The evolution of the theatrical art is so dependent on external realities which are not amenable to change that it can seem meaningless to come forward with any wish or assumptions concerning the direction its development might take. Without reflection the theatre has invariably regarded all well-meant theorizing as only that, and although one really cannot reproach it on this account, it does have on its conscience not a little ungratefulness for genuinely vital and sympathetic interest shown it.

Still, at a time when the art of the theatre itself seems not to have any guiding principle, but rather many conflicting ones, and when tradition is mingled with occasional experiments whose lasting value appears doubtful, when the whole outlook appears confusing to such a great degree, it is, of course, understandable if an author who works with drama or wishes to do so, tries to orient himself a bit, tries to decide what would seem to be essential for the theatre both now and generally; and thereafter attempts to take a stand in regard to the different trends.

This paper is one of six lectures on “Will and Psyche in Poetry.” These terms set up a bipolar, arbitrary framework for the study of poems against which, and between which, poems were evaluated in the context.

Will poetry exists because of the power in the cell beyond its energy to maintain itself. Will results in action, through wish, zeal, volition, passion, determination, choice, and command. Will makes something happen in poetry.

Psyche poetry pertains to the soul, to peace, quiet, tranquility, serenity, harmony, stillness and silence. It provides psychic states of passive pleasure.

It might be interesting in attempting to set limits to our Will-Psyche dichotomy to define, but not absolutely, what these types of poetry are not. I take it that they do not include the world of tragedy, a vast area of literature, because tragedy presupposes fatality, against which will is useless and because tragedy is self-contained, engaging its own laws, against which there is no recognition beyond itself.

For at least two generations now the serious-minded European theatre has existed in an era of experimentation. The diverse experiments have not as yet produced any unequivocal, clearly discernible results, but the era is by no means at an end. It is my opinion that the experiments followed two separate courses, which, though they occasionally intersected, can, when separated, be individually pursued. These two courses of development are distinguished from one another by means of their individual functions: entertainment and instruction, that is to say, the theatre organized experiments which were to increase its powers of entertaining, and experiments which were to increase its powers of instruction.

In a world as fast-moving and dynamic as ours the enticements of entertainment are quick to wear out. We must always be prepared to meet the desire for progressive public stupefaction with new effects.

When anyone spoke of modern theatre a few years ago, he mentioned the Moscow, the New York or the Berlin theatre. He may also have spoken of a particular production of Jouvet's in Paris, of Cochran's in London, or the Habima performance of The Dybbuk, which, in fact, belonged to Russian theatre since it was directed by Vakhtangov; but by and large, there were only three capitals so far as modern theatre was concerned.

The Russian, the American and the German theatres were very different from one another, but they were alike in being modern, i.e., in introducing technical and artistic innovations. In a certain sense they even developed stylistic similarities, probably because technique is international (not only the technique directly required for the stage, but also that which exerts an influence on it, the film, for example) and because the cities in question were great progressive cities in great industrial countries.

It is an unfortunate fact that the two leading German-speaking dramatists of the present day are all but unknown in the United States. Friedrich Duerrenmatt is known only through The Visit, the success of which has been due mainly to its sensationalism rather than to its more solid dramatic and philosophical qualities; and Max Frisch is not known at all. None of Frisch's plays has been produced in the United States. So far, only one, The Chinese Wall, has appeared in translation. Yet in his best plays (he is far more uneven in quality than Duerrenmatt), Frisch is every bit the equal of his more famous countryman. In this paper I would like to examine the plays of both these Swiss dramatists with a view to showing the significance of their themes and placing them in their proper position in the mainstream of the modern drama.

On an afternoon in November 1951, reporters left their offices in the city and hurried out to Lidingö, a quiet residential suburb on an island several miles from Stockholm, in search of the writer's residence. There was no listing in the telephone directory, and there had never been very much reason to venture that way before. Pär Lagerkvist had long been recognized as one of the foremost writers in Scandinavia and was not unknown elsewhere in Europe, but for years he had consistently refused to see the press or make any public statement about himself or his work. “To answer questions about what I eat and drink … is ridiculous, I think, and to say something in a few minutes about a more important subject is nonsense,” he had said.

The so-called avant-garde theatre in the United States and England is generally a case of new wine in old bottles. The plays of most of the young Anglo-American playwrights do not break new ground. Edward Albee's The Zoo Story, to begin with one of the better known examples, is essentially a realistic psychological melodrama. His Sandbox and The American Dream utilize conventions of the traditional non-realistic theatre. Jack Gelber's The Connection explores a segment of society that has been previously unexplored in the theatre except in terms of melodrama, but the manner of presentation goes back to Pirandello. Jack Richardson brings to The Prodigal a unique intelligence and virtuosity but uses familiar techniques. In England as well, there is vitality within traditional forms. Although John Osborne's observations of the temper of postwar England are vividly realistic, he blazes no new paths of dramaturgy.

In my attempts to arrive at a basic form for the musical theatre, I noticed several things which at first seemed to me to constitute entirely new insights but which after a closer look were revealed as but logical parts of the whole historical situation. While working on my own compositions, I constantly forced myself to answer the question: What occasions for music does the theatre offer? But as soon as I looked back at the operas written by myself and others, another question arose: What is the nature of music which is found in the theatre, and does such music have definite characteristics which label it music of the theatre? After all it has often been stated that a number of important composers have either never paid any attention to the stage or that they have tried in vain to conquer the stage.

In the second chapter of my book Method—or Madness?, the lecture analyzing the chart of the Stanislavsky system, I skipped somewhat cautiously over Item Number 17: “Emotional Memory.” Rather than take the risk, in a public talk, of adding to the dangerous nonsense that has been spread around over the years on this subject, I contented myself with a definition and let it go at that. I also felt that this was one of the most involved elements of technique in the Method and could only ultimately be made clear to the actor through actual classroom work. However, because this subject is one of the most fundamental problems of acting: namely, how to generate real, and at the same time appropriate, emotion, I would now like to expand a bit on this point.

Each of Harold Pinter's four plays ends in the virtual annihilation of an individual. In Pinter's first play, The Room, after a blind Negro is kicked into inertness, the heroine, Rose, is suddenly stricken with blindness. In The Dumb Waiter, the curtain falls as Gus and his prospective murderer stare at each other. Stanley Webber, the hero of The Birthday Party, is taken from his refuge for “special treatment.” In The Caretaker, the final curtain falls on an old man's fragmentary (and unheeded) pleas to remain in his refuge.

As Pinter focuses more sharply on the wriggle for existence, each of his successive hero-victims seems more vulnerable than the last. Villain assaults victim in a telling and murderous idiom.

The pastoral ethic is that set of ameliorative principles in La devotión de la cruz (Devotion to the Cross) and El alcalde de Zalamea (The Mayor of Zalamea) working to assuage the intolerable burden of fear and vengeance exacted by the autocratic honor code. These principles receive maximum dramatic range, with the happiest consequences, in The Phantom Lady. The issue is not so much the honor of a woman in danger of losing it, though this hazard is real and accounts for much of the play's dramatic interest. It is rather the clandestine yet clearly approved means by which a lady of rank asserts her rights as a woman in love. Without knowing the odierwise fatal role of honor in Calderonian drama, a casual reader would miss these positive implications of the theme so tfiat the play would seem little more than an auspicious forerunner of Restoration comedy, which indeed it influenced.

My association with Brecht, taxing as any such association with a reflective person always is, has lasted now for half a year, and the attempt simply to avoid such association is oftentimes not a trifling one.

It is Brecht who always telephones or who, always friendly in his dry and somewhat restrained manner, inquires on the street if one has an evening free. Brecht seeks out conversation wherever he can find it. For my part, I gain the least from our conversations when Brecht thwarts them with his dialectic. One is defeated but not convinced.

On my way home at night, reflecting on his sarcastic comments, I often lose myself in an exasperated monologue: What he says just doesn't all agree! It is only when I hear his verbal discharges again from my own mouth, in the third person, spoken in a similar manner, just as frivolously, often even as spitefully, that I feel the need to cycle back again to Herrliberg.

The American stage has been called style-less. It has been criticized for not maturing realism but being trapped by it. And, of course, the blame has been laid at method's door. This is unfair. We can just as well blame our “cool” society for its inhibited, self-conscious exhibitionism. Method incorporates style, and sincere and creative use employs it richly. In movement this is precisely mime's concern.

If every actor could perform as a total performer, executing illusions that could create place, time and properties then we could free the stage from its constipated d6cor and reaffirm the essence of theatre—a vital human performing for a live audience.