Street Scenes: Late Medieval Acting and Performance

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Author: Sharon Aronson-Lehavi

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T H E N E W M I DDL E AG E S The New Middle Ages is a series dedicated to pluridisciplinary studies of medieval cultures, with particular emphasis on recuperating women’s history and on feminist and gender analyses. This peer-reviewed series includes both scholarly monographs and essay collections.

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The Postcolonial Middle Ages edited by Jeffrey Jerome Cohen

Gender in Debate from the Early Middle Ages to the Renaissance edited by Thelma S. Fenster and Clare A. Lees

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10.1057/9780230118119 - Street Scenes, Sharon Aronson-Lehavi

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The Texture of Society: Medieval Women in the Southern Low Countries edited by Ellen E. Kittell and Mary A. Suydam

Popular Piety and Art in the Late Middle Ages: Image Worship and Idolatry in England 1350–1500 by Kathleen Kamerick

Charlemagne’s Mustache: And Other Cultural Clusters of a Dark Age by Paul Edward Dutton

Absent Narratives, Manuscript Textuality, and Literary Structure in Late Medieval England by Elizabeth Scala Creating Community with Food and Drink in Merovingian Gaul by Bonnie Effros Representations of Early Byzantine Empresses: Image and Empire by Anne McClanan Encountering Medieval Textiles and Dress: Objects,Texts, Images edited by Désirée G. Koslin and Janet Snyder Eleanor of Aquitaine: Lord and Lady edited by Bonnie Wheeler and John Carmi Parsons Isabel La Católica, Queen of Castile: Critical Essays edited by David A. Boruchoff Homoeroticism and Chivalry: Discourses of Male Same-Sex Desire in the Fourteenth Century by Richard E. Zeikowitz Portraits of Medieval Women: Family, Marriage, and Politics in England 1225–1350 by Linda E. Mitchell Eloquent Virgins: From Thecla to Joan of Arc by Maud Burnett McInerney The Persistence of Medievalism: Narrative Adventures in Contemporary Culture by Angela Jane Weisl

Troubled Vision: Gender, Sexuality, and Sight in Medieval Text and Image edited by Emma Campbell and Robert Mills Queering Medieval Genres by Tison Pugh Sacred Place in Early Medieval Neoplatonism by L. Michael Harrington The Middle Ages at Work edited by Kellie Robertson and Michael Uebel Chaucer’s Jobs by David R. Carlson Medievalism and Orientalism:Three Essays on Literature, Architecture and Cultural Identity by John M. Ganim Queer Love in the Middle Ages by Anna Kłosowska Performing Women in the Middle Ages: Sex, Gender, and the Iberian Lyric by Denise K. Filios Necessary Conjunctions:The Social Self in Medieval England by David Gary Shaw Visual Culture and the German Middle Ages edited by Kathryn Starkey and Horst Wenzel Medieval Paradigms: Essays in Honor of Jeremy duQuesnay Adams,Volumes 1 and 2 edited by Stephanie Hayes-Healy

Capetian Women edited by Kathleen D. Nolan

False Fables and Exemplary Truth in Later Middle English Literature by Elizabeth Allen

Joan of Arc and Spirituality edited by Ann W. Astell and Bonnie Wheeler

Ecstatic Transformation: On the Uses of Alterity in the Middle Ages by Michael Uebel


The Vernacular Spirit: Essays on Medieval Religious Literature edited by Renate Blumenfeld-Kosinski, Duncan Robertson, and Nancy Warren


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Mindful Spirit in Late Medieval Literature: Essays in Honor of Elizabeth D. Kirk edited by Bonnie Wheeler

Tolkien’s Modern Middle Ages edited by Jane Chance and Alfred K. Siewers

Medieval Fabrications: Dress,Textiles, Clothwork, and Other Cultural Imaginings edited by E. Jane Burns

Representing Righteous Heathens in Late Medieval England by Frank Grady

Was the Bayeux Tapestry Made in France?:The Case for St. Florent of Saumur by George Beech

Byzantine Dress: Representations of Secular Dress in Eighth- to Twelfth-Century Painting by Jennifer L. Ball

Women, Power, and Religious Patronage in the Middle Ages by Erin L. Jordan

The Laborer’s Two Bodies: Labor and the “Work” of the Text in Medieval Britain, 1350–1500 by Kellie Robertson

Hybridity, Identity, and Monstrosity in Medieval Britain: On Difficult Middles by Jeffrey Jerome Cohen

The Dogaressa of Venice, 1250–1500:Wife and Icon by Holly S. Hurlburt Logic,Theology, and Poetry in Boethius, Abelard, and Alan of Lille:Words in the Absence of Things by Eileen C. Sweeney

Medieval Go-betweens and Chaucer’s Pandarus by Gretchen Mieszkowski The Surgeon in Medieval English Literature by Jeremy J. Citrome Temporal Circumstances: Form and History in the Canterbury Tales by Lee Patterson

The Theology of Work: Peter Damian and the Medieval Religious Renewal Movement by Patricia Ranft

Erotic Discourse and Early English Religious Writing by Lara Farina

On the Purification of Women: Churching in Northern France, 1100–1500 by Paula M. Rieder

Odd Bodies and Visible Ends in Medieval Literature by Sachi Shimomura

Writers of the Reign of Henry II:Twelve Essays edited by Ruth Kennedy and Simon Meecham-Jones

On Farting: Language and Laughter in the Middle Ages by Valerie Allen

Lonesome Words:The Vocal Poetics of the Old English Lament and the African-American Blues Song by M.G. McGeachy

Women and Medieval Epic: Gender, Genre, and the Limits of Epic Masculinity edited by Sara S. Poor and Jana K. Schulman

Performing Piety: Musical Culture in Medieval English Nunneries by Anne Bagnell Yardley

Race, Class, and Gender in “Medieval” Cinema edited by Lynn T. Ramey and Tison Pugh

The Flight from Desire: Augustine and Ovid to Chaucer by Robert R. Edwards

Allegory and Sexual Ethics in the High Middle Ages by Noah D. Guynn


Sacred and Secular in Medieval and Early Modern Cultures: New Essays edited by Lawrence Besserman


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The Medieval Chastity Belt: A Myth-Making Process by Albrecht Classen Claustrophilia:The Erotics of Enclosure in Medieval Literature by Cary Howie

Hildegard of Bingen’s Unknown Language: An Edition,Translation, and Discussion by Sarah L. Higley Medieval Romance and the Construction of Heterosexuality by Louise M. Sylvester Communal Discord, Child Abduction, and Rape in the Later Middle Ages by Jeremy Goldberg

Cannibalism in High Medieval English Literature by Heather Blurton

Lydgate Matters: Poetry and Material Culture in the Fifteenth Century edited by Lisa H. Cooper and Andrea Denny-Brown

The Drama of Masculinity and Medieval English Guild Culture by Christina M. Fitzgerald

Sexuality and Its Queer Discontents in Middle English Literature by Tison Pugh

Chaucer’s Visions of Manhood by Holly A. Crocker

Sex, Scandal, and Sermon in FourteenthCentury Spain: Juan Ruiz’s Libro de Buen Amor by Louise M. Haywood

The Literary Subversions of Medieval Women by Jane Chance Manmade Marvels in Medieval Culture and Literature by Scott Lightsey American Chaucers by Candace Barrington Representing Others in Medieval Iberian Literature by Michelle M. Hamilton Paradigms and Methods in Early Medieval Studies edited by Celia Chazelle and Felice Lifshitz The King and the Whore: King Roderick and La Cava by Elizabeth Drayson Langland’s Early Modern Identities by Sarah A. Kelen Cultural Studies of the Modern Middle Ages edited by Eileen A. Joy, Myra J. Seaman, Kimberly K. Bell, and Mary K. Ramsey

The Erotics of Consolation: Desire and Distance in the Late Middle Ages edited by Catherine E. Léglu and Stephen J. Milner Battlefronts Real and Imagined:War, Border, and Identity in the Chinese Middle Period edited by Don J. Wyatt Wisdom and Her Lovers in Medieval and Early Modern Hispanic Literature by Emily C. Francomano Power, Piety, and Patronage in Late Medieval Queenship: Maria de Luna by Nuria Silleras-Fernandez In the Light of Medieval Spain: Islam, the West, and the Relevance of the Past edited by Simon R. Doubleday and David Coleman, foreword by Giles Tremlett


England and Iberia in the Middle Ages, 12th–15th Century: Cultural, Literary, and Political Exchanges edited by María Bullón-Fernández

Chaucerian Aesthetics by Peggy A. Knapp Memory, Images, and the English Corpus Christi Drama by Theodore K. Lerud


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Strange Beauty: Ecocritical Approaches to Early Medieval Landscape by Alfred K. Siewers

Excrement in the Late Middle Ages: Sacred Filth and Chaucer’s Fecopoetics by Susan Signe Morrison

Berenguela of Castile (1180–1246) and Political Women in the High Middle Ages by Miriam Shadis

Authority and Subjugation in Writing of Medieval Wales edited by Ruth Kennedy and Simon Meecham-Jones

Julian of Norwich’s Legacy: Medieval Mysticism and Post-Medieval Reception edited by Sarah Salih and Denise N. Baker

The Medieval Poetics of the Reliquary: Enshrinement, Inscription, Performance by Seeta Chaganti

Medievalism, Multilingualism, and Chaucer by Mary Catherine Davidson

The Legend of Charlemagne in the Middle Ages: Power, Faith, and Crusade edited by Matthew Gabriele and Jace Stuckey The Poems of Oswald von Wolkenstein: An English Translation of the Complete Works (1376/77–1445) by Albrecht Classen

The Letters of Heloise and Abelard: A Translation of Their Complete Correspondence and Related Writings translated and edited by Mary Martin McLaughlin with Bonnie Wheeler Women and Wealth in Late Medieval Europe edited by Theresa Earenfight

Women and Experience in Later Medieval Writing: Reading the Book of Life edited by Anneke B. Mulder-Bakker and Liz Herbert McAvoy

Visual Power and Fame in René d’Anjou, Geoffrey Chaucer, and the Black Prince by SunHee Kim Gertz

Ethics and Eventfulness in Middle English Literature: Singular Fortunes by J. Allan Mitchell

Geoffrey Chaucer Hath a Blog: Medieval Studies and New Media by Brantley L. Bryant

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Margaret Paston’s Piety by Joel T. Rosenthal

The Post-Historical Middle Ages edited by Elizabeth Scala and Sylvia Federico Constructing Chaucer: Author and Autofiction in the Critical Tradition by Geoffrey W. Gust Queens in Stone and Silver:The Creation of a Visual Imagery of Queenship in Capetian France by Kathleen Nolan Finding Saint Francis in Literature and Art edited by Cynthia Ho, Beth A. Mulvaney, and John K. Downey

Gender and Power in Medieval Exegesis by Theresa Tinkle Antimercantilism in Late Medieval English Literature by Roger A. Ladd Magnificence and the Sublime in Medieval Aesthetics: Art, Architecture, Literature, Music edited by C. Stephen Jaeger


Cultural Diversity in the British Middle Ages: Archipelago, Island, England edited by Jeffrey Jerome Cohen

Medieval and Early Modern Devotional Objects in Global Perspective: Translations of the Sacred edited by Elizabeth Robertson and Jennifer Jahner


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Crafting Jewishness in Medieval England: Legally Absent, Virtually Present by Miriamne Ara Krummel

Outlawry in Medieval Literature by Timothy S. Jones

Street Scenes: Late Medieval Acting and Performance by Sharon Aronson-Lehavi

Women and Disability in Medieval Literature by Tory Vandeventer Pearman The Lesbian Premodern edited by Noreen Giffney, Michelle M. Sauer, and Diane Watt

Heloise and the Paraclete: A Twelfth-Century Quest (forthcoming) by Mary Martin McLaughlin


Late Medieval Jewish Identities: Iberia and Beyond edited by Carmen Caballero-Navas and Esperanza Alfonso


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LATE MEDIEVAL ACTING AND PERFORMANCE

Sharon Aronson-Lehavi


STREET SCENES


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STREET SCENES

Copyright © Sharon Aronson-Lehavi, 2011. First published in 2011 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN® in the United States—a division of St. Martin’s Press LLC, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010. Where this book is distributed in the UK, Europe and the rest of the world, this is by Palgrave Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited, registered in England, company number 785998, of Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS. Palgrave Macmillan is the global academic imprint of the above companies and has companies and representatives throughout the world. Palgrave® and Macmillan® are registered trademarks in the United States, the United Kingdom, Europe and other countries. ISBN: 978–0–230–60665–4 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Aronson-Lehavi, Sharon. Street scenes : late medieval acting and performance / Sharon Aronson-Lehavi. p. cm.—(The New Middle Ages) ISBN 0–230–60665–2 1. Tretise of miraclis pleyinge. 2. Theater—Religious aspects— Christianity. 3. Christian drama, English (Middle)—History and criticism. 4. Mysteries and miracle-plays, English—History and criticism. 5. Performing arts—England—History—To 1500. 6. Theater— England—History—Medieval, 500–1500. 7. Rites and ceremonies, Medieval—England—History. I. Tretise of miraclis pleyinge. II. Title. PR643.M5A76 2011 822⬘.051609—dc22

2010030673

A catalogue record of the book is available from the British Library. Design by Newgen Imaging Systems (P) Ltd., Chennai, India. First edition: March 2011 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Printed in the United States of America.


All rights reserved.


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This book is dedicated with love to my parents Shifra and Raymond Aronson


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List of Figures Acknowledgments Introduction 1

xiii xv 1

Game and Performance: A Tretise of Miraclis Pleyinge in Context

17

2

Concepts of Performance in A Tretise of Miraclis Pleyinge

55

3

Street Scenes: Epic Acting, Total Acting, and Performance

85

Conclusion

125

Appendix: A Treatise of Miraclis Playing: A Modern English Version of A Tretise of Miraclis Pleyinge

127

Notes

145

Bibliography

169

Index

179


CONTENTS


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1

Adam and Eve. “In the day that the Lord God made the earth . . .” Genesis 2. Va Yomer. Va Yelech (And He Said. And He Walked). Bible Project. Directed by Rina Yerushalmi. ITIM Theatre Ensemble, Cameri Theatre, Tel Aviv, 1995–2000. Photo: Gadi Dagon 2 “Male and female created He them . . .” Genesis 1. Va Yomer. Va Yelech (And He Said. And He Walked). Bible Project. Directed by Rina Yerushalmi, ITIM Theatre Ensemble, Cameri Theatre, Tel Aviv, 1995–2000. Photo: Gadi Dagon 3 Stepping down off the cross, York Mystery Plays, The Crucifixion, 16 July 2006, Dean’s Park, York. Photo: A. Lehavi 4 York Mystery Plays, The Crucifixion, 16 July 2006, Dean’s Park, York. Photo: A. Lehavi

104

105

116 123


FIGURES


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M

y interest in medieval theories of performance has been the result of a long process of study and research. I would probably trace its genesis to the work I did on biblical theatre during my masters’ studies at TelAviv University, when my first ideas about theorizing the theatricalities and preformativity of holy texts originated. The most crucial step into the world of medieval theatre took place during my doctoral studies at the Graduate Center, City University of New York. It was first and foremost my supervisor Pamela Sheingorn, who introduced me into the rich world of medieval theatre, religion, and their intersections. I am deeply grateful for her inspiration, guidance, and generosity. My ongoing work at the Department of Comparative Literature at Bar Ilan University has been drawing me more extensively into the field of performance studies and the reappearances of religious and medieval theatricalities in modern culture. This book is the culmination of this process, which has been continually illuminated and inspired by my exchanges with teachers, colleagues, friends, and students. Special thanks to Bonnie Wheeler, editor of The New Middle Ages Series for her good advice along the way. I am also grateful to Lee Norton, Kristy Lilas, Joanna Roberts, and Brigitte Shull from Palgrave Macmillan for excellent editorial assistance. I am extremely indebted to all those who have shared with me their invaluable insights. I am particularly grateful to Thierry Alcoloumbre, Daphna Ben-Shaul, Linda Ben-Zvi, Bilha Blum, Marvin Carlson, Nissim Gal, Daniel C. Gerould, Juliette Hassin, Friedemann Kreuder, Carol Martin, Peter W. Marx, Michal Michelson, Margaret Rogerson, Freddie Rokem, Eli Rozik, Sandra Debenedetti Stow, Rina Yerushalmi, Christel Weiler, and Constance Zaytoun. I owe special thanks to each one of them for supporting me in her or his unique way. I owe the final words of gratitude and love to my family. I am deeply grateful to my parents, Shifra and Raymond Aronson, to whom this book is dedicated, to Anat Laufer and Ori Aronson and their families, to Aya and Rami Lehavi, and above all to my love, Amnon Lehavi, for his caring support and wisdom, and to our beautiful daughter Lia.


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


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S

“

treet scenes” are theatre performances that take place in the street, as was typical of many of the religious vernacular performances in late medieval England. The concept, however, encompasses additional references and meanings, which help to articulate the performativity of late medieval religious theatre. “The Street Scene: A Basic Model for an Epic Theatre,” is an essay by the twentieth-century experimental theatre creator and theorist Bertolt Brecht.1 In this essay, Brecht theorizes a postillusionist acting style in which the tension between actor and enacted character is highlighted and manifested rather than blurred and eliminated. In a “street scene,” according to Brecht, an actor addresses the spectators directly, consciously engaging them in the performance, while playing and enacting the event. In other words, Brecht’s theatricality conceives of a theatrical event as being not only a framed, narrated enactment, but also an event that depends on live interaction between an actor and a character on the one hand and an actor and the spectators on the other. It is an aesthetic concept that highlights the process of enactment and its “liveness.” This idea refers, as we shall see, to the question that is the focus of this book: Was late medieval religious theatre created in relation to a theoretical discourse about performance, a discourse that might have led to a specific theatre language and acting style that best served the unique characteristics of performing holy subject matter? In essence, the book questions whether the enactment and embodiment of holy characters and events was an issue addressed by the creators of the mystery plays. And, if so, what theatrical methods were used in these performances to overcome the tension inherent in the art of theatre—the tension between the liveness and presence of an actor and the dramatic focus on an enacted character? Although this tension is always part of the theatrical mechanism, there are moments in theatre history when an attempt to eliminate the difference between the two performing functions is an aesthetic ideal (as in late nineteenth-century realistic theatre, for example), whereas at other times, as in late medieval theatre, emphasizing the duality between an


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INTRODUCTION

STR EET SCENES

actor and a character ref lects an aesthetic concept of theatre. Moreover, the relationship between the two entities—the actor and the character— both embodied by the actor becomes a site of special inquiry in religious theatre. Here, many of the enacted events and characters are not only godly and therefore complicated or even impossible to (re)present, but, more importantly, their holy status demands a very careful treatment, especially when transmitted by human agency. The main argument offered here is that the question of enacting religious and holy figures was indeed a late medieval concern.2 Evidence for this can be found in the late fourteenth-century Middle English Tretise of Miraclis Pleyinge (hereafter ToMP), a long tract that harshly criticizes the performance activity it calls “miraclis playing,” and which is dealt with in chapters 1 and 2 in order to reconstruct a late medieval performance theory. One of the main reasons for the tract’s objection to religious performance activity is that the plays do not have a purely devotional context, but rather involve mirth, play, game, and other forms of earthly enjoyment. The duality that the tract articulates and objects to relates to the dualistic nature of the theatrical medium in general: that is, the tension between the live event on the one hand and the enacted content on the other, a tension that is most concisely located in the very body of the actor. As discussed in the ToMP, however, this tension is problematic in religious theatre because of the potentiality that characterizes a live event, defined by the tract as the danger of “bourding” ( joking, gaming) with holy and serious subject matter (“the werkis of God”). The ToMP’s critique of religious theatricalities because of this dual or dialogic appeal is a key to reconstructing a late medieval performance theory that was indeed based on acknowledging the tension between the liveness of the theatrical event and its enacted/fictional (and sacred) world. My reading of the ToMP leads me to the two methodological directions that guide this work. First, an analysis of the ToMP demonstrates its applicability to religious theatrical forms such as the mystery plays and the Corpus Christi cycles, although it cannot be directly associated with a specific play or performance. Second, the tract analyzes the eventness of the performances it criticizes rather than the enacted and “fictional” realm of theatre. In other words, the emphasis of the text is the realm of performance and the performativity of the plays and not, for instance, aspects of dramatic literature or theatrical staging. This methodology of the ToMP itself ref lects the somewhat oxymoronic nature of the religious vernacular theatre, whose sources and theatricality combine religious, devotional, and serious “scenes” on the one hand, with a performativity that originates in popular culture, folklore, urban civic life, and the “street,” on the other. In other words, the ToMP addresses these religious


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2

plays as “performance” because, according to the tract, the cultural function of the performances was related to their participants’ earthly concerns and enjoyment in the present via the enactment of religious subject matter. Following Max Hermann, J. L. Austin, and Judith Butler, Erika Fischer-Lichte defines the concept of performance and the performative not as one with a primarily mimetic function but rather as one with the power to be effective as it happens, as a happening: They all agree that performative acts/performances do not express something that pre- exists, something given, but that they bring forth something that does not yet exist elsewhere but comes into being only by way of the performative act/the performance that occurs. In this sense they are self-referential—i.e. they mean what they bring forth— and, in this way, constitute reality.3

This focus on the eventness and efficacy of a theatre performance has greatly inf luenced theatre studies in the recent decades. It invites a reconceptualization of plays such as the mystery cycles as they functioned on both a mimetic, ideological, and devotional level and on a folkloristic and lively one. Therefore, based on defining the plays in terms of “performance,” which corresponds to the ToMP’s focus, the next step (to which chapter 3 is devoted) is an analysis of acting conventions in the Corpus Christi plays (specifically the York cycle). This analysis will demonstrate that the creators of this theatre, just like its critics, were aware of the tension between live event and scripted dramatic narrative and made use of this tension as a governing aesthetic. I suggest that acknowledging this inherently theatrical tension between the performing and the performed in the unique case of religious theatre led to an acting style and theatre language that was meant to demonstrate this awareness, always emphasizing the signifying function of the theatrical event and never concealing its theatricality. By doing so, the performances created a deictic interruption in the process of enactment so that the performances would always claim a symbolic and theatricalized presence in relation to the enacted holy characters and events. Even in highly emotional and intensive scenes such as episodes of the Passion, the actor/ character tension was maintained. By using methods of total theatre that included inf licting pain on the body of the actor and by self-referentially marking the act of performance, a difference was evoked between the performing actor and the real figure of Christ. In addition to the ToMP, other primary sources that help establish this concept of acting and theatricality are the mystery plays themselves.


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3

I N T RO DU C T ION

4

In this book, I focus primarily (although not solely) on the York cycle, which, like the tract, dates back to the late fourteenth century, and which was performed on moving pageants in the streets of York. Moreover, the records of early English drama (REED) help demonstrate the use of theatrical conventions that created a discernible tension between actors and characters. One example is a decision recorded in a York House Book dated 3 April, 1476, according to which players should not act in more than two plays of the Corpus Christi pageants: And þat no plaier þat shall plaie in þe saide Corpus christi plaie be . conducte and Reteyned . to plaie . but twise [] on þe day of þe saide playe And þat he or thay so plaing plaie . not . ouere twise þe saide day vpon payne of xl s. to forfet vnto þe Chaumbre asoften tymes as he or þay shall be founden defautie in þe same. [And that no player that shall play in the said Corpus Christi play be hired and retained to play but twice on the day of the said play. And that he or they playing the play should not do so over twice the said day or else they will be fined 40 s. to have to pay unto the Chamber as often times as he or they shall be found failing in the same.]4

Much information about acting conventions can be gathered from this short rule although it was most probably designed to regulate financial relationships between different actors. First, it demonstrates that actors were interested in playing and apparently did play more than twice within the same cycle, that is, in more than one role. This makes sense given that the York cycle was composed of over forty pageants, each one of them performing its biblical episode repetitively in different stations in the city. However, the existence of this rule establishes another theatrical convention that is closely related to actor/character dialectics in the late medieval theatre. One of the consequences of such a rule is that different actors would play the same character throughout the performance of the cycle. Many characters appear in more than two plays, but outstanding is the figure of Christ, who appears consecutively as an adult in over twenty plays in the cycle. Following the rule cited above, a minimum of ten different actors would have to play this role, resulting in “Christ” having many different voices and intonations, heights and sizes, facial expressions, and so on.5 This is not an anecdotal convention. Whereas in nonreligious or noniconic theatre—in “conventional” drama—an individuated character is usually played by one actor from start to finish, the unique case of religious and iconic personae invite an acting style that emphasizes the disparity between signifier and signified. The rule that allows an actor to play in no more than two episodes demonstrates that in York there was no interest in having one


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player carry this role throughout the cycle. Given that spectators could and probably would watch many episodes consecutively, the theatrical experience was based on watching different actors in the same role appearing one after the other, enabling, as we shall see, “development” and dramatic change in the character by using this convention. Moreover, as discussed in chapter 3, this convention is part of an entire set of theatrical practices that simultaneously signify on two levels. The York House Book record supports the theory that the image of the real Christ was distanced from the act of humanly representing him or any other holy character. This was a theatrical way to simultaneously embody but not embody a character. However, while representing the religious characters as iconic “molds” that can be filled and refilled by different performers, the actors themselves do not transform into the characters they play; they remain present on stage as actors, members of their guilds, anachronistically inserting references to their lives in the present and to the act of performing itself.6 As discussed in chapter 1, in order to demonstrate the unhidden presence of the performers, the elements of game, play, and “street theatre” that constitute this theatre, side by side with its devotional practices, must be taken into account. In the same York House Book record, just before the ban on one actor playing more than two roles is noted, a standard is set for the players themselves, demonstrating the care that was devoted to casting: That is to saie þat yerely in þe tyme of lentyn, there shall be called afore the Maire for þe tyme beyng iiij of þe moste Connyng discrete and able playeres within þis Citie to serche “here” and examen al þe plaiers and plaies [and] pagentes thrughoute all þe artifice belonging to corpus christi Plaie And all suche as þay shall fynd sufficiant in personne and Connyng to þe honour of the Citie Worship of þe saide Craftes for to admitte and able and all oþer insufficiant personnes either in Connyng voice or personne discharge ammove and avoide. [That is to say that yearly in the time of Lent, there shall be called before the Mayor of the time four of the most competent moral and able players within this city to search here and examine all the players and plays and pageants throughout all the craftsmanship belonging to the Corpus Christi Play. And all those that they shall find sufficient in person [personality/ religious being/or physical appearance] and competent to the honor of the City worship of the said crafts should be admitted and able, and all the other insufficient people either in competent voice or person discharge, remove, and avoid].7

It is clear from this passage that these lines are, in fact, records of auditions for the plays. This preparatory examination of the vocal and performance


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abilities of the players means that much thought and planning went into the production of the performances and into the acting and acting conventions that were part of the annual tradition; it means that decisions such as the one quoted above, that an actor must not perform in more than two plays, were not taken arbitrarily. Moreover, while the use of the word “personne” as a qualification to be selected for the play might refer to the moral behavior of the candidates, paralleling this qualification with the vocal abilities of the performers suggests that the correct translation of “personne” is, according to one of the options given by the Middle English Dictionary (MED), “an individual’s physical being; body; appearance.” As with the convention that many actors play the same role (a convention used, for example, in the four episodes devoted to Adam and Eve, and analyzed in depth in chapter 3), there are many other theatrical practices that focus on the act of performance without seeking an illusionist effect. On a more general level, any performance in which an actor deliberately, as part of the aesthetic concept, wears for instance only a partial costume, or self-referentially marks the act of performance, or addresses the audience directly, or is cross- dressed, and so on, creates this double entity. These theatrical techniques are characteristic of “epic” acting and fit very well with the episodic structure of the cycle plays. There is, however, another performance convention that evokes a dualistic positioning of the actor in relation to the character and that is especially relevant to street theatre and performance. I refer to instances of “total acting,” in which the performer’s body is so totally involved in the act of performance that the attention of the spectators, overtaken by the phenomenology of performance itself, becomes focused on the striving and, at times, suffering body of the actor. Such “total acting” was often required in the Passion sequence and in the performance of the Crucifixion episode. In such cases, the image and idea of the “real” character (Christ) is brought to mind while the corporeal physicality of the performer acquires a strong presence as well. Thus, the actor emphasizes the intangibility or “fictionality” of the character while simultaneously establishing his or her own presence. Such demanding scenes, in which an actor is required to perform extreme physical feats—for example, when an actor is tied to a cross and lifted by four other actors while remaining silent— create a phenomenologically overwhelming theatrical experience. This is because the performers while evoking an image— a referent— also display a real risk to their own bodies.8 Notably, these two theatricalities also refer to modern, postillusionist theories of acting and performance that seek to revive ritualistic and communal dimensions of the art of the theatre.


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To use a metaphor, a historical document is spoken to, and forced to respond by speaking, a language that is not its own but that belongs to the voice that framed its reality as well as present reality. The language of intelligibility may force a document to “speak,” but it also homogenizes the moment when the nonhomogenized event took place.9

In order to avoid such a homogenization, which would tend to overlook the specific discourses of performance that characterize late medieval theatre and culture, I propose that we see actor/character dialectics as a theoretical paradigm, a continuum that is constantly subject to change, but that is always part of a theatrical performance. Significantly, almost throughout theatre history one cannot find any example of an actor/ character relationship at either pole of this suggested continuum, as the dynamics are almost always somewhere in the middle—both in theatre theory and, even more so, in theatre practice. Late medieval theatre and modern, postillusionist theatre are, however, particularly good examples of theatre practice in which the dominant performance concept is that actor and character are differentiated rather than merged. It is hard to give a specific reason for the phenomenological similarities between these two distinct eras in theatre history, although comparatively conceptualzing “pre-illusionist” and “postillusionist” aesthetics might offer a direction for explaining this. In addition to maintaining the iconic remoteness of the holy characters by emphasizing the theatricality and performativity of the plays, this aesthetic is also related to the secular aspects of the mystery plays, especially their origins in folklore and games on the one hand and the festive and celebratory eventness of the performance on the other. The festivity associated with the performance of the sacred history created an opportunity for the community to explore and perform contemporary cultural issues such as civic and trade pride (for example, the building of the Ark by the shipwrights, or the pinners’ effort in the Crucifixion episode), marital relationships (Adam and Eve, Noah and Noah’s Wife, Joseph and Mary), contemporary fear of punishment and disasters (The Flood, frightening figures of tyrants like Herod), civic practices and social hierarchies (the bourgeois characters of The Entry to Jerusalem), and popular games and cultural forms of amusement (farcical elements and performances


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Hinting at a comparison between late medieval and contemporary concepts of performance constitutes a delicate task of applying and contextualizing a theoretical concept— actor/character relations in performance—within a given historical moment. As Michal Kobialka describes the problem:

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of violence). All these examples demonstrate the theatrical possibility of simultaneously emphasizing the civic and secular identity of the performers alongside the mythic and holy identity of the characters. However, one of the reasons that medieval acting conventions have not been articulated as a coherent and intentional aesthetic has to do with postmedieval attitudes to late medieval theatricality. As opposed to the medieval custom of performing in streets or in places not specifically designed as theatre buildings, once the idea of the theatre as a “seeing place” was reconstructed and reintroduced into Western culture, an interest in verisimilitude and illusionist techniques was awakened. However, when performance took place in the arena of everyday life, everyday life became a central part of the performance. Street scenes, even biblical and religious ones, inevitably interacted with the real space of the performance, the city.10 By looking at a few postmedieval comments and allusions to medieval practices by Renaissance figures such as Shakespeare, Sir Philip Sidney, and Sir Thomas More, the following pages try to locate a moment in which medieval theatre practices were delineated as unsophisticated from a Renaissance point of view, a view that heavily inf luenced early modern and modern concepts of performance. There is evidence that Shakespeare knew of the civic medieval biblical cycles and probably even witnessed late performances of the mystery plays at Coventry.11 Although all of his plays are full of theatricality, banquets, masques, performances, and metatheatrical elements, Hamlet and A Midsummer Night’s Dream contain not only real theatre performances but also famous theoretical discussions of the medium. In both cases, questions of acting and impersonating are addressed directly (from exactly opposite points of view) and in both there are references to the earlier theatrical genre of the mystery plays. Whereas Hamlet marks the search for a “natural” acting style by threatening to have an actor who acts “unnaturally” “whipped for o’erdoing Termagant; [since] It outHerods Herod” (3.2.13-14), in A Midsummer Night’s Dream we are offered a parody of the mechanicals’ rehearsing and acting methods which most likely echo the medieval guilds’ “unprofessional” theatre.12 According to David Bevington’s commentary, the “Termagant” that Hamlet refers to is “a supposed deity of the Mohammedans,” often portrayed as violent and blustering.13 In the mystery plays, Herod refers to himself and is often given the anachronistic and degrading title Mohammed or “Mahounde,” a choice that expressed medieval post-Crusades imagination through the horrific nature of the biblical character.14 Hamlet’s immediate subsequent words, that such an “overdoing” “out-Herod’s Herod,” indeed refer directly to Herod— a significant character in the mystery plays, well


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known for being acted monstrously and exaggeratedly, and characterized like other devilish characters. Accordingly, Hamlet’s famous lines to the players, in an attempt to avoid “overacting” define “the purpose of playing” as imitating nature, introducing verisimilitude as an aesthetic ideal and inscribing the Renaissance neoclassical view of “mimesis” as opposed to the “unnatural” acting style of their predecessors: Suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance, that you o’erstep not the modesty of nature. For anything so o’erdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end both at first and now, was and is to hold as ‘twere the mirror up to nature, to show virtue her feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. (3.2.17-24)

Ironically, Hamlet himself does not “suit the word to the action” and this fallacy indeed marks his character as tragic. However, his ethical, moral, decorous, and theatrical idea of propriety of both acting and action concisely summarizes humanist philosophy and aesthetics. Hamlet’s instructions continue to emphasize that “natural acting” means creating a believable and recognizable human being: O, there be players that I have seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly, not to speak it profanely, that, neither having th’ accent of Christians nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed that I have thought some of nature’s journeymen had made men and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. (3.2.28-35)

On the word “abominably” Bevington comments that “Shakespeare’s usual spelling, abhominably, suggests a literal though etymologically incorrect meaning, removed from human nature.”15 These instructions, therefore, mark a significant point in which the idea that an actor should perform a character as humanly or as believably as possible becomes an aesthetic ideal as opposed to prior conventions. Moreover, they are closely related to the Renaissance drama that demanded a more “realistic” portrayal of human beings, as opposed to the characters that inhabit the medieval biblical theatre. Medieval theatre is full of mythic and metaphysical characters that do not demand a human enactment in the first place— portraying them humanly is in fact paradoxical— and biblical human beings are also iconic and fait accompli characters because of their holy status and iconographic characteristics. Shakespeare’s Hamlet criticizes an actor who reminds him of Herod being enacted in the mystery plays as a shouting and roaring monster, and also ridicules a non- sophisticated audience who laughs at such


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effects: “Now this overdone or come tardy off, though it makes the unskillful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve, the censure of the which one must in your allowance o’erweigh a whole theatre of others.” (3.2.24-28) A similar condescending approach toward actors and spectators who practice and enjoy such an “overdone” acting style is recorded in the mechanicals’ rehearsals in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Whereas in Hamlet an actor is clearly advised to “imitate humanity,” Hamlet himself being the paradigmatic epitome of a “human” human being, in A Midsummer Night’s Dream instances of manifestly splitting actor and character are introduced as parodies of unprofessional acting in general and of the mystery plays specifically. This is because of the direct association between the mechanicals who are not professional actors and yet defined by their professions (Quince the carpenter, Snug the joiner, Bottom the weaver) and between the guild members who produced and performed in the mystery plays, all the time self-referring to their trades. Worried about frightening the lady spectators in the audience, Bottom comes up with the following idea: Not a whit. I have a device to make all well. Write me a prologue, and let the prologue seem to say we will do no harm with our swords, and that Pyramus is not killed indeed; and for the more better assurance, tell them that I, Pyramus, am not Pyramus, but Bottom the weaver. This will put them out of fear. (3.1.15-20)16

This self-referential deixis, telling the audience who one is and is not at the same time, might be an ironical comment on medieval theatricality that is full of self-referential and deictic introductions and expositions addressed directly to the audience. But Shakespeare’s parody goes further than expositions and selfintroducing prologues. Playing a lion might raise even more fear in the spectators, and a new idea is proposed: SNOUT. Therefore another prologue must tell he is not a lion. BOTTOM. Nay, you must name his name, and half his face must be seen through the lion’s neck, and he himself must speak through, saying thus, or to the same defect: ‘Ladies,’ or ‘Fair Ladies—I would wish you,’ or ‘I would request you,’ or ‘I would entreat you—not to fear, not to tremble. My life for yours: if you think I come hither as a lion, it were pity of my life. No I am no such thing. I am a man, as other men are’— and there indeed let him name his name, and tell them plainly he is Snug the joiner. (3.1.31-42)


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Bottom’s suggestion that the actor in the role of a lion will have his face only half-covered with a lion mask while half his face is revealed is an exact and literal example of an (epic) theatrical way to create a dialectical and double stage persona, which presents the actor and the character simultaneously. This ridiculed convention was recently used, for example, by leading experimental theatre creator Julie Taymor in her world-acclaimed direction and design of The Lion King.17 Here not only do the performers play animals (i.e., non-human characters), but the mask that designates the animal’s face is worn by the actor on top of his or her head, thus creating a double, simultaneous image of both the actor’s face and that of the animal. One is always watching the actor at work in relation to the character he or she evokes. Whether or not Shakespeare’s theatrical idea that “half his face must be seen through the lion’s neck” inf luenced Julie Taymor to design The Lion King as she did, this quote is an exceptional record of a simultaneous actor/character stage figure and because of the clear reference to the medieval plays it might very well indicate how some of the medieval masks might have looked like. The mechanicals then decide that they can easily play the moon and the wall just as well: BOTTOM. Why, then, may you leave a casement of the Great Chamber window—where we play— open, and the moon may shine in at the casement. QUINCE. Ay; or else one must come in with a bush of thorns and a lantern, and say he comes to disfigure or to present the person of Moonshine. (3.1.50-55)

To present is to “disfigure,” or, one could say, to dis-figure. Robert Weimann offers a similar analysis of the mechanicals’ play and asserts: “what is at issue is the depth of the gap that, unquestioningly, is taken for granted between what is to be represented and what and who is doing the (re)presenting.”18 According to Weimann: What Bottom and the players blithely ignore is the most hallowed demand in the Renaissance poetics of representation, to narrow, if possible to eliminate, the gap between the object and the agency of representation, between the imaginary world in the representation and the material tools and means of rendering it. In their [the mechanicals’] understanding there is no Marlovian ‘glass,’ no ‘mirror’ in which the image absorbs the image maker.19

These acting conventions can be also related to the late medieval religious stage, since the wall, the moon, and the lion can be seen as equivalent


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to the supernatural, devilish, or non-human characters that demand an acting style that is not based on a narrow gap between the actor and the character.20 By comparing Shakespeare’s/Hamlet’s performance ideology (ca. 1599–1601) with that expressed in A Midsummer Night’s Dream (ca. 1598) we are offered a glance into the discourse about acting that marks a transitional moment in the perception of what constitutes “good” theatre. An even earlier reference to how and why these new ideas about theatre and acting were coming into vogue— as opposed to the medieval conventions that were originally an essential part of Elizabethan drama and theatre—can be found in Sir Philip Sidney’s An Apology for Poetry. Sidney scarcely discusses acting but rather focuses on dramaturgy in the comparatively short parts of the Apology devoted to drama. Still, it is clear to which kind of dramaturgy, theatre, and performance he objects. Inf luenced by Italian Renaissance theatre theory, Sidney calls for unity, unities, and decorum in drama. What is criticized by Sidney as improbable and incorrect is, in fact, quite an accurate depiction of the medieval conventions: But if it be so in Gorboduc, how much more in all the rest? Where you shall have Asia of the one side, and Afric on the other, and so many other under-kingdoms, that the player, when he cometh in, must ever begin with telling where he is, or else the tail will not be conceived. Now ye shall have three ladies walk to gather f lowers and then we must believe the stage to be a garden. By and by we hear news of shipwreck in the same place, and then we are to blame if we accept it not for a rock. Upon the back of that comes out a hideous monster with fire and smoke, and then the miserable beholders are bound to take it for a cave. While in the meantime two armies f ly in, represented with four swords and bucklers, and then what hard heart will not receive it for a pitched field?21

Whether consciously or not, Sidney lays out dominant medieval stage conventions one by one: focusing in this passage on the concept of spatial unity, without mentioning the term itself, he criticizes a stage that actually functions as a platea— a central empty space that signifies rapidly changing locations. Just exchange “Asia” and “Afric” with “Heaven” and “Jerusalem,” and one has exactly the same diversity of dramatic locations. Switch the “under-kingdoms” and the “hideous monster with fire and smoke” with their medieval parallels and there is the mansion of hell with its monstrous devils, fire, and smoke. Think of the player who has to begin with “telling where he is” and we are in Shakespeare’s parody, or rather, in the medieval mystery plays. Although Sidney does not discuss actor/character relations explicitly, perhaps the most fascinating reference is to the armies “represented with four swords and bucklers,”


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suggesting the use of a stage-synecdoche convention, or, in other words, having performers differentiate between the emblem that designates their character and their performance or text deliverance. All these conventions are targets for theoretical criticism; they are theatrical practices that must change in order to make way for the new kind of humanist drama being written. Sidney’s text is a unique testimony to this transitional moment in theatre history, as one aesthetic code is gradually replaced by another. Most important, the dramaturgical and stage conventions to which Sidney objects are not the outcome of an unprofessional, unsophisticated, naïve, or immature theatre practice, but rather the relics, or continuations of a deeply rooted and coherent non-illusionist aesthetic concept of performance. In terms of theatre history, this theoretical text should be contextualized not only as part of the English Renaissance but as a late description of medieval stage conventions that filtered into humanist theatre. A third example of an account of medieval religious practices can be found in a theatrical analogy drawn by Sir Thomas More to describe how Richard III took possession of the kingdom. Here is yet another reference to acting concepts and actor/character dialectics that seem to be related to medieval conventions, being satirized in the context of royal behavioral conventions: [I]n a stage play all the people know right wel, that he that playeth the sowdayne [sultan] is percase a sowter [shoemaker]. Yet if one should can so lyttle good [be so ignorant], to shewe out of seasonne what acquaintance he hath with him, and calle him by his owne name whyle he standeth in his magestie, one of his tormentours might hap to breake his head, and worthy for marring of the play. And so they said these matters be Kynges games, as it were stage playes, and for the more part plaied upon scafoldes. In which pore men be but the lokers on. And thei that wise be, wil medle no farther.22

More uses this analogy ironically to depict the artificiality of Richard III’s performance-like display before he “agrees” to become king. This, like a stage play, is a situation in which all participants (players and spectators alike) are aware that it is a “performance” and yet all “suspend their disbelief.” That More specifically differentiates between a performer who is playing a Sultan and his social identity as a shoemaker in addition to the depiction of the play being performed “upon scafoldes” evokes quite a literal reference to the late medieval biblical plays, produced and played by the members of the craft guilds on scaffolds.23 Taken together, these references demonstrate an existing concept of late medieval theatricality. Although Shakespeare and Sidney criticize


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Structure of the Book Although much has been written about medieval performance and performativity there is no systematic articulation of a governing late medieval acting concept based on a concurrent theoretical discourse.24 Chapter 1, “Game and Performance: A Tretise of Miraclis Pleyinge in Context,” demonstrates the applicability of the tract to the mystery plays and to religious vernacular theatre. In this chapter, I first discuss the structure and contents of the tract. Then, by examining the complex meaning of the term “game” in the tract, I demonstrate how the ToMP characterizes “miraclis pleyinge” in terms of performance. Chapter 2, “Concepts of Performance in A Tretise of Miraclis Pleyinge,” is devoted to an aesthetic reading of the ToMP in order to articulate four concepts of performance on which the rhetoric of the ToMP is based and which are central to late medieval theatre aesthetics: “contrariety and simultaneity,” “performance, signification, and efficacy,” “emotionality,” and “communality.” These concepts demonstrate the existence of an aesthetic discourse about the theatre. They also testify to the idea that acting in late medieval religious theatre was indeed based on an intentional simultaneity of the performing and performed functions. The analysis of the ToMP in this chapter dissects the work’s dense rhetoric and argumentation, demonstrating its logic and coherent ideology. Having established the existence of a late medieval theoretical discourse that was aware of the double appeal of religious theatre, chapter 3, “Street Scenes: Epic Acting, Total Acting, and Performance,” examines examples from the York cycle that demonstrate how acting was indeed based on this dialectical concept, and how it existed within the spectrum of “epic” and “total” theatricalities. As we shall see in this final chapter, the stylistic variety, multitude, and breadth of the cycles allowed them to incorporate acting methods based on “epic,” gestural, and symbolic demonstration on the one hand along with instances of “total” and emotional acting on the other.25 This final chapter also compares late medieval practices with modern practices in order to demonstrate phenomenological similarities between contemporary and medieval aesthetics. This is not to say that medieval theatre creators had a sense of performative self-consciousness similar to that in the modern theatre—not at all. But


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this theatricality for aesthetic reasons, and the ToMP criticizes it on moral and religious grounds, these documents invite a reconceptualization of late medieval theatricality as an intentional aesthetic that emphasizes the present act of performance simultaneously with the enacted content.

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from the perspective of the fusion of actor and character as the purpose of performance, medieval conventions were an expression of a coherent theatrical aesthetic. The performance theory perspective employed here, along with the theoretical examination of actor/character dialectics, paves the way to articulating a poetics of religious theatre on the one hand and to understanding the complexity of late medieval theatricalities on the other.


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GAME AND PERFORMANCE: A TRETISE OF MIRACLIS PLEYINGE IN CONTEXT

A

Tretise of Miraclis Pleyinge (dated between 1380 and 1425) is, as Clifford Davidson writes, “the longest and most significant piece of dramatic criticism in Middle English.”1 It remains therefore a central document for reconstructing a performance theory about the enactment of religious materials in late medieval England. Although its writer is unknown the tract is attributed to a Wycliffite or Lollard author or authors, and its main theme is a harsh and hostile objection toward the playing with or enactment of holy subject matter.2 The basic argument of the text appears at the outset and is repeated throughout: Thanne, sithen miraclis of Crist and of hise seintis weren thus efectuel, as by oure bileve we ben in certein, no man shulde usen in bourde and pleye the miraclis and werkis that Crist so ernysfully wroughte to oure helthe. [Then, since the miracles of Christ and of his saints were thus effectual, as according to our belief we are certain, no man should use in jest/game and play the miracles and works that Christ so earnestly wrought for our wellbeing.] (93; 22–25)

The dictate is clear and straightforward and also concisely touches upon two major concerns that the tract expands on and that are unique to religious theatre. 3 First, religious subject matter is holy and serious material that should be handled or “used” in appropriate cultural frameworks (such as religious ritual), whereas activities such as games and plays are considered just the opposite—non- serious events. Second, Christ’s deeds and miracles have a real and efficacious status, whereas, once again, plays and games have the opposite ontological status. Plays, playing, and games are considered by the ToMP as both non-serious and unreal and therefore religious subject matter should not be “used” in


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CHAPTER 1

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such cultural activities; doing so “misusith oure byleve” [misuses our belief ] (93; 29). This basic definition is important from the perspective of performance theory because the objection of the tract to “miraclis pleyinge” focuses on the medium of performance itself and its eventness, rather than on the fictional realm. What the ToMP mostly objects to are the ludic events themselves, the happenings, which are characterized as non-serious since they are “in greet liking ben don” [done with great pleasure] and therefore “reversen penaunce doying” [contradict penance] (95; 73). These events are also “unreal” because participants are involved in a bodily and f leshly experience, understood as unreal in comparison with activities that are solely focused on religious practice. In addition, it is the act of playing and enactment that is “unreal” because the criticized events are “onely singnis” [only signs] (99; 200) as opposed to the original events, miracles, that were really performed. In semiotic terms, what bothers the writer of the tract is the signifier, not the signified. In other words, the theoretical discourse that underlies the ToMP is one that takes into account the eventness of performance and argues against the problems that might occur when performance, play, and game are brought together with religious subject matter. Such a theoretical differentiation between the live event and the enacted content is the basis for understanding the unique acting methods that typify late medieval religious theatre. Whereas most analyses of the text discuss its ethical and socio-religious stances toward “miraclis pleyinge,”4 it is notable that the text has not been systematically analyzed in its theatrical context, that is, as a document that carries aesthetic attitudes regarding questions such as how one should or should not enact holy subject matter, the problematics of playing God or abstract figures such as the devil, the liveness and immediacy of performance as opposed to the fictional realm of enacted images, and so on. However, in order to analyze concepts of performance and aesthetics of religious theatre through the ideas discussed in the ToMP, this chapter is first devoted to structural, terminological, and thematic issues that the ToMP brings up and to contextualizing the tract with contemporaneous forms of religious vernacular theatre—the civic Corpus Christi cycle plays— especially in light of the tract’s emphasis on the ludic and nonserious aspects of play and game and its objection to “pleyinge” on this ground. A Tretise of Miraclis Pleyinge and the Civic Cycle Plays Based on an analysis of the dialect of the tract, Paul A. Johnston, Jr., argues that the ToMP was most likely composed in the area between


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Northampton, Peterborough, and Huntingdon.5 This location does not suggest that the ToMP was written in direct response to any one of the grand cycle plays, but its date of composition, somewhere between 1380 and 1425, is contemporaneous with the York and Coventry plays that were already in existence by the end of the fourteenth century and to which local spectators and visitors from other regions were annually attracted. As early as 1399, an order to limit and regulate the places where the Corpus Christi pageants could perform their plays in York is recorded in a Memorandum Book, “because the aforesaid pageants are played in so many places at considerable hardship and deprivation of the said commons and strangers who have traveled to the said city on the said day for the same purpose.”6 Similarly, in a 1426 York Memorandum Book, Brother William Melton, “a professor of scripture and a most famous preacher of the word of God,” who suggested separating the day of the plays from the day of the Corpus Christi procession (and to whom we shall return), also specifically mentions “the other foreigners coming in to it during the said festival.” 7 In other words, the cycle plays and Corpus Christi festivities were not merely local phenomena but rather widely known, attractive, and costly events. Costliness, as we shall see, is another reason for the ToMP to object to “miraclis pleyinge.” Unlike the York and Coventry plays, which are considerably remote from the assumed area of the ToMP’s composition, the N-Town plays are much closer, most likely taking place in the region of East Anglia. Alan J. Fletcher suggests their origin in Thetford, but explains that “the N-Town plays were probably intended for touring, not for performing in one specific city.”8 The problem with the N-Town plays in relation to the ToMP is, however, that they were compiled in the middle of the fifteenth century, later than the dating of the tract. And yet, an analysis of the archeology of the manuscript as offered by Fletcher demonstrates that the text can be seen as a kind of a palimpsest that was edited and compiled in an attempt to unify different plays into one whole cycle.9 This suggests the possibility of earlier performance practices of religious vernacular plays that by the third quarter of the fifteenth century were already unified into a whole passion play, ending up as the N-Town plays that traveled around. Finally, the Lincoln dialect fits the diocese of the ToMP’s composition, and although we do not have records for an annual mystery cycle performed there, there is evidence for a great deal of religious vernacular dramatic activity much earlier than the four extant cycles, suggesting potential relations between the ToMP’s subject of criticism and practices of religious vernacular drama. In his analysis of the use of the church as a theatrical space, John M. Wasson writes that in the Lincoln Cathedral


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A T R ET ISE OF M I R ACL IS PL E Y I NG E I N CON T E X T

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“between 1317–18 and 1543–44, records survive for no fewer than seventeen different plays performed there [. . .]. Considering that accounts are missing for 66 of the 227 years 1318 to 1544 inclusive, the total number of performances would doubtless be higher had the other records survived.”10 Lincoln Cathedral was the seat of the bishop of Lincoln, and therefore the cathedral church for the entire diocese of Lincoln. This meant that performances in Lincoln Cathedral were not just local but, as in York, enjoyed wide popularity. In sum, although the ToMP cannot be directly associated with the Coventry or York plays, the contemporaneous writing of the tract with the widening phenomenon of religious vernacular theatre, and the large number of documents (especially from York), encourage a contextual reading of the treatise and the mystery plays. However, contextualizing the ToMP with religious vernacular drama raises a question that goes beyond historical dating and geography, because, although the text is a detailed treatise against “miraclis pleyinge,” this term is not actually defined by the writer of the tract, presumably because those who took part in the discourse knew to what the term referred. It is clear from the text that “miraclis pleyinge” were performances that had audiences (as opposed to closed events for participants only) and that their subject matter was holy and had to do with the enactment of God’s “works” (werkis) as is frequently repeated throughout the text. For this reason, the majority of the scholarship on the ToMP indeed associates this text with the civic religious vernacular theatre, assuming that “miraclis pleyinge” was a wide and general umbrella term for the enactment of scriptural episodes and other religious subject matter that took place outside of official religious rituals. In contrast to this widely accepted approach, Lawrence M. Clopper has argued that the text is not aimed at the mystery plays themselves, not even at “devotional drama” at all, but rather suggests that “miraclis pleyinge” refers to a specific kind of unruly games, known for example as “summer games” and the like. He suggests that “miraclis” is a Middle English variation of “miracula”— a specific genre of “ludi inhonesti,” which are lascivious parodies and subversive adaptations of the scriptures, carried out by clerics, and to which the authorities had traditionally objected.11 My approach to this controversy takes a middle strand. Whereas the ToMP definitely defines the performances under attack as intentionally devotional, and even specifically mentions passion plays, criticizing as “reprovable” [shameful] those “that wepen for the pley of Cristis passioun” [that weep for the play of Christ’s passion] (102; 308–9), it is significant to recognize “unruly” elements that underlie the origins of this religious vernacular street theatre. Terminologically, there might


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be a relation between the ludic genre of “miracula” and later forms of religious vernacular theatre, that were perhaps generically referred to as “miracle plays” at early stages, precisely because of the double meaning this term might have denoted. The following sections of this chapter elaborate on the ways that the ToMP characterizes “miraclis pleyinge” as intentionally devotional on the one hand and on the non-serious and even unruly elements that underlie the plays on the other. Before analyzing these texts, I shall first discuss the structure of the ToMP and its main arguments. Then, by examining the meanings of the terms “miracles” and “games” as they appear in the ToMP and in the cycle plays, I offer to articulate the late medieval English theoretical and theatrical discourse of religious theatre in terms of performance: an action that takes place in the present and has real implications on the present rather than a mimetic function only; an action that combines mirth and creativity with devotional and didactic purposes. I draw on performance theorist Richard Schechner’s definition: Performance originates in impulses to make things happen and to entertain; to get results and to fool around; to collect meanings and to pass the time; to be transformed into another and celebrate being oneself; to disappear and to show off; to bring into a special place a transcendent Other who exists then-and-now and later-and-now; to be in trance and to be conscious; to focus on a select group sharing a secret language and to broadcast to the largest possible audience of strangers; to play in order to satisfy a felt obligation and to play only under an Equity contract for cash. These oppositions, and others generated by them, comprise performance: an active situation, a continuous turbulent process of transformation.12

Structure of A Tretise of Miraclis Pleyinge A Tretise of Miraclis Pleyinge is composed of two main parts—lines 1–385 and lines 386–749. It has not been established whether both parts were written by the same author, but, for two main reasons, it seems that they were at least compiled and edited by the same person. First, although the text is explicitly divided into two sections, it is in fact composed of four main parts that together form a unified and coherent argument against “miraclis pleyinge.” The second reason for suggesting that both parts of this document form a unified text, similarly derives from the sense of closure and completeness of the treatise as a whole, as the author or editor opens and closes the tract with the same metaphor, coming full circle. The opening section, lines 1–146, is a general introduction and objection to “miraclis pleyinge” or “pleyinge miraclis.” In this section the writer establishes the realness and efficacy of the original deeds and


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“werkis” of Christ as opposed to the undesirable and forbidden action of “bourding” (playing/jesting) with them. This argument is the basis for understanding the entire text, and through this argument the text articulates the dialogic nature of a theatre performance, especially its potential to open up and destabilize standardized and hermetically narrated concepts. In the second segment, lines 147–385, the writer quotes six arguments in favor of “miraclis pleyinge” and then gives six detailed rebuttals of his own in order to refute them, discussed in detail below. Brief ly, the six arguments in favor of the plays are that 1. The plays are done in worship of God; 2. The plays have the power to convert, to “turneth men to the bileve and not preventith” [turn men into believers rather than preventing belief ] (97; 160–161); 3. The plays are emotionally moving so that spectators weep as they watch them; 4. Some people can only be converted by game and play; 5. People need at least some kind of recreation and “bettere it is (or lesse yvele) that they han theire recreacion by pleyinge of miraclis than by playinge of other japis” [it is better (or less evil) that they have their recreation by playing “miraclis” than by playing other japes] (98; 176–78); and 6. Since it is permitted to have God painted it should be permitted to have him and his deeds played. The importance of this second segment is that it demonstrates the existence of an ongoing discourse for and against the performance of religious subject matter, pointing out that “miraclis pleyinge” was not considered a negligible phenomenon. The answers that the ToMP gives to these six reasons in this part of the tract repeatedly emphasize the performances’ bodily and earthly function as opposed to their self-proclaimed devotional qualities: they are meant for their creators’ and spectators’ enjoyment rather than for God. In addition, as mentioned above, the tract argues that the performances are not real (as God’s deeds are, or were) but false: “Bothe for these miraclis pleyinge been verrey leesing as they ben signis withoute dede and for they been verrey idilnesse, as they taken the miraclis of God in idil after theire owne lust.” [These miraclis playinge are both very false since they are signs without deeds and they are very futile, since they use the miracles of God idly for their own lust]. (99; 206–209) In the third part of the ToMP, lines 386–673 (the first and main section of the second part), the writer suggests that perhaps the text has not been convincing enough up to this point, and therefore turns to a “half frynde” and gives four different cases from the Old Testament that serve as figurative examples of why playing (the Middle English version of ludere) with God or his deeds is to be discouraged. Admittedly, to some extent this section repeats the argument of the opening lines, but whereas


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the initial first part deals mainly with the realness and efficacious significance of God’s original miracles and deeds and with his dominance over humankind, here in the third part of the ToMP the writer specifically focuses on the concept of “play” and the various etymological meanings of the word that can be derived from the Bible— all understood to be negative. Moreover, whereas the opening section emphasizes the problematics of representation, differentiating in a Platonian manner the “realness” of the original events from an enactment of them, the third part of the ToMP does not deal with the enacted content but rather with the concept of “play” and performance itself. All the biblical examples are not related to any kind of mimesis or enactment, but rather they refocus attention on the act of performance that involves gathering, earthly enjoyment, and spending money, and is conceived as another kind of “playing” and interfering with what should be hermetically restricted to an “appropriate” devotional context. The concluding section, lines 674–749, envisions an apocalyptic end to a society that clings to playing and bodily pleasure rather than “now on dayees leven pleyinge and given hem more to ernestful werkis, plesaunt to God” [nowadays leaving playing and devoting themselves more to earnest deeds, pleasant to God] (114, 705–6). The differing emphasis in each part, as well as the way the entire text builds toward a strong conclusion, strongly suggests a unified text. Moreover, beyond the different emphases in each part of the tract, toward the very end of the text the writer returns precisely the same metaphor that appears at the outset— a nail that holds two things together, which is compared to the dread of the believer that keeps a believer disciplined. In its first appearance the nail metaphor is described as follows: “And right as a nail smiten in holdith two thingis togidere, so drede smiten to Godward holdith and susteineth oure bileve to him” [And just as a smitten-in nail holds two things together, so dread that is smitten toward God holds and sustains our belief in him] (94; 37–39). The idea of the metaphor is that just as a strongly hammered-in nail has the power to tightly hold two things together, so the strongly enhanced dread of God is the only way to maintain a person’s belief in God, leaving no space for infringing deconstructive elements. A strongly hammered-in belief is not interrupted by performances that claim to bring believers close to God but might actually be doing the opposite because of the space they create between earnest devotional conduct and f leshly elements. This evocative metaphor is repeated in the concluding lines of the ToMP: And therfore, dere frend, spende we nouther oure wittis ne oure money aboute miraclis pleying, but in doinge hem in dede, in grette drede and


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penaunce, for sikir the weping and the f leyshly devocion in hem ben but as strokis of han hamer on either side to drive out the nail of oure drede in God and of the day of dome, and to maken the weye of Crist slidir and hevy to us, as rein on erthe and cley weies. [And therefore, dear friend, spend we neither our wits nor our money on miraclis playing, but in doing them indeed, in great dread and penance, for surely the weeping and the f leshly devotion in them are only as strokes of an hammer on the other side to drive out the nail of our dread of God and of the day of doom, and to make the way of Christ slippery and slow in movement for us, as rain on earth and clay ways.] (114; 717–24) Emphasis mine.

Not only does the author repeat toward conclusion the same metaphor as at the outset, thus reconnecting the text’s readers with its beginning, but also this time he uses the visual image of a hammer and a nail exactly the other way around, evoking a sense of completeness and of coming full circle. At the beginning of the text the author claims that “miraclis pleyinge” should be forbidden because it takes away dread, which like a smitten-in-nail holds believers close to God. However, in the second use of this metaphor, after he has expanded on the corruptive nature of “miraclis pleyinge,” he compares it to hammering the nail out from the other end, and thus driving out the dread of God rather than reinforcing belief in him. This is a very powerful image— central to Christian iconography because of the visual and emotional associations attached to Jesus being nailed to the cross—that concisely summarizes the main ideology and argument of this text: there should be no space between the nail and what it holds together, and performances such as “miraclis” explicitly create such space. Once this space has been opened it becomes very hard to close it again, because “dread” has been taken away. In a meta-textual sense, the rhetoric of the ToMP is based on creating an image of an awe-inspiring and fearful God, whose power is ref lected in his ability to perform amazing miracles, and therefore people should not create a situation, such as is the case with “miraclis pleyinge,” where they become too familiar with God. As Claire Sponsler shows in her cultural reading of the tract, this kind of tone is also ref lected in the image of social and gendered statuses and hierarchies that emerges from the ToMP: When the Tretise mounts its attack on certain kinds of theatricality it does so by employing a series of analogies, all of which turn on class and gender subordination. Although these analogies are entirely conventional, they nonetheless express a characteristic set of beliefs that have a bearing on the antitheatricality of the Tretise. As the argument is being laid out at the beginning of the Tretise, the author sets out a comparison between a


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playgoer and God on the one hand and servants and their masters on the other, saying, “sithen an erthely servaunt dar not takun in pley and in bourde that that his erthely lord takith in ernest, myche more we shulden not maken oure pleye and bourde of tho miraclis and werkis that God so ernestfully wrought to us. For sothely whan we so doun, drede to sinne is takun awaey.” (94, 30- 4) Another similar relationship is called to mind when the Tretise, describing how drama “reversith discipline” (76), relates how a “scoler” trembles “seing the yerde of his master” (80-1). A third example involves the jealous husband who, “seeinge his wif to japun with his kindnessis, and to lovyn by hem another man more than him,” chastises her (567-70). In another instance, the naturalness and appropriateness of patterns of domination and subordination are asserted when playing with God’s miracles is likened to the inappropriate and unseemly “felawchip of a thral with his lord” which “makith his lord dispisid” (501-2). In all of these cases, what is assumed is an inevitable and just hierarchy of domination that is destabilized by theatrical activity.13

In positing this dilemma, the author uses another evocative visual image: the trials upon the Christian road, that is, the way in which the Christian life-journey, beset by temptations, becomes slippery and muddy like the road on a rainy day. This second image, although contextualized negatively, characterizes performance as a “liminal” cultural phenomenon. Contemporary theories of performance most often stress exactly this characteristic of performance, above all as a cultural activity that does not have strict borders. Performance, as Gavin Brown writes (following Richard Schechner), is “scripted action,” and yet “even so, no script can ever fully encapsulate the performance; there is a significant unscripted dimension in all performances. It is, like any mode of action, susceptible to contingency and indeterminacy; meaning constantly threatens to escape the structure of the performance.”14 Whereas in a religious context such indeterminacy and potentiality that typify performance might be conceived as dangerous, in other different cultural contexts, postmodern performance, for example, destabilization or multi-channeled appeal might be regarded positively. The tract’s objection to the “slippery” characteristic of “miraclis pleyinge” is very similar to anthropologist Victor Turner’s definition of the concepts “liminal” and “liminoid” as central to the social activity of performance. Theatre theorist Marvin Carlson explains these terms in regard to “complex modern industrial societies”: Liminoid, like liminal, activities mark sites where conventional structure is no longer honored, but being more playful, more open to chance, they are also much more likely to be subversive, consciously or by accident introducing or exploring different structures that may develop into real alternatives to the status quo.15


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The Masons of this city have been accustomed to murmur among themselves about their pageant in the Corpus Christi Play in which Fergus was beaten because the subject of this pageant is not contained in the sacred scripture and used to produce more noise and laughter than devotion. And whenever quarrels, disagreements, and fights used to arise among the people from this, they have rarely or never been able to produce their pageant and to play in daylight as the preceding pageants do.16

This paragraph demonstrates the uncontrollable and disruptive potential of performance, even within an explicitly devotional context such as the York plays. There is the inclusion of nonscriptural materials (especially episodes that are culturally loaded such as the anti-Semitic story of Fergus who struck the Virgin’s bier), the possibility that violence and fights might evolve, and, as mentioned, noise and laughter that overcome devotion. Moreover, regardless of its negative attitude toward the performances under discussion, what is important is the theoretical direction that the ToMP constructs. This line of thought demonstrates a late medieval conceptualization of performance as a cultural site characterized by potentiality and uncertainty. Whether or not the same author composed the two parts of the text, it seems that they were at least compiled by the same person who might have collected the written arguments of an ongoing discourse for and against “miraclis pleyinge.” Above all, the two parts of the text share the same ideological objections to “miraclis pleyinge” and they utilize a similar rhetoric. Therefore, in the following analysis the text is treated as a single unit. “Miraclis Pleyinge” as Intentionally Devotional Performances The most significant evidence in the ToMP that the criticized performances are intentionally devotional (and therefore at least reminiscent of performances such as the mystery plays) is the six reasons that are quoted in favor of “miraclis pleyinge” in the first part of the tract. Let us now look in more detail at these arguments. The first argument in favor of the plays explicitly marks their devotional intentionality as the plays are claimed to be done in worship of God: “But here agenus they seyen that they pleyen these miraclis in the worschip of God and so diden not thes Jewis that bobbiden Christ” [but here again they say that they play these “miraclis” in the worship of God whereas the Jews 10.1057/9780230118119 - Street Scenes, Sharon Aronson-Lehavi

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Medieval performance was not, and could not be, subversive in the modern sense, but it could be “slippery.” In a 1431 York Memorandum Book, we read that

that mocked Christ did not] (97; 147–49).17 “They” are those who defend the performances and who are quoted by the author of the ToMP. The importance of this first reasoning goes beyond the general claim of the performances’ positive intentionality. The second part of the sentence comparatively connects this intentionality with the mocking of Christ. “Bobbiden” is to strike and insult.18 While it cannot be unequivocally claimed that the comparative structure of the sentence means that the “Jews that insulted Christ” are compared to those who enact these very actions, still, it is also unsettling to assume that the author is merely using a derogative metaphor. The idea might be that whereas those who in the original passion struck Christ not for the purpose of worshipping God, “pleyen these miraclis” is legitimate because the purpose of the enactment, which might have included brutality, violence, and rude language (as is characteristic of the scenes of the Passion in the mystery plays), is intentionally worshipful.19 Following the claim that the plays are intentionally devotional the second argument in favor of the plays also suggests a reasonable association of the tract with the mystery plays. Here it is argued that since men and women see in the plays how the devil and his servants are punished and led into hell they are in fact morally guided. In this way, it is argued, the plays have the power to convert: Also ofte sithis by siche miraclis pleyinge ben men commited to gode livinge, as men and wymmen seing in miraclis pleyinge that the devul by ther array, by the whiche they moven eche on other to leccherie and to pride, makith hem his servauntis to bringen hemsilf and many othere to helle [. . .], and seeinge ferthermore that al this worldly being heere is but vanite for a while, as is miraclis pleying, wherthou they leeven ther pride and taken to hem afterward the meke conversacion of Christ and of hise seintis. And so pleying turneth men to the bileve and not pervertith. [Also since by such miralcis playing men are often committed to good living, since men and women seeing in miraclis pleyinge that the devil and his order drive each other to lechery and to pride, makes them his servants to bring himself and many others into hell [. . .], and seeing furthermore that all this worldly being here is only vanity for a while, as is miraclis playing, so that they [the spectators] leave their pride and take on themselves afterwards the meek conversation about Christ and his saints. And so miraclis playing turns men into believers and does not prevent belief.] (97; 150–161)

This dense paragraph appears to include a description of the content of “miraclis pleyinge,” one that is reminiscent of episodes of the mystery plays in which the devil and “bad souls” are enacted, such as The Fall of the Angels and The Last Judgment in the York plays. In such plays the 10.1057/9780230118119 - Street Scenes, Sharon Aronson-Lehavi

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devil and his “array” of servants and “bad souls” are led into complexly constructed stage mansions of hell-mouths, as a punishment for their malicious behavior. It is arguable, however, whether “seeing in miraclis pleyinge that the devil . . .” is used in the ToMP literally, that is, indeed referring to what spectators really saw in such performances, or whether it is used in a metaphorical way, and not referring specifically to dramatic scenes in which the devil is enacted. In any event the argument is clear, that even scenes that might be considered immoral have the power to teach and educate spectators in the right way. This is a serious question regarding art and theatre in general: Whether seeing immoral images is enticing and dangerous, or whether it is cathartic in the sense that it has the power to liberate negative energies and to impel spectators away from immoral behavior. The defenders of “miraclis” argue that by watching the devil leading himself into hell because of his own behavior one can learn a lesson. Indeed, this line of thought is exactly the way Hamlet explains his choice to put on a theatre performance in order to accuse his uncle: “Hum, I have heard / That guilty creatures sitting at a play / Have by the very cunning of the scene / Been struck so to the soul, that presently / They have proclaimed their malefactions” (2.2.541–45). Immediately after watching the murder scene in The Murder of Gonzago, Claudius stops the performance and hurries to pray and confess his sin. Why then would the ToMP discredit this didactic potential? What lies behind this argument actually characterizes performances as complex events in terms of the experience they evoke. In other words, the second argument implies a performance genre that is intentionally devotional but performatively complex and multilayered, perhaps a combination of religious content and comic elements that are tied to performances of devilish characters and hell scenes.20 An interesting example of this complexity is recorded in episode number 23 of the N-Town plays, The Parliament in Hell and the Temptation in the Desert.21 Here, it is the figure of Satan himself who challenges Jesus to prove his godly powers, while metatheatrically referring to performance.22 Satan leads Jesus to the temple “and þer xal I shewe þe a party gynne” (196; 108), ordering him to sit “on þe hyзest pynne,” (197; 110) (an ironic visual reference to Christ’s high position in the scene of the Crucifixion) in order to test Jesus’ strength. When Jesus, according to the stage directions, climbs up, Satan continues: Whan þou are sett upon þe pinnacle Þou xalt þer pleyn a qweynt steracle

When you are set on top of the pinnacle You shall there play a clever spectacle


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Or ellys shewe a grett miracle Thy- self from hurte þou saue.

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Or else show a great miracle Yourself from hurt to save.

From the point of view of the ToMP such a scene might be considered unsettling. Satan’s lines address the theatre performance self-referentially. The character of Jesus in this scene can either play a “qwent steracle” (a lie, a joke) or else he has to opt to “really” perform a miracle. This is very reminiscent of the ToMP’s rhetoric. Accordingly, although on the textual level spectators watching such episodes obviously recognize the difference between good and evil, as the quoted defenders of the plays suggest, such moments in performance, especially those that call attention to the act of performance itself might be considered to have a destabilizing effect. The ToMP replies to this argument that although a sinful act can cause something good, for example, the sin of Adam caused the coming of Christ (100; 234–236), this is not the case with “miraclis pleyinge,” because ultimately the plays are a much more harmful occasion than a redemptive one, “not onely of oon singular persone but of al an hool comynte” [not only of one singular person but of all, a whole community] (100; 239–240). The tract adds that participating in “miraclis pleyinge” does not help to convert but rather takes away the fear of hell because of the false and unreal status of the performances: “And therfore many men wenen that ther is no helle of everelastinge peine, but that God doth but thretith us, not to do it in dede, as ben pleyinge of miraclis in sign and not in dede.” [And therefore many men think that there is no hell of everlasting pain, but that God only threatens us, not to really do it, as is playing of miraclis in signs and not in deeds]. (100; 255–258) In other words, if representations of abstract concepts such as hell are by nature false events (because they are representations), people might doubt the realness of concepts that cannot be “really”demonstrated. Thus, “miraclis pleyinge” cannot be seen as having potential to yield something good. The third reason in favor of the plays is perhaps the most important argument in substantiating relations between the ToMP and devotional drama, between “miraclis pleyinge” and mystery plays and passion plays. These performances, according to their defenders, are intentionally worshipful events in which “men and wymen seinge the passioun of Crist and of his seintis, ben movyd to compassion and devocion, wepinge bitere teris, thanne they ben not scorninge of God but worschiping” [men and women seeing the Passion of Christ and of his saints, are moved to compassion and devotion, weeping bitter tears, so they are not scorning


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God but worshiping] (98; 162–65) These lines make a clear connection between “miraclis pleyinge” and performances of the Passion, which are emotionally intensive on both the dramatic level and the identification with Christ’s suffering but also on the level of performance since the enactment of scenes such as the Crucifixion is often dangerous and risky. The reply of the ToMP to this argument is interesting in terms of performance theory—that those who weep and cry are not really thinking about Christ but about their own travails (102; 300–11)—focusing criticism on the live event and its performative effect in the present. The fourth and fifth arguments, that some people can only be converted by game and play and that people need at least some recreation, and that “miraclis pleyinge” are less evil than “other japis,” suggests that there are performances that were considered still “worse” from a religious perspective. The ToMP author totally rejects these explanations precisely because of the legitimacy they offer to any earthly or bodily occupation. Notably, these two arguments differ from the first three in that they explicitly emphasize the ludic elements of the performances. This variety of approaches and arguments in favor of “miraclis pleyinge” suggests to me that the author of the ToMP is indeed interested in condemning any kind of performative activity over the entire spectrum— starting with games and ending with devotional theatre that takes place outside of the religious ritual, and that in order to build his thesis he uses the term “miraclis pleyinge” in a very wide sense, indeed, an umbrella term for the social and cultural activity of performance in which holy subject matter is enacted. The final argument in favor of the plays, comparing them with painted images of holy subject matter, conclusively demonstrates that “miraclis pleyinge” can be associated with religious and devotional theatre such as the mystery plays. Defenders of the plays claim that since it is permitted to have God painted so it should be permitted to have him and his deeds played (98; 179–185). The reasoning of this final argument specifically denotes the theatrical medium and differentiates it from the artistic medium of painting. The comparison between the two artistic mediums is summarized in the words “this is a deed bok the tother a quick” (98; 185) meaning that a painted image is “dead” whereas an acted image of God is a “quick” one, that is, a live one. Whereas the defenders of the plays see the liveness of performance as merely a different form of representation, the ToMP suggests that painted images help a clerk “riden the treuthe” (read the truth) “but so ben not miraclis pleyinge that ben made more to deliten men bodily than to be bokis to lewid men” [but so are not miraclis playing that are made more to delight men bodily rather than to be books for unlearned men.] (104; 377–379).


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The ToMP repeats its harsh objection to f leshly and mirthful elements of the performances, and yet this discourse uncovers a significant characteristic of performance theory: liveness. It is the intervention and interruption that might occur when the artistic medium is not mute or transparent as in painting, but, rather, lively and potentially uncontrollable as in performance (we can recall the violence that resulted in the performance of the Fergus episode at York and that disturbed the solemnity of the event because laughter overwhelmed devotion). In performance, the signifier (the performer) is no less present that the signified (the character), whereas in artistic mediums that do not belong to the performing arts the danger of distracting viewers’ focus from the signified content is less apparent. In addition, in performance the live interaction between actors and audience cannot be avoided, whereas paintings communicate differently to their audiences. In his avant-garde theatre theory, twentieth-century stage designer Edward Gordon Craig envisioned a theatre of “über-marionettes” instead of real actors so that the perfection of images is not ruined by accidental movements of live actors.23 This is a different context, but the idea is similar. In sum, the quotation and discussion of the six reasons in the ToMP connects the tract with religious and intentionally devotional theatre and also unravels the theoretical and methodological approach of the ToMP to “miraclis pleyinge”—focusing on their eventness, performativity, and liveness. Key Words and Concepts in A Tretise of Miraclis Pleyinge “Miraclis” and Miracles Although the word “miraclis” is coupled with the word “pleyinge” in the title of the tract— a combination that linguistically could mean “the playing/gaming/performing of the performance-genre of ‘miraclis’”— and although both words reappear coupled many times throughout the treatise, there are at least thirty instances where the word “miraclis” appears on its own, specifically and unequivocally denoting a “wondrous event.”24 Let us examine the first few appearances of the word “miraclis” in the opening paragraphs of the text, which set its tone, rhetoric, and logic: Miraclis, therfore, that Crist dude heere in erthe outher in himsilf outher in hise seintis weren so efectuel and in ernest done that to sinful men that erren they broughten forgivenesse of sinne, settinge hem in the weye of right bileve. [Miracles, therefore, that Christ did here on earth either by himself or by his saints, were so effectual (real), and earnestly done, that


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In this description the author defines the term specifically as something done directly by Christ, or carried out by one of his saints, rather than as a title of a dramatic or performance genre; the essence of these deeds is that they really happened, or, one should say, were really performed, and accordingly had real effect. By the very stating of the reality of God’s miracles—“so efectuel and in ernest done”—the opening sentences of the ToMP emphasize not only the importance of the events, but they also mark the difference between an original real event and an event that is not real. The word “efectuel” characterizes unnatural and wondrous events that miraculously happened in reality and that worked, and thus had the power to affect people. Because of the realness and seriousness of the original miracles, which had very practical goals—to show “the wery of the weye of God” [the weary of the way of God] (93, 15) the right direction—they are not to be “usen in bourde and pleye” [used in jest and play] (93, 24). Understanding “miraclis” as miracles does not rule out the option that the word “miraclis” was also used to denote a performance genre (miracula) that could potentially ridicule the “works” of Christ, but it is essential to acknowledge that in the ToMP it first means “miracle” in the contemporary and conventional sense. However, the fact that the word “miraclis” appears to contain both meanings (miracles and a performance genre) implies that certain words were used with more than one meaning within the same text.25 Thus other words that are connected with the wide phenomenological range of performance (such as “game” or “play”) should also be considered to potentially have double and sometimes multiple meanings. In addition, if a “miracle” is a wondrous but real event, and a “miracle” is also a performance which takes place in reality but is actually a “fake,” unreal event, the double meaning of the term in Middle English appears to be very complex and even paradoxical. “Bourding” and Joking In addition to “miraclis,” another key concept in the ToMP is that of “bourding” or “japing,” which is the main accusation held against the plays—that they make fun of that which is serious. This claim, especially the idea that during Corpus Christi celebrations that honored the body of Christ there would be place for games and jokes, seems a bit hard to grasp within the strictly religious thought system of medieval Europe. The question is, however, what the author of the ToMP means by “bourding.”


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for sinful men who erred they brought forgiveness of sin, setting them in the way of right belief.] (93, 9–13)

When he says that “no man shulde use in bourde and pleye the miraclis and werkis that Crist so ernystfully wroughte to our helthe” [no man should use in joke/game and play the miracles that Christ so earnestly did for our well-being] (93; 23–25) the answer seems to be quite straightforward, that any playful intervention with these subjects is forbidden because it lacks the realness and seriousness of the original deed. Christ did his “works” seriously and earnestly, whereas performing them lacks this original efficacy. And yet, in a different place the accusation seems even harsher: Also, siche miraclis pleyinge is scorning of God, for right as ernestful leving of that that god biddith is dispising of God, as did Pharao, so bourdfully taking Goddis biddings or wordis or werkis is scorning of him, as diden the Jewis that bobbiden Crist, thane, sithen thes miraclis pleyeris taken in bourde the ernestful werkis of God, no doute that ne they scornen God as diden the Jewis that bobbiden Crist, for they lowen at his passioun as these lowyn and japen of the miraclis of God. [Also, such miraclis playing scorns God, because just as really leaving/deserting what God said despises God, as did Pharaoh, so using God’s biddings or words or works playfully/ amusingly scorns him, as did the Jews that struck/mocked Christ, then, since these miraclis players use amusingly the earnest works of God, no doubt that nor [sic] they scorn God as did the Jews that struck/mocked Christ, since they laughed at his passion and these laugh and jape at the miracles of God.] (97; 129–137)

There are two ways to interpret the idea in these sentences: literally or metaphorically. On a literal level one could get the impression that the performances take God’s “biddings or words or works” in order to mock them. This line of thought seems unreasonable because there would be no need to so elaborately condemn such a heretic action. Rather than assuming that spectators or participants in these events laugh at God it seems that these lines criticize the fact that players or participants laugh at all. On a more metaphorical level, however, “bourding” is negatively understood as scorning because it means that the very action of playing with and performing God’s “biddings or words or works” inserts into their holy aspects elements of gaming, joking, and amusement. This is what creates the undesired space that loosens a nail or, according to another metaphor in the text mentioned earlier, “drede to sin is takun awey, as a servaunt, whan he bourdith with his maister, leesith his drede to offendyn him, namely whanne he bourdith with his maister in that that his maister takith in erenest” [dread of sinning is taken away, just as a servant, when he jokes with his master, his dread of offending him is lessened, especially when he jokes with his master about what his master


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takes seriously] (94; 34–37). There is a difference between understanding performance as “bourding” because of its recreational, enjoyable, and amusing qualities, and suggesting that the plays are derogatory. Examining the plays as performance texts uncovers what “bourding” might mean. There are different levels of interpretation of the episodes of a mystery play. The initial and most approachable level is the narrative and textual presentation of the biblical event. Using the methodology of play analysis usually leads to the conclusion that the plays end in rewarding those faithful to God, and that even in the most comic plays the dramatic structure, much like a preached sermon, enfolds folly and mischievous behavior only in order to teach a lesson and restore order. This dramatic analysis that focuses on the end and the resolution, escapes the process and eventness of the play in performance. In episodes such as the Noah plays, Joseph’s Trouble about Mary, or bodily enactments of torture in the Passion sequence, a more liminal experience might take place, with the potential of crossing boundaries during performance, even if order is eventually restored.26 Notably, in all such episodes performance creates space for portraying images of the Other in medieval culture (women, Jews) in ways that are relevant not only on the narrated level of sacred history but also to contemporary issues of social identities. Performance of the scriptural events offers an authorized framework in which charged social energies can “legitimately” burst. Let us look for example at the York and Chester Noah plays. In both episodes the central character is Noah’s shrewish wife who refuses to board the ark, an addition to the biblical narrative. A dramatic analysis of this comic addition would emphasize the conventional structure of a sinning soul who errs only to eventually discover her fallacy, and realize that even when a demand sounds unreasonable she must be obedient; the audience learns that women’s obedience to their husbands equals believers’ obedience to God. This, however, is only the initial level of interpretation relevant to understanding the play in performance. Most likely a male player performed the character of Noah’s wife, and, although late medieval cross-dressing was an accepted theatrical convention, in addition to advancing the moralistic agenda of the play, such a comic and irreverent character certainly had the potential to evoke laughter. It depends on a specific performance to determine to what extent the enactment of Noah’s wife masqueraded the feminine gender, but even the domestic violence between Noah and his wife (who refuses to board the ark), which includes her hitting him, definitely creates the opportunity for restrained comedy to turn into farce. Consider the possibility that “she” is physically larger than the actor playing Noah, or that the scene


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Noe: Dame, þou holde me excused of itt It was God’s will, without a doubt. Vxor: What, wenys þou so for to go qwitte?

Noah: Woman, excuse me, It was doubtless God’s will. Wife: What? Do you believe that you’ll get away with that? Nay, be my trouthe, þou getis a clowte. No, I swear, you’re getting a blow. (85–5, 117–20)27

If the focus of watching this play—indeed an annual highlight—was the clownish character of Noah’s wife, it makes sense that such a play could be considered by some as “bourding” with the reverence appropriate to this context. In the Chester’s version of this episode, Noah’s wife protests for having to desert her “gossips” (friends), one of whom expresses her own anxiety about the coming f lood—most likely voicing contemporary fears of destructive storms. By expressing such a fear, the author of the play gives a face and a voice to victims of the f lood—those who, according to God, “are set fully in sin”28 —using the biblical event in order to theatrically examine contemporary concerns, fears, and dubious social types. Characters such as Noah’s wife are inherent in plays such as Shakespeare’s Taming of a Shrew, but what is the source of this kind of comedy within the representation of the biblical stories? Why would the devotional creators of the mystery plays insert such episodes so deeply embedded in daily and earthly life? In the Old Testament, Noah’s wife is hardly mentioned. Totally silenced, she functions passively as his female counterpart and there is no indication of her shrewish nature, yet here she becomes the center of the play. The Noah plays are one of the clearest examples of how elements of popular culture filtered into “devotional drama” and came to have a life of their own. Whereas the power of the scene is definitely driven by the comedy of domestic relations between Noah and his wife,29 her disobedient refusal to board the ark along with her final decision to step into the boat can be seen as significant symbolic gestures, almost a Brechtian gestus, stepping from the realm of sin into that of redemption. And yet, from the perspective of what the actor has to do in performance in order to resolve the tension, that is, merely step from one platform onto another, this gesture is revealed to be an extremely simple, even ridiculous act. An almost identical kind of gesture that has to do directly with women’s disobedience to their husbands (and a misogynist attitude) is recorded in a late medieval sermon exemplum


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even moves from the performing space into the audience (maybe they “accidentally” fall off the “ark” as they quarrel and then climb back in):

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entitled “The Obedience of Wives.” Here three merchants make a bet to determine which of them has the most obedient wife. They decide that the test will be asking their wives to jump into a basin without giving them a reason. The first two wives refuse and are harshly beaten. When the merchants arrive at the third house, the obedient wife mistakenly interprets her husband’s request, thinking he has asked her to jump on the table, which she ridiculously does, causing a great mess but winning the bet for her husband.30 From the viewpoint of this story, leaping into the ark (or the basin) does not seem a heroic act but rather an arbitrary one—just as the York Noah’s wife claims it is. Like the first two wives in the exemplum, Noah’s wife wants to know why she has been asked to do this: Vxor: Wife: Now certis, I sall nouзt sitte Now surely I shall not rest Or I se what he mene. Until I see what he means. (84, 69–70)

That the misogynist episode of the shrewish woman appears in many dramatizations of the f lood and in sermon stories connects the plays with popular culture and folklore, games and bets common among merchants, domestic violence (in the exemplum the husbands hit the disobedient wives), and scenes that are on the verge of familial chaos. In the sermon exemplum the third “good” wife not only jumps onto the table but unaware of herself, throws off all the food and spills everything she can. This suggests that in addition to serving devotional goals, the religious themes functioned as an authorized framework into which were worked mundane and earthly concerns as well as lay performative forms and customs.31 If we examine the structure of the Flood plays, this claim is evident. In both the York and the Chester plays, the beginning and end of the episode are rigid, informative, and religiously ritualistic. It is into the middle of the play that an episode within an episode is inserted that originates not from the scriptures, but from lay culture. Finally, in the Chester episode, just before Noah’s wife submissively boards the ark, she has one last drink with her friends: Gossip (to wife): The f lood comes f leeting in full fast, On every side it spreads full far; For fear of drowning I am aghast; Good gossip, let us draw near. And let us drink ere we depart, For oft times we have done so;


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For at a draught thou drink’st a quart, And so will I do ere I go. Noah’s Wife: Here’s a pottle of Malmesy, good and strong It will rejoice both heart and tongue; Though Noah thinks us never so long, Yet we will drink alike. (42, 225–236)

“Malmesy” is a strong, sweet wine, and although these sinners— interested only in their f leshly enjoyment— are about to learn their lesson by drowning in the f lood, mentioning the wine might have extratextual references. In addition to the laughter this scene must evoke and its misogynist parody of women’s unruly behavior, it is relevant that the theatrical festivity around the plays included eating and drinking. Most likely taverns were open, having waited for this time of the year to make some extra money. We read that in York in 1426 A certain very religious man, Brother William Melton of the order of Friars Minor, a professor of scripture and a most famous preacher of the word of God, coming to this city, has commended the said play to the people in several of his sermons, by affirming that it was good in itself and most laudable; nevertheless, he used to say that the citizens of the aforesaid city and the other foreigners coming into it during the said festival, attend not only to the play on the same feast, but also greatly to feastings, drunkenness, clamours, gossipings, and other wantonness, engaging the least in the divine service of the office of that day and that, alas, for that cause, they lose the indulgences granted to them in that matter by Pope Urban IV of happy memory.32

Consequently the religious procession was separated from the day of the plays so that participants take part in the religious ritual. However, what this testimony reveals is the sound, noise, and energies of festival. Although Melton authoritatively supports the plays and recommends them because of their devotional qualities, his concerns about the public’s behavior—locals and tourists alike— during the civic event that takes place in the streets relates to the meaning of “bourding” as it is expressed in the ToMP. A similar example of how a play might “bourde” is the York Joseph’s Trouble about Mary. Just like Noah’s wife, Joseph is characterized as a sinner who learns a lesson about divine truth. Joseph declares himself to be an old and weak man who has been cuckolded by his wife. Although the character Mary never really argues with him—thus respectfully maintaining her holiness—Joseph, in the long opening monologue of the play,


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delivered directly to the audience, calls the marriage a “bad bargain” and accuses her of beguiling him. Further in the play, when Mary’s maid replies to him that no man came to visit her “saue an aungell ilke a day anes; with bodily foode hir fedde has he” (120, 125–6) [except for an angel one day once; with bodily food he has fed her], Joseph suggests that it was “som man in aungellis likness” (120, 136) [some man who looked like an angel]. Beyond the laughter such lines must have evoked because of the way in which they touch on the issue of adultery, this episode is a very clear example of how such devotional drama can “bourde” with the holy themes, or at least exist on the threshold. This is a dramatic design of one of the most enigmatic yet most powerful and miraculous events that underlie the entire Christian belief system—the immaculate conception. As Theresa Coletti writes: “the central Christian mystery that God had become man through a human mother who remained a virgin after his conception and birth furnished a dramatic situation that was theatrically complex, theologically sensitive, and socially resonant.”33 It is reasonable, therefore, that the enactment of Mary was a loaded issue. One would think that in a strictly devotional theatre extreme care would be maintained. Indeed, this episode is framed by two other short plays (The Annunciation and Visitation before and The Nativity after) that are both highly serene, serious, authoritative, religiously moving, and that hardly deviate from the scriptural events. And yet, in Josehp’s Trouble about Mary Joseph, represented as a comical, even farcical figure, asks Mary and her maids no fewer than eight times in one short episode who is the father of the child. This questioning speech-act characterizes him simultaneously as a doubtful sinner who will learn his lesson and as a husband who mistakenly thinks he has been cuckolded. In other words, this stage persona combines many cultural references at the same time, and this episode suggests the insertion of lay and folkloristic sources into the narrative of the sacred history. Such theatrical and performative elements have the potential to “loosen the nail,” by adding to the performance of devotional material comic elements that refer to lay culture. This is exactly what the ToMP holds against “miraclis pleyinge,” arguing that since they create and evoke enjoyment and fun, they contradict what should be the appropriate atmosphere and goals: And sith miraclis pleynge reversen penaunce doying as they in greet liking ben done and to grete liking ben cast biforn, there as penaunce is in gret mourning of hert and to greet mourning is ordeinyd biforne. [And such miraclis playing invert penance since they are done with great pleasure (liking), and are planned for the purpose of great pleasure in advance,


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Also, the varying degree of comedy and farce between different plays on the same subject is perhaps evidence of different degrees of authorial intervention and suppression of undesirable popular cultural elements in the plays. Even in serious representations of the Abraham and Isaac episode there is the potential for uncontrollable factors to dominate the experience of the performance in ways that might draw away the audience’s attention. In the York Abraham and Isaac (as well as in most plays of this episode), and according to the Bible, the journey of Abraham and Isaac to the place of the sacrifice is made on an ass: Isaac: Childir, lede for the oure asse With wode at we shall bryne. Euen as God ordand has, To wyrke we will begynne.

Isaac: Children, lead forth our ass, With the wood that we will burn. Just as God has ordained, We will begin to work. (93, 109–12)

There are a few more references to the ass in the play, and although we do not know whether in the production of this particular episode a real ass was used, there is evidence that in other productions of this play there was a real animal. Meredith and Tailby quote a play list from the 1583 production in Lucerne that includes “A donkey. In the morning with Abraham. When Joseph and Mary go to Bethlehem for Christmas he is to take the calf with it at once.” Similarly, in a list for the 1597 production the record includes “a donkey for Abraham’s scene.”34 Discussing “real presences” in late medieval religious theatre, Sarah Beckwith raises the tension and interdependence of semiotics and phenomenology in performance. Namely, she shows how a “sign” that has a specific denoted meaning might cross the elusive phenomenological border that characterizes performance and signify something utterly different than intended. Beckwith recalls in this context “a production of a Corpus Christi pageant, staging the journey to Bethlehem in which a real donkey was used. Carrying the Virgin Mary, whose pure womb bears the very salvation of the world, the donkey strolls on with a massive erection.”35 Beckwith demonstrates, through this example, how chance, accidents, and the phenomenology of performance— central to any theatre performance but specifically to complex productions in the street that involve real animals or human risk, as in Crucifixion episodes— can overtake the mere drama as it is scripted in the plays.


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whereas penance is done in great mourning of the heart and is ordained for great mourning.] (95, 72–5)

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In addition to domestic culture, comic figures, and chance in performance, evidence of popular games as sources that inf luenced cycle drama can help contextualize the ToMP with the mystery plays. In a sermon exemplum from the late fourteenth century, discovered and translated by Siegfried Wenzel, a game in which the players played the Crucifixion of Christ is described.36 This description of a “somergame” is significant for understanding the dramatic structure and performativity that characterizes Crucifixion episodes as in York and I therefore quote it in length: I knew where there once was a play in summertime. One person was Christ, another Peter, another Andrew, some were the tormentors, and some the devils. Christ was stretched out, crucified, and beaten, mocked, and held a fool; he was hungry and thirsty and no one gave him anything but strokes and scorn. And whoever knew how to torment and scorn him best was reckoned to play the best. When the game was over, all the players talked among themselves and considered playing again; and one of them said, “Who shall be Christ?” The others said, “He who played today, since he played well.” This player then said to them: “I was Christ and was crucified, beaten, mocked, held to be a fool; I was hungry and thirsty, and nobody gave me anything. I looked down below and saw tormentors and demons in great joy. For he who could make them drink and eat was well pleased. I looked on the right and saw Peter on the cross, and I looked on the left and saw Andrew on the cross, so that for me and my apostles everything was a pain, but for our tormentors and the demons everything was comfort. And therefore I tell you for sure that if I must play again, I do not want to be Christ nor an apostle but a tormentor or a demon.” One of his companions said to him: “I am astonished that you say so. Don’t you know that it is the nature of our play that the stretched- out Christ and his apostles fare badly and suffer much while the play goes on, and the tormentors and demons are well off? Wait till the end of the play and you shall be well off!”37

This exemplum raises many issues regarding the performance of Crucifixion episodes (addressed in the following chapters) since there are common denominators between characteristics of the game as described by the preacher and performance traits of Crucifixion episodes in the civic cycles. In addition to the brutality and the humiliation of one of the players during both the game and the theatre performance, another similarity is the emphasis on the viewpoint of the tormentors. In the York play Christ’s quiet presence is powerful, but textually the four soldiers dominate the play with complaints about their hardship and with insults and


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Popular Games and Ludic Sources

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[T]he behavior of the soldiers encourages the audience to perceive and laugh at the folly of the abusive posturing of the soldiers; watching them from the perspective of those who are not involved, the audience can say, with Jesus, “What thei wirke wotte tjai noght” [They know not what they do] (line 261). The audience attains God’s perspective on humankind. But ultimately the spectators are human and have been reminded constantly by Christian teaching that their sins made Christ’s sacrifice necessary. By this route the audience must come to realize that, although they temporarily share the perspective of God, their true counterparts are the soldiers who put Christ on the cross; that they inhabit the earthly realm of the human vice and folly displayed on stage.38

If the audience is ref lected not in Christ but in the tormentors as Bayless argues, the play in performance actually contains a multi-layered reference. On an obvious level the soldiers/tormentors are condemned for their rudeness and violence, but simultaneously, their performance is a record of human behavior, a behavior that has its own sources in lay culture and games. This second level is enhanced by the textual and performative emphasis on their “work,” especially given the metatheatrical reference to their identity as members of the pinners’ guild. This episode, which echoes the playfulness of the somergame, ends with yet another game as the soldiers quarrel over Christ’s coat, quoting the scriptures and at the same time quoting contemporary popular modes of games such as “drawing lots” and “drawing straws” (322–3; 284–98), precisely the kind of gaming that the ToMP condemns. Another theatrical convention may have found its way from such games into authorized and controlled forms of religious theatre. As mentioned in the previous chapter, as many as ten actors played the role of Christ in the different plays that compose the York cycle. But what are the origins of this convention? In the exemplum about the Crucifixion somergame the player who has already played Christ simply and straightforwardly questions: “Quis erit Christus?” [“Who shall be Christ?”] In the next round of the game he does not want to play the role of Christ again, but he now wants to be one of the devils or tormentors. His reasons are clear—he wants to eat and drink and be part of the earthly (the literally down to earth) fun and festivity. In this case, the concept of freely changing and exchanging roles in repetitive performances is part of the game. In such representations, the role of Christ— as savior but also as sufferer— does not belong to one “star actor” (as in modern productions that rest on


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jokes directed at Christ. Their amusing behavior leads Martha Bayless to suggest that

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“psychological acting” it usually does) but rather it is an image shared and exchanged between different members of the community throughout the many episodes/pageants that construct the sequence of the Passion. It is even possible to take this idea one step further. Since each play of the cycle was repeated at different stations in the city39 (perhaps a performative custom that originated in the repetitive nature of games in general), could it be that the actors of a single episode exchanged or had the option to exchange their roles at the different stations? As Beckwith writes “the communication of the pain and difficulty of this Crucifixion relies on the real physical risk of the actor, for the lugging up of a man onto a cross is a piece of theatrical virtuosity, as any actor who has played Christ will know. Will he fall? Is he safe? How does he stay up there? How painful is it? Does his body ache?”40 Accordingly, is “he” only one actor?41 Whether or not actors indeed switched roles throughout the repetitive production of the episodes that composed an entire mystery play remains a theoretical speculation. And yet it is clear from the exemplum that in “somergames” a performative distinction is maintained between the roles of Christ and the tormentors on the one hand, and the players’ identity and presence, on the other hand. Particularly interesting in this context is the way the player in the role of Christ refers to himself as “I,” placing his identity in the liminal space between his dramatic role as Christ and his own desire— as one of the players—to enjoy the food, drinks, and fun: I was Christ and was crucified, beaten, mocked, held to be a fool; I was hungry and thirsty, and nobody gave me anything. I looked down below and saw tormentors and demons in great joy. For he who could make them drink and eat was well pleased. I looked on the right and saw Peter on the cross, and I looked on the left and saw Andrew on the cross, so that for me and my apostles everything was a pain, but for our tormentors and the demons everything was comfort. And therefore I tell you for sure that if I must play again, I do not want to be Christ nor an apostle but a tormentor or a demon. (Emphasis added)

The player (“quoted” by the preacher) does not say “for me and my peers everything was a pain . . . .” Rather, he smoothly slips from one ontological level— as player—to another— as role.42 Even more significant than the distance between the image or idea of Christ and any player who would present Christ’s recognizable gestures is the interest expressed by the players in their own experience of performing and playing. It is exactly this earthly interest that leads the preacher who tells the story to characterize the player’s complaints about his role as an example of misconduct. Metaphorically drawing an analogy between the actor playing


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It goes similarly in this life, in every estate and rank. He who wants to play Christ’s pageant [Qui voluerit ludere Christi pagyn] will suffer a lot, will be held to be a fool, will be hungry and thirsty, and nobody will give him anything; but his tormentors and the demons are invited to comforts, and whoever knows how to torment, mock, and do the rest best, he will be held to be a master. And this is the reason why so few play Christ’s pageant [Et ista est causa quare tam pauci ludunt Christi pagyn] and so many become tormentors and demons, so that they draw from the good and move to evil.43

The didactic agenda behind the exemplum’s description of the “somergame” is clear, but the players’ interest in their own experiences in the present cannot be overlooked as unimportant to the social function and meaning of the entire event. Could it have been, for example, that in such games a social hierarchy determined how many times and who would play each part? Did games of the Crucifixion of “Christ” echo the pagan festive custom of a “mock king” or a “king for a day”?44 Could such social considerations have filtered into the casting procedures of the civic cycles? Was the role of Christ in devotional drama also undesirable, or was it considered an honor to play this role?45 Game and Performance Based on these comparative analyses, the fact that a performance was titled a “game” does not mean that it was completely devoid of form or lacking in the elements that were later used to compose passion plays or other kinds of devotional drama. As we have seen for the word “miracle,” the word “game” also had a range of meanings rather than one fixed definition. In a late fourteenth- century religious lyric, written in a serious mode and tone as a dialogue between Christ on the cross and Mary, who laments his sufferings, his anguish is compared to a “game” he has to “play.” This phrase (line 19 below) manifests a completely different use of the word “game” than we have seen so far, here evoking sadness and suffering: Dialogue between Jesus and the Blessed Virgin (B.V.) at the Cross Ihesus Jesus Maiden & moder, cum & se, Maiden and mother come and see, Þзi child is nailed to a tre; your child is nailed to a tree hand & fot he may nouth go, hand and foot he cannot release

1


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Christ in the “somergame” and those who accept suffering in real life the preacher explains:

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his bodi is wonden al in wo. his body is all wounded. Al abouten he is to-toren, All about he is torn to pieces 5 his heued is wreen with a þorn, his head is wrapped with a thorn his sides boen on blode be, his sides are both full of blood with blod he’s blent, he nay nouth se. with blood he’s blinded, he can see nothing. Maria Mary Mi suete sone þat art me dere, My sweet son that is my dear, What hast þou don, qui art þou here? What have you done, why are you here? 10 Þi suete bodi þat in me rest, Your sweet body that in me rested, Þat loueli mouth þat i haue kist,— That lovely mouth that I have kissed,— Nou is on rode mad þi nest, Now this rood has become your nest, Mi dere child, quat is me best? My dear child, what is my remedy? Ihesus Jesus Ion, þis womman for my sake John, this woman for my sake 15 Womman, to Ion, I þe be-take. Woman, to John, I you betake. Alone i am with- oten make, Alone I am without a mate, On rode i hange for mannis sake, On a rood I hang for mankind’s sake Þis gamen alone me must pleyзe, This game alone I must play, For mannis soule þis det to deyзe. For mankind’s soul this debt today. 20 Mi blod is sched, my f les is falle, My blood is shed, my f lesh is fall, Me þristet sore, for drink i calle : I am very thirsty, for drink I call : Þei зeuen me eysil medlid with galle. They gave me vinegar mixed with gall For mannis senne in wo I walle, For man’s sin in woe I boil, Зef ei weren kende to louen me outh, If they were kind to love me they aught, 25 Of al my peine me ne routh. Of all my pain be sorry Fader, my soule I þe be-take! Father, my soul I thee betake! Mi bodi deyзet for mannis sake, My body dies for mankind’s sake, Senful soules in helle lake— Sinful souls in hell lake— To hem i go awey to take. To him I go away to take 30 Mannis soule, þou art my make; Man’s soul, you are my mate; Loue me wel, I þe nouth forsake, Love me well, I will not forsake you, & my moder herteliche And my mother heartily For sche helpet e stedfasliche, For she helped you steadfastly An þou salt comen at blisse to, And you shall come to bliss too, 35 Þer my fadir is for euermo. Amen.46 There my father is for evermore. Amen.

Carleton Brown notes that this poem is the earliest English version of this dialogue, and he suggests that “although ‘Ihesus’ is written opposite the first section of this piece, it is clear that in lines 1–8 the speaker is another person. These lines might be assigned to John.”47 Whether or not the lines written in the third person imply the presence of another participant, this poem is very theatrical, not only because it is written in the form of a dialogue, but also because of the very lively and graphic descriptions of Christ’s situation. These characteristics are typical of such


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poetry, but what is the meaning of the line in which Christ describes his situation as a “game alone I must play”? According to the MED “game” was mostly used to denote the range of meanings that have to do with play, fun, mirth, joy, happiness, pleasure, delight, festivity, amusement, etc. There is also, however, another meaning to the word “game” that seems most appropriate for the interpretation of this poem: “an action, proceeding, happening, occurrence; course of events” and “to be dealt with severely, receive rough treatment.”48 This definition shifts the perspective from thinking of “game” and “play” only in the context of the comic and joyful. Like performance itself, even games with strict laws often have the potential to turn fun and levity into liminal situations where participants cease to be safe and are put at the risk of physical or emotional danger by being excluded or tormented by other participants. Moreover, the idea of conceiving the original Crucifixion as an “event,” a “happening” (as in the poem) on the one hand, and of reenactments of it as “games” and “events” (as in the “somergame”) on the other, widens our conceptions of the interrelated meanings and uses of “game” and “play.” In other words, just as we must consider the connections between the two meanings of the word “miraclis,” which is used variably within the same text, here again, it seems possible to suggest that the meanings of “game” and “play” should not be limited to amusement, but rather understood in their wider referential fields. Fun and mirth can be the outcomes of a “game,” a contest can express a human drive for playing a game, but a game in itself is first an event, something that is happening, and that might include “receiving rough treatment.” It is a performance. In this sense there is a deep connection between performative phenomena such as devotional drama, “somergames,” and the image of the original Crucifixion scene as described in the poem as a “game” being “played.” “Game” and Miracles The religious poem cited above is not an isolated example of this use of “game” in relation to a representation of the suffering Christ. Two other intriguing examples of the use of “game” as “an event” that reconnect us with the question of performing Christ’s miracles appear in two of the most metatheatrical plays of the York Cycle—the Curriers’ Transfiguration and the Bowers and Fletchers’ Christ before Annas and Caiaphas. As in the poem, where “game” is used to denote the most climactic event of the Passion, the event of the Transfiguration is also of great magnitude and has to do directly with a miracle, a “wondir-werke” as Jesus characterizes the Transfiguration (195; 135), using an expression that frequently appears in the ToMP as a synonym of “miraclis.” Similarly, in Christ


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Anna: What wondirfull werkis workis at wighte? Cayphas: Seke men and sori he sendis siker helyng— And to lame men and blynde he sends er sight. (243, 34–6) [Annas: What wonderful works does that one work/perform? Cayphas: To sick and sorry men he sends healing— And to lame and blind men he sends their sight.]

When Christ is brought to the court, Annas and Cayphas are engaged in drinking “wyne þat will make you to wynke” [wine that will make you to sleep], which in the following line is described as “licoure full delicious” [delicious liquor] (lines 76–77), recalling the drinking of “Malmesy” (a strong sweet wine) in the Noah episode. There he is badly and rudely mocked by the soldiers in ways that elaborate and exceed the scriptural descriptions, as Beadle and King note: Christ’s appearance before the High Priests also sets a pattern for the plays which follow, the calm, still, and largely silent figure of Jesus providing a stark contrast with the violent verbosity and frenetic activity of those around him. Some of this is implicit in the Gospels. What is not is the sadistic ferocity of the beating he receives before being passed on to Pilate. The soldiers cruelly elaborate their task by formalizing it as a popular buffeting game called “pops,” a muted modern descendant of which is the children’s game Hot Cockles.49

The reference to yet another kind of an unruly game that originates in lay culture is another indication of potential connections between the performances that the ToMP opposes and the episodes that compose the mystery cycles. Once again we must imagine the actors playing the popular game in performance, that is, beyond the written script, most likely arousing the spectators’ excitement. This also goes very well with the terminology used in the ToMP that compares those who “lowyn and japen of the miraclis of God” [laugh and jape at the miracles of God] (97, 136–7) to the “Jewis that bobbiden Christ” (97, 133) [ Jews that struck/ mocked Christ], giving the performers and spectators a reason to exaggerate the brutality of the game. G. R. Owst documents a similar game


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before Annas and Caiaphas Christ is mocked for his ability to perform miracles:

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A common game in use nowadays is that which the soldiers played with Christ at his Passion: it is called the bobbid game. In this game, one of the company will be blindfold and set in a prone position; then those standing by will hit him on the head and say—“A bobbid. A bobbid, abiliried: Smyte [blow] not her [here], but thu smyte a gode!” And as often as the former may fail to guess correctly and rede amys [reads/ calls a mistake], he has to play a fresh game. And so, until he rede [reads] him that smote him, he will be blindfold stille and hold in for the post of player. 50

The repetition of the game until the “player” discovers the identity of the one hitting him resembles the repetition of the “somergame” and also the repetitive structure of an episode in a mystery play that would be performed many times. In these two plays from the York cycle the three concepts we have been examining—“game” as in the “somergame,” “game” as an event, and “game” as in the performance of the miracles or the divinity of Christ— are all interwoven in ways that suggest the relevance of applying the ToMP to the analysis of concepts of performance that typify the mystery plays. Both episodes also share a surprising number of thematic and textual common denominators with the ToMP.51 It is hard to suggest a direct connection between the texts, and yet evidence of the performance of the two plays exists from at least as early as 1415, which comfortably matches the dating of the ToMP (1380–1425). The following citations from the 1415 Ordo Paginarum (“Order of the Pageants”) summarize the happenings in the performances demonstrating (in addition to the textual evidence the plays supply) that a “miracle” was performed and that violence was used: Couureours

[Curriers

Petrus Iacobus & Iohannes Iesus ascendens in montem & transfigurans apparentes et Peter, James, and John, Jesus ascending the mount and transfiguring appearing, and ]52

and Bowers Flecchers

nas Cayphas et iiijor Iudei percucientes [et] colantes Iesum Petrus Mulier accusans Petrum & Malchus.


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from a fifteenth-century sermon (c. 1420), according to which the “bobbing” of Christ was also a game:

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In The Transfiguration, as Clifford Davidson writes, “Christ’s divine power—power joined to humility—finds particular expression.”54 In fact, the action in this play— Christ’s miraculously proving to his apostles and to Moses and Elijah by the actual intervention of God the Father that he really is divine— concisely expresses one of the questions implicitly raised in the ToMP: the problematics of performing Christ or God performing a miracle: [m]uch more God and all his seintes denien alle tho cristen men unkinde that pleyen or favouren the pley of the deth or of the miracles of ther most kinde fadir Crist that diede and wroughte miraclis to bringen men to the everlastande heretage of hevene. [[m]uch more God and all his saints deny all those unkind Christian men that play or favor the play of the death or of the miracles of their most kind father Christ that did and performed miracles in order to bring men to the everlasting heritage of heaven.] (106, 437–40)

In this passage, as in many other lines in the ToMP, the writer’s characterization of the plays is serious. Christ’s death and miracles are not compared to amusing games that in this context would obviously be forbidden, but to the actual idea of playing with these events and taking them out of their original context. In The Transfiguration Peter describes the miracle that Jesus has just performed: Petrus: His clothyng is as white as snowe, His face schynes as þe sonne; To speke with hym I haue grete awe, Swilk faire before was neuere fune.

Peter: His clothing is as white as snow His face shines as the sun I am in great awe of speaking with him Such an event never happened before. (195, 97–100)

Stunned by this appearance John suggests: Johannes: I rede we aske þam all on rowe And grope þam how þis game is begonne.

John: I suggest we ask them in order And question them how this game began. (195, 103–4)


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[Bowers <Jesus, An>nas, Caiaphas, and four Jews Fletchers striking [and] bufing Jesus, Peter, the woman accusing Peter, and Malchus]53


49

Anna: Do sir bidde am bring in þat boy þat is bune. Cayphas: Pese now sir Anna, be stille and late hym stande, And late vs grope yf þis gome be grathly begune. Anna: Sir þis game is begune of þe best, Nowe hadde he no force for to f lee þame. (248, 202–6) [Annas: Do, sir, tell them to bring in that boy that is bound. Caiaphas: Peace, now, Sir Annas; be still, and let him stand, And let us see if this game can begin. Annas: Sir, this game has begun for the best. Now he cannot f lee them.]

In these two references from the York cycle, the use of the word “game” is similar to its use in the religious poem where it denotes the Crucifixion. In both cases it contextualizes a happening that involves brutal treatment of Jesus. Finally, there is a third use of the word “game” that ties together the “somergame,” the real events of brutality that were performed on Christ, and the sense of a dramatic production such as the performances of the mystery plays themselves. Evidence of this use appears in the midfifteenth-century proclamation of the N-Town plays that introduces and narrates what is about to be performed. This passage describes the episode after the Fall where God will express his anger toward Adam and Eve: Tercius Vexillator: ... Oure Lord gan appose þem of þer gret delyte, Bothe to askuse hem of þat synful blame. And þan Almythy God for þat gret dyspite Assygned hem grevous peyn, as зe xal se in game, Indede.


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This sense of the word “game” as an event, as a real happening and one that also includes the humiliating of Christ, appears in Christ before Annas and Caiaphas:

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[Third Flag Bearer: Our Lord began interrogating them about their great sin, So that they both might exonerate themselves of that sinful blame. And then almighty God for that great disobedience Assigned them grievous pain, as you shall indeed see in the game.] (1; 44–49)55

Although here the word “game” clearly indicates the dramatic performance that is about to be seen, it is noteworthy that it is associated with the pain that Adam and Eve are about to suffer. “Game” in the sense of the dramatic performance appears twice more in the N-Town proclamation, toward its very end: Trecius Vexillator: Now haue we told зow all bedene The hool mater þat we thynke to play. Whan þat зe come þer xal зe sene This game wel pleyd in good away. Of Holy Wrytte þis game xal bene, And of no fablys be no way. [Third Flag Bearer: Now we have told you altogether The whole matter that we are about to play. When you come there you shall see This game well played in good a way Of Holy Scriptures this game shall be, And not of any lies.] (1:21, 516–21)56

All these examples demonstrate the complex and diverse uses of the word “game” (which is very often linked with “play”). This word therefore denotes not only reenactments of scriptural episodes but also, and more important, real happenings with real consequences for the participants—performers and spectators alike. These meanings of the words “game” and “play” suggest that such events as the ones mentioned all share something of the “performative.” In other words, a “game” or a “play” in late medieval terminology is a performative event where something real happens really; the event takes place not only in a fictional, or represented, place and time but also here and now. An actor playing Jesus need not really die on the cross in order to experience real pain or really be at risk, just as a spectator need not believe that the actor is really dying as Christ in order to experience real anxiety


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In all these theatrical moments of extreme jeopardy, the pleasures, perils, and pains of pretense are suspended as the audience determine whether or not they have witnessed— or are witnessing—real death, whether or not any given spectacle is imitating or enacting performativity. What all our stories underscore so anxiously is the dreaded moment when theatrical events are not quite representation and not quite reality.58

In addition to the complex use of the word “game” it should be noted that further in the York Transfiguration other references to the wondrous events are termed “signs,” “works,” and “miracles,” words that all appear in a similar context in the ToMP. In order to “testify” that Jesus really is the Son of God, God the Father appears miraculously out of a descending cloud: Pater in nube: Þis is my sone, as зe haue saide, As he has schewed by sygnes sere. Of all his werkis I am wele paied, Therefore till hym takis hede and here.

God the Father in a cloud: This is my Son, as you have said, As he has shown you by signs here. With all his works I am very pleased, Therefore take heed to him and hear. (196, 173–6)

And a few lines later Peter describes his experience and refers to the disappearance of Moses and Elijah who were summoned from hell “at dongeoun” (line 128) to take part in the miracle: Petrus: A, lorde, what may is meruayle be, Whedir is þis glorious gelme al gone? We asugh here pleynly persons thre And nowe is oure lorde lete allone. Þis meruayle movis my mynde, And makis my f lessh affrayed.

Peter: Ah, lord! What is this marvel? Where has this glorious gleam gone? We saw here three plain persons, And now our lord is left alone. This marvel moves my mind, And makes my f lesh afraid. (197, 185–90)

As all metaphysical events performed in the mystery plays, simple theatrical tricks could be used for their sudden disappearance, such as traps underneath the performing platform and the like, demonstrating a


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and pity for the suffering actor as well as for the suffering Christ. Jody Enders analyzes this phenomenon in relation to what she terms a medieval “urban legend” about a priest who played Christ being crucified in a passion play and according to the story “would have died had he not been rescued.”57 She writes:

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Bothe for these miraclis pleyinge been verrey leesing as they ben signis withoute dede and for they been verrey idilnesse, as they taken the miraclis of God in idil after theire owne lsut. [These miraclis playing are both very false since they are signs without deeds and very futile, since they use the miracles of God idly for their own lust.] (99, 207–209)

Indeed, one of the recurring arguments in the ToMP is that playing and “bourding” with “the most precious werkis of God” means that one “takith his name in idil and so misusith oure byleve” [takes his name idly and so misuses our belief ] (93, 27–9). There is a concern, or even fear, expressed here about changing the clearly defined context of religious themes, stories, and images, especially where miracles are concerned. There is a difference between telling or knowing about a certain event, or even creating a two- dimensional image of it, “a deed bok” [a dead book] (98, 185), and performing it materially and “quickly” [live], “for sothely whan we so doun, drede to sinne is takun awey” [for surely when we do so, dread of sinning is taken away] (94, 33–4). In other words, making the abstract and awe-inspiring tangible and material neutralizes the effect. Based on examining the complex and multi-meanings of words such as “miraclis,”60 “game,” “play,” and “sign,” which are all closely related to the social and cultural realm of performance, it can be concluded that they denote complex activities and phenomena that exist on the threshold between what is real life and what is not. Therefore, we may and should read in the ToMP aesthetics that are relevant to a wide range of late medieval performances including the religious vernacular theatre. Conclusion Based on the relations between popular performative events and the authorized civic Corpus Christi cycles two main conclusions emerge. First, late medieval religious vernacular theatre derives its coherence, power, and efficacy not only from its devotional nature, but also from its performative relations to the real and earthly life of its producers and spectators. These performances, as Jody Enders writes about Crucifixion episodes and passion plays, “were involved in a theatrical genre that did something real in real life and to real life.”61 In the terminology of conventional theatre semiotics, characterizing this theatre solely as “devotional” focuses the analysis almost only on the textual and referential


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“miracle” but obviously not performing a real one.59 This turns the theatrical miracles into “signs without deeds” as in the ToMP:

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level of the scriptural narratives that are enacted and on their didactic messages. Such interpretations, however, tend to exclude extratextual components of these performances, such as the insertion of lay folklore and customs, the use of various kinds of anachronisms that connected the biblical past with the concrete present, audience interaction and participation, class struggles and social hierarchies, ritualistic validation of social status and identity, and performance as game in all its complex meanings. The second conclusion is that whether the ToMP was written as an objection to the performance of religious theatre in general (as has previously been assumed and as I believe it was), or whether its objects of study were unruly “miracula,” we can and should examine its relevance to the analysis of the late medieval aesthetic discourse and concepts of performance in religious vernacular theatre. Beyond the connections between the two performative “genres,” the word “miraclis” in the text repeatedly refers to Christ’s miracles, thus suggesting that the ToMP is not limited to one kind of parodic event but rather refers to the more general phenomenon of performing religious subject matter. Moreover, in many places the text characterizes the performances under attack not necessarily as parodic but as events that take the sacred actions of God out of the restricted context of religious ritual into the playful and potentially destabilizing arena of performance and game. Based on these conclusions, the next chapter examines four concepts of performance that can be reconstructed through the ToMP and which are closely relevant to the theatricality of the mystery plays, demonstrating the existence of late medieval aesthetic discourse and theory of performance.


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CONCEPTS OF PERFORMANCE IN A TRETISE OF MIRACLIS PLEYINGE

I

f “miraclis pleyinge” is performance according to the meanings discussed in the previous chapter, what, then, are the concepts of performance and aesthetic attitudes that characterize religious vernacular theatre and that can be reconstructed through study of the ToMP? Perhaps the most straightforward indication of the negotiation of aesthetic concepts in the tract are the objections to “miraclis pleyinge” that emanate from the performances’ divergence from painted images of the same subjects. The emphasis on the liveness of performance as opposed to the static nature of a painting is a clear example of an aesthetic concept, that is, a tenet that uniquely defines a specific artistic medium, such as one which distinguishes theatre and performance from other artistic forms. Other relevant aesthetic issues are: How does a performance relate, involve, and engage an audience? What are the means of performance that create an effective experience? What are the specific needs and characteristics of “religious theatre”? How does such theatre conceive of actor/character dialectics, especially in the distinctive case of enacting holy figures? That is, how is the very place that actors stand in in this kind of theatre regarded by their contemporaries? Identifying such concerns in the text is vital not only in order to demonstrate the very existence of an aesthetic performance discourse, but also to articulate such aesthetic attitudes, so that a poetics of religious theatre in general might emerge. It seems that the religious raison d’être has been taken as such an obvious premise of late medieval theatre that the discussion of performance aesthetics and intentionality became secondary to the social and devotional goals that supposedly “use” art in “only” a “functional” manner. However, not only is didactic theatre built upon the foundation of an aesthetic (as, for example, twentieth- century propaganda theatre well


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CHAPTER 2

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demonstrates), but also, as the ToMP argues, once religious themes enter the playground of theatre and performance, “disinterested” elements distinct from the devotional framework, such as aesthetics, also surface. The ToMP is a foundation document through which we may examine these aspects of the late medieval theatre. At least four concepts of performance can be located in the ToMP that are closely related to central characteristics of the vernacular mystery plays and that also indicate the interest that the religious theatre had in purposefully differentiating between the actor and the enacted role. This differentiation posits the actor as a mediator who connects spectators with the holy characters while simultaneously maintaining his own identity as distinct from the character which is being performed. The character’s holiness, fixed identity, and remoteness, on the one hand, and the actor’s shared identity with the audience members on the other, are the main rationale behind this phenomenon. This evokes a complex message that includes the scriptural events being enacted but that also enables expression of the community’s present culture and concerns. The first concept of performance examined here is contrariety and simultaneity—the dialectical coexistence of different ontological levels of performance, that is, the deliberate simultaneous presence of the performing function (an actor in a town in the present) alongside the performed function (a character in a mythical/fictional space such as paradise or Jerusalem in the time of the sacred history). This principle echoes another form of contrariety and simultaneity that is also central to medieval theatre aesthetics—the concurrent positioning of parallel or opposite thematic images.1 Contrariety and simultaneity are relevant specifically to the idea of the actor as mediator, or more precisely, to the double voice that is heard through his enactment. This concept best exemplifies the acting model that dominated the enactment of holy characters, and the doubleness it creates is precisely the factor that disturbs the writer or writers of the treatise. Demonstrating that the ToMP indeed characterizes religious theatre as a site of “contrariety” leads to the second concept of performance, central to the tract, and which deals with the idea that such performances are merely signs and therefore “unreal.” My discussion of performance, signification, and efficacy revolves around the relation between performing as mimesis (playing, imitating, signifying) and performing as doing something in real life (for example, the difference between imitating bodily pain and really suffering). The differentiation between an imitation and a real act leads further to the question of the ability of a performance (a sign) to be efficacious: to have results in real life. As we shall see, oppositely to the ToMP’s ideology, Richard Schechner suggests that “efficacy


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and entertainment are not so much opposed to each other; rather they form the poles of a continuum.”2 Whereas the ToMP criticizes “miraclis pleyinge” for being mere entertainments, the creators and defenders of the plays see their efficacious (devotional, ritualistic) power. The question of efficacy is the basis for the third concept of performance, emotionality. This area includes the gestural, coded, and expressive performance of emotions by the players as well as by the spectators, the emotional identification of the audience with the content of the performance, and the ToMP’s problematization of the kind of emotional appeal and effect that this theatre creates. The fourth concept, communality, looks at the theatrical event as it pertains to the interaction with and participation of the spectators, all of whom belong to the same community. Accordingly, the significance of the performance is derived from communal identification and local anachronisms and references on the one hand and the relations between the community and the plays concerning matters of material production, cost, and finances on the other. Contrariety and Simultaneity: “As the voice of Crist and the voice of the f lyesh ben of two contrarious lordis” As discussed in the previous chapter, the religious vernacular theatre simultaneously occupied different ontological levels during performance, most notably, the interplay between religious texts and context on the one hand and folklore and playfulness on the other. This theatre comfortably brought together the highest, most sacred metaphysical themes alongside society’s mundane and concrete concerns. The religious characteristic of the mystery plays, however, has performative implications that far exceed the conf lated nature of this subsequent mixture of genres. In contrast to religious pictorial art (painting or sculpture), the agency of the actor, who is present in the theatrical medium as the performance takes place (as opposed to a painter who is physically absent from a spectator’s experience of viewing a painting), cannot be overlooked or ignored. An image of Christ in a painting does not constantly refer to the artist, whereas the nature of drama and the physical reality of acting constantly does, at the expense, it could be argued, of achieving an exclusive focus on Christ or any other sacred character, which is the primary goal of devotional theatre.3 It is appropriate, therefore, to compare the actor in the religious theatre to a preacher, who also mediates between an audience and the message he takes upon himself to transmit performatively. Although Marianne G. Briscoe suggests that preaching and sermons were as enthusiastically


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A T R ET ISE OF M I R ACL IS PL E Y I NG E

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received by audiences as the plays, and could “enhance the recreational or festive motives, as well as the didactic goals, of late medieval dramatic entertainment”4 there are significant differences between the two. Erick Kelemen discusses the theoretical stance of the ToMP as differentiating between preaching (which is good) and acting in the theatre (which is bad) because of the former’s efficacy in converting the people to religious goals, as opposed to the supposed failure of theatre at such a task. Evidence in the ToMP of such a comparative discourse appears in arguments such as: [. . .] for siche pleyinge men as myche honoryn (or more than) the word of God whanne it is prechid, and therfore blasfemely they seyen that siche pleyinge doith more good than the word of God whanne it is prechid to the puple. [[. . .] for men honor such playing as much— or more than— the word of God when it is preached, and therefore blasphemously they say that such playing does more good than the word of God when it is preached to the people.] (111–2, 629–33)

Referring to the performativity of preaching as based on the act of quoting, Kelemen suggests that “quotation is itself a kind of mimesis, a performance of the quoted speaker by the speaker who quotes. [. . .] In direct quotation one both speaks as another and allows another to speak through one.”5 Kelemen sees the preacher as a performer who leaps from his secure professional identity into that of a character whom he quotes, performing what Briscoe terms “sacred oratory.”6 This is quite similar to the performative situation of the actor, and yet there is a significant difference: whereas the preacher maintains his authorial identity as a religious person during the performance, the actor’s own identity, as opposed to that of the character, is more intricate and not as easy to define, if only for the fact that an actor is dressed up like the character rather than in a preacher’s outfit. However, the actor’s self, as opposed to the professional identity of the preacher, is quite the same as the selves of the audience members, a doubleness that is intensified in roles such as God, Jesus, or Mary. Thus a performer in this religious theatre is inherently contradictory: while he is an enactor of the most sacred and spiritual characters, he is also simultaneously physically present in his own impure f leshly existence. Moreover, whereas a preacher appears before an audience in a religiously restricted context, in the theatre of the mystery plays, nurtured by lay sources no less than by liturgical drama, the actor/character contrariety ref lects that combination of elevated and popular culture. This conjoining of “high” and “low” into one is ultimately conf lated in the very body of the performer. A performer in the mystery plays both plays in the Huizingian sense of play and game and simultaneously


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stands in for a character and therefore plays (mimetically) sacred personas. The spectators, similarly, participate in an event through which they are meant to witness the eternal truths on which their lives and belief system depend, while, at the same time, that event is also enjoyable to the senses. Whereas this doubleness might seem perfectly reasonable to the creators of medieval theatre, as well as to a contemporary theatergoer, one can understand why, from a certain religious point of view (such as that of the ToMP), this duality might be problematic. In the first section of the ToMP there are a few lines which are relevant to this very question because they characterize and criticize “miraclis pleyinge” as a simultaneous and therefore contrary situation: And sithen no man may serven two lordis togydere, as seith Crist in his gospel, no man may heren at onys efectuely the voice of oure maister Crist and of his owne lustis. And sithen miraclis pleyinge is of the lustis of the f leyssh and mirthe of the body, no man may efectuely heeren hem and the voice of Crist at onys, as the voice of Crist and the voice of the f leysh ben of two contrarious lordis. [And since no man can serve two lords together, as Christ said in his gospel,7 no man can hear at once effectually the voice of our master Christ and of his own lust. And since miraclis playing belongs to the lust of the f lesh and mirth of the body, no man can effectually hear himself and the voice of Christ at once, since the voice of Christ and the voice of the f lesh belong to two contrary lords.] (96; 109–15)

These lines straightforwardly mark the performances as claiming to offer an experientially singular experience, while they instead offer a twofold experience that conf lates the human and the holy and is therefore considered mutually contradictory by the ToMP. The lines echo (negatively) the Horatian dictum according to which poetry (drama) should teach and delight at once, an idea repeated over and over again throughout the history of theatre theory: “But he who, mixing grave and gay, can teach / And yet give pleasure, gains a vote from each.”8 The lines in the ToMP focus on people who hear or claim to hear the “voice of Christ” but who in fact do not hear him because they are simultaneously attentive to the f leshly “voice” that is occupied with the “mirth of the body.” It can be deduced, however, from this argument that supporters of “miraclis pleyinge” did not object to such a simultaneous performative process, as indeed the fifth reason quoted in favor of the performances implies: Also summe recreacion men moten han, and bettere it is (or lesse yvele) that they han theire recreacion by pleyinge of miraclis than by pleyinge of other japis. [Also men must have some recreation, and it is better (or less


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However, the standpoint of the ToMP is that the voice of Christ cannot be heard in such a performance because of the audience members’ focus on the voice of their own pleasures. In other words, according to the ToMP, although the “miraclis” claim to sound the voice of Christ, it is, in fact, not present in their corporeal rendition. The text’s differentiation between the voice of Christ and that of the f lesh is very reminiscent of the typical medieval dichotomy between the body and the soul which, as discussed below, is also central to the ToMP’s argument against the concept of “playing,” which is analyzed in the tract through various biblical sources. On a metaphorical level the body or the f lesh expresses the earthly pleasures of the participants in “miraclis pleyinge,” whereas the soul is the abstract and spiritual “voice of Christ” that is allegedly conveyed through these performances. It is possible, however, that the text’s emphasis on the f lesh and the body could also be interpreted in a relevant way on a more literal level, regarding the very palpable body and voice of an actor in performance. I raise this option because of the line that says that “no man may efectuely heeren hem and the voice of Crist at onys, as the voice of Crist and the voice of the f leysh ben of two contrarious lordis,” and which creates a parallelism between Christ and “the f lesh”— comparing them to the “two lords” who cannot be served together. Even if these sentences refer only to playful experience and are written metaphorically,9 they provide evidence of theoretical awareness of the complexity of the performative dilemma of representing Christ or religious subjects in general. This passage establishes the idea that performance was recognized as multichanneled and dialogic and that, at least for the ToMP author, this was not a desirable situation.10 Surely within strictly religious rituals there are human agents who represent holy concepts and yet whose actions or interaction need not be regarded as “contrarious,” as they are in the cultural arena of a theatre performance. The argument that stands behind these lines also establishes that, due to the explicit intention to sound the “voice of Christ” while simultaneously enabling an earthly experience for spectators, “miraclis pleyinge” cannot be viewed merely as unruly games. Finally, if the actor in the role of Christ is the literal producer of both “voices,” theoretically he becomes the most concentrated locus of the ToMP’s argument and can thus be defined as both a simultaneous and contrary figure. Let us now examine the meaning of these pivotal lines from the ToMP in relation to the whole text and to the performance of religious theatre


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evil) that they have their recreation by playing miracles than by playing other japes.] (98, 176–8)

in general. The paragraph opens with a metaphor involving a master and a servant. The argument is clear: no one can (or should) serve two masters (“lordis”) simultaneously (“at onys”). The chaotic potential of such a situation is masterfully explored, for example, in Carlo Goldoni’s 1745 comedy, The Servant of Two Masters (Arlecchino servitore di due padroni). The two “lordis” in the opening metaphor refer to the double goal that “miraclis pleyinge” either aims to achieve or achieves de facto: devotion and recreation (or self-indulgence). This argument against simultaneity and doubleness, which is also characterized as contrariety, is a concept of performance articulated in the text. In this expository section the author articulates this central and essential characteristic of theatrical performance—its complex and multichanneled appeal. In this sense the ToMP itself negates the dichotomy between unruly games and “devotional theatre” as it lucidly delineates the impossibility of focusing solely and ultimately on the “voice” of Christ when he is reenacted—regardless of the performance context. The ToMP rigidly calls for a monologic situation in which meditation on Christ is not disrupted by a mediator— whether that be the enjoyment spectators gain from the performances or the very doubleness that occurs by the act of enacting Christ and his deeds. The author’s criticism and quest for a unified and single “lord” or “voice” fit very well with Sarah Beckwith’s analysis of the ideological changes regarding mysticism that were evolving during this approximate period because of the growth of vernacular language, changes that are also relevant to religious vernacular theatre: It matters little to the expressive spirit what language it speaks, for the language is the mere vehicle of its message. And it matters little that the mystical text, like any other text, is dialogic, because it was thought to be the monologue, the one voice of God Himself. But in fact the increasing use of the vernacular has a crucial effect, a simple but powerful one, for it means precisely that there is a renewed attention to the way that language actually affects what is being expressed. And once this relationship is acknowledged, the monolithic claims to speak for an oracular authority become markedly less convincing.11

The use of the vernacular draws attention to the language itself, to the mediator of the text, image, or idea, and can be compared to the function of performance or of the performer as analogous transmitters that interfere with the abstract voice of Christ through “f leshly” means. Both phenomena not only turn the holy into something tangible and reachable, the detrimental effect of which is a central claim in the ToMP against “miraclis pleyinge” in general, but they also divest the holy of its definition as sui generis.


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A straightforward reading of the aforementioned lines from the ToMP suggests that its criticism is indeed addressed to the impossibility of legitimately combining play and bodily pleasure with religious seriousness. This is because one cannot hear his/her own bodily voice concurrently with that of Christ. However, the final line of the paragraph, quoted as the heading of this section—“as the voice of Crist and the voice of the f leysh ben of two contrarious lordis”— creates a methodological comparison between Christ and “the f lesh.” If we understand “the f lesh” to mean a human being, and if we consider the literal meaning of “voice” to be the sound and words expressed by such an agent, could this line imply the performer? He who uses his own f leshly voice in order to express Christ’s? This dialogic mechanism, which is at the basis of any theatrical performance, might have been contested by the author of the ToMP because it creates an “at onys” situation that is “contrarious.” And yet, although most likely these lines do not refer directly to performers, even if they focus merely on the spectatorial experience and the incompatibility of the enactment of sacred themes with bodily festive enjoyment, the text’s emphasis on terminology that is so inherently theatrical—“voice” and “f lesh” (body)—indicates awareness of the double being of the performer. This doubleness is clearly present, if only in that the performers themselves heard their own voices as they spoke the words of Christ and were involved in the same social and communal goals as the spectators. From this perspective, I recall Erick Kelemen’s observation, about a preacher who “demonstrates” a character’s actions, jumping in and out of his identity as preacher but nevertheless consistently maintaining it, as opposed to a performer in the medieval religious theatre who during performance inevitably hears “at onys” his own voice and that of Christ.12 Moreover, the ToMP repeatedly argues that the very playing of or with Christ’s life, death, and miracles reduces the honor he deserves because it turns his divinity into something tangible. Particularly illuminating is the comparison made between Christ and one’s earthly father. The writer says that just as one would not put on a play of his own father’s death and suffering, doing this about God should obviously be forbidden: For if thou haddist had a fadir that hadde suffred a dispitouse deth to geten thee thin heritage, and thou therafter woldest so lightly hern it to make therof a pley to the and to alle the puple, no dowte but that alle gode men wolden denien the unkinde, miche more God and alle his seintes denien alle tho cristen men unkinde that pleyen or favouren the pley of the deth or of the miracles of ther most kinde fadir Crist that diede and wroughte miraclis to bringen men to the everelastande heretage of hevene. [For if you had had a father that had suffered a contemptuous death in order to get you


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your heritage, thereafter would you so lightly use it to make of it a play for you and for all the people? No doubt but that all good men would deny this unkind thing, much more God and all his saints deny all those unkind Christian men that play or favor the play of the death or of the miracles of their most kind father Christ that did and performed miracles in order to bring men to the everlasting heritage of heaven.] (106, 432–41)

This comparison is interesting in relation to the concept of contrariety because it suggests that performance is not the appropriate outlet for mourning the loss of something or someone one really cares about. Just as people mourn their own fathers through the specific rituals created for this purpose, so should they for their godly father. Thus, liturgical performances within the church were not based on the enactment or representation of Christ and his sufferings. Hence the centrality of the Qeum Queritis trope and the Resurrection episode as the beginning of liturgical drama, an arena which, in the words of Thomas P. Campbell, “is defined artistically by absence, rather than presence: he is risen because he is not here.”13 The contrariety between the “voice of Christ” and that of the “f lesh” is reinforced in the second part of the ToMP. In this section the author gives several examples from the Old Testament that “prove” the destructiveness of playing (“ludere” in the Vulgate), two of which emphasize the ultimate contrariety between spirit and f lesh. The first example is based on the biblical instance of Ishmael (f lesh) who played with and laughed at Isaac (spirit): And Sarah saw the son of Hagar the Egyptian, which she had born unto Abraham laughing/playing. Wherefore she said unto Abraham, cast out this bondwoman and her son: for the son of this bondwoman shall not be heir with my son, even with Isaac. (Genesis 21:9–10)14

The ToMP discusses the implications of this incident at length (lines 461–544) and repeatedly emphasizes the dichotomy between Ishmael and Isaac, who prefigure the war between the f lesh and the spirit. The argument is: [T]han pleyinge that is f leschely with the werkis of the spirit is to harming of ever either, and most schal the f leysh hurtyn the spirit, as in suche pleyinge the f leysh is most meintenyd and the spirite lasse. And as in good thingis the figuride is evermore bettere than that that is figure, so in yvel thingis that that is figurid is fer werse than the figure; than sithen the plaeyinge of Ismael with Isaac is figure of the pleyinge of the f leysh with the spirit, and the ton is yvel, thanne fer werse is the tother. [Then playing


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that is f leshly with the works of the spirit is so harming of each other, and mostly shall the f lesh hurt the spirit, as in such playing the f lesh is most maintained and the spirit less. And as in good things the figured is always better than that which figures, so in evil things the figured is far worse than the figure; then since the playing of Ishmael with Isaac is a figuration of the playing of the f lesh with the spirit, and the first one is evil, than far worse is the other.] (107–8, 490–8)15

But whereas scholars such as Jonas Barish regard the ToMP’s metaphor and those that follow as inexact allegories, I believe that the text is very consistent and specific in its choice of biblical examples. In spite of his negative attitude toward the ToMP’s rhetoric, Barish correctly interprets this specific use of the Isaac and Ishmael dichotomy. He suggests that “the playing of the boys frightens Sara because it symbolizes an intimacy and a potential equality between the two which might one day imperil Isaac’s inheritance.”16 It is true that the idea of “playing” is not invoked in any of the biblical examples in the ToMP in order to literally denote theatrical performance or impersonation, but rather in order to characterize the liminality of “playfulness.” Yet the idea expressed here that playing can dangerously bring together two parties that “should” be held apart corresponds exactly to the fear expressed in the ToMP that playing “with” God might portray him as too close and thus too familiar. This corresponds to the “competition” between the “voices” of Christ and of the “f lesh.” Similarly, in the second biblical example, concerning the war between the parties of Abner and Joab and the ensuing bloodshed, the ToMP is again very specific in its target. The biblical reference is: And Abner said to Joab, let the young men now arise, and play before us. And Joab said, Let them arise. Then they arose and went over by number twelve of Benjamin, which pertained to Ishbosheth the son of Saul, and twelve of the servants of David. And they caught every one his fellow by the head, and thrust his sword in his fellow’s side; so they fell down together; wherefore that place was called Helkath-hazzurim, which is in Gibeon. (2 Samuel 2: 14–16)17

The literal reason to use this reference according to the ToMP is to portray the outcome of a war between two contrary parties, as is the case with the spirit and the f lesh: If this, frend, wil not suffisen to thee that the eyghen of the blind wite takun sighte, take hede how the pleyinge of two contrary partis togidere, as of the pleyinge of the childre of Abner and the childre of Joab weren thre hundrid men and sixty sleyn and mo, out of doute myche more harm


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doth pleyinge of gostly werkis after lustus of the f leysh as they ben more enemies. [If this, friend, will not suffice thee while the eye of the blind would take sight, take heed of how the playing of two contrary parties together, as the playing of the children of Abner and the children of Joab wherein three hundred men and sixty were slain and died,18 undoubtedly much more harmful is the playing of the ghostly works after the lust of the f lesh as they are greater enemies.] (109, 545–51)

Even on this literal level of interpretation the metaphor is clear and striking: combining the f lesh and the spirit creates a dangerous situation. The author of the ToMP did not necessarily have in mind the specific idea of an actor playing Christ, but the body of the performer is the ultimate site of inclusion/confrontation of f lesh (actor) and spirit (Christ/character). Additionally, this biblical incident is one that starts with play (employing a literal understanding of the Hebrew word “ ” “yeshachaku,” which means “play,” though in the biblical context it can also mean “quarrel”) and ends with bloodshed; in other words, this is a situation that gets out of control. As we have seen, many of the unruly games and episodes in the mystery plays include violence and might have this potential. The producers of the plays or those who supported producing them most likely did not view this contrariety between “f lesh” and “spirit” as dangerous in the same way that the ToMP does— or they would not have presented the plays. This indeed fits the model of simultaneity that characterizes the mystery plays. From the perspective of actor/character dialectics it is the copresence of both as a simultaneous and contrary stage persona that enabled both festive celebration and even theatrical transgression of contemporary identities as well as maintaining the distance and fixedness of the holy characters being represented. In other words, the dramaturgy, staging, and concepts of acting in this religious theatre were the outcome of an aesthetic intentional manipulation and emphasis of the ever-existing tension between performer and character. This phenomenon of a deliberate double, simultaneous, yet contrary performative appeal has echoes in almost every aspect of late medieval drama and performance. It is evident, for example, in the use of the theological code of figuration and of textual and performative anachronisms; the concept of dramatic space that enabled a paradoxical theatrical inclusion of heaven and hell within the world and on the streets of the city; the performance of time that comfortably absorbed the sacred past or future within the present; the spatial tension between the pageant wagons as “iconic sites” and the streets as platea;19 the use of masks and of crossdressing; performative paradoxes for ethical and religious reasons, such


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as the representation of nudity (Adam and Eve); theatrical situations where “postlapsarian shameful bodies” represented, for example, the “perfect body of Jesus Christ”;20 the fact that many actors played the same role; and so on. In addition, the aesthetic implication of simultaneity and contrariety, as is clear in medieval pictorial arts, is that almost any concept overtly signifies its other, that is, its “negative.” Contrariety, as an aesthetic concept, posits two (or more) elements, each dialectically and hierarchically ref lecting and signifying each other rather than trying to conceal the other. Vice and virtue, life and death, heaven and hell, good and bad, right and left, male and female, and similar dichotomies are all presented simultaneously. Unlike other hierarchical binaries in which only the dominant half is present while its other is nullified, in medieval thought and aesthetics—not by any means less hierarchical conceptually—the other is almost always symmetrically and overtly present. Any given image or concept becomes complete only in relation to its coexistence with its other.21 Actor/character dialectics were conceptualized similarly as part of the same aesthetic discourse that governed the different arts, as well as for the performative reasons discussed above. However, whereas juxtaposing two contrary images on stage or in a painting clearly and overtly differentiates between the two, acting is a much more liminal situation, because there cannot be a physical separation between the actor and the character except, for example, by the use of masks that simultaneously reveal the face of the performer and that of the character.22 In addition, this convention of duality, simultaneity, and contrariety was surely further complicated wherever the performance of the character of Christ was considered, since, as Ellen M. Ross emphasizes, “a fundamental affirmation of Jesus Christ’s humanity and divinity undergirds the plays.”23 This observation, which Ross uses as a point of departure for a textual analysis of this theological concept in the York and N-Town cycles, creates an extremely complex, almost impossible situation from the point of view of acting and performance. Whereas the question of performing the character of God the Father was conventionally solved by his occasional representation, in the words of Pamela Sheingorn, “with environmental realism as a kind of superpope,”24 the performance of the character of Christ was more problematic. Although from a theatrical point of view his humanity seemingly makes it easier for a human being to enact him—which led to scenes that demanded that the performers display and endure extreme physical effort, pain, and suffering— the question is, what happens, then, to his divinity?


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Acknowledging the difference between f lesh and spirit and between actor and character is therefore at the basis of an acting concept that deliberately performed this tension by use of a wide range of theatrical means.25 This process, however, did not rule out scenes that included illusionist techniques or extreme and total “realism,” in which actors were required to physically embody Christ’s sufferings. Rather, it helped articulate the late medieval concept of acting, which, as suggested in the next chapter, took place between epic theatricality that purposefully differentiated actor and character and total theatricality that phenomenologically did the same. “Fals wittnessenge” and “The licnesse of God”: Performance, Signification, and Efficacy The ToMP repeatedly distinguishes between something that is real (in the sense that it is believed to have really happened, such as Christ’s life, death, and miracles) and/or that has the performative power to change a situation (for example, to convert people, as religious ritual and preaching can), and between an action that is merely a sign or a signifier. “Miraclis pleyinge” is frequently defined in the text as no more than a sign, because the plays “misusith oure byleve” (93; 29) by playing the real, original, and “efectuel” miracles and works of God and also by giving these miracles a new context, and a new purpose: play. For example: For Crist seith that folc of avoutrie sechen siche singnys as a lecchour sechith signes of verry love but no dedis of verry love. So sithen thise miraclis pleyinge ben onely singis love withoute dedis, they ben not onely contrarious to the worschipe of God—that is bothe in signe and in dede—but also they ben ginnus of the devvel to cacchen men to byleve of Anticrist, as wordis of love withoute verry dede ben ginnys of the lecchour to cacchen felawchipe to fulfillinge of his leccherie. [For Christ said that idolatrous men strive for such signs as an adulterer seeks signs of real love but no deeds of real love. So since these miraclis playing are only signs of love without deeds, they are not only contrary to the worship of God—that is both in sign and in deed—but also they are devices of the devil to catch men to believe in Antichrist, as words of love without real deeds are devices of the lecher to catch fellowship to fulfill his lechery.] (99, 197–206)

Perhaps one of the most important appearances of this idea in the text seems to suggest that because these plays are merely signs, and whatever happens in them either does not really happen or is not taken seriously,


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And therfore many men wenen that ther is no helle of everlastinge peine, but that God doth but thretith us, not to do it in dede, as ben playinge of miraclis in signe and not in dede. [And therefore many men think that there is no hell of everlasting pain, but that God only threatens us, not to really do it, as is playing of miraclis in signs and not in deeds/for real.] (100, 255–58)

Consequently, “the convertinge that men semen to ben convertid by siche pleyinge is but feinyd holinesse, worse than is othere sinne biforehande.” [the converting that men seem to be converted by such playing is but feigned holiness, worse than is other sin beforehand.] (102, 323–26) Or, as stated in one more quotation along the same lines: And therfore as this feinyd recreacioun of pleyinge of miraclis is fals equite, so it is double shrewidnesse, worse than though they pleyiden pure vaniteis. For now the puple giveth credence to many mengid leesingis for othere mengid trewthis and maken wenen to been gode that is ful yvel, and so ofte sithis lasse yvele it were to pleyin rebaudye than to pleyin sich miriclis. [And therefore as this feigned recreation of playing of miraclis is false righteousness, so it is double shrewdness, worse than if they played pure vanities. For now the people give credence to many mixed lies for other mixed truths and made to think to be good that which is full of evil, and so often it is less evil to play obscenity than to play such miraclis.] (103–4, 357–63)

This final quotation problematizes the theatrical situation as a product that is “mixed,” and which therefore lacks the ability to present the truth. This paragraph seems to be hinting at the ways that performances differ and diverge from the scriptural events, perhaps by adding perspectives, narratives, and elements that do not appear in the original. Whether or not the ToMP is related directly to plays such as the episodes of the mystery cycles, one of the most essentially theatrical characteristics of these plays is that they add ideas and situations to the biblical events: in fact, any dramatization of a scriptural event, the very process of writing biblical texts in the form of a dialogue, in the vernacular, changes the origin, even if the play is completely faithful to the scripture, let alone cases where characters and comic elements are added. Surely in unruly games that were based on scriptural subjects there was even more room for adding or shifting viewpoints, which as the ToMP warns, creates liminal space that is “mixed,” and therefore has the potential to subversively


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people might think that concepts such as hell and punishment are unreal as well:

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enter and open up the tight space created by “a nail smiten in [that] holdith two thingis togidere.” (94, 37–8) In addition to the difficulty the treatise has with mixed signs, its central objection is to the signs themselves, in that they are 1) unreal (imitations) and therefore fail to represent the real (Christ and his deeds) and 2) unreal because they are not efficacious in turning people into believers. Whether or not the objection to “miraclis pleyinge” since they are only signs is a late medieval reworking of the Platonic rejection of mimesis,26 the ToMP conceptualizes the product of “miraclis pleyinge,” that is, the performance, as an unreal event because of its liveness and entertaining qualities on the one hand and its mimetic qualities on the other. This (negative) definition, demonstrates, nonetheless, another late medieval concept of performance. “Unreal” also means that the performances are considered nonefficacious, lacking the power to convert participants. An opposite view of performance became a central part of the theoretical discourse of performance in the twentieth century, with the rise of avant-garde performances that sought to renew ritualistic aspects of the theatre. Similarly to the ToMP, Richard Schechner offers to theorize performance on an “efficacy-entertainment” continuum. Whereas “efficacy” originates in the field of ritual, “entertainment” belongs to conventional theatre.27 The ToMP argues that performance cannot be efficacious because it is entertainment; from this perspective emphasis was laid on mirth, although creators of the medieval performances were confident in their ritualistically efficacious power.28 But, as Schechner writes, “no performance is pure efficacy or pure entertainment. The matter is complicated because one can look at specific performances from several vantages; changing perspectives changes classification.”29 However, although the ToMP defines the spectatorial experience as “fals wittnessenge” (102; 318), and the performance itself might be “vanite for a while” (97; 157), the world it aims to represent—the life and death of Christ, or in semiotic terms, its signified— surely is not. This differentiation between signifier and signified that is at the basis of all theatre semiotics has a special twist in the case of religious theatre that represents holy themes and sacred figures, especially within a believing community. Whereas in conventional theatre the performers (signifiers) are usually more real than the fictional world being enacted, in the unique case of late medieval religious theatre the characters and their “works” are considered to be more real. This is a paradoxical situation of representation, and according to the ToMP also a problematic one, because the “ghostly” is much more real and “everlasting” than the “f leshly.”


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In addition to the plays being “feigned tokens” and “unreal,” signification as opposed to efficacy means also (mis)using sacred themes by taking them out of the religious, noncontrary, ritualistic context that was specifically designed for them. It is the representational process, the very act of signifying that marks the difference, for the ToMP, between such theatrical activity and ritualistic or festive celebration in the adoration of God, even though these might include theatrical elements such as dance or singing. This is the meaning of the final biblical example of “playing” that the ToMP finds acceptable and that appears toward the very end of the text: Than, frend, yif we wilen algate pleyen, pleyne we as Davith pleyide bifore the harke of God, and as he spac byfor Michol his wif, dispising his pleyinge. [Then, friend, if we will in any case play, let us play as David played before the ark of God, and as he spoke before Michal his wife, despising his playing.] (114, 724–26)

Conventionally accepted interpretation of this biblical scene identifies the kind of playing that David performed before God as ritualistic and devotional (dance, music, and song), an activity that did not include character enacting or representation, and most significantly, was direct and unmediated, focusing on one and only one purpose: the glorification of God.30 Without understanding the context, this biblical example might indeed seem out of place, as Barish interprets it: At length, however, and quite without warning, the preacher introduces a use of ludere that completely undermines his own case. Unexpectedly he admits that there may be, after all, such a thing as godly playing. . . . In the passage at question (2 Samuel 6:20–21), David dances before the Lord to celebrate the bringing of the ark to Jerusalem, clad in nothing but the sleeveless ephod of the Israelite priests. Michal’s contemptuous reproof on this occasion, apparently for David’s frivolity, his exhibitionism seems very much in the vein of the Lollard preacher; her attitude toward David’s playing duplicates his toward theatrical playing. Why then should the preacher relent in this instance? . . . Clearly David’s dancing forms a far more telling precedent in favor of play than all the unfavorable instances together tell against it, and the homilist’s abrupt eleventh-hour endorsement of it merely underscores the fact that the whole case against ludere is a house of cards.31

Barish fails to realize the categorical difference between a “miraclis player” and David, who directly shows his adoration of God by means of play. Almost any religious ritual uses or can choose to use theatrical language or performance, just as theatre can aim to be religiously ritualistic,


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but what clearly marks theatre as different from ritual is mimesis and the agency of the actor who never ceases to be in the role of an actor. As suggested in the previous section on contrariety and simultaneity, the ToMP’s selection of biblical examples that involve different kinds of “playing” is not random but specific. The third scriptural “proof ” against “miraclis pleyinge” that the author invokes is the time when the people of Israel turned to the golden calf while Moses was on Mount Sinai. Here is the analogy: Rit forsothe as the licnesse of miraclis we clepen miraclis, right so the golden calfe the children of Israel clepiden it God, not for it was in itself, but for they maden it to the licnesse of God, in the whiche they hadden minde of the olde miraclis of God beforn and for that licnesse they worschipiden and preiseden, as they worschipiden and preisiden God in the dede of his miraclis to hem. [ Just as the likeness of miracles we call miraclis, so the golden calf which the children of Israel called God, not because it was God in itself, but because they made it in the likeness of God. What they had in mind were the old miracles of God before, which they worshiped and praised in that likeness, as they worshipped and praised God when he did his miracles for them. (112, 637–43).

The golden-calf episode is a straightforward biblical example of the potential danger of using and turning to graven images, and it definitely serves, in the context of the ToMP, to demonstrate the disparity between an unreal sign, which is in “the likeness of God,” and God’s real essence. This figurative event in scripture demonstrates both interpretations that are relevant to the performance/signification concept of performance. The golden calf is not only an unreal imitation, sign, or substitute for the real thing, but also represents the very process of trying to make the unreachable (Moses, Christ, God) tangible and material; it in fact changes the ritualistic context and meaning, and thus “misuses” belief. Further support for the argument that the ToMP theorizes about the tension and disparity between a sign and its signified specifically in regard to the performative representation of holy themes and figures can be found in the treatise Images and Pilgrimages.32 The similarity between the ToMP and IaP is striking. IaP specifically objects to the sculpting or painting of images of Christ. One of the main reasons for this opposition is that the images are made “wiþ greet cost” (83, 16), an idea that also appears in the ToMP (as discussed below regarding “communality”); like the ToMP the preacher here criticizes the people who invest their time and money in creating and adoring the images rather than “help þere pore neзeboris” [help their poor neighbors] (84, 61–2). These images are criticized because they are made with so much silver and gold that


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they not only falsely ref lect Christ’s suffering and penance but also they become attractive to believers because of their physical characteristics. Therefore: “now men shulden be nire gostly and take lesse hede to siche sensible signes” [now men should be more ghostly (spiritual) and take less heed to such sensible (tangible) signs] (84, 46–7). Again, in a manner similar to the ToMP the writer of this treatise differentiates between the reality of the original source of reverence and any imitation of it that inappropriately focuses attention on the craft and artistry of the creators. He recommends, rather, emulating the manner in which the apostles of Christ led people to heaven withouten siche newe peyntyngis schewid by manus craft, for oure lord God dwellis by grace in gode mennus soulis, and withoute comparesoun bettere than all ymagis made of man in ere, and bettwe an alle bodies if seyntis, be e bones of hem neuer so gloriously shreynyd in gold. [without such new paintings shown by people’s craft, for our lord God dwells by grace in good men’s souls, and incomparably better than all images made by man in earth, and better than all bodies of saints, are the bones of him never so gloriously enshrined in gold.] (84, 49–53)

It is true that whereas the ToMP condemns all “miraclis pleyinge,” the main target of IaP is the rich decoration of the images, which are not “a pore ymage made after þe lickenes of God” [a poor image made after the likeness of God] (85, 93–4). The ToMP is, however, like the IaP, ready to be tolerant of paintings if “they ben but as nakyd lettris to a clerk to tiden the treuthe” [they are but as naked letters to a clerk to read the truth] (104, 376–7). In addition to the analogous thematic concerns of both texts they also share many terminological and linguistic similarities. One of the most important ideas that IaP explicitly states— establishing the existence of a late medieval acknowledgment, theorization, and problematization of the difference and tension between a sign and its signified in the case of religious art/performance—is articulated as follows: Зit þe puple is foul disceyuyd by veyn trist in þes ymagis. For summe lewid folc wenen at þe ymagis doun verreyly þe myraclis of hemsilf, and at þis ymage of þe crucifix be Crist hymsilf, or þe seynt at þe ymage is þere sett for licknesse. And erfore þei seyn “þe swete rode of Bromholme,” “þe swete rode of Grace,” “þe swete rode at þe norþe dore,” “oure dere Lauedy of Walsyngham,” but nouзt “oure Lauedy of heuene,” ny “oure lord Iesu Crist of heuene,” but cleuen sadly strokande and kyssand þese olde stones and stokkis, layying doun hore grete offryngis, and maken avowis riзt þere to þes dede ymagis to come þe nexst зeer agayn, as зif þei weren Crist and


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oure Lauedy and Ion Baptist and Thomas of Caunterbery and siche oer. [Yet the people are foully deceived by vain trust in these images. For some unlearned folk think that the images really do the miracles by themselves, and that this image of the crucifix is Christ himself, or the saint whose image is set there for likeness. And therefore they say “the sweet rod of Bromholme,” “the sweet rod of Grace,” “the sweet rod at the north door,” “our dear Lady of Walsyngham,” but not “our Lady of heaven,” or “our Lord Jesus Christ of heaven,” but cling to their practice of sadly stroking and kissing these old stones and stocks, laying down their great offerings, and making vows right there to these dead images to come the next year again, as if they were Christ and our Lady and John the Baptist and Thomas of Canterbury and other such.] (87, 153–63)

The idea of these lines, as expressed throughout the rest of the treatise, is that the artifacts are so attractive (in this case because of their beauty and grandeur, and in the case of “miraclis pleyinge” because of their fun and mirth), that they become the spectators’ focus rather than their (genuinely real) signified objects. Moreover, IaP documents people’s belief in the artifacts’ efficacy and performativity. The implications and importance of this aspect of performance for our analysis and understanding of acting—the tension between the sign and the signified—is self-evident. Not only does it reveal that the performance or enactment of holy subjects was problematized, but also that because of this dilemma the aim of theatre creators, especially in devotional theatre, was to maintain this difference, and to declare that what takes place on stage is but a sign that merely represents the real and intangible persona. This strategy, again, does not contradict the fact that certain scenes would involve extreme “realism” or “total theatre,” or, as both the ToMP and IaP argue, that audiences might focus merely on the signs. “Wepinge bitere teris”: Emotionality and Performing Emotions The third argument that the ToMP quotes in favor of “miraclis pleyinge” vividly depicts the conventional behavior of spectators at such events: Also ofte sithis by siche miraclis pleyinge men and wymmen, seinge the passioun of Crist and of his seintis, ben movyd to compassion and devocion, wepinge bitere teris, thanne they ben not scorninge of God but worchiping. [Also often by such miraclis playing men and women, seeing the Passion of Christ and of his saints, are moved to compassion and devotion, weeping bitter tears, so they are not scorning God but worshiping.] (98, 162–4)


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This claim supplies an invaluable description of how audiences sometimes reacted to performances such as the Passion of Christ, and, moreover, discloses the coded behavior of audiences witnessing such performances. In other words, in order to perform devotion, one had to shed “bitter tears” publicly, being seen crying by his or her community members. That the defenders of “miraclis pleyinge” mark this behavior as proof that the plays should not be condemned reveals that tearful reaction denotes a coded criterion for an effective performance. Tears, according to the defenders of “miraclis pleyinge,” are the product that demonstrates a spectator’s religious excitement and authentic intentions. This image of a weeping audience suggests that the public expressive performance of emotions was a behavioral convention. What does a whole community “weeping bitter tears” sound like? This line in the text is theoretical evidence of yet another concept of performance that seems to have characterized late medieval religious theatre. According to the defenders of “miraclis pleyinge,” people are not expected to restrain their emotions but rather to express them loudly and publicly,33 and a performance’s success or efficacy is judged by its ability to stir emotions and move people to tears. Articulating the performance of emotions as coded behavior is categorically different from conceiving of late medieval performance discourse as uncontrollably emotional, as Norbert Elias claims in The Civilizing Process.34 The description of a weeping audience also gives us evidence of the energies and active role of the spectators in relation to the performances, as well as of an aesthetic discourse that existed and that had specific criteria for denoting “good” or “bad” performances. In other words, “weeping bitter tears” and displaying emotions is a concept of performance that addresses relations between performance and spectators and reception theory.35 Indeed, this tells us a great deal about the efforts made by the performers to evoke such emotional reactions from the audience. However, the ToMP argues that these performed emotions might not have been “real,” that is, were perhaps not unequivocally devotional and contemplative: Therfore right as the weping that men wepen ofte in siche pley comunely is fals witnessinge that they lovyn more the liking of theire body and of prosperite of the world than likinge in God and prosperite of vertu in the soule, and therfore, having more compassion of peine than of sinne, they falsly wepyn for lakking of bodily prosperite more than for lakking of gostly, as don dampnyd men in helle. [Therefore, just as the weeping that men weep often in such plays commonly is false witnessing because they love more the liking of their body and of prosperity of the world than liking God and


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The author of the ToMP does not believe that the public display of emotions is genuinely and solely focused on the idea of the original passion of Christ and his suffering, but rather believes that these performances create an opportunity for the spectators to cry for their own bodily situation and travails. Instead of the play reminding them solely of Christ, it reminds them of their own travails, and thus uses the collective gathering as an opportunity not only for play and game but also for shared mourning through the evocation of the religious icons on display. In both cases, the audiences are occupied with their own earthly being, according to the ToMP, hence once again the double appeal of this theatre. Whether “falsely weeping” refers to the spectators’ attention not being focused on Christ and their own sins but on their very lives in the present, or whether it refers to the extremity of the performance experience, the ToMP restates that this was indeed a conventional part of the performance model. If the author is correct in his observation of the “real” reason for the tears, then, once again, we have evidence that the performances were thought to have utilized the sacred events as a means for a society to contemplate and think through evocative and moving images of its own distresses and travails.36 This argument resembles the idea behind the purging potential of theatre, known as catharsis. Again, although the tract defines this theatrical characteristic negatively, it is through this argument that the theoretical discourse can be reconstructed. The idea of “false weeping,” however, is not given in direct reply to the justification of the plays quoted by the ToMP, but rather in response to the following argument, according to which there are people who can be converted to God only by “game and play” (98, 166–75). In direct reply to the description of a weeping audience, the writer argues that: [S]iche miraclis pleyinge giveth noon occasioun of werrey wepinge and medeful, but the weping that fallith to men and wymmen by the sighte of siche miraclis pleyinge, as they ben not principaly for theire oune sinnes ne of theire gode faith withinneforthe, but more of theire sight withouteforth is not alowable byfore God but more reprowable. For sithen Crist himsilf reprovyde the wymmen that wepten upon him in his passioun, myche more they ben reprovable that wepen for the pley of Crisits passioun, leevinge to wepen for the sinnes of hemsilf and of theire children, as Crist bad the wemmen that wepten on him. [[S]uch miraclis playing gives no


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prosperity of virtue in the soul, and therefore, having more compassion for pain than for sin, they falsely weep for the lack of bodily prosperity more than for lack of spiritual prosperity, as do damned men in hell.] (102, 317–23)

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occasion of (real) weeping and meditation, but the weeping that happens to men and women by the sight of such miraclis playing, which is not principally for their own sins, nor because of their good faith within, but more because of their sight from without, is not allowable before God but more reprovable. For since Christ himself reproved the women that wept for him in his Passion, much more should they be reproved that weep for the play of Christ’s Passion, instead of weeping for their own sins and of their children, as Christ told the women that wept for him.] (102, 301–11)

This is a significant addition to the analysis of the phenomenon of a “weeping audience” and the performance of emotions, as it gives an alternative reason to explain why the ToMP does not appreciate the sincerity of weeping spectators. The text argues that because Christ did not want the women around him to cry during the real event of the Crucifixion, people watching a play of the Passion certainly should not do so. The emphasis on the sight they see during the performance of the Passion corresponds to the shocking and evocative images that are produced by staging a suffering body. This suggests once again the tract’s disapproval of the realm of earthly performance (the suffering body of the actor) as opposed to the original image that is conveyed by means of performance. The spectators are blamed because they do not cry for their own sins and misbehaving, not even for their “gode feith,” but rather they cry because of what they see— presumably sights that are hard to watch. The idea might be that weeping at such a sight is an easy way out of real contemplation. In other words, the text testifies that the audience’s behavior at such performances was theologically negotiated, as its meaning and function were issues of debate. The objection to excessive laughter or crying in the ToMP indicates the emotional appeal of the performances on the one hand and simultaneously the search for “appropriate” behavior on the other. Employing this dual perspective we are able to ascertain information not only about the audience’s performative codes but also about the theoretical framework of performance itself. Supporting evidence of the relevance of this argument appears in the York Butchers’ Death of Christ, in which Christ specifically asks Mary to “do way of thy weeping” (326, 144) in a scene that would most likely evoke similar behavior from the spectators, and that perhaps was also addressed directly to the weeping audience. On the other hand, in the Crucifixion, the actor playing Jesus nailed to the cross talks directly to the audience and asks the spectators to “fully feele nowe” (321, 256). Especially illuminating in this context is Margery Kempe’s meditation on the Crucifixion. Carol M. Meale points to circumstantial evidence that suggests that Kempe indeed had the opportunity to witness the plays


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The workmanlike approach to their task adopted by the soldiers in the York Pinners’ Crucifixion Play, in which they assemble their “hammeres and nayles large and lange” (316, 30), comment on the misplaced bore holes previously drilled to accommodate Christ’s nailed hands and feet, and, to stretch His limbs into position, use a “roope” or “corde” to “tuhhe hym to, by toppe and taile” (318, 131; 113–14), bears direct comparison with Margery’s account of how she saw “with her ghostly eye how the Jews fastened ropes on the other hand, for the sinews and veins were so shrunken with pain that it might not come to the hole that they had marked for it, and drew thereon to make it meet with the hole.”38

From the point of view discussed here, however, in addition to Kempe’s powerful description of the Crucifixion scene and its potential relation to the York play, her own reactions to it are striking. Her performance of emotions (crying, weeping, sobbing) is reinforced by her descriptions of this event, which are closely related to the sights she saw. “When she saw this piteous sight, she wept and cried right loudly as if she should have burst for sorrow and pain,” and “when she heard the words and saw the compassion that the mother had of the son and the son of his mother, then she wept, sobbed, and cried as though she should have died for the pity and compassion that she had of that piteous sight.”39 Her account relates numerous events of such nature. Whether this public weeping was a unique characteristic of Kempe, or indeed a conventional behavioral mode, particularly at passion plays, it was not always or ultimately considered acceptable or desirable, as argued by the ToMP and as Carol Meale observes regarding the response to another instance of Kempe’s public display of emotions: [H]er treatment in Hull later in the year [1417], when she walked in some unidentified “procession” and earned outright hostility (“a great woman greatly despised her, and . . . [m]any other folk said that she should be set in prison,” I 53, 95) indicates that civic order and individual composure were seen by some as commensurate with each other, and not to be infringed by emotionalism, whether politically or devotionally inspired.40

In conclusion, weeping at performances should not be overlooked and regarded as stereotypical behavior of “emotional” people, but rather understood as a coded convention that signified appreciation of a strong theatrical experience. For this reason the ToMP criticizes the public display of emotions as unreal in the sense that it is evoked by the sights


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at York, most likely on a “Midsummer Eve” on June 22, 1413,37 and accordingly she argues:

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of the performances, which themselves are conceived “unreal” events. The attempt to evoke such emotions helps to establish what we know from other pieces of evidence, that is, that the performances displayed harsh and extreme scenes. The analysis of the “performance of emotions” as a performative concept teaches us a lot about the relations between the performances and the audiences, and serves as a basis for analyzing medieval reception theory and spectatorial involvement in the course of performance. “An hool comynte”: (Urban) Communality and Finances We do not need the ToMP to learn that the production of the religious vernacular theatre was a communal event. Almost any piece of evidence related to this theatre establishes this characteristic as a central tenet of the mystery plays.41 And yet references to this concept within the ToMP not only establish “communality” as a performance concept but also help to identify some of the social and cultural meanings that were attributed to this perception, particularly where “communality” is not necessarily regarded as a positive phenomenon. For example, the recurring claim in the ToMP that “miraclis pleyinge” attract “not onely of oon singuler persone but of al an hool comynte” [not only of one singular person but of all, a whole community] (100, 239–40) potentially suggests the existence of a dispute over the attention of the community, since “miraclis pleyinge” could theoretically compete with the status of other cultural forms of piety alluded to in the text as better cultural practices.42 In reply to the argument that miraclis help in converting people, the writer emphasizes their negative impact because “it makith al a puple to ben ocupied in vein.” [it occupies all the people in vain.] (100, 240–41). One of the recurring ideas against miraclis pleyinge is that instead of being occupied in helping one’s neighbors, those involved in the performances neglect to carry out more virtuous deeds but also “for it withdrawith not onely oon persone but alle the puple fro dedis of charite and of penaunce into dedis of lustis and likings and of feding of houre wittis.” [for it withdraws not only one person but all the people from deeds of charity and of penance into deeds of lust and mirth and of feeding of our senses.] (101, 292–94). There are many more indications that the plays are events that attract and include a great many people—the text often refers directly to “men and wemmen”— and they can thus be titled communal. Beyond this general observation, however, there are two more points, both related to the energy that characterizes civic communities and to the money people spend on the plays. These not only associate “miraclis pleyinge” directly


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with expensive productions such as the mystery plays, but also highlight the communal interest in its own products, and thus add a significant perspective to the meanings associated with “communality” as a concept of performance. At the outset of the second part of the ToMP the author invokes the Ten Commandments and warns against taking God’s name in vain. His metaphor and choice of words are not incidental: [W]e preyen him to beholden first in the seconde maundement of God that seith, “Thou schalt not take Goddis name in idil,” and sithen the mervelous werkis of God ben his name, as the gode werkis of a craftisman been his name, than in the hest of God is forbeden to takun the mervelouse werkis of God in idil. [[W]e pray you to behold first the second amendment of God that says, “Thou shall not take God’s name in idle,” and since the marvelous works of God are his name, as the good works of a craftsman are his name, then in the command of God it is forbidden to take the marvelous works of God in vain.] (104–5, 392–6)

As we have seen before, here again, the author’s goal is to keep God’s marvelous works and miracles strictly in their appropriate contexts so that God’s “name” will be carefully protected. Notably, the simile that he uses is taken from the field of craftsmanship. This theme could have been regarded merely as another explanatory image from daily life (such as teacher-student relations, the jealous husband, servant-lord relations, and so on), if craftsmanship had not been such an essential factor in the production of the religious vernacular theatre and in civic life in general. Not only did the craft guilds produce the plays, but they also figured their “name” into numerous details of these biblical plays, as discussed above.43 By using this analogy, the ToMP quite explicitly marks its addressees, and associates “miraclis pleyinge” with urban productions. The fact that God’s “werkis” are compared to those of a craftsman emphasizes the importance that was attributed to craftsmanship. Although this metaphor could be applicable to both urban and rural communities, it still seems that “miraclis pleyinge” denotes a social activity that took place in towns, because a significant reason that the ToMP opposes this activity is the money people spend on the plays rather than on charity or on paying their rent: For that that they shulden spendyn upon the nedis of ther negheboris, they spenden on the pleyis; and to peyen ther rente and ther dette they wolen grucche, and to spendyn two so myche upon ther pley they wolen nothinge grucchen. [. . .] and also to han wherof to spenden on thes miraclis and to holden felawschipe of glotenye and lecherie in syche dayes of miraclis


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pleyinge, they bisien hem beforn to more gredily bygilen ther neghbors in byinge and in selling. [For that which they should spend on the needs of their neighbors, they spend on the plays; and to pay their rent and their debts they will grumble, but to spend so much on their play they will not grumble. [. . .] and also to have wherefrom to spend on these miraclis and to hold fellowship of gluttony and lechery on such days of miraclis playing, they get busy before to more greedily beguile their neighbors in buying and in selling.] (110–11, 595–608)

This paragraph testifies that people—the community at large—were willing to spend a lot of money on the plays. Though the production of the plays was costly, this was money that they were happy to pay out. There are two main reasons for this willingness. First, as the ToMP itself relates, the festivities around the plays included buying and selling, which means that the plays were an opportunity for the community to gain profit. Second, it indicates that the festivity itself was very important for the people, to such a degree that they were willing to expend scarce monetary resources on it. John C. Coldewey is correct when he notes that it is no accident that the single most important source of records of the drama is accounts . . . . The sources themselves seem to argue that one consistent feature shared by virtually all vernacular medieval drama is an economic concern; that is, a more material interest than has ordinarily been ascribed to the playwrights and producers of these plays.44

From the perspective of actor/character dialectics the financial aspect that the ToMP emphasizes as a reason to criticize “miraclis pleyinge” highlights yet once again the idea that the performances were not only meant to be an extension of religious ritual but also an expression of the communal identity as ref lected in that of the actor. Coldewey notes that “although their interest always had a religious cast, the guilds acted as the foci of local craft endeavor and pride.”45 This shows that festivity, marketing, and all the extradramatic happenings that were related to the performances, were as important to the community as was the devotional and religious content of the plays. In other words, communality as a concept of performance refers not only to the use of anachronisms within the plays and performances46 in order to relate life in the present to the mythical dimension of sacred history, blending ritual with daily life, but also to the social energies involved in producing the plays, the financial hierarchies of the various guilds, and the pragmatic aspects of the festival that included money-making from extratheatrical activities. One way to test the validity of “communality” as a concept of performance is through contemporary reconstructions and revivals of the


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mystery plays, a phenomenon that became prevalent in the twentieth century. Regarding a contemporary performance of the cycle plays as part of the York festival, Margaret Rogerson specifically discusses the importance of communality, which, apparently, continues to be as crucial to the success and power of the plays today as it was in the late medieval era: But this was not just a show for the tourists admiring a reenactment event; this was very much a show for the participants in the process of exercising their stewardship of the local heritage. For the first time in the half- century of the York revivals of the indigenous Mystery Plays, the seven “medieval” guilds currently active in the city took full charge of the event. Local people were used in every possible role, from Management Board to the students from Canon Lee School who adlibbed the part of the “medieval audience.” In his Director’s report, Tyler stresses the local component of this production as “perhaps one of the most positive developments in the modern history of the York plays.”47

The involvement of the entire community (then and now) in putting together a performance on such a grand scale was motivated both by the communal desire to play, to create, and to perform as well as by the income and profit the city could and would earn. Conclusion Analyzing the ToMP from the perspective of performance aesthetics adds a new dimension first of all to our understanding of the text itself. Scholars such as Barish have commented on its alleged inconstancy, but its overall logic is clear and straightforward. More important, however, the four concepts of performance that are discussed or implied in the text bring to life one perspective that focuses on a much larger discourse dealing with questions of performing religious subjects. This evidence of late medieval “performance theory” has significant implications for our understanding of how the performances of the vernacular mystery plays affected spectators and dealt with questions and problems that religious enactment inevitably evokes. Furthermore, in addition to providing evidence for the existence of an aesthetic discourse, it can be concluded that the religious theatre was based on a double appeal that is threaded throughout its performative mechanisms. The fact that the ToMP suggests to us the direct connection between liturgical and religious rituals as dominant sources that inf luenced the plays on the one hand and unruly games and pagan rituals on the other defines, a priori, the mystery plays as performances


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that are based on that double appeal. These plays integrate devotional and didactic performative aims with communal and playful enjoyment, and this inherent duality finds echoes in each and every aspect of the performances. Thus acting, which in every theatre performance is based on the duality and copresence of the actor and the character, becomes a site that most concisely and complexly brings together two extremes of secular and sacred, as well as “high” and “low” culture. Accordingly, the first concept discussed, “contrariety and simultaneity,” addresses exactly this concern. The ToMP’s emphasis on the distinction between the f lesh and the spirit— and its argument that the two should remain separated— characterizes not only its objection to the general inclusiveness that typifies the vernacular religious theatre, but is mostly evident in the body of the performer. In other words, while the theatre performances were essentially based on a contrary and simultaneous inclusion of spirit (devotional themes, biblical stories, and holy characters) and f lesh (earthly concerns such as profit and production, playful enjoyment, and human performers), the stance of the ToMP is clearly to object to this contrary situation. That the text is against contrariety is irrelevant to my point that it definitely articulates contrariety as a concept of performance, and, moreover, that this recognition might have been an important reason for an aesthetic that would not be interested in integrating actor and character, but, rather, that would lead to a performing identity that maintained the difference. By purposely emphasizing the distinction between the actor and the character (the spirit and the f lesh, or the “voice of Crist and the voice of the f leysh”), I argue that the performers could maintain the remoteness and fixedness of the characters, creating a link between the holy past and the present. The inherently contrary nature of these performances, which aim to include devotional didacticism and festive mirth along with an aesthetic that highlights this duality by positioning the actor as a mediator between the two performative goals, is the basis of the second concept of performance that the ToMP addresses. Because of the participants’ interest not only in the biblical and sacred themes being enacted but also in their own enjoyment, the performances are not considered by the text to be “real.” That is, they are not efficacious, as are preaching or other religious rituals that are designed only for devotional purposes. The text’s emphasis on the idea that the performances are empty signs means that the author recognized the difference between signifier and signified. In the case of religious theatre the status of the “fictional world” (here considered as the more real world) is much higher than that of the performance itself. Thus the mediating function of the performance—the actor—is what causes spectators to take part in “false witnessing.” Signification, or


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mimesis, in the specific context of religious theatre, is indeed a complex issue to deal with, precisely because what is signified is considered to be real, but in performance it ceases to be so, whereas the (f leshly) performer is tangible and graspable. The performer’s materiality is what enables him to really endure pain in spectacles such as passion plays. This spectacular vision is what leads the ToMP to criticize the collective performance of emotions as an expression of enthusiasm for the plays. In so doing, the text makes it clear that audiences’ display of strong emotions such as fear and sadness by means of weeping was firstly a coded cultural convention of piety. Moreover, it becomes apparent that such spectatorial behavior was related to the material experience of the performance (the signifier) and not to that of the image being conveyed (the signified). This discourse concerning the value of a spectators’ tears indicates not only the producers’ efforts to elicit tears and strong reactions from audiences by means of extreme violence and emotionalism, but also an awareness of what we would now term “reception theory.” This concept, alongside the first two concepts, indicates the performative distinction between the actor who physically endures and the character that, of course, is not really there. However, whereas the first two concepts indicate actor/character dialectics that have to do with epic acting conventions (which mark the difference between the earthly identity of the performer and the elevated one of the character), the concept of “performing emotions” is more relevant to liminal theatrical situations that fit into the category of “total theatre.” As we shall see in the next chapter, it is the tension between epic and total theatre that characterizes the acting concept and actor/character dialectics of the late medieval religious theatre. Finally, the ToMP’s concern with the financial interests and investment of the producers in them testifies once again to the communal effort that urban citizens put into the production of these plays. Once again, this interest indicates the double appeal of these plays— devotional and social— an idea that is paradigmatically condensed into the very body of the performer who enacts the holy and mythological characters and yet is part of the trade guilds and, as such, performs his social identity no less than the role he takes upon himself. Identifying the medieval religious theatre as communal implies a performative aesthetic that is based on an artistic manipulation of anachronisms and that complexly brings together seemingly contradictory elements. In conclusion, reading and contextualizing the ToMP not only demonstrates the existence of a late medieval discourse of performance theory, but also reveals an aesthetic theory that can explain the unique characteristics of late medieval religious theatre and its acting.


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STREET SCENES: EPIC ACTING, TOTAL ACTING, AND PERFORMANCE

The street demonstrator’s performance is essentially repetitive. The event has taken place; what you are seeing now is a repeat. If the scene in the theatre follows the street scene in this respect then the theatre will stop pretending not to be theatre, just as a street- corner demonstration admits it is a demonstration (and does not pretend to be the actual event). Bertolt Brecht, “The Street Scene: A Basic Model for an Epic Theatre,” Brecht on Theatre 122 The public, which mistakes the bogus for truth, has the sense of what is true and always reacts to it when in happens. Today, however, we must look for it in the street, not on stage. Antonin Artaud, “No More Masterpieces,” The Theatre and Its Double 57 Jesus: Al men þat walkis by waye or strete, Takes tente зe schalle no trauayle tyne. [All men that walk by way or street Take heed that you miss none of my suffering.] The York Plays, The Crucifixion (321, 253–4)

T

he four concepts of performance discussed in the previous chapter, contrariety and simultaneity, signification and efficacy, emotionality, and communality, are specifically alluded to in A Tretise of Miraclis Pleyinge in ways that articulate the theatrical event of religious vernacular theatre in terms of performance. These concepts also typify dominant characteristics of the religious vernacular theatre itself. This chapter focuses on examples, mainly from the York plays, that demonstrate how these four concepts actually work in performance. The central argument


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CHAPTER 3

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presented here is that based on the impossibility of and unwillingness to create a mimesis based on similarity, a merging of the performing and the performed, the governing aesthetic sought the opposite. In other words, the objective was to emphasize, rather, the duality of the two, for which purpose a variety of theatrical conventions were used. Dialectical situations where the copresence of the actor and the character is aesthetically purposefully intentional fall largely into the two categories of “epic” and “total” acting. Theatrical situations wherein the doubleness of the performer and the character is intentionally overt, as, for example, when an actor not only wears a mask but attention is focused on the difference between the actor’s face and the mask he or she wears, are defined as situations of epic acting because of the deliberate exposure of the theatrical mechanism at work. “Total acting,” or “theatre of presence,” as it is sometimes termed, involves, on the other hand, situations in which the actor has to display such extreme physicality or emotionality in order to evoke a character that what happens in performance is not attributed solely to that character but rather draws attention to the performer. In such cases, the phenomenology of the performer’s body at work is grasped simultaneously with the representational act of portraying a character. By using the terminology of “epic” and “total” acting methods I explicitly refer to modern postrealistic experimental theatre theories, which negate acting concepts that prioritize as complete a merger as possible between actor and role. Moreover, both aesthetic attitudes have deeply inf luenced the emergence of performance art in the second half of the twentieth century. Using modern concepts such as “epic” and “total” theatre as tools in an attempt to define late medieval performance aesthetics not only points to the ongoing dynamic exchanges of styles and conventions throughout theatre history, but also makes it easier to contextualize late medieval pre-illusionist theatre as a theatre that was based on a complex theory of performance. In addition, the aesthetic emphasis that epic and total theatre theories place on the importance of the actor’s presence alongside that of the character (for diverse reasons in each case) makes these theories very relevant as well as applicable to the discussion of the medieval religious theatre. We shall now look into examples from the York cycle that suggest epic and/or total acting methods and that establish the actor/character differentiation as an underlying aesthetic principle of the mystery plays. The first part of this chapter is devoted to “epic acting” and looks at the complex and interrelated use of epic theatrical conventions such as theatrical deixis, the use of masks, the episodic structure of the cycle that led to the casting of many actors for the same role, and the iconographic


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E PIC AC T I NG, TOTA L AC T I NG, PE R F OR M A NC E

Epic Acting Performing God and Deixis In his “Short Organum for the Theatre,” written in 1947–48, Bertolt Brecht summarizes his aesthetic theory about epic theatre and how it should be created. In order to achieve his aesthetic the theatrical mechanism should be exposed and revealed to the spectators so that they are at all times aware that what they are seeing is a performance, and do not harbor illusions that anything on stage is real. Regarding acting, he explicitly writes: This principle—that the actor appears on the stage in a double role, as Laughton and as Galileo; that the showman Laughton does not disappear in the Galileo whom he is showing; from which this way of acting gets its name of “epic”— comes to mean simply that the tangible, matter- of-fact process is no longer hidden behind a veil; that Laughton is actually there, standing on the stage, and showing us what he imagines Galileo to have been.1

The kind of theatricality that Brecht theorizes here was considered innovative and experimental because of the dominance illusionist acting methods had gained, especially in the realistic theatre that Brecht disliked. However, Brecht’s “undoing” or “unmaking” of mimesis2 relates indeed to illusionist practices, whereas the medieval religious theatre, full of metaphysical characters believed to be real, had already laid the foundation for acting as a dualistic mechanism, since no one would presume to postulate that God the Father is a bearded man standing in the middle of the street. In this theatre, neither the “veil” nor the realistic “fourth wall” was ever there, and yet, the opening episode of the York plays, The Fall of the Angels, problematizes within the text this very question of enacting God. This opening episode is important because it sets the ideological division between good/bad, God/Lucifer and determines the rhetoric of the entire cycle. Rosemary Woolf notes that “the opening play of the Fall of the Angels [is] on a subject never dramatized before and rarely since.”3 For the mystery plays, however, the inclusion of this particular momentous scene has a specific function and meaning. The very ambitious attempt to perform sacred history in the vernacular, and as a


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and coded use of gesture. The second part deals with the sequence of the Passion and looks at the use of methods of total acting and theatricality, such as extreme bodily physicality and emotionality, violence, and silence as presence.

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religious event yet outside the framework of a strictly religious sphere, by necessity had to have been carefully structured and planned; as R. B. Dobson puts it, “it must have been discussed by the aldermen there.”4 One of the ideological functions of this episode as an exposition of the entire play is to self-consciously and metatheatrically question the very idea of enacting or becoming “like” God the Father. The fallacy of Lucifer and the devils— setting in action the play and the entire cycle—is their desire to become godly themselves, thus figuring and foretelling Adam and Eve’s sin. Lucifer provocatively declares: “I sall be lyke vnto hym þat es hyeste on heghte” (51, 91) [I shall be like him that is highest of height]. This very intention is the reason that God must punish the devils, explaining, “Those foles for þaire fayrehede in fantasyes fell” (53, 129) [those fools fell into fantasies because they felt so beautiful]. By raising this issue dramatically at the outset and visually presenting the punishment that whoever plays such a role will receive, the performers emphasize and self-referentially mark the differences between a theatrical representation that merely represents an everlasting truth, and the religious truth itself. However, in the opening monologue of this play the actor playing God the Father himself expresses the same mode of “fantasy.” He addresses the audience directly, telling it—paradoxically—that “I am gracyus and grete, God withoutyn begynnyng, I am maker vnmade, all mighte es in me” (49, 1–2) [I am gracious and great, God without beginning, I am maker unmade, all might is in me] and “My body in blys ay abydande, Vnendande, withouten any endyng” (49, 7–8) [My body in bliss is abiding, unending without any ending]. Brecht advises the epic actor to speak directly to the audience specifically for the purpose that he not be personally identified as the character and in order to emphasize the “gest of showing.”5 But beyond the direct addressing of the audience, this opening monologue is immanently “contrary” from the viewpoint of the performing actor and the theatrical technique that is used, therefore, is deixis, as a means to negate any impression that the performer is trying to be “like unto him.” In western illusionist theatre a character does not introduce himself or herself by pointing at oneself; one’s identity is inferred, rather, through dialogue. In the mystery plays, in addition to visually recognizable icons that the actor would wear, the act of deictically pointing at oneself actively differentiates between the performer and the character. As Ruth Evans writes about a different episode: In the York Assumption Mary tells doubting Thomas: “sesse of thy sorowe for I am sothly þe same” [cease of your sorrow, I’m truly the same] (159). Here “the same” can mean not only “that one you talk of ” but also “identical


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to myself,” and perhaps even “unchanging.” The expression also has a deictic function: it is a theatrical device to explain which characters are on stage, but one of course that also draws attention to the gap between the actor and the biblical figure he embodies. “Sameness,” in other words, is paradoxically split, re- created in the text as a play of identification and difference, even as the pageant tries to maintain a defense against history.6

This inherent contrariety of a performer who uses the word “I” or “my” in the name of the character God in order not to stand in for God creates a situation in which spectators are involved in an act that simultaneously refers to God and to the actor who is merely putting on a show. Masks: Faces and Godheads Beyond the thematic depiction of the idea of “becoming God” in the play, as opposed to the deictic speech acts of the actors that reverse this desire, there are other metatheatrical moments in this episode that indicate aesthetic awareness of this question. When Seraphim talks to God the Father promising total obedience, he refers to God’s voice and then twice to his “fair face”: Angelus Seraphyn With all þe wytt þat we welde we woyrschip þi wylle, Þou gloryus God þat es grunde of all grace; Ay with stedefaste steuen lat vs stande styll, Lorde, to be fede with þe fode of thi fayre face. In lyfe that es lely ay-lastande, Thi dale, lorde, es ay daynetethly delande, And whoso þat fode may be felande— To se thi fayre face— es noght fastande. (51, 73–80) [With all the wit that we wield we worship your will, Thou glorious God that is ground of all grace; With your steadfast voice let us stand still, Lord, to be fed with the food of thy fair face. In life that is leally ay-lasting, The gift of grace, Lord, thou art for ever bountifully bestowing, And whoever may taste that food— To see thy fair face—is not fasting.]

In the first line of this paragraph Seraphim says that the good angels will use “all the wit” in order to worship God. Theatrically, he points to the action of hearing God’s voice and emphasizes the spectatorial experience of seeing God’s “fair face”— so beautiful a face that whoever sees its beauty is fed by it and thus “is not fasting.” The word “face,” especially


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in the context of “seeing it” is used here in a double meaning that refers not only to the real or metaphorical “face” of God, but also to the very mask that the actor playing God is wearing.7 The angels are not the only ones who see God’s face or hear his voice in this work, for the audience is there too. When Seraphim says the words “to see thy fair face” attention is focused on the (masked) face of God, emphasizing that this is only a human actor representing God the Father, and not one who is trying to be in his “likeness.” This metatheatrical reference might also be asking the spectators to notice the craftsmanship involved in producing such an impressive image as the gilded mask most likely was. We know that God the Father was played by an actor wearing a gilded mask, but the York records also tell us that the word “face” literally meant a mask. The Mercers’ Pageant documents from 1433 include the following listing: While þe Pagent gere lastes ffirst a Pagent With iiij Wheles helle mouthe iij garmentes for iij deuels vj deuelles faces in iij Vesernes Array for ij euell saules þat is to say ij Sirkes ij paire hoses ij vesenes & ij Chauelers Array for ij gode saules. [While the pageant there consists of first a pageant with four wheels, hell mouth, three garments for three devils, six devil faces in three face covers, dress for two evil souls that is to say two shirts/garments worn next to the skin, two pairs of pants, two visors, and two wigs array for two good souls.]8

Further indication of this metatheatrical awareness can be found in the cycle’s second play, The Creation, in which God brief ly repeats the happenings of the former episode (another epic theatrical convention of storytelling and repeating what has already been shown) and explains that “My hegh Godhede I will noght hyde, All-yf sume foles be fallyn me fro” (54, 7–8). [My high godhead I will not hide, although some fools fell from me because of it]. Once again the word “godhead” was perhaps used in the double meaning of God’s divinity as well as the performer’s mask. In the 1526 Mercers’ Pageant Accounts we find the listing of “ij dewell heddes” [two devil heads]9 in the sense of masks, and the MED lists three meanings to the word “godhead,” the third of which is “a representation of God in carving, painting, or the like.”10 In the Coventry records we find a listing from 1564 of an “Item paid for payntyng of Iesus heade” [item paid for painting of Jesus’ head] and in 1567 “Item ij marryes hedes the spyryt of godes cote, Item godes hede & hys cotte & the spyryts hede” [item two marryes heads the spirit of God’s coat, item God’s head and his coat and the spirit’s head] are also listed.11 In Chester we have listings such as an “Item paid for geyldeng of godes ffase & ffor peyntynge of the geylers ffasses” [item paid for gilding of God’s face and for painting of the geylers faces/masks] (1549–50), a


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1553–4 account of an “Item we gaue for gelldinge of Gods fase” [Item we gave for gilding of God’s face], and so forth.12 Finally, in Norwich, the Grocers’ Guild Records from 1564 include a literal reference to a mask for God the Father titled “a face & heare for ye Father” [a face (mask) and hair for the Father].13 Further, through this very simple textual double meaning the performance creates a situation that evokes a triple referent: first, the actor who physically wears the mask and uses his own voice to talk as if he were God, second, the mask that signifies the image of God, and thirdly, the idea of God himself. By calling attention to the mask and to God’s “fair face,” the performance creates a dialectical situation that differentiates between the performer and God, emphasizing that the mask is also not God, but rather a mediator within a mediator. Since establishing the realness and ultimate authority of the real God is the dramatic point of The Fall of the Angels, the performance itself deliberately uses the simplest and most straightforward method in order to avoid any kind of an illusionist impression. From a theoretical point of view this is similar to Brecht’s theatricality, only in reverse. In Brecht’s theatre, the performer who represents an audience member is the crux of the performance, and this character serves as an agent for the dialectical process of judgment and criticism, which is intended to make spectators aware of their social condition. In the medieval religious theatre, however, because of the holiness and significance of the characters, they themselves become the explicit ideological focus of the performance, and the actor, who is differentiated from them, is the means for a dialectical process of adoration, which is supposed to make spectators aware of a metaphysical reality that is other than their own. Further indication that this kind of doubleness was part of the aesthetic intentionality of the medieval mystery plays comes from a late document from Chester, which Meg Twycross and Sarah Carpenter quote and analyze. The 1608–9 Chester Banns describe the different episodes that are about to be presented by the guilds and conclude with the following warning and explanation: The sume of this storye Lords & ladies all I haue breifelye repeated & how the muste be played Of one thinge warne you now I shall That not possible it is these matters to be contryued In such sorte and cunninge & by such players of price As at this daye good players & fine wittes. Coulde deuise ffor then shoulde all those persones that as godes do playe In Clowdes come downe with voice and not be seene ffor noe man can proportion that godhead I saye


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[I have brief ly repeated the sum of the story, Lords and Ladies all, and how it must be played; of one thing I shall now warn you, that it is not possible to contrive these matters in such a way so as to keep them moral and with such players that are paid, as nowadays good players and fine wits. Could devise for then should all those people that as gods do play, in clouds come down with voice and are not seen, for no man can proportion that godhead I say, to the shape of man’s face, nose and eye. But since the gilded face disfigures the man yet think of it as a cloud covering the man. A voice only to hear and not God in shape or person to appear.]

This reference discloses not only theoretical awareness of the problematic contrariety of enacting God but also pragmatic solutions that were used. Twycross and Carpenter suggest that The terms of this passage are not wholly and easy to follow, since the exact significance and stress of “proportion,” “shape of man,” and “disfigure” are difficult to determine. Disfigure at this period does not appear to carry its later connotations of “deform,” but a more neutral sense nearer to “un-figure” or “alter the shape of.” The last three lines of the extract are perhaps the most potentially ambiguous. The sense seems to be: “since the gold face conceals the identity of the actor, think of it as if it were a cloud machine concealing the whole man, so that we only hear the voice of God coming from this cloud cover (or mask), and do not see God himself supposedly appearing physically on stage.”15

According to Twycross and Carpenter, the relevance of this reference to the texts and period examined is questionable because they explain that “in spite of obvious problems of performing divinity, a sense of impropriety in human actors playing God seems to be largely a post-Reformation development.”16 However, although concepts of enacting God prior to the Reformation were not based on any kind of an overriding objection to the phenomenon of a human actor playing God, the “obvious problems of performing divinity,” as well as the religious and ethical notions that are inevitably involved in this theatrical process, were at the basis of the aesthetic self-awareness which led to concepts of performance that purposely differentiated between the actor and the signs of the character “God.” The Chester Banns support this conclusion, in that the text apologetically warns its audience “not to expect the sophisticated techniques of the modern stage,”17 in addition to explaining the ideological function of the earlier stage conventions. Even if this ideology belongs more explicitly to a post-Reformation development, the Banns articulate 10.1057/9780230118119 - Street Scenes, Sharon Aronson-Lehavi

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To the shape of man face. nose and eyne But sethence the face gilte doth disfigure the man yat deme A Clowdye coueringe of the man. a Voyce onlye to heare And not god in shape or person to appeare.14

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the meaning and function that was attributed to the gilded mask that the actor enacting God wore during the centuries prior to the Reformation. In other words, the Banns’ reliance on the convention of the gilded mask seems to belong to a performance concept that finds its origin in a longrunning tradition, rather than suggesting that these lines are evidence that new ideas were being thrust upon an old but supposedly “neutral” convention. Moreover, we have evidence from as early as 1415 that in certain episodes, such as the York Curriers’ Transfiguration, the convention of performing only the voice of God, who was himself hidden by a cloud, was already in use. The character of God in the play is named “Pater in Nube” (God in a Cloud). In their translation of the Ordo paginarum, Alexandra Johnston and Margaret Rogerson fill in some missing words of the description of the pageant (most probably based on the play), and in addition to the original appearance of “Peter, James, and John, Jesus ascending the mount and transfiguring,” they list “the voice speaking in a cloud.”18 It is worth recalling at this point the ToMP’s emphatic objection to enacting/playing miracles. As mentioned, The Transfiguration is an episode that displays a very dramatic miracle and also includes the manifestation of God the Father, who appears as/in a cloud: Hic descendunt nubes. Pater in nube: Зe febill of faithe, folke affraied, Beis noЗt afrede for vs in feere. I am Зoure God þat gudly grayed Both erthe amd eyre with clowdes clere Þis is my sone, as Зe haue saide, As he has schewed by sygnes sere. (196, 169–174) [here descends a cloud. God the Father in a Cloud: You feeble in faith, folk afraid, Be not afraid of us in fear I am your God that goodly made Both earth and air, with clouds clear. This is my son as you have said As he has shown by signs here.]

Once again, as with the “faces” and “Godheads,” God’s text explicitly mentions the clouds he created (he does not mention the sun or the stars), self-referentially pointing at his own costume and theatrical presence. Beyond this, in order to describe Christ’s miracles he uses the word “signs,” which, as we have seen can simultaneously denote his real miracles on the one hand and mere theatrical “signs” on the other. The latter, as the ToMP insists, being mere dramatic/theatrical representations, lack


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real essence. Toward the end of the episode, Peter straightforwardly questions Jesus about God the Father’s appearance: “A, lord, why latest þou vs noзt see thy fadirs face in his fayrenes?” (197, 217–18) [Lord, why did you not let us see your father’s face in his fairness?] to which Jesus replies “Petir, þou askis over-grete degree, That grace may noзt be graunted þe, I gesse, In his Godhed so high is he . . .” (198, 219–21) [Peter, you are asking above your degree, that grace may not be granted, I guess, in his Godhead so high is he . . . ]. Furthermore, there is another significant element in the lines quoted from the Chester Banns that can possibly help to contextualize not only their content but also their shared theatre ideology with earlier enactments of God. The idea that the actor playing God should not be seen, but only have his voice heard, hence legitimizing the use of a human’s voice, is mentioned twice. Vocality is the dominant means of communication that a masked actor has with an audience, since the mask freezes expression, whereas the voice can nuance performance. Although an actor’s voice discloses individuality— each person having a unique voice— according to the Chester Banns, even in post-Reformation ideology the dramatic representation of a person enacting God is not totally forbidden, suggesting, therefore, a certain affinity between the current performance and earlier mystery plays. Significantly, Margaret Rogerson points out that there is substantial evidence that the concept of a “medieval” play based on a Creation to Doomsday structure survived well into the eighteenth century.19 Although “the question of biblical drama performed by mere human actors was raised frequently in the published debates on the morality of the stage that took place in both the seventeenth and the eighteenth centuries,”20 the solution that Rogerson documents is the “transformation of the ‘medieval’ tradition by the professional showmen of the puppet theatre.”21 Puppet theatre suggests a very different performance realm than that offered by the civic mystery cycles, one in which live actors enact God— even if only vocally. Moreover, even in the puppet shows, as Rogerson writes, there was great hesitation and even avoidance of having God enacted at all: Evidence that the puppeteers consistently avoided the blasphemy of “counterfeiting” God can be seen elsewhere in Crosfield’s description of the Oxford puppet play. At the beginning of the show, Adam and Eve appear in a fully created world and, after their encounter with the serpent, they are expelled by an angel. Crosfield’s description of the opening sequence acknowledges God’s relationship to the events being presented but gives no indication that a puppet “God” was on the stage physically to witness Adam and Eve’s transgression or personally to direct their expulsion.22


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The unease over the propriety of a human actor impersonating God, and the way the mask is justified, suggest a self- consciousness about masking itself. This is seen in the painstaking distinction that is made between the man who is the actor and the mask that is to conceal him. The words of the Banns, explaining the “proper” relation to this mask, imply that the audience, unless guided, are likely to look behind the mask and what it represents to the face beneath, and experience a tension between the two.23

Many Actors in the Same Role The masked actor playing God the Father is, however, only one example of the reasons for and practices of epic and dialectical actor/character relations in the late medieval religious theatre. The episodic structure of the cycle of plays and the fact that more than one actor plays the same role to enact different moments of a character’s life lead to another significant aspect of this acting aesthetic. In the York cycle, no less than four distinct plays portray the story of Adam and Eve. The third episode of the cycle, the Cardmakers’ The Creation of Adam and Eve, is separated from the Plasterers’ The Creation of the World, although the latter could thematically also include the creation of Adam and Eve.24 Following their creation, however, the characters of Adam and Eve participate in three subsequent episodes: the Fullers’ Adam and Eve in Eden, the Coopers’ The Fall of Man, and the Armourers’ Expulsion.25 This segmentation is very telling from the perspective of acting concepts and actor/character dialectics. The nonaesthetic explanations for splitting the Adam and Eve biblical account into four plays can range from the pragmatic need to have enough stories for all the guilds to perform to a pedagogical intention to keep the plays short and focused on one message.26 However, the aesthetic consequences of such a division in terms of performance are illuminating. First, the textual evidence signifies that a spectator who watched the four episodes sequentially saw in a very short period of time four different actors playing Adam and four different (male) actors playing Eve. The conventionality that encompasses both the phenomenon of many actors performing the same role and that of crossdressing belongs to epic theatricality. Although this convention strengthens the fixedness of the representation of Adam and Eve—which is conceived of as a mold that can be filled and refilled by different human


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Similarly, the Chester Banns supply significant information about the late medieval aesthetic and ideological use of masks to conceal the “face” of God. As Twycross and Carpenter conclude in their analysis of this document:

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agents—it also implies that each and every member of the audience can be, and in fact already is, a ref lection of the original sinners. This idea is reinforced by the performers’ identity as guild members, who are thus, concurrently, a part of the bourgeois milieu of the spectators. The dramatic design of the plays, however, suggests that there is more to this construction. The episodic structure and the acting concept it dictates are not mere technicalities, but rather the outcome of a coherent philosophical and aesthetic worldview that demands a specific acting concept. Each of the four episodes of Adam and Eve not only depicts a different event in their lives, but changed moral behavior and personality development (in a negative direction) from one episode to the next. In other words, each segment presents Adam and Eve in a changed mental state, which demands that each part be enacted in a different manner. This creates a set of theatrical tableaux of four different stages in their lives that inevitably lead to their sin and expulsion. The affinity of this scenario with the pictorial arts and the Corpus Christi procession’s tableaux is more than evident. However, the term “tableaux” does not here refer only to paintings and sculpture that display immobile moments.27 Rather, somewhat paradoxically, the separateness of the four incidents in Adam and Eve’s lives enables a dramatic and lively theatrical presentation of a process. In a contemporary production of the York Plays (such as Tony Harrison and Bill Bryden’s 1984 The Mysteries at the National Theatre), one pair of actors playing the couple continuously performs all four episodes, thus demonstrating a modern psychological concept of process and development according to which a person is shown capable of undergoing and enacting a process of change through subtle nuances that include facial and bodily gestures. The medieval theatre aesthetic works, however, on a different concept of psychology, one that encompasses personality, f lux, and change. This kind of psychology does not look at the “internal” and nuanced process, but rather at the external and demonstrable stations of a person’s life. “Stations” in this theatrical context refers not only to the theological connection with Christ’s stations during the Passion but also to the stations (“loca” or “places”)28 of York’s “street scenes,” and so emphasizes the metatheatrical significance of this convention. In the Cardmakers’ very short Creation of Adam and Eve, God the Father brief ly summarizes the creation of the world and expresses a need for “a skylfull best” [a skilful beast] that “sall worschipe to me take” (59, 22–4) [shall worship me]. Accordingly, once Adam and Eve are created they are depicted as extremely naïve and obedient creatures, that is, skillful beasts. In this episode, after Adam expresses adoration of God, Eve has exactly the same number of lines in which she expresses an identical idea,


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For now his here a ioyful syght, To se þis worlde so lange and wyde Many diverse things here now there is, Off bestis and foulis bathe wylde and tame; (60, 47–50) [For now here is a joyful sight, To see this world so long and wide Many diverse things are here now, Both wild and tamed beasts and fowls]

Only ten lines down Eve delivers almost exactly the same speech: And selcouth thyngis may we se here, Of þis ilke warld so lange and brade With bestis and fowlis so many and sere; Blessid be he þat hase us made. (60, 57–60) [And wondrous things may we see here In all this world so long and broad, Where beasts and fowls so many appear; Blessed be he that has made us]

This characterization changes slightly, however, in the following pageant—Adam and Eve in Eden—in which the next set of actors are still naïve and obedient29 but less stiff, more lively and experienced, and therefore more daring. The narrative significance of this episode is the insertion here of God’s prohibition to eat from “this tree alone” (63, 66), but the performance also creates an opportunity in which to depict Adam and Eve at a different, more mature level. Whereas in the former episode Adam and Eve each turn directly to God as they talk, suggesting a frontal and formal staging posture—both looking forward, or in the direction of God, and not at one another—in this play, although it once again features a trialogue between God, Adam, and Eve, Adam turns and talks directly to Eve: Loo, Eve, nowe ar we brought Bothe vnto rest and rowe, We neyd to tayke no thought, But loke ay well to doo. (63, 37–40)


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so much so that she literally repeats Adam’s words verbatim (in a childlike, ritualistic manner), thus failing to assert an authorial personality of her own. In fact, in this piece both Adam and Eve are designed more like puppets than like real human beings. For example, Adam says

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These lines imply a degree of intimacy between the two that is lacking in the previous episode. By talking to each other (Eve replies directly to Adam, talking about God in the third person “Lovyng be ay such a lord, to vs hais geven so great reward” (63, 41–2) [So loving is such a lord, to us has given such a great reward]) Adam and Eve convince each other here that obeying God is the right thing to do, and thus are in a different mental stage than they were in the previous play, as the speech-act of convincing is more active than that of plainly adoring. This process continues to evolve in the next episode, The Fall of Man. The two actors who play Adam and Eve in this third episode are already at a behavioral stage that is clearly distinct from that of the couple whom the spectators saw in the play depicting their creation. Whereas in the first episode Eve’s meekness was expressed by her literal repetition of Adam’s words, in the third episode, tempted by Satan, her personality as a mature human being is not only fully “developed”— she has come to desire to “haue knowyng as wele as hee” (66, 51) [have knowledge as well as he has]—but she also leads the action. She talks with the worm,30 asks him questions, and inquires whether he is certain about what he promises. Finally, she makes a decision on her own: “Than wille I to thy techyng traste, and fange þis frute vnto oure foode” (66, 78–9) [Than I will trust your teaching, and take this fruit as our food]. This is, of course, based on the biblical narrative, but the fact that a third actor with a different kind of presence demonstrates this change in her suggests that in the first episode “Eve” was not capable of behaving as she now can and does. Her behavioral development in this episode peaks as she tempts Adam to eat the fruit: “Byte on boldely, for it is trewe, we shalle be goddis, and knawe al thyng” (67, 102–3) [Bite on strongly, for it is true, we shall be gods, and know everything]. This speech-act connotes a very close proximity between the two—perhaps even physical touch—that is utterly different from the two postures in which they are situated in the previous episodes. Adam’s personality in this scene has altered from that which we previously encountered. Whereas in the first two episodes Adam and Eve constantly stand together as a unit, speaking in the plural on behalf of themselves as a couple, here for the first time they are separated—technically enabling the worm to address Eve alone. This physical separation at the beginning of this episode enables the


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[Look, Eve, now we are brought To both rest and comfort; We need to take no thought, But try only to do well.]

presentation of an Adam who is no longer responsible for and protective of Eve, an Adam who now not only shares the desire to “be as goddis” (67, 92) [be as gods] but also—having bitten from the fruit immediately, if comically— accuses and denounces Eve: “Allas! what haue I done, for shame! Ille counsaille! woo worthe thee! A, Eue, þou art to blame” (67, 106–8) [Alas! What have I done, what a shame! Evil adviser, a curse on you! Ah, Eve, you are to blame]. Although God confronts them and declares their punishment in this episode, a fourth set of actors playing Adam and Eve will appear in a subsequent production of the Armourers’ Expulsion. One of the significant developments in this episode is that God is absent, represented only by an angel who leaves in the middle of the play. In other words, the more Adam and Even behave as humans, and therefore the more disobedient they are, the more they are distanced from God. In this episode, Adam and Eve’s separateness reaches a new level, with Adam referring to Eve now in the third person, telling the angel that “my wiffe þat may I wite, for scho me red” (70, 34–5) [my wife I there indict, for she led me]. The rest of the episode details their mutual accusations: Adam: Adam: Allas, what womans wiite was light! [Alas! How stupid are women! Þat was wele sene That is evident Eve: Eve: Sethyn it was so me knyth it sore Since it was so, it worried me sorely Bot sethyn that woman witteles ware But because this woman was witless Mans maistrie shulde haue bene more Man’s mastery should have been stronger Aganys þe gilte. Against the guilt. Adam: Adam: Nay, at my speche wolde þou never spare, Nay, you would never listen to me; Þat has vs splite. This is what has split us. Eve: Eve: Iff I hadde spoken youe When I spoke with you, oughte to spill, to tell you something Ye shule haue taken gode tent þeretyll You should have paid attention And turnyd my þought And turned my thought.] (72–3, 133–43)

This kind of a dialogue could not have occurred in any of the former episodes, as the fourth couple of actors enacts undignified and earthly behavior credible only for an Adam and Eve who have already fallen from grace. Their postlapsarian behavior can be thus characterized as more “realistic”—less formal and closer to that which might be experienced by


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the audience. In addition, Adam’s accusation of Eve that she caused them to split implies a stage direction; now they do not stand together as one unit as they did before. Toward the end of the Expulsion, however, and after they realize their sin and the ensuing punishment, they are reunited and brought back to their opening positions. When they are on their way out, with their backs to Eden and God, Adam, once again speaking on behalf of both of them, says: “Nowe is shente both I and shoo” (71, 79) [Now we are ruined, I and she too]. Almost as a tragic hero who recognizes and realizes his or her fate (anagnorisis), Adam, acknowledging and accepting the consequence of their actions, laments their situation: Adam: Gone ar my games withowten glee; Allas, in blisse kouthe we noзt bee, For putte we were to grete plenté At prime of þe day; Be tyme of none alle lost had wee Sa welawaye.

Adam: [Gone are my games without joy Alas, in bliss we could not be/stay For we had great plenty At the prime of the day; By the time of noon we lost all that we had Lament and grieve.] (71, 87–92)

Their development from the first to the fourth episode descends linearly, that is, they start as a united couple in a frontal posture, talking directly with God and enjoying his protection, proceed to gradual separation (first talking to each other, then almost or even actually touching each other, then splitting from each other and accusing each other), and finally end as they started, reunited, with their backs to God and sharing a very different status. However, at the same time they “develop” from “skilful beasts” into complex human beings who sin, regret, and recognize their human nature. The fact that these four different episodes were enacted by four sets of actors and that the story of Adam and Eve was divided into four distinct scenes is an intriguing example of epic acting. The effect is complex: it is concomitantly didactic, devotionally respectable, and aesthetically enjoyable. The iconographic image of Adam and Eve remains fixed and remote because it cannot be associated with any particular likeness; these biblical characters, rather, are molds that can be filled by different performers even within the same performance. At the same time, however, this very convention indicates that any and all of those present in the audience are in fact also present in this sinning image. The same holds true for the character of Jesus; there is no one particular person who embodies this role, because not only do at least ten actors play the adult Jesus in different


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scenes, but the figure of Jesus is theologically and thematically portrayed as present in each and every person there. Finally, in the example of the Adam and Eve plays, the convention of multiple actors playing one character could be used to impart/communicate a theatrical presentation of process and development that accords with late medieval aesthetics. John Rouse’s articulation of one of Brecht’s principles is extremely relevant— although, obviously, not exactly identical—to this convention: Brecht’s actors were not encouraged to structure the separate beats smoothly together. On the contrary, Brecht considered the transitions as significant as the beats themselves, and he demanded that these transitions occur dialectically. Each beat can be examined as a self- contained entity in which a particular interaction takes place or a particular situation arises. As Manfred Wekwerth points out, the personal and social forces that determine these relationships can change in respect to each other, bringing about an alteration in the situation; this change is marked by the evolving of one beat into another. On the other hand, each determining factor can suddenly pass over into its opposite, bringing about a completely new situation, marked by a sudden leap from one beat to the next. 31

In Brecht’s Lehrstücke (Learning Plays), for example, in The Measures Taken, Brecht himself used the very same convention of having more than one actor play the same role. Here the character of the Young Comrade is played by each of the chorus members in turn. Here the reason for having four actors playing the same role is to demonstrate that everybody can be in this situation, that the role of the sacrificial figure represented by the character of the “young comrade” is in fact shared by them all. Brecht employs a similar device in The Good Soul of Szechwan,32 where attention is drawn to the doppelganger actor who plays the double role of Shen-Te and Shui-Ta. The main point of the previous example, however, is to show that in the late medieval religious theatre the use of multiple actors was not “mere convention.” Rather, the inherently episodic nature of the plays was deeply related to theatrical aesthetic choices that were meant to achieve very specific goals: religious, didactic, and aesthetic. Significantly, leading experimental directors in the second half of the twentieth century have frequently turned to the convention of freely multiplying actors who play the same role, often in order to attain a quite similar effect to that achieved in the medieval plays, that is, to present the audience with the different life stages of a character at varying points of his or her life through concrete physical means. For example, German director Peter Stein, who was regarded by many as “Brecht’s


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At the initial casting discussions . . . it was proposed that Peer should be played by at least three different actors. The reasons were threefold: first, the demands on the virtuosity of a single actor who must move from youth to old age in the course of the play; secondly, the dividing up of the role would be much fairer and in accordance with the ensemble ideal of the Schaubühne; thirdly, this decision would reinforce the critique of the individual and demonstrate how the central figure was conditioned by the circumstances of his life. Eventually it was agreed that the eight stages of Peer’s life should be played by six different actors.34

From this description it becomes apparent that the reasons for casting numerous actors involved ideological considerations as well as aesthetic ones, just as was the case in the medieval theatre. In both instances the idea was to performatively isolate and emphasize distinct moments in a character’s life. But whereas Stein’s ideological statement had to do with a socialist agenda as to how life conditions an individual, late medieval ideology was concerned with representing change while maintaining the image of the religious characters fixed and separated from the actors who enacted them. The performances of the Adam and Eve episodes were not about a particular individual undergoing change— although each member in the audience could relate to both characters not only on the narrative level but also because it was her peers who were acting—but rather about the paradigm of performing sin itself. Theatrical emphasis therefore had to be laid on the idea that any person could find herself at any one of the stages that lead to destruction, and also on the idea that these stages belong to a larger (mythological) dimension than the present. Two other modern examples of this epic theatrical convention are Ariane Mnouchkine’s 1970–71 1789 and three productions of Israeli director Rina Yerushalmi. In Mnouchkine’s political adaptation of the events of the French Revolution, she cast different actors in the role of Louis XVI. This production utilized many other theatrical episodic (one could say medieval) characteristics, such as performing parallel scenes on many platforms within the large space of the performance and having the audience activated, moving from one platform to another. In an interview conducted by Emile Copfermann regarding the idea of multiplying the actors who played the role of Louis XVI, Mnouchkine tellingly explains: M: We never show Louis XVI. The spectator sees Louis XVI as seen by a fairground player, then by someone else a few months later, in a different style.


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true successor,”33 featured this very convention in his 1971 production of Ibsen’s Peer Gynt:


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Although this theatrical choice is only one of many that Mnouchkine used in the performance where “there [was] virtually no ‘realistic’ acting,”36 her emphasis on the communal and collective production that justified dividing the same role among different performers, like Stein’s, is interesting in that it is reminiscent of the collective effort involved in producing the mystery plays, and relevant therefore to the centrality of the concept of “communality” discussed in the previous chapter. Moreover, her insistence that Louis XVI, who is as real a figure as the biblical ones were to the medieval audience, was not shown, embraces the same concept that it is impossible and irrelevant to have one actor enact him. Rina Yerushalmi frequently uses this convention. In her 1994 Romeo and Juliet, in order to convey the feeling of timelessness that typifies being in love she had four couples simultaneously playing Romeo and Juliet on the stage, each depicting different moments in the couple’s day. In Mythos (2002), an epic adaptation of nine Greek tragedies, in the scene in which Orestes kills his mother the audience watches three actresses simultaneously playing Clytemnestra, each actress depicting the character at a different stage of her life (mourning the death of Iphigenia; murdering Agamemnon; and being murdered by Orestes). Most relevant to the discussion here, however, is Yerushalmi’s Bible Project (1995–2000), in which she employs this convention in a very sophisticated manner, particularly in the scenes featuring Adam and Eve. Here, as in the medieval theatre although without any explicit connection, she not only uses different actors for the same role but also creates a sense of development in the characters’ lives from naiveté to mutual destruction by splitting the scenes into separate episodes. In the scene of the creation of Adam and Eve, she stages two actors according to conventional iconography. Barely looking at each other, a long-haired Eve and a masculine Adam are lying on the f loor, addressing the audience and telling the story of their creation in the third person (Fig. 1). Later on in the performance, Yerushalmi stages the temptation scene as a dance in which six couples of men and women dance simultaneously, each couple performing a different type of marital relationship—in some the women are more dominant, in others the men. At the beginning of the scene all the women take out apples and all the men hold knives and forks. By the end of this scene all the apples have been eaten (Fig. 2). Only one couple is then


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C: Don’t you run the risk of dissipation in this way? There are no longer characters that are in some sense individuals, but rather one collective character: History, and from then on, a mythical history? M: A collective vision, rather than a collective character, which is normal in a production realised by a collective.35


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Fig. 1 “In the day that the Lord God made the earth . . .” Genesis 2. Va Yomer Va Yelech (And He Said And He Walked). Directed by Rina Yerushalmi, ITIM Theatre Ensemble, Cameri Theatre, Tel Aviv, 1995–2000. Eve: Yael Gaathon. Adam: Emmanuel Hannon. Photo: Gadi Dagon.


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Fig. 2 “Male and female created He them . . .” Genesis 1. Va Yomer Va Yelech (And He Said And He Walked). Directed by Rina Yerushalmi, ITIM Theatre Ensemble, Cameri Theatre, Tel Aviv, 1995–2000. Front row, left to right: Emmanuel Hannon, Noam Ben Azar, Netta Yashchin, Einat Gliksman. Back row, left to right: Yael Gaathon, Iyar Wolpe, Avi Cohen, Moisi Shmuel, Tzahala Kuras, Lior Ben Abraham, Asnat Zibil. Photo: Gadi Dagon.

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left on stage— different actors than the ones who enacted the episode of the creation of Adam and Eve— and these now perform the scene of the expulsion. This mature and modernist couple, very unlike conventional iconographic depictions, enact a husband and his wife quarrelling while they recite the biblical ban from paradise. This continues, until their pain and suffering become so extreme that the two actors leave the stage. In addition to the formal similarities and analogous potential theatrical effects of this acting convention, it is telling that this technique is evident in both medieval and modern enactments of historical, mythological, larger-than-life figures. As Freddie Rokem defines the place and role of the actor who performs history and these historical characters: [T]his does not imply that the actors performing history are transformed into historical characters or believe that they are such figures, because that would make it necessary to transfer them to the mental ward where the “Napoleons” are supposedly kept. Rather, the actors serve as a connecting link between the historical past and the “fictional” performed here and now of the theatrical event; they become a kind of historian, what I call a “hyper-historian,” who makes it possible for us . . . to recognize that the actor is “redoing” or “reappearing” as something/somebody that has actually existed in the past.37

Gestures and Gestus Enacting mythic characters such as biblical ones or other historical personae that are always-already inscribed in the cultural consciousness along with a typical “iconography” leads to another central Brechtian theatrical device—the recognizable, memorable, and quotable gesture. In this case, the cultural significance and performative dominance of Christian iconography and the plays’ attempt to teach and reinscribe Christian history and ideology function in performance in a manner that invokes the Brechtian concept of “gestus,” that is, the carefully designed body movement of the actor in relation to the character. The concept of “gestus” suggests a theatrical mechanism that combines the idea of visual leitmotifs that are built into a certain performance by signs, movements, sounds, or gestures that acquire a specific meaning that is relevant to the real socio- cultural context they invoke, one that is larger than the play depicts. Such gestures or performative moments are theatrically expressive and memorable.38 Using the “gestus” is, therefore, a process of attributing performative meanings to the actor’s body language in his or her interaction with the character and adding layers of significance to those bodily gestures. Thus, the image of the character does not need to be represented “realistically,” but rather


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becomes a stylized combination of various expressive bodily sign systems. In Brecht’s theory and dramaturgy, these gestures are designed in such a way that they interfere with the narrative f lux of the performance, so that at certain key moments the audience’s attention will be drawn to the need for social criticism and activism. Theoretically, this coded gestural interference creates an experience of alienation, so that one is sufficiently distanced from the illusion of the story being told through awareness that the actor who is “standing beside the role in performance, [is] at once demonstrating and commenting on the character’s behavior.”39 However, although medieval religious theatre is obviously not politically activist like Brechtian theatre, this gestic “disturbance” leads to what could be termed “iconic acting” that is based on the characters’ typical iconography. Moreover, in spite of radically different ideological goals between medieval and Brechtian theatre, the idea that an actor “comments” or is differentiated from the character can be seen as an inherent characteristic of actor/character dialectics in explicitly didactic theatre. In late medieval religious culture a clearly defined coded sign-system and iconography dominated art, social behavior, and bodily movement. Therefore, its transference into the practice of religious theatre created a situation where a priori narrative f lux was “interfered” with by visually coded gestures, quoted images, and signs that often created mise-en-scénes composed of images that simultaneously belonged to different sign systems and ontological levels.40 In a brief but effective analysis of acting in the mystery plays, Peter Happé describes “this [acting] method as based upon iconic situation and diegetic presentation.”41 He quotes an example from Meredith and Tailby about the fourteenth-century Cividale Planctus and shows how the play’s gestures are designed in close connection with musical notes: The nature of this performance must depend upon the music of course, but such directions as “Let her indicate the cross with open hands” followed by “Here let her strike her breast” suggest that the purpose of such actions is to point out a significant object (having iconic significance), and to represent identity externally.42

It is interesting to compare this kind of acting with a twentieth-century avant-garde expressionist play by Lothar Schreyer, Crucifixion. This 1920 experimental piece creates an analogy between Christ and the dead soldier of World War I. In his descriptions and drawings of the performance text Schreyer envisioned an alternative kind of a ritual, in which each one


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of the characters (the Mother, the Son, and the Mistress) has repetitive symbolic gestures, such as stretched arms, folded arms on chest, and so on, coded in the text by abstract symbolic shapes. This performance cannot be termed “religious” in the conventional sense, and yet in order to convey characters that evoke the idea of Christ, Mary, and Mary Magdalene, Schreyer invents an entire set of gestures that are specifically coded for the purpose of this performance.43 A gestural analysis of the York Pewterers’ and Founders’ Joseph’s Trouble about Mary, for example, demonstrates a similar use of this theatrical mechanism. The producers of the play had to solve a complex problem of how to stage Mary. As Ruth Evans writes: Mary’s body, then, is a thoroughly contradictory sign, one capable of affirming metonymically the enclosed and uncontaminated borders of a Christian society (for which the wholeness, whiteness, and roundness of the little Eucharistic cake is also a metonym), but one also dangerously capable, in so far as it is a signifier of female sexuality, of disturbing those borders. The masquerade of purity hides the disturbance of the female body.44

Joseph’s Trouble about Mary is an example of a play in which the quoting and the created quotable gestures could evoke this complex image. An analysis of the play’s text demonstrates this straightforwardly. After Joseph addresses the audience directly complaining about his situation in a long monologue, he decides to go and see her: Neuere þe lees it is myne entente Nevertheless it is my intent To aske hir who gate hir þat barne, To ask her who got her pregnant— Зitt wolde I witte fayne or I wente. I should still like to know that before I went. All hayle, God be hereinne. All hail! God be herein. (119, 72–5)

Joseph’s greeting as he enters, as well as the fact that the first maid welcomes him, suggest two alternatives for Mary’s stage placement. The first is that while Joseph spoke to the audience Mary was unseen—probably sitting behind a piece of cloth or a construction that signified their home. Alternatively, she was not hidden, just placed on a higher level than he was—perhaps Joseph stood on the street level and spoke to the audience while Mary sat on the part of the stage that signified home. The reason for the second assumption is that within the next few lines there is a dialogue between Joseph and Mary’s first maid, in which the maid tells


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Haue done and rise vppe, dame, Stop what you are doing and get up, Lady, And to me take gud hede— And listen carefully to me— Joseph, he is comen hame. Joseph, he has come home. (119, 86–8)

I prefer the second theory because Mary’s constant visibility enables the layering of her character’s complex referent. After Joseph climbs up and “enters” the “house” he questions: “Whare is þat зonge virgine, Marie, my berde so bright?” (119, 77–8) [Where is that young virgin, Mary, my bride so bright?]. By asking this, Joseph deictically states Mary’s virginity and accordingly her holiness even though he has just repeatedly complained about how she beguiled him, and that “Þe childe certis is nought myne” (118, 55) [the child surely is not mine]. The maid’s answer to this question, however, is extremely significant: according to her description of Mary, Sho sittis at hir boke full faste prayand She sits at her book very intently praying For зou and vs, and for all þa for you and us, and all those too Þat oght has nede. that are in need. (119, 81–3)

This stage direction suggests a depiction of Mary that simultaneously enables her to be present on stage as Joseph’s wife, but also performs the iconographically typical gesture that depicts her in the scene of the Annunciation. For example, in Melchior Broederlam’s The Annunciation and The Visitation, Mary not only typically sits with a book but also is located in a small booth that might be similar to the concealing yet exposing construction that was perhaps used in performance.45 This image almost surely echoes the position of Mary from the former pageant (Annunciation and Visitation), thus reinscribing in the audience’s memory her holiness just before Joseph starts to question her about the child’s father. From the quoted/quotable image of sitting with a prayer book (most likely visible to the spectators from the beginning, thus silently and majestically contrasting with Joseph’s farcical monologue), the actor in the role of Mary easily transfers into the domestic Mary whom the following lines depict and who demands a different set of gestures. Although


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Joseph that “to telle hir will I ga of youre comyng” (119, 84–5) [I will go and tell her of your coming], and in the line immediately following, the maid directly turns to Mary:

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Welcome, als God me spede. Welcome, as God prospers me. Dredles to me he is full dere; Doubtless to me he is so dear. Joseph my spouse, welcome er yhe. Joseph, my spouse, you are welcome. (119, 89–91)

It could be argued that this language still maintains the difference between the two characters, but clearly Mary switches her position, if only by the very act of putting her book down and breaking her silence. Moreover, Joseph deictically points at her, drawing attention to her physicality: Telle me þe soth, how est with þe? Tell me truly, how are you? Wha has ben there? Who has been here? Thy wombe is waxen grete, thynke me. Your womb has grown large, I think. (119, 93–5)

This transition from one gestural mode to another is reminiscent of the Brechtian “gestus” described above, as it memorably calls attention both to change in the character and to its social status (Mary’s superiority in relation to Joseph). By performing and transforming through the gestures that typify Mary, the actor in the role of Mary enables the didactic point of the episode ( Joseph’s recognition) to unfold. Thus, the actor simultaneously demonstrates her character and “adores” it, to use Rouse’s terminology quoted above. This is in contrast to “commenting” on it according to Brecht. After Joseph questions Mary for the fourth time about the child’s father—he emphasizes (for doctrinal reasons as well as for comic effect) the fact that they were not together: Þou art yonge and I am alde, Slike werkis yf I do walde, Þase games fra me are gane.

You are young and I am old; Even if I were inclined, These games from me are gone (122, 194–6)

Mary overtly alters her bodily gestures once again. She deictically describes her posture, and, as if Joseph were absent, turns to God: Nowe grete God of his might Þat all may dresse and dight, Mekely to þe I bowe.

Now great God of his might, That may ordain and accomplish all, Meekly I bow to you.


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Mary’s speech is distinctly more elevated and shorter than Joseph’s,46 she greets him familiarly:


Þat in his herte myght light Þe soth to ken and trowe.

Have pity on this weary living creature, That in his heart may alight The truth to acknowledge and know. (122, 201–6)

Mary is often depicted bowing in scenes of the Adoration of the Child, which might have inf luenced the stage design of these lines, thus achieving another gestural/visual effect by prefiguring the coming birth of Christ and connecting this pageant with the next one (Nativity). Just as her former position (sitting with a book) created a link with the prior episode of the Annunciation, now her bodily position indicates her true holiness and emphasizes Joseph’s foolishness. Finally, in Joseph’s and Mary’s last interaction in the play, after he goes to the “wilderness” where he meets the angel who tells him that the child “is consayued of þe haly gast” (123, 267) [is conceived of the Holy Ghost] and humbly and apologetically returns home, Mary personifies the domestic, more realistic wife once again. Joseph asks “forgiveness now,” and she answers humorously and sharply: “Forgiffnesse sir? Late be, for shame, Slike wordis suld all gud women lakke.” (124, 296–7) [Forgiveness sir? Let it be, for shame. Such words should all good women lack]. Moreover, the final lines of the play are Joseph’s, and although Mary’s holiness has been confirmed, he chauvinistically treats her one last time ordinarily and encourages her to “start moving:” Yha, Marie, I am to blame For wordis lang-are I to þe spak. But gadir same nowe all oure gere Slike poure were as we were, And prike þam in a pak. Till Bedlem bus me it bere, For litill thyng will women dere; Helpe vp nowe on my bak.

Yes, Mary. I am to blame For words I to you spoke earlier. But gather up now all our possessions, Such poor clothes as we wear, And fasten them in a pack. To Bethlehem I must carry it, For women are vexed by little things. Help me up with it. (124, 298–305)

Just as in Brecht’s performances the “gestus” freezes or highlights a sign in order to emphasize it and make it a memorable social idea, the late medieval use of coded gesture functioned, although for different goals, as a theatrical means of isolating and highlighting religiously significant moments or ideas. Whereas Brecht used this theatrical tool in order to evoke a sense of alienation and thus lead to social criticism and activism against bourgeois ideology, in late medieval religious theatre the use of performative iconography was meant primarily to evoke a sense of


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Rewe on þis wery wight

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identification and devotion, though not illusion. Moreover, the use of this theatrical technique as a central aesthetic device enabled the creators to easily yet complexly present the different ontological levels that each character displays. One more characteristic of the Brechtian “gestus”—the idea of gestural leitmotifs— can be identified in the function of body posture and acting codes of the mystery cycle. Beyond Mary’s own changing bodily gestures in this play, she is visually opposed to Joseph. She is physically placed higher than he is—both at the beginning of the play and after he returns from the “wilderness” where he had slept on the ground— and she is also quieter and much more solemn, whereas he talks and moves frequently in the course of the play. This kind of presence will repeat itself in the Passion scenes and particularly in the Crucifixion, where Christ will be hung high up and the soldiers will stay below, and, more importantly, he will endure quietly whereas the soldiers will act loudly and crudely. In other words, the Joseph’s Trouble about Mary episode not only quotes gestures, but also creates metatheatrical quotable signs.47 This aesthetic idea fits very well with the theological notion of prefiguration and figuration. Beyond this kind of devotional “gestus,” there are instances in the plays where gesture and movement connect the sacred history with concrete reality, sociality, and local agenda, suggesting a performative emphasis not only on the character but also on the bodies and identities of the performers. Two examples demonstrate this. In her essay “The Bodily Embrace and Embracing the Body” Pamela Sheingorn analyzes the Parliament of Heaven play from the N-Town cycle. In this work she shows how the performance of the reconciliation of the Four Daughters of God, who are all played by men, on “þe loveday” (Mercy and Truth embrace while Justice and Peace kiss), uses the convention of cross-dressing to evoke a complex image that signifies to the audience not only the four heavenly women, but also a contemporary masculine ritual. She quotes Lois Drewer, who relates “loveday” to “an actual ritual for the achievement of private peace settlement,” which was publicly performed “through a ritualistic exchange of the kiss of peace.” Therefore, Sheingorn suggests: The loveday embrace thus usually took place between males reconciling a dispute that either had led or most probably would lead to violence. In the N-town play, only by seeing at once the males garbed as women and the women as daughters of God could audience members grasp the contemporary reference.48

Analyzing this example in terms of “gestus” suggests not only the complex interpretation of the actors’ (“quoted”/“quotable”) bodily gestures, but it clarifies that this body language was not only meant to


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evoke devotional references, but also meanings relevant to the very identity of the performers, and hence that of the spectators. In other words, this kind of metatheatricality proves that demonstrative acting was used to show adoration for the characters and simultaneously to dialectically refer to the performers themselves. Sheingorn’s suggestion that the masculine gender of the performers was not invisible or meant to be invisible implies an aesthetic that was interested in dualistic stage personae, in this case simultaneously male and female: female as characters, male as actors. Furthermore, this duality proves that the actors were not regarded as functional “signposts,” merely transmitting the characters, but rather that they were present as true mediators who in performance existed on the threshold between the audience and the enacted characters. Another example that demonstrates how the use of gesture and body language in performance signified not only the characters but also ref lected the social identities of the actors and spectators has to do with the centrality of the theme of work and labor in the cycles. Performatively demonstrating the guilds’ work and pride should be understood as the complex use of performance as a “space to exemplify social relations.”49 As Sarah Beckwith writes: The careful attention of the York Plays to the world of making, and the world as made, is part and parcel of the cycle’s elaboration of a politics of embodiment, its interest in the political regulation of the body, in a bodily epistemology, a theology of incarnation, and a community created through praxis and self-representation, not created ex nihilo.50

That an entire episode of the cycle is devoted to the building of the ark, produced by the Shipwrights’ guild and separate from the episode of the f lood, clearly and famously demonstrates this interest. Since it is reasonable to assume that within the course of a ten to fifteen minute play an entire “ark” was not built from scratch, the actor in the role of Noah has a triple referent. He verbally describes the work involved in building a real ship, thus emphasizing his own identity as a member of the Shipwrights’ guild, he signifies the character of Noah, and his physical actions reveal the theatrical mechanism as he most likely “pulls the strings” and puts together the image of the ark, thus emphasizing his identity as a performer. Surely this scene, or the more grotesque connections between the Pinners and The Crucifixion and the Bakers and The Last Supper, can be explained as relating life in the present to the mythological scheme of time and redemption in a most significant manner. In addition, it demonstrates how the “werkis” of God were used by the theatre creators (to quote the terminology of the ToMP) in order to theatrically display,


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explore, and negotiate the very social identity of the players and their peers.51 Gestures, iconographic positions, symbolic costumes, and daily emblems such as working tools, which are anachronistically inserted into the biblical episodes, are highlighted in these plays, because they are viewed against an a priori known context. As such, they have the potential to stand out, “interfere” with the f low of the biblical story, and function as “gestus” that might have religious and didactic and social and contemporary meanings. The acting conventions analyzed so far are all closely related to an epic theatre aesthetic, and all indicate a theatrical situation that is interested in the visible tension between actor and character rather than in merging them smoothly into one. Although evoking Brecht is not meant to claim a direct affinity between his theatre and ideology and the medieval religious theatre, there are three main reasons that doing so is constructive. First, his own theoretical thought and articulation of “epic theatre” are tools useful for conceptualizing late medieval acting aesthetics, partially because his aesthetic view was conceived and written as a reaction to realistic conventions that sought to completely merge actor and role as far as possible. Second, contemporary ideas about theatre and performance aesthetics are already conditioned by some of the concepts that Brecht inf luentially enunciated; often these concepts have grown to have life of their own beyond the immediate context in which they were written. Third, I believe that the late medieval religious theatre aesthetic was indeed “epic” (as were its acting techniques), but moreover, one cannot overlook its didactic aims and interest in the social lives of its participants (actors and audience members), and hence the effect this interest had on the concepts of acting and performance, quite like contemporary epic theatre and performance. However, whereas Brechtian theatre employs epic techniques in order to be politically engaged and in order to criticize society, medieval religious theatre clearly had different goals. For these reasons, and based on the idea of “contrariety and simultaneity” in the stage design of actor/character dialectics, we should regard the late medieval acting conventions and aesthetic to be based primarily on epic principles. In Brecht’s seminal essay, “The Street Scene,” quoted in the epigraph of this chapter, he articulates the idea of acting as demonstrating, rather than “becoming” a character, and his model for this innovative acting technique is a scene that takes place on a street corner. Just like the medieval “street scenes,” the ultimate Brechtian actor is someone who takes upon himself or herself the role of a witness, of someone who is theatrically telling an audience about an event


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One essential element of the street scene lies in the natural attitude adopted by the demonstrator, which is two-fold; he is always taking two situations into account. He behaves naturally as a demonstrator, and he lets the subject of the demonstration behave naturally too. He never forgets nor does he allow it to be forgotten, that he is not the subject but the demonstrator.52

In the production of the York Plays in York, July 2006, at the end of the Crucifixion episode, the actor in the role of Christ simply stepped down from the cross using a small step-case that the other members of the production had put in front of him, in order to help the rest of the cast get ready for the next performance in the next street corner, transforming in seconds from character back to actor (Fig. 3). Total Acting Epic acting is closely related to the basic characteristics of the mystery play’s epic nature, that is, its episodic structure and its epic magnitude and scale. The plays’ grand scale and multileveled appeal are, however, the exact link between the cycle’s epic aesthetic and its total theatricality. The entire community in York was involved in the production of the play as they ambitiously performed the sacred history in the streets of the city from sunrise to sunset. This devotional celebration of their faith and culture creates a unique and total kind of theatrical experience that encompasses every level of its participants’ existence in complex interplay. Martin Stevens compares late medieval maps of the world (mappa mundi) to the theatrical use of the city as a stage in the cycle plays, both ref lecting and being ref lected in the image and concept of the body of Christ: “Indeed the body in all its significations lies at the heart and soul of the Christian drama. It is, after all, the drama of the incarnation, and it is also the drama of a social body, which bonds the community.53 This annual festivity— so deeply embedded in the cycle’s raison d’être— and its direct connection with the body of Christ itself, is, however, related to another significant characteristic of contemporary concepts of total theatre and total acting: theatrical focus on the laboring and at times suffering body of the actor. No matter from what perspective one looks at the mystery plays, this is an annual theatre performance that centers on and peaks with the event of the Crucifixion; celebrating Christ’s body means executing it. As Martin Stevens puts it, “their [the mystery cycles’] central subject is the Incarnation, their mystery is Christ’s Resurrection, and their climactic moment occurs when the community


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that already happened, someone who is not the character, but only playing the character:

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Fig. 3 Stepping down off the cross, York Mystery Plays, The Crucifixion, 16 July 2006, Dean’s Park, York. Photo: A. Lehavi.

enacts the most formidable of all taboos, the killing of its god.”54 There is a huge difference between the Corpus Christi procession in which the Host is carried through the streets, abstractly yet “really” representing Christ’s body—whether or not the wafer is believed to have “real presence”— and what is explicitly declared to be an unreal representation of Christ’s body and yet achieved by means of (human) real presence. This difference is also part of the basic rhetoric of the ToMP discussed


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in the previous chapter, according to which since the abstract is the true concern, the theologically “real” focal point, people’s interest in their bodily mirth is considered problematic and should be forbidden. Thus the enactment of Christ’s Passion interrelates two significant elements of total theatre both in its historical context and in its connections with contemporary notions of performance: the violent ritual of mocking (and killing) kings on the one hand, and the extreme or even brutal treatment and exposure of an actor’s body in performance on the other. From the perspective of actor/character dialectics, the concept of total theatre shifts our focus from gestural differentiation between the two to questions of a performer’s willingness to risk his own bodily comfort and even safety in order to really imitate, that is, perform Christ throughout the scenes of the Passion. This is a shift from the semiotic to the phenomenological realm of theatre and performance. In such scenes, many times the border between actor and character becomes blurred simply because the narrative per se dictates brutal treatment of the actor’s body that imitates that performed upon the original character. Spectators, as the ToMP implies, might become emotionally involved in such scenes particularly because the signs of performance are not applied solely to the character, but rather literally mark the body of the actor and create a spectacle that Jody Enders refers to in certain cases as “snuff drama.”55 The spectacular enjoyment, attraction, and devotional admiration of physical harshness and suffering is one aspect of the total kind of theatricality that characterizes these scenes. Although the overriding aesthetic style of the mystery plays is epic, in the sequence of the Passion total theatricality is used. This has to do with the human divinity of Christ as well as with the violent story of his death. However, although such scenes create an affinity between the actor and the character rather than an explicit separateness, the reference remains a double one. Examining the acting aesthetic in these liminal situations shows that, as in scenes where epic conventions dominate, not only is the actor viewed as theologically different from the “real”— absent56 — Christ, but also the real inf liction of pain creates a theatrical emphasis on the performer as distinct from the character. These theatrical moments, which fascinate spectators, draw attention not only to the image of the original suffering Christ being signified, but also, to the body of the performer. Thus the actor is functioning as a carrier of a complex reference: he is in the sacred place of Christ, enduring in a way that signifies Christ’s travails, but he is also an aching—unholy—body, which, as such, is therefore viewed either as a kind of a martyr, or perhaps as a social outcast, or as both. The theoretical differentiation between actor and character has significant meanings from the viewpoint of late medieval cultural conceptions


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of pain. In her essay “The Animated Pain of the Body,” Esther Cohen writes that pain and suffering were regarded as meaningful and had a positive value, which indeed helps to explain the degree of violence used in the plays as well as the status to which an actor in the role of Christ might aspire due to his willingness to passively endure physical pain. Her theological and cultural explanation for this positive value is that conceptually, “[b]y the thirteenth century, it was clear in all scholastic disciplines that pain resided in the soul and was closely tied to truth and knowledge; therefore, observers could learn a great deal from watching expressions of pain.”57 The idea that pain resides in the soul as opposed to the body surely helps to explain the performance of pain that saints, martyrs, and other holy persona endured. It also justifies its theatrical use. However, in the theatre, these were not “aching souls” displayed on stage, but rather hurting bodies. So while theologically this explanation is compelling, from a theatrical viewpoint, especially from the perspective of actor/character dialectics, one must take into account the tension and doubleness of the actor’s bodily pain as opposed to the character’s “soul” that was also suffering, albeit on a different register. This is especially so in view of the fact that the actors in the role of Christ throughout the Passion sequence were identified and recognized as guild members rather than as Christ or as real martyrs. In contemporary performance art that endeavors to create a total event to be conceived by spectators as real, sensuous, and efficacious, torture and self-inf liction of pain are often part of the performance. The use of pain in contemporary performance art serves a variety of goals (political, psychoanalytic, ritualistic, and even redemptive) and bears a double reference, as it does in the medieval theatre: it encompasses both the metaphysical message that the bodily pain tries to transmit as well as the phenomenology of the real suffering body of the performer.58 In the medieval theatre, and especially in light of the suggestion that pain was conceived of as residing in the soul, the awareness of the difference between the actor’s body and the character he or she is performing similarly bears that same double reference.59 The total theatricality of such scenes as the Crucifixion, which as in contemporary performance art can be understood as both “sacramental theatre,” as Sarah Beckwith defines it, and “snuff drama” according to Enders, invites a reconsideration of the “somergame” exemplum discussed earlier. This text, about the “game” of the Passion, paradigmatically articulates the perspective of both the (suffering) player in the role of Christ and the violent role of his tormentors. The eventness and real happening of this game rather than its mimetic aspects—the torturers eat and drink while the player in the role of Christ is subjected to isolation, hunger, thirst, and potential pain and danger— are what the game


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is all about. This kind of ritualistic performativity and mythic brutality, combined with allowing the performer’s physicality and emotionality to reach a degree of real pain, corresponds with twentieth-century theories of total theatre. These theories are most significantly propounded by the prophetic Antonin Artaud, realized by Jerzy Grotowski, and retheorized by Richard Schechner. Artaud writes: There can be no spectacle without an element of cruelty at the basis of every show. In our present degenerative state, metaphysics must be made to enter the mind through the body.60

Grotowski, following Artaud, educated his actors to sacrifice themselves, and to be willing to totally expose and exhaust themselves in order to create “a secular sacrum in the theatre”61; in doing so he indeed made this happen. For example, in his 1962 Akropolis, he ironically and profanely quotes the Corpus Christi procession as the workers in the concentration camp laboriously build a crematorium during which they enact scenes from Greek mythology and the Bible. In one of the performance’s climaxes, they carry a figurative body of Christ, represented by a helpless doll, unable to offer salvation in such extreme circumstances. And yet, in Grotowski’s “holy theatre,” his actors are requested and willing to endure and exert extreme emotional and physical effort in order to tantalize spectators and to create a shocking and subversive— yet holy— experience.62 Understanding the role of the actor playing Christ during any scene of the Passion as both someone enacting a mere symbol of the original event and, concurrently, as someone willing to put himself in this role, creates a complex image: he both is and is not this figure. Beckwith interprets the stance of performing Christ in the Crucifixion episode and suggests that “an actor stands in for a character who stands in for other characters.” Just like Grotowski’s actors who stand in for silenced victims, in the “sacrificial closeness” of the medieval theatre, Beckwith writes, “the audience watches its delegate and its likeness, one who is there not just for the spectator but because of him.”63 Finally, Richard Schechner combines the ideas of both Artaud and Growtowski: The kind of performer I am talking about—like the Shaman, Artaud’s martyr, and Grotowski’s Cieslak— discards the buffer of “character.” Cieslak does not “play” the Constant Prince; MacIntosh does not “play” Dionysus. Neither “are” they the characters. . . . What results is a double structure. The first is the narrative and/or action structure of the Constant Prince or Dionysus 69. The second is the vulnerability and openness of the performer. In each performance he risks freshly not only his dignity and


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Jody Enders’s The Medieval Theatre of Cruelty refers directly in its title to Artaud’s theatrical vision.65 In relation to the performance of violence as an integral part of the medieval religious theatre— some of it accidental and some of it purposeful—Enders writes: It is one thing when, in Metz in 1437 the colleague of Nicolle de Neufchastel en Loraine— one Father Jehan se Missey—was left hanging too long while playing the role of Judas and almost died during his performance. . . . It is quite another thing [again] to substitute condemned criminals for actors so that the criminals could be burned alive on stage, as happened during a performance of the Laureolus. If the avant-garde director Evreinov wrote that “the participant’s blood must somehow come to circulate in what is represented on stage,” medieval and Renaissance dramatists had already demonstrated that that principle could be taken literally. Few things are more avant-garde and even postmodern than the medieval theatre of cruelty.66

From this perspective, in a manner similar to that used by an actor who played the role of God the Father, deictically referring to himself as “I” and thus marking the difference between his own materiality and God’s abstractness, playing Christ’s role dictated a kind of tension, albeit of a different sort. In the scenes of the Passion, Christ is mostly passive, brutally passed on from one tormentor to another. In Christ before Annas and Caiaphas he is untied, as Caiaphas sarcastically notes that “itt is no burde to bete bestis þat are bune” (249, 243) [it is no jest to beat beasts that are bound], and although exhausted, he is continuously tormented, as the fourth soldier inventively suggests, “dose noddill on hym with neffes that he nought nappe” (252, 367) [come, hit on him with knuckles, so that he won’t nap]. He is thus positioned in “a foles state” (253, 376) [a fool’s state], and is rudely mocked throughout. This enactment of violence is immediately renewed, now performed on the body of a different actor as the following pageant, Christ before Pilate, arrives at the station. Here, as Beadle and King write, “meditative tradition required that Christ’s torture be dragged out as long and inventively as possible, and also that he remain passively silent.”67 Next, the audience views a new actor enduring torture in Christ before Herod, and so on until the visual and emotional climax of the Crucifixion itself arrives. In all these episodes, as mentioned, Christ’s central characteristic and action is his silence. This preserves Christ’s solemn image, but from the viewpoint of an actor’s physical and emotional effort, maintaining this facade while being beaten, thrown, pulled, lifted, tied, and beaten again is an almost impossible task. Similarly, the audience’s engagement and identification


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craft, but his life-in-process. Decisions made and actions done during performance may change the performer’s life.64

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with the mimetic ritual of tormenting and buffeting suggests immersion into performance that goes beyond a devotional meditating on Christ’s suffering. Thus, beyond the social and cultural aspects of performing real violence or extreme physicality, the theatrical totality that characterizes acting in the scenes of the Passion is the complementary part of the epic acting and theatre aesthetic that characterizes late medieval religious theatre. An analysis of the dramatic tension that was a central part of the Crucifixion scene can best demonstrate the liveness of the event and the emphasis that was laid on the hard work of the performers and on the theatrical presence of the performer’s body no less than that of the character (Christ’s). The origins of the Crucifixion episode in unruly games such as “summer games” that were based on real use of torture and “playful” violence, have transformed in the more tamed form of the mystery plays into a representation of the scriptural event. And yet they brought with them the realness of “street theatre” to performances that take place in the street. This mixture of “high” and “low” sources explains the performance dynamics of the Passion sequence and the dramatic structure of the Crucifixion episode that simultaneously (and contrarily) lays emphasis on the identity and perspective of the soldiers who dominate the play with their clumsiness, frustration, brutal enactment, and degrading jokes on the one hand, and on Christ’s tranquil suffering on the other. The four soldiers mock Christ, torment him, stretch him again to the other side, lift him once and drop the cross, lift him again and lay down the cross yet once again, and then finally raise the cross, instantly creating an aweinspiring, moving, and powerful image of the Crucifixion in the middle of the town with each performance.68 Beyond the cultural sources of this kind of dramatic enactment of such a central episode as the Crucifixion, a close reading of the play reveals yet another layer, one that has directly to do with the performativity of the event that is taking place in the present, as well as with the extremely difficult task of creating a live representation of the Crucifixion scene. As mentioned above, Beckwith, among others, has raised questions concerning the complexity and potential danger of carrying out such scenes. To demonstrate that her questions are not rhetorical, that “the possibility of accident, of things not working, and not going to script” (67) might really occur, Beckwith refers to the French-Canadian film Jesus of Montreal, in which an actor playing Christ indeed fell off the cross and died. However, a careful reading of the York episode might suggest that such accidents were not necessarily deviations from the script, but rather, real events that might have happened and which possibly led to the writing of the script itself. The great amount of soldiers’ dialogue as opposed to the few lines Jesus speaks is necessary not only so as to establish the soldiers’ perspective by


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way of humiliating jokes, but rather to accompany the (long) theatrical process of safely tying the actor playing Jesus to the cross and putting together a simple yet risky theatrical machine: a moving stage that has to become a mortise in which a human being on a cross can be safe and stable. In contrast to the task of fixing a cross into the ground, doing so on a movable stage is much more dangerous. Therefore, the soldiers’/ performers’ discussion and complaints about their work literally describe their effort in making the event happen. They need time and they need the audience’s attention, and therefore they verbalize at length what they are doing. An interesting line in the play refers directly to their tension and fear of failing to carry out the theatrical task: I Miles: It may not mende for to moote more, Þis harlottemmuste be hanged here. II Miles: The mortaise is made fitte þerfore. III Miles: Feste on youre fyngeres þan, in feere. IV Miles: I were it wolle neuere come þore— We Foure rayse it noзt right to-yere.

1 Soldier: It won’t do any good to argue anymore This scoundrel must be hung here. 2 Soldier: The mortise is made fit therefore. 3 Soldier: Fast on your fingers then, altogether. 4 Soldier: I believe it will never come there— We four will not raise it upright this year. (318–19, 159–64)

This line might be a literal reference to the annual attempt of the performers to succeed in their task. Such a line was perhaps improvised once by one of the performers, maybe something was going wrong, and then found its way into the final text of the play. The idea that the four soldiers/pinners/performers have to succeed in raising the cross “this year,” of course has nothing to do with the original Crucifixion. In other words, these metatheatrical words do not refer at all to the represented event but perhaps to the one performed in the present. Through analysis of the written text of this episode as a depiction of a live performance, the mystery-plays’ use of total theatricality and their nature as real “street theatre” becomes evident. Such an approach demonstrates that the sacrificial and total mode of action that was demanded from the actor playing Christ was only one part of the theatricality and performativity of the scene. The roles of the four men who were under pressure to manifest 10.1057/9780230118119 - Street Scenes, Sharon Aronson-Lehavi

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Fig. 4 The Crucifixion, York Mystery Plays, 16 July 2006, Dean’s Park, York. Photo: A. Lehavi.

their physical abilities and strength while carrying out a rhymed and comic dialogue that had to be carefully timed with the action of raising the cross itself were just as extreme and just as phenomenologically overwhelming. This process was performed over and over again, twelve stations in a row, as was the custom in towns like York. In the 2006 production of the mystery plays in York, the physical effort, concentration, and coordination that the 10.1057/9780230118119 - Street Scenes, Sharon Aronson-Lehavi

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Conclusion What might seem at first glance to be a contradictory collusion of epic and total theatre aesthetics is not only the kind of tension that characterizes a significant aspect of twentieth- century postrealist experimental performance, but also the tension that best typifies concepts of acting and performance in the late medieval religious theatre. This was a theatre experience—in fact a theatrum mundi—that comfortably combined low and high culture, comedy and seriousness, local and communal references alongside devotional and eternal issues, and just as easily combined epic and total theatricality and acting techniques. The three epigraphs at the opening of this chapter quoting Brecht, Artaud, and the York cycle all connect theatre and the street; all talk about “street scenes.” In Jesus’ final lines before he dies toward the end of the Crucifixion play, standing on a York street corner and using the most minimalist theatrical means of the “basic model of an epic theatre” (a cart, a piece of wood, and an actor) as well as those of the total theatre (a suffering human body on display), the actor playing Jesus turns directly to the spectators and includes them in the performance, as he asks them to carefully watch him (as Christ, as a mock king, as a guild member, and as an actor at work) suffering: Al men þat walkis by waye or strete, Takes tente зe schalle no trauayle tyne. Byholdes myn heede, myn handis, and my feete, And fully feele nowe, or зe fyne. (321, 253–4) [All men that walk by way or street, Take heed that you miss none of my suffering. Behold my head, my hands, and my feet, And fully feel now, ere you pass.

Finally, to recall A Tretise of Miraclis Pleyinge once again, this very performing body of Jesus constitutes a complex and contrary sign that simultaneously voices “Christ and the Flesh”; it signifies while it performs, it is emotional and it stirs emotions, and most of all, it is the ultimate product of a communal ritual.


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four actors had to exhibit was evident, especially at the peak of the performance when they were trying to lift the cross with “Jesus” tied to it using an invented theatrical mechanism of ropes with which they pulled the cross up and fitted it into the hole in the wagon (Fig. 4).

T

he focus of this book is the acting, theatre, and performance aesthetics of late medieval English religious vernacular theatre. The performativity and theory of the mystery plays are sophisticated and complex and express an enactment aesthetic that rests upon the dialogic nature of theatre and performance. Rather than concealing the theatrical mechanism medieval religious theatre celebrates its dual reference. The main reason for this aesthetic is deeply connected with the religiosity of this theatre. The holiness and iconicity of the enacted religious figures and events demand not only a careful and delicate treatment that maintains their fixedness and remoteness, but also an aesthetic that problematizes embodiment. However, the performers and the entire performing mechanism do not disappear while the dramatic content is enacted, and therefore another signification system, one that belongs to the contemporary lives of the participants simultaneously signifies, acts, and performs. Given that religious vernacular theatre was nurtured not only by devotional cultural practices but also by lay culture and street performance— “games” in all the term’s complex meanings—these dualistic and dialogic characteristics of the mystery plays created a theatre that should be analyzed as performance. It is the liveness and eventness of the performance that creates its meaning for the participants. This is exactly the reason why the Tretise of Miraclis Pleyinge objects to this type of cultural activity. Rather than focusing solely on devotional practices for which specific rituals are designed, theatre performances, according to the tract, are “mixed signs.” However, analyzing the ToMP demonstrates the existence of a late medieval aesthetic discourse about performance, one that has been largely overlooked. The ToMP is therefore a significant text in the history of theatre and performance theory and it is structurally and ideologically consistent. I have tried to demonstrate that both the theatre creators and the author of the ToMP acknowledge the dual and liminal nature of theatre and performance. Whereas those who object to theatre would not


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allow this “simultaneity,” the creators of religious theatre emphasize the doubleness not as a “contrary” or negative tenet but rather as the basis for a theatricality that best serves the unique needs of religious enactment. These unique needs include both a theatrical differentiation between the performer and the performed and moments that are strikingly emotional, demanding total presence in order to convey powerful religious images and events. These two seemingly polar theatrical attitudes, the first emphasizing performative self-consciousness and the second denoting a theatre of presence, in fact typify the dominant modes of this religious theatre, and both share the explicit performative simultaneity of the actor and the character. In conclusion, my analysis comparing late medieval theatre practices to modern ones opens the door for a further exploration of the reasons for the phenomenological similarities between the aesthetics and concepts of performance of the two eras. The connections between a religious, prehumanist theatre and a secular posthumanist one might be stronger that we would assume. I leave this broader challenge for future research.


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A TREATISE OF MIRACLIS PLAYING: A MODERN ENGLISH VERSION OF A TRETISE OF MIRACLIS PLEYINGE

Some introductory notes about the translation: 1. The translation of the ToMP into modern English is intended to make the text more accessible to contemporary readers; however, this is a literal translation of the text. By aiming to keep the text as close as possible to the original, one can experience the unique writing style of the text, which is typified by extensive use of parallelisms and by an extremely intricate internal logic. The best full edition of the text is that of Clifford Davidson (1993), annotated with an introduction and accompanied by a Middle English glossary. Another full edition is in W. C. Hazlitt’s The English Drama and Stage under the Tudor and Stuart Princes 1543– 1664, originally published in Bath in 1832, (reprinted New York: Burt Franklin, 1969), 73–96, where it appears as A Sermon against Miracle Plays. 2. Although the logic of the text is coherent throughout, there are sentences that are very long and complicated. I have tried, as much as possible, to convey the simple meaning of each and every sentence, however, I have also tried, where possible, not to change the original wording but to stay as close as possible to the original text. In places where there are a few possible translations for a word, but all have the same meaning, I have separated them with slashes. Where there are a few interpretative options, or where I tried to clarify the meaning of the sentence according to my understanding of the text, I have added the alternatives in brackets.


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APPENDIX

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3. The most significant issue is determining how to translate the pairing of the words “miraclis pleyinge” throughout the text. Altogether there are four possible options: a) To leave it in the original, unsolved. b) To translate it into “the playing of miraclis”—using the term miraclis to denote a performance genre, called “miraclis.” c) To translate it into “the playing of miracles”— still referring to a performance genre while specifically evoking the idea of performing subject matter that has to do with miracles as wonders, specifically referring to God’s miracles or other scriptural events. d) To translate it into “playing miracles” or “miracle(s) playing,” which is most similar to the original but which emphasizes the contemporary meaning of the word miracle because of the spelling. Since the couplet “miraclis pleyinge” is used in the text in both ways—sometimes as a performance genre and sometimes specifically referring to a performance that enacted Christ’s miracles (in addition to the frequent use of the word miracle/s itself unequivocally denoting “miracle” in the sense of a wonder)—I use all four translation options in an attempt to get as close as possible to the specific meaning in each place in the text. I have decided, however, to leave unchanged the original spelling of the word “miraclis” in places where it is impossible to determine whether the specific meaning is a performance genre, a miracle, or both at the same time. In places where the word “miraclis” unequivocally means “miracle” I have changed the spelling into modern English. In all places I have translated “pleyinge” into “playing.” Line numbers are marked at beginning of paragraphs, following Davidson’s edition. [1] Here begins a treatise of miraclis playing. [2] Know you, Christian men, that since Christ— God and man—is way, truth, and life, as says the gospel of John1—way to the erring, truth to the unknowing and doubting, and life to those wearily climbing to heaven— so Christ did nothing to us that was not effectual and merciful., truthful and righteous, and in life of giving up everlasting joy for our continuous mourning and sorrowing in this valley of tears. Miracles, therefore, that Christ did here on earth either by himself or by his saints, were so effectual [real/true] and earnestly done, that for sinful men who erred they brought forgiveness of sin, setting them in the way of right belief; for doubtful and non-steadfast men they brought the knowledge to better please God, and real hope in God to be steadfast to him; and for those weary in the way of God, because of the great penance and suffering of


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[22] Then, since the miracles of Christ and of his saints were thus effectual, as according to our belief we are certain, no man should use in jest/ game3 and play the miracles and works that Christ so earnestly wrought for our well-being. For whoever does such a thing, errs in the faith, contradicts4 Christ, and scorns God. He errs in the faith, because he takes the most precious works of God in play and jest, and so he takes his [God’s] name idly and so misuses our belief. A, Lord,5 since an earthly servant does not dare to take in play and jest what his earthly lord takes earnestly [seriously], much more we should not make our play and game out of the miracles and works that God so earnestly did for us. For surely when we do so, dread of sinning is taken away, just as a servant, when he jokes with his master, his dread of offending him is lessened, especially when he jokes with his master about what his master takes seriously. And just as a smitten-in nail holds two things together, so dread that is smitten toward God holds and sustains our belief in him. [40] Therefore, just as playing and jesting with the most earnest works of God take away the dread of God that men should have in him, so it takes away our belief and thus our greatest help for our salvation. And since taking away our belief is a greater vengeance than suddenly taking away our bodily life, and when we take in jest and play the most earnest works of God as were his miracles, God takes away from us his grace of [letting us have] meekness, dread, reverence, and our belief; then, when we play his miracles6 as men do nowadays, God takes more vengeance on us than a lord that suddenly strikes his servant for playing too familiarly with him. And just as that lord then indeed says to his servant, “don’t play with me but play with your peer,” so when we take in play and game the miracles of God, he takes from us his grace, saying more seriously to us than the abovementioned lord, “don’t play with me but play with your peer.” [57] Therefore, such “miraclis playing” [playing of miracles] contradicts Christ. First, by turning into play what he took most earnestly. Second, by using in miraclis our f lesh, our lust [pleasure], and our five senses— those which God took [“used”] in the bringing in of his bitter death and for teaching of doing penance, and for f leeing away the feeding of our senses and for mortifying them. And therefore saints frequently note that we never read about Christ laughing in the Holy Scriptures, but rather


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the tribulation that men must have therein [in life], they [the miracles] brought in love of burning charity to those for which everything is light [taken lightly], even to suffer death, which men most dread, for [in order to achieve] the everlasting life and joy that men most love and desire, that which true hope puts away all weariness here in the way of God.2

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about his penance, tears, and shedding of blood, so that we know that everything we do here should be done in penance, in disciplining of our f lesh, and in penance of adversity. And therefore, all the works that we do except for these three7 utterly contradict Christ’s works. And therefore Saint Paul said that “If you escape the discipline in which all sons share, you must be bastards and not true sons of God.”8 And such miraclis playing contradicts doing penance since they are done with great pleasure, and are planned for the purpose of great pleasure in advance, whereas penance is done in great mourning of the heart and is ordained for great mourning. [76] It also contradicts discipline, for in true discipline the true voice of our master Christ is heard, as a student hears the voice of his master, and the rod of God in the hand of Christ is seen, in the sight of which all our other three senses tremble and quake because of fear and dread [ just] as a child trembles seeing the rod of his master. And thirdly, true discipline is truly turning away and forgetting all those things that Christ hated and turned himself away from here, [ just] as a child under the discipline of his master turns himself away from all the things that his master had forbidden him, and forgets them because of the great thought/reason9 that he has to do his master’s will. [87] And for these three Saint Peter wrote, saying, “Be you humbled therefore under the mighty hand of God, that he may exalt you in the time of visitation: Casting all your care upon him.”10 That is, “be you humbled,” that is, to Christ, hearing his voice by truly obeying his commands; and “under the mighty hand of God,” seeing evermore his rod in his hand to chastise us if we become lacking in discipline or idle, reminding us, Saint Peter said, that “It is a terrible thing to fall into the hand of the living God.”11 For just as it is most joyful to climb up into the hand of the mercy of God, so it is most hideous and fearful to fall into the hands of the wrath of God. Therefore we [should] meekly dread him here evermore seeing and remembering his rod over our head, and then he shall enhance us elsewhere in time of his gracious visiting. So that all our business we throw in him,12 that is, that all other earthly works we do only [should only be done] in order to do his ghostly works, more easily and speedily and more pleasantly to him[,] trusting, that for him is cure for us, that is, if we do for him that which is in our power he shall marvelously do for us that which is in his power, both in delivering us from all perils and in giving us graciously all that we need or ask of him. [109] And since no man can serve two lords together, as Christ said in his gospel,13 no man can hear at once effectually the voice of our master


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Christ and of his own lust. And since miraclis playing belongs to the lust of the f lesh and mirth of the body, no man can effectually hear himself and the voice of Christ at once, since the voice of Christ and the voice of the f lesh belong to two contrary lords. And so playing miraclis contradicts discipline, just as Saint Paul said, “and each truly discipline in the time that is now is not a joy but a mourning.”14 Also since it causes to see vain sights of disguise, costumes of men and women with evil behavior, stirring each other to lechery and disputes, since most bodily mirth leads to most disputes,15 since such mirth does not lead a man to patience but leads to gluttony and to other vices, because it enables a man not to wholeheartedly remember of the rod of God over his head, but causes to think about all such things that Christ by the deeds of his passion bade us to forget. Wherefore such miraclis playing contradicts Christ’s commands and deeds of penance, true discipline, and patience. [129] Also, such miraclis playing scorns God, because just as really deserting what God said despises God, as did Pharaoh, so using God’s biddings or words or works playfully/amusingly scorns him, as did the Jews that struck Christ, then, since these miraclis players use amusingly the earnest works of God, no doubt that they scorn God as did the Jews that struck/mocked Christ, since they laughed at his passion and these laugh and jape at the miracles of God. Therefore, as they scorned Christ, so these scorn God. And just as Pharaoh, [who] hated to do what God told him, despised God, so these miraclis players and maintainers, [who] turn aside from pleasingly doing what God bid them, scorn God. He for sure had bid us all to hallow his name, with dread and reverence within any thought about his works without any playing or japing, since all holiness is fully earnest. Men then who play the name of God’s miracles pleasingly, they turn away from doing what God bid them and therefore they scorn his name and scorn him. [147] But here again they say [explain/justify] that they play these miraclis in the worship of God whereas the Jews that mocked Christ did not.16 [150] Also since by such miraclis playing men are often committed to good living [conducting a good life], since men and women [by] seeing in miraclis playing that the devil and his order drive each other to lechery and to pride, making them his servants and bringing himself and many others into hell, and causing them to have far more villainy hereafter because of their pride arrayed here than they have worship here, and seeing furthermore that all this worldly being here is only vanity for a while, as is miraclis playing, so that they leave their pride and take on themselves


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[162] Also often by such miraclis playing men and women, seeing the Passion of Christ and of his saints, are moved to compassion and devotion, weeping bitter tears, so they are not scorning God but worshipping. [166] It is also profitable to men and to the worship of God to bring about and search for all the means by which men might leave sin and turn it into virtue; And just as there are men that only by earnest doing are converted to God, so there are other men that cannot be converted to God but by game and play. And [since] nowadays men are not converted by the earnest doing of God or of men, so now it is timely and appropriate to try to convert the people by play and game such as by miraclis playing and other kinds of mirth. [176] Also men must have some recreation, and it is better (or less evil) [sic] that they have their recreation by playing miraclis than by playing other japes. [179] Also, since it is pleasing to have the miracles of God painted, why is it not as well pleasing to have the miracles of God played, since men might better read the will of God and his marvelous works by playing them than in the painting? And they will remain better in men’s mind and more often rehearsed by playing them than by painting, for painting is a dead book, the other is alive. [186] To the first reason we answer saying that such miraclis playing is not done in the worship of God, because it is done more to be seen by the world and to please the world than to be seen by God or to please him, just as Christ never gave examples to them [of such behavior,] but only heathen men that evermore dishonor God, saying that it is in the worship of God, that which is the most offensive of him. Therefore just as the wickedness of the misbelieving of heathen men is a lie to themselves, when they say that the worshipping of their idols is for the worship of God, so men’s lechery nowadays for their own lust, is a lie to themselves when they say that such miraclis playing is for the worship of God. For Christ says that idolatrous men look for such signs [ just] as an adulterer seeks signs of real love but no deeds of real love. So since these miraclis playing are only signs of love without deeds, they are not only contrary to the worship of God—that is both in sign and in deed—but also they are devices of the devil to catch men to believe in Antichrist, as words of love without real deeds are devices of the lecher to catch fellows to fulfill his lechery. These miraclis playing are both very false since they are signs


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afterwards the meek conversation about Christ and his saints. And so miraclis playing turns [leads] men into belief and does not prevent it.17

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without deeds and they are very futile, since they use the miracles of God idly for their own lust. And certainly idleness and lying are the obvious devices of the devil to draw men to believe in Antichrist. And therefore for priests it is utterly forbidden not only to be a miracle player, but also to hear or to see miraclis playing, least of all he that should be the device of God to catch men and hold men in the belief of Christ, [so that] they are turned against [in the opposite direction] by hypocrisy, [becoming] the device of the devil to catch men to believe in Antichrist. Therefore, just as a man swearing lightly by the names of God and saying that this way he worships God and despises the devil, he is really lying and doing the opposite; so miraclis players, since they are doers of idleness [lightness], saying that they do it to the worship of God, actually lie. For as the gospel says, “Not he that says ‘Lord, Lord’ shall come to bliss in heaven, but he who does the will of the Father of Heaven shall come to his kingdom.”18 Thus much more not he that plays the will of God worships him, but only he that does his will indeed worships him. Just as men beguile and despise their neighbors by feigned tokens, so by such feigned miraclis men beguile themselves and despise God, as did the tormentors that mocked Christ. [230] And as an answer to the second reason, we say that just as a virtuous deed is sometimes an occasion of evil, as was the Passion of Christ for the Jews, but not an occasion given to them but taken from them, so evil deeds can be occasions of good deeds sometimes, as was the sin of Adam an occasion [the reason] for the coming of Christ,19 but not an occasion given of the [that is for] sin but rather an occasion taken [that shows] the great mercy of God. The same with miraclis playing, although it is sin, it might be claimed sometimes an occasion for converting men, but since it is sin it is far more an occasion of perverting men, not only of one singular person but of all, a whole community, as it occupies all the people in vain against the commands of the book of Psalms that says to all men and especially to priests that each day read it in their service: “Turn away my eyes that they see not vanities,”20 and afterwards, “Lord, thou hated all witting vanities.”21 How then may a priest play in interludes [plays] or watch them since it is forbidden to him so clearly by the foresaid commands of God, especially since he curses every day in his service all those that bow away from the commands of God. But, alas, it is more harmful, that priests nowadays are shrewish, and all day just as a jay that all day cries “What shrew!”—himself shrewing. Therefore miraclis playing, since it is against the command of God that bids that thou shall not take God’s name idly [lightly], is against our belief and so it does not give an occasion of turning men into believers but an occasion of perverting.


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And therefore many men think that there is no hell of everlasting pain, but that God only threatens us, not to really do it, just as is playing of miraclis in signs and not in deeds [for real]. Therefore such miraclis playing not only perverts our belief but also our true hope in God, by which saints hoped that the more they abstained themselves from such plays, the more rewards they should receive from God, and therefore the holy Sara, the daughter of Raguel, hoping for her rewards from God, said, “Lord, thou knowest well, that I never desired man, but I have kept clean my soul from all concupiscence, I never meddled me with players, ne never had part of them that walk in lightness,”22 and by this true confession to God, as she hoped so she had her prayers heard and received great rewards from God. And since a young woman of the Old Testament for keeping her bodily virtue of chastity and for worthily taking the sacrament of matrimony when her time came, abstained herself from all kinds of idle playing and from all company of idle players, much more a priest of the New Testament, that has passed the time of childhood and that not only should keep chastity but also all other virtues, not only ministering the sacrament of matrimony but all the other sacraments and especially since he is obligated to minister to all the people the precious body of Christ, ought to abstain himself from all idle playing both of miraclis and of other kinds [of plays]. For certainly, since the Queen of Sheba, as Christ said in the gospel, shall condemn the Jews that would not receive the wisdom of Christ,23 much more this holy woman Sara at the day of doom shall condemn the priests of the New Testament that give themselves to plays, contradicting her holy manners approved by God and the holy church; therefore priests surely ought to be ashamed that they contradict this good holy woman and the precious body of Christ that they treat in their hands, the body which never gave himself to play but to everything that is contrary to playing, as is penance and suffering of persecution. [289] And so these miraclis playing not only contradict faith and hope but also real charity through which a man should cry for forgiveness for his own sin and for his neighbors’, and especially priests, for it withdraws not only one person but all the people from deeds of charity and of penance into deeds of lust and mirth and of feeding of our senses. So then these men that say, “Play we a play of Antichrist and of the Day of Doom so that some man may be converted by it,” fall into the heresy of themselves by contradicting the apostle, saying, “Do we evil things, so that good things come,” of whom, as says the apostle, “damnation is the right way.”24 [300] By this we answer to the third reason saying that such miraclis playing gives no occasion of real weeping and meditation, but the weeping


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that happens to men and women by the sight of such miraclis playing, which is not principally for their own sins nor because of their good faith within, but more because of their sight from without is not allowable before God but more reprovable. For since Christ himself reproved the women that wept for him in his passion, much more should they be reproved [those] that weep for the play of Christ’s passion, instead of weeping for their own sins and those of their children as Christ told the women that wept for him.25 [312] And by this we answer to the fourth reason, saying that no man can be converted to God but only by the earnest doing of God and by no vain playing, because if the word of God or the sacraments do not work, how should playing work—that which is of no virtue but full of f law? Therefore, just as the weeping that men weep often in such plays is commonly false witnessing because they love more the liking [pleasure] of their own body and the prosperity of the world than liking [pleasing] God and prosperity of virtue in the soul, and therefore, having more compassion for pain than for sin, they falsely weep for the lack of bodily prosperity, more than for the lack of spiritual prosperity, as do damned men in hell. Right so, often this converting that men seem to be converted by such playing is but feigned holiness, worse than is other sin beforehand. For if he were really converted, he should have hated to see all such vanity, as bid the commands of God, albeit that in such play he takes occasion by the grace of God to f lee sin and to follow virtue. And if men say here that if this playing of miraclis is sinful, why would God convert men on the occasion of such playing, here too we say that God does so in order to commend his mercy to us, so that we think fully how good God is to us, that while we are thinking against him, doing idleness and denunciating him, he thinks good about us, and sends us his grace to f lee all such vanity. And therefore nothing should be sweeter to us than such kind of mercy of God, as the book of Psalms calls that mercy “blessing of sweetness” where he says, “Thou came before him in blessings of sweetness”26 —the sweetness which, although it is pleasure of the spirit, it is [in fact] while we are here full of travails of the body, because truly that the f lesh and the spirit are contrary. Therefore, this sweetness of God will not be truly experienced while a man is occupied in seeing plays. Therefore the priests that call themselves holy and busy themselves with such plays are truly hypocrites and liars. [347] And hereby we answer to the fifth reason that says that real recreation should be permitted, because occupying in lesser works, [causes] to more ardently worship greater works. And therefore such miraclis playing or the sight of them are not real recreation but false and worldly, as


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prove the deeds of those who favor such plays that yet never truly tasted the sweetness of God, travailing so much in them [becoming so occupied with them] that their body does not suffice to bear such a laboring of the spirit, but rather just as a man goes from virtue to virtue, so they go from lust into lust and more steadfastly dwell in them. And therefore just as this feigned recreation of playing of miraclis is false righteousness, so it is double shrewdness, worse than if they played pure vanities. For now the people give credence to many mixed lies for other mixed truths and are led to think goodly about that which is full of evil, and so often it is less evil to play obscenity than to play such miraclis. And if men ask what recreation men should have on the holiday after their holy contemplation in the church, we say to them two things— one, that if he had really occupied himself in contemplation beforehand, neither would he ask that question nor have the will to see vanity; and secondly we say, that his recreation should be in the works of mercy to his neighbor and in delighting himself in all good communication with his neighbor, as beforehand he delighted himself in God, and in all other necessary works that reason and kindness ask for. [373] And to the last reason we say that painting, if it is really without mixing of lies and not too skilful, too much feeding men’s senses, and not an occasion of idolatry for the people, it is but as naked letters to a clerk to read the truth. But so are not miraclis playing that are created more to delight men bodily rather than to be books for unlearned men. And therefore if they are live books, they are live books of shrewdness more than of goodness. Good men therefore seeing that their time is too short to occupy themselves in good earnest works, and seeing the day of their reckoning arriving fast, and unknowing when they shall go from this world, f lee all such idleness, hurrying to be with their spouse Christ in the bliss of heaven. *

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[386] An half friend, [who is] tarrying the health of the soul, [who is] ready to excuse the evil and, and who it is hard to convince, like Thomas of India,27 says that he will not leave the abovementioned miraclis playing unless men show him that he should [do so] by the Holy Writ openly and according to our belief. In order for this half friend to turn into a whole one, we ask him to behold first the second amendment of God that says, “Thou shall not take God’s name in idle,”28 and since the marvelous works of God are his name, as the good works of a craftsmen are his name, then in the command of God it is forbidden to take the marvelous works of God in vain. And how can they be used more idly than when


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they are made men’s japing-stick, as when they are played by japers? And since God did them earnestly to us, that is how we should take them; otherwise we surely take them vainly. Look then, friend, if you believe the telling that God did his miracles to us in order for us to play them—while in truth it says to thee, “Nay, but for thou should more dread him and love him.” And certainly great dread and great effectual love suffers no playing and no japing with him. Then since miraclis playing contradicts the will of God and the purpose for which he wrought miracles to us, doubtless that miraclis playing is really using God’s name idly. [409] And if this does not suffice you, although it should suffice an heathen man that accordingly will not play the works of his idols, I request you to read entirely in the book of life that is Christ Jesus to see if you may find in it that he ever gave an example that men should play miraclis, but always the opposite and our belief curses those that had or that did less than Christ exampled us to do. How then do you dare to hold on to miraclis playing since all the works of Christ contradict them, and in none of his works are they grounded?—namely, since you say yourself that you will not leave [the plays] unless it is shown in our belief, and since you will do nothing against such a thing that accords with the f lesh [body] and for the pleasure of it, as is miraclis playing, unless it is shown [proven] in our belief; much more you should not hold against something that accords with the spirit, and that is always exemplified in the life of Christ and so fully written in the book of life, as is abandoning miraclis playing and all japing, unless it is shown against that in the belief, since in any case of doubt, men should hold onto the party that is more favorable to the spirit and more exemplified in the life of Christ. And so just as each sinner destroys himself and each deceitful man does, so your answer destroys yourself and thereby you may well be certain that it is not true, but real unkindness; For if you had had a father that had suffered a contemptuous death in order to get you your heritage, and thereafter you would so lightly use it to make of it a play for you and for all the people, no doubt that all good men would deny this unkind thing, much more God and all his saints deny all those unkind Christian men that play or favor the play of the death or of the miracles of their most kind father Christ that did and performed miracles in order to bring men to the everlasting heritage of heaven. [442] But perhaps you say here that [even if ] playing of miraclis is sin, nevertheless it is but a little sin. But therefore, dear friend, you should know that each sin, is never so little, if it is maintained and preached as good and profitable, it is a deadly sin; and therefore said the prophet “Woe to them that say good evil and evil good.”29 And therefore the wise men abandon those that are glad when they do evil; and therefore all the


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saints say that it is human to fall, but it is devilish to stay in there [in sin]. Therefore, since this miraclis playing is sin, as you know, and is steadfastly maintained, and also men delight themselves in them, no doubt that it is a deadly sin— deserving of damnation, devilish, inhuman. Lord, since Adam and Eve and all mankind were expelled out of paradise not only for eating of the apple, but more for the excusing of it, much more playing of miraclis not only excused but steadfastly maintained is deserving of damnation and deadly, especially since it does not only pervert one man but all the people that call good, evil, and evil, good. [461] And if this will not suffice you although it should suffice each Christian man (that should do nothing except for the teaching that Christ taught) [sic], take heed to the deeds that God has done, in which we read that by the bidding of God, when Ishmael played with his brother Isaac, both Ishmael and his mother were thrown out of the house of Abraham, because by such playing[,] Ishmael, who was the son of the servant, might have deceived Isaac of his heritage, [he] who was the son of the free wife of Abraham.30 Another reason is that since Ishmael was born after the f lesh and Isaac after the spirit, as the apostle says,31 in order to give an example that playing with the f lesh is not appropriate or helpful to the spirit but to taking away the spirit’s heritage. [474] And the third reason is to prefigure that the Old Testament, that is the testament of the f lesh, should not be held with the New Testament, which is the testament of the spirit; and if it is wholly kept with the testament of the spirit, it postpones true freedom and takes away the heritage of heaven. Then since the play of Ishmael with Isaac was not allowed, much more is f leshly play with the ghostly works of Christ and of his saints not allowed, [and] since his miracles were done in order to convert men into believing, the distance and contrariety between f leshly playing and the earnest deeds of Christ is much greater than between the playing of Ishmael and Isaac, and also the playing of Ishmael and Isaac prefigured the playing between the f lesh and the spirit. Therefore, as two things that are most contrary shall not play together without hurting each other, as experience teaches, and mostly that part shall hurt the one that is most maintained, and that part shall most hurt that is less maintained; then playing that is f leshly with the works of the spirit is so harming of each other, and mostly shall the f lesh hurt the spirit, as in such playing the f lesh is most maintained and the spirit less. And as in good things the figured is always better than that which [pre]figures, so in evil things the figured is far worse than the figure; then since the playing of Ishmael with Isaac is a figuration of the playing of the f lesh with the spirit, and the first one is evil, then far worse is the other. Then playing with the miracles


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of God deserves more vengeance and it is a greater sin than deserves the playing of Ishmael with Isaac, and it was less evil; and as fellowship of a serf with his lord makes his lord despise him, so much more playing with the miracles of God makes them [the players] despised, since in comparison playing with the marvelous works of God is far more churlish than any man may be a churl of a lord; and therefore the playing of Ishmael, who was the son of the servant, with Isaac, who was the son of the free woman, was justly reproved, and both the woman and the son were put out of his company; much more men’s play with the marvelous works of God is rightly reproved and worth to be put out of their company. [512] And therefore, as the apostle says, as there is no good communing between the devil and God, so there is no good communing between the devil’s instrument to pervert men, as is f leshly playing, and God’s instrument to convert men, as are his marvelous works; therefore, as this is a real lie to say that for the love of God he will be a good fellow of the devil, so it is a real lie to say that for the love of God he will play his miracles, for in neither is the love of God shown but rather his commands are broken. And since the ceremonies of the old law, although they were given by God, were f leshly, they should not be held with the New Testament, for it is ghostly. Much more playing, since it is f leshly, never bidden by God, should not be brought together with the marvelous works of God, for they are ghostly. For as the playing of Ishmael with Isaac would have taken away from Isaac his heritage, so in keeping the ceremonies of the old law in [together with] the New Testament would have taken away from men their belief in Christ, and make men to go backward, that is to say, from the ghostly living of the New Testament to the f leshly living of the Old Testament. [533] Moreover, playing of miraclis takes away from men their belief in Christ and is really going backward from deeds of the spirit to only signs that are done for the lust of the f lesh that are against all the deeds of Christ, and so miraclis playing is really apostasy of Christ. And therefore we shall never find that miraclis playing should be used by Christian men but since [except for] clergy [who] only show their religion in tokens and not in deeds, and priests [who] show their priesthood only in signs and for money and not in deeds. And therefore the apostasy of these draws many people after them, as the apostasy of Lucifer the first angel drew much of heaven after him. [545] If this, friend, will not suffice thee while the eye of the blind would take sight, take heed of how the playing of two contrary parties together, as the playing of the children of Abner and the children of Joab wherein


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three hundred men and sixty were slain and died,32 undoubtedly much more harmful is the playing of the ghostly works together with the lust of the f lesh since they are greater enemies. For miraclis playing [players], just like these apostates, preach for bodily advantage. For just as these consider bodily advantage at a higher price [value] than the word of God, as they make the word of God but a means to their advantage, so these miracle players [sic] and the supporters of them, since they make the miracles of God only a means for their play, and the play the end [purpose] of the miracles of God, hold their play at a higher price [value] than the miracles of God. And so these miraclis players and the supporters of them are real apostates, both for putting God behind and their own lust before [in front], since they remember God only for the sake of their play and also because they delight themselves more in the play than in the miracles themselves, as an apostate delights himself more in his bodily winning than in the truth of God and praises more seemly things on the outside than any fairness on the inside toward God. And therefore it is that such miraclis playing are a threat of much vengeance by God. For just as a jealous man who sees his wife japing with his friends, loving another man more than him, does not wait a long time in order to take vengeance to chastise her, so surely God is more jealous over his people as he loves it more than any man jealous of his wife[;] [H]e, seeing the kindness of his miracles put behind and men’s lust in front, and thus men’s will is more loved than his own will, no wonder that he quickly sends vengeance thereafter, as he must, because of his great righteousness and mercy. And therefore it is that the wise man says, “the end of mirth is sorrow, and afterwards your laughing shall be mixed with sorrow.”33 And therefore, as experience proves, ever since reigned such an apostate manner in the people, the vengeance of God never ceased upon us, in the forms of pestilence, quarreling, f loods, famine, and many other ways, and commonly when men are too unreasonably merry, soon after falls sorrow. [584] Therefore such miraclis playing nowadays is evidence of three things. First it is great sin before [in the past/in advance]. Second, it witnesses [testifies to] great folly in the doing [in the present]. And third, great vengeance after [in the future]. For just as the children of Israel, when Moses was on the hill busily praying for them, they mistrusted him, honoring a golden calf, and afterwards eating and drinking and rising to play, and afterwards three thousand and twenty men of them were slain.34 So then this playing witnesses [testifies to] the sin of their idolatry before [in advance] and to their mistrust of Moses when they should have most trusted him, and then their folly in their playing [in the present], and thirdly, to the vengeance that came afterwards. So this miraclis playing is


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true witnessing [testimony] of men’s avarice and greed in advance35 —that is, idolatry, as says the apostle—for that that they should spend upon the needs of their neighbors, they spend upon the plays; and to pay their rent and the debts they will grumble, and to spend so much on the play they will not grumble at all. Also to gather men together to purchase expensive foods and to stir men to gluttony and pride and arrogance, they play these miraclis, and also in order to have wherefrom to spend on these miraclis and to involve fellowship in gluttony and lechery on such days of miraclis pleyinge, they get busy in advance, more greedily beguiling their neighbors into buying and selling. And so this playing of miraclis nowadays is testimony of hideous covetousness—that is, idolatry. And just as Moses was that time on the hill travailing hard for the people, so now Christ is in heaven with his Father most eagerly praying for the people; and just as in the past, as the children of Israel did in their time, in their playing of their idolatry, most foolishly destroyed the great travails of Moses, so men nowadays, following their hideous idolatry of greed in their playing of miraclis what they do is to destroy the eager prayer of Christ in heaven for them, and so their miraclis playing testifies to their utter folly in the present. And therefore just as the children of Israel unkindly said to Aaron, when Moses was on the hill, “We know not how it is of Moses, make us therefore a God who shall go before us,”36 so nowadays men say unkindly, “Christ does no miracles for us now, therefore we play his old ones,” adding many lies to them so persuasively that the people give as much credence to them [the plays] as to the truth. [627] And so they forget to be partners of the prayer of Christ, for the idolatry that men do in such miraclis playing—idolatry, I say, for men honor such playing as much (or more than) (sic) the word of God when it is preached, and therefore blasphemously they say that such playing does more good than the word of God when it is preached to the people. A, Lord, is there anything more blasphemous against you than saying that doing your bidding, which is preaching the word of God, does far less good than doing that which is bidden only by man and not by God, as is miraclis playing? Just as the likeness of miracles we call miraclis, so the golden calf which the children of Israel called God, not because it was God in itself, but because they made it in the likeness of God, while they had memories of the old miracles of God in the past and because of that likeness they worshiped and praised, as they worshipped and praised God when he did miracles for them. And therefore they expressed idolatry. So since nowadays many of the people worship and praise only the likeness of the miracles of God as much as the word of God in the preacher’s mouth through which all miraclis are done. No doubt that the people do


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more idolatry now in such miraclis playing than did the people of Israel that time in adoring the calf, because the lies and lust of miraclis playing that men worship in them is more contrary to God and more according with the devil than was that golden calf that the people worshipped. And therefore the idolatry that time [in the past] was only a figuration and a likeness of men’s idolatry now, and therefore, says the apostle, “All these things in figure fallen to him,”37 and therefore in such miraclis playing the devil is most pleased, as the devil is best paid [pleased] to deceive men by the likeness of that thing through which God converted men beforehand and grieved the devil beforehand. Therefore doubtless such miraclis playing threatens to bring about much more vengeance than did the playing of the children of Israel after the adoring of the calf, as this playing establishes only japes greater and more benefits of God.38 [664] A, Lord, since children’s playing is [the result of ] witnessing their father’s sins in front of them and their [the fathers’] own original sins before and their own default of wisdom when they play, and their chastity afterwards shall more grieve them, so much more this miraclis playing is witnessing men’s hideous sins beforehand and the forgetting of their master Christ, and their own folly and the folly of malice beyond the folly of children, and that there is great vengeance to come to them more than they shall be able to patiently bear, because of the great pleasure that they have in their play. [674] But, friend, perhaps you say that no man shall make you believe but that it is good to play the Passion of Christ and other of his deeds. But hear again hear how when Elisha climbed up into Bethel, playing children came towards him saying: “Climb up baldhead! Climb up, baldhead!” And therefore he cursed them, and two bears of the wild wood tore them up, forty two children.39 And as all saints say, the baldness of Elisha prefigured the Passion of Christ, then since this story clearly shows that men should not game/joke with the figure of the Passion of Christ or with a holy prophet of Christ, moreover in the New Testament. And when men should be wiser [in the present], further from all kinds of playing and earnest deeds should be more commanded now than that time, and the Passion of Christ should raise more dread than Elisha should have. Men should not play the Passion of Christ because it will cause pain that is much greater than was the vengeance of the children that scorned Elisha. [692] For surely playing the Passion of Christ is truly scorning Christ, as is said before; therefore, dear friend, behold how nature tells that the older a man grows the more it is against his nature to play, and therefore


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says the book, “Cursed be the child of a hundred year.”40 And certainly the world, as says the apostle, is now at his [its] ending, as in his [its] last age; therefore for the great unavoidable coming of the day of doom all creatures of God now condemn and are wrathful at men’s playing, especially of miraclis playing, that most should be showed in earnest and into vengeance at the day of doom; therefore miraclis playinge are against the nature of all creatures, and therefore God nowadays sends sooner wisdom to children then until now, because they should nowadays leave playing and devote themselves more to earnest deeds, pleasant to God. [707] Also, friend, take heed what Christ said in the gospel that “right as it was in the days of Noah before the great f lood, men were eating and drinking and their likings dominant, and horribly came the vengeance of God of the great f lood upon them; so it shall be of the coming of Christ in the day of doom,”41 so that when men give themselves most to their playing and mirth, strongly shall come the day of doom on them with great vengeance. Therefore, doubtless, friend, this miracle playing that is now used is but a real threaten of a sudden vengeance upon us. [717] And therefore, dear friend, spend we neither our wits nor our money on miraclis playing, but in doing them indeed, in great dread and penance, for surely the weeping and the f leshly devotion in them are only as strokes of an hammer on the other side to drive out the nail of our dread of God and of the day of doom, and to make the way of Christ slippery and slow in movement for us, as rain on earth and clay ways. Then, friend, if we will in any case play, let us play as David played before the ark of God, and as he spoke before Michal his wife despising his playing, where from to her he said wisely: “The Lord lives, for I shall play before the Lord that has chosen me rather than thy father, and all his house, and he commanded to me that I were duke [ruler] upon the people of the Lord of Israel, and I shall play, and I shall be made a fool more than I am made, and I shall be meek in my own eyes, and in the eyes of the women which you speak about I shall appear more gloriously.”42 [734] So this playing has three parts. The first is that we behold in how many things God has given us his grace passing over our neighbors, and for so much more we thank him, fulfilling his will and more trusting in him against all kinds of reproving of our enemies. The second part is in continually being devoted to God almighty and reproving to the world, as Christ and his apostles showed themselves and as David said. The third part is in being as obedient in our own eye or more than we show on the


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outside, setting a model by ourselves as we know more sins of ourselves than of any other, and then before all the saints in heaven and before Christ at the day of doom and in the bliss of heaven we shall be more glorious in as much as we play better the three foresaid parts here, the three parts which well to play here and after to come to heaven, grant the Holy Trinity. Amen.


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Introduction 1. Bertolt Brecht, “The Street Scene: A Basic Model for an Epic Theatre,” in Brecht on Theatre: The Development of an Aesthetic. Ed. and trans. John Willett (New York: Hill and Wang, 1964) 121–30. Comparisons between Brechtian theatre techniques and medieval theatricality have been made. See V.A. Kolve, The Play Called Corpus Christi (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1966); Meg Twycross, “The Theatricality of Medieval English Plays,” in Richard Beadle, ed. The Cambridge Companion to Medieval English Theatre (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994); 54. 2. An interesting analogy to this idea is Ernst H. Kantorowicz’s The King’s Two Bodies: A Studies in Medieval Political Theology (New Jersey: Princeton University, Press, 1957). In this book Kantorowicz analyzes a medieval political theology that is based on the idea that the king has two bodies: his human, mortal body on the one hand, and his political body, which includes the divine right to rule, on the other. This idea is relevant to theatrical enactment of holy figures particularly because it demonstrates a conceptual differentiation between two entities within the same body. However, whereas the king was indeed believed to embody a divine power, an actor does not incarnate a holy character. 3. Erika Fischer-Lichte, Theatre, Sacrifice, Ritual: Exploring Forms of Political Theatre (New York: Routledge, 2005); 27. 4. Alexandra F. Johnston and Margaret Rogerson, ed., York: Records of Early English Drama, Vol. 1 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1979), 109. Hereafter referred to as REED: York. 5. See Meg Twycross, “The Theatricality of Medieval English Plays,” especially 37–55. 6. For a different view see Meg Twycross and Sarah Carpenter, Masks and Masking in Medieval and Early Tudor England (Burlington: Ashgate, 2002). Regarding the use of masks in the mystery plays they argue that “Once the mask is on, the actor as an individual simply disappears behind it: only the character is left.” (197). 7. REED: York, 109.


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8. This tension, which is central to the discourse of theatre in general, can be found in the famous eighteenth-century dispute as to whether the actor should really feel the emotions he, or she, performs or be completely detached from them, just as it characterizes in a different way the differences between Brechtian and Artaudian concepts of theatre; the first coining the famous “alienation effect” and the latter envisioning life as theatre’s double because, Artaud argues, of the intensity and total effects that acting and performance should evoke. See Antonin Artaud, The Theatre and its Double, trans. Victor Corti (New York: Calder, 1993). 9. Michal Kobialka, This is My Body: Representational Practices in the Early Middle Ages (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1999), 19. 10. See Marvin Carlson, Places of Performance: Semiotics of theatre Architecture (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1993). 11. On Shakespeare’s having the opportunity to see the Coventry cycle see Clifford Davidson, “ ‘What hempen home-spuns have we swagg’ring here?’ Amateur Actors in A Midsummer Night’s Dream and the Coventry Civic Plays and Pageants,” Shakespeare Studies 19 (1987): 87–99. 12. On this particular reference, see Davidson, “ ‘What hempen homespuns.’ ” See also Robert Weimann, Shakespeare and the Popular Tradition in the Theatre: Studies in the Social Dimension of Dramatic Form and Function (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978); Louis Montrose, The Purpose of Playing (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996), particularly Chapter 1, “The Reformation of Playing,” 19–29, and Chapter 11, “Bottom’s Dream,” 179–205. Among other references to the mystery plays produced by the commercial guilds Montrose notes that “in the most material way, Bottom’s name relates him to the practice of his craft—the ‘bottom’ was ‘the core on which the weaver’s skein of yarn was wound’ ” (180). It is well known that frequently there was a close connection between a guild’s craft and the play it produced. See on this subject for example: Alan D. Justice, “Trade Symbolism in the York Cycle,” Theatre Journal 31.1 (1979): 47–58. 13. William Shakespeare, Hamlet, ed. David Bevington (New York: Bantam Books, 1980), 69. Subsequent references to the play are from this edition. 14. See for example the Girdlers’ and Nailers’ “The Slaughter of the Innocents,” in York Plays, ed. Richard Beadle (London: Edward Arnold, 1982), where one of the messengers turns to Herod as Mohammed: NUNCIUS. Mahounde withouten pere, My lorde, you saue and see. (168, 73–74) 15. Hamlet, 70. 16. William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, ed. Stanley Wells (New York: Penguin, 1995). Subsequent references to the play are from this edition. 17. Disney’s Broadway Musical, The Lion King. Directed by Julie Taymor, New Amsterdam Theatre, New York.


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18. Robert Weimann, Author’s Pen and Actor’s Voice: Playing and Writing in Shakespeare’s Theatre (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 82. 19. Robert Weimann, Author’s Pen, 83; emphasis added. 20. See also Lesley Wade Soule’s Actor as Anti-Character: Dionysus, the Devil, and the Boy Rosalind (Westport, Connecticut: Greenwood Press, 2000). Here she coins the term “anti-character,” discussing the simultaneous presence of the performer as opposed to the character: A recurring element in early popular theatre was the refusal by a certain kind of performer to remain within the bounds of dramatic illusion. Despite the increasing emphasis in theatrical performance on textual mimesis and the requirements of character impersonation, such performers, while playing the character, simultaneously asserted their own non-mimetic presence against it. They were actors functioning as anti-characters. (1) Regarding medieval theatre Wade Soule discusses this phenomenon especially in relation to the enactment of devilish characters. 21. Sir Philip Sidney, An Apology for Poetry, ed. Geoffrey Shepherd (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1973), 133–34. 22. Thomas More, The History of King Richard III, ed. Richard S. Sylvester, in The Complete Works of St. Thomas More, 2 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1963), 80–81; quoted in James Simpson, Reform and Cultural Revolution, 502. 23. Simpson notes that More’s use of “scafoldes” is a powerful pun “on the notion of the scaffold as both ‘stage’ and place of execution. Break the royal performance, the pun implies, and the scaffold of the stage becomes the scaffold of punishment.” Ibid., 503. 24. Some references that deal with questions of performance on the medieval stage include Jody Enders’s The Medieval Theatre of Cruelty: Rhetoric, Memory, Violence (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1998); and Death by Drama and Other Medieval Urban Legends (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2002). See also: Clifford Davidson, ed. Gesture in Medieval Drama and Art (Michigan: Medieval Institute Publications, 2001); Sarah Beckwith’s Signifying God, and Theresa Coletti’s Mary Magdalene and the Drama of Saints: Theater, Gender, and Religion in Late Medieval England (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004). In addition, trying to argue for the sophistication of medieval theatre, attempts have been made to prove that medieval acting aimed for “realism.” See for example John R. Elliott Jr.’s “Medieval Acting,” in Contexts for Early English Drama, ed. Marianne G. Briscoe and John C. Coldewey (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1989), 238–52; and William G. Marx’s “The Problem with Mrs. Noah: The Search for Performance Credibility in the Chester Noah’s Flood Play,” in From Page to Performance: Essays in Early English Drama, ed. John A. Alford (East Lansing: Michigan State University Press, 1995), 109–26. 25. For a detailed discussion of scenes in the mystery plays where characters’ bodies were exposed and the theatrical solutions for these scenes, see


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NOTES

1 Game and Performance: A Tretise of Miraclis Pleyinge in Context 1. Clifford Davidson, “Introduction.” A Tretise of Miraclis Pleyinge, ed. Clifford Davidson (Kalamazoo, Mich.: Medieval Institute Publications, 1993), 1. All quotations from A Tretise of Miraclis Pleyinge, henceforth ToMP, are from this edition, marked parenthetically by page numbers followed by line numbers, and all translations are mine. 2. For a view that the tract is not Lollard but was written by a Franciscan or Dominican writer see Lawrence M. Clopper, “Is the Tretise of Miraclis Pleyinge a Lollard Tract against Devotional Drama?” Viator 34 (2003): 229–271. 3. By “religious theatre” I mean theatre in which religious materials are performed and that fulfills social and recreational functions in addition to devotional ones, as opposed to religious ritual in which theatrical elements can be used. On the distinction between theatre and ritual see Eli Rozik, The Roots of Theatre: Rethinking Ritual and Other Theories of Origin. Iowa: University of Iowa Press, 2002. See also Erika FischerLichte, “The Medieval Religious Plays: Ritual or Theater?” in Elina Gerstman, ed. Visualizing Medieval Performance: Perspectives, Histories, Contexts (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008) 249–61. 4. See for example Rosemary Woolf ’s “Attitudes to Drama and Dramatic Theory,” in The English Mystery Plays (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1972), 77–105, especially 84–87; Jonas Barish’s “Antitheatrical Lollardy,” in The Antitheatrical Prejudice (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1981), 66–79; Glending Olson’s “Plays as Play: A Medieval Ethical Theory of Performance and the Intellectual Context of the Tretise of Miraclis Pleyinge,” Viator 26 (1995): 195–221; Claire Sponsler’s Drama and Resistance: Body, Goods and Theatricality in Late Medieval England (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1997) 75–81; and Clifford Davidson’s “The Medieval Stage and the Antitheatrical Prejudice,” in History, Religion, and Violence: Cultural Contexts for Medieval and Renaissance English Drama (Burlington: Ashgate, 2002), 226–39. Two notable exceptions are Theodore K. Lerud’s “Quick Images: Memory and the English Corpus Christi Drama,” Ludus 5: Moving Subjects: Processional Performance in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, ed. Kathleen Ashley and Wim Hüsken (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2001), 213–38, in which Lerud argues through the ToMP that plays were conceived in the same general category as were painted and sculpted images, and David Mills’s “Tretise of Miraclis Pleyinge,” in A. C. Cawley, et al., ed., Medieval Drama. Vol. 1 of The Revels History


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Clifford Davidson’s “Nudity, the Body, and Early English Drama,” in History, Religion, and Violence: Cultural Contexts for Medieval and Renaissance English Drama ([1999] Burlington: Ashgate, 2002), 149–79.

5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.

11.

12. 13.

14. 15. 16. 17.

18. 19.

20.

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of the Drama in English (London: Methuen, 1983), 83–91, who analyzes brief ly some of the points the ToMP addresses. Paul A. Johnston, Jr. “The Dialect of A Tretise of Miraclis Pleyinge,” in Clifford Davidson, ed. A Tretise of Miraclis Pleyinge, 77. REED: York; 697 (translation). Emphasis mine. REED: York; 728 (translation). Alan J. Fletcher, “The N-Town Plays,” in Richard Beadle, ed. The Cambridge Companion to Medieval English Theatre, 165. Ibid. 167–71. See John M. Wasson, “The English Church as Theatrical Space,” in John D. Cox and David Scott Kastan, ed., A New History of Early English Drama (New York: Columbia University Press, 1997), 27. Lawrence M. Clopper, “Miracula and The Tretise of Miraclis Pleyinge.” Speculum 65 (1990): 878–905; Drama, Play, and Game: English Festive Culture in the Medieval and Early Modern Period. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2001; “Is the Tretise of Miraclis Pleyinge a Lollard Tract Against Devotional Drama?” Viator 34 (2003): 229–71. Richard Schechner, Performance Theory (New York: Routledge, 2003) 156–7. Claire Sponsler, “Mischievous Governance: The Unruly Bodies of Morality Plays,” Drama and Resistance: Bodies, Goods, and Theatricality in Late Medieval England (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1997), 77. Gavin Brown, “Theorizing Ritual as Performance: Explorations of Ritual Indeterminacy.” Journal of Ritual Studies 17:1 (2003): 6. (3–18). Marvin Carlson, Performance: A Critical Introduction (New York: Routledge, 1996); 23–24. REED: York, 732 (translation). A similar rhetoric arguing for the plays’ devotional purposes appears in the York records in 1422, in a decision to shorten the length of the entire performance by combining two pageants into one (the stretching and nailing of Christ and the raising of the cross): “He who is ignorant of nothing knows, and the whole people lament, that the play on the day of Corpus Christi in this city, the instruction of which was made of old for the important cause of devotion and for the extirpation of vice and the reformation of customs, alas is impeded more than usual because of the multitude of pageants [. . .].” REED: York, 722 (translation). Clifford Davidson, “Glossary,” A Tretise of Miraclis Pleyinge, 168. For a detailed account of the violent and excessive torture of Jesus in the scenes of the Passion in the York cycle see Clifford Davidson, “Suffering and the York Plays,” Philological Quarterly 81:1 (2002): 31–48. For a discussion of comic elements and potential in hell scenes in religious drama see Gary Schmidt’s The Iconography of the Mouth of Hell: Eighth Century Britain into the Fifteenth Century, Selinsgrove: Susquehanna University Press, 1995.


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21. The N-Town Play, Cotton MS Vespasian D. 8, ed. Stephen Spector, 2 vols. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991). Quotations from this source appear parenthetically; play number followed by line numbers. 22. For an analysis of metatheatrical elements in the N-Town plays see William Fitzhenry, “The N-Town Plays and the Politics of Metatheater,” Studies in Philology 100:1 (2003); 22–43. 23. Edward Gordon Craig, “The Actor and the Über-Marionette,” in On the Art of the Theatre (Boston: Small, Maynard, & Company, 1925 [1911]) 54–94. 24. Some examples: “Miraclis, therfore, that Crist dude heere in erthe outher in himsilf outher in hise seintis . . . ” (93, 9–13); “Thann, sithen miraclis of Crist and of his seintis were thus efectuel;” (93, 22–25); “and whanne we takun in bourde and pley the most ernestful werkis of God as ben hise miracles . . .” (94, 55–7); “thanne, whanne we pleyin his miraclis as men don nowe dayes . . .” (94, 48–9); “Also sithen it is leveful to han the miraclis of God peintid, why is not as wel leveful to han the miraclis of God pleyed . . .” (98, 179–81). This sentence is perhaps one of the most important ones in the whole text for the purpose of establishing the meaning of the word “miraclis.” Not only is the term specifically used here to denote a “work of God,” but also, in its second appearance in the sentence it is clearly stated that the miracles are played, they are referred to as the content of the performance and not as the performance’s generic category; “Loke, thanne, frend, yif thy byleve tellith that God dide his miraclis to us for we shulden pleyn hem . . .” (105, 400–02); “Thanne sithen miraclis pleyinge reversith the wille of God and the ende for the whiche he wrought miraclis to us, no doute but that miraclis pleyinge is verre taking of Goddis name in idil” (105, 405–08); “[s]o unkindely seyen men nowe on dayes, ‘Crist doth now no miraclis for us, pleye we therfore his olde,’ adding many lesingis therto so colowrably that the puple gife as mych credense to hem as to the trwthe” (111, 622–26). 25. This is despite Clopper’s contention that in the ToMP the meaning of “miraclis” is fixed and determinable. 26. For a concise discussion of Bakhtinian and other models of the social roles of carnival and festivity that ultimately aim to restore social order, see Chris Humphrey’s “Social Protest or Safety-Valve? Critical Approaches to Festive Misrule,” in his The Politics of Carnival: Festive Misrule in Medieval England (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2001), 11–37. 27. “The Flood,” The York Plays, ed. Richard Beadle (London: Edward Arnold, 1982) 85–6. All quotations from the York plays are from this edition. Page numbers are marked parenthetically followed by line numbers. Translations are based on the following sources: J. S. Purvis, The York Cycle of Mystery Plays: A Complete Version (London: S.P.C.K., 1957); Richard Beadle and Pamela M. King, ed. York Mystery Plays: A Selection in Modern Spelling (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995). 28. “Noah’s Flood,” Everyman and Medieval Miracle Plays, ed. A. C. Cawley (London: Everyman, 1995) 35, 4.


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29. See for example Peter Happé’s “Farcical Elements in the English Mystery Cycles,” Ludus 6: Farce and Farcical Elements, ed. Wim Hüsken and Konrad Schoell (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2002), 29–43. 30. Joan Young Gregg, Devils, Women, and Jews: Reflections of the Other in Medieval Sermon Stories (New York: State University of New York Press, 1997), 117–18. The story originally appears in Geoffrey de la Tour Landry’s The Book of the Knight of La Tour-Landry, ed. G. S. Taylor (London: John Hamilton LTD., 1930), 34–8. The Book of the Knight of the Tower was written in the late fourteenth-century (1371–2) by Tour Landry as an instructions book for his daughters. Tour Landry lived between Chollet and Verins in the province of Anjou but in the fifteenth century his book was translated into several different languages—including English—into which it was translated at least twice. The popularity of the book makes it fair to assume that it ref lects popular customs, and hence its relevance to the Noah plays. See Dawn Marie Hayes, Body and Sacred Places in Medieval Europe, 1100–1389 (New York: Routledge, 2003), 62–5. 31. For a critique of the design of gender relations in the Noah Plays as well as in scholarly discussion of this subject see Garrett P. J. Epp’s “Noah’s Wife: The Shaming of the ‘Trew,’ ” Domestic Violence in Medieval Texts, ed. Eve Salisbury, Georgiana Donavin, and Merrall Llewelyn Price (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 2002), 223–41. 32. REED: York, 728 (translation). 33. Theresa Coletti, “Purity and Danger: The Paradox of Mary’s Body and the En-gendering of the Infancy Narrative in the English Mystery Cycles,” Feminist Approaches to the Body in Medieval Literature, ed. Linda Lomperis and Sarah Stanbury (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1993), 65. See the entire essay (65–95) for an analysis of the complex and paradoxical socio-cultural meanings of the body of Mary in the cycles as well as its use as a sign for the expression and negotiation of “highly charged topics such as age and sexuality in marriage, adultery, cuckoldry, and illegitimacy, and that explores the interaction of domestic and economic relationships” (67). 34. Peter Meredith and John E. Tailby, ed. The Staging of Religious Drama in Europe in the Later Middle Ages: Texts and Documents in English Translation (Kalamazoo, Michigan: Medieval Institute Publications, 1983), 117. 35. Sarah Beckwith, Signifying God: Social Relation and Symbolic Act in the York Corpus Christi Plays (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2001), 63. 36. Lawrence Clopper suggests that this “somergame” might be a lay equivalent to clerical miracula. Drama, Play, and Game, 72. 37. Siegfried Wenzel, “Somer Game and Sermon References to a Corpus Christi Play,” Modern Philology 86:3 (1989): 279–80. Emphasis added. See also Clopper, Drama, Play, and Game, 72–4. 38. Martha Bayless, Parody in the Middle Ages: The Latin Tradition (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 1996), 210. 39. See Meg Twycross’s “The Theatricality of Medieval English Plays,” The Cambridge Companion to Medieval English Theatre, ed. Richard Beadle


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NOTES

152

42.

43. 44.

45.

(Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1994), 37–84; especially 38–45. Beckwith, Signifying God, 66–7. There is no evidence for this suggestion, however, it is an important question to consider because it emphasizes the extreme effort a single actor would have to perform in order to play the same episode twelve times and it focuses our attention on the very moments of transition from one performance of this episode to the next. Wenzel correctly notes that “because of its function as a sermon exemplum, the . . . text cannot be taken as a complete description of what was actually performed; its details may well have been selected for a purpose” (282). This is of course true but the dialectic f lux between character and role is built into the rhetoric of the description and meaning of the event. Siegfried Wenzel, “Somer Game and Sermon References to a Corpus Christi Play,” 280. Quotations in Latin 278. Sandra Billington points out that in the York Christ before Herod a direct reference to the “king for a day” ritual appears, connecting Christ with this role: References to Yule [enacting the Passion and death of Christ] would make the irony clear to an audience which indulged in buffeting and other games at that time. And more detail is found in the York plays. In the first (of the Lytsteres) Herod presumes Christ to be the local Fool-entertainer or magician and looks forward to seeing water turned into wine and the dead brought to life. When Christ is brought in he is welcomed, and Christ remains silent. The soldiers reassure Herod that a man is taking them to assess the mood of his audience. In other words they take him to be a professional or artificial Fool, who earns his living form entertaining and who, theologically, is the most condemned. Herod, being a trickster himself, is pleased and even when warned that Christ calls himself King of the Jews, Herod interprets this as a King-game in which one of a community is elected king “in his kith where he comes froo” (line 224). A Social History of the Fool (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1984), 18–19. See also Billington’s Midsummer: A Cultural Sub-Text from Chretien De Troyes to Jean Michel, Medieval Texts and Cultures of Northern Europe; 3 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2000), especially Chapter 9, “Religious Theatre,” for an account of the different workings of king games into French biblical drama. Peter Parshall notes that “the mocking of Christ is fully consistent with a range of Roman legal practices entailing the dire humiliation of criminals who were condemned to capital punishment.” This kind of historiocultural performance of violence might very well be at the roots of such somergames. See Parshall’s “The Art of Memory and the Passion,” The


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40. 41.

NOTES

46.

47. 48. 49.

50.

51.

52. 53. 54. 55. 56.

153

Art Bulletin 81:3 (1999): 459. See also K. M. Coleman, “Fatal Charades: Roman Executions Staged as Mythological Enactments,” Journal of Roman Studies 80 (1990): 46–7. “Dialogue between Jesus and the B.V. at the Cross,” from a Commonplace Book, dated 1372, in Carleton Brown, ed. Religious Lyrics of the XIVth Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1924), 85–6; Emphasis added, translation mine. On the details and suggested Yorkshire origin of this poem see Brown’s “Introduction,” especially pages xvi–xx. The date and place of composition help establish a connection between this lyric, the “somergame” described above, and the ToMP, which all seem to have been written in the late fourteenth century and in the northern shires of England. For a brief introduction to the contexts of such religious lyrics, see Evelyn Birge Vitz’s “The Liturgy and Vernacular Literature,” in Thomas J. Heffernan and E. Ann Matter, ed., The Liturgy of the Medieval Church (Mich. Kalamazoo: Medieval Institue Publications, 2001), 551– 618; particularly 568–75. Religious Lyrics of the XIVth Century, 266–67. Middle English Dictionary, ed. Sherman M, Kuhn (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 1963). Richard Beadle and Pamela M. King, York Mystery Plays: A Selection in Modern Spelling (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), 138; emphasis added. This is another example of how lay violent customs and elements of popular culture filtered into devotional drama. Clopper, “Is the Tretise of Miraclis Pleyinge a Lollard Tract,” 233–34. See also G. R. Owst, Literature and Pulpit in Medieval England (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1966), 510. Beyond the dramatization of performing real miracles in The Transfiguration and mocking Christ for not performing them in Christ before Annas and Caiaphas both plays are full of terms that also dominate the ToMP such as synonymously interchanging “werk” with “sign” and “meruayle” (miracle). REED: York, 705 (translation). REED: York, 706 (translation). Clifford Davidson, From Creation to Doom: The York Cycle of Mystery Plays (New York: AMS Press, Inc., 1984), 86. “The Proclamation,” The N-Town Play. Translation mine. Ibid. In her essay “Preaching and Medieval English Drama” Marianne G. Briscoe discusses the potential relations between the clergy and the late medieval religious drama. She argues that although the evidence suggests close relations “each case must be examined carefully.” Her example that supposedly problematizes this relationship rests on the traditional meaning of game: “For instance, in 1244 Bishop Robert Grosseteste complained of clergy who ‘make’ miracle and May plays. But Grosseteste’s term ‘play,’ or ‘ludus,’ most probably means ‘game’ and does not refer to drama at all.” Contexts for Early English Drama, 152.


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57. Jody Enders, Death by Drama and Other Medieval Urban Legends (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2002), 55. The story about the performance of the Passion on Metz’s Place en Change in 1437, in which Father Nicholas de Neuchâtel-en-Lorraine played Christ and supposedly almost died himself is recorded in the Chronique de Phillipe de Vigneulles. See Enders’s n2 p. 258 for the full reference. 58. Enders 66. Original emphasis. 59. See Philip Butterworth’s discussion of “Appearances and Disappearances” in his Magic on the Early English Stage, 74–97. 60. For a discussion of a different context of “performing miracles” as a religious practice see C. Clifford Flanigan, Kathleen Ashley, and Pamela Sheingorn’s “Liturgy as Social Performance: Expanding the Definitions,” in The Liturgy of the Medieval Church, 695–714. The authors discuss miracles performed in the Church as described in the Book of Sainte Foy’s Miracles, “an eleventh-century compilation of miracle stories centering on the Benedictine monastery at Conques” (699). 61. Enders, Death by Drama, 11.

2 Concepts of Performance in A Tretise of Miraclis Pleyinge 1. See Pamela Sheingorn’s “The Visual Language of Drama: Principles of Composition,” Contexts for Early English Drama, ed. Marianne G. Briscoe and John C. Coldewey (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1989), 173–91. 2. Richard Schechner, Performance Theory, 130. 3. See in the next section of this chapter, “Performance, Signification, and Efficacy” the discussion of the treatise Images and Pilgrimages that argues that even painted and sculpted images might draw attention because of their artfulness rather that the ideas they transmit. 4. Briscoe, “Preaching and Medieval English Drama,” 155. 5. Erick Kelemen, “Drama in Sermons: Quotation, Performativity, and Conversion in a Middle English Sermon on the Prodigal Son and in A Tretise of Miraclis Pleyinge,” ELH 69 (2002): 9–10. 6. Briscoe, ibid., 156. 7. Matthew 6:24. No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and mammon. 8. Horace, The Art of Poetry, trans. John Conington, in Theatre/Theory/ Theatre: The Major Critical Texts from Aristotle and Zeami to Soyinka and Havel, Ed. with intros. Daniel Gerould (New York: Applause, 2000), 80. 9. An example of a metaphorical use of “voice” can be given from the York Cain and Abel play. Paraphrasing the famous line from Genesis 4:10 the angel defies Cain: What has þou done? Beholde and heere, Þhe voice of his bloode cryeth vengeaunce


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NOTES

155

10.

11. 12.

13.

14.

15.

16. 17. 18. 19.

[What have you done? Behold and hear, The voice of his blood cries for vengeance From earth to heaven, enter with voice This time.] See Marvin Carlson, “Theater and Dialogism,” in Critical Theory and Performance, ed., Janelle G. Reinelt and Joseph R. Roach (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 1992), 313–23. He writes: “The theater, through the particularly open-ended process of performance reinterpretation and the heteroglossia provided by the multiple voices of enactment, provides an utterance, in Bakhtin’s sense, of particular complexity” (321). Sarah Beckwith, Christ’s Body: Identity, Culture, and Society in Late Medieval Writings (New York: Routledge, 1993), 38, original emphasis. Kelemen writes: “Conversion duplicates and relies upon the logic of the performative, wherein the signifier seems to produce the signified by force of its utterance, while it simultaneously unmasks itself as a deferral of presence.” “Drama in Sermons,” 15. Thomas P. Campbell, “Liturgical Drama and Community Discourse,” in The Liturgy of the Medieval Church, ed. Thomas J. Heffernan and E. Ann Matter (Kalamazoo, Mich.: Western Michigan University, 2001), 625. In this quotation, the word that has been translated into Latin as ludere is the Hebrew word “ ” (metzachek) which means laughing, but which sounds very similar to the word “ ” (mesachek) that means playing. See Nicholas Davis, “The Tretise of Miraclis Pleyinge: On Milieu and Authorship,” METh 12:2 (1990), 124–51, for a discussion of the Latin origins and meanings of “ludere” (playing) and its relation to the idea of “lying” and “illusio” as a practice “where the meaning is contrary to that suggested” (129). In this article Davis tries to establish the Wycliffite origin of the ToMP. Jonas Barish, The Antitheatrical Prejudice (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985), 72. Here the Hebrew origin is the meaning of “playing” ( yesachaku). 2 Samuel 2. See Ralph Blasting’s “The Pageant Wagon as Iconic Site in the York Cycle,” Early Theatre 3 (2000): 127–36, for a discussion of the pragmatic uses of the street as part of the performance; and Cami D. Agan’s “The Platea in the York and Wakefield Cycles: Avenues for Liminality and Salvation,” Studies in Philology 94 (1997): 344–67, for an analysis of how this spatial tension intensified the experience of audience participation. For a more general discussion of the socially complex use of performance space, see for example David Wiles’s A Short History of Western Performance Space (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003) especially Chapter 3, “Processional Space,” 63–91.


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Fro erthe to heuen, with voice entere Þis tyde. (77, 100–3)

NOTES

20. Clifford Davidson, “Nudity, the Body, and Early English Drama,” in History, Religion, and Violence: Cultural Contexts for Medieval and Renaissance English Drama (Burlington: Ashgate, Variorum, 2002), 149. 21. See for example Pamela Sheingorn’s “Visual Language of Drama,” 173–91, and Pamela Sheingorn and David Bevington’s “ ‘Alle This Was Token Domysday to Drede’: Visual Signs of Last Judgment in the Corpus Christi Cycles and in Late Gothic Art,” in Homo, Memento Finis: The Iconography of Just Judgment in Medieval Art and Drama, ed. David Bevington, (Kalamazoo, Michigan: Medieval Institute Publications, 1985), 121–46. They write: Recapitulation, organizing principles of symmetry and antithetical contrast, the use of symbolic stage structures and scaffolding, hieratic ordering of figures, the rhetorical pairing of virtue and vice and of the generic and the particular, contrastive imagery of the idealized and the particular—all these are carefully suited to the dramaturgic and theatrical needs of the cycle play as a whole, and yet they find their counterparts in sister art forms that do not operate through speech and action, and would seem at first glance to have no need for the closure that belongs to a dramatic action told through narrative in time and space (122–3). 22. See the discussion of this phenomenon in A Midsummer Night’s Dream in chapter 1 and the analysis of the York Plays in chapter 4. 23. Ellen M. Ross, The Grief of God: Images of the Suffering Jesus in Late Medieval England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 78. 24. Sheingorn, “Visual Language of Drama,” 183. 25. See Lynette R. Muir, “Playing God in Medieval Europe,” in The Stage as Mirror: Civic Theatre in Late Medieval Europe, ed. Alan E. Knight (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1997), 25–50, for a detailed survey of costuming and conventional ways of performing Christ and God the Father, and see my analysis of “epic acting” in the next chapter. 26. Thomas K. Lerud thinks it is: We may conclude that miracles, like painted and sculpted images, are viewed as signs. Thus defenders argue that they are presented in worship, but those who, like the author of the “tretise,” in a rather unsophisticated version of the Augustinian, ultimately Platonian tradition, hold a fundamental distrust of signs of any kind must disagree. “Quick Images,” 219. 27. Schechner, Performance Theory 120–124. See especially Figure 4.4 on page 120. 28. See Pamela M. King’s The York Mystery Cycle and the Worship of the City (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 2006) for an analysis of the plays’ relations to the religious worship and rituals of the city of York. 29. Schechner, ibid. 120. 30. This corresponds to the stance of Dives and Pauper on the same subject: Dives: Steralics, pleyys and dauncis þat arn vsid in grete festis & in Sondayys, arn is nout leful? Pauper: Steralics, pleyys & dauncis


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156

31. 32.

33.

34.

35.

157

þat arn don principaly for deuocioun & honest merthe [to teche men to loue God þe more] & for no rybaudye ne medelyd with no rebaudye [ne lesyngis] arn leful, so þat þe peple be nout lettyd þerby fro Godys seruyce ne fro Godis word herynge and þat þer be non errour medelyd in swyche steralics & pleyys aзens þe feyth of holy chirche ne aзenys þe statys of holy chirche ne aзenys good lyuynge. [Dives: Steralics, plays, and dances that are used in great feasts and on Sundays, are not allowed? Pauper: Steralics, plays, and dances that are done principally for devotion and honest mirth (to teach men to love God more) and not for playfulness are allowed, so that the people are not taken by them away from servicing and hearing God’s word and that there should be no error involved in such steralics and plays against the faith of the holy church or against the status of the holy church or against good living.] Dives and Pauper, ed. Priscilla Heath Barnum (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1976), Vol. 1, 293. Barish, Antitheatrical Prejudice, 74–5. “Images and Pilgrimages,” in Anne Hudson, ed., Selections from English Wycliffite Writings (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978), 83–8. All quotations from the text, henceforth IaP, are from this edition and are indicated by line numbers following page number. Although this text is usually attributed to a Wycliffite writer, Clopper suggests that like the ToMP it might also be a Franciscan text—that is, that despite all earlier assessments neither text is Lollard. “Is the Tretise of Miraclis Pleyinge a Lollard Tract Against Devotional Drama?” 234–36; 248–54. Thomas K. Lerud considers both texts to be Lollard, but offers a position similar to mine regarding their relationship: “What is significant here is the existence of a Lollard polemic against images, despite Wyclif ’s apparently moderate position on the matter, and the fact that a polemic against images is paired with one against miracles in the same manuscript.” (“Quick Images,” 216). On the public display of emotions as coded behavior, see for example Stephen D. White, “The Politics of Anger,” in Anger’s Past: The Social Uses of an Emotion in the Middle Ages, ed. Barbara H. Rosenwein (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1998), 128–52, in which he points that “whether or not those whom medieval sources represented as weeping felt what we would understand as grief or sorrow, their displays of grief often constituted political acts inextricably associated with the process of making a legitimated political claim.” (146–7). For a critique of Elias’s discourse see Barbara H. Rosenwein, “Controlling Paradigms,” Anger’s Past, 238. See also Robert van Krieken, “Violence, Self-Discipline, and Modernity: Beyond the ‘Civilizing Process,’ ” Sociological Review 37 (1989): 193–218. Other descriptions of “weeping audiences” are documented in John R. Elliott Jr.’s essay “Medieval Acting,” in Contexts for Early English Drama, 238–51.


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NOTES

NOTES

36. See Rozik’s The Roots of Theatre for a theory of the theatre’s function as a gathering space in order to collectively see and imagine disturbing and transgressive images. 37. See Carol M. Meale, “ ‘This is a deed bok, the tother a quick’: Theatre and the Drama of Salvation in the Book of Margery Kempe,” in Medieval Women: Texts and Contexts in Late Medieval Britain. Essays for Felicity Riddy, ed. Jocelyn Wogan-Browne et al. (Turnhout: Brepols, 2000), 52–3; And see chapters I 11 and I 80 in The Book of Margery Kempe, trans. and ed. Lynn Staley (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2001), 18–20; 139–42. 38. Meale, “ ‘This is a deed bok,’ ” 53–5. The quotation within quotation from The Book of Margery Kempe at the end of the paragraph is from Lynn Staley’s translation (140) whereas Meale quotes the following edition: Book of Margery Kempe, ed. Stanford Brown Meech and Hope Emily Allen, EETS, os 212 (London: Oxford University Press, 1940 for 1939), 192, 17–21. 39. The Book of Margery Kempe, I 80, 139–42. 40. Meale, “ ‘This is a deed bok,’ ” 61. 41. One of the central reasons for the modern renewed interest in producing the medieval mystery plays is their communal nature. See John Marshall’s “Modern Productions of Medieval English Plays,” in The Cambridge Companion to Medieval English Theatre, ed. Richard Beadle (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 290–311. See also Claire Sponsler’s Ritual Imports: Performing Medieval Drama in America for a postcolonial analysis of the communal nature of medieval theatricalities within different moments of American history. In each of her intriguing studies she examines the ways ritual, performance, and cultural memory simultaneously reinforce communal identity and resist nationalism, (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2004). 42. See for example Anne Higgins, “Streets and Markets,” in A New History of Early English Drama, ed. John D. Cox and David Scott Kastan (New York: Columbia University Press, 1997), 77–92. In this essay Higgins discusses and analyzes the process and reasons for changing the route and dates of the Corpus Christi procession and play because of social and political events in York. 43. There is a good reason to identify the word “craftisman” as in the ToMP specifically with the craft guilds who produced the plays. R. B. Dobson writes: “Guild” was not in fact a term at all current in the northern capital at the period of the mystery plays; and it is not perhaps too surprising that late medieval townsmen should have preferred to use a variety of other more specific names to express their inveterate habit of creating new social organizations. At York itself the terms almost invariably employed in early references to the Corpus Christi plays were “arte” or “artifice” (in French), “artificium” (in Latin) and “crafte” (in English).


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158

44. 45. 46.

47.

159

See Dobson, “Craft Guilds and City: The Historical Origins of the York Mystery Plays Reassessed,” in The Stage as Mirror, 95. John C. Coldewey, “Some Economic Aspects of the Late Medieval Drama,” in Contexts for Early English Drama, 77. Coldewey, “Some Economic Aspects,” 83. See for example Martin Stevens’s analysis of the York Skinners’ Jesus’ Entry to Jerusalem which by all odds is the most developed Entry into Jerusalem in the medieval drama, and more than any other pageant, it puts in the foreground York’s obsession with civic ceremony and self-celebration . . . In both frames of reference, the Skinners’ play served the ultimate function of highlighting the corporate community of York. Four Middle English Mystery Cycles (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987), 50–1. Margaret Rogerson, “Living History: The Modern Mystery Plays in York,” Research Opportunities in Renaissance Drama, 43 (2004): 21. Rogerson quotes Mike Tyler from his “Report by the Director,” RORD 42 (2003): 158.

3 Street Scenes: Epic Acting, Total Acting, and Performance 1. Brecht, “A Short Organum for the Theatre,” in Brecht on Theatre, 194. 2. See Elin Diamond’s Unmaking Mimesis for a discussion of Brechtian theory and the idea of feminist “unmaking” or “undoing” the rooted and hegemonic concept of mimesis as a realistic mode of acting and performance. 3. Rosemary Woolf, The English Mystery Plays, 105. 4. R. B. Dobson, “Craft Guilds and the City: The Historical Origins of the York Mystery Plays Reassessed,” in The Stage as Mirror, 101. 5. See Brecht, “Short Description of a New Technique of Acting which Produces an Alienation Effect,” in Brecht on Theatre 136; 138–39. 6. Ruth Evans, “When a Body Meets a Body: Fergus and Mary in the York Cycle,” in New Medieval Literatures 1, ed. Wendy Scase, Rita Copeland, and David Lawton (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997), 207. 7. See Richard Beadle’s “Verbal Texture and Wordplay in the York Cycle,” Early Theatre 3 (2000): 167–84, for an analysis of wordplays and double meanings in the cycle. Based on the idea that in the plays the role of the spectators was not only to view the performance but often mainly to “audiate” (170), that is, “hear the plays,” he gives different kinds of examples of the function of language in performance. Among them are dramatic irony, didacticism, and also deictic self-referential uses of language. He characterizes York’s “lexically restricted style” and tendency to repeat words as a “deliberate narrowness and simplicity of vocabulary


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NOTES

160

12. 13.

14. 15.

16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24.

25.

26.

that directs our attention, by insistent repetition, to key words and concepts in the narrative” (172). REED: York, 55. REED: York, 241. MED, 210. R. W. Ingram, ed., REED: Coventry (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1979), 226; 240. Lawrence M. Clopper, ed., REED: Chester (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1979), 50; 53. See also 68; 73; 78; 88. David Galloway, ed. REED: Norwich 1540–1642 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1984), 53. And see more information on the terminology and etymology of the word “mask” in Meg Twycross and Sarah Carpenter’s Masks and Masking in Medieval and Early Tudor England (Burlington: Ashgate, 2002), 327–44. REED: Chester, 247. Twycross and Carpenter, Masks and Masking, 194–5. Note also that the meaning they suggest for “disfigure” in the quoted passage might very well agree with Shakespeare’s use of it in the very similar context of the mechanicals’ in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. When Quince has to come up with a solution as to how to represent moonshine he suggests: QUINCE. Ay; or else one must come in with a bush of thorns and a lantern, and say he comes to disfigure or to present the person of Moonshine. (3.1.50–55) Twycross and Carpenter, Masks and Masking, 195. Twycross and Carpenter, 194. REED: York, 19/705. Margaret Rogerson, “English Puppets and the Survival of Religious Theatre,” Theatre Notebook 52: 2 (1998): 91. Rogerson, 91. Rogerson, 92, emphasis added. Rogerson, 100. Twycross and Carpenter, Masks and Masking, 196. Notably, The Creation of the World features a performative yet theatrically deictic and to some extent ironic monologue of God about the creation of the first five days: “Begynnyng, mydes and ende I with my worde hase wrothe” (58, 159–60) [Beginning, middle and end I with my word have wrought]. The complexity and theatrical sophistication of this sentence lies in the fact that God literally created the world with his word, just as the actor both created and obviously did not create the world with his word. This is not the case in the other extant cycles—York is the most fragmented one. And yet the episodic structure, especially around the sequence of the Passion is shared by most mystery cycles. Martin Stevens suggests that “York consistently divides its material into short episodes, probably to accommodate its diverse crafts.” Four Middle English Mystery Cycles, 28.


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8. 9. 10. 11.

NOTES

161

27. That the theatrical aesthetic is related or even based on the aesthetics of the tableau vivant or royal entries is probably the case, although as Donal Perret puts it “even though the first entry spectacles antedate the great religious dramas, it seems rash to suggest that we could not have one without the other. The two forms of theatre coexisted throughout the late Middle Ages and the Renaissance. And although no one can overlook the enormous contributions of the entry to its sister form, we must admit that this is in the nature of theatrical experience. There is always begging, borrowing, and stealing between different forms; adaptations occur (for better or for worse), their success in new contexts being proof of their viability.” “The Meaning of the Mystery: From Tableaux to Theatre in the French Royal Entry,” in Moving Subjects, 189. 28. “Ordo Paginarum,” REED: York, 697. (Translation). 29. For a detailed analysis of a reconstruction of this episode that maintained gestural decorum, see Natalie Crohn Schmitt’s “The Body in Motion in the York Adam and Eve in Eden,” in Gesture in Medieval Art and Drama, ed. Clifford Davidson (Kalamazoo, Michigan: Medieval Institute Press, 2001), 158–77. 30. The serpent in the play is called a “worme” (65, 23). 31. Rouse, “Brecht and the Contradictory Actor,” 232. Rouse quotes from the following: Manfred Wekwerth, Schriften: Arbeit mit Brecht (Berlin [East]: Henschel, 1975), 199; Bretolt Brecht, Gesammelte Werke in 20 Banden, ed. Werner Hecht (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1967), 16: 724. 32. Peter Thompson discusses the medieval sources and significance of the theatrical use of doubling as an aesthetic acting convention in the Elizabethan theatre, and argues that “the old assumption that doubling was a necessary but unwelcome chore has been effectively contradicted. . . . Doubling, in drama that relies on bold oppositions and instantly recognizable distinctions, is not a defect but a source of delight to the audience.” “Rogues and Rhetoricians: Acting Styles in Early English Drama,” in A New History of Early English Drama, 328. 33. Michael Patterson, Peter Stein: Germany’s Leading Theatre Director (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), 8. 34. Patterson, 71. 35. “The Search for a Language,” from an Interview with Ariane Mnouchkine by Emile Copfermann, in David Williams, ed., Collaborative Theatre: The Théâtre du Soleil Sourcebook, trans. Eric Prenowitz and David Williams (New York: Routledge, 1999), 18. 36. Victoria Nes Kirby, “1789 at the Cartoucherie,” in Collaborative Theatre, 4. 37. Freddie Rokem, Performing History: Theatrical Representations of the Past in Contemporary Theatre (Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 2000), 12–3. 38. Rouse gives two typical examples of Brecht’s use of “gestus.” The first is Hans Gaugler’s enactment of Läuffer’s repetitive stylized bow in Brecht’s adaptation of Lenz’s The Private Tutor, which differed from the body language typical of the eighteenth century and “was used as a ‘quotable’ gestural leitmotiv for Läuffer throughout the production” (234). And the


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41. 42. 43.

44. 45.

46.

47.

48.

49.

second, very famous example, is Helene Weigel in the role of Mother Courage and her treatment of money: “Every time she received payment in the course of her play’s performance, Weigel’s Courage would ‘mistrustfully’ bite the coin to make sure it was real” (237). Rouse, 235. For an in-depth analysis of the use and coded meanings of gesture in performance, see Pamela Sheingorn’s “The Bodily Embrace or Embracing the Body: Gesture and Gender in Late Medieval Culture,” in Stage as Mirror, 51–89; and Clifford Davidson’s “Gesture in Medieval British Drama,” in Gesture in Medieval Art and Drama, 66–127. Peter Happé, “Acting the York Mystery Plays: A Consideration of Modes,” METh 10.2 (1988): 113. Happé, 113. See also Meredith and Tailby, Staging of Religious Drama, 179. Lothar Schreyer, Crucifixion in Mel Gordon, ed. Expresionist Texts (New York: PAJ, 1986). For a text with Schreyer’s woodcut drawings of the performance scene by scene, see Mel Gordon, “Lothar Schreyer and the Sturmbühne,” TDR 24 (1980): 85–102. Evans, “When a Body Meets a Body,” 208. Henk van Os, et al., The Art of Devotion in the Late Middle Ages in Europe: 1300–1500, trans. Michael Hoyle (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), 137. See also the “Annunciation with Crucifix on Lily,” Painted Glass in York Minster Choir, in Clifford Davidson, From Creation to Doom: The York Cycle of Mystery Plays (New York: AMS Press, Inc., 1984), Fig. 5, following page 116. For other examples see Bruce Bernard, The Queen of Heaven: A Selection of Paintings of the Virgin Mary from the Twelfth to the Eighteenth Centuries (London: Macdonald Orbis, 1987), 37–9. On this aspect of the plays’ use of epic conventions, see Garrett P. J. Epp’s “Visible Words: The York Plays, Brecht, and Gestic Writing,” Comparative Drama 24:4 (1990–91): 292–5. Peter Happé adds another aspect that is worth considering in relation to the theatrical effect of such coded use of quotable gestures: “Though we know of some changes, the Guilds stuck to the same plays for many years, and in the life of one guildsman there might have been many similar performances. The actors would learn from one another—just as modern actors do in such things as pace, style, gesture and movement— and it could well be that, as in operatic gesture, the medieval actor would learn and transmit a code of dramatic signs which the audience would expect and accept as part of the diegesis of these plays.” “Acting the York Mystery Plays,” 115. Sheingorn, “The Bodily Embrace,” 85–6. See also Lois Drewer, “Margaret of Antioch the Demon-Slayer, East and West: The Iconography of the Predella of the Boston Mystic Marriage of St. Catherine,” Gesta, 32:1 (1993): 11–20. Dolan, Geographies of Learning, 72.


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39. 40.

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50. Sarah Beckwith, “Work, Markets, Civic Structure: Organizing the York Corpus Christi Plays,” Signifying God, 45–6. 51. On the complex discourse of work as performance in the plays see Kathleen Ashley’s “Sponsorship, Ref lexivity and Resistance: Cultural Readings of the York Cycle Plays,” in The Performance of Middle English Culture: Essays on Chaucer and the Drama, ed. James J. Paxon, Lawrence M. Clopper, and Sylvia Tomasch (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1998) 20–1. 52. Brecht, “The Street Scene,” 125. 53. Martin Stevens, “From Mappa Mundi to Theatrum Mundi: The World as Stage in Early English Drama,” in From Page to Performance: Essays in Early English Drama, ed. John A. Alford (East Lansing: Michigan State University Press, 1995), 38–9. Stevens bases his description of the mappa mundi on the German Ebstorf map, (Figure 2 in this essay, p. 30). 54. Martin Stevens, “From Mappa Mundi,” 27. 55. Jody Enders, “Medieval Snuff Drama,” Exemplaria 10:1 (1998): 171– 206. And see also her Death by Drama and Other Medieval Urban Legends (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2002). For a cultural analysis of the medieval body in pain from the perspective of the one suffering as a masochistic kind of pleasure, see Robert Mills’s “A Man is Being Beaten,” New Medieval Literatures 5, eds. Rita Copeland, David Lawton, and Wendy Scase (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 115–53. 56. As Sarah Beckwith writes, “in the late medieval understanding of the Trinity, it is precisely the embodiedness of Christ that allows God still to figure as absent.” Christ’s Body: Identity, Culture, and Society in Late Medieval Writings (New York: Routledge, 1993), 131 n. 3. 57. Esther Cohen, “The Animated Pain of the Body,” The American Historical Review, February 2000, par. 34. http://historycooperative.press.uiuc. edu/journals/ahr/105.1/ah000036.html 58. See RoseLee Godlberg’s Performance: Live Art sicne the 60s ([1998] New York: Thames and Hudson, 2004). See also Blume et al (ed.), Schmerz: kunst + wissesnschaft (Berlin: DuMont Literatur und Kunst Verlag, 2007). 59. From the perspective of the actor’s suffering body Jody Enders’s The Medieval Theatre of Cruelty: Rhetoric, Memory, Violence is very relevant. She expands on the social, juridical, and rhetorical sources and uses of violence and torture in the theatre as manifestations of sheerly bodily inf lictions of pain and punishment that were part of society’s disciplinary norms and agenda. (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1999). 60. Artaud, “The Theatre of Cruelty, First Manifesto,” The Theatre and its Double, 77. 61. Jerzy Grotowski, “The Theatre’s New Testament,” an interview with Eugenio Barba, Towards a Poor Theatre, ed. Eugenio Barba ([1968] New York: Routledge, 2002), 49. 62. See Ludwik Flaszen, “Akropolis: Treatment of the Text,” in Jerzy Grotowski, Towards a Poor Theatre, 61–78.


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63. Beckwith, Signifying God, 70. 64. Richard Schechner, “Actuals,” Performance Theory, revised and expanded edition (New York: Routledge, 2003), 54. 65. For a detailed documentation and analysis of violence in late medieval French religious drama and its relation to the medieval juridical system and rhetoric of violence, see Enders’s Medieval Theatre of Cruelty, especially Chapter 3, “The Performance of Violence,” 160–229, as well as her Death by Drama. See also John Spalding Gatton’s “ ‘There Must Be Blood’: Mutilation and Martyrdom on the Medieval Stage,” in Violence in Drama, Themes in Drama 13, ed. James Redmond (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 79–92. For other cultural and theatrical analyses of the body in performance, see for example Miri Rubin, “The Body, Whole and Vulnerable, in Fifteenth-Century England,” in Bodies and Disciplines: Intersections of Literature and History in Fifteenth-Century England, eds., Barbara A. Hanawalt and David Wallace (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996), 19–28; and Seth Lerer’s “ ‘Representyd now in yower syght’: The Culture of Spectatorship in Late Fifteenth-Century England,” 29–64 in the same volume. 66. Enders, Medieval Theatre of Cruelty, 201. 67. Beadle and King, York Mystery Plays, 155. 68. On the performativity of raising the cross, see Sharon Aronson-Lehavi, “Raising the Cross: Pre-Textual Theatricality and the York Crucifixion Play,” in Margaret Rogerson, ed. The York Mystery Plays: Performance in the City (Woodbridge, Suffolk: Boydell and Brewer, 2011), 165–79.

Appendix: A Treatise of Miraclis Playing: A Modern English Version of A Tretise of Miraclis Pleyinge 1. John 14:6. I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. 2. The final sentence of the first paragraph is long and complicated. It is hard to give complete translation but the general meaning is that when Christ’s miracles really happened, they helped weary men and those tired of suffering and those afraid of death bring love and charity and believe in an everlasting life of joy that depends on belief in God. 3. In the original: “bourde.” Hereafter I translate bourde as jest, joke, or game according to the specific context. 4. In the original: “reverses.” This word in the meaning of contradicting or undermining appears frequently in the text. 5. “A, Lord,” appears a few more times in the tract; an expressive addressing of the Lord. 6. “whanne we playin his miraclis”: note that here the author does not use the form “play with his miraclis” but rather “playin,” most likely referring to playing as in performing.


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7. “These three”: penance, disciplining of our body, and penance of adversity. 8. Hebrews 12:8. 9. “minde” in the original. 10. First Letter of Peter 5: 6–7. 11. Hebrews 10:31. Although the author of the ToMP refers this quote to St. Peter, it in fact appears in Hebrews. 12. The text’s ME version of the biblical “casting all our care upon him” as quoted from St. Peter above. 13. Matthew 6:24. No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and mammon. 14. Hebrews 12:11. “And each chastising in this present time seemeth to be not of joy, but of sorrow.” 15. The idea is probably that often games and fun develop into fights and quarrels. 16. These lines open the segment that quotes six reasons in favor of the plays and which are brought for the counter argument in the next section. 17. In this second quoted argument in favor of the plays, the idea is that men and women indeed might see undesirable or immoral sights in such events, but afterwards they leave their pride and lechery behind and go home as even stronger believers. This argument is reminiscent of the Bakhtinian carnivalesque “safety-valve” theory, according to which, every now and then a community needs a social space to express and let out repressed issues in order to eventually restore social order. See for example Chris Humphrey’s The Politics of Carnival: Festive Misrule in Medieval England. 18. Matthew 7:21. Not every one that saith unto me, Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven; but he that doeth the will of my Father which is in heaven. 19. This is in reply to the argument that in a bad thing something good can be found, and what might seem as an evil occasion might in fact lead to a good one, but the text objects to this. 20. Psalms 119:37. 21. Psalms 31:7. 22. The Life of Saint Tobit. In The Golden Legend (Aurea Legenda). Compiled by Jacobus de Voragine, 1275. 23. Based on Matthew 12:42; Luke 11:31. 24. Romans 3:8. And not rather, as we be slanderously reported, and as some affirm that we say, Let us do evil, that good may come? whose damnation is just. 25. Luke 23:27–28. 26. Psalms 21:3. For thou preventest him with the blessings of goodness: thou settest a crown of pure gold on his head.


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27. Doubting Thomas; it is believed that Saint Thomas had come to Kerala, India, to spread Christianity. 28. Exodus 20: 3–6. You shall have no other gods before me. You shall not make for yourself an idol in the form of anything in heaven above or on the earth beneath or in the waters below. You shall not bow down to them or worship them; for I, the LORD your God, am a jealous God, punishing the children for the sin of the fathers to the third and fourth generation of those who hate me, but showing love to a thousand {generations} of those who love me and keep my commandments. 29. Isaiah 5:20. Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil; that put darkness for light, and light for darkness; that put bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter! 30. Genesis 21. 31. John 3:5–6. Jesus answered, “I tell you the truth, no one can enter the kingdom of God unless he is born of water and the Spirit. Flesh gives birth to f lesh, but the Spirit gives birth to spirit.” 32. 2 Samuel 2. 33. Referring to Proverbs 14:13. 34. Exodus 32:28. The Levites did as Moses commanded, and that day about three thousand of the people died. 35. Referring to the investment in preparation of the plays. 36. Exodus 32:1. When the people saw that Moses was so long in coming down from the mountain, they gathered around Aaron and said, “Come, make us gods who will go before us. As for this fellow Moses who brought us up out of Egypt, we don’t know what has happened to him.” 37. 1 Corinthians 10:11. 38. The final segment of this sentence seems incoherent. 39. 2 Kings 2. 40. Isaiah 65:20. There shall be no more thence an infant of days, nor an old man that hath not f illed his days: for the child shall die an hundred years old; but the sinner being an hundred years old shall be accursed. 41. Matthew 24:37–39. But as the days of Noah were, so shall also the coming of the Son of man be. For as in the days that were before the f lood they were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, until the day that Noah entered into the ark, And knew not until the f lood came, and took them all away; so shall also the coming of the Son of man be. 42. 2 Samuel 6: 20–22. Then David returned to bless his household. And Michal the daughter of Saul came out to meet David, and said, How glorious was the king of Israel to day, who uncovered himself to day in the eyes of the handmaids of his servants, as one of the vain fellows shamelessly uncovereth himself! And David said unto Michal, It was before


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the LORD, which chose me before thy father, and before all his house, to appoint me ruler over the people of the LORD, over Israel: therefore will I play before the LORD. And I will yet be more vile than thus, and will be base in mine own sight: and of the maidservants which thou hast spoken of, of them shall I be had in honour.


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Acting, Actor Acting, enacting, or playing God, 18, 87, 88, 90, 92, 93–4, 95 As demonstrating, 51, 110, 114 Many actors in the same role, 6, 66, 86, 95–106 As mediator, 56, 57–8, 61, 82, 91, 113 As opposed to preaching, 57–8; see also Preaching, preacher Actor-Character dialectics, 3, 4, 7, 11, 12, 13, 15, 55, 56, 58, 59–67, 80, 82, 83, 86, 95, 107, 117, 118 Aesthetic, aesthetics, 1, 2, 3, 6–9, 13, 14, 15, 18, 52, 53, 55, 56, 65, 66, 74, 81, 82, 83, 86, 87, 89, 91, 92, 95, 96, 100, 101, 102, 112–17, 121, 124–6 Anachronism, 53, 57, 65, 80, 83, 126 Anagnorisis (recognition), 100 Artaud, Antonin, 85, 119, 120, 124 Avant-garde theatre, 31, 69, 107, 120 Barish, Jonas, (The Antitheatrical Prejudice), 64, 70, 81 Beckwith, Sarah, 39, 42, 61, 113, 118, 119, 121 Body, the, bodily, 2, 3, 6, 18, 22, 23, 30, 32, 42, 44, 59, 60, 62, 65, 66, 74, 76, 82, 83, 86, 88, 106, 108, 112, 113, 115–24 see also Flesh, f leshly

Bourding ( joking, jesting, playing, gaming), 2, 22, 32–9, 52 Brecht, Bertolt, 1, 85, 87, 88, 91, 101, 107, 110, 111, 114, 124 Brechtian, 35, 106, 107, 110, 112, 114 Good Soul of Szechwan, The, 101 Lehrstücke, (Learning Plays), 101 Measures Taken, The, 101 “Short Organum for the Theatre,” 87 “Street Scene, the,” 1, 85, 114, 115 Broederlam, Melchior, (The Annunciation and the Visitation), 109 Bryden, Bill, (The Mysteries), 96 Carlson, Marvin, 25, 155 n. 10 Catharsis, 75 Character Holy characters, 1, 3, 5, 7, 36, 65, 82, 91 Chester Plays, 34, 36, 90, 91, 92 Chester Banns, The, 91–3, 94, 95 Clopper, Lawrence, 20, 157 n. 32 Community, communal, communality, 6, 7, 29, 42, 56, 57, 62, 69, 71, 74, 78–81, 82, 83, 103, 113, 114, 115, 124 Contrariety, 14, 56, 57–67, 71, 82, 85, 89, 92, 114


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INDEX

IN DEX

Corpus Christi plays, 2, 3, 4, 5, 18, 19, 26, 52 Corpus Christi pageants, 4, 19, 39 Corpus Christi procession, 19, 32, 96, 119 Coventry Plays, 8, 19, 20, 90 Craftsmanship, 5, 79, 90, 158–9 n. 43 Craig, Edward Gordon, (“The Actor and the Übermarionette”), 31 Cross-dressing, 34, 65 Crucifixion, see York cycle, York plays: Episodes in Crying, (also weeping, tears), 20, 22, 24, 29, 30, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 83 Davidson, Clifford (on the ToMP), 17, 48, 127, 128 Deictic, deixis, 3, 10, 86, 87–9, 109, 110, 120 Devotional drama, devotional theatre, 2, 3, 20, 21, 22, 23, 26–31, 35, 36, 37, 38, 43, 45, 52, 55, 56, 57, 61, 70, 73, 74, 80, 82, 83, 100, 112, 113, 115, 117, 124, 125 Dialectics, dialectical, 4, 7, 11, 13, 14, 15, 55, 65, 66, 56, 66, 80, 83, 86, 91, 95, 101, 107, 113, 118 Dialogic, 2, 22, 60, 61, 62, 125 Didactic, 21, 28, 43, 53, 58, 65, 82, 100, 101, 107, 110, 114 Disfigure, 11, 92 Dives and Pauper, 156–7 n. 30 Drink, Drinking, 36–7, 40, 41, 42, 44, 46, 118 Efficacy, efficacious, effectual, 3, 14, 17, 21, 23, 31–2, 33, 52, 56, 57, 58, 59, 67–73, 74, 82, 85, 118 Embody, embodiment, 1, 5, 67, 113, 125 Emotional, emotionality, 3, 14, 22, 24, 30, 45, 57, 73–8, 83, 85, 86, 87, 117, 119, 120, 124, 126

Enders, Jody, 51, 52, 117, 120 Epic theatre, epic acting, 1, 6, 11, 14, 67, 83, 85, 86, 87–115, 117, 121, 124 Episodic, 6, 86, 95–101, 102, 115 Eventness, 2, 3, 7, 18, 31, 34, 118, 125 Expenses, (financial investment in plays), 79–81, 83, 90–1 Face, 10, 11, 35, 48, 66, 86, 89–92, 93, 94, 95 see also Mask, masks Farce, farcical, 7, 34, 38, 39, 109 Festival, festivity, 7, 19, 37, 41, 45, 80, 81, 115 Fischer-Lichte, Erika, 3 Flesh, f leshly, 31, 59, 65, 82, 124 As opposed to spirit, 63–7, 72, 75, 82 Folklore, 2, 7, 36, 53, 57 Fool, 21, 40, 42, 43, 88, 90, 111, 120, 152 n. 44 Game, games, 2, 5, 7, 13, 14, 17, 18, 20, 21, 22, 30, 32, 33, 36, 40–52, 53, 58, 60, 61, 65, 68, 75, 81, 100, 110, 118, 121, 125 Gesture, gestures, 35, 42, 57, 86, 87, 106–15 Gestus (Brechtian), 35, 106–15 Goldoni, Carlo, (Servant of Two Masters), 61 Grotowski, Jerzy, (Akropolis), 119 Guild, guilds, 5, 8, 13, 41, 79, 80, 81, 83, 91, 85, 96, 113, 118, 124, 158 n. 43 Hamlet, 8–10, 12, 28 Harrison, Tony, (The Mysteries), 96 Heaven, 12, 48, 63, 65, 66, 72, 73, 112 Hell, hell-mouth, 12, 27, 28, 29, 44, 51, 65, 66, 68, 74, 75, 90 Herod, 7, 8, 9, 120, 146 n. 14, 152 n. 44


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Holiness, 56, 68, 91, 109, 111, 125 Horatio, 59 Iconic personae, iconographic, 4, 5, 7, 9, 65, 86, 88, 100, 103, 106, 107, 109, 114 Illusionist, 6, 8, 13, 67, 87, 91 Pre-illusionist, postillusionist, 1, 6, 7, 86 Image, images, 5, 6, 9, 11, 18, 24, 28, 30, 31, 42, 52, 55, 57, 61, 66, 71–3, 75, 76, 83, 90, 91, 100, 102, 106, 107, 108, 109, 112, 113, 117, 119, 121, 126 Images and Pilgrimages, 71–3 Kantorowicz, Ernst H., The King’s Two Bodies, 145 n. 2 Kempe, Margery, 76–7 Kobialka, Michal, 7 Laughter, 26, 31, 33, 34, 37, 38, 41, 46, 63, 76 Liminal, liminality, liminoid, 25, 34, 42, 45, 64, 66, 68, 83, 117, 125 Lincoln, 19–20 Liveness, 1, 2, 18, 30, 31, 55, 69, 121 Ludic, ludere, 22, 30, 63–7 Martyr, martyrs, 117, 118, 119 Mask, masks, 11, 65, 66, 86, 89–95 see also Face Melton, Friar William, 19, 37 Metatheatre, metatheatrical, 8, 28, 41, 45, 88, 89, 90, 96, 112, 113, 122 A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 8, 10–12 Mimesis, mimetic, 3, 9, 21, 23, 56, 58, 59, 69, 71, 82–3, 86, 87 Miracle, miracles, 17, 18, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 29, 31–2, 33, 43, 45–52, 60, 62, 63, 67, 71, 73, 79, 93, 127–8 Mnouchkine, Ariane, 102–3

Mock king, “king for a day,” 43, 117, 124, 152 n. 44 Modern theatre, 6, 7, 8, 14, 25, 26, 41, 46, 86, 92, 96, 102, 106, 120, 126 More, Sir Thomas, 8, 13 Mystery plays, 1, 2, 3, 8, 9, 10, 12, 14, 20, 26, 27, 29, 30, 35, 40, 47, 49, 51, 53, 56, 57, 58, 65, 78, 79, 81, 86–8, 91, 94, 103, 107, 115–17, 121, 122, 123, 125 see also Corpus Christi plays N-Town plays, the, 19, 28, 49–50, 66, 112 The Parliament of Heaven, 112 The Parliament of Hell and the Temptation in the Desert, 28 The Proclamation, 49–50 Norwich, 91 Old Testament Abner and Joab, 64–5 David dancing before the ark, 70 Golden calf, the, 71 Isaac and Ishmael, 63–4 Ordo Paginarum, 47, 93 Pain, 3, 29, 40, 44, 40, 42, 51, 56, 66, 68, 75, 77, 83, 106, 117, 118, 119 Painting and sculpting (as opposed to theatre and performance), 22, 30, 31, 55, 57, 66, 71–3, 90, 96 Passion, the, performing the passion, passion plays, 3, 6, 19, 20, 27, 29, 30, 33, 34, 42, 43, 45, 47, 51, 52, 73–7, 83, 87, 96, 112, 117–24 Performance Chance in, 40 Performance art, 86, 118 Performance theory, 2, 15, 17, 18, 30, 31, 69, 81, 83, 86, 125


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181

IN DEX

182

Performance—Continued Performer, performers, 1, 3, 5, 6, 7, 8, 11, 13, 31, 46, 50, 58, 61, 62, 65, 66, 69, 74, 82, 83, 86, 88–91, 96, 100, 103, 112, 113, 117–22, 125, 126 Phenomenology of, 6, 39, 86, 118 Performative, Performativity, 3, 14, 28, 30, 31, 36, 38, 41, 42, 45, 50, 52, 53, 57, 58–60, 65–7, 71, 76, 78, 81–3, 102, 106, 111–13 Personne, 5, 6 Platea, 12, 65 Play analysis, 34 Players, 4, 5, 6, 9, 11, 13, 33, 40, 42, 43, 57, 91, 92, 114 Playfulness, 41, 57, 64 Postmedieval attitudes to medieval theatricality, 8–14 Potentiality, 2, 25, 26 Preaching, preacher, 19, 34, 37, 40, 42, 43, 57–8, 62, 67, 70, 71, 82 Presence, 1, 3, 5, 6, 39, 40, 42, 44, 56, 63, 65, 82, 86, 87, 93, 98, 112, 116, 121 Silence as, 120–1 Puppet, puppet theatre, 94, 97 Quem Queritis, 63 Realness, 21, 22, 23, 32, 33, 50, 52, 67–73, 91, 121 Records of Early English Drama (REED), 4 Recreation, recreational, 22, 30, 34, 58, 59, 60, 61, 68 Religious theatre, 1, 2, 3, 14, 15, 17, 18, 21, 39, 41, 53–8, 60, 62, 65, 69, 74, 81–3, 86–7, 91, 96, 101, 107, 111, 114, 120, 121, 124–6 Repetition, repetitive, 4, 41, 42, 47, 85, 98, 108

Representation, representational, 11, 23, 29, 30, 35, 39, 41, 45, 51, 63, 66, 69, 70, 71, 86, 88, 90, 93, 94, 95, 113, 116, 121 Ritual, ritualistic, 6, 17, 20, 30, 36, 37, 53, 57–8, 60, 63, 67, 69–71, 80–2, 97, 107, 112, 118, 119, 124, 125 Rogerson, Margaret, 81, 93, 94 Rokem, Freddie, 106 Schechner, Richard, 21, 25, 56–7, 69 Schreyer, Lothar, (Crucifixion), 107–8 Semiotics, 39, 52, 69 Shakespeare, William, 8–12, 13, 35 Sheingorn, Pamela, 66, 112, 113, 156 n. 21 Sidney, Sir Philip, An Apology for Poetry, 8, 12–13 Sign, signs, signification, signifier, 3, 4, 5, 8, 12, 14, 18, 22, 29, 31, 39, 51, 52, 56, 66, 67–73, 77, 82, 83, 85, 91, 92, 93, 106, 107, 108, 111–13, 115, 117, 124, 125 Simultaneity, 7–8, 11, 14, 56, 57–67, 71, 82, 85, 114, 126 Spectatorship, (reception theory), 1, 5, 6, 10, 13, 19, 22, 27–9, 33, 41, 46, 50, 52, 56, 57, 59, 60, 61, 62, 73–8, 81–3, 87, 89, 90–1, 95–6, 98, 102, 109, 113, 117, 118, 119, 124 Speech-act, 38, 89, 98 Sponsler, Claire, 24, 158 n. 41 Stations, 4, 42, 96, 120, 123 Stein, Peter, 101–2 Storytelling, 90 Street Scenes, 1, 14, 85, 96, 114, 115, 124 Street, 1, 2, 4, 8, 37, 39, 65, 85, 87, 108, 114–16, 121, 124, 125 Street theatre, 5, 6, 20, 85, 121, 122 Summer games, 20, 40, 121 “somergame,” 40, 41, 42–5, 47, 49, 118


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IN DEX

Taymor, Julie, (Lion King), 11 Theatrum Mundi, 124 Total theatre, total acting, 3, 6, 14, 67, 73, 83, 85, 86, 115–24 Turner, Victor, 25 Twycross, Meg, and Sarah Carpenter, 91, 92, 95 Violence, violent, 8, 26, 27, 31, 34, 36, 41, 46, 47, 65, 83, 87, 112, 117, 118, 120, 121 Voice, 4, 5, 7, 35, 47, 56, 57, 59, 60, 61–4, 82, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 124 Wenzel, Siegfried, 40 Work, works, werkis, 11, 17, 20, 32, 33, 41, 46, 51, 52, 64, 65, 67, 69, 77, 79, 113, 119, 121 Yerushalmi, Rina, 102, 103–6 York craft guilds Armourers, 95, 99 Bakers, 113 Bowers and Fletchers, 45–9 Butchers, 76 Cardmakers, 95, 96 Coopers, 95 Curriers, 45–9, 93 Fullers, 95 Girdlers and Nailers, 146 n. 14 Mercers, 90 Pewterers and Founders, 108 Pinners, 41, 77 Plasterers, 95 Shipwrights, 113 Skinners, 159 n. 46 York cycle, York plays, 3, 4, 5, 7, 14, 19, 20, 26, 27, 31, 34, 36, 37,

183

39, 40, 41, 45, 47, 49, 51, 66, 76, 77, 81, 85, 86, 87, 88, 90, 93, 95, 96, 108, 113, 115, 116, 121, 123, 124 Episodes in Abraham and Isaac, 39 Adam and Even in Eden, 95, 97–8 The Annunciation and Visitation, 38, 109 The Assumption, 88–9 The Building of the Ark, 7, 113 Cain and Abel, 154–5 n. 9 Christ before Annas and Caiaphas, 45, 46, 47–8, 49, 120 Christ before Herod, 120, 152 n. 44 The Creation of Adam and Eve, 95, 96–7 The Creation to the Fifth Day, 90, 95 The Crucifixion, 6, 7, 28, 30, 76, 77, 85, 112, 120–4 The Death of Christ, 76 The Entry to Jerusalem, 7, 159 n. 46 The Expulsion, 95, 99–100 That Fall of the Angels, 27, 87–8, 89–90 The Fall of Man, 95, 98–9 [Fergus], 26 The Flood, 7, 34–7, 46, 113 Joseph’s Trouble about Mary, 34, 37–8, 108–12 The Last Judgment, 27 The Last Supper, 113 The Nativity, 38, 111 The Slaughter of the Innocents, 146 n. 14 The Transfiguration, 45–6, 47, 48–51, 93


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IN DEX


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Street Scenes: Late Medieval Acting and Performance

Street Scenes: Late Medieval Acting and Performance

Street Scenes: Brecht, Benjamin and Berlin

Late Medieval Mysticism

Humanism and Scholasticism in Late Medieval Germany

Atomism in Late Medieval Philosophy and Theology

Crime and Justice in Late Medieval Italy

Crime and Justice in Late Medieval Italy

Street Theatre and Other Outdoor Performance

From Acting to Performance: Essays in Modernism and Postmodernism

Acting Black: College, Identity, and the Performance of Race

Performance, Cognitive Theory, and Devotional Culture: Sensual Piety in Late Medieval York (Cognitive Studies in Literature and Performance)

Reading in the Wilderness: Private Devotion and Public Performance in Late Medieval England

Making Scenes

Acting: Onstage and Off

The Moneylenders of Late Medieval Kyoto

Women's Power in Late Medieval Romance

Prestige, Authority and Power in Late Medieval Manuscripts and Texts

Lay Religious Life in Late Medieval Durham

The Masculine Self in Late Medieval England

On Actors and Acting

Scenes and Other Situations

Egyptian Models and Scenes

Acting Emotions

Acting Out

Late Antique and Medieval Art of the Mediterranean World

Christ's Body: Identity, Culture and Society in Late Medieval Writings

War, Government and Power in Late Medieval France

Late Merovingian France: History and Hagiography (Manchester Medieval Sources Series)

Street Scenes: Late Medieval Acting and Performance