The Spectre of Tradition and the Aesthetic-Political Movement of Theatre and Performance 1032146958, 9781032146959

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The Spectre of Tradition and the Aesthetic-Political Movement of Theatre and Performance

This book interrogates anew the phenomenon of tradition in a dialogical debate with a host of Western thinkers and critical minds. In contrast to the predominantly Western approaches, which look at traditions (Western and non-Western) from a predominantly (Western) modernist perspec­ tive, this book interrogates, from an intercultural perspective, the transnational and transcultural consecration, translation, (re)invention, and displacement of traditions (theatrical and cultural) in the aesthetic-political movement of twentieth-century theatre and performance, as exemplified in the case studies of this book. It looks at the question of traditions and modernities at the centre of this aesthetic-political space, as modernities interculturally evoke and are haunted by traditions, and as traditions are interculturally refracted, reconstituted, refunctioned, and reinvented. It also looks at the applicability of its intercultural perspective on tradition to the historical avant-garde in general, postmodern, postcolonial, and postdramatic theatre and performance and to the twentieth-century “classical” intercultural theatre and the twenty-first-century “new interculturalisms” in theatre and per­ formance. To conclude, it looks at the future of tradition in the ecology of our globalized theatrum mundi and considers two important interrelated concepts, future tradition and intercultural tradition. This book will be of great interest to students and scholars in performance studies. Min Tian has taught as an Associate Professor at the China Central Academy of Drama and currently works at the University of Iowa, USA.

Routledge Advances in Theatre & Performance Studies

This series is our home for cutting-edge, upper-level scholarly studies and edited collections. Considering theatre and performance alongside topics such as religion, politics, gender, race, ecology, and the avant-garde, titles are characterized by dynamic interventions into established subjects and innovative studies on emerging topics. Entangled Performance Histories New Approaches to Theater Historiography Erika Fischer-Lichte, Małgorzata Sugiera, Torsten Jost and Holger Hartung with Omid Soltani Rechoreographing Learning Dance As a Way to Bridge the Mind-Body Divide in Education Sandra Cerny Minton Politics as Public Art The Aesthetics of Political Organizing and Social Movements Martin Zebracki and Zane McNeill Lessons for Today from Shakespeare’s Classroom The Learning Benefits of Drama and Rhetoric in Schools Robin Lithgow Notelets of Filth An Emilia Companion Reader Laura Kressly, Aida Patient, and Kimberly A. Williams Transcultural Theater Günther Heeg For more information about this series, please visit: https://www.routledge. com/Routledge-Advances-in-Theatre–Performance-Studies/book-series/RATPS

The Spectre of Tradition and the Aesthetic-Political Movement of Theatre and Performance An Intercultural Perspective

Min Tian

First published 2023 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2023 Min Tian The right of Min Tian to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN: 978-1-032-14695-9 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-032-14696-6 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-24058-7 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003240587 Typeset in Bembo by Taylor & Francis Books

Contents

1 2

3 4 5 6

Acknowledgements

vi

Introduction

1

The Legitimation of Tradition and the Construction of an Intercultural Myth: Mei Lanfang Remembers Stanislavsky

22

The Refraction of Tradition: Meyerhold’s and Stanislavsky’s Approaches to Pushkin and Meyerhold’s Pushkinization of Mei Lanfang’s Art

52

The Consecration of Tradition: Eisenstein’s Approach to Chinese Theatre and Culture

94

The Uncanny Quotability of Tradition: Walter Benjamin’s Interest in Chinese Cultural Traditions

136

The Fabrication of Tradition: Lady Precious Stream, a Chinese Chinoiserie Anglicized on Modern British Stage

174

The Reification of Tradition: Meyerhold’s Influence on Twentieth-Century Japanese and Chinese Theatres

202

Conclusion: Future Tradition and Intercultural Tradition

239

Bibliography Index

257 279

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank the anonymous readers of Routledge for their comments on my manuscript. Particularly I want to express my gratitude to my editor Laura Hussey, senior editorial assistant Swati Hindwan, senior production editor Adam Guppy, and copyeditor Andrew Bate for their enthusiastic support and guidance throughout the publishing process. Chapters 1 and 5 are revisions of my articles previously published, respectively, in Theatre Research International (vol. 45, no. 3, 2020) and Comparative Drama (vol. 51, no. 2, 2017). I want to thank the editors and publishers of the two journals for their permission to use my work in this book. Translations into English are all mine if not noted otherwise.

Ghost: “Remember me.” William Shakespeare, Hamlet The main point here is this: the ghost of Hamlet’s father, who is capable of feeling cold and of loving, breathes heavily from fatigue and embraces gently. The ghost of Hamlet’s father can respond with a smile to the gesture of his son, who has covered him with his cloak. The ghost of Hamlet’s father, on whose (ghost) cheek freezes a tear of tenderness. V. E. Meyerhold Shakespeare has made them [the ghosts] the centre of his vast dreams, and the central point of a dream, as of a circular geometrical figure, controls and conditions every hair’s breadth of the circumference. V. E. Meyerhold quoting Edward Gordon Craig on the ghosts in the tragedies of Shakespeare

Introduction

In his seminal book on “tradition,” Edward Shils has defined the meaning of “tra­ dition” thus: “Tradition means many things. In its barest, most elementary sense, it means simply a traditum; it is anything which is transmitted or handed down from the past to the present” (Shils 1981, 12). In its basic sense, Shils’s definition also applies to my study. Shils devotes short sections of his book to art and literary tra­ ditions but has nothing to say about theatrical and performance traditions (74–76, 140–161). My study covers both theatrical and performance traditions and different underlying and intertwining cultural, artistic, and aesthetic traditions. At the very beginning of his book, Shils states that his work is “evidence of the need for tradi­ tion” (vii) or the need to preserve what he calls “substantive traditions” (324, 329) or “substantive traditionality” as “an intrinsic value” to traditions (328–330). In contrast, at the dawn of the twenty-first century, in their edited collection, which makes no reference to Shils’s book, Mark Phillips and Gordon Schochet focus not on the preservation of “substantive” or “true” traditions, but on the deconstruction of “invented” traditions. Approaching the “questions of tradi­ tion,” Phillips and Schochet have this to say about the impact of what they call “ideological inflections” or “the prominence of this ideological usage” of tra­ dition on (Western) academic understandings and discussions of tradition: For academic analysis, it seems fair to say, the consequence has been the effective loss of ‘tradition’ as a central term—though hardly as a central problem—in the vocabulary of the human sciences. And this loss has been confirmed rather than remedied by the important and influential work of Hobsbawm and Ranger on The Invention of Tradition (1983). For two decades, in fact, it has seemed extraordinarily difficult to think about the idea of tradi­ tion except in the deconstructive framework of pseudo-traditionality. Mean­ while tradition in its wider sense has remained undervalued, underutilized, and certainly undertheorized. (Phillips and Schochet, x. Emphasis in original) Here the reference to Eric Hobsbawm’s and Terrence Ranger’s work, The Invention of Tradition, is significant, as Phillips asks this pointed question on the idea of “invented tradition”: “What is tradition when it is not ‘invented’?” DOI: 10.4324/9781003240587-1

2

Introduction

(Phillips 2004, 3). To answer the question, Phillips “criticizes the recent dom­ inance of ironic and demystifying understandings of tradition, arguing that the very idea of ‘invented tradition’ makes little sense without a prior conception of ‘tradition’ as such” (Phillips and Schochet 2004, xi). Given Phillips’s argu­ ment, I want to add that the very necessity of inventing tradition testifies to the uncanny spell that tradition, or the very idea of tradition, casts in continuum on the imaginations and aspirations of new generations. The seminal thesis argued by Hobsbawm has often been misconstrued to be an approach to all traditions as invented, contrary to Hobsbawm’s differentiation of established traditions and invented traditions: “‘Traditions’ which appear or claim to be old are often quite recent in origin and sometimes invented” (Hobsbawm 1983, 1. My emphasis). According to Hobsbawm, “the strength and adaptability of genuine traditions is not to be confused with the ‘invention of tradition’. Where the old ways are alive, traditions need be neither revived nor invented” (8). Nevertheless, Phillips argues for an alternative to the overriding idea of “invented tradition”: Even so, it seems reasonable to suppose that one effect will be to dissolve the simple binary of tradition and modernity which for so long has dis­ tracted those who have tried to come to grips with this concept and which still underwrites the presumed ironies of ‘invented tradition.’ Once this false opposition is set aside and the problem of tradition ceases to be defined as a resistance to modernity, tradition becomes again a means of raising essential questions about the ways in which we pass on the life of cultures—questions that necessarily include issues of authority as well as invention, practice as well as interpretation. (Phillips 2004, 25) Phillips’s overall observation granted, it is important, in my view, to underscore the historical fact that tradition was hardly defined wholesale, even by moder­ nists, as universally resistant to modernity; on the contrary, modernists had consistently and consciously invoked the spectral ancestries or genealogies of their respective traditions to define, invent, and legitimate their respective modernities. Historically, this is true with different forms of modernities and with different modernist schools and movements. One of these modernists is T. S. Eliot. Paradoxically, Eliot can be justifiably called a traditionalist modernist or even a modernist traditionalist, who regards tradition not as a resistance or threat to modernity and modernity not as a break with tradition or a rupture between the past and the present, and who sees, instead, a conformity between the past and the present. Eliot stresses the pri­ mary importance of what he calls “the historical sense” in our conception of tradition and its significance: The historical sense involves a perception, not only of the pastness of the past, but of its presence; the historical sense compels a man to write not merely with his own generation in his bones, but with a feeling that the

Introduction

3

whole of the literature of Europe from Homer and within it the whole of the literature of his own country has a simultaneous existence and com­ poses a simultaneous order. This historical sense, which is a sense of the timeless as well as of the temporal and of the timeless and of the temporal together, is what makes a writer traditional. And it is at the same time what makes a writer most acutely conscious of his place in time, of his contemporaneity. (Eliot 1920, 44) Eliot insists on what he calls “a principle of aesthetic, not merely historical, criticism,” which defines the significance of a poet or an artist in accordance with his relation to the past: No poet, no artist of any art, has his complete meaning alone. His sig­ nificance, his appreciation is the appreciation of his relation to the dead poets and artists. You cannot value him alone; you must set him, for contrast and comparison, among the dead. (44) He further underscores the necessity of the “conformity between the old and the new” in the historical order of literature and the arts: “Whoever has approved this idea of order, of the form of European, of English literature, will not find it preposterous that the past should be altered by the present as much as the present is directed by the past” (45). This modernist cult of the spectre of the past, or of its haunting effect on the modernist movements, has not escaped the critical attention of some of our contemporary critics. For instance, according to James Longenbach, “For both these poets [Eliot and Ezra Pound] the present is nothing more than the sum of the entire past—a palimpsest, a complex tissue of historical remnants” (Longenbach 1987, 11). Longenbach argues that “The Cantos and The Waste Land display a present that is woven from the past in a complex tissue of allusions, a past that exists only as it lives in the texture of the present” (28). For John Michael, Pound’s slogan “make it new”1 should not be interpreted as “the negation of tradition,” but as a reflection of “the profoundly anxious engagement with and desire to recuperate traditions that motivated modernists and especially the poetic and cul­ tural theories of Pound and Eliot” (Michael 1992, 50). Looking at “how the idea of tradition has become an essential ingredient in modernity” (Prickett 2009, 13), Stephen Prickett thus observes on Eliot’s “famous dicta on tradition” (210) in his essay “Tradition and the Individual Talent”: The remarkable thing is … that by allowing the present to reinterpret the past, he points openly to the process by which tradition, whether literary, theological, or even historical, is constantly at work, re-fashioning and re­ creating our understanding of the world in which we find ourselves. (225)

4

Introduction

In Modernity at Large, although acknowledging that “all major social forces have precursors, precedents, analogs, and sources in the past,” Arjun Appadurai argues that “it is these deep and multiple genealogies that have frustrated the aspirations of modernizers in very different societies to synchronize their historical watches” (Appadurai 1996, 2). And as such Appadurai argues for “a general rup­ ture in the tenor of intersocietal relations in the past few decades” (2), marked by the globalization of mass electronic mediation and mass migration, even as he tries to differentiate his theory of such a break or rupture (9) from “some earlier theories of radical transformation” that stress the primacy of the break or rupture between the past and the present and between tradition and modernity, a view that he argues “has been shown repeatedly to distort the meanings of change and the politics of pastness” (2–3). In the context of my study, however, it is significant to note that citing Phillip Zarrilli, Appadurai considers the “transnational movement” of martial arts “a rich illustration of the ways in which long-standing martial arts traditions” are “reformulated” and “create new cultures of masculinity and vio­ lence, which are in turn the fuel for increased violence in national and interna­ tional politics” (40–41). Here, Appadurai refers to Zarrilli’s study of the Indian martial art, kalarippayattu. In his study, Zarrilli underscores kalarippayattu’s “long history of being adapted for practice and presentation in a variety of contexts,” from the training of the kathakali dance-drama performer to Zarrilli’s own use of it in training American actors, even as the tradition of martial arts has been subject to (intercultural) decontextualization, recontextualization, revisioning, and reinven­ tion (Zarrilli 1995, 184).2 More importantly, Zarrilli uses martial arts, particularly kalarippayattu, as “the source traditions” in his “intercultural approach” to psycho­ physical acting (Zarrilli 2009, 63–80; Zarrilli et al. 2013, 30–42). Thus, contrary to Appadurai’s thesis of “a general rupture,” martial arts as an artistic and cultural tradition continues to perform its artistic and (inter)cultural functions and to inspire the imaginations or fantasies of new generations. Exposing “the shortcomings of the notion of modernity” (Rancière 2004, 20), Jacques Rancière speaks of what he calls “the newness of the tradition”: “Those who exalt or denounce the ‘tradition of the new’ actually forget that this tradition has as its strict complement the newness of the tradition” (Rancière 2004, 25). Rancière associates the construction of “the newness” of tradition with the reuse, recycling, reinvention, reinterpretation, and reappropriation of the ancient forms or the works of the past, the plays of the Greek dramatists, for instance (Rancière 2012, 289–290). He questions “the idea of modernity,” because “it tries to retain the forms of rupture, the iconoclastic gestures, etc., by separating them from the context that allows for their existence: history, interpretation, patrimony” (Rancière 2004, 25–26). Furthermore, he questions the very idea of rupture, arguing that it is important to note that “precisely the most radical statements of rupture with the past are combined by forms of artistic practice that were in fact practices of reinterpre­ tation and the reuse of existing forms” (Rancière 2012, 290). In her Planetary Modernisms that asks for “a fundamental rethinking of modernity,” Susan Stanford Friedman thus writes about modernity’s relation to tradition:

Introduction

5

Where tradition signals the unfolding of the future within the continuous pathways of the past, modernity calls for perpetual subversion of the past as the precondition of the future. Relationally speaking, modernity is the insistence upon the Now—the present and its future as resistance to the past, especially the immediate past. It establishes a cult of the new that constructs retrospectively a sense of tradition from which it declares independence. Paradoxically, such a tradition—or, the awareness of it as ‘tradition’—might come into existence only at the moment of rebellion against it. (Friedman 2015, 33–34) Furthermore, in Friedman’s view, “modernity’s relational structure is a tem­ poral narrative that invents the ‘before’ as ‘tradition,’” hence Friedman’s argu­ ment that “Tradition is itself a construct of modernity, coming into being at the moment of its loss, a process both celebrated and lamented” (56) or that “Modernity invents tradition, suppresses its own continuities with the past, and often produces nostalgia for what has seemingly been lost” (156). As Friedman states powerfully, beginning with “the ethical imperative to get outside a purely Western framework to rethink the modernities of the past,” Planetary Modern­ isms “resists the presentism of our Now to bring the planetary perspectives of world history, of literature, of the arts, of the knowledge produced in the humanities to bear on the meanings of modernity for our future” (16). Given Friedman’s argument for a planetary perspective of the plurality of modernity, I want to add that as we affirm the plurality of modernity, it is necessary to underline the plurality and multiplicity of tradition. At the same time, as we stress modernity’s invention of traditions, there is also the need to underscore the existence of genuine traditions. As I have indicated above, dif­ ferent modernities constantly invoked and enlisted the past in their assertion and legitimation of their identities of being modern. Indeed, “modernism requires tradition to ‘make it new,’” as Friedman argues (Friedman 2015, 45). However, I want to argue that, even for modernism, tradition comes into being as it is summoned or conjured up, but not “only as it is rebelled against,” as Friedman asserts (45). Thus, modernity does not necessitate or essentialize its resistance to the past or its “perpetual subversion” of the past. More impor­ tantly, modernism, in its coming into being, cannot escape the haunting of the pre-existing presence of the spectre of tradition; modernity is “a cult of the new” and, at the same time, it is a cult of the old, as it seeks, in the old, support and legitimation for its coming into being. Here a salient example, as I demonstrate in Chapter 2, is Vsevolod Meyerhold’s cult of the tradition of cabotinage and of the tradition of conventional theatre in his formalist (mod­ ernist) struggles against the tradition of naturalism. As Friedman’s focus is on her rethinking of “the modernities of the past” (Friedman 2015, 16), naturally Friedman looks at the past from the perspectives of modernism or “planetary modernisms” and speaks more of modernism’s invention of tradition and of tradition as the construct by modernism. Thus, in

6

Introduction

my view, her arguments remain haunted by the ghosts of modernist discourses that she argues eloquently to bury, as she is not rethinking of the past (ghosts/ spectres) of modernisms, or of the traditions or traditionalities (except as inventions or constructs) of the Now or of her “planetary” modernisms and modernities. It is worth noting, however, that elsewhere, Friedman speaks of “the past in the present” and of the “recyclings” of the past in contemporary revolutions, citing particularly Bruno Latour’s words in We Have Never Been Modern as an epigraph: “The past is not surpassed but revisited, repeated, sur­ rounded, protected, recombined, reinterpreted and reshuffled” (Latour 1993, 75; quoted in Friedman 2019a, 3).3 Latour’s thesis (sometimes self-contra­ dictory) as a whole may not entirely conform to Friedman’s argument, as Latour claims that while we have never been modern, we are not traditional, either (Latour 1993, 75). While Latour’s ahistorical approach (“We have never moved either forward or backward”) must be called into question, there is, paradoxically, certain truth in his argument that “one chooses to become tra­ ditional by constant innovation” (76). It is true in the sense that tradition is not innate, immanent, or immobile, but is continuously renewed and reinvented with innovation. For me, while we can speak rightfully of the truth of the becoming of tradition, it is equally rightful to assert the truth—of the becoming of the modern—that one chooses to become modern (innovative) by constant turn or move to tradition and to the traditional. Tradition, or rather “continuous tradition,” figures prominently in Jürgen Habermas’s concept of history. Habermas thus speaks of the present being preserved as “the locus of continuing tradition and innovation at once” in the historical interconnection, interconditioning, and interdependence of the past, the present, and the future: The horizon open to the future, which is determined by expectations in the present, guides our access to the past. Inasmuch as we appropriate past experiences with an orientation to the future, the authentic present is preserved as the locus of continuing tradition and innovation at once; the one is not possible without the other, and both merge into the objectivity proper to a context of effective history. (Habermas 1987, 13) Underlining what he calls “the chain of a continual destiny” by which “the future-oriented gaze is directed from the present into a past that is connected as prehistory with our present,” Habermas identifies “two moments” that are constitutive for this consciousness: on the one hand, the effectivehistorical bond of a continuous happening of tradition in which even the revolutionary deed is embedded; on the other, the dominance of the horizon of expectation over a potential of historical experiences to be appropriated. (13–14)

Introduction

7

It is Jean-Michel Rabaté who has conducted, in his The Ghosts of Modernity, a significant and sustained exploration into the ineluctable spectral relationship of some of the seminal figures of Western modernity to the historical and indivi­ dual past of European modernism. “The main point I would like to make,” Rabaté states, “is that they [Pound and Eliot] help us understand how mod­ ernism is systematically ‘haunted’ by voices from the past and how this shows in an exemplary way the ineluctability of spectral returns” (Rabaté 1996, xvi).4 Through his examination of such original and influential writers of European modernism as James Joyce, Roland Barthes, Stéphane Mallarmé, André Breton, and Samuel Beckett, Rabaté attempts to map the dim contours of a haunted modernity revisited by “spectrographic” ana­ lysis, a modernity that is by definition never contemporaneous with itself, since it constantly projects, anticipates, and returns to mythical origins, but that also teaches us more about the “present,” which it historicizes. (3) Rabaté’s textual approach, while focusing on the spectral relationship of Wes­ tern modernity to the past, like Eliot’s aesthetic (poetic) approach, Habermas’s philosophical approach, or Friedman’s historical approach, does not deal with the political aspect of modernity’s consecration and displacement of tradition. In contrast, the critical insights by Karl Marx, Walter Benjamin, Theodor Adorno, Jacques Derrida, and Bertolt Brecht reveal the political aspect of modernity’s revolutionary praxis and its historical relationship to tradition. Thus, while noting the inexorable historical conditions under which new generations make their own historical epochs and thereby the necessity of the new generations to conjure up the spirits of the past, Marx underscores the political and ideological significance and difference of the new epoch’s revolu­ tionary invocation and displacement of traditions of the dead generations: Men make their own history, but they do not make it just as they please; they do not make it under circumstances chosen by themselves, but under circumstances directly encountered, given and transmitted from the past. The tradition of all the dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brain of the living. And just when they seem engaged in revolutionizing themselves and things, in creating something that has never yet existed, precisely in such periods of revolutionary crisis they anxiously conjure up the spirits of the past to their service and borrow from them names, battle cries and costumes in order to present the new scene of world history in this time-honoured disguise and this borrowed language. (Marx 1963, 15) Marx draws his insights from the French Revolution and portrays the consecration of tradition in plain theatrical terms and images: the French revolutionaries staged their historic scenes with art forms, costumes, language, and tragic passion

8

Introduction

borrowed from the classical traditions of the Roman Republic. As in the case of the French Revolution, the conjuring up of the past and tradition are conditioned by the different historical and political needs of new generations to perform “the task of their time,” as Marx asserts: “Consideration of this conjuring up of the dead of world history reveals at once a salient difference” (16). Marx notes further that the awakening of the dead in those revolutions served the purpose of glorifying the new struggles, not of parodying the old; of magnifying the given task in imagination, not of fleeing from its solution in reality; of finding once more the spirit of revolution, not of making its ghost walk about again. (17) Marx’s observation applies to all revolutions, bourgeois, proletarian, socialist, or communist, which, unable to escape the haunting of the ghostly past, all use the past to glorify their new struggles, to magnify their task in imagination, and to rediscover or inspire the spirit of revolution, even though they do not aim to imitate or simulate the old or to make the ghostly past walk about again. The spectre of tradition haunts Walter Benjamin’s concept of history. For Benjamin, tradition, like history, however faithfully observed, is not a homo­ genous accumulation and transmission of the past; it is charged with “now-time” and, like history, its destruction and reconstitution represent “the dialectical leap [into the past] Marx understood as revolution”: History is the subject of a construction whose locus is constituted not by homogeneous and empty time, but by that filled by now-time ( Jetztzeit). Thus, for Robespierre, ancient Rome was one of them. A past charged with now-time, which he blasted out of the continuum of history. The French Revolution viewed itself as Rome reincarnate. It quoted ancient Rome exactly the way fashion quotes a costume of the past. Fashion has the scent for the current, wherever it moves in the thickets of long past time; it is the tiger’s leap into the past. (Benjamin 1972–1989, 1:701) For Benjamin, history is written and read like a text, as it obeys the same mechanism—destruction (decontextualization) and redemption (recontextua­ lization)—underlying the concept, and the art, of quotation, and the now-time quotation of history consists of interruptions, destructions, and reconstitutions of history: The events that surround the historian and in which he takes part will underlie his presentation like a text written in invisible ink. The history that he presents to the reader will comprise, as it were, images of the quotations in the text, and it is only these quotations that are present in a manner legible to anyone and everyone. To write history therefore means

Introduction

9

to quote history. It resides, however, in the concept of quotation that the respective historical object is ripped out of its context. (Benjamin 1972–1989, 5:595. Emphasis in original) As suggested by Marx, the revolutionary act of making history is haunted by the tradition of past generations. As Benjamin suggests of the writing of history, tradition is also constituted like a text, and its transmission, reiteration, and repetition obey the same mechanism of destruction and reconstitution that resides in the concept of quotation. In the context of my study, I find that this is especially true with the process of intercultural transmission and translation of tradition: to transmit and translate tradition is to quote tradition, which entails the decontextualization and reconstitution of traditional ideas, symbols, and practices. This process of decontextualization and reconstitution is never purely aesthetic and artistic but is inevitably and inherently complicated politically and ideologically. In the context of my study, it is also particularly interesting to note Benja­ min’s argument that, with the advancement of modern technology, especially the technology of reproduction, there is the inevitable danger that threatens the authenticity, or the “aura,” of tradition and its very survival: It might be stated as a general formula that the technology of reproduction detaches the reproduced object from the sphere of tradition. By replicating the work many times over, it substitutes a mass existence for a unique existence. And in permitting the reproduction to reach the recipient in his or her own situation, it actualizes that which is reproduced. These two processes lead to a massive upheaval in the domain of objects handed down from the past—a shattering of tradition which is the reverse side of the present crisis and renewal of humanity. (Benjamin 2008, 22. Emphases in original) One of these advancements of modern technology is the invention of film, which Benjamin argues would lead to a “liquidation” of cultural traditions: Both processes are intimately related to the mass movements of our day. Their most powerful agent is film. The social significance of film, even— and especially—in its most positive form, is inconceivable without its destructive, cathartic side: the liquidation of the value of tradition in the cultural heritage. (22) In this regard, Benjamin is at odds with the noted French film director Abel Gance, who, according to Benjamin, “fervently proclaimed”: “Shakespeare, Rembrandt, Beethoven will make films…. All legends, all mythologies, and all myths, all the founders of religions, indeed, all religions, … await their celluloid resurrection, and the heroes are pressing at the gates” (quoted in Benjamin 2008, 22). Benjamin argues that Gance “was inviting the reader, no doubt

10 Introduction unawares, to witness a comprehensive liquidation” (22). Furthermore, accord­ ing to Benjamin, “as soon as the criterion of authenticity ceases to be applied to artistic production, the whole social function of art is revolutionized. Instead of being founded on ritual, it is based on a different practice: politics” (25. Emphases in original). Here, Benjamin reveals the social and political function and use of art. But, in my view, while the advancement of technology revolutionizes the function and use of art, the value of artistic tradition is not liquidated and the tradition itself is not shattered but is rather displaced and resurrected, as it is reinvented, even though its authenticity or “aura” is diluted or even distorted. To prove his view of film’s inherent lack of artistic quality and value, Ben­ jamin opposes the art of film to Greek art: “For film has given crucial impor­ tance to a quality of the artwork which would have been the last to find approval among the Greeks, or which they would have dismissed as marginal” (Benjamin 2008, 28). Thus, according to Benjamin, because of its “artistic character” entirely determined by “its reproducibility” and because of “its capacity for improvement” determined by the process of its creation (from assembling and choice of images to the final cut), “the film is therefore the artwork most capable of improvement. And this capability is linked to its radical renunciation of eternal value” (28. Emphases in original). Here, Benjamin’s view would have been rejected by Sergei Eisenstein. As I will expound in Chapter 3, for Eisen­ stein, the finished artwork of film (with its revolutionary aesthetics, the method of montage or assemblage) represents the pinnacle of all arts and thus reigns supreme in its capability of preserving (or reproducing) and perpetuating the value of art and artistic tradition. Arguing against “the obtuse and hyperbolic character of early film theory,” Benjamin again singles out Gance for his comparison of film to hieroglyphs: By a remarkable regression, we are transported back to the expressive level of the Egyptians…. Pictorial language has not matured, because our eyes are not yet adapted to it. There is not yet enough respect, not enough cult, for what it expresses (quoted in Benjamin 2008, 29. Emphasis in original). Benjamin perceives what he calls “a striking lack of discretion” on the part of such film theoreticians as Gance, whose “desire to annex film to ‘art’” impels them “to attribute elements of cult to film” (29). Contrary to Benjamin’s per­ ception, however, Gance’s observation offers an uncanny insight into the “hyperbolic character” of the method or theory that Eisenstein had the auda­ city to develop in order to advance and elevate the film’s technology of mechanical reproduction to the greatest and highest form of art (in Eisenstein’s eye), not just in quantity (Benjamin’s reproducibility) but in quality, by way of a dialectical regression into the ancient “cult” for the expressive language of hieroglyphs, Egyptian, Chinese, or Japanese. Philippe Simay has argued that Benjamin rejects the “substantialist” concep­ tion of tradition:

Introduction

11

For him, not only is tradition not a thing, but the elements which com­ pose the tradition are not a priori traditional. They become traditional only from the moment in which they are transmitted. It is transmission that ‘traditionizes’ its objects. The important thing to reflect on is the process, not the product. (Simay 2005, 140–141) In this sense, film is no less a form of art that transmits, and thus makes tradi­ tional, what is reproduced, even as it revolutionizes the technology of repro­ duction and transmission and thus as it transforms and reinvents what is reproduced and transmitted. For me, what is more important is the process of (continuous) transmission and translation in the present that makes the trans­ mitted objects or images both traditional and modern at the same time. For example, in film there is Eisenstein’s (modernist) “primitivist” approach to pri­ mordial arts of humanity, and in theatre Meyerhold’s (modernist) “traditionalist” refraction of the techniques of “truly” theatrical epochs (Kabuki and the commedia dell’arte, for instance). Again, this process of transmission, as attested, for instance, by Eisenstein’s and Meyerhold’s revolutionary work (the “October” in film and theatre), is never purely aesthetic and artistic but is inevitably and inherently political and ideological. In his materialist and dialectical take on tradition, Theodor Adorno stresses the economical (or technological) and sociopolitical transformation of tradition: “Like every historicophilosophical category, tradition is not to be understood as if, in an eternal relay race, the art of one generation, one style, one maestro, were passed on to the succeeding one”; “tradition itself, as a medium of his­ torical movement, depends essentially on economic and social structures and is qualitatively transformed along with them” (Adorno 2002, 20). Thus, accord­ ing to Adorno, “The attitude of contemporary art toward tradition, usually reviled as a loss of tradition, is predicated on the inner transformation of the category of tradition itself” (20–21). Adorno’s last statement, however, suggests to me that the modernity of contemporary art presupposes and depends on the existence of tradition, no matter how much tradition, and thus the category of tradition, is ultimately qualitatively and internally transformed, reinterpreted, or reinvented. Adorno speaks of “the restituted truth of the past,” which could be attained by critical interpretation of the past: Tradition is to be not abstractly negated but criticized without naïveté according to the current situation: Thus the present constitutes the past. Nothing is to be accepted unexamined just because it is available and was once held valuable; nor is anything to be dismissed because it belongs to the past. (41) As a historical verdict on the making of history, Marx’s observation may have inexorably spelled out his own destiny to become part of the classical tradition

12 Introduction of European history and historical writing and to be quoted and invoked by latter-day generations in their attempts to make their own history. While Benjamin invokes the magic of Marx’s prophetic words in his critique of the concept of history, thus making his own critical history, Derrida conjures up the spectres of Marx in his deconstruction of the generation of “the ghostly” in the movement of European history. Deconstruction entails and invokes its own spectres, one of them being a deconstructionist Marx, which is one of the spirits of a heterogenous Marxism, as Derrida conjures up not one originary or onto-theological spectre of Marx but spectres of Marx (Marxisms) (Derrida 1994, 75). Derrida thus acknowledges: Such a deconstruction would have been impossible and unthinkable in a pre-Marxist space. Deconstruction has never had any sense or interest, in my view at least, except as a radicalization, which is also to say in the tra­ dition of a certain Marxism, in a certain spirit of Marxism. There has been, then, this attempted radicalization of Marxism called deconstruction. (92. Emphases in original) Derrida thereby speaks of “tradition of deconstruction, of its Marxist ‘spirit’” (92–93). Derrida appropriates Marxism by conjuring up or spectralizing the spirit of Marxism through his own “performative interpretation”—“an inter­ pretation that transforms what it interprets”—of it (51). In the sphere of literary and theatrical creation, latter-day generations are inexorably cursed or blessed by a heritage of spectres from a recent or longgone past, and furthermore, new generations of authors, theorists, and practi­ tioners are destined to quote and invoke the spectral authority of traditions in their struggles to usher in new epochs, thus making their own histories and creating their own traditions. New and revolutionary ideas and practices are inevitably the consequences of a “tiger’s leap into the past,” to use Benjamin’s words, a destruction and reconstitution, or a sacrilege and consecration, of dif­ ferent traditions. Thus, according to Bertolt Brecht, “tradition is necessary” for his revolu­ tionary idea of the epic theatre as it is concerned with “true, revolutionary continuation”; he was “in search of a tradition” by extracting an epic style of representation among many trends out of the history of dramatic literature, including naturalistic novels and dramas (Brecht 1992, 379). In spite of his attempts to find the tradition of the epic style of representation in European literature, Brecht was keenly aware of the need to find, as far as form was concerned, models, not merely to extract and transport some epic elements, for his revolutionary theatre. Realizing that such models cannot be found “in our spatial or temporal surroundings,” Brecht turned to Asia and invoked the spectres of Asian traditions in order to prove that he had “the ‘Asiatic’ model” (380). Brecht’s cross-cultural and intercultural approach to foreign traditions, an approach he characterizes as “Sanctification by Sacrilege” (Brecht 1993a, 691), was concerned only with their usefulness or their quotability in total disregard

Introduction

13

of their historical contexts (which is akin to Benjamin’s quotationist decontex­ tualization) and was conditioned by his needs to construct a revolutionary theatre by refunctioning different theatrical traditions.5 Meyerhold, the avant­ gardist turned revolutionary artist, who had called for the “October Revolu­ tion” in Russian theatre, was also a committed “traditionalist” as demonstrated in his invocation of the spirit(s) of Russian and European traditions (Italian, French, and Spanish) and that of Asian traditions (Chinese and Japanese). In fact, Meyerhold’s revolutionary “traditionalism” was integral to the so-called “Meyerholdism,” as he stated in 1936 in his famous speech, “Meyerhold against Meyerholdism”: I believe, comrades, only then will we have real theatre art, if we resurrect the best theatrical eras, that is, let us say, in France the Deburau theatre, in Italy the theatre where Gozzi and Goldoni worked, and if we recall the little Spanish theatres as well. (Meyerhold 1968, 2:340)6 In the same speech, Meyerhold associated “simplicity”—the Soviet politically and ideologically charged ideal of artistic expression—with the art of ancient Greek and Roman theatre and appealed to the spectres of Marx and Engels: Our simplicity—simplicity in some cothurni, simplicity in masks. Marx and Engels called upon us to pay special attention to the charm of ancient art. Marx considers the Greeks ideal children and, at the same time, ideal artists, because they combined extraordinary naivety with extraordinary simplicity and with extraordinary solemnity. We need to take this call into account. (Meyerhold 1968, 2:346)7 Boris Alpers, one of Meyerhold’s contemporary Russian theatre historians, underscores Meyerhold’s “traditionalism, his appeal to the historical origins of his views on the theatre” necessitated for the completion of his revolutionary theatre system: Meyerhold “seeks to find support in the past, to call to his aid the authoritative shadows, to find in them evidence of the legitimacy of its existence” (Alpers 1977, 115). In fact, the history of world theatre has witnessed constellations of theatrical traditions displaced and reconfigured in the revolutionary movement of modern theatre to form new constellations for the future of the theatre. At the turn of the twentieth century, European avant-garde theatre turned to the East in its revolutionary/reactional movement against the dominant trends of nat­ uralism and commercialism. As early as 1916, W. B. Yeats, whose dramatic imagination was haunted by the “formal faces” of the spirits of Japanese Nodrama, spoke of “the circle” many European arts ran through and thereby of the pressing need for the Europeans “to copy the East” (Yeats 1916, VII, IX). As I have argued elsewhere, as radical and “historic” as it appears to Derrida in

14 Introduction terms of representation, the question of Antonin Artaud’s “Theatre of Cruelty” is historical, as it invokes and conjures up its spectral double in Western and Eastern theatrical and cultural traditions.8 This movement, or “the tiger’s leap into the past,” continued throughout the twentieth century. Significantly, in time, as this movement has been spectralized and consecrated as part of the history of twentieth-century European theatre, its intercultural spectralizing approaches to Asian traditions have since haunted the imagination of Asian modernists as well as traditionalists in their own efforts to consecrate their theatrical traditions and in their struggles to define the future of their national theatres. In contrast to the predominantly European approaches I have discussed above, which are confined to European histories and traditions and perform under European historical and cultural conditions, or which look at other tra­ ditions from a predominantly (European) modernist perspective, this book purports to interrogate, from an intercultural perspective, the transcultural and transnational consecration, (re)invention, and displacement of traditions in the aesthetic-political movement of twentieth-century theatre and performance into the now-time of the past in its struggles to define the present and the future. It looks at this in-between, interlacing, and interpenetrating space of theatre and performance, an aesthetic-political space, where the symbolic and the performative are intersected and underpinned by the political and the ideological; it looks at the question of traditions and modernities at the centre of this aesthetic-political space, as modernities are haunted, interculturally, by traditions, and as traditions are, interculturally, appropriated, adapted, refracted, reformulated, and refunctioned. Therefore, the approach of modernity to tra­ dition is inherently aesthetic-political, as the aesthetic and the political are, consciously or unconsciously, mutually motivated and impacted. In this book, I speak of the spectre of tradition to define the whole spectrum— the past, the present, and the future—of the process of this historical and cultural transmission. On the one hand, it spells the genealogical and historical past of tra­ dition and its genealogical and historical affinity to the past; on the other hand, it spells its historical continuity into the present and its potential to portend, pre­ figure, and presage, through the present, the future, as it is taken not merely as a malevolent and ominous threat, but as a benevolent and auspicious blessing, to the present and to the future. And as such it spells not merely the present’s desire to declare the premature death of tradition, but its need to invoke, conjure up, invent, or reinvent the spirit of tradition for both the present and the future. Furthermore, this book looks at the phenomenon of the spectre of tradition interculturally and deals with its manifestation and transmission in theatre and per­ formance as well as its performative and discursive translation and representation from different cultural perspectives. Thereby, tradition, and its (intercultural) invocation, transference, and transformation, is not treated merely as recurring or revived performance or staging techniques,9 but is defined within the whole spectrum of a “living” history of performance, with all the weight of its cultural and sociopolitical as well as theatrical past inevitably bearing on the desires of the

Introduction

15

present or contemporary performances. Thus, the spectre(s) or presence(s) of tra­ dition is not confined to the past; it moves between the past and the present and within the whole spectrum encompassing the past and the present, where the past and the present are mutually translated and displaced; it manifests itself in its per­ petual “now-time” or contemporaneous relationship to the present and in its uncanny capacity of prefiguring the future. Likewise, in its spectral relationship to the past, the present also spells and inscribes its own spectral destiny in its rela­ tionship to the future. A striking example is the (intercultural) canonization of Meyerhold—with his spectral relationship to the traditions of Asian theatre as manifested in his modernist and revolutionary projects—as part of European avant-garde and modernist tradition (with its intercultural relationship to Asian theatre). Thus, in the West, Meyerhold was revered by Eugenio Barba, for instance, as one of his “ancestors,” his “grandfather,” in the genealogy of his theatrical career (Barba 2003); in the East, he was venerated and invoked by new generations of Asian modernists as well as traditionalists. The spectre of tradition possesses and projects a double-edged power in its relationship to the present: it inspires, glorifies, and legitimates the present with its consecrated aura and canonized authority; it also threatens and undermines the originality and autonomy of the present with its continuing presence that defines the derivative and dependent condition of the present. This phenomenon manifests itself particularly in the history of the twentieth-century European avant­ garde and modernist theatre in its intracultural relationship to the traditions of European theatre and its intercultural relationship to the traditions of Asian theatre (Tian 2018). Here a salient example is, again, Meyerhold’s theatrical “traditional­ ism.” Besides his claim to the heritage of Russian and European theatre, Meyer­ hold’s heavy debt to Chinese and Japanese theatrical traditions caused even some of the Russian critics to question the originality of the Russian avant-garde genius’ most revolutionary productions.10 The hereditary system of performance in No- or Kabuki, for example, is essential for the genre to have become a time-honoured tradition—an accom­ plishment that W. B. Yeats venerated in No- (Yeats 1916, XI)—that has accu­ mulated and transmitted the cultural and embodied history and experience of many dead and living generations of performers and that will continue to inspire and nourish new generations. However, at the same time, the con­ secrated tradition manifests itself and projects its continuing authority and dominance over the present, as it haunts and weighs heavily on the new gen­ erations, thwarting their desires for innovation and thus threatening the ori­ ginality and creativity of their accomplishment, as their accomplishment is measured and valued in light of its conformity with, not its distinction from, the consecrated and canonized tradition. Hence the Asian modern realists’ call for the reform, or even the premature death, of their indigenous theatrical tradi­ tions. Notwithstanding its propensity and capacity for self-preservation, the indi­ genous traditions are subject to the process of mutual translation and displacement, as they are invoked and are brought into an intercultural relationship to the past and present of a foreign culture.

16

Introduction

This book consists of six chapters. Chapter 1 is concerned with the myth creation of the interaction of Mei Lanfang and Stanislavsky and its influence on the Chinese approach to traditional Chinese theatre. Mei Lanfang’s contact with Stanislavsky during his 1935 tour in the Soviet Union, the latter’s “appraisal” of the acting of traditional Chinese theatre, and Mei’s invocation of the Russian master’s “appraisal” to consecrate and redeem the tradition of Chinese theatre have exerted a profound and lasting influence on the Chinese understanding and evaluation of the art of traditional Chinese theatre. Since the 1980s when Mei Lanfang was sanctified as the incarnation of the tradition of Chinese theatre, the myth of Stanislavsky’s contact with the art of traditional Chinese theatre through Mei Lanfang’s performance has been resurrected with new aura and potency. Stanislavsky’s uncanny insight into it has been canonized with the inviolable quotability of self-evidential precepts and has contributed, interculturally, to the legitimation of the Chinese tradition. This chapter investi­ gates the historical facts and circumstances that underlie this historic intercultural moment on the twentieth-century international stage. It unweaves the historical construction of this remarkable intercultural phenomenon and exposes its political and ideological underpinnings as well as its theatrical and artistic placements and displacements. Chapter 2 deals with Stanislavsky’s and Meyerhold’s invocation, appropria­ tion, and refraction of Alexander Pushkin and with Meyerhold’s Pushkinization of Mei Lanfang’s art. It investigates Stanislavsky’s and Meyerhold’s interpreta­ tions and appropriations of Pushkin’s ideas on dramatic art and their uses of the hallowed authority of the most venerated Russian poet-dramatist in construct­ ing and legitimating their respective theories. Meyerhold’s “intercultural” invocation of Pushkin and Mei Lanfang, part of his mission of developing a theatrical language conforming to the language of the Soviet era and of con­ structing an expressive art of Socialist Realism for the future of the Soviet theatre, was concerned with what Benjamin called the “now-time” in the continuum of history and tradition and was, fundamentally and necessarily, a double act of aestheticizing politics and of politicizing art and aesthetics. In late December 1935 and the beginning of February 1936, Benjamin remarked: Humankind’s “self-alienation has reached the point where it can experience its own annihilation as a supreme aesthetic pleasure. Such is the aestheticizing of pol­ itics, as practiced by fascism. Communism replies by politicizing art” (Benjamin 2008, 42. Emphases in original). Here, it should be added that Communism is no less adapted to aestheticize politics and that it leads humanity to its self-alienation not primarily by technology but by ideology. The Russian October Revolu­ tion led to the mutual transformation of the aesthetic and the political in art, and Socialist Realism as an expressive art as theorized and practiced by the Soviet artists, including Meyerhold and Eisenstein, was both aesthetically and politically motivated, with the aesthetic and the political reinforcing and expressing each other. This chapter also provides a case study of Meyerhold’s 1935 new version of his 1928 production of Alexander Griboedov’s comedy, Woe to Wit. It deals with Meyerhold’s aesthetic-political approach to the

Introduction

17

traditions represented by Griboedov’s comedy, Pushkin, and Mei Lanfang’s art that Meyerhold claimed to have incorporated into his new production. Chapter 3 deals with Sergei Eisenstein’s consecration of Chinese theatrical and cultural traditions. Eisenstein traced the art of Chinese theatre to the most ancient tradition of Chinese pre-feudal structures of thought and representation and to “the fixed traditionalism” of Chinese culture that has canonized and consecrated into monuments a system of ideas and thought, including a system of symbolic and aesthetic experience and practice (Eisenstein 1968, 322–323). For Eisenstein, the art of Chinese theatre was peculiar to these structures of the profoundest Chinese thought that was canonized by tradition and enriched by the experience of latter-day generations. In contrast to the Western system of logical thinking, the Chinese built “the most perfect monument of a complex system of sensual-figurative thinking” (Eisenstein 1968, 323). It was such a system of thinking, and an approach to phenomena, that cast a strong and lasting spell on the mind of Eisenstein when he watched the performances by Mei Lanfang, whom he stylized as “the magician” (sorcerer/enchanter) of Chinese theatre. For Eisenstein, Mei Lanfang synthesized the essential and ele­ mentary components of the art of Chinese theatre and thus “restored” its “most ancient tradition” (Eisenstein 1968, 314). Eisenstein’s view on the system and structure of Chinese thought, and consequently on the Chinese symbolic and aesthetic system of representation (language and arts), was profoundly influ­ enced by the work of Marcel Granet, the noted French sinologist. This chapter examines Eisenstein’s interpretation of the tradition of Chinese theatre and of Mei Lanfang’s art and investigates the way Eisenstein consecrated (and thus spectralized) Mei Lanfang’s art in the most ancient Chinese tradition and found in it the “now-time” for the future that Eisenstein envisioned for the Soviet theatre and cinema. Eisenstein’s construction of his revolutionary modernist “Method” was illuminated and haunted by a constellation of traditions of humanity, including Chinese and Japanese traditions, in its aestheticizing (sen­ sual and imagistic) approach to the ideological, and the political, of Socialist Realism. Chapter 4 focuses on Walter Benjamin’s performative quotation and use of Chinese cultural traditions. Benjamin’s texts discussed in this chapter were haunted by the spectre of Chinese traditions invoked by his performative quotations of, and allusions to, Chinese texts and cultural images, as shown in his views on Brecht’s idea of epic theatre and on Franz Kafka, and in his own writings, including his essay on his meeting with the American actress Anna May Wong and his radio talk on Chinese theatre. Benjamin’s approach to Chinese traditions shares with Brecht’s, and his view of Chinese theatre as related to epic theatre is in line with Brecht’s as shown in Brecht’s essay on Chinese acting. Also significant are Benjamin’s ideas (in agreement with German philosopher Franz Rosenzweig) of the Chinese man being character­ less, undramatic, or untragic and his idea of Kafka’s “Oklahoma Nature Thea­ tre” that he traces back to ancient Chinese theatre. Benjamin’s understanding of Chinese theatre is evidenced in his radio talk, “Theatre Fire in Canton,”

18 Introduction where he also curiously relates the incident to ancient Chinese beliefs that he believes made such theatres shabby and combustible. This chapter also examines Benjamin’s essay on his meeting with the American Hollywood actress, Anna May Wong. It investigates Benjamin’s intertextual and intercultural quotations of Chinese literary texts and Chinese movie and cultural images. Benjamin’s “Chinese” writing, a piece of literary and critical work imagi­ natively constructed by the German journalist-philosopher, is haunted by the spectre of Chinese literary and cultural traditions. This chapter demonstrates how Benjamin’s Chinese quotations are violently torn apart from their original contexts and transported into the new context of Benjamin’s essay to construct an exotic, Orientalized “Chinese” image and identity for Anna May Wong, the Chinese American actress whom Benjamin recasts as “A Chinoiserie from the Old West” and thus further fictionalizes and spectralizes in his (trans)script haunted by his Chinese quotations. This chapter argues that Benjamin’s quotationist approach to Chinese traditions represents a reification of an Orientalized Chinese tradition. It demonstrates that even Benjamin, one of the twentieth century’s most original critical minds, was haunted, in his intercultural quotations of Chinese traditions, by the spectre of the nineteenth-century Eurocentric Orientalism. Chapter 5 interrogates the phenomenal success of S. I. Hsiung’s 1935 pro­ duction of Lady Precious Stream on the international stage, particularly in London. It approaches Hsiung’s play as a Chinese chinoiserie marked by its invocation of the spectral authenticity and authority of traditional Chinese theatre. Despite the play’s Chinese origin, however, the intercultural locus of its production necessitates a decontextualized reconstitution of the play. The afterlife of the original Chinese play was self-Orientalized in Hsiung’s adapta­ tion as a Chinese chinoiserie, a self-conscious fabrication of Chinese tradition. And, at the same time, it was strongly influenced by the British sentimental and melodramatic theatrical tradition and experience and was charged with the British and European modernist imagination of Chinese theatrical tradition. Chapter 6 investigates Meyerhold’s influence on the constitution of the theories and practices of twentieth-century Japanese and Chinese theatres. As early as the 1920s, the impact of Meyerhold’s revolutionary theory and practice of Russian modernist theatre began to resonate in modern Japanese and Chi­ nese theatres, particularly, the Japanese and Chinese leftist theatre movement. Meyerhold’s greatest impact on twentieth-century Chinese theatre was felt in the 1980s when his idea of “Conventional Theatre” became the battle cry for the Chinese avant-garde theatre movement. Meyerhold’s influence helped convert those erstwhile radical Japanese and Chinese modernist reformers into committed “traditionalists,” who invoked the traditions of Japanese and Chinese theatres in their revolutionary theatrical projects. This chapter investigates the ways Meyer­ hold’s ideas and practices impacted the formation of modern and contemporary Japanese and Chinese theatres and the ways his ideas and practices were quoted and refracted in the service of the reification and reinvention of traditional Japanese and Chinese theatres. In this dynamic intercultural movement, “the tiger’s leap” was between and into each other: Meyerhold’s idea of “Conventional Theatre”—his

Introduction

19

struggle to unchain Russian theatre from the tradition of naturalism—recalled and helped reconstitute the traditions of Japanese and Chinese theatres; the Japanese and Chinese reification and reinvention of their traditional theatres and their recon­ stitution of their modern theatres invoked Meyerhold’s authority and spoke in the borrowed and translated language of his theory. Meyerhold’s intercultural invoca­ tion of the traditions of Japanese and Chinese theatres and its effect on the Japanese and Chinese reimagination of their own theatrical traditions are illustrative of the dynamic movement of the twentieth-century intercultural theatre and perfor­ mance, which was likewise exemplified in Yeats’s intercultural relationship to Japanese tradition and Brecht’s to Chinese tradition. In concluding this book, I further look at the applicability of my perspective to the investigation of the theories and practices of the historical avant-garde in gen­ eral, postmodern, postcolonial, and postdramatic theatre and performance in their (intercultural) relationships to theatrical traditions of different cultures. I also fur­ ther explore the applicability of my thesis to the theories and practices of twen­ tieth-century “classical” intercultural theatre and of the twenty-first-century “new interculturalisms” in theatre and performance. A logical conclusion of my study, as I look at the future of tradition in the ecology of our globalized theatrum mundi, I consider two important interrelated concepts developed out of the case studies of this book: future tradition and intercultural tradition.

Notes 1 “Make it new” is the title of a collection of Pound’s essays (Pound 1935). 2 The title of Zarrilli’s article that Appadurai gives is not the title that is included in the published collection (Appadurai 1996, 217). 3 See also Friedman 2019b. 4 For a recent study of “haunting modernisms,” which is influenced by Rabaté’s study, but whose aesthetic and ethical approach differs from Rabaté’s (inter)textual approach, see Foley 2017. 5 For more on Brecht’s refunctioning of Asian traditions, see Tian 2018, 239–262. 6 Jean-Gaspard Deburau (1796–1846) was a French pantomime actor noted for his portrayal of the character of Pierrot in the tradition of harlequinade. 7 “Koturnakh”: cothurni or buskins put on by the ancient Greek and Roman tragic actors. Here Meyerhold referred to Marx’s statement on ancient Greek art (Marx 1970, 217). 8 See Tian 2018, 153–176. 9 For example, in his argument for Meyerhold’s use of theatrical traditions (both Western and Eastern), one of Meyerhold’s contemporary Russian critics, Stefan Mokul’skii, defines “tradition” as “the aggregate of a series of fruitful, tested and truly effective techniques, which are passed on from one generation of artists to another” (Mokul’skii 1926, 10). Or, as what Meyerhold defines as “the principles of the acting of true theatrical eras”: “a number of axioms that are obligatory for every actor, no matter what kind of theatre he works in” (Meyerhold 1998, 12). 10 For example, Boris Pil’niak, a noted Russian writer who had a firsthand experience of Kabuki performances when he visited Japan in 1926, noted that “ninety percent of Meyerhold’s theatrical revolution was taken by Meyerhold from the Eastern theatre” and that Meyerhold, “a revolutionary of Western theatre,” was “entirely depending on the Eastern theatre” (Pil’niak 1927, 71, 77).

20 Introduction

References Adorno, Theodor W. 2002. Aesthetic Theory. Translated by Robert Hullot-Kentor. London: Continuum. Alpers, B. 1977 (1931). Teatr sotsial’noi maski (The Theatre of the Social Mask). Vol. 1 of Teatral’nye ocherki (Theatrical Essays). Moskva: Iskusstvo. Appadurai, Arjun. 1996. Modernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of Globalization. Min­ neapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Barba, Eugenio. 2003. “Grandfathers, Orphans, and the Family Saga of European Theatre.” New Theatre Quarterly, 19, no. 2: 108–117. Benjamin, Walter. 1972–89. Gesammelte Schriften. 7 vols. Edited by Rolf Tiedemann and Hermann Schweppenhäuser. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Benjamin, Walter. 2008. The Work of Art in the Age of Its Technological Reproducibility, and Other Writings on Media. Edited by Michael W. Jennings, Brigid Doherty, and Thomas Y. Levin and translated by Edmund Jephcott, Rodney Livingstone, Howard Eiland, and others. Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Brecht, Bertolt. 1992. Werke: Große Kommentierte Berliner und Frankfurter Ausgabe. Edited by

Werner Hecht et al., vol. 21. Berlin and Frankfurt am Main: Aufbau and Suhrkamp.

Brecht, Bertolt. 1993a. Werke: Große Kommentierte Berliner und Frankfurter Ausgabe, vol. 22.

Derrida, Jacques. 1994. Specters of Marx. Translated by Peggy Kamuf. London: Routledge. Eisenstein, Sergei. 1968. “Charodeyu grushevogo sada” (To the Magician of the Pear Orchard). In Izbrannye proizvedeniia (Selected Works), Vol. 5, 311–324. Moscow: Iskusstvo. Eliot, T. S. 1920 (1919). “Tradition and the Individual Talent.” In The Sacred Wood: Essays on Poetry and Criticism, 42–53. London: Methuen. Foley, Matt. 2017. Haunting Modernisms: Ghostly Aesthetics, Mourning, and Spectral Resis­ tance Fantasies in Literary Modernism. Cham, Switzerland: Palgrave Macmillan. Friedman, Susan Stanford. 2015. Planetary Modernisms: Provocations on Modernity Across Time. New York: Columbia University Press. Friedman, Susan Stanford. 2019a. “Introduction: The Past in the Present: Temporalities of the Contemporary.” In Contemporary Revolutions: Turning Back to the Future in 21st­ Century Literature and Art, edited by Susan Stanford Friedman, 3–20. London: Bloomsbury Academic. Friedman, Susan Stanford. 2019b. “Recycling Revolution: Re-mixing A Room of One’s Own and Black Power in Kabe Wilson’s Performance, Installation, and Narrative Art.” In Contemporary Revolutions: Turning Back to the Future in 21st-Century Literature and Art, 21–47. Habermas, Jürgen. 1987. The Philosophical Discourse of Modernity. Translated by Frederick G. Lawrence. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Hobsbawm, Eric. 1983. “Introduction: Inventing Traditions.” In The Invention of Tradi­ tion, edited by Eric Hobsbawm and Terrence Ranger, 1–14. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Latour, Bruno. 1993. We Have Never Been Modern. Translated by Catherine Porter. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Longenbach, James. 1987. Modernist Poetics of History: Pound, Eliot, and the Sense of the Past. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Marx, Karl. 1963. The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte. New York: International Publishers.

Introduction

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Marx, Karl. 1970. A Contribution to the Critique of Political Economy. Translated by S. W. Ryazanskaya, edited by Maurice Dobb. Moscow: Progress Publishers. Meyerhold, V. E. 1968. Stati, pisma, rechi, besedy (Articles, Letters, Speeches, Conversations). Compiled by A. V. Fevralskii, 2 vols. Moscow: Iskusstvo. Meyerhold, V. E. 1998. Meierkhol’d: k istorii tvorcheskogo metoda: publikatsii. stat’i (Meyer­ hold: Towards the History of a Creative Method: Publications. Articles). Compiled by N. V. Pesochinskii. St. Petersburg: Kul’tInformPress. Michael, John. 1992. “Tradition and the Critical Talent.” Telos, no. 94: 45–66. Mokul’skii, S. 1926. “Pereotsenka traditsii” (Re-evaluation of Traditions). In Teatral’nyi Oktiabr’: sbornik I (The Theatrical October: Collection I), 9–29. Leningrad-Moskva. Phillips, Mark Salber. 2004. “Introduction: What Is Tradition When It Is Not ‘Inven­ ted’? A Historiographical Introduction.” In Questions of Tradition, edited by Mark Salber Phillips and Gordon Schochet, 3–29. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Phillips, Mark Salber and Gordon Schochet. 2004. “Preface.” In Questions of Tradition, ix–xv. Pil’niak, Boris. 1927. Korni Iaponskogo solntsa (The Roots of the Japanese Sun). Leningrad: Priboi. Pound, Ezra. 1935. Make It New: Essays by Ezra Pound. New Haven: Yale University Press. Prickett, Stephen. 2009. Modernity and the Reinvention of Tradition: Backing into the Future. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rabaté, Jean-Michel. 1996. The Ghosts of Modernity. Gainesville, FL: University Press of Florida. Rancière, Jacques. 2004. The Politics of Aesthetics: The Distribution of the Sensible. Translated by Gabriel Rockhill. London: Continuum. Rancière, Jacques. 2012. “Aesthetics and Politics Revisited: An Interview with Jacques Rancière.” Interview by Gavin Arnall, Laura Gandolfi, and Enea Zaramella. Critical Inquiry, 38, no. 2: 289–297. Shils, Edward. 1981. Tradition. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Simay, Philippe. 2005. “Tradition as Injunction: Benjamin and the Critique of Histori­ cisms.” In Walter Benjamin and History, edited by Andrew Benjamin, 137–155. London: Continuum. Tian, Min. 2018. The Use of Asian Theatre for Modern Western Theatre: The Displaced Mirror. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Yeats, W. B. 1916. “Introduction.” In Certain Noble Plays of Japan: From the Manuscripts of Ernest Fenollosa, Chosen and Finished by Ezra Pound, with an Introduction by William Butler Yeats, i–xix. Dublin: The Cuala Press. Zarrilli, Phillip B. 1995. “Repositioning the Body, Practice, Power, and Self in an Indian Martial Art.” In Consuming Modernity: Public Culture in a South Asian World, edited by Carol A. Breckenridge, 183–215. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Zarrilli, Phillip B. 2009. Psychophysical Acting: An Intercultural Approach after Stanislavski. London: Routledge. Zarrilli, Phillip B., Jerri Daboo, and Rebecca Loukes. 2013. Acting: Psychophysical Phenom­ enon and Process: Intercultural and Interdisciplinary Perspectives. London: Palgrave Macmillan.

1

The Legitimation of Tradition and the Construction of an Intercultural Myth Mei Lanfang Remembers Stanislavsky

The intercultural encounter between traditional Chinese theatre and the Sta­ nislavsky system was one of the prominent phenomena on the twentieth-cen­ tury international stage. Elsewhere, I have investigated the profound impact of the Stanislavsky system on the Chinese understanding and practice of their traditional theatre (Tian 2008, 159–173). Since the 1950s, and especially in the 1980s, as Stanislavsky had been consecrated as the summation of the history of Russian and European theatre, Mei Lanfang’s contact with Stanislavsky during his 1935 tour in the Soviet Union, the latter’s often-quoted “appraisal” of the acting of traditional Chinese theatre, and Mei Lanfang’s invocation of it to consecrate and redeem the tradition of Chinese theatre have exerted a pro­ found and lasting influence on the Chinese understanding and evaluation of the art of traditional Chinese theatre.1 Stanislavsky’s “appraisal” of the art of tradi­ tional Chinese theatre, and thereby his uncanny insight into it, remotely recalled, orally transmitted and translated over decades, has been canonized with the inviolable quotability of self-evidential precepts or aphorisms and has been used by the Chinese in their theoretical construction of traditional Chi­ nese theatre as one of the great systems in the history of world theatre. Interculturally, it has contributed to the sanctification of the Chinese tradition and, through the Chinese tradition, to the legitimation of the universality of the tradition of the Stanislavsky system. This chapter provides an in-depth historical investigation of this intercultural phenomenon on the twentieth-century international stage,2 deconstructing the historical making of this remarkable intercultural myth constructed by the Chinese and the Russians on the symbolic act of Mei Lanfang’s meeting with Stanislavsky, a meeting, metaphorically, between what Sergei Eisenstein would like to call “extremes” (Eisenstein 1968, 322; 1964–1971, 5:310), an ancient Asian (Chinese or Japanese) tradition and a modern Soviet-Russian system. Bringing to light the political and ideological underpinnings as well as the theatrical and artistic place­ ments and displacements in the construction of this intercultural myth, this chapter demonstrates how the spectre of Chinese tradition and that of the Stanislavsky tradition haunted the in-between space of this intercultural encounter, where the Chinese tried to sanctify the tradition of their indigenous theatre by reinventing it from the perspective of the Stanislavsky system and where the Russians sought to DOI: 10.4324/9781003240587-2

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legitimate the universality of the Stanislavsky system by conjuring up an uncanny affinity between a modern “scientific” system and an ancient, or “the most ancient” (Eisenstein 1968, 312, 314), “pre-feudal” (318), and pre-logical (322– 323) tradition of a different theatrical culture.

The Haunted Memories: Between the Then and the Now In 1953, nearly two decades after his tour to the Soviet Union, on the 15th anniversary of Stanislavsky’s death, Mei Lanfang published three essays in memory of the Russian master. In one essay, “To the Memory of Sta­ nislavsky,” which was published in Renmin Ribao (The People’s Daily—the official organ of the Chinese Communist Party), Mei recalled: During my first guest tour in the Soviet Union, I met Stanislavsky… We had several conversations, speaking of the joys and sorrows, the successes and failures that we experienced personally in art. During the time that I performed in Moscow, he often came to my performances and, at the same time, I went to the Moscow Art Theatre to observe his productions and he asked me very politely for my critique. (Mei 1953b, 3)3 In “My Impressions of Stanislavsky,” Mei further recalled: Stanislavsky often came to my performances and he saw all my perfor­ mances in such plays as Hongni guan (The Rainbow Pass), Guifei zuijiu (The Drunken Beauty), Dayu shajia (The Fisherman’s Revenge), and Yuzhou feng (Beauty Defies Tyranny). Later when I went to see him, we talked about the characteristics of Chinese traditional music-dance theatre, often using, exactly, as examples, my physical movements and facial expressions in these performances. (Mei 1953d, 32) Later in the essay, Mei noted about his conversation with Stanislavsky on March 30: We first talked about the sources and development of traditional Chinese theatre, constantly touching on the issues that he became interested in after observing my performances. The depth of the old gentleman’s under­ standing is amazing and admirable. Indeed, it was not easy for him to be able to often have such an incisive and deep understanding of another country’s indigenous form of theatre performances. (Mei 1953d, 33) In addition, in this and another essay, “Meeting with Stanislavsky,” Mei recal­ led that he spoke particularly with Stanislavsky of the use of hand gestures in his performances (Mei 1953d, 33; 1953a, 1).

24 The Spectre of Tradition Two years later, in 1955, in an essay in memory of Stanislavsky and Vladimir Nemirovich-Danchenko, Mei again recalled his meeting with Stanislavsky at the latter’s home. He revealed, for the first time, as an example of Stanislavsky’s “incisive and deep understanding” of traditional Chinese theatre, that in their conversation Stanislavsky emphasized that “the acting of traditional Chinese theatre is a regulated and yet free movement” (Mei 1959, 203). In the same year, in a speech commemorating the 50th anniversary of his professional life, Mei spoke again of Stanislavsky’s remark, this time with an additional reference to Nemirovich-Danchenko: After witnessing my performances, they [Stanislavsky and NemirovichDanchenko] made this appraisal of the acting method of traditional Chinese theatre: ‘the law of the performance of traditional Chinese theatre is “a regulated and yet free movement.”’ (Mei 1955, 3) Mei added that “this remark made me understand more deeply the character­ istics of the art of our nation’s theatre” (3). Seen from Mei’s recollections, it becomes clear that Stanislavsky’s “appraisal” of the acting of traditional Chinese theatre and the depth of his understanding of it as perceived by the Chinese actor are all predicated on the premise, or the “fact,” that Stanislavsky often came to Mei’s performances and that they met and talked several times during his Soviet tour. Indeed, Mei’s contemporary Chinese writers and artists accepted his recollections as historical “fact.” For instance, after Mei had passed away in 1961, noted playwright Tian Han repeated Mei’s account of Stanislavsky’s “appraisal” in an essay commemorating Mei’s life, claiming that Stanislavsky saw every performance that Mei offered (Tian 1961b, 6). In an important essay published in 1962, Huang Zuolin, who later became an accomplished theatre director and critic, cited Mei’s account, affirming Stanislavsky’s interpretation of traditional Chinese theatre: “Sta­ nislavsky also admired Mei Lan-fang’s performance, describing Chinese dramatic art, as ‘the art of regulated and yet free movements’” (Huang 1962a, 5; 1962b, 5; 1962c, 108). In addition, it is interesting to look at Mei’s recollections through the accounts by Yu Zhenfei, a noted Beijing opera artist who often played opposite Mei, although not during Mei’s Soviet tour, and by Mei Shaowu, Mei’s son. In 1978, speaking of the acting of traditional Chinese theatre, Yu Zhenfei told his audience “a little story” about Mei’s performances in The Killing of the Tiger General in the Soviet Union: When one of his performances was over and Stanislavsky was still present, Mr. Mei invited some experts and spectators to a panel discussion on his performances. After everyone gathered, an old lady said: ‘Mr. Mei, I have a question for you.’ ‘What is the question?’ Mr. Mei asked, and the old lady answered: ‘You’ve done more than ten performances in The Killing of

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the Tiger General. I saw and took notes of each one of them. But it seems that some of your movements were not exactly the same in each one of your performances.’ Mr. Mei was taken aback and was wondering how to answer the question. Stanislavsky, who admired Mr. Mei’s art the most, answered the question for Mr. Mei, saying: ‘Madame, you don’t understand that traditional Chinese theatre, especially Mr. Mei’s performance, is a regu­ lated and yet free movement.’ (Yu 1979, 70) In 1981, Mei Shaowu gave his account, in English, of what he called an “episode” that his father “liked to recall about,” namely “Stanislavsky’s interpretation of his stagecraft”: There was an old lady in the Soviet Union who had several times seen a certain drama performed by Father. She had noticed that his acting was not exactly the same at each performance. She wanted to know why. Before Father explained, Stanislavsky who was present at the occasion interpolated: ‘Why, Madame, acting by Mr. Mei is a free movement guided by the laws of the art.’ (Mei Shaowu 1981, 62) In a 2006 publication, Mei Shaowu gave another account of the same story with some small but important variations. According to Mei Shaowu, Stanislavsky, then in his 70s and suffering from heart disease, attended the reception of Mei Lanfang, hosted by the Soviet All-Union Society for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries (VOKS), and several times came to the theatre to observe Mei’s per­ formances. Deeply moved by Stanislavsky’s enthusiasm, Mei made an appoint­ ment with Stanislavsky, hoping to visit the Russian master as an appreciation of the latter’s goodwill (Mei Shaowu 2006, 1:273). Later in the same account, Mei Shaowu indicates that Mei Lanfang’s appointment with Stanislavsky was the same meeting between the two artists that took place at Stanislavsky’s home on March 30, 1935. Here, both Yu Zhenfei and Mei Shaowu mentioned Stanislavsky’s “appraisal” of Mei’s art, the circumstances under which Stanislavsky was said to have posited his “appraisal” differ significantly from what was recalled by Mei Lanfang in his 1955 essay noted previously. In Mei’s recollection, there was no indication that “an old lady” was present at Mei’s conversation with Stanislavsky at the latter’s home where the Russian master allegedly gave his “appraisal” of the acting of traditional Chinese theatre. While neither Yu Zhenfei’s account nor Mei Shao­ wu’s specifies when and where Mei’s meeting with Stanislavsky took place, they both state that Stanislavsky gave his “appraisal” as his answer to an old lady’s query to Mei Lanfang, after he had just seen one of Mei’s performances, as suggested in both accounts. Seen from Yu Zhenfei’s “story,” it appears that Mei’s performance in The Killing of the Tiger General, followed by the panel discussion on his perfor­ mance, was most likely his final appearance on April 13 at the Bolshoi Theatre

26

The Spectre of Tradition

(Grand Theatre) in Moscow, which was followed by VOKS’s panel discussion on Mei’s performance. But VOKS’s programme for Mei’s final appearance at the Bolshoi Theatre does not include The Killing of the Tiger General; according to the programme, Mei was featured in The Fisherman’s Revenge and The Rainbow Pass.4 Mei’s performance in these two plays at the Bolshoi Theatre was also confirmed in the recollection by Ge Gongzheng and Ge Baoquan, two Chinese journalists who accompanied Mei’s Soviet tour (Ge and Ge 1935, 10). Most importantly, as I will demonstrate later on in this chapter, Stanislavsky was not present at any of Mei’s performances in the Soviet Union, nor was he present at any discussion of Mei’s performances other than the only meeting he had with Mei at his home on March 30, which had been scheduled by VOKS well ahead of Mei’s visit to the Soviet Union. This calls into question not only the accuracy of Mei Lanfang’s recollec­ tions and of Yu Zhenfei’s and Mei Shaowu’s accounts, but also Stanislavsky’s alleged “appraisal” of Mei Lanfang’s art. Likewise, in Russia, since the 1950s, Mei Lanfang’s recollections have been accepted as historical “fact.” In 1953, an abridged Russian translation of Mei’s essay, “To the Memory of Stanislavsky,” was published in Teatr (Mei 1953c). A decade later, the Russian version was included, as Mei’s tribute to Stanislavsky, in the Soviet centennial collection in honour of the Russian master (Mei 1963a; 1963b). In 1963, Viktor Grigor’evich Komissarzhevsky (1912–1980), who was the director of the Maly Theatre in the 1950s and 1960s, cited Mei’s recollections as evidence of the influence of Stanislavsky’s theory on Mei’s approach to his per­ formance. According to Komissarzhevsky, Mei’s performance brought to light “that inner justification of the mise-en-scène, that logic of behavior, of which Mei Lanfang spoke more than once with Stanislavsky during his meetings with him” (Komissarzhevsky 1963, 11; 1971, 217. My emphases). Sinologist Roman Belou­ sov quoted Mei, saying that Mei “repeatedly” met with Stanislavsky and that “a sincere and cordial friendship” between them was born from their “conversations” (Belousov 1963, 196). According to another sinologist, Lev Eidlin, “Meetings with Stanislavsky enriched his [Mei’s] understanding of art. Stanislavsky carefully observed his performances” (Eidlin 1970, 145). The Soviet musicologist and critic Vasilii Kukharskii noted that Stanislavsky “visited in 1935 the tour performances of the troupe headed by Mei Lanfang,” citing specifically Mei’s account that Sta­ nislavsky considered the performance of Chinese actors “a kind of ‘regulated free movements’” (reglamentirovannymi volnymi dvizheniiami) (Kukharskii 1979, 421). It is interesting to note that I. N. Vinogradskaia, whose chronicle of Stanislavsky’s life and work was largely based on her research of the Russian Stanislavsky archives, also cited Mei’s account that the two artists met “several times,” although she left out, without explanation, Mei’s claim that Stanislavsky often came to his perfor­ mances (Vinogradskaia 2003, 4:322).5

The Haunted Truth: Between the Aesthetic and the Political It is known, as reported in the Moscow Daily News, that Mei Lanfang paid “an infor­ mal visit” to Stanislavsky at the latter’s home on March 30, 1935, accompanied by

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Zhang Pengchun and Yu Shangyuan, who were, respectively, director and assistant director of the visiting Chinese troupe. According to the Moscow Daily News: Stanislavski spoke enthusiastically of Chinese theatrical art, comparing it with ancient Greek art. Mei Lan-fang presented Stanislavski with literature on the Chinese theater and a case containing Chinese masks and embroideries. The guests watched a rehearsal of the new production of ‘The Barber of Seville’ in the rehearsal hall. In the evening of the same day the Chinese producer was present at a performance of ‘The Human Comedy’ in the Vakhtangov Theater.6 Here the news report is corroborated by VOKS’s records that detail Mei’s daily activities. Mei’s meeting with Stanislavsky, his attendance at the rehearsal of The Barber of Seville and his visit to the Vakhtangov Theatre were all previously scheduled by VOKS on March 30 and took place on the same date.7 Accord­ ing to one record, “All three of them [Mei and his two Chinese assistants] were satisfied with a short conversation with him [Stanislavsky] and left with admiration for the father, as they called him, of Russian modern theatre.”8 However, the news report and VOKS’s records do not indicate whether Sta­ nislavsky was present at any of Mei’s performances in Moscow. In an interview with the Soviet press at the end of his tour, speaking of his high regard of the “genius” of Vsevolod Meyerhold, Mei Lanfang, however, did not mention Stanislavsky.9 Upon his return to China, in his speeches and interviews, Mei invariably underscored Meyerhold’s and Sergei Eisenstein’s views of Chinese theatre, admiring Meyerhold as “the most renowned” and “the most respected” theatre artist in the Soviet Union, but had nothing to say about Stanislavsky.10 Likewise, back in China in May 1935, Zhang Pengchun did not mention Stanislavsky while speaking of “the particular appreciation and study of the Chinese theatre” by “the famed Soviet-Russian theatre artists,” such as Meyerhold, Eisenstein, Alexander Tairov, and Sergei Tretyakov.11 In addition, in their account of Mei’s tour, Ge Gongzheng and Ge Baoquan mentioned Mei’s visit to Stanislavsky, but did not state or suggest that Sta­ nislavsky saw any of Mei’s performances (Ge and Ge 1935, 11). Nor did Yan Huiqing, then the Chinese ambassador to the Soviet Union, who recorded Mei’s Soviet visit in his diaries (Yan 1996, 2:879–888). Finally, and most significantly, Yu Shangyuan’s account directly contradicts Mei Lanfang’s claim that Stanislavsky often came to his performances. About half a year after he and Mei returned to China, in early 1936, Yu published an essay titled “Stanislavsky,” recalling their meeting with the Russian master on March 30. According to Yu, after Mei Lanfang, Zhang Pengchun, and himself met Stanislavsky in the latter’s study and exchanged pleasantries, Stanislavsky remarked “most sincerely” to his Chinese guests: I really wanted to escape and go to see your Chinese theatre, but it is a pity that my doctor did not allow me to go outside. Although I learned

28 The Spectre of Tradition about the Chinese theatre from texts and pictures in books and newspapers, it was all like a scratch of an itch through the boot. True performances must be seen in the theatre. (Yu 1936, 58)12 Stanislavsky then brought out two silk figurines from a small cabinet and, looking at the figurines, said to his Chinese guests: “This is how I first learned about your theatre and please do not laugh at my ignorance” (quoted in Yu 1936, 58). At the end of the meeting, Stanislavsky said: “Although I did not go to see it myself, based on everything my friends have told me, I am deeply convinced that Chinese theatre art is extremely valuable for our reference” (60–61). Thus, in their short meeting, Stanislavsky twice stated that he had not seen Mei’s performances in Moscow before their meeting took place. More­ over, Stanislavsky stressed the importance of one’s direct experience of a per­ formance in a theatre and suggested that his reading knowledge was not sufficient enough for him to have a direct and in-depth understanding of such a true and sophisticated theatre as Mei’s Chinese theatre with a time-honoured tradition. Mei Lanfang’s meeting with Stanislavsky took place at the end of his six-day engagement in Moscow and shortly before his eight-day engagement in Leningrad, beginning from April 2. Because of his poor health, obviously Sta­ nislavsky did not travel to Leningrad to see Mei’s performances. For the same reason, he did not see Mei’s last performance given at midnight on April 13 at the Bolshoi Theatre in Moscow after Mei returned from his engagement in Leningrad. Nor did he attend VOKS’s panel discussion on Mei’s art on April 14,13 as he continued his rehearsal of Mikhail Bulgakov’s Molière at home (Vinogradskaia 2003, 4:326). A heart attack in 1928 left Stanislavsky in poor health for the rest of his life. During the 1930s, especially starting from late 1934, Stanislavsky was confined to his home in Leontievsky Lane because of his long-term illness. According to Norris Houghton, who witnessed the Moscow Art Theatre’s jubilee perfor­ mance, on January 30, 1935, of The Cherry Orchard on the 75th anniversary of Anton Chekhov’s birth, “all the great actors of the company who were still alive and able to get there played their original roles” in the performance, with Stanislavsky among the absent (Houghton 1991, 98). In a letter to the police department, dated April 3, 1935, the 72-year-old Stanislavsky petitioned the police to reverse its decision to evict from Moscow his nurse, L. D. Dukhovs­ kaya, who had been at his side for four years, together with her aged mother, so that she could continue to take care of him because her care was indis­ pensable both to his health and to his work (Stanislavski 1988–1999, 9:618). On April 11 of the same year, during a break in his continued rehearsal of Molière at home, Stanislavsky asked his actors, who might want to go to see Gordon Craig, who was then in Moscow, to tell Craig that although he terri­ bly wanted to see the English director, it was impossible for him to leave because of his poor health (Vinogradskaia 2003, 4:325). Indeed, Stanislavsky,

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who had developed a lasting professional relationship with Craig during their collaboration on the production of Hamlet in the early twentieth century, was invited but did not attend VOKS’s reception of Craig on April 11, as he was not on the list of the personalities who attended the reception.14 Aside from his serious illness, like other internationally-known Soviet literary and art personalities, Stanislavsky was subject to Joseph Stalin’s policy known as “isolate but preserve,” and was thus effectively placed in home confinement, with his daily routine and meetings carefully controlled by his doctors, who followed Stalin’s instructions (Smeliansky 1991, 9; Benedetti 1999, 372). According to Vinogradskaia’s chronicle of Stanislavsky’s life and work, during Mei Lanfang’s entire visit in the Soviet Union, Stanislavsky did not perform any social or professional activities outside his residence; he was staying home conducting rehearsals of plays, such as Bulgakov’s Molière, Gioachino Rossini’s The Barber of Seville, Georges Bizet’s Carmen, and Gaetano Donizetti’s Don Pasquale, or having meetings with his actors and students (Vinogradskaia 2003, 4:320–326). A close examination of VOKS’s records on Mei’s daily activities during his stay in the Soviet Union from March 12 through April 20 finds no evidence that Stanislavsky, who was nominally one of the members of VOKS’s Reception Committee,15 was present at any of Mei’s receptions and perfor­ mances, or that he had any meeting with Mei other than the one previously scheduled on March 30.16 Mei’s claim that he met Stanislavsky “several times” is contradicted by existing records. For instance, Mei recalled that Stanislavsky, along with Nemirovich-Danchenko, Meyerhold, and others, attended the luncheon reception given, in honour of him, on March 14 by VOKS’s Chairman A. J. Arosev, who headed the Reception Committee (Mei 1959, 202; 1962, 41; 2010, 427). But VOKS’s records show that while Tairov, Eisenstein, and Tretyakov were present at the reception, Stanislavsky was not.17 According to Mei, on March 18, Stanislavsky invited him to see Chekhov’s play, The Cherry Orchard (Mei 1953d, 32). According to VOKS’s records, however, Mei’s attendance at the performance of Chekhov’s play at the Moscow Art Theatre had been previously arranged by VOKS18 and, at the Theatre, Mei met Olga Knipper-Chekhova, among others, but not Sta­ nislavsky.19 On the same day, Stanislavsky was conducting a rehearsal of Carmen at home and did not accompany Mei to the performance (Vino­ gradskaia 2003, 4:320). In all writings, letters, notes, memoires, and interviews published after 1935, Stanislavsky made no mention of his only meeting with Mei Lanfang. Nor did he indicate that he saw any of Mei’s performances. He referred to Mei Lanfang exactly once. In a letter to Elizabeth Hapgood, dated on January 11, 1937, Stanislavsky suggested that Hapgood send a copy of her English translation of his work (An Actor Prepares) to Mei Lanfang, “the famous Chinese actor,” as Stanislavsky called him (Stanislavski 1988–1999, 9:664; 2014, 607).20 This lack of direct evidence of Stanislavsky’s view of Mei Lanfang’s performance further calls into question his “appraisal” of the art of traditional Chinese theatre, as recalled by Mei Lanfang.

30 The Spectre of Tradition As my investigation in this chapter has demonstrated, during Mei Lanfang’s tour in the Soviet Union, Stanislavsky met Mei Lanfang once but did not see any of his performances. From the recollections by Mei Lanfang and Yu Shangyuan, it is known for certain that in their conversation with Stanislavsky, the Chinese guests talked about Mei’s performances in Moscow and that in particular Mei showed Stanislavsky the use of hand gestures in his perfor­ mances. According to Mei, their meeting lasted about three hours, starting from 2 p.m. and ending at 5 p.m.; during the meeting, after their conversation with Stanislavsky, the Chinese guests attended a rehearsal of the two acts of a new production before leaving the Russian master (Mei 1953d, 32–34).21 According to Yu Shangyuan, after the conversation in which Mei and Zhang Pengchun reported on Mei’s performances in Moscow, the Chinese guests went downstairs to see the rehearsal of one scene of The Barber of Seville, in which an actress was auditioned for the opera. Here Yu’s recollection of the rehearsal of The Barber of Seville is corroborated by VOKS’s records and by the report in the Moscow Daily News, as noted previously. After the rehearsal, at Stanislavsky’s insistence, the Chinese went back to his study and they talked about the Art Theatre, the Stanislavsky Opera Theatre, and his training school (probably the Stanislavsky Opera-Dramatic Studio) before departing from his home. Yu noted that as the three Chinese guests did not speak Russian, interpretation used more time than the actual conversation (Yu 1936, 59–60). Thus, taken into full account the time used up on the pleasantries, the rehear­ sal, the discussion of Stanislavsky’s work, and the interpretation, there was indeed little time left in the meeting for Stanislavsky to learn anything sub­ stantial about the Chinese theatre from his Chinese guests. Moreover, Yu Shangyuan’s account gives no indication that Stanislavsky said anything sig­ nificant and specific about Mei’s performance and the Chinese theatre which can corroborate Mei’s claim of Stanislavsky’s “incisive and deep understanding” of the performance of traditional Chinese theatre. In late 1949, in the wake of the founding of the People’s Republic of China, the reform of traditional Chinese theatre gained new ideological and sociopolitical weight. Speaking of the reform, Mei Lanfang proposed a conservative approach, insisting that it adhere to the principle, “Moving forward does not require change of form” (Zhang 1949, 3) Later, as his approach was attacked, ironically, for its alleged formalist tendency, Mei was forced to adopt a new position, “Moving forward necessitates change of form” (Zhang and Wang 1949, 1). As noted previously, upon his return to China in 1935, Mei spoke highly of Meyerhold and did not say anything about Stanislavsky. In the 1950s, however, like many Chinese theatre artists, Mei venerated Stanislavsky as “a great artist, thinker, and gifted theatre reformer” (Mei 1953a), and seemed to have forgotten Meyerhold completely. It was not by accident that it was in the 1950s that Mei, for the first time, advanced Stanislavsky’s “appraisal” of the acting of traditional Chinese theatre as “a regulated and yet free movement”; it was directly tied to the impact of Stanislavsky on the Chinese theatrical world and to the official campaign against formalism. As Jiao Juyin, a noted director

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and Stanislavsky specialist, asserted in a speech in 1953 commemorating the 50th anniversary of Stanislavsky’s death, “the Stanislavsky system is a powerful weapon against formalism” (Jiao 1954, 39). Thus, in Mei Lanfang’s view, Sta­ nislavsky “was consistent in his stand for realism in acting and against formalism that is divorced from life” (Mei 1953b). In contrast to Mei’s original position, “Moving forward does not require change of form,” an anti-formalist emphasis was placed on the realism of “free movement” in the constitution of Sta­ nislavsky’s “appraisal.” Furthermore, Stanislavsky’s “appraisal,” in the sense that any “free” movement remains subject to regulation by the laws of traditional Chinese theatre, can be viewed as a compromise between Mei’s original “formalist” position and his changed “realistic” position, as noted previously. Mei Lanfang’s invocation of Stanislavsky’s “appraisal” of the art of traditional Chinese theatre was echoed in the writings of his contemporary students. For instance, according to Yang Wannong, a Beijing opera artist and a noted stu­ dent of Mei’s art, Mei’s students, who often took notes of Mei’s shenduan (physical movements and attitudes) while watching his performances, noticed that Mei’s shenduan was slightly different each time. Mei explained that “shen­ duan is a regulated and yet free movement” (Yang 1961, 28). Yan Huizhu, another accomplished artist and Mei’s student, recalled in 1961 that Mei often advised his students that the performance of traditional Chinese theatre consists of “regulated and yet free movements” (Yan 1961, 27). It should be noted that neither Yang nor Yan indicated that Mei was quoting Stanislavsky when making his statement. Likewise, in spite of his serious doubt in 1934 about the significance of Mei Lanfang’s visit to the Soviet Union (Tian 2012, 107–108, 119–120, 123), Tian Han, as noted previously, in an essay remembering Mei’s life, reaffirmed Mei’s account of Stanislavsky’s “appraisal” (Tian 1961b, 6; 1961a). Furthermore, in the same essay, Tian Han recalled that, in 1957 when he and Mei attended the 40th anniversary of the October Revolution, one of Stanislavsky’s students told them that one month before Stanislavsky died, the Russian master said to his students that traditional Chinese theatre was “a highly poetical and con­ ventionalized (yangshihua) realistic theatre” and urged them to study it (Tian 1961b, 6).22 Elsewhere, in the same year, Tian Han noted that on the same occasion, in a reception of the Chinese delegation, “a noted [Soviet] director mentioned that one month before he died, Stanislavsky urged everyone to pay attention to the Chinese theatre, saying that ‘there is a highly poetical and conventionalized (yangshihua) realism in the Chinese theatre’” (Tian 1961a). Tian Han did not identify Stanislavsky’s “student” or the “noted director” in question. In his memoires and writings, Mei Lanfang did not indicate that he and Tian Han came into contact with such a “student” or “director” during their 1957 visit to the Soviet Union. Nor did he, obviously, speak of Sta­ nislavsky’s comment on the Chinese theatre, as Tian Han did. Earlier in 1953, however, in his essay, “To the Memory of Stanislavsky,” Mei Lanfang recalled that after his participation in the 1952 Vienna Peace Congress, on the first day of his arrival in Moscow while on his way back to China, “the noted director

32 The Spectre of Tradition Kemishariweisiji” told him that Stanislavsky spoke about him to his actors and pupils even when working on his last production (Mei 1953b; 1953c, 165; 1963b, 190). My investigation reveals that both Tian Han and Mei Lanfang referred to Viktor Grigor’evich Komissarzhevsky, who, as noted previously, was the director of the Maly Theatre in the 1950s and 1960s. In 1959, Komissarzhevsky recalled that he attended Stanislavsky’s last rehearsal with the actors of his studio at his home, a scene from Shakespeare’s Hamlet: While rehearsing Shakespeare he [Stanislavsky] spoke about the masterly technique the author required of the actor; he spoke about the structural perfection of the word and the eloquence of gesture, citing the remarkable pantomime of Mei Lan-fang, the Chinese actor. (Komissarzhevsky 1959, 126)23 Four years later, Komissarzhevsky gave a slightly different but more detailed recollection, mentioning again Stanislavsky’s enthusiastic comment on Mei Lanfang’s “meticulous mastery” and “amazing musicality and plasticity”: Stanislavsky said that with all the differences in the means of embodying life’s truth onstage, an actor must command these means as perfectly as Mei Lan-fang commands his body, about whose hands alone—as Kon­ stantin Sergeevich said then—one can write a poem.—Learn the accuracy of mastery from Mei Lan-fang!—Stanislavsky advised his pupils. (Komissarzhevsky 1963, 11–12; 1971, 217)24 Here it appears to me that Komissarzhevsky’s own account of Stanislavsky’s comment on Mei Lanfang’s art, which tells nothing about the realism of tra­ ditional Chinese theatre, differs significantly from what Tian Han claimed Komissarzhevsky had told Mei Lanfang and himself two years earlier about Stanislavsky’s stress on the realism of the Chinese theatre. Such an inconsistency naturally casts doubt on the accuracy of Tian Han’s recollection of Komissarz­ hevsky’s account. Nevertheless, the fact remains that in the 1950s and the early 1960s both the Russians and the Chinese were under the spell of Stanislavsky and were branding his theory of acting as a realistic (and thereby scientific) system. Komissarzhevsky, like Tian Han and Mei himself, interpreted Mei’s art from the allegedly realistic perspective of the Stanislavsky system and tried to project the latter’s universality. Thus, in Komissarzhevsky’s view, Mei’s por­ trayal of his characters was “unusually rich in psychological nuances” (Komis­ sarzhevsky 1963, 9; 1971, 214); an actor of a peculiar and conventional theatrical system that appears completely different from that of the Russian theatre, Mei “organically came into contact with the ideas of the advanced Russian stage, with the ideas of Stanislavsky” (Komissarzhevsky 1963, 10; 1971, 216). Komissarzhevsky attempted to broaden the concept of theatrical realism or, more precisely, the realism of the Stanislavsky system—“its poetic language

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33

can be conventional, original, and peculiar”—to include traditional Chinese theatre characterized by its unique and conventional poetic language. In doing so, he was able to argue that, as “the basis of each realistic theatrical system” was always concerned with human studies, “the intelligent science of scenic ‘human studies’ created by Stanislavsky” was therefore “so close, life-giving and fruitful to all theatres of the world, including the Mei Lanfang Theatre” (Komissarzhevsky 1963, 11; 1971, 217). As Meyerhold was displaced in Mei’s memory in favour of Stanislavsky, Komissarzhevsky attacked Meyerhold for his “formalistic errors and delusions” as a result of his breaking away from the Stanislavsky system and, at the same time, praised “the realistic poetry” of Meyerhold’s “unconventional theatre” (Komissarzhevsky 1959, 40), disregard­ ing Meyerhold’s high regard of the conventionality of Mei’s art,25 the very same quality that Komissarzhevsky highly valued in Mei’s art and attempted to displace into the Stanislavsky system. In the 1950s, as there was in China nothing unique about Mei’s (and Tian Han’s) stress on the realism of the Sta­ nislavsky system and, accordingly, on that of traditional Chinese theatre, there was in the Soviet Union nothing original about Komissarzhevsky’s view of the realism of traditional Chinese theatre from the (realistic) perspective of the Stanislavsky system. In fact, back in 1935, fresh from his experience of Mei Lanfang’s perfor­ mance in Russia, the noted Soviet director, Sergei Radlov, a former Meyer­ holdian formalist turned anti-Meyerholdian realist in the 1930s, tied Mei Lanfang’s art directly to the Stanislavsky system: The first and very exciting observation is the deep inner commonality and general obligation of such genuine art across the barriers of races and eras. Every real actor in a sense plays ‘according to the Stanislavsky system,’ observing one indispensable law—the law of sufficient grounds and moti­ vation for human actions. Closely observing the subtlest psychological performance of Mei Lan-Fang, this Komissarzhevskaya of the Chinese theatre, you see everywhere such a profound justification for every movement. (Radlov 1935. Emphases in original) Likewise, Yuri Zavadsky (1894–1977), the noted Soviet actor and director, recalled that his experience of Mei Lanfang’s 1935 performances in the Soviet Union became “a revelation” and “directly merged with an understanding of the meaning of the technique of the Stanislavskian actor”: such “a limpid, imperceptible, perfect technique” as Mei Lanfang had was demanded by Sta­ nislavsky of “the ideal actor of his school” (Zavadsky 1975, 114. Emphasis in original). According to Nikolai Cherkasov (1903–1966), another Soviet actor and a People’s Artist, who saw Mei Lanfang perform in Beijing at the end of 1952, Mei played his role with “great nobility, grace, and deep truthful psy­ chological characteristics” (Cherkasov 1953, 361). Sergei Obraztsov, a Soviet artist who once travelled to China conducting a field study of Chinese theatre,

34

The Spectre of Tradition

interpreted the many different performances of traditional Chinese theatre from the perspective of the Stanislavsky system. Obraztsov believed that if Sta­ nislavsky had seen those performances, he would have found in them again and again a “confirmation” of what he had taught his actors (Obraztsov 1957, 87). Obraztsov acknowledged that he made his comments on the Chinese perfor­ mances he observed, “referring to the practice of working on the role by the Soviet actors and, of course, above all, on the Stanislavsky system” (236). Dis­ placing one of the most conventional attributes of traditional Chinese theatre— the categorization of characters into different role types—into the Stanislavsky system, Obraztsov even argued that “it is precisely due to the fixedness and accuracy of the type of roles that the Chinese actor’s feeling of unity with the portrayed character is particularly organic” (246). The Soviet theatre scholar and critic A. N. Anastas’ev championed the Socialist Realism of the Sta­ nislavsky system against formalism. Anastas’ev observed Mei Lanfang’s perfor­ mances in the Soviet Union in 1935 and again saw him perform in Beijing in 1954. By way of a displacement of Mei’s technical conventionalism into Sta­ nislavsky’s psychological realism, Anastas’ev thus underscored what he saw as highly valuable in Mei’s art: “The highest artistic technique, the technical ability of conventional art to portray, with amazing precision and expressive­ ness, the inner state of the heroine” (Anastas’ev 1961, 329), or “a combination of the conventionality of speeches and movements with the psychological truth of action” (334). These Russian views of Mei Lanfang’s art and traditional Chinese theatre attest to the historical fact that the Russians, like the Chinese, underscored the “realism” of the Chinese theatre from the realistic and psy­ chological perspective of the Stanislavsky system. As demonstrated in my investigation, during Mei Lanfang’s entire tour in the Soviet Union, Stanislavsky never saw any of his performances and they had exactly one short meeting at Stanislavsky’s residence. Mei Lanfang’s account of Stanislavsky’s “appraisal” of his art and the acting of traditional Chinese theatre finds no corroboration in existing records, particularly, in recollections by Zhang Pengchun and Yu Shangyuan, who were present at the meeting. Tian Han’s account (purportedly through Komissarzhevsky) of Stanislavsky’s inter­ pretation of traditional Chinese theatre is only partially suggested in Komis­ sarzhevsky’s recollections that stress Stanislavsky’s appreciation of Mei Lanfang’s masterly techniques. As noted previously in this chapter, Stanislavsky himself insisted on the importance of seeing a “true” performance like Mei Lanfang’s in the theatre.26 Such being the case, the very fact that he did not see any of Mei’s perfor­ mances—and thereby his lack of a direct experience of traditional Chinese theatre—essentially denied him an ability to have any unique and profound understanding of such a “true” theatre (as Stanislavsky would call it) with a time-honoured tradition and a highly coded system fundamentally different from the Russian and European traditions. Thus, in spite of the fact that Sta­ nislavsky was truly a great master or even a genius in the Russian theatre, whose theory was deeply rooted and conditioned in the Russian and European

The Legitimation of Tradition

35

traditions, his “dead words” or his “appraisal” (if indeed he had any), devoid of the innermost meanings born of an inner experiencing of the Chinese theatre, cannot speak to the essence of the life of its human spirit and to its artistic embodiment. Moreover, orally transmitted and translated and remotely remembered over decades, thus possibly embellished, varnished, or even dis­ torted, they must not have been accorded any significance in the understanding of traditional Chinese theatre and cannot have had any pervasive and persuasive impact on the Chinese theatrical world. The construction of this remarkable intercultural myth was entirely pre­ dicated on the political and ideological conditions that allied the new China with Soviet Russia in the 1950s. During that time, the Stanislavsky system was formally accepted as the orthodoxy in the Chinese theatrical world. The Soviet Stanislavsky experts were invited to teach and train Chinese theatre students and professional artists. Stanislavsky’s theory was followed by many artists of traditional Chinese theatre in the practice of their craft and by theorists in their theoretical construction of the realism (as opposed to formalism) of tra­ ditional Chinese theatre.27 In 1956, Tian Han had this to say about the impact of the Soviet experts: “The Soviet experts severely criticized the for­ mulism and formalism in our performing arts … and guided us to the right path of the Stanislavsky system with its content based on Socialist Realism” (Tian 1956, 4). Like many of his contemporary Chinese artists, Mei Lanfang studied Sta­ nislavsky’s theory with great interest and subscribed to the realism of his system. Partaking of the general hyperbolic praise bestowed on Stanislavsky’s theory by the majority of Chinese theatre artists and critics, Mei asserted that Stanislavsky “established a complete system that had never existed in the history of acting,” and that the Stanislavsky system—as “a historical summation” of Russian and Western European acting—“enhanced acting to the new, highest level” (Mei 1959, 204). Drawing on his own professional experiences, Mei maintained that many principles in Stanislavsky’s theory of acting were commensurate with the performing art of traditional Chinese theatre (204). In a whole decade beginning from the middle of the 1960s, Stanislavsky’s theory was denounced in China as idealistic and revisionist as a result of the collapse of the Sino-Soviet political, ideological, and economic alliance. Con­ sequently, those once enthusiastic proponents of the Stanislavsky system were forced to change or compromise their positions. As Stanislavsky’s name dis­ appeared from the Chinese theatrical discourse, Mei Lanfang’s contact with Stanislavsky and the latter’s “appraisal” of the acting of traditional Chinese theatre were hardly mentioned any more.28 Beginning in the 1980s, however, with the increasing improvement of the Sino-Soviet economic, political, and cultural relations and with renewed Chinese interest in Stanislavsky’s theory as a “scientific” system, as Mei Lanfang was sanctified as the reincarnation of the tradition of Chinese theatre, the myth of Stanislavsky’s contact with the art of traditional Chinese theatre through Mei Lanfang’s performance has been res­ urrected with new aura and potency.

36 The Spectre of Tradition

The Haunted Space: Between the Extremes of Traditions As reported in the Moscow Daily News, noted previously, Stanislavsky “spoke enthusiastically of Chinese theatrical art, comparing it with ancient Greek art.”29 Given the fact that it had become a commonplace in the West to compare the art of traditional Chinese theatre with ancient Greek art, as Sta­ nislavsky reportedly did, there was nothing unique and profound about his understanding of it.30 Nevertheless, it would be truly ironical for the Chinese to think of Stanislavsky’s comparison as a positively high “appraisal” of the art of Chinese theatre. It suffices to recall Stanislavsky’s view of the art of ancient Greek theatre, particularly the conventional art of the Greek actors, as the beginning of a long history of “false traditions” in the theatre, as he stated (around 1913/1914): The ancient theatre had the largest audience, and therefore, naturally, it had to give rise to the most striking acting conventionality. Under such external conditions of creativity, the art of the actors of ancient Greece could not have been good, at least from our point of view. We should not make the usual mistake of confusing the literature of the Greek theatre, which was beautiful, with the very art of the actors, which, regardless of their talent, must have been crude and unnatural. Thus, the first steps of acting technique in the ancient theatre inevitably had to introduce the actors into an environment of conventions and to cause unnatural violence to the human nature of the actors. (Stanislavski 1988–1999, vol. 5, bk. 2:406–407) Stanislavsky went on to underscore the continuity of this history from the medieval performance of the mysteries down to the following eras, in which new conventions added only to have further broken the nature of the human artist and to have brought the actors to lies and unnaturalness, which made “a natural, truthful experiencing on stage” impossible (407–409). Without a first­ hand experience of the performance of traditional Chinese theatre, Sta­ nislavsky’s reading knowledge gained him no more or deeper insights into the living tradition of the Chinese theatre than his view of the ruins, or the dead words, of the ancient Greek theatre. Thereby, from Stanislavsky’s point of view, his perception of the ancient Greek theatre may ironically and aptly apply to the history of traditional Chinese theatre that has enjoyed a “vener­ able” tradition of technical training that entails the initiation of the actors into a world of conventions and the subjection of “the human nature of the actors” to a battery of “unnatural violence,” to use Stanislavsky’s words. Furthermore, the Chinese tradition, one of the “true” traditions of conventional theatre (from Meyerhold’s viewpoint), may well have been deemed (by Stanislavsky or from his perspective) as an “unnatural,” and thereby “false,” tradition. Here it is interesting to note that, in a conversation with his student, Hu Zhifeng, while speaking of Stanislavsky’s high regard of the acting of traditional

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37

Chinese theatre as “regulated and yet free action,” Mei Lanfang emphasized that Stanislavsky would nevertheless reject its acting conventions and consider them “obstructive of acting” (Hu 1985, 47). Here Mei’s seemingly paradoxical statement reveals his unmistakable intent to distance the acting of traditional Chinese theatre from its alleged extreme conventionalism and formalism. Indeed, Stanislavsky, who often invoked and sanctified the “true” traditions of the art of experiencing, may have considered the conventions of traditional Chinese theatre characteristic of what he rejected as the “false” traditions of theatricality and conventionality. Writing in 1912/1913, Stanislavsky attacked the lies and violence of the old and “false” traditions and championed the “new methods of inner technique” and “the realism of the inner truth of the life of the human spirit, the realism of natural experiencing, which, in its naturalness, reaches the point of spiritual/ soulful (dushevnogo) naturalism” (Stanislavski 1988–1999, vol. 5, bk. 2:425). For Stanislavsky, “one of the main achievements of the revolution that has not yet ended is the cleansing of the basic principle of the art of experiencing from all that is conventional and superficial”: Now we must learn not the conventional experiencing of a role adapted to the stage and the spectator, which the old trend had developed, but a natural experiencing and creativity freed from conventionality and coming close to the requirements of the spiritual and physical nature of the human actor. (427) Again, in 1913/1914, Stanislavsky argued: Our nature demands complete freedom to express our feelings during experiencing, but, on the one hand, it has to reckon with the need to speak loudly, act on stage, and overcome many other conventions of the theatre, and, on the other hand, a whole arsenal of false traditions or stylish conventions is imposed on the artist, making the actor a slave to these unnatural and forcibly instilled habits. (412) Here, underscoring the importance of redeeming the art of experiencing from the “false” traditions of conventional acting, Stanislavsky made a distinction between the craft of “conventional experiencing” that had evolved from the old traditions and the art of “natural experiencing” that he had been advocating and developing as the core of his system. Most significantly, and fundamentally, Stanislavsky clearly deemed all those conventions innate to the theatre and all those transmitted and fixed as traditions in the historical movement of the theatre as obstructive of the “complete freedom” of the actor, whose perfor­ mance (inner and natural experiencing and creativity) must fight and overcome those imposed external and unnatural traditions and conventions.

38 The Spectre of Tradition In 1918, in a manuscript, “The Art of Experiencing,” Stanislavsky proposed what was essentially an inner naturalism—opposed to any external naturalism— of acting that essentializes the art of inner and natural experiencing: The art of experiencing has the best and strongest creative possibilities, because it creates in close and indissoluble cooperation with the creative nature itself, that is, with the highest creative and artistic power and with the most perfect creator-artist. (Stanislavski 1988–1999, 6:79–80) Thus, nature has the most important place in creativity, and its creativity is based on the intuition of artistic feeling, which is open to full scope in our art. The creative work of feeling is accomplished through the process of genu­ ine normal experiencing of the life of the human spirit of the role and the natural incarnation of the experiencing. This is why the process of creative experien­ cing becomes the basis of artistic work, and our direction secures its name: the art of experiencing. (80. Emphases in original) Stanislavsky was resolutely opposed to the glorification of external nat­ uralism, which he argued would crush “the life of the human spirit on stage,” and to the veneration of external and unnatural theatricality and con­ ventionality, which he thought would be detrimental to “the inner life of the human spirit” (90). Thus, for Stanislavsky, artists “do not shed theatrical tears” without allowing themselves to finish talking about “what causes the very tears”; artists “naturally reach them, going through a whole gamut of successive feelings that ultimately lead to tears” (90). “In other words,” Stanislavsky con­ tinued, “they experience the feeling itself, rather than copying only its end results, as in other theatres” (90). From Stanislavsky’s perspective, those “other” theatres include all theatres (traditional and modern) characterized by their “external” and “unnatural” theatricality and conventionality. Stanislavsky opposed the actors of “the art of experiencing” to the actors of what he called “the stock-in-trade (remeslennoi, artisan, craftsman) tradition.” In his view, the actors of that tradition “aren’t able to create each role individu­ ally” and “aren’t able to experience and give natural physical embodiment to what they have experienced”; their “technical tricks,” “theatrical tricks,” “convention-based theatrics,” or “formal tricks” represented “an extremely primitive, formal, outward portrayal of feelings” and presented the audience with “external clichés” without psychological content or inner feelings. These “tricks” (techniques) involve, among other things, the actor’s formal move­ ments and gestures for displaying all possible human feelings and passions and the actor’s techniques for imitating characters and types from different strata of society (Stanislavski 2008, 28–29; 1988–1999, 2:74–75). Stanislavsky’s portrayal of the artisan-actor’s movements on the stage, for instance, walking (“artisan­ actors do not walk but strut on the theatrical floor” [Stanislavski 1988–1999,

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2:75; 2008, 29]), reminds of the convention of walking on the Chinese stage, namely zouyuanchang (walking around on the stage), which prescribes that the actor should not walk on the theatrical floor naturally as if in real life but rather theatrically, rhythmically, and with plasticity. Stanislavsky’s description of the artisan-actor’s manner of weeping (“covering one’s face and eyes with one’s hands instead of weeping” [Stanislavski 1988–1999, 2:75; 2008, 29]) also reminds of the convention of weeping on the Chinese stage, which dic­ tates that the actor should not cry with real tears but use gestures or shuixiu (literally “water-sleeves”) to suggest the act of “crying” without shedding real tears. Here is how Bertolt Brecht observed Mei Lanfang’s performance of “crying”: The actor Mei Lan-fang refrained from crying because she (sic) found it unartistic, and she also did not want to have traces of tears discovered on her face that were not there. So, she was crying into her sleeve, and the man grabbed the sleeve and played as if he had found it wet. (Brecht 1993a, 129) Here Brecht saw in Mei Lanfang’s “unnatural” crying, like his equally “unna­ tural” walking, an example of his idea of the art of “estranged” or “alienated” acting. Stanislavsky’s idea of “physical actions” refers to the physical actions of the characters and the events taking place in a play, and his method of physical actions as a method of rehearsals that focuses on the actor’s analysis of such actions or events is aimed at stimulating and arousing natural and truthful feel­ ings in each individual actor and is ultimately subject to the art of the actor’s individual onstage experiencing of the spiritual life of the character, without which the method of physical actions will become routine and conventional and turn into a craft. Although the method of physical actions was clearly articulated in the late 1930s, as part of the Stanislavsky system, it was prefigured and articulated in Stanislavsky’s writings in the 1910s. In “The Art of Pre­ sentation” (written in the first post-revolutionary years), Stanislavsky contrasted “the art of presentation” with “the art of experiencing” and thus spoke of the actor’s art of physical “incarnation”: “The next creative process—incarnation—is inextricably linked with experiencing. It also takes place in a natural way, on the basis of the laws of nature itself, through the indissoluble connection of the soul with the body” (Stanislavski 1988–1999, 6:65–66). He repeatedly talked about “natural incarnation” or “physical incarnation” (66–68, 71, 74). He underlined the central importance of inner experiencing in relation to physical incarnation: The art of presentation, though appreciative, undervalues the importance of the process of genuine experiencing and natural incarnation in the creation of the living life of the spirit and its incarnation. (74)

40

The Spectre of Tradition The subtlety and depth of human feelings do not lend themselves to technical tricks of interpretation; they need genuine experiencing at the very moment of their incarnation on stage. Thus, at best, the art of presentation is capable of creating strong, beautiful, but shallow, fragile, transient impressions. At worst, the art of presentation imperceptibly devolves into a craft. (77)

In “The Art of Experiencing,” Stanislavsky already defined the relation between internal technique and external technique: The artist’s technique is conscious. He makes use of the one-tenth accessible in creativity to our consciousness in order to discover and bring to life natu­ rally nine-tenths of the unconscious creative life of the role: the unconscious through the conscious—this is the slogan of the technique of our art. Technique is internal and external, that is, mental and physical. Internal technique is aimed at stimulating the creative process of experiencing, and external technique is aimed at the natural and beautiful incarnation of experiencing, with the help of the artist’s voice, intonation, facial expres­ sions, and his entire physical apparatus. (87. Emphases in original) In her study, Rose Whyman has demonstrated convincingly the consistent movement of the main line of Stanislavsky’s system running throughout his entire career: Stanislavsky sought to achieve naturalism in acting, in that it should be based in real, or natural experience. This search went through various stages, in which considerations of inner and outer technique were crucial but the goal remained the creation of life on stage. (Whyman 2008, 37) I want to underscore this line of the historical development of Stanislavsky’s system to illustrate the formation of the Stanislavsky tradition throughout his entire career. What underlies this tradition, as I will demonstrate later in this chapter and further in Chapter 2, is the Russian traditions of Pushkin and Mikhail Shchepkin. Although Stanislavsky devoted his whole system to the actor’s art of experi­ encing and incarnating “‘the life of the human spirit’ of the role” (Stanislavski 1988– 1999, 2:62. Emphases in original), in the end, an artistic form in which the actor can transmit that life on stage remained elusive to him and to the heirs of his tradition. It is not by accident that Eisenstein argued, in his speech on Mei Lanfang’s art, that both in the Soviet-Russian theatre and cinema, “the culture of high poetic form has all-but disappeared” and that the Russians “have a marked and terrible stagnation in the sphere of formal culture.”31 With regard

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to Stanislavsky’s system, the absence of a well-defined artistic form and of a prevailing formal culture is fundamentally tied to the nature of the system, whose naturalism perceives as anathema any attempt on the part of the artist to deform, disfigure, and dislocate nature, whereas any form of art is in essence an artificial deformation, disfiguration, and dislocation of nature. For Meyerhold, conventionality is the essence of the theatre as an artistic form; for Stanislavsky, The natural creativity of nature itself is fixed by convention according to the purely artistic requirements of art. True, conventionality falsifies, lies; it dries up the natural form of the incarnation of feeling; it transposes authentic creativity, displaces it from the plane of life to the plane of pre­ sentation. It even creates a dislocation between soul and body. (Stanislavski 1988–1999, 6:68) Here, Stanislavsky essentially equates conventionality with lie, and for him, “Lie is the enemy of art” (75). Thus, in his view, “the combination of an actor’s lies with creative truth creates a dislocation, a discord between the soul and the body, an ugliness of human nature” (74). Given the fact that, in his lifetime, Stanislavsky had never seen any authentic performance of a traditional Chinese or Japanese theatre, he may not have been able to understand the art of experiencing mastered by a Chinese actor like Mei Lanfang or a Japanese like Ichikawa Sadanji II, which differentiates itself from both the Brechtian technique of estrangement or the Stanislavskian art of inner and natural experiencing, and he may have regarded the Chinese and Japanese actors as “artisans” or “craftsmen,” their art as craft, and their techniques as all kinds of external tricks or clichés devoid of genuine inner experiencing and psychological content. Stanislavsky’s rehearsal method of physical actions differs fundamentally from the extreme conventional physical methods and techniques of traditional Chinese and Japanese theatres. This may explain the fact that in his writings Stanislavsky never talked about traditional Chinese or Japanese theatre, in sharp contrast to Meyerhold and Tairov, whose formal achievements were decried by Stanislavsky as all borrowings from the Germans (and from, I want to add, the “formalistic” traditions of the Chinese and Japanese theatres) (Stanislavski 1988–1999, 9:705).32

Conclusion In a manuscript dated around 1913/1914, Stanislavsky wrote about the creation of “false traditions” of different eras (Stanislavski 1988–1999, vol. 5, bk. 2:406–407): Thus, the conventions of each era were reflected in our art, left indelible traces in it forever, and for centuries, from generation to generation, inculcated in actors and audiences habits based on the violence against their human nature. This is how the false traditions that have inundated our art have been created.

42 The Spectre of Tradition Thus, the past is first and foremost accessible to us from the outside. The spiritual side of creativity, that most valuable, important, elusive thing that gives a thrill to the creation of an artist, that amazes us and possesses our souls (dushami), remains a mystery that can only be guessed at if the creator himself has spoken about it. (409) Fortunately, for Stanislavsky, the “true” inner and spiritual traditions were inscribed by many genius predecessors in their “precepts” set down in “dead letters and words” (409), and as such Stanislavsky argued that “one must penetrate into the innermost meaning of the words, in which the spiritual essence of traditions is hidden” (410). However, according to Stanislavsky, “it is not easy to find the spiritual essence of a tradition in its verbal formula”: It is not easy to open it in such a way as to preserve the aroma of those creative precepts that were put into the verbal formula of tradition by genius ancestors. But without this fragrance, the great precepts of the past lose the meaning for which they were bequeathed. Perfume without fra­ grance becomes an unnecessary liquid that turns sour and emits a stench. In a concise verbal formula of a true tradition, the whole essence, the whole fruition of the whole creative activity of a genius is often encapsu­ lated. This extract of artistic life is inexhaustible. One must not see in it only that little and external thing that fits into the very formula of tradition and that is recorded in words. It is necessary to expand the inner meaning of the soulless (bezdushnykh) words in depth, in breadth, and upwards. (Stanislavski 1988–1999, vol. 5, bk. 2:410) For Stanislavsky, what this necessitates and is of practical importance is to look at these “true” or “great” traditions, and their verbal formulas or precepts, from “the viewpoint of their inner creative essence” (410), which means in effect to look at them from the perspective of the creative process defined by Stanislavsky’s system, namely, the actor must experience and embody the essence of “the life of the human spirit”: “Experiencing helps the artist fulfill the main purpose of stage art, which is to create ‘the life of the human spirit’ of the role and to transmit that life on stage in artistic form” (Stanislavski 1988–1999, 2:62. Emphases in original). Such an art of inner experiencing and creative process denies the artistic legitimacy of all external forms characteristic of what Stanislavsky called “false traditions,” as he asserted that “the great life of the spirit” cannot be transmitted by “one external sharpness of form” and that it cannot be embodied by acrobatics, constructivism, the ostenta­ tious luxury and richness of the production, the simplicity of a complete elimina­ tion of the scenery, the painted circles on the faces, or all the new external devices and exaggerated manners of the actors, which are usually justified by the fashion­ able word “grotesque” (Stanislavski 1988–1999, 1:479–480). Here Stanislavsky suggested a clear rejection of Meyerhold’s theatre of the “grotesque” and con­ ventionality. Such a strict view led Stanislavsky to this stark conclusion:

The Legitimation of Tradition

43

The new theatre did not create a single new artist-creator who is strong in depicting the life of the human spirit, not a single new technique, not a single hint of searching in the field of internal technology, not a single brilliant ensemble; in short, not a single achievement in the field of spiri­ tual creativity. (488) Thus, what Stanislavsky needed, and called forth, was the spectre of an entirely different kind of tradition that he distinguished as “true” or “great” from the perspective of his system, as he believed that “the most important traditions of this kind (especially for a Russian artist) are the precepts of M. S. Shchepkin and N. V. Gogol,” whose essence or spirit was encapsulated in Shchepkin’s concise verbal formula or precept, “Take examples from life” (Stanislavski 1988–1999, vol. 5, bk. 2:410). In “The Art of Experiencing,” Stanislavsky again attacked the theatre of con­ ventionality and invoked Shchepkin’s precept, emphasizing that beauty is not cre­ ated by conventions but exists in, and must be transmitted from, life and nature itself: Any convention is a product of violence and lies, which cannot be beau­ tiful. Conventionality is invented; it is made, and it degenerates from the truth. Beauty, on the other hand, cannot be made; it exists, and it has long been created by nature around us, in each of us … Beauty is a superconscious feeling. There is no better beauty than nature itself. One must be able to look at and see the beautiful. One must be able to transmit beauty onto the stage from life and nature so as not to crumple or disfigure it while transmitting it. ‘Take examples from life and nature’—this is the general meaning of the precepts of our teacher M. S. Shchepkin. (Stanislavski 1988–1999, 6:95–96. Emphases in original)33 Late in his life, Stanislavsky considered himself “one of the outgoing and one of those who must somehow pass on these traditions” (Stanislavski 1988–1999, 6:570), namely, the “eternal Russian traditions” (257) that he defined as essential to the art of inner experiencing. Stanislavsky’s essentialist conception of the “true” or “great” traditions (or what he called “this side of the past” [Stanislavski 1988– 1999, vol. 5, bk. 2:409]) of the art of inner experiencing was equally one-sided if seen from Meyerhold’s perspective on the “true” traditions of theatricality and conventionality in contrast to the “false” traditions of naturalism. For Stanislavsky or Meyerhold, the invocation of the “true” traditions was necessitated in con­ structing, legitimating, and essentializing a “new” and “universal” tradition, the Stanislavskian, or the Meyerholdian, tradition. As their creativity died with their death, their traditions, as they were passed on, canonized or reinvented, would haunt and instill the minds of future generations of artists and audiences with their (“dead”) words or precepts. As O. N. Efremov, then People’s Artist of the USSR and Chief Director of the Moscow Art Theatre, spoke in the late 1980s of the “universality” of Stanislavsky’s legacy:

44

The Spectre of Tradition Today, interest in Stanislavsky is growing all over the world. Coming to America or England, Japan or France, you see how carefully Stanislavsky’s legacy is studied, how his ideas of the ‘organically created living life on stage’ are revived at a new stage in theatrical history. It is natural. The theatre is developing, moving forward, but inevitably it will return to ‘square one’—to Stanislavsky, because here is not technology, not method, not form, but the very essence of theatrical art, the guarantee of its viability in a complex modern world. (Efremov 1988, 10)34

Thus, as Efremov’s summary suggests, the Stanislavsky legacy has been essen­ tialized and canonized into an “eternal” and “transcendental” tradition, “uni­ versal” and “true” to all eras (the past, the present, and the future) and to all nations, peoples, and cultures. In the history of traditional Chinese theatre, for centuries, from generation to generation, from school to school, the creativity of the passing individual artists was dead for posterity, but their artistry was passed on in the “dead” words (precepts or creeds) of the Chinese tradition. Interculturally, since the turn of the twentieth century, as the Chinese tradition has left its imprint on the his­ torical movement of modern Western theatre, the traditions of modern Wes­ tern theatre, especially those invoking the tradition of Chinese theatre, have in turn weighed heavily, under particular historical and political circumstances, with the Chinese artists destined to carry on and transmit the Chinese tradition by reviving, redeeming, renewing, or reinventing the “dead” words of their ancestors. This is indeed true with the intercultural impact of the creeds of the Stanislavsky system in general and particularly that of Stanislavsky’s axiomatic “appraisal” of the art of traditional Chinese theatre, which the Chinese invoked to help justify and legitimate the existence (present and future) of the Chinese theatre as a “true” and living classical tradition. And it is true with the hallowed words of Mei Lanfang as the transmitter and the transmitted on the twentiethcentury Chinese and international stage. Yet, just as Stanislavsky sensed that the foreign (or “German”) influence on modern Russian theatre would undermine the “true” (“inner”) traditions of Russian theatre and thereby the foundation of his system (Stanislavski 1988– 1999, 9:705), Stanislavsky’s inner naturalism was deemed as a threat to the “true” traditions of “true” theatrical eras, such as the traditions of Chinese and Japanese theatres. That in part accounted for Meyerhold’s “traditionalist” invocation of the Eastern traditions in his struggles against naturalism and for Eisenstein’s essentialist position against any attempt to modernize the traditions of Chinese and Japanese theatres from the perspective of Stanislavsky’s inner naturalism.35 Meyerhold’s revolutionary revolt against the “false” traditions of naturalism invoked the “dead” words of the “true” traditions of Chinese and Japanese theatres, and Eisenstein’s argument would find a familiar, however distanced, echo in Mei Lanfang’s words on the necessity of preserving the form of traditional Chinese theatre before the Chinese actor was forced to change his

The Legitimation of Tradition

45

position and before the natural and inner “truth” of the Stanislavsky system was fetishized over the conventional and external “lie” of the Chinese tradition on the Chinese stage. In due time, however, the conventional “lie” would return as the theatrical “truth” to become the rallying cry of the anti-naturalistic movement on the Chinese stage.

Notes 1 Stanislavsky’s “appraisal” of the acting of traditional Chinese theatre as “a regulated and yet free movement” was cited in Chinese studies with slight variations, such as “a regulated and yet free action,” “a free movement regulated by the laws (of art),” or “a free action regulated by the laws (of art).” Here in these English renditions the difference lies in these Chinese words: dongzuo (movement) and xingdong (action); guize (rules, regulations) and guilü (laws). A search of these phrases in the most comprehensive Chinese full-text database, “China Academic Journals,” yields over 200 articles pub­ lished in China from 1961 through 2019, accessed July 4, 2020. This output does not cover numerous studies published in books and newspapers during the same period. 2 My investigation primarily uses archival records on Mei Lanfang’s 1935 tour in the Soviet Union, held by the Soviet All-Union Society for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries (VOKS) at the State Archive of the Russian Federation (GARF); I. N. Vinogradskaia’s chronicle of Stanislavsky’s life and work; and recollections by Mei Lanfang and his contemporaries, particularly Yu Shangyuan’s account that I recently uncovered of his and Mei Lanfang’s meeting with Stanislavsky. The records held by VOKS are the following as described in their cover sheets and in the electronic inventory on GARF’s official website (State Archive of the Russian Federation, http:// statearchive.ru/383): P5283/4/168 (copies of essays sent by Mei Lan-fang, correspon­ dence and reports on the presence of Dr. Mei Lan-fang in the USSR); P5283/4/211 (correspondence on the visit of the theatre of Mei Lan-fang in the USSR. Reports and a summary of conversations with Prof. Chkad [Zhang] and others); P5283/8/262 (lists of the persons present at the VOKS receptions for the period from February 11 to May 11, 1935); P5283/8/265 (lists of the persons invited to the VOKS receptions, organized on January 2 and March 15, 1935); P5283/8/267 (diary of work with Mei Lan-fang and other foreigners, recorded conversations, service programs for foreigners); P5283/ 8/269 (diaries of the Department for the reception of foreigners for the period from January 1 to October 17, 1935). 3 The Chinese authors cited in this chapter had a slightly different transliteration of Stanislavsky’s name, hence the slightly varied romanizations of the Chinese transliterations. 4 VOKS, Libretto zakliuchitelnogo spektaklia Kitaiskogo teatra pod rukovodstvom doktora Mei Lan-fana v Moskovskom gosudarstvennom akademicheskom Bolshom teatre 13 aprelia 1935 goda (Libretto of the final performance of the Chinese Theatre under the direction of Dr. Mei Lan-fang at the Moscow State Academic Bolshoi Theatre on April 13, 1935) (Moscow: 1935). 5 Vinogradskaia quoted from Mei Lanfang (Mei 1953c).

6 “Mei Lan-fang Visits Stanislavski,” Moscow Daily News, April 1, 1935, 1.

7 VOKS, “Programma dlia G-na Mei Lan-fana” (Program for Mr. Mei Lan-fang),

GARF, P5283/8/267, p. 48 (2); VOKS, “Dnevnik raboty s Mei Lan-Fanom” (Diary of Work with Mei Lan-fang), GARF, P5283/8/267, p. 1 (1). 8 VOKS, “Dnevnik raboty s Mei Lan-Fanom,” GARF, P5283/8/267, p. 1 (1). 9 “Porazhaet rost kultury! Beseda s Doktorom Mei Lan-Fanom” (Amazing Growth of Culture! A Talk by Dr. Mei Lanfang), Vecherniaia Moskva (Moscow Evening), April 13, 1935.

46 The Spectre of Tradition 10 “Ben shi mingliu zuori chahui huanying Mei Lanfang” (City Dignitaries Hosted a Tea Reception for Mei Lanfang Yesterday), Shen bao, August 15, 1935, 14; “Mei Lanfang yanshuo: gaijin Zhongguo xiju” (Mei Lanfang Gave a Speech on the Enhancement of the Chinese Theatre), Dagong bao (L’Impartial), August 17, 1935, 4; Xu 1935. 11 “Zhang Pengchun jiaoshou jiangyan: jiuju yu xinguo—fu E ganxiang” (Professor Zhang Pengchun Speaking: Old Theatre and New Nation: Impressions and Thoughts of His Visit to Russia), Beiping chenbao (Beiping Morning Post), May 28, 1935, 9. In an interview, Zhang Pengchun gave a concise summary of the indivi­ dual speeches at VOKS’s panel discussion on Mei Lanfang’s art on April 14, but did not say anything about Stanislavsky’s view of Chinese theatre (“Zhang Pengchun tan Mei Jutuan zai E yanju jingguo” [Zhang Pengchun Speaks of the Performance Experience of the Mei Theatre Troupe in Russia], Luobinhan [The Robinhood], May 10–19, 1935). 12 Wenxue shidai (1935–1936) was a short-lived but important Chinese journal of lit­ erature and criticism, featuring some of the best-known Chinese writers and critics at the time. It was edited by Chu Anping, a noted writer, critic, and editor, and was published by Shanghai Shidai Tushu Gongsi (Shanghai Times Book Company). 13 Stanislavsky was on the list of the invitees (VOKS, “Spisok priglashennykh na dis­ kussiiu v VOKS s uchastiem Mei Lan-fana” [The List of the Invitees to the Dis­ cussion at VOKS with the Participation of Mei Lan-fang], GARF, P5283/8/267, p. 15, filed on April 10), but was crossed out and later erased from the lists of the actual participants in the panel discussion (VOKS, “Spisok prisutstvovavshikh na diskussii v VOKS s uchastiem Mei Lan-fana” [The List of the Participants in the Discussion at VOKS with Mei Lan-fang], GARF, P5283/4/168, p. 60 [This list, which prefaces the censored transcript of the minutes of the panel discussion, where some lines and paragraphs were crossed-out but not erased, was a copy of the same list of the invitees originally filed on April 10. On the list the word “invitees” was crossed out and replaced by the word “participants,” and Stanislavsky’s name, along with those of eight other personalities, was also crossed out, obviously because they were not present at the discussion]; “Spisok prisutstvovavshikh na diskussii v VOKS s uchastiem Mei Lan-fana,” GARF, P5283/4/211, p. 27 [This list, which prefaces the official transcript of the minutes of the panel discussion, where the crossed-out lines and paragraphs were erased, left out the name of Stanislavsky and those of the others who were not present]). 14 VOKS, GARF, P5283/8/265, p. 32 (2); P5283/8/265, p. 31. Craig recalled in passing that while in Moscow, he “had a word with Stanislavsky, who was sick and in bed” (Craig 1935, 538). Craig did not state when and where he had a word with the Russian master. 15 VOKS, GARF, P5283/8/267, pp. 88, 89; Izvestiia, March 12, 1935, 6. 16 VOKS, “Dnevnik raboty s Mei Lan-Fanom” (Diary of Work with Mei Lan-fang), GARF, P5283/8/267, p. 1 (1–2) (covers March 28 through April 11); P5283/8/ 267, p. 81 (covers March 14 through March 19); P5283/8/267, p. 5 (covers March 20 through March 25); P5283/8/267, p. 22 (covers April 13 through April 21). In addition, in GARF, P5283/8/267, n. p., there is a programme of two hand-written pages that covers Mei Lanfang’s activities in Leningrad from April 1 through April 11. Several pages of these records were marked with the words, “Not subject to disclosure,” and were signed by Z. Kharkovskii, who served as Mei Lanfang’s interpreter and recorded Mei’s daily activities. 17 According to VOKS’s records, Stanislavsky, Nemirovich-Danchenko, and Meyerhold were on the list of the invitees (VOKS, GARF, P5283/8/267, p. 83; P5283/ 8/262, p. 51), but all three were not on the list of the personalities who were pre­ sent at the luncheon (VOKS, GARF, P5283/8/267, p. 82; P5283/8/262, p. 50. This record was filed on the following day, March 15). See also “Arosev Gives

The Legitimation of Tradition

18 19 20

21 22 23 24

25 26

27

28 29 30

31 32

47

Luncheon in Honor of Famous Chinese Actor,” Moscow Daily News, March 15, 1935, 1. Ge Gongzhen also recalled the presence of Tairov, Eisenstein, and Tre­ tyakov at the reception, but not that of Stanislavsky (Ge and Ge 1935, 6). VOKS, GARF, P5283/8/267, p. 48 (1). VOKS, GARF, P5283/8/267, p. 81. On May 12, 1937, Mei wrote to Stanislavsky, acknowledging his receipt of the latter’s work (“Pisma k Konstantinu Sergeevichu Stanislavskomu” [Letters to Kon­ stantin Sergeevich Stanislavsky], Inostrannaia literatura [Foreign Literature], no. 10 [October 1956]: 211–223 [222]). Later, however, Mei Lanfang identified the production incorrectly as Eugene Onegin (Mei 1959, 203). Two years earlier, in a speech, without providing any context, Tian Han had remarked: “Stanislavsky once called the method of our traditional theatre perfor­ mance ‘conventionalized (yangshihua) realism’” (Tian 1959, 5). Komissarzhevsky gave no date for the rehearsal. It was June 13, 1938 (Vinogradskaia 2003, 4:449). However, V. F. Sorokin, a Soviet sinologist and author of an impressive monograph on Chinese classical drama, had a different version of Stanislavsky’s observation. Sorokin saw Mei’s performance in Beijing at the beginning of the 1950s and later wrote about Mei’s “hand movements,” noting that “Stanislavsky said that one can write a whole volume about Mei Lanfang’s hands” (Sorokin 1995, 123). About Meyerhold’s view of the conventionality of Mei Lanfang’s art and traditional Chinese theatre, see Tian 2012, 143–160. It is interesting to note that in 1928, because of his illness, Stanislavsky did not see the Kabuki performances offered by Ichikawa Sadanji II and his troupe in Moscow. In a telegraph and later in a meeting with Sadanji, Stanislavsky expressed to the Japanese actor his deep regret that he was unable to attend Sadanji’s performance of Japan’s “authentic” and “traditional” Kabuki, although he had read a lot about it and later saw the Western-influenced dances by Hanako and Sada Yacco, the two Japanese actresses who toured Russia at the turn of the twentieth century (Okuma 1929, 440, 444). For a more detailed study of the Chinese reception of Stanislavsky’s theory and the latter’s impact on the Chinese theoretical construction and practice of traditional Chinese theatre and, in particular, on Mei Lanfang’s understanding and practice of traditional Chinese theatre, see Tian 2008, 159–173; for an investigation of Stanislavsky’s influence on modern Chinese theatre (huaju or spoken drama), see Pit­ ches and Li 2017, 166–195. A search of Stanislavsky’s “appraisal” in the Chinese full-text database, “China Academic Journals,” did not find any article published in China from 1965 through 1975. “Mei Lan-fang Visits Stanislavski,” Moscow Daily News, April 1, 1935, 1. For instance, Sergei Eisenstein once noted: “It is not without reason that theatre historians find an affinity between the constructions of Mei Lan-fang’s theatre and the early Greek examples of theatre” (Eisenstein 1964–1971, 3:288; 2004–2006, 2:352). The All-Union Society for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries (VOKS), GARF (the State Archive of the Russian Federation), P5283/4/168, pp. 68–69 (16– 17); P5283/4/211, pp. 19–20 (11–12); Tian 2010, 175–176. In his early years, Stanislavsky performed as an amateur in a production of The Mikado, a japonaiserie operetta by W. S. Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan, where he and other participants learned, from a group of Japanese acrobats, Japanese customs, dances, movements, poses, and gestures. In the end, however, Stanislavsky acknowledged that as an actor, he was “the only blot in the production,” as he “could not part with the most banal, the most theatrical-operatic postcard

48 The Spectre of Tradition prettiness” and once again rooted himself in those “old mistakes and operatic ban­ alities” (Stanislavski 1988–1999, 1:134–135). 33 “Precepts”: “zavetov” or “zavety” also has the meaning of “behests,” “testaments,” or “legacies.” 34 The Stanislavsky tradition received and reinvented on the twentieth-century inter­ national stage and the invented and reinvented “universality” of the Stanislavsky system are well documented in a recent volume (Pitches and Aquilina 2017). For Stanislavsky’s international transmission, see also Aquilina 2020, 53–56. 35 As early as 1929, Eisenstein deplored the “error” of what he called the “left-drifting” Kabuki: Instead of learning how to extract the principles and technique of their remarkable acting from the traditional feudal forms of what they act, the pro­ gressive theatrical leaders of Japan fling themselves into adaptation of the spongy shapelessness of our own academic psychological naturalistic Art Thea­ tre. The results are tearful and sad. (Eisenstein 1930, 103) The quotation is from the first English version of Eisenstein’s 1929 Russian text. In the English translation, it was noted that “The present text is translated by Ivor Montagu and S. S. Nalbandov and revised by the author and Ivor Montagu” (90). Here Eisen­ stein explicitly referred to Stanislavsky’s psychological naturalism practiced at the Moscow Art Theatre. The key word in the original Russian text is “nutretcov” (Eisen­ stein 1929, 92; 1964, 296), which is not explicit. Other English translations are: “the spongy shapelessness of our own ‘inner’ naturalism” (Eisenstein 1949, 44); “the loose formlessness of the acting of our ‘intuitivists’” (Eisenstein 1988a, 150). Here Eisenstein apparently referred to the attempts on the part of the leaders of modern Japanese theatre, notably Osanai Kaoru, to imitate and adapt Stanislavsky’s inner naturalism and to the latter’s influence on the development of modern Japa­ nese theatre. However, in the 1920s and before his death in 1928, Osanai had started to break away from Stanislavsky’s naturalism and eventually turned to Meyerhold’s anti-naturalistic theatricalism and to the acrobatic craftsmanship of Kabuki acting (see Chapter 6), which would have reminded Stanislavsky of the spectres of those “false” traditions that had haunted his imagination. Likewise, in 1935, Eisenstein cautioned Mei Lanfang and his Chinese colleagues against moder­ nizing the art and technology of traditional Chinese theatre: “Modernization both in the domain of art and in the domain of technique must be avoided in every possible way” (VOKS, GARF, P5283/4/168, p. 69 [17]; P5283/4/211, p. 20 [12]; Kleberg 1992, 137).

References Anastas’ev, A. N. 1961. V sovremennom teatre (In Contemporary Theatre). Moscow: Iskusstvo. Aquilina, Stefan. 2020. Modern Theatre in Russia: Tradition Building and Transmission Pro­ cesses. London: Bloomsbury Methuen Drama. Belousov, R. 1963. V tysiachakh ieroglifov: o knigakh i liudiakh (In Thousands of Hieroglyphs: About Books and People). Moscow: Izdatelstvo Vostochnoi Literatury. Benedetti, Jean. 1999. Stanislavski: His Life and Art. London: Methuen. Brecht, Bertolt. 1993a. Werke: Große Kommentierte Berliner und Frankfurter Ausgabe. Edited by Werner Hecht et al., vol. 22. Cherkasov, N. K. 1953. Zapiski Sovetckogo aktera (Notes of a Soviet Actor). Edited by E. M. Kuznetsov. Moscow: Iskusstvo.

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Craig, Gordon. 1935. “The Russian Theatre To-Day.” London Mercury, XXXII, no. 192: 529–538. Efremov, O. N. 1988. “Opyt puti” (The Experience of the Way). In K. S. Stanislavski, Sobranii sochinenii (Collected Works). Vol. 1, 5–11. Moscow: Iskusstvo. Eidlin, L. 1970. “O velikom artiste: k semidesiatiletiiu Mei Lan-Fana” (About the Great Artist: On the Seventy-Fifth Birth Anniversary of Mei Lan-fang). Teatr, no. 10: 141–145. Eisenstein, S. M. 1929. “Za kadrom” (Beyond the Shot). In N. Kaufman, Iaponskoe kino (Japanese cinema), 72–92. Moscow: Teakinopechat. Eisenstein, S. M. 1930. “The Cinematographic Principle and Japanese Culture.” Tran­ sition (Paris), nos. 19–20 (June): 90–103. Eisenstein, S. M. 1949. Film Form: Essays in Film Theory. Edited and translated by Jay Leyda, 28–44. New York: Harcourt, Brace & World. Eisenstein, S. M. 1964 (1929). “Za kadrom.” In Izbrannye proizvedeniia (Selected Works). Vol. 2, 283–296. Moscow: Iskusstvo. Eisenstein, S. M. 1964–1971. Izbrannye proizvedeniia (Selected Works). 6 vols. Moscow: Iskusstvo. Eisenstein, S. M. 1968. “Charodeyu grushevogo sada” (To the Magician of the Pear Orchard). Izbrannye proizvedeniia. Vol. 5, 311–324. Moscow: Iskusstvo. Eisenstein, S. M. 1988a. Writings, 1922–34. Vol. 1 of Selected Works. Edited and trans­ lated by Richard Taylor. London: BFI Publishing. Eisenstein, S. M. 2004–2006. Neravnodushnaia priroda (Nonindifferent Nature). 2 vols. Moscow: Muzei kino, Eizenshtein-tsentr. Ge, Gongzhen and Ge Baoquan. 1935. “Mei Lanfang zai Sulian” (Mei Lanfang in the Soviet Union). Guowen zhoubao (China News Weekly), 12, no. 22: 1–14. Houghton, Norris. 1991. Entrances & Exits: A Life In and Out of the Theatre. New York: Limelight Editions. Hu, Zhifeng. 1985. “Xiqu biaoyan de tiyan he biaoxian” (Experiencing and Expression in the Acting of Traditional Chinese Theatre). Xiju bao (Theatre Gaz­ ette), no. 12: 47–49. Huang, Zuolin. 1962a. “Mantan ‘xiju guan’” (A Random Talk on “the Idea of the Theatre”). Renmin ribao (The People’s Daily), April 25, 1962. Huang, Zuolin. 1962b. “Mantan ‘xiju guan’.” Xiju bao (Theatre Gazette), no. 4: 1–7. Huang, Zuolin (Tso Lin). 1962c. “The Chinese and Western Theatres: A Study in Contrasting Techniques.” Chinese Literature, no. 8: 101–111. Jiao, Juyin. 1954. “Xiang Shitannisilafusiji xuexi” (Learning from Stanislavsky). Xiju bao (Theatre Gazette), no. 1: 38–41. Kleberg, Lars, ed. 1992. “Zhivye Impulsy Iskusstva” (Live Impulses of Art). Iskusstvo kino (Cinema Art), no. 1: 132–139. Komissarzhevsky, V. 1959. Moscow Theatres. Translated by Vic Schneierson and W. Perelman. Moscow: Foreign Language Publishing House. Komissarzhevsky, V. 1963. “Mei Lan-fan i ego kniga” (Mei Lanfang and His Book). In Mei Lanfang, Sorok let na stsene (Forty Years on Stage), translated by E. Rozhdestvens­ koy and V. Taskina, 3–14. Moscow: Iskusstvo. Komissarzhevsky, V. 1971. “Pamiati Mei Lan-fana” (To the Memory of Mei Lanfang). Den teatra (Theatre Day), 205–219. Moscow: Iskusstvo. Kukharskii, V. 1979. O muzyke i muzykantakh nashikh dnei: stati. vystupleniia (On Music and Musicians of Our Days: Articles. Speeches). Moscow: Sovetskii Kompozitor. Mei, Lanfang. 1953a. “He Shitannisilafusiji de huijian” (Meeting with Stanislavsky). Xinmin wanbao (The New People’s Evening Post), August 8, 1953.

50 The Spectre of Tradition Mei, Lanfang. 1953b. “Jinian Shitannisilafusiji” (To the Memory of Stanislavsky). Renmin ribao (The People’s Daily), January 17, 1953, 3. Mei, Lanfang. 1953c. “Pamiati Stanislavskogo” (To the Memory of Stanislavsky). Teatr (Theatre), no. 9: 164–165. Mei, Lanfang. 1953d. “Shitannisilafusiji yinxiang ji” (My Impressions of Stanislavsky). Wenyi yuebao (Literature and Art Monthly), no. 8: 32–34. Mei, Lanfang. 1955. “Weizhe renmin, weizhe zuguo meihao de weilai, gongxian chu women de yiqie” (To the People, To the Beautiful Future of the Nation, We Devote Everything We Have). Renmin ribao (The People’s Daily), April 14, 1955, 3. Mei, Lanfang. 1959. “Huiyi Sitannisilafusiji he Niemiluoweiqi-Danqinke” (In Memory of Stanislavsky and Nemirovich-Danchenko). In Mei Lanfang xiju sanlun (Mei Lanfang’s Miscellaneous Writings on Theatre), 201–205. Beijing: Zhongguo Xiju Chubanshe. Mei, Lanfang. 1962. Wo de dianying shenghuo (My Life in Cinema). Beijing: Zhongguo Dianying Chubanshe. Mei, Lanfang. 1963a. “Pamiati Stanislavskogo” (To the Memory of Stanislavsky). In Stanislavskii: pisateli, artisty, rezhissery o velikom deiatele Russkogo teatra (Stanislavsky: Writers, Artists, Directors on the Great Leader of the Russian Theatre), compiled by S. V. Melik-Zakharov and Sh. Sh. Bogatyrev, 245–246. Moscow: Iskustvo. Mei, Lanfang. 1963b. “To the Memory of Stanislavsky.” In K. Stanislavsky 1863–1963, compiled by Sergei Melik-Zakharov and Shoel Bogatyrev and translated by Vic Schneierson, 189–190. Moscow: Progressive Publishers. Mei, Lanfang. 2010. “Befriending Eisenstein on My First Trip to the Soviet Union.” Translated by Anne Rebull. The Opera Quarterly, 26, nos. 2–3: 426–434. Mei, Shaowu. 1981. “Mei Lanfang as Seen by His Foreign Audiences and Critics.” In Wu Zuguang, Huang Zuolin, and Mei Shaowu, Peking Opera and Mei Lanfang: A Guide to China’s Traditional Theatre and the Art of Its Great Master, 46–65. Beijing: New World Press. Mei, Shaowu. 2006. Wo de fuqin Mei Lanfang (My Father Mei Lanfang). 2 vols. Beijing: Zhonghua Shuju. Obraztsov, S. 1957. Teatr Kitayskogo naroda (Theatre of the Chinese People). Moscow: Iskusstvo. Okuma, Toshio, ed. 1929. Ichikawa Sadanji kabuki kiko- (Records of the Tour of Ichikawa Sadanji’s Kabuki Troupe). Tokyo: Heibonsha. Pitches, Jonathan and Ruru Li. 2017. “Stanislavsky with Chinese Characteristics: How the System was Introduced into China.” In Stanislavsky in the World: The System and Its Transformations Across Continents, edited by Jonathan Pitches and Stefan Aquilina, 166–195. London: Bloomsbury. Pitches, Jonathan and Stefan Aquilina, eds. 2017. Stanislavsky in the World: The System and Its Transformations Across Continents. London: Bloomsbury. Radlov, S. 1935. “Uroki kitaiskogo teatra” (Lessons from the Chinese Theatre). Vecherniaia krasnaia gazeta (The Evening Red Gazette), April 9, 1935, 2. Smeliansky, Anatoly. 1991. “The Last Decade: Stanislavsky and Stalinism.” Theater, 22, no. 2: 7–13. Sorokin, V. 1995. “Pamiati velikogo artista” (To the Memory of the Great Artist). Problemy Dalnego Vostoka (Problems of the Far East), no. 2: 119–124. Stanislavski, K. S. 1988–1999. Sobranii sochinenii (Collected Works). 9 vols. Moscow: Iskusstvo. Stanislavski, K. S. 2008. An Actor’s Work: A Student’s Diary. Translated and edited by Jean Benedetti. London: Routledge.

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Stanislavski, K. S. 2014. Stanislavsky: A Life in Letters. Translated and edited by Laurence Senelick. London: Routledge. Tian, Han. 1956. “Huaju yishu jiankang fazhan wansui” (Long Live to the Healthy Development of Spoken Drama). Xiju bao (Theatre Gazette), no. 3: 4–7. Tian, Han. 1959. “Budui xiju huaduo songge” (Singing the Praise of the Blossom of Theatre Among the Troops). Xiju bao (Theatre Gazette), no. 14: 3–5. Tian, Han. 1961a. “Mei Lanfang jishi shi” (Chronicle Poems on Mei Lanfang). Renmin ribao (The People’s Daily), September 10, 1961, 7. Tian, Han. 1961b. “Zhuidao Mei Lanfang tongzhi” (In Mourning for Comrade Mei Lanfang). Wenyi bao (Literature and Art Gazette), no. 8: 3–6. Tian, Min. 2008. The Poetics of Difference and Displacement: Twentieth-Century ChineseWestern Intercultural Theatre. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. Tian, Min, ed. 2010. China’s Greatest Operatic Male Actor of Female Roles: Documenting the Life and Art of Mei Lanfang, 1894–1961. Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen Press. Tian, Min. 2012. Mei Lanfang and the Twentieth-Century International Stage: Chinese Theatre Placed and Displaced. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Vinogradskaia, I. N. 2003. Zhizn i tvorchestvo K. S. Stanislavskogo: Letopis (The Life and Work of K. S. Stanislavsky: Chronicle). 4 vols., 2nd ed. Moscow: Moskovskii Khu­ dozhestvennyi Teatr. Whyman, Rose. 2008. The Stanislavsky System of Acting: Legacy and Influence in Modern Performance. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Xu, Xinqin. 1935. “Ou you guilai: Mei Lanfang tan xin E yanju” (Upon His Return from Europe, Mei Lanfang Talked About Theatre Productions in the New Russia). Shidai (Times), 8, no. 5: 12. Yan, Huiqing. 1996. Yan Huiqing riji (Yan Huiqing’s Diaries). 2 vols. Beijing: Zhongguo Dangan Chubanshe. Yan, Huizhu. 1961. “Yi Mei shi” (Remembering Master Mei). Xiju bao (Theatre Gazette), nos. 15–16: 26–27. Yang, Wannong. 1961. “Tan Meipai yishu de tedian” (On the Characteristics of the Art of the Mei School). Xiju bao (Theatre Gazette), no. 13: 26–29. Yu, Shangyuan. 1936. “Shitannishilafusiji” (Stanislavsky). Wenxue shidai (Literary Times), 1, no. 6: 55–61. Yu, Zhenfei. 1979. “Xiqu chengshi yu biaoyan” (Convention and Performance in Traditional Chinese Theatre). Xiju yishu (Theatre Arts), no. 1: 64–70. Zavadsky, Yuri A. 1975. Uchitelya i ucheniki (Teachers and Students). Moscow: Iskusstvo. Zhang, Songjia. 1949. “‘Yibu’ er bu ‘huanxing’: Mei Lanfang tan jiu ju gaige” (“Moving Forward Does Not Require Change of Form”: Mei Lanfang Speaks of the Reform of the Old Theatre). Jinbu ribao (Progressive Daily), November 3, 1949. Zhang, Songjia and Wang Kaizeng. 1949. “Xiang jiu ju gaige qiantu maijin” (Toward the Future of the Reform of the Old Theatre). Jinbu ribao (Progressive Daily), November 30, 1949.

2

The Refraction of Tradition Meyerhold’s and Stanislavsky’s Approaches to Pushkin and Meyerhold’s Pushkinization of Mei Lanfang’s Art

In Chapter 1, I have investigated Mei Lanfang’s intercultural contact with Sta­ nislavsky and his invocation of the latter’s “appraisal” of his art in the Chinese reinvention and legitimation of the tradition of Chinese theatre. I have also tou­ ched, albeit briefly, on Stanislavsky’s and Meyerhold’s ideas of the “true” or “false” traditions in the theatre and on the impact of the “true” or “false” traditions of Stanislavsky and Meyerhold on the Chinese understanding of their own traditional theatre. In this chapter, I will further consider Stanislavsky’s and Meyerhold’s concepts of the “true” and “false” traditions in the theatre, their cult of the Push­ kin tradition which had exerted a lasting and profound influence on the formation of their respective theories and whose significance has so far been overlooked and undervalued. I will also investigate, from an intercultural perspective, Stanislavsky’s Russian nationalistic approach to traditions and Meyerhold’s Russian-Soviet­ centred international approach to traditions and particularly his Pushkinization of the Chinese tradition incarnated in Mei Lanfang’s art.

Stanislavsky’s Tradition: Russian and Stanislavskian Stanislavsky’s notion of “tradition” is decidedly Russian and Stanislavskian, as he opposed what he defined as the “true” and “eternal” traditions of the art of inner experiencing in the Russian theatre to what he deemed as the “false” traditions of other theatres that, in his mind, were concerned with external theatricality and conventionality. Stanislavsky and Meyerhold both consciously tried to make a distinction between “true” traditions and “false” traditions. For Meyerhold, “true” traditions of “true” theatrical eras were characterized by theatricality and conventionality in acting and staging, in contrast to the “false” traditions of naturalism. For Stanislavsky, theatricality and conventionality were characteristic of all “false” traditions, as he contended that “‘theatricality’ instilled in the actor the evil vice of striving for success for the sake of success” (Stanislavski 1988–1999, 6:456). In contrast, for Stanislavsky, “true” traditions were characterized by their truthfulness to life and to the actor’s individuality: “False traditions shackle the individuality of the actor…. Shchepkin’s traditions (‘take examples from life’) are forgotten, false traditions remain” (Stanislavski 1988–1999, vol. 5, bk. 1:362). DOI: 10.4324/9781003240587-3

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In 1897, in a letter to a French critic, who had criticized Stanislavsky’s perfor­ mance in Othello for its failure to follow the traditions of Shakespeare, Stanislavsky strongly disagreed with the critic, arguing that “Shakespeare’s traditions are expressed by himself in Hamlet’s monologue with the actors” and insisting that “these traditions should be sacred to every actor” (Stanislavski 1988–1999, 7:239). Stanislavsky went on to invoke Hamlet’s advice to the players that their acting should not overstep “the modesty of nature.”1 Here Hamlet’s precepts served Stanislavsky as a displaced mirror onto which he projected his idea (that had been fermenting in his mind) of an ideal acting style (realistic or even naturalistic) that is faithful to nature, life, and truth. Stanislavsky thus argued that “if Ostrovsky is called a writer of everyday life in our time, then Shakespeare was such one in his time,” even though Shakespeare, with his “supernatural talent,” was superior to Ostrovsky (Stanislavski 1988–1999, 7:241). Furthermore, Sta­ nislavsky recalled Hamlet’s remark that the players are “the mirror and the chronicle of their time” (241). Here Stanislavsky’s substitution of “the mirror” for “the abstract” in Hamlet’s remark—the players are “the abstract and brief chronicles of the time” (Act II, Scene II)—further attests to his portrayal of Shakespeare as a realistic writer, as he went on to assert that “because Shake­ speare is life itself, he is simple and therefore understandable to everyone” (241). From such a preconceived perspective, Stanislavsky attacked the French traditions of performing Shakespeare (for example, Jean Mounet-Sully’s per­ formance of Hamlet) as “outdated” and “false” traditions (239–240). At the end of his letter, Stanislavsky declared: “Believe me, the task of our generation is to banish outdated traditions and routines from art, to give more space to fantasy and creativity. That’s the only way to save art” (243). According to Stanislavsky, as the methods of acting created by geniuses came down in history, their spiritual essence had been erased and their external forms had turned into “false traditions” (Stanislavski 1988–1999, vol. 5, bk. 2:405). As such, the artist was imposed “a whole arsenal of false traditions or fashionable conventions” and the actor became “a slave to these unnatural and forced habits” (412). In defence of the tradition of his system, Stanislavsky argued that “the basic principle of natural experience is violated” and “the excellent founda­ tions, principles and brilliant traditions of the best representatives of the art of experiencing are drowned in a heap of conventions and false traditions” (418. Emphases in original). He believed that all the existing theatrical conventions had formed “a whole series of false traditions of stage performance that have become obligatory for the actors” and consequently the artist was pushed towards “lies and theatricality, which remove our art from the real truth on stage, disfigure the human feeling, and rape the artist’s nature” (422). Having been confronted with such a real or imagined existential threat by the “false traditions,” Stanislavsky invoked the spectre of “true traditions,” namely, the “true traditions” of realism: Fortunately, many of the genius predecessors have set down their precepts in dead letters and words. Such traditions were bequeathed to us by

54 The Spectre of Tradition Shakespeare in Hamlet, Shchepkin and Gogol in their letters to friends and other geniuses—in their notes, memoirs, articles, etc. (Stanislavski 1988–1999, vol. 5, bk. 2:409) In order to take advantage of this heritage of genius, Stanislavsky continued, “one must be able to revive the dead words of traditions, one must first of all learn to penetrate into their secret places” (409). For Stanislavsky, the “crea­ tivity” of past artists died for posterity, but “what remains forever are their precepts of creativity, traditions, the ‘credo’ of artists” (410. Emphases in original). Stanislavsky made it clear that he approached those traditions that he defined as “great” and “true” from the perspective of his system: “An analysis of all the great traditions of the stage from the point of view of their inner creative essence could be of great benefit to the practical side of our art” (410). Speak­ ing of “a few of the most typical traditions that are of practical importance for the artist,” Stanislavsky believed that “the most important traditions of this kind (especially for the Russian actor) are the precepts of M. S. Shchepkin and N. V. Gogol” (410). For him, “the main note of the traditions” of these geniuses was “best expressed” by Shchepkin’s precept: “Take examples from life” (410). Thus, Shchepkin’s “immortal precept” (Stanislavski 1988–1999, 6:55), along with those he appropriated from Pushkin (I will return to this point), became an enduring powerful presence haunting Stanislavsky’s creative imagination, as he spoke of “the great, never aging, but not yet appreciated traditions that we inherited from our brilliant ancestors” (Stanislavski 1988–1999, vol. 5, bk. 2:423), of “the traditions of eternal art” or the “eternal Russian traditions” transmitted from Shchepkin, and of the necessity of renewing these traditions that were otherwise bound to perish forever (Stanislavski 1988–1999, 6:257). Ultimately, Stanislavsky considered “our traditions” or those “traditions of genuine psychotechnics” important and valuable and wanted to set them down and passed them on as “the grammar of dramatic art” (289). He did not demand a return to the old traditions, but any innovation must be made on the basis of what he defined, from the perspective of his system, as characteristic of “the true traditions”: “It does not follow that we must return to the old. It follows that we must create something new on the basis of the true traditions of inner creativity, according to the laws of our creative nature” (291). As early as the 1920s, Stanislavsky felt the need to preserve his “traditions.” In 1924, in a letter to Nemirovich-Danchenko, Stanislavsky stated that he was concerned that the Art Theatre, with “the traditions” that he considered “dear” to him, or with what he defined as “the actor’s inner traditions,” would “perish forever and irrevocably,” and that Russian art would be over and be replaced by something else—“Munich or Jewish,” with “a little leaven of the old Rus­ sian traditions,” as he believed that “all the achievements by Meyerhold, Tairov, and others are entirely borrowed from Nemetchina [Germany]” (Sta­ nislavski 1988–1999, 9:705). Here Stanislavsky should have added the Eastern traditions (Chinese, Japanese, and Indian) that Meyerhold and Tairov had appropriated. Decrying such a foreign (German or Asian) influence on modern

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Russian theatre and thereby the perceived danger it presented to the continuity of the Russian traditions, or the “inner” Russian traditions, Stanislavsky believed that it was his task to transmit and preserve the Russian traditions, as he wrote in 1926: If what I have written helps to preserve for the future of art even a few of the dying traditions of the Russian actor and to return contemporary actors to that eternal path along which art constantly evolves, I will be doubly happy. (261) For Stanislavsky, “that eternal path” is the path of the traditions, and of the art, of inner experiencing defined by his system, which remains “eternal” even though the art of theatre develops continuously. Near the end of his profes­ sional life, Stanislavsky was increasingly conscious of projecting the universality of what he called those “eternal traditions,” the Russian traditions or his “tra­ ditions,” as he spoke in 1937: There are eternal traditions based on the law of creativity, the creative nature. I am talking about these traditions. This is a necessity for the French, for the Hindus, and for the Chinese, and for whomever you want. These are the laws of creativity, and one must study them and know them thoroughly. (Stanislavski 1988–1999, 6:570) For Stanislavsky, “the law of creativity” upon which these “eternal” (Russian) traditions are based is not historically and culturally conditioned; its necessary study “depends on the character of the country and the people” (570), which does not determine or affect the historical and cultural constitution of “the law of creativity” itself but only its relative depth. Thus, without saying anything about the Hindus or the Chinese, Stanislavsky asserted that “with the French it is all more frivolous, with us it is deeper” (570). Most importantly, for Sta­ nislavsky, “the law of creativity” is essential, eternal, and universal, but it is not any other law of creativity than that of the art of inner experiencing that can be characterized as such, certainly not the law of creativity that Meyerhold claimed, equally if not exclusively, as essential, eternal, and universal, for the theatre of conventionality or theatricality.

Meyerhold as a “Traditionalist”: Russian-Soviet and Intercultural Meyerhold’s “traditionalism” in re-evaluating and appropriating popular thea­ trical traditions of different epochs and different cultures, including Chinese and Japanese traditions, was essential in his theoretical and practical construction of a modern and revolutionary (socialist and proletarian) theatre. In 1931, while in

56

The Spectre of Tradition

Mexico, prompted by rumours of Meyerhold’s death, Eisenstein thus eulogized his master-teacher in a premature “obituary”: “The last bearer of the true Theatre. Theatre with a capital T. The Theatre of another epoch—died. The most perfect exponent of the Theatre. A Theatre of centuries-old traditions. And the brilliant Theatre itself—died” (Eisenstein 2005, 184). Eisenstein’s eulogy best summarizes Meyerhold’s theatrical career and the true nature of his revolutionary modernist theatre, which has been characterized as his theatrical “traditionalism.” Here I want to argue that, while Meyerhold’s “traditionalism” was fundamentally Russian and European (German, as decried by Stanislavsky), it was also “intercultural” in the sense that it invoked a constellation of thea­ trical traditions of different eras and different cultures. Furthermore, the aes­ thetic of Meyerhold’s “traditionalism” was never pure but interlaced with ideology and politics. As eclectic and multifaceted as it appeared, Meyerhold’s “traditionalism” was highly selective and was defined by what he characterized as essential to the national, the popular, or the people’s traditions of “genuine” or “true” theatrical eras, for which Meyerhold sought aesthetic and ideological justification in the “dead” words of Pushkin’s inviolable dictums, for instance, as well as in the dictates of the Soviet politics of inheriting the cultural heritage of humanity.

Meyerhold’s Contemporaries on His “Traditionalism” Meyerhold’s theatrical “traditionalism” was well recognized and documented by his contemporary Russian critics. According to Vladimir Solov’ev, who first applied the term “traditionalism” to the theatre (Mokul’skii 1926, 10), all the­ orists such as Gordon Craig and Meyerhold strived for “a single goal—to build a future theatre on the basis of its primordial traditions” (Solov’ev 1997, 388). As he continued “the Craigian idea of traditionalism,” Solov’ev argued, Meyerhold found the “totality” that Craig failed to define, exactly, of all the distinctive features of “traditionalism,” and offered “one of the solutions, directing it into the channel of the old theatre of the Romanesque peoples,” with Pushkin, Gogol, and Mikhail Lermontov being “the restorers of the traditions of the theatre of the Romanesque race” (391). Elsewhere, Solov’ev spoke of Meyerhold as “a central figure among the very few Russian theatre traditionalists who wished to free the theatre from the pressure of literature and to restore its lost traditions” (Solov’ev 1926, 42). Solov’ev noted that the actor’s techniques in Italian improvised comedy and Eastern theatres demonstrated to Meyerhold “many ways in which he could transform a Russian actor, who is still wholly reliant on inspiration, into a master virtuoso, with a sophisticated technique, amenable to all the directions of the director’s conducting baton” (42). In his review of Meyerhold’s production of Alexei Faiko’s Bubus the Teacher (1925), Solov’ev noted that in certain moments, the new play, with a content that is politically more acute and in a form that has nothing in common with what was created by the European theatre, “resurrected before the audience the traditions of the most ancient theatrical cultures: Japan and China” (Solov’ev 2000, 167).

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Of all Meyerhold’s contemporary critics, Stefan Mokul’skii was the most forthright in articulating and championing Meyerhold’s theatrical “traditional­ ism.” At the beginning of his forceful argument, Mokul’skii addressed, among others, such a fundamental question—tradition and revolutionary modernity— underlying Meyerhold’s “traditionalism”: Meyerhold openly declares himself a supporter of the protection and restoration of the traditions of the ancient theatre. Coming from the mouth of an artist, a revolutionary who has broken the stronghold of the old theatre to the ground, this statement cannot fail to arrest our attention. (Mokul’skii 1926, 9) Mokul’skii attempted to address these questions by defining the theatrical tradi­ tions that Meyerhold wanted to protect and restore and ultimately Meyerhold’s “traditionalism”: Theatrical traditionalism proclaims theatrical mastership, freed from all the appendages of literaryism, moralization, mysticism, psychologism, and aes­ theticism, which were unknown to truly theatrical epochs and which set­ tled in the theatre only in epochs of impoverishment of theatricality. In such epochs, the innovators, calling for a struggle against the inertia, automatism, and unprincipledness of the dominant theatre, inscribe the slogan of traditionalism on their battle flag and begin to build a new theatre on the foundation of the oldest and primordial traditions that are immanent to the theatre and have been lost by it. (10. Emphasis in original) In contrast, Mokul’skii argued, “the bourgeois theatre innovators,” such as those at the Moscow Art Theatre (Stanislavsky and Nemirovich-Danchenko), looked for a way to update the theatre by planting anti-theatrical and anti-traditional natur­ alistic methods (15). Furthermore, Mokul’skii was keen to define the ideological and political underpinnings of Meyerhold’s “traditionalism” as opposed to the “fruitless formalism” of other innovators such as Tairov and Max Reinhardt (15). For Mokul’skii, Meyerhold “did not separate theatrical revolution from the revo­ lution of political and social forms” and threw all his vast theatrical experience into “the furnace of the proletarian revolution,” as he began “the construction of a proletarian theatre on the basis of those immutable laws that were revealed to him in the course of many years of studying the traditions of truly theatrical eras” (15). Mokul’skii further defined the ideological and political underpinnings of Meyer­ hold’s “traditionalism” by tying all its manifestations, as he described, with the distinctive features of the national and the people’s theatrical traditions of all epochs and peoples, Western and Eastern, which amounted to a pure theatre of acting, self-sufficient and independent of other arts (16–19). According to Mokul’skii, “the very fact of the people’s origin” of what Meyerhold called those “axioms” of acting that are obligatory for every actor makes them “especially

58 The Spectre of Tradition important and indispensable for the building of a new people’s (i.e. proletarian) theatre,” and as a result, by creatively using the techniques of traditional theatre, Meyerhold created “a theatre that is thoroughly revolutionary, modern, and truly new, albeit based on the oldest traditions one can dream of” (21. Emphases in ori­ ginal). In Mokul’skii’s view, Meyerhold resurrected the universal actor-master, a “new actor-Cabotin,” from the popular tradition of cabotinage (22–23); he revived “constructivism in the theatre,” which was not his “newest invention” but was “in continuity with the whole range of popular theatrical systems,” including the old English, Spanish, and Japanese theatres (23–24); and he created “a new system of acting, the so-called biomechanics, which brings the dramatic theatre closer to the circus and music hall and revives the traditions of acting from the truly theatrical eras” (27). Mokul’skii concluded his study by asserting that “we will never understand Meyerhold’s activity if we do not follow how the theatrical mastery of the distant past is refracted in his creative consciousness” (28). Acknowledging that his “fragmentary” study by no means offers “a complete resolution” of what he called “such a huge and important question as the question of V. E. Meyerhold’s traditionalism,” Mokul’skii argued that this question can and should be the subject of a large scientific study, where all of Meyerhold’s productions will be broken down into their constituent elements, where a detailed list of all his theatrical techniques will be compiled and their genealogy will be given. (29) Mokul’skii’s study was done in 1925, about a decade before Meyerhold’s creative life practically ended. In view of the challenges and struggles that Meyerhold’s creative work would encounter in the 1930s when he was under attack for the alleged formalism and aestheticism of his theory and work inspired by his study of centuries-old traditions of different theatrical cultures and theatrical eras, the pri­ macy that Mokul’skii’s study gives to the continuity of tradition in Meyerhold’s revolutionary innovation and experimentation and to the ideology and politics underlying Meyerhold’s “formalistic” and “aesthetic” “traditionalism” becomes more significant and poignant. This is even more so, because Meyerhold’s argu­ ments in defence of his “traditionalism” would follow the lines of Mokul’skii’s thesis. However, in his impressive, albeit “fragmentary,” genealogical study of Meyerhold’s theatrical “traditionalism,” Mokul’skii never touched upon the spectre of Pushkin that had haunted, and continued to haunt, Meyerhold’s crea­ tive consciousness.2 Meyerhold on Tradition Meyerhold’s theatrical “traditionalism” can be traced, in his writings, back to the first decade of the twentieth century. In 1908, speaking of the brilliant actors and stage masters of the ancient Russian theatre who performed the images of the bygone repertoire of Gogol, Griboedov, and Ostrovsky and of

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the modern need to stage the classics in the illumination of the rays of their epochs and to hear and admire what he called “these echoes of the past” invoked by the brilliance of the talents of the old actors, or what he called “these ‘mediums of the past’” (Meyerhold 1968, 1:171–172), Meyerhold stated: I would call such a theatre ‘Écho du temps passé.’ Its main task is the continuing revival of antiquity. This is not an ‘old theatre,’ in the sense of playing an old play, as it was performed in the good old days, nor is it a theatre that, when performing Woe from Wit, as the Moscow Art Theatre did, would fill the stage with the furniture and accessories from ‘that time’ (here the artist’s task became the task of an archaeologist). It is a theatre that leads the thread of continuity from ancient Greek theatre and medie­ val drama through Shakespeare, Calderon, and Molière to the Russian theatre of the 1830s with Gogol at its helm and from him to the present. (173) In 1910, Meyerhold sounded the echoes of the theatre of the past in the Far West (France, Italy, Spain, England) and the Far East during the second half of the sixteenth century and the entire seventeenth century that rang “the bells of pure theatricality” (194). In 1911, Meyerhold cited the authority of Pushkin, who, according to Meyerhold, when starting to write plays, not only learned from Shakespeare, but went beyond his teacher “along the path of traditional theatre, intuitively following the precepts of the Spaniards” (182–183). At the time, Meyerhold was already speaking of “the principles of traditional theatricality” (185). He commended the playwrights of the New Theatre for their struggles to “subordinate their creativity to the laws of traditional theatres of truly theatrical eras” (188). In “The Fairground Booth” (1912), Meyerhold invoked the spectre of cabotinage, arguing that theatre was impossible without cabotinage: “Cabotin is the medium of the traditions of the true art of acting. It is the one through whom Western theatre reached its heyday (Spanish and Italian theatres of the seventeenth century)” (Meyerhold 1968, 1:210). “In order to save the Russian theatre from striving to become a servant of literature,” Meyerhold argued, “it is necessary at all costs to restore to the stage the cult of cabotinage in the broadest sense of the word” (210–211). He believed that “the cult of cabo­ tinage,” which would reappear with the restoration of the ancient theatre, “will help the modern actor turn to the basic laws of theatricality” (213). Meyerhold thus passionately urged “the actor of the future”: In a burst of enthusiasm for the simplicity, the refined nobility, the greatest artistry of the old and at the same time eternally new acting techniques of all those histriones, mimi, atellani, scurrae, jaculatores, ministelli, the actor of the future can, or rather must, if he wants to remain an actor, coordi­ nate his emotional impulse with his craftsmanship and clothe both in the traditional framework of the techniques of the ancient theatre. (214)

60 The Spectre of Tradition In 1914, in his plan of lessons in the Studio on Borodinskaya Street in St. Petersburg, which was considered his first manifesto specifically dedicated to acting, Meyerhold thus spoke of the actor’s stage movement: The actor of the new theatre needs to draw up a whole codex of technical methods, which he can extract from the study of the principles of the performance of truly theatrical eras. There are a number of axioms that are obligatory for every actor, no matter what kind of theatre he works in. (Meyerhold 1998, 12) In 1920, Meyerhold declared: “I accuse those who, hiding behind the fetishism of imaginary traditions, do not know how to protect the genuine traditions” of the Russian theatre (Meyerhold 1968, 2:22. Emphases in original). In 1921, Meyerhold spoke of “the method of genuine improvisation” that drew toge­ ther “all the achievements and delights of genuine theatrical cultures of all times and peoples” (28). Here it is important to call attention to Meyerhold’s repeated stress on the significance of the genuineness or authenticity of thea­ trical traditions of truly theatrical eras, which attached first importance to theatricality and theatricalization and to the self-sufficient physicality and plas­ ticity of acting. Such a persistent preoccupation on the part of Meyerhold was not entirely artistic and aesthetic; it was ideologically and politically tied to his idea of the October in theatre and to his project of refracting and appropriating such “genuine” or “true” traditions: This is where the truly theatrical, the truly traditional, lies, which goes back to the origins of the system of theatricalization from the initial games, dances, and merriments. And certainly, the roots of the new, communist drama lie in that physical culture of theatre that opposes the dubious psy­ chological laws of obsolete pseudoscience with the exact laws of move­ ment based on biomechanics and kinetics. (28) In 1924, speaking of the production of The Forest, Meyerhold insisted that “we must pull together all the best techniques of the truly theatrical eras,” as “we are still on the carpet of traditionalism” and as “only that which operates with truly theatrical methods comes alive” (55). More significantly, Meyerhold again spelled out the ideological thrust of his concept of the so-called “genuine” or “true” theatrical traditions: “We don’t need to borrow anything from the theatre of the aristocracy and the bourgeoisie, but we must avail ourselves of the experience of the popular theatre of the past” (quoted in Braun 1995, 205). In 1930, in a discussion of the creative methodology of the Meyerhold Theatre, Meyerhold spoke of the absolute necessity of the appropriation of what was essential for the actor’s craftsmanship for the construction of a modern revolutionary theatre, a modern Soviet theatre. For him, a new theatre was not built by simply overcoming tradition or by getting out of “the chain of

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traditionalism”; he was looking for “something healthy and necessary for the construction of a new theatre, which must be ripped out of the truly theatrical epochs,” and he was holding on, and adhering entirely to, “the idea that it is necessary to take out everything from there, from the beginning of traditions, without which an actor cannot work on stage” (Meyerhold 1968, 2:229). However, Meyerhold added immediately, the secret here was that the whole task of the actor was to pull out “the necessary working technical roots” from traditions without taking the harmful ideology or worldview along with those roots (229). In 1936, in his famous speech, “Meyerhold against Meyerholdism,” Meyerhold summarized his work of the past three decades as “the work of both innovators and experimenters, which has been entirely directed toward study­ ing the true theatrical traditions of the past centuries of humanity” (Meyerhold 1968, 2:332–333). In his work devoted to the study of “the true theatrical traditions,” Meyerhold continued, he found and affirmed “the concept of conventional theatre” as presented by “the great poet of our land, Pushkin”; and yet this conventionality began to be misunderstood and distorted, which gave rise to “the nonsense that was called Meyerholdism” (333). Here Meyer­ hold’s statement underscores the continuity of his “traditionalism,” and thus the spectral presence of traditions, in his work of innovation and experimentation on the construction of the Russian-Soviet revolutionary theatre called for by the Russian revolutions (in 1905 and 1917). At the core of Meyerhold’s revolutionary work was “the concept of conventional theatre” that he had tried to rescue and redeem from the theatrical vestiges and mediums of the bygone past and that he had struggled to uphold and defend, as I will demonstrate in the following, with his invocation, appropriation, and refrac­ tion of Pushkin, the most sacrosanct, in the eye of his Russian audience, of all traditions of humanity.

The Cult, and the Refraction, of Pushkin: Meyerhold and Stanislavsky According to Liubov Rudneva, who observed Meyerhold’s work with his actors, especially his rehearsals of Boris Godunov in 1936, Meyerhold himself often reminded his actors of Pushkin’s profound and lasting influence on his work: “I have traced my work since 1910, and I see that I have been totally held in captivity by the director-dramatist Pushkin” (Rudneva 1978, 405). Indeed, Pushkin, “the director-dramatist,” as styled by Meyerhold, had long haunted Meyerhold’s imagination. As early as 1912, Meyerhold had used Pushkin in his essay, “The Fairground Booth,” arguing that, in contrast to psychologism, “the grotesque ignores all minor details and creates (in ‘conven­ tional unverisimilitude’ [uslovnom nepravdopodobii], of course) a totality of life” (Meyerhold 1968, 1:225; Meyerhold 1969, 138).3 Later in the same essay, Meyerhold continued:

62 The Spectre of Tradition In Pushkin’s short play set in the age of chivalry the mowers flail with their scythes at the legs of the knights’ horses: ‘some horses fall injured and others run wild.’ Pushkin, who drew particular attention ‘to the ancients with their tragic masks and their dualistic portrayal of character,’ who welcomed such ‘stylized improbability’ [conventional unverisimilitude], is hardly likely to have expected real horses, previously schooled to fall injured and run wild, to be brought on to the stage. (Meyerhold 1969, 140; Meyerhold 1968, 1:228)4 Here, as Meyerhold noted, he cited from Pushkin’s 1829 draft of a letter to N. N. Raevsky.5 The first draft of Pushkin’s letter was written in French in 1825, which includes the key word “vraisemblance” and the key phrase “une invraisemblance conventionnelle” (Pushkin 1926–1928, 1:147). In 1829, Pushkin revised the original draft, again in French, which became part of the drafts of his preface to his tragedy, Boris Godunov, and in which Pushkin again used the French word “vraisemblance” and changed the French phrase “une invraisemblance conventionnelle” into “une invraisemblance de convention” (Pushkin 1926–1928, 2:63):6 While writing my Godunov I reflected on tragedy…. it is perhaps the most misunderstood genre. They have tried to base its laws on verisimilitude, and that is precisely what the nature of drama excludes. Not to speak of time, place, etc.— what the devil verisimilitude is there in a hall cut in two parts, of which one is occupied by 2000 people, supposedly unseen by those on the boards? … Isn’t all that only a conventional unverisimilitude? The true geniuses of tragedy never troubled themselves over any ver­ isimilitude other than that of characters and situations. (Pushkin 1963, 367; 1926–1928, 2:63) In his quotation, Meyerhold likewise left out Pushkin’s argument that a dra­ matic writer should care about the verisimilitude of characters and situations, which suggests for the dramatic writer a psychological and realistic approach to characters and situations. In 1915, in his extensive review (“Benois, the Regisseur”) of the production of Pushkin’s three short plays at the Moscow Art Theatre in the same year, designed by Alexander Benois and directed by Stanislavsky and NemirovichDanchenko, Meyerhold attacked Benois (and, indirectly, Stanislavsky) for his misrepresentation of Pushkin’s tragedies and for his misinterpretation of Push­ kin’s ideas on dramatic art. He cited from Pushkin’s essay, “On NationalPopular Drama and the Play Martha the Seneschal’s Wife”: ‘What if it were demonstrated that the very essence of dramatic art dis­ tinctly precludes verisimilitude?’ (‘Verisimilitude is still presumed to be the primary condition and basis of dramatic art’).

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‘Reading an epic or a novel, we may often lose ourselves and assume that the incident depicted is not fiction but truth. In an ode or elegy, we may think that the poet was portraying his real feelings in real circum­ stances. But can this false pretense exist in a building divided into two parts, one of which is filled with spectators who etc., etc.?’ (Meyerhold 1968, 1:278) It is important to note that the last line in Meyerhold’s quotation is an altera­ tion of Pushkin’s original text: “But where is the verisimilitude of [in] a building divided into two parts, one of which is filled with spectators who have agreed, etc.?” (Pushkin 1981, 9; 1969, 248).7 Here what Pushkin attacked was the neo-classical ideal of verisimilitude (the unities of time and place, for instance); he was not opposed to the unity of action.8 Meyerhold, however, simply dismissed “verisimilitude” altogether as “false pretense,” as he saw it in Benois’s “inner realism” or in Stanislavsky’s psychological realism. According to Meyerhold, despite “the enormous difference” that Pushkin clearly drew between the effect of a novel, an ode, or an elegy on the reader and that of a dramatic performance on the viewer, Benois maintained a com­ pletely opposite understanding of the main arguments Pushkin made in his manifesto (Meyerhold 1968, 1:278). For Meyerhold, Benois’s “inner realism” was a misinterpretation of the meaning of Pushkin’s terms—“the truth of pas­ sions” and “the verisimilitude of feelings,”9 and Benois’s “Pushkin revival” in “the crude ‘Pushkin performance’” offered by the Moscow Art Theatre was an attempt to reveal what Benois called “the inner flow of the plays,” which appeared closer to what Stanislavsky understood of the actor’s process of pre­ paring (analysis) and experiencing, but which, according to Meyerhold, was, in fact, “the very thing” that Pushkin, most of all, did not want to bring to the stage: “external verisimilitude, crude petty naturalism” (279). Mocking the “inner realism” that Benois “childishly designed” for Pushkin’s plays, Meyerhold narrowly defined what Pushkin demanded of a dramatic writer, “the truth of passions,” as “a musical term” (279). In Meyerhold’s view, Pushkin’s manifesto is “a blend of two leitmotifs: the theatre is conventional, and the theatre is popular,” and thereby it would be a mistake to isolate Pushkin’s words—“the truth of passions, the verisimilitude of feelings in supposed circumstances”—without any connection to the other ques­ tion posited in the same manifesto: how does it shift to “the rude frankness of popular passions, to the public square’s freedom of judgement”? (Meyerhold 1968, 1:280).10 For Meyerhold, Benois was mistaken in his realistic and psychological approach to Pushkin’s dramas that were originally intended to be enjoyed by the people in the public square, who may not be well educated enough to understand the subtleties and intricacies of psychological (or “inner”) realism. Thus, citing Pushkin again, Meyerhold directed his ultimate displeasure at the Moscow Art Theatre, arguing that “Benois ‘did not give free, bold rein to his fancies,’ but ‘strove to intuit what was demanded by the “refined taste” of the persons’ of his parterre (the intelligentsia) and of his directorate (the Moscow Art Theatre)” (282).11

64 The Spectre of Tradition In 1921, in an article titled, “On Playwriting and the Culture of the Theatre,” Meyerhold insisted on the urgency and necessity of studying anew Push­ kin’s ideas on theatre: Now it is time to re-read anew Pushkin’s manifesto, and without studying it, do not take a single step. It is necessary to reveal and understand the meaning of Pushkin’s mathematically precise terms: ‘enthralling action,’ ‘masks of exaggeration,’ ‘the truth of passions,’ ‘conventional unverisimilitude,’ ‘the verisimilitude of feelings in supposed circumstances,’ ‘the public square’s freedom of judgement’ and ‘the rude frankness of popular passions.’ (Meyerhold 1968, 2:27; 1973–1992, 2:59) In the same year, in another article, “The Solitude of Stanislavsky,” Meyerhold attempted to turn Stanislavsky into a champion of the “theatrical traditionalism” that the Russian master had been struggling against. Meyerhold again cited, exactly, Pushkin’s same terms that merit a full reiteration here: He [Stanislavsky], and only in his solitude, is able to restore the violated rights of theatrical traditionalism with its ‘conventional unverisimilitude,’ ‘enthralling action,’ ‘masks of exaggeration,’ ‘the truth of passions,’ ‘the ver­ isimilitude of feelings in supposed circumstances,’ ‘the public square’s freedom of judgement’ and ‘the rude frankness of popular passions.’ (Meyerhold 1968, 2:34; 1969, 179. Emphases in original) Here Meyerhold welded Pushkin’s terms into the language of his anti-naturalistic and anti-psychologistic theatrical traditionalism and conventionalism. The stran­ geness of this collage of quotations became even more apparent, given the fact that Stanislavsky, as I will demonstrate later, had a truly different interpretation and use of Pushkin’s terms, “the truth of passions” and “the verisimilitude of feelings,” which he considered foundational to his system as a whole. In January 1931, in a conversation with the participants of the performance of The Last Decisive Battle, Meyerhold remarked: “Tension, too, must be trained. You must do everything to exert yourself on this tension. I will speak in Pushkin’s terminology. If an actor shows passions, then the entire nervous system must participate” (Meyerhold 1978a, 71). Here Meyerhold referred to Pushkin’s term, “the truth of passions.” Evidently, in contrast to Stanislavsky’s appropriation of Pushkin, Meyerhold adapted Pushkin’s term to the art of acting from the perspective of his theory of biomechanics. On February 11, 1935, one month before Mei Lanfang’s visit, in a conversation with the direc­ tors of the provincial theatres, Meyerhold urged them to re-read Pushkin’s notes on drama and used Pushkin’s definition of the conventional nature of dramatic art to buttress his argument against naturalism. “This is a very wise definition and a very important dictum,” Meyerhold remarked. “Hence, since the theatre is conventional by its very nature, it means that it must spit out everything that is characteristic of naturalism” (85).12

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Meyerhold gave his most extensive review of Pushkin’s ideas on dramatic art in his two speeches on Pushkin as a director and a dramatist, delivered in 1936 and 1937 during the heyday of the Soviet official campaign against formalism. Although citing Pushkin’s argument against the neo-classical presumption of verisimilitude as the primary condition and basis of dramatic art (Meyerhold 1968, 2:419, 428–429),13 Meyerhold claimed, at the same time, that Pushkin “wants to be called a realist-romantic” (425). According to Meyerhold, Push­ kin, with his models of “a new popular drama,” was “on the frontier where Romanticism touches shoulder to shoulder with realistic art” and became “the father” of “the captivating realism” of the new art that took the place of the “progressive” Romanticism (427). Thus, in contrast to his consistent anti-nat­ uralistic approach to Pushkin as an inviolable dictate for an anti-naturalistic and anti-psychological doctrine of conventionalism in a revolutionary modernist theatre, Meyerhold now portrayed Pushkin as a “realist-romantic,” or rather, a romantic turned realist, as he continued, carefully, with his argument: Taking under fire the ‘verisimilitude’ of ‘the classics and the romantics’ (Corneille, Byron), A. S. Pushkin believed it necessary to stipulate that the verisimilitude of the scenic situation should be the true rule of tragedy, the truth of the dialogue should be the real law of tragedy. ‘The truth of passions, the ver­ isimilitude of feelings in supposed circumstances—that is what our intellect demands of a dramatic writer.’ (429. Emphases in original)14 Furthermore, Meyerhold asserted that “[Pushkin not] only theorized, but also gave us in his plays magnificent examples of such conventional realism” (429). Here Meyerhold’s concept of “conventional realism” as applied to Pushkin’s dramatic work was a refraction of Pushkin’s position against the neo-classical verisimilitude and of his affirmation of the verisimilitude of characters and situations. Meyerhold’s revisionist interpretation of Pushkin was confirmed by Liubov Rudneva. According to Rudneva, in terms of his method of portraying the scenic situations in Boris Godunov, Meyerhold, as he himself acknowledged, was guided by Pushkin’s belief that “the true rule of tragedy” is “the ver­ isimilitude of scenic situations,” and, in this respect, Meyerhold again reminded his actors of “what kind of ‘examples’ of conventional realism Pushkin gave us” (Rudneva 1978, 418). All in all, there was a clear change in 1936–1937 in Meyerhold’s approach to Pushkin’s ideas on dramatic art, which gave prominence to realism, in contrast to his previous approach and to his use of Pushkin in his interpretation of Mei Lanfang’s art, as I will discuss later. This change was in line with the evolve­ ment of his overall theoretical approach from theatrical conventionalism or traditionalism to (conventional) realism. It suffices to recall, as noted previously, in 1921, Meyerhold juxtaposed Pushkin’s terms such as “conventional unver­ isimilitude,” “the truth of passions,” and “the verisimilitude of feelings,” and considered them all characteristic of the “theatrical traditionalism” with its

66 The Spectre of Tradition “violated rights” that, according to Meyerhold, Stanislavsky was able to restore only in his solitude.15 Yet, despite such a realistic turn, for the most part of his creative life, Meyerhold used Pushkin’s authority to stress the theatrical and conventional nature of staging, as opposed to Stanislavsky’s appropriation of Pushkin in the construction of his system of psychological realism in acting. Indeed, Meyerhold invoked and appropriated Pushkin, in his own image, as an anti-naturalistic and anti-psychologistic director, who called for conventional unverisimilitude and argued against the unnecessary truth in the art of staging and acting. Thereby, Meyerhold interpreted “the truth of passions” not as the kind of ver­ isimilitude that Pushkin believed should be demanded of a dramatic writer or as something real and living at the heart of a character for the actor to experience, which is fundamental to the actor’s creative process, but as “a musical term” emphasizing the importance of music in staging and perform­ ing Pushkin’s plays: “Finding the music of passions in Pushkin’s dramas, doesn’t it mean to overhear all the subtleties of the melody of the verse, to comprehend the secrets of the rhythms of all parts of the musical structure?” (Meyerhold 1968, 2:279). Indeed, according to V. Gromov, an assistant to Meyerhold, who observed and recorded Meyerhold’s rehearsals of Boris God­ unov in 1936, Meyerhold attached first importance to the role of music in Pushkin’s tragedy: Meyerhold wanted the actors to perfectly convey ‘the truth of passions, the verisimilitude of feelings in supposed circumstances.’ He wanted them to draw this most profound truthfulness from the inner melodiousness, from Pushkin’s ‘exalted verses,’ from their music, infinitely varied, precisely describing every picture of Boris Godunov, every moment of any character in this tragedy. (Gromov 1978, 360) Thus, in substance, Meyerhold’s selective appropriation of Pushkin was in sharp contrast to Stanislavsky’s equally selective use of the Russian poet-playwright. As early as 1922, speaking of the methods of Stanislavsky and Meyerhold, Eugene Vakhtangov noted that “Meyerhold, carried away by theatrical truth, removed the truthfulness of feelings” (Vakhtangov 1963, 186). For Meyerhold, Pushkin made a case for his idea of “Conventional Theatre” that necessitates the re-theatricalizing of the theatre, and for his argument against naturalism in theatre. For Stanislavsky, however, Meyerhold’s “theatrical” appropriation of Pushkin was fundamentally misguided and misplaced: Theatrical facts, events, and circumstances, naturally, induce only a thea­ trical attitude towards them, a theatrical, actorish state of body and mind, conventionality, lies, but not the truth of passions, not the verisimilitude of feelings, that is to say, just the opposite of what Pushkin wanted. (Stanislavski 1988–1999, 4:68)

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More importantly, for Stanislavsky, Pushkin was an advocate for psychological realism or naturalism in acting, as he redefined Pushkin’s idea on playwriting: In his notes ‘On Popular Drama and on M. P. Pogodin’s Martha, the Governor’s Wife,’ Alexander Sergeevich says: ‘The truth of passions and the verisimilitude of feelings in supposed circumstances—that is what our intellect demands of a dramatic writer.’ For myself, I will add that our intellect demands exactly the same from a dramatic actor, with the difference that the circumstances that are supposed for the writer will be, for us actors, ready—proposed. Hence, in our practical work, the term ‘proposed circumstances’ has become firmly established, which is what we use. (Stanislavski 1988–1999, 2:103–104) In fact, like Meyerhold, Stanislavsky had long invoked Pushkin’s “dead words” in the construction of his system. In 1918, in his manuscript, “The Art of Experiencing,” Stanislavsky thus tied Pushkin’s dictum to the core of his system: The purpose of the art of experiencing is to create a living life of the human spirit on stage and to reflect this life in artistic stage form. This ‘life of the human spirit’ can be created on stage not by the dexterity of a comedian, but by the truthful, sincere feeling and true passion of the artist. ‘The truth of passions, the verisimilitude of feelings in the supposed circum­ stances—that is what our intellect demands of a dramatic writer,’ said A. S. Pushkin. These are the words for our banner. Living, authentic feeling and ‘the truth of passions’ create, first of all, the life of the human spirit of the role that is accessible to our consciousness. (Stanislavski 1988–1999, 6:78. Emphases in original) On August 12, 1922, in a letter to Pavel Nikitich Sakulin, a Soviet historian of Russian literature, Stanislavsky thanked Sakulin for the latter’s affirmation of his interpretation of Pushkin: “Pushkin’s aphorism (aforizm) has been translated correctly, and everything that I build on it in my theory of acting creation is not subject to change. This is quite pleasant for me” (Stanislavski 1988–1999, 9:50). Indeed, in Stanislavsky’s analysis of the actor’s work on oneself in the crea­ tive process of incarnation, Pushkin’s “aphorism” was claimed as the foundation of his system as a whole: “After all the ‘Pushkin aphorism’ is the foundation of everything. The whole ‘system’ is based on it. Rest assured! This is, so to speak, our creative base” (Stanislavski 1988–1999, 3:351; 1949, 262; 2010, 212).16 Thus, like Meyerhold, Stanislavsky often cited Pushkin’s aphorisms, dictums, or precepts in his instructions to his students and actors. “Pushkin’s dictum (izrechenie) has become one of the main foundations of our art,” Stanislavsky stated again. “It guides us when we work with artists on roles and plays, and accordingly when we

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work with students on their études” (Stanislavski 1988–1999, 3:437). Elsewhere, on the actor’s work on his or her role, Stanislavsky thus explained: A. S. Pushkin demands, from the creator, ‘the truth of passions, the ver­ isimilitude of feelings in proposed circumstances.’ Thus, the purpose of the analysis is to study in detail and prepare the proposed circumstances of the play and the role so as to instinctively feel through them the truth of passions or the verisimilitude of feelings in the subsequent period of creativity. (Stanislavski 1988–1999, 4:55. Emphases in original) The first period prepares, as Pushkin said, the proposed circumstances, the second, again according to Pushkin, the truth of passions, the heart of a role, its structure, the idea of the character, real human feelings, the life of the human spirit, the life of the role as a living organism. So, the second period—experiencing—is fundamental to the creative act. (Stanislavski 2010, 133. Emphases in original) Pushkin wrote primarily about playwriting (specifically, his writing of his tragedy Boris Godunov), and his argument against the presumption of ver­ isimilitude as the primary condition and basis of dramatic art was intended as a direct attack on the French neo-classical ideal that sanctifies verisimilitude as the inviolable rule for the composition of tragic dramas. The neo-classical ver­ isimilitude was not true to life, not true to the people’s life, but servile to the ideological, moral as well as dramatic ideals of the dominant and elite class and society. Thus, according to Pushkin, a dramatist needs “a philosophy, imparti­ ality, the political acumen of an historian, insight, a lively imagination,” and, in the final analysis, “freedom” (Pushkin 1998, 264). For Pushkin, verisimilitude of passions and feelings, not the neo-classical ideal, is required of a dramatist in his portrayal of characters and situations, and true geniuses of tragedy, such as Shakespeare and Corneille, never concerned themselves with verisimilitude other than the verisimilitude of characters and situations. Pushkin made a distinction between the staging of a tragedy in a theatre, which is conditioned by its nature of “conventional unverisimilitude” (Pushkin 1926–1928, 2:63; 1963, 367), and the dramatist’s creation of it, which entails the truth of passions and the verisimilitude of characters and situations. In addition, Pushkin looked at dramatic art from an audience’s perspective, making a distinction between a reader’s experience of reading a novel or an epic poem, which entails verisimilitude and identification, and a viewer’s experience of watching the staging of a dramatic work in a theatre, which is unverisimilar because of its conventional nature (Pushkin 1969, 248; 1981, 9; 1998, 264). Pushkin did not speak much of the art of acting or directing. Stanislavsky “translated,” and thus displaced, Pushkin’s idea on playwriting into his theory of acting and interpreted Pushkin from the perspective of an actor or, more precisely, a naturalistic and psychological actor faithfully interpreting the

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dramatist’s work. Thus, for Pushkin, what is required of a dramatic writer— “the truth of passions and the verisimilitude of feelings in supposed circum­ stances” (the circumstances as defined in a dramatic work)—becomes, for Sta­ nislavsky, what is required of an actor in his experiencing and incarnation of a character in a given circumstance, a creative process that reaches the subconscious.17

Meyerhold’s Pushkinization of Mei Lanfang’s Art On April 14, 1935, following the final performance by Mei Lanfang and his troupe in Moscow, the Soviet All-Union Society for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries (VOKS) organized a panel discussion on the Chinese theatre and Mei Lanfang’s art, joined by a host of the Soviet theatre artists. Notwith­ standing its subject, the discussion was dominated by the different positions of the Soviet theatre artists, particularly that of Meyerhold, and was haunted by the spectre of Pushkin invoked by Meyerhold. In his speech, Meyerhold reminded his audience that many of the Soviet directors were “extremely illit­ erate” as they felt the desire to imitate the basic techniques of the Chinese theatre and failed to absorb what is essential to the existence of the theatre.18 Meyerhold then cited Pushkin’s idea on dramatic art: I am always reminded of the lines to the question about the transforma­ tion of the dramatic and theatrical system of which with such passion and such consciousness Pushkin spoke. I do not quote him word for word: ‘Fools! They look for verisimilitude (pravdopodobiia) in the theatre. What nonsense! When dramatic art is at its very foundation unverisimilar (nepravdopodobno).’19 Here Meyerhold quoted, as he often did in the past, from Pushkin’s famous essay on national or popular drama, where Pushkin stated: “Verisimilitude (pravdopodobie) is still presumed to be the primary condition and basis of dra­ matic art. What if it were demonstrated that the very essence of dramatic art distinctly precludes verisimilitude?” (Pushkin 1981, 9; 1969, 247–248). Underlining the conventional nature of dramatic art as Pushkin suggested, Meyerhold again attacked naturalism that had been dominating the Russian theatre, invoking Mei Lanfang’s Chinese theatre as he saw through the prism of Pushkin’s ideas that he perceived as opposed to naturalism: This formula, to which Pushkin drew us, I saw substantiated, and ideally substantiated, in this theatre [the Chinese theatre]. When we conduct a historical survey of the Russian theatre from the time of Pushkin to our day, then we at once see this struggle of two currents: one current has flown us to the blind alley of naturalism, and the other current has received a broad development only later. Not without reason the best things of Pushkin have not been performed till this day, and even if they

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The Spectre of Tradition began to be performed, then all the same they were not performed in that system which was given, suggested to us by the Chinese theatre. Imagine Pushkin’s Boris Godunov played in the method of Dr. Mei Lan-fang. You will then get a glance through the pages of these pictures without the slightest attempts to sink them into the naturalistic mire, which does things abominably.20

Here it should be stressed that Meyerhold’s anti-naturalistic appropriation of Pushkin in his interpretation of Mei Lanfang’s art was nothing new. Meyer­ hold’s attack on naturalism and his proposal to perform Pushkin’s Boris Godunov in Mei Lanfang’s method echo his 1915 attack on the production of Pushkin’s short plays at the Moscow Art Theatre in the same year, as I have discussed above. In defining, in his imagination, what would be an ideal method—the method of Mei Lanfang’s Chinese theatre, or rather, a Meyerholdian anti-nat­ uralistic method—of performing Pushkin’s tragedy, Meyerhold performed a double displacement: an anti-naturalistic appropriation and refraction of the Romantic Pushkin21 and an anti-naturalistic Pushkinization of Mei Lanfang’s art. For Meyerhold, the magic of Mei Lanfang’s ancient Chinese theatre evoked and “substantiated” what he had conjured of Pushkin’s ideas or, more precisely, what he had envisioned for the future of the Soviet theatre. With a greater emphasis and poignancy, Meyerhold thus returned to Pushkin at the end of his speech, apparently noting the significance of Mei Lanfang’s tour: But we can already see clearly that this tour will be terribly significant for the future destinies of the Soviet theatre, and again and again we will need to understand to recall Pushkin’s best instructions, for these instructions are closely intertwined with what is realized in Dr. Mei Lan-fang’s work. Everything!22 In the official transcript of the panel discussion, however, Meyerhold’s refer­ ences to Pushkin were all erased.23 In addition, in his last reference to Pushkin cited above, “the future destinies of the Soviet theatre” was replaced by “the life of the Soviet theatre.”24 With the removal of Meyerhold’s last reference to Pushkin and with its seemingly seamless replacement by a reference to Mei Lanfang (“Again and again we will need to understand to recall what was rea­ lized in the work of Dr. Mei Lan-fang”),25 the direct relevance of Meyerhold’s appropriation of Pushkin and of his Pushkinizing displacement of Mei Lan­ fang’s art was erased, as the Soviet artists were urged to remember what was accomplished in Mei Lanfang’s performances, instead of Pushkin’s ideas or “instructions” that Meyerhold interpreted and reinvented as anti-naturalistic.26 Meyerhold’s Pushkinization of Mei Lanfang’s art from the perspective of his anti-naturalistic concept of conventional theatre was tied to his stressing the importance of rhythm in staging and acting. Likewise, while admiring “the great power of rhythm” demonstrated in Mei Lanfang’s performance, Meyerhold disapproved of the Soviet actors for their lack of a sense of rhythm in their

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performances. Furthermore, Meyerhold saw Pushkin’s formula of dramatic art, or rather, his Pushkin-inspired anti-naturalistic ideal of performance, sub­ stantiated in the physical and rhythmical expressiveness of Mei Lanfang’s per­ formance, as demonstrated particularly in the Chinese actor’s masterful use of his hands.28 Meyerhold’s anti-naturalistic approach to Mei Lanfang’s art was also manifest in his appreciation of Mei Lanfang’s portrayal of female characters. In his speech at the panel, noting the inability of Russian actresses to represent the “very femininity,” as Mei Lanfang did in his performance, of female char­ acters, Meyerhold, again, turned a praise of the Chinese actor into a sharp attack on the Soviet stage: Everywhere we have the unhealthy features of sexuality, morbid patholo­ gical sexuality. Come to any theatre, and you all will surely turn away at such moments from what takes place on the stage, because there are extremely unpleasant moments of sexual shoddiness, filthiness.29 Meyerhold’s position against naturalistic representation of sexuality was in con­ formity with his general stance against naturalism in the theatre, and his approval of Mei Lanfang’s art of female representation was in line with his anti-naturalistic Pushkinization of Mei Lanfang’s art that he argued would secure dramatic art from sinking into the filthy and abominable naturalistic mire. Although he made it clear that he did not want to give examples, because “these examples will be extremely offensive to all the directors present” at the panel,30 Meyerhold’s attack was clearly deemed offensive as it was not only erased from the official transcript but also from the 1978 published version of his speech.31

Meyerhold’s Woe to Wit: Pushkin and Mei Lanfang In 1928, Meyerhold directed an adaptation of Aleksandr Griboedov’s comedy, Woe from Wit, which he renamed Woe to Wit, the original title of the play, preserved in Griboedov’s manuscript.32 Seven years later, Meyerhold staged his second version of the same comedy on September 25, 1935, during the tour of the Meyerhold Theatre in Leningrad, and it was practically Meyerhold’s last major production before the Meyerhold Theatre was closed in 1938. The premiere of the new version took place about five months after Mei Lanfang concluded his performances in Russia. At the aforementioned panel discussion on Mei Lanfang’s art, Meyerhold remarked: Here I just now should resume my old work, Griboedov’s Woe to Wit. I appeared at the resumed rehearsal after I had seen two or three perfor­ mances by Dr. Mei Lan-fang, and I felt that I had to change everything that I did before.33 This indicates that the production of his new version may have been influenced by his experience of Mei Lanfang’s performances.

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Before and after the premiere, Meyerhold spoke to the press several times about his intention to stage the new version. In an interview dated May 24, 1935, Meyerhold mentioned, for the first time, that he dedicated the new version to Mei Lanfang, in addition to the Russian pianist, L. N. Oborin, to whom he dedicated his 1928 version as well, acknowledging that the new version was marked with “the stamp of the influence (in terms of scenometric) of the Chinese actor Mei Lanfang” and that “a number of techniques from the Chinese theatre were used in the production.”34 But here Meyerhold did not discuss the techniques that he claimed to have used in the production. In another interview dated on September 8, Meyerhold confirmed that he was “intensely rehearsing” the new production, stating that it was not a repetition of the 1928 production by any means, nor a new version of Griboedov’s text, but “a new director’s interpretation” (Meyerhold 1968: 2:322). He called his 1928 production “the ‘Petersburg’ version” because it bore “the stamp of the pre-revolutionary period” of his work and because it “evoked a number of associations with the old Petersburg”; in contrast, he styled his “new inter­ pretation” as “the ‘Moscow’ version,” as it was firmly tied to “the atmosphere of the old, so-called ‘Griboedov’s Moscow’” (322). Here Meyerhold’s differ­ entiation suggests an evolution in his approach from his early “formalist” and “constructivist” method to his method of “conventional realism” in the 1930s, as he stressed in the same interview that the new production “will be conven­ tional and at the same time profoundly realistic” (322). In the interview, Meyerhold again reiterated his dedication of the new version to Mei Lanfang, stating that it bears “the stamp of the influence” of Mei Lanfang in “sceno­ metric design” and that “a number of features from the theatrical ‘folklore’ of the Chinese troupe, led by the unforgettable actor Mei Lanfang, are added to the musical element” (322). Still, Meyerhold did not discuss in any detail such Chinese influence or features. Furthermore, it is significant to note that in the interview Meyerhold stressed that he was inspired by Pushkin’s insight in his interpretation of the characters of Griboedov’s comedy, particularly the main character Chatsky. For Meyerhold, Pushkin’s dissatisfaction with Griboedov’s portrayal of Chatsky that diminishes Chatsky’s role as an intelligent man must be taken into account by all means. Hence Meyerhold’s introduction, into the play, of the Decembrists, a group of Russian revolutionaries who staged an uprising against Tsar Nicholas I in December 1825, and his particular accent­ uations on the mise-en-scènes of his production, which were intended to portray Chatsky not only as a “passionate, noble, and kind fellow,” as Pushkin defined, but also as an intelligent one, as Griboedov had intended (322). Meyerhold spoke more extensively of the political message of his production later in an interview with Leningrad Pravda, dated September 21, 1935: “Our task is, first of all, to restore the political essence of Griboedov’s comedy and bring it closer to the modern audience.”35 According to Meyerhold, in his production, “Famusov’s Moscow, this hospitable, Asiatic, vulgar landowner’s Moscow, is opposed to the youthful Moscow of ‘Voltairians’ and Decembrists. Chatsky’s Moscow fights against Famusov’s Moscow. Chatsky’s tragedy is not

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only a love failure—it is the tragedy of a certain social trend.” Meyerhold was opposed to the idealization of the wild, bestial, feudal life of the Moscow nobility, as it was presented in the Russian productions of the play in the past, in which the whole social conflict was replaced by a lyric-idyllic drama between Chatsky and Sofia. In his production, Meyerhold intended to provide a realistic portrayal, with complete frankness, of the monstrosity of the savage and vulgar life of Russian serfdom. He thus summarized his approach to the new production: The theatre is moving forward. Its task is to give the theatre an offensive movement towards the mastery of socialist realism both in content (revealing the social tendencies of dramatic material) and in form (finding that simple and clear form that would help the viewer penetrate the core of the content without hindrance).37 Here Meyerhold provided a clear articulation of the ideological and political thrust of his artistic method—conventional realism with an ideological drive towards socialist realism—in the 1930s in contrast to his previous alleged formalism and aestheticism. In his interview, Meyerhold again invoked Push­ kin’s positive view of Chatsky. In the context of Meyerhold’s stress on the influence of the Chinese theatre on his production, it is also interesting to note his use of the word “Asiatic” in his characterization of nineteenth-century Russian serfdom and the landowner’s Moscow. Apparently, Meyerhold like­ wise subscribed to the Western notion of the “Asiatic” despotism, even as he spoke of Russian serfdom, in contrast to the enlightened progressive, liberal democracy of the Voltairian Europe (Meyerhold associated with his Decem­ bristic Chatsky). This may also explain the appearance of “the Chinese living room” in Famusov’s house. After the premiere, in an interview with Moscow Evening, dated November 13, 1935, Meyerhold again emphasized “the stamp of the influence of the remarkable Chinese actor Mei Lanfang, mainly with regard to the rhythmical peculiarities of the actor’s behaviour on stage.”38 He considered it a “right” approach “because, in Woe to Wit, there is that simplicity of plot and verbal material that recalls the naivety of the construction of Chinese theatre perfor­ mances.”39 Meyerhold again reminded that he “strengthened the realistic features in the production” and eliminated those “elements of schematism” that were felt in the mise-en-scènes of his 1928 production.40 In contrast to the set and costumes that were almost completely redesigned, the music “remains almost entirely the same.”41 This last remark appeared to have weakened Meyerhold’s claim, noted above, that the Chinese features were added to “the musical element.” After 1935, Meyerhold no longer spoke of the influence of the Chinese theatre when he talked about the production. In a lecture in 1936, Meyerhold stated that he staged the play not on the principles (the three unities) of French comedy, which Griboedov’s comedy was forced to follow, but on the

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principles of French tragedy in the spirit of Racine and Corneille (Meyerhold 1978a, 99).42 In this way, Meyerhold claimed, the newly configured mise-en­ scènes enabled the production to expand the boundaries of the French comedy, “organically combining strict realism with the elements of Russian romanticism and French classicism inherent in Griboedov’s comedy” (101). It is worth noting that in the lecture Meyerhold underlined, again, the importance of fol­ lowing Pushkin’s comment on the play, particularly with the prospect of sta­ ging the play at the 1937 Pushkin centenary organized by the All-Union Pushkin Committee, of which Meyerhold was a member. At the centenary, Meyerhold insisted, “a deep propaganda of Pushkin” must be carried out (99). In another discussion of the production, on February 15, 1936, Meyerhold again paid homage to Pushkin, eulogizing the Russian poet-dramatist as “the most brilliant of all geniuses,” “a great art critic,” whose notes and letters con­ cerning the theatre “all can be taken for obligatory guidance” (Meyerhold 1968, 2:325). For Meyerhold, Pushkin’s critique of Griboedov’s comedy served as such a guidance, as he acknowledged that he had thought about it for a long time and that it had helped him a great deal (325). Indeed, in the second half of the 1930s, Pushkin must have weighed heavily on the mind of Meyerhold, after he, along with Stanislavsky and Nemirovich-Danchenko, was designated as a member of the All-Union Pushkin Committee in commemoration of the centenary of Pushkin’s death, established by the Central Executive Committee of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics on December 16, 1935.43 According to Pravda, the composition of the committee, chaired by the great proletarian writer A. M. Gorky and including representatives of the government and the Communist Party as well as figures of science, theatre, literature, and literary studies, testifies to the great significance of the celebrations of the centenary of Pushkin’s death.44 As Jonathan Brooks Platt summarizes in his study of the commemoration, “the [1937] jubilee celebrated the Russian bard both as a figure of symbolic permanence—living on in the memory of the people—and as a resurrected contemporary of the revolution—sensuously living again among the ranks of socialist builders” (Platt 2016, 276. Emphases in original). Platt speaks of the Russian “modernist cult of Pushkin” (39) and of “the Stalinist Pushkin cult” (281).45 Like many Russian artists, both Stanislavsky and Meyerhold were impacted by, participated in, and contributed to, the RussianSoviet cult of Pushkin, which culminated in the centennial commemoration of his death. Compared with his 1928 version, Meyerhold’s 1935 version was reduced from 17 episodes to 13 episodes, with the elimination of the pantomime pro­ logue and of the episodes of the cabaret night revel, the dancing class, the bil­ liard room, and the shooting gallery. Nearly all other episodes were modified or completely redesigned. Instead of naming the individual episodes, they were distributed with a designation of the time of the whole day, beginning with “Winter. Early Morning” (the first three scenes) and ending with “In the Morning” (the last scene). From the beginning of 1937, the production was renamed after Griboedov’s comedy, Woe from Wit (Meyerhold 1968, 2:563).

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More importantly, with Meyerhold’s reinvention of the scene (retained and reset in the new version) featuring the Decembrists, where a group of revolu­ tionary young people, friends of Chatsky, gathered in Famusov’s house, reading revolutionary poems by Pushkin and Lermontov, and with his new inter­ pretation of the social conflict between the two worlds represented, respec­ tively, by Famusov and Chatsky and of the latter as a revolutionary tragic character, the new version was not just a simple revision but a whole new work (Meyerhold 1968, 2:322–323; Gvozdev 1987, 148–152). In addition, in the new production, Meyerhold introduced, for the first time, a transparent curtain through which the viewer can vaguely see the outlines of objects on the stage. In a conversation with A. V. Fevralskii on November 21, 1935, Meyerhold explained the significance of its use: “The viewer, remaining in the rhythm of the performance, fantasizes about what the next episode will be like. So, the transparent curtain turns out to be even further away from the opaque curtain than the absence of the curtain” (Meyerhold 1968, 2:564; 1973–1992, 3:259). Speaking of Meyerhold’s 1935 version of Griboedov’s comedy, Marjorie L. Hoover has argued that “undoubtedly the result was one of his most important productions, worthy of greater praise than it could possibly receive in the midthirties era of Soviet opinion” (Hoover 1973, 294). Hoover’s observation seems to me perhaps oversimplified. In fact, many reviews of Meyerhold’s new pro­ duction by his contemporary critics differ significantly. Some critics praised it as a brilliant realistic work. G. Erenburg affirmed Meyerhold’s treatment of the classics, stating that the director should enter a creative relationship to the author and that with his creative modern approach, Meyerhold helped Gri­ boedov step into the new century. Disagreeing with those critics who charged that Meyerhold was not a realist, Erenburg defended, from his anti-naturalistic perspective, Meyerhold from such anti-formalist attacks, arguing that realism was not “faded wallpaper on the walls” or real food with sandwiches: “Realism presupposes a certain essence, synthesis, the idea of passions, collisions, epochs; when this essence is diluted with water (moreover, hardly pure), it turns out that naturalism, which is now fighting against the accomplishments of V. E. Meyerhold” (Erenburg 1935, 4). Erenburg appreciated Meyerhold’s revolu­ tionary “nature” and “genius” and the ideological significance of his work: “I am convinced that in Fascist Germany Woe to Wit would have been immedi­ ately banned” (4).46 Some critics even asserted that Meyerhold’s production was in accord with socialist realism. Yu. Karabekov, for instance, went so far as to assert that, as evidenced by the production, the Meyerhold Theatre “is moving more firmly and more confidently along the path of socialist realism” (Karabekov n.d.). Arguing that “Meyerhold’s decision is deeply revolutionary and modern” (Mirskii 2014, 322), another critic, D. Mirsky, pointed out “the enormous cognitive significance” of Meyerhold’s production, which, by means of the highest stage art, from the historical tower of the socialist era, opens up new aspects for us not only in Griboedov’s great

76 The Spectre of Tradition creation, but also in the Russian reality of the past and the Russian his­ torical process. (324) Some other critics did not sing such high praises of Meyerhold’s production, but saw it as a milestone in the evolution of Meyerhold’s creative work from his early formalist and constructivist experiments to his realistic productions in the 1930s. M. Iankovskii noted that the brilliance of the design that created, in the new production, a realistic background for the play further emphasized “Meyerhold’s turn to a new realistic interpretation of the play” (Iankovskii 1935). According to O. Litovskii, Meyerhold’s new version “develops and deepens the realistic line of the theatre,” and its “realism” renounced “both the excesses of constructivism and the stolid and tedious everyday life” of nat­ uralism (Litovskii 1935). For A. Fevralskii, the new design, while remaining “conventional,” developed “distinctive realistic features that help create the atmosphere of the play, clearly conveying the style of Griboedov’s Moscow” (Fevral’skii 1935). In Aleksandr Deich’s view, in his new version, Meyerhold “now interprets this comedy in realistic terms and has renounced his conven­ tional and aesthetic techniques that had previously provoked justified attacks from critics” (Deich 1935). For Em. Beskin, Meyerhold must be applauded for his “self-criticism” of the “mistakes” he made in his early productions such as The Inspector General and his 1928 version of Woe to Wit. Beskin regarded those productions as Meyerhold’s “brief, fortunately, tribute to formalism and expressionism,” which, as Meyerhold acknowledged, “bore the stamp of the pre-revolutionary period” of his work, “the stamp of his passion for aesthetic and conventional theatre” (Beskin 1935, 3). Beskin was pleased to see the evolution of Meyerhold’s method into realism in the 1930s as exemplified in his productions of The Lady of the Camellias and Woe to Wit. For him, the new version of Woe to Wit as Meyerhold’s rejection of the “Petersburg” version signified, in Meyerhold’s current work, “the strengthening of the realistic line, the realistic sound of performance,” even though it still had some “birthmarks” from the “Petersburg” version (3. Emphases in original). Thus, most importantly, Beskin argued, the audience had every right to congratulate Meyerhold “the master” on his “great victory,” which saw him turning “towards the realistic whole” despite the fact he was working on his “old and then formalistic” version of the play (3. Emphases in original). In contrast, some critics voiced sharp criticisms of Meyerhold’s production. According to Vladimir Blium, Meyerhold’s overt and simplistic political approach to Griboedov’s comedy failed to represent Chatsky’s “true dialectical image” and turned the classical hero into a revolutionary and a political rebel for supposedly propagandistic purposes; the disorientating style of Meyerhold’s production failed to make his portrayal of the hero convincing and believable to the audience. “Let Chatsky be anything but Griboedov’s, it doesn’t matter,” Blium continued, “but let him be truly, harmoniously, thoughtfully, and holi­ stically ‘Meyerholdism’! Unfortunately, this did not happen” (Blium 1936, 71).

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As for the design of the production, Blium argued that there was almost no design to speak of in the first place, except what he called “a shapeless and unprincipled chaos” of screens, furniture, and accessories, and a lot piled up on the stage equally “unmotivated and unjustified” (75). In conclusion, Blium called Meyerhold’s new version of the play “a big mistake”: “In the battle and ‘socialist competition’ with Griboedov, he has so far been defeated” (75). Blium was not alone in his criticism of Meyerhold’s production. Having observed Meyerhold’s new version of Woe to Wit in Moscow in 1936, Amer­ ican critic Brooks Atkinson was profoundly disappointed. Writing for Pravda, Atkinson dismissed Meyerhold’s production simply as “boring and pedantic” (Atkinson 1936a, 4). Like Blium, the American critic saw “a certain piling up all the time” on the stage, not “a hint of beauty” in “most of the scenery,” and, most importantly, he “cannot forgive Meyerhold for the mostly mediocre performance of his actors” (4). Writing for The New York Times at the same time, Atkinson was even more blunt in his assessment: For years Meierhold’s name has been roaring around the world, threaten­ ing to shatter the cosmos. The Red terror of art, the smasher of forms, the militant, the fiend, the prophet…. Now all that has changed, for the Meierhold production included in the festival is as labored and plodding a piece of stagecraft as I have seen since the good Queen Victoria died…. In this production Meierhold’s stage is cluttered and cramped with warehouse materials that impede the actors. The chief feature of his setting is a pair of staircases on either side of the stage; they not only make entrances and exits unbearably wearisome, but they are a hazard for the actor with slip­ pery shoes. Being in the presence of a literary classic, which happily also contains the seeds of revolution, Meierhold has encouraged his actors to play as sluggishly as possible, climbing or descending five steps before delivering a line, or pretending to play five bars on the piano before saying ‘da’ or ‘nyet.’ Although Meierhold has had an acting organization to work with for many years, his actors are not good ones. If they ever had vitality or magnetism, it has been knocked out of them. Their gestures are perfunc­ tory, their voices unpleasant. Here in the Soviet Union ‘the trend’ may be said to be away from fourth dimensional wizardry and toward more intelligible forms. Poor Meierhold is only the husk of a director when he crooks his knee to a classic. (Atkinson 1936b) Here it is important to note Atkinson’s stress on the incompatibility of Meyerhold’s setting, which was close to naturalism, with the acting of the actors and, particularly, on the actors’ lack of artistic craftsmanship in their performances, which proved definitely inferior to the mastery that Atkinson saw and greatly admired in Mei Lanfang’s performances in the United States in 1930 (Atkinson 1930; Tian 2012, 74) and which was a far cry from the lofty

78 The Spectre of Tradition model that Meyerhold found in the Chinese actor, a model of superb artistry that he must have encouraged his actors to emulate. All these different and contradicting views lead me to the question of the influence of Mei Lanfang’s art on Meyerhold’s new version of Woe to Wit, as Meyerhold suggested, and to the larger question of its compatibility with the realistic orientation of Meyerhold’s art in the mid-1930s, as exemplified in his new production. On December 25, 1937, in a conversation with the members of his troupe at the Meyerhold Theatre about the recent attack in Pravda on the Meyerhold Theatre (Kerzhentsev 1937, 4), Meyerhold remarked: If we compare the first and second adaptations of Woe to Wit, we can see that we have removed the episode of the billiard room and that of the cabaret, which were shown in the first adaptation. This means that we have worked to move beyond these formal moments. In the work on the second adaptation, we have another example of correction—a scene between Sofia and Liza with shawl and without shawl. We believed that the first solution was typically formalistic, and the corrections eliminated it. (Meyerhold 1973–1992, 4:199) Here Meyerhold probably referred to Sofia’s (played by A. N. Kheraskova) performance with a shawl in a scene where she talks with Liza. It was an imi­ tation of Mei Lanfang’s performance in The Rainbow Pass, in which Mei por­ trayed the heroine who plays with the shawl of her beloved. In his review of Mei’s performance, Sergei Radlov mentioned “the unforgettable quiet dying laugh of a suicide in Tiger General, the play with the shawl (platkom) of the beloved and the playfully coy order to the disobedient maid to leave in The Rainbow Pass, and the coquetry with the husband in The Suspected Slippers,” all of which “are manifestations of a deeply realistic and truthful tragic art that creates biologically and socially complete images” (Radlov 1935, 2). As I have noted in Chapter 1, Radlov associated what Meyerhold characterized as “the conventional” in Mei Lanfang’s art with the Stanislavsky system, which was, according to Radlov, all profoundly justified by Mei’s “subtlest psychological performance” (2). Radlov’s Stanislavskian interpretation of Mei’s art notwith­ standing, Meyerhold’s appropriation of such “conventional” techniques from Mei’s performance collided with the realistic direction of his new production. Apparently, as Meyerhold’s statement indicates, at some point between its premiere and the end of 1937, Meyerhold, probably under the pressure of the official anti-formalist campaign against him and his theatre, further revised his production and eliminated those alleged formalistic moments, which include Sofia’s play with the shawl in the manner of Mei Lanfang’s performance. In his review of Meyerhold’s production, Em. Beskin disapproved of “Sofia’s play with scarves (sharfami) under the techniques of Mei Lanfang’s Chinese theatre,” regarding it as “a completely alien technique, from a different thea­ trical system, from a different stage scale” (Beskin 1935, 3). On the one hand, S. Tsimbal was pleased to see, in Meyerhold’s new production, the artist’s

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attraction to full-fledged realistic colours and to the creation of extremely concrete artistic images, which was reflected in the features of his new realistic design and in his particularly conscientious attitude toward individual realistic details. On the other hand, however, like Beskin and nearly every other critic, Tsimbal saw a significant disparity between Meyerhold’s directorial idea and the ability of his actors to materialize it in the production: In the new version of the play, however, there are also features that con­ tradict the main idea of the director. The dedication of this performance to the remarkable master of Chinese theatre, Dr. Mei Lanfang, is particularly characteristic in this sense. An attempt to reveal a number of episodes by means of the conventional plasticity of a Chinese actor seems both unex­ pected and little justified in the performance. It requires impeccable plastic mastery from the actor, the inner mastering of the techniques of the actor’s craftsmanship that are fundamentally alien to the performers of the play, and yet this is precisely what they lacked. This was particularly strongly felt in the second episode of the performance by Sofia-Kheraskova. (Tsimbal 1935, 12) Furthermore, Tsimbal tied, in general, “the fate of Meyerhold’s ideas,” and thereby the success or failure of his productions, to the (in)ability of his actors to realize them “internally” in their performances: The fact is that it has become more and more clear that at his present creative stage the actor, and only the actor, will decide the fate of Meyerhold’s ideas. If previously one could say that the actors in the Meyerhold Theatre did not always ‘extract’ the ideas of their master, now one must say that these ideas, not realized internally, lose their power and their meaning. (12) In Tsimbal’s view, the stronger, the more significant, and the deeper Meyer­ hold’s staging ideas become, the greater and the more qualified the actors who are entrusted with their stage implementation should be. Thus, for Tsimbal, it became increasingly apparent that “Meyerhold needs actors of enormous inner technique, actors of great thought and genuine feelings” (13). Precisely for that reason, Tsimbal poignantly acknowledged that “the tragic contradiction of Meyerhold’s latest production is in the absence of such actors” (13). In my view, however, as I will demonstrate later, Tsimbal’s observation reveals only part of this Meyerholdian “tragic contradiction.” It is important to note Tsim­ bal’s insightful view on Meyerhold’s gradual turn to the primary role of the actor as shown in his second version of Woe to Wit: If previously the external surroundings and the whole staging machinery to some extent realized the lines and colours of the performance envisioned

80 The Spectre of Tradition by Meyerhold, now their role is consistently narrowed by the master, and it is becoming increasingly clear that through the head of the spotlight design and ‘playing with things,’ Meyerhold extends a hand to the primary and decisive force of the theatre—the actor. (12) However, in view of the increasing realistic tendency of Meyerhold’s art in the 1930s and taking into account his role as the director of his productions, I want to argue that, as evidenced in his revival of Woe to Wit, Meyerhold’s turn to the primacy of the actor was never fundamentally decisive and complete and was always and inevitably conditioned and limited by his central and decisive role as the director of the whole production, in contrast to the central and decisive role of the actor in traditional Chinese theatre. Speaking of the representation of time and space in Meyerhold’s production of The Queen of Spades, N. M. Tarabukin compared it with the performance of Mei Lanfang’s Chinese theatre, in which “the actors make several rhythmic circles around the stage, and these movements are perceived as a long journey from one locality to another” (Tarabukin 1998, 76). Here it is interesting to measure Tarabukin’s observation against the treatment of space in the design of Meyerhold’s revival of Woe to Wit. To signify the change of space, it would be unimaginable and completely out of place to have an actor (even a master like Mei Lanfang) run in a full circle in Famusov’s house, between the realistic “Chinese living room” on the left and on the right a furnished library filled with real books. In Meyerhold’s production, the change of space was not defined by the performance of the actor; characteristically, Meyerhold had it revealed by the movement of the spotlight (Blium 1936, 70). Edward Braun claimed that Meyerhold’s dedication of his production of Woe to Wit to Mei Lanfang provides “the clue to the production’s comparative failure: the cast of the richest verse play in the Russian language were exhorted to emulate the plastic skills of the greatest living exponent of Chinese dancedrama” (Meyerhold 1969, 235). Braun did not explain why that was the case. For me, it suggests a fundamental difference existing between the logocentric nature of Griboedov’s text and the performance-centric nature of Mei Lan­ fang’s Chinese theatre. Citing Tsimbal’s review, Alma Law thus spoke of Meyerhold’s new production: The production was cruelly handicapped by the pedestrian quality of the acting. None of the performers came anywhere near fulfilling the hercu­ lean task Meyerhold set for them of combining the stylized movements of the Chinese theatre (hence the dedication to Mei Lan-fang) with the greater psychological depth he also now demanded. (Law 1977, 394) In my view, however, the task that Meyerhold set for his actors was an impossible one not only because of the inability of his actors to perform up to

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the high standard of the Chinese actor, but more importantly because of the incompatibility of the extreme conventionalism of Chinese acting with the increasingly realistic style of his production, which was in need of “actors of enormous inner technique” to realize it “internally,” as noted by Tsimbal. The impossibility, or “the tragic contradiction,” of the task was perfectly crystalized in Meyerhold’s statement, which I have noted above, that the new production “will be conventional and at the same time profoundly realistic” (Meyerhold 1968, 2:322). Granted that realism was not faded wallpaper on the walls or real foods like sandwiches, as Erenburg argued, Meyerhold’s realistic production of Woe to Wit was, however, burdened with real things and objects, such as, in Famusov’s house, a Chinese-style living room with a real table filled with champagne and real foods and a furnished library shelved with real books (Mirskii 2014, 324; Blium 1936, 70), not to mention the piling-ups noted by Blium and Atkinson, which can be justifiably characterized as “naturalistic” in contrast to the extreme conventionalism of the Chinese theatre. In this regard, it is important to note the “ironic,” if not “tragic,” “contradiction” in Meyerhold’s double take on the conventionalism and realism of the Chinese theatre. In his review, for Pravda, of the performances of Kazakh operas at the 1936 Festival of Kazakh Arts, Platon Kerzhentsev, Chairman of the All-Union Committee for Arts under the Council of People’s Commissars of the USSR, observed that the performance of Kazakh actors was marked with “the stamp of the greatest simplicity, naturalness, and deep emotionality” (Kerzhentsev 1936, 4). He drew “a sharp contrast” between the Kazakh theatre and the Chinese theatre: for Kazakh actors, the primary objective is “the transmission of human feelings,” and for the Chinese actor, it is “acrobatics” (4). Therefore, he argued, “the Kazakh theatre is so much full of life, and the Chinese theatre is so much formal” (4). Granted that Kerzhentsev’s overall review of the Kazakh perfor­ mances was ideologically and politically motivated, his portrayal of the vitality of the Kazakh theatre reminds of the affirmation, by the famous Chinese writer Lu Xun, of the vitality of the Chinese theatre (jingju or Beijing opera) before it was aestheticized and formalized, and his characterization of the formalism of the Chinese theatre reminds of Lu Xun’s attack on the aestheticism and formalism of Mei Lanfang’s art. Lu Xun accused the Chinese literati of transforming Mei’s art aesthetically and of teaching the Chinese actor “a language unintelligible to the majority of the people” (Lu Xun 2010, 70). As Mei’s performance became aes­ theticized, refined, elegant, and noble, Lu Xun argued, it also became “lifeless, stereotyped and pitiably restrained” (71). Here Lu Xun’s view stands in stark contrast with Meyerhold’s assertion of the realism of Mei’s art. In a lecture, “Chaplin and Chaplinism,” delivered in June 1936, Meyerhold appeared to have offered a direct rebuttal to Kerzhentsev’s assertion, arguing that it was “a fatal mistake”—which “we must definitely expose”—to believe “such a formula according to which Kazakh art would be defined as full of life while Chinese art would be labeled as formalism” (Meyerhold 1978c, 231; 1980, 234). According to Meyerhold, one cannot call Mei Lanfang “a formalist

82 The Spectre of Tradition in any way” because “Mei Lan-fang speaks in a language that is familiar to this country, to this nation,” and, as a result, the Chinese comprehended what was happening on the stage, were able to read those artistic hieroglyphs, penetrated the content of the plays he performed, and understood the female characters he portrayed (Meyerhold 1978c, 232; 1980, 234).47 Here, again, the contradiction, “ironic,” if not “tragic,” in Meyerhold’s approach to the Chinese theatre resides in his failure or unwillingness to affirm forcefully and forthrightly the existence, and the legitimacy, of formalism in the Chinese theatre and in his strenuous attempts to define and defend, often on shaky ground, the realism, or “conven­ tional realism,” of the Chinese theatre. As noted previously, at the Russian panel on Mei Lanfang’s performance, Meyerhold asked his audience to “imagine Pushkin’s Boris Godunov played in the method of Dr. Mei Lanfang.”48 Indeed, according to Liubov Rudneva, who was present at Meyerhold’s 1936 rehearsals of Pushkin’s tragedy, Meyerhold spoke in detail about the techniques of the ancient Chinese theatre, and more than once, in other rehearsals of the tragedy, when he emphasized the conventional techniques of the performance and the par­ ticular features of constructing certain mise-en-scènes. (Rudneva 1978, 431) Had Meyerhold indeed produced Pushkin’s tragedy in the style of the Chinese theatre and had he asked his actors to perform in Mei Lanfang’s method, it would have become, for the reasons I have underlined above, an equally impossible task, like his production of Griboedov’s comedy. In summary, I want to argue, the real “tragic contradiction” in Meyerhold’s new production of Griboedov’s comedy, and to a large extent, his work in the 1930s, resides in the fact that, as a result of his conscious de-formalizing approach, the increasing realistic tendency of his work became increasingly incompatible with a highly conventional and formalized art of performance, such as the one exemplified in Mei Lanfang’s performance. Mei Lanfang’s visit, although politically opportune with the Soviet ideological debates on realism and formalism in the middle of the 1930s, was aesthetically at variance with the realistic turn of Meyerhold’s work. Moreover, I want to repeat here that Meyerhold’s theatre, a director-centred theatre, was fundamentally at odds with an actor­ centred theatre like Mei Lanfang’s Chinese theatre. Hence the ultimate “tragic contradiction” of Meyerhold’s new production of Woe to Wit: a master actor like Mei Lanfang in the Chinese theatre, who asserts an absolute dominance on the stage over any other aspect of a performance, would not be fully amenable, if not contradictory, to Meyerhold’s directorial ideas and visions. In view of Meyerhold’s objection to a mechanical imitation of the techni­ ques of the Chinese theatre and of his acute understanding of the disparity between Mei Lanfang’s craftsmanship and the technical ability of his actors, one should question the real influence of the Chinese theatre on Meyerhold’s new production of Woe to Wit and, furthermore, the real significance of his

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dedication of it to Mei Lanfang. First, there should be no doubt that the ded­ ication represented Meyerhold’s admiration for the Chinese actor. But it is equally important to note that it was characteristic of Meyerhold’s approach to propagating his work to the public, as it underlined the exotic appeal of his work to the Russian audience. Mikhail Sadovskii, an actor who worked at the Meyerhold Theatre, had an interesting view of Meyerhold’s approach to the relationship of his productions to the public. According to Sadovskii, for Meyerhold, theatre began with the street, with posters: For Meyerhold, the poster was an advertisement. It was an advertisement for a theatre, a new performance, and, of course, it was supposed to be just as much unusual and as much different from the posters of other theatres, as the Meyerhold Theatre was unusual and different from other theatres. Getting acquainted with the poster, the prospective viewer was supposed to be immediately captivated by Meyerhold. He was supposed to be interested in something, stunned, puzzled by something.... The viewer was really interested. Crowds stood in front of the poster, trying to solve the riddle. (Sadovskii 1967, 517) Sadovskii cited Meyerhold’s production of Griboedov’s comedy: Staging Woe from Wit, Meyerhold released a poster: ‘Griboedov. Woe to Wit’ (as the author titled his comedy in the first version). But the story with the title of the play was not known to everyone, and therefore such a poster surprised many. Moreover, the poster indicated that Meyerhold dedicated his production to the remarkable Chinese actor Mei Lan-fang. What?—said the astonished viewer, standing at the poster.—Why, instead of Woe from Wit, it is Woe to Wit? And why is this Woe to Wit dedicated to the Chinese actor? Maybe the play is staged in the Chinese style? (517) Here, Sadovskii’s observation makes it clear that Meyerhold’s dedication had as much to do with his proclaimed incorporation, into his new production, of some staging and acting techniques of the Chinese theatre, as it had to do with his particular way to advertise and promote his new production. For me, it can also be perceived as a finesse that may help justify what can be construed as traces of formalism remaining in his production. In the second half of the 1930s, two names appeared unassailable in the Soviet theatre world: Pushkin and Mei Lanfang, whose fames evoked the national and foreign cultural her­ itages and traditions deemed necessary to the construction of the Soviet socialist culture. In addition to the prestige and legitimacy symbolized by Mei Lanfang’s art, Meyerhold the modernist-traditionalist may also have consciously or unconsciously conjured up the spectral and exotic appeal of Chinese culture to

84 The Spectre of Tradition his Russian-Soviet audience, by his dedication of the production to a trans­ vestite Chinese actor, as well as by his invention of the Chinese living room featured in the production.

Conclusion In this chapter, I have looked at Meyerhold’s and Stanislavsky’s approaches to theatrical traditions of different cultures in relation to the construction of their respective theories. I have investigated, in particular, Meyerhold’s theatrical “traditionalism” and its relationship to his revolutionary theory and practice of a modernist and socialist theatre. Meyerhold’s new theatre invoked traditions of different eras and different cultures and the spectre of tradition in Meyerhold’s “intercultural” “traditionalism” was never merely the “écho du temps passé.” Meyerhold’s aesthetical “traditionalism” was highly ideological and political, as it was tied to what he defined as the popular and national theatrical traditions of truly theatrical eras characterized by what he perceived as their anti-naturalistic theatricality and conventionality, and as it was under the spell of, and intertwined with, the Soviet orthodox socialist and internationalist approach to cultural traditions of humanity. At the heart of Stanislavsky’s Russian-centric approach to theatrical tra­ ditions and of Meyerhold’s “intercultural” theatrical “traditionalism” was the haunting presence of the spectre of Pushkin, who had long been canonized as the spiritual representation of the best of Russian national and cultural traditions, including theatrical tradition. Stanislavsky’s and Meyerhold’s approaches to the legacy of Pushkin were both inextricably tied to the Russian-Soviet ideological and cultural consecration of the cult of the Russian national poet. In contrast to Stanislavsky’s approach to Pushkin, however, Meyerhold’s was manifestly more ideological and political, hence its turn from theatricalism and conventionalism to realism and socialist rea­ lism. Stanislavsky and Meyerhold both used Pushkin’s hallowed authority to buttress the legitimacy of their competing theories. While Stanislavsky’s approach to Pushkin’s dramatic theory was conditioned by the premises of his system of acting, Meyerhold’s was defined by his anti-naturalistic theory and practice in the theatre. Ultimately, however, Pushkin was necessary to the construction of Meyerhold’s theory in the same way as it was to Stanislavsky’s system: it was based on a fundamental disintegration and displacement of Pushkin’s dramatic theory. Furthermore, in Meyerhold’s theatrical “traditionalism,” there was his “intercultural” invocation and refraction of Chinese theatrical tradition through the prism of Pushkin’s ideas on dramatic art. For Meyerhold, Mei Lanfang, the living embodiment of Chinese theatrical tradition, evoked the spirit of the “dead” words of Pushkin’s dramatic dictums. In his anti-naturalistic interpreta­ tion of Pushkin’s ideas on dramatic art and thereby in his translation of Mei Lanfang’s art in Pushkin’s “dead” words, Meyerhold spoke, in borrowed lan­ guage, against the doctrine of naturalism in the Russian-Soviet theatre, which

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had been consecrated by his Russian master, Stanislavsky, who likewise con­ jured and spoke in Pushkin’s “dead” words. Nearly one year after Mei Lan­ fang’s tour in the Soviet Union, in February 1936, in his conversation on Chinese and Japanese theatres with the students of the Russian Academy of Theatre Arts, Meyerhold remarked: As the problem of Socialist Revolution was solved in our country with the October Revolution, so, I believe, in this country a superstructure will emerge as well in the form of an expressive art, which will be especially realistic; it will not simply be realism, but Socialist Realism, and it will be based on all the achievements of the techniques of all epochs. (Meyerhold 1978a, 121) Later in the same year, at the end of his speech, “Pushkin, the Regisseur,” Meyerhold demanded: We must create a serious tragedy, a truly popular theatre with all the means of expression that we can mobilize. On the basis of studying the culture of the past, we must develop a language that conforms to the language of our era. (Meyerhold 1968, 2:425) This was precisely what Meyerhold did in his anti-naturalistic appropriation of Pushkin’s ideas and in his anti-naturalistic Pushkinization of Mei Lanfang’s art, a double displacement and refraction of the theatrical pasts and traditions symbolized, respectively, by Pushkin and Mei Lanfang, as they were summoned to stage his modernist struggle against naturalism and to dramatize his socialist idea for the con­ struction of “an expressive art”—Socialist Realism—for the future of the Soviet theatre.49

Notes 1 Here Hamlet’s advice reads: Suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special obser­ vance, that you o’erstep not the modesty of nature: for any thing so o’erdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold as ’twere the mirror up to nature: to show virtue her feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. (Hamlet, Act III, Scene II) And here is Stanislavsky’s interpretational reading: Take special care not to overstep the boundaries of the natural. Everything that is mannered and refined is contrary to the purpose of the theatre, whose end is to reflect nature in itself: good, evil, truth; time and people should see them­ selves in it as in a mirror. (Stanislavski 1988–1999, 7:240)

86 The Spectre of Tradition 2 In his study, Mokul’skii mentioned Pushkin exactly once when speaking of “the bourgeois nineteenth-century actor,” a “talking creature” that Meyerhold compared to a gramophone playing different records every day, one day, for instance, playing with a text by Pushkin (Mokul’skii 1926, 22). 3 In his translation, Edward Braun rendered the Russian phrase “uslovnom nepravdopo­ dobii” as “stylized improbability” and included, in the English text, his note, “to borrow Pushkin’s phrase” (Meyerhold 1969, 138). Here Meyerhold used the word “konechno” (“of course,” “naturally,” or “absolutely”), which was left out in Braun’s translation, to stress Pushkin’s inviolable authority. 4 Here Pushkin’s “short play,” which Meyerhold did not identify (nor did Edward Braun in his translation), refers to Pushkin’s unfinished play, Scenes from the Times of Chivalry. It is interesting to note that Meyerhold’s idea of the way Pushkin’s play should be performed was taken from one of his students, V. Bebutov. According to Bebutov, during his report, to Meyerhold, of his directing project on Pushkin’s play, an impromptu examination proposed by Meyerhold, Bebutov remarked to his master: “One must not present this scene with natural horses and teach them to fall down and run wild. So, it must be resolved in the character of Pushkin’s ‘conven­ tional unverisimilitude’—in the character of the grotesque” (Bebutov 1967, 83). Bebutov had hardly finished his remark when Meyerhold suddenly jumped up from his seat and yelled to his student in “a burst of artistic exuberance”: “This is brilliant. Will you let me put these lines in my article on the grotesque?” Bebutov was embarrassed but happily agreed. Meyerhold thanked him by shaking his hand, but apparently failed to acknowledge, in his article, his student’s idea (83). For Meyerhold’s uses of “uslovnost” (“convention” or “conventionality”), see Meyerhold 1968, 1:123–142. Edward Braun’s English translation renders Meyerhold’s key words, “uslovnoe” and “uslovnost,” as “stylized” and “stylization,” respectively, as in “sty­ lized theatre,” “conscious stylization,” and “stylized improbability” (Meyerhold 1969, 36–39, 49, 58–63, 140). Nina Gourfinkel’s French translations are “théâtre stylisé,” “stylisation,” or “théâtre de convention consciente” (Meyerhold 1963, 31–33, 275); and Beatrice Picon-Vallin’s are “convention,” as in “théâtre de la convention” and “con­ vention consciente” (Meyerhold 1973–1992, 1:105–109, 119–123). It should be noted here that Meyerhold also used the word, “stilizatciia” (stylization) (Meyerhold 1968, 1:225), but used it to mean differently from his use of “uslovnost.” Braun’s translation does not distinguish between the two concepts, “conventionality” and “stylization,” as it also features such renditions as “Stylization (Stilizatciia) involves a certain degree of ver­ isimilitude” (Meyerhold 1969, 137) and “Stylization (Stilizatciia) impoverishes life” (138). Meyerhold’s argument differentiates “grotesque,” and thereby “conventionality,” from “stylization”: whereas stylization, which still entails some degree of verisimilitude and a method of analysis, impoverishes life, the grotesque, with its strictly synthetic method, uncompromisingly creates, in “conventional unverisimilitude,” “a totality of life” (Meyerhold 1968, 1:225; Meyerhold 1969, 138). 5 Here Meyerhold included a note for his readers: “See the rough draft of the [Pushkin’s] letter (in French) to Raevsky, 1829” (Meyerhold 1968, 1:228; 1969, 140). This con­ firms that he quoted Pushkin from the latter’s letter in French (Pushkin 1926–1928, 2:63), which indicates that he used the Russian phrase “uslovnoe nepravdopodobie” (conventional unverisimilitude) in his translation of Pushkin’s phrase “une invrai­ semblance de convention.” 6 The French text was also included in Pushkin 1998, 246–247. 7 Here Pushkin included his translation of part of his draft letter to Raevsky and used the Russian word “pravdopodobie” in his translation of his original French word “vraisem­ blance.” Besides his use of the two Russian words, “pravdopodobie” (verisimilitude) and “uslovilis” (agreed) (Pushkin 1981, 9; 1969, 248), Pushkin did not use the Russian word, “uslovnoe” (conventional) or “uslovnost” (conventionality) here or in other related writings.

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It is also important to note that in the 1934 Russian publication, Pushkin on Literature, which includes Russian translations of Pushkin’s two drafts (1825 and 1829) of his letter to Raevsky, where “pravdopodobii” was used to translate “vraisemblance” and where the phrase “uslovnoe nepravdopodobie” was used to translate both “une invrai­ semblance conventionnelle” and “une invraisemblance de convention” (Pushkin 1934, 80, 172). 8 In a note on tragedy, Pushkin wrote: Of all forms of composition, the ones most lacking in verisimilitude are the dramatic, and of dramatic works, the tragic, as the spectator must forget, for the most part, the time, the place and the language; must accept, by an effort of the imagination, poetry and ideas expressed in an accepted idiom. French wri­ ters felt this, and drew up their arbitrary rules—of action, place, time. Since the holding of the audience’s attention is the first concern of dramatic art, unity of action must be adhered to. But those of place and time are too arbitrary…. It is not simpler to follow the Romantic school, which is marked by the absence of all Rules but not by the absence of art? (Pushkin 2003, 60–61)

9

10 11 12 13

On his tragedy Boris Godunov, Pushkin wrote of the three classical unities that he called “this notorious trio”: “Firmly believing that the obsolete forms of our theatre demand reform, I ordered my Tragedy according to the system of our Father Shakespeare; and having sacrificed two of the classical unities on his altar, have barely kept to the third” (Pushkin 2003, 89). Pushkin stressed that he wrote “a truly Romantic tragedy,” referring to his Boris Godunov (Pushkin 2003, 90). In his 1825 letter to Raevsky, Pushkin wrote: “Les classiques et les Romantiques ont tous basé leurs loix sur la vraisemblance, et c’est justement [la vraisemblance] elle qu’exclut la nature du drame” (Pushkin 1926–1928, 1:147). But in the same letter, he wrote of Corneille’s disregard of the unity of time: “Les vrais génies de la tragédie [Shakespeare et Corneille] ne se sont jamais souciés de la vraisemblance. Voyez comme [ce dernier] Corneille a bravement [traité] mené le Cid. Ha, vous voulez la règle des 24 heures? Soit, et là-dessus il vous entasse des événements pour 4 mois” (Pushkin 1926–1928, 1:148; 2:63; 1998, 247). And, as noted above, Pushkin argued that the Romantic school was characterized by “the absence of all Rules.” Here Meyerhold cited from Pushkin’s notes on national or popular drama. Push­ kin’s text reads: “The truth of passions and the verisimilitude of feelings in supposed circumstances—that is what our intellect demands of a dramatic writer” (Pushkin 1969, 249). It is worth noting here that English translations of Pushkin’s same text (particularly, his critical word “istina”—truth or authenticity) vary from one to another (Pushkin 1981, 10; 1998, 265). Pushkin’s text reads: “How can it [Russian tragedy] shift from its measured, pom­ pous, and decorous dialogue to the vulgar frankness of popular passions, to the public square’s freedom of opinion….” (Pushkin 1981, 12). Pushkin’s text reads: “He did not give free, bold rein to his fancies. He strove to intuit what was demanded by the refined taste of persons alien to him in status” (Pushkin 1981, 11). Meyerhold’s quotation of Pushkin reads: “Some dramatists are trying to create ver­ isimilitude (pravdopodobie) on the stage, when dramatic art itself is fundamentally unverisimilar (nepravdopodobno)” (Meyerhold 1978a, 85). Meyerhold’s quotation reads: Pushkin wrote to Raevsky from the village of Mikhailovskoye in September 1825: ‘Composing it’ (we are talking about the tragedy Boris Godunov), ‘I began

88 The Spectre of Tradition to reflect on the tragedy in general. This is perhaps the least correctly under­ stood kind of poetry. Both the classics and the romantics based their laws on verisimilitude, and yet it is precisely this that is excluded by the very nature of the dramatic work (la nature du drame).’ (Meyerhold 1968, 2:428)

14

15 16

17

18 19 20 21

As indicated by Meyerhold, his quotation is from Pushkin’s 1825 draft of a letter to Raevsky, originally written in French (Pushkin 1926–1928, 1:147; 1998, 155). These quotations are from Pushkin’s draft letter (1825) to Raevsky (“La vraisem­ blance des situations et la vérité du dialogue etc.—violà la véritable règle de la tra­ gédie” [Pushkin 1926–1928, 1:148; 1998, 155]) and from Pushkin’s notes on popular or national drama (Pushkin 1969, 249; 1981, 10; 1998, 265). Note the slightly different English translations. Here it is worth noting that Eisenstein styled Pushkin as “the Montageur,” a perfect example of his theory of montage and synaesthesia (Eisenstein 1991, 203–223). Stanislavsky’s diagram illustration of his system, which portrays “what is taking place in the soul of the artist in the process of creativity,” features “Pushkin’s Aphor­ ism”—“the truth of passions, the verisimilitude of feelings in proposed circum­ stances”—as one of “the three main, unshakable foundations of our art” (Stanislavski 1988–1999, 3:308, 309). For an English translation of Stanislavsky’s illustration, see Whyman 2008, 40–42. For Stanislavsky’s appropriation of Pushkin’s “aphorism” or “dictum,” see also Stanislavski 1988–1999, 3:308, 350–352, 437; 6:68–69, 73–75, 78, 83; 2008, 52–54, 582; 2010, 103–104, 113, 133, 144, 153, 212–214, 217. Benedetti’s translation of the same phrase, “predlagaemye obstoiatelstva,” varies from “given circumstances” to “set circumstances” (Stanislavski 2008, 52, 582), and to “proposed circumstances” (Stanislavski 2010, 104). Here, it is interesting to note Nikolai Okhlopkov’s appropriation of Pushkin’s ideas in his revisionist view of the conventionality of the theatre. Likewise, Okhlopkov argued for the necessity of comprehending fully Pushkin’s understanding of the conventionality of the theatre (Okhlopkov 1959, 12:61). When speaking of the conventionality of the actor’s performance and arguing against naturalism in acting, Okhlopkov, however, insisted on the need to reject those formalist conventions or what he called “such conventions that lead to the formal acting of the actor and lead away from ‘the truth of passions’ and ‘the verisimilitude of feelings’” (72. Emphases in original). The All-Union Society for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries (VOKS), GARF (the State Archive of the Russian Federation) P5283/4/168, 63 (5). VOKS, GARF, P5283/4/168, 63 (5); Meyerhold 1978b, 95–96; 2010, 143. VOKS, GARF, P5283/4/168, 63 (6); Meyerhold 1978b, 96; 2010, 144. In the historical context of the Soviet appropriation of Pushkin, it is worth noting that Eisenstein spoke of Pushkin’s argument against the verisimilitude of the neo­ classicism in favour of the Romantic school. Eisenstein thus continued: However, even Romanticism, breaking the shackles of the classics under the sign of the only reality—the reality and truth of passions, soon fell victim to its own ‘freedoms,’ becoming entangled in the ever-increasing unverisimilitude of the facts that framed this ‘only truth’ of passions. (Eisenstein 1964–1971, 5:101)

Here, Eisenstein historicized Pushkin’s “truth of passions” as characteristic of the Romantic pursuit of the only reality or truth of passions against the neo-classical idea of verisimilitude. For Eisenstein, all these historically “one-sided” or “incom­ plete” “realisms” were destined to be replaced by the “comprehensive and farreaching” Socialist Realism (102). 22 VOKS, GARF, P5283/4/168, 64 (7–8); Meyerhold 1978b, 97; 2010, 145.

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29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43

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VOKS, GARF, P5283/4/211, 12–13 (4–5). VOKS, GARF, P5283/4/211, 13 (5). VOKS, GARF, P5283/4/211, 13 (5). Here it is interesting to note that, in his concluding speech, Nemirovich-Danchenko, who presided over the panel, alluded to “Meyerhold’s Pushkin reference” (VOKS, GARF, P5283/4/211, 25–26 [17–18]; P5283/4/168, 72 [23]; VOKS 2010, 181). However, Nemirovich-Danchenko’s Pushkin was not the anti-naturalistic modernist defined by Meyerhold, but one of the Russian writers, along with Ivan Turgenev and Leo Tolstoy, who represent the best of the tradition of Russian literature and art that the Russians can bring to the culture of “the great family of humanity”: “a certain special quality that filled and fills our art and forces us, workers of art, working to a great degree on form—in the narrow sense of the word—to live first and foremost with content” (VOKS, GARF, P5283/4/211, 26 [18]; P5283/4/168, 72 [23]; VOKS 2010, 181). Here Nemirovich-Danchenko used the example of Pushkin to emphasize the importance of the content, not the form, which may suggest a veiled attack on Meyerhold’s formalism. His critical comment, however, was erased from the official transcript (VOKS, GARF, P5283/4/168, 64 [7]; P5283/4/211, 12–13 [4–5]; Meyerhold 1978b, 96–97). Characteristically, Meyerhold’s comment on Mei Lanfang’s performance with his hands went one dangerous step further. His audacious attack, using the example of Mei Lanfang, on the status-quo of the Soviet theatre was most acutely felt at the panel when he, after praising the remarkable expressiveness of Mei Lanfang’s hand gestures, argued that the hands of the Soviet actors and actresses should be chopped off because they expressed nothing or something unnecessary to express (VOKS, GARF, P5283/4/168, 63 [6]; P5283/4/211, 12–13 [4–5]; Meyerhold 1978b, 96). Meyerhold’s argument, however, drew a rebuttal from Tairov, which was likewise erased from the official transcript (VOKS, GARF, P5283/4/168, 66 (11); P5283/4/ 211, 16 [8]). VOKS, GARF, P5283/4/168, 64 (7). VOKS, GARF, P5283/4/168, 64 (7). VOKS, GARF, P5283/4/211, 12–13 (4–5); Meyerhold 1978b, 95–97; 2010, 143–145. “‘Gore umu’ (Beseda s narodnym artistom respubliki Vs. Em. Meierkhol’dom)” (“Woe to Wit” [Conversation with People’s Artist of the Republic, V. E. Meyerhold]), Leningradskaia Pravda, September 21, 1935, 4. VOKS, GARF, P5283/4/168, 63 (5); P5283/4/211, 12 (4); Meyerhold 1978b, 95; 2010, 143. “Novaia postanovka ‘Gore umu’” (New Production of “Woe to Wit”), Literaturnaia Gazeta, no. 29 (May 24, 1935): 6. “‘Gore umu’ (Beseda s narodnym artistom respubliki Vs. Em. Meierkhol’dom).” “‘Gore umu’ (Beseda s narodnym artistom respubliki Vs. Em. Meierkhol’dom).” “‘Gore umu’ (Beseda s narodnym artistom respubliki Vs. Em. Meierkhol’dom).” “‘Gore umu.’ Beseda s Vs. Meierkhol’dom” (“Woe to Wit.” Conversation with V. Meyerhold), Vecherniaia Moscow, November 13, 1935, 3. “‘Gore umu.’ Beseda s Vs. Meierkhol’dom.” “‘Gore umu.’ Beseda s Vs. Meierkhol’dom.” Emphases in original. “‘Gore umu.’ Beseda s Vs. Meierkhol’dom.” According to A. Fevral’skii, “the vast majority of the mise-en-scènes and rhythmic plans were rebuilt; the music, again, saturating the performance, remains the same” (Fevral’skii 1935). Elsewhere, Meyerhold read Griboedov’s comedy essentially as a tragedy, as a deviation from the classical French comedy and a development in the spirit of the theatre of Corneille and Racine (Meyerhold 1968, 2:324). Pravda, December 17, 1935, 1.

90 The Spectre of Tradition 44 “Velikii russkii poet” (The great Russian poet), Pravda, December 17, 1935, 1. 45 For more on the 1937 centennial of Pushkin’s death, see also Sandler 2004; 2006. 46 Likewise, B. V. Alpers saw Meyerhold’s Chatsky as a future revolutionary Decembrist who wanted to overthrow the Tsar (Alpers 1936). 47 Here both A. Fevralskii’s text and Beatrice Picon-Vallin’s translation represent Meyerhold’s presentation in its entirety as recorded in the original stenogram pre­ served by Fevralskii (Meyerhold 1973–1992, 3:260–261). Edward Braun’s English translation (Meyerhold 1969, 311–324) was based on the Russian text edited and published by Fevralskii in Iskusstvo kino (Meyerhold 1962, 113–122). Hence Braun’s translation of the same line quoted above: “because he speaks in a language which is customary in the art of his country and his people” (Meyerhold 1969, 323), which emphasizes that the language in which Mei Lanfang spoke was “customary in the art of his country and his people,” instead of what Meyerhold meant: the language in which Mei Lanfang spoke was familiar to his country and his people. According to Meyerhold, precisely because Mei Lanfang spoke in a language that was familiar to the Chinese people, one cannot label him as a “formalist.” However, as I have noted above, Meyerhold’s perception was contradicted by Lu Xun’s view shared by many other Chinese (leftist) critics. While Mei Lanfang’s art and the art of tradi­ tional Chinese theatre in general had evolved and had become increasingly aesthe­ ticized and formalized by the 1930s, Meyerhold the revolutionary “traditionalist” was still haunted by the spectre of the tradition of “ancient” Chinese theatre, as he argued against labelling Mei Lanfang as a “formalist”: The Chinese person is accustomed to this language. He will come to the theatre in the morning and leave late at night. He will watch endless scenic situations changing from one to another. He goes there with food and will be served a towel to wipe off his sweat. He loves exactly this content, transmitted in this form, the content that is close to him. (Meyerhold 1978c, 232; 1980, 234) 48 VOKS, GARF, P5283/4/168, 63 (6); Meyerhold 1978b, 96; 2010, 144. 49 Meyerhold’s approach to cultural heritage of humanity echoes the Soviet official doctrine as promulgated by A. A. Zhdanov, secretary of the Central Committee and leading party spokesman on ideological and cultural issues, in his speech delivered at the first All-Union Congress of Soviet Writers in 1934. Zhdanov posited the idea of “the critical assimilation of the literary heritage of all epochs” and of the proletariat being “the sole heir of all that is best in the treasury of world literature” (Zhdanov 1977, 22).

References Alpers, B. V. 1936. “Gore umu” (Woe to Wit). Rabochaia Moscow (Working Moscow), Jan­ uary 10, 1936, 4. Atkinson, Brooks. 1930. “China’s Idol Actor Reveals His Art.” The New York Times, February 17, 1930, 18. Atkinson, Brooks. 1936a. “Tri spektaklia” (Three Performnaces). Pravda, September 11, 1936, 4. Atkinson, Brooks. 1936b. “Moscow Nights: Being a Report on Part One of the Fourth Annual Dramatic Festival.” The New York Times, September 13, 1936, X1. Bebutov, V. 1967. “Neutomimyi novator” (A Tireless Innovator). In Vstrechi s Meierkhol’­ dom: sbornik vospominanii (Meetings with Meyerhold: A Collection of Memoirs), edited by L. D. Vendrovskaia, 67–83. Moscow: Vserossiiskoe Teatral’noe Obshchestvo.

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Beskin, Em. (Emmanuil Martynovich Beskin). 1935. “Gore umu. V Teatre im. Vs. Meierkhol’da” (Woe to Wit. At the Meyerhold Theatre). Vecherniaia Moscow, November 17, 1935, 3. Blium, V. 1936. “Gore umu—Spektakl Vs. Meierkhol’da” (Woe to Wit—Performance at the Meyerhold Theatre). Teatr i dramaturgiia (Theatre and Drama), no. 2: 70–75. Braun, Edward. 1995. Meyerhold: A Revolution in Theatre. Iowa City: University of Iowa Press. Deich, Aleksandr. 1935. “V teatre Meierkhol’da.—Gore umu” (At the Meyerhold Theatre.—Woe to Wit), Le Journal de Moscou. Moskovskaia gazeta, November 26, 1935. RGALI (Russian State Archive of Literature and Art) 963/1/571, 39. Eisenstein, S. M. 1964–1971. Izbrannye proizvedeniia (Selected Works). 6 vols. Moscow: Iskusstvo. Eisenstein, S. M. 1991. Towards a Theory of Montage. Vol. 2 of Selected Works. Edited by Michael Glenny and Richard Taylor and translated by Michael Glenny. London: British Film Institute. Eisenstein, S. M. 2005. Eizenshtein o Meierkhol’de: 1919–1948 (Eisenstein on Meyerhold: 1919–1948). Compiled by Vladimir Zabrodin. Moscow: Novoe Izdatel’stvo. Erenburg, I. G. 1935. “Gore umu.” Izvestia, November 24, 1935, 4. Fevral’skii, A. 1935. “Meierkhol’d i ‘Gore umu’” (Meyerhold and “Woe to Wit”). Teatral’naia dekada (The Theatrical Decade), no. 32: 5. Gromov, V. 1978. “Zamysel postanovki” (The Production Plan). In Tvorcheskoe nasledie Vs. E. Meierhol’da (The Creative Legacy of V. E. Meyerhold), edited by L. D. Vendrovskaia and A. V. Fevral’skii, 353–392. Moscow: Vserossiiskoe teatral’noe obshchestvo. Gvozdev, A. A. 1987 (1935). “Gore umu.” Literaturnyi Leningrad, October 2, 1935. In A. A. Gvozdev, Teatral’naia Kritika (Theatrical Criticism), compiled by N. A. Tarshis, 148–152. Leningrad: Iskusstvo. Hoover, Marjorie L. 1973. “Classic Meyerhold: Woe to Wit by Griboedov.” Russian Literature Triquarterly, no. 7: 285–295. Iankovskii, M. 1935. “Gore umu: prem’era v Teatre im. Meierkhol’da” (Woe to Wit: Premiere at the Meyerhold Theatre). Newspaper clip, September 30, 1935. RGALI 963/1/571, 41. Karabekov, Yu. n.d. (1935). “Gore umu.” Newspaper clip. RGALI 963/1/571, 62. Kerzhentsev, P. 1936. “Kazakhskoe iskusstvo” (Kazakh Art). Pravda, May 24, 1936, 4. Kerzhentsev, P. 1937. “Chuzhoi teatr: O Teatre im. Meierkhol’da” (An Alien Theatre: On the Meyerhold Theatre). Pravda, December 17, 1937, 4. Law, Alma Hanson. 1977. “A Reconstruction of Meyerhold’s Production, Woe to Wit: The Relationship between Literary Text and Theatrical Representation.” PhD diss. Columbia University. Litovskii, O. 1935. “Spektakl bolshogo masterstva” (Performance of Great Mastery). Pravda, November 20, 1935, 5. Lu Xun. 2010. “On Mei Lanfang.” In China’s Greatest Operatic Male Actor of Female Roles: Documenting the Life and Art of Mei Lanfang 1894–1961, edited by Min Tian, 65–74. Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen Press. Meyerhold, V. E. 1962. “Chaplin i Chaplinizm” (Chaplin and Chaplinism). Iskusstvo kino, no. 6: 113–122. Meyerhold, V. E. 1963. Le théâtre théâtral. Translated and edited by Nina Gourfinkel. Paris: Gallimard. Meyerhold, V. E. 1968. Stati, pisma, rechi, besedy (Articles, Letters, Speeches, Conversations). Compiled by A. V. Fevralskii, 2 vols. Moscow: Iskusstvo.

92 The Spectre of Tradition Meyerhold, V. E. 1969. Meyerhold on Theatre. Translated and edited by Edward Braun. New York: Hill and Wang. Meyerhold, V. E. 1973–1992. Écrits sur le Théâtre. 4 vols. Translated and edited by Beatrice Picon-Vallin. Lausanne: L’Age d’Homme. Meyerhold, V. E. 1978a. Tvorcheskoe nasledie Vs. E. Meierhol’da (The Creative Legacy of V. E. Meyerhold). Edited by L. D. Vendrovskaia and A. V. Fevral’skii. Moscow: Vser­ ossiiskoe teatral’noe obshchestvo. Meyerhold, V. E. 1978b. “O gastroliakh Mei Lan-Fana” (On Mei Lan-Fang: Artiste on Tour). In Tvorcheskoe nasledie Vs. E. Meierhol’da (The Creative Legacy of V. E. Meyerhold), edited by L. D. Vendrovskaia and A. V. Fevral’skii, 95–97. Moscow: Vser­ ossiiskoe teatral’noe obshchestvo. Meyerhold, V. E. 1978c. “Chaplin i Chaplinizm” (Chaplin and Chaplinism). In A. V. Fevral’skii, Puti k sintezu: Meierkhol’d i kino (Ways to Synthesis: Meyerhold and Cinema), 212–234. Moscow: Iskusstvo. Meyerhold, V. E. 1980. “Chaplin et le Chaplinisme.” In Écrits sur le théâtre. Vol. 3. Translated and edited by Beatrice Picon-Vallin, 219–236. Lausanne: L’Age d’Homme. Meyerhold, V. E. 1998. Meierkhol’d: k istorii tvorcheskogo metoda: publikatsii. stat’i (Meyer­ hold: Towards the History of a Creative Method: Publications. Articles). Compiled by N. V. Pesochinskii. St. Petersburg: Kul’tInformPress. Meyerhold, V. E. 2010. “On Mei Lan-fang: Artiste on Tour.” In China’s Greatest Operatic Male Actor of Female Roles: Documenting the Life and Art of Mei Lanfang 1894– 1961, edited by Min Tian, 143–145. Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen Press. Mirskii. D. 2014 (1935). “Gore umu.” Literaturnaia gazeta, November 24, 1935, 5. In D. Mirskii, O Literature i iskusstve: stat’i i retsenzii 1922–1937 (On Literature and Art: Articles and Reviews 1922–1937), 322–324. Moscow: Novoe Literaturnoe Obozrenie. Mokul’skii, S [Mokul’skii, Stefan Stefanovich]. 1926. “Pereotsenka traditsii” (Re-eva­ luation of Traditions). In Teatral’nyi Oktiabr’: sbornik I (The Theatrical October: Collec­ tion I), 9–29. Leningrad-Moscow. Okhlopkov, Nikolai. 1959. “Ob uslovnosti” (On Conventionality). Teatr (Theatre), no. 11: 58–77; no. 12: 52–73. Platt, Jonathan Brooks. 2016. Greetings, Pushkin! Stalinist Cultural Politics and the Russian National Bard. Pittsburgh: The University of Pittsburgh Press. Pushkin, Aleksandr. 1926–1928. Pisma (Letters). 2 vols. Edited by B. L. Modzalevsky. Moscow: Gosudarstvennoye Izdatelstvo. Pushkin, Aleksandr. 1934. Pushkin o Literature. Edited by N. V. Bogoslovsky. Moscow and Leningrad: Academia. Pushkin, Aleksandr. 1963. The Letters of Alexander Pushkin. Vol. 2. Translated by J. Thomas Shaw. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, and Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Pushkin, Aleksandr. 1969 (1830). “O narodnoi drame i o ‘Marfe Posadnitse’ M. P. Pogodina” (On Popular Drama and on M. P. Pogodin’s Martha, the Governor’s Wife). In Sobranie sochinenii (Collected Works). Vol. 6, 247–254. Moscow: Biblioteka Ogonek, Izdatelstvo Pravda. Pushkin, Aleksandr. 1981. “On National-Popular Drama and the Play Martha the Seneschal’s Wife.” In Russian Dramatic Theory from Pushkin to the Symbolists: An Anthology, translated and edited by Laurence Senelick, 8–15. Austin: University of Texas Press. Pushkin, Aleksandr. 1998. Pushkin on Literature. Translated and edited by Tatiana Wolff. Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press.

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Pushkin, Aleksandr. 2003. The Complete Works of Alexander Pushkin. Vol. 13. Norfolk: Milner and Company. Radlov, S. 1935. “Uroki kitaiskogo teatra” (Lessons from the Chinese Theatre). Vecherniaia krasnaia gazeta (Evening Red Gazette), April 9, 1935, 2. Rudneva, Liubov. 1978. “Poiski i otkrytiia” (Searches and Discoveries). In Tvorcheskoe nasledie Vs. E. Meierhol’da (The Creative Legacy of V. E. Meyerhold), edited by L. D. Ven­ drovskaia and A. V. Fevral’skii, 402–453. Moscow: Vserossiiskoe teatral’noe obshchestvo. Sadovskii, M. 1967. “Teatral’nyi charodei” (Theatrical Enchanter). In Vstrechi s Meier­ khol’dom: sbornik vospominanii (Meetings with Meyerhold: A Collection of Memoirs), edited by L. D. Vendrovskaia, 504–528. Moscow: Vserossiiskoe Teatral’noe Obshchestvo. Sandler, Stephanie. 2004. Commemorating Pushkin: Russia’s Myth of a National Poet. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Sandler, Stephanie. 2006. “The 1937 Pushkin Jubilee as Epic Trauma.” In Epic Revi­ sionism: Russian History and Literature as Stalinist Propaganda, edited by Kevin M. F. Platt and David Brandenberger, 193–213. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Solov’ev, Vladimir. 1997 (1914). “Teatralnyi traditsionalizm” (Theatrical Traditional­ ism). In Meierkhol’d v russkoi teatralnoi kritike: 1898–1918 (Meyerhold in Russian Theatre Criticism: 1898–1918), compiled by N. V. Pesochinsky, E. A. Kukhta, and N. A. Tarshis, 387–392. Moscow: Artist. Rezhisser. Teatr. Solov’ev, V. N. 1926. “O tekhnike novogo aktera” (On the Technique of the New Actor). In Teatral’nyi Oktiabr’: sbornik I (The Theatrical October: Collection I), 39–47. Leningrad-Moscow. Solov’ev, Vl. 2000 (1925). “Uchitel Bubus u Meierkholda” (Bubus the Teacher by Meyerhold). In Meierkhol’d v russkoi teatralnoi kritike: 1920–1938, compiled by T. V. Lanina, 167–168. Moscow: Artist. Rezhisser. Teatr. Stanislavski, K. S. 1949. Building a Character. Translated by Elizabeth Reynolds Hapgood. New York: Theatre Arts Books. Stanislavski, K. S. 1988–1999. Sobranii sochinenii (Collected Works). 9 vols. Moscow: Iskusstvo. Stanislavski, K. S. 2008. An Actor’s Work, a Student’s Diary. Translated and edited by Jean Benedetti. London: Routledge. Stanislavski, K. S. 2010. An Actor’s Work on a Role. Translated and edited by Jean Ben­ edetti. London: Routledge. Tarabukin, N. M. 1998. N. M. Tarabukin o V. E. Meierkhol’de (N. M. Tarabukin on V. E. Meyerhold). Edited and compiled by O. M. Feldman. Moscow: OGI. Tian, Min. 2012. Mei Lanfang and the Twentieth-Century International Stage: Chinese theatre Placed and Displaced. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Tsimbal, S. 1935. “Gore umu v Gos. teatre im. Meierkhol’da” (Woe to Wit at the Meyerhold State Theatre). Rabochii i teatr (The Worker and the Theatre), no. 19 (October): 12–13. Vakhtangov, Eugene. 1963. “Fantastic Realism.” In Directors on Directing, edited by Toby Cole and Helen Krich Chinoy. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill. VOKS. 2010 (1935). “An Evening for the Final Conclusion of the Visit of Mei Lan fang’s Theatre in the USSR, April 14, 1935.” In China’s Greatest Operatic Male Actor of Female Roles: Documenting the Life and Art of Mei Lanfang 1894–1961, edited by Min Tian, 165–182. Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen Press. Whyman, Rose. 2008. The Stanislavsky System of Acting: Legacy and Influence in Modern Performance. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Zhdanov, A. A. 1977 (1934). “Soviet Literature—The Richest in Ideas. The Most Advanced Literature.” In Maxim Gorky et al., Soviet Writers’ Congress 1934: The Debate on Socialist Realism and Modernism in the Soviet Union, 15–24. London: Lawrence and Wishart.

3

The Consecration of Tradition Eisenstein’s Approach to Chinese Theatre and Culture

In the later stage of his creative life, Sergei Eisenstein devoted himself to con­ structing a general history of cinema where his theory and praxis can be emplaced and sanctified as the summation of it. In his haunted imagination of the past, Eisenstein, the Russian revolutionary avant-gardist and the Soviet Socialist artist, who was not afraid of turning himself into a “reactionary” pri­ mitivist and traditionalist, regressed, “progressively,” into the depths of the “mother’s womb” of history, culture, and nature (Eisenstein 2002, 2:297–349, 530–581; 2016a, 1:103; 2016a, 3:943–1084), and located himself in what Anne Nesbet calls the “savage junctures” (Nesbet 2003), in order to find, in a flash of dialectical ecstasy, the sublime IMAGE of humanity’s highest form of art.1 In recent decades, remarkable work has been accomplished to trace the “ghosts” or “ancestors” (to use Eisenstein’s word [Eisenstien 1964–1971, 2:307; 1996b, 222]) of Eisenstein’s theory and praxis.2 Regarding Eisenstein’s use of Asian (Chinese and Japanese) traditions, studies (Ivanov 1988) or references to it (Bohn 2003; Somaini 2016) tend to look at Eisenstein’s views and interpreta­ tions of those traditions from the perspective of Eisenstein’s synthesizing theory. However, since Eisenstein was predisposed to generalize,3 according to the Eisensteinian law of pars pro toto (not just as an artistic method but as an epis­ temological worldview) (Eisenstein 1991, 128–129; 2002, 2:53–112), the figura­ tive or symbolic signification and significance of the fragments of different cultural traditions as, epistemologically, scientifically, psychologically, physiologically, eth­ nologically, or even biologically and sexually, objectively and truthfully repre­ sentative and characteristic of the structures, or the systems, of those traditions, what are the implications if his views and interpretations of those traditions are looked at from the perspectives of those cultural traditions in their historical contexts? This question becomes even more pertinent and significant when one considers the fact that Eisenstein often proclaimed the absolute veracity or truthfulness of his interpretations, using such an assertive expression as “It could not be otherwise” (Eisenstein 1964–1971, 5:309; 2002, 2:172). In this chapter, I want to argue that Eisenstein’s “general history,” and particu­ larly the Eisensteinian synthesizing “theory” that underlies it, was constructed by his consecration—sanctification through displacement, disintegration, and recon­ stitution—of a constellation of aesthetic and artistic traditions of different cultures DOI: 10.4324/9781003240587-4

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4

and histories. My investigation will focus on Eisenstein’s aesthetic-political con­ secration, to the service of the construction of his revolutionary (modernist and socialist) theory and praxis of cinema, of Chinese cultural traditions, particularly Chinese theatrical tradition, in his grand design to construct a total and synthesiz­ ing theory and history of cinema. I will look at it from an intercultural perspective and in the in-between space, or in the juncture of the two extremes, as it was often characterized by Eisenstein, of Eisenstein’s synthesizing theory and generalized history and Chinese cultural traditions.

The Spectre of Tradition in Eisenstein’s General History of Cinema In 1939, Eisenstein spoke of following Vladimir Lenin’s instruction on the necessity of inheriting the legacy of humanity in the construction of a genuine proletarian culture, “the heritage of all mankind is ours to master and apply” (Eisenstein 1982, 77): Lenin bequeathed to us a brilliant instruction on heritage. Our job is to put it into practice. It is especially difficult in our business because there are no direct ancestors of cinema, and all ancestors are indirect.… This is finding the movement of another classic writer, the initial movement of his thoughts and feelings, which were deposited in one or another system of visual and sound images, phrases, and so on…. The era of victorious socialism is the only era that makes it possible to create a comprehensively sweeping perfection of works. (Eisenstein 1964–1971, 2:307. Emphases in original)5 Indeed, in 1920, Lenin asserted that “only a precise knowledge and transfor­ mation of the culture created by the entire development of mankind will enable us to create a proletarian culture” and that “Proletarian culture must be the logical development of the store of knowledge mankind has accumulated under the yoke of capitalist, landowner and bureaucratic society” (Lenin 1966, 287). Lenin insisted that it was not the invention of a new proletarian culture, but the development of the best models, traditions and results of the existing culture, from the point of view of the Marxist world outlook and the conditions of life and struggle of the proletariat in the period of its dictatorship. (317) Furthermore, according to Lenin, Marxism has won its historic significance as the ideology of the revolutionary proletariat because, far from rejecting the most valuable achievements of the bourgeois epoch, it has, on the contrary, assimilated and refashioned

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The Spectre of Tradition everything of value in the more than two thousand years of the development of human thought and culture. (317)

Lenin’s instruction must have had a strong appeal to Eisenstein as a necessary path to securing the historic significance, and the universality, of his theory of cinema as the heir, and the summation, of all artistic cultures and traditions, in addition to its contribution to the Soviet construction of a genuine proletarian culture. Thus, in 1942, Eisenstein wrote: I do not know about the reader, but I have always derived comfort from repeatedly telling myself that our cinema is not entirely without an ances­ try and a pedigree, a past and traditions, or a rich cultural heritage from earlier epochs. …… Let Dickens and the whole constellation of ancestors, who go as far back as Shakespeare or the Greeks, serve as superfluous reminders that Griffith and our cinema alike cannot claim originality for themselves, but have a vast cultural heritage; and this causes neither one any difficulty in advancing the great art of cinema, each at their moment of world history. (Eisenstein 1996b, 222) In his notes, under the title “The Heir” (1946), on his conception of a general history of cinema that was designed to define “the historical place of cinema in the history of the arts” (Eisenstein 2016b, 109), Eisenstein declared: Cinema is the heir of all artistic cultures, as is the [Soviet] nation itself that elevated it for the first time in all history—both in estimation and creatively—to the very heights of art, and it is the heir of all cultures of the preceding ages. Cinema is the art of the USSR par excellence, and it is so in a natural and organic way. (109) Eisenstein believed that “It is according to this perspective that the history of cinema must be established” and that “the social structure” of USSR was in search of such “a type of mass art” as “a new totality, social and aesthetic” and “a synthesis of the arts” (109).6 Eisenstein’s “idea of synthesis as a revival of syncretism” underlies his total and totalizing aesthetics that evokes and claims to resurrect “the idea of synth­ esis from the Greeks” down to Richard Wagner’s idea of total art (Eisenstein 2016b, 110). Eisenstein underscored the “universality” of his method through art, sociology, science, pre-science, all phenomena of nature, and their “deconstruction and reconstitution on a new level” (112–113). And central to the aesthetic-political of his “universal” method, montage was defined by Eisenstein as “a purposeful (tendentious), socially conditioned, ideologically tendentious reconstruction of reality in images” (113).

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Eisenstein observed an “interesting” phenomenon concerning the thea­ tre being constructed as “a round structure” (“as in circle dance”) where “the audience and the actors are one and the same,” and he noted parti­ cularly Nikolai Evreinov’s idea of “Theater for oneself” as “a theory extremely interesting in that sense (on the threshold of Revolution and the end of class society)”: “Here the circle dance (with no audience) is projected wholly ‘into oneself’, into the individual. The very earliest col­ lective form reduced to a single entity” (Eisenstein 2016b, 122–123). By associating the idea or theory of the “circle dance” (“circle” in the Eisensteinian sense as the symbol of the “mother’s womb.” Eisenstein 2002, 2:297–349, 530–581; 2016a, 3:943–1084) in the “round theatre” with such images as the birth of revolution and the end of class society, Eisenstein “dialectically” bracketed his revolutionary politics into his modernist “regressive” aesthetics. In Eisenstein’s haunted imagination, the spectre of (the French) revolution and communism (“the removal of contradictions”; “the end of class society”; and “Workers of the world….” [Eisenstein 2016b, 110, 123]) was not indica­ tive of a rhetorical hypertrophy, but rather a genuine conviction on Eisenstein’s part. In fact, during the decades from the 1920s through the 1940s, the orien­ tation of Eisenstein’s aesthetics may have changed or regressed, but the politics underlying the construction of his theory and of his history of aesthetics and arts remained consistent.7 In 1928, in his essay on Kabuki, Eisenstein shared the Soviet ideological view that the content of the Kabuki theatre was feudal. Unlike those critics who held such a view, however, Eisenstein argued that the technical elements of Kabuki were useful to the construction of new Soviet art just as the tech­ nology of gas masks produced by Western imperialism was useful to the Soviet national defence. Thus, for him, the appropriation of the technical elements of Kabuki was as easily justified as the appropriation of anti-chemical technology by Osoaviakhim (the Society for Assistance to Defence and Aviation-Chemical Construction of the USSR). “The borrowing of the technical elements of foreign, even to us alien, experience,” Eisenstein continued, “is as justified in cultural matters as it is in the practice of the country’s defence provided that it is in the interests of the working class” (Eisenstein 1928, 7; 1988a, 115–116. Emphases in original).8 In his important article, “Unity in the Image,” written in 1937, Eisenstein wrote: It is also characteristic of all such cases of mankind’s self-renewal, when new classes accede to power, that their art and culture begin precisely with the re-creation of ancient forms, as if through this ‘second birth’ they were re-living—even if only in images—the stage of their own initial concep­ tion, the physically unrepeatable era of the ‘golden childhood of mankind’ (Marx’s term for the Greece of classical antiquity). (Eisenstein 1991, 277)

98 The Spectre of Tradition He cited the art of the Renaissance, the art of the French Revolution, and the Soviet socialist art adopting not only the Greek tradition in contemporary architecture but “everything in our cultural heritage worthy of being called classic, not merely on the strength of its antiquity but also for its qualitative perfection” (277). Furthermore, he argued: We tend to forget that, unlike other epochs in which a culture has flourished, we have less need than ever before to reproduce the semblance of classical styles, which were inevitably subject to the limitations imposed by histor­ ical circumstances; instead, we should learn from them the eternally valid principles which are common in equal degree to all phenomenon that aspire to classical perfection. (277. Emphases in original)9 Similarly, in “The Psychology of Art” (1940), Eisenstein noted: “Form always appeals to the Golden Age of human existence. Even an approximation of this stage of the cradle—the stage of childhood—already radiates with ‘incompre­ hensible’ attractiveness. Marx on antiquity” (Eisenstein 1988b, 12). Here Eisenstein’s reference to such terms as the “golden childhood of mankind” or “the stage of childhood” is a transposition of Marx’s characterization of the historical and social conditions—“the historical childhood of humanity”—that “gave rise” and that “alone could give rise” to the Greek art.10 Through such a transposition of Marx’s term by displacing the crucial word “historical” with the word “golden,” Eisenstein invoked Marx in his construction of the imma­ nent and inviolable universality of the “structure and method” of the art of the “Golden Age” and of his cinematic art as the summation of all the arts and as the “re-creation of ancient forms” in the art and culture of the (Soviet) new classes ascending to power and crying for legitimation and glorification of their revolutionary struggles.

Eisenstein’s Montage Thinking of the Uncanny Attraction of Hieroglyphs In 1945, Eisenstein thus reflected on how he became a film director: How grateful I was in the future to fate for guiding me through the probation and introducing me to this extraordinary way of thinking in the ancient Oriental languages and verbal pictography! It was exactly this ‘extraordinary’ way of thinking that helped me later to understand the nature of montage. And when this ‘way’ was later realized as a regularity of the way of inner sensual (chuvstvennogo) thinking, different from our generally accepted ‘logical’ thinking, it was that which helped me understand the most profound layers of the method of art. (Eisenstein 1964–1971, 1:99)

The Consecration of Tradition

99

Indeed, as early as the 1920s, Eisenstein started his long journey by way of a detour to the study of “the ancient Oriental languages and verbal pictography” and later on to many other areas of “Oriental” cultural traditions. His early study of Japanese led him to ancient Chinese language, known to him as “hieroglyphs” or “ideograms.” First of all, it must be emphasized that the early phase of Eisenstein’s interest in Chinese language was inextricably tied to the early stage of the evolution of his theory, namely the period of “montage of attractions” and “intellectual cinema,” in contrast to his later understanding of the same language evolved along the trajectory of his theory developed in the 1930s and 1940s. In 1929, in his two essays, “Beyond the Shot” and “The Dramaturgy of Film Form,” Eisenstein interpreted the composition of Chinese “hieroglyphs” according to his ideas of montage of attraction and the concept of intellectual cinema. In “Beyond the Shot,” Eisenstein traced the creation of the Chinese language back to the Chinese mythological and legendary figure, “Tsanki” [Ts’ang Chieh or Cang Jie], in 2650 BC (Eisenstein 1964–1971, 2:283). Eisenstein was apparently familiar with the six categories of the script formation of Chinese characters as he mentioned the first one, “hsiang cheng” (xiang xing) and the second one, “huei-i” (huiyi), or what he described as “copulative” (Eisenstein 1988a, 139). His real interest, however, was in the second: The point is that the copulation—perhaps we had better say the combination—of two hieroglyphs of the simplest series is regarded not as their sum total but as their product, i.e. as a value of another dimension, another degree: each taken separately corresponds to an object but their combination corresponds to a concept. (139. Emphasis in original) After giving a few examples and associating the method with montage and “the starting-point for ‘intellectual cinema’, a cinema that seeks the maximum laconicism in the visual exposition of abstract concepts,” Eisenstein exclaimed: “We hail the method of the (long since) dead Ts’ang Chieh as a pioneering step along this path” (139).11 In “The Dramaturgy of Film Form,” Eisenstein thus distinguished his view of montage: “But in my view montage is not an idea composed of successive shots stuck together but an idea that DERIVES from the collision between two shots that are independent of one another” (163. Emphases in original). He then immediately associated it with Chinese (Eisenstein identified as “Japa­ nese”) hieroglyphics: “As in Japanese hieroglyphics in which two independent ideographic characters (‘shots’) are juxtaposed and explode into a concept” (164. Emphasis in original). Eisenstein’s knowledge of Chinese language drew on the study by the noted French sinologist Jean-Pierre Abel-Rémusat on the origin and formation of Chinese writing (Abel-Rémusat 1827a; 1827b). Primarily based on Choue-wen (Shuo-wen chieh-tzu, or Shuowen jiezi), the first comprehensive classical work on ancient Chinese characters, by Hiu-chin (Hsü Shen or Xu Shen, c. 58–147), a

100 The Spectre of Tradition Chinese scholar of the Han dynasty, Abel-Rémusat discussed the six classes of the structural formation of Chinese characters. He thus defined the huiyi (hoeï-i or huei-i) class of compound or combined characters: The combined characters are formed of two or three images which, by their rapprochement, constitute a new meaning, as when one puts three images of man one behind the other, to mean to follow, or two images of woman, to say dispute; a sun behind a tree, to express the east; a bird on its nest, to mark the sunset. (Abel-Rémusat 1827b, 38. Emphases in original)12 Eisenstein’s transposition of the method of the huiyi class obscures a funda­ mental difference: “by their rapprochement,” as noted by Abel-Rémusat, the huiyi class combines the meanings of two similar, associative, causal, conditional, or relational ideographs to denote a new meaning, which emphasizes dependent relationships between characters. In contrast, how­ ever, Eisenstein’s idea of montage, distinct from that of the orthodox montage, is predicated on the conflict and collision between the two elements (Eisenstein 1988a, 139, 164). Aside from Abel-Rémusat’s sinologist classical interest in the writing system of ancient Chinese language, Ernest Fenollosa’s and Ezra Pound’s modernist interest appeared more in line with Eisenstein’s. I have seen no evidence that Eisenstein read Fenollosa. Fenollosa’s understanding of Chinese language was demonstrated in his well-known essay, “The Chinese Written Character as a Medium for Poetry” (Fenollosa 1920). Eisenstein’s reading of Chinese language shared Fenollosa’s interest in the pictorialism of Chinese characters and the rhythm and musicality of Chinese language and poetry. At the same time, however, it is abundantly clear that, in contrast to the primacy of conflict and collision that characterizes Eisenstein’s idea of montage, Fenollosa underscored the harmony and rapport between the characters, as demonstrated in his appreciation of “the full splendor” of Chinese verse and of the advantage of what he called the “homology” of the Chinese ideography (388): “Poetry surpasses prose especially in that the poet selects for juxtaposition those words whose overtones blend into a delicate and lucid harmony. All the arts follow the same law; refined harmony lies in the delicate balance of overtones” (387). Speaking of the class of compound characters, which Eisenstein referred to as “copulative,” Fenollosa observed: “In this process of compounding, two things added together do not produce a third thing but suggest some fundamental relation between them” (364). Here, like Abel-Rémusat, Fenollosa correctly underlined the rapprochement between the two characters despite his many misunderstandings of Chinese language.13 Pound, whose interest in Chinese poetry and aesthetics was influenced by Fenollosa, highly valued the latter’s universal contribution as “a study of the fun­ damentals of all aesthetics” (Pound 1920, 357). However, as Pound noted, to Fenollosa, “the exotic was always a means of fructification,” and Fenollosa

The Consecration of Tradition 101 “looked to an American renaissance” (357). Thus, the Chinese written character was for Fenollosa (and Pound) a medium for poetry as it was for Eisenstein a medium for cinema, both of which have little to do with the system of Chinese language as a whole and, if anything, amount to a displacement of the Chinese language into a modernist aesthetics. The phantom of ancient Chinese “hier­ oglyphs” performed as a “medium,” a ghostly other, for Fenollosa (and Pound) and Eisenstein to divine the “fundamentals” or the “ground-problematics” of a total and holistic aesthetics for Euro-American modernist poetry (Pound’s imagist poetry) or for the Eisensteinian cinematic art of all the arts. With the major shift in his overall theoretical orientation taking place in the 1930s, Eisenstein’s approach to the Chinese language had undergone a similar change. As Eisenstein recalled about the “reverse process” of the “method” of his “intellectual cinema”: Thus, the ‘method’ of my intellectual cinema consists of moving backward from a more developed form of expression of consciousness to an earlier form of consciousness; from the speech of our generally accepted logic to a structure of speech of another kind of logic. I had already met with another structure of thought in studying the Japanese language. However, the question of hieroglyphs and the similarity of their method with the method of juxtaposition in montage, in its time occupied so much of my attention by its very mechanism of combination that I didn’t then surmise that that unfortunate language, with its structure and peculiarities, would serve me once more. Instead, I plunged passionately into questions of primitive thinking in general. (Eisentein 1983, 209. Emphases in original) Indeed, Eisenstein’s approach to Chinese language had turned, from his intel­ lectual montage-thinking of the attraction by a juxtaposition and collision of the Chinese ideographs, to his perception, from the perspective of the “inner speech” that he acknowledged had captivated him in its own way even earlier, of “the very sensual linguistic canon of pralogics” (pralogiki), which both the Chinese and the Japanese “have preserved by external speech” (Eisenstein 2016a, 2:338; 2002, 1:94). This shift in his approach, as I will show later, clearly manifests itself in his essay on Mei Lanfang and the Chinese theatre and his essay, “Even-Odd.” Jacques Derrida thus described, from his anti-logocentric perspective, the influence of Fenollosa’s study of Chinese written language on Pound’s poetics: This is the meaning of the work of Fenollosa whose influence upon Ezra Pound and his poetics is well-known: this irreducibly graphic poetics was, with that of Mallarmé, the first break in the most entrenched Western tradition. The fascination that the Chinese ideogram exercised on Pound’s writing may thus be given all its historial significance. (Derrida 2016, 100)

102 The Spectre of Tradition Likewise, the ancient Chinese or Japanese written language cast a lasting spell on the formulation of Eisenstein’s theory from his early “montage thinking” to his later undifferentiated and organic thinking on the graphic and figurative irreducibility, indeterminacy, and polysemy of Chinese characters and on the prelogical and sen­ sual thinking of Chinese or Japanese written language and culture in general. However, unlike Derrida’s Poundian “break” in the Western phono-logo-centric tradition, which conjures up an ideographic tradition of Chinese language, Eisen­ stein’s invocation of the hieroglyphic phantom of a prelogical and sensual-figurative thinking of Chinese culture was not to destruct the logical extreme of Western tradition but to subject both to the (Hegelian-Marxist) dialectical displacement and sublation by the aesthetic-political of his “intellectual cinema,” a cinema of “unprecedented form and naked social functionalism” and a cinema of “extreme cognition and extreme sensuality,” as Eisenstein noted in 1929: “Only intellectual cinema will be able to put an end to the conflict between the ‘language of logic’ and the ‘language of images’—on the basis of the language of the cinema dialectic” (Eisenstein 1988a, 158. Emphasis in original).14 It is also interesting and illuminating to compare Eisenstein’s approach to Chinese language with Hegel’s. Hegel deplored the Chinese spoken language’s lack of “the objective determinacy that is gained in articulation from alphabetic writing” and attributed it to its “hieroglyphic written language” (Hegel 2007, 197–198). In contrast, Eisenstein admired as a strength the hieroglyphic polysemy of Chinese written language. Hegel spoke of the superiority of alphabetic script over hier­ oglyphic script: the latter “designates representations with spatial figures,” whereas the former “designates sounds which are themselves already signs” (196. Emphases in original). Here Hegel’s negative view of the representation with spatial hieroglyphic figures reminds of Eisenstein’s affirmative view of the montage representation with hieroglyphic characters. Nevertheless, in spite of their different attitudes towards the primacy of the sensual (or sensory), the graphic, the spatial, the undifferentiated, the polysemous, and the indeterminate—all characteristics that Eisenstein sanctified and that Hegel abhorred—in Chinese written language, Eisenstein’s view of “the fixed traditionalism of Chinese culture” as essential to the preservation of the primordial sensuality and polysemy of the Chinese written language as one of the magnificent “monuments” of the Chinese “system of ideas and thought” (Eisenstein 1968, 322) shares Hegel’s essentialist and Orientalist account of the Chinese cultural and phi­ losophical condition for the primitive character of the Chinese hieroglyphic script or written language. “It is only a stationary spiritual culture, like the Chinese, which is suited by the hieroglyphic script of that people,” Hegel argued. “A hier­ oglyphic written language would require a philosophy as stationary as is the civilisation of the Chinese overall” (Hegel 2007, 197–198).

Eisenstein’s Sensual Thinking of the Art of Traditional Chinese Theatre As indicated above, in the 1930s, Eisenstein’s theory underwent a significant shift towards a method of organic synthesis, which had a significant impact on

The Consecration of Tradition 103 the orientation of his interest in Chinese and Japanese cultural traditions and on his (re)interpretation of them. One of the intellectual stimulants that animated Eisenstein’s (re)imagination of Chinese cultural traditions was Marcel Granet’s work on Chinese thought and civilization. On December 23, 1934, Eisenstein met Paul Robeson in Moscow and Robeson gifted him Granet’s book, La pensée chinoise, on “the very first evening” of their acquaintance, the day he arrived in Moscow (Eisenstein 1983, 213; Duberman 1988, 185–186, 189–190; Horne 2016, 62).15 He acknowledged that he was “quite well acquainted with” Granet’s work (Eisenstein 1983, 217). A month after he received Granet’s book from Robeson, Eisenstein wrote, on January 23, 1935, in a manuscript under the title, “In Search of a Father”: It is striking how this tradition in a new quality but entirely in the same principles is preserved in the ritualized behaviour within some civilizations that have preserved the immobility of the primary metaphorical concepts of the primitive, despite the high sophistication of material culture. (Eisenstein 2016a, 1:126) Eisenstein then quoted from a chapter of Granet’s book about Chinese etiquette, “the rules of official behaviour,” which “seems to reproduce entirely the system of the interrelation of our infusoria (infuzorii) with its cosmic environment”: Rites et musique (par surcroît), leur communiquent, réconfort suprême, le sentiment qu’obéir à l’Étiquette permet aux individus d’intégrer rythmiquement chacun de leur gestes dans le [grand] système rythmique de comportements qui constitue l’Univers. Ainsi devient possible l’endosmose des microcosmes et [du] macrocosme. (Eisenstein 2016a, 1:126–127; Granet 1934, 413. Eisenstein’s emphases)16 Here Eisenstein’s note indicates that he had begun reading Granet’s work of more than 600 pages sometime in early or middle January 1935, if not soon after he had it in late December 1934.17 It is clear from his note that at this juncture his interest in Chinese culture had turned to the totality of the pri­ mitive, and the traditional, structure of Chinese civilization, which would become predominant later in his views on Chinese thought and cultural forms such as theatre and other forms of art. It is also clear, as I will demonstrate later, that his earlier speech at the All-Union Creative Conference of Soviet Film Workers in January 1935 underlay his reading of Granet’s study of Chinese cultural traditions. Under the influence of Émile Durkheim’s sociology, Granet, the French sinologist who had a short stay in China in his early career studying classical Chinese texts, was engaged in an ethnologist study of Chinese civilization from a sociological perspective, searching for the total social structure and system underlying Chinese civilization, religion, thought, and culture. In spite of his first-hand experience of Chinese culture and society as a result of his short stay,

104 The Spectre of Tradition Granet’s sociological study of China, his attempt to find the original, primordial “living tradition” of Chinese civilization and culture, was preconditioned and predetermined, as noted by Maurice Freedman: In any case, whatever the weight we give to Granet’s firsthand experience of China, I do not think we should err in saying that what he made of that country rested almost entirely upon what he had decided about it before he ever left France. (Freedman 1975, 13) According to Freedman, “Durkheim was Granet’s master” in his sociological study of the totality of Chinese religion and thought: “The model upon which China was worked out—a total China, so to say, however limited chron­ ologically and topically in the event—had been laid down in Granet’s under­ standing of Durkheim’s lectures, monographs, and reviews” (23). In his attempt to “describe the system of biases, concepts, and symbols that govern the life of the mind in China” (Granet 1934, 3), Granet intended La pensée chinoise to be a complement to his previous work, La civilisation chinoise (1929). Eisenstein was also familiar with La civilisation chinoise, as he cited from it to illustrate the divisions of sexes and social labour and their inherent relation­ ship to the changes of seasons (Eisenstein 2002, 2:187–188; Granet 1929, 191– 192). In La civilisation chinoise, Granet limited his task to defining “a set of atti­ tudes characterizing the social system of the Chinese of the antiquity” (Granet 1929, 4) and proposed to demonstrate, in La pensée chinoise, the evolution of Chinese thought and culture from ancient times to the imperial time of the Han dynasty that, according to him, led to “the glorification of an extra­ ordinarily rigid conformism” (4–5). According to Granet, the history of Chi­ nese society as evolved from the ancient Chinese world reveals that “the acute crisis” of social transformations ultimately “led to the acceptance, as principles of social discipline, of a formalism and a decorum of a traditionalist spirit and of an archaizing (archaïsant) symbolism” (7). In concluding his study, Granet affirms that, “at the time when, towards the beginnings of the imperial era, Chinese civilization seemed to have reached a point of maturity,” “every­ thing”—from family organization to civic morality and to political life domi­ nated and defined by “the sole virtues of a traditionalist conformism”— “contributes to making manifest the reign of formalism” or “this system of archaizing conventions” (501–502). In La pensée chinoise, Granet claims, he was able to show that “the content of the guiding ideas is explained by the structure of Chinese society” and that “the evolution of these ideas depends very strictly on social evolution” (Granet 1934, 26–27). Thus, in his view, regardless of the great genius of the ancient Chinese sages who became aware of “the guiding principles” of Chinese thought and organization, “the explanation of these principles lies much less in this genius than in the history of the social system,” and “this history is remarkable in China by a continuity of which nowhere can we find the equivalent” (27). According to

The Consecration of Tradition 105 Granet, his investigation and illustration of “the system of thought that, together with their social system, defines the civilization of the Chinese” were accom­ plished by grouping his separate essays “in such a way as to indicate the structure and movement that characterize the body of ‘doctrines’ or rules of action” that he “had to interpret” (29). As such, Granet argues, “to define, essentially, the system of thought of the Chinese comes down to characterizing the whole ensemble of Chinese attitudes” (29). Granet, however, acknowledges that the summary of his analysis that was intended to give “a glimpse of the ‘spirit of Chinese mores’” is “only a summary” of his “experience”: “It will no doubt be recognized that if a systematic spirit appears in these provisional conclusions, it is because I had to define the spirit of a system” (30). Ultimately, Granet was a traditionalist in the sense that he was almost exclusively interested in the primordial past, and the fixed traditionalism, of the system or structure of Chinese civilization and culture, which he interpreted and defined with his Durkheim-inspired sociological approach. Granet was interested in finding the prehistorical or primordial “living tradition” (la tradition vivante) (Granet 1926, 2:598–601) in Chinese mythologies and folk or religious stories, songs, dances, and rites, which he contended was embedded or sup­ pressed—displaced and distorted—in the literary or erudite scholarly tradition. Thus, he believed that “it is prudent to rely on a long chronology” and that “there may have been several Chinese civilizations before the Confucian civi­ lization” (619). His systematic and structural approach was consciously ana­ chronistic and ahistorical at the same time, as he grouped or juxtaposed (pre) historical and non-historical data that he analyzed and interpreted as “facts” or “social facts” (Granet 1934, 17) in defining the structure, and the spirit, of the system of Chinese civilization and culture. According to Granet’s totalizing structural narrative, the Chinese system of thought became immutable from the beginnings of the imperial era and remained so during its long feudal historical times, controlled by a fixed tradi­ tionalist conformism and formalism. While deploring the suppression of the “living tradition” in the history of Chinese thought by rigid traditionalism, Granet tended to idealize the feudal traditionalism and formalism that, for him, played, paradoxically, a role in preserving, without genuine impoverishment, the “living tradition,” the “moral life” that continued to develop freely, or the “ancient ideals,” from historical and progressive changes (Granet 1929, 5, 502). Granet’s approach influenced and reinforced the primitivist and “regressive” tendency in Eisenstein’s aesthetics and particularly the latter’s perception of the structure of Chinese thought as essential to the history of Chinese theatre and culture. Eisenstein likewise tried to conjure up the pre-feudal “living tradition” (the primordial synthesis of Chinese theatre, for instance), and, in doing so, went even further in his essentialization and idealization of the fixed tradition­ alism in the continuity of the structure of Chinese thought, which preserved and perpetuated the primordial principles (yin and yang, for example) and the traditions of the pre-feudal structures of ideas and symbolic representation. Given Granet’s influence, however, as indicated above, I want to argue that

106 The Spectre of Tradition Eisenstein’s reading of Granet and his absorption of the latter’s influence were predicated upon his primitivist thinking tempered by the logic of dialectics, as demonstrated in his 1935 speech at the All-Union Creative Conference of Soviet Film Workers (Eisenstein 1964–1971, 2:93–130; 1996b, 16–46). Some of the main arguments expounded in his speech, such as those on “sensual thinking” and “generalization,” coupled by his resultant absorption of Granet’s influence, would have a deciding impact on his understanding and interpreta­ tion of Mei Lanfang’s performance and the art of the Chinese theatre.18 Eisenstein’s most sustained and concentrated interest in Eastern cultural tra­ ditions was demonstrated in his writings on traditional Japanese and Chinese theatres. Elsewhere I have dealt with his essay on Kabuki (Tian 2016; 2018, 211–237). His writings on the Chinese theatre through Mei Lanfang’s perfor­ mance survived in different versions. From his earliest published version (Eisenstein 1935a) to his 1939 final revision (Eisenstein 1968; 1996a), there is a consistently increasing manifestation of the ideas of his 1935 speech at the AllUnion Creative Conference of Soviet Film Workers and of his assimilation of Granet’s writings on Chinese thought. In the earliest published version of Eisenstein’s article, “The Theatre of Mei Lanfang,” there is the same phrase, “structure of thinking” (stroi myshleniia), that appears in his 1939 final version: The astonishing system and technique of Chinese theatre deserves more than a catalogue of its conventions. It deserves to at least think about the preconditions for them in that structure of thinking that gives rise to these amazing forms of expression. (Eisenstein 1935a, 2) The influence of his 1935 speech and of Granet’s work was also felt in the other earlier versions of his essay on Mei Lanfang and the Chinese theatre (Eisenstein 1935b; 1935c). It is distinctly present in the English version pub­ lished in the October issue of Theatre Arts Monthly (Eisenstein 1935d), and it manifests itself fully in the final revised and expanded version published post­ humously in his selected works (Eisenstein 1968; 1996a). N. I. Kleiman includes the final version of Eisenstein’s essay as part of his manuscript, Method (Eisenstein 2002, 2:132–149) and makes this comment on the significance of the Chinese theatre to Eisenstein’s aesthetics: The Chinese theatre not only evoked a profound aesthetic experience in Eisenstein, but also provided him with a living confirmation of the ideas of the “ground-problematics” that he had outlined two months earlier in a speech at the Creative Conference of Soviet Film Workers. Therefore, the main emphasis in the article was placed on the manifestations of ‘sensual thinking’ that are peculiar in form and style, but generally significant in terms of method, as well as on the polysemy of ‘pralogical’ imagery—on the ideas that defined the core of the entire concept of the ‘Method.’ (Eisenstein 2002, 2:599)

The Consecration of Tradition 107 While I concur with Kleiman on Eisenstein’s perception of the significance of the Chinese theatre to the ideas of what he defined as the “ground-problematics” of cinema, I disagree that the Chinese theatre provided “a living confirmation” of those ideas. Eisenstein’s understanding of the idea of the early forms of thinking (“sensual thinking”) drew primarily on Lucien Lévy-Bruhl’s sociological and anthropological theory on the primitive mentality and prelogical thinking of pri­ mitive peoples and societies, James George Frazer’s social anthropology, and Engels’s dialectical doctrine on the early stage of the structure of thought (Eisen­ stein 1996b, 36–37).19 Consequently, Eisenstein’s understanding influenced his reading of Granet’s work and, together with the latter, profoundly affected his interpretation of Mei Lanfang’s art and the Chinese theatre,20 which, ultimately, amounts to a projection of his pre-formulated ideas. Eisenstein’s essay on Mei Lanfang’s art begins with the legend of the siege of the city of Ping-Cheng in 205 BC in the early Han dynasty, one of the legends about the origins of the Chinese theatre and the origin of the puppet. The significance of the legend may not reside in Eisenstein’s claim that it was about the origin of the Chinese theatre, as he had similarly claimed, under the influence of Heinrich von Kleist’s words that associate the perfection of the actor with the puppet,21 that Kabuki was born from puppet theatre (Eisenstein 1988a, 122); it was more important for Eisenstein to use the legend to construct the primordiality of the craftsmanship of Mei Lanfang, a “living puppet,” which is bound up with “the most ancient and best traditions of the great art of Chinese theatre” and in turn remains “inseparable from the culture of the puppet and its distinctive dance” that “still retains its imprint on the peculiarity of Chinese stage movement” (Eisenstein 1968, 312). Furthermore, it was characteristic of Eisenstein to account for “the magnetic force of creativity that has made [Mei Lanfang] famous far beyond national borders,” by tying it to the structure of Chinese thought: The astonishing system, and the technique, of Chinese theatre deserves more than a catalogue of ‘oddities’ and conventions. It deserves to be thought about carefully in that structure of thought that is embodied in forms that seem so distant but are somehow in their depths close to us and that, if not always understood, are nevertheless deeply empathized with. (Eisenstein 1968, 313) Thinking of Chinese theatre in the structure of Chinese thought and asserting that “the performance of Chinese theatre in the most ancient periods of its history was synthetic: dance was inseparable from singing,” Eisenstein was in profound sympathy with what he regarded as “one of Mei Lanfang’s great achievements in the culture of Chinese theatre”: by virtue of his destined undertaking of “the task of synthesis,” Mei Lanfang “restored the most ancient tradition” of Chinese theatre and “brought the actor’s craft back to its former syntheticity” (Eisenstein 1968, 314. Emphasis in original). Here Eisenstein looked at and transposed Mei Lanfang’s artistry from the “regressive” perspec­ tive of a primitivist and traditionalist essentialism.

108 The Spectre of Tradition Although acknowledging that Mei Lanfang was not just a “restorer” but was able to infuse “the perfect forms of the old tradition” with new content, Eisenstein was keen to underline Mei’s ability to refine “the traditional treat­ ment” of each female role “in complete and strict accordance with their style” (Eisenstein 1968, 314). More importantly, Eisenstein sympathized with Mei Lanfang’s stress on the exclusively non-naturalistic and extremely conventional composition of his art that was primarily aimed at creating “a definite aesthe­ tically abstract image” with “the allure of the idealized and generalized features of the female character” (315). Again, characteristically, Eisenstein was tempted to locate and generalize Mei Lanfang’s art in an essentialized and totalized system that defines all the “traditional attributes” of the Chinese theatre: “Each situation, each subject is invariably abstract in nature and often symbolic; pure realism is removed from the performance, and the realistic setting is banished from the stage” (315). This generalization allows Eisenstein to ignore the “progressive” evolution in Mei Lanfang’s artistry under the influence of rea­ lism (the strengthening of the expression of the psychological in his acting) and to disregard the historical fact that the use of “realistic” or even “natur­ alistic” settings (real horses, real houses, real mountains, and real waters) in traditional Chinese theatre, including Mei Lanfang’s “ancient” Chinese thea­ tre, can be traced back to the imperial court theatre of the Qing dynasty (1644–1911). In fact, in the 1920s and 1930s, the use of realistic scenery and stage lighting reached its highpoint and became a popular trend (particularly the so-called haipai, or the “modern” Shanghai style) in the performance of traditional Chinese theatre. Mei Lanfang and Cheng Yanqiu, two leading actors and guardians of the tradition, often used realistic settings in their performances. In spite of the modern development of traditional Chinese theatre since the beginning of the twentieth century, Eisenstein was primarily interested in such traditional attributes or peculiarities as the actor’s performing with “ma pien” (“ma bian”) to represent horse-riding and with “Ch’e ch’i” (“che qi”) repre­ senting a wagon by two flags with wheels drawn on them; conventional stage behaviours such as opening a door, portraying a dream, and symbolic repre­ sentations of battles; and the conventional use of stage properties such as a table, a chair, and a horsehair broom (“Ing-chen,” or “ying-chen”) that can represent “any number and quality of objects” (Eisenstein 1968, 316–317). Again, Eisenstein tied what he defined as the “fluidity” or “lability” of meanings in stage representations and the actor’s performance to the structure of Chinese thought: This feature of the lability of meaning is perhaps even more striking than the very method of the conventionality of stage attributes. And the most remarkable thing is that this feature is by no means a feature of theatrical specificity. Its meaning has much deeper roots. It is inherent in the very depths of Chinese thought and the structure of the general conceptions. (Eisenstein 1968, 317)

The Consecration of Tradition 109 Here Granet’s influence manifests itself in Eisenstein’s thinking. For Eisenstein, as for Granet in his structural and systematic analyses of the Chinese symbolic representations such as ancient Chinese dances and religious rites, “the pecu­ liarities of stage construction are only a kind of particular case of their embo­ diment in a special area” (Eisenstein 1968, 317). Grounding his analyses of the Chinese theatre on the premises of the system of Chinese thought, Eisenstein was nonetheless conscious of the national or racial preconditions and presumptions historically associated with ethnological and anthropological study of the civilizations and cultures of different nations. Likewise, in his 1935 speech at the All-Union Creative Conference of Soviet Film Workers, Eisenstein tried to draw a line between his use of the term “early forms of thinking” and the colonialist and imperialist racial theories that define a fixed system of forms of thinking characteristic of “primitive” peoples: Usually the structure of so-called early thinking is seen once and for all as a fixed system of forms of thinking, belonging to so-called ‘primitive’ peo­ ples, innate in them racially and not prone to any sort of variation. Put like that, it is a scientific apologia for the methods of enslavement that these people were subjected to by white colonists, since, allegedly, these people were ‘in any case doomed’ as far as culture and cultural interaction were concerned. (Eisenstein 1996b, 36) In particular, Eisenstein pointed out that Lévy-Bruhl, the French sociologist and anthropologist to whom Eisenstein was heavily indebted, was not innocent of such preconceptions, arguing that it was fully justified to attack Lévy-Bruhl in that regard, because, according to Eisenstein, “we know that forms of thinking are the conscious reflection of the social formations through which a particular social collective passes historically” (36). At the same time, however, Eisenstein warned against falling into “the other extreme of trying to ignore altogether the specific nature of the peculiarity of early forms of thinking” (37). In his essay on Mei Lanfang’s art, Eisenstein chose to limit his use of the term “Chinese thought” only to “the complex of ideas and [that] intellectual struc­ ture, which the Chinese operate in, and, above all, in the humanistic and superstructural areas” (Eisenstein 1968, 317). In doing so, and by adopting a Marxist dialectical approach, Eisenstein tried to disassociate his approach from those colonialist and imperialist racial theories. Thus, drawing on Granet’s sociological study, Eisenstein wrote of the structure of Chinese thought: The peculiarity of this structure of thought is deeply rooted in the history of the changing social formations through which Chinese history has passed. And that peculiar social phenomenon according to which the forms of reflection in the consciousness of earlier stages of social develop­ ment are not removed by later stages, but are canonized by tradition,

110 The Spectre of Tradition enriched by the experience of later stages and, out of respect and piety for sufficient perfection, are not overcome…. In this peculiar complex, the pre-feudal basis of pre-feudal perceptions is very clearly preserved. They were brought into a peculiar hierarchical system by the subsequent feudal era, a copy of which it seems to be. The imperial segment of history pro­ vides it with the final formulation of its symbolic fixation. At the edge of the perfection of these achievements an artificial limit is placed on the further development of the system of perceptions and the development of the forms of thought in the fields of the humanities. (Eisenstein 1968, 317–318) Here, in spite of his warning against treating the structure of Chinese thought as a fixed system of forms of thinking, Eisenstein shared Granet’s view of the regressive historical condition and the resultant immobility and immutability of the tradition of the pre-feudal structure of Chinese thought and of the system of Chinese civilization in its historical and social movement towards the imperial era of the Han dynasty (206 BCE–220 CE) and into the entire history of Chinese feudal society: The deified perfection of past experience becomes the criterion and norm for determining actions and manifestations for the future. With the Han dynasty wanting to legalize the legitimacy of its empire through the norms of the past, the same principle is placed at the heart of the theory and practice of government. The subordination of present norms to past forms is a decisive principle. (Eisenstein 1968, 318) Furthermore, following Granet, who concluded his book with an illustration of the doctrine of “the government by history,” advocated by Tong Tchong­ chou (Dong Zhongshu, 179–104 BC), one of the noted orthodox Confucian philosophers, scholars, and politicians in the Han dynasty (Granet 1934, 573– 580), Eisenstein stated that it was “Tong Tchong-chi” (Tong Tchong-chou) who “turns these provisions into a philosophical system and a complete doc­ trine” (Eisenstein 1968, 318). His anachronistic bias toward a primordial Chi­ nese past notwithstanding, Granet underscored the historical and political consequence of Tong’s doctrine: “It has prevented any progress of the historical spirit in China. It has led to conceiving history as an arrangement of the past considered effective for the organization of the present” (Granet 1934, 577. Emphases in original). Indeed, the philosophical and ideological premises of Tong’s regressive doctrine underlying the historical, sociopolitical, and cultural condition that, for 2000 years, had defined, for instance, “the difficult social status of the woman” that Mei Lanfang portrayed with his “regressive” art in his numerous plays lauded by Eisenstein for their “renewed content” (Eisen­ stein 1968, 314). Yet the Soviet-Russian revolutionary artist was so impressed by the ancient Chinese philosopher that in 1937, when writing of the

The Consecration of Tradition 111 individual cases of the subject of “regress,” Eisenstein cited, from Granet, Tong’s doctrine to prove the universality of his theory on “regress”: We find an example of absolute regressivity (regressivnosti) as a social ideal and norm of organization (i.e. without any amendment and modifying account in relation to the current stage and the amendments it discusses) among the Chinese. Such is the doctrine of Tong Tchong chou (II siècle), the official theorist of the practice of the Han dynasty ‘…qui voulaient légit­ imer par le passé les institutions de l’empire. (Avec eux) parut la théorie du gouvernement par l’histoire.’ ‘…Cette théorie aboutit à aménager le passé pour l’organization du présent et, par l’enregistrement des prodiges et des signes, à prétendre connaître “les régles de conduite du Ciel…”’ (Eisenstein 2016a, 1:103)22 Eisenstein added that “‘les régles de conduite du ciel’ points to a regression even deeper than the pre-class situation—to Mutterschoß der Natur [the mother’s womb of nature] and the system of planets” (Eisenstein 2016a, 1:103). Here, Eisenstein’s imagination further associated Tong’s philosophical and political doctrine with his idea of “MLB” (Eisenstein’s acronym for “Mutter­ leibversenkung” [“immersion into the mother’s womb”]. Eisenstein 2002, 2:297–349, 530–581; 2016a, 3:943–1084), a regression into the “mother’s womb,” an image representing a classless and primitive (communist) state of humankind and a primary, undifferentiated, and sensual creative condition. In Eisenstein’s view, “the tradition of pre-feudal structure of thought and representation” underlies the creation of “the remarkable monuments of Chi­ nese culture” (Eisenstein 1968, 318). One of these monuments that Eisenstein admired most is the Chinese language with its “hieroglyphics and emblematics” (Eisenstein 1968, 318). As I have noted above, back in the 1920s, Eisenstein’s interest, defined by his montage thinking, was in the montage effect of the collision of Chinese ideographic components. This time, however, defined by his pre-logical and figurative sensual thinking underlying his thinking of the art of the Chinese theatre, his interest turned to “the polysemy and lability (labil­ nost)” of Chinese language, which he maintained are not just characteristic of the symbolic representation of the Chinese theatre, but are “the main char­ acteristics of any Chinese means of expression” that bear the particularly distinct imprint of the tradition of pre-feudal structure of thought and representation (Eisenstein 1968, 318). Eisenstein’s idea of Chinese cultural monuments was probably inspired by Abel-Rémusat’s characterization of the Chinese written language. AbelRémusat admired the zeal, perseverance, diligence, and accuracy that the Chi­ nese devoted, for 2000 years, to preserving, from the surviving ancient texts and artifacts, and explicating “the written monuments” (Abel-Rémusat 1827a, 5–6) or “the ancient monuments of all species in their original characters” (8). According to Abel-Rémusat, any research on the origin of Chinese language “must relate to the ancient forms that the Chinese themselves have collected on

112 The Spectre of Tradition their monuments and that they have preserved, classified, and analyzed with religious care” (Abel-Rémusat 1827b, 36). As I have noted above, Eisenstein’s early understanding of the Chinese written language was influenced by Abel-Rémusat. However, in his later interpretation of this same monosyllabic language, Eisenstein was most directly and profoundly indebted to Granet. For Eisenstein, the purpose of a Chinese hieroglyph or symbol is not at all to offer “a strictly defined concept”; on the contrary, it plays primarily “a diffuse-figurative role,” the role of “a polysemic image,” and is primarily designed for direct and emotional impact. Eisenstein further defined “this method” by underscoring its primacy of “the sensual (chuvstvennoe) generalization” represented by the symbol and its “lack of intel­ lectual acuity and accuracy” (Eisenstein 1968, 320). Here, again, Eisenstein’s use of the term “the sensual generalization” reminds of his earlier speech at the All-Union Creative Conference of Soviet Film Workers. Granet spoke of the Chinese monosyllabic language and of Chinese figura­ tive writing as “an emotional ensemble” whose order of words determined by the succession of emotions only emphasized the degree of affective and prac­ tical importance attributed to its different elements. For him, the Chinese lan­ guage “offered few amenities for the abstract expression of ideas” (Granet 1934, 36) and “was not moulded in such a way as to appear made to express ideas” (43). Granet attributed this phenomenon to “a disposition of the Chinese spirit that appears profound” (55). Later in his essay, “Even-Odd” (1940), Eisenstein wrote: Unlike European languages, which strive to bring the language closer to the absolute precision and certainty of the expression of thought, the question of precision and certainty for the Chinese does not play any role: it is more important for him to convey the general complex feeling accompanying certain words and sound combinations than to mince a thought that he undertakes to express! (Eisenstein 2002, 2:155)23 To prove his point, Eisenstein again quoted directly Granet’s assertion, noting that “the same Granet writes about this best of all”: “The Chinese language does not appear to be organized to note concepts, analyze ideas, and dis­ cursively expose doctrines. It is entirely shaped to communicate emotional attitudes, to suggest behaviour, to convince, to convert” (Eisenstein 2002, 2:156–157; Granet 1934, 82). Eisenstein concluded his interpretation of Chinese language and returned to his discussion of the Chinese theatre by a sweeping generalization: “These same attitudes thoroughly permeate the elements of art and the elements of the stage. And in the light of these traits and considerations, all the unexpected features of Chinese theatre technique ring completely natural” (Eisenstein 1968, 321).24 Here, in the end, through a labyrinth of detours and displacements, Eisenstein’s generalization brings full circle his preconceived narrative and interpretation of

The Consecration of Tradition 113 Mei Lanfang’s art and the Chinese theatre: after all, to Eisenstein, all those “oddities” or “unexpected features” of the Chinese theatre were “completely natural,” as they were conditioned and determined by the structure of the Chinese “sensual” (primitive, pre-logical) thinking with which Eisenstein, however historically distant from it, was destined to find himself in deep sym­ pathy. What remained of Mei Lanfang’s “ancient” Chinese theatre for Eisen­ stein was, however, crystalized in the most critical question he asked about his investigation: What is the practical lesson and experience that we can draw from study­ ing this theatre? It is hardly enough for us to marvel at its perfection. We seek in it the enrichment of our experience. Meanwhile, we stand on a totally different position. In our artistic practice, we stand on the position of realism and, moreover, realism of the highest form of development. Socialist Realism. And the question arises: can an art that stands wholly on the position of conventionality and symbolism and that seems to be incompatible with our premise of an intellectual system be instructive for us? And if so, in what way? (Eisenstein 1968, 321) Acknowledging that the highly developed artistic cultures like the Chinese and Japanese theatres “do not immediately yield to direct borrowing,” Eisenstein argued that it is necessary to find “the common language” or “a common image of art” that is more or less characteristic of the Soviet art and aesthetics (Eisenstein 1968, 321). Such was the case with his study of the technique of Kabuki theatre, which, he claimed, “found an echo, in an entirely peculiar way, with the aesthetics of sound cinema” (Eisenstein 1968, 321). As regards the Chinese theatre, Eisenstein asserted that its “instructive nature” was “even broader and deeper”: “Chinese theatre along this line is, as it were, nec plus ultra—the last stages of generalization and of bringing to the limit those features that are characteristic of any work of art” (Eisenstein 1968, 321). As such, it was particularly instructive for the Soviet artists to solve “the problem of the imagery of the work,” “one of the central problems” of the Soviet new aesthetics (Eisenstein 1968, 321). For Eisenstein, it was in the sphere of imagery that Chinese culture, and its particular manifestation, the Chinese theatre, showed its “most interesting side” because of its “hypertrophy of figurative generalization (obobshchennosti)” and of its primacy of “the polysemy of generalization” as opposed to, and at the expense of, a concrete, realistic representation, even though it resulted in a loss of the ideal unity of the two extremes: “the unity of concrete representation and figurative generalization” (Eisenstein 1968, 322).25 Here it is important to understand the significance of Eisenstein’s idea of “generalization,” along with his idea of sensual and figurative thinking, as one of the foundational concepts of his theory. It was heavily indebted to Lévy­ Bruhl’s characterization of the “primitive mentality” or “mental functions” of

114 The Spectre of Tradition those “primitive” or “inferior” peoples or societies, supposedly determined by the prelogical premises of generalization.26 But, more significantly, in terms of the aesthetic-political of Eisenstein’s theory, his idea of “generalization” was guided by the orthodox Marxist doctrine, as shown in his account for the “mistakes” of his film project, Bezhin Meadow (1935–1937): My stylistic endeavours and my inclinations draw me strongly toward the general, the generalised, toward generalisation. But is that the general­ isation, the ‘general’ that Marxist doctrine has taught us? No. Because in my work, generalisation absorbs the particular. Instead of being detected through what is concretely particular, the generalisation dissipates into fragmented abstraction. That was not the case with The Battleship Potemkin. The strength of that film lay in the fact that through this particular, single event I managed to convey a generalised idea of 1905 as a ‘dress rehearsal’ for October. This particular episode could absorb what was typical of that phase of the revolutionary struggle. And what was selected for this episode was typical, and the interpretation of it was generalised, characteristic. (Eisenstein 1996b, 101) Eisenstein’s perception of the Chinese “hypertrophy of figurative general­ ization” and of its primacy of “the polysemy of generalization” was a mixture of Lévy-Bruhl’s idea of prelogical “generalization” and the Marxist dialectical idea of generalization, or his Marxist absorption of Lévy-Bruhl, which was akin to what he spoke, in his 1935 speech at the All-Union Creative Conference of Soviet Film Workers, of a Marxist transformation of Nikolai Marr’s theory as “a generalised method for the study of language and thought” (Eisenstein 1996b, 40). Through such a condensation as the Chinese “hypertrophy of fig­ urative generalization,” Eisenstein performed a Lévy-Bruhl-Marxist displace­ ment of Granet’s interpretation of the system of Chinese language and thought. The Marxist-Leninist dialectical approach helped Eisenstein redeem Lévy­ Bruhl’s theory as a generalized method for his study of those early (primitive) forms of thinking and, at the same time, disassociate his approach from the primitivist or even racialist conception that, according to Eisenstein, LévyBruhl “cannot in many respects claim to be innocent of,” despite the fact that the French anthropologist “does not consciously set himself similar aims” (36). Eisenstein’s dialectical approach to the Chinese “figurative generalization” and “polysemy of generalization” can be further understood from his illustra­ tion of the dialectical process of human perception and thinking, which drew on Engels: The one-sidedness of child’s complex thinking becomes the conscious thinking of an adult, absorbing the differentiating principle. In the same way, the consciousness of a person who stands at the dawn of culture becomes the consciousness of a person in a developed era of culture. In the same way, phi­ losophy turns from primitive chaos into materialistic dialectics. Here, of course,

The Consecration of Tradition 115 the following is curious: complex perception is, of course, the lowest stage of perception (see Engels), differentiating is already a step forward. An analysis that can generalize is, of course, the highest case and type. (It appears in science as a generalized concept, in art—as a generalized image, equally belonging to the highest category of human spiritual activity). (Eisenstein 1964–1971, 2:386; 1991, 97. Emphases in original) Such being the case, Eisenstein nevertheless sensed “a contradiction” that seemingly arises in his concept of the “generalized image”: “the highest—the generalized image—seems to coincide, in plastic features, with the most primitive type of holistic perception” (Eisenstein 1964–1971, 2:386; 1991, 97). Yet, he immediately added: This contradiction is only apparent. In essence, however, in this case we have here precisely that “apparent return to the old” that Lenin speaks of on the subject of the dialectics of phenomena. The fact is that generalization is truly a holistic, i.e. both a complex (immediate), and a differentiated (mediated), representation of a phenomenon (and a representation about a phenomenon). (Eisenstein 1964–1971, 2:386–387; 1991, 97. Emphases in original) Here the underlying meaning of Eisenstein’s reference to Lenin’s dialectical idea of “the apparent return to the old” can be found in his essay, “Methods of Montage” (1929). In that essay, Eisenstein recalled Lenin’s synopsis of the fundamental elements of Hegelian dialectics, which includes “recurrence, on the highest level, of known traits, attributes, etc. of the lowest” and “return, so to say, to the old (negation of the negation)” (Eisenstein 1949, 81). I must add here that Lenin’s idea of the “return” to “the old” as the “negation of the negation” is also in line with Engels’s idea on the law of the negation of the negation. According to Engels, the Marxist dialectical processes contain a “contradiction”: “transformation of one extreme into its opposite; and finally, as the kernel of the whole thing, the negation of the negation” (Marx and Engels 1975, 130). In the “true, natural, historical and dialectical negation,” Engels states, “the original point of departure is again arrived at (in history partly, in thought wholly), but on a higher plane” (606–607). As indicated in his delineation of his idea of the “generalized image,” Eisenstein adhered to the logic of the Hegel-Engels-Lenin dialectics: the one-sidedness of the pre-logical, complex, diffuse, undifferentiated, sensual-figurative thinking, “the lowest stage of perception,” is negated (displaced) by a higher stage of perception, a differentiated logical generalization, which is in turn negated (displaced) by the “generalized image,” the highest stage, a negation of the negation, “an apparent retune to the old,” but a true sublation, at the highest stage and in completely different quality, of the pre-logical, complex, diffuse, undifferentiated, sensualfigurative thinking. This whole dialectical movement is underpinned by a dialec­ tical displacement from the lowest stage to the highest stage by way of a return, or

116 The Spectre of Tradition the Eisensteinian “regress,” to the lowest stage. In effect, this “return” represents, at the highest stage, a dialectical displacement (negation by generalization) of the Chinese “undifferentiated” sensual thinking to Eisenstein’s “(Socialist) artistic methodology” that, according to Eisenstein, “has been decided and resolved in completely different forms and in different quality” (Eisenstein 1968, 324). In La pensée chinoise, Granet emphasized the concrete and emotional in Chi­ nese language and thought as opposed to the abstract and the generalized, equating generalization with logical abstraction: In Chinese, a word is much more than a sign used to note a concept. It does not correspond to a notion whose degree of abstraction and general­ ity we wish to fix in as definite a manner as possible. It evokes an indefi­ nite complex of particular images. (Granet 1934, 37) Likewise, Granet spoke of Taoism and the mystique of autonomy of the holy wisdom of Chinese Taoist saints: “He has accurate perceptions, but they are only valid for the moment. All abstraction, all generalization, and even all rea­ soning by analogy (even more so, induction or deduction) are forbidden to him” (538). Although Eisenstein, unlike Granet, who excluded altogether “general­ ization” from Chinese language and thinking, spoke of the “figurative gen­ eralization” or the “sensual generalization” in Chinese theatre and language, for him, the Chinese “generalization” remains undifferentiated, diffuse, and polysemic, as he also described the Chinese “hieroglyph” as “these general­ ized emotionally significant complexes,” with its primary role of a polysemic image not meant to convey a strictly refined concept (Eisenstein 1968, 320). Likewise, Eisenstein defined the method of Chinese language in terms of its stress on the primacy of “the sensual generalization” represented by the symbol, at the expense of “intellectual acuity and precision” (Eisenstein 1968, 320). Although within its own structure, the Chinese theatre is, in Eisen­ stein’s view, in “the final stages of generalization and bringing to the limit those features characteristic of any work of art” (Eisenstein 1968, 321), it remains at a lower stage, if not the lowest, and has not reached the highest stage of the unity of “generalized image” that Eisenstein conceived, in con­ formity with the orthodox Marxist-Leninist dialectics, of the highest stage of Socialist Realism. Here Eisenstein’s perception of the ultimate conservatism of Chinese culture becomes much more straightforward when he subse­ quently took an essentialist approach to the fixed traditionalism of Chinese culture that, for him, preserved “a complex system of sensual-figurative thinking” (Eisenstein 1968, 322–323) that refused to reach the next stage, the system of logical thinking. Dreaming of the totalizing unity of the perfect (Socialist) realism and enchanted by the aura of the presence of Mei Lanfang’s art, Eisenstein retro­ gressed into “the extreme enshrined in the traditions of the high culture of

The Consecration of Tradition 117 China’s past,” which was for him “particularly life-giving and enlightening,” with the examples of pure imagery embodied in it and ascending to the polysemy of generalized symbols (Eisenstein 1968, 322). When speaking of the system of creating images in Chinese culture, Eisenstein stressed that he was speaking “precisely” of “the traditional past, transmitted to the present day in the highest examples of Chinese art”: In the splendour of its traditions there has remained fixed a stratum of that stage of diffuse and complex representations, which sensual thinking has always and at all times wielded as it undergoes its historical changes and differentiations determined by the course of the change of social forma­ tions, in exactly the same way as the entire ideological formation of the superstructures of consciousness and logic reflects them. (Eisenstein 1968, 322) Here, following the logical thinking of the orthodox Marxist materialism and dialectics, Eisenstein established the “inseparable” historical link of the Chinese system, as transmitted from its traditional past, to the Russian-Soviet system of cultural creation (Eisenstein 1968, 322) and thereby the rationale for the Soviet Socialist cultural system, crowned by the Soviet cinema, Eisenstein’s highest form of all the arts, to be the legitimate inheritor of the Chinese cultural legacy that he monumentalized, canonized, and thus fossilized, at the same time, in his dialectical narrative on the early stages and forms of human thinking: The fixed traditionalism of Chinese culture has thus brought us, as it were, enshrined in a magnificent statue, the monuments of a system of ideas and thought, the sensual (chuvstvennyi) stage of which each culture goes through at a certain stage of its existence. And what we have before us is a shining phenomenon. We have before us, as it were, the most perfect monument of a complex system of sensualfigurative (chuvstvenno-obraznogo) thinking, which deliberately did not depart from all its basic laws and which refused to introduce into the next stage the system of logic that was characteristic of the West and that was formed from different social conditions and aspirations; instead, with all its splendour and luxuriance, it grew not forwards into a new stage, but in breadth—into the richness and refinement of its system of an sensual-fig­ urative intellectual approach to phenomena. (Eisenstein 1968, 322–323) Those fixed and immutable monuments as he found in the studies by AbelRémusat and Granet provided Eisenstein with deposits of countless examples that he appropriated, not directly but dialectically,27 ranging from the primitive crafts, through a specific system of music and mathematics, to the examples of what should be a set of provisions on “the understanding of the world from the perspective of the sensual and figurative thinking process” (Eisenstein 1968,

118 The Spectre of Tradition 323). Indeed, Eisenstein understood and interpreted Chinese theatre and cul­ ture clearly from his notion of the sensual and figurative thinking and from his perspective on their practical usefulness to the creation of an art of realism of the highest order and quality. Eisenstein’s hypertrophy of the Chinese sensualfigurative thinking was integral to his dialectical design to sublate this complex of Chinese aesthetic material into the generalized image, and the totalizing system, of the perfected Socialist Realism as he expounded in his 1935 speech at the All-Union Creative Conference of Soviet Film Workers on the use of the early forms of sensual thinking. In Eisenstein’s dialectical discourse on the structure of thought as exemplified in his reading of Engels’s thesis on dialectics, the Chinese sensual-figurative thinking remained tied to what Eisenstein called “the early forms of thinking,” a term he used in his 1935 speech to illustrate his ideas with “images of con­ cepts that exist among peoples on the threshold of culture” (Eisenstein 1996b, 36). For Eisenstein, both Lévy-Bruhl and his opponents failed to sense “the gradation” between these two apparently irreconcilable systems of thinking, the logical and the sensual-figurative, and they completely disregarded “the quali­ tative aspect of the transition from one stage to the next” (37). According to Eisenstein, it was Engels who presented “a comprehensive exposition of all three stages of the structure of thought through which mankind passes during its development”: from the “early diffuse-complex,” through “the formallogical stage which ‘negates’ it,” and finally to “the dialectical, which absorbs the two preceding stages ‘in an embrace’” (37). Eisenstein appealed to Engels’s dictum on the universal application of the Marxist dialectics as a scientific method of representation, with its constant regard to “the innumerable actions and reactions” of “progressive and retrogressive changes” (38). For me, how­ ever, Eisenstein’s dialectical approach, which focuses almost exclusively on the “retrogressive changes” of Chinese cultural traditions, is never far away from Lévy-Bruhl’s essentialist approach to the “primitive mentality,” or the “mental functions,” of “inferior” peoples and societies.28 In a revealing note, Eisenstein thus defined his approach: Obviously, I am dealing here only with that sphere of human science and aesthetic practice that relies upon tradition and scrupulously reproduces it in the forms in which it has historically developed and in the very histor­ ical stages in which these traditions have developed. (Eisenstein 1968, 323) Here, in an attempt to justify his approach to the “retrogressive” Chinese cul­ tural traditions from the perspective of his “regressive” sensual-figurative thinking, Eisenstein nevertheless underlines, in a fundamental way, the inex­ orable haunting of tradition on the sphere of such humanistic and aesthetic practices as theatre, cinema, and other forms of art and thereby on his theore­ tical thinking of such practices, including the aesthetic practice of the suppo­ sedly most advanced revolutionary arts of Soviet-Russia.

The Consecration of Tradition 119 With his understanding of the system whereby Chinese arts were con­ structed on the premises of sensual and figurative thinking, Eisenstein believed that he had apparently penetrated the external “gilt work” of those “monu­ ments” or “magnificent subterranean halls” and had seen in them “objectified, those stages and peculiarities of an internal process” through which a work of art is conceived, created, and realized (Eisenstein 1968, 323). For Eisenstein, “it is in these areas that the charm of Chinese culture and art resides” (Eisenstein 1968, 324). Here the “internal process” whose different stages and peculiarities Eisenstein found “objectified” in Chinese cultural traditions was in line with what he later realized, from the “extraordinary way of thinking in the ancient Oriental languages,” as “the way of inner sensual (chuvstvennogo) thinking” that he believed helped him understand “the most profound layers of the method of art” (Eisenstein 1964–1971, 1:99), as I have noted in the foregoing. Here I want to argue that, rather than an objectification in Chinese cultural traditions, “the way of inner sensual thinking” was Eisenstein’s internalization (condensa­ tion and displacement) of what he perceived from the “external speech” (Eisenstein 2016a, 2:338; 2002, 1:94) of Chinese language or the “gilt work” of Chinese arts. For Eisenstein, preserved intact by the regressive and fixed traditionalism of Chi­ nese culture, “the structure of Chinese writing and of the sensual emblems of Chi­ nese aesthetics,” by virtue of its capacity of serving to communicate between the many Chinese provinces and nationalities separated by the specifics of particular national languages, presented to the Soviet artists “a unique example” of the way in which, by means of “emotional images filled with proletarian wisdom and human­ ity,” the “great ideas” of the “great” Soviet Socialist country “must be infused into the hearts and feelings of the millions of nations speaking different languages” (Eisenstein 1968, 324). Hence the Eisensteinian way, or his “Method,” that Eisen­ stein believed finds a juncture or an echo with the Chinese sensual and symbolic traditions in what Granet characterized of Chinese language, quoted by Eisenstein and worthy to be repeated here: “It is entirely shaped to communicate emotional attitudes, to suggest behaviour, to convince, to convert” (Eisenstein 2002, 2: 156– 157; Granet 1934, 82). And it was on this grand scale that Eisenstein believed to have found in Mei Lanfang’s art, one of “the finest examples of Chinese classical culture,” a “bridge” that would enable the Soviet artists to have a “living and direct communication” with ancient Chinese culture and art, an experience that should give them “enormous material” for study and for the enrichment of their “artistic methodology that has been decided and resolved in completely different forms and in different quality” (Eisenstein 1968, 324).

Dancing with the Phantoms of Numbers and with the Spirits of Yin and Yang Around the same time when he was working on the final version of his essay on Mei Lanfang’s art or soon after it was finished, Eisenstein was preparing an essay titled “Even-Odd. The Bifurcation of the Singular” (Eisenstein 2002, 2:150–191).

120 The Spectre of Tradition At the very beginning of the draft text for his essay, Eisenstein cited at length Granet’s observation on the Chinese notation of numbers and the latter’s illustra­ tion of the coexistence, interdependence, combination, and interweaving of the even and odd numbers (Eisenstein 2002, 2:151; Granet 1934, 279–281). Eisenstein sensed in them what he called “some kind of strange semi-mystical deliriums” (151) and then attempted to make sense of the “abstruse Chinese” from “the area of numerical representations to the area of geometric designs,” i.e., to represent the numbers “graphically” (152. Emphases in original). In fact, in his essay on Mei Lanfang’s art, Eisenstein had cited, as one of the many examples of the Chinese complex of undifferentiated “sensual thinking,” the mathematical understanding of counting, especially the notation of even and odd numbers (Eisenstein 1968, 320). Thus, it is necessary for me to look at these two essays together in the con­ text of Eisenstein’s overall interest in Chinese cultural traditions. As noted by Eisenstein, Granet himself was very modest about his observa­ tion on how the Chinese deal with numbers, as he considered the question on “any hypothesis or search for the origin of these ideas” as “too premature” and thus limited himself simply to an illustration of “such a basic feature of Chinese thinking as an exceptional respect for numerical symbols associated with a complete disregard for any quantitative concepts” (Granet 1934, 149; Eisenstein 2002, 2:153). Eisenstein, however, proceeded, characteristically, in the same way he ana­ lyzed Chinese language and theatre. First, not satisfied with Granet’s modest illustration and observation, Eisenstein interpreted the system of Chinese mathematical notation from his “montage thinking”: “The whole secret lies precisely in the fact that in this system of Chinese notation, the spatial image and the elements characteristic of its graphic design determine the area of numerical representations” (Eisenstein 2002, 2:154. Emphases in original). And then he immediately tied the Chinese system to the Chinese traditionalist character: “The point here is again in the conservatism of the Chinese—in the fact that they extend the system of ideas characteristic of an earlier stage of development to the area of a higher stage of development of these concepts” (154. Emphases in original). Thus, Eisenstein generalized that the Chinese “scientific systems are built not according to the principles of abstract thinking, but according to the norms of sensual thinking” and in “the image and likeness of works of art” (155). After all, in Eisenstein’s “sensual thinking,” Chinese mathematical science, supposedly devoid of abstract or logical thinking, is not strictly science but artistry, and Chinese numbers are not strictly numbers but artistic images. Here Eisenstein appeared to have seamlessly transposed the “primitive” Chinese “scientific systems” (the Chinese mathematical system, for instance) in the direction of his “scientific” system of “the dialectic of the artistic image” that is defined by the unity of the two antitheses of the language of sensual or pre­ logical thinking and of the language of abstract or logical thinking in the finished work of art, a dialectical process that consists in translating the idea of content from “the language of logic” into “the language of sensual thinking” (155. Emphases in original).

The Consecration of Tradition 121 Furthermore, Eisenstein generalized that his argument was justified in any area of Chinese activities, starting with the Chinese language (Eisenstein 2002, 2:155), as I have noted above. Such a generalization allowed him to underline the usefulness of “the data of Chinese thinking, science, and aesthetics” as applied to “the analysis of the principles and methods of art” (157), in parti­ cular, the usefulness of the Chinese numerical notation or the even-odd prin­ ciple to the cinematic art of montage composition. In conformity with his theoretical turn to the primacy of sensual and organic thinking, Eisenstein now priced not the repetition, juxtaposition, or even alteration of the “even” and “odd” numbers, but the interweaving and interpenetration of the two “worlds” in montage composition—the “even” and the “odd,” or, to use, as Eisenstein did, Granet’s word, “imbriquement”—inter­ weaving brickwork (Eisenstein 2002, 2:159).29 According to Eisenstein, with the illumination of the even-odd relationship, one should no longer be sur­ prised by the fact that the very process of montage composition that involves the interaction and fusion of the two “numbers” is exactly as Granet wrote about it. As such, Eisenstein generalized, again, characteristically and in com­ plete fidelity to his synthesizing theory: It could not be otherwise. For in moments that are directly creative, one inevitably operates with figurative and sensual thinking, that is, just that which is comprehensive and the only one accessible to a child or an adult at the stage of the dawn of the cultural development of humanity. It is exactly these features that are deposited in the worldview systems buried in the bygone conceptions of antiquities, which in their essence are nothing more than the fixed and canonized formulas of living sensations of early forms of not yet logical, but sensual and figurative mastering of the world. (Eisenstein 2002, 2:172. Emphases in original) In addition to the Chinese numerical system, Eisenstein delved into the con­ cept of Yin (female, earth, darkness) and Yang (male, heaven, light), again, citing from Granet’s work. For him, Yin and Yang, according to Chinese phi­ losophy, determine the dynamics of the Universe and the rhythmic change of different stages in all its phenomena (Eisenstein 2002, 2:178). He attempted to determine the historical origin of Yin and Yang: “This is a dichotomy of the one. This is the desire for reunification. This is a reunion through the mutual penetration of both principles” (178). Eisenstein then subjected the Yin-Yang principle to the orthodoxy of Marxist dialectics, arguing that, as from time immemorial everything developed dialectically, “the concepts of Yang and Yin are so firmly rooted in the philosophical system of the Chinese, because at the very first stages they are deeply connected with labour and social ideas” (179). To prove his point, Eisenstein cited extensively from La pensée chinoise (Granet 1934, 139–141; Eisenstein 2002, 2:179–180). Thus, for Eisenstein, as for

122 The Spectre of Tradition Granet, the concepts of Yang and Yin are both biological and social, integrally tied to the division of the sexes and the division of social labour. Here, again, Eisenstein was interested in defining the undifferentiated struc­ ture of Chinese thinking on the premises of the Chinese primitive social system. In his view, one of the most characteristic features of Chinese thought is “the lack of differentiation”: Many of the ideas of the Chinese remained in the form of what they took under the conditions of the primitive social system. And the undifferentiated nature of ideas—reflecting the stage of indistinct differentiation of the social system—is entirely relevant here. (Eisenstein 2002, 2:184. Emphases in original) What was striking to Eisenstein was the phenomenon that, due to some special historical factors, “these concepts are held in consciousness so firmly that, to a large extent, they continue to dominate the range of representations and norms that are determined by the subsequent course of historical development,” and what was perhaps more striking to him was the phenomenon that “the norms of the past and the tradition going back to ancient times are more effective than what is generated by the living forms of developing reality” (185. Emphases in original). Thus, for Eisenstein, the Chinese system of thought that remained undifferentiated is one of the major exceptions to the general law of the social development of humanity as described by Marxism. Unlike the Soviet culture characterized by actively overcoming the past, striving for the future, and dynamically trans­ forming the present, “because of the specific social and historical forms of development, ancient China gave primacy to relics and to the past” (186). For Eisenstein, the Russian past is as much an integral part in the creation of its present as its inspired striving for the future, and what the Russian people have created in the past is “a solid foundation for the present to ascend into the future” (186). In purely psychological area, Eisenstein continued, “the complexes of past experi­ ence” are formed into “a system of sensual thinking,” and “the very norms” of this sensual thinking becomes “an inexhaustible foundation that constantly nourishes the methodology, form, and techniques of art” (186). In contrast, Eisenstein argued, “the ‘mistake’ of the Chinese consists in the fact that they extend the same norms [of sensual thinking] to the areas requiring systems of ideas that in their development are already higher than sensual thinking” (186). Here, again, is Eisenstein’s fascination with “the fixed traditionalism” of Chinese system of ideas and thinking, which he believed to have persisted and prevailed in all areas of Chinese human activities, arts, and sciences. After tracing the similarity of the Chinese classification of phenomena according to the principles of Yin and Yang with examples in European lan­ guages and aesthetics, where “those provisions continue to be preserved in all the inviolability of strict canons, in their own way worthy of the Chinese rigorism” (180), Eisenstein, however, stressed:

The Consecration of Tradition 123 All those features [about the phenomena of Yin and Yang] have been pre­ served intact in the principles of the Chinese worldview and teaching, which, in the progressive movement, have been progressively overcome by Western cultures, where they can now be found only in examples of relics or in the basic principles of aesthetics, because the laws of form are based on the same sensual thinking that, among the Chinese, governs both the laws of logic and the laws of thinking in general! (182. Emphases in original) Thus, ultimately, here, as in his essay on Mei Lanfang’s art, Eisenstein showed little interest in any historical progress (from the progressive perspective of Marxism) in the Chinese system of thinking. Again, he was primarily interested in what he perceived as the inviolable and regressive traditionalism of the Chinese system and its usefulness to the construction of his theory and practice of cinema art, as he stated that the question of Yin and Yang interested him primarily from the point of view of the structure and composition of works of art, as exemplified in ancient Chinese landscape paintings (189). Elsewhere, Eisenstein justified as “natural” his approach to the future development of the style and technique of sound-visual film—“music for the eyes”—by looking into “the tradition of the past,” the artistic traditions of the Far East, particularly the tradition of landscape painting in China, where Eisenstein expected to find “the most perfect examples” of such styles and techniques (Eisenstein 1964–1971, 3:256. Emphases in original). As such, Eisenstein asserted, retrospectively, or rather regressively, that “the ‘mist’” of his Battleship Potemkin, or what symbolizes the modernity of his greatest film, “continues the tradition of the most ancient examples of Chinese landscape painting” (266).

Conclusion In 1945, in his Nonindifferent Nature, accounting for his frequent use, over so many years, of “a parallel analysis of the features of the art of the Far East” in the “majority” of his analyses concerning the elements and nature of cinema, Eisenstein stated: This is because in China, art, as with other forms of human activity, its worldview, science, and language as well, while reaching certain stages of development (not too far in terms of progress), stopped at these stages. Having achieved this limit, it moved not forward but in breadth. (Eisenstein 1987, 250. Emphases in original) Eisenstein then continued to note that it was precisely “this very fact” that gave him “the possibility of looking at certain phases characteristic of the early development of thought and art” (250). In China and Japan, Eisenstein saw such “archaic canons” of the early development of thought and art exist “in all the richness of means and possibilities provided by an epoch of higher

124 The Spectre of Tradition development” (250). For Eisenstein, however, “the canon itself remains inviolable,” as exemplified in “the incomparable mastery of acting and theatre by Mei Lanfang,” where “the basic original principles of all early theatre” has come down to us “in pure and untouched form” (Eisenstein 1987, 250; 1964– 1971, 3:287. Emphases in original). For Eisenstein, when Mei Lanfang “appealed to the continuing canon in the very process of acting,” the Chinese master served as “a living example how the established and immutable ‘canon’ can simultaneously be a source of the most living pleasure in creatively overcoming it within the limits once set” (Eisen­ stein 1987, 251; 1964–1971, 3:288). However, Eisenstein’s primary interest was clearly not in exposing how Mei Lanfang “dialectically” overcame the suppo­ sedly “inviolable” or “indestructible” canon, but in discerning in his perfor­ mance “the embryos of future, more perfectly evolved forms” (Eisenstein 1987, 251; 1964–1971, 3:288). According to Eisenstein, such living examples of the past have long disappeared in the West since Shakespeare’s revival of the litur­ gical canonism of medieval spectacles and miracles. In order to decipher “the striking features of these ‘embryos’ of theatrical forms,” Eisenstein argued, one must have significant experience of those living examples “more richly devel­ oped in breadth,” such as the examples of Chinese culture (Eisenstein 1987, 251; 1964–1971, 3:288. Emphasis in original). Traditional Chinese theatre, and particularly Mei Lanfang’s art, was one important area of this undifferentiated “Chinese culture,” or Eastern culture, as defined by Eisenstein.30 For Eisen­ stein, Mei Lanfang’s performance symbolized the universal “mother’s womb” of theatrical art, where the Soviet artistic workers could immerse themselves and find those “embryos” of theatrical forms that could be used to conceive and construct humanity’s highest form of art, the art of Socialist Realism. Moreover, Eisenstein claimed that no matter what area of Chinese culture (language, writing, theatre, painting, mathematics, and so on) that he might have touched upon, “everywhere we will see the principles worked out with great richness, with great variety and in great detail, which is peculiar to the initial phases of the development of separate branches of culture in general” (Eisenstein 1987, 251. Emphases in original). For Eisenstein, it was “the lot of Soviet film workers” to undertake the task of “realizing, constructing, and forming the very first principles of film culture and aesthetics in general” (251). Thereby the culture of the East, “especially the most ancient culture and cultural traditions coming from China,” became “particularly valuable” (252). Eisenstein’s “monuments” of Chinese culture were not constructed to mourn and bury the spectres of Chinese cultural traditions. In Eisenstein’s imaginary construction and consecration, the “most ancient” Chinese culture and cultural traditions were infinitely more ancient and longer than Granet’s “long chronology” of “several Chinese civilizations”; all their historical progress came to a halt over time and diffused in an eternal regression—into time immemorial, into the Eisensteinian “mother’s womb” of history and nature.31 In his memoirs, Eisenstein thus summarized the evolution of the “method” of his “intellectual cinema”:

The Consecration of Tradition 125 It is like the reverse process of that which takes place in the development of thinking from its primitive form to its conscious form, to the form of thinking at the level of ‘our circle.’ Indeed, if we open any book on the history of the evolution of thought, we will find in it a very precise defi­ nition of this phenomenon. And so the development of consciousness goes step by step toward condensation [uplotneniiu]. Thus, the ‘method’ of my intellectual cinema consists of moving backward from a more developed form of expression of consciousness to an earlier form of consciousness; from the speech of our generally accepted logic to a structure of speech of another kind of logic. (Eisenstein 1983, 209; 1964–1971, 1:479. Emphases in original)32 Furthermore, Eisenstein suggested, his “assumption” that “this translation of the logical formula from the forms of the present-day level of our consciousness (backward!) to the forms of consciousness and thinking of an earlier one” is perhaps “the secret of art in general,” not just of his “intellectual cinema” (Eisenstein 1964–1971, 1:479; 1983, 209). In the “reverse” process, or the “backward” process of “translation,” a pro­ cess of condensation, there was the constant underlying force of displacement that animated the aesthetic-political constitution of Eisenstein’s synthesizing theory or his “Method.” In this process of “translation,” the fragments of Eastern cultural traditions were transposed and interwoven, through condensa­ tion and displacement, with Western cultural traditions and into the “dream­ work” of Eisenstein’s aesthetics. Jean Baudrillard has explored the relationship of the general epistemology of materialism to ethnocentrism. I consider Baudrillard’s view illuminating in the context of my study of the materialist or dialectic epistemology of Eisenstein’s “regressive” aesthetics. According to Baudrillard, the generalized scientific and objective epistemological investigation of the primitive or earlier societies by historical materialism, retrospectively, through the mirror of production and history and the illusion of dialectical circularity, leads only to the reflection (or, for me, more precisely, projection), self-verification, rationalization, and uni­ versalization of the principles, concepts, and models of modern capitalist and socialist Western societies and to the “retrospective illusion” of their “validity” for all societies, especially those primitive or early societies (Baudrillard 1975, 70–89, 111–117). In his study of the early forms of thinking, Eisenstein con­ sciously applied the “scientific” method of the dialectics (and dialectical mate­ rialism) as expounded by Marx, Engels, and Lenin, and differentiated his approach from the colonialist, racialist, and the old-fashioned Eurocentric Orientalist positions that deemed the non-European or non-Western cultures and traditions as the absolutely foreign and inferior Other. Eisenstein’s “dia­ lectical” approach, ideologically and politically charged, was more aligned with the European avant-garde and modernist position that found in the non-Eur­ opean or non-Western cultures and traditions a different Other antithetical to the hypertrophy of Western traditional system of logical and rational thinking,

126 The Spectre of Tradition or what Eisenstein called “the difference between their system of thinking and ideas and our generally accepted logic” (Eisenstein 1996b, 37). Likewise, but more significantly, in eschewing the theoretical extremes of positivism and “vulgar” materialism, Eisenstein’s “dialectical” approach slid in the direction of primitivist idealism when applied to the cultures and cultural traditions of those “primitive” or “inferior” peoples and societies, and, in addition, in the direc­ tion of Orientalist essentialism when applied to Eastern culture and cultural tra­ ditions, as he approached, retrogressively, from the perspective of his “way of regress” (Eisenstein 2002, 1:194–215), those traditions as monolithic, undiffer­ entiated, and immutable cultural complexes.33 Indeed, Eisenstein’s “dialectical” approach necessitated, and was predicated upon, his presumption of the “tradi­ tionalism” of those different cultures and his perception of those different cultural traditions34 as the undifferentiated and sensual Others, antithetical to the Western traditions of logical and rational thinking. Thus, it is essential to Eisenstein’s “Method” that those cultural traditions remain, supposedly, arrested at the early, and the lower, if not inferior, stages of their development and destined to be recuperated and sublated in the dialectical process leading to the conception, and the realization, of the most ideal form of art—of the highest perfection in form and of the highest quality in ideology—at the highest stage of the evolution of humanity, the Eisensteinian cinematic art (of Socialist Realism) as the sublimation, and the synthesis, of all forms of arts from all epochs and civilizations. Hence Eisenstein’s presumption of the universality, the totality, and the finality, of his aesthetics of cinematic art.35

Notes 1 As Eisenstein noted in a diary entry dated June 30, 1947, history, at least, the gen­ eral history of cinema, is a regression from the present into the past: “The only difference with the narrowly defined creative work resides in the fact that there exists a juncture with the lowest layers of consciousness in a spark of inspiration, whereas here, in the work on the history of cinema, as I plan it, the whole chain of successive links unfolds from today backwards—into the same layers: and what we have before us is not an image in a flash, but the goosebumps from contemplating and empathizing with the same flash in slow motion through centuries of evolution” (Eisenstein 2004–2006, 2:7. My italics, which indicate that those words in Eisen­ stein’s text are originally in English). 2 For instance, see Bohn 2003, Nesbet 2003, and Somaini 2016. 3 In his memoirs, Eisenstein acknowledged: “A tendency toward generalization—my basic illness—is a kind of sweet malady” (Eisenstein 1983, 209). 4 As Eisenstein recalled: “I have quotations. Not enough of them. I would like to make a montage from the fragments discovered by others, but for a different pur­ pose—mine! It is like cinema: I don’t need to play any part at all. My job is to link all the pieces up. Books open up at the quotation I need. I used to check—and sometimes I needed nothing before and nothing after, in the whole book” (Eisen­ stein 1995, 354). 5 See also Eisenstein 1982, 77–78. 6 Likewise, as early as 1929, Eisenstein thus concluded his article, “A Dialectic Approach to Film Form”: “We may yet have a synthesis of art and science. This would

The Consecration of Tradition 127 be the proper name for our new epoch in the field of art. This would be the final justification for Lenin’s words, that ‘the cinema is the most important of all the arts’” (Eisenstein 1949, 63. Emphases in original). 7 In 1933, in his “Autobiographical Note,” Eisenstein wrote: “My connection with the Revolution becomes a matter of blood and bones and innermost conviction. In my creative work this is marked by a transition from the rationalistic but almost abstract eccentric The Sage (a circus spectacle made over from Ostrovsky’s A Good Deal of Simplicity in Every Wise Man), through the propagandistic-agitational thea­ trical poster-play Hear Moscow and Gas Masks, to the revolutionary screen work Potemkin. The tendency to closer contact with the Revolution calls for ever deeper instilling of the basic principles of militant materialism in art” (quoted in Seton 1960, 480). This militant spirit would continue as manifested in his article “Ever Onwards!” (1947), where he presented his vision on “the new era of the arts,” when “the great art born of the greatest ideas of the twentieth century—Lenin’s teaching” could bring “these greatest of ideas” to the millions (Eisenstein 1996b, 353). 8 In Jay Leyda’s translation, this part of Eisenstein’s essay was omitted (Eisenstein 1949, 18–27). 9 Eisenstein claimed that he had found such an eternally valid principle in ancient Greek, Chinese, and Japanese theatres: It would be more apt to reverse the comparison: to use the surviving examples of traditional Japanese No- plays, or the even more ancient Chinese theatre of Mei-Lan-Fan (sic), as a way of understanding the special characteristics of clas­ sical Greek drama. I was never in an ancient Greek theatre, but if one recalls Mei-Lan-Fan (sic) in one of the most archaic plays in his repertoire, or Sadanji - - in dance-drama, you come to the conclusion in Narukami, or Syozyo [Shocho] that the fundamental distinguishing feature of all these performances is one and the same, and that it consists of the extreme conventionalisation of the imagery. In conditions of almost total disregard of the ‘dreary requirements of everyday reality’, the creators of these styles have ascended into the realm of godlike, mythical treatment of general ideas. (Eisenstein 1991, 278. Emphases in original) 10 Here is what Marx wrote: “The difficulty we are confronted with is not, however, that of understanding how Greek art and epic poetry are associated with certain forms of social development. The difficulty is that they still give us aesthetic pleasure and are in certain respects regarded as a standard and unattainable ideal. An adult cannot become a child again, or he becomes childish. But does the naivety of the child not give him pleasure, and does not he himself endeavour to reproduce the child’s veracity on a higher level? Does not the child in every epoch represent the character of the period in its natural veracity? Why should not the historical child­ hood of humanity, where it attained its most beautiful form, exert an eternal charm because it is a stage that will never recur?” (Marx 1970, 217). 11 Eisenstein’s invocation of Ts’ang Chieh (Tszan Se [Eisenstein 1964–1971, 2:285] or Tsanki [Eisenstein 1929, 75]) again testifies to his “regressive” thinking of Chinese and Japanese cultures at the expense of their “progressive” historical and modern developments. 12 In French, “rapprochement” also means “reconciliation.” 13 George A. Kennedy finds in Fenollosa’s essay “just a complete misunderstanding of what Chinese characters are, how they were created, and how they function as speech symbols” (Kennedy 1964, 456). 14 Note that in the English translation, the word “naked” (obnazhennoi) (Eisenstein 1964–1971, 2:43) was left out.

128 The Spectre of Tradition

15

16

17

18

Eisenstein’s interpretation, from the perspective of his “montage thinking,” of the “hieroglyphs” of the Chinese written language was integral to the aesthetic-political of his idea of “intellectual montage” or “intellectual cinema” developed in the 1920s. This can be traced back to his 1923 essay, “The Montage of Attractions,” in which Eisenstein defined montage attraction as “any aggressive moment” in the thea­ tre, where the “sensual” (chuvstvennyi), in “the sense of direct reality” as wielded, for instance, in the Grand Guignol, is deployed to produce in the spectator “specific emotional shocks” that provide “the only opportunity of perceiving the ideological aspect of what is being shown, the final ideological conclusion” (Eisenstein 1988a, 34; 1964–1971, 2:270. Emphases in original. Note here that the English translation of Eisenstein’s key word “chuvstvennyi” is “emotional” [Eisenstein 1988a, 34]. But I consider “sensual” is a more accurate translation for Eisenstein also used, in the same essay, the word “emotsionalnye” [“emotional,” as in “emotional shocks”] to mean differ­ ently from his use of “chuvstvennyi”). In 1928, in a conversation with the leader of the GTK Teaching and Research Workshop, Eisenstein stressed the “ideological expressiveness” of his idea of “intellectual cinema” and defined the tasks of the workshop as concerned with “the problems of direct translation of an ideological thesis into a chain of visual stimulants” and the sphere of “intellectual cinema” as that of “a synthesis of experience and various methods of film language, a synthesis based on a correct sociological understanding of the agitational-educational tasks of cinema” (Eisenstein 1988a, 129. Emphases in original). In 1929, Eisenstein advanced his perspectives on the prospects for an “intellectual cinema” and “a genuinely communist cinema that is clearly distinguished from all past and present cinemas” (151). In the context of Eisenstein’s “regressive” interest in Chinese and Japanese cultural traditions, here it is interesting to note his sympathy with the American singer-actor turned philologist, Paul Robeson, in the latter’s desire “for a year of his life to go into a primitive state of some of the most primitive peoples of Africa in order to completely immerse himself in their way of life, customs, language, and thinking” (Eisenstein 2016a, 2:337; 2002, 1:93). However, when Robeson did not carry out his intention and instead devoted a number of years of his life to the struggles against fascism during the Spanish Civil War, Eisenstein, while bestowing him “praise and glory,” still felt “a bit of pity” for “the same incomparable black giant” whom Eisenstein had initiated into Nikolai Marr’s teachings: “He chose to give his broad, powerful shoulders to practically moving humanity forward towards a brighter future rather than exploring the depths of its primitive past” (Eisenstein 2016, 2:338; 2002, 1:93). “Rites and music (moreover), communicate to them, as a supreme comfort, the feeling that obeying the Etiquette allows individuals to rhythmically integrate each of their gestures into the [great] rhythmic system of behaviours that constitutes the Universe. Thus becomes possible the endosmosis of microcosms and [the] macrocosm.” According to Anna Bohn, “As his handwritten entry shows, Eisenstein began read­ ing the book on March 21, 1935, annotating almost every page of the work” (Bohn 2003, 185). But, as his note I have cited shows, Eisenstein actually began reading Granet’s book at least two months earlier. In his speech at the All-Union Creative Conference of Soviet Film Workers, Eisenstein asserted that “sensual and figurative thinking lies at the basis of the crea­ tion of form” (Eisenstein 1964–1971, 2:109). He underscored as “new” what he called “the constructive recognition of the regularities of this very sensual thinking” and put forth his thoughts, materials, and analyses concerning the “operational application” of the affirmations of “sensual thinking” to artistic practice and to the cultivation of artistic craftsmanship (109). In his speech, Eisenstein used the key word “chuvstvennoe” (“sensual”) 30 times, and more than half of the times it was

The Consecration of Tradition 129 used when he spoke of “sensual thinking” (“chuvstvennoe myshlenie”) (109–113, 115, 118–121). In William Powell’s English translation of Eisenstein’s speech, “chuvst­ vennoe” is translated as “emotional” and “chuvstvennoe myshlenie” as “emotional thought” or “emotional thinking” (Eisenstein 1996b, 28–32, 34, 36–39). As I will show in the following, Eisenstein’s same key word (“sensual”) and concept (“sensual thinking”) would reappear several times in his essay on Mei Lanfang and the Chi­ nese theatre (Eisenstein 1968, 320, 322–324). 19 For Lévy-Bruhl’s and Frazer’s influence on Eisenstein, see Bohn 2003, 76–92. 20 According to Anna Bohn, “On the trail of the deeper origins of figurative thinking, Eisenstein found what he was looking for in the epochal work of the French sociologist and sinologist Marcel Granet on Chinese thought, La pensée chinoise” (Bohn 2003, 185). Bohn further notes that, here in his studies, based on Granet’s work, of Chinese culture, particularly, of Chinese language, “Eisenstein discovered the principle of sensual thinking” (318). However, Eisenstein was already using the terms of “early forms of thinking” and “sensual thinking” in his important speech at the All-Union Creative Conference of Soviet Film Workers. The conference was held in Moscow from January 8 through 13, 1935. Eisenstein’s speech that features the terms of “early forms of thinking” and “sensual thinking” was delivered at the opening session of the conference on Jan­ uary 8, 1935 (Eisenstein 1996b, 359, nn. 1, 2). The greater part of the speech, translated by Ivor Montagu, was published in English as “Film Form, 1935-New Problems” (Eisenstein 1935e). Later it was also published as “Film Form: New Problems” (Eisenstein 1949, 122–149), where Montagu’s translation is used, with alterations based on the original Russian text (267). As noted above, Eisenstein received Granet’s La pensée chinoise on December 23, 1934. A month later, on January 23, 1935, Eisenstein cited Granet in a manuscript. This indicates that he had begun reading Granet’s book at least by January 23, two weeks after he delivered his opening speech at the All-Union Creative Conference of Soviet Film Workers. However, as there were only about two weeks from the date when he received the book from Robeson to the date when he delivered the speech, Eisenstein probably did not have enough time to read Granet’s book, as he was most likely preoccupied with the preparation of his speech. Indeed, in his speech he did not refer to Granet, nor did he touch upon anything about China. In his memoirs, Eisenstein wrote about his reading of Lévy-Bruhl: “Be that as it may, the orange brochure soon grew into a blue three-volume ‘complete’ LévyBruhl, published by Alcan. And that hasn’t yet been surrounded by the twelve weighty tomes of the (sic) The Golden Bough by Sir James Frazer, only because the edition has been sold out, and I haven’t the money to search for them in second­ hand bookshops. Never mind! Meanwhile, Lévy-Bruhl suffices, and through its pages I make the most dizzying excursions into the secrets of what already takes on the more precise definition of ‘prelogic’” (Eisenstein 1983, 210). Having survived a nearly fatal aerial adventure on the outskirts of Mexico City, Eisenstein recalled, “I survived to sit at the foot of the volcano, surrounded by the representatives of those very peoples whose system of thinking (for by that time I already knew that this kind of thinking is also called sensuous [sensual, chuvstvennym]) seemed so fantastic and unreal in the pages of Lévy-Bruhl or Frazer” (Eisenstein 1983, 211; 1964–1971, 1:481). Eisenstein arrived in Mexico in December 1930 (Eisenstein 1983, 272) and by that time, he was already familiar with the idea of “sensual thinking,” as he learned it from Lévy-Bruhl or Frazer. Eisenstein mentioned Lévy-Bruhl’s La menta­ lité primitive (210). 21 The spectre of Kleist had long haunted Eisenstein’s dream of the perfection of the actor that, in Kleist’s words, can be found only in the puppet or the “demi-god” (Eisenstein 1988a, 122). Interestingly enough, prior to the publication of his essay on Kabuki in August 1928 (Eisenstein 1928), where he invoked Kleist’s words, in a

130 The Spectre of Tradition diary entry from the summer of 1928, Eisenstein wrote about his interest in Kleist, as Anna Bohn notes: Eisenstein raved about Kleist as if the German poet-dramatist were “a revelation” for him; Kleist’s work on theatre was one of the first theoretical books about theatre that he had ever read, and he read it like a Bible. Eisenstein acknowledged that Kleist’s essay on the marionette theatre was “one of the cor­ nerstones” of his “movement system” (Bohn 2003, 64, n. 96). Years later, Eisenstein observed that the milieu where biomechanics was originated was “aesthetically” con­ nected to “the ‘cult’ of the marionette” (Eisenstein 2002, 1:174) and that “the teaching on ‘supermarionettes’ by Gordon Craig or the first two or three attitudes of bio­ mechanics point in the direction first indicated by Kleist” (Eisenstein 1983, 62). 22 Eisenstein quoted Granet (Granet 1934, 577, 579) from Henri Berr’s foreword to Granet’s book (Berr 1934, XV). 23 As Eisenstein noted in 1943, he had a first-hand experience of the polysemy of Chinese language in his direct discussion with Mei Lanfang on his acting techniques. Sensing in Mei’s language “a polysemantic picturesque approximateness,” which is peculiar to a Chinese speech but different from the precision of logical expression of a European speech, Eisenstein again attributed it to the “sensual thinking” as reflected in the “diffusiveness” of the Chinese speech (Eisenstein 2002, 1:202; 2016a, 2:439). 24 According to Eisenstein, “descriptions and articles about Chinese theatre are usually structured according to the principle of enumerating those ‘oddities’ that strike the superficial and unprepared traveller who was accustomed to the routine of the Western European stage” (Eisenstein 1968, 313). He was determined to avoid making the same mistake of simply numerating those “oddities” and of putting a sign of “exoticism” over them “to surprise those who, having never seen these spectacles, will listen with envy to the returning travellers” (Eisenstein 1968, 313). Yet, Eisenstein chose to remind his readers of one of the most exotic “oddities” in the Chinese theatre: How many foreigners have been struck, for example, by the audience sitting in profile in theatres, facing long tables running perpendicularly from the edge of the stage? And yet this is more than natural for that ancient tradition, according to which the ear, not the eye, must be turned towards the stage. People went to the old theatre not so much to watch a drama as to listen to it. (Eisenstein 1968, 313) The seating arrangement Eisenstein talked about was a theatrical tradition that was carried over from the old entertainment venue chayuan or teahouse and that remained in some of the old-fashioned theatres in Beijing at the turn of the twen­ tieth century. As in the chayuan, in the xiyuan or playhouse, social gathering, facili­ tated by musical entertainment and theatrical performance, was one of the main interests for the theatregoers. The theatregoers sat on the long benches on two sides of the table, facing one another, drinking teas, and chatting over the table. They could choose to turn to the stage or to simply sit facing the stage at any moment and watch and/or listen to the performance of the musical drama. Or, they could choose to sit facing one another, just drinking and chatting, neither watching nor listening to the performance. It was such a seating arrangement that made this priority of social gathering a reality by enabling the theatregoers to watch and/or listen to the performance as they choose at any given moment of interest. Thus, it is a mischaracterization of “that ancient tradition” to assert that it is the ear, not the eye, that must be turned towards the stage or that people went to the old theatre not so much to watch a drama as to listen to it. And ironically, it is Eisenstein’s mischaracterization that makes such an “oddity” of the Chinese theatre seemingly “natural” for the Chinese tradition, but truly odd, exotic, unnatural, and thus

The Consecration of Tradition 131 striking for the uninitiated “foreigners.” The difference between a superficial exotic traveller, who nonetheless had a direct experience of such a performance in an oldfashioned theatre in China, and the deep thinking modernist Eisenstein, who never had such an experience, was the latter’s stated interest in accounting for such a phenomenon by thinking of it as a natural and integral part of the structure of Chinese thinking that was for him pre-feudal (ancient or primitive), sensual, and prelogical in contrast to the structure of Western rational and logical thinking. 25 As Naum Kleiman has noted, it is significant that even before his personal impressions of the Chinese theatre, Eisenstein “had placed the tour in a context pertinent to the Soviet art,” as he wrote in a sketch on the Chinese theatre, which concludes with a reference to the Moscow International Film Festival that ended on March 2, 1935: Mei [Lanfang] and realism. Realism: typical and particular, generalized and singular. Mei pushes the boundaries: the technical to the symbol-sign, and the particular to the individual. This pair of opposites sounds to us like the figurative (obraznoe) and the depictive (izobrazitelnoe). Direct action and figurative pat­ tern…. The harmony of both yields true realism. Mei gives a hypertrophy of the figurative, reaching as far as the symbol, and a perfect antidote to what [is being done] with us—for example, the festival and our films, only depictive. And on this juncture the distant Mei is with us. (Eisenstein 2002, 2:599. Emphases in original) 26 For more on this, see Bohn 2003, 318. Bohn quotes from Lévy-Bruhl 1910. 27 As I have noted above, Eisenstein argued that such examples as those of the Chinese theatre “do not immediately yield to direct borrowing” (Eisenstein 1968, 321). 28 As E. E. Evans-Pritchard observes: “Like Durkheim Levy-Bruhl defines social facts by their generality, by their transmission from generation to generation, and by their compulsive character” (Evans-Pritchard 1970, 39); “he contents himself with the broad generalization that all primitive peoples present uniform patterns of thought when contrasted with ourselves” (40). For instance, referring to J. J. M. de Groot’s studies of Chinese religious systems, Lévy-Bruhl stated: “M. de Groot makes a similar remark about the Chinese. And the explorers, in general, do not fail to note that the ‘savages’ are very ‘superstitious.’ This is to observe, in our opinion, that they act in accordance with their prelogical and mystical mentality. It would be surpris­ ing, and even inconceivable, if they were not ‘superstitious’” (Lévy-Bruhl 1910, 338). For more about Lévy-Bruhl’s view of the characteristics of the primitive mentality underlying Chinese cultural traditions, see Lévy-Bruhl 1910, 41, 52, 249, 356–357, 390, 397, 448–449. 29 Granet used the French word, “imbriquer,” “imbriquée,” “imbrication,” or “imbri­ quant” (Granet 1934, 200, 206, 281, 283, 291, 331, 374, 381, 384, 403, 416), and he noted the same Chinese word in the index: “Kiao (union, imbrication)” (604). 30 After locating, in Kabuki theatre, a monistic perception of the world and an “ori­ ginal archaic ‘pantheism’” based on “a non-differentiation of perception,” Eisenstein tied them to Japan’s unending cultural feudalism, despite Japan’s political and eco­ nomic transformation into capitalism (since the Meiji era): It could not be otherwise. The history of Japan is too rich in historical experi­ ence, and the burden of feudalism, overcome politically, still runs like a red thread through the cultural traditions of Japan. That differentiation, which takes place in society during its transition to capitalism and brings with it, as a con­ sequence of economic differentiation, a differentiated perception of the world, has not yet become apparent in many areas of Japan’s cultural life. And the Japanese continues to think ‘feudally,’ that is, undifferentiatedly. (Eisenstein 1964–1971, 5: 309–310; 1949, 26. Emphasis in original)

132 The Spectre of Tradition In 1934, returning to his view of Kabuki, Eisenstein attributed the preservation and formalization, in Kabuki, of “synesthetic perception and construction,” along with some other seemingly archaic elements, which conform to “the structures of early stages of thinking,” to “its traditionalism in extremely pure forms” and to “Japanese feudal conservatism in everything that concerns ideology and art” (Eisenstein 1964– 1971, 4:325). 31 Eisenstein saw many things in Chinese cultural traditions as suggestive of his idea of “Mutterleibversenkung” (“MLB”) (“immersion into the mother’s womb”): “the transmutation of the circle into the square in Chinese writing” (Eisenstein 2016a, 3:1060. Original in English. Here, evidently, Eisenstein was not progressively interested in the “square,” but rather regressively in the “circle,” his image for the “womb”); the Chinese gesture for Mei Lanfang’s conventional performance of door-opening (976); the art of female impersonation in traditional Chinese theatre and the philosophical idea of the Yin-Yang and the Tao (Dao) (983–984); the art of Chinese landscape painting (1062–1063); and the Chinese political philosophy and thought of government (Eisenstein 2016a, 1:103). About the art of a male playing a female role in traditional Chinese and Japanese theatres, Eisenstein had this to say: The preservation of the type of roles for the future is determined either by preserving this sexually undetermined stage in the experience of memory and a set of means of expression (for example, Mei Lanfang or Siotsio [Sho-cho-] from the Sadanzi [Sadanji] troupe), or by artificially restraining oneself physically at this stage (especially when physiologically and anatomically underdeveloped)— the pathological type of roles of ‘Damen-Imitator’. (Eisenstein 2016a, 3:1078–1079) 32 According to Anna Bohn, Ernst Kretschmer’s medical psychology had a profound influence not only on Eisenstein’s theory of intellectual film but also served as a source for his concept of “sensual thinking” developed in the 1930s. As Kretsch­ mer’s study draws on the concepts of “condensation” and “displacement” originat­ ing from Sigmund Freud, Bohn argues, “Eisenstein’s concept of ‘sensual thinking’ is essentially based on the concept of ‘condensation’ described by Freud in The Inter­ pretation of Dreams as one of the fundamental mechanisms through which dreamwork takes place” (Bohn 2003, 47–48). I want to add here that Bohn could have included “displacement” as the other concept essential to Eisenstein’s concept of “sensual thinking,” which is central to his “ground-problematics” of art. 33 V. V. Ivanov considers Eisenstein “an Orientalist” in the sense that he was a “Japa­ nologist” and a “Sinologist” (Ivanov 1988, 288). But Ivanov’s claim does not square with the basic fact that Eisenstein’s Chinese and Japanese studies were based on secondary sources, not on his original work on original Chinese and Japanese sour­ ces. Nevertheless, Eisenstein’s approach shares the primitivist and essentialist ten­ dency of Western Orientalism and Orientalist studies of China and Japan. 34 Hence Eisenstein’s conscious opposition to any revolutionary progress that leads to the erosion of the essence and integrity of those traditions. Eisenstein was opposed to the Japanese efforts to modernize their traditional theatre on the premise of European and Russian realism and to their attempts to model their cinematography upon American and European commercial films (Eisenstein 1988a, 150). Likewise, he cautioned Mei Lanfang and the Chinese troupe against any effort to modernize the art of their traditional theatre (Tian 2010, 176). Eisenstein had an uncanny affinity and empathy with what he perceived as the Eastern cultural “traditionalism.” I have noted of his attraction to the “traditional­ ism” of the “ancient” Chinese philosopher-politician Tong Tchong-chou. Eisen­ stein admired Lafcadio Hearn, a Greek-Anglo-Irish writer turned naturalized Japanese, who believed that “the strength of Japan, like the strength of her ancient

The Consecration of Tradition 133 faith, needs little material display: both exist where the deepest real power of any great people exists—in the Race Ghost” (Hearn 1922, 275). He was particularly impressed by Hearn’s synesthetic ability of seeing “the secret ghostly motions of words” and attributed Hearn’s refinement to his long lived experience, in Japan, of what Eisenstein called the “audio-visual relationships” that derive from “the princi­ ples of Yang and Yin, upon which is based the entire system of Chinese worldoutlook and philosophy” (Eisenstein 1957, 92–93). Eisenstein sensed, in Lin Yutang, a contemporary Chinese writer and aesthete, the spectral presence of the ancient Chinese philosopher Lao-Tse (Lao-zi). “Lin Yutang’s books are shot through with the irresistible charm of the ancient East,” Eisenstein wrote. “I some­ times felt that the ironic, slightly sceptical and infinitely tolerant spirit of the old debauchee, the terribly wise Lao-Tse, had migrated into this contemporary of ours” (Eisenstein 1995, 440). Eisenstein was familiar with Lin Yutang’s work, My Country and My People (Lin 1935a; Eisenstein 1983, 217–218; 2002, 2:405). 35 Eisenstein’s general history of cinema was constructed on “a synthesis of the arts,” “the removal of contradictions,” and “universal unity” (Eisenstein, 2016b, 109–110).

References Abel-Rémusat, Jean-Pierre. 1827a. “Recherches sur l’origine et la formation de l’écri­ ture chinoise.” In Mémoires de L’Institut Royal de France, Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres. Vol. 8, 1–33. Paris: L’Imprimerie Royale. Abel-Rémusat, Jean-Pierre. 1827b. “Remarques sur Quelques Écritures Syllabiques Tirées des Caractères Chinois, et sur le Passage de L’Écriture Figurative à L’Écriture Alphabétique.” In Mémoires de L’Institut Royal de France, Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres. Vol. 8, 34–59. Paris: L’Imprimerie Royale. Baudrillard, Jean. 1975. The Mirror of Production. Translated by Mark Poster. St. Louis: Telos Press. Berr, Henri. 1934. “Avant-Propos: Mentalité Chinoise et Psychologie Comparée.” In Marcel Granet, La pensée chinoise, v–xxiii. Paris: La Renaissance du Livre. Bohn, Anna. 2003. Film und Macht: Zur Kunsttheorie Sergej M. Eisensteins 1930–1948. Munich: Diskurs Film Bibliothek. Derrida, Jacques. 2016. Of Grammatology. Translated by Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press. Duberman, Martin B. 1988. Paul Robeson. New York: Knopf. Eisenstein. S. M. 1928. “Nezhdannyi styk” (The Unexpected Juncture). Zhizn iskusstva (The Life of Art), 34 (August 19): 6–9. Eisenstein. S. M. 1929. “Za kadrom” (Beyond the Shot). In N. Kaufman, Iaponskoe kino (Japanese cinema), 72–92. Moscow: Teakinopechat. Eisenstein. S. M. 1935a. “Teatr Mei Lan-Fana” (The Theatre of Mei Lanfang). Komso­ molskaia Pravda, March 11, 1935, 2. Eisenstein. S. M. 1935b. “Charodeyu grushevogo sada” (To the Magician of the Pear Orchard). In Mei Lan-Fan i kitaiskii teatr (Mei Lanfang and the Chinese Theatre). Edited by VOKS, 17–26. Moscow. Eisenstein. S. M. 1935c. “The Magician of the Pear Orchard.” In Mei Lan-Fang and the Chinese Theatre: On the Occasion of His Appearance in the U.S.S.R.. Edited by VOKS, 19–28. Moscow and Leningrad. Eisenstein. S. M. 1935d. “The Enchanter from the Pear Garden: Introducing to Russian Audience a Visitor from China.” Theatre Arts Monthly, xix, no. 10 (October): 761–770.

134 The Spectre of Tradition Eisenstein. S. M. 1935e. “Film Form, 1935-New Problems.” Life and Letters Today, 13, no. 1 (September): 185–193; 13, no. 2 (December): 167–175. Eisenstein. S. M. 1949. Film Form: Essays in Film Theory. Edited and translated by Jay Leyda. New York: Harcourt, Brace & World. Eisenstein. S. M. 1957. The Film Sense. Edited and translated by Jay Leyda. New York: Meridian Books. Eisenstein. S. M. 1964–1971. Izbrannye proizvedeniia (Selected Works). 6 vols. Moscow: Iskusstvo. Eisenstein. S. M. 1968. “Charodeyu grushevogo sada” (To the Magician of the Pear Orchard). In Izbrannye proizvedeniia. Vol. 5, 311–324. Moscow: Iskusstvo. Eisenstein. S. M. 1982. Film Essays and a Lecture. Edited by Jay Leyda. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Eisenstein. S. M. 1983. Immoral Memories: An Autobiography. Translated by Herbert Marshall. Boston, MA: Houghton Mifflin. Eisenstein. S. M. 1987. Nonindifferent Nature. Translated by Herbert Marshall. Cam­ bridge: Cambridge University Press. Eisenstein. S. M. 1988a. Writings, 1922–34. Vol. 1 of Selected Works. Edited and trans­ lated by Richard Taylor. London: BFI Publishing. Eisenstein. S. M. 1988b. The Psychology of Composition. Edited by Alan Upchurch. London: Methuen. Eisenstein. S. M. 1991. Towards a Theory of Montage. Vol. 2 of Selected Works. Edited by Michael Glenny and Richard Taylor and translated by Michael Glenny. London: British Film Institute. Eisenstein. S. M. 1995. Beyond the Stars: The Memoirs of Sergei Eisenstein. Vol. 4 of Selected Works. Edited by Richard Taylor and translated by William Powell. London: British Film Institute. Eisenstein. S. M. 1996a. “To the Magician of the Pear Orchard.” In Writings 1934–47. Vol. 3 of Selected Works. Edited by Richard Taylor and translated by William Powell, 56–67. London: British Film Institute. Eisenstein. S. M. 1996b. Writings 1934–47. Vol. 3 of Selected Works. Edited by Richard Taylor and translated by William Powell. London: British Film Institute. Eisenstein. S. M. 2002. Metod (Method). 2 vols. Edited by N. I. Kleiman. Moscow: Muzei Kino/Eizenshtein-Tsentr. Eisenstein. S. M. 2004–2006. Neravnodushnaia priroda (Nonindifferent Nature). 2 vols. Moscow: Muzei kino, Eizenshtein-tsentr. Eisenstein. S. M. 2016a. Metod (Method). 4 Vols. Edited by Oksana Bulgakowa. Berlin: PotemkinPress. Eisenstein. S. M. 2016b. Notes for a General History of Cinema. Edited by Naum Kleiman and Antonio Somaini, translated by Margo Shohl Rosen, Brinton Tench Coxe, and Natalie Ryabchikova. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Evans-Pritchard, E. E. 1970 (1934). “Levy-Bruhl’s Theory of Primitive Mentality.” Journal of the Anthropological Society of Oxford, 1, no. 2: 39–60. Fenollosa, Ernest. 1920. “The Chinese Written Character as a Medium for Poetry.” In Ezra Pound, Instigations, 357–388. New York: Boni and Liveright Publishers. Freedman, Maurice. 1975. “Introductory Essay: Marcel Granet, 1884–1940, Sociolo­ gist.” In Marcel Granet, The Religion of the Chinese People, translated by Maurice Freedman, 1–29. New York: Harper & Row Publishers. Granet, Marcel. 1926. Daneses et légendes de la Chine ancienne. 2 vols. Paris: Félix Alcan. Granet, Marcel. 1929. La civilisation chinoise. Paris: La Renaissance du Livre.

The Consecration of Tradition 135 Granet, Marcel. 1934. La pensée chinoise. Paris: La Renaissance du Livre. Hearn, Lafcadio. 1922. The Writings of Lafcadio Hearn. Vol. 7. Boston: Houghton Mifflin. Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich. 2007. Hegel’s Philosophy of Mind. Translated by W. Wallace and A. V. Miller. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Horne, Gerald. 2016. Paul Robeson: The Artist as Revolutionary. London: Pluto Press. Ivanov, V. V. 1988. “Eizenshtein i kul’tury Iaponii i Kitaia” (Eisenstein and the Cultures of Japan and China). In Vostok-Zapad. Issledovaniia. Perevody. Publikatsii (East-West. Studies. Translations. Publications), 279–290. Moscow. Kennedy, George A. 1964. “Fenollosa, Pound and the Chinese Character.” In Selected Works of George A. Kennedy, edited by Tien-yi Li, 443–462. New Haven: Far Eastern Publications, Yale University. Lenin, V. I. 1966. Collected Works. Vol. 31. Moscow: Progress Publishers. Lévy-Bruhl, L. 1910. Les fonctions mentales dans les sociétés inférieures. Paris: Félix Alcan. Lin, Yutang. 1935a. My Country and My People. New York: Regnal and Hitchcock. Marx, Karl. 1970. A Contribution to the Critique of Political Economy. Translated by S. W. Ryazanskaya, edited by Maurice Dobb. Moscow: Progress Publishers. Marx, Karl and Frederick Engels. 1975. Collected Works. Vol. 25. New York: International Publishers. Nesbet, Anne. 2003. Savage Junctures: Sergei Eisenstein and the Shape of Thinking. London: I. B. Tauris. Pound, Ezra. 1920. Instigations. New York: Boni and Liveright Publishers. Seton, Marie. 1960. Sergei M. Eisenstein: A Biography. New York: Grove Press. Somaini, Antonio. 2016. “Cinema as ‘Dynamic Mummification,’ History as Montage: Eisenstein’s Media Archaeology.” In Sergei M. Eisenstein, Notes for a General History of Cinema, edited by Naum Kleiman and Antonio Somaini, and translated by Margo Shohl Rosen, Brinton Tench Coxe, and Natalie Ryabchikova, 19–105. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Tian, Min, ed. 2010. China’s Greatest Operatic Male Actor of Female Roles: Documenting the Life and Art of Mei Lanfang 1894–1961. Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen Press. Tian, Min. 2016. “How Does the Billy-Goat Produce Milk? Sergei Eisenstein’s Reconstitution of Kabuki Theatre.” New Theatre Quarterly, 32, no. 4: 318–332. Tian, Min. 2018. The Use of Asian Theatre for Modern Western Theatre: The Displaced Mirror. London: Palgrave Macmillan.

4

The Uncanny Quotability of Tradition Walter Benjamin’s Interest in Chinese Cultural Traditions

Walter Benjamin once wrote about his approach to the things of the past: “The true method of making things present is to represent them in our space (not to represent ourselves in their space).… We don’t displace our being into theirs; they step into our life” (Benjamin 1999, 206). Benjamin’s insight attests to the haunting effect of the past on the present, but it tells only part of the story of the relationship of the present to the past. In my view, just as the things of the past step into our life, we displace them into our life; and just as we dis­ place them into our life, they step into our life. This applies to the collector, too, as Benjamin maintained that “the collector does just this” (206), that is, to represent the things of the past in the collector’s space. This chapter deals with Benjamin’s use of what he called “Chinese curios” from Chinese theatre, literature, and arts. Benjamin was an avid “collector” of literary (textual) “curios,” including the many “Chinese curios” he collected (quoted). To understand Benjamin’s interest in, and his approach to, such his­ torical curios, I want to draw attention to his quotation of the French writer Remy de Gourmont: “The word ‘curio’ should not be taken as pejorative. In those days, the historical curio was called a ‘relic’” (Benjamin 1999, 206; De Gourmont 1924, 259). Characteristic of his quotationist approach to the source texts as fragments, Benjamin omitted a critical line that follows his quotation, namely, “it [the curio] is the material sign that testifies before the present to the existence of the past”; he also bypassed De Gourmont’s observation on “the first originality” of the Goncourts: “It was the first originality of the Goncourts to create history with the very detritus of history” (De Gourmont 1924, 259). De Gourmont’s observation also applies to Benjamin, who belonged to this “whole movement of curiosity” that dated from the Goncourts, whose publication of the History of French Society During the Revolution and Under the Directory “ushered in the era of the curio” (259), and who, like the Goncourts, staked out his claim of his “originality” in writing/creating history on the ruins of history by collecting/quoting history. Benjamin may have enhanced the value of his genius to posterity in the same way the Goncourts had contributed, by virtue of their collection of historical curios, to what De Gourmont claimed of their “continual and unfailing genius” (258), as the French writer and critic observed: “In this sense, the Carnavalet museum, to take a very clear example, is the work of DOI: 10.4324/9781003240587-5

The Uncanny Quotability of Tradition 137 the Goncourts, and, if it had purchased the historical part of the Auteuil cabinet, it might quite naturally have changed its name while enriching itself” (259). Susan Buck-Morss reminded us decades ago that “the Benjamin ‘cult’ now plays a leading role” in “the world of academic cults” (Buck-Morss 1989, xi). Today, the Benjamin “cult” has its many cultural as well as academic manifes­ tations and its many cross-cultural and transnational initiates and believers (including many in China), who have paid homage to the dead genius at his historical relics turned “Arcades” shrine that conjures the haunting aura of his originality and creativity. My goal in this chapter, however, is not to mytho­ logize Benjamin with his interest in Chinese cultural traditions, but to histor­ icize it in the intercultural context (historical and sociocultural) of Benjamin’s traditions and Chinese traditions. Benjamin’s quotationist approach to Chinese cultural traditions was gestic and performative, whose method of making pre­ sent historical “Chinese curios” was to represent them in his space. Benjamin’s texts discussed in this chapter were haunted by the spectre of Chinese traditions invoked by his performative quotations of, and allusions to, Chinese texts, artistic forms, and cultural images. Benjamin’s approach to Chinese theatrical tradition shares Brecht’s, as he looked at the Chinese theatre from the perspective of Brecht’s epic theatre. At the same time, however, I want to emphasize Benjamin’s influence on Brecht’s idea of epic theatre, an important aspect that has been overlooked. Also sig­ nificant are Benjamin’s association of the “gestic behaviour” of Brecht’s epic theatre with the “elemental purity of feeling” of the Chinese man he portrayed (in agreement with the German philosopher Franz Rosenzweig) as character­ less, undramatic, or untragic, and his association of his transposition of the “gestic” of Franz Kafka’s “Oklahoma Nature Theatre” with ancient Chinese theatre. Benjamin’s understanding of the Chinese theatre was evidenced in his radio talk, “Theatre Fire in Canton,” where he also curiously linked the fire incident to ancient Chinese beliefs that he believed made such theatres shabby and combustible. This chapter also examines Benjamin’s essay on his meeting with the American Hollywood actress, Anna May Wong. It investigates Ben­ jamin’s intertextual and intercultural quotations of Chinese literary texts and Chinese movie and cultural images in his construction of a “Chinese” identity for the American Hollywood actress he stylized as “a Chinoiserie from the Old West” (Benjamin 1928; 1972).

The Quotable Chinese Theatrical Tradition: Between Benjamin and Brecht In September 1935, Margarete Steffin, one of Brecht’s close collaborators, asked Benjamin, who was then in Paris, if he could publish an earlier version of Brecht’s essay on Mei Lanfang and Chinese acting (Steffin 1999, 44). In his reply of the following month, acknowledging his receipt of Brecht’s essay, “Bemerkungen über die chinesische Schauspielkunst,” Benjamin remarked that “it is obvious that this is a very excellent piece,” which contains “superlative

138 The Spectre of Tradition formulations, such as that of the face as the blank sheet to be written on by the gesture (Gestus), that of the neighbour, not the spectator, who is being por­ trayed—and others” (Benjamin 1995–2000, 5:175). Here Benjamin referred to Brecht’s description of Mei Lanfang’s acting. According to Brecht, in his acting, Mei Lanfang used his face as “a blank sheet that can be written on by the gesture of the body” and demonstrated that “the individual” portrayed by him was not “the spectator himself” but “his neighbour” (Brecht 1993b, 152, 154). In his letter, Benjamin also noted that he was pleased to see “how Brecht makes use of his experiences with the Chinese stage for his own cause,” refer­ ring to one of Brecht’s “Learning Plays,” The Horatians and the Curiatians, which seemed to Benjamin “the most perfect of all of its kind” (175).1 In the same letter, Benjamin thanked Steffin for securing a copy of his 1931 essay, “What is Epic Theatre”: “And now I don’t even know if I have thanked you for your excellent copy of the ‘Epic Theatre.’ I am very glad that you have secured this important manuscript for me in this way” (Benjamin 1995–2000, 5: 175). In her same letter to Benjamin, Steffin noted how she secured his essay, indicating that it was already in Brecht’s manuscripts: “I know that you would have preferred a different format for the copy of the ‘Epic Theatre,’ but it was actually a bit faster that way and—the main reason—in Brecht’s manu­ scripts a folio copy already looks like that” (Steffin 1999, 44). Steffin’s note indicates that, before 1935, Brecht must have read Benjamin’s essay and that, as a result, as I will demonstrate in the following, Brecht’s essay on Chinese acting may have been influenced by Benjamin’s essay. Before he read Brecht’s essay on Chinese acting (“Bemerkungen über die chinesische Schauspielkunst”), Benjamin was cognizant of Brecht’s debt to Chinese theatre. In his initial draft of the essay, “What is Epic Theatre,” Ben­ jamin wrote: “The literarisation of theatre in formulations, posters, titles— whose relationship to Chinese practices is familiar to Brecht and should be examined separately—will and should ‘rob the stage of its material sensations’” (Benjamin 1966, 14). In the same essay, Benjamin noted that a performance of Brecht’s didactic play Man is Man “took place recently in Berlin” (9). That performance occurred in 1931 and was directed by Brecht himself. This indi­ cates that Benjamin’s essay was drafted as early as 1931 and that Benjamin had already begun thinking of the influence of Chinese theatre on Brecht’s epic theatre well before Brecht saw Mei Lanfang perform in Moscow and wrote his essay on Chinese acting. Later in his revised version (published in 1939) of the same essay, “What is Epic Theatre,” Benjamin wrote: Epic theatre should ‘rob the stage of its material sensation.’ Therefore, an old fable will often do more for it than a new one. Brecht posed the question of whether the events that epic theatre depicts should not already be known. It would behave towards the fable as the ballet master behaves towards the ballet student; his first task would be to loosen her joints to the limit of what is possible. (Chinese theatre does indeed proceed in this way. In ‘The Fourth Wall of China,’ Brecht has showed what he owes to

The Uncanny Quotability of Tradition 139 it). If the theatre is to look for known events, ‘historical events would be, at first, the most suitable.’ Their epic stretching by means of acting, posters, and captions aims at exorcizing their sensational character. (Benjamin 1966, 23) Benjamin noted that Brecht’s essay, “The Fourth Wall of China,” was pub­ lished in Life and Letters Today (Vol. XV, No. 6, 1936) (23). This indicates that Benjamin was not only familiar with the original German version of Brecht’s essay on Chinese acting, but also with its revised and expanded English version. Unfortunately, Benjamin did not investigate the relationship of Brecht’s epic theatre to the Chinese theatre, even though he had previously suggested that it should be examined. In November of the same year (1931) when he completed the first version of his essay on epic theatre, Benjamin gave a talk on Radio Berlin, “Theaterbrand von Kanton” (Theatre Fire in Canton). Before talking about the fire disaster taking place in a theatre in China in 1845, Benjamin spoke of the audience and perfor­ mance of Chinese theatre. Having never visited China, Benjamin’s observation was apparently based on his reading knowledge about Chinese theatre. According to Benjamin, the best place for his German listeners to truly get to know some­ thing about the Chinese was in a Chinese theatre. For him, a Chinese theatre had nothing in common with anything the Europeans imagined as a theatre. There was in it a wild noise of drums, cymbals, and squeaking string instruments. “Only when faced with such a theatre or when he knows one of the gramophone records on which Chinese theatre music was recorded does the European believe he knows what caterwauling (Katzenmusik) is,” Benjamin remarked (Benjamin 1989, 226). Benjamin thus described, or imagined, the experience of a European spec­ tator in a Chinese theatre: If he then enters the theatre, he is like someone who enters a restaurant and must first pass through a dirty kitchen: he comes across a kind of laundry room in which four or five men are leaning over steaming tubs and washing towels. These towels play the biggest role in the Chinese theatre. With them, people wipe their faces and hands before and after every cup of tea, every bowl of rice, and servants are constantly taking the used towels out and bringing fresh ones in, often throwing them over the heads of the theatre audience with skillful slingshots. So, people eat and drink during the show and the Chinese easily get over the lack of every­ thing that gives us comfort and a festive atmosphere in the theatre. The Chinese do not demand comfort because they do not have any at home. They come out of the unheated apartment into the unheated theatre, sit on wooden benches, with their feet on stone slabs, and that doesn’t bother them. (226–227) Benjamin noted that there was no solemnity in the Chinese theatre:

140 The Spectre of Tradition They don’t care about the solemnity. Because they are far too great theatre connoisseurs not to demand the freedom to express their opinion about the performance at any time…. in China there are plays that are performed over and over again for four or five hundred years in a row, and even the new ones are mostly just adaptations of stories that everyone knows and can half-memorize in the form of novels, poems, or other pieces. Thus, there is no solemnity in Chinese theatre, and there is no suspense either, at least not on the outcome of an action. (227) Regarding the actor, Benjamin underlined the superb craftsmanship of the actor: Actually, every Chinese actor must be an acrobat and a juggler at the same time, as well as a dancer, singer, and fencer…. there are no decorations in the Chinese theatre. The actor must not only play his role, but he must also play the scenery. (227) Benjamin cited as examples the actor’s enactment of opening a non-existent door and going up a non-existent flight of stairs, of a general climbing a hill to watch the battle by climbing on a chair, of a horse-rider with a whip in his hand, of a mandarin carried in a palanquin by walking across the stage with four other actors who walk bent over as if they were carrying a palanquin (227–228). Benjamin stressed the importance of the actor’s early training as required by such a high degree of craftsmanship: Actors who must perform so much naturally have a long apprenticeship, usually around seven years. There they learn not only singing, acrobatics, and all the other things, but also the roles of about 50 pieces in which they must perform at any time. (228) On a single evening a performance was usually constituted by more than a dozen short pieces taken from other plays, and on the other hand, a single play in its entirety would often take two or three days to perform. Benjamin gave as an example a very short play that features only one actor and read the whole piece to his listeners (228). He did not provide the source for the short play in question, The Dream (Der Traum). It is actually a shadow-play that Benjamin apparently took from a German collection of Chinese shadow-plays, Chinesische Schattenspiele, translated by Wilhelm Grube and Emil Krebs from a Chinese collection, Yan ying ju (Beijing Shadow Plays), and published in 1915 (Chine­ sische Schattenspiele 1915, 440; Yan ying ju 1915, 752).2 In this kind of per­ formance, the actor does not appear on the stage. Benjamin, however, had this to say about the performance as a matter of fact: “Of course, it is only the most excellent actors who appear alone in front of the audience in such small plays” (Benjamin 1989, 229).

The Uncanny Quotability of Tradition 141 According to Benjamin, the ambition and passion of the Chinese master actors were so great that they must have lived in constant fear of the attacks from their rivals and must have been careful not to eat outside their homes, as they were convinced that the slightest carelessness can make them a victim of a poisonous murder; the great stars would never think of performing without their own bandmaster conducting, because they were afraid of the malice of their rivals who would trap them by improperly conducting or misleading movements during the performance.3 Ultimately, the actor’s concern with the perfection of their craftsmanship was necessitated because of an exacting and experienced audience, who often shouted their approval or disapproval of the actor’s performance. “The audience is watching hellishly and is ready with scorn and ridicule for the slightest mistake,” Benjamin noted. “Nor does it matter to them to throw teacups at the artists if they are not satisfied with their performances” (Benjamin 1989, 230).4 Benjamin then gave an account of the fire disaster in a Canton theatre that killed more than 2000 people. He accounted for the disaster by underlining the big scale of theatre festival and the immense size of the audience in proportion to the Chinese population and, curiously, the Chinese character (“modesty”) and the Chinese system of belief that made those theatres “so shabby and combustible”: Hence the modesty, unimaginable to us, which is the main virtue of the Chinese and need by no means be connected with a low estimation of themselves; rather it is merely the constant awareness of the enormous size of the mass of people to which they belong. In the rules of life and text­ books of their great sages, Confucius and Lao Tzu, this distinction has been rigorously established and clothed in very specific rules of conduct that everyone can learn and understand. And these great teachers of the Chinese have at the same time instructed, with this modesty, their fellow citizens to behave in such a way as to make life easier for the great masses to which they belong; they have instilled in them a tremendous respect for the state and above all for its officials, whom, however, we must not imagine to be like European officials. On the contrary, the exams that Chinese civil servants must take require not only specialized knowledge like ours, but also a precise familiarity with all poetry and literature, and above all with the precepts of the sages I have spoken about. Yes, if you will, it is these beliefs of the Chinese that make their theatres so shabby and combustible. (Benjamin 1989, 231) The fact that in his speech Benjamin likened Chinese theatrical music to the cacophony of “caterwauling” shows that, in this regard, the European moder­ nist genius was probably as outdated and uninspired as those ordinary European tourists and was definitely not as modern and creative as the “traditionalist” Meyerhold, who noted that, in their use of instrument and percussion music to

142 The Spectre of Tradition attract and maintain the attention of the audience, the Chinese were even smarter than Richard Wagner (Meyerhold 1973–1992, 2:145). In addition, Benjamin was not immune to the haunting of the nineteen-century European Orientalism, as he was keen to highlight the exotic tradition of the Chinese theatre and its differences from European theatre. More importantly and cur­ iously, however, Benjamin linked the fire incident to ancient Chinese beliefs that he believed made such Chinese theatres shabby and susceptible to fire hazards. Given all his Orientalist tendencies and although he did not explicitly associate some of the traditional characteristics of the Chinese theatre with Brecht’s epic theatre, certain similarities can be discerned from what he descri­ bed in his speech, such as the use of old or historical stories or fables familiar to the spectators; the unceremonious atmosphere of the audience where viewers can drink and smoke and the resultant lack of solemnity; no tragic suspension in dramatic action; the dispense with realistic scenery and settings; the actor’s conventional and stylized performance; and the spectator’s connoisseurship and critique of the actor’s art. In his 1939 version of his essay on epic theatre I have noted above, Benjamin stated that the concept of epic theatre as theorized by Brecht suggests above all the need of “a relaxed audience,” who follows the action easily and who, as a collective, will also usually feel compelled to make comment promptly (Ben­ jamin 1966, 22). In the same version, he argued that the epic stage should be robbed of its material sensation by virtue of its portrayal of well-known fables or historical events, which reminds of the Chinese theatre and of its influence on Brecht’s idea of epic theatre (23). All these points were in line with his description of the Chinese theatre in his radio speech, “Theatre Fire in Canton.” In his 1931 original essay on epic theatre, citing Brecht’s idea of the “literarisation” of the theatre in his discussion of the production of The Three­ penny Opera (Brecht 1991, 58), Benjamin associated “the literarisation of the theatre in formulations, posters, titles”—which “will and should ‘rob the stage of its material sensations’”—with the Chinese theatre, “whose relationship to Chinese practices is familiar to Brecht” (Benjamin 1966, 14). Benjamin’s observation was obviously not true to the Chinese theatre, and the idea of “literarisation” was thereby not repeated in his 1939 version of his essay on epic theatre. Benjamin’s revision may have been influenced by Brecht. In his essay (both the initial draft in German [Brecht 1993b] and “The Fourth Wall of China” [Brecht 1936]) on Chinese acting, Brecht never used the term “literarisation” in his analysis of Chinese acting; on the contrary, Brecht emphasized that the “Alienation-effect” (or “disillusion-effect”), which was achieved in the German epic theatre not only by the actor, but also by the music and the setting (placards, film, etc.), was wholly developed independently without the influence of “Asiatic drama” (Brecht 1936, 121). In his notes (1931) to Threepenny Opera and later in a short essay, “Über die Literarisierung der Bühne” (1937/1938), Brecht mentioned the “literarisation” by using titles, screens, aphorisms, photographs, symbols, and projections (Brecht 1964a, 43; 1993a, 265–266).

The Uncanny Quotability of Tradition 143 Furthermore, in the 1931 version of his essay, Benjamin noted that epic theatre is “gestural (gestisch)” and that “gesture (Geste) is its material, and the appropriate utilization of this material is its task” (Benjamin 1966, 9). Thus, the use of gesture led Benjamin to the important conclusion on “one of the basic dialectical phenomena of gesture”: “The more often we interrupt an actor, the more gestures we receive. For epic theatre, therefore, the interruption (Unter­ brechung) of the action is at the forefront” (9–10). For instance, Brecht’s use of song functions to interrupt the action. Thus, Benjamin concluded that “the retarding character of the interruption, the episodic character of the framing is what makes gestural theatre an epic theatre” (10). Here Benjamin appeared to have attached more importance to the function of interruption (and that of quotation, which I will discuss later) and to have expounded it more than Brecht had done. Later in his essays on Chinese acting, Brecht observed that, in Mei Lanfang’s performance, the performer “can be interrupted (unterbrochen) at any moment,” and that, “after the interruption (Unterbrechung), he will continue his demonstration at the point of the interruption” (Brecht 1993b, 153; 1936, 120). Here the similarity between Benjamin’s understanding of the function of interruption and Brecht’s suggests to me Benjamin’s influence on Brecht’s interpretation of Chinese acting. For Benjamin, interrelated with interruption is the actor’s ability of “making gestures quotable” as he noted in the 1931 version of his essay on epic theatre. Quoting Brecht, Benjamin then asserted that “‘making gestures quotable’ is the most important achievement of the actor; he must be able to lock his gestures like a typesetter locks words” (Benjamin 1966, 19).5 Here Benjamin explicitly associated the idea of “making gestures quotable” with the actor’s art of acting. Benjamin noted that Brecht once remarked that his Stories about Herr Keuner “represents an attempt to make gestures quotable” (Benjamin 1983, 28). Brecht referred to the quotability of the character’s (for instance, Keuner’s) attitude (Haltung) and words (Benjamin 1996–2003, 2:366). Benjamin, however, asso­ ciated it with the actor’s acting. In the two early versions of his essay on Chinese acting, Brecht mentioned Mei Lanfang’s self-observation and his observation of his performance, the separation of facial expression from gesture (Gestik), and the signification of the gesture (Gestus) of his body (Brecht 1993b, 152; 1936, 117–118). In these two versions, however, Brecht did not speak clearly of making the actor’s gestures “quotable,” although he noted, only in “The Fourth Wall of China,” that “clearly this is a repetition of an event carried out through an intermediary—in fact, an artistic representation,” and that the Chinese actor “renounces the idea of transformation and confines himself from the beginning solely to quoting from the character he portrays” (Brecht 1936, 118, 119).6 Brecht may have picked up the word “quotation” from Benjamin, as he was familiar with the first version (1931) of Benjamin’s essay on epic theatre. In the 1939 version of his essay on epic theatre, Benjamin expounded more on the “quotable gesture” (zitierbare Gestus), making a distinction in epic theatre between the quotability (Zitierbarkeit) of texts, which is for him nothing special, and that of the

144 The Spectre of Tradition gestures: “The quotability of its texts would have nothing special. It is different with the gestures that are in place in the course of the performance” (Benjamin 1966, 26–27). After repeating that “‘making gestures quotable’ is one of the essential tasks of epic theatre” and that “the actor must be able to lock his gestures like a typesetter locks words,” Benjamin added: “This effect can be achieved, for example, by the actor himself quoting his gestures on the stage” (27). It is true that Benjamin cited, in both versions of his essay on epic theatre, Brecht’s idea on the actor’s demonstration of the event and his self-demonstration.7 However, it was Benjamin who characterized the actor’s demonstration, especially the actor’s self-demonstration, as “quotation.” It was after 1935 that Brecht spoke explicitly and more about quotation (of text and character) and about the actor’s quotable gestures, for instance, in the two texts he wrote in 1940 and 1941 (Brecht 1993a, 617, 643, 650, 668). Benjamin underlined the inherent relationship between interruption and quotation: We may go further here and remember that interruption is one of the fundamental techniques of all formations. It reaches far beyond the realm of art. To single out just one, it is the basis of quotation. To quote a text consists of interrupting its context. It is therefore quite understandable that epic theatre, which is based on interruption, is one that can be quoted in a specific sense. (Benjamin 1966, 26) In my view, quoting a text not only consists of interrupting its context, but more importantly, it involves the displacement of the quoted text from its context into a new context. Along with quotation and interruption, displace­ ment is a basic technique of Brecht’s epic theatre, where the Verfremdungseffekt (estrangement or alienation effect) results from its quotation of texts and ges­ tures and its resultant displacement of them from their original contexts into a new context. Elsewhere, I have defined, from an intercultural perspective, Brecht’s con­ cept of the “Verfremdungseffekt” as an effect of the displacement of traditional Chinese theatre, thus interlacing displacement with Brecht’s art of refunction­ ing (Tian 2008, 39–59). Furthermore, I share Louis Althusser’s general view that displacement is fundamental to the theory and practice of Brecht’s new revolutionary theatre. Underlining the affinity between Marx’s revolutionary practices in philosophy and Brecht’s revolutionary practices in the theatre, Althusser argued that “in order to put philosophy and theatre in their true place, a displacement (spostamento) within philosophy and theatre is necessary” (Althusser 1995, 549. Emphasis in original). He insisted that it is in this sense that one must understand Brecht’s concept of the “Verfremdungseffekt,” which Althusser preferred to translate as “effet de déplacement” (effect of displacement), instead of the established French translation, “effet de distanciation” (effect of distancing) (549. Emphasis in original). In addition, Althusser argued that this

The Uncanny Quotability of Tradition 145 effect should not be understood only as “an effect of theatrical techniques” but as “a general effect of the revolution in theatrical practice” (549). Thus, for Althusser, it is not a question, for example, of “displacing a few small elements in the actors’ performance”; it is a question of “a displacement that affects the ensemble of the conditions of the theatre,” a question of “an ensemble of displace­ ments, which constitutes this new practice” (549. Emphases in original). Ulti­ mately, underscoring the politics of Marx’s approach to philosophy and Brecht’s approach to aesthetics, Althusser argued that underlying all these displacements is “a fundamental displacement,” namely, “the displacement of the point of view”: The great lesson of Marx and Brecht is that one must displace the general point of view from which all questions of philosophy and theatre are considered. One must abandon the viewpoint of the speculative inter­ pretation of the world (philosophy) or of the culinary aesthetic enjoyment (theatre), and displace oneself, to occupy another place, which is, roughly speaking, that of politics. (549. Emphases in original) Thus, for Althusser, “all the effects of displacement of which Brecht speaks are effects of this fundamental displacement” (550). He named three of them: the first one is the displacement of “the theatre in relation to the ideology of the theatre that exists in the heads of the spectators”; the second is the displacement of “the conception of the play” in relation to the traditional one, which consists essentially in decentring the play; and the third is the displacement of “the actors’ perfor­ mance” in relation to the idea that the spectators and the actors themselves have of an actor’s performance (550–551. Emphases in original). True to the first and ultimate importance that the Brechtian theatre accords to the political trans­ formation of its spectators, Althusser concluded: The result of all these displacements is a new relationship between the perfor­ mance and the audience. It is a displaced relationship. Brecht expressed this effect of displacement as the V-effect, in the audience itself, as the end of identification. The audience must stop identifying with what the stage shows them, they must find themselves in a critical position, and take sides them­ selves, judge, vote, and decide themselves. (552. Emphases in original) Emphasizing interruption of context as “the basis of quotation,” Benjamin, how­ ever, did not define quotation in its movement (from the source text to the quoting text) as displacement; Althusser did not identify quotation as a basic technique of displacement in the practice of Brecht’s Verfremdungseffekt. For me, in the Brechtian epic theatre, quotation as a basic technique of displacement, which interrupts empathy and identification, is essential to the actor’s acting and thereby to the spectator’s critical attitude to it. It is also integral to the composition of the play, as it underlies Brecht’s adaptation and appropriation of other texts.

146 The Spectre of Tradition

The Characterless Chinese Man and the “Gestic Behaviour” in a “Gestic” Theatre According to Benjamin, epic theatre portrays “the untragic hero,” which had a long history on the European stage starting from the Greeks and which was especially a German path as it reappeared in Brecht’s plays. Thus, for Benjamin, the untragic hero was “part of this German tradition,” and the necessity of “his paradoxical existence” on the stage “to be redeemed by our own actual exis­ tence” was recognized by the best contemporary German thinkers such as Georg Lukács and Franz Rosenzweig (Benjamin 1966, 12–13). Benjamin spe­ cifically noted that, according to Lukács, Plato had long ago recognized “the undramatic nature of the supreme man, the sage” (13). According to Rosenz­ weig, unlike the tragic hero of the Greeks, the Asian man is “non-tragic”; China and India have never reached the goal of the tragic and have never achieved the tragic in the dramatic work of art (Rosenzweig 2005, 82). In China, Rosenzweig argued, “the idea of the sage, whose classical embodiment is once again Confucius, strays from all possible particularity of character; this is really the man without character”; and “the mark of the Chinese man” is “a completely elementary purity of feeling” (83). As noted above, in “Theatre Fire in Canton,” Benjamin spoke of the great Chinese sages, Confucius and Lao Tzu, who taught their fellow citizens the virtue of modesty, which was, according to Benjamin, characteristic of the Chinese (Benjamin 1989, 231). In his essay on Kafka, Benjamin characterized Karl Rossmann, the hero of Kafka’s novel, Amerika, as being “transparent, pure, without character,” associating him with the Chinese man Rosenzweig por­ trayed in his Star of Redemption: “The idea of the wise man, of which Confucius is the classic incarnation, blurs any individuality of character; he is the truly characterless man…. a very elemental purity of feeling” (Benjamin 1968, 120). Although probably empathizing with Rosenzweig’s Orientalist view, here Benjamin considered the state of being characterless, “this purity of feeling,” as “a particularly sensitive measurement of gestic behaviour” (120). Thus, Ross­ mann, like the “characterless” Chinese man with such “purity of feeling,” is the ideal actor to perform on the stage of Kafka’s “Nature Theatre of Oklahoma,” which conjures, for Benjamin, the ancient Chinese theatre: The Nature Theater of Oklahoma in any case harks back to the Chinese theater, which is a gestic theater. One of the most significant functions of this theater is to dissolve happenings into their gestic components. One can go even further and say that a good number of Kafka’s shorter studies and stories are seen in their full light only when they are, so to speak, put on as acts in the ‘Nature Theater of Oklahoma.’ Only then will one recognize with certainty that Kafka’s entire work constitutes a code of gestures which surely had no definite symbolic meaning for the author from the outset; rather, the author tried to derive such a meaning from them in everchanging contexts and experimental groupings [Versuchsanordnungen,

The Uncanny Quotability of Tradition 147 experimental arrangements]. The theater is the logical place for such groupings [experimental arrangements]. (Benjamin 1968, 120; 1972–1989, 2:418) Benjamin further likened Kafka’s world to “a world theater” where man is on the stage from the very beginning and where everyone is accepted by the “Nature Theatre of Oklahoma” as long as they have “the ability to play themselves” (Benjamin 1968, 124). Seen from a purely theatrical perspective, Benjamin’s idea of “gestic theatre” and “world theatre” evinces a clear anti-naturalistic attitude that is in line with Brecht’s idea of epic theatre. The performative language of gesture and gestic embodiment amounts to a rejection of the naturalistic language of the quoti­ dian, and the idea of world theatre ontologically affirms the anti-naturalistic theatricality of the theatre. On the stage of this world theatre, the technique required of the actors is nothing more than the ability to consciously play themselves or to demonstrate their gestic behaviour, but not to convert them­ selves into the characters they are supposed to portray. Elsewhere, Benjamin noted, as the interruption of the action, which accounts for Brecht’s description of his theatre as “epic,” constantly works against creating illusion in the audi­ ence, such naturalistic illusion is useless for a theatre like Brecht’s epic or “gestic” theatre that “intends to treat the elements of reality in the sense of an experimental arrangement [Versuchsanordnung]” (Benjamin 1972–1989, 2:698. Emphasis in original). For Brecht, such “an experimental arrangement” makes epic theatre opposed to the bourgeois theatre where “the representation of the human being adheres to the so-called eternally-human” and where “the arrangement [Anordnung] of the fable” creates “‘universal’ situations” (Brecht 1993c, 208). This kind of “experimental arrangement” is designed to generate the “estrangement (alienation)-effect” in Brechtian epic theatre that does not intend to make “such an arrangement and selection of events that are suitable to produce very definite tragic shivers” (Brecht 1993a, 401). Benjamin’s essay on Kafka was first published in Jüdische Rundschau in December 1934, where two sections of his original manuscript were included, with the section on the “Nature Theatre of Oklahoma” and the Chinese theatre left out due to the lack of space (Benjamin 1934; 1972–1989, 2:1265). However, in July 1934, before his essay was published, Benjamin gave it to Brecht. He was sure that Brecht read it, and in the following month, the two had a discussion of it (Benjamin 1983, 108–109). This indicates that Brecht was familiar with Benjamin’s remark on such “gestic theatre” as Kafka’s “Nature Theatre of Oklahoma” and the Chinese theatre, even though he and Benjamin did not talk about it in their discussion. Before observing Mei Lanfang’s per­ formance in 1935, Brecht also spoke of gesture, especially musical gesture in opera, as one of the characteristics of epic theatre, but he had not associated the theory of gesture with the Chinese theatre, let alone defined it as a “gestic theatre.” As such, Brecht’s interpretation of the Chinese theatre as presented in his essay on Chinese acting may have been influenced by Benjamin.

148 The Spectre of Tradition In December 1934, Theodor Adorno wrote to Benjamin about the latter’s essay on Kafka. Adorno thus commended Benjamin: “From here, from the dialectic of appearance as prehistoric modernity, it seems to me that the func­ tion of theatre and gesture, which you have placed in the centre for the first time, as befits it, is fully revealed” (Adorno and Benjamin 1994, 94). Here it is significant to note that Adorno stressed that it was Benjamin (not Brecht) who, for the first time, attached central importance to, and fully articulated, the function of gesture. However, it is equally important to underscore that Adorno disagreed with Benjamin in the latter’s attempt to associate the moder­ nity of a gestic theatre with the “prehistoric modernity” of traditional Chinese theatre: “If one were to search for the ground for the gesture, it would perhaps be found less in the Chinese theatre, it seems to me, than in ‘modernity,’ namely, in the dying of language” (94). Moreover, Adorno was opposed to Benjamin’s association of Kafka’s novels with Brecht’s epic theatre, particularly the idea of “experimental arrangement” (Versuchsanordnung), which Benjamin used to define the experimental approach of Brecht’s epic theatre. Adorno argued that “the only thing” that struck him as “alien to the material in the work” was “the inclusion of categories from epic theatre” (94). For Adorno, Kafka’s world theatre had only God as its audience, and its form of art—that of the novel—“stands in the most extreme antithesis to the form of theatre,” in particular, to the form of Brecht’s epic theatre: “Kafka’s novels are not prompt books for the experimental theatre because, in principle, they lack the audience that could intervene in the experiment. Rather, they are the last, disappearing texts linking to the silent film” (95). Likewise, in his conversation with Benjamin, Brecht argued that Benjamin must ignore what Brecht deemed as “pure mystification” or “nonsense” in Kafka’s writings (Benjamin 1983, 110). Nevertheless, according to Benjamin, Brecht used “a Chinese philosopher’s parable of ‘the tribulations of usefulness’” to illuminate the way Benjamin would be able to find in Kafka’s writings “a whole lot of very useful things” (109–110). Both Adorno and Brecht drew a clear ideological and sociopolitical distinction between Brecht’s sociohistorical idea of epic theatre and Benjamin’s mystical and ahistorical view of Kafka’s “Nature Theatre of Oklahoma” and of the world theatre portrayed in Kafka’s work. However, Adorno may have misfired when he questioned Benjamin’s association of Brecht’s epic theatre with the “gestic” Chinese theatre and with the “gestic” form of Kafka’s stories and novels. Notwithstanding its funda­ mental disagreement with the mystifying tendency in Benjamin’s thinking, Brecht’s practice of epic theatre was predicated on its refunctioning (Umfunk­ tionierung), as material, of a constellation of theatrical and literary traditions and forms from ancient theatres (West and East) to the nineteenth-century bour­ geois novels. “The beginnings of naturalism were the beginnings of epic drama in Europe,” Brecht asserted. “Other cultures, China and India, had this more advanced form as early as two thousand years ago” (Brecht 1992, 273). Brecht did not use or refunction Kafka’s stories or novels, but as an example of “experimental arrangement,” he had one of his “Learning Plays” (Lehrstücken),

The Uncanny Quotability of Tradition 149 He Who Says Yes/He Who Says No (1930–1931), an adaptation of the Japanese No- play, Taniko. Likewise, Adorno might have found the categories of epic theatre alien to the Japanese material of Brecht’s work. In his adaptation, however, Brecht performed a radical “refunctioning”—a secular and ideologi­ cal displacement—of a foreign play of essentially religious mystification (Tian 2018, 258). Speaking of his approach to the Chinese theatre, Brecht underlined the same effect of demystification and refunctioning: What is more difficult, we must not allow ourselves to be disturbed by the fact that the Chinese actor aims at an impression of mysteriousness for a pur­ pose totally different from any we may have in mind. Only those who have learned to think dialectically will hold it possible that a technique derived from the realm of illusion can be used as a weapon in the struggle against illusion. The Chinese actor may intend to use the disillusion-effect to render the events on the stage mysterious, incomprehensible and ungovernable to his audience; yet the same effect may have quite the opposite result, making the stage action comprehensible, governable and natural. (Brecht 1936, 121) For Benjamin and Brecht, respectively, the Chinese theatre, a “gestic” theatre, and Chinese acting, “the artistic counterpart of a primitive technology, a rudi­ mentary science” (Brecht 1964b, 96), can be redeemed (Benjamin) and refunctioned (Brecht) in the here and now of Brecht’s epic theatre, as Brecht claimed: “In point of fact the only people who can profitably study a piece of technique like Chinese acting’s A-effect are those who need such a technique for quite definite social purposes” (96). Around the same time in the mid-1930s, both Ernst Bloch and Benjamin stressed the social, political, and ideological orientation of the Brechtian art of “refunctioning.” For Bloch, the Brechtian montage “processes fragments of the old society” and “refunctions them firstly into Communist teaching-machines, experimental machines” (Bloch 1991, 226). Bloch cited He Who Says Yes/He Who Says No in his illustration of Brecht’s experiment of “refunctioning.” Benjamin considered “refunctioning” from the standpoint of production and consumption (Benjamin 1972–1989, 6:182), and likewise spoke of the use of the technique of montage in epic theatre and of Brecht’s “refunctioning” of “forms and instruments of production by a progressive intelligentsia” (Benjamin 1983, 93). In doing so, the author of “The Author as Producer” (Benjamin 1996–2003, 2:768–782) also gave a clear articulation of his own political and ideological positions.

Quoting China: Benjamin’s “Chinese” Writing of an American Actress In the middle of 1928, Benjamin had a meeting with Anna May Wong, the American Hollywood movie star, who was then visiting and filming in Berlin.

150 The Spectre of Tradition In July of the same year, Benjamin published an essay on the meeting in the Weimar Republic popular literary magazine, Die Literarische Welt (The Literary World), under the title, “Conversation with Anne (sic) May Wong: A Chi­ noiserie from the Old West” (Benjamin 1928; 1972). Much like his writing of his conversation with the French author André Gide in February 1928, which was also published in Die Literarische Welt (Benjamin 1996–2003, 2:91–96), Benjamin’s essay is not a transcription of his conversation or interview with the American actress in the conventional sense of journalism; it is a piece of literary and critical journalism in the sense that his apparent journalist portrayal of his meeting with Wong and of the latter’s image is both literary and critical. Thereby, it should be treated as a piece of literary and critical work imagina­ tively and subjectively constructed by the German journalist-philosopher. Although knowing very well that Wong was born and raised in the Chinatown of Los Angeles, Benjamin was not interested in the Hollywood actress as an American; he was keen in constructing for her an essential “Chinese” identity. Benjamin’s approach to essentializing or “Orientalizing” Wong’s “Chinese” identity was to describe her by quoting from classical Chinese literature and from Chinese cultural images, an approach that I consider integral to his theory and practice of critical quotation. In this chapter, I will demonstrate how Benjamin’s Chinese quotations were violently torn apart from their original contexts, transported into the new context of Benjamin’s writing, and thus recontextualized to construct an exotic, Orientalized “Chinese” image and identity for Anna May Wong, the Chinese American actress Benjamin recast as “A Chinoiserie from the Old West” and thus further fictionalized in his (trans) script haunted by his Chinese quotations. Quoting from Classical Chinese Literature Benjamin was an avid reader of classical Chinese literature, and his remarkable familiarity with some of the Chinese texts are manifest in his essay on Wong.8 The essay opens with his fantastic imagination of Wong’s name, in spite of his misspelling of her first name (“Anne”): “May Wong—the name sounds edged with colour, sharp and light like the tiny sticks that unfold in a cup of tea into scentless blossoms full of moon” (Benjamin 1972, 523). From the very begin­ ning of their conversation, Benjamin was keen in his attempt to unravel the mysteries enveloped in Wong’s exotic name and life, as he added immediately: “My questions were the mild bath, into which the destinies that it sealed should reveal a little about themselves” (523–524). Benjamin’s meeting with Wong was joined by a novelist, an illustrator, an American journalist, and Wong’s sister, who was accompanying her in Europe. As they settled in a room of a “hospitable Berlin house” (524) and gathered around a table to start their conversation, Benjamin had his expectation on the way it should proceed, as he surmised by citing from a Chinese fiction he identified as Ju-Kiao-Li: “Pointless chitchat about people’s affairs thwarts important advice” (524).9 Ju-Kiao-Li, oder die beiden Basen, is a German translation of the French translation, Iu-Kiao-Li, ou

The Uncanny Quotability of Tradition 151 Les Deux Cousines, by the noted French sinologist Jean-Pierre Abel-Rémusat, of a seventeenth-century Chinese popular fiction, Yu jiao li, attributed to Yiqiusanren.10 Abel-Rémusat’s translation was well received by his con­ temporaries, as one French reviewer commented: Written in an era of advanced civilization, in which the talent of social observation has all its strength, this book reproduces, with the finest nuances, this mixture of good and evil, of talent and ridicule, of virtue and depravity, which, from Paris to Peking, constitutes our frail humanity. (C. M. 1826, 299) Describing the kindness and generosity of Wong as “the socially skilled and com­ manding inhabitant of the room,” who loved to offer the participants the final hours before her departure, Benjamin offered another quotation without provid­ ing its source: “Man begegnet einem Menschen, man bittet um einen Dienst; ist er einem gefällig, so wird man sein Freund” (Benjamin 1972, 524). It is a verbatim quotation of the first two lines of the four-line German translation of a poem in Ju­ Kiao-Li, the same novel Benjamin just mentioned (Yiqiusanren 1827, 1:296; 1826, 1:256). The German translation is true to the original Chinese poem: You meet a person, so you ask him for a service; If he is obliging, you become his friend. But when you see the doors open for someone, How difficult it is to know whether it is for the best of the public or the individual! (Yiqiusanren 1827, 1:296; 1826, 1:256)11 Here, the short poem is a concise comment on Chapter Four of the novel. Entrusted by Bai Taichang, or Master Bai (“Herr Pe” or “meister Pe”), who is the master of ceremonies, Doctor Wu (or “Doctor G[W]ou”), an academician of the Imperial Academy and Bai’s brother-in-law, wants to marry Bai’s daughter, Wujiao (“Woukiao,” namely, Bai Hongyu [“Pe Houngiu”], one of the two cousins), to a distinguished and handsome young scholar, Su Youbai (“Sse Yeoupe”). Wu asks one of his top disciples, Liu Yucheng (“Lieouiutch­ ing”), to act as a go-between to help him secure the marriage. In return, Wu promises to help Liu get promoted to first place, even though the latter, devoid of talent, obtained only second place in the imperial exam. Clearly, the short poem is intended as a satirical comment on the rampant corruption among the imperial officialdom seeking to profit themselves by abusing the power of their public offices. Benjamin’s quotation, apparently taken out of the context of the poem and that of the fiction, nevertheless frames, in the historical Chinese milieu, the narrative of his meeting with Wong and his attempt to define the “Chineseness” of Wong’s identity, as he does throughout his essay: the Chinese politeness, hospitality, worldly experience and persuasion, and their ironic flipsides (cunning, manipulativeness, deceptiveness).

152 The Spectre of Tradition Further into his meeting with Wong, noting Wong’s love to perform sad scenes and her crying well-known among her colleagues, and surmising that “her undisturbed and serene behaviour is not deceptive,” Benjamin thus ima­ ginarily rationalized his perception: “The more heart-felt her fondness for the sad, the more balanced and serene her everyday life” (Benjamin 1972, 524). Then Benjamin’s gaze turned away from Wong’s cultural as well as professional identity as an American movie star: “This well-behaved, healthy girl, who, with all her charm, looks so earnest and comradely…. one does not notice from her anything of a movie star” (524). In so doing, Benjamin identified what he perceived as her good behaviour with Chinese culture by portraying her with a quotation from another popular Chinese fiction: Ein volles Antlitz wie Frühlingswind, Rundlich und friedlich gestimmt (A full face like spring breeze, Rounded and peaceful mooded). (524) Benjamin then asserted that it was the reason that Wong “loves to have her sad scenes in mature, weighty roles,” although she had always played “flappers,” as indicated in her complaint that “I don’t want to play flappers forever” (524). On the surface, Benjamin’s imaginary portrayal of Wong’s personal life and behaviour from the perspective of traditional Chinese culture stands in sharp contrast to the representation of her professional experience and images on the Hollywood screen. But a recontextualization of Benjamin’s quotation in the original Chinese text complicates and contradicts the image he portrayed of the American actress. As Benjamin indicated, he quoted the two lines from the fifth chapter of Dschung Kuei (Dschung Kuei: Bezwinger der Teufel), a German translation, by Clemens du Bois-Reymond, of the late seventeenth-century Chinese popular satirical fiction, Dijiu caizi shu Zhuo gui zhuan (The Ninth Book of Genius: A Legend of Capturing the Ghosts), attributed to Yanxiasanren. In Chinese mythology and religion, Zhong Kui (“Dschung Kuei”) is traditionally reputed as one of the most legendary and revered deities and exorcists. In the fiction, Zhong Kui is portrayed as the vanquisher of numerous ghosts, demons, and evil spirits. Benjamin quoted verbatim from the German translation of one of the poems in the fifth chapter of the Chinese fiction (Yanxiasanren 1923, 110). The original Chinese text reads: “The whole face looks full of spring breeze, polite, and agreeable to everyone” (Yanxiasanren 1932, 1:14). The whole poem in the original text portrays one of the ghosts, Didagui, a Crawler Ghost (“Kriecherteufel”). Speaking of his translation, the German translator took great care to underscore the fidelity of his work to the original: “I have tried to adhere to the wording of the original language as faithfully as possible, to allow the meaning of each character to resonate in German as well, not just to reproduce the general meaning and content” (du Bois-Reymond 1923, 250).12

The Uncanny Quotability of Tradition 153 As such, even in a foreign tongue, the German translation vividly presents a naked and brutal portrayal of the utterly revolting image and unredeemable character of the ghost, the personification of a crawler, who is always servile to the wishes and desires of his masters and superiors. Worse still, the crawler ghost is portrayed to have been endowed with such “a decidedly wonderful quality”: If you go to stool and has no paper on hand, The tip of the obedient servant’s tongue—can wipe off your feces. (Yanxiasanren 1923, 110–111; 1932, 1:14) Given Benjamin’s thorough familiarity with the German translation, a vexing but necessary question arises immediately: why did Benjamin quote from the fictional representation of such an offensive character in his portrayal of Wong, who appeared, in Benjamin’s eye, well-behaved, earnest, and “not deceptive”? It appears that Benjamin’s quotation was transposed seamlessly in the new context, which could be attributed to the German translation itself. The German rendition seems to use the word Rundlich (rounded, plump) to physi­ cally describe the face of the ghost. This could lead to the apparent reading that Benjamin was describing Wong’s countenance in addition to her peaceful mood, thus translating, seemingly, a savage satire, and a naked contempt, into an exalted praise of Wong’s physical appearance. In the context of the Chinese fiction, however, there is nothing in the line that describes, physically, the shape of the ghost’s face, as it offers a satirical portrayal of the seemingly amicable image of the ghost whose whole face beams with easy but obsequious smiles that feel like the flattering and comforting spring breeze. Thus, not­ withstanding the intended meaning of Benjamin’s quotation, its intertextual and intercultural context conditions a representation, and a reading, of Wong’s image radically different from the apparent one that Benjamin’s quotation suggests in the context of his writing. Just like Benjamin’s transposed “decep­ tive” quotation, Wong’s perceived behaviour and appearance may have been an artificial and illusionary (“deceptive”) performance, because, after all, Wong was a “Chinoiserie” (in Benjamin’s eye) and a Hollywood movie star. In the following conversation, Benjamin noted that Wong had become interested in films from an early age and had put great effort into it. According to Benjamin, Wong still remembered the first time she bought a ticket with her pocket money and entered a cinema when she was out of school because of an epidemic. As soon as she was back home, she rehearsed, in front of a mirror, everything she had seen. Then Benjamin wrote: Because, as the story of the two cousins says in the chapter about the departure of the crane and the return of the swallow: ‘A career in the world is one thing to which one must devote one’s mind early on.’ (Benjamin 1972, 526)

154 The Spectre of Tradition Although Benjamin did not provide the source of his quotation, he referred to the story of “the two cousins,” indicating that he quoted from Ju-Kiao-Li, the aforementioned German translation of the Chinese fiction. Benjamin’s verba­ tim quotation is the beginning line of the German translation of the poem that opens the tenth chapter of the fiction: Die Laufbahn in der Welt ist eine Sache, der man frühzeitig seine Gedanken zuwenden muß. Im Laufe eines Abends und eines Morgens kann man sie nicht erschöpfen. (A career in the world is one thing to which one must devote one’s mind early on. One cannot exhaust it in the course of an evening and a morning). (Yiqiusanren 1827, 3:1; 1826, 3:1) (At all times, a consummate career in the world cannot be accomplished ordinarily in the course of a morning or an evening). (Yiqiusanren 1990, 337) Here the poem underscores the devotion, by the main character, Su Youbai, of his time and efforts to the courtship of a consummate lady. Indeed, the whole fiction is focused on the story of the gifted young scholar, whose only thought is the courtship of a peerless beauty and who overcomes many ordeals, misfortunes, intrigues, and trials before he is crowned with success and rewarded with his marriage to two consummate ladies, “the two cousins,” Bai Hongyu and Lu Mengli (“Lo Mengli”). By using such a cliché-laden Chinese story in his portrayal of Wong’s young aspiration to become a movie star, Benjamin showed again that he was transfixed in his Orientalist imagination of Wong’s “Chineseness,” not interested in Wong’s professional pursuit, through the new technology of cinematography, of a modern stardom from the modern world of Hollywood to the twentieth-century international stage. Likewise, quoting from the same German translation of the Chinese fiction, Benjamin thus concluded his essay on his meeting with the American movie star: I know I will see her again in a film that may be similar to the fabric of our dialogue, of which I say along with the author of Ju-Kiao-Li: The fabric was divinely created, But the vision was even subtler. (Benjamin 1972, 526–527) Here Benjamin’s verbatim quotation is from a short poem in the second chapter of the Chinese fiction, of which the German translation reads: Der Gast hatte eine doppelte Hand,

Aber der Herr hatte vier Augen.

The Uncanny Quotability of Tradition 155 Das Gewebe war göttlich angelegt,

Aber das Gesicht war noch feiner.

(Yiqiusanren 1827, 1:190; 1826, 1:168)

Titled as “The Old Imperial Inspector-General Schemes to Marry His Son,” the second chapter tells the story of Yang Tingzhao, the Imperial InspectorGeneral, who seeks to marry his unappealing and ignorant son to Bai Tai­ chang’s daughter, Bai Hongyu, an incomparable beauty gifted with literary talent. Knowing that Master Bai is very careful and unyielding in his choice of his son-in-law, Yang conspires with a learned astrologer to hatch a scheme for the marriage. The astrologer works as a go-between and foretells to Master Bai that Yang’s son will become a scholar of the first order. Master Bai is intrigued and invites Yang and his son for a meeting at his residence. During the meeting, however, despite Yang’s coverup, his son utterly dis­ graces himself by his incompetence and ignorance, making several mistakes in his performance of composing and reciting poems. At the end, fearing that his son’s folly will be further exposed, Yang pretends that he is deeply intoxi­ cated and leaves with his son. Here the story is followed by the poem men­ tioned above as the source of Benjamin’s quotation, which summarizes its moral: The guest had two pairs of hands, But the master had four eyes. The fabric was divinely created, But the vision was even subtler. (Yiqiusanren 1990, 76) Having seen through the fabric of Yang’s scheme, Master Bai feels relieved and acknowledges that, if not for the interview and examination, he would have practically fallen into the trap (Yiqiusanren 1990, 77; 1826, 1:169; 1827, 1:190–191). The German translation of the Chinese poem in question is basically true to the overall meaning of the original Chinese text. On the surface, Benjamin’s quotation may lead to the easy (and misleading) reading that it was intended to describe Wong’s clothes and face, as the German word Gewebe also refers to the fabric or texture of clothes and as the word Gesicht means both “face” and “vision.” However, as in the case of Benjamin’s previous use of the word (“the fabric [Gewebe] of our dialogue”), Gewebe does not refer to the fabric of Wong’s clothes. In the same vein, here Gesicht means “vision” (not “face”), which echoes Augen (“eyes”) in the second line of the poem (“Aber der Herr hatte vier Augen”), and thereby it has nothing to do with Wong’s face. In the ori­ ginal French translation of the poem,13 the word trame means both “fabric” and “intrigue/frame”; the word “vue” means “vision,” not “face” or “visage,” which further proves that the German word Gesicht means “vision,” not “face,” in the context of the poem. Furthermore, Stanislas Julien’s more accurate

156 The Spectre of Tradition French translation leaves no doubt as to the true meanings of the two German words in question (Yiqiusanren 1864, 1:88–89). As indicated above, at the end of his essay, Benjamin noted that he knew he would see Wong again in a film that may be similar to the “fabric” of their conversation. Conversely, we can consider the “fabric” of their conversation similar to the narrative structure of a film script and to that of the Chinese fiction at the same time. Benjamin’s text, with his inserted quotations per­ forming an ironic comment on it, bears an uncanny resemblance to the narra­ tive structure of the Chinese fiction with quotable poems interrupting and commenting on the narrative of the text. Seen through Benjamin’s eye, Wong emerged in their conversation as a superb performer skilled with her shifty attitudes and postures: “May Wong makes a swing out of questions and answers: she lies back and emerges, sinks, emerges again, and I feel as if I am giving her a push from time to time. She laughs, that is all” (Benjamin 1972, 525). Unable to divine Wong’s inner thoughts merely through her answers, Benjamin, a distanced spectator and an acute observer, however, saw through the fabric of her charming and illusory performance. Thus, at the end of their conversation, Benjamin declared, and I want to repeat here, that he was able to say along with the author of the Chinese fiction, Ju-Kiao-Li: “The fabric was divinely created, But the vision was even subtler” (527). Benjamin must have been cognizant of the historical fact that Ju-Kiao-Li was known to many nineteenth-century German men of letters. In one of the manuscript drafts for his essay, “Chinese,” Johann Wolfgang von Goethe began his writing with a note on Ju-Kiao-Li, stating that the Chinese fiction helped put the Europeans “in the position to look once again deeper and sharper into the country so closely guarded” (quoted in Blackall 1971, 51).14 The same fiction enlightened G. W. F. Hegel and proved to him that “the Mandarins are said to have a talent for poetry of the most refined order” (Hegel 1956, 125). Likewise, Frederick von Schlegel found in Ju-Kiao-Li “a sufficient proof” of the assertion that “the Chinese are remarkable, too, for the utmost polish and refinement of manners” and that “in many respects, indeed, their politeness and refinement almost equal those of European nations” (Schlegel 1904, 120). The two cousins in Ju-Kiao-Li fascinated even the grief- and illness-stricken poet Heinrich Heine and made his “soul” wander in the Middle Kingdom, as he wrote in 1829 in a letter: “Since I became acquainted with the two cousins, my soul has been in Peking, Nanking and Totzong, yes, in places that my tongue cannot even pronounce” (quoted in Karpeles 1899, 147–148). Given the intercultural presence of the Chinese fiction in German intellec­ tual history and its impact on the German perception of China, Benjamin’s intertextual and intercultural quotations of the fiction can be looked at and understood from two radically different perspectives. One the one hand, Ben­ jamin may have intentionally disregarded the context of the Chinese fiction, decontextualized his quotations from their original context, and incorporated them into the fabric of his text. In so doing, he must have wittingly distorted, for instance, the original meaning of the Chinese poem by a conscious play of

The Uncanny Quotability of Tradition 157 the meanings of the German words, Gewebe, Gesicht, göttlich (divinely, exquisitely, beautifully), and feiner (subtler, finer), which translates them into a performative embodiment of Wong’s image (“The fabric [of her clothes] was divinely created/ But the vision [face] was even subtler [finer]”). Consequently, emerging from Benjamin’s text is an image of Wong as a beautiful and honest (“not deceptive”) classical “Chinese” lady, who evokes the image of the heroine of the Chinese fiction. On the other hand, Benjamin must have intended that his quotations admit of no linguistic ambiguity in the German translation (as he used Gewebe to refer unmistakably to the “fabric” of his dialogue with Wong) and should be accepted as true to the meaning of the original Chinese text. Such being the case, emerging from Benjamin’s text is an image of Wong as an enigmatic and crafty performer of “Chineseness.” Thus, Benjamin’s twentieth-century perception of Wong’s “Chi­ neseness” differs little from the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century European Orientalist imagination of the mysterious Middle Kingdom. In fact, this is not the only time that Benjamin’s writing evokes such a his­ torically stereotyped and Eurocentrically biased view of the Chinese, which seemingly runs contrary to his modern cosmopolitan experience. Thus, in “One-Way Street” (1928), Benjamin claimed that the “transcript” resulting from “the Chinese practice of copying books” was “a key to China’s enigmas” (Benjamin 1996–2003, 1:448). In the same work, he consecrated a monument to his contemporary author, critic, and performer, Karl Kraus, a “warrior” dancing “in ancient armor, wrathfully grinning, a Chinese idol” (469). Later, in a draft of his 1931 essay on Kraus, Benjamin thus characterized Kraus’s superb ability to imitate and savage his objects in his polemics: Physiognomically, this attitude of the polemicist is most closely related to the pronounced politeness with which Kraus thanks[?] an audience. Both his cruelty in polemics and his politeness in expressing his appreciations[,] are truly Chinese. Chinese politeness is a mimetic one: a way of creeping into the other. Mimicry of politeness and hatred. This too, and not just his humility, is Chinese. (Benjamin 1972–1989, 2:1092) In 1930, commenting on Brecht’s Stories of Herr Keuner, Benjamin described Herr Keuner as “a purely thinking man without any emotions,” who has “Chinese features”: “infinitely cunning, infinitely discreet, infinitely polite, infinitely old, and infinitely adaptable” (Benjamin 1996–2003, 2:367). A Chinese Silent Film and “the Mongolian Facial Expressions” Benjamin’s conversation with Wong leads him to his thinking of such questions: “Do the Chinese love the film? Are there Chinese directors? Are they making movies in China?” (Benjamin 1972, 525). These questions, or Benjamin’s thinking of them, constitute yet another attempt on Benjamin’s part to essentialize Wong’s

158 The Spectre of Tradition “Chinese” identity, even though, by the time she met Benjamin, Wong had never gone to China and had probably known little about the early development of Chinese movies. Noting that the Chinese, like other peoples, naturally liked movies, Benjamin nevertheless wrote: Unfortunately, they started too late in China, at least if one trusts the impression of what was recently shown in Paris as the “first Chinese film.” The Rose of Pu-Chui is a work in which the most unscrupulous American directing methods have defiled the infinitely subtle material that the Mongolian facial expressions represent for the film. Only a dilettante could dare to sum up, in a few catchwords, the singularity of these facial expressions and the way it approaches film acting. (525) Before taking a close look at Benjamin’s observation, we need to clarify a few points about it. First, films were introduced into China as early as 1896, less than one and half years after the Lumière brothers made their invention of cinemato­ graphy in 1895. A decade later, the first Chinese film, Dingjun shan (Dingjun Mountain), was made in late 1905 in Beijing. Thus, before the premiere of The Rose of Pu-Chui in 1927 in Shanghai, the Chinese had been practicing the craft of cinematography for more than two decades. The Rose of Pu-Chui (or La Rose de Pu-Chui), first screened in Europe in the avant-garde Studio 28 in Paris on April 20, 1928,15 was the first Chinese film (silent or sound) screened outside China, but not the first Chinese film ever produced in China. The Rose of Pu-Chui, a silent film produced by China Sun Production Co., was based on a classical Chinese drama of the Yuan dynasty (1279–1368), Xixiang ji (The Romance of the Western Chamber). Hou Yao (1903–1942), the director of the film, had been a scriptwriter and director for three years and had directed at least three silent films prior to The Rose of Pu-Chui. The film’s cast includes Cho-cho Lam, Dan-dan Lee, and Ge Cijiang. It tells the love story of a young scholar with a young lady at the Pu-Chui Temple (Pujiu Shi), hence the French title of the film (La Rose de Pu-Chui). The temple is threatened by an army of bandits led by the bandit commander Sun (“Flying Tiger”), who attempts to abduct the young lady. With the assistance of General Du (“White Horse”) and his army, the scholar defeats the bandit leader. The interpreters of the hero and the heroine had been the leading performers in a number of films before being cast in the film. Cho-cho Lam made her debut in 1925 and had played the lead role in five films and Ge Cijiang had been a Beijing opera performer and the lead actor in two films. Evidently, these Chinese film prac­ titioners were by no means dilettantes as described by Benjamin.16 As noted above, in his comment on the film, Benjamin spoke of “the Mongolian facial expressions.” Did he refer to the characters in the film as “Mongolians”? Although the original play, Xixiang ji, was written in the Yuan dynasty under the rule of the Mongol empire, none of the characters portrayed in the play or in the film is Mongolian. Did Benjamin associate the “facial

The Uncanny Quotability of Tradition 159 expressions” specifically with Mongols? Indeed, he was familiar with the faces of Mongols, as he noted in his Moscow Diary in an entry dated January 25, 1927, while he was visiting Moscow: “I see Mongolian faces as many as I want in my hotel every day” (Benjamin 1972–1989, 6:389). Despite his fresh memory, this specific reference does not appear proper to the context of his conversation with Wong and to his comment on the Chinese film. The Mongolian, or Mongoloid, was historically an eighteenth-century Eurocentric and racist idea (anthropological, cultural, and even “scientific”) that was invented, especially in Germany, to categorize and characterize all the peoples of Asia, and it had left a far-reaching and lasting imprint in the West. In the second half of the nineteenth century, for instance, in California where Wong was later born and raised, the State legislature enacted or amended school segregation bills that prohibited “Negroes, Mongolians, and Indians” from attending public schools or established separate schools for “the children of Mon­ goloid or Chinese descent,” and the State did not “officially abolish all segregation in the public school system” until 1929 (Moore 2003, 115–116). During the first decades of the twentieth century, the Americans still argued whether the Japanese, like other peoples in Asia, were Mongolian (Griffis 1913, 721–733). The Mon­ golian stereotype remained fixed upon the Easterner, as the American critic Warren Reed blatantly declared: “We consider the Mongolian as uncannily intelligent and shrewd, and as a rice-eating athlete of endurance and prowess. Beyond that we scarcely consider him at all” (Reed 1917, 62). Benjamin’s use of this racist term falls in line with his overall essentialist argument for the authentic “Chineseness” (or “Mongolianess”). Thus, for Benjamin, the Chinese film, The Rose of Pu-Chui, like the “Chinese” actress “May Wong,” who, with her “Chinese/Mongolian/Oriental” complexion and “facial expressions,” had been previously cast as a devious Mongol slave in The Thief of Baghdad (1924), was sullied and adulterated by Hollywood influence and thereby became another piece of chinoiserie. Indeed, as a matter of fact, Hollywood’s influence on the making of Chinese films in the first decades of the twentieth century was profound and pervasive, as numerous American films were screened in China and new ideas and technologies were incorporated into the nascent Chinese cinematography. The impact of Hollywood films was instrumental in enhancing the technical craft of the Chinese filmmaking, its theoretical conception, and its modern character in its early development. At the same time, however, the Chinese artists created their own styles, and Chi­ nese films, especially those based on Chinese historical, cultural, and literary traditions, developed their own national character and cultural and artistic identity. This is particularly true with The Rose of Pu-Chui as an adaptation of one of the most well-known traditional Chinese plays. Here it is illuminating to look at some of the Western reviews of the Chinese film in contrast to Benjamin’s view. Speaking of the “brilliant opening screening” of La Rose de Pu-Chui at Studio 28 in Paris, while noting that “the director is of American school,” a French reviewer argued that even those “specifically American scenes” were presented in “a completely different

160 The Spectre of Tradition mode” in the Chinese film and were “superior to what they are in America: they prevail by more life” (C. S. C. 1928, 42, 44). The critic compared the ways Hollywood films, for instance, The Thief of Baghdad, in which the hero portrayed by Douglas Fairbanks travels on a magic carpet, and the Chinese film represent the fantastic and the unreal, asserting that the Chinese approach was “much better”: “The unreality there is prodigiously simple, true” (44). The critic thus affirmed that the “excellent” interpretation by the actors was imbued with “a prodigious life,” which was “never gross,” a distinction deemed by the critic as “a nice slap to a certain naturalism, which has contaminated a part of the cinema” in European countries (45). Writing of the screening of the same film at the Shaftesbury Avenue Pavilion in London, Celia Simpson differentiated it from Western films by stressing its “Eastern character” in terms of its acting: “a delightful naïveté” of the hero that “no Western film-star could achieve” (Simpson 1929, 438). James Agate praised the film as “the very flower of the art of artlessness” (Agate 1929a, 98). Equally impressed by the absence of vulgarity in the film and by the “sincerity” and “extreme artlessness” of the acting, another critic made a significant point regarding the economy of Chinese acting, noting that “the first principle of Chinese acting seems to be never to express in one action what can be expressed at greater leisure in two.”17 This observation underlines the fact that the Chinese acting, which was appropriate to the original style of the operatic play, was much more stylized and disciplined than the naturalistic acting of most Hollywood films. This is what underlies the critic’s conclusion that the Chinese film “is worth seeing for the sake of its native style.”18 It also underlies another critic’s observation that the Chinese film distinguished itself by the “decorous manner” of its enactment because, as the European viewers could only imagine, “Chinese audiences do not demand realism.”19 After condemning the American influence on Chinese film acting, Benjamin stressed the phenomenal success of Japanese actor Sessue Hayakawa in America and attributed his lasting impact in Europe to the style of his acting—or his “Mongolian facial expressions” (“may it be the restraint, the speed, the quick turn of the smile, the sudden shift into horror”)—that “created a school” (Benjamin 1972, 525).20 Given Benjamin’s affirmation of Hayakawa’s style of acting, however, in Warren Reed’s racist view, or in Benjamin’s view of the characterlessness of the Chinese (Benjamin 1996–2003, 2:801), the lack of expression was characteristic of the Asian or Mongolian race, and “this same immobility of countenance is the main reason why a Mongolian actor seems about as conceivable as an Irish organ grinder” (Reed 1917, 61–62). According to Reed, Hayakawa came out of the East and became a wrecker of this Oriental or Mongolian tradition because, like any Oriental wrecker of the tra­ dition, he was “the possessor of a face flexible enough to portray every mood, passion, and emotion” (62). Reed attributed Hayakawa’s (or any Eastern or “Mongolian” actor’s) success particularly to the Japanese actor’s self-conscious Americanization of his art of acting, “the supreme test” that he had stood with “his ability to register emotion by facial expression and gesture—something

The Uncanny Quotability of Tradition 161 that could hardly be expected of a Jap” (62). In other words, and to use Ben­ jamin’s words, Hayakawa’s success was attributed (by Reed) precisely to the adulteration (Americanization)—by “the most unscrupulous American directing methods”—of “the infinitely subtle material” that Hayakawa’s original “Mon­ golian facial expressions” represented. Of Wong’s movie career, Benjamin noted that Wong was working on a new film under the direction of Richard Eichberg. Wong was quoted by Benjamin as saying that “the role is perfect” and that “it is my role like no other so far” (Benjamin 1972, 524). Here, Benjamin referred to the German director’s silent film, Song (Schmutziges Geld [Dirty Money]), an adaptation of a story by Karl Vollmoeller. It features Wong as the leading role and was released shortly after Benjamin’s meeting with Wong. Surely, as Benjamin had ima­ gined, in the film, Wong as the heroine endures “a lot of suffering and mis­ fortune,” but not “because she loves the sad scenes,” as Benjamin claimed (524). The Oriental heroine, a nightclub Malay dancer, “a lonely almond-eyed little creature” (Hall 1929, 22) or “a little Chinese waif,”21 is scripted in an unrequited love with a white man, a cabaret knife-thrower, and is destined to sacrifice herself at the end when she dies an accidental (not tragic) death, falling on one of the knives pointed upwards on the floor, while performing a sword dance, a melodramatic end that Wong cannot escape in her film career, in which, as noted in her brief obituary in Time magazine, she died “a thousand deaths as the screen’s foremost Oriental villainess.”22 Thus, Benjamin’s citation of Wong’s perception of the significance of Eich­ berg’s film for her career rings ironical in the context of his disapproval of the negative impact of American movies on Chinese filmmaking and of his insis­ tence on the purity and authenticity of the Oriental or “Mongolian” acting. In fact, Eichberg was “frequently described as one of the ‘most American of German directors’” (Bergfelder 1999, 307) and “was admonished by his German critics for following American models too closely” (309). Following Song, Eichberg directed Großstadtschmetterling (or Pavement Butterfly, 1929), which features Wong in the role of a Chinese circus artist whose love with a Russian painter in Paris ends when she is rejected and left alone. Noting that in this “voracious” film, Wong cannot but end up as a pavement butterfly “in the swamp of a screenplay catastrophe,” Hans Sahl wondered that “for how much longer this Asian wonder will be devoured by the operation of an unscrupulous producing industry” (Sahl 1993, 263). Nevertheless, like Benjamin, German critics were keen to essentialize the “Chineseness” of Wong’s identity. They “neglect to mention that Anna May is of American birth” and “stress only her Chinese origin,” as she was described with such phrases as “this exquisite Oriental maiden,” “porcelain loveliness,” and “exotic pulchritude,” which were common in all the reviews.23 Calling Wong “a Mongolian woman,” one German critic, while underlining the American influence on Grofis­ tadtschmetterling—“the Anglo-American icing on this cinematic cake,” deplored “the erotic hypocrisy” of “this German Anna May Wong film,” because Eichberg “did not dare to let a happy white man share the same bed as the

162 The Spectre of Tradition undressed body of a Mongolian woman” (quoted in Bergfelder 1999, 311). Another German critic attached more importance to “the original form of the Chinese woman,” claiming that, despite the European influence, Wong “still blows all the charm of an alien world” (-den. 1993, 264). Born and raised in America, Wong herself was keen in her attempt to con­ struct the “Chineseness” of her identity to appeal to the Western Orientalist and exotic interest in things Chinese. Wong’s grandfather immigrated from China to America and gave birth to her father in Michigan Bluffs, California in 1858. Her grandfather died when her father was a little boy and about four decades before she was born in 1905 (Chan 2003, 13; Hodges 2012, 5–6). Before her first visit to China in 1936, Wong “had lived without a real knowledge of China” and, ironically, her “only knowledge” of China was “more vividly from stereotypical European American films that depicted untruths about the Chinese” (Chan 2003, 124–125). It was in Berlin in 1928, with her rising fame in Europe, that Wong realized, for the first time, that it was her “Chinese soul” coming back to claim her and that she was no longer “an American flapper” and became quintessentially Chinese (Carr 1934). Wong constructed the “Chineseness” of her identity on a biological and racial deter­ mination rather than a social and cultural condition that formed her American identity, as she spoke of her understanding of the calling of her “Chinese blood” and of her feeling of “the racial philosophy of the Chinese” (Carr 1934). It was no surprise that American journalist Harry Carr, who interviewed Wong five years after her conversation with Benjamin, cited “an inbred, ancient culture” as one primary reason that Wong “has breached the gulf between a little Chinatown shack and world-wide fame” (Carr 1934). Decades later, reporting on her death, before identifying her as “the Chinese-American actress,” The New York Times, much like Benjamin, rhapsodized on her exotic Chinese name, “Wong Liu Tsong” (“Frosted Yellow Willow”) and on her complexion, which, “once described as ‘rose blushing through old ivory,’ shone on the screen like the texture of an old Ming vase.”24 Had he lived to see the report, given his fondness of historical “Chinese curios,” Benjamin must have felt strongly that, in its eulogy of Wong’s “Chineseness,” the American newspaper should also have quoted a few lines from a poem in a Chinese fic­ tion of the Ming dynasty (1368–1644). Quoting Chinese Visual Images Benjamin’s essay on his meeting with Wong quoted not only from Chinese literary texts but also from Chinese cultural images. At one point during their conversation, Benjamin turned his attention to Wong’s dress (“dark blue suit, light blue blouse, yellow cravat over it”), imagining that “one wants to know a Chinese poem to describe it” (Benjamin 1972, 525). Here Benjamin again attempted to weave Wong’s essential “Chineseness” out of the fabric(ation) of her clothes, fancying a Chinese poem to describe it, even though he knew that the clothes she was wearing were not traditionally Chinese and that “she has

The Uncanny Quotability of Tradition 163 always worn such clothing, because she was not born in China, but in the Chinatown of Los Angeles” (525). Then Benjamin’s imaginary gaze turned away from reality to fiction: “But if her roles call for it, she will gladly put on old national costumes. Her imagination works more freely when she wears them” (525–526). Wong’s roles require her to wear traditional Chinese “national” costumes that, like her physical appearance, signify her fictionalized “Chinese­ ness.” Here Benjamin’s evocation of the image of Chinese “national” costumes and his imaginary quotation of a Chinese poem, like his other Chinese quotations, serve to construct the essential “Chineseness” of Wong’s identity. At the end of their conversation, Benjamin’s gaze focused on Wong’s phy­ sical posture and on her hairstyle: “May Wong quickly found her resting posi­ tion again. She seemed to feel at ease here, loosening her long hair and shaping it in the style of ‘a dragon frolicking in water’ (stroking it at her forehead)” (Benjamin 1972, 526). Benjamin’s quotation of the hair design most likely came from a Chinese shadow play, Bei der Toilette (Shang zhuang tai [At the Toilet]), one of the many pieces included in Chinesische Schattenspiele, a German translation of Chinese shadow-plays that I have mentioned above. Benjamin was well informed of the German translation. In August 1919, Benjamin wrote to his friend, Gershom Scholem, asking the latter to buy him a copy of the translation (Benjamin 1995–2000, 2:40). Scholem remembered that “Benjamin grew wide-eyed when he spoke of this book,” which contains pieces ranging from “a waiter’s monologue to mystery plays deeply rooted in the Buddhist tradition,” and which Scholem considered “one of the least known and yet most magnificent achievements of sinology” (Scholem 1981, 47). Indeed, long fascinated by the book, in a letter to Hugo von Hofmannsthal in January 1926, Benjamin spoke of it as “a simple-conventional but apparently highly reliable translation,” which contains “very beautiful pieces” (Benjamin 1995–2000, 3:117). He suggested to Hofmannsthal that he “would once again approach the work more closely” to make “a specific proposal” to write an essay, for Hofmannsthal’s journal, Neue Deutsche Beiträge, on the work that “has remained completely unknown outside Sinological research circles” (117). Although, in the end, nothing came out of his proposal, Benjamin included, from the German collection, one of the plays, Der Traum, in his radio talk, “Theatre Fire in Canton,” as I have noted above. And he may also have quoted, in his essay on Wong, from another piece, Bei der Toilette, in the same collection, as I have suggested above. Bei der Toilette, the first of the solos in the collection, features a young lady, who, exceedingly excited to meet a young gentleman, is dressing herself up in front of a mirror at her toilet. At the beginning of the play, the young lady introduces herself, saying that she wants to do her hair once again “with com­ plete artistry”: “I loosen my black silk hair, comb it over and comb it straight, and shape it in the style of ‘a dragon frolicking in water’” (Bei der Toilette 1915, 432; Shang zhuang tai 1915, 739). Here the German translation (“zu Wasser sich tummelnden Drachen”) of the hair design is true to the original (“long xi shui”), with the exception that the translator added a quotation mark and a

164 The Spectre of Tradition footnote: “So that the hair hangs down on the forehead” (Bei der Toilette 1915, 432). At the end, the young lady dresses herself up fantastically from her headdress down to her wooden shoes for her two-inch long “golden lilies” (bound feet), decorated with all kinds of flowers and herbs, depicted with four theatre scenes, and distinguished by five colours. With a great sense of satisfac­ tion and superiority, the young lady declares: “Not only the gentlemen will be gripped by love at the sight, but even Buddha would also lose his mind if he saw me like this” (Bei der Toilette 1915, 433; Shang zhuang tai 1915, 741). As shown above, Benjamin’s quotation matches the German translation, and he likewise added a similar note to his quotation. The hairstyle or image referred to in the play was one of the traditional hair designs for Chinese women. Li Yu, a noted seventeenth-century Chinese writer, described several hairstyles that imitate the fantastic images of dragons in varying shapes, postures, and motions (Li 1998, 3:122). These hairstyles contribute to the construction of the image of an ideal woman in the eyes of men. Seen from Benjamin’s quotation of Chinese texts, it matters little to his imagination whether Wong’s hairstyle truly follows and represents the (traditional) Chinese style as defined in its historical and cultural context; what truly matters is that his decontextualization of the Chinese style from its historical and cultural context and his imaginary identification of it with Wong’s impromptu hairstyling are predicated upon his desire to create (fab­ ricate and fashion) an aura of essential “Chineseness” for the American actress he stylized (Orientalized) as “a Chinoiserie from the Old West.”

Conclusion In his approach to Kafka’s concept of “Oklahoma Nature Theatre” and to the Chinese theatre, Benjamin performed a double displacement of Kafka’s concept and of the Chinese theatre from the perspective of Brecht’s epic theatre as he understood it. Having found Benjamin’s association of Brecht’s epic theatre with Kafka and with the Chinese theatre misplaced, Adorno nevertheless failed to recognize the Brechtian art of refunctioning underlying Benjamin’s double displacement. For Brecht and Benjamin, the “gestic” Chinese theatre can be refunctioned and redeemed for an artist in the theatre as a “producer” who is committed to transforming the existing symbolic or technological apparatus of production and thereby making it socially and politically productive (for the proletarian and socialist cause), and for a socially and politically conscious and critical audience of a scientific age, who is educated and prepared to intervene in the experimental arrangement of dramatic action. It was in this sense that Benjamin stated, in “The Author as Producer,” that “Brecht fell back on the most primitive elements of the theater” and “succeeded in changing the func­ tional connection between stage and public, text and performance, director and actor” (Benjamin 1996–2003, 2:778). Given the mutual influence between them in their theorization of epic theatre and their interpretation of the Chinese theatre, both Brecht and Ben­ jamin considered the Chinese theatre a “gestic” theatre where physical gestures

The Uncanny Quotability of Tradition 165 became quotable external signs and were used to write or inscribe on the emotionless and expressionless face of the Chinese actor. Furthermore, Benja­ min found the “gestic behaviour” of the Brechtian epic theatre embodied, culturally and racially (in the view of Franz Rosenzweig that Benjamin empa­ thized with), in the “characterless” and “undramatic” Chinese (wise) man who, like the Chinese actor, possessed an “elemental purity of feeling,” having been purified (by Brecht and Benjamin) of all psychological emotions and facial expressions. In a short story, Edgar Allan Poe suggested, sarcastically, that a writer spice an article for a popular magazine and thus ensure that it has “an air of learn­ ing,” simply by looking through “almost any page of any book in the world” and picking out “at once a host of little scraps of either learning or bel-esprit­ ism” (Poe 1904, 124). He cited “The Venerable Chinese novel Ju-Kiao-Li” as an example of what he called “Piquant Expressions” that a writer should use to do the trick: “By introducing these few words with dexterity you will evince your intimate acquaintance with the language and literature of the Chinese” (125). I am not excluding the possibility that Benjamin’s Chinese quotations as inserted in his text on Anna May Wong amount to what Poe called “little scraps,” or “piquant expressions,” of Chinese learning, something entirely capricious and random, without rhyme or reason. However, I am more inclined to believe that they were more than some exotic Chinese “little scraps,” or “curios,” that Benjamin gleaned from Ju-Kiao-Li and some other Chinese sources to merely spice his essay for a popular magazine. Around the early 1930s, Benjamin was increasingly occupied with develop­ ing a theory of criticism. Featured prominently in this theory was a theory of quotation or, more precisely, critical quotation. For Benjamin, “it is vital to develop the theory of the quotation” at the “highest stage” of this criticism “whose sole medium is the life, the ongoing life, of the works themselves” that have become “the mirror-images of later generations” (Benjamin 1996–2003, 2:372). Thus, for Benjamin, it was “the task of the critic” to develop a “theory of the critical quotation” (549), and he even argued that “a criticism consisting entirely of quotations should be developed” (290). Associating the work of Hugo von Hofmannsthal with the art of Aleco Dossena, an Italian sculptor accused of forgery, Benjamin argued that Hof­ mannsthal’s “genius could be summed up in a single phrase as a genius for quoting,” which defines Hofmannsthal as a “great forger,” who not only ele­ vates forgery to the level of quotation but also perfects “the art of conjuring” that invokes the magic and authority of the past (Benjamin 1996–2003, 2:422). Likewise, for Benjamin, Karl Kraus was another example that best illustrates the art of quotation. According to Benjamin, “Kraus’s achievement exhausts itself at its highest level by making even the newspaper quotable”; Kraus “transports it to his own sphere,” saving and giving meaning to “the empty phrase” that is buried “even in the deepest dregs of the journals” (453). In Kraus’s quotation that “both saves and punishes,” Benjamin argued, “language proves the matrix of justice”:

166 The Spectre of Tradition It summons the word by its name, wrenches it destructively from its con­ text, but precisely thereby calls it back to its origin. It appears, now with rhyme and reason, sonorously, congruously, in the structure of a new text…. In citation the two realms—of origin and destruction—justify themselves before language. And conversely, only where they interpenetrate—in citation—is language consummated. In it is mirrored the angelic tongue in which all words, startled from the idyllic context of meaning, have become mottoes in the book of Creation. (454) Here through the theological auras that Benjamin’s language creates, what is revealed is the basic functionality of quotation, its interpenetrating double act of punishment and redemption: the destructive decontextualization of the quoted text from its context and its reconstitution (redemption) in the structure of a new text. In Benjamin’s eye, it was Brecht who excelled in perfecting the art of quo­ tation. While Brecht’s epic theatre was designed to make its own text and acting quotable (Benjamin 1966, 9–10, 18–19, 26–27, 29), it was constructed by quoting texts and techniques from other theatres and was thereby concerned with the quotability or transportability of the quoted material. Elevating “pla­ giarism” into an art form, Brecht found an affinity between plagiarism and quotation in adaptations. “This is where the quotation finds its naturally highvalue position,” Brecht wrote around 1930. “It is therefore the most important stylistic feature. The quotability. Finding ‘plagiarism’ means art here” (Brecht 1992, 318). Curiously enough, Benjamin likewise found a natural connection between (Brecht’s) “plagiarism” and quotation and between a theory of quo­ tation in his mind and a theory of “plagiarism” that Brecht put into practice. Benjamin thus wrote of “the process of reassembling” that Brecht proclaimed as “a literary form”: What he writes is not a ‘work’ but an apparatus, an instrument. The higher it stands, the more capable it is of reshaping, dismantling, and transforming. The study of the great canonical literatures, Chinese literature above all, has shown him that the supreme claim which can be made of the written word is that of its quotability. This suggests that we may find here the beginnings of a theory of plagiarism that will speedily reduce the quipsters to silence. (Benjamin 1996–2003, 2:369–370; 1972–1989, 2:666) An acute insight into the practice, by other writers, of the art and theory of quotation (and “plagiarism”), Benjamin’s statement also speaks of what he aimed to achieve in his own work, as he envisioned about his The Arcades Project: “This work must develop to the highest level the art of quoting without quotation marks” (Benjamin 1972–1989, 5:572).25 As I have noted in my “Introduction,” Benjamin associated, in a broader and deeper sense, the writing

The Uncanny Quotability of Tradition 167 and construction—destruction (decontextualization) and redemption (recon­ textualization)—of history with the concept of quotation: “To write history therefore means to quote history. It resides, however, in the concept of quota­ tion that the particular historical object is ripped out of its context” (595). As I have demonstrated above, Benjamin’s view applies equally to his “Chinese” writing of Anna May Wong: for Benjamin, to write a “Chinese” script, and to invent a “Chinese” identity, for the American screen “flapper” means to quote Chinese texts (literary and cultural), and to quote a Chinese text means to rip, violently, the particular textual object out of its context. To legitimate the task of a quotationist translator or historian to destruct and reassemble texts or histories, Benjamin’s quotationist approach asserts the ontological nature of texts or histories as fragments or ruins. Such an approach tends to deny texts or histories their historical substance and their own iden­ tities. The destructive violence of quotation is inherent to its basic function, as Benjamin spoke of “interruption” of context as “the basis of quotation” (Ben­ jamin 1966, 26). In this regard, the art of quotation integrates with the art of montage.26 As Benjamin observed in 1934, “the principle of interruption” underlies “the procedure of montage”: “the superimposed element disrupts the context in which it is inserted” (Benjamin 1996–2003, 2:778). Interestingly, in 1936, Brecht also noted of the relationship of Verfremdungseffekt to both mon­ tage and quotation: “V-effects are put in montage and quotation” (Brecht 1993a, 216). The violence inflicted by the act of quoting upon both the source text and the quoting text and upon the reader’s reception of them was precisely what Benjamin perceived and justified in Kraus’s and Brecht’s practice of quotation and what he noted about his own practice of it: “Quotations in my work are like wayside robbers who leap out, armed, and relieve the idle stroller of his conviction” (Benjamin 1996–2003, 1:481). Benjamin’s quotations juxtaposed or superimposed and functioning like montage were intended to generate the effect of shock and estrangement on his readers, stripping them of their secured faith in the apparent filiation, and the fidelity, of his quotations to the source texts and forcing them to see through and beyond the haunting auras of their mimetic (quotationistic or plagiaristic) authenticity. As I am under the same effect and compelled to see through the auras and meanings of Benjamin’s Chinese quotations, what I find in them is a double act of interrupting both the context of the quoting text and that of the quoted text and, consequently, an act of intertextual and intercultural displacement. According to Edward Said, “Quotation is a constant reminder that writing is a form of displacement…. a reminder that other writing serves to displace present writing, to a greater or lesser extent, from its absolute, central, proper place” (Said 1985, 22). Much in line with Benjamin’s view of the act of quotation as an interruption or disruption of the context of present writing, Said’s statement is likewise one-sided, as it fails to account for the violent act of quotation as a displacement by present writing of other writing. For me, the act of quotation consists of an intertextual interruption of the contexts of both the quoting text

168 The Spectre of Tradition and the quoted text, and thereby it constitutes an intertextual displacement of both texts from their absolute, central, proper, and natural placements in their respective contexts. Thus, here in my study, I am concerned, intertextually and interculturally, with both the disruptive violence that Benjamin’s quotations performed on the quoted Chinese texts and the latter’s haunting effect on Benjamin’s texts. Benjamin’s Chinese quotations are both intertextual and intercultural: even the title of the quoted work (Ju-Kiao-Li or Dschung Kuei) has its exotic visual and aural resonance, and Benjamin’s very act of quoting it by its name functions to help conjure up the aura of Wong’s “Chinese” identity. Benjamin’s art of quoting the Chinese texts with quotation marks is no less sophisticated than Hofmannsthal’s elevated “forgery,” Kraus’s eclectic mimicry, or Brecht’s artistic “plagiarism,” which may represent, for Benjamin, “the highest level” to which “the art of quoting without quotation marks” can be developed. As demonstrated in his writing of Wong, the presence of quotation marks delineates the decontextualization of the quoted object (text or image) and its displacement into the context of Benjamin’s “Chinese” writing on the essential “Chineseness” of Wong’s identity, as the presence of quotation marks defines the origin of the quotation and creates the aura of the authenticity of its textual and cultural identity. However, despite, or rather because of, the performative act of decontex­ tualization and displacement inherent to the art of quoting, the afterlife of other writing or work, or, as Benjamin put it, “the life, the ongoing life, of the works themselves,” survives and lives on in the quotations, thus forever haunting the quoting text of present writing and tracing the quotations back to their origins, to their original contexts and, ultimately, to their original mean­ ings. Such is the destiny of Benjamin’s Chinese quotations. The afterlife of the Chinese texts or images asserts itself with its intertextual and intercultural rein­ carnation in Benjamin’s quotations and, ultimately, unravels the framing, and unweaves the fabric, of his “Chinese” writing, revealing a haunting historical past: even Benjamin, one of the twentieth century’s most original critical minds, was haunted, in his intercultural quotation of Chinese cultural tradi­ tions, by the spectre of nineteenth-century Eurocentric Orientalism.

Notes 1 For Brecht’s use of Chinese theatre in this play, see Tian 2008, 40. In a letter to Werner Kraft, dated October 28, 1935, Benjamin wrote: “I made one exception for Horatier und Kuriatier, a new parable by Brecht, which I recently got to see in manuscript form. It represents an excellent application of certain techniques of Chinese theater, with which he became acquainted during his last stay in Moscow” (Benjamin 1994, 516). 2 There is no title in the original Chinese text. 3 This reminds of Brecht’s observation: “The Chinese performer gets his A-effect by association with magic. ‘How it’s done’ remains hidden; knowledge is a matter of knowing the tricks and is in the hands of a few men who guard it jealously and profit from their secrets” (Brecht 1964b, 96). Brecht’s observation is not found in the earlier versions of his essay on Chinese acting, “Bemerkungen über die

The Uncanny Quotability of Tradition 169

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11 12 13

14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22

chinesische Schauspielkunst” (Brecht 1993b) and “The Fourth Wall of China” (Brecht 1936). This reminds of Benjamin’s quotation of Brecht’s idea of the spectator who adopts “an attitude of smoking-and-watching”: “One would soon have a theatre full of experts just as one has sporting arenas full of experts” (Benjamin 1966, 11; Brecht 1964a, 44). Benjamin’s quotation of Brecht: “The actor must show a thing, and he must show himself. He shows the thing, of course, by showing himself, and he shows himself by showing the thing. Although the two tasks coincide, they must not coincide in such a way that the contrast (difference) between them disappears” (Benjamin 1966, 18). These two lines are not found in “Bemerkungen über die chinesische Schauspielk­ unst” (Brecht 1993b). Apparently, they were added later to “The Fourth Wall of China” (Brecht 1936). See n. 5. In addition to those discussed in this chapter, Benjamin was familiar with German translations of some other Chinese dramas and fictions, such as Hoei-lan-ki (The Chalk Circle) (1876); Chinesische Abende: Novellen und Geschichten (1914); Chinesische Geister- und Liebesgeschichten (1911); Chinesische Novellen (1914); and Die ewige Rache des Fräulein Wang-Kiau-Luan (1920) (Benjamin 1972–1989, 7:439, 449). It is not clear where Benjamin quoted the line from the fiction, even though it was indicated in quotation marks. In his “Préface,” Abel-Rémusat noted that he had collected four or five editions of Iu-Kiao-Li and found between them “numerous differences, and sometimes quite serious, both in the verses and in the prose” (Yiqiusanren 1826, 1:80). The French translator, however, did not name any of the editions. A comparison of his translation with the Chinese texts indicates that most likely it was based on one of the surviving editions or reprints, which were originally published during or after the early dec­ ades (c. 1644 to c. 1661) of the Qing dynasty. Four of these editions or reprints under the same title, Xin juan piping xiuxiang Yu jiao li xiao zhuan (A Newly Engraved Edition of The Brief Tale of Yu Jiao Li with Commentaries and Illustrations), can be found in the collections of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Harvard-Yenching Library, China Dalian Library, and Tokyo Naikaku Bunko (The Cabinet Library, National Archives of Japan). The Chinese text for each of Benjamin’s quotations from the German translation (of the French translation) is the same in all these Chinese editions. Note that in Benjamin’s quotation, the word ihn (him) was left out. For a slightly different but more accurate French translation, see Yiqiusanren 1864, 1:173. The German word Zeichens refers to Chinese language characters. The French translation reads as follows: L’hôte avait double main, Mais le maître avait quatre yeux. La trame était divinement ourdie, Mais la vue était encore plus subtile. (Yiqiusanren 1826, 1:168) Eric Blackall’s quotation is in German. Here the English translation is mine. The film’s Parisian screening was advertised as late as July 10, 1928 (Le Figaro, April 20, 1928, 5; Excelsior, July 10, 1928, 5). For an English study of Hou Yao’s cinematographic ideas and practices, see Ge 2002, 124–208. “Avenue Pavilion: An All-Chinese Film,” The Times, September 23, 1929, 12. “Avenue Pavilion.” “Chinese Quaintness,” The Daily Mail, September 26, 1929, 4. About Sessue Hayakawa’s career, see Miyao 2007. “Berlin Praises Miss Wong,” The New York Times, August 22, 1928, 29. “Milestones,” Time, February 10, 1961, 78.

170 The Spectre of Tradition 23 “Berlin Praises Miss Wong.” 24 “Anna May Wong Is Dead at 54,” The New York Times, February 4, 1961, 19. 25 Quotation, particularly historical and cultural quotations that evoke the spectre of tradition, is a phenomenon that likewise possesses and projects a double-edged power: it endows the quoting text with the canonized aura and authority of the source text; it also threatens the originality and autonomy of the quoting text. For instance, after The Arcades Project, Benjamin’s envisioned but “never-written” (Buck-Morss 1989, ix) or “unfinished magnum opus” (Hanssen 2006, 1), was published, it has been con­ secrated as a monument of prophecy to Benjamin’s singular and original creative genius, but it can also be (dis)regarded as an unfinished tomb (tome) built on ruins and peopled with ghosts (quotations) of the past, where the (postmodern) death of origin­ ality can be located and mourned (or celebrated). 26 Especially, the Eisensteinian method of montage of juxtaposition and collision (See Chapter 3).

References Adorno, Theodor W. and Walter Benjamin. 1994. Briefwechsel 1928–1940. Edited by Henri Lonitz. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Agate, James. 1929a. “The Cinema: Some Not New Films.” The Tatler and Bystander, 114, no. 1477: 98. Althusser, Louis. 1995 (1968). “Sur Brecht et Marx.” In Écrits Philosophiques et Politiques. Vol. 2, 541–556. Paris: Stock/IMEC. Bei der Toilette (At the Toilet). 1915. In Chinesische Schattenspiele, translated by Wilhelm Grube and completed by Emil Krebs; edited by Berthold Laufer, 432–435. München: der Königlich Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. Benjamin, Walter. 1928. “Gespräch mit Anne (sic) May Wong: Eine Chinoiserie aus dem alten Westen.” Die Literarische Welt, July 6, 1928, 1. Benjamin, Walter. 1934. “Franz Kafka: Eine Würdigung.” Jüdische Rundschau, 39, nos. 102/103 (December 21): 8 and no. 104 (December 28): 6. Benjamin, Walter. 1966. Versuche über Brecht. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Benjamin, Walter. 1968. “Franz Kafka.” In Illuminations, edited by Hannah Arendt and translated by Harry Zohn, 111–140. New York: Harcourt, Brace & World. Benjamin, Walter. 1972. “Gespräch mit Anne [sic] May Wong: Eine Chinoiserie aus dem alten Westen.” In Gesammelte Schriften. Edited by Rolf Tiedemann and Hermann Schweppenhäuser. Vol. 4, 523–527. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Benjamin, Walter. 1972–1989. Gesammelte Schriften. 7 vols. Edited by Rolf Tiedemann and Hermann Schweppenhäuser. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Benjamin, Walter. 1983. Understanding Brecht. Translated by Anna Bostock. London: Verso. Benjamin, Walter. 1989. “Theaterbrand von Kanton” (1931). In Gesammelte Schriften. Vol. VII, pt. 1, edited by Rolf Tiedemann and Hermann Schweppenhäuser, 226– 231. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Benjamin, Walter. 1994. The correspondence of Walter Benjamin, 1910–1940. Edited and annotated by Gershom Scholem and Theodor W. Adorno; translated by Manfred R. Jacobson and Evelyn M. Jacobson. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Benjamin, Walter. 1995–2000. Gesammelte Briefe. Edited by Christoph Gödde and Henri Lonitz. 6 vols. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Benjamin, Walter. 1996–2003. Selected Writings. 4 vols. Edited by Marcus Bullock and Michael W. Jennings. Cambridge, Mass.: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press.

The Uncanny Quotability of Tradition 171 Benjamin, Walter. 1999. The Arcades Project. Translated by Howard Eiland and Kevin McLaughlin, edited by Rolf Tiedemann. Cambridge, MA.: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Bergfelder, Tim. 1999. “Negotiating Exoticism: Hollywood, Film Europe and the Cultural Reception of Anna May Wong.” In “Film Europe” and “Film America”: Cinema, Commerce and Cultural Exchange 1920–1939, edited by Andrew Higson and Richard Maltby, 302–324. Exeter: University of Exeter Press. Blackall, Eric A. 1971. “Goethe and the Chinese Novel.” In The Discontinuous Tradition: Studies in German Literature in Honour of Ernest Ludwig Stahl, edited by P. F. Ganz, 29–53. Oxford: The Clarendon Press. Bloch, Ernst. 1991. Heritage of Our Times. Translated by Neville and Stephen Plaice. Berkeley: University of California Press. Brecht, Bertolt. 1936. “The Fourth Wall of China: An Essay on the Effect of Disillusion in the Chinese Theatre.” Translated by Eric Walter White. Life and Letters Today, 15, no. 6: 116–123. Brecht, Bertolt. 1964a. Brecht on Theatre: The Development of an Aesthetic. Edited and translated by John Willett. New York: Hill and Wang. Brecht, Bertolt. 1964b. “Alienation Effects in Chinese Acting.” In Brecht on Theatre: The Development of an Aesthetic. Edited and translated by John Willett, 91–99. New York: Hill and Wang. Brecht, Bertolt. 1991. Werke: Große Kommentierte Berliner und Frankfurter Ausgabe. Edited by Werner Hecht et al., vol. 24. Brecht, Bertolt. 1992. Werke: Große Kommentierte Berliner und Frankfurter Ausgabe. Edited by Werner Hecht et al., vol. 21. Brecht, Bertolt. 1993a. Werke: Große Kommentierte Berliner und Frankfurter Ausgabe. Edited by Werner Hecht et al., vol. 22. Brecht, Bertolt. 1993b. “Bemerkungen über die chinesische Schauspielkunst.” In Werke, vol. 22, 151–155. Brecht, Bertolt. 1993c. “Verfremdungseffekte in der chinesischen Schauspielkunst.” In Werke, vol. 22, 200–210. Buck-Morss, Susan. 1989. The Dialectics of Seeing: Walter Benjamin and the Arcades Project. Cambridge, Mass.: The MIT Press. C. M. 1826. “France. Littérature. Iu-Kiao-Li.” Le Globe, 4, no. 57 (December): 299. C. S. C. 1928. “Au studio 28, un film chinois: la rose de pu chui—et c’est une chose fort bien.” La Semaine à Paris, April 27, 42–45. Carr, Harry. 1934. “‘I am Growing More Chinese—Each Passing Year!’ Says Anna May Wong to Harry Carr.” Los Angeles Times, September 9, 1934, H3. Chan, Anthony B. 2003. Perpetually Cool: The Many Lives of Anna May Wong (1905–1961). Lanham, Md.: The Scarecrow Press. Chinesische Schattenspiele. 1915. Translated by Wilhelm Grube and completed by Emil Krebs; edited by Berthold Laufer. München: der Königlich Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. De Gourmont, Remy. 1924. Le IIme livre des masques. Paris: Mercvre de France. -den. (Hermann Linden). 1993 (1929). “Anna May Wong.” Frankfurter Zeitung, May 4, 1929. In Der Film der Weimarer Republik 1929: ein Handbuch der zeitgenössischen Kritik, edited by Gero Gandert, 264. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter. du Bois-Reymond, Clemens. 1923. “Schlußwort des Übersetzers” (A final word from the translator). In Yanxiasanren, Dschung Kuei: Bezwinger der Teufel, translated by Clemens du Bois-Reymond, 249–258. Potsdam: Kiepenheuer.

172 The Spectre of Tradition Ge, Congmin. 2002. “Ideas of Cinema in China 1913–1937: Three Chinese Filmmakers.” PhD diss. The University of Leeds. Griffis, William Elliot. 1913. “Japan and the United States: Are the Japanese Mongolian?” North American Review, no. 197: 721–733. Hall, Mordaunt. 1929. “The Screen: The Knife Thrower.” The New York Times, December 30, 22. Hanssen, Beatrice. 2006. “Introduction: Physiognomy of a Flâneur: Walter Benjamin’s Peregrinations Through Paris in Search of a New Imaginary.” In Walter Benjamin and The Arcades Project, edited by Beatrice Hanssen, 1–11. London:Continuum. Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich. 1956. The Philosophy of History. Translated by J. Sibree. New York: Dover Publications. Hodges, Graham Russell. 2012. Anna May Wong: From Laundryman’s Daughter to Holly­ wood Legend. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. Karpeles, Gustav. 1899. Heinrich Heine: aus seinem leben und aus seiner zeit. Leipzig: Adolf Titze. Li, Yu. 1998. Li Yu quanji (The Complete Works of Li Yu). 20 vols. Hangzhou: Zhejiang Guji Chubanshe. Meyerhold, V. E. 1973–1992. Écrits sur le Théâtre. 4 vols. Translated and edited by Beatrice Picon-Vallin. Lausanne: L’Age d’Homme. Miyao, Daisuke. 2007. Sessue Hayakawa: Silent Cinema and Transnational Stardom. Durham: Duke University Press. Moore, Shirley Ann Wilson. 2003. “‘We feel the Want of Protection’: The Politics of Law and Race in California, 1848–1878.” In Taming the Elephant: Politics, Government, and Law in Pioneer California, edited by John F. Burns and Richard J. Orsi, 96–125. Berkeley: University of California Press. Poe, Edgar Allan. 1904. “How to Write a Blackwood Article.” In The Works of Edgar Allan Poe. Vol. 10, 115–130. New York: Funk & Wagnalls Company. Reed, Warren. 1917. “The Tradition Wreckers.” Picture-Play Magazine, 6, no. 1: 61–65. Rosenzweig, Franz. 2005. The Star of Redemption. Translated by Barbara E. Galli. Madison: The University of Wisconsin Press. Sahl, Hans. 1993 (1929). “Anna May Wong: Großstadtschmetterling.” Der Montag Morgen (Berlin), April 15, 1929. In Der Film der Weimarer Republik 1929: ein Handbuch der zeitgenössischen Kritik, edited by Gero Gandert, 263. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter. Said, Edward W. 1985. Beginnings: Intention and Method. New York: Columbia Uni­ versity Press. Schlegel, Frederick von. 1904. The Philosophy of History: in a Course of Lectures Delivered at Vienna. Translated by James Burton Robertson. London: George Bell and Sons. Scholem, Gershom. 1981. Walter Benjamin: The Story of a Friendship. Translated by Harry Zohn. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America. Shang zhuang tai (At the Toilet). 1915. In Yan ying ju (Beijing Shadow Plays), edited by Wilhelm Grube and Emil Krebs, 739–743. Shandong Sheng Yanzhou Fu: Tianzhu­ jiao yinshuju. Simpson, Celia. 1929. “The Cinema: Some Films in London.” The Spectator, October 5, 438. Steffin, Margarete. 1999. Briefe an Berühmte Männer: Walter Benjamin, Bertolt Brecht, Arnold Zweig. Hamburg: Euro. Verlagsanst. Tian, Min. 2008. The Poetics of Difference and Displacement: Twentieth-Century ChineseWestern Intercultural Theatre. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. Tian, Min. 2018. The Use of Asian Theatre for Modern Western Theatre: The Displaced Mirror. London: Palgrave Macmillan.

The Uncanny Quotability of Tradition 173 Yan ying ju (Beijing Shadow Plays). 1915. Edited by Wilhelm Grube and Emil Krebs. Shandong Sheng Yanzhou Fu: Tianzhujiao yinshuju. Yanxiasanren. 1923. Dschung Kuei: Bezwinger der Teufel. Translated by Clemens du BoisReymond. Potsdam: Kiepenheuer. Yanxiasanren. 1932. Xiuxiang dijiu caizi Zhuo gui zhuan (The Illustrated Ninth Book of Genius: A Legend of Capturing the Ghosts). 2 vols. Shanghai: Shenheji shuju. Yiqiusanren. 1826. Iu-Kiao-Li, ou Les deux cousins. Translated by Abel-Rémusat. 4 vols. Paris: Moutardier. Yiqiusanren. 1827. Ju-Kiao-Li, oder die beiden Basen. Translated by Abel-Rémusat. 4 vols. Stuttgart: Gebrüder Franckh. Yiqiusanren. 1864. Yu kiao li, ou Les deux cousins. Translated by Stanislas Julien. 2 vols. Paris: Didier. Yiqiusanren. 1990 (c. 1644 to c. 1661). Xin juan piping xiuxiang Yu jiao li xiao zhuan (A Newly Engraved Edition of The Brief Tale of Yu Jiao Li with Commentaries and Illustra­ tions). Repository: Tokyo Naikaku Bunko (The Cabinet Library, National Archives of Japan). Reprinted in Guben xiaoshuo jicheng (A Collection of Antiquarian Editions of Novels), vols. 517–518, 1–730. Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe.

5

The Fabrication of Tradition Lady Precious Stream, a Chinese Chinoiserie Anglicized on Modern British Stage

Chinoiserie on the British stage had a long history and a time-honoured tradition. Interestingly enough, some of the most notable chinoiserie performances on the British stage did not originate in Britain but were imported products. In 1897, at the very beginning of his scathing review of the performance of two “Chinese” plays, The Cat and the Cherub by Chester Bailey Fernald at the Lyric Theatre and The First Born by Francis Powers at the Globe Theatre, George Bernard Shaw attacked what he called “the Chinatown play” imported from America as “the latest attempt to escape from hackneydom and cockneydom” on the British stage (G. B. S. 1897, 488). In “the Chinatown play,” Shaw continued, the Chinese music was “unmitigated humbug” and “simply very bad American music,” and the play itself was “nothing but Wilkie Collins fiction disguised in pigtail and petti­ coats” or a dramatic sensation whose “mother” was but “the cheapest and most conventional of the daughters of art” and whose “father” was “the lowest and darkest stratum of Americanized yellow civilization” (488–489).1 Seeing no reason that “the Chinatown play”—“a form of art which makes a merit of crudity”— should not have been manufactured in England, Shaw volunteered to supply “‘Chinese plays,’ music and all” (488). As Shaw never produced a “Chinese” play, even after he saw an authentic performance of traditional Chinese theatre in China, posterity was denied a chance to see whether the English playwright was capable of manufacturing an authentic Chinese play instead of reproducing “the Chinatown play,” American or British. However, Shaw’s sharp critique of the Occidental representation of China in those “Chinese” plays or dramatic chinoiserie was his­ torically grounded and remains relevant to our study of the early history of the twentieth-century intercultural theatre. Shaw’s sentiment against the sham Chinatown play was shared by one of his contemporary British critics, who, having experienced the same two China­ town plays, hoped to see a genuine Chinese play: Undeniably it would be interesting to import a Chinese play, with actors, scenery, and stage complete, but it would require to be a genuine product of the Flowery Land, and, therefore, very different from the two so-called Chinese plays. (J. F. N. 1897, 380) DOI: 10.4324/9781003240587-6

The Fabrication of Tradition 175 But decades into the twentieth century, Shaw and his like-minded British contemporaries must have been dismayed by the fact that even more “Chi­ nese” plays on the British stage were imported, yet none from China: The Yellow Jacket was imported, again, from America and The Circle of Chalk was from Germany. Shaw had nothing to say about these two “Chinese” plays, and no record indicates that Shaw ever saw any production of them. But Edward Gordon Craig had a short but pointed response to the sensational success of The Yellow Jacket. He regarded it as “a nice parody of the Chinese way” and saw no need for the English to “affect Chinoiserie” (Craig 1923, 33). He went even fur­ ther in his position against any kind of chinoiserie or japonaiserie, Western or Eastern, as he warned, in a short piece, “Japanese Artists in the West,” against any Asian artist (Japanese or Chinese) wishing to go to Europe to study and imitate European arts but inevitably ending up only producing Typhoon, a japonaiserie,2 The Yellow Jacket, or some other piece “with an Eastern coat on its back, something which is like a penny peep-show for our stupid grown up children” (Craig 1913, 90–91). Here, without identifying any of the “Japanese artists in the West,” Craig appar­ ently referred to Sheko Tsubouchi, or Shiko- Tsubouchi, a Japanese theatre artist and a student of English literature, who once lived in London and had contact with Craig.3 In 1912, Tsubouchi wrote in an article, “The Drama in Japan,” published in The Mask: It is gratifying for us Japanese to know that you westerners entertain such a kind respect for the Japanese arts. But I fear that our arts do not always deserve your respect. Time has changed, and we can no longer feel the same charm and dignity that our forefathers felt, towards our past arts. And when you admire them, it appears to us as though you are admiring their ghosts, the empty shadows of what, for us, have been dead long since. (Tsubouchi 1912, 309) Tsubouchi was convinced that modern Japan can no longer stay in the past and must be imbued with the modern spirit of the West: We cannot remain the slaves of our past. We cannot produce arts that satisfy our new demands by patching up the lifeless remnants of the past arts…. Is it not better that the past should die its life without influencing us, than it should stifle our fresh spirit [?]. If the past is to influence us at all it must first be influenced by the spirit of the new age. It is for this reason that we study and imitate your arts. (309) For Craig, however, the essential and eternal greatness of the ancient East, and its value for the modern West, lies in the spirit of its past. Olga Taxidou has argued that Craig “approaches the Orient as a late Romantic, seeing it as the last salvation from the ever-increasing modernization of the age” (Taxidou 1998, 83). I want to add, however, that the Occidental aesthetic modernity (in

176 The Spectre of Tradition contrast to the material modernity of commercialism and industrialism that Craig deplored) invoked the spirit of idealism that Craig admired in the ghostly past of the East. Thus, Craig, in response to Tsubouchi, further reminded the Japanese (or the Easterners) of their essential unity with the spirit of “Idealism” (Craig 1913, 90) and of their destiny to return and revive that spirit of their past: Art does not root itself in a place, it moves as a spirit. And, you dear little Japanese man, you know this. What on earth then are you doing? pre­ tending to ‘study and imitate’ our Arts? What is great in you is what remains over in spite of your attempt to rid yourself of the influence of the Past. You are great only in so far as you venerate and keep alive that Past. (91. Emphasis in original) Craig’s remark was typical of the European Orientalist views of the place of the East in history in relation to European modernity. The “greatness” of the East resides in its past and thus in its continual capacity and drive to conjure up and keep alive the spirit of that past. The Easterners are expected to learn to keep their proper places in the past and to revive and revere the spirit of their past and the spirit of their arts, not to displace themselves to seek and salute, in an alien and distant world, the “fresh spirit” (modern spirit) of art, “the spirit of Commercialism, Industrialism” (90). For Craig, through such displacements and imitations, the Easterners, like “the Stone Monkey” with “all his magic tricks and his travels” (90), or like those Russian artists (painters) in the theatre, whose “monkey tricks” of mimicry and whose “particular power” (or “weakness”) of “assimilation” were ridiculed mercilessly by Craig (Yoo-no-hoo 1913, 57), will not attain to “the lordship of the Theatre” but only to their “perpetual banishment from the world of Art” (61). In a sense, Craig’s argument could have served as a reminder to S. I. Hsiung (Shih-I Hsiung or Xiong Shiyi, 1905–1992) of the intercultural predicament that he could face as a young Chinese playwright who went to Britain in 1932 with an aim to study Shakespeare and European theatre.4 Following Shaw’s advice (which reminds uncannily of Craig’s to Japanese artists)—“Try some­ thing different. Something really Chinese and traditional” (Yeh 2014, 34), Hsiung ended up producing Lady Precious Stream, an English adaptation of a traditional Chinese play and of the art of traditional Chinese theatre. Much to Shaw’s disappointment, however, Lady Precious Stream turned out to be, in his words, “a twopenny-halfpenny melodrama” (Hsiung 1939, 174). Perhaps no surprise to Craig, who was no longer interested in Asian theatre in the 1930s, Hsiung’s play impressed the young Northrop Frye, who saw it in London in 1936, as “a very slickly tailored piece of chinoiserie,” which the future renowned Canadian literary critic, who had never seen a real Chinese play produced in China, believed was “ridiculous” to “anyone who had seen a real Chinese play produced under authentically Chinese conditions” (Frye 1996, 568). But Craig may have been surprised that it proved to be an even greater sensation to the

The Fabrication of Tradition 177 London audience than The Yellow Jacket. From the play’s debut at the Little Theatre in London in late November 1934 to the end of 1936, altogether there had been nearly 800 performances at the Little Theatre and the Savoy Theatre.5 Following its triumph in London, Hsiung’s play opened on Broadway at the Booth Theatre in January 1936.6 As late as December 1950, it was revived at the Arts Theatre in London. A viewer of the revival observed that “there seems no reason why this pastiche of the Chinese theatre, which pleased London for several years before the war, should not ingratiate itself with a new generation of playgoers.”7 Another viewer accounted for the enduring fascination of this dramatic chinoiserie by comparing it to a Ming dynasty vase: “Like a Ming vase, this play has an undying fascination. Half the charm lies in telling this ancient fairy-story according to the quaint conventions of the Chinese theatre.”8 Dec­ ades after he had seen many Chinese traditional dramas produced in China and had become a distinguished Western authority on Chinese theatre, A. C. Scott recalled that, many years before he had his first visit to a traditional Chinese theatre in China, he had seen the performance of Hsiung’s play that had delighted London theatregoers, including himself, but was soon to realize “what a mere pleasing whimsy that performance had really been” (Scott 1982, 46, 48). In the late 1950s, speaking of the play’s whimsical appeal blending quaint humour with the mimicry of formal Chinese stage technique by English actors, Scott nevertheless underlined its lasting impact: It was a piece of dramatic chinoiserie which struck the right psychological note and passed into the annals of the London stage as a ‘longest run’. Chinese drama became synonymous with Lady Precious Stream in the minds of thousands and has remained so over the last twenty years. (Scott 1971, 119) Decades following its international success in the 1930s, Hsiung’s play con­ tinued to be performed on the global stage in such diverse countries as Israel, Kenya, and Ghana as well as China (Yeh 2014, 145–151). Indeed, as an inter­ national phenomenon in the history of twentieth-century intercultural theatre, the success of Hsiung’s play was indisputably unrivalled for more than half a century. In recent years, Hsiung’s play has become the subject of a few critical studies. Shuang Shen associates Lady Precious Stream with The Yellow Jacket and M. But­ terfly and considers “Peking Opera” as “an Asian American sub-genre,” which she argues has implications for a different thinking or conception of the Asian American diasporic cultural history and literary experience (Shen 2006, 88). Shen’s viewpoint has been noted and critiqued, albeit briefly, by Weihong Du (Du 2016, 360), who approaches Hsiung’s modern adaptation as an example of new discourse in early modern Chinese intercultural theatrical exchange, with its deliberately modern manipulation and permutation of Chinese tradition. For me, what is more intriguing is Shen’s argument that M. Butterfly and Lady

178 The Spectre of Tradition Precious Stream “both take advantage of Peking Opera as an alternative perfor­ mance genre to achieve the effects of defamiliarization and antirealism with regard to Chineseness” (Shen 2006, 89). I want to argue that, in contrast to M. Butterfly, which is, as Shen puts it, “a more politically conscious work” (88), Lady Precious Stream is, as I will demonstrate in the following, a self-conscious attempt to promulgate and familiarize, to its Western readers and viewers, not only an “authentic” but also an essential “Chineseness.” Indeed, Shen has noted, at the same time, Hsiung’s understanding of “the commercial value of indigenous Chinese culture in the global market” and thereby “his willingness to capitalize on Peking Opera as an iconic symbol of Chineseness” (96). Thus, given Shen’s argument that Lady Precious Stream “charted out a global space created by the circulation of Peking Opera, where multiple notions of ‘Chi­ neseness’ were performatively constructed in the contact between this cultural form and vastly different audiences” (101), it is essential to show and emphasize that underlying those “multiple notions of ‘Chineseness’” was Hsiung’s selfconscious performative construct of his notion of Chinese “Chineseness.” In her study, Diana Yeh approaches Hsiung’s modern adaptation of “an old Chinese play” as a “challenge” to the racialized fantasies of China by European or British chinoiserie. For Yeh, chinoiserie can be understood “not only as a term applied to objects or cultural forms in a Chinese style but as a practice and a mode of discourse that is constitutive of the racial formations of modernity” (Yeh 2015, 195). The production of Lady Precious Stream by the People’s National Theatre revealed the “darker side” of European or British chinoiserie in that chinoiserie served to maintain “the colonial and racial order by excising, not only from modernism, but also from modernity, the Chinese”—the modern creative contribution to modernism by Hsiung and Chinese people (196). On the other hand, Ashley Thorpe treats Lady Precious Stream as “an important, if veiled, expression of a subaltern, and modern, Chinese perspective in 1930s Britain,” which “did at least provide Hsiung with an opportunity to have a voice in British society” (Thorpe 2016, 133). In my view, the production of Lady Precious Stream by the People’s National Theatre served to maintain “the colonial and racial order” not only by excising the Chinese from modernism and modernity, but also by redefining and displacing the Chinese from the perspectives of Eurocentric modernism and modernity. In terms of form, as a chinoiserie and, more importantly, as a Chinese chinoiserie in compar­ ison with an American or European chinoiserie, Hsiung’s play served to valorize the Eurocentric modernist displacement of Chinese theatre. In terms of content, in its attempt to exorcise the dark side of the Chinese past that was stereotyped as pri­ mitive barbarism in the racialized fantasies of China by European chinoiserie, Hsiung’s modernized version conjured up the spectre of a romanticized version of European chinoiserie that idealized Chinese civilization. Thus, this idealized aspect of Hsiung’s Chinese chinoiserie was internalized and domesticated by the English romantic and sentimental traditions. In this chapter, I approach Hsiung’s play as a self-Orientalized and Angli­ cized/Europeanized Chinese chinoiserie, an indigenous Chinese play translated

The Fabrication of Tradition 179 and adapted by a Chinese in a European language, produced and performed by Europeans on a European stage, and thus displaced into the historical context of European chinoiserie and European theatrical modernism. It demonstrates that Lady Precious Stream was at once a validation of the tradition of European chi­ noiserie with its idealization of Chinese culture, which was Anglicized in the English romantic, sentimental, and melodramatic traditions, and a validation of the Eurocentric modernist perspective of Chinese theatrical tradition.

A Chinese Chinoiserie Self-Orientalized The success of Hsiung’s play as a piece of Chinese chinoiserie was conditioned, in the first place, by its self-assertion of its Chinese identity and its self-author­ ization of its authentic Chineseness and, at the same time, by a conscious selfOrientalization that (dis)placed itself in the tradition of European chinoiserie. Thus, as a Chinese chinoiserie, Lady Precious Stream was at once haunted by the spectre of ancient Chinese theatrical tradition that Hsiung deliberately invoked to authenticate its Chinese identity and by the spectre of the tradition of Eur­ opean chinoiserie as a result of Hsiung’s conscious self-Orientalization. To have a clear view of the (dis)placement of Hsiung’s play in the tradition of British chinoiserie theatre, it is necessary to have a brief review of the British reception of the two chinoiserie plays mentioned above, The Yellow Jacket and The Circle of Chalk. Less than five months after its opening on Broadway on November 4, 1912, The Yellow Jacket, “a Chinese play done in a Chinese manner” (Hazelton and Benrimo 1913), written by two Americans, George C. Hazelton and J. H. Benrimo, was staged at the Duke of York’s on March 27, 1913. According to one British critic, “All the antique arts of the most gifted Eastern nation, the Chinese, are now so fully appreciated in Europe that the time has long since been ripe for us to see a Chinese play produced in the native manner.”9 The British audience, however, was not ready to accept and appreciate an authentic Chinese play other than a piece of chinoiserie. For the same critic, “the actual Chinese theatre contains too much meaningless noise, an excess of fighting, and too gross an inconsequence to fit in any way with Western standards”; thus, The Yellow Jacket, this “exotic experiment” that made this whole play “elegantly adapted to Western tastes,” was “much more pleasing to us than would have been a bald transfer of an original drama.”10 The reviewer for The Observer perhaps provides the best summary of the “many delightful features” of “Chineseries” (sic) in The Yellow Jacket: in dress and decoration; of production done with a set of Chinese conventions, “sometimes very Elizabethan and always very different from those of our own theatre”; a “little Chinese orchestra” at the back playing “pleasant little pseudo-Chinese music”; in the play itself with some of the “Chineseries” (sic) being “very occidental”; and best of all, the all too visible presence of the property man.11 While acknowledging that The Yellow Jacket was staged “indisputably ‘in the Chinese manner,’” Herbert Farjeon (1887–1945), an influential British

180 The Spectre of Tradition dramatic critic, playwright, and theatre manager, noted that “the acting or the point of view informing the production” was, more than anything, “stolidly Occidental” and seemed to mock the production for its lack of scenery, underlining “the implied absurdity of anything but realism” (Farjeon 1913, 464). In Farjeon’s view, “When the producers do allow the Chinese methods of production to have their own way undisturbed, the illusion is far more convincing than any obtained by our own realistic methods” (464). Another critic attacked the idea of The Yellow Jacket as “butchering the Chinese native drama to make a European holiday”: its persistently strident musical accom­ paniment was mercifully softened and its acrobatic features were almost entirely eliminated; while the costumes and decorations—evocative of chinoiserie—were kept “magnificently Chinese to gratify the eye,” the conventions of the Chi­ nese theatre in Chinatown were strung together to be laughed at (P. C. 1913, 10). The reviewer writing for The Times of the revival of the play at the Kingsway Theatre noted that it was made up of “decorative fragments, of which you may detach one or two without damaging a dramatic fabric.”12 As noted previously, Gordon Craig saw the British production of The Yellow Jacket as a piece of chinoiserie and “a nice parody of the Chinese way,” especially its misuse of the property man, “a sensation to the yokels of London” (Craig 1923, 33). It is interesting and illuminating to look at some early responses to the suc­ cess of The Yellow Jacket by contemporary Chinese critics. Wang Zhongxian (1888–1937), one of the pioneers of modern Chinese theatre, underlined the fakeness of the play’s “Chinese manner” by suggesting that none of the Chi­ nese would assume that the most important character in The Yellow Jacket was the property man. He shared a Chinese critic’s view of the cultural irony in the performance of this early “intercultural” play: Had the play been performed by the Chinese, we would certainly have criticized it as a childish play; it is only because it was performed by people of the white race that we cannot but praise it as a worthy drama. (Wang 1921, 5) Another Chinese critic remarked that because foreigners did not understand the secret of China’s old theatre, although they intended to use the “impres­ sionistic” conventions of the Chinese theatre—suggestive of the impressionistic chinoiserie art, The Yellow Jacket became something that was “neither a donkey nor a horse” (Xi 1941, 12). Yao Ke (or Yao Hsin-Nung), a left-leaning play­ wright and critic, lamented the fact that the significant impact of the Chinese theatre on the Euro-American stage after the First World War did not stem from an authentic Chinese play but rather from The Yellow Jacket, “a seemingly plausible but actually fake Chinese play” (Yao 1940a, 12) or “a play neither Chinese nor Western” (Yao 1940b, 17). In contrast to The Yellow Jacket, The Circle of Chalk, produced by Basil Dean at the New Theatre in March 1929, appeared more “Chinese” as it had a

The Fabrication of Tradition 181 definite Chinese source in addition to some Chinese theatrical conventions. An imported chinoiserie, James Laver’s version was a straight English translation of Der Kreidekreis (The Chalk Circle, 1925), an adaptation by the German writer Klabund (Alfred Henschke, 1890–1928), based on a German version of Sta­ nislas Julien’s 1832 French translation of The Story of the Chalk Circle (Huilan ji), a thirteenth-century Yuan drama written by Li Qianfu (or Li Xingdao). But at the same time, more than The Yellow Jacket, Dean’s thirdhand chinoiserie was an Oriental dish cooked for Occidental tastes. James Laver noted that “Klabund was compelled, for Western taste, to make two important modifications in the original play: he had to tone down its ruthlessness, and he had to provide what is called ‘love-interest’” (Laver 1929, xi). E. F. C. Ludowyk’s words best summarize Klabund’s play, likening it to “that species of Oriental cookery intended solely for Occidental tastes, and much more satisfying than the real thing”: Characteristic of Klabund’s Kreidekreis are three sets of commonplaces: the German intelligentsia’s stock responses to China; the clichés of con­ temporary liberal thought; and those of Romantic sentiment. In the thick sweet-sour sauce of the latter float easily distinguishable pieces of chinoiserie, together with unexceptionable meaty slices of good humanitarian feeling. (Ludowyk 1960, 253) Citing Shaw’s sentiment against “the Chinatown play,” as noted previously, Ivor Brown, British writer and dramatic critic, thus remarked of the Western romanticization of the original Chinese play in The Circle of Chalk: “The story of the play itself is certainly a pigtail feuilleton made succulent with the romanticism that is more of Chinatown than of China,” and it was “well calculated to arouse emotional vibrations in the hearts of the modern West” (Brown 1929a, 390). To him, the little victim, the heroine, is “a figure whom one imagines to be more native to Peg’s Paper than to Old Peking,” and “the amorous Prince is not spiritually a Chinaman at all but a foreign hero from the romantic bookshelf” (390–391).13 Considering the labelling of the play as a “chinoiserie” “a denigration unworthy of Laver’s sensitive play,” Dean was nevertheless aware of the difficulty of staging “this fascinating chinoiserie”: “A tea-house and a judge’s court in mediaeval China, the throne room of the Imperial Palace—not to mention a Chinese landscape in a snowstorm” (Dean 1973, 65). Instead of using the Chinese method of conventional acting and staging without realistic scenery, Dean chose to go back to the English tradition of “productionism.” Many British critics noted that the morality, the legend, the simplicity, and any vitality the play possessed under “an eiderdown of rather old-fashioned chinoiserie” (Omicron 1929, 881) were heavily handicapped, weighed down, and ultimately smothered by Dean’s penchant for overloaded stage effects and business (Morgan 1929, 2; G. W. B. 1929, 1). Another critic simply called Dean’s production a “great chariot of productionism.”14 All in all, “it is China seen through Mr. Basil Dean

182 The Spectre of Tradition and Mr. Aubrey Hammond’s spy-glass” (G. W. B. 1929, 1). Thus, for Charles Langbridge Morgan (1894–1958), an English playwright and critic who once had a two-year stay in China and “a bowing acquaintance” with the Chinese theatre, Dean’s production was not Chinese and served as “a warning against the danger of mixing styles and of using what was once a work of art as the framework of an exhibition conceived in a spirit that appears to be alien to that of the original” (Morgan 1929, 2). Dean’s production that converted the play into an exhibition of his “production­ ism” was mixed with the old-fashioned chinoiserie in terms of the play’s scenic, cos­ tume, and music designs. Brown was pleased with Aubrey Hammond’s “scenic Chinoiserie” and praised Ernest Irving’s “musical variants on Chinese Cymbalism” as “extremely delightful” (Brown 1929b, 15). Dean himself acknowledged that Irving’s music was “a pastiche of Chinese music, suitably Europeanised” (Dean 1973, 66). Hammond’s design of Chinese costumes was, however, criticized by James Agate, an influential British critic, for his “passion for archaeological correctness”: Had the costumes been worn inside out they would have been quite as convincing and probably even more Chinese.… Mr. Hammond would know his Far East sufficiently for my purpose if he had never been further than Limehouse. (Agate 1929b, 6) Thus, as Agate suggested, a chinoiserie that suggests “Chineseness” would have been more “Chinese” than a historically and archeologically authentic Chinese play and would have been sufficient for the taste of the English audiences who had become familiar with “the Chinatown play” decried by Shaw. Dean himself considered his production of the play a “failure” (Dean 1973, 69). However, he did not attribute the failure to his “productionism” with its pursuit of historical accuracy that smothered the fantastic and the imaginative of the play, making it a lesser chinoiserie than The Yellow Jacket. He attributed it to his choice of the Chinese-American actress Anna May Wong, with her Amer­ ican accent, when “any attractive English ingénue with good voice and gesture might well have carried the production to success—perhaps for so long a time as Chu Chin Chow” (67–68).15 Wong was faulted by many critics for her Americanized voice. One critic noted that there was “much more of Anna and May, unfortunately, than of Wong in the lady’s voice, which imparts an uncomfortable dissonance, a plaintive monotone of New England preachiness, to the chinoiserie” (Jennings 1929, 458).16 In spite of Wong’s American accent, Wong must have been imagined to have the function of supplementing Chinese authenticity to the play’s chinoiserie by virtue of her Chinese racial identity and her complexion and physicality, which, as I have investigated in Chapter 4, inspired Walter Benjamin’s ima­ ginary portrayal of her as “a Chinoiserie from the Old West,” despite the fact that she was born in the United States as a third-generation Chinese-American, that she had never been to China, and that she had never acted in a Chinatown

The Fabrication of Tradition 183 17

theatre. For instance, in his cliché-laden Orientalist and sexist rhapsody over Wong’s “Eastern grace and charm” in her performance that “would decorate the harem of the Khan of Khans,” Sydney W. Carroll (George Frederick Carl Whiteman 1877–1958), British actor, dramatic critic, and theatre manager, referred to the Chinese-American actress as “a true Chinese,” “this little Hea­ then Chinese,” or “The Wong,” and asserted the essential “Chineseness” of her performance—“the perfect ensemble of the delectable Wong,” including par­ ticularly “the essentially Chinese production of her voice” (Carroll 1929, 19). In his judgement, because of Dean’s choice of Wong, the English producer “has seldom…. captured the soul of a country so firmly, so dexterously as he has in this study of Chinoiserie” (19). In contrast to The Yellow Jacket and The Circle of Chalk that were “Western imitations,” Lady Precious Stream was a Chinese product. Indeed, that authentic “Chineseness” was what Hsiung had deliberately wanted to capitalize on for the success of his play. It was subtitled as an “old” Chinese play done according to its “traditional” style. Hsiung strenuously assured his English readers and viewers of the Chinese authenticity of his adaptation, proclaiming that he had not attempted in the least to alter anything, that he presented “a typical play exactly as produced on a Chinese stage,” and that it was “every inch a Chinese play except the language” (Hsiung 1934b, xvi–xvii; 1934c, 10; 1934d). Hsiung seemed to have succeeded in brokering the “Chineseness” of his play with the elite class of his English readers and viewers. According to W. A. Darlington, a British writer and critic, Hsiung’s play had “a genuineness” that The Yellow Jacket and The Circle of Chalk lacked, for it was written in English by a Chinese author (Darlington 1934, 10).18 Darlington, who knew little about Chinese theatre and culture, saw the Chinese authorship of the play as an automatic authentication of its “Chineseness.” Another critic noted that, unlike all other Chinese plays on the British stage that had been seen through Western eyes, Hsiung’s play staged at the Little Theatre was “what may be called Chinese Chinese”: “Here is a production one might actually expect to see well East of Suez, untrammelled by Shaftesbury Avenue or Broadway, and with the added attraction of being in the ancient Chinese tradition into the bargain.”19 But Hsiung’s Chinese “Chineseness,” or what Brown called the “Chinese quaintness” (Brown 1935b, 934), was not seen from the historical perspective of Chinese theatre but perceived from the Orientalist sensibility of European chinoiserie. Leslie Rees, dramatic critic for The Era, was not interested in the relatively bare stage as characteristic of the Chinese staging convention; he was more delighted by the chinoiserie decoration of the stage—“side-tapestries, a gorgeous blue silk back-cloth and an exquisite procession of Chinese gowns and drapings” (Rees 1934, 12). Critics invariably used typical Orientalist stock vocabulary to characterize Hsiung’s play: “that delicious piece of chinoiserie” (E. L. 1935, 4); “The Chinese fantasy”;20 “a fairy-story” without “any qualities more substantial than charm and grace” (Verschoyle 1934, 876); “a delicate fancy, a cup of the finest porcelain filled to the brim with the unbelievable.”21 Other critics emphasized its simplicity, naïveté, and purity. Thus, for one critic,

184 The Spectre of Tradition Hsiung’s play conveyed “the naïve purity of sentiment which pervades, like the mellowed gold in a Chinese tapestry,” and provided “genuine refreshment, and no mere stimulant or narcotic, for Western nerves.”22 While characteristic of the stock Orientalist idealization of the Chinese past, J. B. Priestley’s response to Lady Precious Stream also exemplifies the British elitist and aristocratic imagination of Chinese history and culture. Priestley, who acknowledged that he had never been to China, had relished his fantastic Orientalist vision and imagination of “the Celestial Empire” through “the tiny windows” of chinoiserie—Chinese paintings, drawings, pottery, and poems. Refusing to accept “an up-to-date China on either the American or Russian plan” and bemoaning the fact that “the fantastic old Empire has gone like smoke—all the poetical civil servants, the philosophical generals, the unimaginable emperors and their golden girls” and that “there is merely another vast Asiatic country filled with people clamouring for cigar­ ettes and canned goods,” Priestley found in Hsiung’s play one of those “tiny windows” that allowed him “so many enchanting glimpses of remote old China” and of “all the strange charm of that ancient civilization, with its naiveté and its wisdom, its unique delicacy and its earthly realism” (Priestley 1950, 7–8). In spite of their imaginary fascination with Old Cathay, the British audiences and critics were in actuality more interested in a chinoiserie than an authentic ancient Chinese play. Despite his claim, Hsiung’s adaptation is far from being an authentic “old” and “traditional” Chinese play, as he later acknowledged: From the very beginning I have never tried to disguise the fact that Lady Precious Stream is a commonplace melodrama, and it is far from my inten­ tion to leave anybody to wonder at the excellence of classical Chinese drama by comparing it with this popular commercial drama. (Hsiung 1939, 177) Following Lady Precious Stream, Hsiung translated The Romance of the Western Chamber, a classical Chinese play, much more “ancient” and “traditional.” Hsiung himself took great pride in introducing The Western Chamber to his English readers and audiences as “really an artistic play,” reminding them that it was written in the thirteenth century by perhaps two of China’s great poets (Hsiung 1968, xxxviii). This time Hsiung did not venture to take liberties with the original text as he did with Lady Precious Stream. Indeed, in Hsiung’s “authentic” translation, the elite class of British writers and critics marvelled at “the excellence of classical Chinese drama.” According to Hsiung, Shaw con­ sidered The Western Chamber far better than Lady Precious Stream, the former being “a commonplace melodrama” and the latter “a delightful dramatic poem” like the best English medieval plays (Hsiung 1939, 177). Likewise, according to Gordon Bottomley, poet and playwright who, following W. B. Yeats, had his share of the early European japonaiserie interest in Japanese classical - 23 The Western Chamber was No,

The Fabrication of Tradition 185 a faithful reproduction of a highly organized and subtle play that represents the impressive standards set by the Chinese theatre at a time when the naïve simplicities of the nun Hroswitha were symptomatic of the only drama that remained in the Western world. (Bottomley 1936, ix) As a whole and complete theatre, like that of the ancient Greeks, Chinese drama “has everything to tell to the British theatre that the British theatre most needs to learn—or remember” (ix). But, to others, Hsiung’s “authentic” translation proved to be pitifully “a rather stilted piece of work” and much less interesting (Anderson 1935, 203), and its production done with the conventions of Chinese theatre was no longer engaging, as there was “plenty of manner but very little matter” (R. C. 1939, 6). Speaking of the performance of The Western Chamber, Brown noted the appeal of authentic classical Chinese theatre to the English audiences: The average Englishman’s response to the Chinese drama of the thirteenth century may well be ‘Yes, charming—for forty minutes.’ Mr. Hsiung’s job is to convince him that the next eighty minutes will not merely repeat the whimsical and decorative dose. (Brown 1938, 13) Hsiung failed to bring The Western Chamber to a lasting success, not only because it merely repeated “the whimsical and decorative dose” of Chinese theatre, but because it was perhaps too “authentic” as a Chinese chinoiserie of the thirteenth century, not modernized and familiarized enough to have a strong and lasting appeal to the sensibility of the modern Western public. In an attempt to underscore the distinction of Chinese drama from European romantic drama and the superiority of Chinese civilization that regarded a man of learning highly, as fit to be “a hero and idol of romance,” Brown may have unintentionally accounted for the failure of Hsiung’s play. “The hero of this love-story,” Brown reminded his English viewers, “is none of your dashers and slashers who have gone spurring and stabbing through romantic drama from the beginnings of that game” (13). According to another viewer, the Chinese acting and scenic conventions as shown in the performance of The Western Chamber ensure the fluidity and smoothness of narrative and storytelling that cannot be approached in the West in the Shakespearean theatre, even on a revolving stage, or by the flicker of a cinematograph, for, in Chinese theatre, there is no scenery to be changed, no existence of “the so-called ‘fourth wall,’” and therefore no break in dramatic action and illusion. Thus, for the viewer, the performance of The Western Chamber had “more than a little interest” for some to reflect on “the nature of dramatic illusion.”24 Such “special value” as noted by the viewer, however, was lost to average audience members who, amused by its exotic difference, may have regarded it as merely “charmingly or entertainingly freakish.”25 Indeed,

186 The Spectre of Tradition for all his appreciation for the Chinese ideas on décor, Sydney Carroll argued that, as the exception of Lady Precious Stream—“a reaction from expensive décor”—proved to be nothing but “a delightful departure from custom,” the Chinese ideas, or the “imaginative Chinese principles,” cannot be pursued indefinitely on the British stage and cannot be “indulged” by a majority of British playgoers who “unfortunately need to have their visions made for them,” instead of exercising their own imagination (Carroll 1934, 6). The popular success of Lady Precious Stream may also have been, ironically, instrumental in depriving the British public of the only chance to see an authentic performance of traditional Chinese theatre by its greatest exponent, Mei Lanfang, as suggested by A. C. Scott. Following his triumph in the Soviet Union, Mei arrived in London sometime between late April and early May 1935. According to Scott, excited to perform there, Mei “was even prepared to put up fifty per cent of the money required,” and yet, even with Hsiung’s assistance, no manager was found “ready to take the risk of staging Chinese theatre” (Scott 1971, 119).26 In his speech upon his return to Shanghai in early August, Mei stated that, although British theatre circles and the Sino-British diplomatic sides were enthusiastically looking forward to Mei’s performance in London and had repeatedly contacted the Chinese actor, it could not be decided in a short time because of the barriers in language and cultural com­ munication and of the difficulties of making appropriate arrangements for it. Mei added that he lived with Hsiung for a month in London and was impressed by the success of Hsiung’s play.27 Mei’s account notwithstanding, the main reason for Mei’s failure to secure an engagement could be that the London managers may have been doubtful of the lasting appeal of Mei’s “classical” performance to the British public and of its potential to rival the commercial success of Hsiung’s play. But seen from the perspective of Mei’s Chinese theatre, had Mei performed there for the British public, it would have been even more ironic, as his performance must have been perceived in light of traditional European chinoiserie or, more opportunely, of Hsiung’s Chinese chinoiserie. Hsiung’s self-Orientalization of Chinese theatre underlying the overseas success of his play was condemned in China by progressive writers and critics. According to Barbara Whittingham-Jones, a British journalist, by its “very success in popularising antique China” and by exploiting “the nostalgia for Old Cathay,” Lady Precious Stream did “a disservice to the new Republic still in the convulsion of revolution” and Hsiung was attacked by revolutionaries who argued that China’s patriotic cause would have been better served if Hsiung had introduced “China’s modern and dynamic revolutionary drama” to Wes­ tern theatre instead of staging “antique classics saturated with discarded Con­ fucian philosophy” (Whittingham-Jones 1944, 48). Thus, Yao Hsin-Nung called for the exit of Hsiung’s play for the future of Chinese theatre. In his view, the success of Hsiung’s play was no proof of “the Peking opera’s fitness for China today” but mere evidence of “the West being bored by their own hackneyed stagecraft”; it cannot lead to any doubt of “the disability of the

The Fabrication of Tradition 187 Peking opera to cope with the life of young China” (Yao 1935, 250). The most scathing attack on Hsiung’s play was launched by Hong Shen, one of the influential left-wing playwrights and critics. Hong Shen accused Hsiung of catering to foreigners’ tastes and of being sympathetic to their prejudice against everything modern in China, including modern Chinese drama and cinema, and to their predilection for the Chinese past, including China’s old theatre. In his view, Hsiung’s play was simply a “falsification” of Chinese theatre and life and, like those treasured Chinese antiques seen at the Exhibition of Chinese Art at Burlington House in 1935, could do nothing good for China because it failed to draw English viewers’ attention to the determination of the Chinese people struggling to liberate and save their nation from foreign enemies. Thus, Hong dismissed Hsiung’s play—and his dishonest efforts to get rich—as an insult to the Chinese nation (Hong 1936). In his response to Hong Shen’s criticism, insisting on the value of traditional Chinese culture to be recognized, Hsiung contended that he did not overlook or look down upon new and modern Chinese culture and denied that his play was an insult to the Chinese nation (Fen 1937; Jian Zi 1937). As a demon­ stration of his interest in modern Chinese history and culture, Hsiung wrote The Professor from Peking five years after the publication of Lady Precious Stream. He emphasized that, in writing this modern Chinese play, he aimed to give the public in the West “a glimpse” of China’s “modern drama and modern life” and to correct and dispel those Western misconceptions of China (Hsiung 1939, 184). Yet, it failed to capture the imagination of the English audiences and critics, who, having been charmed by European chinoiserie and, in parti­ cular, by Hsiung’s Chinese chinoiserie, did not appreciate such a modern Chi­ nese play. Lord Dunsany (Edward Plunkett, 1878–1957), an Irish writer and dramatist of fantasy and exotica, deplored the fact that in The Professor from Peking, “the land of Lady Precious Stream”—“this land of dragons, peach-trees, peonies, and plum-blossoms, with its ages and ages of culture, slowly storing its dreams in green jade, porcelain, and gold”—“is complicated by telephones, bombs, and Communism” as a result of its getting to know, “unfortunately,” too much of the West (Dunsany 1939, viii).28 The production of the play at the Malvern Festival was seen as a damning proof that modern Chinese drama “has little of the grace but all the leisureliness that belonged to the old,” even though “the profusion of authentic local colour is meant to correct the average European’s mistaken conception of the Chinese as a race of Mr. Wu’s.”29 Similarly, while acknowledging that “nothing could be more laudable” than Hsiung’s pronounced intention to present “the modern Chinese as he really is, and not as the English stage has hitherto conceived him,” James Agate con­ tended that “what Mr. Hsiung has failed to ask himself is whether he knows English audiences sufficiently to make his authenticities amusing” and that “the plot, dealing with the shadowy politics of a much too far Far East, was almost entirely incomprehensible” (Agate 1939, 4). Alan Dent, a Scottish critic and apprentice to Agate, simply called Hsiung’s play “the oddest sort of Sino-Vic­ torian melodrama” (Dent 1939, 217).

188 The Spectre of Tradition

A Chinese Chinoiserie Anglicized Lady Precious Stream distinguished itself as a Chinese chinoiserie but, at the same time, it familiarized and fascinated the English viewers as a self-Orientalized and Anglicized Chinese chinoiserie. Hsiung’s modern adaptation served to vali­ date the tradition of European chinoiserie that idealized Chinese civilization and was internalized and domesticated by the English romantic and sentimental traditions. Hsiung’s approach to the original Chinese play participates in Klabund’s romantic treatment of traditional Chinese drama, as noted previously. Likewise, Hsiung modernized and romanticized the old Chinese play. Hsiung replaced many profanities in the original play with new jokes and humours and elimi­ nated its portrayal of cruelties;30 the original heroine, Wang Baochuan, turns into a 16-year-old feminist who wants to choose her own husband (Bulloch 1934, 10); Hsieh Ping-Kuei is ordered by Precious Stream to kneel down to his mother-in-law to show that he “hold[s] the female sex in higher esteem” (Hsiung 1934a, 47); and polygamy is replaced by modern romance. Accord­ ing to one critic, the performance by the English actors did not affect the English viewers as “even approximately Chinese,” and yet they were charmed throughout by “its oddity, its fairy-tale sentimentality, and its pantomimic humours” (Carroll 1934, 6). As noted previously, because of these changes Hsiung was accused by his contemporary Chinese critics of distorting ancient Chinese life and culture in his efforts to cater to the tastes of Western audiences. The beginning of the play showing Prime Minister Wang Yun celebrating New Year’s Day and having a family feast in the garden to enjoy the snow was entirely Hsiung’s own invention.31 Paradoxically and uncannily, it was Hsiung’s modern invention that stimulated Lascelles Abercrombie’s fantastic imagination of “the secret” of the ancient Chinese way of life. For Aber­ crombie, a noted British poet and literary critic who once regarded the Greeks and the Chinese as “the two most profoundly artistic peoples in history” (Abercrombie 1924, 46), the real force of Hsiung’s “Chinese magic” does not lie in the imaginative techniques of Chinese theatre but in its revelation of “the secret” of life that Westerners did not have but that was enjoyed by the enchanted and charming people of Hsiung’s nation (Abercrombie 1934, viii). After all, regardless of the play’s original Chinese authenticity, what really mattered was Abercrombie’s sentimental nostalgic desire for the European past that slumbered in his depths and that struck a chord with his Orientalist idea­ lization and romanticization of the Chinese past. Similarly, Brown contended that rather than its theatrical conventions, the real pleasures of Chinese theatre rest in the “simplicity of emotion” and in the charming story of the play: “the eternal story of elementary romance,” a romance of “patience without a monument” to the faithful heroine who, “constant as Penelope,” has been living in poverty in a cave for 18 years waiting for her hus­ band’s return (Brown 1935a). For another viewer, with its “pellucid simplicity and

The Fabrication of Tradition 189 romantic pathos,” this “fragile Cinderella-like story,” like “a fragrant cup of China tea,” is “worthy of Jane Austen, the lessons of patience rewarded and loyalty esti­ mated at its true worth.”32 According to Hsiung, during the time he was writing his play, he saw every play staged in London, no matter whether it was a success or a failure, and paid particular attention to the audiences’ responses to the performances. He acknowledged that the audiences of the London theatres were the teachers from whom he benefitted most (Hsiung 1986, 95). With such first-hand experience, Hsiung managed to make his adaptation appeal to both the high­ brows and the lowbrows of London audiences (Fang 1936, 14). Lin Yutang, Hsiung’s contemporary Chinese writer who came to be known to the West for his writings on Chinese culture,33 accounted for the success of Hsiung’s play by underscoring “the most singular characteristic” of his English translation: “its apt and happy manner of making things clear to an English audience,” which makes the tone of his characters—the Prime Minister and his family talking about the disgrace of having their daughter married to a gardener—“so typi­ cally English” that one might believe it to be any one of the English lords and ladies protesting against the marriage of his or her daughter to a commoner (Lin 1935b, 108). One of Hsiung’s contemporary Chinese critics, Wen Yuan-ning, a Britishtrained professor of English literature, emphasized James Barrie’s influence on Hsiung’s play. Years before he landed in Britain, Hsiung had developed a deep interest in Barrie’s work and had translated a number of his plays, including The Admirable Crichton and Peter Pan. In Wen’s view, “No doubt, in translating Barrie’s plays into Chinese, Mr. Hsiung has soaked himself through and through with the idioms and turns of that dramatist,” and Hsiung showed himself very much, “even in the very choice of subject for translation,” to be “a disciple” of Barrie. Like Barrie’s Dear Brutus and The Admirable Crichton, Wen continued, Lady Precious Stream is “the creation of Fancy, not of Imagination…. It produces no stir in the depths, there is only a ripple on the surface,—a ripple of laughter, and of tears” (Wen 1934). American critic George Jean Nathan described Barrie’s dramatic “trick” as “a statement of the sentimental in terms of the mildly cynical,” characterized by all those “much lauded Barrie qualities” that appear in his plays: “the old ‘charm,’ ‘wistfulness,’ ‘eerie fancy,’ and ‘delicate imagination’” (Nathan 1921, 133–134; 1923, 95–97). Arguing that Barrie “has kept the balance between cynicism and sentimentalism,” J. B. Priestley, also known for his fair share of sentimentalism in his novels and plays (visible, more or less, in his fantastic Orientalist imagination of the Chinese past discussed previously), likewise noted that “all the familiar Barrie traits, humour, pathos, elfin charm” are “fully displayed” in his plays (Priestley 1929, 115, 119). All these “Barrie qualities” or “Barrie traits” can also be used, and were in fact used by British critics, to describe Hsiung’s play. As noted previously, both Shaw and Hsiung saw Lady Precious Stream as a piece of commonplace melodrama. James Agate had a good summary of the attributes of “the saving grace” of a good melodrama: it makes “a whole-hearted appeal” to the

190 The Spectre of Tradition whole gallery of audiences with different tastes and “it reiterates in and out of season that which popular audiences most wish to hear” (Agate 1922, 212). According to Agate, the success of melodrama depends on two prime conditions: the first is that “it shall deal simply with simple things”; the second is that “it shall have comic as well as serious attributes, and deal broadly in the stuff of simple humour” (215). In contrast to tragedy that moves through pity and terror, Agate observed, “melodrama functions through pity and fun” (223). A chinoiserie play has all the main attributes of melodrama: use of stock characters (suffering heroine duly rewarded and villain duly punished in the end; buffoons providing comic relief with humours and clowning); dramatic situations with suspension and amazement; happy ending; a good dose of morality; and, to crown it all, the exoticism of chinoiserie that adds to the overall dramatic effect and to the imagination of the audiences. Like its two chinoiserie predecessors, Lady Precious Stream has all the hallmarks characteristic of a piece of English melodrama with added flavours of a Chinese chinoiserie. Critics described The Yellow Jacket as “the curious medley of melodrama, farce, panto­ mime, and Miracle Play,”34 or as “an exalted and fanciful fairy story, full of paradisiacal impossibilities, light sententiousness, snow-flake sorrows, and mar­ velous perils” (MacCarthy 1922, 673). The Circle of Chalk was viewed as “a good melodrama with a happy ending in a Chinese setting.”35 A reviewer for The Sunday Times noted the “unmistakable” similarity of Lady Precious Stream to some of the English “simpler melodramas” (Bulloch 1934, 10). Punch offered a parody of the play’s Chinese theatrical conventions by applying them to Eng­ lish crime plays (Eric 1934, 664–665).36 In the view of one contemporary Chinese critic, Hsiung’s claim for the Chinese authenticity of his play was “a strategy of attracting his readers and audiences,” and, with all the changes Hsiung made, Lady Precious Stream was not much different from popular Eng­ lish melodrama with clear-cut character portrayal, fantastic plot, and moving happy ending (Chen 1937). The fusion in Hsiung’s play of Chinese chinoiserie with English romantic, sentimental, and melodramatic elements fuelled its commercial success. Before the production of Hsiung’s play, Nancy Price had eloquently argued for thea­ tre’s need and privilege to foster the best art and against theatre managers’ desire for commercial gain at the expense of art (Price 1933, 8). But the play was written and produced with the author’s and producer’s keen awareness of its economic benefits. Hsiung later acknowledged that he wrote this “com­ monplace melodrama” or “popular commercial drama” (Hsiung 1939, 177) for “a solely commercial reason” (168). Price reported that the performances by the People’s National Theatre in the season of 1934 were all significant finan­ cial failures, with the sole exception of Hsiung’s “wonderfully refreshing” play that made a profit of more than £537 for the company (Price 1935, 14–15). In his short view of contemporary English stage, Agate made a fine distinction between the drama and the theatre: “The drama is an aesthetic phenomenon, the theatre is an economic proposition” (Agate 1926, 9). But this differentiation cannot be considered absolute. While W. B. Yeats’s drama, for instance, was

The Fabrication of Tradition 191 primarily aesthetically oriented, Barrie’s was economically driven. Likewise, Lady Precious Stream was written and produced with a clear economic interest. The great commercial success of Hsiung’s play serves as a reminder of what Shaw had attacked as “commercial speculations” of those “sham Chinese plays” (G. B. S. 1897, 489) and of what Craig had warned artists from “the ancient East” against imitating in the West—the “‘fresh spirit’…of Commercialism,” which, for Craig, would inevitably lead to the death of their ancient art (Craig 1913, 90).

A Chinese Chinoiserie Modernized In Lady Precious Stream, as in such similar chinoiserie plays as The Yellow Jacket and The Circle of Chalk, the visually stylized decorative use of Chinese theatrical conventions was evocative of the impressionistic and non-naturalistic chinoiserie art. Not a “naturalistic” or historical representation, it had no substance of the spirit of Chi­ nese theatre but simulated its “Chineseness” and appealed to the anti-naturalistic imagination of traditional Chinese or “Oriental” theatre by the European avant­ garde. For instance, as early as 1907, V. E. Meyerhold wrote of the importance of decorative design as opposed to scenic naturalism, citing Japanese theatre: “But just as the theatre must not revert to naturalism, equally it must not become merely ‘decorative’ (unless the word be interpreted in the same sense as in the Japanese theatre)” (Meyerhold 1969, 57). A few years later, Meyerhold defined what he called the “decorative task” from the perspective of his anti-naturalistic and anti-psychological theatre of the grotesque: The grotesque aims to subordinate psychologism to a decorative task. That is why in every theatre which has been dominated by the grotesque the aspect of design in its widest sense has been so important (for example, the Japanese theatre). Not only the settings, the architecture of the stage, and the theatre itself are decorative, but also the mime, movements, gestures and poses of the actors. (141) But, in contrast to the surface decoration of Chinese theatrical and performance conventions in Hsiung’s play, Meyerhold’s use of theatrical chinoiserie and japo­ naiserie was welded into his modernist ideas and practices. Hence the difference: Hsiung’s play was a Chinese chinoiserie decorated with a simulation of the method of traditional Chinese staging and acting translated as symptomatic of European theatrical modernity; Meyerhold’s theatre was a fundamentally Eur­ opean modernist art welded with an anti-naturalistic and anti-psychological decorative style transposed from the traditions of Chinese and Japanese theatres. The European (British) perception of the modernity of Hsiung’s play was in line with its view of The Yellow Jacket and was influenced by the imported American chinoiserie. Critics noted that The Yellow Jacket appealed to the imagi­ nation of the audiences and proved to be “a salutary corrective” to stage realism

192 The Spectre of Tradition (P. C. 1913, 10; E. F. S. 1913, 10).37 For St. John Ervine, British playwright and critic, the play divided the audiences into two classes: “the imaginative” and “the unimaginative” (St. J. E. 1922, 11). J. T. Grein, British impresario and dramatic critic, also underlined the appeal of Chinese theatre to the “imagina­ tive powers” of the audiences and the modern advantage of its imaginative scenic simplicity over the laborious European scenic naturalism: Curiously enough, the Chinese setting of two chairs with a piece of bro­ caded red silk carelessly draped over them is a more fanciful love-boat than, for instance, the laborious Venetian scenery which in the barcarolle of the ‘Contes d’Hoffmann’ we saw at Hammerstein’s. (Grein 1913, 6). The modernity of Chinese theatre was suggested in a statement made by Grein years later that “one of the most remarkable developments of the modern theatre is the progress in the economy of scenery”: the tendency is to make the scenery subservient to imagination; the audience is taught to exercise their sense of the imaginative (Grein 1921, 30). Another viewer was even more enthusiastic over “the Eastern view” shown in The Yellow Jacket that attached first importance to the power of imagination and suggestion in contrast to the “unimaginative” belief of English audiences in “imitation [of] life and nature” and in the “realism” of the stock scenery, properties, and spectacles on the British stage (S. O. 1913, 319). The viewer found in the property man “a new dramatic power” that rises to “the sublimity of Æschylean tragedy” and that has “a dramatic effect that [August] Strindberg aimed at in his mystic plays”—“this duality of the visible with the invisible” successfully revealed by “this Chinese method” (321). The same viewer was convinced of the significant impact of the production of this Chinese play on modern European theatre: If only as a lesson in presentation, it teaches how infinitely behind the East we are in the mechanism of stage optics, how far more subtle, poignant, and emotional is the Oriental method of appealing to the imagination through the imagination, what curious and transcendental effects are obtainable through the poetic medium of suggestion. (322) In line with the tradition of Occidental theatrical chinoiserie established by The Yellow Jacket, Hsiung self-Orientalized his play by essentializing the non-realistic features of traditional Chinese theatre and by disregarding the fact that, as a result of the reform that had taken place in Chinese theatre in the first decades of the twentieth century, traditional Chinese plays were also staged with rea­ listic scenery and without the use of the property man. According to Hsiung, “The conventional Chinese stage is not at all realistic. Apart from its lack of scenery, the indispensable property man is the greatest obstacle to realism”

The Fabrication of Tradition 193 (Hsiung 1934b, xvi). Hsiung’s interpretation—and his play as an example— served to validate the European modernist interpretation of traditional Chinese theatre, inspired by the international success of The Yellow Jacket. Likewise, English theatre artists and critics found the imaginative method of Lady Precious Stream superior to Western realism. According to one critic, like great dramatists such as Euripides, Shakespeare, and Eugene O’Neill, Hsiung had a perfect understanding of dramatic art that values the ability of the actor and the imagination of the audience over realistic scenery and properties (McKown 1935, 154). Similarly, for another critic, “This absence of fuss and theatrical paraphernalia is wonderfully stimulating to the imagination.”38 Gordon Bottomley found Hsiung’s play more satisfying than Western realism as a delightful fusion of Chinese chinoiserie and modernity: “We have never held the gorgeous East in fee more inexpensively or convincingly before, while discerning audiences, in an ecstasy of enjoyment, have learnt from it that many of the essentials of our twentieth-century dramatic method are inessential” (Bottomley 1936, x). Charles Morgan asserted the superiority of “the Chinese dramatic formalism”—in particular, the character’s direct audience-address that avoids “the mesh of modern psychology”—over the naturalistic manner of Western drama that is designed to preserve naturalistic illusion and to prevent actors from direct communication with their audiences at all costs (Morgan 1934, X3). For Brooks Atkinson, who had had “a glimpse of the pure art of Chinese acting” in Mei Lanfang’s performance a few years before he saw Hsiung’s play in New York, the English actors performed the leading roles with “an enchanting appreciation of the lacquered, ceremonious style of Chinese acting” (Atkinson 1936c, 15). Atkinson’s observation, like Meyerhold’s idea of the important place of the decorative in both scenic and acting design that he perceived was exemplified by Japanese theatre, underlines the (dis)placement of the decorative style of chinoiserie in the modernist perception of the anti-naturalistic style of Chinese acting. In the performance of Hsiung’s Chinese chinoiserie by the English actors who imitated the style of Chinese acting, Chinese acting conventions and techniques became, to use Meyerhold’s words, “merely ‘decorative,’” and thereby exotic and quaint, not organically integrated and embodied in the movements and gestures of the actors as they were in an authentic performance by a profes­ sional Chinese actor. Thus, the decorative in Chinese acting was displaced in the English performance of Hsiung’s play and doubly in the modernist per­ ception of its modernity. The perception of modernity in the decorative was naturally more pronounced in the staging of Hsiung’s play in terms of scenic design or, paradoxically, in terms of the very absence of scenery. Here the decorative or the absence of naturalistic scenery was perceived as a form of modernist design that appealed to the imagination of the audiences. J. T. Grein cautioned that the English viewers should not look in it for “elaborate scenic devices and all the mechanical resources” of the well-equipped European stage but for the Chinese wisdom to appreciate the power of imagination (Grein 1934, 1066). W. A. Darlington noted that in the play “make-believe ranks

194 The Spectre of Tradition before realism” (Darlington 1934, 10). For Sydney Carroll, Hsiung “defies realism” and in his play “the very absence of décor…. proves in itself a form of décor” (Carroll 1934, 6). James Agate put it simply: in one respect, Hsiung’s play—“the little Chinese fantasy”—“towers over everything else on the London stage at the moment. It doesn’t need any scenery” (Agate 1934, 6. Emphases in original). In a lecture delivered before the University of Cambridge in 1936, Sir Cedric Hardwicke, a noted English actor, argued that “the so-called ultra-modern production, in which no scenery is used and in which the audience is asked to fall back on its long-idle imagination, is in reality the oldest form of presentation” (Hardwicke 1936, 25). He cited the revival of Lady Precious Stream as an instance demonstrating that the theatre of the future will move in the direction of simplicity that “is bound to ensure the continuance of the theatre, regardless of the trend of science and invention” (27).

Conclusion In this chapter, I have investigated and accounted for the phenomenal success of the English performance of Lady Precious Stream. Notwithstanding Hsiung’s essentialist assertion of the “Chineseness” of his adaptation, his modern English translation of Chinese tradition (theatrical and cultural) and its performance and reception on the modern British stage became an intercultural space haunted and contested by the spectres of different theatrical and cultural traditions. In Lady Precious Stream, Hsiung attempted to conjure up an “authentic” and essential Chinese tradition. In an article for The Observer, Hsiung spoke of “a long tradition” of Chinese theatre, particularly, of its use of the property man: We must bear in mind that the present-day Chinese stage, on which these queer things were performed [by the property man], is at least a few hundred years the senior of the Elizabethan stage, if not as old as that of the Greeks. In poems of classical style, it would never do to use such words as ‘motor-car’ and ‘radio,’ and on our stage how can any modern reformation be tolerated? (Hsiung 1934c, 10; 1934d, 3–5) American author and critic Bosley Crowther, who saw first-hand Hsiung’s “fan­ tastic rehearsal” of Lady Precious Stream for its premiere at the Booth Theatre in New York, had the impression that “the play was an ancient fantasy, lifted literally with its centuries-old traditions of symbols and Oriental trappings, its poetry and fine-spun images, into an Occidental show-shop.” Crowther spoke of Lady Pre­ cious Stream as “a classic of the Chinese theatre,” adding that “anything written A. D. is practically modern in those parts” (Crowther 1936). Indeed, as I have demonstrated above, the success of Hsiung’s adaptation was driven by his conscious assertion and propagation of its “Chineseness”—a conscious self-Orientalized essentialization of Chinese tradition, regardless of the actual fabric(ation) and (in)authenticity of the finished product. That was

The Fabrication of Tradition 195 what truly differentiated Hisung’s Chinese chinoiserie from its Occidental coun­ terparts. The uniqueness of Hsiung’s adaptation resides precisely in its very ethnic identity as a Chinese chinoiserie. The spectre of an ethnically “authentic” Chinese tradition conjured by a “genuine” Chinese chinoiserie appeared more haunting to the imagination of the European viewers than that of an ethnically “inauthentic” Chinese tradition affected by a “sham” Occidental chinoiserie. In contrast to historical Euro-American artistic chinoiserie, an Occidental dec­ orative representation of Chinese culture and civilization through its artifacts and art objects, and to historical Euro-American theatrical chinoiserie, a stylized performance of Chinese theatre and cultural traditions, Lady Precious Stream as a Chinese chi­ noiserie at once differentiated and familiarized itself by a self-authorized positioning/ placement, and a self-Orientalized translation/displacement, of its “Chineseness,” which thereby served to legitimate the tradition of Occidental chinoiserie. Furthermore, as a Chinese chinoiserie, its success was augmented by its Angli­ cization, in which Hsiung’s Chinese chinoiserie that emulates stylistically the English romantic, sentimental, and melodramatic pathos and participates in the tradition of European chinoiserie in its idealization of Chinese civilization was internalized and domesticated by the English romantic and sentimental tradi­ tions. The English romantic nostalgia for, and its imagination of, an idealized past projected, upon the displaced mirror of Hsiung’s chinoiserie, a spectral image of an idealized civilization and a bygone “golden” age. As a Chinese theatrical chinoiserie, the modernity of Hsiung’s adaptation was not constructed on Occidental realism that Hsiung’s Chinese contemporaries imitated and practiced for modern Chinese theatre and for the modernization of traditional Chinese theatre. On the contrary, while seeking to assert an “authentic” and essential tradition for Chinese theatre and for his adaptation, Hsiung was keen to underscore the difference between Western realistic theatre and traditional Chinese theatre. “Our theatre is very different from yours in the Western World,” Hsiung remarked in an interview. “Where you have elabo­ rate stage sets, realistic acting, we have no scenery in China and our acting is more formal, traditional” (quoted in Crowther 1936). The modernity of Lady Precious Stream was constructed on Hsiung’s selfOrientalization and essentialization of the non-realistic features of traditional Chinese theatre, which served to validate and valorize the European modernist interpretation of traditional Chinese theatre. Consequently, the modernity of Hsiung’s adaptation was perceived in the West from the perspective of modern Western anti-realist avant-garde theatre: a displacement of Chinese theatrical tradition in an Anglicized Chinese chinoiserie.

Notes 1 A “candid playgoer” also noted “the extraordinary ‘Chinese’ music” in the pro­ duction of The First Born (Dick 1897, 23). Given Shaw’s disdain of the fakeness of American Chinatown plays, it is interesting to note his first direct experience of a traditional Chinese theatre performance during his 1933 visit to China. According

196 The Spectre of Tradition

2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

17 18 19 20 21 22 23

to S. I. Hsiung, in their first meeting upon Shaw’s return to Britain, Hsiung was anxious to know what impressed Shaw most in a traditional theatre house Shaw had visited in Peking (Beijing). Having been looking forward to hearing from Shaw “some sharp attack” on the Chinese “theatrical custom,” Hsiung was, however, “staggered” by Shaw’s answer that “the most impressive sight in a Chinese theatre was nothing on the stage done by the players, but the throwing and the catching of bundles and hot towels deftly performed from great distances in the auditorium by the ushers,” and he could only conclude that Shaw “must have been sitting most of the time with his back to the stage” (Hsiung 1946, 267). However, in a letter to English composer Edward Elgar, dated May 30, 1933, Shaw spoke sympathetically of the function of percussion music in the Chinese “operatic” theatre: “The Chinese will reveal to you the whole secret of opera, which is, not to set a libretto to music, but to stimulate actors to act and declaim. When there is a speech to be delivered, the first (and only) fiddler fiddles at the speaker as if he were lifting a horse over the Grand National jumps; an ear splitting gong clangs at him; a maddening castanet clacks at him; and finally the audience joins in and incites the fiddler to redouble his efforts. You at once perceive that this is the true function of the orchestra in the theatre and that the Wagnerian score is only gas and gaiters” (Shaw 1988, 341). Typhoon is an English version (by Laurence Irving) of a dramatic japonaiserie by a Hungarian playwright, Melchior Lengyel. For a review of the English production of Typhoon at the Haymarket Theatre in London, see The Times, April 3, 1913, 6. See Yamaguchi 2013.

For an account of Hsiung’s life, see Yeh 2014.

See Bishop 1936; The Times, November 25, 1936, 12.

For a study of the American reception of Hsiung’s play, see Harbeck 1996, 242–245.

“Arts Theatre: ‘Lady Precious Stream,’” The Times, December 14, 1950, 8.

“The Arts: ‘Lady Precious Stream,’” The Stage, December 21, 1950.

“‘The Yellow Jacket’ at the Duke of York’s Theatre,” The Academy and Literature,

84, no. 2135 (April 5, 1913): 434–435 (434). “‘The Yellow Jacket’ at the Duke of York’s Theatre.” “Duke of York’s ‘The Yellow Jacket,’” The Observer, March 30, 1913, 9. “The Yellow Jacket,” The Times, March 8, 1922, 10. Peg’s Paper was a women’s magazine of romance fiction published in London during the first half of the twentieth century. “The Circle of Chalk,” The Times, March 15, 1929, 14. See also “The Playhouses,” The Illustrated London News, March 30, 1929, d; L. B. 1929, 8. Chu Chin Chow (1916), an Orientalist musical comedy by British actor and director Oscar Asche, was the most popular and successful musical on the British stage during World War I. See also G. W. B. 1929, 1; “Plays of the Month,” Play Pictorial, 54, no. 325 (April 1929): 7–11 (10); “The Playhouses,” The Illustrated London News, March 30, 1929, d; “London’s Newest Actress: Chinese Girl with a Broadway Voice,” Daily Express, March 15, 1929, 1. “Anna May Wong. A Chinese Actress in Film and Play,” The Observer, February 24, 1929, 11. Sydney W. Carroll also noted “the benefit of direct Chinese supervision” Hsiung provided over the English players (Carroll 1934, 6). “Lady Precious Stream,” The Stage (London), December 6, 1934, 12. “Lady Precious Stream,” The Times, November 25, 1936, 12; Bishop 1936, 6. “Lady Precious Stream,” Play Pictorial, 66, no. 394 (February 1935): 3–7 (3). “A Chinese Romance,” The New Statesman and Nation, January 19, 1935, 75. Bottomley acknowledged that he “had been among the first experimenters with Yeats’s development of the No- form, having been interested in the possibilities of the Japanese original for many previous years” (Bottomley 1948, 21).

The Fabrication of Tradition 197 24 “New Theatre: ‘The Western Chamber,’” The Times, January 21, 1939, 10. 25 “New Theatre: ‘The Western Chamber.’” 26 Likewise, Ashley Thorpe notes that “Mei was unable to secure a single venue for a performance in London,” but Thorpe also cautions that “with no documented evidence, it is only possible to speculate” on the reasons for Mei’s “failure” (Thorpe 2016, 122). Here, in the context of Thorpe’s investigation of the global power of Beijing/Peking opera, which Mei Lanfang’s overseas performances and travels sym­ bolize, I want to clarify a historical detail that may have escaped Thorpe’s close attention in his detaied account of Mei Lanfang’s travel in Britain. In his lifetime, Mei Lanfang visited Britain only once, namely his 1935 visit (accompanied by Yu Shangyuan, not “H. H. Yü,” as incorrectly noted by A. C. Scott [Scott 1971, 119]) that took place after his Russian tour concluded in mid-April of the same year. Thorpe notes that “in 1932, he [Mei Lanfang] visited Europe, taking in Britain, Switzerland, Belgium and Italy, though he spent most of his time in France and Germany” (Thorpe 2016, 120). Thorpe’s source is Zhongguo Jingju Shi (A History of Chinese Peking/Beijing Opera) (237). But this original Chinese source states correctly that it was Cheng Yanqiu (another noted Beijing/Peking opera actor), not Mei Lanfang, who visited, in 1932, some European countries, including France and Germany. Cheng, however, never visited Britain (Beijingshi Yishu Yanjiusuo 1999, 797). 27 “Xijujia Yu Shangyuan boshi zuo xie Mei Lanfang di Hu” (Playwright Dr. Yu Shangyuan and Mei Lanfang Arrived in Shanghai Yesterday), Shenbao, August 4, 1935, sec. 4, 14. 28 A few years earlier, Lord Dunsany had fancied, from his experience of the 1935 Chinese art exhibition at Burlington House, that the Chinese people of long ago were the “travellers” of the worlds of both nature and fairyland and that “one of the secrets of those people’s knowledge was perhaps not having a gun,” a knowledge of calm and serenity the Europeans “will hardly attain until they have lost their machinery” (Dunsany 1935, 10). 29 “Malvern Festival: ‘The Professor from Peking,’” The Times, August 9, 1939, 10. Here the reviewer refers to the title character of the play, Mr. Wu, by Harry M. Vernon and Harold Owen. The staging of the play in the West End of London in November 1913 and its subsequent revivals popularized the character as a stereo­ typed racist portrayal of the Chinese in the British popular imagination. 30 In the original, the hero Xue Pinggui (Hsieh Ping-Kuei) says he wants to cut his wife Wang Baochuan in half if he finds her unfaithful to him; Wei Hu (or Wei the Tiger General) is spared a violent death (beheading) at the end of Hsiung’s adaptation. 31 Hsiung’s invention is obviously different from the original dramatic episode, Cailou pei (Marriage on the Painted Tower, part of the original play, Hong zong lie ma [The Red Mane Stallion]), which was adapted into Hsiung’s play. As early as 1901, Herbert A. Giles had published an English translation of an acting edition of the episode, titled “The Flowery Ball.” See Giles 1901, 264–268. 32 “Lady Precious Stream,” The Stage, December 14, 1939, 10. 33 For instance, Lin’s writings impressed Sergei Eisenstein and contributed to his appreciation of the “traditionalism” of Chinese culture (see Chapter 3, n. 33). 34 “London Theatres,” The Stage, April 3, 1913, 20. 35 “Chinese Play at Cambridge: ‘The Circle of Chalk,’” The Manchester Guardian, March 1, 1933, 10. 36 When the play was staged in New York, it was viewed as a farce: “From China came a comedy written for Occidental consumption. Lady Precious Stream was farced by the author and much too farced here by the players” (Wyatt 1936, 472). 37 See also “The Yellow Jacket,” The Era, March 29, 1913, 14. 38 “Lady Precious Stream,” The Stage (London), December 6, 1934, 12.

198 The Spectre of Tradition

References Abercrombie, Lascelles. 1924. The Theory of Poetry. London: Martin Secker. Abercrombie, Lascelles. 1934. “Preface.” In S. I. Hsiung, Lady Precious Stream, vii–x. London: Methuen. Agate, James. 1922. Alarums and Excursions. New York: George H. Doran. Agate, James. 1926. A Short View of the English Stage 1900–1926. London: Herbert Jenkins. Agate, James. 1929b. “Too Much of Water.” The Sunday Times, March 17, 1929, 6. Agate, James. 1934. “A Week of Little Plays.” The Sunday Times, December 2, 1934, 6. Agate, James. 1939. “The Malvern Festival: Five-Sixths of a Disappointment.” The Sunday Times, August 13, 1939, 4. Anderson, J. O’G. 1935. “Chinese Books.” Life and Letters Today, 13, no. 2 (December): 203. Atkinson, Brooks. 1936c. “‘Lady Precious Stream,’ by Dr. S. I. Hsiung, or the Poor Gardener Who Made Good.” The New York Times, January 28, 1936, 15. Beijingshi Yishu Yanjiusuo and Shanghai Yishu Yanjiusuo, eds. 1999. Zhongguo jingju shi (A History of Chinese Beijing/Peking Opera). Vol. 2. Beijing: Zhongguo Xiju Chubanshe. Bishop, George W. 1936. “Plays & Players.” The Sunday Times, November 22, 1936, 6. Bottomley, Gordon. 1936. “Preface.” In The Romance of the Western Chamber, translated by S. I. Hsiung, ix–xii. New York: Liveright Publishing Corporation. Bottomley, Gordon. 1948. A Stage for Poetry: My Purposes with My Plays. Kendal, England: Titus Wilson. Brown, Ivor. 1929a. “Chin Chon Chino.” The Saturday Review, March 23, 1929, 390–391. Brown, Ivor. 1929b. “The Circle of Chalk.” The Observer, March 17, 1929, 15. Brown, Ivor. 1935a. “Lady Precious Stream.” The Observer, January 13, 1935, 13. Brown, Ivor. 1935b. “The World of the Theatre.” The Illustrated London News, November 23, 1935, 934. Brown, Ivor. 1938. “The Week’s Theatres: ‘The Western Chamber.’” The Observer, December 11, 1938, 13. Bulloch, J. M. 1934. “Chinese Gem in an English Setting: ‘Lady Precious Stream.’” The Sunday Times, July 15, 1934, 10. Carroll, Sydney W. 1929. “A Star of Film and Drama. Anna May Wong. Beauty and Talent.” The Daily Telegraph, March 21, 1929, 19. Carroll, Sydney W. 1934. “Chinese Ideas on Décor: ‘Lady Precious Stream.’” The Daily Telegraph, December 6, 1934, 6. Chen, Shi. 1937. “Ping Wang Baochuan jiqi yanchu” (On Wang Baochuan and Its Per­ formance). Guowen zhoubao (China News Weekly), 14, no. 3: 47–50. Craig, Edward Gordon. 1913. “Japanese Artists in the West.” The Mask, 6, no. 1 (July): 89–91. Craig, Edward Gordon. 1923. Review of The Chinese Theatre, by Tchou-kia-kien. The Mask, 9: 33. Crowther, Bosley. 1936. “Inviting the Twain to Meet.” The New York Times, January 26, 1936, X3. Darlington, W. A. 1934. “Chinese Author’s English Play: Charming Romance at the Little.” The Daily Telegraph, November 29, 1934, 10. Dean, Basil. 1973. Mind’s Eye: An Autobiography 1927–1972. London: Hutchinson. Dent, Alan. 1939. “The Theatre.” The Spectator, August 11, 1939, 217.

The Fabrication of Tradition 199 Dick. 1897. “Letters of a Candid Playgoer.” To-day, 17, no. 209 (November 6): 23. Du, Weihong. 2016. “S. I. Hsiung: New Discourse and Drama in Early Modern Chi­ nese Theatrical Exchange.” Asian Theatre Journal, 33, no. 2: 347–368. Dunsany, Lord. 1935. “People of Long Ago.” The Morning Post (London), December 10, 1935, 10. Dunsany, Lord. 1939. “Preface.” In S. I. Hsiung, The Professor from Peking, vii–viii. London: Methuen. E. F. S. 1913. “‘The Yellow Jacket’ in an English Dress.” The Sketch, April 9, 1913, 10. E. L. 1935. “Plays & Players.” The Sunday Times, August 4, 1935, 4.

Eric. 1934. “Lady Precious Stream.” Punch, December 12, 1934, 664–665.

Fang, Zhong. 1936. “Wang Baochuan de biandao zhe Xiong Shiyi zaiyu guilai” (Xiong

Shiyi, adapter and director of Wang Baochuan, returned with glory). Tianjin Yi shi bao (Tianjin Social Welfare), December 30, 1936, section 4, 14. Farjeon, Herbert. 1913. “Two Premieres Summarised.” The World, April 1, 1913, 464. Fen. 1937. “Yu Xiong Shiyi tan Wang Baochuan.” (A Coversation with Xiong Shiyi about Wang Baochuan). Tianjin Yi shi bao (Tianjin Social Welfare), January 7, 1937, section 4, 14. Frye, Northrop. 1996. The Correspondence of Northrop Frye and Helen Kemp 1932–1939. Vol. 2, edited by Robert D. Denham. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. G. B. S. 1897. “Chin Chon Chino.” The Saturday Review, no. 84 (November 6): 488–490. G. W. B. 1929. “The Circle of Chalk.” The Era, March 20, 1929, 1. Giles, Herbert A. 1901. A History of Chinese Literature. New York: D. Appleton and Company. Grein, J. T. 1913. “The Week’s Premieres, Duke of York’s: ‘The Yellow Jacket.’” The Sunday Times, March 30, 1913, 6. Grein, J. T. 1921. The World of the Theatre: Impressions and Memoirs, March 1920–1921. London: William Heinemann. Grein, J. T. 1934. “The World of the Theatre.” The Illustrated London News, December 22, 1934, 1066. Harbeck, James. 1996. “The Quaintness—and Usefulness—of the Old Chinese Tradi­ tions: The Yellow Jacket and Lady Precious Stream.” Asian Theatre Journal, 13, no. 2: 238–247. Hardwicke, Sir Cedric. 1936. The Drama Tomorrow. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hazelton, George C. and J. H. Benrimo. 1913. “Foreword” to The Yellow Jacket: A Chinese Play Done in a Chinese Manner. Indianapolis: The Bobbs-Merrill. Hong, Shen. 1936. “Ru guo de Wang Baochuan” (Wang Baochuan, an Insult to the Nation.” Guang ming (Glory), 1, no. 3: 166–171. Hsiung, S. I. 1934a. Lady Precious Stream: An Old Chinese Play Done into English According to Its Traditional Style. London: Methuen. Hsiung, S. I. 1934b. “Introduction.” In Lady Precious Stream: An Old Chinese Play Done into English According to Its Traditional Style, xv–xvii. London: Methuen. Hsiung, S. I. 1934c. “The Stage in China. The Kindly Property Man. Cups of Tea for the Actors.” The Observer, December 9, 1934, 10. Hsiung, S. I. 1934d. “Some Conventions of the Chinese Stage.” People’s National Theatre Magazine, 1, no. 13 (December): 3–5. Hsiung, S. I. 1939. “Afterthought.” In The Professor from Peking, 163–198. London: Methuen. Hsiung, S. I. 1946. “Through Eastern Eyes.” In G.B.S 90: Aspects of Bernard Shaw’s Life and Work, edited by S. Winsten, 261–269. New York: Dodd, Mead & Company.

200 The Spectre of Tradition Hsiung, S. I. 1968 (1935). “Translator’s Introduction.” In The Romance of the Western Chamber, translated by S. I. Hsiung, xxxvii–xl. New York: Columbia University Press. Hsiung, S. I. (Xiong Shiyi). 1986. “Bashi huiyi: chu guo dujin qu, xian Wang Baochuan” (Memoirs at Eighty: to Become Gilded, Going Abroad and Writing Wang Baochuan). Xianggang wenxue (Hong Kong Literature Monthly), 21: 94–99. J. F. N. 1897. “Drama.” The Academy, 52, no. 1331 (November 6): 380–381.

Jennings, Richard. 1929. “The Theatre.” The Spectator, March 23, 1929, 458.

Jian Zi. 1937. “Xiong Shiyi zai Nanjing” (Xiong Shiyi in Nanjing). Hanxue zhoukan

(Sweat and Blood Weekly), 8, no. 4: 74–75. L. B. 1929. “‘The Circle of Chalk’: Chinese Play at the New Theatre.” The Manchester Guardian, March 15, 1929, 8. Laver, James. 1929. “Introduction.” In The Circle of Chalk, translated by James Laver, xi. London: William Heinemann. Lin, Yutang. 1935b. Review of Lady Precious Stream. T’ien Hsia Monthly, 1, no. 1 (August): 106–110. Ludowyk, E. F. C. 1960. “The Chalk Circle: A Legend in Four Cultures.” Comparative Literature: Proceedings of the Second Congress of the International Comparative Literature Association, 1: 249–256. MacCarthy, Desmond. 1922. “Drama: China and Cambridge.” The New Statesman, XVIII, no. 466 (March 18): 673–675. McKown, Robert. 1935. “There’s Always the Zoo.” Theatre World, 23, no. 123 (April): 154. Meyerhold, V. E. 1969. Meyerhold on Theatre. Translated and edited by Edward Braun. New York: Hill and Wang. Morgan, Charles. 1929. “Anna May Wong in a London Play.” The New York Times, March 31, 1929, section 8, 2. Morgan, Charles. 1934. “London Enjoys Some Chinese Tea.” The New York Times, December 30, 1934, X3. Nathan, George Jean. 1921. “Barrie, Guitry and Some Others.” The Smart Set, 64, no. 3: 131–137. Nathan, George Jean. 1923. The World in Falseface. New York: Alfred A. Knopf. Omicron. 1929. “Plays and Pictures.” The Nation and Athenaeum, XLIV (March 23): 880–881. P. C. 1913. “A Chinese Play at the Duke of York’s Theatre.” The Manchester Guardian, March 28, 1913, 10. Price, Nancy. 1933. “The Theatre.” People’s National Theatre Magazine, 1, no. 1: 7–9. Price, Nancy. 1935. “Make Holiday.” People’s National Theatre Magazine, 2, no. 7 (July/ August): 13–15. Priestley, J. B. 1929. “Sir James Barrie.” The English Journal, 18, no. 2: 106–119. Priestley, J. B. 1950. “Preface.” In S. I. Hsiung, The Story of Lady Precious Stream, 7–9. London: Hutchinson. R. C. 1939. “The Western Chamber.” The Sunday Times, January 22, 1939, 6.

Rees, Leslie. 1934. “‘Lady Precious Stream’ at the Little.” The Era, December 5, 1934,

12. S. O. 1913. “Play of the Month: The Yellow Jacket.” The English Review, 14 (May): 319– 322. Scott, A. C. 1971 (1959). Mei Lan-fang: The Life and Times of a Peking Actor. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press.

The Fabrication of Tradition 201 Scott, A. C. 1982. Actors are Madmen: Notebook of a Theatregoer in China. Madison: The University of Wisconsin Press. Shaw, Bernard. 1988. Collected Letters, 1926–1950. Vol. 4. Edited by Dan H. Laurence. London: Max Reinhardt. Shen, Shuang. 2006. “S. I. Hsiung’s Lady Precious Stream and the Global Circulation of Peking Opera as a Modernist Form.” Genre, 39, no. 4: 85–103. St. J. E. (St. John Ervine). 1922. “The Yellow Jacket.” The Observer, March 12, 1922, 11. Taxidou, Olga. 1998. The Mask: A Periodical Performance by Edward Gordon Craig. Amsterdam: Harwood Academic Publishers. Thorpe, Ashley. 2016. Performing China on the London Stage: Chinese Opera and Global Power, 1759–2008. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Tsubouchi, Sheko. 1912. “The Drama in Japan.” The Mask, 4, no. 4 (April): 309–320. Verschoyle, Derek. 1934. “The Theatre,” The Spectator, December 7, 1934, 876. Wang, Zhongxian. 1921. “Xiyang de juchang yiwen: Xiyang ren yan de Zhongguo jiuxi” (Theatrical Anecdotes in the West: Old Chinese Drama Performed by Westerners), Xiju (Drama), 1, no. 4: 3–5. Wen, Yuan-ning. 1934. “Lady Precious Stream.” The China Critic, VII, no. 51 (December 20): 1244–1245. Whittingham-Jones, Barbara. 1944. China Fights in Britain: A Factual Survey of a Fasci­ nating Colony in Our Midst. London: W. H. Allen. Wyatt, Euphemia Van Rensselaer. 1936. “The Drama.” The Catholic World, 143 (July): 471–477. Xi, Bei. 1941. “Gai tou le Zhongguo xi de Meiguo ren” (Americans Who Thoroughly Altered Chinese Drama). San liu jiu huabao (369 Pictorial), 12, no. 9: 12. Yamaguchi, Yoko. 2013. “Shiko- Tsubouchi’s Unpublished Letters to Edward Gordon Craig with an Introduction about Their Intercultural Context.” Forum Modernes Theater, 28, no. 2: 193–203. Yao, Hsin-Nung. 1935. “Exit Lady Precious Stream.” The China Critic XI, no. 11 (December 12): 249–252. Yao, Ke. 1940a. “Xian tan Huang magua” (Small talk on The Yellow Jacket). Xiao juchang (Little Theatre), no. 1: 12–13. Yao, Ke. 1940b. “Xian tan Huang magua” (Small talk on The Yellow Jacket). Xiao juchang (Little Theatre), no. 2: 17–20. Yeh, Diana. 2014. The Happy Hsiungs: Performing China and the Struggle for Modernity. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. Yeh, Diana. 2015. “Staging China, Excising the Chinese: Lady Precious Stream and the Darker Side of Chinoiserie.” In British Modernism and Chinoiserie, edited by Anne Witchard, 177–198. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Yoo-no-hoo (Edward Gordon Craig). 1913. “Monkey Tricks.” The Mask, 6, no. 1 (July): 57–61.

6

The Reification of Tradition Meyerhold’s Influence on Twentieth-

Century Japanese and Chinese Theatres

As a Russian-Soviet revolutionary modernist, Vsevolod Meyerhold had an uncanny “traditionalist” artistic empathy with the theatrical past of “the Far East” (Meyerhold 1968, 1:194), and his complicated intercultural relationship to the traditions and modernities of Japanese and Chinese theatres had become one of the remarkable phenomena of the movement of the twentieth-century international theatre. In 1958, Igor Ilinskii, the noted Soviet actor and Meyerhold’s student, wrote: From my point of view, Meyerhold’s main merit is that he confidently turned the theatre to its conventional nature, recalling the sources of conventional popular Chinese and Japanese theatres. One can argue about a lot of things in Meyerhold’s performances and be perplexed and even horrified by many things, but this merit of his, in my opinion, is indisputable. (Ilinskii 1958, 131)1 Elsewhere, I have investigated the influence of Japanese and Chinese theatres on the historical formation of Meyerhold’s theory of theatre and on his lifelong theatrical practices.2 This chapter will focus on Meyerhold’s influence on the modern devel­ opment of Japanese and Chinese theatres. It investigates the ways Meyerhold’s modernist and revolutionary ideas and practices impacted the historical formation of modern Japanese and Chinese theatres and the ways his ideas and practices were revered, reviled, resurrected, and refracted in the service of their different theatrical, ideological, and sociopolitical missions. At the same time, it demonstrates that Meyerhold’s approach to traditional Japanese theatre was instrumental in the con­ version of those erstwhile Japanese radical reformers and destructionists of their own theatrical traditions into some devout “traditionalists” who struggled to define the future of a modern Japanese national(ist) theatre. Likewise, in contemporary Chinese theatre since the last two decades of the twentieth century, Meyerhold has been canonized and invoked as one of the leading European avant-garde theatrical forces instrumental in driving the construction of Chinese avant-garde experimental thea­ tre and Chinese national theatre, drawing on the aesthetics of traditional Chinese theatre as reinvented and reified by the Chinese under the influence of European avant-garde theatre represented by Meyerhold and Brecht with their interpretations and uses of the Chinese theatrical tradition. DOI: 10.4324/9781003240587-7

The Reification of Tradition 203

The Meyerhold Vogue in Japan The turn of the twentieth century marked the beginning of modern Japanese theatre, generally and genetically known as Shingeki or “New Theatre” in contrast to the old and traditional Japanese theatre forms such as No- and Kabuki. The rise and development of modern theatre in Japan in the first decades of the twentieth century can be attributed to a multitude of Western influences (realism, expressionism, impressionism, symbolism), of which the influence of the Russian-Soviet theatre represented by Stanislavsky and Meyerhold constituted a significant part. As early as the 1920s, when Meyerhold’s theatrical imagination was haunted by the spectre of the “ancient” golden age of Japanese theatre, Japanese theatre was under the spell of Meyerhold’s revolutionary ideas and practices of the Russian modernist theatre. In 1924 and 1925, Nobori Shomu (1878–1958), the noted Japanese translator and scholar of Russian and Soviet literature, published two collections of his essays and translations from Russian sources. Significant portions of those collections were devoted to Meyerhold as one of the autho­ rities and giants of the new and revolutionary Soviet theatre (Nobori 1924; 1925). In 1928, a special collection was dedicated to Meyerhold, which features four articles on Meyerhold’s work before and after the October Revolution (Roshia Bungaku Kenkyu-ukai 1928). In addition, around the same time between 1924 and 1929, English studies, such as The Russian Theatre Under the Revolution (1920; 1922) by Oliver M. Sayler and The New Theatre and Cinema in Soviet Russia (1924) by Huntly Carter, were, for the first time, translated and used as source material in Japanese studies of the Soviet-Russian theatre, parti­ cularly, of Meyerhold’s ideas and practices.3 G. Gauzner, a member of the Meyerhold Theatre who visited Japan in 1927, had first-hand experience of Meyerhold’s impact on contemporary Japanese theatre. In his lectures on Meyerhold, Gauzner spoke to his Japanese audience of “the young new Japanese theatre groups that tend to imitate ‘the Meyer­ holdian style’ in anything and everything” (Gauzner 1927a, 69–70). In a letter to Pravda, Gauzner reported from Japan: “Now the name of Meyerhold is the most popular among all theatrical names in Japanese theatre circles” (Gauzner 1927b, 8). Two years later, Gauzner still remembered that in one of the cafés in Tokyo, “the word Russia is heard more often than the word tea,” that “in political debates, the word Lenin soars like a rocket,” and that “in debates about art, the word Meyerhold crosses the names of Japanese actors” (Gauzner 1929, 42. Emphases in original). He recalled watching a performance by a Japanese proletarian troupe which included, in his eye, extraordinary actors from the fighting breed that arose in the nomadic years of the revolution in the Meyerhold Theatre and from there spread across the proletarian theatres around the world, along with constructions, biomechanics, and the very idea of a revolutionary theatre. (65)

204 The Spectre of Tradition

Osanai Kaoru’s Meyerholdian Turn The teacher and leader of these young Japanese theatrical modernists was Osanai Kaoru (1881–1928), one of the pioneers of modern Japanese theatre and a cofounder of the Tsukiji Little Theatre that nurtured and brought up this constella­ tion of what Gauzner called “Osanai’s ‘Meyerholdites’” (Gauzner 1927b, 8). It is well known that Osanai made his first visit to Europe and Russia in 1912–1913. During his Russian trip, he met Stanislavsky and saw his productions such as The Cherry Orchard and The Lower Depth. His experience of European and Russian theatre was instrumental in the Japanese transplantation of European realism and, most importantly, the ideas of the early Stanislavsky system, for which he has been remembered as a disciple of Stanislavsky in the East. However, often overlooked, especially in the English-speaking world, is the fact that as early as the outset of the 1920s, Osanai, in his efforts to establish a new national theatre in Japan, had started increasingly to turn away from Stanislavsky’s psychological realism to Meyerhold’s anti-naturalism and theatricalism. In 1928, Kumazawa Mataroku, a Japanese translator and scholar of Russian literature who was later associated with the Tsukiji Little Theatre, noted that Meyerhold’s work, On Theatre, was in Osanai’s collection (Roshia Bungaku Kenkyu-ukai 1928, 138).4 In 1929, following Osanai’s death, Kumazawa recalled that during his visit to Osanai in the latter’s house in 1921, Osanai took out Meyerhold’s On Theatre and asked Kumazawa to read it because he wanted to use it as his own research material (Kumazawa 1929, 20). This testifies to Osanai’s early interest in Meyer­ hold’s work, even though he was unable to read it himself in its original language. According to Kumazawa, by the late 1920s, anyone who had a passing interest in theatre knew about Meyerhold; however, beginning from a decade earlier when few people asked a question about Meyerhold, Osanai had been conducting deep research on the Russian artist. Thereby, for Kumazawa, Osanai was “a brilliant pioneer, not only as a practitioner but also as a scholar” (20). As Gauzner reported in his letter to Pravda cited earlier, as the Japanese leftist theatre had followed, for the second time, the path of the quests of the Russian theatre and “Osanai’s ‘Meyerholdites’” were staging the plays of the revolutionary Western playwrights, “Osanai himself is now experiencing a turning-point,” and “he is going to visit Russia to personally familiarize himself with Meyerhold’s work” (Gauzner 1927b, 8). In 1927, at the invitation of the All-Union Society for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries (VOKS) on the tenth anniversary of the Russian October Revolution, Osanai visited the Soviet Union from November 24 to December 13. Ahead of his visit, he stated that he intended to study Meyerhold’s work in particular: The main thing I want to see is Meyerhold’s current work. Meyerhold’s influence has already become worldwide, and even our own Tsukiji Little Theatre has already been inspired to some extent, but I don’t think we know the real story yet. The big question is whether I will be able to grasp

The Reification of Tradition 205 what is really going on during my stay of only one or two weeks, but I will do my best to grasp as much as I can. (Osanai 1965, 3:266) Years before his pilgrimage to the Meyerhold Theatre, however, Osanai had read from Japanese and English studies about Meyerhold’s theory and work. As early as 1922, in an article titled “News of the Russian Theatre,” Osanai noted that he did not know much about the Russian theatre until 1913 (when he first visited Russia) and that he had only been able to get a glimpse of Meyerhold’s directing method that had been overshadowed by the high reputation of the Moscow Art Theatre. He mentioned that the American theatre critic Oliver M. Sayler presented a detailed study of Meyerhold’s method in his book, The Russian Theatre Under the Revolution (Osanai 1965, 3:97; Sayler 1920, 202–220). Taken as a whole, however, Osanai’s article was primarily his translation of Nikolai Yarovoff’s article, “The Russian Theater Under the Soviet,” which includes a detailed description of Meyerhold’s production of Mystery Bouffe (Yarovoff 1922, 55, 61–62). In 1924, Osanai wrote in an article, “Stage and Painter,” that Meyerhold, who was the leader of the stylized stage, “shouted that all the models must be burned and destroyed in order to overturn the foundations of naturalism” (Osanai 1965, 1:96). In 1926, Osanai considered the “research” by Hiroshi Nakane, a “Russian insider,” on Meyerhold “beneficial” (Osanai 1926, 183). Here Osanai referred to Hiroshi’s translation of P. Mar­ kov’s review of Meyerhold’s 1925 production of The Mandate (Hiroshi 1926, 163–170). In the same year, in another article, Osanai asserted that the addition of significant acrobatic elements to Soviet theatre by Meyerhold, Eisenstein, and others can be regarded as a revival of dance or pantomime as an essential element of theatrical art (Osanai 1928a, 24). This assertion anticipated his argument, which he made as “an essential point of view” of Kabuki’s acrobatics being the reason for its popularity, that “Kabuki theatre should be revolutio­ nized to become a true popular theatre of the new Japan” (Osanai 1928a, 257). Osanai’s argument was posited in May 1927, and in the same month, without providing his source, Osanai published his translation of an article, “The Miracle of Maierhold (sic),” by B. Tschemerinsky (Tschemerinsky 1927b). In his article for The New York Times, Tschemerinsky, an actor of the Habima Theatre in Moscow, stressed the popularity of Meyerhold’s revolutionary theatre in all Russian theatrical circles; the enthusiasm of many imitators of his “newer theatrical art”; “the greatest respect” of Stanislavsky for Meyerhold’s creations; and Eugene Vakhtangov’s strong admiration for Meyerhold, “this theatrical ‘superman’” or “this super-modern producer” (Tschemerinsky 1927a, X4). According to Tschemerinsky, as it proved true to Osanai later, the first impression of Meyerhold’s theatre was “its essential difference from other theatres”: the open, empty stage; suggestive decorations; all stage construction and equipment exposed to the view of the audience; the actor’s physical play­ ing; many theatrical “tricks” (a chair shot up through the floor, flying beds, running walls, real automobiles and motorcycles running down the aisles); no

206 The Spectre of Tradition lights on the stage, with only projectors to throw light upon each actor or the decorations; and no front curtain. Tschemerinsky concluded his article by call­ ing attention to heated discussions on Meyerhold’s “audacious presentations” and to “the ‘audacious’ influence of this super-modern producer” on every new Moscow presentation (X4). It is particularly significant to note Osanai’s essay written in July 1927 on D. Arkin’s article about the Kabuki theatre that the latter experienced while visit­ ing Japan in 1927. Regarding Arkin’s as “one of the most interesting articles” that he had read and its observations “extremely perceptive and penetrating,” Osanai acknowledged that for him as a Japanese, Arkin’s article called his attention to many things he had either not noticed or forgotten (Osanai 1965, 3:260). According to Osanai, one of the most important things was what Arkin underscored as “the most striking characteristic of Kabuki theatre”: “its per­ forming art is completely independent as an artistic element by itself that has nothing to do with all other art forms” (Osanai 1965, 3:260; Arkin 1927, 102). According to Arkin, in contrast to contemporary European theatre that had long ago lost its independence and had been transformed into something sub­ ordinate to literature or to another branch of art, Kabuki theatre had its global significance in the present age. When the performing art of Western European countries was in significant decline, only Japanese theatre proved that per­ forming art can maintain its life for a long time and can burn relying on its own original firepower without using the light of other arts (Arkin 1927, 102–103; Osanai 1965, 3:260). Osanai began his comment on Arkin’s article with a pre-emptive rebuttal of the Japanese “Kabuki destructionists” who, after reading Arkin’s article, would question the independency of art and the significance of artistic independence in Kabuki theatre by attacking it (and thereby its heterogeneity) as “a hybrid child” that mixes painting, music, literature, and dance, in the same way Arkin attacked modern European theatre where painting, music, and literature inva­ ded the primary sovereign realm of theatrical art. While acknowledging that it would be impossible to think of the existence of Kabuki theatre without painting, music, and dance, Osanai contended that in Kabuki theatre, painting, music, dance, along with literature that participates in it, are secondary and subordinate to Kabuki’s independent and self-sufficient artistic elements (Osanai 1965, 3:260). Furthermore, according to Osanai, for the most part, modern Western theatre had been a slave to literature, painting, or music, and the lib­ eration of the theatre from its subordinate conditions had become the most prominent element of modern theatre movement in the West, as shown in Gordon Craig’s cry for the reconstruction of the commedia dell’arte, and in Russia, as exemplified in Meyerhold’s ideas and work. “In summary,” Osanai observed, “the attitude of Meyerhold since his departure from the [Moscow] Art Theatre till today has been nothing but the liberation of the theatre as an art by itself” (261). Indeed, in “The Fairground Booth” (1912), for instance, Meyerhold repeatedly emphasized “the self-sufficient value of acting crafts­ manship” (Meyerhold 1968, 1:212, 213). Here it is important to underline

The Reification of Tradition 207 Osanai’s recognition of Meyerhold’s assertion of the independent and self-suf­ ficient nature of the art of theatre and thereby his departure from what he saw as Stanislavsky’s naturalism; it was also a reflection of Osanai’s own departure from Stanislavsky’s naturalism as he likewise asserted the global significance, and the modernity, of the essentially non-naturalistic tradition of Kabuki theatre that, over 300 years, “has maintained its innate independent and self-sufficient artistic elements” (Osanai 1965, 3:261). In agreement with Arkin that Kabuki theatre has produced an amazing number of actors of genius, Osanai argued that it is an undeniable fact that modern Western actors were, in general, far behind Japanese Kabuki actors in their histrionic art, although they were superior to Kabuki actors in the depth of their philosophical sophistication and in the richness of their poetic feeling gained from literature. Osanai, however, added immediately that it goes without saying that philosophy and literature are not the independent and self-sufficient artistic elements of theatre (Osanai 1965, 3:261). In asserting the independent and self-sufficient nature of Kabuki theatre, Osanai stressed the superiority of the tradition of Kabuki theatre as exem­ plified in its “forms” or “types” (kata) that have enormous artistic value: with new life infused by actors of genius born in different eras, those “forms” come alive, and the tradition comes down to later generations with new vitality (262). Seen in this light, it is equally significant to note that Osanai disagreed with Arkin in the latter’s praise of the fusion of Kabuki tradition and realism in the acting of the noted Kabuki actor, Onoe Kikugoro- VI (1885–1949). At the Kabuki-za theatre, Arkin experienced at first-hand the mesmerizing power the art of Kabuki had worked on the modern audience who were accustomed to radios, flying planes, the principle of relativity, and all other miracles of the present world. He realized that, in spite of the “conservative nature” of the Kabuki tradition, “Kabuki theatre is, in a sense, a most modern theatre, regardless of the fact that it stands on all its innate traditions and that many of its scripts have dead languages” (Arkin 1927, 103). Nevertheless, Arkin argued that Kabuki theatre still needs to strengthen those elements that appeal to “the psychology and emotions of modern audience”: It is important to understand that, through the exterior skin of this con­ servative tradition, we can discover and deepen these elements of moder­ nity in Kabuki art without rejecting the tradition (because it is imbued with the power of craftsmanship). I believe that most modern Kabuki actors are clearly active, moving in this trend. (103) In Arkin’s view, one of the most outstanding modern Kabuki actors was Onoe Kikugoro- VI. In his performance, Arkin saw not just the actor’s incredible dominating techniques of movement, dance, costume, and voice, but also “the embodiment of the youthful renewing power of modern Kabuki theatre”:

208 The Spectre of Tradition I see the old Japan and the old Japanese aesthetics reaching out to a new Japanese culture, a new worldview, and a new social psychology in modern Japan. The Kikugoro- on the Kabuki stage is the banner of the new realism on stage. Yet, it is a realism that can utilize all the techniques that the old stage art has developed. (105) Arkin cited Kikugoro-’s performance of the role of the destitute former samurai Kobei in Kawatake Mokuami’s play Suitengu- megumi no Fukagawa (The Grace of the Suiten Shrine at Fukagawa), commonly known as Fudeya Ko-bee (Kobei the Writing-Brush Seller), as “the powerful evidence” of Kabuki’s modernity, in which the actor attempted at “a fusion of the traditional restraint of the old theatre and the amazing realism of real life”: “In those scenes, the complex arsenal of the conventional techniques and facial expressions of the old theatre was completely conquered and harmonized with the great truth of reality and the great humanity” (105). Likewise, Arkin saw in Ichikawa Sadanji’s (1880– 1940) performance “the clearest expression of the new realism on the Kabuki stage” (106). In Osanai’s view, however, what was detrimental to Kikugoro-’s art was indeed “realism” and, in fact, it was even painful to see that Kikugoro-, almost the only Kabuki actor capable of traditionally transmitting, with considerable new vitality, the original Kabuki theatre, was constantly making futile efforts to introduce realism into the world of Kabuki. Acknowledging that there had been, for a long time, “a reasonably good realism” in the tradition of the ori­ ginal Kabuki theatre, Osanai nevertheless argued that “Kabuki’s innate realism is not the modern realism that Kikugoro- is currently aiming for” and that Kikugoro-’s modern realism could never be made into something unique to Kabuki and thus could never be reconciled with Kabuki (Osanai 1965, 3:263). Here Osanai suggested that Kikugoro-’s modern realism as a result of the influ­ ence of European naturalism was not compatible with the original and authentic tradition of Kabuki. Osanai’s rebuttal of Arkin’s view equally applies to G. Gauzner’s praise of Kikugoro-’s psychological performance. Osanai noted that foreign artists praised Japanese Kabuki theatre only because they did not understand its cultural content—that is, its lyrics—but only its artistic elements. As a result, there was this rare phenomenon that “a Soviet artist,” such as Gauzner, who came from the Meyerhold Theatre, praised Kikugoro- (Osanai 1928a, 280). Here Osanai did not provide his source for Gauzner’s alleged praise of Kikugoro-. Nor did he offer any review of it. My research reveals that it must be Gauzner’s review of Kikugoro-’s performance in Suitengu- megumi no Fukagawa (Gauzner 1927c). As its title indi­ cates, Gauzner’s review was not just a foreign artist’s impression; it was intended to understand the mechanism, and to further unravel the secret, of Japanese theatre and, in particular, of Kikugoro-’s performance. In his review, Gauzner first introduced, using examples of their concrete stage rehearsals, Stanislavsky’s and Meyerhold’s different methods, namely, the realism and psychological anatomy

The Reification of Tradition 209 at the Moscow Art Theatre and Meyerhold’s anti-naturalistic approach to staging and acting. Then Gauzner turned to the performing art of Kabuki as exemplified by Kikugoro-’s performance he witnessed in Tokyo. According to Gauzner, Kikugoro-’s performance was “a special kind of dance,” or what he called “psy­ chological dance”; as dance came earlier than drama and drama was a transfor­ mation of dance, Kikugoro- restored drama to dance again, but it was “a return to psychological dance,” a dance that absorbed all the elements of drama (Gauzner 1927c, 213). Gauzner thus described Kikugoro-’s performance: Kikugoro- on stage created long or short pauses in his dance movements, and with the pauses that the actor created between his body movements, he expressed feelings of sadness, joy, and astonishment. This is the perso­ nification of music. The music also expressed psychological mood and feelings of sadness, joy, and astonishment by pauses and sudden move­ ments of sound. This is the reason that Kikugoro-’s dance is called psy­ chological. His performance in Suitengu- megumi no Fukagawa is the quintessence of psychological dance. (213–214) Gauzner also noted that Kikugoro- was an actor capable of tragic dance and that “such tragic dance is unknown to Europe” (214). In conclusion, Gauzner affirmed Kikugoro-’s acting and lauded him as “the personification of Japanese theatre,” claiming that, even though the Japanese may not believe his assertion, Kikugoro-’s performance, if seen in Europe and Russia, would be considered “the most unusual and the most Japanese” (214). Here, Osanai may have agreed with Gauzner in that dance was innate and integral to drama, particu­ larly to traditional Japanese theatre. However, Osanai, unbecoming of his erst­ while devotion to Stanislavsky’s psychological realism, deplored the “realism” of Kikugoro-’s dance and affirmed the acrobatic physicality and craftsmanship of Kabuki in line with Meyerhold’s biomechanics. For Osanai, Kikugoro-’s acting, influenced by European naturalism, was not authentically Japanese in essence, whereas Meyerhold’s biomechanics, influenced by Kabuki, came closer to regaining the essence of the theatre, including traditional Japanese theatre. Osanai, following Meyerhold, found the anti-naturalistic modern affinity of Kabuki with its original and authentic tradition. While Arkin’s view of the fusion of tradition and realism in Kikugoro-’s performance associated the modernity of Kabuki with Stanislavsky’s psycholo­ gical realism, Gauzner’s perception of the Japanese authenticity and tradition­ ality of Kikugoro-’s “psychological dance” was in line with his view of the “psychomechanics” of the Meyerholdian actor. In 1926, one year before his visit to Japan, Gauzner wrote about the acting of the actors at the Meyerhold Theatre. He argued for the importance of form versus content and commended Meyerhold’s experiments on form: “The theatre of our time is inconceivable without the content that the October [Revolution] gave it, and it is also inconceivable without the profound form that comes from Meyerhold’s first

210 The Spectre of Tradition experiments” (Gauzner and Gabrilovich 1926, 49). Gauzner considered the techniques of the new actor the opposite of the old system. According to Gauzner, while the old actor declared the primacy of inspiration over techni­ que, the new actor declared and performed the primacy of technique. For Gauzner, although the ability to control one’s body was one of the elements of the new acting system, the ability to control one’s psychic apparatus was no less a basic requirement of the new system. In effect, Gauzner argued for a synthesis of the physical and the psychological approaches, as he affirmed that “the basis of the Meyerhold system is the formal display of the emotional” (50. Emphases in original). Gauzner further underscored the relationship between the bio­ mechanical role and the social role, in which, as the biomechanical role entails the physical details of the actor, the mastering of the social role requires certain psychic and social details from the actor. To develop these details requires “psychomechanics” and psychomechanical selection of actors (51). Regarding the psychological aspect, Gauzner cited Fyodor Dostoevsky for his portrayal of his characters by placing them in improbable psychological, eccentric situations that never happen in real life. He argued that, only thanks to this psychological eccentricity, Dostoevsky was able to reveal the depths that he revealed, which was, to shake the soul out of a human being, one must put him upside down. For Gauzner, Meyerhold’s productions of The Magnanimous Cuckold, Bubus the Teacher, and The Mandate amounted to “a continuous ana­ lysis, akin to Gogol and Dostoevsky, of the breakdowns of the human psyche, an analysis that occurs precisely when the character is placed in an incredible situation” defined by each eccentric mise-en-scène that signals the occurrence of such an analysis of the psyche of the characters (50). Here it is important to emphasize Gauzner’s view on the psychomechanics of the Meyerholdian actor performing in eccentric situations, as Gauzner wrote, in another article, “Meyerhold’s Path,” of Meyerhold’s production of The Mag­ nanimous Cuckold, noting that, in this production, the actors acted in the manner of biomechanics, a new acting method Meyerhold invented. The essence of this method, Gauzner continued, lies in the physical training of the actor, where the actor’s psychological experiencing is expressed with the art of acrobatics (Gauzner 1927d, 128). Referring to his previous article (Gauzner and Gabrilovich 1926), Gauzner noted that in his productions Meyerhold placed and analyzed his characters in eccentric situations in the same way as Dostoevsky portrayed his characters: “To shake the soul out of a human being, one must put him upside down” (Gauzner 1927d, 128). Gauzner further associated the method with Kabuki, in particular, with Kikugoro-’s performance, as he put it: “Dos­ toevsky, too, often places his characters in improbable psychological states. This method is well known to Kabuki actors. For proof of that, it is sufficient just to look at some of Kikugoro-’s performances” (128). In the same article, Gauzner noted Meyerhold’s use of Kabuki in his productions and underlined Meyerhold’s influence on contemporary Japanese theatre (129–130).5 Although Osanai’s responses to Arkin’s and Gauzner’s views of Kabuki did not draw a clear line between Arkin’s psychological realism and Gauzner’s

The Reification of Tradition 211 psychomechanics, they represented unmistakably his Meyerholdian turn against naturalism and psychologism in the theatre and his argument for the physical or acrobatic method of acting. As demonstrated in his own writings in late 1927, Osanai marshalled similar arguments against naturalism and posited his antinaturalistic reinterpretation of Kabuki theatre. In his essay, “Some Investiga­ tions into the Theatre,” written before his visit to Russia, Osanai underlined the anti-naturalistic characteristics of Meyerhold’s productions: there was no front curtain; the stage and the auditorium were integrated into one; the walls behind the stage were exposed; lighting equipment was never hidden; the properties and the stage equipment changed in front of the spectators’ eyes (Osanai 1928a, 247–248). More significantly in terms of acting, Osanai’s posi­ tion marked a clear breakaway from his early interest in the Stanislavsky system: Acting is no longer a slave to naturalism. Meyerhold tried to make full use of the actor’s body in all probabilities. He tried to make effective use of the movement of the human body to the maximum extent. This is the socalled biomechanism. It is similar to Japanese Kabuki theatre in that it has conquered the realm of acrobatics (Osanai 1928a, 248). Osanai regarded the art of anti-naturalistic and anti-psychological performances as redemptive of the essence of performance, as he was convinced that “the best performances of the present (such as those of Meyerhold) are those that have regained—or are regaining—the essence of performance” (248). Asso­ ciating the acting of Kabuki with Meyerhold’s biomechanism, Osanai also reasserted the original essence of Kabuki performance, as he argued that “it has not been ruined by European naturalism or by imported Japanese naturalism and still retains its wildness” (249). As Kabuki has remarkably retained the essential elements of the theatre in its form, Osanai championed the preserva­ tion of the form of Kabuki performance (250). Thus, prior to his second trip to the Soviet Union, Osanai had suggested an essentialist and ontological approach to the independent and self-sufficient existence of the art of the theatre as exemplified in the original and authentic tradition of Kabuki. He likewise championed the acrobatic craftsmanship of Kabuki performance and Meyerhold’s biomechanics, both of which stress the primacy of the actor’s body and physical expressiveness. In doing so, Osanai had made his case against naturalism in the theatre and, in particular, psycho­ logical realism in acting that he had learned from Stanislavsky. Thus, following Meyerhold, Osanai was able to define the anti-naturalistic modernity of Kabuki by reasserting (or reinventing and reifying) its original essence and its authentic tradition to envision a nationalist path to the future of Japanese theatre. Shortly after his arrival in Moscow, Osanai visited Meyerhold on November 25 and later saw his productions at the Meyerhold Theatre, such as Roar China, The Inspector General, and The Forest. He recognized “the remarkable use of Kabuki techniques” in Roar China, and in The Forest, he saw “the most distinct

212 The Spectre of Tradition demonstration” of Meyerhold’s theory (biomechanics) (Osanai 1965, 3:274– 276). One year after he returned to Japan, Osanai died suddenly of a heart attack in late December 1928. Before he died, Osanai published his speech on the current development of Moscow’s theatres in an issue of Tsukiji sho-gekijoand promised to give, in the following issue of the magazine, a detailed report on Meyerhold’s work that he believed his Japanese colleagues were most interested in knowing (Osanai 1928b). Although his report never appeared, his very promise was indicative of his interest in, and his knowledge of, Meyer­ hold’s work. In addition, in a radio speech, Osanai talked about the postrevolutionary Russian theatre, particularly Meyerhold’s work. He noticed that Meyerhold’s theatre was fundamentally different from the idea of traditional Russian theatre. According to Osanai, in Meyerhold’s productions, everything that had been regarded as beautiful on the stage was rejected; mood, emotion, and lyricism were all kicked out; and all the decorative things were stripped away, with only the bones of a production assembled to create a new form of beauty. Meyerhold’s actors used their bodies to the maximum extent, Osanai observed, and in some cases their performances reached a high acrobatic degree. Furthermore, according to Osanai, in the art of traditional theatre, the script was considered as a basis, with emphasis placed on an “emotional psy­ chology” developed in detailed dialogue; in Meyerhold’s productions, how­ ever, the actor’s performance was given first importance, with the script relegated to second or third place (Tanaka 2019, 19). Elsewhere, Osanai made clear his position against naturalism by underlining the essence of the anti-naturalistic popular theatre and its importance in con­ trast to the professional theatre (which was for him a slave to naturalism). Again, his example was Meyerhold’s productions he saw in Moscow. The actor’s acrobatic performance that Meyerhold’s biomechanics evoked for him was characteristic of the popular theatre like Meyerhold’s Fairground Booth. He stressed the relationship of the audience to the performance and the environ­ ment and atmosphere of the production, which contributed to the overall nonnaturalistic nature of the production as demonstrated in Meyerhold’s produc­ tion of Roar China, where he saw “a perfect fusion of the stage and the audi­ ence” and “a true performance” that he experienced for the first time (Osanai 1965, 3:283). It is also very important to note the impact of Osanai’s first-hand experience of Meyerhold’s productions in Russia on his view of Kabuki. In an important speech on the future of Japanese theatre, Osanai argued that the essence and value of Kabuki theatre reside in “the beauty of form” and that Kabuki theatre is not realistic in spirit and does not need “psychological portrayal” (Osanai 1965, 5:108, 109, 114). In his review of Ichimura Uzaemon XV’s Kabuki performance, written after his second Soviet visit, Osanai underscored the pri­ macy of form over content. According to him, he was moved by Kabuki’s “form” and “expression,” not in any way by its content; Kabuki’s life lies truly in its “independent and self-sufficient form,” and the value of a Kabuki actor resides in the skilfulness of his formal expression (Osanai 1965, 4:162–163). For

The Reification of Tradition 213 Osanai, Kabuki, a musical spectacle and a sophisticated fusion of recitation, gestures, and dance, is “truly an independent and self-sufficient art in the world” and “a unique theatrical art that can be found nowhere but in Japanese Kabuki theatre” (163). Elsewhere, in a review of Kikugoro-’s performance, Osanai argued that the life of Kabuki resides “where it is foolish” and that, if Kabuki becomes clever and if reason triumphs in it, it will lose almost all its essence. Osanai felt dissatisfied with Kikugoro-’s performance because every­ thing in it was the expression of the logic and reason of real-life and because the actor did not try to present his character with “form” or “voice,” but only with his “heart” (Osanai 1965, 4:167). Osanai went even so far as to attack, from an ideological perspective, what he characterized as Kikugoro-’s “produc­ tion objective”: “an individualistic and naturalistic approach,” as it would be called in the West, that flourished two or three decades ago, a production method that had completely lost its power on the Western stage after the First World War, because it was “a cuisine only suitable for small theatres and intelligentsia and completely unpalatable to the masses of the proletariat that had risen in many countries after the war” (169–170).

Osanai’s Adaptatioon of The Battles of Coxinga Equally important is Osanai’s vision, strengthened by his Russian experience, of what we would call today an “intercultural” fusion of Eastern and Western theatres as the future of theatre, as he stated in his speech at the Meyerhold Theatre: I have seen in your performances that many authentic techniques of the old Kabuki theatre were used and occupied an important place. Here in Russia, Kabuki is of great interest. This fact made me think about what I used to throw away and made me feel that there are many interesting and necessary things in the old Kabuki theatre. Western European theatre is in a state of demise and needs to be revived. The path to the revival is to unite the arts of Eastern countries such as Japan, China, and Indo-Russia with European theatre and to discover new harmonies. This is the path that the theatre must follow. (Osanai 2015, 218) He argued that, in order to develop Japanese art, it was necessary, first and foremost, for the Japanese to rely on Russia as “the most important adviser and teacher” (218). He hoped to see “a strong union of Japanese and Russian theatres, from which the theatre world will reap great results and rewards” (218). Elsewhere, in a speech, “Japanese Theatre and Its Future,” delivered at the State Academy of Art Research in Moscow, Osanai declared that one could dream of a new theatre with the union of the two theatrical centres, Moscow, the Mecca of theatre, and Tokyo, which he aspired to turn into a second Mecca.6 According to Akita Ujaku, a Japanese author and critic who was

214 The Spectre of Tradition present at Osanai’s speech, Osanai stated that he was greatly inspired by the Russian new creative endeavours that had made a fusion of the Western and Eastern theatre traditions, from which a new theatre art was about to be created: All the artistic traditions in the East, such as those of India, China, Korea, Siam, and all the artistic accumulations of the South Seas, must be merged into the movement of the Japanese theatre, which in turn must merge with the traditions of Western Europe in order to create a new art. At the basis of this union must be the Kabuki style itself, which has been per­ fected in Japan over hundreds of years. (Quoted in Soda 1999, 272)7 Osanai’s 1928 modern adaptation of Chikamatsu Monzaemon’s The Battles of Coxinga (Kokusenya kassen) was an anti-naturalistic/anti-realistic production and a good example of Osanai’s “intercultural” vision of the future of a (Japanese) theatre that integrates Asian and Western forms. Chikamatsu’s eighteenth-cen­ tury “historical drama” was originally written as a puppet play and was later adapted to the Kabuki stage. It dramatizes the historical legend of a military leader of the Ming dynasty (1368–1644), Zheng Chenggong (born in Japan and given a Japanese name Wato-nai), who fought to restore the Ming dynasty by defeating the Manchu Tartars.8 In a brief reflection on his adaptation of the play, Osanai underscored his formalist approach that deliberately leaves intact the content of Chikamatsu’s original play, “an attempt to create a new specta­ cle” that he argued “should be external rather than content-based” (Osanai 1928c, 2),9 a far cry from his early Stanislavskian approach to the content and characters of his productions.10 Furthermore, while he intended his adaptation to be a blending of “the ancient and the modern, the Eastern and the Wes­ tern,” neither Western nor purely Japanese, Osanai nevertheless insisted that “it must be ‘Eastern’” (Osanai 1928c, 2). Elsewhere, Osanai spoke of the produc­ tion as an “extremely bold” experiment to incorporate not only Japanese drama but also other Asian dramas, especially Indian drama, Chinese drama, and Javanese Sumatran dances (Osanai 1965, 5:120). Here Osanai’s rhetoric on the “Eastern” character of his project must be understood in the historical context of Japan’s imperialist interest in Asia, as his “intercultural” vision was pro­ foundly nationalistic in its essentialization of Kabuki as the basis of its concep­ tion and materialization. Contemporary views of the production vary in accordance with the artistic and ideological leanings of the Japanese viewers. According to Akita Ujaku, who also witnessed Meyerhold’s productions in Russia, in contrast to his pro­ ductions of Anton Chekhov’s and Maxim Gorky’s plays, which can be seen as “the continuation of the naturalistic movement on stage,” Osanai’s adaptation of The Battles of Coxinga, in combination with Hijikata Yoshi’s direction, shows clearly “the influence of the Meyerhold method” (Akita 1929a, 6). According to Kubo Sakae, a member of the Tsukiji Little Theatre’s literary department,

The Reification of Tradition 215 because of the spectacular magnificence and dynamic grandeur characteristic of its performance, The Battles of Coxinga as a whole was exceptionally rich in tempo and movement and thereby was arguably “the most appropriate play for an attempt to address, in an Eastern manner, the questions of biomechanism and acrobaticism, which are flourishing in European theatres today” (Kubo 1961–1963, 5:164–165). “It is in this sense,” Kubo added, “that Osanai’s adaptation emphasizes the external elements” of the play (165). Here Kubo clearly saw the affinity of Osanai’s adaptation with Meyerhold’s biomechanics. Kubo’s view of Osanai’s formal(ist) approach to the tradition of Kabuki in his adaptation was clearly influenced by the Soviet reception of Kabuki theatre. Thus, according to Kubo, the Soviet critique of the 1928 Kabuki tour in Russia attests to the unique presence of Kabuki in the world by virtue of its theatrical form, notwithstanding its worthless content. As its peculiar form was a valuable asset to the Japanese theatre, the question for Kubo was whether there was any way to make the most use of this unique dramatic style that was unparalleled in the world. Hence the answer provided by Osanai’s new adap­ tation of the old Kabuki play. In Kubo’s view, Osanai was justified in his formal approach. Given Osanai’s understanding that the whole story of the original play was childish and crude in terms of content, in order to add new social ideology to this absurd fantasy, the whole play must be altered to such an extent that it would be almost unrecognizable in its entirety. Thus, for Kubo, it was precisely the reason that Osanai did not attempt to change the content of the play and instead chose to work on its exterior form as a spectacle (Kubo 1961–1963, 5:165–166). In this regard, Kubo contended that Osanai proved best equipped to adapt the play to the actual conditions of Tsukiji’s stage, actors, and spectators, as Osanai was the best interpreter of Japanese traditional drama and the leading expert on foreign theatre, and consequently the only person capable of looking at Chikamatsu’s play with “the same eyes as those of a foreigner” and yet never missing the point in bringing out the original char­ acteristics of the play (166). Acknowledging that, ideally, the modernization of Japanese traditional drama should be accomplished both in content and in form, Kubo nevertheless applauded Osanai’s innovation in the form of pro­ duction and affirmed his adaptation as a new attempt at presenting on stage “a grand synthesis of the traditions of Eastern arts,” such as Chinese music, Chi­ nese dance, acrobatics, and Javanese shadow puppetry (166–167). Here, while noting what today we would define as the “intercultural” insight that Osanai’s experience of European theatre (including Meyerhold’s theatre) brought into his adaptation, Kubo, like Osanai, underlined the Japanese authenticity, and the “Eastern” traditionality, of Osanai’s innovation. On the other hand, Tomoyoshi Murayama, the noted leftist proletarian playwright, criticized Osanai and Hijikata for their choice of what he called “this completely reactionary play” as well as their formalist approach (quoted in Takayuki 1987, 343–344). Sugimoto Ryo-kichi, the young proletarian director and one of Osanai’s “Meyerholdites,” who had become disillusioned with the Russian master, questioned his formalist approach to Russian classics. Sugimoto’s

216 The Spectre of Tradition view of Meyerhold’s adaptation of Russian classics can be seen as a disapproval of Osanai’s adaptation of The Battles of Coxinga. For Sugimoto, Meyerhold’s treat­ ment of the classics had “the germination of Meyerhold’s significant flaws” in his recent work such as The Forest, The Inspector General, and Woe from Wit, and the path of his adaptation only helped bring these lifeless classics back to life (Sugimoto 1929, 3). However, for Sugimoto, the real question came down to the repre­ sentation of the reality of modern Soviet Russia with the construction of the theatre as one of the weapons of propaganda and agitation to carry out the poli­ tical, economic, and cultural tasks of Soviet Russia, which means that the theatre must be built on the slogan: “Modern theatre is modern drama” (3). In his view, the Japanese left-wing theatre turning to proletarian theatre must never follow Meyerhold’s rut and, if the Japanese wanted to ask a theatre company from Soviet Russia for instructions with many lessons, it was definitely not the Meyerhold Theatre but the theatre of MGSPS (the Theatre of Moscow Provincial Council of Trade Unions) and the Proletcult theatre (3).11 In the same vein, Sugimoto attacked Osanai’s adaptation, arguing that aiming at the form, rather than the content, of his new spectacle, Osanai “only gained a skeleton of formalism from his extreme disregard of ideology” (Sugimoto 1980, 194). Moreover, Sugimoto added, while ignoring the content of the play, Osanai “helped propagate a natio­ nalistic and aggressive ideology” (194). Sugimoto called attention to the fact that in 1933 “a succession of the Osanai orthodox school chose this play to broadcast in commemoration of the first anniversary of the founding of Manchukuo,” which, Sugimoto argued, made it even more clear that the play served as “a pillar of support” for the rule of the Emperor’s regime (194).

Hijikata Yoshi’s Meyerhold Complex As noted previously, the staging of Osanai’s adaptation of The Battles of Coxinga was directed by Hijikata Yoshi (1898–1959), an aristocratic descendant turned leftist and communist theatre director and the leader of Osanai’s “Meyerhol­ dites.” Hijikata’s contemporaries, both Russian and Japanese, recognized his contribution to modern Japanese theatre with his introduction of Meyerhold to the Japanese theatrical world.12 Gauzner, for example, noted that, with his 1923 visit to the Meyerhold Theatre, Hijikata introduced the ideas of Meyer­ hold’s “theatrical October” to Japan, which brought about the radical turn in modern Japanese theatre from the Europeanized theatre to a left-wing one (Gauzner 1929, 72). Likewise, according to Kubo, Hijikata emerged as “an introducer of Meyerholdism,” and consequently the method of biomechanics seemed to have dominated the Japanese progressive stage for a while (Kubo 1961–1963, 7:319). In 1945, after learning of Meyerhold’s death, Hijikata recalled his 1923 and 1933 meetings with Meyerhold and his experience of his productions in Moscow. He remembered Meyerhold as a genius who was once hailed as “the standard-bearer for ‘theatrical innovation’” in the world and who had amazed and appalled audiences with his daring attempts in each production (Hijikata

The Reification of Tradition 217 1969, 183). In 1923, Hijikata had a short stay in Moscow while returning home from Berlin. Having previously learned of Meyerhold’s productions only through literature and photography, Hijikata felt overjoyed to have an oppor­ tunity to meet Meyerhold and see his productions. Following his meeting with Meyerhold, Hijikata watched on the same night Meyerhold’s production of Earth Rampant, an adaptation by Sergei Tretyakov of Marcel Martinet’s revo­ lutionary drama La Nuit. “On my first visit to Moscow and on the first night at the Meyerhold Theatre,” Hijikata recalled, “I came across many things that thereafter defined the latter half of my life” (185). The undecorated auditor­ ium, the empty stage lit only by searchlights, a real sidecar passing through the audience, the bold movements of the actors, and so on, were all enough to give a fresh hit and feeling and to make the young Japanese visitor amazed and marvel at Meyerhold’s work. The following night, Hijikata watched Meyer­ hold’s production of Alexei Faiko’s melodrama, Lake Lyul, at the Theatre of the Revolution, and noted that the stage was decorated with a “constructivist” set, where the bourgeois decadent life was portrayed in a satirical formalized performance (185). Having questioned the naturalistic and impressionistic productions he experienced in Europe, and having been seeking the truth in his young thea­ trical life, Hijikata sensed in Meyerhold’s two productions the realization of “the true liberation of the theatre”: Not realizing that, along with the abstract expressionism that I had learned during my time studying in Germany, I would later suffer for a long time from the influence of formalism, which caught me violently this time, I was simply overwhelmed by these new, ingenious and freely sweeping productions by Meyerhold. I feel that all the years of my theatre study, including my study at the German theatre, fell short of this one-night theatregoing in Moscow. (185–186) Speaking of the profound impact of Meyerhold’s productions on his career, Hijikata acknowledged that, in the following decade, he “was very much influenced by him and imitated and incorporated his directing techniques” (186). Having contributed to the founding of the Tsukiji Little Theatre in 1924, both financially with his own funds and artistically with his first-hand experience of contemporary European and Soviet-Russian (Meyerhold) thea­ tre, Hijikata directed Japanese productions of Martinet’s La Nuit, Nikolai Erd­ man’s comedy The Mandate, and Tretyakov’s Roar China, all modelled on Meyerhold’s productions of the same plays. Of all Hijikata’s work as a director under Meyerhold’s influence, his pro­ duction of Osanai’s adaptation of The Battles of Coxinga remains his greatest achievement. His overall formalist approach to the production was very much in agreement with Osanai’s view. Likewise, inspired by the Soviet theatre artists’ approach to the physical or external form of Kabuki, Hijikata turned to

218 The Spectre of Tradition the Japanese tradition for a path to the future of modern Japanese theatre. He acknowledged that he had always hoped to transplant Japanese old drama to Tsukiji’s stage because, having experimented with many foreign plays, realistic or expressionistic, it was imperative for Tsukiji to attempt to stage Japanese old drama for the future of the Japanese theatre and Japanese people. According to him, the revival or modernization of the old drama that had been attempted at Tsukiji amounted to a literary research and appraisal of the old drama (indivi­ dualistic, realistic, or psychological), and it was a revision that took away “the dynamic aspect” that the old drama originally had (Hijikata 1928, 2). In Hijikata’s view, Ichikawa Sadanji’s 1928 guest performance in Russia eloquently answered the critical question for the Japanese regarding what modern Japanese theatre should learn from the Kabuki theatre. For Hijikata, as for Osanai, while the content of Kabuki was out of the question, it was feasible to study Kabuki’s method of acting and the design and creation of its physical aspects such as costumes, props, and so on. Thus, Hijikata affirmed that it was appropriate to choose Chikamatsu’s dramas, disregard their decadent content, and use the magnificent, distinct, and ingenious method of the great master. He commended Osanai’s adaptation for its stress on the original’s various perfor­ mance effects and on the necessity of creating a new external spectacle for the audience. With such a formalist approach in his mind, Hijikata set his task to make Osanai’s spectacle three-dimensional with his art of staging that mar­ shalled a great variety of techniques such as drama, music, and dance, ancient and modern, Eastern and Western, while taking great care to keep intact the external simplicity and naivety of the original’s Eastern style (Hijikata 1928, 2). Notwithstanding such remarkable successes inspired by his spontaneous and intense experience of Meyerhold’s artistic genius, Hijikata was haunted by, and poignantly aware of, the negative influence of Meyerhold’s formalism on his career as a director. Noting that there was “a keen demand for the portrayal on the stage of the true image and ideals of the Japanese people,” Hijikata realized the following: It can no longer be a matter of biological or mechanical liberation of theatrical and acting techniques, and it can no longer be a superficial poster. The task of the director was to explore and create true realistic theatre rooted in the theatrical traditions of the past, and I felt acutely the need to re-educate and restart myself. (Hijikata 1969, 186) In December 1933 when directors from various countries had the opportunity to work at some of the theatres in Moscow for re-education, Hijikata went to Moscow for the second time. “It was one of the pleasures of this trip to meet my old friend Meyerhold,” Hijikata recalled. “However, for me, the greatest purpose of this trip was to rid myself of all the influences of the past—above all, Meyerhold’s influence—that had marred my career as a director, and to learn new and true creative methods” (186). For his re-education, Hijikata chose the

The Reification of Tradition 219 department of directing research at the Moscow Theatre of the Revolution led by A. D. Popov. In Moscow, Hijikata observed Meyerhold’s rehearsals, his training of students in biomechanics at his studio, and his productions of The Lady of the Camellias, The Forest, and The Queen of Spades. However, he noted that during his fouryear stay in Russia (before he was forced to leave in August 1937), he had never seen a production by Meyerhold that portrayed Soviet reality. He believed that Meyerhold’s potential as a director, in terms of his ideas, theories, techniques and so on, no longer met the demands of the new Soviet theatre of Socialist Realism, in spite of his attempts to perform Soviet plays (186). Hijikata thus concluded his journey of exorcising the lasting spell of Meyerhold’s influence on him: I don’t think it would be a harsh criticism to say that he [Meyerhold] had settled down to be the lone person who fulfilled the ‘Theatrical Revolution’ and had fallen into a euphoria of self-satisfaction. He had forgotten his responsibility for cultural construction in the construction mission of the Russian Revolution and had been left behind. In 1937, he stood before the harsh criticism that arose in the Soviet theatrical world. He was not the only one. All the directors and theatre troupes that had fallen into naturalism and formalism were confronted with it. (186–187) Here it is revealing to note that elsewhere, in 1946, writing again of his self–re­ education in the Soviet Union, Hijikata fondly remembered Popov as “one of the best directors in expressing the reality of the Soviet life on stage” (Hijikata 1947, 156). A clear justification of his choice of Popov, not Meyerhold, as his “teacher” (156), Hijikata’s observation further underscores his disapproval of Meyerhold’s alleged formalism. Thus, having rid himself of Meyerhold’s formalist influence by re-educating himself with Socialist Realism, Hijikata devoted the last decade of his life to studying and translating Stanislavsky’s work. Speaking of the role that Osanai and Hijikata played in the creation of the Tsukiji Little Theatre, Kubo Sakae underlined the Japanese out-of-step trans­ plantation of the two competing Russian models, Stanislavsky and Meyerhold. According to Kubo, what Osanai felt most strongly from the stage of the Moscow Art Theatre when he visited for the first time was its noble and creative “soul,” and Osanai aimed at exploring the mystery of the inner life of Stanislavsky’s inscrutable stage art. Thus, on the basis of his first impression of the Art Theatre in its early stage and with his productions of such plays as The Three Sisters and Uncle Vanya, Osanai attempted at “a faithful re-creation of the Stanislavsky system” that established a system of strict realism with the bias of psychologism (Kubo 1961–1963, 6:488–489). A disciple of Stanislavsky in the East and Japan’s “greatest theatrical biologist,” who preached the idea that “Drama is the Soul,” Osanai established a detailed “psychological basis of

220 The Spectre of Tradition acting” that had never existed in Japanese dramatic art and successfully recre­ ated the subtle flow of the “psychological action-reaction” between the char­ acters on the Tsukiji stage (489–490). For Kubo, Osanai’s slogan—“Neither Kabuki nor Shinpa (New School of Drama)”—for the creation of a new art of theatre was nothing but a proclamation on this biologistic position (490). Elsewhere, Kubo attributed Osanai’s idea that “Drama is the Soul” to his indepth study of the Art Theatre. Following the Art Theatre’s method of “transforming oneself” into the role, Osanai demanded “each actor to go deep into the inner depth of the soul of his own role,” and created an atmosphere that tended to evoke the “creative illusion” for the actor (Kubo 1961–1963, 7:119). On the other hand, according to Kubo, in his productions, in the Meyerhold style, of such plays as Emile Verhaeren’s The Dawn and Martine’s La Nuit, Hijikata brought out “only the spectacular brilliance of stage engi­ neering and physical mechanics” from Meyerhold’s productions, and conse­ quently “Meyerhold’s slap from the ‘left’ became merely a slap in form from the ‘left’” (Kubo 1961–1963, 6:492–493). Kubo thus concluded that “the Tsukiji Little Theatre was created from the ashes of the Great Earthquake by a Stanislavsky, who was one step behind Stanislavsky, and a Meyerhold, who was one step behind Meyerhold” (493). And he further summarized the Japanese out-of-step transplantation of the two Russian theatrical models: Thus, reflecting the out-of-step theatrical development between Northern Europe and the Far East, the younger generation of theatre people in this country misunderstood the creative system of the Art Theatre by repu­ diating Japan’s Stanislavsky, who was one step behind Stanislavsky. On the other hand, having overcome Japan’s Meyerhold, who was one step behind Meyerhold, they mistakenly found the most appropriate form to serve their new subject matter in the archetypal mechanistic constructivist system in Moscow. (497) Here Kubo referred to the Japanese transplantation of the naturalism and psy­ chological realism of the early Stanislavsky system without the physical method that Stanislavsky explored in his late career, and of the formalism or Meyer­ holdism (constructivism and biomechanism) of the early Meyerhold system that was already criticized (even by Meyerhold himself) as out-of-date in the Soviet Union. As Kubo noted in 1937, “Today, Meyerhold has already launched a self-criticism, ‘the struggle against Meyerholdism,’” yet in Japan “the Meyerhold system of the past is being reproduced uncritically in the name of ‘new style’” (Kubo 1961–1963, 6:200).13 For Kubo, with Osanai’s sudden death in December 1928, the ensuing split of the Tsukiji Little Theatre signified “the victory of the mechanistic antithesis presented by the younger generation over Japan’s immature Stanislavsky system” (Kubo 1961–1963, 6:501). However, Kubo considered the theory of realism in art developed under the impact of Soviet “Socialist Realism” as “a breathtakingly scathing criticism” of “the

The Reification of Tradition 221 Meyerhold system” that saw the stage as a massive machine and of “its essential fallacy that reduces the organic development of human psychology to the laws of mechanics” (Kubo 1961–1963, 6:501). Kubo thus presented a clear picture of the Japanese out-of-step displacement of Stanislavsky and Meyerhold. In so doing, however, Kubo, who claimed that he “was able to break away from the Meyerhold-Hijikata line relatively quickly,” tried to establish himself as the faithful Japanese inheritor (and creator of the Japanese style) of the late period of the Stanislavsky system, through his criticism of the early Shingeki represented by Osanai and Hijikata (Kubo 1961– 1963, 7:319–320). Thus, Kubo did not delineate, or chose to ignore, Osanai’s Meyerholdian turn and Hijikata’s de-Meyerholdian turn. What history reveals, however, is this remarkable intercultural phenomenon: in Osanai, who began his career in Shingeki as a Stanislavsky disciple preaching and practicing psycho­ logical realism, there was a Meyerholdian turn, a radical turn to biomechanics and physical acting and a modernist return to the anti-naturalistic tradition of Japanese theatre; in Hijikata, who had long been haunted by Meyerhold’s influence, a de-Meyerholdian turn, a drastic breakaway from constructivism, biomechanics, and formalism. While Osanai’s turn to Meyerhold was moti­ vated by his nationalistically-oriented artistic interest and was aided by Meyerhold’s “traditionalist” interest in Japanese theatrical traditions (Tian 2018, 203–204), Hijikata’s breakaway from Meyerhold, like Kubo’s, was ideologically driven by his Marxist and socialist persuasions and was reinforced by the Soviet political campaign against Meyerhold.

Meyerhold and the Left-Wing Theatre in China A few years following its impact in Japan, Meyerhold’s call for the “October in the theatre” began to resonate in modern Chinese theatre, especially the Chi­ nese left-wing theatre movement. The Chinese learned of the Soviet theatre and, in particular, Meyerhold’s ideas and practices, from Japanese and English studies such as Nobori Shomu’s work (Nobori 1924; 1925), Huntly Carter’s The New Theatre and Cinema of Soviet Russia, P. A. Markov’s The Soviet Theatre, and Norris Houghton’s Moscow Rehearsals: An Account of Methods of Production in the Soviet Theatre.14 In 1928, in an essay tracing the footsteps of Meyerhold as a revolutionary artist, Feng Naichao, a left-wing writer and critic, noted that, confined by the old Russian social conditions, Meyerhold’s experiments before the October Revolution on theatricalism as a rejection of Stanislavsky’s realism—which, according to Feng, became a retreat for the Russian intellectuals—could not but degenerate into formalism because of its lack of (proletarian) ideological contents. After the October Revolution, Feng argued, Meyerhold’s struggle for the “October in the theatre” was not only with the demands of Russian theatre artists but also the proletarian demands of the new spectators. Meyerhold’s productions after the October Revolution were praised for their effective ideological agitation and propaganda. Feng underlined Meyerhold’s significant

222 The Spectre of Tradition turn to the spectacle of agitation demanded by the masses and the popular theatre (Feng 1928, 64–71). Feng’s appraisal of Meyerhold was clearly ideolo­ gically motivated as Meyerhold’s artistic innovations after the October Revo­ lution were commended for their effectiveness as ideological propaganda. Feng made clear his ideological stance in his introduction of Meyerhold to his Chi­ nese audiences: Meyerhold’s gigantic footsteps have not only made many contributions to the Russian theatre but also influenced the European avant-gardists. We cannot forget, however, that we introduced him not to be dazzled by his brilliant activities; we have to find potential social meanings in them. (71) Zhang Min, the future left-wing theatre artist, provided a survey of the trends of the Soviet theatre: the right school represented by Stanislavsky’s Moscow Art Theatre and the left school represented by Meyerhold. Zhang believed that, for the Chinese to understand the new theatre of Soviet Russia, it was necessary to pay special attention to the left-wing theatre as it showed Meyerhold’s per­ sonality and positions and to have a deep and thorough understanding of Meyerhold’s theatrical endeavours (Xie 1929, 53). Thus, Zhang’s essay, which drew on Huntly Carter’s book, was focused on Meyerhold’s life and career, including his post-revolution ideas and practices of constructionism and bio­ mechanics (51–64). Gu Zhongyi, whose essay was largely based on Markov’s work, drew a clear line between the Moscow Art Theatre and the Meyerhold Theatre, the former characterized by its naturalistic method that emphasized psy­ chological truth and inner techniques, and the latter by its anti-naturalistic method that struggled against psychological naturalism and inner techniques and under­ scored physical techniques and “socio-mechanics” (Gu 1937, 123–135). According to Zhang Geng, another prominent leftist theatre critic, the nineteenth-century European naturalism with its psychologism in acting that the Chinese theatre artists mimicked in their struggle against China’s old theatre was absolutely useless for the Chinese resistance against the Japanese invasion because of its disregard of the theatre’s impact on the audience (Zhang 1938, 257–258). In contrast, Zhang argued, the new anti-naturalistic theatre such as the audience-centred theatre that Meyerhold proposed after the October Revolution, which Meyerhold claimed would draw on the genuine art of tra­ ditional Chinese theatre, should have been followed by the Chinese as a new theatre of propaganda and agitation to be weaponized to effectively serve the Chinese resistance against the Japanese (258–259). It was Xiong Foxi, an accomplished left-wing director in the 1930s, who put into practice what he called the Soviet “new philosophy” and “new production method” in his theatrical experiments. According to Xiong, “the philosophical turn” in the Soviet theatre from capitalist entertainment to “an instrument for mass education and a weapon for cultural construction” laid “a strong philo­ sophical foundation” for the theatre of the whole world, and thereby the

The Reification of Tradition 223 Soviet “new philosophy of the theatre” and its practices were “most worthy of our esteem” (Xiong 1940, 15). Integrated to this new philosophy was the creation of “the Soviet new production method” that eliminated the distance between the performance and the audience (15). The new method introduced by Meyerhold and others dramatically increased the value of the art of theatre, breaking the confines of the proscenium stage, extending the performance into the audience, converting the whole theatre into a stage, and turning an indi­ vidual theatregoer from a passive spectator into an active participant in a mass performance. For Xiong, this invention heralded the revolution of world theatre, and his use of this new production method in his experiments in popular theatre in Chinese rural areas proved exceedingly successful in mass education as well as artistic innovation, as exemplified in his production of Guodu (River Crossing). Furthermore, Xiong argued, the adoption of the new method was more effective in increasing Chinese enthusiasm in the national resistance war against Japan and strengthening Chinese confidence in the founding of a new nation (16). As noted by Yang Cunbin, one of Xiong’s colleagues, Xiong’s open-air production of Guodu used the whole venue as the stage, with the actors entering from the audience and the audience singing with the actors in chorus and joining the performance at the end of the production. Lighting was used to suggest the dramatic situation and the change of the scenery and was sometimes directed towards the audience. The scenery suggesting the riverbanks and the structure of the bridge was designed in a Meyerholdian constructivist manner and was moved around by the actors. Moreover, the scenery sometimes func­ tioned as actors and the actors as scenery. For Yang, such a production method was very unusual in China; it was associated with the constructivist production method advocated by Meyerhold (Yang 1936, 9). Indeed, Xiong Foxi praised Meyerhold’s constructivist production method in which the actors performed not on a proscenium stage separated from the audience but performed together with the audience in the whole theatre (Xiong 1947, 96). Another critic also noted that “the brand-new production method” of Guodu could find its pre­ cedent in Meyerhold’s theatre, especially his “socio-mechanism,” although Guodu did not focus only on theatricalism as Meyerhold did in his experiments (Zhang 1936, 9). Although aligning with the twentieth-century Western modernist movement against the nineteenth-century proscenium stage, her­ alded by Meyerhold and others, Yang was keen to emphasize that the new method was “a way of inheriting the traditional legacy” of Chinese theatre and was created to accommodate “the viewing habit and tradition of our peasant audiences” (Yang 1937a, 13–14). Yang Cunbin further explored the new production method in the staging of his own play, Longwang Qu (The Dragon King Canal). As in the production of Guodu, Yang insisted, the use of the new method in his production was inspired by Chinese tradition: “Our adoption of the new production method was not so much a Western influence as a continuation of our own heritage. The temple fair theatre of worship bequeathed by our ancestors most greatly

224 The Spectre of Tradition inspired the new production method” (Yang 1937b, 7). Likewise, Yang underscored the sociopolitical significance of his “intercultural” fusion of the new method and Chinese tradition: “In order to expand the social mission of literature and art and to reinforce the educational power of theatre art, we adopted the new production method” (Yang 1937b, 7). The acting area of Yang’s production was circular, and it included the stage, the steps that connected the stage, and the down stage area that was also part of the audience’s space. The actors entered and exited the stage through the audience. The scenery and setting were highly conventional and stylized, drawing on the decorative style of Chinese New Year festival pictures and on traditional Chinese theatre. For instance, a piece of cloth representing a city, or a figure of Buddha transforming the venue into a temple (Yang 1937b, 7–9).

Meyerhold and Contemporary Chinese Theatre Since the 1980s For nearly three decades beginning from the 1950s, Meyerhold virtually dis­ appeared from the Chinese theatrical discourse because of the Chinese socia­ list campaign against formalism in the 1950s and because of the decade-long Cultural Revolution (1966–1976). In the 1980s, however, Meyerhold, along with Bertolt Brecht and other Western avant-garde artists, was resurrected in the Chinese theoretical debates and theatrical experiments in opposition to the confines of nineteenth-century European realism and the orthodoxy of the Stanislavsky system. In searching for an alternative, Chinese artists turned to the anti-naturalistic and anti-illusionistic Western avant-garde theatre, and Meyerhold’s idea of “Conventional Theatre” became the battle cry for the Chinese avant-garde theatre movement. It has not only influenced the Chinese understanding of their theatrical tradition, but has also exerted a significant impact on the new development of Chinese theatre both in theory and practice. To understand the Chinese transplantation and understanding of Meyer­ hold’s concept of “Conventional Theatre,” it is necessary first to look at it in its Russian context. As I have investigated in Chapter 2, Meyerhold’s concept was primarily based on his interpretation of Alexander Pushkin’s ideas on dramatic art. In arguing his case against naturalism, Meyerhold invoked Pushkin as an anti-naturalistic and anti-psychologistic dramatist and director and welded Push­ kin’s ideas into the language of his anti-naturalistic and anti-psychological thea­ trical traditionalism and conventionalism. Meyerhold’s concept of “Conventional Theatre” evolved from the perspec­ tive of his early formalism and constructivism in the 1920s to the perspective of realism in the 1930s. Thus, from Conventional Theatre to the Realist Con­ ventional Theatre and to the Conventionalized Realist Theatre, the emphasis of Meyerhold’s idea of Conventional Theatre moves in the direction of realism (Tian 2012, 143–146). In his speech “Meyerhold against Meyerholdism” (1936), Meyerhold acknowledged:

The Reification of Tradition 225 I have been too consistently moving towards the assertion of realism on stage on the basis of conventional theatre to give it up. I could not give it up, and it would mean that I have stepped on the throat of my own song. (Meyerhold 1968, 2:343) This conceptual movement was clearly reflected in his perception of the unverisimilar conventionality, and the realism, of traditional Chinese theatre and in his position against labelling the Chinese theatre as formalistic, as seen in his lecture, “Chaplin and Chaplinism” (1936), in which he asserted confidently that Mei Lanfang’s art was “realistic” (Meyerhold 1969, 322). It should be noted here that Meyerhold was by no means alone in his perception of the realism of Mei Lanfang’s Chinese theatre. Likewise, Eisenstein attempted to temper the extreme conventionalism of Chinese theatre with realism and to reconcile its “conventional” form with its “realistic” content (Eisenstein 1968, 315). Speaking of Mei Lanfang’s performances, B. Vasil’ev, a Soviet sinologist, was more straightforward in his stress on “the principle of conventional rea­ lism” that he claimed was left “inviolable” in Mei Lanfang’s reform of Chinese theatre (Vasil’ev 1935a, 6). As shown in the following, Meyerhold’s concept of “Conventional Theatre” had a strong impact on the Chinese theatre in the 1980s. However, as early as the 1960s, an important essay, “On Conventionality,” by Nikolai Okhlopkov, one of Meyerhold’s disciples and a noted director, was translated into Chinese and became known to Chinese theatre workers (Okhlopkov 1963). Okhlop­ kov’s long essay was first published in 1959 in the leading Russian theatre journal, Teatr (Okhlopkov 1959), and it immediately triggered heated debates on conventionalism and realism in the Soviet theatre, which involved many leading directors, actors, playwrights, and critics. Under the banner of “realism” and “realistic convention” and in an attempt to differentiate his realism from the aesthetic, formalist, and modernist con­ ventionalism and from Meyerhold’s formalist errors and contradictions, Okhlop­ kov performed a systematic revisionist displacement of one of the core aesthetic concepts, “convention” or “conventionality” in the Russian and Soviet theatre. Okhlopkov proposed that “there exists and should exist a realistic convention, a convention that comes from folk theatrical traditions, a progressive and popular convention,” which is “organically included in the broad understanding of rea­ lism” (Okhlopkov 1959, 11:58; 1963, 237; 1959, 12:53–54; 1963, 279). Okhlopkov regarded Meyerhold as “the brightest, most controversial master of convention” (Okhlopkov 1959, 11:76; 1963, 273). However, he did not speak of Meyerhold’s ideas of conventional theatre and instead criticized Meyerhold’s formalist practices in his productions. He noted that, in Meyerhold’s production of Tarelkin’s Death, “the stage was cluttered with ridiculous constructivist ‘design details,’ ‘stage accessories,’ and a wide variety of stunt furniture,” none of which contained “even the slightest hint of any authenticity of life” and which amounted to nothing but “a formalist convention in Meyerhold’s production” (Okhlopkov 1959, 11:75; 1963, 271). For Okhlopkov, it was the actors, including Okhlopkov

226 The Spectre of Tradition himself, who “overturned all this formalist devilry in the scenery and furniture” with their superb and truthful performance (Okhlopkov 1959, 11:75; 1963, 271). His sharp criticism notwithstanding, Okhlopkov did not bury Meyerhold as an unredeemable formalist. Although Meyerhold was apparently “a formalist, a decadent, and a ‘conventionalist,’” Okhlopkov appreciated Meyerhold’s work in the Soviet era that Okhlopkov thought enthralled Vakhtangov, who, “having unraveled a lot of errors, flaws, and falsehoods in Meyerhold’s work, was able to see what this brilliant Soviet master of the art of directing and sta­ ging was truly remarkable for” (Okhlopkov 1959, 11:76–77; 1963, 274). Okhlopkov added that he emphasized the “Soviet” because “it was during the Soviet era that Meyerhold was most tenaciously overcoming all his contra­ dictions, although he never completely overcame them” (Okhlopkov 1959, 11:77; 1963, 274). For instance, Okhlopkov thus spoke of Meyerhold’s use of the “ramp” in his production of The Forest: If we think about the conventionality of popular theatrical performances, as we strive to do in practice, if we care about the conventionality that is an organic element of realistic theatrical art, then such conventionality appeals not ‘in general’ to the imagination and conjecture of the spectator and much less to abstract symbolical images, but leads this imagination along the tracks of realistic imagery, realistic typification, along the tracks of the truthfulness of life of everything shown on the stage—as the most necessary conditions of highly ideological art. Only then a broad, democratic audience will use their imagination to complete the images of the characters, the setting, and the atmosphere and, having given themselves over to poetic creativity, will merge with the characters of the play. (Okhlopkov 1959, 11:77; 1963, 275. Emphases in original) Thus, in Okhlopkov’s view, “Conventionality should not serve the ‘thea­ tricalization’ of the theatre nor the ‘retheatralization’ (Georg Fuchs) of it, but serve the truth of life and high ideologicality” (Okhlopkov 1959, 11:77; 1963, 275. Emphases in original). Here I want to point out that the “ramp” used in Meyerhold’s production of The Forest was a conventional device that Meyerhold transplanted from the hanamichi used in Kabuki. A technology of Japanese national or popular theatre that Okhlopkov would use as a realistic convention, hanamichi, when displaced from its Japanese soil and deprived of its national or popular character, can also be deployed as a formalist convention, as Okhlopkov characterized of Meyer­ hold’s use of it. It shows that Okhlopkov’s concept of realistic conventionality and his differentiation of it from formalist conventionality amounted to nothing but an ideologically charged theoretical construction.15 Okhlopkov’s revisionist criticism aside, Meyerhold himself seemed to have answered such criticisms more than two decades earlier. In 1936, in a defiant speech, Meyerhold defended himself from contemporary attacks on the alleged

The Reification of Tradition 227 formalism or “Meyerholdism” of his work as a result of Western European decadent influences. Reminding his audience that he had made “a close study” of Russian folklore and had always listened to “the pulse of popular creative art,” Meyerhold maintained that his “slogan” had been “set your course by the art of the people” and that, in his production of The Forest, “all the devices which appear to have shocked many people bear the imprint of vigorous, popular art” (Meyerhold 1969, 294). In the meantime, Meyerhold underscored the ideological soundness of his work, insisting that, in adapting an author, one “must stick to the fundamental ideological aims of the author,” as he did in The Forest (295). Okhlopkov’s revisionist discourse on conventionality attempted to revise and reinvent the definition of realism and realistic conventionality to include everything representative of national or popular forms of theatre (from ancient Greek theatre, medieval theatre, the three witches in Macbeth, the ghost of Hamlet’s father, and Goethe’s Faust to traditional Chinese and Japanese thea­ tres). Yet, it ended up insisting that the theatre “must affirm only realism, and not realism in general, but socialist realism” (Okhlopkov 1959, 12:73; 1963, 319). Okhlopkov’s essay drew a swift rebuttal from G. A. Tovstonogov, a noted Soviet theatre director and a People’s Artist of the USSR. Although Tov­ stonogov agreed that there should be no debate on the existence of realism, naturalism, and formalism or on the superiority of realism over naturalism and formalism, the real question for him was how realism is to be understood: “Which convention is realistic, and which is decadent?” If, according to Okh­ lopkov, a convention is theatrical or aesthetic, then it must be formalist, and if it is national or popular, it must be realistic, how can one tell the difference between them? For example, Tovstonogov continued, Meyerhold used the method of the commedia dell’arte, which was born of the Italian national or popular theatre, and which was evidently an aesthetic convention (Tov­ stonogov 1960, 44; 1963, 324). As Okhlopkov himself used the techniques of Japanese national or popular theatre, Tovstonogov asked Okhlopkov: “Do you think that, by doing so, you have already insured yourself against formalism?” (Tovstonogov 1960, 44; 1963, 325). Likewise, Tovstonogov argued, Chinese theatre is also conventional by nature and for Chinese people, everything in their theatre is clear, truthful, and realistic. However, Tovstonogov continued his debate with Okhlopkov: If you or I or anybody else tries to directly transfer the techniques of Chinese folk theatre into Soviet theatre, we won’t escape aestheticism and formalism. And with good reason! The aesthetes and decadents of all times and peoples quite often used not only particular techniques, but the entire system of images from the Middle Ages, for example, or Hellenic culture or the cultures of Eastern countries. That did not prevent them from ceasing to be decadents, aesthetes, formalists. (Tovstonogov 1960, 44; 1963, 325)

228 The Spectre of Tradition Thus, as Tovstonogov suggested, the use of national or popular conventions cannot be considered an absolute yardstick to distinguish between realism and formalism: The fact that certain conventional techniques belong to this or that national or pop­ ular form of theatre does not mean that they are realistic. And transferred from one century to another, torn from their national soil, they mostly lose the right to be called national or popular. (Tovstonogov 1960, 44; 1963, 325. Emphases in original). Such being the case, I want to add here that these conventional techniques can no longer be considered realistic conventions. Furthermore, as both Okhlop­ kov’s and Meyerhold’s uses of Chinese and Japanese conventions displaced those conventions from their national or popular soil and thereby deprived them of their real national or popular lives, they were no longer realistic as they were seen in their own national or popular contexts. Accordingly, there were no real difference between Okhlopkov’s purportedly realistic use of national or popular conventions and Meyerhold’s allegedly formalist (or realistic) use of them, and thereby no real difference between realistic conventions and formalist conventions, nor real difference between conventional realism or realistic con­ ventionality and formalism. Thus, such concepts as Okhlopkov’s “realistic con­ ventionality” and Meyerhold’s “conventional realism” were all theoretical inventions stemming from the Soviet ideological and political campaign against formalism in the 1930s and the 1950s. Moreover, one would further question Okhlopkov’s, Tovstonogov’s, or Meyerhold’s view that national or popular theatre is inherently realistic. Ironi­ cally, Okhlopkov’s formula, like Meyerhold’s in the 1930s, was decidedly ahistorical and anti-realistic. If such a formula is strictly followed, all traditional Chinese and Japanese theatrical forms or conventions can no longer be con­ sidered realistic. Jingju (Beijing opera or Peking opera), for example, started and grew from the national or popular soil of Chinese folk theatre, music, and dance. However, as it was developed in Mei Lanfang’s time, jingju had been essentially torn apart from its popular soil and had been deprived of its folk and popular character as it became highly aestheticized and extremely con­ ventionalized and formalized, no longer realistic and consequently aristocratic and “decadent,” at least as seen from the perspective of many contemporary Chinese progressive critics.16 Equally ironic is the fact that it was these same conventions that would have been defined as “formalist” convention that sti­ mulated Okhlopkov’s (and Meyerhold’s) imagination of the “realism” of Mei Lanfang’s Chinese theatre.17 Okhlopkov’s essay and some of the major debates were published in Chinese in 1963.18 Although the Russian debates did not have a significant impact on Chinese theatre in the following years, the critical term, jiadingxing (supposi­ tionality), the Chinese interpretive rendition of Okhlopkov’s concept of “con­ ventionality” (uslovnosti), would become one of the most used and influential

The Reification of Tradition 229 concepts in the theoretical construction of contemporary Chinese theatre (both spoken drama and traditional theatre) since the 1980s. As Tong Daoming, a Chinese scholar and translator of Russian drama who was largely responsible for the re-introduction of Meyerhold to China, noted of this “interesting phe­ nomenon in the theatre”: “The jiadingxing fervour in the theatre, which arose from Mei Lanfang and through Meyerhold in the 1930s, was again transmitted through Meyerhold’s disciple [Okhlopkov] to the Chinese theatre world a half century later” (Tong 2019, 70). Here, although Tong’s statement is on shaky ground, as the intense interest in the idea of conventional theatre in RussianSoviet theatre had started decades before Mei Lanfang’s appearance in Moscow, it aptly traces the convoluted intercultural process in which Meyerhold’s idea of “Conventional Theatre” was received in China. Despite the fact that Okhlopkov’s revisionist (socialist) realistic perspective on “conventionality” was clearly opposed to Meyerhold’s idea of “Conventional Theatre” characterized by his alleged formalist practice of constructivism and re-theatricalization (Okhlopkov 1959, 11:75–77; 1963, 271–275), most Chi­ nese critics used, without taking into account Okhlopkov’s critical perspective, the same Chinese term or concept, jiadingxing, to translate and interpret Meyerhold’s idea of “Conventional Theatre” and defined jiadingxing as anti­ thetical to naturalism and synonymous with modernist anti-illusionism and theatricalism. The concept of jiadingxing presupposes the contradistinction between what is real or authentic and what is unreal, artificial, or fictional, the substitution of the unreal, artificial, or fictional for the real or authentic, and the performance of the unreal, artificial, or fictional as the real or authentic. For instance, Gao Xingjian, then an avant-garde playwright, defined jiadingxing, the premise of the art of theatre, as the actor’s performance or enactment, in an environment defined by the stage (proscenium, thrust, or in the round) and the scenery (authentic or artificial), of the unreal, artificial, or fictional as the real or authentic (“jia xi zhen zuo”) (Gao 1983, 96–97). According to Wang Xiaoying, jiadingxing, as opposed to bizhenxing (verisimilitude), is the essence of the art of theatre; it is the agreement on what is real or unreal, established between a performance and an audience, which presumes jia (the unreal, artificial, or fic­ tional) on the stage as zhen (the real or authentic) (Wang 2006, 8–9). Thus, the theoretical construction of Chinese theatre under the influence of the idea of jiadingxing was hinged on an interpretational translation of Meyer­ hold’s idea of “Conventional Theatre” that was, as I have demonstrated in Chapter 2, constructed on Meyerhold’s anti-naturalistic appropriation of Push­ kin’s Romantic argument against the French neo-classicism in the theatre. The Chinese translation displaced Meyerhold’s idea of conventionality into a binary contrast and opposition between the unreal and the real, the artificial and the authentic. Most significantly, it was applied as a definitive principle not only to the theory and practice of spoken drama (huaju) increasingly leaning toward an anti-naturalistic and anti-illusionistic orientation, but also to the theory and practice of traditional Chinese theatre. The indigenous concepts in traditional Chinese theatre such as chengshihua (conventionalization) and xuni (suppositional)

230 The Spectre of Tradition were equated with jiadingxing and the essence of traditional Chinese theatre was redefined from the anti-naturalistic and anti-illusionistic perspective of jiadingxing. Furthermore, as I have argued elsewhere, while Meyerhold’s definition of the conventional as anti-illusionistic is in part a displacement of the essence of tradi­ tional Chinese theatre (Tian 1999), the Chinese placement of the idea of jia­ dingxing in their redefinition of traditional Chinese theatre is a displacement of both the uslovnosti (conventionality) and the idea of traditional Chinese theatre, because the uslovnosti is not necessarily anti-illusionistic, at least not in the realm of imagination as suggested by Okhlopkov, and because traditional Chinese theatre creates, imaginatively and spiritually, illusionistic effects on the imagina­ tion of the audience (Tian 2008, 184). With its disenchantment with the Ibsenite and Stanislavskian tradition of nat­ uralism, contemporary Chinese theatre affirmed and pursued a non-illusionistic theatre of open theatricalism and conventionalism, which supposedly drew on the jiadingxing of traditional Chinese theatre. Tong Daoming was thus pleased to see more and more Chinese theatre workers in the world of spoken drama, who understood and consciously drew on the aesthetic meaning of the jiadingxing of traditional Chinese theatre in their efforts to break the dominance of theatrical illusionism. Tong further underscored that, as Chinese artists claimed, “not with­ out national pride,” their pursuit of staging innovation in theatrical experiments on jiadingxing was, fundamentally, a search for the roots of Chinese national aesthetics (Tong 1983, 26). Tong was, however, keenly aware of the nationalistic implica­ tions of his (and the Chinese in general) response to Meyerhold’s impact on the Chinese approach to their own theatrical tradition: Is it because I am a Chinese that I have been confined by my national consciousness to such a degree that I have strenuously overstated Meyer­ hold’s appraisal of the art of traditional Chinese theatre? No. Meyerhold was, artistically, a genuine internationalist and his praise of Mei Lanfang and Chaplin emanated entirely from his own artistic conscience. This is also what was extraordinary about Meyerhold. (Tong 1981, 85) For me, however, what was not extraordinary about Meyerhold in this regard is that his theatrical “internationalism” was not entirely innocent of ideology and politics; in fact, it was inextricably tied to the ideology and politics of Soviet socialist internationalism that legitimated Soviet socialism, and socialist realism, as the sole inheritor, and appropriator, of the cultural heritage of humanity. On the occasion of Mei Lanfang’s tour of Soviet Russia, B. Vasil’ev thus affirmed the “internationalist” superiority of the Soviet state, which would have made our contemporary global interculturalists feel much parochial and inferior: For us in the Soviet Union, it is completely obvious how false these divi­ sions into East and West are. For us, the artificial boundaries between East and West have been erased…. Our advantage over any country in Europe

The Reification of Tradition 231 lies in the fact that we want and are able to objectively and realistically evaluate and understand the cultural heritage of any country, including our great neighbour of 400 million, China, and not only understand but also respect it. (Vasil’ev 1935a, 5)19 As I have noted in Chapter 2, following his experience of Mei Lanfang’s per­ formance in Russia, Meyerhold argued for the construction of “an expressive art”—Socialist Realism—for the future of the Soviet theatre, which “will be based on all the achievements of the techniques of all epochs” (Meyerhold 1978a, 121; Tian 2010, 147). Here Meyerhold’s rhetoric echoed the Soviet official “internationalist” cultural doctrine dictated by Vladimir Lenin, propa­ gated by A. A. Zhdanov, and espoused by leading Russian-Soviet inter­ nationalist artists such as Stanislavsky, Eisenstein, and Tretyakov (Tian 2012, 120–121, 136). From an intercultural perspective, however, what was noteworthy about Meyerhold’s “internationalist” approach to the tradition of Chinese (and Japa­ nese) theatre is the fact that it helped legitimate a nationalistic reinvention and reification of a theatrical tradition in China (and Japan) that had been attacked and rejected as outdated, decadent, and reactionary. Thus, after reading Tong Daoming’s review of Meyerhold’s contribution, Wang Zhaowen, a noted Chinese Marxist theoretician of art and aesthetics, was pleased to learn that a foreign artist like Meyerhold genuinely appreciated the jiadingxing of traditional Chinese art. “I am sure that I am not a narrow-minded nationalist,” Wang wrote. “Nevertheless, having read about Meyerhold’s views that accord with my national pride, how could I not feel gratified?” (Wang 1982, 71–72). In the world of contemporary Chinese spoken drama, Xu Xiaozhong, a leading theatre director, for instance, called attention to the “audacious chal­ lenges” against naturalism taking place on the Chinese stage. He noted the example and influence of Meyerhold, who was inspired by traditional Chinese theatre in his struggle to break the confines of illusionism and to restore jia­ dingxing as the essence of theatre. Thus, for Xu, jiadingxing is not only char­ acteristic of traditional Chinese theatre but of all forms of theatre, including Chinese spoken drama that had long fetishized the “illusionistic verisimilitude” from the nineteenth-century European stage (Xu 1982, 8). Here it is worth noting that, in his argument that opposes jiadingxing to bizhenxing (ver­ isimilitude), Xu was clearly influenced by Meyerhold’s idea of “Conventional Theatre” or rather “jiadingxing theatre,” as the Chinese understood and inter­ preted. Meyerhold was one of the modernist inspirations for Gao Xingjian in his proposal for a total theatre that emphasizes theatricality, the central role of the actor’s performance, and the audience’s participation. Inspired by Meyerhold’s and Brecht’s anti-naturalistic and anti-illusionistic interpretations and uses of tra­ ditional Chinese theatre, Gao found his modernist-return to the essence and roots of theatre in the jiadingxing and totality of performance and staging in traditional Chinese theatre (Gao 1986, 53–54; 1988, 84). In Gao’s view, traditional Chinese

232 The Spectre of Tradition theatre is “the most complete affirmation of jiadingxing in the theatre,” and modern theatre regained its vitality—jiadingxing—from the sources of theatre, which enabled itself to compete against movies and television and to broaden the world of its modern survival and development (Gao 1983, 103). Likewise, Hu Weimin, a noted director of spoken drama, invoked Meyer­ hold’s struggle against the established European naturalistic and illusionistic tradition, arguing that Chinese spoken drama must return to jiadingxing, the essence of the art of theatre. Hu noted that the main current of the innovation of Chinese spoken drama was oriented to “searching for the roots of the tra­ dition of our national theatre art” (Hu 1982, 37). Citing inaccurately Meyer­ hold’s words on the jiadingxing of traditional Chinese theatre as the basis of theatrical innovation and creation,20 Hu interweaved Meyerhold’s “dead” words into the fabric of his nationalistic argument for the Chinese character, originality, and superiority of jiadingxing or what Meyerhold defined—“con­ ventionality”—as the universal essence of the art of theatre. Thus, according to Hu, “jiadingxing is evidently a Chinese product through and through”; “Chi­ nese theatre aesthetics is far more advanced than that of the West”; and “the laurel of jiadingxing, the quintessence of Chinese theatre art, should in no way be put only on the heads of foreigners” (38). And, furthermore, Hu asserted that some of the jiadingxing techniques he used in his productions were inspired by traditional Chinese theatre, not learned from foreign artists like Meyerhold or Brecht (38). Since the 1980s, with the rise of new generations of Chinese theatre artists and critics who have become increasingly interested in Meyerhold’s work and theory, in particular, his idea of “Conventional (or jiadingxing) Theatre,” Meyerhold’s name continued to reverberate in the Chinese theatrical world, as the Russian-Soviet theatre artist has been canonized as an important part of the tradition of the Western modernist theatre movement that has helped transform modern and contemporary Chinese theatre.

Conclusion For nearly a century, since the 1920s, the reception of Meyerhold in Japan and China mirrored his (mis)fortune in Russia, as he was likewise revered as a revolutionary artist, reviled and rejected as a reactionary decadent formalist, and resurrected as a universal modernist prophet. As Meyerhold invoked the spectre of Japanese and Chinese theatrical traditions in his struggle to define the future of the Soviet-Russian theatre, the Japanese and the Chinese summoned his uncanny insight and conjured up his authority in their struggles to redeem, resurrect, reinvent, and reify their traditions for the future development of their national theatres.21 Meyerhold’s use of the tradition of Japanese theatre stimu­ lated Osanai in his vision for the future of Japanese national theatre conceived to synthesize Eastern and Western traditions on the basis of Kabuki. Likewise, the Chinese were mesmerized by Meyerhold’s prophecy that “the glory of the art of theatre in the future” will be based on the art of jiadingxing as exemplified

The Reification of Tradition 233 by traditional Chinese theatre, and that “there will be a certain union of the art of the Western-European theatre and the Chinese theatre” (Tong 1983, 15). Like Meyerhold’s refraction of the Japanese and Chinese theatrical traditions, the Japanese and Chinese appropriations of Meyerhold’s ideas and practices were subject to the artistic whims and visions of individual artists and to their ideological provisions and persuasions, which were conditioned by a century of historical and sociopolitical changes. With all its detours and displacements, Meyerhold’s journey in the East has left a lasting imprint on the modern development of Japanese and Chinese theatres, including the Japanese and Chinese modern(ist) reinvention and reification of their own theatrical tradi­ tions. Meyerhold’s complex intercultural relationship to the past and the pre­ sent of Japanese and Chinese theatres was a classic example of the “intercultural” dialogue in and between traditions and modernities, where the artistic and the aesthetic were inexorably interlaced with the ideological and the political. And often, it was the ideological and the political that prevailed in this dialogic movement and displacement.

Notes 1 In his memoir published later, the words “Chinese and Japanese” were left out: “From my point of view, Meyerhold’s main merit is that he confidently turned the theatre to its conventional nature, recalling the sources of conventional popular theatre, combining realism and conventionality” (Ilinskii 1973, 135; 1984, 186). Here Ilinskii’s revision that stresses the realism of Meyerhold’s conventional theatre indicates that Meyerhold’s idea of conventional theatre evoked not just the tradi­ tions of Chinese and Japanese theatres but a constellation of different national or popular theatrical traditions, as Meyerhold “wanted to create a new Soviet theatre of unprecedented forms” and began his search for these forms from “the sources of popular theatres of antiquity, Japanese and Chinese theatres, and the commedia dell’arte” (Ilinskii 1973, 373; 1984, 375). 2 See Tian 1999; 2018, 177–209. 3 See, for instance, articles in the 1924 and 1925 issues of Tsukiji sho-gekijo. 4 Here Kumazawa Mataroku most likely referred to Meyerhold’s O teatre (On Theatre, 1913), a collection of Meyerhold’s early articles (Meyerhold 1968, 1:101–206). 5 On the occasion of Ichikawa Sadanji’s 1928 guest performance in the Soviet Union, Gauzner wrote, for Pravda, from his experience of Kabuki performances in Japan: The global value of Kabuki lies not in dramatic art but in the acting of the actors. There is no unnecessary movement or gesture in the acting of the Japanese actors. It is calculated like a dance. It is a classic in the strictest sense of the word. It is the result of 300 years of development that has been passed down from one generation of Japanese actors to the next, and is not a fossilized and worn-out cliché, but a living and fruitful culture of acting. (Gauzner 1928) While most likely sharing Gauzner’s comment on the global value of Kabuki, Osanai, who promoted the 1928 Kabuki tour of Russia (Osanai 1929), must not - who was, have been pleased with Gauzner’s praise of the acting of Kikugoro, however, not performing in Russia, in the same breath with that of Ichikawa Sadanji (Gauzner 1928).

234 The Spectre of Tradition 6 See the Soviet reports on Osanai’s speech, Na literaturnom postu (At the Literary Post), no. 24 (December 1927): 95; Weekly News Bulletin (Moscow), no. 2 (1928): 12. 7 Elsewhere, Akita had a slightly different version of this part of Osanai’s speech: “The Japanese theatre of the future must integrate all the artistic traditions of the East— such as those of India, China, Siam, and the South Seas, and incorporate the tradi­ tions of Western theatre to create a new art. The mainstay of this new art is the Kabuki style that has developed in Japan over the past several hundred years” (Akita 1929b, 11). 8 For an English translation and introduction of the play, see Chikamatsu 1951. 9 Note Osanai’s use of the English word “spectacle.” 10 As exemplified in his 1925 production of The Cherry Orchard, which Osanai claimed was done “almost entirely in the mould of the Moscow Art Theatre,” with regard to creating an atmosphere that tends to evoke from the actors their “individual creative illusion” and to demanding the actors to “go deep into the inner depth of the soul of each and every role they play” (Osanai 1965, 2:279–280). 11 About the Proletcult theatre, see Carter 1924, 31–93. 12 While devoting one whole chapter on the mystery of Osanai’s “silence” on Meyerhold, Kiyoshi Takeda’s impressive work, surprisingly, has virtually nothing to say about Meyerhold’s influence on Hijikata and about the latter’s view of the Russian artist (Kiyoshi 2012). 13 Meyerhold himself used the term “Meyerholdism,” along with “Stanislavskiism” (stanislavshchiny) and “Evreinovism” (evreinovshchiny), as early as 1910 (Meyerhold 1968, 1:204). More than two decades later, however, Meyerhold turned, “dialecti­ cally,” his “self-criticism” against “Meyerholdism” into his self-defence against those of his followers, “who, grabbing the formula of constructivism, have stumbled into the swamp of formalism, because they have made into an end what was for inno­ vators and experimenters only a means” (Meyerhold, “Meierkhold protiv Meier­ kholdovshchiny” [Meyerhold against Meyerholdism] [Meyerhold 1968, 2:335]). To Kubo, nonetheless, Meyerhold’s self-defence appeared to be a perfect argument against those Japanese “Meyerholdites.” 14 Feng Xuefeng’s translation of Nobori’s work (Xin E de yanju yundong yu tiaowu [Theatre Movements and Dances in New Russia]) was published in 1927; a Chinese translation of Carter’s work on Meyerhold was published in Xiju (Theatre), 2, nos. 3–4 (1931): 49–86; two Chinese translations of The Soviet Theatre by P. A. Markov were published in 1935 and 1937; a Chinese translation of Houghton’s book was published in 1939. 15 Okhlopkov himself had a great interest in Kabuki. In the same essay, “On Con­ ventionality,” he recalled his experience of the 1928 Kabuki tour of Russia and, particularly, his impression of Ichikawa Sadanji’s performance of hara-kiri. Ichikawa’s performance reminded him of Stanislavsky’s words, “I am an ultra-naturalist of sublime experiences”; it likewise revealed to him what he extolled as “life itself plus ‘sublime experiences’” and the “secrets” of the theatre’s “nature” and of “its realistic con­ ventionality”; and it demonstrated to him what “conventionality” can work on the viewer’s imagination when “this conventionality is in the service of genuine realism” (Okhlopkov 1959, 12:72; 1963, 317–318. Emphases in original). In his production of Nikolai Pogodin’s Aristocrats (1935), Okhlopkov also drew on the scenic idea of hana­ michi as well as the use of kurogo (stage assistants dressed in black) in Kabuki. 16 For example, Lu Xun’s attack on the aestheticism and formalism of Mei Lanfang’s art (see Chapter 2). 17 Okhlopkov saw all Mei Lanfang’s performances in Russia in 1935, as he was present at every performance of the 1928 Kabuki tour of Russia (Okhlopkov 1959, 12:62–63; 1963, 298). According to Okhlopkov, the conventionalized performance of Chinese theatre stimulated “the creative fantasy of the spectator” and showed that “Fantasy gives birth to realism in a way that no naturalism or ‘pedestrian realism’ can do” (Okhlopkov 1959, 12:63; 1963, 298. Emphases in original).

The Reification of Tradition 235 18 For instance, see Tovstonogov 1963. 19 Elsewhere, Vasil’ev asserted: “No doubt, precisely in the USSR the creative work of Mei Lan-Fang and of the Chinese theatre as a whole will be submitted to real sci­ entific investigation” (Vasil’ev 1935b, 17). 20 In 1929, Meyerhold wrote in a letter: “I profoundly believe that the newest tech­ nical achievements in the Soviet theatre grew on the roots of conventional theatre in exotic countries, mainly Japan and China” (Meyerhold 1976, 296–297). 21 Considering Osanai’s essentialization of the original and authentic tradition of Kabuki, it is particularly important to note the ironic significance of the historical fact that in his lifetime, Meyerhold never experienced an authentic performance of traditional Japanese theatre, including Kabuki (Tian 2018, 177–209).

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Conclusion Future Tradition and Intercultural Tradition

The theoretical approach of my book not only applies to the historical practice of intercultural theatre and performance as exemplified in the case studies of the individual chapters, and to that of other seminal figures of the historical avant-garde and modernist theatre such as Antonin Artaud, W. B. Yeats, Gordon Craig, and Jacques Copeau, where those revolutionary avant-gardists and modernists were haunted by, and duly invoked, the spectre of tradition in their battle cries for theatrical revolution and in their struggles to define the future of the theatre; it also applies to our contemporary practitioners of intercultural theatre and performance such as Peter Brook, Jerzy Grotowski, Eugenio Barba, and Ariane Mnouchkine. Grotowski thus spoke of the genealogy of his lifelong research: It’s as if my heritage comes from distant generations; it passes through many generations and even several races. And, at the same time, it’s not a question of syncretism, of a melange, but of the objectivity of the impact of certain practical approaches, even if they’ve appeared in different contexts. (Quoted in Wolford 1998, 92) Quoting Grotowski and drawing on Eric Hobsbawm’s idea of “invented tra­ dition,” Lisa Wolford approaches Grotowski’s work of “Art as vehicle” as “the invention of an esoteric tradition”: “Art as vehicle explicitly combines African ritual elements and Hindu esoteric practices with an overtly Stanislavskian approach to performance craft” (91). According to Wolford, this “esoteric tra­ dition” invented by Grotowski “finds its ‘home’, its site of embodiment, in a dislocated interculture that is not African, Indian or Polish” (92). Given Wol­ ford’s argument, I want to add that this “dislocated interculture” conjures up the spectre—and the illusion—of those different ancient traditions that are culturally African or Indian, which uncannily lends authority and legitimacy to Grotowski’s “invented tradition,” which is, according to Wolford, “simulta­ neously ancient and new” (93), and to its “universal” significance.1 In addition, in my view, this “dislocated interculture,” or this movement between different traditions and cultures, is not unlocatable or centreless in terms of its point of DOI: 10.4324/9781003240587-8

240 Conclusion departure and its destination. Grotowski’s “esoteric tradition” can be traced back to the Western tradition of occultism and mysticism, which was reincar­ nated in European historical avant-garde and high modernism (Artaud and Yeats, for example), whose bequeathed heritage finds its immediate heir in Grotowski. Like Grotowski’s invented tradition of “Art as vehicle,” as an invented tra­ dition, Eugenio Barba’s idea of “a ‘tradition of traditions’” (Barba 1995, 42; 1996, 218) invokes those different traditions displaced in a seemingly unloca­ table “dislocated interculture” or what Barba has defined as “Eurasian theatre,” which is, according to Barba, neither Eastern nor Western but a “movement between East and West” (Barba 1995, 42. Emphasis in original). It is particu­ larly and deeply haunted by what Barba calls the “disconnected tradition” (Barba 2003, 116) that he has found in Meyerhold. “I feel the right to speak of Vsevolod Meyerhold as my grandfather,” Barba insisted (108). He speaks hauntingly of his discovery of Meyerhold as “the birth of a grandfather,” “the mist-shrouded grandfather,” who was for him “a huge fleeting shadow on the horizon” and “this ghost whose shadow was both a magnified and fading pro­ jection” (109–110). According to Barba, in his early career, as “an orphan” in the genealogical history, or the family saga, of the twentieth-century European theatre, who “was enamoured of the ghosts of my grandfathers,” he began “a close dialogue involving my young actors and the old, ever-young shadows which talked to me from the past” (111), and this “close dialogue” helped him find his “theatrical family” and “a very special ‘family tradition’—a vertical environment, in part rooted in the present, and at the same time sunk deep into the preceding generations” (111). Late in his professional career, Barba thus reflected on his destined initiation into the uncanny communion with the “ghosts” of his “grandfathers”: “Today I am grateful to the fate that introduced me to the profession as an orphan blessed with grandfathers” (111). Elsewhere, tracing “the genesis” of his “Theatre Anthropology” as illustrated in his book, The Paper Canoe, Barba writes, metaphorically: “The ‘ancestors’ are the most exciting. Without their books, their tangled words, I could not have become an auto-didact. Without a dialogue with them, I would not have been able to hollow out this canoe” (Barba 1995, ix). Indeed, Barba’s “paper canoe,” which portrays, metaphorically, his theory of Theatre Anthropology, is populated by the “ghosts” of his “ancestors,” whose names become “live presences” when they are summoned by Barba to have a dialogical communion with him “within the current of questions” (ix), and whose “shadow-words” suggest to him “the same reality” of his idea of the “pre-expressivity” (150–154). Barba’s uncanny experience recalls Stanislavsky’s invocation of “the dead words of traditions” bequeathed by many of his “brilliant ancestors” or “genius pre­ decessors” in the history of Russian theatre, as I have investigated in Chapter 2. Interestingly enough, comparing himself to one of the “orphans” in the genealogical history of the twentieth-century European theatre, Barba refers to Hobsbawm’s expression of “invented tradition” and thus argues: “Those who enter theatre as ‘orphans’ have a special need for the past. Our particular

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condition forces us ‘to build our own past’ and invent a tradition” (Barba 2003, 115). According to Barba, in addition to the idea of the invention of tradition as “a fictive origin,” a fabricated myth, or “a historical forgery,” with a political and nationalistic orientation, “it can signify a path traced in the dark sphere of the past connecting distant points, to be used as a system of reference” (115). Barba nevertheless does not think that there exists “an objective or invented tradition after Meyerhold” (115. Emphasis in original). Instead, he believes that along with those “traditions whose continuity is based on the uninterrupted tension between innovation and conservation,” there is the existence of what he calls “disconnected traditions which are handed on through discontinuity and contradiction, evading the straight path” (115. Emphases in original). As such, Barba further argues: They pass from one element to another becoming unrecognizable just as the water of a dried torrent is unrecognizable in the cloud. The teaching of the masters—and the grandfathers—is not extinguished or passed on. It evaporates, and turns into rain where least we expect it. (115) As Barba has suggested, his professional life may have been bereft of a “parent” but has been connected to the “disconnected tradition” represented by Meyerhold whom he has identified as his “grandfather” (Barba 2003, 116). Thus, as I have noted above, Barba’s idea of “a ‘tradition of traditions’” is haunted by, and conjures up, Meyerhold and his “disconnected tradition.” More fundamentally, the idea of “a ‘tradition of traditions’” presupposes and necessitates the prior existence of traditions, no matter whether those traditions exist through con­ tinuity or in a state of disconnectedness or evaporation. As such, ultimately, the “orphan,” or “the orphan heir” (110), not only cannot escape the haunting, but is also in need of the blessing and legitimation, by a canonical ghost, which may not be the ghost of the orphan’s father by a direct and continuous lineage, but, more authoritative still, that of the orphan’s father’s father by an indirect connection and by a direct and “rightful” invocation. Furthermore, as much as those traditions are disconnected or evaporate, they are displaced and re-placed where they are expected to be placed, as they are translated and transmitted into different languages (such as that of Grotowski’s “Art as vehicle” or Barba’s “pre­ expressivity”) by future generations, who proclaim themselves to be their rightful heirs. The grandfather may indeed evaporate into thin air and turn into a cloud in “the dark sphere of the past” that is the genealogical history, or the family saga, of the twentieth-century European theatre, its spectre will continue to haunt and enchant, as it did in the past, the imagination, or the thought movements, of its posterity, as the latter thinks through “the dark province of the theatre” (110) and dreams, interculturally, into the “utopia” of the theatre in the East. Like Grotowski, Barba has experienced a long intercultural journey to the tra­ ditions of Asian theatre, a journey that is individual, professional, metaphorical, and cultural. Barba has rightfully reminded us of the importance of “individual

242 Conclusion histories”—“the exceptions, the rebellions and the profiles of the individuals”—in relation to the “great living traditions” of theatre (Barba 2010, xiii). But, for me, it is equally important to underscore the cultural significance, not just the “profes­ sional ethos” (Barba 2003, 108. Emphasis in original), of such an intercultural journey as that of Grotowski or Barba. Reading Barba’s “Foreword” to Ruru Li’s book, The Soul of Beijing Opera, which looks at, as the title indicates, the “soul” of “Beijing Opera” (or jingju) from the perspective of theatrical creativity and continuity in a changing world, readers may rightfully expect Barba to look at jingju through the eyes of the Chinese actors, as Li does, and to give his insights into their “individual his­ tories” explored in Li’s work, as he has suggested their significance to Li’s “journey into the noble regions of jingju,” which “from afar appeared like a dream landscape, a real utopia of the theatre,” but which “reveals itself,” to Barba, “as a garden of heresies and discoveries” (Barba 2010, xiii). Readers may also hope to benefit from Barba’s insights into the “soul” of jingju more than a reminder that the experience, by “a few major artists of the Great Reform of the European stage,” of “Mei Lanfang’s visit to Russia” is not only “an important episode in the history” of European theatre (“our theatre”), but also “a tale that has become one of the founding myths of the Eurasian theatre” (xi). Indeed, that experience is important for a better understanding of that “Great Reform” and thereby of the idea, or the “myth,” of the “Eurasian theatre,” but in itself it contributes little for a genuine understanding, from the historical, cultural, and aesthetic perspectives of Chinese theatre, of Mei Lan­ fang’s art and even less the “soul” of jingju. Yet, a little more than half way into his introduction, Barba reveals that he has read, from the very beginning, the text of Li’s book with “two different pairs of eyes,” namely, “those of René and of Victor”: the former is a fictional character (a young Belgian living in Peking) of “a strange, unfinished book, half way between a novel and impressions de voyage,” titled René Leys, and the latter is the author of that book, Victor Segalen (1878–1919), a noted French poet and writer, who lived in China in the 1910s. Considering Segalen’s eth­ nographic fiction “a book of great significance for the European understanding of the Chinese civilization,” Barba claims that “the understanding of Chinese civilization happens through the crossing and the contrast of these two gazes” (xiii). As such, Barba notes particularly the performance of Chinese theatre as portrayed by Segalen through those pairs of eyes of René and of Victor. Segalen, who apparently knows little about Chinese theatre, is first stunned, then spellbound, and finally almost suffocated by the stylized but sensational swordplay (acrobatic fights) of the actors. Hence in the fiction there are his exoticist gaudy impressions of the strange spectacle, whose “many colours, forms, lights, and gestures with magnanimous curves” are stunning but signify nothing to him (Segalen 1922, 119; 1974, 106).2 On the other hand, René, “a connoisseur” and “the perfect theatre habitué” (Segalen 1922, 121, 122; 1974, 108), says virtually nothing about the performance. Yet, to Barba, Segalen’s impressions conjure up “a rare spiritual experience”:

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All this is technique, training, make-up, costumes, words and songs amal­ gamated into plots of feelings. The rigorous scaffolding that René is able to see behind the wonders of the performance is only fiction. But it is also what Victor sees: the fiction which falls, revealing a bareness that attracts us and pushes us away. In other words: truth. (Barba 2010, xiv)3 Indeed, Segalen had dreamed of laying bare and penetrating the mystery, or the truth, of China’s last empire through his exoticist detours around the Forbidden City, but what his writing of the fiction ends up presenting is “yet another imaginaire of the Orient.”4 So, what is this “Truth” that Segalen’s exoticist experience of a Chinese swordplay reveals for Barba? The “soul,” or the tra­ dition, of Chinese theatre (jingju) that lives at the heart of the Chinese actor’s professional and cultural experience portrayed in Li’s book? Or the universal “pre-expressivity,” or the transcultural “flow of a ‘tradition of traditions’” (Barba 1995, 42; 1996, 218), that underlies Barba’s idea of “Eurasian theatre” and of “Theatre Anthropology”? Reading the text of Li’s twenty-first-century book on “the soul of Beijing opera” and introducing Li’s “journey into the noble regions of jingju” (Barba 2010, xiii), Barba summons the ghost of a fin-de­ siècle European exoticist writer and concludes his introduction with a haunting image of the accidental death of the writer, who “had searched for Buddha on long sea voyages across the Far East,” but, instead, “encountered him during a solitary stroll” in the haunted and magical forest of Huelgoat in Brittany, France, where he died of an accident, with “a copy of Shakespeare’s Hamlet by his side” (xiv).5 For Segalen, this split “crossing-cultural vision” (xi) of the exotic and the familiar did little for his understanding of China but was neces­ sary for his self-understanding and for his understanding of his roots and tradi­ tions. So is this vision for Barba (and Grotowski), who, having played, for a long time, “one of the characters typical of our intercultural planet” (Barba 1995, 150), deems his journey to Asia, which has an uncanny affinity to Sega­ len’s as portrayed by him, as necessary for him “to discover the riches of home” upon his return (80), or “the essential fruits” he gathered during his journey to Asia, which he found had already existed, at the very beginning of his depar­ ture, in the study programme of Meyerhold’s Studio in 1922 (80). Indeed, Barba is highly self-conscious of his “return home” (72) in what Grotowski called “the general tradition of the Great Reform of the theatre from Sta­ nislavski to Dullin and from Meyerhold to Artaud” (Grotowski 1968, 24), or in the genealogical history (“the family saga”) of the twentieth-century European theatre, with Stanislavsky (for Grotowski) and Meyerhold (for Barba) venerated as its two “grandfathers” (Barba 2003). He speaks, metaphorically, of the impact of “some forms of Asian theatre and some of their artists” on his intel­ lectual and spiritual rediscovery of “the ‘moment of truth,’ where opposites merge,” and of his “origins” (Barba 1995, 7), as exemplified in “every one of Odin Teatret’s productions,” where an actor divested her/himself of her/his costume and appeared in “the splendour of another costume”:

244 Conclusion For many years I thought this was a coup de théâtre inspired by kabuki, the hikinuki, in which the protagonist, with the help of one or more assistants, suddenly divests himself of his costume and appears totally changed. I once believed I was adapting a Japanese convention. Only now do I understand this détour and return: it is the moment of Life when, in Gallipoli, the purple cloth fell and I saw, in a statue, the risen Christ. (7–8. Emphases in original) In their journeys to the East by way of the “Art as vehicle” or “the paper canoe” of a theatre anthropology in search of the “Truth” of Theatre and the “Truth” of Life, Grotowski and Barba were haunted, professionally and cultu­ rally, by the “ghosts” of their “grandfathers,” and, spiritually, they may have never left their shared “return home.” The theoretical approach of my book also has particular implications for the new trends in intercultural performances of the twentieth-first century, such as those new intercultural performance theories and practices that I have investi­ gated elsewhere (Tian 2020). Likewise, the new theories and practices cannot escape the haunting by the spectre of tradition or must invoke its authority to legitimate what is claimed as “new.” Here tradition is not passively transmitted and received by the present, but dynamically haunts the present and, through the present, the future. Like those historical Eurocentric intercultural perfor­ mances, new intercultural performances are destined to invoke the spectre of tradition in constructing and projecting the “newness” of their theories and practices. As Patrice Pavis has noted, interculturalism, “once a contested notion,” has now become “a very common thing” (Pavis 2010, 5). According to Pavis, such categories as multilingual theatre, syncretic theatre, postcolonial theatre, multi­ cultural theatre, minority theatre, and cosmopolitan theatre, although different from intercultural theatre, all have something in common with the latter and all feel “the impact of globalization” (9). Thus, Pavis posits the question whether “intercultural performance amount[s] to a globalized theatre” (9). His answer appears to be affirmative. However, because of the political and cultural implications of intercultural theatre and its resultant political and theoretical crisis, Pavis seems more concerned with a renewal of intercultural theatre in the sense of Arjun Appadurai’s “postnational order,” a postnational or postmodern intercultural theatre that is “purely aesthetic” or l’art pour l’art, such as Robert Wilson’s Madame Butterfly, characterized by an erasure of political, national, ethnic, and cultural identity and significance (12), or Peter Brook’s latest pro­ duction, Eleven and Twelve, which “consists merely of a few cultural leftovers concentrated on a few objects, or of a beautiful light which reminds us of Africa” (13). There is, however, a deep irony that, without “culture,” this kind of “purely aesthetic” (Pavis 2010, 12–13) performance can no longer be defined as intercultural theatre. This is the paradox or predicament that presents itself to today’s theoreticians of intercultural theatre, who remain under the spell of its

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“classical” tradition of the 1980s and try strenuously to reinvent and displace it in the present as a purely aesthetic one. The “postnational,” “postpolitical,” or “postcultural” notion of intercultural theatre is itself an imaginary construct and, like the reality of contemporary intercultural theatre it attempts to recon­ struct theoretically, cannot eschew culture and politics. This “political and theoretical crisis” (6–7) in the movement of the twentieth-century intercultural theatre into the new millennium has been noted by Pavis, as he argues else­ where: “Intercultural theatre, created by actors with different cultures and lan­ guages, by [Peter] Brook in particular, has become the object of—sometimes unfair and demagogical—critique by nonetheless very ‘Westernised’ intellec­ tuals, and cannot move on” (Pavis 2013, 225). Pavis’s aesthetic view is more akin to Erika Fischer-Lichte’s idea of “inter­ weaving performance cultures,” which likewise attempts to avoid the cultural and political conundrums of intercultural theatre. Pavis’s and Fischer-Lichte’s approaches are now countered by a wave of “new interculturalisms” (McIvor and King 2019; Lei and McIvor 2020). For the advocates of “new interculturalisms,” intercultural theatre has moved on, but to directions and into territories different from those mapped by Pavis and Fischer-Lichte. Intercultural theatre in the twentieth-first century, as long as it is intercultural, like the now “classical” tradition of the 1980s intercultural theatre, is inescapably haunted by the spectre of tradition (cultural as well as performance). On the most basic level of acting, Phillip Zarrilli has thus spoken of “reframing intercultural acting and actor training in the twentieth-first century”: Any consideration of acting and performance processes and practices, concepts and paradigms of acting, as well as of actor/performer training today must address our global, urban, multi-, inter-, intra-cultural para­ digms, perspectives and realities as the norm rather than the exception. (Zarrilli 2019, 2. Emphasis in original) Therefore, Zarrilli has attempted to construct a theory of psychophysical acting (after Stanislavsky) with intercultural “source traditions” that cannot be divorced from their national, political, and cultural significations.6 The concept of “new interculturalism” in theatre and performance calls for a reconstruction, or rather deconstruction, of the Western hegemonic intercultural performance, not from the perspectives of the dominant Western and colonizing cultures but from those of the historically colonized, marginalized, and diasporic cultures (Knowles 2010, 59),7 as opposed to the Occidental­ centred practice of globalized/globalizing interculturalism. For me, the sociopolitical stance of this diasporic-centred or minority–ethnic-centred “new interculturalism” represents an inverse of the logic of the Western hegemonic interculturalism, and in this very “inverse” there is the haunting presence of the spectre of the “classical” Western interculturalism of the 1980s. As long as it is hybrid, in-between, or hyphenated with “inter” or “trans” in the ecological environment of globalization, such a “new” interculturalism cannot escape the

246 Conclusion hauntings of the “old” interculturalism, as its performance ecologies remain fundamentally conditioned by the same underlying mechanism of intercultural displacement. To a great extent, the “new” theoretical approaches to interculturalism or “interweaving” in theatre and performance remain haunted by the spectre of European modernist discourses. According to Rustom Bharucha, in her con­ ceptualization of “the transformative power of performance” as “a new aesthetics” (Fischer-Lichte 2008), Erika Fischer-Lichte essentially reads “today’s performativ­ ity” within “a very rich spectrum of European philosophical ideas”: “So it’s still working very much within the complexities of what you embody in your own tradition, which is nonetheless open to readings and manifestations from other performance cultures, which you interweave into your own” (Fischer-Lichte and Bharucha 2011. Emphasis in original). Indeed, Fischer-Lichte’s idea of “inter­ weaving performance cultures” as “a new kind of transformative aesthetics” (Fischer-Lichte 2014, 12) that recalls her “new aesthetics” on the transformative power of performance is firmly rooted in, and enchanted by, European, particu­ larly German, aesthetic traditions (Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Gotthold Les­ sing, Friedrich Schiller, Denis Diderot, Immanuel Kant, Georg Simmel, Walter Benjamin, Merleau-Ponty, among others), as she has eloquently argued for “the reenchantment of the world” by the “new” transformative “aesthetics of the performative” that she has developed and that she claims “reveals itself as a ‘new’ Enlightenment” (Fischer-Lichte 2008, 181–207). In Performing the Intercultural City, Ric Knowles’s “new” intercultural theoretical approach frames his study of the “complex intercultural performance ecology” of Toronto as a “heterotopic space” or “a heterotopic ecosystem” with major European postenlightenment modernist (now “traditional”) theories advanced by Bruno Latour, Gilles Deleuze, Michel Foucault, Félix Guattari, and Nicolas Bourriaud (Knowles 2017, 5–10. Emphases in original). Knowles applies such a “new” theoretical approach even as he recognizes it as “a problem” and even as he is “also conscious of the role played by the application of enlightenment and post-enlightenment wes­ tern theory in the project of European colonialism” (11) and thus consciously and forcefully intersects, intervenes, negotiates, and even challenges those theories with “Indigenous research methodologies” that invoke the indigenous cultural traditions (11–16). According to Knowles, the Toronto-based intercultural performance pro­ ject, “Indigenous Knowledge, Contemporary Performance,” represents a practice of “dramaturgies of decolonization” or “decolonizing methodology” that employs “Indigenous research methodologies,” with the intention to open a space for contemporary practice that is not nostalgic, that does not function in a simplistic binary relationship of dominance versus resis­ tance, that is not imitative or reproductive of western forms, that is not stuck in the victim position nor subject to specious demands for static authenticities, and that respects and protects the sacredness of Indigenous ceremonial practices. (86–87)

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It is an intercultural project “attempting to forge new Indigenous subjectivities and identities grounded in traditional forms and practices” (87). Taken as a whole, however, Knowles’s theoretical approach is illuminated with a constella­ tion of European modernist discursive traditions as well as the “Indigenous” cultural traditions. This intercultural presence of different discursive, theatrical, and cultural traditions is felt more deeply and acutely in the intercultural approaches of the different contemporary “old” or “new” intercultural performances. Thus, we have here, on the one hand, the resurrection of indigenous traditions and, on the other hand, the haunting presence of the tradition of the twentieth-century Western-centred intercultural theatre or what has been termed as Western “hegemonic intercultural theatre” (Lei 2011). Knowles has explored some “new” intercultural performances that exemplify what has been conceptualized as the “Filipino Canadian cultural dramaturgy” developed by the Carlos Bulo­ san Theatre. For instance, In the Shadow of Elephants, a production by the Carlos Bulosan Theatre, deals with the colonization of the Philippines by different colonial powers in different historical times. It stages, by means of indigenous arts such as dance, music, and puppetry, the indigenous resistance against colonial domination by invoking the precolonial past or “through a recupera­ tion of what in the culture was not introduced by the colonizers,” which, according to Knowles, “meant a conscious return to the cosmology, belief systems, and cultural forms of the Indigenous peoples of the Philippines” (Knowles 2017, 80–81. Emphasis in original). Here, the development of “a Filipino Canadian cultural dramaturgy,” an intercultural dramaturgy, was driven by a powerful appeal to the theatrical and cultural traditions of the Indigenous peoples. In sharp contrast to this kind of minority–ethnic-based dramaturgies of intercultural performances “from below” (2, 43, 63, 112, 133) are the “dramaturgies of interweaving,” which, like the aesthetics of “Inter­ weaving Performance Cultures,” were underpinned by a globalized/globalizing perspective. Nevertheless, the conception of these “dramaturgies of interweav­ ing” likewise calls forth a constellation of “traditional dramaturgical models and established dramaturgical conventions” (Fischer-Lichte et al. 2022, 3) of differ­ ent theatrical traditions of different cultures. As presented by their proponents, they recall the German tradition (Lessing and Goethe with the latter’s idea of Weltliteratur), the twentieth-century European avant-garde tradition (Edward Gordon Craig, Vsevolod Meyerhold, Alexander Tairov, Max Reinhardt, Antonin Artaud, Jacques Copeau, W. B. Yeats, Bertolt Brecht, with their interculturation or interweaving of non-European or Asian traditions), modern Chinese and Japanese theatres (with their incorporation of modern Western theatre traditions), and Indian and African traditions (3–12). In his study of Peter Brook’s production of Battlefield (2015), staged 30 years after his now “canonical” work, The Mahabharata, Marcus Cheng Chye Tan argues that “to speak of Battlefield is to necessarily invoke the past: Battlefield is the redux of The Mahabharata” (Tan 2020, 13–14). For Tan, Brook’s “reduced sequel” conjures up “ontologically” for the audience India’s “mythical

248 Conclusion historical past” and “Brook’s own mythology carved from his most con­ troversial and notable work,” and “the neo-universal theology advocated in Battlefield” amounts to “a renewed attempt at performing universals” (14). Ultimately, Tan concludes, Brook’s “re-staging” is “a means of mon­ umentalizing memory and a search for reputational immortality, one that would resound in the Western theatre tradition” (24). For me, the production of The Mahabharata was foundational to the canonical translation of what has transpired in the theory and praxis of intercultural theatre in the 1980s into now a “classical” tradition, an Occidental-centred universalizing humanist tra­ dition haunted by the spectre of the tradition of European high modernism. The production of Battlefield is, in essence, a resurrection and consecration of that tradition, as much as it will in time help to memorialize Brook in the history and tradition of Western theatre. In his investigation of the intercultural performances by the Toronto-based Modern Times Stage Company, Knowles suggests that the company’s “central project” is “the relocation and reclamation of modernist aesthetic practices from the appropriative forms of interculturalism practiced in the theater most famously by Peter Brook and Ariane Mnouchkine” (Knowles 2017, 133; 2019, 186). Thus, in the work of the company, what has been realized is “a crossborder dialogue” that “engages the Western modernist, ancient and con­ temporary Persian/Iranian, and local intracultural Torontonian, in vital con­ versation aimed at advancing, if not completing, modernity’s fabled and utopian ‘unfinished project’” (Knowles 2017, 151; 2019, 204). In addition, Knowles’s “new interculturalism” calls for a “strategic reappro­ priation” of Western classics (Knowles 2010, 63). One of this kind of reap­ propriation is the production of Death of a Chief (2008) by Native Earth Performing Arts, an adaptation of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar (Knowles 2010, 65–66; 2017, 33–34). According to Yvette Nolan, the artistic director of the Canadian theatre company, all those Aboriginal artists who participated in the project “bring all of their traditions to the room” to have a negotiation among the artists concerning “the ceremonial elements of ritual performance in their various cultural traditions” (Knowles 2010, 66). What Nolan did not mention, however, was the ghost, or the spirit, of the (reappropriated or reinvented) Shakespearean tradition, whose haunting presence in the “room” or “space” of such (“new”) intercultural negotiations was inescapably conjured up by the company’s very choice, if not its need, and its act, of adapting or reappro­ priating the canonical work of the Bard of the colonizing British empire. This is, of course, only one example of the adaptations of Western canonical drama or of “what in its simplest form can be read as postcolonialist reappropriation,” which, with its complexity, attests to the fact that, as Knowles has investigated, many of those marginalized communities in Toronto, “working in English in western performance spaces within the material conditions framed by the multicultural script, are always engaged in a kind of reappropriative adaptation of, or to, dominant-culture forms, institutions, languages, and horizons of expectations” (Knowles 2017, 36).

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Likewise, according to Emily Sahakian, in her play, In the Time of Revolution (1989), the Caribbean writer Maryse Condé “reclaims the intercultural thea­ trical tradition and repossesses the concept of the universal human for a Car­ ibbean audience” (Sahakian 2020, 28). In her comparative study of Condé’s epic play with Mnouchkine’s 1789, Sahakian argues that “Condé’s inter-thea­ tre with Mnouchkine is a kind of critical homage, which performs an artistic debt to the French director, even as it decenters France and relativizes the [Théâtre du] Soleil’s project” (31). Thus, notwithstanding her defiance of the binary cultural logic of the discourse of the theatrical interculturalism developed by Brook and Mnouchkine in the 1980s, Condé “used similar techniques, appropriating Mnouchkine (who is commonly viewed as one of the prime appropriators) freely in the spirit of ‘indebtedness and homage’” (29). These examples show that the phenomenon of the Western-dominated intercultural theatre of the 1980s still haunts the contemporary practice of theatrical interculturalisms, even though it was first “critiqued most famously” by Rustom Bharucha (Knowles 2017, 133), and even though Bharucha later declared that it “can be safely relegated to theatre history” (Bharucha 2014, 181), thus, practically but prematurely, condemning its “ghosts” to “their pre­ mature burials and disappearances” (179).8 Pavis has reminded us that “we have come a long way from the ‘classical’ interculturalism of the 1980s” (Pavis 2010, 14). The intercultural theatre of the 1980s with its theories and practices has now become a tradition, thanks to its capacity of regenerating and reinventing itself (for instance, Brook’s Battlefield, as critiqued by Marcus Tan), and thanks to the reappropriations of its “appropriative forms of interculturalism” (for instance, the “reappropriative practices” by Modern Times Stage Company, as illustrated by Knowles) (Knowles 2017, 133; 2019, 186). Thus, as a “classical” tradition, it continues to haunt the current state of intercultural theatre, even as waves of “new” interculturalisms in theatre and performance have strived to (re)sound the death knell for it and to (re)bury its ghosts. The “new” (inter­ culturalism) entails the passing of the “old” into tradition so that the “new” can break with the “old” and assert its own “new” identity, but the very act or process of turning the “old” into a tradition secures its “canonical” and “clas­ sical” status and its mystical aura that will haunt the “new,” as the “new” evokes the “old” while attempting to challenge and subvert it by reversing its hegemonic logic and by (re)appropriating its techniques and practices. Interlaced with these “new” intercultralisms and their integral connections to their respective theatrical and cultural traditions are the entangled intercultural relationships of the postcolonial theatre to the pre-colonial pasts and traditions and to the pasts and traditions of colonialism and modernism. The decolonizing postcolonial theatre recalls, and thus reaffirms, the pre-colonial pasts and the indigenous traditions in the postcolonial present. And yet, it is also haunted, intertextually and interculturally, by the colonial and modernist pasts and tradi­ tions, even as it seeks to deconstruct and subvert the colonial legacy and cano­ nical traditions by what Helen Gilbert and Joanne Tompkins have defined as the post-colonial “canonical counter-discourse,” one method by which post-colonial

250 Conclusion writers and artists re-cite, rewrite, or rework the imperial canon and by which “colonised cultures can refuse the seamless contiguity between a classical past and a postcolonial present that the empire strives to preserve” (Gilbert and Tompkins 1996, 51).9 This complex haunting of the colonial pasts and traditions on the postcolonial present is, for instance, attested by Yvette Hutchison’s investigation of the intercultural performances by contemporary South African artists. Hutch­ ison approaches, from “a South African perspective,” the South African nego­ tiation on the “colonial afterlives” through intercultural performance in what Frantz Fanon defined as “this zone of occult instability” (Hutchison 2019, 154). According to Hutchison, Fanon’s idea of the “occult” signals both “the meta­ physical realm” and “something that is not easily apprehended or understood” about the instable “complexity” of the colonial past of Empire whose “epis­ temologies, systems, and knowledges…. continue to define and haunt us” (154– 155). Hutchison’s study of the different practices and strategies of those intercultural performances by three South African companies in negotiation with the “afterlives of colonialism” (155) and of their circulation on the international stage suggests that such intercultural theatre encounters still involve what Knowles calls “the continuing renegotiation of cultural values and the reconstitution of indivi­ dual and community identities and subject positions” (173). At the same time, Hutchison underscores, “they also demonstrate that intercultural theatre’s familiar traps of homogenisation and erasure remain active, especially on festival circuits founded by the former networks of Empire, despite recent critical investment in a ‘new’ interculturalism” (173). In contrast to the Western binary idea of tradition and modernity, which treats tradition as “bound up in the past” in terms of “the conservative, the religious, the native, the local, the nonrational, the non-Western” and as “always a foil to the modern,” which “cannot be transformative or forward­ looking” (Clifford 2004, 152), James Clifford, in agreement with Mark Phil­ lips’s anti-binary recasting of tradition as “the complex problem of cultural transmission” (153), has argued for a vision of what he conceptualizes “tradi­ tional futures,” “a vision of traditions as unresolved and productive—ways into our different, interconnected futures” (165). Clifford sees such a vision of tra­ ditions as a response to the changes and challenges brought about by twentiethcentury decolonization and globalization, “both unfinished changes” that “in different, interconnected ways, displace the coherent subject of a singular modernity” (153). While underlining the “traditional” in his vision of human­ ity’s futures, Clifford still looks at tradition from the perspective of modernity. Thus, in humanity’s “traditional futures” as he has envisioned, “non-Western traditions like Confucianism or Islam can, with appropriate modifications, be articulated with capitalism or modern media—as can a wide range of local customs”; “the cultures and identities that have both resisted and been created by ongoing local/global contacts hold the seeds of distinct, if entangled, futures”; and “diverse forms of cultural transmission” that “have been histori­ cally immobilized, and distanced, as local ‘traditions’ can be recognized as

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conservative/inventive ingredients of what might be called an ‘aprogressive modernity’” (155). I choose, however, to speak of Future Traditions in the sense that traditions do not merely belong to the past and that they belong, through the present, to the future. Traditions evolve, survive, or live their afterlives, through the pre­ sents, into the futures, and in time the futures will become the pasts of the new presents and will thus turn into traditions or constellations of traditions that will haunt the new presents and pass into new futures. This longue durée of trans­ mission is not a closed, homogenous process but an open and dialogical one, ever expanded and augmented with constellations of traditions. Furthermore, I want to look at “modernities” from the (spectral) perspec­ tive of tradition, which spells the historical destiny of modernities (and postmodernities) to turn into traditions in their futures. In theatre, the European avant-garde at the turn of the twentieth century has now become “historical” and thus a “classical” tradition, as it continues to haunt the variants of “neo” and “post-” movements (the neo-avant-garde, the postmodern, and the “postdramatic”) in theatre and performance in the last decades of the twen­ tieth century and into the twenty-first century. Back in the 1980s, in sharp contrast to his view of the aestheticism of the postmodern or new millennium intercultural theatre, Pavis spoke of “the paradox” or the paradoxical rela­ tionship of postmodern theatre to tradition: “Postmodern theatre recuperates by reworking the classical heritage and needs classical norms to establish its own identity” (Pavis 1986, 2). According to Pavis, the postmodern quest for “an aesthetic and social common ground” entails “a close link with heritage and tradition,” because “the motivating force of theatre” (the actor, designer, and director) is “not only cultural heritage (great authors, great classical texts, fundamental myths of social and symbolic life), but also the heritage of vocal, gestural, and intonative practice” (8–9. Emphases in original). Therefore, Pavis argued that “we need to find the relationship between body and gesture, and the entire social and theatrical tradition” (9). Naturally integral to this thea­ trical and cultural heritage, I want to add, is the tradition of Western historical avant-garde and modernist theatre. Aside from the relationship of postmodern theatre and performance to Western classical heritage and to the tradition of Western historical avant-garde and modernist theatre, I want to underscore its intercultural relationship to non-Western, particularly Asian, theatrical tradi­ tions, as exemplified in the productions by Robert Wilson, Lee Breuer, and Peter Sellars. In his study of “postdramatic theatre,” Hans-Thies Lehmann has outlined “a prehistory of postdramatic theatre” (Lehmann 2006, 46), tracing “a formation of postdramatic discourse in theatre,” a path leading to “the postdramatic theatre forms at the end of the twentieth and the beginning of the twenty-first centuries,” which covers “a multitude of modern theatre forms during the historical avant-garde and then the neo-avant-garde of the 1950s and 1960s” (48). Lehmann speaks of such historical avant-garde forms as retheatricalization, symbolism, expressionism, and surrealism (50–67). Lehmann has also reminded

252 Conclusion us that “for centuries a paradigm has dominated European theatre that clearly distinguishes it from non-European theatre traditions” (21). The tradition of the non-dramatic Asian theatre like the Indian Kathakali or Japanese No- thea­ tre differs completely from that of European dramatic theatre. Therefore, Leh­ mann speaks, albeit briefly, of traditional Asian theatre as related to the predramatic history of his “postdramatic theatre,” namely, the historical avant­ garde’s concentration on theatricality and retheatricalization and its reception of (European and non-European) non-literary theatre traditions (51). Thus, Asian theatre, like No-, the theatre of “stasis, ghosts,” with its “ceremonial character,” which “has almost nothing in common with the realist European ‘drama,’” accommodates “a ritual mode of perception” that allows Lehmann to trace for his “postdramatic” theatre “a trajectory from Asian theatre via Maeterlinck and Mallarmé to Wilson” (58). Lehmann likewise speaks of “Intercultural Theatre” as part of his “Epilogue,” but appears to doubt, if not outright reject, the interculturalism of the concept of intercultural theatre, which he believes “should in any case provoke more political scepticism than is usually the case” (176). Yet, Lehmann’s diagnosis of “the utilization of the most diverse cultural patterns and emblems throughout the international theatre landscape,” “instead of hanging on to an idealizing vision of a ‘new kind of transcultural commu­ nicative synthesis through performance’” (176), can hardly escape or transcend the entangled reality and complexity of culture and politics in such “postdra­ matic” intercultural uses of such cultural patterns and emblems. As much as I opt to speak of “Future Traditions,” I want to posit and underscore the concept of “Intercultural Traditions,” as it is concerned with the past, the present, but primarily the future of tradition. This is indeed the case, as the modern world continues or moves on from the “unfinished pro­ ject” of modernity and goes through the postmodern feedback loops and into the ever-raging waves of globalization in the new millennium. In theatre, European modern theatre, especially the historical avant-garde, has turned into traditions and into intercultural traditions, as its theories and practices had been influenced by theatrical traditions of non-European cultures. Moreover, as I have investigated elsewhere, its intercultural legacy has had a direct impact, and a lasting haunting effect, on the theories and practices of Western intercultural theatre in the second half of the twentieth century and beyond (Tian 2018, 263–271), which in turn have continued to haunt today’s “new inter­ culturalisms.” At the same time, indigenous traditions of different cultures have become increasingly interculturalized, as those indigenous forms have been subject to the influence of modern theatre and performance and have been, and continue to be, mediated by their inevitable intercultural interactions and negotiations with other traditions and cultures. Consequently, indigenous tra­ ditions are no longer entirely indigenous but intercultural, as they have been, and continue to be, interculturally translated and transformed. Jacques Rancière has fundamentally exposed “the shortcomings of the notion of modernity” (Rancière 2004, 20), according to which modernity becomes “something like a fatal destiny based on a fundamental forgetting: the

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essence of technology according to Heidegger, the revolutionary severing of the king’s head as a severing of tradition in the history of humanity” (27–28). For me, what Rancière’s insight reveals and underscores is the impossibility of modernities’ revolutionary ruptures or breaks with tradition in the history of humanity. Here, I want to conclude this book by asserting that, as long as humanity is passed, biologically and culturally, from one generation to another, as long as we are human, and as long as theatre and performance remain human, we, and the theatrum mundi, will forever be haunted, and enchanted, by the spectre of tradition.

Notes 1 According to Richard Schechner, “Grotowski’s method, from Theatre of Sources onward, has been to sift through practices from different cultures for what is similar among them, searching for the ‘first,’ the ‘original,’ the ‘essential,’ and the ‘universal’” (Quoted in Wolford 1998, p. 92). 2 About the art of men playing female roles in traditional Chinese theatre, which has fascinated many Western avant-gardists and modernists, including Barba (Tian 2000), Segalen has this to say in his fiction: “Ever since tourists, missionaries, and academics have travelled China, the lowest journalist has been aware that the roles of women, in China, in the theatre, and sometimes elsewhere, are very well played by men, who are finer, slimmer, and more elegant” (Segalen 1922, 134–135; 1974, 119). 3 In a reprint of the “Foreword,” “truth” is changed into “Truth” (Barba 2015, 253). 4 According to Kimberley Healey, “The literary aesthetic seen in René Leys is neces­ sarily concerned with writing and negotiating representations of truth. The metanarrative of this text is the impossibility of a representation of the réel of the other. The only recourse the author has is to present yet another imaginaire of the Orient” (Healey 2003, 95). Charles Forsdick also speaks of Segalen’s increasing obsession of “an imaginary China” (Forsdick 2000, 144) and of René Leys as an investigation, by Segalen, “a European outsider,” of “the impossibility of writing the exotic” without a perpetuation of opacity and mystery (163–181). 5 In his study of Segalen, Charles Forsdick points out that the various accounts of Segalen’s mysterious demise, including his death scene often portrayed with striking theatricality, remain rife with speculation, which, according to Forsdick, has con­ tributed to the posthumous “mythologization” of the French exoticist writer (For­ sdick 2000, 1–8). Without providing his source of information, Barba has apparently added to the myth of Segalen’s death with his sympathetic metaphoric and dramatic touches. 6 For instance, Zarrilli’s study of kalarippayattu (Zarrilli 1995). See also Zarrilli 2009, 63–80; Zarrilli et al 2013, 30–42. 7 For recent developments of “new interculturalisms” in contemporary theatre and per­ formances, see Mitra 2015; McIvor 2016; Knowles 2017; McIvor and King 2019; Lei and McIvor 2020. For my take on the idea of “new interculturalisms,” see Tian 2020. 8 I say “prematurely,” given the fact that the Western “hegemonic intercultural thea­ tre” remains “intercultural” despite Bharucha’s sophisticated and insightful differ­ entiation of it from “the intercultural” and given Bharucha’s logic of argument for the “hauntings of the intercultural”: “The more you imagine their nonexistence and redundancy, their premature burials and disappearances, the more these ghosts are likely to haunt the new agendas” (Bharucha 2014, 179). 9 For Gilbert’s and Tompkins’s full analysis of “canonical counter-discourse,” see Gil­ bert and Tompkins 1996, 15–51.

254 Conclusion

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Index

Abel-Rémusat, Jean-Pierre 99–100, 111–112, 151, 169n10 Abercrombie, Lascelles 188 Adorno, Theodor 7, 11, 148–149, 164 aestheticism 57–58, 73, 81, 227, 234n16, 251 aesthetics 10, 16, 96–97, 100–101, 105–106, 113, 119, 121–126, 145, 202, 208, 230–232, 246–247 Agate, James 160, 182, 187, 189–190, 194 Akita, Ujaku 213–214, 234n7 Alpers, B. V. 13, 90n46 Althusser, Louis 144–145 Anastas’ev, A. N. 34 Appadurai, Arjun 4, 244 Aristocrats, The 234n15 Arkin, D. 206–210 Arosev, A. J. 29 Artaud, Antonin 14, 239–240, 243, 247 Asche, Oscar 196n15 Asian theatre 15, 176, 214, 241, 243, 252; see also Chinese theatre, Japanese theatre Atkinson, Brooks 77, 81, 193 avant-garde 13, 15, 18–19, 94, 125, 195, 202, 222, 224, 239–240, 247, 251–252 Barba, Eugenio 15, 239–244, 253n2-n3, 253n5; Eurasian theatre 240, 242–243; on Meyerhold as “grandfather” 240; reading Segalen about Chinese theatre 242–243; Theatre Anthropology 240, 243–244; on tradition 240–241 Barrie, James 189, 191 Barthes, Roland 7 Battlefield 247–249 Battles of Coxinga, The 213–217 Baudrillard, Jean 125 Bebutov, V. 86n4

Beckett, Samuel 7 Beijing Opera 81, 228; see also Chinese theatre, jingju Belousov, Roman 26 Benjamin, Walter 7–10, 12–13, 16–18, 136–168, 168n1, 169n4-n5, 169n8-n9, 169n11, 170n25, 182, 246; Anna May Wong 149–164; Brecht’s “refunctioning” 149; the characterlessness of the Chinese 146; Chinese fiction (Ju-Kiao-Li and Dschung Kuei) 150–157; Chinese film (The Rose of Pu-Chui) 157–160; Chinesische Schattenspiele 140, 162–164; epic theatre and Chinese theatre 137–145; film 9–10; history and tradition 8–9; “the Mongolian facial expressions” 158–159; “Nature Theatre of Oklahoma” and Chinese theatre 146–148; Sessue Hayakawa 160–161; “Theaterbrand von Kanton” 139–142; theory of quotation 165–167 Benois, Alexander 62–63 Benrimo, J. H. 179 Beskin, Em. 76, 78–79 Bharucha, Rustom 246, 249, 253n8 biomechanics see Meyerhold, Vsevolod Blium, Vladimir 76–77, 81 Bloch, Ernst 149 Bohn, Anna 128n17, 129n20, 130n21, 132n32 Boris Godunov see Pushkin, Alexander Bottomley, Gordon 184, 193, 196n23 Braun, Edward 80, 86n3-n4, 90n47 Brecht, Bertolt 7, 12, 17, 19, 19n5, 39, 41, 137–139, 142–149, 157, 164–168, 168n1, 168n3, 169n4-n5, 202, 224, 231, 232, 247; alienation-effect 142, 144, 147, 149, 168n3; on Chinese theatre 137–138, 143–144, 149;

280 Index critique of Benjamin 148;

disillusion-effect 142, 149; effet de

déplacement (effect of displacement)

144–145; estrangement-effect 41,

144, 147, 167; on Japanese theatre 149;

on “plagiarism” 166; on quotability

166–167; on tradition 12;

Verfremdungseffekt 144–145, 167

Breton, André 7

Breuer, Lee 251

Brook, Peter 239, 244–245, 247–249 Brown, Ivor 181–183, 185, 188

Bubus the Teacher 56, 210

Buck-Morss, Susan 137, 170n25 Bulgakov, Mikhail 28, 29

Byron, George Gordon 65

Calderón, Pedro 59

Carlos Bulosan Theatre, The 247

Carr, Harry 162

Carroll, Sydney W. 183, 186, 194,

196n18

Carter, Huntly 203, 221–222, 234n14 Cat and the Cherub, The 174

Chaplin, Charles 81, 225, 230

Chekhov, Anton 28–29, 214

Cheng, Yanqiu 108, 197n26 chengshihua 229; see also conventional theatre, conventionality, jiadingxing Cherkasov, Nikolai 33

Cherry Orchard, The 28, 30, 204, 234n10

Chikamatsu, Monzaemon 214–215, 218

Chinese theatre 16–19, 22, 24–25, 27–37,

44, 45n1, 46n11, 47n25, 47n27,

48n35, 52, 69–70, 72–73, 79–83,

90n47, 101, 105–109, 111–113, 116,

118, 124, 127n9, 129n18, 130n24,

131n25, 132n31, 136–140, 142, 144,

146–149, 164, 168n1, 174, 176–180,

182–183, 185–188, 191–192, 194–195,

195n1, 202, 221–225, 227–233,

233n1, 235n19, 242–243, 253n1; see

also Asian theatre, Beijing Opera, huaju,

jingju

chinoiserie 18, 174–188, 190–193, 195;

“the Chinatown play” 174; The Circle

of Chalk 180–183; Lady Precious Stream

183–195; The Yellow Jacket 175,

179–180, 191–193

Chu Chin Chow 182, 196n15 Circle of Chalk, The 180–181, 183, 191

Clifford, James 250

Collins, Wilkie 174

commedia dell’arte, the 11, 206, 227

Communism 16, 97, 187

Condé, Maryse 249

Confucius 141, 146

constructivism 42, 58, 76, 220–221, 224,

229, 234n13

conventional theatre 5, 18, 36, 61, 66, 70,

76, 224–225, 229, 233n1, 235n20; see

also chengshihua, conventionality,

jiadingxing

conventionality 33–34, 36–38, 41–43,

47n25, 52, 55, 61, 66, 84, 86n4, 86n7,

88n17, 108, 113, 225–230, 232,

233n1, 234n15; see also chengshihua,

conventional theatre, jiadingxing

Copeau, Jacques 239, 247

Corneille, Pierre 65, 68, 74, 87n8, 89n42

Craig, Edward Gordon 28–29, 46n14,

56, 130n21, 175–176, 180, 191, 206,

239, 247

Crowther, Bosley 194

Darlington, W. A. 183, 193

Dawn, The 220

de Gourmont, Remy 136

Dean, Basil 180–183 Death of a Chief 248

Deburau, Jean-Gaspard 13, 19n6 deconstruction 12

Deich, Aleksandr 76

Derrida, Jacques 7, 12–13, 101–102 Dickens, Charles 96

Diderot, Denis 246

displacement 7, 14–16, 22, 34, 70, 84–85,

94, 101–102, 112, 114–116, 119, 125,

132n32, 144–145, 149, 164, 167–168,

176, 178, 195, 221, 225, 230, 233, 246

Dossena, Aleco 165

Dostoevsky, Fyodor 210

Dschung Kuei: Bezwinger der Teufel 152, 168

du Bois-Reymond, Clemens 152

Du, Weihong 177

Dullin, Charles 243

Durkheim, Émile 103–105 Earth Rampant 217

Efremov, O. N. 43–44 Eichberg, Richard 161

Eidlin, Lev 26

Eisenstein, Sergei 10–11, 16–17, 22, 27,

29, 40, 44, 47n17, 47n30, 48n35, 56,

88n15, 88n21, 94–126, 126n1,

126n3-n4, 126n6, 127n7, 127n9,

127n11, 128n14-n15, 128n17-n18,

129n19-n21, 130n23-n24, 131n25,

Index 281 131n27, 131n30, 132n31-n34, 133n35,

170n26, 197n33, 205, 225, 231;

Chinese landscape painting 123,

132n31; Chinese language 98–102;

Chinese numerical system 119–121;

Chinese theatre 102–119; Chinese

traditionalism 102, 105, 116–117, 119,

122–123, 126, 132n34, 197n33;

dialectics 106, 114–118, 121, 125;

general history of cinema and tradition

95–98; generalization 106, 112–116;

“intellectual cinema” 99, 101–102,

124–125, 128n14; Kabuki 97, 107,

113, 131n30; Mei Lanfang 106–110,

113, 116, 119, 123–124, 129n18,

130n23, 132n31, 132n34; montage

thinking 98, 102, 111, 120, 128n14;

regress (regression, regressivity) 97, 105,

107, 110–111, 116, 118–119, 123–126,

126n1, 127n11, 128n15, 132n31;

sensual thinking 102, 107, 111, 113,

116–123, 128n18, 129n20, 132n32;

Socialist Realism 113, 116, 118, 124;

yin and yang 121–123, 132n31

Eliot, T. S. 2–3, 7

Elizabethan theatre 180, 194

Engels, Friedrich 13, 107, 114–115,

118, 125

Epic theatre 12, 17, 137–139, 142–149,

164–166

Erdman, Nikolai 217

Erenburg, G. 75, 81

Ervine, St. John 192

Eurasian theatre see Barba, Eugenio Euripides 193

Evans-Pritchard, E. E. 131n28 Evreinov, Nikolai 97

Expressionism 77, 203, 217, 251

Faiko, Alexei 56, 217

Fairbanks, Douglas 160

Fairground Booth, The 212

Farjeon, Herbert 179–180 Faust 227

Feng, Naichao 221–222 Feng, Xuefeng 234n14 Fenollosa, Ernest 100–101, 127n13 Fernald, Chester Bailey 174

Fevralskii, A. V. 75–76, 90n47 First Born, The 174, 195n1 Fischer-Lichte, Erika 245–246 Forest, The 60, 211, 216, 219, 226–227

formalism (formalist) 5, 30–31, 33, 34–35,

37, 41, 57–58, 65, 72–73, 76, 78,

81–83, 88n17, 89n26, 90n47, 104–105, 193, 214–221, 224–228, 232, 234n13, 234n16 Forsdick, Charles 253n4-n5 Frazer, James George 107, 129n19-n20 Freedman, Maurice 104

Freud, Sigmund 132n32 Friedman, Susan Stanford 4–7 Frye, Northrop 176

Future Tradition 19, 251–252 Gance, Abel 9–10 Gao, Xingjian 229, 231

Gauzner, G. 203–204, 208–210, 216, 233n5 Ge, Baoquan, 26–27 Ge, Cijiang 158

Ge, Gongzheng 26–27 Gilbert, Helen 249, 253n9 Gilbert, W. S. 47n32 Giles, Herbert A. 197n31 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 156, 227,

246–247

Gogol, N. V. 43, 54, 56, 58–59

Goldoni, Carlo 13

Gorky, Maxim 74, 214

Gozzi, Carlo 13

Granet, Marcel 17, 103–107, 109–112, 114, 116–117, 119–122, 124, 128n17, 129n20, 130n22, 131n29 Greek theatre 36, 59, 127n9, 227

Grein, J. T. 192–193 Griboedov, Alexander 16–17, 58, 71–77, 80, 82–83, 89n42; see also Woe from Wit, Woe to Wit Griffith, D. W. 96

Gromov, V. 66

Großstadtschmetterling (Pavement Butterfly) 161

grotesque 42, 61, 86n4, 191

Grotowski, Jerzy 239–244, 253n1 Gu, Zhongyi 222

Guodu (River Crossing) 223

Habermas, Jürgen 6–7 Hamlet 29, 32, 53–54, 85n1, 243

Hammond, Aubrey 182

Hanako 47n26 Hardwicke, Cedric 194

Hayakawa, Sessue 160

Hazelton, George C. 179

He Who Says Yes/He Who Says No 149

Healey, Kimberley 253n4 Hearn, Lafcadio 132n34 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich 102,

115, 156

282 Index Heidegger, Martin 253

Heine, Heinrich 156

Hijikata, Yoshi 214–221, 234n12; critique of Meyerhold 218–219; influenced by Meyerhold 217; production of The Battles of Coxinga 217–218 Hiroshi, Nakane 205

Hobsbawm, Eric 1–2, 239–240 Hofmannsthal, Hugo von 163, 165, 168

Hong, Shen 187

Hoover, Marjorie L. 75

Horatians and the Curiatians, The 138,

168n1

Hou, Yao 158, 169n16 Houghton, Norris 28, 221, 234n14

Hsiung, S. I. (Shih-I Hsiung or Xiong

Shiyi) 18, 176–179, 183–195, 196n1,

196n18, 197n30-n31; on Chinese

theatre 194; influenced by James Barrie

189–190; Lady Precious Stream: as a

Chinese chinoiserie self-Orientalized

183–184; and as a commercial drama

184, 190–191; and as a “melodrama”

176, 184, 187, 189–190; and

“Chineseness” 178–179, 183, 191,

194–195; and English romantic and

sentimental traditions 188–191; and

modernized 193–194; The Professor

from Peking 187; The Western Chamber

184–185

Hu, Weimin 232

Hu, Zhifeng 36

huaju (spoken drama) 47n27, 229; see also Chinese theatre Huang, Zuolin 24

Hutchison, Yvette 250

Iankovskii, M. 76

Ichikawa, Sadanji II 41, 47n26, 208, 218,

233n5, 234n15

Ichimura, Uzaemon XV 212

ideology 1, 7, 9, 11, 14, 16–17, 22, 30,

35, 56–58, 60–61, 68, 73, 75, 81–82,

84, 95–97, 110, 117, 125–126,

128n14, 145, 148–149, 202, 213–216,

221–222, 227–228, 230, 233

Ilinskii, Igor 202, 233n1 In the Shadow of Elephants 247

In the Time of Revolution 249

Inspector General, The 76, 211, 216

intercultural theatre and performance 19,

174, 177, 239, 244–252, 253n8

Intercultural Tradition 19, 252

interculturalism 19, 244–246, 248–250, 252

Irving, Ernest 182

Iu-Kiao-Li, ou Les Deux Cousines 150–151,

169n10; see also Ju-Kiao-Li, oder die beiden Basen, Yu jiao li Ivanov, V. V. 132n33 Japanese theatre 41, 44, 48, 58, 85, 113,

127n9, 132n31, 191, 193, 202–204,

206, 208–216, 218, 221, 227, 232,

233n1, 234n7, 235n21, 247; see also

Asian theatre, Kabuki, No-, Shingeki,

Shinpa.

japonaiserie 47n32, 175, 184, 191, 196n2

jiadingxing 228–232; see also chengshihua,

conventional theatre, conventionality

Jiao, Juyin 30

jingju 81, 228, 242–243; see also Beijing

Opera, Chinese theatre

Joyce, James 7

Ju-Kiao-Li, oder die beiden Basen 150, 154,

156, 165, 168; see also Iu-Kiao-Li, ou

Les Deux Cousines, Yu jiao li.

Julien, Stanislas 155, 181

Julius Caesar 248

Kabuki 11, 15, 19n10, 47n26, 48n35, 97,

106–107, 113, 129n21, 131n30, 203,

205–215, 217–218, 220, 226, 232,

233n5, 234n7, 234n15, 234n17,

235n21, 244; see also Japanese theatre

Kafka, Franz 17, 137, 146–148, 164

Kalarippayattu 4

Kant, Immanuel 246

Karabekov, Yu. 75

Kathakali 4, 252

Kawatake, Mokuami 208

Kennedy, George A. 127n13

Kerzhentsev, Platon 81

Kheraskova, A. N. 78

Kiyoshi, Takeda 234n12

Klabund (Alfred Henschke) 181, 188

Kleiman, N. I. 106–107, 131n25

Kleist, Heinrich von 107, 129n21

Knowles, Ric 246–250

Komissarzhevsky, Viktor Grigor’evich 26,

32–34, 47n23

Kraus, Karl 157, 165, 167–168

Kretschmer, Ernst 132n32

Kubo, Sakae 214–216, 219–221, 234n13

Kukharskii, Vasilii 26

Kumazawa, Mataroku 204, 233n4

Index 283 Lady of the Camellias, The 76, 219 Lady Precious Stream 18, 176–179, 183–195, 197n36; see also Hsiung, S. I. Lake Lyul 217 Lam, Cho-cho 158 Lao-Tse (Lao Zi) 133n34 Latour, Bruno 6, 246 Laver, James 181 Law, Alma 80 Lee, Dan-dan 158 Lehmann, Hans-Thies 251–252 Lengyel, Melchior 196n2 Lenin, Vladimir 95–96, 114–115, 125, 127n6-n7, 203, 231 Lermontov, Mikhail 56, 75 Lessing, Gotthold 246, 247 Lévy-Bruhl, Lucien 107, 109, 114, 118, 129n19-n20, 131n28 Li, Qianfu 181 Li, Yu 164 Li, Ruru 242 Lin, Yutang 133n34, 189 Litovskii, O. 76 Longenbach, James 3 Longwang Qu (The Dragon King Canal) 223 Lord Dunsany (Edward Plunkett) 187, 197n28 Lower Depth, The 204 Lu Xun 81, 90n47, 234n16 Ludowyk, E. F. C. 181 Lukács, Georg 146 M. Butterfly 177 Macbeth 227 Madame Butterfly 244 Maeterlinck, Maurice 252 Magnanimous Cuckold, The 210 Mahabharata, The 247–248 Mallarmé, Stéphane 7, 101, 252 Man is Man 138 Mandate, The 205, 210, 217 Markov, P. 205, 221, 222, 234n14 Martinet, Marcel 217 Marx, Karl 7–9, 11–13, 19n7, 95, 97–98, 102, 109, 114–118, 121–123, 125, 127n10, 144–145, 221, 231; Marxism 12, 95, 102, 109, 114–118, 121–123, 221 medieval theatre, the 59, 184, 227 Mei, Lanfang 16–17, 22–35, 37, 39–41, 44, 45n2, 46n11, 46n16, 47n24-n25, 47n27, 48n35, 52, 64, 69–73, 77–85, 89n28, 90n47, 101, 106–110, 113, 116, 119, 123–124, 129n18, 130n23, 132n31, 132n34, 137–138, 143, 147,

186, 193, 197n26, 225, 228–231, 234n16-n17, 242; “appraised” by Stanislavsky 24, 30–35; criticized by Lu Xun 81; in memory of Stanislavsky 23–24; meeting with Stanislavsky 26–28; on the reform of Chinese theatre 30–31; on Stanislavsky 30–31; viewed by Brecht 39; viewed by Eisenstein 106–110, 113, 116, 119, 123–124, 129n18, 130n23, 132n31, 132n34; viewed by Meyerhold 69–71, 81–82 Mei, Shaowu 24–26 Meyerhold, Vsevolod 5, 11, 13, 15–19, 19n7, 19n9-n10, 27, 29–30, 33, 36, 41–44, 47n25, 48n35, 52, 54–67, 69–85, 86n2-n5, 87n12-n13, 89n26-n28, 89n42, 90n46-n47, 90n49, 141–142, 191, 193, 202–233, 233n1, 234n12-n14, 235n20-n21, 240–241, 243, 247; biomechanics 58, 60, 64, 130n21, 203, 209–212, 215–216, 219, 221–222; conventional realism 65, 72–73, 82; conventional theatre 5, 18, 36, 61, 66, 70, 76, 224–225, 229, 233n1, 235n20; conventionalism 64–65, 84, 224; conventionality 33, 41–43, 47n25, 52, 55, 61, 84, 86n4, 86n7, 88n17, 225–226, 229, 232, 233n1; Conventionalized Realist Theatre 224; grotesque 42, 61, 86n4, 191; Meyerholdism 13, 61, 76, 216, 220, 224, 227, 234n13; on Pushkin 61–66; Pushkinization of Mei Lanfang’s art 69–71; Realist Conventional Theatre 224; on tradition 58–61; traditionalism 55–58; see also constructivism, the Meyerhold Theatre, Woe to Wit Meyerhold Theatre, The 71, 75, 78–79, 83, 203, 205, 208, 211, 216–217 Michael, John 3 Mirsky, D. 75 Mnouchkine, Ariane 239, 248–249 Modern Times Stage Company 248–249 Mokul’skii, Stefan 19n9, 57–58, 86n2 Molière 59 modernism (modernist) 2–3, 5–7, 11, 14–15, 17–18, 56, 65, 74, 83–85, 89n26, 95, 97, 100–101, 125, 131, 141, 178–179, 191, 193, 195, 202–204, 221, 223, 225, 229, 231–232, 239–240, 246–249, 251 modernity (modernities) 2–7, 11, 14, 57, 123, 148, 175–176, 178, 191–193, 195, 202, 207–209, 211, 234, 248, 250–253

284 Index Morgan, Charles 182, 193 Moscow Art Theatre 23, 28–29, 43, 48, 57, 59, 62–63, 70, 205, 219, 222, 234n10 Mounet-Sully, Jean 53 Mr. Wu 197n29 Nathan, George Jean 189 Native Earth Performing Arts 248 naturalism 5, 13, 19, 37–38, 40–41, 43–44, 48, 48n35, 52–53, 63–64, 66–67, 69–71, 75–77, 81, 84–85, 88n17, 108, 147–148, 160, 191–193, 204–205, 207–209, 211–214, 217, 219–220, 222, 224, 227, 229–232, 234n17 Nemirovich-Danchenko, Vladimir 24, 29, 46n17, 54, 57, 74, 89n26 neo-classicism 229 Nesbet, Anne 94 No- 13, 15, 127n9, 184, 196n23, 203, 252; see also Japanese theatre Nobori, Shomu 203, 221, 234n14 Nolan, Yvette 248 Nuit, La 217–218, 220 O’Neill, Eugene 193 Oborin, L. N. 72 Obraztsov, Sergei 33–34 Okhlopkov, Nikolai 88n17, 225–230, 234n15, 234n17 Onoe, Kikugoro- VI 207 Orientalism 18, 102, 125–126, 132n33, 142, 146, 154, 157, 162, 168, 176, 183–184, 188–189, 196n15 Osanai, Kaoru 48n35, 204–221, 232, 233n5, 234n7, 234n10, 235n21; adaptation of The Battles of Coxinga 213–216; influenced early by Stanislavsky 219–220, 234n10; on Kabuki 206–213, 234n7, 235n21; reading knowledge of Russian theatre and Meyerhold 205–206; visited Meyerhold and his productions 211–212 Ostrovsky, Alexander 53, 58 Othello 53 Owen, Harold 197n29 Pavis, Patrice 244–245, 249, 251 People’s National Theatre 190 Phillips, Mark 1–2, 250 Picon-Vallin, Beatrice 86n4, 90n47 Pil’niak, Boris 19n10

Platt, Jonathan Brooks 74 Poe, Edgar Allan 165 Pogodin, Nikolai 234n15 politics 4, 10, 16, 56, 58, 97, 145, 230, 245, 252 Popov, A. D. 219 postcolonial theatre 244, 249 postdramatic theatre 19, 251–252 postmodern theatre 19, 251 Pound, Ezra 3, 7, 19n1, 100–102 Powers, Francis 174 Price, Nancy 190 Prickett, Stephen 3 Priestley, J. B. 184, 189 primitivism 11, 94, 101, 103, 105–107, 114, 126, 132n33 psychological realism 34, 63, 66, 204, 209–211, 220–221; see also Stanislavsky, K. S. psychologism 57, 61, 191, 211, 219, 222 Pushkin, Alexander 17, 40, 52, 54, 56, 58–59, 61–75, 82–85, 86n2-n5, 86n7, 87n8-n13, 88n14-n17, 88n21, 89n26, 224, 229; Boris Godunov 61–62, 65–66, 68, 70, 82, 87n8, 87n13; on dramatic art 62–63, 68–69, 87n8-n11, 88n14; interpreted by Eisenstein 88n21; and by Meyerhold 61–66; and by Nemirovich-Danchenko 89n26; and by Nikolai Okhlopkov 88n17; and by Stanislavsky 67–69; The Queen of Spades, 80; the Russian cult 74; Scenes from the Times of Chivalry 86n4 Rabaté, Jean-Michel 7, 19n4 Racine, Jean 74, 89n42 Radlov, Sergei 33, 78 Raevsky, N. N. 62, 86n5, 86n7, 87n8, 87n13, 88n14 Rancière, Jacques 4, 252–253 Ranger, Terrence 1 realism 16–17, 31–35, 37, 47n22, 53, 63, 65–67, 72–76, 81–82, 84–85, 88n21, 108, 113, 116, 118, 124, 126, 131n25, 132n34, 160, 180, 191–195, 203–204, 207–211, 219–221, 224–225, 227–228, 230–231, 233n1, 234n15, 234n17 Reed, Warren 159–161 Rees, Leslie 183 Reinhardt, Max 57, 247 retheatricalization 251–252 revolution (revolutionary, revolutionizing) 6–13, 15–18, 37, 44, 55–58, 60–61, 65, 72, 74–77, 84–85, 94–95, 97–98, 110,

Index 285 114, 118, 127n7, 144–145, 186, 202–205, 209, 212, 217, 219, 221–224, 232, 239, 253 Roar China 211–212, 217 Robeson, Paul 103, 128n15, 129n20 Romanticism 65, 74, 88n21, 181 Rose de Pu-Chui, La (The Rose of Pu-Chui) 158–159 Rosenzweig, Franz 17, 137, 146, 165 Rudneva, Liubov 61, 65, 82 Russian-Soviet theatre and cinema 13, 17, 19, 34, 40, 44, 52, 55, 57–58, 60, 69–70, 83–85, 89n28, 96, 98, 117, 126, 203, 205, 212, 219, 221–222, 225, 227, 229, 231–232, 233n1, 235n20, 240 Sada Yacco 47n26 Sadovskii, Mikhail 83 Sahakian, Emily 249 Sahl, Hans 161 Said, Edward 167 Sakulin, Pavel Nikitich 67 Sayler, Oliver M. 203, 205 Schechner, Richard 253n1 Schiller, Friedrich 246 Schlegel, Frederick von 156 Schochet, Gordon 1 Scholem, Gershom 163 Scott, A. C. 177, 186, 197n26 Segalen, Victor 242–243, 253n2, 253n4-n5; René Leys 242, 253n4 Sellars, Peter 251 Shakespeare, William 9, 32, 53–54, 59, 68, 87n8, 96, 124, 176, 185, 193, 243, 248 Shaw, George Bernard 174–176, 181–182, 184, 189, 191, 195n1 Shchepkin, Mikhail 40, 43, 52, 54 Shen, Shuang 177–178 Shils, Edward 1 Shingeki 203, 221; see also Japanese theatre Shinpa 220; see also Japanese theatre Simay, Philippe 10 Simpson, Celia 160 Socialist Realism 16–17, 34–35, 73, 75, 84–85, 88n21, 113, 116, 118, 124, 219–220, 227, 230–231 Solov’ev, Vladimir 56 Song (Schmutziges Geld) 161 Sorokin, V. F. 47n24 Stalin, Joseph 29, 74

Stanislavsky, Konstantin 16, 22–45, 45n1-n2, 46n11, 46n13-n14, 46n17, 47n20, 47n22, 47n24, 47n26-n28, 47n32, 48n34-n35, 52–57, 61–64, 66–69, 74, 78, 84–85, 85n1, 88n16, 203–205, 207–209, 211, 219–222, 224, 231, 234n15, 240, 243, 245; “appraisal” of Mei Lanfang 24, 30–35; art of experiencing 35–43, 52–53, 55, 63, 67–69; on conventionality 36–38, 41, 43, 52, 66; on Gogol 43, 54; naturalism 37–38, 41, 44, 48n35, 67; psychological realism 34, 63, 66, 204, 209–211, 220–221; on Pushkin 67–69; on Shakespeare 53–54; on Shchepkin 43, 52, 54; the Stanislavsky system 22–23, 31–35, 39–42, 44–45, 78, 84, 204, 211, 219–221, 224; the Stanislavsky tradition 40, 48n34, 52–55, 230; on “true” and “false” traditions 36–38, 40–43, 52–55 Steffin, Margarete 137–138 Stories about Herr Keuner 143 Strindberg, August 192 Sugimoto, Ryo-kichi 215–216 Sullivan, Arthur 47n32 Symbolism 104, 113, 203, 251 Tairov, Alexander 27, 29, 41, 47n17, 54, 57, 89n28 Tan, Marcus Cheng Chye 247–248 Taoism (Daoism) 116, 132n31 Tarabukin, N. M. 80 Tarelkin’s Death 225 Taxidou, Olga 176 Theatre Anthropology 240, 243–244; see also Barba, Eugenio Théâtre du Soleil 249; see also Mnouchkine, Ariane Theatre of Cruelty, The 14 theatricality 37–38, 43, 52–53, 55, 57, 59–60, 84, 147, 231, 252, 253n5 Thief of Baghdad, The 159–160 Thorpe, Ashley 178, 197n26 Three Sisters, The 219 Threepenny Opera, The 142 Tian, Han 24, 31–35, 47n22 Tolstoy, Leo 89n26 Tomoyoshi, Murayama 215 Tompkins, Joanne 249, 253n9 Tong, Daoming 229–231 Tong, Tchong-chou (Dong Zhongshu) 110–111, 132n34 Tovstonogov, G. A. 227–228

286 Index traditionalism (traditionalist) 2, 11, 13–15,

17–18, 44, 55–58, 60–61, 64–65,

83–84, 90n47, 94, 102, 104–105, 107,

116–117, 119–120, 122–123, 126,

131n30, 132n34, 141, 197n33, 202,

221, 224

traditionality 1, 6, 209, 215

Tretyakov, Sergei 27, 29, 47n17, 217, 231

Ts’ang, Chieh (Cang Jie) 99, 127n11

Tschemerinsky, B. 205–206

Tsimbal, S. 78–81

Tsubouchi, Sheko (Shiko- Tsubouchi) 175

Tsukiji Little Theatre 204, 214, 217,

219–220 Turgenev, Ivan 89n26 Typhoon 175, 196n2 Uncle Vanya 219

Vakhtangov, Eugene 66, 205, 226

Vasil’ev, B. 225, 230, 235n19

Verhaeren, Emile 220

Vernon, Harry M. 197n29

Vinogradskaia, I. N. 26, 29, 45n2, 45n5

Vollmoeller, Karl 161

Wagner, Richard 96, 142, 196n1

Wang, Xiaoying 229

Wang, Zhaowen 231

Wang, Zhongxian 180

Wen, Yuan-ning 189

Whittingham-Jones, Barbara 186

Whyman, Rose 40

Wilson, Robert 244, 251–252

Woe from Wit 59, 71, 74, 83, 216; see also

Griboedov, Alexander

Woe to Wit 16, 71, 73, 75–83; Meyerhold’s

production influenced by Mei Lanfang

71–72, 78–84; and by Pushkin 72, 74;

reviews of Meyerhold’s production

75–78; see also Griboedov, Alexander,

and Meyerhold, Vsevolod

Wolford, Lisa 239

Wong, Anna May 17–18, 137, 149–159,

161–165, 167–168, 182–183; American

Hollywood actress 18, 137, 149–150,

153; Chinese origin 162; Chinese

American 150; “Chinoiserie” as portrayed

by Benjamin 149–157, 162–164

Xiong, Foxi 222–223

Xu, Xiaozhong 231

Yan, Huiqing 27

Yan, Huizhu 31

Yang, Cunbin 223

Yang, Wannong 31

Yao, Hsin-Nung (Yao Ke) 180, 186

Yarovoff, Nikolai 205

Yeats, W. B. 13, 15, 19, 184, 190,

196n23, 239–240, 247

Yeh, Diana 178

Yellow Jacket, The 175, 177, 179–183,

190–193

Yu jiao li 151, 169n10; see also Iu-Kiao-Li, ou Les Deux Cousines; Ju-Kiao-Li, oder die beiden Basen Yu, Shangyuan 27, 30, 34, 45n2, 197n26

Yu, Zhenfei 24–26

Zarrilli, Phillip 4, 245, 253n6

Zavadsky, Yuri 33

Zhang, Geng 222

Zhang, Min 222

Zhang, Pengchun 27–28, 30, 34, 46n11

Zhdanov, A. A. 90n49, 231