Documente Academic
Documente Profesional
Documente Cultură
THEATRE, GLOBALIZATION
AND THE COLD WAR
EDITED BY
CHRISTOPHER B. BALME
BERENIKA SZYMANSKI-DÜLL
Transnational Theatre Histories
Series Editors
Christopher B. Balme
Institut für Theaterwissenschaft
Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität
Munich, Germany
Tracy C. Davis
Northwestern University, USA
Catherine M. Cole
College of Arts and Sciences
University of Washington, Seattle, USA
Transnational Theatre Histories illuminates vectors of cultural exchange,
migration, appropriation, and circulation that long predate the more
recent trends of neoliberal globalization. Books in the series document
and theorize the emergence of theatre, opera, dance, and performance
against backgrounds such as imperial expansion, technological develop-
ment, modernity, industrialization, colonization, diplomacy, and cultural
self-determination. Proposals are invited on topics such as:
Theatre,
Globalization and
the Cold War
Editors
Christopher B. Balme Berenika Szymanski-Düll
Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität
Munich, Germany Munich, Germany
1 Introduction 1
Christopher B. Balme and Berenika Szymanski-Düll
Bibliography325
Index343
Notes on Contributors
ix
x Notes on Contributors
University of Łódź, Poland. She is the author of several books and articles
about the relations between Polish and German theatre in history and the
present. Currently she is working on a book about theatrical organization
systems in Europe, with a focus on theatre systems in post-Soviet
countries.
Christopher Silsby is a Doctoral Candidate in theatre at the CUNY
Graduate Center, where his work centres on the intersection of Soviet,
African American and musical theatres. For the Martin E. Segal Theatre
Center, he has served as editorial assistant and production editor on nine
books, including Czech Plays (2009) and Playwrights before the Fall:
Eastern European Drama in Times of Revolution (2010). He has worked
in multiple capacities at the journal Slavic and East European Performance,
as assistant editor, managing editor and editorial advisor.
Václav Šmidrkal earned his PhD in Modern History at the Charles
University in Prague in 2014 for a dissertation about transnational history
of military musical institutions in socialist Czechoslovakia, East Germany
and Poland. Currently, he is assistant professor of contemporary Central
European history at the Charles University in Prague and project researcher
at the Masaryk Institute and Archives of the Czech Academy of Sciences.
James Smith is a Reader in English Studies at Durham University, where
he has particular research and teaching interests in topics such as surveil-
lance and censorship of modern literature and culture. His most recent
book was British Writers and MI5 Surveillance, 1930–1960 (2013).
Sebastian Stauss is Lecturer in Theatre Studies at LMU Munich. He
completed his degrees in theatre studies, English and German literature,
and his doctoral thesis was published in 2010 (Between Narcissism and
Self-Hate: The Representation of the Aestheticist Artist in the Theater of the
Turn of the 20th Century and the Inter-World-War Period). He is also
author of various articles on opera and aspects of operatic performance
history of the nineteenth and twentieth century.
Ioana Szeman is a Principal Lecturer in Drama, Theatre and Performance
Studies at the University of Roehampton, London. Her ethnographic
research focuses on how Roma express citizenship and belonging and uses
performance paradigms to discuss the politics of recognition that Roma
face in Romania and across the EU. Her current project addresses the
xii Notes on Contributors
xiii
xiv List of Abbreviations
Fig. 6.1 The classic three-level stage with choir, orchestra and
dancers in a show by the Slovak VUS JN on the occasion
of the 35th anniversary of the Communist Party in 1956 94
Fig. 6.2 ‘Lysistratiáda’: A musical theatre show from 1968 based
on Aristophanes’s anti-war comedy ‘Lysistrata’ by the
VUS JN as a result of its reform efforts in the 1960s 98
Fig. 14.1 Order no. 230 of the Chief of Administration
of the Soviet Military Administration of Thuringia
of 28 October 1947, C, II. 3, T 302/1.3, HMT
Leipzig Archive 240
Fig. 14.2 German translation of order no. 230 of the Chief of
Administration of the Soviet Military
Administration of Thuringia of 28 October 1947),
C, II. 3, T 302/1.2, HMT Leipzig Archive 241
Fig. 15.1 Rosina’s first appearance in Act I of Rossini’s
Il barbiere di Siviglia, 1974, Bayerische Staatsoper.
Photo: Sabine Toepffer 263
Fig. 17.1 Yvonne Lundeqvist, Isa Quensel, Monica Nielsen,
Nils Eklund, Björn Gustafson, and Allan Edwall in
Song of the Lusitanian Bogeyman. Photo:
Sven-Åke Persson, Sandrews, Musikverket 298
xv
CHAPTER 1
Introduction
Christopher B. Balme and Berenika Szymanski-Düll
ideology, in this case the song and dance traditions of the ‘people’,
understood as uncontaminated rural peasant life. Although such touring
groups were initially designed to promulgate an ideological message within
the socialist sphere of influence, they gradually gained an audience in the
West as well and provided direct inspiration for the establishment of similar
folkloric dance troupes worldwide.
Soviet Union had, at one count, 625 subsidized theatres, a third of them
for operetta.’17 Although among Western countries only West Germany
could even begin to compete with such numbers, a move towards some
kind of public funding took place. France expanded after 1960 its network
of public theatres or maisons de la culture, Italy established a small number
of municipal theatres, teatri stabili, the most famous of which was and
remains Giorgio Strehler’s Piccolo Teatro in Milan. Even Great Britain,
the home of commercial theatre, formally established—albeit with great
reluctance—two flagship public theatres, the Royal Shakespeare Company
and the National Theatre. In the Netherlands, we also find the establish-
ment of a state-subsidized repertory system.
The actual implementation of such policies cannot be simply adduced
to Cold War rivalries, however. In Germany, for example, the campaign
to make theatre the responsibility of municipalities and the public purse
goes back to the early decades of the twentieth century and was part and
parcel of social democratic labour reform. Ironically, however, it was the
Nazis who finally created the generously funded system of municipal
and state theatres which this country still enjoys today. So in a divided
Germany, there was no or little ideological dissent on a systemic level:
both Germanys retained and financed an arrangement inherited from the
Weimar Republic and Nazi Germany.18
Institutional rivalries manifested themselves more clearly on aesthetic
questions and the degree to which a particular theatre represented one
or the other ideological system. This is nowhere more apparent than in
the controversies surrounding the Berliner Ensemble in the 1950s (see
Barnett in this volume), which as a subsidized ensemble theatre of high
artistic quality provided palpable proof of the Communist system’s cultural
superiority. At the same time performances of Brecht’s plays were banned
in West Germany in the 1950s and MI5 went to great lengths to prevent
or disrupt the Ensemble’s tours to Great Britain in the 1950s and 1960s.
As James Smith has argued: ‘the issue of the Berliner Ensemble caused
debates at the highest levels of Whitehall, directly leading to a small but
significant shift in British and NATO policy regarding East Germany.’19
Theatre did matter in the Cold War.
Since Eastern bloc theatres were comparatively well funded, their inter-
nal problems lay more in the ideological than the economic realm. In his
study of cultural policy in Leipzig and Kraków from the end of the Second
World War to the early 1970s, Kyrill Kunakhovich argues that the ideolog-
ical struggles of the cultural Cold War were conducted not only between
10 C.B. BALME AND B. SZYMANSKI-DÜLL
two opposing fronts but also within the system itself: the most intense
struggles took place on the home front, as local institutions manoeuvred
within the structures of those policies which both fostered and critiqued
the ‘bourgeois’ art form of theatre.
A more direct illustration of a theatrical Cold War can be seen in Hanna
Korsberg’s examination of the International Theatre Institute (ITI), which
was founded in Prague in 1948 as an ‘international’ organization designed
to bridge the already emerging geopolitical divide. By examining the 8th
Congress held in Helsinki in 1959 and Eugène Ionesco’s divisive keynote
address, she demonstrates that ITI, despite its stated goal of transcending
ideological differences thanks to the ‘common language’ of theatrical art,
was by no means immune to political instrumentalization.
Beyond the example in this case study, the ITI is also significant for its
role in fostering a transnational, even global discussion of theatre in the
Cold War; it could achieve this because of its function as the most visible
representative of new forms of international cooperation amongst theatre
artists, critics and scholars. For these forms of collaboration historians have
applied the term ‘epistemic communities’. Epistemic communities refer to
networks of knowledge-based experts who advise policymakers and govern-
ments, usually on questions of scientific and technical complexity.20 They
have a high degree of international organization, usually taking the form of
professional associations, conferences, expositions and learned publications,
frameworks which seldom remain restricted to a single country. For this rea-
son epistemic communities have become a favoured object of transnational
historiography of the postwar period.21
It could be argued that an epistemic community devoted to promot-
ing theatre as a medium of cultural development took on concrete insti-
tutional form in the postwar period. Its ideological formation goes back
even further, however, to the international, multi-sited movement known
as theatrical modernism. The idea that theatre is an art form and hence
of high cultural value provided the ideological basis of the community,
albeit by no means in an organized form. Its ‘prehistory’, to give only
two examples, may be located in internationally distributed theatrical
periodicals such as The Mask (edited by Edward Gordon Craig) or in the
international theatre expositions of the 1920s held in Vienna, Paris and
New York (to name only the most prominent) where common artistic
values were displayed and discussed. They may also be found in the new
international organizations such as the Société Universelle du Théâtre,
founded in 1926, or in the amateur realm, La Comité International
INTRODUCTION 11
pour les Théâtres Populaires and the British Drama League which had
by 1950 branches in dozens of English-speaking countries. Permanent
institutional form emerges, as mentioned, in 1948 with the founding of
the International Theatre Institute (ITI), the International Association
of Theatre Critics (IATC) in 1956 and the International Federation for
Theatre Research (IFTR) in 1957, all of which initially had close ties with
each other through their affiliation with UNESCO. An important feature
of these organizations is that they emphatically sought to bridge the East–
West divide. Although there has been little historiographical work done
on them, they appear to form different facets of a theatrical epistemic
community that could bridge ideological divides if only by insisting on a
putative aesthetic dimension to theatre, which transcended politics.22
The relationship between the artist and the state belongs to the more
familiar topics in the Cold War context. It is well known that playwrights
such as Brecht had a ‘complicated’ relationship with state authorities in
East Berlin. Much less well known however is the role taken by such con-
tested writers in ‘battleground’ states like Greece, which were caught up
in internecine conflicts between extreme right- and left-wing positions.
In his paper Nikolaos Papadogiannis argues that far from being cultur-
ally ‘Americanized’, a significant segment of Greek left-wing youth in the
1970s experienced a grass-roots and selective ‘Sovietization’, which also
manifested itself in the domain of theatre. Also less well known are posi-
tions taken by directors such as Tadeusz Kantor and Jerzy Grotowski,
who in the West were seen to be largely above politics by virtue of their
artistic programmes: imagistic avant-garde for the former, and spiritual,
quasi-religious ‘research’ for the latter. Yet Kantor had a close ‘working
relationship’ with the Polish Communist Party, and Grotowski remained
a member of it for over two decades, as Karolina Prykowska-Michalak dis-
cusses in her article. Ioanna Szeman points to the somewhat paradoxical
situation in Romania, where renowned directors such as Lucien Pintilie
and Liviu Ciulei were able to obtain permission to work in the West
although they were unable to direct in their home country. By focusing
on the 1969 tour to the Theatre of Nations Paris festival by the Bulandra
Theatre from Bucharest she shows, furthermore, how theatre could be
used to reflect the regime’s ambition to project an image of Romania as a
nation independent of the Soviet Union.
12 C.B. BALME AND B. SZYMANSKI-DÜLL
Postcolonial Perspectives
Another aim of this volume is to begin to map theatre in the Cold War
beyond the main ‘battlefields’ of the USA and the Soviet Union, Western
and Eastern Europe. As there were very few countries in the world between
the 1950s and the 1980s not affected by Cold War rivalries, it is neces-
sary to ask how for example certain countries in Asia, or on the African
continent were involved in and interconnected by these rivalries and con-
testations. It is not our intention to argue for a ‘Third World’ perspective
but rather to uncover a range of little known and highly diverse theatrical
‘entanglements’ within the framework of Cold War tensions.
Although there now exists a rich body of research into postcolonial and
intercultural theatre, the term ‘postcolonial theatre’ has been critiqued
in recent years.26 Major challenges have been formulated by exponents
themselves.27 These have also emerged via new paradigms such as that
proposed by Erika Fischer-Lichte, whose concept of ‘interweaving’ poses
a challenge to the implicit binaries inherent in any notion of intercul-
tural theatre, which is by definition predicated on a concept of discrete
cultures.28 This work has meant that scholars are now working in a more
nuanced field sensitive to multiple hybridities and multipolar movements
of performance practices. Despite the many studies of individual artists
and countries, there is still, however, a dearth of research into the p
owerful
transnationally operating forces, political, economic as well as artistic, that
motored the rapid development of postcolonial theatre.
Although most postcolonial countries were involved directly or indi-
rectly in Cold War rivalries, often as proxy states, this aspect of con-
temporary political history has received little attention in the study of
postcolonial theatre. Yet the flow of funds and knowledge into theatre in
the Cold War period was largely an outcome of this larger geopolitical cli-
mate. Cold War rivalry had a decisive influence on the initial rapid devel-
opment of theatrical activity and even institutions.29 As countries were
released into independence in the 1950s and 1960s, they shifted their
dependencies and reliance on direct colonial tutelage to new networks of
14 C.B. BALME AND B. SZYMANSKI-DÜLL
aid from either East or West, or even both; direct support through founda-
tions such as those of Ford and Rockefeller, but also via new international
organizations such as UNESCO produced a remarkable efflorescence of
theatrical activity. In the mid-1950s British colonial administrators began
planning a National Theatre for Uganda to coincide with independence
for the new African nation. Between 1957 and 1967 the Rockefeller
Foundation provided the major source of funding for Derek Walcott’s
Trinidad Theatre Company, a subvention that was not forthcoming from
the Trinidad and Tobago government. In 1962 Rockefeller also provided
$200,000 to the University of Ibadan in Nigeria for the ‘development
of the drama program’.30 These selected examples, and there are many
more, document a significant change in the way theatre was understood,
funded, organized and disseminated in the postwar period, especially in
newly emerging nations. Large sums of money from both governmental
and non-governmental sources were invested in establishing new theatri-
cal institutions where either they had not previously existed or had been
largely commercial operations.
Future research needs to investigate the ‘cultural’, and more partic-
ularly, the theatrical dimension of this period of international history.
Recent research on specific regions has begun to recognize the impor-
tance of culture in the Cold War conflict. From a South East Asian per-
spective, historian Tony Day notes how ‘independent nation-states arrived
at specific aesthetic and cultural solutions to their specific cultural dilem-
mas that antedated, outlasted, and never became entirely aligned with the
ideologies of either bloc’.31 An under-researched area is the— broadly
speaking—‘Communist’ contribution to the cultural struggle for the
Third World; during this period Eastern Europe began to export its ver-
sion of art theatre, encapsulated, as we have seen, by the two antonymic
names of Stanislavsky (for an approach to professional acting training)
and Brecht (for an anti-naturalistic approach to playwriting and mise en
scène). In the postcolonial context both figures can be understood as
‘mediators’ in actor networks, i.e. as nodes around which networks of self-
styled ‘experts’ formed and mediated the transmission and transforma-
tion of knowledge in specific cultural environments. The implementation
of something as complex as a professional theatre system and practice ex
ovo, the situation pertaining in many decolonizing states, required a high
degree of transnational information exchange as well as the movement of
capital, both economic and human; in short all those phenomena that we
associate today with globalization.
INTRODUCTION 15
Notes
1. Norman Stone, The Atlantic and Its Enemies: A Personal History of the
Cold War (London: Allen Lane, 2010), 176.
2. See John Elsom, Cold War Theatre (London: Routledge, 1992); Bruce
McConachie, American Theater in the Culture of the Cold War: Producing
and Contesting Containment, 1947–1962 (Iowa City: University of Iowa
Press, 2005); Charlotte Canning, On the Performance Front: US Theatre
and Internationalism (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015).
3. David Caute, The Dancer Defects: The Struggle for Cultural Supremacy
during the Cold War (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003).
INTRODUCTION 19
4. See for example Richard H. Immerman and Petra Goedde (eds), The Oxford
Handbook of the Cold War (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013). The
volume is particularly sensitive to the regional and transnational variants of
the conflict.
5. Patrick Major and Rana Mitter, ‘East is East and West is West? Towards a
Comparative Socio-cultural History of the Cold War’, in Across the Blocs:
Cold War Cultural and Social History, ed. Rana Mitter and Patrick Major
(London/Portland, OR: Frank Cass, 2004), 1–22, here 1.
6. Kiran Klaus Patel, ‘Überlegungen zu einer transnationalen Geschichte’, in
Weltgeschichte. Basistexte, ed. Jürgen Osterhammel (Stuttgart: Franz
Steiner, 2008), 67–89, here 74 and 76. Translation Christopher Balme.
7. Bernhard Struck, Kate Ferris and Jacques Revel, ‘Introduction: Space and
Scale in Transnational History’, The International History Review 33.4
(2011), 573–584, here 573–574.
8. Arjun Appadurai, ‘How Histories Make Geographies: Circulation and Context
in a Global Perspective’, Transcultural Studies 1 (2010), 5–13, here 12.
9. Dominic Sachsenmaier, Global Perspectives on Global History: Theories and
Approaches in a Connected World (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 2011), 7.
10. Ibid., 1.
11. Grotowski’s Theatre Laboratory did of course tour, even though the actual
number of spectators was quite small. The more important guest perfor-
mances included Théâtre des Nations in Paris 1968; New York 1969; West
Berlin 1970.
12. The far-reaching impact of this philosophy on the basis of written texts is
well illustrated by an anecdote related by South African actor Percy Mtwa,
one of the co-creators of the legendary township play, Woza Albert!: ‘When
we were still compiling the material (for Woza Albert!) we were thinking of
making it a cast of six. But somewhere we came across that book of Jerzy
Grotowski called Towards a Poor Theatre. He said a lot that inspired us. We
read that book and studied it intensively and later we got another book by
Peter Brook. We read these books and studied them.’ Percy Mtwa, ‘I’ve
Been an Entertainer throughout My Life’, interview with Eckhard
Breitinger, Matatu: Zeitschrift für afrikanische Kultur und Gesellschaft 3/4
(1988), 160–175, here 170. In New Zealand, alternative theatre and film
director Paul Maunder established a ‘Grotowski-inspired’ theatre group
named The Theatre of the Eighth Day in the 1980s; see Diana Looser,
Remaking Pacific Pasts: History, Memory, and Identity in Contemporary
Theater from Oceania (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2014), 55.
13. See for example, Anthony Tatlow and Tak-Wai Wong (eds), Brecht and
East Asian Theatre: The Proceedings of a Conference on Brecht in East Asian
Theatre (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, HKU, 1982).
20 C.B. BALME AND B. SZYMANSKI-DÜLL
14. Dennis Kennedy, ‘Shakespeare and the Cold War’, in The Spectator and the
Spectacle: Audiences in Modernity and Postmodernity (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2009), 75–93, here 81.
15. Both dance and jazz music have been studied already. Naima Prevots,
Dance for Export: Cultural Diplomacy and the Cold War (Hanover, NH:
Wesleyan University Press, 1998) examines how dance companies such as
Martha Graham, the New York City Ballet and Jose Limon were harnessed
for diplomatic purposes. Penny Von Eschen explores the same question for
popular music in Satchmo Blows Up the World: Jazz Ambassadors Play the
Cold War (Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 2004).
16. Frances Stonor Saunders, Who Paid the Piper?: The CIA and the Cultural
Cold War (London: Granta Books, 1999), 129.
17. John Elsom, Cold War Theatre (London: Routledge, 1992), 144.
18. In 1933 many municipal theatres in Germany were still privately managed:
by 1939 all had been ‘communalized’, i.e. they were directly funded by the
state or municipality.
19. James Smith, ‘Brecht, the Berliner Ensemble, and the British Government’,
New Theatre Quarterly 22.4 (2006), 307–323, here 308.
20. The term was coined by the scholar of international relations, Peter
M. Haas, in a programmatic article: ‘Epistemic Communities and
International Policy Coordination’, International Organization 46
(1992), 1–35.
21. See for example, Patricia Clavin, ‘Defining Transnationalism’, Contemporary
European History 14 (2005), 421–439; and Emily Rosenberg, ‘Transnational
Currents in a Shrinking World’, in A World Connecting 1870–1945, ed.
Emily S. Rosenberg (Cambridge, MA; London: Harvard University Press,
2012), 815–989. Rosenberg refers explicitly to ‘transnational epistemic
communities’ within the wider concept of ‘circuits of expertise’ which
began to form at the end of the nineteenth century; here 919.
22. For a discussion of ITI in the context of the internationalization of US
theatre, see Charlotte Canning, On the Performance Front: US Theatre and
Internationalism (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015).
23. For a discussion of method acting and the Cold War in the US context, see
Bruce McConachie, ‘Method Acting and the Cold War’, Theatre Survey
41.4 (2000), 47–68.
24. For a detailed discussion of Boris Kulnev’s teaching of the Stanislavsky sys-
tem in China in the 1950s, see Jingzhi Fang, Durch Austausch entsteht
Identität: der Einfluss des Stanislawski-Systems auf die realistischen
Inszenierungen am Volkskunsttheater Beijing der 1950–60er Jahre. Doctoral
Dissertation, LMU Munich, http://edoc.ub.uni-muenchen.de/18467/2/
Fang_Jingzhi.pdf, accessed 15 March 2016.
INTRODUCTION 21
25. See also Václav Kašlik (from Prague) or the later-exiled Yuri Lyubimov
(from Moscow) to name just two other prominent figures.
26. On intercultural theatre, see Erika Fischer-Lichte, Josephine Riley and
Michael Gissenwehrer (eds), The Dramatic Touch of Difference: Theatre, Own
and Foreign (Tuebingen: G. Narr, 1990); and Patrice Pavis, Theatre at the
Crossroads of Culture (London; New York: Routledge, 1992). On postcolo-
nial theatre, the s tandard works include Helen Gilbert and Joanne Tompkins,
Post-colonial Drama: Theory, Practice, Politics (London; New York:
Routledge, 1996); Brian Crow and Chris Banfield, An Introduction to Post-
colonial Theatre (Cambridge; New York: Cambridge University Press, 1996);
and Christopher Balme, Decolonizing the Stage: Theatrical Syncretism and
Post-colonial Drama (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999).
27. See Helen Gilbert and Jacqueline Lo, ‘Towards a Topography of Cross-
cultural Theatre Praxis’, The Drama Review 46.3 (2002), 31–53.
28. Erika Fischer-Lichte, ‘Interweaving Cultures in Performance: Theatre in a
Globalizing World’, Theatre Research International 35.3 (October 2010),
293–294.
29. South Asian scholar Mark Berger argues in this vein by emphasizing the
continuity between Cold War modernization and ‘the civilising mission
that animated imperial expansion … while giving more weight to the trans-
formative character of decolonisation and the Cold War.’ Mark T. Berger,
‘Decolonisation, Modernisation and Nation-building: Political
Development Theory and the Appeal of Communism in Southeast Asia,
1945–1975’, Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 34.3 (2003), 421–448,
here 422.
30. See The Rockefellar Foundation Annual Report, 1962 (New York:
Rockefeller Foundation, 1962), 208.
31. Tony Day, ‘Cultures at War in Cold War Southeast Asia: An Introduction’,
in Cultures at War: The Cold War and Cultural Expression in Southeast
Asia, ed. Tony Day and M.H.T. Liem (Ithaca: Southeast Asia Program
Publication, Cornell University, 2010), 1–20, here 2.
32. See Walt Rostow, The Stages of Economic Growth: A Non-
Communist
Manifesto (Cambridge, UK: University Press, 1960); and Paul Rosenstein-
Rodan, Notes on the Theory of the ‘Big Push’ (Cambridge, MA: Center for
International Studies, MIT, 1957).
33. On ‘modernization’ and ‘developmentalism’, see in particular David
C. Engerman et al. (eds), Staging Growth: Modernization, Development,
and the Global Cold War (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press,
2003); and Nils Gilman, Mandarins of the Future: Modernization Theory in
Cold War America, New Studies in American Intellectual and Cultural
History (Baltimore; London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003).
22 C.B. BALME AND B. SZYMANSKI-DÜLL
34. For a critical review of dependency theory, see Tony Smith, ‘Requiem or
New Agenda for Third World Studies?’, World Politics 37 (1985), 532–561.
35. In the dependency school can be placed also, if sometimes avant la lettre,
the various pan-African or pan-Asian initiatives of the 1950s and 1960s,
which had a chequered ideological career, oscillating between regionalist,
nationalist and internationalist discourses.
36. For India, the Ford Foundation’s field office attained considerable influ-
ence on Indian development policy, although its involvement in theatrical
activity remains largely unresearched. For an initial survey, see Leela
Gandhi, Arts and Culture: From Heritage to Folklore. The Ford Foundation
1952–2002 (New Delhi: The Ford Foundation, 2002).
37. On the Rockefeller Foundation’s support of Walcott, see Bruce King,
Derek Walcott and West Indian Drama: “Not only a Playwright but a
Company.” The Trinidad Theatre Workshop 1959–1993 (Oxford; New York:
Clarendon Press, 1995); and Christopher Balme, ‘Failed Stages:
Postcolonial Public Spheres and the Search for a Caribbean Theatre’, in
The Politics of Interweaving Performance Cultures: Beyond Postcolonialism,
ed. Erika Fischer-Lichte et al. (London: Routledge, 2014), 239–257; on
Wole Soyinka and the Rockefeller Foundation, see Bernd Lindfors, Early
Soyinka (Trenton, NJ: Africa World Press, 2008).
PART I
Charlotte M. Canning
In the early Cold War (1946–1953), each side sought to penetrate the oth-
er’s cultural polity while denying access to its own […]. In the post-Stalin
period (1953–1964), both sides came to accept a role for cultural relations,
and while unilateral methods of influence continued to be used, those regu-
lated by mutual agreement became increasingly significant.12
The Porgy and Bess visit came just as matters had begun to shift on both
sides, Soviet and US.
A COLD WAR BATTLEGROUND: CATFISH ROW VERSUS THE NEVSKY PROSPEKT 29
For the Soviets, the shift was made possible by Stalin’s death in March
1953. Before that, Stalin had supported a harsh domestic cultural policy,
‘Zhdanovshchina’, named after its author and Stalin’s ‘chief ideologist’
Andrei Zhdanov, which offered the choice to ‘align with the regime’s
policies or perish’, as historian Vladislav Zubok concisely noted.13 The
demand for conformity that started at the end of World War II came as
Stalin ‘deliberately and effectively cut’ the USSR ‘off from cultural con-
tact’ with the West.14 But the post-Stalin approach was to be different.
At the four-power summit in Geneva, Switzerland in mid-July 1955, the
French, British, and US governments presented a plan for cultural diplo-
macy to the Soviet representatives. Nothing was decided but an ‘era of
Soviet-American cultural negotiations began’ that would bear fruit two
years later with the so-called Lacey-Zarubin Agreement of 1958, which
opened many more opportunities for exchange.15
Porgy and Bess could not have arrived in the Soviet Union at a more
propitious moment, as Zubok observed: ‘In 1955–56 artists, art exhi-
bitions, performers, and just plain tourists rushed into a previously her-
metically closed Soviet society.’16 The Gershwin piece was not the first
production from a capitalist country to tour the USSR; that honour
went to the Comédie française who, in April 1954, presented a produc-
tion of Molière’s Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme in the Vahktangov Theatre.
Khrushchev’s son called it a ‘diplomatic act’,17 and Georgy Malenkov,
then premier, went backstage to congratulate the cast.18 In November
1955 Peter Brook was able to bring his production of Hamlet, with Paul
Scofield in the title role, to the Vahktangov as well.19 This production
thrilled Soviet audiences, particularly theatre practitioners.20 This was not
surprising as Russians were hungry for innovative art and were searching
‘for a fresh style and individualized self-expression […] in the sphere of
the arts’.21
On the US side, the goal of cultural diplomacy was clear. By mid-1956
it would be described as to foster ‘greater individual freedom’, ‘freedom
of thought’, and ‘stimulate desire for consumer goods’.22 But it would
take time for everyone in the US government to agree that cultural diplo-
macy could achieve those ends. Frustrated with informal efforts supported
by unofficial funds, President Eisenhower requested $5 million in 1954
to support and stimulate US participation in international cultural activi-
ties. He declared the money was ‘to demonstrate the dedication of the
United States to peace and human well-being [and] to offset worldwide
Communist propaganda that the United States has no culture and that
30 C.M. CANNING
theme: ‘Either man is the creature whom the Psalmist described as “a little
lower than the angels;” […] or man is a soulless animated machine to be
enslaved, used and consumed by the state for its own glorification.’28 This
characterization was even written into the top-secret elaboration of con-
tainment, known as NSC-68. In that foundational document, intended as
much as a ‘manifesto’,29 as a statement of policy, the Cold War is defined as
a ‘polarization of power which now inescapably confronts the slave society
with the free’.30 In this stunning reversal, the USA, a slave state for almost
the first century of its existence and contemporaneously an apartheid one,
is officially designated an exemplar of ‘the marvelous diversity, the deep
tolerance, the lawfulness of the free society’.31 The white governing elite
saw no contradictions in sending African Americans abroad to testify to
US racial harmony, and the Soviet government saw a productive opening
to focus on the USA’s weak spot.
Porgy and Bess was not the first text by white authors that purported
to capture the essence of African-American culture and experience. White
artists have long legitimated their representations of African Americans
through the trappings of social science—declaring that they were merely
reproducing observed behaviours and practices—and Porgy and Bess is no
exception. Breen worked within this genealogy by insisting on the speci-
ficity of his production’s details. A Polish critic described the opening:
‘children are playing. One woman prepares a scanty supper for her hus-
band. Another is knitting a jumper […]. Between a husband and wife [a]
small quarrel over two or three cents she is missing from her wages […].
Men who have returned from their work are playing dice’.32 Breen did not
passively wait for the critics and audiences to ‘get it’; instead he worked
actively to influence the reception of the production and the tour.
Breen was not the only party invested in the tour’s reception, how-
ever. Multiple potential meanings had been freighted onto the tour by all
the stakeholders. Breen wanted to establish the USA as a theatre culture
for both foreign and domestic audiences. The USA wanted to contradict
the USSR because, as Representative Frank Thompson argued they ‘find
it extremely easy to spread […] lies that we are gum-chewing, insensi-
tive, materialistic barbarians’.33 The Soviets understood, as foreign rela-
tions scholar Cora Sol Goldstein argued, that ‘all aspects of culture were
intrinsically political and could serve as a vehicle of propaganda, either
direct […] or the indirect’ and this included the arts.34 Juxtaposing these
multiple agendas meant that no one was quite sure what the tour would
come to mean in either nation.
32 C.M. CANNING
Breen and Davis did all they could to construct those potential
meanings. They had not worked for years only to have the tour be an
artistic or diplomatic disaster. The two men carefully chose those who
would report from the front lines. One such reporter was Pulitzer Prize-
winning journalist Ira Wolfert who wrote for the highly conservative and
anti-communist Reader’s Digest, then available in the Americas, Europe,
Northern Africa, and parts of Asia. Also along (and paid for by the tour)
was Leonard Lyons, a syndicated gossip columnist whose column was
available in over 100 papers in the USA.35 Both Wolfert and Lyons fulfilled
Breen and Davis’s greatest expectations and filed glowing reports of the
significance of the tour and the positive impression the production made
on its Soviet audiences.
Also present by invitation and fully funded was Truman Capote, at this
point best known for his novels Other Voices, Other Rooms (1948) and The
Grass Harp (1951). Capote had long been interested in reinventing him-
self as a journalist. What he had in mind, however was not conventional
reportage because, as his biographer Gerald Clarke notes,
Uncle Tom’s Cabin and its legacy for US culture and politics. The actors
believed that Capote portrayed them as obsequious and subservient to
white authority, as popular representations of the character Uncle Tom
claimed. In turn they sought (at least as one actor claimed) to portray him
through the same literary touchstone. But for him they chose the angelic,
loving, blonde, white female child Evangeline St Clair (nicknamed Little
Eva). In this choice they reveal the ways in which the moral panic around
sexuality haunted the Cold War as perniciously as did racial politics.
As early as 1947 questions had been raised about the fitness of gay
and lesbian citizens for public service. While Senator Joseph McCarthy
(R-WI) may have been censured by his colleagues in the Senate the year
before Porgy and Bess arrived in Russia, the loyalty and security systems
he helped develop would remain in place until the 1970s. McCarthy may
be best known for his reckless and unsubstantiated accusations about
alleged communists in the USA; it is less well known that his tactics were
also aimed at gay and lesbian civil servants. Three-quarters of the letters
McCarthy received from voters across the nation expressed panic, not
at communism, but at what one newspaper euphemized as ‘sex deprav-
ity’ and ‘nasty moral habits’.39 Historian David K. Johnson observes that
‘even a rumor of homosexuality was often considered a graver transgres-
sion in 1950s America than an admission of former membership in the
Communist party’.40 By labelling Capote ‘Little Eva’ the anonymous actor
tapped into the pervasive belief that the persecution of homosexuals was
legitimate, even as other forms of discrimination were being protested in
the streets and courtrooms.
This kind of heteronormative discourse was most visibly on display dur-
ing the Moscow stop on the tour. Helen Thigpen (Serena) and Earl Jackson
(Sportin’ Life) had become engaged a few months earlier and had decided
they would get married in Moscow. Capote has Jackson noting that such
an event was ‘bound to be a big story […]. That’s front page. That’s TV’.41
Much of the dialogue Capote attributes to Jackson and Thigpen does
sound like a caricature of the kind of slang attributed to African-American
musicians in the 1950s, but despite his mockery of Jackson’s predictions,
it was a big story. The wedding was reported in multiple newspapers across
the USA and was included in Soviet reporting as well. The couple were
married in the Moscow Baptist Evangelical Church (after a civil ceremony
at the registrar’s office the previous day); 2500 people crammed into the
church and several thousand more were outside waiting to catch a glimpse
of the wedding party.42 Interestingly, although no press foregrounded
34 C.M. CANNING
this, the wedding party was not segregated: the African-American bride
was given away by the white company manager, Robert Dustin, and the
African-American groom was supported by his white best man, Breen’s
production assistant Warner Watson. What caught the press’s attention
in the USA, however, was not race, but sexuality. As Jet Magazine (1956)
noted, the minister, Reverend Alexei N. Karpov, ‘kissed Jackson on the
lips after the ceremony’.43 Despite the fact that this had been explained as
a Russian custom (the minister then shook hands with the bride), a Texas
newspaper described the moment: ‘Jackson grinned broadly and rolled his
eyes as the pastor then leaned over and planted a smack on his lips’.44 The
newspaper uses minstrel tropes to characterize Jackson’s response, but it is
also clear that the kiss is more the object of its discomfort, the use of the
more informal ‘smack’, with its overtones of sex and aggression, rather
than ‘kiss’ thinly veils a disgust at two men kissing.
Capote did not find a culture in the Soviet Union any more hospitable
than the one he had left at home. Capote’s biographer notes that an offi-
cial of the Ministry of Culture commented disgustedly, ‘Ve have them
like that in the Soviet Union, but ve hide them’.45 Hide them they did.
Homosexuality had been decriminalized after the revolution but Stalin
had it recriminalized in 1933.46 Gay men (more so than lesbians) were
sent to the Gulag by the thousands, and even when the penal codes were
revised in the late 1950s to reflect Khrushchev’s liberalization, sodomy
remained as harshly punished as ever.47 Capote’s presence in the Soviet
Union was not without some risk, although as an internationally respected
author he was unlikely to face much official sanction (he addressed, in fact,
the Soviet Union of Writers in Moscow). The fact that both the journalist
and the actors, each of whom was in his or her own way resisting the nor-
mative and oppressive narratives being scripted for them, took refuge in
those narratives to depict each other demonstrates the power such tropes
held both within the USA and abroad.
Just as Capote and the Porgy and Bess company were using mainstream
tropes of race and sexuality to construct one another, the US government
constructed for them a Soviet Union that suited its purposes. Officials
briefing the cast did all they could to influence the ways in which the
members of the tour would experience the Soviet Union. As Joseph
James (Jake) remembers: ‘When we went to Berlin, we were called into a
meeting by the State Department, and we were shown an anti-Soviet pro-
paganda film which was so absurdly ridiculous—it was such a caricature
that we said, well now look, there isn’t anybody on earth that behaves that
A COLD WAR BATTLEGROUND: CATFISH ROW VERSUS THE NEVSKY PROSPEKT 35
and dancing with their African-American guests. The film showed the
USSR going to great lengths to accommodate their guests. The Soviets
sponsored a Christmas party for the company in Leningrad on 25
December, even though the Russian Christmas was not until 7 January.
At a Moscow Christmas party the film records a Russian girl giving a child
from the cast her Young Pioneer scarf. ‘Something to remember their
young Soviet friends by’, the narrator cheered.54 Whether the Soviets
intended their representations of accommodation and integration to con-
trast with what was possible in the USA I do not know. I can say neverthe-
less that the film is striking in its emphasis on the pleasure the actors found
in their visit and the open welcome they received from their hosts.
Local newspaper reviews largely echoed this approach. Many of them
offered serious analysis of the music and singing, which they found impres-
sive. None condemned the opera; few even made outright comparisons to
the Soviet system.55 V. Bogdanoff-Berezovski was the exception when he
opined in the Evening Leningrad: ‘We, the Soviet spectators, realize the
corrosive effect of the capitalistic system on the consciousness, the mental-
ity and the moral outlook of a people oppressed by poverty.’56 Others, like
U. Kovalyev, do note the conditions within the play, but leave the compari-
son to the reader. ‘The action takes place in the sordid Negro quarter of
a seaport town. Onstage—portions of dilapidated houses crammed full of
down-trodden Negroes […].’57 Still others simply focused on the prodi-
gious abilities onstage, noting the ways the production ‘testifies to the high
talent of the Negro people’.58 No reviewer lost sight of the larger mission
of the tour: cultural diplomacy. The reviewer for Izvestia reminded readers
that the event was intended to work in two directions: ‘We must remember
that this is the first visit to the Soviet Union of American artists which gives
us a chance to form an idea about the opera culture in the United States,
and gives them a chance to find out more about the cultural achievements
of the Soviet Union’.59 Like Savchenko, this critic puts the emphasis on the
Soviet contribution to this cultural exchange. His voice is neutral about
the USA—the production allows the Soviets to ‘form an idea’ about US
culture—but it allows the latter to appreciate ‘the cultural achievements of
the Soviet Union’. For this critic anyway, the exchange benefitted the USA
whilst ultimately working to the Soviets’ advantage.
State Department officials would have been furious if they had known
that the Soviet Union would solicit support from the African-American
citizen the federal government most despised. ‘Wishing a Happy New
Year to the Soviet people from the bottom of his heart, the o utstanding
A COLD WAR BATTLEGROUND: CATFISH ROW VERSUS THE NEVSKY PROSPEKT 37
artist and worker from the United States, Paul Robeson, sent warm
comments […] to his countrymen […] in the […] American opera now
in the Soviet Union’, a Moscow paper trumpeted. Quoting Robeson, the
paper continued, ‘I know […] that they are proud of the heroic struggle
of their people […] defending equality and human dignity in Mississippi
and South Carolina where the events of the opera take place’.60 The tim-
ing of this message was no coincidence.
‘When we got to Russia we would have radios in our hotel rooms,
and all you could hear was Paul Robeson’s voice. They would play all of
his records, and they’d come to you and ask if we knew Paul Robeson’,
one performer noted.61 The most visible African-American supporter of
the USSR, Robeson paid dearly for his politics, as the Kremlin was well
aware. The State Department had long denied Robeson a passport (he
could not leave the USA between 1950 and 1958), and had told one
court it believed Robeson to be a ‘diplomatic embarrassment’ and ‘dan-
gerous’ because ‘during concert tours of foreign countries he repeatedly
criticized conditions of Negroes in the United States’.62 Constantly pillo-
ried in the white press, Robeson’s consistent support of the Soviet Union
and insistence that Communists had always supported African Americans’
civil rights contradicted the message the USA wanted to send as it courted
Third World countries. Events like these (both Robeson’s message and the
tour), Borstelmann stresses, ‘offered an irresistible opportunity to respond
to American publicity about repression of individual liberties in the Soviet
bloc’.63 The USA made no rebuttal to the Robeson message; given their
history of sending African Americans out to counter Robeson’s charges,
perhaps they thought the tour was doing that effectively.64
The significance of this moment can also be found in the ways in
which performers took matters into their own hands, despite government
attempts to impose interpretations on their work and identities. In her
2004 study of US cultural diplomacy and jazz, Penny Von Eschen argues
that artists used these tours without being completely coopted by oppres-
sive power structures:
Musicians were not simply tools or followers of [US] policy. In the most
fundamental sense, they were cultural translators who inspired the vision
and shaped its contours, constituting themselves as international ambassa-
dors by taking on the contradictions of Cold War internationalism. They
called for increased government support for the arts; they spoke freely about
38 C.M. CANNING
their struggles for civil rights; and they challenged the State Department’s
priorities. They asserted their right to ‘play for the people.’65
The Porgy and Bess company asserted this right no less than did Dizzy
Gillespie or Duke Ellington. Not long after their arrival in Leningrad, the
cast found themselves in the hotel supper room where a local jazz band
played desultorily for an empty dance floor. Life reported what happened
next: ‘the American visitors took over the room and staged a historic jam
session that lasted well into the night’.66 Earl Jackson commented, ‘people
were screaming all over the joint’.67 This ecstatic release may not have
been what Breen, the State Department, or the Soviets intended, but it
demonstrates that these performers would follow official dictates when
it pleased them. They would ‘play for the people’ when the opportunity
presented itself.
Concluding with such an uncomplicated depiction of resistance and
pleasure suggests an unwarranted optimism about artist or African-
American agency, although we cannot consider theatre and the Cold War
without the categories of resistance and pleasure. Concomitant with this
illustration of resistance, pleasure, and agency is live performance as a form
of coercive engagement, or as Ira Wolfert put it, as ‘a guided missile’.
Archibald MacLeish articulated a common belief when he declared in
1947: ‘There are no longer physical defenses against the weapons of war-
fare. There are only the defenses of the human spirit.’68 His famous pro-
nouncement mystifies, however, the ways in which the Cold War exploited
that belief. Von Eschen asserts that the
view that culture was decisive in winning the Cold War assumes an illusory
separateness of the categories ‘culture’ and ‘militarism’ […]. Not only were
artists deployed in proximity to covert and overt military campaigns; but …
this separation of the cultural from the military ignores the extent to which
the awesome material influence of the United States in the post-1945 era
was dependent on the domination of cultural resources.69
‘saw its impact on his command area […] and wrote, “I intend to recom-
mend that the entire company be decorated” by our government.’70 That
a high-ranking military officer comfortably understood the tour in military
terms demonstrates how widely accepted the imbrication of culture and
militarism was. With the tour as a missile—Smith’s reference to ‘impact’,
a forceful collision with its target—and the artists as soldiers, commended
by an officer for medals—the Porgy and Bess performances in the Soviet
Union in December to January 1955–6 were indeed at the front lines.
In this battle, however, it is almost impossible to delineate the victors
and vanquished. Lillian Hayman (Strawberry Woman) reflected in a 1987
interview: ‘I never thought I ever would have been that important to my
country. At that time it made us feel real—it made me feel wonderful […].
I think we were quite representative of our country.’71 That an African-
American citizen could imagine herself as representing and representative
of the USA is significant, given that within the borders of her country she
was legally denied access to many public areas and services, and always a
potential target of violent domestic terrorism. But her refusal to cede the
USA to white supremacy is an example of why the tour is an ideal site
to examine how the ideas and struggles of the historical moment con-
stellated. What can be found in this constellation of events, experiences,
politics, and intentions, this battleground, however, exemplifies as much
the limits, as the assertion, of global dominance by any state or individual
actors who wield missiles of any kind.
Notes
1. Ira Wolfert, ‘Ambassadors at Large’, The Nation, 9 May 1956.
2. George M. Siouris, Missile Guidance and Control Systems (New York:
Springer, 2004), 3.
3. Hanson W. Baldwin, ‘A Military Policy for the Missile Age’, New York
Times Magazine, 3 November 1957, 13–14.
4. David Monod, ‘Disguise, Containment, and the Porgy and Bess Revival of
1952–1956’, Journal of American Studies 35.2 (2001), 275–312, here 296.
5. Hollis Alpert, The Life and Times of Porgy and Bess: The Story of an American
Classic (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1990), 208.
6. Ibid., 211.
7. Alpert, The Life and Times of Porgy and Bess, 217. In Leningrad the com-
pany performed in the Palace of Culture and in Moscow at the Stanislavsky
Nemrovich-Danchenko Musical Theatre.
40 C.M. CANNING
8. Ibid. Estimates put the full cost to the Soviets at $150,000, almost $1.3
million in 2012 US dollars.
9. See Allan Woll, Black Musical Theatre: From Coontown to Dreamgirls
(Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1989), chapter 10,
particularly page 174.
10. William Taubman, Khrushchev: The Man, His Era (London: Free Press,
2003), 55 and 306.
11. Rebecca Boehling, ‘The Role of Culture in American Relations with
Europe: The Case of the United States’s Occupation of Germany’,
Diplomatic History 23.1 (Winter 1999), 57–69, here 59.
12. Nigel Gould-Davies, ‘The Logic of Soviet Cultural Diplomacy’, Diplomatic
History 27.2 (April 2003), 193–214, here 212–213.
13. Vladislav Zubok, Zhivago’s Children: The Last Russian Intelligentsia
(Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2009), 13. The phrase ‘chief ide-
ologist’ comes from Kees Boterbloem, The Life and Times of Andrei
Zhdanov (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2004), 1.
14. Gould-Davies, ‘The Logic of Soviet Cultural Diplomacy’, 197.
15. Ibid., 207.
16. Zubok, Zhivago’s Children, 88.
17. Gould-Davies, ‘The Logic of Soviet Cultural Diplomacy’, 204.
18. Ibid., and David Caute, The Dancer Defects: The Struggle for Cultural
Supremacy during the Cold War (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 78.
19. Welles Hangen, ‘Moscow Cheers British “Hamlet”’, New York Times, 24
November 1955, 40.
20. Anatolij Smeliansky, The Russian Theatre After Stalin (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1999), 7.
21. Zubok, Zhivago’s Children, 59.
22. ‘Statement of Policy on East-West Exchange’, NSC-5607, 29 June 1956,
http://static.history.state.gov/frus/frus1955-57v24/medium/0273.
png, accessed 12 September 2012.
23. As quoted in Naima Prevots, Dance for Export: Cultural Diplomacy and
the Cold War (Hanover: Wesleyan University Press, 1998), 11.
24. ‘Outline of Pre-Production Phase of PORGY AND BESS’, 22 April 1953,
1, Company Press Release, TRI/OSU.
25. Mary L. Dudziak, Cold War Civil Rights: Race and the Image of American
Democracy (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000), 39.
26. Harry S. Truman, final presidential address, 15 January 1953, http://
www.gilderlehrman.org/collections/4bc9f fab-32d6-4 650-98e3-
371176128628?back=/mweb/search%3Fneedle%3Dglc06802%26fields%
3Dall%26sortby%3Ds301001610%26items_per_page%3D20, accessed 15
March 2016.
A COLD WAR BATTLEGROUND: CATFISH ROW VERSUS THE NEVSKY PROSPEKT 41
repealed until 1993, Jill J. Barshay, ‘Russia’s Gay Men Step Out of Soviet-
Era Shadows’, New York Times, 10 February 1993, A3.
47. Dan Healey, Homosexual Desire in Revolutionary Russia: The Regulation
of Sexual and Gender Dissent (Chicago: University of Chicago Press,
2001), 258.
48. Alan Woods, ‘Interview with Joseph James’, 13 December 1987, TRI/
OSU.
49. Alan Woods, ‘Interview with Coreania Hayman Carter’, 16 December,
1987, TRI/OSU.
50. ‘Company Briefing on USSR’, US Department of State, Berlin, Tatiana
Palast, 17 December 1955, TRI/OSU.
51. Ibid.
52. Thomas Borstelmann, The Cold War and the Color Line: American Race
Relations in the Global Arena (Cambridge: Harvard University Press,
2001), 75.
53. ‘Speech of Mr. N.P. Savchenko to Porgy and Bess Company’, Leningrad,
31 December 1955, translator unknown, TRI/OSU.
54. I. Kopalin, dir., American Actors in Moscow, transl. Inna Caron (Moscow:
Central Red Flag Order Studio of Documentary Films, 1956). There do
not seem to have been any such documentaries made about the visit of the
Comédie Française or Peter Brook’s Hamlet.
55. Many critics did, however, react negatively to what they perceived as an
excessive eroticism. U. Kovalyev noted with displeasure: ‘The astounding
erotic coloring of some of the dancing scenes is unpleasant’ (U. Kovalyev,
Leningrad Smena, 29 December 1955). His distaste was typical of the crit-
ics in both Leningrad and Moscow.
56. V. Bogdanoff-Berezovski, Evening Leningrad, 29 December 1955.
57. Kovalyev, Leningrad Smena.
58. Ibid.
59. B. Zagoursky, ‘Porgy and Bess—Visit of Everyman Opera Company to
USSR’, Moscow Izvestia, 25 January 1955, TRI/OSU.
60. L. Baratov, ‘Porgy and Bess’, Evening Moscow, 12 January 1956, TRI/
OSU.
61. Alan Woods, ‘Interview with Coreania Hayman Carter’, 16 December
1987, TRI/OSU.
62. Martin Duberman, Paul Robeson: A Biography (New York: New Press,
1989), 434.
63. Borstelmann, The Cold War and the Color Line, 75.
64. Not only did the Department of State send out speakers, artists, and other
public figures they believed might represent the story of race in the USA in
a positive light, but they also featured successful individuals in official pub-
lications. The United States Information Agency (USIA, from 1953–1999
A COLD WAR BATTLEGROUND: CATFISH ROW VERSUS THE NEVSKY PROSPEKT 43
the arm of the US government that oversaw public diplomacy) did a fea-
ture in a 1952 publication on Edith Sampson, a US delegate to the United
Nations. In it she is quoted as saying ‘I think of myself first as an American
and second as a Negro’ and the ‘Communists […] have misled many peo-
ple about minority groups in the United States.’ Her story emphasizes
progress and opportunity, advantages available to her because she resides
in the greatest nation on earth. Government officials believed that stories
about people like Sampson were the best way to deal with international
questions of race—don’t deal directly with the accusations, but offer
narratives that contradict the charges of nationwide racism and oppression;
Michael L. Krenn, Black Diplomacy: African Americans and the State
Departement, 1945–1969 (Armonk: M.E. Sharpe, 1999), 40–41.
65. Penny Von Eschen, Satchmo Blows Up the World: Jazz Ambassadors Play the
Cold War (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004), 252.
66. ‘They Don’t Sound Like Khrushchev: Russians Lionize “Porgy” Cast’,
Life, 9 January 1956, 19.
67. Ibid.
68. Archibald MacLeish, ‘Museums and World Peace’, Magazine of Art 40.1
(January 1947), 32.
69. Von Eschen, Satchmo Blows Up the World, 254.
70. Wolfert, ‘Ambassadors At Large’, 428.
71. Alan Woods, ‘Interview with Lillian Hayman’, 16 December 1987, TRI/
OSU.
CHAPTER 3
Christopher Silsby
C. Silsby (*)
Graduate Center, City University of New York, New York, NY, USA
When I sing the ‘Spirituals’ and work songs of the Negro people to
Soviet audiences, I feel that a tremendous bond of sympathy and mutual
understanding unites us. The Russian folksongs and those of the Soviet
National Republics, which were formerly tsarist colonies, bear a close rela-
tionship to folksongs of the Negro people. In each instance these songs
were born out of the misery and suffering, exploitation and oppression of
the people.9
48 C. SILSBY
For Robeson, suffering became the legitimising experience that tied Soviet
and Negro artistic expression. As Kate Baldwin writes, Robeson came to
view ‘“suffering” as fundamental to a certain kind of knowledge’.10 A his-
tory of extended physical and psychic pain that extended beyond mere
economics, and that was systematically exerted on the Russian serf and
American slave, became a means of transferring the memory of enslavement.
Conversely, in both countries, bodily pain was transferred to music,
and then used as a means of combating oppression. Even before his travels
to the Soviet Union, Robeson was aware of musical analogues between
Russian and Negro songs, and emphasised the importance of cultural
experience to the type of music produced:
The Russians have experienced many of the same things the American
Negroes have experienced. They were both serfs and in the music there is
the same note of melancholy, touched with mysticism. I have heard most of
the great Russian singers on the gramophone and have occasionally found
whole phrases that could be matched in Negro melodies.11
Robeson’s views on folk art coincided with the resurgence of folk culture in
the Soviet Union under Stalin. The Soviet interest in folk culture was not
a dispassionate anthropological exercise, but a ‘politicized folk adaptation’
used to educate the whole Union in the various national music, dance, and
art forms.12 This Soviet interest in folk culture was to be the point most often
used by Robeson to connect his work to the history of the Soviet Union.
this trip, the same cannot be said of his host country, since the Soviet
Union was carefully crafting a global image as a country free of racism.
During this visit, Robeson’s views of race came closest to the official policy
of the Soviet Union.
Robeson arrived in the Soviet Union on the verge of the deepest
repressions of the Stalinist era. The first Conference of the Union of
Soviet Writers, which outlined the socialist realist aesthetic that was to
be enforced as the official artistic movement, was held in 1934; the year
also saw the assassination of Sergei Kirov, the only potential challenger to
Stalin’s authority.
Prior to Robeson’s 1934 visit, none of his records were officially avail-
able in the Soviet Union, and the single radio broadcast of Robeson’s
‘Steal Away’ provoked controversy because the song had overtly religious
lyrics.14 Therefore, on this initial trip, Robeson was known less for his
music and more for his renown in the rest of the world. He was consid-
ered an important foreign visitor because of his high cultural position in
Western Europe and the USA.
Even though Robeson did not sing on an official concert tour dur-
ing the 1934 visit, he did perform. Using a tactic later perfected in the
USA during his tours of union halls and factories during the 1940s and
1950s, Robeson gave impromptu a cappella concerts for the House of
Cinema Workers, the bus drivers of the Moscow Foreign Workers’ Club
garage, and factory workers at a ball-bearing plant in Leningrad.15 Even in
these spontaneous performances, Robeson’s choice of repertoire revealed
a concern with internationalism and resistance to hierarchical valuations of
art. These unplanned concerts for workers included Russian and English,
opera and folk songs, an aria from Boris Godunov and ‘“Ol’ Man River”,
which he introduced to them as a song of protest’.16 The juxtaposition
of the high art of Mussorgsky’s opera alongside the American commer-
cial musical and the low art of folk songs and workers’ songs levelled all
cultural value hierarchies; Robeson was singing not to a paying audience
who were restricted in assigned seats within a concert hall, but to people
at their site of labour. While not as drastic as Robeson’s 1937 rewriting of
Hammerstein’s lyrics to emphasise a positive political struggle, the impact
of reframing a musical theatre number as a protest song similarly decou-
ples the song from its original source in order to claim authorial control.
Robeson could establish a new political meaning for this song to an audi-
ence unaware of its original context in the troubled history of Broadway,
minstrelsy, and African-American performers.
50 C. SILSBY
The review, of course, only ties this ‘burden of forced labor’ to the American
context of slavery and Russian serfdom, but not to the then-current con-
text of Stalinist gulags. The danger of rebellion coming from such condi-
tions is safely contained either by historical or geographic distance.
52 C. SILSBY
[in the United States,] indigenous cultures exist mainly as museum pieces,
reflecting in no way contemporary social reality … [or are] destroyed or
allowed to decay, [while] the great masses are flung upon the mercy of alien
forms, which in the final analysis benefit the few who share the privileged
position with the foreign rulers. … But apparently, here in the Soviet Union,
there was no such contradiction. Before me was a theatre of a coloured
people of the East, which had created opera in its own form—a form which
must have served this people for centuries. But it was filled with the sub-
stance of their present-day life.24
[…] in a box on the right—standing and applauding the audience and the
artists on the stage—stood the great Stalin. […] Here, a people, quite com-
parable to some of the tribal folk of China—quite comparable to the proud
Yoruba or Basuto of West & East Africa—but now their lives flowering anew
under the Socialist way of life—20 years matured under the guidance of
Lenin and Stalin.
SPIRITUALS, SERFS, AND SOVIETS: PAUL ROBESON AND INTERNATIONAL... 53
Robeson change[d] the lyrics of the song ‘Native Land’ [by Dunaevsky]
to reflect his own cultural ideology. Rather than the erasure of differ-
ence implied by the lyrics ‘for us there is neither black nor light-skinned’,
Robeson rewrote the line to emphasize a multi-cultural view: ‘Side by side,
the black, the white, the yellow.’30
Notes
1. Rice’s term, ‘strategic Anglophilia’, implies a deliberate omission of guilt in
the slave trade in order to highlight similarities between African-American
US culture and the British Isles (Alan Rice, Radical Narratives of the Black
Atlantic (London: Continuum, 2003), 172–187). A similar conscious
omission can be seen in Robeson’s statements made in the Soviet Union.
56 C. SILSBY
22. A. Solodobnikov, ‘Paul Robeson, Artist and Fighter’, [no date], Paul and
Eslanda Robeson Collection, Box 158–6, Russian Letters, Folder 2,
Manuscript Division, Moorland-Spingarn Research Center, Howard
University.
23. Ibid.
24. Paul Robeson, “National Cultures and the Soviet Union”, Left Review,
November (1937a), 577, Paul Robeson Papers, Box 19, Manuscript
Division, Moorland-Spingarn Research Center, Howard University.
25. Martin Duberman, Paul Robeson (New York: Ballantine Books, 1989),
211.
26. Paul Robeson, [Stalin, remembrances of], [no date], Paul Robeson Papers,
Box 20, Manuscript Division, Moorland-Spingarn Research Center,
Howard University.
27. Duberman, Paul Robeson, 207.
28. Robeson, The Undiscovered Paul Robeson, 152.
29. Alexandar Mihailovic, ‘“Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child’: Paul
Robeson and the 1949 Pushkin Jubilee’, in Under the Sky of My Africa:
Alexander Pushkin and Blackness, ed. Catharine T. Nepomnyashchy, Nicole
Svobodny, and Ludmilla A. Trigos (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University
Press, 2006), 302–331, here 310–311.
30. Ibid., 312.
31. Duberman, Paul Robeson, 153).
32. Ibid., 353.
33. Robeson, The Undiscovered Paul Robeson, 154.
34. Mihailovic, ‘“Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child”’, 318.
35. Kate Baldwin, Beyond the Color Line, 9 and 216–217.
36. Paul Robeson, Here I Stand (Boston: Beacon Press, 1971), 52.
CHAPTER 4
David Barnett
This work was supported by a British Academy Research Development Award and
an Arts and Humanities Research Council Fellowship (AH/I003961/1).
D. Barnett (*)
University of York, York, UK
he noted that Peggy Ashcroft, John Gielgud, and George Devine of the
English Stage Company had spoken to him during their tour of Berlin and
were very keen to bring the BE to England.
The plan was quickly realised and the BE were guests at London’s
Palace Theatre for a three-week residency from 27 August–15 September
1956. The BE’s repertoire reflects its confidence in that, in addition to its
two Paris hits, Courage and the Chalk Circle, it included its adaptation of
George Farquhar’s The Recruiting Officer as Trumpets and Drums. The
British critics mixed appreciation for the new possibilities of theatre with a
scepticism towards what they understood to be Brecht’s theoretical ambi-
tions at times.17 The experiment with Trumpets was not entirely successful
due to the language barrier; its comedy was more difficult to apprehend
for speakers of English.
The success of the international tours established the BE as a pioneer
of a new approach to melding theatre and politics. Its reputation abroad
would rarely desert the company despite regular crises at home from the
late 1960s onward that very much dented its standing with GDR audi-
ences. Two aspects account for this asymmetry. First, the BE pursued its
Brechtian legacy with almost religious zeal. That meant that the primacy
of a dialectical interpretation of reality pervaded the work and that situa-
tions rather than characters provided the starting point for theatrical reali-
sation. The company therefore approached and honed its particular take
on the business of stage production over many years. Second, such dis-
tinctiveness was then thrown into relief abroad where approaches like this
were virtually unheard of. Brecht had declared, in a much-quoted tagline
to the BE’s book Theaterarbeit: ‘we have to develop two art-forms: the
art of acting and the art of spectating’.18 In this, Brecht acknowledged
that an audience could not simply appreciate the new theatre he sought to
introduce, but had to learn how to read and understand it over time. The
BE’s reception abroad reflects this sentiment in that spectators were rarely
used to the BE’s theatrical work, and so it appeared fresh and engaging on
foreign soil however tired it may have been in the GDR.
The many countries that hosted the company wanted to see innovative
and high-quality theatre, something that made the BE the GDR’s most
prestigious cultural export—none of its other theatres could compete with
the sustained attractiveness of the BE’s approach. This status worked very
much to the BE’s advantage for a fairly obvious reason: it made SED
interference more difficult because the company now had a properly inter-
national profile and the support of important friends abroad.
However, it would be a mistake to believe that the BE had some kind of
fool’s licence to do whatever it fancied either at home or abroad. The SED
still financed the bulk of each tour’s haulage and logistics costs, which were
not insubstantial, and, in addition, the relationship between company and
Party was not particularly hostile. Indeed, the BE spontaneously cancelled
a performance in the West German town of Marl to mark the death of
Wilhelm Pieck in 1960.20 He was the GDR’s first and only president and
had supported the BE, especially during the GDR’s more Stalinist period
in the early 1950s. But even in the BE’s act of solidarity, the personal
combined with the political. On the one hand, Helene Weigel was indeed
good friends with the late president. On the other, such a gesture was a
public one and would have a positive effect on the BE’s relationship with
the SED by publicly tying the company to the GDR.
What developed, for the most part, was a mutually advantageous rela-
tionship in which the SED provided due support in order to bask in the
reflected glory of a successful tour. It could claim that the BE flourished as
a result of its own cultural policies, while the BE furthered its own reputa-
tion as a purveyor of high-quality, politically dynamic theatre. The BE’s
status as the GDR’s most successful touring theatre meant that it could call
on the SED when it encountered problems abroad. An interesting example
of the way in which the SED came to the BE’s assistance can be seen in an
incident brought about by the building of the Berlin Wall in 1961.
The BE was virtually forced to stay behind the Iron Curtain as a GDR
theatre between 1961 and 1965 because the West Berlin ‘Travel Board’,
administered by the three Western Allies, refused entrance visas to GDR
artists as a direct response to the erection of the Wall. National govern-
ments, of course, also had the power to deny entry, yet an abandoned
tour to England in 1963 actually brought about a climbdown from the
British government on this policy.21 Against the backdrop of weaken-
ing government resolve, the National Theatre in London invited the BE
to London in January 1964. By this time, the issue of visas for GDR
artists had become suitably contentious, however, this plan to perform in
THE POLITICS OF AN INTERNATIONAL REPUTATION: THE BERLINER... 65
London was later scuppered by the Travel Board. Yet behind the scenes a
further intrigue was being played out. Kenneth Tynan had warned Weigel
that a Polish troupe would be bringing a production of Brecht’s Arturo
Ui to London in May 1964.22 This plan was in fact already known to
the Ministry of Culture; Deputy Minister Kurt Bork feared that a Polish
Ui would make the need for a home-grown GDR production superflu-
ous and thus undermine the GDR’s struggle against travel restrictions.23
Weigel was also aware of the tour and wrote to the Viennese-born direc-
tor of the Polish Ui, Erwin Axer, someone whom she and Brecht had met
on the tour of Poland in 1952.24 She noted both that he had not sought
permission to take the production to London and, more importantly, that
it was tactical for London to develop a hunger for Brecht that only the
BE could satisfy. This blatant statement of self-interest concluded with a
plea for Axer’s solidarity in all things with the GDR.25 The director replied
that he had applied for the rights and that he considered he was very
much acting in Brecht’s interests.26 Yet despite the Polish governmen-
tal support,27 Bork told Weigel later that year that it was the Ministry
of Culture’s intervention that prevented the tour.28 Axer’s response was
never to direct Brecht again.
The incident shows that the BE could align its position with that of
the GDR authorities when it served its interest, how resolute the GDR
authorities were in fighting the travel ban, and how far they were prepared
to go in negotiations to secure the primacy of the BE as a GDR theatre
company.
text right reflected the BE’s and the GDR’s attempts to navigate the
symbolism that surrounded the Games. Munich was the first German
city to host the Games after the infamous Berlin Olympics of 1936. The
GDR thus wanted to disassociate itself from a sense of shared respon-
sibility for the historical catastrophe because it saw itself as the inheri-
tor of Germany’s progressive, not reactionary traditions. On the other
hand, the GDR and the FRG found themselves at the start of a process
of détente. The SED thus had to be careful not to alienate the FRG at
one of the first major occasions in which the two states would be on
show together.
Once the tour was over, the SED was certainly pleased with the BE and
the way it had presented itself in Munich. Minister Gysi wrote to Berghaus
that he had been told ‘that you have run your tour with great prudence,
commitment and discipline. With this you have made a valuable contribu-
tion to raising the GDR’s prestige along with our excellent sportsmen and
women’.35 To the Minister, the line between asserting the GDR’s cultural
independence and not instigating inter-German tension had been expertly
negotiated, and Berghaus had thus proved herself as a responsible leader
in the early years of her tenure.
Berghaus was ousted from the BE in 1977 and replaced by Manfred
Wekwerth. Wekwerth certainly took the BE beyond Europe, yet his greatest
achievement echoed that of its first major international tour. He led the BE
to Israel in 1989, the first time a GDR theatre company had played there.
Touring Israel brought with it similar historical associations to those that
had marked the BE’s tour to Poland in 1952. The trip betokened a symbolic
rapprochement with the German past and the forging of international links
through culture rather than diplomacy. Indeed, Israel had still not recog-
nised the GDR and so the tour, as in the pre-détente era, represented the
opening of communication that may have helped bring about a normalisa-
tion of relations in due course. On the surface, the GDR was highly critical
of Israel’s positions and actions in the Middle East, and this led its Jewish
citizens to criticise one-sidedness in its media.36 A change in mood can be
detected in an article Wekwerth published in the SED’s newspaper Neues
Deutschland after the successful tour. He noted that their performances of
Leben des Galilei (Life of Galileo) had shown the power of reason in a land of
contradictions.37 His more conciliatory tone did not mark a new beginning,
however: the GDR imploded after the opening of the Wall in November
1989.
68 D. BARNETT
The role of touring in the BE’s history is difficult to evaluate due to the
different values it held for the BE itself, its leadership, and the SED. The
examples given above confirm that the BE’s reputation was a source of
prestige, but at times it was also a millstone for the Party, because the
increased international profile conferred more power upon the BE as an
institution at home. That said, the BE could not be said to have exploited
this position, rather, it appreciated the way that such success allowed it to
maintain a good relationship with the SED. Both sides benefitted while
neither actually asked too much of the other. However, the SED was the
ultimate arbiter—it financed the BE and had the power to accept or reject
touring arrangements. Yet, with such a reliable company, it did not pro-
voke fights and sought a practicable working relationship. The BE and
SED were thus fairly comfortable bedfellows because the BE did not seek
to make theatre critical of the regime, and the SED did not want to dam-
age a very marketable cultural export.
Notes
1. [Bertolt Brecht], ‘Theaterprojekt B.’, undated, C Rep 120 1504, LAB. All
translations from the German are mine unless otherwise acknowledged.
2. Herbert Maisch, ‘Mutter Courage kommt nach Westdeutschland’,
Norddeutsches Echo, 3 September 1949.
3. [Unclear signature] to Councillor May, 24 June 1950, B Rep 014 3148, LAB.
4. Draft letter to the FRG’s Ministers of Education, [sent for approval on 27
July 1950], B Rep 014 3148, LAB.
5. Senator Landahl to Councillor May, 3 August 1950, LAB, B Rep 014
3148 and [Unclear signature] to Councillor May, 16 October 1950, B Rep
014 3148, LAB.
6. [Untitled], 15 November 1949, pp. 44, DR 2/8237, BArch.
7. ‘Mutter Courage nicht in Venedig’, Informationen Deutsches Friedenskomitee
29 (1951), 43–44.
8. Regine Lutz to her parents, 30 September 1951, uncatalogued Lutz file
‘Briefe ab Feb. 51 bis Nov. 1954’, Bertolt-Brecht-Archiv.
9. Fred Oelssner in Hans Lauter, Der Kampf gegen den Formalismus in Kunst
und Literatur, für eine fortschrittliche deutsche Kultur (Berlin: Dietz,
1951), 51.
10. Wolfgang Bömelburg, Hobellied für Bertolt Brecht. Ein Theatertischler
erzählt (Berlin: Eulenspiegel, 1997), 48–49.
11. Abusch as quoted in ‘Notat zu Gespräch mit Alexander Abusch am
31.1.79’, undated, FH 15, Helene-Weigel-Archiv.
70 D. BARNETT
12. Guy Leclerc, ‘Paris a Fait un Accueil Triumphal aux Acteurs Berlinois de
Mère Courage’, L’Humanité, 1 June 1954.
13. Jean-Jacques Gautier, ‘Au Festival de Paris Mère Courage de Bertolt
Brecht’, Le Figaro, 1 June 1954.
14. Jean-Jacques Gautier, ‘L’Allemagne de l’est présente: Le Cercle de Craie
Caucasien’, Le Figaro, 22 June 1955.
15. Bertolt Brecht, Grosse kommentierte Berliner und Frankfurter Ausgabe, ed.
Werner Hecht, et al., vol. 30 (Berlin and Frankfurt: Aufbau and Suhrkamp,
1998), 378; transl. Bertolt Brecht, Letters 1913–1956, ed. John Willett
(London: Methuen, 1990), 515–516.
16. Brecht, Grosse kommentierte Berliner und Frankfurter Ausgabe, vol. 30,
378; transl. Brecht, Letters, 549.
17. For example, John Barber, ‘The Extraordinary Leading Lady who Startled
London Last Night’, Daily Express, 28 August 1956.
18. Bertolt Brecht, Grosse kommentierte Berliner und Frankfurter Ausgabe,
vol. 23 (Berlin and Frankfurt: Aufbau and Suhrkamp, 1993), 191.
19. Laura Bradley, Cooperation and Conflict: GDR Theatre Censorship
1961–1989 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 3.
20. Siegfried Wagner to Alfred Kurella, 13 September 1960, DY 30/IV
2/2.026/67, BArch.
21. James Smith, ‘Brecht, the Berliner Ensemble, and the British Government’,
New Theatre Quarterly 22.4 (2006), 307–323, 316–320.
22. Kenneth Tynan to Helene Weigel, 22 January 1964, DC 20/7718, BArch.
23. Baum, Aktennotiz, 8 January 1964, DC 20/7716, BArch.
24. Werner Hecht, Brecht Chronik (Frankfurt on the Main: Suhrkamp, 1997),
1004.
25. Helene Weigel to Erwin Axer, 16 January 1964, DC 20/7716, BArch.
26. Erwin Axer to Helene Weigel, 5 February 1964, DC 20/7716, BArch.
27. Herbert Krolikowski, Aktennotiz, 21 January 1964, pp. 4, DC 20/7716,
BArch.
28. Kurt Bork to Helene Weigel, 21 October 1964, DR 1/8688, BArch.
29. Kurt Bork to Councillor Kreuziger, 13 January 1949, C Rep 120 1529,
LAB.
30. Wilhelm Girnus to W. Ulbricht, 27 July 1953, SAPMO, DY 30/IV
2/2.026/40, BArch.
31. Ergänzendes Protokoll zur Beratung über die Berliner Theatersituation am
23 Oktober 1969 bei Genosse Kurt Hager, pp. 5, SAPMO, DY 30/IV A
2/2.024/30, BArch.
32. August Everding to Helene Weigel, 14 April 1970, File ‘Tourneen
[unnumbered]’, BEA.
33. Klaus Gysi to Helene Weigel, 28 April 1970, File ‘Tourneen [unnum-
bered]’, BEA and [Helene Weigel] to Klaus Gysi, 24 April 1970, File
‘Tourneen [unnumbered]’, BEA.
THE POLITICS OF AN INTERNATIONAL REPUTATION: THE BERLINER... 71
34. Werner Hecht, Notiz, 14 January 1972, pp. 2, p. 1, File ‘Tourneen
[unnumbered]’, BEA.
35. Klaus Gysi to Ruth Berghaus, 22 September 1972, File ‘Tourneen
[unnumbered]’, BEA.
36. Angelika Timm, ‘Ein ambivalentes Verhältnis. Juden in der DDR und der
Staat Israel’, in Zwischen Kultur und Politik. Juden in der DDR, ed. Moshe
Zuckermann (Goettingen: Wallstein, 2003), 17–33, 32.
37. Manfred Wekwerth, ‘Sieg der Vernunft—Sieg der Vernünftigen’, Neues
Deutschland, 20 June 1989.
38. Ruth Berghaus to Kurt Hager, 24 September 1976, SAPMO, DY/IV B
2/2.024/79, BArch and Manfred Wekwerth, Stellungnahme zu dem
‘Theatergutachten’, 11 April 1991, Akademie der Künste, ‘BE Int. A-Z’,
Ekkehard-Schall-Archiv.
CHAPTER 5
Berenika Szymanski-Düll
The Cold War was—as David Caute states—not only a traditional political
and military confrontation between the Western and the Eastern blocs but
also an ideological and cultural contest: ‘The cultural cold war was shaped
by the new primacy of ideology; […] and not least, by the astonishing
global ascendancy of printing presses, of film, radio, and television, not
overlooking the proliferation of theatres and concert halls open to the
broad public, particularly in the USSR.’1 To this end, both sides exploited
the arts as political weapons. Institutions and organizations were formed
whose purpose it was to position their own cultural system above the
other. Their major aim was to present and popularize artists successfully
working in the particular system as outstanding accomplishments of
their home states. Arts and culture, thus, served as a representation
of a certain political position. These representations proliferated and
circulated quickly, achieving a global presence on a large scale. In this
B. Szymanski-Düll (*)
Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität, Munich, Germany
In the early Cold War (1946–1953), each side sought to penetrate the oth-
er’s cultural polity while denying access to its own. […] In the post-Stalin
period (1953–1964), both sides came to accept a role for cultural relations,
and while unilateral methods of influence continued to be used, those regu-
lated by mutual agreement became increasingly significant.5
The ‘silly songs’, ‘naive games and stories’ and ‘devilish dances’ that were
uncomfortable for the ruling classes because of their truthfulness with
respect to the representation of national life were banished from the pub-
lic. […] Although the Russian people themselves were burdened with the
yoke of tsarism and of feudal lords, the fate of the non-Russian peoples, the
76 B. SZYMANSKI-DÜLL
Furthermore, for the USSR, this advancement of folk dance and folk
songs was undoubtedly an ideological exploitation of folkloristic art that
was to represent the Soviet Union not only as the liberator of the once
oppressed social classes, but also as the patron of their creative power:
‘Led by the party of Lenin and Stalin the peoples of the Soviet Union
received unprecedented opportunities, hitherto unknown in the history
of mankind, to develop their culture, and created a folk art that truly
inspired them.’10
In this context and, in addition to the Pyatnitsky State Choir men-
tioned above, the State Ensemble of Folk Dances of the Peoples of the
Soviet Union, primarily known as the Moiseyev Dance Company, played
a pioneering role in popularizing folk art and its ideological message. By
order of the Soviet authorities, the dancer Igor Moiseyev (1906–2007)
founded the ensemble in 1937. Even though brochures and playbills of
the ensemble speak to his attempt to (re-)create an authentic aesthetic by
mentioning, for example, the choreographers’ fieldwork, Moiseyev him-
self instead envisioned promotion of traditional folk art: ‘I don’t agree
with the position that one isn’t to add anything to certain folk dances.
It is […] precisely the calling of the choreographer to use the motives
given to us by the people so that new forms suitable for the people can
develop.’11 He merged elements of folklore with nineteenth-century clas-
sical ballet and created choreographies with spectacular movements. In
doing so, he highly stylized folk dance, thereby turning it into a new art
form and creating a new dance genre.12 With the help of other chore-
ographers, Moiseyev’s model was implemented throughout the Soviet
Union. Furthermore, towards the end of the 1940s and at the beginning
of the 1950s, all satellite states were ordered to found professional, semi-
professional or amateur folk ensembles like the Pyatnitsky State Choir or
the Moiseyev Dance Company. In addition, they were encouraged to lend
their own national character to the art form, since each nation had its own
traditional songs and dances, which had to be fostered. All of these newly
founded folklore ensembles were funded by the state; the best amongst
them—like for instance Mazowsze—were even sent on tours around the
world. As a consequence, the folk genre became a global phenomenon.13
‘A TOUR TO THE WEST COULD BRING A LOT OF TROUBLE… 77
Along the lines of metonymy, it can be stated that the newly created folk
art in socialist Eastern Europe represented both the overarching Soviet
idea of folk art and the culture of each of the ‘new’ socialist countries.
Below I will illustrate to what extent this is applicable to Mazowsze.
The People’s Republic of Poland was one of the first satellite states to form
a folklore ensemble based on the Soviet model. On 8 November 1948, the
Ministry of Art and Culture decided by decree to establish the Mazowsze
State Folk Song and Dance Ensemble. Its purpose was formulated one
year later, namely to provide a select number of boys and girls from peasant
or proletarian families with an artistic education in the traditional dancing
and singing of the Masovian region in order to maintain folk tradition.
This task was given to the composer Tadeusz Sygietyński who had already
travelled around Polish villages to collect folk songs, before the outbreak of
the Second World War.16 In order to find good candidates for Mazowsze,
Sygietyński toured throughout rural Poland for months and organized
auditions which drew large crowds because the young people were prom-
ised not only musical training, but also a school education, free accom-
modation, food, clothing and medical care.17 After the Second World War,
these were good enough reasons for parents to let their children leave
78 B. SZYMANSKI-DÜLL
Esteemed friend Bolesław Bierut! […] I really want to be part of the ensem-
ble because it would be a pity to waste such big talent as I have. Dear Mr
Bierut, I believe that you will understand me and that you will write to
Mazowsze and tell them to accept my sister and me as members of the
ensemble. […] I ask you to confirm my acceptance for the ensemble as
soon as possible, as I can hardly wait to be part of it. Dear Mr Bierut, I have
attached a stamp for your answer letter.21
‘A TOUR TO THE WEST COULD BRING A LOT OF TROUBLE… 79
After two years of work, the Ministry of Art and Culture decided that
the young ensemble was ready to perform in public for the first time,
even though the artistic director objected. The Ministry also interfered
in the selection of the programme and ordered that one song about the
Six-Year Plan and at least one song of praise for Stalin had to be included
in the repertory. In addition, some core pieces were taken out of the pro-
gramme because the ministry decided they were not folkloristic enough.22
Sygietyński fought against these changes but eventually had to give in.
On 6 November 1950, the first performance took place in the Teatr
Polski in Warsaw during the festivities of the October Revolution. The
show was such a huge success that the Ministry decided to send Mazowsze
on tour not only in Poland, but also abroad to represent the new Polish
nation and to consolidate the friendship between socialist countries.
On Tour
The first challenge on a foreign stage was the tour to the Soviet Union in
May 1951. Even though the Soviet audiences cheered at the concerts—even
Stalin is said to have been among the spectators—the Soviet mass media
criticized the performances. The lyrics met with particular disapproval.
They were said to allow too much space for romantic topics and therefore
could not possibly treat the socialist reality in an appropriate manner.
The reason for this was that the artistic quality of the ensemble was more
relevant to Sygietyński than its involvement with communist ideas. Most
importantly, he was determined to come as close to the original Polish folk
traditions as possible even though he was aware that his art consequently
had to appear highly stylized. His goal was to retain und convey a certain
mode of authenticity. Since the original dances and lyrics talked mostly
about love rather than realist socialism or collective farming, unlike
other leading folk artists he was reluctant to rework the traditional pieces
thematically. His colleagues were far less afraid to toe the political line and
created a variety of new choreographies and songs that corresponded to
Soviet ideology. However, due to Soviet criticism and pressure from the
Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Sygietyński was forced to show his ‘goodwill’
if he wanted to keep his leadership position. Thus, he added some songs
and dances requested by the Party for the upcoming guest appearances
in the GDR, China, Romania and Bulgaria. As the following article
from the newspaper Neues Deutschland from 21 July 1951 shows, some
countries, like the German Democratic Republic, welcomed this kind of
80 B. SZYMANSKI-DÜLL
programming. The article does not focus so much on the folkloristic parts
of the show but instead highlights those describing the new way of life in
the People’s Republic of Poland:
In addition to the old folk songs and dances, the young artists introduced
us to songs about the new way of life in their home country. The infectious
melody of the ‘Song of the Six-Year Plan’ was met with a jubilant echo by
the Berlin Werktage, as its chorus—‘Fulfil the plan!’—was like an encourag-
ing cheer for their own work.23
Other socialist states Mazowsze travelled to were still not satisfied with the
extent to which the programme had been changed. During subsequent
performances in those countries, Mazowsze continually had to face criti-
cism. In 1954, for example, a report by the Polish ambassador in Bulgaria
still read:
Even though the singing and dancing found acclaim, there were critical
remarks concerning the songs’ lyrics. It was maintained that the Polish vil-
lage, that had to suffer under the pressure of the big land owners, later
participated in the fight for liberation and is now striking new paths, surely
has songs that are about this fight with the big land owners and the occupy-
ing forces and about the new life in a Polish village today. This however, is
quite rare in Mazowsze’s programme; a big part of the programme is about
intrigues, being in love and so on.24
The political education before the tour should leave no doubt to the mem-
bers of the ensemble of how big of a responsibility lies on the shoulders
of each individual serving as a representative of the People’s Republic of
Poland in a capitalist country and how much of an effort it is to prepare a
high quality performance for France.32
We were proud and happy to perform our songs and dances for the French
audiences and to show both the wealth of our folk culture and the achieve-
ments of our beloved home country. […]
Today, when the Paris Accords are going to rebuild the Wehrmacht
under the direction of Hitler’s criminal generals, executioners of our rela-
tives and the destroyer of Poland’s and other countries’ national heritage,
we would like to ask you in the name of our deep friendship and in the name
of the peaceful coexistence of all nations to fight with us for peace […].
We believe that the French nation will join us in our protest against
attempts to rule over peace and will take part in our efforts for collective
safety […] of all nations independent of their governments’ form.33
‘A TOUR TO THE WEST COULD BRING A LOT OF TROUBLE… 83
Even though Tadeusz Sygietyński and his staff tried to fulfil the political
orders—for example, by writing letters like the one quoted above or by per-
forming politically acclaimed songs or dances—Mazowsze always considered
itself much more as an ambassador of Polish folklore art than as an ambas-
sador of communism. Beyond the Iron Curtain in particular, Mazowsze
became the flagship of Polish folklore and the favourite of Polonia. One
might even surmise that it was only possible for the ensemble to continue to
exist after the collapse of the socialist state system because its artistic directors
had only followed the political demands in the most rudimentary way while
focusing instead on high artistic quality on stage. In particular, Sygietyński’s
wife Mira Zimińska-Sygietyńska, who took over the direction of Mazowsze
in 1955 after her husband’s death and who directed the ensemble until
1997, fought relentlessly for the artistic independence of Mazowsze and
developed a spectacular repertory. The programme designed by Sygietyński
consisted of three ethnographic regions. Zimińska-Sygietyńska added 39
more to it. As time went by, it became less imperative for the artists to have
specific rural or proletarian backgrounds. Instead, they were already profes-
sionally trained before they become part of the ensemble.
Conclusion
The Soviet elites exploited the tradition of folkloristic performance in order
to represent the achievements of the USSR and to insert certain propagan-
distic issues into such productions. This strategy included policies offering
equal opportunities in the field of arts education for economically and
educationally challenged parts of the population. It also led to a growth
of protection and attention given to rural art forms and rural popula-
tions. Especially during the Cold War, the folklore genre became famous
thanks to various touring ensembles and therefore served as a weapon for
positioning the Soviet cultural system above those of the opposing side.
Although—at first glance—the folk ensembles seemed to be very similar
to each other, they differed not only with respect to their specific national
repertoires but also with regards to how strongly they followed the spe-
cific agendas imposed by their political elites. In the case of Mazowsze, it is
clear that the ensemble—although it tried to avoid submitting to a variety
of structures as much as possible—was implemented as a product of Soviet
imitation, and thus was metonymically representative of its system and of
the achievements of a new Poland.
84 B. SZYMANSKI-DÜLL
Notes
1. David Caute, The Dancer Defects: The Struggle for Cultural Supremacy dur-
ing the Cold War (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003), 1.
2. Without a doubt, Soviet-style real socialism was based on a specific geopo-
litical unit designed as cohesion of several national societies. It was a dicta-
torially structured system, wherein the global, ideological and political
dimensions of communism were predominant. Some researchers refer to
these aspects as imperial structures—primarily understood as institutional-
ized patterns of power and interaction between an autochthonous, politi-
cal sovereign elite in the centre and different but politically dependent
national elites on the periphery (see Frank Ettrich, Die andere Moderne.
Soziologische Nachrufe auf den Staatssozialismus (Berlin: Berliner Debatte,
2005), 157). In this way, the political orientation of the satellite states and
their position during the Cold War was predetermined.
3. ‘Mazowsze’ is the Polish term for the Polish region of Mazovia.
4. Tadeusz Kruk and Alojzy Sroga, Mazowsze tańczy i śpiewa (Warsaw: Iskry,
1960), 273–275.
5. Nigel Gould-Davies, ‘The Logic of Soviet Cultural Diplomacy’, Diplomatic
History 27.2 (2003), 194–214, here 212–213.
6. Wymiany kult. z ZSRR, 366 MKiSz, Pacz. 1, t.2, M.S.Z. 56/2/49,
AAN. All translations from the Polish and the German are mine unless
otherwise acknowledged.
7. Ibid.
8. Kruk and Sroga, Mazowsze tańczy i śpiewa, 10; Mira Zimińska-Sygietyńska,
Druga miłość mego życia (Warsaw: Wydawnictwa Artystyczne i Filmowe,
1990), 68.
9. Anneliese Müller-Hegemann, ‘Laien- und Volkskunst in der Sowjetunion’,
in Die Entwicklung der Laienkunst in der Sowjetunion, ed. Annelies Müller-
Hegemann (Berlin: Verlag Kultur und Fortschritt, 1953), 9–56, here
12–13.
10. Ibid., 8.
11. Igor Moiseyev, ‘Igor Moissejew über den deutschen Volkstanz und seine
künstlerische Weiterentwicklung’, Volkskunst und Volkswahlen 10 (1954),
41–43, here 42.
12. Anthony Shay, ‘Parallel Traditions: State Folk Dance Ensembles and Folk
Dance in “The Field”’, Dance Research International 31.1 (1999), 29–56,
here 29 and 37.
13. Here, Shay divides the founding of the folk dance ensembles worldwide
into three phases: ‘The first wave of these companies began after the
Second World War. All of the nation-states of Eastern Europe and several
regional areas as well had state-sponsored companies […]. The second
‘A TOUR TO THE WEST COULD BRING A LOT OF TROUBLE… 85
wave of companies began in other areas of the world such as the Philippines
and Mexico in the 1950s. A third wave of companies, such as those of
Turkey and Iran, began in the 1960s and 1970s. In the 1960s, many indi-
viduals […] in the United States and Western Europe founded private
companies in emulation of the spectacle and success of these extremely
popular dance ensembles’ (ibid., 37).
14. Christopher B. Balme, Pacific Performances: Theatricality and Cross-
Cultural Encounter in the South Seas (New York: Palgrave Macmillan,
2007), 97.
15. Ibid.
16. Zimińska-Sygietyńska, Druga miłość mego życia, 38 ff.
17. Ibid., 112.
18. Kazimierz Korcelli, ‘W poszukiwaniu czasu nie straconego. Rzecz o pow-
staniu “Mazowsza”’, 5, without signature, Archiwum Mazowsza, Karolin.
19. Mazowsze, film clip, without title and signature, Archiwum Mazowsza,
Karolin.
20. Ibid.
21. Państwowy Zespół Ludowy Pieśni i Tańca ‚Mazowsze’ w Karolinie.
[Prośby o przyjęcie, zawiadomienia o eliminacje], 366 MKiSz, 1955–57 r.
/ 3221, 15, AAN.
22. Zimińska-Sygietyńska, Druga miłość mego życia, 132–134.
23. ‘Boten der Freundschaft aus Polen’, Neues Deutschland, 21 July 1951.
24. Sprawozdanie z pobytu Panstwowego Zespolu Piesńi i Tańca ‚Mazowsze’,
366 MKiSz / Pacz. 3, t. 2, 163, AAN.
25. Notatka z pobytu Zespołu‚ Mazowsze’ w B.R.L, 366 MKiSz / Pacz. 3, t.
2. 169–179, AAN.
26. Sprawozdanie z pobytu Panstwowego Zespolu Piesńi i Tańca ‚Mazowsze’,
366 MKiSz / Pacz. 3, t. 2, 163, AAN.
27. Some examples can be found in David Caute’s book The Dancer Defects.
28. Notatka w sprawie ucieczki Mieczysława Dzierżanowskiego i Tadeusza
Bednarskiego, 366 MKiSz / Pacz. 2m t. 1, cz. II, 596, AAN.
29. ‘Polish Dancer Flees Troupe; Asks US Political Asylum’, The Chicago
Tribune, 26 May 1971.
30. Sprawozdanie z pobytu Państwowego Zespołu Pieśni i Tańca ‘Mazowsze’,
366 MKiSz/Pacz. 4, t. 2, 167, AAN.
31. Plan pracy polityczno-wyjaśniaja ̨cej poprzedzaja ̨cej wyjazd PLZPiT
‘Mazowsze’ do Francji, 366 MKiSz / Pacz. 3, t. 2, 82, AAN.
32. Ibid.
33. List do Członków Stowarzyszenia Przyjaźni Francusko-Polskiej, 366
MKiSz / Pacz. 3, t. 2, 204, AAN.
CHAPTER 6
Václav Šmidrkal
Introduction
The world-renowned A.V. Alexandrov Soviet Army Twice Red-bannered
Academic Song and Dance Ensemble (or Alexandrov Ensemble) described
z itself in a publicity brochure from 1982 as a source of inspiration for other
military song and dance ensembles within the Soviet military, for which
the Alexandrov Ensemble represented ‘the flagship of this formidable
artistic squadron’.1 If this ‘squadron’ had also included the ensembles of
other socialist armies that followed the Soviet example after the Second
World War, we would have to refer to it as a whole ‘fleet’. The profes-
sional military song and dance ensembles quickly spread across communist
states around the world and contributed to the state-sponsored ensemble
V. Šmidrkal (*)
Faculty of Social Sciences, Charles University, Prague, Czechia
art that was showcased as a prompt and impressive result of the ongoing
socialist cultural revolution. This chapter argues that the military song
and dance ensembles represented a transnational cultural phenomenon
that resulted from the implementation of communist cultural policies and
adoption of Soviet organisational patterns in order to symbolically high-
light the distinctive nature of the socialist military. Although the existence
of the ensembles could not be justified in military or artistic terms, their
long-term survival was ensured by the communist parties’ conviction of
their essential importance for the socialist character of the military. Thus,
the song and dance ensembles had an identity-making objective not only
in their contents but also as institutions per se in the sense of Marshall
McLuhan’s phrase, ‘The medium is the message’.2
Whereas civilian song and dance ensembles have already received some
attention from researchers,3 their military counterparts have remained
almost untouched.4 This chapter is based on my doctoral research into the
socialist military’s cultural policy in Central Europe, which I conducted
using Czech, Slovak, Polish and East German primary as well as second-
ary sources. First, it outlines the origins of inspiration for the creation of
these ensembles and briefly discusses the ambivalent character of a nomi-
nally artistic institution that was caught between political requirements
and military utilitarianism. Second, focusing on the empirical material
from the ‘northern triangle’5 of the Soviet Bloc in Central Europe, that is,
Czechoslovakia, East Germany and Poland, it uses these three examples
as the framework for an overview of the transnational spread, transforma-
tions and retreat of these institutions.
The military song and dance ensemble was a product of the Stalinist
cultural policy of the late 1920s and 1930s, and embraced three older
cultural traditions: soldiers’ songs, folklorism and agitprop. In the case
of soldiers’ songs, the ensembles became the official authority on the
production and interpretation of this musical genre, which had always
been both a normative tool for strengthening the morale, endurance
and cohesion of the troops and a means for unrestrained reflection of
soldiers’ subjective experience. As French musicologist Thierry Bouzard
notes, while the military command usually tries to influence the pro-
SONG AND DANCE ENSEMBLES IN CENTRAL EUROPEAN MILITARIES:... 89
Artistic Needs
Artistic self-assertion in the ensembles was bound on the one hand by
prescribed aesthetics, contents and function and on the other by their staff-
ing policy. The ensembles were expected to produce an original repertoire
and to popularise it with both soldiers and civilians through public shows,
recordings or radio (and later also TV) broadcasting. To this end, ensembles
hired composers, text writers and solo singers; they commissioned works by
renowned civilian authors; and they ran writing contests. However, the cre-
ative restrictions imposed by the political requirements, the expectations of
the audience and the artistic abilities of the staff drove many authors into a
cul-de-sac. The creative staff found it extremely difficult to produce mate-
rial that indoctrinated and entertained at the same time. Even though the
military had occasional success in involving prominent civilian hit-makers
and first-class performers, such pieces did not achieve popularity. The over-
politicised and bland winning songs in competitions such as The Golden
Mace (Zlatý palcát) organised in Czechoslovakia from 1971, or those pre-
sented at the Soldier’s Song Parade (Parade des Soldatenliedes) organ-
ised as a part of the the Workers' Festival Arbeiterfestspiele in the German
Democratic Republic (GDR) could not compete with genuine pop hits. In
Poland this sort of music achieved more success through the Soldier’s Song
̇
Festival (Festival Piosenki Zołnierskiej) 8
which took place annually from
1967 onwards and attracted more widespread popular attention. Unlike
the rather heavy-handed military songs in Czechoslovakia and the GDR,
Polish military songs were to a greater extent freed from obviously political
content and offered haunting melodies with light-hearted texts inspired by
the soldiers’ life and interpreted by popular singers. Nevertheless, in the
1980s even here the organisers had little success in persuading established
performers to take part in this official event put on by ‘the regime’ and
instead they had to look for young ambitious talents.9
When most of the ensembles were established, in the early 1950s, they
recruited talented amateur artists from within the armed forces expect-
ing that they would be able to improve their skills to a professional level
with systematic training and intensive practice. This experiment succeeded
only in a few individual cases and the rest posed a difficult dilemma for
the management of the ensembles in the post-Stalinist era, when the
personnel policy changed and the ‘professional amateurs’ became a bur-
den. However, searching for prospective stars regardless of their class
background or previous education was not a solution either. The attempts
SONG AND DANCE ENSEMBLES IN CENTRAL EUROPEAN MILITARIES:... 91
to modernise the repertoire and make it more attractive for the audience
also ran into problems where professional artists were concerned. Frank
Schöbel (born 1942), the rising star of East German popular music, audi-
tioned for and was accepted into the Erich Weinert Ensemble (EWE)
of the East German National People’s Army in 1962 and later served
his 18-month period of military service there. While as a young civilian
employee he enjoyed relative freedom, and working in the military ensem-
ble did not threaten his growing popularity, during his military service he
had to wear military uniform which, in his opinion, affected his position
in the pop-music charts. Therefore, when he was expected to sing a dull
song praising military service during the Soldiers’ Song Parade that took
place in Görlitz in 1966, he refused. After he was promised by the political
officers from the Main Political Administration of the National People’s
Army that his piece would not be recorded and shown on television, he
agreed to sing the song. However, during his performance, when he
saw the camera of the Military Film Studio, he switched off the camera’s
microphone and sang only for the people in the hall. For this insubordina-
tion he was demoted from Gefreiter to Soldat, punished with two days of
confinement and had to serve as a gatekeeper until the end of his military
service.10 This example shows that the logic of stardom and the mission
of the ensemble clashed because they often operated in different markets.
Even though the ensembles occasionally employed distinct artistic person-
alities (or, in the case of Czechoslovakia and Poland, called up the gradu-
ates from artistic schools) their origins as a platform for talented amateurs
selected from the people, and the ongoing difficulty of their work on the
cusp between politics, the arts and the military instead made them a safe
haven for artistic mediocrity.
Political Requirements
In the initial period of the communist regimes, the ensembles were sup-
posed to prove that the theses of the Marxist-Leninist theory of culture
were correct. The members of the ensembles, originally a selection of
workers and peasants in uniform, were to demonstrate the possibilities
of the creative potential of the people, a potential that was untapped
under capitalism. They did not only show folk culture adapted for the
stage; their programmes also included national and world classics, show-
ing that the working class was able to make use of this domain that had
once been the preserve of the bourgeoisie. Finally, following on from
92 V. ŠMIDRKAL
the agitprop genre, they were supposed to become the standard bearers
of the highly politically engaged new socialist culture. As a beacon for
the numerous amateur folk art groups within the military they were also
expected to instruct them, thus furthering the development of socialist
mass culture.
According to the military hierarchy, the political apparatus was the
body responsible for the supervision of the ensembles, the flawless ful-
filment of their tasks and, last but not least, for the ideological purity
and political clarity of their shows. The programming of these was
included in the category of ‘cultural enlightenment work’ that made
up one of the pillars of political work in the socialist military. Therefore
the political apparatus was entitled to require that the ensemble include
‘thought content’ (in Russian ideinost') reflecting ideological values
such as socialist patriotism, proletarian internationalism or the peace
mission of the Warsaw Pact, and devote their programmes to political
events like various state and military anniversaries, elections or other
such occasions. Although the relations between the management of
the ensembles and the political apparatus could generate conflicts, both
sides usually tried to avoid such situations by looking for a mutually
acceptable compromise.
Military Utilitarianism
‘There is no combat readiness, as we understand it, without culture and
arts’, claimed Colonel General Heinz Keßler, Commander of the Main
Political Administration, at the Cultural Conference of the National
People’s Army and the Border Troops of the GDR in 1981.11 Keßler’s
statement was based on the Marxist-Leninist military and war theory that
accentuated the importance of the ‘moral-political factor’ for victory in
a war.12 Within this ideological perspective, works of art were believed
to have an enormous power to influence people’s opinions, stances and
behaviour and were therefore referred to as ‘weapons’, symbolically com-
plementing real weapons. This theoretical assumption seemed to be con-
firmed by the Red Army’s victory in the ‘Great Patriotic War’ (1941–45),
during which artists supported their fighting nation. Based on this verified
theory, the ensembles of the Central European militaries were required
to translate communist military discourse into effective works of art that
would motivate, mobilise, encourage and also entertain the soldiers.
SONG AND DANCE ENSEMBLES IN CENTRAL EUROPEAN MILITARIES:... 93
Although such theories were also used to justify the existence of the
ensembles, in reality, the ensembles were not only of no military value,
but, according to ‘bourgeois’ military experts, they could even weaken
the combat force of the military because insufficiently trained conscripts
or even professional soldiers were engaged in these non-combat units.13
Moreover, the special treatment of conscripts who were allowed to carry
out their military service in the ensembles also provoked outrage among
soldiers serving in the regular units who perceived this practice as a sign
of inequity. For example, the singer Frank Schöbel, who was promoted to
Gefreiter after only one month of military service, did not want to irritate
the soldiers in the audience and therefore he took off his rank insignia
before entering the stage.14
Unlike military musicians, who were formally trained as military medi-
cal orderlies for the event of war, the military training of socialist military
ensembles was hardly worthy of mention. Even the East German military,
which was more reluctant to privilege artists, could not find a solution
for the conflict between the profession of a soldier and that of an artist.
Although no operational plan specifying the assignments of the ensembles
in the event of war has been discovered so far, according to fragments
of primary sources and oral accounts, the ensembles were supposed to
continue their artistic work adjusted to field conditions as trained during
Warsaw Pact joint manoeuvres.15
An example of a short-term deployment of an ensemble in a combat-
like situation can be found in the Soviet-led occupation of Czechoslovakia
by five Warsaw Pact armies in August 1968. The Polish troops, stationed in
Eastern Bohemia, were visited by the Merry Squad (Wesoła Drużyna) from
the Sapper Troops and by the Silesian Military Estrada16 (Śla ̨ska Estrada
Wojskowa) from the Silesian Military District.17 The Merry Squad gave
34 concerts for the Polish and Soviet troops, for the Polish guest workers
in the local factories and also for the Czech population, in total for some
3000 viewers.18 Also the Soviet occupying forces in the Czechoslovak
territory that were legalised as the ‘Central Group of Forces’ (1968–91)
established their own song and dance ensemble as an instrument of public
relations between the Soviet troops and the local population. According
to Igor Ivanovich Raevskii (born 1937), who was the artistic leader of this
ensemble from 1968 to 1974, its work was extraordinarily successful and
it helped to restore the ruined relations between the Soviet Union and
Czechoslovakia.19
94 V. ŠMIDRKAL
Fig. 6.1 The classic three-level stage with choir, orchestra and dancers in a show
by the Slovak VUS JN on the occasion of the 35th anniversary of the Communist
Party in 1956
SONG AND DANCE ENSEMBLES IN CENTRAL EUROPEAN MILITARIES:... 95
Czechoslovak military unit in the Soviet Union in 1943 under the leader-
ship of the composer Vít Nejedlý (1912–45). He extended the original
music platoon to include string instruments and a male choir and prepared
the first programme, ‘To the battle, Slavs’ (Do boje, Slované), which pre-
miered in September 1943.
The beginnings of the Polish Army Central Artistic Ensemble
(Centralny Zespół Artystyczny Wojska Polskiego) also dated back to 1943
and the field camp near the village of Sel’tsy (in Polish Sielce nad Oka ̨)
in the Ryazan Oblast. With the formation of the 2nd Henryk Da ̨browski
Infantry Division, a Soviet officer of Polish origin, Teodor Ratkowski,
established a soldiers’ theatre that, unlike the rather traditional theatre of
the 1st Division, was more inspired by the song and dance ensembles he
knew from his own service in the Red Army.
Both Nejedlý and Ratkowski were enchanted by the Soviet ensembles,
but until the wave of Sovietisation in their countries in the late 1940s
the ensembles were a compromise between the inspiring Soviet model
and the national conditions. As Nejedlý wrote in an article published in
the Czechoslovak military newspaper in autumn 1944, he refused ‘plain
copying’ of the Soviet model and urged national originality.20 During the
transition years between the end of the Second World War and the estab-
lishment of a communist dictatorship, the ensembles took different forms
but were also in danger of being disbanded because they were consid-
ered to be war relics. Shortly after Konstantin Rokossovski was appointed
as minister of national defence in Poland (November 1949) and Alexej
Č epička became defence minister in Czechoslovakia (April 1950), the
ensembles were unified in strict accordance with the Soviet model.21
East German history was marked by its path from the Soviet Zone
of Occupation to the internationally acknowledged ‘other’ German state,
and from clandestine rearmament to becoming one of the most militarised
societies in Europe. The flagship of the East German ensemble squad-
ron, the Erich Weinert Ensemble, was created within the German People’s
Police in 1950 as the first ensemble of this kind in the German Democratic
Republic. Its only link to the previous war were that some of its members
had fought in the German Wehrmacht and had been captured as POWs
in the Soviet Union. One of its leading artistic personalities, the composer
Kurt Greiner-Pol (1922–78), allegedly drew the motivation for his work
from his time as a POW in the Soviet Union, which was a ‘university’ for
him. Besides hearing ideological lectures on Marxism-Leninism, he was
also given the opportunity to take part in the work of a cultural group in
the POW camp.22
96 V. ŠMIDRKAL
worth the money.34 On the other hand, the ensembles were a sine qua non
of a socialist military, and both the Polish October and the Prague Spring
were communist reform efforts. After the retreat from the bold October
1956 reforms in Poland as well as the defeat of the Prague Spring by the
end of the 1960s, the ensembles were brought into line with the new
political discourse and its demands.
The artistic leaders tried to counterbalance the prescribed political shows
they had to stage anyway with entertaining or educative programmes where
they were freed of the most disturbing ideological undertones. While the
Polish ensembles eliminated the flamboyant Marxist-Leninist allusions
from their shows and replaced them with the home-made ideology of
‘military patriotism’ after 195635 and the Czechoslovak ensembles moved
away from the previous artistic tenets during the more liberal 1960s, the
East German ensembles demonstrated a continuous development that was
not broken by any remarkable shift in communist cultural policy. In other
words, the songs from the early 1950s that the Czechoslovak and Polish
ensembles later eliminated from their repertoires were still occasionally
played in the GDR in the 1980s. During the 1970s and 1980s the pro-
grammes of the ensembles became more and more routine. Whereas in
the early 1950s they had seemed to represent the avant-garde of socialist
culture and despite cultural reform efforts, in late socialism they became a
holdout against progress and a stronghold of traditionalism.
After the fall of communist regimes in Central Europe in 1989, the transi-
tion era that can be also understood as a process of reorientation towards
western models challenged the future existence of the ensembles. The
military transformation inspired mostly by NATO armies did not give any
specific answer to the question of the role of military artistic ensembles.
In the working meeting of representatives of the Polish Army and the
German Bundeswehr in 1991, the Polish officers asked about the number
of ensembles in the Bundeswehr. The (West) German officers were sur-
prised by such a question and their blunt answer ‘None’ puzzled the Poles
in turn.36
A two-pronged process began. Not only was the socialist state being
transformed into a democracy with a market economy, but the militaries in
both East and West also had to react to the changing security environment,
100 V. ŠMIDRKAL
with the end of the Cold War sealed by the dissolution of the Warsaw Pact
in 1991. The military artistic ensembles found themselves skating on thin
ice. Although many of the permanent ensemble members also hoped for
a better future commencing with the political change in 1989, they were
among those who had profited from the symbiosis with the old regime.
The former achievements of the ensembles were suddenly devalued by
the political changes. Sporadic moments of cautious social criticism, sub-
tle political innuendos or other contraband smuggled into programmes
that had gradually slipped from the control of the party could increase
the attractiveness of such shows in the context of dictatorial systems that
imposed censorship and suppression of freedom of speech, but became
redundant in the emerging liberal democracies.37
Economically, the ensembles were trapped in a vicious circle: their
costly productions did not attract a big enough audience and the state was
no longer willing to subsidise them. The military audience could no lon-
ger be easily organised by the commands, such as ‘Left turn, quick march
to the concert!’ (‘W lewo zwrot, na koncert marsz!’)38 or ‘Report to cul-
ture!’ (‘Nástup na kulturu!’),39 that had previously distorted the supply–
demand relations. The commander of the House of the National People’s
Army in Zittau, Lt Col. Peter Grabecki, admitted shortly after the East
German ‘Peaceful Revolution’ that the Erich Weinert Ensemble’s shows
had previously been, for many, like ‘a red rag to a bull’ and therefore
compulsory attendance was inevitable.40 The empty or half-empty halls
were an unpleasant but clear message from the audience to the ensembles
after 1989 that they were an unpopular hangover from the old regime that
could not probably attract viewers without the means of coercion.
In spite of occasional words of acknowledgement, the ensembles
were about to be reduced and subsequently closed down as the military
as a whole was reduced in size. Their continued existence depended on
their abilities to adapt to the new conditions and on the political will to
keep them. The Erich Weinert Ensemble, renamed the Ensemble of the
National People’s Army in early 1990, was dissolved as the Bundeswehr
Ensemble in mid-1991 when the federal government stopped its funding.
The ensemble idea did not fit into the image of the Bundeswehr that had
been built up, as a distinctively different German army giving up most of
the military pomp that had marked earlier German militarism. Similarly,
the Bundeswehr also delimited itself to the East German National
People's Army. For the unified German military it was the Big Band of the
Bundeswehr, a jazz orchestra with solo singers founded in 1971 in West
SONG AND DANCE ENSEMBLES IN CENTRAL EUROPEAN MILITARIES:... 101
Germany that was chosen to represent the modern face of the German
armed forces. Parts of the Ensemble became independent, such as the Carl
Maria von Weber Choir, which continued to perform until 2005, or the
cabaret group The Pliers, which became a civilian institution of the same
name in Berlin and ceased its activities as late as in 2011.
In Czechoslovakia, the smallest and artistically weakest ensemble, that
of the Western Military District in Tábor, was the first one to close in
October 1991. The former Vít Nejedlý Army Artistic Ensemble in Prague
was reformed a few times but helplessness leading to a pandering attempt
to update its contents by including striptease shows on the one hand and
the founding of an exclusive highbrow Prague Philharmonia on the other
did not produce a new sustainable working platform. The ensemble was
dissolved under the name of the Artistic Studio of the Ministry of Defence
(Umělecké studio Ministerstva obrany) in 1995.
While these Czech military ensembles disappeared from the scene
mostly due to the relatively radical process of de-communisation and their
role as former prominent institutions of the highly politicised socialist
culture and of the unpopular socialist army, independent Slovakia took
another approach. Slovak society did not feel the urgent need to come to
terms with its communist past after 1989, for the communist period in
Slovakia had meant rapid social and economic development, and the com-
munist regime was more integrative, creating only a small group of dis-
sidents.41 After the dissolution of Czechoslovakia in 1993, the former Ján
Nálepka Military Artistic Ensemble continued its work under the name of
the Army Artistic Ensemble (Armádny umelecký súbor) until 2005 when
conscription was cancelled in Slovakia and its armed forces became com-
pletely professional. The dissolution of the Czechoslovak federation and
its army also led to the split of the semi-professional army-based folklore
ensemble Jánošík in Brno. While the Czech ensemble was renamed the
Ondráš Military Folklore Ensemble (Vojenský umělecký soubor Ondráš)
and has remained in Brno until today,42 the Slovak Army re-established the
Jánošík Military Folklore Ensemble (Vojenský umelecký súbor Jánošík)
in Zvolen and ran it until 2011, when it was dissolved due to cuts in the
military budget.
The Polish army, which had already had to economise in the 1980s
and gradually terminated the activities of all smaller ensembles during
the 1990s, is the only one in the region that has maintained its ensem-
ble to this day, the Representative Artistic Ensemble of the Polish Army
(Reprezentacyjny Zespół Artystyczny Wojska Polskiego). Its Soviet origins,
102 V. ŠMIDRKAL
Conclusion
The military artistic ensembles were created by the socialist dictatorships
as a specific answer to the need to maintain morale in the mass armies of
conscripts and to present the ethos of the socialist military, which previ-
ous cultural institutions such as military bands could not fully accomplish.
Originally they were established in the Soviet Union and spread to East-
Central Europe through local agents in the 1940s and early 1950s. The
ensembles represented part of the socialist army’s character, distinctively
different from that of the capitalist militaries of the past and present, and
therefore their existence in general could not have been openly contested
before 1989. Despite the intrinsic tension between their artistic, military
and political functions, their ups and downs were not diametrically differ-
ent from those of civilian ensemble art and therefore they were a specific
part of the national artistic scene in socialist states.
Of all the military ensembles in Czechoslovakia, East Germany and
Poland before 1989, only one ensemble in the Polish Army, justified by
rich Polish traditions in military music and theatre, and one in the Czech
Army, which is rather a curiosity because it is a purely folklore ensemble,
have survived. At different stages along the common route that these three
armies took, from the status of a Warsaw Pact mass army to NATO pro-
fessional troops, the ensembles were perceived both as a heritage of their
countries’ former dependence on the Soviet Union and as an obsolete and
redundant anachronism from socialist times. It was not only practical mat-
ters, such as lack of finances or the ongoing revolution in military affairs in
the post-Cold War era, but also the changing identity of the military that,
in most cases, did not allow these institutions to be reformed and kept
for long. Whereas the Russian Army currently administrates 12 profes-
sional artistic ensembles44 and in other post-Soviet states, such as Ukraine,
Belarus or Kazakhstan, the artistic ensembles of the armed forces also
demonstrate continuity with the Soviet period, there was a strong political
need to break away from the pre-1989 past in Central European countries
and demonstrate their geopolitical ‘return to Europe’ by implementing
thorough institutional changes. No matter how differently the respective
armies dealt with the ensemble legacy after 1989, in all of them the former
SONG AND DANCE ENSEMBLES IN CENTRAL EUROPEAN MILITARIES:... 103
song and dance ensembles had been a phase-out model of a military artis-
tic institution that had lost most of its justification for existence in the
new political and security order. The Central European military song and
dance ensembles were, after all, mere local copies of the Soviet ‘flagship’,
the Alexandrov Ensemble, which unlike them proved to be viable under
different political regimes. After the dissolution of the Soviet Union the
Alexandrov Ensemble survived and in Putin’s Russia it became a success-
ful instrument of Russian soft power again, setting sail to new spectacular
sell-outs as well as controversies over its political purpose.
Notes
1. The Alexandrov Ensemble, Dvazhdy Krasnoznamennyi ordena Krasnoi
Zvezdy ansambl’ pesni i plyaski Sovetskoi Armii imeni A.V. Alexandrova
(Moscow: Izdatel’stvo Muzyka, 1982), 60.
2. Marshall McLuhan, Understanding Media (London: Sphere Books,
1967), 15.
3. Anthony Shay, Choreographic Politics: State Folk Dance Companies,
Representation and Power (Middletown: Wesleyan University Press, 2002);
and Hanna Walsdorf, Bewegte Propaganda: Politische Instrumentalisierung
von Volkstanz in den deutschen Diktaturen (Wuerzburg: Königshausen &
Neumann, 2010).
4. Matthias Rogg, Armee des Volkes? Militär und Gesellschaft in der DDR
(Berlin: Ch. Links, 2008), 167–169.
5. Beate Ihme-Tuchel, Das “nördliche Dreieck”: Die Beziehungen zwischen der
DDR, der Tschechoslowakei und Polen in den Jahren 1954 bis 1962 (Cologne:
Verlag Wissenschaft und Politik, 1994).
6. Thierry Bouzard, Histoire du chant militaire français, de la monarchie à
nos jours (Paris: Grancher, 2005), 25.
7. Frank J. Miller, Folklore for Stalin: Russian Folklore and Pseudofolklore of the
Stalin Era (London: Sharpe, 1990), x–xi.
8. From 1967–68 the festival took place in Połczyn Zdrój and in 1969 it was
moved to Kołobrzeg, which became a synonym for the festival. From 1969
on Połczyn Zdrój hosted the festival of military artistic ensembles. Karolina
Bittner, Piosenka w służbie propagandy. Festiwal Piosenki Żołnierskiej w
Kołobrzegu 1968–1989 (Poznan: IPN, 2015).
9. ‘Ocena XXII Festiwalu Piosenki Żołnierskiej (1988) “Kołobrzeg 88”’,
30 August 1988, Gd 593/258, k. 400, IPN Warszawa.
10. Frank Schöbel, Frank und frei (Berlin: Aufbau-Taschenbuch- Verlag,
2000), 120–125.
104 V. ŠMIDRKAL
25. The Border Troops: ‘The Border’ (Granica); The Warsaw Military District:
‘The Assault’ (Desant); The Air Defence: ‘Radar’; The Silesian Military
District: ‘The Silesian Military Estrada’ (Śla ̨ska Estrada Wojskowa); The
Air Force: ‘The Squad’ (Eskadra); The Pomeranian Military District: ‘The
Black Berets’ (Czarne Berety); The Navy: ‘The Fleet’ (Flotylla); ‘I. Ocena
przegla ̨du programów zespołów estradowych okręgów wojskowych
(RSZ)’,1985, BU 2327/180, 59–60, IPN Warszawa and ‘Ramowy plan
koncertów’, Kultura i Oświata w Wojsku Polskim 1 (1987), 128.
26. Marian Czyżewski, Centralny Zespół Artystyczny Wojska Polskiego (Warsaw:
Wydawnictwo MON, 1982), 52.
27. ‘Notizen einer Beratung bei dem Ministerium für Kultur über die Arbeit
der hauptberuflichen Ensembles’, 29 November 1956, DO 1/27251,
7–8, BArch-DDR.
28. ‘Konsum’ or ‘Konsumgennossenschaften’ were the consumer cooperatives
in East Germany.
29. The abbreviation HO stood for the Handelsorganisation (Trading
Organisation), a state-run retail business in East Germany.
30. ‘Die bisherige Entwicklung und die Perspektiven der hauptberuflichen
Volkskunst-Ensembles’, 14 January 1958, VA-P-01/041,185, BArch-MA.
31. ‘Plan der Maßnahmen zur Auflösung des „Hans-Beimler-Ensembles”’, 10
October 1961, VA-P-01/204, 358–360, BArch-MA and ‘Auflösung des
Republikensembles der Deutsche Volkspolizei’, 5 December 1961, DO
1/27255, BArch.
32. Otakar Brůna, ‘Křídla nejsou k zahození’, Č eskoslovenský voják 9 (1969),
49–51.
33. ‘Návrhy na změny v řízení kulturně výchovné činnosti centrálních kul-
turních a uměleckých složek’, 30, 1966, f. MNO, r. 1966, k. č. 54
VÚA-VHA.
34. ‘Opatření k realizaci snížení počtů v Armádním uměleckém souboru Víta
Nejedlého’, 2, 1970, f. MNO, r. 1970, k. č. 52, VÚA-VHA.
35. Łukasz Polniak, Patriotyzm wojskowy w PRL w latach 1956–1970 (Warsaw:
Trio, 2011).
36. Piotr Kłudka, ‘Mrok nad wojskowa ̨ estrada ̨’, Wojsko i Wychowanie 2.8
(1991):75–78, here 75.
37. Ibid., 76.
38. Ibid., 77.
39. This practice is depicted in the Czechoslovak feature film Bylo nás deset (dir.
Antonín Kachlík, Czechoslovakia 1963).
40. Reinhard Witteck, ‘Schlüsselübergabe?’, Die Volksarmee 11 (1990), 12.
41. Juraj Marušiak, ‘The Normalisation Regime and its Impact on Slovak
Domestic Policy after 1970’, Europe-Asia Studies 60.10 (2008),
1805–1825.
106 V. ŠMIDRKAL
Zoltán Imre
Sitting between the First Deputy Minister for Foreign Affairs and a Vice-
President of the Council of State for Cultural and Socialist Education in
the official box at the Opera House for the gala premiere of the Royal
Shakespeare Company’s production of ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’
on 23 October and watching those adroit fairies prepare Bottom for his
night of love with Titania, I began to get an uneasy feeling that things
were not going well as I observed their consternation and embarrassment
at the erotic miming before us. This impression was confirmed by their
almost monosyllabic comments at my reception during the interval. ‘Très
intéressant’ said Gliga, but then words failed him; ‘très piquant’ said [Ion]
This essay is based on an earlier article by the author in Hungarian: Zoltán Imre,
‘Szentivánéji álmok: Peter Brook kelet-európai turnéja a hidegháború idején’ (A
Midsummer Night’s Dreams: Peter Brook’s Tour of Eastern Europe during the
Cold War), Irodalomtörténet 45(95) 1 (2014), 90–113.
Z. Imre (*)
Eötvös Loránd University, Budapest, Hungary
Blad—a more apposite comment on the scene than perhaps intended, but
even this faint praise clearly left other thoughts unexpressed. […] [O]
n the following day my Cultural Attaché and later the manager of the
Company were called to a 21/2-hour meeting with ARIA, the Romanian
State impresarios, to hear their ‘suggestions’ for the modification of the
‘phallic Bottom’ episode; but the manager insisted that he had no power
to alter Peter Brook’s masterpiece in any way at all and this particular
scene in fact remained unaltered during the remainder of the run.1
On 31 October 1972, the British Ambassador to Romania, D.R. Ashe
sent his strictly confidential report to the head of the East European and
Soviet Department, J.L. Bullard at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office
(FCO), London. His report referring to the abovementioned ‘uneasy feel-
ing’ and ‘suggestions’ was written a few days after the Royal Shakespeare
Company (RSC) had completed its tour of Romania between 22 and
28 October 1972. Though Peter Brook’s production of A Midsummer
Night’s Dream was originally premiered on 27 August 1970 at Stratford-
upon-Avon, in 1972 it was chosen by the British Council (BC) for an
East European tour, and the company performed it in Belgrade, Budapest,
Bucharest, Sofia, Zagreb and Warsaw.2
By that time, the RSC had already completed an American tour, and
the following year, in 1973, they took the production on a world tour.
Within three years, it travelled nearly the entire world, playing a total of
535 performances in 36 cities, and it ‘accreted to itself the polished veneer
that reveals and conceals a prestige “event”’.3 As a result, Brook’s Dream
transcended borders in a time and a world in which borders were closely
watched and controlled.
The article focuses on the RSC’s East European tour and investigates
the role theatre and theatre touring played during the Cold War. Reading
the critics’ reviews, the Eastern European authorities’ (secret) reports and
the ongoing correspondence between British officials in East European
capitals and London, the article maps the different perceptions that
Brook, the British officials, the East European authorities and audiences
had. Analysing these perceptions, the article argues that theatre was inter/
cross-cultural4 even in the harsh political, ideological and social circum-
stances of the Cold War; and that the visit of the RSC was regarded as a
complex sociocultural and political event on both sides of the Wall.
In the early 1970s, Soviet-type restoration took place in the region,
backed by the so-called Brezhnev Doctrine: reform-communist party
officials were removed from office and their reforms were reversed.
THEATRE, PROPAGANDA AND THE COLD WAR: PETER BROOK’S... 109
In Romania, Nicolae Ceauşescu introduced his July thesis (1971), and
established a totalitarian regime and his personality cult. At the same time,
however, international talks about normalisation between the two blocs
continued, and cultural exchanges played a crucial role. Both Western and
Eastern governmental support for the arts was at least in part designed as
(counter-)propaganda intended for the other side, which aimed to sup-
port either bourgeois notions of freedom or a socialist type of reform soci-
ety. As a result, from the 1960s onwards, both in the East and the West,
arts councils, working closely with their foreign offices, were locked in a
cultural arms race. Though the political situation between the blocs was
still very fragile, cultural exchanges between eastern socialist and western
capitalist states became more frequent. The RSC’s visit to Eastern Europe
in 1972 was also the result of the international cultural-political opening.
you may be aware of our strenuous effort to get an English Theatre Company
to Hungary and the difficulties which we have had in the past. Interkoncert’s
acceptance of the Royal Shakespeare Company is a real breakthrough and it
is imperative that the deal should be clinched immediately.22
The visit was thus seen as a ‘real breakthrough’ in cultural and even politi-
cal relations. As a result, not only the British authorities in London, but
also their Hungarian partners were eager to seize this opportunity. A few
days later, an article in The Daily News, an English-language newspaper in
Budapest, publicly announced that the RSC was going to visit the city in
October 1972.23
The RSC’s visit to Eastern Europe most of all served as a form of rela-
tionship maintenance between Britain and the Eastern Bloc. Its impor-
tance can also be seen in the fact that not only the BC, but also the FCO
closely followed its progress. The British policy was clear. The British
Ambassador to Romania, Ashe, wrote directly to J.L. Bullard, the Head of
the Eastern European and Soviet Department, FCO, London, that ‘there
is nothing to be gained from trying to push the [Romanian] Council fur-
ther than they [Romanian officials] are prepared to go. Otherwise we run
the risk of bringing about a curtailment rather than an expansion of these
exchanges’.24 As a result, the official policy of the British authorities was to
try to avoid controversy at any price.25
In order to maintain ‘the credit to Britain’,26 the BC policy avoided
direct politics and directly addressing cultural-political issues. However, it
came as a shock to BC and FCO members when they discovered Brook’s
dedication in the printed programme for the East European tour. Besides
expressing his intention for his production to be ‘a celebration of theatre:
it is a celebration of the creative community of the freed imagination,’ he
also dedicated
we must hope that the management will be able to stick under pressure to
the line that the dedication is a personal expression of view by the director
of the production. It might be possible to draw a distinction between the
production and the performances. If any copies of this brochure find their
way to Eastern Europe, with the outside cover, it might be possible to argue
that it was only certain performances which were dedicated in this way and
that none of those in East Europe were.35
would take Brook’s dedication as the official policy of the BC and thus the
UK. He told R. P. Martin that, ‘the British Council are very concerned
lest further publicity to Mr Brook’s comments should lead to Eastern
European Governments cancelling the tour, with heavy loss to the British
Council’.44 The cancellation of the tour would also mean that relations
between the UK and Eastern European governments would again be fro-
zen for a while.
In addition to these cautious preventive measures, the British Embassies
in Eastern Europe were also instructed to monitor the visit closely. The
Director of the FCO’s East Europe Department in London, I.H. Williams,
instructed R.P. Martin in Budapest, and also other HM Missions in the
Eastern European countries, that ‘I should only add that we should like
to know at once if you or the company are faced with any difficulty or
embarrassment which could be attributed to Peter Brook’s dedication.
The Foreign and Commonwealth Office letter already indicates the line to
follow if you are questioned about this’.45 Indeed reports from the cities
of Eastern Europe confirmed that the preventive actions of the BC were
not entirely successful.
The British Ambassador T. Frank Brenchley’s report from Warsaw,
where the RSC played on 22, 23 and 24 November, to J.L. Bullard of the
FCO’s Eastern European and Soviet Department, pointed out that
they were handing out copies here. I sent a message to the manager of
the Company saying that this could only lead to trouble and warning him
strongly against such silliness. In reply I got a message that loyalty to Peter
THEATRE, PROPAGANDA AND THE COLD WAR: PETER BROOK’S... 115
there were no suggestions that I should occupy any sort of official box and
in all the circumstances I decided to take a purely private party to the open-
ing night, having given an official reception for the Company on the previ-
ous day. I cannot therefore say what either Fock or Aczel may privately have
116 Z. IMRE
the chance to meet with Ileasa, the Director of Foreign relations in the
Council of State for Culture and Socialist Education [...] to tackle him direct
about ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream’ and to ask him to tell me quite frankly
what the official reaction here was to it. He replied immediately that he was
very glad that I had asked him for a frank opinion and said that he would take
the opportunity to give me his ‘personal views’. But he then went straight on
to make a statement which clearly gave me much more than his own opinion.
He said that Dimitri Popescu, the President of the Council, Ion Blad, one of
his Vice-Presidents and a number of others who had seen the play had dis-
cussed it at some length and had arrived at unanimous conclusions about it. In
their opinion the production was a brilliant piece of theatre, fully bearing out
the high reputation which Peter Brook had established in the Shakespearean
field. […] But at the same time it had introduced into Romania an element
of Western sexual permissiveness and moral decadence which they found
unhealthy and which they did not wish to promote in this country.62
The press reviews were all enthusiastic. ‘One said, quite rightly, “we had
an unforgettable night, one of those that restores the faith in the sense
of theatre and its inexhaustible potentialities”’.69 In addition, Brenchley
120 Z. IMRE
added that the erotic scenes ‘caused no difficulties for the Polish audi-
ences, brought up as they have been on the hardly less explicit perfor-
mances of the Tomaszewski and Grotowski theatres, and the particular
scene that caused such trouble in Bucharest was greeted with a roar of
cheers and laughter’.70
From Budapest, R.P. Martin reported that the ‘public interest was very
great’, and the visit was ‘a popular and artistic success’, and received an
‘entirely favourable reaction in official and political quarters’.71 In addi-
tion he also noted ‘a long review which, rather surprisingly, appeared in
the party newspaper’ and that ‘the sexual imagery and the overtly erotic
element in the play were noted by many critics, but not in a disapprov-
ing manner’.72 Although Martin was entirely positive about the reception
of the play, there were minor concerns about the openly sexual scenes in
Budapest as well.73
Besides the East European Party officials’ suggestion of censoring cer-
tain scenes, rather strangely, there had been similar attempts by the BC as
well. After the reaction of Romanian officials became known in London,
E.V. Vines replied to D.R. Ashe in Bucharest that
when the British Council discovered that the touring company had taken
on more bawdiness than the original production, they asked the Company
to adjust it to Eastern European taste, but as your letter shows, without
apparent success.74
His action was in accordance with the official BC policy stating that ‘the
Council should be careful not to present in Romania cultural manifesta-
tions which were too avant garde for local official taste’.75
Besides being considered as a complex sociopolitical event, in Eastern
Europe the visit of a Western company was an economically viable busi-
ness as well. The performances were unquestioned box-office successes,
and tickets were also available on the black market, but they cost a for-
tune. The issuing of tickets was, however, more complex. Donald Logan
from Sofia reported to J.L. Bullard, London that ‘it is said that there were
no more than one hundred tickets on sale to the public for these three
performances (the theatre holds 1200). I can well believe this’.76 Later
he added that ‘almost all the tickets were distributed through Party and
Government organizations, no doubt, as rewards to the faithful’.77
In addition to its direct censorship and control over access, the
Hungarian socialist regime took the opportunity to instigate a debate
THEATRE, PROPAGANDA AND THE COLD WAR: PETER BROOK’S... 121
about Hungarian theatre. After the visit, a young Hungarian critic, Tamás
Koltai (in 1973) wrote an article with the title: ‘How Can We Play Theatre
after the Visit of the RSC?’ He praised the RSC’s production and attacked
the Hungarian theatre system. Suddenly a debate on Hungarian theatre
developed, involving major theatre critics, cultural notabilities and the-
atre directors. The cultural administration probably allowed it because
they could utilise it for their own cultural-political aims. By means of this
debate, the regime demonstrated that Hungary was an open society where
public debate was possible. The cultural leaders could use even negative
views of Hungarian theatre to control the system and any positive remarks
to defend the artists and theatre companies under attack. As a result, the
debate proved again that the Hungarian cultural sector in general, and the
theatre sector in particular, were under the strict control of the regime.
The authorities used the debate to advance the official party line in cul-
tural businesses and theatre issues as well.78
Conclusions
The audiences, critics and officials’ different visions confirm that the so-
called Eastern bloc was not a totally unified sphere; instead it was vertically
and horizontally divided—within the bloc and within the individual states.
Therefore current research on the Cold War should pay more attention
‘to the specific situation in individual countries of the so called “Soviet
bloc”’.79 The reactions to Brook’s production imply that although Eastern
European states followed certain general rules, there were real differences
among them as well.
Brook’s production and other cultural, educational and economic
exchanges also indicate that the two blocs were not entirely blocked off
from one another. The Cold War was also part of a globalised world,
though with certain restrictions. Thus this conflict can be more effectively
imagined as ‘the diversification of power’.80 Though there was a funda-
mental change in the nature of the international system after World War II
because the European world was defined by the two opposing sides, within
this opposition, the international system ‘remained multidimensional’.81
The American historian, John Lewis Gaddis has reminded us that a new
Cold War history should ‘take ideas seriously’.82 When people choose,
‘they have ideas in their minds. But to understand these, we have to take
seriously what they at that time believed’.83 The end of the Cold War hap-
pened not because of military defeat or just because of an economic crash,
122 Z. IMRE
but because ‘there was a collapse of legitimacy’.84 Ideas and what people
thought of themselves, their regimes and the other side of the Wall were
crucial. A touring production was a perfect way of delivering ideas from
one camp to another and undermining official Party views. As a result, cul-
tural exchanges played an important role in spreading ideas, as the collapse
of communism was also the consequence of the contacts and exchanges
between the East and the West.
One of the main objectives of the exchanges was to maintain the rela-
tionship at any cost—even by scarifying and censoring the comments of
one’s own director. In the long run, it was a policy of extensive relaxation
and constant image management. After the entire tour, as a sort of conclu-
sion, Vines of the FCO’s Cultural Exchange Department, in his response
to Donald Logan’s letter from Sofia, wrote that ‘the main thing is that
it was a success and we are now left with the intriguing problem for the
future of finding some manifestation of equal merit and less controversy’.85
The controversy was caused—as we have already seen—by the eroti-
cism of the production, and even Vines, who was responsible for organis-
ing the tour, was not in favour of its touring version. He clearly stated
that ‘while it remains a brilliant piece of theatre, full of new insights into
a too well known play, and will continue to be successful in many parts of
the world, the style has coarsened, introducing the bawdy humour of the
music hall’.86 And for the same reasons, Vines was against the production’s
possible 1973 Moscow tour. He asked J.A. Dobbs in Moscow:
is the DREAM the right prestige production to put us back into cultural
business again in Moscow? The Ministry of Culture would not accept the
production without vetting it first—indeed we know the Soviet Embassy
checked on it when it opened in London—but there is always the risk of
success de scandale and the impact of the production diminished by contro-
versy and puritan reaction. It does not seem to me to be the right manifesta-
tion to put us back again into cultural business in the Soviet Union.87
Brook’s production and its reception also support the view that the Cold
War was as much a connection with similar values as a division. Brook’s
production and its reception also strengthen the argument that the cold
war was as much about similar values as it was about divisions. As the cen-
tral Hungarian news agency MTI announced, ‘with this work Brook could
get nearer to the universal theatrical language than at any time before’.88
Brook’s universal language was an appropriate reaction to and a perfect
metaphor in a rhetorically, politically and physically divided world.
THEATRE, PROPAGANDA AND THE COLD WAR: PETER BROOK’S... 123
Notes
1. Letter from D.R. Ashe to J.L. Bullard, London, 31 October 1972, 34/129,
The National Archives, London.
2. As part of the same tour, the company also performed the production in
Berlin, Munich, Paris, Venice, Milan, Hamburg, Cologne and Oslo; see
‘Itinerary for the Royal Shakespeare Company’, FCO 34/149, The
National Archives, London.
3. David Selbourne, The Making of a Midsummer Night’s Dream—An Eye-
witness Account of Peter Brook’s Production from First Rehearsal to First
Night (London and New York: Methuen, 1982), 38.
4. See, for example, Patrice Pavis (ed.), The Intercultural Performance Reader
(New York and London: Routledge, 1996); Julie Holledge and Joanne
Tompkins, Women’s Intercultural Performance (London and New York:
Routledge, 2000); Helen Gilbert and Jacqueline Lo, ‘Toward a Topography
of Cross-cultural Theatre Praxis’, The Drama Review 46.3 (2002), 31–53;
Christopher Balme, Decolonizing the Stage: Theatrical Syncretism and Post-
Colonial Drama (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999) and Christopher
Balme, ‘Selling the Bird: Richard Walton Tully’s The Bird of Paradise and
the Dynamics of Theatrical Commodification’, Theatre Journal 57.1
(2005), 1–20; and Richard Paul Knowles, Theatre and Interculturalism
(London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010).
5. Hal Rogers was Company Manager, House-Father, and Stage Manager for
Brook’s production of the Dream.
6. As quoted in Glenn Loney (ed.), Peter Brook’s Production of William
Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream for the Royal Shakespeare
Company—Authorized Acting Edition (Stratford-upon-Avon: The Royal
Shakespeare Company and The Dramatic Publishing Company, 1974), 99.
7. Letter from E.V. Vines to R.P. Martin, Budapest, 4 August 1972, FCO
34/149, The National Archives, London.
124 Z. IMRE
23. Letter from C.R. Hewer to the Director, Drama and Music Department,
British Council, London, 5 May 1972, FCO 34/149, The National
Archives, London.
24. Letter from D.R. Asheto J.L. Bullard, London, 31 October 1972, 34/129,
The National Archives, London.
25. It was a difficult business, however. Alec Douglas-Home wrote in a general
report, entitled Cultural Policy Towards Hungary, but distributed among
the British representatives of the region, that ‘we should take care not to
push our ideas too hard for fear of Soviet reaction. Our policy has always
been to make discreet offers of help and leave it to the recipient country to
decide how much they feel they can safely accept. East Europeans are adept
at knowing when and how to draw the line, and our experiences with
Hungary confirm this’ (Alec Douglas-Home, Cultural Policy Towards
Hungary, 1 August 1972, FCO 34/129, The National Archives, London).
26. Letter from Donald Logan to J.L. Bullard, London, 15 November 1972,
FCO 34/149, The National Archives, London.
27. Peter Brook’s dedication in the programme of the East European Tour,
Victoria and Albert Museum, Archive and Library Reading Room, Blythe
House, London, Production File: Midsummer Night’s Dream (Brook),
1972.
28. Reduta, 1956; Divadlo na Zábrádli, 1959; Č inoherní Klub, 1965, and
others.
29. Olga Chtiguel, ‘Without Theatre, the Czechoslovak Revolution Could Not
Have Been Won’, The Drama Review 34.3 (1990), 88–96, 89.
30. Ibid.
31. Ibid.
32. See William H. Luers, ‘Czechoslovakia: Road to Revolution’, Foreign
Affairs 69.2 (1990), 77–98, 79.
33. See for example, Kieran Williams, The Prague Spring and its Aftermath—
Czechoslovak Politics 1968–1970 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1997) and William H. Luers, ‘Czechoslovakia: Road to Revolution’,
Foreign Affairs 69.2 (1990), 77–98.
34. Jarka Burian, ‘Art and Relevance: The Small Theatres of Prague,
1958–1970’, Educational Theatre Journal 33.3 (1971), 229–257, 246. On
Czech theatres in that period see, for example, Burian, ‘Art and Relevance’
and Dennis C. Beck, ‘Divadlo Husa na Provázku and the “Absence” of
Czech Community’, Theatre Journal 48.4 (1996), 419–441.
35. Letter from E.V. Vines to R.P. Martin, Budapest, 7 August 1972, FCO
34/149, The National Archives, London.
36. Letter from E.V. Vines to John Argles, London, 2 August 1972, FCO
34/149, The National Archives, London.
126 Z. IMRE
37. Letter from E.V. Vines to R.P. Martin, Budapest, 7 August 1972, FCO
34/149, The National Archives, London.
38. Letter from J.D.K. Argles to E.V. Vines, London, 4 August 1972, FCO
34/149, The National Archives, London.
39. Ibid.
40. Letter from E.V. Vines to D.F.B. Le Breton, Budapest, 9 August 1972,
FCO 34/149, The National Archives, London.
41. Ibid.
42. Ibid. Vines stated to John Argles at the BC in London that ‘I have told Tim
Williams that we have had an informal word with Radio Free Europe about
the background to all this’ (Letter from E.V. Vines to John Argles, London,
2 August 1972, The National Archives, London, FCO 34/149.).
43. Letter from E.V. Vines to D.F.B. Le Breton, Budapest, 9 August 1972. On
2 August 1972, a very brief notice appeared in The Daily Telegraph, entitled
‘Theatrical Gesture’. It referred to the fact that Brook ‘has taken an unusual
step of dedicating the tour to another theatre company. Unhappily the
dedication is to a company which no longer exists. This is the Za Branou
Theatre of Prague which, until the repressions of the Husák regime, had
been recognised not only as Czechoslovakia’s leading theatre but also as a
group of world stature. Alas, after increasing hardships, the theatre was
disbanded by government decree on June 10 this year’ (The Daily Telegraph,
1972).
44. Letter from E.V. Vines to R.P. Martin, Budapest, 4 August 1972, FCO
34/149, The National Archives, London.
45. Letter from I.H. Williams to R.P. Martin, Budapest, 11 August 1972, FCO
34/149, The National Archives, London.
46. Letter from T. Frank Brenchley to J.L. Bullard, London, 1 December
1972, London, FCO 346149, The National Archives.
47. Letter from D.R. Ashe to J.L. Bullard, London, 31 October 1972, 34/129,
The National Archives, London.
48. Marcus Ferrar, ‘Rumania’s Theatrical Troubles’, 15 February 1973, Radio
Free Europe, RL/BA FEB 15 1112/1973, Open Society Archives,
Budapest.
49. Letter from D.S.L. Dodson to J.L. Bullard, London, 14 November 1972,
FCO 34/149, The National Archives, London. Dodson was under the
surveillance of the Hungarian Secret Police, as he was suspected of spying
due to his rank at the British Embassy (Dodson’s file, ABTL 2.2.1.
OP. NYT. III/4. 5. /141). Unfortunately, Dodson’s file was not found.
50. Even in these societies, however, there were various tactics and strategies
used for negotiation between the censors and the censored, and to get past
the censors, such as the technique whereby ‘two or more parallel agencies
could be played against each other’ (Seth Baumrin, ‘Ketmanship in Opole:
THEATRE, PROPAGANDA AND THE COLD WAR: PETER BROOK’S... 127
Jerzy Grotowski and the Price of Artistic Freedom’, The Drama Review
53.4 (2009), 49–77, 63); ‘ketmanship’, namely ‘the ability of artists and
scientists to deceive the authorities’ (Baumrin, ‘Ketmanship in Opole’, 61);
‘the blind spots of censorship’, where ‘the spaces of official and personal
relationship overlapped’ (Margaret Setje-Eilers, ‘“Wochenend und
Sonnenschein”: In the Blind Spots of Censorship at the GDR’s Cultural
Authorities and the Berliner Ensemble’, Theatre Journal 61.3 (2009),
363–386, 364), and using real and/or false ‘allusions’ (Setje-Eilers,
‘“Wochenend und Sonnenschein”’, 379), and ‘the tactic of the false white
dogs’ (Dennis C. Beck, ‘Divadlo Husa na Provázku and the “Absence” of
Czech Community’, Theatre Journal 48.4 (1996), 419–441, 428).
51. Laura Bradley, ‘GDR Theatre Censorship: A System in Denial’, German
Life and Letters 59.1 (2006), 151–162, 151.
52. Ibid, 158. The Soviet Union was not different in this respect. As Valeria
D. Stelmakh points out, censorship was ‘a social system with powerful con-
trol over information and reading, restricting the public access to the
world’s various cultures’ (Valeria D. Stelmakh, ‘Reading in the Context of
Censorship in the Soviet Union’, Libraries and the Cultural Record 36.1
(2001), 143–151, here 143).
53. Beck, ‘Divadlo Husa na Provázku’, 428.
54. Liviu Maliţa, ‘Ceauşescu színházba megy’, Színház 41.5 (2009), 33–42,
11.
55. Liviu Maliţa, ‘Literature and Red Ideology—Romanian Plays on Religious
Themes in the 1950s and 1960s’, Journal for the Study of Religions and
Ideologies 23.8 (2009), 82–106, 82.
56. Ibid., 85.
57. Ibid.
58. ‘Russians Make Scene Over Gogol in Romania’, 13 October 1972, Radio
Free Europe, 811, F-63, Open Society Archives, Budapest.
59. ‘Romanians Close Down Russian Classic’, 14 October, 1972, Radio Free
Europe, 811, F-64, Open Society Archives, Budapest.
60. Marcus Ferrar, ‘Rumania’s Theatrical Troubles’, 15 February 1973, Radio
Free Europe, RL/BA FEB 15 1112/1973, Open Society Archives,
Budapest.
61. Letter from D.R. Ashe to J.L. Bullard, London, 31 October 1972, 34/129,
The National Archives, London.
62. Ibid.
63. Natalia Stancu, ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream’, Scintiea, BW 1/606, The
National Archives, London.
64. Radu Popescu, ‘The Royal Shakespeare Company: The Midsummer
Night’s Dream’, Romania Libera, 20 October 1972, BW 1/606, The
National Archives, London.
128 Z. IMRE
James Smith
It is well known that, for much of the twentieth century, Britain’s the-
atres were subjected to extensive and intrusive state regulation, an issue
most notably manifested in the power of the Lord Chamberlain to read
and license every new play script before its performance on the public
stage.1 However, given the Lord Chamberlain’s very overt and controver-
sial censorship presence—with powers, until their final abolition in 1968,
that focussed on maintaining ‘good manners, decorum … [and] public
peace’—2 less often have the covert political manoeuvres of the cultural
cold war seemed to play a major role in modern British theatre history.3
While there were some suspicions that individual careers were hampered
by blacklisting,4 and while there were claims that certain companies, dra-
matists, and performers were being denied visas and opportunities to tour
This chapter adapts and expands my research published in James Smith, British
Writers and MI5 Surveillance, 1930–1960 (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 2013), and has particularly benefited from discussions with participants at
the ‘Theatre, Globalization and the Cold War’ conference.
J. Smith (*)
Durham University, Durham, UK
the UK,5 the cultural climate in the UK seemed to avoid the extent of the
anti-communism seen in the USA, which famously resulted in the House
Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) hearings, public denuncia-
tions, and the blacklisting of numerous left-wing actors, writers, and direc-
tors.6 Even when suspicions of covert government cultural interference
were raised in Britain, there was little opportunity to substantiate such
claims, as the British government did not even officially admit to the exis-
tence of its intelligence services until after the cold war, with the records
of such agencies wholly exempt from public disclosure.
However, several recent developments mean that we are now in a posi-
tion to better address the question of how British theatre of the cold war
was subjected to security monitoring and interference. For one, increasing
scholarly research into the cultural cold war has established that the British
government was an active player in this clandestine sphere, founding its
own propaganda arms to contest the battle of ideas against the Soviet
Union,7 and contributing to CIA-linked ventures such as the Congress
for Cultural Freedom and its house magazine, Encounter.8 Furthermore,
recent archival releases have shown that Britain’s security and intelligence
agencies kept extensive dossiers on individuals and organisations in the
cultural world, and suggest that the theatre was viewed as a site of specific
security interest during the cold war.
Although we only have access to a limited selection of files,9 it still
allows us to perceive some of the surveillance maintained on the theatre
industry, demonstrating that MI5 and Special Branch operated a quite dis-
tinct form of state monitoring in this era. Unlike the Lord Chamberlain,
whose efforts were often focussed on the minute details of the play scripts
(famously replacing obscenities with less offensive words, or insisting on
cuts in order for a play to be licensed), MI5 had little interest in close
reading of theatrical texts, or interpreting the isolated details of a per-
formance as it appeared on the stage. Instead, the theatre was viewed as
one of the fronts on which Western and Communist-bloc governments
fought to increase their international cultural prestige, and thus a site for
MI5 and other government agencies to monitor in order to gauge the
extent to which pro-Soviet or communist-linked individuals and organ-
isations were operating and gaining influence. In monitoring this front,
surveillance files were kept on individual dramatists, actors, directors,
composers, and theatre companies suspected of possessing communist or
Soviet links.10 Informants were recruited in the theatre industry who pro-
vided MI5 with reports on domestic and international developments at
MI5 SURVEILLANCE OF BRITISH COLD WAR THEATRE 135
the past to be associated with Glasgow Unity Theatre, meaning that ‘its
current politics are not known and the extent of its Left Wing leanings
some years ago cannot now be accurately assessed’.25 However, given that
Littlewood and MacColl (under his original name, James Miller) were
subsequently identified as the leaders of the company and were ‘known as
active Communists … chiefly concerned with producing left-wing plays’,26
further interest was mandated in order to assess the extent of those ‘Left
Wing leanings’ which Theatre Workshop was suspected to possess.
Over the coming years, as information continued to arrive for MI5’s
file, many other facts would fill out these initial suspicions, and led MI5
to the belief that Theatre Workshop did not just lean to the left, but that
it was a communist-controlled organisation operating as an ‘independent’
front. A frequent issue was Theatre Workshop’s precarious financial posi-
tion, which sparked concerns amongst police and intelligence officers that
it was actually receiving some sort of covert subsidy in order to make it
viable. For example, in July 1953 a Special Branch officer noted that their
‘finances are not in a very stable condition and they are said to be search-
ing for fresh capital’ and ‘attendances at their plays have not been large’,
leading the officer to conclude that for Theatre Workshop to have survived
‘up to the present the company must have had financial help from outside,
possibly communist, sources’.27 MI5’s human informants would also relay
industry speculation about how Theatre Workshop supported itself, with
the gossip sent to MI5 particularly focussed on the Paris Festival:
In this instance, the handling officer added a note of caution: ‘The ref-
erence to a French newspaper paying Theatre Workshop’s Paris bills is
interesting but may be no more than gossip’.29 But still, such evidence
fitted the overall profile being developed. An officer added ‘I should
think there may be some truth in the rumour’, as the company man-
aged the trip despite claiming ‘to have no financial backing whatsoever’.30
MI5 SURVEILLANCE OF BRITISH COLD WAR THEATRE 141
Other instances would see MI5 and police closely monitoring attempts
by Theatre Workshop to obtain grants from local councils, as well as fol-
lowing media reports on the company’s long-running battle with the Arts
Council for funds. However, despite the reams of intelligence gathered
on these matters, little in the way of ongoing financial support was ever
proven in this file, nor is there any direct evidence that MI5 intervened
with British public bodies in order to bar funding.
If this (ultimately unsubstantiated) pursuit of a money trail provided
one of the main areas of interest to security agencies, other more tangen-
tial links also came to be seen as part of a pattern of communist inter-
ference and control. The fact that so many Theatre Workshop members
already had MI5 files and known Party links was obviously a mark of con-
cern—but so too were facts such as that Sam Wanamaker (described as ‘an
American actor … [and] a communist’, and well-known to the security
establishment for being one of the blacklisted Americans) was reported by
Special Branch ‘to have described Theatre Workshop as “the most exciting
theatre group I have ever seen”’.31 Theatre Workshop’s choice of advertis-
ing venues also came under scrutiny: in May 1953 Special Branch noted it
was ‘significant’ ‘that Theatre Workshop and Unity Theatre (well-known
to Special Branch) are advertised daily in the “Amusement” column of
the Daily Worker [the Communist Party newspaper]’, leaving ‘little doubt
that Theatre Workshop has some communist connections’.32 There was
also the issue of Theatre Workshop’s apparent collaboration with organ-
isations sympathetic to countries behind the Iron Curtain. For example,
information was gained which showed that Theatre Workshop was willing
to perform for the British Hungarian Friendship Society to celebrate the
‘10th Anniversary of [the] Liberation of Hungary’,33 and that the same
friendship society was promoting Theatre Workshop’s ‘English Première
of the Midwife, a social comedy by the celebrated Hungarian playwright,
Julius Hay’.34 However, it was connections to East Germany that appear
to have attracted particular attention, with the above-mentioned human
sources specifically emphasising such East German contacts. For exam-
ple on 15 June 1955 the following brief information was gained: ‘The
General Manager of Theatre Workshop is Raffles … He is understood to
be in touch with Berthold Brecht, the German playwright, who lives in
the East Zone of Germany’.35 For a theatre historian, such information
might be a minor footnote, but for MI5 it was evidently a fact of interest,
as further reports elaborated on such links to Brecht and his theatre. Later
in June 1955, a ‘reliable’ source pointed to a new development:
142 J. SMITH
Such a dispute would perhaps indicate that Theatre Workshop was far from
an East German proxy, but this was not the end of such allegations and
concerns. A 21 January 1960 report, regarding ‘East German Cultural
Activities in UK’, noted that, besides activity such as a Handel festival
and ‘an exhibition on hygiene by the Dresden City Health Department’,
there was ‘A Brecht exhibition to be organised by the Theatre Workshop’.
The linking of Brecht performances, Handel festivals, and hygiene exhi-
bitions by Dresden health departments as security issues might seem an
incongruous match, but this activity was seen by the MI5 source as being
coordinated towards a common goal: the East Germans had ‘probably
been discouraged from sending officials to the UK and are now trying to
work through intermediaries and supporters in the UK’.38
Soviet-front Support?
It is very clear that most of the material gathered by MI5 and Special
Branch was either banal in its implications or grasping at straws in terms
of the conspiracy it constructed, with the view of Theatre Workshop as a
CPGB-controlled organ wholly implausible. But it is still evident that MI5
did uncover some material of more obvious plausibility and interest, and
this is material that sheds considerable new light on Theatre Workshop’s
operations. As noted above, much of Theatre Workshop’s reputation in
the 1950s stemmed from the accolades it won overseas, and accounts of
the company at this time constantly stress the difficulty it faced due to its
lack of typical forms of funding. For instance, reflecting on the ongoing
attempts to gain support to attend the Paris festival in the 1950s, Theatre
Workshop member Goorney’s account recalled that as ‘the British Council
MI5 SURVEILLANCE OF BRITISH COLD WAR THEATRE 143
Distant says the money could be raised, but he feels it wouldn’t be accept-
able. Ballets and orchestras are OK but something depending on dialogue
wouldn’t be easy to get over. Malcolm reminds him that Uranium 235 has a
tremendous political significance, and they would probably do a Shakespeare
as well. They have quite a reputation over there. Malcolm will get Gerry
Raffles to come round to Distant with facts, figures, and a concrete pro-
posal, and Distant can raise the que[stion].44
Around a week later, Malcolm did indeed call Gerry Raffles about poten-
tial Theatre Workshop tours, and provided specific directions to the man-
ager as to how the approaches to international governments should be
made:
He should address it, not to the Ministry of Culture, but simply to the
appropriate Ministerial Department, as it varies. He can say: ‘Theatre
Workshop is open to accept a limited tour in your country from the period
before the end of May till the 2nd week of July. (for all or part of this time).
Theatre Workshop will be performing on the Continent in the summer, and
MI5 SURVEILLANCE OF BRITISH COLD WAR THEATRE 145
it is proposed to continue this, and thus the reason for offering you this pos-
sibility. The Company will be performing the following plays. The Company
will consist of so-many members, and the conditions could be made out
between us if this offer interests you, and if you will let us know at the soon-
est possible time, we will be able to work out the details’. Malcolm advises
not to mention prices, except verbally at this stage. […] Malcolm wants 5
copies of the letter, and he will fill in the appropriate departments. Distant
had fun with the Czechs this morning, who were very interested, and think
there is a very good chance. Malcolm will see them in Berlin, and get them
to ring Prague before he leaves.45
[Malcolm said] they have got the Moscow Arts Theatre. He promised
Distant would send the technical demands by June 2nd. Malcolm suggests
Distant come and pick up the theatre plans. The Soviet Ministry of Culture
is interested in inviting Theatre Workshop after the Festival to make a tour,
also the Polish Ministry of Culture. Malcolm gave the Pole, Danielovitch,
all the details to take back to Warsaw. The Bulgarian thing is a bit tricky,
as there aren’t many English-speaking people. The Moscow Arts Theatre
wants to put on an Exhibition of Theatre Workshop in the foyer before
they go. There is a resident orchestra under the stage. Distant will come
in tomorrow. Malcolm says the Arts Theatre is going to Leningrad for a
month, so the theatre will be vacant.46
Clearly, the version of Macbeth offered was far from pro-communist pro-
paganda: indeed, Littlewood insisted the play was interpreted as an anti-
Stalinist allegory by many of those who watched it. Equally, there is no
indication that Theatre Workshop’s political views were at all altered or
controlled by such arrangements, and whatever the suspicions of MI5
regarding the BYFC, it was entirely legal for Theatre Workshop to draw
upon its promoters to arrange such tours—one could say that the antip-
athy of British funding bodies often left Theatre Workshop with little
other choice. But what these taps do illustrate are some of the broader
manoeuvres occurring between governments, front groups, intelligence
agencies, and cultural organisations during the cultural cold war, and the
extent to which Theatre Workshop’s prominent international activity was
shaped and facilitated by such factors.
146 J. SMITH
Conclusion
While the Theatre Workshop file therefore demonstrates the surprising
extent of MI5 and Special Branch surveillance of British cold war the-
atre, and the distinct concerns they held about communist penetration,
a final point perhaps needs to be made about its curiously paradoxical
nature. That is the fact that, despite all the pages of material gathered, it
is still difficult to point to any direct regulative impact this state surveil-
lance had upon Theatre Workshop’s activity. Indeed, the sheer size of the
file suggests almost the opposite to be true: unable to actually censor left-
wing cultural output, the energy was turned towards compiling further
records instead. Of course, many questions remain unanswered: future
releases may clarify what impact (if any) such records had upon access
to British Council or Arts Council funds,47 or if further individual mem-
bers of the company (whose files have yet to be opened) were prevented
from accessing work with the BBC or other security-overseen institutions.
But as it stands, Theatre Workshop’s files suggest that MI5 and Special
Branch lurked as a pervasive, suspicious, but largely spectral presence over
Britain’s cold war theatre.
Notes
1. There have been numerous studies of theatre censorship in Britain, but
most of these primarily focus on the archives of the Lord Chamberlain. It
is particularly notable that even one of the most wide-ranging and sophis-
ticated of recent studies, Helen Freshwater’s Theatre Censorship in Britain:
Silencing, Censure and Suppression (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan,
2009), only mentions in passing government security-intelligence surveil-
lance as an issue.
2. This is the wording of the Theatres Act 1843.
3. That is not to say that the cold war itself has been ignored as an area of
critical concern: John Elsom, Cold War Theatre (London: Routledge,
1992), for instance, includes detailed discussion of British topics within a
broader survey of theatre of the period, and the extensive range of British
theatre histories specifically dedicated to the ‘post-war’ era demonstrates
how the political and cultural contexts of the cold war have been seen as a
distinct new climate, if only implicitly.
4. Joan Littlewood, for instance, was barred from working at the BBC in the
Second World War, and in her autobiography would attribute this to the
fact that she had been blacklisted (Joan Littlewood, Joan’s Book: Joan
MI5 SURVEILLANCE OF BRITISH COLD WAR THEATRE 147
12. The clearest indication of this practice can be found in the file kept on the
‘MacDonald Discussion Group’, a left-wing study group with links to the
British Communist Party, and one that MI5 suspected was a possible vehi-
cle for luring members of London’s theatrical and film world into liaison
with the Party. The amount of information MI5 was able to gather on the
group’s activity from an unnamed source strongly suggests that MI5 had
managed to recruit one of the group’s organisers as an informant. See
Smith, ‘The MacDonald Discussion Group’.
13. Such concern was evident in the file of Wolf Mankowitz, a left-wing writer
who was involved in various cold war cultural exchanges behind the Iron
Curtain. When Mankowitz was due to be employed by the BBC ‘on the
translation and dubbing of a film version of Chekhov’s “The Bear”’, this
history was held strongly against him by MI5, which stated: ‘Mankowitz
must be regarded as a risk to security should he have access to classified
information’; this was emphasised by the fact that ‘Mankowitz visited Russia
last year and was naturally in touch with Soviet officials in connection with
his visits and in connection with film matters’. MI5 and the BBC had their
concerns mollified when they agreed that work on a Chekhov play ‘would
not be likely to give him any access to classified Government information’.
See KV 2/3385 serial 52a, National Archives of Great Britain, London.
14. This fact is evident from FO 371/124667 (National Archives of Great
Britain, London), where a British diplomat in Berlin was requested to send
reports back to London about the content and politics of Brecht’s plays.
15. This surveillance of ‘Unamerican American’ performers is shown in the
MI5 files released on Sam Wanamaker and Paul Robeson (KV 2/1829-
1830, National Archives of Great Britain, London), amongst others.
16. There has been a growing body of scholarship on Theatre Workshop in recent
years, but for the most detailed recent study, see Nadine Holdsworth, Joan
Littlewood’s Theatre (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011). See
also Ben Harker, Class Act: The Cultural and Political Life of Ewan MacColl
(London: Pluto, 2007), for a detailed biography on this key figure.
17. One such instance occurred when they were successfully prosecuted for
making an unauthorised depiction of Winston Churchill during a 1957
production of Henry Chapman’s You Won’t Always be on Top—a fact evi-
dently of interest to policing and intelligence agencies, judging by the
documents on this case contained within the Theatre Workshop file.
18. The MI5 files at the National Archives normally have at least a 50-year
period of retention, meaning that it is possible that post-1960 material on
Theatre Workshop will be released at a later date.
19. See, for example, Laura Bradley, Cooperation and Conflict: GDR Theatre
Censorship, 1961–1989 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), which
demonstrates the far more direct involvement of covert state agencies in
East Germany.
MI5 SURVEILLANCE OF BRITISH COLD WAR THEATRE 149
20. Manchester City Police Report, 12 February 1952. KV 2/3178 serial 5a,
National Archives of Great Britain, London.
21. Special Branch was the semi-autonomous section of the Metropolitan
Police specifically charged with surveillance of political groups and moni-
toring radicals.
22. For instance, a 1 July 1953 Special Branch report carries, amidst a much
wider investigation, the information that Isobel Collier was ‘said to be
Blanshard’s [another member of Theatre Workshop] mistress’ (KV 2/3178
serial 26a, National Archives of Great Britain, London).
23. For monitoring of public meetings see a 1 September 1953 Special Branch
report, which provides details on ‘a meeting, attended by about 140 per-
sons … at the Theatre Royal’ (KV 2/3178 serial 31a, National Archives of
Great Britain, London). Detectives, in other reports, often euphemistically
refer to having sources of ‘information’ when discussing private aspects like
the attendance, finances, and political views of the company (see for exam-
ple KV 2/3178 serial 26a, National Archives of Great Britain, London).
24. Letter from Chief Constable County Durham to MI5, 7 April 1951. KV
2/3178 serial 1a, National Archives of Great Britain, London.
25. W.A. Younger to Russell King, 19 April 1951. KV 2/3178 serial 3a,
National Archives of Great Britain, London.
26. Letter from MI5 to Chief Constable County Durham, 27 April 1951. KV
2/3178 serial 4a, National Archives of Great Britain, London.
27. Special Branch Report, 1 July 1953. KV 2/3178 serial 26a, National
Archives of Great Britain, London.
28. ARTS/AS Source Report, 15 June 1955. KV 2/3179 serial 73a, National
Archives of Great Britain, London.
29. Typed comments on ARTS/AS Source Report, 15 June 1955. KV 2/3179
serial 73a, National Archives of Great Britain, London.
30. Handwritten comments on ARTS/AS Source Report, 15 June 1955. KV
2/3179 serial 73a, National Archives of Great Britain, London. This last
section is damaged, rendering the full comment of the assessing officer
illegible.
31. Special Branch Report, 1 July 1953. KV 2/3178 serial 26a, National
Archives of Great Britain, London.
32. Special Branch Report, 8 May 1953. KV 2/3178 serial 21a, National
Archives of Great Britain, London.
33. Extract from Minutes of Executive Committee Meeting of British
Hungarian Friendship Society, 20 January 1955. KV 2/3179 serial 48a,
National Archives of Great Britain, London.
34. Extract from British Hungarian Friendship Society leaflet, 5 April 1955.
KV 2/3179 serial 55a, National Archives of Great Britain, London.
150 J. SMITH
35. ARTS/AS Source report, 15 June 1955. KV 2/3179 serial 72a, National
Archives of Great Britain, London.
36. At this point, Weber was still only an assistant director at the Ensemble.
37. MK/BJS Source Report, 23 June 1955. KV 2/3179 serial 74a, National
Archives of Great Britain, London.
38. Extract from F.4/GDL Source Report, 21 January 1960. KV 2/3180
serial 163a, National Archives of Great Britain, London.
39. Howard Goorney, The Theatre Workshop Story (London: Eyre Methuen,
1981), 153.
40. Extract from telecheck on BYFC, 12 March 1955. KV 2/3179 serial 53b,
National Archives of Great Britain, London.
41. Extract from telecheck on BYFC, 14 June 1955. KV 2/3179 serial 73b,
National Archives of Great Britain, London.
42. Nadine Holdsworth, Joan Littlewood’s Theatre (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2011), 108.
43. Extract from telecheck on BYFC, 24 January 1957. KV 2/3179 serial
107z, National Archives of Great Britain, London.
44. Extract from telecheck on BYFC, 7 February 1957. KV 2/3179 serial
108a, National Archives of Great Britain, London.
45. Extract from telecheck on BYFC, 15 February 1957. KV 2/3179 serial
109a, National Archives of Great Britain, London.
46. Extract from telecheck on BYFC, 16 May 1957. KV 2/3179 serial 117z,
National Archives of Great Britain, London.
47. This has continued to be the subject of debate: see, for a recent example,
Philippa Burt, ‘Punishing the Outsiders: Theatre Workshop and the Arts
Council’, Theatre, Dance and Performance Training 5.2 (2014), 119–130.
CHAPTER 9
Hanna Korsberg
H. Korsberg (*)
University of Helsinki, Helsinki, Finland
which non-aligned countries could also join. Despite these political and
cultural attempts to create an international community, Europe especially
was soon divided between two camps. In the early phases of the Cold War
the division was mainly political, but also economic.
In this article I will discuss how theatre participated in the creation of
an international community with members from both camps during the
Cold War and, in particular, I will look closely at the Eighth Congress of
the ITI that was organised in Helsinki in 1959. It was very important for
the ITI to have members from both camps since, according to its char-
ter, the organisation was autonomous. Unlike the previous congresses, in
Helsinki there was a discussion about artistic questions in theatre. It was
launched by a keynote address by playwright Eugène Ionesco. I will also
discuss the attempts to define the theme of the Helsinki congress in 1959.
As the Cold War was a war fought on battlegrounds of rhetoric, impres-
sions and discourse, culture and the arts played an important role in the
battle for ‘hearts and minds’. Speeches, newspaper articles and interviews
about the ITI congress in 1959, together with Eugène Ionesco’s keynote
address, are examples of the rhetoric used to link theatre and internation-
alism. The concept of internationalism is much debated. In this case, the
internationalism of theatre people across the world was based on mutual
understanding and a need for the international exchange of practice and
knowledge in theatre. Those cooperating within the framework of the
ITI, especially in the 1950s, understood internationalism along the lines
of the cosmopolitanism outlined by Kwame Anthony Appiah; that is,
acknowledging a citizen who can see him/herself at home in more than
one nation-state or community.3
Since both blocs fought to increase their influence, the Cold War battle
was also conducted in the so-called non-aligned countries, and the inter-
national contacts were important for the non-aligned countries as well. To
show how a non-aligned country, balancing between the two camps, was
able to take part in international cooperation, I would like to discuss the
case of Finland. After World War II, Finland slowly returned to the interna-
tional community. It was in a very sensitive geopolitical position between
the two great powers. Right after the war, the preparations for the Peace
Treaty inhibited any attempts by Finland to join the international commu-
nity. For example, in order to avoid antagonizing the Soviets, Finland had
to refuse the Marshall Plan, the European rebuilding programme initiated
by the USA in 1947. After the Paris Peace Treaty in 1947, the Foreign
Ministry of Finland approached the General Secretary of the UN who set
CREATING AN INTERNATIONAL COMMUNITY DURING THE COLD WAR 153
During the period between 1948 and 1959, ITI congresses were organised
in Prague, Zurich, Paris, Oslo, The Hague, Dubrovnik and Athens. Some
of the venues were in NATO countries, one of them in a later Warsaw Pact
state, one in the Cold War socialist economy of Yugoslavia and two in the
militarily neutral Cold War capitalist societies of Switzerland and Finland.
I would argue that in hosting congresses the ITI followed the first article
of the charter of the organisation:
The paragraph quoted from the charter connects the purpose of the ITI
to the purpose of UNESCO. Art and theatre in particular were considered
essential to create understanding between nations and thus were consid-
ered to play a vital role in the service of peace. The latter role was viewed
as especially important during the years of the Cold War. Organising the
congress of the ITI on both sides of the Iron Curtain was certainly an
opportunity for geographical expansion and for the dissemination of
information about the organisation.
The Eighth Congress of the ITI opened in Helsinki on 1 June 1959.
The President of the ITI, Milan Bogdanović, stressed the international
154 H. KORSBERG
It is almost possible to say that, in our days, a real International has appeared
in the field of dramatic art. Theatre is essentially a functional art and its
broad nature makes all limitations more and more difficult to support.
National frontiers are already growing too narrow for it; international space
is what it really needs. In fact, theatre uses a general language, the language
which is the living appearance of man, his voice, his gestures, all the vis-
ible expressions which make the apprehension of all facts possible even for
an audience unable to understand the words spoken on the stage. Theatre
makes acquaintances and neighbours, friends and relatives of people of all
colours. If, in our days, theatre could no more have an international activity,
it would certainly decay and diminish.7
address was given by the playwright Eugène Ionesco. He spoke about the
avant-garde in contemporary theatre, the relationship between dramatic
works and their audience, and writing and his world view.
I would like to argue that it is possible to draw an analogy between
choosing the avant-garde as the subject of the discussions at the ITI con-
gress and the use of a novel or newspaper to create a notion of belonging
to the same community among the participants. Avant-garde plays were
already read and performed and their authors were known in different
countries by the theatre internationalists at the end of the 1950s.
Ionesco’s Avant-garde
In Ionesco’s opinion, the main task of an author was to find the truth
and express it in his writings. For Ionesco, the avant-garde was an artistic
phenomenon and a forerunner of culture. According to him, the avant-
garde could be defined in terms of opposition and rupture. It took an
oppositional position towards the establishment. It was a reaction against
realism, since realism was no longer capable of expressing the real world.
The relationship between the avant-garde and the real world was thus
governed by tension. According to Ionesco, the avant-garde was an
expression of criticism of the present. It was also unpopular since it was
characterised as demanding and difficult to understand. It was theatre for
a minority and if it were to become theatre for the majority, it would no
longer be avant-garde but instead arrière-garde.11
Ionesco also discussed ontological questions of art in his opening
speech. According to him, an artwork should be original and evoke an
immediate intuition, an insight of truth. A talented artist would be able
to provide both a deeper and wider intuition than a less talented artist.
In Ionesco’s opinion, all the artist has to do is to provide an insight of
truth. An authentic truth in theatre, an artwork, will have an effect on
the audience. Realism and naturalism had helped to expand the concept
of reality and reveal new aspects of it. Symbolism and surrealism had also
expressed hidden facts. In his opinion, the avant-garde was a contemporary
phenomenon which could be identified with artistic, literary theatre.12
For Ionesco, freedom was essential for the avant-garde. He placed it in
opposition to propaganda theatre, where the ideology was dominant. He
also thought that playwrights were afraid of humour, even though humour
represented one appearance of freedom. The only restrictions Ionesco
could accept were the technical limitations of the stage. Otherwise the
156 H. KORSBERG
playwright should be completely free. The artist was not a pedagogue, nor
a demagogue. More than anything, Ionesco stressed the freedom of the
avant-garde theatre from all ideological restraints.13
Ionesco’s keynote speech was followed by a heated debate. Most of
the participants supported Ionesco, but some of them were very harsh in
their criticism of him. The reactions seemed to follow a political division
along the front line of the Cold War, since the strongest criticism came
from the representatives of the Eastern bloc: Romania (Aurel Baranga),
Bulgaria (Bojan Danovsky), Czechoslovakia (Jaroslav Pokorny) and
the USSR (A. Abalkin). The representative of the German Democratic
Republic (GDR), the intendant of the Deutsches Theater, Wolfgang
Langhoff, also criticised Ionesco. According to them, Ionesco’s plays
did not represent the ‘favourite readings of the peasants of Central
Europe’.14 The representatives of the Eastern bloc countries supported
socialist realism and the definite truth concept. Ionesco was character-
ised as a ‘chamber philosopher’ whose ideas on ideologies were con-
sidered too personal and attached to his own world view. For similar
reasons, the representatives of the Eastern bloc were critical of Samuel
Beckett as well.15
According to Aurel Baranga, a playwright and artistic director of
the National Theatre in Bucharest, playwrights should not lead the
audience into despair and loneliness as Eugène Ionesco and Samuel
Beckett were doing in their plays. Instead they should adhere to the
most important task of an author, which was teaching. Baranga believed
that Ionesco had forgotten this in his writings. Besides, he thought
that realism was not dead, but reshaped and alive. Baranga argued that
there were other avant-garde authors who were proclaiming ‘noble and
courageous ideas’, namely Federico Garcia Lorca, Bertolt Brecht and
Vladimir Mayakovski.16
Bojan Danovsky accused Ionesco of denying life and making people mis-
erable. In his reply, Ionesco argued that all representatives of the avant-garde
belong to a minority, separate from the majority, where his critics wanted to
place all playwrights. According to Ionesco all important changes, including
political events and ideologies, had started among small minorities.17
One of the harshest critics was A. Albakin, the theatre critic of Pravda,
who argued that Ionesco was a clown and could not be taken seriously. In
his opinion, Ionesco’s opening speech had turned the whole international
congress into a circus. He did not have anything against the debate, but
Ionesco was simply not competent enough to give the keynote address.18
CREATING AN INTERNATIONAL COMMUNITY DURING THE COLD WAR 157
The ITI congress was much discussed in the public sphere of modern
politics. Altogether there were more than 100 articles about it in different
Finnish newspapers published all over the country. The articles described
how a community of international theatre representatives from 33 coun-
tries had gathered together in Helsinki. The newspapers provided a lot of
information about the ITI for their readers. Of particular interest is the
large number of articles about Ionesco’s keynote address and the sub-
sequent discussion. It was the very first time the avant-garde had been
extensively presented to the man on the street. Earlier, only individual
productions had been reviewed in the newspapers.
Ionesco’s keynote and the debate it caused were both summarised in
the press. In particular, it was mentioned how Ionesco’s presentation had
divided the participants along the contours of the front line of the Cold War.
Almost all the articles also mentioned that the Finnish participants had sup-
ported the Western camp. Politically the country could not be aligned and it
had to balance between the two blocs; however, in the field of culture it was
possible to lean towards the Western camp. The international theatre repre-
sentatives wanted to show that Finnish theatre was comparable to European
theatre. This had already been explicitly argued by Arvi Kivimaa some years
earlier, in 1956. According to him, the national nature of Finnish culture
had developed with the awareness of belonging to a larger European con-
text.25 It seems to me, he was referring specifically to Western Europe, but
in the political climate of 1956 this could not be argued overtly.
In 1959, the congress was also discussed in the public sphere of modern
culture. The Finnish Theatre Journal in particular wrote very extensively
about Ionesco’s keynote address.26 The ITI congress increased the aware-
ness of Ionesco’s plays and the avant-garde in general among Finnish theatre
artists and theatregoers. This seemed to be true especially right after the con-
gress in summer 1959 and in the following season 1959–60. A theatre called
Taskuteatteri performed The Bald Soprano and The Lesson in Helsinki during
the congress. During the following season Ionesco’s The Chairs was per-
formed at Intimiteatteri and Rhinoceros was staged at the Finnish National
Theatre. The New Tenant returned to the repertory of the Lilla Teatern
where it was seen together with The Lesson and a play by Boris Vian.27
Before the ITI congress, the conception of art was dominated by an idea
of popular nationalism: Finnish art was expected to present w ell-known
topics in a realistic way.28 This had also affected the reception of avant-garde
CREATING AN INTERNATIONAL COMMUNITY DURING THE COLD WAR 159
We have received great encouragement during the last years from the expe-
rience, gained in the main through the International Institute of Theatre,
that our geographic position and our language do not form a separating
wall between us and the principal countries in the field of dramatic art, but
that there are, on the contrary, many possibilities for contacts and mutual
understanding. The fact that the VIIIth International Congress of Theatre
is organized here is a new proof thereof.32
160 H. KORSBERG
The political value of the ITI congress can also be seen in the fact that
the state was its major financer, covering almost all the costs. The local
organiser of the congress was the Central Association of Finnish Theatre
Organizations, which was also the Finnish branch of the ITI. However,
without financial support from the state, the congress would not have
been possible. Altogether, the Ministry of Education paid more than 91 %
of the costs. This generous state support and the presence of high-ranking
politicians were typical for socialist policy. Thus Finland as a non-aligned
country used the same strategies as countries in the Eastern bloc to ensure
international cooperation.
The ITI congress thus certainly changed the attitudes towards the the-
atre of the absurd in Finland. By hosting the ITI congress in 1959 and
performing avant-garde drama, the theatre circles made a breakthrough to
the national theatre scene and participated in the negotiations of Finland’s
position between East and West in ‘No Man’s Land’, as Matti Kuusi
described the country’s geopolitical position.33 Finnish representatives of
international theatre used the ITI congress and the performance of avant-
garde plays to strategically align themselves with the Western camp. For
the Finnish government, the congress was a showcase for the success of
Finland’s international activities in attracting representatives of interna-
tional theatre from different countries, and served as publicity for both
the political and theatre sectors. A similar event in the fields of politics
or economics might not have been possible in Finland during the 1950s.
It has since been recognised that the ITI was an essential element in the
growth of experimental theatre in worldwide, in relation to off- and off-
off-Broadway artists and productions.34 In my opinion, the ITI was also
an important element earlier: in 1959 when Eugène Ionesco was invited
as keynote speaker. Ionesco was a good representative of the second-wave
modernism that had arisen in theatre and drama after World War II. At the
time it was called avant-garde and only after Martin Esslin’s The Theatre
of the Absurd, which first appeared as an essay in 1960 and then as a book
in 1961, was the term ‘absurd’ adopted. Despite the conflicting reactions
to his speech, all the attendees seemed to already know Ionesco’s work. It
was reported that this new element of the congress, the discussions con-
cerning the avant-garde, attracted a lot of attention among representatives
of international theatre all over the world.35
Regardless of the disputes at the congress, four countries wanted to join
the ITI in 1959. China and three countries from the Eastern bloc (the GDR,
Romania and the USSR) were also accepted as new members at this time.36
CREATING AN INTERNATIONAL COMMUNITY DURING THE COLD WAR 161
These new members altered the balance of power and gave the Eastern
bloc new prominence. Since the ITI was operating in connection with
UNESCO—this became official in 1962—it was important for the organisa-
tion to include countries from both blocs as its members. The ITI congress
in Helsinki in 1959 was a moment of convergence between the participants
and an important turning point in the mediation of cultural influence.
Notes
1. ‘The Constitution of UNESCO’, http://www.unesco.org/new/en/
unesco/about-us/who-we-are/history/constitution/, accessed 22 October
2014.
2. Rosamond Gilder, ‘First Congress of the International Theatre Institute’,
Department of State Bulletin 19.485 (17 October 1948), 488–489.
3. Kwame Anthony Appiah, Ethics of Identity (Princeton: Princeton University
Press, 2005), 217.
4. Jukka Nevakivi, ‘From the Continuation War to the Present, 1944–1999’,
in From Grand Duchy to a Modern State. A Political History of Finland
since 1809, ed. Osmo Jussila, Seppo Hentilä, Jukka Nevakivi (London:
Hurst & Company, 1999), 217–356, 282–284.
5. ‘The Charter of the ITI’, The Programme of the Eighth Congress of the ITI
1.-7.VI Helsinki, The Collection of Albert Saloranta, ITI VIII kongressi
H:ki 1959, The Finnish Theatre Museum Archives.
6. The Programme of the Eighth Congress of the ITI.
7. The Programme of the Eighth Congress of the ITI.
8. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and
Spread of Nationalism (London and New York: Verso, 1991), 25 and 77.
9. The objectives of the ITI can be found, for example, on the organisation’s
webpage http://www.iti-worldwide.org, accessed 15 March 2016.
10. Central Association of the Finnish Theatre Organizations, ‘Report of the
Eighth Congress of the ITI from the Central Association of the Finnish
Theatre Organizations to the Ministry of Education’, 11 September,
Archives of the Ministry of Education, AD 1485/291, The National
Archives of Finland.
11. Eugène Ionesco, ‘Avant garde on nykyhetken kritiikki I–III’, Teatteri 12,
13, 15, 1959.
12. ‘Ei suuren yleisön teatteria eikä saisi siksi tullakaan’, Aamulehti, 4 June
1959, and Ionesco, ‘Avant garde’.
13. ‘Ei suuren yleisön teatteria’ and Ionesco ‘Avant garde on nykyhetken
kritiikki’.
14. ‘Avantgardismi kiivaitten hyökkäysten ristitulessa’, Aamulehti, 5 June
1959.
162 H. KORSBERG
15. Ibid.
16. ‘Avantgardismia kymmenissä erilaisissa muodoissa’, Kansan Uutiset, 5
June 1959.
17. ‘Avantgardismista keskusteltiin Realistit vastustavana puolena’, Suomen
Sosialidemokraatti, 6 June 1959.
18. ‘Pravdan kriitikko teilaa Ionescon ja kiittää “Reviisoria”’, Helsingin
Sanomat, 7 June 1959.
19. Philip B. Zarrilli, Bruce McConachie, Gary Jay Williams and Carol Fisher
Sorgenfrei, Theatre Histories: An Introduction (New York and London:
Routledge, 2006), 345.
20. ‘ITI:n kongressin jälkikaikuja’, Helsingin Sanomat, 12 June 1959.
21. ‘Teatterin nuoria tuettava mielipide-eroista huolimatta’, Helsingin
Sanomat, 5 June 1959.
22. Ibid.
23. ‘ITI hyväksyi uusia jäseniä’, Uusi Suomi, 5 June 1959.
24. Arnold Aronson, ‘American Theatre in Context’, in The Cambridge History
of American Theatre. Volume III Post-World War II to the 1990s, ed. Don
B. Wilmeth and Christopher Bigsby (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 2000), 87–162, 113.
25. Arvi Kivimaa, Teatterin humanismi (Keuruu: Otava, 1972), 71.
26. For example, Teatteri 12, 13 and 15/1959. The term ‘public sphere’
(German ‘Öffentlichkeit’) (intermediary and cultural) originates from
Jürgen Habermas. Erkki Sevänen has applied it to Finnish society. Sevänen
quotes Habermas, according to whom state and civil society were sepa-
rated with the modernisation of society. This differentiation was not com-
plete and the public sphere remained as an intermediary between the state
and civil society. The main representatives of this intermediary public
sphere include the parliamentary system and the media. They are also at
the centre of the public sphere of modern politics. The public sphere of
modern culture, for its part, has been represented by such things as theatre
performances, literary publishing and the cultural press. Erkki Sevänen,
‘Ensimmäisen tasavallan poliittinen tilanne ja kirjallisen älymystön toimin-
tastrategiat’, in Älymystön jäljillä. Kirjoituksia suomalaisesta sivistyneistöstä
ja älymystöstä, ed. Pentti Karkama, Hanne Koivisto (Helsinki: Suomalaisen
Kirjallisuuden Seura, 1997), 33–63, 37 and 49.
27. Lilla Teatern advertised its repertory for the fall of 1960 under the title
‘The Modern Line’. Ionesco was going to be performed in a revue (Lilla
Teatern, 1960).
28. Erkki Sevänen, Taide instituutiona ja järjestelmänä. Modernin taide-
elämän historiallissosiologiset mallit (Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden
Seura, 1998), 341.
29. Sole Uexküll, ‘Sarvikuonot valloillaan’, Helsingin Sanomat, 18 October
1960.
CREATING AN INTERNATIONAL COMMUNITY DURING THE COLD WAR 163
Kyrill Kunakhovich
K. Kunakhovich (*)
The University of Virginia, Charlottesville, VA, USA
in production or fulfil the plan without art and culture!’ he warned the
assembled City Council delegates.2
Karl Kayser’s speech reflected the significance that communist states
attached to cultural life. For government officials, art was more than a
pleasant pastime or an aesthetic experience. Above all, it was a way to
influence society: by appealing to people’s emotions, art could convey
political ideas more effectively than verbal propaganda. Thanks to this
power, art could become both an asset and a threat. Soviet bloc authorities
devoted immense time and effort to creating a distinctive ‘socialist culture’
that would raise productivity, foster patriotism, and spread a Marxist
worldview. At the same time, they constantly worried about the corrupting
impact of ‘bourgeois culture’, which reinforced capitalist oppression and
undermined communist development. The struggle between ‘socialist
culture’ and bourgeois influences was at the focus of Soviet bloc cultural
policy, but it has received relatively little attention from scholars of the
cultural Cold War. Numerous studies have explored international festivals,
foreign tours, and mass media broadcasts aimed at the ‘other side’.3 By
privileging competition abroad, however, they have tended to overlook
cultural confrontations at home. Yet socialist and bourgeois art faced each
other every day across the entire Soviet bloc. The biggest battles of the
cultural Cold War were fought on the ‘home front’.4
This chapter examines the impact of such battles by looking at the case
of theatre. As large public spaces, theatres lay at the heart of the state’s cul-
tural project. They gave officials their best opportunity to expose residents
to high culture, and therefore received the largest subsidies of any cultural
institution. As a form of live performance, they also represented a potential
risk and necessitated close supervision. This essay investigates the role that
theatres played in the cultural Cold War, and the impact this War had on
their artistic profile. It focuses on two case studies—Kraków in Poland, and
Leipzig in East Germany. Both were cities of roughly similar size, with major
universities and large working-class populations. They were also the ‘second
cities’ in their respective countries, not political capitals but renowned cul-
tural centres. Considering these two cases side by side offers an opportunity
to compare how two Soviet bloc states handled Cold War cultural competi-
tion. It also allows us to transcend local particularities and trace the outlines
of a transnational project—the bloc-wide quest for a ‘socialist culture’.
To trace the changing role of theatre, I explore the triangular rela-
tionship between administrators, artists, and audiences. Both Kraków
and Leipzig had two Culture Departments, one in the city government
THE CULTURAL COLD WAR ON THE HOME FRONT: THE POLITICAL ROLE... 167
and the other within the Party hierarchy. I use their internal records to
investigate how they formulated cultural policy and what they did to
implement it on the ground. State officials approved theatre repertoires,
distributed funding, and organised attendance. Only actors and directors,
however, could create the performances that actually appeared on stage.
To examine what these performances looked like, I focus on one lead-
ing theatre in each city—the Stary Teatr (Old Theatre) in Kraków, and
the Schauspielhaus (Theatre House) in Leipzig. I analyse some of their
most significant productions while using a quantitative approach to track
the evolution of their repertoires over time. Finally, I rely on newspaper
accounts and sociological surveys to reconstruct the demographics of the
theatregoing public. Who sat in the seats had a direct impact on what
played on the stage. Theatres had to adjust their productions to viewers’
expectations and education levels; they also had to pay close attention to
box office receipts. Audiences, artists, and officials all influenced a the-
atre’s profile, and it was the interaction among these three groups that
defined communist theatre.
This paper follows the development of theatre in Kraków and Leipzig
from the end of the Second World War to the early 1970s. I divide this
period into four phases, each lasting six or seven years. During the first phase,
Reconstruction (1945–50), both the Stary Teatr and the Schauspielhaus
recreated their prewar repertoires. They performed for a predominantly
middle-class audience, even as city officials made limited efforts to attract
factory viewers. In phase two, Stalinism (1950–56), the two theatres radically
changed their ways. They began to stage didactic Soviet-bloc productions
for an organised worker public, responding to officials’ demands to create
the New Socialist Man. Under the third phase, De-Stalinisation (1957–63),
the Stary Teatr and the Schauspielhaus markedly diverged. In Leipzig, the
programme of didactic theatre only intensified; in Kraków, Soviet plays
gave way to avant-garde Western productions. A similar shift took place in
Leipzig during phase four, Consumerism (1964–70). Both the Stary Teatr
and the Schauspielhaus came to play for elite audiences while struggling
to secure attendance and funding. I argue that these transformations were
driven primarily by changes in the state’s cultural project. Most studies
of culture under communism see the state as a restrictive force, capable
only of suppressing creativity.5 This chapter, by contrast, highlights the
constructive role of state officials in cultural life. In Kraków as in Leipzig,
local administrators shaped both the art that theatres produced and the
audiences that consumed it.
168 K. KUNAKHOVICH
I. Reconstruction (1945–50)
On 18 January 1945 the Red Army occupied Kraków, chasing out the
last of the Nazi administrators. Three months later, Leipzig was liberated
by American forces, who quickly relinquished control to Soviet troops.
Both cities fell into Moscow’s sphere of influence, but in many ways they
offered a study in contrast. Leipzig had been badly bombed during the
war, losing some 4000 buildings and 40 % of its housing stock.6 Kraków
managed to survive the war nearly unscathed; in the first postwar years, it
offered shelter to tens of thousands of Polish refugees. Like all of Germany,
Leipzig was subordinated to a military occupation regime, which held
sway over the City Council. Kraków’s local government, conversely, main-
tained sole authority over administrative affairs. For all these differences,
both cities devoted privileged attention to their theatres. Soviet, Polish,
and German authorities all saw theatre as a way of regenerating society.
Amidst food rationing and electricity shortages, local officials promptly
rebuilt Leipzig’s ruined Schauspielhaus and took Kraków’s Stary Teatr
under municipal control. What they did not do, however, was try to influ-
ence these theatres’ artistic profile. In the early postwar years, both the
Stary Teatr and the Schauspielhaus continued to operate much as they had
before the Second World War.
Theatre returned to Leipzig in September 1945, when Georg Büchner’s
Woyzeck premiered in the auditorium of the local zoo. This was a reprisal
of a Nazi production from 1943; during the first postwar season, several
plays were recycled from the Nazi era.7 Just before Christmas, the brand-
new Schauspielhaus opened with Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s
Dream. ‘In our conditions of need, we have to learn to live by the spiri-
tual and the ethical, now more than ever’, Leipzig’s socialist mayor wrote
in the programme; ‘it is spirit that makes man human, […] and it is on
this spirit that we want to build [our future].’8 In stressing spirituality
and humanism, postwar authorities sought to overcome Nazi militarism
and build a new foundation for German identity. The Schauspielhaus con-
tributed to these efforts by staging works by anti-fascist playwrights such
as Bertolt Brecht and Friedrich Wolf. With the encouragement of Soviet
occupation authorities, it also began to put on plays from the USSR,
which were seen as an important tool of denazification. In the six sea-
sons from 1945 to 1951, the Schauspielhaus premiered 16 Russian or
Soviet productions, including plays by Chekhov, Gogol, and Konstantin
Simonov.9 Yet works by contemporary Western authors remained just
THE CULTURAL COLD WAR ON THE HOME FRONT: THE POLITICAL ROLE... 169
II. Stalinism (1950–56)
In Poland as in the Soviet Zone of Germany, the end of the 1940s marked
the start of a new era. In December 1948, Poland’s socialist and com-
munist parties merged into the Polish United Workers’ Party (PZPR),
which maintained a near monopoly on political life. Nine months later,
SED leaders proclaimed the creation of an autonomous East German
state, the German Democratic Republic (GDR). Both countries carried
out administrative reforms designed to centralise power and eliminate
local self-rule. They also adopted new economic plans that stressed the
triad of nationalisation, industrialisation, and collectivisation. All these
measures aimed to advance the ‘building of socialism’, and culture, too,
was enlisted in the effort. ‘Art is a precise weapon of ideological struggle,
a way of shaping man’, Poland’s Culture Minister declared in 1952: ‘we
measure art by its effectiveness, by its ability to create a new, socialist soci-
ety’.30 Such statements subordinated artistic matters to political ends, but
they also reaffirmed art’s power and significance. As a transformative social
force, art had to be carefully controlled. This attitude conditioned cultural
policy in Kraków and Leipzig, redefining the meaning of theatre.
What affected theatres most of all was administrative centralisation. In
early 1950, Leipzig’s Schauspielhaus was incorporated into the Leipzig
City Theatres (Städtische Theater Leipzig, or STL), a conglomerate that
included an opera house, an operetta, two theatres, and a children’s stage.
All five stages were overseen by one director-general, who reported to the
Leipzig City Council; they also came under the supervision of the State
Committee for Cultural Affairs in Berlin. Set up in 1951, the Committee
not only vetted repertoires but issued programmatic guidelines for art. It
played a key role in the so-called ‘formalism campaign’, which condemned
Western ‘decadence’, promoted Socialist Realism, and criticised m odernists
like Brecht. All these prescriptions were incorporated into the repertoires
of the Leipzig Schauspielhaus and its sister stage, the Kammerspiele.
From 1951 to 1953, the two theatres premiered just one work by a living
Western author—Bill Gates’ The Earth Remains, a social drama about
Australian farmers. By contrast, they staged 11 productions by playwrights
from the Soviet bloc, including works by Maksim Gorki and Vsevolod
Ivanov. Leipzig theatre was cut off from the contemporary West and firmly
integrated into the Soviet cultural sphere. Its most prominent productions,
though, were new works by ideologically committed East German authors.
Such plays addressed pressing social issues like gender equality, socialist
172 K. KUNAKHOVICH
morality, and the legacy of the Second World War. In 1953/4, they made
up nearly half the repertoire, helping the Schauspielhaus keep up with
current events.
Theatre’s new repertoire reflected its new role in East German society. As
Leipzig officials pointed out, the main goal of theatre was not to entertain
viewers but to educate them. ‘[Art] should express the new social relations
of the GDR; help workers march towards peace, progressive development,
and German unity; and give them enthusiasm, courage, and optimistic con-
fidence in this struggle’, Leipzig’s City Council declared in 1950.31 To be
effective, however, theatre productions had to be easy to understand. The
Schauspielhaus expressly rejected avant-garde methods and creative inter-
pretations, choosing to focus on ‘the poet’s word’.32 Playbills helped drive
the message home, linking the action on stage to contemporary affairs.
A programme for Molière’s The Imaginary Invalid (1673) included an
article on medical advances in the GDR; the booklet for Friedrich Schiller’s
Intrigue and Love (1784) carried an attack on West German militarism.33
In a 1950 production of Sophocles’ Antigone, actors directly encouraged
viewers to vote in the upcoming elections, blurring the line between art
and life. In 1950s Leipzig, theatre was politics by other means.
The trouble with this kind of didactic theatre was that hardly anyone
wanted to see it.34 The STL’s attendance rate plummeted from 89 % dur-
ing the 1947/8 season to 58 % in 1950/1.35 As city authorities lamented,
the most ‘valuable’ productions were also the most unpopular; Antigone
played to empty seats, while romantic comedies like Dario Niccodemi’s
Dawn, Day, Night usually sold out.36 To overcome this problem, Leipzig
officials started forcing factories to purchase season tickets. By law, East
German trade unions had to devote 15 % of member dues to ‘cultural
activities’ like theatre visits.37 The STL offered them packages that covered
ten visits a year, spread across its five stages. Factories then distributed
these to their workers, sometimes as a reward for good performance and
sometimes as a form of discipline. From the officials’ perspective, this
arrangement killed two birds with one stone. It liberated theatres from
box office constraints, enabling them to stage ideological productions;
and it brought these productions to millions of workers, who were meant
to learn and profit from the theatre. The number of working-class the-
atregoers rose throughout the 1950s, as a result of a concerted effort
by theatre staff and city officials. Organised groups made up just 7 % of
all viewers in 1950 but more than half the audience by 1956.38 Leipzig
theatre became a fundamentally different institution than it had been after
THE CULTURAL COLD WAR ON THE HOME FRONT: THE POLITICAL ROLE... 173
III. De-Stalinisation (1957–63)
One of the main turning points in Soviet bloc culture took place in
Moscow, during the Twentieth Congress of the Soviet Communist
Party. On 25 February 1956 Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev delivered
his ‘Secret Speech’, formally entitled ‘On the Cult of Personality and
Its Consequences’. In explicitly criticising Joseph Stalin, the speech cast
doubt on the whole trajectory of communist development. Countries
across the Soviet bloc were faced with a common dilemma: how to save
communism while admitting that much had been wrong? This shared
challenge elicited very different responses in Poland and the GDR. Polish
Prime Minister Bolesław Bierut could not overcome the shock and died in
a Moscow hospital two weeks later. For the PZPR, a crisis of faith turned
into a succession crisis; to preserve its grip on power, the Party carried
out major reforms and installed the popular Władysław Gomułka as Party
leader. In East Germany, by contrast, long-time SED head Walter Ulbricht
sought to minimise the impact of Khrushchev’s speech. He purged politi-
cal opponents, expanded the Secret Police, and renewed calls for ‘socialist
construction’. These opposing reactions produced divergent outcomes in
Kraków and Leipzig. After a decade of following the same trajectory, the
Stary Teatr and the Schauspielhaus began to go their separate ways.
In the aftermath of a popular uprising in June 1953, East Germany’s
cultural scene had experienced a kind of thaw. The unpopular State
Committee for Cultural Affairs was replaced by a Ministry of Culture,
which cultivated better relationships with artists. Theatre directors
gained more leeway to choose their own repertoires, and the Leipzig
Schauspielhaus responded by putting on more Western productions.44
Between 1954 and 1957, the STL staged works by contemporary French
writers Jean Paul Sartre, Jean Anouilh, and André Birabeau. In the wake of
Khrushchev’s ‘Secret Speech’, it even premiered two plays that dealt with
the Cult of Personality.45 Such ‘revisionism’ was precisely what Ulbricht
was afraid of, and it drove the Leipzig City Council to appoint a new
director-general—Karl Kayser, who remained in this post until the fall
of the Berlin Wall. Born in Leipzig to a Socialist Party organiser father,
Kayser was deeply committed to the communist cause. ‘I believed in the
Party, I received it from my mother’s milk’,46 he told the last session of the
SED Central Committee in November 1989. As an accomplished actor
and director, Kayser was well equipped to carry out the Party’s cultural
program. A series of conferences held in the later 1950s laid out Ulbricht’s
THE CULTURAL COLD WAR ON THE HOME FRONT: THE POLITICAL ROLE... 175
goals for East German culture: art was meant to improve productivity,
teach socialism, and unify society.47 These notions were not new, but their
implementation would be unprecedented. Under Kayser’s leadership, the
STL really did become ‘a large factory in the theatre sector’.
Kayser’s first step was to cleanse the repertoire of any suspect works.
‘Quality in art is an ideological question’, he announced in a 1961 edito-
rial; ‘all of our productions must be feats for socialism’.48 Kayser avoided
plays from the capitalist West, seeing them as a ‘covert manoeuvre […] to
liquidate our way [of life]’.49 What he advocated instead were works about
East German society—many of them commissioned from the half-dozen
dramatists on staff. Such productions were intended for a working-class
audience, and often dealt explicitly with factory life. One play—1963’s
Millionenschmidt—was actually written by a construction worker, Horst
Kleineidam, who based it on the experiences of his own brigade.50 This
work proved particularly unpopular with viewers, but for Kayser, that was
precisely the point. ‘Awakening new needs, teaching people to think and
act in a Party-minded way, developing new humanist feelings—these are
the tasks of theatre’, he wrote in his first Leipzig programme.51 To secure
attendance, Kayser’s staff made more than 2000 factory visits a year,
and achieved impressive results.52 In 1961, the STL sold some 93,000
season tickets for a workforce of 308,000; every performance was filled
beyond 95 % of capacity, and three-fourths of all viewers came in groups.53
Kayser’s efforts showed that socialist theatre could be commercially suc-
cessful. Leipzig boasted more theatregoers per capita than any city in the
two Germanys while exposing them to ideological productions.54
Poland also felt the signs of a cultural ‘thaw’ after Stalin’s death. In
June 1954, the Stary Teatr regained autonomy from the Słowacki, though
it remained subordinated to the Ministry of Culture. The next season,
it went on tour to Paris and performed a contemporary French play for
the first time in seven years.55 The real change, though, came only after
Khrushchev’s ‘Secret Speech’. Amid popular protests, the PZPR’s author-
ity on the ground practically evaporated. In Kraków, a self-proclaimed
Student Revolutionary Committee took power in mid-October 1956,
running its own militia and even setting up a housing commission.56
Gomułka’s accession helped restore order, but the new regime still had
to distance itself from the Stalinist era. At a cultural congress in 1958,
the Secretary of the Central Committee—Jerzy Morawski—condemned
Stalinism’s ‘imposition of a normative aesthetic and a certain doctrinar-
ism in artistic affairs’.57 From then on, he insisted, cultural policy would
176 K. KUNAKHOVICH
revolve around the needs of the audience. ‘People have diverse preferences
and tastes—[differences] in their psychological structure, in what pro-
duces rest and relaxation’, Morawski argued; ‘based on a more realistic
assessment of the situation, we will carry out a policy of cultural choice—a
policy of such promotion [of culture], which will better satisfy the differ-
ent needs of the masses’.58 More choice for consumers also meant more
autonomy for cultural producers. Since art was a matter of personal taste,
it did not have to be ‘directly educational or socially useful’, as Morawski
noted.59 Both artists and audiences thus acquired new freedoms, trans-
forming the nature of theatre in Kraków.
Most immediately, the Stary Teatr gained the right to set its own rep-
ertoire. The Culture Ministry’s oversight ended in 1958, leaving the the-
atre under city administration.60 In practice, though, the director-general
simply picked his own productions—and after years of prohibitions, these
were predominantly Western.61 The Stary Teatr turned to American works
like Tennessee Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire and Eugene O’Neill’s A
Long Day’s Journey into Night. It devoted even more attention to French
theatre, putting on avant-garde plays by Eugène Ionesco, Albert Camus,
and Jean Giraudoux. From 1957 to 1963, the theatre averaged four con-
temporary Western productions per year—more than all Polish and Soviet
bloc plays put together. This repertoire allowed actors and directors to
reconnect with Western trends, but it was not particularly popular among
viewers. In Kraków as a whole, per capita attendance fell by a quarter over
the same time frame.62 Part of the issue was that organised audiences disap-
peared entirely; having embraced the principle of cultural choice, city offi-
cials stopped bussing workers from the factories. By 1958, one study found,
the average Kraków worker went to the theatre just once in five years.63
Theatre turned into an elite space for educated viewers, but there were sim-
ply not enough of them to fill the seats. In 1953, one play’s attendance rate
of 64 % had been described by Party officials as a ‘catastrophe’; eight years
later, the Stary Teatr’s main stage averaged 62 % attendance.64 As it turned
out, freedom of choice was a double-edged sword. The Stary could put on
ambitious productions but it could not compel viewers to come.
IV. Consumerism (1964–70)
In the early 1960s, Leipzig’s Schauspielhaus and Kraków’s Stary Teatr
presented two very different models of theatre. One put on Soviet bloc
plays for millions of factory workers; the other performed Western works
THE CULTURAL COLD WAR ON THE HOME FRONT: THE POLITICAL ROLE... 177
changed as well: from 1968, the STL began to sell packages that covered
just three to four shows and allowed subscribers to choose the ones they
wanted.70 In many ways, this meant a return to pre-1950 practices, when
workers received special discounts but were not compelled to show up
en masse. By the late 1960s, though, workers had many more options
for spending their free time—notably television, which could be found
in three of four GDR households.71 From 1965 to 1975, attendance at
the STL declined by a full quarter, plunging the theatres into financial
trouble.72 The STL was forced to cut a sixth of its staff and put off neces-
sary renovations; two stages required special approval from the fire mar-
shal just to open for the 1970/1 season.73 While state subsidies covered
the theatres’ operational costs, they did not provide for new construction,
leaving existing buildings to decay. This was a logical consequence of the
SED’s consumerist attitude to culture. Officials spent heavily on art when
they saw it as a way of building socialism; once they came to view it as a
leisure-time activity, however, they had far less reason to invest. In Leipzig
District as a whole, funding for cultural infrastructure was 17 times higher
between 1956 and 1962 than in the subsequent six years.74 Cultural con-
sumerism made Leipzig’s Schauspielhaus more diverse and popular with
elite viewers, but it also undermined the theatre’s long-term prospects.
In Kraków, the Stary Teatr largely maintained the repertoire it had
adopted in 1956. Plays by Anouilh, Sartre, and Ionesco retained pride of
place, along with new works by Edward Albee and Peter Schaffer. Overall,
contemporary Western productions made up a third of all premieres over
the 1960s. Meanwhile, the theatre performed just one Soviet bloc play
per year, mostly as a way to appease city officials. As the Stary’s director-
general explained, he aimed to find works that spoke to contemporary
audiences. ‘The Stary Teatr’s ambition is to […] carry on a dialogue with
its viewer’, he wrote in a 1965 programme; ‘it is precisely this dialogue,
the mutual influence of the viewer on the theatre and of the theatre on
the viewer, that gives a theatre its reason to be’.75 Many plays focused on
contemporary social issues like generational change and national identity,
often using elements of satire and the grotesque to make veiled political
allusions. One major production, The Match in the Palace by the 33-year-
old Jarosław Abramow, told the story of an old servant who turned his
master’s abandoned palace into a museum to ‘old Poland’. ‘This is a play
about our own consciousness, about the difficulties of fitting a collective
term—Poland—to our private aspirations, ambitions, thoughts, [and]
dreams’, one critic observed.76
THE CULTURAL COLD WAR ON THE HOME FRONT: THE POLITICAL ROLE... 179
Such productions proved popular with both viewers and critics, but
they were unable to attract big crowds. Kraków’s theatre attendance per
capita fell by 40 % over the 1960s, producing the same problems as in
Leipzig.77 By the early 1970s, officials reported that just 14 out of 252
theatre stages in Kraków Province were in working order.78 True to its
name, the Stary Teatr had in fact become old; all its acclaimed produc-
tions unfolded in decrepit, dilapidated surroundings. To make ends meet,
the theatre put on variety shows like 1969’s Fair of Songs, which featured
‘well known, popular, and beloved actors singing songs by well known,
popular, and beloved composers’.79 The director-general viewed such pro-
ductions as a regrettable necessity, and complained about them bitterly.
‘As a theatre, we have simply been commercialized’, he lamented in 1971;
‘economic rigour has fundamentally overshadowed artistic criteria’.80 Yet
economic rigour and artistic freedom were two sides of the same coin.
Under Stalinism, state control had insulated the Stary Teatr from fi
nancial
concerns, but after 1956 one set of pressures gave way to another. As
theatre administrators discovered, independence from the state brought
dependence on the market.
***
The main trends of the 1960s only intensified in the next two decades.
In Leipzig, total theatre attendance continued to decline; by 1989, the
STL had just half as many viewers as in 1964.81 Material conditions also
worsened, forcing officials to shut down the Schauspielhaus’s sister stage,
the Kammerspiele, in 1978.82 Though Karl Kayser remained in charge,
the STL began to stage controversial works by younger playwrights like
Volker Braun and Ulrich Plenzdorf. The director-general himself called
for an ‘aesthetic openness’, encouraging actors and directors to move
beyond realism and develop ‘individual styles’.83 Meanwhile, Kraków’s
Stary Theatre gained international fame in the early 1970s for new
interpretations of Polish classics. Under renowned directors like Andrzej
Wajda, the ensemble toured Europe with productions of works by Adam
Mickiewicz and Stanisław Wyspiański. As Poland’s economy deteriorated,
the Stary Teatr grew increasingly political. ‘There are almost no plays that
don’t touch on contemporary issues in a tendentious way’, city authori-
ties complained in 1984.84 In Kraków as in Leipzig, theatre staff played
an active part in popular protests in 1989. Designed to support East
European regimes, communist theatre ultimately accelerated their demise.
180 K. KUNAKHOVICH
Notes
1. Kayser’s speech at the 5. Tagung der Stadtverordnetenversammlung, 7
June 1962, StVuR(1) 230, 285, Stadtarchiv Leipzig.
2. Ibid., 296.
3. See, for example, David Caute, The Dancer Defects: The Struggle for
Cultural Supremacy during the Cold War (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2005); Giles Scott-Smith and Hans Krabbendam (eds), The Cultural
Cold War in Western Europe, 1945–1960 (London: Routledge, 2004); Yale
Richmond, Cultural Exchange and the Cold War: Raising the Iron Curtain
(University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2003); Arch
Puddington, Broadcasting Freedom: The Cold War Triumph of Radio Free
Europe and Radio Liberty (Lexington, KY: University of Kentucky Press,
2000); and Thomas Lindenberger (ed.), Massenmedien im Kalten Krieg.
Akteure, Bilder, Resonanzen (Cologne: Böhlau, 2005).
4. Greg Castillo has also used the phrase ‘Cold War on the Home Front’,
albeit in a different context: his book explores the Cold War competition
over domestic spaces and interior design. See Greg Castillo, Cold War on
the Home Front: The Soft Power of M idcentury Design (Minneapolis, MN:
University of Minnesota Press, 2010).
5. General studies of cultural policy in the GDR include Manfred Jäger,
Kultur und Politik in der DDR, 1945–1990 (Cologne: Edition Deutschland
Archiv, 1995); and David Bathrick, The Powers of Speech: The Politics of
Culture in the GDR (Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 1995).
There is no equivalent overview of Polish cultural policy; studies on
particular periods include Barbara Fijalkowska, Polityka i twórcy
(1948–1959) (Warsaw: Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe, 1985); and
Andrzej Krajewski, Między wspólpracą a oporem: Tworcy kultury wobec
systemu politycznego PRL (1975–1980) (Warsaw: TRIO, 2004). On theatre
policy more specifically, see Petra Stuber, Spielräume und Grenzen: Studien
zum DDR-Theater (Berlin: Ch. Links, 1998), Laura Bradley, Cooperation
182 K. KUNAKHOVICH
22. Repertoires for the Stary Teatr are available on the theatre’s website:
http://stary.pl/content.php?url=page/archiwum, accessed 15 March
2016. Premieres at the Słowacki Theatre are compiled in Diana Poskuta-
Włodek, Co dzień powtarza sie gra… Teatr im. Juliusza Słowackiego w
Krakowie, 1893–1993 (Cracow: ARTA, 1993).
23. Interwar repertoires are compiled from programmes in Teatr Miejski 22,
ANK.
24. Sprawozdanie z posiedzenia odbytego z inicjatywy Województwa w dniu
28.3.46, Urza ̨d Wojewódzki 3846, 393, ANK.
25. Sprawozdanie Teatru Starego za okres 10.-12.1945, Urza ̨d Wojewódzki
3846, 645, ANK.
26. Plan Miejskiego Teatru Starego na rok 1947, Urza ̨d Wojewódzki 3802,
25, ANK.
27. Sprawozdanie Teatru Miejskiego za rok 1928/9, Teatr Miejski 28, 1101,
ANK.
28. Plan Miejskiego Teatru Starego na rok 1947, Urza ̨d Wojewódzki 3802,
25, ANK.
29. Sprawozdanie Teatru Miejskiego za rok 1928/9, Teatr Miejski 28, 1109,
ANK.
30. Sprawozdanie z działalności Państwowych Teatrów Dramatycznych w
Krakowie, Komitet Wojewódzki PZPR w Krakowie 210, 588, ANK.
31. Arbeitsplan des III. und IV. Quartals des Amtes für Kunst und Kunstpflege,
StVuR(1) 2140, 4, Stadtarchiv Leipzig.
32. Ferdinand May, ‘Die Leipziger Bühnen und ihre neueste Entwicklung:
1950–1956’, in Leipziger Bühnen: Tradition und neues Werden, ed. Karl
Kayser (Berlin: Henschelverlag, 1956), 26–31, 30.
33. Theatre programmes available in the Programmhefte Collection of the
Deutsche Nationalbibliothek Leipzig.
34. On the concept of didactic theatre, see Petra Stuber, Spielräume und
Grenzen: Studien zum DDR-Theater (Berlin: Ch. Links, 1998), 173–191.
35. Bericht über die Spielzeit 1951/2 der Städtischen Theater Leipzig,
StVuR(1) 8228, 148, Stadtarchiv Leipzig.
36. The attendance rate for Antigone was 45 %; for Dawn, Day, Night, it was
85 %, Bericht über die Spielzeit 1951/2 der Städtischen Theater Leipzig,
StVuR(1) 8228, 148, Stadtarchiv Leipzig.
37. Christoph Klessmann, Arbeiter im ‚Arbeiterstaat‘ DDR: Deutsche
Traditionen, sowjetisches Modell, westdeutsches Magnetfeld (1945 bis 1971)
(Bonn: Dietz, 2007), 289.
38. Einige statistische Zahlen über die Entwicklung auf dem Gebiet der Kultur,
6 April 1957, Bezirkstag und Rat des Bezirkes Leipzig, 2955, 24, SStAL.
184 K. KUNAKHOVICH
39. Plan Miejskiego Starego Teatru na rok 1947, Urza ̨d Wojewódzki 3802,
25, ANK; and Plan Państwowego Teatru Słowackiego, 5 March 1949,
Urza ̨d Wojewódzki 3846, 1401, ANK.
40. Sprawozdanie z działalności Państwowych Teatrów Dramatycznych w
Krakowie, Komitet Wojewódzki PZPR w Krakowie 210, 617, ANK.
41. Sprawodzanie Dyrekcji Państwowych Teatrów Dramatycznych o realizacji
planu na rok 1953, Komitet Wojewódzki PZPR w Krakowie 210, 427, ANK.
42. Diana Poskuta-Włodek, Co dzień powtarza sie gra… Teatr im. Juliusza
Słowackiego w Krakowie, 1893–1993 (Cracow: ARTA, 1993), 185.
43. Sprawozdanie z działalności Państwowych Teatrów Dramatycznych w
Krakowie, Komitet Wojewódzki PZPR w Krakowie 210, 619, ANK.
44. Petra Stuber, Spielräume und Grenzen: Studien zum DDR-Theater (Berlin:
Ch. Links, 1998), 178.
45. These were John Millington Synge’s play The Playboy of the Western World
and Nazim Hikmet’s Was There an Ivan Ivanovich? (translated by Alfred
Kurella as Who is Meier?).
46. Quoted in Thomas Irmer, ‘Ein letzter Kayser: Theater in Leipzig zwischen
1957 und 1989’, in Theater in der Übergangsgesellschaft: Schauspiel Leipzig,
1957–2007, ed. Wolfgang Engel and Erika Stephan (Berlin: Theater der
Zeit, 2007), 76–83, 83.
47. These included the SED’s Cultural Conference in October 1957; the Fifth
Party Congress in July 1958; and the First Bitterfeld Conference in March
1959.
48. Karl Kayser ‘Qualität in der Kunst—eine ideologische Frage’, Neues
Deutschland, 11 December 1961, 3 and Städtisches Theater Leipzig,
Vorschau der Spielzeit 1958/9, in the Programmhefte Collection of the
Deutsche Nationalbibliothek Leipzig.
49. Bericht von Karl Kayser zu Paul Fröhlich, 5.6.1965, SED Bezirksleitung
IV/A/2/9/359, SStAL.
50. The play was commissioned by the STL. Christoph Hamm, Stückanalyse
zu dem Schauspiel “Millionenschmidt” von H. Kleineidam (Leipzig:
Zentralhaus für Kulturarbeit, 1963).
51. Städtische Theater Leipzig, Vorschau der Spielzeit 1958/9, in the
Programmhefte Collection of the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek Leipzig.
52. Sitzung der Ständigen Kulturkommission, 17.3.1959, StVuR(1) 569, 56,
Stadtarchiv Leipzig; and 7. Tagung der Stadtverordnetenversammlung,
13.10.1966, StVuR(1) 255, 45, Stadtarchiv Leipzig.
53. Stadt Leipzig, Statistisches Jahrbuch der Stadt Leipzig 14 (1962).
54. Bericht der Parteileitung, 12.12.1966, SED Bezirksleitung,
IV/A/2/9/2/366/226, SStAL Leipzig.
55. Diana Poskuta-Włodek, Co dzień powtarza sie gra… Teatr im. Juliusza
Słowackiego w Krakowie, 1893–1993 (Cracow: ARTA, 1993), 194.
THE CULTURAL COLD WAR ON THE HOME FRONT: THE POLITICAL ROLE... 185
Karolina Prykowska Michalak
When analysing the achievements of Polish theatre artists of the Cold War
period who were known to the global public it is impossible not to men-
tion the two most important directors of those times—Tadeusz Kantor
and Jerzy Grotowski. It should be stressed that they were not involved in
what would now be perceived as political theatre, nor were they actively
engaged in politics in the most prolific period of their creativity.1 The facts
and events described in this paper serve primarily to show the changing
circumstances in which Grotowski and Kantor were working and due to
which they achieved success on a global scale during the Cold War.
It is not the aim of this paper to compare and evaluate the artistic
biographies or creative achievements of the two directors. Disputes and
controversies regarding the supposed artistic competition between them
are beyond the scope of this study.2 However, in an attempt to present
the political and social background of the development of Polish the-
atre art, which in the said period achieved a supranational or even global
K.P. Michalak
University of Lodz, Lodz, Poland
s tatus, the main stream of the paper’s narrative will focus on historical facts
that illuminate the relationships of the two artists with the communist
authorities.
From today’s perspective it is interesting to present the manifold
relations between theatre and the waves of the communist regime, and
to pay particular attention to the diverse attitudes to the regime—not
only the compromise and servility indicated in the title of this paper, but
also specific strategies of ‘taming’ the authorities and using the ‘system’
to secure the best conditions for creative work. This paper does not make
clear judgements about Kantor’s and Grotowski’s attitudes to the com-
munist authorities because such judgements would have to include a num-
ber of factors which this study can only mention in passing.
Since, as has already been said, the narrative of this paper is not compar-
ative, it follows a chronological order, especially as it is crucial to illustrate
that the Cold War in Poland (1949–90) can be divided into several phases
characterised by various degrees of governmental interference in art and,
consequently, by changing relations between artists and politics as well as
a changing global perception of those relations.
In the 1950s and 1960s, the political aspect of avant-garde art was
seen mainly in its incompatibility with the official policy laid down by the
authorities (seen, for example, in theatre repertoires). The Party refused
to accept anything that did not conform to the accepted canon. Artists
who failed to comply with the official policy were withdrawn from pub-
lic spheres. Tadeusz Kantor, for example, following his public speeches
defending the freedom of art in 1950, lost his position as professor at
the Fine Arts School (Wyższa Szkoła Sztuk Plastycznych) in Kraków.8
Struggling to retain his only source of income he appealed to the dep-
uty minister Sokorski himself. Sokorski did not rescind the decision to
fire Kantor, but instead used a method that was very often employed by
the Party and was meant to encourage people’s cooperation: harassment
and persecution were followed by a pardon. Kantor, therefore, lost his
professorship, but from 1 September 1950 was employed as a full-time
stage designer in Kraków’s State Dramatic Theatres (Państwowe Teatry
Dramatyczne), Teatr Stary and Juliusz Słowacki Theatre, where he had
already worked in 1947.
At that time, Kantor was also employed as an instructor for a
community-centre reciting group at the Regional Cultural Centre of
Trade Unions (Wojewódzki Dom Kultury Zwia ̨zków Zawodowych),
located in Palace under the Rams (Pałac pod Baranami), where he ran
a theatre course and supervised a Working-class Team. Justifying these
activities, he later explained that he had been doing them out of an
irresistible desire to influence a mass audience.9 With the Working-
class Team Kantor would put on the plays of communist playwrights,
which were often openly propagandist. In June 1949, for example,
Let the Lumberjack Wake Up by Pablo Neruda, a Chilean propo-
nent of the USSR mission, was performed in the courtyard of Pod
Baranami. The following year, the Team under Kantor’s supervision
showed the stage installation Generał Walter, commemorating General
Karol Świerczewski, a colonel in the Red Army. Kantor also presented
General Świerczewski in a gouache entitled The Legend of General
Walter (1950). In the following years, the future author of The Dead
Class also designed decorations for the metropolitan May Day marches.
In recognition of these and other achievements, he was awarded the
Gold Cross of Merit in 1954 and the Medal of the 10th Anniversary of
People’s Poland in 1955. He was also awarded a d istinction from the
Committee of State Awards for his stage design work. He accepted all
these state awards.
YEARS OF COMPROMISE AND POLITICAL SERVILITY—KANTOR... 193
The radical character of the period of Socialist Realism left its mark on
the biographies of many artists. Still, it was not to last long and a lot of
artists quickly managed to erase the restrictions that had inhibited their
work. It should be stressed that in the Stalinist period the terror tactics
directed at any refusal to cooperate with the authorities, or opposition
towards such cooperation, were particularly severe. It was unquestion-
ably the most difficult period as far as the international activities of Polish
artists were concerned. Tadeusz Kantor, for example, was practically cut
off from the dynamically developing international modern art during the
Stalinist period.
Stalin’s regime. Political changes were initiated in 1956, when the new
First Secretary of the PZPR (Polish United Workers’ Party), Władysław
Gomułka, was appointed. Still, the decade was hardly idyllic. One can-
not ignore such events as the attack of the Warsaw Pact13 troops on
Czechoslovakia, a wave of students’ strikes in 1968 and the anti-Semitic
campaign. Paradoxically, it was at that time, the time of strict political cen-
sorship, that Cricot 2 and the Theatre of 13 Rows were created. Ludwik, a
witness to such events and co-creator of the Theatre of 13 Rows, remem-
bering those times said:
The fact is that the Polish People’s Republic, the state of real socialism and
limited independence, hosted great culture of global significance. […] Of
course, it would not have been possible during the total Stalinist tyranny, but
after 1956 in Poland the autocracy was permeable and sick, it was ashamed
of itself. Apart from some moments of crisis when it tried to treat itself very
seriously, the tyranny constantly had to noisily prove its right to exist, first by
claiming its role in rebuilding the country after the war, and then by using
geopolitics, cold raison d’état without a vision of a bright future.14
of activities, including artistic activities, was one of the basic tasks of the
secret services, which is why practically every Pole going abroad was
forced to contact the SB.
Around the same time, Jerzy Grotowski began his artistic career. Ludwik
Flaszen, Grotowski’s long-time theatre partner, recalls that in 1955, after
graduating from the drama school in Kraków, Grotowski received a presti-
gious scholarship from the Moscow drama school GITIS19 and set off on
a trip to India. It should be stressed that Grotowski had learned how to
flatter the authorities and exploit the system’s naivety many years before,
during entrance exams to the Kraków drama school. According to Slowiak
and Cuesta, Grotowski in 1950 ‘during entrance exams got […] very
poor grades in practical tests, including a fail in diction. Luckily, he scored
high grades from an essay How can theatre contribute to the development of
socialism in Poland? and thanks to that he was conditionally admitted to
the acting programme.’20 This clearly illustrates the absurdities that gov-
erned the communist system.
Grotowski, however, later proved to be an outstanding student and was
awarded the GITIS scholarship. He spent one year in Moscow studying
under the supervision of Yuri Zavadsky, who not only taught the Polish
student the art of theatre directing, but also shared with him his personal
dilemma regarding cooperation with the authorities in return for mate-
rial prosperity. Zavadsky regretted the fact that he had yielded to the sys-
tem and warned Grotowski against such decisions. This incident is often
quoted in studies about Grotowski. Eugenio Barba in his Land of Ashes
and Diamonds writes as follows: ‘Forty years later in Holstebro Grotowski
refers to that incident as a turning point in his life. He recalls that […]
he saw that moment as a scene of Christ’s temptation by Satan, only à
rebours, and he kept asking himself the question […] whether he could
have endured in Poland without those words.’21
Having returned to Poland from Moscow, from 1956 onwards,
Grotowski became involved in promoting pluralist factions in youth
movements,22 publicly criticised Stalinism and was one of the founders
of the Political Centre of the Academic Left of the Union of Socialist
Youth (Polityczny Ośrodek Lewicy Akademickiej, or ZMS) established in
1957, a group of young, radically leftist intelligentsia. This faction, how-
ever, was quickly dissolved, which automatically made Grotowski leave
the ZMS. At that moment his political activism ended, and although he
still remained a member of PZPR he was never personally active again.
Kosiński in his Przewodnik writes:
196 K.P. MICHALAK
When many years later, during the last meeting with a Polish audience in
Wrocław, on 3 March 1997, young people attacked Grotowski, accusing
him of having run an official theatre in a totalitarian country his response
was very sober. As I remember, he said: We could have done nothing and
lost our one and only chance, or we could try to do as much as possible in
the existing circumstances.23
From 1959 Jerzy Grotowski, together with Ludwik Flaszen, ran the
Theatre of 13 Rows in Opole. As it was not a municipal repertoire
theatre, it was not obliged to conform to the canon, and Flaszen and
Grotowski managed to negotiate special conditions with the culture
department. Their theatre was to assume the status of a ‘“professional
experimental theatre” whose aim was to work towards the creation of
a new form of theatrical arts in line with the views of its artistic direc-
tor.’24 Establishing an experimental theatre, which was still controlled
as it was partly subsided by the city council, was a national precedent.
The element of experimentation indicated that the theatre was unique
and elitist, which evidently clashed with the political doctrine advocat-
ing popularisation of art. For this reason, the authorities kept remind-
ing the theatre management about their obligations towards People’s
Poland.
These obligations were usually met in a rather symbolic way, such as
by creating the Friends of the Theatre Society (Koło Przyjaciół Teatru
13 Rzędów), organising lectures and readings to prove the social value
of the theatre or establishing the so-called ‘Journalistic Platform’ that
gathered documents, literary texts and audio-visual materials. Such activ-
ities were very simple and they were presented during workers’ rallies.
In April 1961, in Kędzierzyn, for example, a Theatre Gala took place at
the Culture Centre of the ‘Azoty’ Chemical Industries Plant (Zakładowy
Dom Kultury Zakładów Przemysłu Chemicznego ‘Azoty’). It was organ-
ised by the Theatre of 13 Rows, the regional committee of the Union
of Socialist Youth (ZMS) and the Workers’ Council. In addition to a
dance party, the programme included Jerzy Grotowski’s lecture and two
productions—“Mystery Bouffe” and the famous “Shakuntalā”. In 1962,
the Theatre Prepared Workers’ Oratory, a show staged as part of the
Journalistic Platform initiative for the twentieth anniversary of the forma-
tion of the Polish Worker’s Party (Polska Partia Robotnicza). According
to the Grotowski Institute in Wrocław, it is ‘the most glaring of the artistic
compromises into which the Theatre of 13 Rows was forced.’25
YEARS OF COMPROMISE AND POLITICAL SERVILITY—KANTOR... 197
The 1970s
Analysing the phenomenon of the long-term influence of the West
European avant-garde on Polish culture (until 1975), art historians stress
that in the Gierek era (the 1970s) the Polish government accepted the
aforementioned propaganda strategy of presenting a slightly different
image of a communist country in the West. Modern art was one of the
elements of that strategy as it was supposed to ‘make Western public opin-
ion believe that the Polish regime is quite liberal. Allowing Polish artists to
travel abroad was an attempt to reduce the importance of such emigration
elites as, for example, “Kultura” in Paris, in opinion forming.’34
In the 1970s Jerzy Grotowski and Tadeusz Kantor quite regularly and
actively participated in international artistic life. They would receive grants
and scholarships, and their teams would travel on tours to both Western
Europe and the USA. This does not mean, however, that they were
independent from the government. The policy of international trips was
strictly monitored and art was censored because dependency on Moscow
YEARS OF COMPROMISE AND POLITICAL SERVILITY—KANTOR... 199
still had to be taken into consideration. For this reason, a certain degree
of ambivalence of the authorities towards, for example, Kantor’s theatre
can be observed.
The 1969 marks the beginning of Kantor’s world fame, which resulted
in various state persecutions. In the same year Cricot 2 was invited by
the Roman Museum of Modern Art to take part in the theatre festival
Premino Roma in Rome. Afterwards, the theatre company went on tour
in Italy. Italian critics said that The Water Hen was the most inspiring event
of the festival. The Italian press highly praised the Polish production, and
a theatre magazine, Sipario, devoted a long section to Kantor. The Polish
embassy in Rome also spoke positively about the event. In contrast, the
performance of Cricot 2 in Kraków was dismissed by the Polish press in a
short report, and generally the theatre never received a lot of official press.
What is more, immediately after the team returned from Italy, the culture
department of the city of Kraków reduced the subsidy for the Kraków
Group which was financing Kantor’s team, justifying the decision by citing
a lack of prior consent for the excessive costs of the team’s trip to Italy. In
the same month the rector of Kraków Academy of Fine Arts fired Kantor
from his position as professor.
In this period there were many similar incidents of friction between
Kantor and the communist authorities. One of the most famous incidents
of the early 1970s is worth mentioning. Richard Demarko, the organ-
iser of the Edinburgh festival, wrote an official letter to the Polish min-
istry of culture inviting Cricot 2 to the festival. The ministry, completely
ignoring the existence of a non-institutional theatre (which was therefore
beyond the control of censorship and the authorities), even though it was
known all over Europe, replied to Demarko that neither Kantor’s theatre
nor Cricot 2 theatre existed in any official registers. The ministry instead
offered to send Grotowski’s Laboratory Theatre, a state theatre and an
official representative of Polish theatrical art. In the end, Demarko invited
Kantor’s theatre privately, outside of the official international exchange,
and covered all expenses. Kantor repeatedly mentions this in interviews
and debates, strongly stressing that his theatre had never officially been
part of the Polish People’s Republic’s international cultural exchange,
and that Cricot 2 had never been an official or institutional theatre. The
instability of Cricot 2’s formal status, often interpreted in the West as an
example of the harassment of artists behind the Iron Curtain, was a result
of quite day-to-day considerations, such as the low budget of the Kraków
culture department. In fact, in moments of financial crisis, Kantor often
200 K.P. MICHALAK
It was […] a tactical decision but from the Polish perspective it was rather
grotesque, taking into consideration the fact that Grotowski had rather ami-
able relations with the authorities and his work had been state funded for
many years. Political asylum was granted to a long-term member of the
Party, who never openly spoke against communism, and who was on the
whole loyal to the government.40
Notes
1. In the years 1956–57 Grotowski was a member of a faction that was in
opposition to the Polish Youth Association (Zwia ̨zek Młodzieży Polskiej—
ZMP—a communist organisation active in 1948–57, supervised by the
Party and whose purpose was the political and ideological education of
young Poles).
2. For those interested in this aspect see Krzysztof Pleśniarowicz, ‘Kantor—
Grotowski: między maglem a wiecznościa ̨’, Performer 2 (2009), http://
www.grotowski.net/performer/performer-2/kantor-grotowski-miedzy-
maglem-wiecznoscia and Zbigniew Osiński, ‘Kantor i Grotowski: dwa
teatry, dwie wizje’, Dialog 12 (1996), 144–156.
3. The Party is to be understood as the Polish United Workers’ Party (PZPR).
4. For instance, the Congress of the Trade Union of Polish Writers (Zwia ̨zek
Zawodowy Literatów Polskich) in Szczecin in January 1949; the congress of
playwrights, theatre people and theatre critics in Obory in June 1949; the
congress of architects in Warsaw in June 1949; the Congress of the Association
YEARS OF COMPROMISE AND POLITICAL SERVILITY—KANTOR... 203
22. He had been a member of the Polish Youth Association (ZMP) since 1949,
and a member of PZPR since 1956 (Dariusz Kosiński, Grotowski.
Przewodnik (Wroclaw: Ośrodek Badań Twórczości Jerzego Grotowskiego
i Poszukiwań Teatralno-Kulturowych, 2009), 48).
23. Ibid., 51.
24. ‘Kalendarium życia i działalności twórczej Jerzego Grotowskiego’ (2012)
Instytut Im. Jerzego Grotowskiego, http://www.grotowski.net/narzedziownia/
kalendaria/jerzy-grotowski, accessed 15 March 2016.
25. Ibid.
26. Ibid.
27. In 1962 Jerzy Grotowski was an official member of the Polish representa-
tion at the international seminar of experimental theatres organised as part
of the Eighth World Festival of Youth and Students in Helsinki. In the
same year, he visited the People’s Republic of China as an official delegate
of the Ministry of Culture and Arts’ team for theatre matters (‘Kalendarium
życia i działalności twórczej Jerzego Grotowskiego’).
28. Ludwik Flaszen recalls an event related to anti-Semitic propaganda in
1968, which is a very accurate illustration of the specific logic of the com-
munist government: ‘[Grotowski] was attacked in People’s Tribune
(Trybuna Ludu) for not doing the right job for the People’s Poland, a state
that nurtured him, and for talking about how poor his theatre was, clearly
complaining that he did not have sufficient means to run the Laboratory
Theatre. And to make matters worse, he was doing it in the terrible revi-
sionist West Germany!’ (Sobolewski, ‘Trzewik Montaigne’a’.
29. As the timeline of Jerzy Grotowski’s creative work created by the Grotowski
Institute in Wrocław states, on 19 June 1964 ‘The daily newspaper Trybuna
Opolska announces on its front page that five of the Laboratory Theatre’s
actors—Rena Mirecka, Andrzej Bielski, Ryszard Cieślak, Antoni
Jahołkowski and Zygmunt Molik—have joined the Polish United Workers
Party and become members of the Primary Party Organisation at the
House of Creative Associations in Opole. According to Grotowski’s later
interpretation, this act served as a means of protecting against the dissolu-
tion of the Theatre, working on the principle that the company could be
dissolved but its Primary Party Organisation could not’ (‘Kalendarium
życia i działalności twórczej Jerzego Grotowskiego’).
30. Jarmułowicz, Sezony błędów i wypaczeń, 52.
31. Kosiński, Grotowski, 169.
32. Ibid., 169.
33. On 18 September 1968, The New York Times published a letter of protest
by the leading representatives of American theatre (such as Arthur Miller,
Edward Albee, Walter Kerr and Jerome Robbins) who objected to the
YEARS OF COMPROMISE AND POLITICAL SERVILITY—KANTOR... 205
Ioana Szeman
I. Szeman (*)
University of Roehampton, London, UK
the negotiations between the French and Romanian sides, including the
officials in the State Committee for Arts and Culture (SCAC) that sup-
ported the tour, shows the high stakes these cultural exchanges had gained
and the calculated nature of officials’ decisions, based on projected benefit
to the regime. The cultural figures involved in this episode include Eugène
Ionesco, Liviu Ciulei, managing director of the Bulandra Theatre, and
Lucian Pintilie, director of Carnival Scenes, both of whom had a fraught
relationship with the regime;4 and two other directors, David Esrig, for
Rameau’s Nephew, who fled Romania in 1970, and Crin Teodorescu,
director of Victims of Duty, who died in suspicious circumstances in 1970.
Pintilie’s work at the Bulandra included Carnival Scenes and The Cherry
Orchard and he was already known to Western audiences for his film work,
including his prize at Cannes in 1967 for Sunday at 6 o’clock; this interna-
tional visibility made him a desirable choice for the festival. Directors like
Pintilie and Ciulei built their careers by defying, pushing and negotiat-
ing boundaries with a regime that continued to capitalise on their work
abroad even after they were later banned in Romania. Archival documents
about the 1969 tour reveal the haunting absence of Crin Teodorescu, who
is by and large forgotten today, even though he was a prominent director
who was highly active in the International Theatre Institute (ITI). I start
with an overview of the first years of Ceauşescu’s regime and the changes
in the theatre landscape in that period, focusing on the Bulandra Theatre,
and then analyse closely the archival documents about the tours.
Ceauşescu was well received and for a long time he benefited from the
advantage created by his attitude in 1968, as an exponent of a nationalist
communism of Tito’s type, and some saw the possibility of dismantling the
Soviet empire through these national developments. But as he advanced in a
direction contrary to human rights regulations, in pursuit of absolute inde-
pendence and the right to do anything in the country, his image in the West
deteriorated to the creation of that large universal coalition against him.5
The 1969 tour precedes these developments and belongs to the tail end
of a period of opening and relative relaxation of the communist regime.
Following from Romania’s foreign policy, in the late 1960s the country
had cultural agreements and exchanges with numerous countries, both
socialist and non-socialist. Certain authors, including Ionesco, joined the
list of authors allowed to be staged after a period of strict Socialist Realism
in the 1950s; a production of Rhinoceros toured to Paris in 1966 specifi-
cally in connection with the regime’s plans to turn Ionesco into an ally.6
I posit that a directors’ theatre culture, shared in Romania and across
the West, facilitated the positive reception of Romanian theatres’ inter-
national tours. While the prominent role of the director was a common
feature of theatre cultures across Europe and the USA, national theatres
were, from their inception, supposed (at least in theory) to reflect and
promote specific national identities. Even though communist propaganda
inverted the associations of the West with capitalism as a negative force,
the nation itself was based on Western ideals of a bound identity. The
works of Romanian directors shown abroad reflected a ‘directors’ theatre’7
culture in Romania, a tradition that the Theatre of Nations festival fol-
lowed, while also supporting the experimental and the new.
‘A MEMORABLE FRENCH-ROMANIAN EVENING... 211
influences and directions in and outside the West. Barrault set up the
Centre for Intercultural Theatre studies where Peter Brook worked. As
Jean Darcante, secretary general of the ITI explains: ‘For theatre people
in the world, the Theatre of Nations is the theatre of freedom—thanks to
it, the Third World, the countries of the East, young companies were able
to express themselves freely, without commercial or political concerns.’12
However, as I show below, the Romanian tour was subsidised by the state,
and the interference of the political was highly present, including in the
choice of production.
Romania was invited to attend the 1968 Theatre of Nations festival
with one production. The correspondence related to the festival confirms
that the communist regime considered theatre a powerful ambassador for
Romania. Archival documents evidence the role of the SCAC, especially
the External Relations Department, in making ideological decisions about
the tour and in financially supporting it.
Taking into account the visibility the Theatre of Nations affords, and our
country’s achievements in the field of theatre, we propose to participate
in the 1968 festival in Paris (our country was present in 1956 with the
National I.L. Caragiale Theatre and in the 1965 season with the Comedy
Theatre). We want to specify that the participation at the Theatre of Nations
means all the costs in lei and foreign currency related to transportation and
subsistence are incurred by the participating theatre. In order to register our
country for 1968, it is necessary that comrade Beligan attend the meeting
of the Theatre of Nations Cartel with this assignment.13
official set out the conditions for his assistance: the performances had to
be first presented at the festival and the chosen productions had to make
him believe in the success of the tour.22
Upon his return to Paris, Giacomoni sent a letter to the Bulandra
Theatre, thanking them for the reception and alluding to the long friend-
ship between the two nations that his visit reminded him of. He specified
that Darcante of the ITI, and the French Foreign Ministry favoured his
production choices, and reiterated their openness to the idea of a com-
bined Victims of Duty/Rameau’s Nephew performance, which would
constitute a ‘wonderful example of a French-Romanian evening.’23 He
added that Mr Ionesco was fully behind the inclusion of his play at the
festival. Alluding to the ‘technical difficulties’ invoked by the Romanians,
Giacomoni expressed his hope that technical difficulties would not pre-
vent the pairing of Victims of Duty with Rameau’s Nephew.24 However,
the idea of the ‘French-Romanian evening’ did not impress the Romanian
officials: a handwritten note on the SCAC correspondence suggests that
the Bulandra deputy director, Maxim Crişan, should have a discussion
with the theatre staff about reprising a play by E. Oproiu, a piece unre-
lated to those discussed here. As I show later, this conflict was invoked
by Florea merely as a pretext, but Florea’s note may have reminded the
SCAC official of the real conflict at the theatre.
In a letter dated April 1969, Al. Gheorghiu, who had been assigned
by Securitate to meet and win over Eugène Ionesco in France, writes to
Dumitru Popescu—one of the highest names in culture at the time, nick-
named Dumnezeu (God) and a close ally of Ceauşescu—to report that
Ionesco was surprised about the dropping of his play from the festival pro-
gramme, that the ITI and Giacomoni were keen on this play and that even
the Romanian Embassy considered it a good choice.25 A handwritten note
by Pompiliu Macovei26 on this letter betrays the official’s irritation with
Ionesco and the French officials’ insistence on Victims of Duty. He writes
to his subordinates that they should follow up and inform Giacomoni,
via Gheorghiu, that the Romanians still had three plays on offer, in addi-
tion to Carnival Scenes: Rameau’s Nephew, The Cherry Orchard and
possibly The Three Penny Opera. Macovei writes by hand that Ionesco
should be informed, ‘in a more moderately worded phrasing’, that ‘one
hopes he would not be under the impression that Romanian theatres
can only tour with his plays’, and that the production choice depended
on many factors, including the quality of the staging, of the acting, and
so on, and these factors can only be appreciated by those in charge of the
‘A MEMORABLE FRENCH-ROMANIAN EVENING... 217
the clashes between older and newer generations at the Bulandra Theatre,
were a coded way to refer to ideological clashes within the company, and
were smoke in the eyes of the French. Although these clashes were real
and later contributed to the sacking of Ciulei, the explanation does not
make sense if one examines the cast of the productions under negotiation.
Even though The Cherry Orchard did include three older actors and one
who was married to a highly ranked politician, it was second choice to
Rameau’s Nephew, with two characters played by young actors.
As Nicolae Mandea argues in a discussion about Ionesco’s legacy in
Romania, the staging of his plays in this short period of ‘freedom’ did
not make it any less difficult to defend the productions during their run.31
Just as Ionesco was buried and was virtually unknown to the majority of
Romanians in 1989, this episode reveals a completely forgotten director,
Crin Teodorescu. Even if he was not the reason for the decision not to
send Victims of Duty on tour, archival documents point to the importance
of his work, almost entirely forgotten today due to his early death in 1970.
Two other productions directed by Crin Teodorescu toured internationally
in 1969. Teodorescu attended the 1969 ITI Congress in Budapest and in
his report to the Romanian journal Theatre he included the point he him-
self raised during the congress, arguing for a less heavy-handed selection
process for the Theatre of Nations festival and for less state interference
in the matter.32 Crin Teodorescu was condemned to five years in prison
for homosexuality in 1959. According to Neculai C. Munteanu, he did
time in the prisons of Vacaresti, Rahova, Jilava and White Gate until 1963.
Despite the supposed liberalism of the beginning of Ceauşescu’s reign, the
regime’s harsh stance against homosexuality persisted. Teodorescu died in
suspicious circumstances in 1970. He was found dead at home by his sis-
ter and the police called his death a ‘crime of passion’.33 These details are
largely unknown in Romania, as is Teodorescu’s work.
Conclusion
Romanian officials deemed the Bulandra Theatre’s participation at the
Theatre of Nations festival with Carnival Scenes a success, and the produc-
tion received generally favourable reviews in the French press, which was
not the norm among other companies at that year’s festival. The four per-
formances by the Bulandra received positive reviews in Le Monde, L’Aurore,
France-Soir and Juvenal and the French public broadcasting organisation
(ORTF) dedicated three programmes to the Bulandra tour. The production
‘A MEMORABLE FRENCH-ROMANIAN EVENING... 219
of Caragiale’s play was read by the French press as a vaudeville and farce,
largely due to the inaccessibility of his plays to non-Romanian-speaking
audiences. While the reviewers for Le Monde and L’Aurore noted the quali-
ties of the staging and acting, as well as the similarities between Caragiale
and more famous French authors like Feydeau and Labiche, in L’Humanité
the reviewer comments that despite the ‘pleasant fête’, the performance did
nothing to ‘add to our knowledge of contemporary European theatre’, add-
ing that if the ‘Theatre of Nations is satisfied at present to be the meeting
ground of a few “classical” European theatres, […] it will soon lose its sig-
nificance’.34 The press reflected a widespread feeling that the festival was in
danger of becoming safe and had stopped pushing boundaries with the struc-
tural changes following the events of 1968. Yet an analysis of the Bulandra’s
participation shows that the Bucharest theatre could have answered these
critics with Victims of Duty by Ionesco, a production of a contemporary play
that challenged naturalism and experimented with Artaud’s legacy.
The Romanian authorities’ handling of this tour reflects the unprec-
edented and literal instrumentalisation of culture in the service of power.
The commonalities in theatre culture across the Iron Curtain facilitated
the positive reception of Romanian productions, which was also due to
the general lack of knowledge about the repression and control of the
Ceauşescu regime. In the years to come, Pintilie and Ciulei would build
their careers in the West, and, as the repression of the regime became
known, their work would be read from the angle of anti-totalitarianism.
The mystification of national history and patrimony that would become a
hallmark of the regime in later years was already visible here, as an author
of Ionesco’s reputation and international appeal, partly Romanian, and
whom the French were willing to ‘share’, is denied his ‘Romanian-ness’,
despite the fact that his work would not have been read as a lesser ver-
sion of a French playwright, as happened when critics likened Caragiale to
Labiche and Feydeau.
Notes
1. Françoise Lionnet and Shu-mei Shih (eds), Minor Transnationalism
(Durham: Duke University Press, 2005), 5.
2. Félix Giacomoni’s letter to the Bulandra Theatre, 24 January 1969, The
Archives of the Ministry of Culture, Bucharest.
3. Vasile Florea, note to Pompiliu Macovei (President of the External
Relations Department, SCAC), 23 January 1969, The Archives of the
Ministry of Culture, Bucharest.
220 I. SZEMAN
4. Ciulei was artistic director of the Bulandra Theatre from 1963 to 1972,
when, following Ceauşescu’s cultural revolution of 1971, which put an
end to the previous decade’s relative freedom, he was sacked after the
banning of Pintilie’s production of Gogol’s The Inspector General. This was
one of the most public and aggressive bannings, announced in the national
newspaper Scînteia.
5. Serban Papacostea, ‘Şcoala de Vară Sighet, ed. VII/Totalitarismul şi
istoriografia română’, [no date], http://destinatii.liternet.ro/articol/157/
Dennis-Deletant/Scoala-de-Vara-Sighet-ed-VII-Occidentul-si-disidenta-
din-Romania-sub-regimul-lui-Ceausescu.html, accessed 19 August 2013,
(my translation).
6. Liviu Ţăranu, ‘Contribuţii la o biografie: Eugen Ionescu în dosarele
Securităti̧ i’, Magazin istoric 11.512 (November 2009), 15–19; Liviu
Ţăranu, ‘Contribuţii la o biografie: Eugen Ionescu în dosarele Securităti̧ i’,
Magazin istoric 12.513 (December 2009), 43–48.
7. David Bradby and David Williams, Directors’ Theatre (London: St. Martin’s
Press, 1988).
8. Liviu Maliţa (ed.), Viaţa teatrală în şi după communism (Cluj: Efes, 2006).
9. Katherine Verdery, National Ideology under Socialism: Identity and
Cultural Politics in Ceausescu’s Romania (Berkeley: UC Press, 1991).
10. Miruna Runcan, Teatralizarea şi Reteatralizarea în Romania. 1920–1960
(Cluj: Eikon, 2003); and Marian Popescu, Scenele teatrului românesc
1945–2004 (Bucharest: Unitext, 2004).
11. He rejected the hollowness of this naturalism and argued for a reality
conveyed through poetic-dramatic images in stage design.
12. Letter from the ITI secretary general Jean Darcante, May 1968, The
Archives of the Ministry of Culture, Bucharest, (my translation).
13. Note from the External Relations Department (Romania) regarding the
Session of the Theatre of Nations Cartel, 6 February 1968, The Archives
of the Ministry of Culture, Bucharest, (my translation).
14. Letter from L. Ciulei to SCAC, 1968, The Archives of the Ministry of
Culture, Bucharest.
15. Letter from Félix Giacomoni to Lucian Pintilie, 2 March 1968, The
Archives of the Ministry of Culture, Bucharest.
16. Vasile Florea, note to SCAC, 1968, The Archives of the Ministry of
Culture, Bucharest.
17. Note to the External Relations Department, SCAC, 27 March 1968, The
Archives of the Ministry of Culture, Bucharest.
18. Letter from Jean Darcante to Liviu Ciulei, 17 May 1968, The Archives of
the Ministry of Culture, Bucharest.
19. Letter from Jean Darcante to Radu Beligan and Liviu Ciulei, 25 June
1968, The Archives of the Ministry of Culture, Bucharest.
‘A MEMORABLE FRENCH-ROMANIAN EVENING... 221
20. Note from Vasile Florea to Pompiliu Macovei (President of the External
Relations Department, SCAC), 23 January 1969, The Archives of the
Ministry of Culture, Bucharest.
21. Ibid.
22. Ibid.
23. Letter from Félix Giacomoni to the Bulandra Theatre, 24 January 1969,
The Archives of the Ministry of Culture, Bucharest.
24. Ibid.
25. Letter from Al. Gheorghiu to Dumitru Popescu, April 1969, The Archives
of the Ministry of Culture, Bucharest.
26. A handwritten note on an official memo dated 10 April 1969 suggests
D. Popescu passed the letter on to Macovei.
27. Handwritten note by Pompiliu Macovei on memo to SCAC, 10 April
1969, The Archives of the Ministry of Culture, Bucharest.
28. Note from Vasile Florea to the Cultural Relations Direction of the Ministry
for Foreign Affairs, April 1969, The Archives of the Ministry of Culture,
Bucharest.
29. Ţăranu, ‘Contribuţii la o biografie’, 19.
30. Ibid., 15–19 and 43–48.
31. ‘Round Table with Anca Maniutiu, Doina Modola, Nicolae Mandea and
Miruna Runcan’, in Ionesco dupa/après Ionesco, ed. Liviu Maliţa and Victor
Cubleşan (Cluj-Napoca: Casa Căr ţii de ştiinţă, 2000), 68.
32. Crin Teodorescu, ‘Teatrul de azi, încotro? Însemnări de la cel de-al XIII-
lea Congres al Institutului Internaţional de Teatru’, Teatrul 7.14 (1969),
64–69.
33. Alexandra Olivotto, ‘Elita gay din Romania in puscariile comuniste’,
Cotidianul, 10 May 2007.
34. Philippe Madral, ‘“Scènes de carnaval” de Cargiale au Théâtre des Nations’,
L’Humanité, May 1969, 10, (my translation).
CHAPTER 13
Nikolaos Papadogiannis
Introduction
Thessaloniki, 1976. A wave of intensifying youth politicisation has been
shaking the foundations of youth leisure. The left-wing-controlled admin-
istrative council of a high school in the eastern part of the city decides not
to organise the annual student dance at a discotheque, which it lambasts as
yet another product of the ‘American way of life’. By contrast, it arranges
for the students to attend a performance of Brecht’s Little Mahagonny.
While political fever was running high in the 1970s, Bertolt Brecht was a
reference point for young left-wingers in Greece.
This article explores the reception of the plays and the life of Bertolt
Brecht in Greece in the 1970s. During this decade, his work became
immensely popular in Greece; at the same time, the country witnessed
growing left-wing youth politicisation. Thus, I am interested in explor-
ing interconnections between these two trends. I will examine the ways
in which young left-wingers of different stripes approached Brecht and I
N. Papadogiannis (*)
Modern and Contemporary History, Bangor University, Bangor, UK
will analyse whether and to what extent his life and work functioned as a
means of praising the cultural politics of Eastern bloc countries. Brecht’s
audience in post-dictatorship Greece was not made up only of young
people. Nevertheless, left-wing youth cultural associations figured promi-
nently in the spread of his work in Greece during the 1970s, while groups
of young Communists and Socialists were an avid and demanding audi-
ence of his plays, as shown below in detail.
In exploring the relationship between Brecht’s work and left-wing youth
politics, I aim to help refine the argument of ‘cultural Americanisation’.
According to the most nuanced version of this argument, which is predomi-
nant in the historiography of youth, the forging of youth identities in Europe
in the postwar decades was facilitated by the selective reception of American
cultural products.1 While I acknowledge that American popular culture was
a core component of diverse youth identities, not only in Greece, the argu-
ment of ‘cultural Americanisation’, even in a nuanced version, does not
provide an adequate explanation of the development of youth identities in
Greece in the 1970s; it actually obscures the importance of cultural transfers
from Western Europe, but also from the USSR, which played a major role in
the shaping of a significant proportion of the politicised youth in post-dicta-
torship Greece. Therefore, this article particularly wishes to help fill a lacuna,
namely that transfers from the Eastern bloc to the West and their impact on
young people living in the latter have so far remained largely unexplored.2
Moreover, examination of the reception of Brecht’s work in post-World
War II Greece further illuminates the cultural dimension of the Cold War.
As the British historian, playwright and journalist David Caute argues,
the Cold War did not solely comprise a ‘traditional political-military con-
frontation’, but also an ‘ideological and cultural one’. The British scholar
goes further, putting forth the compelling argument that the collapse
of the Soviet bloc may be attributed to the superior achievements of its
opponents in economy, technology, but also in culture. Cold War cultural
confrontations, in which theatre played an important role, occurred on
a global level.3 In general, there is a growing body of scholarly works
that deals with culture as a Cold War battleground.4 Such research has, in
recent times, increasingly addressed theatre.5
This contribution concurs with ‘postpositivist’ approaches to theatre
history. The latter, according to expert in Theatre Studies Christopher
B. Balme, no longer seek to reconstruct ‘ideologically “neutral” chro-
nologies’, but to present a ‘plurality of histories’.6 In this vein, I intend to
illuminate the diverse reception of the Brechtian plays by people of varying
political persuasions.
AN EASTERN BLOC CULTURAL FIGURE? BRECHT’S RECEPTION BY YOUNG... 225
Percentage of votes received by each of the student groups mentioned and voter turnout in the student
elections in the period 1974–81. Throughout the examined period all student groups largely agreed on
the published results. In the case of Choros, it should be noted that some of its members did not take part
in student elections. In the percentage of DA-DE, I have included some student groups that were collabo-
rating with it, but were not part of it. Moreover, DAP-NDFK was established as a united group in 1976.
Concerning the preceding two years, its percentage refers to student groups leaning toward or aligned
with the centre-right New Democracy. The percentage of the votes harvested by small centrist or left-
leaning Christian groups is not mentioned. The table was prepared by the author, based on data from:
Dimi tris Aravantinos, ‘To Metapoliteytiko foititiko kai syndikalistiko kinima,’ in 75 chronia:To Panepistimio
tis Thessalonikis stin avgi tou neou aiona, ed. Ioannis K. Hassiotis and Dimitris Aravantinos (Thessaloniki:
Aristotle University of Thessaloniki, 2002), 465-560, which I have cross-checked with the data offered by
the student groups contesting those elections
This was certainly not, however, the only cause of reflection and debate
around the Brechtian oeuvre in Greece. From the mid-1950s to the
present, the reception of Brecht’s plays in Greece, as the theatre expert
Platon Mavromoustakos argues, has largely polarised: there is an evident
tension between those who stress his militancy, neglecting to a lesser or
greater extent his experimentation in the field of theatre, and those who
have adopted a ‘depoliticised’ approach to Brecht.13 The latter pay only
perfunctory attention to his political activity and instead focus on his
228 N. PAPADOGIANNIS
Brecht’s work did not become immensely popular in Greece until the
1970s. It suffices to mention that in the period from 1971 to 1974 eight
productions of Brecht’s plays by professional companies were performed
in Greece, while from 1974 to 1977 there were 11 productions, a signifi-
cant increase compared to the 11 professional productions of his work
in the period from 1957 to 1971.17 In addition, translations of Brecht’s
plays also proliferated after 1970. According to the translation stud-
ies expert, Dimitris Asimakoulas, ‘with 19 translations in 1970 alone,
Greece produced more Brecht translations than either all of the Eastern
Bloc countries or all Western countries did together in their peak years,
15 in 1962 and 17 in 1968 respectively’.18 These translations were often
undertaken by left-leaning publishers. After the relaxation of censor-
ship, various publishing houses, many of which had been founded by
young left-wingers, wished to provoke reflection on political and social
issues and encourage criticism of the dictatorial regime. According to
Asimakoulas, Brecht was greatly appreciated by these publishers and by
dissident students.19 The spectacular increase in the popularity of his plays
in Greece largely coincided with the ‘Brecht boom’, which, according to
Michael Schneider,20 occurred in West Germany in the late 1960s: Brecht
was propelled into the limelight by student protestors, for whom he func-
tioned as an important reference point. Asimakoulas suggests that various
Greek left-wingers, who were living in West Germany at that time and
were influenced by the ideas of the New Left, may have in fact helped to
bring this ‘Brecht boom’ to Greece.21
AN EASTERN BLOC CULTURAL FIGURE? BRECHT’S RECEPTION BY YOUNG... 229
the Greek Left had already introduced in the late 1950s. By contrast, the
publications of the Eurocommunists and the autonomous left-wingers
demonstrated mounting criticism of such classifications, especially towards
the end of the decade.27
Young Greek left-wingers particularly debated the Brechtian
Verfremdungseffekt,28 through which the playwright wanted to achieve the
estrangement of the audience from what the latter regarded as familiar.29
Rather than identifying with the characters of his plays, Brecht wanted the
audience to reflect critically on their actions. He tried to achieve this by
employing various techniques, such as the actors directly addressing the
audience and, thus, breaking the illusion that the spectators are invisible.
The scenery was also meant to challenge rather than reproduce the ‘fic-
tive’ qualities of theatre.30 The Verfremdungseffekt was not conceptualised
in only one way by young left-wingers in Greece during the 1970s, how-
ever. Broadly speaking, the ensuing heated debate amongst them revolved
around two approaches: an ‘open-ended’ and a ‘didactic’ one. By the 1970s
only a few of the theoretical works authored by Brecht, such as the Short
Organum for the Theatre, had been translated into Greek. Thus, young
Greek left-wingers assessed the Brechtian oeuvre mainly on the basis of the
theoretical contributions of Western European and Soviet scholars.31 The
Free Theatre troupe, which also included young radical left-wing actors and
which had engaged with Brecht’s understanding of performance already
since the early 1970s, was one of the prominent advocates of the open-
ended approach. In an interview with Agonistis, the newspaper of the Youth
of PASOK, the troupe argued that Brecht did not teach ‘ex cathedra […].
He wants the spectator to get involved in the dialectical development of a
performance […]. We do not necessarily agree with the solutions he gave,
since they arose in particular settings, but we do agree with his method-
ology’.32 Young Eurocommunists took a similar stance. As manifested in
Thourios, the RF newspaper, they were influenced by translations of Roland
Barthes’ writings on Brecht’s plays. In one such text, Barthes appears to
claim that Brecht does not opt for ‘vindicating a particular position’ and
does not wish to ‘agitate’ through his plays. To be best positioned to
capture this complex character of his work, RF members concurred with
Barthes that they should resort to semiotics, an approach that stresses that
signs do not reflect a ‘reality’ existing outside them and, as such, their
meaning is to an extent arbitrary.33 They would repeat such arguments in
Thourios throughout the 1970s: Brecht was singled out as authoring work
which was conducive to left-wing politicisation, but which did not comprise
AN EASTERN BLOC CULTURAL FIGURE? BRECHT’S RECEPTION BY YOUNG... 231
Conclusion
This article aims to stress the significance of transnational flows across the
Cold War divide and within Western Europe in the circulation and recep-
tion of Brecht’s plays by young Greek left-wingers in the 1970s. Even
though the growing interest in Brecht’s work witnessed in Greece in that
decade was not limited to young Socialists and Communists, young left-
wingers contributed significantly, both as performers and as viewers, to the
immense popularity of Brechtian plays in the country at that time. I intend
to complement the argument put forth by Mavromoustakos, namely that
the reception of Brecht is polarised between those favouring a depoliti-
cised version, concentrating on his theatre methodology, and those who
view him solely as a left-wing militant author: As this article shows, young
left-wingers of differing orientation transcended such a dichotomy and
looked for links between his work and collective action in Greece in the
1970s, construing them, however, in diverse ways. Transnational flows
234 N. PAPADOGIANNIS
Notes
1. Kaspar Maase, ‘Establishing Cultural Democracy: Youth, “Americanization”
and the Irresistible Rise of Popular Culture’, in The Miracle Years, A
Cultural History of West Germany, 1949–68, ed. Hanna Schissler
(Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2001), 428–450; Rob Kroes,
‘American Mass Culture and European Youth Culture’, in Between Marx
and Coca-Cola: Youth Cultures in Changing European Societies, 1960–1980,
ed. Axel Schildt and Detlef Siegfried (New York and Oxford: Berghahn
Books, 2006), 82–105, and Uta Poiger, Jazz, Rock and Rebels, Cold War
and American Culture in a Divided Germany (Berkeley, Los Angeles and
London: University of California Press, 2000).
2. On this issue, see also Nikolaos Papadogiannis, ‘Political Travel Across the
“Iron Curtain” and Communist Youth Identities in West Germany and
Greece in the 1970s and 1980s’, in European Review of History—Revue
européenne d’histoire, 23.3 (2016), 526–553.
3. David Caute, The Dancer Defects: The Struggle for Cultural Supremacy dur-
ing the Cold War (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 1–16.
AN EASTERN BLOC CULTURAL FIGURE? BRECHT’S RECEPTION BY YOUNG... 235
4. Besides Caute’s work, see, for instance Naima Prevots, Dance for Export.
Cultural Diplomacy and the Cold War (Middletown: Wesleyan University
Press, 1998); Frances C. Saunders, Who Paid the Piper?: The CIA and the
Cultural Cold War (London: Granta Books, 1999); Reinhold Wagnleitner,
Coca-colonization and the Cold War: The Cultural Mission of the United
States in Austria after the Second World War (Chapel Hill and London:
The University of North Carolina Press, 1994). For a comprehensive lit-
erature review of the ways in which scholars have linked the Cold War with
culture, see Yale Ferguson and Rey Koslowski, ‘Culture, International
Relations Theory, and Cold War History’, in Reviewing the Cold War:
Approaches, Interpretations, Theory, ed. Odd Arne Westad (London and
New York: Routledge, 2013), 149–179.
5. For example David Barnett, A History of the Berliner Ensemble (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2015); Charlotte M. Canning, ‘“In the
Interest of the State”: A Cold War National Theatre for the United States’,
Theatre Journal 61.3 (October 2009), 407–420; John Elsom, Cold War
Theatre (Abingdon: Routledge, 2015); Bruce A. McConachie, American
Theater in the Culture of the Cold War: Producing and Contesting
Containment, 1947–1962 (Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 2003).
6. Christopher B. Balme, The Cambridge Introduction to Theatre Studies
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 113.
7. Illias Nikolakopoulos, I kachektiki dimokratia: kommata kai ekloges,
1946–67 (Athens: Patakis, 2001).
8. Yannis Voulgaris, I Ellada tis Metapolitefsis, 1974–1990. Statheri Dimokratia
Simademeni apo ti Metapolemiki Istoria (Athens: Themelio, 2002),
25–141.
9. Petros Markaris, O Brecht kai o dialektikos logos (Athens: Ithaki, 1982), 85.
10. Aimilia Karali, Mia imitelis Anoixi …: ideologia, politiki kai logotechnia sto
periodiko Epitheorisi Technis (Athens: Ellinika Grammata, 2005), 85.
11. Socialist realism was pervasive in the literature produced by Greek
Communist authors. In addition, reviewers in Communist magazines and
newspapers in Greece had demanded since 1934, when the First All-Union
Congress of Soviet Writers adopted socialist realism as the approved style
for Soviet authors, that genuinely revolutionary authors conform to its
principles. The dominance of socialist realism among the Greek Left
decreased from the 1950s onwards, without, however, totally falling into
oblivion.
12. Karali, Mia imitelis Anoixi, 186. This is still a contentious point amongst
Greek left-wing intellectuals. Karali, for instance, explicitly argues that
Brecht should not be seen as fully subscribing to socialist realism, since he
never depicted this style as the highest form of artistic expression (ibid).
236 N. PAPADOGIANNIS
27. For a detailed analysis of the cultural politics of left-wing youth groups in
Greece in the mid-to-late 1970s, see Papadogiannis, Militant around the
Clock?
28. The term has been translated in English as ‘alienation effect’, ‘distancing
effect’ or ‘estrangement effect’. To avoid confusion, I use the original
German term, as employed by Brecht.
29. However, a small proportion of left-wing youth downplayed the impor-
tance of the Verfremdungseffekt, while assessing the Brechtian oeuvre. In
particular, the journal Proodeytikos Kinimatografos (Progressive Cinema),
which first appeared in 1978 and was produced by a group of young
Maoists, claimed that the aforementioned technique was nothing more
than a component of Brecht’s dramatic theory. Thus, they largely refrained
from elaborating on the Verfremdungseffekt. Instead, the journal published
a translation of his ‘Writing the Truth: Five Difficulties’ (1935), which, as
they argued, best captured his Marxist-Leninist orientation (see Proodeytikos
Kinimatografos, 1979, 7–19 and Proodeytikos Kinimatografos, 1979,
62–73).
30. Peter Brooker, ‘Key Words in Brecht’s Theory and Practice of Theatre’, in
The Cambridge Companion to Brecht, ed. Peter Thomson and Glendyr
Sacks (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 185–200, here
191–195 and Patrice Pavis, Dictionary of the Theatre. Terms, Concepts, and
Analysis (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1998), 19.
31. For the translation of the Short Organum, see Markaris, O Brecht, 89.
Translations of theoretical texts written by Brecht also appeared in the
journal Theatro, such as in Theatro (1975). Theatro ceased publication in
1967, but resumed it again in 1973.
32. Nikos Lagadinos, ‘To Eleythero Theatro kai o Tychodioktis tou Mih.
Hourmouzi’, Agonistis, 1–15 January 1975. On Free Theatre and Brecht
in the early 1970s, see: van Steen, Stage of Emergency, 287–289.
33. Roland Barthes, ‘Ta kathikonta tis brechtikis kritikis’, Thourios, 3 April
1975, 11. The text was originally published by Barthes in 1956; it was
entitled ‘Les tâches de la critique brechtienne’.
34. ‘Neoi diskoi’, Thourios, 9 December 1976, 14 and V. K., ‘O anthropos pou
paraxeneyotan…’, Thourios, 28 March 1978, 13.
35. See, for instance, an article published in the newspaper of the university
students aligned with the KNE: ‘Ti einai apostasiopoiisi’, Panspoudastiki,
11 January 1975, 2.
36. ‘Sosialistikos realismos. Ti simainei?’, Odigitis, 23 December 1976, 13
37. ‘Bertolt Brecht, Oi Gamoi ton Mikroaston’, Odigitis, 3 February 1977,
12.
38. ‘O Brecht kai to “Berliner Ensemble”’, Odigitis, 16 October 1974, 2.
39. ‘Technes-Grammata-Zoi’, Odigitis, 27 August 1975, 12.
238 N. PAPADOGIANNIS
Anja Klöck
A. Klöck (*)
Hochschule für Musik und Theater “Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy”,
Leipzig, Germany
Fig. 14.1 Order no. 230 of the Chief of Administration of the Soviet Military
Administration of Thuringia of 28 October 1947, C, II. 3, T 302/1.3, HMT
Leipzig Archive
ACTING ON THE COLD WAR: IMPERIALIST STRATEGIES, STANISLAVSKY... 241
Fig. 14.2 German translation of order no. 230 of the Chief of Administration of
the Soviet Military Administration of Thuringia of 28 October 1947), C, II. 3, T
302/1.2, HMT Leipzig Archive
242 A. KLÖCK
Recent studies on Cold War culture have shown how theatre and dance
productions, plays, and key artists were constructed and treated as trans-
national export goods and as vehicles for demonstrating ideological supe-
riority and alliances during the Cold War.9 These strategies more often
than not developed their own dynamics, conflicting with national and local
policies and producing at times irreconcilable inconsistencies between
transnational representation and national practices. On the basis of these
insights, I would like to show how processes of institutionalisation of actor
training in post-war Germany participated in these global processes. In so
doing, I will focus on the founding moment of the DTI and its exemplary
position within a general transnational transfer of cultural products and
‘achievements’ from the Soviet Union to East Germany. This transfer set
standards for actor training in the GDR that had far-reaching implications
beyond the immediate post-war years. Situating the discourse on acting
within the larger, global East/West conflict may help to explain the prob-
lematic status of Bertolt Brecht in East German official cultural politics
in the early 1950s and—following the international success of Brecht’s
Berliner Ensemble—the struggle of party officials to resolve the apparent
contradiction between Stanislavsky’s and Brecht’s approaches to acting in
the late 1950s and early 1960s.
only of artistic but also of public instruction and of progress. This Stalinist
appropriation of Stanislavsky’s writings in terms of a ‘method’ and of the
actor as a ‘conscious vehicle of progress’ will also govern, as I will show,
the mission statement and curriculum at the DTI.
After the end of the war, in summer 1945, Vallentin saw to the reopen-
ing on new terms of the acting class at the existing State Music Academy
in Weimar. On a discursive level, the specific appropriation of Stanislavsky
sketched out in Vallentin’s 1944 position paper was put into practice
and further developed into a ‘method’. This is circumstantiated not only
by archival documents but also by Das deutsche Stanislawski-Buch (The
German Stanislavsky Book), a course book published to accompany
the Weimar programme by Vallentin’s colleague Ottofritz Gaillard in
1946.13 In his introduction to the book, Vallentin assumes two pillars of
‘Stanislavsky’s Method’: the ‘truth of sensation’ (that is the actor’s experi-
encing with his or her senses, which is supposed to be ‘truthful’ to itself),
and the ‘truth of the stage’ (the truthful playing with props, space, and
partners in a fictive theatrical situation). To these ‘truths’ Vallentin adds
a third pillar, the ‘societal truth’.14 According to The German Stanislavsky
Book, the actor should serve society by realistically imitating and better-
ing it on stage. He or she is expected to craft according to observations
of everyday life from a working-class perspective, resulting in a horizon-
tal alignment of his or her sense experience and a dissociation from the
German historical avant-garde before 1933. Not unlike the schools in
the other occupation zones, the Weimar programme aimed at humanis-
ing society with the help of a newly trained actor.15 However, as already
indicated by Vallentin’s 1944 paper, it offered a very specific reading of
Stanislavsky’s concepts in terms of a Soviet cultural programme in line
with the parameters of socialist realism:
–– the striving for one’s own technical advancement, progress, and sys-
tematic modernisation grounded in this competitive relationship;
–– and the perceived high effort and quality of East German artistic
endeavours.
It is certainly no coincidence that, following Gebhart’s memoran-
dum, a delegation from the Falckenberg School in Munich (compare
endnote 8) visited the Weimar programme early in 1949 to gain an
insight into the work that was being done there. Such direct transzonal
interaction of acting schools was still possible at that time. However,
by the autumn of the same year, the situation had changed: Armin-
Gerd Kuckhoff, head of the theatre studies department at the DTI,
warns Otto Lang from the acting department in an internal note: ‘by
collaborating with the DTI, acting schools in the West might be try-
ing to gain a lead over other acting schools, and [that] they could
discredit the DTI by using its name for commercial purposes’.21 This
fear of being discredited by their Western colleagues has to be seen
in the light of global Cold War politics and the change of attitude of
the Soviet political leaders towards Germany in 1949. The formation
of two separate German states in the autumn of 1949 (the Federal
Republic of Germany, FRG, in the West and the German Democratic
Republic, GDR, in the East) may be regarded as symptomatic of the
intensified East/West conflict at this time. Over the course of this con-
flict, cultural strategies changed to favour segregating rather than inte-
grating East and West German occupation zones geopolitically. This
change in cultural politics also trickled down to the institutions of actor
training. In the case of the DTI, it may be noticed in the change of
attitude toward ‘acting schools in the West’ as indicated in the above-
mentioned note from autumn 1949. It also had consequences for the
overall self-definition of this institution: the imperialist pan-German
strategy of educating ‘professionally qualified ensembles’ for a poten-
tially united Germany was abandoned. The only ensemble that ever left
the school in the way envisioned in the 1948 prospectus was the Junges
Ensemble (young ensemble) under the direction of Maxim Vallentin.22
After 1951, graduates of the acting department were no longer bound
by an ensemble contract. Instead, they were supposed to put their
efforts into establishing a national GDR theatre system.
248 A. KLÖCK
We welcome that some friends have set themselves the task, following the
methods of the great Soviet artistic director and pedagogue Stanislavsky, of
educating actors of a new type.24
By the time that Bertolt Brecht first visited East Berlin in October 1948
and even more so by the time he moved there in 1949, the ‘Stanislavsky
dogma’, the doctrine of socialist realism and the fight against ‘formalism’,
seen as including the traditions of the German historical avant-garde, were
already part of the cultural politics of the SED and had been institution-
alised in East German departments of actor training. It does not come as
a surprise that, during his lifetime, Brecht—in terms of his plays and his
theoretical writings for the theatre—was an untouched and untouchable
subject in East German state programmes of actor training.
be left out of the relatively young history of German socialist theatre. The
inconsistencies between transnational representation and national prac-
tices needed to be reconciled much like the never officially sanctioned
confrontation of Brecht and Stanislavsky in the early 1950s.28
In April 1959, at the so-called Bitterfeld Conference, the SED lead-
ership was calling for a ‘new Socialist national culture’. In this context,
theatre scholars and practitioners, like acting teachers, were expected to
work toward a socialist German national theatre.29 By that time Stalin had
died and been denounced, Brecht had died, the Berliner Ensemble had
had its international breakthrough and the DTI had been relocated from
Weimar to Leipzig and restructured as a Theaterhochschule (University of
Theatre). At this historical moment, the SED leadership, bound to con-
sensus, had a problem: the apparent opposition of Stanislavsky and Brecht
produced by the discourses of the early 1950s, and by the co-existence of
Stanislavsky-based actor training institutions vis-à-vis the institution of the
Berliner Ensemble, needed to be reconciled. Hence the incipient cultural
political debate on socialist German national theatre differed from the for-
malism debate one decade earlier: it was less polarising.30 Previously, one
of the major arguments against Brecht’s theatre that demanded its repres-
sion had been that it belonged to ‘bourgeois modernity’, which socialism
had already overcome. The debate in the late 1950s, however, no longer
aimed at excluding modernity but rather considered its inclusion in the
history of socialist art. In Leipzig, a draft of a ‘Programme of a Socialist
Reform of the Theaterhochschule’ was circulated internally at the end of
1958. It criticises the single focus on ‘the Stanislavsky system’ stemming
from the founding years of the DTI as ‘too one-sided’ and calls for an
integration of ‘the experience and insights of Bertolt Brecht and others
[…]’.31 The antagonism of Brecht and Stanislavsky’s approaches needed
to be resolved and Brecht’s theatre model was in need of an official, public
explanation. Given the importance ascribed to the ‘new type of actor’ to
be educated in the East German acting schools, it is not surprising that
this reconciliation was launched, once again, from within an institution
of actor training: this time from the State Acting Academy of East Berlin
(established out of the Acting School of the Deutsches Theater in 1951).
The head of the institution, from 1959 onwards, was actor-director
Wolfgang Heinz. He had moved to East Berlin in 1956 in order to work
at the Deutsches Theater after his workers’ theatre in Vienna, the Neues
Theater in der Scala, had been closed down. Heinz was mostly associated
with Stanislavsky and realistic acting32 but he had also met Brecht, and
staged and acted in productions of Brecht’s plays.33 With this trajectory
ACTING ON THE COLD WAR: IMPERIALIST STRATEGIES, STANISLAVSKY... 251
and as head of the State Acting Academy, Heinz became an early key fig-
ure within the Brecht–Stanislavsky reconciliation process in East Germany.
In 1961, at a meeting of all acting teachers of the GDR, the relationship
of Stanislavsky’s and Brecht’s approaches to acting was discussed. In July,
the periodical Theater der Zeit published a version of the paper presented
by Heinz entitled ‘Principles of Training Young Actors’.34 It is struc-
tured into five consecutive paragraphs bearing the following subheadings:
‘Stanislavsky and Brecht’, ‘Theoretical and Practical Classes’, ‘Demands
on Actor Training’, ‘The Youthfulness of the Actor’ and ‘Against Private
Lessons’. The paper opens with the ideologically most pressing question
of how to reconcile the apparent opposition of Stanislavsky and Brecht in
East German actor training, which had resulted from the controversies and
formalismdebates of the early 1950s. It then seems to move on to other
issues of actor training, while supposedly Stanislavskian and Brechtian
concepts continue to be negotiated throughout most of this text.
The introductory passage of the article, first of all, makes it clear that
any official discussion of Brecht had to be and would be grounded in the
already established standards of socialist realism. The passage closes with
the prescriptive statement: ‘The laws we are accepting for us today are
those of socialist realisms’, and the following discussion of ‘Stanislavsky
and Brecht’ leaves no doubt that both Stanislavsky and Brecht would (be
made to) fit these standards as well as be reconciled: ‘Advancing to the
heart of the systems of these two great masters of the theatre, we will
see that there are really not as many differences as many people seem to
find.’35 Heinz attributes the perceived differences to ‘misunderstandings’:
in the theatre, relationships among people and in space are in themselves artistic
means of expression. Meaning, the scenic arrangement does not just entail mov-
ing naturally in a realistic environment, but that the scenic arrangement must
at the same time and in every single moment be an expression of the actual
dramatic or rather dramaturgical function of the human beings on stage.37
252 A. KLÖCK
In the article from July 1961, Heinz pinpoints two ‘demands on our con-
temporary actor training […], namely to act well and to act correctly’.38
What Heinz meant by ‘correct acting’ and what it was set up against (in
terms of ‘incorrect acting’) is exemplified by a documentary broadcast on
GDR television in December 1961.39 It culminates in a sequence at the
State Acting Academy in East Berlin, showing students rehearsing a scene
from Gerhart Hauptmann’s Michael Kramer. During the rehearsal a dis-
pute rises over how to play Kramer: as someone feeling self-pity, steering
toward suicide, or as a battlesome man, fighting against the conditions
causing his misery. Eventually Heinz, who has been watching silently,
intervenes and explains why an actor should NOT identify with the char-
acter he or she is playing:
what shall be done about it? And religion has done much to make people
say: this is wanted by God and cannot be changed. We however, know that
it is changeable. And that’s why art, whatever the theme, must always be an
appeal. Realism demands this, too: that a perspective is provided with the
representation of contemporary conditions.40
Let’s put it this way: we are trying to do theatre more correctly and some-
times we succeed. Because we are reflecting reality, that is reality the regular-
ity of which we grasp with the help of materialist dialectics. Thus we can sort
the accidental from the substantial.43
254 A. KLÖCK
Unlike the article in the periodical from July, the film from December
1961 draws up boundaries between East German theatre and theatre in
West Germany. It stages the ideological and methodological superiority
of East German acting and actor training. With all these insights, it is
important to remember that this is a ‘filmic construction’ of a rehearsal
situation and that Heinz is talking not only to students but also to an
East German television audience. Much as the acting students are sup-
posed to learn something, so are the viewers in front of their televisions.
They are included in the ‘we’ Heinz frequently employs in his speech.
Furthermore, this ‘we’ excludes those possible spectators on the other side
of the Wall in the West, discursively constructing a border between East
and West in the cultural sphere. The subjectivation of the actor in actor
training programmes is, much as in the post-war discourses, collectivised
as a model for society—however, this time, for East German society exclu-
sively. It serves as a subject-model for the East German spectators in front
of their televisions.
The filmic construction of ‘correct acting’ in the 1961 documentary
exemplifies the desire of the SED leadership for a dissolution of the appar-
ent antagonism between Stanislavsky and Brecht of the early 1950s. This
antagonism had emerged in the context of post-war strategies of trans-
mitting culture transnationally to occupied Germany, particularly from a
Stalinist Soviet Union to the Soviet occupation zone and to East Germany.
The final part of the documentary, showcasing the artistic achievements
of Wolfgang Heinz in terms of a socialist German national theatre, stages
an attempt at closing the ensuing debates: at least at the State Acting
Academy in Berlin, there seems to be a consensus on how socialist theatre
might be done and taught. It also shows that, in the context of the East/
West conflict, acting and actor training are interlocked with medial dis-
courses that attempted to nationalise ideals of personhood, and concepts
of the self and of the other.
I hope to have shown how, in the discourses on acting in post-World
War II Germany, the actor/the actress appears as an idealised medium of
‘truth’ for the (re)building of a German democratic society. Looking at
the Cold War rhetoric and strategies associated with Stanislavsky, Brecht,
and the institutionalisation of actor training in Germany after 1945, I
would like to suggest that historical research on acting in terms of cultural
transmission may provide new insights into East/West German cultural
history and contribute to global theatre histories in a way that an exclusive
focus on acting as communication or performance cannot.
ACTING ON THE COLD WAR: IMPERIALIST STRATEGIES, STANISLAVSKY... 255
Notes
1. Order no. 230 of the SMA-Thuringia, 28 October 1947 (original in
Russian, with German translation), C, II. 3, T 302, HMT Leipzig Archive.
2. Andrea Schiller, Die Theaterentwicklung in der sowjetischen Besatzungszone
(SBZ) 1945 bis 1949 (Frankfurt on the Main: Lang, 1998), 60–61.
3. Gabriele Clemens, Britische Kulturpolitik in Deutschland 1945–1949
(Stuttgart: Steiner, 1997), 103.
4. Wiegand Lange, Theater in Deutschland nach 1945. Zur Theaterpolitik der
amerikanischen Besatzungsbehörden (Frankfurt on the Main: Lang, 1980),
730–740.
5. Stefan Zauner, Erziehung und Kulturmission. Frankreichs Bildungspolitik
in Deutschland 1945–1949 (Munich: Oldenbourg, 1994), 290–291.
6. Bernd Stöver, Kalter Krieg 1947–1991. Geschichte eines radikalen Zeitalters
(Munich: Beck, 2007), 11–15.
7. Anja Klöck, Heiße West- und kalte Ost-Schauspieler? Diskurse, Praxen,
Geschichte(n) zur Schauspielausbildung in Deutschland nach 1945, Theater
der Zeit Recherchen 62 (Berlin: Theater der Zeit, 2008), 60–65.
8. Among these schools were, for example: the Otto-Falckenberg-School in
the American Zone in Munich (opened in 1946 in conjunction with the
Münchner Kammerspiele Theater and named after the theatre’s former
artistic director Otto Falckenberg in 1948); the Hannover Acting School in
the British occupation zone (founded by Hans-Günther von Klöden in
1945 and later institutionalised as the present-day University of Music and
Theatre Hannover); the acting class at the Saarbruck Conservatory in the
French protectorate Saarland (founded in 1947 after the model of the Paris
Conservatoire de musique); the Hebbel Theatre School in the American
Sector in Berlin (opened in 1946 at the Hebbel Theatre, later transferred to
a separate institution called the Max Reinhardt School, and today known as
the acting programme at the University of the Arts in Berlin); and the school
associated with the Deutsches Theater in the Soviet sector in Berlin
(reopened in 1946 and later transferred to a separate institution today
known as Staatliche Hochschule für Schauspielkunst ‘Ernst Busch’).
9. See Charlotte M. Canning, ‘“In the Interest of the State”: A Cold War
National Theatre for the United States’, Theatre Journal 63.1 (October
2009), 407–420; and Naima Prevots, Dance for Export. Cultural Diplomacy
and the Cold War (Middleton, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 1998).
10. Maxim Vallentin (1904–1987) had worked with Max Reinhardt and
Leopold Jessner in Germany in the 1920s. He was persecuted by the fascists
due to his communist theatre group ‘Das rote Sprachrohr’ (the red mega-
phone). He emigrated to Prague in 1933 and to the Soviet Union in 1935.
11. Petra Stuber, Spielräume und Grenzen. Studien zum DDR-Theater (Berlin:
Links, 2000), 12.
256 A. KLÖCK
Sebastian Stauss
When opera and music drama are discussed in a political context, of course
their representational aspects, which have marked these genres from their
beginnings, again sharply shift into focus; and as the aesthetic debates of
the nineteenth century had centred on and around the national schools
of opera, so too during the Cold War the internationally standardized
repertoire was occasionally turned into a means of diplomacy, especially
when the two political systems on either side of the Iron Curtain sought a
display of operatic culture to fit the contemporary requirements.
As is widely known, soon after Second World War, two stage directors
and companies established themselves as the flagships of their profession
in East and West Germany respectively: Wieland Wagner in Bayreuth and
Walter Felsenstein in East Berlin. The two cities in which the two directors
were based must be mentioned, as it is significant that, when seeking a thor-
ough understanding of the style of each director, one had to travel to respec-
tive locations. Wagner also directed in other German cities, especially in
the so-called ‘Winter Bayreuth’ of Stuttgart, and Felsenstein’s productions
were sometimes televised; he was occasionally a guest director and he went
S. Stauss (*)
Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität, Munich, Germany
on tour with his ensemble throughout Europe once in a while, but they
were primarily associated with Bayreuth and East Berlin.
One generation later, however, the situation changed considerably—as
guest performances by stage directors from the East became more com-
mon in West Germany. Below I will focus on some examples, mostly but
by no means only from Munich’s operatic history, to exemplify how these
productions were received. Interestingly enough, the capital of Bavaria, in
the American zone of occupation, saw, between 1953 and 1966, the com-
pany of the Bavarian State Opera not only touring to London or New York,
but also to East Berlin, Leipzig and even Athens.1 That connections like
these (as well as the short-term engagement of conductor Rudolf Kempe
from Dresden as the State Opera’s general music director from 1952 to
1954), were, on the one hand, not welcomed by some parts of the audi-
ence or by some journalists, will be examined more closely below. On
the other hand, it is well known that stage directors from the GDR were
sought after in the West from the early 1970s onwards. Probably the most
prominent events were the debuts of Götz Friedrich and Harry Kupfer
at the Bayreuth Festival in 1972 and 1978 respectively. In terms of their
directing style, both Friedrich and Kupfer were considered the successors
of Walter Felsenstein and his approach to realistic music theatre, which
could be adapted to, if not fully integrated into the doctrine of Socialist
Realism by the authorities.
In the case of Friedrich’s production of Tannhäuser in Bayreuth, such
adaptations led to heated reactions from the audience, which are hard to
understand from our point of view, 40 years later. The biggest provoca-
tion of this particular staging seems to have been its ending, in which it
was apparently (judging from the costumes and a saluting gesture omitted
in the following revivals) a chorus of working-class people from a socialist
country, instead of the group of younger pilgrims returning from an audi-
ence with the Pope in Rome, who came onto the stage and proclaimed
the redemption of the protagonist. However, Götz Friedrich had already
conjured up the storm some days before the first night of Tannhäuser
when he spoke of his intentions and his view of the Bayreuth Festival, for
example, in an interview given to Hessian Radio:
Bayreuth is one of the few workshops of a new way of dealing with opera,
trying to make a new start with the form of opera—it is a similar workshop
to Berlin’s Komische Oper in the GDR.2
Friedrich was denounced as a dangerous red who was a threat to the Federal
Republic and who should be sent back to East Germany. Some accused him
of turning the opera into a Communist attack on Nazism, others of using
it to celebrate the inevitable triumph of the poor over the rich. […] The
paradox of course was that Friedrich, the putative Communist propagandist,
had spent his career contending with the ideological oppression of the East
German Communist regime.3
theatrical aesthetics of East Berlin as the capital of the GDR and challenge
the West German audience in its accustomed views. It is possible to gain an
impression of what happened on the first night of this production with the aid
of photographs depicting Andreas Reinhardt’s stage design, and the original
radio recording by the Bavarian Broadcast Corporation. As soon as the curtain
opened for the first act, the audience’s animosity was roused by a female torso
made of bricks that filled the stage to its full height—a strong image, blend-
ing several metaphors for materialism, seclusion and gender gaps. Although
the atmosphere in the audience was heated, it did not erupt during the first
appearances; however, things changed considerably after the protagonist
entered the stage. In the recitative after his famous aria the laughter, booing
and heckling of large parts of the audience for some moments threatened to
bring the performance to a halt: as soon as the Count of Almaviva explained
that it was right here that the object of his desire (Rosina) was to be found,
the first loud reaction—laughter—came from the auditorium, even turning
tumultuous when the barber answered: ‘auf dem Balkon da?’ (on the balcony
over there?). Curiously enough, the singer of the title role, the well-known
(West-)German baritone Hermann Prey, delivered these lines in a rather
mocking tone which made it even easier for the hecklers to join in (during
the preparations for the first night, Prey had already pointed out that he and
Berghaus did not share the same opinion of Rossini’s work). Just a few lines
later, there was another cue (‘Euch fiel der Käse gleich auf die Macaroni’—
the cheese fell straight on your macaroni) prompting laughter and protest
(instigated by the colloquial meaning for ‘Käse’ as ‘nonsense’). And finally,
when Rosina delivers her first lines not from a window but from an opening
positioned in one of the brick torso’s breasts, there was another uproar, which
only gradually subsided (Fig. 15.1).
The controversy of the production can be seen as twofold. Or, as Sigrid
Neef, a great expert in music theatre between the Eastern and Western
borders of Europe, says:
Almost four decades later, one can confirm Neef’s judgement with the
help of a few observations. On the one hand, Berghaus’s production of
Rossini’s Barber did not remain in the repertoire of the Bavarian State
Opera for very long and was superseded by a production that fitted the
requirements of internationalism as sketched by Neef. On the other hand,
at the State Opera Unter den Linden in Berlin another production of the
264 S. STAUSS
very same opera with Berghaus as the stage director (after its premiere in
1968) would become a trump card of the company’s repertoire and remain
so for more than 30 years, albeit with a different stage design (by Achim
Freyer, another artist originating from Brecht’s Berliner Ensemble), but
otherwise similar in its handling of movement and drawing of the char-
acters. Is this a sign that the ensemble culture of the Berlin State Opera
was more intact than that of Munich, comparable to the structures Götz
Friedrich hinted at, referring to the Komische Oper and the theatrical
foundations of the GDR as a whole? If so, the competition between the
two systems, the ‘Western’ star system and the alternative model consist-
ing of local celebrities in the East, is no different to the usual fan discus-
sions and conflicts between adherents of the contending opera houses.
Reading some of the reviews of the new production in 1974, one
comes to conclusions that differ slightly from Neef ’s judgement. The
critics dealt with the production more as a political and ideological mat-
ter; the form and genre of the opera itself were sometimes used as bogus
arguments for detecting the director’s way of thinking. For instance,
K.H. Ruppel, the critic of the Süddeutsche Zeitung, whose review was
later also printed in a revised version in the monthly Opernwelt, left
the reader in no doubt as to why he considered Berghaus’s staging to
be pretentious and inappropriate when he referred to the first finale,
in which ‘acidic social criticism made in the GDR seemed to be adding
to the director’s lack of humour and corroding the harmless picture of
a funny finale buffo which one usually has in mind’.5 This statement is
paradoxical in more than one way. The harmlessness of the opera buffa
is invoked, but Pierre Beaumarchais’s original drama, upon which the
libretto of Rossini’s Barber is based, more than implies the social criti-
cism which the Bavarian critic considered to be a typically socialist idea:
there is no doubt that it is the Count’s aristocratic position that saves
him from getting arrested at the end of Act I. Moreover, in criticis-
ing Berghaus’s almost mechanistic choreographing of the scenes, the
reviewer obviously has not taken into account the musically repetitive
structure of the finale in question. In measuring the director’s style
against operatic conventions, he even goes as far as to deny her highly
analytical approach towards the opera. As such, this could be counted
among a critic’s minor failures. However, the crucial factor is that, by
introducing the ‘GDR trademark’, this particular opera production is
made into a political issue. And this review was not the only one to take
such an approach.
CHECKPOINT MUSIC DRAMA 265
Although one may welcome the Bavarian State Opera nurturing its East-
West contacts, since Wolfgang Rennert, the brother of our artistic direc-
tor, frequently conducts at the State Opera Unter den Linden, we’d be
very keen to move further to the East. Russian masterworks remain to be
discovered by the State Opera […], not to mention singers such as Atlantov
and conductors such as Rostropovich…8
266 S. STAUSS
In this case the argument of the reviewer, despite his casual and lightly
arrogant tone, is something of a paradox: the writer pretends that he and
the rest of the opera audience in the West have been eagerly awaiting the
chance to be exposed to Eastern aesthetics. But when it comes to compet-
ing for supremacy in strategically conceived dramaturgical matters, toler-
ance soon runs out. It is even suggested that the Berlin State Opera has
become a kind of ‘checkpoint’, with Günther Rennert’s brother Wolfgang
conducting in exchange for Ruth Berghaus directing in Munich. It appears
to be a question of: you see what you want to see—and yet you don’t like
seeing it.
The case of Ruth Berghaus in Munich was neither the first nor the last
staging of a repertoire piece that was closely examined and dissected by its
opponents in the West. It is important to stress that the chasm between the
attempts of theatre professionals to integrate Eastern aesthetics into the
programming of the West and their reception wasn’t limited to the innerd-
eutsche Beziehung, the relationship between the GDR and the Federal
Republic. Again, the scheduling in Munich is, in its way, paradigmatic.
During Günther Rennert’s tenure as Intendant of the State Opera from
1967 to 1976, two directors with a background in the Prague surrealist
movement were chosen for a total of seven opera productions, but mostly
not for the standard repertoire.9 The first of the two, Bohumil Herlischka,
again had the ‘advantage’ of having emigrated from Czechoslovakia as
early as the 1950s. Not so the second, who was a guest director in Munich
from the late 1960s on: Václav Kašlík, born in 1917, who had also stud-
ied composition and conducting, founded the Grand Opera of 5 May in
Prague in 1945 and, from the early 1950s until the end of his life in 1989,
worked at the Prague National Theatre. In the 1960s he started directing
operas for film and television and was also responsible for the first Munich
performance of Zimmermann’s contemporary opera Die Soldaten on 23
March 1969 and a new production of Verdi’s La forza del destino on 2
February 1974, half a year before Ruth Berghaus’s Munich debut.
Again, unfortunately, the only sources to which we can refer today,
apart from the reviews, are photographs of a clear-cut visual concept, espe-
cially for Zimmermann’s Soldaten, which featured multi-level stage; inter-
estingly, this was of the type that is nowadays efficiently used, for instance,
by the Russian director Dmitri Tcherniakov. The stage was elaborately
arranged, with different levels of realistic tableaux juxtaposed and set
alongside each other, including movie screens and monitors. ‘The stage
was full of big surfaces and areas for the actors, arranged one above the
CHECKPOINT MUSIC DRAMA 267
struck poor women with the ladle that he was supposed to use to feed
them and tore away the crutches of a beggar.13 What goes unmentioned in
this report is that, in the libretto itself and in the scene described (Act IV,
Scene 1), the character of Melitone shows no signs of mercy and patience,
but threatens with violence the injured who are assembled and pleading
in front of him. However, there are other reviews (like the one by Karl
Schumann in the Süddeutsche Zeitung) that praise the Goyescas-like imag-
ery here and the suspension of audience identification with any concept
or character in the piece, especially in terms of a higher power controlling
the events.14
Tracing the performance history of Verdi’s piece in the past
40 years, one may conclude that this interpretation, critical of the
church though it may be, has established itself as well-founded. Its
rejection within the staging of 1974 could be perceived as a stratagem
pattern—on each side of the board, so to speak. On behalf of ‘lib-
eral’ and ‘left intellectual’ theatre professionals of the West, directors
from the Soviet satellite states (at least those geographically closest to
the West) were obviously welcome to visualize thoughts on operatic
scores that had been made a taboo in a conservative Western society.
The director in this context became a trespasser on demand, in each
and every respect. Of course these stereotypes are old, and have been
taken up again on countless occasions. What makes them interesting
in this case is that some critics hint at their auto-stereotypes of watch-
ing something (together with the audience) that is forbidden.
As one last example, looking in the opposite direction provides an
insight into how a West German director was received in the Polish
capital when the Warsaw Pact was relaxed after perestroika. Once again
the Wagnerian repertoire was the repertoire of choice. In the spring
of 1988 the Teatr Wielki started a production of the tetralogy Der
Ring des Nibelungen with the leading team headed by the conductor
Robert Satanowski and the director and intendant August Everding
(1928–99). This time, most of the surviving photographs and reports
show little more than faithfulness to the composer’s original intentions
from an aesthetic perspective. Of far greater significance, in terms of
the views it expresses, is a review printed in the Trybuna Ludu on 20
May 1988, which reads thus: ‘[…] The performance of the complete
cycle of Der Ring des Nibelungen in Warsaw’s Teatr Wielki in its origi-
nal language and with the participation of great artists from the Federal
Republic of Germany has to be acknowledged as an outstanding event.
CHECKPOINT MUSIC DRAMA 269
As a German you come to this city with different feelings than if you go to
New York. And when the 45th anniversary of the ghetto is taking place at
that time—whatever that means, the word ‘anniversary’ shouldn’t be used
in that context—when it is commemorated, then you are in an unexpected
field of tension. Still, making Wagner’s music at that time was very exciting.
[…] The relationship with France isn’t that strong anymore, the one with
the Federal Republic is much stronger and therein lies a big opportunity
that we have and that we should not let pass by. Of course, if you discover it
and then you start shouting on an operatic stage: ‘Come here! Do it!’, you
get afraid of doing so for what the German language might sound like. But
apart from that, I worked there in the same way as I do in every other opera
house in the world […].16
Notes
1. Rudolf Hartmann, Das geliebte Haus. Mein Leben mit der Oper (Munich:
R. Piper & Co., 1975), 439–446.
2. Johanna Eggert (ed.), Anfang heißt Ende und Ende ist Neubeginn. Götz
Friedrich—Musiktheater (Berlin: Bostelmann & Siebenhaar, 2001), 259.
All translations from the English are mine unless otherwise acknowledged.
3. Frederic Spotts, Bayreuth—A History of the Wagner Festival (New Haven
and London: Yale University Press, 1994), 279–280.
4. Sigrid Neef, Das Theater der Ruth Berghaus (Berlin: Henschel, 1989), 67.
5. K.H. Ruppel, ‘Die Buffa als Dressurnummer’, Süddeutsche Zeitung, 28
November 1974, 20.
6. Arnold Hanuschik (ed.), Oper und Konzert, 13 (Munich: Hanuschik,
1975), 15.
7. Michail M. Bakhtin, The Dialogic Imagination. Four Essays, ed. Michael
Holquist (Austin and London: University of Texas Press, 1981), 325.
8. Hanuschik, Oper und Konzert 13, 9.
9. Andreas Backöfer, Günther Rennert. Regisseur und Intendant (Anif and
Salzburg: Ursula Müller Speiser, 1995), 191.
10. Joachim Kaiser, Erlebte Musik. Eine persönliche Musikgeschichte vom 18.
Jahrhundert bis zur Gegenwart—Zweiter Band (Munich: Paul List,
1994), 378.
11. Ibid., 381.
12. Ibid., 380.
13. Hanuschik (ed.), Oper und Konzert, 12 (Munich: Hanuschik, 1974), 15.
14. K. Schumann, ‘Die doppelte Macht des Schicksals’, Süddeutsche Zeitung, 4
February 1974, 14.
15. J. Kanski, ‘Opera: Nibelungi w Warszawie’, Trybuna ludu, 20 May 1988,
4. It might be noted that Schoeller (whose first names are also given as
Franz-Jochen) was forced into early retirement in 1989 after the spread of
rumours that he had been involved in illicit arms-trafficking.
16. Alexander Kluge, August Everding. Der Mann der 1000 Opern. Gespräche
und Bilder (Hamburg: Rotbuch, 1989), 27–28.
PART IV
Postcolonial Perspectives
CHAPTER 16
Christine Matzke
The author gratefully acknowledges the financial assistance of the AHRB, the
DAAD and the Cusanuswerk, as well as the administrative support of The
Bureau of Cultural Affairs in the Ministry of Education, particularly Solomon
Tsehaye, and The British Council in Asmara under its then director Negusse
Araya. Thanks to Mussie Tesfagiorgis and Tekeste Yonas for translations and
transcripts; to the reading room staff at the Research and Documentation
Centre, Asmara; and to Tanja R. Müller and Richard P. Boon for spending time
discussing earlier drafts. I would like to dedicate this chapter to the memory of
two notable Eritrean writers and theatre artists who passed away at the time of
writing in 2012, Beyene Haile and Esayas Tseggai.
C. Matzke (*)
University of Bayreuth, Bayreuth, Germany
as a productive framework for their own research.1 This has led some histori-
ans to worry that by applying the idea of ‘Cold War’ ‘to all sorts of historical
phenomena beyond warfare and diplomacy […] there potentially emerges a
lack of analytical and conceptual precision.’2 In fact, Holger Nehring goes
as far as to claim that ‘[a]pproached in this way, “Cold War” risks becoming
a means of academic self-promotion, a cheap advertising gimmick without
any intellectual content.’3 While we are all, in one way or another, of neces-
sity engaged in academic self-promotion, I strongly object to the idea of
what might be seen as a mere scholastic publicity stunt. History and the
study of cultural practices—be they performative, literary or otherwise—
can complement each other without breaking into each other’s preserves.
Indeed, approaching certain cultural phenomena—such as the emergence
of ‘revolutionary culture’ in the Eritrean war of independence—from the
vantage point of international Cold War dynamics can provide more nuanced
insights into developments that until now have predominantly been looked
at in terms of national theatre history and local cultural policies.4
Nehring himself has no qualms about borrowing from the theatre
world and compares the Cold War to ‘a classic drama in three acts, with
origins, a middle period of crisis and relaxation (détente), and endings in
the 1980s and the early 1990s.’5 While he does not go beyond the figura-
tive usage of these terms (and certainly does not specify which normative,
if any, drama theory he has in mind), a closer look at certain happenings
during the so-called ‘middle period’ of the Cold War can help us under-
stand which effects international political dynamics had on drama practice
in the Eritrean war of independence. Influences were by proxy, rather than
through the direct export of artistic programmes by the Cold War super-
powers—the Soviet Union and the USA—in marked contrast to many
other of their economic and military interventions in the postcolonial
world in their struggle for global domination.
the situation was slightly different in areas where the liberation movements
operated. Here, it is necessary to look at specific local manifestations of
performance practice and socialist ideological formations in order to trace
the theatrical traffic and links between Eritrea and other regions in both East
and West. As the liberation fronts were relatively isolated internationally,
much of the cultural traffic was imagined rather than physical, as in ‘traffic
of ideas’. Concepts and books were floating around, but there was no direct
exchange with artists from other (socialist) countries, let alone any form of
theatrical training. People with prior theatre experience had either excelled
in the long-established performing arts of any of the nine ethnolinguistic
communities in Eritrea (Tigrinya, Tigre, Bilen, Saho, Afar, Nara, Rasheida,
Hedareb and Kunama) or they had been exposed to urban performance
forms, largely in the Eritrean capital Asmara. Theatrical traffic in physical
form only took place in the final phases of the liberation war, when EPLF
cultural troupes were sent to various Eritrea Festivals abroad to reach and
raise funds among the Eritrean diaspora. Without exception, these commu-
nities were based in the West, with Italy, the former colonial ‘motherland’,
serving as the festival’s cultural centre.17 To my knowledge, no attempt was
made to send troupes to countries belonging to the Eastern bloc or aligned
African nations with the aim of connecting with other socialist terrains; and
none of these countries sent companies to the liberated areas in Eritrea. The
same can be said of artists outside the Iron Curtain.
Eritrea’s isolation was compounded by the fact that in 1978 the EPLF
was forced into a strategic retreat into the inaccessible mountains of Sahel.
When the Derg had taken power, there had initially been hopes that ‘the
new regime would accept Eritrean independence and negotiate a peace set-
tlement. They were mistaken.’18 The new leadership continued the policies
of Haile Selassie’s imperial regime as regards both Eritrea (which was to be
maintained as part of Ethiopia) and Somalia. In 1977 the Eritrean resis-
tance controlled most of the Eritrean countryside and a number of towns,
but from mid-1978 to 1979 it suffered a succession of five brutal offensives
by the Derg,19 now backed by Cuban advisors and massive Soviet military
assistance including Russian pilots and MIG fighter planes. This had enor-
mous consequences not only for the strategic modus operandi of the EPLF,
but also for the running of cultural activities. For one, both liberation fronts
were forced to abandon most of the liberated t erritories. While the ELF was
harder hit and eventually ceased to operate as a fighting force in Eritrea,20
the EPLF managed an orderly strategic withdrawal into the mountainous
northern highlands in Sahel. The retreat called for a reconsideration of
278 C. MATZKE
The EPLF knew that the struggle against Ethiopia would be very long
because the Russians supported [the Ethiopians], but there was no signifi-
cant foreign support for the Eritrean cause […] So the EPLF thought that
cultural activities, cultural preservation, revitalisation of our cultural values
were important to strengthen the Eritrean people’s endeavour to achieve
freedom. The entertainment aspect was also taken into consideration. So, in
every platoon, in every fighting force, cultural activities were encouraged.
Guidelines were sent out that every person who can contribute to the arts
and culture should get involved: as a writer, as a singer, as an actor, as a
painter, as a sculptor, whatever. So theatre groups, theatre performances,
regardless of their quality and depth, sprouted.22
Actors go to great lengths to use abusive language for comic effect. In plays
against feudalism women are beaten just to make people laugh, not because
of the logical development of the drama. Sometimes the audience demands
an encore of such things. […]. Even if it makes people laugh, such things
should not be encouraged through crude drama. If women are to be slapped
on stage, if it makes people laugh, there has to be an accompanying message
telling that such practices as beating women should be abolished. Laughter
should be a form of objection, not derision. The spectator should say: ‘We
cannot help laughing, but the matter is burning in our hearts.’ Otherwise
our laughter will be at the expense of the oppressed and will be counterpro-
ductive to the objectives of revolutionary culture.40
On closer scrutiny, however, the reason behind his concern was not
only limited to the typecasting of women or other characters. Rather, it
was connected to the unpredictable nature of certain dramatic forms, par-
ticularly allegorical plays. ‘Symbolic drama’ had always been appreciated
in Eritrea for carrying clandestine meanings, similar to double entendre
in local orature. It also complied with the ‘culture of secrecy’ cultivated
in the field. Rooted in the ancient practice of withholding one’s deeper
thoughts and feelings, it was the result of ‘a protracted military struggle
and a defence against Ethiopian […] infiltration.’42 Allegorical plays, so
it seems, would have been an ideal theatrical medium had they not been
open to a multiplicity of interpretations.
These ideas illuminate why modes and forms in Eritrean fighter theatre have
continued to be inclined towards farcical sketches, moral fables, campaign
theatre and other straightforward realistic plays, often in hyperbolic exalta-
tions of Eritrean strength and ethics. Plays that could potentially criticize
the official view of things had to be curbed and contained. No matter how
much the ‘masses’ were invoked in the struggle, drama in Eritrea was, and
has continued to be, a theatre for, not of, the ‘people’. To my knowledge,
theatre never criticized the elite sector of the EPLF, and much drama was
characterized by a benevolent top-down approach to enlighten the semi-
literate ‘masses’, without engaging them in a participatory way.44
due to recurring air bombardment, and spread over some seven kilometres
in the valley.45
Given that health issues featured in a number of educational plays
staged by cultural troupes at all levels of the EPLF, it is perhaps not sur-
prising that theatre also played a major role in Orota. Unusual, however,
were the forms of entertainment that emerged, above all the mounting of
international literary drama—from Egypt, Columbia, Russia and England
(particularly Shakespeare)—to expose audiences to performance cultures
other than their own. This development was partly due to the settled exis-
tence of hospital and pharmacy staff and the relatively superior facilities
at their disposal; it was also the result of a few individuals. Doctors and
pharmacists had trained abroad; and many had come to appreciate for-
eign performance cultures. Among them was the pharmacist Bernardo
Kifleyesus, who had studied for a Master’s degree in the Soviet Union and
had taken a liking to Russian literature and theatre, including the plays of
Anton Chekhov and the poetry of Vladimir Mayakowski. Bernardo’s col-
league, Kidane Woldeyesus, confirmed the remarkable richness of Orota
performance culture, especially among the pharmaceutical staff. Their
daily schedule was more predictable than for hospital workers, and most
of them had above-average education. Kidane explained: ‘As it happened,
there were so many pharmacists who had done their first part of uni-
versity education. Most people had finished secondary school. They had
read books, they were better than other groups.’46 Despite the apparent
levelling of all fighters in the liberation movement, a concept of ‘elite’
thus clearly existed in the field, here prominently expressed in the idea of
education.
Soon, the pharmacy became known as a cultural centre in the area.
‘People considered us unique because of the nature of our work’, Bernardo
Kifleyesus recalled.
While the American White House had long abandoned Ethiopia and
Eritrea, a group of liberation fighters simply created their own. Unlike
its counterpart in international politics, however, the Orota White House
284 C. MATZKE
was known for cleanliness and white lab coats; metaphorically, it stood
for efficiency, respectability and enjoyment. If foreign aid was withdrawn,
Eritreans would simply help themselves. In an almost holistic approach to
healing—though this concept was never broached—the White House not
only provided medicines, but also a space for leisure activities and pleasant
distraction.
The Central Hospital owned a sizeable library with books and some
films as part of its underground facilities, largely donated by foreign visi-
tors and Eritreans abroad. This accounts for the relatively wide thematic
range of productions. Some plays were clearly linked to the liberation war,
others deliberately shunned such topics. Bernardo Kifleyesus recounted
that they wanted people to ‘relax’ and therefore avoided showing ‘bad
situations’. Later, it became evident that audiences demanded topics
other than those related to the war. While a number of plays continued
to revolve around current political issues, the majority were far removed
from the daily concerns of health workers and combatants in the field,
and were appreciated for their engrossing storytelling qualities and their
delightful dramatization. Short Russian farces, especially Chekhov’s early
one-act vaudevilles, The Proposal and The Bear, became very popular in the
mid-1980s.48 Interestingly enough, they were not linked to the new con-
cept of ‘revolutionary culture’, nor to any ideological, ‘Socialist Realist’
reworkings of Chekhov as seen elsewhere in the communist world.49 The
reasons for choosing Chekhov were rather pragmatic. For one, Bernardo
and others enjoyed and were familiar with Chekhov’s farces; secondly the
playlets easily catered to audiences with a liking for comical plays; and
finally they were ideal for theatre work under material and time constraints.
With short scripts, simple settings and miniature casts these texts allowed
for small-scale productions in the cafeteria in between larger shows. In
contrast, Shakespeare was only mounted on special occasions and usually
took months to rehearse. This does not mean that smaller productions
were less carefully set up than bigger shows. On the contrary, perform-
ers paid loving attention to detail, especially costume and stage design,
no matter the length of the production. Mise en scène became almost an
obsession for the Orota group. Despite the abjectly poor conditions under
which they worked, they had no intention of cultivating a ‘poor theatre’
such as proposed by Grotowski or as seen in Black South African protest
theatre under apartheid. (In both cases, elaborate props and scenery
had been abandoned to concentrate on the actors’ physical expressivity.)
Continuing, not abandoning the tradition of ornate Orthodox Church
WHOSE SIDE ARE YOU ON? COLD WAR TRAJECTORIES IN ERITREAN DRAMA... 285
Notes
1. See Andrew Hammond (ed.), Cold War Literature: Writing the Global
Conflict (New York: Routledge, 2006); Andrew Hammond (ed.), Global
Cold War Literature: Western, Eastern and Postcolonial Perspectives (New
York: Routledge, 2012); Heonik Kwon, The Other Cold War (New York:
Columbia University Press, 2010); and Robert Edelman, ‘CFP: Global
History of Sport in the Cold War’, posted on H-Net Africa, http://
www.h-net.org/~africa/, accessed 15 March 2016.
2. Holger Nehring, ‘What was the Cold War?’, English Historical Review
127.527 (2012), 920–949, 924.
3. Ibid.
4. For examples see Paul Warwick, ‘Theatre and the Eritrean Struggle for
Freedom: The Cultural Troupes of the People’s Liberation Front’, New
Theatre Quarterly 13.51 (1997), 221–230; Jane Plastow, ‘Contested
Nationalisms and Socialisms: The Role of Theatre in Seeking Liberation
for and between Ethiopia and Eritrea’, in Global Cold War Literature:
Western, Eastern and Postcolonial Perspectives, ed. Andrew Hammond
(New York: Routledge, 2012), 113–127; and Christine Matzke,
En-gendering Theatre in Eritrea: The Roles and Representations of Women
in the Performing Arts (University of Leeds, September, 2003), http://
etheses.whiterose.ac.uk/796/, accessed 15 March 2016. Even Plastow
(2012), which gives an excellent overview of Ethiopian and Eritrea theatre
during the period of the Cold War, is structured like a theatre history.
5. Nehring, ‘What was the Cold War?’, 925.
6. For an excellent detailed analysis see Odd Arne Westad, The Global Cold
War: Third World Interventions and the Making of Our Times (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2005).
WHOSE SIDE ARE YOU ON? COLD WAR TRAJECTORIES IN ERITREAN DRAMA... 287
7. Peter Schwab, ‘Cold War on the Horn of Africa’, African Affairs 77.306
(1978), 6–20, 7–8.
8. Since 1953 Kagnew Station, an American military base in the Eritrean
capital of Asmara, had served as a spy and ‘listening post’ (Michela Wrong,
I Didn’t Do It For You: How the World Betrayed a Small African Nation
(London: Fourth Estate, 2005), 201) from which to track broadcasts and
military communications from the communist world (Schwab, ‘Cold War
on the Horn of Africa’, 12). Kagnew would also become a major influence
on urban Eritrean performance practice, particularly through music pro-
grammes. The base was closed down by the Carter administration in 1977.
9. Westad, The Global Cold War, 279.
10. Bahru Zewde, A History of Modern Ethiopia 1855–1991 (Oxford: James
Currey, 2001), 233; David Pool, From Guerrillas to Government: The
Eritrean People’s Liberation Front (Oxford: James Currey, 2001), 143–144;
Westad, The Global Cold War, 257 and the following; Donna R. Jackson,
Jimmy Carter and the Horn of Africa: Cold War Policy in Ethiopia and
Somalia (Jefferson, NC: McFarland & Co., 2007), 36–67.
11. Gebru Tareke, The Ethiopian Revolution: War in the Horn of Africa (New
Haven: Yale University Press, 2009), 41–42; Teferra Haile-Selassie, The
Ethiopian Revolution 1974–1991: From a Monarchical Autocracy to a
Military Oligarchy (London: Kegan Paul International, 1997), 199–202;
Andargachew Tiruneh, The Ethiopian Revolution 1974–1987: A
Transformation from an Aristocratic to a Totalitarian Autocracy
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 208–214.
12. Tekeste Negash, Eritrea and Ethiopia: The Federal Experience (New
Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers, 2005).
13. Pool, From Guerrillas to Government, 144–145.
14. Nehring, ‘What was the Cold War?’, 939. A very short EPLF playlet from
the 1980s entitled ‘The Derg and the Soviet Union’ beautifully illustrates
how drama was being utilized for political purposes. It is also a particularly
good example of how competing socialisms and ensuing rivalries were
dealt with, especially regarding Soviet support. In the sketch, Mengistu
welcomes his Russian comrades who want to know what happened to all
the weaponry they supplied to Ethiopia. When they are told that most got
lost in the Ogaden War, in the struggle against the EPRP (The Ethiopian
People’s Revolutionary Party, a Marxist-Leninist organization in opposi-
tion to the Derg) and the Eritrean liberation fighters, the Russians con-
clude that it is the separatists who are the truly progressive forces, not the
Derg. Mengistu immediately breaks off relations (EPLF ‘[Short Dramas,
Poems, Revolutionary Songs]’, mimeograph, Brigade 31, translation by
Tekeste Yonas, 1979). (Please note that sources originally published in
Tigrinya are quoted in the English translation available to the author.
288 C. MATZKE
Arab and Western diaspora. Though a crucial moment in the history of the
liberation struggle, the civil war goes beyond the scope of this chapter.
21. For the first and second central cultural troupe see Matzke, En-gendering
Theatre in Eritrea, 157–172.
22. Solomon Tsehaye, ‘Recorded Interview in English with Solomon Tsehaye
(Head of Cultural Affairs Bureau, Ministry of Education)’, 4 August 2000,
Asmara, Eritrea, interviewer/transcript: Christine Matzke.
23. Perhaps it is not surprising that a lot of EPLF agitprop and educational
playlets performed at the time were very similar in content and tenor to
what the Derg regime mounted. I have not done field work in Ethiopia,
but I can confirm this tendency from the little material I gathered on urban
drama in Asmara under the Derg, when local urban theatre associations
disbanded. It is also apparent from Ethiopian ‘revolutionary’ song texts
available to me (see Aleme Eshete, Songs of the Ethiopian Revolution (Addis
Ababa: Ministry of Culture, 1979) and various EPLF songs I gathered
myself. When the Derg introduced kebeles—so-called ‘urban dwellers asso-
ciations’ which controlled every Eritrean and Ethiopian neighbourhood—
each of them was required to set up a kinet (or ‘culture’) group to produce
pro-Ethiopian propaganda and educational plays. Membership was by
force, as was attendance at their shows, also in Eritrea (see EPLF, Creating
a Popular, Economic, Political and Military Base (n.p.: EPLF), 1979, 113).
Judging from interviews with eyewitnesses it was evident that some artists
still felt they were stigmatized for having ‘betrayed’ the nation (Matzke,
En-gendering Theatre in Eritrea, 135–136). It should be noted that
Plastow has different findings to my own. In a recent article she writes
‘since everyone knew these plays were put on under duress no-one blamed
the play-makers unduly’ (Plastow, ‘Contested Nationalisms and Socialisms’,
121). Theatre in urban Eritrea under the Derg regime is a sensitive issue
which requires further investigation.
24. In his groundbreaking study of Tigrinya literature, Ghirmai Negash gives
an outline of Alemseged Tesfai’s research paper on Literature, Its
Development and Its Role in Revolution (1982) in which the ‘main tenets
of socialist realism in literature’ and ‘Lenin’s idea on the non-bourgeois
notion of “socialist humanism”’ are mentioned. Alemseged Tesfai is also
said to talk about select examples of ‘Soviet as well as Chinese, Korean and
Vietnamese literatures’, with no titles provided (Ghirmai Negash, A
History of Tigrinya Literature in Eritrea: The Oral and the Written
1890–1991, 2nd ed. (Trenton, NJ: Africa World Press, 2010) (1st ed.
1999), 180). My plan to do further research into the matter in summer
2012 had to be abandoned due to my inability to obtain a visa and ill
health. It should however be pointed out that researching policymaking at
a higher level has always been extremely difficult in Eritrea as many sources
290 C. MATZKE
wright confirmed the find. Renamed as Tsälot Nedhmet Hezbi Ertrea (Pray
for the Safety of the Eritrean People) by an apparently unknown author, the
play had been in the Asmara Research and Documentation Centre (RDC)
all along, just one floor below Alemseged’s office.
32. The publication of Drama is dated ‘1986 (?)’ on the Tigrinya manuscript;
(see Ghirmai Negash, A History of Tigrinya Literature in Eritrea: The Oral
and the Written 1890–1991, 2nd ed. (Trenton, NJ: Africa World Press,
2010) (1st ed. 1999), 179–181, 178). Solomon Tsehaye however insists
that the study was written in 1983, prior to Alemseged’s theatrical master-
piece, The Other War, in which he tried to realize his own critical sugges-
tions. Solomon’s argument seems convincing, especially since Alemseged
had already been moved to a different department in 1986. The author
himself is unable to remember the exact date.
33. Altogether I was able to trace 16 scripts from the field, some providing a
mere plot summary, others being fully scripted (see EPLF ‘[Short Dramas,
Poems, Revolutionary Songs]’, mimeograph, Brigade 31, translation by
Tekeste Yonas, 1979).
34. Alemseged Tesfai, Drama. It should be noted that neither theatre practi-
tioners nor spectators were particularly familiar with the standardized the-
atre jargon on which EPLF drama work ostensibly drew. Hence theatrical
terms were sometimes confused, or words were imbued with atypical
meanings.
35. Esayas Tseggai Tesfazghi, Theatre during the Long Struggle for Eritrean
Independence, unpublished MA dissertation (University of Leeds, 2002), 13.
36. Misgun Zerai Asghedom, The Theatre Experience in Eritrea, unpublished
MA dissertation (University of Leeds, 2001), 30.
37. Alemseged Tesfai, Drama.
38. Martin Rohmer, Theatre and Performance in Zimbabwe (Bayreuth:
Eckhard Breitinger, 1999), 211.
39. Alemseged Tesfai, Drama.
40. Ibid.
41. Ibid.
42. Pool, From Guerrillas to Government, 95.
43. Alemseged Tesfai, Drama. Note that this quotation was cited slightly dif-
ferently in Christine Matzke, ‘“Life in the Camp of the Enemy”’, 20, due
to a mistake in translation.
44. It should be noted, however, that despite adhering to the tenets of ‘revo-
lutionary culture’ Alemseged wrote plays which, on the whole, avoided
rigid polarizations. Focusing on civilian, rather than combatant life, he
alluded to the complexities of armed conflict rather than reducing them to
a one-dimensional hagiography of the battlefield.
292 C. MATZKE
45. James Firebrace with Stuart Holland, Never Kneel Down: Drought,
Development and Liberation in Eritrea (Trenton, NJ: Red Sea Press,
1985), 104–114; Robert Papstein, Eritrea: Revolution at Dusk (Trenton,
NJ: Red Sea Press, 1991), 148–164; Roy Pateman, Eritrea: Even the Stones
are Burning (Trenton, NJ: Red Sea Press, 1998), 221–223.
46. Kidane Woldeyesus, ‘Recorded Interview in English with Kidane
Woldeyesus’, 27 September 2000, Asmara, Eritrea, interviewer/transcript:
Christine Matzke.
47. Bernardo Kifleyesus, ‘Recorded Interview in English with Bernardo
Kifleyesus (Head of Drug Unit, Ministry of Health)’, 26 September 2000,
Asmara, Eritrea, interviewer/transcript: Christine Matzke.
48. Other Russian works mounted in the field were Chekhov’s short story
‘Chameleon’ (1884), which easily lends itself to a stage adaptation, and
sketches by Nikolai Gogol. Ghirmai Negash notes that as early as 1958
parts of a Chekhov ‘play’, Chameleon, were published in a collection of
literary miscellanies from all over the world by the Tigrinya linguist
Tuquabo Aressi under the title Sweeter than Honey. Tuquabo is said to have
published Chameleon later in full, in an adapted translation (Ghirmai
Negash, A History of Tigrinya Literature in Eritrea: The Oral and the
Written 1890–1991, 2nd ed. (Trenton, NJ: Africa World Press, 2010) (1st
ed. 1999), 141).
49. Laurence Senelick, The Chekhov Theatre: A Century of the Plays in
Performance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997); Inna
Solovyova, ‘The Theatre and Socialist Realism, 1929–1953’, in A History
of Russian Theatre, ed. Robert Leach and Victor Borosvky, transl. Jean
Benedetti (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 325–357.
50. Bernardo Kifleyesus, ‘Recorded Interview in English with Bernardo
Kifleyesus (Head of Drug Unit, Ministry of Health)’, 26 September 2000,
Asmara, Eritrea, interviewer/transcript: Christine Matzke.
CHAPTER 17
Rikard Hoogland
R. Hoogland (*)
Stockholm University, Stickholm, Sweden
The theatre and cinema company, Sandrews, who at that time managed
four theatres in Stockholm and one in Paris, had, in 1966, engaged the
actor and playwright Allan Edwall as artistic manager for one of their the-
atres in Stockholm, Scalateatern. Edwall proclaimed that he wanted to
produce theatre which concerned itself with issues of the day. One of his
first decisions was to produce a new play by Peter Weiss in combination
with Weiss’s Night with Guests. Weiss had lived in Stockholm since 1939
and obtained Swedish citizenship but returned to writing in his mother
tongue, German. The friendship between the writer and the actor was
one of the reasons why Weiss decided to produce his new play (at that
time often referred to as The Angola Play or The Song about Salazar) in
Stockholm.7 In a radio interview, made directly after the dress rehearsal,
Weiss explained his choice:
The main reason was that Allan Edwall wanted to build a new theatre, a the-
atre concerned with our time and, most importantly, a theatre with an ensem-
ble. And here is an ensemble that works actively and creatively with the play’s
material, which gives the ideal circumstances for producing the play.8
However, problems arose regarding the choice of director and there were
conflicts with the copyright holders, Suhrkamp. When the first appointed
director pulled out, Sandrews engaged the Finno-Swedish director, Vivica
Bandler. Weiss would not accept the choice. In a letter to the manager of
Sandrews, he argues that she lacked the creative ability to find new stage
forms. In ‘this case I can’t take any risks.’ He proposed several other direc-
tors, including Konrad Swinarski, who had directed the world premiere
of Marat/Sade.9 The solution was a young director, Etienne Glaser, who
worked together with Weiss (more or less) as co-director during the three-
month rehearsal period. Why did Peter Weiss make such an effort to super-
vise the production? One of the reasons was that it was a part of his ongoing
project to find new forms of writing and producing political theatre.
As Yannick Müllender has pointed out, despite what has been stated in
earlier research, Lusitanian Bogeyman was never considered to be part of
the original Divina Commedia project, which Weiss had abandoned when
he started to write the play. It was followed by the World Theatre project
that should have consisted of nine short plays, several of which could have
been presented on the same evening.10 Weiss, however, sometimes refers
to it as part of the Divina Commedia project.
296 R. HOOGLAND
We are sorry that our information will disappoint you. But we are sure that
you will understand that the author does not want any part of his play to be
produced as long as it is not completely finished and as long as the opening
night in the original language has not taken place.14
question of politics: part of the political Cold War, the building of the
home front. Weiss was problematic for the publisher because he placed
himself within the concept of Swedish neutrality. Weiss had not only had
his plays produced in West German but also cooperated with theatres in
both German states. He ended up having a lot of problems with East
Germany after the play Trotsky in Exile and was forbidden entry to the
country, but Weiss did not stand on the West German side in the Cold War
either: he did not really choose a position.20 He opened up other frontiers
and also pointed out West Germany’s responsibility in conflicts between
the First and the Third World. There was, however, no place for such a
view during the Cold War; the home front needed to be kept intact.
One could ask whether there were perhaps other reasons behind the
decision to let the play be produced in Sweden. Were the two German
states—for different reasons—not possible as venues for the first produc-
tion? Did Weiss need a culture that not was so restricted by the Cold
War situation? His two previous main plays had been a success with Peter
Brook as director, but Weiss writes in the Notebooks that he and Brook
were no longer walking side by side. Weiss had to find a new base for his
more political playwriting.
If […] Peter Weiss were to write a little hate cabaret about the greatest point
of shame in central Europe—the Berlin wall—and Madame Palmsteirna
were to construct a ramshackle ruin made of sheet metal that visually repre-
sented socialism—would the couple be so naive as to think that they would
get a visa for East Germany?21
Wahlund emphasised that he considered the situation between the two polit-
ical systems in Europe to be more important than the situation in Africa.
He also wanted to link Weiss to East Germany. He found the text banal and
298 R. HOOGLAND
Fig. 17.1 Yvonne Lundeqvist, Isa Quensel, Monica Nielsen, Nils Eklund, Björn
Gustafson, and Allan Edwall in Song of the Lusitanian Bogeyman. Photo: Sven-Åke
Persson, Sandrews, Musikverket
The Cultural Minister, Olof Palme, who later became Prime Minister
in 1969, also attended a performance and during the organised debate he
commented on the play ‘as an audience member’:
Political theatre, such as Bogeyman, is a much more efficient tool for get-
ting people’s attention than political language. […] Political theatre takes a
grip of politics’ main object, the individual. Plays like The Investigation and
Bogeyman often give a more accurate and forceful picture of reality than a
complete composition of facts.25
Verse after verse, situation after situation highlight the theme. The bleak
reality in one of the last domains of colonial power. A reality in black and
white, where the white is the black in the picture as it has to be in order to
make an effect, and the oppressed and powerless the white.26
The main topic for Swedish theatre critics was whether the play was politi-
cal enough, or if its aesthetic form obscured the message. Several crit-
ics pointed out that the play had more potential than the production
achieved. Only one claimed that the issue of colonial oppression in Africa
was of less importance than the situation in Europe. Some of the reviews
also referred to other political theatre groups which produced more direct
and outspoken performances. It is important to point out, however, that
the left-wing political uprising had not yet started in Sweden. Concern
about solidarity with the Third World was still in its infancy.27 Sweden
was connected to the value systems in the western hemisphere, but most
of the Swedish critics did not act as soldiers in the Cold War. This is clear
evidence that the neutral position of Sweden was the basis for more open-
minded thinking.
West Germany
There was tremendous interest in the production in West Germany.
It seems that all the main newspapers had a representative at the dress
rehearsal. The interest in the production also led to an invitation to
Experimenta II in Frankfurt am Main under Peter Iden’s artistic leader-
ship. The production was also invited to the Münchner Kammerspiele,
Berliner Festtage (in East Germany) and The Belgrade International
300 R. HOOGLAND
Theatre Festival, but only the tour to Frankfurt actually took place. The
choice of Experimenta was probably both an economic and an ideological
decision. It was also planned that Peter Brook’s Vietnam play, US, pro-
duced at the Royal Shakespeare Company in London, should be a part of
the festival. It would then have been possible to compare two examples of
contemporary political theatre; however, the production of US was can-
celled at a later stage.28 Experimenta was in some ways overshadowed by
the political situation both nationally and globally. On the day of the first
performance, Benno Ohnesorg was killed by a policeman in the riots dur-
ing the rally against the visiting Shah of Iran.29 The killing of Ohnesorg is
seen as one of the main reasons for the explosive growth of the left-wing
political movement in West Germany. The second political situation was
the escalating conflict and the outbreak of the Six Day War in the Middle
East. One critic described how people brought radio receivers to the per-
formances in order to be kept informed of events.
There were two main questions on the agenda for the West German
theatre critics: was colonial power in Angola a topic that should be pre-
sented to an audience, and did the play script and the staging of The
Lusitanian Bogeyman introduce any new forms of political theatre? In the
newspapers there were almost daily reports about the situation at the bor-
der, the escape attempts from and the oppression in East Germany.
Friedrich Luft, in Die Welt, wrote that the production was well worth
seeing, but he began by questioning why Weiss has chosen to write about
the situation in Angola at all:
Is there not enough irritating material closer to home? Why not a play about
the Berlin Wall? Why so much passion from the poet about the Angolan
revolt in 1961? Why not for the East German workers on 17 June 1953?
Why so far away, when there are so many terrible things going on next
door.30
Luft explained that the reason was that Weiss had converted to Marxism
and therefore sought the worst examples of the West. Luft was impressed
by the production and the actors and concluded that it was an important
European production, which had a fine instinct for agitprop theatre car-
ried out with flair. But it was important for him to point out that he did
not share Peter Weiss’s viewpoint.
In the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, Günther Rühle was more criti-
cal and compared the political situation in Sweden and West Germany:
‘HOW CLOSE IS ANGOLA TO US?’ PETER WEISS’S PLAY SONG... 301
‘Weiss sails in the Swedish Wind: Angola, Rhodesia, Vietnam upset the
Swedes (a great deal more than the deaths at the much nearer to home
Berlin Wall).’31 He found that Weiss’s choice of topic could be explained
by Weiss’s base in Sweden, ‘even though he wrote the original version of
the text in German. He means us, too.’32 He points to different examples
in the text and the performance that illuminate the economic and political
cooperation between Germany and the Portuguese dictatorship in Africa.
When Weiss, in the play, explains NATO’s role as a supporter of the dic-
tatorship, Rühle asks what about the Warsaw Pact and the uprising in
Hungary in 1956?
In the Süddeutsche Zeitung, Ferdinand Wallbrecht wrote a review with
the headline, ‘How close is Angola to us?’ This was answered in the article:
Sorry to say but Angola is situated too far away from us in order for it to be
a base for a really explosive political revue. But is there any place at all for
this genre in our institutionalised theatre?33
Both Rühle and Wallbrecht compare Weiss’s play with Joan Littlewood’s
Oh, What a Lovely War and Peter Brook’s US. They find that the latter two
examples make much better use of the political material and include the
audience more clearly.
In the Frankfurter Rundschau, two quite different reviews were pub-
lished: one in relation to the premiere and one when the play was shown
at Experimenta II. Günter Graffenberger wrote from Stockholm that the
issue of the oppression of the Angolans was central in Sweden but not in
West Germany:
He [Weiss] says that, after the Swedish experience, he is going to edit the
text for the German stage. But who in Germany can passionately produce
a play about a forgotten war in Angola, if not a theatre in East Germany, a
country that has the same political opinion about Portugal and Angola as
Sweden.34
In the end it is the choice of every author to take his material from wherever
he chooses, provided the spectator, thus, understands why the example is
chosen—then Luanda in Angola is, therefore, no further away than Berlin
or Budapest.35
East Germany
Neues Deutschland, the main morning paper of the SED, the governing
Communist party in East Germany, published a review of the production
in Stockholm. Rainer Kerndl wrote that Weiss had used Marxist principles
in constructing the play and that it clarified the connection between the
monopoly companies of West Germany and the USA and colonial poli-
tics.38 For the reviewer from East Germany it was clear that one of the play’s
main topics was how West Germany supported Portugal’s oppression of
people in Africa. Kerndl found that all the fragments joined together to
form a whole; it was not just a revue made up of various numbers. He
also stressed that the production had a new form of theatrical expression,
much sharper and more direct than previous forms.
‘HOW CLOSE IS ANGOLA TO US?’ PETER WEISS’S PLAY SONG... 303
In the East German theatre journal, Theater der Zeit, the review was
written by Verner Arpe who lived in Sweden. He found that the play
showed a kaleidoscopic interplay between oppressed and oppressor. Arpe
linked the production to Brecht/Weill’s Three Penny Opera and said that
the use of music was not dominant. ‘And over everything was the spirit of
the poet Brecht. And that was a good thing.’39
In Theater der Zeit, the Stockholm production was praised as being a
master example of how a production of the Bogeyman should be done. In
fact, the two following German productions did indeed use the original
music from the Stockholm production. When the play was produced at
Schaubühne am Halleschen Ufer, directed by Karl Payala, the reviewer,
Gebhardt, pointed out that the audience focused on every occasion where
West German economic interests supported Portuguese oppression. The
review ended with the hope that the play would soon be produced in East
Germany.
When, at last, an East German production was staged at Volkstheater
Rostock, Gebhardt wrote that this production engaged the audience much
more politically than the production in West Berlin. He compared the use
of music in the two productions and wrote that ‘the West Berlin produc-
tion had a commercial jazz style of a culinary character. In the Rostock
production the music fulfilled its dramaturgical function,’40 a reference to
what Brecht called ‘culinary theatre’.
I have not found any records of other East German productions, prob-
ably because the style conflicted with the dominant psychological realism
on the East German stage. But the reviews from the Stockholm produc-
tion and the following productions emphasise the critique of c apitalism
in the play and West Germany’s support of dictatorships. The East
German reviews are also more concerned with the collective process of
the productions.
Conclusion
The West German newspaper critics criticised Weiss for writing a play
about a situation in Africa instead of writing about the inner German con-
flict. They did not accept his Marxist view of society; they seem to find him
blind to the oppression and dictatorships in Eastern Europe. One critic
also wrote that it was possible for the play to function in both Sweden and
East Germany, and thus linked the values of the two countries. Most of the
West German critics placed themselves on the side of the home front in
304 R. HOOGLAND
the Cold War, and that didn’t give much room for an interest in conflicts
other than the Berlin Wall. It is also interesting how the publishing com-
pany Suhrkamp strongly worked against Peter Weiss’s wishes, even giving
false explanations to try to put a stop to the Swedish production.
Theater Heute’s coverage of the production was, however, quite dif-
ferent and Rischbieter’s criticism was that the aesthetic element of the
production risked obscuring the political questions it sought to address.
This links him to the majority of the Swedish reviewers, who wanted a
more direct and raw production of the play. In Sweden, it was clear that
solidarity with the freedom movements in the Third World had started to
grow. The East German critics used the play to attack the capitalist world
and specifically West Germany; but they didn’t succeed in getting the play
produced all over East Germany.
This strongly political play is clearly evaluated through the prism of the
Cold War. The strongest example of this is that of the West German critics,
who had to admit that the Swedish production had a high artistic quality, but
needed to criticise the production for political reasons. They used the play to
point out the importance of not neglecting the conflict with East Germany,
and in that way they strengthened the West German home front. Sweden
was then given as a warning example of a country that was so far away
from the frontiers of the Cold War that it could almost be confused with
the Communist front. For most of them, it was also important to say that
the form wasn’t new because it reused aesthetics from the 1930s. However,
when the East German critics linked the production to Bertolt Brecht and
Erwin Piscator it was a compliment used to emphasise the production’s the-
atrical value. The play was never a huge success, even if it was produced later
on in both East and West Germany. Has the critical assessment of the play in
the context of West Germany shaped our view of the play? During his work
on the production at Scalateatern, Weiss formulated Fourteen Propositions for
a Documentary Theatre. This work, which was primarily based on his work
with the actors and the text in Stockholm, is now considered to be one of the
key texts about documentary material in the theatre.41
Notes
1. The German title is Gesang vom Lusitanischen Popanz and the Swedish
Sången om Skråpuken.
2. Mikael Holmström, Den dolda alliansen. Sveriges hemliga NATO-
förbindelser (Stockholm: Atlantis, 2011).
‘HOW CLOSE IS ANGOLA TO US?’ PETER WEISS’S PLAY SONG... 305
3. Patrick Major and Rana Mitter, ‘East is East and West is West? Toward a
Comparative Socio-cultural History of the Cold War’, in Across the Blocs:
Cold War and Social History, ed. Patrick Major and Rana Mitter (London:
Frank Cass, 2004), 1–22, here 7.
4. Ibid., 15.
5. Kim Salomon, Lisbeth Larsson and Håkan Arvidsson, ‘Förord’ in Hotad
idyll. Berättelser om svenskt folkhem och kallt krig, ed. Kim Salomon, Lisbeth
Larsson and Håkan Arvidsson (Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 2004), 7–8.
6. Kjell Östberg, 1968—när allting var i rörelse. Sextiotalsradikaliseringen och
de sociala rörelserna (Stockholm: Prisma, 2002), 93–106.
7. António de Oliveira Salazar had been dictator of Portugal since 1932.
8. Claes Hoogland, ‘Sanningen om Portugal och oss’, Teaterronden II
(1967), 21.
9. Peter Weiss, ‘Letter to Göran Lindgren’, Sandrew Biograferna, 21 August
1966, Musik- och teaterbiblioteket, Stockholm.
10. Yannick Müllender, Peter Weiss’ “Divina Commedia”-Projekt (1964–1969) “…
läßt sich dies noch beschrieben”—Prozesse der Selbstverständigung und der
Gesellschaftskritik (St. Ingbert: Röhrig Universitätsverlag GmbH, 2007), 247.
11. Göran O Eriksson, ‘Skråpuken på Scala—bortspelad agitationsteater’,
Dagens Nyheter, 27 January 1967.
12. Rainer Gerlach, Die Bedeutung des Suhrkamp Verlags für das Werk von
Peter Weiss (St. Ingbert: Röhrig Universitätsverlag GmbH, 2005).
13. Göran Lindgren, ‘Letter to Siegfried Unseld’, Suhrkamp Verlag, 16
February 1966, Musik- och teaterbiblioteket, Stockholm.
14. Helene Ritzerfeld, ‘Letter to Göran Lindgren’, Sandrew Film, 16 February
1966a, Musik- och teaterbiblioteket, Stockholm.
15. Göran Lindgren, ‘Letter to Suhrkamp Verlag’, 1 March 1966b, Musik-
och teaterbiblioteket, Stockholm.
16. Helene Ritzerfeld, ‘Letter to Göran Lindgren’, Sandrew Biograferna, 4
March 1966b, Musik- och teaterbiblioteket, Stockholm.
17. Rainer Gerlach, Die Bedeutung des Suhrkamp Verlags für das Werk von
Peter Weiss (St. Ingbert: Röhrig Universitätsverlag GmbH, 2005), 177.
18. Ibid., 179.
19. Ibid., 180.
20. Peter Weiss’s standpoint lead to a huge conflict with the author Hans
Magnus Enzenberger and Gruppe 47.
21. Gunilla Palmstierna Weiss, artist and stage designer, had been married to
Peter Weiss since 1964, Per Erik Wahlund, ‘Oratoriekabaré om diktatur’,
Svenska Dagbladet, 27 January 1967.
22. Ibid.
23. Göran O. Eriksson, ‘Skråpuken på Scala—bortspelad agitationsteater’,
Dagens Nyheter, 27 January, 1967.
306 R. HOOGLAND
meLê yamomo and Basilio E. Villaruz
After the end of the Second World War, two of the victors—the USA and
the USSR—became arch-enemies vying for global control. With the West
rebuilding after the war, and the ‘rest’ of the world in the process of decol-
onization, the world entered a new order fragmented by the different
versions of global modernization advocated by the two hegemons. In the
article ‘You and the Atomic Bomb’, George Orwell criticized the two rival
atomic superpowers for ‘robbing the exploited classes and the peoples of
all power to revolt […] [and] ruling the world between them.’1 In recently
liberated postcolonial South East Asia, the USA and the USSR fostered
impetuses for nation-state-building and regional solidarity, while also con-
comitantly building the infrastructures of their rival models of modernity.
Orwell, in the same newspaper article, also effectively coined the term for
M. Yamomo (*)
University of Amsterdam, Amsterdam, Netherlands
B.E. Villaruz
University of the Philippines Diliman, Manilla, Philippines
what was to become the ‘Cold War’. Paradoxically, nowhere else was this
Cold War waged as hotly as it was in the South East Asian region.2 South
East Asia became the staging ground for the military struggle between the
two hegemons’ competing schemes for global control.
From the late nineteenth until the mid-twentieth century, armed strug-
gles and claims for independence against European imperial powers were
waged in colonial South East Asia. During the Asia-Pacific War, Japan
invaded South East Asia and, under the banner of the Greater East Asia
Co-Prosperity Sphere, ‘natives’ were trained and armed for the struggle
against western imperialists. Concurrently, anti-Japanese guerrilla warfare
and Allied-assisted wars were being waged against Japan in the region. All
these simultaneously provided the impetus for decolonization and estab-
lishment of independent nation-states. However, it was the onset of the
Cold War that directly influenced the individual and collective trajectories
of the newly independent South East Asian states. On the side of the com-
munist bloc, communist-led armed movements (many evolving from the
anti-Japanese guerrilla movements) were indigenously created to challenge
the post-war order established by the Allies. The First Indochina War started
a year after Ho Chi Minh declared Vietnam’s independence, and with this
the spread of the communist movement into Laos and Cambodia began. A
year after its foundation in 1948, the validity of the newly formed Burmese
state was disputed by two competing communist parties. In Indonesia,
the indigenous communist party was defeated in 1948, but after indepen-
dence the party made a comeback. By the late 1950s it had become the
largest communist party outside the communist bloc. In the Philippines,
the former Hukbalahap anti-Japanese guerrilla forces transformed into a
major communist group in opposition to the leadership imposed by the
USA. In Malaya, the Malayan communist party fought a long and aggres-
sive guerrilla war against the British Empire until the country achieved
independence in 1957. After 1949, the People’s Republic of China became
the third power that diverged from the Soviet dominion. And as a result
of its geographic proximity to the region, as well its Maoist anti-imperialist
and peasant-based revolutionary ideology, China’s influence grew strong
as it became an important model for left-leaning nation-building interests.3
On the other side of the coin was the USA’s impassioned commit-
ment to not ‘losing’ South East Asia to the ‘alternative version of moder-
nity’ represented by the communism of the USSR and China.4 There
were several attempts to form regional organizations designed to protect
the new nation-states from communism. SEATO (The Southeast Asia
MANILA AND THE WORLD DANCE SPACE: NATIONALISM... 309
This paper looks at the concomitant rise of the ostensible search for
national culture and the accretion of cosmopolitan and global cultural prac-
tices in Cold War South East Asia. Borrowing Pascale Casanova’s concept
of the ‘World Republic of Letters’12 and extending this to the practice of
theatre and dance in the period of the Cold War, we propose a t heoretical
logic as to how theatre and dance artists bestrode the c oncomitant rise of
national culture-building and of a growing ‘world dance space’. Although
we started with a background survey of South East Asia, this paper will
focus on theatre and dance history in the Philippine experience.
Literary space translates political and national issues into its own terms—
aesthetic, formal, narrative, poetic—and at once affirms and denies them.
Though it is not altogether free from political domination, literature has
its own ways and means of asserting a measure of independence; constitut-
ing itself as a distinct world in opposition to the nation and nationalism,
a world in which external concerns appear only in refracted form, trans-
formed and reinterpreted in literary terms and with literary instruments.
In the most autonomous countries, then, literature cannot be reduced to
political interests or used to suit national purposes. It is in these countries
that the independent laws of literature are invented, and that the extraor-
dinary improbable construction of what may properly be referred to as the
autonomous international space of literature is carried out.20
312 M. YAMOMO AND B.E. VILLARUZ
After the war, two ‘costumings’ of the Left postured out their differences
in strategies and affinities. With the defeat of the Nationalists in mainland
China, changes also took place in the Philippines with regards to the ‘new’
and ‘old’ Left. The former became the Communist Party of the Philippines
(CPP) with its own National People’s Army (NPA)—now much marginal-
ized. The remaining and revitalized Huks (who sided more with the new Left)
carried on their ‘cultural information division’. They staged performances of
skits, songs and dance to a populace that was predominantly aggrieved due
to neglect and disenfranchisement, both the poor and the political opposi-
tion. Apolonio Chua (1997) traces this back and identifies it as the revo-
lutionary progeny of the komedyas.22 Komedyas (an indigenized version of
Spanish comedias) are Christian-Moor verse drama interspersed with dances
and performances of martial arts. Actors such as Andres Bonifacio (founder
of the revolutionary movement against Spain) and Macario Sakay (one of
the last to surrender to the Americans) had already been rebels. From the
late 1960s onwards this rebellious streak—further incited by Marcos’s dic-
tatorship, which culminated in martial law—was played out in the streets
and on stages. Where the revolutionary movement formerly espoused the
cause of peasant farmers, it escalated as it came to support the cause of the
labourers and the youth (students) in urban centres.
Manila. From 1927, one of the most influential teachers was Madame Lubov
‘Luva’ Adameit from Kiev, who claimed she had been one of Pavlova’s danc-
ers. She brought her own manager and pianist with her to consolidate her
virtual monopoly in Manila. Her adaptation of Philippine folk dances to
the idiom of ballet was pivotal to this art in the Philippines. In this she was
not far from the orientalism that influenced the Ballets Russes with Fokine
as their choreographer and Bakst as designer. There were other itinerant
Russians (Katrina Makarova, Olga Dontsov, Vladimir Bolsky and so on)
who taught in Manila, although some might have actually been Eastern
Europeans or had Russianized names, a billing strategy that pervaded the
(later) Ballets Russes in Europe, who were depleted of Russians. Prominent
examples were the Englishwoman Alicia Markova (Alice Marks), and Anton
Dolin, originally Sydney Francis Patrick Chippendall Healey-Kay, who also
visited Manila after the Second World War.23
More members of the various contingents of the Ballets Russes
migrated to Europe, England and the USA. A number of Filipinos went
to train with them in those countries.24 Among them were prima balleri-
nas Olga Preobrajenska and Lubov Egorova, both stars of St Petersburg’s
imperial ballet. Pavlova herself subsequently lived in England and other
Russians in the USA, where another Ballets Russes company was launched
in New York. Some Filipinos sought them out there. These Russian (or
faux-Russian) stars continued to proselytize for ballet all over the world,
including the Philippines and South East Asia.
The Russian ‘connection’ continued throughout the Soviet period, thus
linking the imperial, émigré and state-supported traditions. Even in the
1980s, pupils of Felicitas Layag Radaic and Basilio Esteban Villaruz went
to study in Leningrad. One of them was the now popular ballerina Lisa
Macuja Elizalde, who went on to dance with the Kirov Ballet for another
two years before she returned to found her own Ballet Manila company.25
Another of Manila’s most important ballet teachers, Noordin Jumalon,
also spent four years studying as a teacher in Moscow. He became a dancer
with Ballet Philippines and later the principal of its dance school at the
Cultural Centre of the Philippines (CCP). With Radaic, he later formu-
lated a Philippine national ballet syllabus based on their studies in both the
Russian and English systems.
In later years China came to rival the Soviet Union as the preferred
site of ballet training. Ironically, much of China’s own expertise in ballet
rose to further heights with Soviet Russian infusion. (Margot Fonteyn
herself started ballet as a child in China.) Later China’s ballet artists
MANILA AND THE WORLD DANCE SPACE: NATIONALISM... 315
and tutors more or less modified that source and formulated their own
graded system. (An earlier example, who went on to study and perform
in Russia on her own, was Si-lan Chen Leyda, who was of Chinese and
French-African extraction.) Subsequently, latter-day Filipinos sought
further ballet studies in China. With loosened ties with the USSR and
the subsequent fall of the Soviet Union, China’s ballet and folk danc-
ers performed, taught and staged traditional and new works in Manila.
The development of ballet in the Philippines parallels its earlier turn from
Marxism to Maoism. Perhaps to counteract the increasing prominence of
Chinese (Maoist) Communism in the Philippines, President Marcos and
his wife Imelda Romualdez invited several Soviet ballet troupes to perform
at the CCP. Imelda inaugurated the CCP in 1969 to house ‘the soul of the
Filipino people’, an occasion attended by California Governor—and later
US President—Ronald Reagan. This did not deter Mrs Marcos from play-
ing a dual game and visiting China to meet with Mao. Ironically, defectors
from Russia like Rudolf Nureyev and Natalia Makarova also performed at
CCP in Imelda’s time.
A year earlier in 1968, five stars of the Bolshoi Ballet had taken part in the
inauguration of the Meralco Theatre in Manila, featuring Manila’s Hariraya
Ballet. Among them were Raissa Struchkova and (her husband) Alexander
Lapauri, both Soviet People’s Artists. Later on Hariraya also invited the
Bolshoi’s Sulamith Messerer to stage a production of Petipa classics in the
same theatre. Consequently, this theatre was more or less sidelined by Imelda’s
CCP. With the coming of Soviet presence and increased trade with Russia
from 1976, ballet also became part of Imelda’s showcase. This included per-
formances by the Bolshoi, Kirov and Perm ballets, as well as the folkloric
ensembles of Moisseyev and Berioska. Of particular significance was the visit
in 1982 of Vakhatang Chabukiani, one of the stars of Russian ballet and a
Soviet People’s Artist, who staged for Ballet Philippines the first full produc-
tion of La Bayadere in that country. His was an innovative version from Tbilisi
(Georgia), and more Asian than the original Petipa choreography.26
During the Cold War, the United States Information Service (USIS,
later changed to Information Agency or USIA) was prominent in the
Philippines. It set up libraries in key cities like Manila, Cebu and Iloilo
to propagate US interests. These libraries provided not only books and
316 M. YAMOMO AND B.E. VILLARUZ
eriodicals, but also occasionally showed films. As the smaller cities out-
p
side Manila had few municipal resources, these libraries became key cen-
tres for information and news, which were then much sought by Filipino
scholars and journalists. Aside from these libraries, US propaganda also
broadcast Voice of America, and had a regular music radio programme
hosted by Eva Ponce Panajon. As access to recordings was neither wide-
spread nor affordable, she was responsible for exposing most Filipinos to
American music. She was also a musician and for a while she doubled as an
honorary cultural attaché for the US Embassy. Over the years, the USIS/
IA centre was located in different offices in Manila before finally moving
to the US Embassy. From there it became relatively ‘quiet’ while still pro-
viding ‘propaganda’ materials. Today the USIA is no longer heard from.
During the Cold War period the political, economic and cultural
influence of the USA was pervasive in the Philippines. This can be attrib-
uted both to the aforementioned military bases, and to the availability
of grants for study and visits to the USA. These programmes targeted
Filipino businessmen, academics, journalists and artists and ‘encour-
aged’ them to ‘focus’ their politics and social leanings in a pro-Amer-
ican direction.27 In the same way, literature, music, theatre and dance
became instrumentalized on account of their perceived power to capti-
vate and influence.28 In this period, US-sponsored ‘artistic diplomacy’
was channelled through the presentations of the American National
Theatre and Academy (ANTA) in Manila and the rest of Asia. A child of
the Federal Theatre Project and designed initially to establish a national
theatre in the USA, the organization was integrated into a govern-
ment strategy to fight the Cold War on the cultural front, initiated by
President Eisenhower.29 Several of the playwrights and directors in the
schools were also US-trained. Two playwright-directors, Wilfrido Maria
Guerrero with his Mobile Theatre at the University of the Philippines,
and Severino Montano with his Arena Theatre at the Philippine Normal
University, should also not be forgotten. Both directors are now (post-
humously) recognized as national artists.
The visiting musical and theatre ensembles included a number of dance
groups.30 Over the years, these groups included the San Francisco Ballet,
New York City Ballet, the Martha Graham Dance Company (three times),
Alvin Ailey Dance Theater (twice), the Paul Taylor Dance Company and
subsequently smaller ensembles and solo artists. Recent research shows
that these visits were also sponsored by the US government, sometimes
indirectly with the support of the Rockefeller Foundation.31
MANILA AND THE WORLD DANCE SPACE: NATIONALISM... 317
Conclusion
In this article, we have traced Manila’s position as an important centre
in the global network of theatre and dance from the turn of the twenti-
eth century until the 1980s. This occurred while the Philippine state was
building its own national cultural sphere. Antedating and outlasting Cold
War politics, Manila hosted and became the source of several itinerant and
migrant artists within the global network of dance and theatre. With art
and cultural production becoming an ideological tool and an enterprise
of the Cold War states, we see the intertwining of the political and artistic
space in this period. The USA and the USSR competed for hegemony
as the ‘world centre’ by granting dance and theatre scholarships, and by
bringing US and Soviet artists and theatre companies on tour around the
world. By hosting dance and art scholars, they encouraged the legitimiza-
tion of St Petersburg and New York City as competing centres. On the
other hand, as the decolonized nation-states claimed space in the global
geography, the superpowers strategically invested in infrastructures of a
global network of interconnected cities. This network, consisting of cit-
ies like Manila, whose allegiances to either political bloc would become
increasingly indistinguishable, outlasted its political and economic depen-
dency on the Cold War system. When the hegemonic interest within
the theatre and dance sphere was divorced from the hegemonic political
agenda of the Cold War powers, a global network emerged, replacing the
imperial centre–periphery system.
These cities and their relationship within the ‘global artistic sphere’
again reconfigure in South East Asia after the collapse of the Iron Curtain
(although communist states continue to exist in a large part of Asia today)
and as liberal capitalism expands globally. This shift towards transnational-
ism and transculturalism in cultural and economic practices has begun to
receive increased attention in scholarship. In tackling this subject, scholars
must take into account the historical impact of the Cold War in our theo-
retical construction of contemporary globalization.
Notes
1. George Orwell, ‘You and the Atomic Bomb’, in Tribune, 19 October 1945.
2. South East Asia here refers to the region which encompasses the nations of
Brunei, Burma, Cambodia, East Timor, Indonesia, Laos, Malaysia, the
Philippines, Singapore, Thailand and Vietnam. This collective naming of the
South East Asian region did not happen until the middle of the twentieth
MANILA AND THE WORLD DANCE SPACE: NATIONALISM... 319
associated with the Committee were aware that they were engaged in the
production of a theoretical alternative to Marxism. In the early 1980s, for
example, a former member asserted that its “purpose” had been to “for-
mulate a non-Communist theory of change and thus to provide a non-
Marxian alternative for the developing nations”’ (Berger, ‘Decolonisation,
Modernisation and Nation-Building’, 427–428)
7. Tony Day, ‘Cultures at War in Cold War Southeast Asia: An Introduction’,
in Cultures at War: The Cold War and Cultural Expression in Southeast
Asia, ed. Tony Day and Maya Hian Ting Liem (Ithaca: Southeast Asia
Program Publication, Cornell University, 2010), 1–20, here 2.
8. Norodom Sihanouk’s candid response to an interview by Alessandro Casella
in the Far Eastern Economic Review (Norodom Sihanouk, ‘Response to an
Interview by Alessandro Casella’, Far Eastern Economic Review, 25
December 1971, 19–21), concisely summarized the state of affairs of the
time: ‘We are fighting side by side with socialist Vietnamese and left-oriented
Laotians, who are both helped and recognized by the USSR. We too had
hoped that Moscow would treat us accordingly. However, the Russians
turned us down … We told them that we want to be recognized as the legal
government of Cambodia, but this the Russians refuse.
I think the Russians consider themselves white, and they do not want yel-
low people to become too strong […]. They will give the Vietnamese just
enough to keep them from losing the war but not enough to enable them
to win it […]. I feel that the Russians want to keep Asians in a state of
subservience. There is, in the Russian mind, a neurotic fear of an imaginary
“yellow peril” embodied by China. By hindering the Indochinese, the
Russians are aiming at China. The Americans are also motivated by this
same fear of China […]. Ultimately, both the Americans and the Russians
are motivated by a common racism, a common fear of a “yellow peril”
embodied in China.’
9. ‘Zhdanovism’ or ‘zhdanovshchina’, also called the ‘Zhdanov Doctrine’
(Russian: доктрина Жданова, ждановизм, ждановщина), developed by
the Central Committee secretary Andrei Zhdanov in 1946, served as the
most important cultural doctrine of the Soviet Union. Its main premise
was that the world was divided into the ‘imperialistic’ (headed by the USA)
and the ‘democratic’ (headed by the Soviet Union). Zhdanovism became
the most important Soviet cultural policy, and was imposed on the creative
works of all Soviet artists and writers (http://www.britannica.com/event/
Zhdanovshchina, accessed 15 March 2016).
10. Hack and Wade ‘The Origins of the Southeast Asian Cold War’, 443.
11. Day, ‘Cultures at War in Cold War Southeast Asia’, 4.
12. Pascale Casanova, The World Republic of Letters (Cambridge: Harvard
University Press, 2004).
MANILA AND THE WORLD DANCE SPACE: NATIONALISM... 321
13. Tony Day, ‘Still Stuck in the Mud: Imagining World Literature during the
Cold War in Indonesia and Vietnam’, in Cultures at War: The Cold War
and Cultural Expression in Southeast Asia, ed. Tony Day and Maya Hian
Ting Liem (Ithaca: Southeast Asia Program Publication, Cornell University,
2010), 131–173.
14. English translation by Jennifer Lindsay (Jennifer Lindsay, ‘Heirs to World
Culture 1950–1965: An Introduction’, in Heirs to the World Culture:
Being Indonesian 1950–1965, ed. Jennifer Lindsay and Maya Hian Ting
Liem (Leiden: KILTV Press, 2012), 10) from the Indonesian original:
‘Kami adalah ahli waris yang sah dari kebudajaan dunia dan kebudajaan ini
kami teruskan dengancara kami sendiri.’ The Surat Kepercayaan
Gelanggang was originally published in Siasat/Gelanggang on 22 October
1950.
15. Lekra stands for Lembaga Kebudajaan Rakjat (Institute of People’s
Culture), see Lindsay, ‘Heirs to World Culture 1950–1965’, 10.
16. Jose Rizal’s novel Noli me Tangere was a key literary text which Benedict
Anderson analysed in constructing his theory of nation and nationalism in
Imagined Communities (originally published 1983). Anderson, Imagined
Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (London
and New York: Verso, 1991).
17. From the Spanish original: ‘El genio no tiene país. Florece por todas par-
tes. El genio está como la luz, el aire. Es la herencia de todo.’ The speech
was printed by Wenceslao Retana in La Independencia, 25 September
1898.
18. Day, ‘Cultures at War in Cold War Southeast Asia’, 3.
19. Casanova, The World Republic of Letters.
20. Ibid., 86.
21. Drawing on Ferdinand Braudel’s theory of the modern global market,
Casanova extends this idea to Paul Valéry’s ‘great market of human affairs’
and J.W. van Goethe’s notion of global intellectual commerce. Quoting
Valéry, Casanova explains: ‘“A civilization is a form of capital […] whose
increase may continue for centuries, like that of certain other forms of capi-
tal, and which absorbs into itself its compound interest.” All this, to
Valéry’s mind, was evidence of “a wealth that has to be accumulated like
natural wealth, a capital that has to be formed by successive strata in peo-
ple’s minds’”(Casanova, The World Republic of Letters, 13).
22. Apolonio Bayani Chua, ‘Dulambayan: Dulaan ng mga Kilusang Panlipunan’
[National Staging: Social Movement Theatre], Ani [Harvest] 24 (1997),
68–75. [Performing Arts and Literature issue, ed. Basilio Esteban S. Villaruz].
23. Alicia Markova’s name was changed from the original English Alice Marks
according to the fashion of Russianizing names of dancers in Diaghilev’s
Ballets Russes and other Ballets Russes to deceive the public into believing
322 M. YAMOMO AND B.E. VILLARUZ
that the dancers were all Russians. Ballet companies in St Petersburg later
banned dancers from leaving, although some did manage to escape, as in
the case of Balanchine and Danilova. Some of them, including Danilova,
performed in Manila in the 1950s, despite the fact that a ballet ban was
imposed by the Catholic Church at that time.
24. My (Villaruz) own early ballet teachers (the Filipino-Chinese Elsie Uytiepo
and the Spanish Remedios de Oteyza) studied with Adameit in Manila, and
Oteyza with expatriates in Paris.
25. She brought many Soviet and post-Soviet Russian teachers and groups to
Manila. I myself (Villaruz) witnessed Macuja’s graduation (and that of
another pupil, Mary Anne Santamaria) hosted by the USSR Ministry of
Culture at the Kirov, now again the Mariinsky Theatre.
26. Other Soviet dancers have performed or taught in Manila, several of them
over time periods straddling the political changes in Russia. One of them is
Anatoli Panassioukov, who has long been in Manila as ballet master with the
Philippine Ballet Theatre. In post-Soviet times, visits of Russian dancers have
declined significantly and appear now mainly through Macuja Elizalde’s
Ballet Manila. A few musicians have joined the annual rondalla (a Filipino
string ensemble) festival with their own kind of instruments. In 2011 Rossiya
(State Academic Russian National Ensemble) performed for the National
Commission on Culture and the Arts in ‘Days of Russian Culture’, which, it
was announced, would be followed in 2012 with ‘Days of Philippine Culture’
in Russia. Early in 2012, a Russian anti-submarine ship sailed into Manila
Bay for ‘a goodwill visit’. (This may not have had anything to do with
‘rumours’ of a renewed call for a greater US presence in the Philippines—
because of China’s claim over the Spratly islands in the China Sea.)
27. An example of US global enticement in those days was the seemingly
harmless photo-exhibition The Family of Man, which the USIA toured in
the Cold War years.
28. As a student in the region, I (Villaruz) remember the acclaimed visit of the
prized novelist William Faulkner to Manila, and that of the USA’s ‘First
Lady of the Theatre’ Helen Hayes, who gave a talk at St Paul College in
Manila, which I heard and reviewed in Weekly Nation. In that college’s
auditorium I also saw several American musicals staged, once with American
director Rommey Brent. Musician and US cultural attaché Edward Mattos
conducted a number of productions. I also heard anthropologist Margaret
Mead at the Philamlife Auditorium.
29. See Charlotte Canning, ‘“In the Interest of the State”: A Cold War National
Theatre for the United States’, Theatre Journal 61.3 (2009), 407–420.
30. The earlier tours by the Denishawn (Ruth St Denis and Ted Shawn) com-
pany in 1926, and of Katherine Dunham’s own troupe in the 1960s were
mainly commercial ventures at the Manila Grand Opera House. They were
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Index
K M
Kána, Vašek, 173 MacColl, Ewan, 135, 136, 140,
Kantor, Tadeusz, 11, 189, 191–3, 147n4, 147n10
198 Maliszewski, Aleksandr, 173
Kašlík, Václav, 21n25, 266, 267 Manila, 17, 307–23
Kayser, Karl, 165, 174, 175, 177, Maoism/Maoist, 315
179, 180, 183n32, 184n48, Markov, Pavel Aleksandrovich,
186n83 248
Kennedy, Dennis, 7, 20n14, 124n13 Marxism/Marxist, 7, 15, 17, 47,
Khrushchev, Nikita, 1, 26, 174 166, 180, 226, 256n25, 296,
Kifleyesus, Bernardo, 283–5, 288n17, 300, 302, 303, 311, 312, 315,
292n47, 292n50 320n6
Kivimaa, Arvi, 157–9, 162n25, Mavromoustakos, Platon, 136n14,
163n31 227, 229, 233, 236n13, 236n17,
KKE. See Communist Party of Greece 236n22, 238n45
(KKE) Mayakowski, Vladimir, 283
Kleineidam, Horst, 175 Mazowsze, 73–85
Kluge, Alexander, 269, 270n16 McCarthy, Joseph, 33, 173
KNE. See Communist Youth of Greece McConachie, Bruce, 2, 5, 18n2,
(KNE) 20n23, 162n19, 235n5
Krakow, 9, 61, 165–86, 191, 192, McLuhan, Marshall, 88, 103n2
194, 195, 199, 203n8, 203n9, metonymy/metonymical, 77
203n15 Midsummer Night’s Dream, A, 7,
Krakow’s State Dramatic Theatres 107–27, 168
(Państwowe Teatry military, 1, 26, 38, 39, 73, 87–103,
Dramatyczne), 192 121, 168, 224, 232, 239–43,
Kulnev, Boris, 20n24 245, 256n19, 274–9, 282,
Kupfer, Harry, 12, 260, 261 287n8, 308, 309, 312, 316
Kwiatkowski, Tadeusz, 173 Military Intelligence, Section 5
(MI5), 8, 9, 133–50
Moiseyev Dance Company, 76
L Moiseyev, Igor, 76, 84n11
La forza del destino, 266, 267 Morawski, Jerzy, 175, 176,
Leipzig, 9, 165–86, 240, 241, 250, 185n57
255n1, 256n18, 257n31, 260 Mother Courage and Her Children,
Littlewood, Joan, 8, 135, 136, 140, 61, 135
143–5, 147n10 Mother, The, 61
locality, 5 Munich, 60, 66, 67, 123n2, 246,
London, 5, 45, 64, 65, 70n17, 247, 255n8, 260, 261,
108–14, 119, 120, 122, 123n1, 264–6
123n2, 135, 159, 260, 300 music drama, 259–70
348 INDEX
Ring des Nibelungen, Der, 268 245, 249, 251–3, 256n25, 260,
Robeson, Paul, 7, 37, 45–57 278, 289–90n24
Rockefeller Foundation, 14, 16, 316 Socialist Unity Party (SED), 7, 12,
Romania, 11, 79, 108, 109, 111, 59–69, 169, 171, 174, 248–50,
116–20, 156, 160, 207–13, 215, 254, 302
217, 218 Sokorski, Włodzimierz, 75, 191, 192
Royal Shakespeare Company (RSC), 9, Solidarity/Solidarność, 200
107–9, 111–15, 118, 119, 121, Somalia, 274, 275, 277
123n2, 300 Song of the Lusitanian Bogeyman, 17,
293–306
Southeast Asia, 308–11, 319n4,
S 319n5
Sachsenmaier, Dominic, 6, 19n9 Stalinist/Stalinism, 175
satellite states, 74, 76, 77, 80, 84n2, Stalin, Joseph, 7, 26, 27, 29, 34,
268 46–55, 57n26, 76, 79, 174, 250,
Saunders, Frances Stonor, 8, 20n16, 256n25
147n8, 235n4 Stanislavsky, Konstantin, 95, 168, 170
Scalateatern, 293, 295, 304 Stockholm, 17, 293, 295, 296,
Schaffer, Peter, 178 301–4
Schauspielhaus Leipzig, 170, 171, Strahl, Rudi, 177
176–8, 180 Sudan, 276, 288n20
Schöbel, Frank, 91, 93, 103n10, Suhrkamp, 295–7, 304
104n14 surrealism, 155
Second World War, 9, 12, 30, 75, 77, Svoboda, Josef, 267
84n13, 87, 94, 95, 135, 146n4, Sweden, 17, 139, 293, 294, 297–301,
151, 167–9, 172, 173, 243, 246, 303, 304
259, 294, 307, 312, 314, 317, Sygietyński, Tadeusz, 77–9, 83
319n2 symbolism, 67, 155, 280
Shakespeare, William, 7, 9, 107,
108, 110, 111, 113, 118, 123n2,
124n20, 127n64, 135, 144, T
168, 279, 283, 284, 288n15, Tannhäuser, 13, 260, 261
300 Tcherniakov, Dmitri, 266
Simonov, Konstantin, 168, 170 Teatr Stary/Stary Theatre, 192
Smith, James, 8, 9, 20n19, 70n21, Teatr Wielki, 13, 268, 269
133–50 Teodorescu, Crin, 209, 211, 214,
socialism, 79, 84n2, 99, 165, 171, 218, 221n32
173, 175, 178, 194, 195, 248, Tesfai, Alemseged, 276, 279–82,
250, 275, 276, 286n4, 287n14, 288n15, 289n24, 290n25,
289n23, 297 290n26, 290n31, 291n34,
socialist realism, 13, 112, 118, 156, 291n37, 291n39, 291n43
171, 173, 190–3, 210, 211, 226, Theatre of Nations, 11, 207–21
231, 232, 235n11, 235n12, 244, Theatre of Nations Festival, 207–21
350 INDEX
Theatre of 13 Rows, 194, 196, 197 Vietnam, 26, 210, 293, 300, 301,
Theatre Workshop, 8, 135–46, 308–10, 317, 318n2, 321n13
147n10, 148n16–18, 149n22,
150n47
Thessaloniki, 223, 225, 227, 236n26 W
Thigpen, Helen, 33 Wagner, Wieland, 259, 260
Three Penny Opera, The, 216, 303 Warsaw, 13, 27, 54, 61, 74, 78, 79,
tour/touring, 6–8 92, 93, 100, 102, 108, 114,
Towards a Poor Theatre, 6, 19n12 119, 128n78, 143, 145, 153,
transnational history, 3, 4, 6 173, 190, 194, 197, 198,
Tsehaye, Solomon, 273, 278, 289n22, 202n4, 209, 268, 269, 294,
290n28, 290n31, 291n32 301
Warsaw Pact, 92, 93, 100, 102, 153,
194, 198, 209, 268, 294, 301
U Weigel, Helene, 64–6, 70n22, 70n25,
Union of Soviet Socialist Republics 70n26, 70n28, 70n32, 70n33,
(USSR)/Soviet Union, 27, 29, 249
30, 36, 37, 74–6, 315 Weimar Republic, 9, 169
United Nations (UN), 43n64, 151–3, Weiss, Peter, 17, 293–306
209, 275 Williams, Tennessee, 176
United Nations Educational, Scientific, Wolfert, Ira, 25–7, 32, 38, 39n1,
and Cultural Organization 43n70
(UNESCO), 11, 14, 151, 153, Wolf, Friedrich, 148n13, 168
161 ‘World Republic of Letters,’ 310,
United States of America (USA), 7, 311
12, 13, 16–18, 26–8, 30–9,
42n64, 47, 49–53, 134, 135,
152, 198, 201, 209, 210, 233, Y
242, 274, 279, 294, 302, 307, Yiddish, 54
308, 312, 314, 316–18, 320n9, Yugoslavia, 153, 210
322n28, 322n30
Z
V Zhdanov, Andrei, 29, 256n25,
Vallentin, Maxim, 243–7, 252, 320n9
255n10, 256n12, 256n14 Zhdanovshchina, 29, 248, 256n25,
Verfremdung, 230, 231, 237n29, 249, 320n9
253 Zimińska-Sygietyńska, Mira, 83,
Victims of Duty, 208, 209, 214–19 84n8, 85n16, 85n22