“performing greek tragedy in mask; re-inventing a lost tradition” presented for the degree of...
TRANSCRIPT
ROYAL HOLLOWAY, UNIVERSITY OF LONDON
“PERFORMING GREEK TRAGEDY IN MASK; RE-INVENTING A
LOST TRADITION”
PRESENTED FOR THE DEGREE OF PHD.
2008
BY
CHRISTINE MARY LAMBERT
Declaration
I declare that the work presented in this thesis is entirely my own.
Christine Mary Lambert
Abstract
Whilst in ancient Greece drama was always performed in mask, in our own era the
norm is for “bare faced” acting characterised by some form of “naturalistic” or
Stanislavkian practice. Of the many performances of Greek tragedy in recent years, a
fraction have been in mask and have highlighted a number of issues. These include:
questions on the nature of masks and the reasons for performing tragedy in mask; the
practicalities of designing suitable masks including the visual and acoustical impact of
masking; the way in which we are to understand the ancient plays in the context of their
original performances, in particular, whether or not they are seen as “ritual theatre” and
the implications this has for masking and performance style today; the approach of the
director and actors to mask and script; and the special techniques of mask performance.
I discuss these from my perspective as a theatre practitioner, performing, directing and
making masks including those for Greek tragedy. I also draw on various types of
evidence: theoretical and practical; ancient and modern; from the Western and Oriental
theatre traditions. These include interpretations of classical scholarship, theories of
masking from the modern Western “tradition” based on the work of Jacques Copeau,
Michel St-Denis and Jacques Lecoq; insights on masks and performance from Japanese
Noh. I combine this with a consideration of the ideas and practice of directors such as
Peter Hall, Tyrone Guthrie and J.-L. Barrault who have produced masked Greek
tragedy.
I argue a case for broadly following the precepts of fifth century mask design whilst
realising their potential in performance by utilising the most relevant aspects of modern
acting techniques from both the mainstream and the alternative sector of mask and
physical theatre and by this means fully explore the unique possibilities offered by the
ancient plays.
Performing Greek Tragedy in Mask; Re-inventing a lost Tradition
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6
PREFACE .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ERROR! BOOKMARK NOT DEFINED.
INTRODUCTION .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
CHAPTER 1. WHY MASK? - DEFINITIONS AND FUNCTIONS .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17
INTRODUCTION ....................................................................................................................................... 17 COVERING, DISTURBING AND CONCEALING ............................................................................................ 19 INDIVIDUAL V UNIVERSAL ...................................................................................................................... 26 MASKS, METAPHYSICS AND METATHEATRE .................................... ERROR! BOOKMARK NOT DEFINED. MASK, LIFE AND STILLNESS .................................................................................................................... 33 MASK AND VISUAL AESTHETICS ............................................................................................................. 35 MASK AS FACILITATOR OF THE DRAMA .................................................................................................. 38 CONCLUSION .......................................................................................................................................... 40
CHAPTER 2: THE RITUAL MASK OF GREEK TRAGEDY? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42
INTRODUCTION ....................................................................................................................................... 42 MASK IN CULT AND RITUAL .................................................................................................................... 43 THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY ......................................................................................................................... 47 THE SOCIO-RELIGIOUS CONTEXT OF FIFTH CENTURY TRAGEDY .............................................................. 55 THE ROLE OF THE TRAGIC CHORUS ......................................................................................................... 58 IMPLICATIONS FOR MODERN PERFORMANCE .......................................................................................... 62 CONCLUSION .......................................................................................................................................... 66
CHAPTER 3: MASKS: ANCIENT DESIGNS AND MODERN INTERPRETATIONS
.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68
INTRODUCTION ....................................................................................................................................... 68 INTERPRETING THE EVIDENCE ................................................................................................................ 70 ORIGINS, MATERIALS AND DESIGN ......................................................................................................... 73 TRAGIC MASKS IN CLASSICAL ART ......................................................................................................... 75 THE MULTIVALENT MASK ....................................................................................................................... 89 MODERN MASK INTERPRETATIONS ......................................................................................................... 93 CONCLUSION .......................................................................................................................................... 96
CHAPTER 4: MASKS: VISIBILITY, ACOUSTICS AND THEATRE SPACE .. . . . . . . 98
INTRODUCTION ....................................................................................................................................... 98 THEATRE SPACE AND MASK DESIGN ....................................................................................................... 99 ACOUSTICS ........................................................................................................................................... 104 CONCLUSION ........................................................................................................................................ 112
CHAPTER 5: MASKED PERFORMANCE OF THE TRAGIC TEXTS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114
INTRODUCTION ..................................................................................................................................... 114 MOBILITY, ENACTMENT AND DANCE .................................................................................................... 115 SOUND, SIGHT AND ARTISTIC CONVENTIONS ........................................................................................ 119 ACTING IN MASK .................................................................................................................................. 124 THE SPECIAL TECHNIQUES OF MASK THEATRE ..................................................................................... 127 THE “DISCOVERY OF THE LOCK” .......................................................................................................... 136 CONCLUSION ........................................................................................................................................ 146
CHAPTER 6: CHARACTER, TRAGEDY AND MASK .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147
INTRODUCTION ..................................................................................................................................... 147 ANCIENT PERCEPTIONS OF CHARACTER ............................................................................................... 149 MODERN INTERPRETATIONS OF TRAGIC FIGURES ................................................................................. 154 AGENCY, BODY AND MIND ................................................................................................................... 160 MASK ROLES ........................................................................................................................................ 167 MASK CHARACTERISATION .................................................................................................................. 168 DESIGNING MASKS FOR MODERN PERFORMANCE ................................................................................. 173 CONCLUSION ........................................................................................................................................ 176
CHAPTER 7 PERFORMERS AND APPROACHES TO MASK ROLES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 180
INTRODUCTION ................................................................................ ERROR! BOOKMARK NOT DEFINED. ACTING IN THE ANCIENT THEATRE ....................................................................................................... 181 POSSESSION .......................................................................................................................................... 186 MODERN IDEAS ON MASK ..................................................................................................................... 190 PETER HALL ......................................................................................................................................... 192 OTHER APPROACHES TO MASK ............................................................................................................. 194 MY OWN APPROACH TO MASK .............................................................................................................. 200 MIRRORS, VIDEO AND THE EXTERNAL EYE ........................................................................................... 207 CONCLUSION ........................................................................................................................................ 209
CHAPTER 8: MODERN ACTING AND MASKED GREEK TRAGEDY .. . . . . . . . . . . . . 211
INTRODUCTION ..................................................................................................................................... 211 CHARACTER AND ACTION ..................................................................................................................... 212 THE “WHY?” QUESTION ........................................................................................................................ 218 PSYCHOLOGY, SUBTEXT AND STANISLAVSKI ....................................................................................... 221 ENERGY AND THE ACTOR’S PRESENCE ................................................................................................. 223 AN INTEGRATION OF FORMS AND APPROACHES .................................................................................... 226 A PHYSICAL THEATRE APPROACH ......................................................................................................... 230 CONCLUSION ........................................................................................................................................ 238
CHAPTER 9 SUMMARY AND CONCLUSION .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 241
PRACTICAL RESEARCH: A VIDEO RECORD .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 254
BIBLIOGRAPHY .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 260
List of Illustrations
Figure 1. Depiction of female Hellenistic mask, mosaic from Pompeii, in Naples.
Figure 2. The Pronomos Vase, attic volute-krater late fifth century BC, in Naples.
Figure 3. Attic red-figure column-krater, c.490 BC, in Basle.
Figure 4. Gnathia oinochoe from Ruvo, third century BC, in Paris.
Figure 5 Attic red-figure vase, c. 470 BC, in Berlin.
Figure 6. Fragments of an oinochoe from the Athenian agora, c.470 BC, in
Athens.
Figure 7. Old man and dark haired girl masks by Chris Vervain.
Figure 8. Head of Deidameia, the bride, on west pediment of the Temple of Zeus
at Olympia, 460 BC.
Figure 9. Attic bell-krater from Valle Pega, 460-450 BC, in Ferrara.
Figure 10. Attic pelike, mid-fifth century BC, in Boston.
Figure 11. Terracotta from Lipari, representing the mask of a young man, first
half of third century BC, in Lipari.
Figure 12. Masks by Michael Chase; side view and interior with "skull-cap."
Figure 13. Attic red-figured bell-krater, early fourth century BC, in Heidelberg.
Figure 14. Dressing room scene with Hellenistic style masks, mosaic from
Pompeii, in Naples.
Figure 15. Fragment of Attic krater from Olbia, 430-420 BC, in Kiev.
Figure 16. Fragments of an Attic krater from Taranto, early fourth century BC, in
Wurzburg.
Figure 17. Relief from Peiraeus, early fourth century BC, in Athens.
Figure 18. Gnathia krater fragment from Taranto, mid-fourth century BC, in
Wurzburg.
Figure 19. Red-figure fragment from Athenian agora, 375-350 BC, in Athens.
Figure 20. Relief from Athens, 360-350 BC, in Copenhagen.
Figure 21. Terracotta from Lipari, representing a female mask, first half of third
century BC, in Lipari.
Figure 22. Male mask by Thanos Vovolis: a) exterior; b) interior.
Figure 23. Masks for Peter Hall’s 1981 Oresteia, designed by Jocelyn Herbert.
Figure 24. Masks and costumes for Tyrone Guthrie’s 1955 Oedipus Rex and for
his 1967 House of Atreus, designed by Tanya Moisewitsch.
Figure 25. Masks for Peter Hall’s 1996 Oedipus Plays, designed Dionysis
Fotopoulos.
Figure 26. Masks for Peter Hall’s 2002 Bacchai , designed by Alison Chitty.
Figure 27. Epidaurus theatre, late fourth century BC.
Figure 28. Terracottas from Lipari, representing masks of old men, first half of
third century BC, in Lipari.
Figure 29. Attic red-figure calyx-krater, 475-450 BC, in Boston: (The “Boston
Oresteia”), drawing by Chris Vervain from several photographs.
Figure 30. Campanian neck-amphora, c. 330-320 BC, in Paris.
Figure 31. Attic cup from Tarquinia, c. 470 BC, lost, once in Berlin.
Figure 32. Attic column-krater, early fifth century BC, in Vienna.
Figure 33. Attic pelike, 480 BC, in Vienna.
Figure 34. Stills from performance research sessions.
Figure 35. Tanya Moodie, Alan Howard and Clare Swinburne in rehearsal for
Peter Hall’s 1996 Oedipus Plays.
Preface
I must first acknowledge a second identity, a sort of personal mask; in my artistic and
theatrical work I am professionally known as Chris Vervain and in this thesis I refer to
articles published under that name.
In a different way, I wish to acknowledge the invaluable contribution of workshop
participants and performers with whom I have worked, especially Christine Strickett
who has been with me from early on; also Lorna Marshall whose inspired teaching of
physical theatre first drew me to the theatrical mask and to David Wiles whose own
scholarship has greatly informed my own and whose generous and meticulous
supervision has guided me through the whole process of thesis writing. I also thank my
friends and relations for their understanding and support, above all my husband Ray for
his readiness to transport masks, props and performers, act as cameraman and lighting
technician, steer me through the intricacies of word processing and computer use and
take an intelligent interest in the various aspects of my work. Lastly I remember the
spirit of Cecil Collins whose gentle example showed me the path of receptivity and
appreciation. Whilst my father shared with me his gift of logical thought and analysis,
Cecil revealed their limitations and emphasised the need to be ever mindful of the
mysteriousness of the mundane.
In the finalisation of this thesis I have been unable to refer to books published in 2007.
In my use of Greek terms, apart from those appearing in quotations, I italicise only
those that are liable to be confused with English words.
Christine Lambert
(Chris Vervain)
Introduction
Today the theatrical masks of ancient Greece are most readily associated with the dual
masks of Comedy and Tragedy in the form of an icon signifying the theatre. It is a
strange irony of history that this sign, reflecting the origins of drama, is nevertheless
misleading as a symbol for theatre in the modern world, a theatre in which mask is, in
large part, seen as an alien element. We are accustomed to see the actors’ individual
faces and much meaning is communicated by facial expression. This is not a
particularly recent phenomenon being also true, albeit to a lesser degree, of the
Elizabethan theatre. Modern theatre of naturalism and the development of TV, film
and intimate theatre have moved us further towards an emphasis on “bare faced”
acting1.
A relatively small, alternative practice of mask and physical theatre has grown up
alongside mainstream theatre, the latter being characterised by some form of
“naturalistic” or Stanislavskian practice. Commencing with the work of Jacques
Copeau and developed by practitioners such as Michel St-Denis and Jacques Lecoq, a
sort of modern Western “tradition” of the mask has arisen which incorporates many
different approaches to mask work. Besides this there are the various Oriental mask
theatres, products of societies in which, over long periods of time, the emphasis was on
preservation rather than innovation. These, especially the Japanese Noh, have
influenced Western practice, particularly in the alternative sectors.
In a largely separate development there have been, in the modern era, performances of
ancient Greek tragedy, often in translation or adaptation. Fiona Macintosh notes that
the frequency of these has increased in recent years. 2 Of these productions only a
fraction have been in mask notably Jean-Louis Barrault’s 1955 L’Orestie, Tyrone
Guthrie’s 1955 Oedipus Rex and 1967 House of Atreus, Karolos Koun’s Persians in
1965 and 1976, Oedipus in 1967 and his Oresteia of 1980. There have also been two
important productions, Yukio Ninagawa’s Medea of 1978 and Ariane Mnouchkine’s
1991/2 Les Atrides, in which the performers’ faces were painted to resemble masks
1 A term used by David Wiles in, for example, Vervain & Wiles (2001), 268. 2 Macintosh (1997), 314.
from the Eastern theatres. In the UK the work of Peter Hall has made most impact.3
His 1981 Oresteia, 1996 Oedipus Plays and 2002 Bacchai all received extensive
reviews in the press and also coverage in academic journals. Moreover, the reception
of Hall’s work extends, beyond a consideration of the performances alone, to cover
many of the circumstances and events surrounding their preparation and realisation.
This includes the thoughts of Hall and others on various aspects of masking,
approaches to text, acting and the treatment of the masked chorus together with a
detailed account of the rehearsals for the two later productions. Many of the masks
used in Hall’s production have also been publicly exhibited and some have had a
limited airing in special hands-on workshops as part of the National Theatre education
programme.
This material, together with the productions themselves, has brought to the fore a
number of issues:
• the nature of mask and the reasons for performing tragedy in mask;
• the practicalities of mask design including the visual and acoustical impact of
masking;
• how we are to understand the ancient plays in the context of their original
performances, in particular whether or not they are to be seen as “ritual theatre”
and the implications this has for masking and performance style today;
• the approach of the director and actors to mask and script;
• the special techniques of mask performance;
• the appropriate (English) translation for a mask performance.
These are some of the themes I cover in this thesis.
Although these matters are concerned with modern interpretation and theatrical
practice, I start with the assumption that we have much to learn from studying what we
3 Hall’s Tantalus in 2001, although masked and featuring the narrative of heroic myth, was a modern
construction that presented a not entirely analogous set of problems to those that arise with modern
stagings of the ancient plays themselves.
know of the ancient theatre and the context in which tragedy was originally performed.
All ancient Greek drama was performed in mask and involved delivering complex and
poetic text together with highly choreographed moves. Today theatrical masking is a
marginalized activity and in physical theatre, considered to be essentially visual and
often associated with improvisation. The particular circumstances surrounding the
revival of masking in our own era has biased our notion of its possibilities being, in
many respects, a reaction to the perceived excesses of the dominant theatre of
naturalism. A division has arisen between mask and physicality on the one hand and
ordinary acting, vocal power and the delivery of complex texts, on the other. John
Wright expresses a typical view when he describes physical theatre as: “Any form of
theatre that puts movement and action before voice and text.”4 It is salutary to note that
voice training was a prominent concern of the ancient actors. The “success” of the
masked drama of antiquity is attested by its enthusiastic reception and its persistence
over many centuries. There is a need for a study of how today we might bring together
these two aspects of performance that in the ancient world were manifest as an
integrated whole.
Whilst mask in the ancient Greek theatre has been the subject of some classical
scholarship, much of the discussion has been overly theoretical, ignoring or
misunderstanding issues of practical mask theatre. There is scope to introduce the
element of practice based research that is informed by, but also tests out, the various
hypotheses emerging from this scholarly work. As a mask-maker and mask theatre
director I see my own approach to the subject as both theoretical and practice based.
Over recent years I have carried out small scale experiments, making masks for Greek
tragedy and trying them out in workshops with students and also with professional
actors, to perform demonstration scenes. The latter have been presented in academic
conferences and lecture demonstrations. In this work I have been unfunded. Here I use
it to illustrate various points and to add an empirical dimension to the discussion. I
present it, however, as work in progress, hoping to suggest approaches that might
fruitfully be pursued and perfected with greater resources.
I envisage Greek tragedy as a hybrid form that is partly ritual theatre but also one that
conveys action and tells a story in a way that is emotionally and intellectually
4 Wright (2000), 20.
engaging. In modern eyes ritual can often suggest a solemn ceremonial style, that if
applied too consistently to Greek tragedy, can result in a monotonous effect. In ancient
Greece ritual also included ecstatic dance; moreover, the serious themes of tragedy did
not necessarily preclude some humour. My own preference is for performances that
include variety and contrasting elements in vocal delivery, gesture, movement and
atmosphere. The texts suggest that more than one performance style can be, and could
have been, fruitfully employed for any one play. One function of the mask would be to
unify this diversity into an aesthetic whole and the design of the fifth century tragic
masks would have been ideally suited to this purpose. To please their gods the ancient
Greeks presented to them their best human endeavours in the field of poetic
performance, drama, athletics etc., whilst at the same time they were very much rooted
in the immediacy of their everyday lives. In a similar spirit we might aspire to achieve
an excellence in our performances of masked Greek tragedy provoking a new
perception of what it is to be human. For me the beauty and mimetic power of classical
art lies in transforming human experience into a poetic vision. Masks play an
important part in challenging our habitual perceptions and some “life-like” masks can
be particularly disturbing in being simultaneously suggestive of a real-life face and yet
clearly artefacts. As with Daedalus, the mythical Greek sculptor, whose statues were
so life-like that they were said to move, I aspire to make masks that give the appearance
of being alive. Also I seek for the mask that is strange but strangely familiar; that
triggers a memory at a deep (perhaps collective) level of perception. I am also drawn
to certain masks for their aesthetic appeal and find in Greek tragedy a context in which,
worn by the right performers, they can be imbued with a magical life, thrilling and
compelling to an audience.
Alongside these lofty goals I am a pragmatist aware that the director has to work with
the resources available. This means finding performers whose training and innate skills
can be harnessed to realise a vision of the genre that is at variance with our
predominant theatre of naturalism. I see this as involving a certain negotiation in
which I allow (and encourage) performers some freedom in exploring their own
individual contribution whilst I retain overall directorial control. They wear masks and
costumes that I design and make; perform with the props and sets and in the framework
that I provide. I also train them (within the possibilities allowed by my resource
constraints) in the special techniques of mask theatre that I have adapted and developed
for this purpose. I work with performers from the mainstream theatre schools with a
Stanislavskian training as well as with those from other backgrounds and take an
eclectic approach, trying to sense how best to obtain an engaged performance from any
one individual or particular group. As I mostly use an English text, the issue of
translation arises and for the purpose of this study I have chosen translations that
remain fairly close to the original plays in sense, but that also capture something of
their spirit, with the heightened language, the poetic imagery and a rhythm that conveys
their emotional energy and movement potential.
It has been argued that there is a close correspondence between the theatre of ancient
Greece, particularly at the time of Aeschylus, and Noh theatre. 5 However, there are too
many differences to make such analogies meaningful. These include firstly the
different social context. In Greece drama was part of a politico-religious festival,
organised as a competition by the democratic city-state. By contrast Noh, though
surrounded by ritual and ritualistic in its formal qualities, was at the time of Zeami
designed for aristocratic entertainment and was not part of a drama contest.. A second
difference is in the theatre space. The Theatre of Dionysus in Athens was vast and
open air, and the audience sat in tiers on the hillside around a sizeable dancing area,
with the majority looking down on the action. By comparison Noh theatres are
intimate, sometimes indoors, with performers on a fairly small stage, viewed by an
audience on two sides. Thirdly, whilst both theatres feature protagonists and a chorus,
in Greece the latter moved and danced and interacted as a “character” with the former
in the same space. In Noh the chorus are static sitting to one side and provide musical
and vocal support only. Fourthly, the principles governing tempos are also different.
In Noh every component and sub-component is governed by jo-ha-kyu (in which the
tempo becomes progressively faster, leading to a final climactic moment). In the Greek
theatre there is more emphasis on metrical correspondence, as for example, in the
strophic structures of the choral odes. My final point here (although this is by no
means an exhaustive list) is that the two dramas are different in kind. Whilst the
exchanges in the main scenes of Greek tragedy are situational and outward focused,
Noh “aims at evoking the inner truth of feelings and perceptions rather than depicting
5 Johnson (1984), Smethurst (1989).
an outer world of social interactions.”6 Michael Walton observes that the Noh texts are
written for a theatre in which masks are worn only to perform the shite (leading actor)
roles. As all other figures are unmasked there is no ambiguity about who is speaking or
the subject of their speeches. The Greek plays are written for a multiplicity of
interacting figures and the fact that all are masked necessitates the use of deictic
interchanges (together with the gestures that these indicate) to make clear who is saying
what about whom. 7
This being said, some of the issues relating to mask can be considered from a more
universal view especially their design, use in performance and the way that performers
approach them. I have therefore included in my discussion some aspects of Noh
practice. Takabayashi Koji, an actor of the Kita school says that a central feature of
Noh is “the life force that reaches upward and outward, that works to encompass all”
and that every play in the tradition “no matter how sad the story, no matter how
fearsome the vision, is at its core a celebration.” As a performer he feels “completed
through communion” and hopes that his audience “senses the celebration and goes
away purified too.” 8 This accords with my own feeling of what I aspire to offer in
creating masked Greek tragedy today.
The structure of this thesis is as follows:
Chapter 1 opens up questions on the nature of masks; what they are and what are the
properties that make them relevant to performing Greek tragedy. The subject of
chapter 2 is mask, ritual and tragedy in ancient Greece. The mysterious otherness of
masks and their use in ritual has influenced the thinking of many who envisage Greek
tragedy in its original performances as an essentially ritual drama, reflecting its origin
in religious cult. I consider this and alternative viewpoints illustrating the discussion
with an account of some of my own experimental work. In chapter 3 I look at the
evidence on the fifth century tragic masks, adding my own observations from practical
experience of mask theatre to scholarly interpretations. I also suggest what might be
learnt about the masks from classical art and artefacts depicting masks from the
6 Nearman (1984), 21. 7 Walton (2007). 8 Bethe (1984), 103.
Hellenistic and Roman periods. I then consider some of the mask designs for modern
productions of tragedy in the light of this discussion. Chapter 4 covers the ancient
theatre space and the possibility that masks may have enhanced visibility and
audibility. In chapter 5 I review some of the ideas on the style of ancient performance.
I give an account of the special techniques that have been used in the modern Western
“tradition” of mask theatre to convey action and apply this to enacting the ancient
plays, illustrating this with a scene from Aeschylus. Chapter 6 examines the idea of
character in the plays and the extent to which they feature human intelligibility figures
acting as autonomous agents. I consider the implications of these issues for mask
design and also review the ancient evidence for characterisation in the masks. In
chapter 7 I focus on performers, ancient and modern, and approaches to masks and text,
including a discussion of the idea that the mask possesses the performer. In chapter 8
the constraints and choices facing modern directors of masked tragedy are discussed
briefly before considering the advantages and disadvantages of working with actors
having a mainstream Stanislavskian training. I describe some of my own experience of
working with performers from this and other backgrounds with a detailed account of a
workshop by a group of performers who had trained in the Lecoq school of physical
theatre. Finally I provide some brief notes on selected video clips recording some of
my practical research that are on the included disc.
Chapter 1. Why mask? - definitions and functions
Introduction
The reasons for masking Greek drama are not obvious. When Peter Hall produced his
Oresteia, it was highly acclaimed in the UK press. However, some reviewers drew
attention to what they saw as the disadvantages of the mask. It was felt to be a barrier
denying the audience a view of the actor’s most expressive instrument, the human
face,9 resulting in performances being emotionally cold.10 Lacking the cues provided
by the sight of moving lips, many found it difficult to know who was speaking.11 The
masks were also found to muffle the performers’ voices.12 Hall’s subsequent
productions of masked Greek tragedy were criticised on similar grounds although vocal
clarity was no longer impaired due to the incorporation of electronic microphones into
the design of the masks, a “solution” that in itself drew criticism.13
From the performer’s point of view masks may appear as a source of discomfort.
Common complaints are: that the mask is experienced as heavy, it rubs against the face,
impedes the movement of the jaw, makes breathing difficult, and is hot, sweat inducing
and claustrophobic. Other problems are that it can be awkward to put on and take off
and may require padding to remain in a secure position. Masks involve some sensory
deprivation restricting sight and even hearing. This can result in performers feeling
isolated and disorientated which can impair their ability to relate to others and find their
way around the performance space. Balance, flexible movement and speed may also be
restricted. Unable to utilise their faces, performers have to find alternative means of
communicating; this, and the anonymity that the mask imparts to the actor, viewed in a
negative light, is perhaps one reason why few actors today embrace the work. In Hall’s
productions, well known actors have expressed their distaste for working in mask; most
notably Alan Howard, playing the lead in Hall’s Oedipus Plays, refused to wear the
9 Schulman (1981). 10 Billington (1981). 11 Schulman (1981), Esslin (1982), Walker (1981). 12 Billington (1983). 13 Mary Beard, for example, sees some inconsistency in Hall’s position here: Beard (1996).
mask for his role until the final week of rehearsals.14 Superstition and fear also cloud
the perception of masking. Two actors had to withdraw from Hall’s Oresteia due to
mental breakdown and some thought the masks, at least partly, to blame. Hall himself
is of the opinion that masks, when first introduced to the actor, induce “primitive”
behaviour and he speaks of masked actors having to go through a sort of “growing up”
process in which they gradually “learn to speak” and to “take on social responsibilities”
and that this might last for “two to three weeks.” 15 Such a process lengthens the period
required for rehearsal and although Hall was able to negotiate this, other directors may
not have the luxury of the National Theatre’s funding.16
Additional resources are required when masks are being designed and made for a
production. Questions concerning the suitability of the masks and the point at which
they can or should be introduced into the rehearsal schedule adds further complications.
In Hall’s Oedipus Plays the masks were introduced at a late stage as the designer
(Dionysis Fotopoulos) felt it important to gauge the individual qualities brought by
each performer to their role before designing the masks. 17 The logistics of achieving
satisfactory masks are complex. In the preparation for his Bacchai Hall’s brief to his
designer for neutral masks resulted in an unsatisfactory set and new designs were
needed.18
With so many actual or perceived disadvantages in masking, it is perhaps necessary to
consider why the mask is and was employed in performances of tragedy. In this
chapter I open up this question by reflecting on the special contribution that masks
make: what they are and what functions they perform.
In ancient Greece the word for theatrical mask was prosopon, the same as the word for
“face,” “one’s look” or “countenance.” 19 Their term lacked the connotations of the
14 Reported in Reynolds (1996) (pages unnumbered). 15 Hall (2000), 35-6. 16 Whilst most National Theatre productions have five or six weeks of rehearsals Hall was given over
four months for his Oresteia, ten weeks for the Oedipus Plays and nine for the Bacchai. See Higgins
(1981) Reynolds (1996); Croall (2002), 7. 17 Reynolds (1996). 18 Croall (2002), 13. 19 Meanings taken from Liddell & Scott (1998).
English word “mask” which, in its more general use, is synonymous with “cover” and
“conceal.” The derivation of our term is not certain. The source is probably the Arabic
maskhara “which meant ‘to falsify’ or ‘transform’ into animal, monster, or freak” but
this in turn may have originated in the Egyptian word msr referring to “leather” or a
“second skin.” 20
This difference between modern and ancient concepts of the mask may indicate a
profound difference in perception of their nature, function and use. With this in mind
and following the principle that masks are to some extent defined by their function, I
now consider their various properties.
Covering, disturbing and conceal ing
Peter Hall, whilst masking his actors in the material artefacts made by his props
department can also speak of the verse of a play as being a mask. Hall’s fondness for
this analogy leads him to also refer to the Greek stage as a mask since “ the bloodiest
actions are kept off the stage.” Hall speaks of these various “masks” as containers and
says that in Greek tragedy the “screaming, naked, human face would repel. The face of
the mask - with the scream behind it - does not.” By this means audiences are enabled
to extend their ability to experience another person’s passions beyond the point where
they would normally be repelled.21 These views are challenged by critics reviewing
Hall’s production. In comparison with Peter Stein’s unmasked Oresteia of 1980,
Michael Coveney contradicts Hall’s idea that the masks are necessary to protect the
audience from “the plays’ devastating emotional content.” 22 Michael Billington also
referring to the Stein production reports that the audience when “confronted by
recognizable human beings, had rather less difficulty …in keeping their eyes open”
than in Hall’s production.23
In Hall’s formulation the mask constitutes a barrier that prevents direct perception of
events. This distancing effect is important in our use of the term “mask” as a protective
covering. Hall’s concern with the protective as well as the dangerous elements of
20 Nunley & McCarty (1999), 15. 21 Hall (2000), 24. 22 Coveney (1981). 23 Billington (1981).
masking is apparent in his treatment of Aristophanic comedy. He says that the mask in
comedy “releases an anarchic energy- alarming, bawdy and frequently childlike,”24 and
that without masks “it would be too obscene- you couldn’t do it.”25 Here it is perhaps
the performers as well as the audience who are seen as benefiting from the protective
qualities of the mask. The protection of performers is also mentioned by Oliver Taplin
as a possible reason for masking in the ancient world. It might have imparted “some
kind of licence, and also perhaps…immunity” when “respectable Athenian citizens”
were exposed to the “danger of acting” and playing the roles of groups outside their
own social sphere, that is, their inferiors or the gods.26 The covering and protecting
qualities of masks can thus be seen as having an important function in the theatre of
both the ancient and modern worlds.
Masks vary according to the extent to which they cover the face and body of the
performer and this is one way of classifying them. It is often said that the smallest is
the red nose of the clown. Apart from this, there are many ways of partially covering
the face, the most common being half-masks which leave the mouth and jaw free. Full-
face masks, helmet masks and body-masks denote increasing degrees of cover.
However, the idea of physical covering is neither necessary nor sufficient to define the
properties of a performance mask, for there are coverings that are not masks. There are
also performance “masks” that are not physical coverings. Clothing or costume are
coverings that are not usually thought of as masks, although in some cases the
distinction between “body-masks” which cover the whole body and costume is not
always clear.27 “Masks” that are not physical coverings result when the human face is
held for a period of time in a particular configuration to give a mask-like effect. To
achieve this it is usually necessary for the performer to find what Eugenio Barba terms
the “extra-daily use of the body.” That is, the ordinary use of the face is replaced by
something different. 28 Some sort of transformation is involved. In Noh some roles are
played unmasked by the shite. For these the face and eyes are kept as immobile and
24 Hall (1993) (pages unnumbered). 25 Brown (1993). 26 Taplin (2001b). 27 See p 75. 28 Barba & Savarese (1991), 7.
expressionless as possible in an attempt to make the face mask-like.29 Jerzy Grotowski
trained his actors to dispense with theatrical make up and instead to use their faces as
masks creating effects that have been viewed as closer to “African and Oriental theatre
than to the Western European tradition”30
Whilst covering and protecting are important, the case of the mask achieved without a
physical covering suggests that a more fundamental principle is at work in masking.
This can be found in the idea of transformation which is an essential feature of
performance masks and also of those used in cult and ritual. Even if a mask were made
to closely resemble a real face, it would suggest the face but also something other. This
is because it is a manufactured thing and would be perceived to operate differently.
Thus even a highly mimetic mask will transform its wearer. This principle holds more
generally as the masked face simultaneously conveys the idea of face and not-face and
thus creates a perceptual disturbance in the viewer leading to a questioning of habitual
ways of looking at the world. Besides protecting and containing, they may also be the
means of unleashing anarchic forces.
The dangerous quality of otherness can be seen in ancient Greek images of the Gorgon,
a mythical being whose petrifying gaze, according to literature, brings terror and death
to those who look into her eyes. Mask-like faces of the Gorgon and of the god
Dionysus frequently appear on Greek vase paintings in frontal presentation, exhibiting
what J.-P. Vernant and F. Frontisi-Ducroux describe as a “dominating stare”, and
appear to have served an apotropaic function. Their frontality places them outside the
normal convention of Greek vase painting in which faces appear in profile. Other
exceptions include the representation of masks more generally, but also of figures in
various liminal states such as inebriation, sleep or on the point of death.31 In Greek
thought prosopon not only conflates “face” and “mask” but also, being made up of
pros-opon relates to “how we see each other when we stand ‘face to face’ and it defines
the relationship created by the resulting mutual glances.”32 Vernant sees Euripides’
Bacchae with its many references to sight and seeing as informed by Dionysiac
29 Daiji & Tatsuo (1980), 111. 30 Barba (1965), 162, 167. 31 Frontisi-Ducroux (1989), 160-4. 32 Yaari (1993), 56.
mystery cult, and argues that a one to one exchange of glances with the god was an
essential part of Dionysiac ritual. In religious masks such as those depicted on the
vases discussed here, he argues that the mask of Dionysus is seen as intensifying the
power of the gaze to the extent of possessing the viewer. 33
The otherness of mask can lead to a questioning of the status quo and by demonstrating
the possibility of transformation can be a force for change. One way this might be
utilised is in the cause of a radical political theatre. For this reason masks appear
alongside other “alienation” devices in the theatre of Brecht with the idea that they
would encourage audiences to question existing (oppressive) social institutions and
ultimately engage in active resistance to overthrow them. Susan Harris Smith argues
that “the insistent artificiality of the mask constantly reminds the audience of the
artifice of the theatre” denying them “any illusion of reality” or the possibility of
identifying with the character. “The object is to deny the spectator a sympathetic or
emotional response” but rather to impel one that is “analytical and rational”.34 Smith is
speaking of a perceived advantage of masks to the modern “didactic presentational”
dramatist. Claude Calame, sees in the fifth century tragic mask something that might be
regarded as analogous to this sort of alienation device. He envisages a mask that whilst
covering the performer’s face, left the audience aware of his actual identity as well as
his fictive role in the drama. The latter, Calame argues, lent authority to the statements
or actions depicted in the play, whilst these could be seen to have a current political
relevance due to the recognisable presence of the real life citizen performer.35 There is
no ancient evidence to support this nor the claim by Bertolt Brecht that the ancient
masks produced an “alienation effect”, an idea dismissed as anachronistic by Stephen
Halliwell.36 On the contrary, Plato referring to the experience of the audience of
tragedy, speaks of the way “we enjoy it, give ourselves up to following it, sympathise
with the hero, take his suffering seriously.”37 This suggests a total absorption in the
action and is one of many ancient references attesting to the power of masked Greek
tragedy in evoking an emotional response from its original audiences. Again with a
33 Vernant (1988), 384, 392-6, Vernant & Frontisi-Ducroux (1988), 203. 34 Smith (1984), 2, 183. 35 Calame (1995), 109. 36 Halliwell (1993), 206-7. 37 Republic 605 D-E in Cooper & Hutchinson (1997).
political dimension in mind, Karolos Koun in his masked productions of Greek tragedy
employed half-masks intending that audiences should be aware of the identity of the
performer. David Wiles, taking issue with Koun, believes that half-masks are
concealing rather than revealing devices, while the original full-faced tragic masks
revealed a divine agency behind the action.38
It seems to me, however, that all masks have both revealing and concealing properties.
In my own experience of directing performance workshops and small scale theatre
productions, I have found that masks that cover a substantial proportion of the face will
conceal the identity of most performers when they are in an actual show (as against a
rehearsal or workshop). Half-masks may also completely transform the appearance of
the actor making them unrecognisable. In a rehearsal or workshop, observers often
know personally those performing and are focussing on matters such as the technique
of a performer or whether something “works” theatrically, rather than being caught up
in the narrative or action. Recognising the identity of an individual under the non-
chorus mask is not usually a problem in this context. In masked performances,
however, I have found that audiences often fail to notice doubling. This has been true
even when there is a marked contrast in the physicality of two performers playing one
character. For example, in one of my shows39 two performers played “Snow White”
(having selected themselves for the part). One was a stocky Chinese male whose
movement and dance evoked the grace of Peking Opera whilst the other was a tall, slim
young Scots woman and she spoke text whilst his performance was mime and
movement alone. Identical tutu, wig, female mask, (and dramatic context) were
sufficient to evoke the character and this, it seems, is what the audience saw (with the
exception of the performers’ relatives). Another doubling, in the same show (the part
of the Evil Queen) was only detected by some of the audience who observed the
appearance and subsequent disappearance of an ankle tattoo. In the context of this sort
of show, the audience are perhaps focussing on the narrative and unfolding action. It is
a different situation when the actors are “stars” and the audience want to recognise
particular individuals, who themselves wish to be recognised. Some performers are
recognisable in whatever guise they assume due to some distinctive personal
38 Wiles (2000), 150-1. 39 “Snow White and the Seven Little Creeps” performed on 3rd May 1997 at The Holborn Centre for
characteristic such as height, build, voice, stance or way of moving. In Peter Hall’s
productions, I find Greg Hicks instantly recognisable. His voice, movement and
energy are highly individual, even though his height and build are unremarkable. This
was certainly true in Hall’s Bacchai and as he was one of only three actors playing all
the non-chorus roles it should perhaps have been possible to recognise the two
remaining actors in their mask roles even without a programme, especially as one was
older and more established than the other.40 However, I found that the identity of these
two other actors did not impinge on my consciousness.
It is not certain whether or not the ancient audiences would have recognised the masked
actors of their own day. Whilst it has been suggested that the actors voices would
always have been identifiable and many commentators seem confident that doubling
would have been noticed and appreciated for its ironic or appropriate usage41 I am not
convinced. I do, though, find it conceivable that the leading actor may have made
himself recognisable in performance and information on the roles he was to play may
have been given at the proagon, before the drama contest, when playwrights and
unmasked actors appeared in public and spoke about the plays they were to present.
The institution of a prize for the best of the competition’s three principle actors
suggests that the audience (or at least the judges) were able to identify the actors
concerned, although some distinguishing feature, for example in an item of costume is
a possibility.42 By the fourth century BC there was a well established “star” system
amongst actors and their power was reflected in Aristotle’s complaint that the poet’s
(i.e. playwright’s) theatre of the fifth century had been replaced by an actors' theatre.43
In considering the concealing properties of mask I have been concentrating so far on its
effectiveness in hiding the real life identity of performers and this is because our
recognition of each other’s faces plays such an important role in our idea of the whole
person. However, we also glean much information on another’s emotion, mood and
Performing Arts, London. 40 David Ryall and William Houston. 41 For instance Pavlovskis (1977), Johnston (1993), Ringer (1998). 42 David Wiles argues that different coloured sleeves may have identified the leading actor in New
Comedy performances: Wiles (1991), 203;. 43 Aristotle Rhetoric III.
reactions from the face and these cues are concealed by the full-face mask and distorted
by half-masks. The masked actor has to find a different way of communicating by
using his/her whole body and by employing the mask as an expressive instrument.
In everyday interaction we also pick up, often subliminally, information from the “body
language” of other people and it is not uncommon for this to be at variance with what is
being communicated by the face and the words spoken. Removing the face from view
brings the rest of the body more into focus revealing physical language, habitual
gestures and aspects of personality that usually go unnoticed. This revealing quality of
masks is often utilised in actor training to instil awareness of idiosyncratic ways of
using the body which if uncorrected would tend to colour any part played. For
example, an unconscious tension in the shoulders will impart a sense of weakness
which might be appropriate for a subservient character but which will undermine an
attempt to portray a dominating figure. Jacques Lecoq devised a training programme to
teach actors a body use that would enable them to minimise such patterns. It utilises
the idea of the “neutral” body to be discovered with the help of a “neutral mask,” the
latter being a learning aid and not suitable for theatrical performance.
The revealing of usually hidden or unconscious patterns can be disturbing for the
individual concerned and our tendency to correlate personality, emotion and mood with
a person’s physicality may take this work into the field of psychological interpretation.
Mask is not essential to an exploration of individual psychology, but when allowed to
stray into this area it can produce a powerful effect. By presenting in concrete form a
particular aspect of the psyche it may be instructive. However, it may give undue
weight to something transitory or incomplete, one possibility alone amongst many, and
so focus attention on a limited version of the self. The mask, however, has more to
reveal than individual idiosyncrasies and in its neutral form is often used in exercises
exploring body correlates for various kinds of natural phenomena such as elemental
forces; training in the Lecoq school involves time spent learning a physical vocabulary
based on the material world (both natural and man made).44 In this the neutral mask is a
facilitator rather than an essential ingredient and this is true of much of the work
utilising the revealing qualities of mask. However it instantly clarifies the issues
involved and enables students to make more rapid progress.
As noted, David Wiles suggests that the ancient tragic masks reveal multiple deities. In
the modern world we might find alternative terms to describe ways of being and
perceiving other than those of our everyday interactions. It is not always easy to
describe aspects of ourselves that transcend an expression of individual psychology.
Jung refers to a “collective unconscious,” a term suggesting a perception of identity
reaching beyond the limits of ego consciousness to a sense of connectedness with a
greater whole. This is an area that might fruitfully be approached through the masked
chorus of Greek tragedy. In chapter 7 I describe some of the practical research I have
undertaken with this idea in mind.
Individual v universal
The mask takes the performer’s face out of view and replaces it with something other.
This can be the face of another individual or type. Masks that are distinctly
characterized encourage performers to engage in character exploration. Several books
have been published on approaches to training that progress from practice with simple
character masks that lack psychological depth to those that are more complex.45 With
the latter, students are encouraged to explore the different facets of a more fully
rounded fictive character. Some of the exercises suggest an attempt to integrate broadly
Stanislavskian principles and physical theatre techniques. That this is a possibility
undermines the idea that masks are, by nature, about surface reality, unable to represent
figures with an inner life. This is a pervasive idea in recent classical scholarship so, for
example, Oliver Taplin feels that, in Peter Hall’s Tantalus the “masks did not allow the
actors to psychologise their role.”46 John Jones’ comment on mask is often quoted in
this context: “It has - more important, it is known to have - no inside. Its being is
exhausted in its features.”47 This formulation conveys the idea of mask as an object that
is all exteriority. However it fails to take proper account of the life that the audience
projects onto it, and is seen when the mask, worn by a performer, appears as an integral
part of a whole fictive being. Kanze Hisao describes how the Noh mask “must be
capable of expressing the inner world of the human mind convincingly. For this
44 Lecoq (2000), 42-4. 45 For example Eldredge (1996) and Appel (1982). 46 Taplin (2001b). 47 Jones (1962), 45.
purpose, it must have both a sense of reality as a human face and a certain amount of
abstraction.”48 It is true that not all masks will convey a character with psychological
depths; the way masks are approached and used will also affect their capabilities in this
respect.
Part of Jones’ argument concerns the nature of Greek tragedy, particularly the plays of
Aeschylus, and he constructs a case for seeing it as a genre not dealing with the
psychology of individual characters.49 His comment on mask reflects his view that the
figures presented in the ancient performances were not perceived as individuals but
rather as the socially defined types distinguished only by age, gender and class
signified by the (otherwise uncharacterised) features of the masks. It is true that masks
that are not highly characterised can enable, even encourage, actors to approach their
tragic roles in a way that is different from the usual practice of modern (Stanislavskian
trained) actors. Without a mask the individuality of the performer’s face is visible and
they may find it more difficult to break their normal practice of approaching their parts
with a naturalistic interpretation in mind. However, accounts of Hall’s rehearsals for
Greek tragedy show that, despite the masks, actors felt the need to engage in some sort
of character exploration with a consideration of the life history, motivation and even
psychology of their roles. 50
In Greek tragedy the presence of a chorus is an especially strong expression of the
collective that is reinforced by the identical costumes and masks. It is not that the
performers appear to be all the same for they still retain their unique physicalities.
Rather mask and costume unify them as a collective in a way difficult to achieve with
an unmasked chorus who will tend to remain a group of individuals. Faces painted to
resemble masks can also impart a sense of unity to a chorus. In my own practical work
I have found that when one actor masked as an old man appears on stage the audience
reads him as a “character” wondering what part he is to take in the action. Introducing
at least another identically masked and costumed actor makes these old men into a
chorus whose presence as witnesses of the action seem natural. This observation
became most apparent when an old man was being played by a very short female
48 Kanze (1984), 68. 49 I discuss this in chapter 6. 50 Reynolds (1996); Croall (2002), 21.
actress. There was no problem in seeing her as an old man but on her own she
appeared as a comic intrusion. However, alongside another identically masked but
taller male actor her lack of height ceased to be noticeable.51
There are unmasked warm-up exercises that help performers to move and respond as a
corporate entity; the “flight of birds” exercise used in training and devising the choral
choreography in Hall’s Oedipus Plays, is one example. 52 Moreover, the continual
working together when rehearsing the delivery of the choral odes also helps to create a
sense of unity. However, introducing mask into chorus work takes it into a new
dimension, for apart from transforming their appearance, performers are affected in
other ways. In some respects there is a compounding of the problems they experience
working as a collective. For example, co-ordination, avoiding collisions, remaining in
contact, picking up cues etc. are difficult enough when there is unrestricted use of the
senses. Enclosed by the mask, peripheral vision is removed and what can be seen and
heard depends upon the mask design and may be very restricted. Performers new to
mask often speak of having problems orientating themselves in the performance space,
and they may also experience a sense of isolation and vulnerability. However, once
performers realise that they are, each of them, in a common situation and dependent on
each other, they start to feel secure within the protective embrace of the collective.53
The Greek chorus represents a more generalised vision of humanity than appears in the
depiction of individual characters. Aristotle says that the chorus should be seen as an
actor, that is, as a presence playing a role analogous to those of the protagonists in the
main action of the play.54 With masks there is also the possibility of exploring the idea
of a more fluid identity for the chorus. For example, if the chorus are comprised of old
men, the masks inform the audience of this without the performers having to establish
that identity through their physical actions. This leaves them free to convey other
images though their movement without losing their basic identity. In the 1957 film of
Tyrone Guthrie’s Oedipus Rex the chorus demonstrate something of this effect. Their
movements and configurations conjure up many images including clinging children and
51 A phenomenon noted on 27th April 2003 in the Boilerhouse studio, RHUL. 52 See account in Reynolds (1996). 53 Vervain & Wiles (2001), 270. 54 Poetics XVIII.
composite organisms from the natural world, achieved without losing the sense that
they are old men; albeit the strangeness of the masks designed for Guthrie, by Tanya
Moisewitsch, suggests a not entirely human world.55
Guthrie asserts that in Greek tragedy “no detail of personality must intervene between
the audience and the tragic symbol.” Oedipus must be seen as “a king, a man, all men
and yet no single man.” Further, “the only way we could get the feeling of
universality, as opposed to particularity… was by hiding the faces of the
actors…behind the impersonal, but not inexpressive, features of a mask.” 56 Although
he sought generalisation, in designing the masks and costumes Tanya Moisewitsch
appeared to have had quite specific characteristics in mind. One actor reports of her
designs for Guthrie's House of Atreus: “If you look at the back of her sketches, she has
written down everything you ever want to know about your role… the vocal quality,
even the age and family background, very thorough, particular things.” 57 This suggests
a fundamental difference in approach between director and designer.
In Greek tragedy Guthrie sees the role of the actor as preserving “the anonymity, the
aloofness, of a priest celebrating mass. So far as possible they must be mere channels
through whom the effluence of something greater than ordinary human stature might
pass.” 58 This use of religious imagery is reflected in his view of the plays as a “ritual of
cosmic dimensions” with analogies to both Christian and pagan sacrificial rites. 59
Guthrie’s interpretation of the plays thus takes him into the realm of the metaphysical
and this is in keeping with his treatment of the chorus and the sense of other
worldliness evoked by the masks and costumes together with a non-naturalistic
performance style.
Masks, metaphysics and metatheatre
Today the idea of the metaphysical often has religious connotations. As well as
Guthrie, Karolos Koun has interpreted masked Greek tragedy in this light with
55 Guthrie (1985). 56 Davies, Guthrie, Neel & Moiseiwitsch (1955), 123. 57 Rossi (1977), 243. 58 Davies, Guthrie et al. (1955), 124. 59 Moiseiwitsch, Edelstein & Barlow (1994), 10.
implications for performance style. In Guthrie’s Oedipus Rex there is a sense of
detachment rather than involvement that informs vocal delivery and deportment. The
exception is the prophet Tiresias whose bird-like movements in keeping with his mask,
extravagant gestures and impassioned delivery, make him very present as a committed
participant. Koun roots himself in his native Greek Orthodox Christianity allied to a
folk tradition of song and dance and in his Oresteia speeches were often declaimed
and movement was slow and formal. It is perhaps the case that solemn Christian
ceremonial has informed the ideas of these directors in their exploration of the
metaphysical. However, the ancient worship of Dionysus often took the form of highly
mobile ecstatic dancing. The practical difficulties for performers engaging in dynamic
movement and dance whilst masked and delivering text may have also influenced these
directors. These are not insuperable problems, however, and in some of my own
experiments I have explored lively physicality to expel the idea that masked Greek
tragedy is essentially ponderous.60
The metaphysical can refer to bodies of ideas that are not explicitly religious. There is
a desire, at least since Kant and the Enlightenment, to reduce all human experience to
terms that can be categorised and explained. The mask subverts such attempts in
simultaneously evoking both the familiar and the unknown. It upsets our striving to
define who and what we are, to establish what it is to be normal in a well ordered
universe. Metaphysical speculation on matters such as the origins of being, life and
death, the fundamental nature of the universe, the relationship of humans and their
deities were very much in evidence in ancient Greece, appearing in works of
philosophy, literature and the masked dramas of the three great tragedians. However, it
was also a society in which religion was an integral part of everyday life and not
regarded as something separable from it. Piety was not expressed as adherence to a
particular credo but was rather demonstrated in the proper performance of sacred acts
appropriate to the worship of a particular deity. Against this background thinkers were
free to question and theorise on all aspects of life. Whilst there is, in their explorations,
often an acknowledgement of the mysterious and unfathomable nature of the divine and
a recognition of a distinction between appearance and reality this is not necessarily
perceived in terms of a mask or veil or the overlaying and thus obscuring of one reality
60 See, for example, video clip 9.
by another.61 In Plato’s analogy of the cave, all the dwellers within see of the real
world outside are the shadows it casts on the walls. This is arguably because they are
sitting in the wrong place (inside rather than outside) and perhaps they are looking in
the wrong direction (at the cave walls rather than towards the entrance). Thus it is
often the limited perception of the viewer that prevents the truth being seen. In the
Bacchae Dionysus having possessed Pentheus remarks that the king now sees things as
he should. This is in response to Pentheus’ speech “I seem to see two suns; a double
Thebes.” 62
In her metatheatrical interpretation of the play, Helene Foley argues that the mask of
the god Dionysus must be interpreted as a “mask” in the modern sense as it represents
more than is “characteristic of the normal tragic masking convention” and is significant
because of “the further realities lying behind it.” 63 Dionysus, as god of the theatre in
whose honour the plays are performed, appears as a protagonist and proceeds to direct
his own play within a play. For this purpose he, the god of disguise and
transformation, appears at the start of the play disguised as a mortal. This, Foley says,
is one of the ways in which Dionysus’ mask becomes “ambiguous” in that it must
appear to be mortal to the other characters in the play but must also signify the
(disguised) deity to the audience. Dionysus is the god of transgression and the blurring
of boundaries, who can “take any shape…but is not fully visible to the human eye.” 64
Foley argues that Euripides’ purpose is to demonstrate that the only way the audience
can be said to “see” him at all is symbolically, in the form of a theatrical mask.
Euripides’ aim here is not to engage in “a self-conscious exploration of his own
drama”; rather he “interprets human and divine experience for the city,” 65 a matter of
some significance. Accepting the god with the right actions and attitude results in
blessings: “wine, festival and release from care.” Adopting the external trappings and
going through the motions as a matter of expediency is not sufficient as Cadmus learns
to his cost. Outright rejection of the god leads to punishment “with madness and a
61 Unless in the context of someone adopting a disguise in order to engage in a deception. 62 Bacchae 918f in Vellacott (1973), 224. 63 Foley (1980), 129. 64 Foley (1980), 124. 65 Foley (1980), 108.
deadly metamorphosis.” 66 The fate of Thebes with its women sent raving into the
mountain after the rejection of the god by the royal family shows that in these matters
the well being of the whole community is at stake. Thus mask employed
metatheatrically is seen, by Foley, as having had, in its original context, an important
educative function in ensuring the god was worshipped appropriately.
In Peter Hall’s Bacchai it is clear that the idea of metatheatricality was very much in
the mind of the translator, Colin Teevan, not only from the script he produced67 but also
from the account of the rehearsal process, when, in response to Hall asking “Why are
we doing this play?” Teevan “realised that the play was about the art of the theatre.” 68
In performance the idea of masks within masks and play with masking and unmasking
were constant themes in this interpretation. For example, in the opening scene the
unmasked Dionysus put on a bull’s head, only to remove an outer layer soon afterwards
to reveal an inner, Priest of Dionysus mask that had been concealed beneath the first.
This sense of covering and subsequent uncovering to reveal hidden layers was reflected
in the use of lengths of scarlet cloth that enveloped each individual torso of the chorus.
The choreography involving these seemed to be playing with the idea of body-mask
(that is, a cover that masks the whole, or a substantial part, of the body) and the
distinction between this and costume. At times they appeared as costumes, however,
the continuous wrapping and unwrapping of the chorus bodies imparted a mask-like
quality to the material. When wrapped the chorus appeared as demure Asian women,69
whilst the unwrapping transformed them into lascivious bacchae. As the former, they
often held the cloth to conceal most of their mask faces, suggesting the image of
Muslim women. There was also, though, a sense in which these were body-masks
concealing face masks. Moreover, when the chorus were wrapped in the cloth their
forms often suggested sculptural shapes (most notably in a group “body-mask
sculpture” just before Agave’s entrance). In general, the mobile and transforming
configurations produced by performers’ interaction with this wrapping were suggestive
of the sort of body-mask work that has featured in some performance art of recent
66 Foley (1980), 120. 67 For example, the opening lines: “This empty space and you and me” that clearly refers to Peter
Brook’s book. 68 Croall (2002), 3. 69 They were described as “saris” in the National Theatre account of the production: Croall (2002), 22.
years. This material was treated at times like a prop or piece of set, creating, for
example, just before the final messenger speech, a red heap in the centre of the stage
covered a performer who made a subsequent dramatic emergence. The use of the red
cloths thus played with the idea of masking, posing the question: “When is a mask not
a mask?” and teasingly proposing simplistic answers to mislead the unwary.
In some hands, metatheatre might be employed to challenge assumptions and explore
deeper issues, for example, the political or metaphysical. There was nothing of this in
Hall’s production, where instead his secular outlook dominated. Moreover, although
Hall claims, in the programme notes, to be addressing wider political issues, the
clearest message to emerge from the production seemed to be theatrical self-reference
with no ensuing consequences and an obsession with sexual imagery; a facile
employment of mask.
Mask, l i fe and st i l lness
The power and paradoxical nature of the mask and its connection with the ultimate
questions of existence are expressed by J.-L. Barrault, who decided to mask his
production of L’Orestie after witnessing voodoo rites in Brazil:
A mask confers upon a given expression the maximum of intensity together
with an impression of absence…the maximum of life and the maximum of
death… [it] exteriorizes a deep aspect of life, and in so doing, it helps to
rediscover instinct.70
Barrault provides a further clue to the factor that distinguishes mask from a mere
covering. They do, or should, transcend the mundane. The intensity of which Barrault
speaks suggests something of stillness, features held in a fixed configuration. This is
the quality often seen on the faces of death masks but also on masks cast from the faces
of living people; a sense of calm and almost meditative transcendence. The very
process of having a life-mask made requires the model to first attain a state of
relaxation, trust and philosophical acceptance of the situation. The artist and mask-
70 Barrault (1961), 76-7.
maker Michael Chase created an installation composed of casts taken from hundreds of
life-masks and all had this quality. 71
In ancient Greek thought stillness was a valued aspect of the kosmos (order) that they
hoped to find in the world. As J.J. Pollitt says “the discovery of a permanent pattern or
an unchanging substratum by which apparently chaotic experience could be measured
and explained was a source of satisfaction, even joy, which had something of a
religious nature.” Another aspect of this urge to find order was the tendency to bring
“unity to the multiplicity of things by finding common bases for all of them” and to
“represent the specific in the light of the generic.” Up until the Hellenistic period the
faces of high status figures, depicted in Greek art, exhibit these precepts in their lack of
either strong emotional expression or sense of individuality. In the Greek archaic style,
that immediately preceded the classical period, there are images that “transcend the
imperfect world of everyday experience.” This can be seen in the “rigid frontality” of
the stance and the “impassive face” typical of traditional sculpted figures. Artists
tended to eschew representation of emotions as these “are most often expressions of
reaction to the mutability and uncertainty of human circumstances.” The “archaic
smile” that appears on many figures “is not so much an emotion as a symbol for they
are beyond emotion in the ordinary sense of the word.” 72 The representation of
movement was also inconsistent with the archaic style, suggesting as it does “a
transition from one condition to another, hence mutability.” One of the ways in which
the classical style broke with earlier tradition was to represent figures in motion which
as Pollitt suggests may have resulted from “the new significance attached to human
action… Motion was the concomitant, the physical expression, of action.” 73 Whilst
the facial expressions of figures represented in classical art were not mobile in the same
way as were their bodies, they were not fixed in any one expression. C.H. Hallett
describes “an all-purpose generalized face type…which is empty of any precise
expression.” This “neutral classical expression” does not render the face “less life-
like”; rather “it appears to take on subtly different emotional tones in different
situations…it renders the expression … multivalent.” He sees this essential quality of
the classical style in the faces of the sculptures from the Temple of Zeus at Olympia as
71 Exhibited in Stroud in July 2000. 72 Pollitt (1972), 4-9.
well as in later fifth century examples such as those of the Parthenon. In his view the
classical neutral face was introduced as a way of resolving a dilemma that had arisen
with the breaking away from traditional practice: “by strengthening the illusion of life
in their figures… [artists] inevitably brought them closer to the living world and
sacrificed some of the timeless monumentality of the archaic style, some of its
mysterious and supernatural power.” The faces of classical sculpture whilst appearing
“life-like” also “possess a symbolic and universal quality”; their lack of expression
seems “to distance them somewhat from the action, making them…‘other-worldly’ and
remote.” 74 This is reminiscent of Barrault’s description of masks as having the
maximum of life and the maximum of death and of the views of Gordon Craig when he
seeks for a drama that is “beyond reality” and finds the human face inadequate to
express it. For Craig “masks carry conviction when he who creates them, is an artist”
whilst the actor’s own face does not, being “over-full of fleeting expression.” 75 W.B.
Yeats employed masks in his own plays for similar reasons: “A mask will enable me to
substitute for the face of some commonplace player…the fine invention of a
sculptor.”76
Mask and visual aesthetics
Masks are often perceived as “beautiful”, as aesthetic objects in their own right. Those
that Jocelyn Herbert designed for Peter Hall’s Oresteia were so described by Tony
Harrison and several newspaper commentators.77 For the audiences of ancient Greece
accustomed to the mask, a lack of marked facial expression and the very different way
that mask faces appear to change expression may have been a source of aesthetic
pleasure. Although there are no surviving references in the ancient literature to
“beautiful masks” the creation of beautiful images of the human form was central to
Greek art and it seems likely that this aspiration was also manifest in theatrical masks.
It is relevant therefore to give some consideration to the ancient Greek ideas relating to
the word kalos (beautiful), a term appearing frequently in ancient Greek literary
sources. One example is in Xenophon when he describes a conversation in which
73 Pollitt (1972), 56. 74 Hallett (1986), 74-80. 75 Craig (1998), 268. 76 W.B. Yeats “Essays and Introductions” p 226, quoted in Stanford ( 1983), 82. 77 Harrison (1991), 443; cf., for example, Esslin (1982).
Socrates tells the artist Parrhasios: “when you painters render beautiful forms, since it
is not easy to find one person who is completely perfect, you combine the most
beautiful details of several, and thus make all your figures look beautiful.” In this
passage, beauty is seen to result from the best realization of a particular type; one
where all distracting idiosyncrasies have been removed. As with painters, mask-makers
may realize the ideal form of any particular type by a process of clarifying and
simplifying to pull out the essential elements from the infinite variety presented by real
life faces. This is an ideal but one that is very much rooted in the here and now of real
world experience.
Another way in which the Greeks conceived of “beauty” was as an aristocratic ideal of
figures “raised beyond the commonplace mortality to a higher plane.” This kind of
thinking lies behind the aim of Greek poets: “to celebrate the Immortals, to celebrate
the deeds of noble men.” It is significant that the Greek term kaloskagathos (“fair and
noble”) was used to denote an aristocrat.78 “Beauty” in this perspective was physically
manifest in youthful male bodies exhibiting an “athletic ideal” and also in the idea of
arete which in Pindar’s victory odes appears as “the ‘innate excellence’ of noble
natures which gives them proficiency and pride in their human endeavours but humility
before the gods.” 79 The faces of high status figure on classical sculpture arguably
exhibit “beauty” in both these senses. A.W. Lawrence, writing about the Parthenon
frieze sculpture, notes that “Exactly the same type of face is used throughout the frieze
for every young man, likewise for every adult man and for every girl.” 80
In Greek art realization of the ideal is further highlighted by the different and
contrasting treatment of lower status figures. These are “either non-human figures who
fall into certain ‘wild’ categories (gorgons, centaurs, satyrs, giants) or…humans who
are in some definable way (especially in age, ugliness or race) divergent from what
count within the art-forms as norms or ideals of physical type.” 81
Another way in which the ancient Greeks perceived “beauty” was to equate it to
“truth.” “Truth” and therefore “beauty” were also an important part of the Greek
78 Stewart (1990), 75-8. 79 Pollitt (1972), 48. 80 Lawrence (1972), 144 n1.
concept of mimesis, a term used in a variety of contexts including the visual and
dramatic arts. In adjectival form it is often translated as “life-like” and sometimes
interpreted as “naturalistic.” This is highly problematical as our own conventions of
what constitutes a “life-like” depiction are quite different from those of ancient Greece.
The important point is perhaps, that artists were expected to represent a reality that their
audiences could recognize. The theatrical mask may have been valued in the ancient
world for its ability to instantly transform the appearance of the performer to that of a
recognizable tragic figure in a way that was, in some sense, perceived as “life-like” or
“truthful” (whilst also being recognized as artificial).
Halliwell usefully draws attention to the “intrinsically double-faced and ambiguous”
nature of mimesis and he distinguishes, in Greek usage, a “world-reflecting” and a
“world-creating” aspect. The first emphasises “the ‘outward-looking’ relationship
between the artistic work or performance and reality…whereas the other gives priority
to the internal organization and fictive properties of the mimetic object or act itself.”
One example of mimesis appears in a surviving fragment of a satyr play by Aeschylus.
The chorus are given artefacts, perhaps masks, that represent themselves and they
speak of “a particular ‘image’…which is so like their [own] form that it ‘lacks only a
voice’.” This extraordinary resemblance they compare to the mimetic work of the
mythological sculptor Daedalus whose statues were able to move. The satyr chorus-
leader says that if his mother were to see this image she would “think it was actually
me – that’s how like me it is.” He goes on to say that the sight would send her running
away shrieking. This example, in one sense, demonstrates a mimesis that is world-
reflecting (in the fictive world of the satyrs). It is also world-creating in that it occurs
in a fictive world. (“Do satyrs have mothers?” Halliwell wonders). He goes on to argue
that it illustrates “more than the achievement of a specious surface” and instead creates
“something that, through its sense of life, can affect the viewer or hearer emotionally
too” and he relates this to the “older Greek habits of thinking about the capacity of
mimetic performances to make a psychologically powerful impact on their audiences”
and the examples of this appearing in the Homeric epics. The audience are “an
absorbed or engrossed witness” who are metaphorically, even literally bewitched or
enchanted and this “is one reason why concepts of mimesis…inescapably raise
81 Halliwell (1993), 204.
questions about the relationship between the world inside and the world outside the
mimetic work.” 82 The effect of mimetic art on audiences for good or ill were of
concern to both Plato and Aristotle.
Mask as faci l i tator of the drama
Masks arguably facilitated the dramatic performances of fifth century Athens in various
ways. Firstly, they enabled the three actors, who took all the main roles to double
parts. Secondly, they allowed the all male cast to plausibly perform female roles and
those of figures different from themselves either in status, physicality, or in the
realization of an ideal type. Halliwell provides a reminder of the dangers of reading
back into the ancient period our own concepts of the functions of the mask: “There
have been and still are, after all, theatres in which multiple role-playing by unmasked
actors, though not necessitated by practical considerations, is regarded as entirely
admissible.” He also points out that it is difficult to distinguish between cause and
effect and that the evidence equally well suggests the hypothesis that doubling
“resulted from, and was encouraged by, masking.” He dismisses the argument that
masking is explained by the playing of female roles by men: “to suppose…that while
Athenians found this convention acceptable, they yet needed to mitigate its
‘artificiality’ with masks, is to cling to the remnant of one canon of theatrical realism in
a context where, ex hypothesi, it is out of place.” 83 However, despite his concern, it
seems to me that the transformative power of mask does facilitate a degree of visual
mimesis that need not be confused with “theatrical realism” and that accords well with
ancient Greek visual aesthetics.
The vast scale of many ancient theatres suggests other practical advantages of
introducing masks, in that they arguably enhanced or provided clarity to the visual and
perhaps also the audial experience of performances for audience members seated at
some distance away. The power of mask to compel the attention of its audience and to
indicate where they should be looking at any given moment is also relevant in a theatre
without stage lighting. Michael Chase likens the mask to “a miner’s lamp on a dark
82 Halliwell (2002), 19-23. 83 Halliwell (1993), 199-200.
night: wherever the lamp looks, the focus is.” 84 This effect is multiplied in the power of
the collective gaze of the chorus.
In the context of modern performances of Greek tragedy the mask may also be seen as
a facilitator. According to Tony Harrison, “we cannot understand the action or verbal
style of Greek theatre without continually reminding ourselves that it was a theatre of
masks.” He describes the texts that were spoken by masks as having a “built-in
performability [that] had a rhythmical energy that was designed to fill such spaces, to
communicate in such conditions of full daylight.” He goes on to argue that the Greek
mask “reinforces the primacy of language… by continuing to speak in situations that
‘normally’ or in realistic or naturalistic drama would render a person speechless.” 85
Mask then facilitates an acting style that is different from the modern theatre of
naturalism and is more in keeping with the poetic structure of the ancient plays and
their relentless exploration of disturbing themes. The mask also removes the tendency
of naturalistic acting to focus on unnecessary detail, such as the appropriateness of the
actor’s age, thus freeing the audience to concentrate on more important matters. 86
Wiles making a somewhat different point says that the mask by “blotting out the
face…re-integrates the body and makes it an instrument capable of embodying rather
than reciting a text.” 87 The mask in replacing the idiosyncratic qualities of the
individual actor presents the essential and universal aspects of human figures. It is this
property perhaps, together with the relative stillness of the mask, that causes it to
impart a sense of unity to the disparate set of performances styles that are called for by
the ancient plays.
For Aristotle the efficacy of drama lies in its power to evoke an emotional response
from its audiences that results in a cathartic effect. However he makes no explicit
reference to the role that masks play in this. Here I venture to amend this omission by
referring to the thoughts of Zenchiku (son-in-law and disciple of Zeami) who according
to Mark Nearman sees the Noh mask as housing a “therapeutic potential not so much as
a charmed object but as a charming one.” He goes on to explain that:
84 Michael Chase, quoted in Vervain & Wiles (2001), 262. 85 Harrison (1991), 443-4. 86 Rush Rhem makes this point in Rehm (1992), 41. 87 Wiles (2004), 263.
the creative force that fashioned the mask comes from the same source as an
enlightened nature and therefore has the power for healing. It is this potential
that gives to the mask or any genuine creative act the possibility of exercising a
therapeutic effect on its audience. 88
Conclusion
The ancient Greek word for “mask”, prosopon, also meaning “face”, lacked the
connotations of “covering” and “concealment” that we associate with the term.
Various reasons have been put forward to justify masking modern productions of Greek
tragedy. The covering property of masks has been seen as providing protection or
containment enabling the audience to go further in experiencing extreme emotions.
The same property may suggest a particular type of performance; the mask can
continue to speak in situations that would demand speechlessness in unmasked
(naturalistic) theatre. The power of masks to compel attention is a means of directing
the audience’s focus to the centre of the action. In its “otherness” the mask has also
been employed as an alienating device with theatrical aims such as: challenging
currently accepted norms, making a metatheatrical statement, or re-engaging an
audience with the deeper (spiritual) aspects of life. By taking the individual face out of
view the mask enables a performance focusing on universal figures. This is of
particular relevance to the chorus which can become a truly collective entity when all
members are wearing identical masks and costumes in a way that an unmasked group
cannot. The mask, seen as a work of art, introduces an aesthetic reason for masking
and in its role as a powerful instrument of transformation may impart a greater sense of
beauty to the performance. Some if not all of these reasons may have been relevant in
ancient Greece. The particular conditions of the fifth century theatre have suggested
further reasons why they may have masked their drama and indeed have written their
plays specifically for mask. With the three actor rule masks would have facilitated the
doubling of parts and have enabled the all male cast to more plausibly take on female
roles. By imparting anonymity to the Athenian citizens performing in the plays, the
mask would have protected them from “the dangers of acting” when their roles were
those of figures above or below them in social station. Another set of practical
considerations relates to the ancient theatre spaces whose vast scale suggests a need for
88 Nearman (1984), 45.
some visual and acoustical enhancement of the actor’s presence. However, for many
scholars there are no arguments more compelling to explain the masking of the ancient
drama than the ritual associations of the mask. I turn to this in the next chapter where I
look further at masking and ritual and its place in the fifth century Athenian democracy
and its drama.
Chapter 2: The Ritual Mask of Greek Tragedy?
Introduction
Masks are often thought to possess a mysterious “otherness” that reinforces the idea
that they are fundamentally associated with ritual. Such a view accords well with those
who envisage Greek tragedy in its original performances as an essentially ritual drama
reflecting an origin in cultic practices. For some modern mask theatre practitioners
such as Tyrone Guthrie, Karolos Koun, Thanos Vovolis and Peter Hall (in his
production of the Oresteia ) this view has influenced their approach. The idea that
tragedy is ritual theatre has implications for performance style and mask use, as the
main thrust of the drama would not lie in the conveying of action. Action, here, would
include the representing of recognisably human figures, in that what they say and do
can be seen to reflect their thought processes, their goals, and their relationships with
one another within the fictive world of the play. Action-based theatre has a logic that is
different from ritual theatre. In the former, the audience need to know who at any
moment is speaking and how the other figures present are reacting. Appropriateness
and precision in timing, gesture, and vocal intonation together with a clear indication of
where the audience’s attention is to be focused at any moment, should all operate to
make this clear. In ritual theatre, on the other hand, these factors operate to convey a
sense of “otherness”; a world regulated by laws different from those governing
recognisably human interactions. Peter Hall in an interview with The Times, expresses
the view that the Oresteia is “ritualistic drama.” 89 Rush Rehm in a review queries this
interpretation. In agreement with Oliver Taplin, he argues that, unlike Greek tragedy,
ritual is “always the same.” Rehm misses the “variety of structures and tones” of
Aeschylus in Hall’s production and surmises that the “model seems to be one of
progressive hypnosis. Alliterative language, heavy rhythms, similarity in tone and
mood, impersonal masks, the ritual pulse- all are aimed at casting a spell over us.” 90
In this chapter I consider some of the arguments adduced to support the idea that
tragedy should be regarded as ritual theatre. Although little is actually known about the
genesis of the genre there is a widespread belief that tragedy emerged from some kind
89 Higgins (1981). 90 Rehm (1985), 244 and Taplin (1978), 161.
of Dionysian rites involving choral dance and religious masks. Even when the focus of
study is on fifth century tragedy, the ritual context in which the plays were originally
performed is generally seen as significant by classical scholars. According to one view,
Greek tragedy was a ritual theatre defined by its function as an institution in the
democratic city state; moreover, the role of the chorus was key and masks with their
ritual associations were an indispensable element. These ideas do not go uncontested.
In an alternative view, tragedy is described as having arisen from the well established
song culture of ancient Greece. Rather than developing out of cultic practice it is seen
as the creation of specific individuals, in a deliberate synthesis of a number of pre-
existing poetic genres that were performed unmasked. The mask was subsequently
introduced for other reasons, such as aesthetic considerations. The ritual status of fifth
century tragedy is also a debated area and the idea that tragedy of this period was ritual
theatre is at variance with Aristotle’s insistence that action was paramount in the genre.
As a prelude to this discussion I give a brief account of mask in ancient Greek ritual
generally before focusing on the cults of Dionysus, the god in whose honour the
original performances of tragedy were given.
Mask in cult and ritual
Stephen Halliwell observes that apart from masking in the theatre, our knowledge of
masking in Greek cult and ritual is limited. He says that it is, however, on the basis of
this material together with “quasi-anthropological” interpretations that there is
currently a “widely credited and deeply entrenched supposition…that tragic masks
were religious in origin.” 91
There is some evidence of ritual masking in various parts of Greece from pre-historic
times onwards. Lawler, in her study of dance in ancient Greece describes numerous
early examples of “animal dance” and the evidence which suggests that in many cases
the dancers were masked. A large number of these dances, she argues, must have had
their origin in religious rituals and she describes the importance of these to primitive
societies:
They may be performed to honour a totem, the supposed animal ancestor of a
91 Halliwell (1993), 196-7.
clan; to appease a theriomorphic deity, or one to whom a particular animal is
sacred; to lay the ghost of a slain animal or, on the other hand, to seek success
in the hunt; to induce fertility in a domestic animal; to gain the characteristics
of an animal (the strength and bravery of a lion, for example); to avert injury or
death…Animal masks or the skins of animals often play an important part in
such dances, and are believed to possess strong magical properties..
Although it is usual for such dances to have originally been “performed in a solemn
ritualistic manner,” in later periods changed circumstances may result in the original
meaning being forgotten so that the dances “degenerate into pure entertainment.” An
exception to this are the rituals performed in mystery cults which can maintain their
original form unchanged over long periods. 92
Reflecting on the possible function of masking in Greek rituals Nurit Yaari suggests
that:
the wearer of the mask, be he a priest, a dancer or a celebrant, surrendered his
own ‘flesh-and-blood’ identity for a new one, more fantastic and powerful than
his normal ‘human’ condition. In a ritual the mask is therefore a mediator
between man and the metaphysical/supernatural powers that determine his own
human existence.
As mediator the mask: “bridged two different realms: that of the living and the dead; of
human and animals; of mankind and the gods and other metaphysical forces; of secular,
everyday life and the realm of sacred rites, ceremonies and festivals.” She sees this
bridge enabling “the wearer to pass from one realm to the other,” so that he may
transcend death and gain superhuman strength for the duration of the ritual and
afterwards be able to return unharmed to his everyday world. 93
Other commentators note that masks in traditional societies can appear in rituals
marking transitions in life, for example, rites of passage. In ancient Greece the latter
mostly came under the domain of Artemis, goddess of the liminal zone where wild
nature meets the cultivated world. One of her roles was the preparation of young
92 Lawler (1964a), 59. 93 Yaari (1993), 52.
people for adulthood. Ancient accounts of rituals associated with the goddess, in this
context, describe the use of disguise and masquerade and there is some archaeological
evidence suggesting the use of mask. Most notable is a find of votive masks dating
from the seventh to sixth century BC, in the sanctuary of Artemis at Orthia in Sparta.
These masks are a varied collection of “normal human faces: old women, youths,
warriors and portraits… [also] abnormal or supernatural figures:…Satyrs and
Gorgons…[and] grotesque exaggerations of an undetermined nature.” 94 Although
made of terracotta and mostly too small to be worn, they may be reproductions of
larger wooden masks worn in a religious context. J.-P.Vernant and F. Frontisi-Ducroux
envisage their use by Spartan youths in order to assume “every possible form of
otherness, learning how to break rules so as the better to internalize rules that they
would thereafter have to keep.” 95 The worship of the corn goddess, Demeter, is also
known to have involved some masking. The second century AD traveller Pausanias
gives an account of a large mask of Demeter at Pheneos in Arcadia and an associated
annual festival during which “the officiating priest wore the mask…whilst lashing the
gods of the underworld with whips,” a practice relating perhaps to the story of the
abduction by Hades, the god of the underworld, of Demeter’s daughter Persephone. 96
Masks or images of faces created for their apotropaic power are found in
representations of gorgons one of whom was the Medusa whose head with its
petrifying gaze was subsequently given to Athena who bore it on her aegis. There was
in ancient Greek thinking an association between Gorgo and the madness induced by
divine possession. Vernant and Frontisi-Ducroux cite the example from Euripides’
tragedy The Madness of Heracles in which Lussa, the personification of madness, who
“claps Gorgo’s mask onto the face of whoever is possessed,” does so to Heracles as he
massacres his own children.97 Yaari with, perhaps, something of this idea in mind,
links the large gorgon-like pottery helmets dating from the late eighth to early seventh
century BC, found at Tiryns with the story of the daughters of King Proitos, who for
94 Napier (1986), 45. 95 Vernant & Frontisi-Ducroux (1988), 199-200. 96 Yaari (1993), 54. 97 The Madness of Heracles 931 ff. cited in Vernant & Frontisi-Ducroux (1988), 194.
mocking the image of the goddess Hera, were “changed into monsters like the
Erinyes.” 98
Dionysus was worshipped as the god not only of the theatre but also of wine and of
wild nature; he was also associated with the dead and offered those initiated into his
mystery cult the possibility of blessing in an after-life. Many images of him are found
on drinking vessels where he is often shown in the company of mythical figures: satyrs
and maenads. In some Dionysiac cults female worshippers took on the role of
maenads, living for a period out in the wild performing dances of ecstatic possession;
there is no evidence, however, that masks were worn. One of the Dionysian rituals that
may have involved masking was the Anthesteria (the three day annual festival
celebrating the opening of the new wine). According to Walter Burkert it is probable
that some sort of popular (rather than officially organized) masked mummery took
place. This festival involved the whole Athenian polis, including not only the adult
males but also the women, children and slaves. It also had a darker element with the
city being visited by “ancestral spirits” together with “processions on carts with wild
insults being shouted from the wagons.” 99 Nurit Yaari sees the wearing of ritual masks
in such a context as allowing the celebrant “a quick transition” from “the everyday,
rational world of socio-political reality into a new unchained, far more fantastic
world…of his psyche: his emotions, desires and fears.” In this way expression could
be given to irrational elements that were normally “repressed.” Mask and disguise
enabled “the celebrant to move between restraint and discharge: restraint because of the
sacredness of the event…and the discharge of all instincts, primary drives, lechery and
unbridled aggression under the influence of wine and ecstasy.” 100
Burkert also associates the rituals depicted on the so called “Lenaean” vases with the
Anthesteria. 101 These vases depict women worshipping a mask of Dionysus that is
either in a basket or attached to a pillar. In the case of the latter there is often a garment
draped round the pillar to represent the absent body of the god. The women are
98 Yaari (1993), 54. 99 Burkert (1985), 238. 100 Yaari (1993), 54. 101 Burkert (1985), 238. These vases were originally thought to be associated with the Festival of Lenaea.
“portrayed sometimes as maenads but are clearly Athenian matrons.” 102 Sometimes the
image includes a table with offerings and drinking vessels and there may also be
“maenads” engaged in ecstatic dance. These images attest to the importance of the
mask in Dionysian worship as does the frequent appearance of the mask/face of
Dionysus on drinking vessels. However masks that feature purely as ritual objects
should be distinguished from those that are worn; the first is an object of veneration
external to the celebrant whilst the second acts directly upon his/her person and by
superimposing a new face upon them is the direct means by which the wearer
undergoes a transformation.
I began this section with a comment by Stephen Halliwell in which he draws attention
to the paucity of material on non-theatrical ritual masking in ancient Greece and the
widespread credence given to “quasi-anthropological” interpretations. It is true that
although ritual masking took place we know little about it and much of our knowledge
relies on informed speculation and accounts from later antiquity, supplemented by our
interpretations of archaeological material. There is therefore, no firm evidence to
support the widespread view that tragedy arose from a masked Dionysian ritual. I turn
now to a discussion of the theories on the origin of the genre.
The birth of tragedy
According to Aristotle, writing in the fourth century BC, the origin of tragedy was
known in his day.103 Whether or not this is true, it is knowledge that is now lost and our
picture of the beginnings of the genre is constructed from contradictory references in
ancient sources. The prevailing view amongst modern scholars is that tragic
competitions were instituted as part of a new religious festival, the City Dionysia,
during the reign of the tyrant Peisistratus in or around 534 BC. This first drama
competition is believed to have included plays by the tragedian Thespis, a figure
traditionally accredited with being the first actor/playwright. Thespis is also said to
have introduced plain linen masks into performances of tragedy after having tried other
means of disguising the face, such as the use of white face paint and flowers.104
102 Csapo & Slater (1994), 94. 103 Poetics V. 104 Pickard-Cambridge (1968), 190.
One debated issue is whether these early performances approached the sophistication of
fifth century tragedy or were rather a rudimentary beginning that subsequently
developed to become tragedy proper. A passage in Aristotle suggests the latter. He
speaks of an “improvisational beginning” when the leader of a dithyramb stepped
outside of his purely choral role to become a proto-actor. Aristotle also describes the
genre as having gone through “many changes” and mentions that it was originally
humorous in nature being related to a satyrikon (often interpreted as a satyr
performance) and only later did it become serious. 105 While these passages from
Aristotle can be taken to imply that tragedy originated in some older religious ritual,
their interpretation is debated and there is no firm evidence to support this conjecture.
Of ritual origin theories, Nietzsche’s vision of tragedy’s inception from Dionysus and
satyrs has perhaps, more than any other, taken hold of the imagination of subsequent
generations of scholars. Gerald F. Else describes how in Nietzsche’s vision tragedy
arises:
out of the dark womb of the “Dionysian,” that indescribable, all-confounding
Primal Unity of joy and pain which lies at the heart of life itself. The god of
this deep substratum, where all individuation and rationality are swallowed up,
is Dionysus, and its exemplar in the world of art is the satyr. … He represents
in sentient form the profound truth, the primordial essence that has been
glossed over by civilization. … Thus it is no accident that tragedy, born from
the spirit of music, should have been originally incorporated in, consubstantial
with, the chorus of satyrs.
Else notes that Nietzsche’s emphasis on the primitive has often influenced the thinking
of even those who look for the origins of tragedy in other Greek ritual than that of
Dionysus and satyrs; so that they feel “they must go down to the deeper and most
primitive levels of Greek religion.” Intellectual fashion together with the assumption
that “the primitive, if not actually better than the more sophisticated, was somehow
more real, potent” has reinforced this tendency; whilst the power of the plays,
particularly the “great religious drama of Aeschylus” are seen to “speak the
105 Poetics IV.
unmistakable language of Dionysiac possession.” 106 For Nietzsche the tragic
protagonists of Aeschylus and Sophocles are but manifestations of the god who
“appears in the mask of the struggling hero, and enmeshed, as it were, in the web of
individual will.”107
Whilst in Nietzsche, the Dionysiac is a metaphysical construct, other commentators
find a social function for the ritual from which they envisage tragedy having emerged.
So it is with the “year spirit” theory of the Cambridge Ritualists, who read into tragedy
the sort of rituals associated with primitive attempts to ensure the proper functioning of
the annual cycle in nature. Although their ideas are now generally discredited, their
influence can be seen in more recent work, by scholars such as Walter Burkert and
René Girard108 who see tragedy as essentially apotropaic ritual with sacrifice playing a
key role. Ritual sacrifice is also emphasised by Richard Seaford. In his view Dionysiac
myth operates to further the interests of the “communal cult of the polis” by
undermining the autonomy of individual households. He sees tragedy as having
developed out of cultic ritual such as those involving initiation into the Dionysian
mysteries. This would have involved “the (temporary) abandonment of a previous
identity and the acquisition of a new one.” In the process the loyalty of the individual
would be transferred from the household to the thiasos. The latter then became “a
central feature of the Athenian festivals of Dionysus, performing rituals ‘on behalf of
the polis,’ and eventually… developing into the chorus of tragedy.” 109 Seaford argues
that the subject matter of early tragedy was drawn from myths related to Dionysus.
Later, as the Dionysiac element disappeared from tragedy it was preserved in the satyr
drama which retained many of the elements that would have constituted primitive
tragedy, and that subsequently became part of the tetralogy of plays offered by each
tragedian competing in the City Dionysia. He also favours the idea of an analogy
between the satyr play and Kyogen in Japan, itself surviving from the comic beginnings
of the Noh.110
106 Else (1965), 9-11. 107 Friedrich (1996), 278-9 n14. 108 Burkert (1966); Girard (1977). 109 Seaford (1996b), 284-8. 110 Seaford (1976), 210.
John Herington, taking a different approach, follows the lead of Else in envisaging an
origin for tragedy other than an emergence from religious cult. He observes that the
Greeks themselves classified tragedy not as religious ritual but as poetry and that the
latter was written to be experienced in performance, often involving singing, dancing
and even histrionic effects, so that some forms constituted “a kind of drama-before-
drama.”111 Herington emphasises the “distinction between cult poetry and poetry
performed as part of a religious festival” an example of the former being a simple and
traditional “processional as the worshippers approached the shrine; and a hymn round
the altar for the moment of sacrifice itself.” The latter, on the other hand, tended to be
“more elaborate and sophisticated performances, not as part of the ritual, as cult song in
the strict sense, but to do honour to the god…and to rejoice his heart.” This could be
realised when “humans show the god the best they can be or do,” whether this be in
singing, dancing or other activities. Accordingly, such performances were no more
ritual in nature than were the athletic games that featured as part of some religious
festivals. Herington is one who sees nothing intrinsically Dionysian in the tragedies.
In the ancient world festivals honouring deities might include performances of poetry
whose subject matter was not the god concerned. He argues that the emergence of
tragedy should be seen in the context of the long series of divine festivals, the agones
mousikoi, that included poetic events and that had been taking place in various Greek
centres from the eighth century BC, if not earlier. The institution of many of these
festivals can be dated implying that “in contrast to strictly cultic practices, they are the
result of deliberate administrative action” by either members of the priesthood or by
politicians.112 He observes that the form of tragedy draws very much on the existing
types of poetry that traditionally featured in the agones mousikoi, but is innovative in
taking various hitherto separate kinds and mixing them together in a single work. In
this view tragedy arose from a “conscious and deliberate synthesis” of these previously
independent poetic genres by “a few individuals between the middle of the sixth
century and the beginning of the fifth.” 113
Herington notes that prior to 600 BC, Athens did not appear to be an important centre
for poetry but that this situation changed from the mid-sixth century onwards so that by
111 Herington (1985), x. 112 Herington (1985), 5-9.
the early fifth century it had become the main centre of poetic performance. This, he
argues was a “cultural revolution” instigated by leading politicians of the city that was
not without precedent in the ancient world, a notable example being in Athens itself, in
about the second quarter of the sixth century, with the institution of the Great
Panatheaia. This four yearly event constituted an enlarged version of an ancient annual
festival in honour of the city’s goddess, and it introduced features such as an athletic
contest that rivalled those held in other Greek centres such as Olympia. Moreover, the
prize-amphorae carried home by the victors advertised across the Greek world “the
fame of the goddess of Athens, the skill of her potters, and the excellence of her main
agricultural product.” At some stage during the sixth century poetry and musical
contests also became part of the festival. The establishment of the City Dionysia also,
Herington argues, gives every impression of being an expanded version of a more
ancient rite. He sees the institution of both new festivals as representing acts of policy
by the Peisistratean regime.114 The emergence of tragedy as part of a politically and
economically motivated intervention I find most plausible. Herington’s account also
makes clear the sophistication of Athenian society and the literary tradition that it was
able to draw on, thus providing a corrective to the emphasis on the primitive that
features in theories influenced by Nietzsche.
In emphasising the genesis of tragedy from the Greek tradition of poetic performance
Herington sees it as fulfilling more than a purely aesthetic function. He argues that in
the oral culture of pre-classical Greece the corpus of mythology, that provided the
subject matter for most poetry, acted as a repository of knowledge and gnomic wisdom.
He adds that:
It is possible to view the history of all Greek poetry, pretragic and tragic, as the
direct continuation of an unimaginably older history that reaches far back into
the Greek Bronze Age and even beyond…It is the record of a quest for patterns
of conduct, patterns of narrative, and types of human character, a record
embodied in a repertoire of stories.115
113 Herington (1985), 79. 114 Herington (1985), 85. 115 Herington (1985), 66.
The role of the Greek poet “was not confined to vividly enacting aspects of that world”
of myth but was also to interpret it and in so doing teach “the art of right living.” It is
to this that Plato refers when he says “We [the philosophers and the poets] are rivals in
the same trade…we are competitors in the noblest drama of them all.” 116 That the
tragedians, in continuing the Greek poetic tradition were inheritors of this role is
evidenced, Herington argues, by many ancient sources, including a passage from
Aristophanes’ Frogs in which Aeschylus and Euripides accept that their job as poets is
to “make the people in the cities better.” 117
In my account of the widely differing views concerning the origin of tragedy I have
focussed on a few theories that seem to represent two extreme positions; the main point
of contention being whether or not the genre arose from ritual practices. So far I have
given no account of the part played by masks in the birth of tragedy. F.B. Jevons in
1916 speaks of the use of masks in ritual associated with Greek hero worship (tragedy)
or the vegetation-spirit (comedy) he says: “Masks are worn… to express the
performer’s belief, or to make the spectators believe, that the wearer is the character
whom the mask portrays” whether this be a deceased hero or a deity; and that “so long
as the belief is genuinely held, the rite…is regarded as having magical effect.”
However, when performances continue but participants and spectators “no longer place
any great faith in it”, it becomes “a mere performance…consisting not in any magical
or practical effect, external to the performance, but in the excellence of the acting.” 118
For A.D. Trendall and T.B.L. Webster the “masks worn by actors and chorus-men in
drama derive ultimately from the masks worn in cult when a god or goddess and his or
her attendants were impersonated”, and they also refer, more specifically, to “the mask
worn by the Athenian priest when he impersonated Dionysus.” 119 Walter Burkert
argues that masks were important in the ritual of sacrificial killing from which tragedy
emerged, in that they functioned as a disguise hiding the identity of those involved. He
hypothesises that tragedians were:
originally a troop of masked men who have to perform the sacrifice of the …
116 Herington (1985), 70-1; (Plato, Laws 7.817b). 117 Herington (1985), 242 n28 on Frogs 1008-76. 118 Jevons (1916), 191. 119 Trendall & Webster (1971), 15.
[goat] which falls due in spring; they perform with lamentation, song and
mumming, and in the end they may feast on the goat… seriousness and “satyr-
like” fun may here interpenetrate in a curious way…The transformation to a
higher level of literature, the adaptation of the heroic myth remains, of course,
a unique achievement. Nevertheless it is based on pre-existing [ritual]
elements.120
Burkert’s theory provides an explanation not only for the etymology of tragedy (goat
song), a question that has given rise to much debate,121 but for the inclusion of elements
such as lamentation that are to be found in the extant plays and also for the timing of
the City Dionysia in Spring.
Nietzsche’s influence can be seen in the theory of B.C. Dietrich when he says that in
Dionysiac cult there was “an identification of his mask with the god himself. The
Dionysiac worshipper achieved his highest aim of fusion with the god by putting on his
mask.” 122 For M. Eliade the mask was a key element in tragedy’s origin : “the rigidity,
the fixity, and immobility of feature do not belong to an ordinary man; only gods or the
dead present such immobility of expression, while still being able to speak, to
communicate their desires and their thoughts.” Moreover, “The actor temporarily loses
his identity: he becomes another, he is the character he enacts.” 123 Whilst mystical
experience and identity loss is a recurring theme there have been other views of the
tragic mask. Richard Seaford, keeps his options open when he says: “Greek drama
probably inherited the mask from Dionysiac ritual, but there are obvious advantages for
dramatic performance in the use of masks, especially where the audience is (as often in
ancient theatres) at some distance from the action.” 124 Nurit Yaari envisages that in
Dionysiac cult (as it appears in the Bacchae): “the mystical connection, the transfer of
mystic knowledge… [took] place through the regard exchanged between the god and
the mortal. This regard became the foremost function of the mask following its
passage from ritual to the theatre.” However, she appears to find this view difficult to
120 Burkert (1966), 115. 121 See for example, Else (1965), 25. 122 Dietrich (1986), 72. 123 Eliade (1986), 69-70. 124 Seaford (1996a), 935.
reconcile with the ancient accounts of how Thespis introduced the mask into tragedy
after initially experimenting with other materials. 125 For A.W. Pickard-Cambridge this
tradition concerning Thespis undermines the assertion that masks were directly
transferred from cult to drama.126 Christiane Sourvinou-Inwood envisages a ritual
origin for tragedy in an unmasked performance by a hypokrites and chorus of a
religious hymn (a type of dithyramb) around an altar involving a goat sacrifice. Masks
were subsequently introduced, not to give performers a new identity, but to distance
them from “their identities in the ritual here and now” strengthening their “other”
identity as “Athenians of the mythological past, who had first offended the god, and
then received him with honor and established his cult, insofar as the present ritual was
also a re-enactment of the cult’s first establishment” 127 For commentators such as
Herington and Else, the genesis of tragedy from the tradition of Greek literary
performance again suggests that a decision was made to introduce masks into the genre
for non-ritual reasons. A useful distinction is made between ritual and theatrical masks
by J.-P. Vernant when he says: “by its very nature and function the tragic mask is
something quite other than a religious costume….Its role is not a ritual but an aesthetic
one.” 128 Ismene Lada-Richards follows Claude Calame in stating that “the dramatic
mask cannot convey to the wearer any kind of magical power.” She goes on to say
that: “the actor’s mask is not to be regarded as a talismanic object but rather as a
powerful and creative instrument in the performer’s hands…it is the actor, rather than
the mask per se, which is the ‘living force’, the cause of the metamorphosis.” 129
The question of the origin of tragedy, as Else points out, has implications for modern
interpretations of the plays. In his view Tyrone Guthrie’s Oedipus production:
“executed not only with masks but with stylized incantations and motions like the fixed
routine of a ritual dance…[constituted] a fundamental misreading of Sophocles’
play.”130
125 Yaari (1993), 56. 126 Pickard-Cambridge (1927), 111-112. 127 Sourvinou-Inwood (2003), 145-55, 516. 128 Vernant (1988), 23-4. 129 Lada-Richards (1998), 169. 130 Else (1965), 8.
The socio-rel igious context of f i f th century tragedy
The bulk of recent scholarship is not concerned with tragedy’s origin but with its fully
realised fifth century form and there has been an emphasis on its function within the
Athenian democratic polis. Whilst performances of the plays formed part of a religious
festival, commentators frequently point out that religion and politics were not seen as
separated. Organised by the state, the drama was political “in the sense that it was
staged by and for the polis of the Athenians through its regular public organs of
government, as a fixed item in the state’s religious calendar.” 131 According to Simon
Goldhill the drama festivals should also be seen as “institutions in which civic identity
was displayed, defined, explored, contested” and this is evident “in the arrangements
for the festival, the ceremonial performances by which the plays were framed and the
plays themselves.”132
Thus the Eponymous Archon, the official in charge of the festival, was appointed by
the city leaders and he selected the three tragic playwrights whose work would be
performed in the dramatic competitions.133 Each playwright was provided with a chorus
whose training and upkeep was financed by a wealthy citizen as part of his civic duty.
The actors, who between them, performed all the main roles, fell into a different
category and state payment began for them from about 450 BC. Besides the dramatic
competitions there were also those for performances of dithyrambs involving large
numbers. Therefore a considerable proportion of the citizen body was involved in the
festival as participants as well as forming the audience.
The stories enacted in the plays, similar to those recounted in the ancient bardic
tradition of Greece, are almost all located in a mythological past and concern the events
surrounding heroes and royal families. However the treatment of this material in the
plays had an educative function, being highly relevant to the politics of the fifth century
Athenian democratic state. Paul Cartledge describes the value of the drama for a voting
populace, many of whom had no formal education but who attended the theatre. He
argues that the plays raised important issues, often in the form of debates which had
131 Cartledge (1997), 18. 132 Goldhill (1997), 55. 133 At some period comedies also performed in the City Dionysia and the three or five comic playwrights
common elements with the public rhetorical debates that took place in the political
Assembly and also in the law courts. In this way citizens were provided with a model
on the use of language in open debate, so they could learn how to persuade and argue a
case before an audience of their peers. By informing citizens’ choices before they
voted and so arrived at a collective decision, the drama was a vital ingredient of
Athenian democracy. 134
There has been some debate on whether Greek tragedy in the fifth century was a “ritual
theatre.” The ritual context of its performance is clear: it formed part of a religious
festival; was performed for the god, in his actual presence, as manifest in his cult
statue, together with his priests. Participation, whether as a performer or as a member
of the audience, was literally regarded as an act of worship. Moreover, Greek tragedy
in its form and content contains various ritual elements and allusions to ritual.
Examples are: the hymn-like language and metrical structure of some of the choral
odes, the enactment of ritual acts and the existence of a “subtext” of “phrases and
themes” from Athenian religious ceremony.135 Does this inclusion of ritual elements
serve to identify fifth century tragedy as ritual theatre? Some definition of terms seems
called for and this is provided to a certain extent by Rainer Friedrich who argues that
there are two distinctions to be made. In the first: “drama uses rituals” that is, “rituals
are part of drama’s thematic and tropic material.” In the second “drama is ritual” in the
sense that “ritual is drama’s shaping structure.” Here he follows Pat Easterling whom
he sees as emphasising “ the metaphorical status of the rituals in Greek tragedy”, and
he describes them as “being part of the dramatic (that is artistic) fiction.” 136 However,
Easterling’s position is ambiguous; whilst apparently distinguishing the fictive
enactment of ritual in the plays from actual (real life) ritual, she also finds many
parallels between tragedy and ritual. Although many other commentators (including
Friedrich) argue that ritual is unvarying and thus unlike tragedy, Easterling finds that
both have a similar relation to time and that “each is infinitely repeatable.” She
concludes that the stress should be on the similarity between the two and conceives the
possibility of a drama with “exceptional power, something that went beyond the fictive
selected competed in their own separate competition. 134 Cartledge (1997), 19. 135 Tyrrell & Bennett (1998), 103. 136 Friedrich (1996), 269-72.
world of the drama and was able to affect the world of the audience for good or ill.” 137
Here Easterling appears to be using the term ritual theatre in the sense given by Richard
Schechner when he argues that it is necessary to look at the functions of a performance
and links the idea of ritual theatre to efficacy, that is, theatre made in order to
accomplish something other than merely providing entertainment.138
The distinction between the fictive acts of ritual and those of the real world break down
when “metatheatrical” references blur the boundaries according to A. Henrichs. The
most notable example of this occurs in a choral ode from Oedipus the King in which
the chorus of Theban elders faced with the possibility of a fallible oracle ask “why
dance?” In other words, they question the reason for engaging in their own particular
form of worship (that is, singing and dancing in a chorus as real life Athenian tragic
chorus-men). Henrichs speaks of this:
convention of choral self-referentiality, which… enables the audience to cross
the boundaries between the chorus qua tragic character and qua performer,
between the drama acted out in the theater and the polis religion that sustains it,
and more specifically between the cults of the polis and rituals performed in
the plays.
According to Henrichs this “convergence of drama and ritual” is epitomized by the
mask which “transforms the Self into the Other and integrates the choral performance
with the Attic cult of the ‘mask god’ Dionysos.” 139
Other interpretations of the Oedipus passage are possible. Charles Segal argues that it
instead demonstrates the dramatist’s ability to “use ritual forms with greater freedom
and even reflect on the nature of ritual” and so constitutes a distance between the two.
Though taking issue with Henrichs on this point Segal observes that the Sophoclean
chorus seems “to say or intuit more than it can always know as a participating
character” and that there is an aspect of the choral ode “that belongs to…the religious
or theological dimension of Greek tragedy, its concern with exploring the meaning of
137 Easterling (1988), 90-109. 138 Schechner (2002), 71. 139 Henrichs (1995), 70.
human existence in a cosmic perspective.” 140 In this he is in accord with R.W.B.
Burton who argues that the Sophoclean choral odes perform an important function in
providing a philosophical and religious contextualisation of the main action of the
drama. 141 The role of the tragic chorus and the “authority” or religious significance of
their utterances is thus an important part of the debate on the ritual status of tragedy.
The role of the tragic chorus
The tragic chorus, a group of performers, given a collective identity in the dramas, is to
the modern mind one of the more alien aspects of the tragedies. However, for the
ancient Greeks choral singing and dancing was a well established form not only in their
literary tradition but also in their religious worship from the earliest times. In fifth
century tragedy the choral entry song and choral odes that typically intersperse the
action were delivered by the group in unison. The choral voice was a collective one142
rather than an amalgamation of separate voices issuing from a group of individuals.
Besides the purely choral passages the chorus was typically present throughout the
main action of the plays, witnessing and reacting to it and through the chorus leader,
verbally interacting with the protagonists. This dual role of delivering choral lyric but
also participating in the main action has raised questions concerning the role and
identity of the chorus.
A.W. Schlegel's idea of the Greek tragic chorus as ideal spectator143 has been persistent.
For example, it has been recently reformulated by J.-P. Vernant who sees the chorus as
the representative of the collective, that is, the citizens of the democratic polis. He
argues that it plays a key role in exploring the various conflicts presented by the genre
including those arising within the system of ideas of the polis and those that stem from
the roles of the individual and the collective within it.144 It is by virtue of being a
collective presence rather than any exact mirroring of the characteristics of the fifth
140 Segal (1996), 20-1. 141 Burton (1980). 142 There are a few exceptions to this, for example, in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon 1348-1371 when the
chorus divides into twelve separate voices. 143 Schlegel (1815), 59-60. 144 Vernant (1988), 24-25.
century audiences that the chorus can be seen to represent the latter. 145 Moreover, the
presence of a group of witnesses, whatever their fictive identity, significantly affects
the nature of the interaction between the main characters, taking it into the public
domain.
The original audiences also might have felt an affinity with the tragic chorus resulting
from their experience as chorus-men in the plays or dancing the dithyramb. However, I
feel a qualification needs to be made here in that performing the choral song and dance
of a dithyramb is a different order of experience than being part of a tragic chorus. The
former was performed unmasked and did not involve interaction with protagonists.
Moreover the special impact of masking on the audience also needs to be taken into
account. David Wiles, though, perhaps goes too far when he says that the ancient
Greek audience would have been “possessed by Dionysus, thanks to the operation of
the mask,”146 a claim described as “incautious” by Stephen Halliwell.147
The long tradition in archaic Greece of participating in ritual choral song and dance to
mark points of life transition has suggested another role for the tragic chorus. Most
notably J. J. Winkler argues that the chorus might have been a group of ephebes,
youths nearing manhood, and that their participation could have been seen as part of
their military training and so have constituted a sort of rite of passage. Performing in a
tragic chorus would in this case have literally been ritual. 148
Helen Bacon points out that the educative value of performing choral song and dance is
alluded to in literature of the classical period. For example in Aristophanes’ Clouds, in
the debate between Unjust and Just Argument, the latter extols the virtues of “good old
fashioned education through song and dance”; and according to Plato “choral dance is
the whole of education.” Plato also refers to the sense of well being and the social
cohesion engendered by this experience. He speaks of the gods Apollo and Dionysus
as:
145 Most choruses represent marginalized groups such as women, slaves, foreigners and also of old men
past military age. 146 Wiles (1991), 113. 147 Halliwell (1993), 197 n4. He also points out that Wiles is inaccurate when he attempts to link his
assertion with a passage from Plato’s Laws. 148 Winkler (1990), although this is no longer widely accepted.
the ones who have given us awareness and enjoyment of rhythm and melody.
Through this faculty they arouse us and lead our choral dances linking us to
each other with songs and dances, and have named them in accordance with
their inborn joyfulness.149
It was not necessarily just the physical activity of communal song and dance that
fulfilled the educative role of the chorus. According to R.W.B. Burton, the meaning of
the choral odes is used by the dramatist “to awake definite intellectual moral and
emotional responses in his audience.” He argues that odes may summarise preceding
actions or comment on the deeper meaning of the play as a whole. 150 For this to have
been communicated the words would have needed to have been clearly audible, which
as performance experience today suggests, is not always easy to achieve for performers
singing and dancing in unison even without masks. Such complexity would have
required considerable skill in instant decoding by audiences who lacked, as they
presumably did, the benefit of a written script to study at their leisure. However,
coming from an oral culture they were more attuned to this sort of communication and
the choral choreography may also have enhanced their comprehension. J.F. Davidson,
for one, disputes the idea of this kind of audience competency. He suggests that choral
odes serve mainly “to direct emotional responses” to the ongoing dramatic action rather
than “functioning as a source of clues to its interpretation.” Apart from this he sees the
chorus in any ode performing a single action, for example, they pray, or they lament
etc.151
David Wiles argues that the element of dance was crucial in conveying the meaning of
the choral odes. He sees a special significance in the strophic structure of the songs
and a relationship between this and the movement choreography, providing a hitherto
unsuspected layer of meaning. This argument builds on the fact that in any choral ode
each strophe and its corresponding antistrophe are metrically identical, adding to this
the idea that the choreography of both parts would have been exactly the same. A
passage from the Agamemnon, when the chorus sing of the sacrifice of Iphigenia,
serves to demonstrate the dramatic possibilities that this affords:
149 Clouds 859, 1104, 961-7. Laws 654a cited in Bacon (1995), 19,14-15. 150 Burton (1980), 2. 151 Davidson (1986a), 75-76.
The strophe begins with Agamemnon putting on ‘the harness of necessity’, the
antistrophe with the pleas and tears of his daughter. The dance cannot in any
narrow mimetic way represent the putting on of a harness, but must more
broadly represent a suffering individual stifled by a mob. From the point of
view of the audience, the effect is to create a symmetry between the two
figures. Agamemnon is not simply the villain, for he will in the course of the
play become a sacrificial victim just like Iphigenia. The medium of dance
allows this crucial symmetry to be made apparent to the audience.
Wiles reports that he has conducted experiments with drama students which confirm
the possibility of creating a movement choreography that has the effect described. 152
Aristotle’s discussion of tragedy makes no explicit mention of a ritual or religious role
for the chorus but rather he describes the chorus as an actor (what we might think of as
a sort of collective “character”) saying that “it should be an integral part of the whole
and take a share in the action .” 153 Burton follows Aristotle here, arguing that the
Sophoclean chorus’ utterances are always “appropriate to its group and status.” 154 At
the other extreme Rush Rehm sees the tragic chorus “as raw human material to be
shaped as the mood and plot demands. They are a group of highly malleable
performers not bound by strict determinants of identity or character, beyond gender and
occasionally, age.” 155
According to David Wiles the debate on the ritual status of Greek tragedy originated in
antiquity. He argues that Plato’s emphasis on the benefits of dance and his concern
with religion and the didactic function of any art meant that he viewed Greek tragedy as
“in essence a Dionysiac dance.” Wiles presents the views of Plato and Aristotle as a
dichotomy in which tragedy is seen, on the one hand, as a Dionysiac ritual with an
emphasis on religious, moral and didactic concerns with the chorus having a central
role; and on the other, as the enactment of heroic myth in a way that encourages an
emotional response and in which the choral role is marginal. 156 This formulation
152 Wiles (1997), 96. In this theory he follows Aylen (1985), 120-124. 153 Poetics 1456a 25, translation in McKeon (1941). 154 Burton (1980), 3. 155 Rehm (1996), 46. 156 Wiles (1997), 9. In this, Wiles interprets Plato as ignoring the contribution of the main action, that is,
seems to accord with Schechner’s dyad of a theatre of efficacy/ritual versus one of
entertainment/aesthetic performance.157 However it is, perhaps a simplification of
Aristotle’s position. As Oliver Taplin observes the evocation of emotion is not
necessary incompatible with thought and moral discrimination. 158
Wiles contrasts his own position and approach to tragedy with that of Taplin, who, in
preferring to focus on “the events of the plot” that are “tied down in place and time”
and in distinguishing them from the “different world” of the choral odes, is firmly on
the Aristotelian side. Wiles’ premiss is rather that “both worlds are coexistent in
theatre space, and each informs the other.” 159 It seems to me that this line of thought
might be developed further to take into account that the chorus is the one element that
traverses both “worlds.” They have a fictive identity in the story but at times, and this
can be seen most clearly in the choral odes, there is a loosening of the constraints
imposed by this identity and they become something other. This dual existence has
implications for performance style and mask use.
Implications for modern performance
In the introduction to this chapter I argued that action-based theatre has a logic different
to that of ritual theatre. Here I argue that Greek tragedy has elements of both but that
their co-existence need not present problems so long as performers understand the
distinction, know which world they are operating in, and where the focus of attention
should be at any one time.
The first of Peter Hall’s Oedipus Plays seemed to me to suffer from a confusion in this
respect. Alan Howard in the leading role intoned his part with a consistent full frontal
delivery from a high ramp that physically separated him and most of the other
protagonists from the chorus. The latter meanwhile drifted through the orchestra in a
fluid organic fashion, seemingly in a separate world. For me, as an audience member,
the enactment of heroic myth. However see Plato on empathy with the tragic hero, Republic 605 D-E
(cited at p 24). 157 Schechner (2002), 71. 158 Taplin (2001a), 11. 159 Wiles (1997), 9. He references Taplin (1978), 13.
they were distractingly fascinating and I rapidly focused on them having soon lost
interest in the monotony of the protagonists’ delivery.
In this, as in all his productions of tragedy, Hall insists that choral odes are not sung but
spoken and are delivered by individual voices. His aim is to achieve vocal clarity. 160
However, lacking a unified voice the chorus becomes more like a collection of
individual speakers with no sense of the collective as a ritually significant presence.
Hall in his Oedipus Plays was perhaps not aiming to create ritual theatre as was the
case in his Oresteia . His Oedipus the King, though, was often not clearly situated in
ritual or action but in some uneasy space between the two worlds. The fact that those
performing in Hall’s Oedipus chorus wanted to know their identity, a question that
“took a very long time to resolve,” also the meaning of their words and the reasons why
they were speaking them, is suggestive here. 161 Whilst this may be an indication of an
excessive adherence to some Stanislavskian principles, it may instead reflect a lack of
clarity of direction concerning the varying functions of the chorus in the play.
To illustrate a way in which the different worlds of ritual and action and the shifting
from one to the other might be conveyed in mask, I describe one of my own
experiments with the chorus. For this, I have used a passage from the Antigone,162
starting with the parodos in which the elders sing of the victory of the city over the
invading army. At the end of the song they see the king approaching. He enters and
there is a scene in which he speaks to them as a statesman.
In their entry song it seemed to me important that the chorus establish both their fictive
identity as elders and also the ritual authority of their collective presence. As mask
theatre is essentially visual, when a figure or group make their first entrance audience
expectation of their role in the drama is excited by what they see. Mask, costume,
accompanying props and other figures (such as an entourage for a royal) together with
the physicality of performers all create an initial visual impact that is enhanced if the
audience is given time to view this without distractions. Once the chorus catch sight
160 Hall (2000), 30-1. 161 Reynolds (1996) (See also my p 232). 162 Antigone 100-222. This formed the basis for performances given on 20th April 2002 in the Studio
Theatre during a Mask Conference and on 27th June 2002 in the Noh theatre for the RHUL/APGRD Post
Graduate Symposium.
of the king there is a clear shift of thought into the world of action and the following
scene.163 The performance style of the entry song had therefore to convey the idea of
the city elders singing of victory but it also had to be ritualistic and different from the
main action. For this experiment I had the chorus sing the parodos (not an easy choice
in close English translation) whilst performing a simple dance employing the staves
that they carried (denoting their status as old men). Developing some of the ideas of
David Wiles, I devised a choreography in which the gestures performed in the strophe
bore a clear relationship to those performed in the antistrophe without, however, being
identical. For example, at one point in the strophe, with the chorus moving clockwise,
they held their staves high, then made a stabbing gesture downwards whilst at the
corresponding point in the antistrophe, now travelling anti-clockwise, they held them
low and then stabbed upwards. In the epode they travelled to upstage centre and
formed a serpentine tableau. As the song progressed, their identity as elders receded
and they embodied the images of which they were singing. For example their
movement conveyed the idea of a white bird swooping down over the enemy. As the
performers do not need to act at being old men (the mask imparts this basic identity)
they can concentrate on conveying the image itself, that is, they are not seen as old men
enacting a story, but rather they become the image). At the end of the song they catch
sight of the king approaching. Until now they have been the only figures present and
the focus has been on them as a collective group. Once they have completed their
announcement of the king’s arrival the focus should move to him. Again with mask the
first visual impact of a character is very important. The chorus indicate the direction in
which the audience should look by turning away from them and looking towards the
king’s point of entry. Depending on the theatre space and lines of sight the chorus
masks may still be visible and in this case the power of their collective gaze acts as a
spotlight on the entering king. If, on the other hand, their masks are not visible, the
focus of attention will still transfer to the entering masked figure.
In the scene that follows I wanted to convey with clarity and credibility a humanly
intelligible interaction between the king and his elders, thus creating an artistic tension
with the heightened language of the text and the quality of otherness brought by the
163 Although starting a new train of thought this section of the parodos (Antigone 155-61), as Scott
(1996), 34 points out,“completes the lyric as the expected balancing anapaestic stanza”.
masks. For this reason there was a shift away from ritual mode into the world of
action, starting when the chorus first catch sight of the king164 and there emerges in the
text a tone closer to ordinary speech. In my realisation of the following scene, the
performance mode superficially appeared closer to ordinary acting in that it gave the
appearance, in some respects, of naturalness. However, achieving this in mask requires
techniques different from those employed in the theatre of naturalism as will become
evident. During the king’s speech the focus of attention should largely be on him but it
seemed to me important that the reaction of the elders to his words should also be seen.
To convey this clearly in mask the chorus’ reaction was shown at a few key moments
when the king gave focus to them (by, for example, looking in their direction) and they
responded in unison with an appropriate gesture. The gestures employed were
sometimes small such as a slight jerking movement suggesting an intake of breath and
at other times large such as a gesture of fear involving hands, arms and body that
unmasked would appear melodramatic to modern eyes. The mask, with its
universalising properties however, can make all this appear quite plausible even
perhaps, “natural” and may reconcile many otherwise disparate performance styles.
This effect depends very much on the type of masks employed and some are more
versatile than others in this respect.
Rather than having the king declaim his speech from a static position which can rapidly
become boring to watch, I preferred to have him move amongst his elders in
accordance with his attempt at democratic appeal (I find it dramatically interesting if
his lengthy explanations are read in this way). The chorus gave way to him as he
moved amongst them. His power and true relationship with them was thus established
physically in the space. His mobility made it easier to perceive the line that his
thoughts were taking; the various nuances of mood as different ideas surfaced, were
expressed not only in vocal intonation and gesture but in the way he moved, and the
pathways taken. Such a staging requires the gestures, moves and mask presentation to
be choreographed with precision. If they are not, the visual information conveyed to
the audience is confusing. With mask the slightest gesture speaks volumes and this
derives from their revealing property. When the mask removes the actor’s own face
from view, his/her body is bought more sharply into focus highlighting a whole body
164 Antigone 155.
language that may otherwise go unnoticed. Toby Wilsher describes the way the mask,
by taking the human eye from view, gives prominence to the whole mask face and that
this in turn makes the relationship between the actor’s neck and torso more
pronounced, making visible any “readjustments of head, breath, suspensions in
movement etc,” 165 which the audience will read as indicative of emotion, intention,
states of mind or being.
Conclusion
Ancient literary accounts and archaeological finds provide some evidence of masking
in the ancient Greek (non-dramatic) rituals of several deities including Dionysus. This
material, together with anthropological studies of ritual masking in different parts of
the world, forms the basis for much scholarly speculation on the nature of masked cults
in Greece and by extension the significance of masks in the theatre. There have also
been numerous theories on the origins of tragedy. Aristotle sees tragedy as having
emerged from the dithyramb and also suggests an origin in a humorous form related to
a satyr performance. However, there is little material that can either support or reject
this idea or the widely held view that tragedy emerged from cultic practice.
Nietzsche’s vision of the birth of tragedy conjures up a “Dionysian” world in which
individuation and rationality are subsumed in the collective. Other theories on the
ritual origin of tragedy involve the idea of sacrificial killing. The role of the mask in
this context is to disguise the individual participants, protecting and distancing them
from the act of violence in which they are engaged. More generally masking in a ritual
context is seen as a mystical experience involving identity loss. In an alternative view,
tragedy originated, not from ritual, but from the Greek tradition of poetry performance.
The mask was introduced subsequently for aesthetic reasons, an idea receiving some
support from the ancient story that Thespis introduced masks after experimenting with
other types of facial embellishment.
Fifth century drama was inseparable from the socio-religious context of democratic
Athens and for this reason it is often viewed as a ritual theatre. The chorus, with its age
old tradition in carrying and passing on the accumulated knowledge and wisdom of the
community, has been seen to perform a special role in this respect. These ideas have
165 Wilsher (2006), 31.
been debated and this, it has been argued, has an antecedent in antiquity in the opposed
views of Plato and Aristotle. According to this view, Plato saw tragedy as a Dionysiac
dance and gave pre-eminence to the chorus and the religious function of the drama;
aspects marginalised by Aristotle who instead emphasized the main action of the plays.
A reconciliation of this dichotomy can be found in the idea that the different worlds of
the choral odes and the main action of the plays are co-existent and interdependent in
theatre space. Building on this I suggest that the chorus is the one element in the drama
that traverses both “worlds,” having not only a fictive identity in the main action, but
also the ritual authority of their collective presence. Greek tragedy, therefore, has
elements of both action-based and ritual theatre and this has implications for
performance style, staging and mask use.
Several modern mask theatre practitioners in producing Greek tragedy have viewed it
as essentially ritual theatre, and this has often led them to adopt a slow ceremonial style
in which incantation and a sense of “otherness” have been more in evidence than a
clear conveying of the unfolding action of the story. I have conducted performance
experiments to demonstrate how factors such as style, staging and mask use might be
employed to convey the co-existing worlds of action and ritual together with the
complexity of the choral role. In my interpretation I utilise what would be considered
today a variety of performance styles which performed unmasked would tend to be
perceived as jarring; the mask, however, provides an overall unity of experience. For
this to be achieved most effectively, a special kind of mask is (and would have been)
required. I take up the subject again in my next chapter on the masks of Greek tragedy.
Chapter 3: Masks: ancient designs and modern interpretations
Introduction
The masks appearing in modern productions of Greek tragedy have taken many
different forms. Peter Hall has used full-face or helmet masks.166 Half-masks which
allow the performer to vocalize freely have been used by directors such as Tyrone
Guthrie, J.-L. Barrault, and have featured in many twentieth century productions in
Greece including those of Karolos Koun. There have also been other variants. One
example is the type of mask designed by Julie Tamor for a production of Stravinsky’s
Oedipus Rex in 1992. For this the performers covered their faces with a pair of huge
hands and wore a false head on top of their own; the whole giving the effect of
elongated Cycladic figures. The hands were subsequently parted to reveal the
performers’ elaborately made up faces that were entirely free for them to sing. In this
and some other productions such as Ninagawa’s Medea and Mnouchkine’s Les Atrides
the performers own faces had been painted to resemble masks. These last two examples
took inspiration from Oriental traditions such as Kabuki. Costume-cum-body masks
have also been used most notably in Martha Graham’s dances inspired by Greek
tragedy. Masks have been characterized as for example, those of Tiresias and Cadmus
in Peter Hall’s Bacchai, or inspired by other ideas such as that of “archetypes” (as in
the masks of Michael Chase); “elemental forces” or substances from the material world
as in the masks of Abdel Farrah for the Michel St Denis and Jean Cocteau production
of Stravinsky’s Oedipus Rex in 1960. The argument between Oedipus and Creon gave
Farrah images of machines and metal as the basis for his designs.167 Mask-makers have
employed many different materials and methods of facture, both modern and traditional
and have produced masks in various sizes and colours.
Sometimes masks have been worn only by the chorus as in a recent school production
in the open air Victorian “Greek theatre” at Bradfield College.168 For productions given
by schools, colleges, or small scale theatre companies, masks are often made by pupils
or by the performers themselves. For higher profile productions by major theatre
166 Hall employed comic half-masks in his 1993 Lysistrata. 167 Farrah (2002). 168 Medea, Summer 2006.
companies, masks have been professionally made and their designers credited. In the
case of some, their work and ideas have been separately published as, for example,
Tanya Moisewitsch (who designed the masks for Tyrone Guthrie); Jocelyn Herbert
(Peter Hall’s Oresteia masks) and Dionysis Fotopoulos (Peter Hall’s Oedipus Plays
and also various Greek productions including Karolos Koun’s Persians in 1965). They
may also be internationally famous in their field as is the case with Amleto Sartori who
designed the masks for J.-L. Barrault’s L’Orestie.
By way of contrast, the names of the mask designers of the ancient world are unknown
to us and the fact that in Aristophanes, mask-makers are referred to as skeuopoios169
(makers of kit) suggests that they were not considered worthy of individual recognition.
In comparison with the variety of modern interpretations of mask for Greek tragedy,
those of the ancient world, particularly in the Hellenistic and Roman periods, were
fairly limited in range, with the same basic forms maintained for centuries with some
minor variations and development. There was perhaps more experimentation with
mask making in the very early days of tragedy and this is given some support by
ancient tradition. Evidence is sparse concerning the tragic masks that were in use
during the fifth century. Many classical scholars of the nineteenth and early twentieth
centuries erroneously believed that they took the same form as those of later periods as,
for example, the Hellenistic mask of figure 1 with its exaggerated tragic expression,
large gaping mouth, wide staring eyes and onkos. A passage from Lucian was also
assumed to be an accurate description of the physical appearance of the fifth century
actor:
His high boots raise him out of all proportion, his head is hidden under an
enormous mask; his huge mouth gapes upon the audience as if he would
swallow them; to say nothing of the chest-pads and stomach-pads with which
he contrives to give himself an artificial corpulence lest his deficiency in this
respect should emphasize his disproportionate height.170
169 Knights 232. 170 Lucian quoted in Allen ( 1907), 226, who argues against what he perceives as the prevailing view of
his contemporaries.
Subsequent scholarship and new archaeological finds, together with a more thorough
appraisal of the evidence, have produced a different view.
In this chapter I consider some of this evidence to gain an idea of what the fifth century
tragic masks were like. To the modern scholarly interpretation of this material I add
observations based on my practical experience of mask making and performing mask
theatre. As crafted objects such as masks do not emerge from an aesthetic or cultural
vacuum, it is important that the ancient evidence on masks should be viewed in the
context of fifth century visual aesthetics. As none of the performance masks have
survived, our knowledge of the subject consists of speculation based on the information
provided by various ancient sources. I therefore start with the latter and a discussion of
the problems that arise in interpreting them. I go on to give an account of what we
know of the origins, materials and designs of tragic masks before turning to the few
representations of them that appear in classical art. After this I introduce Lecoq’s idea
of the need for “life” in a performance mask and how this might have been realized in
the ancient masks. I then consider some of the mask designs for modern productions of
tragedy in the light of this discussion.
Interpreting the evidence
The range of evidence from antiquity includes:
1. The extant play texts and other literary material such as inscriptions, historical
records, commentaries, scholia and the Onomasticon of Julius Pollux.171. The latter,
written in the second century AD but generally thought to be taken from a much earlier
source (although later than the fifth century), contains a catalogue of tragic and comic
masks. In the tragic list there are twenty eight masks grouped in broad categories
distinguishing sex, age and status and a further list of "special" masks relating to
tragedy and satyr plays.
2. The visual evidence on fifth century tragedy comes mainly in the form of Athenian
vase paintings172 and it is relevant to view these in the context of Greek classical art as a
171 Csapo & Slater (1994), Appendix A. 172 Most of the vase paintings cited in this chapter were made in Athens. Where there is an exception to
this I specifically give the place of origin in my text.
whole. From Hellenistic and Roman antiquity there are also theatrical images (for
example: terracotta or stone heads, masks and figurines, plaques, and mosaics) and as
long as the distinction between these and the fifth century masks are borne in mind,
they may aid in assessing the latter.
Interpreting ancient material to gain insights into the nature of the tragic masks, and
related aspects of performance, is no simple matter. Apart from the plays themselves,
the documentary sources are generally late and not always reliable. Much of the
evidence particularly for the fifth century, is in the form of two-dimensional
representations of three-dimensional objects so that there are issues concerning the
conventions of translating from one form to another. This is further complicated by the
fact that vases present curved painting surfaces. Another problem is the danger of
anachronistic misreading of signifiers of other cultures. The modern emphasis on photo
realism in recording theatrical scenes, should not lead to the unquestioning assumption
that the ancient vase painters were aiming to produce images that exactly represented
what was to be seen in the performances.173
There are also difficulties in understanding the iconography of the images. Many fifth
century vases depict mythology with a tragic theme but lack any elements that
explicitly indicate the scene is to be viewed as theatrical. This does not necessarily
negate their evidential value for theatrical practice as Greek vase painters might have
maintained the “dramatic illusion” in a visual analogue to the conventions applying to
the tragedies.174
The relationship between the theatrical and visual arts and the sharing of conventions
can be taken further. Stephen Halliwell, for example, argues that:
if the mask is to be thought of as an artistic rendering of a face, then it is to
connections with paintings and sculpture that we may reasonably look for a
better sense of the kind of ‘aesthetics’ that might have shaped Greek
experience of the theatrical mask175
173 Webster (1970), xiv; Green (1991), 41. 174 Green (1991), 40. 175 Halliwell (1993), 201-2.
It seems likely that within the close knit community of fifth century Athens those
involved in the performing and visual arts would have been aware of each other’s
work. A reference to the painting of gorgons in Aeschylus’ Oresteia suggests as
much.176 It is even possible that the same individuals might have been involved in more
than one artistic activity. Potters, vase painters, coroplasts, and mask-makers, for
example, might make use of some of the same materials and skills from one activity
might be usefully applied to another.
There are some vases that signal a theatrical setting, for example by the inclusion of a
piper (with an aulos), or figures wearing theatrical costume.177 On a few vases there are
scenes featuring actors wearing masks together with those that are not being worn.
Research on the fifth century theatre has focussed on this limited number of explicitly
theatrical vases and has been conducted from the methodological perspective of
classical scholars and art historians. Further insights are possible from the viewpoint of
practitioners involved with mask making and their use in theatrical performance. Some
of the practical issues that arise when engaging in an artistic project may be common
across cultures, even though the solutions may vary (for example, the logistics of
making a mask that will fit and can be secured to a human head in such a way that it
will not impede speech; will remain secure but be easily put on and removed).
The speculative nature of all modern interpretations of these images has already been
mentioned. Against this last caution it might be argued that mimesis was an important
principle of fifth century art even if this did not constitute anything like our
“naturalism.” Painted images, although appearing “stylized” to us, might be reliable in
conveying certain kinds of information about the design and appearance of theatrical
masks. It is relevant that Athenian vase painters produced images of many aspects of
fifth century life including craftsmen engaged in various kinds of skilled work. Often
these images include accurate details of the processes of facture that they depict. I also
appeal to the late fifth century Pronomos vase (figure 2) which shows the victorious
cast of the tragic competition celebrating in the sanctuary of the god. The attitude of
the performers and their easy relationship with their masks are reminiscent of a modern
176 Eumenides 47 ff. 177 For a fuller account of this evidence and how it might be interpreted see Pickard-Cambridge (1968),
180-90.
green room. These universally characteristic elements make it tempting to think that
the vase painter has indeed observed and captured something here from real life.
Origins, materials and design
Our knowledge of the theatrical mask tradition inherited by the great tragedians is
uncertain and rests mainly on the evidence of ancient literary sources. Tradition178
credits Thespis (c. 534 BC) with the introduction of dramatic masks made out of linen
(having previously tried disguising his face by painting it with white lead and wine
lees). Later tragedians are supposed to have made further innovations; that by
Choerilus is unspecified but Laura Stone infers it to have been “the introduction of
rudimentary feature drawing”,179 as being the logical next step. Then Phynichus is said
to have brought in female masks which may have meant merely the introduction of
female characters into the drama or, following Bieber,180 it could refer to the use of a
colour code to distinguish male (dark) from female (light). Finally, modifications are
said to have been made by Aeschylus, resulting in “life-like” tragic masks, painted in
colour. Other sources elaborate on the materials from which the masks were
constructed. Laura Stone cites some which suggest that the linen to make the masks
was soaked in plaster.181 Materials other than stiffened linen182 have also been
suggested: thin wood or cork, also tree bark.183
Of the materials suggested, stiffened linen seems to me, as a modern mask-maker, the
most practicable in that it could produce a light flexible mask suitable for the long
periods of being worn in energetic performance. There are other useful materials that
would have been readily available but appear to receive no mention in the sources
quoted. These include animal and plant derived glues, wax and perhaps, natural resins.
Clay can also be employed to model a “former” or mould around which the mask shape
can be built. In my own experiments I have found that linen soaked in plaster often
178 Suidas' Lexicon cited in Pickard-Cambridge (1968), 190. 179 Stone (1984), 20. 180 Bieber (1894) 14, cited in Stone (1984), 20. 181 Scholiast on Frogs 406 and Isidore of Seville, Origines 10.119, Stone (1984), 21 and n12. 182 On linen, Halliwell says: “the one piece of classical evidence is Plato com. fr. PCG (142 K), "
Halliwell (1993), n22. 183 Stone (1984), 21.
results in an unnecessarily thick loose structure, prone to crumbling.184 A more
satisfactory alternative is linen impregnated with an animal glue (eg rabbit-skin glue)
with the surface of the resulting mask face coated in a very thin layer of plaster before
being painted and sealed with natural resin or wax. This forms a strong, thin, shell-like
structure which may enhance the acoustical properties of the mask.
In my discussion here of the design of the masks I include a consideration of the
following aspects: coverage of the performer’s face and head, weight, size, eyes and
eyeholes, mouths and mouth apertures, hair, colour, straps and ties, degree of disguise,
mimesis, and degree of neutrality (whilst characterisation is discussed in chapter 6).
The first of these merits a preliminary discussion; the others are more easily
approached when considering the ancient mask images.
Half-masks, that only partly cover the face, did not apparently feature in performances
of the Greek plays.185 They are not mentioned in any of the literary sources nor do they
appear in the theatrical artefacts, neither those dating from the fifth century nor from
later antiquity.
Commentators often speak of the mask (and wig) as covering the entirety of the actor's
head but some confusion is evident on how they envisage this to work in practice.
Laura Stone cites a reference in Demosthenes suggesting that felt caps were attached to
linen masks to enable them to be worn by actors. 186 This description sounds
something like a face mask (covering the whole face and perhaps the hair framing it)
with the remainder of the head being covered by the cap. J. Gould and D.M. Lewis are
of the opinion that the earlier archaeological material probably depicts masks that cover
the face alone.187 Erika Simon, however, appears to disagree stating that “the masks of
184 The modern "stuccoed plaster" (more commonly known as plaster bandage or mud-rock) referred to
by Marshall (1999), n8, is particularly disappointing in this respect. 185 David Wiles cites Paulette Ghiron-Bistagne who has identified a tradition of half-masks that she
argues were used in the Atellan farces. Wiles, however, surmises that they were intended for flute
players: Wiles (1991), 244, n38. 186 Stone (1984), 21, citing De Falsa Legatione 421. 187 Pickard-Cambridge (1968), 191-2.
ancient actors covered not only the face but the whole of the head, hair was sometimes
also attached to them.” 188
As both face and helmet masks may be used in conjunction with wigs (either
permanently attached or detachable) perhaps some clarification is needed of the
distinction between the two. In the case of a helmet mask one structure held rigid
covers both face and head; whilst, as its name implies, the rigid structure of a face mask
covers the face alone. There are numerous ways in which a face mask may be used in
conjunction with a separate wig to complete a performer’s disguise. A wig of loosely
hanging hair is a possibility, or hair arranged on and attached to a separate base (as, for
example, on felt caps as mentioned above). A mask may be made up of two rigid but
interconnected components (the latter achieved perhaps by an interlaced chord) that
cover face and head but that can be loosened for easy putting on and taking off and
tightened to remain secure in performance. Here distinctions between helmet and face
mask may break down. (The masks made for Peter Hall’s Oedipus Plays, made in two
rigid sections laced together were, however, clearly “helmet” masks).
Helmet masks made of one rigid structure alone can be easily put on and taken off if
some extra space is given by slightly elongating the mask head. This design, together
with a head band attached to the inside of the mask, pre-adjusted to fit the performer’s
head, can eliminate the need to adjust a wig or tie strings mid-performance and so may
provide one of the quickest means of assuming and discarding a disguise. (Although
an experienced performer may don a face mask with an attached wig and a head band
almost as quickly, especially with an attendant to check the final arrangement of the
hair.) As the plays provide numerous examples of the need for fast role changes mask
design would presumably have reflected this need.
Tragic masks in classical art
There are only a limited number of artefacts from the fifth century depicting tragic
masks and these are mostly Athenian vase paintings. Gould and Lewis also include in
188 Simon (1982), 9.
their analysis a few Athenian artefacts from the early fourth century in the form of vase
fragments and plaques. 189 Here I give a brief account of this material.190
Figure 3 (The “Basle Chorus”)
This vase painting from early in the fifth century is generally thought to depict part of a
tragic chorus of young men (probably soldiers) from a lost play who are invoking a
spirit to rise from a tomb. That it is a theatrical scene is indicated by the fact that text
(not visible in reproduction) issues from their mouths and that they dance in rectilinear
formation. The presence on some of the figures of a line at ankle level suggests
theatrical costume. J.R. Green sees these as indicative of footwear but it seems to me
that the presence of what appear to be toes makes leggings a more plausible
identification. Green interprets the faces as masks, drawing attention to the chin line
that extends in a mask-like way. 191 Erika Simon sees the masks as including the
diadem and hair and appears to envisage a helmet design. 192 However, these could also
be face masks worn with wigs suggested by a sense of disjunction between face and
hair. More integration between face and head might be expected with a helmet mask
because it has one underlying structure. The sort of design that might be applicable can
be seen on a vase from later antiquity (figure 4). There is in the Basle image, some
elongation between forehead and the back of the head, indicative of the distortion that
provides the extra space needed to swivel a helmet mask on and off. However this
feature is also consistent with these being small face masks incorporating padding or an
internal element such as a ridge at forehead level that holds them at a slight distance
from the performer’s face. A final observation is that from practical experience we
know that when a performer puts on a mask this will remove peripheral vision, yet in
this image, the masks do not prevent the chorus from performing a lively formation
dance.
Figure 5 (“Maenad holding an animal leg”)
189 Pickard-Cambridge (1968), 180-9. 190 Together with a more recently published vase fragment from a museum in Kiev, Figure 17. 191 Green (1991), 35. 192 Simon (1982), 10.
Two paintings from each side of a vase of a slightly later date than the Basle chorus,
feature a maenad with an animal leg in one hand and a sword in the other. In both
images the presence of a piper signifies a theatrical scene. The main difference between
the two is that on one side the maenad face is seen in profile whilst, on the other, it is
presented frontally to the viewer. Simon argues that the hair of the maenad, shown in
profile, is not rendered "softly and naturally" as on other contemporary depictions
(including that on the reverse of the vase). Instead it “shoots up above her forehead
like a little flame and flows in long, stiff strands around her shoulders and neck” and
this is an attempt by the artist to indicate that it is the wig of a mask.193 This idea is
supported by the image on the reverse side of the vase, with the maenad whose face is
frontally presented. Green observes that the presence of a mask is often indicated in
vase paintings by depicting them in frontal presentation. He adds that, above this
maenad, the Greek word for “beautiful” is written in the masculine form (kalos) and
that this suggests a reference to the masked chorus-man performing the part. 194
However, there is a problem in interpreting this vase. According to Green, the maenad
in profile, is depicted as “real” in that she has a breast and lacks the footwear that
would signify that this was a performer; moreover, blood pours out from the severed
animal leg she holds. However, the presence of a piper makes it a theatrical scene.
There is thus an “ambiguity” that Green describes as a "hesitation in the depiction of
the 'reality' of the figures” which is unusual amongst the tragic extant material. 195
Gould and Lewis, on the other hand, see this as an example of the “melting effect”
where there is a blurring of the distinction between performers and the roles they
perform, an effect that can be seen on several theatrical vases. 196
If the artist is indeed depicting masks in these two images the problem arises again of
how to assess the underlying structure of a mask when it is being worn. As with the
Basle chorus masks, there is some disjunction between the face and shooting tuft of
hair and the remaining locks of the maenad whose face is in profile. Unlike the Basle
image there is no distorting elongation of the head.
193 Simon (1982), 9. 194 Green (1991), 34. 195 Green (1991), 34. 196 Pickard-Cambridge (1968), 182.
Figure 6 (“Agora fragments”)
A fragment from a vase painting of a similar date to the maenad vase shows what is
indisputably the image of a mask being carried by a naked boy, although it is not
immediately clear whether it is meant to be a face mask as some commentators
suppose197 or a helmet mask viewed front on. The mask looks large in relation to its
bearer, who is perhaps an attendant, but he appears small relative to the departing
figure whose foot and part of whose costume can also be seen. The size of the mask
might not therefore be disproportionately large for the performer who is to wear it.
The mask is carried by means of strings that Lucy Talcott has identified as coming
from three holes in the top of the mask's head. She also sees strings (the paint depicting
these is now badly faded) attached on each side of the face which she interprets as
being part of the same cord as the carrying strings. These, she argues, are ties to attach
the mask to the performer’s face.198 If she is correct about the side ties it is more likely
to be a face mask or a helmet mask curtailed to cover little more than the face and
crown of the head. A full helmet mask would be difficult to secure on the head with
such ties. Moreover, it is clear that there is more than one continuous cord as four ends
are visible. The simplest arrangement would have three cords, one at the top of the
mask for carrying and the two side ties; this would avoid having to deal with
inconvenient strands inside the mask that might impede the performer.
In his depiction of this mask the vase painter has, according to Gould and Lewis “filled
in the eyes” by which they apparently mean that the image lacks any explicit indication
of eye-holes for the performer to see through. 199 Talcott describes how the paint is
damaged but that for one of the eyes “something of the paint, now a matt brown,
remains, with a trace of the indication of the iris.” She also suggests that the vase
painter has “painted all in, as if to give as much as possible the effect of a mask
actually on the wearer’s head.” 200 If this supposition is correct then it seems to me that
197 Pickard-Cambridge (1968), 191. 198 Talcott (1939), 269. 199 Pickard-Cambridge (1968), 181. 200 Talcott (1939), 270 and 271 n16.
the eyeholes might well have taken the place of mask eye pupils. Where
representations of masks from later antiquity show the eye-holes explicitly some take
the place of the pupils alone, whilst others replace both iris and pupil. (For masks of
comparable size the former option results in smaller apertures for the performer to see,
but I have found with my own masks that with practice, this presents few problems).
In many masks today the eye-holes correspond with the whole eye-socket as, for
example, those used in Peter Hall’s Oresteia. There is however, no evidence for
anything like this in ancient theatrical masks, nor for alternatives such as slits under the
painted mask eye as in the Javanese theatre or taking another example, for the location
of eye-holes away from the eye socket as is often the case in large carnival type masks.
Talcott also speaks of the “gently parted lips” of the mask mouth and observes that it
differs in this respect from images that appear later on in the century in which mouths
“incline more to gape.” 201 Gould and Lewis have doubts about the adequacy of the
mask mouth in this earlier image, wondering if it “is quite wide enough open for acting
purposes.” 202 In my experience their doubts are unjustified as actors have vocalised
effectively in masks that I have made in which the mouth aperture is very small (see
figure 7).
Whilst Talcott sees the mask in question as that of “a young woman whose hair is cut
short in mourning” 203 and she wears a fillet or band that might also signify mourning,
Webster argues that she is a maenad.204 Talcott notes the “calm and serene” quality of
the face and sees parallels for it in some of the early classical sculpture205. Simon,
making a similar connection, finds the head of the bride from the west pediment of the
temple of Zeus at Olympia (figure 8) to be “a particularly good comparison.”206 There is
clearly a congruence between this mask image and classical sculpture refuting any idea
that the fifth century masks resembled those of the Hellenistic period.
Figure 9 (“Valle Pega vase”)
201 Talcott (1939), 271 n16. 202 Pickard-Cambridge (1968), 181. 203 Talcott (1939), 271. 204 Webster, cited in Pickard-Cambridge (1968), 181. 205 Talcott (1939), 270 ff. 206 Simon (1982), 10.
A vase painting from the mid-fifth century depicts two figures; one costumed and
masked as part of a maenad chorus and performing as though in role. This performer’s
mask is in profile which clearly shows lips that are slightly parted without any sense of
gaping open. According to Gould and Lewis: “It has tight black hair and appears to
continue over the head in a sakkos [hairnet], which covers its wearer's hair, a little of
which escapes.”
The other figure, who watches the first, holds another mask “apparently by the back of
the head”; of this mask Gould and Lewis say that its “very long curly hair is orange-
brown, and does not cover the ears.” However, the “not very accomplished drawing”
of the artist means that the facial features are “unconvincingly drawn.” They
nevertheless identify it as “a mask for a young man” and feel it likely that it is to be
worn by its bearer. 207
It is not clear whether the female mask is a helmet or face mask with a cloth covering
the performer’s hair to complete the disguise. The design of the male mask is also
difficult to ascertain. The position of the carrying hand towards the back of the head is
perhaps suggestive and also the way the hair hangs on one side together with what
looks like an attempt to represent an ear and might be the artist’s way of indicating that
it is a helmet mask.
Figure 10 (“Boston pelike”)
Of similar date to the previous painting, this is another “dressing room” scene. Here
there are two members of a maenad chorus, one of whom is in full costume and mask,
carrying a himation and moving in a lively fashion. He wears flat soled theatrical boots
with elongated toes, similar to those of the performers in the Valle Pega vase. His
fellow chorus-man, in an identical costume, appears to be pulling on his own boots and
wears a head band “to restrain his own hair.” His mask lies on the ground in front of
him and “has a full head of hair, with a wide band, and has an ear-ring.” Gould and
Lewis, with some vagueness, also describe it as “a straightforward female face” and see
it as similar to the female mask on the Valle Pega vase. 208 The female masks on both
vases are perhaps “straightforward” in conforming to the classical style having, for
207 Pickard-Cambridge (1968), 181-2. 208 Pickard-Cambridge (1968), 182.
example, the classically straight profile (from forehead to the tip of the nose) and
neutral expressions while in each case the lips are parted slightly. On the two Boston
masks the eye that can be seen is better defined than that of the Valle Pega vase. In the
Boston vase image the gaze of the mask on the ground appears to be directed towards
the performer who is getting ready to put it on. It is clearly depicted as a helmet mask,
holding its structure, though unworn. Compared with some of my own masks the back
appears curtailed so that the rigid part of the structure would not wholly cover the
performer’s head down to the neck. One advantage of this curtailment is that less
additional space is needed to rotate the mask on and off the performer’s head, thus
allowing it to be more close fitting. However it requires additional elements to
complete the disguise. In this vase image the band around the performer’s head is
positioned in a way that it might be such an element covering his lower hair and neck.
It is interesting to note that some of the terracotta heads thought to depict New Comedy
masks such as that in figure 11 are similarly curtailed; whilst face and crown of head
are covered, the performer’s lower head and neck would be visible without an
unsupported extension of the mask in the form of a wig say, or piece of material. (This
curtailment is a feature of the masks of the modern mask-maker, Michael Chase. To
complete the disguise he uses various means such as introducing a separate wig or
incorporating stylised “hair” in the form of leather thongs that are secured to the rigid
structure of his masks see figure 12). Another image from an early fourth century vase
features two chorus-men, one of whom is in mask and costume whilst the other is only
partially dressed, but in this instance they are comic, rather than tragic performers
(figure 13). Here there is an inversion of the convention that seems to apply to tragic
“dressing room” scenes, in that it is the fully masked and costumed figure who watches
whilst his fellow chorus-man dances with costume half on and mask resting on the top
of his head. The latter is a position for the mask often favoured by my own actors
between scenes or when rehearsing. Green also notes that this “was the natural way to
deal with a mask after a performance, just as a helmet was pushed back when not in
use.” 209 The position of this comic mask on the performer’s head suggests a helmet
design, as although a face mask may be worn in this manner it would tend to rest at a
209 Green (1995b), 100 n36.
flatter angle as does the example in figure 14 from a dressing room scene of the
Hellenistic period.
The fourth century comic image manifests the visual aesthetics distinguishing high and
low status figures in classical art.210 The straight nose, delicately proportioned mouth,
chin and eye of the partially dressed Athenian citizen performer contrasts with the snub
nose, protruding lips and large distorted eye of his comic mask.
Figure 15 (“Kiev fragment”)
A vase fragment from Olbia, now at Kiev, has recently been published211 and is
catalogued as Athenian, from early in the last quarter of the fifth century. In the
foreground are two members of a female chorus, performing a lively dance, together
with a piper. The masks of the chorus-men are painted in white and are clearly
distinguishable from the darker tone of their own flesh; thus there is no “melting
effect.” There is also a representation of ears on the masks which do not perhaps
correspond to the position of the performer’s own (if I am reading the mask on the left
correctly). Leaving the performer’s ears clear would make practical sense as it would
aid the picking up of audial cues and hearing also plays an important part in
maintaining balance. As a mask removes the performer’s peripheral vision these are
particularly important considerations. Apart from featuring a tiara these masks seem
comparable in design to those of the Boston pelike.
In the background of the image is a male figure carrying something. If it is a depiction
of a figure wearing a mask, the latter is indistinguishable in colour from the
performer’s own flesh.
Figure 2 (“Pronomos vase”)
This painting probably commemorates a victory at the dramatic festival and depicts the
winning cast. Also shown are the playwright, flute-player, and lyre-player on the
bottom row, whilst above the god Dionysus reclines with his consort Ariadne. The
presence of the god and the tripods on either side denote this as the sanctuary of
210 Mentioned on p 39. 211 In the Museum der Akademie der Wissenschaften, discussed in Moraw & Nölle (2002), 72.
Dionysus, but it is also tempting to read it as another “dressing room” scene and given
the relaxed manner of the actors and chorus-men, most of whom wear theatrical
costumes and carry their masks, to imagine that it is after the show. As the final play in
the day’s tragedy programme was a satyr play it makes sense that the chorus are satyrs.
One chorus-man still masked and costumed dances as though in his satyr role.
Several of the chorus masks are depicted in profile and it is clear that they are of helmet
design as their shape, particularly the back of the mask head is maintained even when
off the performer’s head and held in the hand or dangled from a string. Several of the
performers place their hands inside their masks to hold them and this is a very natural
way to handle a helmet mask. Moreover only a helmet would provide an inner cavity
suitable for the hand to rest in. Two performers hold their masks behind their backs
tight up against their bodies at buttocks level which is not something I have observed
with modern performers but this is perhaps indicative of the social nature of the
occasion together with the fact that the masks have not been removed for safe keeping.
The easy manner in which all masks are held suggests that they are not heavy objects.212
The performer playing Pappasilenos213 who may be interpreted as the chorus leader,214
stands in the upper part of the pictorial field, as do the actors playing the main roles.
The mask of the former and three masks of the latter (two male and one female) are all
shown presented frontally. The three actors’ masks, which would have been the same
type as those in the tragedies, are all painted white and are only slightly larger than the
actor’s heads. It is reasonable to infer that they too are helmet masks and again they
appear to be fairly lightweight.
The faces of the performers are given a less detailed treatment than the masks. Whilst
the eyes of the former correspond proportionately to those of real life faces, the mask
eyes are disproportionately large. T.B.L. Webster describes them as having “wrinkled
foreheads and smooth brows.” 215 It is this that makes them not entirely neutral in
expression, also the fact that the eyes of the male mask on the left appears to gaze
upwards, perhaps towards the female mask. David Wiles contrasts the calm,
212 A similar point about Greek masks generally is in Aylen (1985), 101. 213 The aged father of the satyrs. 214 Csapo & Slater (1994), 70.
emotionless faces of the performers with the alive quality in the eyes of the male masks
and suggests that the vase painter intended to depict “what masks meant, what they felt
like, coming to life in performance.” 216 I describe below217 how masks that essentially
conform to the classical style may nevertheless appear expressive in performance and
the Pronomos tragic masks are more in keeping with the classical style than with the
later Hellenistic tragic masks. However it is also possible that the fifth century masks
were allowed somewhat more expressive features than the faces of sculpture of the
same period. The features of the Pronomos female mask appear to be fairly neutral in
old photographs218 but this detail is now hard to discern on the vase itself. This mask
and one of the male masks have tiaras whilst the remaining tragic mask is of Herakles
and accordingly wears a lion’s head. Herakles’ attributes of lion skin and club also
appear; the former worn over the actor’s ornate theatrical costume.
The chorus-men are all young, and this is denoted by the fact that they are clean
shaven, whilst the actors, being mature men, have beards. There is some ambiguity
concerning the figure seated at the end of Dionysus’ couch and holding the female
tragic mask, who appears to be female rather than the male actor who plays the role.
Suggestions for interpreting this figure include the presence of a melting effect.
Despite the fact that choruses usually consisted of twelve or fifteen members, only
eleven chorus-men, are depicted and the real life names of all but two of them appear.
The names of the actors are not given.
Fourth century images
Figure 16 shows fragments from a vase found in Taranto, which Gould and Lewis see
as close in style and date to the Pronomos vase.219 It depicts figures in the ornate type
of theatrical costume already seen in that image, together with a piper, female masks
and chorus-men and a further mask can also be seen.
215 Webster (1967), 11. 216 Wiles (2005). 217 See p 97. 218 For example in Mack (1994), 160 fig 107. 219 Pickard-Cambridge (1968), 187.
The mask mouths, unlike those in earlier vase paintings are wide open, noticeably more
so than those of the Pronomos image. However, they lack the tragic down turning of
the mouth of Hellenistic masks. Other points of interest are that the masks’ ears are
clearly depicted and that the hair is curling and seemingly thick stranded. As they are
all presented frontally they could be either face or helmet in design. However, the
manner in which the chorus-men all grip their masks by the chin is suggestive, in that it
is, generally speaking, easier to handle a face mask than a helmet mask in this way
particularly when it is held in an upright position as one performer does. The non-
chorus mask is shown carried in an upright position, by an actor, who grasps something
attached to the top of the mask’s head (although it is not clear whether this is a cord or
even the mask’s hair), which would be a more natural way of handling a helmet mask.
(The different distribution of weight on a helmet mask means that it is generally more
awkward to carry by the chin than is the case with a face mask. On the Pronomos vase
which clearly depicts helmet masks, none are shown carried by the chin).
Close in date is a relief from Piraeus (figure 17) featuring three actors visiting
Dionysus, who is reclining on a couch with a female figure. There may originally have
been a representation of three masks, of which damage has obliterated one and left little
facial detail on another. The remaining mask image Gould and Lewis describe as “an
old man’s mask with longish but tidy hair, high forehead, gaping mouth and beard.” 220
Whilst it appears to be carried from something (like a cord) attached to the top of its
head, the other mask is held upside down by its chin in a similar manner to the way the
chorus of the Taranto vase carry theirs.
The most intact of the masks is presented in profile and it is worthwhile here to
introduce another similarly presented male mask image from a South Italian vase
fragment dated second quarter of third century BC (figure 18). Here a tragic actor
holds a sword in one hand and in the other, “the mask of a bearded man, fair-haired
with curly brows.” Though open, the mask mouth does not gape as in the other fourth
century tragic mask images discussed above. The mask eyes, as Gould and Lewis
observe are “fully painted in.” 221 Again there is the possibility that the eyeholes would
be in the position of the mask’s eye pupils. Unlike the white faced male masks of the
220 Pickard-Cambridge (1968), 188. 221 Pickard-Cambridge (1968), 189.
Pronomos vase this has the same brownish flesh tone as that of the actor. (In this vase
painting the artist has not been overly constrained by his medium and could have
chosen alternative colouration including white). Webster observes that this is the first
example in which the brows “are not evenly arched but swing up from the nose over
the outer corner of the eyes.” 222 It is perhaps this feature together with the depiction of
some facial lines that makes the expression of this mask not entirely neutral. The mask
maintains its head shape, though unworn and therefore would appear to be of helmet
design. It rests in the actor’s hand, held from beneath and he seems to regard it. Being
a South Italian, rather than Athenian vase, there are perhaps a different set of image
making conventions here. The actor, for example, is not depicted as the idealised type
appropriate for the representation of an Athenian citizen, but is squat, with unkempt
short, thinning, hair tinged with grey, disproportionately large, even bulging eyes, and
has facial stubble where he has shaved his beard and moustache. By contrast, the mask
face possesses a degree of idealisation.
Gould and Lewis mention two further fourth century Athenian images of theatrical
masks. One is on a fragment from the Agora dated to the second quarter of the fourth
century (figure 19) and is, they suggest, “a long-haired, white-faced mask” but it is
clearly damaged and so difficult to interpret further. The other appears on a relief from
the mid-fourth century, now in Copenhagen (figure 20). The mask is of “a middle-aged
woman with long hair and sloping brows.” It is carried by some attachment to the top
of the head by an actor dressed in female attire, including “soft boots.” 223 This is
clearly not the ornate theatrical costume of the Pronomos and Taranto chorus
fragments. The gaping quality of the mouth is similar to that of the best preserved
mask on the Piraeus relief and also those of the Taranto chorus and my comments on
the mouths of the latter would also seem to be applicable to these examples.
To conclude this section, in the fifth and fourth century images discussed, tragic masks
have been depicted worn by performers, held and carried by them, or in one case by an
attendant and in another placed on the ground. In the fifth century images, unmasked
chorus-men appear as beardless, dark haired young men whilst in the one example
depicting actors they are mature men with dark hair and beards; all are represented in a
222 Webster (1967), 12. 223 Pickard-Cambridge (1968), 188.
formulaic manner as standard types, more so than their masks. However, both
performers and masks arguably conform to the idealising classical norm for images of
high status figures including their straight forehead to nose tip profile, their lack of
individual characterisation and their neutral or multivalent expression.
Commentators such as Gould and Lewis use the term “naturalistic” to describe the fifth
century masks. This term is problematical here, anachronistic not only in its evocation
of the modern theatre of naturalism but also in equating our own criteria of what
constitutes a “natural” or “life-like” artefact with the rather different conceptual
framework of ancient Greek aesthetics. It is true that as the inheritors of an ancient
legacy our perceptions have been conditioned by Greek art in the incomplete and
fragmented form that has come down to us and that is perhaps why some commentators
see it as natural. However, its significance to the society from which it arose is wholly
different to the impact it has on us today. Whilst Gombrich argues for there being
some universal principle manifest in the breakthrough into realistic depiction224 it
seems safer to utilise the ancient Greek concept of mimesis, which as Stephen Halliwell
argues is both “world reflecting” and “world creating.” 225 These two aspects of
mimesis can be seen in the vase images discussed, for instance, comparing the eyes of a
Hellenistic mask with those of fifth century examples, both have the whites of the eye,
iris and pupil, however, the round saucer shaped eyes of the later mask is less
anatomically correct than the more oval eyes of the earlier masks. Moreover, in both
classical and later masks the eyes are disproportionately large in relation to the face
overall, compared with a real life face.
The fact that in these images the totality of the eye is “painted in” allows the possibility
that the eye-holes for the performer to see, corresponded with the mask’s eye pupils.
The resulting apertures, though small, would in my experience be adequate for an
experienced performer even in a large scale theatre space. Tragic mask mouths are
generally depicted as slightly open in the earlier fifth century Athenian images and
become larger later; in my experience all are adequate when worn by an actor with
good vocal production. Ears are depicted on a few of the masks, in some cases in an
offset position that would leave the performer’s own free and thus help him to pick up
224 Gombrich (1977), chapter iv. 225 See p 39.
audial cues and also aid the maintenance of balance. There is nothing in the paintings
to suggest that masks would have been painted in abnormally bright colours to make
them more visible in the large theatre spaces of the ancient world. Most of the images
appear on red figure vases and it is difficult to make inferences on colour in this
context. On the Pronomos vase all the relevant masks are painted white, but it is
difficult to know how to interpret this. Only on the vase from Taranto is the mask given
a definite skin colouring, again not abnormally bright, but as an isolated example it is
difficult to give it an interpretive context.
In some examples the masks are clearly of helmet design whilst in others they could
equally well be face masks. Whilst the latter tend to be lighter than the former, it is
clear from the images that even the helmet masks must have been fairly lightweight.
From the point of view of the performer, a helmet design, although enabling fast
changes and perhaps imparting some vocal enhancement can have the disadvantages of
being a little heavier, claustrophobic and hot to wear compared with a face mask.
Moreover, as fast changes were not required of the chorus and there was generally no
opportunity for them to remove their masks mid-play to take breath, the less
constricting face mask might be chosen; two of the early fourth century images
depicting masks held by the chin suggest this.
There are also different skills involved in the facture; a helmet mask generally requires
a little more sculpting and may not be so simple to reproduce as a face mask. As a
considerable number of masks were required in the drama festivals and their durability
was perhaps limited, mask making may have involved several workshops employing
many people with varying degrees of skill. It is therefore possible that more than one
type of mask design was used even within one production. It is a practice that I follow
myself without much loss of visual consistency. Apart from the advantages already
mentioned storage and transportation of face masks is on the whole easier than is true
of helmets.
The fifth century masks appear to be only a littler larger than the performer’s head
which suggests that they would have been fairly close fitting. However I suggest that
in order to allow the performer some facial movement, without disturbing the set of the
mask, they would not have been moulded to the contours of the actor’s face. The
helmet masks would have required extra space between forehead and the back of the
head, for the mask to be rotated on and off and some of the images suggest such an
elongation of the mask head. Although this feature constitutes a departure from
anatomical exactitude I have found that modern audiences tend not to notice such
distortions unless they come from a specialist field in which they are trained to make
such observations, for example, artists or surgeons. The disproportionately large eyes
also often go unremarked or may be perceived as an aesthetically pleasing
modification.
There is nothing in the evidence from the classical period to suggest that masks and
costumes would not have completely disguised the performer (unlike some statues
from later antiquity, particularly in Imperial Rome which depicted the performer’s own
face beneath the mask). 226 Rather the “melting effect” by which masked performers
appear to be indistinguishable from their role suggests that the convention against
explicit breaches of the tragic frame was also observed in masking. (The Kiev
fragment is an exceptional example in this respect). Where unmasked figures appear
alongside those in full costume and mask the former are often interpretable as
performers in the process of changing into or out of theatrical attire whereas the latter
have taken on the characteristics of their role.
These observations are made on the basis of a fairly small number of classical mask
representations and of these most have been female; a few masks of mature and young
men have also been depicted. There are too few examples to provide clear evidence on
the masks of older figures and also of the way in which gender and age distinctions
might have been signified by differences in skin and hair colour. For the latter, a
reference in Aristophanes’ Assembly Women 227 indicates that the colour code of pale
skin for women and dark for men, was in use. However, this is contradicted by the
evidence of the Pronomos vase painting in which the tragic masks have pale skin
irrespective of gender.
The mult ivalent mask
The general lack of familiarity of modern audiences, with mask performance means
that there are many who have little idea of the mask’s expressive potential. In my own
226 Green (1994), 167-8. 227 Assembly Women 63-64 refers to women sun tanning in order to impersonate men.
work I often meet with a response of great surprise that the faces of the masks in
performance appear to change expression. This effect has to be seen before it can be
fully appreciated. Lacking this experience Gould and Lewis are perplexed that whilst
the plays give a clear indication that different emotions were to be expressed this was
to be done with “a facial expression that was unalterable, owing to the use of masks.”
They also discuss the possibility that masks could have been frequently changed during
a performance but dismiss the idea due to lack of evidence and the observation that
changes in emotion often occur within a single scene.228 However, the mask when worn
in performance is not a static entity but moves and presents at different angles with
different expressions apparently passing across its face.
This ability results partly from the performer’s technique and partly from its design.
Jacques Lecoq says that a good performance mask is one “which changes in expression
when it moves. If it stays the same when the actor changes posture and situation, it is a
dead mask.”229 Lecoq here articulates a criterion for modern theatrical masks and the
question arises whether this was important in the fifth century and if so, how the effect
may have been achieved. In answer to the first question Stephen Halliwell argues that,
by assuming that there must be: “expression subtly latent ... or available in the look of a
represented face … [we risk] translating our own acquired dispositions into general
interpretative principles.”230 However, the mobility seen in the mask is of a different
order to that of the everyday face having the mysterious mimetic property that is both
world reflecting and world creating akin to the ancient story of the statue that can
move.
How the fifth century masks may have been designed as three-dimensional artefacts,
moving with the performer, is precisely the information that is lacking in the two-
dimensional representations of the ancient masks. Following those who argue for
congruence between the visual arts of the classical period I now extend my study to
classical sculpture and to the three-dimensional representations of masks (both tragic
and comic) from later antiquity, especially those thought to depict New Comedy
figures. Some of the latter are particularly fine and one outstanding example, a small
228 Pickard-Cambridge (1968), 171-4. 229 Lecoq (1987), 115 cited in Wiles (1991), 104 n15. 230 Halliwell (1993), 208.
terracotta from Lipari representing a female mask, arguably embodies some of the
characteristics associated with fifth century aesthetic norms. David Wiles notes that
her “hair is in an idealised classical style such as was used for Praxiteles’s Aphrodite of
Knidos.”231 In my view this is also true of her features more generally (see figure 21).
Tragedy and New Comedy are arguably linked in that the latter derived not only from
Athenian Old and Middle comedy but also from the tragi-comedies of Euripides. The
masks of New Comedy vary in kind reflecting this hybrid. It is therefore legitimate to
use this later material to gain further insights into the design of the earlier masks.
Representations of masks that are purely comic can also be instructive in gaining an
understanding the underlying approach of the mask-makers of antiquity.
Starting with classical sculpture, I take as an example the bride on the west pediment of
the temple of Zeus at Olympia whose face arguably bears a close affinity to at least one
of the fifth century tragic masks. Some idea of the subtle changes in emotion that
emerge when her face is viewed from different angles can be seen in figure 8 and these
may serve as an illustrative example of the “multivalent” expression of the faces in
classical sculpture. However, a word of caution is necessary here. Photographs are a
poor substitute for an unrestricted viewing of actual sculpture and inevitably give
misleading information; flattening out planes and distorting angles. Moreover the fall
of light upon the piece makes integral shapes difficult to interpret. I therefore offer this
as an attempt to demonstrate the sort of effects to be found more generally in classical
sculpture rather than a definitive analysis of this example.
Apart from its superb sculptural qualities, being both a close realisation of a human
countenance and deviating from it in its idealisation, this is full of subtle asymmetries
that do not obviously impose themselves on the viewer but are perceptible when a
conscious attempt is made to find them. In figure 8 (b) the face of the bride is seen in
frontal position with a slight tilt to one side. I have superimposed a vertical line so that
some of the asymmetrical features can be seen more clearly particularly in the shape of
the cheeks, the mouth and the position of the eyes.
231 Wiles (1991), 182.
I consider now what might be learnt from the ancient New Comedy mask artefacts232
which also incorporate asymmetries, some more obviously than others. There are also
examples from this genre that suggest mask-makers designed particular features with
the idea that quite specific moods might be conveyed depending upon the angle at
which the mask was presented to the audience. David Wiles argues that this is the case
for some of the terracottas representing “slave masks” 233 and experiments that I have
conducted with one of my own mask reconstructions support his contention.234
Asymmetry in such slave masks tends to be marked and immediately noticeable. With
some of the other New Comedy mask types, asymmetry is more subtle and this is true
of the finer female masks, already mentioned, that are comparable to classical models.
With these the asymmetries are most discernable in the mouths and eyes and are often
only apparent on close study. A mask may have eyes that differ in aspects such as size,
the level and angle at which they are set into the face and in their focus. The mouth
may turn up slightly on one side and down on the other. Similarly, subtle asymmetries
occur in some Noh masks, in particular the young female mask called ko-omote that is
practically “neutral” in expression but is, nevertheless, “alive” in the Lecoq sense.
Nakamura Yasuo describes how there are “slight differences…in the bevel of the right
and left upper and lower eyelids, in the sculpting of either side of the mouth, and in the
plump contours of the cheek.” By this means the masks when “moved only the
slightest degree, can delicately, almost imperceptibly, express the full range of human
feeling: joy, anger, grief, anticipation.” Another feature is that “the eyeholes have been
carved in such a way, one eye focusing at a point higher than the other.” This creates
an unfocused expressionless look in the masks when immobile. However, “in motion,
because of the square-cut irises they seem to have a subtle, constantly moving line of
vision, so that when the mask is tilted slightly or moved in any manner the eyes are
always brought into focus. As an aid to this effect, the whites of the eyes have been
shaded with sumi ink to soften the starkness of the carving.” 235
232 These are mostly small terracottas thought to represent masks used in New Comedy. Many of the
finest were found in Lipari and are reproduced in Bernabo Brea (1981). 233 Wiles (1991), 166. 234 Vervain (2004), 251. 235 Nakamura (1984), 123.
Modern mask interpretations
Influences of both the Japanese Noh tradition and ancient Greek artefacts can be seen
in the work of the modern mask-maker, Thanos Vovolis.236As well as asymmetrical
effects around the eyes, nose and mouth (see figure 22) asymmetry is incorporated in
every plane in a precise and subtle fashion. This imparts a high degree of apparent
mobility to the mask face in performance (when viewed in an intimate space), which
could well be excessive if employed in the wrong context. If the conveying of action is
an important part of Greek tragedy, as I have been arguing, then this degree of seeming
mobility in a mask face might act as a distraction. However, Vovolis takes a different
view of the genre and focuses on work that accommodates his idea of tragedy as ritual
theatre. In a demonstration performance of a scene from Aeschylus’ Persians at
RHUL, a highly formal and often static performance style was employed, with
prominence given to choral vocalisation and in this context the mobile mask faces were
an integral part of the whole.237
As I have described above, it is a significant feature of Greek and Roman theatrical
mask design that the eye is represented (suggesting that eye-holes take the place of
either the mask’s pupil or its iris and pupil). If masks are made like those of Peter
Hall’s Oresteia (see figure 23), with empty eye sockets, the result is not the same.
Such masks may still have life, appear to change expression and convey thoughts and
intentions. However to communicate all this with finer shades of nuance perhaps
requires a mask in which the whole eye is represented. Hall’s Oresteia masks are
notable for bold modelling and disproportionately enlarged eyes and mouth. Some
commentators have seen an oriental influence in the general look of some of Herbert’s
masks.238 In Herbert’s masks I see various influences including medieval sculpture (the
old nurse), echoes of Hellenistic and Roman masks (the Furies) and in their bold
sculpting a reference to African tribal masks. This last influence suggests ritual theatre
and so is perhaps in keeping with Hall’s ritualistic interpretation of the play.
236 Whose masks were used in a production of Aeschylus’ Suppliants at Epidaurus in 1994. 237 Mask Conference held in the Noh studio theatre, RHUL, 20th-21st April 2002. 238 Schulman (1981) and Walker (1981).
When Hall’s Oresteia is viewed on video, the apparent lack of life in the masks is
disturbing. In part this may have been due to the performers’ limited experience of
mask so that they did not find the special energy required. Hall’s insistence on
continuous frontal presentation may also have prevented their being viewed at the
different angles necessary for them to apparently change facial expression. However,
some aspects of the masks themselves may have been partly responsible; the
enlargement of features in relation to the mask face together with their bold simplified
realisation, a lack of sufficient asymmetry for their size and also the empty eye sockets
being contributory factors.
A comparison can be made here between the effectiveness of the masks in the Hall
video and that in a recorded version of Tyrone Guthrie’s Oedipus Rex. It is clear that
the latter was not a recording of a theatrical performance before an audience but was
specifically made to play to the needs and strengths of the camera. For Guthrie’s
production the masks of Tanya Moisewitsch also had empty sockets in place of eyes
(see figure 24), but their features were not quite so disproportionately enlarged in
relation to the mask face. They also differed in being cut away at the mouth revealing
the actor’s own mouth (made up to match, as far as possible, the colour of the mask).
On the Guthrie film there was no sense that the masks were dead. However factors
other than pure mask design contributed to keep the performance as a whole alive;
these included: the physicality of the actors, the imaginative staging with the selective
eye of the camera very much in mind, and the condensed Yeats translation that kept
action going at a good pace. Allowing the performers’ mouths to remain visible
imparts some life in and of itself. Apart from this the masks gave no impression of
being designed with the idea of enabling changes of expression and Moisewitsch
writing about her designs makes no mention of this aspect.
The masks designed by Dionysis Fotopoulos for Hall’s Oedipus Plays included a
represented eye but were altogether more amorphous in the depiction of features (see
figure 25) and often, particularly in the case of the chorus, depended for their effect on
diffuse stage lighting. They appeared to great advantage when there was a momentary
glimpse of a single choral face turned towards and then away from the audience. Some
commentators have compared them unfavourably with the Herbert masks. Peter
Reynolds, who has worked with both sets in education workshops, feels that the earlier
masks were in some ways superior performance masks.239 David Wiles, comparing
both sets when they appeared in an exhibition felt that the Herbert masks had more
intrinsic life.240 I observed that whilst the masks made for the two sisters, Ismene and
Antigone did not themseves look promising, the latter came to life when worn by
Tanya Moodie.
In the masks designed by Alison Chitty (figure 26) for Hall’s Bacchai, the eyes were
again represented but they were on the whole disappointing, particularly the Bull-man
mask of Dionysus that was aesthetically offensive in its blandness. Greg Hicks, who
played Dionysus, describes, in a talk given two weeks before the opening, his
disappointment with its design (not having at that stage received the finished mask). 241
In the actual show, the outer case of the mask was soon removed to reveal an inner
mask: that of the face of Dionysus disguised as a mortal which was the one worn by
Hicks as the god, through most of the performance. This was a little more pleasing as
an artefact and was given some charm by Hicks. The most successful mask in
performance was perhaps that of Agave which, whilst having what David Wiles
describes as a “vacant” face, appeared emotionally arresting due to the moving
performance of William Houston. The “naturalistic features” of the masks of the main
characters is noted by Amanda Wrigley and she describes Hick’s Tiresias as “very
much the ageing hippy- the actor’s own earring glints here for this character to good
effect! - with long stringy hair, little round shades.” 242 I found these masks too close an
approximation to the human face; apart from allowing easy doubling there seemed little
reason to employ them. The chorus masks, though unifying the group, had a crude doll
like appearance which according to one critic lent them “a strangely ventriloquial
air.”243 Overall I found the Bacchai masks not sufficiently profound for the themes
explored in the plays and they lacked the sort of power described by J.-L. Barrault.244
239 Peter Reynolds, Talk in National Theatre Education practical workshop with masks used in the Peter
Hall Oedipus Plays, 1997. 240 Conversation with David Wiles, February 2004. 241 Hicks (2001). 242 Wrigley (2002). 243 Billington (2002). 244 See p 35.
Conclusion
As none of the fifth century masks have survived, our knowledge of them is based on
an interpretation of various kind of evidence including ancient literary sources and
archaeological finds. To the observations of classical scholars I add my own informed
by experience of mask making and performing in mask. Of the materials mentioned in
the ancient sources, linen stiffened with natural glue and perhaps a coating of plaster,
seem to me the most likely to produce satisfactory results. Vase paintings from the
classical period provide information on various aspects of contemporary tragic masks,
including: coverage of the performer’s face and head, weight, size, eyes, mouths, hair,
colour, straps and ties, degree of disguise, mimesis, and degree of neutrality. Amongst
these images both helmet and face masks appear to be shown; masks seem to be
lightweight and only slightly larger than the performer’s head; eyes are fully
represented suggesting that the mask eye-holes take the place of the pupils (although
irises and pupils is another possibility). Mask mouths show increasing degrees of
openness as time goes on. However, this is unremarkable in comparison with the wide
gaping mouths seen on Hellenistic and Roman tragic masks. The earlier masks also
lack the onkos, the staring saucer shaped eyes and exaggerated tragic expression of the
later examples. Instead the masks of the classical period appear to conform more to the
visual aesthetics of the time. Masks together with costumes disguised performers to the
extent that they are often depicted as “melting” into their roles.
In considering the nature of the ancient masks it is relevant to include, from the modern
tradition of mask theatre, Lecoq’s notion of the “alive” mask. The requirement for
expressive potential in a mask face is not specific to our own culture but was also part
of fifth century visual aesthetics, as manifest in the multivalent expressions that appear
on the faces of high status figures in classical sculpture. If this is accepted then it is
relevant to consider what might be learnt from a closer examination of these faces and
also from the three-dimensional representations of New Comedy masks some of which
are stylistically related to classical art. The appearance of subtle asymmetries,
particularly in the region of the eyes and mouth, seem to me, to be in large part
responsible for imparting a desirable degree of expressive potential to the represented
face.
Masks in some recent productions have departed significantly from the ancient designs
in, for example, being half-masks or having empty eye sockets, and have varied in their
degree of apparent life. Peter Hall’s Oresteia masks failed most notably in this respect.
This may have been due to their design but alternatively the problem may have been
inappropriate staging and mask technique.
In a previous chapter attention has been drawn to the dual nature of the represented face
in classical art, so that it appears both “life-like” and universal. When such a face is
realised in the multivalent mask the result is life in the Lecoq sense and the potential to
convey different moods and emotions in a manner that is very much part of the action.
At other times, however, such a mask in a ritual mode can become “other-worldly” and
“remote.”
In this chapter I have focussed on the visual qualities of the mask but what can be seen
by the audience is very much dependent on the theatre space in which masked
performances take place and this is the subject of the next chapter.
Chapter 4: Masks: Visibility, Acoustics and Theatre Space
Introduction
Many productions of masked Greek tragedy today are staged in theatre spaces quite
unlike those of the original fifth century performances. Often indoor venues are used
including proscenium arch theatres, for example, Karolos Koun brought his production
of the Persians to London’s Aldwych theatre in 1965. Theatre spaces from non-
Western cultures have also been employed such as a student production of Aeschylus’
Suppliants performed in the Noh Studio Theatre at RHUL.245 Masked Greek tragedy has
also been seen in intimate studio theatres; for a number of years from the 1990s,
Russell Shone’s Chloe Productions gave performances in this kind of venue, as part of
the University of London’s annual Festival of Greek Drama. Virtual performances in
computer simulations of the ancient theatres is another approach to performing the
plays in the context of academic research.246
If theatre is about the proximity and interaction of audience and actors then this is even
more true of mask performance. The mask is most powerful when there is a perceived
connection, an interchange of energy between all who are physically present. Many
modern conventions such as stage lighting and the darkened auditorium create a barrier
between the mask and its audience. Even those productions that have taken place in the
ancient theatres sites do so under conditions very different from the fifth century. At
Epidaurus performances only take place in the summer months and in the evenings
under stage lighting. The original performances at the theatre of Dionysus in Athens,
on the other hand, took place during the daytime in early Spring as part of a religious
community event, given by and for the citizen body of Athens. There was thus already
a sense of connectedness between all present.
The vast scale of this ancient theatre has implications for masking and has led to some
speculation on issues such as the visibility of the mask. The idea that Greek masks
were made more visible by being larger than the human face, appears clearly fixed in
245 On 31st March 1995, directed by Poh Sim Plowright and David Wiles. 246 For example, an AHRC funded project at Kings College, University of London. Some results were
presented at a conference on “The Body and the Mask in Ancient Theatre Space: Perceptions,
the popular imagination today and derives from a view prevalent amongst an earlier
generation of scholars who accepted the relevance of Lucian’s description of the visual
appearance of the Greek actor, to the fifth century.247 These ideas are now generally
discredited by scholars, as they do not accord with the visual evidence on the fifth
century tragic masks. The need for masks incorporating amplification devices, in
particular megaphones, to enable the actor’s voice to carry through the large ancient
theatre spaces is another view that is now generally out of favour in academic circles,
(see for example Gould and Lewis).248
In this chapter, I start with a discussion of the ancient theatre spaces focussing on these
practical issues and questioning the usual emphasis on the distance between audience
and performers. I argue that there would have been a need for masks that worked well
visually when viewed close to as well as at a distance and describe how I have achieved
this in my own masks. I then turn to the acoustical properties of masks and give a brief
account of the ideas of Thanos Vovolis and also of Michael Chase; both of whom have
worked independently on the idea that masks can be designed to enhance the
performer’s voice; I also describe my own observations and small-scale experiments on
acoustic properties.
Theatre space and mask design
In fifth century Athens the most important performances of tragedy took place during
the annual City Dionysia held in the theatre of Dionysus. Although the site exists
today, alterations in its layout that took place in later antiquity mean that we are, as
with so many aspects of fifth century performance, obliged to speculate on its
configuration in the period of the great tragedians. Many people like to imagine that it
was similar in conception, a less perfect and embryonic version, of the fourth century
theatre at Epidaurus (figure 27) with its circular orchestra. However, the seating area
on the hillside above the Athenian theatre would have been less regular than that at
Epidaurus and was interrupted by the Odeon building jutting into the area on one side.
Moreover, unlike the stone seats of the later theatre, those at Athens were wooden
Coincidences and Diversions,” at RHUL on 5th May 2007. 247 See p 73. 248 Pickard-Cambridge (1968), 195-6.
benches. The orientation of the two theatres is also different; whilst spectators in the
Athenian theatre would have faced south, those at Epidaurus face north-west. Both are
vast open-air theatres and at Athens there were audiences in excess of twelve thousand
people. Although there is no definitive archaeological evidence to support it, the idea
of a circular orchestra in the earlier theatre is firmly embedded in modern perceptions,
for aesthetic reasons if nothing else. David Wiles argues a case based on the culturally
specific symbolic and ritual connotations of the circular form for the fifth century
Athenians and the need for citizens of the democratic polis to be immediately visible to
each other. Rush Rehm, arguing against this view, sides with J.R. Green in envisaging
a roughly rectilinear orchestra form, in keeping with those found in most of the
surviving rural theatres.249
Many modern commentators emphasise the distance between performers and audience
and have been concerned about the extent to which the mask faces would have been
visible and their features distinguishable. According to T.B.L. Webster in the
“Periclean theatre as depicted by Arthur Pickard-Cambridge… the distance from the
front of the ‘stage’ across the orchestra to the front row of spectators was 60 feet
…[whilst] the back rows…were about 300 feet from the stage.”250 The distances quoted
by Webster assume that the orchestra was round, and also that the actors were
performing on a stage in front of the skene and not in the orchestra, with the chorus.
Dropping either, or both, of these assumptions can result in a model of the Athenian
theatre in which more of the audience would have been closer to the actors. The idea
that the actors performed on their own stage, separated from the chorus in the orchestra,
has more recently gone out of favour. David Wiles, for example, argues that in the
democratic Athenian city state such distinctions would have been out of place and all
performers would have operated on the same level and in the same space. Such an
arrangement would, he argues, have been necessary for tragedy to articulate “the
relationship between the individual and the collective, ” which was the “ fundamental
problem of the democratic polis.”251 One objection to the idea that the actors performed
249 Wiles (1997), 52 and 73ff. Other scholars who favour a circular orchestra include: Pickard-
Cambridge (1946), 5-10, 16-16; Walton (1984), 34. For a different view: Rehm (2002), 39-40; Green
(1995a), 50. 250 Webster (1970), 4. 251 Wiles (1997), 65-66.
in the orchestra, rather than on a stage, is that the presence of the chorus would tend to
obscure them from the view of those in the lower level seats. However, some recent
discussion has emphasised the importance of the vertical dimension in Greek theatre
space. David Wiles states that “there can be no problem of sight-lines when the
audience looks down from above.”252 This argument ignores an important group of
people, namely the city dignitaries and priests of Dionysus in the front rows, who were
not looking downwards and whose status argues against any presentation that would
have been unfavourable to their viewing position. However I think this problem could
have been resolved with careful staging.
Visibility would also have been impeded if there were any truth in the idea of a
permanent raised altar at the central point of the orchestra. The existence of such a
feature would also have obstructed the action if it had essentially taken place in this
space. David Wiles argues that rather than a substantial structure there would have
been “a marking stone, prominent enough to define the sacredness of the centre, but not
large enough to interfere with the dramatic action.” According to Rush Rehm no real
altar was ever located in the early orchestra.253
Very little consideration has been given to the implications for masking posed by the
Rural Dionysia, the smaller scale drama festivities that took place at a deme level in
which the audience was presumably closer to the performers. J.R. Green speaks of the
“very short distance between the actors and the front rows of the audience” that could
enable a more intimate acting style in the deme theatres, (although the model he has in
mind involves a rectilinear orchestra and a separate stage for the actors ).254 Stephen
Halliwell notes that these small theatres must make us question whether “the
performance-space or the audience of early tragedy, when masking became established,
was necessarily all that large.” 255 I suggest that the smaller scale local events should
also be taken into account when considering masked performance in the fifth century.
Moreover, even in the larger scale city theatre, the high status seating was in close
proximity to performers in the orchestra. Commentators concerned with the
252 Wiles (1997), 79. 253 Wiles (1997), 72; Rehm (2002), 41. 254 Green (1991), 19. 255 Halliwell (1993), 200.
practicalities of masked performance tend to emphasise the need for masks that would
have told well at a distance. However, for the reasons I have given it seems important
that they would also have worked when viewed in close proximity. Large, brightly
coloured masks, as occasionally envisaged,256 might be more visible at a distance, but
when viewed close to they would produce an exaggerated, non-mimetic effect out of
keeping with fifth century visual aesthetics.
Here is it useful to be more specific and deduce what it is that would have been
required of a Greek tragedy mask or rather what the audience could be expected to
perceive from its features. At the very least it might be expected to convey the idea of
a human face with discernable eyes, nose and mouth. Even a brightly coloured mask
may fail in this respect and appear as a blur when viewed from a distance; as was the
case in a modern production of the Bacchae257 I attended at Epidaurus, in which gaudy
masks with features less discernible than the faces of the unmasked performers that
accompanied them, made a brief appearance. I have spoken in chapter 3 of the need for
masks to appear “alive” in performance and convey changes in mood and emotion.
The features of the mask should also signify age and gender of the role being played.
I turn now to some of my own mask experiments in which I have arrived at masks that
appear to work well visually in the particular conditions of the ancient theatres (as well
as in other types of performance space). Whilst attempting to follow the precepts of
classical sculpture and achieve a multivalent facial expression, I have also incorporated
details of modelling and painting from some of the artefacts representing New Comedy
masks. In two examples representing old men258 (figure 28) the space between the top
of the eye lid and the brow appears to be in heavy shadow, either through modelling
and/or painting. (Unfortunately I have had no opportunity to see the originals).
However arrived at, this shadow clearly defines the upper boundary of the lidded eyes
and the set of the brow. In another example, this time the female mask of figure 21,
there is also shading in this area that defines the position of the lidded eyes but the
treatment is different, covering a smaller area. In some of my own mask
reconstructions I have used dark paint to accentuate the modelled recess of the relevant
256 Arnott (1989), 62 and Hornby (1997), 647. 257 Langhof (1997). 258 Interpreted by Brea as New Comedy artefacts, Bernabo Brea (1981).
area above the eye for male masks; whilst on female masks the shaded area has been
achieved by paint rather than modelling and viewed in proximity, gives the impression
of eye make up (see figure 7). I have conducted experiments in large open air sites in
England and Greece with masks incorporating these features and other aspects of the
ancient masks that I have described above. My findings are that, close-to, the masks
are alive (without being excessively mobile), appearing to change expression and able
to convey a range of different emotions. Moreover, they can be both humorous and
serious, subtle and delicate but also more robust. In an experiment at Epidaurus, I and
another observer, found that the effectiveness of the masks (their life in the Lecoq
sense) is clear when viewed from the lower seats, with the masked performer in the
orchestra. When the observer moves to seats higher up in the theatron, this clarity
diminishes and from about half-way up, the masks begin to operate visually in a
different way. The shaded area above the eyes now becomes more significant,
conveying the sense of a face and helping, together with hair and costume, to
distinguish character type. At the top of the theatron, from where Richard Hornby saw
the masks of Peter Hall’s Oedipus Plays as being “pallid blobs.”259 I, on the other hand,
found that the position of eyes and mouths were discernible on my masks, more so in
fact than the unmasked human face. It was the latter that appeared as a blob from so far
away. Over this distance, however, to convey changes in emotion visually, the
performer needs to use the whole body. The lighting conditions are relevant to these
observations. Whilst Hornby’s observations are of a night-time stage lit performance,
my experiment was conducted on a sunny summer’s day. The original performances in
Athens would have experienced yet different light conditions taking place in the Spring
sunshine in the differently orientated theatre of Dionysus. In a another experiment,
conducted at Epidaurus, I compared the visual effectiveness of unpainted masks that
had strongly sculpted features with those of the same basic design that had been painted
in a way that enhanced the modelling. I and another observer found that the features of
the former were only discernable from close proximity whilst the latter told well at a
considerable distance. It is instructive to compare these observations with those of
Thanos Vovolis who, also speaking of the theatre at Epidaurus, claims that “it is not
possible for the spectator to discern the masks if he is seated above the tenth row.”260
259 Hornby (1997), 646. 260 Vovolis & Zamboulakis (2004) 2, 127.
Vovolis’ masks, however, unlike the ancient models, are painted to resemble human
skin and lack the significant areas of shading I describe. It is often necessary to depart
from a detailed reproduction of “reality” in order to achieve a convincing mimesis.261
David Wiles argues that the orientation of the Athenian theatre, with the audience
looking into the direction of the sun, meant that there was always shadow to “give the
masks depth and create a play of light to bring the masks to life.”262 He says that in a
“North facing theatre, direct sunlight would have flattened the mask by eliminating all
shadow.” In my own experiments carried out in the summer months in the ancient
theatre sites at Argos, Athens, Delphi and Epidaurus, I found that placing the masked
performer so that light played directly on the mask did not flatten the modelling of the
mask. However a change in orientation so that the light source came from behind
resulted, in back-lighting in the absence of a skene to cast a shadow, that bleached out
the effect of the modelling. This flattening effect became less perceptible in the case of
masks with the modelling and features significantly enhanced by painting.
The results of these experiments suggest to me that it was the painting as well as the
modelling of masks that would have enhanced their visual impact in the variable light
conditions that must have been experienced in the ancient theatres. Lighting would
have varied due to: the differences in orientation of various theatre including those of
the Rural Dionysia, the time of year, weather conditions (more uncertain in Spring),
and the time of day.
Acoustics
So far I have focussed on the visual aspect of the ancient tragic masks but the
importance of text and lyric has led to differing views on the effect of the mask on the
ancient performer’s vocal production. The history of Peter Hall’s mask productions
has done much to cast doubt on the effectiveness of masks in enhancing the
performer’s voice. Thanos Vovolis,263 however, is convinced that the ancient masks
261 Kanze Hisao’s account of the need for both reality and abstraction in the Noh mask is also apposite
(see p 28). 262 Wiles (1991), 107. 263 In the following paragraphs, citations are to Vovolis & Zamboulakis (2004) unless otherwise
specified.
were specially designed to produce a powerful vocal effect when actors performed with
them in the acoustically enhanced ancient theatres. Of key importance to Vovolis’
theory are the ritual cries that appear in Greek tragedy, the “original, archetypal sounds,
words without lexical meaning” which he argues were the means utilised by the various
mystery cults (Orphic, Eleusinian and Dionysian) to achieve “a state of ecstasy…of
controlled frenzy.” In practical terms, he explains that each of “the cries correspond to
different resonance chambers in the human body” and they can only be achieved when
the performer “occupies the right bodily architecture.” Correct production of these
sounds induces a state visible in the face as a “great intensity and presence… there is
no expression.” He also uses the terms: “meditation” and “kenosis” meaning
“emptying, emphasizing the active process of reaching this state”; when in this state the
actor’s face reflects the appearance of the tragic mask. Here Vovolis seems to have in
mind what I have been describing as a “multivalent” expression. He, instead, speaks of
the “mask of emptiness,” a term that reflects a view of tragedy as ritual with the mask
as “an indispensable part of a ceremonial theatre.”
He envisages the ancient masks being designed to produce an acoustical effect called
“consonance” and he cites the Roman architect, Vitruvius, writing the in first century
BC:
Consonance is the process, whereby due to suitably placed reflecting walls, the
voice is supported and strengthened when two identical sound waves arriving
at the same point at the same time, combine to produce the sum of their effects.
Vovolis argues that the “mask creates consonance and amplifies further the natural
head resonator of the actor.” This resonator is of particular importance in large scale
theatres because it produces “harmonics that can easily pierce through space.” He sees
mask as “an instrument for the actor to control the direction and the volume of the
voice, the rhythm, the articulation and the tone.” By this means there is a realisation of
the “maximum resonance for each vowel and clear definition of the consonants.” The
latter, he explains, are required to make speech intelligible but easily become muffled
unless the actor precisely articulates every syllable. To achieve these effects requires
training of performers over a substantial period of time and in this the mask itself plays
a crucial part.
Vovolis sees great significance in the particular form of the ancient masks which in
enclosing “the entire head like a helmet” function as “an extra resonance chamber for
the voice of the actor;” although to avoid distorting the sound frequencies, a mask only
slightly larger than head size is required. Moreover, mask mouths need be no more
widely open than a “normally relaxed mouth.” This is because “when the body is
attuned by exercise wasteful tensions disappear, and the opening needed for voice
production, ‘moves’ inside the body to the pelvic area.” Neither does the performer
require a loud voice, rather he must engage in a “mental process of consciously
projecting the voice into space…to communicate with the audience.” The size of the
mouth aperture that Vovolis has in mind is by no means inconsiderable, however, as
can be seen by examining his own masks, designed according to these principles (see
for example figure 22). Also of significance are the small eye-holes of his masks that
“function as lenses for the gaze of the actor… the optical field becomes very narrow”
and the actor “has the feeling that he/she is looking through only one eyehole, ‘a third
eye’, placed in the area between the eyebrows.” In this respect Vovolis follows the
design of Japanese Noh masks and as with them, the purpose is to put the actor into a
meditative condition with heightened awareness. Vovolis sees this as a necessary pre-
condition for optimum vocal production. Sight is minimized in order to maximise
“listening to the other actors, to a different awareness of their presence.” Within the
tragic chorus individual performers are left with no alternative than to “listen to the
voice and breath of the others, and in this way develop, little by little, a common
rhythm, a common breath, usually based upon the breath of the text.” In all, the “entire
construction of the masks” creates an expanded presence in the actor bringing about the
necessary condition for his “metamorphosis.” This is when he “literally offers space in
his body for the birth of his stage figure.” He first becomes “a part of the chorus and
then transform(s) himself into the role.” From the point of view of the actor “he is
present in his body and at the same time he is observing himself from the outside.
Behind the mask [he] develops a double awareness.”
This metamorphosis that Vovolis envisages cannot be achieved through the usual
“intellectual analysis or psychological manipulations” of the theatre of Realism. Of our
own theatre, Vovolis observes that “Character and Plot are still two dominant
categories” which appeal to the “logical and emotional level of the audience and its
desire to understand and feel,” relating more to the “semantic levels of language.”
However, in his view, the ancient Greek theatre was one in which the “more subtle
levels of human consciousness” were awakened and through the “energy of Logos and
the vibration of Sound” theatre became a healing principle, the “embodiment of…
catharsis.” The mask in Vovolis’ account enables actors to find the heightened
vocalisation to achieve this effect; firstly, by concentrating on the sound rather than the
literal meaning, of the words and secondly, by leading them to become part of the
collective and to open themselves up for the metamorphosis into their tragic roles. In
this way the voice of tragedy is seen to emerge from the chorus, through the mediation
of mask.
Before leaving the subject of Vovolis’ mask designs, two further features are worthy of
note. The first is a barrier resting just above the performer’s upper lip (at moustache
level) which serves to prevent the performer’s voice reverberating inside the mask that
caused the sort of muffling problems experienced in Hall’s Oresteia. The second is a
small ridge that rests on the actor’s nose to keep the mask in the correct position and
which perhaps also picks up resonance from the chambers in the actor’s nasal region.
Although clearly functional, it seems to me that its presence might cause discomfort to
the performer which was my experience albeit I tried on only an all purpose workshop
mask.
Another strand in Vovolis’ argument concerns the ancient theatre space, in particular
the fourth century theatre at Epidaurus which “contains in its architectural form the
essence of the concept of theatre as conceived and developed by the Ancient Greeks.”
He acknowledges that fifth century theatres lacked the “excellent” acoustics of this
later paradigm but argues that they were nevertheless good due to the fact that they
were built in a hollow recess on the side of a hill “which sloped down at an angle of
approximately 45 degrees” providing a “performance space that matches almost
perfectly the directivity of the human voice” with “an almost unvarying sound
distribution within the angle of 180 degrees.”
Vovolis sees the superior acoustics at Epidaurus as being due to “the cumulative effect
of many refinements” including the layout of the theatron, and the numbers associated
with its rows and seats which can be seen to correspond to the Pythagorean golden
ratio. One effect is that “early reflected sounds [reach] the listener within 50
milliseconds after the initial sound” and are perceived as “a single acoustical image of
greater intensity and enhanced quality than that of direct sound alone” while echo tones
are minimised. (It is perhaps relevant to mention that one critic writing of Hall’s
Oresteia noted that the muffling of voices observed in the London performances
vanished at Epidaurus.)264
I have given an account of the acoustics of the ancient theatres here, because the design
of the masks, together with the technique of the actors, must be highly dependent on
the acoustical as well as visual aspects of the spaces in which they are to perform. In
emphasising the importance of the performer’s head resonators and the need for clear
articulation, Vovolis’ views are in accord with those of Patsy Rodenburg (voice coach
at the National Theatre). She advises (unmasked) actors having to perform in large
spaces of the need for articulation, breath and support, correct vocal placing, and the
use of head resonators “which carry best in large open spaces.”265 In a different type of
theatre space there is less need to give particular emphasis to head resonance. For
example, in the Japanese Noh and Kyogen theatre the performer uses his whole body as
a resonator266 and it is no co-incidence that the Noh mask is a face mask and is slightly
smaller than the face. Moreover, unlike the packed earth floors of ancient Greek
theatres, the Noh stage is wooden and there is a cavity underneath containing ceramic
jars, a feature originally introduced to enhance the acoustical effect of the performance.
However, it seems that the modern sprung stage now serves this function but the cavity
and jars remain as traditional elements. The wooden walls and ceiling of the Noh
theatre building probably also contribute to the acoustical effect. 267
The opportunity for me to explore aspects of Vovolis’ work arose in 2002 when he
conducted a week long workshop for an invited group of performers at RHUL. In such
a short time and taking place in an indoor studio it could afford nothing more than a
sampler suggesting in broad terms Vovolis’ practical approach to masking. Likewise
the workshop masks he brought, though instructive in many respects, were essentially
264 Burton (1982). 265 Rodenburg (1998), 297, 306. 266 Question and answer session with Yukio Ishida, a celebrated Kyogen actor, during an International
Festival Workshop 7-11th September 1999, venue: London Studio Centre. 267 For the ceramic jars see Plowright (1991), 19-21. Also conversation with the Noh actor, Akira
Matsui on 5th May 2007, part of a conference “The Body and the Mask in Ancient Theatre Space:
Perceptions, Coincidences and Diversions,” at RHUL.
face masks, and he requires longer periods for work with the helmet masks.268 They
thus lacked one of the elements that Vovolis himself insists is crucial to achieve a fully
acoustical mask. The week culminated in a demonstration performance before
delegates to a weekend Mask conference,269 which gave some idea of the kind of
performance style employed by Vovolis, but the conditions did not enable the
acoustical consonance of which he speaks.
The UK based mask-maker and theatre practitioner, Michael Chase, became inspired
by the idea of masks as musical instruments270 on seeing an exhibition of Vovolis’
masks in London in 1996. Chase has found a different practical approach to the subject
and a week long RHUL project working with actors and Chase’s masks in various
venues in the West Country, was funded by the AHRB in July 2000. Again the results
of this study were suggestive rather than providing incontrovertible evidence that
masks can enhance the actor’s voice. Here I give a brief summary of the findings that
have been written up more fully elsewhere.271 Chase’s masks are helmet in design,
covering the face and much but not all of the head (See figure 12). They feature fair
sized mouth apertures, and largish eye-holes taking the place of mask eye pupil and
some of the iris. In appearance, rather than following Greek models, Chase prefers to
“create his own archetypal conceptions.”272 Unlike Vovolis’ masks those of Chase
appear to rely, to some extent, on the resonance of the actor’s own voice, as the
position of the actor’s mouth in relation to that of the mask was found to be a crucial
factor. When positioned too close the actor’s voice emerged independently of the mask
unenhanced, whilst a position too far back into the mask resulted in muffling. An
intermediate position was found in which some resonance was detectable in sound and
which could also be felt as vibration on the surface of the mask. This effect, however,
was for the most part, only slight. Chase has tried making masks out of various
materials but feels that better acoustical effects result when he employs modern
equivalents to those that would have been available to the ancient Greeks (e.g. cloth,
plaster, animal glue and shellac). The most dramatic (if momentary) acoustical effect
268 Vovolis & Zamboulakis (2004) 2, 120. 269 See p 99. 270 Thanos Vovolis suggests this analogy in Vovolis (1995). 271 Vervain & Wiles (2001). 272 Vervain & Wiles (2001), 259.
to appear certainly arose from masks of this type. On two occasions, once outside and
once in a studio, there was a sudden surge in the volume and resonance in a masked
actor’s voice. Chase was also able to demonstrate another unusual audial phenomenon
produced by one of his masks at the “Greek” theatre site at Bradfield college when a
masked performer in the orchestra spoke into the cheek cavity of the mask and this
resulted in an increase in vocal volume and also an alteration in voice quality. Apart
from the materials and the helmet design, Chase feels that a good fitting mask that
eliminates the need for padding would help acoustical performance. In an attempt to
achieve the former he made plaster skull caps to fit individual performer’s heads.
However, I and other workshop participants found that those made for us did not
securely hold the mask on the head and we had also to resort to padding.
Lastly, I offer here some observations from my own mask work. The questions that
have concerned me are whether or not the following factors affect the acoustical
performance of the mask: the extent of cover (that is, whether a face or helmet mask is
employed), the size and design of the mask mouth (and if any kind of megaphone effect
can be achieved); the materials from which the mask is made and whether a covering of
“hair” will damp down resonance; whether or not padding inside the mask prevents
resonance; the fit of the mask on the performer including the position of the latter’s
mouth in relation to that of the mask. Other factors extraneous to the mask design (but
that have a significant influence on its acoustical performance) are the vocal production
of the performer and the physical conditions including the type of space in which they
are employed.
I make my own masks with paper laminate, covered in a layer of plaster and this
produces a slightly flexible, light, thin, hard shell that appears to have good acoustic
properties. (This is not papier mache which tends to become a thicker, heavier wad,
trapping air.)273 The comfort of performers, the ease with which they can vocalise, don
and remove the mask are of great concern to me. My masks are designed to be slightly
larger than the head with space to allow the performer some facial movement without
disturbing the set of the mask. It is nevertheless securely fitted upon the head (essential
273 This is because papier mache works best with a paper of lower fibre density than the “gum strip” I
employ. The latter has an even and fine coating on one side of gum arabic; a laminate of three or four
layers of this material makes a compact and strong structure.
to the performer’s confidence and concentration). To achieve this I employ a quite
stiff, but adjustable head band attached to the inside of the mask and this usually
provides a comfortable, secure fit. Sometimes this is not sufficient and it is necessary
to introduce a little padding but use of the latter tends to be because there is a time
constraint when a mask, not made for a specific individual, has to be adapted quickly.
Although I have not set out to make “acoustical” masks, I have found, nevertheless,
that my masks have performed well in many of the experiments carried out by Chase
with his masks, such as vocalising into the inside of the mask and feeling vibrations on
its surface. Generally speaking those in which one structure covers face and some if
not all of the head tend to perform better acoustically than those covering the face
alone; moreover a covering of “hair” and some padding does not seem to affect this
significantly. Some of my helmet masks cover the entirety of the performer’s head
whilst in others, the helmet is curtailed covering face and top of the head only (like
those of Michael Chase). There is perhaps some marginal benefit in acoustical
performance with the former arrangement. As with Chase’s masks, the position of the
performer’s mouth in relation to that of the mask is a significant factor and it is usually
necessary for performers to adjust their vocal technique for mask work. This involves
special care with articulation and projecting the voice without large jaw movements
and this is fairly simple to achieve for performers with reasonable vocal skills. The
mask can never compensate for a lack of vocal competence. Relevant here is Vovolis’
observation that actors do not need to have wide open mouths to achieve a powerful
sound. However, the sort of intense yogic breathing and vocal training that he
employs, appears to be highly disciplined and structured, leaving performers with little
scope for individual creative play and spontaneity. That this can produce a remarkable
transformation in the case of some performers was clearly demonstrated during the
RHUL workshop. However, there are other systems of voice training that may be more
suitable for actors from the Western tradition who require the stimulation that
improvisation enables.274
The shape of mask mouths, particularly on the inside of the mask, appears to affect
acoustical performance. For example, a slight megaphone shape incorporated into the
mouth apertures of some of my masks representing old men, improves vocal clarity and
274 For example the exercises advocated by Rodenburg (1998).
volume a little. In the case of two female masks with similar small mouth apertures,
one is marginally acoustically superior presumably due to some variation in the
sculpting. These particular masks provide an eloquent demonstration that vocalisation
does not require mask mouths to be open very much at all. Both masks have given
very audible performances, with actresses speaking and singing, before audiences in
various indoor studios, both large and small and in workshops conducted outdoors in
fine weather. Whilst observers usually comment on the vocal power and clarity of
these masks, on one occasion some noted less clarity when the mask face was turned
away from them. This perhaps reflects an effect analogous to an aspect of unmasked
vocalisation, namely, that vocal power is apparently greater when the performer is
directly facing the recipient. Masks would tend to magnify this effect, in practice
though, it is only rarely noticed. In the case of one of my face masks with a more open
mouth, performers have to be especially careful with their articulation and the position
of the mask on the face in order to avoid a lisping effect. This is perhaps because, with
this example, I have attempted to reduce the size difference between mask and
performer’s head with female performers in mind; however the mask has been worn by
many different people, men as well as women. Ideally masks would be made
specifically for individual actors but this is not always practicable. External factors
such as standing the masked performer on a wooden box and/or in front of a sounding
board or stone wall significantly improves the acoustical effect.
It is difficult to be more precise about the potential of mask as an instrument of vocal
enhancement as there are too many variables that effect acoustical performance.
However, the work of mask-makers such as Vovolis and Chase and also my own
experiments suggest that this is an area that merits further more systematic research.
Ideally this would involve specialists with expertise in the field of acoustics such as
sound engineers and makers of musical instruments especially those that, like violins,
incorporate a sound box to achieve resonance, and work should be done in conjunction
with performers possessing powerful vocal skills.
Conclusion
When considering the sort of masks needed for Greek tragedy the theatre space in
which they are to perform is highly relevant. In the ancient context, the vast scale of
the theatre of Dionysus in Athens has often been emphasised and questions have been
asked concerning the visual impact of masks when viewed from a distance. However,
it is also pertinent to take into account the fact that some sections of the audience, a
prestigious group, viewed from their front row position, in fairly close proximity to
performers in the orchestra. This, together with the existence of the smaller scale Rural
Dionysia would suggest that masks would have been required that performed well
when viewed from both close to and from a distance.
In my own reconstructions I have attempted to follow the principles, described in
chapter 3, that arguably governed the visual designs of the fifth century and create
multivalent masks. In these I have also incorporated painted features such as the areas
of shading around the eyes that can be found in some of the later mask artefacts. The
resulting masks have been alive in the Lecoq sense, proved versatile in conveying both
action and ritual and have told well when viewed close to and also from afar. In various
experiments on some of the ancient Greek theatre sites I have found them to be more
effective in conveying the idea of a face and the type of role being played than the
unmasked face seen from the same distance. Painting rather than modelling alone was
important in achieving this effect.
The acoustical impact of masking also needs to be taken into account. Peter Hall has
resorted to electronic amplification to overcome the muffling effect on actors’ voices
caused by the masks in his productions. However, other practitioners have been
experimenting with the idea that masks might be designed to enhance the voice. Their
work, together with my own small scale experiments suggests possibilities rather than
being conclusive.
All the factors discussed here should ideally be taken into account when designing
masks for productions of the plays today. However, the full potential of the mask only
becomes apparent when worn by a performer and its impact is dependent on
performance style and acting technique, the subject of the next chapter.
Chapter 5: Masked Performance of the Tragic Texts
Introduction
In a demonstration scene given at RHUL275 of Thanos Vovolis’ work on the Persians,
the protagonist voices emerged from, and subsequently returned to, the collective voice
of the chorus; performance style remained consistent throughout with no change to
distinguish choral odes from the main action. It was in effect a symbolic re-enactment
of the emergence of the drama from a ritualistic choral dance. In other modern
productions style has differentiated protagonists and chorus. In Peter Hall’s Bacchai,
for example, the choreography and movement of the chorus recognisably bore some
affinity to the Butoh training performers had received in rehearsals whilst the
interaction between the main figures was closer to mainstream acting but with a tone of
self-parody and exaggeration. The recording of Tyrone Guthrie’s Oedipus Rex shows
the royal figures in an essentially static mode that contrasts with the fluid style of the
chorus whilst the bird-like figure of Tiresias has a different, mobile performance style,
akin to some kinds of physical theatre. In yet other modern productions a distinction
has been made between the style in which the chorus perform their odes and the way
they operate as part of the main action. For example, in a student production of
Aeschylus’ Suppliants at RHUL276 the chorus with painted on face masks inspired by
Ariane Mnouchkine’s 1991/2 production of Les Atrides, danced their odes in
rectangular formation but otherwise adopted a style closer to mainstream acting.
Another example of the use of cross-cultural elements was the production of
Hippolytos by the Thiasos theatre company,277 employing a modern adaptation of
Balinese dance choreography with half-masks inspired by the full-face Balinese
Topeng masks.
Although we have no certain information on the original performances there have been
modern attempts to reconstruct them.278 Such attempts draw on various ancient literary
sources describing: dance motifs, a language of gesture, choral dance formation and
275 Mentioned at p 99. 276 See p 104. 277 First performed July 1998, in the Cambridge Arts Faculty. 278 For example by Gregory McCart.
musical modes; also on vase paintings depicting dancing figures and on an analysis of
the metrical form of the plays. Some scholars see the mask as the key to understanding
ancient performance style. Herbert Golder, for instance, argues that the choral dancing
of the drama would have been different from unmasked dance, as the mask “creates the
form…since it requires a particular style of movement.”279
In this chapter I start with a discussion of the ancient performances, focusing on issues
such as the degree of mobility involved, the extent to which it might be thought of as
“realistic,” the nature of the relationship between actors and chorus and how style may
have altered over time. I also touch on the debate concerning whether fifth century
tragedy was primarily an aural or a visual experience. I then consider the needs of
mask and give an account of the special techniques that it requires. To illustrate some
of the points made here, I describe how the “discovery of the lock” scene in the
Libation-Bearers might be performed utilising these techniques.
Mobil i ty , enactment and dance
Until fairly recently classical scholarship was dominated by a literary or logocentric
approach to the ancient tragedies, a bias that can be traced back to Aristotle when he
apparently demotes the visual dimension of the drama and dismisses the need for
public performance or actors. 280 Even when considering the plays in performance, many
envisaged the ancient actors employing a virtually static mode of delivery, an idea
arising from a confusion of fifth century practices with those of later antiquity, when
there were large masks, actors wore padded costumes and kothurnoi and performed on
a high narrow stage.281 Perhaps a typical view is expressed by K. Mantzius, who,
writing in the early twentieth century, describes the ancient actors as: “these strangely
equipped large figures with their immovable faces which seemed petrified with
suffering, and in their gorgeous splendour, advancing slowly with solemn measured
movements.”282
279 Golder (1996), 4. 280 Poetics VI. 281 Pickard-Cambridge (1968), 171. 282 Mantzius (1903), 187 quoted in Walton (1984), 42.
This conception of the fifth century theatre, now generally discredited in academic
circles, was part of the vision of Tyrone Guthrie in his productions of masked Greek
tragedy. In these, although chorus and protagonists performed in the same space they
were distinguished by height, the masks and costumes making the main characters
considerably larger than life-size. This was taken further in Guthrie’s House of Atreus
when the gods “at nine feet, majestically towered over all,” an effect achieved by “stilts
of lightweight metal tubing… attached to metal soles and strapped to the actor’s feet.”
The performer playing Athena had to stand inside what was essentially a statue and was
able to make, by remote control, a few limited movements, that is “he could turn and
tilt the head, and by manipulating rods inside, he could also dramatically gesture with
the long arm.” 283
A more recent analysis of the evidence, particularly vase paintings and other theatrical
representations leads to a different view. To take one instance, Nicola Savarese in
comparing the tragic figures represented in Greek vase paintings with photographic
images of Comédie Française actors from the late nineteenth century, posing as the
same figures, observes that the physicality of the Greek originals was “contradicted” by
the “rhetorical physical attitudes” of the French actors. 284 Kostas Valakas, referring to
the Savarese study concludes that it was “neo-classicist European theatre, following the
principle of rationalism, [that] invented the logocentric, static and rhetorical
performance” style for the ancient plays.285
Gould and Lewis counter the idea of practically immobile actors, arguing that the fifth
century dramatic texts imply “a high degree of mobility, even of rapid movement,
kneeling, prostration, and a free play of gesture, and this is not excluded by what we
know of fifth century costume.”286 Other commentators also argue that the texts
indicate that the many different and often intense emotions experienced by protagonists
and chorus would have been expressed not merely by vocal means, but also visually, by
the performing of specific actions and gestures. 287 Examples of demonstrative actions
283 Moiseiwitsch, Edelstein et al. (1994), 104ff. 284 Barba & Savarese (1991), 166. 285 Valakas (2002), 91. 286 Pickard-Cambridge (1968), 171. 287 For example Shisler (1945) and Stanford ( 1983).
include characters beating their breasts to signify mourning or covering their faces to
indicate grief. This and other references in the texts also challenge the views of some
modern commentators. Tony Harrison, for example, says that the tragic mask “keeps its
head upright” and that when faced with horror it is unlike the naked face: “It is created
with open eyes. It has to keep on looking…Words never fail it. It goes on speaking.
It’s created with an open mouth.”288 As Halliwell notes, the texts indicate that a
character may look down (Antigone 441) or remain silent (Cassandra for 300 lines in
the Agamenon).289
In the main scenes of the plays intense emotion is often expressed in passages of lyric
rather than the iambic trimeters usual for speech and dialogue; song would arguably
have been accompanied by some form of dance.290 P.D. Arnott emphasizing the aural
dimension of tragedy describes how a tragic figure such as Antigone going to her death
“sings of her sorrow.”291 J.M. Walton, from a more visual perspective says that “the
words often become subordinate. Characters may revert to lyric metre at moments of
crisis. They heighten the language but they dance their grief.”292 [my italics] . Lilian
Lawler argues that a clear indication of the importance of dance in Greek tragedy is
given by the fact that the very early playwrights, including Thespis, were called
“dancers” and that the three great fifth century tragedians were also, in varying degrees,
involved with dance.293 However, it is not clear what exactly this would have involved
as the ancient term embraced many types of movement such as “dancing with the
hands” that would not be classified as “dancing” according to modern perceptions.
One example, was a language of stylised gestures known as cheironomia that could be
used to convey complete stories without the use of words. Lawler cites ancient sources
that describe the tragic chorus making use of cheironomia whilst singing the choral
odes. She goes on to say that the chorus “was essentially a solid rectangle in
arrangement and movement, its evolutions suggesting marching rather than dancing”
but that this still must have allowed freedom of choreography as there seem to have
288 Harrison (1991), 446. 289 Halliwell (1993), 207 n39. 290 Rosenmeyer (1982), 31; Walton (1984), 46-7. 291 Arnott (1989), 58. 292 Walton (1984), 47. 293 Lawler (1964b), 22.
been “striking dances of many sorts.” Some of these would have “dancing in our sense
of the word- and lively dancing, at that.” It seems that all the movements of the chorus
were planned in advance and there is an ancient reference to lines marked out on the
floor of the orchestra as a guide. The chorus learnt and rehearsed all the “steps, figures,
and gestures” of the dance and these “were never left to chance or to the inspiration of
the moment.” 294 The idea of a rectangular choral formation is questioned by J.F.
Davidson who finds it hard to believe that the tragic chorus would have been
“straightjacketed” in this way “throughout every song in every tragedy for the entire
duration of the fifth century.”295
According to ancient sources, during the main episodes the chorus moved and formed
stage pictures and made use of cheironomia “to accompany long speeches of the
actors.” Actors also employed these “stylized gestures” and Lawler surmises they may
have been the means by which the actors performing messenger roles could have
provided some illustration of the off-stage events being described.296 Walton taking a
similar view speaks of the messenger’s words being “fortified by mimetic or
atmospheric movement from the chorus to amplify his own stance and gesture”297
Oliver Taplin, however, rejects the idea that “there were notable scenic effects going on
all the time or even most of the time”298 and denies the importance of the chorus as an
active physical presence in the main action:
Between their songs the chorus will have stood (or knelt or sat) as still and
inconspicuous as possible: their role was to dance and sing, not to be a
naturalistic stage crowd 299
He also doubts that in the purely choral sections the chorus would have “actually
danced out the events which it was singing about,” for example the sacrifice of
Iphigenia in the choral entry song of the Agamemnon. Moreover, despite the fact that
Taplin emphasizes the need to consider the drama as performance, he refers to “long
294 Lawler (1964b), 25-32. 295 Davidson (1986b), 41. 296 Lawler (1964b), 25-6. 297 Walton (1984), 51. 298 Taplin (1977), 20. 299 Taplin (1978), 12-13.
static scenes” and “long stretches of the tragedies where there is little movement
besides (presumably) the conventional gestures which accompany speech.”300
In 1997 Yana Zarafi conducted an experiment in which hand gestures inspired by
Southern Indian classical dance, were employed by the chorus for an unmasked student
production of Medea, demonstrating the potential for such an approach to staging the
tragedies today.301 In my own work, although I have made no attempt to play with the
idea of cheironomia, I have been concerned to explore ways of achieving mobility in
masked performances of tragic scenes (see video clips 3, 6, 7 and 9).
Sound, s ight and art ist ic conventions
A logocentric emphasis carries over into some modern approaches. According to P.D.
Arnott, for instance, the ancient theatres were characterized by excellent acoustics but
were poor visually due to the considerable distances between actors and audience.302 As
a result, meaning, or at least subtlety of meaning, was in his opinion, essentially
conveyed by the words. He finds support for this emphasis in the many references to
vocal production and voice training in the ancient literary sources. In his discussion of
ancient acting styles he does not exclude movement, but implies that it is incidental.
Arnott further argues that our understanding of the physicality of performing in the
Greek theatre should be informed by referring to ancient sources on oratorical delivery,
as oratory and acting were seen as “the same art before two different kinds of
audience.” In support of this he appeals to the ancient tradition that the great orators
learnt their skills from actors, also to reported instances of actors undertaking political
or diplomatic missions or putting aside their acting careers to become full time
politicians. One of the latter, Aeschines, refers to the gestural restraint of an earlier
generation of orators. This suggests to Arnott, an analogous restraint in the delivery of
actors during the same period. 303 In Arnott’s view acting developed over the course of
the fifth century “from a simple, declamatory style to one more vivid and
expressive.”304 The specific gesture mentioned by Aeschines305 is the act of speaking
300 Taplin (1977), 20 and n1. 301 Kings College London, 12-15th February 1997. 302 On this last point see my argument in chapter 4. 303 Arnott (1989), 51-4. 304 Arnott (1989), 48.
“with the hand outside the robe” that was previously considered indecorous and to be
avoided but was now commonplace amongst orators of his own day. Figures
concealing their hand in this manner appear on some theatrical vase illustrations and
Arnott makes general mention of these. 306 However, these images tell us nothing of
fifth century practices as it was not until later, around the mid-fourth century, that vase
paintings displayed, in Eric Csapo’s words, “a concern to use gesture to mark
‘respectability’ and to distinguish the restrained, graceful and inexpressive gestures of
heroes from the loud and busy movements of social inferiors.”307
Arnott also cites a passage from Aristotle308 in which the philosopher compares an old
and a new school of acting, referring to one of Aeschylus’ actors, Mynniskos who used
to call Kallippides, a younger actor, “an ape” because of his “excesses.”309 Mynniskos’
censure also extended to Kallippides’ portrayal of women. This is interpreted by
Arnott to mean that the older actor thought that the women Kallipides acted “were no
ladies, which meant, in Greek terms, that they moved about too much.”310 However,
Csapo analyzing the same Aristotelian passage argues that it was not “excessive or
exaggerated gestures” that were being criticized, rather it was “excessive mimesis.” In
particular Csapo draws attention to Aristotle's comment that: “not all movement is
objectionable- one would not condemn dance, for example- but only that which is
imitation of inferior people: Kallipides was censured, as are others today, for
representing lower-class women.” Csapo interprets this as meaning that Aristotle’s
complaints refer not to “what we would term the unseemly or pornographic, but
imitation of the simple gestures of ordinary women”; 311 the introduction of an element
that he provisionally terms “realism.”312 This change was arguably apparent also in
contemporary playwriting influencing “the use of language, costume, gesture and
305 Against Timarchus, 25. 306 Arnott (1989), 54. 307 Csapo (2002), 145. 308 Poetics XXVI. 309 Halliwell (1987), 64. 310 Arnott (1989), 48. 311 Poetics 1462a10, cited in Csapo (2002), 128-9. 312 Csapo (2002), 127.
characterization.”313 Some evidence for this view appears in Aristophanes Frogs when
in the debate between the dead poets, Aeschylus and Euripides, the older accuses the
younger of introducing various elements that, by bringing it closer to the world of the
everyday, lower the tone of tragedy.314 Csapo’s analysis implies that the new acting was
not necessarily less restrained in its use of gesture than the earlier which itself may not
have been essentially immobile.
Walton down-plays the aural dimension of tragedy, and takes the view that “the spoken
word was… unlikely to convey much meaning to the spectators without the more
physical aspects of the whole theatre.” 315 He rejects the idea of oratory as a model for
ancient Greek acting, arguing that the orator’s “ability to amplify his argument by tone
and gesture” are insufficient. The “physical acting” required for mask, he argues, “is
more than this” and the ancient actor, as suggested by Gordon Craig, was “more
dancer than orator.”316 The best idea that we can get of performance style in Aeschylus’
day is “not through the words which have survived in the formal texts but through the
postures of Athenian art.” In support of this view Walton cites J.J. Pollitt who says that:
Sculptors and painters seem… to have borrowed some of the technical devices
which had been developed in dramatic performances to convey character and
narrative action - for example, the formal gestures of actors, the masks which
were designed to express at once an individual character and a basic type, and
perhaps also a dramatic sense of timing.317
Walton and Pollitt argue a case for the relevance of Athenian art to the theatre even
when the scenes depicted bear no direct relationship to the drama. There are some fifth
century Athenian vase paintings that depict the mythological stories on which the tragic
narratives were based. One example is the so-called “Boston Oresteia”, which,
however, differs from the narrative of Aeschylus’ trilogy in some details318. Of this and
other analogous examples Csapo and Slater remark that “the influence of tragedy is
313 Csapo (2002), 135. 314 Csapo (2002), 133. 315 Walton (1984), 46. 316 Walton (1984), 44. 317 Pollitt (1972), 27 cited in Walton (1984), 41. 318 An attic red-figure calyx krater, 475-450 BC, in Boston. See my drawing of the scene in figure 29.
palpable from the choice and treatment of the mythological subjects, from the dress and
expansive gestures of the figures, and from architectural details in the background.”
They see in each of the two scenes on the vase “a ‘splash’ effect of emotional reaction
radiating from a central action” out to marginal figures in a way “analogous to that of
actors and chorus.” However, they caution against reading the images as literally
depicting scenes from the drama. 319 For me these images induce a sense of recognition
and I see dance drama: the movement and gestures of a theatre in which meaning is
conveyed through the use of body language and the configuration of interrelated bodies
in space. There is a sense of energy held under tension present in all the figures and no
suggestion that expressive gesture is inappropriate for high status figures or for women.
I find it tempting to contrast this use of gesture with that appearing in fourth century
theatrical paintings despite the methodological issues raised in such an exercise. J.R.
Green cites one South Italian example, dated to the third quarter of the fourth century,
thought to illustrate a scene from the Oedipus The King.320 Green draws attention to the
king who as befits a “respectable” man has his left hand “concealed within his cloak.”
Jocasta, on the other hand, “as is proper for a woman, draws her arms in about herself,
so as to take up the least possible space. Her feet are close together, her ankles
invisible, her head slightly lowered. Her hands are out of sight.” He contrasts this with
the treatment of messengers who are often depicted making larger gestures in keeping
with their role and lower status. 321
In another South Italian vase painting, dated to the last quarter of the fourth century
(figure 30), Medea is depicted murdering one of her young sons. However, the action
does not emanate from the centre (solar plexus) of the performer’s being in way that
would make the body a truly connected whole. Instead the movement of the sword arm
starts in the upper body, moreover she reaches out towards her victim with her weight
on her back leg in a gesture that is ambivalent rather than thrusting. There is not the
same degree of intense “retained” energy322 as is present in the figures of the fifth
century Boston Oresteia. In each of the two scenes here, the killer has his weight on his
leading leg which functions as a pivoting point ready for the swing through of the
319 Csapo & Slater (1994), 54. 320 Sicilian red-figure calyx-krater, third quarter of the fourth century BC Syracuse, Museo Archeologico. 321 Green (2002), 108-9. 322 This type of energy is discussed at p 239.
sword arm. There is a sense of connectedness within and between the depicted bodies.
They, with their movement and gesture, form a coherent pattern within the picture
plane of the curving vase surface.
The composition of the painting can be related to some of the formal qualities of the
plays. The painting depicts two scenes which in many ways mirror or reflect each
other reminiscent of the plays with their mirrored or repeated motifs, their lyric
passages of strophe and antistrophe and the sections of agon with arguments and
counter-arguments given equal weight. Within the symmetry of this vase image, there
is immense variation and this can also be seen by examining and comparing the two
sides of the vase. The first side is filled with figures and the viewing eye is led to and
fro across the picture plane directed by gestures, limbs, and folds of billowing cloth
until at each end an outstretched arm, reaching behind a pillar, takes it into the second
scene. Here the action is more concentrated and clearly defined against the
comparatively large areas of dark. The eye is still impelled to move but this time more
slowly in a sort of see-saw motion that inevitably keeps returning to the central motif of
the killing of Aegisthus. In this second scene none of the gesturing arms offer any way
out of the image. (The viewer can no more escape than the victim).
There is then, within a scheme of overall symmetry, a great deal of asymmetry. Each
scene has its own rhythm, momentum, mood and whilst similar gestures appear in each
part they are not entirely the same and the context of their appearance is different.
There is therefore no sense of the two scenes being identical. This lack of one for one
correspondence seems to me an important part of the classical aesthetic (as well as
being a precept in modern performance). As Oliver Taplin observes, the conventions of
tragedy “promote diversity, not repetition.”323 Attempts to reconstruct the ancient
performances ignoring this are liable to produce the effect of tedious inevitability. For
this reason I disagree with Gregory McCart when he argues, for instance, that the
formal speeches would invariably have been delivered from the central point of the
orchestra.324
323 Taplin (1978), 161. 324 McCart (1994), (pages unnumbered).
Variability of language is also an important feature of the plays; besides the lyric of the
choral odes the language of the main scenes takes several forms.325 Arguably the plays
also call for more than one acting style. This has been noted, for instance, by Valakas
and he finds the co-existence of two styles in Aeschylus’ Cassandra scene.326 He argues
that a “sense of unity” is imparted to the plays, not by means of a single performance
style but through the “repetition of thematic and scenic imagery.” He also cites the
account of Socrates comparing the performer Ion to the mythical Proteus “whose body
can be transformed into a different image of being, to the extent that he seems to lack
an identity.” Such a “variable identity of roles” was, Valakas argues, “a fundamental
theoretical principle of ancient Greek performances, broadly related to Heraclitean
dialectics and Protagorean relativism.” The “stylistic variation of the performance
aimed at creating a sense of heterogeneous unity in transformation” and it was this
“unstable and dynamic depiction of man, of the world and of truth in poetic
performance” that Plato abhorred.327 Variability of performance style is also remarked
by John Gould when he says that “both the action and the stage figures [of Greek
tragedy] should be seen …as fragmented and discontinuous.”328 However, he fails to
take account of one of the properties of mask which is to impart a sense of unity into
what might otherwise appear as a disparate assortment of styles.
Acting in mask
With some misunderstanding of the nature of masks, Gould and Lewis imagine them to
have an “unalterable” facial expression whilst “the texts of the plays imply a degree of
emotional expression which, if conceived naturalistically” would have been
“impossible for a masked actor.” [italics mine]. They give as an example the “display
of tears” or the facial expression of weeping and suggest the use of gestures that signify
grief whilst removing the mask face from view, such as bowing the head, turning it
aside, or covering it. They go on to argue that, as a literal enactment of such emotions
would not have been feasible:
325 Rhesus (formal speeches); Stichomythia (rapid exchanges); Aria ( songs ); Amoibaion (lyric
exchange). 326 Valakas (2002), 81 n64. 327 Valakas (2002), 88-9. 328 Gould (1978), 50.
the descriptions of striking and vigorous movement that we meet in the plays
are not unequivocal evidence for the occurrence of these same movements in a
naturalistic performance by the actor. We are simply ignorant of the degree of
stylization that prevailed, even in gesture.329 [italics mine].
According to Taplin this sort of argument, if taken to its extreme, implies a drama “in
which actors did little more than stand and deliver their lines, leaving all the
visualization to the imagination of the audience.”330 Taplin contrasts this extreme with
the idea that “in stage presentation the Greek theatre aimed at realism and illusion in all
possible respects”331 [italics mine]. There is within these formulations an implicit
linking of “realism and illusion” with “naturalism”; whilst “stylization” in this context
seems, for Taplin, to be equated with a lack of movement. With mask, physical theatre
and dance these links do not necessarily apply. In associating “realism” and “illusion”
with naturalism or a very literal enactment, Gould and Lewis like Taplin are
approaching Greek Tragedy with the preconceptions of the theatre of naturalism in
mind. With mask theatre, on the other hand, the idea of what is real, truthful and
convincing operates differently. Valakas, making an analogous point, cites the work of
Jerzy Grotowski “in which the actor’s body was used as the essential defining element
of theatrical reality.” In Greek tragedy, Valakas argues, “the modification of the
performer’s body by a simple mask and a more or less elaborate dress produces a
theatrical image which is meant to evoke the anthropomorphic world of myth in an
unrealistic, but not wholly unnatural way”332 [italics mine].
Walton, and also Herbert Golder, see the mask as the key element in ancient acting.
Golder likens the masked actor to a piece of fifth century sculpture in which “Torso,
trunk, neck, legs and head must all work in concert to achieve expression.”333 Walton
makes the further point that the masked actor, whilst using the whole body, will do so
“in such a way as to draw attention to the [mask] face through the whole person.”334
329 Pickard-Cambridge (1968), 171,176. 330 Taplin (1977), 33. 331 Taplin (1977), 31. 332 Valakas (2002), 71, 77-8. 333 Golder (1996), 4. 334 Walton (1984), 44.
Moreover, when masked acting is well done even those viewing from a distance will
imagine that they have seen “every tiny expression” passing across a face that is “just a
micro dot on the retina.” 335 Golder, describing the movement appropriate to mask
performance, says that the mask requires “a fluid succession of emblematic poses.”336
This suggests the ancient Greek concept of rhythmos that was associated with music
and dancing. Moving in time with the music a dancer would perform “steps” and
between each of these there were:
momentary stops (called eremiai) in which the body was held for an instant in
characteristic positions. The positions were rhythmoi, ‘patterns’ isolated
within continual movement. A single, well-chosen rhythmos could, in fact,
convey the whole nature of a movement.337
A modern analogy can be found in the practice of physical theatre when the performer
finds a bodily form that expresses (or embodies) a particular emotion or image.
Another analogy is the mie of Kabuki theatre in which the performer momentarily
holds a form expressing emotional extremis. 338 Walton speaks of the “frozen position”
which “crystallized emotions and tensions” and was an important element in the
“stylized” nature of ancient acting and he draws a parallel between this and the “held
note in music.” 339 He draws attention to the various non-verbal utterances that occur in
the plays that seem to represent turning points in the action as, for example, the “a”
spoken by Dionysus in the Bacchae340 that arguably signals the point at which the god
takes possession of Pentheus. This utterance and others like it, in taking a whole line of
the tragic verse, creates a “hesitation” or “freeze take” allowing time for reaction.341 (In
physical theatre terminology these might be described as moments of suspension).
Walton also finds a link between the movements of the Greek masked actor and
puppetry, in particular Gordon Craig’s über-marionette ,342 the latter being a concept
335 Walton (1984), 44 quoting Johnstone (1981), 185. 336 Golder (1996), 4. 337 Pollitt (1972), 56-7. 338 A useful description of this can be found in Cavaye (1993), 61-3. 339 Walton (1984), 41-3. 340 Bacchae 810. 341 Walton (2006), 81-3 and Walton (2007). 342 Walton (1984), 45.
that inspired figures such as Copeau and Decroux in developing modern physical
theatre. The association of puppetry and masked acting can also be seen in Zeami’s
treatise on Noh where he instructs actors to “perceive themselves as puppeteers,
controlling the movements of their bodies through imaginary strings tied to the heart.”
Poh Sim Plowright sees this as accounting for “the remarkable and concentrated
control” of the Noh actor and the “similarity of some of his movements to those of
string-controlled puppets.”343
Although Walton and Golder each indicate important aspects of masking there is room
for a more detailed discussion of the subject including an account of actual practice.
There is also in their formulations the sense that the mask alone dictates performance
style. However the tragic text and the theatre space also enter into the equation and
even then leave choices open so that the mask may be employed in more than one way.
This being said, there are more fundamental aspects of performance that are essential to
bring the mask alive and also “special techniques” that have been developed in the
modern physical theatre “tradition” that apply to action-based drama but that are not so
relevant to a purely ritual theatre. I have elsewhere described these “special techniques”
and the way they may be utilised in performances of New Comedy scenes.344 Here I
describe their potential application to performing tragedy.
The special techniques of mask theatre
Bringing the mask to life in a theatrical performance requires a good integration
between mask and performer and also the quality known as “stage presence” and these
are fundamental to good mask technique. Integration occurs when mask and performer
appear to be part of an indivisible whole. Stage presence has to do with an intense state
of concentrated energy that produces a sense of connectedness within the being of the
actor which extends outwards to encompass everyone and everything in the immediate
environment. The actor in this state has the ability to express great power, appearing to
draw all the energy out of the space around and focus it on him/her self so that it
becomes difficult for the audience to attend to anything else. However, as I have
mentioned in chapter 2, good mask theatre involves giving the audience a clear
343 Plowright (2002), 34. 344 Vervain (2004), 254-60.
indication of where their attention is to be concentrated at any given time. Therefore
the masked actor using this energy must be able to do so in a way that directs the
audience’s attention to the correct point of focus, at times directing it away from
themselves.
Mask theatre is highly visual, even if there is also a script. In saying this I do not mean
to downplay the status of the text nor even preclude psychological interpretations, but
rather to suggest that this affects how information is conveyed to the audience. They
need to see the action unfolding in a way that is quite different from the theatre of
naturalism. To achieve this, the action is often broken down into a series of sub-actions
each of which is conveyed visually by an appropriate move or gesture. An analogy
might be made here with Meyerhold’s biomechanics in which an action for example,
shooting an arrow from a bow, can be seen as composed of a series of discrete steps.345
With mask, the visible action is, in effect, like a series of still photographs with
transitions between them, although the “stills” may be almost imperceptible. To
operate in what is essentially a dance-like mode the performers need to learn precision
of movement. They also need to find an economy of physical expression to produce a
clear communication. Unnecessary moves will confuse an audience. For this reason it
is important for the performer to be aware of the way the mask is being used and the
effect of various tilts, movement sequences and rhythms performed by the (masked)
head and of these in relation to the rest of the body. As with the masked head the
whole body or isolated parts of the body can also perform analogous types of stylised
movement patterns. Understanding how and when to execute these is an important way
of finding Eugenio Barba’s “extra-daily” body.346 This is vital as the effect in mask of
ordinary use of the body is a flat, unanimated performance. Attention must also be
paid to maintaining audience interest, and for this there must be variety in the pattern of
rhythms and forms employed. There are also other patterns that performers need to
understand, for example, when and how to build to a climax.
Toby Wilsher reports how in Lecoq’s thinking “the whole [mask] face becomes the
eye” so that rather than “the eye flicking about, seeing things…now the whole head
345 A useful description of how this works in practice appears in Leach (2000), 49. Also Wilsher (2006),
35. 346 See p 22.
must move.” The masked actor’s whole body then registers its response to what the
mask sees (in a way analogous to the reaction the audience reads on the unmasked
actor’s expressive face.)347 Perhaps with something of this in mind, one of Tyrone
Guthrie’s actors describes how in his Oedipus Rex “one led with the head even in
rehearsal without the masks on” to get used to the different style required348. Walton,
using the analogy of film, speaks of a “take,” that is a sequence of actions conveying,
for example, the discovery of the lock of hair in Aeschylus’ Libation-Bearers and sees
the moves and gestures emanating from the mask with the rest of the body following.349
In this particular sequence it seems to me logical that the masked head moves and then
“catches sight” of the lock (conveyed perhaps by a momentary freeze). The visible
reaction to seeing the lock, is then manifest in another part of the body. A shock of
surprise when a character sees something unexpected may well emanate from the chest
(the breast bone), which then takes the whole body in a backwards movement. The
masked head could then move again to register surprise. This last head movement
might place the mask into full frontal presentation (usually the most compelling
position) and it serves to open up the action to the audience so that they are able to
share the astonishment of the mask figure. It is as though Electra is asking herself:
“What is that?” and the audience can visualise this thought as the face of the mask is
presented to them. However, a movement sequence does not always logically start
with the masked head. If, for example, rather than seeing an object the masked figure
or figures were to hear a sound, as when various cries are heard from off-stage, this
might be conveyed by a momentary freeze of the whole body before the masked head
and perhaps also the body moves in a visible reaction. In speaking of the logic of
various sequences of moves I am using a modern criterion in which the aim is to
maintain a level of illusion which as Toby Wilsher describes can only be achieved by
the avoidance of “doing action that has no truth behind it.” He also advocates that the
actor underpin his actions by “a continuous thought process, a running commentary in
the voice of the character” so that he/she lives the reactions of their character rather
than engage in an exercise of demonstrating them to the audience.350 His formulation
347 Wilsher (2006), 31. 348 Len Cariou in an interview with Alfred Rossi. Rossi (1977), 270. 349 Walton (2007). 350 Wilsher (2006), 32.
here suggests something of a Stanislavskian approach351 and is indicative of the way
this thinking permeates, not only naturalistic drama but also mask theatre today. For
modern performances of masked Greek tragedy it seems to me that this “truth” works
very well in some passages, Electra’s discovery of the lock being one, but that it can be
more usefully achieved by means other than a continuous internal monologue. In other
passages a more presentational mode or a stylised use of gesture might be more
appropriate; an example of the latter being when the chorus react during a protagonist
speech.352
A basic exercise and one of the first that I give to actors new to mask work, is to find
the central, full frontal presentation of the mask and from this point to explore the
different angles of presentation through the vertical and subsequently the horizontal
planes that still “work” or keep the mask “active” for the audience. (There is a limit
beyond which, if it is turned too far to the right or left or tilted too far up or down, the
audience will “lose the mask” and it no longer gives them a sense of the character or
being that they saw when the mask was in range). In the theatre of naturalism the
audience has no problem focussing on characters when they have lost contact with the
performer’s face, as for example, in a “realistic” conversation when actors face one
another or even have their backs to the audience. For mask theatre such realism does
not work and performers have to use their knowledge of a mask’s range to maintain
contact with the audience. Although this concept is simple in end-on stagings, it
becomes complicated, as I discuss below, when the viewpoint of the audience is
variable as in the large Greek theatres.
Mask theatre can be played with a “presentational” style directly to the audience;
arguably more appropriate to comedy than tragedy. This style is not essential for mask
theatre and if it is used continuously it tends to preclude a more subtle portrayal of
character and situation. However, even when the audience is not directly addressed
they need to feel contact with the mask. To achieve this, performers have to use their
knowledge of range and at times the mask must be seen by each segment of the
audience in its strong full frontal position; one that resembles that of the
“presentational” mode. Audiences can, however, sense the difference between this and
351 See p 226. 352 For example the Theban elders reacting to Creon’s statesmanlike speech. See p 67.
a figure who is facing them but is engaging in an internal monologue. With mask
theatre all the action must be opened up and shared with the audience. For example in a
conversation between two characters, a useful convention to employ is to have the
speaker facing (mask full front) towards the audience. S(he) talks to the other character
but for the audience.
In order to follow the action of the play the audience must be able to identify who is
speaking at any moment, who they are addressing, how everyone present is reacting,
and what is being said and done. To attain clarity in mask theatre, the audience’s
attention at any moment needs to be directed to one point of focus so that the visual
signs conveying this information are not lost in a confusion of activity. Greek theatre
with its multiplicity of masked figures presents more problems in this respect than Noh
in which masks are only worn by those performing the shite roles and the focus of
attention naturally falls on the masked figure or figures.353 Walton describes how in
Greek tragedy the text exhibits many examples of deictic language to identify particular
characters or objects and that words such as “this” or “that” are “demonstration words,
redolent of expression through gesture, the cheironomia.”354 The techniques of mask
and physical theatre from the Western tradition provide other ways of indicating the
point of focus.355 One is to have only the speaker in an energised mode accompanying
their delivery with appropriate movement and gesture whilst other figures present play
with a lower level of energy and do nothing to distract the audience. In Greek theatre,
though, there are times when it is possible to have more than one figure in energised
motion, creating a stage picture that in its entirety draws the attention of the audience.
This may, for instance, be a scene in which a protagonist’s speech is amplified or
illustrated by choral movement. The latter may also react collectively to the speaker in
a way that speech and reaction become one complementary action. To show how this
might work I describe one of my own experiments with a passage from Sophocles’
Antigone in which Tiresias recounts to Creon and the chorus how in his place of augury
he had observed the strange behaviour of the birds. In the staging devised for this,
Tiresias, from a downstage position, described the scene with gesture and movement
whilst other figures present moved back quickly in a reaction to his words but in a
353 This point is made in Walton (2007). The shite role occasionally involves two masked performers. 354 Walton (2006), 63 and Walton (2007).
manner that also suggested the circling movements of the birds, without being a literal
enactment of a bird-like physicality. There was also the sense of an invisible link
between the seer and the others; as he moved one way they circled away in the opposite
direction. However the choreography made it clear that the movement emanated from
Tiresias so that there was never any doubt about the identity of the speaker. The
identity of the chorus here was complex, they were a group of old men, witnesses to the
action, but in their stylised reaction, were neither a naturalistic stage crowd, nor the
birds suggested by the stage picture of circling forms. Creon also formed part of this
picture, his mask distinguishing him from the others, but his movement through the
space contributed to the image of birds in flight. (See video clip 7).
Another way a performer can take the focus is to present their mask frontally whilst the
others reinforce this by looking at that person. In the example given above of a typical
conversation between two mask characters, the person speaking faces the audience
whilst the second person looks at the first. The first speaker then looks at the second,
giving them focus for their reply. (For actors trained in naturalism this feels perverse).
This, however, is a good practice with which to become familiar rather than
constituting a fixed principle of staging. It is a more useful device to employ for
exchanges involving long speeches. In the fast passages of stichomythia it can only be
used sparingly lest it produces a humorous effect (like watching a tennis ball passing to
and fro). There are also times when the texts clearly indicate a different action as when
a character is looking down, for example at Antigone 441-2 when Creon refers to
Antigone looking at the ground. Conventions also need to be broken from time to time
lest they become, and are perceived as, easy and boring formulae, or overuse makes for
a ridiculous effect. Whilst it is often important for the audience’s attention to be
mainly on the person speaking, at other times, a character’s reaction to the speaker is
highlighted. A clear visual depiction of action and reaction, together with the
characters’ thought processes bring life and clarity to the action of Greek tragedy.
Action that is clearly depicted in visual terms together with a distinct focal point should
show the audience which masked character is speaking at any moment, even if the
speaker’s moving mouth is invisible. The full-faced masks in Peter Hall’s productions
of tragedy have often been blamed for difficulty in locating the speaker but clarity
355 These are described in general terms in Wilsher (2006), 62-3.
could have been introduced by adopting these techniques. Hall creates unnecessary
difficulties when he insists that:
Full masks do not look at each other. To see another masked figure close to
you, shatters the inward illusion, the belief in another person that the actor is
creating for himself. The mask is therefore always ‘presented’ to the audience,
telling the story of the character. In a sense, each actor in a masked play is an
individual on his own.356
The continuous use of frontal presentation of masks can also produce a tedious effect
and restrict the possibilities offered by masks when presented at other angles.
When commentators speak of the need for the masks of Greek tragedy to face, or be
presented frontally to the audience, some clarification is needed on how this will work
in practice in non-proscenium theatres. In the ancient theatres the performer is viewed
from many different angles simultaneously so that at any one time only a fraction of the
audience experience the mask in full frontal view. Presumably what is being advocated
by Hall is a presentational acting style in which the performers direct their speeches out
towards the audience, rather than towards each other and in a way that ensures that no
part of the audience feels left out. To achieve this the masked actor cannot remain
wholly motionless, but must turn to face one way and then another, and at times to
move the mask face horizontally, vertically and diagonally, sweeping its gaze over
large segments of the audience. It seems that Hall also sees the chorus playing a role in
this, as he envisages the protagonist speaking to the chorus “who then turn and talk to
us. They comment on their findings and interpret the protagonists to us.” He goes on to
say that the performer, when part of the chorus “must present himself to the audience or
to the protagonist (when he will have his back to the audience).”357 It is clear that Hall
has in mind a staging in which the chorus is situated between the audience and the main
figures, as would have been the case if the actors performed on a separate stage with
the chorus in the orchestra, a view of the ancient theatre that is no longer in favour in
scholarly circles.358
356 Hall (2000), 34. 357 Hall (2000), 32-3. 358 For a discussion on this issue see Taplin (1977), 441-2.
In my own practice, I have sometimes worked with a single audience viewpoint in
mind. The fact that material was being videoed (for my own research) and/or
performed in intimate spaces has been one reason for this. I also want to use modern
mask theatre techniques that result in a precise and clear action, with powerful visual
images and stage configurations. These techniques are not wholly incompatible with a
more variable audience viewpoint but they need to be adapted for that situation. Where
time and circumstances permit (or demand) I train actors to perform for a variable
audience viewpoint. There is often sufficient text in Greek tragedy for the actor to
convey an action to at least three different parts of an audience in the round. It is
notable that Shakespeare also writes for an audience on three sides with many speeches
following the same pattern as Mark Antony’s: “Friends, Romans, countrymen.”
Perhaps there is an analogous structure at Libation-Bearers 230 ff. when Orestes first
directs Electra to match the lock of hair to his own. In English translation,359 this takes
three phrases: (1.) Look! Place that lock of hair where it was cut. (2) It is your
brother’s hair, (3) and much resembles yours. He then refers to a piece of weaving, this
time taking four phrases.
The techniques I describe to achieve clarity in mask theatre require careful staging in
which precision and timing are crucial. The exact position of characters in the
performance space at any moment is more important than it is for naturalistic plays.
When characters talk to one another, or see something happening, they need to be in a
position where this appears plausible but also enables the audience to see the mask,
when this is relevant. This means that the external forms, including emotional
responses need to be choreographed.
I have earlier described how the faces of my masks are designed with certain subtle
asymmetries that make them appear to change expression as the mask moves.
However it is simplistic to speak of the mask portraying different emotions at different
angles. Rather, the total physical presence of the masked performer and the scene
communicates with the audience enabling them to read various emotions in the mask
face. An analogous point is made by Takabayashi Koji who describes how various
movements such as “looking up and down, to the right and left” will convey different
emotions in Noh masks. However, the fact that the audience is arranged on two sides
359 Ewans (1995), 62. The structure of the translation appears to follow the Greek original closely here.
of the stage means that there is “no mathematical correlation between the angle of the
mask and its expression.” It is the “whole body, not just the mask, [that] expresses the
emotions read as being in the mask.” He illustrates this point by describing how when
lowering the masked head into the position known as “cloud mask” the actor “lowers
not only the head, but the whole upper torso. When such a pattern is meant to express
sadness (as opposed to looking into the depths of a river) the chest also caves
slightly.”360
There are external and internal dimensions to the way that the performer can portray
emotion. The question of the extent to which the performer needs to feel a real
emotion is one that has, over the years, excited much debate.361 It is possible to portray
emotion with only the external form. Conveying grief, for example, by mimicking the
rhythmical breath and the spasmodic rising and falling of the chest that accompanies
weeping will appear plausibly “life-like” to a modern audience if the performer has
observed well and can reproduce these signs accurately. Real life tears would make
effective mask performance impossible. There are, of course, intermediate positions
between a total subjective engagement with emotion and a purely technical
representation of the physical form on the part of the performer. In my experience,
when an actor’s imagination is engaged and they have a clear image in their mind, it
can seem as though their thoughts and feelings are visible on the surface of the mask
face. This being said, I was once present at a demonstration given by the Noh master
Naohiko Umewaka where it became clear that an even more profound, if esoteric,
communication may be achieved by a particular performer who empties his/her mind
and focuses instead on an energised clarity in executing the external form.362
In this section I have been describing various techniques employed in the modern
tradition of mask performance as a means to achieve clarity in action-based theatre. In
my own observation the very different aesthetic of Noh means that the actors do not
perform for the audience in the way I have been advocating for modern performances
360 In an interview reported in Bethe (1984), 99. 361 In the modern era, Denis Diderot’s essay Le Paradoxe sur le comédien, Diderot (1957) instigated the
debate between the validity of “external” as against “internal” theories of acting. A useful discussion is
in Hornby (1992), 101-130. 362 In an International Workshop Festival, 21st-24th November 1995, venue Upstream Studios, London.
of Greek tragedy, and the Noh mask may be turned away from a substantial segment of
the audience for considerable periods of time. In Noh there are usually fewer stage
figures and exchanges between them lack the situational complexity to be found in
Greek drama. Moreover the elaborate Noh costume, chosen to suit mask and
performer363 also masks the actor’s body and the whole in performance can be seen to
exude an intense retained energy that focuses the attention even when the mask is
turned away. In Noh the concentration on a single theme is ideally suited to its form.
Greek tragedy in which there is much more business to be conveyed, needs a different
treatment.
The “discovery of the lock”
As an illustration of the way the special techniques I have described, might be utilised
in Greek tragedy I now present one of my experiments with a scene from Aeschylus’
Libation-Bearers.
David Wiles, writing about the staging of the “recognition” scene from the play has
commented on “Aeschylus’ complete control over the play as visual representation”
and how: “Line by line, the dramatist has thought through the physical requirements of
performance.” 364 This recommendation suggested to me that the play was eminently
suitable for my work and that I would find that the ancient tragedian was writing with
the needs of mask theatre in mind. However, as I am working in English translation the
issue arose of finding the best script for my purpose. I wanted one that stays fairly
close to the original text but that is also performable. In terms of Dryden’s tripartite
model of translation:365 the “metaphrase” (word for word translation) would be
unperformable (but invaluable as a reference) whilst the “imitation,” in straying too far
from the original, would deprive me of vital clues on the possibilities of ancient mask
practice. Even within the category of “paraphrase” or what we might consider a fairly
close translation there can still be unhelpful departures from the original; changes for
example, in motifs and imagery or subtle alterations of action and reaction that define
the way characters relate to one another. I have ruled out both the Philip Vellacott and
363 Described by Kongo Iwao: Kongo (1984), 90. 364 Wiles (1988), 84-5. 365 Dryden (1970), 184-5.
Robert Fagles translations for this reason whilst those of Ted Hughes and Tony
Harrison stray even further from the original.366 A script also suggests a particular
dynamic (quite apart from metre). One translation impels movement, different rhythms
and qualities of motion, whilst another inhibits activity and dictates a static delivery.
An example of the former is the Michael Ewans translation. Unfortunately some of the
phrasing is awkward and difficult for actors to learn. Despite this it is performable
(altering the odd line or phrase) and highly pertinent to mask theatre. Like Ewans, the
translation by D. Grene and W.D. O’Flaherty follows the words of Aeschylus closely
yet it does not “dance” in the same way. With these considerations in mind I chose, for
the purpose of experimentation, the translation by Ewans. He expresses the desire to
“supply theatre practitioners with an actable and accurate script, together with a
conception of how that script originally worked” in the playwright’s “own performance
space” with the aim of destroying the idea of “Greek tragedy as static, ritualised,
obscure and hard to stage.”367
Electra’s discovery of the lock seems to me one of the most significant actions in the
first part of Libation-Bearers, although not everyone agrees with this. In the view of
James Hogan “the brevity and directness of the scene compared with the lament that
follows, imply that recognition is not the central dramatic purpose.” Hogan is less than
impressed by the hair and the footprints, finding them “no more than adequate” in
terms of “plausibility.” He seems anyway to be following a bias in Aristotle368 who
“does not prize recognition by tokens so much as those from circumstance.” 369 For
Oliver Taplin, on the other hand, the “strands of hair are like seeds from which Orestes
might grow.” Moreover, the “lock is the tangible token which brings them together,
first in wish and then in reality…It constitutes a solid proof of grief for the dishonoured
memory of Agamemnon.” 370 The importance of tokens in Greek tragedy, to which
Taplin has drawn attention is not, to me, surprising as masks work especially well in
relation to objects. From my own workshop experience I have found that this affinity
366 Vellacott (1959); Fagles (1977); Hughes (1999); Harrison (1981). 367 Ewans (1995), xvii. 368 Poetics XI. 369 Hogan (1984), 112. 370 Taplin (1978), 83-4.
can be clearly seen when working with the very basic naïve or larval masks371 when
objects are frequently used as a means to express the thoughts, feelings and desires of
these simple figures and their relationships with one another. With the more complex
tragic masks the use of objects is more sparing but no less effective.
“Plausible” or not, the discovered lock is charged with meaning. The audience see
Orestes place it on Agamemnon’s tomb early in the play so at the start of the discovery
scene they know, but Electra does not, who the lock belongs to. Following the
discovery, the audience see her reacting to it, and her words in conjunction with those
of the chorus show that she is considering the different possibilities and their
implications. From this the audience may infer her thought processes to be:
Who would have made such an offering?
It’s like the distinctive hair of her own family- like her hair but it can’t be. She
hasn’t cut it. Could it be her brother’s hair? Has he returned home?- no he’s
probably just sent it- in which case he’ll never come back
Could it be the hair of an ordinary citizen? - impossible. She thinks of her
mother who wouldn’t have made such an offering.
If it was the hair of an enemy, though, that would make it something hateful to
be thrown away.
If, on the other hand, it comes from her brother then it’s a friend. 372
There is a plausibly human thought process at work here. Moreover, these thoughts are
expressed in a disjointed way and she describes herself as “distracted,” being in the
grip of storms and “tossed like men at sea.” 373 (If the significance of the lock is lost on
Hogan, it is not on Electra.) The discovery of the lock is, then, a key element in the first
part of the drama. It expresses in tangible form the situation and relationships between
371 Also known as Basle masks, these are used in training based on the teaching of Jacques Lecoq, see
Wright (2002). They have been used in performance notably by the theatre company “Moving Picture
Mime Show.” 372 Libation-Bearers 169 ff. 373 Ewans (1995), 61.
all the figures present. Who it belongs to, and how it got to be where it is, are questions
of vital importance. It is also the start of a trail that leads to Orestes: first the lock, then
the footprints and then the person and even then there is a process that needs to be gone
through before Electra can finally accept the real living presence of her brother.
The scene of discovering the locks is also one of unfolding action: plausibly human
figures acting and reacting to on-going events. There is a clear interaction in the
stichomythic exchange following the sighting of the lock. For instance, at Libation-
Bearers 167 the chorus respond with alarm to something Electra has just said or the
way she has said it. In the Ewans translation Electra says: “But now share something
new with me” and the chorus respond “What is it? My heart leaps with fear.”374 This is
here and now reaction, not a narrator telling a story, not simply ritual theatre, but
action. As I have argued above, performing the scene in mask, in a way that clearly
conveys the action, requires a particular set of techniques. Part of the technique is to
determine where at any given moment the audience’s focus of attention should be. In
the first part of the play Agamemnon’s tomb is obviously an important focus, whilst the
skene door dominates the second part. However, within this global structure the focus
will shift at a micro level from the tomb, to Orestes and Pylades arriving, to Orestes
relating to the tomb, to the act of cutting the locks, the act of dedication, to the arrival
of the chorus and so on. One of the secrets of clarity in mask theatre is an appropriate
choice of where and how to place the focus required at any given moment. Economy
and logic are also important. In mask redundant or unmotivated moves tend to confuse
an audience or convey the wrong message. For example, in Electra’s monologue
following the discovery of the hair, if she has no apparent reason to go towards the
footprints, why does she do so? If the actor isn’t careful it may appear that Electra
already knows that they are there. Perhaps a god leads her, in which case the audience
needs to see from Electra’s movement that she is no longer under her own locomotive
control but divinely propelled. If the performer looks around too much then the
audience may start to see her as a thief and we are in a totally different type of play.
David Wiles states that “Electra must be crouched to the ground picking up the lock”
reflecting in physical form the “small seed taking root (203-4)” and it “is because the
actor has his eyes fixed onto the ground that Electra is able to notice and identify the
374 Ewans (1995), 60.
footprints.”375 Wiles here obviously supports the idea that the moves made by tragic
figures are not completely arbitrary, but are explainable in terms of the unfolding
action. However, what he proposes runs together two actions that should be kept
distinct. With mask theatre, clarity requires the conveying of one piece of (visual)
information at a time. The small seed growing into a tree is one image that must be
completed (the performer grows up from a crouched to a tall position) before the next
action, that of catching sight of the prints, is begun.
The trail of discovery has a particular rhythm. In the interval between the sightings of
the lock and of the footprints there is a considerable amount of speech. The interval
between the discovery of the prints and the arrival of Orestes is much shorter, five or so
lines. The audience has by now got the idea of how Electra is feeling and reacting.
They don’t need to see the sort of detailed reactions to the footprints that they have
seen with the lock. She sees, immediately speaks and within moments the owner of the
prints, Orestes himself, appears. This rhythm is clearly in the text, and makes dramatic
sense; it is also broadly analogous to the principle of jo-ha-kyu in Noh theatre,376 in that
as the action progresses there is an increase in tempo leading to a climax. For clarity in
mask theatre the first discovery, that of the locks, cannot be so quick as the discovery
of the footprints. Here mask theatre differs from naturalism. With the latter there is no
problem if a character sees something unexpected, identifies it as hair, and expresses
their thought in speech at the same time. In next to no time they can recognise it as
being like their own and speak about their reactions. In the exchange between Electra
and the chorus at the beginning of the stichomythia,377 translators who have the
immediacy of naturalistic theatre in mind may reflect this. For example, in Ted
Hughes’ version Electra says “What is this?” and the chorus respond: “Why did my
heart lurch when you picked that up?” 378 Thus, they all see it; Electra instantly picks it
up and speaks. This is very quick. This timing for the discovery of the lock, however,
has some academic support. Oliver Taplin, for example, says “it is at the very moment
that the libations are completed that Electra sees it.”379 J.M. Walton, has recently
375 Wiles (1988), 85. 376 A concise description of this principle is given in Johnson (1984), 173-4. 377 Libation-Bearers 165 ff. 378 Harrison (1981), 97. 379 Taplin (1978), 83.
described how “the masked actor reacts before putting the reaction into words.”380
However, in an earlier analysis of the scene he envisages the picking up of the lock and
the comparison with her own hair to take place during the exchange between Electra
and the chorus.381 Tony Harrison who claims that he had the needs of mask in mind in
making his translation for Peter Hall, also has Electra discovering the lock during this
dialogue and it is clear that he, like Hall, has no awareness of the special techniques
that I have described above. Harrison’s language adds a further distraction in its use of
self-indulgent alliteration and trivialising rhythmic structure. As Rush Rehm observes,
the “excesses” of this translation “prevents the audience from clearly grasping what is
important to the play.”382 In the scene under discussion, Harrison places the discovery in
the middle of a line, so that Electra’s words are tacked on almost as an afterthought, to
the preceding action:
ELECTRA: Gulped by Gaia the drinks have gone through
Through to my father…
(Sees lock of hair)
…but here’s something new!
This is followed by a rhyming couplet, risible in its banality:
CHORUS: Fear makes my heart jig. What have you found?
ELECTRA: A lock of hair has been laid on the mound.383
In the Ewans translation, that more closely follows the line structure of the ancient
Greek, the completion of the ritual is given only one line and Electra’s announcement
of her discovery is given a line to itself.
My father has his offerings; they’ve soaked into the earth.
380 Walton (2006), 65. 381 Walton (1980), 187. 382 Rehm (1985), 233. 383 Harrison (1981), 236.
But now, share something new with me.384
It is not uncommon to hear mask practitioners remark that “masks” slow things down.
By this they do not mean that mask theatre is of necessity a statuesque form, but rather
that playing a part in mask imposes a constraint upon the speed with which the action
can be conveyed. This is true not only of the time taken for vocal delivery but also for
the visual dimension of the drama. The discovery of the lock is a key action that has a
series of components each of which would ideally have a separate gesture or set of
gestures to be clearly conveyed in mask. The Plan below offers a detailed account of
the moves for a possible staging (see also video clip 1).
Plan of Actions and Moves: discovering the lock in a masked
performance of Aeschylus’ Libation-Bearers (Electra’s moves during the
choral prayer from 158-163)
ACTION 1: Electra catches sight of the lock.
Moves: a) The gaze of the mask appears to shift from somewhere other than the
direction of the lock to its vicinity. (There is a reason for this shift).
b) The gaze fixes on the lock. Almost immediately a reaction is seen in the body. This
might be a small sharp move starting from the breast bone and taking the whole body
backwards.
c) The mask face is directed towards the audience who read the (internal) thought:
“What’s that?”
ACTION 2: Electra interacts with the lock.
Subdivided into: 2 i) Electra goes to and picks up the lock.
Moves: a) The gaze of the mask returns to the lock.
384 Ewans (1995), 60.
b) The actor goes to the lock and picks it up. How this is done will convey
information about emotion and “character.”
2ii) Electra sees it is a lock of hair.
Moves: The gaze of the mask is on the locks to focus attention on them whilst they are
held up as long dangling skeins away from the actor’s body. The latter can move in a
way that conjures up the image of a wavy lock of hair. (This technique from mime in
which the actor embodies the characteristics of an object, to evoke its image, is
suggested by David Wiles for the speech leading up to the “recognition” scene).385
2iii) Electra recognises the hair
Moves: a) The hand holding the hair is brought in towards the body and the mask face
ceases to look at it but is presented frontally as the focus is removed from the lock to
the effect it is having on Electra. Slight movements of the mask face can suggest that
memories, emotions and thoughts are being triggered.
The pace now needs to accelerate as:
b) The gaze returns to the lock in one hand, whilst the other finds a strand of Electra’s
own hair. The two are compared and found to be the same.
c) The mask face is directed to the audience and they register the mask’s reaction. This
can be accompanied by a gesture e.g. clasping the lock to the breast.
ACTION 3: Electra replaces the lock on the tomb.
(The manner in which she does so gives a visual indication of her emotional state).
Later she will draw the attention of the chorus to it before taking it up again.386
Obviously there is not enough time for all this if Electra finds the lock at the first line
of the stichomythic interchange. So when does she first see it? Not before the
385 Wiles (2004), 211. 386 Libation-Bearers 168 ff.
beginning of the preceding choral prayer and no later than her speech drawing attention
to the hair. Could she find it during the prayer? Is there a suitable place to start the
sequence I have laid out in my table, and do it in a way that makes the audience look at
Electra’s actions and not at the chorus who are delivering the lines? It so happens that
there is a eminently suitable place: the cry of lament387, the most intense moment of the
prayer and where the Ewans translation places the discovery. Starting this key
sequence here emphasises its significance and suggests the intervention of powers from
the underworld in the unfolding events. In the lines that follow the cry, the chorus most
appropriately pray for the coming of a strong fighting man to liberate the house. The
lock is still as Taplin says “the first hint of an answer to their prayers”388 but its
discovery now occurs simultaneously with their appeal. Having identified a suitable
timing for this action it is now necessary to ensure that the audience focus on Electra
rather than the chorus who are delivering the lines at this point and whose numbers
make them a significant presence. There are various ways of directing attention to and
of removing it from, a character. One way of achieving the former is for the chorus all
to look at Electra as a signal for the audience to do the same. However, this would
make a nonsense of their reaction at Libation-Bearers 167 as they would have already
seen her discovery.
An alternative staging takes the focus off the chorus, for example, by having them
direct their speech straight into the ground along with their libations. This action also
reinforces the idea of communication with the underworld. If the chorus go down on
their knees and Electra, in a central position, remains standing, the visual focus will be
on her. She can then go through the actions I have laid out in my table. Having
discovered the lock she does not immediately draw attention to it but first brings the
choral prayer to an end and this can be explained by the necessity of completing the
ritual before she does anything else. In this reading when she does finally draw
attention to the lock, it is not so much an immediate but an after-reaction. This is a
more complex interpretation which, nonetheless, fits well with the interchange between
Electra and the chorus. Following Ewans’ translation, it is possible to find a certain
friction in their exchange, with the chorus asking for information and Electra reacting
387 Libation-Bearers 158. 388 Taplin (1978), 83.
with some impatience, which makes sense if at this point the discovery is immediate
for the chorus leader but not for Electra.
David Wiles has recently drawn my attention to an interesting idea in relation to the
text connected with the discovery. He observes that line 165, usually transposed by
modern editors to an earlier Electra speech, would if retained in its original position in
the Greek text, allow additional time for Electra to carry out the actions I have
advocated.389 Following this suggestion, it would in my view be necessary to allocate
the line to the chorus as the gestures I give in table 1, for Electra to perform, convey the
idea of a process of thought that does not correspond to the words spoken in this line.
Moreover, it would be necessary to modify the actions in the sequence. In this different
staging, Electra would catch sight of and go to the lock on the Greek manuscript line
165 now delivered by the chorus. In the interchange that follows, Electra’s words can
be seen as the speaking of her train of thought. The three lines that it takes for Electra
to realise and acknowledge that the hair is like her own accord particularly well with
this idea:
ELECTRA: Still, it’s here, and if you look it’s very like…
CHORUS: What kind of hair? That’s what I want to know.
ELECTRA: It has a close resemblance to my own.390
Here Electra might deliver her first line whilst looking at the lock. As the chorus speak
the line that follows she can bring the lock in close proximity with her own hair and
compare them before confirming the similarity verbally.
I have suggested two different ways of staging the discovery scene, the first in response
to the text usually given by modern editors and the second for that in the original Greek
manuscript. The first is not consistent with Oliver Taplin’s hypothesis that any actions
performed should be limited to what is indicated in and be performed simultaneously
with, the relevant text. 391 The second accords better with this principle although some
389 Conversation with David Wiles, 2nd August 2007 on Libation-Bearers 165 that is usually transposed
to 124 by modern editors. 390 Libation-Bearers 174-6 in Ewans (1995), 61. 391 Taplin (1977), 29-31.
gestures would precede the related text. In mask it is usually the body that reacts
before action can be put into words. For a modern production either staging would
work.
Conclusion
The idea once prevalent of tragedy as an essentially immobile form, enacted by
performers impeded by padded costumes, high boots and masks considerably over life-
size, is now discredited in scholarly literature. However, such a view is still in general
circulation and inspired Tyrone Guthrie’s productions of masked Greek tragedy. Far
from being static, parts of the main action of Aeschylus’ plays may have been
performed in a style we would recognise as dance drama with the use of stylized and
physically expressive gesture, both by the main characters and by the chorus. The latter
may also have illustrated the long protagonist speeches with mimetic movement. Late
in the fifth century there was a change in acting style and contrary to the views of many
scholars, this may have constituted a move towards greater mimesis and more gestural
restraint, an idea that is supported not only by ancient literary sources but also, I
contend, by changing visual aesthetics as evidenced in vase paintings. It is, however,
misleading to speak of one acting style as the plays of all three playwrights are
characterised by stylistic variation.
The nature of the plays together with the limitations (and possibilities) of mask suggest
that particular techniques developed in the modern tradition of masking would serve to
clarify the conveying of tragic action for audiences today. The way the plays are
written arguably indicates that, at the very least, some of these techniques were also
relevant in the ancient context. An application of the techniques to the “discovery of
the lock” scene from Aeschylus’ Libation-Bearers highlights the special needs of mask
theatre in conveying the action here and prompts a comparison between this and the
thinking of most modern translators and editors whose assumptions relate more to
unmasked drama.
In my interpretation of Aeschylus’ “discovery of the lock” scene I have also found
what seems to me to be another important aspect of Greek tragedy: figures who think,
feel and react, in a plausibly human way. There is a debate on the extent to which this
is an anachronistic reading and this is the subject of the next chapter.
Chapter 6: Character, tragedy and mask
Introduction
Modern mainstream drama typically focuses on an exploration of character and this
influences the thinking of directors and actors who tend to take it for granted that
character is the natural starting point for interpretation and staging of any play. Even in
the alternative sector of physical theatre much training and performance involves the
presentation of “characters” whether these be simple types lacking any psychological
depth or more complex figures. When masks are involved in a production, a modern
designer may think of producing a mask expressive of a particular individual or type,
conceiving this in terms of characteristic traits. It seems that Tanya Moisewitsch, for
example, had very particular details of this kind in mind when designing the masks for
Tyrone Guthrie’s productions.392 Another example comes from Peter Hall’s Bacchai in
which the masks of Tiresias and Cadmus were characterised to resemble modern,
individualised faces.
A preoccupation with character is also apparent in the analyses of tragedy by many
amongst an earlier generation of classicists and more recent scholarship has tended to
challenge this emphasis. A concern with, and an attempt to reconcile, the apparent
“inconsistencies” in the character drawing of the ancient playwrights and the ascription
of deeper motivation to the actions of the tragic protagonists has since been thought of
as anachronistic. John Gould, for example, argues that the dramatic language of Greek
tragedy presents a model of "human intelligibility" that does not invite the same
questions as those pertinent to today’s naturalistic drama.393 It has been argued that a
preoccupation with character, especially the focus on inner psychological dimensions,
is a specifically modern phenomenon. It is the ancient term ēthos that we translate as
“character” and the lack of correspondence between the two has led some
commentators to favour the use of alternative terminology. John Jones, for example,
frequently refers to the “stage figures” of Greek tragedy. 394 Others such as Stephen
Halliwell apparently do not feel the need to inhibit themselves in this way and continue
392 See p 31. 393 Gould (1978), 44ff. 394 Jones (1962), 32ff.
to use the term character in the ancient context, freely and without the use of quotation
marks.395 I happily follow this last example, reasoning that incompatibility of terms is
far reaching and all analysis would become impossible if we abandoned our vocabulary
on this account.
The idea that the speech and actions of tragic figures are explicable in terms of the
choices they make or the objectives they have, as independent operators or agents in the
fictive world of the play, has also been questioned. The notion that there is such a
thing as “unchanging human nature” is widely contested, so that, for example, themes
such as “love” and “hatred” are no longer seen to be universal experiences, but instead
are viewed as constructs having different significance in the ancient as against the
modern context.
Those addressing the difference between ancient and modern perceptions have
variously appealed for evidence to a wide range of sources such as the Greek literary
tradition (of which the plays are but a part), the ideas of ancient thinkers such as Plato
and Aristotle, and to the dramas seen as culturally specific performance events. The
fact that the plays were originally performed in mask has also led some commentators
to argue for a special approach to interpretation of roles. On the other side of this
debate a few voices have cautioned against the total abandonment of concepts related to
character such as psychology, inner life and intentional actions.
It has been observed that the fictive status of the figures that people the dramas means
that there can be no definitive interpretation,396 although it is clear that some will be
seen as less satisfactory than others. Approaching the subject from the viewpoint of
practical theatre leads me to ask questions of the texts somewhat different from those
posed in classical scholarship. In particular I am looking for what it is that may be
conveyed to an audience at any given moment; what choices will make for the most
satisfactory theatre; and what understanding will enable a particular actor or group of
actors to give of their best in performance.
395 Halliwell uses the term when referring to the dramatis personae of the plays as, for example in
Halliwell (1993), 201 and in defining Aristotle’s ēthos in which “character” is an “attribute of persons”
Halliwell (1986), 150. 396 This point is elaborated by Simon Goldhill, basing his argument on Barthes S/Z, Goldhill (1990),
The nature and relevance of character in the plays has implications for the way modern
actors and their directors might approach the tragic roles, whether or not masks are
involved. I open issues of character here partly as a prelude to my coverage in later
chapters but there are also implications for the design of masks for modern productions
that I discuss at the end of the current chapter.
I start, however, with ancient perceptions, giving some account of Aristotle’s concept
of ēthos and his four principles of characterisation in tragedy and then to other models
of character in ancient usage. This is followed by a discussion of modern
interpretations of the tragic figures and recent attempts to re-establish the idea that
human intelligibility can be found in the tragic characters. After this I consider the
question of agency, that is, the extent to which the plays are peopled by beings who
have autonomy of decision making. This is followed by the subject of “dualism” and
the contention that it had no place in ancient thinking before Plato with the implications
this has for interpreting the figures of Greek tragedy; a view that I challenge. I then
consider how writing for mask may have influenced the ancient playwrights’ approach
to characterisation. This leads into a discussion of the ancient masks, here focusing on
the degree to which they may have been characterised. I describe some of my own
performance experiments to offer an additional dimension to the debates on these
issues. I then consider the ancient Pollux catalogue and what this tells us about
characterisation of tragic masks. Finally I conclude with the implications of the debate
on character and its relevance for Greek tragedy on the decisions to be made when
designing masks for modern productions of the plays.
Ancient perceptions of character
It is the word ēthos in Aristotle's Poetics that we translate as “character.” Stephen
Halliwell describes how Aristotle defines it as “that which shows the nature of
deliberate moral choice…consequently there is no character in those speeches in which
there is nothing at all that the speaker chooses or rejects.” This is very different from
modern notions in which character is “bound up with all our actions, from the trivial to
the portentous” together with “the prevalent belief in a firm, internal locus for the
112ff.
individual character.” 397 John Jones describes how Aristotle sees character as manifest
in the words and deeds performed whilst the “inactive self is merely potential and
unachieved.” Whilst the nature of their actions is related to the kind of people they are
and the way they think, revelation of individual personalities is not the concern of the
plays. Instead the portrayal of character is present to bring out the action.398 Although
Aristotle speaks of “thoughts” and “intentions” these are not conceived of in terms of
“internal” or psychological phenomena. Rather, as Halliwell explains, in Aristotle
“reasoning and thought” accompany “the moral choice which is the basis of character.”
Moreover, “thought is defined…in such a way as virtually to identify it with rhetorical
argument: it is the province of verbal demonstration, refutation and kindred matters.”
This supports the idea that there can be “characterisation through speech and
argument”; for this, though, speech “must involve the assertion or revelation of
determinate ethical desires and intentions, and in a discernable relation to action.”
Thus it has little to do with the “inner consciousness” of tragic figures; for whilst
Aristotle “associates thought and character; he does not identify them.” 399
Aristotle distinguishes four principles of characterization: goodness or excellence;
appropriateness; likeness; and consistency.400 Halliwell describes how the first principle
is elaborated by Aristotle “with the statement that the moral choices revealed in speech
and action should be virtuous ones.” This should be considered in conjunction with an
earlier passage in the Poetics that the subject matter of tragedy should be “men better
than present humanity.”401 Aristotle’s concern “is partly with the gravity and ethical
seriousness” of tragedy as a genre, which in turn “owes something to the heroic
conceptions contained in tragic myth” including “a deliberate elevation and moral
refinement” of characters considered inferior, such as women and slaves. Goodness,
above all, is seen as an essential element to elicit the emotional response in the
audience on which the efficacy of tragedy depends. This response will only be
triggered if the suffering of tragic figures is perceived as undeserved. 402
397 Halliwell (1986), 150-1 on Poetics VI. 398 Jones (1962), 33, 36-7 on Poetics VI. 399 Halliwell (1986), 155-6. 400 Poetics XV. 401 Poetics II. 402 Halliwell (1986), 158-9.
The second principle reflects Aristotle’s concern with appropriateness and the type.
John Jones argues that this should be linked to Aristotle’s statement that: “No art has
the particular in view”403 and that also when he writes that “poetry is ‘more philosophic’
than history; it tells us ‘what kinds of thing a man of a certain type will say or do’404; it
offers the general.” Aristotle prescribes that appropriateness means that the dramatist
who, for instance, “wishes to portray courage or cleverness must remember that it is not
appropriate in a woman to be brave or clever.” According to Jones, the tenor of
Aristotle’s argument here, with its linking of appropriateness and goodness, is that the
“stage-women should possess the womanly virtues and the stage-slave the slavish
virtue; the former should not be brave like a man nor the latter generous-tempered like
a king, for this would produce an ultimate aesthetic anarchy.” Thus Aristotle sees tragic
figures as types rather than individuals who should be portrayed in accordance with the
characteristics that the Greeks associated with their social category.405
The third principle, likeness is not to be thought of as being “like reality.”406 Halliwell
interprets Aristotle as meaning that “the characters should not stand at an ethical
extreme,” that is they should be neither better than or worse than their audiences; rather
“likeness here…represents a middle way.” However, this “does not entail moral
mediocrity,” rather it “should be such that an audience can experience a sympathetic
moral affinity with them.” The tension between this principle and the requirement that
tragic figures be “better than present humanity” is, Halliwell argues, partly “explained
by the nature of tragedy itself…We must be able, like the Theban elders, to recognize
in Oedipus the qualities and grandeur which raise him above other men, but also his
true humanity” so that we feel sympathy for his suffering. The final principle of
characterization, consistency, is interpreted by Halliwell to mean that the
“understanding or expectations created by the characterization of one scene should not
be undermined, except for deliberate effect, by that of subsequent ones.” Character “is
403 Rhetoric I 2 11. 404 Poetics 1451b 5-9. 405 Jones (1962), 40-42. 406 Jones (1962), 40.
a subordinate aspect of the play, but one which must contribute to the unity, and
therefore the significance, of the action.”407
In the treatise on tragedy that emerges from Aristotle’s Poetics, undeserved suffering is
a crucial ingredient in stirring within the audience the “defining criterion of pity and
fear” that is a necessary condition in the achievement of catharsis. The inclusion of the
latter in Aristotle’s definition of the genre shows, according to Halliwell, “that there is
a strong affective dimension” to the theory; moreover, that it results from an
“experience of tragedy…which is both cognitive and emotional.”408 Halliwell asks
how undeserved suffering can be “handled within a scheme that is primarily
determined, so the treatise insists, by the intentions of individual agents?” For the latter
are seen as “the prime causative force in the action of the play; it is they who direct, or,
through the failures of action,…misdirect, the development of events which gives the
plot its structure and unity.” His answer is that Aristotle excludes from the plot “all
those sources of causation which are external to the actions of the human figures
themselves … the full range of traditional religious explanations for events in the
world.” Halliwell goes on to argue that there is “a strong congruence between the
Poetics and the tendency of the tragedians to build their treatments of tragic myths
around a pre-eminent and active figure, usually of heroic status.” In this he takes issue
with John Jones, arguing that contrary to the latter’s view “Greek tragedy does mostly
deal with major individuals who belong to what can properly be called a heroic
tradition of myth” and that Aristotle at “Poetics 13 does essentially posit a central
figure in the ideal tragedy.” In the world of Greek heroes there was an emphasis on
“individual status and the assertive, often egoistic values of action.” It was, moreover,
“one in which powers other than those of human agency were major sources of
suffering and tragedy.” Here Halliwell feels that Aristotle’s theory, with its “neglect of
the religious element in Greek tragedy” is “no longer in harmony” with the tragic genre
as practiced. 409
407 Halliwell (1986), 160-2. 408 Halliwell (1986), 200. 409 Halliwell (1986), 144-8,165 n33.
Christopher Gill draws on various ancient literary sources (including the plays) and
finds two different approaches to character.410 The first, such as that put forward by
Aristotle in including a moral dimension, is one in which the observer evaluates the
character. This relationship can be compared to an alternative in which the observer is
uncritical and seeks rather to understand, even empathise with the subject. Aristotle,
Gill argues, clearly expected people in normal life to apply moral judgement in their
dealings with one another and would not suspend this critical faculty in the theatre just
because they were being presented with a fictional figure. An example of Aristotle's
thinking on this point is evident in his prescriptive account of the conditions needed for
the drama to evoke the pity and fear that would result in the desired catharsis. This is
when he states that a character needs to be "good" but not too much so or his sufferings
will appear wholly disproportionate which would merely be shocking.411 Gill concludes
that a non-evaluative approach to character plays no part in Aristotle’s thinking, but he
finds evidence in other ancient commentaries that both evaluative and non-evaluative
approaches to character were recognized in fifth century Athens. He cites the debate
between the two tragedians in Aristophanes' Frogs which he believes demonstrates a
familiarity with both types of approach. An evaluative approach he sees expressed in
statements by both when they extol in moral and didactic terms, the beneficial effect on
society of their genre. In several places Aeschylus refers to characters in judgmental
terms and condemns Euripides for the moral shortcomings of his portrayals.412
However, the fact that the fictional Aeschylus speaks of the corrupting effect of such
portrayals shows that audiences (contrary to Aristotle's view) were wont to suspend
their normal moral condemnation of such behaviour and instead be sympathetic in
response. Gill finds a similar dual approach to character in Plato's Republic. Whilst
Plato, in describing epic and tragic figure uses evaluative terms "such as bravery, self-
control and their opposites" his argument reveals that he believes audiences actually
respond in a different way. Although in ordinary life, extravagant expression of
410 The evaluative and non-evaluative approaches described he terms the “character-viewpoint” and the
“personality-viewpoint” respectively, Gill (1986), 253. 411 Poetics XIII. 412 For example 1043 ff. and 1050 ff. which contain references to loose women, women in love, women
giving birth in temples or making love to their brothers, cited in Gill (1986), 257.
emotion would be condemned, it is precisely this that provides empathetic enjoyment
in the theatre.413
An evaluative approach to character is by nature reductive, generating models of
character describable in terms of a set of traits. With a non-evaluative approach a more
open-ended view is possible. As Gill points out, we can acknowledge unpredictability
and inconsistency as part of human make up and have a wider definition of what is
"rational or purposive in human motivation." Applying this idea of a more inclusive
notion of character to the scene from Frogs, Gill argues that Aeschylus as well as
Euripides can be seen to use a non-evaluative approach to character. “Aeschylus is
presented as the creator of figures in a state of intense emotion, either silently brooding
or bursting out in passionate anger or indignation.” 414
Modern interpretations of tragic f igures
Simon Goldhill describes an extended tradition of scholarship approaching character
from a literary perspective. Typically commentators have attempted to discover
personality and to ascribe motivation to the action of characters even where there is no
indication of such in the text. Goldhill cites the examples of two opposed reasons that
have been put forward to explain why Agamemnon steps onto the carpet in Aeschylus’
Oresteia:
it is because he is too much of a gentleman to refuse his wife’s request
(Fraenkel), or because he is arrogant, vain and all too pleased to commit an
outrage of this sort (Denniston-Page).
When in these academic type of readings “inconsistencies” in the drawing of characters
emerge, they have often been dismissed as “out of character.”415 Alternatively,
convoluted explanations have been produced in an attempt at rationalization. For
example, in Sophocles’ Antigone Creon, at the beginning of the play, describes himself
as new to the position of leader. Later on it emerges that he has been running the city
for some time. Peter Arnott describes how some have attempted to remove this
413 Gill (1986), 257-260. 414 Gill (1986), 253-8. 415 Goldhill (1986), 170.
“discrepancy” by imagining a period of regency during which Creon held an executive
position. Arnott questions the legitimacy of such extra-textual invention, arguing that
Creon’s different position in each scene is “justified by its immediate dramatic
context.” Thus, dramatic tension requires Creon to be a new and untried leader when
he addresses the elders at the beginning of the play. Later, when he argues with the
blind prophet, Tiresias, the dramatic tension is heightened if Creon is an experienced
ruler. 416 This viewpoint is related to the suggestion, in the late nineteenth century by
Tycho von Wilamowitz, that the main concern for Sophocles was to achieve
“maximum dramatic effect” for each scene. 417 Another complementary idea is that the
audience, being caught up in the “experience of the individual moment” have no wish
and indeed are unable to connect this with what has gone before or is to come. If
pursued to its logical conclusion, this could imply that there is a certain arbitrariness in
the allocation of lines to various characters, as who says what is secondary to the
working out of the events of the play. As Goldhill observes such an extreme position
would tend to repress any sense of narrative or the “constitution of meaning in
difference” in the plays. 418
Whilst most commentators today would not go so far, the reaction to the earlier
emphasis on psychological and literary readings of the plays has given rise to what
Goldhill describes as a “new orthodoxy” providing a “stronger articulation” of
Wilamowitz’s stance. Oliver Taplin’s contention that “the revelation of psychology is
only incidental to a scene’s primary dramatic purpose” is taken to indicate the shift of
critical ground. 419 There is also in this new paradigm a rejection of the claim for
universality of human experience. Goldhill, for example, challenges a statement by
Brian Vickers that in “Greek tragedy, people love and hate as we do” pointing out that
not only are the terms “love” and “hate” differently constructed in the ancient cultural
context, they also “affect the concept of the person.” He illustrates these points with
reference to the Antigone in which the relationship between Haemon and Antigone is
determined by culturally specific constructs relating to age and gender. Antigone is a
parthenos “conceptualized as a dangerous wild animal, whose wildness must be tamed
416 Arnott (1989), 188-90. 417 Discussed in Goldhill (1986), 170. 418 Goldhill (1986), 170-1. 419 Taplin (1977), 312 cited in Goldhill (1986), 171.
by the yoke of marriage”; virginity is seen as a “dangerous liminal state to be passed
through.” Haemon, as an ephebe, is “especially open to the force of desire” and his
motives in the quarrel with his father needs to be viewed in this light. In the choral ode
that immediately follows, the chorus blames their altercation on the power of love
which “twists the minds of the just.”420 Vickers’ dismissal of this interpretation of
Haemon’s motives” is given short shrift by Goldhill. He observes that it is “as if there
were no difference between the externalized and destructive force that the chorus
describe, and ‘love’ as in the western, Judeo-Christian tradition (as, for instance,
personal fulfilment).”421
Whilst seeking to avoid the excesses and distortion of many earlier scholars, Pat
Easterling expresses the view that the relegation of psychology and rejection of the idea
of a common humanity has been taken too far.422 She argues that “human behaviour is
portrayed…as something we can understand and identify with.” Where characters are
drawn “inconsistently” this, whilst being “exploited for dramatic purposes in all kinds
of ingenious ways, is not allowed to break the illusion.” 423 In her view “dramatic
effectiveness” does not eliminate the need for psychological explanations of action.
The former is “not a particularly useful criterion if no meaning is attached to the
dramatic effects beyond the immediate excitement they offer the audience.”424
Moreover, where there is ambiguity over motives it does not follow that motivation and
character are irrelevant and as with “most great roles…they offer scope for varying
interpretation.” Dramatically speaking “what bores us is either motiveless, totally
inconsequential behaviour which we cannot relate to our observation of life, or its
opposite, the over-simple, too predictable behaviour we meet in soap-opera.”425 In a
more recent article Easterling expresses a shift in viewpoint, in that she no longer holds
to the idea of an “unchanging human nature.” She concedes that “models of personality
change, and [also] notions of what it is appropriate and natural for human beings to
do.” However, she still feels that “texts composed…in a completely different cultural
420 Antigone 781 ff. 421 Vickers (1973), 6 cited in Goldhill (1990), 101-4. 422 Easterling (1977), 123. 423 Easterling (1973), 15. 424 Easterling (1973), 5. 425 Easterling (1977), 125-6.
context can be (relatively) accessible”; that “conventions, like grammars and codes, can
be learned” and “some sort of shift can be made to apprehend the thought patterns of
different cultures.” 426
Easterling takes issue with the idea that the plays only feature figures who are types. In
a study on characters in Sophocles she finds that: “although we are given so little
circumstantial detail about them they are all clearly distinct from one another.” This is
not merely “because their stories are different,”427 or by reason of them having “a
certain pre-existing mythological identity which helped to give them individuality.”
Whilst it is “true that Sophocles deals in dramatic formulas…he finds ways of making
the formulas work differently in different plays.” It is his “ability to seize on
significant detail” and to dramatize his mythological subject matter “with the fullest
understanding of what happens to people and what they do and feel in real life” that
forces audiences428 “to suspend disbelief and accept his characters as individuals.” One
of Sophocles’ themes, for example, that can be seen in the Antigone and also in the
Electra, is: “that of the intransigent hero or heroine whose passionate refusal to
compromise is set off by the sympathetic ordinariness of an associate.” The characters
Ismene and Chrysothemis although having “the same functional role” are nevertheless
“individualized.” 429 It is not clear exactly what Easterling means by this last term
although she seems to have in mind some differentiation in Sophocles’ portrayal of
these two lesser sisters. In this example I prefer to think in terms of the energies that
might be called for by each role. The two major sisters are very different in this respect;
the one passionately active (explosive) and the other aggressively passive (implosive).
It makes dramatic sense if each is paired with a figure with a contrasting dynamic.
However different readings are possible some of which reduce the differences between
these two figures. In one of my experiments two actresses (working both with and
without mask) explored the relationship between the sisters in each of the plays. Their
first instinct was to make Antigone strong and Ismene weak; whilst the different
dynamic between Electra and Chrysothemis made the latter appear relatively strong
compared with Ismene. I then directed them to play with the idea that Antigone was
426 Easterling (1990), 88-9. 427 The view of Gellie (1972), 209 cited in Easterling (1977), 124. 428 Easterling refers to “readers” here. 429 Easterling (1977), 124.
vulnerable even insane (she is referred to as mad or foolish by other characters), 430
whilst a strong Ismene was trying to lecture her on the appropriate behaviour of women
in their situation. This interpretation made Ismene appear to be more similar to
Chrysothemis, but as an overall reading of the characters it felt wrong. As an exercise
it did, however, make the performers aware of how they could add contrasting elements
to their preferred interpretation. They realised, for example, that there were moments
in the prologue when Ismene could appear strong even if most of the time she was
weak and that similarly Antigone did not have to appear as a one-dimensional
heroine.431
Easterling goes on to consider style of language in relation to character, acknowledging
that it would be wrong to suggest that “Sophocles consistently gives each character a
style of his own” and it is also the case that there are “habits of style that any character
will use in certain circumstances…in an agon, or a narrative, or stichomythia.” With
these provisos in mind she believes it is possible, nevertheless, to “detect some degree
of characterization by style.” She also speaks of “the more pervasive use of language,
inextricable from the poet’s development of a play’s themes and structure, which
deepens our awareness of the particular individual at the centre of the action,” for
“Sophocles’ conception of his central character or characters influences his choice of
words and images in a quite fundamental way.” She illustrates this last point with
reference to Philoctetes in which all the play’s images and much of the lyric content
relate to the eponymous hero:
The theme of his loneliness is explored in terms both of his being cut off from
civilization …and of having only the wild creatures and the rocks of Lemnos
for companions - and the birds and beasts that are his prey will prey on him in
turn if he is abandoned without the bow.
This imagery “both literal and symbolic” is unique to Philoctetes. It is this that
“distinguishes him sharply from other great sufferers in Sophocles.” 432
430 Antigone 99, 562, 383. 431 Rehearsal on 18th April 2007 in London. 432 Easterling (1977), 128.
John Gould also discusses the relationship between the poetic language of the plays and
dramatic character. He cites Clytemnestra in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon. The queen is a
palpable presence “we feel her” and “other figures are seen in the half-shadow of her
aura.” The “inverted, monstrous sensuality” that is part of her “character” is also
“linked, through the poetry of the play, with every part of the ‘world’ of Agamemnon.”
The imagery of inverted fertility that pervades her speeches at times has a “physical
force that is shocking” and this is highlighted by her “repeated insistence on her role as
a woman.” According to Gould “we cannot do without the concept of personality
here” but the queen’s personality “is clearly not one that requires - or even allows - us
to probe the hidden depths of her psychology.” 433
In the debate on the nature of characterisation in Greek tragedy it seems to me that the
main figures are not fully rounded characters drawn with the sort of internal
consistency we expect of the theatre of naturalism. However recurring references often
suggest particular character traits, for example those referring to the “masculinity” of
Clytemnestra or to the “madness” or “folly” of Antigone. I thus find myself in
sympathy with much of what Easterling has to say, and also with Gould when he
speaks of the “personality” of Clytemnestra. In my own readings of the plays with the
idea of performance in mind, I find in the main action speeches which reproduce
recognisably human thought processes that can be effectively conveyed in mask. I give
an example of this in my discussion of Electra’s discovery of the lock in Aeschylus’
Libation-Bearers.434 On the question of the universality of Greek tragedy, it seems to
me that in some respects the themes explored by the plays are culturally specific but, as
the analyses of Goldhill and others indicate, it is possible for us to gain some
understanding of how ancient perceptions differ from our own. There are also
significant points of correspondence between ancient and modern perspectives; if this
were not the case there would be little value in modern performances. Such a
correspondence is also necessary for us to be able to conceive of the ways in which
ancient Greek institutions were different from ours and specific to their culture.
433 Gould (1978), 59-60. 434 See p 147.
Agency, body and mind
One important way in which the ancient plays can be seen to differ from modern drama
is in the matter of “agency.” We expect the actions and speech of dramatic characters
to emanate from their intentions; to result from their role as autonomous agents
pursuing their objectives. In Greek tragedy, however, there are many instances of what
Christopher Gill describes as an “ambivalence about the causation of action” and this is
true of the work of all three tragedians. One example occurs in Aeschylus’
Agamemnon with the “choice” facing the king when he learns that he must sacrifice his
daughter, Iphigenia, if the gods are to provide the winds he requires to sail his army to
Troy435. Describing his action, the chorus refer to him partly as an agent. However “at
the same time, Agamemnon is also described in passive terms and the causation of his
act is ascribed to other forces.” Their account of his motivation culminates in the line:
“he slipped his neck through the strap of compulsion’s yoke.” According to Gill, this
“idea that there can be something in a person that is not ‘him’ but some intrusive force
or process at work in him (whilst still somehow leaving him as the responsible agent)”
is one of numerous examples of “double motivation” in the trilogy.436
On the question of the extent to which Agamemnon could be seen as the agent and thus
held morally responsible for his action, J.-P. Vernant argues that much of the difficulty
we have with this and other analogous passages is that we typically pose the problem
“in terms of a choice between free will on the one hand and constraint in various forms
on the other.” However, this is not the way in which the ancients perceived these
issues.437 Vernant points to two separate concepts of wrong doing and guilt that feature
in the plays. The first derives from the society that pre-dated the city-state and its legal
institutions. “In this context a misdeed, hamartema, is seen at the same time as a
‘mistake’ made by the mind, as a religious defilement, and as a moral weakness.” It is
moreover a “madness…or to give it its Greek names, this atē or Erinus, takes over the
individual from within.” The crime is seen as something outside the “individual who
commits (or, to be more precise, who is its victim).” The pollution resulting from the
crime extends beyond the original perpetrator and may be incurred by his family, his
435 Agamemnon 205-224. 436 Gill (1986), 263-4. 437 Vernant (1988), 75.
descendents, and at times, the wider community. Alongside this older view there is a
newer concept arising from civic living and the need to regulate behaviour according to
a code of law and this gives a clearer definition of the role of the individual. “The
development of subjective responsibility, the distinction made between an action
carried out of one’s own volition and one performed despite oneself, and the account
taken of the agent’s personal intentions, are all innovations of which the tragedians
were aware.” However, the manner in which the ancients conceived of these elements
was different from our own conceptualization so that, for example, the idea of a “will”
or “will power” motivating or directing a person’s actions had no place in their
thinking. 438
Applying his analysis to the plays and the debate concerning Agamemnon’s guilt,
Vernant argues that once Agamemnon understood that the cost of the winds returning
was the sacrifice of his daughter he chose this option: “If this sacrifice, this virginal
blood is what binds the winds, it is permitted to desire it fervently, most fervently.”439
As Vernant points out, what the yoke of necessity constrains him to do is not commit
an action under compulsion “despite himself” but one he “desires to do with all his
heart and soul” if it is the means by which he can achieve his end. Thus the “external
pressure exerted upon man by the gods” is also “immanent in the hero’s own character”
and both aspects apply simultaneously. It can be objected that this is no real choice.
Since the Trojan wars are “willed by Zeus,” did then Agamemnon have any alternative
course other than use every means in his power to get his army moving? 440 A further
complication is found in the words of the chorus where they imply that the king’s
intelligence, his power of decision making was taken over by “atē, the religious power
sent by the gods to mislead men and bring them to their doom.” However, the king is
described in terms that indicate both an active agent and one acted upon but “it is not
that these are two mutually exclusive categories”; rather the classification depends on
the point of view, human or divine, being considered.441
438 Vernant (1988), 62-3, 69. 439 Vernant (1988), 72 citing Aeschylus, Agamemnon 214-8. 440 Vernant (1988), 70-3. 441 Vernant (1988), 76-7.
The sacking of Troy, the deaths of Iphigenia and the pregnant hare are in each case
“described from two, contrasting points of view. It is the sacrifice of a victim piously
offered to the gods to satisfy their vengeance but it is also…a horrible sacrilege
perpetrated by warriors thirsting for murder and blood.” Vernant presents an analogous
case for Clytemnestra who acts both as the alastor or vengeful spirit of Atreus but also
“for reasons very much her own and…in line with her character.” Thus her crime is
not motivated simply by her passions: “hatred, resentment, ambition,” but
“premeditation” and “painstaking preparation” have also played a part. Moreover,
“Clytemnestra boasts of not having acted in a thoughtless way…and of having
employed lies and cunning to catch her husband the more surely in the trap.” 442
Vernant argues that there is a “simultaneous presence of a “self” and something greater
that is divine at work at the core of the decision and creating constant tension between
two opposed poles.” He also uses the terms “complicity” and “co-responsibility” but is
adamant that “the subject’s own part in his decision does not belong to the category of
the will.” He concludes that “the tragic decision is rooted in two types of reality, on the
one hand ēthos, character, and on the other daimōn, divine power.”443 It is clear that
even if these arguments do not satisfy a modern audience the purport of Vernant’s
discussion is that it represents the perceptions of fifth century Athenians.
David Wiles downplays the importance of human agency in the plays:
It is fruitless to debate whether Agamemnon did or did not choose to sacrifice
his daughter. In a world where multiple gods regularly operate through
humans, it makes no sense to think of actions being rooted in an autonomous
ego.444
Wiles in his analysis starts by considering Plato’s idea of “dualism: the separation of
mind from body, and thought from feeling.” This concept formed an important part of
Christian doctrine and by this means has become deeply embedded in Western
thinking. It is at variance, Wiles contends, with the “holistic view” of the classical
world before Plato. One example is to be found in the language of Aeschylus in which
442 Vernant (1988), 73-5. 443 Vernant (1988), 75-7. 444 Wiles (2000), 154.
“thought and feeling are associated with the physical processes of the lower body.”
Thus the phren (located in the area of the diaphragm) is, in this vocabulary,
“particularly associated with thinking and engendering words via the breath, and is
vulnerable to attack from other parts of the system.” Other internal organs such as the
heart and liver are places where emotions arise and are transmitted to the system
through various bodily mechanisms. There is, in all this, “no concept of an
independent mind functioning outside these psycho-physical processes.”
Wiles sees relevance in this for approaches to performing the tragic roles:
The implications for the actor are clear. There can be no question of fixing and
defining character, as if the self can be separated from the body that acts.
There can be no question of searching out motives in the Stanislavskian
manner, as if the will can be separated from the action that stems from the
will.445
In this model emotions and thoughts arise like elemental forces becoming manifest in
various parts of the body and it is these that move the figures of Greek tragedy to words
and action. Mind functioning independently of bodily processes is ruled out but Wiles
also makes no mention of any embodied organizing principle collating thoughts and
responses to impulses. There is no human agency and it surely follows that the idea of
“choice” becomes meaningless. (In Vernant’s analysis of agency “choice,” though
problematical, had a place due to “co-responsibility”).
Wiles concedes that in Sophocles and Euripides there is a move “towards dualism with
the portrayal of personal decision making” and that Euripides particularly, can be seen
to be exploring the separation of mind from body and of thought from emotion. To
illustrate the latter Wiles cites Medea’s speech when she engages in a conflict within
herself over her decision to murder her children. He points out, however, that “the
conflict remains rooted in the body:”446
She speaks as though there was a single decision-making ‘I’ behind her voice,
but on the one hand addresses her violent thumos and complains of its power to
445 Wiles (2000), 153-4. 446 Wiles (2000), 155.
work evil, and on the other complains when soft words penetrate to her phren.
Her kardia [heart] is said to vanish in a moment of indecision. Medea’s voice
is thus multiple rather than single, until at the end of the speech an ‘I’ that
knows right from wrong seems to separate itself from a thumos that governs
her action.447
Wiles goes on to explain that the “masked Greek actor used the body to demonstrate a
set of impulses, so the ‘I’ which articulates an action does not represent the true Medea
any more than the thumos governing the character’s actions.”448 Rather than envisaging
the body as “the casing for a self” it might instead be interpreted as “a field where
social, physical and divine forces interact.”449 Here we leave the world of practical
theatre as I know it behind.
Wiles is articulating what is essentially a “no character” view of Greek tragedy. This
also emerges from his contention that: “an Oedipus, an Orestes or a chorus-woman in a
sense see the world as for the first time from a position of naïve neutrality for they
encounter situations that no one has encountered before.”450 This is a comment made as
part of a discussion of the tragic mask and his expression “naïve neutrality” in this
context suggests figures who emerge (as though out of a void) carrying no personal
history or pre-conceptions. It might be asked what it is about the situations of all three
disparate figures that make their experience novel in this way. Whilst naivety, in a lack
of understanding, is part of the human condition and a theme explored in the plays, I
see each of these figures differing in the energies they bring into the theatre space.
They have, in however sketchy a form, their own (fictional) history and purposes and
they enter the theatre space from somewhere else (in the fictive world of the play).
Wiles’ position in part rests upon an opposition between the “psycho-physical”
vocabulary he describes and dualism. This is, however, by no means a simple
incompatibility; the ancient mind was able to hold elements of both simultaneously.
Wiles himself gives the example of Euripides’ play with dualism which was parodied
447 Wiles (2000), 154. Whilst Wiles gives the English equivalent to kardia – heart, he finds the term
thumos, “notoriously hard to translate,” 220 n54. 448 Wiles (2000), 155. 449 Wiles (2000), 156. He sees this principle demonstrated in Ninagawa’s production of the play. 450 Wiles (2000), 149.
by Aristophanes in Acharnians, when the servant speaks of his master Euripides being
at home writing whilst his mind “is elsewhere seeking inspiration.” 451
Regarding dualism, Karl Popper makes the point that although there may be no precise
term for a concept it may, nevertheless, form an important part of thought in a culture.
Whilst Plato may have formulated a “non-materialist” theory of the “character of the
psyche,” the idea of the “ghost in the body” is “as old as any historical or
archaeological evidence reaches.” These older simple “dualist interactionist” views
were actually “materialist” in that “minds or souls or spirits” were spoken of “as if they
were a peculiar (gas-like) kind of body.” Modern thinking has been shaped by the
dualist theory of Descartes with its “ingenious but inconsistent (and thus untenable)
detailed elaboration.” It is from this source that problems with interactionism (the idea
of mind interacting with body) have arisen and have brought about alternative
viewpoints. As an illustration of the early and widespread phenomenon of dualism
Popper cites the story common in myth and folklore of “a magical transformation of
the body, a metamorphosis that leaves the mind unchanged.” It appears in Homer
when Circe changes some of Odysseus’ sailors into swine. “They had the head, and
voice, and bristles, and the body (demas) of swine; but their mind (nous) remained
unchanged, as before. So they were penned there, weeping.” Popper concludes that
they clearly “understood their frightful situation, and remained conscious of their self-
identity.” 452
Whilst Wiles emphasises the role of impulses that move the body to action, others note
the exploration of “mind” and related ideas such as “attitudes” and “thoughts” in Greek
tragedy. Goldhill argues that although “inclusive modern notions of ‘character’ as a
person’s whole personality” have no place in the ancient plays, there is considerable
interest in the “internal life of its personae,” in that there is a “focus on words which
express such an internal existence, attitudes of mind, disposition.” In an analysis of the
Antigone he demonstrates how the constant references in the text to the key words:
“mind,” “disposition,” “attitude,” “senseless,” “mindless,” “to think,” “to be wise” etc.
451 Wiles (2000), 154, citing Acharnians 395-400. 452 Popper, Petersen & Mejer (1998), 227-230.
are implicated in “the play’s concern with conflicting ties and relationships in the city
and the family” and not with “idiosyncratic character in and for itself.” 453
My own view is that the whole question of agency in the plays and in relation to
Aeschylus’ Agamemnon in particular, should not rest on the one reported incident at
Aulis. It is a scene narrated to us by the chorus and is one of a number of elements at
the beginning of the play that alert us to the fact that all is not well in the state of
Argos. When the king does eventually enter the theatre space the audience are
prepared and know that any outward show of the victorious leader returning home in
triumph and receiving a heartfelt welcome, is a sham. In this, the one scene in which
we see the king in person, he is faced with a choice: whether or not to concede to his
wife by walking on the tapestries. To achieve interesting and comprehensible theatre
today it seems to me important that this should be conveyed as a purely human
decision, a battle between husband and wife, man versus woman, and the employment
of superior (human) strategy on Clytemnestra’s part. Although in the plays, the gods
may at times operate through human beings, at others intentional behaviour on the part
of the characters themselves can be discerned. Here I am in broad agreement with
Oliver Taplin who argues that tragic characters are mostly “presented as free agents
working out their own destinies” and that it is only in the “mad scenes” that they appear
as “automata.”454 Much of the debate on agency seems to me to miss the subtle
complexity with which the plays explore an important theme, that is, the paradox of the
human sense of autonomy in a universe governed by the gods.
Like Goldhill and also Easterling it seems to me that there is, in the plays, an
exploration of the internal life of tragic figures. One of the pleasures of experiencing
mask theatre is to see (by means of skilful use of gesture and timing) the thoughts, even
the internal conflict, that underlie a character’s actions and choices. For this reason I
reject one possible alternative reading of the carpet scene in which both the king and
queen are operated on by opposing deities and it is the gods rather than the tragic
figures who are the agents.455 This seems to me to be an overly complex idea to convey
in mask and the scene in question gives no indication that it should be interpreted in
453 Goldhill (1986), 174-179. 454 Taplin (2001a), 7. 455 Suggested to me by David Wiles 27th April 2007.
this way. Such a reading would remove the tension between divine and human action
and responsibility, an exciting dynamic of the drama.
Mask roles
Whilst many of the analyses discussed here give primacy to the language of the text,
some commentators take more account of the conditions of the original performances.
The fact that the plays were originally experienced as masked drama is seen by some as
significant to a discussion of characterization. John Jones, in particular, lays great
emphasis on the exteriority of the mask thus challenging the idea of inner dimensions
to character. He asserts that from Homer onwards the human face was thought to show
“the look of the man together with the truth about him. The face is the total aspect; it
presents the human individual, the person.” In response, Stephen Halliwell argues that
“Greek thought did not at this date equate the cast of a face with the true nature of a
person” and that Jones in relating this idea to the tragic mask is mistaken.456
Jones’ assertion relates to his view of masking and the tragic roles. His emphasis on
the exteriority of the mask leads him to state that Euripides, by engaging in a
“penetrative enquiry” into his tragic figures that goes beneath the surface: “threatens to
destroy the masking convention.” Jones illustrates his point by citing a deception scene
in which one person observes that the appearance of another is at variance with the
sentiments they are expressing verbally arguing that the audience’s attention would be
focused on “a discrepancy of inner and outer” representation. 457 I find this particular
example unconvincing. It seems to me that for deception scenes (and they appear in
the plays of all three tragedians) to work dramatically, the discrepancy between outer
and inner must be to the fore in the consciousness of members of an audience.
However, they are probably less interested in this as a phenomenon in and of itself and
are more concerned, for example, to see if the perpetrators will give themselves away
or the victim discover the truth. The scene cited by Jones is from Iphigenia in Aulis
when Agamemnon greets his daughter with a “profession of joy” and she responds by
wondering at his “wild-looking and mysteriously anxious” appearance.458 The audience
456 Halliwell (1993), 205-6, n34. 457 Jones (1962), 260. 458 Jones (1962), 260 referring to Iphigenia at Aulis 264-75.
knows that a deception is taking place. I suggest that here, the audience are liable to be
caught up in the poignancy of a scene in which the innocent unsuspecting utterances of
the girl torment the guilt divided father. In my own experiments with actors I have
found it a scene that with appropriate gesture, timing and tone of voice can be
compellingly conveyed in mask.459
Although I believe Jones’ formulations on the limits of mask to be misleading, there is
a point to be made on complexity of characterization and mask roles. To illustrate it I
cite a recent article in which Janette Auer envisages an Aeschylean Electra who in her
first speech asks the chorus’ advice on how she should pray to her father, not because
she is ignorant; rather she is: “attempting in a way that is both diplomatic and
manipulative to bring the chorus on board…but she does not manipulate in a manner
that would be too obvious if her speech were straightforwardly rhetorical.”460 This is
overly complex to convey in performance, even unmasked, especially as, being almost
the beginning of the play, the character is new to the audience and they have no
information with which to assess her motives. For mask roles, as I have described in
chapter 5, the amount of information that the audience can take in at any moment is
even more limited. Deception scenes work when the audience have enough
information before them, for example, explicit prior warning as when Orestes states his
intention of assuming a disguise in order to hide his identity from his mother. 461
Mask characterisat ion
Earlier in this chapter I reviewed the arguments on character in the plays; another
aspect of this that needs to be taken into account is the degree of characterisation to be
found in the ancient masks themselves. Dismissing as inadequate empirical evidence
such as an appeal to ancient representations of theatre masks, Jones, on a priori
principles, suggests that the mask would have been one “upon which the audience
could read a few simple, conventional signs determining rank and age and sex.”462 C.W.
Marshall proposes a model with six categories of mask reflecting differences by age
and sex alone; arguing that audiences viewing from a distance could not have been
459 Rehearsal on 21st September 2007, in London. 460 Auer (2006), 257 on Libation-Bearers 84-101. 461 Libation-Bearers 560 ff. 462 Jones (1962), 45.
expected to decode more than these variables from the mask faces. Status, he contends,
would have been denoted by factors such as costume together with “gesture, voice and
body position.” In Marshall’s model gender is indicated by skin-tone; males being
darker than females; white hair signifies age and maturity in males is indicated by the
presence of a beard. Marshall finds the distinction between young and middle-aged
women problematical but appeals to the evidence of female New Comedy masks and
argues for some difference in hair-style together with some facial lines.463
The views of Jones and Marshall imply that, for example, in Sophocles' Antigone the
masks of the two sisters would not have incorporated features that distinguish two
different characters, but merely that they were upper class young women; that one
mask could have played all youthful or middle-aged tragic queens, both those with
“masculine” qualities such as Clytemnestra in the Oresteia464 and also those conforming
more to conventional fifth century female behaviour such as Jocasta in Oedipus the
King or Eurydice in the Antigone. Marshall’s further restriction suggests that one mask
may have played both high and low status figures, for instance, the old nurse in
Aeschylus’ Libation-Bearers and also the aged queen Hecabe in Euripides’ plays.
Marshall contends that there would have been: “more subtle variations…used only to
distinguish two characters wearing the same mask type in a play.”465 In my own
experiments, attempting to create masks that follow something of the classical
aesthetic, I have found that two masks that are nearly identical can suggest very
different characters by subtle differences in the painting of the eyes and mouth or by
the colour and style of hair. It seems to me that this would also have been the case with
the ancient masks. Some support for this idea comes from Lucy Talcott who notes that;
“In archaic and early classical vase-painting variations not only of age but also of
character and emotion are often intensified if not created by simple variations in hair
dressing.” 466
As I have discussed above, some commentators find characterisation in the tragic texts
and I now consider the implications this has for mask design. Whilst the play texts, for
463 Marshall (1999), 190-5. 464 Agamemnon 11, 351, 940. 465 Marshall (1999), 191. 466 Talcott (1939), 270.
example, may suggest an individually characterised Clytemnestra, or at the very least
that she is “masculine” in failing to conform to behavioural norms, such distinctions
might, but need not have had a physical correlate in the mask. This is because a more
neutral mask could well have performed many different characters. The visual
aesthetics of the classical style suggest that strong distinguishing features would have
been regarded as inappropriate for the depiction of high status figures. It is perhaps
also instructive to consider (with appropriate caution against the dangers of over
interpretation) a number of fifth century representations of the figure of Clytemnestra
(figures 31-33). This material provides the useful “negative” result that Clytemnestra
is identified, not by any peculiar character traits but, in accordance with Greek artistic
convention, by her attributes, that is, she is always depicted carrying an axe.
Modern experimentation illustrates the possibilities of mask performance and may
suggest something of the ancient practice and I offer here some of my own results. In
one study I worked with the same actress, costume and mask appropriate for a mature
upper class female role, performing in turn as Clytemnestra and Eurydice. The one
mask successfully conveyed both figures. In another experiment two actresses
performed the prologue of Sophocles’ Antigone wearing identical costumes and masks.
Again, the effect was convincing and the two sisters clearly distinguishable. Although
the two performers were not dissimilar in build they each brought a different energy
and physicality to their roles. (This is partly due to the individuality of the performers
and what arises in their interaction but also from the distinction between the sisters and
their different situations given the choices they have made, that emerges from the text.)
In a third experiment, this time to test the feasibility of Marshall’s contention that
masks were not distinguished by social class, the same actress and mask performed the
parts of Hecabe in Trojan Women and the old nurse in Libation-Bearers. With this last
experiment there was a change in costume, voice and gesture. Again the results
produced the idea of two wholly different beings. Speaking generally about all these
experiments, it was the physical interpretation, vocal intonation and the action of the
scene that distinguished the figures portrayed. 467 It is also clearly possible to play all
467 The experiment with the two queens and sisters were conducted during a rehearsal on 24th January
2002 at Diorama Arts, London. The scene emerging from the latter experiment was performed in the
Noh theatre for the 27th June 2002 Post-Graduate Symposium, RHUL. The experiment with one mask
performing Hecabe and the Nurse has become a regular show piece in the lecture/ demonstrations I give
these roles with different and highly characterised masks or with those in which mask
faces are uncharacterised but hair colour and style indicate character distinctions. For
this reason my experiments should be seen as indicating the possibilities rather than
demonstrating the practice of the ancient world. However, they lend weight to the
interpretation of the ancient masks as multivalent and not highly characterised. The
results of these practical experiments should not perhaps be too surprising as it is the
case that one mask far from being confined to portraying one persona, is capable of
playing many roles including those of different and highly distinct characters. I have
discussed this phenomenon elsewhere in a study of New Comedy masks.468 Masks that
are multivalent in expression and not heavily characterised are even more versatile.
Whilst the ancient masks seem to have been mostly uncharacterised, there may have
been some exceptions for particular roles. Stephen Halliwell, for example, entertains
the possibility that there was a special mask for “the enigmatically smiling face of
Dionysus in the Bacchae.” Noting the degree of "facial expression" of various non-
idealised or “wild” figures in classical art, he also finds the idea of “gruesome” masks
for the Furies of the Eumenides compatible with this convention.469 In my own practice
I have found it necessary to make special masks for some figures including the blind
seer Tiresias, the smiling Dionysus of the Bacchae and the messenger and shepherd in
Oedipus the King to distinguish them from the chorus of elders. These have been in the
nature of archetypes rather than an attempt to depicted the idiosyncrasies of individual
personality. The special masks I have employed have been for a few exceptional roles
that fall outside those that can be adequately covered by the basic masks suggested by
Marshall.
Marshall asserts that his list of six masks is “latent” in the Pollux catalogue whose
“further subdivisions” reflect “the eye of the taxonomist rather than that of a theatre-
goer.”470 However the Pollux catalogue differs in important respects from Marshall’s
with my associate, the actress, Christine Strickett. These performances include: 4th December 2004, 13th
October 2005 and 2nd November 2006 to drama students at LCTS, London; 2nd February 2005 for
Birkbeck Classical Society, London; 24th May 2006 for M A Text and Performance students at King’s
College, London, 10th October 2007 for Kingston Grammer School. 468 Vervain (2004), 249. 469 Halliwell (1993), 204-6. 470 Marshall (1999), 203 n33.
model. Firstly, Marshall’s distinction of the sexes by skin colour is not evident in the
tragic list. The most frequently mentioned hue is “yellowish” and this appears for both
males and females. It is only by referring to the list of comic masks that something of
the “pale feminine” and “dark masculine” differentiation can be seen, but amongst the
males only in the category of young men and then less than half of them. Also, less
than half of the females are explicitly described as pale. A second departure from
Pollux is Marshall’s suppression of status differentiation in the masks when the
catalogue has a clear distinction between servant and higher status masks. Marshall’s
contention that such distinctions would have been conveyed instead by other factors
including costume is thus not supported by Pollux. Whilst slave costume is mentioned
in the catalogue’s servant category, other characteristics relating to the features of the
masks also appear. Lastly the detail that Marshall dismisses contains information on
features such as hair which Marshall himself sees as a means of distinguishing between
figures.
Whilst Marshall draws on both the tragic and comic Pollux lists in his argument
concerning the fifth century tragic masks, it seems to me worthwhile considering an
important way in which the two differ. In the comic list eyebrows are frequently
mentioned and seem to be a way in which masks are characterised. For example, one
comic mask is described as having “raised eyebrows- his look is fierce;” another has
“one raised eyebrow, the mask denotes a busybody;” and yet another “does not have
raised eyebrows- he has a sluggish look.”471 Eyebrows as an indicator of temperament
also feature in ancient theories of physiognomy.472 (In modern depiction of faces the set
of the brow is also one facial element that conveys character). The fact that the Pollux
list of tragic masks makes no mention of this feature is suggestive and in accordance
with the idea that the tragic masks were not to be seen as characterised. A further
difference between the two lists is that the particular features of the tragic masks appear
often to reflect factors other than inherent ethical characteristics. Those that appear
most commonly are: suffering from ill health or being in mourning and so character in
tragic masks is in many instances defined by situation.
471 The masks mentioned are all old men: masks 5, 7 and 4 respectively from the list in the Onomasticon.
Csapo & Slater (1994), 400. 472 Wiles (1991), 86ff.
T.B.L. Webster uses the Pollux catalogue to interpret some of the Hellenistic
theatrically related artefacts, and by a process of extrapolating backwards in time, links
these to roles in the plays. In one of these exercises Webster identifies one of the
middle-aged male masks, the "Dark Man"(mask 4), as the "tragic king.” According to
Pollux “The Dark Man has dark complexion and presumably dark hair, curly beard and
hair, large onkos, and is harsh in expression.” Webster finds probable examples of this
mask in two late statues, one of which was a Roman copy of a late fourth century piece
and argues that a fifth century precursor without onkos appears in the left hand actor on
the Pronomos vase. On the same vase Webster equates the Heracles mask with
Pollux's middle-aged "Fair man" (mask 5) who has: “a smaller onkos, fair hair and
locks, and a healthy complexion.” Taking the cast lists of various extant plays Webster
speculates on how the catalogue masks might have been allocated amongst the various
roles and concludes that there are sufficient masks in the Pollux catalogue to perform
the surviving plays (in revival). 473
Few, if any, commentators today follow his lead and it seems to me that despite
Webster’s efforts, a set of masks like those in Marshall’s six mask scheme with further
scope for some characterisation of low status figures and supplemented by a few
“special” masks could provide the basis to perform the tragic canon and would have
been in accordance with fifth century visual aesthetics. I offer this as a general
principle. In practice I have found it useful to have in my own stock of masks several
versions of any one type to enable a good match between masks and available
performers.
Designing masks for modern performance
The debate on character and its relevance to Greek tragedy that I have described in this
chapter has implications for the way we might think about designing masks for modern
performance. A mask devoid of character is a concept that is easily written about but
not entirely straightforward to realize in material form. As I have mentioned in relation
to the ancient masks the treatment of hair and quite subtle differences in painting can
be suggestive of character.474 I have also observed that the same mask face given
473 Webster (1970), 46-7. 474 See p 181.
different hair style or colours or worn with various costumes will also appear to take on
different characteristics.
In designing masks today, choices need to be made on the form of the mask and
whether it should incorporate visual correlates suggesting:
• A particular individual characterised by specific traits (as argued by Pat
Easterling and to some extent John Gould).
• Socially defined character types and archetypes such as a tyrannical king.
Another example is the archetype or more universal figure that Guthrie sought
to achieve for Oedipus475.
• A type indicating the age, gender and social class of the figure but no more
(advocated by John Jones and with the exclusion of class by C.W. Marshall).
• A representation that is not seen in terms of character. (For example, the image
of metal found by Abdel Farrah who, following the tradition of modernist
abstraction, designed the masks for the Michel St Denis and Jean Cocteau
production of Stravinsky’s Oedipus Rex in 1960.)
Some masks are more capable of conveying the idea of a fully rounded figure with the
subtle nuances of inner psychological processes than others. If tragic figures manifest
humanly intelligible actions or are seen as having an inner life in which thoughts and
the idea of a mind at work is relevant, masks that can perform in this way are required.
Moreover whilst some masks conjure up the illusion of being like real human faces
others may emphasise their otherness or suggest various non-human entities.
Pat Easterling and also John Gould argue that the personalities of certain tragic
characters (specifically Philoctetes and Clytemnestra) are to be seen as inextricably
linked with the world and language of the plays in which they feature. This might
suggest a mask conjuring up some of the images to be found here. An example of the
sort of mask that might arise from thinking about the roles in this way is that designed
by Tanya Moisewitsch for Tiresias in Tyrone Guthrie’s Oedipus Rex. This mask,
suggesting both avian and human features, evokes the world of the blind seer in his
place of augury amongst the birds. Like all the masks in this production there is no
intention to portray “real life” human faces, yet despite this they are “humanly
intelligible.”
The question of agency has some relevance for mask design in that something of the
divine forces at work on the actions and decisions made by tragic figures might be
reflected in their form. At one extreme this might be a mask purely expressing some
elemental force suggesting the quality of, for example, “fire” which might be
appropriate for Clytemnestra reflecting the power manifest in her beacon speech. 476 A
more understated approach would be to include features suggestive of non-human
images in a mask that is otherwise the representation of a recognisably human face.
The face of one of my own masks, for example, conveys the idea of a beautiful queen
but from one angle the profile is suggestive of a creature of prey.
Christopher Gill finds two distinct approaches to character in Greek tragedy and it
seems to me that his “evaluative” model might suggest a different sort of mask than
that required by the “non-evaluative” alternative. For example, faced with creating a
mask for Creon in the Antigone, a set of character traits such as “weak,” “tyrannical,”
“aggressive,” “inflexible” etc. might emerge from applying the “evaluative” approach
and be realized in a highly characterized mask. On the other hand, a more character-
neutral mask, one distinguished only by features denoting age, gender and perhaps
status would provide the opportunity for a more open-ended interpretation which Gill
suggests could be more empathetic. With such a mask a more complex interpretation
of Creon becomes possible. Sourvinou-Inwood, for instance, writing about the play,
rejects the notion of “character as a static ‘essence’” and speaks instead of the “shifting
constructs created interactively by the author, the text, and the audience”477 and an
exploration of complexity and ambivalence. She attempts to reconstruct a fifth century
view, more favourable to Creon than is typical of modern interpretations, in which it is
possible to see Creon as a man thrust into a leadership position trying to cope with a
difficult situation, his readiness to accuse appearing to result from his justifiable fear
475 See p 31. 476 Agamemnon 281-316. The idea that Clytemnestra is “fire herself” was suggested to me by David
Wiles in an e-mail dated 1st August 2000. 477 Sourvinou-Inwood (2003), 136.
and vulnerability (as a mortal for whom as Christiane Sourvinou-Inwood observes
“understanding the will of the of the gods is not easy”).478 David Wiles’ ascription of
“naïve neutrality” to tragic masks is perhaps relevant here. To me it suggests a mask
that allows the portrayal of a sort of innocence, that is, the basic helplessness of human
beings, their lack of complete knowledge in relation to the gods (which does not
however, negate the idea of human choices and purposive behaviour).
Conclusion
Whilst much modern drama concentrates on a psychological exploration of individual
characters, the same is not true of the ancient plays. This difference warrants some
discussion as it has implications for the design of the masks and the way performers
approach their roles today. Aristotle’s term ēthos relates to tragic figures seen as active
beings. In his usage characterisation appears as outward focussed rather than being an
exploration of inner depths. His is an evaluative perspective, but other, non-evaluative
approaches to character, are evident in ancient thought.
Much recent scholarship, in a reaction to earlier over literary and psychological
interpretations, has argued against the assumption that tragedy reflects a universal
experience. While this has been a useful corrective it has been taken too far; the plays
arguably feature humanly intelligible figures. A related issue is that of agency in the
plays and this has been the subject of some debate. Whilst there are examples of
ambiguity with respect to autonomous decision making, most of the time a clear
distinction can be found between purposeful action on the part of human agents and
instances of possession by divine forces. The debate on the nature of character has
extended to the issue of whether tragic figures can be thought of as having an “internal
life.” This idea has been challenged on the grounds that such a view emanates from an
anachronistic application of “dualism.” However, ancient thought can be seen to have
incorporated a simple “dualist interactionist” concept, different from the dualist theory
of Descartes. Moreover, the plays do appear to include an interest in internal
phenomena but in a way that reinforces the outward focus of the action.
478 Sourvinou-Inwood (2003), 148.
The fact that the plays were written for mask performance is reflected in the way that
the characters are depicted, ruling out some obscure interpretations. However, tensions
between outer and inner appearances such as those that occur in deception scenes, are
perfectly feasible to convey in masks. All three tragedians have such scenes and take
care to prepare the audience by informing them in advance so that clarity is preserved.
It has been argued that the fifth century masks would have been distinguished by
features signifying age, gender and perhaps status, but would otherwise have been
uncharacterised. This has suggested to me a number of experiments that are applicable
to modern interpretations but that may also throw light on the possibilities open to
ancient practitioners. I have found that it is feasible for one mask to play many
different roles (within its gender and age category), including both high and low status,
and that two identical masks may appear together in protagonist roles and still portray
distinguishable characters. Whilst, in the fifth century, a lack of characterisation may
have been evident, for most tragic masks there could also have been some exceptions.
Again this can inform our thought on the subject today. For my own practice I have
made “special” masks for roles that demand this treatment.
There has been some attempt to relate the Pollux catalogue of masks to those of the
fifth century. However, it describes distinctions other than those of age and gender, for
example, indications of status and also a degree of characterisation (defined by
situation rather than ēthos). As a piece of evidence on the nature and degree of
characterisation of the ancient tragic masks, the Pollux catalogue is not definitive. On
the one hand it suggests the possibility that fifth century masks may have been more
characterised than may be inferred from a strict adherence to the classical aesthetic. On
the other, it refers to masks from a period later when conditions in the theatre and the
social context in which performances took place had changed and caution should be
employed when extrapolating back to the earlier period.
Whilst the main figures of Greek tragedy do not represent fully rounded characters
drawn with the sort of consistency we expect of the theatre of naturalism, recurring
references often suggest particular character traits, for example those referring to the
“masculinity” of Clytemnestra or to the “madness” or “folly” of Antigone. Masks
might be designed incorporating features explicitly to convey these evaluative qualities.
On the other hand, a non-evaluative approach to characterisation can also be seen in the
drama and this may suggest a more open-ended interpretation and character-neutral
masks. Moreover, even if tragic figures exhibit some characterisation, this does not
automatically imply the need for a characterised mask. One property of the multivalent
masks that I have argued were the type used in the original drama, is that they could
play many different tragic roles (that is those corresponding to a particular basic social
status defined by age and gender). The versatility of such masks might also have
functioned to bring a sense of coherence to the otherwise apparently fragmented
elements in the depiction of personality in the ancient plays. I have also argued in
earlier chapters that such masks would have been ideally suited to perform both the
ritual and action-based elements of tragedy and that they also had the advantage of
visually enhancing performances both when viewed in close proximity and at a
distance. These properties if incorporated into mask designs for modern productions
would, I suggest, potentially impart similar advantages. They would also be able to
convey the humanly intelligible actions and particular characteristics of tragic figures
and enable the subtle complexity of thought and poetry of the plays to be realised
today. Masks have been associated with ritualised interpretations in productions by
Peter Hall, Tyrone Guthrie and Karolos Koun. However, there is no need for an
interpretation of tragedy as purely ritual theatre; rather with the versatility of the
multivalent mask, it would be possible to also realise the humanly intelligible action.
In keeping with the modern world, our theatre is characterised by a plurality of
interpretations. It is clear that modern tragic masks might be designed that are highly
characterised or suggestive of other images such as elemental forces and depending on
the ability and vision of individual directors and designers these might also result in
effective theatre. My own mask designs have both mimetic and idealised qualities, in a
way that is broadly congruent with classical visual aesthetics. With the exception of a
few “special” masks (conceived of as archetypes rather than individuals) they do not
depict specific characters but are distinguished by age and gender. They do not have
any one particular expression but like the multivalent masks of the fifth century are
capable of conveying many different emotions and moods.
The discussion of character and agency has implications not only for mask design but
also for the way in which modern actors and directors interpret the tragic roles which
will in turn inform the manner in which the text is delivered, a subject pertinent to
masked as well as unmasked performances of the plays and I consider this in a later
chapter. Before this, however, I discuss approaches to the mask roles of tragedy.
Chapter 7 Performers and approaches to mask roles
Introduction
The modern era has seen a proliferation of treatises on the theory of acting, the majority
relating to some variant of Stanislavskian principles. The way actors do, or should,
prepare for their parts in the mainstream theatre and the role of the director in this have
been scrutinised and discussed in detail. There have also been manuals on physical
theatre and masks and strongly held views expressed on the manner in which the latter
should be approached and used in rehearsal and performance.
There was no ancient equivalent to this sort of material. Sophocles is reported to have
written a treatise on the chorus, which has not survived and there is a possibility that it
may have included a discussion on the nature of acting. We do not know if acting as a
techne (skill) involved anything analogous to the Stanislavskian actor’s identification
with their role or whether it exclusively focussed on external form. Nor is there any
documentary information on the actors’ relationship with their masks and whether or
not, for example, they believed themselves in any sense possessed during masked
performance. The vase paintings we have of actors and masks are subject to a variety
of interpretations.
In this chapter I consider both ancient and modern approaches to masked performance,
beginning with the fifth century actors and how they may have prepared for their roles.
I then consider possession by the mask a subject already touched on in chapter 1 where
I discussed it in the context of cult and ritual. Calame describes currently fashionable
anthropological interpretations that see fifth century masks making it:
possible for the actor to “change” his identity, to be transformed into “another
person” by submitting to the power of Dionysus. For, on this view, wearing
the mask of the god in the accomplishment of the Dionysiac ritual would
mean…accessing, through possession and identification with the god, “radical
otherness”.479
479 Calame & Burk (2005), 120.
Here I ask whether the idea that actors would have been possessed by their masks had
any place in the ancient theatre. I then turn to modern ideas on masked acting, in
particular, whether performers today can be seen as possessed by their masks. My
discussion here includes a consideration of the practice of figures such as Keith
Johnstone, Peter Hall, John Wright (in his use of archetypal masks) and Thanos
Vovolis together with examples from Japanese Noh. Finally, I describe some of my
own practice focussing on the way I introduce performers to mask and approaching
masked tragic roles.
Acting in the ancient theatre
The term hypokrites (actor), that appears in the ancient literature, refers to the non-
chorus speaking roles of Greek drama.480 According to tradition tragedies were
originally composed for one actor and chorus. At some point in the fifth century
Aeschylus started to write plays requiring two actors and subsequently a third actor was
introduced, probably by Sophocles.481 It was also generally believed that the first actors
were the playwrights themselves and that of the three great tragedians, Aeschylus
regularly performed the leading roles in his own work, also that Sophocles did not act
due to his weak voice and that Euripides had never been an actor.482 That the status of
acting was changing and it was coming to be recognized as an activity in its own right
is evidenced by the introduction of a separate actor’s prize in c. 449 BC. By the time
Aristotle was writing in the fourth century he could distinguish between the “actor’s
theatre” of his own day and the “poet’s theatre” of the earlier period.483 Whilst it was a
wealthy Athenian citizen who funded the chorus, the state paid for the actors. In later
periods actors were organized into small professional troupes and travelled over the
Greek world giving performances of plays including revivals of the great tragedians.
However, we have no clear idea of how actors were organized in earlier periods.484
There is some debate on whether or not acting was a full-time profession in the fifth
century. Peter Arnott reasons that the limited number of drama festivals taking place in
480 Csapo & Slater (1994), 221. 481 Pickard-Cambridge (1927), 100,109. 482 Arnott (1989), 47. 483 Rhetoric, III. 484 On arrangements for the drama in the City Dionysia see Pickard-Cambridge (1968), 63-90.
Athens in any year meant that this would have not been feasible.485 However, Oliver
Taplin has suggested that the transmission of Athenian drama to the pan-Hellenic world
might have occurred as early as the fifth century.486 We do know that actors appeared
in the competition year after year, implying a degree of professionalism.487 Further
support is given to this idea by the accounts of the necessary expertise and the vocal
and physical training regimes expected. For example, Zeno is reported to have said
that the actor needed “a powerful voice and great strength.”488 Various training regimes
included daily exercises and abstinence from sex, or from alcohol; some involved
fasting or special dieting.489
The way actors approached, rehearsed and learnt their parts is largely a matter of
speculation. P.D. Arnott argues that the playwrights would have taught the other
performers their parts, probably orally and through practical demonstration rather than
by providing a written script. He points out that this was a culture in which people were
used to listening and where necessary, memorising what they heard. 490 An analogy
might be drawn here with the traditional theatres of the East in which performers learn
their roles by closely emulating their master. Ismene Lada-Richards attempts to
reconstruct the “subjective” experience of the ancient Greek actors and explores
examples of scenes involving acting and deception from Aristophanic comedy that are
suggestive of the actor’s perceptions of their own identity and their roles. When in the
Acharnians Dicaeopolis borrows costume and props from Euripides in order to disguise
himself, he says: “For I this day must seem to be a beggar, / Be who I am and yet
appear not so.”491 This, Lada-Richards argues, illustrates “an actor’s self conscious
awareness of his own fluctuation between dramatic identity and the reality inherent in
his everyday self” and he offers his audience “a unified vision, the image of a thorough
merging with his part” which will “encourage the spectator to surrender, to ‘suspend
485 Arnott (1989), 44. 486 Taplin (1993), 91. 487 Pickard-Cambridge (1968), 93. 488 Arnott (1989), 79 citing Dioegenes Laertius. 489 Hall (2002), 23. 490 Arnott (1989), 49. 491 Acharnians 440-1.
his disbelief’ and to lose sight of the very process of artistic transformation.” 492 I see
no evidence here of any “fluctuation” on the part of Dicaeopolis who clearly states his
intention to remain himself. The “unified vision” will be created for the audience by
means other than identification by the deceiver/actor with his part. Being comedy,
Dicaeopolis will subsequently subvert this vision, drawing attention to the theatrical
artifice. Lada-Richards also examines scenes from other Aristophanic plays. For
instance, in the Assembly Women, Praxagora, rehearsing a group of women to
impersonate men, insists that prior to their performance proper, they get into the habit
of speaking and behaving appropriately. According to Lada-Richards this shows she
understands the need for “inner congruence and adjustment” in her performers. On the
same point, Dionysus in the Frogs fails to realize that disguising his external
appearance is insufficient and that he also needs to “tune” his “inner disposition” away
from his normal cowardly effeminate being when attempting to impersonate
Heracles.493
Lada-Richards’ analysis might be criticized on the ground that a person engaging in
deception is not really analogous to an actor creating theatre as the relationship with the
audience is different. A successful deception requires wholesale belief on the part of
its victims; unlike a theatre audience, they are not willing participants in the creation of
any “illusion.” However, these examples are fictive scenes of deception and so are
perhaps closer to the world of theatre and performance practice than this criticism
allows. They are presented, however, through the distorting representation of comedy.
Arnott, also citing material from Aristophanes’ plays, comes to wholly different
conclusions. He starts by considering the implications of doubling of parts and sees the
frequent role changes and variety of impersonations required of the actor reflected in
the fictional world of the comedies. He points out that Dicaeopolis engages in “a
sequence in which three levels of impersonation intertwine”: he speaks firstly as an
actor and mouth piece of the playwright, then assumes the role of a beggar to avoid
trouble and a few lines later, to score a point in an argument, denies that he is actually a
beggar after all.494 Arnott concludes that in the comedies: “Disguises, like masks, can be
492 Lada-Richards (2002), 396-7. 493 Lada-Richards (2002), 404-6. 494 Acharnians 497ff.
lightly assumed, and just as lightly discarded.” The Greek actor, he argues, “saw his
roles as a series of interlinked impersonations” and was concerned with technique and
“flexibility within roles” rather than psychological identification. 495 Arnott speculates
that the job of the ancient actor may have been to “merely present a character” rather
than interpret it,496 and unlike Ismene Lada-Richards he emphasizes the importance of
external appearances:
Behind the mask, the actor would have changed without detriment to the role.
To this extent, as in the classical theatre of Japan, the external manifestations
are the character and the actor is merely the temporary means that gives these
manifestations speech and movement.497
The analysis by Ismene Lada-Richards suggests that Arnott goes too far here in
excluding any internal dimension to realising the tragic roles. That there is more than
external form involved in Noh acting is also clear from the account given by a leading
actor from that tradition.498
T.B.L. Webster cites sources from the Roman period that describe how the ancient
actors would “borrow” their emotions from and suit their voice and gesture to the mask
face.499 The value placed on masks is indicated, he argues, by the fact that a victorious
actor would sometimes dedicate his mask to the god. Moreover as the playwright also
took his inspiration from the mask the actor respected it as “conveying to him the
poet’s interpretation of the character.” In support of this last idea, Webster cites
various types of evidence including images that may show playwrights, both comic and
tragic, looking at or handling masks as they compose. The two examples relating to
tragedy are from later antiquity and are, however, open to different interpretations. In
one painting from Pompeii a servant holds a mask for a poet to regard. The latter sits
with his chin resting on his hand, a pose that Webster takes to mean “that he sees a
vision: the character and the story appear before his mind as he contemplates the
mask.” In the second image, a relief, Euripides sits with a scroll in on one hand and in
495 Arnott (1989), 179-181. 496 Arnott (1989), 84. 497 Arnott (1989), 166. 498 See p 209. 499 Quintilian (XI, 3, 73), Fronto (De Eloqu., I).
the other is a mask of Herakles that he is handing to Skene, the personification of the
stage. 500 Webster speculates that the poet, rather than handing over the mask for
production may be contemplating the mask here. He goes on to argue that Aristotle’s
demand that the poets employ the actual gestures and experience the emotions
appropriate to the speeches, as they write their plays,501 accords well with this idea.
Webster finds further evidence in Aristophanes’ Thesmophoriazusae in which the poet
Agathon adopts the characteristics of the part he is working on (in this case wearing
women’s clothes to write the speeches of a female character). This and an analogous
example from the Acharnians502 are, Webster contends, instances of comic exaggeration
of actual practice. 503
These accounts of the relationship of ancient playwrights and actors with their masks
finds some resonance today in the observations of Greg Hicks. He describes how
before a performance he sees his mask “on that shelf or wherever he’s sitting” and this
gives him his character: “there’s my performance in front of me.” He goes on to say “I
put this on and I’m no longer me… the mask is leading me on” and that when he takes
it off he senses: “a clean psychological break” with the role. However, Hicks also
brings elements to his performance such as movement inspired by Butoh and Capoeira,
that do not come from the mask. It is clear from Hicks’ account that he has an
affection for the mask, referring to it as a person. I and my own actors also speak of
them and sometimes speak to them as though they were personages. This, done in a
playful spirit does not prevent us, however, from treating them in rehearsal and
performance as functional objects or from making our own decisions on interpretation.
Hicks also speaks of getting a “charge” from the mask, “which is what happens when
you know the mask is good, you just feel it right in the gut,” 504 a description which
perhaps suggests something of the idea of possession.
500 Pompeian painting, Bieber (1961), fig. 300a, Hadrianic relief, Bieber, Bieber (1961), fig. 109. 501 Poetics XVII. 502 Thesmophoriazusae 151; Acharnians 410. 503 Webster (1965), 5-9. 504 Hicks (2001).
Possession
For many people today the idea of mask is associated with ritual, magic and the
inducing of altered states of consciousness and it is often assumed that wearing a mask
in performance involves some sort of possession of the performer by the mask. In
mask theatre this has implications for the way in which masked roles are approached
and the type of performance resulting. There are issues concerning the “control”
exercised by the actor over his/her masked performance and the legitimacy of having
someone in the role of an “external eye” giving direction to the masked actor. There is
also a widespread assumption that in societies in which masked possession is part of
religious ritual it will take the same form in associated theatrical performances.
However in masking traditions such as those in Bali the two may operate quite
differently. John Emigh describes how in Topeng performers show no evidence of
performing in trance and they seek “inspiration, not possession” from their masks.505
Here I offer a brief discussion of these matters in the context of ancient and modern
masked performances of Greek tragedy and start by asking what the ancient Greeks
meant by “possession.” Walter Burkert speaks of “an abnormal psychic state” in which
“the individual sees, hears and experiences things which are not present for others; he
stands in direct contact with a higher being and communicates with gods and spirits.”
Burkert describes the various Greek words for this phenomenon as “varied and
inconsistent” and he lists them as follows: entheos- “‘within is a god’ who…speaks
from the person in a strange voice or in an unintelligible way and induces him to
perform odd and apparently senseless movements”; katechei- when “a god seizes or
carries a person…he holds him in his power”; ekstasis- “stepping out” in the sense that
“the person has abandoned his normal ways and good sense”; mania- “frenzy,
madness.” Burkert adds that “Plato distinguishes the prophetic madness of Apollo
from the telestic madness of Dionysus, before adding, as other types of madness, the
poetic and the erotic or philosophical enthusiasm.” 506 These categories inform a
consideration of the place of mask and possession in the drama of fifth century Athens.
Dionysus was the god who, more than any other, possessed his worshippers and this
505 Emigh (1996), 116. 506 Burkert (1966), 109-11 citing Phaedrus 265b.
may have been in the form of ecstatic rites or by the intoxication resulting from wine.
In the case of the latter, the drinker literally imbibed the god.507
There is also a direct reference to possession by the god in Euripides’ Bacchae when
Pentheus, having been dressed by Dionysus in woman’s clothes, experiences double
vision: “I seem to see two suns; a double Thebes.”508 In none of these examples, though,
is Dionysiac possession achieved through the mediation of mask. Nor is this true, as a
rule, of other instances of fictional characters being possessed by divine forces. The
one possible exception to this is in Euripides’ The Madness of Heracles when after the
servant’s report of the massacre within the palace the face of Heracles is described as
“changed.”509 In the case of Pentheus, possession is associated with a costume change
and the latter, Arnott argues, “marks a change in state” for characters in the plays. 510
Such changes are not so much to do with possession, however, as with more
fundamental changes of being. Examples from the Oresteia include Agamemnon
removing his sandals before walking on the tapestries to his death or the introduction of
purple robes when the Furies change into the “Kindly Ones.” In contrast, possession in
the plays is often a temporary phenomenon and may not be accompanied by costume
change. Arnott also speculates that in the Bacchae scene, there may have been a
change in mask as well as costume. 511 This seems most probable as the lines indicate
that, along with female attire, Pentheus’ hair is also arranged in a feminine style. In my
experience it is easier to pre-arrange the hair style of a mask to be worn in performance
than try to re-adjust the hair on a mask already in use. This is particularly true if a fast
change is involved. However, it is not mask that has induced Pentheus’ possession in
the fictional world of the play. It is the actor who changes mask, not the fictional king
(though, of course, both change costume). Moreover, as J.M. Walton notes, Pentheus
arguably starts to come under the spell of Dionysus before he leaves to change his
dress.512
507 Frontisi-Ducroux (1989), 56. 508 Bacchae 918-9, Vellacott (1973). 509 See p 48. 510 Arnott (1989), 171. 511 Arnott (1989), 169. 512 At Bacchae 810. Walton (2006), 83.
Is it possible for us to discover whether the ancient performers were possessed by their
masks? In the absence of any literary evidence, vase paintings may be suggestive. The
many instances of images depicting masks as Dionysiac ritual objects and other
paintings showing theatrical masks dedicated to the god and hung up in his sanctuary
after the performance indicate that the mask was viewed as something sacred. Claude
Calame argues that the theatrical scene on the Pronomos vase should be viewed
together with the mythological scene represented on the reverse side. In this way it can
be seen that there is a clear linking of the “ritual following the dramatic performance to
the reality of the cult and of the divinity to which it belongs.”513 More generally, in
vase paintings in which performers are fully costumed and masked they are usually
seen as “melting” into their fictive roles.514 Calame sees this as “a confirmation of the
much vaunted identification of the wearer of the mask and the ‘character’ he
portrays.”515 One example of the melting effect appears in the Pronomos vase painting
where one chorus-man continues to perform whilst his fellows appear to be in the
process of changing. This image has the added feature of a strangely positioned vine
stem which almost appears to reach from the performer’s head up to the reclining
Dionysus. This, together with the fact that the performer’s foot oversteps the border of
the painting, might be elaborated into a theory of possession. However, the vine stem
could also indicate the theatrical connection of the satyr dance with the god and the
transgression of a boundary to the whole activity of enactment rather than being
specifically related to the wearing of a mask. Overall the painting shows a scene in
which we see no ritual taboos on the correct way to handle masks or restrictions on
how or when to perform.
It might be asked, in what sense could an actor in fifth century Athens be possessed by
his mask? There was a script he had to deliver and there were boundaries he must not
violate. J.-P. Vernant and F. Frontisi-Ducroux argue that drama depends for its
existence on the transgressive nature of the cult of Dionysus with its “constant
muddling of reality and appearances.” 516 However, the activity of performing has its
own set of restrictions. A story from the ancient Roman theatre tells of a tragic actor
513 Calame (1995), 134. 514 See p 82. 515 Calame (1995), 105. 516 Vernant & Frontisi-Ducroux (1988), 205.
who during a performance lost “control of himself in the intensity of his passion” and
killed a stagehand. 517 This is an exceptional example of behaviour that threatens the
very basis on which theatre was and is defined and allowed to exist. Referring to other
stories relating to the Greek theatre Ismene Lada-Richards observes that their very
construction “encoding the danger of overacting…indicates that Greek culture is well
aware of the borderline between truthful empathy and the clouding of one’s sense of
separate identity.”518 If the typical Greek performer were possessed it would not have
been by some force of unrestrained primeval intensity. The possessing deity would
either have taken responsibility to ensure things were done properly, or alternatively
while in a sense possessing the performer, might have permitted him some power of
monitoring his own performance. John Herington cites the instructive example
concerning a fifth century rhapsode named Ion who describes how when he performs
he feels the feelings of the characters in the narrative he is giving:
When I speak one of the pathetic episodes, my eyes brim over with tears; and
when I speak one that is filled with fear or dread, my hair stands on end with
fright, and my heart pounds.
Although he feels the feelings of the characters in the narrative, at the same time he is
keeping an eye on the audience. He has to “pay the closest attention to them” because
“if I make them cry I shall laugh because I get money; but if I make them laugh I shall
cry, because I lose money.” According to Herington, the idea that Ion actually feels the
feelings of the fictional characters as he performs is, for Socrates, evidence that “the
rhapsode’s art, like that of the poet or the seer, is a matter of inspiration, of possession
by some divine force, rather than of a communicable skill.” To the ancient mind this
would have also applied to the theatre. 519 Rhapsodes unlike actors were unmasked, so
when Socrates sees Ion as possessed this seems to refer to the act of impersonation
rather than something resulting from the donning of a mask in this instance. The Ion
example also indicates, the possibility of the ancient masked actors monitoring their
own performances. Moreover, Socrates’ conclusion seems to devalue all the hard work
517 Aesopus playing the role of Atreus described by Plutarch, Life of Cicero, 5.3, cited in Lada-Richards
(2002), 400-1 n29. 518 Lada-Richards (2002), 400. 519 Ion 535b-e cited in Herington (1985), 11.
performers put into learning and maintaining their skills. The introduction of an actor’s
prize suggests that any possession by the god did leave scope for the actor’s own
efforts and talents to be recognised and rewarded.
Fifth century Athenian society was one in which social identity was defined by gender,
age and status with appropriate behaviour for each group. It is therefore possible that
in stepping outside his normal ways of being and behaving the Athenian performer was
almost by definition in a state of Dionysiac ekstasis. Ismene Lada-Richards, making an
analogous point, includes the audience involvement in this phenomenon: “the actor’s
‘stepping out’ of himself and the spectator’s sympathetic fusion with the acting stage
figure become possible through the Dionysiac experience of ekstasis.”520 Again the
reference is to the whole activity of impersonation rather than the mask inducing
possession states. It remains an open question whether or not ancient Greek actors saw
themselves as possessed through the wearing of masks and there is no evidence that
approaches to, or style of, performance depended on such ideas.
I turn now to modern mask theatre and ask if there is any sense in which performers
are, or should be, possessed by their masks when approaching their roles and
performing Greek tragedy.
Modern ideas on mask
An approach to mask theatre practice has grown up in the West, emanating, in large
part, from the pioneering work of Jacques Copeau who set up his training school after
the first world war. Following his lead, influential figures such as Jacques Lecoq521 and
Michel Saint-Denis522 developed their own practices of mask in theatre. These schools
share the view that theatre masks are not worn like a piece of costume; rather there has
to be a fusion such that the audience sees actor and mask as some integrated whole.
Without such an integration the mask cannot come to “life” and this vital embodiment
is essential.
520 Lada-Richards (2002), 418. 521 Lecoq was a pupil of Jean Daste, Copeau’s son in law. Lecoq opened his famous school after World
War II. 522 Copeau’s nephew.
For some practitioners the mask or rather the fusion of mask and performer is an entity
that is somehow more than the performer taking on a (mask) role. It is the masks that
are the initiators of action and performers should not try to “control” them. So,
according to Keith Johnstone “The Mask dies when it is entirely subject to the will of
the performer.”523 Particular practices such as masked performers speaking in their own
voices or reading from scripts are thought to constitute a challenge to the mask and a
lack of integration and so are forbidden with this sort of approach. Johnstone relates
how he and William Gaskill taught mask “along the lines laid down by George
[Devine]” after the latter had given them a class at the Royal Court writer’s group in
1958. (Devine had been a pupil of Michel Saint-Denis, himself a student of Copeau.)
Devine apparently spoke of the need for masks to be “inhabited”, which according to
Johnstone means that the wearers “should be possessed by the Masks.” Johnstone’s
use of the capital “M” reflects his view that “the genuine Mask actor is inhabited by
spirit.” It seems that Devine was unhappy about some aspects of their approach and
that it differed from his in important respects. Johnstone reports that Devine was
“gentler” with his actors, allowing them to be “more casual” and to “talk as themselves
while actually wearing the Masks,” practices that for Johnstone would interfere with
the induction of trance states. 524
Johnstone uses the terms “possession” and “trance states” interchangeably to describe a
variety of behaviours. Much of our everyday life, he argues, is spent in trance, when
we are sufficiently “absorbed” to forget our self-conscious awareness. Moreover,
unmasked actors “can be possessed by the characters they play just as they can be
possessed by Masks.” Johnstone also includes the phenomenon, by which performers
are both involved in their parts but also monitoring their performance, and he finds
“similarities” between mask work and “possession cults” for example voodoo and
Balinese trance.525 Johnstone’s over-determined terminology covers both behaviour that
respects the normal boundaries associated with theatrical performance (that is, the actor
plays the part agreed and also has a concern for safety), with behaviour that clearly
transgresses it. For example, in his own classes he describes the masked Roddy
523 Johnstone (1981), 149. 524 Johnstone (1981), 143-4. 525 Johnstone (1981), 151-7.
Maude-Roxby “throwing chairs about.”526 He also talks about his own practice of
“teaching” the Masks their parts (rather than directing the masked actor), and how they
sometimes had difficulty and would depart from the script. Also, during productions,
he had stagehands standing by with mirrors or performers would have mirrors on their
person to help them if they started to lose their trance states. (Working in mask before
a mirror played a significant role in Johnstone’s approach.) Johnstone’s account here
relates to his work with character half-masks. 527 He describes how Devine made a clear
distinction between (comic) half-masks and (tragic) full-masks; for the latter there was
a particular set of initiatory exercises to induce “stillness and simplicity of movement”
appropriate to their “high-status seriousness.” Other techniques mentioned by
Johnstone in this context, evoke the idea of ritual associated with meditation. He
speaks of a “mindless listening” and a need to “attend to” the mask, finding an analogy
with the way Noh actors prepare themselves by sitting for a long period in mask and
costume before a mirror. He also cites an account given by Jean Dorcy, another
student of Copeau, on the “rites” he followed when he put on a full-faced (neutral)
mask. It seems that an alternative kind of approach is being advocated here as a
“different kind of spirit is involved from that which inhabits the half-mask.”528 It is not
clear, though, how far, if at all, these exercises were taken into work with text and there
is no suggestion that they are seen as a preparation for one as complex as a Greek
tragedy.
Peter Hall
Peter Hall’s mask practice has also been greatly influenced by the work of Michel
Saint-Denis and he has more than once stated that: “you can’t direct masks.”529 In
practice, however, his actors may behave differently as we learn from Peter Reynolds’
behind the scenes account of Hall’s Oedipus Plays. Reynolds describes how when the
chorus were:
rehearsing physical patterns…which they were to try to execute wearing masks
and using texts, all the previous discussion, the almost reverential, mystical
526 Johnstone (1981), 152. 527 Johnstone (1981), 182-4. 528 Johnstone (1981), 186-190.
attitude, and the seeming acceptance of theoretical positions about what masks
can do became temporarily abandoned.530
Hall, in common with Johnstone likens masks to young children who need to go
through some sort of developmental process before they can “grow up” and start
speaking. With Hall’s productions this can take anything up to three weeks into the
rehearsal period. There is a sense in which masks are seen as inducing primitive and
uncontrollable behaviour in performers.531
Georgina Brown of the Independent gives an instructive account of one of Hall’s
sessions in which actors, most of whom where unfamiliar with theatrical masks, were
introduced to them for the first time:
The initial preparation requires the actor to choose a mask that appeals
instinctively, look at it, look at himself and the mask in the mirror and, if it
offers anything to him look at it again until he feels ready to become part of it.
Then he puts it on, looks in the mirror and, if all the jiggery-pokery is working
he gets an extraordinary charge from the mask.
This, she says, is the theory and she then goes on to describe what actually happened in
practice. Initially there was some disparate individual activity, time passed then:
“What do we want?” says someone rather revealingly. Silence. The knocking
is Suzanne Bertish bashing her masked head against the wall…Some feel
nothing at all. By now several more crouch despairing in the corner, spectators
rather than participants. Greg Hicks casts aside his third mask, disrobes and
curls up in a foetal position on the floor, his back to the action… Hall peers at
them all over his half-glasses with an expression of amused benevolence. ‘This
always happens… Put a mask on a group of actors and, if they do anything at
all, they become very primitive. Most can’t talk…Others get very aggressive
and cry and shout and hit out like small children. The mask does that.’ 532
529 For example Peter Hall, Platform discussion 21st September 1996, Olivier Theatre. 530 Reynolds (1996). 531 Hall (2000), 35-6. 532 Brown (1996).
I am not persuaded. Hall’s approach, rather than masks per se, produce this
phenomenon. The actors had been directed away from normal social or even normal
acting interaction, towards an inward focus and the experience of a degree of
(unfamiliar) sensory deprivation, for a considerable amount of time. This is not to
mention the initial inducing of insecurity with the suggestion that strange forces (the
“extraordinary charge”) would be operating upon them; also perhaps other irrational
fears from a culture of antipathy to mask in some mainstream acting circles. Georgina
Brown reports that two of the actors from Hall’s earlier masked production of the
Oresteia had withdrawn because of nervous breakdowns, a fact presumably known to
the Oedipus cast. It seems that they had received a card from Judi Dench expressing
relief that she didn’t have to perform in mask and Anna Massey had also turned down
an invitation to participate on account of them. 533
Other approaches to mask
In the teaching of Jacques Lecoq the relationship between performer and mask is not
envisaged as “possession.” However, it is usual to see the mask as having a position of
primacy, with the actor finding the appropriate way of performing from visual cues
given by its form. Instead of mask as possessor, mask is seen as initiator. In this
tradition and in the practice of many who broadly follow its principles, some sort of
preliminary engagement by performers with any mask in which they are to perform, is
normal. This involves a study of the mask and the performer’s relationship with it.
The work can be undertaken individually, with an unmasked partner, or in a small
groups. The result of such exploration may be the emergence of a “mask character,”
seen in psychological terms and having a characteristic physicality.534 The latter is
visually manifest in a particular stance and way of moving and habitual gestures and
modes of expression. Lecoq based practice avoids the need to psychologise; the
performer finds a particular “body architecture” responding to the form of the mask, for
example, the dynamic properties of its interacting planes, linear elements and its
colour(s). During this preparation actors can receive feedback by watching themselves
in a mirror (although this was wholly forbidden by Lecoq535 himself and only allowed
533 Brown (1996). 534 Recently, detailed mask work programmes have appeared in published form, such as Eldredge (1996). 535 This was confirmed by the Lecoq trained actors from whom I commissioned a workshop (see chapter
in a very limited way by some others).536 Instead of a mirror, feedback can be given by
an unmasked partner acting as an “external eye.” There is an emphasis on exploration
and freedom for “masks” to engage in unstructured play.
The thinking behind many of these approaches is to prepare performers for
improvisation or work to be devised, based on the spontaneous interaction of the newly
discovered mask characters. However, if the play to be performed is already written, as
is the case with Greek drama, this type of initial mask exploration is potentially
problematical, if, for example, the emerging characters are not relevant to the play.
Moreover, the exercises I have described in which the actor works in response to a
particular mask and finds a body architecture corresponding to it, are arguably more
relevant as an approach to the more characterised or idiosyncratic comic masks and
roles.
A different approach is to prepare the actor for their role in advance of working with
the mask. This is the tradition of Japanese theatre in which performers learn a precise
choreography and vocal delivery from their master long before they receive the mask.537
Kongo Iwao, head of the Kongo school of Noh describes how his training started at age
six when he would learn short song extracts. When he trained with his father he was
taught “the text of the piece first and then the movement.” He wore a mask for the first
time at age fifteen and he finds that for him there is no difference in performing with or
without a mask except that for the latter “it is necessary to know all the stage
movements thoroughly.” He goes on to say that although he would wear kimono and
the wide trouser-like hakama during his lessons, mask practice was not included and
that now in his own approach to performance he chooses the mask he is to wear five
days in advance. 538 It is interesting to compare this last statement to Hall’s on the time
needed by actors to attune themselves to their masks.
8). 536 Lorna Marshall, from whom I received my basic mask training, allowed workshop participants one
glimpse of themselves when wearing half-masks and costumes, but otherwise advised against the use of
mirrors. Michael Chase is another practitioner who avoids mirrors. 537 In the Eastern tradition this applies to both comic and tragic parts. 538 Kongo (1984), 75f.
Some practitioners in the West do not always start with the performers discovering a
physicality by direct interaction with a mask. John Wright, for example, employs a set
of “archetypal” masks but before working with them, performers have to perfect the
typical body architecture, voice, way of breathing and characteristic phrase that Wright
has devised to go with each archetype. In this respect Wright’s approach is analogous
to that of Noh. Unlike the latter, Wright subsequently places the mask, unseen by the
performer, on his/her face. Also with Wright’s approach there is no sense of
possession of the actor by the mask; rather the former has to work to meet the particular
quality of energy of the latter. 539 Possession by masks does not appear to feature in
Wright’s teaching nor in that of his erstwhile student, Toby Wilsher of Trestle Theatre
Company, who categorically dismisses the idea.540 Thanos Vovolis’ practice is also
relevant and I describe here his approach in the week long workshop541 in which actors
prepared a demonstration scene from Aeschylus’ Persians. There was a preliminary
session of fitting the masks to the actor’s faces after which they were put away. A
series of exercises followed to get participants deeply in touch with their breath and in
a calm, focused frame of mind. They were then directed to sit or kneel on the floor in a
circle and their particular masks, on a beautifully folded black cloth, were brought in
with simple ceremony and placed before them. After this the masks were quietly
donned and participants were asked to sit in mask focusing on the person opposite. In
another introductory exercise masked participants walked around, mingling at will, in a
small space. There was however no sense in this of the play of mask “characters”.
Instead there was a ritualistic quality to the experience and Vovolis later confirmed that
this was integral to his approach and to his interpretation of the plays. In the
subsequent work on the tragic scene actors learnt a given choreography and vocal
delivery before rehearsing in mask. Again, as a participant, I did not observe in myself
or in others any possession state induced by donning the mask. However, Vovolis
speaks of the performer being changed and going into a state of ecstasis induced by the
sound experienced inside the mask. The masks used in Vovolis’ RHUL workshop
were not, however, the helmet masks for which he claims so much.
539 The description here is based on one of John Wright’s workshops, held in Kendal, 23rd–27th April
1994, that I attended as a participant. 540 Wilsher (2006), 33-4. 541 Mentioned at p 99.
A form of possession is seen to be part of Noh theatre. Kanze Hisao describes the
effect of the mask: “by simply donning it, one can metamorphose oneself into
something quite different from one’s everyday self, and it must give rise to a creative
ability in the actor.” The mask is seen as leading him “into the realm of mindlessness”
and enabling “the pure life essence of and the humanity of the actor” to be realised. 542
Takabayashi Koji describes how a “merging of identities” when the actor “becomes the
role personified in the mask” takes place when the actor sits before a mirror prior to
performance. 543 Kongo Iwao also mentions how this practice results in the performer
“absorbing the character.” However it also by his account, serves a technical function
in allowing the performer to find the correct angle at which to hold his head. If in the
reflection “the actor sees above his nose he is looking up too much, his head is tilted
too far back.” He also speaks of how the actor should “really imagine the scene before
his eyes” but also to “achieve a balance” between this and the need to watch his own
performance from a distance. 544 Thus in possession as conceived in the Noh theatre,
there is no sense of the mask inducing unpredictable behaviour or of the actor losing
technical control of the performance; rather it enhances his ability to give of his best by
taking him out of his ordinary everyday persona into a state of heightened awareness.
The “trance” states of Balinese mask theatre operate similarly enabling the performer to
achieve “simultaneously a sense of unity with the mask and an exteriorised perception
of his performance in it.”545
In modern productions of Greek tragedy it is the text and its interpretation that usually
initiates an understanding of a role.546 When masks are designed for a specific
performance their appearance in final form may be late in the rehearsal schedule. This
is potentially problematical for actors who wish to spend time familiarising themselves
with their performance masks from early on. Greg Hicks speaks of the “risk involved”
in not having received his Bull-man mask when he was due to perform as Dionysus in
two weeks time and of being “deeply in trouble” were he to feel no affinity with it.547
542 Kanze (1984), 70-1. 543 Bethe (1984), 99. 544 Kongo (1984), 78. 545 Coldiron (2004), 19. 546 This is discussed further in Chapter 8. 547 Hicks (2001).
In Noh, although the actor knows the choreography in advance and the masks already
exist, there is still, according to Kongo Iwao, room for some interpretation of the role
by the actor. There are often several versions of one mask type and the actor may
choose, or be given by his master, the one most suitable for him to realise the role to be
played. The physicality and voice of the performer inform this choice. The mask in
turn will suggest a particular costume and interpretation, that, for example, conveys a
specific mood or a somewhat younger/older realisation of the part. 548 From this
account it seems that Noh actors spend little time practising with their performance
masks. Even if they wished to do so this is probably precluded by the fact that many of
the masks are antique and precious. Margaret Coldiron describes how she observed a
Noh actor rehearsing for a male role using his own female (ko-omote) mask. 549
Given the sort of practical issues that I have been describing of suiting mask to
performer and role, and the availability of masks for rehearsal, it is not helpful to insist
that the mask has primacy or should be seen as the initiator in the context of Greek
tragedy today. This does not, however, preclude the need for Western performers to
get accustomed to rehearsing all their roles in mask from an early point in a rehearsal
schedule. Peter Reynolds describes how in Hall’s Oedipus Plays some of the
principals, although having worn mask when playing in the chorus, had rehearsed their
main roles “almost entirely without masks” and that when they began to wear them
their acting, whilst fitting for naturalism, appeared “fussy and unnecessary.”550
It is also true, that a particular mask has to be right for the individual performer playing
the part. I cite two examples from my own practice to illustrate this point. The first
case involved two of my masks which although taken from the same mould were
differently painted, one having a more wide-eyed expression. These were used by an
actor rehearsing the part of Electra in Libation-Bearers. With one mask, observers saw
a rather dull, psychopathic Electra, for whom they felt no empathy. Playing the part
with the other mask transformed the actor into a vulnerable, excited young girl who
drew forth sympathy. The whole part came alive; many expressions appeared to pass
across the mask face including, at one point, the impression that tears were falling. The
548 Kongo (1984), 78ff. 549 Coldiron (2004), 244-5. 550 Reynolds (1996).
actor was following direction, and had no sense of being possessed, but stated
afterwards that somehow the first mask had not felt “right” and impeded him from fully
connecting with the role he was performing.551
The second case concerns two female helmet masks again taken from almost identical
mask moulds, painted slightly differently and in this case given hair differing in colour
and thickness. Two actresses tried performing with each mask. One had already
developed a rapport with the fair haired version and her sensitive mask work became
lost when she attempted to perform in the dark haired mask with which she was
relatively unfamiliar. She looked dangerous and aggressive and finally rejected the
mask stating that its thicker hair was “like snakes.”552 The other actress was familiar
with the fair haired mask but somehow could not bring it to life in tragic roles although
she could perform delightfully in it as a New Comedy courtesan.553 When this actress
wore the dark haired mask suddenly she found a new presence in the tragic roles, being
able to express both power and at other times delicacy and great pathos with this one
mask.554 Rather than “possession,” then, it is more useful to talk of integration with, or
marriage between, mask, performer and role.
Although there is in Western culture a perceived association of mask and possession,
most people do not literally believe that masks are inhabited by spirits, in the way that
they might in other societies with a tradition of mask and trance states. Where there is
such a tradition there are also invariably a set of rules or boundaries which define the
sort of possession involved together with the provision of safeguards. These are
551 The actor played Electra wearing this mask in a demonstration scene for the Post Graduate
Symposium, 17th June, 2004, in the Noh theatre, RHUL. The comments and reactions reported here are
from the rehearsals leading up to that performance. 552 This was a Greek performer who unlike the other actress had not received mainstream actor’s training.
She had performed the part of Antigone wearing the fair-haired mask in a demonstration scene for the
25th June 2003 Post Graduate Symposium, in the Noh theatre, RHUL. She wore the dark haired mask
when performing on the same stage during one of my workshops on 6th March 2004. 553 The actress performed this role in demonstration scenes for the AHRB funded Glasgow New Comedy
Project in August 2001. 554 The actress has performed in the dark haired mask to play the parts of Cassandra (Trojan Women) and
of Electra (Libation-Bearers) in demonstration scenes in various venues including the Oxford Playhouse
studio in May 2004; LCTS from 2004, 2005 and 2006 ; Birbeck Classical Society in 2005 and 2006; and
in Kings College, London in 2005 and 2006.
lacking in mainstream Western culture. Possession by masks is a culturally specific
rather than a universal phenomenon.
For many mask possession conjures up visions of “primitive” or uncontrolled
behaviour. Moreover, whilst performers today might acknowledge that when they are
engaged in any creative activity arational processes are involved, they are unlikely to
visualise this as “possession.” Nor do they tend to see the means by which they
prepare themselves for performance in such a way, even though this might involve
personal “rituals” and superstition together with a sense of putting aside the “everyday
self.” With Western performers, then, the idea of possession by the mask is alien and
liable to conjure up unhelpful associations. To get the best (masked) performance out
of actors, and avoid confusion and frustration, it is often wise to use their strengths and
to allow them to find their own way of working, for example, by not proscribing the
use of scripts and actors speaking in their own voices in conjunction with masks.
Above all a concept such as possession, that has frightening associations, rather than
enabling actors, could well impede them.
My own approach to mask
I am fairly eclectic, experimenting with approaches and adjusting to different
performers and circumstances. It is a process involving intuitive “listening,” trying to
ascertain what it is performers are bringing and working to draw out their strengths. I
do, however, insist that the normal rules of acting are adhered to and structure rehearsal
exercises in such a way that I have rarely found a performer “lose control.” I have
observed only one instance that perhaps constituted possession in one of my
performers. This was when a masked actor ceased to perform the exercise I had set for
him and started to adlib in role. It was a minor infringement but I stopped him
immediately and reminded him that he was the actor playing a part, in control of his
actions and under (my) direction.555
In workshops aimed to introduce a group to masked Greek tragedy I usually start with
chorus masks. I bring in the idea of “neutral” as a way of holding the body that is
open, energised and free of unnecessary tension. (If there is time, I use simple
555 Workshop at the LCTS on 27th February 2002.
exercises to explore this concept but not employing the Lecoq neutral masks).556
Sessions start with warm-up exercises designed firstly to get people up and moving,
relating to the space and to each other (as bodies in motion rather than social beings)
and secondly to begin working as a choral group with a task that can be easily
performed in mask. Half the group then put on identical chorus masks.557 The masked
participants stand in a neutral manner with the remainder of the group observing as an
audience. They then go through a set of movements of the head (up, down, to either
side) to explore the “range” of the mask.558 This takes a few minutes and I then check
that everyone is happy to continue to the next stage which is to perform the chorus
exercise previously rehearsed unmasked. Again the duration of this exercise is very
brief. After this the masks are removed and I invite comments from participants and
observers before their roles are reversed. My aim is to introduce masks in a non-
intimidating way and I make it clear beforehand that if at any time someone
experiences discomfort559 or panic they should immediately remove their masks.
Unlike Hall’s mask initiation there is then, no individual choice of a characterised
mask, no special procedure or ritual for donning it and no use of mirrors. Performers
get some idea of how they look from observing their fellows in mask and it is more of a
group rather than purely individual experience. Moreover, I give performers a specific
task to perform in mask and they are not left in an unfamiliar position, uncertain what
to do or how to interact with others (normal social intercourse being ruled out). It is
this, together with the fact that the initial exposure to mask is short and they have the
knowledge that they can remove the mask at any time,560 that is probably why I have
never observed the sort of primitive, even disturbed behaviour, that apparently features
in Hall’s first mask sessions.
Rather than using early sessions with groups to explore regressive behaviour or
possession I prefer to introduce them to ways in which they might start to use the body
as an expressive tool, able to embody various images, for example, physically
556 See p 26. 557 Though produced from the same mould, being hand made they are never wholly identical. 558 This is described above p 139. 559 I am concerned to make masks that are comfortable to wear and speedily put on and taken off. 560 Masks usually entail a degree of sensory deprivation.
“becoming” the act of pouring out a libation (see figure 34). For this work I often use
Rudolf Laban’s Effort Actions561 to enable the finding of the “extra-daily” body. I also
focus, by means of physical enactment, on themes that seem to me some of the special
features that Greek tragedy offers us today. One of these is the sense of being part of a
masked collective and the tension between the individual and the group. Another
relates to the transformative properties of mask and the protean nature of character,
imagery and form to be found in the plays. For these studies I tend to use a set of my
female masks that are fairly neutral and I have found the Oresteia, particularly the
opening scenes of the Libation-Bearers, a good source of material. For example, in
this play the chorus, in their entry song, sing of Clytemnestra’s dream, which is the
reason they have been sent out with Electra to make offerings at Agamenon’s tomb. In
one workshop562 I explored the theme that Electra’s entry with the chorus makes her in
some ways part of their collective presence. However I translated this idea into a
physical exercise by the use of collective movement together with objects, namely
plainly painted (papier mache) amphorae. When all members of a group save one
person carries a vase, an individual within the group is identified and various physical
games can be played around this theme.
In other workshops,563 I have invited participants to create, as a piece of masked
physical theatre, Clytemnestra’s dream. In preliminary exercises leading up to this they
created the palace, bodily assuming the form of walls, statuary and furniture. They also
took on the physicality of the various inhabitants of the House of Atreus (ghostly,
living and divine) such as the children of Thyestes, the Furies and the slave women.
The dream itself was represented by performers, whose movements were informed by
the Effort Action “float” and who had the image of themselves wafting into the palace
like a sort of perfume. The quality of the dream then changed and this was conveyed
with the Effort Action “flick” (see video clip 4) intruding into the soft movements of
“float.” Finally the image of the serpent was given bodily form with Laban’s “wring.”
In these exercises the mask enables the breaking down of ego boundaries and allows a
sense of connectedness and being part of a greater whole which can become manifest in
many different parts and forms. This work relates to some of Lecoq’s neutral mask
561 Laban (1980), 69. 562 In the Noh Studio, RHUL, 12th February 2005; Boilerhouse Studio, RHUL 18th-20th April2005.
exercises in which different substances from the material world are embodied by the
masked actor.
Often in introductory workshops, I introduce people to some of the technical issues of
conveying action in mask, using the “discovery of the lock” scene from the Libation-
Bearers that I discussed in chapter 5. The difficulties that are involved in locating a
lock of hair on stage when the performer’s vision is restricted by the mask is part of the
study. After this, participants discover the moves that are necessary to plausibly
convey the idea that a masked figure catches sight of the lock (rather than looking for
something they know is there). Moving towards the lock and picking it up without too
much looking down and fumbling is another skill to be learnt. Having an interaction
with the lock that conveys something of Electra’s thoughts at this point, is also part of
the study. For this I usually have participants working in pairs with one in mask and
the other observing and providing feedback on the effectiveness of the visual
communication; both learn a great deal about the special techniques of mask in this
way. In one session,564 a Japanese student, wearing one of my masks, demonstrated
how the action of finding a lock of hair, would be performed in Noh (see video clip 2).
Her compelling performance shows the intense retained energy of Noh, its particular
language of gesture and also its inward focus, in that it does not open out the action for
the audience in the way that I have been advocating for Greek tragedy. The aim of all
these early explorations I have described is to start preparing the performer for the
demands of mask in the tragic roles. They have to find a different energy and bodily
use and a new way of thinking; working on themselves as an instrument to serve the
creative spirit that will bring the mask of Greek tragedy alive.
In these preliminary sessions there is no vocalisation, rather, this is introduced in
subsequent workshops. Even then the speaking of text in mask is not introduced
immediately. Participants play with non-verbal vocalisation and the sound qualities of
words. Patsy Rodenburg, having in mind ordinary unmasked acting, advocates
practical exercises including this type to connect the actor physically with the text,
promoting a visceral understanding.565 If engaging in play with sound before imposing
563 In the Noh Studio, RHUL, 20th November 2004. 564 In the Noh Studio, RHUL, 6th March 2004. 565 Rodenburg (1998), 164.
the discipline of text is relevant to unmasked acting it is even more so when employing
masks. When putting on a mask for the first time one often senses a barrier to be
overcome before vocalisation can take place, hence the phenomenon mentioned by Hall
that he sees as masks requiring time to grow up and learn how to speak, although his is
an unnecessarily protracted process. However, it is also my experience that some
professional actors are happy to put on a mask for the first time and very soon after find
no problem in delivering text.
When introducing groups to masked protagonist roles I again conduct what is
essentially a physical theatre workshop with preliminary physical and vocal exercises
involving group and pair work. In these I avoid looking for a specific physicality
relating to any sort of characterisation that might be perceived from the text or the
mask. Instead I ask participants to find the body architecture appropriate to the social
status of tragic figures, for example, to assume the stance and movement qualities of a
king or of a young upper class female, thus keeping exploration to the more general or
universal qualities related to the roles. There may also be some initial play with the
imagery featuring in a particular play. For example, a physical correlate might be
found for the themes of womb, tomb and the breaking of social boundaries in the
Antigone. This might take the form of a group surrounding an individual in a manner
that induces a sense of being supported (a “trust exercise”) or in a way that feels
oppressive, instigating the desire to break out of the constraining collective. After
these preliminary exercises I introduce the masks, and participants again try out the
generalised movement qualities they have discovered in unmasked exploration of the
tragic figures. I may then put the masks to one side and engage in some text work.
This often involves the finding of key words or phrases and exploring these with
gesture, movement and various body configurations expressive of mood, emotion and
imagery. In work involving an interaction between two protagonists, such as that of the
two sisters in the prologue to Sophocles’ Antigone I have on occasion produced
abridged dialogues by taking key phrases from the texts. Using these I have asked
participants, working in pairs, to find a different gesture for each speech, or to deliver
their lines whilst pushing and pulling each other, with or without resistance, to express
in physical terms the status play and objectives underlying the interaction. This
promotes an understanding of the dynamics of the scene but to go on and perform it in
mask usually requires further exercises.
I have sometimes introduced actors to mask and the protagonist roles in the way
described above. However, I have also tried a number of different approaches and their
success has depended very much on the circumstances in which they are used and the
background, personality and needs of individual performers. So, for example, when
working one to one with a Greek singer and actress who was very much inspired by the
traditional forms of her culture, it seemed appropriate for her to spend a significant part
of our first session contemplating a particular mask before putting it on. Then, as she
was to play the part of Antigone, she spent time engaging in a somewhat Stanislavskian
exercise adapted for mask, that is, relating to significant objects in an imagined past of
her character: Polynices’ sword and shield and the necklace she imagined had been
given to her by Haemon. Finally she practiced walking and dancing to the
accompaniment of traditional Greek music. All this was done without speech and there
was some use of the mirror. In subsequent sessions she worked on finding a voice for
this mask, particularly a singing voice (see video 5). At one point, I put on the same
mask and gave her a demonstration which she found instructive, more so than viewing
video material of her own attempts. However, still photographs of her performance she
did find helpful. (Other performers find video feedback very useful; some love and
others deplore mirrors and all learn by observing others working in mask.) After about
a year during which time her use of mask developed some expertise and sensitivity, I
gave her a different version of the young female mask (dark haired instead of fair
haired) and left her working for some time, with mask, mirror and another Greek
performer, new to mask. The result of this experiment I have described above.566 In
complete contrast, I cite the example of a dancer who had also trained as an actor, with
whom I again was working one to one, preparing him to play Hecabe’s lament, from
the Trojan Women, as dance drama (see video 6). After briefly trying on mask and
costume to make sure it fitted and was right for the part, he spent most of our first
session costumed but unmasked and using props in rehearsal of the text. Together we
devised a choreography which he subsequently tried out in mask, leading in turn to
further refinements. Again there was some sparing use of the mirror. The mask work
of both performers was beautiful and sensitive but the first became attached to the one
mask (although she used it to perform several roles: Cassandra in the Trojan Women,567
566 See p 211. 567 In a demonstration scene for one of my lectures at Kings College London, 2004.
Electra in Libation-Bearers568, as well as Antigone569) whilst the second actor could
perform well in many different masks and roles. The reason for this difference may
partly reflect the different training of a singer as against a dancer but the factor of
personality was even more important and my varying approach was in response to what
I perceived to be the needs of each individual. (As a director I see an important part of
my role as enabling my performers to give of their best within the generic parameters I
have set). I have given some account here of my own practice citing specific examples
to illustrate how different it is from that of some the other practitioners I have described
above. Unlike Vovolis and some others there is no special ceremony or ritual attached
to the donning of the mask. In contradiction to Keith Johnstone or Peter Hall I happily
direct masked actors and where appropriate suggest or even demonstrate particular
actions. Whilst many practitioners proscribe masked actors talking in their own voices
or reading off their scripts whilst rehearsing, I am not dogmatic in this and other related
issues such as the use of mirrors. Rather I take a pragmatic approach, prescribing no
one practice for all but adapt to the particular needs of performers and circumstances.
Following in the modern tradition I initiate mask work in a playful way but this is
followed by an exhaustive process of refinement and rehearsal when a scene is being
prepared for performance. Thus spontaneity and improvisation whilst usually featuring
significantly in the early stages give way to a choreographed final product. A most
important part of my approach is to provide a scene or theme to be explored and with
groups a preliminary set of exercises to lead participants towards the mask. I do not
implant the idea of possession by the mask nor merely hand masks to people, who are
unprepared, expecting some sort of mysterious transformation to occur just from
donning a mask. In an RHUL seminar, that I attended as an observer, such an approach
was taken and participants took it in turn to individually stand on a stage and put on a
mask. I observed that this procedure induced no sense of possession or connectedness
with the mask, rather that people seemed confused and at a loss what to do. The mask
does not, of itself, induce trance states or inspired performances, rather the particular
approach taken will determine what the mask reveals.
568 On a filming day at The Studio, Cabul Road, London, 12th October 2003 for the Channel 4/Discovery
TV documentary on the “Seven Wonders of Ancient Greece.” 569 Performed in David Wiles’ inaugural lecture at RHUL in 28th February 2005.
Mirrors, video and the external eye
Video and mirrors can provide useful feedback to performers provided they are aware
of the distorted nature of the information they provide. A simple mirror set up, for
example, gives a reverse image and one view (usually front on) only. With some
masks a performer may need to hold their head in less than optimum position to see
their reflection, if it is visible at all. Too much mirror work can induce dependence as is
apparent in Johnstone’s account of his performances.570 The problems with video are
different. It unnaturally frames the image, distorts colour, tends to flatten and gives
misleading information on what can be seen from afar. Many masks are optimally
viewed from a distance and suffer from the close up scrutiny of the camera. For these
reasons a video record of a live performance can often be disappointing. If a video is
required it is better to work with masks designed to operate in close up and to play to
the strengths of the camera; creating theatre is a different art form than making a film.
An alternative way of giving the masked performer feedback is to provide them with a
human “external eye,” either a fellow un-masked performer or someone in a more
directorial role.571 This has the advantage that the performer’s repertoire of body and
mask positions, movements and rhythms, tends to become freer when not limited by
what is viewable in a mirror. Despite the disadvantages, I sometimes use a mirror in
working intensively one to one with particular performers where time and rehearsal
space is limited. This is best with performers who are happy to experiment with and
reproduce, external forms. Ideally when use is made of an “external eye,” the masked
performer should be viewed from some distance. In a cramped rehearsal space with a
large mirror on one wall, some of the effect of distance can be achieved by standing
alongside and slightly behind the performer, in order to watch their reflection as they
perform towards the mirror. From this position, close to the performer, the observer
can better feel the moves in their own body.
570 See p 203. 571 I have also tried having two performers in near identical masks perform a “mirroring” exercise in
which they face one another and reflect each other’s moves.
Amongst the various exercises that I have tried with my actors, one called “Charging
the mask”572 has proved universally popular particularly in comic roles but it can also
energise actors for tragedy. It enables actors to find, very quickly, a fully physicalised
mask character able to speak their lines (providing some script work has been done
first). It rapidly overcomes any barrier to delivering text in mask. It may be employed
in addition to the sort of exercises I have mentioned above that also enable vocalisation
in mask, but it may also bypass these when experienced performers are involved. If
numerous mask roles are to be performed it thus serves to speed up what might
otherwise become a relatively long (and potentially tedious) process and it also allows
a number of useful options that are particularly apposite to theatrical performance. In
this exercise the performer and unmasked partner stand facing one another and the
latter starts by reacting physically (with moves and gestures but no sound initially) to
what (s)he sees in the other and feels is needed, knowing the part to be played. The
masked actor responds in turn and they play off each other for a while, having a sort of
dance-like “conversation.” When the moment seems right, the unmasked partner
introduces sound and subsequently words and finally text from the part to be played.
One of the many positive features of this ingenious exercise is that it helps to achieve
an integration of mask and performer relevant to the part to be played. The latter is
able to feel this “from the inside” without the need to process verbal feedback. (It is
difficult for a performer to maintain their spontaneity when a partner is telling, rather
than showing them, how it looks). The unmasked person is providing visual feedback
(without mirroring their partner) but the effect is more subtle and less distorting than
with a mirror or video. As its name suggests the exercise also energises performers,
but by putting them into a playful, relaxed and outgoing mode. (This last is very
important as some other “in-depth” explorations with mask can encourage an inward
focus which is arguably unhelpful when preparing for the ancient plays). Moreover,
during the course of the exercise the unmasked partner can place themself in the
position of members of the audience, and if necessary, go some distance from the
mask. All too often when performers work in response to the visual cues of their mask
they are only regarding it close to, whereas a mask will appear quite different when
viewed from a distance, a significant factor in large scale theatres. This exercise brings
572 An exercise introduced to me by Michael Chase, see Vervain & Wiles (2001), 261.
out the elements essential to effective mask theatre: energy, playfulness, relaxation and
connectedness of performers in themselves and with their fellows, and between them,
the audience and the space.
There is a widespread feeling amongst mask practitioners that bringing a mask to life in
the theatre is essentially to do with the performer’s relationship with their mask; and
that this in turn is affected by the way mask has been approached. In my experience,
these factors, whilst very important, are not the whole story. The performer also needs
to feel secure with their part (which includes knowing their lines and moves). As with
unmasked performance, actors’ ability to engage with their part goes through various
stages in the rehearsal process. Whilst lively mask work may emerge in preliminary
exercises, when an attempt is made to integrate the script there is usually an initial loss
of engagement with the mask. In workshops if a group has prepared a scene for a
preliminary showing to other participants, then the mask energy may pick up again at
this point, only to fall off once more when the scene is undergoing further refinement.
After groups have worked on their own and shown the results I often take over
direction of the scene with the aim of shaping it into a plausible, and hopefully
stunning, piece of mask theatre. Ideally, at the end of this process, everything comes
together, the performer is secure in what they are doing and saying and is able to
become sufficiently energised and connected with their mask to impart life to it.
Conclusion
We have no detailed knowledge of the conditions under which the fifth century actors
were employed or how they may have approached their roles. However, the latter may
well have been analogous to the tradition of the Eastern theatre in which text,
intonation and moves are learnt by emulating a master. Whether there would have been
any place in this for some sort of internalisation of roles is a matter of debate, although
this has been suggested for tragedy on the basis of an analysis of some Aristophanic
deception scenes. The same source has also been cited as evidence that tragic acting
was purely external.
Whilst Greek thought identified various states of possession by divine forces, there is
no indication that these would have been induced by the wearing of masks. Instead the
act of impersonation itself might be thought of as a sort of ekstasis in which the
performer steps outside his normal way of being. As in some of the Eastern theatres
possession may have been conceived of as heightening the performer’s awareness
rather than inducing uncontrolled or unpredictable trance states. The account of Ion the
rhapsode suggests that there could be a simultaneously identification with, and
monitoring of, their own performance in a manner analogous to the subjective
experience described by some Noh actors. In the modern tradition of mask theatre
some have insisted that possession of the performer by the mask is an essential
component; at one extreme various uncontrolled, even violent states have been
approved. However, it is clear to me that the latter violates the boundaries which
define and allow tragic performance to take place and that this is as true today as it
would have been in the ancient world. Other practitioners reject the idea of possession
in mask theatre and instead think more in terms of the successful integrating of actor
and mask. This may involve work by the actor on themselves as an instrument ready to
serve the needs masked performance. In preparing to perform a specific tragic role the
mask chosen has to be suitable for it and also right for the performer. However, it is
not clear that the mask has primacy, as the text instigates the process involved; even if
the actor does not start by looking at the play, it will inform the approach of the
director.
In theatre today, actors usually expect to be allowed some creative input. In this
context, the use of physical theatre exercises, allowing the scope for some creative
exploration of the various roles and themes of the plays, can make the latter
comprehensible in the language of body and mask. They can also enable the masked
actor to find a voice for the text. In my own practice I have departed from the precepts
that have been advocated as rules for masking by some modern practitioners. The
pluralistic nature of our society means that today there is good reason to adopt a
pragmatic approach, making adjustments for the various abilities and experience of the
performers that can be found and recruited. Finding a way of operating to get the best
out of the resources available today is a theme I pursue in the following chapter.
Chapter 8: Modern acting and masked Greek tragedy
Introduction
The skills needed for the original performances of Greek tragedy would have included
the ability to deliver lines audibly through the full mask, to perform a text of metrical
complexity and heightened speech in a way that conveyed the action, stimulated
thought and evoked extremes of emotion. Many parts also required singing and
dancing; actors also needed vocal virtuosity and versatility to perform multiple roles
including female ones. Our tendency to specialise means that today it is not always
easy to find performers who possess a combination of even some of these areas of
expertise.
In the West actor training (in the mainstream drama schools) is predominantly
Stanislavski based, with emphasis on finding the psychology and motivation of
characters. Mainstream actors are in ready supply, used to working from scripts as
complex as Greek tragedy and they often have a good vocal training, but usually little
or no experience of mask. One alternative source is physical theatre and performers
such as those trained in the Lecoq school in Paris, in which the emphasis is on the
physical presence of the actor rather than text and its delivery. These are used to
employing the body as an expressive instrument and have the performance energy
required for mask. They also have more experience with mask, often though, in the
context of comedy, improvisation, and non-verbal expression573 and they tend to bring
with them expectations of how mask and roles should be approached, which may not
be helpful when applied to Greek tragedy. Both Tyrone Guthrie and Peter Hall, in their
masked productions of the plays, employed mainstream actors. This raises the
question of whether Stanislavskian techniques and masked Greek tragedy are
compatible.
The question is raised and an answer offered by David Wiles when he finds in
Stanislavski’s writing an account that he believes “demonstrates an understanding of all
the fundamental principles of mask theatre.” Stanislavski describes the way the drama
573 Words may be used with commedia and character half-masks but these are not comparable to the
poetic texts of Greek tragedy.
student Kostya becomes the Critic (a character that he creates by changing his own
external form):
First Kostya transforms his face, covering it with greenish removing cream.
From the face, he extends his characterisation to a distorted body. And from
the body, character extends to the voice. Kostya experiences himself as
possessed, inhabited by a stranger – who is nevertheless part of himself. 574
It is clear from this and from other aspects of Stanislavski’s teaching, that he did
appreciate the powerful effect on the actor of adopting a specific external form. The
Kostya example described here is directly applicable to mask in improvised work. It
does not, however, address how such experiences might be harnessed to scripted
performance. Where texts are involved, broader strands of Stanislavski’s thought as
manifest in mainstream drama school training and the practice of actors and directors
from this background, are more relevant. The extent to which this serves to help or
hinder the realisation of the tragic roles in masks is the issue with which I start this
chapter. In some respects the discussion here continues themes discussed in Chapter 6
in which I gave an account of the debate on character and Greek tragedy emanating
from the field of classical scholarship. Here the issues are viewed from the more
practical perspective of the theatre director working with actors. I go on to argue that
mask theatre is essentially a visual and physical genre and the acting skills of those
from the mainstream are most useful if accompanied by the potential to use the body
expressively with the high energy required for mask. Finally I describe my attempts to
integrate mainstream acting with a more physical approach; including an experimental
workshop commissioned from a group of actors from the Lecoq school.
Character and act ion
It is important to note that most drama schools are eclectic, rather than adhering rigidly
to any defined method. A study of the writings of Stanislavski alone do not give a
good idea of their training. Richard Hornby provides a useful account of how
Stanislavskian principles work in practice and I refer here to his analysis together with
my own experience and that of my actors. Hornby argues that when Stanislavski
574 Wiles (2004), 208 describing the account in Stanislavski (1968), 16-21.
describes good acting as truth this does not mean that the actor should attempt to
produce real life or real emotions; rather in Stanislavski’s words: “To play truly means
to be right, logical, coherent, to think, strive, feel and act in unison with your role.”
Thus the actor must concentrate on the character and their situation and ask themselves
what this fictive being would do if the given circumstances of the world of the play
were reality, which is different from the actor trying to engage in a self induced
hallucination. 575 The actor examines the play in some detail with a set of questions in
mind. These are commonly referred to as the “w” questions. The information they
seek to elicit is: where and when the action is taking place, who the characters are, what
happens and why it does so. To build up a picture of their part the actor goes through
the whole play taking note of everything their character does or says about themselves
and what is said about them by others. Even if the actor is to perform only part of a
role, studying the whole play is still considered essential. Logical explanations are
sought for everything said or done in terms of objectives or what the character is trying
to achieve at any given moment, that is, their motivation. Logic and analysis are only
part of the story, however, and there is clearly a place for more intuitive discovery as
when a gesture or costume gives the actor a new understanding. In finding an
interpretation of their roles it is also relevant for the actor and director to consider
something of the intentions of the playwright. For the ancient plays this might, for
example, involve the idea of portraying figures in a way that evokes an empathetic
response from the audience. Another part of the approach uses improvisations when
scenes not featuring in the play, but apposite to its world, are enacted.
Stanislavski’s technique is essentially character based. By contrast a non-character
based approach would be one in which the actor focused on some other aspect(s) of the
play and of acting, for example, giving a virtuoso performance that emphasized the
poetic qualities of the text or expressing intense emotion. Neither of these on their own
would be enough to convey the action of the play. For that the actor might also
perform the “through line of business,” that is, for any given scene they grasp, in a very
basic way, what is happening (the w- questions are to some extent relevant here) and
they would then portray this action. The Eastern theatre provides yet another model. It
is not necessary for the actor to ask the w-questions. In a sense they have been asked
575 Hornby (1992), 73 discussing Stanislavski (1980), 14.
and answers found when the work was originally created and the results have then been
passed down through subsequent generations.
For Peter Hall the essentially Stanislavskian approach of his actors seemed to have
given rise to problems. Heather Neill, writing in the Times, recounts how, during
rehearsals for his production of the Bacchai , Hall had apparently “woken in the night...
and realised that they had been wasting their time talking about motivation.” He told
his actors: “You know who you are. You are an actor at the National Theatre
pretending to be an ancient Greek wearing a mask.” He went on to say: “You become
your mask ... The actor can tell the story (as opposed to acting a character) because his
character is expressed by the mask.” 576 Hall is clearly trying to direct them away from
a concentration on character which would be their natural Stanislavskian approach.
However to “tell the story” is not the same as conveying the action. Aristotle makes
this clear when he distinguishes epic (that is the art of story telling or narration) from
tragedy which entails enactment.577 Even where there are narration scenes in the plays,
for example when a messenger describes events that have happened elsewhere, his
narrating presence is part of the fictive world of the play and it brings forth reactions
from others in that world and so is part of the ongoing action. The modern actor has no
problem in understanding that (s)he performs the part of the messenger but that it is the
latter who recounts the story to the other characters. An actor may however be
confused by Hall telling them that they are “pretending to be an ancient Greek wearing
a mask.” Are they to play their part in the story or at being the ancient actor playing his
role? The latter suggests a different set of questions to the Stanislavskian actor than the
former.
Hall is only partially correct in saying that the character is given by the mask. It is true
that if the part is, for example, that of a young woman, costume and mask can
immediately produce this appearance and the male actor does not have to work at
convincing his audience of this basic identity. The mask may also suggest a particular
use of the actor’s body and voice. Even if the answer to the who? question is given by
the mask, however, the way this figure acts and reacts to on-going events is not. The
clues to that are in the play text and it is relevant for the actor (and their director) to ask
576 Neill (2002). 577 Poetics III.
the other w-questions and use this information to choose amongst the alternative
interpretations that suggest themselves. For example, when Antigone is being taken to
her death in Sophocles’ play she might be portrayed as noble or alternatively as
irrational, even insane. An analysis of the play text as a whole, shows that she is
described as mad or foolish by other characters.578 This information is worthy of
consideration by the modern actor whose immediate instinct may be to view her with
unqualified admiration as noble and heroic; arguably an anachronistic reading.
Christiane Sourvinou-Inwood, for example, argues that in the social context of fifth
century Athens, Antigone’s behaviour would have appeared inappropriate to her gender
and she would have been seen in the category of “women out of control.”579 In staging
Antigone’s last scene today, the decision made on this point will affect the particular
physical actions and tone of delivery adopted by the performer and will in turn draw
forth a set of related visible reactions from the other figures present. This is true of
both masked and unmasked productions. In Declan Donnellan’s 1999 production of the
play580, Antigone, in this scene took an erratic circuitous pathway through the chorus
during a speech that in a different reading would have been delivered from a strong
static position. Her voice and movements suggested distress and instability.
The protean nature of character portrayal in the plays limits the extent to which actors
can find a consistent set of character traits on which to base their understanding of the
role. Antigone, for example, might talk with the rationality and persuasiveness of an
orator in one scene and appear headstrong and foolish in another. In just one speech
Creon may attempt to win over people's hearts in the manner of a democratic leader at
one moment and at another appear as the all-powerful potentate. I have found that
actors usually feel secure as long as the fragmented nature of their role is understood
and it is clear at any given moment what facet is to be played. For example, I
sometimes direct an actor that they are “Antigone the orator” for part of their delivery
and in other places they might become “Antigone the heroic” or “Antigone the insane.”
Modern actors, preparing for masked as well as un-masked roles, still need to
understand the identity of their character, (even if this is a discrete rather than
continuous portrayal) and why, from moment to moment, they are speaking and acting
578 See p 168. 579 Sourvinou-Inwood (2003), 140.
as they do. Arnott observes, that whilst there is a degree of arbitrariness to be found in
the plays, there is also “a certain consistency imposed on characters by the nature of the
script. Characters are participants in a story, and there must be some logical sequence
in their actions.”581 The mask also imparts a sense of unity to the form, melding
together the multiplicity of modes manifest in the plays, particularly the disparate
manner in which characters are depicted. This is a factor that actors can come to
appreciate, although they still feel the need to make sense of their role in the way I have
described.
Arnott notes that Greek tragedy is arbitrary in other respects: “characters and incidents
may be introduced without motivation, and disappear as rapidly.” He cites Electra in
Libation-Bearers who is “built up as a major character in the first part of the play” but
once her dramatic function is over she goes and does not reappear. A similar
arbitrariness or ambiguity can also apply to props, and he asks when, for instance, has
Medea found the time to prepare the poisoned robes she sends to Jason’s new bride?582
Such puzzles and “discrepancies” are often less noticeable to an audience than in a
close analysis of the text and where this is thought to be the case, I have found that
actors are not worried by them.
Sometimes a particular staging can remove an apparent anomaly. One example from
the Libation-Bearers concerns the first of the two locks of hair that Orestes cuts from
his head: what happens to it? One possibility is that he puts it away to be dealt with at
a future unspecified time but there is another solution that feels more dramatically
satisfying. I tried a staging that started the play with a mimed tour by the travellers
through the space with Orestes pointing out, to his companion, the landmarks of his
homeland. (The fact that he had been only a young child when last there was an
“anomaly” that was felt liable to go unnoticed). The last landmark, well towards the
front of the acting area was a river, established by mimed splashing of the face and
drinking the water. From here the young men made their way to Agamemnon’s tomb
at centre stage. After completing his prayer here Orestes returned to the river to
dedicate his first lock to it. Mime and a simple sleight of hand enabled him to cast it
580 Donnelan (1999). 581 Arnott (1989), 186. 582 Arnott (1989), 184-5.
into the water and watch it being carried away by the current. The initial down stage
walk along the river bank also established the logic of Electra finding a set of footprints
here. From their experience of what would work for an audience, the actors felt this to
be important. Their perception of the performance space was malleable in that
different journeys could be made through it; the initial tour was quite distinct from that
of the chorus and Electra who enter from a different place. There were however, fixed
reference points for key moments, such as the position of the footprints. Walton also
speaks of there being a “stage requirement…for Electra to duplicate the exact position
on stage where her brother was previously standing.”583 As mask theatre is highly visual
with an emphasis on the physical presence of performers in the space, it is particularly
important to establish the location of key landmarks in the way I have described.
The Stanislavskian questions of where and when the action takes place can often
provide a fairly clear answer, although, as P.D. Arnott describes, there are some
noteable exceptions.584 The setting of Libation-Bearers is one instance, apparently
located both in the vicinity of Agamemnon’s tomb and the palace, which in the fictive
world of the play are some distance away from each other. In one staging of the early
scenes in a small performance space I had a portable tomb that was initially located
centre stage, but was moved discretely to one side by the masked chorus during
Electra’s monologue that follows her stichomythic exchange with them over the
discovery of the lock.585 Here they also took the opportunity to rid themselves of their
amphorae. Disposing of latter once they have served their purpose is important for
clarity in mask theatre as it is necessary to focus, at any one moment, on one action,
and the necessary background information. It is relevant to note that in Noh theatre
props are brought to, and removed from, the actor as and when they are required, by
attendants dressed in black who are by convention invisible. In my own staging the
chorus temporarily took on the attendant role keeping to the background with masks
turned away whilst Electra took the focus in a dynamic speech using the remaining area
of the performance space. In the ancient theatres I wonder whether similar devices
including a portable grove of trees might have been used to distinguish the two
locations of the play. Here I am not proposing the introduction of an element of
583 Walton (2006), 66. 584 Arnott (1989), 135ff.
naturalism, but rather to indicate an environment by means of a few props and simple
actions, an approach consistent with the clarity and focus required in masked
performance. This is analogous to the sort of conventions of the Noh theatre that Arnott
describes, in which a short walk in the performance space can indicate a longer journey
and other effects like travelling in a boat can be conveyed by very simple means.586
Modern actors are usually very happy with such conventions and also with other non-
naturalistic aspects of Greek drama such as the co-existence of more than one location,
if the logic of the action or structure of the drama requires it. A chorus, for instance,
can enact a scene taking place in a different location from the main action either as part
of their choral ode, an element of the drama in some respects outside the main action,
or to illustrate a scene being narrated by a main character or messenger. Either way
comprehensible conventions apply and actors feel secure.
The plays also feature instances when there is a non-naturalistic representation of time.
Where there is compressed time readers of the plays are more likely to notice than a
live audience caught up in the ongoing action. The stylisation of mask and the need to
focus on conveying the essentials of the action in hand, means that in masked
productions audiences will be even less likely to be distracted and more able to accept
non-naturalistic conventions such as the concurrent enactment of more than one time
zone in a scene.
The “why?” quest ion
Stanislavskian actors are trained to play what their character is trying to achieve at any
particular moment. They phrase this in terms of “I want … (whatever)” and they try
and get what they want by taking a particular action that can be described by an active
verb. The fact that Peter Hall speaks of his company “wasting their time talking about
motivation” is indicative that this approach was problematical in the rehearsals for his
production of the Bacchai . It seems that there were analogous problems in Hall’s
earlier Oedipus production and not only for the main roles. According to Peter
Reynolds’ account it was felt necessary “to consider what the chorus as a whole was
saying, and find a satisfactory answer to why they said it.” Hall’s insistence that all
585 Libation-Bearers 184-211. 586 Arnott (1989), 143.
decisions on choral utterances be made collectively by all the cast led to “a time-
consuming and often frustrating process of trial and error.”587 I came across a not
unrelated problem in my own work with a group of Lecoq trained performers and their
director, all of whom had also had some ordinary actor training. I realised that they
were finding the active verb “to accuse” as the driving force of the choral Ode to Love
in the Antigone, interpreting the song as a continuation of the on-going action and were
limiting their movement possibilities accordingly. Once they had been given the idea
that the ode was ritual theatre related to, but also outside, the main action, they were
able to use some of their Lecoq language of bodily dynamics to speedily find a
modified approach and a more satisfactory result. Moreover, although some seated
discussion was involved, for the most part, they found a way forward by active
improvisation shaped by the prompting of their director. The problems relating to
“motivation” encountered by Peter Hall may have resulted from a rigid or inappropriate
adherence to the idea. Also it could be that there was too much seated discussion rather
than performers trying things out on their feet. Hall’s reference to “talking” is
suggestive.
Richard Hornby argues that the term “motivation” implies a retrospective explanation
of a character’s behaviour with the danger of an overly complex psychological
interpretation. Instead he prefers to speak of character “objectives” as this focuses
attention on the immediate action. 588 The search for a character’s objectives carries
with it the assumption that the plays are peopled by beings exhibiting active and
purposeful behaviour and for the tragedies this is a debated issue. When events are
very much determined by divine forces the issue arises as to whether or not characters
can be thought of as independent agents589. However there is often a clear distinction;
for example, human autonomy and total possession can be seen in Euripides’ The
Madness of Heracles. Heracles in his own senses speaks and behaves in a wholly
different way than he does when possessed and the possessing deities arrive in person
to give forewarning of the change.
587 Reynolds (1996). 588 Hornby (1992), 166. 589 See p 173.
From the point of view of modern practical theatre, if the actor is able to distinguish
between their character acting autonomously and under divine possession, then this
difference can be conveyed to the audience by appropriate use of gesture and intonation
and this is true of masked as well as unmasked theatre. Even a figure such as Oedipus
whose fate is pre-destined can be seen to pursue objectives. The fact that his actions
take him closer to the outcome he wants to avoid does not make it redundant for the
actor to see him as an active agent.590 Understanding the rationale behind a character’s
utterances is not merely an intellectual exercise it will inform the manner of delivery
and the physicality of the performer. In mask and physical theatre it is particularly
apposite to perceive objectives as bodily imperatives. For example, Antigone’s desire
to bury her brother impels her body forward, while Ismene’s wish to prevent her is
manifest in a different bodily configuration.
There are also in the plays figures who exhibit passive and reactive behaviour that is
explainable but not actively goal orientated. Choruses provide many instances of this.
Even here it may be informative to ask the why? question. It can be useful for those
performing in the chorus to know if they are: “praying,” “celebrating (a victory),”
“obeying,” “pacifying,” “disapproving” (all relevant for the Theban elders of the
Antigone); also whether they are speaking with a ritual authority or as figures within
the main action.
When the “why?” question is asked in relation to protagonist roles, it can animate and
reveal the internal logic of the speeches . For example, Creon’s opening speech in the
Antigone can be brought alive by tracing the thought processes of the king. Without
this understanding the actor may well deliver a flat monologue and lose the audience’s
attention. Alan Howard’s intoning of the Oedipus speeches in Hall’s 1996 production
had this affect on me and I felt that he was focussing on the strict metrical delivery of
the lines insisted upon by Hall, rather than making an attempt to convey a sentient
being.
We ask the why? question because we want to make sense of people’s behaviour. In
The Libation-Bearers Orestes asks the reason the slave women and Electra have come
590 Dodds (1966), 42 makes the related point that in everything Oedipus does on stage, he operates as a
“free agent”.
to offer libations.591 Actors will also ask why Orestes has posed this question and if
there is any significance in the particular moment he chooses to ask it. The idea that
Orestes is hesitating and reluctant to act may suggest themselves and this interpretation
is also in accordance with Orestes’ moment of hesitation before killing his mother. 592
The discovery of such a pattern enables the actor to have a better understanding of their
role which is as important in Western mask theatre as it is in naturalism. The technique
of considering a character’s objectives is therefore indispensable to actors. Stanislavski
also insists that actors should not act emotion arguing that in playing the character's
pursuit of objectives the emotions would necessarily emerge and be communicated in a
spontaneous and natural fashion. 593 However, in mask it is necessary to focus on
creating a particular external form. Without the use of the performer’s own face the
conveying of emotion operates differently than in the theatre of naturalism. Whilst the
text will often provide verbal cues that indicate the feeling of characters and the actor
can also make use of vocal intonation, the visual impact of mask is so strong that it
necessitates a particular use of body and mask in which only the essential moves or
gestures are performed. It is by decoding these signals that the audience make sense
visually of what is happening and any redundant actions will confuse this picture. It is
therefore important that the masked actor is aware of what is being communicated by
use of body as well as by intonation. It is not enough to focus purely on playing a
character’s objectives.
Psychology, subtext and Stanislavski
The pursuit of psychological naturalism is seen by some commentators as a danger in
applying Stanislavskian training to Greek tragedy and is, for example, mentioned by
Peter Reynolds in his account of Hall’s Oedipus rehearsals.594 The term “psychology”
has more than one usage and Peter Hall highlights an important distinction when he
says:
Greek dramatists, and particularly Sophocles, are very accurate in their
591 Libation-Bearers 514 ff. 592 Libation-Bearers 899. Lebeck(1971), 106 also reads “hestitation” in the resolve of Orestes during the
kommos and also, of Electra, in an earlier passage (84 ff.). 593 Hornby (1992), 163-5. 594 Reynolds (1996).
psychological observations, but they don’t build characters in the
psychological way that Chekhov, Ibsen, or a modern dramatist does at all.
They present certain facets like a mosaic, and you have to go with all the
contradictions, put them together, and out of that you will make a person, and
it’s a person in action.595
Hall’s mention here of the accuracy of psychological observation by the tragedians is a
useful corrective for those seeking to reject any place for psychology in the plays. In
my experience, when actors are actively trying things out, scripts in hand and applying
the “w” questions, a psychological dimension becomes clear. For a large part this is
the basic psychology of “human nature” which can be found in the plays of all three
tragedians and I have given a detailed example in Electra’s reaction to the discovery of
the lock of hair.596
Jean Benedetti describes the innovation that Stanislavski introduced to interpreting
dramatic texts with his realisation that:
the meaning of the words spoken depends not merely on their information
content but on the situation in which they occur; it depends on the personal
attitudes of the speaker, the personal position of the recipient, the relationship
between the two and the context in which the exchange takes place. The
exchange in the theatre moreover has a double context, since it is intended to
be understood not only by the participants but by third parties, the audience.
The implications of this insight are that the “printed words do not contain the full
meaning, as in purely literary forms. They depend on what lies beneath them, on the
subtext.”597
J.M. Walton, writing with the concerns of the translator’s task in mind, speaks of an
aspect of subtext in deception scenes when the words spoken by a character are at
variance with what they actually mean. Duplicity and evasive dialogue feature
extensively in Sophocles and Euripides and are signalled to a greater or lesser extent in
595 Peter Hall, Platform discussion, 21st September 1996, Olivier Theatre. 596 See p 147. 597 Benedetti (1982), 46-7.
their texts. In Aeschylus’ extant plays only the Oresteia has this kind of scene but the
playwright gives no indication in the speeches of characters to signal when they are
lying. So, for example, in Clytemnestra’s speech of welcome to her returning husband
it is, he argues, the performance style rather than the words spoken which will dictate
the extent to which her dishonesty is conveyed to the audience at this point. Walton
also describes a second aspect of subtext as “the unearthing of stage dynamics in a
broad sense, anything from irony to implied action.”598
Thinking about subtext prompts the actor and director to approach a given script with
the idea of finding out what is really going on in the various interactions. If, for
example, a character asks for and receives information, as in the interaction discussed
above between Orestes and the chorus, we wonder if this transaction is merely about
the exchange of information or if there is some other dynamic occurring? As a director
of masked Greek tragedy I search the text to see if I can find a tension that might, in a
meaningful way, enhance the drama of the scene and that can be translated into the
language of visual and physical expression. An awareness of subtext also helps actors
make sense of the dynamics of the interaction between characters. That actors today
need to approach their roles with these sort of questions in mind, is affirmed by Walton
who speaking of the translator’s role, argues for a performance text that gives the actor
some guidelines about “how or why a character is saying what she is saying, or what he
is saying.”599 An uninspired performance due to an actor’s insecurity in this respect is
revealed only too clearly when mask is worn.
Energy and the actor’s presence
Richard Hornby analyses the factors that lead to the actor having a compelling
presence. Significantly he notes the importance of a mask-like quality of the face and
an expression that, at first sight, appears neutral but that is, in fact, full of minute
variations. “It is symmetrical yet asymmetrical” and seems “on the verge of all sorts of
emotions.”600 This description is reminiscent of the multivalent expression of classical
sculpture that I have been arguing was also a feature of the fifth century tragic masks.
598 Walton (2006), 113-4. 599 Walton (2006), 122. 600 For example, Hornby (1992), 155-6.
In using the term mask-like Hornby is perhaps also referring to a certain still quality
that he relates to “relaxation” when there is an absence of unnecessary muscle tension
in the face and body that results in a “heightened awareness and increased power.”601
Something of this idea is arguably illustrated in figure 35, an image from the
(unmasked) rehearsals of Peter Hall’s Oedipus Plays with Alan Howard (as Oedipus),
Claire Swinburne (as Ismene) and Tanya Moodie (as Antigone). The faces of Howard
and Swinburne are tense and bring to mind Hall’s contention of the repelling quality of
the unmasked face of pain. The face of Tanya Moodie is, on the other hand,
compelling. Hers, unlike the other two, is fairly neutral in expression, although the
eyes are very alive. In the actual performance I observed that she brought her mask to
life, making it an integral part of an emotionally engaging performance, in a way that
Swinburne and Howard did not. This positive response is shared by Robert Butler who
finds her “most impressive ... as the sincere and persuasive Antigone.”602 Oliver Taplin
also mentions her, together with Greg Hicks, as “the only two who really acted
integrally with those masks.”603
Hornby’s description of a state of energised relaxation relates to Stanislavskian training
but it also sounds like a concept from physical theatre. The idea of “neutral” in the
latter, is to find an open energised body free of unnecessary tension or particular
attitude together with an affirmative mind set. This is a good place to commence work
on finding the special energy required for performance in mask. Lecoq speaks of “the
state of neutrality prior to action, a state of receptiveness to everything around us, with
no inner conflict” and discovery of this is enabled by the neutral mask. The latter he
sees as “a basic mask, a fulcrum mask for all the other masks.604 Finding a state of
energised relaxation enables the performer to access power that is otherwise lost in an
under-energised body usage. Marshalling this extra power and focussing it to achieve
the heightened energy required for mask takes the performer beyond the state of neutral
and into higher levels of energy. Eugenio Barba observes that we often associate the
601 For example, Hornby (1992), 154. 602 Butler (1996). 603 Oliver Taplin, "Masks in Greek Tragedy and in Tantalus," talk at a conference on Tantalus, hosted by
the Centre for Hellenic Studies, May 2001
http://www.apgrd.ox.ac.uk/people/imagesdocs/ottantalus.htm. 604 Lecoq (2000), 36.
concept of energy with “external impetus” and activity. He argues, however, that “it
also refers to something intimate, something which pulses in immobility and silence, a
retained power which flows in time without dispersing in space.” He goes on to
describe the relevance of tameru which “defines the action of holding back, of
retaining” in the Noh and Kabuki theatres of Japan. “From tameru comes tame, the
ability to keep energy in, to absorb into an action limited in space the energy necessary
to carry out a much larger action.” In Noh theatre it is said that “three-tenths of any
action should happen in space and seven-tenths in time.” The retained energy that is
being described here is achieved by the creation of opposing tensions within the
performer’s body, for example that created by a power pushing the body forward and a
power simultaneously holding it back. 605 This bodily usage is very important in
bringing the mask to life in performance. A clear demonstration of its effectiveness
was given by the Noh actor, Akira Matsui who, during a performance at RHUL, stood
apparently motionless facing an audience seated to one side of the stage whilst the eyes
of his mask, one of his own brought with him from Japan, appeared to move.606
This degree of retained energy is only rarely seen in the mainstream theatre of the
West, although it is clear that Stanislavski was aware of its importance. Vasili
Toporkov gives an account of how Stanislavski instructed him to find the “rhythm” he
would use if lying in wait with a stick to catch a mouse. In an exercise in which
Toporkov tried to find this and hit out in response to a clap that signaled the appearance
of an imaginary mouse, he was exhorted to: “Watch more attentively,” in order to strike
almost at the same instance as the clap. After more practice had enabled him to
experience the different energy involved, Stanislavski observed: “To stand and watch
for a mouse- that is one rhythm: to watch a tiger that is creeping up on you is quite
another.”607 Training in retained energy is more likely to form part of physical theatre
practice where it is discovered in exercises involving the idea of moving or performing
actions against some kind of real or imagined resistance. Greg Hicks, though coming
from the mainstream has also discovered something of this energy, perhaps through his
practice of Butoh and Capoeira.
605 Barba & Savarese (1991), 81, 88. 606 Conference on “The Body and the Mask in Ancient Theatre Space: Perceptions, Coincidences and
Diversions,” on 5th May 2007 in the Noh Studio theatre at RHUL.
An integration of forms and approaches
I have considered some of the possible advantages of the basic type of Stanislavskian
training of mainstream actors when it is applied in a flexible manner and I have
indicated areas where it is unhelpful. On the positive side, finding a few key objectives
for the actor can clarify the dynamics of character relationships (including power
struggles), bring out the dramatic structure of the scene and give focus to performers'
actions. This is true whether performance is masked or unmasked. However, the mask
requires more than naturalistic acting. There also needs to be a process of
transformation to find what Eugenio Barba describes as the “extra-daily body,” 608 a
“poetic” mode which is very much to do with the physical presence of the actor. This
different bodily mode involves a focusing of energy, together with precision, economy
and flow; it is in some respects dance-like.
Most of my own work has been with mainstream actors, and as part of the training that
I give them in mask techniques, I introduce physical theatre at an early stage. I also
make use, where it seems appropriate, of their Stanislavskian background, explicitly
discarding or steering them away from its less useful aspects. When I have the
opportunity to work with actors who have a dance background (as well as actor
training) I also move towards the Eastern model and demonstrate the sort of
movements and vocal intonation for them to reproduce. However, I do allow the
performer to integrate this with their own understanding and inspiration and together
we subject our work to the logic of the “w” questions, particularly those relating to
what is happening in any interchange.
In directing actors I draw on both Stanislavskian and non-Stanislavskian means in
response to the needs of particular performers. For example I might remind an actor of
the given circumstances of the world of the play, discuss character objectives, suggest
an image such as “every move you make creates the perfume of flowers,” instruct them
to find a particular part of their vocal register or perform a specific gesture. As I have
mentioned, a focus on external form is at some variance with Stanislavskian techniques
and not all actors are easy with this degree of specific direction. I find though, that
607 Toporkov (2001), 31. 608 See p 22.
mainstream actors with a dance background are just as likely to respond to this
approach as those from physical theatre. Moreover, whilst the latter may be as adept in
copying movements they may also be resistant because their training has placed great
emphasis on improvisation.
Sometimes the internal work of an individual actor in applying the “w” questions
produces a performance with the wrong sort of energy for mask and I may make
corrective suggestions that apparently violate a strict Stanislavskian interpretation. In
the case of one actress, her emphasis on vulnerability and distress resulted in a weak
vocal performance so I suggested that she perform every tragic role in the character of
Satan from Milton’s Paradise Lost as he looks down over his infernal domain with
grim defiance. This resulted in a better vocal performance and a more grounded mask
presence, replacing the sense that the performer was striving to be powerful. I often
give workshop groups the image that they individually possess a god-like energy (I
may also introduce physical exercises to increase energy such as performers delivering
lines against physical resistance). These techniques which can produce dramatically
improved results may be used in tandem with the usual w-question analysis and any
contradictions or challenge to the actor’s interpretation of their character are only part
of a transitional phase until the actor learns to adjust their own “normal” performance
style.
I have had some interesting results working with an actor who had also trained as a
dancer. The movement of this performer often had a dance-like and poetic quality that
ideally suited the mask. He had good energy and stage presence, not as intense as that
seen in the Noh theatre but appropriate to the style of my masks and reading of the
plays. There was often a measured quality in his delivery of the text which is not
always easy to obtain from modern performers who have a tendency to speak too fast
for both the heightened language of the text and also to realise the masks at their best
(see video clip 6).
In my work with mainstream actors there has been one particularly remarkable instance
of the use of retained energy. This occurred when I was giving a lecture to acting
students609 and asked one to come out and perform. I gave her two short preliminary
609 On 3rd November 2000 at the LCTS.
exercises without the mask. In the first she walked through a crowd who gave way to
her, thus in the language of physicality, establishing her status. In the second, I asked
for a demonstration in her way of walking of the difference between “masculine” and
“feminine” energies, prompting her to think of straight and curving lines in relation to
gait and pathways through the space. I then gave her the image of Clytemnestra as
“queen” and as the “woman who is a man” and dressed her, with her back to the
audience, in mask and costume (including high soled sandals). She then turned round
very slowly, taking her time to look at each part of the audience who were arranged in a
semi-circle around her and allowing herself to be wholly present in the moment.
Although for some of the audience only her back was initially visible her energy was so
palpable and the electrifying effect on those who were receiving her full gaze was so
infectious, that all waited, with breath held, for her to turn towards them. Those who
had seen the full impact of the mask first also remained as though spell bound. When
she had finished there was a moment of complete silence before I asked: “Do you
believe that this woman could murder her husband?” There was a unanimous and loud
affirmative response from the audience. This was a quite exceptional experience but it
was performed without text. The introduction of the latter would have complicated the
task and in all probability would have required considerable rehearsal to achieve a
comparable effect.
Several factors were responsible for this successful result. The preliminary exercises
had given the actress a sense of the power of her character, and this related not only to
her status but also to the tension between the masculine and feminine energies present
in this exceptional queen. The fact that the actress had not merely been told about her
role but had also explored the ideas physically (her two journeys through the space)
meant that the images that had been given to her were fixed not only in her mind but
that she had also come to embody them. The costume I had provided was also
empowering, a long white diaphanous robe and high soled sandals made the tall slender
figure of this actress particularly imposing. This was not only from the audience’s
point of view but also would probably have reflected the subjective experience of the
performer as I can testify from my own experience of wearing the same costume. The
action I had given the actress to perform was in some respects simple but executed
properly it set up a degree of tension in that it required contact to be made and
maintained with the whole audience whilst taking time to look at each member in turn.
Lastly, and crucially important, was the commitment of the actress to the exercise. Her
ability to be wholly present and intensely focussed more than any thing else produced
the energy of which I am speaking.
Other interesting work was done by a Greek performer whose singing voice had a
timbre that imparted great vibrancy and poignancy to the mask. With one particular
mask she found an extraordinary sensitivity of gesture, conveying both its soft, delicate
qualities as well as its stronger more fierce aspect (see video clip 5 and figure 34). The
ability to realise the finer as well as the vigorous aspects of energy, is an important part
of the Eastern tradition610 but is often absent in Western performance and the
interpretation of directors may also inhibit its expression. This was true of Peter Hall’s
Oresteia due to the music and translation chosen. Marina Warner describes Harrison
Birtwhistle’s music as “a percussive, deliberately inharmonious punctuation of the
drama” that dispenses with “subtlety and shades of meaning.” She also comments on
Tony Harrison’s translation, describing its relentless metre and the way “plosives rather
than labials dominate.” The whole producing the effect of : “a crypto-Viking ritual
with brutalist macho overtones.” Greg Hicks has since spoken of Harrison’s preference
for “hard consonants” and dislike of vowels, and how this focus on plosives causes
technical difficulties of voice production for the masked actor. 611
In my experiments to date I have found it difficult to find in any one performer, let
alone a group, all the qualities that would make for an ideal realisation of the tragic
roles. A danger of approaching Greek tragedy with mainstream actors is that that their
training does not prepare them to readily attain the type of retained use of energy and
poetic transformation of the body required. Without this there is a diminution of the
power of the mask. Approaching Greek tragedy without the benefit of Stanislavskian
insights and focusing on mask, energy and the poetic body is not without its own
pitfalls. Action can appear arbitrary and the initial excitement of mask and virtuosic
performance can lose its impact as the audience becomes habituated to a production
which relies overmuch on visual and audial stimulation to sustain interest. In order to
explore the advantages of actors with both a physical theatre background and some
610 Barba & Savarese (1991), 79-87. 611 Warner (1982) and Hicks (2001).
experience of ordinary acting, I employed a group who fulfilled these criteria and now
give an account of the project I conducted with them.
A physical theatre approach
I commissioned a group of performers and their director for the project, Erica Roberts,
all of whom had completed two years of training in the Lecoq school, to participate in a
five day workshop in which they worked, with the costumes and masks that I provided
for them, on scenes from the Antigone in English translation.612 I hoped that by the end
they would have produced two scenes (chosen by me) of good professional
performance in mask to be videoed. One of my aims was to observe the approach of a
group, who had expertise in mask and physical theatre, as well as some mainstream
actor’s training, and for this reason I, as far as possible, left the conducting of the
workshop to the director. There was, however, inevitably an interactive element to the
project. After several initial discussions, I formulated a further set of specific aims and
questions to be addressed. I told them that I wanted in Lecoq’s terms to see my masks
brought alive in performance and how they worked in space, that is, what rhythms and
what type of movement were appropriate to them. I told them of my interest in
process, that I would invite their observations and that there would be opportunities for
discussion at the end of some of the working days. I also gave them, in very general
terms, a specification for the sort of performances I hoped would emerge. For
example, one piece was the Ode to Love from the Antigone, to be spoken in unison (in
part at least) and I asked that they perform a lively ritualistic dance suggesting that they
might think of the chorus as being possessed by the deity (Aphrodite) until they see
Antigone arriving, at which point there should be a shift of performance mode. With
the shift I wanted to see the unpossessed city elders of the main action, reacting with
grief in a manner that would convince and move an audience. In addition to this I
selected, with Erika’s help, several excerpts from the main scenes, taking into account
the performers and the available masks. The idea was that they would do some
preliminary work on all of these and then I would choose one to be further developed.
In my initial discussion I had broached the question of whether mask or text came first
in the process. Erika responded by saying that normally performers should arrive at the
612 April 23rd-27th 2003 at RHUL.
first day’s session having already memorised their script and for the Ode to Love scene
this is what she expected. For the other scenes this would not apply as we were unsure
who would be playing the roles until we had brought masks and performers together.
However, all these actors knew the play well, so that in a sense the text would come
first. Apart from this the Lecoq approach would be to start with the mask, finding
bodily use and movements from the formal structure of the mask features: for example,
a long straight nose would suggest an elongated gesture with the body, and this would
then be taken out in an analogous manner into movement in space. In this way a “code
of movement” appropriate to the masks would be found (and this would typically be
taken into work devised through improvisation). However with the masks that I was
providing, she felt it best to see first how they worked in free movement improvisation
and this was the starting point in the actual workshop.
On the first day of the workshop, after an introductory talk by the director and myself
on the aims of the project, she directed the group to try on the old men chorus helmet
masks that I had prepared for them. Some of the performers looked briefly at their
masked reflection in a mirror. One started vocalising immediately whilst others spoke
in their own voices to the director and to each other, with the mask fully on. This was a
group clearly used to mask who experienced none of the constraints or taboos
described by Peter Hall.613 However, when asked about this in a later discussion, it
became clear that Lecoq also proscribed practices such as touching the mask in
performance, donning or removing it whilst facing the audience, or the masked
performer speaking in their own voice. They made the distinction between Lecoq’s
approach to mask which was essentially pedagogic and for the purpose of assisting the
development of the actor, on the one hand, and the practicalities of creating masked
theatre, on the other.
On this first day the masks were quickly donned, and then closely observed by their
director, the performers engaged in improvised mask play together without
vocalisation. This lasted for ten minutes and was followed by the observations of the
director on the capabilities of these particular masks. She noted that apart from the
back of the masks, they were very expressive and versatile, enabling a vast range of
movement possibilities, including both comic and tragic, human and animalistic,
613 See p 204.
reaction driven and ritualistic gesture. One of the group, also a mask-maker, found this
versatility reflected in the various planes and painted surfaces in the old man mask
faces: the strong pivotal elements of intersecting straight nose and brow and the strong
plane and angle of the beard. Later in the week the performers felt the need to explore
these elements with the aim of finding, in the Lecoq manner, a basic physical
movement vocabulary for the masks that would also serve to unify their physicality as a
chorus. After some experimentation along these lines that resulted in a characteristic
stance, range of gestures and way of moving common to the group, their director
stopped them, saying that she was reluctant to restrict these masks in this way. Here I
was in complete accord, feeling that for the ode, the restricted movements tied them
down as a corporate “character,” denying them a more universal and protean identity
appropriate for their ritual status. It also seemed to me that this common physicality
introduced an element of incongruity, making the collective appear somewhat
ridiculous, so that it would not even be useful for the chorus in the main action. In
removing this restriction, though, I wondered if they were departing from their usual
Lecoq approach in that they were not focussing on finding a specific physical
vocabulary for the masks. However, the group were adamant that the masks
“proposed” a given set of movements and that everything they had done in the mask
since the beginning of the workshop had been instigated by their particular form. They
spoke of masks having a “range” of movement possibilities, and felt that the context in
which they were being used was also highly relevant. When employed for characters in
a given play a different voice and physicality would be suggested than when the masks
were explored more freely. Their comments here confirmed my own observations.
Two of the performers had visited me prior to the workshop and had tried on various
masks before knowing which roles they might play. One had found a playful, girlish
quality in my fair haired female mask that did not appear when she wore it to play
Antigone.
I return now to the first day, in which the initial exercise with masks was followed by
the introduction of costumes. These consisted merely of a length of lightweight
material with a slit for the head, that hung down to full length front and back with a tie
to gather them in at the waist. I also showed images of dancing figures from Greek
vase paintings, making it clear that I did not expect them to feel constrained to adopt
these as a rigid model, rather to demonstrate that ritual dance need not be solemn and
stiff, but could be lively and fluid. The group (unmasked) explored how their costumes
might influence the way they could move and played at emulating some of the body
shapes and steps suggested by the vase images for about five minutes. They found the
costumes allowed a great range of movement without unduly hiding the body and the
way they hung around the arms and waist suggested gestures with an extended arm
following this line through the body. There was a further ten minutes of unstructured
play in masks and costumes before the director worked with each individual in turn to
find the range of each mask. In all these old man masks, the pronounced bridge of the
brow meant that they were able to look down to a considerable degree whilst still
remaining in range. Although all mask faces had been taken from the same mould,
variations were evident, some having greater range up and down whilst others could
extend further from side to side. One of the group was wearing a face mask with a
black cloth attached to cover the back of the head (while his helmet was being
adjusted). This face mask, predictably, was found to have a smaller range than the
helmets.
The remainder of the morning was spent on a very thorough vocal warm-up and
practice at choral delivery un-masked. After a break I displayed the scripts and masks I
had selected for various protagonist scenes, leaving them to make their own individual
choices. Their director suggested that they might start by selecting a suitable mask
each, and two of the group immediately did so and started improvised play as Tiresias
and a young man. Their director now, coaching them, instructed the young man to be
the boy leading on the blind seer. Further coaching led to a relationship developing
between the two. We saw a reluctant boy, more interested in seeing and exploring the
other things around him (for example a butterfly) and abandoning the old man whilst
the latter, groping around in vain for his servant, would summon him back with an
imperious tap of his stick. All was initially done with mime and the body language of
the two expressing character and feeling. For example the boy’s body slumped when
serving the seer and would open up in enthusiasm when in pursuit of his own interests.
By coaching, voice was gradually introduced, first a little high pitched sound of panic
from Tiresias when he realised he had been left alone and a sigh of discontent from the
boy upon being summoned. This was followed by the instruction that Tiresias make a
loud sound and that we should see the gods working through him. In this way, through
improvisation shaped by coaching, two characters were starting to emerge together
with the beginnings of a delightful little scene but with, as yet, no text from the play
having been brought in. In later discussions the issue arose of the difficulty of
portraying blindness in mask. In normal acting blindness can be conveyed by a look
that is unfocussed with the performer using their peripheral vision to see where they are
going. However, with mask, peripheral vision is removed and the mask eyes are
always focussed. In order to see where other performers are on stage, it is necessary to
turn the whole masked head and this can destroy the illusion of blindness. To avoid
any sense that the character or performer is seeing out of the mask eyes the group felt
that the mask must literally be blind. The solution that we found for this problem, was
to cover the mask’s eyes with white tape and locate the mask face on top of the
performer’s head and to hide the latter’s face behind a piece of gauze-like material,
attached to the lower edge of the mask’s beard; the whole giving an enhanced
impression of a hunch-backed blind seer. Thus the actor did not see through the mask
eyes but through the material and without being seen to do so.
The other mask protagonist roles chosen were those for the first interaction between
Creon and the Guard (who also had a shield and spear). Some time was spent finding
the way each held his body and moved. Erika wanted to relate the physicality of the
Guard to the form of the more characterised (comic) mask I had provided for the role
and also to the qualities of his speech. She accordingly instructed the actor to keep his
weight in the belly and spread his hips and thighs wide apart, factors that related to the
mask, but to also play with the light-footed nimbleness she found in the text. There was
also work on Creon’s physicality to establish his superior status. His walk was to be
very centred, slow and controlled with his heel coming down first and his arms still; he
was to take up space. Having established this basic physicality, the two performers
then started improvising with some coaching. Again there was some delightful work
after which the performers removed their masks and briefly discussed how the scene in
the play might be interpreted. One suggestion was to see vulnerability in Creon, and
how this might become manifest in the phenomenon of “counter-mask”. This occurs
when, for example, a mask whose features initially suggest a dominating figure may
subsequently appear cowardly when the performer finds an opposing physicality.
They also discussed Creon’s inexperience in the leadership role and the nature of his
first speech to the chorus, which they felt to be defensive, almost amounting to
paranoia. It was clear that for this group, their detailed attention to the physical aspects
of performance did not rule out some psychological interpretation of the text. Their
initial reaction to my masks was largely concerned with the difficulties imposed by the
small eye-holes in seeing the reactions of other performers and navigating the space.
Moreover, their helmet design made hearing each other problematical and individually
they found it hard to gauge how their own voice might be communicating with the
audience. They spoke of the need for a good director to provide an outside ear (as well
as eye) and were reassured to learn that what felt from the inside of the mask to be an
overly loud, slow and articulated delivery did not come across in this way to observers.
They also remarked that the mask face, being at some distance from their own gave
them no tactile information from the inside on its structural form which they had
expected from their experience with commedia masks. I pointed out to them that the
wooden masks of Noh and other Eastern theatres would also not provide this
information as they have a different internal sculpting from their external structure.
On subsequent days work started with a thorough physical/vocal warm-up and theatre
games to energise the group. Much unmasked improvisation was done on the Ode to
Love text. The sound qualities of individual words were explored with movement
individually, in pairs and by the whole group. There was also play with words, sounds
and sections of the text in conjunction with a variety of games, both with and without
masks. From time to time the group stood with their director practicing articulation or
discussing how to relate what they were doing to the punctuation and rhythms of the
translation I had chosen for its poetic qualities and imagery that would translate well
into physical theatre.614 It became clear that, as this improvisation progressed, material
was emerging that would form the basis of a choreography for the ode. Movements
that appeared to work well for certain sections of the text were rehearsed many times in
a process of shaping and refinement. However I could also see that their interpretation
was taking a direction that I considered to be unfortunate. Rather than the ritual dance I
had hoped for, a group of fussy old men (almost individuals) was emerging, who were
bothered, gossiping and knowing where to lay the blame for the dispute they had just
witnessed between father and son. The world of the main action was taking away the
ritual status of the chorus. I conveyed this to the group and also suggested that some
614 Fagles (1982).
contrasting elements might be introduced, in particular some humour.615 In response to
this the group went into some delightful improvised play based on their Lecoq training
with bouffons616 but wearing the old men masks (see video clip 8). The latter worked
well with this style and an earthy ritualistic dance, that was satyr-like, was starting to
emerge. I expressed a desire for some of this material to feature in the final
choreography of the ode, together with a cartwheel, the latter for its joyfulness and also
to dispel any notion that helmet masks and long costumes would greatly impede the
movement of skilled performers. Some discussion issued from this request.
Stanislavski was mentioned briefly and it was clear that their approach to text was
influenced by his thinking. They, for instance, spoke of the “drive of the speech” as an
accusation against Aphrodite for creating havoc in the royal household. One person
could also imagine the old men remembering their own youth and experience of love.
The director had no problem matching physical action to the active verbs such as “to
wrench” and “to swirl” that appear in the Fagles text or relating movement to its sound
qualities or imagery. She was however, worried about incorporating the physicality of
bouffon which whilst working well with the mask did not, she felt, relate to the text. I
argued that the image of old men singing about love could be amusing in itself.
Another member of the group suggested that the effect I wanted might be achieved by
introducing a second layer or subtext to particular lines, for example a sexual and
vibrant element together with “the girl’s soft cheek.” The director was also unhappy
that there could be a sudden switching between styles within the ode and felt that any
changes had to be built up to and be justified in the meaning or structure of the text.
She did however see that a sudden shift of mode worked at the end of the ode when the
chorus see Antigone approaching. After this discussion the group recommenced their
improvisations and in order to unwind and lighten their approach also performed a
Lecoq exercise that builds to a crescendo of laughter. This was then repeated in mask
and produced humorous material that they felt able to incorporate into their
choreography. Using the Lecoq language that relates qualities of movement to the
physical world, they then explored the idea of “fire” and “oil” in relation to parts of the
text and the fire led to some expressive little jerking gestures and sounds that again
615 Picking up on commentators such as Arnott, when he suggests that the tragedies need not always be
solemn. Arnott (1989), 58. 616 On bouffon see Lecoq (2000), 117-26.
provided some of the contrasting elements I had requested. The all too mundane old
men had, by these means, been replaced by a divinely insane collective and their
director, with some surprise, agreed that this “mad stuff” did actually work. (see video
clip 9).
Questioned about their process and whether any one element could be seen as having
primacy they responded that they felt they were juggling mask, text and movement.
Moreover that whilst the focus at times had been on one of these elements, the others
were not thereby ignored, so that when working on movement this was done in relation
to the text but also with the needs of mask in mind. Delivery of the text also had to
take account of the special requirements of the mask for a slower and clearly articulated
speaking voice.
Of the protagonist scenes, I chose that featuring Tiresias to be taken as far as possible
to final performance stage for videoing (see video clip 7). Erika’s approach was now to
block in the moves to give a satisfactory staging that conveyed the action logically and
vividly in a way that kept all the masks visible to the camera. The actors, sometimes in
mask and at others unmasked, tried out various alternatives, discussed these and also
made suggestions, but the authority of the director was clear. She also gave notes to
individual actors, particularly to the one playing Tiresias, changing certain moves,
gestures and manner of delivery. For example, she wanted him to grow in height
during the course of the scene and for everyone else to get smaller, with a climax
occurring when the seer accuses Creon of bringing ruin on Thebes. She also asked for
an older more cracked and weak vocal quality that would be in keeping with the
Tiresias mask and she demonstrated to the actor the intonation and variety of tone
required. Under her direction the actor tried different interpretations for various
phrases and lines in numerous rehearsals. In her readiness to give direction and ask for
specific gestures whilst giving positive feedback on what was working well, her
approach was different from some other mask directors I have mentioned such as Peter
Hall or Keith Johnstone but was very much like my own.
At the end of the workshop I asked the group if they had any ideas on what the mask
might bring to performances of Greek tragedy today. One of them spoke of what he
termed the “distancing effect” of the mask saying that it was as though there was a
“glow around the mask” so that the body, the movement, the shape and everything that
wasn’t the mask conveyed more because of its presence. Another member of the group
argued that the stillness of the mask eliminated the excess of subtext conveyed by the
unmasked face and by focussing attention on the essential nature of the genre enabled a
purer interpretation. The group’s director argued that in art it was more interesting to
say things through metaphor rather than directly and gave the analogy of poetry using
language in a heightened way. The mask transposes ordinary experience to a higher
level, appropriate for the language of tragedy. The size and grandeur of tragedy means
that it portrays the universal rather than the particular and that rather than naturalism it
requires stylised elements such as mask, dance and song. She also felt it apposite to
quote Lecoq when he says:
There are three masks:
The one we think we are,
The one we really are,
And the one we have in common.617
In observing the work of this group I was impressed by the high level of commitment
and focus they brought. However their physical energy, though intense, often seemed
to me more suited to comic rather than tragic roles and also those in which there is no
complex text to be delivered. The Lecoq training in mask is clearly limited in its
adequacy as a preparation for masked Greek tragedy. The group, perhaps reflecting a
wider modern tendency, was in some respects limited in their range of poetic
expression and exhibited the bias towards the harsher more aggressive modes of which
I have spoken above.618 Their director gave them many notes on the need for clear
enunciation, a more measured pace and the incorporation of softer elements in their
delivery but within the limited time available this was only partially realised.
Conclusion
To achieve excellence in masked Greek tragedy requires a wide range of skills and
whilst performers from a physical theatre background may have some of the expertise
617 Lecoq (2000) back cover. 618 See p 243.
needed, those from mainstream drama may also bring valuable qualities. I work mostly
with the latter, not least because they are in good supply, are trained in vocal delivery
and used to acting with a given script. They often have little experience of mask but
training may make up for this lack. Employing these actors raises the issue of the
compatibility of a Stanislavskian approach to acting and performing masked Greek
tragedy; it seems that Peter Hall found this a problem in at least two of his productions.
From the modern actor’s point of view the ancient plays present many “anomalies” in
characterisation and can often be unclear when attempts are made to determine factors
such as where, when and why the action takes place and other questions relating to the
given circumstances of the play. Despite this, the Stanislavskian approach, in
prompting this sort of questioning, can be productively utilised, as can an exploration
of characters’ objectives or the idea that there is psychology and even subtext in the
plays. All may be useful, if applied flexibly, to aid clarity in conveying the action in
mask as well as unmasked productions.
There is a particular quality of retained energy required for a truly powerful realisation
of the tragic roles in mask which is understood in the mask and dance theatres of the
East and is described by Stanislavki but rarely found in Western performers today.
Many of the performers with whom I have worked have received some sort of
Stanislavskian training and I have tried to integrate this with the needs of mask by the
introduction of physical theatre techniques to move performers away from naturalism
into a poetic use of the body. Much promising work has been done and I have had
experience of a performer working with me and finding the intense retained energy that
I have described. In my earlier experiments, the actors had not received the sort of
rigorous physical theatre training imparted by two years study at the eminent Lecoq
school in Paris. In order to ascertain how this might benefit the work I employed a
group of actors and director from this background, most of whom also had some
experience of ordinary actor training. In a workshop they prepared and performed in
my masks, scenes from the Antigone whilst I observed how they approached the project
and the resulting performances. In many ways they displayed a pragmatism in their
practical working akin to my own in, for example, speaking in their own voices,
reading off scripts and accepting direction whilst masked, all practices proscribed by
Lecoq himself. Their commitment and focus was exactly that needed for mask but
their physical energy though intense, often seemed to me more relevant to comic rather
than tragic roles and also those in which there is no complex text to be delivered. Their
vocal variety was also less developed than their bodily expression and was indicative of
Lecoq’s neglect of this aspect of performance. In their need to interpret the scenes they
relied, not only on their bodily response to the poetry of the text but also on their
Stanilavskian understanding. It was clear that pure physical theatre training,
epitomised by the Lecoq school, was not sufficient preparation for performing masked
Greek tragedy.
Chapter 9 Summary and Conclusion
In my research I have addressed the question of how we can perform masked Greek
tragedy. This in turn has led me to consider the essential nature of the drama and the
sort of masks, performance style(s) and approaches it calls for. In considering these
matters it has been my premiss that there is much to be learnt from a study of ancient
evidence on mask and the original performances of the plays. The extant traditions of
the Eastern mask theatres are also instructive on some details of masking although
differing in important respects from the Greek experience. There have been a number
of notable productions of the genre in recent years and I have also been informed by
these and the accounts that have sometimes been available of the approaches that have
been taken. The work of Peter Hall I have found particularly instructive.
For my own experiments with actors I have made masks that have been inspired by the
ancient models. In these and the manner in which I employ them I do not attempt to
reconstruct ancient practice but rather to re-invent the lost tradition with a view to
creating vital performances for today. For this I draw on the resources of the modern
schools of physical and mask theatre and of mainstream acting.
I started the present study by asking why we should perform the ancient plays in mask
when naturalism and “bare faced” acting is the norm. Whilst there is a modern
tradition of mask theatre it has emerged as a reaction to this mainstream and in
consequence has tended to downplay text and complex speech in favour of physical
action and improvisation. It is indicative of this bias that the full-face mask is often
seen as one that is silent. Starting my own practice of mask making, performance and
directing in this tradition, I felt that there was scope for further exploration of the
potential of masking.
Various commentators have described the functions of masks and what they bring to a
performance; this is the subject matter of chapter 1. The covering property of masks
has been seen as providing protection or containment enabling the audience to go
further in experiencing extreme emotions. The same property may suggest a particular
type of performance; the mask can continue to look and speak in situations that would
demand speechlessness and a turning away in unmasked (naturalistic) theatre. The
power of masks to compel attention is a means of directing the audience’s focus to the
centre of the action. In its “otherness” the mask has also been employed as an
alienating device. The mask can transform the individual actor into a more universal
figure and the chorus into a truly collective entity. Seen as a work of art the mask
brings an extra dimension of visual aesthetics to a performance.
In the context of ancient Greece, additional reasons for masking have been suggested.
Masks would have facilitated the doubling of parts, the playing of female roles and
have protected the male Athenian citizens from “the dangers of acting,” whilst the vast
scale of the ancient theatre spaces suggests the need for some visual and acoustical
enhancement of the actor’s presence. However, for many scholars there are no
arguments more compelling to explain the masking of the ancient drama than its ritual
associations.
The question of whether or not the masks of Greek tragedy were originally religious is
important for our understanding of the essential nature of the genre, having
implications for modern interpretations and mask usage. In chapter 2 I started with a
brief survey of the sparse evidence on masking in ancient Greek (non-dramatic) ritual
which, together with anthropological interpretations, forms the basis for much
speculation on the nature of mask in Athenian cult and theatre. This was followed by a
discussion of the origin of tragedy and the various theories of a ritual beginning in
which mask is seen to have imparted a mystical experience together with identity loss
and to disguise, protect and distance individuals where sacrificial killing is envisaged.
In an alternative view, tragedy originated, not from ritual but from the Greek tradition
of poetry performance, and mask was introduced subsequently for aesthetic reasons. I
then turned to fifth century drama which, being inseparable from the socio-religious
context of democratic Athens, is often viewed as a ritual theatre with the chorus as
representative of the collective and repository of gnomic wisdom having a special
educative role. These ideas have been the subject of debate and this, it has been argued,
has an antecedent in antiquity in the opposed views of Plato and Aristotle. According
to this view, Plato saw tragedy as a Dionysiac dance and gave pre-eminence to the
chorus and the religious function of the drama, aspects marginalised by Aristotle who
instead emphasized the main action of the plays. A reconciliation of this divergence
can be found in the idea that the different worlds of the choral odes and the main action
of the plays are co-existent and interdependent in theatre space. Building on this I
suggested that the chorus is the one element in the drama that traverses both “worlds,”
having not only a fictive identity in the main action, but also the ritual authority of their
collective presence. Greek tragedy, therefore, has elements of both action-based and
ritual theatre and this has implications for performance style, staging and mask use.
Directors of masked Greek tragedy have typically seen the plays as ritual theatre and
this has informed their interpretation. Sometimes this has been realised in a slow
ceremonial style in which incantation and a sense of “otherness” have been more in
evidence than a clear conveying of the action. A different type of logic and mask usage
operates in action-based as against a ritual theatre. In the former, the audience need to
know who at any moment is speaking and how the other figures present are reacting. I
concluded the chapter by describing one of my performance experiments that
demonstrate how factors such as style, staging and mask use might be employed to
convey the co-existing worlds of action and ritual together with the complexity of the
choral role. The passage chosen for this work was the choral entry song and the
following scene from the Antigone, which I argued, starts in a ritual mode and
following a clear moment of transition moves into one that is action-based. In my
interpretation I utilised what would be considered today a variety of performance
styles, ranging from those that appear to modern eyes as “stylised” to those that might
appear as more “natural.” Performed unmasked this diversity would tend to be
perceived as jarring; the mask, however, provides an overall unity of experience. It
was also part of my argument that in order to achieve all this effectively, that is, to
convey both the ritual and action of Greek tragedy and to unify an otherwise disparate
form, a special kind of mask is (and was) required, a subject taken up in the following
chapter.
I started chapter 3 with a discussion of the evidence on the ancient masks. To the
observations of classical scholars I added my own, informed by my experience of mask
making and performing. Of the materials mentioned in the ancient sources, linen
stiffened with natural glue and perhaps a coating of plaster, seem to me the most likely
to produce satisfactory results. Vase paintings from the classical period provide
information on various aspects of contemporary tragic masks, including: coverage of
the performer’s face and head, weight, size, eyes, mouths, hair, colour, straps and ties,
degree of disguise, mimesis, and degree of neutrality. Amongst these images both
helmet and face masks appear to be shown; masks seem to be lightweight and only
slightly larger than the performer’s head; eyes are fully represented suggesting that the
mask eye-holes take the place of the pupils and perhaps irises. Mask mouths show
increasing degrees of openness as time goes on. However, this is unremarkable in
comparison with the wide gaping mouths seen on Hellenistic and Roman tragic masks;
nor do the earlier masks have the onkos, or the staring saucer shaped eyes and
exaggerated tragic expression of the later examples. Instead the masks of the classical
period appear to conform more to the visual aesthetics of the time. Masks, together
with costumes, disguised performers to the extent that they are often depicted as
“melting” into their roles.
Following this I introduced Lecoq’s notion of the “alive” mask, that is, one that
changes expression when worn in performance. I argued that the requirement for
expressive potential in a mask face is not specific to our own culture but was also part
of fifth century visual aesthetics, as manifest in the multivalent expressions that appear
on the faces of high status figures in classical sculpture. If this is accepted then it is
relevant to consider what might be learnt from a closer examination of these faces and
also from the three-dimensional representations of New Comedy masks, some of which
seem related in style to the visual language of classical art. The appearance of subtle
asymmetries, particularly in the region of the eyes and mouth are, I suggested, in large
part responsible for imparting a desirable degree of expressive potential to the
represented face.
Masks in some recent productions of the plays have been inspired by a variety of ideas,
many departing significantly from the ancient designs in, for example, being half-
masks or having empty eye sockets. They have also varied in their degree of apparent
life. This was my next area of discussion particularly the failure in this respect of the
masks used for Peter Hall’s Oresteia. I observed that whilst their design may have
been in part responsible, inappropriate mask technique and staging were also evident in
Hall’s productions.
What the audience can see of the mask, its features and quality of aliveness, is very
much dependent on the space in which performances take place. In chapter 4 I started
with the usual emphasis on the vast scale of many of the ancient theatres which has
caused some to argue that fifth century masks would have been considerably larger
than the performer’s heads and painted in bright colours to make them more visible. I
challenged these ideas, pointing out that performers in the orchestra would be fairly
close to those sitting in the high status front seats. Also relevant to this point were the
performances at the Rural Dionysia. I argued that given the variability of viewpoints in
the ancient theatres, the masks required would ideally have been designed to work well
visually both when viewed at a distance and in close proximity. I described how I
obtained some idea of the means by which this might have been achieved when the
visible impact of my own masks was enhanced by incorporating into their design an
area of shadow between eye-lid and brow that can be found in some of the New
Comedy mask artefacts. This feature made them more visible at a distance, conveying
in particular, the type of role being played; without producing a non-mimetic effect
when viewed closer to. I also found that painting masks to clearly define facial features
makes them more visible from afar and that modelling alone is insufficient for this
purpose.
I then considered the idea that masks could be designed to enhance the vocal delivery
of actors, an area in which our practical knowledge is limited. Modern experience has
been varied. The masks of Peter Hall’s Oresteia were criticised for muffling the
actor’s voices and led him to have electronic amplification built into the masks used in
his subsequent productions. Thanos Vovolis, however, following the theories of
Vitruvius, envisages the ancient performances as a predominantly audial type of ritual
theatre featuring the creation of “consonance” by means of a specially designed mask,
an intensive training program for actors, and the acoustical enhancement built into the
ancient theatre spaces. The masks of Michael Chase and my own small scale
experiments also provide some evidence that masks might be designed to enhance
vocal performance (as long as actors have a good vocal production in the first place)
but that more research is needed in the area to produce a conclusive result. All these
factors have implications for designing masks for performances to be given in venues
of varying sizes and conditions of light ranging from the ancient theatre sites to the
intimacy of screen showings. However, the full potential of the mask only becomes
apparent when worn by a performer and its impact is dependent on performance style
and acting technique, the subject of the following chapter.
In chapter 5, I began with the idea prevalent amongst nineteenth century commentators,
of tragedy as an essentially immobile form, enacted by performers impeded by padded
costumes, high boots and masks considerably over life-size. Such a view whilst being
discredited in scholarly literature today is still in general circulation and inspired
Tyrone Guthrie’s productions of masked Greek tragedy. I then considered the idea that
far from being static, parts of the main action of Aeschylus’ plays may have been
performed in a style we would recognise as dance drama with the use of stylized and
physically expressive gesture, both by the main characters and by the chorus. This was
followed by a discussion of the idea that the change in acting style towards the end of
the fifth century may have constituted a move towards greater mimesis and more
gestural restraint, a theory that is supported not only by ancient literary sources but
also, I contend, by changing visual aesthetics as evidenced in vase paintings. I also
argued that it is misleading to speak of one acting style as the plays of all three
playwrights are characterised by stylistic variation.
The plays are clearly written with the special needs of mask in mind; this I argued,
together with the limitations (and possibilities) of mask suggest that particular
techniques developed in recent practice would serve to clarify the conveying of tragic
action for audiences today. I therefore described some of these techniques and their
application to tragedy, illustrating this with a detailed analysis of the “discovery of the
lock” scene from Aeschylus’ Libation-Bearers. Such an analysis also served to
highlight the particular means by which, in mask theatre, action is conveyed and how
this is reflected in the texts, prompting a challenge to the thinking of most modern
translators and editors, who tend to think of an unmasked drama.
I went on to observe that I found in my interpretation of the discovery scene another
important aspect of Greek tragedy: figures who think, feel and react, in a plausibly
human way. The debate on the extent to which this is an anachronistic reading or
whether such figures can be considered as “characters” were subjects taken up in the
following chapter, being issues with implications for mask design and the approach of
actors to the tragic roles.
I started chapter 6 with the observation that, unlike much modern drama, the focus of
the plays is not an exploration of individual personalities and idiosyncratic psychology;
moreover, our idea of character is different from that found in ancient usage. Modern
mask designers, actors and directors whose normal starting point is an exploration of
character need to understand the nature of this distinction. I accordingly opened the
discussion with some account of the ancient usage of the term ēthos, starting with
Aristotle’s prescriptive view of characterisation in the plays. Whilst Aristotle’s model
is evaluative and leads to the defining of characters by a set of specific traits, other non-
evaluative approaches to character are discernable in ancient Greek thought, allowing a
more open-ended portrayal that may evoke a more sympathetic response from
audiences. I then turned to modern interpretations of character in the plays. In a
reaction to earlier over literary or psychological readings, a new orthodoxy has
emerged. There is now an emphasis on the outward focus of tragic figures rather than
an attempt to infer the existence of hidden psychological depths. Following Aristotle,
character is often seen as subordinate to action, a tendency which when taken to an
extreme by some, constitutes a “no character” view of the genre. Moreover, the plays
are seen to feature types rather than individual personalities. Against this others speak
of the “human intelligibility” of tragic figures and argue that some characters are
depicted as individuals. To test this last idea I have conducted experiments exploring
the idea that Sophoclean figures such as Ismene from the Antigone and Chrysothemis
from the Electra, though performing the same dramatic function, are nevertheless
distinct one from another. In this work I found more than one interpretation with the
emphasis on similarities or differences both plausible. It is relevant to note that the
actors needed the idea of tragic characters as individual decision makers for their
understanding of the roles.
The extent to which there can be autonomous decision making in the plays has also
been debated together with the idea that the divine and human figures have “co-
responsibility” and this was my next area of discussion. I argued that, whilst there are
examples of ambiguity with respect to autonomous decision making, most of the time a
clear distinction can be found between purposeful action on the part of human agents
and instances of possession by divine forces. The debate on the nature of character has
extended to the issue of whether tragic figures can be thought of as having an “internal
life.” This idea has been challenged on the grounds that such a view emanates from an
anachronistic application of “dualism.” Against this I argued that ancient thought can
be seen to have incorporated a simple “dualist interactionist” concept, different from
the dualist theory of Descartes. I also agreed with those who argue that the plays are
concerned with internal phenomena but in a way that reinforces the outward focus of
the action.
My subsequent discussion was on character and mask and how the fact that the plays
were written for mask performance is reflected in the way that the characters are
depicted and that the needs of mask rule out some interpretations. Whilst some
envisage the mask as a wholly exterior form I argued that when embodied by a
performer the audience read it as an integral part of a whole fictive being who may
have an inner dimension. Moreover, the tensions between outer and inner appearances
such as those that occur in deception scenes, are perfectly feasible to convey in masks.
All three tragedians have such scenes and take care to prepare the audience by
informing them in advance so that clarity is preserved.
I then considered the question of whether the fifth century masks would have been
characterised and the view that they would have been distinguished only by features
signifying age, gender and perhaps status. This has suggested to me a number of
experiments that are applicable today but that may also throw light on the possibilities
open to ancient practitioners. I have found that it is feasible for one mask to play many
different roles (within its gender and age category), including both high and low status,
and that two identical masks may appear together in protagonist roles and still portray
distinguishable characters. I went on to argue that whilst, in the fifth century, a lack of
characterisation may have been evident for most tragic masks, there could also have
been some exceptions. Again this can inform our thought on the subject today. For my
own practice I have made “special” masks for roles that demand this treatment.
After this I discussed the Pollux catalogue of masks and attempts to relate it to those of
the fifth century. I noted that the tragic list contains features that show distinctions
other than those of age and gender, suggesting some indication of status and also a
degree of characterisation defined by situation and it thus differs from the basic set of
six masks proposed by Marshall. It also lacks the distinction of the sexes by skin
colour that he proposes and it is only by referring to the list of comic masks that
something of the “pale feminine” and “dark masculine” differentiation can be seen. I
also noted that whilst in the comic list eyebrows are frequently mentioned and are a
way in which the masks are characterised, there is no mention of this feature in the
tragic list, which is in accordance with the idea that the tragic masks were not to be
seen as incorporating character traits. Overall I argued that as a piece of evidence on
the nature and degree of characterisation of the ancient tragic masks the Pollux
catalogue is not definitive. Whilst it suggests the possibility that fifth century masks
may have been more characterised than would be consistent with a strict adherence to
the classical aesthetic, it refers to masks from a later period when conditions in the
theatre and the social context in which performances took place had changed.
I then considered the various options open when designing masks for the plays today,
observing that some masks are more capable of conveying the idea of a fully rounded
figure with the subtle nuances of inner psychological processes than others. If tragic
figures manifest humanly intelligible actions or are seen as having an inner life in
which thoughts and a mind at work can be discerned, masks that can perform in this
way are required. Moreover, whilst some masks conjure up the illusion of being like
real human faces, others may emphasise their “otherness” or suggest various non-
human entities. I argued that the modern designer of masks would profitably follow
the precepts of the ancient models. The fifth century multivalent masks, following the
visual aesthetic of classical art and incorporating the subtle asymmetries of feature that
impart life to a mask, could have successfully conveyed the idea of subtly of thought
and emotion together with a disturbingly mimetic representation of living faces. They
could also suggest “otherness” in a more ritualised presentation. The versatility of these
masks would also, I argued, have functioned to bring a sense of coherence to the
otherwise apparently fragmented elements in the depiction of personality in the ancient
plays. Concerning the issue of characterisation I argued that whilst the main figures of
Greek tragedy do not represent fully rounded characters drawn with the sort of
consistency we expect of naturalistic drama, recurring references in the plays often
suggest particular traits and masks might be designed incorporating features explicitly
to convey these. However it is also the case that even if tragic figures exhibit some
characterisation this does not automatically imply the need for a characterised mask.
My experiments with masks whose design has been informed by the ancient models
show that they can play many different tragic figures. Such masks also enable a more
sophisticated, open-ended, non-evaluative interpretation of the roles and this would be
in keeping with the complexity of the issues explored in the plays. Multivalent masks
can readily convey the essential vulnerability of mortals in the face of divine forces, the
“naïve neutrality” perhaps, that has been ascribed to tragic figures in general. At the
same time they are capable of portraying purposive beings. Thus they would ideally
serve an important theme of the plays, that is, an exploration of the paradox of the
human sense of autonomy in a universe governed by the gods. I have also argued in an
earlier chapter that multivalent masks would have had the advantage of visually
enhancing performances both when viewed in close proximity and at a distance.
Masked Greek tragedy has been associated with ritualised interpretations in
productions by Peter Hall, Tyrone Guthrie and Karolos Koun. However, there is no
need to interpret tragedy as purely ritual theatre. If mask designs were informed by the
ancient models to create the versatile multivalent masks, it would be possible to realise
the humanly intelligible action of the plays as well as their ritual dimension.
The tragic characters are conveyed not only by the texts and masks but by the physical
presence of the masked actors in performance before an audience. The way roles and
masks are approached are an important part of the equation and this was the subject
matter of chapter 7. I started with the actors of the ancient theatre and how they may
have approached their roles. It is thought that originally the playwrights were the first
actors and that they taught the other performers their parts probably through practical
demonstration. (The Eastern theatres particularly the Noh are analogous in this
respect.) However, practices were changing in the fifth century with more separation
of the functions of actors and playwright. The learning of external forms would have
been an important part of rehearsals, but literary sources of the period, particularly the
plays of Aristophanes, indicate, it has been argued, that acting may have also involved
some “inner” engagement. After a discussion of these issues I turned to the subject of
possession of the actor by the mask, observing that whilst in the plays there are many
instances of possession, none are brought about through the mediation of mask; rather
it was the act of impersonation that may have been seen as a kind of ekstasis in which
the performer might experience inner engagement together with an ability to monitor
his own performance. Such a state is distinct from the types of frenzied possession
known to the Greeks and I argued that the latter would have been incompatible with
theatrical performance.
I then discussed various modern approaches to masked performance, some of which
involve the idea that the mask takes possession of the performer and others in which it
is seen as the prime instigator of the action. Many of these ideas have been developed
with improvisation, mime or comedy in mind. The complexity of Greek tragedy
imposes its own demands in preparing for, and successfully delivering, a masked
performance. Often a difference can be seen in the prescribed or theoretical views put
forward on masking and the actual practice that is observed in a production. This is
true in the case of Peter Hall’s work. I considered these issues as a theatre practitioner
myself preparing tragic scenes for performance. I finally gave a brief account of some
of my own pragmatic approach to introducing and rehearsing mask theatre, and how it
differs from some other practitioners. Pace Vovolis, amongst others, there is no special
ceremony or ritual attached to the donning of the mask. Contrary to the principles set
out by Keith Johnstone and Peter Hall I direct masked actors and where appropriate
suggest or even demonstrate particular actions. Whilst many practitioners proscribe
masked actors talking in their own voices or reading off their scripts whilst rehearsing,
I am not dogmatic about this or other related issues such as the use of mirrors, and
rather than prescribing one practice for all, I adapt to the particular needs of performers
and circumstances. I initiate mask work in a playful way but this is followed by an
exhaustive process of refinement and rehearsal when a scene is being prepared for
performance. Thus spontaneity and improvisation, whilst usually featuring
significantly in the early stages, give way to a choreographed final product. A most
important part of my approach is to provide a scene or theme to be explored, and with
groups, a preliminary set of exercises to lead participants towards the mask. I do not
implant the idea of possession nor merely hand masks to people, who are unprepared,
expecting some sort of mysterious transformation to occur. The mask does not, of
itself, induce trance states or inspired performances; rather the particular approach
taken will determine what the mask reveals.
To achieve excellence in masked Greek tragedy requires a wide range of skills and the
strategies of the director to assemble these was the subject of chapter 8. I considered
the advantages of working with performers from a mainstream background compared
those having a physical theatre training. I argued that the Stanislavskian w-questions
flexibly interpreted could aid the actor in masked performance of the plays. However
an understanding of the special energy required for mask was more likely to be found
in those from a physical theatre background. I concluded by giving an account of a
project with a group of Lecoq performers in which I found that their vocal variety was
also less developed than their bodily expression, indicative of the relative neglect of
this aspect of performance in the Lecoq school.
My experiments have shown the potential for what might be achieved today. Working
with masks designed in accordance with the principles of the ancient models,
particularly in being uncharacterised and multivalent, gives a clear expression to the
hybrid nature of tragedy with its elements of ritual and action-based drama. With the
resources to assemble a fair sized cast, who had or were able to learn, the various skills
of acting, vocal delivery, the quality of retained energy and mask technique required,
this exploration could be taken further. The findings could be made more widely
available by pursuing various lines of development including:
• Performing masked scenes explicitly for video recording, with high production
values, to create an educational resource that would transfer the research to
wider communities of learning and practice.
• Applying the approach I have developed to productions of masked Greek
tragedy with professional actors, for live performance or the studio.
Such work would open up our ideas on the possibilities of masking and of staging
Greek tragedy today and lead us towards a fully realised re-invention of the lost
tradition.
Practical Research: a video record.
Practical Research: a video record (about 25 minutes in total)
Here I describe the short video clips on the included disc that shows some of the
practical work that has informed my research. The recordings have not been made
under professional conditions, hence camera work, lighting, sound quality, rehearsal
and performance spaces have been far from ideal. Film and camera anyway give an
impression of the masks and their capabilities that is different from that experienced by
a live audience. Some of those appearing are professional performers whilst others are
students and only a few hours have been available for rehearsal and preparation time
(unlike the ten weeks rehearsals allotted to Peter Hall for his Oedipus Plays). For these
reasons I offer this material to indicate the possibilities of masked Greek tragedy and
the direction it might take were sufficient resources available to realise its full potential.
The universalising function of mask also imparts a degree of anonymity and following
the precedent of Peter Hall’s 1981 Oresteia, I do not name masked performers.
1) Electra finds the lock
(Performed on 11th June 2006 at London Buddhist Arts.)
This demonstrated some of the sequence of moves described in table 1 (page 142). In
aiming to convey this action “truthfully” in mime, I apply present day techniques of
masking that I have adapted to the needs of Greek tragedy. It is instructive to compare
this with the discovery performed in the Noh style as shown in clip 2.
The mask worn here is a helmet conforming to the design described on p178 and that
has been used in various experiments and performances.
2) Discovery of the lock- Noh style
(Workshop performance on 6th March 2004 in the Noh theatre studio, RHUL.)
A Japanese student with a Noh background, wears a face mask that I have made for
Greek tragedy and demonstrates the sequence of moves for the discovery of the lock in
the style of Noh. Something of the intense focus and use of retained energy (see p 225)
can be seen, so that the mask, even when held in an apparently static position, still
appears alive and powerful, conveying the idea of a sentient being. Also apparent is
the ability of the neutral mask to express the engaged imagination of the performer, in
that my mask starts to take on the aspect of a Noh face.
Unlike Western masking, the action is not performed for the audience in the sense of
being opened up for them to share; instead there is an inward focus. Rather than
mimesis, the manner of holding the body and of walking is highly stylised and there is
the use of conventionalised gesture in the way the lock is held and the raising of the
hand to the face to signify weeping.
3) Electra and the Chorus (Libation-Bearers 184-211)619
(Workshop performance on 20th April 2005 in the Boilerhouse Studio, RHUL.)
This shows part of a three day student workshop focussing on the relationship between
Electra and the chorus in the Libation-Bearers, with the idea that they are linked and
part of a greater whole, the natural world of primeval forces. This relationship can be
heard in the imagery that Electra uses to express her emotions and the intention was to
see these become manifest in the physicality of the performers and their configuration
in the space. Thus all become the “bitter bile” and the “great waves” and the “men at
sea” being tossed by them. The chorus also illustrate Electra’s words by becoming
firstly the ordinary citizens who in this staging, approach empathetically when she
takes a low position and then flee from her when she is on her feet, pursuing them in
her rage, and subsequently the children, the fawning hopes and the tree. Although the
scene is mostly performed in a stylised mode, when Electra discovers the footprints her
actions become mimetic. This staging thus mixes performance modes but the
multivalent mask unifies the whole as I have described (p 124).
All wear the face masks with cloths to cover the back of the head that I have made for
Greek tragedy. Electra’s mask has the same basic face as those of the chorus but is
distinguished in having brown hair and matching tiara. The part of Electra is played by
a professional actress.
4) Clytemnestra’s Dream- “Flick”
(Workshop performance on 18th April 2005 in the Boilerhouse studio, RHUL.)
For some of the preliminary work leading to the scene in clip 3 I introduced workshop
participants to Laban’s Effort Actions (see p.202). Here they demonstrate the Effort
Action “flick” in devising a scene based on Clytemnestra’s dream. At this stage they
had not started to vocalise in mask but were able to create sound with simple musical
instruments.
5) A Singing Antigone
(Rehearsal on 5th July 2002 in the green-room and performance for the Post-Graduate
Symposium on 25th June 2003, Noh theatre studio, RHUL.)
The Greek singer Ioanna Apollon prepares to put on her favourite mask. She vocalises
into its interior and onto its exterior surfaces which have the resonating properties
(described on p.111). Also demonstrated is the ease with which this helmet mask is
donned and placed securely on the head without the need of padding. She finds a
sensitive integration with the mask and makes extensive use of the mirror to do so. The
subtle way in which the mask face can change expression is also clear. In the last
section she is seen on the RHUL Noh stage performing Antigone’s lament.620 In this
staging, the chorus make a gesture of rejection, reacting to her action of unveiling and
to her words, seeing in them a perversion of the ritual unveiling in the marriage
ceremony.621 I introduced this interpretation as a way of explaining the apparent
change in the tone of the chorus; initially sympathetic (Antigone 801-5) but after her
lament their response is interpreted by Antigone as antagonistic (839).622
6) Hecabe (Trojan Women 98-152)623
(Performed on 29th June 2004 in the Studio Theatre RHUL.)
619 Ewans (1995), 61-2. 620 Antigone 806-816. See p 211. 621 Tyrrell & Bennett (1998), 99-101. 622 The response of the chorus at 817-822 and 834-838 has been variously interpreted. Vickers (1973),
538, for example, speaks of their “empty and insincere consolations.” Jebb (1891), 153, on the other
hand, sees a “desire to console Antigone.” 623 Vellacott (1973), 93-4.
Hecabe’s opening lines in the Trojan Women are delivered as dance drama by a male
actor. He wears a face mask with a gold tiara and cloth to cover the back of his head.
The face of the mask was partly inspired by a Roman portrait bust which whilst
depicting an old woman also had a neutral expression and lacked distinct
characterisation. He originally performed the role in a lecture/demonstration given by
me on 7th May 2004 in a studio at the Oxford Playhouse for the Oxford Greek Festival.
In this recording the acoustics of the RHUL studio theatre have emphasised the lisping
effect that is sometimes evident in this mask if worn in slightly the wrong position; an
effect that was barely evident to those present when the recording was being made.
7) Lecoq performers - Tiresias
(Performed on 27th April 2003 in the Boilerhouse Studio, RHUL.)
This staging of the scene between Tiresias and Creon from the Antigone incorporates
some of the preparatory work of exploring the relationship between the seer and his
guide, before giving an abridgement of the scene.624 The distinctive voice and use of
gesture make it clear when Tiresias is the speaker. During his speeches Creon’s mask
is initially seen in frontal presentation as the two performers stand side by side and
subsequently in three quarters view with Creon’s back to Tiresias. However, Creon’s
stillness and sparing use of gesture that indicates his reactions at key moments makes
the dynamics of the interaction clear. When Tiresias speaks of the strange behaviour of
the birds, Creon retreats upstage and his movements, together with those of the chorus
(of two old men), then suggests the whirling of the birds, and this is also re-enforced by
the whirling of the stick held by Tiresias. The impetus of this choreography brings
Creon back downstage for the final interaction. It is as though Tiresias has taken
control of the space, moving the other figures at will by his own actions. This power is
again seen when he points to Creon in accusation and the other’s body responds as
though a force has taken hold of it causing him to jerk backwards and then bringing
him to his knees.
The scene was performed with the needs of video in mind, by a cast of four under the
direction of Erika Roberts; she and they had all trained at the Lecoq school. Their
624 Taken from Fagles (1982), 110-2.
expertise in mask is evident from the clarity and power of their performances and a
staging that brought out the interaction of the masked figures to best advantage. The
Tiresias mask was partly inspired by the face of the seer from the temple of Zeus at
Olympia. Its eyes were covered in white tape and it was worn on the top of the
performer’s head to make it truly blind, as described p. 234. The appearance of the
masks of the boy and of Creon were informed by the various images of young and
mature men from classical art.
8) Lecoq performers- bouffons
(Performed on 25th April 2003 in the Boilerhouse studio, RHUL.)
In preparing a staging of the Ode to Love from the Antigone, the four Lecoq trained
performers, wearing my costumes and old men masks, engage in bouffons play.
Something of the spirit of this was subsequently incorporated into their realisation of
the ode (see clip 9). The old man masks were inspired by two terracotta masks from
Lipari (see figure 28).
9)Lecoq performers- Ode to Love (Antigone 781-805)
(Performed on 27th April 2003 in the Boilerhouse studio, RHUL.)
The Ode to Love, from the Antigone, is seen here as a ritual dance performed by the
elders under the possession of Aphrodite. It accordingly contains lascivious and even
humorous elements, together with a cartwheel; the latter was also included to dispel
any idea that helmet masks and long costumes inevitably impede movement. The
movements incorporated in the “dance” were in part, a physical expression of the
imagery and rhythmic structure found in the Fagles translation. The piece was devised
by the cast of four performers and director all of whom had trained at the Lecoq school.
With the entry of Antigone I had asked the group to find a different performance mode
and to portray the distress of the elders in a moving way. In their realisation of this
they found a different mode and tempo that was, however, still highly stylised, and I
felt that a style more akin to ordinary acting would have been more likely to move a
modern audience. (However, their interpretation, in not constituting too great a break
with the preceding verses, was perhaps more in accord with the metrical structure of the
parados in the original Greek.)625 In all, their performance constitutes an exciting
interpretation of the Ode and is a demonstration of the energy, focus and expertise in
mask that was characteristic of their work.
625 On the metrical structure of the Antigone parodos see p61,n163.
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