The Theatre of Antonio Buero Vallejo: Ideology, Politics and Censorship (Monografias A)

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Colección Támesis SERIE A: MONOGRAFÍAS, 213

THE THEATRE OF ANTONIO BUERO VALLEJO IDEOLOGY, POLITICS AND CENSORSHIP This monograph examines the complex relationship between Antonio Buero Vallejo (1916–2000) and the ideologies of Francoist and postFranco Spain. The central focus of the study is Buero’s political theatre and his employment of myth and history to challenge the notion of an España eterna. It also considers Buero’s creation of his own myths and his revision of history in order to rationalize and justify his own stance. Censorship, both official and environmental, was the principal point of contact between writer and regime. The decisions made by Buero Vallejo in his determination to write and stage committed drama in a repressive society are evaluated here. Rejecting the more provocative stance of some other committed dramatists, as well as the position of those who resolved to ignore the political and social reality, Buero’s choice, with its inherent contradictions and ambiguities, was posibilismo. This book looks at his pragmatic employment of language and silence, both in his art and in his dealings with the censors and with other representatives of the hegemony and analyses how posibilismo both aided and limited him. The monograph also gives an account of Buero’s post-Franco theatre, which to date has not received the attention that it merits. It examines the reasons for its initial negative reception and its renewed importance in today’s Spain. Buero’s post-Franco insistence on rejecting the pacto de olvido is perhaps more relevant now than ever before. CATHERINE O’LEARY lectures in Spanish at the National University of Ireland, Maynooth.

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THE THEATRE OF ANTONIO BUERO VALLEJO IDEOLOGY, POLITICS AND CENSORSHIP

Catherine O’Leary

TAMESIS

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© Catherine O’Leary 2005 The right of Catherine O’Leary to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under current legislation no part of this work may be photocopied, stored in a retrieval system, published, performed in public, adapted, broadcast, transmitted, recorded or reproduced in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the copyright owner First published 2005 by Tamesis, Woodbridge ISBN 1 85566 111 X

Tamesis is an imprint of Boydell & Brewer Ltd PO Box 9, Woodbridge, Suffolk IP12 3DF, UK and of Boydell & Brewer Inc. 668 Mt. Hope Avenue, Rochester, NY 14620, USA website: www.boydellandbrewer.com A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data O’Leary, Catherine, 1971The theatre of Antonio Buero Vallejo : ideology, politics and censorship / Catherine O’Leary. p. cm. – (Colección Támesis. Serie A, Monografías ; v. 213) Summary: “This monograph examines the complex relationship between Antonio Buero Vallejo (1916–2000) and the ideologies of Francoist and post-Franco Spain”–Provided by publisher. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 1-85566-111-X (hardback : alk. paper) 1. Buero Vallejo, Antonio, 1916—Criticism and interpretation. 2. Buero Vallejo, Antonio, 1916—Political and social views. 3. Censorship–Spain–History–20th century. I. Title. PQ6603.U4Z825 2005 862⬘.64–dc22 2005003446

This publication is printed on acid-free paper Printed in Great Britain by St Edmundsbury Press Limited, Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk

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CONTENTS Acknowledgements Introduction 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

The Ideology of Francoism Language and Silence Buero Vallejo and Theatre Censorship Posibilismo History, Myth and Demythification Ideology in Buero Vallejo’s Theatre Theatre and the Transition to Democracy The Post-Franco Theatre of Buero Vallejo

vii 1 5 51 68 112 140 172 200 221

Conclusion

249

List of Plays List of Appendices Bibliography Index

259 261 299 318

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I am indebted to Dr Philip Johnston (University College, Dublin) and Prof. Victor Dixon (Trinity College, Dublin) for their support, advice and encouragement in the completion of this book. Thanks are also due to many other people who helped me. In particular, I wish to thank Dr Catherine Leen and Mr Denis O’Leary for reading drafts of the book, Ms Ana Vargas for proofreading the Spanish language sections, and Ms Sinéad Conlan for her help in the preparation of the manuscript. I would like to thank the Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General de la Administración (Alcalá de Henares) for permission to reproduce documents from the censorship archives, and the Archive staff for their efficiency and help; D. Moisés Pérez Coterillo, Director of the Centro de Documentación Teatral of INAEM, and Ms Maureen Fynn, Theatre Secretary at the Chester Gateway Theatre, who were kind enough to send me information in response to my queries. My thanks are also due to my colleagues at the National University of Ireland, Maynooth. I am grateful to the Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte (with An Roinn Oideachais) for the funding that enabled me to travel to Spain in 1998–99 to undertake the research on which this book is based. I would like to acknowledge the financial assistance that I received from the Publications Committee of the National University of Ireland and from the Department of Spanish, NUI Maynooth. I would also like to thank Ms Ellie Ferguson of Tamesis Books for her skilful guidance in the preparation of this book. Finally, a special word of gratitude is due to my family and friends for their generosity, understanding and unfailing encouragement. Parts of Chapters 1 and 8 appeared in different versions in Teatro: Revista de Estudios Teatrales, 19 (December 2003) and in Cultural Memory: Essays on European Literature and History, ed. by Edric Caldicott and Anne Fuchs (Bern: Peter Lang, 2003).

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Introduction Ofendería, insultaría a los conocimientos y a la inteligencia de ustedes si dijera que, para lograr grandes obras de creación, hay que trabajar en libertad total. Pues todos sabemos que bajo las peores situaciones – antes me lo he permitido recordar – también se han dado creaciones extraordinarias. Y así sucedió también, sin libertad, en la anterior situación española.1

Antonio Buero Vallejo, who died on 28 April 2000, was the most important Spanish dramatist of the post-Civil War period. In his long career as a playwright, Buero published thirty original plays. Only three of these have never been performed.2 This book focuses on the committed dramas and therefore has little to say about certain plays such as El terror inmóvil, La señal que se espera (1952), Madrugada (1953), Hoy es fiesta (1955), Irene, o el tesoro (1954) and Una extraña armonía, which do not deal with the themes of history, myth and ideology and contain only very limited social comment. It concentrates instead on an analysis of the more political dramas as the basis for an investigation of Buero’s engagement with the ideologies of Francoism and of postFranco Spain. Despite his Republican allegiances, Buero Vallejo was the most commercially successful dramatist of the Franco era. In the 1950s, Buero was hailed as the saviour of the Spanish theatre and praised for the social realism of his work and for his exposé of the tragedy of a divided Spain. He was condemned by others, however, particularly as his success and reputation grew, for what was seen as his capitulation to the pressures of censorship and finally for coming to form a part of the Francoist Establishment, lending his prestige to the regime by accepting its honours. Thus his dedication to social drama and his opposition to the regime were brought into question. Yet, while he was at times damned for his silences by some of his contemporaries, so too was he denounced for his words by Franco’s censors.

1 Antonio Buero Vallejo, Obra Completa, ed. by Luis Iglesias Feijoo and Mariano de Paco, Clásicos Castellanos Nueva Serie, 2 vols (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1994), II, 497–8. Further references to these volumes are given after quotations in the text. 2 El terror inmóvil (1949), Una extraña armonía (1956) and Mito (1967). Both Mito and Un extraña armonía were authorized for staging by the censorship authorities but, according to the Obra Completa, have never been staged. All of the dates given for the plays refer to the date of composition.

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It is difficult to refute Alfonso Sastre’s assertion that Buero was operating from within the Francoist system.3 Buero did choose to remain and work in Spain, and to adopt an attitude of compromise and posibilismo in his work and in his dealings with the regime. The question of whether this made Bueros a pluma prostituida, as was suggested by some of his detractors, is addressed here. This book explores the degree of compromise inherent in his stance, considers his social commitment and investigates the contradictions evident in his relationship with Franco’s repressive regime. Buero was neither radical nor evasionist, and his rebellion, in so far as it existed, often appeared to be more a moral than a political one. This study shows that, throughout his career, Buero used his theatre to defend his chosen stance against his many critics. Furthermore, it argues that the portraits of artists and intellectuals in his dramatic works are an attempt to justify and rationalize his peculiar position as the occasionally acceptable face of criticism: the critic within the system. Buero’s relationship with Francoism and its ideology was dominated by words and silences, which were carefully chosen. He is an important dramatist both for what he said and for what he failed to say about the society in which he lived and worked. For Buero, the choice was always one of silence or protest, yet he was criticized for failing to speak out in support of others, for the limited nature of his dissent, and, paradoxically, for daring to say too much. The historical link between literature and ideology is evaluated, particularly with regard to the theatre, and the perceived threat posed by literature is identified. This book agrees with Eagleton’s claim: Language, that most innocent and spontaneous of common currencies, is in reality a terrain scarred, fissured and divided by the cataclysms of political history, strewn with the relics of imperialist, nationalist, regionalist and class combat. [. . .] Literature is an agent as well as effect of such struggles.4

The regime’s concern with language, designed to convince others of its authority and to rationalize its dominant position, was allied to a determination to control the language used by others. It is hardly surprising, therefore, that the regime legislated for silence also, by introducing measures to censor critical commentaries and to eliminate the voice of dissent. Censorship, of course, is the main point of contact between the writer and the dominant societal ideology. Buero defined it as: un arma del poder político que pretende manipular y restringir la información pública, así como ahormar el derecho de expresión y las actividades culturales 3 In an article critical of Buero Vallejo, Sastre defined the former’s posture thus: ‘Es preciso hacer un teatro posible en España, aunque para ello sea preciso realizar ciertos sacrificios que se derivan de la necesidad de acomodarse de algún modo a la estructura de las dificultades que se oponen a nuestro trabajo.’ ‘Teatro imposible y pacto social’, Primer Acto, no. 14 (1960), 1–2 (p. 1). 4 Terry Eagleton, Criticism and Ideology. A Study in Marxist Literary Theory (London: Verso, 1998), pp. 54, 55.

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en los marcos ideológicos oficiales. Todo ello la define como un arma contra la libertad del hombre.5

Buero recognized the power of language and its influence and sought to outwit the censors and propagandists at language manipulation. His achievement was to manipulate language in order to create a counter-mythology that directly contradicted that of the administration. However, Buero’s employment of the device of posibilismo to do this left him open to charges of collaboration with the system or, at the very least, of self-censorship. This book thus explores the ambiguity of his position as one who would be at once critical of and acceptable to the regime. Buero Vallejo’s theatre, while mild in comparison to some other theatre of opposition, was calculated to be so and was successful as a result. Nonetheless, the question then arises whether Buero was limited by his own values and beliefs and by the parameters laid down by the regime, which he usually accepted. In his dramatic works, Buero defined the role of the artist as both a moral and a political one; this book compares his words with his actions. In addition, it asks whether writers such as Buero Vallejo were engaged in a type of self-induced bewilderment or self-deception, by their determination to believe that they were really challenging the regime to the best of their ability by remaining in Spain. While the censorship of Buero’s work and the silencing of his views in public are evidence of the regime’s mistrust of him and of an awareness of the influence of his words, his career as a dramatist under Franco was very successful. This raises the question of why he was not censored more. After all, many of his contemporaries and later dramatists, who were not as clearly identified with Republicanism as Buero was, were more heavily censored.6 Hence this study explores whether his successes were owing to the subtlety and intelligence of his argument and method, the failings of the censors and the censorship legislation or some other cause. Also analysed are Buero’s attempts to subvert official history and to demystify the regime’s presentation of itself and what Raymond Williams termed, ‘a sense of predisposed continuity’.7 The analysis is extended to show how Buero’s historical

5 Quoted in Antonio Beneyto, Censura y política en los escritores españoles (Barcelona: Plaza y Janes, 1979), p. 21. On p. 11 of the same book, Beneyto says of censorship: ‘No cabe duda que la censura es el medio represivo de que disponen los gobiernos débiles de todo el mundo para despersonalizar a la población y convertirla en una masa uniforme, compacta, produciendo en ella una parálisis política, social, cultural, etc. [. . .] o sea, que el pueblo se encuentra ante tal actitud en la obligación de pensar lo que el Gobierno le impone.’ 6 Buero Vallejo was active on the Republican side in the Civil War. In an episode that demonstrates both the brutality of the victors and their manipulation of language, Buero was initially sentenced to death in the aftermath of the war for his ‘adhesión a la rebelión’. Luciano García Lorenzo, ‘Reportaje biográfico’, Luciano García Lorenzo and others, Antonio Buero Vallejo: Premio ‘Miguel de Cervantes’ 1986, Ámbitos literarios/Premios Cervantes, 12 (Barcelona: Anthropos-Ministerio de Cultura, 1987), pp. 13–35 (p. 18). 7 Raymond Williams, Marxism and Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977), p. 116.

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and mythical dramas challenge the notion of fate and instead stress history as progression. The study then moves on to question Buero’s own motivated use of history and myth and his controversial portraits of certain historical figures. The transition period is examined as a time of ideological crisis, and the dismantling of the elements that had previously supported the dominant ideology is reviewed. It was a period when old myths were deliberately forgotten and new ones created. This led to a determination to forget the past and to embrace the pacto de olvido, which was to be the focus of Buero’s post-Franco theatre. Buero wrote some of his most important political work in the post-Franco period and took a moralistic stance on accountability and remembering. However, these works display a disillusionment and pessimism not in evidence in his earlier dramas. Finally, the book explores the choices made by the dramatist when at last free to speak clearly and assesses the claim that ‘contra Franco escribía mejor’. In his depictions of past and present, Buero once again raised questions of a pluma prostituida and the contradictory nature of his relationship both to the Francoist ideology and to modern democratic Spain.

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The Ideology of Francoism Truth and Distortion There is no agreed definition of the Francoist ideology. It was more than simple illusion or false consciousness, and it did not merely falsify reality to reflect the values of the dominant group. It was more than symbol and myth; it contained lived elements in the discourse between politics and society.1 It was also the signs and values infused with certain motivated meanings in this discourse. It necessarily comprised both truth and myth. The presence of myth was the inevitable result of manipulating particular, often commonly held, values in an attempt to legitimate or rationalize certain self-serving political actions; the truth it contained was the reason many gave their consent to the preservation of the status quo. The essential distortion of the Francoist ideology was that it claimed to reflect, rather than dictate, societal values. The regime did not merely impose unwanted values by force, as this would have led to greater resistance; rather it encompassed certain societal values, for example those of Roman Catholicism, in a larger, ruling ideology, often falsifying them to suit its needs in the process. It also traded on populist views of national identity. Under Franco, the dominant ideology contained elements of many alternative and residual practices, such as monarchism, theocracy and fascism. By amalgamating the Falange and other factions into the Movimiento, Franco not only reduced the power of each individual faction, but could also claim to reflect the values and identities of many differing groups in Spanish society. Moreover, Franco realized that by controlling or influencing what Althusser termed the ‘ideological state apparatuses’, the ruling elite could influence and shape the values, choices and

1 In this sense it is similar to Raymond Williams’s definition of hegemony: ‘It is a lived system of meanings and values – constitutive and constituting – which as they are experienced as practices appear as reciprocally confirming. It thus constitutes a sense of reality for most people in the society, a sense of absolute because experienced reality beyond which it is very difficult for most members of the society to move, in most areas of their lives. [. . .] It is a realized complex of experiences, relationships, and activities, with specific and changing pressures and limits. [. . .] It does not just passively exist as a form of dominance. It has continually to be renewed, recreated, defended, and modified. It is also continually resisted, limited, altered, challenged by pressures not at all its own.’ Marxism and Literature, pp. 110, 112.

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lived reality of the populace.2 The desire for longevity and the perpetuation of the social order was a preoccupation of Franco’s, as is evident from his determination to choose his successor and to inculcate in him the ideology of the new regime. In his essay on ideology and the state, Althusser stressed the crucial role of state institutions in the maintenance of a dominant ideology. Through these state institutions the populace is taught know-how compatible with the ruling ideology. The different social groups or classes were educated to be contented with their positions in the order of society and not to question their subjugation to the dominant ideology. In order for the ideology of the ruling class to take hold, it is thus necessary for the state institutions to become infused with it. Althusser divided these institutions into the repressive state apparatuses, such as the army, and the ideological state apparatuses, such as the media, culture, the education system and the Church. While the former are primarily concerned with the use of force, sanctions and threats in their support of the dominant ideology, the latter collude with the controlling group in the dissemination of the ruling ideology and the instruction of the masses of their place within it. The state apparatus, which functions as a repressive force in society, incorporates the government, the judiciary, the prison services, the police and the army. In Francoist Spain, the Civil Guard and the armed police were both under military control and were used to repel external sources of threat, whether real or mythical, and also to maintain order in society by warding off internal sources of threat. Throughout his dictatorship, Franco employed these repressive forces to back up the dominant ideology and to quash any perceived threat, such as that posed by the miners and students in the late 1950s and the 1960s. In order to succeed, it is clear that those in possession of state power must also control the state apparatuses. If they do not, they are unlikely to retain hegemony for long. During the Second Republic in Spain, the rulers did not always control the state apparatuses, and thus did not have a firm grip on the power they were democratically elected to wield. When the Nationalists took control after the Civil War, they purged all of the state agencies of any opposition, thus ensuring the conservation of the state power that they had seized. The control of the repressive state apparatuses, while necessary, was not sufficient to ensure the subjection of the populace to the new social order: for this, the so-called ideological state apparatuses also had to be employed. The Franco regime was fortunate to have the co-operation of the Roman Catholic Church, which had seen its role diminished in Republican Spain. The ideology of the Roman Catholic Church coincided with the Francoist ideology in many respects, and both the Church and the regime took full advantage of this fact.

2 Louis Althusser, ‘Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses: Notes towards an Investigation’, in Lenin and Philosophy and Other Essays, trans. by Ben Brewster (London: NLB, 1971), pp. 121–73.

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The appeal of the ideological state apparatuses is, of course, their capacity for social control; they can be used to affirm the ruling ideology through ritual, anthems and ceremonies. By justifying the distribution of economic and political power, they allow the ruling group to maintain its dominant position, and they also aid in coercion and eliciting consent. They help the governing elite to define the boundaries within which individuals may exercise free will. Recognizing this, the nascent regime quickly set about securing the control, or the collaboration, of the ideological apparatuses. The outlawing of political parties and representative trade unions meant that, in addition, the only ideology that could be legally communicated was the ruling one. The ruling group recognized that it had to command both the repressive and the ideological state apparatuses in order to control both the public and the private domains. The army, the police and the courts, while primarily repressive forces, were also infused with the dominant ideology, which they defended by force in the public domain. The Church, the schools, the media and the arts operate in the private sphere and, although primarily ideological, also used sanctions such as excommunication, expulsion and censorship. All were united by, and under, the ruling ideology. Once the ruling elite controlled both the public and private domains, it could define the role of the individual within each and quell any attempt at self-definition or self-determination. The co-operation of the ideological apparatuses ensured that even the private realm was permeated with a politically driven ideology. The regime’s laws reflected the Francoist ideology in an attempt to legitimate the New State in the name of an ill-defined common good. The regime’s willingness to impose sanctions can be seen in its legislation. In 1938, the Fuero del trabajo abolished normal trade unions and the right to strike in the name of the integrity of the Patria. Falangist influence was also evident in its determination to return to the Spanish people ‘la Patria, el Pan y la Justicia’.3 A 1940 law created the Tribunal Especial para la Represión de la Masonería y el Comunismo, which blamed the Freemasons and Communists for Spain’s ills and was used to justify the harsh repression of Republicans in the aftermath of the Civil War. The Código Penal, introduced in December 1944, specified the severe material sanctions for behaviour that contradicted or challenged the dominant ideology, including reprisals for the communication of illegal propaganda. The Fuero de los españoles, introduced in July 1945, strengthened the Church–state alliance by establishing Roman Catholicism as the official state religion. Article 12 of the Fuero, in keeping with the ruling ideology, gave the impression of free will, which was nevertheless contradicted by the presence of censorship and other repressive legislation. It stated: ‘Todo español podrá expresar libremente sus 3 This was the slogan of the national-syndicalist group, the Juntas de Ofensiva NacionalSindicalista (JONS), whose mythology was important in the Francoist ideology. It was included in the preamble to the Fuero del trabajo. Quoted in Manuel Vázquez Montalbán, Los demonios familiares de Franco. (Los tics obsesivos que configuraron la ‘ideología’ franquista), Colección Documentos (Barcelona: Planeta, 1987), p. 132.

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ideas mientras no atente a los principios fundamentales del Estado.’4 Article 22 outlawed collective lobbying and article 35 stipulated that, if circumstances demanded it, many of the citizens’ rights guaranteed in the Fuero could be suspended. Finally, article 36 was a reminder that the freedoms laid down in the Fuero would be defended and upheld by the repressive state apparatuses. The regime also recognized early on the need to legislate for censorship in order to influence how the ideology was propagated, by stipulating what could be printed or viewed in schools, in the press, in literature, in cinemas and in theatres. The regime claimed that the state was subordinate to, and reflective of, society, while in fact the opposite was true. It is a myth examined by Antonio Buero Vallejo in his theatre. He looked at the ideology of dominant groups and what they offer to those they seek to subjugate, their mythology and also the sanctions and threats they employ to uphold their dominant position. Buero depicted a clergy lacking in compassion and purity in Las Meninas (1960), Un soñador para un pueblo (1958) and Las palabras en la arena (1948). Moreover, in El sueño de la razón (1969) he noted how true, well-intentioned Catholicism, embodied in the character of Duaso, is misappropriated by the regime both for political purposes and to exact revenge for injured vanity. The supposed unity of the nation is exposed as a distortion in plays such as En la ardiente oscuridad (1946), in which a false unity is shown to be maintained by fear and coercion. The process of demonization of political opponents is examined in the dramas of Buero, particularly in La doble historia del doctor Valmy (1964) and La Fundación (1973). Earlier, in Las Meninas and Un soñador para un pueblo, Buero showed how the well-intentioned actions of an individual are not only misunderstood by some but also cynically misrepresented by others. The protection offered by political and military leaders is exposed in many of the plays as a falsification of the reality of self-preservation and the interpretation of the common good as personal interest.

The Role of the Ideological State Apparatuses It is difficult to overstate the importance of the Roman Catholic Church as an ideological state apparatus of the Franco regime. Not only did it have a significant influence on the private life of many Spanish citizens but it also influenced the state. In fact, such was the Church–state alliance in the early Franco years that Spain was reminiscent of earlier theocratic states. The Civil War was presented as a type of Holy War against the infidels who defended a secular state. In September 1936, a pastoral letter from Enrique Pla y Deniel, Bishop of Salamanca, praised and defended the Nationalist rising as a Crusade; an earlier pastoral letter from the Bishops of Pamplona and Vitoria had defined the rising

4 Román Gubern, La censura: función política y ordenamiento jurídico bajo el franquismo (1936–1975) (Barcelona: Península, 1981), p. 82.

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as a ‘movimiento “cívico–militar” en defensa de la religión’.5 In 1937, the Spanish Primate, Cardinal Gomá y Tomás, drafted a letter, which was signed by many members of the Spanish hierarchy and circulated internationally, in which both the rising and the Nationalist State were vindicated. In keeping with this, Franco was hailed as a defender of the faith. He enjoyed the support of the majority of the Spanish hierarchy, with the noteworthy exception of Francesc Vidal i Barraquer, Cardinal-Archbishop of Tarragona, who protested to the Pope about the political stance of the Church in Spain. Cooper records that, as a result, he was unacceptable in post-war Spain and did not return to his See in 1939.6 When Cardinal Gomá himself called for forgiveness and social justice in a pastoral letter in 1939, it was not circulated internationally; according to Preston, the censorship authorities did not allow it to be published outside the archdiocese of Toledo.7 September 1938 had seen the issue of some censorship guidelines from the Nationalist Delegación del Estado. The first of these referred to the maintenance of the idea of unity, and another insisted on the preservation of the dogma and morals of Catholic teaching, although it did state that tolerance must be extended to the Protestant and Muslim religions. However, in June 1939, this tolerance of other religions was deemed to have been forfeited because of Protestant support for the Popular Front. Later, article 6 of the Fuero de los españoles established religious tolerance, but not religious freedom, and stipulated: ‘No se permitirán otras ceremonias ni manifestaciones externas que las de la religión Católica.’8 Within the Catholic-influenced state, orthodoxy was stressed and other religions discriminated against. Harsh punishments were threatened for breaches of Church–state rules. These included the Church’s own forms of censure, such as excommunication or condemnation from the pulpit, as well as the material punishment meted out by the judicial and military forces of the state. In contrast to the nationalism found elsewhere in Europe, the nationalism of the Francoists demanded the loyalty of the people to a Catholic, rather than a secular, state. By allying itself so closely to the Roman Catholic Church, the Franco regime won the loyalty of many of the Church faithful. Moreover, the Roman Catholic Church lent to it the good will and moral authority it enjoyed among vast numbers of people both nationally and internationally. This support allowed Franco to claim that he was serving both God and country. 5 Quoted in Juan Pablo Fusi, Franco: autoritarismo y poder personal (Madrid: El País, 1985), p. 49. 6 Norman Cooper, ‘The Church: From Crusade to Christianity’, in Spain in Crisis: The Evolution and Decline of the Franco Regime, ed. by Paul Preston (Sussex: Harvester Press, 1976), pp. 48–81 (p. 51). 7 Paul Preston, Franco: A Biography (London: Harper Collins, 1993), p. 342. 8 Gubern, La censura, p. 82. However, Vatican II did have an impact on the regime. The Ley Orgánica del Estado, 10 January 1967, and later the Ley de 28 de junio de 1967 recognized religious freedom. José M. Cuenca Toribio, ‘Relaciones Iglesia y Estado en la España del siglo XX (1931–1980)’, Hispania. Revista español de historia, 40 (no. 144, 1980), 153–76 (p. 171).

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Franco could be classed as what Anthony D. Smith called a neo-traditionalist and a self-conscious ideologue who used political means to revive religious heritage and thereby ‘to organize the faithful into a political movement’, though the influence of his personal beliefs should not be overlooked.9 In order to achieve this, Smith claimed, the history, the identity and the destiny of the faithful must be defined, and their fall from past glory explained. It is clear that in his creation of a mythical past for Spain and the identification of an essential Spanishness that had been betrayed by the liberals and the secular Republicans, Franco did indeed attempt this. The Catholic Nationalist thus became the embodiment of the noble Spanish race, descended from the race of the Reyes Católicos and destined to rise again after the recent fall, to recapture and relive its illustrious past. Of course, the contradiction in the myth was evident from the outset. Ironically, the rising and the eventual victory of the Nationalist forces might not have been possible without the initial support of Franco’s African legionnaires. In 1937, Franco declared: Nosotros, todos los que combatimos, cristianos y musulmanes, somos soldados de Dios y no luchamos contra hombres, sino contra el ateísmo y el materialismo, contra todo lo que rebaja la dignidad humana, que nosotros queremos elevar, purificar y ennoblecer.10

Although initially recognized by Franco, their role in the creation of the New State was soon lost in the myth of a Nationalist, Catholic state. The emergence of the myth of a crusade was already evident, and the Muslims were not to feature in the mythical raza of Francoist Spain. In the aftermath of the Axis defeat in WWII, Franco also played down the regime’s fascist tendencies in order to gain wider support among Catholics internationally, particularly in his efforts to win Vatican recognition. The significance of the Roman Catholic Church in the legitimation of the New State was critical. It provided the regime with support and legitimacy it might otherwise have lacked, having overthrown a democratically elected government. The regime adopted the Church’s common good argument to defend policies that were developed to protect the regime. By arguing that the people were weak and in need of protection, leadership and salvation, the regime defended its paternalistic attitude and autocratic rule. Indeed, dependence on a patriarchal and more knowledgeable authority was encouraged by both Francoist and Catholic ideologies: both demanded the ceding of responsibility to a higher power. An acceptance of submission was encouraged and rationalized by the argument that it was destined or preordained, and protection was offered in exchange for freedom and independence. Both promised suffering now for sins of the past and gave

9 Anthony D. Smith, ‘The Crisis of Dual Legitimation’, in Nationalism, ed. by J. Hutchinson and A. D. Smith (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994), pp. 113–21 (p. 117). 10 Franco, in L’Echo (París), 16 November 1937. Quoted in Vázquez Montalbán, Los demonios, p. 141.

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assurances about future salvation. The Church’s values were critical in the consolidation of the relationship between the dominant ideology and the subjugated in Francoist Spain.11 Ironically, Spain’s isolation in the post-Civil War years may also have helped. Suffering and humility were praised by the Church–state alliance as virtues of the Spanish people in the face of internal hardship and external opposition; a myth of national martyrdom encouraged the Spanish people to feel triumphant in their isolation and subjugation. Similarly, Franco’s single-party organic democracy was portrayed as evidence of Spanish superiority, as is clear from Franco’s pronunciations on the subject of democracy to the Mexican press in 1947: Ahora se habla de la democracia. Nosotros, los españoles, ya la hemos conocido. Y no nos dio resultado. Cuando otros van hacia la democracia, nosotros ya estamos de vuelta. Estamos dispuestos a sentarnos en la meta y esperar a que los otros regresen también.12

The Franco regime claimed to be defending an essential Catholic Spain from a Communist threat. With the collusion of the Roman Catholic Church, the regime was able to introduce censorship and sanctions, which silenced the dissenter in the name of the common good and of liberty. This can be seen clearly in the introduction to the 1966 Ley de Prensa e Imprenta: Se puede decir que el principio inspirador de esta Ley lo constituye la idea de lograr el máximo desarrollo y el máximo despliegue posible de la libertad de la persona para la expresión de su pensamiento, consagrada en el art. 12 del Fuero de los Españoles conjugando adecuadamente el ejercicio de aquella libertad con las exigencias inexcusables del bien común, de la paz social y de un recto orden de convivencia para todos los españoles.13

Similar sentiments about the protection of the intellectually weak and the moral and political education of the Spanish people are expressed in the Ley de Prensa of 1938 and a Ministerial Order referring to censorship in 1939.14 Once some of the traditions and rituals of the Church had been incorporated into the culture of the regime, the dominant ideology could then claim to reflect the values of

11 The importance of religion in the control of the bewildered herd is explored in Nietzsche’s analysis of slave morality. Jorge Larrain, Ideology and Cultural Identity: Modernity and the Third World Presence (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1994), pp. 42–4. 12 El Universal Gráfico (México), October 1947. Quoted in Vázquez Montalbán, Los demonios, p. 116. 13 Ley 18 marzo 1966, Nº 14/66 (Jefatura del Estado). PRENSA. Ley de Prensa e Imprenta, Boletín Oficial del Estado (hereafter BOE), no. 67 (ref. 519, 19 March 1966), pp. 479–86. 14 Ley 22 abril 1938 (Ministerio del Interior). PERIODICOS. Ley de Prensa. BOE, no. 549 (23 April 1938), pp. 6915–17 and Orden 15 julio 1939 (Mº. Gobernación). CENSURA. Crea una Sección de Censura encargada de llevarla a cabo, BOE, no. 211 (ref. 916, 30 July 1939), p. 553.

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a Spain united in its Catholicism. This can be seen in the 1966 Ley de Prensa e Imprenta, which stated that the legislation was intended to: dar un nuevo paso en la labor constante y cotidiana de acometer la edificación del orden que reclama la progresiva y perdurable convivencia de los españoles dentro de un marco de sentido universal y cristiano, tradicional en la historia patria.15

Franco defined Spain as a Catholic state, as opposed to the definition of the Republican leader, Manuel Azaña, who had stated in 1931 that Spain was no longer Catholic.16 Franco also used the Roman Catholic Church to counter accusations that his rule was a totalitarian one.17 Roman Catholic doctrine was manipulated and employed by the Spanish hierarchy and the Francoists to make Church and state seem inseparable and mutually justifying and supportive. The Church’s influential role in society was consolidated after the Concordat was signed in 1953. It no longer had to pay taxes and was given grants to construct churches. It was judged to be above the law as it applied to the ordinary citizens of the state and, while its clergy were employed as censors on Government Boards, some of its own publications were not subject to censorship. Nor could a priest be charged with a criminal offence without the consent of his religious superiors. Catholic marriages were the only ones recognized in the New State, and divorce, which had been legal during the years of the Second Republic, was outlawed. In the 1950s, the Roman Catholic Church dominated intellectual life in Spain, controlling such influential papers as El Debate and Ya. Aside from the Church publications and influence on censorship, some of the leading intellectuals of the day were members of Opus Dei. Yet perhaps the most insidious form of ideology propagation was in the schools: under the terms of the Concordat, Roman Catholic Church control of primary education in Spain was guaranteed, and the regime was satisfied to use the Church’s expertise. The Catholic viewpoint on censorship is a version of the common good argument. It allows for intervention by the Church to eliminate error and secure the victory of truth. The Catholic Church maintains that societies are formed naturally, as is the institution of authority, elected from and by the members of a society to make decisions and resolve differences. This society is God-given, Ley 18 marzo 1966, de Prensa e Imprenta, p. 480. Fusi, Franco, p. 59. Church and state were officially separated in 1931: ‘Decretada ya por el Estatuto jurídico del gobierno provisional la separación de la Iglesia y el Estado, el Código de diciembre de 1931 ratificaba el laicismo del poder civil, al paso que su artículo 26 desmantelaba los principales centros de influencia y acción social de la Iglesia.’ Cuenca Toribio, ‘Relaciones Iglesia y Estado’, p. 154. 17 ‘El Regimen español no es totalitario porque es católico, y así lo ha reconocido la Iglesia. El totalitarismo ateo está condenado por Roma, y es, por tanto, incompatible con el catolicismo.’ From El Español, nos 287–90 (1954). Quoted in Gabriel Arias Salgado, Política española de la información: antología sistemática (Madrid: Ministerio de Información y Turismo (hereafter MIT), 1958), II, p. 231. 15 16

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as nature stems from God. In order for society to develop, man’s free will must be harnessed to the greater good of the community: Authority, therefore, is to be respected and loved, not only because it comes, reductively, from God, but because in its legitimate exercise, it also leads to God, because such exercise of authority leads to the common good which is also willed by God.18

The argument even embraces the use of coercion for the common good, while tacitly admitting that coercion may be abused by some. The state, it is claimed, has the right and duty to exercise authority and coercion in the name of the common good. The premise is that a good act generated by fear or coercion may eventually lead to a belief in the virtue of this good act and the will to do this good act voluntarily. Therefore, the argument goes, the initial application of threat and coercion is justified. When viewed in the context of changing a morally corrupt person into a morally virtuous one, this argument may seem justifiable, if Panglossian in its naïve optimism; when this thinking is applied by a dictatorial state using coercion and fear to make people recognize the good that it represents, however, then it becomes indefensible. It might be suggested that this would be an abuse of power and in such a case the Catholic justification is not applicable. Yet a cursory glance at the history of twentieth-century Spain will show that Franco’s totalitarian regime applied these fear and coercion techniques to ensure the support, or at least the apathy, of the people. Moreover, it did so with the full support and collusion of the Catholic Church. The presence of Roman Catholic clergy among the censors on the state boards lent these bodies a certain degree of legitimacy. It allowed the regime to use the Catholic argument that it was not protecting itself by silencing certain voices, but rather that it was defending the interests of the citizens who were somehow threatened by such material. Church influence can be clearly seen in the censorship legislation of the Franco regime. In the 1938 Ley de Prensa, which despite its title, covered all forms of censorship, there is a peculiar mix of Catholic and Nationalist rhetoric in the description of the new breed of journalist as an ‘apóstol del pensamiento y de la fe de la Nación recobrada a sus destinos’.19 These censorship guidelines were deliberately ambiguous. The stated reason for the lack of written rules for ecclesiastical censorship was, ‘por la sencilla razón de que puede un libro, un artículo, una fotografía, etc., no atentar directamente contra el Dogma o la Moral y, sin embargo, su publicación o difusión ser peligrosa y, por tanto, no prudente’.20 Church and state agreed that preventative

18 Harold C. Gardiner S. J., Catholic Viewpoint on Censorship (New York: Hanover House, 1958), p. 21. 19 Ley 22 abril 1938, de Prensa, p. 6915. 20 Arias Salgado, Política española, p. 187.

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censorship was better than punitive censorship. Cardinal Dalla Costa ridiculed the freedom of the press that sought to grant the same respect to all people and to all faiths: ‘Supone que todos son capaces de doctrinar sobre cualquier cosa, que todos son capaces de aprender cualquier cosa, lo que es el summum del absurdo.’21 It is also worth noting that until 1966, the Roman Catholic Church issued an Index of Forbidden Books, which listed books perceived by the clergy to be dangerous to faith and morals. The Church claimed that it had a right and duty to control literature, and each diocese was to have its own appointed clerical censor. Canon 1395 of the Code of Canon Law gave the Church the right to ban books as it saw fit. Care was taken that books classed as obscene, that is to say, arousing the lower passions, should not ‘fall into the hands of those whose minds are not prepared for mature reading’.22 All heretical, schismatic, materialistic or atheist publications were outlawed by the Index, as were religious books published without prior censorship. It was claimed that the Index did not interfere with an individual’s liberty, as the Church, being an authority on such matters, was acting in his best moral interests. Possession, trading, or reading of works cited in the Index was punishable by excommunication, but, as always, the moral elite could obtain permission to examine these texts for scholarly purposes and survive with their souls unscathed. The Church also played a significant role in the censorship of the theatre, and the legislation is clearly influenced by Catholic teaching on morals. The Roman Catholic Church retained its own watchdog body called the Oficina Nacional Permanente de Vigilancia de Espectáculos, which employed a system of classification of dramas from one to four. The former were judged to be acceptable to a wide audience and the latter a serious threat to its moral well-being. This was seen as necessary, as the Church guidelines for censorship were more severe in some respects than those of the regime, which were occasionally influenced more by political expediency than by Catholic moral teaching.23 Certain authors, who because of their political background were acceptable to the regime, were censored by the Church because they did not comply with its strict moral code. CALOMARDE He mandado cerrar todas las Universidades. No eran más que focos de agitación liberal (O.C. I: 1531).

Another important ideological state apparatus was the educational system. This played a very significant role in the legitimation of the regime and in the

Arias Salgado, Política española, pp. 190–1. Redmond A. Burke, C.S.V., Ph.D., What is the Index? (Milwaukee: The Bruce Publishing Co., 1952), p. 24. 23 A report from the MIT, dating from 1963, defends its actions against Church criticism. The report is of further interest because of its insistence that the MIT is not guilty of apertura and also for the distinction it makes between Church and state censorship. Informe sobre la censura cinematográfica y teatral, Dirección General de Cinematografía y Teatro (Madrid: MIT, 1963). 21 22

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indoctrination of future generations. Its significance changed from the late 1950s, when the universities became the sites for an ideological battle against the regime. Initially the situation was quite different, however, and the education system proved a useful tool for social control. The regime recognized early on that it had to control the educational institutions and sought to secure its influence on them through legislation. The Ley de Enseñanza Primaria (1945) handed over control of primary education to the Roman Catholic clergy and made the school system subordinate to the new social and political order. The education system, in line with both Catholic and Francoist ideology, taught the importance of family, Church and regime to the stability and peace of the nation. The Ley de Enseñanza Media, introduced in 1953, did for secondary-level education what the 1945 law had done for primary level. In an article critical of the regime’s motivated use of education, the historian Manuel Tuñón de Lara highlighted the use of myth and revisionism in the history taught at secondary-level. The Second Republic was condemned thus: ‘Los pseudointelectuales despechados, la masonería y los financieros judíos internacionales hacen caer a la monarquía.’ Catholicism, imperialism and the hero-leader were praised and the Enlightenment, liberalism, democracy and Freemasons were attacked; fascism, on the other hand, was defended for ‘su sentido nacional, espiritual e histórico que reconstituye su dignidad a la persona humana’.24 Under such a system, children were brought up with the official state version of their country and history, without necessarily ever being exposed to the opposing viewpoints. History books were rewritten to discredit Republicans and to laud the imperial tradition followed by Franco. Revising history in an attempt to control the collective memory, the regime sought to determine the future. The Ley de Ordenación Universitaria (1943) placed the universities under state control and decreed that they should be run along Catholic and Falangist lines. The existing Falangist SEU (Sindicato Español Universitario) was recognized officially and replaced the outlawed FUE (Federación Universitaria Escolar) in all universities. The SEU was a pro-Francoist body and also had a role as campus guard. The creation of the Milicia Universitaria fulfilled the requirements of an ideological apparatus, as it allowed students to do their military service in an elite group, where they were separate from the ordinary workers and taught different know-how for their positions within the social order. When students reorganized the FUE clandestinely in Madrid and Barcelona in the 1940s, they were soon discovered and many arrests were made; some of those involved left Spain. Many Republican university teachers, if they had not already fled or been killed or imprisoned during the Civil War, were removed in the purges that followed the Nationalist victory and replaced by others who toed the ideological line of the

24 Manuel Tuñón de Lara, ‘Historia’, in La cultura bajo el franquismo, ed. by José María Castellet, Ediciones de Bolsillo (Barcelona: Anagrama, 1977), pp. 23–46 (pp. 28–9). While no dates were given, the stress on fascism and imperialism would imply that these were from relatively early school texts.

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regime, often without regard to their experience or aptitude for the job. In an article entitled ‘Power, Freedom and Social Change in the Spanish University, 1939–1975’, Salvador Giner refers to the removal of ‘those supposedly sinister free-thinkers, members of an international Masonic conspiracy, whose sole aim had allegedly been and still remained the destruction of an eternal Spain’.25 In 1965, the SEU was officially disbanded when the regime finally recognized that it was no longer in control and had been replaced by other, more representative student organizations on campus. The increasing unrest among students and their constant demands for a democratization of rule in Spain, combined with their eventual co-operation with workers’ groups, represented a growing threat to the regime. In 1968, University Police were introduced, and they remained permanently on campus during the unrest. Speeches and declarations made by the Ministro de Información y Turismo during this period emphasized the representative nature of the government and its efforts to protect the stability of Spanish society from the unwelcome actions of a minority. The repressive measures taken against the students, and the declaration of a state of emergency, were thus represented as a positive action for the common good: La escalada del desorden universitario culminó en las últimas jornadas en inadmisibles violaciones de la paz de todos y en un inconcebible ultraje a la enseña nacional. [. . .] La voz del pueblo exigiendo medidas ha llegado al Gobierno y el Gobierno, por unanimidad, ha pedido al Jefe de Estado un decreto-ley que garantice el derecho de todos a la paz. Aunque lo parezca, no es paradójico que el estado de excepción signifique la paz. El estado de excepción es el instrumento de nuestra legalidad que va a garantizar ese derecho de todos a seguir sin sobresaltos en nuestros quehaceres normales, en nuestro trabajo y en el disfrute de nuestro ocio.26

The greatest problem for opponents of the regime was probably the lack of an alternative, cohesive, unified group with sufficient strength to mount a serious challenge to the dominant ideology and to gain state power. Giner points out that by demonizing Communism, the Francoists had cited a cohesive and welldeveloped alternative ideology, which many students and young liberals were attracted to as the antithesis of Francoism. However, because of the success of the regime’s propaganda and the effects of the Cold War, as well as their Civil War activities, the Communist ideology did not appeal greatly to less hard-line critics of the regime outside the universities, nor to many who had lived through the Civil War. The fact that many opposition groups were based outside Spain meant that they were often out of touch with the reality of the situation there.

25 Salvador Giner, ‘Power, Freedom and Social Change in the Spanish University, 1939–1975’, in Spain in Crisis, pp. 183–211 (p. 184). 26 Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General de la Administración (hereafter AGA) /IDD 104.04 Topogr. 82-68 Ca. 576 MIT/00.102. Declaraciones y Discursos (25-1-69, Primera edición).

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While alliances were formed between the various opposition groups on occasion, they seemed incapable of working together for long enough to achieve anything. Moreover, many of them did not trust the Communists, who in turn remained naïvely optimistic about the possibility of a workers’ revolution. The education system was only one of the apparatuses the regime sought to control. The ideological role of the media was also recognized and acted upon by the Nationalists. Legislation was introduced to control the press prior to the end of the Civil War, and this was later built upon in the aftermath of the Nationalist victory. Censorship guidelines from 1944, devised by the Provincial Delegate in Huesca and reproduced in Manuel Abellán’s study of censorship in Spain, demonstrate the determination of the ruling elite to disseminate and defend its ideology in the media and in culture: Es preciso difundir la cultura para el pueblo por medio de todos los medios de difusión a nuestra alcance, orientándolo de esta forma en las buenas costumbres en el sano concepto de nuestros ideales que inspiraron el Movimiento Nacional, y propagando la sana y tradicional cultura española así como la Doctrina Cristiana. Por otra parte nuestra labor había de ir encauzada a destruir todo aquello que pudiera ser dañino y perjudicial para nuestra moral y para todos los conceptos antes mencionados.27

The media were also used to great effect when Franco sought to distance himself from the Axis powers after the Allied victory in WWII by disseminating the claim that Spain had been neutral. The state not only controlled the flow of information through the national news agency CIFRA and the international agency EFE, but also actively involved itself in the training of journalists who, like university teachers, were required to swear a pledge of allegiance to the regime upon graduation.28 It is clear from the Documentos inéditos that the agency EFE, established by the Interior Ministry, was created in a calculated effort to propagate the regime’s version and justification of the Civil War.29 The regime was conscious of the need to appear independent;

27 From the ‘Normas Generales confeccionadas por la Delegación Provincial de Huesca para las Delegaciones Comarcales dependientes de la misma regulando sus actividades de propaganda’. Reprinted in Manuel Abellán, Censura y creación literaria en España (1939–1976) (Barcelona: Península, 1980), p. 249. 28 ‘Junto ante Dios, por España y su Caudillo, servir a la Unidad, a la Grandeza y a la Libertad de la Patria con fidelidad íntegra y total a los principios del Estado Nacional Sindicalista, sin permitir jamás que la falsedad, la insidia o la ambición tuerzan mi pluma en la labor diaria.’ Quoted in Gubern, La censura, p. 30. 29 ‘España vuelve a tener un ideal y una verdad que presentar al mundo, ante el que reivindica su derecho a ocupar un puesto preeminente. Pero necesita el órgano que difunda por el extranjero la voz de su ideal y su verdad, que abra caminos exteriores a la vitalidad interna y le concite voluntades y simpatías.’ ‘Largo estudio acerca de lo que debe ser la agencia EFE’, Burgos, December 1938. Documentos inéditos para la historia del Generalísimo Franco, Fundación Nacional Francisco Franco, Colección de Estudios Contemporáneos, 3 vols (Madrid: Azor, 1992), I, p. 240.

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it had learned a lesson from the problems of the Russian TASS agency, which, because it was directly controlled by the Communist Party, was dismissed internationally as an unreliable source. The model on which EFE was based was the Deutsche Nachrichtenbüro (DNB), which, although ostensibly run by a private company, was controlled by people sympathetic to the German regime. Unlike Fabra, the previous international agency in Spain, the regime ensured that EFE was Spanish owned and thus protected from foreign interference. In the early years, the few news publications that were permitted were Nationalist. On 1 May 1941, a decree exempted the Falangist press from censorship other than that imposed by the Delegación Nacional de Prensa y Propaganda de FET y de las JONS. There was no forum for debate, and the official version of events went unchallenged. The Delegación Nacional de Prensa, established by the 1938 Ley de Prensa, was an all-powerful body, which dictated not only what was to be written but also the format to be used. Instructions were given on how many articles were to be dedicated to the reportage of Franco’s latest speech and details specified of what was to be included in the article. A victim of the censors himself, Juan Goytisolo commented: Frente a la media docena de revistillas independientes (y escasamente leídas) como Ínsula, Papeles de Son Armadans, etc., el Ministerio de Información y Turismo subvenciona generosamente varias publicaciones de alto nivel intelectual como El Español, Poesía Española, La Estafeta Literaria (que pudiera titularse también Estafeta filatélica, bursátil o militar sin necesidad de alterar su contenido) que colaboran de modo eficaz en la patriótica labor de saneamiento emprendida por la censura. La actividad de estas publicaciones, y de la prensa cotidiana en general respecto a los escritores varía como es lógico según se trate de autores adaptados a las exigencias morales y sociales del país o de individuos románticos, descontentos y resentidos. Para estas últimas categorías la prensa ha previsto una terapeútica muy sencilla: el silencio.30

By mid-July 1939, censorship had extended to theatre, cinema, public speaking, art and music. Later, specific bodies were created to deal with each type of censorship. Allied to this, the NO-DO (Noticiarios y Documentales Cinematográficos), the state-produced newsreel, which was started in November 1942, was obligatory in cinema programmes until January 1976 and proved very useful for propaganda purposes.

Manufacturing Consent: The Mythology of the Raza It is clear that in order to be successful, the regime needed to justify and legitimate its rule so as to win enough support or apathy to ensure its continuation. This it did in a variety of ways. In recognition of the importance of manufacturing consent,

30

‘Escribir en España’, in El furgón de cola (Paris: Ruedo Ibérico, 1967), pp. 21–7 (p. 24).

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the regime attempted to create the impression of free will and a myth of representation. In addition, it engaged in a process of nationalization that stressed the unity and stability of society, while simultaneously strengthening its own hold on the state apparatuses. Furthermore, the regime offered benefits, both material and psychological, to those who lent it support; it also purported to provide answers and to define people’s role in society. By implementation of these methods and by careful consideration of its image, the regime sought to naturalize the ruling ideology and to make it people’s lived experience. Core values were presented as fact or natural, and alternatives to them rendered unthinkable. Contradictory ideas and values were discredited, and simultaneously myths were created to reconcile the reality to ideological promise by offering imaginary solutions to real contradictions. Like much of ideology, myth does not merely deny truths or reality but rather uses language and signs to distort them: ‘Simplement, il les purifie, les innocente, les fonde en nature et en éternité, il leur donne une clarté qui n’est pas celle de l’explication, mais celle du constat.’31 Its motivation is ideological in that it naturalizes history or historical concepts, and signifier and signified are given the appearance of having a natural relationship. Nonetheless, in Franco’s Spain it was implied that where consent could not be manufactured, it would be imposed. By assimilating some members of the subjugated masses into the dominant group, the latter not only can give the appearance of being representative, but can also deprive the opposition of potential leaders. At various stages certain Monarchists, aperturistas and Falangists were given government or administrative positions in an effort to appease those groups in society, who, having some degree of representation, were thus less likely to challenge the leadership. Those upholding the ruling ideology were concerned with conditioning people to believe and accept its values but were also willing to use sanctions to suppress any opposition to them. Yet the ruling elite did not simply dupe people into believing what was false by mystification; it also expended much energy in its attempts to justify and legitimate the social order. One of the attractions of the Francoist ideology was the appearance of a cohesive, unified and stable society. Many people accepted the myth that they were represented as a nation by the regime. Franco treated Spain as a nation-state, making appeals to the people in the name of the Nuevo Estado; he called on those loyal to the nation, that is Spain, to demonstrate this loyalty by fealty to the regime. The regime also justified its actions in the name of the common good, a term cleverly appropriated by the regime to protect its interests. Furthermore, the regime was described as an organic democracy, a term that implies representation, although in reality it meant nothing of the sort. The myth of representation was secured with events such as the vote on the Ley Orgánica del Estado in 1966. The huge vote in support of the law was interpreted

31 Roland Barthes, Mythologies (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1957), p. 230. Put simply, it purifies them, it makes them innocent and bases them in nature or eternity, it gives them a clarity that is not that of an explanation, but rather of a certified fact.

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by the regime’s propagandists and mythmakers as an overwhelming demonstration of popular support for Franco and the ruling ideology. The victory was presented by the media as a culmination of Franco’s 1938–39 development plan. The reality of the dubious vote was not acknowledged: no opposition had been allowed and the ballot was not secret.32 Fusi reports that when Eisenhower visited in December 1959, the number of people who turned out on the streets to celebrate the end of Spain’s isolation was claimed by the regime as popular support.33 The regime’s propagandists fed the myth of Franco’s huge popularity in the press and on national days of celebration when, as Preston asserts, the poor and unwaged were often bused in and given a day’s wage to cheer and support the dictator.34 Linked to the myth of representation is the illusion of free will. Another feature of a successful ideology is that the subjects will believe their submission to the system is freely chosen, at least to a degree. For many who might have doubts, but who are fearful, it makes a disagreeable situation seem both tolerable and reasonable. In a well-known study Therborn expanded on Althusser’s ideas to show just how subjects are ideologically interpellated.35 The first objective is to define what exists and what does not exist, so that identity, reality and truth are all determined. Desires are manipulated and controlled by the specification of what is good, what is right and what is attractive, as well as their opposites. Finally, the ruling ideology also defines what is possible and what is impossible in the social order, thereby controlling ambitions, hopes and fears. Some freedoms are occasionally granted, and these seem to confirm the illusion of free will but are in fact controlled by the rulers. An example of this is when, in 1963, Fraga as Ministro de Información y Turismo, allowed the publication of a letter of protest, which had been signed by many of the country’s most respected intellectuals and artists.36 Despite allowing the letter to be published, Fraga responded by dismissing the allegations and attempting to discredit the leaders of the protest. When those involved tried to take the protest further, they were soon stopped and the illusion of liberalization was shattered. Fraga was not loved by members of the intellectual community in Spain, who were generally unimpressed by the surface apertura he introduced. Francisco Candel, who had classed his predecessor, Arias Salgado, as ‘la bestia negra de la censura española’, said that under Fraga,

32 Preston reports turnouts of over 100 percent of the electorate in some areas, an occurrence explained by the regime as the result of ‘voters in transit’. Franco, p. 730. 33 Fusi, Franco, pp. 143–4. 34 Preston, Franco, pp. 625–7. Buero explored the myth of representation and of free will in Un soñador para el pueblo. In the play, the apparently popular revolt against Esquilache is revealed to have been orchestrated by members of the ruling elite whose privilege was threatened by the former’s proposals for reform. 35 Göran Therborn, The Ideology of Power and the Power of Ideology (London: Verso and NLB, 1980), pp. 18–19. 36 Files relating to this held in the Archivo General de la Administración are not accessible until the year 2014. However, other letters of protest, some of which refer to the treatment of miners, as well as issues of freedom of expression, are available for consultation. AGA/IDD 104.04 Topogr. 82-68 Ca. 653. Orden Público.

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‘las cosas se pusieron más kafkianas’.37 The so-called apertura of Fraga’s day seemed no more than an attempt to adjust the system in preparation for the continuation of Francoist ideology in the future. Nationalism was another important feature in the myth of representation. The nascent regime quickly set about nationalizing institutions in Spain, including education and the press, and instilling the values of the regime in the practices and rituals of these institutions. This allowed the rulers to claim that their ideology reflected not merely the narrow views of the ruling elite, but also the institutions of society, and therefore society itself. The introduction to the 1966 Ley de Prensa e Imprenta reiterated this assurance that the government was reflecting the feelings and thinking of the people: ‘Al emprender decididamente esta tarea, el Gobierno ha cumplido escrupulosamente su papel de fiel intérprete del sentir y del pensar del país.’38 One of the regime’s achievements, then, was that it recognized the need to manufacture consent. Its success in doing so depended to some extent on the provision of material benefits for its supporters. The regime rationalized its ideology, offering reasons for certain values contained therein. For example, anti-Communism was presented as a positive value in opposition to those who would seek to threaten the mythical peace, order and stability of the regime. It helped that an anti-Communist ideology coincided with the self-interest of many landowners and industrialists who welcomed this rationalization by the regime. Similarly, the punishment of Republicans was justified by the regime for the sake of society, peace and order. In reality, it also materially benefited many Nationalists, as those who had fought for the peace and order of the nation could hope to be treated more favourably than the Republicans. Of course, another reason why ruling ideologies are successful is simply because they are defended by the most powerful people in society in whose material interests it is to seek to reproduce the social order. There were unquestionably some in the Franco regime who were guilty of what Peter Sloterdijk termed ‘enlightened false consciousness’.39 Certain members of the regime and of society, who did not necessarily believe in the truth of the ideology, cynically chose to align themselves with it for personal gain. Another reason that ideology is successful is, as John Breuilly highlights, that it provides answers, albeit ones that falsify or distort reality to some degree.40 As a result it may be perceived as legitimate and rational. It has also been suggested, by Nietzsche among others, that people do not desire the truth of their reality and

Beneyto, Censura y política, p. 37. Ley 18 marzo 1966, de Prensa e Imprenta, p. 479. Articles 16 to 18 stipulate that the press is to be controlled by Spanish nationals, resident in Spain. 39 Terry Eagleton, Ideology: An Introduction (London: Verso, 1991), p. 27. 40 ‘Nationalist ideology is neither an expression of national identity [. . .] nor the arbitrary invention of Nationalists for political purposes. It arises out of the need to make sense of complex social and political arrangements.’ John Breuilly, ‘The Sources of Nationalist Ideology’, in Nationalism, pp. 103–13 (p. 110). 37 38

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prefer to live by an ideological system devised by others, which defines one’s role and identity in an otherwise incomprehensible reality. Nonetheless, it is unlikely that the Franco regime went unchallenged by the majority simply for ease of life without responsibility; the regime ensured that citizens were also aware of the negative consequences of any challenge to its hegemony. The dominant ideology offered more than the views and values of the ruling elite. It also defined the various roles and relations within society and between the ruling elite and its subjects. As Eagleton argues, the task of a ruling ideology is ‘to recreate, at an “imaginary” level, the unity of the entire social formation, not just to lend coherence to the consciousness of its rulers’.41 When, as in Spain under Franco, the ruling ideology pervades the apparatuses of the state, and is experienced by people in their private as well as their public lives, it begins to appear normal to many people. This in turn tends to preclude a revolutionary response. Althusser suggested that once certain material practices are part of the institutions of a society, they become normal and naturalized; people will experience and live according to the ruling ideology without being aware that they are doing so. While this is certainly plausible to a degree, it would seem to suggest that people neither think for themselves nor question their political environment. It also ignores the role of fear in the upholding of a ruling ideology. It is likely that, rather than being completely ignorant of the aims and machinations of the ruling power, people resigned themselves to the status quo and, for as long as they were not directly adversely affected by its repressive forces, remained apathetic.42 The regime was also concerned with image as a persuasive tool in the fabrication of the myth of popular and unanimous consent. Breuilly claims that political ideology can be popularized and made acceptable by simplification, repetition and definition. Not surprisingly, there are many examples of this in Francoist Spain. Simplifications included the creation of national stereotypes of the noble, loyal raza, of the unnatural, unpatriotic opposition and of the hardworking, representative leadership. These stereotypes coupled with messages about progress, the common good and the enemy were repeated in the media, at rallies, and incorporated into ceremonies, rituals and anthems. Such ceremonies, along with symbols such as the flag, notes and coins, as well as the renaming of public spaces and the erection of statues and monuments, gave the ideology concrete form and helped to legitimate it in the eyes of the populace. The elevation of Manuel Fraga to the head of the MIT also enhanced the regime’s hackneyed image. Under Fraga, the diatribes against the Communists were replaced by positive economic messages.43

Eagleton, Ideology, p. 122. In fact, apathy in the face of a dominant and unjust ruling ideology is one of the reactions most criticized by Buero in his dramatic work. Yet it is interesting to note that the dramatist himself was accused of apathy and worse in his own relationship with the regime. 43 Manuel Fraga was very aware of the need for the appearance of legitimacy, even if it did not reflect the reality. This concern for image even extended to his own appearance. In his autobiography he wrote: ‘El lunes fui al sastre; me encargué tres trajes severos y ministeriales.’ Memoria breve de una vida política (Barcelona: Planeta, 1980), p. 32. 41 42

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This is not to say, however, that popular consent was always freely forthcoming. The regime could not convert the enemies of its ideology to consent or apathy; instead it portrayed them as enemies of the people and sought to eliminate them from the discourse. The omnipresence of repressive state apparatuses led to a certain sense of fear in society and discouraged many people from challenging the dominant ideology. Similarly, the indoctrination of the populace through the ideological state apparatuses, which taught not only one’s place in the social order but also the dangers inherent in any attempt to change it, led to widespread apathy. The regime would at times acknowledge repression or state intervention in the private lives of citizens, but either blamed an outside group or claimed that it was a necessary short-term measure in the interests of national security and for the benefit of the population. This can be seen in the wording of the Ministerial Order of 15 July 1939: En distintas ocasiones ha sido expuesta la necesidad de una intervención celosa y constante del Estado en orden a la educación política y moral de los españoles, como exigencia de éste que surge de nuestra guerra y de la Revolución Nacional.44

It can be seen again in 1969, when the government, in order to guarantee peace and in answer to a call from the people, declared a state of emergency (Appendix II). CALOMARDE Aún hemos de ver restauradas en nuestra gloriosa España las virtudes que la hicieron grande (O.C. I: 1513).

Psychological needs were also met in recognition of their importance in securing the acquiescence of the population to the ruling ideology. Perhaps the greatest attraction of a successful ruling ideology is that it offers people an identity and a recognized role in society, and it claims to do so in the name of freedom. As Tom Nairn points out, the myth of nationalism, which was such an important feature of the Francoist ideology, ‘corresponds to certain internal needs of the society in question, and to certain individual, psychological needs as well. It supplies peoples and persons with an important commodity, identity.’45 In Francoist Spain, the raza was linked to a mythical, unified, Catholic Spanish race and defined against the Reds, the Republicans and the anti-Spanish liberals who were identified as the other. The Francoist ideology was successful because it traded on many beliefs and values already held by people about their identity and incorporated them into a new and distorted definition of Spanishness determined by the regime’s ideological needs. The importance of myth in the naturalization of the Francoist ideology is difficult to overstate. Labanyi highlights how autocrats incorporated myth into the official culture, thus appropriating the symbolic truth it is presumed to contain, 44 45

Orden 15 julio 1939, Censura, p. 553. Tom Nairn, ‘The Maladies of Development’, in Nationalism, pp. 70–6 (p. 71).

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which in turn lends both universality and legitimacy to the ruling ideology. She also stresses the use of myth in the creation of a national identity.46 In his 1882 article ‘Qu’est-ce qu’une nation?’, Ernest Renan wrote: ‘To have common glories in the past, a common will in the present; to have accomplished great things together, to wish to do so again, that is the essential condition for being a nation.’47 In Francoist Spain, the people were divided, so myth was employed to create the illusion of fulfilling the conditions of nationhood. The regime’s propagandists sought to convince the populace that they belonged to a noble Spanish nation, which had been betrayed by the liberals and Republicans. By portraying the regime as upholders and defenders of this essential Spain and connecting the myth of nationalism to the myth of representation, the regime was able to draw on people’s desire for identity and belonging. It also enabled the regime to portray the opposition as a threat to this identity and nature. Underlying this, of course, was the threat that those who disagreed with, or challenged, the dominant group would also be dismissed as anti-Spanish. In myth the Nationalist victory was inevitable, essential and the restoration of a natural order disturbed by the Second Republic. Myth, like ideology, of which it is a part, may contain some truth, but it is exaggerated or distorted, and this exaggeration is given the appearance of fact or nature. As John Breuilly contends, the plausibility of nationalist ideology arises from the fact that at its core is an authentic intellectual response to the problematic one of state–society relations. He goes on to explain its success: By seeming to abolish the distinctions between culture and politics, society and state, private and public, the nationalist has access to a whole range of sentiments, idioms and practices which would hitherto have been regarded as irrelevant to politics but are now turned into the values underlying political action.48

In Spain, the established natural unity of the people and progression under Franco was perceived to be undermined by the unnatural developments of the Republicans, the Communists and others who did not fit in with the Francoist definition of the natural state of Spain and the Spaniards.49 Unity, under Franco, was enforced. All linguistic expression, religious practice and territorial claims that threatened the unity of the Nationalist–Catholic state were outlawed. As early as May 1937, the Ministerio de Interior issued an order in which article 1 prohibited the use of languages other than Castilian in all dealings with the ministry. Government was centralized and autocratic, and normal trade unions were replaced 46 Jo Labanyi, Myth and History in the Contemporary Spanish Novel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), pp. 23, 36, 67. 47 Reproduced in Nationalism, pp. 17–18 (p. 17). 48 Breuilly, ‘The Sources of Nationalist Ideology’, p. 112. 49 As Breuilly put it: ‘Derivations from that natural state are, of course, unnatural, and what is unnatural is bad.’ ‘The Sources of Nationalist Ideology’, p. 108.

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by vertical syndicates, which sought to eradicate class-consciousness among workers. Arias Salgado claimed the word and concept of unity as the regime’s own. At the fifth Consejo Nacional de Prensa in Salamanca in 1959, he declared: Es en Salamanca, donde Francisco Franco, Caudillo de España, forja, templa y proclama con el decreto de Unificación la unidad religiosa (una sola fe), la unidad nacional (no más separatismos), la unidad política (no más partidos políticos) y la unidad social (no más lucha de clases entre españoles).50

He thus managed to use the positive concept of unity to defend religious intolerance, centralism, dictatorship and elitism. Myth stresses areas of common interest and creates or emphasizes common enemies. The appeal to myth can be seen even in the wording of the 1938 Ley de Prensa, which aspired to ‘devolver a España su rango de Nación unida, grande y libre, de los daños que una libertad entendida al estilo democrático había ocasionado a una masa de lectores diariamente envenenada por una Prensa sectaria y antinacional’.51 This not only presupposes that Spain was once such a united and free nation, but also that it was not one under democratic rule and that the democratic press was both sectarian and disloyal to the nation. The law went on to claim that the new press under the guidance of the new regime would be based on truth and responsibility, again assuming that this nobility of purpose was not present in the earlier press. It further states that the press was to be returned its dignity and its prestige, an idea that not only was in keeping with the mythology of the new regime, but also managed to damn the old. The New State, it was claimed, would redeem the press and, by implication, the country, from the contradictory ‘servidumbre capitalista de las clientelas reaccionarias o marxistas’. Paradoxically, the freedom of the press was to be guaranteed by the suppression of democracy, or democratic libertarianism, as it was termed in the legislation. The latter, it was claimed, not only went against the Patria, but also promoted lies and defamation in an attempt by unspecified ‘poderes ocultos’ to destroy Spain. In short, then, the 1938 Ley de Prensa claims Spain, truth and righteousness for the Nationalists while dismissing the other as anti-Spanish and finally, and entirely without irony, it advocates censorship in the name of freedom of the press. Most ideologists have recognized the necessity of revising or falsifying history in order to prove or support an official version of events. Ernest Gellner asserted in his article ‘Nationalism and High Cultures’ that nationalism ‘is not the awakening of an old, latent, dormant force, though that is how it does indeed present itself’.52 He continued: ‘Nationalism uses the pre-existing, historically inherited proliferation of cultures or cultural wealth, though it uses them very 50 Gabriel Arias Salgado, Textos de doctrina y política española de la información, 6th edn, 3 vols (Madrid: MIT, 1960), I, p. 137. 51 Ley 22 abril 1938, de Prensa, p. 6915. 52 Gellner, ‘Nationalism and High Cultures’, in Nationalism, pp. 63–70 (pp. 63–4).

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selectively, and it most often transforms them radically.’ Hobsbawm echoed this and described it as the invention of tradition, which: is taken to mean a set of practices, normally governed by overtly or tacitly accepted rules and of a ritual or symbolic nature, which seek to inculcate certain values and norms of behaviour by repetition, which automatically implies continuity with the past. In fact, where possible, they normally attempt to establish continuity with a suitable historic past.53

Evidence of this can be seen in the Francoist ideology. Franco transformed history into myth, by revising and erasing facts for the purpose of gaining support for his dictatorship. History thus rewritten or revised to fit in with the present became propaganda, created to suit the regime’s political needs; it was no longer an accurate account of what had occurred in the past, but rather a guide to the regime’s political views and fears. By adapting the past to fit the needs of the present, the regime sought to give the appearance of being a natural link in a long chain of historical events and a solution to past errors. Events that might have embarrassed the regime were written out of history in a bout of political amnesia. What mattered was not so much what was true or real, but people’s perceptions of history and identity. Tuñón de Lara was highly critical of what he called the pseudohistoria azul, which replaced historical research with myth and stereotypes. He pointed out that in a speech in June 1950, Franco expressed a desire to remove the nineteenth century from the history of Spain.54 Another example of this was Franco’s efforts to reconstruct Spanish history after the Axis defeat in order to show himself as a life-long friend of the Allies, just as after his death many of his own Ministers reinvented themselves as life-long democrats. Given this, it is ironic that one of the offences listed in the 1963 Normas de censura cinematográfica, which were later applied to the theatre, was ‘el falseamiento tendencioso de los hechos, personajes y ambientes históricos’.55 Writers of the opposition, particularly in the 1960s, often chose to demonstrate how Spain’s history was not so glorious, linking her imperial past to decadence or reclaiming the nineteenth century as a time of positive change as well as degeneration. By subverting these carefully constructed myths, they challenged the ideology that the myths purported to legitimate. Spanish Falangism was similar to the fascist ideologies in Italy and Germany. It was, as Labanyi pointed out, ‘based on the mythical notion that the nation’s history was an inauthentic deviation from origins’, but also drew heavily upon the works of the Generation of ’98 who had stressed Spain’s decline and decadence.56 53 Eric Hobsbawm, ‘Introduction: Inventing Traditions’, in The Invention of Tradition, ed. by Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger, Canto (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), pp. 1–14 (p. 1). 54 Tuñón de Lara, ‘Historia’, pp. 23, 30. 55 Art. 14.3, Orden 9 febrero 1963 (MIT), por la que se aprueban las «Normas de censura cinematográfica», BOE, no. 58 (8 March 1963), pp. 3929–30 (p. 3930). 56 Labanyi, Myth and History, pp. 35, 36.

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However, unlike the writers of that generation, the Falange was optimistic and saw the nation’s salvation in a purging of such decadence and a return to the essential nature of Spain. It was prepared to lead the way. In 1953, the Ministro de Información y Turismo, Gabriel Arias Salgado, declared: ‘La sociedad española está convaleciente aún, después de sufrir durante más de cien años experimentos extraños a su ser nacional.’57 Myth was employed to gloss over the years of racial dilution to discover direct links to an earlier, though equally disputable, pure Spanish race. The myth of nationalism, which was an important part of Falangism later incorporated into Francoism, allowed the rulers to contend that the Spain they claimed to represent was unified in its culture, its homeland and its essential values. All this, despite being a state established in the aftermath of a bloody and bitter fratricidal conflict and a state that institutionalized the divisions between the victors and the vanquished for many years. The idea of a pure Spanish raza was constantly stressed. This pure raza, with its links to the Reyes Católicos, was portrayed as having suffered under the liberals and weak monarchs in the nineteenth century, culminating in the loss of its colonies in 1898 and, finally, humiliation at the hands of the modern Republican infidels. It would, however, under the leadership of Franco, be restored to its destiny as a glorious, noble and respected people. Yet the raza was not to be trusted with political choices or democracy, but rather encouraged to believe that social change could only come about through faith in the leadership. The paternalistic Franco regime took it upon itself to define and legislate for the truth and ensured that its determination of contentment and well-being would take precedence over autonomy. It also chose to assume that individual members of the raza did not understand what was good for them, or that even if they did they did not understand how best to achieve it. It was inferred that they required the help of the state to discover their best interests and to avoid irrational actions; thus, the ruling body justified the restrictions it imposed on freedom and self-determination. Preston mentions Franco’s explanation of his determination not to introduce democracy in Spain, which was that because of the peculiarity of the Spanish temperament, it would inevitably lead to violence.58 He, on the other hand, would protect them from themselves. Festivals and rituals, which stressed the purity, Catholicism and noble simplicity of the Spanish race, were encouraged under Franco. Labanyi argues that the cult of folklore in Spain under Franco served as a form of social control, as it encouraged faith in a myth and discouraged change and modernity. Even football played an important role in the reinforcement of the nationalist myth, particularly with the success of Real Madrid in the 1950s. The successes of the team became a source of national pride and, in the minds of nationalists at least, an expression of Spanish superiority. The reality of the situation, which was a team containing many non-nationals, was not allowed to interfere with the myth of Spanish supremacy. 57 Declaraciones al primer Consejo Nacional de Prensa, Alicante, 16 December 1953. In Textos de doctrina, p. 3. 58 Preston, Franco, pp. 519–20. This attitude of ‘todo para el pueblo, pero sin el pueblo’ was parodied by Buero in Un soñador para un pueblo (O.C. I: 774).

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The use of myth also extended to literature and culture. The Franco regime encouraged escapist plays, films and literature that reflected Spain’s glorious imperial past or that showed the contentment that came with the obedient acceptance of the new social order. This had the twofold purpose of distracting people from their present hardship and reinforcing the myth of a noble race set to recapture the glory of the past by obeying present-day leaders. Romantic fiction and Hollywood fantasies were also deemed acceptable, while more avant-garde and controversial authors were censored. The figure of the valiant and noble leader formed a meaningful part of the raza myth. Preston gives some examples of Franco’s notions of grandeur and his identification with the monarchs and heroic leaders of Spain’s glorious past: the Royal March was played as his wife entered state functions; he nominated bishops and named his own royal successor; he moved into the palace of El Pardo. Preston also recounts an episode that again demonstrates a desire to highlight or invent the noble origins of the natural leader. Before Franco’s family home in Ferrol was opened as a museum, the dictator’s wife furnished it with antiques, thus revising upwards her husband’s humble social origins.59 Franco was very interested in his own image and sought to cultivate his own personal myth. To do this, he reconstructed his own history, eliminating any embarrassing or unworthy incidents and presenting himself as a selfless, reluctant hero upon whom power had been thrust and who only obeyed the call of duty in his struggle for the greater good and the dignity of the Patria. He claimed that he was not interested in power and that he was motivated by patriotism alone. Therefore, he argued, the people should be willing to support him in his patriotic efforts, as he was serving them and their interests. At the time of the 1966 referendum he declared: Nunca me movió la ambición de mando. Desde muy joven echaron sobre mis hombros responsabilidades superiores a mi edad y a mi empleo. Hubiera deseado disfrutar de la vida como tantos españoles: pero el servicio de la Patria embargó mis horas y ocupó mi vida, llevo treinta años gobernando la nave del Estado, librando a la Nación de los temporales del mundo actual: pero, pese a todos, aquí permanezco, al pie del cañón, con el mismo espíritu de servicio de mis años mozos, empleando lo que me quede de vida útil en vuestro servicio. ¿Es mucho exigir el que yo os pida, a mi vez, vuestro respaldo a mis leyes que en vuestro exclusivo beneficio y en el de la Nación van a someterse a referéndum? 60

Franco also insisted that Spain was not governed by a dictatorship, but rather by a much maligned and misunderstood progressive regime.61 His personal myth extended beyond himself to his family, which was portrayed as the model Preston, Franco, p. 661. Quoted in Vázquez Montalbán, Los demonios, p. 71. 61 Franco (1961): ‘En España no existe una dictadura. [. . .] El que nuestro sistema político por haber vivido más de prisa, se encuentre más evolucionado y actual que los que en otras partes todavía se llevan, no autoriza a esas campañas de descrédito que se organizan contra nosotros.’ Quoted in Vázquez Montalbán, Los demonios, pp. 68–9. 59 60

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Spanish family. Franco’s preoccupation with the cultivation of his personal myth is evident from the semi-autobiographical screenplay for the film, Raza, written by him under the pseudonym, Jaime de Andrade. It is an epic tale of a Galician family from the time of the collapse of Spain’s empire in 1898 to the Civil War. In fact, Raza can be read as a guide to Francoist ideology. It presents the values he sought to propagate and the alternative ideology he despised. The film was, as the name suggests, a return to origins and an attempt to define the true Spanish race, while also making very clear that those responsible for the fiasco of 1898 could not be classed as part of this raza of proud, unified, noble and obedient people. Similarly, Republicans and democrats were portrayed as obstacles on the path to the national destiny of Spain. John Hopewell asserts that the hero of the film is Franco’s fictional alter-ego. In accordance with his own idea of a natural leader of the Spanish people, Franco gave the film’s hero, José Churraca, the status of minor nobility. In the film the Nationalists fight the Civil War for the salvation of Spain, not for political power, and the support they received from the Roman Catholic Church is stressed. The film typified the regime’s mythical take on Spanish history. Hopewell explains: Raza opens with scenes from Spain’s imperial conquest of and commerce with the Indies; and ends with a victory parade followed by a vignette of galleons firing at sea. Success in war, the film’s syntax implies, is part of a longer and glorious historical tradition.62

In her assessment of the film, Higgenbotham notes that the Republicans are described as ‘puppets of Freemasonry’.63 Other films, such as Franco, ese hombre, by José María Sánchez Silva, were also made to glorify the man and his regime, but Franco preferred Raza. He rewrote history on many occasions, most obviously, perhaps, with Raza, but also through his official biographer, Joaquín Arrarás and in his diaries and speeches.

Censorship as an Ideological Weapon Toda la libertad para la verdad; ninguna libertad para el error.64

Censorship was an important feature of the regime’s ideology. The censorship legislation stressed unity and nationalization and reinforced the ruling ideology while denying the opposition spokespersons the opportunity to challenge it.

62 John Hopewell, Out of the Past: Spanish Cinema after Franco (London: British Film Institute Books, 1986), p. 34. 63 Virginia Higgenbotham, Spanish Film under Franco (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1988), p. 19. The film was advertised as ‘cine patriótico’ and was dedicated to ‘las juventudes de España . . . Que así es España y así es la raza’. 64 Arias Salgado, Textos de doctrina, p. 35.

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At times, censorship seemed to represent an ideological battle over the possible interpretations of words and ideas. This was an emotional rather than a logical battle, concerned with the propagation of myth and the denial of history and reality. Censorship was often justified on the grounds of the protection of internal and external security, but when examined it is clear that the legislation in question was formulated to defend the dominant ideology. Anything that might contradict or seriously challenge it was forbidden. The regime was acutely aware of the fact that words could be lent ideological meaning and so wished to control the language of others. While its opponents argued that censorship interfered with their right to freedom of expression, the regime argued that censorship defended certain essential, core values and protected the weak in society. It was used as a tool of intimidation, aimed at isolating the dissenting voice, which in turn was seen as a threat to the national or common good and was therefore to be suppressed. The problem is that where prior censorship is concerned, the judgement is always based on a subjective estimate of possible damage, and the danger is that a censor will not jeopardize his own position by underestimating the impact of the work. The myth of the raza sought to convince people that they needed protection and leadership and that their leaders were acting in their best interests. The nascent regime employed the media and culture both to negate oppositional ideology and to establish its own. During the Civil War, all Marxist, socialist, anarchist and separatist literary material had to be delivered to the Nationalist authorities within four days of their arrival in Republican zones. Libraries, both public and private, were destroyed, and book distributors and retailers were required to submit their merchandise to the authorities for inspection. Prior censorship was established on 18 July 1936. Governors were ordered to destroy all Communist or socialist books found in libraries and schools. The only books to be permitted in schools were those in line with the teaching of the Roman Catholic Church. On 23 December 1936, the Junta Técnica, established a few months previously to control the civil administration, issued an order that outlawed ‘la producción, el comercio y la circulación de libros, periódicos, folletos y toda clase de impresos y grabados pornográficos o de carácter socialista, comunista, libertario y, en general, disolvente’.65 A decree issued on 14 January 1937 created the Delegación del Estado para Prensa y Propaganda, under the guidance of General Millán Astray. This delegation was located in Salamanca, and part of its role was to establish censorship guidelines. When the first government of the new regime was established in Burgos on 30 January 1938, Román Serrano Suñer, Franco’s brother-in-law, was named Ministro de Interior with responsibility for the Servicio Nacional de Propaganda. On 22 April 1938, the Ley de Prensa, created by Giménez Arnau with input and advice from Serrano Suñer, was issued by the Ministro de Interior. Serrano Suñer later distanced himself from the 1938 Ley de Prensa, classifying 65 Juan Beneyto Pérez, ‘La censura literaria en los primeros años del franquismo. Las normas y los hombres’, in Censura y literaturas peninsulares, ed. by Manuel L. Abellán, Diálogos Hispánicos de Amsterdam, 5 (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1987), pp. 27–40 (p. 27).

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it as war-time legislation. The law attempted to justify censorship by stating that it offered protection from democratic licentiousness and created a press to serve the national interest. Article 20 listed the sanctions the Minister could take against an editor, journalist or newspaper. These ranged in severity from an unspecified fine, to the removal of the editor with or without the simultaneous removal of his name from the Register of Journalists, to seizure of the newspaper in question. Authors and editors were responsible for ensuring the deposit of works for pre-publication censorship. The Minister controlled paper quotas also, so that a text could be held up indefinitely owing to paper shortage. Foreign manuscripts were also to be strictly controlled. In 1966, Manuel Fraga Iribarne introduced the Ley de Prensa e Imprenta, a replacement for the 1938 Ley de Prensa. It was hailed by some as the beginning of the apertura and the democratization of the press and publication laws. The disappearance of prior censorship seemed to herald a new, more liberal era and a freer press, but it did not fulfil the initial hopes that it inspired. The introduction of voluntary censorship as a substitute for prior censorship, along with sanctions to be imposed on erring editors and writers, created new problems for both. Not only did they feel obliged to submit the work to voluntary censorship, but often the work was also vetted by the editor prior to submission to the censor’s office, as the former now stood to suffer the consequences of a negative verdict. Abellán classed the new law as, ‘más un objeto de prestigio y una fachada tranquilizadora hacia el mundo exterior que un marco de garantías para el ejercicio de la libertad creadora’.66 Despite promises and assurances to the contrary, censorship methods remained much the same. Miguel Delibes, when asked if he considered Fraga’s law an improvement on what had gone before, replied: ‘Antes te obligaron a escribir lo que no sentías, ahora se conforman con prohibirte que escribas lo que sientes; algo hemos ganado.’67 An examination of article two of the new law gives a good indication of the limited nature of this apertura: Son limitaciones: el respeto a la verdad y a la moral; el acatamiento a la Ley de Principios del Movimiento Nacional y demás leyes fundamentales; las exigencias de la defensa nacional, de la Seguridad del Estado y del mantenimiento del orden público interior y la paz exterior; el debido respeto a las instituciones y a las personas en la crítica de la acción política y administrativa; la independencia de los Tribunales, y la salvaguardia de la intimidad y del honor personal y familiar.68 Abellán, Censura y creación, p. 152. Miguel Delibes, La censura de prensa en los años 40 (y otros ensayos) (Valladolid: Ambito, 1985), p. 6. 68 Ley 18 marzo 1966, de Prensa e Imprenta, p. 480. The MIT was still defending the law in 1973: ‘Las limitaciones del artículo segundo de la Ley de Prensa no constituyen elementos restrictivos del derecho a la libertad de expresión. [. . .] Tales limitaciones – dice el Ministro de Información – se orientan a tutelar unos bienes integrantes del bien común.’ AGA/IDD 104.04 Topogr. 82-68 Ca. 587 MIT/01.020 Notas informativas sobre la Ley de Prensa. 66 67

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Other articles stipulated nationalization of the press, registration procedures for journalists and an outline of the punishment to be meted out for breaches of the law. Despite Fraga’s stated intentions, the law was vague in its definition of the new liberties and violations, and thus open to arbitrary and unfair application. Moreover, the law could provide an excuse for reprisals based on the latent or manifest political sympathies of the author, publisher or retailer. In his analysis of the new legislation, Ramón Gubern finds that, despite the introduction of more penalties, ‘permitió cierta liberalización de la información y de la expresión pública en España, contribuyendo a agudizar las contradicciones internas del sistema autoritario’, but qualifies this by saying that the application of the law was not as liberal as the letter of the law.69 Buero, while admitting that the law was a small step in the right direction, highlighted its shortcomings: La tan aireada ‘supresión’ de la censura previa se convertía en paternal gabinete de consulta ‘voluntaria’ que, si algún escritor o editor - en uso de su derecho - se abstenía de visitar, no era raro que se viera ante un tribunal y secuestrado su libro o su revista.70

In January 1966, he was one of eighty-four intellectuals who signed a letter of protest about the proposed Ley de Prensa e Imprenta. The letter, composed by the SGAE (Sociedad General de Autores de España), and sent to the Presidente de la Comisión de Información de las Cortes, expressed ‘un fundado temor a que la ley no respondiera a unas mínimas exigencias democráticas’.71 In addition, not long after the apertura of the new press law, freedom of information was delivered a further blow with the introduction of further amendments to the Código Penal and the creation of the Ley de Secretos Oficiales. The MIT defended the Ley de Prensa e Imprenta in a report drawn up in January 1969. According to the report, the positive results of the legislation include the ‘incremento del prestigio del Estado español en el mundo occidental’.72 It is credited with educating the public and editors, giving the former more information and instructing the latter on their responsibilities. The report also claims that the rise in editorial output was a direct result of the law. Furthermore, it is alleged that the voluntary submission of texts prior to publication led to the reduction of ‘la probabilidad de sentencias absolutorias que supongan para el libro vetado una fabulosa y gratuíta publicidad’. However, the law remained controversial. In 1966, another report, classed as ‘muy reservado’, was written on the ‘influencia

Gubern, La censura, p. 186. Antonio Buero Vallejo, quoted in Beneyto, Censura y política, p. 22. 71 AGA/IDD 104.04 Topogr. 82-68 Ca. 653 Orden Público (Armario 48. Hamaca 20.253) Cartas de intelectuales colectivas, no. 12. The letter also criticizes the ambiguity of Article 2 of the new law, and comments: ‘Como dijo el procurador Sr Sánchez Agesta: “que no se quede a merced del humor con que alguien se levante por la mañana”.’ 72 Notas informativas sobre la Ley de Prensa. 69 70

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y reacciones en la masa general de la población por la nueva Ley de Prensa’. Its author clearly does not favour the new law: El cambio brusco de la prensa diaria, informando a los lectores de hechos que, con anterioridad a la aplicación de la nueva ley de Prensa, permanecían en secreto, y únicamente solían difundirse disfigurados y aumentados en reducidos núcleos ciudadanos de marcado carácter político, ha originado en la masa general de la población, que no creía pudieran existir huelgas de obreros, de estudiantes, juicios por asalto a una comisaría de Polícia, etc., etc., una sensación preocupante de inseguridad, como síntoma primario del uso de esta libertad, pero que comentaristas objetivos, consideran es preciso que la masa de la población se imunice con estas noticias, y no considere cualquier actitud de una minoría contraria al Régimen, como hecho de trascendental importancia, sino como una actitud natural de una colectividad en la que la pluralidad ideológica es una cosa normal. Según comentaristas, existe una excesiva y exagerada preocupación por la sucesión del Régimen, lo que considera por los mismos, consecuencia de este estado paradisíaco de paz y tranquilidad ofrecido por la prensa en la anterior etapa de nuestra Patria.73

Censorship legislation specifically for the theatre was not introduced until 1964, and even then it simply called for the adaptation and implementation of the existing rules for film censorship. An examination of this legislation demonstrates how closely linked were Francoist and Catholic ideologies. In the name of the common good, all justifications of suicide, mercy killings, revenge, duelling, divorce, adultery, illicit sexual relations and prostitution were prohibited. Article 8 also declared that any attack on the family or marriage, institutions dear both to Franco and to the Roman Catholic Church, was prohibited. The moral consequences of evil were to be portrayed, and where the film or play was directed at an audience of minors, the legislation stipulated that the wrongdoer must either be punished or be repentant at the end. Brutality, sexual perversions, blasphemy, pornography, subversion and attractive portrayals of alcoholism were taboo; any language that might offend against good taste, and any images or suggestive allusions that might provoke base passions, were prohibited, as were any detailed accounts of offences that could be used as guides to committing them. As O’Connor pointed out, Article 17 might serve as a summary of the spirit of the law. It prohibited anything that attacked: 1º La Iglesia católica, su dogma, su moral y su culto. 2º Los principios fundamentales del Estado, la dignidad nacional y la seguridad interior o exterior del país. 3º La persona del Jefe de Estado.74 Notas informativas sobre la Ley de Prensa. Orden 9 febrero 1963, Normas de Censura Cinematográfica, p. 3930. Patricia W. O’Connor, ‘Censorship in the Contemporary Spanish Theater and Antonio Buero Vallejo’, in Estudios sobre Buero Vallejo, ed. by Mariano de Paco (Murcia: Murcia University Press, 1984), pp. 81–92 (pp. 82–3). 73 74

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The Spanish regime claimed for itself the role of holder of the truth and defender of the common good, which, in true dictatorial style, it identified with its own personal good. Arias Salgado justified state censorship of the media by claiming that: Para el mal, para lo que pueda dañar la salud espiritual, moral, política o material de los individuos, de las familias y de la comunidad, no puede ni debe permitirse que sean utilizados los medios de difusión, y mucho menos medios de tan largo alcance como la Prensa, que, una vez en la calle, no reconoce límites de edades, ni fronteras de preparación, ni distingue entre niveles culturales y religiosos.75

Only the state, it would appear, could do this. The people could not be trusted to judge for themselves what was good or bad, right or wrong. The moral judgement of officials such as Arias Salgado was the only acceptable one. Nevertheless, the people and the media were free to express the correct public opinion, in line with the teaching of the regime and the Roman Catholic Church. José María García Escudero, a high-ranking censor in Spain during the 1950s and 1960s, stated in 1951: ‘Entre los derechos del Estado, Gran Gerente de la empresa social, no está taparle la boca a la Sociedad.’76 He argued in favour of censorship, however, and claimed that if the state abandoned its role as opinion leader, other forces would step in to fill the gap and they would deform opinion to suit their own purposes. Therefore, the state that sought to influence the opinions of the people was in fact protecting them from a greater danger. He claimed that censorship, correctly applied, did not interfere with the liberty of citizens, and believed that, ‘censura es quitar el peligro’.77 The real problem, of course, is that such a regime seeks to be not merely opinion leader, but the sole opinion former, and it will quash any public opinion it disagrees with. In defence of government censorship in general, García Escudero argued that official censorship often reflected social censorship and that both forms should work in tandem, each keeping the other in check: Debe el Estado, más que crear los dogmas, recoger los creados por la sociedad. No es que no se discutan porque el Estado los prohiba; el Estado los prohibe porque no se discuten o, al menos no se deben discutir en una sociedad que no esté devorada por un morboso afán de suicidio [my italics].78

Social censorship should, in theory, make official censorship redundant. Yet what is classed here as social censorship seems to include all that the regime would like society to censor. He also argued in favour of prior censorship, claiming that if breaches of the regime’s code or dogma were frequent, then it would be too Arias Salgado, Política española, p. 180. José María García Escudero, ‘Censura y libertad’, Arbor, 23 (no. 83, 1952), 177–97 (p. 178). 77 García Escudero, ‘Censura y libertad’, p. 189. 78 García Escudero, ‘Censura y libertad’, p. 179. 75 76

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late to impose sanctions retrospectively, as the damage would already have been done. However, he failed to question the validity of a system that invited such a high number of transgressions. Buero recognized the use of the common good argument to defend the ruling ideology, where censorship: se justifica invocando el bien general y la necesidad de defender la ley, el orden y la moralidad pública o privada, pero defiende, de hecho, intereses o privilegios de los clases dominantes y las estructuras sociales, políticas e ideológicas por ellos mantenidas.79

Arias Salgado rejected the charge that censorship was interference with a person’s individual rights and personal liberties. Censorship, he claimed, simply protected information and avoided the propagation of lies. Rejecting Rousseau’s ‘authority from the people’, the regime chose to support the Pauline theory of ‘authority from God’, through the people or, in their version, exercised by a very select minority of people who had no intention of yielding it to anybody else. Thus answerable to God alone, it could do as it pleased. The civil liberties of the people were ultimately subject to God’s authority and if at any stage it became necessary for these liberties to be suspended for the common good, this was done by the regime with the blessing of the Church. In a speech delivered at the first Consejo Nacional de Prensa in Alicante in 1953, Arias Salgado defined the common good as: un bien material y moral a la vez, y principalmente moral . . . Siendo el bien común una comunidad de personas, familias y profesiones, no un todo sustancial como un organismo viviente, debe respetar los derechos fundamentales que la ley natural confiere a la persona humana singular y a la sociedad familiar. El individuo, como parte de la nación, está ordenado al bien común de la sociedad. Pero como persona, como portador de valores eternos, el hombre está ordenado a la inmortalidad, al mismo Dios, y bajo este aspecto la sociedad es un medio para él.80

In this scheme of things, he who offends against the common good offends against God. The censor simply wishes to protect weak members of society from the negative influence of others; censorship thus viewed becomes a positive action for the common good. In an article about theatre censorship in Spain, Nicolás González Ruiz, literary critic for Ya, referred to the work of the censors as the ‘gran tarea de dignificación del teatro’.81 He maintained that the object of censorship was to create, not to destroy, and went on to congratulate the censors for raising the standards of the productions in Spanish theatres. González Ruiz saw the censor’s job as twofold: to guard against bad literature with a worthy message, as the message might be Beneyto, Censura y política, p. 21. Arias Salgado, Textos de doctrina, pp. 7–8. 81 Nicolás González Ruiz, ‘Una gran tarea de dignificación del teatro’, in Abellán, ed., Censura y literaturas, pp. 173–5 (p. 174). 79 80

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despised for its association with work of poor quality, and to root out and destroy well-written literature that is amoral or morally corrupt. A censor must always seek to identify the moral lesson in a piece and judge it by this. As Manuel Abellán pointed out: ‘Las convicciones morales, conceptos de catolicidad y tradición se convirtieron en criterios estéticos.’82 Once again, the censor is viewed as doing a service for the benefit of other people, whom the state has deemed unable to reach their own conclusions about the suitability or otherwise of a drama. DON HOMOBONO Yo sólo quiero servir a vuestra excelencia con mi mayor celo . . ., por el bien de España (O.C. I: 1511).

The censor, often a writer or a journalist himself, was often not a particularly powerful person in the administrative system. In an early article, which personified censorship in the form of the scrupulous and respectable Don Homobono, Buero attacked the petty-minded censor. The character appeared again in Buero’s post-Franco, anti-censorship play, La detonación (1977). However, unlike the low-level censors, those who controlled the ministries in charge of propaganda and censorship were very powerful indeed. The changes in the censorship personnel at the highest levels reflect the adjustments made to the ideology of the regime in its efforts to ensure the stability and reproduction of the social order. The Falangist Ramón Serrano Suñer acted as Ministro del Interior from 1938 and controlled censorship until 1941, when he was removed from that office because Franco feared his rising power and popularity. After a very brief period under the direction of Colonel Valentín Galarza Morante, control of censorship was returned to Serrano Suñer, by then at the Vicesecretaria de Educación Popular. The fact that he was the public face of Spain’s pro-Axis stance meant that when Franco eventually switched allegiances, Serrano Suñer again lost his position, this time to the more liberal Joaquín Ruíz Giménez. With the creation of the MIT in July 1951, control of censorship was taken from Ruiz Giménez, who was not popular with the conservative forces in Franco’s government, and handed to the more conservative Gabriel Arias Salgado. The latter had trained as a Jesuit for fourteen years and was greatly influenced by the Church’s teaching. He was nicknamed El arcángel San Gabriel in reference to his stated belief that he was saving Spanish souls. He was also fanatically anti-Communist and loath to discard Civil War rhetoric. Thus he not only reflected Franco’s own prejudices and ideology, but he was also a fervent Catholic at a time when the regime was seeking Vatican support for its ideology. Arias Salgado, like Fraga after him, justified the nationalization of the Spanish Press.83 He claimed that Spain had long been misunderstood and misrepresented 82 In ‘Problemas historiográficos en el estudio de la censura literaria del último medio siglo’, Revista canadiense de estudios hispánicos, 13 (no. 3, 1989), 319–29 (p. 323). 83 ‘Es sencillamente, que la información es un patrimonio nacional, parte del bien común, y este bien común nacional sólo puede ser administrado y asufructuado [sic(?)] por y en beneficio de los españoles. Es, sencillamente, que el mercado de la noticia y del adjetivo es uno de los grandes instrumentos de dominio que manejan los imperialismos extranjeros, las sociedades secretas y, sobre todo, el comunismo internacional,’ Arias Salgado, Textos de doctrina, p. 122.

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by the foreign media, and he declared that it was the duty of the Spanish press to put this right by promulgating the official truth. Fraga, in his memoirs, seems not to have been much impressed by his predecessor, whom he describes as ‘un hombre de bien, pero limitado; creía de verdad en su concepto muy rigorista de la moral pública. Más grave era su idea del monopolio cuasi teológico de la verdad política.’84 Arias Salgado lost his position in the aftermath of the Munich Congress when his handling of the situation led to a negative international reaction and the anger of the Monarchists. Manuel Fraga Iribarne took over at the MIT after the reshuffle in July 1962. Compared to the ultra-conservative Arias Salgado, Fraga offered a more dynamic and progressive image. His arrival heralded the beginning of the liberalization, and a popular expression of the day was: ‘¡Con Salgado, todo tapado; con Fraga, hasta la braga!’85 Through García Escudero, who had earlier controlled censorship of the theatre and cinema, Fraga maintained contact with the intellectuals of the opposition to whom he promised reform. Yet his perceived liberalizing stance led to problems with the so-called inmovilistas of the Old Guard in Franco’s government, particularly in relation to the 1966 Ley de Prensa e Imprenta. Fraga lost his ministerial portfolio in 1969 in the aftermath of the Matesa scandal, and Alfredo Sánchez Bella took over at the helm of the MIT. The promotion of Sánchez Bella, a conservative who had served as Franco’s ambassador to Rome from where he had criticized Fraga’s limited apertura, heralded a swing back to the right. Despite his strong Catholicism, he intervened to prevent the diffusion of the declaration of the Justitia et Pax Commission, which was critical of the regime. He also concerned himself with the threat posed to his control of information by the video cassette and introduced legislation to control the production and circulation of any such audio-visual material that might come on to the Spanish market and threaten the regime’s monopoly on information. Fraga does not seem to have held a very high opinion of his successor and in his memoirs portrays him as a barometer of trouble.86 According to Gubern, Sánchez Bella’s actions were so regressive that his dismissal in June 1973 was progress in itself.87 Fernando de Liñán took over the MIT for a brief period in 1973 after the failure of Carrero Blanco’s gabinete de monocolor. Then, Pío Cabanillas was appointed as Minister by Arias Navarro in early 1974. There was evidence of genuine, although limited, apertura under his

Fraga Iribarne, Memoria breve, p. 34. Hopewell, Out of the Past, p. 64. 86 ‘El día 2 de noviembre 1961: Ceno con Alfredo Sánchez Bella; desde Roma, está lleno de dudas y sospechas; presenta fantasías por informaciones; no le gusta la reforma’; (30 Sept. 1966): ‘Llega Sánchez Bella de Roma, al olor del posible lío’ (a reference to the Ley Orgánica) and later (6 Oct. 1966): ‘Almuerzo con Sánchez Bella, que anda a la caza de noticias y oportunidades’; (25 Oct. 1969): ‘Tengo una información segura que Sánchez Bella estará en Madrid el lunes 27. Parece la primera noticia concreta de la crisis.’ Fraga Iribarne, Memoria breve, pp. 52, 181, 254. 87 Gubern, La censura, p. 249. 84 85

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ministership. The press began to report strikes and give the opinions of opposition leaders. This made him unpopular with the more hard-line members of cabinet, and they successfully conspired to have him removed from power. Ironically, a liberalization of the legislation dealing with cinema censorship was introduced by his successor, Leon Herrera, in March 1975. Although some nudity was tolerated, it was a reactive, rather than a proactive, move; in effect, ‘la orden del gobierno pone tan solo el sello oficial en una situación de hecho’.88 Censorship of the theatre was controlled by various ministries throughout the Franco regime. The regime sought to legitimate and normalize theatre censorship by legislating for it and thus making it a naturalized part of staging a play. Moreover, drama was subject to two forms of censorship, although there was correspondence between the relevant departments; a play had to be censored both as a stage production and as a book for publication. The files held in the Archivo General de la Administración in Alcalá de Henares reveal the changes that occurred in the laws and bodies governing theatre censorship in Spain from the immediate post-Civil War period to the post-Franco period. From 1939 to 1941, theatre censorship was regulated by the Ministerio de la Gobernación, where it formed part of the portfolio of the Subsecretaría de Prensa, Propaganda y Turismo. Within this body was the Departamento de Teatro y Música, governed by the Sección de Censura de Representaciones. The legislation governing theatre censorship had been set out in the Orden de 15 de julio de 1939 (Mº. Gobernación). Article 1 established a censorship section reporting to the Servicio Nacional de Propaganda, and Article 2 outlined the functions of the body, which included censorship of publications, theatre and cinema. A reshuffle saw control of censorship moved to the Vicesecretaría de Educación Popular de FET y de las JONS, where it remained from 1941 until 1945. Theatre censorship remained the concern of the MIT from its inception in 1951 until 1977. However, this did not provide any corresponding stability in the censorship process, as many changes were implemented within the MIT that directly affected theatre censorship. The Orden 30 noviembre 1954 (MIT) created a classification system to protect minors by prohibiting their attendance at any performance judged unsuitable. The following year, the Orden 16 febrero set out the proceedings for the authorization of revues and variety performances. One of the greatest changes was ushered in by Minister Fraga in February 1963, when he introduced legislation establishing the Junta de Censura de Obras Teatrales under the control of the Director General de Cinematografía y Teatro. Article 3 of the new law detailed the structure of the committee; article 4 stated that the committee must consist of nine members to be named by the Minister, one of whom would be proposed by the SGAE. Each member, according to article 5, could serve for up to three years with the possibility of revocation or extension of this term at the discretion of the Minister; article 11 stipulated who was to view the dress rehearsal before

88

AGA/IDD 104.04 Topogr. 82-68 Ca. 581 MIT/00.625.

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a final verdict was given; article 12 stated that in exceptional circumstances the Director General could suspend the ruling of the plenary session and request the Minister to establish a special commission to review the verdict. The final article, the thirteenth, stated that the MIT would produce censorship guidelines within three months of the publication of the February 1963 legislation. In fact, this legislation did not appear for another year. The Orden 6 febrero 1964 (MIT), por la que se aprueba el Reglamento de Régimen Interior de la Junta de Censura de Obras Teatrales y las normas de censura expanded the functions and procedures of the Junta de Censura de Obras Teatrales and set down some censorship regulations. Article 11 of the Reglamento de Régimen Interior stated that the deliberations of the Board were secret. There were two different types of session which could be convened by the Board: the Delegate Commission usually consisted of just three censors, although the President or Vice-president and the Secretary or his substitute had to be present; a plenary session was convoked if the smaller committee did not reach unanimous agreement or if the Minister saw fit to call it to session. A simple majority would suffice for the verdict to be valid and the President had the casting vote. The final decision of either committee had to comprise the authorization or prohibition of the work and the conditions of the authorization where applicable. The verdict had to include the audience age and also stipulate whether or not it could be broadcast on radio or television. It was to be delivered within fifteen days of the day following receipt of the application, or seven days if the application was deemed urgent. This regulation was often ignored, however, and the infamous silencio administrativo could extend for months. The disadvantage to the theatre company caused by this silence increased the pressure on an author to accept any modifications or cuts recommended by the censor. The appeals procedure was outlined in articles 19 and 20. However, there was no independent body with which to lodge an appeal against a censor’s decision, and the appellant had to address himself to the very people who had banned or cut the work, or, at best, to another non-elected branch of the powerful state machine. The second part of the legislation outlined the Normas de Censura Teatral. Article 1 merely stated: La Junta de Censura Teatral aplicará, en el ejercicio de su función, las normas de censura cinematográfica aprobadas por Orden ministerial de 9 de febrero de 1963, en cuanto lo permitan las características de los diversos géneros teatrales y con las adaptaciones impuestas por las diferencias entre el teatro y el cinematógrafo.89

The all-encompassing legislation referred to drew heavily upon Roman Catholic ideology and was prudish in the extreme. The general and subjective terms 89 Orden 6 febrero 1964 (MIT), por la que se aprueba el Reglamento de Régimen Interior de la Junta de Censura de Obras Teatrales y las Normas de Censura, BOE, no. 48 (25 February 1964), pp. 2504–6 (p. 2506).

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employed in the legislation remained undefined, and thus their interpretation was at the discretion of the censors. Another problem for the theatre companies was the very nature of theatre censorship: the censor had to be given prior notification of the dates and location of the run, along with details of the cast and theatre in which the work was to be staged. To have all of this information, a production had to be well under way. This entailed a very great risk for the producer who had to invest a substantial amount of time and money in the play before seeking authorization, and who stood to lose his investment if the work was prohibited. This led to risk management on the part of some producers, who tended to choose a safe option and avoid plays that could not be guaranteed a trouble-free run and authors with a history of censorship troubles. The process of submitting a work to the censor’s office and its subsequent review by the censors was quite complicated, requiring an abundance of documentation and patience. The period 1939 to 1977 can be subdivided into three distinct phases as far as the censorship documentation is concerned. From 1939 to 1964, the procedure to be followed was based on the stipulations of the Orden 15 julio 1939. Initially, a formal application had to be made to the censorship office by the director of the company wishing to stage the play, requesting permission to do so. The applicant gave details of the play, and the verdict of the administration was added once the censor had passed judgement. This form was altered in 1944 to allow for touring details. The applicant also had to supply a number of typed copies of the work subject to review, and, if the work was a revue or variety performance, the designs for the sets and costumes had to be submitted for scrutiny. The censor’s report was the document on which the final decision was based. This document gave a brief plot outline and evaluated the literary, political, religious and theatrical merits of the play (Appendix III). Recommendations for cuts and modifications were made, and the censor decided whether audience age restrictions should be imposed or not. Any correspondence entered into within the ministry or with the author or theatre company was also analysed before the verdict was given. Finally, a copy of the guía de censura was sent back to the applicant. On it was the verdict and any specific conditions for performance of the work. The applicant was obliged to show this document to the local authorities as proof that the censorship procedure had been adhered to. The Establishment of the Junta de Censura Teatral led to changes in the procedure and the documentation required. Previously, the authorization or prohibition of a play had been based on the verdict of just one censor, or two in cases where it was judged wise to have a second opinion. Now the proceedings involved the Censorship Committee. As before, the entire process was initiated by the formal application by the theatre company for permission to stage a work. At least three copies of the play had to be submitted to the censor. The committee’s final verdict was delivered in a document drawn up after analysis of the censors’ individual reports. Any cuts or recommendations by the censors were also recorded. On occasion, a report would be drawn up by the security forces regarding the political aspirations and intentions of the work or of its author. As before,

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any official correspondence regarding the work was viewed before the final decision was made. The guía de censura often specified that final judgement was reserved until the dress rehearsal and any specific conditions and cuts were listed on the back of the document. There is no record of any formal procedure in the third phase from 1974 to 1977. At this stage, the only documentation in evidence in the censorship files is the text subject to censorship. The procedure for publication of a play was slightly different from that for application to stage it. Control of press and publications changed from the Ministerio de Interior in 1938 to the Vicesecretaria de Educación Popular in 1941. In 1945, it moved to the Ministerio de Educación. Under the Vicesecretaria de Educación Popular, the Delegación Nacional de Propaganda had the authority to publish or ban a work. An application form containing detailed information about the book and publisher had to be sent to the censor along with two copies of the text. If permission to publish was granted, application had to be made for permission to distribute the text. The local delegates also monitored the number of publications by any editorial company to ensure that they were not engaged in black-market paper dealing. Later, censorship of publications came under the control of the Ministerio de Educación Nacional, where it remained until 1951. The Sección de Inspección de Libros, under the Subsecretaria de Educación Popular, was in charge of the censorship of books. While still under the same ministry and subsecretariat in 1951, it was now the Dirección General de Propaganda that reported to them. The Sección de Inspección de Libros became Censura de Libros. The application now had to include the proposed retail price of the book and the number of volumes to be published. It was also to be made clear if the target reader was female or a minor. In 1951, with the creation of the MIT, censorship moved to the new ministry. By 1967, the Sección de Inspección de Libros had been reborn as the Servicio de Orientación Bibliográfica, still reporting to the Dirección General de Información of the MIT. By this stage, the 1966 Ley de Prensa e Imprenta was in force and the consultations with the censor’s office were officially voluntary.

Ideology and the Theatre Cuando no hay libertad política, todo es política.90

Ultimately, any exploration of the relationship between writers and government in Francoist Spain comes down to the issues of language and silence, both what was imposed and what was freely chosen. Ideology, like language, is essentially about signification. Hence, language is employed to rationalize, naturalize, universalize and legitimate. As Eagleton puts it: ‘Language itself is a “relatively autonomous” system, shared by worker and bourgeois, man and woman, idealist and materialist alike; but precisely because it forms the common basis of all discursive formations,

90

Juan Goytisolo, ‘La literatura perseguida por la política’, in El furgón, pp. 37–44 (p. 41).

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it becomes the medium of ideological conflict.’91 It is the appearance of unity that language gives that is so important. An analysis of the use and distortions of language by the Nationalist regime in Spain demonstrates that the administration believed in the power of language to influence people’s lives, or at least to give expression to the values and ideas that could do so. Slogans, rhetoric and falsehoods were presented as fact, and so discussion and interpretation of this language were discouraged. An attempt was made to condition people to respond to these clichés and this rhetoric, rather than to reality. It is apparent from the manner in which they sought to appropriate the language of nationhood and righteousness that the forces of Francoism understood the power of words. By identifying all things Nationalist and Catholic with patriotism, Spain and the mythical Spanishness of the España eterna, the regime was not only able to harness a certain amount of goodwill towards these positive values but also to discredit all things Republican and secular as anti-Spanish.92 When such terminology, and the values it implies, becomes part of the political parlance of a state, then, as Steiner points out, ‘political conduct is no longer spontaneous or responsive to reality [. . .] language encloses politicians in the blindness of certainty or the illusion of justice’.93 There is further evidence of this language manipulation in the censorship legislation itself. In the 1938 Ley de Prensa, the language of nationhood is appropriated by the new ideology in the description of this new press as a national institution and the new journalist as ‘un digno trabajador al servicio de España’. Taking the document as a whole, it can be seen that ‘España’, ‘la Patria’, ‘la Nación’, ‘el destino’, ‘la unidad’, ‘la libertad’, ‘la verdad’, ‘la responsabilidad’, ‘el prestigio’ and so on are associated with the New State.94 In contrast, the language used to describe the press of the Republic is calculated to inspire hatred and fear and to highlight its non-Spanishness and its unnaturalness. It is obvious that the regime, by adopting certain language, sought to harness the positive values it expressed. Yet one of the most influential figures in the early days of the regime later highlighted just how absurd some of the language manipulation was: Serrano Suñer claims to have pointed out to Franco the lack of logic in dismissing the Republicans as rebels, when in fact the Nationalists were the ones who had rebelled.95 It was

Eagleton, Ideology, p. 196. ‘La guerra de España no es una cosa artificial: es la coronación de un proceso histórico, es la lucha de la Patria con la antipatria, de la unidad con la secesión, de la moral con el crimen, del espiritú contra el materialismo, y no tiene otra solución que el triunfo de los principios puros y eternos sobre los bastardos y antiespañoles.’ Franco, 27 August 1938. Quoted in Vázquez Montalbán, Los demonios, p. 91. 93 George Steiner, The Death of Tragedy (London: Faber & Faber, 1961), p. 57. 94 Ley 22 abril 1938, de Prensa, pp. 6915–17. 95 ‘Yo tan pronto como me puse al corriente de las cosas, le dije a Franco: “¿Cómo vamos a llamarles rebeldes a ellos? Llamémosles enemigos, rojos, antiespañoles o lo que sea, pero, vamos a llamarles rebeldes si aquí quien se ha rebelado hemos sido nosotros? Nuestra legitimidad es otra.” ’ Quoted in Heleno Saña, El franquismo sin mitos. Conversaciones con Serrano Suñer, prologue by Hugh Thomas, Colección 80 (Barcelona: Grijalbo, 1982), p. 101. 91 92

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thus with considerable difficulty that the Republicans, denied the language of rectitude and justice, defended themselves against the regime’s attacks. It is hardly surprising that a regime so concerned with the language it employed should also concern itself with controlling the language used by others. The regime perceived a threat to its hegemony from the press and the arts, as the censorship legislation clearly demonstrates. The regime recognized the press as a powerful instrument; it is described in the introduction to the 1938 Ley de Prensa as: ‘órgano decisivo en la formación de la cultura popular y, sobre todo, en la creación de la conciencia colectiva’.96 A later piece of legislation, the Orden 30 noviembre 1954 (MIT) Espectáculos Públicos, again stresses the influence that the theatre and cinema exercise on the ideas and education of the youth and the resulting need to monitor them carefully.97 The same idea is emphasized in the introduction to the 1966 Ley de Prensa e Imprenta. The regime clearly perceived a threat in the ability of the arts and the media to influence public opinion, and therefore sought to harness its influence to serve and to secure the survival of its own ideology.98 It was logical, therefore, that the Franco regime should have introduced censorship to impose silence by proscribing the voice of dissent. Already it was apparent that the Nationalist regime recognized that language, shrewdly employed, had the power to influence others. Furthermore, when language is combined with performance, be it that of an orator at a political rally or on a stage in the theatre, it can captivate people and perhaps move them. Closeness to the speaker encourages the audience to feel itself a participant. Perhaps because politicians harness so much of the theatrical in their own activities, they recognize its power in other spheres and may even overestimate it; accordingly, they seek to control or to neutralize it. Moreover, they are very wary of such devices when used by those gifted in the art of exposition. Language and performance are used as a weapon by both politicians and politicized writers in a battle for the hearts and minds of the masses. Consequently, it is necessary to examine this discerned link between theatre and ideology that the regime resolved to check. Of course, the issue of whether or not this ideological link in fact posed any real threat to the Nationalist regime is also deserving of scrutiny. Certainly, politicians were not alone in their perception that the theatre had an ideological and political role in Spanish society. Drama reflects the society that Ley 22 abril 1938, de Prensa, p. 6915. ‘La importancia que en el orden moral, cultural y político tienen los espectáculos públicos en general y la decidida influencia que ejercen en las costumbres, ideas y formación de la juventud, han inducido a su tutela y vigilancia, dictándose diversas disposiciones que regulen la asistencia de los menores a los espectáculos públicos.’ Orden 30 noviembre 1954 (MIT). ESPECTÁCULOS PÚBLICOS. Clasificación a efectos de asistencia de los menores, BOE, no. 348 (ref. 1842, 14 December 1954), pp. 1422–3 (p. 1422). 98 ‘la importancia, cada vez mayor, de los medios informativos poseen en relación con la formación de la opinión pública, y, finalmente, la conveniencia indudable de proporcionar a dicha opinion cauces idóneos a través de los cuales sea posible canalizar debidamente las aspiraciones de todos los grupos sociales, alrededor de los cuales gira la conveniencia nacional’. Ley 18 marzo 1966, de Prensa e Imprenta, p. 479. 96 97

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produces it and is often used for social and political comment by the playwright. As a consequence, attempts by governments or other powerful social organizations to censor the theatre are not new: theatre has suffered censorship throughout the ages and has been used as a form of protest and propaganda from the earliest days. Reflecting upon the link between the theatre and ideology, Bentley wrote: It is not hard to see what interested parties have to fear. If they have a bad conscience, they have to fear the dies irae when the truth will suddenly out and the malefactors will be punished. They have to fear the hard outline, which a play can draw around the truth; they have to fear the power of conviction a play can carry.99

As the dominant political group is aware, the enactment of a conflict on stage can both clarify and simplify, just as it can also oversimplify and falsify. José Monleón maintains that all theatre, even the most existential, is at base political, ‘porque la atención a estas cuestiones se da dentro de un contexto concreto y, por tanto, alcanza un determinado valor sociocultural’.100 Jean-Paul Sartre wrote, in ‘Mythe et réalité du théâtre’, that ‘le but du théâtre est directement de provoquer une lame de fond réelle dans l’âme de chaque spectateur’.101 This would, in essence, require the dispelling of the myths, which often deliberately cloud reality. Martin Esslin too noted the political nature of theatre, commenting that ‘it either reasserts or undermines the code of conduct of a given society’.102 Theatre, in other words, has an ideological role, and usually advocates either integration or dissent. Even Mario Antolín, a Subdirector General de Teatro under Franco, acknowledged that the theatre could have a political role, although he was careful to grant himself the right to distinguish between what was political and what was unlawful.103 According to Buero, theatre should reflect and comment upon society by examining man’s place in society and the conflicts of man with himself and with society: Es una finalidad, en suma, emotiva y reflexiva, orientada a la transformación positiva de la sociedad. Y todo ello lo es, siempre, a la par que un instrumento 99 Eric Bentley, The Theatre of Commitment (And Other Essays on Drama in Our Society) (London: Methuen, 1968), p. 206. 100 José Monleón, ‘Llegada de los dioses de Antonio Buero Vallejo’, Primer Acto, no. 137 (1971), 57–9 (p. 57). 101 Jean-Paul Sartre, ‘Mythe et réalité du théâtre’, in Un théatre de situations, ed. by Michel Contat and Michel Rybalka (Paris: Gallimard, 1973), pp. 169–94 (p. 178). The goal of theatre is to provoke directly a real upheaval in the soul of every spectator. 102 Quoted in Hilde F. Cramsie, Teatro y censura en la España franquista: Sastre, Muñiz y Ruibal, American University Studies Series II, Romance Languages and Literature, 9 (New York: Peter Lang, 1984), p. 2. 103 ‘El ser humano es un ser político. Y el teatro político tiene su razón de ser. No creo que el camino del teatro sea la política, pero creo que es uno de los muchos matices que el teatro puede tener. Ahora bien, creo que habrá que distinguir entre un teatro político y un teatro libelo, lo mismo que hay que distinguir entre un político de verdad y un político de mentira, o entre un militar y un mercenario.’ ‘Con Mario Antolín, nuevo Subdirector General de Teatro’, Yorick, nos 49–50 (1971), 63–5 (p. 65).

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de conocimiento de lo real y no sólo de su transformación, como todo arte; algo que yo suelo definir como una manera de contemplación activa. (O.C. II: 690)

To see why the theatre was perceived as a threat by the new regime, it is convenient to go back to the period of the Second Republic and briefly to plot the evolution of a new theatre, closely allied to recent ideological developments. The two trends that emerge during this period are a nationalist theatre, with its emphasis on tradition and folklore, which, although populist, was generally escapist in nature, and a revolutionary theatre, most often linked to the socialists and communists. The latter group sought to reform, not only the content of dramas produced but also the structure of the theatre. Much of the new theatre produced by the reformers, which was class-conscious, socialist and at times revolutionary, could be interpreted as antagonistic to conservative ideology; it represented all that Franco would later seek to eliminate. The Unión de Escritores y Artistas Revolucionarios, formed in the early 1930s, published a statement in Octubre in 1933 that goes some way to explaining the perceived menace posed by these revolutionary artists. Obviously inspired by the socialist ideology, their declaration read: ‘Queremos iniciar un teatro nuevo: el teatro de los trabajadores, el teatro que exprese en sus múltiples formas todas las modalidades de la vida, de las clases que luchan por redimirse de la miseria.’104 It was during this period of ideological and political change in Spain that a theatre of agitation propaganda emerged. This was a politicized theatre that presented itself as allied to political and social change, and it was usually associated with a particular ideology. The attraction of such theatre for the propagandist of a new ideology is manifest: ‘Agitation propaganda, presented theatrically, participated in raising its audiences’ consciousnesses to a point where social and political problems took on shape and immediacy.’105 In his book, Teatro de agitación política 1933–1939, Bilbatúa explored the development of small art-house theatres. Early attempts at change, such as Adriá Grau’s Teatre Intim and Rivas Cherif’s El Caracol, rejected the stale bourgeois theatre, but failed to create anything radically different to replace it. Other dramatists sought to make a more radical departure from the theatre of the day. From 1928 until 1935, Margarita Xirgu’s theatre company staged social and political plays in the Teatro Español. At this time, others proposed a theatrical revolution that would bring an end to the bourgeois domination of the stalls and give the theatre to the proletariat. On 26 February 1931, shortly before the declaration of the Republic, Rafael Alberti caused controversy with his play El hombre deshabitado, staged in the Teatro de la Zarzuela in Madrid. The play criticizes the wilful amnesia and apathy of the Spaniards. However, the author also took the opportunity afforded by its production to denounce the bourgeois 104 Robert Marrast, ‘El teatro durante la guerra civil española’, Cuadernos el Público, no. 15 (1986), 19–31 (p. 20). 105 George H. Szanto, Theater and Propaganda (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1978), p. 73.

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theatre and to make political statements. When the audience applauded the play, Alberti rose and shouted: ‘¡Viva el exterminio! ¡Muera la podredumbre de la actual escena española!’106 There was a riot after the final show. Other writers, among them Federico García Lorca and Alejandro Casona, inspired hope for the future of Spanish drama, but this was dashed by the Civil War, in the case of these two dramatists by death and exile. Lorca too was outspoken in his criticism of the bourgeois theatre and the need for progress on the Spanish stage. He believed in a committed social theatre as a means of influencing people and saw in the theatre a reflection of society at large. In his Charla sobre teatro, he wrote: ‘El teatro se debe imponer al público, y no el público al teatro.’107 Other writers, some of whom suggested means of advancement, criticized the escapist nature of much of what was on offer. Indeed, Valle-Inclán wryly commented that ‘toda reforma en el teatro (había de comenzar) por el fusilamiento de los Quintero’.108 Bilbatúa’s book documented the growth of two associated movements within the theatre in the 1930s. These were teatro para el pueblo and teatro del pueblo. The former included such groups as Teatro de Misiones Pedagógicas, La Barraca and El Buho. The Patronato de Misiones Pedagógicas was established in 1931 under Marcelino Domingo at the Ministerio de Instrucción Pública y Bellas Artes, and Alejandro Casona, winner of the 1934 Premio Lope de Vega, was one of its most successful dramatists. La Barraca and El Buho, both affiliated to university theatre groups, were formed under the protection of Fernando de los Ríos at the Ministerio de Educación and survived from their initiation in 1932 until the end of the Civil War. The teatro del pueblo movement perhaps came closer to a proletarian theatre than any previous organization; influenced by Erwin Piscator among others, it staged plays, many of which were political, in factories and in Casas del Pueblo. Reacting against the prevailing theatrical climate, these dramatists were not well received outside the ranks of their fellow reformers. Those who attempted innovation, if they managed to avoid trouble with the censors, were often ignored or rejected by the public. Obviously, this was what Max Aub was referring to when he stated: ‘Hay que creer en el pueblo aunque éste no quiera que se crea en él.’109 At this time, as the censorship documents held in the Archivo General de la Administración reveal, plays were assessed by the Dirección General de Seguridad for ‘frases o expresiones que supongan alusiones intolerables a Instituciones oficiales, idearios o personas determinadas’.110 However, the type 106 Rafael Alberti, ‘El autor recuerda el estreno’, in Seis dramaturgos españoles del siglo XX, 2 vols (Madrid: Edición Primer Acto-Girol Books, 1988), I, pp. 47–50 (p. 48). 107 Federico García Lorca, ‘Textos y palabras de Federico: charla sobre teatro (1935)’, in Seis dramaturgos, pp. 139–42 (p. 141). 108 Quoted in Carlos Jerez-Farrán, ‘Decadencia y revitalización en el teatro español de los años 20’, Estreno, 17 (no. 2, 1991), 25–33 (p. 25). 109 Max Aub 1946, quoted in Juan Antonio Hormigón, ‘Índice de problemas de infraestructura teatral: repertorio y nuevo público’, Yorick, no. 48 (1971), 67–74 (p. 69). 110 AGA/IDD 36 Topogr. 21-47 Dirección General de Seguridad. Censura de teatro de la II República. 1931–36. All further references to censorship documents from this period are from the same section and will be given after quotations in the text.

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of detailed censorship reports, common under Franco, are absent in the files from this period. What is clear from the documents relating to plays from the Second Republic, excepting the bienio negro, is that there was a clear official bias towards left-wing theatre, and a certain anti-clericalism and an anti-conservative bent. Notwithstanding such partiality, the escapist theatre of dramatists such as Torrado and Navarro was perfectly acceptable to the Republican authorities, as were folkloric dramas and zarzuelas, such as Talavera and Vals’ Alma charra from 1933. Yet the political bias can be seen in the authorization in January 1933 of Carlota O’Neill’s agitation propaganda play, Al rojo. This play, despite the censor’s view that it was ‘de lo peor que se ha escrito’ of proletarian theatre, in which, ‘la mujer se prostituye en la clase baja por necesidad, y en la clase alta por vicio’, was approved, as it was considered that government prohibitions could make the situation worse (Ca. 5797). There had been no such beneficence in evidence one month previously, when Manuel de Jesús Moreno’s play, De muy buen barro, was prohibited. Criticism of ‘la escuela laíca’ and the following line from Act II were cited as reasons for the prohibition: ‘Al pobre cura le van a quitar la paga y tendrá que pedir limosna’ (Ca. 5797 Exp. 6077). Villapecellin’s R. I. (República inmoral), whose title clearly signals the content, was also prohibited that year (Ca. 5797 Exp. 6078). In March 1933, Antonio Paso’s Los mártires de Alcalá, while generally considered apolitical and morally acceptable, offered some cause for concern with the line: ‘es más difícil buscar al tío que echar a Azaña’ and for its use of firearms on stage (Ca. 5800 Exp. 6124). Yet the Communist propaganda play, La peste fascista, by Irene de Falcón (César Garfias) of the Nosotros theatre group was authorized by the Director General de Seguridad, who stated: ‘no se observa ataque violento alguno contra el régimen establecido ni concepto de ninguna clase que pueda considerarse punible’ (Ca. 5800 Exp. 6123). It ended with the annihilation of the fascists and ‘vivas al proletariado’. In such a climate it comes as no great surprise that plays such as Unamuno’s El otro, Valle-Inclán’s Divinas palabras and García Lorca’s Bodas de sangre were judged to be both politically and morally innocuous.111 In the altered political climate of December 1934, Pemán’s Cisneros was approved. A letter from El Comisario Jefe to the Jefe Superior de la Policia Gubernativa notes that after the show, Pemán spoke about the need for more men like Cisneros, and the public greeted his words with ‘grandes ovaciones’ (Ca. 5843 Exp. 6279). Yet Guerra a la guerra, a Communist play from 1935, was prohibited in early December of that year. The judicial report noted: A pretexto de combatir la guerra, idea respetable en el aspecto puramente especulativo y aun admisible desde el punto de vista legal, se ataca en realidad, en términos de gran crudeza, la idea de la patria y el sentimiento patrio. La obra es de un marcado y declarado sabor comunista, incompatible con las

111

Ca. 5793 Exp. 6061; Ca. 5795 Exp. 6125; Ca. 5800 Exp. 6117.

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actuales instituciones, considerada en su aspecto de pública representación. (Ca. 8502 Exp. 6467)

In May 1936, under the Popular Front Government, ¡Comunista!, a play for the Casa del Pueblo in Madrid, was not authorized owing to its attacks on the police, the prison services and its ‘constante excitación a la rebelión’, which it was believed might lead to public disorder (Ca. 5831 Exp. 6633). A couple of months later, in early July, another Communist play, La herencia proletaria, which contained references to a corrupt governor in an imaginary province, who is effectively in the pay of the clergy and the bourgeoisie, was also condemned in a judicial report. However, the Director General saw fit to approve the play without suppressions, but his reasons for ignoring the report are unclear (Ca. 5842 Exp. 6656). Yet, despite the best efforts of the reformers and the propagandistic offerings of others, the theatre world was still dominated by more conservative works by dramatists such as Pemán, Torrado, Benavente and Muñoz Seca. The Teatro Nacional de la Falange, under the direction of Luis Escobar, concentrated on staging dramas from Spain’s Golden Age or those that emulated such theatre, in keeping with the nationalist ideology it reflected. Of the serious dramatists and reformers, Max Aub was perhaps the man who came closest to achieving real change in the structures and forms of the Spanish theatre. He proposed the Establishment of a National Theatre and the creation of opportunities for experimental and youth theatre, and called on the Popular Front government to support the arts; if his work had not been frustrated by the Civil War, he might have succeeded. The ill-starred Consejo Central del Teatro was born in 1937 with Aub as secretary. It seemed for a while that a theatrical revolution had begun, but the war meant that the activities of the committee were limited to Madrid; unfortunately, the dénouement of the Civil War ensured that the council never fulfilled its potential. During the Civil War, those who were involved in the revolutionary theatrical movement were themselves divided into dramatists who insisted on artistic integrity and those who were willing to sacrifice this for a political point, but both groups produced motivated drama that was very much allied to the Republican ideology. Marrast describes how, at this time, the unions took over and collectivized the theatres. However, in order to guarantee work for all union members, the revolutionaries had to compromise or abandon some of their political aspirations. In his analysis, Marrast divides Civil War theatre into four types: escapist theatre (both old and new), new political and agitation propaganda plays (some too political for their audience and others not sufficiently so), adaptations of classics to reflect the new situation and social theatre from the pre-Civil War period. Both sides in the struggle produced political and propagandistic dramas. Focusing specifically on the Republican theatre illustrates again the clear connection between drama and politics at this time. The teatro de agitación, which embraced many politicized theatre groups, was organized in Madrid by the Alianza

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de los Intelectuales Antifascistas. Their stated aim was to write and stage drama based on the current political situation, and their mouthpiece was El mono azul.112 Nueva Escena was a theatrical co-operative led by Rafael Dieste, which in 1936 began to stage political dramas, including short works by Alberti, Sender and by Dieste himself. Apart from these, there were other groups such as the Teatro de arte y propaganda, based in the Teatro de la Zarzuela in Madrid, and an organization calling itself Teatro en la calle, which staged Alberti’s adaptation of Cervantes’s El cerco de Numancia in 1937. Alberti also wrote Radio Sevilla, Cuadro flamenco (1937), which was published with the works of some other authors in a collection called Teatro de urgencia. Later, in 1938, he wrote Cantata de los héroes y la fraternidad de los pueblos, which he dedicated to the International Brigades. The Guerrillas del teatro and Teatro para el frente brought this political theatre to those fighting for the Republican cause. The authors of this movement included Max Aub with his political teatro de circunstancias, José Herrera Petrere, Germán Bleiberg and Pablo de la Fuente. Other writers who involved themselves in the dramatic process, such as Manuel Altolaguirre, César M. Arconada and José Bergamín, had not been associated with the theatre previously. Miguel Hernández was also very involved in Republican theatre during the Civil War, and his Pastor de la Muerte (1937–38) is based on the siege of Madrid. Furthermore, in 1937 he published four plays under the collective title Teatro en la guerra, in which he stated his belief that the theatre can serve as a powerful weapon in wartime.113 The Popular Front government’s concerns about the propaganda plays were initially few. Dramas such as Viva la República (o, el último traidor) were authorized without problems. However, in the early stages of the conflict, the government became concerned by the negative portrayal of the army in some agitation propaganda plays. This was the case with Aurelio González Rendón’s Ya están de pie los esclavos sin pan and Luis Mussot’s ¡No pasarán!, both of which date from September 1936. In a report by the Attorney General about the former, there is an objection to the line: ‘Todas las lumias, compañeras de una noche, eran hijas de militares.’ He advocated its suppression, arguing that it was an insult to army personnel: cuyo prestigio debe velar siempre la Autoridad aun en las circunstancias actuales, porque ha de tenerse en cuenta que aunque hay un gran número de 112 Occasionally they allowed themselves to be carried away by their revolutionary fervour, such as when they secured García Lorca’s signature for a manifesto a month and a half after his death. José Monleón, ‘El mono azul’: Teatro de urgencia y romancero de la guerra civil, Endymión (Madrid: Ayuso, 1979), pp. 35–6. 113 ‘Una de las maneras mías de luchar es haber comenzado a cultivar un teatro hiriente y breve: un teatro de guerra. [. . .] Creo que el teatro es un arma magnífica de guerra contra el enemigo de enfrente y contra el enemigo de casa. Entiendo que todo teatro, toda poesía, todo arte, ha de ser, hoy más que nunca, un arma de guerra. [. . .] Yo me digo: hay que sepultar las ruinas del obsceno y mentiroso teatro de la burguesía, de todas las burguesías y comodidades del alma, que todavía andan moviendo polvo y ruina en nuestro pueblo.’ Miguel Hernández, Foreword to Teatro en la guerra. Quoted in Carlos Blanco Aguinaga, Julio Rodríguez Puértolas and Iris M. Zavola, Historia social de la literatura española, 3 vols (Madrid: Castalia, 1983), III, pp. 43–4.

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Oficiales y Jefes del Ejército sublevados que han hecho traición a su palabra y a su deber, hay otros también que luchan heróicamente en defensa del Gobierno legítimo de la República y de la Libertad. (Ca. 5805 Exp. 6613)114

Other examples of theatre of agitation by writers of some merit include Rafael Dieste’s Al amanecer and Ramón J. Sender’s La llave, both of which were approved without cuts in October 1936. However, the Attorney General had misgivings about Rafael Alberti’s Los salvadores de España.115 He urged prohibition of the play, unless certain changes were made. These were the removal of the allusions to foreign Heads of State ‘con cuyas Naciones no ha roto oficialmente sus relaciones diplomáticas España’, and the elimination of the two anthems to be sung at the end of the play, ‘por las posibles alteraciones de orden público’ that might result from their performance. The role of the theatre in society, which is often simultaneously exaggerated and underestimated, must be determined, to some degree at least, by the attitude of the artists and of those in power towards it. Drama in certain circumstances, then, can become politicized. Obviously, the governments of the Republic and the Civil War period were conscious of the highly politicized nature of the theatre of the time and sought to encourage it where it was to their advantage. Doubtless, this circumstance, allied to the need of the nascent regime to impose its own culture, persuaded the victorious Nationalists of the need to control and censor the theatre in order to protect their own ideology. Thus, in the theatre, the language of nationalism was imposed and that of others was excluded.

114 Similarly, in the report on the latter play, it was stated: ‘En los actuales momentos, en que es indispensable para el triunfo de la República y del Gobierno legítimo mantener muy elevada la moral y la disciplina del Ejército, un quebramiento de estos resortes y un escarnio de la organización de los defensores de la República, que, de representarse en un escenario, produciría una excitación a la indisciplina de los soldados y las milicias contra sus jefes, con el grave quebranto para los intereses de la República democrática y del porvenir de la Patria que de esto habría que derivar.’ Ca. 5805 Exp. 6678. 115 The three plays appear in the file Ca. 5804 Exp. 6681.

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Language and Silence Post-Civil War Theatre Unsurprisingly, theatre of agitation propaganda does not exist to any great extent in the post-war Francoist period. The successful establishment of the New State, and its longevity, ensured that the audience for agit-prop theatre was reduced, if not entirely eliminated. Many of those who had been at the forefront of the theatre of agitation movement were dead, imprisoned or exiled in the aftermath of the Nationalist victory. Those who remained were unwilling or unable to mount a similar challenge to the new regime. Not only that, but in the immediate aftermath of the Civil War, as London notes, the theatre played a role in the legitimation of the regime: In April and May 1939 theatrical performances sometimes ended with the singing of the national anthem and a large portrait of the Caudillo displayed onstage. Audiences listened, their arms raised in the fascist salute. Set design did, on occasion, incorporate nationalist insignia.1

Forging a New State included the task of creating a new culture to reflect and reinforce the dominant ideology. In fact, it was with considerable zeal that the regime set about imposing its own ideology and eliminating alternatives. Both Carlos Rodríguez Sanz and José María de Quinto assert that the Spanish culture promoted by the Nationalist regime was noteworthy for what it chose to ignore or censor, as much as for what it promoted.2 Thus, initially, the censors concerned themselves more with the revivals of certain dramas from the pre-war period than with anything new and revolutionary. They did so effectively, and the works of Republican writers were eliminated from the Spanish stage.3

1 John London, Reception and Renewal in Modern Spanish Theatre: 1939–1963, MHRA Texts and Studies, 45 (London: W. S. Maney & Son, 1997), p. 151. 2 Carlos Rodríguez Sanz, ‘Teatro y subvención’, Cuadernos para el diálogo, Monograph no. 3 (June 1966), 23–5 (p. 23). José María de Quinto, ‘Radiografía breve de los últimos 30 años de teatro’, Cuadernos para el diálogo, Monograph no. 3, 26–7 (p. 26). 3 ‘En los primeros años de la posguerra, como se ve, las dificultades de la censura no estribaban en la presentación de piezas escritas por nuevos dramaturgos sino en la revisión de obras ya existentes, escritas con anterioridad a la Guerra Civil y faltas de las podas deseables. Por lo que se refiere al teatro “convencional” – el último Benavente, Miguel Mihura, José

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Reflecting upon the creation of a new culture for a New State, José María de Quinto remarked: En España se había producido una honda conmoción y se intentaba construir, a mi modo de ver ingenuamente, un mundo distinto. Sobre tales supuestos, hubo quienes llegaron a creer en la viabilidad de una cultura nueva, imperial, que entroncara con un pasado glorioso. [. . .] El noventayochismo era examinado con lupa, y, en todo caso, tachado de movimiento antipatriótico. Todo lo que no fuera exaltador y optimista, aunque estuviera enraizado con la realidad, cobraba el aire sospechoso de maridar con la Leyenda Negra.4

Later the link between drama and ideology in the New State was more insidious; agitation propaganda of the left had disappeared, and there remained what Szanto termed integration propaganda. This formed part of the cultural ideological state apparatus, and it played a role in the normalization and naturalization of the new dominant ideology, reinforcing the notion that the government was working for the common good, by stressing the stability and benefits of the present order. It encouraged passive participation in the New State structures and dissuaded opposition and change. Like the Church, the education system and other ideological state apparatuses, theatre of integration propaganda creates a false sense of unity. Echoing Althusser, Szanto wrote: Integration propaganda is long-term in nature, and most importantly, it is produced in far greater quantity by the social hegemony, those who passively accept the ideology of a society and function actively within it – teachers, preachers, newsmen, filmmakers, social workers, playwrights, psychologists: any who are in the business of affecting the general consciousness – than it is by those relatively few bureaucrats who are actively paid by their governments to make, in the traditional sense, a society’s propaganda.5

In the 1940s, while the rest of Europe examined the new reality in the aftermath of the horrors of the world war, Spain retreated to a culture of escapism to distract from an unpleasant reality that was fast becoming naturalized. Direct comment on the current situation was limited by censorship. José Monleón distinguishes two trends in theatre of this time: the comic and risqué revue, and the cliché-dominated folkloric theatre. He described the theatre of the time as immoral, and it is this immorality that Buero would later challenge in his theatre. Since the work of the reformers was only beginning prior to the outbreak María Pemán, Joaquín Calvo Sotelo cum suis – las condiciones en las que escribieron y los presupuestos políticos o sociales de los que partían no supusieron jamás – al contrario – actitud disidente alguna.’ Manuel Abellán, ‘La censura teatral durante el franquismo’, Estreno, 15 (no. 2, 1989), 20–3 (p. 21). 4 De Quinto, ‘Radiografía breve’, p. 26. 5 Szanto, Theater and Propaganda, p. 74.

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of the Civil War, it is logical that the theatre should have returned so quickly to its earlier form. José Sanchis Sinisterra, concurring with Monleón, commented in 1966 that the theatrical offerings in the provinces consisted mainly of the comic revue and folkloric theatre; this too was integration propaganda, subtly reinforcing the nationalistic ideology of the regime.6 Many of the promising dramatists of the pre-Civil War era were Republicans, and therefore their work was excluded from the new culture. Demonstrating the ideological nature of theatre at the time, Monleón suggested that the post-war popularity and elevation in status of Muñoz Seca had not a little to do with his death at the hands of the Republicans during the Civil War.7 He further illustrated how, in the works La muralla (Calvo Sotelo), Murió hace quince años (Giménez Arnau) and El Vicario de Dios (Laiglesia), dramatists resolved the moral dilemmas posed by the new regime, thereby soothing the consciences of the bourgeois spectators. They were absolved of their crimes and misdemeanours and awarded the status of the righteous.8 José María de Quinto, similarly critical of what was on offer, described the theatre of the 1940s thus: Literalmente hablando, era el tiempo de los lacrimosos melodramas de Adolfo Torrado, en los que una burguesía adocenada e inculta, encontraba consuelo para adormecer su conciencia. Literariamente hablando, también, José María Pemán, Juan Ignacio Luca de Tena, Joaquín Calvo Sotelo, y algún que otro discípulo de Benavente, escribían, primero lo que para entendernos podríamos denominar ‘teatro de la victoria’, en donde los elementos heroicos trataban de sustituir a la realidad, y, luego, los consiguientes dramas preburgueses, que, andando el tiempo, iban a cristalizar en La muralla, máximo exponente de la dramática de este signo. Era, quiérase o no, un teatro de circunstancias, carente de rigor, no sólo a niveles estéticos, sino también ideológicos, aunque, en cualquier caso, muy significativo.9

Many of the pre-war dramatists proved just as popular as before. Those enjoying continued or renewed success included Benavente, the Quintero brothers, Pemán, Marquina, Arniches and Muñoz Seca. Calvo Sotelo, among the later playwrights of this genre, included some social comment in some of his dramas, but he was more concerned with moral values and dilemmas than with social change. This theatre, some of it superbly crafted, was nevertheless lacking in 6 ‘El teatro en provincias’, Cuadernos para el diálogo, Monograph no. 3, 20–2 (p. 20). José María de Quinto makes a similar observation: ‘En realidad, eran los tiempos del melodrama, del juguete cómico, de la comedia montada en el vacío, de los espectáculos flamencos o folklóricos y de las revistas musicales. [. . .] Se entronizaba oficialmente la tragedia y el optimismo.’ ‘Radiografía breve’, p. 26. 7 José Monleón, Treinta años de teatro de la derecha (Barcelona: Tusquets, 1971), p. 21. 8 Monleón, Treinta años, pp. 93–110. E. Morales de Acevedo, one of the censors who read Giménez Arnau’s play, wrote in his report: ‘Por su fondo y por su forma, la comedia es merecedora de aplauso.’ AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.678 Exp. 132-58. 9 De Quinto, ‘Radiografía breve’, p. 26.

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originality. Benavente, a primary exponent of such drama, defended the theatre of evasion with the same argument that others used to damn it: Hui de lo dramático, porque bastantes angustias sufre ya el mundo para entenebrecerle con tragedias de invención, a las que da ciento y raya la realidad. Por eso prefiero divertir y distraer al público con comedias ligeras y comedietas, que, como me reprochan mis detractores, son deliberadamente frívolas y triviales.10

Newer dramatists such as Ruiz Iriarte, López Rubio and Edgar Neville kept the tradition alive. Besides the old and new traditionalists, there was also a post-war attraction to Golden Age drama. Dramatists such as Pemán, Paso, Calvo Sotelo and later even Mihura and Casona held that the theatre was primarily for entertainment purposes and tended to ignore social or political themes. This theatre, therefore, did not challenge the status quo. While some translations of European dramas were quite popular, many of the great world or European plays did not come to Spain at all, or came late, and then only to a limited audience. Very little of European avant-garde theatre was staged commercially in Spain, and that which was, was often adapted or modified, occasionally beyond recognition. One such drama, which suffered radical deviations from the original meaning, was Ionesco’s Rhinocéros, which was staged as an anti-Communist play in Spain.11 On the whole then, the stage was dominated by conservative, unchallenging, escapist drama; realism was avoided. Doménech asserted that the audience’s desire was to be served, ‘una imagen irreal y halagadora de sí mismo’, the more unrealistic and flattering the better.12 The entire dramatic production of this era was based on a narrow selection of themes and scenarios, with similar resolutions. It was the era of the pieza bien hecha, a theatre that was well constructed and often stylistically highly accomplished, but essentially meek.

The Arrival of Buero Vallejo No wonder then, that in 1949, Antonio Buero Vallejo’s Historia de una escalera (1948) caused a stir in the Spanish theatre, given its critical and Realist nature. The play was considered bitter by some critics long used to the sainete and the frivolous drama set among the bourgeoisie or the aristocracy. For Buero, however, the realism it represented provided a necessary break with what had gone before: Al presentarnos personajes cuya mayoría no posee cuentas corrientes saneadas; al sustituir en ellos la equitativa distribución de la ingeniosidad por

Quoted in Monleón, Treinta años, p. 14. London, Reception and Renewal, pp. 127, 143. 12 Ricardo Doménech, ‘Reflexiones sobre la situación del teatro’, Primer Acto, no. 42 (1963), 4–8 (p. 7). 10 11

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diferencias reales de ingenio, torpeza o educación; al cambiar los salones cuajados de enredos por los tugurios, salitas, oficinas o tenduchos cuyo argumento es la vida misma sin afeites, consigue por lo menos la recuperación del contacto con los hombres. (O.C. II: 575)

Perhaps surprisingly, given its negative social commentary and uncertain ending, Historia de una escalera was a huge success. It ran for 187 consecutive performances, causing the cancellation of the annual staging of Zorilla’s Don Juan Tenorio. Yet perhaps the most surprising feature of the success was not the play itself, but its author. An art student when the war broke out, Buero was a committed socialist who had gone against the wishes of his family to join the Republican war effort. By the time he was awarded the Lope de Vega prize for Historia de una escalera in 1949, he was a former Republican prisoner, who had served over six years for his political crimes.13 His years in prison had a profound effect on Buero. Perhaps in part owing to the influence of the extraordinary range of people he met while in prison as well as the oft-stated reason that his painting skills had become very rusty, Buero began to etch out a literary career for himself upon his release. He claimed that his experiences also confirmed his commitment to socialism, and he stated that ‘el mundo será socialista o no será’.14 Nevertheless, while Buero’s Historia de una escalera signalled a new direction in the post-Civil War theatre, he was not a reformer when it came to the organization and structure of the theatre; in fact he was able to work within the commercial theatre. He is acknowledged as the inspiration for what has been termed the Realist Generation of Spanish dramatists, whose dramas marked a move away from conservative escapism and back towards a social theatre. For the regime’s censors, they represented a threat to the dominant ideology, a threat to be restrained or, where possible, eliminated. Indeed, Buero’s own account stressed his conviction that his work posed a challenge to the ruling ideology of Francoism: Yo asomé en el teatro español y he durado en él con el propósito de hacer tragedias y de enfrentar a la gente con aspectos displacientes o problemáticos de la vida humana. Y esto, sobre todo cuando yo empecé, estaba mal visto porque la ideología oficial se obstinaba en afirmar que éste era el mejor de los países, que aquí todo era formidable y que no pasaba nada digno de ser llorado ni siquiera discutido; de forma que, cuando un señor aparecía con algo que podía hacer llorar o discutir, se decía que a ese señor ‘le dolía el estómago’ y que no tenía ningún sentido de humor.15

13 ‘No cometí ningún delito importante. Falsificaba avales – documentos oficiales o particulares de persona significada que garantiza que Fulano de Tal es una persona honesta y honrada y que no ha cometido delitos.’ Patricia W. O’Connor, Antonio Buero Vallejo en sus espejos, Colección Espiral Hispano-Americana, no. 31 (Madrid: Fundamentos, 1996), p. 283. 14 Mariano de Paco, ‘Buero Vallejo y el teatro’, in Antonio Buero Vallejo: Premio ‘Miguel de Cervantes’ 1986, p. 72. 15 ‘Coloquio’, in Buero Vallejo: cuarenta años de teatro, ed. by Mariano de Paco (Murcia: CajaMurcia, 1988), pp. 121–30 (pp. 129–30).

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It is undeniable that Buero emphasized change and advancement rather than acceptance of the status quo, but he did this from within a stagnant system, or as some of his many detractors alleged, from a position within the theatrical Establishment. There is certainly a case for arguing that his integrationist position within the commercial theatre, a structure sanctioned by the regime, may have lent certain a legitimacy to a government that claimed not to be repressive, but simply to be a protector of the common good. Yet, because his characters constantly strive for action and acknowledge the importance of history and historical progress, Buero’s work cannot be dismissed as integration propaganda, nor can it be correctly classified as agitation propaganda: it fits more easily into Szanto’s third category of dialectical propaganda. In comparison to the social critics of the previous period and some of those who followed him into the Francoist theatre, the threat posed by Buero’s dramas, concentrating as they did on the moral issues posed by ideology in a corrupt society, appeared mild. Buero was certainly less overtly political than others, such as Sastre or Arrabal. Unlike them, Buero based his revolution on the individual, whom he hoped would then inspire, or be inspired to, work for social change. Nevertheless, his work, echoing Camus’s political moralism, posed the first genuine theatrical challenge to the dominant ideology, and perhaps opened the way for other more revolutionary dramatists to follow.16

The Drama of Commitment ¿Poema, o problema? Poema y problema a un tiempo (O.C. II: 487).

While Historia de una escalera may have been an innovation in the post-Civil War theatre, Sastre’s play Escuadra hacia la muerte (1953), which draws heavily on the existentialism of Sartre, took this innovation further. London observes: ‘The extreme violence of Sastre’s play and the suicide it contains were [. . .] a torrent in a desert of blandness.’17 Alfonso Sastre had emerged as the other dominant figure among the post-war dramatists. With a group of like-minded fellow university students, he had set about revolutionizing the theatre in the 1940s. This ambitious, if ingenuous, plan was destined to fail, as the authorities were not in favour of this manifestation of revolutionary nationalism. His Nationalist

16 Lauro Olmo credits Buero with preparing the stage for others: ‘Buero Vallejo es una figura clave, sobre todo por su importancia en la creación de un clima determinado. Sus estrenos, polémicos o no, han constituído siempre una convocatoria socio-política lanzada desde una amplia base cívico-moral.’ Patricia W. O’Connor and Anthony M. Pasquariello, ‘Conversaciones con la Generación Realista’, Estreno, 2 (no. 2, 1976), 8–28 (p. 25). He also praises Alfonso Sastre: ‘Todos le debemos aquel clima de agitación que, con sus escaramuzas polémicas, supo remover la mediocridad ambiente’ (p. 25). 17 London, Reception and Renewal, p. 189.

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reform thus thwarted by the regime, the disillusioned Sastre moved ideologically to the left and to a different type of social theatre. Sastre, in essence, moved from revolutionary nationalism to revolutionary Marxism. His work certainly challenged the taboos of the dominant ideology more directly than Buero’s plays did, yet this same provocation also ensured that his dramas were less widely produced. The committed dramatists were by no means the dominant group in the Spanish theatre world. It was apparent that many of the theatre professionals working in Francoist Spain did not consider that the theatre had a socio-political role. However, leaving aside the other drama produced or not produced at the time, and focusing specifically on the so-called Realists, it becomes clear that they considered their work to have been more than entertainment and to have a social dimension.18 They included such writers as Sastre, Martín Recuerda, Rodríguez Méndez, Muñiz and Olmo, and theirs was, as the name suggests, a theatre of social realism.19 Carlos Muñiz, describing the group, said: ‘Se trata de autores de variada tendencia, tanto ideológica como estética, cuyo único elemento común es la adopción de una actitud abiertamente crítica ante la realidad sociopolítica española.’20 Despite Mangini’s assertion that writers of the opposition were viewed as minor delinquents and, in general, not taken very seriously, it is clear from the regime’s efforts to silence them that they were carefully monitored, and, where possible, restrained.21 It appears that the regime considered the work of these dramatists to be a challenge to its ideological dominance, for, as Abellán points out, the emergence of this new group of dramatists gave rise to a new situation: Las obras de la nueva hornada, presentadas a censura para publicación o representación estaban escritas siguiendo procedimientos que ninguna normativa podía fácilmente configurar: la sutileza de los recursos dramáticos o literarios servía para burlar la censura ideológica, moral o estética y permitía que el público interpretara como primeras lo que, acaso, sólo podría ser inferido como segundas intenciones.22

18 Ángel Berenguer wrote of European realism: ‘Es mucho más que un estilo literario. Es, sobre todo, un modo de entender la vida, un modo de acercarse a la realidad, un proyecto que, de alguna manera, pretende controlar la relación del individuo con su entorno y con la historia política que se está desarrollando en la Europa del momento.’ ‘Lauro Olmo’, in Teatro breve contemporáneo, I, Primer Acto, Separata del no. 239 [1991 (?)], 25–8 (p. 26). The Spanish variety was a more insular, but just as serious, project. 19 The term itself is disputed by many of those deemed by the critics to be a part of the group. Buero is often viewed by other playwrights associated with the generation as being independent of it or perhaps a precursor to it. 20 O’Connor and Pasquariello, ‘Conversaciones’, p. 14. 21 Shirley Mangini, Rojos y rebeldes: la cultura de la disidencia durante el franquismo (Barcelona: Anthropos, 1987), p. 59. Barry Jordan also made the point that some of the committed writers were the offspring of Nationalists, and not as harshly treated as those whose background was Republican. Writing and Politics in Franco’s Spain (London: Routledge, 1990), p. 53. 22 Abellán, ‘La censura teatral’, p. 22.

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Perhaps one of the only elements to unite the so-called Realists and other committed dramatists was their belief that their work constituted an attack on the ruling ideology. After all, stylistically, their work differed substantially, and they claimed different influences, although all considered themselves social critics. All believed that art, and specifically drama, had a role to play in an autocracy, and some of them wrote about the obligations facing a writer in such circumstances. Nonetheless, there is some doubt about the success of their venture, and indeed questions have also been raised about the artistic integrity of those involved, not least, of Buero. Writing about the situation in Nazi Germany, Steiner commented that while writers who chose to leave the country could thus protect their own integrity, they were no longer able to communicate properly with those who did remain.23 London, also writing about theatre under the Nazis, noted: ‘Much of the overt criticism emerged from a much more comfortable position: exile.’24 The same could be said about the Spanish situation. A resident in France, Arrabal viewed himself as untainted by the regime. However, those who had remained in Spain did not consider him qualified to comment on Spain’s problems. Of course, the dramatists who remained in Spain, while they understood the effects of the regime on the populace, were to sacrifice a part of their integrity. As in Nazi Germany, there was a range of responses from artists and writers. Some came to represent the culture of the regime, others remained silent, while some, including Buero, compromised, writing what criticisms they could but within parameters largely defined by the regime. To examine the success or otherwise of their commitment, it is first necessary to analyse the form it took and to find the goals they set for their social and political theatre. Buero was consistent in his statements on the subject of art and freedom. While lamenting the presence of censorship, citing historical examples, he stated his belief that good literature can be produced under a repressive regime. In 1976, he said of censorship: ‘Mortal lo es circunstancialmente para ciertas obras o para algún autor incluso, pero no es mortal en general, ni para todas las obras ni para todos los autores, por muy críticos y comprometidos que éstos sean.’25 Yet he also disagreed with those authors who ‘desde el purismo literario o poético’ say: ‘ya está bien de hablar tanto de problemática. No hay tal problemática. La literatura es otra cosa’ (O.C. II: 486–7). The question for Buero and other committed dramatists was not one of either artistic integrity or

23 George Steiner, Language and Silence: Essays 1958–1966 (London: Faber & Faber, 1985), p. 127. 24 John London, ‘Introduction’, in Theatre under the Nazis, ed. by John London (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2000), pp. 1–53 (p. 34). 25 O’Connor and Pasquariello, ‘Conversaciones’, p. 11. He reiterated this sentiment in an interview with Amell: ‘No es que yo no crea en la libertad como un factor muy valioso para la labor creadora, pero lo que sostenía y sigo sosteniendo es que no es imprescindible para crear grandes obras e incluso obras maestras, y me atengo a los hechos.’ Samuel Amell, ‘Conversación con Antonio Buero Vallejo’, España Contemporánea, 1 (no. 1, 1988), 119–41 (p. 127).

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commitment, but both. Asked about the role of theatre in society, Buero stated: Debe reflejarse y comentarla. Desde sus diversos géneros, plantear crítica y dramáticamente los conflictos del hombre y de la sociedad en que vive; despertar las conciencias frente a ellos; enfocarlos con autenticidad y verdad; combatir los errores y los males; abrir los ojos; denunciar las injusticias; mostrar lo que el hombre tiene de humano y de inhumano; y lo que tiene de ser histórico; y siempre, lograr arte auténtico.26

It is an ambitious statement and, as was often the case with Buero, one that stressed the importance of history. Others, such as Carlos Llopis and Miguel Mihura, when asked the same question, stressed the entertainment value of the theatre, rather than any social or political role. Sastre, like Buero, held that literature of necessity had a social role. However, they did not have the same expectations for literature and what it could achieve. Buero obviously believed in the power of art to influence societal change, but, unlike Sastre and Brecht, he did not believe that the influence would necessarily be direct: Entiendo que las actividades de la cultura en sus planos superiores son muy importantes, pero que su influjo no es resolutivo ni directo; va por vías más subterráneas, que requieren más tiempo, y sus resultados son a veces mayores que los de otras actividades más directas.27

Taking a cue from figures such as Brecht, Weiss, Piscator, Sartre and Camus, these Spanish dramatists sought to use the theatre as a force in a socio-political battle to change social and economic conditions. Whether or not this was a realistic aspiration is debatable. Indeed, both Buero and Sastre adapted foreign plays for the Spanish stage and a comparison of their adaptations reveals much about both their theatrical and political interests. Buero adapted works by Ibsen, Shakespeare and Brecht, while Sastre adapted the works of Sartre, Weiss and O’Casey, among others. With the exception of Brecht, the plays Buero adapted would have been considered classical and relatively safe works at the time; Sastre was interested in the more overtly political works of polemical dramatists, and in the politics of the dramatists themselves. In the programme notes for his adaptation of O’Casey’s Red Roses for Me, for example, Sastre stresses O’Casey’s politics, calling him ‘el gran ejemplo de un escritor combatiente’.28 Sastre was particularly drawn to the works of Sartre and, between the years 1967 and 1970, was responsible for eight adaptations of the French dramatist’s plays. London maintains that in Spain, Camus was more acceptable than Sartre because his views were considered less extreme, despite the fact that Camus was hostile to the Spanish regime. Sartre, he claims, did not rise to prominence in ‘Encuesta (sobre el teatro)’, Primer Acto, nos 29–30 (1961–62), 5–15 (pp. 5–6). Álvaro del Amo and Miguel Bilbatúa, ‘El teatro español visto por sus protagonistas’, Cuadernos para el diálogo, Monograph no. 3, 43–67 (p. 46). 28 AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-55 Ca. 85.254 Exp. 258-69. 26 27

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Spain until the late 1960s, although his name was certainly known before then. It is interesting that Buero on occasion publicly identified with Camus, while Sastre favoured Sartre. The Spanish dramatists, like their French counterparts, engaged in a very public quarrel, yet, like the latter, probably had more to unite than to divide them in terms of their literary and political aspirations. Camus’s commitment, while doubted by some, was perhaps similar to Buero’s, and, like the Spaniard, he was often contradictory. Where his commitment exceeded that of Buero was in his non-literary political writings. Buero’s relationship with the Franco regime was similar in some respects to Camus’s ambiguous relationship with Algeria. They were also similar in their deliberate style, and a certain moral tone permeates the work of both writers. Buero stressed a moral awakening of man and advocated self-empowerment of the individual in a repressive and unethical society. In this way he was similar to Camus, who, as Said comments, ‘prizes self-recognition, disillusioned maturity, and moral steadfastness in the midst of a bad situation’.29 Buero was at times ideologically unacceptable to both sides of the Spanish divide because he was not ideologically committed to either and, while he wrote political theatre, he was always a moral dramatist. Perhaps one of the most interesting points of convergence between Camus and Buero is with regard to the justification of violence. Both disliked violence but were loath to discard it as an option in certain circumstances. Each stressed, however, that violence should never be easily undertaken. For both, violence was the source of moral as well as political dilemmas, and the moral took precedence over the latter. Accepting that violence might occasionally be the best option for the common good led them to perceive that morally that brought them closer to their enemies, who also claimed that violence was at times necessary for the greater good of society. The tortured must always remember that he is a potential torturer and seek to avoid this; the rebel must avoid the conversion of revolution into totalitarianism. Both writers recognized man’s desire for definition of values and roles in a society that often seemed absurd, and both acknowledged the difficulty of defining absolute values in such an irrational world. Camus’s rejection of revolutionary Marxism and his demand for a more moral approach were what set him apart from Sartre’s revolutionary stance, again a difference paralleled in the works of Buero and Sastre. When Camus criticized revolution, some claimed that he was defending the status quo, just as when Buero denounced provocation and imposibilismo, some considered him less than committed. Camus was also wary of the Marxist ideology that promised future satisfaction if present suffering is endured: an ideology similar in many ways to that espoused by the churches and many Nationalist creeds. He was reluctant to sanction the sacrifice of men to an ideology, and, like Buero, having abandoned the Communist Party, was not prepared to adopt any ideology other than his personal and moral one. Overall, then, Buero and others of the so-called Realist Generation believed that the role of art, and in particular that of drama, was to reflect and react to their

29

Edward Said, Culture and Imperialism (London: Vintage, 1994), p. 211.

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society and hopefully to inspire social change. Some, like Sastre, maintained that revolutionary drama could inspire revolution in society, while others believed in less radical transformation. One thing that emerges is their determination to bear testament to the problem of Spain and expose the distortions and falsifications of the Nationalist ideology. The presence of censorship meant that their choices were quite limited. Those who, like the Realists, believed that they had to reach an audience in order to effect social change had to find ways to avoid censorship of their message. They attempted to do this in a variety of ways.

The Language of Commitment Allusion, humour and innuendo were common evasive tactics, as was the recourse to history. The committed dramatists wrote serious non-conformist drama in which they highlighted the social and economic problems of contemporary Spain. The message that these problems arose from the political situation was obvious. They also employed historical characters or situations that were analogous to the contemporary situation to accuse and damn the corrupt regime; political statements were disguised as comments on another time or place. When they ventured on to historical ground, they avoided the glorification of Spain’s imperial past and instead sought to extract from past errors a lesson for the future. Theirs was an attempt at a committed social and political theatre, which presented the problems of modern Spanish society and offered no simple remedy but rather posed a question for the spectator to answer himself. The spectator was challenged to stir himself from his apathy and commit himself to the betterment of society. Later, in the 1960s, these dramas of commitment became more acute in their criticism of the regime, but the threat of administrative repercussions was ever-present. At times, such as with Buero’s La doble historia del doctor Valmy, this criticism was taken too far, and the resulting censorship was total. Szanto’s third category of propagandistic theatre is appropriate to describe at least some of the works of the Realists, and in particular, perhaps, some of Buero’s more committed plays. He defined the theatre of dialectical propaganda as ‘a theater of cognitive clarification’ and ‘a theater which attempts to demystify, by depicting separately, interactively, and always clearly, the basic elements which comprise a confused social or historical situation’. Its aim is to: demystify relationships between individuals and institutions, individuals and individuals, institutions and institutions, so as to show, first, the nature of passions and of economic and social laws, and second demonstrate methods by which human beings can control both themselves and their institutions.30

This theatre is an attack on the falsifications and distortions of an imposed and widely accepted ideology, and thus is the ideal means to attempt to raise social 30

Szanto, Theater and Propaganda, pp. 75, 76.

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and political awareness in a society such as Spain under Franco. This, in essence, is what Buero attempted to do, particularly in his historical dramas, which are also among his most political plays. As a theatre of demystification, it is centred on exposing the manipulation of language by the regime and the constant pressure to conform. In order to demystify, Buero engaged the ideological discourse of the regime and exposed the distortion of reality that it contained. It was thus often on the questions of language and silence that he and other committed writers of the period attacked the regime. Certainly Buero attempted to subvert and expose the regime’s idiom in his dramatic works, while also condemning the silence of the apathetic. He presented the official ideology in action and showed its effects on others. He parodied the language of the Francoists to show how it was motivated. While the king in Las Meninas refers to ‘los fundamentos inconmovibles del poder’, such absolutism is rejected by the character Velázquez, as it was by the dramatist (O.C. I: 932). Characters in Las palabras en la arena employ religious terminology to justify their bigoted actions, and Buero seemed to criticize all of those who sought to grant exclusive righteousness to a particular Church and then use this to exculpate wrongs. La tejedora de sueños (1950) delivers an analysis of the idiom of Nationalist ideology and mythology. In many of his works, Buero employed the language of the clergy, of artists, of writers, of doctors, and gave an interpretation of Spain’s reality that was at odds with the official version. He showed how language was used as a tool and manipulated to present a certain attitude as natural or evident. Thus, he highlighted the importance of the interpretation of language, and in plays such as Las cartas boca abajo (1957) and El sueño de la razón warned against the flatterers and prevaricators who tell people what they want to hear rather than what is true. In addition, in La doble historia del doctor Valmy and El sueño de la razón, the language of medicine is used to offer a diagnosis of a sick society. This same language was employed by Franco, when he referred to the communists as ‘el virus bolchevique’, and indeed in the Nationalist emphasis on ‘limpieza de sangre’.31 In Las Meninas and Las palabras en la arena, Buero illustrated how the language of patriotism and moral rectitude can be appropriated and given a new meaning by a ruling power in a way that contradicts the original or accepted meaning. Drawing on the Generation of ’98, he employed the notion of criticismo como patriotismo auténtico, but warned in his plays that this type of patriotism might be branded treasonous, while pernicious ruling ideologies, expressed in the language of patriotism and loyalty, might be rewarded. Again in Las palabras en la arena, Las Meninas and Diálogo secreto (1983), Buero demonstrated how the language of the expert could be used to confuse, rather than to clarify, an issue. The committed dramatists believed that they could inspire social change and the regime acted to prevent this. Nonetheless, the doubt remains as to whether

31

Vázquez Montalbán, Los demonios, p. 94.

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they were realistic in their aspirations. They certainly did not constitute the serious danger to the Francoist hegemony that they had hoped to be. David Ladra wrote of the committed dramatists: ‘Su obra sería como el grito airado, desgarrador, contra la injusticia. Pero también sería el grito perdido en el desierto.’32 But then as Bentley stresses: ‘Art is nearly always represented, in print, as having far more importance than it really possesses.’33 Szanto’s analysis of the purpose and possibilities of a socially and politically committed theatre is similarly more unsentimental than that of many other theorists. Recognizing that art cannot change society directly, he regards its role in society as, at most, to be that of demystifier: In the end only an understanding of the direct connection between material social circumstances and material social oppression will bring about change. Art can act, at best, as the indicator that makes oppression recognizable as a condition socially temporally imposed, that makes acceptance of oppression visible as a product of integration propaganda. Artworks can keep an oppressive condition from remaining accepted and acceptable as the natural state of the oppressed population. Time-bound art is often successful because it speaks to, attacks, agitates against specific (hence momentary) negative social circumstances which stand between immediate social reality and potentially recognizable historical reality.34

Ideology and Integrity In a repressive society, where the normal news media are heavily censored, writers often use their skills to give testament to a reality that is falsified elsewhere. Clearly, the committed writers in Spain believed that they had a duty to address the events in Spanish society that were not addressed elsewhere. The question remains, however, as to whether art thus allied to a political-testimonial role is good art, or if it becomes debased for the sake of politics. Another feature of art and literature in a repressive society is the censorship of the art itself. Doubts are raised about the possibility of producing quality art in a society that protects its dominant ideology using censorship. For some, literature produced in a repressive society is essentially compromised, as it is not written in perfect freedom. Others, such as Buero, insisted that there was no such thing as complete freedom for the artist, only degrees of compromise, and his entire body of work was based on this premise. The issue was further complicated in Spain by the opinion that some people were using censorship as an

32 David Ladra, ‘Reflexión, aquí y ahora, sobre el teatro comprometido’, Primer Acto, no. 51 (1964), 18–24 (p. 21). 33 Bentley, The Theatre of Commitment, p. 119. 34 Szanto, Theater and Propaganda, p. 169.

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excuse for their failure to produce good drama, or that they were using the unfortunate circumstances at home to further their careers abroad.35 The question of art and ideology is a complicated one and the crux of any examination of the relationship between an artist and a repressive regime. Buero’s commitment must be judged in relation to his artistic integrity. Was one achieved at the expense of the other? Is there a correct role for the artist to adopt in such circumstances? Accepting that the artist may have a political or social obligation, how far must he take it? At what point does the political threaten the artistic? What are the alternatives? It is surely the case that those who ally their art too closely to their politics or their ideological beliefs are in danger of subjecting their art to another form of censorship, one with different parameters on style, content and politics, but nevertheless not unlike that censorship applied by the dominant ideology they oppose. El papel social del arte es innegable; pero el exceso de racionalización en los contenidos de ese papel convierte al arte en algo sin entidad propia: en un mero glosador o servidor de ideologías u opiniones extraartísticas. Por ese camino, el panfleto nos acecha. Yo diría que el papel social del arte y su influencia son artísticos. (O.C. II: 625–6)

In an argument echoed in Buero’s defence of his own position under the Nationalist autocracy in Spain, Steiner wrote: ‘History instructs us that autocracy, whether in Augustan Rome, in renaissance Florence, or at the court of Louis XIV, can engender great art and literature.’36 However, he then asked: How far can absolutism go before art falls servile or silent? Where do we cross the line between the artist as conveyor of the ideals of his society and the artist as maker of mere propaganda? Just where is the difference between Andrew Marvel’s ode to Cromwell and Becher’s rhapsodies to Stalin and Ulbricht?

Literature written specifically for the purpose of reflecting or upholding a certain ideology is rarely considered worthy.37 The politicized dramas of the theatre of agitation from the Republican and Civil War periods, even those written by the likes of Alberti and Hernández, cannot be considered great art, although they might be deemed outstanding propaganda. The question of how committed literature can be before it becomes servile to a particular ideology is also the

35 Jaime Campmany asked: ‘¿Cuántas veces hemos cargado a la cuenta de la censura nuestra incapacidad de expresión justa y serena, nuestras propias cobardías, incluso nuestro extreñimiento literario?’ Quoted in ‘Al margen del teatro: la noticia y su eco. A vueltas con la crisis’, Yorick, no. 21 (1967), 2. Buero’s comments on the imposibilismo employed by certain dramatists in order to make a name for themselves outside Spain led to the polemic with Sastre in the 1960s (O.C. II: 627). 36 Steiner, Language and Silence, p. 395. 37 Steiner makes an exception for Brecht. Language and Silence, p. 339. However, as Buero pointed out, Brecht’s plays are much more than political propaganda (O.C. II: 693–701).

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essence of the posibilismo debate, which engaged Buero and Sastre and later Arrabal. For Sartre, and for the Spanish dramatists, the aim of the social theatre was to expose the gap between myth and reality and to demonstrate to the audience how society can be changed. Yet Jordan also notes Sartre’s insistence that: The writer should be careful not to alienate the reader by telling him what to think or involving him in an enforced participation. This not only put the reader’s freedom in jeopardy but also threatened the artistic integrity of the work and its effectiveness as a communication.38

Sastre understood that ‘hacer teatro a nivel político no significa, para un autor, convertir absolutamente su obra en una herramienta de protesta, denuncia o intervención inmediatas en el medio’.39 Nevertheless, while drawing heavily on the theories of Sartre, Sastre did not always respect them and would at times put ideology before art, both in his own work and in his comments on the work of others. His reaction to Buero’s Historia de una escalera is a case in point.40 Admitting much later that he did not care for the play when it came out, Sastre owned to having written a positive review of it for La Hora, based simply on what he knew of the politics of its author and an assumption that Buero would have been more explicit about the Civil War had this been possible. When Buero told him that he would have written it in the same way had there been no censorship, Sastre informed him that he therefore did not like the play. In the TAS (Teatro de Agitación Social) manifesto, and later in Anatomía del realismo, Sastre proclaimed that the social was superior to the artistic, yet he clearly believed that he could produce plays that were primarily social while maintaining artistic integrity. However, Haro Tecglen wrote of Sastre: ‘Se declara contrario al teatro de tesis y al teatro ideológico.’41 Mangini noted Sastre’s uncompromising attitude in his dealings with the regime and of his determination not to judge other writers for their political ideology, but rather for their work.42 Nonetheless, with Sastre, it is difficult to separate the politics from the work, and indeed on many occasions he has been quick to criticize other writers, not least Buero in the infamous posibilismo polemic, which was about politics and art. Cramsie was probably more accurate when she said that Sastre, like Lukács, refused to accept that there was more than one correct way to deal artistically with the social. She went on to say that Sastre was not justified in his criticism of

Jordan, Writing and Politics, p. 87. Alfonso Sastre, ‘Nivel político, pureza estética’, Cuadernos para el diálogo, Monograph no. 3, 37. 40 José Luis Vicente Mosquete, ‘Alfonso Sastre: un largo viaje desde Madrid a Euskadi’, Cuadernos el Público, no. 38 (1988), 5–27 (p. 14). 41 Eduardo Haro Tecglen, ‘Introducción a Alfonso Sastre’, Primer Acto, no. 6 (1958), 16–18 (p. 17). 42 Mangini, Rojos y rebeldes, p. 125. 38

39

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Buero. Although he was harsh and perhaps unfairly personal in his attack on Buero’s posibilismo, it must be admitted that Sastre raised some interesting and valid points about Buero’s commitment. Buero defended no particular political ideology, and while some may have gone too far in allying their art to an oppositional ideology, thus sacrificing their artistic integrity, the question remains as to whether Buero went far enough. Steiner asks: Should the poet cease? In a time when men are made to pipe or squeak their sufferings like beetles and mice, is literate speech, of all things the most human, still possible? Kafka knew that in the beginning was the word; he asks us: what of the end? 43

Apart from the problem of silence imposed by the censors and the repressive state apparatuses, it is worth considering the issue of silence as a response to repression. When words become the vehicle of lies, falsity, distortion and terror, is silence the answer? Does silence then become the strongest form of protest? Instead of allying himself to an oppositional ideology or employing euphemism and allusion to insinuate the truth, should the poet cease? For surely to remain and write in Spain was to work within the linguistic confines set by the regime, to accept them even, and thus to aid in their normalization. For those who wished to portray the reality, a culture of symbolism and allusion became a normalized feature of Spanish writing. Language is used to name, define and claim. It is often about ownership and control. Thus, a deliberately calculated silence might be a refusal to acknowledge such control. Unless, of course, it is interpreted as a sign of apathy, an unwillingness to challenge what is clearly wrong. It is worth noting, then, that besides Buero’s deliberate choice of language in the plays, there is also a deliberate portrayal of silence. This is the silence of the apathetic and the cowardly in El tragaluz (1966) and La doble historia del doctor Valmy; it is the silence of the posibilista in La detonación, and the silence of the ideologically inculcated in En la ardiente oscuridad; it is also the silence of the victim in Las cartas boca abajo, and of the provocative imposibilista in La detonación. Added to this is the silence of the victims whose voices have been taken from them by the censor, the torturer and the defender of state or faith. These silences, whether self-imposed or imposed by others, are of great significance in the works of Buero. Silence was as much a part of his dramatic idiom as the language he employed. Inevitably, this use of language and silence also offers problems to the reader or spectator. At times, silence was praised as the correct response in a difficult situation, yet at other times it was viewed by the dramatist as evidence of cowardice or apathy. Some have contended that Buero’s own use of silence was similarly erratic. It has been suggested that his use of symbolism,

43

Steiner, Language and Silence, p. 146.

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allusion and euphemism often confused rather than clarified and that by using such devices he allowed others to be silent. His work does not demand a response; it merely hopes for one. Arrabal for one suggested that Buero’s posibilismo was a negative silence when the dramatist could have used his not inconsiderable reputation to speak out for others. Nonetheless, regardless of the posibilismo employed and the care taken to fool or evade the censors, for the writer working in Francoist Spain, silence was primarily an imposition, not an option.

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Buero Vallejo and Theatre Censorship Buero Vallejo and the Ideology of Francoism Spanish drama was seriously affected by the ideological cultural state apparatus of censorship. While censorship under Franco was not wholly effective, it did cause great difficulties, particularly for the committed dramatist who wished to give testament to a reality other than that prop agated by the officials of the regime. The use of censorship as a protector of ideology is evident from the questions posed on an early censor’s report on publications: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

¿Ataca al dogma? ¿A la moral? ¿A la Iglesia o a sus ministros? ¿Al Régimen y a sus instituciones? ¿A las personas que colaboran o han colaborado con el Régimen? Los pasajes censurables, ¿califican el contenido total de la obra? Informe y otras observaciones.

The concern is clearly the preservation of the dominant ideology of the regime through the protection of the state apparatuses. The early report on theatre shows similar concerns, which were later incorporated in the 1964 legislation. The problem was the interpretation of such vague questions, and the censorship of a work of literature tended to depend upon who the censor was. This difficulty was addressed by Buero Vallejo in Las Meninas, a play highly critical of censorship and its arbitrary application. Interestingly, the censor Padre A. Avelino Esteban y Romero, who read the play, drew a parallel between his own actions and those of Velázquez’s detractors in Las Meninas. Reconozco que ‘ver’ las intenciones en una obra teatral se presta a fáciles defensas por parte del autor, que se convierte en acusador, como en la trama VELÁZQUEZ contra las interpretaciones de sus cuadros por parte de NIETO . . . De aquí el que sea muy delicado pronunciarse contra la obra por los motivos reales, disimulados en el parlamento fictício de los personajes teatrales. Decir que no son ellos los que hablan . . . sino el autor puede prestarse a que se diga que son los espectadores, y no el autor, los que ‘oyen’.1 1

AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.715 Exp. 296-60.

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So, just as Velázquez suggests in the play that lasciviousness is in the eye of the beholder of a beautiful nude, Buero also suggested that any negative commentary the censor detected in the play was read into it by the censor and not necessarily meant by the author. It is interesting to note that in a survey of forty theatre professionals carried out for Primer Acto, only twenty-four of them considered that censorship should be or could be completely eliminated. Miguel Bilbatua’s response was perhaps the most enlightened: ‘Debe suprimirse. Física y moralmente, la censura y, sobre todo, la estructura social que la sustenta y necesita.’2 None of the other respondents recognized or commented on the need to examine not only censorship but the ideological and social structures that allow it to exist. Many of the committed dramatists worked or attempted to work within the commercial theatre without any attempt to find or create a new audience, perhaps evidence in itself of the success and prevalence of the new ideology. Buero, while not supporting censorship, maintained that it did not completely impede the work of the artist. Others too, like Antonio Gala, chose to view censorship as a minor obstacle, which could be overcome, or at least accommodated, by the determined writer. La censura no puede matar nada, nunca ha matado nada . . . Entonces, ¿cómo es posible que pensemos que la censura nos ha martirizado? Si no lo hemos hecho mejor, no habrá sido por la censura, habrá sido por nosotros. Un autor debe saber engañar a la censura por medio de su conocimiento de esta lengua especial que comparte con su pueblo.3

This view is perhaps more than a little ingenuous. While Buero and Gala, for various reasons, may have had success despite the regime, the same cannot be said of all authors of the time, some of whom suffered greatly at the hands of the censors. That such censorship should have been accepted with relatively little complaint from Buero did little to dampen criticism of his stance. Some, such as Arrabal, suggested that Buero, as a prominent member of the theatre world, could have done more to help other dramatists. Buero however, contended that he did all he could: Diré que yo milité en la oposición ideológica a la censura y de una manera explícita, firmando documentos contra ella, quejándome de ella en declaraciones (dentro o fuera), porque consideraba que era lo adecuado y porque creía que la censura debía desaparecer.4

With Buero, the question was always one of degree of commitment. It is evident that his success was greater than that of most of his contemporaries, yet the regime’s censors were clearly aware of the political content of his works and 2 Manuel Gómez García, ‘1971: así piensan 40 profesionales de nuestra escena sobre censura, teatro social y teatro político en España’, Primer Acto, no. 131 (1971), 8–24 (p. 20). 3 Robert Louis Sheehan, ‘Tres generaciones miran la época postfranquista: Buero, Gala, Cabal’, Estreno, 13 (no. 1, 1987), 26–35 (p. 33). 4 Amell, ‘Conversación’, p. 129.

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sought to protect their ideology from his criticisms. It is thus expedient to examine what Buero said that others could not or did not say and also to examine which parts of his work were considered by the censors to be a serious threat and therefore worthy of censorship.

What Was Possible and What Was Not VELÁZQUEZ Mi mirada está limpia; la vuestra todo lo ensucia (O.C. I: 918).

Moral questions, questions of taste and political comments were all on occasion interpretable as allusions to modern Spain. Censorship operated most obviously at the level of language, although costumes and sets were also at times censored. References to bad taste, immorality, sexual conduct for purposes other than reproduction, and political and social ills were often eliminated in an attempt to reinforce the myth that these did not have a place in the society the regime claimed to represent. By denying them in works of art, the regime attempted to deny their existence. The hope was that they could be similarly silenced or ignored in society. Buero, as a committed dramatist, suffered at the hands of the regime’s censors and at times had to do battle with them in order to get his message across. Yet, although like others he was a victim of the Francoist hegemony, Buero was a relatively successful commercial dramatist during the years of the dictatorship. In essence, he proposed to discuss censorship, language and silence within the context of, and constraints imposed by, the dominant ideology. In Buero’s own view, not to do so would have been to join the ranks of the apathetic or the silenced. His contemporary, Alfonso Sastre, wanted to revolutionize the stage but failed. Buero set his sights lower and thus achieved more of what he set out to accomplish. Yet at times he too was silenced. Many of his plays were censored, and three plays, one of which was an adaptation, suffered lengthy prohibitions, while others were prohibited at certain times, but not at others. Another factor in Buero’s success relative to dramatists such as Sastre and Arrabal was his less controversial and confrontational attitude. This is clear from some of the documents held in the Archive. The correspondence from Buero seems to be much milder and more conciliatory in tone than that of Sastre, for example. He was both willing and able to negotiate modifications and thus from time to time managed to avoid serious cuts. Nevertheless, sometimes the censor did insist on the deletion of some element of the text judged to be morally, politically or socially unacceptable. Buero’s willingness to compromise is evidenced by an examination of some of the texts held in the Archive. Of the three cuts in Historia de una escalera agreed by the censors, two were salvaged by the dramatist.5 In Act II, Urbano,

5


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who sees the trade union movement as his salvation and who is critical of his erstwhile friend and co-dreamer, Fernando, is in conversation with Carmina, whom he hopes to marry. He states, in a criticism aimed at Fernando but with wider implications: ‘Más vale ser un triste obrero que un señorito inútil.’ The word señorito, with its critical connotations, was changed to soñador by Buero in consultation with the censors. Later, in Act III, Fernando and Urbano are discussing their once-cherished but now long-abandoned, dreams for a better future and escape from their miserable existence. Fernando mocks Urbano’s vision of progress through his links with the trade unions, reminding him of his claim that the unions were going to improve life for everyone, including Fernando. The reference to trade unions was crossed out in the censor’s copy, as was Urbano’s response, which was deemed unacceptable by the censors. FERNANDO Sí; como tú. También tú ibas a llegar muy lejos con el sindicato y la solidaridad. (irónico) Ibais a arreglar las cosas para todos . . . hasta para mí. URBANO

¡Sí! ¡Hasta para vosotros, los cobardes que nos habéis fallado!

The italicized phrase is a bitter reference to those people like Fernando who opted out of the struggle in the Civil War but who would have been quite happy to reap the benefits of a Republican victory. Urbano represented the ideology of the socialists and trade unionists. Fernando, on the other hand, is one of those characters most despised by the dramatist, who in failing to commit themselves to, or criticize, any particular ideology, allow the unjust Nationalist ideology to endure. Over the course of the play the spectator witnesses the fate of those who, like Urbano, had placed their faith in the defeated ideology, and it is clear that they do not form part of the development that is witnessed at the end of the play. Here, Buero negotiated a change to the more acceptable: ¡Sí! ¡Hasta para los zánganos y cobardes como tú! (O.C. I: 47). Unsurprisingly, Fernando’s negative reference to the failure of the sindicato was left unaltered by the censors. There were many other marks on the censor’s copy of the text and in some of the censors’ reports, yet these proposed cuts were not made. Some were probably rejected because of lack of unanimity among the censors, but other phrases were adapted or rescued by Buero in his dealings with the censors. Most of them referred to the work and aspirations of the unions, although at least one of the censors had also objected to the use of bad language and a threat of violence. Later, Buero agreed to two cuts in Un soñador para un pueblo, saying that, ‘me había excedido’ and believing that they did not sufficiently alter the meaning of the play and were therefore not worth risking prohibition for.6

6 Buero Vallejo, quoted in O’Connor, ‘Censorship in the Contemporary Spanish Theatre’, p. 87.

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The first was in a speech by the king in which he equated politicians with villains: REY ¿Sabes por qué eres mi predilecto, Leopoldo? Porque eres un soñador. Los demás son políticos; o sea malvados.7

Buero agreed to cut the slur on politicians and replaced the italicized phrase with the more acceptable: Los demás se llenan la boca de las grandes palabras y, en el fondo, sólo esconden mezquindad y egoísmo (O.C. I: 800). However, this did not alter the fact that the king was referring to politicians, so Buero had made his point, albeit more indirectly. He also complied with the censor’s demand to drop a reference to the Pardo, one of Carlos III’s palaces, which was now Franco’s official residence, for, as O’Connor suggests, it might have led to a comparison of the two, unflattering to Franco. Buero simply replaced the reference to the Pardo with aquí, rejecting, as historically inaccurate, the censor’s suggestion that he employ the word palacio. His readiness to compromise is again evident in his comments on his version of Brecht’s Mother Courage and her Children (Madre Coraje y sus hijos)(1962). He tolerado la supresión de ocho o diez frases no imprescindibles porque todo lo fundamental del texto resultó permitido. [. . .] En fin: que he sido posibilista, ni más ni menos que lo es todo el que estrena algo y acepta, por un lado, los cortes que el montaje revela inevitables, y, por otro lado, aquellas mutilaciones de censura que encuentre leves, porque no hubo otras o porque logró rescatar las más graves. He hecho lo que hacemos todos cuantos queremos ayudar a la evolución positiva de nuestra escena y nuestro público, aunque, a diferencia de otros, yo lo reconozco y le aplico su verdadero nombre. (O.C. II: 718)

Most of the censorship of Buero’s work was political in nature, although his occasional negative depiction of religious figures also gave cause for concern, as did his sporadic, at times intentional, lapses in taste. The regime did, in general, recognize the dramatist’s attacks on its ruling ideology and institutions contained in the plays. These included attacks on the Roman Catholic ideology of the regime, attacks on the repressive and the ideological state apparatuses and a condemnation of the apathetic masses who by their inaction allow one ideology to dominate.

Censorship of Morals and Language While all forms of censorship, moral, political and social were linked by the conservative, Catholic-inspired ideology of the regime, there were often times when each element was judged separately by an expert in the field. After the Establishment of the Junta de censura (1963), it was more common for a member 7

O’Connor, ‘Censorship in the Contemporary Spanish Theatre’, p. 87.

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of the clergy to give a verdict that reflected the Roman Catholic perspective. However, prior to its Establishment, plays were read by between one and three censors, none of whom was necessarily a member of the clergy. Yet even after the Establishment of the Junta de censura, the first three censors to read a text might not have included a priest among their ranks, although a plenary session of the Junta always did. En la ardiente oscuridad was read by a single censor in 1950. Gumersindo Montes Agudo, a lay censor, felt competent to declare that, while the open ending and the ambiguity of the play amounted to a dramatic defect, ‘le resta toda posible peligrosidad moral’.8 However, certain ordinary censors, not believing themselves qualified to give a moral judgement on a play, suggested that it should be read by a priest also. Furthermore, on occasion, a priest was called upon to write a moral report, as opposed to a simple censorship report. Thus, in 1958, Las palabras en la arena was the subject of a moral report, even though the play had previously been authorized (Appendix IV). Other plays that attracted such reports include his versions of Hamlet (1960) and Mother Courage and her Children. Similarly, on occasion a priest remarked in his report that, while he could give a moral judgement on the play in question, he was not the competent authority to deliver a political assessment. It also happened sometimes, such as with Sastre’s El pan de todos (1953), that the censorship board felt the need to consult a different branch of the state apparatus to gain a purely political reading of a play. In the case of Buero’s first staged play, Historia de una escalera, which was submitted to the censorship offices in October 1949, censorship was both political and moral. Yet even then the censors evidently saw themselves as not merely guardians of morals and political correctness, but also, judging from their comments, as literary critics. Indeed, they were required to comment on the literary merit of the play under scrutiny. One of the censors of Historia de una escalera, Gumersindo Montes Agudo, while acknowledging that the play was good, went on to say that it was ‘servido por pluma sin nervio o pasión de artista’. Among its literary defects were listed monotony, narrowness of theme, slowness of pace and artificiality, but the play’s ‘perfecta ambientación’ was praised. Overall, the censor found the play to be morally sound and politically uncontroversial, yet predicted a poor reception for it owing to the slow pace and ‘porque es demasiado cerebral’.9 Another of the censors, Emilio Morales de Acevedo, found the literary worth of Historia de una escalera to be commendable, yet decided that it could only benefit from the suppressions he went on to suggest. Padre Mauricio de Begoña, while granting that the play was free of immorality, was nonetheless clearly unimpressed by it and said of it, ‘carece de ideal, de aliento y de toda inspiración espiritual’ and was therefore depressing. While not attacking the Roman Catholic ideology, neither did the play support it. He suggested that with a few specified cuts it might be made suitable for adult viewing. In the end, thanks to Buero’s willingness to deal with the censors, solutions were found for the politically 8 9

AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.423 Exp. 473-50. AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.418 Exp. 433-49.

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motivated cuts, and the only cut made was on the grounds of morality and bad taste. The cut made was an extract from a conversation between two characters, Paca and Generosa, who stand in the hallway as the man from the Gas Company comes around to collect the dues. The two women are discussing financial hardship, and Paca makes a joke of their poverty, saying that her husband and herself now go to bed in the dark, but that at their age, there is nothing to see anyhow. Generosa is shocked by the blue tinge of the comment and the ensuing dialogue caused offence. PACA Ni que fueramos frailes. GENEROSA Querrá decir monjas. PACA Lo mismo da. Todos se visten por arriba.

This lack of respect for the clergy, despite the fact that Generosa is just as shocked and disapproving as the censors were, was enough to have the dialogue suppressed. Shortly afterwards, in September 1949, Las palabras en la arena, a one-act play, based on the biblical story in John 8: 1–11, was submitted to the Dirección General de Cinematografía y Teatro by the Amigos de los Quintero theatre company. The censor described it as ‘bellísima por su entonación dramática, brío poético y juego de imágenes’.10 It was authorized for publication by Editorial Alfil in December 1951. However, when Ramiro Bascompte Cirici, director of the Teatro Candilejas in Barcelona, applied for approval to stage the play during Holy Week 1958, it was denied. When the application was received, the play was made the subject of an informe moral by Padre Avelino Esteban y Romero. Although the work contained no errors and was undeniably biblical in theme, the censor objected to the subject of adultery. The emphasis on the adulteress in the piece merely reflects the theme of the parable. It would appear to have been a no-win situation for the author, whose Gospel-based work was found morally reprehensible by the over-zealous censorship authorities. The Director General communicated to the theatre company that the play could not be authorized for staging during Holy Week (Appendix V). Ironically, a possible political reading of the play with its implicit criticism of a corrupt and hypocritical dominant elite, ‘pervertida hasta el tuétano de los huesos’, reminiscent of the pillars of respectable Spanish society in Franco’s time, was not identified (O.C. II: 351). Padre Villares, one of the censors who read Las Meninas, could not fault the play on a moral, historical or religious basis because the Inquisition’s investigation of the artist’s painting of a nude Venus is historical fact.11 However, Padre A. Avelino Esteban y Romero expressed some reservations, having come across some passages, ‘que me ofrecen sugerencias tendenciosas’. He went on to cite nine pages from Part I and a further five pages from Part II, particularly Velázquez’s dialogue 10 11


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with Nieto in the presence of the king. He also read into the negative portrait of the unlikable Dominican priest mischievous intent on the dramatist’s part. Buero’s first adaptation of the work of another playwright was his version of Carlos Gorostiza’s El puente (1952). While the censors seem to have liked the play, they objected to the emphasis on social class. There are also some passages marked in the censor’s copy of the text, including an argument between the character, Elena, and her mother about the former’s determination not to have children. Perhaps it was this and other examples of filial ingratitude and of hardship that led to the prohibition of the play.12 While it obviously contains some social commentary and clearly goes against the Roman Catholic ideology of the regime, the play does not seem to be sufficiently radical to warrant the treatment it received. Nonetheless, it is the first of the plays associated with Buero to have been banned. Also linked to the idea of moral censorship was the censorship of bad language and bad taste in general.13 Certain plays were censored because of the language employed by the dramatist, which was judged to be in bad taste. Buero described the artist’s relationship with censorship as a war: ‘Es posible dar la batalla: a veces se pierde, pero a veces se gana’ (O.C. II: 791). In his battle he occasionally inserted barbaridades in the text as a decoy to divert the censor’s attention from a more subtly expressed political or social point he wished to make. He claimed that it was a very successful device, and that almost always what was censored was what he had inserted for that purpose. José Osuna gave the example of El tragaluz: En el caso de El tragaluz, por ejemplo, la frase más ‘prohibible’ de la obra era la de uno de los experimentadores que decía: ‘la acción ocurrió en un país ya desaparecido llamado España’; esto lo dejaron pasar y en aquel momento, con la gran tendencia nacionalista de la España una grande y libre, eterna . . ., nos quedamos absolutamente sorprendidos pero pasó porque habíamos puesto otras cosas para que las quitaran.14

If, on the other hand, as did happen on rare occasions, a particularly lenient, or incompetent, censor left the bait untouched, Buero himself removed it from the text. Buero admitted that: ‘los censores no eran tan brutos como luego se han dicho. Había de todo, pero, por lo general, se trataba de gente que jugaba su propio juego y que, cuando había que ser implacables, lo eran.’15 At times, the AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 78.576 Exp. 323-52. Article 13 of the Orden 9 febrero 1963, Normas de censura cinematográfica, states: ‘Se prohibirán las expresiones coloquiales y las escenas o planos de carácter íntimo que atenten contra las más elecentales [sic] normas del buen gusto.’ p. 3930. These norms were adopted for the theatre in 1964. 14 José Osuna, ‘Mi colaboración con Buero’, in Buero Vallejo: cuarenta años, pp. 55–9 (pp. 55–6). 15 José Luis Vicente Mosquete, ‘Antonio Buero Vallejo, sonrisas y lágrimas: entrevista’, Cuadernos el Público, no. 13, Monograph: ‘Regreso a Buero Vallejo’ (1986), 6–21 (p. 17). The use of bait is also mentioned in Tina Sainz, ‘Antonio Buero Vallejo: un intelectual que nunca dio la espalda al compromiso’, Mundo obrero, 20–26 February 1981, pp. 26–8 (p. 27). 12 13

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censors could also be indulgent. Some were perfectly aware of the game but, ever mindful of Spain’s image abroad, they at times chose to ignore it. One of his early plays, Una extraña armonía, which has never been staged and was only recently published in the Obra Completa, was the subject of an application for staging in December 1956. The censor who read the play in January 1957 deemed it to be ‘descarnada y amarga’ and recommended a cut on page 31 of Act II.16 The phrase ‘¡Sucia perra salida!’ was an example of unacceptable language and bad taste contrary to the regime’s image of the language of a traditional, respectful citizen of the New State. Yet the censors’ efforts to guard against bad language were not always successful, or even reasonable. Such was the case with Historia de una escalera, which opened at the Teatro Español in Madrid on 14 October 1949. At the dress rehearsal, the censors objected to the use of the term zorra in Acts II and III but, irrationally, authorized the use of the word golfa in its place.17 Historia de una escalera was published with the same alterations, but without further difficulty, in 1950. Even when in 1961 Buero translated the canon of classical drama, Hamlet, it was cut.18 However, it was finally authorized and staged by José Tamayo in the Teatro Español. The cuts made by the censors (as opposed to those imposed by time limits) were presumptuously described by the censor Bartolomé Mostaza as the ‘suavización de algunos pasajes de diálogo crudo’. In the case of La doble historia del doctor Valmy, the censor, Padre González Fierro, found the torture scenes acceptable as, ‘ya está muy visto en cine y teatro y no creo moleste a nadie que vea la obra con recta intención’, yet expressed a desire to rid the play, as far as possible, of references to impotence, which he seemed to consider a much more sensitive issue.19 Suppressions recommended included such offensive material as Mary’s statement on page 77 of Act II, that ‘Danielín está empapado’, references to the first case history and Daniel’s conversations with the doctor about sex and impotence. Later, more applications were made to stage the same play, and many more censors betrayed similar concerns about the language employed and expressions of bad taste including references to the sexual act, impotence and, bizarrely, the word ‘hormonas’. Other censors, less concerned with matters of taste, reserved their criticism for the political aspects of the play. Even as late as the 1970s, the censors sought to protect the public from exposed flesh and other demonstrations of bad taste. Objections made by a censor of Llegada de los dioses (1971), mostly descriptions of women and girls in beachwear, were ignored in the published version, with the exception of the semidesnudez of Inés and Faby mentioned in the stage directions on page 37 of the censor’s copy, which does not appear in the published play (O.C. I: 1359).20 While most of the problems offered by El sueño de la razón were political 16 17 18 19 20

AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 78.726 Exp. 1-57. O’Connor, ‘Censorship in the Contemporary Spanish Theatre’, p. 85. AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 78.858 Exp. 246-61. AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.779 Exp. 147-64. AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-57 Ca. 87.612.

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in nature, the priest and some of the other censors demonstrated concern about the inclusion of a scene in which the character Leocadia is raped.21 Of course, it is difficult in this case to separate the moral from the political, as the perpetrator of the crime is a representative of law and order, a member of the Crown forces. A much later example of offensive language is to be found in La Fundación. Almost all of the censors objected to the crude reference to masturbation on page 95.22 This, and the stage directions suggesting a sexual encounter between Tomás and his imagined girlfriend, Berta, went against the traditional values propagated by the regime. Interestingly, some of the censors were more concerned by this than by the very political nature of the play, which suggests that Buero’s ideas about distracting the censor may have worked on occasion.

Political Censorship While different censors had different priorities, their work formed a unified whole that sought to protect the various apparatuses of the dominant ideology. Aventura en lo gris (1949) was one of the plays prohibited by the regime. Buero termed the play ‘un modestísimo drama insobornado e insobornable, tal vez mediocre, pero sincero; de un grito más, débil como mío, en favor del hombre y de su dolorida humanidad, siempre en peligro y tantas veces pisoteada’ (O.C. II: 374). In 1951, the Consejo Nacional de Teatro seemed set to stage it at the María Guerrero theatre in Madrid, but this attempt fell through. The following year it was the subject of another application. In his report in December 1952, Bartolomé Mostaza was quite positive and concluded: ‘Carece de sentido religioso. No ofrece pelígro político.’23 In January 1953, it was read by Gumersindo Montes Agudo who, while acknowledging its merits, found the play to be confused, yet he saw no reason to prohibit it. It was also read by Padre Mauricio de Begoña, although his report is missing from the file. At this stage, there is no evidence that the play was staged, or even authorized, despite the censors’ lack of objections. In November 1953, Huberto Pérez de la Ossa, the director of the Infanta Beatriz theatre company, made an application to stage the play. This time it was read by new censors, although the previous censors were called on again to give their verdict. Francisco Ortiz Muñoz found the play to be both confusing and pessimistic, and predicted little interest on the part of the public. He too believed that it could be authorized, although he suggested some cuts on five pages of Act I and on one page of Act III. Sr Morales de Acevedo, who also read the play, commented that it suffered from the influence of foreign theatre, and classed it as ‘obra insincera, muy trabajada y pretenciosa, escrita al modo de la nueva e incoherente literatura mundial’. Despite this, he did not object to its authorization. AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-55 Ca. 85.254 Exp. 259-69. AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-56 Ca. 85.495 Exp. 145-73. Lino’s phrase Vamos que se la meneaba, was cut, undoubtedly for reasons of vulgarity, and does not appear in the published version (O.C. I: 1468). 23 AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 78.623 Exp. 395-53. 21 22

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On his second reading of the play Sr Mostaza agreed with the cuts suggested by the other censors. Sr Montes Agudo advocated its authorization, although he wrote: ‘Nos hemos detenido especialmente en la consideración de posibles referencias políticas, que existen, evidentemente – por clima, situación y dialáctica se supieran las horas postreras de Mussolini.’ The regime, in post-war Europe shaped and dominated by those who had defeated the Axis powers, was still engaged in an effort to purge itself of links to, and reminders of, its former allies. Padre Mauricio de Begoña concluded that ‘religiosa y moralmente no ofrece dificultad’, but recognized that he was not the competent authority to judge it on any other criteria; this did not prevent him from adding: ‘juzgo que se exponen principios correctos’ and recommending its authorization. Despite these positive reports and the fact that no censor advocated prohibition, Aventura en lo gris was banned on 5 January 1954. However, it was authorized for publication in the theatre journal Teatro the same year. Buero claims that he never knew for certain the reasons for the prohibition and can only surmise that it might have been the criticism of war and Civil War that can be inferred from the play.24 However, the censorship documents seem to suggest that the censors’ initial concerns were on the grounds of bad taste rather than political deviance. The censors also saw fit to authorize publication of the play by Ediciones Puerta del Sol in 1955, despite the continued prohibition of the work in commercial theatres. In a communiqué from José María Ortiz, Jefe de la Sección de Teatro to J. Ubeda, Jefe de la Sección de Inspección de Libros, dated 21 July 1955, Ortiz stated that the regime might tolerate the authorization of the play in non-commercial theatres. There is no suggestion that this information was passed on to the author. By now Buero had abandoned his plans to find another company to stage the play, as a French play, La maison de la nuit by Thierry Maulnier, which was similar in theme and plot, had been staged recently in Madrid. However, Buero continued to value the play, and he revised it and resubmitted it to the censor’s office in 1963. In the newer version some names were changed, but the criticism of war and tyranny was as harsh as ever. Certainly Sebastián Bautista de la Torre seems to have given it a more political reading, although he noted Buero’s caution in dealing with the theme of dictatorship and believed that the play suffers for it. He concluded ‘Puede autorizarse sin ningún reparo’, but suggested that those viewing the rehearsal should carefully monitor the dream sequence. Interestingly, in such a political play, the concern would seem to have been more a moral than a political one. Arcadio Baquero, without a trace of irony, found nothing to warrant the prohibition of the play, which he classed as ‘una crítica de las guerras, a la política fanática’. Victor Aúz Castro similarly found no problems and the play was authorized without cuts for over 18s, although it was judged unsuitable for broadcast. The mood in Spain had changed, and the Civil War and Franco’s dalliance with the Axis powers seemed distant; the MIT was promoting a progressive image of apertura and Buero’s 24 Amador Rivera and Santiago de las Heras, ‘Encuesta sobre la censura. 25 autores cuentan sus experiencias con la censura’, Primer Acto, no. 166 (1974), 4–11 (p. 9).

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play benefited from the mood swing. Once again, the treatment of this play seems to highlight what was not spotted: the censors seem not to have seen any parallels between the political situation in Surelia and that in Spain. Forbidden by the Provincial Delegates in two cities, Un soñador para un pueblo was nevertheless authorized elsewhere.25 This was the first of Buero’s so-called historical dramas, and it deals with Spain in the time of Carlos III and more specifically, with the Italian-born Minister, Esquilache, whose attempts at reform were rejected in a popular rising in Madrid in Easter Week 1776. In the play, the revolt was orchestrated by manipulative traditionalists whose privileged position in society was threatened by this social reform. As with most censorship of Buero’s work, the offensive passages were political in nature and could be interpreted as slanderous attacks on the Franco regime and not just a criticism of historical figures. Originally the censors suggested cuts, some of which Buero accepted and some of which he rejected. The censors objected to an Act I scene in which the king declares in a dialogue with Esquilache that the Spanish people are like children who fail to recognize something done for their own good and seem to prefer tyranny to reform (O.C. I: 799). Buero refused to allow the scene to be cut, and the censors eventually authorized it. According to Härtinger, Un soñador para un pueblo was authorized with cuts on 9 December 1958. Based on his reading of the files, he claims that O’Connor’s assertion that Buero agreed to certain modifications with the censors may be true. However, he does not rule out the possibility that the passages missing from the published text may have been removed by the author independently of the censors: ‘Ob der Autor diese Textstellen aus eigener Motivation oder auf Druck der Zensoren gestrichen hat, läßt sich aus den Unterlagen nicht rekonstruieren.’26 When the play was submitted to the censor by the Escelicer publishing company in November 1959, it was authorized. José Tamayo Rivas, representing the Teatro Español, sought permission in November 1960 to stage Las Meninas in the 1960–61 season.27 The play features Velázquez as protagonist and deals with art censorship, corruption in the court and the exploitation of the Spanish people by their political masters. The censor José María Cano considered it ‘una obra muy digna por su densidad psicológica y su profunda densidad dramática’, and for its ‘excelente calidad literaria’, yet he did pick out ‘posibles alusiones a problemas actuales’, including the portrait of a corrupt court and particularly the opportunistic marquis. 25 Unfortunately, the documents in the Archive relating to this play are unavailable for consultation, owing to their poor condition. Therefore, secondary sources must be relied upon, such as the information provided by P. W. O’Connor, who viewed the documents in 1966, and Heribert Härtinger, who viewed them in 1996. 26 Heribert Härtinger, Oppositionstheater in der Diktatur. Spanienkritik im Werk des Dramatikers Antonio Buero Vallejo vor dem Hintergrund der franquistischen Zensur, Studia Litteraria, Band 8 (Wilhelmsfeld: Gottfried Egert, 1997), pp. 156–7. Whether the author of these passages deleted them for his own motives, or as the result of pressure from the censors, cannot be determined from the documents. 27 AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.715 Exp. 296-60.

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He noted the criticism of Inquisitional censorship and took it as a reference to state censorship with the suggestion that ‘la mirada “sucia” del censor’ is responsible for much of what is censored. He found criticism of the Church in the portrait of a Dominican friar unwilling to condemn hypocrisy and lies. Moreover, he noted that the symbol of the people, Pedro Briones, dies at the hands of the regime’s minions and, finally, that the hero of the piece, the pure, honourable, gifted painter, Velázquez, rebels and denounces the hypocrisy and corruption that surrounds him. However, after listing all of these possible parallels with Franco’s time and the implicit criticism of the corruption of the regime, the silent and despicable collusion of the Church and the suffering of the people at their hands, this censor decided that ‘sería mucha complicación tomar a pecho esas posibles analogías’, and recommended authorization of the play without cuts for over 16s. He also believed, unlike many other censors, that it was fit for broadcast. Cano believed that it was all too easy to find analogies, symbols and similarities in works that would link them to modern-day Spain and, surprisingly, stated his belief that ‘los juicios deben ser más objetivos’. The final censor, Gumersindo Montes Agudo, also noted the possibly controversial references to the Inquisition and to the Crown, but overall, found it worthy of authorization. Las Meninas was finally authorized on 15 November 1960 for over 18s and with cuts on five pages, but it was prohibited for broadcast. Criticisms of the regime and discussion of social problems were deemed acceptable once they were made universal rather than specific to Spain. Given that the censors were so aware of the parallels drawn by Buero between the corrupt court of Felipe IV and the corrupt regime of Franco, and his criticisms of the Church and censorship, it is perhaps surprising that so little was cut; the mere deletion of the word España did little to lessen the impact of the overall message, and it was still perfectly obvious that Spain, both past and present, was the subject of the piece. O’Connor noted that the play was very successful in Madrid and seemed destined for an extended tour of the provinces with the state-sponsored Festivales de España. However, its production was prohibited on the grounds of its failure to represent ‘difusión popular de la cultura’.28 It was authorized for publication with cuts in 1961. In 1962, Buero completed an adaptation of Brecht’s Mother Courage and her Children. It was perhaps an unexpected choice for the usually cautious dramatist. However, the file does not contain information about the authorization or otherwise of the play at this stage.29 Nor does it contain any censors’ reports from this year, apart from a moral report. This would suggest that either the application was later withdrawn, or that the play was the subject of a silencio administrativo. Included in the file is a two-page report on Bertolt Brecht, dated 15 March 1958. The report notes Brecht’s attacks on bourgeois capitalism and his revolutionary Marxism; his theatre is condemned as ‘absolutamente racionalista, 28 29

O’Connor, ‘Censorship in the Contemporary Spanish Theatre’, p. 89. AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.724 Exp. 227-62.

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frío, despiadado’. The report also notes that, of the dramatist’s opus, Mother Courage and her Children was the least political play; yet, according to the author of the report, this fact simply highlights the dramatist’s ideas about ‘la malignidad de la despreciable sociedad actual’. Moreover, the report observes that, ‘desde el punto de vista moral, la obra es realmente terrible.’Another application to stage Buero’s version of the play was made in 1964, and the director was the influential José Tamayo. Madre Coraje y sus hijos (Mother Courage and her Children), because of its author and, given the circumstances because of the adaptor also, was the subject of intense censorial scrutiny. It was subjected to a plenary session of the Junta de censura at which, of the sixteen censors, fifteen recommended its authorization and only one advocated prohibition. Cuts suggested by many censors included the elimination of derogatory references to God, soldiers, Catholicism and the clergy. Marcelo Arroita Jáuregui Alonso, who recommended the prohibition of the play, noted in his report that if it were merely an anti-war play, he would not object to it, but as it was ‘anti-militarista’ and ‘anti-religiosa’ as well as ‘rotundamente marxista’, pessimistic and divisive, he found it unacceptable. Yet despite this, he concluded: ‘Todo ello no supone un juicio adverso sobre sus calidades dramáticas y literarias, que son extraordinarias, y que tienen adecuado reflejo en esta versión española.’ The moral report penned by Padre A. Avelino Esteban y Romero is remarkable for the lack of offence taken. Having highlighted the protagonist’s lax morals and political opportunism, he concluded: ‘Tal vez si hubiese de señalar tesis en la obra, destacaría el posible sentido pacifista que encierra su trama, al presentar la inutilidad de las guerras, el negocio que suponen para muchos de los que las provocan.’ He pointed out that the priest’s attempts to seduce the protagonist might be suppressed, ‘teniendo en cuenta la sensibilidad del público español ante escenas de este índole, en referencia a los sacerdotes’. He himself, however, seemed unshocked, demonstrating an attitude quite typical of the censors who, in the name of the common good, protected the people from harm. As in Buero’s Un soñador para un pueblo, the populace are viewed as intellectually weak, a bewildered herd in need of strong leadership. The play was authorized with nine cuts in April 1964. However, a letter from Tamayo in October 1966, the month of its estreno in Madrid, suggests that it had not been staged in the interim. Moreover, the play, like his version of Hamlet, had to be further cut to accommodate the Spanish theatre timetable. La doble historia del doctor Valmy is a direct attack on one of the repressive ideological apparatuses used by the Spanish dictatorship. The structure of the play demands that the spectator recognize it as such and elect to believe or disbelieve Buero’s exposé of this ideology. The play is critical of torture as a weapon but also of the ideological concept of patriotism, exposed here, as in Las Meninas, as falsified. Buero wrote La doble historia del Doctor Varga (later renamed La doble historia del doctor Valmy) in 1964, and a theatre company expressed an interest in staging it. However, the censors who read the play were not forthcoming with a verdict. La doble historia del doctor Valmy focuses on two separate, but related, case studies, which are enacted on stage from the case

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notes of the doctor. The second of these is the centre of most of the dramatic action. It is the story of Daniel and Mary Barnes, who live with their child and Daniel’s mother in a city in the fictional land of Surelia. Daniel, a member of the security police, is involved in the detention and torture of political prisoners. While ‘just doing his job’, he tortured and castrated a prisoner called Aníbal Marty, who died as a result. Daniel’s psychosomatic impotence is a consequence of this incident. His wife Mary who, like his mother, has lived in comfortable and wilful ignorance of his actions, is enlightened by Lucila, the dead man’s widow, and is repulsed and outraged by her husband’s actions, demanding that he act positively and leave his job. When Daniel eventually sees past the propaganda and attempts to leave his job, he is threatened by Paulus who considers his behaviour to be treasonous. Paulus, ostensibly a family friend and father figure for Daniel, is a former beau of Daniel’s mother who may be taking revenge on Daniel for his mother’s rejection of him. Daniel’s failure to leave his job leads Mary to kill him in a negative action that will lead to her own demise and possibly ruin her son’s life, as he will be left in the care of his grandmother whose decision to ignore the truth of the situation already damaged her son. In the end, both Mary and Lucila are arrested by her husband’s former colleagues and are destined to become two more victims of a brutal regime. The cycle of terror can be halted only by those willing to open their eyes, recognize the problem and then fight to change it. Mary took the first step and will suffer for it. However, the fate of the other Marys and the next generation is determined by the characters of the first case history, the ‘normal’ couple, dressed like other theatre-goers, who refuse to accept the truth of the Barnes’s story, preferring the official rose-tinted version of events, that everything is fine and that the police and their political superiors always act in the best interests of the populace. The play is a direct challenge to members of the audience to open their eyes and accept responsibility for their actions or inaction. It emerges that the ‘normal’ couple were neighbours of the Barnes family, whose denial of the reality of the events described in the second case history is diagnosed by Doctor Valmy as delusional behaviour. Buero, through Doctor Valmy, thus commented on the sanity, or otherwise, of a society that is prepared to tolerate torture in the name of the common good and suggests that torture damages, not only its victims but the torturer and society at large. Mary’s action, which could be seen as a type of madness, is a further comment on sanity in a world gone mad. It is thus an attack on the collusion of the public, which is a necessary element in the upholding of any ideology, and particularly in the extraordinary success of the Francoist ideology in Spain; it is also a frank condemnation of police brutality and torture, at a time when this was a topical issue in Spain. In all, then, it is hardly surprising that the play did not make it past the censors. In July 1964, the resident company at the Teatro de la Comedia applied to the MIT for permission to stage La doble historia del doctor Varga, as it was then called. The play was read by three censors, Padre Luis González Fierro, Bartólome Mostaza and José Luis Vázquez Dodero. Bartolomé Mostaza, like Padre González Fierro, deemed the play suitable for over 18s, once the many cuts

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were made. Neither considered it suitable for broadcast. The third censor, José Luis Vázquez Dodero, made similar recommendations. The verdict of the censorship board, which met on 28 July 1964, was that the play could be authorized with cuts for over 18s but not for broadcast. The suggested suppressions dealt mostly with matters sexual. Another prerequisite for authorization was the ‘extranjerización de los nombres de los personajes’ and the date proposed for the staging would also be taken into consideration.30 However, the theatre company, not having received a definitive answer, withdrew its proposal to stage the play. Later that same year, Alfonso Paso wrote to the Director General de Cinematografía y Teatro, on behalf of the Ramón Clemente theatre company, seeking permission to stage La doble historia del doctor Valmy in Madrid’s Reina Victoria theatre in early 1965. He had written to Manuel Fraga two months previously, in August, to announce his plans to stage the play, still referred to as La doble historia del doctor Varga, in Barcelona in October 1964 and in Madrid in early 1965. Unofficially, he had been told that the play would be authorized once some minor cuts had been made. One of these changes was the renaming of the play so that it now referred to Dr Valmy and not Dr Varga. The newly named play was then sent to the censors once again for a verdict. The first meeting of the Junta de Censura on 3 October 1964 involved the same three censors who had read it in July. Padre Fierro referred the Board back to his earlier verdict and added that the first case study should be eliminated. Sr Mostaza also proposed the elimination of the two characters of the first case history and the references to sex and impotence on pages 23 and 25 of Act I. Sr Vázquez Dodero agreed with the other censors and added to their verdicts a recommendation that further examples of bad taste be censored. This time it was decided to submit the play to the rigours of a full censorship board, and the play was dispatched to a further seven censors before a meeting of the Junta was convened on 27 October 1964. Once again, the censors found rather a lot to occupy them. Sebastián Bautista de la Torre disapproved of the name of the imaginary country, Surelia, for it contained the word sur, and therefore could be taken to imply that such police abuses did not take place in the North or in the Centre (of Europe?): ‘Aunque creemos que en Nortelia o Centralia se dan más estos casos sería mejor que no se jugase con ningún punto cardinal y se diere un nombre totalmente neutro.’ In short, by now the number of recommended cuts had increased and the entire first case history had been blackballed. The characters’ names were to be changed to foreign names and the name Surelia changed. In an uncharacteristic expression of imposibilismo, Buero refused to accept the cuts and, as a result, the play was not authorized. In their reports on the play, not one of the censors refers to the censorship norms on which they based their verdicts. 30 ‘No se expidera guía de censura hasta conocer la fecha de su estreno para decidir una vez en posesión de este dato sobre la conveniencia o no de otorgar la documentación dada las características de la obra en relación con su posible negativa interpretación en el caso de coincidir su estreno con detenciones y condenas de extremistas o autores de atentados.’ AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.779 Exp. 147-64.

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Later, in February 1966, Armando Moreno Gómez, representing the Nuria Espert Theatre company, sought permission to stage the play in September of that year. This prompted the Director General de Cinematografía y Teatro to write to the Minister, Manuel Fraga, on 15 March 1966. In his letter, the Director General referred to the earlier failure to authorize the play: Esta obra fue presentada a la censura hace ya años. La Junta entendió que se podía autorizar con los cortes que figuran en el texto, impuestos tanto por lo delicado del tema, como por sus posibles implicaciones políticas. En atención a estas, entendió, además, que no debía dar dictamen definitivo sobre la obra hasta conocer la fecha en que fuera a estrenarse, teniendo en cuenta la posibilidad de que, circunstancias determinadas la hicieran peligrosa en ese momento. Por consiguiente, no hubo dictamen oficial de censura.31

He noted that Buero had alluded to the play in the press and had reiterated his intention not to accept any cuts. It is likely that this act of defiance on the dramatist’s part influenced the ensuing decision to ban the play. It was prohibited by the Minister on 15 March 1966, in accordance with Article 22 of the Reglamento de Régimen Interior (Appendix VI).32 One year later, in February 1967, Juan Calet Pérez, representing the Ismael Merlo theatre company, sent an application to the MIT requesting authorization to stage La doble historia del doctor Valmy. Permission was refused in a letter dated 13 March 1967. La doble historia del doctor Valmy was first published in the United States in 1967 in both Spanish and English in the September issue of Artes Hispánicos. An English version, by Farris Anderson, was premiered at the inauguration of the Gateway Theatre, Chester (England), on 22 November 1968. In Chester the play received mixed reviews, mostly good, in the press, although some people walked out of the Gala premiere in disgust, leading one to conclude that perhaps Buero was right and voluntary blindness is a universal rather than a merely Spanish failing. The play was not staged in Spain until after the death of Franco, and even then only after much deliberation by the censors. El tragaluz is a social drama with futuristic, science fiction-inspired elements. The action of the play is introduced by two researchers from the future as a type of virtual reality trip back through time to late twentieth-century Madrid. There are references to the immediate aftermath of the Civil War and the hardships endured by one particular family as a result of their post-war experiences. It is Letter dated 15 March 1966. AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.779 Exp. 147-64. Artículo 22 – Excepcionalmente, el Presidente podrá dejar en suspenso el acuerdo del Pleno y solicitar del Ministro de Información y Turismo su revisión por una Comisión especial constituída al efecto para cada caso por las personas que el Ministro designe. Éste, por propia iniciativa, podrá ordenar dicha revisión e incluso, en casos extraordinarios, acordar por sí mismo, en el momento en que especiales circunstancias lo aconsejen, la decisión que considere oportuna en orden a la autorización o prohibición de las obras o a las medidas excepcionales a que se condicionen la autorización. Orden 6 febrero 1964, de la Junta de Censura de Obras Teatrales y las Normas de Censura, p. 2506. 31 32

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a tale of persecution, abuse and exploitation and questions not only the exploiter, but the victims, some of whom exempt themselves from action. The Archive contains copies of the text, with four cuts recommended by the censors in Part I (pages 31–2, 33, 35, 41) and two in Part II (pages 13, 45), with other minor marks on a further eight pages. The latter seem to have been ignored. The cuts highlighted on pages 31–2 and 45 are amended in the censors’ copy of the text, presumably salvaged by Buero himself. They are published in the agreed amended form in the Obra Completa. In the censored dialogue on pages 31 and 32 of Part I, the character Encarna talks of her family’s move to Madrid from the country in search of a better life: ENCARNA Yo . . . soy de pueblo. Me quedé sin madre de muy niña. Teníamos una tierruca muy pequeña; mi padre se alquilaba de bracero cuando podía. Pero ya no había trabajo para nadie, y cogimos cuatro cuartos por la tierra y nos vinimos hace seis años, como tantos otros. MARIO

Sí . . . El desarrollo.33

Encarna’s statement about the hardship suffered by her father in the aftermath of the Civil War was not cut. Such a cut might have been expected, given that this hardship, suffered by many Spaniards who migrated to Madrid and the larger cities, was denied by government propaganda, which attempted to create the illusion that the post-war years were years of sufficiency, if not of plenty. However, Mario’s sarcastic equation of this sorry state of affairs with progress, in a direct jibe at the regime’s propaganda, was too much for the censor to accept. The censor crossed out the end of Encarna’s speech and moved ‘como tantos otros’ to where Mario’s reply had been (O.C. I: 1129). Buero, perhaps feeling that the point had been made in Encarna’s speech, accepted the suppression and replacement proposed. On page 45 of Part II, Mario confronts Vicente about his past action, when, in the immediate aftermath of the war, Vicente had boarded the train to safety, thus saving himself. However, by taking the family’s food supplies with him, he condemned his young sister to death by starvation. Nonetheless, Mario’s reproach is more for his continued victim-making in adulthood, rather than for one selfish and terrible action when a boy: MARIO

La guerra había sido atroz para todos, el futuro era incierto y, de pronto, comprendiste que el saco era tu primer botín. No te culpo del todo: sólo eras un muchacho hambriento y asustado. Nos tocó crecer en un tiempo de asesinos y nos hemos hecho hombres en un tiempo de ladrones.

This last sentence was bowdlerized and replaced with Nos tocó crecer en años difíciles, a much less harsh version of events, more in keeping with the official 33

AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-57 Ca. 87.599.

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myth (O.C. I: 1176). This still leaves four recommended cuts, on pages 33, 35 and 41 of Part I, and on page 13 of Part II. However, there is some confusion about the cuts made. O’Connor suggests that a further two of the original six proposed cuts were avoided, but claims that the cuts finally made were those on pages 13 and 45 of Part II.34 A report on the publication of the play by a censor in the Sección de Lectorado seems to support O’Connor’s claim that two cuts were made. However, the cuts referred to here correspond to those on pages 35 and 41 of Part I. En cuanto a las alusiones a nuestra guerra tachadas en las páginas 37 y 41, no parecen – salvando todos los respetos al preopinante – excesivas en una situación hondamente aflictiva ocasionada en la guerra. Son peripecias inseparables de tales conmociones y su negación sistemática representa una pretensión de impecabilidad casi pueril.35

A comparison of the suggested cuts with the version of the text published in the Obra Completa leads one to conclude that all but the cut on page 13 of Part II were avoided. On page 13, Vicente tries to persuade his brother to come to work at the publishing company where he works. Mario refuses, for he equates that world with his brother’s exploitation of others. He has chosen poverty and inaction over his brother’s comfortable, but destructive, lifestyle. In answer to his brother’s offer, he states: MARIO Mucha gente no puede elegir, o no se atreve. Se encuentra de pronto, convertida en un asalariado, en un cura, en una fregona, en un golfo, en una prostituida, en un guardia.

The idea of people being forced, because of hardship, into jobs to which they are not suited or in which they are unhappy, is bad enough, but to suggest that there are policemen without love of country and priests without vocations, and moreover to associate them with prostitutes and rogues, was tantamount to a direct attack on the pillars of Francoist society. The italicized phrase does not appear in the published version (O.C. I: 1158). In contrast, the cuts recommended on pages 33, 35 and 41 of Part I appear uncut in the published version. The cut indicated on page 35 was a direct mention of the Civil War: MARIO Hundido desde el final de nuestra guerra, en aquel pozo de mi casa (O.C. I: 1131).

The cut recommended on page 41 refers to Mario’s explanation of his younger sister’s death. O’Connor’s assertion that both of these were salvaged by Buero

34 O’Connor, ‘Censorship in the Contemporary Spanish Theatre’, pp. 90–1. Härtinger is less sure about which cuts were made. Oppositionstheater, pp. 142–3. 35 AGA/IDD 50.06 Topogr. 21-23 Ca. 18.765 Exp. 1407-68.

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would appear to be supported by the fact that both appear in the published version: MARIO Murió al cuarto día. De hambre. [. . .] Años después le he oído comentar que fue fácil: que entonces fue fácil enterrar (O.C. I: 1134).

A reference to Mario’s father’s former employment in a Ministry, on page 33 of the original text, was the other cut indicated (O.C. I: 1129–30). However, as the reports of the censors on the staging of the play could not be located, there is no way to verify any of these claims. It is quite likely that in their final report, the Sección de Teatro did indeed allow Buero to save some of the phrases they had proposed to cut. It is also possible that the cut on page 13 was inserted as a decoy by the dramatist and later removed by him, rather than by the censor. This might explain both why it is absent from the published version and why it is not mentioned by the censor from the Sección de Lectorado. In any event, the text that was cut contained references to criticisms of the new Spanish society that was the product of a new ideology. Considering that the play criticizes and denies the attractive myths propagated by this ideology, it is quite surprising that so much of it escaped censorship, especially as in places the criticism is quite strident. Mito, the libretto for an opera based around the myth of Don Quijote with elements of science fiction and socio-political comment, was conceived as a project with the musician Cristóbal Halffter, but he failed to produce the music and it was never staged. Nevertheless, Buero decided to publish it, and Escelicer sent the manuscript to the Servicio de Orientación Bibliográfica of the MIT for consulta voluntaria in 1968. One of the censors who read the text recommended cuts, as the play contains expressions of anti-military sentiment, criticisms of the Head of State and of police corruption which, despite the imaginary setting for the play, ‘puede provocar falsas interpretaciones entre los lectores maliciosos’.36 Another censor discovered nothing objectionable and in the end the play was authorized for publication without cuts. An application to stage Mito in a school was submitted by the Federación Española T.V. in March 1969. The play was read by three censors who unanimously approved it for teatros de cámara but stipulated that it was not suitable for broadcast. One censor considered that the futuristic nature of the play distanced it sufficiently from the ‘circunstancia española’, and thus saw no danger. Sr Bautista de la Torre considered that ‘la obra es delicada’, because of its sexual and political content. He highlighted such examples as ‘la alusión a las condecoraciones’, ‘la acción despótica de la policía’ and ‘la prohibición de las huelgas’, as well as the ‘estallido orgiástico que aprovecha la simulación del episodio Clavileño para dar suelto al eroticismo más desenfrenado’. He suggested that the dress rehearsal be carefully monitored.37 El sueño de la razón was retained by the censors for almost six months before they returned a verdict. Their main problem with the play seems to have been the 36 37


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criticism of an oppressive regime comparable to the one they served and the usual objections to any suggestion of sexual impropriety on the part of some characters. The parallels between the circumstances of the artist Goya during the reign of the tyrannical King Fernando VII and the circumstances of the modern artist or writer struggling to work in Franco’s Spain did not pass unnoticed by the censors. In July 1969, José Osuna applied to the MIT for permission to stage El sueño de la razón in the Reina Victoria theatre in Madrid in the January 1970 season. The play was read by three censors, Padre Artola, Sebastián Bautista de la Torre and Srta María Nieves Sunyer, before the Junta de Censura met on 22 July 1969. Padre Artola’s main concern was the scene in Act II where Leocadia is raped by the Royal Volunteers, but overall he considered the play suitable for adults. Sr Bautista de la Torre agreed with Padre Artola that the rape scene could not be tolerated. He also accused Buero of propaganda, stating ‘se le ha ido la mano con el chafarrinón folletinesco y subversivo’ and recommended that the play be viewed by more censors and possibly their superiors.38 Srta Sunyer also expressed her disquiet about the rape scene and recommended that other censors read the play. Following the first meeting of the censorship board a nota informativa about the play was sent from the Jefe de la Sección de Teatro to the Subdirector General de Espectáculos, with a summary of the verdict and comments of the censors and highlighting the ‘tendenciosa intención’ of Buero Vallejo in his condemnation of absolutism and his sympathy for ‘los liberales oprimidos’ (Appendix VII). The prologue was also highlighted as in it Buero explained that although he was not a Monarchist, the play was not anti-Monarchist, but rather anti-absolutist. There was also mention of the ‘inoportunidad del tema en los presentes momentos políticos del país’, a concern earlier displayed at the time of the proposed staging of La doble historia del doctor Valmy. No more was heard about the play until November when José Osuna, having been promised a verdict by September, wrote to the Subdirector General de Espectáculos, Sr Francisco Sanabria, to enquire about the delay; he had promised to provide the theatre in question with the necessary documentation by October, but he received no satisfaction from the censors. In late November the play was sent to a further thirteen censors for review. Eleven of these had returned a verdict by the meeting of the Junta on 2 December 1969, and a further two censors were consulted on that date and asked to return a verdict by the ninth, when the Junta was to meet again. Most censors agreed that Fernando VII was deserving of the criticism meted out in the play, and one censor noted: ‘Fernando VII es el único monarca de esa familia que no tiene calle en Madrid. Por algo será.’ The overall consensus was that the play should be authorized for adults, but not for broadcast, and that special attention should be given to the final scenes depicting the assault on Goya and Leocadia, strangely considered by one of the censors to be erotic. Another expressed his concern that the end of the play might degenerate into pornography. Furthermore, a note was sent to the Jefe de la Asesoria Jurídica del Departamento, requesting clarification on the issue 38


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of the legality of Buero’s proclamations about the monarchy in the prologue that was to be included in the programme.39 The Junta’s verdict, agreed on 9 December 1969, reflected the consensus, but the definitive verdict was withheld until the censors had seen the rehearsal (Appendix VIII). Another interesting note, dated 10 December 1969, suggests that a further delay in the announcement of a verdict could lead to a political interpretation of the play. El sueño de la razón was finally staged in Madrid in February 1970 and was authorized for publication by Escelicer in June of the same year. The only documentation about Llegada de los dioses relating to its staging during the Franco years was the original text with marks made by the censor. The play was written, staged and published in 1971. This version differs from that published in many respects, which suggests that cuts were made, with or without the co-operation of Buero. In the listing of titles of plays by Buero, Llegada de los dioses is documented as authorized with cuts in June 1971 (AGA/IDD 46).40 The first cut, on page 58 of the censor’s copy of the text, is a criticism of bad government and military power. However, the most likely reason for the cut is the direct reference to Fraga’s dip in the sea. JULIO Pero hay locos . . . y el temor los multiplica . . . Y una legión de generalotes en todos los países, convencidos de que el estado perfecto del hombre es el de combatiente . . . Y también hay accidentes. Cerca de aquí ya hubo uno. Hasta un ministro se bañó en el mar para demostrar que la irradiación no afectó al agua . . . Los irradiados de tierra no pudieron bañarse con él: estaban hospitalizados. Habrá más, lo mismo que, de vez en cuando, estalla un polvorín. Y la tierra es hoy un polvorín gigantesco.41

The published version reads as follows: JULIO Pero hay locos . . . Y el temor los multiplica . . . Y también hay accidentes. De vez en cuando, estalla un polvorín. Y la tierra es hoy un polvorín gigantesco (O.C. I: 1370).

Another political point made by one of the characters was also removed. Julio and Nuria are discussing their parents’ wealth: NURIA Los pobres ya no son tan pobres. JULIO No digas tonterías.

39 In the censor’s copy of the text the Nota al programa is crossed out, although it seems to have been accepted later. AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-57 Ca. 87.583. 40 In 1975, Llegada de los dioses was authorized for over 14s under the recently introduced classification system. AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-57 Ca. 87.612. However, the censors used an old copy of the text, which had cuts indicated by an earlier censor. Of his seven recommended cuts, only that on p. 37 seems to have made it to the final report. 41 Llegada de los dioses, Censors’ copy of text. AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-57 Ca. 87.612.

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NURIA Papá sabe mucho de economía y lo dice. JULIO Porque quiere engañarse. O engañar. La participación obrera . . . los mil dólares ‘per capita’ . . . Toda esa farsa. NURIA Ya sé que hay pobres. Pero cada día están mejor atendidos . . .

The italicized phrase appears on page 42 of the censor’s copy, but is not in the published copy (O.C. I: 1361). La Fundación was the last play to be written and staged by Buero Vallejo before the death of Franco. It was premiered in 1974. After initial difficulties with the company that was going to stage the play, it was taken on by another company, which applied to the MIT for authorization in February 1973. The play was referred to a Comisión especial, which had the power to overrule the decision of the plenary, and the prognosis seemed bad; it was lost in silencio administrativo for months. Its eventual authorization with some cuts of a political nature coincided with a ministerial reshuffle.42 The play, which is set in a prison, deals with a group of political prisoners and in particular Tomás, the prisoner whose inability to withstand torture had led to the arrest and imprisonment of the others who share his cell. Since his incarceration he has retreated into a fantasy world where the prison cell has become a room in a luxurious research foundation, the warders are the foundation’s helpful staff, eager to satisfy his every whim, and the men he helped to condemn are his friends and fellow researchers. The play is not only a call to Tomás and others beyond the stage to ‘abrir los ojos’, to face reality and responsibility and thus move on, but also a denunciation of sadistic, cruel violence and torture and the political masters who use it to eliminate the voice of the opposition; it is also one of Buero’s more developed explorations of ideology and society, in which he acknowledges, through the character of Asel, the similarities of all dominant ideologies, or at least of the methodology employed to uphold and defend them. In this play, as in La doble historia del doctor Valmy before, he examines the ideological similarity of torturer to the tortured. The play was the subject of an ordinary and later, on 30 March 1973, a plenary session of the censorship board. Sr Mampaso summarized the argument of the play thus: El mundo ‘civilizado’ en que vivimos es una constante injusticia y los que luchan contra él se ven torturados, encarcelados, ejecutados . . . Pero no por ello hay que cesar la lucha pues aunque parezca un sueño, una ilusión el paisaje de un mundo ejemplar existe.43

42 Buero also commented: ‘De otras dificultades en cuanto a reparto, hallazgo de decorador, etc., no merece la pena hablar, pero también fueron angustiosas.’ In ‘Cinco preguntas a los autores que estrenaron’, Primer Acto, nos 170–1 (1974), 13–23 (p. 14). 43 AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-56 Ca. 85.495 Exp. 145-73.

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He noted Buero’s intention and indeed seemed to recognize the point about the nature of ideology and struggle, and the concept of freedom in society: Es otra vez el Buero Vallejo de los buenos oprimidos y los malos en el poder, de los vencidos y los verdugos, el de los recuerdos de sus años de carcel, aunque en esta ocasión, la obra está menos localizada y no tiene alusión a la Guerra Civil, ni a España y además en algún pasaje se insinúa la duda fatalista de si el triunfo será siempre así, si los mismos revolucionarios encarcelados, no llegarían a ser también verdugos en su hipotético triunfo.

He appeared to attribute Buero’s criticisms to bitterness, referring to the dramatist as ‘permanente pesimista del acontecer político del Régimen, que le encarceló’. He advocated a cut on page 95. Sr Albizu viewed it as an existential, rather than a political play, which it certainly is to a degree; he commented without irony that the methods of torture referred to in the play ‘son desgraciadamente patrimonio general de la humanidad’. He too, recommended a cut on page 95 and, presumably for fear of seeing something too closely resembling Spanish style, suggested that the costumes be checked before any performance. Sr Barceló, like Buero himself, emphasized the imaginary setting and the descriptive title of ‘fábula’ given to the play by the author; he also wished to eliminate the crudeness on page 95 and recommended a cut on page 111. Sr Tejedor described La Fundación as a social rather than a political, play dealing with modern consumer society; he nevertheless recommended cuts on pages 95, 100 and 101. Sr Zubiaurre, like Sr Martínez Ruiz and Padre Artola, noted the universality of the theme; he observed, however, that the prisoners were political prisoners and recommended a plenary session to judge the play. Some censors, like Jesús Vasallo, were exclusively concerned by the crudeness in the play. Sr García Cernuda certainly noted the political theme, but wrote: ‘El tema está tratado con indudable prudencia y notable habilidad, que lo hace representable ante personas formadas.’ Who exactly these people were, or who decided, was not mentioned. He warned against excess in the bed scene with Tomás and the imaginary Berta. Sr Vázquez Dodero, while adding to suggested cuts, believed that the play, pessimistic though it is, could be authorized. The only censor to cite the relevant legislation in his report was Sr Aragonés, who claimed that the play breached norms 13, 14.2 and 17.2, and suggested cuts on pages 95 and 100. Even though the application was made on 20 March, it was not authorized until 28 June 1973. Not all of the suggested cuts were made – only those that a majority agreed upon. The cuts made were both political and moral and included the references to political injustice and comparisons to other countries and references to masturbation and Tomás’s sexual relations with Berta (Appendix IX). In the end, nobody recommended prohibition at the plenary. A report on the verdict reached by the Junta de Censura, noted that this play could be politicized by interested parties, and therefore stipulated the following: Es condición fundamental que la puesta en escena (montaje, vestuario, etc.), mantenga una absoluta inconcreción acorde con la universalidad deseable para

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el tema propuesto, y la generalidad de su planteamiento. El propio autor califica su obra como una fábula en un país imaginario, o desconocido, y ésto es fundamental, por lo que la realización juega aquí un papel importante y ha de atemperarse a los condicionamientos que expresamente señalo. En consecuencia, el ensayo general deberá tener carácter vinculante.

Also included among the documents in the file is an urgent note from the Jefe de la Sección de Promoción Teatral to the Subdirector General de Teatro, informing him of the censors’ reports, ‘tanto por la importancia del texto como por la personalidad del autor’. While Buero was not a banned author, the censors’ emphasis on his ‘personality’ here, as in the report on Madre Coraje y sus hijos (Mother Courage and her Children), suggests that the dramatist was considered, by the regime at least, to be opposed to its rule. Despite the care taken at the rehearsal, it must be acknowledged that, given the circumstances and the country in which it was being staged, it seemed unlikely that the audience would be unaware of the similarities to their own country and political situation. Of course, in any examination of censorship as an ideological tool, that which escapes censorship is also of note. Many of Buero’s attacks on ideology and society in Francoist Spain escaped the attention of the censors. Certainly, the censors who read La tejedora de sueños, like those who read En la ardiente oscuridad and Las palabras en la arena, seem not to have been aware of any political analogy contained in the drama. Emilio Morales de Acevedo wrote of La tejedora de sueños: ‘Sin ofensar a la ortodoxia,’ yet clearly there exists a possible anti-regime reading of this play, which can be interpreted as Buero’s subversion of the Nationalist redemption myth.44 However, if those whose job it is to find such readings failed to do so, one must ask if the audience and indeed the actors, picked up the criticism of the dominant ideology contained in the portrait of the returning hero. If not, then Buero’s effort was in vain. La tejedora de sueños was authorized without cuts on 9 October 1950. Likewise, in Las palabras en la arena, Buero turned traditional Catholic mythology into an argument against the Catholic-supported regime. Similarly, Hoy es fiesta, an early play containing some mild criticism of poverty and social conditions, was judged to present neither political nor moral problems for the regime and was authorized without cuts. Las cartas boca abajo, while initially authorized without cuts for over 16s in 1957, was thereafter staged mostly in teatros de cámara. Sr Morales de Acevedo did not rate highly its literary worth but found it suitable for a ‘público selecto y bondadoso’.45 El concierto de San Ovidio (1962) is a historical play critical of the negative influence of state and social institutions, such as the Church and the police; it also condemns opportunistic and exploitative businesses, which abuse the weakest members of society for personal gain, while at the same time making 44 45


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philanthropic statements about the common good. It is set in Paris in 1771, giving it a historical distance that undoubtedly aided its passage through the censorship system. The José Osuna theatre company applied for permission to stage the play in October 1962. The file contains the badly scarred text, but only two reports. The report by José María Cano suggests only one cut, on the grounds of bad taste; Gumersindo Montes Agudo’s report recommends one other cut. In the end, by negotiation or agreement, the play was authorized without cuts for over 18s in November 1962.46 Nevertheless, it was deemed unsuitable for broadcast. In further confirmation of the erratic nature of censorship, in 1966 the play was authorized for over 14s for an evidently mature audience in Lérida, while back in Madrid in 1973, it reverted to an over 18s certificate. When published by Escélicer in 1963, it was authorized without cuts. These examples clearly show a failure on the part of the censors to recognize veiled denunciations of modern Spanish society and the dominant ideology in Francoist Spain. These criticisms and others will be examined in more detail later. Nonetheless, it must also be acknowledged that censorship is a complex issue, and it served as a sword of Damocles, inspiring fear of retribution, which led to self-censorship and the creation of a new literary language containing indirect allusions to a falsified reality.

Buero’s Contemporaries Many other dramatists besides Buero suffered at the hands of the censors. The most interesting of these is probably Alfonso Sastre. More than most other dramatists of the period, Sastre demonstrated a real interest in reforming the theatre structure and attracting a new audience, with groups such as Arte Nuevo, TAS and the Grupo de Teatro Realista (GTR). In contrast to the pre-Civil War reformers, his ideological motivation was, initially at least, Nationalist. However, contrary to common opinion, most of the works of Alfonso Sastre that were the subject of applications were authorized by the censors. Of the 57 applications listed in the Archive (47 under Franco), only 5 are listed as prohibited (AGA/IDD 46). It must be granted however, that Escuadra hacia la muerte, listed as authorized, was later withdrawn and was refused authorization for almost a decade. Other plays were approved for teatros de cámara only, or were later prohibited. A further 10 were listed as authorized with cuts. This was variable, however, and a play authorized without cuts at one time could be cut later. Since he is generally viewed as the most radical of the committed dramatists, it is interesting to note that initially Sastre’s plays seem to have been authorized because of what was correctly perceived to be the dramatist’s Nationalist ideology. Even though Buero’s works were less overtly politicized, they were certainly never interpreted by the censors as pro-regime or anti-Communist, as the works of Sastre occasionally were. Yet on the whole, Sastre’s dealings with the 46


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censors would seem to have been more difficult than Buero’s. Sastre has stated that the overall effect of censorship on his work was devastating: ‘No existo. He sido borrado de todas las listas . . . Salvo de las listas negras, por supuesto: por lo que se refiere a éstas, estoy en todas.’47 While the censorship of his work was certainly harsh, he may have been overstating his case. Alfonso Sastre was certainly more heavily censored than Buero Vallejo, but not as much as some of his statements might induce one to believe. His less than conciliatory attitude towards the censors did little to help in his struggles to have his work staged. Like the works of Buero, most of Sastre’s plays suffered some cuts. The initial confusion among the censors regarding Sastre’s ideology is exemplified in the documents relating to Escuadra hacia la muerte, which was viewed by the censors in 1953. The application to stage the play came from a branch of the SEU.48 Sastre termed the play: un grito de protesta ante la perspectiva amenazante de una nueva guerra mundial; una negación de las grandes palabras con que en las guerras se camufla el horror; una negación, en este sentido del heroísmo y de toda mística de la muerte.49

The censor Bartolomé Mostaza considered the play to be pessimistic but morally sound. Sastre’s connections with the SEU and his Nationalist leanings at the time seem to have helped him. The report of the Sección de Teatro stipulated that the play was only suitable for teatros de cámara y ensayo, and ‘siempre que su puesta en escena se lleve a cabo por organizaciones u organismos de significación política perfectamente definida y encuadrada en la línea doctrinal de nuestro Estado’. Thus the fact that the application came from the SEU allowed for a non-threatening interpretation of the play, which in other hands might have been given an anti-regime slant. Another censor, Gumersindo Montes Agudo, also recognizing the possible danger, wrote: ‘No debe darse ante públicos propuestos a dudas y extrañas ideologías.’ In March 1953, the play was staged by the Teatro Popular Universitario in the María Guerrero theatre in Madrid; it was to move to the normal programme of the María Guerrero but was withdrawn after the third show, owing to pressure on the censorship body from the military, which correctly interpreted its anti-militarism. A la tercera representación había asistido el general Moscardó, el héroe del Alcázar, que había montado en cólera porque en un teatro nacional se ofreciese una obra antimilitarista y antipatriótica, y la prohibieron. Nunca pudo volver a hacerse legalmente, aunque ilegalmente se haría en mil parroquías, barrios y colegios.50 Rivera and de las Heras, ‘Encuesta sobre la censura: 25 autores’, no. 165, 4–14 (p. 5). AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.680 Exp. 94-53. 49 Quoted in Blanco Aguinaga and others, Historia social, p. 232. 50 Vicente Mosquete, ‘Alfonso Sastre: un largo viaje’, p. 10. This last claim is untrue. In fact, in 1954, the staging of the final scene was authorized by the Ministry, for one 47 48

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Nonetheless, in typically arbitrary fashion, the censors saw fit to authorize publication of the play by Escélicer the same year. When asked to read the play again five months later, in August 1953, upon an application from the Salvador Soler-Mari theatre company, Montes Agudo seems to have considered it a Nationalist text; nonetheless, he noted that, while it could be interpreted as a play about the beauty of a soldier’s destiny, it could also be interpreted as a Marxist play. Because of this dangerous ambiguity, he recommended that the play be authorized only for teatros de cámara. However, it was later prohibited. Staging of the play remained officially banned until 1962, when the Comandante Asesor Técnico del Alto Estado Mayor gave it a positive report, but with certain stipulations regarding the uniforms to be used in any production. Despite the prohibition, the play had been staged a few times without authorization in the intervening years, a fact cited by Sastre in his correspondence with the Ministry in his vain attempts to have the prohibition lifted. Three other plays by Sastre were considered by the censors in 1953. These were Cargamento de sueños, El pan de todos and Prólogo patético.51 The first of these was authorized without cuts for teatros de cámara. There was no application made for a commercial staging of the play. The other two plays met with more difficulty. On the question of the dramatist’s ideology, there was again some confusion. Montes Agudo read El pan de todos as ‘una diatriba del régimen comunista con sus crueles métodos policiacos’ and thus commented, ‘políticamente considerado, es una obra perfectamente tolerable’. Bartolomé Mostaza was a little less certain of the author’s intention, but stated: ‘No ofrece pelígros de tipo político.’ However, despite the fact that both censors recommended authorization, the play was prohibited by the Director General on 14 January 1954. No explanation is given, although the files contain a list of recommended cuts and modifications, which were probably the basis of his judgement. Also held in the files is a letter from Sastre, dated 30 April 1955, requesting a revision of the verdict. He made the point that the play was published in its entirety in the officially sanctioned journal, Ateneo. The play was subjected to review, and a report recommended the lifting of the ban, as it was judged to be a drama critical of Communism. A moral report, signed by Padre Mauricio de Begoña, makes similar comments about the play’s criticism of Communism and thus an implicit support for ‘los principios de nuestra religión y de nuestra moral’. The censors, obviously not considering themselves qualified to make such a decision, also sought a purely political reading of the play from the Ministro Secretario General del Movimiento. After much lengthy deliberation, the play was authorized without cuts from 1956 onwards.

performance only, in a homage to the author on the occasion of the staging of La mordaza. As the documents in the Archive demonstrate, by 1962, this play was being authorized again, albeit with certain restrictions on the style of uniforms to be used. 51 AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.681 Exp. 377-53; Ca. 71.678 Exp. 401-53; Ca. 71.678 Exp. 438-53.

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Prólogo patético was deemed by Emilio Morales de Acevedo to be an ‘obra peligrosísima’, as the terrorist protagonist is not sufficiently repentant, and because of the representation of police brutality on stage. Montes Agudo, on the other hand, again found an anti-Communist flavour to the play that in no way offended against the Nationalist orthodoxy. Padre Mauricio de Begoña was more cautious. While he found the play acceptable from the perspective of Catholic ideology and morals, he recognized that he was not the competent authority to judge the play politically. Sr Diez Crespo considered it a dangerous play for its justification of terrorism and its portrayal of police brutality and advocated its prohibition. He alone saw in it no possible support for the Nationalist Falangist revolution. After consideration by censors in March 1952 and again in December 1953, Prólogo patético was prohibited. This ban was upheld after a further review in July 1971. The play was to have been performed in the Festival de Teatro de Sitges, but the censors considered that the play’s justification of violence and terrorism and its denial of an afterlife could lead to public disturbances. By then, of course, there was no ambiguity about the author’s ideological leanings. The files also show evidence of further confusion among the censors with regard to La mordaza (1954), Guillermo Tell tiene los ojos tristes (1955) and En la red (1960). The last of these is interesting for, among other things, what might be interpreted as its posibilismo. That the play was set in Algeria seems to have aided its initial authorization. A note from the Jefe de la Sección de Teatro to the Jefe de Sección de Libros, dated 15 November 1961, throws some light on the difficulties encountered by Sastre with this play: La comedia En la red de Alfonso Sastre, ha sido autorizada por la Dirección General de Cinematografía y Teatro, considerando incluso para ello el informe del Ministerio de Asuntos Exteriores, a causa del tema, insurrección argelina, que dicha obra desarrolla. No obstante después de su estreno en el Teatro Recoletos de Madrid, surgieron dificultades determinadas por la equívoca interpretación de evidente y negativo significado político con que la comedia fue acogida. Por esta causa se ha optado a posteriori medidas restrictivas en cuanto a su reposición.52

Once again, and rather naïvely at this stage, it appears that the censors considered Sastre’s intention to have been other than malicious, and instead blamed audience misinterpretation of the play. Yet Sastre was not always a posibilista, and the correspondence between the dramatist and the censors betrays an at times confrontational attitude on the part of Sastre in his dealings with the censors. In 1958, Tierra roja was prohibited.53 The provocative nota previa written by the author and included in the text examined by the censors cannot have helped. In it Sastre pointed out that the play, 52 53


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about a popular revolt in a mining community, did not refer to a particular event in Spanish history; yet he then went on to state: ‘Los hechos a que asistimos en el drama han sucedido, de un modo o de otro, en una tierra de España, y en uno o en otro momento de su historia reciente.’ Clearly chosen for their ideological as well as their artistic worth, the plays adapted by Sastre also had difficulties with the censors, although to a lesser degree than the author’s own work. This seems to support the complaint of many Spanish dramatists that home-produced drama of protest was less acceptable in Spain than that written by foreign authors. In June 1958 his adaptation of Euripides’ Medea was authorized without cuts, and in 1960, his version of Strindberg’s Los acreedores (Creditors) was also authorized.54 The problems arose with Sastre’s more political choices, such as his adaptations of the plays of Jean-Paul Sartre, an author unloved by the Franco regime. Sastre’s version of Huis clos, called El infierno, was the subject of a plenary session of the Junta de Censura.55 It was finally authorized, but with certain modifications, including the changing of the title from El infierno to A puerta cerrada. Certain censors also found fault with the references to lesbianism and to God, and the atheism of the author; the inclusion of an introduction by Simone de Beauvoir, explaining the political commitment of Sartre, was struck out. Sastre’s version of Morts sans sepulture (Muertos sin sepultura) was authorized in December 1967 for teatros de cámara.56 Objections were made to the inclusion in the set design of a portrait of Pétain. A definitive version, approved by Sartre himself, was subjected to censorship in February 1968. It was read by sixteen censors, six of whom recommended its prohibition; it was finally authorized with cuts on thirteen pages. The violent language and the representation of torture seem to have been the cause of concern for the censors. Some also mention the need to stress the historical nature of the play, or the fact that it is an attack on a French regime, taking care not to link it in any way to recent events in Spain. Interesting too is the censors’ defence of Pétain, who is portrayed less than favourably in the play. María Luz Morales wrote in her report that ‘el retrato de Pétain y la escena de la página 56 [que] ofende a una figura gloriosa a quien no podemos ni debemos juzgar’. Sr Romero also refers in his report to the unjust treatment, both in the play and in French society, of ‘el glorioso mariscal Pétain’. Finally, Srta Sunyer wrote that ‘en la puesta en escena en España trataría de salvar la figura de este gran francés y tan amigo de España’. Many other Spanish dramatists also saw their work modified, mutilated or prohibited. Of the twenty-four plays by Carlos Muñiz listed as the subject of applications under Franco, two were prohibited (AGA/IDD 46). They were Lola, espejo oscuro, based on the novel by Fernández Flórez, which was prohibited in 1964, and his Tragicomedia del serenísimo príncipe Don Carlos, which was prohibited AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.706 Exp. 150-58; Ca. 71.715 Exp. 305-60. AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-55 Ca. 85.166 Exp. 125-67. 56 AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 72-38 Ca. 87.547 Exp. 363-67; Topogr. 83-56 Ca. 85.814 Exp. 76-68. 54 55

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in 1972. A further two are listed without a verdict, perhaps the subject of silencio administrativo, and another seven plays were cut. One of these, El tintero, was finally authorized in 1961 for staging in Madrid only.57 The application to stage the play had been made in November 1960. The censors reacted negatively to the play, and one of them, Sr Villares, wrote: ‘Fomenta la amargura y el resentimiento y muchos que llevan una vida estrecha podrían encontrarse en el mismo caso.’ For Sr Montes Agudo, El tintero was highly politicized, a ‘panfleto lleno de violencia discursiva y pretenciones demogógicas’. The most interesting comments however, were contained in the patronizing moral report submitted by Padre Avelino Esteban y Romero, who wrote: ‘No creo se deba prohibir. Se debe castigar al autor autorizándole esta comedia, y que se enfrente con el público.’ Like Buero and Sastre, Muñiz protested against the regime’s treatment of the Asturian miners, and his action earned his dismissal from his job at the state broadcasting service. He stated in an interview: ‘En la mayoría de mis obras han sido prohibidas frases o palabras sueltas. Casi ninguna salió de censura sin mutilación.’58 The first Spanish play to deal specifically with the Civil War was written by another committed dramatist, José Martín Recuerda, in 1953. Not surprisingly, La llanura was heavily censored. Another of his plays, titled Las arrecogias del Beatario de Sta. María Egipciaca, based on the life of Mariana Pineda, was prohibited in 1971 and remained unstaged until 1980. In Martín Recuerda’s El engañao, foul language and criticisms of the Roman Catholic Church were removed.59 Of the eighteen of his plays listed as subjected to Francoist censorship, one was prohibited and eight suffered cuts (AGA/IDD 46). Another of the so-called Realists, José María Rodríguez Méndez, wrote Bodas que fueron famosas del Pingajo y la Fandanga, which was set among the poor in Madrid in 1898 and was decidedly anti-military in sentiment. Its inclusion in a theatre collection was prohibited in 1968. On the list held in the Archive, it is included four times (AGA/IDD 46). There is no verdict listed in 1967 or 1970. In 1974 it was authorized, and in the post-Franco period it was given a 14s rating. Another play, Los quinquis de Madriz was prohibited in 1970. Other works were prohibited or cut, yet there seems to have been little continuity in the application of the legislation. Vagones de Madera, first listed in 1960, was sometimes authorized, sometimes not. Occasionally, a play would be judged suitable for staging, yet not for broadcast. Other plays, such as his El milagro del pan y de los peces, even after pruning, were considered suitable only for teatros de cámara. His version of The Caucasian Chalk Circle was prohibited in May 1962 but authorized later that same year. A play titled El Ghetto, o la irresistible ascención de Manuel Contreras was prohibited in 1972, and Flor de otoño: una historia del barrio chino was prohibited in 1974 before finally being authorized in 1982. 57 58 59

AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.715 Exp. 306-60. Rivera and de las Heras, ‘Encuesta sobre la censura: 25 autores’, no. 166, p. 5. AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-57 Ca. 87.603.

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Of the twenty-six plays by Lauro Olmo listed as subject to Francoist censorship, eight were prohibited and sixteen authorized with cuts (AGA/IDD 46). However, included on the list was his adaptation of Yo, Bertolt Brecht, which was prohibited in January 1970 but authorized just over a month later. In 1961, La camisa, which told a tale of emigration to Germany because of poverty and lack of prospects in Spain, won the Valle-Inclán prize; this guaranteed automatic staging in a teatro de cámera, but the play was initially banned by the censors.60 Other plays listed as prohibited were Magdalena in 1959, La niña, el raterillo y la cajita de música in 1960, El milagro in 1963, La condecoración in 1965, Junio siete stop in 1967, Mare Nostrum S.A. in 1970 and El retablo de las maravillas y ole in 1972. The case of the outspoken avant-garde dramatist Fernando Arrabal is an interesting one. He was perhaps the most heavily censored dramatist of the Franco period, although not all of his work was strictly political. However, Arrabal had an undeniably politicized following. Even his non-political plays offended against the ruling ideology of the day because of their emphasis on matters sexual and their blasphemous attacks on the Church and traditional values. Prior to 1966, all of Arrabal’s work is listed as authorized but, thereafter, every play until 1976 was prohibited (AGA/IDD 46). Arrabal eventually went into exile in France, where he enjoyed great success. He was prosecuted in Spain in 1967 for a blasphemous and anti-regime piece he had written; he recanted, was found not guilty, and thereafter remained in France. An attempt to stage his play, Los dos verdugos, in Madrid in 1969 was prevented, despite the prior authorization of the text. Buero attributed its prohibition to ‘ciertas provocantes características del montaje y, al parecer, de los programas’ (O.C. II: 821). Nonetheless, the police not only destroyed the programmes and advertising posters but also the printing plates. His works were never produced in Spanish commercial theatres, despite his success abroad. Between 1968 and October 1976, Arrabal was classified as a banned author. It is clear from the documentation that even when the play itself was regarded as relatively inoffensive, the very name of the author was enough to ensure its prohibition. While there is nothing in the documentation to indicate the reason for the prohibition of Arrabal, it may be assumed from the censors’ reports that it had to do with his political stance, blasphemy and irreverence and, of course, his outspokenness. While some censors seem to have recognized Arrabal’s merits as an author, or at least his international fame, the majority seem to have been appalled by his dramatic style; in his report on El cementerio de automóviles in 1968, Padre Cea wrote: ‘Más que de una mente humana parece el engendro de una mente diabólica.’61 60 This is according to Patricia W. O’Connor, ‘Torquemada in the Theatre: A Glance at Government Censorship’, Theatre Survey, 14 (no. 2, 1973), 33– 45 (pp. 42–3). The play is listed as authorized in AGA/IDD 46. It must be acknowledged that this list is not always reliable. 61 AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-55 Ca. 85.155 Exp. 127-66.

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Even the considerable weight of an application from the director of the Nuria Espert Company, with its stress on the worldwide fame and acceptance of the play, was insufficient to sway the censors from their prohibition of El gran ceremonial, which the censor Florentino Soria termed a ‘cúmulo de atrocidades’.62 Regarding the works of Arrabal, the censors were conscious that the innocent tone adopted usually disguised something objectionable. The censor Bautista de la Torre condemned the play Ciugrena (an anagram of Guernica) for its title alone, as he believed that the content was sufficiently obscured by Arrabal’s style: Lo malo es que la intención queda demasiado manifesta en el juego del arbolito, cuya alusión inocente viene a ser la constante de toda la obra. Descubierto el propósito, maliciosa o estúpidamente enmarcado en el título, no creo pueda dársele paso por razones elementales de oportunidad.63

Another censor summed up his verdict in one word: ‘peligroso’. Needless to say, the play was banned. The censors’ reports for La Juventud Ilustrada are interesting for what they say about censorship as part of the ideological state apparatus.64 An unsigned note asks: ‘¿Puede autorizar esta obra de Arrabal? La pieza no tiene problemas, ¿pero el autor?’ The response given was: ‘No.’ The report by Sr Bautista de la Torre again stressed that the work itself offered no problems, but that the mere connection with the author added another dimension to the issue: Sin embargo me previenen para un informe favorable las muy especiales circunstancias del dramaturgo. Aunque yo no advierto en la obra ningún sentido oculto de supuesta simbología, ¿quién nos asegura, siguiendo las últimas salidas de Arrabal, que la amante torturada no sea la España vencida y que el amante que la somete a las dulces caricias de los latigazos y las ortigas no sea el actual Regimen? . . . Y aunque así no fuera, ¿quién nos garantiza que su estreno no le brindaría la oportunidad de nuevas arremetidas contra España como ya lo hizo recientemente?

The other two censors, while also noting the significance of the author, recommended its authorization for teatros de cámara. However, the Minister was consulted and the play was banned, like Buero’s La doble historia del doctor Valmy, in accordance with article 22 of the Reglamento de Regimen Interior de la Junta de Censura Teatral (1964). Unlike Buero, Arrabal made few concessions to the sensibilities of the censors or a bourgeois audience. He has said: ‘Yo ignoro la censura: jamás he escrito una AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-55 Ca. 85.225 Exp. 391-68. AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-55 Ca. 85.225 Exp. 393-68. The tree referred to was the sacred tree of the Basques that grew in the town of Guernica and was destroyed in the bombing of that town in the Blitzkrieg that Franco invited Hitler to carry out there. 64 AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-55 Ca. 85.237 Exp. 82-69. 62 63

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línea preocupado por ella. Soy optimista: lo que hoy se nos prohibe mañana verá la luz.’65 His work could not be described as posibilista. Rather, it was imposibilista, but as defined by Sastre, not Buero. His success abroad and his selfimposed exile in France meant that he did not rely upon success in Spain for his livelihood. Yet even in France, his work was polemical. While it often seemed that it was easier to stage foreign committed drama than the domestic variety, works by European committed dramatists, such as Camus, Sartre and Brecht also faced censorship difficulties in Spain. The censors generally, and often correctly, suspected the ideological motivation behind an application to stage such plays. In the case of Brecht’s Antigone, for example, Padre Cea wrote: ‘Se supone mala intención el ponerla ahora en escena.’66 Sr Bautista de la Torre mentioned the ‘marcada intención política’ of the play and noted the risk involved in staging it at this time (1969). Sr Martínez Ruiz considered it dangerous, both for the background and intention of the author and the version being considered. In the second reading of the play, Sr Mampaso found it to be not very tendentious, but nonetheless warned of those who ‘con el pretexto de representar una obra clásica, hacen una puesta en escena de significación política contra el Régimen y las instituciones españolas’. Sr Soria noted: ‘Hay una evidente intención de acercar la obra a las coordenadas políticas de hoy’, but nevertheless recommended its authorization. Another play by Brecht, The Caucasian Chalk Circle, was authorized for the Teatro Nacional Universitario in February 1965, once particular negative references to clergy and soldiers had been eliminated.67

Environmental Censorship The successful establishment of a New State and the development and inculcation of a supporting ideology meant that censorship was not a labour confined to those who worked in the ministries in charge of culture and information, although this was the most direct form of cultural ideological control. Censorship was in fact much more widespread and insidious. In the state system established by the Civil War victors, other apparatuses were also used to threaten or punish the author who failed to toe the official ideological line. State influence reached the commercial theatres and publishing companies, which in turn established limits and demanded certain compromises from authors: Una entidad editora – periódico, revista, editorial o emisora – escoge y difunde el producto o el mensaje que más le interesa comercial e ideológicamente, 65 Rivera and de las Heras, ‘Encuesta sobre la censura: 25 autores’, no. 166, p. 6. This is generally true, with the possible exception of Ciugrena. However, as the censor noted, the title of the play so obviously refers to Guernica as to give rise to doubt about Arrabal’s employment of the anagram as an attempt to fool the censors. 66 AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-55 Ca. 85.237 Exp. 89-69. 67 AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 72-38 Ca. 87.546 Exp. 93-65.

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a un mismo tiempo, de acuerdo con su propia visión de las cosas, siguiendo su interpretación del pasado y su prospectiva del futuro.68

Dramatists also had to contend with the theatres themselves. According to Mangini: ‘En general, el teatro seguía muy controlado por el régimen, y fuera de los Teatros Nacionales, hubo escasos espectáculos.’69 The commercial theatre, both under Franco and before, was a business, run by and for businessmen. It is logical, therefore, that the owners should target as their ideal market the largest group in society with the time and the disposable income to make their theatrical enterprise a viable one. The audience for the commercial theatre was, logically, the bourgeoisie. Theatre was expensive to produce and the commercially minded managers were loath to stage anything other than the safest productions; this resulted in a reluctance to produce the works of new authors or those whose work had previously been censored and a continuation of the whimsical, bourgeois-orientated drama that had been so popular in the pre-war period. As profit was the main motivator, theatre producers were unlikely to gamble on any production that could not be guaranteed a substantial run. The number of foreign productions rose in the 1960s, but, according to the Spanish dramatists, this was often at the cost of Spanish productions, as the censorship regulations seemed to be less rigourously applied to foreign works. Referring to Sastre, Abellán wrote: ‘Aproximadamente, desde finales de 1968 hasta 1977 las empresas teatrales renunciaron por completo a representar sus obras.’70 Documents from the Archive in Alcalá show that from 1968 to 1976, only one of Sastre’s plays was authorized; this reflects the lack of applications to stage his work, rather than new prohibitions. It must be noted that this statement also fails to take into account his adaptations of the works of other dramatists, many of which were successfully staged during this period. The state also used its media influence to exclude or damn certain arguments, or to punish those who went against it. This was the case with the letter written to Manuel Fraga, then Ministro de Información y Turismo, in 1963. Along with other writers, artists and intellectuals, Buero signed various protests and petitions against censorship and against the regime’s treatment of its opponents.71 In 1963, with 101 others, he signed a letter that protested against the brutal maltreatment of the

68 Manuel Abellán, ‘Literatura, censura y moral en el primer franquismo’, Papers: Revista de Sociología, no. 21 (1984), 153–72 (p. 154). Abellán has written about the form of censorship employed by publishing companies in Censura y creación, pp. 97–104. 69 Mangini, Rojos y rebeldes, p. 77. 70 Abellán, ‘La censura teatral’, p. 22. 71 Over the years, Buero signed quite a few documents and manifestos calling for increased liberty in the arts and fair treatment of certain groups in society. In March 1965, he signed a document that called for freedom of expression in Spain and later wrote in defence of Arrabal when he was on trial. He did the same when Alfonso Sastre was a political prisoner of the regime in 1975. Some of these are contained in the Archive in Alcalá de Henares. AGA/IDD 104.04 Topogr. 82-68 Ca. 653 Orden público. Armario 48. Hamaca 20.252. Cartas de intelectuales colectivas.

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striking Asturian miners. Another letter, dated 31 October 1963, was signed by 188 intellectuals. Fraga had written to José Bergamín offering to speak to him on foot of the first letter. This second letter was the response from the intellectuals. Durante las pasadas semanas algunos de los firmantes de la carta que se dirigió a V.E. con motivo de los presuntos malos tratos y sevicias infligidos por miembros de la fuerza pública a mineros y mujeres de la cuenca asturiana, en ocasión de las recientes huelgas, han tenido comunicación oficial de su respuesta a don José Bergamín. Ulteriormente, parte de la prensa española ha reproducido ambas cartas. [. . .] Entendemos que la misión del intelectual en toda sociedad libre, máxime si dice inspirarse en los principios cristianos, es promover el esclarecimiento de la verdad y contribuir a la formación de una conciencia pública. En consecuencia, nuestra actuación se ha guiado y se guía por un estricto concepto de la responsabilidad; y, de acuerdo con éste, juzgamos que ninguna autoridad gubernativa en un Estado libre y de derecho se halla titulada para fijar las normas que han de regir los deberes del intelectual con respecto a la conciencia pública, deberes de carácter eminentemente privativo y moral.72

They also call for ‘una comisión de juristas, integrada por abogados del Ilustre Colegio de Madrid’ to examine the events. As a result of this action, all mention of the names and works of Buero and the other signatories was excluded from the media, and their work was banned from the boards of the National Theatres. In fact, it was not until José Osuna used his considerable influence to stage El tragaluz in 1967 that Buero’s work became acceptable again. This environmental censorship was not limited to a silence in relation to those protesters, but also included a media campaign against them.73 Buero commented in an interview with José Luis Vicente Mosquete: El país entero, el país oficial, se echó sobre nosotros de una forma muy dura e incluso llegamos a estar procesados. Sólo que con el tiempo decidieron no seguir adelante: pasaron el caso y lo sobreseyeron, aunque a mí no me ha llegado aún notificación de tal sobreseimiento. Después de esto, en teoría, no pasaba nada, pero en la práctica la mayor parte de los firmantes quedamos muy congelados en los medios de comunicación y yo, concretamente, me pasé cuatro años sin estrenar.74

Cartas de intelectuales colectivas, no. 5. Buero writes that, as a direct consquence of the protest, ‘Un juez nos citó a declarar –, pero no llegaron a realizar el proceso. No faltó, sin embargo, el aluvión de improperios, amenazas, iras, etc., orquestadas en la prensa y hasta en televisión. Ni el desvío de editoriales o empresas. Ni el silencio prolongado de nuestros nombres o actividades en los medios de comunicación. En definitiva, para mí pasaron cuatro años sin estrenar, hasta que Tamayo [sic(?)–José Osuna was surely the director in question.] tuvo el arrojo de montar El tragaluz en 1967.’ Mariano de Paco, ‘Buero Vallejo y el teatro’, pp. 60, 63. See also Isasi Ángulo, ‘El teatro de Antonio Buero Vallejo: entrevista’, Papeles de Son Armadans, 67 (no. 201, 1972), 281–320 (p. 305). 74 Vicente Mosquete, ‘Antonio Buero Vallejo, sonrisas’, p. 17. 72 73

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There were hints of this extra-literary censorship on other occasions also. Enrique Pajón Mecloy gives the example of when Televisión Española contacted him to talk about the launch of Sirio magazine: ‘Al comprobar que en él se anunciaba que el segundo número estaría dedicado a comentar En la ardiente oscuridad, me advirtieron que debía abstenerme de nombrar a Buero. [. . .] Se trataba de callarse o hablar sembrando la desconfianza.’75 Joelyn Ruple has suggested that the relative failure of the play Aventura en lo gris in 1963 was the result of intense criticism of the play in the state-controlled press and that this criticism contrasted with the play’s initial warm reception in the theatre; similarly, Las Meninas, which had a successful run in the Teatro Español from December 1960 to April 1961, seemed set to play until the end of the season, but it was cancelled by the administration. Buero stated that Las Meninas suffered strong environmental censorship: ‘La obra tuvo, eso sí, fuerte censura ambiental y significativos artículos en contra; en favor, al parecer no se podía escribir sobre ella; yo no lo pretendí, pero otros sí y no lo consiguieron.’76 Härtinger notes that Un soñador para un pueblo too was subjected to a vitriolic press campaign and claims that, with his historical dramas, Buero touched a nerve.77 Buero attributed much of the negative reaction to La doble historia del doctor Valmy to environmental factors: ‘No siendo yo autor siempre rechazado me inclino a creer que en este desvío de algunas empresas hacia la obra han podido obrar causas extrañar [sic] al teatro más que una falta de fe en mi drama.’78 Yet such environmental censorship did not always have the desired effect: El tragaluz fue y es el primer gran éxito que yo tuve con Buero. El concierto de San Ovidio había sido un éxito de apreciación pero no duró en cartel lo que todos deseabamos, mientras que El tragaluz estuvo toda la temporada gracias a un hecho fortuito y quizá malintencionado. Alguien publicó un artículo en un periódico en el que desvelaba exactamente las claves de la obra. Este desvelamiento fue lo que hizo que el público acudiera masivamente a presenciarla.79

In 1958, the Nouveau Théâtre de Poche in Paris staged L’ardente obscurité but Buero was refused permission to leave Spain to attend the première; in fact he was not permitted to leave Spain until 1963. Alfonso Sastre suffered similar treatment. In 1957 his passport was confiscated by the regime, although it was later returned and he was permitted to travel. However, in 1965 he was unable to get a visa to travel to the United States. Sastre was politically active and was 75 Enrique Pajón Mecloy, El teatro de A. Buero Vallejo: marginalidad e infinito, Colección Espiral Hispano-Americana (Madrid: Editorial Fundamentos, 1991), p. 69. 76 Quoted in Beneyto, Censura y política, pp. 24–5. 77 Härtinger, Oppositionstheater, p. 154. 78 C. Alonso de los Ríos, quoted in Ricard Salvat, ‘El lenguaje escénico de Buero Vallejo’, in Buero Vallejo: cuarenta años, pp. 19–42 (p. 41). 79 Osuna, ‘Mi colaboración’, p. 58.

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imprisoned in 1956, and again briefly in 1961 and in the early 1970s for his extra-theatrical activities and for those of his wife, Eva Forest. The culture files also contain information about a Colloquium on Theatre and Society, organised by the Fulbright Commission, the Asociación Cultural Hispano-Norteamericana and the American Embassy in Spain. Buero was one of those invited to participate. However, the conference was not authorized by the regime, and there is evidence that those in power were unhappy at not being consulted prior to the invitations being sent. A note included in the file suggests another reason why the event was prohibited: Se observa el predominio de personas de conocida significación política marxista u hostil al Régimen, como José Monleón Bennacer, Pedro Laín Entralgo, Miguel Bilbatúa Pérez, Aurora Bautista, Berta Riaza, Julieta Serrano, Julia Pena Nalda (en la actualidad procesada como cómplice en actividades subversivas), Antonio Buero Vallejo, Lauro Olmo, Alfredo Mañas, Alfonso Sastre Salvador. [. . .] Es de prever, dadas estas circunstancias, que en las reuniones predomine una acusada tendencia política izquierdista o marxista.80

Yet another form of environmental censorship was the ideologically motivated use of literary prizes to reward certain authors. Writing about Carlos Muñiz, and in particular about the awarding of a prize to El grillo, Lorenzo López Sancho commented: Sobre la cuestión de los premios en la época, hay que decir que con ellos se practicaba un ‘bonito’ juego. A un autor lo prohibían pero lo premiaban. Y premiarlo suponía asimilarle, una suerte de tráfico de influencias de la época: te daban un premio, te influían, te pasaban a su bando y luego te mostraban. Incluso algún gran autor de ese tiempo fue mostrado como el gran monstruo de la oposición, de la rojez, asimilado y lleno de honores, lo cual permitía al poder proclamar: ‘¿Ven ustedes lo buenos que somos?’81

This sounds remarkably like the case of Buero Vallejo, and it fits in with what he said and with what has been said about him. He claimed not to have submitted work to competition after the Lope de Vega in 1949, yet he was awarded many prizes by the theatre Establishment, a fact that led some others to criticize the dramatist for his collaboration with the regime. The awarding of the Lope de Vega prize to Buero Vallejo is interesting for another reason. It caused some controversy, particularly as those in charge of the ceremony seemed unaware of Buero’s politics until part way through the event.82 AGA/IDD 104.04 Topogr. 82-68 Ca. 582 MIT/ 00.725. Notas informativas en general. Lorenzo López Sancho, ‘Carlos Muñiz’, in Teatro breve contemporáneo, pp. 11–13 (p. 12). 82 José Monleón, ‘El Lope de Vega: las subvenciones y la política teatral’, Primer Acto, 3 (no. 259, 1995), 23–5 (p. 24). Ramón de Garciasol remembered the awarding of the prize to Buero: ‘El alcalde de Madrid le recibió en el Ayuntamiento. Antonio subió por las escaleras con el monterilla, quien amable y confianzudo le halagaba: “Hombre, ¡qué 80 81

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O’Connor quotes Buero: No se puede imaginar el escándalo. Al día siguiente de la concesión del premio salía la noticia y mi foto, y a las 48 horas supongo que empezaron a funcionar los teléfonos: ‘¡Pero a quién habéis premiado!’ De modo que la obra estuvo a punto de no estrenarse. Ni siquiera me habían dado turno de estreno en el Teatro Español, pero la obra que empezaron a representar, un reestreno, tuvo tal fracaso de público que se vieron obligados a sustituirla por unos días, en tanto llegaba el turno de la representación del Tenorio. Y alguien pensó en que podía estrenarse mi obra y de paso daban carpetazo al asunto; nadie podía decir que me torpedeaban: la tenían unos días en cartel y se quitaban de encima el problema. 83

He was not even informed that the rehearsals had begun. Anthony Pasquariello claims that, in the aftermath of Buero’s victory, stricter controls were introduced to avoid a repetition of such an error. He further claims that an examination of those who received the award in the 1950s and 1960s bears this out.84 Pasquariello maintains that the Lope de Vega prize was later used as a tool of ideological affirmation, to promote certain dramatists. These were the dramatists who wrote theatre of integration propaganda and who, therefore, served the regime well. Those promoted by the regime included Ignacio Luca de Tena, whose work, Pasquariello suggests, did not merit the awards it received or the elevation of the dramatist to the Real Academia in 1946; he suggests that the honours bestowed upon him were rather the result of the dramatist’s political allegiance to the Franco regime. Others who, according to Pasquariello, deserved neither the praise nor the status awarded to them, included José María Pemán, Joaquín Calvo Sotelo and José Antonio Giménez Arnau. He logically argues that when these authors won the Lope de Vega and other prizes, they did so at the expense of better works by less favoured dramatists. Furthermore, the presence of a government official and a clergyman on the judging panels for the Lope de Vega and the Calderón de la Barca awards ensured that the panel would choose an author who respected the ideological line of the regime. He cites the example of Calvo Sotelo, who sought advice from Church authorities about maravilla! Es preciso que haya hombres como usted para que España suba, porque España, y entre todos . . .”, y toda la mala retórica del régimen. Antonio, como buen dramaturgo, escuchaba. Y el munícipe quería ser simpático: “Bueno, ya que somos un poco amigos, le voy a decir a usted una cosa que circula por ahí.” Buero callaba, respetando el papel del alcalde que proseguía: “Hablando en confianza y con un poco de sinceridad, me han informado que tienes un hermano . . . ¿cómo diría yo?, un poco así, vamos . . . de la cáscara amarga.” Antonio, sonriente: “que es rojo”. Y el buen señor: “Hombre, no iba a decir eso . . .”. Antonio cambió la escena: “Señor alcalde, mi hermano soy yo.” ’ O’Connor, Antonio Buero Vallejo en sus espejos, p. 233. 83 Quoted in O’Connor, Antonio Buero Vallejo en sus espejos, p. 255. 84 Anthony Pasquariello, ‘Government Promotion, Honours and Awards: A Corollary to Franco Era Censorship in Theater’, Cuadernos de Aldeeu, Monograph on Twentieth Century Spanish Theatre (no. 1, 1983), pp. 67–81 (p. 71).

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a suitable ending to the dilemma of the protagonist of La muralla, to demonstrate how eager such dramatists were to maintain the ideological status quo. Diego Salvador, one of the so-called underground dramatists, was awarded the Lope de Vega theatre prize in 1969 for his play Los niños, and the staging was scheduled for January 1970. However, bureaucratic and administrative machinations guaranteed that the play was postponed three times at short notice before finally opening on 19 June, a date that ensured a short run as it was near the end of the season. The play was initially passed without suppressions, but the censors who viewed the dress rehearsal insisted that the photographic images used in the play be made specific to other countries. In the end, Salvador disassociated himself completely from the production.85 Abellán, like Pasquariello, cites prizes and awards as an example of a more insidious form of censorship. Furthermore, he claimed: En determinados momentos, el mero nombre de un escritor ha sido motivo suficiente para justificar el rechazo de un manuscrito incluso en el caso de que su contenido objetivo fuera interpretable como neutral o políticamente irrelevante. Semejantes rechazos han afectado tanto a autores en oposición notoria al régimen como a aquellos que le eran favorables.86

The truth of this statement is borne out in the treatment of Arrabal, for one. He further insinuated that the actions of certain critics were ideologically motivated. Further evidence of this type of environmental censorship is to be found in the culture files in the Archive at Alcalá. A file on literary prizes contains a note dated 7 March 1974, which seems to support the theory that the awarding of literary prizes under Franco was ideologically motivated. The note, signed by Ricardo de la Cierva, and sent to the Ministro de Información y Cultura, deals with the Premio Larra dedicated to ‘la memoria sobre la guerra civil española’. He cites as the three most important works the books by Largo Caballero, the Marqués de Valdeiglesias and a book titled Chantaje a un pueblo, by Justo Martínez Amutio. He goes on to state: Voy a ejercitar toda mi influencia en el Jurado para lograr adjudicar el Premio a Justo Martínez Amutio. Primero porque me parece históricamente trascendental, y segundo porque se trata del alegato anti-comunista más documentado que he leído en mi vida. Lo de ‘chantaje a un pueblo’, el título se refiere al chantaje comunista, el libro es publicable cien por cien, y si fuera nuestro se nos motejaría de propaganda. Conozco personalmente a Justo Martínez Amutio, próximo a los 80 años. Conozco todos sus antecedentes. Fue Gobernador de Albacete en la zona roja, y aún así, fue puesto en libertad tras leve condena por nuestro Tribunal Militar. El Señor Gobernador de Valencia

O’Connor, ‘Torquemada’, pp. 40–1. Manuel L. Abellán, ‘Censura y autocensura en la producción literaria española’, Nuevo Hispanismo, 1 (no. 1, 1982), 169– 80 (p. 171). 85 86

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dando pruebas de su acreditada clarividencia política ha intentado que no salga premiado este libro. Saldrá premiado.87

It was awarded the prize.

Effects of Censorship Censorship, both official and environmental, exists not only as a reality imposed by a regime, but also as a threat, a reminder of the dominance of a certain ideology in society. For the population at large, it might mean being fed only the official line on any story and being unable to express adequately its opposition to the government. For the author, the threat of censorship permeates his working environment. The artist or writer must suffer the mutilation or suspension of his work, and he may react by attempting to protest more, by resigning himself to produce an acceptable work or by choosing to abandon his vocation or his country. The vagueness and ambiguity of its rules and its resultant arbitrary application compounded the problem of censorship in Spain under Franco. Even after the long-awaited apertura introduced by Manuel Fraga Iribarne at the MIT, the censorship norms remained vague and open to subjective interpretation by the censors. It did not help the situation that prior consultation was now voluntary (but the work was liable to confiscation if not submitted), or that the publishing company could now also be prosecuted if the work of an author was deemed, after publication, to be censurable. So-called liberalization may have led to an increase in other forms of censorship, because now the work was carefully scrutinized and edited by the publisher before even being submitted to the official censor for voluntary prior consultation. Although it is difficult to estimate the effect this double censorship had and the degree to which the editorial houses engaged in censorship, the boom in foreign and classic titles published at this time would suggest a high incidence of risk reduction by publishers. Yet cinema and theatre were still subject to prior censorship. The fact that neither the publishers nor, it would seem, the official censors, knew how to interpret the vague guidelines, meant that the authorization or rejection of a work was largely a matter of luck, dependent upon who read it. A work banned in one province or in one city might be permitted in another or deemed suitable for a particular type of venue only; a play that was authorized for staging one year might be refused the next. The influence of the Church in matters of censorship merely added to the confusion. The propagation of certain values, judged to be contrary to Roman Catholic teaching, was to be censored. However, as these values were not always clearly declared by the author, it was left to the censor to interpret the moral content of a book or play and to estimate the possible level of corruption and damage this could cause. Once again, it came down to interpretation of the work.

87

AGA/IDD 104.04 Topogr. 82-68 Ca. 581 MIT/ 00.590 Premios de literatura.

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It is interesting, particularly in the case of Alfonso Sastre, to see the contradictory reports written on the same play by different censors. When Manuel Abellán conducted a survey of Spanish authors affected by censorship under Franco, he found that almost 85 percent of those surveyed believed political opinion to be the reason for which they were most censored, followed by their portrayal of religion and sexual morality.88 The fourth criterion, the author’s use of language, was not considered to be the cause of much censorship, compared with the other three criteria. The authors surveyed also believed that censorship was not uniformly applied to all writers, but rather depended on one’s past notoriety or political stance. An examination of the works of Sastre, Buero and Arrabal supports this claim, as Arrabal’s name alone was sufficient to have his work prohibited. While in the early days what could be classed as obscene or politically mischievous was heavily censored as the nascent regime attempted to secure itself, in later years this varied with the political climate, with periods of relatively light censorship followed by severe clampdowns and suspension of civil liberties. In fact Arrabal was not censored very heavily until the mid-1960s, when he was placed on the list of authors banned by the regime. One of the reasons for which Antonio Buero Vallejo’s play La doble historia del doctor Valmy was not authorized was the timing of its submission to the censor’s office, which coincided with a rise in civil unrest. The theme of the play deals with police brutality, a charge laid at the door of the Guardia Civil in their dealings with the striking miners. Another effect of the censorship applied during the Franco regime was the stunting of artistic growth. The capacity of the writer to fulfil his potential and develop his craft to the full was severely curtailed by the limitations imposed by the censor and the punishment for breach of these. Some authors, refusing to accept cuts and modifications made or suggested by the censor were thus unable to stage their plays; others gave up trying. Another effect that might be attributed to censorship is the overall lack of theatrical innovation and experimentation by the group known as the Realist Generation. They tended to concentrate on the message, which was often a veiled one, so that the plot worked on more than one level. However, their emphasis on realism, itself a reaction against the bourgeois fare of farce and folly, was often at the expense of technical innovation. In the longer term, censorship gradually came to be naturalized and accepted by many, and this acceptance of both official and self-imposed censorship culminated in a cultural apathy in some quarters, where people no longer questioned its benefits or its existence, making it more difficult for those who saw it as an affront and sought to challenge it. As Rushdie wrote: The worst, most insidious effect of censorship is that, in the end, it can deaden the imagination of the people. Where there is no debate, it is hard to go on remembering, every day, that there is a suppressed side to every argument.

88

Abellán, Censura y creación, p. 89.

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It becomes almost impossible to conceive of what the suppressed things might be. It becomes easy to think that what has been suppressed was valueless, anyway, or so dangerous that it needed to be suppressed. And then the victory of the censor is total.89

Those who chose to accept the official myth of censorship for the common good were in a sense colluding with the regime by refusing to see the injustice of the situation. In an interview with Beneyto, José Luis Cano, author and secretary of Ínsula magazine, condemned the damaging links between culture and politics in Spain under Franco: ‘Desde 1936, la cultura española ha vivido sometida a un control y represión permanentes. Ha sido, pues, una cultura minusválida, temerosa, consciente de su debilidad y su frustración.’90 Many writers of the time engaged in self-censorship, intimidated not only by the regime, but in the postapertura period, by the publishing company also. In 1974, Manuel Abellán conducted a survey of ninety-five Spanish writers: thirty said that they had never engaged in self-censorship, while sixty-four readily admitted that they had.91 Self-censorship is impossible to quantify as it often means not writing something, as opposed to cutting something that has been written, yet few, if any, authors writing in such circumstances could hope to avoid it; the result is the growth of a particular mode of writing, peculiar to those in this situation and perhaps understood only by them. In essence then, self-censorship is a series of self-imposed limitations in response to the fear created and maintained by the regime’s use of official censorship and sanctions. The supporters of official censorship prefer to view self-censorship as a form of self-discipline. It is not necessarily consciously imposed, but even those authors who refuse to rewrite a piece once it is written may nevertheless limit themselves before they commit words to paper, so conditioned have they become to what is and is not acceptable to the regime. Self-censorship gradually became normalized in Spain, which meant that even though a play may not have reflected the dominant ideology, it did not necessary challenge it. It became an automatic action, rather than a last resort. Concha Alos remarked that ‘lo dramático (la autocensura) se ha hecho normal y ha dejado de ser dramático’.92 Abellán cogently argues that self-censorship can be divided into explicit and implicit varieties.93 Explicit self-censorship is censorship carried out by the author in order to satisfy the demands of the censor and in order to salvage something of the text. Implicit self-censorship can be conscious or unconscious. Conscious implicit self-censorship is that carried out by the author while writing

89 Salman Rushdie, ‘Censorship’, in Imaginary Homelands, Essays and Criticism 1981–1991 (London: Granta, 1991), pp. 37–40 (p. 39). 90 Beneyto, Censura y política, p. 165. 91 Manuel Abellán, ‘Fenómeno censorio y represión literaria’, in Abellán, ed., Censura y literaturas penínsulares, pp. 5–25 (p. 20). 92 Abellán, ‘Censura y autocensura’, p. 180. 93 Abellán, ‘Fenómeno censorio’, p. 18.

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or proofing the manuscript before submission to the censor: the author decides to eliminate that which he feels might hinder its progress through the censor’s office. Unconscious implicit self-censorship is that which the author engages in without direct or conscious knowledge: it might be some habit in his writing style picked up through education or conditioning or past experience of the censor’s demands. Some of Buero’s comments tended to underplay the significance of censorship in Spanish literature, perhaps in an unconscious effort to justify his own actions. Buero himself believed that self-censorship was inevitable, although he admitted that this assertion might be a form of self-defence. He tended towards the view that absolute personal and political freedoms may not be possible in any organized society and that one must therefore always strive to maximize what one can achieve rather than hold out for the ideal. His comments could even be interpreted as a justification of self-censorship: La autocensura no afecta al valor intrínsico de la obra literaria. Esto no quiere decir que la censura sea una institución o instrumento aceptable. Al contrario, deteriora y avasalla. Pero no por ello afecta al alcance artístico o crítico que la obra tiene. Las estructuras de la obra artística son necesariamente ‘oblicuas’. Es más, aunque parezca contradictorio, la censura ha dado un aspecto crítico que no hubiera tenido sin ella.94

In so far as official censorship was successful, it was when the work was prohibited and its message silenced. When it was a case of editing and modifying the tone of a work, however, the underlying criticism often remained unchanged, and the attack on the ideology endured. Where censorship was really effective was in the atmosphere it created and the effects it had on both author and editorial or theatre company. Buero exemplifies, with his posibilismo, the author who was affected by the ideological apparatus of censorship, and who carefully considered what he wanted to say before committing it to the scrutiny of the censors.

94

Abellán, ‘Censura y autocensura’, p. 179.

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Posibilismo Compromise Tenga razón o no Buero, consta que ha llegado a hacerse el primer dramaturgo de España. Ha sabido dorar la píldora.1

One of the principal reasons for Buero’s enduring success under Franco was his willingness to compromise. Whether this compromise was admirable or not has long been cause for debate, and the fact remains that the essence of Buero’s wellknown posibilismo is concession. His posibilismo encompassed not only the style and themes of his theatre, but also his dealings with the censors, the theatre directors and the media. Hence posibilismo was what enabled him to deal effectively with the state apparatuses of Francoism. It can be argued that all, or almost all, of the authors who chose to remain and work in Spain during the dictatorship were compromised. The few exceptions were those who wrote for posterity without the objective of publication or success in the lifetime of the regime. Buero himself acknowledged, to some degree, the compromise he engaged in, although he chose to portray his actions as fighting the dictatorship from the front line. There is no denying that his situation was sometimes an uncomfortable one. His position within the commercial theatre world at times alienated him from those outside it, many of whom saw the state-controlled commercial theatre as part of the ideological apparatus of the state. Nonetheless, as official censorship documents confirm, the regime did not trust Buero. He tenido un poco más de suerte, es probable. Pero algunos han dicho que he tenido suerte porque me he adaptado más; eso a mi me parece incierto y desleal por parte de quien lo dice. Lo que sucede es que, aunque cada vez se hayan podido ir diciendo más cosas, también es cierto que la suspicacia de la censura ha sido cada vez más creciente en la medida misma en que iban viendo cómo estas plataformas críticas del teatro, o de otros géneros, se iban ampliando y consolidando. Entonces, claro, para un autor como yo, que ya estaba bastante instalado, se crea una especie de inercia relativa en la cual, sin faltar momentos de prohibición, congelación y de grave dificultad, se van obteniendo algo menos difícilmente autorizaciones de algunas obras. Si otros autores menos consolidados las hubieran escrito, exactamente iguales a como las escribí yo,

1 William Giuliano, Buero Vallejo, Sastre y el teatro de su tiempo (New York: Las Americas, 1971), p. 81.

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hubieran tenido más dificultad porque la censura habría podido frenarlos con mayor impunidad. Posiblemente, el secreto de la cuestión está un poco ahí y no en la aserción esgrimida por algunos de que mi teatro sea algo más acomodaticio ante la sociedad española que el de otros.2

Buero was probably correct in his assertion that his position, once established, helped him to stage and publish works that might otherwise have been prohibited. However, the question of how he reached that powerful position still remains. His initial success was unexpected and, from the regime’s perspective, seemingly unwelcome. Yet Historia de una escalera offered something new to the theatre-going public at the time. By the time it was staged, moreover, the news of the author’s political allegiance had spread, giving the play a further novelty value that undoubtedly contributed to its popularity. This meant that Buero moved from professional obscurity to fame and notoriety very quickly. Once established, it was easier for Buero to have his work staged and perhaps more difficult for the censors to cut or prohibit his later work. A feature of Buero’s posibilismo was his willingness to trade on both his reputation and that of the administration. On occasion the regime’s concern to protect its name abroad worked to the dramatist’s advantage. A report from October 1964, penned by Federico Carlos Sainz de Robles, proposed the authorization of La doble historia del doctor Valmy for non-commercial theatres. The reason was Buero’s fame: to prohibit a play by such a well-known author might cause a scandal abroad: Mi crítica es radical: o se prohibe totalmente, o totalmente se permite. Yo voto por el segundo. Se trata de uno de nuestros mejores dramaturgos, con fama mundial. Hay que guardarle consideración; y evitar en lo posible el escándalo fuera de España.

Not only did the censor object to the suggested cuts, which he considered ‘un poco inocentes’ and which ‘mutilan gravemente la intención del autor’, but he went on to complain that it was unfair to treat Spanish authors differently from foreign authors, as it not only prejudiced the author but damaged the Spanish theatre.3 Unfortunately, in this case the theme and timing of the play were the overriding factors in the regime’s decision, and the play was prohibited. Buero was aware of the regime’s concern about international opinion; he was also cognizant that his own reputation afforded him certain advantages when O’Connor and Pasquariello, ‘Conversaciones’, p. 10. ‘No debe olvidarse que hace bien poco hemos asistido a las representaciones de obras como La buena sopa y El huevo de Felicien Marceau, El deseo bajo los olmos de O’Neill, Dulce pájaro de juventud y Noche de Iguana de Tennessee Williams. ¿Por qué tener distinta medida con los autores españoles, y más cuando se trata de uno de los mejores dramaturgos que tenemos para presumir por el mundo? Es indispensable una gran comprensión para no esterilizar nuestro teatro, que siempre fue de los más importantes del mundo.’AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.779 Exp. 147-64. 2 3

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dealing with the administration. In 1968, when he learned that the number of suppressions was to be increased in a production of Historia de una escalera, he wrote to Carlos Robles Picquer, Director General de Cultura Popular y el Espectáculo at the MIT. In his carefully worded correspondence, he suggested that the additional cuts might be an error, and then asked for permission to ignore them and proceed with the production. In the letter Buero stressed the fame of the play, both in Spain and abroad, and hinted at the damage to the regime’s carefully fostered new image that could be caused by harsh censorship of a famous play by such a well-known author. His letter received the desired response from Robles Picquer, affirming that a mistake had been made; the play was authorized as before (Appendix X). There were echoes of this in Buero’s theatre also. In El sueño de la razón, Calomarde suggests that Goya should be executed, but the image-conscious king is reluctant to follow that path as ‘su prestigio es grande’ (O.C. I: 1269). Also working in the dramatist’s favour was the fact that the theatre directors in the commercial theatres were often Nationalists. Therefore, their endorsement of Buero aided his career in the commercial theatres. Directors such as Cayetano Luca de Tena, Luis Escobar, Hugo Pérez de la Ossa, José Osuna and José Tamayo were powerful in theatre circles. They worked with officially sanctioned theatre companies in the national theatres and were often involved in classical, non-threatening and integration drama. For them, the works of a dramatist such as Buero must have offered a challenge, yet one that was unlikely to involve too great a risk. Buero usually dealt with the censors indirectly through such directors. He was not afraid to utilize both their prestige and his own to salvage some of the cuts demanded: Yo alguna vez he hablado con algunos censores – con uno o dos llegué a tener una relación correcta, primariamente afectuosa –, pero normalmente mi relación con la censura la planteaba a través de la empresa. Mi táctica era doble: por un lado ese truco que recordaba Tamayo; la otra, la más peligrosa, era decir seriamente al empresario que advirtiese a los censores que arreglaban el asunto o me negaba a estrenar. Y en casos como este ha habido cesiones sucesivas, mediante las cuales conseguíamos dejar la obra prácticamente limpia de cortes.4

The first reference is to his insertion of a decoy in the text to distract the attention of the censors from a more political point. The second is the strategy he used in his attempts to get Las Meninas past the censors. A look at the censor’s copy of the play shows that whole pages were to be cut, in what amounted to complete destruction of the text. Buero refused to accept many of these cuts and, were it not for the persistence of the director in his dealings with the censors and Buero’s willingness to compromise on some cuts, the play could not have been produced. 4

Vicente Mosquete, ‘Antonio Buero Vallejo, sonrisas’, p. 17.

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Tamayo’s influence can also been seen in documents relating to the staging in 1966 of Buero’s adaptation of Mother Courage and her Children (Madre Coraje y sus hijos). The director wrote to the Director General de Teatro, García Escudero, requesting that one of the cuts made by the censors be reconsidered. The excised text explained the daughter’s muteness: ‘Se asustó de pequeñina porque un soldado le metió algo en la boca.’ Tamayo argued his case well, using all the influence and flattery he could, and citing the support of Buero. He reasoned that if the sentence was removed, audiences might conclude that the text was severely mutilated; furthermore, he stressed the prestige of Brecht, and referred to Buero’s mild translation of the phrase and his refusal to invent a substitute (Appendix XI). Unfortunately, the documents in the Archive do not show if he was successful on this occasion. The support of José Osuna was also crucial later in the redemption of Buero Vallejo after his exclusion from the stage and the media in the aftermath of the letter of protest to Fraga. Although by then his reputation was secure, Buero’s elevation to membership of the Real Academia Española in January 1971 further reduced the chances that he would be heavily censored. However, it also made him very much a part of the literary Establishment of Franco’s Spain, a fact that Buero underplayed when talking about his position in the Academy: La Academia Española es un organismo bastante independiente. Su carácter de oficialidad, que por supuesto lo tiene, es un carácter muy «suidissant» [sic] y que hay que entender y no tomarlo en el sentido superficial de la palabra. Cuando la Academia me hace el favor de admitirme en su seno yo entiendo que se reconoce con ello una trayectoria y una labor y que se reconoce con una objetividad y un desapasionamiento.5

There were other reasons for accepting the position. The Academy offered protection from the actions of other state institutions. Buero admitted that ‘le hace a uno más intocable’.6 In an interview with Isasi Angulo in 1972, Buero confessed his reason for accepting a seat in the Academy: La Academia ampara. En un país como el nuestro el título de Académico es muy considerado. Uno vive – como escritor – a la intemperie; pasa el tiempo

5 Gonzalo Pérez de Olaguer, ‘Antonio Buero Vallejo, nuevo Académico de la Lengua’, Yorick, no. 46 (1971), 5–10 (p. 9). 6 Pérez de Olaguer, ‘Antonio Buero Vallejo, nuevo Académico’, p. 10. Contradictorily, in 1963 Buero refused José María García Escudero’s offer to form part of the Consejo Superior de Teatro, and implied that he had also refused advances made about taking up a seat in the Real Academia in 1957. He continued to refuse offers to join the Academy until 1971, when, ‘me pillaron en el momento de la debilidad y entré. Privaba la idea equivocadísima de que la Academia era un órgano oficial que actuaba, o actúa, a toque de campanilla del poder, y esto no es así y ni siquiera lo era entonces.’ Sainz, ‘Antonio Buero Vallejo: un intelectual’, p. 28.

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y a pesar del prestigio ganado uno está siempre a punto de la bofetada ajena o del percance con la censura. La Academia cubre en gran parte.7

In the same interview he suggested that Llegada de los dioses might not have received such favourable treatment from the censors had the dramatist not been thus protected by his position. However, while his membership may have aided Buero to continue to exercise his posibilismo, the injustice of the need for protection is obvious. Other dramatists, less tolerated than Buero, had no such defence against the ideological apparatus of censorship. Buero’s acceptance of the honour was consistent with his posibilismo, although it left him open to criticism for once again lending the weight of his prestige to an institution supported by the regime he opposed.

Buero’s Philosophy and Style: Posibilismo In 1969 the writer and academic Guillermo Díaz Plaja commented on the techniques employed by writers to get their works past the censor. He cited as an example the theatre of Buero, which he claimed, ‘si lo separamos del contexto político y social de sus primeros años de producción, no puede entenderse. La gente aprendió a leer y a escuchar entre líneas, y los escritores a expresarse con símbolos y alegorías.’8 The use of symbol, metaphor and allegory is, of course, an essential part of any literature, and not solely a response to censorship: ‘Si una obra de teatro no sugiere mucho más de lo que explícitamente expresa, está muerta. Lo implícito no es un error por defecto, sino una virtud por exceso’ (O.C. II: 692). Nevertheless, in Spain the political situation meant that, in order to express an opinion contrary to that held by the regime, the use of symbolic or euphemistic language was the only option. True freedom of expression did not exist for the author. The choice was to write or not to write, and if the author chose to write, then this inevitably resulted in a compromise in order to deliver the message: En realidad, todo escritor y todo artista se siente frenado, pero la posibilidad de todo buen escritor está justamente en convertir ese inconveniente en una virtud. Es decir, apoyarse en las limitaciones con las que se enfrenta y, a pesar de ellas, sacar adelante una verdad creadora. (O.C. II: 735)

7 Isasi Angulo, ‘El teatro’, p. 318. Nonetheless, Buero stressed that he did not seek the position: ‘Yo nunca busqué entrar en la Academia; incluso lo eludí ante alguna autorizada insinuación. Pero no tenía, ni tengo, ese prejuicio antiacadémico tan frecuente entre personas que luego se perecen por entrar en ella.’ Mariano de Paco, ‘Buero Vallejo y el teatro’, p. 63. In an interview in 1982, Buero insisted that he had not compromised by joining the Academy. Rafael Brines, ‘Buero Vallejo: “Para estar en la Academia no he tenido que renunciar a nada” ’, Hoja del lunes (Valencia), 22 March 1982, p. 41. 8 Salvador Paniker, Conversaciones en Madrid (Barcelona: Kairós, 1969), pp. 209–10.

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Buero chose to write in these circumstances, not because he agreed with or supported the circumstances in which he wrote, but rather because he considered the alternative, silence, to be an ally of censorship and a victory for the regime. He reasoned that the literature of the period would only be judged on what was produced and not on what might have been produced given more favourable circumstances. Clearly, Buero determined to be a posibilista in his dealings with the regime and to write a theatre that not only reflected his social, political and ethical interests, but would be staged. His posibilismo included his choice of theme and setting and his use of symbolism, history, mythology and language. During the Franco years, Buero stated that he did not think that his style would change radically should censorship cease: ‘Me inclino a creer que aunque cambiaran las circunstancias yo las seguiría tocando de esa misma forma indirecta.’9 This was borne out in the post-Franco years, which might lead one to conclude that his oblique style was not exclusively an answer to the threat of censorship; alternatively, it can be reasoned that censorship caused his style to evolve in that way and that he developed it no further, even when he had the opportunity. Buero maintained that he would have written the same material and in the same manner even without the constraints of censorship: ‘No creo que hubiera habido, aunque no hubiéramos tenido censura en aquel tiempo, por mi parte una diferencia grande entre lo que escribí y lo que pudiera haber escrito.’10 However, he then admitted that without censorship he might have written on another theme and, interestingly, he added that he might not have written some of his dramas. Unfortunately, he did not say which ones. Buero defended posibilismo as capable of being political and social, albeit within certain limits, and his own case seems to prove this. He was, of course, criticized for his stance, most notably by Alfonso Sastre and Fernando Arrabal. Criticisms of posibilismo emanated not only from the left, however; Eloy Herrera Santos, one of the most successful reactionary dramatists to emerge in the post-Franco period, claimed that ‘los mediocres se aprovecharon del simbolismo’.11 Gabriel Celaya was another critic of Buero’s use of symbolism, which he considered a dishonest means of eluding ‘la dificultad y la responsabilidad que exige lo concreto’.12 Interestingly, he claimed that the true drama was contained in the dramatic ambiguities of the author, a point that is certainly true to some extent. Miguel Luis Rodríguez also disapproved of Buero’s style of symbolism: ‘No son el testimonio más expresivo de nuestro tiempo.’ The difficulty was, he contended, that if the spectator did not recognize the symbol, ‘el propósito se ha frustrado’.13

Pérez de Olaguer, ‘Antonio Buero Vallejo, nuevo Académico’, p. 8. Amell, ‘Conversación’, p. 128. 11 Phyllis Zatlin Boring, ‘Encuesta sobre el teatro madrileño de los años 70’, Estreno, 6 (no. 1, 1980), 11–22 (p. 15). 12 ‘Penúltimas noticias del Madrid teatral: Las cartas boca abajo de Buero Vallejo’, Primer Acto, no. 6 (1958), 52. 13 ‘Las cartas boca abajo de Antonio Buero Vallejo’, Índice, 12 (no. 111, 1958), 10. 9

10

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The reasons for Buero’s choice of stance are controversial. Unlike many other writers of the previous and subsequent generations, for whom the decision to oppose Franco’s Nationalist state and to glorify the Second Republic was a simple one, Buero took a more conciliatory approach. The explanation may be that his own family had suffered at the hands of the Republicans. Terry Eagleton’s discourse in authorial ideology (AuI) and its relationship to general ideology (GI) has implications for Buero’s contradictory relationship with Francoism: Between the two formations of GI and AuI, relations of effective homology, partial disjunction and severe contradiction are possible. The producer’s biographical (as opposed to ‘aesthetic’ or ‘textual’) ideology may be effectively homologous with the dominant ideology of his or her historical moment, but not necessarily because the producer lives the social conditions of class most appropriate for such harmonious insertion into it. The producer may in terms of (say) class-position inhabit an ideological sub-ensemble with conflictual relations to the dominant ideology, but by an overdetermination of other biographical factors (sex, religion, region) may be rendered homologous with it. The converse situation is equally possible. The degree of conjuncture or disjuncture between AuI and GI may also be ‘diachronically’ determined: an author may relate to his or her contemporary GI by virtue of ‘belonging’ to an historically previous GI, or (as with the case of the revolutionary author) to a putatively future one. As GI mutates, an AuI which was at one point homologous with it may enter into conflict with it, and vice versa.14

Buero’s heroic protagonists belong to a future general ideology, whereas his own case is less clear. Biographically, at least to some degree, Buero can be inserted into the dominant ideology. However, his chosen ideological position conflicts with the ruling ideology. Consistent with Eagleton’s theory would be the notion that Buero in effect, produced ‘progressive texts using outmoded forms within an obsolescent or partly obsolescent LMP (literary mode of production)’.15 This is consistent with Buero’s claim that the most radical use of language did not necessarily imply the most radical social or political perspective.16 For, as Eagleton also points out, an author ‘may produce ideologically conservative texts within an historically progressive LMP’. It is undeniable that, although his aesthetic was quite, though not entirely, conservative and traditional, Buero produced works critical of the society in which he lived. Moreover, Buero’s own Republican credentials cannot be doubted. Eagleton, Criticism and Ideology, p. 59. Eagleton, Criticism and Ideology, p. 63. 16 In what could be interpreted as a further defence of his posibilismo and use of carefully chosen symbolism to say through art what cannot be said elsewhere, Buero stated: ‘No soy contrario a un teatro militante, pero si “milita” ostensiblemente, creo que será de alcance más limitado y circunstancial que aquel otro teatro que, junto a la racionalización de problemas, no rehúya el enigma. [. . .] Pues sucede que no siempre lo más explícito y directo es lo más revulsivo y formativo, cuando de arte se trata.’ Ricard Salvat, ‘Entrevista a Buero Vallejo’, Estreno, 4 (no. 1, 1978), 15–18 (p. 18). 14 15

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Buero’s drama, as a result of his personal experiences, was more ethical than ideological. He criticized the methods of ideological domination by politicians of all hues and the collusion and silence of the masses that are necessary to make it work. He was critical of cruelty and cautious about the use of violence. Buero stressed the possibility of the tortured becoming the torturer, and warned against the charm of believing in easy answers in any struggle. The idea of one side in a conflict possessing total rectitude is exposed as false in his elaboration of characters inspired by the myth of Cain and Abel. Buero’s dramatic style was also part of his posibilismo. It allowed him to deal with forbidden themes such as suicide, torture and the Civil War, and enabled him to criticize the Francoist ideology and the state apparatuses. Many of his plays contain condemnations of the ruling elite and of their methods of inculcating their values and legitimating their rule. Yet, while the dramatist criticized the Franco regime for its brutality and censorship, the problem of Spain is not resolved on stage and he did not call for revolution. Brustein insists that social drama, which portrays reality in order to criticize it, is essentially negative.17 In contrast, Buero saw this criticism as a form of patriotism. He did not pretend to have a solution; he merely implied that change was needed. Perhaps because his plays focus so much on ethics and morality, they were perceived as less threatening than the flagrantly political works of others. Moreover, by building on the tradition of the sainete and on classical theatre, Buero managed not to alienate the bourgeois public necessary for a successful commercial theatre career. In addition, because Buero always emphasized the Aristotelian tradition he followed, his work might have been perceived as less threatening by the censors who would doubtless have been more concerned about a dramatist who stressed more provocative Brechtian influences. Highlighting the classical, traditional style of his works, while at the same time pointing to some minor innovations, fitted in with the regime’s contradictory aim of a progressive trajectory towards the recapture of a glorious past. Tragedy was Buero’s chosen form of theatrical expression. He agreed with Camus, who said that literature without hope was a contradiction in terms (O.C. II: 514). For Buero, tragedy was man’s best hope of knowing himself. He rejected the notion that tragedy is essentially fatalistic and interpreted it as a fight between liberty and necessity, expressed as a battle between free will and social pressures and expectations. In his view, liberty could, and often did, emerge victorious.18 The outcome is based on man’s free will: if he chooses to err, he suffers, but in suffering he may discover an essential truth about himself or society. For Buero, clearly drawing on Aristotle’s Poetics, all tragedy, even that which seems hopeless and without solution or the possibility of reconciliation, contained within it 17 Robert Brustein, The Theatre of Revolt: Studies in Modern Drama from Ibsen to Genet (Chicago: Elephant Paperbacks, 1991), p. 22. 18 However, Luciano García Lorenzo notes a change in Buero’s work from La Fundación on, when ‘esa puerta final a la esperanza ha terminado por convertirse en un túnel un tanto oscuro’. ‘Buero Vallejo’, in Teatro breve contemporáneo, pp. 5–9 (p. 6).

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the hopes and desires of man. Catharsis, which Buero defined as ‘una reacción positiva, fortalecedora, esperanzada’, was important in the dramatist’s social and political dramas, as it can awaken in man a desire to fight to achieve change (O.C. II: 555). Si nos impulsa a actuar, lo hace después de llevarnos a una plataforma, ética o filosófica, más consistente; si bien – no lo olvidemos – no por explícitas consideraciones ni moralejas, aunque también pueda haberlas en la obra, sino por la fuerza ejemplar del argumento y sus pasiones. Dicho de otro modo: por directa impresión estética y no discursiva, pues la belleza estética es un hallazgo supremo del hombre que, con su sola presencia, puede expresarlo todo sin decir nada. (O.C. II: 637)

He also considered it a process of interior perfection, from which great or hopeful future actions might be inspired. Buero’s stated purpose in writing tragedies was ‘de enfrentar a la gente con aspectos displacientes o problemáticos de la vida humana’ (O.C. II: 547). His examination of an individual’s dilemma often reflected the dilemma facing a particular society, or the common man. In Aristotelian fashion, the universal is represented in the particular. His dramas are open-ended, to suggest to the public that the resolution of the conflict enacted in the play is its responsibility, which might seem a little naïve, given the public who viewed his plays. Despite the obvious influence of classic Greek tragedy on the work of Buero, some significant differences remain. One of these is Buero’s use of ‘el hombre de carne y hueso’. His moralistic tone and social tragedy were also reminiscent of Ibsen, and Buero himself cited many different authors and artists as influences on his work. His theatrical innovation, the so-called immersion-effect, can also be linked to his Aristotelian outlook. The essence of this immersion is connection with the character, an emotional involvement leading to catharsis.19 In keeping with the spirit of posibilismo, Buero’s espousal of Aristotelian drama and rejection of Brecht’s epic theatre was not total. Certainly, there is some evidence of epic elements and alienation techniques in the Spanish playwright’s works, particularly the distancing effect of recourse to history in plays such as Un soñador para un pueblo and Las Meninas; the use of narrators in Las Meninas, El concierto de San Ovidio, El tragaluz, Caimán (1980), Misión al pueblo desierto (1999); and even the blind newspaper vendor in Un soñador para un pueblo, as well as in his use of multimedia techniques. Nonetheless, even when Buero did employ narrators, the audience was not the real theatre 19 Victor Dixon defined immersion-effect as: ‘When the spectator is made to share a peculiar sensory perception (or lack of it), not with all the characters of a play but (normally) with only one, with whom he therefore feels a stronger sense of empathy or identification.’ He went on to say: ‘It is apparent that his dominant concern has always been to involve the spectator, to induce his imaginative participation in the play, to persuade him towards emotional identification with the main characters.’ ‘The “immersion-effect” in the Plays of Antonio Buero Vallejo’, in Estudios sobre Buero Vallejo, pp. 159–83 (pp. 160, 162).

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audience but rather that from another time or place, which it was encouraged to identify with. Hence, the possibility of catharsis still remained.20 Buero also experimented with language in his plays. However, his text-based dramas did not usually employ overtly politicized language that would be interpreted as an attack on the regime. Buero’s attacks on the language of the regime were subtler, the words themselves often being contradicted in action or spirit by the person who uttered them, rather than directly attacked by an opponent with a conflicting political argument. Yet, even his use of language, particularly medical and painterly terminology, can also be viewed as part of his posibilismo, a way of making indirect criticisms.21 This can be seen particularly in El sueño de la razón and La doble historia del doctor Valmy. García Lorenzo praised not only the dialogue but also the related paralinguistic elements of Buero’s dramas: Un ejemplo de precisa descripción de elementos paraverbales a partir del vestido de los personajes, lo tenemos en el caso de En la ardiente oscuridad. La definición de Carlos y de Ignacio, por sus propios trajes, nos está anticipando la función que esos personajes van a cumplir a lo largo de la obra. [. . .] Buero, así, se une a una tradición del teatro español que en el siglo de oro está perfectamente estratificada, codificada.22

Ashworth too, observed: The visual image exists and flourishes in the silence that censorship seeks to create. It is a little outside the censor’s normally verbal realm, and, as long as it avoids the obvious, seems to maintain an elusiveness vis-à-vis officialdom while retaining its power to evoke, suggest and delight even as it testifies and attacks.23

Perhaps the most striking evidence of posibilismo in Buero’s dramatic style is his use of such visual imagery and symbolism, particularly in his physically and mentally impaired characters. In Buero’s plays, physical ailments are generally symptomatic of social, ethical, moral and emotional ills. Also, Buero knew that 20 More obviously Brechtian are the well-dressed couple in La doble historia del doctor Valmy, although as Dixon points out, even they were addressing their fellow inmates in a psychiatric hospital. ‘ “Pero todo partió de allí”: El concierto de San Ovidio a través del prisma de su epílogo’, in El teatro de Buero Vallejo: homenaje del hispanismo británico e irlandés, ed. by Victor Dixon and David Johnston, Hispanic Studies TRAC, 9 (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1996), pp. 29–56 (p. 32). 21 Robert Louis Sheehan wrote about Buero’s use of medical terminology in his work in an effort to diagnose and discuss Spain’s ills. ‘Buero Vallejo as “El médico de su obra” ’, Estreno, 1 (no. 2, 1975), 18–22. 22 García Lorenzo, ‘Buero Vallejo’, p. 7. 23 Peter P. Ashworth, ‘Silence and Self-Portraits: The Artist as Young Girl, Old Man and Scapegoat in El Espíritu de la Colmena and El sueño de la razón’, Estreno, 12 (no. 2, 1986), 66–71 (p. 66).

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‘voir quelqu’un ne pas voir, c’est la meilleure façon de voir intensément ce qu’il ne voit pas’.24 The dramatist at times included the spectator in the group of those who do not see, as in La Fundación. Sometimes, as in the historical dramas, the spectator knows the outcome, and thus sees what the character does not see. Often the characters who suffer a physical handicap, such as blindness or deafness, or who are reputedly mad, are in fact those who see most clearly the problems of their society. Like artists and writers, Buero’s madmen and blind people are outsiders with a non-traditional, non-conformist vision of the world and from this comes their insight into it. Así como en la lejana En la ardiente oscuridad, algún ciego era capaz de «ver», precisamente por la limitación de su ceguera; así como en el reciente drama El tragaluz algún demente lograba, justamente por su locura, intuir hondos aspectos de lo real mirando tan sólo las piernas que pasaban por la acera y escuchando fugaces palabras de los transeúntes, así en esta obra intermedia, una sorda intuye verdades que, de oír, acaso la cháchara humana le hubiera impedido captar. (O.C. II: 449–50)

Similarly, it is those members of society who best conform and who are contented whom Buero suggested might be lacking in insight, either unconsciously or voluntarily, in order to protect themselves and their comfortable positions in society. TEIRESIAS You have your sight and yet you cannot see where, nor with whom, you live, nor in what horror.25

Unlike the physically handicapped characters, those who choose to shut their eyes, ears and minds to reality are responsible for their own impairment and therefore have the moral duty to cure themselves. So, when momentarily blinded in En la ardiente oscuridad and El concierto de San Ovidio, or when made to experience the deafness of the protagonist in El sueño de la razón, or when immersed in the madness of Tomás in La Fundación or that of the well-dressed couple in La doble historia del doctor Valmy, the spectator is forcefully reminded of his choice of whether or not to be wilfully blind to the reality of his society. Buero questioned the perceived madness of his characters. Their apparent insanity or irrationality is shown to be healthier in some respects than the apparent sanity of other characters. The madness of the father in El tragaluz is matched by the determined self-delusion of the mother and Vicente. Clearly, in a sick society, the truly mad are those who ignore or strive to maintain the malady. Julio in Llegada de los dioses knows that in modern corrupt society ‘estar sano es haber

24 Barthes, Mythologies, p. 41. Seeing a person who does not see is the best way to see with intensity the thing that he does not see. 25 Sophocles, Oedipus the King (Antigone, Electra), trans. by H. D. F. Kitto, ed. by Edith Hall, The World’s Classics (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994), p. 62, lines 413–15.

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torturado y pintar’ (O.C. I: 1373). Those who insist on recognizing the ills of society are easily dismissed as mad. Julio knows beforehand that his truthful allegations will be dismissed and that he will be branded a madman for saying what respectable society does not wish to hear: ‘Locuras mías, dirían todos. Y tú no los desmentirías. Todos se pondrían, y tú el primero, gafas oscuras y algodones en los oídos’ (O.C. I: 1395). In Buero’s theatre, the characters diagnosed as insane by a sick society generally suffer from a quixotic madness, which betrays a humanity and lucidity absent in the most respectable members of society. Buero defined such quijotismo as: ‘locura que parece estéril frente a una sociedad que parece imposible cambiar. Pero no es estéril. El quijotismo es una gran fuerza porque el quijotismo es la ética, la insobornabilidad.’26 Goya demonstrates in his painting, which is the product of his disturbed mind and his isolation, that it is society beyond the walls of the Quinta del sordo that is seriously troubled and that Spain is living out his sueño de la razón. Only when the pueblo chooses to awaken and act will the monsters disappear. Perhaps the most obvious example is in La doble historia del doctor Valmy, where Doctor Valmy diagnoses the respectable welldressed couple as mad for their failure to acknowledge the truth of their reality. The real madness in the society he described is wilful self-deception, a refusal to abrir los ojos, which culminates in a denial of injustice and thus collusion with the ruling power in the legitimization and naturalization of the ruling ideology. El doctor, frustrado, reconoce que el mundo está loco y él no puede curar al mundo. De esta manera, la tragedia privada de Mary adquiere proporciones universales ya que cuando todos optan por ignorar la sin razón en que viven se produce una locura colectiva y un tremendo trastrueque de valores, donde lo anormal constituye la norma, y así se prolonga el estado de atrocidades y bien sabemos que el sueño de la razón produce monstruos.27

There is a more sympathetic portrayal of self-delusion in La Fundación, however, where Tomás has created a fantastical myth to disguise the painful reality of sharing a prison cell with the men he helped to put there. The difference is that Tomás, like Asel, but unlike the couple from La doble historia del doctor Valmy, eventually acknowledges the truth and sees his prison for what it is. Blindness and lack of vision are frequent features of Buero’s plays. The physically blind characters in his works often represent the wilful spiritual and intellectual blindness of those who prefer not to see anything that might disturb their own comfortable reality, or who refuse to be masters of their own fate by taking responsibility for the wider consequences of their actions or inaction. Buero

26 Quoted in David Johnston, ‘Posibles paralelos entre la obra de Unamuno y el teatro histórico de Buero Vallejo’, Cuadernos Hispanoamericanos, no. 386 (1982), 340–64 (p. 362). 27 Willy O. Muñoz, ‘La búsqueda de la verdad en la doble historia del Doctor Valmy de Buero Vallejo’, Cuadernos de Aldeeu, Monograph on Twentieth Century Spanish Theatre (no. 1, 1993), 45–55 (p. 53).

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chose to use blindness as a symbol because it was a recognizable limitation to man’s freedom. Therefore it was a useful device with which to present on stage other limitations facing man, including the limitations imposed by a dictatorial regime upon its citizens and those self-imposed by a broken or fearful populace: La ceguera física de mis personajes sólo es motivo o pretexto para presentar, a través de ella, «cegueras» de las que todos participamos. En ese sentido, la obra procura ser una glosa escénica de dos cuestiones fundamentales, entre otras secundarias: la de las relaciones – a veces, trágicas – que se pueden crear entre la individualidad fuerte, con su razón y su insatisfacción, y las razones y pasiones de la colectividad en que vive, por un lado. Por el otro, la tensión clarividente, el anhelo de «luz» y la creencia en ella, que distingue a algunos, frente a las limitadas materialidades de los más. (O.C. II: 347)

His blind characters, such as Ignacio and David, struggle against their blindness in an attempt to acquire a vision of truth and to achieve freedom. Julio’s blindness in Llegada de los dioses allows him to see through the falsities of respectable society, although he fails to see his own faults. He tells Verónica: ‘Veo mejor desde que he cegado’ (O.C. I: 1355). Yet, if on a symbolic level the blind are visionaries who seek to overcome their limitations, then the sighted are often blind to the truth that is easily hidden by mystification from those who are too indifferent to seek it out. The main preoccupation of the heroes of Buero’s dramas, like his own preoccupation in writing them, is a search for a censored truth. Buero suggested that truth and the quest for truth are what will set man free of his oppressors. The tragedy of man may be that he does not even realize that he is not free, so convinced is he by an ideology that stresses no possible alternatives. This acceptance of an unalterable fate, inculcated by the ruling ideology, is articulated by Nazario in El concierto de San Ovidio, who complains: ‘Valindin nos ha atrapado. Pero si no lo hace él, lo habría hecho otro. Estamos para eso’ (O.C. I: 1002). In Buero’s theatre, apathy is linked to the idea of madness and self-delusion; wilful amnesia, voluntary blindness and indifference are the greatest sins of the pueblo. In a state where criticism of the ruling body is an offence punishable by law, the result is a population which, too fearful or apathetic to initiate political debate, engages in self-deception, thereby allowing the regime to justify and legitimate its rule. Buero obviously considered those who choose to ignore the truth to be guilty of collusion with the oppressive regime, or else, like the welldressed couple in La doble historia del doctor Valmy, truly mad.

The Polemic An analysis of the posibilismo polemic is useful for the light it sheds on the alternatives to Buero’s stance and the relative success of these options. The protagonists of this polemic, which had its roots in differing attitudes towards

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censorship, were Buero and Alfonso Sastre. Also involved were Alfonso Paso and Fernando Arrabal. Thus, posibilismo, imposibilismo, pacto social and exile were all raised as possible options for the author in a repressive state. García Lorenzo has neatly summed up the consequences of the first debate and the positions adopted by its protagonists: ‘El posibilismo se ha cumplido, con ciertas limitaciones, en Buero; Sastre hace años que no estrena y Paso, que habló de hacer una revolución desde dentro, acabó por estar dentro sin hacer ninguna revolución.’28 Rejecting the self-imposed exile of Arrabal, which he claimed was an ineffective response to censorship, Buero believed that the best option was to remain in Spain and write what he could. The idea that his posibilismo involved working within the system he opposed was not acknowledged by Buero. Nonetheless, his ideas about how to deal with the regime and censorship were consistent. In 1958, he wrote about the need to write a theatre that could be staged in Spain, and he criticized those authors who wrote plays that were a provocation to the censors. Pero, usted lo sabe bien, las «limitaciones» mayores se las impone uno mismo. ¿Es un error? . . . Hay escritores que juegan, al parecer, la papeleta del «imposibilismo», unas veces de buena fe y otras acaso para conseguir patente de mártir en el extranjero. Mas yo no creo que se deba mantener esa actitud, sino la posibilista, la de escribir para aquí, que es donde estamos y debemos laborar. (O.C. II: 627)

He defined his own attitude as posibilista, and criticized deliberate imposibilismo. Buero unwaveringly defended this approach, in both the press and his dramatic works. It led to a public and very bitter exchange with Alfonso Sastre. Both dramatists agreed that the Spanish theatre was dominated by commercial interests that cared little about artistic or social merit and concentrated instead on satisfying the entertainment needs of bourgeois audiences; both insisted on their desire to change this situation. The entire debacle seems to have arisen from Sastre’s belief that Buero was failing to address directly social and political issues in his dramas. The polemic was initiated by Sastre with the publication of his article, ‘Teatro imposible y pacto social’ in the May–June 1960 issue of Primer Acto. In the article, Sastre criticized both Buero Vallejo and Alfonso Paso for their compromised attitudes and the erroneous methods by which they sought to achieve theatrical and social reform. Sastre, citing the arbitrary nature of censorship in Spain, contended that Buero’s idea of imposibilismo was false, as was, by extension, the notion of posibilismo. He maintained that imposibilismo could never be the intention of the author, because all works are essentially possible until made impossible by some 28 Luciano García Lorenzo, ‘El teatro español actual’, in Antología de la literatura española del siglo XX, ed. by Arturo Ramoneda (Madrid: Sociedad General Española de Librería, 1988), pp. 645–9 (p. 645).

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outside force such as censorship. A conscious posibilismo on the part of the dramatist, however, might lead to certain accommodations and compromises with the very Establishment he is seeking to overthrow. He concluded that theatrical and social progress is achieved only through confrontation, not compromise, and thereby insinuated that Buero and Paso were not only betraying their stated social objectives, but also conforming to the wishes of the Establishment. For Sastre, Paso’s stance was even more damnable than that of Buero, as it implied that the only way to achieve change was to enter the Establishment and to attempt change from within it. Sastre suggested that Buero’s posibilismo would naturally lead to Paso’s compromise, although he did acknowledge that Buero was not himself comparable to the discredited Paso.29 Sastre contended that it was possible and desirable to work outside the theatrical Establishment in order to change it. In what could be interpreted as a further charge against Buero, a criticism many have directed at him over the years, Sastre declared that an author could not work comfortably within the system and still profess to be rejecting the pact. Yet there is something naïve or disingenuous about Sastre’s refusal to see that Buero, in his criticism of imposibilismo, was not criticizing all unpublished authors, but rather those opportunists who sought to trade on oppression at home as a tool to market their work abroad. In short, Buero and Sastre seem to be discussing two different types of imposibilismo, and both of them made valid statements that did not necessarily oppose each other. Nonetheless, Sastre made an important point about Buero and his relationship with the regime when he wrote of imposibilismo: ‘Contar con él significa aceptarlo, normalizar su existencia.’30 Buero’s acceptance of posibilismo demonstrated that he worked within the dominant ideology, making his work acceptable to the officials who had the power to make it impossible. Buero’s response to Sastre’s article, published in the following issue of Primer Acto, was a hostile essay of recrimination, in which Buero not only attempted to defend his work, but also reproached Sastre and, like him, somewhat disingenuously failed to see the virtue in the other’s argument or perspective. In an article entitled ‘Obligada precisión acerca del imposibilismo’, Buero objected to the personal nature of Sastre’s criticism of him. He alleged that, given his frequent publications in the media, if not as a dramatist, Sastre was as much a part of the Establishment as he was. Buero further sought to demonstrate how Sastre’s work failed to stand up to close scrutiny, and that much of it could also be classed as posibilista. He rejected Sastre’s notion of writing ‘con absoluta libertad interior’, 29 Monleón said of Alfonso Paso, who had begun his career with Sastre in the radical Arte Nuevo group, that he represented ‘la mayor victoria del moderno teatro español de la derecha’. Treinta años, p. 130. Paso himself asserted that publication was easy, given the number of theatres, studios and competitions, and implied that those who remained unpublished were deserving of their fate, and usually not sufficiently skilled. He further claimed that talk of difficult or dangerous themes was no more than an excuse for their failure, and suggested that authors would be better off attempting to stage their works before committing themselves to social or political commentary. ‘Autores inéditos’, Primer Acto, no. 6 (1958), 45–6 (p. 46). 30 Sastre, ‘Teatro imposible’, p. 2.

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claiming that it was abstract and anti-dialectical (O.C. II: 672–3). All writers are writers en situación and therefore are never completely free. While this may be true, surely Buero should have admitted that there are varying degrees of freedom and that the concept of writing en situación should not be used as an excuse for collusion or pure escapism. Buero stressed that he was not recommending ‘acomodaciones’ as suggested by Sastre, but rather ‘un teatro difícil y resuelto a expresarse con la mayor holgura, pero que no sólo debe escribirse, sino estrenarse. Un teatro, pues, «en situación»; lo más arriesgado posible, pero no temerario’ (O.C. II: 674). His aim therefore, was to make possible what might be considered impossible theatre. Imposibilismo, for Buero, was the attitude that is ‘fuera de situación’ and which seeks to make ever more impossible an already challenging or difficult work by the choice of provocative themes or dialogue. In contrast, by adopting a posibilista stance, that is by saying less than one wants to say but as much as one can get away with and hinting at more, one could deceive the censor and communicate a political message. In the following issue of Primer Acto, Alfonso Sastre wrote ‘A modo de respuesta’, in which he clarified his position. While now stressing that Buero was not among them, Sastre insisted that for some dramatists posibilismo was just an acceptable name for conformity. Later, in Anatomía del realismo (1965), Sastre went over the polemic again and reminded the reader that what is impossible now might not be so in the future. He still regarded as nonsense the idea that someone might cultivate imposibilismo and revealed that he believed a determined posibilismo might result in self-censorship, and was to be avoided. What is evident is that Buero and Sastre, in their discussion of imposibilismo, differed on the basic definition, which for the former was the author’s opportunism and for the latter the censor’s imposition. Sastre praised Buero’s Historia de una escalera as an impossible drama, suggesting that an impossible work was a censurable work from the regime’s perspective. Buero came across in his rebuttal as not a little sensitive to criticism, particularly in the way he considered Sastre’s praise for Historia de una escalera an implicit condemnation of all that followed it.31 On the subject of posibilismo they seemed to agree on the fundamentals, while disagreeing on its validity. Buero asserted that his posibilismo was not a compromise; Sastre saw all posibilismo as compromise, but at this point failed to acknowledge that he engaged in it himself. The polemic, while it eventually disappeared from the pages of theatre journals, was not resolved. In an interview with Buero Vallejo in 1984, Gabriel de los Reyes made a reference to an article published in Hispania the previous year in which Alfonso Sastre again accused Buero of being a posibilista. Buero’s response to de los Reyes was: Lo que ya no me parece bien es que nos acusara como si él fuera el hombre que no tenía en cuenta para nada la censura y que hacía un teatro imposible,

31

It should be noted that Sastre later retracted his praise for the play.

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cuando en sus primeras obras hay aspectos de evidente carácter posibilista, como son: la situación de la acción en un país que no sea el nuestro, situación de la acción en una etapa histórica distinta, utilización de problemas humanos metafísicos. [. . .] Lo que sí parece cierto es que en este proceso, digamos dialéctico, entre una y otra posición él llegó, ha llegado finalmente, a una especie de relativa autoimposibilitación.32

Buero cited the example of Sastre’s En la red, set in Algeria, which when staged in the Soviet Union, was called Madrid no duerme de noche: ‘Posibilismo es situar una obra en el siglo XVII, sí, pero igualmente lo es situarla en Argel, o en Francia, o sin localización concreta, en vez de ponerla en España.’33 Interestingly, Sastre, speaking about the same incident, employed the story to prove that he was a posibilista all along: La estrenamos al año siguiente (1962) con el GTR y en el 63 se hizo en Moscú, dirigida por Ángel Gutiérrez, con el título de Madrid no duerme de noche. Me pidieron permiso para trasladar la acción a Madrid y yo se lo di muy gustoso, porque en el fondo esa era mi intención, aunque con vistas a su viabilidad en España, yo había utilizado la coartada de situar la historia en algo como Argelia, en tiempos de la represión francesa. Y es que, como ves, uno no era tan imposibilista, como pensaba Buero.34

The interviewer challenged Sastre on this, and suggested that Buero had accused him of being a posibilista, not an imposibilista. In response, Sastre claimed that in Buero’s declarations on imposibilismo, ‘me di por aludido’. Sastre went on to reproach Buero’s response to his polemical tract in Primer Acto, and claimed that Buero had misunderstood his clearly posibilista position. Sastre insisted that he believed that censorship must be taken into consideration when writing, but in order to avoid self-censorship rather than to engage in it. It is difficult to conclude from an analysis of the Primer Acto articles that Sastre considered himself a posibilista. Nonetheless, in 1988 he wrote: Este artículo Buero lo leyó con mucha hostilidad y me contestó con otro muy largo, en el que mantenía lo contrario a lo que había dicho antes: que yo era un posibilista también, que muchas de mis obras estaban escritas teniendo en cuenta la censura. Lo cual era cierto, desde luego.35

32 Gabriel de los Reyes, ‘Comentarios de Buero Vallejo sobre su teatro’, Estreno, 10 (no. 1, 1984), 21–4 (p. 22). Interestingly, Sastre seems to concur with this in an interview dating from 1981: ‘No diría tanto que yo sigo marginado como que yo mismo he adoptado una posición automarginante.’ Nancy Vogeley, ‘Alfonso Sastre on Alfonso Sastre: Interview’, Hispania, 64 (no. 3, 1981), 459–65 (p. 461). 33 Vicente Mosquete, ‘Antonio Buero Vallejo, sonrisas’, p. 18. 34 Vicente Mosquete, ‘Alfonso Sastre: un largo viaje’, p. 13. 35 Vicente Mosquete, ‘Alfonso Sastre: un largo viaje’, p. 14.

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Thus it would appear that Sastre thought that Buero was calling him an imposibilista and, in Buero’s definition of the term, this meant an opportunist. In fact it is doubtful that Buero was referring to Sastre, who was writing and attempting to stage plays in Spain. Instead, he reiterated his belief that Sastre was, in fact, a posibilista, despite the latter’s protestations to the contrary. Buero, in turn, believed that Sastre considered him to be compromised because of his posibilismo, which Sastre interpreted as a betrayal of social theatre. Sastre, however, went from a position critical of posibilismo to one that embraced it. At times he was anti-posibilista: ‘Una obra no «actúa» ni deja de «actuar» positivamente sobre su medio por el hecho de que se represente o deje de representarse hoy. La impaciencia – demogógica o posibilista – es un (explicable) fallo poético y político.’36 However, in an interview with Alberto Miralles in Yorick in the same year, Sastre lent some weight to Buero’s argument by stating: ‘He escrito todo lo que he queridopodido.’37 The two dramatists never reached an accord about a definition of imposibilismo and thus continued their dispute based more on a misunderstanding than a disagreement, for in reality they had more to unite than to divide them. Buero consistently rejected the argument that everything written under censorship is necessarily compromised or bad literature, while recognizing that freedom from censorship was infinitely preferable. He believed that the writer must work within the limitations imposed and overcome them without belittling his art and that this was the essence of posibilismo. If a writer chooses not to write under such circumstances, or until he has complete freedom, then he is handing victory to the censors and depriving his audience of his message. On the other hand, Sastre claimed that posibilismo did not seriously challenge censorship; it was merely a way of avoiding it. Moreover, he recognized the need for structural change that was not a feature of Buero’s posibilismo. Buero’s refusal to recognize even the partial rectitude of Sastre’s stance is disturbing; so too is Sastre’s inconsistency. Buero’s claim to be working on the front line of the opposition to Franco was overstating his case somewhat, considering that he was working from within the state-approved commercial system: ‘Yo siempre he dicho que mi teatro era posibilista y que además tenía que serlo, pero lo que no aceptería es que fuera más posibilista que otros.’38 Others might disagree. If he insisted that Sastre’s work was posibilista, then surely he should have acknowledged that it was less so than his own work. Buero continued to defend posibilismo in later years when Arrabal resurrected the polemic. In an article published in Estreno in 1975, John Dowling wrote about an ‘incidente ridículo’ involving Arrabal, which had led to the dramatist’s trial for injury to the Patria and blasphemy. Arrabal, misinterpreting the incident that Dowling referred to, replied in an article, also published in Estreno. In it, he defended his position as an author in exile and implied that those who remained

36 37 38

Sastre, ‘Nivel político’, p. 38. Alberto Miralles, ‘Hombres de teatro: Alfonso Sastre’, Yorick, no. 11 (1966), 11. Pérez de Olaguer, ‘Antonio Buero Vallejo, nuevo Académico’, p. 7.

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in Spain accepted censorship: ‘Somos tantos los que hemos preferido el exilio a la mordaza.’39 He seemed to resent Dowling’s assertion that he had the support of Buero for a proposed production in one of the commercial theatres of Madrid and, consequently, Arrabal also attacked Buero, both for his posibilismo and his lack of support. Buero’s rejoinder, published in the same issue as Arrabal’s article, refuted the latter’s claims about his failure to support ‘los autores exiliados y amordazados’, citing examples of his endorsement of them in the press. Moreover, he reiterated his earlier claim that Sastre was a posibilista, and asserted that Arrabal too had been posibilista on occasion: En los dos libros de obras suyas que se han editado en España antes del mencionado «incidente ridículo» de 1967 había, al parecer, pequeños cortes que él aceptó, por lo menos durante el largo tiempo que pasó hasta que, después del incidente, quiso repudiar tales libros; pero en uno de ellos se sustituía además muy oportunamente, a efectos de censura – y Dowling lo recordaba en su artículo –, el título Guernica por el anagrama «Ciugrena», y con este título vi yo mismo representar la obra en un Colegio Mayor. (O.C. II: 805)

Buero defended the prizes that Arrabal had criticized, reminding him that many supposedly silenced authors had benefited from such awards. He also countered Arrabal’s comments about Buero’s position as Academician by pointing out that, at the time of his trial, Arrabal was happy to receive the support of three members of the Real Academia. Overall, Buero was unhappy with what he considered to be an attempt on the part of Arrabal to belittle the work of authors who had remained in Spain. He asserted that ‘los españoles que hayan elegido el exilio son precisamente los que tienen menos derecho, desde esa barrera, a juzgarnos y a condenarnos con tan grosera simplificación’, and defended ‘la primordial importancia que el interior y lo que en él se realiza tienen como plataforma de nuestra libertad teatral’ (O.C. II: 809, 813). Others too felt that Arrabal had no right to criticize authors who had chosen to remain and work in Spain. Martín Recuerda said of Arrabal: ‘Tenía que haber vivido y sufrido en España, todos estos años que hemos vivido, para darse cuenta de lo que puede ser un realismo actual.’40 Arrabal, in turn, replied to Buero’s essay, which he classed as ‘altamente difamatorio’.41 His provocative article, titled ‘La alienación franquista’, was a thinly veiled denunciation of Buero. It outlined the arguments used by Francoists to defend the theatre under Franco, and then attributed these same arguments to Buero. Nonetheless, his assertion that Buero did not comprehend

‘Objeciones de Arrabal al artículo de Dowling’, Estreno, 1 (no. 3, 1975), 5. O’Connor and Pasquariello, ‘Conversaciones’, p. 17. Both Carlos Muñiz and Robert Louis Sheehan reflect the same opinion, the former in ‘Conversaciones’, pp. 15, 16, and the latter in ‘Tres generaciones’, p. 26. 41 Fernando Arrabal’, ‘Contesta Arrabal’, Estreno, 2 (no. 1, 1976), 4–5 (p. 4). 39 40

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the plight of the exile would seem to be true. Arrabal claimed that by choosing exile he retained his dignity, implying that Buero and others did not. Buero’s response, again published in Estreno, was to dismiss Arrabal’s allegations as unfounded. He also noted that the arguments used to damn him were not applied to others working within Spain. Repudiating Arrabal’s argument, he defended his stance: ‘Nuestra oposición socio-teatral en España, lejos de estar «alienada», ha sido y es una lucha positiva y eficaz, contra viento y marea, en el interior del país. Es decir: en el verdadero frente de la batalla’ (O.C. II: 819). While admitting that at times he was ‘más cauto que valiente’, Buero denied that he had failed to speak out. The polemic came to an official end with Buero’s last article, although he revisited it in La detonación. As in the case of the earlier polemic with Sastre, neither dramatist demonstrated much respect for the stance of the other, while both defended a similar attitude towards the ruling power. Certainly, Arrabal’s exile was self-imposed, and he returned frequently to Spain. Nonetheless, in the aftermath of the trial he was an officially banned author, and thus could not earn a living from his work in Spain. As a response to the situation in Spain, it could be argued that the choice of exile is the most honourable path. However, as Buero noted, there was a doubt about the reasons for Arrabal’s choice of expatriation. Buero and others attributed much of Arrabal’s rancour to his bitterness at his lack of success in Spain. Arrabal’s words in 1966, on the staging of Los hombres del triciclo in Madrid, go some way to confirming this: ‘Que me pegaron un palo tremendo. Si hubiera tenido éxito, tal vez me habría quedado.’42 In the end, however, it is difficult to refute all of Arrabal’s allegations about Buero’s position in Francoist society. Buero clearly was the acceptable face of criticism, although, unfairly, Arrabal was reluctant to attribute any criticism at all to the older dramatist.

The Fruits of Posibilismo Posibilismo allowed Buero to make certain criticisms at a time when critics were deemed to be enemies of the state. In common with other committed dramatists, he delivered a message through his characters, but the message had to be deciphered and interpreted. In the early days, Buero wrote commentaries on his plays and throughout the years of his dramatic output continued to write articles and deliver speeches on his work and what it meant. These explanations of the dramatist’s perspective and vision were aimed at encouraging the reader or audience to search for a meaning within the work itself. In his portayal of societies in his plays, Buero offered an indictment of society outside the theatre, composed of similar groups and factions with analogous

42 Salvado Jiménez, ‘En París, con Fernando Arrabal, español traducido a 20 idiomas’, Yorick, no. 15 (1966), 9–10 (p. 10).

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aims and ideals. He criticized the hypocrisy, corruption, cowardice and collusion of the spectators who formed that society. García Lorenzo noted: Buero, con personajes de 1949, 1960 o de siglos anteriores, sabe encontrar la metáfora adecuada para llegar con ella a ofrecer una lección que clama por la desaparición de lo que no debe suceder o no debe ser y para gritar a sus criaturas que en sus manos está la posibilidad de desenmarcar la mentira, de realizar sus sueños, de acercarse a la utopia, de llegar a las estrellas, de aproximarse a los ideales por los que el hombre ha luchado y – ése es su destino – deberá seguir luchando.43

Frequently portrayed as corrupt and corrupting, the Establishment figures in Buero’s plays are hypocritical and ruthless in their discrediting and elimination of rivals and enemies. Generally, they represent the traditional Establishment figures of Franco’s Spain, who, by their repressive actions or their inaction, protect the dominant ideology. They present an unjust system as the only possible one and use both force and coercion to legitimate their rule. Buero denounced the Spanish society created in the aftermath of the Civil War, where, as Mario observed, ‘¡Se vive del engaño, de la zancadilla, de la componenda! . . . Se vive pisoteando a los demás’ (O.C. I: 1142). This was a society divided into victors and vanquished, where repression was institutionalized. In the society Buero presented, the legacy of past conflict is felt in later generations because there has been no answerability or attempt at reconciliation. Such polarization is evident in the Cain–Abel dichotomy of the activos and contemplativos. Like two sides in a fratricidal conflict, each on his own is doomed to failure and, until there is reconciliation, there is no hope for either. Francoist society is further represented in Buero’s condemnation of the apathy of ordinary people in Hoy es fiesta, Historia de una escalera, the ‘absurdamente feliz’ inhabitants of the Centro de enseñanza and the endless stream of contemplativos whose failure to take action to improve their lot or to challenge their oppressors merely prolongs their suffering and the suffering of others. He criticized the xenophobic and reactionary elements in Spanish society that prejudiced any attempts at reform. This outlook is best embodied in the historical figure of Bernardo Avendaño, the carriage driver and rioter of Un soñador para un pueblo, who is the voice of the conservative pueblo, reluctant to change and resentful of the reforms and the foreigner who seeks to introduce them. Likewise, in Hoy es fiesta the brutal and xenophobic nationalism of certain elements of Francoist society is reflected in the antics and attitude of Sabas. However, the good traits of the pueblo are also personified in characters such as Pedro (Las Meninas), a man who, like his namesake in La detonación, serves as inspiration to and conscience of the protagonist. Buero insisted that any solution to social injustice must be inspired by

43 Luciano García Lorenzo, ‘Buero Vallejo: conciencia crítica y testimonio intelectual’, Ínsula, no. 503 (1988), 26–7 (p. 26).

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the pueblo, and not imposed by another group with another ideology claiming to represent the common good. Buero demonstrated how the wilful ignorance and inaction of the populace served the regime’s ideologues well, providing no challenge to the official myth. The kingdoms of Casi un cuento de hadas (1952) and Las Meninas are, like Franco’s Spain, lands of pomp without glory, where the courts’ obsession with protocol hides myriad injustices. The hypocrisy and greed of the New State are alluded to in the historical dramas, in Madrugada and in Irene, o el tesoro. The last features a family symbolic of a society held together by a loyalty based on fear rather than respect, where it is easier to become a victim-maker than to make an honest living. In El concierto de San Ovidio, Buero warned against a seemingly liberal new order in society, dependent on the old, whose motivation is once again shown to be personal greed and whose actions will do nothing to improve social conditions. In all of his works Buero showed corruption among the governors coupled with inaction among the governed to be the tragedy of Spain. Progress, he suggested, could only follow from accountability. Posibilismo also enabled Buero to criticize the collusion of the Roman Catholic Church with the regime, in the upholding of a mutually beneficial ideology. In 1953, Franco declared: ‘En la Historia de España es imposible dividir a los dos poderes, eclesiástico y civil, porque ambos concurren siempre a cumplir el destino asignado por la Providencia a nuestro pueblo.’44 Many of the characters in Buero Vallejo’s plays similarly find justifications and support for their actions in the Church. The unchristian clergy in the works of Buero are often pawns or willing collaborators of the rulers; as representatives of God and interpreters of His teaching, they are failures. Some, like Duaso in El sueño de la razón, are merely human in their failings and are well intentioned, if perhaps misguided, in their censorship; others are inhuman and callous. Some Church representatives in the plays, like the Prioress of El concierto de San Ovidio, prefer to wash their hands of involvement than to take the moral stand demanded by the situation.45 Abuses of power by the Santo Oficio are referred to in El sueño de la razón and in Las Meninas. Indeed the censors of the Franco regime who examined the latter play did not like the dramatist’s portrayal of the Dominican friar in the trial scene.46 Earlier, in the one-act play Las palabras en la arena, Buero adapted a biblical story to illustrate a corrupt and hypocritical Church–state alliance that displays some striking parallels with Franco’s Spain. Buero criticized the use of coercion, threats and repression in defence of a particular ideology in plays such as En la ardiente oscuridad, El concierto de San

44 Quoted from Franco’s ‘Mensaje a las Cortes españoles’, 26 October 1953, in Vázquez Montalbán, Los demonios, p. 147. 45 Nonetheless, it must be admitted that she does show concern for the blind men (O.C. I: 942–7); unlike Haüy, however, she fails to recognize their potential. 46 ‘Los espectadores creo que reprobaran como odiosa la actuación del Santo Oficio. Es la tesis del oscurantismo religioso frente al progreso español.’ Report by the censor A. Avelino Esteban y Romero, AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.715 Exp. 296-60.

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Ovidio and La doble historia del doctor Valmy. What is clear is that Buero, like Camus, rejected the nihilistic notion that if God does not exist, everything is permitted. Ultimately, he believed that: ‘No se debe matar, cierto. Y menos aún, torturar. Este es el límite de toda ideología’ (O.C. II: 486). The director of the Centro de enseñanza sets in motion a plan to convert Ignacio to acceptance of the regime. The first stage is to use persuasion to win him over. Once his spirit is broken he can easily be converted to their way of thinking: ‘Los muchachos de este tipo están hambrientos de cariño y alegría y no suelen rechazarlos cuando se saben romper sus murallas interiores’ (O.C. I: 85). Yet, the system, which had seemed implacable when everyone happily colluded, begins to crumble when challenged. The strength of the Establishment and the old social order are recovered at the end of the play, but the threat to that order had to be eradicated by violent means. The only way for such a system to survive, it would seem, is if the myth of a regime that cares for its subjects is backed up by the threat or use of violence. Furthermore, Buero candidly criticized the censorship of art in his painterly dramas. Las Meninas, more than any other play of the Franco period, puts censorship on trial and accuses the art censors of having base motives for their actions. Those who attempt to censor art and what it represents are those who least understand it. Undoubtedly drawing on his own experiences, the censors he portrayed in his works were just as capricious as their non-fictional counterparts. The report written by Sr Morales on Arrabal’s El cementerio de los automóviles reads like those of Buero’s fictional censor, Don Homobono: Nada tengo contra Arrabal, no se me oculta que su fama dentro de la ‘vanguardia’ escénica ha traspasado las fronteras, y, desde luego, he defendido siempre los valores auténticos de esa ‘vanguardia’ como posible impulso renovador de las formas escénicas en peligro de anquilosamiento . . . No puedo, sin embargo, traicionar la sinceridad de mi juicio dando, ante esta obra, otro dictamen que no sea el de PROHIBIDA.47

Other characters from the plays suffer the type of injustice meted out to the Civil War vanquished and the opponents of the Francoist hegemony. In El tragaluz, Buero referred to the fact that the father was forced to leave his job in a ministry after the Civil War. Similarly, in Aventura en lo gris, Silvano has been compelled to leave his position as Professor of History in the State University because of his criticism of Goldmann’s regime. In Un soñador para un pueblo, both Ensenada and Esquilache suffer exile as a result of their politics.48 Velázquez faces the threat of exile for his taboo-shattering painting of a nude Venus in Las Meninas, while Goya is forbidden to enter the court of Fernando VII who banished him in a fit of pique. The latter, unlike Velázquez, is persecuted for his

AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-55 Ca. 85.155 Exp. 127-66 (O.C. I: 1544, 1545). It must be acknowledged however, that their exiles are very different: Ensenada’s exile is a punishment imposed on one who has fallen out of favour; Esquilache’s exile is an abdication of power for the common good. 47 48

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politics and later chooses self-imposed exile in the face of threats of further violence from the king’s representatives. Buero’s plays are more concerned with conflict resolution and accommodation than victory. The heroes of his works are posibilistas. Given his personal experiences, Buero was sympathetic to the man who, despite his best intentions, breaks under torture. Correspondingly, there is more sympathy for the failed revolutionary in Buero’s La Fundación than, for example, in Sastre’s En la red. Rebels like David, Ignacio and Pedro, who are not posibilistas, are destined to personal failure; the posibilista reformers, such as Velázquez and Valentin Haüy, will, it is implied, achieve more in the long term. Buero’s rebels and dreamers, like Camus’s homme révolté, create and stress values in an unethical society. They refuse to collaborate with the activos in a repressive system. Society has failed them. The lack of cohesion and popular support for oppositional ideology is reflected in the dramas; Buero’s rebels stand alone. Little notice is taken of their pleas at the outset. The spectator identifies with them from the security of his own position, which is a position rejected by them. Buero did not show them triumphant, but instead indicated the effects of their seemingly futile actions on others. Thus, he demonstrated the long-term view and admitted the difficulty and slow pace of the struggle against injustice. It is clear that this was not integration propaganda, which would show the utter futility of rebellion, even in the long term, nor is it agitation propaganda, which would attempt to show a successful rebellion, but instead a more universal view. Buero’s rebel protagonists are, in general, tragic heroes who cannot save themselves, but who may, through their actions, inspire action in others. These heroes or antiheroes come to recognize the truth of reality and self-knowledge before they die. The hope implicit in the tragedy is that others may learn from their actions without having to repeat their mistakes. The tragic rebel gains nobility in defeat, for his spirit survives to inspire others. The use of art as a political weapon to open the eyes of the spectator is common to many of the works of Buero. It constitutes his justification for his own role as dramatist in a repressive society. Tellingly, the Establishment painter Velázquez exemplifies for the posibilista Buero the role of the artist in society: ‘Ante un mundo enajenado de supersticiones, errores, milagrerías e injusticias, su vida y su pintura nos revelan que él mantiene los ojos abiertos’ (O.C. II: 705–6). In fact, Buero compared the painter’s Weltanschauung to that of Cervantes, another of his abiding influences. However, Velázquez, like Buero himself, worked within an established system. In an interview published in 1955, Buero spoke about Velázquez, giving a description that could also be applied to the dramatist: ‘La frialdad aparente no es otra cosa que el resultado de un inmenso ardor que sabe someterse a la ley.’49 The fictionalized painter, like the dramatist, is portrayed as the acceptable face of criticism, who will inspire

49 Luis Mayo, ‘Entrevista con Antonio Buero Vallejo, el más discutido de nuestros dramaturgos actuales’, El Noticiero Universal, 28 April 1955, pp. 7–8 (p. 7).

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reformers through his exposition of reality and falsehood. He is no rebel, for he does not wish to overthrow the system, merely to reform it. He dreams of a better future, which others will act to achieve. Art, for Buero, was a personal passion and an enduring influence on his work. He stated: ‘La pintura, como dijo Leonardo da Vinci, «è una cosa mentale». Es que los pintores más grandes han sido mentales, aunque parecieran sensoriales.’50 He believed in the revelatory nature of art, and sought to harness this for his ethical and demystifying purpose. The paintings used in plays such as Las Meninas, Diálogo secreto, El sueño de la razón, Llegada de los dioses and La Fundación are imbued with significance and are representative of action or characters in the drama. In El sueño de la razón, the nightmare scenes of Goya’s Black Paintings not only reflect the horror of Spain under Fernando VII but also anticipate dramatic action. Buero’s portraits of artists, musicians and writers depict the artist and intellectual of his own time, who was marginalized if he took a critical stance on social or political issues and who suffered the abuses of a state-imposed censorship. These characters attempt to speak out against such restrictions and limitations of artistic freedom and demand a greater freedom for all. Isaac Deutscher wrote that the role of intellectuals is ‘to remain eternal protesters’.51 This statement could be applied to all artists and intellectuals in the works of Buero. He considered that artists, writers and intellectuals in any society, but particularly in one such as Spanish society under Franco, had a moral duty to lead the protest against social injustice. They are often outsiders and may have felt the brunt of repressive censorship; though they may recognize their own limitations, they rebel against those imposed by the authorities. Picasso wrote: ‘El arte es una mentira que nos enseña a comprender la verdad que, como hombres, somos capaces de entender.’52 Hence the artist or intellectual is the one who demystifies through his labour, exposing the truth behind the officially propagated ideology. Yet art is also mythification. Buero emphasized the revelatory power of art and represented art as a source of truth, not merely the illusion it is often taken to be. Characters in Buero’s plays are enlightened by art, the written word and drama. He demonstrated, within plays such as Las Meninas, El sueño de la razón and El concierto de San Ovidio, how art and drama could impact upon the spectator and influence his future action. Buero frequently spoke of the positive influence of art, in its various forms, on his own choices and actions, specifically the etching reproduced in Sirio, which inspired him to write El concierto de San Ovidio. This belief that both the actions and the work of the artist can incite positive change is evident in both the dramatic and

50 O’Connor, Antonio Buero Vallejo en sus espejos, p. 307. Buero also stated, in an interview published in Arriba, 23 December 1960, ‘La pintura es otra forma de intuición del mundo.’ AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.715 Exp. 296-60. 51 Quoted in Harvey J. Kaye, ‘Why Do Ruling Classes Fear History?’, Index on Censorship, 24 (no. 3, 1995), 85–98 (p. 98). 52 Quoted in Una cultura en crisis, ed. by Josep Carlos Clemente, Testigos de España (Barcelona: Plaza y Janes, 1973), p. 265.

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non-dramatic writings of Buero. He also made clear in Las Meninas that the true spectator for this art, the audience at whom the message is directed, must be the pueblo, not the ruling elite. Art, at times, is more real than a hypocritical and falsified reality. This is what Tomás eventually realizes in La Fundación, where the Turner landscape, the most obviously false element in the reality represented upon stage, represents a possible future reality. It is a landscape of hope, not illusion. It is the imagined restored Spain; it is what Said was referring to when he wrote that geographical identity, captured by the colonizers, is reclaimed by the native population at first in its imagination.53 In Buero’s plays, the dream or vision is the first step towards action.

The Limits of Posibilismo Buero was viewed as a critic by the regime, but it appears that he was the acceptable face of criticism. By permitting a certain degree of condemnation of the regime, those in power may have been protecting their own ideology. By not damning him, the regime could claim him, arguing that his criticisms were proof of the regime’s liberalism, rather than a challenge to its dogmatism. It could then cite its treatment of Buero and his success as an example of its generous and allserving ideology. It allowed the regime to claim that the arts did not suffer under Franco, and further to claim that those whom it treated more harshly were dangerous extremists and pornographers. The complacency of those within the commercial theatre world lent this view some legitimacy. Though cognizant of his criticism, the regime at one stage tried to coerce Buero to lend it his support: Sin dar nombres, te voy a contar dos proposiciones deshonestas que me hicieron, una explícita, la otra implícita. La primera consistía en prometerme todo el apoyo del aparato del Estado para proyectar mi nombre y mi obra en el extranjero, a condición de que desarrollase en mi teatro el tema religioso. La otra fue más sútil y, sin embargo, no menos directa: pretendían comprar mi silencio.54

He turned down the offers. This certainly suggests that the regime viewed his work as unfavourable, but they also thought that he was not as strident an enemy as others. If, as suggested by Szanto, Althusser and others, the theatre is an ideological state apparatus, then surely Buero’s position within it must be questioned. Did the message sent out by his personal actions supersede, or merely contradict, the message in his plays? Y Buero Vallejo estrenó su obra experimental, El tragaluz. El tema de esta obra polémica – el ‘subir al tren’, o sea, venderse al sistema – provocó muchos 53 54

Said, Culture and Imperialism, p. 271. Vicente Mosquete, ‘Antonio Buero Vallejo, sonrisas’, p. 21.

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ataques a Buero; lo acusaban de subir él mismo a ese ‘tren’ oficial para poder estrenar. Pero Buero se había mantenido al margen del sistema.55

Carlos Muñiz’s attempt to explain Buero’s success supports the argument that Buero represented the acceptable face of criticism during the Franco years: Buero, con evidente habilidad, ha escrito un teatro que no hiriera excesivamente a la burguesa clientela habitual de nuestros teatros y a la par lo bastante crítico como para merecer la estima de los sectores intelectuales y progresistas. Una dramaturgia como la de Buero resultaba incluso oficialmente útil para dar la impresión desde el Ministerio de Información y Turismo de una cierta tolerancia capaz de mitigar ante muchos los efectos aniquilantes de la autocracia franquista sobre la cultura y, concretamente, sobre el teatro. Ello justifica que una buena parte de las obras de Buero se haya estrenado en los Teatros Nacionales y que no se le haya prohibido por la censura, si no recuerdo mal, más que La doble historia del doctor Valmy.56

In the same series of interviews, José Martín Recuerda, who denied claiming that Buero was a right-wing dramatist, did assert that he was used by the right: ‘Tal vez lo que diría fuera que «Buero le venía bien utilizarlo a las derechas, como nombre glorioso».’57 Yet it would be overly simplistic to argue that Buero was merely a pawn in the regime’s ideological games. It is clear from his posibilismo that he had carefully considered his position and concluded that he could do more good from within the system than as an outsider. However, it was a tricky game to play, and it led to accusations of collusion with a regime that he utterly opposed. Sastre, for example, viewed Buero’s posibilismo as little more than self-censorship and collusion with the enemy. Arrabal too, wrote: No creo ser mejor moralmente o espiritualmente que Buero Vallejo, pero pienso que hay que tener presente que finalmente le ha tocado representar en el gran teatro del mundo un papel difícil por no decir imposible: el de un autor subvencionado, premiado y colmado de ‘honores’ por el franquismo.58

It is undeniable that Buero’s criticisms were subtler than those of many others who set themselves up as anti-regime dramatists. Furthermore, his use of allusion, euphemism and double meaning allowed the work to be read ‘straight’ by those who did not wish to see the underlying argument. Within the plays, moreover, Buero blamed the leadership for what he considered to be wrong with Spain and the populace for their apathy and irresponsibility, while simultaneously excusing his own contradictory position as an often officially acceptable writer. Mangini, Rojos y rebeldes, p. 228. O’Connor and Pasquariello, ‘Conversaciones’, p. 15. In fact, it was not the only one of his plays to be banned. 57 O’Connor and Pasquariello, ‘Conversaciones’, p. 17. 58 Fernando Arrabal, ‘La alienación franquista’, Estreno, 2 (no. 1, 1976), 9–10 (p. 10). 55 56

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Another element of his work that could be considered contradictory was Buero’s portrayal of women, which, for the most part, was in keeping with the Francoist ideology. Buero stated his belief that ‘la mitad mejor del género humano es la feminina’, and his depiction of women in his dramas was often both romanticized and stereotyped.59 Women frequently inspire action in men, but have little power to act themselves and are dependent on men for success. Female characters like Juana in En la ardiente oscuridad, Adriana in El Concierto de San Ovidio and Nuria in Llegada de los dioses are used to seduce a man into believing the official myth. Ultimately, they are defined by the men in their lives. The world of Buero’s dramas is a patriarchal one. Halsey comments that, in his early work, Buero’s women are ‘wives, mistresses and mothers, lacking any sense of autonomy’, but she notes that in his later plays, ‘Buero began to create a series of independent and liberated female characters who find meaning outside their relationship with the other sex’.60 It is true that a new breed of intellectual and liberal female characters, such as Amparo in Lázaro en el laberinto (1986), emerges in the later plays. Nonetheless, while they might function as judges of men’s actions, they are rarely protagonists. The focus of the dramas remains the tragedy of men, albeit a new generation of men, in a changing, but still patriarchal, society. Almost always in the background, Buero’s women stand a remarkably high risk of being victims, and, unlike the male characters, may not be responsible for their own pitiful predicament. Linda Sollish Sikka convincingly argues the case for their classification as structural agents and moral guides, although she occasionally and perhaps over-generously grants them the status of protagonist.61 Moreover, women are often victims of men’s ambitions and attentions. Cristina Ferreiro shows that in Música cercana (1989) Sandra is not only a victim of her father and the type of society he has helped to create, but also of René, the young idealist who puts his cause before his love for her. Ferreiro further describes her as, ‘la niña rica que intenta de una manera utópica y absurda borrar las fronteras entre clases sociales e ideologías políticas’.62 Generally, women do not fight the ideological battles in the works of Buero.63 There are many more contradictions and ambiguities associated with the author that have led to criticisms, yet most of these are consistent with his personal experiences or his posibilismo. So while posibilismo implied contradiction and compromise, it clearly also allowed Buero to criticize the dominant ideology, albeit indirectly. Hence, it would appear that in posibilismo Buero found a solution to his own moral dilemma about writing social drama in a repressive state. De Paco, ‘Buero Vallejo y el teatro’, p. 68. Martha T. Halsey, ‘Women as Author Surrogates in Four Tragedies of Antonio Buero Vallejo’, in Spanish Theatre: Studies in Honour of Victor F. Dixon, ed. by K. Adams, C. Cosgrove and J. Whiston (London: Tamesis, 2001), pp. 41–55 (pp. 41, 42). 61 ‘Buero’s Women: Structural Agents and Moral Guides’, Estreno, 16 (no. 1, 1990), 18–22, 31. 62 ‘La mujer, víctima del hombre en Música cercana’, Estreno, 16 (no. 1, 1990), 2. 63 Exceptions to this, with certain limitations, are Mary (La doble historia del doctor Valmy), Verónica (Llegada de los dioses) and Cristina (Jueces en la noche, 1979). 59 60

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History, Myth and Demythification Buero’s Use of History and Myth: An Introduction The truth about the past and the truth about the present are indivisible. Without accepting the truth about what happened it is impossible to address correctly what is happening now; without the truth about what is happening now it is impossible to substantially improve the existing state of affairs.1

Much of the use of myth and history in Spanish twentieth-century literature was born of an abuse of the same by the dominant group in society; the regime used history as ‘a legitimator of action and cement of group cohesion’.2 As Elizabeth S. Rogers commented, ‘It is this official version of History (with its capital H) which sets the standards of behaviour and thus becomes the basis of role definition in society, as much in the past as in the present.’3 In his employment of history, Buero’s aim was to reclaim its logical trajectory and to deny the Nationalist–Falangist version of Spain’s history, which contrived to deny and falsify certain critical events of the past; by offering an alternative, possible version of history, he implied the falsity of the official version. Buero was also anxious to demonstrate how history repeats itself and how people continue to make the same avoidable mistakes through ignorance, deliberate or otherwise, of the past. Like other authors who employed history in their works, Buero aimed to debunk the myth of an historically unified Spain. Moreover, in these dramas, he showed how the future is affected by the past and determined by the present, and he denounced the apathy that threatened his vision of Spain’s future. In Buero’s plays, myths are given a new treatment in which the supposed truth they contain is parodied, subverted or exposed as false. Thus, it is suggested to the spectator that other hallowed myths may also be deceptive. It is also the case, however, that the author himself took advantage of the supposed eternal truth of myth to persuade an audience that an element of a myth, perhaps one previously ignored, is true. 1 Statement issued by the Czech dissident group, Charter 77, in 1988 and quoted in Kaye, ‘Why Do Ruling Classes Fear History?’, p. 90. 2 Hobsbawm, ‘Introduction: Inventing Traditions’, p. 12. 3 Elizabeth S. Rogers, ‘Role Constraints versus Self-Identity in La tejedora de sueños and Anillos para una dama’, Modern Drama, 26 (no. 3, 1983), 310–19 (p. 311).

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Both myth and history offer another advantage to the dramatist who wishes to use them to make a political point: the spectator is aware of the outcome, often before the characters are. Therefore it is the process, rather than the consequence, that is being re-examined. In essence, Buero wished to challenge his modern audience to question the myths in their own reality, and, further, to see themselves as a part of an historical process, capable of activating change. Hence he denied the notion that the future is preordained and not determinable by the masses. Obviously then, Buero’s use of myth and history was not casual. In fact, he presented an interpretation that challenged the official version of events but only to submit another possible version: Desmitificamos, pero para volver a mitificar. [. . .] No hay que destruir los mitos, sino estudiarlos. No hay que creer que esa palabra equivale a «mentira». Sólo es mentiroso el mito en el terreno de la ciencia y del pensamiento racional; en el del arte, puede ser la expresión condensada de una gran verdad. (O.C. II: 434)

This raises questions about the motivation of Buero’s interpretation of myth and history; it is worth remembering that Buero’s experience in the Civil War had more to do with propaganda than with combat.4 For Pilar de la Puente, Buero’s historical drama is ‘un teatro de ideas, un teatro dialéctico, donde a través de los personajes se enfrentan ideas o puntos de partida ideológicos’.5 Halsey insists that ‘no puede existir una dramatización representativa o neutral de la historia’, as the writer must choose what to record and highlight.6 It is evident that Buero, like the regime he opposed, employed history and myth to garner support for his own views. Yet Buero argued that his art, and the views contained therein, were not subordinate to the ideology of any particular group. The choice of time period and setting in Buero’s historical dramas was deliberate. These plays offer a modern perspective on repressive periods of history, similar in some respects to the Franco era. They offer a view of the past that was hidden or denied by the dominant ideology: ‘Buero quiere llegar a una comprensión del pasado para penetrar hondamente en los problemas actuales.’7 He also showed that, while politicians and kings may come and go, art remains, often as a testament to the times. Clearly, while the regime sought to advance the view that Spain’s future was Francoist, Buero, like Sastre, Martín Recuerda and Rodríguez Méndez, all of whom wrote historical drama, encouraged his audience to acknowledge the possibility of social and historical change. 4 Mariano de Paco recalls that ‘mientras espera la movilización de su quinta, trabaja en el taller de propaganda de la FUE’. In ‘Buero Vallejo y el teatro’, p. 49. 5 Pilar de la Puente, ‘El teatro histórico de Buero Vallejo’, El Urogallo, no. 2 (1970), 90–5 (p. 91). 6 Martha T. Halsey, ‘El intelectual y el pueblo: tres dramas históricos de Buero’, Anthropos, Monograph no. 10 (no. 79, 1987), 46–9 (p. 46). 7 De la Puente, ‘El teatro histórico’, p. 94.

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Labanyi highlights the importance of myth in cultural imperialism and indicates how it was used by the Franco regime to legitimate and universalize the ideology it wished to inculcate.8 As it is assumed to contain a certain symbolic truth and universal values, by incorporating myth, one can claim legitimacy; she argues that by exposing myths as false, the Spanish authors of the day sought to demonstrate that the myths of the regime also needed to be questioned. The regime promoted a certain type of literary culture, one that reinforced the ruling ideology and focused on a return to the heights of Spain’s cultural Golden Age–the type of cultural policy, in other words, that Edward Said described in Culture and Imperialism: In time, culture comes to be associated, often aggressively, with the nation or the state; this differentiates us from them, almost always with some degree of xenophobia. Culture in this sense is a source of identity, and a rather combative one at that, as we see in recent returns to culture and tradition. These returns accompany rigorous codes of intellectual and moral behaviour that are opposed to the permissiveness associated with such relatively liberal philosophies as multiculturalism and hybridity.9

Unsurprisingly, history too had been claimed by the Civil War victors who used it selectively to promulgate the myth of a united, Catholic, España eterna both in literature and film. For the writers of the opposition, however, myth had another purpose. Ilie observed that the writers who employ myth in order to expose the distortions and falsifications of reality that form the official myth of the dominant ideology do so because straightforward criticism is not possible. Thus, it seems that, for Ilie at least, the use of myth is a form of posibilismo.10

Recourse to History ÉL Durante siglos tuvimos que olvidar, para que el pasado no nos paralizase; ahora debemos recordar incesamente, para que el pasado no nos envenene (O.C. I: 1165).

In the historical dramas Un soñador para un pueblo, El concierto de San Ovidio, Las Meninas, El sueño de la razón and in the post-Franco period, La detonación, Buero Vallejo chose characters and eras that were not only interesting from a political perspective but which also had a profound and lasting effect on the evolution of Spanish society. While not strictly historical and perhaps better termed mythical dramas, the earlier plays Las palabras en la arena and La tejedora de sueños also have much in common with the historical dramas. With the exception Labanyi, Myth and History. Said, Culture and Imperialism, pp. xiii–xiv. 10 Ilie is cited in Labanyi, Myth and History, p. 43. 8 9

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of El concierto de San Ovidio, which is based in the time just before the French Revolution and contains non-historical protagonists, all are based around times, characters or events familiar to the average spectator.11 Szanto writes of historical drama: ‘Such literary exploitations of the past are not accidental; history and its artefacts are always most valuable to any daily present when they serve contemporary needs, when they give plausible answers to contemporary quandaries.’12 This is indeed what Buero attempted with his historical dramas, as Luciano García Lorenzo also recognizes: Si obviamos rasgos tales como el vestuario, la escenografía, cualquier otro dato externo, esos personajes históricos están siempre hablando al hombre contemporáneo de problemas que también lo son, y aún más, de problemas que trascienden la contemporaneidad, que pertenecen al hombre de cualquier época. Problemas como el de la justicia, el de la libertad, el de la tolerancia; como el de – constante en todo su teatro – ser consecuente con uno mismo, seguir un camino determinado con la honestidad que exige esa consecuencia.13

Buero, then, linked history to the present and the future and also to the necessity of hope. Steiner calls literature ‘dramatized expectation, in so far as it is a critique of the actual in the light of the possible’, and clearly Buero’s ideas about hopeful tragedy and his stress on the possibility of social reform fitted in with this.14 Lyon convincingly argues that Buero’s historical dramas are valuable for the dramatist’s ‘ability to synthesize apparently contradictory approaches: historical documentation and creative imagination, fidelity to the past and relevance to the present, individual and collective interpretations of history’.15 It is interesting to note that even in his most futuristic drama, El tragaluz, which reconstructs the present from the future, in order to examine the past, it is hope in our day that the dramatist focused on, rather than the supposed perfection of

11 The historical character of Valentín Haüy appears briefly in the middle of the play and as a type of narrator at its end, but spectators would not be expected to recognize his name. The name of the ‘villain’ Valindin is historical, but his characterization is entirely of Buero’s invention. 12 Szanto, Theater and Propaganda, p. 8. Ruiz Ramón described Buero’s historical dramas as ‘tiempo de mediación entre pasado y presente’. Francisco Ruiz Ramón, ‘Teatralidad y espectáculo en la obra de Buero Vallejo’, in El teatro de Buero Vallejo: texto y espectáculo, ed. by Cristóbal Cuevas García, Ámbitos Literarios-Ensayo, 34 (Barcelona: Anthropos; Málaga: Servicio de Publicaciones e Intercambio Científico de la Universidad de Málaga, 1990), pp. 121–37 (p. 125). 13 García Lorenzo, ‘Buero Vallejo’, p. 6. 14 Like Steiner, Buero recognized what the former termed ‘the primordial mechanism of thwarted hope’ in human motivation: ‘Historical man, engaged in the stress and fragmentary vision of economic and political conflict, knows that in the conjugation of the verb to be there is a future perfect. That knowledge, which Ernst Bloch calls the Prinzip Hoffnung, is at the core of his endeavour.’ Steiner, Language and Silence, pp. 414, 413. 15 John Lyon, ‘History and Opposition Drama in Franco’s Spain’, in Spanish Theatre: Studies in Honour of Victor F. Dixon, pp. 91–109 (p. 105).

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a distant future. The characters of Él and Ella, researchers from the future, present their experimental project to the spectators. It focuses on a family in the present and its failure to come to terms with its past and it is suggested that, unless it does, the family will never progress.16 It is not accidental that other dramatists whose style was much admired by Buero have also written dramas that revisit and revise history to make a universal statement about man. Albert Camus based his Les Justes on the 1905 assassination in Moscow of the Grand Duke Sergei Alexandrovitch. Arthur Miller’s The Crucible, set in the past but with obvious contemporary relevance, is similar in some respects to Buero’s historical dramas. Indeed, Buero held that Miller would have written that play without McCarthyism just as he claimed that he himself would have written his historical plays without Francoism (O.C. II: 1198). Ricardo de la Fuente Ballesteros notes that, as in Buero’s plays, ‘la manera ibseniana se basa en el desvelamiento de un pasado que determina el presente de los personajes’.17 The influence of Unamuno’s theory of intrahistoria too, can be observed in Buero’s exploration of social history against the backdrop of political and military official history, and in his concentration on the worth of the individual. In 1980 Buero wrote: ‘Escribir teatro histórico es reinventar la historia sin destruirla’ (O.C. II: 826-7). His historical dramas, unlike history, are based on possibility and are therefore more philosophical than factual.18 Responding to

16 The episode from the past occurred at the end of the Civil War, when the family was waiting to board a train to flee to Madrid. Vicente, the eldest child, managed to get on the train but took the family’s supplies with him, leaving the others stranded and starving; as a result, Elvirita, his baby sister, died and his father lost his mind. Thirty years later, the family has neither faced, nor recovered from, the events of the past. The mother insists on forgetting the past, while the father’s disturbed behaviour concentrates on cutting figures from magazines, asking ‘¿Quién es ese? and ‘saving’ them. Vicente, a successful publisher, in his determination to succeed continues to create victims, the latest of whom is his employee and mistress, Encarna, who is pregnant. His younger brother, Mario, a contemplativo, still lives with his parents and rejects Vicente’s choices and lifestyle; he is in love with Encarna. The father fails to recognize Vicente and confuses Encarna with his dead daughter. Mario judges Vicente, forcing him to confront the past and accusing him of continuing to create victims, but later regrets his action. When left alone with his father, Vicente admits his guilt for the first time and begs for forgiveness; yet he does not wish to change his behaviour. The father, a disturbed God-like figure, kills Vicente with the scissors, telling him, ‘tú no subirás al tren’ (O.C. I: 1177). As a result, the father is locked away. Hope for the future is found in the relationship between a more humble Mario and Encarna. Él and Ella return and answer the father’s question, identifying the spectators as the people referred to, and suggesting that the experiment only succeeded if they saw themselves from multiple perspectives. Speaking for Buero, they identified the problem of twentieth-century Spanish society as an inability to recognize themselves in others. 17 ‘Ibsen y Buero: Hedda Gabler y Las cartas boca abajo’, in Cuevas García, ed., El teatro de Buero Vallejo: texto, pp. 243–57 (p. 247). 18 ‘Poetry has to convince us that the events it describes are possible, and it does so by confining itself to such events as are probable or necessary. In order to be intelligible and win assent, poetry is thus forced to aim at universality, since the necessary and the probable are

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criticisms of his historical dramas, Buero said: ‘No estoy haciendo historia sino literatura, literatura teatral, de modo que habrá un porcentaje del personaje real y otro porcentaje del escritor de la obra, que soy yo.’19 Nevertheless, he was criticized for his fictionalization of historical characters, such as Velázquez and Goya and for his appropriation of the myth and the words of Larra to defend his own posibilismo. Buero always made it clear, however, that these were only possible interpretations of the characters; they were never intended as biographical texts. Writing about El sueño de la razón, the dramatist commented: ‘Pienso, sin embargo, que esta invención o intuición mía, si no consta que sucediese, bien pudo suceder’ (O.C. II: 451). The historical dramas therefore are possible histories, usually focusing on the private face of a public figure. Hence, in the interests of art, through which he seeks to highlight certain hidden or denied realities, Buero revised official history. Moreover, Buero took some licence with the chronology of events in order to serve his dramatic purpose (O.C. II: 516–17). Some of the events depicted are historical possibility rather than historical fact, and serve to allow Buero to contrast past and present. The stress in the historical dramas is on the possibility of change. Buero made clear that things once considered impossible were now possible, and implied that what appears to be infeasible now may be realized in the future; nothing is preordained or naturally impossible, despite what the dominant ideology would have one believe. His characters continually assert that one can learn from history. Even the rebel protagonists, such as Ignacio (En la ardiente oscuridad) and David (El concierto de San Ovidio), who strive for the seemingly impossible, inspire in others the understanding that what seems unrealizable now may one day be accomplished. Ignacio y las gentes como él se rebelan frente a algo que parece insuperable, tienen todo el derecho de hacerlo, y aun la obligación; porque puede que lo que entendemos por insuperable no lo sea, o al menos no lo sea del todo. Hay un momento, una situación, una etapa en la que sí lo es, pero a lo mejor al día siguiente eso cambia. [. . .] No hay que resignarse a la insuperabilidad.20

In other works, drawing on the spectator’s knowledge of the outcome, Buero highlighted the changes that occurred in the past, which at the time were considered the folly of dreamers.21 Esquilache talks hopefully of future times when burning heretics at the stake will be viewed as the anathema of civilized society and when the reforms he tries to introduce will be accepted. It should also universals. History is under no such constraint; it does not usually have to convince us that the events it describes are possible – what has happened must have been possible.’ Aristotle’s Poetics, intro, notes and trans. by James Hutton and preface by Gordon M. Kirkwood (New York: W. W. Norton, 1982), p. 14. 19 Amell, ‘Conversación’, pp. 124–5. 20 Enrique Pajón Mecloy, ‘La ardiente claridad de Antonio Buero Vallejo: entrevista’, Quimera, no. 65 (1987), 59– 63 (p. 62). 21 Dixon, ‘ “Pero todo partió de allí” ’, p. 44.

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be obvious to the spectator from 1958 that the society in which he lives owes something to men such as Esquilache who helped to form it.22 Velázquez yearns for a day when it will be possible to paint and freely exhibit nudes and a day when man keeps no other man slave; Goya dreams of flying machines of the future; David dreams of the day when even a poor blind man may be able to read and study and become a musician. For the Spanish spectator of the drama, this is all now possible: the day once dreamed of has arrived. Why not then, Buero implied, the other seemingly impossible ambitions, such as a just, censorshipfree, democratic society? Why not then, the landscape of La Fundación or the future society of El tragaluz’s Él and Ella? The apathy and resignation encouraged by the regime are the greatest enemies of change. The spectator must realize that he is part of the evolutionary process of history and is responsible for its future. This stress on flux and change was in stark contrast to the regime’s professed immutability and essential, eternal values. In Un soñador para un pueblo, as in Las Meninas, Buero attacked this myth of immutability. Velázquez tells his king that, ‘Para morir nace todo: hombres, instituciones’ and Esquilache, in his conversation with Villasanta, declares: ‘Las naciones tienen que cambiar si no quieren morir definitivamente. [. . .] Nosotros marchamos hacia adelante y sus señorías no quieren moverse. Pero la Historia se mueve’ (O.C. I: 932, 790). In the plays, history is used to highlight both continuity and the differences between past and present. Buero recognized the dangers of nationalism and the seductively easy answers it provided to a people willing to be led; hence nationalism, with its xenophobic emphasis on purity and its appeals to unity and blind loyalty, is denounced again and again in the plays. He attempted to show that those who protect this nationalism at all costs against an identifiable foe are often motivated by self-interest rather than the common good. The Nationalists glorified the Golden Age and created a link between it and Spain under Franco; Buero drew parallels between the decadence of both eras. The Nationalists dismissed the nineteenth century as an error; Buero reclaimed it, showing how it logically precipitated the events of the twentieth century. The Nationalists stressed the nobility of the pueblo; Buero did the same, while also exposing its ignoble racism and its manipulation by the ruling elite. Roman Catholic ideology and values influenced the Nationalists; Buero showed how both Church and government betrayed their virtues. The Nationalists emphasized a return to a destiny that had been betrayed by the Republicans and liberals; Buero revised Homer’s Odyssey to analyse the return to origins myth, and demonstrated the cruelty of the supposedly heroic leader who returns and does not save the Motherland, but rather damns her to an unhappy dependence on his might. While none of the above examples could be classified as direct attacks on Francoism, there are some very obvious allusions made. 22 Raymond Carr wrote of the Caroline bureaucrats: ‘Their concrete achievements remained limited, but there is no practical reform of the nineteenth century, no reforming attitude of mind, that cannot be traced back to one of the servants of Charles III.’ Spain 1808 –1939 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1966), p. 61.

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Buero, like other writers of historical drama, focused on: periods in which an older, reactionary view of life was colliding with some newer, more attractive dispensation: by identifying with the proponents of the new, the audience not only would feel it was experiencing the force of historical continuity, but it could flatter itself for being on the side of progress.23

These reflected many of the changes occurring in Spanish society when the plays were written and are among his most political works. Un soñador para un pueblo (1958) was the first of Buero’s historical dramas. Based in Madrid in March 1766, during the reign of Carlos III, it tells the story of the anti-reform riots and the overthrow of the Minister, the Marqués de Esquilache. Buero described it as a ‘versión libre de un episodio histórico’ (O.C. II: 423). Buero’s interpretation of events rejected the notion that the rising was a spontaneous, popular one, which grew from the ground up and toppled a man who wished to curb the traditional freedoms of the people. Buero instead staged a rising orchestrated and manipulated from the top down by traditionalist nobles, led by the Marqués de la Ensenada, whose positions of power were threatened by the reforms. The myths and rumours spread about Esquilache and the reforms are exposed as deliberate falsifications. Buero made the point that, while the rioting had a political agenda, the huge popular support would scarcely have been possible if the reformers had not been so heavy-handed in their dealings with the public and particularly in their use of the Walloon Guard to put down any resistance to change. This play is thus in keeping with Buero’s outlook: ‘the most significant implication of the play is that real change requires both the dismantling of established power structures and the genuine involvement of the people’.24 Both Carlos III and Esquilache recognize that the traditionalist nobility are behind the increasing resistance to reform. As David Johnston points out, both Villasanta, who represents the conservative nobility, and Ensenada, a reformer in a previous government who resents his lack of power, wear wigs that are outdated and therefore symbolic of their commitment to the past and their reluctance to embrace change.25 The old order displays scant regard for the Spanish people, and Ensenada declares that ‘el español es desequilibrado’ and is therefore in need of absolute rule (O.C. I: 770). Buero examined the way in which a case is made for the need for a paternalistic leader by demonstrating the natural weakness of the Spaniard, and subverted it in his work, recuperating the pueblo

23 Herbert Lindenberger, Historical Drama: The Relation of Literature and Reality (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1975), p. 9. 24 Chris Perriam, Michael Thompson, Susan Frenk and Vanessa Knights, A New History of Spanish Writing 1939 to the 1990s (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), p. 48. 25 Johnston, ‘Posibles paralelos’, p. 350. Moreover, Duaso in El sueño de la razón, despite working as a censor under Fernando VII, demonstrates his allegiance to an earlier, more liberal, period by wearing the cross of Carlos III.

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and demonstrating that the degeneracy of the pueblo is usually caused by their leaders. He also highlighted the turpitude of the leaders themselves. Furthermore, Buero challenged the notion that the pueblo is improved as a result of its submission to a particular leader. As Lyon points out, ‘Buero’s central preoccupation was the problem – unresolved in 1766 and still seeking a solution in 1958 – of the pueblo’s involvement in the power process.’26 In the play, the Church, as usual, favours the conservative view and the conservatives are happy to claim divine approval. Villasanta laments the passing of the Santo Oficio, which was banned under Carlos III and, like many in Franco’s time, predicts that the path of reform will lead to a godless Spain. Interestingly, Francisco Abad draws another parallel, likening Esquilache to the leaders of the Second Republic.27 Buero described the play as ‘una defensa de la España “ilustrada” ’, and went on to say, ‘creo que resulta, en suma, un drama bastante actual’ (O.C. II: 423–4). Las Meninas (1960) is a play in two parts, the first of which serves as an introduction to the various characters and the second of which sees the artist, Velázquez, on trial for a series of offences against the court. The play is set in Madrid, in the court of Felipe IV, in the autumn of 1656. Buero’s play is about the artist Velázquez, who like the dramatist, acted as conscience of his society, using his art and his position in the court to highlight social injustice. In the play, Velázquez is pitted against the activo Establishment figure of the Marqués, who is shown to manipulate the weak king, Felipe IV, in order to preserve his own power and privilege and increase his own wealth at the expense of the ordinary people. The play portrays a social elite at best blind to the miserable reality of the lives of ordinary Spaniards but more often, callously indifferent. Velázquez, an enlightened intellectual and gifted artist, is inspired by the pueblo, rather than by his masters. The pueblo, represented by the activo-turned-contemplativo, Pedro Briones, is the only figure to truly understand both the artist and his art; indeed, in a scene with the artist in Part I, he interprets its social message for the audience. Shown through his relationship with Velázquez and the telling of his own story to be a good man, Pedro dies at the hands of the regime for crimes he committed to better the lot of his comrades. Las Meninas is a play about the role of art and the committed artist in society, a play in which Buero’s vision of his own role is clearly demonstrated. It is also an attack on censorship, on weak leadership, on voluntary blindness and on false morality. In it, Buero indicated why and how he used history, letting the public know that there were parallels with contemporary Spain. Velázquez, as a contemplativo, has a vision of a better Spain, but, inspired by Pedro, he learns to act also. In 1656, Velázquez is court painter and aposentador (chamberlain), but not yet a member of the Order of Santiago. He has completed an illicit Venus, which 26 Lyon ‘History and Opposition Drama’, p. 99. It was a constant concern of the dramatist himself and he revisted it in La detonación. 27 ‘Ideas sobre la tragedia y actitudes éticas de Antonio Buero Vallejo’, in Cuevas García, ed., El teatro de Buero Vallejo: texto, pp. 277–91 (p. 285).

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is housed in his studio and has begun work on the painting that would be his masterpiece, Las Meninas. Both his innovative artistic technique and his enlightened world view are misunderstood by others and attacked by those whose artistic and social status are threatened by them. The play examines the strength of the artist in his isolation, his search for a viewer and, in Part II, the righteousness of his valiant stand for his work and against his attackers. The play ends in compromise, rather than defeat, for the artist, but his art and its influence survive. Notwithstanding the fact that it was deliberately termed a ‘fantasía’ to make clear that it is not history, Buero was widely criticized for his creation of a rebel Velázquez, which many saw as a distortion of the reality of the historical Velázquez, a canonical painter, said to be mindful of his privileges.28 Buero viewed him instead as a critic of society: Velázquez, conocedor seguro del Quijote como lo eran todos entonces y lúcido testigo, igual que Cervantes, de la decadencia del país, lo que acaso le llevó a concebir la pintura de su Don Juan de Austria, aquel patético cincuentón de «triste figura» rodeado de caballerescas piezas de arnés tiradas por el suelo, como la del otro Don Quijote hundido en su fatal empeño de llegar a ser el adalid cuyo nombre ostenta y que, resuelto a transmutar un rincón del Alcázar en su particular Cueva de Montesinos, añora desde ella el desvaído ensueño, la casi subconsciente ideación, de la confusa acción naval esbozada en el fondo del cuadro. (O.C. II: 1291–2)

Nonetheless, it is difficult to agree completely with Margaret E. W. Jones, who classifies Buero’s Velázquez as ‘a rebel-hero in his refusal to compromise and his unequivocal victory’.29 In fact, his victory is far from unequivocal: apart from his position within the court, which is in itself dubious for a rebel, he agrees never to display the painting of the Venus. The decadence of court life portrayed in Las Meninas contrasts sharply with the poverty of society and the depletion of resources as a result of war. Once again events are depicted in this play that did not or might not have happened, but which add to the drama or were necessary for the dramatist’s investigation 28 Gonzalo Fernández de la Mora wrote: ‘Y la reconstrucción que Buero nos brinda de don Diego, por ejemplo, es absolutamente inadmisible a causa de su radical y palmaria inautenticidad, tanto que no hay palinodia prologal o epilogal que pueda remediarla’ and went on to say that if the artist was alive he would be shocked to discover how he had been turned into ‘un pequeño revolucionario de 1848’, in ‘Demasiada Fantasía’, ABC, 17 December 1960. Adolfo Prego, writing in Informaciones on the same date, defended Buero’s treatment of Velázquez and his right to take licence with history. ‘Temas históricos’, AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.715 Exp. 296-60. Buero argued, ‘contra los usuales tópicos de su adhesión a las instituciones vigentes, de sus vanidosos afanes de ennoblecimiento y de su vida supuestamente acomodaticia, los parcos datos de su biografía revelan a un hombre independiente, internamente desapegado, crítico, entero’ (O.C. II: 425). 29 Margaret E. W. Jones, ‘The Modern Spanish Theater: The Historical Perspective’, Revista de estudios hispánicos, 9 (no. 2, 1977), 199–218 (p. 208).

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of censorship, freedom of expression and the role of the artist in a society where liberty is severely curtailed. The liberties taken with the portrait of the court and characters therein were taken in order to demystify the distorted portrait of the Golden Age presented by the Franco regime. Defined as a ‘parábola en tres actos’, indicating that there is a message in the play for the spectator, El concierto de San Ovidio (1962) is set in Paris in the summer and autumn of 1771. The protagonist is David, a poor but talented musician, blinded as a young child and now residing in the Hospicio de los Quince Veintes with other blind men who are expected to contribute to their keep by begging in the streets of Paris. They are viewed by those who run the Hospicio as somehow less than human; little is expected of them and they are shown no respect. Their handicap renders them not just blind, but invisible. The society in which they live is undergoing a transformation, as it moves from an old feudal system to a more modern structure. Traditional society is already in decline while a new breed of bourgeois capitalist, represented in the play by Valindin, is rising. A similar dichotomy was evident in Spanish society in the 1960s as the technocrats prepared to take over from the declining old guard of the Franco regime, while still relying on their patronage. The place for the blind and the weak in the new social order, however, is shown to be no better than in the old. The old order, represented by the Prioress in charge of the Hospicio, expected them to beg for their keep; the new order, represented by the opportunistic businessman Valindin, expects them to perform in a grotesque parody of a musical group that he forms with the goal of making his fortune at the Paris Fair. A clash of ideas takes place when David sees the group as an opportunity for the blind men to prove themselves. He attempts to teach the others to play well, rather than to play badly for entertainment, and to believe in their own worth as people; he longs for recognition of their humanity. Valindin will not countenance this challenge to his plan, and threatens David, manipulating the latter’s feelings of protectiveness towards the youngest and most vulnerable member of the group, Donato, to get his way. The clash is heightened by the two men’s competition for the attentions of Valindin’s lover, Adriana. She is the first to see the humanity of the blind men and to treat them well; like them, she is exploited by Valindin. In an immersion scene of great tension, David murders Valindin. His victory over Valindin, and Donato’s betrayal of him, lead to his own downfall and the return to former ignominy of Adriana and the other blind men. David’s act of rebellion could thus be interpreted as a failure. The key to the play, however, is in the final monologue of Valentín Haüy, who comments on the action of the play, thirty years after the concert took place. Inspired by his revulsion at witnessing such exploitation, the ‘ultraje a la humanidad’ at the Paris Fair, he established in post-revolution France a school to teach blind children. His work offers hope that David’s dream might some day be realized. Although basing his play loosely around historical characters and setting it in a carefully chosen historical period, Buero again broke with recorded history for the purposes of his message in El concierto de San Ovidio. Thus the Hospicio de los Quince Veintes is run by a religious order in the play, whereas in reality it

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was a secular institution.30 This alteration allowed Buero to comment on the role of the Church in the face of societal change. The action takes place in the troubled years leading up to the French Revolution when, as Valentín Haüy states, ‘Francia entera no era más que hambre y ferias’ (O.C. I: 1022). The modern Valindins, opportunistic businessmen, had begun to exploit the apertura.31 Valindin, like his Francoist counterparts, relied on the patronage and manipulation of tradition and history in order to legitimate his ideology. As he would in La detonación later, Buero here warned against superficial reform that merely serves to replace one elite group with another, with no real benefits for the pueblo. It must also be acknowledged that another struggle was taking place at the time in Spain, and from this a Marxist analysis may also arise. The play was staged during a period of heightened civil unrest. It was a time when students and workers challenged the dominant ideology and began to propose a united opposition. A state of emergency was declared on 4 April 1962. Buero’s wife, Victoria Rodríguez, was among those arrested while taking part in a peaceful protest against the brutal treatment of miners by the forces of the state.32 The play is set in the time of the rise of capitalism, when the bourgeoisie began to gain power at the expense of the aristocracy and has been taken to represent a class struggle. Certain allusions were drawn about proletarian struggle against the bourgeoisie.33 Abellán is one of the critics whose analysis of Buero’s theatre leads him to conclude that the dramatist is Marxist in outlook: La preocupación por los seres más desheredados de la fortuna, las clases humildes y las situaciones donde la injusticia reina, no es una mera preocupación social de testimonio o de denuncia, sino que revela un interés positivo por el análisis marxista de la lucha de clases. [. . .] Los ciegos del Hospicio de los Quince Veinte que van a constituir la orquestina son perfecta ejemplificación de la clase proletaria, donde David – el líder de todos ellos – llega a exclamar frases de claro sabor revolucionario.34

Others too, such as Doménech and Iglesias Feijoo found references to the class struggle in this play. Not all of the critics are in agreement, however. Jordan, 30 Derek Gagen, ‘The Germ of Tragedy: The Genesis and Structure of Buero Vallejo’s El concierto de San Ovidio’, Quinquereme, 8 (no. 1, 1985), 37–52 (p. 44). 31 As Johnston states: ‘Valindin representa claramente la figura del capitalista cuya visión del mundo es de signo ascendente [. . .] y, por otro lado, en un contexto español más específico, él es el “aperturista” cuya empresa todavía necesita el visto bueno de los que tienen el privilegio de la autoridad.’ Antonio Buero Vallejo, El concierto de San Ovidio, ed. by David Johnston, Colección Austral, no. 82, 9th edn (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1991), p. 17. 32 Gagen, ‘The Germ’, p. 43. 33 Gagen points out that the blind portrayed in the play are working-class blind. He also notes that the play is described as a ‘parábola en tres actos’, and therefore, clearly has some sort of message for our times. ‘The Germ’, pp. 46, 39. 34 José Luis Abellán, ‘Buero Vallejo: el teatro como modo de conocimiento’, in Antonio Buero Vallejo: literatura y filosofía, co-ordinated by Ana María Leyra (Madrid: Editorial Complutense, 1998), pp. 165–84 (p. 172).

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for example, while conceding that it is there within the play, does not place great emphasis on the theme of class struggle.35 Even acknowledging Gagen’s point that the blind musicians are working class, it must be admitted that the only one engaged in the struggle is David. Jordan argues: ‘If Valindin can be seen as representing the thrusting, upwardly mobile class antagonist, the blind men as a group are far from symbolising the poor and oppressed engaged in collective struggle against him.’36 Yet, it is important to note that the revolution fails and Buero Vallejo was more sympathetic towards the reform of Haüy than the revolution of David. David’s struggle, which begins as rebellion against the mistreatment of his fellow blind musicians, betrays a less worthy underlying motive: jealousy. Overall then, the play is more closely linked to Camus’s ideas on rebellion than on Marxist classconscious revolution. Perhaps there is a suggestion here from the dramatist that a collective struggle, one that leads to rebellion rather than revolt, might have succeeded. In essence, the play can be read as a treatise on ideology, stressing power relationships and the methods used by some characters to dominate others. These may be direct, repressive methods, or more indirect, ideological methods, such as the educational system, or the manipulation of the desire for security and material well-being. Jordan refers to the institutionalization of this domination, through the establishment of an authority protected by legislation, which then becomes socially acceptable and naturalized, and consequently, resistence or opposition to this domination becomes unacceptable. Furthermore, the play highlights other attacks on the dominant ideology in Francoist Spain, evidenced in Buero’s representation of the family, the Church, the role of women, police corruption and protectionism and patronage. There are thus clear parallels with the ideological struggles in Francoist society. El sueño de la razón (1969), a play about the aged and deaf Goya’s relationship with the repressive regime of Fernando VII, has obvious resonances for the time in which it was written. It is set in Madrid in December 1823, in the time near the end of the artist’s life, and a turbulent period politically. Like Las Meninas, this play is both historical and painterly, and Buero made much use of Goya’s work, incorporating images from it into set and action, and incorporating titles of his etchings and Black Paintings into the often disturbing dialogue. Buero wrote: ‘Sus Caprichos y Disparates, sus Pinturas Negras, son el reflejo punzante, en su alma irónica y atormentada, de la monstruosa realidad que culminó en la restauración absolutista de Fernando VII’ (O.C. II: 534). Once again Buero examined the relationship between an outspoken and unconventional artist and a repressive regime; here though, the king is less benign and the artist less conciliatory. Immersion was used to make the audience experience the deafness, 35 In fact he cites Gagen’s observation that David’s cry of ‘¡Unidos hermanos!’ is an echo of the PCE slogan, ‘¡Uníos hermanos proletarios!’ Barry Jordan, ‘Patriarchy, Sexuality and Oedipal Conflict in Buero Vallejo’s El concierto de San Ovidio’, Modern Drama, 23 (no. 3, 1985), 431–50 (pp. 448, 431). See also Dixon, ‘ “Pero todo partió de allí” ’, p. 39. 36 Jordan, ‘Patriarchy’, p. 432.

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confusion and frustration of Goya. The artist, isolated in the Quinta del Sordo and by his deafness, is under siege by Fernando VII, who seeks to punish him for perceived slights and for the artist’s disobedience. The king manipulates Goya’s friend, the priest Duaso, in order to attack the artist. Goya’s family is also critical of his lifestyle and his work. Solace for the artist is found in the friendship of the doctor Arrieta and in the company of Leocadia, his housekeeper and mistress, drawn from the pueblo, who suffers his passionate temper out of affection for him. Goya’s nightmare vision of a Spain gone mad is depicted in the Black Paintings that adorn the walls and disturb his visitors. Life imitates art in a scene that begins with the artist in the pose from El sueño de la razón on stage and recreates the nightmare, which is then echoed by the arrival of the Voluntarios Realistas and their attack on the artist and rape of Leocadia. The end of the play sees Goya choosing exile in France over further victimization in Spain. Buero made the point that the two-part play, also described as a ‘fantasía’, ‘es un drama, no un estudio histórico’ (O.C. II: 451). The Spain portrayed in El sueño de la razón is ‘un país al borde del sepulcro . . . cuya razón sueña’ (O.C. I: 1334). The Head of State, Fernando VII, is attacked in the play. Buero exposed the myth of el Deseado as damaging to the nation when, in the dream sequence, Gata proclaims ‘¡Viva el rey neto y muera la nación!’ (O.C. I: 1326). The parallels to be drawn between Goya’s Spain and Buero’s Spain were highlighted by Buero in an article written in 1975: Tal lección sigue siendo, por desgracia, válida en este tiempo. [. . .] Las salvajadas, por ejemplo, que algunos grupos de ultraderecha de mi país vienen cometiendo en los últimos años se parecen lamentablemente a las que, en la época de Goya, cometieron los Voluntarios Realistas. (O.C. II: 467–8)

Just as Buero hoped that his own theatre would do, Goya’s Black Paintings, and both the artistry and critique of society they contain, survived the baneful period of the década ominosa. Buero referred to history even in many of the non-historical dramas. This is evident in his use of a history teacher as protagonist in Aventura en lo gris, the first of Buero’s Surelian dramas.37 Silvano, the protagonist, is a man whose understanding of the past allows him to anticipate the errors of the future; hence, he seeks to employ history as a lesson about man, his present

37 This is a two-act play with a dream sequence between the two acts. It tells the story of a group of war refugees, holed up in an abandoned house with no food, awaiting a train that will take them from Surelia and the approaching enemy troops. The play explores the behaviour of this diverse group as they discover the truth about their own motivations and those of others. The group includes a discredited historian, Silvano, who lost his university position for his challenges to the regime of the dictator, Goldmann, and Goldmann himself, who, despite the propaganda message relayed about his patriotic defence of the nation, has disguised himself and, calling himself Alejandro, is attempting to flee unnoticed with his

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and his future possibilities. Silvano’s crime, in the eyes of the dictator, Goldmann, was to use history as a demystifier of the regime to ‘desenmascarar la hipocresía del Gobierno, que ya la preparaba, y a denunciar las verdaderas causas de esta guerra’ (O.C. I: 426). He continues to debunk the myth of Goldmann, whom he exposes as an abuser and a coward. Silvano contradicts Carlos’s negative allegations about the enemy, insisting on a common humanity betrayed by political leaders and manipulated by propagandistic interpretations of history. Another drama in which history is employed in an unconventional manner is El tragaluz. In it Buero created an extraordinary perspective for the spectator, who views his own time and place as history.38 It is a clever combination of immersion and alienation techniques employed to make the spectators identify with the future and yet see themselves as they now are. Not only do they witness their present as history, but they are also shown how history has led them to that present. This is achieved by the use of reference to events of the Civil War and its immediate aftermath, demonstrating how these incidents shaped the present. Thus, the spectator is shown the influence of the past upon the present, and is also made aware of a possible future, which is very different to his present; he is invited to speculate on how such a future might be achieved, having been shown that historical change is possible and that learning from the past is not only conceivable, but desirable. Kronik observes that the play, which ‘addresses the overall problem of man in historical context, [. . .] contains both history and the myth of history; and to the extent that it becomes an agent of change, it is in itself a force of history’.39 In other non-historical dramas, such as Historia de una escalera, a play dealing with the lives of a group of neighbours in a run-down building and spanning thirty years from pre- to post-Civil War, and particularly in post-Franco plays such as Música cercana (1989) and Las trampas del azar (1992), Buero, like the social Realists of the 1950s, examined generational differences as a means of exploring changing and unchanging attitudes towards recent history, and in particular, the Civil War. Furthermore, in his adaptations of Hamlet and Mother Courage and her Children for the Spanish stage, Buero again deliberately chose historical drama to comment on the abuse of power.

mistress, Ana. In the shared dream sequence, people are revealed as they truly are. The characters awaken to discover that Isabel, the young mother whose child was the result of her rape by an enemy soldier, has been murdered. Silvano discovers that Goldmann killed her; he in turn is killed by Carlos, the young soldier who loved her, though he could not accept her child. When the others leave for the border in a final attempt to escape, Silvano and Ana remain behind with Isabel’s baby, hoping that the child will be accepted and saved by the approaching troops. The play ends with the salvation of the child, but there is no justice for Silvano and Ana, who are facing the soldiers’ guns as the curtain drops. 38 History and future are used in a similar manner in Caimán. 39 ‘Buero Vallejo’s El tragaluz and Man’s Existence in History’, Hispanic Review, 41 (no. 2, 1973), 371–96 (p. 376).

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Responsibility, Accountability and History For Kronik, the question raised in the historical dramas is this: ‘Is man’s circumstance the fruit of historical determinism or of individual choice?’40 By showing how man’s repetition of past mistakes is a matter of choice, not destiny, Buero’s answer was clear; it was an answer that undermined the Nationalist myth of an inescapable destiny. When the individual accepts responsibility for, and remains in contact with, the product he creates and its effects on the users, he has taken one step toward becoming aware of the function of these materials in the history of his time. Not a revolutionary step, to be sure, but the first of many necessary steps toward total social change. Such awareness may lead to the beginnings of his control over the future.41

In his attacks on apathy and his emphasis on positive, if difficult, change, Buero linked the idea of responsibility and accountability to that of historical progress. His plays stress the significance of the human individual, the need to assume individual responsibility, the possibility, through individual determination and commitment – though not without collective action – of fulfilling a universal urge to overcome Man’s limitations, both socio-political and ontological.42

The regime’s ideology, on the other hand, attacked the notion of personal influence on the flux of history, stressing instead the inevitability of Spain’s destiny, and thus the need to conform and be led. This official myth, reflected by the authority figures in the plays, propagates the idea that the rulers have the best interests of the nation at heart. Thus, it follows that challenges to their personal power are represented as a threat to the nation. By denying man the freedom to be master of his own destiny and by convincing him that he neither wants nor needs the burden of responsibility, the myth-makers engender the mass apathy necessary for them to perpetuate their self-serving politics. Buero’s historical and mythical figures are reduced to human level. Not only are mistakes of the past repeated, but so too are some of the mythological influences in his work. The Cain and Abel inspired activos and contemplativos in many of his plays continue to make the same mistakes until they learn from each other and accept both responsibility and accountability. Characters, themes and Foundations are repeated in the works of Buero in an attempt to highlight the repetition of errors of the past.43 As Harvey J. Kaye wrote: ‘History and its

Kronik, ‘Buero Vallejo’s El tragaluz’, p. 372. Szanto, Theater and Propaganda, p. 43. 42 Dixon, ‘The “immersion-effect” ’, p. 163. 43 The reference to foundations is a link to the play, La Fundación, in which ‘la fundación’, ostensibly a progressive research foundation, is revealed to be a prison. The reality of the location was distorted by an inmate, Tomás, whose tormented mind could not 40 41

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progressive political possibilities are not resolved.’44 Buero feared that the young, usually the embodiment of hope for the future, might, through impatience, repeat the errors of the past rather than learn from them. This is a theme he developed further in the plays of the post-Franco period. Buero’s dramas remind the spectator that the present in which he lives is the result of choices made and actions taken or not taken in the past and, as such, is only one of many possible presents. As Halsey argues, one of the aims of Buero’s historical dramas was to encourage the audience to identify with the victims of certain historical actions to understand more deeply the plight of the victims of contemporary Spain.45 The essential sameness between torturer and tortured underscores the common humanity of all characters. Buero stressed that the tortured can escape becoming torturers by making choices based on history and hence avoiding the repetition of historical errors. Characters, choices and conflicts of the present are shown to be echoes of similar elements in the past, or the result of a failure to recognize and avoid historical errors. In plays such as La tejedora de sueños, El tragaluz, Historia de una escalera and Aventura en lo gris, Buero highlighted the social consequences of war and the endless repetition of the same mistakes, and asked why people fail to learn from past errors in order to avoid them in the future. Through his spokesperson, Silvano, in Aventura en lo gris, Buero expressed his frustration and disillusionment at the waste that is war; an outraged Carlos talks of the brutality of the invaders who raped so many Surelian women, but Silvano reminds him that: ‘Ellos decían lo mismo, el siglo pasado, cuando les invadimos nosotros’ (O.C. I: 424). Goya’s doctor, Arrieta, makes a similar point to Duaso in El sueño de la razón: ‘Hoy nos dicen masones a los vencidos; mañana se lo dirán a las gentes como usted’ (O.C. I: 1321). This also reminds the spectator of the tit-for-tat accusations of brutality and justifications by both sides in the more recent Spanish conflict. In El tragaluz, one of the researchers from the future defines the tragedy of twentieth-century society: ‘El mundo estaba lleno de injusticia, guerras y miedo. Los activos olvidaban la contemplación; quienes contemplaban no sabían actuar’ (O.C. I: 1178). In his theatre of the Franco period, Buero damned what would later be termed the pacto de olvido, a theme he returned to in his post-Franco theatre. This determination to forget is linked to apathy, a shirking of responsibility, and the likely repetition of past errors. In El tragaluz, the mother’s selective memory of events

cope with it and instead created the more soothing myth. As long as he remained in this delusional foundation, there was truly no hope for escape; only by recognizing the foundation as a prison could he hope to escape it. Thus Buero argued that those in society who fail to recognize the limitations that surround them will never overcome them, nor even attempt to; as long as they view their oppressors as their benefactors, they can never escape their control. 44 Kaye, ‘Why Do Ruling Classes Fear History?’, p. 86. 45 Halsey, ‘El intelectual’, p. 47.

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at the train station excuses Vicente’s part in the death of his sister: ‘Bueno: se nos llevó a Vicentito, porque él logró meterse por una ventanilla y luego ya no pudo bajar’ (O.C. I: 1139). Later, when Mario and Vicente discuss the train, the former, in an effort to apportion blame and the latter, to reiterate the myth, the mother insists: ‘Hay que olvidar aquello’ (O.C. I: 1174). Mario recognizes that his mother revises history to protect herself from a terrible truth, just as he has protected himself from a society dominated by people like his brother. Commenting on the character of Mario, Kronik notes: The downtrodden cannot convincingly explain away their situation by blaming either historical circumstance or the established order. Every man has powers of discretion, a conscience, and the ability to exercise his will. If he is a puppet in the hands of history, history alone is not the culprit.46

Buero suggested that the family’s stagnation in the basement flat and their lack of progress was linked in some way to this wilful amnesia and determined lack of accountability. Similarly, in Llegada de los dioses, Felipe rewrites his personal history, eliminating all mention of war and torture in which he played an active role and reconstructing himself as a respectable businessman. After Julio has tried to destroy the myth for Nuria, Felipe seeks to restore it: ‘Olvida sus palabras, nena. ¡Te juro que son falsas! [. . .] Nada malo te sucederá; ni tus padres ni yo lo permitiríamos’ (O.C. I: 1365). Other characters, in plays such as Hoy es fiesta, Irene, o el tesoro, El terror inmóvil, Las cartas boca abajo and La Fundación, determine to forget certain pivotal past events and as a result of their denial suffer guilt and frustration in the present. Buero insisted on the need to remember and learn.

Demystifying Francoist Ideology Luis Martín Santos described the function of literature in society thus: ‘Una primera función relativamente pasiva: la descripción de la realidad social. Otra función especialmente activa: la creación de una Mitología para uso de la sociedad.’47 In both cases, he argued, the result could be social change. Castellet also quotes Juan Goytisolo: ‘España y la cultura española están mistificados de tal manera que ya no son materia viva para el escritor.’ Hence, for Goytisolo, the function of art is to destroy myth. It can be argued that in doing so, he created another, equally motivated, myth. This literature is usually more concerned with questioning and destroying certain myths than with providing answers. Contrary ‘Buero Vallejo’s El tragaluz’, p. 384. Quoted in ‘Apéndice: tiempo de destrucción para la literatura española’, in Literatura, ideología y política, ed. by José María Castellet (Barcelona: Anagrama, 1976), pp. 133–56 (pp. 145, 150). 46 47

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to the novelists of early social realism of the 1950s, however, Buero did not look back to a paradise lost, although he held out hope for a possible future Utopia.48 Unlike many novels and plays of disillusion and disenchantment, Buero’s plays, while certainly highlighting the gap between the official myth and the social reality, also hinted at a different future, which for the protagonists might be only a dream or illusion. Not having been educated by the regime and indoctrinated into the Francoist ideology and mythology, Buero generally did not take as a starting point the accepted mythology of the regime. Yet, the ideology of return to origins, exemplified in the myth of Ulysses cited by Labanyi in Myth and History, is one subverted by Buero Vallejo in La tejedora de sueños.49 The hero’s return and the consequent slaying of the rivals are parodied in Buero’s play and the myth of the hero-saviour is exposed as false. Thus, Buero demonstrated the creation of the myth of Ulysses, and invited the spectator to reject it as Penélope does, and from there, to reject other myths as false. In his version, the myth of Ulysses, like the myth of Spanish nationalism, is revealed as an ideologically motivated version of history.50 Ragué Arias described the employment of Greek mythology in the right-wing theatre of the 1940s and 1950s, ‘para grandes espectáculos que estaban al servicio de la ideología oficial.’51 Buero was acting in a very deliberate manner when he chose to subvert the story of Odysseus’ return to Ithaca in La tejedora de

48 Labanyi cites the use of the book–antithesis –synthesis model of Paradise Lost–The Fall–Utopia in literature of the Franco period. For the Francoists the Second Republic represented the Fall, while for the Republicans and opponents of Franco, it was Paradise Lost. 49 The importance of the Odyssey myth in the culture of Francoism is evidenced by the many versions that appear in the literature of the period and after. These include works by Gonzalo Torrente Ballester (El retorno de Ulises), Antonio Gala (¿Por qué corres Ulises?), Carmen Resino (Ulises no vuelve) and Salvador S. Monzó (Ulises o el retorno equivocado). José C. Paulino wrote of these plays and others: ‘Ideológicamente sirve tan bien para realizar una crítica a la ideología del régimen franquista y su simbología, como para rechazar los valores de violencia militar y represión de la sociedad de posguerra o para proponer una imagen desencantada de los héroes de esa misma sociedad en su ocaso más ridículo y vulgar que emotivo.’ ‘Ulises en el teatro español contemporáneo. Una revisión panorámica’, Anales de la literatura española contemporánea, 19 (no. 3, 1994), 327– 42 (pp. 338–9). 50 This analysis thus disagrees with Härtinger, who contends that La tejedora de sueños is not a political drama. He based this assertion on a conversation with Buero in which the dramatist commented that concrete parallels between his Ulysses and Franco were not his conscious plan. However, Härtinger did not seem to consider Buero’s other comments: ‘Esa politización de la obra [. . .] no la rechazo; entiendo que es una de las cosas que puede suscitar la obra. Y como yo llevaba dentro a un antifranquista inevitable, pues también – consciente o inconscientemente – todo eso puede haber estado operando en mí; no lo niego.’ Härtinger, Oppositionstheater, pp. 64, 65. Buero wrote elsewhere about the demystifying role of La tejedora de sueños (O.C. II: 434). 51 María José Ragué Arias, Lo que fue Troya: los mitos griegos en el Teatro español actual, Colección Damos la palabra (Madrid: Asociación de Autores de Teatro, 1992), p. 19.

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sueños (1950) to tell a vastly different version of events than the officially sanctioned one.52 There are some noteworthy deviations from the original, however, apart from the obvious reinterpretation of the relationship between Penélope and Ulises.53 Penélope herself is brought out from the shadows of her husband’s legacy and shown to have been a victim, not only of a society run by and for warmongering men, but also of history, as the recorded version of events was the official myth and not the truth. Buero reclaimed her as a mythical, but human, character in her own right, not merely a prop in the myth of Ulises. Here he created a new myth of Penélope in the place of the demystified one. Nor was Buero the first to criticize the returning hero: in Book XXIV of the original it becomes clear that Odysseus too had his critics. The view of Odysseus held by Eupeithes, father of Antinous, the first of the suitors to be killed, was echoed in Buero’s portrait of the returning hero: What a mass of evil things this man’s devices have brought upon us Achaeans! Many of us, all men of courage, he took away with him in his ships; he lost the ships and he lost the men; and now that he has come back again he has killed the noblest of all the Cephallenians.54

In Nationalist mythology, Penélope represents the Motherland, and thus the myth is employed to encourage the unswerving loyalty of the pueblo to the courageous warrior-leader. This leader is involved in heroic and worthy actions, and thus his eventual homecoming is a return to glory and triumph. The Odyssey myth provides a mythical justification for a righteous war, for sacrifice and patience on the part of the people, for the purging of the enemy usurper at home, and it promises the glorious return to the Motherland of the valiant protector. Buero subverted this. In Homer’s Odyssey the suitors are deserving of their fate; in La tejedora de sueños this is shown to be untrue in the case of Anfino. In the Odyssey, the Fall is justified – Ithaca falls after Odysseus leaves and is redeemed by ritual slaughter after his glorious return; in Buero’s version, the fall of Ítaca is the result of Ulises’ return, his ritual slaughter of his enemies is portrayed as barbaric, and the redemption it offers is shown to be a falsification.

52 Hazel Cazorla classifies the play as remystification, rather than demystification. ‘El retorno de Ulises: dos enfoques contemporáneos del mito en el teatro de Buero Vallejo y Antonio Gala’, Hispanófila, 29 (no. 87, 1986), 43–51 (p. 45). Buero claimed that it is both (O.C. II: 434). 53 Unlike in the original, Buero’s Euriclea is blind and almost deaf and, like other physically impaired characters in the works of Buero, she perceives what others do not. The character Dione, on the other hand, is the dramatist’s invention and provides insight into the character of Penélope. Odysseus is described in the original by gods and mortals as ‘subtle witted’, ‘shrewd’ and ‘staunch’; Penelope says of him, ‘he was never a tyrant to any man’. In Buero’s version he is exposed as a cowardly oppressor. Odysseus is also more generous in the original. He tells Eurycleia: ‘Utter no cry of exultation. Vaunting over men slain is a monstrous thing.’ Homer, The Odyssey, trans. by Walter Shewring, The World’s Classics Series (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1980), pp. 51, 274. 54 Homer, The Odyssey, p. 295.

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Buero re-examined the myth from Penélope’s perspective and portrayed a woman suffering and abandoned, yet proud. Her erstwhile protector thwarts the salvation that she dreams of. The myth of a Penélope who loves her husband and eagerly awaits his return is revealed as false, both through the speculations of Euriclea and Dione, and through Pénelope’s own actions and words. Linking the ideas of myth and history in La tejedora de sueños, Manuel Alvar comments: ‘Ulises es el fantasma del pasado inoperante de cara al porvenir.’55 By subverting the Odysseus myth, Buero not only overturned the Nationalist myth of the returning hero but also demonstrated how his return in fact led to misery and anguish. Ulises’ declarations on war in the play have their parallels in the Francoist ideology, which glorified the Civil War as a necessary purging before regeneration and return to glory. As Ragué Arias observes: En Ulises, Buero desenmascara la verdadera realidad del héroe militar. Ulises no es el hombre ennoblecido por la guerra sino el hombre destruido por la guerra y por ello vaciado de humanidad, el hombre que ya solo sabe seguir destruyendo y salvar las apariencias, salvar su prestigio inventando una mentira, un falso mito para ejemplificación de la posteridad.56

The effects of war on society are seen in the destruction of Ítaca and Penélope’s plight. In his portrait of Telémaco, Buero criticized the effects of war on successive generations, a theme he was to take up again in Llegada de los dioses. The society depicted at the end of the play, like Francoist society, is one in which ‘the appearance of truth is more important than truth itself’.57 Ricard Salvat I Ferré notes: Esta obra fue la que más mella hizo, a nuestro entender, en el alto aparato oficial del franquismo. Estrenada, como las anteriores, en un teatro nacional, tenía todo el valor de un desafío y de un valeroso reto. Quien quiso entender la reflexión sobre la reciente guerra civil y sus terribles consecuencias, pudo entenderlo. El atreverse a «leer» la fiel Penélope como una arriesgada y valiente Clitemnestra, cambiaba todos los esquemas de la aparentemente tranquila y satisfecha conciencia cultural del franquismo.58

Franco Durán observes: ‘Su marido ha regresado para vengarse, pero no arriesga su vida, mata a unos enemigos indefensos.’59 There is no attempt at reconciliation

55 Manuel Alvar, ‘Presencia del mito: La tejedora de sueños’, in Estudios sobre Buero Vallejo, pp. 279–313 (p. 293). 56 Ragué Arias, Lo que fue Troya, pp. 30–1. 57 Rogers, ‘Role Constraints’, p. 311. 58 Ricard Salvat I Ferré, ‘El más fascinador de los juegos: el teatro de Buero Vallejo y su incidencia social’, in Antonio Buero Vallejo. Premio ‘Miguel de Cervantes’ 1986, pp. 75–99 (p. 84). 59 ‘Interpretación del mito clásico en La tejedora de sueños’, in El teatro de Buero Vallejo: texto, pp. 313–21 (p. 318).

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and the ideology of the returned leader is imposed. For Fernando de Diego, ‘La muerte del pretendiente representa también la derrota de una ideología, de una visión del mundo.’60 Penélope’s words in praise of Anfino and against Ulises are clearly criticisms of their respective ideologies and the contemporary Spanish versions of the same. Lamartina-Lens reads Penélope and Helen in Buero’s play as representations of good and evil. The former is abandoned in her prime for the sake of the glory of her husband: Penelope’s rivalry with Helen for men’s attention and her wish to be fought over by men is one of Buero’s greatest flaws in the development of Penelope’s character in the play. This cattiness is truly unbecoming to such a tragic figure while it reinforces a patriarchal negative image of woman.61

In contrast, if Penélope is viewed as a symbol of Spain, as Cazorla suggests, the meaning changes somewhat.62 It can be argued that, if read thus, Penélope’s conduct no longer seems ‘catty’, but rather indicates her comprehensive and justifiable concerns about the destructive nature of war. Moreover, even on a non-symbolic level, this behaviour is surely just further evidence of Buero’s demystification of the mythical figure of Penélope: he made her human. In the original, Telemachus beseeches Odysseus to spare the bard and the page, who served the suitors under duress; Buero’s Telémaco is not so forgiving. He is portrayed as a weak character who has suffered his father’s absence, perhaps even more than Penélope. The lack of guidance shown to him has repercussions later. Having been abandoned once before and shunned by the suitors, Telémaco is eager to believe his father’s myth, which gives him a role and a promise of future power. A parallel can be drawn between his character and those groups who, feeling themselves badly treated under the liberals in the Second Republic, were willing to accept the myth of nationalism as a justification of their revolt against an elected power. The play also demonstrates the creation of the myth that is familiar to the audience. Despite what has occurred, and for the sake of his own prestige, Ulises insists on creating the illusion of his joyous return to Penélope’s welcoming arms. This fantasy of happiness is finally the only thing that binds them together, and it will be resented by Penélope and enforced by Ulises: ‘Nuestro nombre debe quedar limpio y resplandeciente para el futuro. Nadie sabrá nada de esto’ (O.C. I: 182). History is rewritten and the myth that replaced it is immortalized in the final song of the slave chorus, which commemorates a faithful Penélope and an heroic Ulises. Like the Marquis of Las Meninas, and like Franco himself, 60 ‘Espacio dramático e ideología en La tejedora de sueños de Antonio Buero Vallejo’, in El teatro de Buero Vallejo: texto, pp. 351–9 (p. 357). 61 Iride Lamartina-Lens, ‘Myth of Penelope and Ulysses in La tejedora de sueños, ¿Por qué corres Ulises?, and Ulises no vuelve’, Estreno, 12 (no. 2, 1986), 31–4 (p. 32). 62 Cazorla, ‘El retorno’, p. 44.

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Ulises determines that what displeases him does not exist and will not be recorded. Buero used biblical mythology to subvert the Nationalist–Catholic mythology of his day; not only did he show that the clergy are more interested in power and avarice than the positive values commonly associated with religious figures, but he highlighted the corruption of their methodology and reasoning. They are seen to interpret the scriptures to suit their own ends. Their lack of compassion is exposed and reminds the spectator of a similar lack of concern for the victims shown by the Roman Catholic Church in the aftermath of the Civil War. Biblical mythology is dealt with most obviously in Las palabras en la arena (1948). Arie Vicente, in an article about the esperpéntico and the tragic in Las palabras en la arena, notes the parallels between the society portrayed in the play and the dramatist’s society: La corrupción es la regla del sistema pero necesita un mínimo de autoconfianza para mantenerse. La confesión del sacerdote pone en tela de juicio la validez de una sociedad sostenida por la institución religiosa. En la España franquista, siendo la Iglesia la columna vertebral del régimen y la que proporcionó a la campaña bélica el estatuto de ‘cruzada’ al faltarle al sacerdote la creencia, se derrumba el mito nacional católico.63

Podol too, argues that Buero’s Las palabras en la arena questions ‘the compatibility of the demand for vengeance, an integral component of the rigid honour code, with the Christian virtue of forgiveness, epitomized by Christ and his teachings’.64 Asaf’s tirade against forgiveness parodies the dominant ideology of Francoism: ‘Pero perdonando no puede haber familia, ni mujer segura, ni hijos obedientes, ni Estado, ¡ni nada!’ (O.C. I: 64). The dramatist also made use of other myths in his attempt to contest the myths propagated by the regime. Ricardo Doménech has written about the ‘trasfondo mítico’ in the works of Buero Vallejo, incorporating the myths of Oedipus, Don Quijote and Cain and Abel.65 Influences of Greek mythology can be seen in Llegada de los dioses, Historia de una escalera, Aventura en lo gris, Diálogo secreto, Música cercana, Las trampas del azar and El concierto de San Ovidio. Father figures are punished for their determination to hide and obscure past transgressions. Their castigators are the next generation, who have suffered for their sins. This demystification of a paternalistic figure has repercussions beyond the father figures of the plays, however. As Jean Cross Newman highlights, many of the plays contain unethical father figures, whose

63 Arie Vicente, ‘Convergencia y divergencia de lo esperpéntico y lo trágico en Las palabras en la arena, de Antonio Buero Vallejo’, Estreno, 13 (no. 2, 1987), 28–31 (p. 29). 64 Peter L. Podol, ‘The Theme of Honor in Two Plays of Buero Vallejo: Las palabras en la arena and La tejedora de sueños’, Hispanófila, 23 (no. 68, 1980), 39–46 (p. 41). 65 Ricardo Doménech, El teatro de Buero Vallejo: una meditación española, 2nd edn (Madrid: Gredos, 1993), p. 351.

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choices have a negative effect on their offspring.66 Characters who in theory should serve as moral guides fail to do so. A further element of the Oedipus myth common in the plays of Buero Vallejo is, of course, the Teiresias figure of a blind visionary. Unlike in traditional mythology, however, the characters in Buero’s plays are not punished by the gods; nor do the gods solve their problems. Buero criticized those men who would be gods and seek to determine the fate of others; he also found fault with those who seek gods to lead them and who refuse to take responsibility for their own action or inaction. According to Sollish Sikka, Buero ‘completely reinterprets the matter of guilt and pardon, handled swiftly and effectively in Genesis by divine intervention, to stress ultimate personal responsibility’.67 There is no Deux ex machina in the plays of Buero, only man’s free will. Buero’s protagonists and, by extension he suggested, the spectators, would not be judged by an all-powerful, all-seeing God, but rather by History. Buero drew attention to the mythical figure of Saturn in El sueño de la razón to draw a parallel between the actions of the destructive God and those of a destructive leader. Saturn, like Cronos who is recalled in Caimán, devoured his offspring.68 It is clear then, that Buero employed myth and history to demystify the regime’s own mythology, and occasionally to create another possible myth to replace it, or at least to suggest that other interpretations existed. The Quixotic myth also features in Buero’s plays, most obviously in Mito, which highlights the importance of myth: ‘Desmitificar es saludable y necesario, pero no es, creo, la fórmula definitiva de un arte finalmente desenajenado. Desmitificar es relativamente fácil; la dificultad – y el hallazgo – del arte consiste en volver a mitificar, de modo más real, con los escombros de las desmitificaciones’ (O.C. II: 445). Characters such as Ignacio (En la ardiente oscuridad), Eloy (Mito), Silverio (Hoy es fiesta), el Padre (El tragaluz), Asel (La Fundación) and Gaspar (Diálogo Secreto) are clearly influenced by the fictional caballero, who was regarded by the dramatist as a very positive figure. In Un soñador para un pueblo, Esquilache’s wife tells him: ‘le temo a tu quijotismo’ (O.C. I: 778). Moreover, as Doménech observes, in La Fundación Tomás has helped the activos Asel and Tulio to recognize the need for a dream or a vision: ‘como si Tomás hubiera contagiado a los dos con sus locas fantasías, igual que Don Quijote acaba contagiando con las suyas a algunos de los personajes que le rodean’.69 Further examples of the Quixotic myth can be seen in the presence of Dulcinea figures in El concierto de San Ovidio and

66 Jean Cross Newman, ‘El fracaso de la figura paterna en el teatro de Antonio Buero Vallejo’, in El teatro de Buero Vallejo: texto, pp. 187–99. 67 Linda Sollish Sikka, ‘Cain, Mario and Me: Interrelatedness in El tragaluz’, Estreno, 16 (no. 2, 1990), 29–32 (p. 29). 68 Enrique Pajón Mecloy, ‘La dialéctica de los límites en el teatro de Antonio Buero Vallejo’, Anthropos, Monograph no. 10, 28–31 (p. 30). 69 Ricardo Doménech, ‘Tríptico: En la ardiente oscuridad, El concierto de San Ovidio y La Fundación’, in El teatro de Buero Vallejo: texto, pp. 17–39 (p. 35).

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La Fundación.70 The successful employment of this myth relies on the public’s familiarity with it, and its acceptance of an essential truth in the notion of a certain lucidity and integrity in the words and actions of one mocked by respectable society. Buero also utilized biblical mythology to explore the mechanisms of myth-making and to demystify modern myths based on the familiar classical mythology. Like the Nationalist mythmakers, Buero traded on the public’s perception of the truth contained in these myths in order to re-examine them and to expose how they could be manipulated to serve a particular interest. Obviously, his demystification of biblical myths challenged the Roman Catholic ideology in Francoist Spain. Sollish Sikka writes: ‘Since temporal and spatial distinctions are eradicated, we also receive biblical confirmation that objectification is morally unacceptable and that we are, indeed, our brothers’ keepers.’71 Indeed, the idea that man is his brother’s keeper is a constant one in Buero’s work. The Christian idea of love and respect for one’s neighbour or brother coincided with the dramatist’s views on personal responsibility and duty to oneself and to society and, in the wider sense, to man. Throughout Buero’s body of work, those who are selfserving to the detriment of others are condemned, while those who make personal sacrifices and struggle against the odds for positive social change are praised. Their good work is shown to live on after their demise, and they serve as an inspiration to others, even in defeat. Sollish Sikka points out that in the biblical story, ‘had Cain seen his brother as part of himself, homicide would have been far less likely, probably impossible’.72 In El tragaluz, and in many other plays, Buero used Cain and Abel figures, activos and contemplativos, neither of whom is whole until he adopts some of the characteristics of the other, at which point he becomes an activo-contemplativo. This intellectual man of action recognizes the good and evil within himself and others; through acknowledgement of his own limitations as well as his strengths, he makes conscious and responsible choices and calls upon others to do the same. He is the figure who recognizes his brother in himself and is therefore incapable of fratricide. This recognition may come too late for his own salvation, although it might still inspire others.73

70 John P. Gabriele and Laura L. Kenreich, ‘De Dulcinea del Toboso a Melania de Salignac: El arquetipo cervantino en El Concierto de San Ovidio’, Neophilologus, 80 (no. 3, 1996), 417–24. Dixon, ‘ “Pero todo partió de allí ” ’, p. 45. 71 Sollish Sikka, ‘Cain’, p. 29. 72 Sollish Sikka, ‘Cain’, p. 29. 73 Unlike most other commentators, Sollish Sikka relates the myth of Cain and Abel in El tragaluz, not to the two brothers, but rather to Vicente and his young sister, Elvira, whom she describes as the Abel of the play, as she was the victim of Vicente’s actions. She then classes Mario, who is usually seen as the Abel figure, as the Old Testament God, who sits in judgement upon his brother. This leaves the father, usually viewed as the God-like figure, as another Cain figure whose killing of Vicente and whose mental instability are judged to be a result of his own failure to forgive Vicente and to recognize elements of himself in his son. While there might be some degree of plausibility in this interpretation, it seems to miss the connection in Buero’s work between the Cain and Abel figures and the activos and

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Buero’s use of myth extended to an examination of the motivated use of language in order to distort reality and to create myth. Writing on language and ideology, José Hierro Pescador asserted that: el lenguaje es monopolizado por la clase dominante y utilizado como vehículo ideológico dificultando, por medio del proceso educativo, las posibilidades de que la clase dominada exprese clara y espontáneamente por medio de la lengua sus intereses propios, su concepción de la realidad y su conciencia de clase.74

He generalized, arguing that ‘es ideología cualquier utilización del lenguaje que exprese una visión deformada del mundo y de las cosas cuando esa deformación está, implícita o explícitamente, al servicio de los intereses de la clase dominante’, and went on to reason, citing Voloshinov, that ideology is about signs and ‘siendo la palabra el signo por excelencia, huelga concluir que es igualmente el fenómeno ideológico por excelencia’.75 Thus it follows that, in order to challenge the ideology of the dominant group in society, one must question the language employed by it to normalize and legitimize a particular perspective. In plays such as En la ardiente oscuridad, Las Meninas, La detonación and Llegada de los dioses, characters expose this mythification by revealing the reality hidden or falsified by motivated language. Indeed, Ignacio’s aim in En la ardiente oscuridad, like that of writers Juan Goytisolo and Luis Martín-Santos, is destructive. He announces: ‘Yo os voy a traer guerra y no paz’ (O.C. I: 90).76 Yet, unlike some of his Spanish and European peers, Buero did not engage to any great extent in drawing attention to artifice as a means of blurring or exposing the gap between reality and myth; he did not expose the falsifications and distortions of his own language as a means of drawing attention to language as falsifier. Nonetheless, it is clear that, on occasion, he undermined the power of a character’s motivated words by showing how they were betrayed by reality. En la ardiente oscuridad tells the story of Ignacio, a reluctant new student at the misleadingly titled Centro de enseñanza, a school for the blind.77 Certain forms of contemplativos. There is no reason to suggest that Elvira might not also be an innocent Abel figure. However, Mario too retains elements of this mythological character, particularly when he recognizes himself in his brother and questions his right to judge him, an act not very typical of an Old Testament God. However, in keeping with Sollish Sikka’s own argument, it is precisely Vicente’s inability to see elements of his brother, that is contemplativo elements, within himself, that leads to his downfall; he has no faith in his own ability to change for the better, although Mario, belatedly, recognizes this possibility. 74 José Hierro Pescador, ‘Ideología, lenguaje y clases sociales’, Sistema, no. 23 (1978), 3–18 (p. 6). 75 Hierro Pescador, ‘Ideología’, pp. 8, 9. 76 ‘Prácticamente, en nuestra realidad espiritual española, está todo por destruir.’ Luis Martín-Santos, quoted in ‘Apéndice: tiempo de destrucción’, p. 135. Ricard Salvat discusses Buero’s ideological use of language in ‘El lenguaje escénico’, pp. 19– 42. 77 When he arrives, Ignacio discovers that the directors and students of the Centro have embraced the myth that blindness is normal and indeed they live very normal lives within the

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language are imposed and particular words are taboo in the carefully constructed and restrictive society of the Centro de enseñanza. Despite the obvious falsity of their position, the directors and pupils of the centre, rather than admit that the students are visually handicapped, prefer to consider people with sight as visually gifted. The word ‘ciego’, commonly considered to be purely descriptive rather than derogatory, is rejected; the approved term in the Centro de enseñanza is ‘invidente’ and the corresponding term for normal or sighted people is ‘vidente’. Both Ignacio and his father comment on the lack of logic in this employment of language, for outside the centre, a ‘vidente’ is a person with second sight. Even the name of the centre gives no indication of its purpose and promulgates a false sense of normality within.78 The myth of normality, created by the motivated use of language, is further emphasized by the students’ appearance and their reaction to Ignacio, who insists on using a cane. Carlos justifies their peculiar employment of language, telling Ignacio: ‘Mis palabras pueden servir para que nuestros compañeros consigan una vida relativamente feliz. Las tuyas no lograrán más que destruir’ (O.C. I: 103).79 It is easy to see why the Centro de enseñanza was so readily identified as a symbol of the country at large with its taboos and wilful blindness to the truth and general unwillingness to challenge the obvious lie.80 In Las Meninas, a play based on the life and work of Velázquez, the character Pedro, like Velázquez, sees the shallowness of the myth propped up by language

confines of the Centro. Ignacio refuses to accept this false proposition, insisting that the students must face the reality of their situation and the limitation that is their blindness. His frustration at his non-vision and his desire for an understanding of something he has never known, show the tragedy of human existence; his acceptance of limitations coupled with his desire to overcome them represent human hope. A battle of wills ensues between Ignacio and Carlos, the leader of the students and the spokeperson for the directors. This is further complicated by the fact that Ignacio not only wins over many of the students, but also Carlos’s girlfriend, Juana. It looks like Ignacio’s realistic, yet hopeful, view will win out, but a jealous Carlos kills him and the ‘normality’ of the Centro is restored; the other students embrace the myth once again, dismissing Ignacio’s ideas, which they had earlier accepted. Carlos, however, having eliminated Ignacio, is now consumed by the latter’s vision. He too rejects the myth of the Centro and longs for a sight that remains a mystery to him; he will take up the mantle of Ignacio and challenge the falsity of their existence, insisting on the need to accept their limitations, while yearning to overcome them and to understand the mystery that is sight. 78 A similar case is La Fundación. In addition, the Sección Política of the police in La doble historia del doctor Valmy is a misleading description of the torturers who form its ranks. 79 Unlike Unamuno’s San Manuel Bueno, however, Carlos, initially at least, seems to believe the myth he propagates. 80 Buero wrote of the echoes of ordinary Spanish society in the community of the blind and implied that the blind community of the Centro de enseñanza represents Spanish society as a whole: ‘En décadas anteriores, la inclusión en el Libro Hablado de ciertas obras era censurada en España por la propia Organización de Ciegos, así como se prohibían otras para la totalidad del país – para otros «ciegos» a quienes se pretendía mantener con los ojos cerrados–. La Organización era, fatalmente, un microcosmos que reproducía las peculiaridades y carencias del macrocosmos social en que se hallaba inserta’ (O.C. II: 454–5). Of course, the philosophical concerns evident in the play, while not considered in depth in this book, should not be overlooked.

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devoid of meaning. When looking at the painting of Las Meninas he associates the tired old dog with the lion representing Spain, which ‘ya no es más que un perro.’ On hearing that the dog’s name is León, he comments: ‘No es curioso: es fatal. Nos conformamos ya con los nombres’ (O.C. I: 892). During his trial Velázquez is asked to accept the official myth as the other courtiers do, but Velázquez refuses to employ the language demanded of him: ‘Unas palabras de fidelidad nada cuestan . . . ¿Quién sabe nada de nuestros pensamientos? Si las pronuncio podré pintar lo que debo pintar y vuestra majestad escuchará la mentira que desea oír para seguir tranquilo’ (O.C. I: 931). Llegada de los dioses, a play about art, truth, blindness, victims and victimmakers and environmental issues, sees Julio, an unsuccessful artist, return with his activist girlfriend, Verónica, to the idyllic island home of his father, Felipe, a successful businessman and now an artist, in order to confront him about his past.81 The play presents the creation of an agreeable myth and rejection of reality, highlighted by the characters’ use of language. Not only do they gloss over and dismiss any unpleasantness, but also, as Iglesias Feijoo argues, the characters’ everyday language shows up the falsity and hypocrisy of their lives.82 While Felipe and his friends use language to disguise the truth, Julio uses language to attack them and their myth; his bluntness is intended as an insult and an affront to their apparent sensibility. Artemio reproaches him for his language, but Julio retorts: ‘Lo siento. Ni sé ni quiero usar el vuestro’ (O.C. I: 1394). Unlike his father, he is unwilling to measure his words. In the painterly dramas, the visual language of the artists Velázquez and Goya clashes with the accepted notions of art. The former, with his impressionistic style, forbidden themes and somewhat unusual perspective, and the latter with his expressionistic nightmare vision of Spain, challenge the distortions demanded of a courtly painter of their times.83 Goya’s Black Paintings successfully use mythology to assail the official myth of the regime. Buero, in El sueño de la razón, demonstrated how the reality of life under Fernando VII resembled

81 Julio, who is suffering from a temporary, psychosomatic blindness, believes that he is paying for the past sins of his father, a wartime torturer who made his home in Spain after the end of WWII and who lives contentedly there, in complete denial of his past life. Julio is hoping to find a cure for his blindness by forcing his father to confront his past; others are less sure that his father is to blame for his blindness. In confused hallucinations, Julio sees the masks that Felipe and his friends employ to hide reality and he judges them; he also envisages his father’s victim. Julio wants to punish his father, but, it is suggested, perhaps more for his success than for his past. When Julio’s half-sister, Nuria, the fruit of Felipe’s unacknowledged relationship with Matilde, dies following the explosion of a wartime bomb, it seems that Felipe is paying for his past. Nonetheless, when Felipe himself dies from a heart attack, Julio relapses into blindness and realizes that he tortured his father. 82 Antonio Buero Vallejo, La tejedora de sueños; Llegada de los dioses, ed. by Luis Iglesias Feijoo, no. 45, 9th edn (Madrid: Cátedra, 1990), p. 65. 83 The Inquisition prohibited the painting and exhibition of lascivious or lewd images, a classification that included all nudes. Artists who defied their rules on obscenity in art were subject to fines, banishment and excommunication.

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the monstrous mythical vision of Goya. In the play, life imitates art when the artist’s nightmare is realized by the king’s forces. For Buero, art was a form of mythification that has as its aim the revelation of truth, and it is contrasted with mythification whose objective is distortion and deception. Indeed, Fernando VII’s manipulation of language, similar to that of the Francoists, is exposed as a tool of falsification, used to damn and ostracize the opposition; it also serves as a threat, intended to instil fear into those branded Freemasons, liberals and afrancesados. The king, who believes that he is ignored by Goya, claims: ‘A mí me ha retratado poco y a mis esposas, nada,’ failing to realize that he and those who surround him are, in fact, the protagonists of the monstrous Black Paintings (O.C. I: 1268). In other plays too, Buero demonstrated how myths are created to disguise or falsify reality. Casi un cuento de hadas, based on Perrault’s Riquet à la houppe (Ricky of the Tuft), is a case in point. After Riquet has killed Armando and finally is promised to Leticia, the king demands that the unsavoury incident be suppressed, lest it should affect the image of the country: ‘¡Damas y gentilhombres! Silencio absoluto sobre todo lo ocurrido’ (O.C. I: 301). Propaganda is used to great effect in Un soñador para un pueblo to convince the people that their lifestyle and dress code are sacred and to further convince them that the reforms ushered in by Esquilache represent a threat to their dignity. The work of the jingoistic and conservative nobles is made easier by the fact that the man they wish to present as the enemy of the people is a foreigner. As such, they maintain that he cannot have their best interests at heart; they, on the other hand, wish to protect the common good and the traditions of their nation against a foreign threat. Similarly, Paulus and Daniel of La doble historia del doctor Valmy claim to be protecting the populace from an ill-defined threat posed by agitadores such as Aníbal Marty. They too, argue that their work is not only justified, but necessary. By creating and maintaining a threat that the ordinary people believe, they can justify any action taken against them. Buero blatently challenged the myth put forward by the Francoists and repeated by Tomás in La Fundación: ‘Es hermoso vivir aquí. Siempre habíamos soñado con un mundo como el que al fin tenemos’ (O.C. I: 1431). This myth of contentment and plenty is alluded to in plays such as Mito, Las Meninas and En la ardiente oscuridad. Problems that clearly controvert the fable propagated by the regime, that theirs is the best of all possible worlds, are denied; those who highlight the gap between the myth and the reality are discredited or punished. In Mito, Buero’s ‘versión del mito quijotesco que no oculta ni niega su fuente’, the myth of ‘el auge y la riqueza de la patria’ is revealed as false by Simón’s statement that: ‘Tengo hijos y mujer, y apenas gano para darles vestidos y comida’ (O.C. I: 1193, 1198; O.C. II: 443). Those who live in the court of Felipe IV in Las Meninas are, like the blind students of the En la ardiente oscuridad, cosseted and blind to the reality outside the walls. They live an illusion and are protected from the truth by those who seek to exploit the situation. When Velázquez confronts the Marquis about the striking sweepers, he is instructed that the discontent he talks of must not be acknowledged: ‘Aprended, don Diego, que tal descontento no puede existir

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en Palacio; luego no existe’ (O.C. I: 868). At the end of the play, despite Velázquez’s rebellion, the myth of a contented and self-sufficient land continues. Ruiz de Azcona comments to Doña Marcela: ‘Hay quien se queja, doña Marcela . . . Pero nuestra bendita tierra es feliz, creedme . . . Como nosotros en Palacio’ (O.C. I: 935). The comparison is an apt one, for the notion of contented palace dwellers is also false. Doña Marcela is a scorned and bitter woman, Nieto and the court painters are consumed by jealousy, María Teresa is shielded from a reality she desires, nobody is truly free, and the king, by his own admission, is the most miserable man on earth.

Historical and Mythological Drama and the Censors MARTÍN Se cuentan las cosas como si ya hubieran pasado y así se soportan mejor (O.C. I: 847).

When asked if he utilized history in his dramas as a device to evade censorship, Buero replied: ‘No, es una estética, un concepto, aunque no niego la posibilidad de que luego co-exista un cierto aspecto táctico. Pero este aspecto táctico no es esencial.’84 Unlike the character Elías in Hoy es fiesta, for whom the past ‘es una manera de consolarse del presente’, for Buero, ‘la historia misma de nada nos serviría si no fuese un conocimiento por y para la actualidad’ (O.C. I: 589; O.C. II: 827–8). Nonetheless, he went on to say: Si no es más que recurso o pretexto, bien posible es que no logre verdadera consistencia. El teatro histórico ilumina nuestro presente cuando no se reduce a ser un truco ante las censuras y nos hace entender y sentir mejor la relación viva existente entre lo que sucedió y lo que nos sucede. (O.C. II: 828)

So, while not exclusively conceived as a means of avoiding censorship, it is obvious that Buero also capitalized on euphemistic references to the past in his posibilista style. In fact, he admitted as much in an interview with Lara and Galán: Mis obras históricas – Un soñador para un pueblo, Las Meninas, El sueño de la razón – responden a ese planteamiento indirecto, lo que no quiere decir que no son recursos, que no son astucias, aunque pueden llevar dentro de sí un cierto recurso de referencia a lo actual mediante lo histórico. Pero no son sólo eso ni se escriben sólo por eso. Se escriben porque el tema histórico por sí mismo les da a los problemas una amplitud y una densidad que a mí me parecen mucho mayores.85

84 Pérez de Olaguer, ‘Antonio Buero Vallejo, nuevo Académico’, p. 8. He makes a similar point in Isasi Angulo, ‘El teatro’, p. 305. 85 Diego Galán and Fernando Lara, ‘Antonio Buero Vallejo: ¿un tigre domesticado?’, Triunfo, 13 February 1971, pp. 32– 4 (p. 33).

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What is clear from the documents held in the Archive at Alcalá de Henares is that his employment of a historical setting did on occasion help Buero to evade censorship. A moral report on Buero’s Madre Coraje y sus hijos (Mother Courage and her Children) demonstrates this. Padre Avelino Esteban y Romero clearly believed that the historical distance employed would preclude parallels being drawn between the Thirty Years War and recent events in Spanish history (Appendix XII). Similarly, Srta Sunyer, who read El sueño de la razón, commented on the author’s devious intentions, but believed the work to be so centred on the character of Goya as to make it specific to that era and thus safely distanced from contemporary Spain.86 Another document in this file details the two possible interpretations of El sueño de la razón, the first a purely historical reading and the second an allegorical reading of the play, linking it to the modern day and the Franco regime. The author of the document was careful to point out to his fellow censors that the prohibition of the play might in fact confer upon it the second, damning interpretation; on the other hand, by authorizing it, the Francoists would be showing that they were not identified with the regime depicted in the play (Appendix XIII). Clearly, then, the recourse to history worked as a means of eluding censorship; nonetheless, it is also evident that the censors were aware of potential allusions to their political leaders, but chose to disregard rather than to highlight them. The use of mythology also served to make Buero’s dramas more universal, a fact that surely aided their passage through the offices of the censors, while still allowing for a specifically Spanish interpretation. For example, as Arie Vicente recognized, Las palabras en la arena: no es el drama una simple obra de denuncia social sino que trasciende la situación desde la época de Cristo, a la sociedad española y a cualquier sociedad en donde está en tela de juicio la posición del hombre aferrado al credo de sus leyes.87

Sometimes the censors were not so willing to turn a blind eye. Documents cited earlier show that Buero’s use of a biblical episode in Las palabras en la arena was found unsuitable for staging during Holy Week, 1958. A censorship file on La Fundación is also interesting for its conclusions about Buero’s use of myth. In his report on the play, Padre Jesús Cea defines fable as ‘una ficción artificiosa, para enseñar algo útil o moral, o también para encubrir o disimular una verdad’; he then cites the following as an example of a fable within the play: La moraleja en este caso es evidente: el intelectual, portavoz de las libertades y el progreso, debe seguir luchando por sus ideales de justicia contra toda posible opresión. Una nueva fábula: el abuso del poder contra los indefensos. 86 87

AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-55 Ca. 85.254 Exp. 259-69. Vicente, ‘Convergencia’, p. 30.

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Como corolario: una manifiesta simpatía por todos los delincuentes, encarcelados o desterrados, como si de inocentes se tratase.

His report attempts to debunk Buero’s demystification and to re-establish the Francoist mythology exposed in the play. He concluded that the play should be authorized only if the setting is clearly not Spain, and recommended cuts on pages 95, 100 and 104.88

88

AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-56 Ca. 85.495 Exp. 145-73. See chapter 3 for details.

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6

Ideology in Buero Vallejo’s Theatre The Ideology of Buero Vallejo In many of his non-historical plays, Buero dealt quite directly with political and ideological themes, in particular, the morality of violence, but also the defence and legitimation of ideology, the role of the intellectual in society and the question of rebellion and revolution. This is most obvious in La Fundación, La doble historia del doctor Valmy, El tragaluz and En la ardiente oscuridad. Buero’s personal ideology could be classed an ethical socialism and was determined by his relationship with the dominant and alternative ideologies operating in society. He consistently defended socialism as a means of organizing society, and this concern is evident in his theatre.1 José Luis Abellán recognized this and claimed: ‘Tengo la impresión que la crítica ha despreciado excesivamente el contenido ideológico del teatro de Buero.’2 Yet perhaps he reads too much into the expression of a specific ideology in his works. In his analysis of El concierto de San Ovidio, for example, he claims: ‘En las relaciones individuo-sociedad la ideología marxista resulta patente en la obra de Buero.’ Buero’s work could only be classed as Marxist in the most holistic sense.3 While his theatre does not defend a clearly defined Marxist ideology, it does discuss the nature of ideology and its influence on, and acceptance by, society. Buero maintained that art should not be corrupted by a specific ideology, which is interesting when one considers that he was accused by each side of prostituting his pen to the other.4

1 It is thus difficult to agree with John Lyon, who wrote: ‘No sólo se ha negado a poner su teatro al servicio de actitudes comprometidas, sino que, en general, ha preferido apartarse del terreno social y político para concentrarse en los temas trágicos y morales.’ ‘Buero Vallejo y el tema de la violencia’, in El teatro de Antonio Buero Vallejo: homenaje, pp. 127–39 (p. 127). While Buero is clearly concerned with moral issues and the idea of tragedy, these are not separated from social and political action in his works. Nonetheless, his other finding, that Buero Vallejo’s work contains: ‘un cierto escepticismo ante todas las ideologías, al menos como justificación de actos de violencia y crueldad’, must be acknowledged (p. 128). 2 Abellán, ‘Buero Vallejo: el teatro como modo de conocimiento’, pp. 171, 172. 3 Lukács claimed: ‘el objeto del marxismo es precisamente el hombre en su totalidad’. ‘Lukács y la literatura’, in Castellet, ed., Literatura, ideología, pp. 62–81 (p. 78). 4 Using the very argument that Buero undermines in La doble historia del doctor Valmy, an article in Fuerza Nueva defends the police and interprets the play as an attack by a politically motivated dramatist: ‘Todo proviene de la profesión del enfermo: policía social, y que ejerciendo tan noble profesión – sin la cual no sería posible la vida en ningún país del mundo por ser los mantenedores del orden público – [. . .] Y de ahí viene el arranque para

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The artist, according to Buero, should remain independent of party politics and critical of injustice from all quarters: ‘De hecho ha habido casos de escritores militantes; sólo que a mí me parece que se cumple mejor un servicio social en profundidad por el escritor que se mantiene políticamente independiente, aunque pueda tener convicciones muy arraigadas.’5 Yet he acknowledged that the action and influence of art on society is: una acción gota a gota, soterrada, difícil, poco aparente. [. . .] A la larga, la acumulación de todo eso puede quizá traducirse en profundas transformaciones, pero a la corta es muy difícil que una obra, por revulsiva que sea, resulte también revulsiva en el plano social.6

Nonetheless, he did believe in the power of catharsis, as is evident from his portrayal of Haüy in El concierto de San Ovidio, and indeed his own inspiration for writing that drama, as well as from an article he wrote about Ibsen and Ehrlich.7 Rejecting Tendenzpoesie, it is nevertheless evident that the degree of impartiality to which Buero aspired was probably impossible. As Eagleton puts it: ‘The literary text is not the “expression” of ideology, nor is ideology the “expression” of social class. The text, rather, is a certain production of ideology.’8 Theatre may reveal truths about the values and beliefs of the time, even without treating them as themes. This may be achieved by what it does not say, as well as what it does say and by what appears to the author to be so self-evident as not to need articulation. Hence, Buero’s dramas reveal not only the dominant ideology that he criticized in his work but also, by this very criticism, his own values. Buero’s ideological leanings were evident, even as a student, from his involvement in the FUE. Later Buero was a Communist, although he subsequently abandoned the militant PCE: El Partido Comunista me atraía más que cualquier otro, pero no me afilié a él hasta bien entrada la guerra, y en él seguí, activamente, todos mis años de prisión y algunos más. Después, poco a poco, fui alejándome de la militancia – aunque no de ciertas convicciones básicas – por toda una serie de dudas ideológicas y

hacer el más feroz ataque a la Policía de no sabemos qué país, pero que dado que el autor no la sitúa en ninguno determinado, nos corresponde, sin duda, buena parte de la acusación; mucho más si la acción se sitúa en nuestra época, el autor es español, estrena en un teatro de Madrid y tiene los antecedentes políticos que tiene Buero Vallejo.’ Fuerza Nueva, 6 March 1976. In AGA/IDD 49.021 Topogr. 73-46 Ca. 69.036 Carpeta no. 49: Artículos Prensa. 5 Vicente Mosquete, ‘Antonio Buero Vallejo, sonrisas’, p. 8. 6 Galán and Lara, ‘Antonio Buero Vallejo: ¿un tigre domesticado?’, p. 32. His interviewers were sceptical about his commitment. 7 ‘Haüy commences by reading the beginning of the Troisième note, and he makes clear that “todo partió de allí”.’ Gagen, ‘The Germ’ (p. 49). Ehrlich was inspired to dedicate himself to the eradication of syphilis after seeing a production of Ibsen’s Ghosts. ‘Ibsen y Ehrlich’ (O.C. II: 595–7). 8 Eagleton, Criticism and Ideology, p. 64.

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tácticas que, sin embargo, no me impidieron asumir públicamente actitudes cívicas en numerosas ocasiones. Así que, desde hace muchos años, no milito en ningún partido.9

Subsequently he remained aloof from party politics, while continuing to argue the need for some form of socialism in Spain. In response to the question ¿Te consideras un escritor independiente? Buero stated: ‘Lo soy. Creo que así cumplo mejor mi misión, aunque, en ocasiones, de manera voluntaria, sigo consignas de la izquierda en general.’10 Asked in 1975 to define himself politically, Buero stated: ‘Mi convicción política es la de la necesidad, revolucionaria si es preciso, de un socialismo lleno de justicia y también de libertad que abarque todo el planeta’ (O.C. II: 1277). He remained openly critical of the capitalist system, which is perhaps surprising for someone who worked in the commercial theatres, and he confessed to Paniker: ‘El socialismo debería ser el futuro de la humanidad. El capitalismo es radicalmente injusto.’11 While clearly not a Monarchist, as is evident from the programme note to El sueño de la razón, Buero respected the king, Juan Carlos, ‘a quien considera el máximo garante de la estabilidad democrática española’.12 The ideology reflected in his plays was obviously a personal vision and did not always sit easily with the more rigorously defined or imposed ideologies of political groupings. The values he stressed in his work are moral and ethical values, and there is a humanistic element to his theatre that tends to override strictly political concerns, but it would be wrong to consider him apolitical.13 Nonetheless, he too was capable of employing methods reminiscent of those used by politicians and propagandists to defend the values he supported. Later, in the plays of the post-Franco era, Buero himself engaged to some extent in the demonization of capitalists, as is evident in his portrayal of certain characters in Jueces en la noche, Música cercana and Las trampas del azar. Despite the element of anti-capitalism in his work, however, the theatre of Buero is not representative of a class-conscious socialism. When asked by Mariano de Paco if the hope in his drama was ‘una esperanza de clase’, he replied: ‘No necesariamente. Pero a veces son esperanzas de o para una clase.’14 A concern for the pueblo is

De Paco, ‘Buero Vallejo y el teatro’, p. 49. Fernando Martín Iniesta, ‘Antonio Buero Vallejo: “Mi posibilismo fue el de todos” ’, El socialista, 1 October 1978, p. 20. 11 Paniker, Conversaciones, p. 182. 12 Antonio Pérez Henares, Antonio Buero Vallejo: una digna lealtad, Imágenes y palabras, 26 (Toledo: Junta de Comunidades de Castilla-La Mancha, 1998), p. 23. 13 ‘Los valores que apoya Buero son siempre valores humanos. Nunca confunde estos fines o metas con valores instrumentales, es decir, con intereses de una determinada clase, partido o ideología política.’ Halsey, ‘El intelectual’, p. 46. ‘This better Spain, the investigators suggest, has been reached through changes, not in political systems, but in ethical attitudes. For Buero recognizes that the basic problem is not political, but human.’ Martha T. Halsey, ‘El tragaluz: A Tragedy of Contemporary Spain’, The Romanic Review, 63 (no. 4, 1972), 284–92 (p. 291). 14 De Paco, ‘Buero Vallejo y el teatro’, p. 65. 9

10

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indeed evident in works such as Historia de una escalera, Hoy es fiesta, Un soñador para un pueblo, Las Meninas and La detonación; yet, in the historical plays in particular, it is also clear that the dramatist identified himself, not with the pueblo, but rather with the artists and intellectuals, whom he appeared to view as a class apart, necessarily removed from both the political rulers and the common people. One of Buero’s main concerns, perhaps betraying the influence of the Generation of ’98, was defined as: ‘España como tragedia’ [. . .] ‘que es también, por supuesto, el tema del hombre y de la sociedad como tragedia’ (O.C. II: 422). Through characters such as Asel (La Fundación), his Velázquez (Las Meninas) and Plácido (Misión al pueblo desierto), Buero stressed the limits of all ideologies, as well as their similarities and the comparable methods employed to uphold and defend them. Asel’s despairing words seem to reflect Buero’s own beliefs about modern society: Vivimos en un mundo civilizado al que le sigue pareciendo el más embriagador deporte la viejísima práctica de las matanzas. Te degüellan por combatir la injusticia establecida, por pertenecer a una raza detestada; acaban contigo por hambre si eres prisionero de guerra, o te fusilan por supuestos intentos de sublevación; te condenan tribunales secretos por el delito de resistir en tu propia nación invadida . . . Te ahorcan porque no sonríes a quien ordena sonrisas, o porque tu Dios no es el suyo, o porque tu ateísmo no es el suyo . . . A lo largo del tiempo, ríos de sangre. Millones de hombres y mujeres . . . (O.C. I: 1471)

Asel, like Buero, expresses the same collective guilt for the wrongdoings committed by those he supports, and recognizes the ease with which victim becomes victim-maker. He also perceives the function of fear as a tool used to uphold a specific ideology, yet can pardon those who, like him, were weak in the face of threats, but who then redeemed themselves by accepting both their responsibility and their limitations. Fundamentally, Buero believed in the possibility and the necessity of change. He stressed the need to be open to a revision of one’s beliefs and not to defend dogmatically a specific ideology: ‘Si el teatro ideológicamente más afirmativo no deja abierta la puerta al posible replanteamiento sobre nuevas bases de las preguntas que pretende contestar, no se inserta activamente en un progreso efectivo’ (O.C. II: 690–1). As he never tired of pointing out, everyone bears some responsibility for the continuation of a repressive system, be it through self-delusion, apathy or active support for the ruling ideology. Commenting on some of the more ideological works of Buero, Payeras Grau wrote: ‘En el mundo moderno la inocencia es imposible y todo el que no lucha contra la infamia se convierte en cómplice puesto que no es posible ignorarla.’15 Hence, a plea for solidarity is 15 Maria Payeras Grau, ‘Complejidad dramática y trasfondo ético en el teatro de Buero Vallejo (a propósito de dos dramas de intención política’, in Anthropos, Monograph no. 10,

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an important part of what could be termed Buero’s ideology. Yet, according to some of his harshest critics, a plea for solidarity in his plays was betrayed by a lack of solidarity on the part of the dramatist.

Ideology and Violence Buero explored the morality of violence in his theatre. Violence is usually condemned, yet on occasion the dramatist betrayed a more ambiguous attitude towards it. Violence, according to Buero, ‘no siempre implica negatividad’ (O.C. II: 483). An examination of his political theatre shows that the violence he criticized had base motives, while Buero justified certain well-intentioned violence; this means, of course, that violence was justified or denounced based on a subjective interpretation of its motivation. One of the principal tools employed to uphold and defend a dominant ideology is violence, or the threat of violence. It functions as a warning to encourage the fear, support or apathy required to sustain the ruling group’s values and to allow them to go unchallenged. Buero examined the place of violence in the defence of a ruling ideology and explored its effects on its victims, its perpetrators and on the population at large. It can be seen that once persuasion fails in En la ardiente oscuridad, El concierto de San Ovidio, El sueño de la razón and La doble historia del doctor Valmy, the authorities resort to intimidation, threats and finally violence, in an effort to stem the opposition to their rule. A mood of fear is created and, where necessary, backed up by brutal action. Establishment figures intimidate and terrorize others in order to protect their own values. In La Fundación and La doble historia del doctor Valmy, Buero explored how the threat of violence or of punishment can create a fear that leads to a deformation of reality and the construction of a comforting illusion. In the former, the protagonist, Tomás, is trapped in a prison; for Tomás, however, it is too much to bear. He is incarcerated with the people he betrayed and so his distressed mind seeks solace by building an alternative to the cruel reality: Tomás believes himself and his co-prisoners to be happily working in a well-endowed research foundation, free to pursue their goals. The chinks in the illusion appear gradually over the course of the action of the play and the spectators, immersed in the delusions of Tomás, begin to notice some anomalies. Gradually, through the patient intervention of Asel, and despite the scepticism of the others, Tomás – and the spectators – regain a vision of reality, and with it, a vision of a better future. The reality of prison, though disturbing, is preferable to the illusion, as it 58–63 (p. 63). O’Connor too notes that in El tragaluz: ‘Mario insinúa la carga ideológica de la “pregunta tremenda” humanística cuando dice de un transeúnte: “Me siento él”. Al rechazar la discusión de que el hombre está total y eternamente solo, Mario percibe una solidaridad mística con todo el que haya vivido.’ Patricia W. O’Connor, ‘Confrontación y supervivencia en El tragaluz’, in Anthropos, Monograph no. 10, xii–xiii (p. xiii).

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allows for hope for escape. In La doble historia del doctor Valmy Buero portrayed the delusion of an entire society. The well-dressed couple insists that the torture described in the first case study could not happen in Surelia. Unlike Mary, who opened her eyes to the truth and faced the consequences at the end of the play, their refusal to accept reality does not change. However, it has consequences for them also. At the end of the play Buero, through Dr Valmy, diagnoses their denial of reality as evidence of insanity. He then went further and revealed that they are in an asylum, and that the spectators have been immersed in the asylum with them, suggesting that they too might be suffering from a similar madness. If the falsification of reality is exposed, as it is in La Fundación by Asel and in La doble historia del doctor Valmy by Mary and Lucila, then the upholders of the unjust dominant ideology move to check the threat posed by this exposure, usually by employing coercion or abuse. Thus, in La doble historia del doctor Valmy, Mary’s rejection of the deception and attempts to reveal the truth to Daniel lead to her own castigation. When Daniel tries to reject the falsification of reality that he has previously accepted and defended, the reaction of the ruling ideology, represented by Paulus, is at first to attempt to convince him of the truth of the myth, by justifying their work. Later, when this has failed, Paulus threatens him with violence. Daniel, though now aware of the inhumanity of his actions, is too afraid of the consequences to leave and is unlikely to get permission to do so from Paulus, so instead will continue to feed the myth that their work is a necessary evil.16 Fear and the threat of violence are highlighted in many of the plays. Despite his ostensible philanthropy, Valindin in El concierto de San Ovidio relies on them to get his way. It suits his purpose to speak of high-minded values, yet these are exposed as falsified and motivated. Base motivation behind noble philanthropy is also exposed in En la ardiente oscuridad. As Halsey notes: By maintaining the illusion that all is well, this order denies its citizens responsibility for their own destiny. Furthermore, as we see with the murder of the rebel student Ignacio, it never hesitates to resort to violence when its authority is challenged.17

Carlos does not bear full responsibility for his action in killing Ignacio, but is rather a pawn of the Establishment, of which he will become a part should he prove himself an obedient and loyal student. In Act III, Don Pablo hints at 16 In this he is reminiscent of Mario Benedetti’s Capitán: ‘Caí en la emboscada y ya no hay posible retroceso. Estoy entrampado. Si yo le dijera que no puedo abandonar esto, usted me diría que es natural, porque sería abandonar el confort, los dos autos, etcétera. Y no es así. Todo eso lo dejaría sin remordimientos. Si no lo dejo es porque tengo miedo. Pueden hacer conmigo lo mismo que hacen, que hacemos con usted.’ Mario Benedetti, Pedro y el Capitán, 4th edn (Madrid: Alianza, 1996), p. 85. 17 Martha T. Halsey, ‘Reality, Illusion and Alienation: Buero Vallejo’s La Fundación’, Hispanófila, 30 (no. 3, 1987), 47–62 (p. 47).

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violent action in conversation with Carlos, but does not directly order it. The obvious solution is to expel Ignacio from the centre, but the director is reluctant to do so, as it would tarnish the image of the school. He tells his favoured pupil of the threat to the stability of the centre that Ignacio represents and classes him ‘el enemigo más desconcertante que ha tenido nuestra obra hasta ahora’ before going on to utter the suggestive phrase: ‘Carlos, piense usted en algún remedio. Confío mucho en su talento’ (O.C. I: 118).18 The latter, interpreting these words to suit his own motives, as well as those of the centre, kills Ignacio, thus eliminating the threat to the regime and allowing the official myth to be reinstated. Similarly, in Las palabras en la arena, the community leaders do not hesitate to resort to violence to maintain their position of dominance. Buero, through the rabbi Jesus, demonstrated their hypocrisy and their dishonorable motives. Again, it is suggested that such positive values as those they claim to uphold should not have to be defended by violence or threats of violence. Yet, the case of the adulteress is not the first to be dealt with in this manner, as is clear from Gadi’s statement to Eliú: ‘Otras veces se ha lapidado con menos pruebas’ (O.C. I: 58). Jesus is condemned as ‘un falso profeta’ and the leaders, who consider him a threat to their dominance, determine to kill him (O.C. I: 61). They conspire to organize a spontaneous stoning that will rid them of the threat posed by Jesus and the values he preaches, while leaving them free of blame and spuriously fulfilling the Law of Moses. Much later, in El sueño de la razón, Buero was still concerned with this theme. A fear of retribution inspires the fervour of Fernando VII in the elimination of opposition to his rule. Arrieta reveals that: ‘No hay memoría de que el rey haya perdonado una ofensa’ (O.C. I: 1320). The sycophantic Calomarde also represents the despotism of the hegemony; at this point in history he is not yet a Minister, though he features as one in the later play La detonación. His hatred of Goya and desire for revenge is the result of an insult to his vanity, and thus, as Buero made clear, the violence that arises from them is unjustifiable cruelty. Threats too are successfully used to inspire fear and incite hatred. Leocadia informs Goya and Arrieta of two anti-liberal decrees rumoured to have been penned by Calomarde and approved by Fernando VII: the first of these promises an amnesty to those who attacked and robbed liberals; the second threatens the death penalty for all Freemasons and liberals except those who give themselves up and turn informer. Goya also receives threats in his home on various occasions. Then, in the final scenes of the play, the king’s representatives enter the artist’s home by force, beat and bind him, and rape Leocadia before pillaging his 18 As Mariano de Paco points out in a footnote in his edition of En la ardiente oscuridad, ‘Estas palabras de don Pablo están cargadas de trágica ironía, pero también de ambigüedad respecto a la intención del director al pronunciarlas.’ Colección Austral, no. 124, 12th edn (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1991), p. 119. Of course, it could also be that Don Pablo’s words are naïve rather than sinister; after all, there is no sign later that he supposes Ignacio has been murdered.

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property. Buero was clear about the relationship between the violent action depicted in his play and that in modern Spain: ‘Escribí, pues, de amarguras, temores y esperanzas también muy actuales’ (O.C. II: 468). The same oppressive modes of securing victory over the opposition are seen in Las Meninas. The authority figures refuse to countenance any criticism and insist on the maintenance of a myth of contentment in a land of plenty. Pedro tells Velázquez, who is cosseted by his position as court painter, that the entire country is starving but that the only response from the authorities is violence. The Spain portrayed in Las Meninas can be likened to Francoist Spain. Discontent is viewed as unpatriotic and treasonous dissent. As the Marquis puts it: ‘Los revoltosos nunca pueden tener razón frente a su rey. El descontento es un humor pernicioso, una mala hierba que hay que arrancar sin piedad’ (O.C. I: 883). In Un soñador para un pueblo, Bernardo’s attack on other members of the pueblo and his plunging of Madrid into a symbolic darkness contains echoes of the Civil War. It is senseless, unjustified violence, inspired by xenophobic mistrust of the reformers, which has been manipulated by certain forces in whose interests it is to maintain the pueblo in ignorance. This idea is repeated in Mito, which features state violence in the name of the common good. The strike action is a reminder of similar action in Spain and, as Carlos Álvarez points out, the methods of the regime echo those of the Nazis in 1933.19 During the curfew the police burn the presidential palace and then blame the strikers. Once their enemies are discredited, the apparently liberal regime can then justify harsh punishment for them. The military members of the Establishment come in for particular criticism in the works of Buero Vallejo for their part in curtailing the liberties of others for the sake of maintaining the personally beneficial status quo. Asaf’s fulminations against the rabbi’s reasonable opposition to their brutal laws in Las palabras en la arena is reminiscent of similar tirades against those who dared to criticize the supreme power of Franco and his minions. John Lyon cogently argues: ‘Asaf encarna la ética militarista del orden, la disciplina y la obediencia que confunde la intransigencia con la fuerza y el perdón con la debilidad.’20 The curfew imposed by the regime in Mito is enforced by a brutal police force and the liberty supposedly enjoyed by all is false, although many resolve not to recognize this. Repressive state apparatuses are also employed in Las Meninas, El sueño de la razón, Un soñador para un pueblo and La Fundación to tame opposition to the ruling ideology and to protect the elite they serve. There is also a suggestion of

19 Antonio Buero Vallejo, La doble historia del Doctor Valmy; Mito, intro. by Carlos Álvarez, Colección Austral, no. 280, 3rd edn (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1992), p. 42. 20 Lyon, ‘Buero Vallejo y el tema de la violencia’, p. 128. He then relates this to Spain: ‘La moral intransigente, el espíritu inquisitorial, el miedo y la fragmentación social hacen trascender esta obra de su marco judaico-romano y la relacionan tanto con la España de las obras históricas (por ejemplo, Las Meninas) como con la sociedad española de los años cuarenta y cincuenta.’

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police corruption in El concierto de San Ovidio. Through the protection afforded to him by aristocratic patronage, it is hinted that Valindin can avail of a secret letter, which can serve to have someone imprisoned without trial. Similarly, in La tejedora de sueños, Buero questioned what is portrayed in The Odyssey as Odysseus’ justified violence. In the original, Odysseus’ anger is portrayed as ethical: both he and his family suffer at the hands of the suitors. In his version, Buero raised doubts about the rectitude of his actions by exposing them as motivated by baser considerations. The stability and well-being imposed by the returning hero are exposed as false. Yet, despite his criticisms of the repressive state apparatuses and of the use of intimidation and threats to safeguard a particular ideology, Buero admitted that he believed violence to be justified on occasion: Yo diría que hay que atenerse a la lección de la historia. Lo ideal sería que todo pudiese resolverse paulatinamente de modo pacífico, pero la historia nos enseña que se producen sobrecargas, y que estas sobrecargas estallan de una manera o de otra. Entonces se pueden entender las violencias; no disculparlas, pero sí, repito, entenderlas. Yo entiendo que, incluso desde el punto de vista revolucionario, la violencia es la presión que las masas hacen para que se cambien instituciones y estructuras, pero una presión que nunca debiera traducirse en asesinatos o en torturas. [. . .] Si la violencia se ejerce desde una presión social justificada, tiene razón, aunque nunca debe ser cruel ni dar paso a desmanes.21

Like Camus, who distinguished between rebellion and revolt, Buero distinguished between violence and cruelty, rejecting the latter as unjustifiable. This philosophy is reflected throughout his theatre and in the dramatist’s own attitude towards protest. Violence, torture and murder are usually the methods employed by the tyrannical figures in his plays, although occasionally, as in El concierto de San Ovidio, the rebel protagonist uses violence to overthrow an oppressor in an act he justifies for the sake of the greater good, but later laments. The danger in this argument is that it can be and is used by both sides in a conflict to justify violent action. The difference in Buero, as in Camus, is that the rebel suffers personally for his violent actions: ‘Y cuando caigamos en la práctica sistematizada de la crueldad, por suponerla ineludible en algún caso, nuestro deber será el de «pagarlo» con nuestro remordimiento y nuestra enmienda en lo que nos reste de vida’ (O.C. II: 1281). In the end, David’s death does not improve the lot of the blind beggars, nor that of Adriana, so the justification of his act is questionable. Valentín Haüy is inspired to act, as Gagen points out, not by David’s violence, but by his humiliation.22

O’Connor, Antonio Buero Vallejo en sus espejos, pp. 327–8. Gagen, ‘The Germ’, p. 44. Significantly, Haüy implies a parallel with the ancien régime and the revolutionaries also executed later (O.C. I: 1022); for Buero the French Revolution was the locus classicus of necessary violence and unnecessary cruelty. 21 22

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Hence, Buero’s position on violence could be considered somewhat ambiguous. Perhaps this should not come as a great surprise, given his personal history: La experiencia nos ha demostrado que en ciertas ocasiones históricas no hubo otro modo de dar un paso adelante, de lograr una mejora de las estructuras sociales, que el de la violencia, y ello por el hecho muy conocido y obvio de que las clases y poderes dominantes en una sociedad determinada se resisten a ser licenciadas cuando la historia, de hecho, las ha licenciado ya. Y como esa resistencia es asimismo violenta y bárbara, no hay más remedio que oponerle otra violencia. (O.C. II: 483)

He thus rejected the Kantian notion that: ‘Todo mal medio engendra un mal fin’ (O.C. II: 484). Acknowledging that, theoretically at least, this pure moral approach is irreproachable, he nonetheless insisted that it was naïve and that good ends have on occasion been achieved by violent means. Availing himself of Larra’s words in La detonación, he explained his views on violence: ‘Asesinatos por asesinatos, ya que los ha de haber, estoy por los del pueblo’ (O.C. I: 1563). As Buero pointed out, Larra’s words would not be acceptable to all: ‘Un moralista puro la rechazaría indignado’ (O.C. II: 485). The use of violence by the pueblo in Un soñador para un pueblo was not justifed by the dramatist, however, as it is motivated, cruel violence, manipulated by those defending the ruling ideology. In contrast, the anger and violence of the pueblo in La detonación or that of Pedro, symbol of the pueblo, in Las Meninas, is viewed as righteous and perhaps even necessary for social change. In fact, Buero suggested that, at times, one has a moral duty to fight:23 Hubiera sido fácil, al estilo de algunos puristas que se refugiaron en el extranjero en torres de marfil, decir: «No, no. Yo con el crimen no quiero nada. Me voy a llorar por los crímenes de España a París, a Nueva York o a Méjico» Pero no valía huir; había que mancharse las manos aquí dentro, lamentando que algunos se las mancharan demasiado para salvar la causa popular; y si el crimen nos rozaba, aunque fuese de modo indirecto, intentar el difícil consuelo de que, en el otro bando, el crimen era por lo menos tan grande, si no más, y sin duda mucho menos disculpable socialmente. (O.C. II: 485)

Yet, as always, Buero stressed the need to assume responsibility for the barbarities committed by those who commit violent acts, be they Republican or Nationalist: ‘Y hoy por hoy, sólo una conclusión parece imponérseme: la de que, en el fondo, todos somos, en mayor o menor grado, coautores de todos los

23 Llovet also recognized this as the message of La doble historia del doctor Valmy: ‘No está seguro de que los luchadores vayan a triunfar así como así, pero sí está seguro de que esa lucha es un imperativo ético.’ Enrique Llovet, ‘La doble historia del doctor Valmy’, Sábado Gráfico, 22 February 1976. In AGA/IDD 49.021 Topogr. 73-46 Ca. 69.036 Carpeta no. 51: Críticas.

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crímenes. Y la mayor honradez está en comprenderlo e intentar superarlo’ (O.C. II: 486).24 Justified violence in Buero, as in Camus, has limits. In La Fundación he gave a further example of violence that was unjustifiable, despite being defended by some of the more sympathetic characters, that is, those who are themselves victims of the ruling ideology. Having shown through Asel his belief that struggle and occasionally violent struggle may at times be necessary, Buero set limits by refusing to justify Lino’s violent act: Buero aboga en este momento concreto por una limitación de la violencia y por un rechazo de la crueldad, pero nunca por un abandono de la lucha contra lo establecido, contra aquello que supone la alienación del hombre. Se fomenta constantemente la acción y se recuerda el deber de vencer. Los personajes estarán recluidos en una prisión, pero se convencen unos a otros de la necesidad de la acción. La cuestión reside, en última instancia, en si esa acción puede o debe ser violenta y hasta que punto.25

So, while allowing certain justifications of violence, Buero rejected others, highlighting again his contradictions. Certainly his attitude towards violence was not always clear-cut. The disturbing ambiguity of Buero’s stance was further evident in his portrayal of the characters Carlos III and Esquilache in Un soñador para un pueblo. They represent the type of enlightened paternalism mentioned by Jordan in his commentary on Haüy in El concierto de San Ovidio.26 Buero seemed not to blame them, yet these well-intentioned reformers clearly bear some responsibility for the resurgence and domination of the conservative ideology represented by Ensenada and Villasanta.27 It is the king’s distance from the populace that allows them to consider him a puppet of Esquilache and also allows the conservative nobles to

24 Buero returned to this theme in the post-Franco play Misión al pueblo desierto. Plácido, Buero’s spokesperson for much of the play, rejects Damián’s tactics for defeating the Nationalists and condemns the crimes of his own side, arguing ‘si los revolucionarios no saben ser más humanos que los opresores, la Revolución fracasará’. The only justifiable violence can come from the masses and in order to achieve social change: ‘Pero son las masas las que han de imponer el cambio cuando les llegue su hora y estén preparadas, legalizando a la fuerza nuevas instituciones y sistemas, no mediante crímenes. Sólo a eso le llamo yo verdadera violencia revolucionaria.’ Antonio Buero Vallejo, Misión al pueblo desierto, ed. by Virtudes Serrano and Mariano de Paco, Colección Austral, no. 488 (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1999), pp. 49, 79. Further references to this play are given after quotations in the text. 25 Antonio Buero Vallejo, La Fundación, ed. by Francisco Javier Díez de Revenga, Colección Austral, no. 114 (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1989), p. 29. 26 Jordan, ‘Patriarchy’, p. 446. 27 Rafael Benítez Claros, in a very negative analysis of the theatre of Buero Vallejo, goes as far as to accuse him of supporting tyranny in this play. ‘La vena de magisterio neoclásico que late en el fondo de Buero [. . .] muestra su fuerza entusiasta en las alabanzas del despotismo ilustrado. Después de haber llorado sobre los miserables, Buero canta al tirano.’ ‘Buero Vallejo y la condición humana’, Nuestro Tiempo, 19 (no. 107, 1963), 581–93 (p. 591).

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manipulate public opinion against his favourite. Like Ensenada and Esquilache, Carlos III is paternalistic in his attitude towards the pueblo, although with Esquilache he hopes to provide the reform needed to educate and enlighten them: ‘Los españoles son como niños . . . Se quejan cuando se les lava la basura’, but complains that they seem to prefer tyranny: ‘Quizá preferirían un tirano; pero nosotros hemos venido a reformar, no a tiranizar’ (O.C. I: 799). The authorities also resort to violence in order to force acceptance of unpopular legislation. In his misjudgement of the volatile mood of the populace, Esquilache takes measures that only serve to aggravate an already tense situation and to hasten his own downfall. The plan to censor the dress of Spaniards, while ostensibly done for the greater good, is badly handled and, in best censorial fashion, is allowed no challenge. The aggressive tactics employed spark retaliation from some elements of the pueblo, and this mistrust is then manipulated in the campaign against Esquilache. After the riots, when the pueblo demonstrates its capacity for violent, self-destructive action, the Walloon Guards attempt to quell the fighting with brutal measures. However, the play does at least demonstrate that such violent measures, even when employed in support of the common good, do not always achieve their intended aim. Despite the ambivalence of his attitude towards violence, Buero had a resolute opinion on torture. In his plays Buero never justified torture, but looked at how the torturer justifies his own actions in the name of positive ideological values and the common good: ‘Sin descargar al individuo de la aquiescencia culpable a estas injusticias, la obra de este autor comprometido plantea la antitesis didáctica de una sociedad aceptable, para discubrir las contradicciones de una sociedad inaceptable.’28 Some, like Paulus in La doble historia del doctor Valmy, seem to relish their work and are inspired by hate, while others, such as Daniel, are motivated by fear. For Buero: La tortura es el límite de cualquier ideología. Nada puede justificarla, ni siquiera disculparla; quien la ejerce se sitúa fuera de lo humano y destruye sus propios fines, por bueno que los crea, y se destruye a sí mismo, aun si no lo advierte, y carcome a la sociedad a que pertenece y cree servir. (O.C. II: 1283)

In Llegada de los dioses it is a feature of Felipe’s presumably Nazi past that haunts his son. Felipe tries to deny his son’s allegations and is unwilling to accept blame or responsibility for his deeds, preferring to claim, like the torturers in La doble historia del doctor Valmy, that he was just doing his job. He then attempts to justify torture by claiming that it was used in order to extract information that would save the lives of thousands of their troops, and he asserts that the opposition engaged in torture also. Buero, while giving voice to this popular and conscience-salving argument, clearly did not accept it: ‘En ningún caso podemos convertir la tortura, que fue regla en otros tiempos, en excepción permisible’ (O.C. II: 1280). A similar case is presented and dismissed in La doble historia 28 Plataforma, February 1976. In AGA/IDD 49.021 Topogr. 73-46 Ca. 69.036 Carpeta no. 39: Noticias sobre teatro.

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del doctor Valmy. Daniel, like the censors and torturers in Franco’s Spain, prefers not to reveal his occupation to those not directly involved. He is a spokesperson for the regime and seems to believe the propaganda that allows him to feel that the brutality he is engaged in is not only desirable, but necessary: ‘Mi oficio es un duro oficio, doctor . . . Pero sin nosotros el país se hundiría’ (O.C. I: 1051). The brutal torture of Marty does not yield any positive results for the torturers. Furthermore, their monstrous behaviour has repercussions, and Daniel is not the only one whose sickness of mind becomes physically manifest.

The Betrayal of Humanity: Victims and Victim-makers La obra no es el enfrentamiento de un monstruo y un santo, sino de dos hombres, dos seres de carne y hueso, ambos con zonas de vulnerabilidad y de resistencia. La distancia entre uno y otro es, sobre todo, ideológica.29

In the Surelian dramas, Aventura en lo gris and La doble historia del doctor Valmy, and in La Fundación, the ideologies of the victims and of their opponents are never defined: En teoría, el espectador no debiera saber si los ‘suyos’ son los policías o los detenidos políticos a quienes torturan, para que así, por encima de las razones de cada cual, el drama se alzara como una denuncia indiscriminada contra la práctica institucional de la tortura. Y – esto es fundamental en el pensamiento de Buero – contra quienes la consienten o fingen ignorarla simplemente porque está al servicio de sus intereses.30

Thus, Buero again stressed what both Asel and Silvano note in the plays, which is that those who find themselves in a position of victimhood now may have been or may yet be victim-makers. Similarly, those who are or have been torturers may yet be victims, as Daniel Barnes learns. In La doble historia del doctor Valmy, as in Llegada de los dioses, Buero depicted the normal life of a torturer. The dramatist wanted the reader to believe that both Daniel and Felipe are ordinary people who have done wrong. As Veronica recognizes, it is not simply that these characters are evil or inherently wicked: ‘Lo espantoso de tu padre es que es simpático’ (O.C. I: 1358). The thrust of Buero’s argument is that all men have a common humanity, which certain characters have chosen to betray. He was concerned to show that everybody has the capacity to become like Daniel or Felipe: ‘La lucha contra la tortura es por ello, en el plano ético, una lucha contra nosotros mismos; la vigilancia de nuestros más turbios movimientos del ánimo’ (O.C. II: 1282). Buero not only condemned the choice they made, but

Benedetti, Pedro y el Capitán, p. 10. ‘Teatro: sobre la tortura’, Triunfo, 7 February 1976. In AGA/IDD 49.021 Topogr. 73-46 Ca. 69.036 Carpeta no. 52: Críticas. 29 30

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also the torturers’ attempts at justification and their weakness in failing to accept responsibility for their actions.31 In this sense, Vicente in El tragaluz is such a victim-maker, and Buero denounced him more for his continued abuse of others and attempts at legitimation of his actions than for that first selfish act. Obviously, as the character Asel in La Fundación demonstrates, everyone has their limitations and weaknesses, but one must accept or strive to overcome them. Asel too was a victim-maker; like Tomás, he broke under torture and his confession led to the detention and death of others.32 The victim-maker may be a victim who cannot accept his limitations or who cannot countenance defeat. The essential difference between Asel and Tomás on the one hand, and Vicente, Felipe and Daniel on the other, is that the former eventually admit accountability for their failings. They attempt to accept and then surpass their limitations and continue to strive for an ideal, while the latter compromise their ideals out of fear or self-interest, and collude with and justify a negative ideology. Asel tells the cured Tomás: ‘Tomás, nadie puede ser fuerte si no sabe antes lo débil que es’ (O.C. I: 1478). For Buero, the posibilista who recognized that he could not defeat the regime with his dramatic works, accepting personal compromise or even personal failure, was not the end of hope; not to dream is to resign oneself to apathy and accept the status quo, yet a dreamer who does not recognize his limitations is doomed to fail. Julio’s final recognition, in Llegada de los dioses, that he is not in a position to judge his father, is thus a sign of hope: ‘No soy mejor que tú: yo también te he torturado hasta la muerte’ (O.C. I: 1407). Like Mario in El tragaluz and Gabi in Las trampas del azar, Julio, in his eagerness and impatience to judge and condemn his father, is in danger of repeating his failings and becoming a victim-maker. In Irene, o el tesoro too, the family members and Méndez take the easy way out, making a victim of Dimas in order to escape their own victimhood. Adriana in El concierto de San Ovidio is in danger of doing the same. At first she allows herself to be used to seduce David and the others to conform, but later she refuses. David too becomes a victimmaker, killing his exploiter and love rival, Valindin. Silverio in Hoy es fiesta is a victim-maker, who later saves Doña Balbina from becoming a victim of others. It would appear that those who become victim-makers are often those who have no dream of a better future. As Lyon says: ‘Cuando David se enfrenta con Valindin en la oscuridad, ha renunciado a sus sueños y ha adoptado la visión del mundo de su adversario, un mundo de verdugos y víctimas en el que uno tiene que comer o dejarse comer.’33 Similarly, Carlos in En la ardiente oscuridad is in danger of becoming the Centro’s next victim after he assumes the dream of Ignacio.

31 Just as Benedetti’s Capitán stresses, the conversion from ordinary man to torturer is a gradual process, but a difficult one to reverse: ‘Más bien un pequeño cambio tras otro pequeño cambio. Ninguna convicción profunda. Más bien una pequeña tentación tras otra pequeña tentación. Económicas o ideológicas, poco importa.’ Benedetti, Pedro y el Capitán, p. 64. 32 Buero recounted a similar event from his own experience to O’Connor. Antonio Buero Vallejo en sus espejos, pp. 283–6. 33 Lyon, ‘Buero Vallejo y el tema de la violencia’, p. 133.

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Rebels and Reformers Buero’s view of rebellion again betrays a similarity to the thinking of Camus. It also links in with his occasional justification of violence: ‘Apparemment négative, puisqu’elle ne crée rien, la révolte est profondément positive puisqu’elle révèle ce qui, en l’homme, est toujours à défendre.’34 Yet Buero advocated calculated ethical reform rather than revolution; in his works, both rebels and reformers act for the sake of others and for the sake of certain moral values absent or ignored in society. Their altruism is evident in their rejection of pragmatic offers by those who feel threatened by their vision. This is evident in El concierto de San Ovidio, when Valindin taunts David with the alternative to his proposition: ‘¿Qué seréis entonces? ¿Muertos de hambre y de orgullo?’ (O.C. I: 983). They reject existing unjust ideologies and simultaneously discover new values for which they demand recognition. Like Camus, Buero refused to accept the excesses of some rebels that saw them becoming tyrannical in their opposition to an established tyranny: La última lección que el dramaturgo intenta dar tímidamente desde las perplejidades de La Fundación no es la de que no haya que hacer revoluciones, sino de que las revoluciones que se hayan de hacer tienen que asumir una muy fría consideración de los excesos en que pueden incurrir, pues esos excesos sí pueden destruir la obra revolucionaria a la larga, aunque nos parezca que, a la corta, la consolidan. (O.C. II: 484)

Hence, the difference between Buero’s rebels and reformers is a posibilista attitude and a cognizance of the limits of violence. While the reformers may become successful rebels, the rebels are in danger of becoming victim-makers. Of course, this may be read as an attempted vindication of the dramatist’s own posibilista stance. In addition, Buero stressed that the opposition to a repressive regime must be serious and sincere. If it is merely youths rebelling against their parents, he argued, it will do very little good: La risa y la sátira son duras, pero saludables . . . Algunos han sabido mirar de ese modo. Pocos, porque es una mirada difícil . . . Es la mirada del desengaño. Pero, de repente, todos los jovencitos bien alimentados se han puesto a mirar así. (O.C. I: 1356)

The characters that protest at the injustice suffered at the hands of a repressive regime and rebel in the name of liberty might suffer further injustice for their action, but may also serve as an inspiration to others. The rebel protagonist is often an activo-contemplativo, a person who not only has a vision of a better

34 Albert Camus, L’Homme Révolté (Paris: Gallimard, 1951), p. 32. Rebellion, which seems negative as it creates nothing, is profoundly positive as it reveals that which is worth defending in man.

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society, but is also prepared to take risks to attain it. When faced with the choice between silence and protest, the rebel chooses protest and hopes that others will follow suit; there can be no going back, and the rebel must assert his rights and dignity even if the consequence is death. The rebel affirms that his cause is greater than himself and therefore acts for the common good. Yet the tyrant also claims to work for the common good, the difference being that the rebel is prepared to sacrifice himself, believing his action to be for the betterment of society, and demonstrating a total commitment to his cause. Les Justes exemplified Camus’s beliefs about revolt, that to be justified it must involve self-sacrifice rather than the sacrifice of others. In that play, the nihilist Stepan is seen, in his words and actions, to be dangerously close to those he seeks to overthrow. Buero’s rebel, David, on the other hand, is similar to Camus’s Kaliayev in certain respects, as his killing of the tyrant figure leads to his own death. Unlike Kaliayev, however, David is not happy to die, but like him David is a dreamer with a cause he judges to be more worthy than his own survival. Yet Kaliayev did not kill the children or breach the limits of acceptable violence. Thus, David’s moral dilemma and his tragedy are perhaps greater than Kaliayev’s: ‘¡He matado, Adriana! ¡Yo quería ser músico! Y no era más que un asesino’ (O.C. I: 1017). He is a tragic figure because he went beyond the limits he had set for himself, and his motivation was not entirely pure. Indeed, Buero did not justify David’s violence and instead showed how his rebellion failed. Ignacio in En la ardiente oscuridad, like David, rails against the prevailing conditions and demands the seemingly impossible. He wins over one of his most powerful enemies, Carlos, and it is the latter who will lead a future rebellion, or perhaps engage in a slower, but effective reform. Yet Ignacio foresees the day when the others also will rebel, in the metaphysical sense, against their very blindness but also against the falsity of the regime: ‘La guerra que me consume os consumirá’ (O.C. I: 90). When Juana questions why he will not conform to their happiness, Ignacio’s reply is that of a rebel whose cause is greater than the self: ‘¡Ver! Aunque sé que es imposible, ¡ver! Aunque en este deseo se consuma estérilmente mi vida entera, ¡quiero ver! No puedo conformarme. No debemos conformarnos’ (O.C. I: 90). His all-consuming desire for vision is symbolic of a desire for truth, however frustrating the process and painful the outcome. The other students, however, like the blind musicians of El concierto de San Ovidio, are wilfully blind to the truth. Despite his physical disadvantage, Ignacio is spiritually enlightened and therefore neither contented nor deluded. The message of his rebellion is that the others also must reach the point of disillusionment and rebellion for progress to be made. He is truly horrified by the deception he perceives and which he has rejected for himself and for the sake of them all. In this he is like David in El Concierto de San Ovidio, who is angered by the apathy of the other blind musicians and their acceptance of their slavery: ‘¡Estáis muertos y no lo sabéis! ¡Cobardes!’ (O.C. I: 950). Ignacio’s insurrection is inspired by the indignity common to all and not just himself: ‘Me duele como una mutilación propia vuestra ceguera; ¡me duele, a mí, por todos vosotros!’ (O.C. I: 113). Like Asel in La Fundación, Ignacio recognizes that if he could escape the prison of

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his blindness, he would find himself in another prison. He acknowledges the need for a constant struggle for truth rather than the ease of contentment with a lie, and he tries to explain to Carlos that his message is one of hope. Once he makes the decision to kill Ignacio, Carlos in turn becomes l’homme révolté. His motive is resentment and he breaches the limits of acceptable violence, but he repents his negative action and thus is brought closer to the spirit of Ignacio’s rebellion. He begins to talk like Ignacio almost immediately. He comments to Doña Pepita: ‘¡Vuelve la alegría a la casa! ¡Todo se arregla!,’ but he no longer believes the myth and now he too despises the self-delusion of the ‘ciegos’ who waste no time abandoning the rebel who died for them in favour of the revival of the myth (O.C. I: 123). The final words of the play are spoken by Carlos, but they are the words of the rebel Ignacio, and are repeated for the audience who must make similar choices about blindness and vision, silence and protest. Rebellion can also be inspired by the sight of others being repressed. Mary Barnes in La doble historia del doctor Valmy, once informed of the injustices being committed against her enemies in her name and in the name of society, is incensed and rebels against it. Over the course of the play, she changes from a symbol of traditional, conservative society and cosy collusion with an oppressive regime to an enlightened and outraged woman, capable not only of thinking for herself but also of taking action. She rejects the excuses offered by her husband and demands that he face his moral responsibility to reform and to leave his job. Her rebellion is not for the sake of Aníbal Marty, nor for the politics he espoused, but for the attack on his humanity and on what she sees of herself in him and for the future of others like her son. Verónica in Llegada de los dioses has rebelled, not only against her upbringing but also against the destruction of the planet by people like her father and Felipe.35 Generally, these figures do not benefit personally from their rebellion but may inspire in others what Buero suggested is a slower, but ultimately more successful process of posibilista reform. A future victory for the idea, if not for the individual rebel, is promised. As Doménech comments about Buero’s rebels in his introduction to La detonación: ‘Su sueño, su España soñada, no muere con ellos.’36 While David’s action in taking on his Goliath may be a cry of protest, a demand for respect as an equal and an act of liberation, at the end his rebellion

35 Similar characters who challenge the status quo and the official myth include Silvano of Aventura en lo gris and Penélope of La tejedora de sueños. 36 Antonio Buero Vallejo, La detonación; Las palabras en la arena, ed. by Ricardo Doménech, Colección Austral, no. 315, 3rd edn (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1993), p. 17. Steiner writes: ‘The utopias which are built into revolutions necessarily have an ideal, indistinct contour. It is of the essence of a revolutionary situation that the now must pre-empt the tomorrow, that the imagination, when in the grip of the future tense, should concentrate on the short range. Dreams must be disciplined to cover the ground of the possible.’ Language and Silence, p. 413.

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seems to have been in vain. There was another reaction to the humiliating spectacle, however: Valentín Haüy’s protest at the time is dismissed by Valindin and by the onstage audience, but he returns at the end of Act III. Time has progressed since the end of the dramatic action and much has happened since David’s rebellion and death. The French Revolution has taken place and a new social order is in place. Haüy is revealed as a reformer, inspired by the suffering of others, to act for the betterment of society: ‘Ante el insulto inferido a aquellos desdichados, comprendí que mi vida tenía un sentido,’ and he dedicates his life to achieving what David only dreamed of: the education of the blind. His success confirms what Buero wished the audience to realize: ‘el hombre más oscuro puede mover montañas si lo quiere’ (O.C. I: 1022). In fact, he went further and suggested that the slow process of reform initiated by Haüy is more successful in the long term than the destructive rebellion of David, which resulted in more suffering. Buero presented two reactions to the same event and came down clearly on the side of reform. Valentín Haüy is the posibilista reformer who does not attempt to destroy society, but rather to introduce specific reforms. One does not always need the patronage of the powerful to achieve societal change, but obviously one must be prepared to accept gradual change rather than revolution. In the play, as Gagen mentions, Buero raised questions about social and personal responsibility through Haüy, who asks who will assume responsibility for the death of David.37 Jordan too, notes Buero’s emphasis on reform: ‘La resistencia que mejor funciona, que consigue algo y que crea las condiciones para el cambio, se presenta como no violenta y hasta cierta punto como “feminizada”, ejemplificada en parte en Adriana, pero más directamente en Haüy.’38

The Role of the Intellectual GOYA Delaciones, persecuciones . . . España. No es fácil pintar. ¡Pero yo pintaré! (O.C. I: 1277).39

Another sort of rebellion is a feature of the painterly dramas. Velázquez’s rebellion is not so much his painting of a nude Venus, as his defence of his right to do so. Yet he is a late rebel. His position in court is a testament to his collusion with the system. Like all rebels, however, he values truth above contentment but acknowledges that others may not. He admits his weaknesses and knows that he is not always brave, but, inspired by the bravery of his former model,

Gagen, ‘The Germ’, p. 49. Barry Jordan, ‘Las relaciones de poder en El concierto de San Ovidio’, in El teatro de Antonio Buero Vallejo: homenaje, pp. 111–25 (p. 121). 39 Fernando VII’s complaint that ‘lo más difícil es la suavidad’, can be read as a comment on his brutal politics as well as his embroidery, in a play where art and politics are inextricably linked (O.C. I: 1269). 37 38

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Pedro Briones, he finally rebels.40 Nevertheless, his acceptance of the conditions imposed by the king at the end suggest that he, like Buero, is a posibilista, who prefers to compromise and hopes to inspire reform rather than to rebel and lose his voice of protest and his position. As Mariano de Paco commented: ‘A sus limitaciones contesta el pintor superando la resignación o la acomodación, rebelándose por medio de la actividad creativa.’41 He will continue to express his protest, but from the comfortable and contradictory position of court painter. Despite this, Buero’s point was that the artist or intellectual is a lone figure, misunderstood and often misrepresented, as in Las Meninas in which Buero questioned the censorship of art based on misinterpretation or incomprehension of the artist’s work. Yet despite the difficulties and dangers involved, the artist continues showing his work to others in the hope of finding someone who will understand the message. Both Pedro, who once aspired to be an artist, and Velázquez himself, understand the suffering that comes with the artist’s clarity of vision and thus the temptation not to see: ‘Sólo quien ve la belleza del mundo puede comprender lo intolerable de su dolor’ (O.C. I: 894). Like Esquilache (Un soñador para un pueblo) and Larra (La detonación), Velázquez seeks ‘alguien que me ayude a soportar el tormento de ver claro en este país de ciegos y de locos’ (O.C. I: 858). Each of them finds that person in a character symbolic of the pueblo, with whom he seeks to identify but fails to save. Esquilache and Goya suffer similar incomprehension from family and friends, and the former is rejected by those he wishes to enlighten. Goya’s imprisonment in his own house has its parallel in the prohibition on foreign travel that Buero suffered for years. Esquilache is forced to choose between exile and war, and opts for the personal misery of the former. Velázquez’s plight is less extreme and closest to that of Buero; he remains within the Establishment, accepting certain limitations such as a ban on the exhibition of the Venus, but employing his art to register his dissent. Like Buero, whose plays were viewed by a censor before being staged, Velázquez must receive authorization to complete his paintings from the king, whose reign he then criticizes within the work. Tulio and Asel, the troubled intellectuals of La Fundación, finally recognize that while Tomás’s illusion was mostly negative, he was right to dream, but that to make progress the dream must be a goal; it must be possible, not a replacement for reality: ‘¡Soñar con los ojos abiertos! Y tú los estás abriendo ya. ¡Si soñamos así, saldremos adelante!’ (O.C. I: 1461).42

40 Pedro, the inspiration for Velázquez’s rebellion, is a rebel himself who, while serving as a soldier, was incensed by his captain’s treatment of his company and killed him in a duel. His action, unlike that of the artist, culminates in his death, but the message of his rebellion survives him. 41 Mariano de Paco, ‘Planos de significación en el teatro de Antonio Buero Vallejo’, in Leyra, co-ord., Antonio Buero Vallejo: literatura, pp. 185–94 (p. 191). 42 It must be noted, however, that Tulio changes his mind at the point when he is led away to his execution (O.C. I: 1463).

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Buero himself clearly identified with the plight of his intellectuals and artists. It is undeniable that, despite his successful career, he too suffered rejection, from both the right and the left. Beltrán, the sacrificed author in El tragaluz, is described by Mario in terms that also fit Buero. Mario sees Beltrán as his alterego and his better. Beltrán is, in the eyes of Mario, what Buero aspires to be: the conscience of his country. He is not the only one of Buero’s intellectuals to suffer, however. Larra too in La detonación is viewed in similar terms as the conscience of his era, and he too endures interference from the censors and the ridicule and incomprehension of many of his contemporaries and of society in general. Mariano de Paco writes: ‘El escritor es, entre otras cosas, conciencia – o subconciencia – de la sociedad. De ahí que el conflicto sea inevitable y, a menudo, perjudicial para el escritor.’43 The historical plays in particular focus on ‘a key conflict between forces of change and immobility around an artist or intellectual whose importance lies not so much in being the prime mover of events as in being an unusually perceptive observer of them’.44 In the works of Buero, this role is also extended to certain artists. María Teresa sees Velázquez as the conscience of the palace, the one who by his painting will force others to examine their motives and face their responsibilities. Felipe IV considers him a judge. Goya too judges the country’s leaders in his Black Paintings. Like other rebels and heroes in the works of Buero, and indeed the dramatist himself, Velázquez recognizes his own limitations; he knows that he is not always brave.45 He also recognizes the limitations of others. Velázquez rejects María Teresa’s suggestion that man is ‘tan despreciable’, saying that he is imperfect (O.C. I: 873). Velázquez, like the other intellectuals in Buero’s theatre, does not expect miracles, but does expect people to acknowledge and assume their culpability and their duty to themselves and to society. The role of the artist is thus to defend the truth in the face of a comfortable myth and to be the conscience of a society that has been lulled into a false, guilt-free complacency by the official version of events. Hence, Buero’s Velázquez, even when faced with punishment, chooses to tell the king the unpleasant truth about Spain: El hambre crece, el dolor crece, el aire se envenena y ya no tolera la verdad, que tiene que esconderse como mi Venus, porque está desnuda. Mas yo he de decirla. Estamos viviendo de mentiras o de silencios. Yo he vivido de silencios, pero me niego a mentir. (O.C. I: 932)

The intellectual must defend the truth, despite the difficulty of doing so. Velázquez tells María Teresa: ‘La verdad es una carga terrible: cuesta quedarse solo. Y en la Corte, nadie, ¿lo oís?, nadie pregunta que le digan la verdad’ (O.C. I: 873). Velázquez uses his art to expose the official myth and to portray the truth 43 44 45

De Paco, ‘Buero Vallejo y el teatro’, p. 67. Perriam and others, A New History, p. 49. (O.C. I: 873); (O.C. II: 819).

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of his country’s difficulties. By painting the reality of life in the palace in Las Meninas, the artist strips away the myth to reveal ‘una de las verdades del Palacio’, a painting Pedro refers to as ‘un cuadro sereno: pero con toda la tristeza de España dentro’ (O.C. I: 889, 892–3). Pedro, as well as realizing the significance of the painting, also recognizes the function of such work. His words are applicable to the work of any protesting or committed artist in any repressive society: ‘Vuestra pintura muestra que aun en Palacio se puede abrir los ojos, si se quiere’ (O.C. I: 894). Las Meninas is a painting in which Velázquez has used all his knowledge, both of art and of Spanish society. Goya’s Black Paintings also reveal truths that cannot be spoken. The paintings are satirical rather than mad in their depiction of the country’s powerful rulers as beasts and monsters.46 Goya paints what he sees around him, yet his paintings reveal hope, albeit slim, amidst the destruction. Goya says: ‘Amé la razón, y pinto brujas’; nonetheless, the monsters of Goya’s Black Paintings are not a manifestation of madness, but rather they are a reflection of Spain’s monsters, born of a collective loss of reason (O.C. I: 1317). It cannot be denied that Buero’s use of the Establishment painter Velázquez as a rebel hero in Las Meninas was controversial. It could perhaps be seen as an attempt to rationalize his own position within the state-sponsored commercial theatre. It could be argued also that the recuperation of a well-intentioned and misrepresented Esquilache in Un soñador para un pueblo is a similar case. Echoing sentiments expressed in the latter, Juana, the artist’s wife in Las Meninas, recognizes that for Velázquez, ‘todos somos niños’ (O.C. I: 859). Velázquez is thus not unlike the patriarchical intellectuals of other works, who see it as their role to lead the pueblo to action or to a better future. Buero seemed to view himself in the same light. As Dixon points out, ‘en El Concierto de San Ovidio es indudable que Buero compadece a y padece con David, pero a quien se parece es a Valentín Haüy’.47 The fate of the rebel like David is to die for his cause. The role of the artist or intellectual is to take up the protest and lead on, but in a more pacific manner. Buero’s praise for figures of the Enlightenment in Un soñador para un pueblo also raises another interesting ideological issue. It is one which Eagleton has commented on: It seems, then, that Althusser’s theory of ideology is faced with an awkward choice. Either it must divide society into two groups, one of which is assumed to be superior because it possesses science and must save the other, just as the philosophers of the French Enlightenment (criticized by Marx in the third book on Feuerbach) believed that they were the natural possessors of reason who alone could enlighten the ignorant and passive masses of the people. Or it has

46 ‘El rey es un monstruo, y sus consejeros unos chacales a quienes azuza, no sólo para que maten, sino para que roben. ¡Amparados, eso sí, por la ley y por las bendiciones de nuestros prelados! . . . Los pinto con sus fachas de brujos de cabrones en sus aquelarres, que ellos llaman fiestas del reino’ (O.C. I: 1292). 47 Dixon, ‘ “Pero todo partió de allí” ’, p. 42.

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to be construed as a theory of the necessary domination of the ruling ideology in so far as ideology is supposed to be simply realized in certain apparatuses and imposed upon society even against the will, and precisely by means of the unwitting efforts, of dissenters.48

The former could be a description of Esquilache, or even of Haüy. For, as Jordan commented: ‘If Haüy, sensitive and humane, is a genuine, cleaned-up version of previous oppressive paternalisms, he is nonetheless their continuation. The motives may have changed, but the patriarchal structure and social relations of dependence remain.’49 He continues: Indeed, the terms in which it is framed (the re-establishment of human integrity, the transcending of social differences and inequalities, the smoothing over of conflict) might well appear as mystifications, part of the repertoire of twentieth century liberal pieties. Moreover, in societies based on private property and class divisions, the appeal to a generous paternalism and the belief in the sovereign individual are arguably no answer to social contradictions and conflicts, however sensible they may have seemed in the context of the early 1960s in Spain, when El concierto was initially staged.50

Buero clearly saw his own role as that of a traditional, rather than organic, intellectual. He highlighted what was wrong in society and hoped to inspire action in others, but he was not a rebel. In fact, like the traditional intellectuals, he formed a necessary part of the system he sought to reform.

Legitimation of Ideology Es verdad que escasean las vías para la formación y la expresión de las diversas opciones que, dentro de la legalidad constitucional, son posibles en ciertos aspectos de la vida política nacional – política religiosa, cultura, exterior, político-administrativa . . . – Pero quizás esto provenga, más que de fallas legales, del escaso espíritu asociativo español.51

A similar paternalistic attitude towards the bewildered herd of Spanish people is reflected in the views of Establishment figures of Buero’s plays. The presumption Eagleton, Ideology, p. 64. Jordan, ‘Patriarchy’, p. 446. 50 Jordan, ‘Patriarchy’, p. 447. 51 Alberto Ullastres Calvo, Ministro de Comercio 1957–65, in Paniker, Conversaciones, pp. 32–3. José L. Aranguren, also interviewed by Paniker, referred to what he called ‘la trampa conservadora’: ‘que la gente no está, en España, preparada para la democracia, y así, los que poseemos la cultura, tenemos que absorber todos los papeles. La gente no está preparada para la democracia y nosotros nos encargamos, secretamente, de que nunca lleguen a estar preparados. Y las cosas se prolongan indefinidamente’ (p. 11). 48 49

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of incompetence or disinterest of the people allows those who wield power to justify their autocratic rule. Those who disagree with the official ideology are deemed ignorant and criticized for their failure to understand the truth. The representatives of the Establishment depict their opponents as a challenge to the stability and well-being of society. It then becomes easier to punish or ostracize them. Daniel in La doble historia del doctor Valmy refuses to accept responsibility for his cruelty, preferring to blame society for his and his companions’ actions: ‘Vivimos una época terrible, Mary. Ellos no son más que . . . ejecutores. Si son culpables, toda la sociedad es culpable. [. . .] No lo hacen por crueldad. Los detenidos tienen que confesar’ (O.C. I: 1074). The suggestion that Daniel might not agree with the methods employed by the police is deemed a betrayal and a threat to the stability of the system. As a result, he is threatened with torture by the very people for whom he works. Paulus, who is the chief officer of their group and who was responsible for his vocation, warns him that: ‘En momentos como este, no resistir es simpatizar con el enemigo’ (O.C. I: 1080). Paulus rejects as propaganda all opposition to their work. This defence of their actions was particularly relevant in the early 1960s when the play was submitted to the censors’ office for approval. The brutal action of the police in putting down the civil unrest was always justified by a regime claiming to have right on its side. Paulus’s justification of their actions is reminiscent of words spoken by Vicente in El tragaluz. He tells Daniel: ‘Puede que sea una salvajada, pero es que estamos en la selva’ (O.C. I: 1097).52 Another play in which the voice of opposition is silenced by the dominant group is En la ardiente oscuridad. Ignacio becomes a problem in the centre when he refuses to accept the Establishment view. His determination to destroy the complacency of the other students and their illusion of happiness and normality obviously represents a threat to the stability of the established order, and it is decided that Ignacio must be removed in a way that is least damaging to the image of the centre. By diagnosing Ignacio firstly as the one with the problem, and later as the problem itself, its inhabitants are denying all that is wrong with the Centro. They confuse living a pleasant existence with bowing down to paternalistic rule. Ignacio proves that the students are normal only when they know their surroundings intimately and they do not change. Hence the security offered by the Centro is a false one. Any change that is introduced is a threat to the stability of the system and to the myth. When his attempts to discredit Ignacio fail, Carlos appeals to Ignacio to consider the other students whose comfortable lives he has upset by his insistence on debunking the myth. For Carlos the official myth of the centre is the mentira vital, which allows the students to live in happiness, whereas for Ignacio it is what prevents them from ever hoping to attain true happiness. For Ignacio, contentment, which is linked 52 In El tragaluz Vicente asked, ‘¿Quién puede terminar con las canalladas en un mundo canalla?’ (O.C. I: 1177). Felipe in Llegada de los dioses also chooses to blame society for his own cruel actions.

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to truth, is not attainable without suffering; yet even then, happiness is merely possible, not guaranteed. Carlos, on the other hand, like Unamuno’s San Manuel Bueno, prefers to offer the students a false guarantee of happiness. Yet Carlos later rejects Doña Pepita’s offers of special friendship and her eyewitness account, and becomes as cruel about her as Ignacio was. His rejection of her leads her to call him a madman, which may be the first step in a process to discredit Carlos who, by his adoption of Ignacio’s rebellion, in turn will threaten the status quo. Another feature of legitimation of a dominant ideology, and one that is particularly relevant to Francoist Spain, is the use of the ideological apparatus of the Church. Like the Nationalists, the Church and community leaders of Las palabras en la arena claim to have God on their side. Matatías declares: ‘¡Hay que matar a ese agitador que se atreve a profanar las gradas del Templo con sus plantas impuras!’ (O.C. I: 59). He finds justifications for his murderous proposal in the scriptures, much as the Francoists found justification for their actions in the teachings of the Roman Catholic Church. The arguing factions of Scribe and Sadducee are reconciled, superficially at least, for the sake of appearances and for their common aim, just as the different factions in the Nationalist camp united to maintain their advantage over others. In the play, the holy men’s lust for revenge is pitted against the rabbi’s teaching of forgiveness. In common with the churchmen, Asaf uses scripture to support his argument, claiming that the Law of Moses, like the law of Franco, is immutable. By asserting that Jesus is a danger to society, Asaf reserves for himself the position of defender of the home and the common good. The Church is exposed as a more insidious operator in El sueño de la razón. Duaso is a censor for the regime of Fernando VII, and Goya laments his actions ‘al servicio de tan mala causa’ (O.C. I: 1300). Duaso rejects the abuse of the powerful position and reputation of the Church to justify anti-liberal violence and brutality, and is outraged when the accoutrements and good name of the Church are appropriated by the hoodlums who visit Goya’s home and threaten him. Yet he justifies his stance as a censor by claiming that it is charitable work: ‘Endulcemos dolores y callemos ante otras torpezas, puesto que no podemos hacer más’ (O.C. I: 1321). He argues that: ‘El hombre siempre será pecador, y en nuestra mano sólo esté evitarle algunas ocasiones de pecado . . . Soy censor de publicaciones por eso’ (O.C. I: 1321). This attitude, which is rejected by Buero, demonstrates a lack of faith in man and an unwillingness to grant him the opportunity to be master of his own destiny. In Las Meninas, another religious figure, Nieto, the hypocritical and devious cousin of Velázquez and a fresh initiate into the Santo Oficio, uses the power his newly acquired status affords him to damage and censor the artist. His prudery and piety are shown to be a mask for petty jealousies. His reaction to the nude Venus, which he persuades Doña Juana to show him, is one of sanctimonious horror. The Church is not portrayed in a good light in El concierto de San Ovidio either. While it is undeniable that the beggars are clothed, fed and lodged in the Hospicio, the priority of the order running the Establishment seems not

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to be the people it was founded to help, but rather the wealth of the order and the maintenance of the ruling ideology that supports it. The Church is very much a part of the old Establishment and is shown to be resistant to change; anything new or unusual is disapproved of, hence Valindin’s venture is deemed ‘demasiado raro para ser sano’ and the man himself suspiciously ‘partidario de las nuevas ideas’ (O.C. I: 941, 942). The ideological state apparatuses, as well as having a legitimating function, also operate as tools of coercion, inculcation and propaganda in a cohesive attempt to naturalize the dominant ideology. The workings of ideological apparatuses can be seen in the decisions taken and the message propagated after the murder of Ignacio in En la ardiente oscuridad. Doña Pepita is the first to re-establish the myth when she claims that ‘se ha matado’, something she knows to be untrue (O.C. I: 120). Ultimately, Don Pablo opts for the accidental death explanation as it is in keeping with the myth of the centre as a place full of happy, well-adjusted students: ‘La hipótesis del suicidio era muy desagradable. No hubiera compaginado bien con la moral de nuestro centro’ (O.C. I: 121). Ignacio is not mourned; he was a problem that has been resolved. Buero also subverted the Francoist ideology’s emphasis on Church and family to demonstrate how it can be uncharitable and negative when falsified. The crime of adultery in Las palabras en la arena, as in Francoist Spain, was the crime of a woman.53 The ideological apparatus of the family as a protector of order and peace is analysed in this play as a justification for revenge and an excuse for murder. In Las Meninas, Velázquez’s wife, Juana, is portrayed in quite negative terms, yet she might also represent the typical product of a proper education in Spain under Franco.54 She believes that no honourable woman would ever sit for such a portrait and that was why she refused her husband’s request to be his model for a nude Venus. The painting of the Venus further encourages

53 ‘Adultery was a crime for which a woman could be sent to prison, while concubinage (male adultery), though a criminal offence, was treated more leniently.’ Rosa Montero, ‘The Silent Revolution: The Social and Cultural Advances of Women in Democratic Spain’, in Spanish Cultural Studies: An Introduction, ed. by Helen Graham and Jo Labanyi (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), pp. 381–5 (p. 382). In their book, La memoria insumisa: sobre la dictadura de Franco, Nicolás Sartorius and Javier Alfaya commented on the misogynistic nature of the Franco regime: ‘una misoginia, por supuesto, que tenía hondas raíces en la vida de un país cuyo código moral fue durante mucho tiempo de un esencial machismo’. Nicolás Sartorius and Javier Alfaya, La memoria insumisa: sobre la dictadura de Franco, 3rd edn (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 2000), p. 332. 54 Pilar Primo de Rivera; daughter of Miguel Primo de Rivera and sister of José Antonio, controlled the Sección Femenina of the Falange and, under the Franco regime, was influential on women’s issues. Her words on the education of women reflected the attitude of the regime: ‘Queremos conseguir que todas las mujeres tengan una formación religiosa a fondo, apartándolas de ciertas cosas que no son necesarias y que, en cambio, las impide percibir toda la grandeza de la liturgia ordenada por la Iglesia.’ From Discurso pronunciado en el III Congreso Nacional de la Sección Femenina de Falange Española Tradicionalista y de las J.O.N.S., in Cuatro discursos de Pilar Primo de Rivera (Madrid: Editorial Nacional, 1939), pp. 17–27 (p. 22).

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her to believe rumours of his infidelity.55 John Lyon makes a similar point that in La tejedora de sueños: ‘El mito de la fiel esposa que se defiende heroicamente del acoso de los pretendientes, mientras sueña con el regreso de su legítimo marido, encaja perfectamente dentro de la ortodoxia católica acerca de la mujer y el matrimonio.’56 The position of the family in the Francoist ideology is subverted in La doble historia del doctor Valmy, where the family unit is destroyed by the value system defended by the ruling elite. An alternative family is presented in the workplace, with the dysfunctional father–son relationship of Paulus and Daniel. Later, Buero returned to the family theme when, in Jueces en la noche, he criticized the Church’s influence and its insistence on the unity of the family as necessary for the preservation of social stability. Censorship is another form of ideological control mentioned by Buero in his plays. In both Las Meninas and El sueño de la razón there is reference to the role of the Santo Oficio in art censorship. In the seventeenth century, the Inquisition prohibited the painting and exhibition of nudes because they were considered lascivious; the punishment for defiant artists was excommunication, exile (usually for one year) and a fine of five hundred ducats. In 1633, Vicente Carducho published his book Diálogos de la pintura, su defensa, origen, escencia, definición, modos y diferencias, in which he condemned naturalistic painters such as Caravaggio and Velázquez. In it, he explained the moral purpose of art and deemed certain subjects improper for church and court art.57 In 1649, with the publication of his Arte de la pintura, Francisco Pacheco, father-in-law of Velázquez and art consultant to the Inquisition, laid down the rules for Spanish painters. He advised the use of female models solely for the painting of the face and hands, and the use of secondary sources for all other parts. His conservative attitude towards art is echoed in his daughter’s words when she tells her husband Velázquez: ‘Nunca debiste pensar en tales pinturas’ (O.C. I: 910). In Las Meninas, Velázquez is subjected to an Inquisition-style examination and charged with, among other things, lasciviousness in his portrait of Venus. It is suggested to Velázquez that he should destroy his Venus before the trial so as to avoid conflict with the rules, but he refuses these suggestions of self-censorship made by both his wife and the king, choosing instead to risk all in defence of the truth. The expert opinion of Nardi, another court painter, is used in an attempt to discredit Velázquez in the eyes of the king; he interprets Velázquez’s portraits as 55 Buero pointed out in an interview with Octavio Roncero in Arriba in 1960 that the Venus in the play is not, as it is commonly assumed, the Venus del espejo (the Rokeby Venus), ‘No basé mi obra en La Venus del espejo’, in the Las Meninas file, AGA/IDD 52.22, Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.715 No. Exp. 296-60. The dramatic action is set in 1656, and the Venus del espejo was not completed until 1657. Therefore it is one of the other two Venuses the artist is supposed to have painted, one of which is said to have been in his home when he died. 56 ‘Buero Vallejo y el tema de la violencia’, p. 129. 57 Carducho is mentioned by both Velázquez and Nardi in the play. Nardi refers to him as ‘mi venerado amigo y maestro’, and thus presumably would favour Carducho’s traditional methods and criticisms of Velázquez, while Velázquez dismisses a critic by claiming that he sounds like Carducho (O.C. I: 866, 869).

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disrespectful to the royal family. Buero, through Velázquez, cleverly demonstrates the truth of the adage, ‘When correctly viewed, everything is lewd’ and turns the trial around to show that the lasciviousness Nieto claimed to find in the painting was in fact, in the eye of the beholder. He further criticizes the hypocrisy of the censors by highlighting the fact that he has not exhibited the painting and that other nudes in the palace, painted by Italians, have not been censored. This point about one rule for foreigners and another, harsher, one for Spaniards was equally pertinent when the play was first staged as many dramatists and commentators complained that what was deemed acceptable in a foreign production was often censored when the dramatist was Spanish. In El sueño de la razón, the censorship of art is alluded to but does not form part of the dramatic action. In 1814, Goya had been summoned by the Santo Oficio to defend his painting of the Maja desnuda, and he refers to this in the text. Like Velázquez before him, he finds the fault to be the censor’s rather than in his painting. Goya considers the members of the Santo Oficio to be the unclean ones and refers to them as ‘bichos’, ‘insectos que se creen personas’ and ‘hormigas en torno a la reina gorda’. Furthermore, he suggests that the evil they so cleverly perceived in his Maja desnuda emanated instead from their ‘ojos de bichos’ (O.C. I: 1278). There is a hint of censorship in the idea that the book on torture that Mary Barnes is reading in La doble historia del doctor Valmy was written by a foreigner, suggesting that similar material by a native of Surelia would be suppressed by the censors. Censorship is referred to in Mito also, with mention of book burning. Finally, the case of Beltrán in El tragaluz shows how politics and business interfere with literature and art in defence of certain political values. Censorship was perhaps the ideological apparatus that most directly affected Buero, but it was not the only one he targeted in his theatre. En la ardiente oscuridad highlights the role of education as an ideological state apparatus, whose aim is not to enlighten its pupils, but rather to inculcate the acceptance of a pleasant and reassuring myth. The allegorical nature of the play is clear. Ignacio employs politicized language to describe the regime at the Centro de enseñanza: ‘Vosotros sois los alumnos modelo, los leales colaboradores del profesorado en la lucha contra la desesperación, que se agazapa por todos los rincones de la casa. (Pausa). ¡Ciegos! ¡Ciegos y no invidentes, imbéciles!’ (O.C. I: 89). The myth propagated by the model students and the director of the Centro is like the myth of the Fundación, where everything is described in pleasant terms as the best of all possible worlds. María Teresa in Las Meninas, too, is educated to accept a falsified version of reality. This link between education and politics is mentioned in the later edition of Aventura en lo gris also. Silvano talks of his expulsion from his university post as a propaganda victory for the regime: ‘Necesitaba una víctima propiciatoria, y me tocó a mí. ¡Había que enardecer la moral combativa . . . de los demás!’ (O.C. I: 415). It is also clear that he failed to play a part in the inculcation of the ruling ideology from his position of influence within the university. Furthermore, he compliments Goldmann on his clever ploy to make him the scapegoat of the government. Silvano was expelled from his job for what he said and wrote, but he was not imprisoned. Therefore his supporters could not argue

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that his treatment had been brutal. By not imprisoning him, they made him vulnerable to attacks from his enemies, who were incited by the government’s careful manipulation of his words. Censorship then prevented him from defending himself. In La Fundación Buero highlighted another effect of a repressive ideology in Tulio’s reference to a brain drain of those who are ideologically opposed to the regime, a clear echo of the aftermath of the Civil War in Spain. A similar desire to leave Spain in order to progress and get on in life is expressed by Juanito in Las cartas boca abajo, suggesting that the consequences of the imposition of the Francoist ideology on intellectual life in Spain were not shortlived. Persuasion, seduction and propaganda are other ideological tools exposed in the plays of Buero. Duaso in El sueño de la razón, Juana in En la ardiente oscuridad, Paulus and the other policemen in La doble historia del doctor Valmy all employ coercion in the first instance to try to persuade others to conform to the established system. They try to persuade others that the system is both representative and good and that there is no real alternative. There is further evidence of coercion in Vicente’s attempts to get Mario to board the train in El tragaluz, Felipe and Nurias’ attempts to convince Julio of the pleasantness of life in Llegada de los dioses and Valindin’s use of Adriana to win over the blind musicians in El concierto de San Ovidio. The consequences of propaganda and the legitimating role of the ideological state apparatuses are shown to be effective by the character Carlos in Aventura en lo gris. According to Carlos: ‘Goldmann habría salvado a Surelia si le hubiesen dejado las manos libres. Y es el único, ¡el único!, que ha sabido morir en su puesto, en lugar de huir . . ., como el resto de los ministros’ (O.C. I: 428). He has been taught that the enemy: ‘odian nuestra cultura superior’ (O.C. I: 427). In a manner typical of nationalistic ideology, the enemy has been branded as an inferior race of barbarous thieves who had no right to the land Surelia wished to annex. Silvano alone rejects the mythmakers and ideologues of all sides. He speculates on how the death of Goldmann will be reported, as it is very much dependent on the political allegiances of whoever writes the report: ‘Mañana se escribirá: «Un héroe llamado Albín mató al tirano de Surelia» O quizá: «Un asesino mató a Goldmann, el héroe surelés»’ (O.C. I: 473). Silvano then, like Buero, observed history repeating itself and knows that it is always written by the victors.

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Theatre and the Transition to Democracy Theatre and Politics: The Transition La censura de los últimos años de Franco era una censura bastante más suave y bastante más permisiva, aunque siguiese siendo muy molesta, que la de los primeros años.1

In the years immediately prior to Franco’s death, civil unrest in Spain had grown, and those demanding reform were supported by a large proportion of the population, including some members of the previously uncommitted bourgeoisie and also some Catholic clergy. When he died, many felt that it was time for a break with the past and a commitment to democracy. Nonetheless, despite expectations to the contrary, the transition from dictatorship to democracy was orchestrated from the right rather than imposed by the left. Although the transition to a more democratic form of government seemed to have been relatively smooth, it displeased many of the hard-liners of the old regime and caused some to suspect that the reactionaries might not remain silent. Buero Vallejo voiced his concerns in Jueces en la noche (1979) and again in 1983, when he wrote: ‘las fuerzas reaccionarias siguen poniendo abundantes obstáculos al proceso en marcha y amenazándolo con sus repetidos intentos de involución’ (O.C. II: 524). There had been a gradual easing of censorship in the last few years of the Franco regime. However, there were occasional crackdowns and an increase in the number of silencios administrativos. Yet as Carr and Fusi point out: The change was irreversible. Spain rediscovered the female nude in films, plays and magazines. The press continued to report in detail strikes and terrorist actions and to comment at length and in depth on the political situation. The views of the opposition leaders appeared with relative frequency in the daily press and in the weeklies.2

Even some of those who had long supported Franco began to call for change; many of the more aperturista members of his governments were active in the process of transition. Antonio Buero Vallejo, quoted in Sheehan, ‘Tres generaciones’, p. 26. Raymond Carr and Juan Pablo Fusi, Spain: Dictatorship to Democracy, 2nd edn (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1981), p. 197. 1 2

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The theatre became a site for ideological battle once again. Records in the Archivo General de la Administración show that the government in 1976 continued to monitor the theatre world closely. For example, a report contained in the files notes the presence of certain political figures at the performance in Madrid of a play by the exiled dramatist Alberti: ‘Se observaba especialmente la presencia de Marcelino Camacho, dirigente de las Comisiones Obreras; de Simón Sánchez Montero, miembro del comité central del Partido Comunista Español, y de Enrique Tierno Galván, presidente del Partido Socialista Popular.’3 Nor did the transition government remove censorship immediately. In June 1976, the government ordered the closure of the play La maja desnuda de Cáceres, which was being performed at the Café Teatro Stefanía, because of ‘transgresiones cometidas sobre el libreto’ and ‘por la posible alteración de orden público a que pudieran dar lugar’.4 Four actors were arrested and were imprisoned before being released without charge three days later. The sexual revolution in the Spanish theatre, which was linked to ideological change in society, had begun before the death of Franco. Peter Schaffer’s Equus was staged in 1975, as was Gala’s ¿Por qué corres, Ulises?, which also contained some nudity.5 The so-called destape, described by Gala as ‘una catarsis física, no una catarsis mental’, caused an at times excessive reaction, but then some of the events were also extreme.6 For O’Connor: ‘Erotic theater clearly was the culmination of the materialistic, secular trends subtly initiated thirty years ago as well as a logical response to almost four decades of sexual repression.’7 Abellán was to contend that the destape was fundamentally a psychological reaction to the new, euphoric mood post-Franco and not, as others have claimed, the result of the removal of the tools of coercion, such as censorship.8 In fact, there were probably elements of both. Certainly, it could not have emerged had censorship remained in place. The pillars of society reacted to this development in a predictable manner, as a survey about pornography and nudity, published in October 1975, demonstrates. Padre Venancio Marcos, Secretary of the Hermandad Sacerdotal Español,

AGA/IDD 104.04 Topogr. 82-68 Ca. 576 MIT/00.710: Notas sobre obras en general. Notas sobre obras en general. Els Joglars’s work, La torna, is another example; it was withdrawn from the stage and banned shortly after its première in 1977. 5 In February 1976, a report by AFP from Madrid stated: ‘Un Comité de moralidad pública ha enviado amenazas a la dirección del teatro madrileño de La Comedia si continúa representando la obra Equus, del autor inglés P. Schaffer. Este Comité amenaza con incendiar el teatro y proceder al juicio de los actores que la representan. Estos últimos son tratados de delicuentes pornográficos y la actriz María José Goyanes, que aparece en el escenario con los senos en el aire, es amenazada de ser disfigurada y de cortarle el pelo al cero.’ Notas sobre obras en general. 6 Sheehan, ‘Tres generaciones’, p. 26. 7 ‘The Sexual Revolution in Post-Franco Theatre’, Cuadernos de Aldeeu, 1, Monograph (no. 1, 1983), 57–65 (p. 64). 8 ‘Problemas historiográficos’, p. 320. 3 4

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commented that ‘la barca española, el cine, el teatro y las revistas, están navegando en una cloaca’. He went on to say: Culpables de esta pornografía que nos está ahogando son: los productores de cine, los guionistas y autores, que por un afan desmedido de ganar dinero fabrican esas películas que son engendros de imaginaciones calenturientas y enfebrecidas por el dinero. [. . .] Son culpables las Direcciones Generales de Prensa, cinematografía y teatro, que han llegado a una apertura que no creo sea la del doce de febrero, sino la apertura de los vestidos.

He blamed critics and the public also, and damned the rest of Europe with the words: ‘Si en Europa se hacen esas cosas, aquí no queremos ni debemos imitar a esas democracias europeas cuyas estructuras están llenas de suciedad y porquería.’ Betraying a paternalistic attitude common among defenders of the ruling ideology, he concluded that nudity in art has a place, but that this place is not in the cinema or the theatre: Se me dirá que el cine y el teatro son arte. Y el arte del desnudo es para los museos a donde van las personas amantes de verdad del arte. Pero no son para el cine, el teatro y la prensa, a donde acuden los amantes de la porquería y la suciedad cuando se trata de espectáculos pornográficos.

Another priest, Padre José María Díez Alegría, revealed a similar attitude. Although he was more reasonable and less critical of nudity in the cinema and theatre, he did note a difference between this and other art. The danger, as he saw it, was that in the cinema and the theatre, the spectator is presented with nudity in motion.9 Government vigilance and right-wing disapprobation were not the only problems faced by the theatre. Both left- and right-wing extremists attacked not only political figures but also artists and theatres, judged by them to be enemies of a certain cause or ideology. In March 1976, the performance of Manuel Martínez Mediero’s Las hermanas de Búfalo Bill was interrupted by smoke bombs thrown by reactionaries. An article condemning the play, published in El Alcázar, seems to have incited further violence and threats against the actors.10 In April, the director of Papillon received a death threat from the Escuadron Justiciero de la Alianza Anticomunista de España.11 Buero Vallejo was among those people associated with committed theatre or the new liberal theatre who received death threats: En todo cambio históricamente importante arrecia el deseo de eliminar a personas que hayan sido notorias hasta entonces. Es una buena oportunidad, incluso generacional, de anular vigencias. Los enemigos te llegan a amenazar AGA/IDD 104.04 Topogr. 82-68 Ca. 581 MIT/00.584: Pornografía y Erotismo. Caridad Plaza, ‘Teatro con policía’, El Diario Vasco, 24 March 1976. In AGA/IDD 49.021 Topogr. 73-46 Ca. 69.036 Carpeta no. 35: Noticias. 11 AGA/IDD 104.04 Topogr. 82-68 Ca. 653 Orden Público/20.260: Coacciones y Amenazas anónimas 1973–77. 9

10

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por el temor de que, pese a todo, no desaparezcas; supuestos amigos atacan también, a ver si así te vas a la cuneta. Digo ahora todo esto porque se me pregunta, pero es mejor callarse, pues de lo contrario alguno de los que te atacan te acusa encima de paranoico. Menos mal que los intentos de ‘defenestrarme’ no los he señalado yo, sino otros escritores: Isaac Montero, por ejemplo.12

Furthermore, the editors of Estreno wondered in 1976 whether the inability to find theatres willing to stage productions of Buero’s La doble historia del doctor Valmy was a deliberate act of environmental censorship.13 When the Teatro Benavente Theatre Company applied for permission to stage the play, Franco was still alive. The application, seeking authorization, is dated 30 October 1975. The first meeting of the censorship board was on 7 November. Of the three censors who read the play, two advocated its authorization, but the third cited norms 14.2 and 15 of the censorship legislation as reasons for prohibition. The split vote meant that a plenary session had to be called, and the play was sent to a further eleven readers. Once again, the lack of clarity in the legislation affected the verdicts. Among the different censorship regulations that were apparently breached by the play were rules 1, 3, 4, 15 and 18. The most frequently cited norm was 14.2, which states: Se prohibirá: [. . .] La presentación denigrante o indigna de ideologías políticas y todo lo que atente de alguna manera contra nuestras instituciones o ceremonias, que el recto orden exige sean tratadas respetuosamente. En cuanto a la presentación de los personajes, ha de quedar suficientemente clara para los espectadores de distinción entre la conducta de los personajes y lo que representan.14

Regulation 1 was a general rule prohibiting a play that: ‘En su conjunto se considera gravemente peligrosa’, norm 3 ruled against the justification of any behaviour that could be interpreted as ‘moralmente reprochable’ and norm 4 ruled that the work in question ‘debe conducir, lógicamente, a una reprobación del mal’.15 Paradoxically, for legislation introduced by such a divisive regime, norm 15 prohibited works that advocated hate among different peoples or that defended such divisions in society. Norm 18 ruled against works in which ‘la acumulación de escenas o planos que en sí mismos no tengan gravedad, cree, por la reiteración, un clima lascivo, brutal, grosero o morboso’.16

De Paco, ‘Buero Vallejo y el teatro’, p. 64. ‘Cartelera’, Estreno, 2 (no. 2, 1976), p. 50. They also report that the dramatist received threats to his person, and indeed to his life, probably as a response to the play or his signature on a document calling for an amnesty for political prisoners. 14 Orden 9 febrero 1963, Normas de censura cinematográfica, p. 3930. 15 Orden 9 febrero 1963, Normas de censura-cinematográfica, p. 3929. ‘Mal’ was presumably to be defined in terms of the Roman Catholic-influenced ruling ideology. 16 Orden 9 febrero 1963, Normas de censura cinematográfica, p. 3930. 12 13

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Sr Vázquez Dodero favoured the prohibition of La doble historia del doctor Valmy because the setting for the play was too reminiscent of Spain, and suggested that it might be more acceptable if set elsewhere: Aunque se sitúa en un país imaginario, en ningún momento se tiene la sensación de que ocurra, por ejemplo, en un país comunista, sino en uno más o menos dictatorial de occidente. Y, en occidente, el Estado policiaco que teóricamente, más se parece al que pinta Buero, es el español. Que sitúe la acción tras el telón de acero o, quizá, en un país sur-americano, y podría pasar, pese, como digo, a lo repugnante del argumento.17

Another censor thought that the government’s enemies might find in the play, ‘un arma contra el Régimen’, and yet another saw in it ‘peligrosidad desde todos los ángulos de visión’. A majority of readers saw fit to prohibit the play, but the Secretary and the Subdirector General de Actividades Teatrales voted in favour of its authorization. This resulted in a total of seven votes in favour of authorization of the play and seven against, and so the decision was referred to the Director General de Cinematografía y Teatro. A report from the Subdirector General de Actividades to the Director General, dated 4 December 1975, is interesting for what it reveals about the censors’ deliberations and the reasons for their verdicts. The Subdirector General advocated authorization of La doble historia del doctor Valmy. He argued that the theme is treated in a general way and could not be attributed to a particular country or even a particular political ideology (Appendix XIV). The censorship board met on 12 December 1975. The following day, the Director General returned a verdict of authorization with three cuts, though the final decision was left until after a representative group of censors had viewed the dress rehearsal (Appendix XV).18 La doble historia del doctor Valmy premiered in the Teatro Benavente, Madrid on 29 January 1976 under the direction of Antonio González Vergel. It enjoyed considerable success and ran for over six hundred performances. It also won the El Espectador y la Crítica and the Trofeo de Radio España prizes and was authorized for publication by Espasa-Calpe in June 1976. However, in addition to the earlier mentioned death threats and possible environmental censorship, there was additional negative reaction. On 9 February the Director General de Seguridad issued a report on Buero Vallejo in which the dramatist was condemned for his ‘campaña teatral contra la policía’. The author of this report was convinced that the play was written about the Spanish police and cited Buero’s personal and political history as evidence both of his bad character and mischievous intent.

17 AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.779 Exp. 147-67. All further references to censors’ reports and correspondence about La doble historia del doctor Valmy are from this file. 18 The play was reviewed in April 1979, and there was a unanimous decision to award it an over 18s rating.

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A note was then sent to the Ministro de Información y Turismo informing him of Buero’s latest ideological attack (Appendix XVI). Further negative reaction included an unsigned review of La doble historia del doctor Valmy, published in Fuerza Nueva in 1976, which contained the following recommendation: La acusación a la Policía – de no sabemos qué país – es tan despiadada, que en forma alguna debe de tolerarse. Y no lo decimos por la censura, que es mejor abolir, por ineficaz, sino por los propios espectadores, que deberían reaccionar ante obras semejantes dirigiéndose al Juzgado de Guardia a presentar la correspondiente querella.19

The destape did not merely cause problems for the reactionaries, however. The high hopes for a new theatre from the banned or silent dramatists were seen to be misplaced when many of the would-be revolutionaries embraced nudity over politics. The profit-driven directors exploited this trend, which for a while greatly increased the numbers attending the theatre. However, the destape probably added to the decline in numbers of traditional bourgeois theatre audiences, many of whom were uncomfortable with the new direction in the theatre. A proliferation of translations offered what seemed to be the only respite from the destape, and even some of these, as well as some Spanish classics, were adapted and sexualized to suit the mood of the day. One such case was Ángel Facio’s production of Lorca’s La casa de Bernarda Alba, which featured the actor Ismael Merlo in the title role on a stage dominated by images and symbols of the female genitalia. The traditional audience absented itself from such productions. PérezStansfield wrote of the typically bourgeois audience: ‘No quiso aceptar el cambio, y en la temporada teatral de 1977–1978 se habló de una crisis del teatro, no por falta de autores, sino por falta de material rentable: el público.’20 O’Connor noted: ‘What had begun as a plea for freedom had ironically become obligatory. If nudity was prohibited prior to 1975, by 1977 an unspoken law seemed to require the display, at least momentarily, of a female breast or two.’21 A comment made by Buero in 1996 could equally be applied to much of the theatre of the transition period: El teatro tiene que renovarse, por supuesto, pero a condición de seguir siendo teatro; en muchos experimentos, se pasa de la raya, y lo que se produce ya no es teatro. [. . .] Pirandello, por ejemplo, no era un renovador disparatado, sino un renovador que se mantenía dentro de los cauces del teatro de texto, de 19 Fuerza Nueva, 6 March 1976. In AGA/IDD 49.021 Topogr. 73-46 Ca. 69.036 Carpeta no. 49: Artículos Prensa. The author of the article goes on to write: ‘En cualquier caso, le recomendamos acuda a una de las sesiones del teatro Benavente al vicepresidente de Asuntos para el Interior y ministro de la Gobernación, señor Fraga Iribarne. Quizá tenga alguna sugerencia que hacer.’ 20 María Pilar Pérez-Stansfield, Direcciones de teatro español de posguerra (Madrid: José Porrúa Turanzas, 1983), p. 308. 21 ‘The Sexual Revolution’, p. 60.

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situación, de coherencia. Y eso sí era – y es – fecundo. En España hoy en día, hay poca renovación verdadera.22

Another feature of the theatre of the transition period was the rise of highly politicized right-wing drama. In essence, what was on offer now was agitation propaganda, demanding political action and blaming the democratic movement for modern Spain’s ills. Previously, right-wing theatre had settled into a form of integration propaganda; now, the theatres again became the arena for an ideological battle. Ironically, plays such as Antonio D. Olano’s Madrid, pecado mortal (1977) and Enrique Barreiro’s Muñecas (1979) employed the tools of sexual liberation to criticize democracy and freedom, including the perceived licentiousness of the newer theatrical trends. The staging of plays such as Eloy Herrera Santos’s Un cero a la izquierda (1978) and Olano’s Cara al sol . . . con la chaqueta nueva (1978) were more comparable in many ways to political assemblies than to normal theatrical performances. Marsillach wrote: Cuando Un cero a la izquierda se presentó en Madrid, los espectadores ‘ultras’ o no, que este es otro asunto – abarrotaron el teatro todos los días y consiguieron convertir las representaciones en mítines políticos. Algo que no había ocurrido desde los tiempos gloriosos de la oposición.23

Zatlin Boring makes a similar point in her description of the staging of Herrera’s Que Dios os lo demande (1979): ‘The atmosphere was that of a political rally, not of a theatrical presentation.’24 Indeed, Herrera himself described Un cero a la izquierda as: Una obra que en el momento más agudo de la crisis no sólo teatral, se convirtió en revulsivo, sacó a la gente de sus casas y consiguió una asistencia masiva de público durante dos años. [. . .] el texto de la misma era portador y portavoz de unos deseos contenidos en la mente del espectador.25

Reactionary nationalism was also evident in the Arlequin Theatre Company, whose political manifesto was published by the magazine Fuerza Nueva. The main objective of this group was to ‘crear y fomentar un teatro español, hecho por

22 O’Connor, Antonio Buero Vallejo en sus espejos, p. 314. Antonio Gala’s attitude seems to have been much the same as Buero’s. He stated: ‘La libertad de expresión es exigible, pero no garantiza, ni muchísimo menos, la existencia de un teatro mejor.’ Zatlin Boring, ‘Encuesta sobre el teatro madrileño’, p. 14. 23 Adolfo Marsillach, ‘Cinco años de teatro: 1975–1980’, Tiempo de Historia, 4 (no. 72, 1980), 215–29 (p. 220). For more on the reception of these and other plays of the transition, see Manuel Pérez, El teatro de la transición política (1975–1982): Recepción, crítica y edición (Kassel: Reichenberger, 1998). 24 ‘Agit-prop from the Right: The Theater of Eloy Herrera’, Estreno, 6 (no. 2, 1980), 18–21 (p. 20). 25 Zatlin Boring, ‘Encuesta sobre el teatro madrileño’, p. 16.

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españoles, con obras dignas de ser programadas, saneando al propio tiempo la cartelera de hoy en día, incluso el ambiente o mundillo interior del teatro’.26 The group also called for increased censorship and the exclusion of foreign actors and directors, and they repudiated pornography. Their call for a return to Golden Age drama and to a national and religious theatre was a reaction to the destape and was ignored by the majority of commercial theatres at the time. Nonetheless, their demands, along with the undeniable success of much of the extreme right-wing drama, is a testament to the ideological conflict in the theatre.

Changes in Legislation Sastre proposed the creation of a Teatro Unitario de la Revolución Socialista in the early days of post-Francoism, but his proposal was not welcomed.27 It was probably a little out of step with the reality of the times in any case. Nobody was calling for left-wing political revolution any more. Later, in 1981, he would still claim that ‘la democracia no es un hecho en España todavía y que por lo tanto está muy justificado hacer un teatro radical’.28 Others proposed a more moderate reform. Late in 1977, Rafael Pérez Sierra, then Director General de Teatro, gathered a group of theatre professionals to create a structure for the new Teatros Nacionales. The result was the drawing up of the statutes that created the Centro Dramático Nacional. However, the document was not published in the BOE and was thus not legally binding. The result, according to Marsillach in 1980, was that: ‘el Centro Dramático Nacional sigue estando hoy atado de pies y manos a la Administración y sujeto a cualquier viavén político interesado en mantenerlo o en sepultarlo’.29 Changes in legislation affecting freedom of expression were few in the years prior to Franco’s death, as the government sought to retain full control while responding to the mood change in Spanish society, which demanded greater autonomy. As Abellán wrote: ‘El empleo del “silencio” podía haber sido el único asidero legal para poner en práctica una política de liberalización. En cambio, sólo parece haber servido para intimidar.’30 While the Ley de Prensa e Imprenta was not vigorously enforced during the transition period, neither was it immediately rescinded. José Luis Cebrián summarized the period: ‘el panorama de la prensa española de la democracia resulta al final una mezcla de excesos y temores no abandonados’.31 The Ley del Libro, introduced in 1975, did not replace the 1966 Ley de Prensa e Imprenta, rather it merely amended article 2 of the latter. The article was not actually suppressed until the introduction of 26 27 28 29 30 31

Vicente Romero, ‘El teatro de la extrema derecha’, Estreno, 1 (no. 3, 1975), 11–12 (p. 12). Cramsie, Teatro y censura, p. 98. Vogeley, ‘Alfonso Sastre’, p. 461. Marsillach, ‘Cinco años’, p. 223. ‘Censura y autocensura’, p. 174. ‘La Prensa en crisis’, Tiempo de Historia, 4 (no. 72, 1980), 173–9 (p. 177).

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the Ley Anti-libelo in April 1977. Yet, in a move that damaged confidence, severe restrictions on what could be said about the Armed Forces and the Crown were included in the Ley Anti-libelo. Nor were there many practical changes in the early post-Franco years. The application of the censorship legislation had not been vigorously enforced for some time previously, but its continued existence was a threatening reminder of the not so distant past. Of the years 1975–78, prior to the introduction of the constitution, Buero claimed: ‘Era una régimen que todavía arrastraba puntos de vista y posiciones mentales pocos propicios al atrevimiento, la experiencia, la experimentación o la osadía.’32 In 1976, Andrés Reguera Guajardo, Ministro de Información y Turismo under Adolfo Suárez, stated on the continued use of the Ley de Prensa: Entiendo que puede y debe ser modificada, o más bien desaparecer, para que en el futuro los delitos de prensa se atengan al código. Pero entre tanto, estamos aplicando una política que en lo que respecta a sanciones administrativas, solo se ejercen cuando se ponen en pelígro cuestiones graves de interés general. Lo mismo sucede con la censura. En especial con la de publicaciones o espectáculos escritos. Se ha elevado el techo en cuanto a estos últimos, como prueban las carteleras, pero en cuanto a las publicaciones, hemos buscado un equilibrio entre la libertad de los editores y la sensibilidad de la mayoría, las publicaciones eróticas se editan, pero no se exhiben en los quioscos dañando la sensibilidad indiscriminada del ciudadano. En estos últimos meses hemos hecho escaso uso de las facultades sancionadoras de la administración.33

Clearly, this right-led government was, despite its democratic pretensions, still loath to devolve power to those outside its ranks. The retention of power by this group was presented as being in the common interest and for the protection of shared values. Some months later, LOGOS reported Minister Reguera’s declaration: ‘No me considero Ministro “de” la información, sino “para” la información.’ Yet the positive implications of this statement were undermined by another statement made by the Minister and quoted by CIFRA on the same day: Así también, cuando profesamos la urgente importancia y necesidad de la libertad informativa, que incluye la crítica, no podemos dejar de ligarla con unos matices de objetividad de planteamientos y ponderación en las manifestaciones que son inherentes al ejercicio de la profesión informativa, así como a unos límites – la Monarquía, la unidad nacional y el respeto a las fuerzas armadas – que no son discutibles porque, por encima de las más profundas mutaciones, representan el núcleo de lo permanente y el soporte de nuestra misma evolución democrática. 34

Sheehan, ‘Tres generaciones’, p. 26. Reported by LOGOS, 22-2-1976. AGA/IDD 104.04 Topogr. 82-68 Ca. 576 MIT/00.102: Declaraciones y discursos. 34 Declaraciones y discursos. 32

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In 1977 theatre censorship came under the control of the newly named Ministro de Cultura. Nonetheless, the legislation affecting the theatre was not actually repealed until 1978, with the publication of Real Decreto 262/1978 de 27 de enero (Mº. CULTURA), TEATRO, CIRCO Y VARIEDADES. Libertad de representación de espectáculos.35 This legislation replaced the earlier censorship laws but was not intended to result in an unregulated theatre. The new legislation stated that the verdict on a play would be granted within fifteen days of authorization being sought. However, the Dirección General reserved the right to change the categorization of the play thereafter. Article 8 of the law created the Comisión de Calificación de Teatro y Espectáculos, with the Director General de Teatro y Espectáculos as President, the Subdirector General de Actividades as Vice-president and the Jefe de la Sección de Ordenación de Dirección General as Secretary. The law stipulated that there were to be no more than twenty committee members, who were to be nominated by the Ministro de Cultura. Further regulatory legislation was published in the Orden de 7 de abril de 1978 (Mº. CULTURA), por la que se dictan normas sobre calificación de espectáculos teatrales. Article 2.1 lists the new classifications of dramatic works: Art. 2.º : 1. Las calificaciones de los espectáculos teatrales y artísticos se otorgarán teniendo en cuenta las edades de los públicos que, en cada caso, puedan tener acceso a la representación y serán las siguientes: a) Para todos los públicos b) Para mayores de catorce años c) Para mayores de dieciciocho años.36

Yet, as the Real Decreto 262/1978 had specified, plays which, ‘por su temática o contenido [. . .] puede herir de modo especial la sensibilidad del espectador medio’ were to be classified «S» and would receive no support from the state, financial or otherwise (Appendix XVII).37 Little seemed to have changed. The government still effectively controlled the theatre, as many theatres and companies depended upon it for finance. Companies wishing to stage a play had to send in an application at least thirty days before the proposed date of staging, stating the category of production for which they were seeking authorization. In the case of an application for a single performance, seven days’ notice was required. The documentation required was detailed in article 4 of the new legislative order. Article 5 dealt with the Comisión de Calificación de Teatro y Espectáculos (created by Real Decreto 262/1978)

35 Real Decreto 262/1978 (Mº Cultura), Teatro, Circoy Variedades. Libertad de representación de espectáculos, BOE, no. 53 (ref. 481, 3 March 1978), pp. 496–7. 36 Orden 7 abril 1978 (Mº Cultura), por la que se dictan normas sobre calificación de espectáculos teatrales, BOE, no. 89 (ref. 9621, 14 April 1978), pp. 8611–13. 37 Real Decreto 262/1978, Teatro, Circoy Variedades, pp. 496–7.

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and specified that members were to be appointed for three years, with the possibility of an extension at the discretion of the Minister. The Comisión could be called to session by the President or by a simple majority of members. Verdicts were to be agreed by simple majority of members and the President had the casting vote. Once finalized, notice of the categorization of the play in question was sent to the company. Article 11.1 outlined the composition and role of the Subcomisión de Valoración, which was comprised of a maximum of seven members of the Comisión and which was ‘el órgano asesor en orden a la protección y fomento de los espectáculos teatrales y artísticos de especial calidad’.38 Article 13.1 stipulated that, in accordance with earlier legislation, the classification awarded to any given drama must be displayed on all advertising and promotional material for the play as well as in a prominent position in the box office. This process remained unchanged until 1985, although there were some organizational reshuffles in the meantime. Apart from this legislation specifically affecting censorship, constitutional change, affecting all of the state apparatuses, was introduced late in 1978. The constitution defines the Spanish State as a Parliamentary Monarchy and affirms the government’s commitment to democracy. Liberties and rights, which were ignored by the previous regime, are guaranteed by the constitution. Article 15 abolishes torture and the death penalty.39 Article 16.1 guarantees ‘la libertad ideológica, religiosa y de culto de los individuos’.40 Article 20 deals with the subject of censorship and states: Artículo 20: 1. Se reconocen y protegen los derechos: a) A expresar y difundir libremente los pensamientos, ideas y opiniones mediante la palabra, el escrito o cualquier otro medio de reproducción. b) A la producción y creación literaria, artística, científica y técnica. c) A la libertad de cátedra. d) A comunicar o recibir libremente información veraz por cualquier medio de difusión. La ley regulará el derecho a la clausula de conciencia y al secreto profesional en el ejercicio de estas libertades. 2. El ejercicio de estos derechos no puede restringirse mediante ningún tipo de censura previa. 3. La ley regulará la organización y el control parlamentario de los medios de comunicación social dependientes del Estado o de cualquier ente público y garantizará el acceso a dichos medios de los grupos sociales y políticos significativos, respetando el pluralismo de la sociedad y de las diversas lenguas de España.

Orden 7 abril 1978, Calificación, p. 8613. However, it includes the reservation ‘salvo lo que puedan disponer las leyes penales militares para tiempos de guerra’. Constitución española, ed. by Luis López Guerra, 9th edn (Madrid: Tecnos, 1997), pp. 39–40. 40 Constitución española, p. 40. 38 39

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4. Estas libertades tienen su límite en el respeto a los derechos reconocidos en este Título, en los preceptos de las leyes que lo desarrollen y, especialmente, en el derecho al honor, a la intimidad, a la propia imagen y a la protección de la juventud y de la infancia. 5. Sólo podrá acordarse el secuestro de publicaciones, grabaciones y otros medios de información en virtud de resolución judicial.41

This article, and indeed the entire constitution, made it clear that a return to Francoism was not desired by the government, the king, or the vast majority of the people. Substantive reform of the theatre did take place in 1985 with the creation of the Instituto Nacional de las Artes Escénicas y de la Música (INAEM), charged with the control and development of theatre and music in Spain.42 It heralded a restructuring of state aid to the theatre and the creation of arts and cultural bodies charged with the development and support of the theatre and other cultural endeavours. The Comisión de Calificación de Teatro y Espectáculos, which had read the plays and operated under the Negociado de Calificación, was disbanded and a new classification process agreed between the Director General of the INAEM and the Ministerio de Educación y Cultura. The INAEM has a role similar to the old Dirección General de Música y Teatro, and upon its inception it took control of the Teatros Nacionales, the Orquestra y Coros Nacionales de España and the Junta Coordinadora de Actividades y Establecimientos Culturales. The INAEM controls the state-funded national theatres, each of which has a specific artistic brief. The Centro Dramático Nacional (CDN) stages modern classics and translations, although it has been criticized for its failure to stage contemporary Spanish drama with any regularity. The Centro Nacional de Teatro Clásico stages new and traditional versions of the Golden Age classics, and the Centro Nacional de Nuevas Tendencias Escénicas (CNNTE) was established to ensure support for new authors and innovative and experimental theatre. The final branch of the National Theatre is the Teatro Lírico Nacional, which stages opera and zarzuela. The budget for the running of the Instituto is much greater than the budget of its predecessor, but the plans for the new structure are much more ambitious. The state gives grant aid to theatre companies and groups, which abide by certain regulations stipulated in the new legislation. While this has led to certain improvements, such as an increase in the number of theatres, tours and festivals, it also has brought with it disadvantages, such as an increasing dependence on the grant system. Effectively, this means that little is achieved in the Spanish theatre world without the support of the state, ironically a situation that Franco had also sought to bring about. The INAEM would appear to have effected an improvement in the

Constitución española, pp. 42–4. The INAEM was created by Real Decreto 565/1985 (PRESIDENCIA DEL GOBIERNO), de 24 de abril, por el que se establece la estructura orgánica básica del Ministerio de Cultura y de sus organismos autónomas. Articles 8 to 16 are reprinted in ‘El INAEM: partida de nacimiento’, Cuadernos el público, no. 6 (1985), 15–16. 41

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quality of the theatrical offerings, at least in the national theatres, but complaints persist about the arrangements for funding, and favouritism shown to certain authors, as well as issues of training and professionalism. Overall, the reform has been gradual but noticeable. In an interview published in Estreno in 1991, Buero compared the theatre of the day favourably to the theatre of the mid-1980s, in so far as economic aid was concerned. However, he pointed out that the theatre had lost out overall in the entertainment stakes, with other forms of entertainment winning over the mass audiences that the theatre is seemingly unable to draw.43 This problem of attracting and retaining an audience had to be contended with and, as Buero said: ‘De lo que se trata es de recuperar, de reconstruir, al público, y esto no se consigue sólo con espectáculos excepcionales o con festivales.’44

Plus ça change . . . Democratic Control of Theatre MESONERO El más triste secreto a voces es que los liberales no existen (O.C. I: 1518).

Ideology did not end with the death of Franco. Claims by many dramatists that it was more difficult to stage plays in 1980 than in the Franco years demonstrated that old problems had not been resolved. According to Buero, the years 1978–81 saw an increase in grant aid and prizes, but nothing to compare with the rest of Europe. Gala said that the stress was on foreign plays at the expense of the development of Spanish theatre. Cabal claimed that the independent groups suffered under the theatre policy of the time, and many folded under the pressure and lack of funding. On the attitude of the socialist government, no dramatist was flattering. Gala claimed that what was created in those years was, ‘un teatro prácticamente oficial’.45 Despite structural and legislative changes in the post-Franco era, what has been defined as a theatre crisis remains largely unsolved and many fear that the negative trend will be difficult to remedy. In 1991, Fernández Insuela carried out a survey in Estreno in which he asked the views of the Generación Realista on the Spanish theatre from the mid-1980s to 1990. The dramatists interviewed were José María Rodríguez Méndez, José Martín Recuerda, Lauro Olmo and Carlos Muñiz, and their responses to the questions posed were overwhelmingly negative. Rodríguez Méndez lamented the absence of Spanish drama and what he considered the poor quality of translations of foreign works. He was highly critical of the theatrical administration, which he blamed for the ongoing problems: ‘A esas tales no les importa ni el teatro, ni la cultura ni nada por el estilo. En parte son las más culpables de que 43 Peter L. Podol, ‘El estado actual del teatro en España: entrevista con Antonio Buero Vallejo’, Estreno, 17 (no. 1, 1991), 9. 44 De Paco, ‘Buero Vallejo y el teatro’, p. 71. 45 Sheehan, ‘Tres generaciones’, p. 28.

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el nivel cultural del país haya caído tan bajo, pues está en manos de funcionarios sin seso.’46 More than one dramatist criticized the rampant amiguismo in the administration, and Martín Recuerda criticized the failure of the universities to provide drama courses. A survey in ALEC in 1990 produced similar results. Buero Vallejo commented on the increased popularity of other forms of art and entertainment, which attract not only prospective audiences but also prospective dramatists away from the theatre. Some of the younger playwrights such as José Luis Alonso de Santos and Fermín Cabal, who had theatrical successes in the early 1980s, went on to carve out a niche for themselves in the world of cinema. Cabal too was highly critical, not only of the administration’s failure to develop the theatre, but also of its nepotism. However, he expressed the hope that a new wave of theatre would emerge from the independent sector, which would be author-dominated, as opposed to the director-driven productions of the previous decade. There was a general feeling among those surveyed that the administration did not do enough to encourage younger or more experimental dramatists and concentrated instead on what Cabal referred to as the ‘cadáveres exquisitos’ of the classic theatre.47 Some of the respondents criticized the new form of censorship prevailing in the post-Franco theatre. The dramatist Pilar Pombo wrote: Ahora ni siquiera se puede correr el riesgo de saltarse a la torera los tachones, que en ‘otro tiempo’ adjudicaba la censura. Ahora simplemente, o se le niega la subvención a uno o no se le concede un teatro donde representar. La censura sigue existiendo. Es una censura económica pero, al fin y al cabo, censura.48

She defined the relationship between ministry and dramatist as one of ‘amo’ and ‘súbdito’ and also complained about the lack of accountability in the organizations controlling the funding of theatre. The ‘underground’ dramatist Jerónimo López Mozo condemned the state’s control of the free theatre. He made a point similar to that of Pilar Pombo about the dependence of the commercial theatre on state subventions that translated into self-censorship on the part of the author wishing to have a play accepted for staging by a company. As in the Franco period, the safe productions were staged at the expense of more experimental or challenging work. In 1985, Martín Recuerda maintained: ‘Hay quizás más censura ahora que en el franquismo, porque en el franquismo te decían no y ya lo sabías, pero es que ahora hay una cantidad de cosas pequeñas por debajo que depende de eso el que se nos estrene.’ However, Jaume Melendres countered this by saying: ‘La censura es la censura, y el hecho de tener obras de treinta

46 Antonio Fernández Insuela, ‘Encuesta: la Generación Realista ante el teatro español de 1985–1990’, Estreno, 17 (no. 2, 1991), 5–9, 42 (p. 6). 47 John P. Gabriele and Candyce Leonard, ‘Perspectivas sobre el teatro español a los quince años de la democracia’, Anales de la literatura española contemporánea, 15 (nos 1–3, 1990), 253–73 (p. 257). 48 Gabriele and Leonard, ‘Perspectivas’, p. 266.

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personajes que no se ponen por razones económicas, creo que no es censura. Estos son condicionamientos económicos de la industria.’49 Buero’s attitude lay somewhere between the two. When asked in 1984 whether he considered that censorship continued to exist in Spain, Buero responded: ‘Hay todavía formas de presión social que podríamos llamar residuales, emparentadas con la censura anterior; pero el organismo llamado censura y la necesidad de someter los textos a una aprobación previa, han desaparecido.’50 Nonetheless, as he made clear in his post-Franco theatre, the removal of censorship did not signify the termination of ideological pressure on society. Martín Iniesta was one of those critical of the creation of the Centro Nacional de Nuevas Tendencias Escénicas for its insistence on novelty, instead of supporting what was being produced. He further criticized the creation of prizes for young authors, which excluded the older generation and reduced their chances of having their work produced. Instead, he suggested, what was on offer was drama based on modern and fashionable themes, such as drugs and racism, but without a corresponding commitment from the dramatists to social change or criticism of society.51 At the Congreso Internacional Autor Teatral y Siglo XX in 1998, many dramatists were still complaining about new forms of censorship. José María Rodríguez Méndez mentioned the new censorship of box office and state subvention and lamented the age of the director in the theatre.52 He was also scathing in his criticism of the inclusion of Muñoz Seca among the great dramatists of this century, considering him, much as Monleón did in his book on right-wing theatre, to be a third-rate author. He further lamented the disappearance of dramatists such as Olmo and Muñiz from the collective memory. Jaime Salom was critical of the emphasis on the classics and on foreign theatre, citing as an example the programme for the 1998 Madrid Theatre Festival. Most of the plays were foreign and of the Spanish plays being staged, half were by classical authors, leaving only four plays by modern Spanish authors. José Sanchis Sinisterra was slightly more positive and, while he too cited the inequitable grant system, unlike Rodríguez Méndez, he was positive about the return of the auteur. Elsewhere, Ragué Arias summarized the situation: ‘Entre 1982 y 1995, prevalecen las contradicciones de una política teatral que por un lado proclama su voluntad subsidiaria y no intervencionista, mientras que de hecho transforma al Estado en el principal empresario teatral.’53 In 1994, the situation was much the same. Ragué Arias cites Eduardo Haro Tecglen who, in the Anuario de El País

‘Mesa Redonda 2: escribir en España’, Cuadernos el Público, no. 9 (1985), 40–63 (p. 56). De los Reyes, ‘Comentarios’, p. 23. 51 Fernando Martín Iniesta, ‘Teatro español en la democracia’, Cuadernos Hispanoamericanos, no. 572 (1998), 95–8 (p. 98). 52 Congreso Internacional Autor Teatral y Siglo XX, Casa de América, Madrid del 25 al 27 de noviembre de 1998. 53 María José Ragué Arias, El teatro de fin de milenio en España: de 1975 hasta hoy (Barcelona: Ariel, 1996), pp. 115, 117. She also wrote, on p. 114: ‘El control de las subvenciones parece haber sustituido a las censuras franquistas.’ 49

50

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of that year, criticized ‘la función de empresario teatral que ha asumido la Administración pública y su interés en programar espectáculos que no supongan discusiones políticas: los clásicos’. The above complaints seem to support the arguments put forth by Abellán and Buero Vallejo. Abellán had warned of the dangers of assuming that censorship, once removed from the statute books, had disappeared; he recognized that censorship was merely one element in an ideological system: El hecho de que la censura franquista – la censura gubernativa – asumiera en sus actuaciones una multiplicidad de intereses censorios, constituyéndose en juez y parte de lo que debía o no debía ser publicado, ha contribuido fatalmente a identificar y confundir la desaparición del sistema censorio con la aparición de la libertad de expresión sin práctica censoria – pese a su hermetismo y misterio – nos ha inducido a concebir sus actuaciones como unidimensionales y provistas de total transparencia, impidiéndonos captar la multiplicidad de condicionamientos en juego.54

Buero too was reluctant to consider the removal of Francoist censorship from the legislature as a total victory for freedom of expression and the end of Spain’s problems. It was a view that was not entirely welcomed by those who wished to forget the past and concentrate on the future, but was proved correct: La censura se ha suprimido, pero no han terminado otras censuras, porque todos sabemos que, en sus peores aspectos, la censura no es más que el reflejo oficializado de algo que la sociedad misma, enferma, segrega. Y la sociedad española no está todavía sana. Guarda dentro muchos de los fermentos, de los gérmenes que originaron e hicieron durar al franquismo; y por ello, en esta nueva etapa en la que evidentemente vamos a trabajar con mayor libertad y en la que estamos ya viendo muestras iniciales de un cambio bueno y esperanzador de las actividades creadoras, sigue habiendo no obstante serios inconvenientes, graves problemas de censura ambiental, y otros muchos de carácter estructural, económico, etc., que no por ser de distinto orden dejan de afectar a la vida cultural. (O.C. II: 497)

It was clear to those who wished to acknowledge it that the hegemonic and ideological structures of Francoism did not disappear from Spanish society when Franco died. Many of the people who had served under Franco and who had supported his regime remained in privileged positions and showed no desire to relinquish their power. Manuel Abellán criticized the fact that even after the disappearance of censorship, ‘sobrevive el personal censorio; esos censores de brocha gorda que pasan a los servicios de presidencia del gobierno’. He further condemned the fact that: ‘En la radio y la televisión del Estado se han empeñado

54

Abellán, ‘Problemas historiográficos’, p. 323.

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en colocar a profesionales de la censura más cavernaria: Robles Piquer y Nasarre.’55 Another issue for some dramatists and commentators was the focus of drama in post-Franco Spain. In 1976, Buero had commented on the role of the theatre during the Franco years and why he thought drama had an important role to play in the political education of his countrymen: De todos es sabido que porque faltaban otras plataformas más normales y más lógicas de expresión política, las que ofrecían el teatro y la literatura, por ejemplo, eran especialmente óptimas en esos tiempos para expresar a través de ellas las inquietudes políticas de orden general.56

However, now that the dramatists and novelists were free to speak clearly about politics, so too were journalists, and it was generally accepted that the news media were best placed to communicate information about social and political issues. After the advent of democracy in Spain, the theatre no longer needed to take on the role that it had adopted when the press was not free. Nonetheless, the question then arises of how free the press was, and is, in democratic Spain, or indeed in any modern democracy. The control of the media, an insidious form of ideological control in a democratic state, is a topic that features in Buero’s play Música cercana. Further links between corrupt politicians and powerful business and banking corporations are mentioned in other Buero plays of the post-Franco era. The dramatist warned that this concentration of power is complemented by a powerful capacity for influencing public opinion and noted that democracy in Spain, as elsewhere, saw the creation of a new and powerful elite and a new underclass. This new elite was drawn from the world of banking and business and had close symbiotic links with politicians. In Spain, the ruling party controlled much of the media in the initial democratic period. Later, when the media expanded, it was still controlled by small elite groups. Suárez had been the Director General of Radio Televisión Española (RTVE) under Franco, and the opposition, recognizing the opportunity that this presented for media manipulation by the head of government, demanded that a body be established to monitor it. This was done, but the Consejo Rector was government-appointed and inevitably favoured the rulers of the day. However, when the Socialists came to power in 1982, they merely weighted the system in their own favour. Yet some degree of criticism was always to be allowed, and even encouraged, for without it the myth of objectivity would be betrayed. Buero highlighted in Música cercana, among other things, the insidious power of the propagators of a new ideology for a new ruling elite. 55 Alberto Cañagueral, ‘Entrevista con Manuel Abellán: “He bajado a los sótanos de la censura y lo he fotocopiado todo” ’, Actual, 8 October 1982, pp. 78–83 (p. 83). 56 Fernando G. Delgado, ‘Cuando la obra y el testimonio van juntos. Antonio Buero Vallejo: “Todos hemos sido víctimas” ’, Ínsula, no. 361 (1976), 4.

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Previously Silenced Plays and the Pacto de olvido There were great expectations for the theatre in the post-Franco era. Many believed that the theatre of protest, which had been censored or prohibited during the Franco years, as well as the theatre that had never been written or published because of the repressive atmosphere, would conquer the stage, creating a vibrant theatre scene and ending the dominance of the theatre of evasion. Others correctly judged that these expectations were misplaced and were not surprised when a theatre crisis was soon diagnosed. Ricard Salvat was one of those who anticipated that the disappearance of censorship would result in a new Golden Age of theatre: ‘Nadie puede negar que las mejores obras de la generación realista están por estrenar.’57 This did not happen. Frank P. Casa said of the 1976–77 theatre season that it was ‘almost a retrospective of Spanish theater of exiles and banned authors’.58 While this description may be correct, the trend was shortlived. A number of plays that had been banned previously were produced; many of them, however, were not wellreceived and were considered by audiences to be old-fashioned or irrelevant in the new era of greater freedom. According to Ragué Arias, in the late 1970s ‘la democracia parecía dejar sin objetivo a los grupos de teatro independiente’, many of whom had earlier been part of the theatre of opposition.59 In general, the dramatists who survived into the post-Franco era were those who had registered their protest in Spain, under Franco. Many returning exiles were not well-received. Hence, expectations that the new political situation would lead to a new, freer, more open style of literature were only partially fulfilled. Buero wrote: Natural es que, ante la «nueva» situación española, fuera y dentro se propenda a pensar que el estilo oblicuo deje paso a nuevas formas de escribir y no diré que no vaya a suceder algo de eso; pero quizá no con el alcance que se supone. No olvidemos que, con censura o sin ella, bajo la dictadura y bajo la libertad (relativa), la oblicuidad, en sus diversos grados, suele ser condición intrínseca de la obra de arte. (O.C. II: 487–8)

Some historical dramas, which had been prohibited during the Franco years, were quite successful in the immediate aftermath of the dictator’s death, but they were no guarantee of continued success for any author. In addition, drama dealing with the Franco period as history enjoyed brief success, and Fernando Fernán Gómez’s play Las bicicletas son para el verano, which won the Lope de Vega prize in 1977, proved very popular when staged in 1982. This play dealt with the Civil War in an overt manner, and its acceptance was a sign of how the times had changed. In Una cultura en crisis, p. 186. Frank P. Casa, ‘The Assimilation of Ramón del Valle-Inclán’s Dramas into Contemporary Spanish Theater’, in The Contemporary Spanish Theater: A Collection of Critical Essays, ed. by Martha T. Halsey and Phyllis Zatlin (Lanham: University of America Press, 1988), pp. 163–82 (pp. 171–2). 59 Ragué Arias, El teatro de fin de milenio, p. 60. 57

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Buero’s 1977 play La detonación, in which he dealt with censorship and transition politics, was also successful. Despite being set in the nineteenth century, the parallels between the action in the play and 1970s Spain were obvious. Other asignaturas pendientes included Alberti’s Noche de Guerra en el Museo de Prado, written in 1956 and finally staged in Spain in 1978, and Muñiz’s Tragicomedia del Serenísimo Príncipe Don Carlos, which was banned in 1972 and successfully revived in 1980. Martín Recuerda’s El engañao, banned in 1972, was staged in 1981, and his Las arrecogías del Beaterio Santa María Egipciaca had successful runs in both 1977 and 1978. Further successes included two plays by Rodríguez Méndez. Bodas que fueron famosas del Pingajo y la Fandanga and Flor de otoño, which had been prohibited in 1965 and 1973, respectively, were produced in 1978 and 1982. Valle-Inclán’s Los cuernos de don Friolera was revived to great critical acclaim in 1976 after a lengthy prohibition. However Lauro Olmo’s earlier-banned La condecoración was not well-received when produced in 1977. According to Farris Anderson, writing in 1978, the staging of previously silenced works ‘has been successful only in so far as it has established the political viability of plays previously excluded from the stage. From an artistic, critical, or commercial standpoint, these productions have generally not been successful.’60 As Berenguer put it: El teatro politico más directamente ligado a la tradición de la escena realista social que se oponía a la dictadura encuentra un eco muy diferente en la cambiante escena política. El público, como la sociedad, está cambiando y sigue con diferente interés las propuestas escénicas que tienen resonancica política. La libertad de expresión en el Congreso de la Transición Política sustituye a la mordaza dictatorial que convertía los scenarios teatrales en tribunas políticas e ideológicas durante la Era de Franco. El lugar público y la influencia de muchos autores (algunos irán desde la oposición a la marginación) empieza a manifestarse a través de los mecanismos del Mercado y, de modo incipiente, de las actuaciones subvencionadoras del poder público (mucho más acusadas, quizás por el carácter transitorio de este período, entre los partidos que ocuparán el poder, desde 1982).61

Although he received the Premio Nacional de Teatro in 1986 and his earlierprohibited La sangre y la ceniza: Diálogos de Miguel Servet (1965) was a minor success when staged in 1977, Alfonso Sastre did not enjoy lasting theatrical success in the democratic era. The large theatre companies generally ignored him. Sastre, who had been one of the most respected and outspoken revolutionary dramatists of the Franco era, chose voluntary exile from his homeland in the democratic period, although he later returned to Spain. Moreover, he left the PCE and 60 ‘The Madrid Theatre Season, 1976–77: Problems of Transition’, Estreno, 4 (no. 1, 1978), 8–11 (p. 9). 61 Ángel Berenguer and Manuel Pérez, Tendencias del teatro español durante la transición política (1975–1982), Historia del teatro español del siglo XX, IV (Madrid: Biblioteca Nueva, 1998), p. 156.

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focused his interest on the radical politics of the Basque country. Arrabal too, despite the fact that six of his dramas had their Spanish premières between 1975 and 1978, failed to live up to expectations. It is undeniable that he now enjoys a certain celebrity, or notoriety, in Spanish theatre circles, but his work is rarely staged in contemporary Spain, though his other writing has enjoyed considerable success.62 In the immediate post-Franco era, politics became the nation’s favourite spectator sport and other modes of entertainment seemed unimportant in comparison. Yet there was another trend associated with the destape and the revived interest in progressive politics, and this was a determination to leave the past behind. Martín Iniesta denounced the ‘pacto de silencio’ that followed the dictator’s death and criticized the collective resolve to forget the past.63 It was this pacto de olvido that allowed members of the Francoist hegemony to lead the democratization process and retain power and positions of privilege and influence. It is this same denial of the recent past and of responsibility for past crimes that Buero criticized in his post-Franco plays. Buero Vallejo’s Jueces en la noche, which deals with Spain’s transition to democracy, proved unpopular with some critics who did not wish to be reminded of the problems, rooted in the recent past, which were still present in the newly democratized Spain. The protagonist is an opportunistic Minister from the Franco era, who has reinvented himself as a life-long democrat in order to satisfy his craving for power and maintain his position of privilege. Moreover, the play’s right-wing plot to discredit the left and restore power to the former elite, anticipates the events of 23-F. Once again, the Spanish people had resolved not to deal with the past and, as Buero suggested in plays like Las trampas del azar, they are thus likely to repeat its errors. Hence, as in earlier plays, in much of his post-Franco theatre the negative actions of characters are rooted in their unwillingness to face up to the past and to accept responsibility for their earlier actions or inaction. It was a theme that continued to cause problems for the dramatist in post-Franco Spain, and he was condemned for dredging up a past that others were determined to put behind them: Buero, poco a poco, nos ha ido obligando a tener que enfrentarnos con nuestra historia pasada, reciente e incluso inmediata. Cada vez más ha ido usando el elemento onírico como procedimiento narrativo. Ha ido potenciando y, por lo general lo ha logrado, el carácter imaginativo de su narrativa escénica. De ahí, quizás, que sus últimas obras, las que hablan de lo que suceden en días más recientes, hayan vuelto a sufrir tantos ataques, unos ataques que uno a veces no entiende y, claro está, no puede aceptar, porque nos recuerdan actitudes de épocas pasadas.64

62 Arrabal was finally awarded the Premio Nacional de Teatro in 2001, and the production in 2002 of Carta de amor (como un suplicio chino), by the Centro Dramático Nacional, may be the start of a new trend. 63 Martín Iniesta, ‘Teatro español en la democracia’, pp. 96–8. 64 Salvat, ‘El lenguaje escénico’, p. 39.

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Officially, censorship was gone, and there was no longer a single focus for protest as there had been under Franco. Consequently the theatre of protest was not considered to be as relevant as it had been during the Franco years. Nonetheless, a dramatist criticized for being a moderado during the Franco period and who continued to make similar criticisms of Spanish society in the democratic era instead of rejoicing in her liberalism, was not always popular. It is interesting to note that even Buero’s last play, Misión al pueblo desierto (1999), also deals with the Civil War and the largely forgotten Junta de Protección del Tesoro Artístico. The type of drama that Buero Vallejo continued to write and his enduring stress on the need to recognize and challenge the ideological and hegemonic structures of Spanish society put him at odds with the most recent generations of Spanish dramatists. At the Congreso Internacional Autor Teatral y Siglo XX in 1998, the younger dramatists stressed that theirs was a drama written in freedom, and they highlighted their lack of ideology. Antonio Onetti even claimed that, when he began his career, he felt that he had arrived too late. Thus, while others heralded the end of ideology with the end of Francoism and, in their understandable desire to progress, chose to ignore their unresolved past, Buero continued to demand accountability and remembering. He also demonstrated the emergence of a new, progressive ideology that, despite its association with the new, progressive Spain, was reminiscent in many respects of the previous regime’s ideology. He further implied that it was associated with, and of benefit to, many of the same people. Echoing Buero Vallejo, Cabal draws similar conclusions: El teatro te ofrece la posibilidad de mostrarle a la gente que no somos como creemos ser, que el mundo está lleno de ideologías, de señales sobre los espectadores del mundo en las que el poder nos explica cómo somos y nos hace comulgar con ruedas de molino; y el teatro puede mostrar que no es verdad.65

For some it was an unwelcome message.

65

Ragué Arias, El teatro de fin de milenio, p. 177.

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The Post-Franco Theatre of Buero Vallejo The Post-Franco Plays El mundo todo es máscaras. Todo el año es Carnaval.1

It could be argued that once the transition to democracy had begun, Buero Vallejo and other writers of the opposition had no focus for their committed literature. The notion that the committed writers were somehow out of date, however, rests on the belief that post-Franco Spain was an open, liberated, ideology-free society. Buero disagreed and continued to use his theatre to deliver a critique of society. While it is undeniable that, after the end of Francoism, the central focus for his denunciations was no longer there, Buero did not redefine his role in the light of the transition but rather continued to view his function as that of the traditional intellectual in society, highlighting the new forms of censorship, propaganda and inequality to be found there. At the centre of his post-Franco theatre remained the twin preoccupations of accountability and remembering. He was also concerned to account for his own past actions, that is, to vindicate his oft-criticized posibilismo at a time when some were saying that his work was no longer relevant. This is nowhere more evident than in his extremely motivated portrait of Larra as heroic posibilista in La detonación. In his post-Franco theatre, Buero argued for an abandonment of the pacto de olvido and for the need to confront the past. He returned to the themes of myth and history; the history referred to is recent Spanish history, and a new mythology falsifies a new reality. The pacto de olvido forms an important part of this latest mystification. Buero was quite obviously disillusioned with modern Spain, and these plays are notably more pessimistic than earlier ones. An opportunity for answerability and remembering has been deliberately ignored in the name of progress. This new Spain, based on the contradictory ruptura pactada, is portrayed as a myth that distorts the reality of continuismo. The notion that modern Spanish society is wholly democratic, given its origins and its denial of the past, is exposed as yet another mystification. Yet Buero himself was again contradictory. One of the more troublesome facts about Buero’s post-Franco theatre is that, while condemning the latest, more insidious forms of mystification that disguise new ideologies in society, he engaged in his own form of

1 Mariano José de Larra, Artículos, ed. by Enrique Rubio, 9th edn (Madrid: Cátedra, 1990), p. 203.

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mystification of the recent past or, more specifically, of a certain spirit of opposition, now absent. During the transition to democracy, Buero’s plays warned against hypocritical and turncoat politicians whose lust for power seemed greater than their desire for genuine democracy. The plays discuss the motives of those in power and challenge the spectator to open his eyes to political and social reality. Buero’s concern for responsibility and accountability became more pronounced as characters are tormented by a past that they refuse to acknowledge or which they seek to deny or manipulate to suit present needs. This lack of accountability for past actions or inaction is the root of their downfall. Buero’s dream of a socialist Spain, which for a while promised fulfilment, was another myth, and the dramatist’s disillusionment with the socialism of the PSOE is evident from the dramas written during their period in office. He endeavoured to demystify the corruption, intrigue and glamour of the 1980s’ boom in Spain. Clearly Buero believed that the ideals for which his heroes had struggled against the oppressive rules of Fernando VII (El sueño de la razón), Felipe IV (Las Meninas), Valindin (El concierto de San Ovidio) and Ulises (La tejedora de sueños) were betrayed, as the majority of Spaniards sought to forget the past. The plays of the transition period, La Fundación, La detonación and Jueces en la noche, caution against the ease with which a new Foundation can be constructed and the facility with which people blindly enter it, believing themselves to be free. La detonación demonstrates how a mask of liberalism can hide the same face that had ruled before. Socialism is dead; solidarity, where it exists in this modern Spain, is found among the corrupt who, by defending each other, protect themselves. The only one to recognize and criticize this ‘solidaridad en el basurero’ is Gaspar in Diálogo secreto, an aged revolutionary in the mould of Asel from La Fundación (O.C. I: 1855). Freedoms for which many struggled and suffered are no longer valued or respected; the revolutionary spirit may live on in the youth of other countries, but it has expired in Spain. The only real non-conformists in modern Spanish society are old men such as Gaspar and Salustiano (Las trampas del azar), who clearly belong to another epoch. The Spain Buero depicted is an opulent and luxurious new Foundation that is rotten to the core. There has been no accountability for past misdeeds, and the opportunists prosper freely in the brave new world they have created. The people of the new Spain not only accept, but also aspire to, the latest Foundation and the comfort it represents, and they have closed their eyes to the corruption that lies beneath the veneer of contentment. Like the Foundation from 1974, it is superficially attractive, but difficult to escape. The tragedy of this one, however, is that it was not imposed but rather consciously created. Recurrence of past mistakes is reflected in the repetition of generations in the post-Franco plays, particularly in Las trampas del azar, but also to some extent in Música cercana. Repetition is also a feature of La detonación, as one government replaces another with little real change in evidence. Buero reiterated themes and characters, and even actors, to stress the repetition of errors that all are engaged in. In Las trampas del azar, he returned to the themes of responsibility

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and free will, as well as dealing again with impatience, which was a theme in La detonación also. The character Patricia, who is similar to Verónica from Llegada de los dioses, ‘lleva implícita en sí la crítica a cuantos han caído – a diferencia de ella – en un mal posibilismo a través de dejaciones acomodaticias y provechosas’.2 O’Connor points out that, unusually for a Buero play, the misfortune in Las trampas del azar is the result of fate or coincidence, and not of man’s actions.3 She fails to acknowledge, however, that later the characters make choices that are based on free will rather than fate. Buero did not excuse characters their actions because they were rooted in an initial unforeseen misfortune but rather criticized them, much as he did Vicente in El tragaluz, for their failure to take responsibility for later actions and for the willingness with which they blame fate for their own shortcomings. He experimented with the notion of karma, which sees the moral effect of, and final accountability for, past actions in the next life, if not in this one. Recibiendo su justo castigo en esta dimensión, como no la recibió en la anterior, Gabriel empieza a percibir los horrores de la guerra causados por su egoísmo al oír el llanto desgarrador de un niño. Aunque no ha visto en vida la violencia que hizo posible su laboratorio, invade su conciencia ahora la verdad: que por sus decisiones, incontables niños han sido víctimas de las guerras y miles de niñas han sido violadas.4

Yet this outcome also signals that there is little hope for a defeat of the pacto de olvido: accountability has moved from this life to the next. Buero did not respect those whose haste to progress lead them to a betrayal of their better selves and of what he perceived as their duty to society. In some ways he was less naïve than those writers who thought they could inspire revolution with their words, yet he too revealed a certain naïveté in his hope that his audience would recognize themselves in his work and chose accountability over the pacto de olvido. Although his post-Franco plays were generally well-received by the public, many of the established critics were less than enthusiastic. Doménech goes so far as to write that ‘la prensa española lo silenciará sistemáticamente’.5 Iglesias

2 Patricia W. O’Connor, ‘La sincronicidad en dos obras acrónicas’, in Leyra, co-ord., Antonio Buero Vallejo: literatura, pp. 129–39 (p. 135). 3 Patricia W. O’Connor, ‘Las trampas del azar: ¿unas coincidencias significantes?’, Estreno, 21 (no. 2, 1995), 5–6. This is also the case, albeit less obviously, in other works such as El concierto de San Ovidio where David’s blindness is the result of an unfortunate accident. 4 O’Connor, ‘La sincronicidad’, p. 138. Similarly, Juan Luis Palacios assumes his guilt in his dreams, but not in his conscious reality. 5 Doménech, El teatro, p. 21. On the backlash against Jueces en la noche, Derek Gagen wrote: ‘Según Alberto Miralles, los partidos políticos temían provocar a la ultraderecha y por eso impedían el desarrollo de un teatro agresivo a través del proceso que denomina “la progresiva domesticación de la vanguardia teatral”.’ ‘Conciencia individual y colectiva en Jueces en la noche’, in El teatro de Buero Vallejo: homenaje, pp. 71–84 (p. 76).

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Feijoo, too, notes that Buero’s comments on the new Spain were unwelcome in certain quarters: En la última década, [. . .] no ha dejado de estar latente un cierto disgusto entre parte de la crítica y el público ante la permanente subida a la escena de problemas concretos de la realidad contemporánea, como si se sugiriera que la normalización democrática de la vida española ya no justificase su tratamiento en el teatro.6

He also comments that the criticism of Buero’s continued commitment in his theatre often betrayed a hypocrisy on the part of the critic, as: ‘En los primeros diez años de su vida de autor no faltaron quienes consideraban tal ingrediente escaso o insuficiente ante la urgente demanda de un arte más explícito o intervencionalista.’ Yet there were others who welcomed Buero’s refusal to embrace the pacto de olvido. Ricard Salvat praises the dramatist’s insistence on raising the issues of Spain’s recent history in La doble historia del doctor Valmy and later in Lázaro en el laberinto. Se fue haciendo como un silencio, como un vacío entre el público, se creó un clima de tensión e incomodidad como si todos nos dijéramos: ‘Ya era hora de que alguien se atreviera a hablar de este tema tabú y a decirnos y recordarnos que en este país se torturó’. Algo parecido me ha sucedido recientemente al ver Lázaro en el laberinto, donde también no pude menos que admirarme porque por fin, en uno de nuestros escenarios se hablaba de la muerte absurda, por lo absolutamente innecesaria, de uno de nuestros estudiantes, uno de tantos.7

Fernando Martín Iniesta, too, notes Buero’s determination to expose the mystification process in evidence during the period of transition: ‘Que nos echen la basura a la boca es algo que a nadie nos gusta. Es lógica la reacción que ante Jueces en la noche han tenido determinados sectores de la clase intelectual, que nos circunda y, cuando puede, nos asfixia.’8 Jueces en la noche had a short run of only two months. Buero said of it: ‘el argumento molestó’, and the company withdrew it as soon as they had covered their costs.9 Earlier, when the play was

6 Luis Iglesias Feijoo, ‘Buero Vallejo: un teatro crítico’, in El teatro de Buero Vallejo: texto, pp. 70–88 (p. 71). 7 Salvat, ‘El lenguaje escénico’, p. 39. 8 Quoted by Alberto González Vergel in ‘Mis montajes de Buero Vallejo’, in Buero Vallejo: cuarenta años, pp. 61–4 (p. 64). González Vergel then added: ‘Me parece un juicio elocuente y certero, que alude, sin duda, a la “inoportunidad” de aquel estreno, en aquel momento determinado de nuestra transición política.’ 9 De los Reyes, ‘Comentarios’, p. 21. Phyllis Zatlin Boring commented: ‘Buero’s Jueces en la noche in the Fall of 1979 unleashed a violent reaction, mostly political. [. . .] Buero was attacked from Right and Left as an opportunist.’ ‘Theatre in Madrid: The Difficult Transition to Democracy’, Theatre Journal, 32 (no. 4, 1980), 459–74 (p. 469).

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still running, Buero responded to an anonymous article in ABC, which criticized Jueces en la noche and claimed that, ‘A Buero le iba mejor con la censura’: Pues se trata, ya lo habrá venteado el lector sagaz, del empeño en decir «no» a esta obra, por razones obvias para quien la conozca, aunque el público diga «sí». [. . .] Hay maneras bastante más graves de dañar la continuidad de un éxito que la de ese articulillo, y también se están intentando. (O.C. II: 504)

Apparently they succeeded. In his later theatre, Buero also took the opportunity, most notably in La detonación, to claim vindication for his posibilismo. In Lázaro en el laberinto, Germán’s words to Amparo are an echo of those received by Buero himself with regard to his tendency to obscurity and subjective individualism.10 Here, Buero revealed the critic’s words to be motivated by selfish interests, as he did in La detonación and Diálogo secreto also.

La detonación: A Vindication of Posibilismo? La detonación is the dramatization of José Mariano de Larra’s flashback of his life in the moments up to his suicide on 13 February 1837. It is a political drama about a period of transition and was written during a later transition period. In it Buero explored not only the political parallels with his own time, but also the role of the artist with regard to censorship and posibilismo. Larra’s impatience at the slow pace of change and the seemingly endless repetition of past mistakes lead to his despair and death. The play also examines the writer’s relationship with the pueblo and suggests, by Larra’s admission to Pedro, that he did not always treat him fairly. It is clear from their Christmas Eve dialogue that Larra, through his arrogant sense of superiority, failed to acknowledge the suffering of the pueblo. Pedro confronts him with his own words: Aquí dice que yo soy un animal que solo sabe comer y dormir y que, si no soy feliz, tampoco soy desgraciado. (Mira a su señor.) Como si un criado fuese menos que un perro. Y como si las penas fueran sólo cosa de gente fina. (Larra se acerca al velador y se sienta, eludiendo la mirada del criado.) (O.C. I: 1600)

Pedro reminds him that ‘los pobres vamos a la Guerra. Ustedes, no’ and says, ‘Sepa que ese artículo me ha hecho daño. Yo no soy un animal.’ (O.C. I: 1602). Yet Pedro, despite his suffering, insists ‘hay que vivir’ (O.C. I: 1605). Indeed it is Pedro, as a symbol of his conscience, that Larra relies on in his last moments. After the final shot, Pedro’s final words to the audience ask if his accusations 10 ‘Quiero decir que la literatura no contribuirá a un cambio social positivo si se empantana en conflictos individuales’ (O.C. I: 1919).

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might not have caused Larra to despair: ‘Yo vi que su cara se volvía blanca al decirle que ellos no iban a la Guerra . . . A veces pienso si no lo maté yo’ (O.C. I: 1617). Buero, through Larra, was perhaps apologising for his own distance from and failure to empathize completely with the pueblo; unlike Larra, however, Buero assumes some of the wisdom of the older Pedro, who knew ‘que es menester un aguante inagotable’ (O.C. I: 1617). La detonación is among the most significant of Buero’s plays, for it contains a deliberate and skilful attempt by the author to vindicate his position as a writer under Franco. In the drama he took the opportunity to reiterate his stance in the posibilismo–imposibilismo debate, using the experiences and writings of Larra to validate his choice. The play was successful and ran for over two hundred performances but Buero’s appropriation and mythification of the nineteenth-century writer was denounced by some critics. The dramatist himself acknowledged that: ‘Quizá nunca una obra mía ha recibido crítica más dividida: elogios enormes y condenas absolutas, o casi’ (O.C. II: 489). In the play Buero also analysed the difficulties of political transition and warned against the facile acceptance of a pleasant-sounding myth that is nothing but cosmetic change, which continues to falsify and distort reality. It is also a play that elaborates on the ideological links between culture and the state. The choice of author and setting for this play was certainly motivated by the author’s intentions. The fact that he returned to history was also self-justifying, lending weight to the dramatist’s argument that his choice of a historical setting in earlier plays was for artistic reasons and not, as it had been suggested, merely as a means of evading censorship. Buero revisited the nineteenth century to comment on contemporary Spain and his own role in recent Spanish history: Es una etapa que tiene bastante parecido con la actual. Fue también una etapa de transición política desde el absolutismo de Fernando VII, que podría en alguna medida compararse con la dictadura de Franco, a través de unos gobiernos tibiamente liberales que no daban la medida necesaria en aquella época para lograr la modernización de España, que representaron fracasos políticos más o menos parecidos a los de la época del franquismo y a los posteriores en la transición, y en los que se mantuvo un absolutismo residual semejante a ciertos residuos del franquismo que aún se observan.11

The parallels between the two periods of transition are obvious, and Buero counselled against the repetition of mistakes made during the transition from the authoritarian regime of Fernando VII to the more liberal Regency of María Cristina, which in the play is portrayed as a betrayal of liberal aspirations. When La detonación was written the censorship legislation was still in place, as were the censors. In the play, as in the reality, the changes in government do not result in the hoped-for legislative reforms; indeed censorship continues, ‘para no perjudicar las reformas’ (O.C. I: 1547). Even the more lenient Ministers merely 11

Buero Vallejo in Gabriel de los Reyes, ‘Comentarios’, p. 22.

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adapt it to suit their own needs. Promises are broken and dreams of liberalization are shattered. The so-called liberals betray the same elitist attitude towards the pueblo as their predecessors. Echoing the sentiments of Ensenada in Un soñador para un pueblo and many integristas of the Franco regime, Mendizábal claims: ‘La plebe es ignorante. Darle hoy el voto sería el caos’ (O.C. I: 1585). The Ministers are notable for their similarity to each other, despite loudly proclaimed changes in policies and governments. In fact the same actor plays the parts of Calomarde, Cea Bermúdez, Martínez de la Rosa, Mendizábal, Istúriz and Calatrava.12 In addition, though Calomarde, Cea Bermúdez and Martínez de la Rosa wear different masks, and claim to represent different ideologies, they wear the same uniform. Hence they represent the continuismo that for a while seemed inevitable after the death of Franco. The favouritism shown to members of the ruling elite of Francoism by the supposed democrats of the transition governments is paralleled in the drama by the actions of Mendizábal and Istúriz. The modes of censorship employed by the various Ministers in their dealings with opponents do not change with each government transition. Similarly, the early post-Franco years saw little change in governments’ manner of dealing with dissidents. While Buero did not attempt to excuse the terrorist activity of Spain, he did attack the official terrorism of the military and the police, which was seemingly condoned by the government. It is worth noting that government terrorism or counter-terrorism continued to be an issue in Spain long after the transition to democracy was supposedly completed. The play contains criticisms of the reliance on the repressive state apparatuses to protect change, and Buero called into question the commitment of some former Francoists leading the reform in 1970s Spain. The play advises that serious consequences may arise from a failure to embrace ruptura and the limitations necessarily implied by a policy of ruptura pactada. In the play, Larra criticizes successive governments’ failure to address adequately the issue of the fueros of the Basques, leading to Basque support for the Carlist pretender, which, in turn, prolonged the conflict. A similar drama was being played out in the transition period when the government was slow to deal with regional autonomy. Its reluctance to move on the issue resulted in an escalation of terrorist activity, and the government responded with heavy-handed measures in the Basque country. The setting for much of the dramatic action, El Parnasillo, was also carefully chosen. It was, according to Puente Samaniego, a product of the epoch: ‘Su origen sólo puede explicarse por la falta de libertad para formación de grupos y asociaciones libres en época de represión política. Precisamente reaparecieron las tertulias durante el reinado de Fernando VII.’13 It had its parallels in Buero’s time also, as the right to demonstrate and hold meetings was not granted until May 1976. Moreover, the reaction of those in El Parnasillo to the death of Fernando VII reflects 12 Furthermore, the same actor plays the roles of Cambronero and General Cabrera, and the same actress plays Pepita Wetoret and Dolores Armijo. 13 Pilar de la Puente Samaniego, A. Buero Vallejo: proceso a la historia de España (Salamanca: Salamanca University Press, 1988), p. 105.

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the debate that followed the death of Franco in 1975. One character proclaims: ‘Con Fernando VII vivíamos mejor’, adapting a popular catch-cry of those nostalgic for the days of Franco in the period after his death (O.C. I: 1591). La detonación, as Jueces en la noche would later, warns against the continued presence of those whose nostalgia for the previous regime could be harnessed by reactionaries. The choice of the nineteenth-century setting was thus important for what Buero wished to say about the transition. Yet the choice of protagonist was even more significant. In La detonación, Buero drew questionable parallels between himself and Larra in order to justify his own performance as a writer under Franco. Larra was viewed by some committed writers to have been a valuable and successful critic of Spanish society, a role that Buero certainly aspired to. Juan Goytisolo claims that the example of Larra was relevant to the Francoist period. Goytisolo, hailed as one of the arch-demystifiers by the most radical of the literary opposition, considered Larra to be one also: ‘Durante su corta existencia Larra llevó a cabo una ingente obra de demistificación que, por desgracia, no ha tenido seguidores de talla’.14 In La detonación, Buero set himself up as this very ‘seguidor de talla’. By supporting his own stance with Larra’s famous words, Buero claimed to have fulfilled a similar role in Francoist Spain. Yet Buero took his argument further, and included in his dramatic portrait the claim that Larra was a posibilista, less extreme, and more successful for it, than some of his apparently more radical contemporaries. Moreover, Buero implied that he went further than Larra did. Referring to Larra, David Johnston comments: ‘Sus limitaciones personales le hacen desanimarse ante el callejón sin salida de la historia patria, ante la imposibilidad de comunicar la verdad.’15 Buero, in contrast, was patient and did not give up hope. The lack of political progress in Spain led to a pessimism evident in Larra’s later works and a disenchantment with politicians of all hues. Ilie writes: ‘During these final months, Larra represented his reality as a bad dream, filled with absurdity and madness. He stratified his perception of reality, superimposing private desperation upon public conflict.’16 As in his other historical dramas, it is this mix of public and private that Buero staged in his depiction of Larra’s final nightmare. Buero stated: ‘La decisión del suicidio está determinada por toda la historia española anterior y el desencanto que sufre este escritor por el «impasse» que padece España, en todas sus instituciones, en aquel momento.’17 The point implicit here is that Buero, unlike Larra, refused to relinquish all hope. It is notable, however, that a similar disillusionment with post-Franco politics is evident in the later works of Buero. Buero used the play as an opportunity to justify the stance he took regarding the previous regime and revisited the posibilismo controversy in order to Juan Goytisolo, ‘La actualidad de Larra’, El furgón, pp. 7–20 (p. 15). Johnston, ‘Posibles paralelos’, p. 359. 16 Paul Ilie, ‘Larra’s Nightmare’, Revista Hispánica Moderna, 38 (nos 1–2, 1974–75), 153–66 (p. 155). 17 De los Reyes, ‘Comentarios’, p. 21. 14 15

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vindicate himself. He explored the role of the intellectual in society as lived by Larra and his opponents, and had the characters find in his own favour. Yet, as was often the case with Buero, the play betrays an inherent contradiction. By appropriating Larra to demystify the process of transition to a more liberal form of government, Buero himself engaged in a mystification of the figure of Larra for his own motivated purpose. As Johnston puts it: ‘La misión del escritor es quitar caretas, promover ese cambio vital.’18 Buero, however, creates a mask for his fictional Larra. The parallels drawn between Buero’s Larra and the dramatist himself are many and have been the focus of some criticism. By justifying Larra’s determination to ‘hablar . . . sin hablar’, Buero was clearly, and some would say unfairly, justifying his own posibilista position (O.C. I: 1511). Fernández Torres is one critic who objected to Buero’s laying claim to Larra to acquit, or perhaps mystify, the dramatist’s own attitude: El tema central de la obra no es otro que la función social del intelectual en general y la orientación de su práctica en condiciones de opresión y dictadura, y en el tránsito desde esa situación hacia una posible o supuesta situación de libre expresión; el paralelo con la situación actual no puede ser más evidente – Buero Vallejo toma a Larra (mejor al personaje de Larra tal y como él lo concibe) como portador de su mensaje. Su no es el su de Larra, sino el su de Buero Vallejo. [. . .] No es, pues, una lógica interna de la obra la que provoca la acción y el movimiento de los personajes, sino una lógica externa: la dictada desde fuera por el propio Buero Vallejo, que obliga a los personajes a actuar en función directamente de sus concepciones políticas o ideológicas.19

In fact, he accused Buero of doing what the dramatist had previously criticized in others: employing fiction to further a particular cause, in this case the author’s own. In the play, Larra is accused of being a moderado by Clemente Díaz. Nonetheless, as Halsey notes, this is not the impression of Larra that Buero wishes to convey, but rather the opposite: ‘It is Larra who, like Buero himself, is the real revolutionary although branded a moderate by his enemies.’20 Buero demonstrated in the play that it is the ostensibly moderate Larra who is the most successful and influential critic of the regime, despite the more radical and provocative words of some of his contemporaries. Interestingly though, Ilie’s description of Larra can equally be applied to the posibilista Buero: ‘He opposed censorship on ideological grounds and fought it on the day to day journalistic

18 Johnston, ‘Posibles paralelos’, p. 359. In the play, most of the characters wear masks, and Larra is the one who unmasks them to reveal the truth. In his final despairing moments, perhaps reflective of his guilt for his treatment of Pedro and the pueblo, he sees his own face as a mask and fears that there will be nothing beneath it: ‘Quizá solo hay máscaras’ (O.C. I: 1616). 19 Alberto Fernández Torres, ‘La detonación de Antonio Buero Vallejo’, Ínsula, no. 372 (1977), 15. 20 Martha Halsey, ‘Larra, The Tragic Protagonist of La detonación’, Estreno, 4 (no. 1, 1978), 14 –15 (p. 14).

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level; yet he lived with the censors to the point where he could carve out a career and meet the required deadlines.’21 An important element of Buero’s vindication was thus his portrayal of the role of the intellectual in this play: If La detonación is a portrayal of a political period that closely parallels the present, it is also a reflection on the role of the committed intellectual in a repressive society. Like Velázquez of Las Meninas and Goya of El sueño de la razón, Buero’s Larra evinces the dramatist’s own passion for truth in a time of falsehood and deception.22

Buero’s Larra is another version of the dramatist himself, battling against the censors and bearing witness to times of great change. He suggested that the committed artist or writer must continue to question and challenge the powers that be, despite their seeming liberalism and commitment to reform. Buero again distinguished between posibilismo and self-censorship or collusion. Carnerero in the play is presented as a writer eager to collude, whose opportunism and pendulum loyalties ensure his survival and prosperity under many different masters. Mesonero writes in the costumbrista style that was popular at that time and guaranteed not to offend the regime or the censors, and in the play he advises Larra to adopt a similar style: ‘Haga reír, pero no enfade’ (O.C. I: 1517). A clear distinction is drawn between these two positions and that of Larra. A safe literary style is also advocated by Larra’s father who advises his son not to seek out the truth. He counsels him to be a coward in order to protect himself and warns: ‘Un descuido, una palabra imprudente y te desterrarán’ (O.C. I: 1510). Larra’s wife Pepita also advocates a similar version of self-censorship. She asks Larra, ‘¿Por qué no escribes como Mesonero? Estaríamos más tranquilos’ (O.C. I: 1539). Despite this pressure to conform, Larra chooses to write satires and criticisms of the regime, which might attract the unwelcome attention of the censor, but which allow him to fulfil the role of social commentator that he has chosen for himself. As O’Connor comments: ‘Aunque La detonación hace hincapié en los graves problemas que traen los regímenes represivos, Larra prueba que con talento y “cálculo”, se pueden superar algunos obstáculos a la libertad de expresión.’23 Thus Buero asserted that Larra, a posibilista in his own cast, was no coward. Not contented merely to appropriate the words and actions of Larra to defend his stance, Buero went on to employ other historical figures to exemplify the well-intentioned, but equivocal attitudes of Sastre and Arrabal, the other protagonists of the polemic.24 In his portrait of Espronceda, Buero criticized the

Ilie, ‘Larra’s Nightmare’, p. 164. Martha T. Halsey, ‘Dramatic Patterns in Three History Plays of Contemporary Spain’, Hispania, 71 (no. 1, 1988), 20–30 (p. 22). 23 O’Connor, Antonio Buero Vallejo en sus espejos, p. 129. 24 ‘Rejecting the position, not only of those writers who collaborate with a repressive regime, but of those who remain silent when unable to speak clearly and of those who provoke 21 22

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returned exiles who presumed to tell those who had remained in Spain how to write or indeed how to interpret the politics of the day. The stance adopted by Espronceda in his dealings with the politicians and censors is more provocative than that of Larra, and when the censors prohibit the publication of certain articles, Espronceda decides to publish a blank copy of El Siglo as a damning indictment of censorship. Larra warns him against the move which, he predicts, will bring the author further punishment, but his advice is ignored. Larra is proven correct, however, and his own more careful attitude is vindicated. Nonetheless, Larra betrays a certain admiration of the other writer’s tenacious action, although he would not have taken it himself, being more wary of the consequences. He defends Espronceda in an essay entitled ‘El Siglo en blanco’. This parallels Buero’s claims to have defended authors such as Sastre and Arrabal, whose methods he questioned, but whose right to speak he supported. Yet it is interesting to consider how far Larra’s posibilismo extends. This character, who was chosen to defend Buero’s position, is prepared to use his father’s connections to further his own ends; Buero himself always denied having a protector. While commercial success in the post-Franco theatre could be used as a measure of the correctness of Buero’s position, it would be an oversimplification of the debate.25 Buero’s employment of Larra and his contemporaries to vindicate his own position almost a century later is problematic. There is a danger that with this portrait, Buero created more a weighty vehicle for his own beliefs and values than an authentic representation of Larra. He went further than he did with his fictional Velázquez or Esquilache, whose possible motivations are explicable and acceptable within the arena of historical fiction. Here Buero’s portrait of the imposibilista Clemente Díaz was a reductio ad absurdum of the debate. His conversion of Larra’s main critic from radical opponent of a repressive censorial regime to enthusiastic censor in a later, but similarly repressive social order, amounted to little more than point scoring. As Fernández Torres commented: ‘Eso equivale a tomarse todas las ventajas ante el público a la hora de exponer la polémica.’26 Clemente Díaz’s self-righteous silence and claim: ‘Hay que hablar claro o callarse,’ was not supported by Buero or by his fictional Larra (O.C. I: 1546). Díaz attacks Larra for his veiled criticisms and for not being sufficiently radical, confrontations that prove suicidal, Larra maintains that the responsible writer must practice the art of the possible, resorting, if necessary, to literary conventions or masks – always effective weapons in difficult times.’ Halsey, ‘Dramatic Patterns’, p. 22. It could also be argued that Mesonero represents Paso. 25 Sastre’s La sangre y la ceniza and Buero’s La detonación were both premiered in 1977, the former in the Igualada in January and the latter in the Teatro Bellas Artes in September: ‘Las fechas y los lugares dicen bastante por sí mismos. Los dos autores más claramente antifranquistas de los años cincuenta volvieron a ilustrar sus distintas posiciones en este momento. Cada uno, a su forma, víctima de las circunstancias. Siempre he creído que su antagonismo pudo ser evitado. Lo que les separó – el éxito o el fracaso – les era, en el fondo, bastante ajeno.’ Marsillach, ‘Cinco años’, p. 221. 26 Fernández Torres, ‘La detonación’, p. 15.

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accusations familiar to Buero. Buero depicted him, and by extension his other critics, as self-censored revolutionaries in waiting, engaged in a radical fantasy that does no real good. But Larra’s, and by extension Buero’s, protest is also problematical. That he was opposed to the ruling ideology is unquestionable; the degree and nature of this opposition, however, are not so easy to classify. The ambiguity of Buero’s chosen stance is only amplified by the dramatist’s insistence that his was the only way to deal judiciously with censorship. The appropriation of the language of another writer to defend his own silences in La detonación cannot be overlooked. Buero wrote in similar, but by no means equal, circumstances. In his first play written after Franco, Buero used his voice to distinguish between his own selective silence and the self-imposed and selfdefeating silence of Díaz and the final silence chosen by Larra. Buero also took the opportunity to re-examine officially imposed silence in the form of censorship. The symbolic figure of Don Homobono prevails, despite the changes in administration, and he serves each new master with the same enthusiasm. He first appeared in an article about censorship published in 1955 in which Buero wrote: ‘El severo señor analiza el argumento con increíble sutileza y descubre que está lleno de veneno’ (O.C. II: 603). In La detonación he is largely unchanged, still sycophantic and sly in his dealings with both writers and masters, and still capable of uncovering veiled allusions to the rulers of the day in the works submitted for his scrutiny. He claims to be working for the good of Spain, as did the censors of Franco’s regime, and his passion for his work is highlighted in the stage directions that note: ‘tacha con voluptuosidad’ (O.C. I: 1511). When he informs Larra of the prohibition of the sixth edition of El duende satírico del día, he takes no blame, telling the author: ‘Yo siempre defiendo a los escritores jóvenes’ (O.C. I: 1527). Similarly, once Calomarde is gone, Don Homobono switches allegiances and also tells the writers in El Parnasillo of his efforts on their behalf: ‘Yo . . . me he pasado la vida dulcificando las mutilaciones que ese hombre exigía en los escritos de ustedes.’ (O.C. I: 1544). Buero’s opinion of the official censorship of the Franco regime was thus elucidated, and he rejected the claim of some censors that they were attempting to soften the blow and in some way protecting the writers from their own excesses. Buero also revisited Church censorship in the play, and again the verdict is harsh. Padre Froilán, who is little more than a reactionary fool, is portrayed as being nostalgic for absolutism. In the play, the new, liberalized Church is represented by Padre Gallego, a returned exile and supporter of Martínez de la Rosa. When the regime changes, Larra quickly realizes that censorship remains much the same. Under Cea Bermúdez he discovers that ‘lo que no se puede decir, no se debe decir’ and later under Martínez de la Rosa, ‘desde que tenemos una racional libertad de imprenta, apenas hay cosa racional que podamos racionalmente escribir’ (O.C. I: 1553, 1561). Larra also criticizes editorial censorship when Borrega refuses to accept articles critical of Mendizábal or Istúriz because his publication is pro-ministerial. It is legitimate to measure Antonio Buero Vallejo by political and ideological criteria, as he publicly declared himself to be a committed social writer and

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consistently linked his writing to his views on society. Nonetheless, the question remains of his degree of commitment. Was his, as has been suggested, ‘una pluma prostituida’? That Buero compromised is irrefutable; that his compromise amounted to collusion with the regime is less clear. What is clear is that the question was one that Buero could not escape and so attempted to answer with La detonación.

The Legacy of Francoism in Post-Franco Society It could be claimed that the influence of the recent past on the present is a dominant feature of Buero’s post-Franco plays. Buero condemned the injustices perpetrated by the former regime in the name of Spain. Returning to the theme of accountability and remembering, he suggested that characters such as Lázaro, Alfredo, Juan Luis and Gabriel, and by extension, other members of society, cannot live fully until they reconcile themselves to their past. Commenting on the protagonists of some of the later post-Franco plays, Dixon notes: ‘Todas, asimismo, están dominadas por experiencias vividas por los mismos en un pasado bastante lejano pero silenciadas durante años, cuyo recuerdo y revelación los atormentan y destrozan en el presente.’27 Alfredo in Música cercana tries to rewrite his personal history, but his negated past is what made his son what he is and it also influences the fortune of his daughter. Once again, Buero stressed that fate is not in the hands of the Gods. Earlier, in Diálogo secreto, Buero introduced Fabio, who, by failing to face up to his past, causes injury to himself and others, even though in this case his past is not directly linked to the Franco regime. Like that of the regime, however, it is mystified. Jueces en la noche explores the moral dilemma of an individual, Juan Luis Palacios, a Minister of the Centrist Government and a former Minister under the previous dictatorship, in order to examine the dilemmas facing society during this period of transition. Memories of civil unrest feature. While a law student at university, Juan Luis Palacios was a member of a right-wing group and was personally involved in a shooting incident in which a left-wing student activist was injured. His rival for Julia, who would later become his wife, was Fermín Soria, a left-wing student activist in his days as a medical student; Fermín was arrested for his part in student demonstrations, imprisoned and tortured, and finally beaten to death by the representatives of law and order. Juan Luis has other secrets too, including his role in the killing of Eladio González, his deception of his wife, Julia, whom he tricked into marriage, and his financial affairs. Juan Luis suspects Ginés Pardo, a disenchanted integrista and former Guardia Civil, of plotting terrorist action to destabilize the government. Juan Luis, an aperturista

27 Victor Dixon, ‘Los efectos de inmersión en el teatro de Antonio Buero Vallejo: una puesta al día’, Anthropos, Monograph no. 10, 31–6 (p. 34).

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who has embraced democracy, knows that if he denounces Ginés Pardo, his own past actions will be revealed and both his career and his marriage will be destroyed. He is tormented by his past and has to decide whether to continue to deny it, thus never escaping its hold on him, or to confront it and face the consequences. Cristina, a university friend of Julia and Fermín, is instrumental in the revelation of the truth. Buero showed, through the suicide of Julia, that the consequences of such denial do not just affect the individual. The trio of musicians contracted to play at the anniversary party Juan Luis has organized to please Julia metamorphose into a trio of judges, all of them former victims of his, and he realizes that the past is inescapable. The protagonist of Lázaro en el laberinto, who lives with his sister and her children, is tortured by his failure to remember an event from his past. The incident in question occurred during his student days when he and Silvia, his girlfriend of the time, were distributing anti-government leaflets. Afterwards, she was set upon by a group of masked right-wing youths who beat her severely. Lázaro never saw her again, but heard through his sister, Fina, that she went to England; in fact she died from her injuries. Over twenty years later he is the owner of a successful bookshop and lives a quiet, happy life. Then he hears that Silvia is back and he hopes for a telephone call from her to put his mind at rest, for Lázaro is tormented by his failure to remember clearly what happened that day. He cannot recall if he helped her and was beaten up himself or if he was too afraid and abandoned her. In his apparent eagerness for an answer, he begins to hear the telephone ringing, even when it is silent. Amparo and Germán, two friends of his nephew with very different motives and outlooks, act as catalysts in Lázaro’s realization that he is seeking forgiveness, not clarification, from Silvia. It is suggested that Lázaro is denying, rather than forgetting an unpleasant past. Buero implied that the pacto de olvido is not the solution to Spain’s ills and that those who choose to deny the past might yet regret their decision to do so. The thrust of Buero’s argument is that without the peace of mind brought about by accountability, true progress cannot be made. Civil unrest during the Franco period is also alluded to in Las trampas del azar. The Francoist businessman Armando is shocked when he learns that Gabriel brought his daughter to a student rally. A student was injured during the ensuing clash with the police, but the supporters of the regime merely condemn the students. Civil unrest of a different kind is mentioned in Caimán. Néstor, one of the most human and plausible of Buero’s heroes and the closest to a revolutionary intellectual in his later work, is involved in the union movement and is actively working for improved conditions and facilities in poor areas. Buero criticized the earlier regime by referring to Néstor’s imprisonment and maltreatment at the hands of the authorities, before his release during an amnesty. It is a play in which Buero argues for progression and solidarity, but not the pacto de olvido. Rosa, Néstor’s wife, is unable to move on from the past and the death of their child and chooses not to live in the world without her; Néstor has accepted her death and seeks to change the present so that accidents such as the one that claimed her life will not recur.

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By remembering in his plays the victims and vanquished of the Civil War, Buero denounced the regime that ensured they remained victims in post-war society and the democratic society that chose to deny them their historical voice. In Jueces en la noche reference is made to the father of Fermín Soria, who spent time in prison and who later, like the father in El tragaluz, finds it difficult to get employment because of his political record. His Civil War allegiances shaped his future and that of his son. Juan Luis, on the other hand, benefited from being the son of a Francoist general. Again Buero stressed that the present and the future are determined by the past, and that to ignore this fact is to falsify reality. In Las trampas del azar, the prosperity of the Francoist businessmen is contrasted with the poverty of Salustiano who, like Gaspar in Diálogo secreto, hails from the ranks of the Civil War vanquished. David Johnston’s analysis of the post-Franco plays highlights the emphasis that Buero continued to place on demystification and answerability for action taken in the past: De un modo muy unamuniano, el teatro de Buero cuestiona y re-examina la historia española, impulsado hacia ello por un ineludible compromiso ético, desenmascarando primeramente el revisionismo del franquismo (por ejemplo, a través del ‘rescate’ de personajes históricos como Larra), y posteriormente los valores contradictorios que se plasmaron en el proyecto del estado democrático.28

This lack of accountability allowed the earlier divisions to prosper, even in a nominally socialist Spain. Jueces en la noche deals with the dilemma of one individual as he confronts his past and makes a conscious decision about his responsibility to himself and to society. It is a play about the lack of ethics and accountability in the transition to democracy, when the rush to progress resulted in voluntary amnesia on the part of many people, but more ominously, on the part of the politicians from the previous regime. The ease with which former Francoists reinvented themselves and embraced democracy signalled a warning for many on the left who felt that a plot to reinstate the old right was a distinct possibility. The play suggests that there is truth in the rumours that terrorism, apparently from left-wingers, is orchestrated by the right in order to discredit them. Reactionary elements of the previous ruling elite have not disappeared, but have gone to ground for a while in order to await or orchestrate the moment when once again a bid can be made for a return to the glorious past. Buero asserted that, until the new democrats dealt with their past, they were at the mercy of the reactionary right. Many of the characters in Jueces en la noche, echoing others in La detonación, wear democratic masks to disguise their true motives. Historical revisionism appears as a theme in Las trampas del azar also. Buero returned to Franco’s manipulation of the regime’s image and the apparent 28 David Johnston, ‘Buero Vallejo: un teórico de la lucha histórico’, in Antonio Buero Vallejo. literatura, pp. 79–92 (p. 84).

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apertura, which, like the new democratic image of Juan Luis, was no more than a cosmetic change to appease international observers and to hide the fact that power did not change hands. Criticism of revisionism, falsification and myth surfaces again in Música cercana. Alfredo is obsessed by image, so much so that he wishes to revise his own history in order to fit in with the personal official myth he has created. He can countenance no limits to his personal power, which he extends to a dominance of time. The title of the sanitized video version of his life is El tiempo en mis manos, an appellation that demonstrates his megalomaniacal belief that he can control and recapture time, purge his past of any event or image that displeases him and add desirable elements.29 This extends to the incorporation into his mythical life of the woman whom, as a young man, he desired. His attempt to control and reinterpret the past also includes his interpretation of the rape of Lorenza, which he chooses to remember as ‘algo bello y bueno que nos sucedió a los dos’ (O.C. I: 2007). Fabio too, revises his past in Diálogo secreto, absolving himself of any responsibility for the myth he lives. Such distancing and mystification, so much a feature of Francoist mythology, allows his successors to assert their freedom from history, to argue disinterest on their part and to render alternatives to their control unthinkable. Of course, in his insistence on accountability and his visitation of the recent and not so recent past, Buero too was involved in the process of historical revisionism, reclaiming the past for the previously vanquished, and denying the earlier dominant elite their exclusive version of events. Linked to the idea of historical revisionism and the pacto de olvido is the idea of repetition. In Las trampas del azar Buero returned to a favoured theme of victim-maker turned victim, as Gabi threatens to destroy his father, who had earlier brought misery to others: Así, a través de un juego intertextual, Buero reinterpreta el mito de Cronos, dios del tiempo y devorador perpetuo de sus hijos, ya que además de repetirse físicamente, los personajes (y por extensión, los seres humanos), parecen destinados al no ejercer su voluntad para modificar ese destino, a repetir, generación tras generación, los mismos errores.30

This two-part play tells the interconnected stories of two families over three generations. Lisardo is a friend and employee of Armando, and both are committed Francoists. Lisardo’s son, Gabriel, wants to marry Matilda, the daughter of Armando, but both sets of parents disapprove. Gabriel disregards their advice and even Matilda’s reluctance and the marriage goes ahead. Matilda, who was

29 This argument, that Alfredo was attempting to control his past and to falsify his reality, contrasts with Halsey’s assertion that: ‘Like Lázaro, Música thus dramatizes the protagonist’s attempt to discover the truth about his past.’ From Dictatorship to Democracy: The Recent Plays of Buero Vallejo. (From La Fundación to Música Cercana), Ottawa Hispanic Studies, 17 (Ottawa: Dovehouse Editions, 1994), p. 237. 30 O’Connor ‘Las trampas’, p. 6.

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badly scarred as a result of a bad reaction to treatment for cuts to her back when she was a child, thought that nobody would be able to love her. Gabriel, unbeknownst to her, was responsible for the cuts to her back; ten years previously he had thrown a tile at a street lamp from his sickbed in order to extinguish the light, and he recalled hearing someone shout out when it broke. The only person he admitted this to was a Republican veteran who played his violin on the street beneath the lamp. Once they are married, Gabriel takes a job in her father’s laboratory and abandons the former idealism that saw him once participate in anti-regime student protests. Part two takes place thirty years later and there is no trace of idealism left in the older Gabriel. The laboratory is the target of ecologists and accused of pollution and arms manufacture; Gabriel dismisses these criticisms. He now has a son, also called Gabi, and he is as idealistic and impatient as his father was. Gabi, in his hatred of his father, assumes that the latter caused his mother’s injuries and does not believe his parents’ protestations to the contrary. He decides to investigate and, as fate would have it, bumps into Salustiano who tells him what his father had revealed years before. Gabi returns to his parents’ house with his girlfriend, Patricia, and confronts his father. Matilda begins to doubt whether Gabriel ever loved her and Gabriel, angered by his son’s condemnation, has a heart attack. Patricia recognizes the damage done by Gabi, who made a victim of, not just his father, but his mother also. Gabriel, in his dying moments, has a vision of Salustiano who makes him face up to the consequences of his past actions. Buero showed history being repeated as radical youth rebels and later conforms; the individual’s reward for conformity is contrasted with the substantial cost to society of his actions. The repetition motif is further underscored by the use of the same actors to play the youth of each generation. The repetition does not end with the advent of a democratic Spain, and the young Gabi is set to reproduce the mistakes of his father and grandfather in his eagerness to distinguish himself from them. The problem of youth is the problem Buero diagnosed in Larra – impatience. In their desire to break from the past, they fail to learn anything from it. The voice of wisdom is once again the voice of the outsider, the old revolutionary who is one of what is now a dying breed. Salustiano speaks for Buero when he advises Gabriel: ‘Ande con tiento. A veces la precipitación es un error.’31 O’Connor comments: La primera pieza musical, Impaciencia, llama la atención a la cualidad que influye negativamente en dos Gabrieles, padre e hijo. De jóvenes, ambos fueron seres activos, enérgicos, nerviosos y lanzados, atributos asociados con la falta de reflexión y con el egoísmo, ambos tan reprobados en el teatro de Buero.32

31 Antonio Buero Vallejo, Las trampas del azar, intro. by Virtudes Serrano, Colección Austral, no. 364 (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1995), p. 89. Further references to this play are given after quotations in the text. 32 O’Connor, ‘La sincronicidad’, pp. 133–4.

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Another function of the repetition device then, is to highlight the repetition of choice, and not just errors. Buero posed the question in Las trampas del azar: ‘¿Seguiremos repitiéndonos, y no sólo físicamente?’, but in fact it is a question he had been asking for some time in his dramas (Las trampas, p. 138).33 Characters and choices are repeated from one generation to the next, just as on another level they are repeated from one play to the next. Politicians are repeated and reinvented in La detonación and Jueces en la noche. Characters move from one Foundation to another, yet nothing changes. Those who fail to accept responsibility for their past actions or who suffer from voluntary amnesia, cannot escape the Foundations they have created. While this emphasis on the repetition of history lends an overall coherence to his work, it might also lead to the claim that in his later theatre, Buero did not progress beyond Francoism. Rather than viewing this as a negative commentary on his theatre, however, it can be argued that Buero intended it this way. Perhaps he chose not to move beyond Francoism in order to deny the pacto de olvido and to insist on remembrance. It could be argued, on the other hand, that this repetition, which became more prevalent in the later plays, might be a sign that Buero had little new to say. Iglesias Feijoo, however, views it differently: ‘Buero Vallejo, como todos los grandes creadores, está siempre moviéndose en torno a los mismos temas expresados con los mismos o parecidos recursos. Es decir, en el fondo está siempre escribiendo la misma obra.’34 Misión al pueblo desierto seems to support this argument. In it, Buero revisited many themes and issues dealt with in his earlier plays and suggested, through his criticism of the behaviour of certain Republicans during the civil conflict, that the pacto de olvido was an issue for everyone in modern Spain, not just those who benefited from the outcome of the war.35

33 In Casi un cuento de hadas and La detonación he also employed the device used now in Las trampas del azar using the same actors to play different roles in order to make a point. Ana María Leyra also comments that: ‘Carlos es “como” Ignacio, pero no es Ignacio. También nosotros somos “como” Ignacio, pero no somos Ignacio “como” Carlos, pero sin ser Carlos. Repetimos las palabras, los comportamientos, las actitudes, los ciclos, pero en la diferencia, siendo y no siendo los personajes, sintiéndonos idénticos, sintiéndonos diferentes.’ ‘Las filosofías de la diferencia y la repetición en el teatro de Buero Vallejo’, in Antonio Buero Vallejo: literatura, pp. 119–28 (p. 123). 34 Luis Iglesias Feijoo, ‘El último teatro de Buero Vallejo’, in Buero Vallejo: cuarenta años, pp. 109–18 (p. 113). 35 At a time when a new generation of Spaniards was beginning to dig up the past, Buero wrote Misión al pueblo desierto, a play that deals with the pacto de olvido and the importance of cultural memory. Set in contemporary Spain, the theatre audience is immersed in the Círculo de Estudios and becomes the audience for its lecture on an episode from the Civil War, which is narrated by the Secretaria and recreated on stage. It tells the story of Lola, a relative of the Secretaria, who was involved in the Junta de Protección y Salvamento del Tesoro Artístico, and who sets off with the activo, Damián, to recover an El Greco from a village in no-man’s land, close to enemy lines, where it is being guarded by Plácido, an artist and the spokesman for Buero in the play. The play explores the importance of art, as well as commenting on revolution and history.

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The End of Ideology? A Portrait of Modern Spain Tras el advenimiento de la democracia se ha dicho a veces que la crítica social ya no era necesaria en nuestras letras. Pero siempre es necesaria porque siempre hay aspectos criticables (O.C. II: 526).

Despite the emergence of Spain from a period of hegemonic rule with a ruling ideology that was often difficult to define, the creation of a democratic state did not herald the end of ideology, but rather the beginning of a new period in the ideological history of the state. Familiar myths were thrown out, to be replaced by new ones to distract the masses from the imperfections of their new reality. Old values were put aside and new ones given priority. As in earlier plays, Buero exposed the lie that some people live in order to protect themselves from a reality they do not wish to acknowledge. The concealment of reality and the process of mystification are shown to be as much a part of the new Spain as they were of the old. Buero was clearly disillusioned with modern Spanish society, its ostentation and its empty promises: No veo negativo todo progreso, sino muy positivo. Pero los hombres lo han orientado tanto y tan desenfrenadamente por su instinto depredador, de dominio y de lucro, que se han pasado de la raya. El resultado es una naturaleza gravísimamente deteriorada hoy, la amenaza de holocausto nuclear, el horroroso despilfarro de gastos de armamento y tantas otras cosas.36

In the society depicted by Buero: ‘No hay ideales. La justicia es una farsa. La libertad, un engaño. La política se envuelve siempre con andrajos interiores. Los ideales de la oposición se pudren al instalarse en el poder.’37 The lack of values and the end of ideology are in fact a myth to disguise the existence of a new hegemony. In the later plays, Buero blamed modern Spain’s ills on ‘los apetitos de lucro y de poder’ and suggested that ‘una honda transformación socialista vuelve a aparecer como la solución posible’.38 There seems to be a mood of pessimism in these plays that was absent from the plays written under Franco; even the intellectuals are defeated and forgotten. The socialist dream to be fulfilled in the aftermath of the PSOE’s 1982 election victory was soon abandoned: ‘La acidez de Gaspar al juzgar la nueva sociedad, la del socialismo y el cambio, desgarra al espectador. Vivimos en la misma sociedad, la misma corrupción, las mismas inmoralidades. Nada ha cambiado.’39 Unlike in Buero’s earlier plays, Spain’s future does not belong to the intellectuals and their followers. Even the youth,

De Paco, ‘Buero Vallejo y el teatro’, p. 72. Luis María Anson, ‘Crítica de Diálogo secreto’, in Anuario Teatral El Público 1985 (Madrid: Centro de documentación teatral del INAEM-Ministerio de Cultura, 1986), p. 195. 38 De Paco, ‘Buero Vallejo y el teatro’, p. 72. 39 Anson, ‘Crítica’, p. 195. 36

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in whom Buero usually found hope, has chosen instant gratification and consumerism over ideals. They are characters in the mould of Vicente from El tragaluz, for whom the acquisition of wealth takes precedence over all else. Javier’s dismissal of his sister’s death in Música cercana as ‘una espantosa casualidad’, unrelated to his own activities, echoes the reaction of Vicente to the death of his baby sister (O.C. I: 2021). Yet even Vicente recognized his culpability at the end of that play. Despite the ostensible prominence of the theme in La detonación, it was not until Jueces en la noche that Buero spoke directly about the transition period. It contains characters representative of the pillars of Francoist and post-Franco society and examines the power relationships that existed during the transition, as well as noting the lasting influence of the Francoist ideology on a supposedly democratic Spain. Buero made the point that Jueces en la noche was ‘una obra muy significativa dentro de mi teatro; además, creo que era la obra que exactamente había que estrenar en aquel momento. El que no durara más de dos meses en cartel se debió a otros fenómenos.’40 Buero criticized the many former Francoists who simply changed their title in order to retain their positions of privilege in society. Juan Luis is clearly a member of UCD or AP.41 Buero makes his intentions clear: Antiguos colaboradores del franquismo se han incorporado lealmente a las nuevas tareas, pero muchos otros lo han hecho por oportunismo y sin abandonar su oculto deseo de que la democracia vuelva a ser destruida. Concebí por ello el caso imaginario, pero muy semejante a otros casos reales, de un político del anterior régimen que quiere – o que quiere creer que quiere – participar en la nueva etapa política desde el marco de alguno de los partidos de la derecha organizados en la transición. (O.C. II: 524)42

The central argument of the play asserts that accountability and remembering are necessary for a successful transition to democracy. Confronted with the dilemma of accepting responsibility for past actions and perhaps losing power as a result, or denying memory in order to ensure his survival, Juan Luis Palacios chooses

Brines, ‘Buero Vallejo: “Para estar en la Academia” ’, p. 41. In the play the violinist who appears in Juan Luis’s dreams as one of the judges, reveals that Juan Luis has invested his money in foreign bank accounts where it is safe. According to Martha T. Halsey, this makes Juan Luis a technocrat who, ‘although they made possible Spain’s so-called economic miracle did so through the sacrifices of much of society while they themselves showed their lack of faith by sending their earnings to Swiss banks.’ From Dictatorship, p. 141. This is further corroborated by a conversation Juan Luis has with don Jorge in which he refers to ‘nuestros más sagrados ideales y creencias’, with its undertones of Opus Dei involvement (O.C. I: 1660). 42 Buero admitted: ‘Incluso en Jueces en la noche me permití escribir sobre cierto ex-ministro de Franco que se incorporaba a la nueva situación,’ but unfortunately did not reveal his name. Ramón F. Reboiras, ‘Entrevista a Buero Vallejo: “Somos una especie lamentable, sin porvenir” ’, Cambio 16, 16 January 1995, pp. 70–2 (p. 72). 40 41

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the latter. Thus, what is offered in the play is a vision of the transition based on the pacto de olvido, where power does not so much change hands as change appearance. The pacto de olvido continued to preoccupy Buero, as he showed in his last play, Misión al pueblo desierto. He stressed the importance of the history through the character of la Secretaria del Círculo de Estudios in the face of the argument of the Vocal Adjunto that the issues raised by her about the Civil War ‘carecen ya para nosotros de vigencia’ (Misión, p. 9). What is portrayed by characters in the post-Franco plays as progress and freedom was revealed by Buero to be a continuation of the elitism of old. Underlying Buero’s argument is the notion that to advance in modern Spanish society is to accept the pacto de olvido and a new distortion of reality. Buero moved from this to deal with the themes of myth and history in Música cercana. Again, Buero engaged to some degree in his own form of mystification of a lost innocence, something that Alfredo, because of his determination to control history, can never achieve. The play also contains one of Buero’s more interesting post-Franco rebel figures, significantly one whose cause transcends the borders of a Spain that is considered beyond redemption.43 Although his nationality and his politics are not specified in the play, Buero clarified these in an interview with Patricia W. O’Connor in 1990, when he made clear that René is Nicaraguan and a communist. Buero protested against the power relations and structures of modern society and reiterated his long-held view that socialism is the best option for society. He criticized capitalism as ‘una estructura errónea desde el punto de vista humano, porque se basa en la explotación del hombre por el hombre, en el afán de lucro y en el incentivo del bienestar personal a costa de los demás’.44 He was very critical of the capitalist ideology of modern Spanish society and argued that only the victims, such as Lorenza, and the outsiders, such as Gaspar, Salustiano and René, are fit to be judges and witnesses. Others, such as Alfredo and his son Javier, are more concerned with rewriting the past, and exploiting the present, than learning from it and implementing change. It is not, in other words, simply that modern Spain is a place without a defined ideology, but rather that it has a nominally socialist and, thus a mystified, capitalist ideology. Like all successful ideologies, it relies heavily on myth, ritual and symbol. It presents itself as democratic and socialist and distorts the reality that material inequality and injustice still prevail. Also obscured by the myth of a fully democratized society is the reality of the insidious influence of the business world on the body politic. The involvement of

43 O’Connor suggested that the Nicaraguan René is an equivocal figure, in that both his cause and his love are questionable. Buero defended his creation, by claiming that his dilemma rests on the powerful pull of both his duties to his country and his love of Sandra. His moral rectitude is highlighted, and his moral dilemma exacerbated, by his unwillingness to cheat even those who are manipulating him. Antonio Buero Vallejo en sus espejos, pp. 305–6. 44 Patricia W. O’Connor, ‘Una conversación con Antonio Buero Vallejo sobre Música cercana’, Estreno, 16 (no. 2, 1990), 18–22 (p. 19).

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business interests in the political forum comes to the fore in Jueces en la noche and continues to feature in the later post-Franco works. The inequity that prevailed under Franco permeates socialist Spain and the large corporations can employ a type of economic censorship to remove from their ranks anyone who might threaten the status quo or challenge their methods. Amparo in Lázaro en el laberinto is let go from the company she worked for despite the increase in company profits; there is a suggestion that her political affiliations are the reason. In Jueces en la noche, Don Jorge, the owner of Indelecsa, a large multinational corporation with investments in Spain, is seen to have a special, almost paternal relationship with Juan Luis. The latter consults Don Jorge about political matters, such as the advisability of moving further to the left in a bid to retain political power. Don Jorge also has links with the reactionary right, in the form of Ginés Pardo, and there is a suggestion that the company may be involved in the terrorist activity being planned by him. It is clear from a conversation that Don Jorge has with Juan Luis that a degree of instability in a country might prove beneficial to the business interests of the company, particularly if it is something they can control. Juan Luis is rewarded for his favourable treatment of Indelecsa while a Minister, with a lucrative position as a consultant with the company. He explains to his wife why he is courting the favour of Don Jorge: ‘Las decisiones de la alta política no se pueden tomar ignorando los grandes poderes económicos. Si vuelvo a ser ministro, mi vinculación a esa empresa lo va a facilitar mucho’ (O.C. I: 1642). The glamorous world of business is examined from the perspective of its beneficiaries in Música cercana and Las trampas del azar. Yet Buero also highlighted the negative repercussions of corrupt business practice on society. In Las trampas del azar, he revisited the Francoist origins of some of the successful businessmen of the post-Franco period, reiterating the point about a transformation rather than an end of ideology. In Spain in the 1980s, Buero suggested, what mattered was the wealth of an individual, not the manner in which the wealth was acquired. In Música cercana Alfredo and his son Javier are involved in a large multinational company called Mundifisa, described as ‘una sociedad de inversiones y de financiación’ (O.C. I: 1977). Here, language is exposed as a tool of mystification; it is used to disguise the reality, which is that Mundifisa is linked to the laundering of drug money. Alfredo also cites the creation of jobs and wealth as a justification of his activities, just as Felipe from Llegada de los dioses and Juan Luis from Jueces en la noche did before him. The gap between motivation and justification is exposed: it is personal wealth, rather than munificence, that is the impetus for his actions. The multinationals depicted here and in Jueces en la noche are part of a powerful global elite, respected for their wealth and power, but who consider themselves above the law of the states in which they have their subsidiaries. The inclusion of the Nicaraguan, René, allowed Buero to highlight the damage inflicted on other countries and peoples by such corporations. Yet the damage eventually affects Spain also and, despite the protection bought by his wealth, Alfredo cannot safeguard his daughter from those who are excluded from the latest Foundation.

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Buero extended his discourse on modern society in the play Caimán. The accidental death of Carmela is linked to fraud and bankruptcy in a construction firm. It is possible to trace an underlying argument against the business policies that foster unemployment while increasing the profits of a select few. Dionisio was made redundant in the sweeping cost-cutting measures of the period. What is portrayed by some as the progress of modern society is revealed as a step towards social calamity. Poverty, reminiscent of the destitution experienced in the aftermath of the Civil War, is a problem in 1980s society, and there is reference made to both the increased number of beggars on the streets and the cynical techniques employed by them to maximize their money-making potential. Néstor is the modern socialist and trade unionist, equally critical of the corruption of the wealthy and the cynical apathy of the poor. He is the only one of Buero’s postFranco intellectuals capable of inspiring action. He is a posibilista, with reasonable expectations and hopes. One of the victims of society is revealed at the end of the play to have been saved through the support and action of this homme engagé. Caimán is perhaps the only truly hopeful play of Buero’s post-Franco theatre; it is worth noting that it dates from 1981 – the year before the socialists came to power. Buero was also concerned to show that ideological powers effective under Franco retained much of their influence in the new Spain. Significant among these was the Roman Catholic Church. In Jueces en la noche, he seemed to suggest that it had abdicated its responsibility to offer moral guidance in its haste to distance itself from the past. In Juan Luis’s dream the Church and military, represented by Padre Anselmo and the General, are closely linked, just as they had been for much of the Franco era. While the priest can find justification for the earlier killing of a rojo, the assassination of the General is problematical. The thrust of Buero’s argument was that this link still existed in post-Franco Spain, despite outward signs to the contrary. Both represent the interests of a conservative, Catholic elite group that continued to wield substantial power in society. When Juan Luis consults the priest for advice regarding the privileged information he has received about the possible terrorist strike against a military target, the priest fails to counsel him in accordance with the teachings of the Church. Instead, he implies that Juan Luis must keep the family unit together at all costs. The family is, of course, one of the ideological state apparatuses dear to both the Church and the Franco regime. An exchange between Cristina and Padre Anselmo is also highly critical of the Church, which proscribes divorce while hypocritically providing annulments for those who can afford them. The institution of the family, like the institution of the Church, is valued more than the people who constitute it or the spirit in which it is formed. The priest advises Juan Luis to pray that the left do not become too powerful, underscoring Buero’s contention that the Church was very much allied to a certain political ideology. The crux of Buero’s argument is that the Church had failed in its role, both as moral guide and charitable institution. In fact, he reasoned that it was people like Néstor in Caimán, rather than priests, who were bringing hope and charity, coupled with faith in terrestrial salvation, to the deprived. The Church does not appear in the

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later post-Franco plays. The society portrayed by Buero in the late post-Franco plays is a secular one where consumerism is the new religion. God is dead. The mantra of this new Spain is spoken by Javier in Música cercana: ‘Nadie es insobornable’ (O.C. I: 1976). Buero extended his discourse to undermine the notion of an ideology-free and democratic Spain by examining the new forms of censorship and propaganda that are employed to support the new ruling ideology. In Música cercana, he showed how easily those with power can manipulate the media and condition the response of the reader to a given story. When the Mundifisa scandal breaks, Javier informs Alfredo that ‘nuestra cadena de periódicos ya tiene instrucciones, y nuestros abogados están trabajando’ (O.C. I: 1986). Alfredo has also suggested the creation of a cultural foundation with the dual purpose of giving René a job, thus retaining control over him and his daughter and distracting from the Mundifisa scandal, ‘para lavar mi imagen de discutibles actividades anteriores’ (O.C. I: 1993). The proliferation of such foundations also has the effect of turning culture into a commodity, while discouraging questions about the motivation for its existence and obscuring the fact that it represents an ideological employment of culture. Buero explored another type of ideological cultural control in Diálogo secreto and questioned the actions of critics who would be censors. The dramatist returned to art in his exploration of the role of the critic in society and the importance of interpretation of art. Fabio, the protagonist, is a successful art critic and historian who suffers from dyschromatopsia and whose career and reputation are constructed upon a lie. The play proved popular among theatre-goers but not with the critics, which was hardly surprising given the negative portrayal of a critic in the play. It is suggested that Fabio’s unfounded and vitriolic criticism of Samuel Cosme’s art may have been enough to cause the young artist to commit suicide. Buero hinted that his criticism was motivated by jealousy, not only of Cosme’s artistic talent, but also of his daughter’s affection for the artist. Language is exploited by Fabio, who is protected by his professionalism and reputation and who wields language like a weapon. As with many who defend self-serving values, he uses his skills to make nonsense of alternative expositions. His position as a powerful and expert critic makes his interpretation very difficult to challenge. Gaspar accuses Fabio of being power-hungry and says that his weakness is ‘el de sentirse poderoso y temido’ (O.C. I: 1857). He also claims that Fabio’s criticism of Samuel Cosme was unjust: ‘Escribiste lo que sentías, no lo que pensabas’ (O.C. I: 1857). Although some of the critics seem not to have thought so, Buero claimed that he was not damning all critics, but merely those who judge unfairly and abuse their positions of power and who use language to obscure rather than to clarify. Buero thus returned to a theme dealt with in Las Meninas, where the critics and censors are considered to play a significant role in the upholding and defence of the ruling ideology. In that play Buero, through the character of Velázquez, suggested that the lasciviousness that the censors claim to see

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in his Venus was in fact, in the eye of the beholder. The point Buero made in 1984 was similar. Now, in democratic society, the critic is the censor. As far back as 1956 Buero wrote: ‘La crítica es necesaria para poner las cosas en su punto. Estimula, además, y contribuye, incluso cuando se equivoca, a la discusión de las obras. Y sólo de la discusión sale, a la larga, la luz para todos. Por eso soy partidario de la crítica’ (O.C. II: 590–1). Yet he went on to complain of ‘el seudotipo de crítico . . . que analiza demasiado, pero que admira poco’ and of those who fail to be either impartial or rational in their judgements (O.C. II: 591). The critic may influence the fate of an artist or writer, and Buero was reminding him of his obligation to the truth, and of the humility required for such a job that rests to some extent upon interpretation of the work in question. The critic, like the artist, is part of the cultural apparatus of any society and not apart from it. Some critics of Diálogo secreto objected to the inclusion of a colour-blind critic, which was considered dubious: ‘En principio, Buero Vallejo plantea en Diálogo secreto el viejo problema entre la crítica y la creación. Lo plantea mal. Acude a un caso inverosímil.’45 O’Connor notes that: ‘Se ha acusado a Buero de atacar en esta obra a la crítica teatral en general y a un determinado crítico.’46 Nevertheless, it is in keeping with the motif of blindness in Buero’s plays, which symbolizes an inability or unwillingness to see the truth, and is thus relevant in this case as it demonstrates not only the level of Fabio’s deceitfulness but also the extreme folly of his actions. Just as he exposed the bias of the censors of the previous regime, who ostensibly worked for the common good, Buero now revealed the prejudices of some critics. In an interview with David Johnston, Buero said of critics in Spain: Aquí hay un defecto de fondo en cuanto a la intelección de la tarea critica, del que no creo que se cure. [. . .] Nos lo acredita nada menos que Baltasar Gracián: «Los españoles abrazan todo lo extranjero pero no estiman lo propio.» Aquí, en la medida misma en que se ha podido consolidar el prestigio literario, los reparos crecen.47

This favouritism shown to the foreign over the domestic is probably in part a reaction to the nationalistic and xenophobic fervour of the previous regime and the notion that ‘España es diferente’. By criticizing this, Buero was of course defending his own position as a writer under Franco and suggesting that some of the criticism he received was unjust. It is worth noting that this alleged preference for the foreign, and undervaluation of the indigenous cultural output, may also have influenced the reception of such works abroad.

45 Eduardo Haro Tecglen, ‘Crítica de Diálogo secreto’, in Anuario Teatral El Público 1985, pp. 195–6 (pp. 195–6). 46 O’Connor, Antonio Buero Vallejo en sus espejos, p. 143. The critic in question, as the footnote explains, is Eduardo Haro Tecglen, theatre critic of El País. Buero denied this. 47 David Johnston, ‘Entrevista a Antonio Buero Vallejo’, Ínsula, no. 516 (1989), 25–6 (p. 26).

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Language and Silence: Contra Franco escribía mejor Contra Franco vivíamos mejor.48

In the post-Franco plays, Buero refused to alter radically his philosophy and style, instead continuing to employ symbolism and allegory to write plays critical of the new elite and the latest ruling ideology. Furthermore, Buero took the opportunity in the post-Franco plays to reflect on language and silence and, in particular, his own: En lo que a mi se refiere, no hay una nueva etapa. Ni tampoco yo querría que la hubiera, porque ello significaría para mí que la anterior era toda inválida, y yo no pienso así. Pero, claro, alguna variación hay. Evidentemente, el tema de Jueces . . . no lo hubiera podido tocar, de la manera en que lo he tocado, bajo el franquismo. [. . .] Es más clara. Pero tampoco se tocan de una manera absolutamente transparente, porque yo entiendo que aun sin censura, la absoluta transparencia es un error ideológico y estético, cuando se trata de una obra artística.49

He argued that silence and allegory serve an aesthetic purpose, even in a political work; similarly, language and silence, carefully chosen, fulfil a political role in a dramatic work. Buero distinguished between opportunistic language and silence and fearful or provocative language and silence, and defended his own choice. Buero characterized himself in part by his contribution to literature of opposition. Hence it is not surprising that after the death of Franco some considered his time to be over. Buero did not agree: ‘No es cierto que me «iba mejor con la censura». Si grandes éxitos obtuve entonces, también sufrí mis mayores fracasos. Entonces: no ahora’ (O.C. II: 503). It follows that the ambiguity that was part of his relationship with the Francoist ideology may also have enabled him to survive it. He was never completely identified with either the regime’s favoured writers or its most radical opponents. Adolfo Marsillach defended Buero against claims that he outlived his purpose as a committed dramatist: El principal reproche que le hicieron – en el que, además, coincidió la izquierda con la derecha – fue que parecía como si a Buero se le hubiera acabado la inspiración con la muerte de Franco. Es decir, se le acusaba de lo mismo por lo que hasta hacía muy poco se le alababa. Se masticaba en el aire un apresurado deseo de enterrar cuanto antes el anterior lenguaje antifranquista. La derecha, porque estaba interesadísima en demostrar que el teatro de Buero fue una excelente consecuencia del franquismo ya que la censura, según

48 Quoted by John Hooper, The New Spaniards (London: Penguin, 1995), p. 343. Manuel Vázquez Montalbán twisted the refrain of those nostalgic for the Franco era to explain the lack of a cultural and political renaissance in the post-Franco era. 49 Javier Alfaya, ‘Antonio Buero Vallejo: en la ardiente lucidez’, La calle, 25 September– 1 October 1979, pp. 42– 4 (p. 42).

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sus planteamientos, es el mejor acicate para la ingeniosa invención de los creadores. La izquierda, porque abrigaba la secreta – e infantil – esperanza de que la joven democracia, en provechoso connubio con los pactos de la Moncloa, iba a producir enseguida una nueva generación de maravillosos dramaturgos para los que Buero era un estorbo. [. . .] Sigo opinando que Buero fue un poco víctima de las circunstancias. Al menos, la indignación con que se le recibió no era, me parece, del todo justa. Entre otras razones porque, a efectos teatrales, Franco no había muerto.50

Buero disagreed with the idea put forward by some critics, that he was better writing against Franco than writing in freedom. He denied that his work became ineffectual in the post-Franco years, while conceding that he had developed a certain style that he had no intention of changing.51 García Lorenzo praised Buero’s consistency, where others saw stagnation: ‘Pero pienso que el teatro de Buero sigue diciendo hoy exactamente lo mismo que decía hace veinte, treinta años.’52 Despite such support, there were those who have suggested that Buero’s style of drama, and his repetition of the same old themes, were no longer relevant. Of course the problem was not merely that Buero’s traditional style and repetitive themes seemed outdated, but also that theatre of commitment itself was no longer judged to be necessary. Even Cabal, who considers Buero’s contribution during the Franco years and the transition to have been valuable, believes that the older dramatist was somehow out of step with the new Spain: ‘Buero ha hecho un esfuerzo intelectual honrado en esto para reflejar esa transición.’Yet he qualifies his praise of Buero by stating that, being: Un hombre académico, muy desligado del pulso social del país, da una visión que yo creo que no coincide en su análisis con la nueva generación. Creo que los escritores y el público, que es lo más importante, el público de la nueva generación . . . no partimos de los mismos análisis que Antonio Buero. Es lógico.

He went on to claim that the theatre of Buero, Sastre and others, presumably of the Realist Generation, was ‘pasado ya’.53 Nonetheless, the significance of Jueces en la noche in twentieth-century Spanish drama should not be overlooked. In 1979, while others dealt with the past, Buero was dealing with the transition and the future. Afterwards, however,

50 Marsillach, ‘Cinco años’, pp. 228, 229. One of those to criticize Buero and in particular his play Jueces en la noche was Eloy Herrera, famous for his theatre of right-wing agitation propaganda: ‘Autores que escribieron al dictado de unas conveniencias coyunturales y que al quedar en libertad de imaginación demostraron sus limitadas actitudes creativas. Ahora mismo tenemos el caso de Buero Vallejo con su último folletín-panfleto Jueces en la noche.’ Zatlin Boring, ‘Encuesta sobre el teatro madrileño’, p. 15. 51 Amell, ‘Conversación’, p. 133. 52 García Lorenzo, ‘Buero Vallejo’, p. 6. 53 Sheehan, ‘Tres generaciones’, p. 32.

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his work, while focusing on modern Spain, had a despairing tone that revealed the dramatist to be more retrospective than before. Dixon too, noted that ‘últimamente ha parecido estar menos esperanzado que antes’.54 The message of hope for Spain that earlier balanced his emphasis on history, is absent in all but the words of defeated old men. Learning from the past and avoiding historical errors seems less likely when history has been deliberately and selectively obscured and the collective memory is, like Lázaro’s, a damaged one. Buero himself seemed to realize that the position of the artist or intellectual with whom he identified in Spanish society, rather than coming centre stage in an era of freedom, had become more alienated. In the later post-Franco plays, Buero’s politicized message is no longer spoken by the protagonists but by the old, the disappointed and the alienated. Even in Misión al pueblo desierto, it is Plácido who functions as Buero’s spokesperson, although the young Secretaria of the Círculo de Estudios is critical of the pacto de olvido. Hence, without giving up hope entirely, Buero did seem to recognize that his language no longer spoke to those he wished to influence and the response from the audience was not protest or commitment, but a deliberate silence.

54 Victor Dixon, ‘H. G. Wells en la vida y en la obra de Antonio Buero Vallejo’, in Antonio Buero Vallejo: literatura, pp. 145–64 (p. 149).

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Conclusion VEGA ¡Usted no ha entendido! Larra concede algo para sacar más. DÍAZ

Es su opinión. Yo a eso le llamo una pluma prostituida (O.C. I: 1536).

Buero, like others before him, took the view that: ‘Vivimos tiempos muy difíciles, en los cuales no puede uno hablar ni callar sin peligro’ (O.C. II: 1291). A prudent man, he chose to address the issue of language and silence with posibilismo, insisting that this form of protest was a valid one, the alternatives being silence, collusion or exile. Language and silence were the main constituents of the writer’s relationship with the ideological tool of censorship, yet Buero insisted: ‘Considerar la censura como fenómeno absolutamente castrador es una inexactitud. De haberlo sido, es obvio que nadie habría podido hacer nada’ (O.C. II: 507). This notwithstanding, his success during the years of the Franco regime has been the subject of some controversy. As one of the Civil War vanquished, his achievement was indeed remarkable and unusual, and throughout his long career as a dramatist Buero often felt the need to defend himself against accusations of compromise or collusion. In contrast to some of his contemporaries, Buero believed that while preferable, absolute personal and political freedom were not necessary conditions for the purpose of artistic creation: ‘La historia nos muestra que no son necesarias. Probablemente nos muestra también que con carácter «absoluto» nunca son posibles’ (O.C. II: 708–9). Unlike some of his contemporaries, he chose to acknowledge that the influence of art on society was a limited one: El efecto o el influjo que el arte en general ejercía era mucho más pequeño de lo que podía pretenderse. Esto sí es una realidad y puede haber producido una decepción. [. . .] Esta realidad y esta decepción no provienen de ningún error ideológico de fondo, sino de una ilusión que pudiéramos llamar juvenil o ingenua en el sentido de que consideraba demasiado potentes unos medios que nunca lo han sido para el que sepa mirar con objetividad la Historia.1

However, this very acknowledgement could also be interpreted as an excuse for the choices he made. Other commentators suggested that commercially successful social drama in Franco’s Spain, while not necessarily integration 1

Galán and Lara, ‘Antonio Buero Vallejo: ¿un tigre domesticado?’, p. 32.


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propaganda, was simply meek. G. G. Brown wrote: ‘One cannot help thinking that if the typical theatre-going public applauds it, then it cannot be of any great social significance.’2 There is little doubt that Buero’s considered attitude towards the ideology of Francoism allowed him to enjoy a career in the commercial theatre matched by no other committed dramatist, and it enabled him to voice some criticism of the regime, albeit veiled. Buero himself suggested that his success had more to do with his attitude, an element of good luck and ideological motivations of the regime, than any collusion or connections he might have had: La hipótesis más fácil es la de pensar que este señor se ha vendido. Pero ocurre que, a veces, en España, por fortuna para ella, hay ‘reinos de Taifas’, y que aunque una dictadura muy fuerte trate de ahormar al país entero, pues de pronto, un Jurado campa por sus respetos, una crítica campa por los suyos . . . Una conjunción de cosas, en este sentido favorables, han determinado la posibilidad de mi aparición y mi continuidad bajo Franco.3

Compromise, and the extent of his compromise, are central to an analysis of Buero’s relationship with the ideology of Francoism. He did not court controversy but instead sought to divert the regime’s attention from his criticisms. For Buero, the question was not one of collusion or freedom but rather of degrees of compromise. What must be recognized is that Buero made a calculated and deliberate decision to engage in compromise and concession. Essentially, posibilismo is what Buero considered to be the role of the artist or intellectual in a repressive society, and this attitude is reflected in his plays. He rejected the stance of those who conformed to censorship and said nothing worthwhile, instead churning out frivolous entertainment; he also rejected the position of those who created work so provocative and controversial that they courted the wrath of the censor and condemned themselves to silence. Like many of his characters, Buero was prepared to wear a mask, to employ euphemism, symbols and historical allegory in order to say what could not be said directly. His posibilismo also contained a moralistic tone, reminiscent of Camus, which eschewed revolutionary sentiment in favour of moral responsibility. It also concentrated to a great extent on the dramatist’s attitude towards and employment of history, in particular his posibilista revisionism, which expressed history as progress: ‘Por fin, frente a los figurones históricos de José María Pemán o Eduardo Marquina, alguien se atrevía a interpretar o “releer” nuestro pasado colectivo desde la perspectiva de la izquierda no dogmática.’4 For Buero, as for Milan Kundera, ‘the struggle of man against power is the struggle of man against forgetting’, and even

2 Gerald G. Brown, A Literary History of Spain: The Twentieth Century, 2nd edn (London: Ernest Benn, 1974), p. 158. 3 Sainz, ‘Antonio Buero Vallejo: un intelectual’, pp. 26–7. 4 Salvat i Ferré, ‘El más fascinador’, p. 93.


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in his later works the dramatist asserted the importance of history, responsibility and memory.5 Buero consistently defended his posibilismo and insisted that it was both a valid and a strident form of commitment: Eso que se llamó ‘mi posibilismo’ fue el posibilismo de todos, tanto de los que lo comprendían como de los que no, independientemente de la suerte que hayan tenido. En cuanto al mío, que por haber tenido algunas veces suerte ha sido tildado, en ocasiones, de excesivo, quisiera hacer notar que fue una actitud difícil expresada mediante obras que pasaron grandes obstáculos antes de poderse estrenar, y que, cuando se estrenaron, causaron fuerte impacto social. Se trataba, por consiguiente, de un posibilismo exigente, tan al borde de la imposibilidad que, a veces, el toro me pillaba por meses o por años. Todavía no está lejos El doctor Valmy . . . que estuvo catorce años fuera de la circulación.6

Yet in so far as he was a committed dramatist, it must be acknowledged that Buero’s commitment was defined and limited by his posibilismo. Despite asserting that his theatre was political, Buero endeavoured to be an author of nonideological dramas: Por supuesto que creo que en mi teatro hay grandes dosis de política, pero de una política entendida como un fenómeno dramático, no como exposición de ideologías concretas, ya que en este sentido creo que no sería indicado el vehículo.7

He clearly chose not to align himself to any specific oppositional ideology, even going so far as to criticize it in some of his works. However, the political nature of some of his theatre had consequences for his art. Writers like Buero Vallejo, who chose to remain in Spain rather than to flee, did so at some cost. He always defended his actions, yet it is undeniable that the decision to remain in Spain and to write for commercial audiences did involve a certain compromise. Buero had to deal with the regime, accept cuts and modifications to his work and consider carefully both his language and his silences. To an extent he recognized and admitted to the compromise in which he was engaged, yet he refused to concede that he may have compromised too much or too often. While Buero argued that aesthetic devices could be used to evade censorship and simultaneously to improve the work, the question of whether or not such devices would have been employed if censorship did not exist is a pertinent one. Buero was consistent in his denial of his use of certain aesthetic devices for strictly political purposes, but as the plays were written in those circumstances and not in a censorship-free environment, this can only be speculation or wishful thinking.

5 6 7

Milan Kundera, quoted in Kaye, ‘Why Do Ruling Classes Fear History?’, p. 90. Martín Iniesta, ‘Antonio Buero Vallejo: “Mi posibilismo” ’, p. 20. Pérez de Olaguer, ‘Antonio Buero Vallejo, nuevo Académico’, p. 6.


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Posibilismo is a reaction to, and an engagement with, ideology, and Buero defined and defended his theatre as posibilista. So while it is true that he avoided the propagation of a specifically defined ideology in his theatre, his entire opus was determined to some degree by ideology, both his own and the other ideologies operating in Spanish society. Buero, in plays such as El concierto de San Ovidio, El sueño de la razón and Un soñador para un pueblo, as well as La detonación and others, advanced the argument for a positive interpretation of the acknowledgement of limitations. His position as tangential to the dominant ideology afforded him views of the attractions and the myths of both the dominant Francoist ideology and of alternative ideologies. Yet the essential contradiction of Buero and his relationship with the hegemonic ideology remained, evidenced in his endeavours to be critical of and also, paradoxically, acceptable to the regime. Linked to Buero’s posibilismo was his choice to work in the commercial theatre. Recognizing the importance of audience interpretation of the drama, it becomes apparent that the values and beliefs held by the audience will determine any interpretation. Ruled by the laws of supply and demand, rather than any political concerns, the commercial theatre nevertheless tended to reflect the values of its audience, or at least avoided representing works born of a counter-ideology, which might be judged to be not to its taste. Furthermore, in the case of drama produced in Francoist Spain, the presence of censorship meant that allusion and symbolism were employed, which of course allowed for more than one interpretation of the work in question, including a nonpolitical one. As José Monleón observed, the Spanish public ‘es un público que, por lo general, no tiene conciencia de su lugar en el cuadro general del hombre y de la historia’.8 This insufficiency was the focus of Buero’s exploration of history in his dramas. José Tamayo was also critical of the Spanish theatre-going public: ‘El público sabe lo que quiere ver. Pero en nuestro país, el público carece de curiosidad.’9 Even acknowledging that, under Franco a deliberately popular theatre had all but disappeared, despite the early efforts of Sastre and others, Buero’s determination to stage even his most committed work in the depoliticized commercial theatres was problematic. O’Connor is overly generous in her assertion that: ‘Aunque expone sus convicciones sin hacer concesiones a un teatro comercial, se siente complacido ante la aceptación del gran público e, irónicamente, a pesar de escribir contra los espectadores acomodados que le pagan, se le tilda de oportunista.’10 Of course, Buero was not alone in staging his works for a bourgeois public. Sastre, despite his assertion that his ideal public is ‘el público popular’,

8 José Monleón, ‘En la frontera del teatro’, Cuadernos para el diálogo, Monograph no. 3, 28–30 (p. 30). 9 Rosario Izquierdo, ‘José Tamayo, animal teatral’, El correo de Zamora, 21 July 1976. In AGA/IDD 49.021 Topogr. 73-46 Ca. 69.037 Carpeta no. 57: Teatro 1976. 10 O’Connor, Antonio Buero Vallejo en sus espejos, p. 32.


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admits that ‘cuando las obras se representaban por fin, se representaban siempre para un público burgués. Porque dentro de la estructura del teatro español el proletariado no iba al teatro.’11 The commercial theatre audiences were overwhelmingly middle-class and therefore unlikely to risk their privileged positions and favoured status by committing themselves to reform in the manner advocated by the dramatist. Like his fictionalized Velázquez, perhaps he was looking for his public in the wrong place. As José Monleón wrote: ‘Nuestros autores rebelados acaban – y repito que ello puede responder al legítimo deseo de estrenar – gritando dentro de la Iglesia Teatral Española.’12 Asked by Medardo Fraile whether he had an abstract or a concrete idea of the public as he wrote, Buero responded: ‘Una idea abstracta, pero es probable que esa idea se impregne de la consideración del público real con quien vamos a enfrentarnos; para combatirlo, claro.’13 Brustein wrote of the modern dramatist: ‘No longer the spokesman for the audience, or its paid entertainer, the dramatist becomes its adversary.’14 This effort must seem wasted, however, when the audience is unmoved by this hostility, and merely concerned with being entertained, as often appeared to be the case. As Bentley correctly pointed out, ‘an enemy does not make a good audience’.15 Unlike Sartre, who believed that committed theatre should be aimed at the apathetic left, Bentley was of the opinion that committed drama should be directed at those who are uncommitted. Buero, it would seem, inclined towards Bentley’s view, and in his plays, most obviously in La doble historia del doctor Valmy, he attacks the apathy of the bourgeois audience. Nonetheless, he also denounced the apathy of the proletariat, who was not usually present in the commercial theatre to be inspired by his enacted lesson. So, while it is true that Buero was by no means a spokesman or apologist for the largely bourgeois audience and even criticized their complacency and collusion, neither was he a true dramatist of revolt as defined by Brustein. Buero, perhaps because of his direct experience of revolutionary conflict and the opposing views held within his own family, chose a more conciliatory line and his heroes are constantly limited in their endeavours by what is or is not possible. Yet, on another occasion, in response to the question, ‘¿Qué es el teatro para Antonio Buero Vallejo?’, the dramatist replied: ‘Íntimamente, un intento de arte, de pensamiento, de desahogo y de autorrealización. Mirando hacia fuera, la tentativa de crear un público y de conectar con él.’16 Perhaps, then, Buero’s objective in writing posibilista theatre for the commercial theatre was to appeal to people on moral, ethical and historical, rather than ideological, grounds.

Vogeley, ‘Alfonso Sastre’, p. 464. José Monleón, ‘Francisco Nieva’, in Teatro breve contemporáneo, p. 18. 13 Medardo Fraile, ‘Charla con Antonio Buero Vallejo’, Cuadernos de Ágora, nos 79–82 (1963), 4–8 (p. 5). 14 Brustein, The Theatre of Revolt, p. 10. 15 Bentley, The Theatre of Commitment, p. 226. 16 De Paco, ‘Buero Vallejo y el teatro’, p. 47. 11 12


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Szanto, unlike many of the dramatists who employed this form of dialectical theatre, recognized its essential failing: Transforming the intention to propagandize against bourgeois structures and for world revolution into a piece of theater intended for an audience without revolutionary commitment is the problem which makes a theater of dialectical propaganda the most difficult propaganda theater to create.17

This was Buero’s problem. In addition, the situation was worse in Spain, as the state was not only bourgeois but also autocratic. The fundamental paradox was this: the typical theatre-goer went to see a play in search of entertainment and escapism, while the dramatist was seeking to educate his mind and prick his political conscience. As Jardiel Poncela jokingly acknowledged: ‘El que hace un teatro educativo no tarda en encontrarse sin público al que poder educar.’18 Nor was the Spanish theatre of protest particularly successful outside Spain, unlike that of Germany and France, for example. Most of the committed dramatists were contented to remain in Spain and to direct their political message at an inattentive audience. Their European contemporaries took their message beyond the borders of their countries and engaged in a global discourse on ideology, while the Spaniards remained largely inward-looking, focusing on ideological problems within the context of Spain. Despite the universality of his commentaries on man and his place in society and in history, Buero’s success in a wider, European or global context was not great. Perhaps because of his experiences prior to taking up his pen, Buero does not appear to have been prepared to suffer for his art the way some other Spanish and European writers did, but instead he demonstrated a willingness to compromise by his adoption of posibilismo. Clearly, Buero’s theatre does not set out to alter society radically. It is a testimonial theatre, at times seriously limited by the dramatist’s efforts to engage with the ruling hegemony. His intention was to criticize and to demystify the dominant ideology, not to overthrow it. Defending his position in his discourse with the ideology of Francoism, a relationship defined by language and silence, Buero stated: Me inclino a pensar que al teatro español hay que valorarlo más por sus palabras que por sus silencios, aunque con esto contradiga a los silenciados. Las cosas se valoran por su propia existencia y cuando no existen no hay manera de valorarlas. [. . .] A mí me gusta citar el expresivo ejemplo de los grandes escritores rusos de la época de los zares, que trabajaron bajo una censura fortísima, muy similar a la que nosotros hemos tenido. Por tanto, habrá que tener en cuenta los silencios, sólo hasta cierto punto y quizá en poca medida.19

17 18 19

Szanto, Theater and Propaganda, p. 86. Quoted in Monleón, Treinta años, p. 80. Delgado, ‘Cuando la obra’, p. 4.


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Only that which exists can be judged later and although the restrictions on the Spanish writer working during the Franco regime may have been severe, he still possessed a voice, which according to Buero, he was obliged to use to the best of his ability. He had little time for those who claimed that they did not write because they could not say what they wanted to say: ‘Mala, buena o regular, la valoración que nosotros demos a esta etapa del teatro español, será por lo que se ha hecho y no por lo que no se ha hecho.’20 Yet, for all that posibilismo allowed him to express, it was a choice that limited the dramatist. The cleverness of the ploy must be recognized, but so too must its ambiguity, and it can be interpreted either as shrewd pragmatism or cynical opportunism. Perhaps the most controversial compromise was Buero’s acceptance of a seat in the Real Academia, which some interpreted as a victory for posibilismo, while others saw it as the final surrender of the dramatist. In his dramatic work, Buero’s posibilista style was presented as a choice of language over silence and a choice that ensured that the voice of opposition, albeit muted, would be heard. Others considered that the message was corrupted or negated by the essential compromise involved. Perhaps the most disturbing factor in Buero’s posibilismo, however, was the dramatist’s refusal to acknowledge the serious contradictions and limitations involved. In his theatre Buero excused similarly compromised intellectuals and artists, most obviously in Las Meninas, while denouncing the errors of others. That Buero Vallejo found in posibilismo a solution to his own moral dilemma about writing in a repressive society is difficult to deny, although at times the impression is given that perhaps he protested too much. Buero drew deliberate and at times dubious parallels between himself and Larra in an attempt to vindicate his posibilismo. Paul Ilie’s remarks about Larra might equally be applied to Buero: ‘The “progressive” liberal – some might say revolutionary – in Larra was impotent precisely because the bourgeois in him insisted on maintaining good relations with a society that he fundamentally repudiated.’21 Because of his family background, Buero, like Larra, was a member of the social class most resistant to change. It was perhaps Buero’s greatest limitation that he was so close to the bourgeois ideology, despite his proclaimed socialism. Again and again in his works, his bourgeois, traditional intellectuals advocate limited reform, rather than outright social revolution. This is perhaps unsurprising, given his background, but its implications for the choices he made are undeniable. Despite Buero’s sincerity, the question of whether or not his was the most appropriate solution for dealing with the censors and the Francoist hegemony remains. Perhaps the greatest failing of Buero’s posibilismo was that it meant that his theatre was misdirected. It is difficult to stir a public that is determined to be entertained. Quite simply, in his choice of posibilismo, Buero

Delgado, ‘Cuando la obra’, p. 4. Ilie, ‘Larra’s Nightmare’, p. 165. Ilie also referred to Larra as ‘a journalist compromised by his bourgeois inhibitions’ (p. 156). This is something that Buero hints at in La detonación. 20 21


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at times played it too safe, tailoring his voice to suit an audience that, for the most part, consisted of supporters of the dominant ideology. Nonetheless, it has to be acknowledged that Buero did manage to engage in demystification and criticism from within Spain. Some have claimed that Buero Vallejo’s protest was a lame one and that his dissenting voice was rarely distinguished. Nevertheless, his protest was sufficient to draw upon the author the unwelcome attention of the censors and also, on occasion, that of the aggressive authors of death threats. One of the more interesting acknowledgements of Buero’s commitment came from a critic who disapproved of Buero’s appropriation of Larra. Fernández Torres, despite his reservations about some of Buero’s choices, commended him for his determined opposition to the cultural constraints of the regime: De entre los autores teatrales españoles, probablemente haya sido Buero Vallejo uno de los que han aguantado con más firmeza el cerco cultural impuesto por el franquismo a cuanto pudiera soñar, siquiera lejanamente, a progresismo. Sólo ya en función de esa resistencia sorda, de la que él, por otro lado, no ha sido único protagonista, debe merecernos respeto Buero Vallejo.22

Buero did voice some criticism, although it can be argued that he could have done more. His ethical dramas and his exploration of the moral dilemmas of individuals showed up the dilemmas faced by many in Spanish society, as well as the warped moral stance of a nominally Catholic state. Yet perhaps his most important contribution to Spanish literature is his emphasis on the demystification of history and, in post-Franco Spanish society, his lonely voice calling for accountability and remembering. Berenguer commented: ‘El autor persiste en su voluntad de dialogar críticamente con la nueva situación, afrontando la problemática de la relación del individuo con su propia conciencia y con la sociedad.’23 Buero died just as a new generation of Spaniards began to confront the past and challenge the pacto de olvido, echoing the hope expressed in his last play, Misión al pueblo desierto, that those who believe that, ‘ciertos aspectos de nuestra Guerra, aunque ahora esté de moda decir lo contrario, distan de haber perdido actualidad’, will have the last word (Misión, p. 9). It is worth noting that Larra’s testament to his times is valued today, despite its flaws. ‘Survivability, as Brecht saw, is in any case a profoundly suspect criterion of literary value: the history of the life, death and resurrection of literary texts is part of the history of ideologies.’24 This book argues that Buero’s theatrical legacy, while equally flawed, is similarly valuable as a testament to the repressive times of a committed writer and as a testament to the battle between language and silence. A vindication of the word perhaps, but with the shadow

22 23 24

Fernández Torres, ‘La detonación’, p. 15. Berenguer, Tendencias, p. 115. Eagleton, Criticism and Ideology, p. 178.


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257

of silence ever present as a reminder of what was not said. The reader must decide how far to accept Buero’s own reply to one of his detractors: LARRA Que este joven calle y me desprecie. Cuando crea que puede hablar, ya no tendrá voz. Y su pluma no se prostituye . . . porque ya no tiene pluma (O.C. I: 1536).


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List of Plays Composition

Date and Location of Premiere

1. En la ardiente oscuridad 2. Historia de una escalera 3. Las palabras en la arena 4. La tejedora de sueños 5. La señal que se espera 6. Casi un cuento de hadas 7. Madrugada

1946 (revised 1950) 1947–48

8. El terror inmóvil 9. Aventura en lo gris 10. Irene, o el tesoro

1949 1949 (revised 1963) 1954

11. Hoy es fiesta

1954–55

12. Una extraña armonía 13. Las cartas boca abajo 14. Un soñador para un pueblo 15. Las Meninas

1956

1 December 1950, Teatro María Guerrero, Madrid 14 October 1949, Teatro Español, Madrid 19 December 1949, Teatro Español, Madrid 11 January 1952, Teatro Español, Madrid 21 May 1952, Teatro Infanta Isabel, Madrid 10 January 1953, Teatro Alcázar, Madrid 9 December 1953, Teatro Alcázar, Madrid Never performed 1 October 1963, Teatro Club Recoletos, Madrid 14 December 1954, Teatro Nacional María Guerrero, Madrid 20 September 1956, Teatro Nacional María Guerrero, Madrid Never performed

16. El concierto de San Ovidio 17. La doble historia del doctor Valmy

1962

18. El tragaluz

1966

1948 1949–50 1952 1952 1953

1956–57 1958 1959–60

1964

5 November 1957, Teatro Reina Victoria, Madrid 18 December 1958, Teatro Español, Madrid 9 December 1960, Teatro Español, Madrid 16 November 1962, Teatro Goya, Madrid 22 November 1968, Gateway Theatre, Chester, UK 29 January 1976, Teatro Benavente, Madrid 7 October 1967, Teatro Bellas Artes, Madrid

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19. Mito 20. El sueño de la razón 21. Llegada de los dioses 22. La Fundación

1967 1969

23. La detonación

1975–77

24. Jueces en la noche

1978–79

25. Caimán

1980

26. Diálogo secreto

1983

27. Lázaro en el laberinto 28. Música cercana

1986

29. Las trampas del azar 30. Misión al pueblo desierto

1991–92

1971 1972–73

1988–89

1999

Never performed 6 February 1970, Teatro Reina Victoria, Madrid 17 September 1971, Teatro Lara, Madrid 15 January 1974, Teatro Figaro, Madrid 20 September 1977, Teatro Bellas Artes, Madrid 2 October 1979, Teatro Lara, Madrid 10 September 1981, Teatro Reina Victoria, Madrid 6 August 1984, Teatro Victoria Eugenia, San Sebastián 18 December 1986, Teatro Maravillas, Madrid 18 August 1989, Teatro Arriaga, Bilbao 23 September 1994, Teatro Juan Bravo, Segovia 8 October 1999, Teatro Español, Madrid

Adaptations 1. El Puente 2. Hamlet

1952 1960

3. Madre Coraje y sus hijos 4. El pato silvestre

1962 1981

Never performed 15 December 1961, Teatro Español, Madrid 6 October 1966, Teatro Bellas Artes, Madrid 26 January 1982, Teatro María Guerrero, Madrid

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List of Appendices Appendix I

Appendix II

Appendix III

Appendix IV

Appendix V

Appendix VI

Appendix VII

Inventory of the files relating to the theatre of Antonio Buero Vallejo. Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General de la Administración. Tapescript of the Declaration of the State of Emergency, 24 January 1969. Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General de la Administración. IDD 104.04 Topogr. 82-68 Ca. 576 MIT/ 00.102: Discursos. Report on the play Historia de una escalera by the censor, Emilio Morales de Acevedo, 10 October 1949. Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General de la Administración. IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.418 Exp. 433-49. Moral Report on the play Las palabras en la arena by the censor, Padre A. Avelino Esteban Romero, 26 March 1956. Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General de la Administración. IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.418 Exp. 409-49. Note detailing the prohibition of the staging of Las palabras en la arena during Holy Week, 27 March 1958. Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General de la Administración. IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.418 Exp. 409-49. Note detailing the prohibition of the play La doble historia del doctor Valmy, 15 March 1966. Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General de la Administración. IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.779 Exp. 147-64. Report containing a summary of the censors’ verdicts and comments on the play El sueño de la razón, 23 July 1969. Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General de la Administración. IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-55 Ca. 85.254 Exp. 259-69.


262

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APPENDIX

Appendix VIII Guía de censura for the play El sueño de la razón, 9 December 1969. Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General de la Administración. IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-55 Ca. 85.254 Exp. 259-69. Appendix IX Authorization of the play La Fundación, 28 June 1973. Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General de la Administración. IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-56 Ca. 85.495 Exp. 145-73. Appendix X Correspondence between Antonio Buero Vallejo and Carlos Robles Picquer, Director General de Cultura Popular y el Espectáculo, about the staging of Historia de una escalera, March 1968. Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General de la Administración. IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.418 Exp. 433-49. Appendix XI Letter from the director, José Tamayo, to José María García Escudero, Director General de Teatro, about Madre Coraje y sus hijos, 3 October 1966. Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General de la Administración. IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.724 Exp. 227-62. Appendix XII Moral Report on the play Madre Coraje y sus hijos by the censor, Padre Avelino Esteban y Romero, 21 August 1962. Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General de la Administración. IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.724 Exp. 227-62. Appendix XIII Report on the play El sueño de la razón, 9 December 1969. Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General de la Administración. IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-55 Ca. 85.254 Exp. 259-69. Appendix XIV Report on the play La doble historia del doctor Valmy sent by the Subdirector General de Actividades Teatrales to the Director General de Cinematografía y Teatro, 4 December 1975. Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General de la Administración. IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.779 Exp. 147-64. Appendix XV Authorization of the play La doble historia del doctor Valmy, 12 December 1975. Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General de la Administración. IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.779 Exp. 147-64.


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APPENDIX

263

Appendix XVI Report on the anti-police sentiment contained in the play La doble historia del doctor Valmy. Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General de la Administración. IDD 104.04 Topogr. 82-68 Ca. 582 MIT/00.710: Notas sobre obras en general. Appendix XVII Report on the play Llegada de los dioses by the censor, Antonio Zubiaurre, 6 October 1978. Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General de la Administración. IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-57 Ca. 87.864 Exp. 687-78.


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Appendix I

Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General de la Administración Sección/Grupo de Fondos: Cultura Inventory of Files Relating to Antonio Buero Vallejo: Theatre Productions Signatura Historia de una escalera

71.418 88.282 Las palabras en la arena 71.418 En la ardiente oscuridad 71.423 87.875 85.329 Ilunpe Goritan1 La tejedora de sueños 71.421 La señal que se espera 78.551 Casi un cuento de hadas 78.587 Madrugada 71.679 Aventura en lo gris 78.623 Irene, o el tesoro 78.660 Hoy es fiesta 71.689 87.912 Una extraña armonía 78.726 Las cartas boca abajo 71.697 88.303 Un soñador para un 88.311 pueblo 78.779 Las Meninas 71.715 87.598 El concierto de San Ovidio 71.725 87.589 La doble historia del 71.779 doctor Valmy 87.585 87.885

1

Basque version of En la ardiente oscuridad.

Nº. Expd. Topogr.

IDD

433-49 111-81 409-49 473-50 38-79 507-70 411-50 30-52 456-52 402-53 395-53 354-54 297-55 181-80 1-57 247-57 650-81 841-81 293-58 296-60 296-60 287-62 287-62 147-64

52.22 [T] 52.22 52.22 52.22 52.22 52.22 52.22 52.22 52.22 52.22 52.22 52.22 52.22 52.22 52.22 52.22 52.22 52.22 [F] 52.22 [PR] 52.22 52.22 [T] 52.22 52.22 [T] 52.22 52.22 [T] 52.22

337-79

83/51 83/57 83/51 83/51 83/57 83/55 83/51 83/51-55 83/51-55 83/51 83/51 83/51-55 83/51 83/57 83/51 83/51 83/57 83/57 83/51-55 83/51 83/57 83/51 83/57 83/51 83/57 83/57


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El tragaluz Mito El sueño de la razón Llegada de los dioses

La Fundación La detonación Jueces en la noche Caimán Diálogo secreto

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APPENDIX I

Signatura

Nº. Expd. Topogr.

IDD

87.599 87.889 85.238 85.254 87.583 87.612 87.864 85.367 87.611 85.495 85.673 87.896 88.296 73.646

172-67 454-79 97-69 259-69

687-78 323-71 145-73 375-77 644-79 456-81 191-84

83/57 83/57 83/55 83/55 83/57 83/57 83/57 83/55-56 83/57 83/56 83/55 83/57 83/57 83/57

52.22 [T] 52.22 52.22 52.22 52.22 [T] 52.22 [T] 52.22 52.22 [F] 52.22 [T] 52.22 52.022 [T] 52.22 52.22 52.22

78.576 88.307 87.589 71.724 78.858

323-52 779-81 217-62 227-62 246-61

83/51 83/57 83/57 83-51 83/51

52.22 52.22 52.22 [T] 52.22 52.22

Adaptations El puente (Gorostiza) El pato silvestre (Ibsen) Madre Coraje y sus hijos (Brecht) Hamlet (Shakespeare)

Inventory of Files Relating to Antonio Buero Vallejo: Theatre Publications The order used here is the order of composition, which is the order used in the Obra Completa. Where two plays are published in the same edition, they are listed separately under the title of each drama. Larger collections containing three or more works by Buero, or containing the works of other writers, are included separately at the end of the listing. Historia de una escalera

Signatura

Nº. Expd. Topogr.

IDD

Aga 9.217 Aga 9.464 Aga 9.859 Aga. 13.468 Ca. 135 Ca. 593 Ca. 492 Ca. 89 Ca. 155 Ca. 27 Ca. 96

4022-50 1534-51 1755-52 4533-61 2190-73 12973-75 14261-77 4137-79 7264-79 1326-81 2826-82

50.02 50.02 50.02 [F] 50.05 50.07 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08

21/55 21/56 21/1-3 21/10 73/9-12 73/14-16 73/21 73/22-23 73/22-23 73/24-25 73/25


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267

APPENDIX I

Las palabras en la arena

En la ardiente oscuridad

La tejedora de sueños

La señal que se espera Casi un cuento de hadas Madrugada El terror inmóvil Aventura en lo gris

Irene, o el tesoro

Hoy es fiesta

Las cartas boca abajo

Signatura

Nº. Expd. Topogr.

IDD

Aga 9.859 Aga 9.727 Aga. 13.468 Ca. 51 Aga 9717 Aga 9871 Aga. 14.660 Aga 18.539 Ca. 499 Ca. 953 Ca. 106 Ca. 231 Ca. 368 Ca. 280 Ca. 9 Ca. 243 Ca. 95 Aga 9912 Aga 10.286 Aga 15.896 Ca. 275 Aga 9.948 Aga 10.226 Aga 16.474 Ca. 154 Aga 10.734 Ca. 37 Aga 11.155 Aga 15.106 Ca. 32 Aga 16.532 Aga 18.539 Ca. 499 Ca. 231 Ca. 12.523 Aga 19.080 Ca. 605 Ca. 32 Ca. 153 Ca. 65 Ca. 143 Aga 11.973 Ca. 235

1755-52 5258-51 4533-61 2315-79 5148-51 1902-52 3983-63 9000-67 7727-72 14853-72 1996-75 10399-80 10322-77 9412-78 545-80 10521-81 3372-83 2541-52 2420-53 973-65 7237-76 3143-52 1365-53 5585-65 6803-81 2908-54 1721-80 3797-55 1719-64 708-75 6139-65 9000-67 7727-72 10399-80 4042-59 5937-68 9880-74 708-75 6809-80 1801-82 6353-81 1976-58 10157-81

50.02 [F] 50.02 50.05 50.08 50.02 50.02 [PR] 50.05 50.06 50.07 50.07 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.02 [F] 50.02 50.06 50.08 50.02 50.02 50.06 50.08 50.03 50.08 50.03 50.06 50.08 50.06 50.06 50.07 50.08 50.04 50.06 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.04 50.08

21/1-3 21/1 21/10 73/22 21/1 21/1-3 21/14 21/15-25 73/7-9 73/7-9 73/14-16 73/23-24 73/21 73/21-22 73/23-24 73/24-25 73/25 21/1-3 21/1-3 21/15-25 73/16 21/2 21/2 21/18 73/24-25 21/3 73/23 21/4 21/15-25 73/14-16 21/18 21/15-25 73/7-9 73/23-24 21/6-9 21/24 73/12-14 73/14-16 73/23-24 73-25 73/24-25 21/6-9 73/24


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Un soñador para un pueblo

Las Meninas

El concierto de San Ovidio

La doble historia del doctor Valmy El tragaluz

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APPENDIX I

Signatura

Nº. Expd. Topogr.

IDD

Ca. 1 Ca. 1 Aga 12.590 Aga 16.392 Ca. 953 Ca. 106 Ca. 368 Ca. 280 Ca. 9 Ca. 243 Ca. 95 Aga. 13.190 Aga 19.080 Ca. 59 Ca. 605 Ca. 593 Ca. 492 Ca. 89 Ca. 155 Ca. 153 Ca. 27 Ca. 65 Ca. 96 Aga 13.723 Aga. 14.456 Aga 14.770 Aga 15.162 Ca. 532 Ca. 500 Ca. 607 Ca. 737 Ca. 113 Ca. 174 Ca. 256 Ca. 107 Ca. 24 Ca. 274

10-77 10-77 5048-59 4863-65 14853-72 1996-75 10322-77 9412-78 545-80 10521-81 3372-83 1098-61 5937-68 1000-73 9880-74 12973-75 14261-77 4137-79 7264-79 6809-80 1326-81 1801-82 2826-82 287-62 1549-63 5444-63 2273-64 8596-71 7751-72 9902-74 12172-74 3194-77 4991-77 11725-79 4846-80 869-83 7205-76

72/40 73/17-18 21/08 21/18 73/7-9 73/14-16 73/21 73/21-22 73/23-24 73/24-25 73/25 21/10 21/24 73/9-12 73/12-14 73/14-16 73/21 73/22-23 73/22-23 73/23-24 73/24-25 73/25 73/25 21/10 21/9 21/14 21/15 73/4-6 73/7-9 73/12-14 73/12-14 73/17-18 73/17-18 73/22-23 73/23-24 73/25 73/16

50.08 [F] 50.08 [F] 50.04 50.06 50.07 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.05 50.06 50.07 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.05 50.05 50.05 50.06 50.07 50.07 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08

Aga. 18.765 Aga 19.080 Ca. 489

1407-68 5937-68 4122-69

21/23 21-15-25 23/75-78

50.06 50.06 50.07


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269

APPENDIX I

Mito El sueño de la razón

Llegada de los dioses La Fundación

La detonación Jueces en la noche Caimán

Signatura

Nº. Expd. Topogr.

IDD

Ca. 30 Ca. 605 Ca. 93 Ca. 56 Ca. 215 Ca. 113 Ca. 153 Ca. 244 Ca. 228 Ca. 65 Ca. 9 Aga. 18.765 Ca. 274 Ca. 355 Ca. 205 Ca. 30 Ca. 93 Ca. 56 Ca. 215 Ca. 113 Ca. 244 Ca. 228 Ca. 9 Ca. 135 Ca. 275 Ca. 737 Ca. 113 Ca. 256 Ca. 107 Ca. 24 Ca. 51 Ca. 14 Ca. 143 Ca. 235

472-71 9880-74 1733-75 1594-77 7296-78 5283-79 6809-80 10926-80 9951-81 1801-82 390-83 1408-68 7205-76 5595-70 3204-71 472-71 1733-75 1594-77 7296-78 5283-79 10926-80 9951-81 390-83 2190-73 7237-76 12172-74 3194-77 11725-79 4846-80 869-83 2315-79 811-80 6353-81 10157-81

73/3 73/12-14 73/14-16 73/17-18 73/21-22 73/22-23 73/23-24 73/23-24 73/24-25 73-25 73/25 21/23 73/16 23/79 73/04 73/3 773/14-16 73/17-18 73/21-22 73/22-23 73/23-24 73/24-25 73/25 73/9-12 73/16 73/12-14 73/17-18 73/22-23 73/23-34 73/25 73/22 73/23 73/24-25 73/24

50.07 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.06 50.08 50.07 50.07 50.07 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.07 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08 50.08

Aga 14.164 Aga 14.884 Aga 18.346

5148-62 6842-63 6641-67

21/9-15 21/9-15 21/15-25

50.05 50.05 50.06

Adaptations Hamlet Madre Coraje y sus hijos


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Signatura

Nº. Expd. Topogr.

IDD

Ca. 146 Aga 17.262 Aga 19.080 Ca. 170

4215-77 2699-66 5937-68 2848-73

73/17 21/20 21/24 73/9-12

50.08 50.06 50.06 50.07

Ca. 153

6809-80

73/23-24

50.08

Collections Años difíciles Teatro selecto de ABV Obras II Tres Maestros ante el público Teatro: (Hoy es fiesta, Las Meninas, El tragaluz) [T] texto [F] falta [PR] por restaurar


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Appendix II


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Appendix III


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APPENDIX III

273


274

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APPENDIX III


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Appendix IV


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Appendix V


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Appendix VI


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Appendix VII


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APPENDIX VII

279


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Appendix VIII


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APPENDIX VIII

281


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Appendix IX


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APPENDIX IX

283


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Appendix X


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APPENDIX X

285


286

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APPENDIX X


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Appendix XI


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Appendix XII


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APPENDIX XII

289


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Appendix XIII


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Appendix XIV


292

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APPENDIX XIV


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APPENDIX XIV

293


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Appendix XV


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APPENDIX XV

295


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Appendix XVI


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Appendix XVII


298

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APPENDIX XVII

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Bibliography PRIMARY SOURCES

Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte Archivo General de la Administración (AGA) Sección/grupo de Fondos: Cultura IDD 36: IDD 42: IDD 44: IDD 46: IDD 48: IDD 49: IDD 50: IDD 52: IDD 104.04:

Dirección General Seguridad. Censura de teatro de la II República (1931–36) Ministerio de Información y Turismo (hereafter MIT) – Ministerio de Cultura. Expedientes de censura de libros (1938–77) Dirección General de Música y Teatro. Censura de teatro (1939–85). Índice de títulos Dirección General de Música y Teatro. Censura de teatro (1939–85). Índice de autores MIT. Prensa. Propaganda y Espectáculos (1936–51) MIT – Ministerio de Cultura (1928–79) MIT – Ministerio de Cultura. Expedientes de censura de libros (1938–82) MIT – Ministerio de Cultura (1943–85) MIT. Gabinete de enlace (1962–77)

Legislation Ley 22 abril 1938 (Mº. del Interior). PERIÓDICOS. Ley de Prensa, Boletín Oficial del Estado (hereafter BOE ), no. 549 (23 April 1938), pp. 6915–17 Orden 15 julio 1939 (Mº. Gobernación). CENSURA. Crea una Sección de Censura encargada de llevarla a cabo, BOE, no. 211 (ref. 916, 30 July 1939), p. 553 Orden 30 noviembre 1954 (MIT). ESPECTÁCULOS PÚBLICOS. Clasificación a afectos de asistencia de los menores, BOE, no. 348 (ref. 1842, 14 December 1954), pp. 1422–3 Orden 16 febrero 1955 (MIT), por la que se regulan las autorizaciones y licencias para la representación de revistas y espectáculos arrevistados, BOE, no. 67 (8 March 1955), p. 1562 Orden 9 febrero 1963 (MIT), por la que se aprueban las «Normas de censura cinematográfica», BOE, no. 58 (8 March 1963), pp. 3929–30 Orden 16 febrero 1963 (MIT), por la que se constituye una Junta de Censura de Obras Teatrales, BOE (16 March 1963). (AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.779 Exp. 147-64) Orden 6 febrero 1964 (MIT), por la que se aprueba el Reglamento de Régimen Interior de la Junta de Censura de Obras Teatrales y las normas de censura, BOE, no. 48 (25 February 1964), pp. 2504–6


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Orden 6 febrero 1964 (MIT). JUNTA DE CENSURA DE OBRAS TEATRALES. Reglamento de Régimen Interior y Normas de Censura. Rectificación de errores en la Orden, BOE, no. 61 (ref. 573, 11 March 1964), p. 541 Ley 18 marzo 1966, no. 14/66 (Jefatura del Estado). PRENSA. Ley de Prensa e Imprenta, BOE, no. 67 (ref. 519, 19 March 1966), pp. 479–86 Orden 27 octubre 1970 (MIT), por la que se reorganiza la Junta de Censura de Obras Teatrales, BOE, no. 275 (17 November 1970), pp. 18612–13 Orden 30 octubre 1971 (MIT), por la que se deroga la de 16 de febrero de 1955, sobre autorización y licencias para representaciones de revistas y espectáculos arrevistados, BOE, no. 285 (29 November 1971), p. 19241 Real Decreto 27 enero 1978, no. 262/78 (Mº. Cultura). TEATRO, CIRCO Y VARIEDADES. Libertad de representación de espectáculos, BOE, no. 53 (ref. 481, 3 March 1978), pp. 496–7 Orden 7 abril 1978 (Mº. Cultura), por la que se dictan normas sobre calificación de espectáculos teatrales, BOE, no. 89 (ref. 9621, 14 April 1978), pp. 8611–13 Constitución española, ed. by Luis López Guerra, 9th edn (Madrid: Tecnos, 1997) Orden Ministerial de Ayudas al teatro, reproduced in Cuadernos el Público, no. 6 (1985), 42–7 Real Decreto 24 abril 1985, no. 565/1985 (PRESIDENCIA DEL GOBIERNO), por el que se establece la estructura orgánica básica del Ministerio de Cultura y de sus organismos autónomas. Articles 8 to 16 are reprinted in ‘El INAEM: partida de nacimiento’, Cuadernos el público, no. 6 (1985), 15–16

The Theatre of Antonio Buero Vallejo Principal editions Buero Vallejo, Antonio, Obra Completa, ed. by Luis Iglesias Feijoo and Mariano de Paco, Clásicos Castellanos Nueva Serie, 2 vols (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1994) ____ Aventura en lo gris, Teatro, no. 10 (1954), 59–76* ____ Las trampas del azar, intro. by Virtudes Serrano, Colección Austral, no. 364 (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1995)• ____ Misión al pueblo desierto, ed. by Virtudes Serrano and Mariano de Paco, Colección Austral, no. 488 (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1999)• Other editions [Listed in order of composition] Buero Vallejo, Antonio, En la ardiente oscuridad, ed. by Mariano de Paco, Colección Austral, no. 124, 12th edn (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1991) ____ En la ardiente oscuridad; Madrugada, Hoy es fiesta, Las cartas boca abajo, in Teatro, I, Colección Gran Teatro del Mundo (Buenos Aires: Losada, 1959) ____ Historia de una escalera; La tejedora de sueños; Irene, o el tesoro; Un soñador para un pueblo, in Teatro, II, Colección Gran Teatro del Mundo (Buenos Aires: Losada, 1962)

* This version is not contained in the Obra Completa. • Las trampas del azar and Misión al pueblo desierto are not contained in the Obra Completa.


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____ Historia de una escalera; Las Meninas, prologue by Ricardo Doménech, Selecciones Austral, no. 3, 10th edn (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1986) ____ El terror inmóvil, ed. by Mariano de Paco, Cuadernos de la Cátedra de Teatro de la Universidad de Murcia, no. 6 (Murcia: Murcia University Press, 1979) ____ Aventura en los gris, prologue by Ricardo Doménech, Colección Novelas y Cuentos, no. 158 (Madrid: EMESA, 1974) ____ La detonación; Las palabras en la arena, ed. by Ricardo Doménech, Colección Austral, no. 315, 3rd edn (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1993) ____ La tejedora de sueños; Llegada de los dioses, ed. by Luis Iglesias Feijoo, Letras Hispánicas, no. 45, 9th edn (Madrid: Cátedra, 1990) ____ Casi un cuento de hadas, ed. by Carmen González María, Bitácora, no. 74 (Madrid: Narcea, 1981) ____ Jueces en la noche; Hoy es fiesta, prologue by Luis Iglesias Feijoo, Selecciones Austral, no. 88 (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1981) ____ Caimán; Las cartas boca abajo, Colección Austral, no. 1622, 2nd edn (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1984) ____ Un soñador para un pueblo, ed. by Luis Iglesias Feijoo, Colección Austral, no. 75, 11th edn (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1989) ____ El concierto de San Ovidio, ed. by David Johnston, Colección Austral, no. 82, 9th edn (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1991) ____ El tragaluz; El sueño de la razón, Colección Austral, no. 1496, 14th edn (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1992) ____ La doble historia del doctor Valmy; Mito, intro. by Carlos Álvarez, Colección Austral, no. 280, 3rd edn (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1992) ____ La Fundación, ed. by Francisco Javier Díez de Revenga, Colección Austral, no. 114 (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1989) ____ Diálogo secreto, intro. by Luis Iglesias Feijoo, Colección Austral, no. 1655 (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1985) ____ Lázaro en el laberinto, ed. by Mariano de Paco, Colección Austral, no. 29 (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1987) ____ Música cercana, intro. by David Johnston, Colección Austral, no. 132 (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1990)

Translations Buero Vallejo, Antonio, The Shot (La detonación), ed. and trans. by David Johnston, Hispanic Classics: Modern Drama (Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1989)

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Sheehan, Robert Louis, ‘Censorship and Buero Vallejo’s Social Consciousness’, Aquila, 5 (no. 1, 1968), 121–37 ____ ‘Buero Vallejo as “El médico de su obra” ’, Estreno, 1 (no. 2, 1975), 18–22 ____ ‘Tres generaciones miran la época postfranquista: Buero, Gala, Cabal’, Estreno, 13 (no. 1, 1987), 26–35 Sollish Sikka, Linda, ‘Buero’s Women: Structural Agents and Moral Guides’, Estreno, 16 (no. 1, 1990), 18–22, 31 ____ ‘Cain, Mario and Me: Interrelatedness in El tragaluz’, Estreno, 16 (no. 2, 1990), 29–32 Sordo, Enrique, ‘Hoy es fiesta: Un Buero Vallejo de su etapa “esperanzada” ’, Yorick, no. 14 (1966), 17 Soto, Vicente, ‘Un personaje en busca de obra’, Ínsula, nos 260–1 (1968), 25 Steiner, George, The Death of Tragedy (London: Faber & Faber, 1961) ____ Language and Silence: Essays 1958–1966 (London: Faber & Faber, 1985) Szanto, George H., Theater and Propaganda (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1978) Teatro breve contemporáneo, I, Primer Acto, Separata del no. 239 [1991(?)] Therborn, Göran, The Ideology of Power and the Power of Ideology (London: Verso and NLB, 1980) Torrente Ballester, Gonzalo, ‘Estreno de Las cartas boca abajo de Buero Vallejo en el Reina Victoria’, Primer Acto, no. 6 (1958), 52 ____ ‘Nota de introducción al teatro de Buero Vallejo’, Primer Acto, no. 38 (1962), 11–14 Valbuena Prat, Angel, Historia del teatro español (Barcelona: Noguer, 1956) Vázquez Montalbán, Manuel, Los demonios familiares de Franco. (Los tics obsesivos que configuraron la ‘ideología’ franquista), Colección Documento (Barcelona: Planeta, 1987) Vázquez Zamora, Rafael, ‘En el Goya, los trágicos ciegos de Buero Vallejo, El Concierto de San Ovidio’, Ínsula, no. 193 (1962), 16 Vicente, Arie, ‘Convergencia y divergencia de lo esperpéntico y lo trágico en Las palabras en la arena, de Antonio Buero Vallejo’, Estreno, 13 (no. 2, 1987), 28–31 Vicente Mosquete, José Luis, ‘El mapa teatral cambia de piel’, Cuadernos el público, no. 2 (1985), 4–5 ____ ‘Alfonso Sastre: un largo viaje desde Madrid a Euskadi’, Cuadernos el Público, no. 38 (1988), 5–27 Villanueva, Dario, ‘Las posibilidades del análisis teatral (Notas a un estudio sobre el teatro de Buero Vallejo)’, Ínsula, no. 469 (1985), 15–16 Villegas, Juan, ‘La sustancia metafísica de la tragedia y su función social: Escuadra hacia la muerte de Alfonso Sastre’, Symposium, 21 (no. 3, 1967), 255–63 Vogeley, Nancy, ‘Alfonso Sastre on Alfonso Sastre: Interview’, Hispania, 64 (no. 3, 1981), 459–65 Welles, Benjamin, Spain: The Gentle Anarchy (London: Pall Mall, 1965) Wellwarth, George, The Theatre of Protest and Paradox: Developments in the Avant-Garde Drama (London: MacGibbon & Kee, 1965) ____ Spanish Underground Drama (University Park and London: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 1972) Williams, Raymond, Marxism and Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977) Zatlin Boring, Phyllis, ‘Encuesta sobre el teatro madrileño de los años 70’, Estreno, 6 (no.1, 1980), 11–22


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____ ‘Agitprop from the Right: The Theater of Eloy Herrera’, Estreno, 6 (no. 2, 1980), 18–21 ____ ‘Theatre in Madrid: The Difficult Transition to Democracy’, Theatre Journal, 32 (no. 4, 1980), 459–74 ____ ‘Expressionism in the Contemporary Spanish Theatre’, Modern Drama, 26 (no. 4, 1983), 555–69

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Index For ease of consultation, an index of Antonio Buero Vallejo’s plays has been listed separately from the rest of the index. The titles of plays by other authors are listed under authors’ names, except in the cases of some plays of the Second Republic and the Civil War where the author has not been identified in the text. Index of Plays by Antonio Buero Vallejo (in order of composition) En la ardiente oscuridad, 8, 66, 73, 92, 104, 121, 122, 133, 134, 135, 139, 145, 163, 165–6, 168, 172, 176, 177, 178 n.18, 185, 187–8, 194, 196, 198, 199, 238 n.33 Historia de una escalera, 54–5, 65, 70–1, 73, 76, 113, 114, 127, 132, 154, 156, 162, 173, 175 Las palabras en la arena, 8, 62, 73, 74, 92, 133, 142, 162, 170, 178, 179, 195, 196 La tejedora de sueños, 62, 92, 142, 156, 158–62, 180, 188 n.35, 197, 222 La señal que se espera, 1 Casi un cuento de hadas, 133, 168, 238 n.33 Madrugada, 1, 133 El terror inmóvil, 1, 157 Aventura en lo gris, 77–8, 104, 134, 153, 156, 162, 184, 188 n.35, 198–9 Irene, o el tesoro, 1, 133, 157, 185 Hoy es fiesta, 1, 92, 132, 157, 163, 169, 175, 185 Una extraña armonía, 1, 76 Las cartas boca abajo, 62, 66, 92, 157, 199 Un soñador para un pueblo, 8, 20 n.34, 71–2, 79, 81, 104, 120, 132, 134, 142, 145–6, 147, 163, 168, 169, 175, 179, 181, 182–3, 190, 192, 227, 252 Las Meninas, 8, 62, 68, 70, 74, 79–80, 81, 104, 114, 120, 132, 133, 134, 135, 136, 137, 142, 146, 148–9, 152, 161, 165, 166–7, 168, 169, 175, 179, 181, 189–90, 192, 195, 196, 197, 198, 222, 230, 244, 255 see also Velázquez El concierto de San Ovidio, 92, 104, 120, 121 n.20, 122, 124, 133, 134, 135, 136, 139, 142, 143, 145, 150, 162, 163, 172,

173, 176, 177, 180, 182, 185, 186, 187, 188–9, 192, 193, 195, 199, 222, 252 La doble historia del doctor Valmy, 8, 61, 62, 66, 76, 81–4, 88, 90, 100, 104, 109, 113, 121, 122, 123, 124, 134, 138, 139 n.63, 166 n.78, 168, 172, 176, 177, 183–4, 188, 194, 198, 199, 203–5, 224, 251, 253 El tragaluz, 66, 75, 84, 103, 104, 120, 122, 134, 143–4, 146, 154, 156–7, 163, 164, 172, 176 n.15, 185, 191, 194, 198, 199, 223, 235, 240 Mito, 1 n.2, 87, 163, 168, 179, 198 El sueño de la razón, 8, 62, 76–7, 87–9, 114, 121, 122, 123, 133, 136, 142, 145, 146, 152–3, 156, 163, 167, 169, 170, 176, 178, 179, 195, 197, 198, 199, 222, 230, 252 see also Goya Llegada de los dioses, 76, 89, 116, 122, 124, 136, 139, 157, 162, 165, 167, 183, 184, 185, 188, 194 n.52, 199, 223, 242 La Fundación, 8, 77, 90–1, 119 n.18, 122, 123, 135, 136, 137, 146, 155 n.43, 157, 163, 164, 166 n.78, 168, 170–1, 172, 175, 176, 177, 179, 182, 184, 185, 186, 187–8, 190, 199, 222 La detonación, 14, 23, 36, 66, 131, 132, 142, 148 n.26, 151, 165, 175, 178, 181, 188, 190, 191, 218, 222, 223, 225–33, 235, 238, 240, 252, 257 Jueces en la noche, 139 n.63, 174, 197, 219, 222, 223 n.5, 224, 225, 228, 233, 235, 238, 240, 242, 243, 246, 247 Caimán, 120, 163, 234, 243

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Diálogo secreto, 62, 136, 162, 163, 222, 225, 233, 235, 236, 244 Lázaro en el laberinto, 139, 224, 225, 234, 242 Música cercana, 139, 154, 162, 174, 216, 222, 233, 236, 240, 241, 242, 244 Las trampas del azar, 154, 162, 174, 185, 219, 222–3, 234, 235, 238, 242

Misión al pueblo desierto, 120, 175, 182 n.24, 220, 238, 241, 248, 256 Adaptations: El Puente, 70, 75 Hamlet, 73, 76, 81, 154 Mother Courage and her Children (Madre Coraje y sus hijos), 72, 73, 80–1, 92, 115, 154, 170

Abad, Francisco, 148 Abellán, José Luis, 151, 172 Abellán, Manuel, 17, 31, 36, 51–2 n.3, 57, 102, 107, 108, 110, 201, 207, 215 Accountability, 133, 155–7, 175, 181, 183, 185, 188, 189, 191, 194, 219, 220, 221, 222, 223, 233, 234, 235, 236, 243, 251, 256 Activos and Contemplativos, 132, 135, 144 n.16, 148, 155, 156, 163, 164, 165 n.73, 186, 237, 238 n.35 Alberti, Rafael, 45–6, 49, 50, 64, 218 Cantata de los héroes y la fraternidad de los pueblos, 49 El cerco de Numancia, 49 El hombre deshabitado, 45 Los salvadores de España, 50 Noche de Guerra en el Museo de Prado, 218 Radio Sevilla, Cuadro Flamenco, 49 Teatro de urgencia, 49 Alos, Concha, 110 Alsonso de los Ríos, César, 104 n.78 Alonso de Santos, Luis, 213 Althusser, Louis, 5–6, 20, 22, 52, 137, 192 Altolaguirre, Manuel, 49 Alvar, Manuel, 160 Álvarez, Carlos, 179 Amell, Samuel, 69 n.4 Anderson, Farris, 84, 218 Andrade, Jaime de see Franco Antolín, Mario, 44 Apathy, 45, 123–4, 132, 133, 138, 140, 146, 155, 156–7, 176, 185, 253 Apertura, 14 n.23, 19, 20–1, 31, 32, 37, 78, 108, 110, 151, 200, 202, 233, 235–6 Arconada, César M., 49 Arias Navarro, Carlos, 37 Arias Salgado, Gabriel, 12 n.17, 13 n.20, 14 n.21, 20, 25, 27, 29 n.64, 34, 35, 36, 37 Aristotle, 119, 120, 144–5 n.18 Armed Forces, 6–7, 49, 50, 109, 179, 194, 199, 204, 208, 227, 233 see also

Repressive State Apparatuses under Ideology Arniches, Carlos, 53 Arrabal, Fernando, 56, 58, 65, 67, 69, 70, 99–101, 107, 109, 117, 125, 129–31, 138, 219, 230, 231 Carta de amor (como un suplicio chino), 219 n.62 Ciugrena, 100, 130 El cementerio de automóviles, 99, 134 El gran ceremonial, 100 La Juventud Ilustrada, 100 Los dos verdugos, 99 Los hombres del triciclo, 131 Arrarás, Joaquín, 29 Art, 122–3, 134, 135, 136, 137, 148, 166–7, 189–93, 197, 238 n.35, 244 influence on Buero, 55, 136 and truth, 135, 136, 153, 167, 190–2 Arte Nuevo, 93, 126 n.29, Artists, role in society, 3, 122, 135, 136, 148, 150, 172–6, 189–93, 221, 229, 230, 239, 243, 248, 250 El Greco, 238 n.35 Goya, 88, 114, 123, 134, 136, 145, 146, 152–3, 156, 167–8, 170, 178, 189, 190, 191, 192, 195, 198, 230 Turner, 137 Velázquez, 62, 68–9, 70, 74, 79–80, 134, 135, 145, 146, 148–9, 166–7, 168–9, 175, 179, 189–90, 191–2, 195, 196, 197–8, 230, 231, 244, 253 Ashworth, Peter P., 121 Aub, Max, 46, 48, 49 Azaña, Manuel, 12, 47 Barraca, La, 46 Barreiro, Enrique, 206 Muñecas, 206 Barthes, Roland, 19 n.31 Bascompte Cirici, Ramiro, 74 Bautista, Aurora, 105 Benavente, Jacinto, 48, 51 n.3, 53, 54

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Benedetti, Mario, 177 n.16, 185 n.31 Beneyto, Antonio 3 n.5, 21 n.37, 32, 104 n.76 Beneyto Pérez, Juan, 30 n.65, 110 Benítez Claros, Rafael, 182 n.27 Bentley, Eric, 44, 63, 253 Berenguer, Ángel, 57 n.18, 218, 256 Bergamín, José, 49, 103 Bilbatúa, Miguel, 45, 46, 59 n.27, 69, 105 Bleiberg, Germán, 49 Blindness, 84, 90, 121–4, 148, 150, 151–2, 159 n.53, 163, 166, 167, 187–8, 189, 190, 198, 199, 222, 223 n.3, 244, 245 see also Madness Brecht, Bertolt, 59, 64 n.37, 72, 80–1, 99, 101, 115, 119, 120, 121 n.20, 256 Antigone, 101 Mother Courage and her Children, 72, 73, 80–1, 92, 115, 154, 170 The Caucasian Chalk Circle, 98, 101 Yo, Bertolt Brecht, 99 Breuilly, John, 21, 22, 24 Brown, Gerald G., 250, Brustein, Robert, 119, 253 Buero Vallejo, Antonio, adaptations, 59–60, 70, 73, 75, 76, 80–1 appearance of, 54–6 and commitment 2, 44, 55, 56–67, 69, 117, 119, 120, 125, 131–9, 172–6, 233, 246, 249–57 and compromise 1, 2, 56, 58–9, 63–4, 69–70, 72, 111, 112–39, 149, 190, 233, 249–57 and critical reception of theatre, 55, 149, 220, 223–5, 231, 244–5, 246–8, 250, 252–3, 254, 257 death of, 1 and demystification, 140–69 and environmental censorship, 101–8, 111 and family, 55, 118, 151, 255 and ideology, 55, 60, 172–99 and negotiation with censors, 70, 71–2, 73–4, 79, 85–6, 89 and official censorship 3, 35, 58, 61, 65, 68–111, 112, 113–6, 117, 124–39, 169–71, 203–5 and post-Franco theatre, 4, 36, 117, 142, 154, 156, 174, 182 n.24, 214, 216, 219, 221–48 and prizes, 105–6, 130 and protests and petitions, 102–03, 115 and Real Academia, 115–6, 130, 255 and religion and god, 74, 133–4, 163–4 and Republican allegiance, 1, 3, 55, 113, 118

and style, 116–24, 138 and theatre reform, 55, 129 and transition, 200, 203–5, 208, 212–6, 218, 219, 220 Buho, El, 46 Burke, Redmond A., 14 n.22 Cabal, Fermín, 212, 213, 220, 247 Cabanillas, Pío, 37 Café Teatro Stefanía, 201 Cain and Abel, 119, 132, 155, 162, 164 Calvo Sotelo, Joaquín, 51–2 n.3, 53, 54, 106 La muralla, 53, 107 Campmany, Jaime, 64 n.35 Camus, Albert, 56, 59–60, 101, 119, 134, 135, 144, 152, 180, 182, 186, 187, 250 Les Justes, 144, 187 Candel, Francisco, 20 Cano, José Luis, 110 Caracol, El, 45 Carlos III, 72, 79, 146 n.22, 147, 148, 182–3 Carr, Raymond, 200 Carrero Blanco, Admiral Luis, 37 Casa, Frank P., 217 Casas del pueblo, 46, 48 Casona, Alejandro, 46, 54 Castellet, José María, 15 n.24, 157 Catharsis, 120, 121, 173 Caudillo, See Franco Cazorla, Hazel, 159 n.52, 161 Cebrián, José Luis, 207 Celaya, Gabriel, 117 Censored plays and the transition, 217–9 Censorship, 2, 8, 28, 29–41, 51, 52, 53 n.8, 57, 61, 63, 68–111, 119, 136, 148, 149–50, 183, 197, 199, 207, 215, 218, 220, 221, 225, 227, 231, 244, 246–7, 249, 252, 256 of anti-militarism, 47–50, 52, 70, 71, 72, 73, 77–93, 94, 97, 98, 101 of art, 74, 79–80, 134, 148–50, 167 n.83, 190, 195, 197–8 of film, 18, 33, 38, 39 of morals and bad taste, 36, 70, 71, 72–7, 77, 81, 82, 91, 97, 98, 99–101, 108, 115, 129, 133, 170 of politics, 47–50, 52, 70, 71, 72, 73, 77–93, 95, 97, 98, 99–101, 108, 114, 129, 170–1, 198, 203–5 of press, 18, 34, 63 of theatre, 14, 18, 33, 35, 38–41, 55, 68–111, 138, 169–71, 209–10 arbitrary application of, 68, 78–9, 93, 95, 98, 102, 108, 125, 198

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and the Civil War, 9, 17, 48–50 and the Second Republic, 17, 47–48 and the transition to democracy, 200, 207–11, 213–16, 242 effects of, 108–11 environmental, 101–08, 190, 203, 204, 215, 224, 232 evasion of, 67, 75, 77, 87, 114, 119, 127, 169–71, 226, 251 Junta de Censura, 38, 39, 40, 72–3 justification of, 30, 31, 34, 84 legislation 3, 11, 12, 13, 17, 18, 21, 25, 26, 30, 31, 32, 33, 37, 38–41, 42, 43, 68, 75, 83, 84, 91, 100, 207–12 preventative, 13–14, 30, 31, 34, 214 procedures, 39, 40–41, 209–10 punitive, 14 sanctions, 31, 32, 34 self-censorship 3, 93, 109–10, 127, 128, 138, 197, 213, 230, 232 silencio administrativo, 39, 80, 90, 98, 200 Special Reports: Moral, 73, 74, 80–1, 95, 98, 170 Special Reports: Political and Military, 73, 95 voluntary, 31, 32, 87, 108 See also Ministries, posibilismo, Roman Catholic Church Censors, 12 n.17, 13 n.20, 14 n.21, 20, 21, 22, 25, 27, 29 n.64, 31, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 83, 89, 102–3, 108, 114, 115, 205 n.19 in the plays, 134, 183, 184, 191, 195, 198, 226–7, 231, 232, 244–5 Centro Dramático Nacional (CDN), 207, 211, 219 n.62 Centro Nacional de Teatro Clásico (CNTC), 211 Centro Nacional de Nuevas Tendencias Escénicas (CNNTE), 211, 214 Cervantes, Miguel de, 49, 135 El cerco de Numancia, 49 El retablo de las maravillas, 99 Civil War, 6, 8, 10, 15, 16, 17, 29, 30, 48, 50, 51, 53, 65, 71, 78, 84, 91, 98, 119, 132, 134, 141, 142, 144, 154, 156, 160, 162, 179, 199, 217, 220, 235, 238, 241, 243, 249, 256 See also Roman Catholic Church Class Struggle, 151–2, 174 Classification of Drama, 14, 38, 209 Cold War, 16 Common Good, 8, 10, 12, 13, 19, 22, 34, 35, 52, 60, 82, 93, 110, 133, 134 n.48, 168, 179, 183, 187, 195, 245

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Communism, 173–4, 241, 243 Communists, 22, 23, 24, 62, 152 n.35 Communist threat, 11, 16, 17 Anti-Communism, 21, 36, 54, 93, 95 Communist literature, 45–50, 54, 95 See also Political Parties ¡Comunista!, 48 Contemplativo see under Activos and Contemplativos Consejo Central del Teatro, 48 Cooper, Norman, 9 Cramsie, Hilde, F., 44 n.102, 65 Critics, 223–4, 247 n.50 in the plays, 244–5 See also critical reception of theatre under Buero Vallejo, Antonio Cross Newman, Jean, 162 Cuenca Toribio, José María, 9 n.8, 12 n.16 De Beauvoir, Simone, 97 De Diego, Fernando, 161 De la Cierva, Ricardo, 107 De la Fuente, Pablo, 49 De la Fuente Ballesteros, Ricardo, 144 De la Puente, Pilar, 141, 227 De los Reyes, Gabriel, 127–8 De los Ríos, Fernando, 46 De Paco, Mariano, 55 n.14, 15, 103 n.73, 174, 190, 191 De Quinto, José María, 51, 52, 53 Deafness, 152 see also Blindness, Madness Death Threats, 202, 204, 256 Del Amo, Álvaro, 59 n.27 Della Costa, Cardinal, 14 Delibes, Miguel, 31 Democracy, 11, 15, 25, 27, 31, 193 n.51, 200, 206, 207, 208, 216, 217, 220, 221, 241, 244, 247 Democrats, 26, 29 Organic democracy, 11, 19 See also Transition Period Destape, 201, 205, 207, 219 Deutscher, Isaac, 136 Díaz Plaja, Guillermo, 116 Dictatorship, 12, 13, 25, 28, 34, 60, 78, 112, 154, 182 n.27, 183, 186, 217, 226, 233 Dieste, Rafael, 49, 50 Al almanecer, 50 Dixon, Victor, 120 n.19, 192, 248 Doménech, Ricardo, 54, 151, 162, 188, 223 Domingo, Marcelino, 46 Don Quijote, 87, 123, 149, 162, 163, 168 Dowling, John, 129

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Dreams (& nightmares), 78, 137, 150, 153–4, 158, 163, 167–8, 185, 188 n.36, 190, 197, 223 n.4, 228, 240 n.41 Dreamers, 71, 135, 145 Durán, Franco, 160 Eagleton, Terry 2, 22, 41, 118, 173, 192 Education system, 12, 14–17, 21, 52, 152, 153 n.37, 198, 213 Federación Universitaria Escolar (FUE), 15, 141 n.4, 173 Sindicato Español Universitario (SEU), 15, 16, 94 student unrest 6, 15, 16, 151, 224, 233, 237 university police, 15, 16 See also Roman Catholic Church and Ideological State Apparatuses under Ideology Eisenhower, Dwight D., 20 Escobar, Luis, 48, 114 Esslin, Martin, 44 Establishment Figures, 126, 132, 134, 135, 148, 155, 176, 177, 179, 190, 192, 193, 194, 196 Ethics, 135, 136 Euripides, 97 Exile, 58, 99, 101, 125, 129–30, 131, 134, 135, 153, 181, 190, 197, 217, 231, 232, 249 Existentialism, 56, 91 Facio, Ángel, 205 Falangism, 5, 7, 15, 18, 26–7, 140 Falangists, 19, 36, 96 Falcón, Irene de, See Garfias, César Family, 15, 33, 152, 162, 196–7, 243 Fascism 5, 10, 15, 26 Fascist, 51 Felipe IV, 75, 80, 148, 168–9, 190, 191, 197, 222 Fernán Gómez, Fernando, 217 Las bicicletas son para el verano, 217 Fernández Insuela, Antonio, 212 Fernández Torres, Alberto, 229, 256 Fernando VII, 88, 114, 134, 135, 136, 147 n.25, 152–3, 167–8, 178, 189 n.39, 192 n.46, 195, 222, 226, 227–8 Ferreiro, Cristina, 139 Film, 29, 142, 213 see also NO-DO under Media Folklore, 27, 47, 52, 53 Forest, Eva, 105

Fraga Iribarne, Manuel, 20–1, 22, 31, 36, 37, 38, 83, 89, 102–3, 108, 115, 205 n.19 Fraile, Medardo, 253 Franco Bahamonde, Francisco, 5, 6, 9, 10, 12, 16, 18, 19, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 36, 45, 51, 61, 72, 80, 84, 90, 109, 146, 161, 179, 200, 215, 216, 219, 226, 227, 228 Franco regime, 1, 2, 3, 5–29, 42, 43, 51, 58, 59, 66, 69, 79, 91, 99, 100, 101, 106, 110, 117, 118, 119, 137, 141, 142, 146, 150, 151, 152, 155, 158, 170, 179, 184, 185, 208, 213, 215, 218, 220, 227, 232, 233, 234, 235, 245, 249, 252 Honours and Awards, 1, 106–7, 116, 130, 138, 221 See also Francoist Ideology under Ideology See also post-Franco Society Francoism, 1, 2, 5, 16, 24, 27, 42, 55, 68, 112, 118, 134, 144, 146, 158 n.49, 162, 211, 215, 220, 221, 227, 238, 246 Freedom, 27, 91, 119, 123, 136, 179, 206, 210, 215, 217, 222, 241 and creation 1, 34, 58–67, 69, 116, 126–7, 136, 150, 207, 220, 247, 249 of the press, 14, 31, 38 See also Censorship, Media Freemasonry, 15, 16, 29, 178 Fusi, Juan Pablo, 9, 12 n.16, 20, 200 Gagen, Derek, 151 n.33, 152, 180, 189, 223 n.5 Gala, Antonio, 69, 201, 206 n.22, 212 ¿Por qué corres, Ulises?, 201 Galarza Morante, Colonel Valentín, 36 García Escudero, José María, 34, 37, 115 García Lorca, Federico, 46, 47, 49 n.112 Bodas de sangre, 47 La casa de Bernarda Alba, 205 García Lorenzo, Luciano, 3 n.6, 121, 125, 132, 143, 247 Garciasol, Ramón de, 105 n.82 Gardiner, Harold C., 13 n.18 Garfias, César, 47 La peste fascista, 47 Gateway Theatre, 84 Gellner, Ernest, 25 Generalísimo see under Franco Generation of ’98, 52, 62, 175 Giménez Arnau, José Antonio, 53, 106 Murió hace quince años, 53 Giner, Salvador, 16 Gomá y Tomás, Cardinal, Spanish Primate, 9 Gómez García, Manuel, 69 n.2

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González Rendón, Aurelio, 49 Ya están de pie los esclavos sin pan, 49 González Ruiz, Nicolás, 35 González Vergel, Antonio, 204 Gorostiza, Carlos, 75 El Puente, 70, 75 Goytisolo, Juan, 18, 41 n.90, 157, 165, 228 Grau, Adriá, 45 Grupo de Teatro Realista (GTR), 93, 128 Guardia Civil see Armed Forces Gubern, Román, 8 n.4, 9, 17 n.28, 32, 37 Guerra a la Guerra, 47–8 Guerrillas del teatro, 49 Gutiérrez, Ángel, 128 Halffter, Cristóbal, 87 Halsey, Martha T., 139, 141, 156, 174 n.13, 177, 229, 236 n.29, 240 n.41 Haro Tecglen, Eduardo, 65, 214, 245 n.46 Härtinger, Heribert, 79, 104, 158 n.50 herencia proletaria, La, 48 Hernández, Miguel, 49, 64 Pastor de la muerte, 49 Teatro en la Guerra, 49 Herrera, Leon, 38 Herrera Petrere, José, 49 Herrera Santos, Eloy, 117, 206, 247 n.50 Que Dios os lo demande, 206 Un cero a la izquierda, 206 Hierro Pescador, José, 165 Higgenbotham, Virginia, 29 History, 1, 56, 61, 221, 224, 233, 234, 235, 236, 241, 248, 250–1, 253, 256 historical drama, 3, 4, 62, 79, 93, 96–7, 117, 120, 122, 133, 140–57, 169–70, 191, 226, 228, 230 official history, 3, 10, 15, 25, 26, 28, 29, 140–2, 145 repetition of errors of history, 153, 155, 156, 199, 219, 222, 225, 226, 236, 237–8, 248 Hobsbawm, Eric, 26 Homer, 159 Hope, 20, 119–20, 132, 135, 137, 143, 144 n.16, 145, 150, 156, 158, 166 n.77, 174, 177, 179, 183, 185, 187, 188, 192, 223, 228, 240, 243, 247, 248, 256 Hopewell, John, 29, 37 Hormigón, Juan Antonio, 46 n.109 Ibsen, Henrik, 59, 120, 144, 173 Ghosts, 173 n.7 Ideology, and artistic integrity, 58, 63–7, 172–6, 192

323

and literature 2, 256 and myth, 19, 136, 140–70 and theatre, 1, 8, 43–50, 51–4, 56, 57–67, 90–1, 93, 94–7, 135, 137, 139, 152, 159–61, 172–99, 186, 220, 227 dominant ideology, 4, 6, 11, 16, 19, 22, 23, 24, 35, 51, 52, 55, 56, 62, 63, 70, 90, 93, 118, 126, 132, 139, 141, 145, 151, 152, 162, 172, 173, 176, 177, 179, 182, 193, 194, 196, 198, 232, 239, 243, 244, 246 end of ideology, 214, 220, 221, 239–45 ideological crisis, 4 ideological battle, 201, 206, 207 ideological state apparatuses, 5–29, 52, 72, 100, 101–4, 112, 119, 137, 196, 198, 199, 226 repressive state apparatuses, 6–7, 9, 23, 72, 119, 179, 180, 227 capitalist ideology, 241 Francoist ideology, 1, 2, 4, 5, 6–29, 33, 36, 53, 55, 68, 82, 87, 119, 134, 137, 138, 139, 142, 158, 160, 162, 196, 197, 199, 240, 246, 250, 254 nationalist ideology, 60, 61, 71, 199 post-Franco ideology, 212–16, 221 Republican ideology, 48, 71 Roman Catholic ideology, 73, 75, 164, 243 See also Communism, Nationalism, Socialism Iglesias Feijoo, Luis, 151, 223–4, 238 Ilie, Paul, 142, 228, 229, 255 Immersion Effect, 82, 120, 150, 154, 176, 177, 238 n.35 Imposibilismo (See under Posibilismo) Imprisonment, 55, 90–1, 176, 185, 187–8, 190, 198–9, 234, 235 Instituto Nacional De las Artes Escénicas y de la Música (INAEM), 211 Ionesco, Eugene, 54 Rhinocéros, 54 Isasi Ángulo, Armando Carlos, 103 n.73, 115 Jérez-Farrán, Carlos, 46 n.108 Joglars, Els, 201 n.4 La torna, 201 n.4 Johnston, David, 147, 151 n.31, 228, 229, 235, 245 Jones, Margaret E., 149 Jordan, Barry, 57 n.21, 65, 152, 182, 189, 193 Juan Carlos I, 174, 211

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Kaye, Harvey J., 155 Kronik, John W., 154, 155, 157 Kundera, Milan, 250 Labanyi, Jo, 23, 26, 27, 142, 158 Ladra, David, 63 Laiglesia, Juan Antonio de, 53 El vicario de Dios, 53 Laín Entralgo, Pedro, 105 Lamartina-Lens, Iride, 161 Language, manipulation 2, 3, 13, 30, 41–3, 62, 165–7, 168, 198–9, 242, 244 of commitment, 61–3, 165 and silence 2, 24, 30, 41, 50, 51, 58, 62, 66–7, 117, 121, 165, 187, 188, 231, 232, 246–8, 249, 251, 254–5, 256 See also Censorship Larra, José Mariano, 145, 181, 190, 191, 225–33, 235, 237, 255, 256 Larrain, Jorge, 11 Legislation, 7–8, 9 n.8, 19, 32, 207, 208, 210–11 See also Legislation under Censorship Liñán, Fernando de, 37 Literature, avant-garde literature, 28 escapist literature, 28, 45, 52 European literature, 52 Republican, 45–50, 51 Romantic literature, 28 See also Theatre; See also literature under Communist, Socialist Llopis, Carlos, 59 London, John, 51, 54 n.11, 56, 58, 59 López Mozo, Jerónimo, 213 López Rubio, José, 54 López Sánchez, Lorenzo, 105 Luca de Tena, Cayetano, 114 Luca de Tena, Juan Ignacio, 53, 106 Lukács, Georg, 65 Lyon, John, 143, 148, 172 n.1, 179, 185, 197 Madness, 62, 82, 90, 121–2, 144 n.16, 153, 155 n.43, 176, 177, 184, 188, 190, 192, 195, 228 see also manipulation under Language; see also Blindness maja desnuda de Cáceres, La, 201 Mangini, Shirley, 57, 65, 102 Mañas, Alfredo, 105 María Cristina, Infanta, 226 Marquina, Eduardo, 53, 250

Marrast, Robert, 45, 48 Marsillach, Adolfo, 206, 207, 246 Martín Iniesta, Fernando, 214, 219, 224 Martín Recuerda, José, 57, 98, 130, 138, 141, 212, 213, 218 El engañao, 98, 218 La llanura, 98 Las arrecogias del Beatario de Sta. María Egipciaca, 98, 218 Martín Santos, Luis, 157, 165 Martínez Mediero, Manuel, 202 Las hermanas de Búfalo Bill, 202 Marxism, 25, 30, 57, 60, 80, 81, 95, 105, 151, 152, 172 Maulnier, Thierry, 78 La maison de la nuit, 78 Media, as ideological state apparatus, 17–18, 20, 21, 25, 34, 103, 215–6, 244 news agencies, 17, 18, 208 NO-DO, 18 RTVE, 104, 216 exclusion from, 103, 104 See also Ideological State Apparatuses under Ideology Memory (and Remembering), 15, 214, 233, 248 and accountability 4, 156–7, 220, 221, 238, 240, 251, 256 wilful, voluntary amnesia, 45, 142, 156–7, 234, 235, 238 see also Pacto de olvido Mihura, Miguel, 51 n.3, 54, 59 Military, see under Armed Forces Millán Astray, General, 30 Miller, Arthur, 144 The Crucible, 144 Ministerio de Cultura, 209 Ministerio de Educación, 46 Ministerio de Educación y Cultura, 211 Ministerio de Gobernación, 38 Ministerio de Información y Cultura, 107 Ministerio de Información y Turismo (MIT), 14, n.23, 16, 18, 20, 22, 27, 32, 36, 38–9, 41, 78, 88, 90, 102, 108, 114, 138, 205, 208 Ministerio de Instrucción Pública y Bellas Artes, 46 Ministerio de Interior, 17, 24, 30, 36, 41 Miralles, Alberto, 129 Monarchy, 5, 15, 88–9, 133, 141, 208, 210 Monarchists, 19, 174 Anti-Monarchist, 88–9 Franco’s Royal Pretensions, 28

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325

Monarchs, 10, 27, 72, 75, 79, 80, 88, 114, 134, 135, 136, 146 n.22, 147, 148, 152–3, 167–9, 174, 178, 182–3, 189 n.39, 190, 191, 192 n.46, 197, 211, 222, 226, 227–8 Monleón, José, 44, 52, 53, 54 n.10, 105, 214, 252, 253 Morals, 52, 53, 56, 60, 119, 120, 136, 139, 148, 223, 243, 250, 253 moral dilemmas, 53, 187, 233, 240, 241 n.43, 256 morality of violence, 172, 176–84 Moreno, Manuel de Jesús, 47 De muy buen barro, 47 Moreno Gómez, Armando, 84 Movimiento Nacional, 5, 31 Muñiz, Carlos, 57, 97–8, 105, 130 n.40, 138, 212, 214, 218 El grillo, 105 El tintero, 98 Lola, espejo oscuro, 97 Tragicomedia del serenísimo príncipe Don Carlos, 97–8, 218 Muñoz Seca, Pedro, 48, 53, 214 Mussolini, Benito, 78 Mussot, Luis, 49 ¡No pasarán!, 49 Myth, 1, 4, 44, 87, 117, 133, 142, 157–69, 169–71, 221, 241 demystification 3, 44, 61–2, 63, 65, 92, 136, 140–2, 154, 157–8, 161, 162–4, 165–69, 171, 191, 194, 222, 228, 235, 254, 256 mystification, 124, 136, 177, 221, 224, 226, 229, 236, 239, 241, 242 official myth, 5, 15, 19, 23, 24, 25, 26, 87, 134, 140–2, 146, 155, 158, 159, 160, 161–2, 163, 167, 178, 179, 188, 191, 194, 198, 252 Biblical mythology, 162, 164 see also Cain and Abel Greek mythology, 158, 162 See also Myth under Ideology; See also Raza

Nationalist Victory, 17, 23, 24, 51 Nationalism and Theatre, 45, 48, 50, 53, 56–7, 94–6, 158–62, 206–7 Nationalization, 18, 19, 20, 29, 32, 36 Nationhood, 24, 42 Navarro, Leandro, 47 Nazi, 58, 179, 183 Neville, Edgar, 54 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 11, 21 Nosotros, 47 Nueva Escena, 49

Nairn, Tom, 23 National Identity, 5, 19, 23, 24, 27, 51, 142, 155 National Theatre, 48 Nationalism, 9, 13, 20–27, 140, 158, 245 Nationalists, 6, 10, 17, 21, 25, 29, 30, 114, 146, 181, 195 Nationalist-Catholic, 10, 13, 23, 24, 162–3 Nationalist Rising, 8 Nationalist State, 9, 118

Pacto de olvido, 4, 156, 217, 219–20, 221, 223, 224, 234, 236, 238, 241, 248, 256 Pajón Mecloy, Enrique, 104 Paniker, Salvador, 174 Paso, Alfonso, 83, 125–6 Paso, Antonio, 47, 54 Los mártires de Alcalá, 47 Pasquariello, Anthony M., 56 n.16, 106, 107 Patriotism, 29 n.63, 62, 81 Paulino, José C., 158 n.49

Odysseus, See Ulysses Oficina Nacional Permanente de Vigilancia de Espectáculos, 14 Olano, Antonio D., 206 Cara al sol… con la chaqueta nueva, 206 Madrid, pecado mortal, 206 Olmo, Lauro, 56 n.16, 57, 99, 105, 212, 214, 218 El retablo de las maravillas y olé, 99 El milagro, 99 La camisa, 99 La condecoración, 99, 218 La niña, el raterillo y la cajita de música, 99 Magdalena, 99 Mare Nostrum S.A., 99 Junio, siete stop, 99 Yo, Bertolt Brecht, 99 Onetti, Antonio, 220 O’Casey, Sean, 59 Red Roses for Me, 59 O’Connor, Patricia W., 55 n.13, 56 n.16, 58 n.25, 71 n.6, 72 n.7, 76 n.17, 79, 80, 86, 106, 176 n.15, 185 n.32, 201, 205, 223, 230, 241, 245, 252 O’Neill, Carlota, 47 Al rojo, 47 O’Neill, Eugene, 113 n.3 Opus Dei, 12, 240 n.41 Osuna, José, 75, 88, 93, 103, 104 n.79, 114, 115

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Payeras Grau, María, 175 Pemán, José María, 47, 48, 51–2 n.3, 54, 106, 250 Cisneros, 47 Pena Nalda, Julia, 105 Pérez de la Ossa, Huberto, 77, 114 Pérez Stansfield, María Pilar, 205 Pétain, Henri-Philippe, 97 Piscator, Erwin, 46, 59 Pla y Deniel, Enrique, Bishop of Salamanca, 8 Podol, Peter L., 162 Political Parties, 7, 173–4, 218, 222, 240 Pombo, Pilar, 213 Poncela, Jardiel, 254 Popular Front, 48, 49 Pornography, 30, 88, 137, 202, 207 Posibilismo (and imposibilismo), 3, 60, 64 n.35, 65, 66, 67, 83, 96, 101, 111, 112–39, 142, 145, 169–71, 185, 186, 188, 190, 221, 225–33, 243, 249–57 Post-Franco Society, 1, 4, 38, 98, 117, 142, 174, 200–20, 221, 222, 227, 228, 233–48, 256 Preston, Paul, 9, 20, 27, 28 Propaganda, 18, 20, 26, 36, 44, 52, 64, 82, 84, 88, 141, 153 n.37, 154, 168, 174, 184, 194, 196, 198, 199, 244 see also Manipulation under Language; see also Theatre of agitation propaganda Public see Spectators Pueblo, in theatre, 132, 146, 147–8, 151, 153, 174–5, 179, 181, 183, 190, 192, 194, 225, 226, 227 Quintero, los hermanos Serafín y Joaquín (Álvarez Quintero), 46, 53 Ragué Arias, María José, 158, 160, 214, 217 Raza, 10, 18, 22–4, 27–29, 30, 199 Film, 29 Realist Generation, 55, 57–67, 109, 154, 158, 212, 217, 247 Rebels and Rebellion, 2, 3 n.6, 42, 48, 60, 80, 135, 136, 145, 149, 150, 152, 169, 172, 177, 180, 186–90, 191, 192, 193, 195, 237, 241 Reds, see Communists Religions, 9, 10, 15 Representation of in theatre, 62, 74, 80, 81, 92, 96, 98, 99, 106–7, 133, 146, 150–1, 152, 162–3, 178, 179, 195–6

See also Roman Catholic Church, Roman Catholicism Religious tolerance, 9, 24, 25 Renan, Ernest, 24 Republic (Second), 6, 10, 12, 15, 24, 45, 46, 50, 118, 148, 161 theatre of, 45–50, 65 Republicans, 21, 23, 24, 27, 29, 42, 43, 54, 118, 146, 181, 237, 238 Republican Zones, 30 Responsibility see Accountability Reyes Católicos, Los, 10, 27 Riaza, Berta, 105 Rivas Cherif, Cipriano de, 45 Robles Picquer, Carlos, 114 Rodríguez, Miguel Luis, 117 Rodríguez Méndez, José María, 57, 98, 141, 212, 214, 218 Bodas que fueron famosas del Pingajo y la Fandanga, 98, 218 El Ghetto, o la irresistible ascención de Manuel Contreras, 98 El milagro del pan y de los peces, 98 Flor de otoño: una historia del barrio chino, 98, 218 Los quinquis de Madriz, 98 Vagones de Madera, 98 The Caucasian Chalk Circle, 98, 101 Rodríguez Sanz, Carlos, 51 Rogers, Elizabeth S., 140 Roman Catholicism, 5, 7, 8, 12, 15, 27, 36, 37, 42, 142 Roman Catholic Church, and censorship, 7, 11, 12, 13–14, 30, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 39, 72–3, 106, 108, 133, 195, 197, 198 and civil war, 8–9 and education, 12, 196 Church-state alliance, 8–14, 29, 52, 72, 133, 146, 243–4, 256 Concordat, 12 Vatican, 9, n.8, 10, 36 Roman Catholic Hierarchy, 8, 9, 14 Ruíz Giménez, Joaquín, 36 Ruiz Iriarte, Victor, 54 Rushdie, Salman, 109–10 Said, Edward, 60, 137, 142 Sainz, Tina, 75 n.15 Sainz de Robles, Federico Carlos, 113 Salom, Jaime, 214 Salvador, Diego, 107 Los niños, 107 Salvat, Ricard, 104 n.78, 160, 217, 224

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Sánchez Bella, Alfredo, 37 Sánchez Silva, José María, 29 Sanchis Sinisterra, José, 53, 214 Saña, Heleno, 42 n.95 Santo Oficio, 148, 195, 197, 198 Sartre, Jean Paul, 44, 56, 59–60, 65, 97, 101, 253 Huis clos (El infierno, A puerta cerrada), 97 Morts sans sepulture (Muertos sin sepultura), 97 Sastre, Alfonso, 2, 56–7, 59, 60, 65, 66, 70, 73, 93–7, 98, 101, 102, 104–5, 109, 117, 125–30, 135, 138, 141, 207, 218, 230, 231, 247, 252 Cargamento de sueños, 95 Escuadra hacia la muerte, 56, 93, 94–5 El pan de todos, 73 En la red, 96, 128, 135 Guillermo Tell tiene los ojos tristes, 96 La mordaza, 96 La sangre y la ceniza: Diálogos de Miguel Servet, 218, 231 Prólogo patético, 95, 96 Tierra roja, 96 Adaptations, 59, 97, 102 Creditors (Los acreedores), 97 Huis clos (El infierno, A puerta cerrada), 97 Medea, 97 Morts sans sepulture (Muertos sin sepultura), 97 Red Roses for Me, 59 Science Fiction, 84, 87 Schaffer, Peter, 201 Equus, 201 Self-delusion see Madness Sender, Ramón J., 49, 50 La llave, 50 Serrano, Julieta, 105 Serrano Suñer, Román, 30, 36, 42 Shakespeare, William, 59 Hamlet, 73, 76, 81, 154 Sheehan, Robert Louis, 69 n.3, 130 n.40 Sloterdijk, Peter, 21 Smith, Anthony D., 10 Social Class, 75, 173 Socialism, 45, 172, 174, 239, 241, 242, 243 Socialist, 55, 212, 216, 221 Socialist literature, 30, 45 Sollish Sikka, Linda, 139, 163, 164 Sophocles, 122 Antigone, 101

327

Spectators, 44 n.101, 53, 61, 66, 71, 76, 77, 81, 82, 96, 113, 117, 119, 120 n.19, 122, 131, 132, 135, 137, 141, 142, 148, 150, 152, 154, 156, 158, 163, 164, 176, 177, 202, 205, 212, 219, 222, 223, 250, 251, 252–4, 255–6 State Apparatuses see under Ideology State of Emergency, 16, 23, 151 Steiner, George, 42, 58, 64, 66, 143, 188 n.36 Strindberg, August, 97 Creditors, 97 Suárez, Adolfo, 208, 216 Surelia, 79, 82, 83, 153, 177, 184, 198, 199 Szanto, George H., 45, 52, 56, 61, 63, 137, 143, 254 Talavera, José María, 47 Alma charra, 47 Tamayo Rivas, José, 76, 79, 80, 114, 115, 252 Teatro Arlequin, 206 Teatro Bellas Artes, 231 n.25 Teatro Benavente, 203, 204 Teatro Candilejas, 74 Teatro de agitación, 48 Teatro de Agitación Social (TAS), 65, 93 Teatro de arte y propaganda, 49 Teatro de circunstancias, 49 Teatro de Misiones Pedagógicas, 46 Teatro de la Zarzuela, 45, 49 Teatro del pueblo, 46 Teatro en la calle, 49 Teatro Español, 45, 76, 79, 106 Teatro Igualada, 231 n.25 Teatre Intim, 45 Teatro Lírico Nacional, 211 Teatro María Guerrero, 77, 94 Teatro Nacional de la Falange, 48 Teatro para el frente, 49 Teatro para el pueblo, 46 Teatro Reina Victoria, 83, 88 Teatro Unitario de la Revolución Socialista, 207 Teatros Nacionales, 207 Theatre, of agitation propaganda (agit-prop), 45–50, 51, 52, 56, 64, 135, 206, 247 of dialectical propaganda, 56, 61, 254 of integration propaganda, 51–54, 56, 114, 135, 206, 249–50 avant-garde drama, 54 bourgeois, 46, 53, 54, 102, 109 classical, 119, 120, 205, 213, 214, 215 commercial, 1, 55, 56, 69, 70, 78, 99, 101, 102, 112, 113, 114, 119, 129,

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137, 138, 192, 207, 231, 249–50, 252, 253 erotic, 201 escapist, 46, 47, 48, 52, 53, 54, 55, 217, 250 foreign, 54, 57 n.18, 101, 214, 254 Golden Age, 48, 54, 207 independent, 212, 213, 217 proletarian, 45, 46 right-wing, 117, 206, 207, 214, 247 n.50 sainete, 54, 119 social realism, 1, 53, 54, 57, 84, 109 zarzuela, 47, 211 Theatre Crisis, 205 Theatre Directors, 48, 74, 75, 76, 77, 79, 80, 83, 84, 88, 93, 103, 104 n.79, 114, 115, 128, 204, 205, 252 Theatre Groups, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 65, 93, 126 n.29, 128, 207 Theatre of Commitment, 48, 54, 55, 56–67, 87, 101, 119, 125, 202, 217, 218, 220, 225, 232–3 Theatre Organizations, 46, 48, 211 Theatre Prizes, 46, 55, 99, 105–7, 204, 212, 214, 217, 218, 219 n.62 see also Honours and Awards under Franco Regime Theatre Reform, 45–6, 48, 55, 93, 129, 207, 211 Theatre Venues, 45, 49, 74, 76, 77, 79, 83, 84, 88, 94, 106, 201, 203, 204, 206, 207, 211, 214, 219 n.62, 231 n.25 Therborn, Göran, 20 n.35 Torrado, Adolfo, 47, 48, 53 Torture, 60, 66, 76, 81–2, 90, 91, 97, 119, 123, 135, 156, 166 n.77, 167 n.81, 177, 180, 183, 184, 194, 210, 224 Trade Unions, 7, 24–5, 48, 71, 234, 243 Tragedy, 1, 54, 55, 119–20, 124, 133, 135, 139, 143, 156, 162, 166 n.77, 172 n.1, 175, 187, 222 Transition Period, 4, 200–20, 221, 222, 224, 225, 226, 227, 228, 233, 234, 235–8, 239, 240, 247 Truth, 5, 12, 17 n.29, 19, 20, 21, 23, 25, 26, 27, 29, 31, 34, 37, 42, 44, 59, 66, 82, 103, 116, 119, 122, 123, 124, 135, 136, 140, 141, 142, 153 n.37, 157, 159,

160, 164, 166, 167, 168, 170, 173, 177, 187–8, 189, 191, 192, 194, 195, 196, 197, 220, 229 n.18, 230, 234, 235, 245 Tuñón de Lara, Manuel, 15, 26 Ulysses, 158, 159–62, 166 n.49, 180, 222 Unamuno, Miguel de, 47, 144, 195, 235 El otro, 47 Unity, 19, 22, 23, 24, 25, 27, 29, 42, 52, 140, 142, 197 Val, Delfín, 47 Alma charra, 47 Valle-Inclán, Ramón, 46, 47, 218 Divinas palabras, 47 Los cuernos de don Friolera, 218 Vázquez Montalbán, Manuel, 7 n.3, 10, n.10, 11, n.12, 28 n.60, 61, 42 n.92, 246 n.48 Vicente Mosquete, José Luis, 65 n.40, 75 n.15, 103 Victims, 184–5, 186, 235, 237, 243 Vidal i Barraquer, Francesc, Cardinal Archbishop of Tarragona, 9 Villapecellin, José Martín, 47 R.I. (República Inmoral), 47 Violence, 151, 175 in drama, 56, 71, 82, 90, 96, 97, 119, 134, 135, 153, 156, 159, 180, 184 justification of, 60, 186, 195 see also morality of violence under Morals Viva la República (o, el ultimo traidor), 49 Voloshinov, Valentin, 165 War, 160–1, 190, 225–6 see also Civil War, World War II Weiss, Peter, 59 Williams, Raymond, 3, 5 Williams, Tennessee, 113 n.3 World War II, 10, 17, 26, 36, 78 Writers’ Organizations, 32, 38, 45, 48–9 Zatlin Boring, Phyllis, 206 Zorilla, José, 55 Don Juan Tenorio, 55, 106

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