills as devious and manipulative since societal pressures forbade her open pursuit of power. As aristocratic women before her had done, Agrippina exercised her influence through her knowledge of political networks and personal contacts. Dio alleges that Agrippina manipulated all sectors of society and even that she held more power than Claudius.3 Tacitus’ remarks on Agrippina’s influence, too, are hardly complimentary: everything was obedient to a woman who was playing fast and loose with the Roman commonwealth, but in a manner unlike [Claudius’ third wife] Messalina, who had done so on the spur of her whims. It was a tightly controlled enslavement, as if to a man; in public there was sternness and, quite often, arrogance. There was no indecent behavior at home unless it advanced her despotic power. A boundless desire for wealth was kept hidden under the pretext that it was being accumulated as support of imperial authority.4

When the emperor Claudius died, allegedly poisoned by Agrippina, the barely seventeen-year-old Nero was acclaimed as emperor by the praetorian guard, whose loyalty Agrippina had been careful to secure. Suetonius and Dio allege that the young Nero left all public and private matters in the hands of his mother, even going so far as to imply that Agrippina acted as regent for her son.5 Tacitus, however, records few specific details of direct political power exercised by Agrippina at the beginning of Nero’s reign.6 Suetonius reports that Nero soon tired of his mother’s constant surveillance and criticism of his behaviour.7 Things came to a head in ad 55 when Agrippina was accused of plotting a conspiracy against Nero. She eloquently defended herself and gained a pardon. Perhaps it was during the following years that she recorded her memoirs, wanting to leave

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her own record of her remarkable life for posterity.8 Agrippina’s memoirs do not survive. We know they existed because Tacitus mentions that he used them as a source (though certainly not for his characterization of her).9 Many of the honorific portraits granted her at Rome also do not survive intact, because of a damnatio memoriae declared by her son after he orchestrated her murder.10 A definition of the term ‘damnatio memoriae’, of modern coinage, is in order. As Hedrick has noted, ‘there was no juridical concept of damnatio memoriae in ancient Rome, only a more or less conventional repertoire of penalties for repressing the memory of a public enemy, which might be enacted separately or together’.11 These sanctions did not negate historical traces, but created gestures to dishonour the record of the person and so to confirm the negative memory. There were many strategies available for attacking the posthumous memory of a public enemy (hostis). These include the defacement or the removal of the statues and busts of the person from public view; the erasure of the person’s name from commemorative inscriptions; the confiscation of the person’s property or the annulment of his will; the destruction of books authored by the hostis; the partial or total destruction of the house of the condemned; and a ban on the observance of funerals and mourning.12 Any or all of these or similar penalties could be imposed, and these sanctions could be initiated by the emperor, the senate or even the army.13 Even though Agrippina was one of Nero’s victims, her reputation suffered doubly, because she was the mother of a monster, and because she had sought to remove all obstacles, at whatever cost, to manoeuvre him next into line to the throne. In the historians’ accounts of her character, all written long after her death, rhetorical strategy is linked with political motivation, for the character assassination of Agrippina is part of a strategy to further discredit her unpopular male relatives. It is a method of attacking the established principate and the Julio-Claudian dynasty long after it was toppled. If we recite the accusations lodged by ancient historians against Agrippina the Younger, little more than a caricature emerges. Its outline is quite similar to the rhetorical strategy Cicero used to defame his enemies in the years before Augustus came to power. Cicero attacked the women associated with the men he hated as a way of discrediting the men.14 The allegations Cicero employed are the same that ancient historians used to attack Agrippina.15 Her sexuality is voracious – she is alleged to have had numerous affairs, including a number of incestuous relationships: with her brother Caligula, with her uncle Claudius before marriage, and even with her son Nero.16 She was a poisoner (an occupation often associated with adultery), and she was extraordinarily cruel



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and ruthless in eliminating her enemies.17 She was unusually greedy for wealth, possessions and power, not only for her son but also herself, and would stop at nothing, including the use of her sexuality, to gain support.18 In addition, she meddled in matters reserved for male authority. In the case of Agrippina, the devastating appeal of negative characterization holds sharp focus and there is no reprieve. Despite later attempts to rehabilitate her memory (e.g. a colossal tondo portrait of Agrippina was discovered in Trajan’s Forum, perhaps part of a Roman ancestral gallery), the most persistent record of Agrippina’s reputation is that of Tacitus and other ancient historians, and theirs is a purely negative image.19 For an illustrative modern case, even one that combines the visual and the verbal, I now turn to the 2005 film The Constant Gardener, adapted from John le Carré’s novel.

Le Carré’s The Constant Gardener The Constant Gardener very effectively uses rhetorical strategies to denounce a woman. From the start, through suggestion and innuendo, the film leads the viewer by visual clues and cues to suspect that a beautiful young wife, recently murdered, was guilty of adultery and that her husband had suspicions about her all along. This is a close modern analogy to what I want to establish in connection with Agrippina’s posthumous reputation. First, however, here is the author’s own plot summary of The Constant Gardener, recorded in an interview for the BBC documentary, John le Carré: The Secret Centre (2000). le Carré: We meet (the protagonist Justin Quayle), really as a kind of unawakened conformist, who has contracted a rather romantic marriage with a very young girl, who is outspoken, a young lawyer, Oxbridge, rich, and she is very zealous and idealistic. When they get to Africa, she peels off and gets into aid work, where she is happy, very happy. She gets pregnant, loses her baby, and that, in a sense, intensifies her sense of human responsibility, and she throws herself into the aid work, and comes upon very alarming secrets about the pharmaceutical world. Then we have Justin, after her death, picking up the trail and putting on her mantle, and it becomes, I suppose, a novel of education, as the Germans would say, a Bildungsroman, where he learns humanity on the hoof, of active, contributing humanity, constructive humanity, and an intense sense of her responsibility towards the wretched of the earth, who were Tessa’s concern.

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In the film, the camera acts in collusion with certain characters and so leads the viewer into an elaborately constructed fiction. In an early scene, Sandy Woodrow, the British High Commissioner in Kenya, arrives to tell Justin, a low-level diplomat, of the fact and circumstances of his wife Tessa’s death: Justin: ‘What is it, Sandy?’ Sandy: ‘Getting reports. A white woman, black driver. Found early this morning, southern end of Lake Turkana. Dead. Killed.’ Justin: ‘And you think it might be Tessa?’ Sandy: ‘It seems they hired a car and driver at Loki. Headed east. They spent the night at Lodwar. Shared a room. The black man isn’t Arnold Bluhm.’ Justin: ‘But how sure are you?’ Sandy: ‘It isn’t looking good.’

Sandy implies that Tessa may have been murdered by her black colleague, Dr Arnold Bluhm, after she shared a hotel room with another black man, who was found murdered next to Tessa. In the cultural milieu that Sandy’s comments reflect, Tessa’s indiscretions appear even worse, for to the traditional patriarchal white male, Tessa’s sexuality is dangerous because out of control; it represents a threat to the established social order. Later, when Justin remembers his wife and tries to figure out what happened to her, we see, in a series of flashbacks, what appears to be very strong evidence condemning her. For example, in a later scene, Justin recalls reading an email Tessa received that seemed suspicious enough for him at the time to pretend to her that he hadn’t read it: A message, ‘New Mail/Would you like to read it now?’ appears on the computer screen. Tessa: ‘Could you see who it’s from, darling?’ Justin: ‘Sure.’ The email message: ‘What were you and Arnold Bluhm doing in the Nairobi Hilton Sunday night? Does Justin know?’ Tessa: ‘Who is it?’ Justin: ‘What?’ Tessa: ‘The email.’ Justin: ‘Oh, it’s umm, just some junk. Some ad.’ Tessa: ‘For?’ Justin: ‘For the Nairobi Hilton.’ Justin erases the email. Justin: ‘Weekend package deal. Two nights for the price of one.’

Tessa had become pregnant while in Africa. Rather than return to England, she decided to give birth in Kenya, like the poor women whose care she fiercely advocated. The point of view shot in the following scene, as Sandy enters Tessa’s hospital room, sets up a false impression for the viewer. We first see her nursing



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a black baby and then Arnold Bluhm and Tessa on screen together. Only after this does the camera shift to include Justin, looking somewhat uncomfortable, also at Tessa’s bedside. The camera focuses on the journey of a gift basket as its bearer enters the hospital from the parking lot and walks down the corridor, registering the hospital surroundings. The next shot is a tight close-up of a black baby nursing at a white breast. Then we see Tessa, propped up in a hospital bed. She is looking down at the tiny black baby nursing at her breast. The camera shifts to Tessa’s right, where Arnold Bluhm sits beside the bed, clearly doting on the two. Tessa turns and glances at Bluhm. He, smiling, nods and blinks approvingly at her. Tessa gazes down at the baby, who is making happy, gurgling, contented noises as he nurses. Tessa then looks up, to her left, where Justin sits beside the bed. An expression flits across his face, perhaps one of sadness or even embarrassment. The camera reveals the identity of the gift-basket bearer. It is Sandy Woodward. The next scene is what Sandy encounters when he enters Tessa’s hospital room: Arnold Bluhm to the left of the bed, Tessa lying in the bed, completely absorbed by the baby in her arms, and Justin to the right of the bed. The gaze of all three men is directed at Tessa and the child. Sandy walks into the frame from the left and balances the gift basket on the metal rail at the foot of the bed. All look up at Sandy. Tessa: ‘Hello, Sandy.’ Sandy: ‘So sorry, Tessa. Gloria sends her sympathies. What can we say?’ Tessa: ‘It was a boy.’ A sob creeps into her voice as she turns to look at Justin. ‘Did Justin already tell you that …’ Justin interrupts, comforting her. Tessa: ‘This one was born healthy, though, weren’t you?’ Tessa (the sob again in her voice): ‘Beautiful, beautiful darling. His name is Baraka. It means “blessing”.’ Sandy: ‘I don’t quite see …’ Tessa: ‘… where the mother is?’ Tessa turns her head to the right, looking towards another room behind them. ‘Her name is Wanza Kilulu.’ The camera shifts to another white hospital bed and a frail black girl, her eyes closed. A young black boy, not quite a teenager, fans her. ‘She’s fifteen and she is dying.’ The boy wipes the girl’s forehead. ‘Kioko is twelve. He walked forty kilometers just to keep the flies off his sister and her baby. Perhaps that was the blessing.’

Only after the initial set-up of seeing everything from Sandy’s perspective do we learn the truth, which is not at all what the camera has suggested. If we focused solely on the opening of this scene, and on where the camera directs our gaze, we might believe the defamatory fiction – that Tessa’s baby is not Justin’s child

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– rather than the reality of Tessa’s generosity, for, having lost her own child, she is nursing a baby whose own mother is dying. Tessa herself is admirably blind to divisions based on race and status, and this is used against her, as her behaviour creates an easily misunderstood and exploitable image. Shortly after this incident at the hospital, we return to the innuendo that Tess was involved in an extramarital affair with her colleague Dr Bluhm. As Justin recalls in flashback, he had overheard a hushed conversation between the two: Tessa: ‘It’s an outrageous thing. It’s almost as if … ’ Bluhm tries to shush her as Justin emerges from the garden. Tessa: ‘ … it’s, it’s a marriage of convenience, and the only thing … ’ Justin comes into focus as he walks up the stairs behind Tessa. He looks toward the two, alert to their conversation, but continues past them. Tessa: ‘ … it’s going to produce is dead offspring.’ Bluhm again tries to warn Tessa they are not alone. Tessa then turns, her hand over her mouth. Justin: ‘I’m sorry to interrupt.’ The camera shifts to take in Justin’s perspective. Tessa’s gaze quickly turns to the green and yellow box in Justin’s hand and on it the word ‘PEST …’ Tessa looks up at Justin. Tessa: ‘What the fuck is that?’

Tessa had spoken of a ‘marriage of convenience,’ an arrangement that could only lead to dead offspring. She speaks figuratively, but viewers are easily led to understand her literally. From his – and our – perspective, Tessa’s comments to Bluhm will naturally refer to the union with Justin she now resents and to the child they have lost. But this is not the case, as we will find out later. The director lures the audience into passing negative judgements on Tessa, using camera angles, point of view shots and first-person perspectives – especially Justin’s flashbacks – to provide circumstantial evidence for the negative impression of her character. In the cinema, as usually in life, ‘Seeing is believing.’ This visual exercise of rhetoric turns the viewers into allies of the villains, Sandy Woodrow and Sir Bernard Pellegrin, senior members of the British diplomatic corps in Kenya, who have done their best to sully Tessa’s reputation for their own sinister goals. In a meeting with Justin, Sandy continues to hint at Tessa’s guilt. The crux, it appears, is that there is no evidence to prove Tessa innocent. Or is there? In fact, Sandy may be fishing – does Justin have evidence that exonerates his wife? Justin: ‘Is that the official thinking, then, that Arnold killed Tessa?’ Sandy: ‘I’m afraid it’s looking likely.’ Justin: ‘Do you think that he was her lover?’



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Sandy: ‘I’m afraid that’s looking likely, too.’ Justin: ‘What were they doing up at Lake Turkana?’ Sandy: ‘Romantic setting … Sorry I have to say it, old chap.’ Justin: ‘But why suspect Bluhm then? There may have been others. Other lovers. If she was unfaithful, why stop at Arnold?’ Sandy: ‘I wouldn’t listen to rumor. Unless you have evidence.’ Justin: ‘Yes, evidence. That’s always the problem.’ Sandy: ‘Justin … ’ shouting after him, as Justin gets out the car and walks away, ‘… be a good chap and leave this to us. There are proper channels for these things!’

Never mind that important information is omitted, or revealed only significantly later, such as the fact that Bluhm was gay and thus unlikely to have been Tessa’s jealous lover, and that he was found to have been murdered on the same day as Tessa. One might ask – why manufacture such an elaborate lie? Why besmirch someone’s reputation to such an extent that she is virtually reduced to a caricature? The best answer may lie in the aphorism, ‘Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.’ But the phrase doesn’t mean that because everyone’s talking about something, that something must be true.20 All the talk may just be a smokescreen, a cover for what’s at the heart of the matter, which may bear no resemblance to what everyone is buzzing about. Something is going on, but it’s up to the intelligent reader, listener, or viewer, to filter through the chatter. One needs to ask smart questions: who stands to lose or gain from such trash-talk? How can one disprove it? Or are people simply lured in by sensational tittle-tattle? In fact, malicious gossip has salacious appeal, and few people question what they hear. Justin discovers that the character assassination of Tessa at the hands of British authorities is a cover-up. For Tessa had sought to expose an unscrupulous collusion between a British pharmaceutical company and the British government. When Justin discovers what Tessa knew, and that she was murdered because of her knowledge and willingness to go public with the information, he knows that his fate, too, is sealed. He goes to the place where Tessa’s body had been found, but not before he sends to Tessa’s cousin an important letter, a missing piece of evidence that Justin had discovered among his wife’s belongings after her death. In a compelling scene, the image of Justin, waiting for his assassins, blends into a funeral eulogy for him delivered by Sir Bernard Pellegrin in London. Pellegrin: ‘Typical of his discretion, he would not have had us troubled; he would not have had us inconvenienced. ‘Nothing in his life became him like the

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leaving of it.’21 Pellegrin concludes his eulogy. Tessa’s first cousin, Ham, succeeds him at the lectern. Ham: ‘I have chosen a text I know Justin and Tessa would approve. It’s an epistle, non-canonical. ‘My dear Sandy’ … Pellegrin is visibly startled … ‘your naïveté is beyond belief. Knowing our arrangements with KDH and ThreeBees, you send me this half-baked report by some bleeding heart diplomatic wife and her black lover, and ask me to take action.’ The mourners in the audience begin to look at one another in disbelief. ‘The only action required apart from shredding the thing is to keep a tighter rein on your resident harlot.’ Pellegrin’s mouth is making spluttering motions as he glances nervously around him. ‘I want to know what she does, where she goes … ’ More spluttering and facial contortions, even a snarl, from Pellegrin ‘ … whom she meets. The issue here is deniability. If nobody told us Dypraxa was causing death, we can’t be held responsible.’ Pellegrin storms out of the cathedral. ‘But my dear Sandy, should it ever become known … ’ Cameras flash as reporters surge forward, framing the hasty exit of Pellegrin. ‘ … that we closed our eyes to the deaths, none of us would ever survive the scandal. I still have great hopes for you. My love to Gloria. Yours Sincerely, Bernard.’’ The reporters pursue Pellegrin to his car, slowing his escape. The camera then shifts back to the speaker inside the cathedral. ‘Bizarre sort of suicide. His body bore no fewer than eight bullet wounds from three different guns, none of which was the one found in his hand. So who has got away with murder? Not, of course, the British government … They merely covered up, as one does, the offensive corpses.’

All this makes for a compelling story, especially when the character (and literal) assassinations of Tessa and Justin are unraveled to the viewer. Those of you who are familiar with ancient oratory will immediately recognize this rhetorical strategy of apparently clear guilt by innuendo or by subjective presentation of what appears to be conclusive evidence.22 For others, these examples from The Constant Gardener will help you to appreciate the strategies at work in ancient and modern reports on the memory of Agrippina the Younger, my central theme.

Nachleben Agrippina has been the subject of a variety of forms of art and entertainment over the centuries. In the history of Agrippina’s reputation, we find a wide range of media and genres, from the early modern high culture of opera to the popular medium of cinema. Two films are noteworthy examples of this: the Italian



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comedy Mio figlio Nerone (1956), in which she is played by Gloria Swanson, by then indelibly identified with the character she had played in Sunset Boulevard, and the infamous Caligula (1979), in which she is reincarnated by a Penthouse Pet and engages in lesbian sex. The Berlin Staatsoper’s production of Handel’s opera Agrippina in 2010, too, illustrates the tenacity of the characterization of Agrippina as overbearing and manipulative, even in high culture. The Italian Mio Figlio Nerone (1956) is a farcical comedy, although it follows Tacitus’ account quite closely. The actress cast as Agrippina is none other than Gloria Swanson, whose persona was by then indelibly linked with her legendary performance as an aging femme fatale in Sunset Boulevard. This association no doubt enhanced her role as the controlling mother of Nero in the film. From the start there are clear references to Tacitus – indeed, his name and the title of his histories, the Annals, are shown at the beginning. The plot of the film appears to come straight from the pages of that source. Early on, Agrippina explains to her son Nero that no one in their family has died of natural causes in the last 50 years. He replies that he saw her prepare the deadly little mushrooms (funghi) for Claudius with her own hands. Even though true to the spirit of the Roman historian, farcical elements in the movie’s plot expand the characterization of mother and son. In one scene, Agrippina retrieves several snakes from her handbag (of all places!) and Nero, at first cringing in childish and farcically exaggerated terror, affects the role of Hercules, taking up a club in defence. This, too, is somewhat true to Tacitus’ account. Apparently Nero liked to tell the story that a snake had been seen by his cradle when he was an infant, an omen of his future greatness.23 Snakes were commonly among the accoutrements of poisoners, and Agrippina is a little too comfortable in handling them. The farce devolves further as mother and son engage in mutual attempts to poison one another – ‘Like mother, like son’. Tacitus alleges that Nero’s poisoning of his rival, Brittanicus, at a banquet, in full view of the guests, frightened Agrippina, who now realized that Nero was probably capable of matricide as well.24 Despite her social status, Agrippina became increasingly isolated, for Nero avoided private meetings with her, and many of her former friends deserted her. Tacitus reports that when a devious Nero invited his mother to a party, they shared an evening which hinted at reconciliation between mother and son. After great displays of affection, Nero sent her home on a boat specially engineered to collapse in mid-voyage, hoping that his mother would drown in what appeared to have been an unfortunate accident. Agrippina realized her son’s murderous intent; however, when in the chaos of the shipwreck her loyal

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friend Acerronia loudly announced that she was Agrippina, the woman was promptly killed. Agrippina swam to shore, returned home, and waited for her assassins to arrive. Unlike in Tacitus, Agrippina in Mio Figlio Nerone confronts her son about his attempts to assassinate her. She reports that the ceiling of her bed (standing in for the sinking boat in the historian’s account) has collapsed (here a ‘mattresscide’ certainly engineered by her son), it crushed her dear friend Crepereius, although she was accidentally spared. Nero’s attempts to serve up poisoned beverages to Agrippina have also failed. She reveals that she has been taking antidotes from an early age and is now immune to poison. As is to be expected in this kind of plot, Nero comes across as a completely incompetent buffoon and Agrippina as a clever, domineering mother. We laugh at the comic absurdity of it all, a dysfunctional family drama – the stuff of Greek and Roman tragedy turned on its head. The film ends with Rome burning, and Nero alone with busts of Seneca, Poppaea and Agrippina, all killed by him (Figure 34). These three were the most important people in his life, yet his infantile preoccupation with his mother ranks her in importance above the others. Perhaps, as Tacitus’ account suggests, there was something Oedipal or even incestuous in Nero’s fascination with Agrippina.25 Speaking of incest and other perversions, one cannot avoid mention of the notorious editor of Penthouse Magazine, Bob Guccione, and his 1979 film, Caligula.26 Here, unfortunately, we reach a nadir: hardcore pornography amid an orgy of graphic violence. Despite an illustrious cast, an early script written by Gore Vidal, and the protestations of Guccione that his production was

Figure 34.  A screenshot of Alberto Sordi as Nero with portrait busts of Seneca, Poppaea and Agrippina, Mio Figlio Nerone (1956).



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sophisticated, high art, and represented ancient Rome ‘as it truly was’, the film was, and is, unwatchable. One of the many scenes of explicit sex which made Caligula infamous is that in which Messalina, the notorious third wife of the emperor Claudius, played by a Penthouse Pet, engages in lesbian sex with Agrippina, Claudius’ fourth wife, another Penthouse Pet. Although the characters these women play are never named in the film, they are members of the imperial household and appear in several scenes. Their identification occurs in a special edition of Penthouse that featured the film and in published cast lists. Both women are also participants in a scene of graphic sadism in which they torture a young man to death. In Guccione’s Caligula, Agrippina and Messalina are implicated in what, to the male gaze, are extremes of sex and violence, that is, here, lesbianism and sadism. At the time the film was released, explicit lesbian sex on film was highly unusual and shocking in what purported to be nearly main-stream filmmaking. Just as Tessa’s detractors in The Constant Gardener insinuate that she and her sexuality are out of control, the portrayal of Agrippina’s sexuality in Guccione’s film reaches a nadir of excess not even found in the hostile ancient sources. Now from the outrageously disgusting to the outrageously chic. The 2010 performance of Handel’s Agrippina at the Berlin Staatsoper is the most recent modern example of the celebration of Agrippina’s poor reputation. Agrippina was George Friederich Handel’s first great operatic masterpiece, written in Venice for the 1709/1710 Carnevale season. It is best described as an anti– heroic, satiric comedy with political allusions. Apart from the future emperor Otho, there are no morally grounded characters. Everyone is scheming and plotting, pitting people against one another for personal profit and advantage, and no one surpasses Agrippina in this regard.27 Handel’s librettist was Cardinal Vincenzo Grimani. The cleric was trained as a classicist, and many have read his criticism of Pope Clement XI as central to his loose but creative adaptation of history. The opera met with overwhelming acclaim in Venice and played to packed audiences for a then unprecedented 27 performances. However, after this quite successful season, Handel did not promote further productions of Agrippina. In the mid-eighteenth century, Handel’s music declined in popularity, and it was not until the twentieth century that an interest in Baroque music led to a Handel revival and to regular performances of his operas. In 2010, the 300th anniversary of the first production of the opera, there were numerous productions of Handel’s Agrippina worldwide. The Berlin Staatsoper’s production of Handel’s Agrippina opened in February 2010, and, like the first performance of the opera, immediately met with critical

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acclaim. The costume designer was none other than Christian LaCroix, the French haute couture fashion designer. The staging of the production highlights the political dimensions of the libretto. For example, Emperor Claudius is costumed in a way that undoubtedly refers to Grimani’s satirical criticism of Pope Clement XI.28 Agrippina is not only a clever and devious strategist in orchestrating her vapid son’s rise to the throne, but she also plays up to the ancient stereotype of being extraordinarily cruel (Figure 35) here shown abusing one of the freedmen, Narcissus, on whom the emperor Claudius relied as one of his closest allies in a court rife with intrigue. Tacitus claims that Agrippina’s abuse of Narcissus led him to commit suicide.29 There are moments, too, when the depiction of Agrippina appears to rely on modern stereotypes, similar to what Gloria Swanson’s role in Sunset Boulevard brings to her performance as Agrippina in Mio Figlio Nerone. For example, in one scene,

Figure 35.  Photograph from the 2010 Berlin Staatsoper production of Handel’s Agrippina. Alexandrina Pendatchanska plays Agrippina and Dominique Visse plays Narcissus. © Monika Rittershaus.



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Agrippina bears a striking resemblance to the famous opera singer Maria Callas, ‘La Divina’, the woman who defined what it meant to be a diva. For a modern audience, perhaps unfamiliar with the historical Agrippina, this analogy may enhance appreciation of Agrippina’s character in the opera. In another scene, the staging makes clear that she is the dynamic force behind Nero’s accession (Figure 36). Farce, pathos, comedy, delicious costuming, and political-historical references make this opera the crowning, and most recent cultural production of Agrippina’s reputation. She is better suited to rule than her son, yet, as a woman, her ambitions can only be directed towards his success as a vicarious substitute for her own. As we have seen, there is a whole cultural matrix surrounding the reputation of Agrippina. There is, however, yet more. Why is le Carré’s principal female character called Tessa? There may be no proof positive for this, but it is entirely possible that le Carré had a famous woman from British literature with an almost identical name in mind – Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Tess

Figure 36.  Photograph from the 2010 Berlin Staatsoper production of Handel’s Agrippina. Alexandrina Pendatchanska plays Agrippina and Jennifer Rivera as Nero. © Monika Rittershaus.

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is an independent, strong-willed woman who goes to the gallows for a crime which represents female revolt against male authority. To the good citizens of Wessex County, Tess is a criminal to whom appropriate justice was meted out. That is her official reputation posthumously, as the novel’s ending makes evident. But we, Hardy’s readers, know better because we have come to know the real Tess. To us, she was a woman who loved, perhaps not wisely but too well. From antiquity to today, as with Hardy’s Tess and le Carré’s Tessa in fiction, so in history from Agrippina to – in more recent memory – First Lady Hilary Clinton, rhetorical strategies employed to defame or denigrate strong-willed women who encroach upon or otherwise threaten male power or profit structures and, as a result, become stigmatized for their irresistible, i.e. dangerous, sexuality, have not significantly changed. To put the case somewhat differently, ‘Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose’. Agrippina would not have understood French, but she certainly would have understood the sentiment. Most likely, she would herself have thought of a suitable Roman saying: semper aliquid haeret – something always sticks.

Notes 1 I would like to thank the organizers of the Imagines II conference, Silke Knippschild and Marta Garcia Morcillo, for bringing to successful completion a terrific conference and this collection of works. I am indebted to both for their careful review and insightful comments on an earlier draft of this chapter. Thanks are due to three earlier readers of this chapter (alphabetically) Marc Kleijwegt, Carole Newlands and Susan Treggiari, and last but certainly not least, Martin Winkler. 2 Dio 60.32.1–2. 3 Dio 60.32.2, 60.33.1. 4 Ann. 12.7.3, my translation. 5 Suet. Nero 9; Dio 61.3.1. 6 Barrett 1996: 150. 7 Suet. Nero 34.1. 8 Tac., Ann. 13.14.4; Paratore 1952: 42. 9 Tac., Ann. 2.69.1, 4.53.3; Dixon 2001: 142, 148. 10 The Octavia, a tragedy traditionally attributed to Seneca the Younger, reports sanctions against Agrippina’s memory, Octavia 593–617. Tacitus notes what several sycophantic advisors of Nero tell him about the public reaction to Agrippina’s murder: invisum Agrippinae nomen et morte eius accensum populi favorem disserunt



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(‘they said that Agrippina’s name was hated and (Nero’s) popular favor had been inflamed by her death’). After some initial hesitation, Nero proceeds to Rome as if the victor in a triumphal procession, Tac. Ann. 14.13. An example of the erasure of Agrippina’s name: ILS 226 (inscription 31). Barrett describes the sanctions against Agrippina’s memory, although he does not believe the senate declared a formal damnatio memoriae, Barrett 1996: 192–3. Eck, however, argues for an official damnatio memoriae, Eck 1993: 88, n. 196. Cf. also Varner 1993: 197 and Varner 2004: 97–100. 11 Hedrick 2000: 93; Varner 2001: 41. 12 Hedrick 2000: 93; Varner 2001: 41. I describe in greater detail the practices of damnatio memoriae in my doctoral dissertation, Hugh, Manipulating Memory: Remembering and Defaming Julio-Claudian Women, McHugh 2004: 9–11. 13 Hedrick 2000: 93; Varner 2001: 41. 14 Kennedy 1972: 271. 15 Dixon 2001: 140–53; see also Cluett 1998: 81–2. 16 Caligula: Suet. Ca. 24.1–3; Dio 59.22.6, 59.26.5; Claudius: Suet. Claud. 26.3; Tac. Ann. 12.5.1; Dio 60.31.6; Nero: Tac. Ann. 14.2; Dio 61.11.3–4. 17 Susan Treggiari (per sermones): ‘the usual idea is that an adultera (an adulteress) will become a venefica (poisoner).’ Dio claims that after Agrippina’s marriage to Claudius, she used murder for profit. Among the persecutions and murders attributed to Agrippina are Lollia Paulina (Tac., Ann. 12.22.1–4; Dio 60.32.3); Statilius Taurus – whose gardens Agrippina is alleged to have coveted (Tac. Ann. 12.59.1); Domitia Lepida (Tac. Ann. 12.64.4–6, 65.1–2); Marcus Silanus (Tac. Ann. 13.1.1; Dio 61.6.4); Narcissus (Tac. Ann. 13.1.4); Brittanicus (Dio 60.34.1–4). 18 Tac. Ann. 12.7–8, 12.42, 12.57, 12.59, 12.64, 13.19. 19 Wood (1999) 302–3. 20 Julian Baggini, author of Should You Judge This Book by Its Cover?: 100 Fresh Takes on Familiar Sayings and Quotations, interviewed on NPR Weekend Edition Sunday, 15 May 2010. 21 Sir Pellegrin quotes from Shakespeare’s Macbeth, Act 1, scene 4, lines 7–8. 22 Kennedy (1972) 271. 23 Ann. 11.11. 24 Ann. 13.16. 25 Tac. Ann. 14.2; Dio 61.11.3–4. 26 Martin Lindner’s chapter, also in this volume, details Caligula’s reputation as one of the ‘archetypical bad guys not only of ancient historiography but also of modern pop culture.’ Lindner discusses Guccione’s 1979 Caligula within this context. 27 Verdi’s Abigaille in the opera Nabucco, although completely fictitious, is characterized as a power-hungry, evil seductress, much like the historians’ Agrippina. Such a juxtaposition of actual and fictional figures reveals how similar

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the purposes and strategies of defamation can be in historical accounts and fiction. For further discussion of Abigaille, cf. Michael Seymour’s essay in this volume. 28 Opera appears to have been a popular vehicle for criticism of papal authority. Seymour (this volume) mentions Giovanni Battista Niccolini’s opera Nabucco for its criticism of Pope Pius VII. 29 Ann. 13.1.

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Prostitute, Saint, Pin-Up, Revolutionary: The Reception of Theodora in TwentiethCentury Italy Filippo Carlà

The Empress Theodora is surely one of the most popular characters of Late Antique history, and probably of the entire ancient history tout court, which is due partly to her representation in the impressive mosaics in the church of S. Vitale, Ravenna. Her biography is widely known and contains romantic, adventurous and fantastic elements ensuring her reception in literature, cinema and theatre. Emperor Justinian, under whom the Byzantine Empire reached its widest expansion and whose juridical reforms would become the basis of European law, apparently forced a change in laws to marry her. He loved her so much as to impose that governors should swear oaths in the names of both of them.1 In addition, he did not remarry after her death in 548 and interrupted his own triumph in 559 to pay a visit to her tomb in the church of the Ss. Apostles.2 The ancient sources critique her active role in influencing Justinian’s policies and legislative activity and turn her into a perfect example of the connection of seduction and power, thus adding further interest to the study of her reception in modern art and literature. Theodora’s reception is quite varied and merits attention beyond this article. While a more far-ranging study is in preparation, this article will pinpoint the reception of the most famous Byzantine empress in twentieth-century Italian art, a context providing a good sample of the attitudes with which Theodora was approached in the course of the centuries.

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Sardou and His Followers Two ‘revolutions’ characterized Theodora’s reception. The first one was Alemanni’s publication in 1623 of Procopius’ Anekdota, our only systematic source on the empress’ life.3 Here Theodora is presented as the daughter of a bear-keeper, a former dancing girl and prostitute, who destroyed the empire together with her demonic husband Justinian.4 The second ‘revolution’ occurred on 26 December 1884 when Victorien Sardou’s Théodora premiered, starring Sarah Bernhardt. In the play, Theodora has a young lover, the ‘Hellenist’ (pagan) Andréas, who plans a revolt against Justinian. He is unaware that his lover, whom he knows as Myrtha, is actually the empress.5 Theodora, who came from the circus, had worked in Alexandria and abandoned that life upon the prediction that she would become empress. She tries to protect Andréas when the revolt is defeated, but is executed when everything comes to light. Because of Sardou and the Zeitgeist, in which he was well integrated, Theodora (and Byzantium) enjoyed a remarkable popularity in the last 15 years of the nineteenth century.6 While these two central texts and their interpretation of Theodora’s power of seduction and her political power have been studied widely, Theodora’s reception after 1884 has received less attention. This applies especially to the reception of the empress in twentieth-century Italy. Here, in the country where the majority of historical movies were produced,7 the popularity enjoyed by Sardou’s Théodora8 resulted in a number of film versions of the play.9 The most famous, Teodora, was directed by Leopoldo Carlucci.10 Shot in Turin in 1919–20, the movie was only first screened in the USA in 1921 because of censorship problems, and only in 1922 in Italy. It enjoyed an incredible success worldwide: cinemas were always full and people queued for hours; the film was reviewed positively and with enthusiasm, e.g. in the Netherlands and Germany.11 The film is not a faithful reproduction of Sardou’s play; elements of French nationalism, embodied by a Frank called Charibert, are here completely removed. Theodora is the most beautiful of the hetaerae working in Cyprus. This is actually supported by a Byzantine author12 who wrote that Theodora’s father originally came from this island. It is difficult to know if Carlucci or someone involved with the production knew this or if, as seems more probable, the connection between Cyprus and Venus is behind the thinking that the courtesan empress had to hail from there.13 The first scene strongly recalls another medieval version of the story by Fredegarius,14 which the film crew could have been aware of: Justinian (Ferruccio Biancini), together with Belisarius, arrives in Cyprus and falls in love with Theodora (Rita Jolivet). Her



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beauty is her power, as the captions say: ‘beauty and wisdom of a woman win everything’.15 ‘Everything’ does mean ‘everything’: when Justinian is dying of the plague she prays, whereupon two mosaic saints come to life, go to Justinian and heal him.16 With her beauty Theodora has therefore supernatural powers, and before beginning her affair with Andrea (the Italian version of Andréas) she can move God and the saints. Christianity is not portrayed in as bad a light as in Sardou’s version, there is no mention of Athens or of classical culture (if we exclude the fact that Andrea’s house is fairly ‘classical’ in architecture and decoration),17 and the rebels are not unhappy with Justinian’s religious policies, but rather with his fiscal ones. These were actually criticized even by Procopius in the Anekdota, and we should presume that Carlucci read the works of the Byzantine historian: one of the captions even quotes him directly, in reference to the 30,000 casualties of the Nika revolt.18 Much more than in Sardou’s play, it is here underlined that Theodora cannot forget her ‘unbridled youth’; she begins to go out alone and meets her lover. When Justinian finally realizes this, it is clearly stated that Theodora has brought the entire city to revolt, death and destruction through her conduct; the power of her beauty is extremely dangerous because she is out of control. This personal responsibility of Theodora and the lack of reference to the classical world give less emphasis to the alleged decadence of the empire than Sardou. Byzantium, with its definitely baroque architecture in the scenes realized by Brasini that have even been compared with Bibiena’s drawings,19 is here portrayed rather as a continuation of antiquity than as a different world – in the meaning given to it by Spengler and by the Decadent movement.

Byzantium and Italy: A Complex Relationship This image of Byzantium is not the only one to be found in that period. In a frescoed dome by Galileo Chini for the International Art Exposition of Venice in 1909, which depicted the entire history of mankind and of art, a segment was dedicated to Byzantium (Figure 37). Theodora from S. Vitale is in the centre; next to her are the holy virgins from the mosaics in S. Apollinare Nuovo. As expected in Italy, the images reflect the tradition of Ravenna. But here, according to the description accompanying the fresco, we find Spengler’s idea of Byzantium as mixture of Christianity, paganism, exoticism, mysticism and luxury.20 Not by chance, the artistic inspiration and the nearest models are the

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Figure 37. Detail of a fresco by Galileo Chini for the International Art Exposition of Venice in 1909. Byzantine figures of Mucha, Clairin, and Orazi21; blue and gold are the colours of the Wiener Secession.22 A third example useful for understanding the Italian attitude is the historical novel Teodora by Italo Fiorentino. This was first published twice weekly in a feuilleton of 40 instalments (1885–6). The material is taken almost completely from the Anekdota, but Theodora is presented as more melodramatic, more evil and more erotic; even as a child she is already fierce, full of hatred and shameless. Byzantium is a stereotypical, orientalist Babylon, a city of perversion and depravation23: until the reign of Marcian (455 ad), Fiorentino says, virtue and vice balanced each other, but after his death the empire lost all morality.24 Giuseppe Pigna provided illustrations for the novel, full of supposedly Eastern elements and explicitly erotic scenes inspired by Orientalist paintings of baths and odalisques.25 The cover of the first instalment shows Theodora lying on a couch, one breast uncovered, while she watches herself in a mirror.26 A black servant combs her; another one, wearing a turban, touches her leg. A crown sits on a pillow on the floor, while two female servants in the background bring a drink. The caption is explicit: ‘Amid that Oriental luxury her statuesque figure, her provocative glances were shining in all their might.’27 (Figure 38) The same novel was republished as a volume in 1927, with new illustrations by Sebastiano Craveri.28 Craveri now shows in the scene representing Theodora’s wedding the Suras in S. Sophia, added when the building was transformed into a mosque. Independent of the textual content, which remained the same,



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Figure 38.  Illustration by Giuseppe Pigna for the cover of the book Teodora by Italo Fiorentino (1886). the characterization is much less Oriental, while the influence of Ravenna dominates the depiction (Figure 39), more in the tradition of Carlucci’s film. Accordingly, two traditions of representing Theodora and her empire stand out, one connected to Ravenna and its art, one to Orientalist iconography. The first tradition was not negative per se and was accordingly underrepresented;

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Figure 39.  Fiorentino’s Theodora illustrated by Sebastiano Craveri 1927. Italian identity was being constructed on the basis of the image of a glorious Roman Empire,29 which meant that Byzantium had to be characterized not as continuation of antiquity, but as its negation and destruction. As in Gabriele D’Annunzio’s La nave (1907), Byzantium stood for ‘degenerate antiquity’, heresy (in opposition to Catholic Rome) and depravity.30 This negative image of Byzantium was accentuated even more during the era of fascism by the rhetoric of the regime inspired by and drawing on Imperial Rome – but paradoxically a stronger contempt for Byzantium did not necessarily mean a worse representation of Theodora. Internationally Theodora was being reassessed, mainly because of Charles Diehl, author of a biography of the empress31 and of an article on the success of Byzantium in literature. According to him, this success was based especially upon ‘the rich collection which it presents of perverse and fatal women’.32 Beautiful, intelligent, attractive and seductive, of strong will, full of ambition



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and inclined to love, Theodora is a simple dancer who one day ‘leaves behind her the loves without future and, having found the serious man who would guarantee her a lasting stability, converted to marriage and devotion’.33 She was unlikely to risk her imperial robe for a love affair – Diehl considered it better to exclude ‘the adventures which Sardou attributed to her’.34 But more generally Diehl disliked the selective reception of the elegant, refined and virtuous aspects of Byzantium, coexisting with the sensuality and corruption, which he still describes in highly moralistic tones. The tentative reappraisal by Flora Santucci, typical of fascist Italy, was quite different and underlined extensively the generosity of the empress, portraying her as ‘passionate woman, tender and steady mate, sincere friend, protector of women, pious believer, missed mother’.35 How could she be at the same time so saintly and so depraved? She was the empress of a ‘perturbed Orient’ in a time when everything was changing and degenerating. She was an exceptional woman, ‘a flower of mud and gems’, and her strange life was a product of a degenerate period.36 She could not have been different, being a ‘creature of an extremely corrupt century, atom whirling in the dissolute universe of a big metropolis and of very low social level’. Her Christian faith could have purified and absolved her of the accusations of cruelty – if it had not been heretical.37

Theodora the Saint, Theodora the Revolutionary More positive interpretations, which did not take Procopius at face value, appeared gradually. Historiography, novels and plays employed new interpretive categories summarized by James as (1) ‘she didn’t really do it’ and (2) ‘she didn’t really mean to’.38 The latter could even be subdivided in the possible variants (2a) ‘she had to but didn’t want to’,39 (2b) ‘she repented completely’ and (2c) ‘she became older and wiser’ (more similar to Diehl’s idea). These two tendencies will coexist with two others which are, using James’ definition, (3) ‘she’s a tart with a heart of gold’ and (4) ‘she can’t help it/she can’t help herself ”, already dominating in Carlucci’s film.40 With this change, we approach Theodora ‘the Saint’. Where, and for whom, was she a saint? Theodora was not of Orthodox faith, but a Monophysite.41 In the Near Eastern Monophysite world, ‘Justinian is remembered as the one who caused the separation of the churches through his policy of persecution for all who did not accept the Council of Chalcedon. Theodora, on the other hand, is remembered as the ‘believing queen’, champion and protectress of the

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dissenting non-Chalcedonian church’.42 Her first admirer, John of Ephesus, was chronologically too close to the actual events to deny that she was ‘from the brothel’.43 Since the epithet is cited in Greek in a Syrian text, it is generally considered to have been popular, employed but not invented by the author.44 Overall, he emphasized the theme of repentance (‘she didn’t really mean to’).45 A later source from thirteenth-century Syria portrayed a ‘she didn’t really do it’ Theodora as the daughter of a Monophysite priest, given as wife to Justinian under the condition that he would never force her to convert to Orthodoxy.46 In the Syrian Monophysite culture, this is the image of Theodora which survived and was, for instance, still presented in the theatre play Theodora, written in 1956 by Mor Faulos Behram, Metropolitan of Baghdad.47 However, in the Western world Syriac literature remains the domain of specialists and this image of Theodora was never of interest for a broad public, while Procopius’ Anekdota were generally far more successful. Nonetheless, Theodora’s image was also re-evaluated in Europe after the World War II and connected to politics. She became an empress from the people and for the people – a new variant of the ‘she didn’t really do it’-theory – a strong-willed, determined character compatible with the courage attributed to her in the sources, for example during the Nika revolt where, according to Procopius, Theodora refused to flee Constantinople and rebuked a rather cowardly Justinian.48 Theodora’s reception now focused on her low social origin and her enmity with the praetorian prefect John of Cappadocia, who was finally ruined by Antonina and Theodora in 541.49 Procopius asserts that Theodora hated John50; support for the ‘new’ image of the empress stems mainly from John Lydus, who held her in high esteem. He facilitates the interpretation of the clash between Theodora and the Cappadocian as the clash between a woman of the lowest social strata struggling for ‘democracy’ and a rapacious member of the aristocracy unwilling to lose privileges: On account of the Cappadocian’s unrestricted power everyone, although subject to his injustices, spoke highly of the scoundrel, and their praises for him were loudest of all when in the emperor’s presence – for who would have ventured to bring up even his mere name without a word of praise? Only the emperor’s wife, the superior in intelligence of any man ever, who was maintaining a vigilant watch out of sympathy for those to whom injustice was being done, finding it intolerable to watch inactively any longer as the state foundered, armed with accounts which told no ordinary tale, she went over to the emperor and informed him of everything that had up to this time escaped his notice, of the fact that there was a risk that not merely would the citizenry come to ruin amid



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the wrongs being perpetrated, but also that the empire itself was near to being brought down.51

John of Cappadocia, uniting Procopius and John Lydus52 (who generally had opposing views) in their wrath against him, therefore functioned well as negative character.53 His image deteriorated further because of his supposed enmity with Belisarius, considering the hero status the latter enjoyed in Western culture.54 On the other side, Fredegarius’ account of the Nika revolt could once again have played a role in shaping the idea of an aristocratic opposition to Theodora, upheld by lobbies, personal interests and class struggle.55 Procopius himself could be seen as old bigot wanting to humiliate a popular, generous, ‘democratic’ empress – had he not written that no one complained, no one opposed Theodora as an empress, but all were happy to be her slaves?56 Theodora had become the red empress, a token of the chance of deliverance for the lowest social classes, the metaphor for a governor who does not forget his origins and reforms society – she now seduces Justinian, acquires power and uses it to help the lowest social strata.57 Her help for women in distress and her founding houses for ‘Repentants’ could also be read in this way.58 It is somewhat surprising that Marxist historiography did not take up this theme; according to Cesaretti, rigid interpretive categories prohibited this, not allowing a woman from the Lumpenproletariat who had become empress to be a historiographical subject on a par with the Gracchi and Spartacus.59 But in pseudo-scholarly literature, Theodora was connected to Evita Perón, who, also of humble origin, gave her husband the support of the lower social strata and of the working classes. Even Theodora’s allegedly early death by cancer contributed to the image of a parallel between the two powerful and influential women60, although Evita died much younger, aged only 33, and Theodora was probably around 50 years old.61 Lucia Fischer-Pap took this parallel to extremes, alleging that Evita was the reincarnation of Theodora.62 Before this background, Theodora reappeared as subject of a film, Teodora Imperatrice di Bisanzio (1953), directed by Riccardo Freda.63 At the beginning of the film Justinian (George Marchal) – a weak emperor aiming to establish piety and justice in his reign – wanders in disguise among the poorest to find out their needs and he hears of the widespread hatred against John the Cappadocian and the peoples’ love for Belisarius. He also meets Theodora (Gianna Maria Canale), who is a Cypriote dancer, not a prostitute. She seduces him with some sort of belly dance, reinforcing once more the Orientalist image of Byzantium, and tries to steal a jewel from him. However, she steals only out of need and for revenge

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for when her father the bear-keeper died, she says, she should have inherited his position which was instead given by John the Cappadocian to a member of the Blue faction – one of the two circus teams. Theodora is on the side of the Greens, the popular faction, standing against the nobles (supporter of the Blues), who are rich, greedy, insensitive and despise Justinian. They are led by John the Cappadocian and by the chief of the guards and charioteer of the Blues, Andrés, whose character may be a jibe against Sardou. There is no doubt that the world of the Hippodrome in Byzantium fascinated Freda; everything revolves around it, people are recognized, defined and judged only by their being ‘Blue’ or ‘Green’. Theodora even wins a race as Green charioteer against the Blue team driven by Justinian himself (maybe a quotation from Niblo’s Ben Hur). The starting point is again Procopius, even though he stresses that both Theodora and Justinian were fans of the Blue faction,64 and that Theodora supported the team also because the Blues saved her family, abandoned by the Greens after her father’s death.65 Upon her accession to the throne, Theodora focuses on social policies: the Blues are forced to free all the slaves who want to join the army; she convinces Justinian to grant a general amnesty and hers is the idea of the new law code. Her destiny – she says – is to help the common people and as Belisarius tells her, ‘only the wicked ones are against you, Theodora’. It is these ‘wicked ones’ who organize a conspiracy. They help Theodora’s ex-boyfriend to infiltrate the palace, hoping he would kill her. Instead he just talks with her and reveals that the Blues are preparing an insurrection; however, Justinian surprises them. The Blues invade the palace and tell the emperor that they are trying to rescue him from Theodora’s bad influence (‘You cannot repudiate the caste and prefer the populace!’ says John the Cappadocian). Through lies and a false witness (Theodora’s sister, who hates her and is John’s lover), they insinuate that Theodora is organizing a revolt with her ex-boyfriend in order to make him emperor. Meanwhile Theodora has run away (confirming Justinian’s suspicions) and gone to the Hippodrome, where she urges the people to revolt and to make a big fire – the signal for Belisarius to intervene with his troops. Thus, Theodora actually promotes the Nika revolt. Urban guerrilla warfare breaks out, set also in the underground net of channels, with the lions of the circus as special guest stars. In the end Theodora’s ex-boyfriend dies, the revolt is quashed and Theodora almost executed, but Belisarius arrives at the last moment and explains everything. John confesses his hatred of Justinian, because he wanted to be emperor himself, and Justinian stays the execution – a strangling with a lace (again reminiscent of Sardou) – by killing the executioner.66 In the end,



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Justinian and Theodora appear in S. Vitale in Ravenna for the inauguration of the church.67 In this re-evaluation of Theodora as ‘red empress’ there is, in accordance with contemporary socialist and communist ideas, a rather strong criticism of Christianity: Freda turns Theodora not into a heretic, but a pagan. The patriarch of Constantinople, who represents ‘institutional’ Christianity, is a fervent Blue opposing Theodora and preaching the obedience of the working class to the aristocracy. It seems that Theodora converts after the wedding, but this point is not particularly stressed, while in his final prayer to God Justinian asks to be granted charity and to be loved by God himself, the empress and his subjects.

Theodora: Sensuality or Sexuality? Freda’s film had success – and received an interesting and ferocious critique from Siniscalchi, who complained that Freda had transformed Theodora and Justinian into ‘weird subjects with sexual pathologies’ and insisted that the empress was not a ‘vindicator of liberty and Vestal of democracy’, but rather an evil creature who did not even refrain from persecuting the pope.68 In spite of these more positive interpretations, Theodora’s reputation did not improve much. Antonio Focas Flavio Angelo Ducas Comneno de Curtis di Bisanzio Gagliardi (better known as Totò), probably the most representative figure of Italian comedy of the period and a member of an ancient aristocratic family with Byzantine connections (he was related to the Komnenians and his complete title was ‘His Imperial Highness, Palatine Count, Knight of the Holy Roman Empire, Exarch of Ravenna, Duke of Macedonia and Illyria, Prince of Constantinople, Cilicia, Thessaly, Pontus, Moldavia, Dardania, Peloponnesus, Count of Cyprus and Epirus, Count and Duke of Drivasto and Durazzo’), used to generally refer to Theodora as ‘his aunt’ and ‘a whore’.69 Theodora’s sexuality was indeed always a problem. Procopius states clearly that she was an uninhibited woman with a ‘hypersexualised identity’, using this aspect as a crucial part of his literary invective.70 It is no surprise that this facet attracted a lot of attention from later historians and in reception.71 The second half of the twentieth century again witnessed a division and a development of the image of Theodora. Moralistic authors would go on condemning her, while the sexual liberation led to a re-evaluation of the empress as new model of femininity – ‘she did it indeed’ we could add as new category to James’ classification, ‘and there is nothing to be ashamed of ’.

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Quite a different representation of Theodora came into being in the 1960s and 1970s, when the Italian publishing industry discovered the genre known as ‘fumetti neri’. These comics were developed from thriller stories, in which the erotic component became increasingly important: ‘the always identical sex scenes repeat themselves. The only thing, which sometimes changes, is the decoration of the background’.72 In order to achieve such a change of background, historical erotic comics were created to attract the reader with examples of past debauchery; next to Messalina (1966–74), Teodora was of course a prime subject: 52 issues of the comic were published in 1972–3.73 Every issue emphasized on the first page that its content stemmed ‘from accurate historical sources’. This alleged accuracy manifests itself in the statement that Theodora moved ‘from the dismal life of Suburra’ (then Rome) to the imperial court and that her life is described by the ‘Liber Pontificalis, which is conserved in the library of Ravenna’. This demonstrates that the authors did not even bother to check basic information – even though the names of the characters are generally accurate. The Roman Liber Pontificalis mentions Theodora once74; the book in question is the Liber Pontificalis from Ravenna, written in the ninth century by Agnellus, which only mentions her death.75 The entire series consists mostly of sex scenes of various kinds with different backgrounds. Two forces move Theodora: lust and power. The imperial throne is the reason for all her actions: first to reach it, then to keep it. With regard to power, these actions include killing, plotting, using her body to achieve her aims, and cheating. Lust appears both as a means to get power and as an aim in itself. At two points in the series, Theodora recognizes that the other person shows real affection, if not love, and that their relationship was pure. Once it is with Belisarius, the second one with a slave, Zendar. The first is quickly forgotten and the second killed immediately (she knew too much) because Theodora will not stop short of achieving complete control over the state and the lives of other people. In tune with the genre, the series does not depict conventional sexuality. Theodora shows not only insatiability and a predilection for orgies, but also sadistic tendencies. However, these comics, in their apparent rule-breaking (which explains their success in the repressive Catholic Italian society of the period), cannot be defined as politically or socially inspired – they have no feminist content, but rather foster a chauvinist conservatism. The standard themes range from necrophilia to masochism and from rape to incest, the representation of female homosexuality corresponds to male fantasies,76 and that of male homosexuality presents only effeminate young men, such as Eraclito who,



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alongside Theodora, is the lover of Hecebolus, governor of Pentapolis. This Eraclito hates and despises all women and tries to murder Theodora in a fit of jealousy but is killed himself, because of this Hecebolus sends Theodora away from his court (an expulsion confirmed by Procopius, who did not explain its reason at all).77 While they are presented as models of ‘female supremacy’, these comics actually depict an image of women catering to repressed male desires – they have the purely commercial aim of being arousing, not of being positive. Theodora is not presented as a free and emancipated woman, only as a lustful one; there is no reflection on social structures or on the role of the aristocracy and slavery is presented as a simple way of acquiring sexual playthings. The comics imply that women either live according to traditional morals or are nymphomaniacs78: there is even a sort of utopian oasis where Amazon-like women live together, keeping men to be drugged and used for sexual intercourse. But Milo Manara, possibly the most famous Italian author of adventure and erotic comics, provides us with two very different representations of Theodora. Manara does more than author erotic drawings and comics, but rather engages in social and political movements, particularly as supporter of the 1968 phenomenon and sexual liberation.79 Theodora is depicted as a revised version of the saint; by being all but saintly she is a spontaneous woman without inhibitions, a kind of proto-feminist. ‘Perversion’, if this word can be used, represents for Manara hypocritical bourgeois sexual morality.80 Theatre, ballet and shows are, according to Manara, a way for repressed societies to sublimate uncontrollable sexual impulses81. In this sense Theodora, the dancer-actressprostitute who becomes empress in the bigotted Byzantine Empire, is symbol of the triumph of individual expression against social rule, power and freedom through sensuality. In Bolero, a volume published in 1999, Theodora appears on the front cover in a parody of the mosaics of San Vitale, an expression of Manara’s typical intertextuality (or better intermediality). His work usually contains references to be deciphered. In his depiction, the empress moved from her mosaic into the one with Justinian and the bishop Maximian to satisfy their desires. The history of mankind – according to the preface – can be summarized very easily: ‘it seems like men never did anything else than reproduce, kill each other and change dress’.82 The title itself conveys this message: because of this basic mechanism, history is circular, like the music of a bolero. History is cruelty and sex – without the aim to reproduce. In the preface, Theodora is employed as prime example of this approach: citing Procopius, Theodora appears because of her practicing

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Figure 40.  Image from M. Manara’s Bolero. Edizioni Di, Castiglione del Lago (1999). of anal sex with the inhabitants of Constantinople before becoming empress.83 It comes as no surprise that not only is she represented in the series of figures showing the history of the world from prehistory to 2000 as one of the few recognizable historical personalities (Figure 40), but also receives a page all to herself, as well as the cover of the book. Manara represented the empress once again in 2002 in Il Pittore e la Modella. The book represents art history on the basis of the relationship – and the attraction – between the painter and his models. This is depicted as extremely complex relationship based on reciprocal fascination, aiming to exalt the role of women in art as sources of inspiration and beauty. Theodora appears as inspiration of her own portrait in Ravenna but that ‘sacred’ mosaic, so Byzantine in its abstraction and perfection, is based on a sensual and carnal woman. The gold of the jewels and of the mantel on the white skin, together with the black background, recall Klimt and Moreau, representing once more Theodora as femme fatale. The powerful Byzantine portrait becomes thus a dense representation of power itself, of the power of seduction, the power of sex, but also an eternal symbol of inspiration through physical beauty.

Conclusion Theodora – Saint, rebel or prostitute – was an exceptional woman, whose reception was and is always closely connected to the role of women in contemporary society, but also to the social and public role of sex and sexuality. The ruling woman who liberally uses her sensuality to her advantage is not just for Procopius, but generally in traditionalist and conservative thought, a very dangerous creature: the femme fatale was an object of admiration and fear. The



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sexual liberation of the 1970s would remove this concept only partly, fighting for emancipation and against a conservative image of sex and the body. Theodora is the perfect symbol of the powerful woman, as well as the typical ‘Wesen Weib’ (as a recent historian felt compelled to write84) and an emancipated woman colluding in the organized destruction of her opponents. She evokes comparisons to Evita and to Hillary Clinton.85 Her character has furnished and continues to furnish a moral and political example both to progressive minds and the worst chauvinists.

Notes 1 Just. Nov. 8.1. 2 Const. Porph. De cer. 1, app. 14 3 See Foss 2002: 142–54 for a reconstruction of how we would write Theodora’s biography if we did not have the Anekdota. 4 What Procopius ‘really’ meant, what kind of image of Theodora he wanted to create through this work, and its contextualization in sixth-century rhetoric are not topics of this paper. On the subject see, for example, Fisher 1984: 300–1; Cameron 1985: 69; Beck 1986: 38–40; Allen 1992: 93–4; Garland 1999: 32–3; Foss 2002: 152–3; Meier 2004. 5 It is possible that Sardou wrote under the influence of Hugo’s Reine Margot: Stathakopoulos 2004: 434–5. On the importance of Hugo’s model for Sardou’s theatre see Dubar 2007: 291–4. 6 Ronchey 2002a; Ronchey 2002b. On the general success of Byzantium in literature at the end of the nineteenth century, see Ricks 2000: 229–30; Delouis 2003. 7 Lapeña Marchena 2009: 47–50. 8 Sardou’s play premiered in Italy in Milan in 1885. 9 Teodora Imperatrice di Bisanzio (Ernesto Maria Pasquali, Italia 1909); Teodora (Arturo Ambrosio, Italia 1913); Teodora (Roberto Roberti, Italia 1914). Outside of Italy also Justinian and Theodora (Otis Turner, USA 1910) and Théodora (Henri Pouctal, France 1912). See Musumeci 1998: 323. 10 This movie has again attracted attention since its restoration and new release in 1997; see Musumeci 1998. 11 Musumeci 1998: 323–4. 12 Niceph. Call. HE 17. 28. 13 Diehl 1906: 53; Rubin 1960: 99; Evans 2002: 13; Foss 2002: 165–6. Modern scholars think either of a Syrian origin or of a birth in Constantinople. 14 Chron. 2.62: Justinian and Belisarius have two lovers from the brothel, two Amazon sisters (the origin explains their strength and manly behaviour) both called Antonia

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(duas germanas de lopanar electas ex genere Amazonas). An eagle protects Justinian’s head from the sun when he is asleep, Antonia the Elder perceives that he will become emperor and, half-laughing, he promises that if it will happen he will marry her. Belisarius and the Younger Antonia also promise to get married, if the other two will. Justinian becomes emperor, Antonia the Elder goes to him to have him keep his promise, which he does, but the Senators do not accept this wedding and rebel against the empress. Even if this ‘rebellion’ is depicted only briefly, it is easy to recognize the Nika revolt of 532. Justinian becomes, because of the Senators, suspicious of Belisarius, who must constantly undergo new challenges to prove his fidelity (e.g. conquering the kingdom of the Vandals). Antonia the Younger helps her husband in his campaigns, while also converting him – Belisarius was still a pagan. In the very end, Belisarius saves Justinian from usurpation and appears faithful and responsible; he reproaches Justinian because he broke the oath of reciprocal fidelity they had exchanged in their youth and qualifies himself as a hero. See Scheibelreiter 1984: 270–2. This story, which could have Procopius’ Anekdota as a background source, could be the first step in the creation of the Belisarroman, which led to an increasingly strong idealization of the Byzantine general. It is enough to remember the different tragedies about Belisarius written in France in the seventeenth century by Desfontaines (1641), Rotrou (1643) and La Calprenède (1659), Marmontel’s novel Belisaire, and the operas on the same topic composed by Philodor in 1796, Saint-Lubin in 1827, Maurer in 1830 and Donizetti in 1836. See Bernabò 2003: 8–9; Delouis 2003: 104. 15 ‘Bellezza e sapienza di donna vincono tutto’. 16 Musumeci 1998: 329: This episode was removed in the German version of the film. 17 Redi 1998: 339. 18 Proc. BP 1.24.54. In the film we also hear that Buzès protected Belisarius from the accusation of treason under torture. Even if this does not appear in Procopius, Buzès is said to have been arrested in connection with the supposed treachery of Belisarius and released years later. This could be a conflation with the episode of Proclus who confirmed the innocence of Theodotus under torture (Proc. Anekd. 9.41); in Sardou’s version, which is in this case also based on a reading of Procopius, Buzès is only briefly mentioned among Theodora’s victims. 19 Hollander 1991: 228–31; Redi 1998. 20 Basso 2006: 51–2: ‘Paganesimo e cristianesimo, opulenza orientale e misticismo s’accostano e talora si confondono.’ 21 Bernabò 2003: 35–8. 22 Basso 2006: 46. 23 See Seymour, this volume, including bibliography. 24 Fiorentino 1886: 15–16. 25 Bernabò 2003: 21–4. On Orientalism and erotic imagery in Classical reception, see



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also Seymour (opera), Pina Polo (painting and film), García (painting and film) and Llewellyn-Jones (film), this volume. 26 Cf. especially images of Cleopatra, Pina Polo, this volume. 27 On the ‘Oriental’ character of Byzantium in European perception, see Auzépy 2003: 7–8. 28 Titled Teodora. Imperatrice di Bisanzio (Torino, 1927). Domenico Amato’s biography of the empress, Teodora Imperatrice di Bisanzio, appeared in the same year, published in a series of books on curiosities of history. The empress is here presented as an intelligent but cruel and depraved woman. 29 In opposition to other European states such as France and Germany which built their ‘historical memory’ on the Germanic invasions and Herder’s theory of the ‘young people’. See Carlà 2008, in particular 84–5. 30 Bernabò 2003: 15–16. 31 Diehl 1903. The first edition was accompanied by a limited output (300 copies) with 60 illustrations of Manuel Orazi, an important designer of the time and creator of the poster of a rerun of Sardou’s Théodora in 1892. 32 Diehl 1922: 231. 33 Diehl 1906: 61. See also Ronchey 2002a: 451–2 and Delouis 2003: 132. 34 Diehl 1906: 63–5. The perception of the empress not risking the throne for an adventure also appears in Evans 2002: 110. Diehl also stated that Theodora herself would not have liked Sardou’ representation: Diehl 1903: 6; Diehl 1922: 243–7. Sardou replied to Diehl in L’Illustration Théatrale 66, 7 September 1907, 3–4. It should be pointed out that Diehl, as many other historians, does not extend the partial reappraisal of Theodora to Antonina, Belisarius’ wife, who remains a model of perversity. 35 Santucci 1929: 52. 36 Santucci 1929: 42–4. 37 Santucci 1929: 47. 38 James 2000. 39 Payer 2002: 77. Theodora disliked her life as actress and was waiting for the moment when she could finally have ‘ein menschenwürdiges Dasein’, which was exactly what happened in this highly Christian publication when ‘God took her hand and showed her the way to Egypt’. 40 James 2000: 241–4. 41 Cameron 1985: 78–80; Harvey 1990: 80–93; Pazdernik 1994: 258–60; Garland 1999: 23–9; Evans 2002: 72–104; Payer 2002: 82–96. 42 Harvey 1990: 80–1; Harvey 2001: 3; Foss 2002: 143–8. See, for example, Zach. Mityl. 9.15; 9.19. 43 Joh. Eph. Vit. 13 = PO 17, 189. 44 Evans 2002: 19.

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45 Cameron 1985: 77–8; Harvey 1990: 81–2; Harvey 2001: 21. 46 Mich. Syr. 9. 20. This version also appears in Bar Hebraeus and in the Chronicle of 1234. See Pazdernik 1994: 272–3; Harvey 2001, 9–14; Evans 2002: 18; Foss 2002: 142; McClanan 2002: 101–2. 47 Cameron 1985: 77. 48 Proc. BP 1.24.32–7; Neville 2010: 73–5. 49 Proc. BP 1.25.4–30; Pazdernik 1994: 268–70; Evans 2002: 54–6. 50 The hostility between Theodora and John of Cappadocia also appears in modern historiography, for example, Garland 1999: 33–4. 51 Joh. Lyd. De Mag. 3.69.2 (translation T. F. Carney). See Pazdernik 1994: 361–3. 52 Proc. BP 1.25.3; Joh. Lyd. De Mag. 3. 65 53 For a negative image of John the Cappadocian see Zach. Mityl. Chron. 9.14, but Theodora is here also presented in a negative light, forcing Justinian to kill Hypatius and Pompeius, even when he was ready to spare them. 54 Proc. BP 1.25.12. On the Belisariusroman, see n. 13. 55 See n. 13. 56 Proc. Anekd. 10.6–9. 57 Dürrenmatt’s presentation of Theodora’s and Justinian’s marriage as political strategy, aiming to acquire the sympathy of the masses for the Emperor, connects partially to this interpretation; see Carlà 2011. 58 On Theodora’s charitable activities see e.g. Proc. De aed. 1.2.17; 1.9 (compare with Proc. Anekd. 17.6); 1.11.27; 5.3.14; Malal. 18.24. 59 Cesaretti 2001: 195. 60 Beck 1986: 94. 61 Or even 60: Foss 2002: 164–5. 62 Fischer-Pap 1982. 63 On Classical reception in Freda see also Lapeña, this volume. 64 Proc. BP 2.11.32; Anekd. 9.33. 65 Proc. Anekd. 9.2–7. Acacius, Theodora’s father was the Green bear-keeper. After his death, Theodora’s stepfather should have received the position, but it was given to someone else. Theodora and her two sisters (the eldest was seven years old) appeared then in the Hippodrome to complain about their destiny, and the Blue faction, which was also without bear-keeper, offered Theodora’s stepfather the position, emphasizing their generosity in contrast to the inhumanity of the Greens. Freda knows the history and changes it: according to the film there should be only one bear-keeper; when Acacius died, Theodora should have inherited the position, but John the Cappadocian gave it to a supporter of the Blue faction. 66 The hostility between the ‘Senators’ and Belisarius is, as mentioned above, present in Fredegarius’ version; here Belisarius even pretends to join the aristocratic conspiracy in order to kill the usurper, Florianus.



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67 Justinian and Theodora never visited Ravenna. Nonetheless, a local tradition, attested with certainty since the Renaissance, claimed that the emperor spent some time in the city, and in particular that he was present, together with the empress, for the inauguration of the church of S. Vitale, as in Freda’s movie. See, for example, Tomai’s Historia di Ravenna (1580) and an inscription dating to 1643 in the church itself, dedicated memoriae Justiniani Magni legum parentis … quod templum hoc sancto martyri Vitali a fundamentis erexit et una cum uxore Theodora dedicationi interfuit. On these traditions, see Mazzotti 1978: 308–11. Once again, it is impossible to know whether Freda knew these traditions and consciously referred to them in the film’s last scene. 68 Siniscalchi 1955. 69 ‘A tu per tu’, Il Messaggero, 11 October 2005. 70 Proc. Anekd. 9.10–26: Theodora starts prostituting herself as a child, later she engages in any form of intercourse, including orgies, during which she had sex with up to 40 persons without satisfying her lust. See McClanan 2002: 111–17. 71 For example, Montesquieu 1752: 278 (see also 300); Gibbon 1898: 212–18. On Theodora in Gibbon see McClanan 2002: 117–18. 72 Knigge 1985: 211. 73 On reception and eroticism and pornography, see also Lindner and McHugh, this volume. 74 Lib. Pont. 61.3. Theodora writes a letter to pope Vigilius asking him to re-institute the Monophysite patriarch of Constantinople Anthimus, deposed by Agapitus, Vigilius denies the request. 75 Agn. Lib. Pont. Rav. 62. 76 On the arbitrary inclusion of such scenes in films, see also McHugh, this volume. 77 Proc. Anekd. 9.27: ‘but she gave some offence to the man and was driven thence with all speed’ (translation H. B. Dewing). 78 ‘Il libero amore sconfina nella ninfomania, accompagnato da un sado-masochismo di cattivo gusto, che farebbe ridere lo stesso divin marchese. Queste marionette prive d’interiorità, di sentimento, nel momento in cui credono di strumentalizzare l’uomo ne sono strumentalizzate, nel momento in cui credono di essere un mezzo di liberazione dai tabù sessuali diventano mezzo di repressione. Il lettore scarica su di esse tutte le frustrazioni e l’aggressività accumulate sul lavoro, alla catena di montaggio, in ufficio, nella miseria delle borgate, invece che in un’attiva contestazione al sistema. La tensione scaricata nella lettura di questi fumetti, rivolta assolutamente sterile, diventa una forma di difesa di quella stessa società contro la quale apparentemente queste persone operano’. http://www.fuorileidee.com/exp/ angoli/federico/nero/ ISA_Isabella.html (accessed 7 September 2010). 79 Tischer 1994: 42. 80 Tischer 1994: 58–9.

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81 Tischer 1994: 62. 82 See Preface in Manarcís Bolero (1999): 3–4. 83 Milo Manara confirmed that he read Procopius and received inspiration for his work from this source (personal communication). I owe thanks to him and to his daughter Simona. 84 Beck 1986: 11. See also Browning 1971: 65 ‘She was some fifteen years younger than he [Justinian], though like many women she never revealed her age’. Browning does not spare even Procopius, attesting him ‘the neurotic lasciviousness of a prude’. 85 McClanan 2002: 113–14 draws the parallel, based on the hypersexualized image of the two women presented by their opposers.

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The Spell of Antinous in Renaissance Art: The Jonah Statue in Santa Maria del Popolo1 Rosario Rovira Guardiola

Andy Warhol said that Rome was a supermarket, a city spoilt for choice.2 The Chigi chapel in the church of Santa Maria del Popolo, designed by Raphael, with statues created by Lorenzetto and Bernini, with influences from Roman art, and with different artistic techniques, illustrates this maxim. It is also a good case study for the role of antiquity in the Renaissance, the seductive power it exerted on artists and their patrons alike as well as the use those patrons made of antiquity and works inspired by it to perform power and status. The painter Raphael was commissioned by Agostino Chigi to undertake both the architectural and decorative design of the chapel around 1513. The sanctuary, dedicated to the Virgin of Loreto, was to be used as the mortuary chapel for the Chigi family. It bears witness to the influence of Classical art on Renaissance artists, specifically on Raphael, as well as on their patrons. Renaissance artists were seduced by antiquity; Classical art provided the inspiration to break with medieval art and create new means of expression with an interest in the human body and the mixture of traditional themes with new ones inspired by mythology or history. The Chigi chapel is a testimony of this seduction of antiquity and how it permeated Renaissance art. The circular plan and the low door partially concealing the dome of the chapel echo the Pantheon in Rome.3 This also applies to the composition of the decoration, which is divided into three horizontal sections. A mosaic constitutes the central motif; since this is a rarely used technique in the Renaissance, it may well have been inspired by Roman art. Slabs of marble decorate the central level, while niches for statues in the lower level also follow Roman tradition. One of these statues, the one representing the prophet Jonah (Figure 41), is one of the earliest, if not the first, post-classical visual representations of Antinous, the young Bithynian

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Figure 41.  Statue of Jonah in the Chigi Chapel of the Church of Santa Maria del Popolo, by Raphael and Lorenzetto. Photograph by M.-L. Nguyen. boy with whom the Roman emperor Hadrian fell in love.4 When Antinous drowned in the Nile in c. 130 ad, the grieving emperor named a city after him (Antinoopolis) and established a cult in his honour, which spread across the Roman empire. Nowadays, the young chubby-cheeked statue of the boy Antinous with his thick curly locks, languidly gazing downward and smiling shyly, is easily recognized (Figure 42). His beauty and his tragic story are well known and have fascinated and influenced writers and artists.5 But was the use of the features of Antinous in the Renaissance, the period in which Roman art was rediscovered, a conscious choice? Is the statue of Jonah proof of the allure of Antinous dating back to such an early period? Or is it just a lucky twist of fate? This chapter will explore the artistic and historical context in which the Jonah statue was designed and sculpted with the aim to understand why Raphael and the sculptor Lorenzetto, contracted to execute the work, chose the



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Figure 42.  Statue of Jonah in the Chigi Chapel of the Church of Santa Maria del Popolo, by Raphael and Lorenzetto. Photograph by M.-L. Nguyen. features of Antinous to represent the prophet Jonah. The first step will be to understand the circumstances in which the statue was designed and how it fitted in Raphael’s artistic production. As we will see, the features of Antinous appear in other works of Raphael as well. The use of the features of Antinous in contexts unrelated to him (i. e. to portray the emperor Constantine) might suggest that Raphael was using them because they belonged to an attractive ancient face, not because they belonged to Antinous. The second step will be to see how the Jonah statue was interpreted by Raphael’s contemporaries and by the art historians who discussed his work, such as Giorgio Vasari and Gian Pietro Bellori. The contemporaries of Raphael did not see the features of Antinous in the Jonah statue.6 The influence that Antinous had had on Raphael was only acknowledged when Bellori wrote his essay on the frescoes of the Villa Farnesina in Rome.7 Finally I will discuss briefly the reception of Antinous during the High Renaissance, a fascinating period in which his reception changed rapidly. At the beginning of the sixteenth century the reception of Antinous was almost exclusively restricted to the literary sphere and based on Roman and Christian sources; it was separated from his visual reception. This was a period where there was still a gap between Classical texts and images. The study of the past was based mainly on written sources and focused on philological and literary aspects. Antiquities like gems and coins were collected and appreciated, but the number of other types of artefacts like statues was still limited. However, the gap narrowed with the steady increase in finds of Roman antiquities and the development of antiquarian studies with the inclusion of a new discipline: the

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archaeological interpretation of Roman architecture and topography. This new approach connected written sources like Vitruvius with the evidence that could still be seen in cities like Rome.8 The discovery of the Laocoön group is the best example to illustrate the complexity of the situation. The sculpture was found in Rome in 1506, not long before the Jonah statue was sculpted, and Giuliano da Sangallo was allegedly able to recognize it immediately because of a written source, the description by Pliny the Elder.9 Following its discovery, the statue exerted a powerful influence not only on Renaissance artists, but also on the public, since it was displayed in the Vatican Belvedere, the precursor of the Vatican Museums. Accordingly, we should investigate whether the same applied to Antinous: could written evidence help to identify his visual image? During the sixteenth century the reception of Antinous developed, gradually merging text and image. By the end of the century, Antinous had become a popular character and his statues and busts (or more accurately objects interpreted as such) were frequently found in private and public collections. But could Raphael identify Antinous among the archaeological discoveries?

The statue of Jonah in Santa Maria del Popolo According to the Bible, Javeh had ordered Jonah to go to the city of Nineveh to warn her citizens who were sinning; instead he fled and sailed to Tarshish.10 On his way there the sailors threw him overboard in a storm to calm the wrath of God and save the ship. Jonah was then swallowed by a fish (or whale), but after three days inside its belly, he prayed to God and agreed to fulfil his requests. Consequently, the fish expelled Jonah. The statue of Jonah in Santa Maria del Popolo represents this episode. The scene is traditionally used as a parallel to the resurrection of Christ and therefore constitutes a theme fitting the general iconography of the chapel: the resurrection of the dead. The story of Jonah was a popular theme in medieval and renaissance art, but Raphael chose a scene that was not frequently represented, the ‘resurrected’ Jonah coming out of the whale as a young man. Despite the earlier popularity of Jonah, the theme fell gradually into disuse. Raphael was one the last artists to use it, along with Michelangelo who included Jonah in the Sistine Chapel, although he used the more traditional representation of Jonah as old man and prophet rather than depicting a scene of his story.11 The similarities between the stories of Jonah and Antinous might perhaps



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point towards a conscious use of the features of the Bithynian boy. Jonah was swallowed up by a whale to re-emerge a few days later, Antinous drowned in the Nile. His death, perhaps a suicide, rejuvenated Hadrian, who, as a consequence, deified the boy. This deification of Antinous was known to post-classical sources, which frequently mention his temples.12 These parallels between the stories of Jonah and Antinous have been employed to justify the use of the features of Antinous in the Santa Maria del Popolo statue, but in my opinion we should step back for a moment and reconsider the sources for the statue and the visual image of Antinous at the beginning of the sixteenth century. If the subject of the Jonah statue is unequivocally Christian, the form is an amalgam of Roman art references. Also, the ancient character of the statue is strengthened further by the fact that, as we will see later, it was perhaps sculpted out of a fragment of ancient marble. As we have seen, the features of Antinous inspired the execution of the prophet’s head, while parallels to the body can be found in the popular Roman theme of putti riding sea creatures. It has been suggested that the model for the body of Jonah might be a statue now in the Galleria Borghese in Rome, but Yeun considered that the differences in composition makes the Borghese statue an improbable model for the Jonah. The Borghese satyr is in a kneeling position, while Jonah is almost standing up. He suggests that Raphael might have been inspired by scenes of putti riding sea creatures like the ones that appear frequently in cameos and that were well known in Raphael’s circle.13 Perhaps we should add here another possible sources of inspiration, the architectural reliefs from buildings like the teatro marittimo and the piazza d’oro in Hadrian’s Villa or the Baths of Agrippa (that were located behind the Pantheon), which also feature similar marine scenes.14 These buildings must have been well known by Raphael and his circle. He visited Hadrian’s Villa in April of 1516 with a group of humanists, including Baldassare Castiglione, Agostino Beazzano, Andrea Navagero and probably Pietro Bembo.15 Little information on what they actually saw is available, but the Fossombrone sketchbook gives an idea of the sights of Tivoli at the time and its influence on Raphael’s work. The clearest example are the Cioci, a pair of Egyptian style statues that probably came from Hadrian’s Villa, but were kept at the time outside the gate of the bishopric of Tivoli, where they attracted the attention of visitors; one of the folios of the Fossombrone sketchbook depicts them in this location at Tivoli. The influence that the pair had on Renaissance artists can be traced to the Vatican stanze, where Raphael used them as a decorative element in the Stanza dell’Incendio.16 Similar to the Cioci, the friezes of the

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teatro marittimo, two of which appear in the sketchbook, could also have influenced him.17 We have seen how Raphael might have found it easy to find the inspiration for the body of the statue in a variety of sources. Returning to our main interest, we need to ask what the source for the features of Antinous was. In order to identify the model, we have to look at the representations of Antinous known at the time and accessible to Raphael. The now so-called Antinous Farnese has traditionally been considered as the model for the Jonah statue.18 Recently Fittschen has ruled it out, because the locks of hair are not of the same type, but rather resemble other portraits.19 I wonder if attempting to identify the model based only on the study of the locks is to underestimate the impact of antiquity on the Renaissance artists. The use Raphael made of classical art is complex and goes far beyond the mere repetition of motifs or landscapes with ruins. Antiquity was not merely providing models to copy, but influenced the artists and aided them in developing new artistic messages. Thus, we have seen that the body of the Jonah statue is not a replica of any particular Roman motif or model, but inspired by them. The same might be applied to the head. Before we rule out the Antinous Farnese as a model for Jonah, we should also take the historical context into consideration. Although it is difficult to confirm the presence of Antinous’ statue in Rome at the time of the creation of Jonah, it might be linked to Raphael’s circle. There are two theories about the ownership of the Antinous Farnese, it belonging either to Pietro Bembo or to Agostino Chigi himself. A head of Antinous is mentioned by Marcantonio Michiel around 1530. The head was in Padova and it was part of the collection of antiquities of Pietro Bembo, one of the fellow travellers of Raphael on his trip to Tivoli, and at the time was not attached to a body.20 A letter of Mario Bevilacqua to Vincenzo Gonzaga, written in June of 1591, in which he describes the antiquities of Cardinal Bembo, suggests that the head was bought by the Farnese family and taken to Rome to be displayed in their palace at the Campo de’ Fiori.21 As far as we know, the head may only have reached Rome when the cardinal’s son Torquato sold and dismantled the collection after the death of his parent, disregarding the deceased’s wishes. The correspondence of Bembo does not give details about where and when the object was acquired. Nevertheless, he kept antiquities in his apartment in Rome and it is possible that he acquired the head of Antinous in Rome when he lived there between 1512 and 1521, before transferring to Padova. 22 A point in favour of the head being acquired in Rome



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is the fact that most of the Antinous statues found in the western provinces of the Roman empire were discovered in Rome and its environs.23 This time frame fits the creation of the Jonah statue. The second option, the head belonging to Agostino Chigi, is unlikely. Some historians have considered the Antinous Farnese as influencing the Mercury of Raphael’s frescoes in the Villa Farnesina and proposed that the statue might have belonged to Agostino Chigi who commissioned the work. They have not taken into consideration that the Antinous Farnese in its present form seems to have undergone restoration at the end of the sixteenth century and hence could not have been a model for the frescoes.24 There are no other documents pointing to Agostino Chigi as owner of the Antinous Farnese. The Antinous Farnese seems to indicate that in Raphael’s time the visual image of Antinous had already been identified, but we know that there was at least one statue falsely considered to be Antinous. This is the image of the so-called Antinous Belvedere, an attribution that was ruled out by Winckelmann who identified him as Hermes.25 The statue is probably first mentioned in the short biography of Antinous Andreas Fulvius wrote for his Imagines Illustribus, published in 1517. He says that two statues of Antinous were found in Trajan’s Baths and were taken soon after to the Vatican by Pope Leo X.26 At least one of the statues was displayed in the Belvedere, as it appears in Aldrovandi’s description of the collections of antiquities in Rome, published in 1555.27 The statue was an immediate success and was one of the most popular statues in the Vatican, but it poses a problem in our interpretation of the Jonah statue.28 If the Antinous Belvedere has the features attributed to Antinous at the time Raphael designed the Jonah statue, then he might not have been conscious that he was using Antinous as a model. The features of the Jonah statue are too similar to the features that we now interpret as the ones of Antinous to have been inspired by the so-called Antinous Belvedere. It is very unlikely that Raphael did not know the Antinous Belvedere, since at the time of the discovery he was in Rome working on the Vatican stanze. In August 1515 he would be appointed praefectus marmorum et lapidum omnium by Pope Leo X, an office destined to look for ancient marble found in the ongoing excavations along the city suitable for reuse in the new basilica of Saint Peter, of which he had also been appointed architect. This office would give him access to new archaeological discoveries.29 He also knew Andreas Fulvius; they seem to have been working together on an illustrated version of Andreas Fulvius’ Antiquitates Urbis, which had been published originally in 1513. The new version was supposed to have an updated text by Fulvius and illustrations

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by Raphael. However, Raphael’s commitments and his death in 1520 prevented the project from being completed. Accordingly, only an extended text without illustrations was published in 1527 under the title Antiquaria Urbis.30 Another representation of Antinous was visible in Rome at all times; the Antinous of one of the tondi on Constantine’s Arch in the Roman forum. The dedicatory inscription of the arch has obscured the fact that although the monument was built during the reign of Constantine, it actually reused earlier sculptures. Although the arch has been part of the history of the city of Rome since it was built, it has only been very recently that the image of Antinous has been identified and the arch has started to be fully understood.31 The tondi dating to the Hadrianic period represent the emperor Hadrian in a series of hunting scenes where Antinous seems to appear in between the companions of the ruler. Raphael knew the monument well as it is mentioned in a letter that he and Baldassar Castiglione addressed to Pope Leo X.32 He questioned the quality of its reliefs, which he considered to be lower than that of Trajan’s column, a monument much admired by Renaissance artists, distinctly influencing contemporary art. I do not consider the Antinous in the tondi as a contender for the role of model of the Jonah statue. It would have been difficult to transfer the image on the relief to a freestanding sculpture, while adhering to the features of Antinous with such precision. In the hypothetical case that Raphael and Lorenzetto linked the features of the tondo to the ones of the model they were using for Jonah, it is unlikely that they would have interpreted them as the ones of Hadrian’s favourite, since they appear in a monument that they considered to be of a much later date. The above-mentioned statues of Antinous were not the only images identified as Antinous. Aldovrandi’s account of public and private collections in Rome, published in 1555, mentions 12 statues of Antinous, including the Antinous Belvedere and two modern copies within the 95 collections described. Some of the collections including statues of Antinous belonged to important Roman families like the Porcari or the Frangipani, who had already started collecting in the fourteenth century.33 Unfortunately, the dispersion of the collections and the lack of graphic support make it very difficult to trace the objects back to the time in which Raphael was active. This reduces notably the number of Antinous statues that we can identify as available for the artist to use as model. Nevertheless, the large number of Antinous statues just 35 years after Raphael’s death and the immediate popularity of the Antinous Belvedere would indicate that Antinous could well have been a popular character even at the beginning



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of the century, regardless of whether the identifications were justified. A clear example of the appeal of Antinous is the interest of Vincenzo Gonzaga I, Duke of Mantova, who wanted to buy part of the collection of Francesco Peranda in Rome in 1600. One of the pieces of the collection was a statue of Antinous with a prominent role in the correspondence between Gonzaga and his agents in Rome; the piece seems to have been the most valued of the entire collection.34 Finding a model for the Jonah statue is not easy and remains an open question. Identifying which statues of Antinous Raphael could have known is problematic, because our knowledge of Roman antiquities available at the time is limited and written sources discussing them are equally scarce. The fact that the only Antinous (the Antinous Belvedere) we can positively identify as known at the time does not have the features of Antinous makes matters worse. In my opinion it constitutes good enough reason to doubt that Raphael used Antinous’ features consciously. Again, we should consider the possibility that this particular Jonah statue was only inspired by a statue of Antinous and that there was never any intention to reproduce the model faithfully, making it even more difficult to find the source of inspiration. It was a modern reinterpretation of an ancient model. This fits better with the philosophy of Renaissance artists, who sought in antiquity a source of inspiration, not objects of art to reproduce faithfully.35 The images of Antinous known in Raphael’s time cast doubt on the abovementioned possible reasons for using his features in the Jonah statue; the identification of Antinous with Jonah/Christ becomes untenable. As we will see in continuation, the repetition of the features of Antinous in other works of Raphael and his workshop makes me think that it was Antinous’ beauty in itself attracting the attention of Raphael who thought it suitable for the representation of resurrection.

Raphael’s other Antinous An overview of the production of Raphael and his workshop underlines the fact that the representation of a male figure on a dolphin or sea creature is repeated in different contexts. Because they were executed in different techniques, ranging from sculpture to painting, it is sometimes difficult to appreciate whether or not the features of Antinous were employed. Looking at the similarities, such as the thick locks of hair and the shy smile, I would suggest that he was used as a model.

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A boy on a dolphin appears in one of the stucco applications in one the loggie of the Vatican, unfortunately the face is missing and we cannot determine whether it was inspired by Antinous. The context is very different from the Christian context of the funerary chapel of Agostino Chigi, since these rooms were to be decorated with scenes from Classical mythology. According to Shearman, the fact that the stucco plaque was already in place in 1519 would indicate that the design of the Jonah statue might have been completed at such an early stage too.36 A drawing by Perino del Vaga (one of the artists of the workshop of Raphael), now in Windsor Castle, is also clearly representing the same scene as the Jonah statue.37 However, the images feature noticeable differences. The Jonah of Santa Maria del Popolo is staring down towards the whale, creating a link between them. In the drawing, the young man stares towards his left without establishing any visual link with the sea animal, rendering the composition less successful than the Jonah statue. Nevertheless, his features distinctly resemble the face of Antinous with the thick locks and full lips. Although no printed copies are preserved, the drawing was intended to be reproduced, which would point to the popularity of the subject.38 Even more important for our understanding of the use of Antinous in Raphael’s work is the image of Constantine in the Stanza dell’Incendio in the Vatican.39 Protagonists of the history of Christianity are represented in the lower level of frescoes of the room; one of them is the first Christian emperor, Constantine. He is represented in the already familiar pose of the Jonah statue. The sea animal has disappeared, but the half kneeling position is the same, as is the position of the head, gazing downwards with a half smile. The similarity of his facial characteristics with the Windsor drawing is notable, allowing one to establish a relationship between both images and the Jonah statue. The identification of the Jonah statue with the Constantine of the Stanza dell’Incendio might point us towards the real role of the face of Antinous in Renaissance art. The use of the features of Antinous to represent Constantine would show that his features might not have been employed because they belonged to the boy loved by Hadrian; it would not make sense to use the features of one historical character to represent another one. His features were being used because of their undeniable beauty, their artistic status as works of antiquity, and their suitability for the subject. The beautiful young Roman face embodied both the Christian defeat of death and the final victory of Christianity over Paganism, as represented by Constantine.



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The Jonah statue according to Raphael’s Contemporaries Raphael’s contemporaries seemed not to have interpreted the head of the Jonah statue as inspired by Antinous. The deaths of both Raphael and Agostino Chigi as well as the precarious financial situation of Agostino’s heirs caused the late installation of the statues in their designated niches in the Chigi chapel, with so much delay that not even Lorenzetto could see his works in place as he left Rome soon after the sack of the city in 1527. As a consequence, many of Raphael’s contemporaries might not have been able to see the statues and its reception belongs to a later period, in which artistic perception had changed. The first time that a mention of the Jonah statue might appear in the contemporary documentation is in the correspondence between Leonardo Sellaio and Michelangelo.40 There is no direct reference to the statue, but the mention of two blocks of marble of similar size to the Jonah and Elijah statues belonging to Agostino Chigi might be linked to the Chigi Chapel statues. In his letters, Leonardo Sellaio explains how two blocks of marble from Michelangelo’s supply in the harbour of Ripa on the banks of the Tiber River had gone missing, which were intended for the tomb of Pope Julius II. They would later be found in Santa Maria del Popolo in the hands of Agostino Chigi. According to the letters, Agostino promised to return the two blocks, but it seems he never did it. In fact, Michelangelo added the cost to expenses for the tomb of Julius II in December 1523. Shearman suggested that the blocks mentioned in the correspondence between Leonardo Sellaio and Michelangelo were used for the Jonah and Elijah statues in the Chigi Chapel, because the size of the blocks, about 2.5 metres each, would have worked for statues of 1.83 metres and 1.80 metres height respectively.41 This version would contradict Pirro Ligorio, who, writing about the Temple of Jupiter Stator in Rome, explained how Lorenzetto used fragments of marble from this temple for modern objects, among them the statue of Jonah in Santa Maria del Popolo.42 Writing in 1550, Vasari mentioned in his biographies of both Raphael and Lorenzetto the statues of Jonah and Elijah, as they were an important part of Agostino’s tomb, but made no reference to a possible influence of ancient sources; he only discussed the subject of the statue – Jonah – and its interpretation as the resurrection from death.43 This is a theme rooted in medieval iconography, as we have discussed above.44 Soon after their installation in the Chigi Chapel, the statues seem to have been well received by the public and appear in some guidebooks. In April 1598 Jacopo De Albericis wrote a monograph on the church of Santa Maria

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del Popolo, in which he included a description of the Chigi Chapel, but here again there is no mention of the head of Jonah being inspired by Antinous.45 The same applies to Cherubini’s Le cose meravigliose dell’alma città di Roma of 1609, in which he attributed the design and decoration of the Chigi Chapel to Michelangelo.46 A century later, in 1695, Giovan Pietro Bellori’s commentary on Raphael’s frescoes at the Villa Farnesina finally identifies the head of the Jonah statue with Antinous.47 Bellori emphasized the influence that the study of Classical art had on Raphael’s work, as demonstrated by his visits to archaeological sites in Rome and outside the city boundaries, such as Hadrian’s Villa, but also by his interest in specific works, such as the Torso Belvedere or the Antinous. Bellori never mentioned a particular Antinous as influence for Raphael. Perhaps he was thinking of the features of Antinous generally or perhaps of the Antinous Belvedere, to whom he gave marked attention in his biography of Poussin, published in his Vite de’ pittori, scultori et architetti moderni of 1672.48 From that point on, the influence of Antinous on Raphael’s work was widely recognized, but the acknowledgement of this influence and the modern interest in Antinous has made us forget the real importance of Antinous during the Renaissance. As a last detail, I cannot resist quoting Viktor Rydberg who wrote a wonderful story regarding the creation of the Jonah statue. A visitor of Hadrian’s Villa fell asleep on the site; in his dream the emperor Hadrian appeared to him to say that until the name of Antinous was cleared, he would not be able to rest. The visitor went then to visit Raphael and explained the vision to him. The artist decided to use the features of Antinous for the Jonah statue to let the emperor rest in peace. Rydberg offered no further details on where he heard this story and may in fact have invented it, but se non è vera è ben trovata.49

Conclusion The study of the Jonah statue in Santa Maria del Popolo raises more questions rather than providing answers. The use of Antinous’ features is undeniable, but the reason for it is less clear. Given the evidence available, it is difficult to sustain that Raphael and his circle knew the features to be of those of Antinous. The repetition of the model, both the face and the body, point towards a creation of an artistic model based on ancient sources, which could be employed in contexts with very different meanings (Jonah and Constantine). In the case of the Jonah statue, the Classical content is replaced by a Christian theme, which



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was rarely utilized after this period. The use of the features of Antinous in this context is not connected to the interest in the historical figure of Hadrian’s lover, which developed during the sixteenth century and still flourishes today. The fascination for Antinous, his power to seduce, was based on his beauty, his capacity of sacrifice and regeneration. It is this last aspect that was at the basis of his cult. The interest in Antinous was already present in Raphael’s circle, as the biography written by Andreas Fulvius demonstrates, and the appeal was not completely disassociated from his physical representation; after all, according to the ancient sources his beauty was one of his outstanding qualities and the representation of it was accordingly essential for his reception. However, at that time it was probably associated to the wrong image, namely the Antinous Belvedere. Nevertheless, this lack of ‘knowledge’ makes the use of Antinous’ features even more fascinating. We are faced with the seduction and the power of antiquity: the interest in Antinous does not rest in the historical context, but in the beauty of his face. He is no longer the favourite of Hadrian, but the beautiful and seductive face of the past, an empowering past the Renaissance artists used to create new artistic languages. This moves us closer to the real Antinous, to the boy with whom Hadrian fell in love. Raphael also fell for his beauty and transformed him into a prophet and a Roman emperor, in other words, into a different kind of god.

Notes 1 I am indebted to Lluís Tembleque Terés who first pointed out the Jonah statue to me. I would also like to thank Ulrike Kern and Cornelia Linde for their comments and suggestions and the staff of the Library of the Institute of Classical Studies for their support. 2 Warhol 1975. 3 The most complete description of the Chigi chapel and the historical context is still Shearman 1961: 129–60. Two recent articles complement it: Riegel 2003: 93–130; Strunck 2003: 131–82. For the influence of Hadrian’s Villa on the plan of the Chigi Chapel, see Magnusson 1987: 135–9. 4 The main Roman sources related to Antinous are HA, 14.5–7 and Cassius Dio 69.11.2. For the archaeological evidence, such as statues and coins, see Meyer 1991 (reviewed by H. R. Goelte 1998: 27–48); Clairmont 1966; Marconi 1923 and Dietrichson 1884. The portraiture of Antinous is still the centre of much debate: Fittschen 2011: 222–46 (esp. 244–6); Vout 2005: 80–96. 5 Hadrian and Antinous are an inexhaustible source of inspiration for both artists

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and historians. Recently there have been a series of exhibitions in which Antinous figured prominently, such as Antinous: the face of the antique, Henry Moore Museum, Leeds, in 2006 and in Antinous o la historia circular, Museu d’Arqueologia de Barcelona, 2006. A section of the exhibition Hadrian: Empire and Conflict, British Museum, London, 2008, was also dedicated to him and his role in the reign of Hadrian. Opper 2008; Galdón 2006; Vout 2006. The fascination for Antinous was especially important at the end of the nineteenth century when he became a champion of homosexuality and beauty, see Ribeyrol, this volume, and Waters 1995: 194–230. 6 Vasari published two editions of his work (1550 and 1568). The time difference between the creation of the statue of Jonah and its installation in the Chigi chapel can be seen in these two editions. In the first one, the statue was still in the studio of Lorenzetto, while in the second edition the statue was in situ in the chapel. Vasari does not link the Jonah statue to Antinous. For the text, see Shearman 2003: doc. 1568/1. 7 Bellori 1696: 85 and 93. 8 Barkan 1999: 30–6; Weiss 1969. For Roman antiquities known at the time: Bober 1986. 9 Pliny, Nat. Hist. 36.37. For Sangallo’s letter: Fea 1790: vol. I, 329; Barkan 1999: 3–4. 10 Jonah 4.2.1–10; Matthew 12.38–41. For an interpretation of the myth of Jonah in different cultural contexts and its representation in art, see Sherwood 2001. 11 Reau 1955–59: 410–17. 12 Andreas Fulvius published in 1517 a series of biographies of characters from antiquity including Antinous. Following Jerome he mentions how the cult of Antinous spread across Egypt. Imagines Illustrium 1517 fol. LXIX retro. Pirro Ligorio describes in his Libro Cinquantesimo delle Antichita the foundation of the city of Antinoopolis and the cult of Antinous (Non vidi); I am following the text published by Gerlach 1998: 355–77 (in particular 370–72). See also: Grimm 1994: 103–12; Magnusson 1987: 19–26. 13 Springer 1895: vol. 2, 114–66; Amelung 1900: 1–9; Kleiner 1950: 22; Yuen 1979: 263–72. 14 Caprino 1985. 15 Bembo 1990: vol. II, n. 368. For a commentary on the text and further bibliography, see Shearman 2003: doc. 1516/7, 238–40. 16 The Cioci appear in the Fol. 11r of the Fossombrone sketchbook. Nesselrath 1993: 108–9, abb. 19. For the room, see Rowland 2005: 95–119. 17 The folios of the Fossombrone sketchbook depict two different friezes from the teatro marittimo in Hadrian’s Villa. One with a series of marine creatures and putti is now in the Merseyside County Museums of Liverpool and another one depicting



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putti riding a chariot drawn by two lions is now in the Staatliche Museen of Berlin. See Nesselrath 1993: 101–4, abb. 16 and Caprino 1985: 70–1 and 78–9, Figure 69 and 75. 18 Earliest suggestion that the head of the Jonah statue was inspired by the Antinous Farnese in Kleiner 1950 22, Figure p. 23. Followed, for example, by Becatti 1969: 491–568, esp. 540; Bober 1986: 163n. 128. 19 Fittschen 2006: 249–53 (with further bibliography). 20 De Benedictis 2000: 30–2; Eiche 1983: 353–59. 21 Sermidi (ed.) 2003: letter 111 (Verona, 24 June 1591). See also: Coraggio, F. in Casparri (ed.) 2010: n.64, pl. 68, 1–8; Riebesell 1989: 64; Crawford 1913: 577–93; Nolhac 1887: app. II, XVI, 418–20. 22 Bembo 1990: doc. 372 (25 April 1516). 23 See map of findspots of Antinous sculptures and cult sites in Opper 2008: Figure 169. 24 Bartalini 1992: 17–38, esp. 23 and n. 53; Harprath 1985: 407–33 (esp. 429); Riebesell 1989: 62–4. The restoration is mentioned in a letter of Cardinal Antoine de Granvelle to Fulvio Orsini dating to 1581: Coraggio 2009–10: 89–91 (with further bibliography). 25 Winckelmann 2006: 341. 26 Fulvius 1517: fol. 69. 27 Aldovrandi in Mauro 1556. 28 Haskell and Penny 1982: 141–3n. 4. 29 BAV MS Vat. Lat. 3364, fols. 223v–24v. For the text, see Shearman 2003: doc. 1515/8, pp. 207–11. 30 The existence of this project is only mentioned in the introduction of the Antiquaria Urbis published in 1527. See Weiss 1959: 30–4. 31 For the interpretation and representation of the monument in the Renaissance, see Bober 1986: 215–16n. 182. The role of the arch in Constantine policy and the use of the second- century reliefs: Pensabene 2006: 131–42; Punzi 1999: 185–228 (esp. 187). 32 Shearman 2003: 500–45, doc. 1519/70, for the different versions of the letter and further bibliography. 33 For the Porcari, see Christian 2010: 354–8. For the Frangipani, see idem: 315–17. 34 Furlotti 2003. 35 Vasari 1550 (edit. 1986): 573. 36 Shearman 1961: 131n. 12. Dacos attributes the stucco panel to Perino del Vaga: Dacos 1986: pl CXXIX. 37 Windsor Castle, RL 0804. Clayton 1999: n. 48 (with further bibliography). 38 Clayton 1999: 70–1. 39 On the Stanze Vaticane, see Jacoby 2007; Rowland 2005: 95–119; Jacoby 1987.

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40 Barrocchi and Ristori (eds) 1965–83: CCXLVIII (14 November 1517); DCIII (9 January 1524); DCIX (24 January 1524); DXCIV (December 1523). 41 Shearman 2003: 308–9, doc. 1517/28, (with further bibliography). 42 Pirro Ligorio, BAV MS Ottob. Lat. 3374, Libro XVII dell’Antichità di Pirho Ligorio 244 (Text reproduced in Shearman 2003: 1094–5, doc. 1560/9). Gruyer also mentions the passage, but gives the erroneous location of the Temple of Castor and Pollux in the Roman Forum. Gruyer 1864: 428 43 See the lives of Raphael and Lorenzetto in Vasari 1550 (edit. 1986). 44 Reau 1955–9: 410–17. 45 De Alberici 1599: 14 46 Cherubini 1609: 23. 47 Bellori 1695: 93. 48 It is clear that Bellori had a good basis of knowledge of antiquity, as he devoted several books to the subject, including studies on Trajan’s and Marcus Aurelius’ columns and on several triumphal arches, Bellori 1672. See the edition in English (2005). 49 Rydberg 1879 (Original in Swedish).

20

History, Moral and Power: The Ancient World in Nineteenth-Century Spanish History Painting1 Antonio Duplá

Historia vero testis temporum, lux veritatis, vita memoriae, magistra vitae, nuntia vetustatis, qua voce nisi oratoris immortalitati commendatur? Cicero, De Oratore 2.36 Traiter l’histoire ancienne, c’est compiler, me semble, quelques vérités avec mille mensonges. Cette histoire n’est peut-être utile que de la même manière dont l’est la fable: par de grands événements qui font le sujet perpétuelle de nos tableaux, de nos poèmes, de nos conversations, et dont on tire des traits de morale. Voltaire, Nouvelles considérations sur l’histoire Estragon: Who believes him? Vladimir: Everybody. It’s the only version they know. Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot

Exploring the connections between seduction, power and history, one possible conclusion is that power has been traditionally seduced by history because of the potential capacity of the latter to legitimate a political system, to add prestige to it through examples from the past and to educate the population in a previously defined way.2 In this context, history painting can be one of the most efficient tools to achieve all theses functions.3 Since the beginning of the twentieth century, history painting has been, for different reasons, somewhat discredited. The attitude of both the political authorities and the public has changed when faced with the main themes of these paintings, i.e. war linked to national pride and patriotism. Photography has replaced it as the principal vehicle through which art reflects reality. However, until the twentieth century this genre was of central importance and its subjects

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were favourites in competitions sponsored by the Academies of Arts.4 These paintings, for the most part of huge dimensions and with an evident sense of theatricality, usually adorned royal palaces and the castles and mansions of the aristocracy. An example of this can be seen at Hampton Court Palace, where we find Julius Caesar on his Triumphal Chariot, painted by Mantegna at the Italian court of the Gonzagas in Mantua, acquired by Charles I in 1629 and exhibited there since 1630. Later on, after the French Revolution, when constitutions were rewritten and monarchs were expelled or were sharing power with newly created parliaments, such paintings adorned the parliamentary halls, as we can see in the Houses of Parliament in London, the Rotunda of the Capitol in Washington DC, or the Senate’s House in Madrid. If we consider undertaking a brief review of the development of this genre, we ought to start in the ancient world, where such paintings were important, as Pliny the Elder highlights in his Naturalis Historia (book 25). Nevertheless, the scarcity of data means we have little specific evidence.5 If we look at more recent times, the rise of history painting can be traced back to the fifteenth century and, in particular, to the work of L. B. Alberti, Della pittura, published in 1436. Alberti underlines the importance of the ‘story’ for the artist as means of provoking an emotional response.6 He emphasized the importance of antiquity as inspiration for themes and ideals. Rafael’s School of Athens and the above-mentioned Triumph of Caesar by Mantegna are two of the most brilliant examples of the time. From the very beginning, two distinctive characteristics distinguished the genre: important authorities (popes, kings and aristocrats) sponsored the paintings, which portrayed a set of political and moral values that were tailored to the ones of the patrons who commissioned the works. In the seventeenth century, the genre became increasingly important, bringing forth remarkable examples like Velazquez’s The Surrender at Breda, which combines historical accuracy with an idealized presentation of the victorious Spanish general, respectful and magnanimous towards his defeated rival. The political changes introduced by the Enlightenment and, most particularly, by the French and American Revolutions, with their emphasis on new collective values and new national identities, contributed to the prominence of these paintings. From then on, governments either worked together with or replaced the powers which had been the sponsors of these paintings; the artworks now decorated focal points of political life, such as parliaments, offices and national libraries. Academies of Art favoured the genre in their competitions, conscious of the technical skill required



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by these paintings and the chance they offered of depicting politically and socially relevant topics.7 At the time of the French Revolution, we encounter in Jean Louis David’s work one of the pinnacles of the pictorial use of the past, and particularly of the ancient world, as source of creating legitimacy for the new power of the people and, at the same time, as an instrument to educate the population. The didactic character of these paintings became more prominent and constituted another essential aspect.8 However, the end of the eighteenth century witnessed a serious controversy around the realism of these works, when the British painter Benjamin West, the director of the Royal Academy, Sir Joshua Reynolds and other art critics and intellectuals debated whether the portrayal of historical truth ought not to be coupled with traditional idealization.9 Finally, the genre adopted both perspectives, the more realistic espoused by West and the more idealistic by David. The rise of nationalism in the nineteenth century and the creation of new states (or the rebuilding of old ones) offered fresh possibilities for history paintings as key factors in constructing a glorious national history and presenting it to a wide public. E. Leutze’s Washington crossing the Delaware (1851) is a fine example, which was admired by multitudes in different cities of the USA before being installed in Washington DC.10

History painting in Spain: a mirror of national identity History painting is of particular relevance as a ‘text’, the meaning of which is linked directly to the period when it was created as well as to the subject. Carlos Reyero, one of the leading Spanish scholars of this genre, said that the most important dimension of nineteenth-century history painting in Spain was probably the fact that it was a ‘mirror of national identity’.11 We could describe it as the genre par excellence in the nineteenth century, in close relation to the government and the political and cultural institutions.12 This period witnessed the decline of religious painting as a result of the loss of prominence of the Catholic Church. Nonetheless, in the nineteenth century – which began with a war of independence, followed by the absolutist restoration and ended with growing social unrest – Spain was fundamentally monarchist and conservative. Progressive and republican intervals were but short-lived.13 It must be pointed out that we are looking at a particular form of history in this genre: history as a series of specific events led by specific characters.14

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It is the same perception of history we encounter also in other media centring on classical reception, such as in films or comics.15 History painting portrays heroes, anonymous or individualized, but always extraordinary. There are no images of local customs and manners or of daily life. The characters are always driven by exceptional causes, generally having a favourable outcome – even if is just a moral exemplum. They are like martyrs or saints among lays, always surrounded by a Davidian tragic element. They are like the tools of destiny, at the service of the monarchy and Spain, such as the conquistadores in America.16 At times we encounter a form of tragic heroism – what matters is not the outcome, but the spirit in which a situation is faced. One such case is Seneca, the Spaniard17, who escapes the tyrannical emperor Nero and his humiliation through his timely suicide.18 On other occasions the hero is collective and anonymous, as in the case of Numantia, to which we will come back below. Women are also depicted, in general, to highlight the ‘eternal feminine values’ of their role as wives and mothers. Although women were actually fighting in the War of Independence against Napoleon’s troops, their image in history painting remained traditional.19 Which are the dominant themes in this type of painting? As we have already stated, exaltation of supposed national values and the reconstruction of the nation’s past featured prominently.20 In Spain, all successive governments, reasserting themselves after the war against Napoleon, celebrated the concept of independence, projected backwards to show the Spanish spirit of independence when fighting invaders. The most numerous group of paintings referred to the struggle against the Arabs in the Middle Ages (the Reconquista), although ancient history and subjects such as Numantia and Saguntum were also prominent (see below). The idea of unity, in line with the state’s centralizing policy during the nineteenth century, was also prevalent. Again, the alleged historical predestination of the Spanish nation was bandied about, with the Visigothic kingdom appearing as the earliest instance of religious and political unity.21 The past was the subject of glorious exaltation, especially wars, conquests and battles, which included defeats such as Trafalgar, praising the patriotism and courage of the vanquished. The conquest of America and the Spanish empire were also favourite subjects; their popularity was based to a great extent on nostalgia, given Spain’s socio-economic situation in the nineteenth century. The Spanish character was another important topic; it was depicted as steadfast and distinctive since the remotest of times. This temperament was perceived to be defined by military genius, fighting spirit and popular drive, as represented by



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the celebrated Viriathus fighting for freedom against the Romans (see below). Additional characteristics were honour, bonhomie, austerity and sobriety. Even a somewhat tragic life, such as Seneca’s, could well be an embodiment of the Spanish character.22 In some specific cases, the claim to one’s own national history, as in Catalonia, was combined with local pride. Local academies disseminated local topics that would have contributed to their prestige. Thus, the Academy of Cadiz announced a competition with the subject of ‘Julius Caesar’s visit to the temple of Hercules in Cadiz’.23 Freedom, understood as independence, was depicted as a value higher than life itself (see Numantia) and exalted within the framework of monarchy. In any event, the most liberal sectors promoted even retroactively towards the past the vision of a form of monarchy whose power was limited by other forms of authority. As regards morals, the most celebrated virtues were piety, loyalty, mercy and chastity, as well as love in wedlock, often depicted through characters and events of antiquity. A specific example of this is The continence of Scipio, by Federico de Madrazo (1831), a subject chosen by the Academia de San Fernando, securing Madrazo’s admission as a member.24 Since its foundation in 1752, the Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando as well as local Academies introduced competitions centring on historical subjects, usually drawing on currently popular books of Spanish history. The winners of these competitions were often granted a scholarship for a stay at the most important art centres of the time, Paris and Rome. This procedure was common throughout Europe.25 In the case of Spain in the early nineteenth century, several of these interns completed their training in Paris as pupils of David himself. While the relationship between art and revolutionary ideals could not be the same in France and in Spain, these painters took over the general features of Davidian painting; its moralizing and exemplifying, as well as its solemn nature and theatrical composition. The ultimate public success of history painting took place from 1856 onwards, when the government of Isabel II created the biannual National Exhibition of Fine Arts. The awards repeatedly favoured historical topics, including antiquity, and the state purchased the winning paintings. These works entered royal collections, or were used by the central government or regional authorities to decorate public buildings and teaching institutions.26 It is interesting to note that in the last few decades of the century, the triumph of realism worked remarkable changes in the genre, which began to decline. Artistic elements gained prominence as opposed to the theme of the painting,

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common people were frequently subjects rather than the hero, and the negative aspects of formerly celebrated themes were underlined.27 The Middle Ages were the most fertile period in Spanish history painting, especially the reigns of Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain during the second half of the fifteenth century, which saw political centralization, religious unity, the defeat and expulsion of the Arabs, and Christopher Columbus’ discovery of America. However, antiquity was also a popular subject throughout the century.

Antiquity as a theme: from Viriathus to Numantia In general, antiquity evoked a mythical-historical past of heroic deeds performed by characters driven by noble ideals. To a large extent, this is the dominant view of the ancient world adopted in Western modernity, in particular from the eighteenth century onwards.28 All this was propitiated because the historical sources available to the artists perfectly fit the parameters of the genre. These included popular ancient sources, such as Plutarch’s Parallel Lives or Livy, and works on the history of Spain (e.g. by Padre Mariana or Modesto Lafuente), which presented outstanding dramatic events, heroic characters and exemplifying and moralizing narrations.29 Within the genre of history painting, the representation of Roman history took centre stage.30 Few artists were drawn to Greek subjects, which remained marginal, perhaps because they offered fewer direct links to Spanish history.31 In the last third of the century a spectacular vision of the Roman past prevailed, coupled with the reflection on the end of an era, brought about by the migration of nations. At this point, the perceived corruption, decadence and brutality of Rome were emphasized. The representations of the deaths of prominent characters of Roman history (e.g. Caesar, Agrippina, Lucan and Sertorius) were also popular. In addition to influences from Europe, especially from France, it is possible that this growing pessimism was connected to the domestic situation in Spain. There was not much room for glorious triumphalism or imperial exaltation.

Some specific examples The first painting deserving comment is Cincinnatus leaving the plough to bring Law to Rome (Figure 43). The painting by Juan Antonio Ribera is considered a masterpiece of Spanish neoclassicism. Ribera painted it between 1804–7 in



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Figure 43.  Cincinnatus leaving the plough to bring Law to Rome by J. A. Ribera. © El Prado Museum. Paris, as a pupil of David’s who congratulated and embraced him in front of his other disciples when he saw the painting. Ribera sent his work to King Carlos IV and it became part of the Royal Collections.32 The theme is well known: the renowned Roman dictator was according to Livy ploughing his fields when he was appointed dictator by the senate to save Rome from the attack of the Aequi; after defeating the enemy and celebrating the triumph he resigned from his position and returned to his farm.33 Cincinnatus is traditionally perceived as a model of selfless dedication to the nation without seeking power, of frugality and of a simple and austere way of life; he can also serve as justification for provisional dictatorships for the good of the nation. Ribera dedicated it to his king, who had been forced to abdicate and go into exile in Rome during the War of Independence; in other words, he had also made a sacrifice for the sake of his country. The composition is typically neoclassical: the life-like figures are arranged as a frieze in a solemn attitude; the main group consists of Cincinnatus and two senators; the entire setting evokes the humble life led by Cincinnatus; his attire contrasts strikingly with that of the senators and the purple gown they offer to him; the plough, the oxen, the house and the image of the god Terminus round up the picture. Originally placed in a

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Figure 44.  Death of Viriathus, by José de Madrazo. Courtesy of The Picture Desk. building, which the Municipality of Madrid presented to Fernando VII’s wife, it was later moved to the Museo del Prado. Another splendid example of Spanish neoclassical painting is The death of Viriathus, chieftain of the Lusitanians, by José de Madrazo (Figure 44).34 Madrazo created this work in Rome around 1808, when he and other painters sponsored by Carlos IV accompanied the king into exile. Madrazo had previously completed his training in Paris with David. This is an episode from antiquity, which linked directly to Spanish history: Viriathus was the leader of the Lusitanians in the wars against Rome during the middle of the second century bce. He was murdered in 139 bce by his commanders Audax, Ditalcus and Minurus, who had been bribed by the Roman general Servilius Caepio.35 The officers find the corpse of their leader, weep for their loss and bemoan their fate, while other figures to the right clamour for vengeance. The dead general with a wounded neck is the focal point of the painting, along with his servants and commanders hurling themselves on the corpse. We can glimpse the camp in the background. The work was conceived by Madrazo as part of a series of paintings representing Spanish resistance against conquerors, which was inspired by fervent patriotism, although this was the only painting he actually completed. The scene represented was designed to arouse suppressed emotions. Viriathus was employed as example of self-sacrifice,



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defending the freedom of the nation against the invader, a direct reference to Napoleon’s invasion. In addition, his courage as leader, unbeaten on the battlefield, was praised. Such courage could only be defeated by treachery. This is another clear example of history painting employed as a tool to instruct and enlighten. It conforms to the strict parameters of neoclassical painting: monumental approach (the painting measures 3 metres by 4.65 metres), the scene set in the form of a relief, heroic and solemn attitudes in line with the importance of the topic, and theatrical display. It is a truly Davidian composition. The painting, which was displayed at the Academia de San Fernando and has been at the Prado since 1828, met opposing opinions when it arrived in Spain; poems and comments praising or severely criticizing it alternate. Some critics were dissatisfied by the anachronism in apparel and weaponry or the fact that Viriathus looked asleep rather than dead; others criticized ‘the tyranny of the intolerable Jacobin David’ and the imitation of statues and ancient reliefs.36 Nonetheless, the painting has always been admired not only for its technical skill, but also because it alludes to one of the most celebrated characters of Spanish ancient history. Viriathus, the indomitable ‘Lusitanian shepherd’, sums up all the stereotypes of nineteenth century nationalism in Spain.37 Another favourite topic of the history of Spain was the alleged mass sacrifice of an entire city faced with falling into the hands of a foreign invader. The first example of such a painting was Final day of Saguntum, painted in Rome in 1869 by Francisco Domingo Marqués, who held a scholarship from the Diputación Provincial de Valencia, which asked for a history painting as proof of his achievements.38 Domingo Marqués chose an epic episode of the ancient world, which was a landmark of local history. In the year 219 BCE, after a long siege, the troops of Hannibal conquered the city of Saguntum, an ally of Rome, but the local population chose to die rather than to be captured.39 In this scene, Hannibal in his chariot exhorts his troops to put an end to Saguntum’s resistance; amid scattered corpses a woman tries to stop the chariot, while smoke from the burning city dominates the background. Beyond any discussion of the alleged casus belli of the Second Punic War, Saguntum’s name is legend in Spanish ancient history and a further example of the (supposed) indomitable nature of the Spanish, preferring death to losing freedom to a foreign conqueror. Here, a local event was employed to represent a general vision of heroism and the meaning of life and death. The title underlined the city’s fate, but the most fundamental element was the characterization of the deaths as noble and heroic, an obvious parallel to the theme of Numantia, much portrayed in

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Figure 45.  The final Day of Numantia, by A. Vera Estaca. © El Prado Museum. nineteenth-century painting (below). In contrast to colder and plainer neoclassical aesthetics, with which the artist was familiar (e.g. the works above), we see here an explosion of colour, movement and agitation of a Romantic nature, probably influenced by some French Romantic painters like Géricault or Delacroix. Although the painting received critical acclaim, praising the composition and the tragic and epic sense of the scene, it was not successful at the National Exhibition of 1871. Having alluded to Numantia frequently, the next work, once again of monumental proportions (3.35 meters by 5.00 meters), finally takes us to the famous Celtiberian city. Numantia, also known as The final day of Numantia, is one of the most famous works by Alejo Vera (Figure 45). Painted in Rome in 1881 and sent to Spain during his second year as a scholar of the Academia Española in Rome, it was awarded a medal at the National Exhibition in 1881.40 The theme has often been employed in Spain to symbolize the spirit of independence and the fight for freedom and has been recreated not only in history books, but also in literature from Cervantes to the communist poet Rafael Alberti.41 This event of the Celtiberian Wars in the middle of the second century BCE had enormous dramatic force and is highlighted even by ancient sources as a particularly difficult period of the wars fought in Hispania.42 In the scene we see a man stabbing himself in the side after having killed his wife and



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son, while behind him a woman drinks yew juice to poison herself as an old man begs a soldier to kill him. On the right, by the Cyclopean wall, a group of Roman soldiers contemplate the scene in horror. Here, as in Saguntum and in line with the Zeitgeist, the focus is not an individual hero but the collective of the people, their love of their nation, and their resistance against the invader. The scene is clearly theatrical, the positions of the figures artificial. This was strongly criticized at the time, as was the presence of the wall, because archaeological excavations in Numantia already underway at the time did not provide any evidence of its existence.43 The controversy about the wall of Numantia goes back to antiquity and the testimonies of Appian and Florus.44 Despite the criticism, the work achieved great success and remains to some extent the most important image of Numantia in Spanish society, because it is regularly reproduced in textbooks and manuals on Spanish history.45 The last work is a splendid example of Romantic art, which is also now on display at the Prado. It is The death of Lucretia by Eduardo Rosales (Figure 46), awarded first prize at the National Exhibition of 1871.46 If we compare it with the first paintings discussed, its formal structure differs completely to Madrazo’s or Ribera’s works; it is more modern, less rigid, with more colour and movement. We are far from Davidian aesthetics and closer to the Romantic

Figure 46.  Death of Lucretia, by Eduardo Rosales. Courtesy of The Picture Desk.

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style. Nevertheless, antiquity continues to be the source of exemplifying events, as it was in the first decades of the century. The subject is honourable death; the agony of a virtuous woman, whose death brings about momentous political events. It also praises marital fidelity. Lucretia, a Roman patrician and upright woman, is raped by Sextus Tarquinius, the son of Tarquinius Superbus and cousin to her husband, Tarquinius Collatinus; after informing her father and husband, she kills herself with a dagger while the others clamour for revenge. As her father and husband hold Lucretia, who lies inert to the right, Brutus, brandishing a dagger, swears revenge, while a fifth person, presumably Valerius, is weeping. The composition is simple and intimate; the archaeologically plausible setting is somewhat austere, which stresses the importance of the occasion.47 The outcome is known to the viewer: the episode triggered the events which, according to Livy, resulted in the expulsion of Tarquinius Superbus in 509 and the proclamation of the Republic by a group of aristocrats led by L. Junius Brutus.48 The artist was very proud of his work, despite some unfavourable opinions criticizing its thick brushstrokes and the lack of attention to the drawing or even the ‘plebeian vulgarity of the characters’.49 This last reproach is reminiscent of the above-mentioned controversy between West and Reynolds on veracity versus idealization.50 However, to some viewers the authenticity and the technique represent the formal modernity of the painting, whose creator stated that his intention was to move the spectator by depicting the characters life-like and not as if they were statues.

Conclusion As discussed above, the genre of history painting experienced a decline, or perhaps a transformation, in the last decades of the nineteenth century. This becomes clear when we contemplate the enormous distance separating the period of the height of the genre from more recent work, which could perhaps be considered history painting: Guernica, by Picasso, and more recently, Hermannschlacht, by the German artist Anselm Kiefer.



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Notes 1 Translated by Rosa Ania and Noel Murphy. This chapter is only a very short approach to a subject, which deserves and awaits a deeper and more exhaustive treatment. I am very grateful to the editors, Silke Knippschild and Marta García Morcillo, for their helpful comments. 2 Ames (1993: 223) underlines the close connection between history and power. 3 This perspective assumes a close connection between past and present and, therefore, fits well within the framework of modern theories on ‘reception’ in Classical Studies. See Martindale 2006. 4 Calvo Serraller 2005: 29ff. 5 Hoesch 1999. 6 ‘Amplissimum pictoris opus non colossus sed historia. Maior enim est ingenii laus in historia quam colosso’ (De pictura II), cited by Calvo Serraller 2005: 19 in a chapter significantly entitled ‘De las historias inmortales a la muerte de la historia’ (‘From immortal stories to the death of History’); Scharf 2000 also begins with Alberti; Mitnik 1993: 23ff. 7 On the key role of antiquity in the eighteenth century see Faroult, Leribault and Scherf 2010. 8 On David, history painting and antiquity see Schnepper 1980. 9 ‘I consider myself as undertaking to tell this great event to the eye of the world; but if, instead of the facts of the transaction, I represent classical fictions, how shall I be understood by posterity?’ West; cf. the words of Reynolds: ‘[the painter] must sometimes deviate from vulgar and strict historical truth, in pursuing the grandeur of his design’, cited in Mitnik 1993: 31. The debate was sparked by West’s painting The Death of General Wolfe (1770–6), which the Royal Academy initially refused to buy, Cannon-Brookes 1991: 15ff. 10 Ayres 1993: 17. 11 Reyero 1989: 109. This author studies Spanish nationalism through history painting. 12 The general artistic evolution during this century, from neoclassical painting to Romanticism and Realism, also reflects in the evolution of this genre. The opening of the new halls devoted to the nineteenth century two years ago in the Museo del Prado offers fresh possibilities to experience this genre (De Diego 2009), including a number of the paintings in this chapter. 13 For a very suggestive approach to the idea of Spain in the nineteenth century see Álvarez Junco 2001; on the historiography of that century, Pasamar and Peiró 1987; on historiography and ancient Rome, Wulff 2007. 14 This perception of the nature of history can be traced back to Herodotus, Sciortino 2008: 209.

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15 See, for example, Shanower and Lindner, this volume. On the intentional misrepresentation of such leading characters see Pina Polo and García, this volume. 16 Reyero 1989: 150ff. 17 In nineteenth century Spain, Seneca is considered to be a Spaniard like any other living person. For Juan Gil (1998) it is quite incorrect to talk about ‘Spanish’ authors in Roman times, because Spain did not yet exist. He prefers to talk about these authors as’ hispanorromanos’ or even ‘creole’ authors. 18 Manuel Domínguez y Sánchez painted the scene in 1871 in his Séneca, después de abrirse las venas, se mete en un baño y sus amigos, poseídos de dolor, juran odio a Nerón que decretó la muerte de su maestro (‘After cutting his veins, Seneca gets into the bath, while his sorrowful friends swear hatred towards Nero, who ordered the death of their teacher’), also known as La muerte de Séneca (‘The Death of Seneca’); Díez 1992: 292–7. 19 Angelica Kauffmann’s Cornelia, Mother of the Gracchi (1785) is a well known work of the previous century on the subject of Cornelia as an exemplary mother. Spanish examples are works by Antonio Caba, Isidoro Lozano and Germán Hernández Amores. Cornelia was also the subject chosen as official exercise by the Academy of San Fernando in 1852; see Reyero 1992: 38. 20 Reyero 1989: 129ff. 21 On the Visigothic kingdom in Spain, cf., e.g. the paintings Wamba renunciando a la corona (‘Wamba rejecting the crown’) by Juan Antonio Ribera y Fernández (c. 1819; Díez 1992: 132–5), and La conversion de Recaredo (The conversion of Reccared) by Antonio Muñoz Degrain (1888, now in a hall of the house of the Senate in Madrid; Díez 1992: 436–41). 22 In the mid-forties of the twentieth century these were still dominant notions in Spanish historiography; see Menéndez Pidal, 1991. His text, originally dated 1947, was the ‘Introduction’ to what was until then the most important edited History of Spain, a huge collective project directed by Menéndez Pidal. Hillgarth (1985) finds the origin of this notion of ‘eternal Spain’ in Isidore of Sevilla (seventh century). 23 See César visitando el templo de Hércules en Gades, by Federico Godoy y Castro (1894). 24 Díez 1992. 25 An example of this can be found in Goya’s life, who when visiting Italy in 1770 took part in a competition announced by the Academy of Parma on the topic ‘Annibale vincitore, che rimiro la prima volta dalle Alpi l’Italia’. Goya won a special mention from the jury, Sureda 2008:115ff. 26 Martín Bourgón 2000. 27 Social condemnation begins to appear in history painting at the end of the century; La carga (The Charge) by Ramón Casas, showing the mounted police charging a workers’ demonstration, was awarded a medal at the National Exhibition of 1904



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(Díez 1992: 460–8). This is a good example of the changes within the genre, in the tastes of the public and in the sensitivity of the panels and critics. 28 Reyero 1992: 37ff. 29 Wulff 1994; 2003. 30 García Cardiel 2010. 31 Hernández Amores was one of these very few artists; see his 1857 painting Sócrates reprendiendo a Alcíbiades en casa de una cortesana (Socrates reprimanding Alcibiades in the house of a courtesan) in Díez 1992: 176–9. The subject was quite popular in European painting, cf. Regnault Socrates Tears Alcibiades from the Embrace of Sensual Pleasure (1785); on Hernández Amores, see Páez Burruezo 1995. See also Lesher 2008. 32 Cincinato abandona el arado para dictar leyes a Roma, Díez 1992: 120–3. 33 Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus, Roman dictator in 458 bc (Liv. 3.26–29); all the sources in T. R. S. Broughton 1951, The Magistrates of the Roman Republic, I, 39. 34 La muerte de Viriato, jefe de los lusitanos, Díez 1992: 124–31. 35 Liv. Per. 54; Val. Max. 9.6.4; Vell. Pat. 2.1.3; App. Ib. 70.74. 36 Cited in Díez 1992: 128. 37 There is even a recent Spanish TV series with Viriathus as protagonist. From a nationalistic point of view, Viriathus should strictly speaking be considered a ‘Portuguese’ hero (on the Viriathus’ myth, see Guerra and Fabiao 1992). 38 Díez 1992: 270–3. 39 Liv. 21.7–15. 40 Numancia o El último día de Numancia, Díez 1992: 330–5. 41 Jimeno Martínez and de la Torre Echávarri 2005: 127ff.; Cortadella 2005. 42 App. Iber. 89–98; Flor. 1.34 [2.18]; Vell. Pat. 2.1.3–4; Cic. off. 1.11; Oros. 5.7. 43 Jimeno Martínez and de la Torre Echávarri 2005: 139ff. 44 App. Iber. 90–1; Flor. 2.18.2; Oros 5.7.10. 45 On Numantia and history painting in Spain, see García Cardiel 2008. 46 Muerte de Lucrecia, Díez 1992: 278–91. 47 This is an interesting choice, as opposed to the more spectacular and politicalhistorical viewpoint of other works on the same topic, such as Casto Plasencia’s Origen de la República romana (The birth of the Roman Republic), Díez 1992: 318–23. 48 Liv.1.57–9; Cornell (1995: 215ff) analyses the literary tradition on the event. 49 That was the opinion of the critic A. Cañete, cited by Díez 1992: 287. 50 On West and Reynolds, see above and note 9.

21

The Lure of the Hermaphrodite in the Poetry and Painting of the English Aesthetes Charlotte Ribeyrol

In 1859 Lord Acton commented on the dual ideological aspirations of the Victorians: ‘Two great principles divide the world and contend for the mastery, antiquity and the Middle-Ages. […] This is the great dualism that runs through our society.’1 This close friend of the Hellenist and politician W. E. Gladstone certainly leaned in favour of the ancient Greeks, like many of his contemporaries, drawn to the ideals of freedom, harmony, sweetness and light exemplified in both ancient Greek texts and works of art. The ‘hellenomania’2 of the Victorians aimed at defining an ideal Greek corpus stemming from an idealized vision of the Greek or rather Doric body, as it was then termed by historians, politicians and artists. This highly politicized and ideologically charged body was indeed believed to have been the locus of aesthetic perfection, discipline and power. The Spartan warrior was thus frequently upheld as the perfect incarnation of the Doric ideal. The praise was implicitly directed towards the youth of England, encouraged to emulate the healthy discipline of those antique heroes considered their glorious ancestors. Comparisons between the Greek athlete or warrior and the English sportsman became a common topos, taken up by the French thinker Hippolyte Taine in his Notes sur l’Angleterre (1872), in which the public school boys of Eton and Harrow are described as ‘gentlemen with the ambition and diet of Greek athletes’.3 Such ideological and aesthetic fantasies also seem to have exerted a great seductive power over the Aesthetes, a group of writers and painters in the second half of the nineteenth century who believed in art for art’s sake and particularly extolled the works of ancient Greek artists and poets. For instance, Walter Pater, in his essay Plato and Platonism (1893), mused upon the sculptural perfection of the Spartan body (‘the manly youth of Lacedaemon […]

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had been cut and carved’).4 The essayist and poet John Addington Symonds similarly praised the ‘divine/Calm sculptured forms’5 of the Greek Eudiades and Melanthias in his privately circulated and highly homoerotic poem Eudiades (1878). By comparing the Greek body to a statuesque figure, these two writers emphasized the need for such a body to be displayed – or as Pater put it in his essay The Age of Athletic Prizemen (1895) – ‘a thing to be looked at rather than to think about’.6 Their intentions were thus quite different from the ideologically oriented aspirations of their contemporaries. There is no mention in their works of a need for manly emulation but rather a stress on the passive pleasure of pure contemplation of a Greek body defined not in terms of powerful manliness, but in terms of a more shifting and blurred generic category, that of the adolescent. The highly androgynous Eton Schoolboys represented by Aesthete painter Simeon Solomon thus jar with the ideal of masculine exertion described by Hippolyte Taine. The soft and feminine features of the boys are very similar to those of the young Pagan devotee, wearing a light pink drapery in The Evening Hymn, which the Athenaeum criticized in 1870 for its generic ambiguity: The art of Mr S. Solomon does not grow in manliness. The Evening Hymn, a youth pouring a libation to Venus on a rose-crowned altar, is neatly but not learnedly, modelled and drawn; accordingly, a powerful sense of grace in the artist’s mind being everywhere present, we have ill-drawn, non-natural limbs and trunk, an outrageously long neck, and a face which is antipathetic to all that is masculine.7

The outlines of the figure are further softened and blurred by the declining light of the evening, poised between day and night, in a kind of intermediate temporality. Dusk is celebrated in another work by Solomon, a watercolour entitled Hesperus, and in John Addington Symonds’ poem Hesperus and Hymaenus, which relates the secret love between the evening star and a young Greek shepherd: It was the prime of summer, when the sheep Seek their deep-sheltered valleys, and the goats Crop bitter blossom by the barren shore: I, leaning from the mountain in the glow Of golden eve, down the long wandering stream Cast my still, tremulous rays […] When hush! Through the grove Bounding, loud singing, crowned with roses, came The shepherd Hymaenus, hot with wine.8



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As the eve turns ‘golden’ in the secret ‘deep-sheltered valleys’, Hesperus stealthily spies on the beautiful Hymaenus, who is significantly said to be in a state of Dionysian intoxication (‘hot with wine’). Whereas Apollo was heralded by most Victorian scholars as the virile tutelary divinity of the Westernized Dorian, Dionysus was more often associated with the Chthonian Persephone and Demeter9 and therefore considered as a more ‘feminine’ (and Eastern) divinity, in particular by Walter Pater who describes the god in his Greek Studies in the following terms: ‘Dionysus is especially a woman’s deity, and he comes from the east conducted by a chorus of gracious Lydian women, his true sisters.’10 Pater was thus drawn to Solomon’s depiction of androgynous youths and in particular his melancholy Bacchus (1867): But modern motives are clearer; and in a Bacchus by a young Hebrew painter, in the exhibition of the Royal Academy of 1868, there was a complete and very fascinating realisation of such a motive; the god of the bitterness of wine, ‘of things too sweet’; the sea-water of the Lesbian grape become somewhat brackish in the cup.11

Solomon’s Bacchus indeed carries a bunch of grapes, which Pater discreetly describes as Lesbian in order to conjure up less a geographical location than suggestions of same-sex desire. The pied leopard-skin worn by the androgynous god is certainly also a hint at alternative forms of desire (echoed by Pater’s plural form in ‘things too sweet’), frequently described as poikilos in Pater’s or Symonds’ Greek essays – a term which Linda Dowling has analysed as encoding homosexuality.12 Swinburne who was equally tempted to stain the pure marmoreal surface of the Greek ideal with taints of subversive desire, admired Solomon’s works whose strange evanescent colours he praised: In The Sacrifice of Antinous, he officiates before the god under the divine disguise of Bacchus himself; the curled and ample hair, the pure splendour of faultless cheek and neck, the leopard skin and thyrsus, are all of the god, and godlike; the mournful wonderful lips and eyes are coloured with mortal blood and lighted with human vision. In these pictures some obscure suppressed tragedy of thought and passion and fate seems latent as the vital veins under a clear skin. Intentionally or not as it may be, some utter sorrow of soul, some world-old hopelessness of heart, mixed with the strong sweet sense of power and beauty, has here been cast afresh into types.13

Here colour – associated with passion – crops up under the ‘clear skin’ with the same mysterious ‘sweetness’ evoked in Pater’s description. But more importantly, Swinburne insists on the suffering of the divinity, concealing some secret

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‘suppressed tragedy of thought and passion’. This reflection clearly anticipates Friedrich Nietzsche’s stress on the Dionysian pole of Greek art in The Birth of Tragedy (1872), in keeping with his conception of the ancient Hellenes not as a joyful innocent people, but as a race ‘capable of the most exquisite and most severe suffering’14 and drawn to the primal emotions relating to sex, as opposed to Apollonian order and restraint. The Aesthetes’ choice of Dionysian subversive and ambiguous colours and shadows rather than immaculate solar transparency anticipates the crucial paradigmatic shift15 from the Olympian gods to Chthonian divinities, which occurred at the turn of the twentieth century in particular with the rise of archaeology, anthropology and the research of the Cambridge Ritualists Jane Ellen Harrison and Gilbert Murray who were great admirers of Swinburne’s poetry and whose works Momigliano also discusses in this volume. Thus the anthropologist Andrew Lang, who thoroughly questioned the relevance of Müller’s solar mythology in the 1870s,16 significantly praised Swinburne’s poems and in particular ‘the imperishable merit of the Hymn to Proserpine and the Garden of Proserpine and the Triumph of Time and Itylus’,17 dealing with feminine Chthonian mysteries rather than with Apollonian ritual. But among the Aesthetes’ poetic followers, late evening or dusk was equally believed to be a propitious liminal moment for generic blurring, as well as an intensely creative moment – as shown for instance by the work of the French Symbolist Stéphane Mallarmé who was directly inspired by the English Aesthetes and by Swinburne in particular. Mallarmé even dedicated his masterpiece L’Après-midi d’un Faune18 to his English model in exchange for The Last Oracle (10 May 1876). Swinburne in turn thought L’Après-midi d’un faune was a ‘joyau de poésie’.19 Both poets celebrated sensuality and suggestiveness, which Mallarmé claimed to be essential in art: ‘suggérer, voilà le rêve’, a lesson he might have taken up from Swinburne’s William Blake: ‘the pure artist never asserts, he suggests’.20 The pictorial equivalent to such poetic suggestiveness could be the use of watercolours, to which Solomon extensively resorted to depict his androgynous figures. The painter indeed preferred this more evanescent and eminently feminized device to oil. Edward Burne-Jones’ Phyllis and Demophoon (Figure 47) is also a watercolour and presents many similarities with Solomon’s depictions of androgynous youths. Inspired by Ovid’s Heroids, this work exhibited in 1870 was the target of scathing attacks because of its lack of sexual differentiation. Indeed, the passive naked adolescent body of Demophoon contrasts with that of the active but similarly androgynous body of Phyllis, surging forth out of the almond tree into



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Figure 47. Burne-Jones’ Phyllis and Demophoon (1870). © Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery. which she had been metamorphosed, after her lover Demophoon had abandoned her. The painting, which appears as an ironic reversal of gender roles of Bernini’s Apollo and Daphne (1622–5), illustrates the moment of embrace and reunion of the two lovers. Burne-Jones was forced to withdraw this work, which he replaced ten years later by a more assertive oil version of the same subject, entitled The Tree of Forgiveness (1881) (Figure 48). Demophoon’s muscles are far more developed and his genitals covered up, contrasting with the more rounded and feminine body of Phyllis. This second version, for which Burne-Jones dropped the mythological title, was significantly painted after Burne-Jones’ friend Solomon was arrested for indecent exposure and attempted sodomy in 1873. This episode led Burne-Jones and their mutual friend Swinburne to break off all relations with him. But Burne-Jones’ initial Phyllis and Demophoon also brings to mind another Ovidian myth, which was very popular with the Aesthetes – the story of

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Figure 48.  Burne-Jones’ The Tree of Forgiveness (1881). Lady Lever Art Gallery. © National Museums of Liverpool. Hermaphroditus in the fourth book of the Metamorphoses. This story also subverts traditional codifications of gender roles, as the active nymph Salmacis takes hold of her passive victim, the ideal offspring of Hermes and Aphrodite, so as to merge with him: Salmacis ‘flings and locks her coils around him like a snake’.21 In BurneJones painting, Phyllis’ arms are similarly clasped around the body of Demophoon and so is her green drapery, recalling Salmacis’ snake-like embrace. The snake motif reappears in Solomon’s late illustration of the story of Hermaphroditus. According to Luc Brisson in his essay entitled Sexual Ambivalence, the snake was a signifier of hermaphroditism in antiquity, as it was believed to be either bisexual (in the sense of being endowed with the two sexes) or sexless – utrumque or neutrumque, to take up Ovid’s words.22 This hesitation between sexlessness and dual or bi-sexuality is recurrent in the works of the Aesthetes. Walter Pater, for instance, tends to stress the absence of sexual differentiation in Greek statues of young men, so as to elude the question of desire, as shown in his essay on Winckelmann:



Lure of the Hermaphrodite in the Poetry and Painting of the English Aesthetes 301 The beauty of the Greek statues was a sexless beauty: the statues of the gods had the least traces of sex. Here there is a moral sexlessness, a kind of ineffectual wholeness of nature, yet with a true beauty and significance of its own.23

The beauty of these statues is here seemingly de-eroticized – whereas in truth Pater’s collection of essays on the Renaissance was highly subversive for readers in the know, who understood from the very first page about the homoerotic contents of the volume, partly revealed by the frontispiece of the second edition, a drawing of a ‘face of doubtful sex’24 by Leonardo. This representation of an adolescent youth is very similar to some of Solomon’s portraits, more often described as ‘supersexual’ by Swinburne: ‘many of these [works] have a supersexual beauty, in which the lineaments of woman and man seem blended’.25 Hermaphroditism was indeed an object of erotic and aesthetic fascination for Swinburne, who, in his defence of his Poems and Ballads, First Series published in 1866, justified at length his own ekphrasis of a Roman statue of the second century (which he saw in the Louvre in March 1863) and which represents a hermaphrodite youth (Figure 49): There is nothing lovelier, as there is nothing more famous, in later Hellenic art, than the statue of Hermaphroditus. […] At Paris, at Florence, at Naples, the delicate divinity of this work has always drawn towards it the eyes of artists and

Figure 49.  Borghese Hermaphrodite from Louvre, detail. Roman marble statue on a mattress sculpted by Bernini. Photograph by M.-L. Nguyen.

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poets. […] Odour and colour and music are not more tender or more pure. How favourite and frequent a vision among the Greeks was this of the union of sexes in one body of perfect beauty, none need be told. […] But the idea thus incarnate, literal or symbolic, is merely beautiful. I am not the first who has translated into verse this sculptured poem: another before me, as he says, has more than once ‘caressed it with a sculptor’s love’.26

Swinburne is here alluding to P. B. Shelley’s poem The Witch of Atlas (1824), in which the hermaphrodite is described as: ‘a sexless thing’ of ‘perfect purity’, with ‘no defect of either sex, yet all the grace of both’.27 Whether sexless or supersexual, the hermaphrodite thus appears as an oxymoronic figure, which attracts the Aesthetes because of its paradoxical ‘ineffectual wholeness of nature’ (to take up Pater’s words). This implies on the one hand that it associates the perfection of both sexes (‘wholeness’) and, on the other hand, that it is ineffectual, that its sexlessness or neutrality prevents breeding, biological reproduction. In a word, the hermaphrodite embodies the very ethos of art for art’s sake – the uselessness of art – the hermaphrodite being in itself a work of art with no other end than its own barren beauty. Swinburne’s ekphrastic poem entitled Hermaphroditus is explicitly presented as an encounter with a work of art displayed for a desiring gaze. The revelation of the dual anatomical characteristics of the figure is dramatically delayed both for the reader and the voyeuristic spectator who has to walk around it to understand that the figure represented is not a beautiful young woman but a hermaphrodite. This deferred discovery, which was a device frequently used by Hellenistic artists, according to Jerome Jordan Pollitt,28 is somehow echoed in the very first line of the poem, which sounds like an injunction to ‘turn round’ the aesthetic object of contemplation: ‘turn round, look back’.29 Lift up thy lips, turn round, look back for love, Blind love that comes by night and casts out rest; Of all things tired thy lips look weariest, Save the long smile that they are wearied of. Ah sweet, albeit no love be sweet enough, Choose of two loves and cleave unto the best; Two loves at either blossom of thy breast Strive until one be under and one above. Their breath is fire upon the amorous air, Fire in thine eyes and where thy lips suspire: And whosoever hath seen thee, being so fair, Two things turn all his life and blood to fire;



Lure of the Hermaphrodite in the Poetry and Painting of the English Aesthetes 303 A strong desire begot on great despair, A great despair cast out by strong desire.30

The Hellenic androgynous adolescent praised in Pater’s essays and in Solomon’s watercolours could also be considered as a subtle variation on the theme of the aestheticized hermaphroditism displayed in Swinburne’s ekphrasis. However, at this stage a conceptual distinction between androgyny, adolescence and hermaphroditism should probably be introduced. This distinction was not always clearly formulated by the Aesthetes themselves, with the possible exception of Symonds who wrote that in Praxiteles’ Hermes (discovered at Olympia in 1877): ‘adolescence, not hermaphroditism is suggested’.31 Adolescence, as a liminal phase of sexual indetermination, was generally associated in ancient Greece with a short-lived androgyny displayed and performed during a series of rites of passages, which Luc Brisson and Marie Delcourt, among others, have analysed at length.32 In the works of the Aesthetes, the adolescent (more often a boy than a girl) is often presented as an ideal, both in the abstract (representing a sort of spiritual plenitude as it were) and in the flesh, as he/she is said to be an example of untainted physical perfection. Symonds thus explains: ‘In the bloom of adolescence the elements of feminine grace, suggested rather than expressed, are combined with virility to produce a perfection.’33 Hermaphroditism is not so easily circumscribed, given that even in Ovid’s founding myth the figure of the hermaphrodite is described rather ambiguously. The beautiful adolescent Hermaphroditus is indeed turned into an almost monstrous figure as it merges with the flesh of Salmacis. To quote Ruth Gilbert in her book on Renaissance hermaphrodites: ‘[Hermaphroditus’] absorption of both male and female traits does not quite result in transcendent androgyny, but has its origins in a monstrous physical mutation. In other words, the androgyne is hermaphroditised by its association with the flesh.’34 In Greek antiquity the ideal androgyny of some of the Olympian divinities had in fact little to do with actual hermaphroditism: a newborn hermaphrodite was believed to be the harbinger of natural catastrophes and was generally left to die.35 This differentiation between ideal androgyny and monstrous hermaphroditism was also broached by medical scientists at the end of the nineteenth century. According to Nicole G. Albert: ‘Towards the end of the nineteenth century, the androgyne, stripped of its prestigious mythical accoutrements, fell into the hands of medicine under the label of the hermaphrodite.’36 But in spite of this increasingly clear-cut opposition, Swinburne kept on referring

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to the hermaphrodite as a beautiful ‘idea’, and not as a monster – not even as an oxymoronic ‘monstre charmant’, to quote the French poet Théophile Gautier’s own ekphrastic contribution on the Louvre statue.37 But Gautier probably understood the word monster in its etymological sense, as ‘something to be shown or displayed’, like a work of art. Significantly also, Solomon’s representation of the child of Hermes and Aphrodite shows no dual sexual characteristics which could be considered anatomically monstrous according to Victorian standards. Therefore Symonds seems to be the only one to draw the line between ideal adolescence and anatomical hermaphroditism – an exception which may be explained by the fact that he was extremely well-read in medical literature. His interest in hermaphroditism is certainly directly linked with his own homosexuality. Indeed, as Alice Domurat Dreger explains in Hermaphrodites and the Medical Invention of Sex, in the late nineteenth century ‘voice was occasionally given to the floating suspicion that close examination of a sexually inverted person might turn up some anatomical hermaphroditic traits’.38 Case studies investigating sexual inversion thus ‘frequently contained remarks on the “femininity” or “masculinity” of the face, chest, skeleton, and genitalia’ because ‘suspicions hovered that hermaphroditic bodies went with inverted desires’.39 Interestingly, this association of hermaphroditism and sexual inversion can already be found in the myth of Hermaphroditus, in which Ovid explained ‘why the waters of the Salmacis spring in Caria turn men who enter into contact with them into passive homosexuals’40 according to Luc Brisson’s interpretation of the myth: When he now saw that the waters into which he had plunged had made him but half-man, and that his limbs became effeminated there, stretching out his hands and speaking, though not with manly tones, hermaphroditus cried: ‘O grant this boon, my father and my mother, to your son who bears the name of both: whoever comes into this pool as man may he go forth half-man, and may he become effeminated (mollescat) at the touch of the water.’41

Symonds was as much interested in science as he was in mythology. He was a close friend and collaborator of the sexologist Havelock Ellis who also contributed to popularizing Nietzsche’s works in England and with whom he co-wrote Sexual Inversion (1897), although this is very seldom acknowledged. One of his essays entitled ‘A Problem in Greek Ethics’ was thus reproduced in the annexes of the book. Symonds also appears in the



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volume, albeit rather discreetly, as a case study of sexual inversion (more precisely as ‘case 28’): He was mentally precocious. When he began to read books he felt particularly attracted to certain male characters: the Adonis of Shakespeare’s poem (he wished he had been Venus), Anzoleto in George Sand’s Consuelo, Hermes in Homer. He was very curious to know […] what the male gods did with the youths they loved. As time went on he began to realise that the fascination of the male was sexual for him.42

Symonds’ homoerotic desires are here described not in medical but in aesthetic terms with a strong Hellenic component. This was also the case with Karl Heinrich Ulrichs, a pioneer in the fight for the rights of homosexuals, whom Symonds knew well and who described his own homosexual leanings as those of an ‘Urning’: Sex is only an affair of development. Up to a certain stage of embryonic existence all living mammals are hermaphroditic. A certain number of them advance to the condition of what I call man (Dioning), others to what I call woman (Dioningin), a third class become what I call Urning (including Urningin). It ensues therefrom that between these three sexes there are no primary, but only secondary differences. And yet true differences, constituting sexual species, exist as facts.43

The Urning is for Ulrichs a sort of indeterminate third sex. Although a ‘fact’ sexually speaking, the Urning is almost given a mythological status, as Ulrichs draws on Plato for his classification, with reference to both Pausanias’ speech in the Symposium (the very name Urning coming from his Uranian Aphrodite) and to Aristophanes’ myth of the origin of sexual differentiation.44 This mythologizing of both sex and gender on Ulrichs’ and Symonds’ part was certainly a reaction to the pseudo-scientific attempts at classifying and circumscribing both hermaphroditism and homosexuality, which Michel Foucault analysed in his history of human sexuality.45 In reference to what was in the nineteenth century considered the pathology of homosexuality, also termed a form of ‘psychosexual hermaphroditism’ both by Krafft-Ebing and Havelock Ellis, Symonds, in his Memoirs, ironically expressed his wariness as to all these theoretical classifications: It is certain that the medical school of theorists would claim me as a subject of neurotic disease. […] In short I exhibited many of the symptoms which Krafft-Ebing and his school recognise as hereditary neuroticism predisposing its subject to sexual inversion.46

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On the contrary, Symonds preferred to describe his own desires in more seductive and ‘over-powering’ Hellenic terms: The Greek in me awoke to that simple, and yet so splendid, vision of young manhood. […] The phrase had all Greek sculpture in it. […] The over-powering magic of masculine adolescence drew my tears forth. […] The disguised Hermes, in his prime and bloom of beauty, unlocked some deeper fountain of eternal longing in my soul.47

Significantly, this overlapping of medical and aesthetic considerations could also be felt at the time in the field of literary criticism, for instance in the well-known attack launched by Robert Buchanan against ‘the fleshly school of poetry’, which included Swinburne, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, but also Simeon Solomon: Fully conscious of this themselves, the fleshly gentlemen have bound themselves by solemn league and covenant to extol fleshliness as the distinct and supreme end of poetic and pictorial art; to aver that poetic expression is greater than poetic thought, and by inference that the body is greater than the soul, and sound superior to sense; and that the poet, properly to develop his poetic faculty, must be an intellectual hermaphrodite, to whom the very facts of day and night are lost in a whirl of æsthetic terminology.48

This key passage is fraught with images of blurring – between body and soul, day and night, masculine and feminine – turning the Aesthetes’ ideal liminal world into a grotesque and obscene farce. In a later article, Buchanan more explicitly called these poets and painters ‘effeminate’, even turning them into castrates (‘falsettoes’): England happens to be infested at present by a school of poetic thought which threatens frightfully to corrupt, demoralise, and render effeminate the rising generation; a plague from Italy and France; a school æsthetic without vitality, and beautiful without health; a school of falsettoes innumerable.49

In both texts, aestheticism is perceived as a form of disease, not very different from what was then considered as the pathology of homosexuality. Swinburne’s indirect reply to these accusations of hermaphroditism was to hurl them back at his critics by comparing them to monstrous hybrid figures – debased parodies, as it were, of his own ideal hermaphrodite: Virtue, as she appears incarnate in British journalism and voluble through that unsavoury organ, is something of a compound creature – A lump neither alive nor dead, Dog-headed, bosom-eyed, and bird-footed.50



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Eventually Swinburne went so far as to claim that poetic hermaphroditism was the key to aesthetic creativity: ‘Great poets are bisexual; male and female at once’51 – bisexual probably meaning here endowed with both sexes, although there might be a deliberate provocative ambiguity on the poet’s part with the suggestion of dual desires, a disturbing indeterminacy in the eyes of most Victorians. By praising and thus empowering the mythic figure of the Hermaphrodite, the Aesthetes were partly reacting against the Victorian utilitarian ethos and to the progressive encroaching onto the field of aesthetics of the jargon of medical science and its legal corollary, the criminalization of sexual practice. The Aesthetes tried to keep the hermaphrodite and the perfect androgynous adolescent on an ideal plane, aloof from these intrusive anatomical inspections and biological taxonomies. Their aesthetic attempts were, however, constantly undermined by accusations of perversion and degeneracy, revealing how moral condemnation and scientific classification now worked hand in hand in relation to the then confused and overlapping notions of sex, gender and sexuality. But their subversive reflection on the instability of gender roles, doubly provocative in the Victorian age and in particular within the exclusively masculine bastion of Hellenic studies, also allowed a certain number of female writers to think differently about ancient Greece at the turn of the twentieth century. This was for instance the case with the American poet H.D., or the scholar Jane Ellen Harrison who was less confident in her philological skills than in her knowledge of the iconography of Greek vases. Both, albeit in very different ways, advocated a different response to Greek culture, more sensual and less intellectual, as this piece of advice by H.D. suggests: ‘You cannot learn Greek, only, with a dictionary. You can learn it with your hands and your feet and especially with your lungs.’52 This very Nietzschean statement53 thus opened up the possibility of reclaiming the Dionysian pole as feminine territory, reflected in Isadora Duncan’s free maenadic dances on the archeological site of Knossos.54

Notes 1 Lord Acton cited in Turner 1981: 11. 2 Bernal 1987. 3 Taine 1872: 139, ‘Il y a dans ce pays des gentlemen dont l’ambition et le régime sont ceux d’un athlète grec’.

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Pater 1893: 257. Symonds 1878 (2005): 32. Pater 1895: 143. The Athenaeum (5 November 1870) cited in Cruise 2005: 153. Symonds 1880: 52. Pater 1895: 20–1, ‘The whole compass of the idea of Dionysus, a dual god of both summer and winter, became ultimately, as we saw, almost identical with that of Demeter. [...] He is twofold then – a Doppelganger; like Persephone he belongs to two worlds, and has much in common with her. He is a Chthonian god’. 10 Pater 1895: 31. 11 Pater 1895: 20. 12 Dowling 1989: 1. 13 Swinburne 1925–7: vol. 15, p. 451–2. On the reception of Antinous see also Rovira, this volume. 14 Nietzsche 1872 (1999): 39. 15 Louis 2009 describes this ‘anti-Olympian topos’ in her book. 16 On Lang, see Ackerman 2002: 33–6. 17 Lang 1889: 22. 18 On Mallarmé’s poem and its musical adaptation by Debussy, see Momigliano, this volume. 19 ‘A poetic jewel’ in a letter to Mallarmé (1 June 1876) in Lang 1889: 193. 20 Swinburne’s William Blake cited in McGann 1972: 56. 21 See Ovid, Met. 4.362 and Hughes 1997: 227. 22 Ovid, Met. 4.379. 23 Pater 1873 (1986): 141–2. 24 Pater 1873 (1986): 74. 25 Swinburne 1925–7: vol. 15, 453–4. 26 Swinburne 1925–7: vol. 16, 366–8. 27 Shelley, The Witch of Atlas, stanza 36, l.329–6 cited in Hutchinson (ed.) 1967. 28 Pollitt 1986: 149. 29 Swinburne, ‘Hermaphroditus’, Poems and Ballads, First Series, l.1, 79. 30 Swinburne, ‘Hermaphroditus’, Poems and Ballads, First Series, l.1–14. 31 Symonds 1890: vol. 2, p. 306. Significantly, in the late nineteenth century Praxiteles was believed to be a decadent sculptor whose adolescent gods jarred with the virile aesthetic ideal extolled by most Victorians. 32 See Brisson 2002 and Delcourt 1992. 33 Symonds 1883: 246. 34 Gilbert 2002: 12–13. 35 Brisson 2002: 2. 36 Albert 2005: 123.



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37 Gautier 1852: 52. 38 Dreger, Hermaphrodites and the Medical Invention of Sex, 133. 39 Dreger, Hermaphrodites and the Medical Invention of Sex, 133. 40 Brisson 2002: 57. 41 Ovid, Met. 4.346–88 cited in Brisson 2002: 48. 42 Havelock and Symonds 1897 (1975): 59. 43 Symonds 1891. 44 Plato Sym. 180e–181c and 189d–190b. 45 Foucault 1976: 59 46 Symonds 1984: 64–5. 47 Symonds 73–4. 48 Buchanan 1999: 1330. 49 Buchanan 1874: 306. 50 Swinburne 1925–7: vol. 16, 356. These last two lines are taken from stanza XI in Shelley’s Witch of Atlas, see note 28. 51 Swinburne 1925–7: vol. 14, 305. 52 H.D., Euripides, Ion (1937),12. 53 Both Harrison and H.D. had read the German author as well as Swinburne’s and Pater’s poems and essays. The quotation by H.D. clearly recalls Nietzsche’s claim that in the case of the Greeks, everything was life while with us it remains knowledge in Philosophy and Truth, The Philosopher (1872), §47. 54 On Isadora Duncan and ancient Greece, see Laffon, Pinet and Cantarutti 2009 and Momigliano, this volume. Duncan mentions her love for Swinburne’s poetry twice in her memoirs. She also read Gilbert Murray’s translations of Greek plays which were very ‘Swinburnian’ in spirit.

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Seduction and Power in Postclassical Reception: Traditions and Trends Silke Knippschild

The final chapter of this volume aims to draw together some of the threads and themes, which emerged in the individual case studies. This section first discusses the basics of concepts of power and the means of establishing it with an eye to the contributions. It then continues on to seduction and its different forms playing a part in reception in the visual and performing arts. Finally, the focus will turn to the workings and interconnections of and between seduction and power in this volume.

Power From Aristotle to Machiavelli, from Weber to Foucault, the concept of power continues to influence and inspire social, political and philosophical studies. One of the most frequently cited definitions of power is Max Weber’s in his classical work Economy and Society: ‘Power (Macht) is the probability that one actor within a social relationship will be in a position to carry out his own will despite resistance, regardless of the basis on which this probability rests’.1 Bertrand Russell captured the attraction of power and its allure, the seduction of power: ‘of the infinite desire of man, the chief are the desires for power and glory’.2 It is this desire that forms the most important element in the development of any society. Steven Lukes highlights that power is ‘the capacity to produce, or contribute to, outcomes by significantly affecting another or others’.3 Like Russell, he also emphasizes that this capacity or force, which, in contrast to Weber, is not necessarily based on conflict, shapes or even creates an individual’s wants and desires.

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The concept of desire leads also to Roland Barthes’ view of power as libido dominandi, the desire of possession that lies hidden in any discourse, even outside the bounds of power.4 The expression libido dominandi already appears in Augustine’s City of God as a corrupting force driving all earthly cities, which can only be redeemed by the divine.5 With these concepts in mind, we need to look beyond the origins of the desire for power and of its use, and focus on its appearance in reception. How is power established and represented? What are the ingredients that make a ruler? The concept of charismatic domination outlined by Weber is a particularly helpful tool for understanding trends of the reception of ancient heroes, leaders and their foes.6 Weber considers charisma to be a driving and creative selfdetermined force, a highly individual quality delimited from within. Thus, the charismatic hero derives his authority not from the established order, customs and traditions, but from the power of his actions and deeds. Accordingly, the charismatic hero ‘must work miracles, if he wants to be a prophet. He must perform heroic deeds, if he wants to be a warlord’.7 As a gift that is unique and thus divine, Weber considers charisma as ‘the specifically creative revolutionary force in history’.8 Looking at this volume, an excellent exemplum of the charismatic leader whose power rests in his personality rather than the established order is Spartacus, the leader of a slaves revolt during the late Roman Republic. In Lapeña’s contribution on the subject, different trends of the reception of Spartacus feature prominently. They show how the very fact of his acting outside of traditional order and custom was used to piggyback specific ideologies, seeking to justify deviations from accepted custom (such as the abolition of slavery). Further cases of charismatic leadership appear, interestingly, in the reception of some of the women under discussion in this volume. There are for example Winkler’s three queens who command and exert power over their husbands. Just as the films by Franco Rossi featuring these regal ladies – Helen, Penelope and Dido – are rare cases in their faithful presentation of ancient epic, the portrayal of their female protagonists is quite unique and outside of the mainstream of reception. According to custom and traditional order in antiquity, women should not exercise power. When they do become active agents, as in the case of Claudia Quinta or Lucretia, they act in order to further the aims of men or to defend their honour; their main characteristic is not their influence, but their chastity.9 However, Rossi’s queens do exert active power and, what is more, their power is not linked to seduction. While they are portrayed as beautiful,



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they are not femmes fatales entrapping men in order to gain power over them. This is a significant deviation from the traditional approach to powerful women in reception, be it of strong queens with obvious power such as Cleopatra or Theodora, or the more subtle power of the beauties of Oliver Stone’s orientalized Harem.10 In reception, the influence of these women stems from their ability to seduce powerful men, as we will see below. When discussing these three sets of women (regal queens, chaste ladies and femmes fatales), we need to look at the differences in their representations. One important feature in characterizing them lies in their clothing and in the colours associated with them. These function as attributes both of power and seduction, and appear especially in connection with ancient strong women and ‘dark ladies’ and their power in the performing and visual arts.11 As we will see, power and seductive sexuality have been traditionally underlined on stage, on screen and in pictorial representations through the use of clothing associated with female characters such as Abigaille, Helen, Clytemnestra, Medea, Antigone, Cleopatra, Agrippina and Theodora.12 Aristophanes’ comedies emphasize the importance of clothing and garments as instruments of the power of women and essential attributes of female seduction.13 The power and love relationship between Antony and Cleopatra is also visualized through the use of symbols such as clothing, emphasizing the clash of cultures between Rome and Egypt, especially in the encounter at Tarsus.14 On the other side of the spectrum, female clothing can also work as a symbol of the powerless, the victim of power eroticized against her will, as in the case of the shroud-like costumes of Coca’s Iphigenia, and of the mourning Clytemnestra of the same play.15 Beyond characterizing the wearer as a victim, modesty of clothes and hairstyle also signified virtue and chastity. This was the case for the Roman Vestal Claudia Quinta, whose image was constructed in the Augustan era as counterpart to Augustus’ own promiscuous daughter, Julia.16 The reception of this image manifests, for example, in the opera Il fuoco eterno custodito dalle Vestali at the court of seventeenth-century Vienna as political propaganda, in which the virtuous and chaste heroine plays an active part to aid her country.17 The Roman ideal of chastity represented by the use of clothing appears also in representations of the rape of Lucretia. As a contrast to the nudity that characterized Lucretia in a polemic work by Titian, in a painting by Rosales in this volume, the dying Lucretia is clothed in a white dress, similar in colour to her skin.18 This image leads us to colour, which denoted qualities of characters in a similar way to clothing. While white symbolized the immaculate purity and

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marital fidelity of Lucretia and saffron functioned as indicator of the character of the sex-starved hag in Aristophanes’ Assemblywomen,19 red was the attribute of women of power. Abigaille and Clytemnestra are such cases, with blood-red evoking ambition, ruthlessness, violence and murder.20 The interplay between red and black garments (superimposed upon each other) characterizes the Furies and Empousa in tragedy and comedy.21 Another expression and constitution of power lies, according to Foucault, in discourse.22 Turning to literary reception for a moment, we find prime examples in Machiavelli’s The Prince. In his catalogue of positive and negative qualities to be adopted or avoided by the ideal prince, we encounter exempla of supposedly good and bad rulers from Greek and Roman antiquity.23 Machiavelli draws on the virtues and qualities of a ruler that should correspond to the effective use of force and violence.24 One of these abilities is the art of persuasion, which Machiavelli attributes to leaders and rulers such as Moses, Cyrus, Theseus and Romulus.25 Looking directly at the ancient world, we find discussions of persuasion as a tool of power (in Steven Lukes’ sense) in Plato and Aristotle. Here, the ability to persuade appears as an essential component of rhetoric.26 In Plato’s Gorgias, Socrates challenges the eponymous sophist to express his views about the real meaning of rhetoric, which he characterizes as a ‘producer of persuasion. Its whole business comes to that, and that is the long and short of it’.27 Socrates is critical towards sophists and argues that the rhetorician’s use of persuasion is nothing else but a flattery, a fiction that conquers the soul of the audience in the same way as the poet does.28 In his treaty On Rhetoric, Aristotle defines rhetoric as ‘the faculty of observing in any given case the available means of persuasion’.29 The speaker’s personal character, which Aristotle identifies as the most effective instrument of persuasion and which links back to charisma, is the element that ‘makes us think him credible’. Persuasion can, according to Aristotle, be achieved through logical reason, through the understanding of human character and goodness, and through the understanding of human emotions and their mechanisms.30 Turning to the present volume, Odysseus in Eric Shanower’s contribution is a prime case of the use of persuasion as a tool of power. While other leaders persuade in order to achieve their aims, such as Agamemnon deceiving Clytemnestra in order to lure their daughter Iphigenia to her death,31 for Odysseus, the ability to sway people is more than a means to an end. Shanower portrays his character’s discovery of the power of persuasion as a seduction. Odysseus is attracted by the allure of the power he can achieve by employing his



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particular talent. Hence, the capacity of influencing and persuading others leads us to seduction and its connection to power.

Seduction Like persuasion, seduction also appears as a quality associated with the charismatic leader and his power. In his essay The Subject and Power, Foucault emphasizes that power does not exist as a universal concept, but only manifests itself when ‘it is put into action’, influencing the relations between acting individuals or groups. Accordingly, power can incite, induce, constrain, forbid and also seduce an acting subject.32 At the same time, these very actions, including seducing, create power.33 This active and dynamic quality of seduction is readily apparent in the term itself, deriving from the Latin subduco, which can be translated as ‘lead up’ or ‘carry off ’. Seduction emerges primarily as a mechanism and an instrument of power, as a strategy exercised by the seducer towards the seduced, yet also as the effect produced in the latter by someone or by something. Like persuasion, seduction succeeds only when there is someone who is seduced.34 Cases in point are the great seducers we encounter in this volume, such as Paris, Cleopatra and Theodora.35 There are also characters like Agamemnon, Caligula and Abigaille who are being seduced either directly by their power or by their ambition and desire for power.36 Caligula stands out somewhat, because in reception it is power itself that seduces him to live a life of sexual depravity, connecting to the eroticism of seduction. Coming back to the argument, seduction refers to the impact and effect that someone or something has on the body, mind and spirit of the seduced, to the ways the seduced receives and internalizes that attraction and influence. Seduction can be exercised by people, be it actively, as in the cases of Cleopatra and Theodora in this volume, or passively and even unintentionally, as in the case of Coca’s Iphigenia. We should thus understand seductiveness and seduction not as qualities, but as actions upon an active recipient, which are not necessarily generated by an active agent. However, when employed by an active agent as a mechanism of power, seduction reveals itself as a sophisticated game that is not based on force, violence or direct imposition, but rather an alternative to it. One of the diverse modern definitions of seducing is ‘to induce to engage in sex’.37 This connection dates back to the ancient world. Sex and power are linked and appear as a leitmotiv in, for example, the biographical works on Roman

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emperors such as Suetonius’ Vitae and the Historia Augusta.38 Prime exempla in reception are figures such as Caligula and Agrippina.39 While Agrippina’s reception follows the usual patterns of the defamation of powerful women, Caligula’s reception adopts a different model, as we will see below. Seduction connects not only to sex; it is also frequently linked to temptation, a force that intends to deviate a subject from his or her duty and from morally acceptable behaviour.40 One figure appearing in this volume who is traditionally portrayed in this light is Antony.41 However, other characters are confronted by temptation without falling victim to it, such as Freda’s Spartacus in his struggle with Sabina.42 In addition, human seduction, especially when employed by women, is more than a simple instrument of eroticism and sexuality.43 This is where the instruments of power, discussed above, reappear. Where seduction is associated with persuasion, some of the qualities of the rhetorician and the charismatic leader emerge as qualities of the seducer: in spite of the oversexed power negatively attributed to Cleopatra in ancient and post-classical traditions, Plutarch highlighted in his Life of Antony that what was extraordinary about Cleopatra was not really her beauty. He continues: ‘but converse with her had an irresistible charm, and her presence, combined with the persuasiveness of her discourse and the character which was somehow diffused about her behaviour towards others, had something stimulating about it’.44 That is to say that her persuasiveness was probably a key element of her power to seduce, which was twisted into the eroticized image we find in her representation in ancient negative propaganda as well as in her reception. Beyond Cleopatra’s case, this form of negative representation and reception appears also in the cases of Agrippina and Theodora in this volume.45 In human relationships seduction works as an interaction, an effective exercise of persuasion, which subtly conquers the conscience and the will of the subject through his or her emotions, a hypnotic mask of appearances and disappearances, as described by Roland Barthes.46 Seduction implies the construction of a small fiction or fantasy in the mind of the seduced, who is enticed by the irresistible lure that provokes desire, attraction, love, admiration and/or inspiration. Barthes exemplifies this phenomenon by evoking the modern spectacle of striptease, in which eroticism does not emerge from the unveiled naked body ending the show, but from the alluring ritual of the undressing itself.47 So far, we have looked at interpersonal seduction or attempts at it. However, in this volume we also encounter seduction on another level. As Ribeyrol and Momigliano have shown in this volume, sculptures, paintings or even whole



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cultures like the Minoans can be seductive. Just as the corporeal beauty of Antinous captivated the artists of the Renaissance,48 the English Aesthetes were seduced by the beauty and the ambiguities of the Hermaphrodite. The avant-garde artists of the early twentieth century found the motifs, forms and themes of Minoan art and culture alluring. Something similar also applied to places, such as Babylon as the image of the effeminized East.49 Here, concepts, such as the Western orientalizing image of the Babylonian harem, can also seduce. Starting with the Aesthetes, we find an interesting form of seduction: their search for perfection led to ideals diverging from the canonical traditions of Classicists and Academicians.50 Eschewing the Classical (‘Doric’) models of male prowess, their works were inspired by adolescents and by works from antiquity such as the Hermaphrodite in the Louvre. Their form of reception was based on androgynous images blurring boundaries; their admiration of the Dionysian became subversive. The beauty of the androgynous seduced them, but the seduction was transformed into a rationalized ideal. The seductiveness of whole cultures is best expressed by the success of the revolutionary Ballets Russes.51 The newly discovered Minoan culture, perceived as primitive and therefore modern, and eroticized images of females like the famous wall-painting of ‘La Parisienne’ enabled artists to explore seduction on stage in a way that was shocking to many of their contemporaries. Nevertheless, just like the artists behind the performances, audiences were seduced by their reception of Minoan art and the displays of untamed dynamics, colours and eroticism. We are turning now to the last element, the seduction exerted by places. We are turning now to the last element, the seduction exerted by places. On one level, this seduction can take the form of direct inspiration, such as the Grand Stairway of Knossos leading Isadora Duncan to express herself in an impromptu dance, much to the consternation of the archaeologist showing her around the ruins.52 Less direct and more deeply rooted in Christian culture is the illicit allure exerted by the city of Babylon. Echoing biblical imagery, Babylon was stylised as city of sin, a city of seduction and of political intrigue as tools of power. In Verdi’s Nabucco, the city is as much a key player as the human characters populating the set and merges with the character of the evil, power-hungry seductress Abigaille.53 Similarly, the Babylon of Stone’s Alexander parallels the sumptuous exoticism of the royal harem; in the film, Babylon represents feminine excess.54

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One last example of the idea of seduction of place discussed in this volume is the representation of Byzantium and its main cities, Ravenna and Constantinople. Both have been recreated in post-classical reception as metaphors for the decline of the pagan Roman empire, but also as stages for the triumph of Christianity. Channelling Babylon, Constantinople is the set for the excesses and palace intrigues attributed to the eroticized Theodora, while Ravenna is the foil for the characterization of pious Justinian. In fact, just as Alexandria is remembered rather for Cleopatra than for her founder, the reception and the images of Byzantium are linked closely to Theodora. Finally, we will now turn to twisted interplays of seduction and power. In Birtwistle’s opera The Minotaur we find the use of seduction and power as instruments distorting and reshaping traditional roles (those of the Minotaur, Ariadna and Theseus), exploring the depth of the human soul and of human relationships.55 Coming back to Foucault in this context, the relationship between human sexuality and power is the subject of discussion in his influential work The History of Sexuality. Foucault studies the different mechanisms of power behind sexual relationships (including seduction), their repression and regulation in Western cultures. From Plato’s Symposion to Ovid’s Ars Amatoria, sexual seduction appeared in antiquity as a practice tied to social hierarchies and to different dynamics and rules of power and domination. According to Foucault, the regulation of asymmetric sexual relationships determined the construction of moral attitudes towards sexuality.56 Plato’s Symposion provides perhaps the best known Classical case study of this concept and of the theme of love as a divine entity. In Diotima’s speech, Eros is identified as a daemon, a half-divine creature interceding for the good of the lovers; it is under his auspices that love takes place. As we have seen in Lesher’s contribution, in Eliot’s Heraclian – rather than Platonic – The Cocktail Party the daemons (called guardians) are invoked but they do not materialize. As a consequence, there is no seduction, the conflicts of the human soul surface instead and love turns into a bitter non-reciprocal individual experience.57

Conclusion One common theme of this volume is the differing characterization of male and female figures in comparable circumstances. Male charismatic leaders are depicted as heroes to be admired and emulated. Their ability to persuade makes



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them successful in the field of diplomacy, which is another aspect of their power. Their followers are portrayed as honourable men striving to share in their leader’s glory and to further his greatness. Women fall at their feet; when these leaders engage in relationships with powerful women, such as Caesar and Cleopatra or Spartacus and Sabina, and actively control the relationships, they are represented as seductive. They are to be admired for their virility, their sex appeal and their strength in withstanding the weakening effect of women. Accordingly, their seductiveness is an intrinsic part of their power and charisma. In the reception of antiquity, such men are used as positive exempla and role models for the society in which their figures appear. Exceptions to these patterns, i.e. men serving as negative role models, are men falling victim to seduction. There is the image of Antony, who is represented as being seduced by his hubristic aspirations to follow in Alexander’s footsteps as much as by the wiles of Cleopatra. Another case is the figure of Caligula, for whom power is an entrance to the seduction of depravity. In the characterization of the link between power and sexual insatiability and deviance, his depiction mirrors the one of powerful women we will encounter below. Paris’ seductiveness stands for a good-for-naught who brings down his father’s realm and gets his family and compatriots killed or enslaved. In other words, while seduction appears as a woman’s only way to real power, as discussed below, we have a more ambiguous picture when we come to men. Seductive ‘men’s men’ serve as positive role models, but when seduction is paired with a certain effeminacy (Paris) or when men are not in control of seduction, their reception stigmatizes them and casts them as negative exempla. Women equally appear as role models, but the character traits that make them exempla are chastity and modesty. When they appear as active agents, such as Claudia Quinta interacting with the Magna Mater in Castillo’s chapter, they operate in a realm reserved to females and do so in order to further the aims of the men they submit to. However, if a woman displays the traits of a leader, such as charisma or persuasiveness, she may still become a popular object of reception, but her reputation changes. With a few notable exceptions such as Rossi’s queens,58 we have seen how women in power like Cleopatra, Agrippina or Theodora fell victim to smear campaigns not only during or close to their lifetime, but how such defamations resulted in an enduring negative reputation. The colours associated with them in antiquity as well as in modern representations also play to this systematic shift in the depiction of their characters. The scarlet mouth of the female figure in the Minoan wall painting ‘La Parisienne’ was described as a

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violent red.59 The clothes of characters such as Clytemnestra and the furies are blood red as an outward sign of their blood lust, their cruelty, voracity and their hunger for power. The colour highlights the danger they represent to society, a visual signifier of miasma and impurity. The most frequent themes in the reception of powerful women are clearly the allegations of sexual permissiveness, insatiability or deviance, which become distinguishing attributes of their character. The mere fact that a woman had some measure of power over men is depicted as part and parcel of her bad character, not as an achievement. Powerful or important men, such as Antony and Justinian, who follow these female leaders or cooperate with them, are portrayed as weak victims of a woman’s sexual seductiveness. In the depiction of men, seduction is but one tool of power. For women, power is represented and transformed to seductiveness; seduction is often shown as their archetypal and only way of achieving power. In other words, positive traits in men are seen as negative traits in a woman and lead to a shift in her reception; she is stigmatized as a danger to society, her sexuality is emphasized to defame both her and the men associated to her. This shift in perception of course makes powerful women particularly interesting. As objects of reception they titillate, but as exempla and moral reference points they do not serve as role models, but as warnings. Throughout this volume we have also encountered a different form of reception, namely the seduction exerted by ideas and cultures. Here, we find trends that elude or actively evade categorization, such as the English Aesthetes’ blurring of gender roles and sexuality. They celebrated what were considered subversive desires in the Victorian era, idealizing the perceived androgyny of adolescents and the Hermaphrodite, while trying to keep away from the intrusion of anatomical observation and categorization. The growing fascination with themes such as primitivism, gender roles and female sexuality we encounter in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century also tied into the allure of Minoan culture. In reception, it stood for the untamed and its art signalled eroticism. It is this aspect – in addition to the personal tastes and preferences of the artists – that stood behind the use the Ballets Russes made of Minoan art. Both trends in reception encountered strong opposition from their contemporaries, which was also based on the eroticism involved. While we encounter modern appraisals of Isadora Duncan in her semi-transparent tunics as sexless,60 the impact on her contemporaries would have been quite different. The distinction possibly lies in the fact of the movement. To paraphrase the rule connected to nude tableaux vivants in the cabarets of the time: ‘when you



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move, it’s rude’. Again, antiquity is used as a foil to blur the boundaries of the socially acceptable. However, throughout this volume we also encounter more recent forms of reception breaking the moulds, especially when it comes to the reception of powerful women. In this way, Winkler’s queens bear their power nobly; no trace of scandal touches them. Particularly notorious queens like Theodora and Cleopatra enjoy some form of rehabilitation as well. The tension provided by changing gender roles and moral codes accordingly reflects and modifies received images of seduction and power and provides scope for continued investigation of the lines of enquiry opened in this volume. The collection of essays included in Seduction and Power has shown the multiple interactions of two key concepts in human relationships. As such, they are vital features in the reception of antiquity and inspire divergent interpretations of and reactions to the past in social studies and in the arts. The case studies chosen for this volume study not only traditional images of seduction and power, but explore new ways of understanding and negotiating these dynamic concepts, applied not only to human characters and their relationships, but also to places, cultures and objects. A deeper understanding of the complex mechanisms of seduction beyond its traditional limiting link to eroticism remains a challenging area for further research.

Notes 1 Weber 1978 I: 53. Weber differentiates here between power and domination (Herrschaft), which he defines as ‘the probability that a command with a given specific content will be obeyed by a given group of persons’. 2 Russell 1975: 8ff. 3 Lukes 1974: 22–3; 2006: 516–17. 4 Barthes 2002: 121. 5 August. Civ. Dei 1.pr. The Christian author uses as exemplum of libido dominandi the case of the Roman empire 1.30: ‘The lust of rule (libido dominandi), which with other vices existed among the Romans in more unmitigated intensity than among any other people, after it had taken possession of the more powerful few, subdued under its yoke the rest, worn and wearied.’ 6 Weber 1978 I: 241ff. 7 Weber 1978 II: 1111–57, esp. 1114. 8 Weber 1978 II: 1117. 9 Castillo and Duplá, this volume.

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10 Pina Polo, Carlà and Llewellyn-Jones, this volume. 11 See Treu, Capra and Giovannelli, Seymour and McHugh, this volume. See further Cleland et al. ii 2005; Llewellyn-Jones 2002b, 2010. 12 Seymour, Shanower, Treu, Pina Polo, McHugh and Carlà, this volume. 13 See, for example, Lysistrata 41–3 and Capra and Giovannelli, this volume. 14 Pina Polo and García, this volume. 15 Clavo, this volume. 16 See further Schmitzer 2010: 151–76, esp. 165–7. 17 Castillo, this volume. 18 Duplá, this volume. 19 Capra and Giovannelli, this volume. 20 Seymour and Treu, this volume. 21 Treu and Capra and Giovannelli, this volume. 22 Foucault 1984: 110. 23 See especially chapter XIX That One Should Avoid Being Despised And Hated. 24 On the relationship between power and violence see the fundamental work by Hanna Arendt 1970. 25 Machiavelli, The Prince, Book VI. 26 See again Russell 1975: 32. 27 Plato, Grg. 453a2–3 (transl. D. J. Zeyl). 28 Plato, Grg. 261a8; 502c ad ff. See further Moss 2007: 229–49. 29 Aristotle, Rh. 1.2. pr (transl. W. Rhys Roberts). 30 Aristotle, Rh. 1.2, 1356a. 31 Shanower and Clavo, this volume. 32 Foucault 1982: 186–90. 33 See further Lukes 1974: 22–3. 34 Aristotle for persuasion: On rhetoric 1.2.1356b 35 Shanower, Pina Polo and Carlà, this volume. 36 Shanower, Lindner and Seymour, this volume. 37 For example, The Free Dictionary, http://www.thefreedictionary.com/seduce (accessed 20 March 2013) and http://www.thefreedictionary.com/seducers (accessed 20 March 2013). 38 On this extensively see, for example, Vout 2007: 1–51. 39 Lindner and McHugh, this volume. 40 OED s.v. seduction 1 a–b, 2 and 4. 41 Garcia, this volume. 42 Lapeña, this volume. 43 On the relationship between female eroticism and power in Antiquity, see further Feichtinger and Kreuz 2010. Controversial: Baudrillard 1990: 83ff. 44 Plutarch, Ant. 27 (transl. B Perrin). Plutarch adds to it the factor of the voice: ‘There was sweetness also in the tones of her voice; and her tongue, like an instrument



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of many strings, she could readily turn to whatever language she pleased’. See also Garcia, this volume. 45 McHugh and Carlà. 46 Barthes 1978: 62. 47 Barthes, 2009: 97–100 48 Rovira, this volume. 49 Llewellyn-Jones, this volume. 50 Ribeyrol, this volume. 51 Momigliano, this volume. 52 Momigliano, this volume. 53 Seymour, this volume. 54 On the contradictions of the film and on Orientalism, see Llewellyn-Jones, this volume. 55 Reig and Carruesco, this volume. 56 Foucault 1990: 230, see further Detel 2010: 118ff. 57 On the reception of the Symposion, see further Blanchard 2010: 100ff. 58 Winkler, this volume. 59 Momigliano, this volume. 60 For examples, see Momigliano note 3.

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Index À la recherche du temps perdu / In Search of Lost Time (novel, Proust 1913–27) 52 Abigaille 3, 11, 12, 16, 18, 20, 241, 242, 313, 314, 315, 317 abolitionism (nineteenth century) 172, 173, 179, 312 absolutism 4, 86, 89, 94, 212, 214, 225, 281, 312 Academy of Cadiz 283 Academy of Parma 292 Academy of San Fernando 283, 287, 292 Achaeans 4, 57, 59, 60, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66 Achaemenid empire/culture/Persia 3, 11, 20, 22, 23, 24, 26, 28, 29, 32, 33, 34 Achilles 2, 4, 27, 60, 61, 63–5, 66, 87, 207 Acropolis (Athens) 53 Actium (battle of) 197, 198, 199, 201, 204, 208 Acton (Lord)/John Dalberg-Acton 212, 225, 295, 307 adolescence 303, 304, 306 Adonis 305 Aegean Bronze Age 42, 57, 60, 72, 135 Aegeus 78, 113 Aegistus 75, 76, 101 Aeneas 143, 144, 145, 156, 147, 148, 149, 150, 151, 159, 201, 209 Aeneid (Virgil) 5, 70, 134, 144, 145, 146, 148, 150, 151, 153 Aeschylus 4, 60, 68, 75, 77, 82, 87, 92, 97, 100, 101, 106 aesthetes/aestheticism 2, 7, 8, 48, 49, 54, 295–309, 316, 317, 320 Agamemnon (Aeschylus) 60, 68, 75, 76, 77, 82 Agamemnon 2, 4, 52, 60, 61, 62, 64, 76, 77, 87, 88, 89, 91, 92, 93, 135, 140, 314, 315 Age of Bronze (comics series, Shanower 1998–) 4, 44, 57–70, 81, 94

Agrippina (opera, Handel 1709–10) 19, 235, 237 Agrippina (opera, Handel, Berlin Staatsoper 2010) 237, 238, 239 Agrippina the Elder 226, 227 Agrippina the Younger 2, 6, 17, 73, 225–42, 284, 313, 316, 319 Akamas 66 Alberti, Leon Battista 280, 291 Alcestis (Euripides) 121, 128 Aldrovandi, Ulisse 269 Alexander (film, Stone 2004) 3, 20, 21–34, 317 Alexander the Great (film, Rossen 1956) 27 Alexander the Great 21–34, 198, 203, 207, 208, 210, 319 Alexandria 197, 198, 199, 201, 207, 208, 209, 318 Alexandria (battle of) 197, 204, 207 Alexandria Quartet, The (novel, Durrell 1957–60) 207 Alf Leila wa Leila/Tales of a Thousand and One Nights 25, 33 Alma-Tadema, Lawrence 201, 202 Amargós, Joan Albert 4, 109, 110, 116, 117, 118, 120 Ambition of power 4, 6, 178, 179, 187, 198, 200, 204, 205, 206, 239, 248, 314, 315 Ambrosio, Arturo 257 Ammianus Marcellinus 167 anachronism 111, 287 Anchises 150 androgyny/androgynious 8, 296, 296, 298, 303, 307, 317, 320 Andromache 66, 142 Anekdota (Procopius) 244, 245, 246, 250, 257, 258 anger 113, 119, 140, 141, 150, 206 Anna Maria Sophia (Archduchess) 155, 161, 163

352 Index Annals (Tacitus) 168, 235, 240, 241 Annibale vincitore, che rimiro la prima volta dalle Alpi l’Italia (painting, Goya 1770) 292 Anthropology 105, 298 Antígona (play, Coca 2003) 86, 94 Antigone 4, 79, 80, 313 Antigone (play, Brecht, Living Theatre 1967) 79 Antigone (play, Rubinstein 1902) 40 Antigone (Sophocles) 79 anti-imperialism 172 Antilochus 64 Antinous Belvedere (sculpture) 266, 269, 270, 271, 274 Antinous Farnese (statue) 268, 269, 277 Antinous 7, 263–78, 308, 317 Antiquitates Urbis (book, Fulvius 1513) 269 Antony and Cleopatra (film, Heston 1972) 195, 204 Antony and Cleopatra (painting, Alma-Tadema 1883) 201 Antony and Cleopatra (play, Shakespeare 1603–7, edited in 1623) 189, 197, 198, 200, 201, 208, 209 Antony and Cleopatra (play, Shakespeare, S. Bernhard 1899) 189 Aphrodite/Venus 22, 28, 31, 130, 144, 145, 147, 148, 150, 183, 186, 194, 199, 217, 244, 296, 300, 304, 305 Apollo and Daphne (sculpture, Bernini 1622–5) 299 Apollo 68, 112, 163, 198, 297, 298 Apollodorus 70 Apollon (magazine) 40 Apollonian 49, 298 Appian 198, 203, 209, 289 Après-midi d’un Faune, L’ (poem, Mallarmé 1865–7) 37, 298 Après-midi d’un Faune, L’ (ballet, music Debussy, Ballets Russes 1912) 36, 37, 38, 40, 41, 42, 44, 50, 53, 54, 55, 308 Apulian Gnathia fragment (Konnakis Painter) 96 Archaeology 1, 9, 10, 37, 38, 39, 40, 49, 52, 60, 266, 269, 274, 275, 289, 290, 298, 317

archaism (art) 37, 44, 48, 51 Arete 134, 152 Argos 75 Ariadne 39, 50, 53, 109, 113, 114, 115, 116, 119 Ariadne auf Naxos (opera, Strauss and Hofmannsthal 1912, 1916) 119 Aristaeus 111, 112 Aristophanes 4, 74, 95–107, 130, 305, 313, 314 Aristotle 28, 34, 105, 111, 115, 311, 314, 322 Ars Amatoria (Ovid) 318 Artaud, Antonin 85 Artemis 60, 61, 73, 87, 88, 89, 91, 92 Arthur, Reginald 189 Ascanius 150 asexuality/sexless 51, 179, 300, 301, 302 Asia Minor 60, 158, 199 Assemblywomen (Aristophanes) 4, 74, 95–107, 314 Assyria 9, 15, 18, 19, 26 Asterios 113, 115, 119 Astérix (comic series, Goscinny and Uderzo 1959–) 195 Astérix et Cléopâtra (animation film, Goscinny, Payant and Uderzo 1968) 195 Astérix et Obelix mission Cléopâtre (film, Chabat 2002) 195 Athena 75, 140, 153 Athenaeum (club, London) 296, 308 Athens 38, 73, 75, 78, 86, 245 Atir Theatre Company 4, 95, 102, 103, 104, 105, 106 Attalus I (King of Pergamon) 157, 158, 159, 160 Attic drama 72, 73 Attila (film, Francisci 1954) 171 Attila (opera, Verdi 1846) 16 Auden, Wystan Hugh 109 audience/public/viewer/spectator 3, 10, 14, 18, 19, 23, 24, 25, 28, 30, 35, 37, 38, 51, 52, 71, 72, 73, 74, 76, 77, 79, 80, 81, 83, 86, 87, 91, 92, 93, 95, 97, 98, 100, 101, 102, 103, 116, 136, 139, 140, 141, 142, 143, 144, 145, 148, 150, 151, 155, 173, 177, 180, 189, 191, 199, 200, 204, 206, 214,

Index 217, 219, 229, 232, 233, 234, 237, 239, 290, 302, 314, 317, 342 Augustan propaganda/literature/ideology 183, 186, 197, 198, 202, 208, 313 Augustine 18, 212, 312 Augustus/Octavian 6, 163, 168, 183, 193, 198, 202, 206, 207, 209, 213, 215, 226, 228, 313 Aulis 60, 88 austerity 283 authenticity 18, 129, 211, 290 Baal 11, 18 Babylon 2, 3, 9, 10, 11, 12, 15, 16, 18, 19, 20, 22, 24, 26, 27, 28, 29, 31, 34, 208, 246, 317, 318 Babylonian Marriage Market, The (painting, Long 1875) 29 Bacchae (Euripides) 119, 120 Bacchus (comic series, Campbell 1987–) 81 Bacchus (painting, Solomon 1867) 297 Bacchus 208, 297 Bactria 24 Bakst, Léon 36, 37, 38, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 50, 51, 53, 53, 55 Baldi, Ferdinando 195 ballet 2, 10, 12, 35, 37, 38, 40, 42, 43, 44, 45, 48, 51, 53, 55, 255 Ballets Russes 3, 25, 33, 35, 37, 38, 40, 41, 42, 44, 48, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 317, 320 Bamiyan (Afghanistan) 144, 146 Banquet of Antony and Cleopatra (painting, de Bray 1669) 187 Banquet of Cleopatra, The (painting, de Lairesse 1689) 199 Banquet of Cleopatra, The (painting, Elliger the Y. c. 1700) 187 Banquet of Cleopatra, The (painting, Tiepolo 1747–50) 187, 199 Bara, Theda 190, 193 Barthes, Roland 210, 312, 316, 321, 323 Bassariden, Die (opera, Henze 1966) 109 Baths of Agrippa (Rome) 267 beauty (arts/statues) 29, 96, 187, 194, 256, 271, 272, 275, 301, 302, 306 beauty (female/masculine) 7, 8, 25, 29, 65, 137, 146, 163, 179, 183, 184, 187,

353

245, 256, 264, 271, 272, 275, 276, 297, 302, 316, 317 Beazzano, Agostino 267 Beckett, Samuel 279 Belisarius, Flavius 244, 251, 252, 254, 257, 258, 259, 260 Belisariusroman 260 Bellori, Gian Pietro 265, 274, 276, 278 Bellum Persicum (Procopius) 258, 260 Bembo, Pietro 267, 268, 276, 277 Ben Hur (film, Nibblo 1925) 176, 252 Benczúr, Gyula 189 Berlin Staatsoper 235, 237, 238, 239 Bernhardt, Sarah 189, 244 Bernini, Gian Lorenzo 263, 299, 301 Bevilacqua, Mario 268 Bibiena drawings 245 Bible 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 172, 266, 317 biography 38, 39, 52, 194, 197, 198, 199, 211, 212, 243, 248, 257, 259, 269, 274, 275 Birds (Aristophanes) 97 Birth of the Roman Republic, The (painting, C. Plasencia 1877) 293 Birtwistle, Harrison 4, 109, 110, 112, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 119, 120, 318 bisexuality/dual sexuality 300, 304, 307 Blake, William 298, 308 board games 217 Boccaccio, Giovanni 193 Bolero (comic, Manara 1999) 255, 256, 262 Book of Daniel 11 Borghese Hermaphrodite (Roman sculpture, Louvre) 301, 317 Botta, Paul-Émile 10, 19 Brando, Marlon 204, 205, 206, 210 Bray, Jan de 187, 209 Brecht, Berthold 79 Briseis 64 British Empire 172, 173 British Museum 9, 18, 52 Brogi, Giulio 144, 149 Brutus, Lucius Junius 290 Brutus, Marcus Junius 200, 205, 206, 209, 210 Buchanan, Robert 306, 309, 328 Buddha statues (Bamiyan) 144 Burnacini, Ludovico 166

354 Index Burne-Jones, Edward 8, 298, 299, 300 Burton, Richard 192, 204 Byron, George Gordon 17 Byzantine Empire/Byzantium 7, 181, 243, 244, 245, 248, 249, 251, 252, 253, 255, 256, 257, 258, 259, 261, 318 Byzantium/Constantinople (city) 7, 245, 246, 250, 253, 256, 257, 261, 318 Caba, Antonio 292 Cacoyannis, Michael 137 Caecilius Metellus, Quintus 158, 162 Caesar and Cleopatra (film, Pascal 1945) 192 Caesar and Cleopatra (play, Shaw 1901) 192 Caesarenwahnsinn 212, 213 Caesarion 192, 193 Cagnacci, Guido 188 Calchas/Kalchas 65 Caligola La storia mai raccontata (film, D’Amato 1982) 214 Caligula (board game, Post Scriptum) 217, 218 Caligula (film, Brass and Guccione 1979) 215, 217, 220, 235, 236, 237, 241 Caligula (opera, Braga 1873) 219 Caligula (opera, Pagliardi 1672) 219 Caligula (photonovel, 1986) 214 Caligula (play, Camus 1939–44) 212 Caligula 2000 (film, Studio Playhouse 2000) 212 Caligula déposant les cendres de sa mère et son frère dans le tombeau de ses ancêtres (painting, Le Sueur 1647) 220 Caligula Maximus (play, Preisser and Weiner 2010) 219, 222 Caligula Syndrome (song, Soft Cell) 219 Caligula 2, 6, 211–23, 225, 227, 228, 315, 316, 319 Caligula An Ancient Glam Epic (musical play, Svejcar 2004) 214 Callas, Maria 239 Cambridge Ritualists 8, 49, 298 Camerini, Mario 134 Camus, Albert 94, 212 Cappadocia 144 Capua 5, 173

Carlos IV of Spain 285, 286 Carlucci, Leopoldo 244, 245, 247, 249 Carmina/Odes (Horace) 193, 208 Carthage/Carthaginians 5, 144, 145, 146, 148, 158, 162, 165 cartoons 71, 213, 214, 220 Cassander 22 Cassandra/Kassandra 4, 66, 68, 69, 75, 76, 77 Cassius Dio 167, 184, 198, 208, 227, 240, 241, 275 Castiglione, Baldassare 267, 270 Castor/Kastor 44, 59 catharsis (tragic) 109–20 Catholic Church 248, 281 Catholic sexual morality 254 Cavafy, Constantine 207, 210 Celtiberian Wars 288 Cerchio, Fernando 195 Cervances, Miguel de 288 chaos 144 charisma/charismatic hero/leader 2, 8, 173, 179, 207, 312, 314, 315, 316, 318, 319 Charles I (King of England) 280 Charon 117 chastity (Christian/Roman) 159, 160, 162, 163, 164, 168, 202, 283, 312, 313, 319 Chaucer, Geoffrey 70, 81 Cherubini, Giovanni Battista 274, 278 Chicago World’s Fair 25 Chigi chapel (Santa Maria del Popolo, Rome) 7, 263, 264, 265, 273, 274, 275, 276 Chigi, Agostino 263, 268, 269, 272, 273 Chini, Galileo 245, 246 Choregoi vase 101 choregos 120 chorus 13, 14, 16, 18, 61, 73, 76, 77, 79, 86, 88, 90, 92, 93, 97, 106, 297 Chremes 100 Christian imagery/symbols 70, 121, 172, 180, 214, 272, 274 Christian martyrs 178, 187 Christian tradition 58, 122, 214, 265, 267, 272, 274, 321 Christian virtues/values 49, 50, 164, 166, 168, 178, 180, 214, 249, 317

Index Christianity 121, 164, 179, 212, 215, 216, 217, 245, 253, 272, 318 Chthonian mysteries 55, 297, 298, 308 Cicero 163, 225, 228, 279 Cincinnatus leaving the plough to bring Law to Rome (painting, Ribera 1804–7) 284, 285 Cincinnatus, Lucius Quinctius 7, 285, 293 cinema/films/movies 2, 6, 15, 21–34, 71, 75, 76, 78, 81, 82, 83, 100, 124, 133–53, 171–82, 185, 189–95, 197, 200, 202–7, 209, 210, 212, 214–16, 219–25, 229, 230, 235–7, 243, 244, 247, 249, 251, 253, 258–61, 282, 312, 317, 323 cinematic hero 24, 180, 197 Cioci (Egyptian style statues) 267, 277 Clairin, Georges 246 Classical art (Greek and Roman) 263, 268 Classical Reception Studies 2, 6, 110, 118, 181, 195, 200, 208, 258, 260, 282, 311, 318 Claudia Felicitas of Austria 155, 161, 163, 164, 165, 166 Claudia Quinta 5, 157–69, 312, 313, 319 Claudianus 167 Claudius the God (novel, Graves 1935) 215 Claudius 6, 215, 219, 225, 227, 228, 235, 237, 238, 241 Clement XI (Pope) 19, 237, 238 clementia 164 Cleopatra VII 2, 6, 7, 73, 177, 182, 183–95, 197–210, 313, 315, 316, 318, 319, 321 Cleopatra (film, DeMille 1934) 191, 202 Cleopatra (film, Edward 1917) 190 Cleopatra (film, Mankiewicz 1963) 177, 192, 193, 197, 203, 204, 205, 206, 207, 209, 210 Cleopatra (painting, Reni c. 1628) 188 Cleopatra before Caesar (painting, Gérôme 1866) 187 Cleopatra Nahman (sculpture) 185 Cleopâtre (ballet, music Arensky, Ballets Russes 1909) 35, 44, 53 Cléopâtre (film, Méliès 1899) 190, 202 Cléopâtre (play, Sardou 1890) 189 Clinton, Hillary 240, 257

355

Clodia Metelli 163 clothing/dress 4, 23, 39, 40, 45, 50, 53, 63, 82, 92, 104, 127, 163, 183, 203, 313 Clytemnestra/Klytemnestra 2, 4, 60–2, 74–8, 82, 87–9, 91, 92, 313, 314, 320 Coca, Jordi 4, 85–94, 106, 118, 313, 315 Cocktail Party, The (play, Eliot 1949) 5, 121–31, 315 coinage 185, 186, 228 Colbert, Claudette 191, 193, 203 Colchis 144 Cold War 176 collective memory 180 colonialism 23, 25, 27 colour 20, 45, 48, 50, 51, 58, 68, 76, 81, 82, 98, 100, 104, 106, 246, 288, 289, 297, 298, 302, 313, 317, 319, 320 Columbus, Christopher 284 comics/graphic novels 2, 4, 6, 57, 70, 71, 75, 81, 82, 195, 213, 220, 222, 254, 255, 282 commedia dell’arte 103, 117, 120 Commentary of the Aeneid (Servius) 70, 145, 153 Commodus 211, 219 communism 173, 174, 253, 288 Confessio Amantis (poem, Gower, c. 1386–1390) 212, 221 Constant Gardener, The (film, Meireilles 2005) 225, 229, 234, 237 Constant Gardener, The (novel, le Carré 2001) 225, 229 Constantine 265, 270, 272, 274, 277 Consuelo (novel, Sand 1861) 305 Continence of Scipio, The (painting, Madrazo 1831) 283 Conversion of Reccared, The (painting, Muñoz Degrain 1888) 292 Corda, Maria 137 Corinth 144 Cornelia (gens) 167 Cornelia (mother of the Gracchi) 292 Cornelia, Mother of the Gracchi (painting, Kauffmann 1785) 292 corruption 2, 3, 6, 16, 175, 178, 180, 211, 215, 216, 219, 220, 249, 284 Cortesi, Antonio 10, 12, 17 costumes/costume-design (ballet, film,

356 Index opera, theatre) 3, 39, 50, 53, 71, 74–8, 82, 91, 92, 98, 100, 103, 104, 145, 160, 163, 187, 195, 255, 313, 316 Cottafavi, Vitorio 195 Crassus, Lucius Licinius 173, 175–7, 179, 180 Crateros 22, 28, 31 Craveri, Sebastiano 246, 248 Cressida 64, 65, 66 Crete 2, 38, 40, 44, 50, 53, 113, 115 Creusa 145 Cyclops (TV movie, O’Brien 2008) 221 Cyprus 244, 253 Cyrus the Great/Cyrus II 11, 314 D’Annunzio, Gabriele 44, 45, 248 daimon/daimones 127, 128, 130, 131 damnatio memoriae 208, 228, 241 dance 3, 25, 30, 32, 35–55, 120, 176, 178, 249, 251, 255, 307, 317 Dante Alighieri 121 Daphnis et Chloë (ballet, music Ravel, Ballets Russes 1912) 38, 43, 45, 51, 53 Dares of Phrygia 70 Darius III 22, 27–30, 32, 33 David, Jean Louis 281, 283, 285, 286, 287, 289, 291 De aedificiis (Procopius) 260 De Albericis, Jacopo 273 De civitate Dei (Augustine) 221, 321 De claris mulieribus (Boccaccio) 193 De Pirro, Nicola 176 De viris illustribus 167 Death of Cleopatra, The (painting, Arthur 1892) 189 Death of Cleopatra, The (painting, Benczúr 1911) 189 Death of Cleopatra, The (painting, Cagnacci 1658) 188 Death of Cleopatra, The (painting, Giampietrino c. 1525) 187 Death of Cleopatra, The (painting, Makart 1875) 189 Death of Cleopatra, The (painting, Regnault 1796–99) 188 Death of Cleopatra, The (painting, Rixens 1874) 189

Death of Cleopatra, The (painting, Scorel c. 1522) 187 Death of General Wolfe, The (painting, West 1770–6) 291 Death of Lucretia, The (painting, Rosales 1871) 289, 290 Death of Sardanapalus, The (painting, Delacroix 1827) 26 Death of Seneca, The (painting, Domínguez y Sánchez 1871) 292 Death of Viriathus, The, chieftain of the Lusitanians (painting, Madrazo, c. 1808) 286 death 4, 26, 60, 64, 65, 73, 75–9, 87, 89–94, 103–5, 110, 112, 116–18, 120, 121, 123, 126, 135, 141, 145, 151, 161, 179, 180, 186, 187, 194, 197, 199–201, 204, 208, 209, 215, 216, 219, 225–8, 230, 233, 243, 237, 241, 243, 245, 246, 251, 254, 260, 267, 287, 289–92, 314 Debussy, Claude 37, 44, 308 Deidamia 63, 64 Del Vaga, Perino 272, 277 Delacroix, Eugène 26, 31, 288 Della pittura (treatise, Alberti 1436) 280, 291 Delphi 53, 75, 77, 157, 158, 159 Demeter 119, 297, 308 Demetrius and the Gladiators (film, Daves 1954) 216 DeMille, Cecil B. 191, 200, 202, 203 democracy 86, 89, 93, 172, 250, 251, 253 Demophoon 298, 299, 300 desire 4, 5, 37, 50, 59, 80, 85, 87, 88, 90, 93, 103, 117, 118, 180, 199, 227, 255, 297, 300, 303–7, 311, 312, 316, 320 desire for power 90, 93, 225, 311, 312, 315 despotism 12, 16, 27, 175, 220, 227 Diaghilev, Sergei 3, 25, 35, 38, 40, 44, 48, 51, 55 Dialogues des morts (prose fables, Fénelon c. 1689–97) 221 Dido/Elissa 5, 133, 134, 143–51, 153, 201, 209, 312 Dido and Aeneas (opera, Purcell 1689) 147

Index Diehl, Charles 248, 249, 257, 259 dignity 64, 138, 174, 202, 206, 220 Diktys of Crete 70 Diodorus Siculus 20 Diogenes Laertius 130 Diomedes 66 Dionysian primitivism (Nietzsche) 39, 48, 49, 119, 298, 307, 317 Dionysian 49, 119, 204, 297, 317 Dionysos (opera, Rihm 2010) 109 Dionysus (god) 39, 50, 109, 116, 119, 120, 197, 198, 199, 208, 297, 308 Diotima 128, 130, 318 disease 110, 305, 306 disprezzo, Il (novel, Moravia 1954) 152 Divine Comedy (Dante) 121 Domínguez y Sánchez, Manuel 292 Domitian 211, 219, 221 Doric (aesthetic ideal) 297, 295, 317 Draghi, Antonio 166 Drusilla 220 Due notti con Cleopatra (film, Mattoli 1953) 195 Duncan, Isadora 3, 35–9, 45, 48, 50–5, 307, 309, 317, 320 Durrell, Lawrence 207 Dürrenmatt, Friedrich 260, 328 East (femininised East) 3, 23, 25, 26, 33, 198, 297, 317 East (Western views of the) 3, 17, 21–34, 198, 199, 202, 203, 208, 246 Edipo re/Oedipus Rex (film, Pasolini 1967) 144 effeminate men 212, 217, 254, 304, 306 Egypt 6, 7, 50, 137, 183–7, 189, 190, 192–4, 198, 199, 202, 203, 207, 208, 210, 259, 276, 313 Egyptian art 42, 44, 45, 54, 136, 194, 267 eighteenth century 6, 25, 30, 188, 199, 212, 237, 281, 284, 291 ekphrasis 301, 303 Elagabal 211, 219 Elektra (Sophocles) 74 Eleusinian mysteries 119 Elijah (statue of) 273 Eliot, Thomas Stearns 5, 121–31, 318 Elliger the Younger, Ottmar 187, 209 Ellis, Havelock 304, 305

357

Empedocles of Akragas 130 Empousa 99, 100, 106, 314 Eneide (TV film, Rossi 1971) 133, 134, 143, 151 Engels, Friedrich 182 Enlightenment 7, 49, 280 epic (ancient) 60, 74, 114, 134, 136, 140, 144–6, 151, 201, 216, 287, 288, 212 epic films 20, 27, 133, 134, 146, 178, 179 Epigenes 98, 99 epiparodos 106 Epitome (Apollodorus) 70 Erinni (comic series, Capone 1995–7) 82 Erinyes/Furies 75, 77, 78, 82, 100, 101, 106, 314, 320 Eros 128, 318 eroticism 2, 3, 4, 5, 8, 35, 37, 50, 51, 55, 85, 87, 93, 94, 142, 171, 177–9, 187, 189, 199, 261, 315–17, 320–2 Esquiline Venus (sculpture) 186, 194 ethos 127, 302, 307 Eton Schoolboys (lost drawing, Solomon 1867) 296 Etruscan art 44 Eudiades (poem, Symonds 1878) 296 Euelpides 97 Eumaeus 143 Eumenides (Aeschylus) 4, 75, 77, 97, 100, 106 Euridice (opera, Peri 1600) 109, 116 Eurídice y los títeres de Caronte/Euridice and the puppets of Charon (opera, Amargós 2001) 4, 109, 110, 116, 118, 120 Euripides 4, 37, 40, 60, 61, 70, 78, 87, 88, 104, 119, 120, 121, 128, 309 European painting 189, 293 Eurybates 62 Eurycleia 138, 140, 142 Eurydice 111, 116, 117, 148 Eutropius 221 Evans, Arthur 36–9, 43, 50, 52 Eve (biblical character) 187 Evening Hymn, The (painting, Solomon 1870) 296 exempla 7, 157, 163, 292, 314, 319, 320 exoticism 7, 8, 183, 199, 245, 317 Fabiola (film, Blasetti 1949) 171

358 Index Farrell, Colin 26 fascism 176, 205, 213, 222, 248, 249 Fasti (Ovid) 166, 167, 168 fear 10, 19, 65, 76, 88, 99, 110, 115–17, 119, 161, 221, 256 Fedra (play, D’Annunzio 1909) 45 Fehmiu, Bekim 137, 143, 144 female body 48–50, 75, 78, 92, 93, 96, 104, 148, 178, 187, 254, 257, 299 female power 51, 71 femme fatale 6, 23, 183, 189, 190, 202, 235, 256, 313 Fénelon, François 212 Fenena (Nabucco) 11, 12, 16, 17, 20 Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain 284 Ferdinand VII of Spain 286 Ferrill, Arther 212 fifteenth century 70, 280, 284 figlio di Cleopatra, Il (film, Baldi 1964) 195 Final day of Numantia, The (painting, Vera 1881) 288 Final day of Saguntum (painting, Domingo Marqués 1869) 287, 289 fin-de-siècle (culture/art/aesthetics) 202 Fiorentino, Italo 246, 247, 248, 258 Florus 289, 293 Fokine, Mikhail 35, 52, 53 Forrest, Edwin 172 fortitudo 164 Fortuny, Mariano 39, 53 Foucault, Michel 1, 305, 309, 311, 314, 315, 318, 322, 323 Four Quartets (poems, Eliot 1944) 121, 122, 129 Foyatier, Denis 174, 181 France 6, 161, 162, 165, 166, 172, 259, 283, 284, 306 Franzero, Carlo Maria 203 Freda, Riccardo 5, 171, 172, 175–82, 251–3, 260, 261, 316 freedom (ancient) 171, 172, 179, 255, 283, 295 freedom (modern) 23, 85, 86, 102, 116, 120, 172–9, 181, 255, 183, 287, 288, 295 French Revolution 7, 280, 281 Freud, Sigmund 49, 50, 55 Fulvius, Andreas 269, 275–7 fumetti 213, 254, 261

fuoco eterno custodito dalle Vestali, Il (opera, music by Draghi, libretto by Minato 1674) 5, 155–69, 313 Gabel, Scilla 136, 137, 146, 151 Galba 219 Galleria Borghese (Rome) 267 Gance, Abel 133, 152 Garden of Proserpine (poem, Swinburne 1866) 298 Garibaldi, Giuseppe 174, 175, 181, 182 garment 100, 101, 313, 314 Gautier, Théophile 304, 309 Gavaldón, Roberto 195 gender (sexual) 2, 26, 38, 51, 74, 80, 92, 94, 97, 299, 300, 305, 307, 320, 321 Georgics (Virgil) 148, 153, 110 Géricault, Théodore 288 Germanicus 6, 211, 215, 226 Germany 79, 162, 213, 244, 259 Gérôme, Jean-Léon 187 Gesamtkunstwerk 110 Geta 219 Giampietrino 187 Gielgud, John 216 Giganti della Tessaglia, I (film, Freda 1960) 176 Giorgione 187 Giovagnoli, Raffaello 174, 175 Gladiator, The (play, Bird 1831) 172, 173 gladiators/gladiatorial games 173–6, 178, 181, 182, 214 Gladjatorowie (poem, Lenartowicz 1855) 174 Gladstone, William Ewart 295 glory 61, 64, 197, 198, 201, 207, 311, 319 Gluck, Christoph Willibald 61 God Abandons Antony, The (poem, Cavafy 1911) 207, 210 Godard, Jean-Luc 152 Gonzaga I, Vincenzo (Duke of Mantova) 268, 271, 280 Gonzales, Gianna Terribili 202 Gore Vidal’s Caligula (novel, Howard 1979) 215 Gorgias (Plato) 314 Gorgons 73 Gower, John 212 Goya, Francisco de 292

Index Gramsci, Antonio 174 Great Mother 39, 49, 52, 73 Greece (ancient) 3, 38, 39, 40, 42, 44, 48–50, 52, 54, 55, 61, 72, 73, 137, 198, 208, 303, 307, 309 Greece (modern) 3, 45, 52, 53, 146 Greek art 40, 45, 49–51, 54, 55, 295, 298, 317 Greek comedy 74, 75, 95, 97, 99, 100–5, 116, 119, 314 Greek ideal (art, aestetic) 51, 297 Greek sculpture 44, 306 Greek theatre 72, 73, 84 Greek tragedy 4, 45, 60, 68, 71, 74, 75, 78–80, 85–7, 92, 95, 104, 109–11, 115, 119, 236, 314 Greek vase paintings 42, 52, 54, 95, 98, 101, 103, 105, 106, 146, 307 Gregory of Tours 221 Griffith, David Llewelyn 26, 29, 30 Grimani, Cardinal Vincenzo 237, 238 Guazzoni, Enrico 190, 200 Guccione, Bob 216, 236, 237, 241 Guernica (painting, Picasso 1937) 290 Guillory, Sienna 137 H. D. (Hilda Doolittle) 307, 309 Habsburg (House of) 5, 13, 155, 161, 163–5 Hades 94, 111, 148 Hadrian 7, 264, 267, 270, 272, 274–6 Hadrian’s Villa 267, 274–6 Hampton Court Palace 280 Handel, George Frideric 19, 235, 237–9 Hannibal 158, 160, 287 Hardy, Thomas 239, 240 Harem Suare/The Last Harem (film, Özpetek 1999) 32 harem 3, 20, 21–34, 313, 317 Harrison, Jane Ellen 50, 55, 298 Harsent, David 113 Harum Scarum/Harem Holiday (film, Nelson 1965) 21, 24, 26 Hecuba (Euripides) 70 Hektor 64, 65, 66 Hekuba 59 Helen of Troy (film, Wise 1956) 137 Helen of Troy (TV film, Harrison 2003) 137 Helen of Troy/Helen of Sparta 2, 4, 5,

359

43–5, 57–60, 66, 70, 73, 89, 134–7, 151, 152, 312, 313 Hélène de Sparte (play, Verhaeren 1912) 43, 44, 51 Hellenistic World/culture 167, 203, 209, 210 Hellenists/Philhellenism/‘Hellenomania’ (Victorian Age) 295, 302 Helenus 68, 69 Henze, Hans Werner 109 Heraclitus of Ephesus 5, 121–30, 318 Herakles/Hercules 59, 179, 235, 283 Herder, Johann Gottfried 259 Hermannsschlacht (painting, Kiefer 1977) 290 hermaphrodite/hermaphroditism 7, 8, 300–7, 317, 320 Hermaphroditus (poem, Swinburne 1963) 302 Hermaphroditus 300, 303, 304 Hermes (sculpture, Praxiteles) 303 Hermes 269, 300, 304, 305, 306 Hernández Amores, Germán 292, 293 hero (epic/tragic) 5, 7, 15, 27, 50, 59, 61, 79, 86, 111–16, 133, 136, 138, 140, 144, 145, 151, 164, 165, 171–8, 180, 197, 200, 202, 204, 207, 215, 220, 251, 258, 282, 284, 287, 289, 295, 312, 313, 318 Herodian 167 Herodotus 157, 291 Heroids (Ovid) 298 Hesiod 127, 131 Hesione 59 Hesperus (painting, Solomon) 296 Hesperus and Hymaenus (poem, Symonds 1862) 296 Hesperus 297 Heston, Charlton 195, 204 Hippolytus (Euripides) 40 Hippolytus (translation of Euripides by Merezhkovsky 1902) 40 Hippolytus 127, 131 Hispania/Roman Spain 157, 164, 288 Historia Augusta 211 historical accuracy (painting) 280 historical novels 212, 214, 216, 220 Historiography (ancient) 139, 211, 241 historiography/scholarship (modern) 1,

360 Index 3, 14, 37, 38, 42, 49, 51, 71, 72, 80, 81, 95, 100, 106, 121, 133, 138, 140, 151, 152, 183, 185, 203, 212, 222, 249, 251, 257, 260, 281, 283, 291, 292, 297, 307 history painting 279–93 Hofmannsthal, Hugo von 119 Hollywood 5, 23–6, 30, 31, 33, 152, 172, 173, 176, 179, 200, 202, 204 Holy Roman Empire 155, 161–3, 165, 166, 253 Homer 5, 44, 49, 50, 53, 57, 60, 70, 91, 133–42, 151–3, 305 homoeroticism 296, 301 homosexuality 215, 254, 276, 297, 304, 305, 306 Horace 183, 193, 208 House of Austria 156, 161, 163, 165 House of the Senate (Madrid) 280, 292 Houseman, John 205 Houses of Parliament (London) 280 hubris 212, 220, 319 Hugo, Victor 257 Hyginus, Gaius Julius 70 Hymaenus 296, 297 Hymn to Proserpine (poem, Swinburne 1866) 298 I, Claudius (novel, Graves 1934) 215, 216 I, Claudius (TV series, BBC 1976) 216 idealization (painting) 7, 281, 290 Ifigènia (play, Coca 2009) 4, 85–94, 118 Iliad (Homer) 57, 58, 60, 70, 74, 133, 142, 151 Imagines Illustribus (book, Fulvius 1517) 269 imitatio Alexandri 198, 208 immortality 73, 118, 126, 187, 217, 219 imperialism 172, 200 incest 44, 79, 88, 91, 214, 220, 221, 225, 228, 236, 254 Incoronazione di Poppea, L’ (opera, Monteverdi 1642) 109 India 24, 49, 50 Ingres, Jean Auguste Dominique 31, 33 Intolerance (film, Griffiths 1916) 26, 29 Io Passion, The (opera, Birtwistle 2003) 112, 116 Io 109, 112, 119

Iokanan 178 Ion (Euripides) 309 Iphigenia 4, 60–2, 64, 85, 87–9, 91–4, 106, 313, 314, 315 Iphigenia (play, Racine 1674) 61 Iphigenia at Aulis (Euripides) 60, 61, 70, 85, 87, 94 Iphigenia (poem, Landor 1868) 61 Iphigénie en Aulide (opera, Gluck 1774) 61 Iran 31 Iraq 12 Isabel II of Spain 283 Ishtar Gate (Babylon) 17, 26 Isidore of Sevilla 292 Ismene 79 Istanbul 32 Italian unification 175, 181, 202 Italy 13, 15, 102, 157, 158, 160, 162, 173, 174, 175, 179, 180, 181, 194, 195, 244, 245, 249, 257, 292, 306 Ithaca 138 Itylus (poem, Swinburne 1866) 298 Jeremiah 10, 11, 12, 19 Jerome 276 Jerusalem 10, 12, 13, 16, 18 Jesus Christ 214 John le Carré The Secret Centre (TV documentary, BBC R. Wright 2000) 229 John the Cappadocian 250, 251, 252, 260 Jolie, Angelina 193 Jolivet, Rita 244 Jonah Statue (at the Chigi chapel, Lorenzetto and Bernini) 263–78 Jonah 263, 265, 266, 267, 271, 276 Judaism 11, 16 Judgement of Paris 58 Julia (Augustus’ daughter) 163, 168, 313 Julian Apostata 211, 221 Julio-Claudian dynasty 226, 228 Julius Caesar (film, Bradley 1950) 204 Julius Caesar (film, Burge 1970) 204 Julius Caesar (film, Mankiewicz 1953) 197, 203–6 Julius Caesar (play, Shakespeare 1599) 197, 200, 203, 206, 209 Julius Caesar (play, Shakespeare, Welles, Mercury Theatre 1937) 205

Index Julius Caesar on his Triumphal Chariot (painting, Mantegna 1484–92) 280 Julius Caesar 6, 183, 184, 186, 187, 192, 197, 200, 203, 204, 206, 207, 209, 210, 319 Julius II (Pope) 273 Juno 147, 150 Jupiter 145, 150 Justinian and Theodora (film, Turner 1910) 257 Justinian 243, 244, 245, 249, 250–3, 255, 258, 260–2, 318, 320 Karlatos, Olga 146, 147, 149, 150, 151 Kauffmann, Angelica 292 Kellogg, Elijah 172 Kiefer, Anselm 290 King and I, The (film, Lang 1956) 28 Kismet (film, Minnelli 1955) 27 Klee, Paul 110 Klimt, Gustav 256 Knossos (Crete) 36–9, 43, 45, 48, 53, 307, 317 Koldewey, Robert 10, 18, 19 Korda, Alexander 137 kore/korai 40 kosmos 144 Krafft-Ebing, Richard von 305 Kreon 78, 79 Kruger, Diane 137 Kubrick, Stanley 5, 81, 171–3, 178, 179 La Scala (Milan) 10, 12, 14, 17, 18 labyrinth 44, 115, 116 LaCroix, Christian 238 Lactantius 167 Lady Macbeth 74, 119 Lafuente, Modesto 284 Lairesse, Gérald de 199 Landor, Walter Savage 61 Lang, Andrew 28 Langridge, Stephen 114, 118 Lanterna di Diogene, La (opera, Minato 1674) 162 Laocoön group (Sculpture) 266 Laodike 66 Last Oracle, The (poem, Swinburne 1876) 298 Layard, Austen Henry 10, 19

361

le Carré, John 225, 229, 239, 240 Le Sueur, Eustache 220, 222 legioni di Cleopatra, Le (film Cottafavi 1959) 195 Leigh, Vivien 192, 193 lekythos 98 Lenartowicz, Teofil 174, 181 Leo X (Pope) 262, 270 Leopold I 5, 155, 156, 161, 163, 165, 166 Lepidus 206 Lerna 112, 119 lesbianism/lesbian sex 235, 237 Lévi-Strauss, Claude 12, 119 Libation Bearers (Aeschylus) 75, 77 Liber Pontificalis eccl. Ravennatis (Agnellus) 254 Liber Pontificalis 254 librettist 5, 109, 110, 120, 155–7, 166, 237 libretto 10, 11, 12, 19, 109, 113, 118, 119, 155, 156, 158, 166, 238 Life and Times of Cleopatra, The (novel, Franzero 1957) 203 Life Magazine 204, 210 Life of Antony (Plutarch) 184, 186, 193, 197, 198, 207, 208, 210, 316, 322 Life of Augustus (Suetonius) 194 Life of Caesar (Plutarch) 186, 193, 197 Life of Claudius (Suetonius) 241 Life of Gaius Caligula (Suetonius) 211, 221, 241 Life of Nero (Suetonius) 240 Life of Theseus (Plutarch) 119 Life of Tiberius (Suetonius) 167 Ligorio, Pirro 273, 276, 278 Lion’s Gate (Mycenae) 40, 45 Lives of the Philosophers (Diogenes Laertius) 130 Livia Augusta 215 Livy 157–60, 164, 166, 167, 168, 284, 285, 290, 293 logos 122, 124, 126 Lombardi, I (opera, Verdi 1843) 16 Long, Edwin 29, 31 Lorenzetto (Lorenzo Lotti) 7, 263–5, 270, 273, 276, 278 Louis XIV 5, 161, 162, 165 Louvre, Musée du 9, 18, 44, 54, 301, 304, 317 love 5, 7, 11, 14, 16, 21–3, 26, 29, 58,

362 Index 61, 63–6, 70, 75, 76, 78, 80–2, 87, 98, 104, 110–12, 115–17, 123–5, 128, 130, 145–8, 150, 151, 155–60, 175–8, 184, 192, 197, 199–202, 204, 207, 209, 243–5, 249, 251–5, 257, 264, 272, 275, 283, 289, 296, 299, 301, 302, 305, 309, 313, 316, 318 loyalty 4, 14, 174, 200, 227, 283 Lozano, Isidoro 292 Lucan 183, 193, 284 Lucretia 7, 290, 312, 313, 314 Lukes, Steven 311, 314, 321, 322 luxury 7, 16, 17, 91, 166, 177, 183, 187, 190, 198, 199, 245, 246 Lydus, John 250, 251 Lysistrata (Aristophanes) 2, 74, 97, 104, 322 Macbeth (play, Shakespeare, 1603–7) 14, 74, 200, 241 MacDowell, Malcolm 216 Macedonians 26, 28, 30, 33, 204 Machiavelli 311, 314, 322 Maciste 179 Madrazo, Federico de 283, 286 Madrazo, José de 286, 289 Maenads 111 Magna Mater (Cybele) 157–60, 162–4, 167, 319 Makart, Hans 189 make-up (theatre) 103, 136 Malina, Judith 79 Mallarmé, Stéphane 37, 298, 308 Manara, Milo 255, 256, 262 Mankiewicz, Joseph Leo 192, 197, 200, 203–7, 209, 210 manliness/masculinity 22, 93, 296, 304, 306, 307 Mantegna, Andrea 280 Mantua 280 Marcantonio e Cleopatra (film, Guazzoni 1913) 190, 200, 202 Marco, Tomás 109 Marduix Puppet Company 85 Margaret Theresa of Spain 155 Mark Antony 6, 177, 182, 183, 186, 187, 191, 192, 195, 197–210, 313, 316, 319, 320

Marlowe, Christopher 137 Marqués, Francisco Domingo 287 Marx, Karl 55, 182 Marxist historiography 251 Mary Magdalene 188 Mask of Agamemnon 135 Mask of Orpheus, The (opera, Birtwistle 1973–84) 110, 112, 113, 119 masks (theatre) 4, 73, 95–8, 101, 103, 105, 111 Mattoli, Mario 195 Medea (Euripides) 78 Medea (film, Pasolini 1969) 144 Medea (opera, Reimann 2010) 109 Medea (play, Euripides, Out Off Milan 2008) 78 Medea 4, 78, 79, 313 Medusa 73, 83 Meeting of Anthony and Cleopatra, The (painting, Tiepolo 1746–7) 187, 199 Memnon 64 memoria 2, 226, 228, 241, 279 Menelaus 45, 51, 52, 57, 59, 60, 87, 135, 136 mépris, Le/Contempt (film, Godard 1963) 152 Mercury 269 mercy 202, 283 Merelli, Bartolomeo 15, 17 Mesopotamia 9–12, 17, 18 Messalina (comics, Giovannini 1966–74) 213, 254 Messalina (film, Gallone 1951) 171 Messalina 214, 227, 237, 254 Metamorphoses (Ovid) 110, 153, 300, 308, 309 metatheatre 95, 100, 106 Michelangelo Buonarrotti 266, 273, 274 Michiel, Marcantonio 268 Middle Ages/Medieval Art/Culture 58, 70, 156, 212, 221, 244, 263, 266, 273, 282, 284, 295 Middle East 21, 23, 33, 72 mime 111 Minato, Nicolò 5, 155, 157–66 Minoan art 42, 45, 49, 50, 317, 320 Minoan Crete/culture/civilization 3, 35, 37–40, 44, 48–53, 55, 73

Index Minotaur, The (opera, Birtwistle 2008) 4, 109, 110, 113–16, 118, 318 Minotaur 42, 44, 113, 114, 116, 119, 318 Minotauromachy (painting, Picasso 1935) 116 Mio figlio Nerone (film, Steno 1956) 235, 236, 238 Mirren, Helen 216 mise en scène 24, 27, 105, 110 modernism 37, 38, 50, 51 Monarchy 145, 162, 282, 283 Monophysite culture/Monophysitism 249, 250, 261 Monteverdi, Claudio 109, 119, 337 Montgomery, Robert 172 Moravia, Alberto 152 Moreau, Gustave 256 Morocco 144 Mosé in Egitto (opera, Rossini 1818) 12, 19 Mount Ida (Anatolia) 57, 59, 157, 159 Mourning Becomes Electra (play, O’Neill 1929–31) 61 Mucha, Alphonse 246 Muñoz Degrain, Antonio 292 Murena (comic series, Dufaux and Delaby 1997–) 81 Murray, Gilbert 298, 309 music 4, 12–19, 21–3, 27, 28, 37, 45, 51, 55, 75, 80, 81, 86, 91, 104, 109–13, 117, 119, 144–7, 156, 166, 207, 209, 226, 220, 237, 255, 302, 308 Mussolini, Benito 205, 213 My name is Nero (graphic novel, Yasuhiko 1998) 81 Mycenae 40, 45, 60, 62, 88, 91, 93, 135 Mycenaean art 40, 41, 54 Mycenaean culture/civilization 40, 72 Myrrhine 74, 104 Mysia 63 myth/mythology (classical, Greek) 1, 2, 3, 4, 8, 27, 33, 42, 49–51, 58, 59, 81, 82, 86, 87, 91, 92, 94, 95, 100, 106, 109–19, 133, 134, 144, 148, 153, 193, 263, 272, 284, 293, 298, 299, 303–5, 307 Nabucco (opera, Niccolini 1832) 12 Nabucco (opera, Verdi 1842) 3, 9–20, 208, 241, 242, 317

363

Nabucco 11, 12, 15–17, 20 Nabuccodonosor (ballet, Cortesi 1838) 10, 12 Nabuchodonosor (play, Anicet-Bourgeois and Cornue 1836) 10, 12 Nabucodonosor/Nebuchadnezzar II/ Nabu-kudurri-usur 3, 10, 11, 12, 19 naked body/nudity 8, 51, 53, 77, 186, 187, 194, 298, 303, 316, 320 Napoleon 12, 282, 287 Narcisse (ballet, music by Tcherepnin, Ballets Russes 1911) 38, 53 Narcissus 238, 241 Nascimbene, Mario 38, 53 Nascità di Minerva, La (opera, Minato 1674) 162 National Exhibition of Fine Arts (Spain) 283 national identity 173, 281 nationalism 3, 5, 7, 12, 14, 202, 244, 281, 287, 291 Natural History (Pliny) 209, 276 Navagero, Andrea 267 nave, La (play, D’Annunzio 1907) 248 Nebelspalter 213, 221 Nelly (Elli Sougioultzoglou-Seraidari) 53 Neo-Babylonian Empire 10 Neoclassicism (painting) 284 Nero 6, 83, 211, 212, 216, 217, 219–22, 226–8, 235, 236, 239–41, 282 Nestor, king of Pylos 64, 66, 135 New Testament 26 Niccolini, Giovani Battista 12, 242 Nicolai, Otto 10 Nietzsche, Friedrich 38–40, 48, 50, 52, 55, 109, 298, 304, 307–9 Nievo, Ippolito 174 Nijinsky, Vaslav 36, 37, 42, 44, 48, 50, 54, 55 Nile 264, 267 nineteenth century 6, 7, 9, 10, 16, 25, 30, 34, 38, 42, 48, 61, 70, 172–4, 186, 189, 193, 214, 221, 244, 257, 276, 281–3, 287, 288, 290–2, 295, 303–5, 308, 320 Nineveh 17, 19, 266 Norwid, Cyprian Kamil 174 Novelae (Justinian) 257

364 Index Numantia 7, 282–4, 287–9, 293 nymphs 30, 41–2, 44, 300 O’Neill, Eugene 61 O’Toole, Peter 216 Obsolescence of Oracles (Plutarch) 131 Octavia (Seneca the Younger) 240 Odissea (TV film, Rossi 1868) 134–9, 143, 144, 151 Odysseus/Ulysses 61–3, 135, 137–43, 145, 152, 153, 314 Odyssey (Homer) 5, 58, 60, 62, 73, 74, 76, 133–5, 137, 138, 140–2, 151–3 Oedipus at Colonus (Sophocles) 40 Oedipus at Colonus (translation of Sophocles, Merezhkovsky 1904) 40 Oedipus 79, 98 Oenone 58, 59 Old Testament 10, 11, 19 Olympian gods 49, 55, 298, 303 Olympians (comic series, O’Connor 2010) 81 On Exile (Plutarch) 131 On Isis and Osiris (Plutarch) 131 On Rhetoric (Aristotle) 314, 322 On Tranquility of Mind (Plutarch) 131 opera 2, 3, 4, 5, 9–20, 45, 48, 61, 75, 81, 109, 120, 147, 155–69, 219, 234, 235, 237, 239, 241, 242, 258, 259, 313, 318 Oracle 111, 113, 115, 116, 119, 157–9, 361 Orazi, Manuel 246, 259 Oresteia (Aeschylus) 74–6, 82, 92, 94 Oresteia (play, Aeschylus, Berlin Schaubühne 1980) 76 Orestes 75, 77 Orfeo, L’ (opera, Monteverdi 1607) 119 orgy/orgies 66, 177–9, 219, 236, 254, 261 Orient 23–6, 33, 50, 199 Orientalism/Western views of the East 3, 16, 21–31, 33, 193, 246, 247, 249, 251, 258, 259, 313, 317, 323 Orientalist painting 25, 31, 246, 247 Orosius 211 Orpheus 109–12, 116, 117–20, 148 Orthodox Church Church/Tradition 249, 250 Otto the Great/Otto I 161 Ottoman Empire 32

Ovid 8, 110, 153, 158–60, 163, 166–8, 298–300, 303, 304, 308, 309, 318 Özpetek, Ferzan 32 Paganism 245, 272 painting 2, 6, 7, 25, 26, 29, 30, 34, 37, 40, 70, 75, 110, 144, 175, 186–9, 194, 199–202, 209, 220, 222, 245, 259, 271, 279–93, 295, 313, 316, 317, 319 Palace of Minos (Knossos) 38, 52 Palamedes of Nauplia 62 Palau i Fabre, Josep 85 Palazzo Labia (Venice) 199 Pandarus 65, 66 Pantheon (Rome) 263, 267 Papas, Irene 137, 139, 143, 141 Parallel Lives (Plutarch) 284 Paris (city) 10, 12, 18, 25, 35, 37, 43, 45, 46, 48, 50, 55, 283, 285, 286, 301 Paris (Trojan) 4, 57–60, 65, 66, 70, 315, 319 Parisienne, La (Minoan fresco) 36, 37, 38, 50, 51, 52, 317, 319 ParthiaParthia/Parthians 184, 198, 199, 208 Pasiphae 114 Pasolini, Pier Paolo 144 passion 5, 6, 9, 11, 14, 25, 44, 88, 148, 179, 197–200, 202, 204, 207, 249, 297, 298 Pater, Walter 8, 52, 295–7, 300–3, 308, 309 patriotism 3, 13–16, 18, 174, 176, 279, 282, 286 Patroklus 63, 64, 65 Penelope 2, 5, 74, 76, 133, 134, 137–45, 151–3, 312 Penthesilea 65 Penthouse 214–16, 220 Peplos Kore (statue) 44 peplum (film genre) 5, 171, 177–81 Peranda, Francesco 271 Perdicas 22, 28 Pergamon 157–9 Peri, Jacopo 109, 116, 117 Perón, Evita 251 Peroni, Filippo 18, 20 Persephone 297, 308

Index Persia Persia/Persians 22, 24 Persians (Aeschylus) 76 persuasion 2, 212, 220, 236, 246, 255, 259, 307 Pertinax 219 perversión/perversity 2, 212, 220, 236, 246, 255, 259, 307 Pessinos 157, 158, 159 Petersen, Wolfgang 137 Phaedo (Plato) 131 Phaedra (opera, Henze 2007) 109 Phaedra (play, Racine 1677) 37 Phaedra 37, 45, 48, 50, 51, 104, 109 Phaedre (play, music by Pizzetti, Rubinstein 1923) 44–8 Pharsalia (Lucan) 193 Pharsalus (battle of) 198 Philhellenism 198, 202, 204, 208 Philip V of Macedon 158 Philippi (battle of) 198, 200, 202, 204, 206 Philobia 66 photography 42, 48, 53, 71, 75, 144, 180, 221, 279 photonovels 213, 214 phulakes 127, 128 Phyllis and Demophoon (painting, BurneJones 1870) 298, 299, 300 Phyllis 298, 299, 300 Piazza d’oro (Hadrian’s Villa, Tivoli) 267 Picasso, Pablo 116, 290 Pierotti, Piero 195 pietas 145, 146, 164 piety 164, 251, 283 Pigna, Giuseppe 246, 247 Pisistratus (son of Nestor) 135 Pittore e la Modella, Il (comic, Manara 2002) 256 Pius VII (Pope) 12, 142 Plato 105, 121, 128, 130, 131, 295, 305, 309, 314, 318, 322 Pleisthenes 58 Pliny the Elder 163, 168, 199, 209, 266, 276, 280 Plutarch 6, 7, 131, 157, 183, 184, 186, 197–200, 202–9, 284, 316, 322 Podestà, Rossana 137 Poems and Ballads, First Series (lyric work, Swinburne 1866) 301, 308 Poetics (Aristotle) 105, 107

365

poetry 7, 44, 85, 87, 98, 101, 118, 128–31, 133, 157, 291, 295–309 poikilos 297 poison 6, 78, 227, 228, 235, 236, 241, 289 Poland 173, 181 Polichinela 116, 117, 120 Polydeukes 59 Polyxena 65 Pontius Pilate 216 Ponzio Pilato (film, Callegari 1962) 216 pop culture 6, 23, 75, 80, 81, 172, 180, 201, 211–13, 219, 220, 223, 241 Poppaea 236 pornography 236, 261 Poseidon 50, 113, 114 Pottier, Edmond 37, 38, 50–2, 54 Poussin, Nicolas 274 power (ideology of) 94, 156, 165, 225 power (legitimacy of) 5, 7, 8, 11, 28, 32, 33, 161, 165, 171, 172, 174, 198, 203, 279, 281 power of arts 109–20, 275 power of seduction 2, 4, 18, 33, 38, 50, 51, 57–70, 111, 112, 180, 187, 192, 244, 256, 275, 295 power 1–8, 16, 18, 23, 32, 57–70, 73–83, 85–107, 109, 116, 117, 120, 127, 134, 145, 151, 152, 155, 156, 161, 165, 166, 174–80, 183, 184, 187, 192, 198, 200, 201, 207, 211–15, 217, 219, 221, 225–9, 240, 241, 243–5, 250, 251, 254, 256, 257, 279, 280, 283, 291, 295–7, 306, 311–22 Prado, Museo del 285, 286, 287 Praxagora 74, 97, 98, 100 Praxiteles 48, 55, 303, 308 Presley, Elvis 21, 22, 33 Priam 52, 58, 59, 64, 65 primitivism (art) 3, 38, 39, 44, 48–51, 55, 317, 320 Prince, The (Machiavelli) 314, 322 Private Life of Helen of Troy, The (film, Korda 1927) 137 Pro Caelio (Cicero) 168, 225 Procne 97 Procopius 7, 244, 245, 249–53, 255, 256, 258, 262, 277 Prometheus Bound (Aeschilus) 119 propaganda 155, 157

366 Index prosopon 96, 105 prostitute 244, 251, 255, 256, 261 Proust, Marcel 52 prudentia 164 Prussia 173 Psychro 113, 119 Ptolemies 198 Ptolemy XIII 185 pudicitia (chastity) 162, 168 pulp fiction novels 214, 215 Punch and Judy (opera, Birtwistle 1968) 117–20 puppet theatre 5, 85, 87, 91, 106, 110, 111, 116–18, 120, 153 Purcell, Henry 147 Purefoy, James 204, 210 purification (ritual) 112, 115 putti 267, 276, 277 Quidde, Ludwig 213, 220 Quintus Caecilius Metellus Celer 163 Quo Vadis? (film, Guazzoni 1912) 190 Quo Vadis? (film, LeRoy 1951) 152, 177 Quo Vadis? (TV film, Rossi 1985) 134 Racine, Jean 37, 61 Raphael (Raffaello Sanzio da Urbino) 7, 263–78, 280 Raub der Helena (painting, Primaticcio 1530–9) 70 Ravenna 243, 245, 247, 253, 254, 256, 261, 318 Reconquista 282 Recueil des Histoires de Troie (romance Lefèvre 1473–4) 70 Refutatio (Hippolytus) 131 Regina di Saba, La (film Francisci 1952) 171 Regnault, Jean-Baptiste 188, 293 Reimann, Aribert 109 religious painting 281 Renaissance art/culture 1, 2, 7, 199, 261, 263–78, 301, 303, 317 Reni, Guido 188, 187 Republic (Plato) 121, 131 reputation 6, 12, 140, 201, 225, 226, 228, 229, 232–4, 237, 239–41, 253, 319 rhetoric 173, 200, 225, 228, 229, 232, 234, 240, 248, 257, 314, 316

Revue de l’Art, La (magazine) 42 Reynolds, Sir Joshua 281, 290, 291, 293 Ribera y Fernández, Juan Antonio 284, 285, 289, 292 Rihm, Wolfgang 109 Risorgimento 3, 13, 14 ritual 50, 63, 94, 110–12, 115–20, 316 Rixens, Jean-André 189 Robe, The (film, Koster 1953) 216 Robe, The (novel, Douglas 1942) 214, 215, 216 Roberti, Roberto 257 Roma aeterna 163 Roma Città Aperta (film, Rossellini 1944) 177 Roman architecture 266 Roman art 2, 7, 263, 264, 267 Roman Empire, The (graphic novel, Sakamoto 2007) 160 Roman Empire 160 Roman imperialism 199 Roman Republic 5, 7, 160, 163, 164, 168, 172, 175, 183, 290, 312 Roman virtues 5, 146, 156, 164, 172, 175, 198, 202, 206, 283 Romanità 174, 176 romanticism (painting) 291 Rome (city) 7, 157–60, 162, 163, 165, 174, 175, 177, 179, 183, 186, 198, 206, 208, 219, 228, 236, 241, 248, 254, 263, 265–71, 273, 274, 283, 285–8 Rome (TV series, HBO 2005–7) 204 Rosales, Eduardo 289, 313 Rossetti, Dante Gabriel 306 Rossi, Franco 5, 133–53, 312, 319 Rossini, Gioachino 12, 14, 19 Rotunda of the Capitol (Washington D.C.) 280 Royal Academy of Arts (London) 281, 291, 297 Rubens, Peter Paul 194 Rubinstein, Ida 35, 40, 44, 45, 48, 50 Rumbau, Toni 120 Russell, Bertrand 311, 321, 322 Russia 55, 173 Rydberg, Viktor 274, 278 Sachs, Hanns 212 sacre du printemps, Le/Rite of Spring

Index (ballet, music Stravinsky, Ballets Russes 1913) 55 sacrifice 4, 60, 61, 62, 79, 85, 86–8, 93, 94, 110–12, 116, 128, 164, 175, 201, 275, 285–7, 297 Saguntum 7, 282, 287, 289 Said, Edward 3, 23, 24, 27, 33, 34 Saint Peter (Basilica, Rome) 269 Salmacis 300, 303, 304 Salome 16, 178 Salón de Anubis (opera, Amargós 2007) 120 San Sebastian (ballet, music Debussy, Rubinstein 1911) 44 San Vitale (church, Ravenna) 255 Sancta Sophia/Hagia Sophia (Conspantinople) 246 Sand, George 305 Sandman, The (comic series, Gaiman 1989–96) 81 Santa Maria del Popolo (Rome) 7, 263–7, 272–4 Santucci, Flora 249, 259 Sardou, Victorien 7, 189, 195, 244, 245, 249, 252, 257–9 Sartre, Jean-Paul 121, 129 satyr 37, 105, 267 Scheherazade (ballet, Ballet Russes 1910) 25, 53 Schiave di Caligola, Le/Flavia (film, Onorati 1985) 216 Schliemann, Heinrich 41, 49, 70, 135 School of Athens (painting, Raphael 1510–11) 280 Scipio Nasica, Publius Cornelius 5, 155, 157–160, 164 Scorel, Jan van 187 sculpture 2, 10, 19, 44, 75, 146, 175, 181, 184–6, 194, 266, 270, 271, 277, 296, 302, 306, 316 Second Punic War 4, 157, 158, 164, 167, 287 Second Triumvirate 201 seduction (erotic/sexual/love) 2, 4, 5, 8, 16, 23, 57, 58, 63, 65, 66, 68, 76–9, 83, 104, 115–17, 155, 156, 175, 177–80, 198, 200–2, 315, 318, 319 seduction (female/male) 2, 5, 6, 18, 50, 73, 74, 76–8, 177, 180, 198, 313, 315, 318

367

seduction as instrument of power 1, 120, 183, 320 seduction by power 4, 6, 62, 74, 213 seduction of beauty 59, 317 seduction of culture/arts 2, 3, 31, 199, 317, 320 seduction of place 2, 3, 16, 23, 31, 35–55, 317, 318 seduction of power 4, 8, 23, 57, 68, 311, 314 seduction of the past/of antiquity 4, 263, 275 seduction 1, 2, 4, 8, 33, 57, 59, 63, 65, 68, 75, 78, 85, 96, 97, 104, 106, 109, 112, 115, 171, 199, 220, 243, 279, 311, 315–18, 318, 321, 322 Sellaio, Leonardo 273 Semiramide (opera, Rossini 1823) 12 Sémiramis (play, Voltaire 1749) 12 Semiramis 10, 16 Seneca the Younger 221, 236, 240, 282, 283, 292 sensuality 16, 26, 33, 37, 55, 98, 104, 179, 180, 187, 189, 191, 192, 194, 219, 249, 253, 255, 256, 298, 307 serai/seraglio 25, 30, 31 Sertorius 284 Servilius Caepio 286 Servius 70, 145, 153 set-design (ballet/film/opera/theatre) 3, 18, 24, 45 seventeenth century 186–8, 220, 258, 280, 313 sex 2, 4, 6, 25–7, 30, 37, 50, 55, 57, 64–8, 74, 77, 78, 80, 83, 97, 98, 100, 103, 177–9, 212, 215–17, 220, 235, 237, 254–6, 261, 297, 298, 307, 314–16, 318–20 sex-symbol 183, 191 Sextus Tarquinius 290 sexuality 3, 6, 8, 20, 21, 28, 31, 37, 38, 48, 50, 51, 59, 60, 74, 77, 80, 82, 97, 104, 105, 138, 162, 179, 214, 228–30, 237, 240, 253, 254, 256, 257, 298, 300–7, 313, 316, 318, 320 Shakespeare, William 6, 7, 74, 189, 190, 197–209, 241, 305 Shanower, Eric 4, 57, 67, 69, 70, 81, 94, 292, 314, 322

368 Index Shaw, George Bernard 191, 192 Sheherazade (ballet, after a suite by Rimsky-Korsakov, Ballets Russes 1910) 44 Sheik, The (film Melford 1921) 26 Shelley, Percy Bysshe 302, 308, 309 Sibylline Books 157, 158, 159 Sidonius Apollinaris 167 Sikander 26 Silius Italicus 167 Silvae (Statius) 167 sin 3, 16, 187, 317 Sinigaglia, Serena 102, 103, 104 Sistine Chapel (Vatican) 266 sixteenth century 266 Skyros 63, 64 slavery (ancient) 11, 173, 174, 177, 255 slavery (modern) 172–5, 179, 312 snake 37, 49, 52, 82, 111, 186, 187, 194, 235, 300 Socrates 128, 130, 131, 314 Socrates reprimanding Alcibiades in the house of a courtesan (painting, Hernández Amores 1857) 293 Socrates Tears Alcibiades from the Embrace of Sensual Pleasure (painting, Regnault 1785) 293 Solera, Temistocle 10, 12 Solomon and Sheba (film, Vidor 1959) 27 Solomon, Simeon 8, 296–301, 303, 304, 306 Sophocles 40, 79, 83 Sparta 57, 135, 136, 295 Spartaco (novel, Giovagnoli 1874) 174, 175 Spartaco (play, Nievo 1856/57) 174 Spartaco, gladiatore della Tracia (film, Freda 1953) 5, 171, 172, 176–81 Spartaco, Poema Drammatico in tre Atti (play, Morano1924) 174 Spartacus (film, Kubrick 1960) 5, 171–3, 178–80 Spartacus (play, Carcano 1858) 174 Spartacus (play, Platania and Celega 1891) 174 Spartacus brisant ses chaines (statue, Foyatier 1827) 174 Spartacus to the Gladiators (play, Kellogg 1842) 172

Spartacus, il gladiatore della Tracia (film, Vidali 1913) 174 Spartacus 2, 5, 171–82, 251, 312, 316, 319 Stanza dell’Incendio (Vatican) 267, 272 Statius 167 Stone, Oliver 3, 20–4, 26, 27, 29–33, 313, 317 Storaro, Vittorio 144 Strauss, Richard 119 Strepponi, Giuseppina 17 subversive ideal/art 7, 297, 298, 301, 307 Suetonius 167, 194, 203, 211, 212, 215,221, 226, 227, 240, 241, 316 suicide 79, 80, 111, 187, 188, 198, 209, 217, 234, 238, 267, 292 Sunset Boulevard (film, Wilder 1950) 235, 238 supersexual beauty 301, 302 Surrender of Breda, The (painting, Velázquez 1634–35) 280 Swanson, Gloria 235, 238 Swinburne, Algernon Charles 8, 297–9, 301–3, 306–9 symbolism (art) 81, 106, 298, 304–6, 308, 309 Symonds, John Addington 8, 296, 297, 303–6, 308, 309 Symposium (Plato) 121, 128, 130, 305 Tacitus 157, 168, 226–9, 235, 236, 238, 240, 241 Taine, Hippolyte 295, 296, 307 Tarquinius Collatinus 290 Tarquinius Superbus 290 Tarsus 183, 191, 192, 199, 200, 202–4, 313 Taylor, Elizabeth 192, 193, 195, 204 Teatro marittimo (Hadrian’s villa) 267, 268, 276 Telamon 59 Telemachus 135, 136, 141, 142, 153 Television/TV series 5, 71, 75, 78, 82, 134, 137, 146, 151, 210, 216, 217, 219, 221, 293 Temple of Vesta (Rome) 158 Temple of Victory (Palatine hill, Rome) 157, 159 tenth century 161 Teodora (comic series, 1972–1973) 254 Teodora (film, Ambrosio 1913) 257

Index Teodora (film, Carlucci 1922) 244 Teodora (film, Roberti 1914) 257 Teodora (novel, Fiorentino 1886) 246, 247, 248 Teodora Imperatrice di Bisanzio (film, Freda 1954) 251, 257, 259 Teodora Imperatrice di Bisanzio (film, Pasquali 1909) 257 Terror Antiquus (painting, Bakst 1908) 40 Tess of the D’Urbervilles (novel, Hardy 1891) 239, 240 theatre 2, 4, 5, 35, 39, 71–6, 81, 85, 86, 93, 95, 102, 106, 109, 110, 116, 117, 120, 176, 177, 189, 243, 250, 255, 257 Thebes 144 Théodora (film, Pouctal 1912) 257 Theodora (play, Behram 1956) 250 Théodora (play, Sardou 1884) 244, 259 Theodora 2, 7, 73, 243–62, 313, 315, 316, 318, 319, 321 Theseus 59, 113–16, 314, 318 Thetis 63 Tiberius 168, 215, 216, 221, 227 Tiepolo, Giovanni Battista 186, 187, 199 Timaeus (Plato) 131, 153 Timaeus 145 Tiryns 45, 47 Titian (Tiziano Vecelli) 187, 313 Tôkyô Karigyura fujin/Lady Caligula in Tokyo (film, Ohara 1981) 121 tondi of Constantine’s Arch (Rome) 270 totalitarism (20th century) 179, 205, 210 Totó e Cleopatra (film, Cerchio 1963) 195 Tourjanski, Victor 195 Town Mosaic (Knossos) 40 Trafalgar (battle) 282 tragedy 12, 74, 92, 102, 109, 111, 115–20, 147, 148, 151, 181, 182, 240, 297, 298 Tragical History of Dr. Faustus, The (play, Marlowe 1604) 137, 152 Tragoedia (instrumental work, Birtwistle 1965) 110, 112 Trajan’s Baths (Rome) 269 Traumnovelle (play, Schnitzler 1926) 74 treachery 116, 258, 287 Treasury of Atreus/Tomb of Agamemnon (Mycenae) 135

369

Tree of Forgiveness, The (painting, BurneJones 1881) 299, 300 Triumph of Time (poem, Swinburne 1866) 298 Troilus and Criseyde (poem Chaucer 1380s) 70, 81 Troilus 64, 65, 66 Trojan War 4, 57–60, 63, 64, 68, 70, 75, 83 Trojan Women, The (film, Cacoyannis 1971) 137 Trojans 4, 27, 60, 62, 63, 65, 66, 145, 146, 150, 151 Troy (city) 137 Troy (film, Petersen 2004) 137 twentieth century 10, 18, 25, 35, 38, 48, 50, 51, 55, 102, 179, 180, 181, 189, 193, 202, 203, 205, 206, 213, 214, 237, 243, 244, 253, 279, 292, 298, 307, 317, 320 twenty-first century 1, 6, 109, 193, 220 Ubi defuit orbis Spartacus (poem, Norwid 1857) 174 Ulisse/Ulysses (film, Camerini 1954) 134 Ultima orgia del III Reich, L’/Caligula Reincarnated as Hitler (film, Canevari 1977) 221 Un bambino di nome Gesù/A Child Called Jesus (TV film, Rossi 1988) 134 Una regina per Cesare (film, Pierotti and Tourjanski 1962) 195 Urning 305 USA/United States 172, 173, 177, 180, 244, 281 Valerius Maximus 157–60, 166, 168, 293 vamp 190, 191, 202 Vangelis 26–8, 30 Vasari, Giorgio 265, 273, 276–8 vase paintings 276 Vatican 185, 221, 226, 266, 267, 269, 277 Velázquez, Diego 194, 280 Venice 237, 245, 246 Venus at her mirror (painting, Velázquez c. 1644–8) 194 Venus at the mirror (painting, Rubens 1615) 194 Vera, Alejo 288 Verdi, Giuseppe 3, 9, 10, 12–16, 18, 20

370 Index Vestals 157, 158, 160, 162, 163, 168, 313 viaje circular, El (opera, Marco 2002) 109 Victorian Age 7, 201, 295, 297, 304, 307, 308, 320 vida íntima de Marco Antonio y Cleopatra, La (film, Gavaldón 1946) 195 Vidal, Gore 215, 216, 236 Vienna (city/court) 5, 155, 156, 161–5, 313 Vienna aeterna 163 Villa Farnesina (Rome) 265, 269, 274 violence 4, 25, 37, 50, 51, 55, 59, 74, 78, 83, 89, 90, 93, 110, 113, 116, 117–20, 144, 176–8, 206, 215, 220, 236, 237, 314, 315, 320, 322 vir optimus 159 Virgil 5, 134, 143–8, 150, 151, 153, 157 Viriathus 7, 283, 284, 286, 287, 293 Visigotic kingdom 282, 292 Vitellius 219 Viva Caligula (board game, Adult Swim Games) 219, 220, 222 Voltaire, François-Marie Arouet de 12, 279

Warhol, Andy 263, 275 Washington crossing the Delaware (painting, Leutze 1851) 281 Wealth (Aristophanes) 105 Weber, Max 311, 312, 321 Welles, Orson 81, 205, 210 West, Benjamin 281, 290, 291, 293 West/Western culture/tradition/values 3, 18, 21, 23–6, 31, 33, 87, 92, 93, 111, 144, 147, 180, 202, 203, 250, 251, 284, 297, 317, 318 Wiener Secession 246 Wilhelm II 213, 220, 221 William Blake (critical essay, Swinburne 1868) 298, 308 Winckelmann, Johann Joachim 269, 277, 300 Wise, Robert 137 Witch of Atlas, The (poem, Shelley 1824) 302, 308, 309 Works and Days (Hesiod) 128 World War I 50, 55, 213 World War II 17, 171, 177, 178, 212, 222, 250

Wagner, Richard 109, 110, 113 Waiting for Godot (play, Beckett 1948–9) 279 Wamba rejecting the Crown (painting, Ribera y Fernández, ca. 1819) 292 War of Independence (American) 172, 173 War of Independence (Spain) 281, 282, 285

Xena Warrior Princess (TV series 1995–2001) 82, 217, 222 xenia 146 Zaccaria (Nabucco) 10, 12, 17, 19 Zeitbilder 214 Zeitgeist 7, 49, 212, 244, 289 Zeus 19, 99, 111, 119, 128 Zinovieff, Peter 110