[Last September,
Kirk Woodward contributed a profile of George Bernard Shaw (published on ROT on 5 September). One of the greatest fans of the Anglo-Irish playwright
in this country is Eric Bentley, arguably one of our most prominent public
intellectuals and theater authorities.
Kirk acknowledges that Bentley is one of his strongest influences, going
back to his teen years, and in “Eric Bentley – An Appreciation,” Kirk presents
a view of the American writer and critic that's tinged not a little with his personal
attraction.
[Kirk
mentions in passing that he had a brief encounter with Bentley in a Manhattan
theater bookstore sometime back before 2000.
I had my own brief meeting with Bentley at another theater bookstore in
Manhattan. Somehow I’d been invited to a
70th birthday party for Bentley hosted by Applause Books on the Upper West Side
in 1986. I’m ashamed to report that I
have no recollection of what we said to one another on that occasion; obviously
it wasn’t especially significant. Of course,
it was a social occasion, so maybe that’s an excuse.]
As I write this piece, Eric Bentley is living in New York City at the age of ninety-six. This means that at this moment, at least, we still have among us possibly the greatest writer about theater who has ever lived, and I include Aristotle in that estimate, particularly since we’re not certain that what we have of Aristotle’s comments on theater – and on drama, a distinction I will return to – isn’t some student’s lecture notes.
Being – let’s say it again for argument’s sake – the greatest
theater critic in the world doesn’t necessarily make one well-known. I met
Bentley once, in the Drama Book Shop at its former location on Seventh Avenue
in Manhattan. I had seen a notice that said he would be signing books at the “DBS”
one evening, so I went, bought a book, and took it over to him so he could
autograph it.
He was standing by himself on one side of the room, gamely waiting for someone to come along. I remember him as looking rather small, and quite dapper. I told him about his influence on me (a story I will recount below), and he listened politely, said thank you, and signed my book. That was that. My major emotion was mortification that he wasn’t surrounded by a crowd of eager listeners, but then New York can be a blasé town.
My experience with Bentley begins with my parents’ purchase,
through the old Literary Book Club, of a book by Bentley called In Search Of
Theatre that, perhaps wrongfully, I assume my parents never read. But I
did. I devoured the book, which is made up of about seven years’ worth of
essays written about theater all over the world, between 1947 and 1953. When I
read the book I must have been in my early teens. My ideas about theater were
heavily influenced by the book, and I still return to it often.
A few biographical details: Eric Bentley was born in Great Britain
in 1916, studied at Oxford (under C. S. Lewis, professor of literature, popular
theologian, and author of the Tales of Narnia stories) and then, moving to the
United States, at Yale. He taught at Columbia University and reviewed drama for
the New Republic for four years. He has forged a number of careers for
himself in addition to teaching, criticism, and reviewing; he has also been a
director, a translator, a playwright, an editor of a number of important
collections of plays, and a noted musical artist, performing and recording the
songs of Bertolt Brecht, whose works he more or less introduced to the United
States.
His doctoral thesis for Yale was published as A Century Of Hero
Worship (1944), a book I have never warmed to. The book that followed, The
Playwright As Thinker, has been credited with helping make the study of
playwriting a respectable academic field in the United States. The next year he
published Bernard Shaw, which he said was the first book written about
Shaw by someone who hadn’t met him. In Search Of Theatre followed in
1953; then The Dramatic Event and What Is Theatre?, his
collections of New Republic reviews, in 1954 and 1956; his Brecht
Commentaries in 1981; and Thinking About The Playwright in 1987.
Bentley’s best known book, however, is The Life Of The Drama (1964).
Bentley has complained about the book’s notoriety, saying that it’s drawn
attention away from the rest of his work. It is certainly his most teachable
book, because it contains a systematic approach to drama, while much of his
criticism is contained in collections of short pieces. With this exception, his
books do not appear to be staples of the academic world. How then can I claim
his superiority as a critic of theater? Much of the answer has to do with the
natures of theater, of drama, and, of course, of academia.
As I’m using the word, theater is an immediate, present-moment
activity, and each moment of a theatrical performance is unique. One might
object that plays are rehearsed with the object of making them the same every
time. However, that goal, if it is a goal (not all directors feel it is), of
making every live performance the same, simply cannot be achieved, because for
the experience to be exactly the same at each performance is impossible,
whether for audience member or for actor. Moods, knowledge, relationships, all
undergo modification each day, even each minute. As T. S. Eliot writes in The
Four Quartets:
Fare forward, you who think that you are voyaging;
You are not those who saw the harbour
Receding, or those who will disembark.
(The Dry Salvages)You are not those who saw the harbour
Receding, or those who will disembark.
As a result, almost any actor will testify that, like snowflakes,
no two nights’ performances in theater are ever exactly alike. (Even in film,
directors demand numerous takes of scenes because each take, for
whatever reason, is different.) We may ignore this fact because typically we
may see only one performance of a play, making it seem that the one performance
is the performance. Also, performances can be filmed, taped, or
digitally recorded, freezing them in time. Live performances of the play
itself, however, are not frozen; they move forward in time, picking up subtle
or not-so-subtle alterations as they go.
On the other hand, as opposed to theater, drama, as I’m using the
word, means, in practice, the reading and understanding of scripts and the
theory that can be derived from them, and drama can be taught in schools.
Theater, however, is never a fixed point. So in general Bentley, to the extent
that he writes about theater rather than drama, is not and cannot be a
systematic writer, a fact that makes it difficult for the academic world to
take full advantage of his work, despite the years he spent as a teacher. It is
much easier to gain academic recognition for subjects that aren’t moving
targets.
However, I believe that without imposing an arbitrary structure on
Bentley’s writing on theater, we can find teachable principles there, and as
for drama, the success of The Life Of The
Drama in the academic world is clear. I want to lay out an approach to
Bentley’s writing on theater using primarily In Search Of Theatre, the
book that introduced me to Bentley in the first place, and then look at the
theory of drama presented in The Life Of
The Drama. (Since the words “theater” and “drama” are often used
interchangeably, I am grateful to Bentley that he titled his books in the way I’m
using the words!)
The title In Search Of
Theater illustrates in itself the difficulty of teaching theater: if you
want to see it, you have to go out and look for it. In Search Of Theater
is written, much of it, on the road, between 1947 and 1953. It begins with a
series of reports on theater in New York, London, Paris, Berlin, Rome, Dublin .
. . the geographic range of the book is dazzling. Nor is that all. It also
contains detailed looks at, among others, Strindberg, Ibsen, Pirandello, Yeats
(his plays), O’Neill, and at a number of the greatest performers of the time,
including, among others, Jean-Louis Barrault, Martha Graham, and Charlie
Chaplin.
If only because of how much it describes, the book would be a
treasure, but the quality of the description is just as important. When I first
read the book I knew almost nothing about any of the people Bentley writes
about, but subsequent experience has validated his observations time after
time. But what I learned from the book, even more than a remarkable amount of
reporting, was a first principle that I would cite in making a case for Bentley’s
importance: the distinction, which I will put in the italics he loves, between
the spurious and the genuine.
An example occurs in the essay “Trying To Like O’Neill” where
Bentley describes his experience directing a production (in Switzerland) of The Iceman Cometh:
There seemed to [Bentley and his
co-director] to be in The Iceman Cometh a genuine and a non-genuine element, the former, which we regarded as
the core, being realistic, the latter, which we took as inessential
excrescence, being expressionistic. . . . To get to the core of reality in The
Iceman – which is also its artistic, its
dramatic core – you have to cut away the rotten fruit of unreality around it.
More plainly stated: you have to cut.
There are, Bentley suggests, genuine and spurious elements in the
play, and the task – in this case, the director’s task – is to separate the one
from the other.
One might make a case that there is no distinction between “genuine”
and “spurious” in theater – that all theater is artifice. That might be so if
theater were not, as Bentley continually insists, a part of life, not to
mention a reflection of it.
Bentley is at base a moral writer. Like Shaw, he believes that
theater matters, and that what it shows as it “holds the mirror up to nature”
makes a difference. So there is truth and falsity, he insists, in theater. How
can we tell which is which?
It is not enough, Bentley says, to be on “the right side” of
issues about life. That too can be spurious, even if the impulse is itself
moral. “The road to good theater,” Bentley writes, “is not paved with good
intentions.” Looking at Broadway plays of the time, he writes:
A “serious play” is one with a
message or at least with modern – preferably liberal – ideas in it. You can
easily change any non-serious play into a serious play by changing the color of
the heroine and inserting a speech or two against race hatred. The formula for
serious drama is: non-serious drama plus a small dose of “modern ideas.”
Nor must we think that the spurious is necessarily harmless. A
report from 1949 finds Bentley in Italy, only five years after the end of World
War II and the apparent demise of the Fascist regime:
They have removed the statue of
Mussolini from the Teatro delle Arti in Rome. Behind the statue, however, there
were Fascist inscriptions inlaid in the wall. These, I am told, have not been
removed; they are simply hidden, for the time being, by a curtain. . . . You
don’t see anything as candid as a piece of Fascist propaganda in the Italian
theater. The statue of the Duce is gone and the inscriptions are curtained off.
It is the special aestheticism of the Fascist era that persists.
In some ways the distinction between the genuine and the spurious
is almost the same as between the generalized and the specific.
There is a general idea, for example, he says, that Pirandello’s subject matter
is “illusion and reality.” That’s too general, Bentley says, and he goes on to
demonstrate how Pirandello’s plays are rooted in the real suffering that people
endure. “Real” – another possible opposition of words in Bentley’s work is realism
and – what? Vagueness? Generality? Non-specificity?
I haven’t found a useful antonym in Bentley’s writing, but realism
is central to his writing, not in the sense of a kind of theater that uses
store-bought kitchen sinks and actual running water, but in the sense of a
theater that is in touch with the truths of life. In his introduction Bentley
quotes Shaw: “When an art becomes effete, it is realism that comes to the
rescue.” Art, Bentley suggests, is always becoming effete; realism is always
needed.
I would not have to search for an antonym to “real” if I were
writing about Shaw; a word would be at hand, the ideal. Bentley, I have already mentioned, wrote a book about Shaw,
and although hardly uncritical of Shaw (particularly Shaw’s later turn toward dictators
and the use of force to bring about change), is significantly influenced by
him.
Shaw’s antonym for “realism” is idealism. In “ideals” – I am putting this concept in my own terms –
Shaw sees generalities that take the place of understanding the real – that
word again – the real nature of the world. What sort of ideals? Love . . .
patriotism . . . nationalism . . . fatherhood . . . motherhood . . . any
high-sounding, well-meaning generality can conceal an ideal that takes the
place of serious analysis and comprehension.
Bentley’s reviews abound in illustrations of this phenomenon.
Here, for example, is his comment on the works of Jean Cocteau, the French
playwright, filmmaker, and poet:
There is brilliant writing in Les
Parents. There are lovely visual images
in the more romantic films. What is disturbing is the awful vacuity of all
these pieces, a deliberate but in no way justified meaninglessness. Or are we
supposed to find significance in some of the nice things that are said to us?
The film of The Eagle ends, if I
recall, with a narrator’s voice assuring us that love is more powerful than
politics. Tell it to Molotov [who was at that time the foreign minister of
Stalin’s Soviet Union].
I could cite numerous passages in Bentley’s writing that make this
same point. Just as interesting is what he sees as the remedy: no magic
formula, no “silver bullet,” but the firm intention to get down to the real
core of the theatrical moment, using what he describes as a “humble, yet
deliberate and determined approach,” as in this passage on staging the plays of
Shakespeare:
As for realism, I am not offering
it as a panacea, but only a timely banner – modern, without quotation marks –
under which Shakespeare might be more seriously interpreted. It appropriately
suggests that one should start with the simplest, solidest rudiments . . . . [T]oday
is a time to go back to the beginnings and realize that, in taking another
look, we are seeing things for the first time. We must be content to rediscover
the Shakespearean A B C. Let the director ask himself the naïvest questions of
each scene. … And to the degree that he answers them in action, forthrightly,
clearly, he will find himself a path-breaker.
And what will that director find as he breaks that new path? To
discover Bentley’s answer, or part of it, we turn to the much more systematic The Life Of The Drama. Before we do,
however, in fairness to Bentley I must acknowledge again that he is not happy
that this book is all that many people know about him, and he’s right to feel
that way.
For example, his work as a translator is well known, and so is his
commentary on what the work of a translator is and how it is done (see in
particular “How Translate A Play?” [sic]
in Thinking About The Playwright).
One comes away from his essays on the subject awed by the difficulty of the
translator’s task, and energized by the examples.
Bentley’s career as a playwright, which he began fairly late in
his life, is also substantial. Interestingly, the play for which he is best
known, Are You Now Or Have You Ever Been,
is literally realistic, being based on the transcripts of hearings before the House
Committee on Un-American Activities in the 1950s. I have no experience with his
singing and recording career, but it has been widely acknowledged.
Still, The Life Of The Drama
is an exceptional book, a landmark, and it deserves the attention it has
received. The book is divided into two sections. The first looks at plays in
terms of plot, character, dialogue, thought, and “enactment.” The second looks
at genres of drama: melodrama, farce, tragedy, comedy, and what Bentley, at a
loss for a better word (I don’t have one either), calls “tragi-comedy,” a
category that includes plays by writers as different as Chekhov and Beckett,
Goethe and Brecht.
One might suppose from an outline of the book that it presents
reasoned descriptions and comments on the areas and genres listed. In a way
this is true, but what the book really does is more surprising: it looks at the
emotional, rather than just the intellectual, foundations on which drama is
built. Bentley’s comment on the book, in an interview with the Voice of
America, is significant:
My friends had said it would be
an elaboration of Brecht’s ideas. I myself thought it might be Aristotle’s Poetics as rephrased by a Freudian – I was being “analyzed”
in those years. What surprised me was that the philosophy of theatre in the
book wasn’t either Brecht (my father) or Freud (my guru at the time) but
Pirandello, one of a number of Europeans I had translated. He saw life as role
playing.
Bentley’s friends, one may assume, thought he would write a
restatement of Brecht’s ideas because Bentley is so closely identified with
Brecht, whom he knew and with whom he directed, and whose plays and poems he
translated. But Bentley is clear that Brecht has his faults and limitations,
telling the Voice of America that what interested him was Brecht’s “savvy, his
talent, his genius, anything but his
theories.” Bentley is forthright about the elements in Brecht that he finds
genuine, and those that he finds spurious.
With the reference to Freud, we come closer to the heart of the
book, because in its pages Bentley looks at the “subterranean” life of the
drama, the emotions and impulses and instincts that emerge, masked by the
veneer of civilization, in the way we behave in our everyday activities. We put
on a civilized face in our day to day life, but beneath that face – that role
playing – boils an emotional brew that begins to be created in our first
moments as infants, that develops particularly in our formative years, and that
never goes away, and that in moments of greatest conflict emerges in behavior
worthy to be captured in a play, sometimes as comedy or tragedy, and often,
perhaps more appropriately, as melodrama or farce.
I don’t mean to suggest that Bentley reduces drama to psychology.
For one thing, “psychology” is too timid a word for the forces that surge and
roar in the subconscious. As the Bible says, our minds (“the wicked,” the verse
says) are “like the sea when it cannot rest, whose waters cast up mire and
dirt. There is no rest…” (Isaiah 57:20-21 edited). We see these forces at work
in our dreams, and in a sense drama is a projection of those dreams onto the
stage.
A good actor will look at a character role on several levels.
There is the level of meaning, of interpretation and significance. There is the
level of behavior, of our attempts to remain civilized in the face of all the
obstacles that threaten to drag us down. And there is the subterranean level,
the dream level, the level where great forces struggle for mastery within us.
Macbeth, for
example, gives us the interpretive level of questions of fate and
inevitability, of individual responsibility and of helplessness in the face of
circumstances, including those of our own nature. It also gives us the
behavioral level, as Macbeth and his wife move within their social circles in
an ever-accelerating cycle of violence. And it gives us the subterranean level
that surfaces in the presence of the Weird Sisters, and that provides the
forces that make a man capable of murdering father figures, children, people
who might conceivably oppose him . . . powerful forces indeed.
Bentley refuses to consider these emotional tsunamis as any less
important to the drama than the civilized behavior that both embodies them and
covers them up. This refusal makes it possible for him to see with remarkable
clarity the importance of elements of drama that might at first glance seem
random or trivial, as in this discussion of a “bit” in a Charlie Chaplin movie:
Suppose you saw one man force the
head of another through the glass of a street lamp so that the latter will be
gassed by the fumes. It sounds like some Nazi atrocity, and Plato would no
doubt be indignant at the notion of re-enacting the incident in a work of art.
Nevertheless it was re-enacted in Charlie
Chaplin’s film Easy Street, and in
all the years no one has protested. . . . The villain is a giant whose strength
passes the limits of nature. He can bend lamp posts with his bare hands. Since
the “little man’s” revenges have to be more than proportionate to the
provocation . . . he can drop a cast-iron stove on the villain’s head and ram
that head inside a street lamp with the gas turned on.
This vivid set of images – including the giant, a figure out of a
dream world – shocks by its violence, and yet it only represents moments in a
funny and popular film. But all three of the levels of living that we have
described here – the interpretive, the social, and what I’m calling the
subterranean – are at work in those moments. The strength of Bentley’s book is
that he is able to make us understand that the more fearsome aspects of
ourselves are not factors to be ignored, but to be embraced and understood, in
any discussion of drama.
As a result, the book, in my experience at any rate, takes on
extraordinary interest. No matter how many times I read it, I find passage
after passage that is startling and nourishing. Not least of the great things
in it is its continual common sense. For example, my recollection is that in
his book Tragedy And Comedy, Walter
Kerr disparages the popular idea that the difference between the two is that
tragedy ends sadly and comedy ends happily. Bentley, on the contrary, writes:
The popular definition of a word,
like the popular understanding of a subject, always irritates the expert, but
is always of great interest in itself, and usually provides an ideal starting
point for study. The popular understanding of tragedy and comedy is simply that
one has an unhappy, the other a happy, ending: that one ends in death, the
other in marriage, which will lead to birth: that, by consequence, the one is
represented by a mourning and weeping mask, the other by a rejoicing and
laughing mask. All these propositions are full of sap and substance.
Kerr accused Bentley of an over-intellectual approach to drama,
but who is the intellectual here? It is Bentley who sees truth in the popular
understanding of tragedy and comedy. He can do so because he understands that
we all share the psychological makeup that turns some of us into neurotics,
some into playwrights…
I could continue to write at length about Bentley’s work, but I
hope what I have said gives a glimpse of how interesting a writer he is. He is
startlingly intelligent and well-read; he irritates, provokes, stimulates. He
can be belligerent or eccentric – the price, perhaps, that one pays for caring
about art in a sometimes unfriendly climate. He is like some marvelous
conversationalist, rattling on about one’s favorite subject, raising the status
of a chatterbox to high art, providing startling insights on nearly every page.
Criticism, Bentley writes in Thinking
About The Playwright, “is good talk committed to the printed page. Even a
critic is a person. No: especially a critic is a person, and the voice of a
person must be heard in all his work. Conversely, all criticism in which a
human voice is not heard is bad criticism.” Words to live by!
I am so grateful for all that his writing has done for me, and for
the theater, and for our understanding of the mystery and complexity of our
lives, and of how they are reflected in art.
[I said
above that I’d met Bentley briefly at a reception for his 70th birthday. I don’t know for certain why my name was on
the invitation list, but I had been in contact with Bentley earlier that year—we’d
never met; it was correspondence only—and that might have accounted for my
invitation. In the mid-’80s, I edited
two theatrical newsletters, one for the Literary Managers and Dramaturgs of
America (now “. . . of the Americas”)
and the other for the now-defunct American Directors Institute. ADI organized panel discussions and conferences
to promote a better understanding, both among the public and among theater
professionals, of what stage directors and artistic directors actually do. (You
might be surprised how little most people understand that.) In November 1986, ADI held its second
conference, Symposium II: The Director’s Vision, and had invited Eric Bentley
to give the keynote address. Bentley
turned us down and in two letters to ADI’s artistic director, Geoffrey Shlaes,
explained his attitude toward the profession of stage director. In the Winter 1986 issue of Directors Notes, I ran
excerpts from those letters, dated 20 June and 12 July, to share some of
Bentley’s provocative thoughts with ADI’s members. Among his statements, Bentley wrote: “I don’t
believe in a Director’s Theatre. . . .
No director is needed: the function is properly performed by either the
playwright (Molière, Brecht) or the leading actor (Booth, Irving)” and “A
constant irritant is the Nutty Production.
You set a story in another time and another place—the more
inappropriate, the better. That is how
to make your name as a brilliant young director.” He also declared that “while in technology there
is progress, in the arts there is not; otherwise Arthur Miller would be a
better playwright than Aeschylus.” (By
the way, amidst his disparagement of directors, Bentley also called dramaturgs “Ph.D.
gofers” and warned that he’d “remove [dramaturgs] one day before removing
[directors].”)]
Eric Bentley, theater critic, playwright, director, teacher, translator, and essayist, died in Manhattan on 5 August 2020. He was 103.
ReplyDeleteI'll be posting a memorial to Bentley on 'Rick On Theater' on 2 September 2020.
~Rick