When I first approached my colleague Jody Enders about the possibility of doing a special issue of Theatre Survey during her tenure as Associate Editor, I had no idea that she would translate my offer into a major event in the journal's history. We at Theatre Survey have long been blessed with a steady stream of excellent scholarship from theatre historians around the world, but seldom have we been able to amass, in a single issue, as prestigious a collection of scholars as those whose work grace the pages of our November issue. I am grateful to each and every one of them for their contributions. But I am especially grateful to Jody Enders for her (nothing short of) magical ability to recruit so many prominent voices in our profession and to place them in a dialogue about the future of theatre history in this new millennium. She well deserves our acknowledgment and admiration for the amazing work that she had done here, and I am delighted to have the occasion of this special issue of Theatre Survey to express my deep appreciation of the work that she has been doing for the journal since she became Associate Editor almost two years ago. Soon Jody's tenure as Editor will begin, and as you read the collection of essays she has compiled for this issue, I suspect your thoughts will concur with my own about what this transition in Editors means: while the future of theatre history in the new millennium may be subject to debate, the future of Theatre Survey looks very promising indeed.

We open this issue of Theatre Survey with Marvin Carlson's essay on how the events of 9/11 and the subsequent wars with Afghanistan and Iraq have affected New York theatre. At the core of Carlson's essay is a very subtle depiction of theatre forced by world events to contemplate anew its understanding of history and its understanding of the role that theatre has to play in history. Carlson's essay offers us an image of theatre communities that, in their responses to the deeply troubling events of the past two and a half years, have struggled to understand whether theatre is outside or inside of history, that is, whether theatre is “somehow out of place in a situation of real crisis and suffering” or whether it can be an actual force of change. At one level, then, Carlson's essay is significant because it illuminates how acts of terrorism and acts of war force theatre to return to the most basic questions about its function in society at large. Those questions serve as our point of departure because their answers change with history.

Dialogue. It comes from the Greek, and covers a host of meanings from conversation, to philosophy, to speaking articulately, to lecturing, to dealing with others. It can be as contentious as it is conciliatory and as hostile as it is friendly. It can be consensus-building or polarizing, controversial or anodyne. But, at its worst and at its best, it is engagement; and, throughout its worldwide history, it has consistently done a glorious thing. It produces knowledge—or, at a minimum, it puts on display the fact that knowledge is out there.

Clearly the attacks of 11 September 2001 served as a defining moment in the contemporary American political, social, or cultural imagination, and led directly to the invasion of Afghanistan and the far more controversial invasion of Iraq. Both wars were brief, the modest forces of these countries quickly capitulating to the overwhelming military superiority of Western forces, headed by the United States. On 1 May 2003, President George Bush announced victory and the end of the war in Iraq. Although the much more difficult and complex problems of occupation and pacification clearly will continue for some time, 1 May may be taken to have marked an end of a major phase in the crisis that was initiated on 9/11.

In October 1926 a leading African-American newspaper, the Pittsburgh Courier, featured adjacent photographs of two young women with a provocative caption: “White Actresses Who Open with Robeson and Bledsoe on Broadway during Week.” The actresses featured were Lottice Howell, starring with Jules Bledsoe in the musical play Deep River, and Edith Warren, starring with Paul Robeson in the drama Black Boy. In reporting this latest bit of integrated casting, however, the Courier was wrong on two counts. First, they misidentified the photographs, identifying Howell as Warren and Warren as Howell; and second, they misidentified Warren, whose real name was Fredi Washington, as “white.” Washington (who dropped the stage name during previews) was, by self-identification, Negro, or, in the language of the Savannah official who recorded her birth in 1903, “colored.”

“What is the single most important thing we can do to bring theatre history into the new millennium?”

Historical scholarship, despite the many changes in methodologies and models over the years, is one of the abiding missions of the discipline of theatre studies: yesterday, today, and tomorrow. Yesterday, as is well known, Theaterwissenschaft was the foundational methodology for scholarship and doctoral education. Today, of course, our approaches to theatre history encompass several dozen research methodologies and analytical models. And tomorrow? Will cultural, social, political, and intellectual histories still provide a reliable foundation? Or will we develop fields of investigation and modes of analysis that draw upon new ideas in psychology, neuroscience, and biology? One thing is clear: our methods and models will continue to change.

Eleonora Duse (1858–1924), international star, national treasure, and patriotic Italian died in Pittsburgh in April 1924. Those involved in the memorializing process contended for control of her body, attempting to interpolate her renown in competing narratives of national pride and the universality of art. Duse died at a turning point for Italy, the year Mussolini's Fascists became the majority party. For Mussolini and the Fascists, Duse's death became the occasion for a pageant of Italian pride through a series of carefully orchestrated ceremonies. At the same time, the theatre community tried to establish an artistic narrative more akin to the ideals Duse expressed in life. In the end, nationalist motifs dominated the memorial discourse. Duse's own assertions of the importance of spirit over corporeality became an ironic footnote to a story in which the actress's body stood in for the nation.

The narrative fabric of modern history, writes Roland Barthes, tends to be woven with a certain amount of “useless” details, which, though they are ultimately “filling” (“catalysis”), nonetheless have “indisputable symbolic value.” As a consequence, the past two centuries have seen the “development of techniques, of works and institutions based on the incessant need to authenticate the ‘real.’” These techniques include photography, reportage, exhibitions, and, I would like to emphasize, “the tourism of monuments and historical sites”—the subject of this essay. Indeed, for the tourist, the symbolic value accorded the minutiae on display at historic sites, preserved or re-created for public display, seem to be the very elements that guarantee real history, despite the fact that many of these details are often the most conjectural elements.

Coetzee's nameless speaker, known only as “Mother,” is accused by her son of an excess of righteousness, and so might I be if I were to agree with her, at least in part, about that gang of thugs. Nonetheless, my hope for the future of the discipline does include the possibility that Clio will escape from the particular thug responsible for jargon and gibberish. Actually, nothing arouses darker thoughts in those of us who believe in lucid and stylish prose than sentences like “what is at stake here is the possibility that the cultural presence of the actor in theatre and in theatre history is delimited by material representational practices generated within a particular discursive site, and subject to the constraints of what can be enunciated about the self's contingent existence.” This may be perfectly clear to others, but I read it as a signal to a choir within which I do not sing, and I stop reading—a pity, since the topic is especially interesting to me and the author has important things to say. But, as Terry Eagleton says in his new book After Theory (the one presently receiving an international drubbing), “you can be difficult without being obscure.”

Some years ago, during a discussion in the ASTR Executive Committee about the relevance of the Theatre Library Association's participation in ASTR, a scholar on the cutting edge of contemporary theory is reported to have asked a TLA representative exactly what it was that libraries were doing to support postpositivist research. No one remembers what the answer was (it was evidently satisfactory), but I recall thinking that if I had been asked the question, my own reply would have been that libraries weren't doing anything at all; that the business of the library was to preserve the evidence as well as it could and provide access to it, so that scholars could make use of it in whatever manner they chose.

In 1934, Louis B. Wright wrote, “All the world knows since the publication of studies by Professors Graves, Rollins, and Hotson that . . . [the drama's] light never went out completely.” Yet in a 2001 reference book, a contributor writes, “After an eighteen year hiatus. . . .” No wonder that Dale Randall could legitimately write in 1995, “We are asked to believe that little or nothing happened in English drama for the next eighteen years” beginning in 1642. His Winter Fruit is an important survey of dramatic activity during the Interregnum, and scholars continue to document the varieties of theatrical activities in the period. My essay is a modest contribution to the accumulation of details about a lingering, integral puzzle: how two London companies with experienced actors and new stars came into existence so quickly in 1660. It also shows that the Old City of London was not as inhospitable to drama as it is often portrayed. The piece of this puzzle that I can supply is the picture of John Rhodes and the Drapers' Company. Of Rhodes, John Downes wrote that in the winter of 1659–60 he “fitted up a House then for Acting call'd the Cock-Pit in Drury-Lane, and in a short time Compleated his Company.” Downes supplies a list of plays acted there beginning in February and comments that one of these new actors, Thomas Betterton, then “but 22 Years Old, was highly Applauded for his Acting . . . ; his Voice being then as Audibly strong, full and Articulate, as in the Prime of his Acting.”

In the minute investigation of old oil canvases, modern art restorers use a technique called rigatino to fill in where flecks of paint are damaged or missing. These fine hatch marks, made with thin paint, signal to later scholars and restorers what constitutes the restorer's work while fully maintaining the distinctiveness and integrity of the original artist's brush strokes. In other words, restorers have devised a straightforward method to indicate the exact positions of evidentiary lacunae and to mark the impositions of their own hand amidst the work of old masters. Unlike the superscripts of footnotes amidst a printed text, rigatino blends with the original picture, though upon close investigation it is always distinct.

By all indications, the public persona of the late Restoration actress Anne Bracegirdle was built on the speculative foundation of maidenhead. A leading ingénue of multiple talents, Bracegirdle played significant roles in comedy, tragedy, and music-drama from her debut in 1688 to her retirement in 1707. In comedy, Bracegirdle specialized in marriageable young women of rank, wit, and fortune. In serious drama, Bracegirdle often played the pathetic heroine, a virtuous woman stalked by a predatory man. Though primarily an actress, Bracegirdle also called upon her impressive soprano voice in many entr'actes and the occasional musical part. A first-rank player and hardworking company member from very early in her career, Bracegirdle played some eighty roles over a nineteen-year span that kept her consistently before the public eye. Despite Bracegirdle's constant appearances on the stages of Drury Lane, Dorset Garden, Lincoln's Inn Fields, and the Queen's Theatre in the Haymarket, few extant sources identify the qualities that typified her playing; commentators rarely discuss her acting as a discrete set of practices, aptitudes, or characterizations. Rather, prodigious evidence attests to the public's obsession with Bracegirdle's reputation for virginity. Called the “Romantick Virgin,” the actress was thought to be chaste, and many writers focused attention on her sexual virtue. Indeed, Bracegirdle's chastity seems to have been the cornerstone of her fame. As Colley Cibber wrote, her star status rose in conjunction with her reputation for purity:

Herb Blau, reportedly, is writing a memoir. Surely, however, all his books are memoirs—memoirs of “blooded thought,” to use the phrase he has coined for the embodied, materialized process of thinking/experiencing he most prizes in the theatre. Or perhaps I should say “of” the theatre, since he has shown us for fifty years how both making theatre and theorizing theatre can be combined: how they mutually imply each other, neither one much good without the insights provided by the other—which is not to malign either alone, except when one ignores or denigrates the value of the other, as some theorists and practitioners have often been inclined to do. In The Dubious Spectacle, Blau has collected essays and lectures spanning over twenty-five years. They chart the intellectual and artistic preoccupations that he followed, but they also offer a variant of cultural history of a period in American theatre that reaches back into the 1950s and forward toward an “impossible” future (another of his signature terms).

The greatest challenge that theatre scholars face today—as we watch the seemingly inexorable march of U.S. imperialism and capitalist globalization— is to remember, to historicize rigorously and resourcefully, to render events (in Brecht's words) “remarkable,” to “expose the world's mechanism on a grand scale and to copy it in such a way that it would be more easily serviced.” When we practice a mimeticism that keeps “impermanence always before our eyes, . . . our own period can be seen to be impermanent too.” We must remember in order to be able to demystify the pieties disseminated by our politicians, pundits, and journalists who so blithely disregard the brutalities and deceptions that structure the histories they glibly rewrite that one would think they sprinkled water from the River Lethe on their Cheerios every morning. For remembering, as Pierre Bourdieu points out, represents a reconstruction not only of the past but also of the dynamics of disavowal and forgetting. To historicize means to “reconstruct the history of the historical labour of dehistoricization [italics in original quote].” This reconstructive labor seems all the more urgent during a period when theatre scholars (who have long been considered more or less irrelevant within the humanities) must face the increasing corporatization of the universities for which we work, the continuing intellectual paralysis of the Left, the relentless commercialization and retrenchment of American theatre (for better or worse), and the rise of a discipline, performance studies, that is challenging, reinvigorating, and partially displacing theatre studies.

These three quotes will serve as a starting point as I enter into this discussion of the import and role of theatre history. While I make a case for theatre history generally, my examples and thesis are drawn from African American theatre history most specifically. My argument is for a critical historicism, a process that recognizes the need to historicize and situate dramatic criticism as well as the need to theorize history or, as Walter Benjamin suggests, to “rub history against the grain.” Rubbing history against the grain means that we must interrogate the past in order to inform the present, remaining cognizant of the material conditions that not only shape theatrical production but the historical interpretations of production. It implies a need to work against conventional historical narratives and the ways in which history has been told in the past.

The past three decades have produced a wealth of criticism devoted to the issue of space and performance as well as a glut of terms attempting to capture how theatre artists exploit the spatial dimension. A brief inventory yields spectacle, site, image, heterotopia, simulacra, surface, environment, geography, scenography, visual field, place, and space—to name only a few. Drawing on insights from anthropology, phenomenology, cultural studies, new historicism, and urban studies, critics are working to investigate the cultural meaning of space, to capture its dramaturgical potential, and to rethink performance as a system of communication based on visual vocabulary.

Anyone who has encountered the Provincetown Players, the art theatre that launched Susan Glaspell and Eugene O'Neill, knows what an amazingly vibrant and creative community it was, a progressive smart set teaming with ideas for a new American drama. In The Women of Provincetown, Cheryl Black gives us the most richly detailed work on the Provincetown to date, drawing on an impressive range of primary sources. For this reason alone, the book is essential reading for theatre historians and other scholars working on the emergence of American drama. A playwright, actor, director, and dramaturge herself, Black has enough experience to explore the range of roles needed to make theatre, providing a context for the predominantly literary studies of Provincetown plays.

Given performance history's disciplinary complexity, not to mention the complications of a “we” comprised by so many different scholars, Theatre Survey's question is, in one sense, unanswerable. In another sense, if I translate the question to what I can do (staying fully aware that others will propose answers different from mine), however, I can offer an answer from my position as a feminist performance historian and historiographer. My response to it is twofold. The argument I make here is for performance that foregrounds historiographical operations, making physical, gestural, emotional, and agonistic the processes that construct history out of the past. Concomitantly, I am arguing for history that overtly acknowledges the ways in which it is a performance of the past, but not the past itself. This dual approach is especially important in feminist accounts of the past because performance has historically been a crucial constituent of feminist theories and practices.