In this article I argue that Plato's allegory of the cave dramatizes democracy's dependency on slavery. Plato's cave forces the theatre, the political space of ancient Greek representation, to confront its material dependency upon a space from which it is otherwise visually and territorially separated: the mines where intensive use was made of slave labor. As many have argued, the most salient aspects of Plato's allegory of the cave are the complete absence of lexis (speech) and praxis (action), the evacuation of the acoustic and the distortion of the visual. These are also the most decisive features when delimiting the border between the free and the unfree in Greek antiquity:

In ‘“You Are Here’: H.I.J.O.S. and the DNA of Performance,” a chapter in The Archive and the Repertoire, Diana Taylor locates the intergenerational transfer of traumatic memory relating to Argentina's Dirty War geographically with a map—identifying, for example, where tens of thousands opposed to the country's military dictatorship (one-third of them women) were made to disappear—but she also locates this transfer genealogically and even genetically, in terms of the bodies of surviving relatives who remain as visible evidence (quite literally, through family photographs) of the material existence of their missing parents and children. Like Taylor, I attend to both the physical geography and the embodied genealogy of cultural memory in this article, which is concerned with making connections between the hemispheric traffic in missing and murdered Indigenous women of the Americas. I want to begin by acknowledging some of the sites of individual trauma and various sights of collective protest and witnessing related to this topic.

In Book 3 of Plato's Republic, Socrates refers to the beginning of the Iliad in order to take Homer to task for switching from a purely narrative voice to actually “speaking” in the voice of a character—the Trojan priest Chryses—who is attempting to get Agamemnon to return his daughter. Socrates then demonstrates in his own third-person narrative of that same story how it could have been told without the imitation provided by the priest's speech. Socrates also makes the point that it is in tragic drama where the opposite condition obtains: tragic drama is comprised entirely of direct, imitative speech instead of a distanced, third-person narration. The distinction being made between diegesis (narrative) and mimesis (imitation) marks the beginning of the concept of theatricality, a concept still hotly debated today. Interestingly enough, as is often the case with concepts, it is born in a negative fashion, from antitheatrical criticism.

Although many artists have used food in performance, few are as famously or firmly associated with it as Karen Finley. At the start of Finley's career, almost all of her work was marked by unusual uses of food. Examples include sugared yams dumped over her backside while describing ageist rape in I'm an Ass Man (1985) and the concoction of crushed raw eggs and confetti sponged over her body to analogize social oppression in A Constant State of Desire (1986). Finley intended to channel spectators' excessive emotional and sensual reactions to her extreme, sometimes nauseating uses of food into an indictment of abusive attitudes toward people of marginalized identities. In this sense, the excess of the medium and the excess of the message were intended to correspond, creating a synergistic effect on the spectator.

Eleonora Duse (1858–1924), international star, national treasure, and patriotic Italian died in Pittsburgh in April 1924. Those involved in the memorializing process contended for control of her body, attempting to interpolate her renown in competing narratives of national pride and the universality of art. Duse died at a turning point for Italy, the year Mussolini's Fascists became the majority party. For Mussolini and the Fascists, Duse's death became the occasion for a pageant of Italian pride through a series of carefully orchestrated ceremonies. At the same time, the theatre community tried to establish an artistic narrative more akin to the ideals Duse expressed in life. In the end, nationalist motifs dominated the memorial discourse. Duse's own assertions of the importance of spirit over corporeality became an ironic footnote to a story in which the actress's body stood in for the nation.

Because sensory theatre productions are designed with neurodiverse audiences in mind, practitioners are first and foremost concerned with accessibility at all levels for their audience members, incorporating multiple senses throughout a performance to allow a variety of entry points for audiences that may have wildly divergent—and often competing—access needs. One-to-one interaction between performers and audience members results in highly flexible performances that respond to physical and auditory input from individual audience members, through which performers curate customized multisensory experiences that communicate the production's theatrical world to its audience. Given this reliance on close-up interaction, the circumstances surrounding the COVID-19 pandemic have posed a particular challenge for sensory theatre makers. In in-person sensory theatre, performers focus on neurodivergent audience members, with parents and paid carers often taking a (literal) back seat, but remotely delivered sensory theatre during COVID-19 hinges on the carer's facilitation of sensory engagement curated by sensory theatre practitioners. Oily Cart, a pioneering London-based sensory theatre company, responded to COVID-19 restrictions with a season of work presented in various formats in audiences’ homes, and their production Space to Be marked a shift in the company's audience engagement to include an emphasis on the carer's experience.1 Using this production as a case study, I argue that the pivotal role adopted by carers during the pandemic has the potential to shape future in-person productions, moving practitioners toward a more holistic, neurodiverse audience experience that challenges a disabled–nondisabled binary by embracing carers’ experiences alongside those of neurodivergent audience members.2

On 1 September 1797, both the John Street Theatre and the New Theatre, Greenwich-Street advertised Sheridan's The School for Scandal. Although the company at the John Street Theatre subsequently postponed its performance, this confrontation was typical of what G.C.D. Odell referred to as the “Battle Royal of 1797,” New York City's first competitive theatre season. While most scholars of the American theatre are familiar with the history of the John Street Theatre, very little has been written about New York City's first “regular opposition theatre,” the Greenwich Street Theatre. Lack of information combined with scholarly bias has left us with only impressionistic images of this theatre's place in history.

It is no secret, unhappily, that the study of theatre in the colleges and universities of this country is a discipline under siege, but the severity of the problems received strong confirmation in New York State this fall when two of the most distinguished and long-established (over a century in both cases) programs in the country were, with little warning, faced with draconian cuts or outright extinction. The fact that one, the state University of Albany, was the flagship school of the public system, and the other, Cornell University, was one of the state's most distinguished private institutions, suggests the scope and impact of these actions. At Albany, four other programs are being terminated along with theatre—Classics, Russian, Spanish, and French—while at Cornell the extent of the severe cuts imposed on the theatre program—almost a quarter of the total budget of the department (which also shelters dance and film)—are being suffered by no other program in the university. The prominence of these two schools in a state that has long claimed a central position in American theatre makes them particularly significant symbolically of a discipline in crisis, and this has impelled me to engage in serious and sometimes painful reflections on that discipline, the basis of the present essay.

Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree (1853–1917) is a perplexing figure in Shakespearean stage history. At the turn of the century and in the decade following, he was esteemed as Irving's successor, the pre-eminent Shakespearean actor and producer in Great Britain. That reputation rested largely on his great “revivals” of Shakespeare at Her (later His) Majesty's Theatre. Highly regarded in his own day, Tree is now commonly thought of as a somewhat ludicrous impressario: “He was at heart a comedian, a character actor, a make-up artist specializing in the eccentric,” writes Charles H. Shattuck in his authoritative history of Shakespeare in performance. And, Shattuck continues, Tree's staging is remembered chiefly for its “tricky business, tableaux and dumbshows,” the kind of elaborate, literal-minded stage “illustration” which put a barge onstage in Antony and Cleopatra and live rabbits in A Midsummer Night's Dream. It is easy to laugh at Tree's excesses, as many have, because so little is known about his achievements. For until 1974 the Tree promptbooks and theatre records (scrapbooks with complete newspaper reviews) were controlled by the Tree Estate, and were therefore all but inaccessible to scholars. Lacking the direct evidence of reviews and promptbooks, theatre historians have relied on the harsh judgments of Tree's enemies—chiefly George Bernard Shaw and A. B. Walkley of the London Times—who denounced Tree in favor of William Poel, Gordon Craig, and Harley Granville-Barker.

Theatre critics and historians generally acknowledge a movement toward realism in nineteenth century American dramaturgy and cite Augustin Daly, Bronson Howard, William Gillette, and James A. Herne as innovators in the development of American realism. Steele Mackaye, however, is rarely included as a significant part of this movement; although his theatrical inventions are hailed as far-sighted and innovative, his plays are usually dismissed as unworthy of consideration, as conventional melodramas reflecting the fashion of the day. The close study of Mackaye's plays, however, reveals that he was in the vanguard of the movement toward realism.

Ecstatic religious trance and spirit possession occur across a broad cultural and socioeconomic range, from Pentecostal possession by the Holy Ghost to Ethiopian zar possession cults. Interestingly, this phenomenon is most frequently experienced by young women in their early teens. Folklorists such as Felicitas Goodman postulate that this generational and gendered proclivity for trance reception is a response to the powerlessness of girls within their communities. As such, spirit possession allows young women to claim a degree of cultural power through the performance of a spiritual manifestation. Although I want to make it clear that I am not questioning the very real physical (and perhaps metaphysical) effects of the trance state during religious ecstasy, I argue that the trance state is a consciously induced performance and the enactment of spiritual power.

In looking forward to the important issues of this coming decade, we need only turn to the events of the past year for a sense of what is at stake for theatre, performance, and performance pedagogy. Last year, student activists protested racism on college and university campuses across the United States. At Yale, students protested the hostile racial climate on campus following several incidents, including a professor's dismissal of concerns about racist Halloween costumes, numerous swastika graffiti, and the explicit exclusion of black women from fraternity events. At the University of Missouri, the student group Concerned Student 1950—named for the year the first black students were admitted to the university—called for the resignation of university president, Tim Wolfe, citing the administration's inaction in the face of numerous racist incidents on campus. At Ithaca College, Claremont McKenna University, the University of Kansas, and many other colleges and universities across the United States, students held rallies, performed die-ins, and signed petitions in support of students at the University of Missouri and Yale and to call attention to inequality on their own campuses. Set against the backdrop of Ferguson and an increased awareness of institutionalized violence against black and brown bodies, these events remind us that colleges and universities have always been sites where racial discrimination and inequality have been both perpetuated and protested.

One evening in 1973, or so the story goes, Tim Rice caught the last part of a BBC program about Eva Perón on his car radio. Intrigued enough to make a point of tuning into a later rebroadcast, he became fascinated with this woman, whose single saving grace—he later stated—was that “she had style, in spades.” In late 1976, after more than two years spent researching, writing, composing, and recording (and one or two trips to Buenos Aires), Rice and Andrew Lloyd Webber released the studio album of Evita, their rock-opera follow-up to the hugely successful Jesus Christ Superstar. They would not work together again until they reunited to create the song “You Must Love Me” for the 1997 film version of Evita. The original staging of Evita, under Harold Prince's direction, premiered on 21 June 1978 in London's Prince Edward Theatre. The U.S. premiere came barely eleven months later, on 8 May 1979 in Los Angeles's Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. In December 1980, the Spanish-language version (translated and adapted by Jaime Azpilicueta and Ignacio Artime) opened at Madrid's Monumental Theatre. Although director Azpilicueta did not stray far from the original staging, except for a few “Argentinizing” modifications, on 26 June 1981 Prince premiered his own staging of the Azpilicueta—Artime translation in Mexico City.

At 12:30 P.M. on Monday, 30 April 1764, the curtain parted on the stage of the Little Theatre in the Hay-Market in London and revealed George Alexander Stevens about to begin his celebrated Lecture on Heads. For the remainder of the century this presentation became a staple in the English speaking theatre. It amassed a fortune for its creator, was copied and adapted by dozens of performers, and went through 30 published editions, authentic and spurious.

In her recent book on celebrity pregnancy, legal scholar Renée Ann Cramer writes, “in the years from 1970 to 2000, popular culture became more open to performances of pregnancy; once kept secret and articulated as private, pregnancy became ‘public.’” This is not wholly true. In the English-speaking world, “celebrity pregnancy,” with its overt performances of femininity and maternity, bodily monitoring, and careful dance between the concealment and revelation of private information, had its first public moment in the long eighteenth century. That century's professional theatre was a site for the intersection of two forms of women's labor: the maternal labor of pregnancy and birth, which affected women of all classes throughout a century with rapidly rising birth rates, and the theatrical labor of professional actresses. Although the latter has been the subject of much-needed study in recent decades, the impact of maternal labor on the professional theatre of the time is only beginning to be explored. Between 1700 and 1800, birth rates for middle- and upper-class British woman rose significantly. Among the aristocracy, rates doubled from four to eight children, and middle-class women averaged seven births by the end of the century. At the same time, women in the professional theatre were inventing and modeling new forms of public womanhood, capitalizing on a burgeoning culture of female celebrity, and, in some cases, wielding exceptional economic and artistic power. Though not all actresses had children, many did, and at rates that were not unlike those of their nontheatrical counterparts. For these women, the successful balancing of maternal and theatrical labor could be vital to their careers and, in many cases, their family's survival. The need to balance personal and professional demands was all the more imperative within the hectic and extremely competitive repertory system. The day-to-day repertory of a London company was of necessity a malleable thing, accommodating short runs of popular pieces, audience requests, illnesses and absences of company members, and the perpetual state of competition between the patent houses of Covent Garden and Drury Lane. To compete profitably, managers needed competent and popular performers (bodies) and performance vehicles (texts) in which to feature them. As the available bodies changed, then, so too did the available plays for performance.

Fourteen typewritten sheets of paper recently discovered in the effects of Robert G. Larsen, Keith's booking manager for Boston, give us Benjamin Franklin Keith's own account of his life and work. Evidently dictated in the leisure of retirement in 1912, two years before his death, these two letters gather together the facts and legends of a self-made man and the institution, Keith Vaudeville, that he had founded twenty-seven years before. One of these documents reminisces over his early travels, trials, and eventual success. The other papers are presumably answers to a number of inquiries by Larsen about the formative years of vaudeville, 1885 to 1900.

Wolcott Gibbs once told the New Yorker's readers: Now, in 1938, only the invincibly naive imagine they go to a production of “Hamlet” for the purpose of watching a bunch of actors in a play. The others understand that they are about to be confronted with a ringing challenge to their culture. The man who has not seen Barrymore, Massey, Hampden, Lieber [sic], Gielgud, Howard, Evans, Tinker, and Chance (to round up enough for a little ball game) and is not prepared to discuss their respective performances might better go and live in Rockport, Indiana, though it is by no means certain that he would be safe even there. (22 Oct. 1938, p. 34)

In an influential essay on the place of autobiography in theatre history, Thomas Postlewait puts Fanny Kemble's memoirs at the crux of a historiographical problem. The literary sensibility of Kemble's work appears to Postlewait an instance of both the theatrical memoir's cultural richness and its limitations as biographical evidence: although Kemble's “epistolary mode of self-representation” gives her autobiography Records of a Girlhood “a documentary quality,” for example, even her “earliest letters reveal a calculated literary style” that signals her awareness of the “traits and conventions” of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century novels. In her consciousness of narrative trends, Kemble stands out as a particularly clear example of a general tendency in theatrical autobiographies of the period. As the nineteenth century's booming print market expanded the audience for stories about theatregoing, it also drew readers who were increasingly familiar with novelistic experiments in plotting, characterization, and point of view. This shared audience encouraged an exchange of discursive conventions across fictional and historical narratives, which makes memoirs a compelling but complicated source of historical data about nineteenth-century theatre. Indeed, the two-way influence between genres is so strong that Postlewait argues scholars “need to ask to what extent these autobiographies exist not only as historical records but as epistolary fictions.”