If too many murders or atrocities are committed in the theatre, if violence is staged with a taste for shocking detail, or if too much blood spills, the name “Grand Guignol” is usually evoked. The image of Grand Guignol as a theatre of horror is just, but the exact nature and magnitude of the violence and horror are not usually understood. By the same token, the history and stage practices of this theatre are not generally known either. Despite a long existence of more than six decades, the Théâtre du Grand Guignol has been disregarded by historians and theoreticians as an insignificant form of entertainment. However, the fact that Grand Guignol represents a highly theatrical and specialized genre, which involved innovative mise en scène techniques and a unique performer-audience relationship, makes it interesting and relevant.

The Sorrentine Peninsula juts into the Mediterranean about twenty miles below Naples. Its southern shore, although part of the same peninsula, is referred to as the Amalfi Coast. The famous Amalfi Drive winds along this shore from Positano to Vietrisul-Mare, offering travelers spectacular views of cliffs and sea. Here the scenery seems to epitomize that phenomenal blend of sea and mountain beauty so often found along the coasts of Southern Italy. The ritual life of this Sorrentine-Amalfatine peninsula is as theatrical as its landscape: processions, scenic representations, and occasional dramas blossom colorfully and prolifically during the varied seasons of the Roman Catholic liturgical year. Easter, Corpus Christi, Christmas, and the feast days of the saints and the Madonna all become occasions of special devotion, merry-making, and the organization of traditional extra-liturgical rituals of a theatrical nature.

In a review for Ms. (December 1973), the poet Yvonne contrasted the musical Raisin with Lorraine Hansberry's original play, in which the

For two weeks in late June and early July, 1974, Chicano and Latin-American theatre groups held a festival in Mexico City and at the Pyramids of Teotihuacan and Tajfn. It was unique as international festivals go, for unlike the festivals at Avignon, Nancy, Spoleto, Dubrovnik, Edinburgh, and Sao Paulo, the gathering in Mexico was not sponsored by an agency of the establishment as a tourist attraction. Instead, it was sponsored by two alternative theatre organizations having an affinity with indigenous culture on the two continents—the Chicano organization Teatro Nacional de Aztlan (TENAZ) and the Centro Libre de Experimentacion Teatral y Artistica (CLETA) of Mexico. The theme of the festival was “One Continent, One Culture, for a Free Theatre and for Liberation.” There is an assumption that the United States government has divided America and not merely by building the Panama Canal.

The members of the People Show do not call their presentations “plays.” Nor do they consider themselves to be actors. A show does not begin with a script; there is little or no story or narrative. Between shows, the performers lead very separate lives, but they constantly collect material and ideas for new pieces. When they come together to create a new show, each person contributes his own ideas and helps decide on an over-all structure. They choose their own costumes and create their own characters.

The fact that they are all the “authors” of a show and that the characters they play are created from their own imaginations gives the People Show an unusual energy and freedom. Although the structure and images usually remain the same in each repetition, the performers are free to improvise and experiment, using each other, props, and other elements as cues and motifs.

Theatrical criticism, as we know it, is primitive and naive, arrogant, and immoral. We accept that this should be so because it always has been so. Mental and cultural inertia justifies nothing, however. Criticism should be changed.

There are two aspects to criticism: the passing of value judgments and analysis. It is the former that will be questioned here. Indeed, the word “criticism” will be used to refer specifically to the act of publishing statements of value. (One definition given by Webster is “a finding fault; censuring; disapproval.”) Thus, the evaluative and analytical functions will be considered as separate and distinct; “analysis” will be opposed to “criticism” rather than being included in it. In these terms, it is not merely a change that will be asked of criticism. Criticism as value judgment is a harmful anachronism and should be eliminated completely.

Among the ancient Aztecs and Mayans, the sign of the serpent was often one of rebirth and transfiguration. So it is with the Mexican and Chicano of today—heirs of those moss-covered symbols etched on stone—who are using La Serpiente to signify change. Like the serpent that sheds its old skin, The Teatro Campesino of San Juan Bautista, California, is growing into a new way of life that revolves around the spiritual and material reconquest of their Indian origins.

Luis Valdez and his gente (people) have expanded into El Centro CampesinoCultural (Farmworkers Cultural Center), which is situated on forty acres of land. The center includes, besides the Teatro, facilities for creating music, publications, paintings, videotapes, and films. It also will house the more than thirty members (ranging in age from a year to thirty-four) of the Teatro as well as sheep, cows, chickens, and horses.

In many respects the stage magician is an initiate in some of the subtlest, most sophisticated challenges ever to face a performing artist. Where he succeeds, his success is due to his unique solutions to problems that are by no means peculiar to his craft. They are problems of the deepest concern to many actors as well. The following observations compare the art of the actor with that of the magician. An effort is made to identify an area of both practical and theoretical concern that bridges theatre and the neighboring field of popular entertainment.

Most art conceals the complexity of its manufacture. In the performing arts, the problem of concealment is compounded because we do not see the product separate from its maker—nor do we even necessarily see it at the completion of its manufacture. The performing artist demonstrates the process of manufacture, and a large portion of our appreciation stems from his continual affirmation of its simplicity in the face of our knowledge of its inherent complexity.

Robert Wilson's The Life and Times of Joseph Stalin was presented at the Brooklyn Academy of Music on December 14, 15, 21, and 22. This performance was an unusual event. It consisted of seven acts and lasted for twelve hours. Since Stalin began at seven in the evening and ran until seven the following morning, it became a singular event in the life of the spectator, who had to change his habits in order to attend it. Even before it began, the performance had imposed itself on the spectator by the expectation of its unusual length. At least in part, the duration of the piece was an attempt to physiologically modify the perception of the spectator. During the twelve hours, the spectator had to accommodate himself to the slow tempo of the performance; as he became physically tired (sometimes on the verge of sleep), his mode of perception altered.

Although we can conjecture about commedia in a historical framework, we cannot know what it was like. There are no existing scripts, no photos. There are only a few paintings, a few sparse descriptions, and a horde of mostly untranslated scenarios. Yet, a great interest in commedia continues. Anyone can open the drawer marked commedia dell'arte, but, having opened it, how does one know what to choose from it? For some, commedia means a dusty reincarnation of the postures and poses of a Callot, charming in print, but deadly on the stage. The magnetic appeal of commedia, for me, has been to rediscover the magic of the performer: how he worked, what he did, and to some extent, why he did it, consciously or not. The only possible approach is an inductive one. We must begin where we are.

Where is your grave—
Or maybe even just a mound-
Vsevolod Emilyevich
Meyerhold?
Where can we put a monument?
There is no grave.
You cannot be frozen into a statue,
Like some docile teacher's pet.
You blaze
From the pedestals of the world stage,
Vsevolod Emilyevich
Meyerhold.

The 100th anniversary of Vsevolod Meyerhold's birth on February 9, 1874, was celebrated this year in the Soviet Union. The centennial celebrations honoring the great Russian theatre director began in January and continued well past the actual birth date. The recognition extended throughout the Soviet Union, including Leningrad, where Meyerhold began his career as director more than a decade before the Revolution. As a result of these celebrations, his rehabilitation is openly recognized now and his influence widely acknowledged.

Women's theatre groups are seeking new forms—forms that have not been derived from the male-oriented and male-dominated theatre that now exists. A search for new content also characterizes these groups, but their most important aspect is their relationship with their audiences. The theatre done by these groups is aimed at a specialized audience and often is performed exclusively for that audience—women. Almost all of the women's theatre groups reserve at least one of their performances for women only, and most prefer to play only for women, even when they admit men.

While women's theatre groups exist in many cities throughout the country, New York provides a base for a large number of troupes. Many of these groups maintain themselves by touring colleges, universities, and women's centers throughout the United States and Canada.

In 1967, Charles Ludlam organized the Ridiculous Theatrical Company, patterning it after modern dance companies where composer and choreographer perform with the group. It was an actors’ company, primarily composed of untrained actors, non-actors, and filmmakers. Most had experience working in “underground“ films, but few had any professional training. Ludlam was the only one of the group with extensive schooling and experience in acting, directing, and playwriting.

Biomechanics was a system of actor-training that Meyerhold devised shortly after the Revolution. Although not always clearly understood, it received wide attention during the twenties and thirties due to Meyerhold's unique position as the foremost revolutionary avant-garde director. Curiously, Meyerhold's own conceptions about Biomechanics, which were almost unchanged throughout his career, appeared to be both grandiose and seemingly modest: While maintaining that the mastery of Biomechanics afforded the actor all the essential skills necessary for scenic movement—skills that would take the ordinary actor nearly a life-time to learn, he relegated his own class in Biomechanics at the Meyerhold Workshop to a status equal to that of the other studies in body movement that were taught there, such as acrobatics, modern dance, or eurhythmics.

In writing on theatre, various authors have pointed out that circus-type performances have always been more prevalent than performances of literary drama; that circus-type performance has been a deep secondary tradition of the theatre from which the legitimate stage has repeatedly drawn new strength and vitality; and that the circus is looked to by the public “for violent satisfactions, the intentions of which do not deceive them.” I use the term “circus-type” to emphasize an important distinction between the very ancient “circus-type” skills of contortionists, equilibrists, tumblers, jugglers, clowns, etc., and the modern form of “circus,” even though the latter is the most obviously significant depository of the former.

The modem circus is by no means a direct descendant of the ancient Roman circus. Roman circuses, such as Circus Maximus, were architectural structures designed primarily for chariot races.