Beaumarchais, from "Essay on the Serious Drama" (1767)
Translated by Barrett H. Clark
Though Beaumarchais (1732–1799) is best known for his dramatic comedies, The Barber of Seville (1775) and The Marriage of Figaro (1784), in this essay he suggests that serious drama furnishes "a more direct and appealing interest" than heroic tragedy or pleasing comedy.
I can lay no just claim to the dignity of author: both time and talent have been denied me; but some eight years ago, I amused myself by committing to paper a few ideas of the Serious Drama, that form which is a sort of intermediary between the heroic tragedy and the pleasing comedy. Of the several forms of the drama which I might have chosen, that was perhaps the least esteemed; and that was the very reason for my preference. I have always been so seriously occupied that I have sought nothing in the field of letters but an honorable means of recreation. Nequesem per arcum tendit Apollo. The subject pleased, and carried me along with it; but I was not long in learning that I was mistaken in endeavoring to convince by reason in a form where one ought rather to persuade by sentiment. I was soon seized with the desire to substitute example for precept: an infallible way of creating proselytes when one is successful, but which exposes the unfortunate mortal who is not, to the twofold chagrin of having failed to attain his object, and being the butt of ridicule for having presumed beyond his powers.
Too wrought up by my subject to be capable of this latter thought, I composed the play which I herewith publish. Miss Fanny, Miss Jenny, Miss Polly, and so on, charming books, my Eugénie would doubtless have gained much in taking you for models; but she was born before you were in existence—without which one can never serve as model at all. I refer your authors to the little Spanish novelette of the Comte de Belflor, in Le Diable boiteux; that was the source of my idea. The little I obtained therefrom will cause them small regret that they were unable to help me in any way.
The general outline of my plan of action—that rapid mass-work, indicating in a general way the situations, and sketching out the characters—developing very quickly under the white heat of my enthusiasm, saw no waning of my courage; but when it came to the part where I was forced to confine the subject within a certain space, or expand it, really work at it; then my poor brain, muddled with details of execution, was cognizant of real difficulties, took fright at the whole thing, and gave up both play and dissertation.…
Shortly after, M. Diderot brought out his Père de famille. The genius of this writer, his powerful manner, the vigorous and masculine style of his play, ought to have caused me to throw down my pen; instead, the path he had opened up held forth such charms to me that I listened to the dictates of my personal inclination rather than to the voice of my own weakness and inability. I went to work on my play with renewed ardor. As soon as I had finished it, I gave the manuscript to the Comedie Française.…
Now that it has been produced, I shall proceed to inquire into all the uproarious clamor and adverse criticism which it has aroused; but I shall not linger long over those points which do not immediately concern the dramatic form which it pleased me to choose, because that is the only point which can interest the public at this time. I shall indulge in no personalities. Jam dolor in morem venit meus (Ovid). I shall even pass over in silence everything that has been said against the play, firmly convinced that the greatest honor that could be paid it—after the actual interest taken in it on the stage—is that it is not unworthy of critical discussion.…
I have seen people actually and sincerely bemoan the fact that the Serious Drama was gaining partisans. "An equivocal form!" they declare. "You cannot tell what it is. What sort of play is that in which there is not a single line that makes you laugh? Five mortal acts of long-drawn-out prose, with no comic relief, no moral reflections, no characters—during which we are held suspended by the thread of some romantic circumstance which has neither versimilitude nor reality! Does not the sufferance of such works rather open the gate to license, and encourage laziness? The facility of prose will tend to turn our young authors from the arduous task of writing verse, and our stage will soon fall into a state of barbarism, out of which our poets have so painfully managed to develop it. I do not mean to infer that some of these pieces have not affected me, I do not know just how; but how terrible it would be if such plays obtained a foothold! And besides, their popularity would be most unseemly in our land: everyone knows what our celebrated authors have thought, and they are authorities! They have proscribed this dramatic form as belonging neither to Melpomene nor to Thalia. Must we create a new Muse to preside over this trivial cothurnus, this stilted comic form? Tragi-comedy, Bourgeois Tragedy, Tearful Comedy—I can find no term to designate this hybrid. And let no wretched author pride himself upon the momentary approval of the public, which is vouchsafed rather to the assiduity and talent of the actors! The public! What is this public? The moment that collective entity dissolves, and each member of it goes his own way, what remains of the general opinion, unless it becomes that of each individual, among whom the most enlightened exercise a natural influence over the others, who are brought sooner or later to think with the former? Whence it will be seen that the author must look to the few and not to the many for his "general opinion."
Enough. Now let us proceed to reply to the vast torrent of objections, which I have neither belittled nor exaggerated in my account. Let us begin by rendering our judge favorable toward us by defending his own rights. Despite the assertion of the critics to the contrary, the assembled public is none the less that sole judge of plays which are written to amuse it. Every one alike is forced to submit to it, and any effort to obstruct the efforts of genius in the creation of a new dramatic form, or in the further development of those forms which are already established, is a conspiracy against its rights, a plot to deprive it of its pleasure. I readily agree that a difficult, deep-hidden truth in a play will be sooner discovered, better understood, and more intelligently judged by a small number of enlightened' individuals, than by a clamorous crowd—otherwise the truth could not be said to be "difficult"; but questions of taste and sentiment, matters pertaining to pure effects; in a word, all that regards the work as a play, since it cannot be considered apart from the powerful and instantaneous effect produced upon an audience as a whole—ought, I ask, all these things to be judged according to the same rules? When it is less a matter of discussing and analyzing than of feeling, being amused, and being touched, is it not then as questionable to say that the judgment of the public when it is under the influence of emotion, is false and mistaken, as to maintain that a certain kind of drama, which has made its emotional appeal and succeeded in pleasing, generally speaking, a whole nation; and yet is not of sufficient value and dignity for this nation? What importance are we to attach to the satires of certain writers on the Serious Drama, as against the weight of public taste, especially when the shafts of ridicule are directed against charming plays written in this style by the satirists themselves? The light and playful touch of sarcasm may be reasonable and consistent, but it has never decided an important question: its only reason for existence is that it merely starts discussions; it should only be permitted when it is directed against cowardly adversaries who, firmly entrenched behind a heap of authorities; refuse to struggle and reason in the open.…I have heard important sounding words in connection with the sort of play I am discussing, and seen arrayed before me, opposing my plea for the serious play, Aristotle, the ancients, the Poetics, "the laws of the drama," the rules, above all, the rules—the eternal common meeting ground of the critics, the scarecrow of ordinary minds. In what branch of art have rules ever produced masterpieces? Is it not rather the great examples which from the very beginnings have served as a basis of these rules, which are, inverting the natural order of things, brought forward as a positive hindrance to genius? Would mankind ever have advanced in the arts and sciences, if they had servilely followed the precepts laid down by their predecessors? The New World would still be utterly unknown to us had the hardy Genoese navigator not spurned the Nec plus ultra of the Pillars of Hercules. Was that rule not presumptuous and misleading? Genius that is ever on the alert for something new, that is impatient, that chafes under the restrictions of what is already known, suspects something more, something beyond the known; agitated and set in motion by this impelling force, the genius, his mind in torment, impatient, struggling to free himself, grows; and finally, breaking down the barrier of prejudice, he presses forward, out beyond the known borders. Sometimes he loses his way, but still it is he alone who carries the beacon far into the night of the possible, toward which others strive to follow him. He has made a giant stride, and the outposts of art are advanced. I must stop at this point, for I have no desire to enter into a heated argument; I wish merely to reason calmly. Let us reduce to simple terms a great question which has not hitherto been decided. If I were to submit it to a tribunal of reason, I should state it in this way: Is it permissible to interest a theater audience and make it shed tears over a situation which, if it occurred in everyday life, would never fail to produce the same effect upon each individual in that audience? For that, in fine, is the object of well-intentioned, Serious Drama.
If there exists a person so barbarous, so classic, who would dare maintain the opposite, I should like to ask him whether he does not take the word "drama" or "play" to mean a truthful picture of the actions of human beings? He ought to read the novels of Richardson; these are true dramas, since the drama is the conclusion, the most interesting moment in every novel. He should be told, if he does not know, that many scenes in L'Enfant prodigue, all of Nanine, Mélanide, Celle, Le Père de famille, L'Ecossaise, Le Philosophe sans le savoir, are living proofs of the beautiful treatment of which the Serious form is susceptible; that these have taught us to enjoy the touching spectacle of domestic unhappiness, which has all the greater claim upon our attention because it is something which is more likely to enter our own lives. Results of this sort can never elsewhere be hoped for—at least to so great a degree—in the vast panorama of heroic tragedy.
Before proceeding any farther, I may say that what I am about to discuss does not apply to our celebrated writers of tragedy: they would have shone bright in any other career: genius is born of itself, it owes nothing to the themes which it treats, and is universal in its application. I am discussing fundamentals, respecting the authors at the same time. I am comparing dramatic forms, not individual dramatic talents. This is what I have to say:The essential object of the Serious Drama is to furnish a more direct and appealing interest, a morality which is more applicable than can be found in heroic tragedy; and, everything else being equal, a more profound impression than light comedy.
And now I hear a thousand voices raised against me crying, "Impious!" but I ask in all fairness to be heard, before you pronounce the anathema. These ideas are too new not to demand further development.
When I see the ancient tragedies, I am seized with a feeling of personal indignation against. the cruel gods who allow such terrible calamities to be heaped upon the innocent. OEdipus, Jocasta, Phædra, Ariadne, Philoctetes, Orestes, and many others, inspire more terror in me than interest. Devoted passive beings, blind instruments of the wrath and caprice of the gods, I am more horrified at, than compassionate toward them. Everything in these plays seems monstrous to me: unbridled passions, atrocious crimes, these are as far from being natural as they are unusual in the civilization of our time. In all these tragedies we pass through nothing but ruins, oceans of blood, heaps of slain, and arrive at the catastrophe only by way of poisoning, murder, incest, and parricide. The tears shed are forced, they seldom flow, and when they do, they are burning hot: they cause the forehead to contract before tears finally flow. Unbelievably great efforts are necessary to force them, so that only the very greatest geniuses are able to accomplish the feat.
And then, the inevitable tragedies of destiny offer no moral struggle. When one can only tremble and be silent, is not thinking the very worst thing to do? If one could evolve some sort of moral from a play of this sort, it is a terrible moral, and would indubitably encourage as many to commit crimes who might urge fate as an excuse, as it would discourage to follow in the paths of virtue, because according to this system all our efforts mean nothing at all. If it be true that no virtue can be attained without sacrifice, then it must equally stand to reason that no sacrifice can be made without hope of reward. A belief in fatalism degrades man, because it takes his personal liberty from him; and without this, there is no morality in his acts.
If we inquire into what sort of interest is aroused in us by the heroes and kings of heroic tragedy, we will soon see that the situations and pompous characters which it presents to us are no more than traps laid for our vanity; they seldom appeal to the heart. Our vanity is flattered when we are made to participate in the secrets of a magnificent court, to be present at a council which is to revolutionize the state, to enter a private room of the queen, whom in actual life we should scarcely be allowed to see.
We delight in believing ourself the confidant of an unhappy prince, because his sorrows, his tears, his weaknesses, seem to bring his position in life much nearer to our own, or else console us for being so far beneath him; and, without our being aware, each of us seeks to widen his sphere, and our pride is nourished by the pleasure we experience in judging, in the theater, these masters of the world who, anywhere else, might well walk over without noticing us. Men deceive themselves more easily than they are apt to imagine: the wisest among them is often affected by motives which, if he thought of them, would cause him to blush for shame. But if emotions enter into the interest we take in the characters of a tragedy, the reason is less because those characters are heroes and kings than that they are unfortunate men. Is it the Queen of Messina who appeals to my emotions in Merope? No, it is the mother of Ægisthus: nature alone claims sovereignty over our hearts.
If the drama be a faithful picture of what occurs in human society, the interest aroused in us must of necessity be closely related to our manner, of observing real objects. Now, I have often noticed that a great prince, at the very height of happiness, glory, and success, excited in us nothing but the barren sentiment of admiration, which is a stranger to the heart. We perhaps never feel how dear to us he is until he falls into some disgrace. This touching enthusiasm of the people, who praise and reward good kings, never takes root in their hearts except when they realize that their king is unhappy, or when they feel they may lose him. Then their compassion for the suffering man is so true and deep that it almost seems to compensate the king for all his lost happiness. The true heart-interest, the real relationship, is always between man and man, and not between man and, king. And so, far from increasing my interest in the characters of tragedy, their exalted rank rather diminishes it. The nearer the suffering man is to my station in life, the greater is his claim upon my sympathy. "Would it not be better," asks M. Rousseau, "for our authors of the sublime to descend a little from their continual elevation, and make us sympathize occasionally with suffering humanity; for fear that as a result of enlisting our sympathy for Unhappy heroes, we may end by feeling sympathy for no one at all?"
What do I care, I, a peaceful subject in an eighteenth century monarchy, for the revolutions of Athens and Rome? Of what real interest to me is the death of a Pelopennesian tyrant, or the sacrifice of a young princess at Aulis? There is nothing in that for me; no morality which is applicable to my needs. For what is morality? It is the fruitful result and individual application of certain mental deductions occasioned by an actual occurrence. What is interest? It is the involuntary sensation by which we adapt that occurrence to our own ends; it puts us in the place of him who suffers, throws us into the situation for the time being. A random comparison, taken from nature, will make this idea clear to every one.
Why does the story of the earthquake which swallowed up Lima and its inhabitants, three thousand leagues away, trouble me, while the story of the political murder of Charles I, which was committed at London, merely arouse my indignation? Because the volcano which engulfed the Peruvian city might explode under Paris, and bury me beneath ruins—possibly I am threatened even at this moment; whereas I cannot conceive of a misfortune similar to the unheard-of tragedy of the King of England's happening to me. This sentiment lies in the heart of every man; it serves as basis to this absolute principle of art, that there can be neither interest nor moral appeal on the stage without some sort of connection existing between the subject of the play and ourselves. Now, it is an obvious fact that heroic tragedy appeals to us only in so far as it resembles the Serious Drama, and portrays men and not kings. The subjects which it treats are so foreign to our customs and manners, and the characters so different from ourselves, that the interest aroused is less vital than that in the Serious Drama; the moral less poignant, more abstract, so that it often remains sterile and useless to us, unless it console us for our mediocrity, in showing us that great crimes and misfortunes are the lot of those who govern the world.
After what I have said, I do not think it necessary to prove that, there is more interest to be derived from the Serious Drama than from comedy. Every one is aware that, granting each play is of equal merit in its respective field, the Serious Play with an emotional appeal affects us more deeply than that which is merely amusing. It now remains for me to develop the reasons for this effect, which is as palpable as it is natural, and to inquire into the morality of the matter by comparing the two forms.
Gayety serves as a distraction for us: in one way or another it takes our souls and spreads them round about us: people never truly laugh except when they are together. But if the gay spirit of ridicule amuses us for an instant, experience teaches that the laugh which is aroused by a satiric shaft dies as it reaches its victim, without ever rebounding and affecting ourselves. Pride, zealously avoiding the personal application, hides itself amid the uproar of the assembled audience, and takes advantage of the general tumult to cast out all that might be of value to us in a sharp epigram. If matters went no further, the evil would be irremediable, so long as the dramatist holds up to public ridicule only such types as the pedant, the blockhead, the coquette, the pretentious man, the fool, the puppet—in a word, all those who in the life of our day are ridiculous. But is the mockery which chastises them the proper weapon with which to attack vice? Can a dramatist smite his victim with a joke? Not only would he fail to fulfill his purpose, he would achieve the exact opposite of what he set out to accomplish. We see this happen in most comic pieces: to the shame of his moral sense, the spectator often finds himself sympathizing with the rascal against the honest man, because the latter is always rendered the less attractive of the two. But if the gayety of the play has succeeded in sweeping me along for a moment, it is not long, however, before I experience a sense of humiliation at having allowed myself to be ensnared by witty lines and stage tricks; and I leave the theater displeased with the author and with myself. The essential morality of the comic play is therefore either very shallow, or else nothing at all; or finally it produced just the result which it should not produce.
Not so with a drama which appeals to our emotions, whose subject-matter is taken from our daily life. If loud laughter is the enemy of reflection, pity, on the other hand, induces silence: it invites us to meditate, and isolates us from distracting externals. He who weeps at a play is alone; and the more deeply he feels, the more genuine is his pleasure, especially in the Serious Drama, which moves us by true and natural means. Often, in the midst of an amusingly pleasant scene, some charming bit of emotion causes abundant and ready tears to fall, which, mingling with a graceful smile, bring sympathy and joy to the face of the spectator. Is not a touching conflict of this sort the greatest triumph of art, as well as the sweetest sensation that can be experienced by a person of sensibility?
Sympathy has this advantage over the spirit of ridicule, that it is never aroused in us without the concomitant quality of realization, which is made all the more powerful as it appeals to us directly, on the stage.
When we see an honest man who is unhappy we are touched: the spectacle opens our heart, takes possession of it, and finally forces us to examine our inmost conscience. When I see virtue persecuted, made a victim by wickedness, and yet remaining beautiful, glorious, and preferable to everything else, even when it is surrounded by misfortune—when all this is portrayed in a drama, then I am assured that that drama is not "equivocal": I am interested in virtue alone. And then, if I am not happy myself, if base envy does her best to influence me, if she attacks my person, my fortune, and my honor, then how much more interest do I take in that sort of play! And what a splendid moral can I take from it! The subject is one to interest me, naturally: since I am interested only in those who are unhappy and who suffer unjustly, I ask myself whether as a result of some carelessness of character, same fault in my conduct, some excessive ambition, or dishonorable conspiracy, I have called down upon my own head the hatred which pursues me. In any event, I shall be induced to correct my faults, and I shall leave the theater a better man than I entered, merely because I shall have been moved to tenderness and sympathy.
If the injury that has been done me cries aloud for justice, and is more the fault of others than myself, then the lesson derived from the drama will be the more consoling to me. I shall look into my own heart with pleasure, and if I conclude that I have done my full duty toward society, if I am a good parent, a just master, a kind friend, an upright man and a useful citizen, my spiritual satisfaction consoling me for injuries received from others, I shall then all the more appreciate the play which I have witnessed, because it will recall to me that in the pursuit of virtue I find the greatest happiness to which a wise man can attain: contentment with himself, and I shall return again to shed sweet tears at the spectacle of innocence and persecuted virtue.…
The noble and Serious drama has been criticized in turn for lacking stamina, warmth, power, and the comic element.…Let us see how far this criticism is justified: Every form which is too new to contain definite rules according to which it can be discussed, is judged by analogy according to the general rules governing human nature. Let us apply this method to, the case in question. The Serious emotional drama stands midway between heroic tragedy and light comedy. If I consider that part of it which touches upon tragedy, I ask myself: do the warmth and power of a character in a play, arise from his position in the state, or from the depths of his own character? A cursory glance at the models which real life furnishes to art (which is imitative), reveals that a powerful character is no more the sole possession of a prince than of any one else. Three men spring forth from the heart of Rome, and divide the world among them. The first is a pusillanimous coward; the second, valiant, presumptuous and fierce; the third, a clever rascal, who outwits the other two. But Lepidus, Antony, and Octavius, when they formed the Triumvirate, possessed characters which alone decided the different parts they were to play in their common usurpation. The softness of the first, the violence of the second, and the cleverness of the other—all these would have had their effect had it been merely a question of private succession among them. Every man is what he is because of his character; as to his station in life, that is determined by destiny; but a man's character can influence that station in life to a considerable extent. Hence, the Serious Drama, which shows me men who are moved by situations, is as susceptible of power, dynamic force, and elevation of thought, as heroic tragedy, which likewise shows me men who are moved, but who are above men in the ordinary walks of life. And if I consider that part of the Serious and noble drama which touches upon comedy, I cannot deny that the vis comica is indispensable to all good comedies; but then I may ask why the Serious Drama is criticized for a lack of warmth, which, if it exists, can be only the result of a lack of skill on the part of the dramatist? Since plays of this sort deal with people taken out of every-day life—as in light comedy—ought these characters to be treated with any less vigor, portrayed any the less forcibly, when the situation in which they find themselves involves their honor, or life itself, than when these same characters are involved in matters of less moment—say, in simple ordinary embarrassments of one kind or another, or even in comic situations? And even if all the dramas which I have referred to lack comic elements (which I am gravely inclined to doubt)…even then, the question revolves upon the ability or shortcomings of individual dramatists and not upon the dramatic form as such, which is in itself less bombastic and may be thought of as containing the best fiber of any.…
My task will have advanced considerably, if I have succeeded in convincing my readers that the Serious Drama exists, that it is a good form, that its interest is lively, that it contains a direct and profound appeal to the moral sense, that it can have but one style, that of nature; that, besides enjoying the advantages common to other dramatic forms, it possesses a beauty all its own; that it blazes a new trail in the realm of the drama, where genius may soar to heights unknown before, because the form treats all sides of life, and therefore contains every possible situation therein. And once again the dramatist will be able to succeed by utilizing the great figures of comedy, which have by now been nearly exhausted because the situations in which they have figured are out-worn. Finally, the Serious Drama is an endless source of amusement and morality for society in general.…A theory of art may evolve as the result of study and reflection, but the production of a work of art belongs only to genius, which cannot be taught.
The sections into which a play or other theatrical work have been divided, either by the playwright or by a later editor. Dividing plays into five acts became popular during the Renaissance, in imitation of Roman tragedy; modern works are sometimes divided into three acts.
A play written to induce joy or laughter in the audience. Unlike tragedy, which generally takes characters from a condition of prosperity to a state of destruction or loss, comedy usually begins with a problem, and ends with its happy resolution. Comedy ranges from laughing genres such as satire and comedy of manners, parody, farce and burlesque, to such weepy genres as sentimental and romantic comedy.
The oldest state-funded theatre company still in existence. The company was formed at the command of King Louis XIV in 1680, through the amalgamation of the two remaining French-language troupes in Paris, one of which was Molière's. Called the Comédie Française to distinguish it from the Italian company then resident in the capital (see commedia dell'arte), it was granted a monopoly on the performance of French drama. It is a symbol today of national conservatism.
A type of comic play that flourished in the late seventeenth century in London, and elsewhere since, which bases its humour on the sexual and marital intrigues of "high society." It is sometimes contrasted with "comedy of character," as its satire is directed at the social habits and conventional hypocrisy of the whole leisured class. Also called Restoration Comedy; exemplified by the plays of Behn, Wycherley, and Congreve.
A play or literary work composed of a series of separate and to some degree interchangeable incidents (rather than of a single, unified, and continuously unfolding narrative) is said to have an episodic plot.
Sometimes classed as the "lowest" form of comedy. Its humour depends not on verbal wit, but on physicality and sight gags: pratfalls, beatings, peltings with pies, malfunctioning equipment, unpleasant surprises, and sudden necessities to hide in boxes and closets. However, most comedy contains some elements of farce, which requires highly skilled actors for its effects. Also called "slapstick" in honour of the double-shafted baton carried by Arlecchino in commedia dell'arte, which, when struck against another actor in a simulated beating, made a loud slap.
A dramatic re-imagining of real people and events drawn from the annals of the past. Shakespeare and Schiller are considered among the greatest writers of history plays; Büchner and Strindberg are also noted for them. From time to time, such works have played important roles in the establishment of a nation's self-image and founding myths. Some degree of anachronism tends to be considered acceptable in historical dramas.
A contrast between what is said and what is known. Some speakers use it intentionally, as when Socrates feigned ignorance of things he knew quite well, to draw out other "philosophers." By contrast, dramatic irony occurs when characters utter statements whose full meaning is not understood by them (although it is clear to those who hear it, such as the audience or the other characters on stage). Many of Oedipus's remarks, which are true in ways he does not yet grasp, exemplify dramatic irony. Tragic irony, on the other hand, is said to occur when events turn out in an opposite way to what was expected and desired, yet so strangely fittingly that, in retrospect, it seems as if this outcome should have been predicted or known all along (see tragedy, with its "reversal and recognition"). Some forms of satire may also rely on irony.
A type of storytelling that emerged in France and Germany in the wake of the French Revolution, and that is marked by many features of that event: a clear division of characters into the poor, weak, and good hero on one hand, often a child, woman, mute or slave; and a rich, powerful, and evil villain on the other, who schemes to exploit or harm the victim, but who is triumphantly overthrown at the last possible minute, usually in a sensational fire, fight, avalanche, or other violent cataclysm. Literally "music-drama," melodrama originally used background music throughout the action, much like film soundtracks do, to emphasize the characters' emotions, warn of approaching danger, and shape the spectator's emotional response (especially at the ends of acts and scenes, when actors assumed particularly pathetic or frightening postures and held them, frozen, in tableaux). Melodrama was the most popular narrative genre in Europe and North America in the nineteenth century. It still retains its popularity today, but it has long since left the theatre, taking up residence in the Hollywood film.
The principles, rules, and conventions of writing plays according to the precepts and ideals of neoclassicism. Often based on the so-called unities of time, place, and action.
Literally the "new classicism," the aesthetic style in drama and other art forms that dominated high culture in Europe through the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and in some places into the nineteenth century, or until it was swept away by Romanticism. Its subject matter was often taken from Greek and Roman myth and history; but more important than its subject matter was its style , which was based on a selective and often downright false image of the ancient world. It valued order, reason, clarity, and moderation; it rejected strong contrasts in tone, as well as, usually, the supernatural and anything that cannot be rationally motivated within the plot of a play (such as the appearance of gods, witches, or a dancing chorus). Racine's Phèdre is considered one of the most perfectly realized neoclassical dramas. See also unities.
A type of comic play that flourished in ancient Greece from the fourth century b.c.e., particularly under such playwrights as Menander. It was later imported into Rome, where its plots and characters were reworked in Latin. Replacing Old Comedy after Athens' defeat in the Peloponnesian War, it focused on private, everyday domestic situations involving parent-child disharmony, money, neighbours, and parental obstacles to love and marriage. Its young lovers, bad-tempered parents, scheming slaves, and golden-hearted prostitutes quickly achieved the status of stock characters. Also known as situation comedy.
The type of dramatic satire practiced in fifth-century Athens and equated today with the works of Aristophanes (see Frogs in this volume). The genre is known for its fantastical and unrealistic episodic plots, its frequent use of animal choruses (frogs, birds, wasps, horse-mounted knights), and particularly for its brilliant verbal wit, free obscenity, and fearless attacks on living Athenian politicians and other public figures (e.g., Euripides and Socrates). See also chorus.
A type of play invented during the Renaissance by members of Italian scholarly academies in an attempt to revive the satyr play of ancient Greece. Filtering the lusty, drunken goat-men, ecstatic maenads, and rustic settings of the satyr play though their Christian worldview, such writers created a new theatrical genre in which innocent shepherds, nymphs, and shepherdesses gambol in an idealized natural landscape free from the pressures of city life and the corruptions of civilization.
Not to be confused with the "story," the plot of a play or other literary work is the precise arrangement of incidents used to tell the story. The same story can give rise to countless plots, depending on the point at which the writer chooses to begin (at Oedipus's birth? or on the last day of his reign?), what he or she chooses to dramatize (the wedding night of Oedipus and Jocasta? the murder of Hamlet's father?), and how he chooses to bring the events about (a messenger? a lost letter? an epiphany? a gun-battle?).
The central character in a drama or other literary work; see ag¯on.
A genre of witty and sexually uninhibited drama associated with the London theatres in the decades after 1660, when King Charles II was "restored" to the English throne. It was known for its pungent satire, obsession with the habits of the upper classes, and cynical depiction of human customs, particularly the institution of marriage. Also see comedy of manners.
A humorous play or other work in which people, attitudes, or types of behaviour are ridiculed for the purpose of correcting their blameworthy qualities. Satirists differ from other types of comic writers in that they are often morally outraged by the follies and vices they depict. Of all types of comedy, satire is the most critical. It can also, paradoxically, be the most subtle, for satirists may mask their fury with humour so effectively that they can seem to be condoning the faults they abhor. Satire often makes use of irony and frequently targets politicians and other public figures. For this reason, satire tends to flourish in liberal societies where free speech is prized. See also Old Comedy and comedy of manners.
A Greek word believed to mean "song of the goat-singers" (see satyr play and dithyramb). Originating in the sixth century b.c.e., tragedy is the oldest dramatic genre and remains for many the "highest" form of poetry. Our knowledge of it derives mainly from the plays of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, as well as from the little we know about the manner of its performance (see ag¯on, chorus, mask, orchestra, sk¯en¯e, and tragic tetralogy). Our understanding of it has also been shaped by Aristotle, whose description of Athenian tragedy in his Poetics remains a touchstone for tragic theory and practice to this day. According to Aristotle, tragedy is the imitation of an organically unified, serious action in which the plot, or arrangement of incidents, elicits the audience's pity and fear and then effects a catharsis, or purgation, of these and similar emotions. Tragic plots generally take the protagonist from a condition of good fortune to bad, often to his or her destruction, involve mental and/or physical suffering, and ideally take place within families, usually of a socially elevated or prominent type (royal families, for example). In Aristotle's view the most effective tragic plots also involve a simultaneous "reversal and recognition," a moment when the character's fortune turns for the worse, and when he or she is suddenly able to grasp a truth that was unavailable before. Tragedy has been reconceived by every subsequent age that has practiced it, beginning in the Renaissance. In the seventeenth century, it was reinvented according to the principles of neoclassicism; in the eighteenth according to those of the Enlightenment ("middle-class" or "bourgeois tragedy"). Romanticism in turn created its own tragic forms, often inspired by Shakespeare. Notable re-thinkings of tragedy in the modern age include Arthur Miller's essay "Tragedy and the Common Man."
A genre of drama in which many elements of tragedy are present, but which generally has a happy end. Corneille's The Cid is an excellent example of this genre, which was sometimes preferred to straight tragedy under neoclassicism. See Fuenteovejuna.
A doctrine invented by the theorists of neoclassicism, who considered "the three unities" an essential rule of proper tragedy. It stipulates that the plot, the span of time it represents, and the amount of physical terrain it covers must together approximate the true unity of real space/time conditions (i.e., the single location and continuous two-hour time-period that prevails on stage during performance, during which one can realistically represent only so much action and no more). The concept was based on a misreading of Aristotle and was soon ridiculed almost out of existence by writers such as G.E. Lessing and Samuel Johnson. But it did succeed in determining the form taken by tragedy during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. It also ensured that the un-unified plays of Shakespeare would remain beneath the contempt of many for over a hundred years. Despite the unities' poor grounding in ancient theatre practice and the rigidity with which their (mostly French) advocates enforced them, the unities remain a useful concept in drama. Works of theatrical realism and Naturalism, for example, tend to observe them instinctively.