Aeschylus: The Persians
On Saturday evening (in my timezone), the National Theatre of Greece livestreamed, for the first time, a performance in the theatre of Epidauros: The Persians by Aeschylus, aka the oldest completely preserved drama. It wasn't the first Greek drama I saw performed: my previous experiences even include Aeschylus (the Oresteia, as produced by Peter Stein). (The others were the two Oedipus dramas by Sophocles in the National Theatre in London, Medea by Euripides, also in London, Seneca's adaption of Medea (Salzburg) ,oh, and a school performance of Aristophanes' The Assemblywomen in which yours truly played the Second Woman ("I say, by the Goddesses...").
However: none of these took place in one of the most stunning preserved antique theatres of the world, let alone in Greek. (Mostly modern Greek, though several of the Chorus speeches did switch to the original ancient Greek.) Seneca in Latin came closest. There really was something numinous about experiencing this, even sitting at home and staring at my tv screen.
Now, I had actually heard one speech from The Persians performed before, only last year, at a conference about Lion Feuchtwanger, because Feuchtwanger had managed to get his translation/adaption staged mid World War I in Munich (which was a fantastic way to get around censorship on "defeatist" performances), and as last year's conference took place in Munich, an actress reciting Atossa's lines in Feuchtwanger's version was a wonderful addendum. The Persians, in a rare exception among (preserved) Greek plays, does not tackle a mythological subject but a (to Aeschylus) contemporary one: the Greek victory at Salamis over Xerxes, which had taken place only eight years before the play was first performed, which meant a part of the audience probably fought in it. (Aeschylus himself we know to have fought at the earlier battle of Marathon; whether or not he fought at Salamis as well is less certain.) What makes the drama so extraordinary is that a) it doesn't describe these events from the Greek pov but from the Persian one, and b) it does so without belittling or vilifying the defeated opponent. We're a very far cry from the likes of Frank Miller and the likes of 300; Aeschylus, who fought Persians, gives their grief and pain as empathic a voice as he'll later give to, say, Cassandra in Agamemnon.
Mind you, even if we didn't know, there'd be no question this play was written by a Greek (spedifically, an Athenian; no other Greek city is named); the Persians refer to themselves as "Barbarians" a few times (in the original Greek sense of the word - those who do not speak Greek), and they worship Greek Gods. And when Queen Atossa hears the Greeks would never accept slavery, one is tempted to add: Except for, you know, their slaves. And their women. It's a bit like the American revolutionaries going on and on about how they'll never be slaves to British tyranny, while simultanously, well.... Anyway. Both the lines about Greek liberty and a later line in a similar vain got audience applause, but otherwise, this is pretty much the anti Henry V, because instead of offering constant "yay us!" opportunities for its original audience, it's a powerful evocation of loss and emotional devastation even millennia and miuch changed theatre habits later.
When the Persians premiered, having a second person on stage in addition to the chorus and one single character was still new, and as opposed to the later Oresteia, here there isn't much interaction going on even when there are two speaking individuals - they both pretty much monologue. This is tricky to convey to people unfamiliar with Greek drama, let alone Greek drama in its oldest form, but here I thought heaving it in Greek (both modern and ancient) - with subtitles - really helped, because the way these were all word arias and the distinct rhythm came across intensely. You could tell this is also where opera hails from. And the Chorus - in a tight choreography - moved/danced as well as declaimed. The one point where a bit of silent stagecraft was added that almost certainly would not have happened back in the day worked really really well, though: when after the ghost of dead King Darius had been conjured up from the grave, his widow Atossa at one point made a move as if to touch his hand, and you could tell he wanted to touch her, but then he withdrew, and the taboo of the dead and the living not being permitted to touch was crystal clear.
Queen Atossa was played by Lydia Koniordu and had the central part, in as much as there is one; she was rivetting, whether speaking, lamenting or just standing there in silence. Whilte the Chorus was dressed in white robes that vaguely nodded towards the actual Persian style in cut but were also covered in Greek letters from Aeschylus' text in black, Atossa wore a black dress that more looked like something out of the late 19th century, and had the letters on her skin. Xerxes, appearing at the end, was the only one whose letters were red, dripping: like viscera.
I found it fascinating how many Persian places Aeschylus names, not just Susa; and how the various Persian (and their allied) leaders lost in the battle are evoked, praised and grieved for by name, while not a single individual Greek is listed. Since Themistocles, whose part in the battle of Salamis had been very important indeed, was on his way out of favour with the Athenian public when the play premiered, this might have been good politics, not to mention that it helps selling the "Greeks don't have one single ruler, they're all important" line, but it also, millennia later, is good world building in that it feels right for the Persians to ask about and then mourn their people not just en masse but also specifically.
The reason why Feuchtwanger managed to get this staged mid WWI with national fervor and censorship at a fever pitch was that he could always claim that of course there was no Xerxes/Wilhelm II analogy going on, clearly the off stage Greeks were the Germans. But even if anyone other than the censors bought that, the remarkable thing in any era you stage it is that there is no us type of cause to root for, just loss to empathize with. And that, in a time which has less and less empathy for people classified as "not us", is really an experience to be treasured. This entry was originally posted at https://selenak.dreamwidth.org/1403120.html. Comment there or here, as you wish.
However: none of these took place in one of the most stunning preserved antique theatres of the world, let alone in Greek. (Mostly modern Greek, though several of the Chorus speeches did switch to the original ancient Greek.) Seneca in Latin came closest. There really was something numinous about experiencing this, even sitting at home and staring at my tv screen.
Now, I had actually heard one speech from The Persians performed before, only last year, at a conference about Lion Feuchtwanger, because Feuchtwanger had managed to get his translation/adaption staged mid World War I in Munich (which was a fantastic way to get around censorship on "defeatist" performances), and as last year's conference took place in Munich, an actress reciting Atossa's lines in Feuchtwanger's version was a wonderful addendum. The Persians, in a rare exception among (preserved) Greek plays, does not tackle a mythological subject but a (to Aeschylus) contemporary one: the Greek victory at Salamis over Xerxes, which had taken place only eight years before the play was first performed, which meant a part of the audience probably fought in it. (Aeschylus himself we know to have fought at the earlier battle of Marathon; whether or not he fought at Salamis as well is less certain.) What makes the drama so extraordinary is that a) it doesn't describe these events from the Greek pov but from the Persian one, and b) it does so without belittling or vilifying the defeated opponent. We're a very far cry from the likes of Frank Miller and the likes of 300; Aeschylus, who fought Persians, gives their grief and pain as empathic a voice as he'll later give to, say, Cassandra in Agamemnon.
Mind you, even if we didn't know, there'd be no question this play was written by a Greek (spedifically, an Athenian; no other Greek city is named); the Persians refer to themselves as "Barbarians" a few times (in the original Greek sense of the word - those who do not speak Greek), and they worship Greek Gods. And when Queen Atossa hears the Greeks would never accept slavery, one is tempted to add: Except for, you know, their slaves. And their women. It's a bit like the American revolutionaries going on and on about how they'll never be slaves to British tyranny, while simultanously, well.... Anyway. Both the lines about Greek liberty and a later line in a similar vain got audience applause, but otherwise, this is pretty much the anti Henry V, because instead of offering constant "yay us!" opportunities for its original audience, it's a powerful evocation of loss and emotional devastation even millennia and miuch changed theatre habits later.
When the Persians premiered, having a second person on stage in addition to the chorus and one single character was still new, and as opposed to the later Oresteia, here there isn't much interaction going on even when there are two speaking individuals - they both pretty much monologue. This is tricky to convey to people unfamiliar with Greek drama, let alone Greek drama in its oldest form, but here I thought heaving it in Greek (both modern and ancient) - with subtitles - really helped, because the way these were all word arias and the distinct rhythm came across intensely. You could tell this is also where opera hails from. And the Chorus - in a tight choreography - moved/danced as well as declaimed. The one point where a bit of silent stagecraft was added that almost certainly would not have happened back in the day worked really really well, though: when after the ghost of dead King Darius had been conjured up from the grave, his widow Atossa at one point made a move as if to touch his hand, and you could tell he wanted to touch her, but then he withdrew, and the taboo of the dead and the living not being permitted to touch was crystal clear.
Queen Atossa was played by Lydia Koniordu and had the central part, in as much as there is one; she was rivetting, whether speaking, lamenting or just standing there in silence. Whilte the Chorus was dressed in white robes that vaguely nodded towards the actual Persian style in cut but were also covered in Greek letters from Aeschylus' text in black, Atossa wore a black dress that more looked like something out of the late 19th century, and had the letters on her skin. Xerxes, appearing at the end, was the only one whose letters were red, dripping: like viscera.
I found it fascinating how many Persian places Aeschylus names, not just Susa; and how the various Persian (and their allied) leaders lost in the battle are evoked, praised and grieved for by name, while not a single individual Greek is listed. Since Themistocles, whose part in the battle of Salamis had been very important indeed, was on his way out of favour with the Athenian public when the play premiered, this might have been good politics, not to mention that it helps selling the "Greeks don't have one single ruler, they're all important" line, but it also, millennia later, is good world building in that it feels right for the Persians to ask about and then mourn their people not just en masse but also specifically.
The reason why Feuchtwanger managed to get this staged mid WWI with national fervor and censorship at a fever pitch was that he could always claim that of course there was no Xerxes/Wilhelm II analogy going on, clearly the off stage Greeks were the Germans. But even if anyone other than the censors bought that, the remarkable thing in any era you stage it is that there is no us type of cause to root for, just loss to empathize with. And that, in a time which has less and less empathy for people classified as "not us", is really an experience to be treasured. This entry was originally posted at https://selenak.dreamwidth.org/1403120.html. Comment there or here, as you wish.