(cross-posted from Abigail and the Great World)
I got Cleopatra: A Life by Stacy Schiff for Christmas, and I finished it last night. Absolutely fantastic book! Highly recommended. I'm not usually much on popular histories, but I do love biographies, and as far as the writing goes this one was top notch. Very readable, lots of sumptuous detail, and a great grasp of the history, it seems (though I'm no historian of antiquity, to be sure). Seriously, I couldn't put it down. As with Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire by Amanda Foreman, the story compelled me to keep turning the pages, and the writing brought me not only to the political but the emotional heart of things. While this one didn't make me cry (probably due to lack of any extant primary source material), it certainly fascinated me and made me question the way we understand history, politics, events, and societies of the past.
Schiff seemed to understand the limitations of her sources, but there were still a few times when I questioned her tactics. I guess that's what taking Historiography courses will do to you. There were also a few issues with punctuation which I felt like her editors should have picked up on, but what can you do?
Her main purpose was to set Cleopatra in context, to demystify her, as it were. After giving us a rundown of the legends surrounding the woman-- that Cleopatra was overly sexed, that she cast spells and enchantments on Caesar and Antony, that she brought brought two Roman men to their ruin, even that she killed herself with a snake-- Schiff makes the assertion that Cleopatra's history was written by the winners while she was the loser. Most tellingly, those winners were Roman's who didn't look kindly on genuinely powerful women.
Schiff looks at the sources-- Roman, of course-- to figure out where the chroniclers are telling the truth, where they are embellishing, where their own cultural prejudices played into their interpretations. Since we know very little about Cleopatra's upbringing, Schiff reconstructs a typical noble Egyptian/Macedonian education, which was illuminating. She brings to life ancient Alexandria in full color and glory. She sets austere Rome back to the days of the Republic, when the city was made of brick, not marble. She looks at the other societies in the East, and examines the politics among them like a master chess player, charting out the ramifications of each move, and getting into the logic behind every play. Of course, some of this must be attributed to modern historians who have recently published some new and revealing books on ancient Alexandria and even Cleopatra herself (Schiff's bibliography includes Cleopatra Reassessed by Susan Walker and Sally-Ann Ashton and Cleopatra: From History to Myth edited by Susan Walker, which, though I haven't read them, seem to have probably been rather important to Schiff's main purpose... which was to 'reassess' Cleopatra and to separate the history from the myth... hmmmm maybe that's what these professional historians have been doing lately, too).
Overall, a fun, fast, beautiful, and informative read for anyone interested in Cleopatra, or the ancient world in general.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Mystery Solved!
Remember when I told you about Grizzle Cale? How, among all of the Elizabeths, Marys, Sarahs, Annes, and Catherines, there was a lone "Grizzle?" Remember how I couldn't believe it and wondered what her parents were thinking and where on Earth did they come up with the name Grizzle? Well, last night the mystery was solved!
I met up with an old friend/professor of mine, Carter Hailey, and while catching up on life (which, of course, includes a discussion of my many hours at the microfilm reader with 18th-century court order books) I mentioned that one of the stranger things I had come across was a woman named Grizzle Cale. "Grizzle," I said. "Grizzle. Can you imagine? I can't even think what that would be short for! Maybe her parents just wanted her to stand out so they came up with something crazy." Then Carter said, "No, I know where it comes from, I think. I think it might be the 'z's that are throwing you off." I paused. "What do you mean?"
"It's from Chaucer's Canterbury Tales," he explained. Griselda or Grisele, apparently, was the 'patient wife', and the name became synonymous with virtue and obedience. Instances of Grissel, Grisele, Griselda or-- get this-- Grizzel (dum dum dum!!!) come up fairly frequently in English literary works through the sixteenth century, and three operas called Griselda came out between 1721 and 1735. Though they were Italian operas, it is extremely conceivable that an Englishman would be familiar with the works since the Italian opera was all the rage in London during the 18th century.
Of course, that just solves one mystery. Now a million more questions arise: was Grizzle first generation colonial American? Was she born in England? It's quite possible that even if she wasn't, her parents were born in England-- the microfilm often has people come forward to declare that they have recently imported themselves from Great Britain into the colony as indentured servants or otherwise. Did her parents see one of these operas or hear about it in the streets of London? Even if they were all colonial by birth, perhaps they had been affluent and her father was educated enough to have read Chaucer. Perhaps they had been poor but he had been lucky enough to attend a grammar school. Perhaps they read about the operas playing in London in one of the colonial newspapers. Perhaps they were still affluent and Grizzle herself had been educated!
And what did Jacob Cale think of his wife? Did he expect her to be really quite as obedient as her name suggests? Was she fiery or docile? Did she fit her name or rebel against it?
If only there were some way to know the answers.
Just one of the tantalizing bits of history; the thrill of discovery, followed by the never-ending and often unanswerable questions. But hey, at least Grizzle isn't quite such a mystery anymore!
I met up with an old friend/professor of mine, Carter Hailey, and while catching up on life (which, of course, includes a discussion of my many hours at the microfilm reader with 18th-century court order books) I mentioned that one of the stranger things I had come across was a woman named Grizzle Cale. "Grizzle," I said. "Grizzle. Can you imagine? I can't even think what that would be short for! Maybe her parents just wanted her to stand out so they came up with something crazy." Then Carter said, "No, I know where it comes from, I think. I think it might be the 'z's that are throwing you off." I paused. "What do you mean?"
"It's from Chaucer's Canterbury Tales," he explained. Griselda or Grisele, apparently, was the 'patient wife', and the name became synonymous with virtue and obedience. Instances of Grissel, Grisele, Griselda or-- get this-- Grizzel (dum dum dum!!!) come up fairly frequently in English literary works through the sixteenth century, and three operas called Griselda came out between 1721 and 1735. Though they were Italian operas, it is extremely conceivable that an Englishman would be familiar with the works since the Italian opera was all the rage in London during the 18th century.
Of course, that just solves one mystery. Now a million more questions arise: was Grizzle first generation colonial American? Was she born in England? It's quite possible that even if she wasn't, her parents were born in England-- the microfilm often has people come forward to declare that they have recently imported themselves from Great Britain into the colony as indentured servants or otherwise. Did her parents see one of these operas or hear about it in the streets of London? Even if they were all colonial by birth, perhaps they had been affluent and her father was educated enough to have read Chaucer. Perhaps they had been poor but he had been lucky enough to attend a grammar school. Perhaps they read about the operas playing in London in one of the colonial newspapers. Perhaps they were still affluent and Grizzle herself had been educated!
And what did Jacob Cale think of his wife? Did he expect her to be really quite as obedient as her name suggests? Was she fiery or docile? Did she fit her name or rebel against it?
If only there were some way to know the answers.
Just one of the tantalizing bits of history; the thrill of discovery, followed by the never-ending and often unanswerable questions. But hey, at least Grizzle isn't quite such a mystery anymore!
Saturday, December 18, 2010
A Sad Story in Amsterdam
We've all heard of The Diary of Anne Frank. I must admit, I have not read the book, though I have wanted to for awhile. Maybe I'll put it on my reading list. But the other day I was watching Samantha Brown: Passport to Europe on the Travel Channel, and she visited Amsterdam. During the show, she visited the room where Anne Frank hid from the Nazis for two years. She looked at the walls, covered in pictures and cut-outs of famous Hollywood celebrities and Princess Elizabeth of Windsor-- the current Elizabeth II. During the war, the two girls were about the same age; you can see how Anne might have looked to Elizabeth (who stayed in London during the German Blitz, despite the danger) as a courageous sign of hope. I started to cry. Maybe I'm just hormonal right now or something, but even without having read the book, it just felt so incredibly sad. Especially when it was revealed that Anne had always wanted to be a writer, and hoped that her words would bring happiness to the world.
But I also felt sad because of a paper I wrote last year considering converso identity. During the late 16th and early 17th century Jews and conversos (Jews who had converted to Christianity, whether sincerely or for political purposes) were driven from the Iberian Peninsula during-- what else?-- the Spanish Inquisition, and later, less mentioned, the Portuguese Inquisition. They didn't have much of a choice; all those who openly identified as Jews were expelled from the kingdom, and all those who identified as conversos ran the risk of being burned for heresy. (Jews could not technically be tried by the Inquisition because they were not heretics, having never professed to believe in Jesus Christ and having never been baptised; heresy, as defined by the Inquisition, can only be committed by baptised Christians. Conversos, having been baptised, were the ones in the most danger.) Many conversos, of course were sincere in their practice of Christianity. Many others practiced a hybrid version of Judaism and Christianity. This was the most dangerous of all, by Inquisition standards. Some practiced this hybrid religion without really knowing why-- they lit candles on Friday and abstained from pork without a real understanding of what they were doing, just doing it because it was tradition. Even many Jews in Spain had little understanding of their religion by the 17th century, but of course, that didn't really matter to the Inquistion.
So they fled. Most of them fled straight to Amsterdam. Why? Because in the 17th century, Amsterdam was a place of tolerance. It also had a familiar Spanish influence, being in the Netherlands. Amsterdam had a large Jewish community, made up of not only the Marrano Jews of 'the Nation' (a term used to describe the diasporic community created by the Inquisition), but also of Sephardic Jews (of Spanish and Portuguse descent, also, but who had relocated from the Iberian peninsula prior to the Inquisition and never undergone the converso experience; also from other Mediterranean regions) and Ashkenazi Jews. The laws of Amsterdam allowed them to practice their religion in relative peace, and many conversos, who had perhaps been willing to actually convert to Christianity, found in their new home a connection to their Jewish faith. While not a 'return' to the religion for many individuals, since many of them had actually grown up as Christians or pseudo-Christian-Jews for several generations past, it constituted a change to their old practices, towards a more pure form of Judiasm (aided by the Sephardim). Though not all of them accepted every tenet of Rabbinic Judaism, they certainly began to build towards a greater religious understanding. Many conversos soon became ex-conversos.
In Amsterdam, they created a religious community, an intellectual community, and a community of service. They had dowry institutions for poor members of 'the Nation,' they developed literary academies, and they began to practice Judaism without hiding in the back room. In the paper, I explored the stories of individual members of 'the Nation,' such as Maria Nunes, who, according to legend, become the object of affection to a young English duke who paraded her through London, introduced her to Queen Elizabeth I, and asked for her hand in marriage. She, however, refused him-- choosing to live openly as a Jew in Amsterdam, than as a Christian in London. There was Daniel Levi de Barrios, a Portuguese-Jewish poet and author living in Amsterdam, who adhered to both Christian and Jewish principles depending on whether he lived in Spain or the Netherlands, but who revered the Jewish community in Amsterdam and was considered a member of 'the Nation' by other members of 'the Nation.'
And, two centuries later, Amsterdam was the home of Anne Frank. Samantha Brown quoted that only 1 in 16 Jews living in Amsterdam survived the Holocaust. In this case, my knowledge of history made that fact even sadder than it already is; such a beautiful, intelligent, established, and thriving community diminished. The descendants of Maria Nunes and Daniel Levi de Barrios, the children of the ancient Sephardim of the Mediterranean, and the Ashkenazim of central and eastern Europe... all gone. Their safe haven, once again, become a place of persecution and death.
Sometimes, history hurts. Still, no matter how much it hurts us to remember, it's best not to forget.
(Anne Frank)
(If you want info on the subject not from Wikipedia, I have an academic bibliography/paper on 16th and 17th century converso identity which I can send to you by e-mail. Just leave a comment)
But I also felt sad because of a paper I wrote last year considering converso identity. During the late 16th and early 17th century Jews and conversos (Jews who had converted to Christianity, whether sincerely or for political purposes) were driven from the Iberian Peninsula during-- what else?-- the Spanish Inquisition, and later, less mentioned, the Portuguese Inquisition. They didn't have much of a choice; all those who openly identified as Jews were expelled from the kingdom, and all those who identified as conversos ran the risk of being burned for heresy. (Jews could not technically be tried by the Inquisition because they were not heretics, having never professed to believe in Jesus Christ and having never been baptised; heresy, as defined by the Inquisition, can only be committed by baptised Christians. Conversos, having been baptised, were the ones in the most danger.) Many conversos, of course were sincere in their practice of Christianity. Many others practiced a hybrid version of Judaism and Christianity. This was the most dangerous of all, by Inquisition standards. Some practiced this hybrid religion without really knowing why-- they lit candles on Friday and abstained from pork without a real understanding of what they were doing, just doing it because it was tradition. Even many Jews in Spain had little understanding of their religion by the 17th century, but of course, that didn't really matter to the Inquistion.
So they fled. Most of them fled straight to Amsterdam. Why? Because in the 17th century, Amsterdam was a place of tolerance. It also had a familiar Spanish influence, being in the Netherlands. Amsterdam had a large Jewish community, made up of not only the Marrano Jews of 'the Nation' (a term used to describe the diasporic community created by the Inquisition), but also of Sephardic Jews (of Spanish and Portuguse descent, also, but who had relocated from the Iberian peninsula prior to the Inquisition and never undergone the converso experience; also from other Mediterranean regions) and Ashkenazi Jews. The laws of Amsterdam allowed them to practice their religion in relative peace, and many conversos, who had perhaps been willing to actually convert to Christianity, found in their new home a connection to their Jewish faith. While not a 'return' to the religion for many individuals, since many of them had actually grown up as Christians or pseudo-Christian-Jews for several generations past, it constituted a change to their old practices, towards a more pure form of Judiasm (aided by the Sephardim). Though not all of them accepted every tenet of Rabbinic Judaism, they certainly began to build towards a greater religious understanding. Many conversos soon became ex-conversos.
In Amsterdam, they created a religious community, an intellectual community, and a community of service. They had dowry institutions for poor members of 'the Nation,' they developed literary academies, and they began to practice Judaism without hiding in the back room. In the paper, I explored the stories of individual members of 'the Nation,' such as Maria Nunes, who, according to legend, become the object of affection to a young English duke who paraded her through London, introduced her to Queen Elizabeth I, and asked for her hand in marriage. She, however, refused him-- choosing to live openly as a Jew in Amsterdam, than as a Christian in London. There was Daniel Levi de Barrios, a Portuguese-Jewish poet and author living in Amsterdam, who adhered to both Christian and Jewish principles depending on whether he lived in Spain or the Netherlands, but who revered the Jewish community in Amsterdam and was considered a member of 'the Nation' by other members of 'the Nation.'
And, two centuries later, Amsterdam was the home of Anne Frank. Samantha Brown quoted that only 1 in 16 Jews living in Amsterdam survived the Holocaust. In this case, my knowledge of history made that fact even sadder than it already is; such a beautiful, intelligent, established, and thriving community diminished. The descendants of Maria Nunes and Daniel Levi de Barrios, the children of the ancient Sephardim of the Mediterranean, and the Ashkenazim of central and eastern Europe... all gone. Their safe haven, once again, become a place of persecution and death.
Sometimes, history hurts. Still, no matter how much it hurts us to remember, it's best not to forget.
(Anne Frank)(If you want info on the subject not from Wikipedia, I have an academic bibliography/paper on 16th and 17th century converso identity which I can send to you by e-mail. Just leave a comment)
Sunday, December 12, 2010
A Brief Note on the Minuet
Currently, I am reading The Sylph by Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire. First published anonymously around 1777 when Georgiana was twenty-one, the book follows the adventures of Julia, a young girl from the country who's city-bred husband, Lord Stanley, whisks her off to London where she becomes part of the depraved and oh-so-exciting life of the ton. The book, written as an epistolary, is comprised of letters between Julia and her sister, Julia and her father, Lord Stanley and his friends, etc. I imagine that soon there will be letters from the elusive Sylph, but I'm not that far along yet. With everything else going on, I have scant time for pleasure reading.
But I do know this much: the book is shocking in all of the most delicious ways. The critiques Georgiana levels at fashion, marriage, and the life of an aristocratic young woman caused scandal in her own day, and for 18th-century historians like me, it continues to elicit shocked laughter, gasps, and even, at times, blushes. What, so you think the 18th century was prim and proper, and that a girl all-too-familiar with the 'anything goes' attitude of 21st-century America should not find anything shocking in an old book? Ha. Obviously, I need to educate you in the seamier side of 18th century living. Some of it though, you're right, comes from adopting an 18th century mindset. When you know how they thought, what was considered right and wrong, what was considered scandalous and shocking, and the politics of the time, the book takes on much deeper layers and even the slightest remark stands out as a major societal infraction.
In particular, I'm thinking of the minuet. In one of her letters, Julia writes [emphasis my own], "Nay, I begin to think, I might as well have learnt nothing; and that the time and expence which were bestowed on my education were all lost, since I even do not know how to walk a minuet properly."
I gasped aloud upon reading that sentence. Some of you out there might understand. Julia couldn't dance the minuet. Well! I never! A girl of society, living in London, unable to dance the minuet! Oh, wouldn't they all make merry of her after a ball; her dancing skills (or lack thereof) would be the talk of the town for weeks. No wonder Lord Stanley-- in his prideful, arrogant, stand-offish way-- worried for her! The minuet was the most important dance of all. At a ball, each couple would, one-by-one, enter the center of the dance floor starting with the most important couple in the room (the King and Queen, in England, or the Governor and his wife, in the colonies) and everyone would watch. A graceful minuet could make you; a bad one could break you. Oh, Julia! The ton is a treacherous place.
What? Not shocking to you? Well, maybe after a few lessons in eighteenth-century society I'll be able to find something that makes even the most jaded among you gasp in surprise!
But I do know this much: the book is shocking in all of the most delicious ways. The critiques Georgiana levels at fashion, marriage, and the life of an aristocratic young woman caused scandal in her own day, and for 18th-century historians like me, it continues to elicit shocked laughter, gasps, and even, at times, blushes. What, so you think the 18th century was prim and proper, and that a girl all-too-familiar with the 'anything goes' attitude of 21st-century America should not find anything shocking in an old book? Ha. Obviously, I need to educate you in the seamier side of 18th century living. Some of it though, you're right, comes from adopting an 18th century mindset. When you know how they thought, what was considered right and wrong, what was considered scandalous and shocking, and the politics of the time, the book takes on much deeper layers and even the slightest remark stands out as a major societal infraction.
In particular, I'm thinking of the minuet. In one of her letters, Julia writes [emphasis my own], "Nay, I begin to think, I might as well have learnt nothing; and that the time and expence which were bestowed on my education were all lost, since I even do not know how to walk a minuet properly."
I gasped aloud upon reading that sentence. Some of you out there might understand. Julia couldn't dance the minuet. Well! I never! A girl of society, living in London, unable to dance the minuet! Oh, wouldn't they all make merry of her after a ball; her dancing skills (or lack thereof) would be the talk of the town for weeks. No wonder Lord Stanley-- in his prideful, arrogant, stand-offish way-- worried for her! The minuet was the most important dance of all. At a ball, each couple would, one-by-one, enter the center of the dance floor starting with the most important couple in the room (the King and Queen, in England, or the Governor and his wife, in the colonies) and everyone would watch. A graceful minuet could make you; a bad one could break you. Oh, Julia! The ton is a treacherous place.
What? Not shocking to you? Well, maybe after a few lessons in eighteenth-century society I'll be able to find something that makes even the most jaded among you gasp in surprise!
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Harry Potter; or The 18th-Century in a Modern Cinema
As I mentioned last post, I'm rather busy at the moment and haven't had much time to go through my materials to put together a really theoretical post-- our next major topic to cover is going to be either "History and Memory" (one of my favorites!) or "Public History" (also really fun!) depending on how I feel once I sit down with my old papers/notes/articles/experiences.
But for now, I don't want to leave you without some historical fun, so here it is-- The Harry Potter midnight opening as an 18th-century playgoing experience. What? you think. It's a cinematic release. Cinema didn't exist in the 18th century. And the movie takes place in a very modern world despite the magical aspects. How is this at all 18th century?
In the 18th-century, audience members attended the theatre to see-and-be-seen. The lights remained lit through the entirety of the show, so wearing your best clothes, sitting in the best seats you could afford, and speaking with the best people you knew ensured your position in society. Whether an aristocrat in a box seat, an artisan who saved up for a seat in the pit, or a chimney sweep in the gallery, the theatre was about seeing and being seen. Additionally, like in the modern cinema (though not in the modern playhouse) food was allowed in the theatre. Thomas Jefferson paid for bowls of punch to be served in the pit with his friends, and Richard Cross, the prompter at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane in London, writes about actors being pelted with food from the rabble in the galleries-- or, alternately, not being pelted with food. And, though not exactly a sentimental age, in the 18th-century the plays made people really laugh and really cry. Men note in their diaries how this or that tragedy reduced them to tears; the idea of a stiff upper lip or stoic manliness had not entered into the collective mindset. Perhaps most alien to us, people talked during the show. Aristocrats often carried on with games of cards in their boxes during the mainpiece, leaving your seat to visit with friends during the performance was not unheard of, and the "gallery gods," as the poorer sort were known, dictated what they wanted to see on the stage. Often they were the fruit-throwers, they called for encores, or certain epilogues, and they cheered or jeered every actor on the stage. Audience members also shouted out well-timed jeers, praises, or heckles which could sometimes get as big a laugh as the actor onstage; sometimes the actor responded back, much like at a stand-up comedy show. Also, audience members knew the actors on stage-- if not personally, they had seen them perform any number of times live, before their eyes-- and they had seen most of the plays probably a dozen times. The idea that they had some kind of personal connection to the performances, actors, and characters permeated theatrical events. The theatre was a noisy, rowdy place compared with our ideas of quietly observing a show.
(Hogarth's print of an 18th-century audience)
So how does this connect to Harry Potter?
I'll grant you, the cinema aspect changes things a bit, and so does the sitting in the dark. In fact, there are 100 thousand differences-- this is the 21st-century after all, and that was the 18th. I'm not trying to say that I felt transported back to an 18th-century theatre because trust me, I know, and I didn't.
But overall, I think the Harry Potter midnight openings might be the closest approximation to experiencing what it felt like to sit in an 18th-century audience of anything else available today. Sure, there are recreated 17th and 18th century theatres that would give us an idea of what it looked like for the audience members, but we still retain our 21st-century sensibilities while attending those shows-- we respectfully, almost passively, watch the action on stage. We clap politely during the curtain call, perhaps giggle at funny bits, but otherwise we remain an orderly, quiet audience. This is especially true in movie theatres, where the experience is one of anonymity, entering with the theatre already rather darkened, sitting quietly munching popcorn, glaring angrily at the teenage girls carrying on a conversation in the middle of the film. Even the idea of dressing to the 9's in a theatre or cinema has disappeared; on Broadway jeans are now acceptable. Moreover, during most professional plays that we see we do not know the actors or the characters; even during most cinematic releases, even if we like a particular actor, we have only two hours in which to come to know a certain character. It's only after buying the DVD and watching the film ten more times that we really, really love the characters on screen.
But at the midnight opening of the 7th Harry Potter film, the entire audience knew the characters on the screen. We love Harry, Hermoine, and Ron, we hate/love Voldemort. We know what to expect from the story since we've read the books, we feel as if we know Daniel Radcliffe, Rupert Grint, and Emma Watson personally; they grew up in front of us. Each of us feels some sort of personal connection to the movies because for most of us in that theatre, Harry Potter defined our childhood and young adulthood. I know I started reading the books at 11 years old-- the same age as Harry Potter in the 1st book-- and here I am at 23 excited to see the boy wizard I grew up with in his second-to-last film. But it's not just that we have a personal connection to the performance, it's that we flaunt it.
Even before the show starts, something is different. Instead of wearing normal jeans and a t-shirt, most of the audience members are dressed up. Some theatres even have costume contests. Here, the movie becomes not about seeing the performance, but also about observing your fellow audience members. Who has the best costume? The most creative? Who knows the books well enough to understand the Luna costume or the Tonks costume? And inside the theatre, groups of friends laugh and talk loudly before the show, popcorn and candy and soda abound. Every time the theatre manager (who knew most of us, actually, since I saw it in a very small town) entered to make an announcement the packed theatre erupted in cheers. Once the film started the cheering almost never stopped. We cheered the Warner Bros. logo, we cheered when Harry, Ron, and Hermoine all appeared on the screen together for the first time, we whimpered in sadness at the vaguely heartwrenching moments, we screamed at the top of our lungs in fear at the scary moments, we laughed uproariously at somewhat lame jokes (because it's George and Fred Weasley, and we love them and want to support them!). And, when a certain character which most people like died, at least half of the theatre cried audibly. A few people even shouted things at the screen (which did annoy other theatregoers, as it did in 18th-century theatres, if we can judge from personal letters and diary entries).
And can you imagine if the projector had broken or something? There would have been a riot (very 18th-century).
At the end of the night, I realized that going to see a play in a recreated playhouse would teach me much about the technical and practical aspects of theatricals in the 18th-century, but no modern audience would ever treat actors on stage with the same noisy, loud, and what we might consider 'disrespectful' attitude of an 18th-century audience. We don't allow plays to throw us into a passion-- how many people proudly claim that movies don't make them cry, or shamefully admit they do? But for some reason-- maybe the movie, the hour, the audience composition-- the midnight showing of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows had just such an audience. They were loud, excited, passionate, and involved.
By positioning the Harry Potter opening in such a historical context, I felt that I, and all of us in that theatre, were part of a larger, ever-continuing human experience. While I don't recommend that we start playing cards during plays again, or walk across the stage to greet our friends, maybe every now and then letting ourselves be collectively taken over by a performance experience might be a good thing. What actor wouldn't appreciate an entire theatre crying over his character's death scene? What actor doesn't love to hear laughter and applause during his funniest moment? What audience member doesn't like to imagine that just for the night they are part of something larger than a solitary, passive moment?
(Photo from here)
But for now, I don't want to leave you without some historical fun, so here it is-- The Harry Potter midnight opening as an 18th-century playgoing experience. What? you think. It's a cinematic release. Cinema didn't exist in the 18th century. And the movie takes place in a very modern world despite the magical aspects. How is this at all 18th century?
In the 18th-century, audience members attended the theatre to see-and-be-seen. The lights remained lit through the entirety of the show, so wearing your best clothes, sitting in the best seats you could afford, and speaking with the best people you knew ensured your position in society. Whether an aristocrat in a box seat, an artisan who saved up for a seat in the pit, or a chimney sweep in the gallery, the theatre was about seeing and being seen. Additionally, like in the modern cinema (though not in the modern playhouse) food was allowed in the theatre. Thomas Jefferson paid for bowls of punch to be served in the pit with his friends, and Richard Cross, the prompter at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane in London, writes about actors being pelted with food from the rabble in the galleries-- or, alternately, not being pelted with food. And, though not exactly a sentimental age, in the 18th-century the plays made people really laugh and really cry. Men note in their diaries how this or that tragedy reduced them to tears; the idea of a stiff upper lip or stoic manliness had not entered into the collective mindset. Perhaps most alien to us, people talked during the show. Aristocrats often carried on with games of cards in their boxes during the mainpiece, leaving your seat to visit with friends during the performance was not unheard of, and the "gallery gods," as the poorer sort were known, dictated what they wanted to see on the stage. Often they were the fruit-throwers, they called for encores, or certain epilogues, and they cheered or jeered every actor on the stage. Audience members also shouted out well-timed jeers, praises, or heckles which could sometimes get as big a laugh as the actor onstage; sometimes the actor responded back, much like at a stand-up comedy show. Also, audience members knew the actors on stage-- if not personally, they had seen them perform any number of times live, before their eyes-- and they had seen most of the plays probably a dozen times. The idea that they had some kind of personal connection to the performances, actors, and characters permeated theatrical events. The theatre was a noisy, rowdy place compared with our ideas of quietly observing a show.
(Hogarth's print of an 18th-century audience)So how does this connect to Harry Potter?
I'll grant you, the cinema aspect changes things a bit, and so does the sitting in the dark. In fact, there are 100 thousand differences-- this is the 21st-century after all, and that was the 18th. I'm not trying to say that I felt transported back to an 18th-century theatre because trust me, I know, and I didn't.
But overall, I think the Harry Potter midnight openings might be the closest approximation to experiencing what it felt like to sit in an 18th-century audience of anything else available today. Sure, there are recreated 17th and 18th century theatres that would give us an idea of what it looked like for the audience members, but we still retain our 21st-century sensibilities while attending those shows-- we respectfully, almost passively, watch the action on stage. We clap politely during the curtain call, perhaps giggle at funny bits, but otherwise we remain an orderly, quiet audience. This is especially true in movie theatres, where the experience is one of anonymity, entering with the theatre already rather darkened, sitting quietly munching popcorn, glaring angrily at the teenage girls carrying on a conversation in the middle of the film. Even the idea of dressing to the 9's in a theatre or cinema has disappeared; on Broadway jeans are now acceptable. Moreover, during most professional plays that we see we do not know the actors or the characters; even during most cinematic releases, even if we like a particular actor, we have only two hours in which to come to know a certain character. It's only after buying the DVD and watching the film ten more times that we really, really love the characters on screen.
But at the midnight opening of the 7th Harry Potter film, the entire audience knew the characters on the screen. We love Harry, Hermoine, and Ron, we hate/love Voldemort. We know what to expect from the story since we've read the books, we feel as if we know Daniel Radcliffe, Rupert Grint, and Emma Watson personally; they grew up in front of us. Each of us feels some sort of personal connection to the movies because for most of us in that theatre, Harry Potter defined our childhood and young adulthood. I know I started reading the books at 11 years old-- the same age as Harry Potter in the 1st book-- and here I am at 23 excited to see the boy wizard I grew up with in his second-to-last film. But it's not just that we have a personal connection to the performance, it's that we flaunt it.
Even before the show starts, something is different. Instead of wearing normal jeans and a t-shirt, most of the audience members are dressed up. Some theatres even have costume contests. Here, the movie becomes not about seeing the performance, but also about observing your fellow audience members. Who has the best costume? The most creative? Who knows the books well enough to understand the Luna costume or the Tonks costume? And inside the theatre, groups of friends laugh and talk loudly before the show, popcorn and candy and soda abound. Every time the theatre manager (who knew most of us, actually, since I saw it in a very small town) entered to make an announcement the packed theatre erupted in cheers. Once the film started the cheering almost never stopped. We cheered the Warner Bros. logo, we cheered when Harry, Ron, and Hermoine all appeared on the screen together for the first time, we whimpered in sadness at the vaguely heartwrenching moments, we screamed at the top of our lungs in fear at the scary moments, we laughed uproariously at somewhat lame jokes (because it's George and Fred Weasley, and we love them and want to support them!). And, when a certain character which most people like died, at least half of the theatre cried audibly. A few people even shouted things at the screen (which did annoy other theatregoers, as it did in 18th-century theatres, if we can judge from personal letters and diary entries).
And can you imagine if the projector had broken or something? There would have been a riot (very 18th-century).
At the end of the night, I realized that going to see a play in a recreated playhouse would teach me much about the technical and practical aspects of theatricals in the 18th-century, but no modern audience would ever treat actors on stage with the same noisy, loud, and what we might consider 'disrespectful' attitude of an 18th-century audience. We don't allow plays to throw us into a passion-- how many people proudly claim that movies don't make them cry, or shamefully admit they do? But for some reason-- maybe the movie, the hour, the audience composition-- the midnight showing of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows had just such an audience. They were loud, excited, passionate, and involved.
By positioning the Harry Potter opening in such a historical context, I felt that I, and all of us in that theatre, were part of a larger, ever-continuing human experience. While I don't recommend that we start playing cards during plays again, or walk across the stage to greet our friends, maybe every now and then letting ourselves be collectively taken over by a performance experience might be a good thing. What actor wouldn't appreciate an entire theatre crying over his character's death scene? What actor doesn't love to hear laughter and applause during his funniest moment? What audience member doesn't like to imagine that just for the night they are part of something larger than a solitary, passive moment?
(Photo from here)
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