Showing posts with label Calderon. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Calderon. Show all posts

Friday, May 27, 2022

Shaw Conference in Spain... at last!

Back in 2020, I was supposed to attend a conference on Bernard Shaw in the town of Cáceres in Spain. Well, the conference got delayed two years, but I finally made it!

I arrived in Madrid on Tuesday and took the train out to Cáceres, a beautiful city with lots of medieval architecture. The conference began on Wednesday, with a plenary lecture by Audrey McNamara. She spoke about how Shaw represented "Woman as Nation" but not in the idealized manner of W.B. Yeats in such plays as Cathleen Ni Houlihan.

Edurne Goñi-Alsúa kicked off the first session, discussing "geolect" in Spanish translations of Pygmalion.  Guadalupe Nieto Caballero talked about the reception of Shaw in Spain, and I was fascinated to learn that a production of Shaw's play The Devil's Disciple was performed in the midst of the Spanish Civil War. Gustavo A. Rodríguez Martín--who organized the conference--also spoke about his Online Shaw Concordance.

In the second session, I was glad to hear Peter Gahan discuss Shaw and the Germans. Shaw claimed that he mostly just knew Goethe and Schiller among German authors, though he was clearly familiar with a few others, as well. In Germany, Shaw's reputation during his lifetime was as a radical socialist, which informed the talk given by Virginia Costello on Shaw, Maxim Gorky and Emma Goldman. While Goldman became disillusioned with the Soviet Union after being transported there by the U.S. Army aboard the Buford, Shaw remained consistent in his support for the Russian Revolution.

Unfortunately, Jean Reynolds did not make it over for the conference, but she joined us over Zoom to officially launch her new book on Major Barbara and Pygmalion. She discussed how in Major Barbara Andrew Undershaft admires his predecessor in the arms trade, whom he refers to as his master. He quotes maxims of the business, but Reynolds said these maxims fall apart once you start to really think about them. She also brought up that when Andrew comes to his own home after being away for years, the butler Morrison doesn't know how to classify him. Should he announce him as a visitor or treat him as one of the family?

Wednesday night, we had a guided tour of Cáceres. We wondered at the old Moorish tower, the plaque on the ground marking the old Jewish quarter, and other amazing sights. The conference started up again on Thursday morning, with a plenary lecture by Brad Kent on Shaw and world literature. I learned that when Shaw accepted the Nobel Prize for Literature, he used the prize money to set up an organization to encourage translation of Swedish literature into English. The organization gives out a prize each year for the best translation. Kent also spoke on Shaw's relationship to Max Reinhardt, who directed some of Shaw's plays, including a production of Saint Joan that included Bertolt Brecht.

The third session of the conference contained some Zoom talks, as well as Vishnu Patil (live and in person) discussing Shaw in India. He noted that India's first Prime Minister, Jawaharlal Nehru, attended talks given by Shaw, and the two later met formally in 1949, the year before Shaw's death. After a brief coffee break, we had a fourth session, which featured Justine Zapin discussing The Tragedy of an Elderly Gentleman, which she referred to as Shaw's last Irish play. She noted that in the play Shaw creates an Irish landscape in the minds of the audience without engaging in a mimetic representation of place in the physical theatre space.

After a book launch for Bernard Shaw and the Spanish-Speaking World, we had a fifth session in which Miguel Cisneros Perales discussed Spanish adaptations of Pygmalion and Óscar Giner spoke on links between Saint Joan and Calderón de la Barca’s Golden Age play The Constant Prince. Both plays present exceptional incarnations of the life force, he said. Giner also mentioned that Shaw's hero, P.B. Shelley, had partially translated Calderón's The Prodigious Magician, which remains perhaps the best English translation of that play. We also had some entertainment, with Brian Freeland performing his one-man show Bernard Shaw: Playing the Clown.

Today, I gave my own talk on Shaw and Sarah Bernhardt. There were also presentations by Luis Tosina Fernández, R.A.F. Ajith, and Soudabeh Ananisarab. It's been an exhausting conference, but one I was very glad to be able to attend!

Tuesday, September 13, 2016

The Apostate

Richard Lalor Sheil's play The Apostate, based loosely on Pedro Calderón's Amar después de la muerte, opened on May 3, 1817 at the Theatre Royal Covent Garden. The play was a success, thanks to Eliza O'Neill's performance as Florinda. Most critics, however, did not think much of the script.

"Of those to whom the tragic drama may look with hope of its revival, we confess we cannot regard the author of the Apostate as likely to be one," wrote a reviewer in The London Quarterly Review. He went on to claim that the piece "savours more of the experience of the machanist than of the inspiration of the poet." Ouch.

Sheil's poetry isn't terrible, though. When Hemeya, the descendant of Moorish kings, falls in love with the Spanish (and Christian) Florinda, his friend Hamet rebukes him, saying:

                                                        This Spanish woman 
                    Has banish'd from your soul each nobler care.--
                    The daughter of Alvarez--she alone 
                    Possesses all your being! You can think 
                    And speak but of Florinda--When the Moors 
                    Weep o'er their cruel wrongs....

Even more powerful is the voice of the elderly Moor, Malec, who in spite of his age, urges on a fierce battle. Hemeya, originally played by Charles Kemble, converts to Christianity so he can marry Florinda. His old mentor Malec rebukes him for his apostasy, and calls for him to instead wage war against the Spanish and the dread Inquisition they have begun. Malec calls out in Act II:

                    Art thou afraid? Look at yon gloomy towers! 
                    Has thy fair minion told thee to beware 
                    Of damps and rheums, caught in the dungeon's vapours? 
                    Or has she said those dainty limbs of thine 
                    Were only made for love? Look at yon towers!--
                    Aye! I will look upon them, not to fear, 
                    But deeply curse them. There ye stand aloft, 
                    Frowning in all your black and dreary pride, 
                    Monastic monuments of human misery, 
                    Houses of torment, palaces of horror! 

The play also provides a suitable villain, Pescara, originally played by William Charles Macready. At first, Macready was disappointed with the role, but he made the best of it and turned it into an opportunity to shine. Having captured Malec and handed him over to the Inquisition, Pescara promises Hemeya a grotesque wedding present:

                    I tell thee, music--thou shalt have the groans 
                    Of grey-hair'd Malec ringing in thine ears!--
                    The crackling flames in which he perishes
                    Shall hiss upon thee when thou art softly laid
                    Within the bosom of the amorous fair!

Hemeya takes the high ground, though, and promises Pescara he will never escape his own conscience. In one passage, he contends:

                    Bind me upon your beds of burning pain,
                    Here on my limbs waste all your arts of agony,
                    And try some new experiment in torture--
                    Yet, even then, the pangs that rend my body
                    Will be heav'n's bliss to torment such as thine--
                    Guilt's poison'd shaft shall quiver in thy heart!
                    And in Remorse's fires thy scorpion soul
                    Shall writhe and sting itself!

Pescara cruelly forces Florinda to marry him, and Hemeya unfairly accuses her of falsehood, not knowing she drank a slow-acting poison before marrying the villain. Learning this, Hemeya stabs himself, but Florinda, gradually losing her senses, tries to stem the flow of blood with her hair. Dying, Florinda refuses to leave the corpse of her lover, saying:

                    You shall not tear me hence--No!--never! never! 
                    He is my lord!--my husband!--Death!--'twas death!--
                    Death married us together!--Here I will dig 
                    A bridal bed, and we'll lie there for ever!

Sheil's play definitely has its moments, in spite of the negative reviews almost 200 years ago.

Saturday, July 12, 2014

The Evolution of Madame de Staël

Anne Louise Germaine Necker was an odd fish. Her parents were Swiss Protestants who settled in Paris in the mid-eighteenth century. The year after she was born, her father went into politics, eventually rising to become the Minister of Finance for King Louis XVI.

Did I mention that her dad was Jacques Necker? You know, the financial genius who did everything he could to save Louis's rear end, and whose dismissal by the king helped to precipitate the French Revolution? Yeah, that Jacques Necker.

And her mom? That would be Suzanne Curchod. She used to hang out with Diderot, and she exchanged letters with Rousseau and Voltaire. Edward Gibbon wanted to marry her, but she pretty much turned him down.

So with those two as your parents, it's probably hard to not be a genius. (Especially when you're an only child and your brilliant father dotes on you all the time.)

When she was 20, Germaine married the Swedish ambassador to Paris, Eric Magnus Staël-Holstein. They split after a couple of years, but she took his name, becoming known to history as Madame de Staël.

Madame de Staël published--under her own name--some rather radical little pieces right before the Revolution. She had to flee the Reign of Terror, but she returned to France after the fall of Robespierre and wrote a fascinating book called The Influence of Literature on Society. With this work of literary criticism, de Staël broke with traditional French Enlightenment thinking and began a journey along the road to Romanticism.

The Influence of Literature on Society holds that the rules of good taste are not arbitrary, but are based on "universal truths" that are "unanimously approved by all mankind." The book claims local customs often force authors of genius to depart from good taste, but that these minor errors in style should not obscure the greatness of works tainted by barbarous (read, non-French) customs.

The great example of this, of course, was Shakespeare. In her chapter on Shakespearean Tragedy, de Staël writes:

In Shakespeare there are beauties of the first order which appeal to all nations and all epochs. In Shakespeare there are also flaws which may be attributed to the Elizabethan period and peculiarities which are so popular with the English that they continue to have success on the English stage.

She claims that Shakespeare is superior to the Greeks in his portrayal of the passions, but inferior to them in terms of artful composition, citing "dull patches, useless repetitions, and incoherent images." The reason for these flaws, she claims, was that Will had to write for an ignorant audience. One gets the sense she thinks that if Shakespeare had only written for more civilized, French theatre goers, then his plays would have been perfect.

Later on in the book, de Staël links the style of Shakespeare and other English writers with the authors of Germany, theorizing about a type of imaginative literature emanating from the northern countries of Europe. While she does not prefer this literature to that of France, she recognizes its power, and she admits that highly structured French verse cannot always contain the deepest feelings of human passion. Ultimately, the book advocates "an intermediate genre between the decorum of the French poets and defects in taste of the Northern writers."

In 1800, de Staël still couldn't get beyond seeing Shakespeare--and other "Northern" writers--as being somehow defective. Perhaps writing her own imaginative works helped to change her mind. In 1802, de Staël published Delphine, an epistolary novel examining the roles of upper class women. She returned to France the next year, but she got in hot water with Napoleon and ended up touring Germany with her lover, a fellow Swiss-French writer names Benjamin Constant.

Now that she was spending some serious time in Germany, de Staël's feelings about that country and its literature began to change. She saw Goethe's theatre in Weimar and met Schlegel in Berlin. She then took a tour of Italy and wrote a new novel, Corinne. It was in 1810 that she wrote her second important piece of criticism: Germany.

Napoleon ordered all copies of the book destroyed. Three years later, she was able to have the book republished in London. What was it that made this book, more than Corinne, more than Delphine, more than The Influence of Literature on Society, so dangerous to the French Empire?

As de Staël points out in the book, many people in France had come to use the term "classical" as a synonym for perfection. French art was "classical" because it was based on Greek and Roman models. "Romantic" art by contrast had its origins in the songs of the troubadours of the chivalric age. In Germany, de Staël had the nerve to say that "classical" art wasn't necessarily the best way to go. In one passage she observed:

French poetry, being the most "classical" of all modern poetry, is the only modern poetry not familiar to the people. The stanzas of Tasso are sung by the gondoliers of Venice; Spaniards and Portugese of all classes know the verses of Calerdon and Camoëns by heart. Shakespeare is as much admired by the common folk of England as by the upper classes. Poems of Goethe and Bürger are set to music and can be heard from the banks of the Rhine to the Baltic. Our French poets are admired by the cultivated classes of France and the rest of Europe, but they are completely unknown to the common people, and to the middle class, even of the cities.

Thus, Germany linked all of French literature to the old aristocratic regime, and it associated foreign literatures with egalitarianism, which the Revolution had allegedly championed.

Madame de Staël was particularly biting when it came to drama. She attacked the French for holding fast to the unities of time and place when unity of action was the only one that really mattered. She did not advocate that French playwrights should adopt the methods and models of the Germans, but she welcomed foreign plays as a way to generate new ideas

Friedrich Schiller's Wallenstein trilogy seems to have greatly moved her. She noted that German audiences watching the play did not mind lingering over lengthy scenes, appreciating the feelings of the characters rather than only being on the lookout for the plot. She expressed a desire to see Wallenstein on the French stage, but she added that the play demanded a "youthful spirit" that many in France lacked.

Acting in France was too bound by what de Staël described as "the art of declamation." She praised German actors, such as August Wilhelm Iffland, as well as the British actor David Garrick. The French actor she most admired was François-Joseph Talma, who found new ways of acting old scenes in order to breath fresh life into them. She concluded a long digression on Talma by saying:

The artist gives as much as is possible to French tragedy of what, justly or unjustly, the Germans accuse it of lacking: originality and naturalness. He knows how to characterize foreign manners in the diverse plays in which he acts, and no actor hazards greater effects by simple means. In his declamation Shakespeare and Racine are artistically joined. Why won't dramatists also attempt to unite in their compositions what the actor has so well combined in his acting?

Germany was more than mere literary criticism. It included a manifesto for a new type of dramaturgy. Napoleon, who had limited the number of theatres in Paris and sought to tightly regulate drama, would have none of that. But all the Napoleons in the world couldn't keep de Staël's successors, including romantic playwrights Alexandre Dumas and Victor Hugo, from ultimately conquering the French stage.

Tuesday, August 13, 2013

Notes on Spain's Golden Age

Early Spanish Drama

During the 16th and 17th centuries, Spain asserted its power across the globe. It dominated Europe, conquered much of the Americas, and established footholds in Africa and Asia. Spanish literature and the arts flourished, and the theatre in Spain came into its own. Religious dramas grew into elaborate pageants called autos sacramentales that celebrated the sacraments of the Church. Secular drama, influenced by French farces and Italian commedia dell'arte, spread across the peninsula. These plays were frequently performed by traveling troupes that could consist of anything from a single actor reciting stock pieces to refined companies with as many as sixteen actors.

Both men and women acted, though there were fewer actresses on stage, and boys frequently played the lesser female roles. The most famous of these early strolling players was Lope de Rueda, the son of a goldsmith who rose to fame as an actor in the middle of the sixteenth century. He was famous for playing comic characters and also wrote many of his own plays. These works ranged from full-length sweeping dramas to short farces called pasos, for which he was most famous. Popular folk humor was the basis for many of these pasos, including The Olives, a play about a husband and wife arguing over how much to charge for olives that will grow from a newly planted shoot.

One of the many people to see Rueda was Miguel de Cervantes, who later recalled that when he was a boy he had witnessed the great actor perform a play on a simple stage made up of four or five boards on benches with a blanket used as a backdrop. Cervantes later became famous for his novel Don Quixote, but before that, he wrote numerous plays, including the four-act historical drama The Siege of Numantia. The play uses allegorical figures such as War, Hunger, Pestilence, and Fame, as well as historical figures like the Roman general Scipio. There are plenty of opportunities for pageantry, such as a woman representing Spain entering crowned with towers and bearing a castle in her hand. Stage directions also call for complicated special effects, including shooting off rockets to represent lightning and rolling a tub full of stones to create the sound of thunder.

In between the acts of such serious plays, performers often staged interludes called entermeses. Later on in his career, Cervantes published eight of these entermeses. One of the more famous of these, The Vigilant Sentinel, shows the author's ironic stance toward soldiers and chivalric values. In the play, a soldier courts a kitchen maid, chasing away any men who might even possibly be rivals. In spite of his efforts (or perhaps because of them) she rejects his suit and marries instead a sacristan who knows nothing of the arts of war.

The Spanish Stage 

The improvised stages of traveling players continued throughout the Golden Age of Spanish drama. However, the larger cities in Spain established permanent playhouses. In 1574, the Italian architect Giovanni Bellini built Spain's first permanent theatre of the period in Seville. Others followed in Cordoba, Valencia, Madrid, and elsewhere. Spanish theatres tended to be built in preexisting courtyards, earning them the name corrales. In the town of Almagro, one of these corrales still exists and is used for theatre even today.

On one side of the corrale was the stage, which had a balcony or balconies for entrances from above. The Siege of Numantia calls for a character to leap from a tower, an effect likely achieved using one of these balconies. Like public theaters in England, these stages had few scenic elements, which allowed actors to travel across miles or years in the space of a few lines. Audience members wishing to be seen could sit on stage for an additional fee, occupying areas to the side of the stage referred to as mountains. At the back of the stage was frequently a discovery space where a curtain could open to reveal additional characters or a new scene.

Directly in front of the stage was an open courtyard known as the patio. Originally men stood in this area, though gradually theatres added benches. Only men were allowed in the patio, and these were the rowdy, lower-class playgoers known as mosqueteros. Frequently, it was the mosqueteros who decided the success or failure of a play, and writers were obliged to please them. If the mosqueteros did not like a play, they hissed and whistled until it could not be heard.

Facing the stage was an elevated gallery for women, who were kept separate from the rough men in the patio. This area, known as the cazuela, or "stew pot," had benches that were frequently fought over by the female playgoers. To sit in the front, where a woman could be easily seen by men, was considered brazen, but it was hard to see from the back rows, so women came early to the theatre to get one of the middle seats. Sometimes, there was another level above the cazuela reserved for dignitaries. Below the cazuela was typically the refreshment stand, or alojeria, which also sent sellers up to the cazuela to hawk snacks.

On either side of the patio were rows of seats rising up at an incline. These were known as the gradas, and an extra charge was required for these seats. Unfortunately, many playgoers felt they were entitled to such seats--and indeed to admission period--without paying. It was a constant struggle to keep order in the gradas as well as the patio. Also, actors did not own the corrales. They were either paid a flat fee or kept only a portion of the admission charge, so freeloaders could cut painfully into the income of performers.

Above the gradas were boxes known as aposentos. These originally connected to the houses on either side of the courtyard in which the corrale was built. They sometimes had private entrances through the houses, which led to complex arrangements with the homeowners, who typically took a cut of the admission for these seats. The aposentos were the only places where women and men could sit together, but a respectable woman would only go to the theatre in the company of family members. The top levels of aposentos were sometimes called attics, or desvanes.

Originally, theatres only performed plays on Sundays and during religious festivals, but beginning in 1579 authorities began making exceptions. Performances were not allowed at all during Lent, however, or during periods of national mourning. The corrales had to shut down for the hottest part of the summer, and they were closed as a matter of course during plagues or wars. This meant they could remain open fewer than 200 days out of the year. Since the corrales were open to the sky, rain could also spoil a performance.

Lope de Vega

The one man who shaped Spanish Golden Age drama more than anyone else was the playwright Lope de Vega. Born in Madrid in 1562, he came to write literally hundreds of plays and became so famous that most critics are now on a first-name basis with him, referring to him simply as Lope. Lope studied at the University of Alcala, but never completed his degree. He became a soldier and fought in numerous military expeditions, including the ill-fated Spanish Armada that launched in 1588 to invade England. Lope's ship was one of the few to make it back to Spain, an example of his prodigious good luck, which got him out of numerous scrapes and close calls throughout his life.

Before Lope's time, Spanish plays had any number of acts. Lope, however, found that three acts worked best for him. Once he established three acts as the standard for himself, both his tremendous skill and incredible output led other Spanish writers to adopt the three-act form as well. He specialized is so-called cape and sword dramas, which valued swashbuckling action and ingenious plot twists over complex characterizations or overly decorous poetry. This led many critics to attack his plays, frequently citing his failure to follow neoclassical rules.

In response, Lope published The New Art of Writing Plays for Our Time in 1609. Written in verse, this defense of free and inventive playwriting imitates the informal style of Horace's Ars Poetica. Though Lope apologizes for breaking neoclassical rules, he slyly counters that had he followed those rules his plays would not have been nearly so popular. While abasing himself before classical scholars, he also throws in jabs about how he actually has experience writing plays, and very successful ones at that. Anyone who does not like his plays need not come see them, he notes.

The New Art also gives a great deal of practical advice about playwriting. It recommends writing each act on no more than four sheets of paper, as any more would test the patience of the audience. Rather than condemning the entire play to take place in a single day, the poem recommends confining each act to a single day. The first act should set out the matter of the play, and the second act should weave together events, but only in such a manner that the audience will not be able to guess the outcome. Only in the final scene should the play's ending become apparent.

Unlike English drama, which settled upon blank verse as the standard poetic form for writing plays, Spanish Golden Age drama was written in a variety of styles. In fact, the verse form typically changed throughout a single play. The New Art suggests fitting the verse form to the mood of each scene. For instance, complaining characters should use ten-line stanzas called decimas. A character waiting in anticipation might speak in a sonnet, while grave matter might be related in three-line tercets.

One of Lope's most famous plays is Fuenteovejuna. The play is inspired by actual events in the town of Fuenteovejuna, whose name roughly translates to "The Sheep's Well." A sadistic commander torments the town, raping and torturing villagers with impunity. Eventually, a group of villagers kill the commander, and the king orders that the murderers be punished. Even under torture, however, the villagers refuse to name names, calling out only, "Fuenteovejuna did it!" Lope depicted an even more famous event from Spanish history in The New World Discovered by Christopher Columbus.

Another play, The Dog in the Manger (or The Gardener's Dog), plays off of an old fable about a dog who will not eat hay but refuses to let others eat it, either. In the play, a noble woman falls in love with her secretary. While she does not want to marry him, she prevents him from marrying anyone else until a wily servant tricks everyone into thinking the secretary is the long-lost son of a noble. Lope created a darker outcome for The Knight of Olmedo, the story of a virtuous gentlemen who beats all of his rivals to win the heart of a lady in Medina. Out of revenge, the spurned lovers shoot and kill him as he is riding back to Olmedo.

Lope's reputation was beginning to fade when at the age of 68 he wrote the play Justice Without Revenge (sometimes titled in English Lost in a Mirror). At the time he wrote it, his daughter Marcela had already gone mad and was in the process of slowly dying. Though honor prevails in the play, it is at a great price, and the dark, passionate drama won new respect for Lope. Justice Without Revenge has many parallels with Jacobean revenge tragedy, and in fact Lope wrote his own version of the events depicted in Webster's The Duchess of Malfi. In Lope's The Duchess of Amalfi's Steward, however, the mood tends to be pastoral until the play's bloody final act.

Lope's Contemporaries

Though Lope dominated the stage during his lifetime, Spain's Golden Age produced a number of other important plays and playwrights. The author Guillen de Castro transformed the epic Spanish poem The Cid into the play The Youthful Deeds of the Cid, which came in turn to inspire the French playwright Pierre Corneille. Castro also wrote plays based on classical mythology as well as some inspired by the prose of Cervantes. Lope dedicated one of his plays to him, and he dedicated the first volume of his plays to Lope's daughter. Unfortunately, Castro was not as successful as his friend, and he died in poverty.

The friar Gabriel Tellez, better known by his pseudonym Tirso de Molina, wrote a number of popular plays around the same time as Lope. His most famous work, The Trickster of Seville, introduced to literature the character of Don Juan, a charismatic womanizer who devotes his life to seducing women. In the play, Don Juan kills the father of a young woman he has seduced and later invites the dead man to supper. When the father does show up, Don Juan is dragged off to hell without the chance of repenting of his sins. Playwrights from Moliere to George Bernard Shaw to David Ives have retold the classic story, though often lending it very different interpretations.

The Mexican-born Juan Ruis de Alarcon churned out about 25 of plays, including The Suspicious Truth, about a compulsive liar. Like Castro, Alarcon later influenced Corneille. He was a friend of Cervantes, but won the enmity of Lope, who lampooned him. A short, hunchbacked redhead, Alarcon stood out in Spanish society. Eventually, however, he was appointed to the Royal Council of the Indies and achieved relative stability through his position in government.

By far the most important of Lope's contemporaries was Pedro Calderon de la Barca. By the time Calderon was born in 1600, Lope had already established himself as a playwright, so while the two were contemporaries, Calderon came from a very different generation. While Lope developed Spanish drama from its rough-and-tumble origins to the form it would take throughout the Golden Age, it was Calderon who refined it and brought out its poetry. Lope was the more influential writer, but most critics today consider Calderon to be the better dramatists. In fact, when Lope died in 1635, the young Calderon had already surpassed him in reputation.

Calderon

Like Lope, Calderon was born in Madrid. He was fortunate enough to receive a Jesuit education, but after his father died, Calderon was orphaned at the age of 15. He later studied law at the University of Salamanca. In 1622, he entered a poetry competition in honor of Saint Isidore, who was in the process of being canonized. Not only did Calderon's poetry win first place, it was specifically praised by Lope, who was one of the judges in the competition.

Shortly after that, Calderon's plays began appearing in the corrales. One early play, The Constant Prince, tells the story of the historical Prince Ferdinand of Portugal, who died imprisoned in Morocco due to Portugal's decision not to hand over the city of Ceuta to Muslim forces. The play is notable for its sympathetic portrayal of many Muslim characters, even though Christian forces are ultimately victorious. The role of Ferdinand is demanding, both emotionally and physically, as the young prince is systematically (and willingly) tortured to death. In the twentieth century, the Polish director Jerzy Grotowski used the play to create one of his most famous productions.

In 1635, Calderon wrote his most famous play Life Is a Dream. The play follows the fictional Segismundo, the heir to the throne of Poland. Sigismundo's father, King Basilio, imprisoned the prince due to a prophesy he would bring disaster to the country. Having a change of heart, the king tests Segismundo, bringing him to the palace, but when the prince behaves abominably, King Basilio has him drugged and brought back to his cell where he is told the whole experience was a dream. In the third act, Calderon introduces new plot twists that leave a reformed Segismundo wondering whether all life might indeed be but a dream.

Though most critics consider Life Is a Dream to be Calderon's masterpiece, he continued to produce exceptional works for years afterward. His play The Mighty Magician influenced Goethe's Faust. In such dark plays as The Doctor of His Own Honor Calderon drew out traditions of honor in Spanish society to fantastic and chilling extremes. In 1651, Calderon became a priest. That same year, he wrote The Mayor of Zalamea, one of his last great secular plays.

After taking Holy Orders, Calderon focused on writing explicitly religious plays, the autos sacramentales for Corpus Christi and other religious feasts. However, the king asked him to write entertainments for the court, and Calderon could scarcely refuse. Teaming up with the composer Juan Hidalgo de Polanco, Calderon helped to create a new operatic form for the king, the zarzuela. These pieces are partially spoken and partially sung. Today, the zarzuela remains a popular dramatic form in Spain and many Spanish-speaking countries.

Autos Sacramentales

Autos sacramentales during the Golden Age of Spain could take many forms. Some told biblical stories, like mystery plays. Others recounted miracles or the lives of saints, like miracle plays. Most frequently, however, they contained allegorical figures similar to those found in morality plays. In any case, the finest dramatists available, including both Lope and Calderon, were chosen to write the plays.

Though older plays were sometimes revived, from 1647 to 1681 all of the autos sacramentales performed in Madrid were new works commissioned especially from Calderon. In fact, when Calderon died in 1681, he was writing one of the auto sacramentales for that year's Corpus Christi celebration. Of Calderon's many plays of this type, the most famous is The Great Theatre of the World. The play portrays God as a theatre director who casts individuals as King, Female Beauty, Rich Man, Poor Man, Worker, Discretion, and Unborn Child. God asks each to act his or her part as well as possible then sends them each to a final judgment.

The actors for these plays processed through the streets on two-story wagons called carros. There were usually two carros for each play, and actors would descend onto an acting area for the performance. The acting areas were originally also on wagons, though they were later replaced by fixed stages in various parts of the city. In addition to performing the autos sacramentales, actors danced and sometimes put on short farces, much to the dismay of religious conservatives. In 1765, the government officially banned the plays.

New World Performance

As Spain's culture spread throughout its empire, Spanish theatre spread as well. In the Americas, Spanish theatre blended together with indigenous theatrical practices. In Guatemala, the theatrical dance known as the Rabinal Achi became associated with the Feast of Saint Paul on January 25. Also known as The Dance of the Trumpets, it is still performed annually in the town of Rabinal on that day. The dialogue of the play is in Mayan, and the story recounts events prior to the conquest by Spain. Still, the fact that it came to be associated with a Christian religious holiday shows that there were attempts to bring together Spanish and indigenous cultures.

Given that indigenous Americans often already had theatrical traditions, many Christian missionaries found theatre to be an effective tool for evangelization. Beginning in the 1530s, the Spanish began performing their own plays in the Americas. These performances were usually religious in nature and frequently occurred on feasts such as Corpus Christi, as they did in Spain. The first great Spanish playwright to be born in the Americas was Juana Ines de la Cruz, a highly educated nun generally known as Sor Juana. Born in present-day Mexico, Sor Juana wrote both secular and religious plays and is considered the founder of Latin American drama.

The illegitimate daughter of a Spanish captain and a Mexican woman of Spanish descent, Sor Juana learned to read and write Spanish at an early age. By the time she was a teenager, she knew Latin and Greek as well. She joined the court of the viceroy of New Spain, but in spite of receiving numerous marriage proposals there, she chose instead to enter a convent. Finding the rules in that convent did not agree with her, Sor Juana left after a few months, but in 1669 she entered another convent run by the Order of St. Jerome, where she remained until her death. It was there that she composed her best-known works, including most of her plays.

Sor Juana wrote (or at least collaborated on) some secular plays, but more critics have been drawn to her autos sacramentales. The most famous of her religious plays is The Divine Narcissus, a complex allegory of faith. The play contains a short introductory piece called a loa. In her loa to The Divine Narcissus, Sor Juana portrays the conquest of the New World in allegorical terms. Occident and America are shown worshipping the God of Seeds, but are overcome by Religion and Zeal. Though Zeal wishes to slay America, Religion promises to convert the pagans by means of the play that follows.

The loa to The Divine Narcissus shows just how ambitious a writer Sor Juana was. Unfortunately, her plays were mostly forgotten before the twentieth-century poet Octavio Paz brought renewed attention to Sor Juana's work. Today, however, historians credit Sor Juana with laying the foundations of all Latin American drama that was to come. The roots of drama in the Americas extend back much further than the nineteenth-century, as past historians might have us believe. Instead, the Golden Age of Spain quite clearly extended to the Western Hemisphere, having a lasting impact on the other side of the globe.