Monday, June 24, 2013

Silent Pictures in the 1930s and "Why This Play Now?"


Whether it’s Singin’ in the Rain, Sunset Boulevard or The Artist we all know the story: silent film stars, and with them silent films, made obsolete by talking pictures, their voices or dramatic style incompatible with the new technological advancements of sound. Silent movies become a relic of the past, an archaic entertainment eclipsed by the technologically advanced “talkies” that dominated Hollywood by 1930.

If talking pictures ruled the screen in the 1930s, what happened to the silents? In his book The Last Silent Picture Show: Silent Films on American Screens in the 1930s, William M. Drew argues that in fact, there never was a last silent picture show. On the contrary, Drew asserts that the transition in the 1920s from silents to talkies was not as rapid or as ubiquitous as Hollywood makes it out to be, and that silent films still captivated audiences into the 1930s and beyond, and not just as the object of ridicule or romanticized nostalgia.[1]

Ready to find out more about silents in the 1930s? These posts will give you more historical information about silent film after the rise of talkies from Drew's book:

Silent Film in the 30s and “Why This Play Now?”

Not only does understanding more about the marginalization of and notable attempts to revive silent films in the 1930s and beyond offer a rich historical context for our protagonist Buster Keaton in Barbarous Nights, with its setting in a 1930s of the past and of the future, but it also helps answer the question “why this play now?”

Captivated by both classic and contemporary movies about the struggle of silent film stars against the advancements of sound, modern audiences are familiar with the situation in which Buster Keaton finds himself in this play, even if the world he falls into is not a tangible one. Buster Keaton’s journey is made both more accessible and more poignant to a modern audience in part by its context within and relationship to an era of decline for silent pictures. If Buster Keaton is struggling to find what makes him human beneath his “mask” as a star of silent pictures, his journey becomes all the more challenging in a world where his celebrity identity doesn’t mean the same thing to the people he meets as it did where he came from. Keaton’s struggle to understand and express his inner self in the play is perhaps an echo of what he would have faced in 1930s Hollywood: a silent film celebrity forced to confront the man beneath his exterior identity as the world he knows is radically altered by sound.

And Buster Keaton isn’t the only one who is challenged to navigate his “performed” and inner self. Not only do the other characters in the play know his struggle, who we see grappling with expressing and reaching for their inner most desires, but we as audience members do too. We too find ourselves in circumstances where our notion of self is critically altered, where we must swallow our inner emotions to navigate through society, where we are afraid of what will happen if we express our greatest joys or deepest sorrows. We are also familiar with the ways in which technology changes our means of communication, our connections to others, and our understanding of who we are. Like a silent picture might, Barbarous Nights appeals so strongly to our emotions in part because what the characters experience in the play is so relatable.



[1] Drew, William M. The Last Silent Picture Show: Silent Films on American Screens in the 1930s. Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press, Inc, 2010. Print.

Thursday, June 20, 2013

The Other Stone Face: Abraham Lincoln in "Barbarous Nights"


 

In Barbarous Nights, Abraham Lincoln plays an important, though somewhat enigmatic, part in Buster Keaton’s journey to discover his humanity. As Keaton explains to the Maiden in scene two of the first shade after she wrenches off his mask, “My face is iconic. My face is as iconic as Lincoln’s face someone once told me.” Keaton strongly identifies with Abraham Lincoln, the other “great stone face” of American history.

In Doris Kearns Goodwin’s book Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln, she describes Abraham Lincoln being photographed in 1863, a month after he gave his revered Gettysburg address:

“On Sunday, August 9, [John] Hay accompanied the president to Alexander Gardner’s photo studio at the corner of Seventh and D streets. The pictures taken that day do not reflect what Hay characterized as the president’s 'very good spirits.' Rigidly posed, with one hand on a book and the other at his waist, Lincoln was forced to endure the lengthy process of the photograph, which almost invariably produced a grim, unsmiling portrait. Subjects would be required to sit absolutely still while the photographer removed the cap from the lens to expose the picture. ‘Don’t move a muscle!’ the subject would be told, for the slightest twitch would blur the image. Moreover, since ‘contrived grinning in photographs had not yet become obligatory,’ many faces, like Lincoln’s, took on a melancholy cast.”[1]

While Lincoln’s “stone face” in photos from the era may be attributed in part to the technological limitations of the camera or cultural norms regarding smiling in pictures, whatever the reason for his serious expression, it is clear is that the images of Lincoln circulated amongst the public were not fully representative of the man known to his close colleagues, friends and family. Abraham Lincoln’s iconic “deep set gaze” that appears “steady and melancholy” in his photographs is not only a constructed image separated from his everyday self, a Presidential mask, if you will, worn for the public eye, but it is also readily apparent to anyone familiar with the arduous task of posing for a photograph (Goodwin 230).

Perhaps Lincoln and his public were more comfortable with the dual identity of the President than Buster Keaton seems to be with his own, struggling to navigate without his mask in a world where nobody seems to know who this star of silent pictures is. In this play, Lincoln not only helps a modern audience understand the level of fame Buster Keaton had achieved at the height of the silent film era, his face as iconic as Lincoln’s, but he also represents part of Keaton’s personal journey to uncover his identity beneath the “stone faced” celebrity persona. When Lincoln says to Buster, “It is impossible to see our humanity,” perhaps he is talking celebrity to celebrity, speaking of the iconic mask we recognize as “President Abraham Lincoln” and silent film star “Buster Keaton.”

Much thanks to Nathan Kinsman for his brilliant historical knowledge, thoughts, and assistance researching for this post.



[1] Goodwin, Doris Kearns. Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln. New York, NY: Simon & Schuster Paperbacks, 2005. 545. Print.

Friday, June 14, 2013

Sailors of the Past and Today

If Barbarous Nights is set in the 1930s of the future and the past, what does that mean for the Sailor in the play? Here is some information I dug up about sailing in the early 20th century and in the 21st, as well as details about maritime law relevant to our play.


Sailors in Early 20th Century Great Britain
Historian Jeffrey Charles' website about the Motor Launch Patrol of the British Royal Navy around WWI offers an extensive look into the world of sailing in the early 20th century. One account of Naval Officer Robert Jones describes the activities of sailors in the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, particularly the men who occupied “Movies” or Motor Launches, nicknamed for their speed. These sailors were employed in patrol units along the coast of the British Isles, in the Mediterranean, the West Indies and the White Sea. A day in the life of a sailor might include scouting, anti-submarine work, inshore mine sweeping, smokescreen-laying, and hydrophone (underwater microphone) monitoring. Some were served as wireless telegraphists and were responsible for communicating through Morse code, with radio signaling reaching widespread use in the 1930s. During World War I, Morse lamps, flags and radio were still important means of naval communication.[1]

In early 20th century Great Britain sailors were recruited extremely young: “boys” aged 15½ to 16¾ and “youths” ages 16¾ to 18 received months of naval training while still attending school part-time at special Training Establishments. Their education included “seamanship,” swimming, squad drill, gunnery and mechanics. Eventually, these young men advanced to their sea-training and joined the Second Fleet. Recruits had a choice of enrollment in the Advanced Class Courses (boat work and mechanical work), the Wireless Course, and the Signal Course. The Wireless and Signal Course “lads” were sent to sea as soon as possible to begin service.[2]

During World War I, not all British sailors remained at sea: in Germany internment camps were established as war broke out and many sailors, especially fisherman and merchant seamen, docked in German harbors at the time were sent to internment camps. While these men certainly endured a hard life, suffering from physical and mental illness with limited outside communication and nourishment, it seems it wasn’t all miserable: one account of a prisoner I discovered describes how he competed in athletic games inside the camp and was awarded a metal as the tug-of-war champion.[3]

Sailing Life Today
While technology has certainly changed things, perhaps for the better, about life in the navy since the early 20th century, it is clear that sailing remains a high-stress, isolating experience. In an online article published by the American Psychological Association about Naval Lt. Lisseth Calvio, a doctoral candidate at the Uniformed Services University of the Health Sciences who is the first person to even finish their clerkship on board a deployed warship, Calvio describes experiencing “the constant strain the ship’s crew feels as they live and work in crowded conditions.” Calvio spent her days offering counseling and therapy to 5,000 sailors and officers on board, helping them cope with family issues, practice stress management techniques, and deal with issues like anger management, depression, anxiety, and conflicts with other men on board. While perhaps young men are a little older now when they enlist than they were in the 1910s and 20s, the article points out that many of these sailors are very young and experience significant stress leaving home for the first time to a totally new kind of life.

The article also gives a picture of the kinds of tasks performed by sailors in the Navy today. Calvio describes participating in daily exercise drills on deck. The article also describes the arduous physical labor done by the deck crews, who keep “the ship clean and running” with tasks like handling ropes at dock, bringing aboard fuel and provisions, launching and recovering amphibious landing craft, and fighting against rust.[4]

In an online Guardian interview with British sailing prodigy Emma Richards, she describes not only the extreme physical conditions while racing, including severe cold and very little sleep, but also fighting the loneliness with technology. Richards not only listens to CDs with recordings of friends and family or her favorite music, but she has a weekly phone call home when she catches up with her friends while they hang out at the pub on Friday night. While technology may afford some comfort to a sailor today, the close quarters and general isolation at sea is still palpable.[5]

One stress of sailing life I discovered in my research that is surprisingly relevant to Barbarous Nights is that many sailors struggle finding romantic companionship compatible with their nomadic lifestyle. Once again technology may be shifting that dynamic some today, as contemporary sailors can turn to an online dating site called LoveSail.com that helps connect sailing enthusiasts around the world. CNN published a sentimental article about a 52-year-old man who finally found his sailing sweetheart through LoveSail.com, experiencing a whirlwind romance ending in, what else, a honeymoon sailing tour. The director of LoveSail.com says that “people who sail tend to be extremely passionate about it” and that “it can be difficult for sailors because when they do find someone they often have to leave them.” The predicament faced by the Sailor and the Maiden in Barbarous Nights is then a familiar tale to anyone who spends their time at sea.[6]

Maritime Law: AWOL vs. Desertion (Based on the About.com US Military Guide)
While looking into what happens if a sailor deserts his ship for our play, I discovered that there is in fact a difference between someone who is Absent Without Leave and someone who is a deserter. In the Navy or Marine Corps, AWOL is actually referred to as an “Unauthorized Absence (UA)” with the punishment depending on the circumstances. In general, AWOL is when someone fails to show up when they are supposed to, whether its on purpose or not. The only real defense is if you are physically unable to get there, and even then it cannot be through misconduct or neglect. The difference between AWOL and desertion is that a deserter has the “intent to remain away permanently” or to shirk an “important duty,” like going on a hazardous mission or being deployed to combat.[7] The court-martial decides whether or not the duty that was avoided was important or hazardous, therefore determining the severity of the punishment. Basically, if a sailor is AWOL he or she means to return someday to “military control,” even if its years later. A deserter leaves for good.

Punishment for Desertion
In the case or desertion, it is highly unlikely that someone would receive the maximum punishment, being death. In most cases, the result is some form of discharge in Other Than Honorable Circumstances (OTHC). When a soldier or sailor is missing, the commanding officer decides how to proceed based on the circumstances. When a case of desertion goes to trial it is tried by the General Court-Martial, the most serious type there is.

The punishment for desertion varies in severity: if you desert and then later voluntarily return, you would most likely receive dishonorable discharge, forfeiture of all pay, reduction to the lowest rank, and two years in prison. For deserting to avoid important duty, you might suffer the former but with five years in prison. The most severe punishment for desertion is death or another punishment as the court-martial sees fit, such as life in prison. This punishment is generally only given out during a time of war.[8]

Read more about Sailing Symbolism in Lorca's Poetry here.




[1] Charles, Jeffrey. “The Motor Launch Patrol in the Western Approaches and Irish Sea, 1917-1919.” The “Movies”: The Ships and Men of the Royal Navy Motor Launch Patrol 1914-1919. 2012. Web. http://www.motorlaunchpatrol.net/written_accounts/personal_accounts/personal_accounts/jones.php
[2] Taylor, Richard. “Details of Boys Training.” Naval Historical Collectors and Research Association. Web. http://www.nhcra-online.org/20c/seamanship15.html
[3] “Life in an Interment Camp.” Naval Historical Collectors and Research Association. Web. http://www.nhcra-online.org/20c/seamanship15.html
[4] Munsey, Christopher. “Psychology at Sea.” American Psychological Association gradPSYCH Magazine Online. 2008. Web. http://www.apa.org/gradpsych/2008/11/sea.aspx
[5] Hall, Sarah. “Interview with British Sailor Emma Richards.” The Guardian. 2012. Web. http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2002/oct/07/gender.uk1
[6] McKenzie, Sheena. “Lonely Sailors Search Online for Love on the High Seas.” CNN.com. 2012. Web.  http://www.cnn.com/2012/12/21/world/lovesail-sailors-online-dating
[7] Powers, Rod. “AWOL and Desertion.” About.com Guide. 2013. Web. http://usmilitary.about.com/od/justicelawlegislation/a/awoldesertion.htm
[8] Powers, Rod. “AWOL and Desertion—Maximum Possible Punishments.” About.com Guide. 2013. Web. http://usmilitary.about.com/od/justicelawlegislation/a/awol6.htm

New Material to the Barbous Blog Coming Soon!

After a technological battle for the ages, I have come out victorious and can once again post to the dramaturgical blog for Barbarous Nights! Thank you for your patience and understanding, and for perusing the material already archived here for Lorca devotees and the cast and production team of Barbarous Nights alike.

While much of what is written here is still as pertinent to the new production of Barbarous Nights as it was to the first, expect more material to come about sailors, silent film, masks and celebrities and more. Everything written here is meant to contextualize and inform Sam Creely's poetic play about Buster Keaton's adventure through a 1930s of the future and the past:

"Sam Creely takes to the 'ravishing' Invisible Dog (TimeOut NY) with a sharp and surreal play inspired in part by the love letters of Lorca and Dalí.  

"Buster Keaton falls out of his film and into a poetic world, a 1930s both future and past.  Grapefruit roll through the sand like tumbleweed.  The streets are filled with optical shops.  There, a rush of travelers -- a blind maiden struggling with the length of her dress, her nigh Victorian mother, a ridiculously attractive man peddling feathers -- float through Buster's nights like a dream as his sanity and the stoic stone face that made him famous start to crumble.


"Barbarous Nights will receive its New York premiere at The Invisible Dog this summer, July 5 - 13, 2013."


This description comes from the Barbarous Nights website. To learn more about the production, to buy tickets, or to donate, please visit http://barbarousnights.net/.


Tuesday, November 9, 2010

Talk Back Performance with Special Guests from Modern Languages!

After the performance on Thursday, Novemeber 11th, at 8pm there will be a talk back with the cast and creative team that is especially for Professor Candace Skibba's Spanish students who have been studying Lorca this semester. Get ready for some great questions that will really put our bilingual script to the test! This talk back should be a wonderful chance for the audience to give us feedback and ask about what they just saw and for us to learn more about how an audience reacts to and what it takes away from Barbarous Nights. Join us!

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Sailor Symbolism



In her book Lorca: The Drawings and Their Relation to the Poet’s Life and Work, Helen Oppenheimer analyzes the figure of the sailor in Lorca’s drawings and writing within the context of his work dealing with the nature of identity that emerged during the years of his close friendship with Dalí. While her reading of this symbolic character is useful to understanding the role of the sailor in our play, it is by no means the only interpretation and our play in many ways contradicts or challenges the ideas presented in this book.
The sailor is primarily a symbol of sexual freedom both as it relates to love and passion as well as creative freedom that Lorca saw as intertwined with sexual expression. Often the word “amor” appears in the picture with the sailor and he might be given wings to illustrate his association with flight and freedom. However, the sailor does not represent an attainable love, but one that is anticipatory. He occupies an abstract rather than a realistic life, and rather than a participant in life he is isolated from it. Although the sailor is exiled like the gypsy, his exile is by choice.
As an object of love in Lorca’s work, the sailor represents an unattainable ideal of love within the realm of dreams rather than reality. He is the object of a frustrated love, love “as it should be, but never as it is” (55). The sailor hails from a “dream-world of constant expectation,” and the flowers that often grow from his otherwise empty eyes or mouth symbolize a dream-like longing for a past or future happiness.
Lorca in Cadaqués visiting Salvador Dalí, 1927
Here, Lorca felt the most happy and closest to his own unattainable love for Dalí.

Despite his lofty associations with dreams and unattainable desires, the sailor is also an emblem of sexuality and passion, often appearing as an amorous lover. The drunken sailor or the sailor appearing from within a tomb is thus a symbol of a fatal passion that leads to death and demise.

Lorca, Sueño del marino, 1927

Lorca with Pablo Neruda and other friends dressed up as sailors in Buenos Aires, 1934

Buster Keaton out to sea in The Navigator
Some questions to consider…
How does this interpretation of the sailor relate to or differ from the Sailor in Barbarous Nights? What is the importance of the Sailor’s isolation from society in our play? How does the Sailor’s relationship with dreams and dreaming relate to the surrealist qualities of our play? Does the Maiden ever attain the unattainable love embodied by her Sailor? How does this symbolism surrounding the Sailor relate to issues of gender and identity in the play and in Lorca’s work in general?
Works Cited:
Oppenheimer, Helen. Lorca: The Drawings and Their Relation to the Poet’s Life and Work. New York, NY: Franklin Watts. 1987. Print.

The Meaning Behind the Mask in Lorca


Although the mask is a central motif throughout Lorca’s poetry, plays and drawings, its meaning is in no way clear. Why was Lorca so interested in masks? What do masks mean in Lorca’s work? Are they always symbolic? How does the mask relate to what Lorca was trying to do with his art overall?

Lorca, Mask

First, the mask is a key symbol that appears in Lorca’s drawings as an objectie representation of his notion of dual identity, or the mask that stands for one’s “social self” that conceals the “solitude behind” (Oppenheimer 50). For example, Lorca’s drawings often explore the image of the clown wearing a comic mask that falls away to reveal a different underneath. For Lorca, the clown mask was about the comic face that people are forced to wear “to face the world,” with Buster Keaton as the quintessential “tragic clown” (Oppenheimer 50). Lorca’s representations of the mask underscore the influence that the work of surrealist and cubist artists such as Pablo Picasso, Joan Miró and, of course, Salvador Dalí, had upon his drawings. His masked faces are often cubist in nature, revealing multiple and shifting perspectives, and exhibit his characteristic “involuntary style” that moved away from conventional representation without becoming complete abstraction (Oppenheimer 71).

Lorca, Falling Mask

Lorca, Face with Arrows

Lorca, Portrait of the Poet in New York

One of Lorca’s most famous mask drawings is his Self-Portrait of the poet in New York in which Lorca shows himself as a mask at the center of a New York landscape, surrounded by skyscrapers, strange black animals, and decaying plants. Just like his collection of poetry written during his stay in New York City that he believed should have been titled “New York in the poet,” Lorca is grappling with the issue of self-identity in a modern world, drawing a parallel between his own feelings of being “uprooted” from his homeland and the struggle of the African American community in New York. Whether the mask is a façade determined by the individual or forced upon him by society, Lorca understood the mask primarily as a symbol of a repressed interior identity.

Lorca, Music and Mask

Lorca, Clown Mask

Lorca, Mask with Animal

However, the mask also brings with it a number of other cultural associations that surely Lorca and his readers would have recognized and understood. While the most immediate association with the mask for theatre students is commedia dell’arte, I am going to focus on exploring the mask in regards to Spanish Carnival traditions and the rise of modern portrait painting in the early 20th century.

Carnival Masks

Carnival is a ritual festival that celebrates both the coming and spring and the beginning of Lent, gaining this latter Catholic definition in the 15th century when Isabella of Castille and Ferdinand of Aragon conquered Spain from the Moors and introduced Christianity. Its festivities traditionally fall on the Tuesday before Lent, but it is also traditionally celebrated in Spain over the preceding weekend beginning on Friday with a traditional processional of floats and masqueraders. While it became a popular form of lowbrow entertainment during the 18th century, today it remains rooted in rural tradition. Since the Golden Age of Spanish literature, carnival has been closely associated with the genres of farce and satire, serving as a ritualized form of social critique and ridicule. Over the centuries Carnival has frequently been banned or regulated by the authorities that feared social unrest fostered by Carnival’s topsy-turvy spirit that challenges those in power. The masks worn during Carnival were considered especially dangerous because of their anonymous quality that allowed for crime, protest, and generally bad behavior. In 1937, Franco placed a ban on masquerade and festivals throughout Spain, demonstrating the political implications of Carnival as a symbol of the power possessed by the people themselves and the spirit of subversion, disorder and defiance embodied by the mask (Regalado).


Morena, or cow, mask for Carnival

Masks and the Modern Portrait

The mask is also a tool of modernist portrait painting that developed during the early 20th century and dominated the European art world of Lorca’s lifetime. In painting, modernist art sought to challenge traditional European representational or “realistic” art by instead expressing an essentially “existentialist vision” of the instability and hyper-fragmentation of the human identity as these artists of the historical avant-garde saw it (Serraller 7). Many of these modernist painters like Pablo Picasso were drawn to “primitive” tribal masks because of the unconventional, non-western facial representations that they offered (Klein 31).

Matisse, Portrait of the Artist's Wife, 1912-13


Picasso, Mask of a Woman, 1908

Lorca, Portrait of Dalí.

Joan Miró, Portrait of Madame K., 1924

Modernist painters seized upon the mask as a “strategy” for mediating between the artist and their subject because of its transformative properties (Klein 27). Rather than using the mask strictly as a means of concealing or revealing an interior individual identity with an exterior social one, modernist portrait artists saw the mask as a tool for performance and used it to seek the liminal space as defined by the cultural anthropologist Victor Turner between two clearly defined states of being where new identities are formed (Klein 28). The portrait’s subject was not simply the face beneath the mask in the painting but the mask-like identity presented by the portrait itself with no suggestion of a different face hidden beneath. The portrait was no longer a static representation of the individual, but a “bricolage” of face with mask as the portrait shifted between the subjectivity of the artist and that of the model to show multiple perspectives, periods of time, or identities (Klein 33). Just as traces of the Surrealist, Cubist and Expressionist art movements can be found throughout Lorca’s work, this same understanding of the relationship between the mask and identity exists in Lorca’s own artwork with his own highly non-representational drawing style. In his self-portrait in New York, for example, are we looking at the poet or his mask, or has he become his mask? While the mask is certainly a symbol of dual identity in Lorca’s work, it also challenges this concept of identity within the context of modernist portrait painting in which the mask creates a new identity that is not necessarily an oppressive social force upon the individual.

Egon Shiele, Self-Portrait, 1912


Kathe Kollwitz, Lament or Self-Portrait, 1938

Dalí, Self-Portrait, 1921-22


Dalí, Cubist Self-Portrait, 1923

Dalí, Self-Portrait, 1941

Frida Khalo, Self-Portrait with Thorn Necklace and Hummingbird, 1940

A portrait of Lorca by Dalí

Works Cited:

Klein, John. “The Mask as Image and Strategy.” The Mirror and the Mask: Portraiture in the Age of Picasso. Alarco, Paloma and Malcolm Warner. Yale University Press. 2007. Print.

Oppenheimer, Helen. Lorca: The Drawings and Their Relation to the Poet’s Life and Work. New York, NY: Franklin Watts. 1987. Print.

Regalado, Mariana. “Entroida in Spain.” Carnaval! Ed. Barbara Mauldin. University of Washington Press. 2004. Print.

Serraller, Francisco Calvo. “The Spirit Behind the Mask.” The Mirror and the Mask: Portraiture in the Age of Picasso. Alarco, Paloma and Malcolm Warner. Yale University Press. 2007. Print.