Collected Plays, Volume 4 (Bertolt Brecht: Plays, Poetry & Prose) 8

  5

  As for the style of presentation, we agree with Aristotle in holding that the story is the kernel of the tragedy, even if we disagree about the purpose for which it should be performed. The story ought not just to be a jumping-off point for all kinds of excursions into soul-probing or elsewhere, but ought to contain everything and be the object of all our attention, so that once it has been told the whole thing is concluded. The grouping and movement of the characters has to narrate the story, which is a chain of incidents, and this is the actor’s sole task. The stylisation by which his acting becomes art must not in the process destroy naturalness, but has on the contrary to heighten it. Obtrusive temperament or speech of outstanding clarity are to be discouraged. Stylisation means a general elaboration of what is natural, and its object is to show the audience, as being a part of society, what is important for society in the story. Thus the so-called ‘poet’s own world’ must not be treated as arbitrary, cut off and ‘obeying its own logic’; instead whatever it contains of the real world must be brought out and made effective. The ‘poet’s words’ are only sacred in so far as they are true; the theatre is the handmaiden not of the poet but of society.

  6

  To keep the performance subordinate to the story, bridge verses were given to the actors at rehearsals, for them to deliver with the attitude of a narrator. Before stepping into the acting area for the first time Helene Weigel said (and in subsequent rehearsals heard the prompter saying):

  But Antigone went, King Oedipus’ child, with her pitcher

  Gathering dust to cover the body of dead Polynices

  Which the wrathful tyrant had thrown to the dogs and the vultures.

  The actress playing Ismene, before entering, said:

  To her, gathering dust, there appeared her sister Ismene.

  Before verse 1 Weigel said:

  Bitterly the gatherer mourned the fate that had come to her brothers.

  And so on. Each speech or action that is introduced by such verses comes to seem like their realisation in practice, and the actor is prevented from transforming himself completely into the character: he is showing something. […]

  More makeup than usual was used for the faces, and this too was meant to tell a story: in the case of the Elders, for instance, the ravages left on the face by the habit of commanding, and so forth. As the photographs show, this was not entirely successful.

  The tempo of the performance was very fast.

  7

  The present model is to some extent made difficult to study by the fact that it contains much that is provisional and unintentional; this has to be located and cut out. It includes the entire field of mime on which all the actors apart from Weigel as it were depend for their living. This is a field that brings one up against the almost inextricable tangle of styles of our period of sell-out, which exhibits plays of every period and every country and invents the most disparate styles for them, without having any style of its own. Of course such efforts are a failure, and in a single performance one may find both the resonant pathos and the quaintness which would ruin a play by Aeschylus or Gozzi respectively; quite plainly the actors have completely different aims in view. This unhappy state of things is also bound to affect the proper sphere of the model, that of attitudes and groupings. Generally speaking it is the grouping to which most care has been devoted. Economy in the moves of the groups and figures was intended to ensure that these movements had meaning. The separate constellations, even the distances between them, have a dramatic significance, and at certain moments a single movement of one of the actors’ hands may be able to transform a situation. It was also hoped that the inventions of the producers and the actors would be clearly visible as theatrical ideas; this is a field where all standards have been lost, so that no one can any longer distinguish great from small.

  In this respect, as in all the rest, the pictures and notes were meant to be studied chiefly for the new beginnings and the differentiations they contain: these needing to establish themselves in the confused and overcrowded zone in which we now produce art that is terminal, finished and generalised.

  If the whole experiment is not to be dismissed as unimportant, irrespective of whether or not it is thought to have been properly carried out, then nobody must be put off by the fear that it might mean the sacrifice of all our experience to date. In the theatre, by making things simple we become simplistic. And dancing often reaches a highpoint when someone dances out of line. Working with models need not be pursued with greater seriousness than is needed for any kind of playing. It may reasonably be considered to have something in common with the ‘Well-Tempered Clavier’.

  BRECHT, NEHER

  [Brecht on Theatre, pp.209-15, from the Antigonemodell 1948, cf. BFA 25, pp.73-81.

  In February 1948, during the last stages of the relatively brief rehearsal period in Chur, Ruth Berlau took a large number of photographs of the production; and immediately after the premiere, she, Brecht and Neher discussed the idea of putting photographs, texts and sketches together into a book. The Gebrüder Weiss publishing house in Berlin was approached, and the book was published the next year. In 1955 the Antigone-Model was incorporated into the series of Model-Books of the Berliner Ensemble published by Henschel. The idea was to encourage a ‘scientific’ approach to the theatre, to help the theatre ‘regain control of its technical equipment and extend it in new directions’, so that future directors, designers and actors would have a clear idea what had worked before; as emphasised in 3 the ‘model’ is not intended to be prescriptive (although that is what tended in practice to happen, especially in the case of the more popular texts handled like this).

  A further fragmentary text in the Brecht Archive adds:

  The book is also intended to help the broader public to acquire a better knowledge of the theatre in general, and to intensify their capacity for enjoyment, as well as for critique. In order to give the book some of the charm of a theatrical production, the photographs are accompanied by a running verse commentary, which reproduces the content of the play.

  These are the ‘Bridge Verses’ which follow.]

  BRIDGE VERSES FOR ‘ANTIGONE’

  But Antigone went, King Oedipus’ child, with her pitcher

  Gathering dust to cover the body of dead Polynices

  Which the wrathful tyrant had thrown to the dogs and the vultures.

  To her, gathering dust, there appeared her sister Ismene.

  Bitterly the gatherer mourned the fate that had come to her brothers

  Both of them killed in the war, the first as a hero, the second

  Running away, then slain; but not by the foe: by his own side.

  Now she could not persuade her reasoning sister to visit

  Their brother’s foully ill-used body forbiddenly.

  So in the dawning light the sisters quarrelled and parted.

  Hearing the war was won, long fought for the fields of grey metal

  Next the Elders of Thebes placed victory wreaths on their foreheads

  Made of the shining leaves of the green and poisonous laurel

  Which can cloud the senses and render the footsteps unsteady.

  Outside Creon’s house they stood first thing in the morning.

  So, coming back from the fray and leaving his army at Argos

  There in the dawning light the tyrant found them all waiting.

  And he leant on his sword and told them how, over in Argos

  Vultures hopped from corpse to corpse; the Elders applauded.

  Swiftly they crowned him with laurel. But he would not yet

  Yield them his sword. Grimly he gave it his bodyguard.

  Railing at Oedipus’ son, an example to frighten the people

  Next the tyrant spoke of the need for the bloodiest purges

  Cleansing his foes from Theban soil, when a runner reported

  Terror had not instilled terror: dust covered the hacked body.

  Angrily cursing the sentry and all of t
hose who were there, he

  Tested the blade of his sword with his thumb to show that he meant it.

  Pacing with downcast eyes the Elders considered the monstrous

  Power of man, who has bent the sea to his keel, and the oxen

  Too to his yoke and the horse to his bit, the while often emerging

  Monstrous to himself also, as he bends other men to his purpose.

  Next Antigone came, brought in for interrogation:

  Why had she broken the law? She turned and looked at the Elders.

  When she saw they were shocked, she replied ‘To set an example.’

  Then she appealed to the Elders; the Elders however

  Turned to Creon instead. So Antigone told them, ‘The man who

  Seeks for power drinks salty water, and must go on drinking

  Further. I am neither the first nor the last of his victims.’

  But they turned their backs. And Antigone told them, ‘I warn you.’

  ‘You would see us divided,’ the tyrant exclaimed, ‘and, divided

  Why, our city will fall to outsiders.’ Coolly she answered:

  ‘That’s what you rulers say again and again, and your subjects

  Sacrifice all for you, then when their city’s been weakened

  And enslaved like this it is captured by the outsiders.

  Men who bow their heads see earth, and earth shall receive them.’

  ‘Insolence! Would you run down your homeland? You are an outcast.’

  Then Antigone: ‘Who casts me out? That is not home

  For me where my head’s been bowed. Oh, many are missing

  From this city since you took over. Young men and older

  Will they ever come back? You started with many, and only

  You came home.’ At that the tyrant had nothing to answer.

  ‘Idiot,’ said the Elders, ‘but surely you know we’re victorious?’

  ‘She is my enemy,’ said the tyrant, ‘it gives her no pleasure.’

  ‘Better,’ Antigone said, ‘and safer, than sitting with you in

  The enemy’s homes should we be in our rubbled own.’

  Coldly the Elders stared, and ranged themselves with the tyrant.

  Then from the house next came Ismene, her sister, and told them

  ‘I was the one did the deed.’ But Antigone told them, ‘She’s lying.’

  ‘Settle it,’ Creon said as he mopped his forehead, ‘between you.’

  But Antigone felt herself fainting, and she implored her

  Sister to survive. ‘It’s enough,’ she said, ‘if they kill me.’

  Then said the tyrant, ‘When the festivities start in our city

  Honouring Bacchus, she shall be buried alive in her tomb.’

  And they led her away who had faced and defied the ruler.

  Promptly the Elders handed his Bacchic mask to the tyrant

  Chanting the choral song: ‘You who cloak yourself ready for dancing

  Stamp your foot not too hard on the ground, nor yet on the new grass.

  Those who provoked you, though, O Victor, now let them praise you.’

  To them then there came the younger son of the ruler

  Haemon, Antigone’s love, commander of the home spearmen

  Saying that for Oedipus’ child there were murmurings in the city.

  Slowly his father spoke of his secret preoccupations

  Calling for ruthless force, but the son could not understand it.

  So the father wooed him, ignoring the listening Elders

  Begging his obdurate son to forget her who broke the law.

  But when his son stood firm Creon waved his mask to deride him

  Flicking its raffia fringe in his face till the son

  Turned and went. The Elders observed it unhappily.

  Grimly the victor goes off to the feast

  And the Elders, appalled, hear music coming from the city:

  The Bacchic dance is parading.

  This is also the hour when Oedipus’ child in her chamber

  Hearing Bacchus afar, prepares for her ultimate journey.

  Now he summons his own who, always thirsting for pleasure

  Give the peaceable god the joyful answer he calls for.

  Mighty the victory, then, and irresistible Bacchus

  As he nears each mourner and proffers the cup of oblivion.

  Then she’ll abandon the mourning robes which her sons’ death made her

  Sew, and hurry to join the orgy, seeking exhaustion.

  When courageous Antigone was fetched from the house of Creon

  First she collapsed in the arms of her kindly attendants.

  Then the solemn Elders reminded her how she had chosen

  Deed and death for herself. She said, ‘Are you trying to mock me?’

  And went on to bemoan her lot: her difficult youth and

  Sombre parents whom she was now on her way to join, manless

  And that brother who’d dragged her down to the pit that he lay in.

  Then the Elders gave her the dish and the pitcher with wine and

  Millet, gifts for the dead, and tried to console her by naming

  Saints and heroes who’d died in a grand and dignified manner

  Earnestly saying she should accept what the gods had decided.

  Then, overcome with wrath, she chided the Elders for cowardice

  And when she saw their weakness she found her own weakness had left her.

  ‘Chariots are what you expect,’ she cried, ‘full of plunder! And chariots

  Shall you see coming here to plunder our city! The living:

  You are the ones that I mourn.’ And her wrath was stifled by sobbing.

  And she looked around, saw Thebes as a lovable city

  Roofs and hills and hedges, and solemnly bowed in its honour

  Saying farewell. Then again she changed from pity to anger.

  ‘You, my city, produced inhuman monsters, and that means

  Dust and ashes for you.’ To her maids: ‘If anyone asks you

  Where Antigone went, then say: To the grave, to find shelter.’

  Turning away she went, and her step was light and determined.

  After her gazed the Elders unseeing, and chanted the chorus:

  ‘She too formerly ate of the tasty bread that was baked

  Deep in the shade of the rocks. Nor till her own flesh suffered

  And died did she speak up loud in condemnation.’

  But the warner cannot have got as far as the pit yet

  When the festive city is seized by a terrible knowledge.

  For, aroused by the rumours of strife in the house of the ruler

  Enter the seer, the blind one. And, mocking, a figure that circles

  Round about his path and rattles the mask with its raffia

  Fringes above his head, pursuing him over the open

  Square, and raising a foot in the dance’s insolent measure

  Pointing with scornful thumb to show up the old man’s afflictions

  Cheekily tapping the way with a stick for the tentative gait.

  Creon: drunk with his triumph. The Elders look on in silence.

  ‘Foolish old man, you don’t seem to like festivities. Why have

  You no wreath? Look at us!’ And his voice was sharp with resentment.

  ‘Must a blind man,’ said the seer, ‘be followed by one even blinder?

  Know that the gods dislike disputes and crimes against nature.

  Ugly now loom the birds that have fed on Oedipus’ offspring.’

  Laughing, the ruler said, ‘Yes, your birds always fly as you want them

  Following your slightest whim, a whim that is paid for in silver.’

  ‘Don’t offer that to me; what use is silver in wartime?’

  Said the seer. ‘But the war is over,’ the ruler responded.

  ‘Is it over?’ enquired the seer. ‘For down at the harbour

  Fish are still cured for the troops as
though they were far from returning.

  You are cruel. But why? What follies have you embarked on?’

  Silent the tyrant stood and could not think how to answer.

  Then the seer got up and left. And mumbling obscurely

  Slowly the tyrant started to go. The Elders observed it.

  Fear by fear was addressed, they dared to ask him a question:

  ‘What is the news of the war, Creon?’ He replied to them, ‘Not good.’

  Then they came up to him, and the mask of peace he was holding

  Holding their own peace masks in their hands as they all approached him

  And they argued about the war: was it their war or his war?

  ‘You it was forced me to go to bring you back ore from the Argives.’

  ‘But you told us we’d win.’ ‘I told you: sooner or later.’

  And he prepared to leave. Once more the Elders in anger

  Gathered around their king and cried out, ‘Bring back our army!’

  The army was cause for concern, but their own property more so.

  Then he took the mask of peace, which he stuck in the soil there.

  ‘Right, I will send for the army; my eldest shall bring it, Megareus.

  Iron shall they have in their hands to smite ungrateful civilians.’

  Still there hung in the air the menacing name of Megareus

  When a runner arrived: ‘Lord, stiffen your lip, for Megareus

  Is no more and your army is beaten, the foe is approaching.’

  Gasping, he spoke of the battle: the army, split by internal

  Strife over Polynices’ death, bore its spears with indifference

  While the people of Argos like tigers fought for their homesteads.

  ‘Like tigers now they will come,’ said the runner. ‘And I am glad

  I am finished.’ He clutched his waist, and with fearful grimaces

  Right before Creon’s mask of peace he fell heavily earthwards.

  At this Creon cried out, cried loudly out as a father.

  The Elders exclaimed, ‘A tiger-like foe is approaching and Thebes