Henry Irving was by far the most celebrated actor during the last quarter of the nineteenth century. He had few rivals, and literally none in Britain. But I believe no other actor has caused such extensive and continual controversy regarding his genius. From the beginning of his triumph, shortly after he joined the company of Hezekiah Bateman at the Lyceum in 1871, until long after his death in 1905, his devotees claimed for him a place among the greats of the past: Alleyn, Burbage, Betterton, Garrick, Edmund Kean; indeed, the claim is still occasionally heard today. No less a man of the theater than Gordon Craig wrote, twenty-five years after Irving's death, “I have never known of, or seen, or heard of, a greater actor than was Irving.” Certainly Irving made the Lyceum the most celebrated theater in England, and not even his severest critics denied his status as the head of his profession. He was the first actor in history to be knighted, and he was given burial in Westminster Abbey. And yet, the best critics of the day were from the first almost unanimous in their condemnation of his acting, and, after he took over the management of the Lyceum in 1878, of his productions. With none of the other “greats” of the stage was there any such distinguished chorus of dissent. A glance at the list of parts Irving performed and plays he produced reveals that he did nothing—absolutely nothing—for contemporary drama.

Considering their importance in the history of the English theatre, we know remarkably little about the architectural features of the two Restoration playhouses which Thomas Killigrew and his King's Company built on the plot of ground where the modern Drury Lane now stands. In 1913 Hamilton Bell published reproductions of some designs by Sir Christopher Wren, two of which he felt might have some connection with these buildings, and of these the section view of a “Play House” has been frequently reprinted. The frontispiece to Perrin's Ariane (1674) shows the stage of Drury Lane, and we have two pictures from near the turn of the century depicting Joe Haines (or Haynes) mounted on an ass on the Drury Lane forestage. Other than these five prints, however, pictorial material on these important playhouses has been wanting. Therefore it may be worth considering more carefully what we already have and reporting on several new discoveries.

As a theatre practitioner I am interested in how the conventions and jurisdictions which determine what I can do and cannot do, under the sign of theatre, came to be. The most intriguing of these determinations are, of course, the silent ones, those about which least is said but on which most is predicated. These are what I call theatre taboos, a complex of shadowy restraints and controls, from prompting to possession, that transgress the theatre's limit, informs us politely what theatre is not and in so doing inadvertently tells us something about what theatre is.

Considerations of developing realistic acting styles on the English stage between the debut of Macready in 1817 and the triumph of Fechter in 1860 usually focus their attention on Macready, Charles Kean, and Phelps. Although these three men differed significantly in their approaches to acting, their styles shared in common a romantic goal that René Wellek attributes to Coleridge: “to domesticate the wonderful.” The means of attaining this goal varied. Macready relied on developing the audience's appreciation of his conscious artifice at playing domesticated points. He was, consequently, less realistic than Phelps and Kean, who were primarily concerned with trying to make an audience feel what they believed their characters felt. This concern with transmitting character feeling is compatible with Kean's excellence at gentlemanly melodrama and Phelps' ability at playing the pathetic elements in comic characters.

The Union of the Companies that had brought the theatre of London under the one roof of Drury Lane in 1682 degenerated under the mis-management of Christopher Rich into open rebellion in 1695. In that year Betterton and a group of followers abandoned the Theatre Royal to set up a rival company in the old theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields. This new group managed quite successfully for several seasons, but a decline soon set in, partly due to the shabby old theatre itself, but mainly due to internal bickering and poor management. By the first years of the eighteenth century the company was in such straits that a revitalization was understood to be necessary if the players were to survive.

The best known date in French theatre history between the seventeenth and the twentieth centuries is surely February 25, 1830. On that night and for weeks thereafter, the opposing schools of classicism and romanticism clashed openly and bitterly at the Comédie-Française over Victor Hugo's new play, Hernani. To gain some idea of the significance of the struggle, one must remember that for a century and a half the strict formulae of the grand siècle had dominated the stage, that before the romantics no serious dramatist had dared to challenge the quasi-divinity of Racine and Corneille. Their works served as the unquestioned examples for later dramatists, whose tragedies were expected to follow those of the masters not only in the famous three unities, but in every detail of construction, down to the proper placement of pauses within the rigidly controlled poetic line, the alexandrin. Sterile imitations were the almost inevitable result, leading by the beginning of the nineteenth century to the lifeless neoclassic epics of such now mercifully forgotten dramatists as Antoine Vincent Arnault and Luce de Lancival.

As a victim of “Garrick fever” for all of my adult life I admit to having accepted most modern-day criticism which avers that Garrick's supremacy in his age was due to his superior acting, strict management, rigourous attention to rehearsals, and consequent superiority over his Covent Garden and Haymarket rivals. All this is surely valid, but I remain curious about the “quality” of his casting and ensembles. Could it be that our critics today prefer romanticism to the practical truths of everyday operation of a repertory company in eighteenth-century London? Let us explore the situation once again.

One of the commonly propagated and accepted myths in 19th century theatre history relates to the origin of the box set. The impulse to name Madame Vestris and the first production of Dion Boucicault's London Assurance originates from broadly disseminated misinformation. Two contemporary American theatre historians have written extensively and with seeming authority on the origins of the box set: John H. McDowell and Orville K. Larson. McDowell in his article, “Historical Development of the Box Set,” established the basis for the wide acceptance of the Madame Vestris myth and is commonly quoted in support of that argument.

In 2004, the Lyric Opera of Chicago celebrated two milestones: its fiftieth anniversary and the premiere of A Wedding. With music and libretto by Pulitzer Prize–winning composer William Bolcom, film director Robert Altman, and Arnold Weinstein, the opera received intense international coverage. Prepremiere articles, major features, interviews, and reviews appeared in Opera Now, Opernwelt, Opera, and Opera Quarterly. The Lyric's A Wedding dominated the August issue of Opera News, occupying the cover and several features, complete with glossy photos of the photogenic young leads dressed in luxurious wedding attire (see Figure 1).

David Krasner: In surveying contemporary London theatre, New York Times critic Ben Brantley reported that the Tricycle Theatre had

inaugurated a season of African-American plays with the commandingly titled but obscure Walk Hard, Talk Loud, a play by Abram Hill from the early1940's. Abram who? The name meant nothing to me, but Abram Hill (1910–1986) was a founder and director of the American Negro Theater in New York (1940–1951) and a playwright, it seems, of considerable verve.3

That Abram Hill and the American Negro Theatre—the most important black theatre company during the mid-twentieth century—has flown below the radar is indicative of how much work still needs to be accomplished.

Quiara Alegría Hudes (Fig. 1) won the Pulitzer Prize for Drama for Water by the Spoonful, the second play in her “Elliot” trilogy. She is a two-time Pulitzer Prize finalist for Elliot, A Soldier's Fugue, the first play in the trilogy, and the musical In the Heights. Her plays include The Happiest Song Plays Last (which ends the trilogy), 26 Miles, Yemaya's Belly, and Daphne's Dive. In 2012, the Los Angeles Times praised Hudes as “one of the most poetic, socially clued-in young voices in the American theater.” In this engaging interview with Editor Harvey Young, Quiara Alegría Hudes talks about the role of music in her plays, socioeconomic isolation in cities, the inspiration for some of her plays, and the importance of asking the deep question.

When the first serious studies of the homosexual past began to appear in English, they bore titles like Hidden from History and Who Was That Man? Even now such studies may describe themselves as “disclosures,” “the secret life,” “the untold story.” The suggestion is that there has been, if not a deliberate suppression, then a less-than-benign neglect of those aspects of history that revealed the presence of same-sex desire and behavior. To unearth and disclose them was regarded as essential to the struggle for gay liberation. By establishing homosexual individuals as a presence from time immemorial, one could make the study of them respectable and thereby bestow respectability on their practices, sexual and cultural, as well. This endeavor was complicated by the increasingly heated debate between the “essentialists,” who regard a homosexual identity to be innate and ahistorical, and the “social constructionists,” followers of Foucault, who insist on the evolution of a modern homosexual identity as the result of changes in the concept of sexuality. Often the fruits of research have been obscured by contentions over whether they supported one camp or the other. Valuable data, which might have gone to challenge traditional attitudes or conventional postures, fell unheard on ears deafened by the grinding of axes.

Anyone old enough to remember the wailing sirens and portentous footsteps of Gangbusters or the clattering consequences of opening the closet door belonging to Fibber McGee and Molly probably has a soft spot for the radio dramas of the past. Those who never experienced the medium that George Bernard Shaw called “the invisible play” may lack a context. Admitting that you remember those nostalgic broadcasts dates you. In a world of HDTV, GPS, home THX, and digital imaging by cell phone, what good is radio?