Y en la red de antropología cognitiva también está este artículo: junto con otro, "Hierarchically Minded", que (este sí) está en la lista buena de los Top Ten. Sin que haya roto récords, seamos realistas.
Observen la grafía de mi nombre en lituano-aragonés—tampoco es el que sale peor parado:
Groinio naratyvo struktūrą vieni pirmųjų imasi tyrinėti kitos prancūzų struktūrinės semiotikos mokyklos atstovai R. Bartas (R. Barthes), K. Bremondas (C. Bremond), G. anetas (G. Genette) ir kiti. Jų idėjų pagrindu susiformavo „klasikinė“ šiuolaikinė naratologija, kuri XX a. 8-ame dešimtmetyje sulaukė didelio susidomėjimo bei atgarsio ne tik anglosaksų kraštų, bet ir kitų šalių literatūrologų sferose. Šiandien galima išskirti atskirų šalių naratologijos mokyklas. Naratologinių tyrimų tradiciją Prancūzijoje tęsia D. Pjeras (John Pier) ir „Naratologijos Taikymo Centras“(Centre de Naratologie Appliquee). Anglų-amerikiečių naratologinei mokyklai atstovauja klasikiniai V. Butas (W. Booth), A. Beinfildas (A. Banfield), D. Konas (D. Cohn), D. Kuleris (J. Culler), S. Četmenas (S. Chatman), F. Kermodas (F. Kermode), . Princas (G. Prince), R. Šoles (R. Scholes) ir kitų darbai. Tel Avivo naratologinei mokyklai atstovauja S. Rimon-Kenanas (S. Rimon-Kenan), B. Makheilas (B. McHale), R. Ronen (R. Ronen). Vokietijoje E. Lamerto (E. Lammert) bei F. K. Stancelio (F.K. Stanzel) tyrimai paruošė dirvą novatoriškiems M. Fluderniko (M. Fludernik) darbams. Svarų įnašą į naratologinių tyrimų sritį atlieka „Naratologinių Tyrimų Grupė“, įsikūrusi Hamburgo universitete, bei Giebeno tyrimų grupė „Istorinė ir kultūrinė naratologija“, įkurta A. Nūningo (A. Nuuning). Olandijoje ir Belgijoje naratologijos srityje reiškiasi M. Beilis (M. Bal) bei L. Hermanas (L. Herman). Ispanų naratologiją reprezentuoja S. Onega (S. Onega) bei Chose Eindelas Garsia Landa (Jose Angel Garcia Landa).
Acabo de descubrir mi página personal en Microsoft Academic Search. Bueno, la mía y la de un tal J. Landa, químico, al que confunden conmigo. Es una manera de ampliar el currículum. Pero, en fin, que está muy lejos del nivel de la de Google Academic.
O en ninguna parte. Aparece en una web polaca una colección de bibliografías procedentes de mi Bibliography of Literary Theory etc., y hachetemelizadas. Docdat.com, un sitio de diseño sobrio, si ésta es su portada, es una web de esas que en realidad parecen no estar ni en Polonia ni en ningún sitio en concreto, y probablemente es así.
Dos cosas: una, no vale la pena hablarles a ellos, por supuesto—esto es para que el público se entere. Otra: hace falta valor. Esto es reventarles el acto fina y educadamente a los etarras. Que, queda claro, son ante todo gente que se ha creado una realidad alternativa para no ver lo que no quieren ver ni oír lo que no quieren oír.
You may also be interested in Adam Smith's Theory of Moral Sentiments. All of his works are freely available at the Online Library of Liberty, http://oll.libertyfund.org/index.php?option=com_staticxt&staticfile=show.php&title=192
From The Cambridge Illustrated History of British Theatre, by Simon Trussler.
Chapter 22: Theatre and the Marketplace (1979-90)
The eighties were driven throughout by the supposedly 'Victorian values', moral and economic, of that small shopkeepers' revision of low Tory dogma which became known as Thatcherism. The decade began and ended in recession: in between, the long, slow process of redistributing wealth from rich to poor went in reverse, when tax reductions fro the wealthy failed to produce the promised 'tricle-down' effect; and such resources as remained for the welfare state (electorally popular despite the Thatcherite push for 'self-help') were stretched by the need to dole out subsistence to the swollen ranks of the unemployed. Meanwhile, a programme of 'privatizing' the public sector of the economy steadily liquidated the nation's capital assets—a process which even an ageing former Conservative prime minister, Harold Macmillan, likened to selling the family silver. Effectively, the post-war political consensus was destroyed.
At home, an autocratic prime minister overrode opposition, alike from the more accomodating 'wets' in her own cabinet and from effective political opponents—such as she found in the trades unions, which were duly emasculated, or in the largely Labour-dominated metropolitan councils, which were abolished (leaving London without a representative governing body for the first time in a century). Abroad, Margaret Thatcher found a soul-mate in the ageing movie actor Ronald Reagan, the emollient paternalism of whose eight-year presidency struck a responsive chord in his 'fellow-Americans' just as Thatcher's brusque nannying must have met some deep-seated need in a quiescent English (as distinct from British) public.
Redolent as much of the black-and-white morality of melodrama as of the B-movies of his youth, Reagan's simplistic dream of a nation (rather than a world) sheltering from nuclear attack beneath a laser-wrought umbrella was instantly named 'star wars'—after a futuristic film. The financial drain of trying to second-guess the dubious technology of the enterprise, later sensibly abandoned, was one cause of the collapse, at the end of the decade, of the Soviet Union and its satellite states—this 'evil empire', as Reagan had earlier described his necessary enemy. But the hopes consequently placed upon what was described (in the characteristic jargon of the times) as the 'peace dividend' soon gave way before the revived nationalistic hostilities and disintegrating economies of the former communist nations—now being taught, even by supposedly neutral observers, to equate 'freedom' with the ineluctable workings of the 'free market'.
Communist regimes had at least recognized the honours they vicariously accrued through lavish funding of cultural projects. Most continental democracies, too, had long acknoweldged the necessity for reasonable state subsidy—not just to protect cost-intensive national institutions, but to promote the greater accessibility of the arts through what the French called 'decentralization'. In Britain the Arts Council had, on its more modest budget, been hesitantly shadowing such examples: but the Thatcher government was disposed rather to encourage, after the American model, arts funding from private sources. Tax incentives (less generous than the American) were duly offered for business sponsorship, sometimes with matching state funding promised for its lucky recipients. (Without irony, a national lottery was also projected as an appropriate source of support for the arts).
As arts administrators frittered away disproportionate time upon the tactful, usually unrewarded composition of applications for business sponsorship, they thus found it politic to speak in terms of investments and returns, of markets and invisible exports—but were able to offer as collateral only their own, hard-to-quantify prestige. Of course, prestige for sponsors accrued more surely and safely from association with high-profile national companies than from support for experimental or small-scale work. And there was seldom a guarantee that any kind of backing would last beyond the immediate period or purpose for which it had been secured. Forward planning became a near impossibility.
To win private or public support, even the institutional theatre was expected to demonstrate its 'good housekeeping' —a much-favoured term, especially following the inquiry of the Priestley inquiry of 1983 into the running of the Royal Shakespeare Company. Expected to carp, the civil-service investigator in the event could find little to fault, and went enthusiastically native: but the resulting boost in state support for the company proved short-lived, and within a few years had to be supplemented by one of the major sponsorship deals of the decade. Thereafter, the RSC logo rode into the nineties in tandem with that of Royal Insurance.
THE DECADE OF THE MUSICAL
For the commercial theatre at large this was, beyond doubt, the decade of the musical. Ironically, the previously dominant American style, although reinvigorated (and intermittently represented) by Stephen Sondheim, now found itself outpizzazzed in London by the native British variety, resuscitated under the influence, as much entrepreneurial as musical, of Andrew Lloyd Webber. Following up his early but perennially revived Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat (1968) with Jesus Christ Supertar and Evita in the seventies, Lloyd Webber—often with Trevor Nunn as his director—went on to build a show-business fortune of fabulous proportions with a steady succession of blockbusting hits, from Cats (1981) via Starlight Express (1984) to The Phantom of the Opera (1986) and Aspects of Love (1989).
Based on a combination of cleverly-hyped expectations, trendy high-tech staging, and tangy if somewhat predigested lyrics and scores, these purveyed an acceptably pasteurized sense of 'experience'—often handily doubling if not conceived as 'concept albums' for the record industry. Soon, even the national companies were lavishing their resources on musicals, whether robust revivals such as Richard Eyre's Guys and Dolls for the national or company-originated spectacles mounted with an eye to profitable transfers. Some such ventures—the National's Jean Seberg in 1983, Terry Hands's disastrous Carrie in 1989—properly came to grief; but Nunn's production for the RSC of Les Misérables (1985), illustrated alongside, was an instant popular if not critical success. It quickly and calculatedly transferred from the Barbican to the Palace in Cambridge Circus—a theatre which Lloyd Webber had purchased outright in 1982, and which, until Les Mis took up its long occupation, seemed to have become almost a permanent showcase for his own work.
Illustration: Scene at the barricades from Les Misérables, which opened at the RSC's new, purpose-built London theatre, the Barbican, in 1985. Directed by Trevor Nunn and John Caaird, this was one of Nunn's final triumphs as artistic director of the company. The production was mounted in association with a commercial management: soon transferring to the Palace Theatre in the West End, it ran on through the decade and beyond.
THE ARTS COUNCIL AND THE INSTITUTIONS
The Arts Council of this period seemed chronically pregnant with reports—one of the earliest of which, The Glory of the Garden (aptly a product of 1984, a year long synonymous with doublespeak), anticipated the cultivation of 'excellence' at the expense of experiment. Later, the more fully-researched and wide-ranging Cork report into the condition of the profession went largely unimplemented. The Council now found itself besieged on the one side by clients facing cuts in their funding, and on the other by politicians who questioned the need for its existence, while the 'arm's length' principle which had previously protected it from political pressures also came under threat For this was a govrenment which believed it always knew best—and in 1985 duly blamed a miserly arts allocation on the vocal opposition to its policies of the likes of Peter Hall.
Although some further devolution of funding to regional bodies was accomplished and arguably overdue, the suspicion could not be avoided that this made it all the easier for an otherwise centralizing administration to divide and rule. But because protests from within the profession were largely limited to bleatings over inadequate funds, and thus demonstrably self-interested, they failed, advisedly or otherwise, to address the philosophy underlying the shortage. Philip Hedley, who gradually rebuilt Theatre Workshop into a thriving neighbourhood playhouse for Stratford East, was one of the very few directors who dared to sustain a full-frontal attack on government policies and survive—while other politically controversial companies, such as Joint Stock, Foco Novo, and the English 7:84 company, fell victim one by one to the Arts Council axe. (The 7:84 company was permitted to survive in Scotland—once it had quietly disposed of its founder, John McGrath).
The Royal Court, under the continuing direction of Max Stafford-Clark, also found itself regularly threatened—at one time by a bizarre proposal to transfer responsibility for its funding to the Boroguh of Kensington and Chelsea, whose attitude to this unruly presence in Sloane Squared varied from the disinterested to the downright hostile. That the Court managed to survive was thanks rather to a succession of well-calculated West End transfers than to state support, as the theatre fell from being third best-funded in Britain to sixteenth.
In consequence, the number of productions at the Court steadily diminished, and Stafford-Clark found it impossible to maintain a regular acting company—never, confessedly, a top priority at that theatre. Elsewhere, to borrow an apt culinary metaphor, the RSC's approach to company-building (as to repertoire) had always tended towards the table d'hôte, whreas at the National actors (and productions) were in these years usually offered à la carte (though the generalization at once reminds one of such undervalued exceptions as the stalwart Michael Bryant, on the acting strength of the NT, or of Bob Crowley, a regular designer of astonishing range and virtuosity).
However, for a time in the early eighties Peter Hall found himself trying to keep no fewer than five separate acting companies in mutually-compatible harness at the National—an experiment designed, it seemed, as much to secure the loyalties of the people involved as to woo audiences for their shows. Among the most successful directors of the period, following an annus mirabilis in 1983 with Guys and Dolls, The Beggar's Opera, and Schweyk in the Second World War, was Richard Eyre: and in 1988 it was Eyre who succeeded Hall as artistic director, with David Aukin as his administrative right-hand-man.
Generally, Eyre kept a looser and somehow friendlier rein on a company now settling into a middle age made enforcedly 'safer' in its choices by cointinuing economic constraints. But this did not silence grumbles that the NT remained better endowed relative to its output (and considering its failure to sustain a regular touring policy) than the Royal Shakespeare Company—which in 1982 at last transferred its London base to the purpose-built Barbican Centre. Conceived in a period of confident expansion but finally bonr into an age of austerity, the Barbican was variously regarded as a symbol of RSC empire-building and a white elephant—sometimes both. It boasted an almost impenetrable approach, a pleasant enough sweep of a main house, and a soulless, claustrophobic subterranean studio, aptly dubbed The Pit.
Like the rebuilt Memorial Theatre back in 1932, the Barbican opened with the two Henry IV plays, in new productions by Trevor Nunn. But one of its earliest successes was, of all things, Peter Pan, in a production by Nunn and John Caird designed to keep the magic while cutting the whimsy, which ran for three successive Christmas seasons. Also in 1982, Adrian Noble made surely the most propitious directing debut at Stratfrod since those of Hall and Nunn, with a King Lear which paired Michael Gambon with one of the most distinctive of the new generation of RSC players, Antony Sher, in a sort of vaudevillian double act as king and fool. It was Noble who took over when Terry Hands, who had become sole artistic director in 1988, left the company three years later, while Sher sustained his growing reputation with a spidery but astonishingly athletic Richard III, under the direction of Bill Alexander—who now followed Ron Daniels, Howard Davies, and Barry Kyle from studio work into main-house Shakespeare.
(Illustr.): Antony Sher (b. 1949) was one of the major acting talents to emerge from the Royal Shakespeare Company during the eighties. Despite earlier successes in plays by Mike Leigh and Sam Shepard, it was his performance at Stratford in 1982 as a gangling, red-nosed Fool to Michael Gambon's Lear, in a first production for the RSC by its future artistic director, Adrian Noble, which saw Sher's distinctive, athletic genius come to full maturity. Then, in 1984, he played the Richard III portrayed alongside: a warped hunchback whose self-animated crutches made him both boggled spider and slithering toad—yet also genuinely sexy and suavely complicit with his audiences. Sher's other roles included the revolutionary turned reactionary Martin Glass in David Edgar's Maydays (1983), the contrasting title parts in Molière's Tartuffe and Bulgakov's Molière (1983), and the leader of a band of medieval itinerants in Peter Barnes's brilliant black comedy, Red Noses (1985). Back in the West End, he wrought some stunning emotional transitions as the lithe, stiletto-heeled drag queen in Harvey Fierstein's Torch Song Trilogy (1985).
In 1986 the RSC acquired another 'edifice'—or rather resuscitated an old one, converting the reliques of the first Memorial Theatre into the glossy but thoughtfully conceived Swan, inteded to house the work of Shakespeare's contemporaries and successors. Honourably, in the first few years of its existence it duly staged rare revivals of plays by Heywood, Tourneur, Shirley, and Brome, as well as by Jonson, Marlowe, and the more marketable Restoration writers. Despite its name, the Stratford Swan was no replica 'Elizabethan' showcase, but unexpectedly 'neutral' in the best sense, comfortable and attractive but allowing the play to command the space rather than the space the play. (Meanwhile, Sam Wanamaker's project to recreate the old Globe on the south bank, as close as possible to its original structure and near to its original site, was coming slowly closer to fruition).
(Illustration:) Kenneth Branagh in the title role of Henry V. Like Antony Sher, Branagh emerged as a major talent with the RSC, for whom he played this vulnerable, rather reserved Prince Hal in 1984; but he went on to assert his actorly independence, directing his own Romeo and Juliet (1986) and acting in his own play, Public Enemy (1987), before helping to create the Renaissance Theatre Company, whose inaugural Twelfth Night of 1987 was follow3ed by a sellout Shakespeare season at the Phoenix in the following year.
COMMERCIAL THEATRE—AND INTERNATIONAL THEATRE
Release from institutional office enabled Hall, Nunn, and Hands to draw more regular commercial dividends from their years at the subsidized workface—in 1988 the Haymarket becoming a first London base for the newly-established Peter Hall Company,. This theatre had long settled into a role as home for classy revivals, now cast to attract audiences accultured to television. Hall's repertoire largely of old and new classics was later star-spangled by Dustin Hoffman, tempted back to the stage to play The Merchant of Venice at the Phoenix in 1989.
Although its theatres were custom-built to reflect the social hierarchies now being reinstated, astronomic overheads and break-evens in the West End increasingly limited its output to shows which had not only been pre-packaged but also pre-sold. As on Broadway, nothing less than a smash hit now made economic sense, 'moderate' runs being allowable only for for a leavening of small-cast, modestly set plays—preferably by the likes of Tom Stoppard, Alan Ayckbourn, or Michael Frayn. One-person shows were also allowable—such as those in which Barry Humphries alternated the high suburban glamour of his 'housewife superstar', Dame Edna Everage, with the slovenly philistinism of his antipodean cultural attaché, Sir Les Patterson. Throughout the decade, too, over-dependence on the tourrist trade left the theatre vulnerable to changes in the international political or economic climate, a terrorist threat turning a dozen or so houses 'dark', a boom leaving good 'product' awaiting a home. Proven successes from the National and the RSC were also cost-effectively transferred.
Between recessions, in 1988, the failed businessman, best-selling pulp novelist, and loyal (if accident-prone) Thatcherite Jeffrey Archer took a nibble from his fortune to buy the Playhouse theatre on the Embankment—but neither this venture nor a brief attempt in the same year to convert the Royalty into a sort of National Theatre for middlebrows survived the ensuing slump. More worthily and successfully, the Theatre of Comedy—a brainchild of the veteran farceur turned impresario Ray Cooney, dedicated to the discovery and display of contrasting comic styles—colonized several thatres from a first base at the usually ill-starred Shaftesbury.
Two other new companies, though alike classically sustained, proved radically different in most other respects. The English Shakespeare Company, created in 1986 by Michael Bogdanov and Michael Pennington, was director-based, and happily disrespectful of bardic authority in its updating and contemporary allusions: its Wars of the Roses sequence of the Shakespearean history cycle was an international success, from Berlin to Tokyo and from the Windy City of Chicago to London's no less windy Waterloo Road. But the Renaissance Theatre Company, formed in 1987 in part as a vehicle for the precocious talents of Kenneth Branagh (whose chutzpah to my taste outshone the charisma which held others in sway) was firmly in the orthodox if largely-displaced tradition of actor-management, and remained reverential towards its posthumously resident dramatist.
Branagh's season at the Phoneix in 1988 showed that Shakespeare could still prove good box-office in the West End—at a time when, ironically, its former home, the Old Vic, was struggling to find a new identity. Following the departure of the National, from 1977 to 1981 the theatre had provided a metropolitan base for the touring Prospect Theatre, and was then purchased by the Canadian impresario Ed Mirvish: but despite the subsequent beautification, and a brief and stormy flirtration with the wayward directorial genius of Jonathan Miller, the theatre found itself lacking a distinctive mission—at the very time when, a few yards away, David Thacker was giving a purposive new lease of life to the Young Vic, a rather spartan but clean-cut house too often avoided on account of the school parties which had provided its necessary life-support.
Dwon river at Hammersmith, too, Peter James was reviving the fortunes of the Lyric—the baroque glories of the old, demolished theatre having been transplanted into an unlikely modernist shell in 1979. Here, and in the studio theatre attached, James was among several directors now beginning to give a less parochial look to the London scene. Also in Hammersmith, the more utilitarian (and more adaptable) Riverside Studios played host to numerous visitors from abroad, ranging from the depressive Pole, Tadeusz Kantor, to the irrepressible Italian, Dario Fo—whose blend of old-style commedia and new-style agitprop made him a seminal influence (and, ironically, also a West End success) esarly in the decade.
One of Peter Hall's most imaginative later appointments at the National was of Thelma Holt, formerly of the Open Space and the Round House, and now given special responsibility for bringing leading foreign companies to the South Bank—whence an eclectic blend of influences briefly wafted while Holt made a brave stab at resurrecting the Wold Theatre Seasons of old. In Cardiff, meanwhile, the Chapter Arts Centre had become a year-round receptive venue for foreign practitioners at the cutting-edge of their craft. But most resolute of those who followed in the footsteps of Peter Daubeny were a pair of young, independente entrepreneurs, Rose Fenton and Lucy Neal, who, in 1981, emerged seemingly from nowhere (having travelled seemingly everywhere) to assemble the first London International Festival of Theatre—a feat whih, almost single-handedly, they managed to repeat biannually throughout the decade and beyond.
(Illustration:) The Actors Touring Company in their adaptation of the third play, Ubu in Chains, of Alfred Jarry's proto-absurdist Ubu cycle (1985). ATC was one of several small-scale touring companies who tended in the eighties to concentrate on rejuvenating the classical repertoire. Notable among the others were the irreverently stylish, visually exciting, and always fast-moving Cheek by Jowl; Shared Experience, with a roughte,r more baroque style and concentrated narrative line; the far-flung Footsbarn company; and the vibrantly responsive, self-defining Medieval Players.
FROM ALTERNATIVE THEATRE TO CHAMBER THEATRE In its production-intensive occupation of a profusion of both high and humble venues, LIFT was the closest the capital came to emulating the concentrated energy of the Edinburgh Festiveal—where the appointment of Frank Dunlop as artistic director had led to 'official' offerings now more truly representative of world theatre, playing alongside the more erratic but still-proliferating productions on the fringe. On the London 'fringe', meanwhile, the Old Red Lion in Islington, the Gate at Notting Hill, and the Latchmere in Battersea—where a bustling Arts Centre also flourished—were among the new venues which enlivened a decade when truly 'alternative' excitements were becoming harder to find.
Thus, the trend on the fringe (with not a little assistance from carefully directed funding) was away from political commitment and 'agitprop' towards such glitzier displays of mannered exuberance as those which earned and sustained a glowing reputation for Cheek by Jowl—who would typically take a major or minor classic, rejig it in their own extrovert manner, and let it burst afresh upon their audiences. Cultural conservatism underlying a veneer of stylistic flamboyance could also be detected in the work of such groups as the Actors' Touring Company and Theatre de Complicite (accentless by choice)–often excellent of its kind, but essentially 'chamber theatre' rather than in any meaningful sense 'alternative'. Not unexpectedly, therefore, Declan Donnellan and his designer Nick Ormerod from Cheek by Jowl made career moves to the National which were natural and contented (where Mike Alfred's earlier transition had been dissonant and fraught).
As the fringe went upwardly mobile, an increasing distance began to be felt between such small but prestigiously-maintained theatres as the Almeida at Highbury or the Donmar Warehouse (as the RSC's old Covent Garden studio was now renamed) and more makeshift venues in halls or pubs, however imaginatively fitted-up. Among the newcomers were the Finborough Arms in Fulham, the Hen and Chickens on Highbury Corner, and the Man in the Moon in Chelsea. This suggested the need for some new distinction of convenience, analogous to that separating 'off-Broadway' from 'off-off-Broadway' houses in New York.
Ethnic theatre was now able to draw upon a growing stable of writers of Afro-Caribbean or Asian roots—among them, Edgar White, Michael Abbensetts, Caryl Phillips, Tunde Ikoli, Mustapha Matura, Farrukh Dhondy, Barrie Reckord, Hanif Kureishi, and Jacqueline Rudet. Several of these were also workin in 'mainstream' theatre—as were many gay playwrights, for whom a prevalent, almost overwhelming concern, both humane and artistic, was the emergent threat of Aids. In its own constituency, gay theatre found itself under threat not only from the new prejudices thus provoked, but legally and financially too, from what became known simply as 'Clause 28'—a section of the Local Government Act of 1988 which (with dangerous vagueness) forbad support for activities promoting homosexual behaviour.
(Illustration): Jennifer Saunders, Adrian Edmondson, Dawn French, and Peter Richardson (plus Timmy the dog) in Five Go Mad in Dorset—the first Comic Strip production, transmitted on the opening night of Channel Four on 2 November 1982. This ebullient send-up of Enid Blyton's children's stories shared only its tongue-in-cheek truth to style with successors which otherwise parodied genres as various as sixties films striving to be nouvelle vague, self-consciously rough-cut television documentaries, on-the-run road movies, slow-burning westerns, and trendy feminist dystopias. Combining streetwise culture with postmodern pastiche, the series was of uneven quality, its offerings varying from the irrepressibly comic to the self-referentially clever: but all engaged energies and stretched muscles unfamiliar in television comedy. Only Blyton was twice targeted—with another saga of retarded pubescence, Five Go Mad on Mescalin (1983).
THE RISE OF ALTERNATIVE COMEDY
Some gay groups and performers, from the satirical drag act Bloolips to the high-camp but low-intensity Julian Clary, responded with an outgoing and often outrageous humour to their situation. Indeed, throughout the decade John McGrath's belief in the power of the 'compilation bill' was validated less in the work of theatre companies such as his own than through the emergence of what quickly became known as 'alternative comedy'. This is generally dated from the opening in 1979 of the Comedy Store in Dean Street, Soho—a sort of do-or-die showcase for all who dared brave its well-lubricated audiences and infamous valedictory gong, first wielded by Alexei Sayle.
Early graduates of the Comedy Store included most of the team collectivelly known as the Comic Strip—besides Sayle himself, Rik Mayall, Adrian Edmondson, Nigel Planer, Peter Richardson, Robbie Coltrane, Ben Elton, Dawn French, and Jennifer Saunders. These variously wrote, directed, and appeared in a sequence of one-off spoofs for television, displaying a wide variety of parodic styles—their common element a sort of laid-back, pre-emptive postmodernism. The first 'Comic Strip' was, significantly, transmitted in November 1982 on the opening night of Channel Four—the closest British television came to offering an 'alternative' channel, and a haven for innovatory talent before the market and the ratings supervened.
However, it was the BBC which elevated Mayall, Edmondston, and Planer into cult figures for an adolescent generation through their engagement, also in 1982, in The Young Ones, an anarchic bed-sitcom of high-pitched, chronic mid-youth crisis. By 1985 this had its mildly more mature female equivalent, when Tracy Ullman and Ruby Wax joined French and Saunders as flatmates in the appositely named Girls on Top. All these performers went on to develop their acts and stage personae far beyond their alternative origins, while remaining largely faithful to their spirit—Elton becoming the best-loved and despised of the solo comics, his chirpy stream-of-consciousness eliding satire and scatology into a radical rhetoric of humour.
More typical, of course, were the multiplicity of obscure stand-ups and double-acts who now began to appear in no less obscure pub and club venues up and down the country. Whether or not, as some claimed, comic performance thus came to define the cultural aspirations of late eighties youth as rock'n'roll had for their parents in the sixties, its resurgence as a vehicle for radical social and sexual comment was certainly surprising—for the medium had long been marked by its inherent conservatism and regular resort to sexual and racial stereotyping (explained if not justified by Bergsonian and Freudian theory).
FEMALE AND MALE
One of the minor, madder myths perpetuated by such stereotyping was that women lacked the skills—perhaps, some pontificated, the sense of humour—to command an audience in stand-up comedy. This myth was now shattered by the veritable explosion of female comic talent—not only 'alternative', but, in the work of such artists as Victoria Wood, closer to the tradition of cabaret than of the drinking club. The complacent 'post-feminist' assertion that, in the battle for equality, a ceasefire if not a victory had been achieved may have been (no, was) demonstrably false in such realms of male chauvinist piggery as the Houses of Parliament in the City of London but in the theatre it did seem that the assimilation of women into areas which had before been almost unthinkingly male-dominated was well advanced—without, confessedly, much in the way of 'affirmative action' to speed along the process.
Female directors, for example, now bcame a felt presence. Any list of notable entrants to this branch of the profession would thus have to set alongside such male newcomers as Declan Donnellan, Nicholas Hytner, Stephen Daldry (who won the Royal Court succession in 1993), and Sam Mendes a rather larger female contingent, including Susan Todd, Sue Dunderdale, Di Trevis, Deborah Warner, Jenny Topper, Katie Mitchell, Phyllida Lloyd, and Garry Hynes—not to mention those women who chose to confine their work to feminist or lesbian rather than mainstream outlets.
So far as acting was concerned, there had for many years been more women than men struggling for security in a craft which was becoming increasingly overcrowded and underemployed (leading to proposals that entrance should be limited to graduates of accredited acting schools). But whereas succcessful male performers had always included the physically atyical, the eccentric, and even the downright ugly, with only a due proportion of handsome matinee-idols, the attributes of the aspirant actress had normally been expected to include, if not beauty, at least prettiness or 'charm'. This presumption of sexual allure—which posed problems even for the most glamorous actress as she approached middle age—now began to change with what seems, in retrospect, decisive suddenness.
Any roll-call of actors who worked memorably during the eighties would thus expectedly encompass a wide range of syles and physical characteristics. Consider, not quite at random, such names (besides those of Sher, Branagh, and Gambon) as Bob Peck, Simon Callow, Alan Rickman, Gerard Murphy, Michael Pennington, Brian Cox, Rupert Everett, Ian McDiarmid, mark Rylance, and Symon Russell Beale. But now, thankfully, a similar list of actresses who emerged or fully blossomed during the decade evokes no less broad a spectrum of qualities—including beauty and charm, sure enough, but among many less conventional virtues, and with a fair dash of rough-edged quirkiness thrown in for good measure.
(Illustration:) Juliet Stevenson as an assertively masculine Rosalind, with Fiona Shaw as a fiery Celia, in Adrian Noble's RSC production of As You Like It (1985). Stevenson and Shaw were just two of the numerous actresses (some named on pages 373-4 of the text) who rode happily roughshod over older assumptions about their style and expected range—part of the process through which women began to reclaim a wider role in mainstream theatre. This resulted not only in an influx of new women writers, but a revived interest in the work of previously ignored dramatists from the historical repertoire—ranging from Aphra Behn, whose The Rover was staged in 1986 during the opening season of the RSC's new venue for experimental classical work, the Swan, to the American expressionist of the thirties, Sophie Treadwell, whose Machinal was to provide a later triumph for Fiona Shaw at the National in 1993.
A further not-quite-random sampling to suggest such infinite variety might thus include Juliet Stevenson, Harriet Walter, Julia Mackenzie, Miranda Richardson, Frances de la Tour, Patricia Routledge, Brenda Blethyn, Imelda Staunton, Zoë Wanamaker, Tilda Swinton, Maggie Steed, Maureen Lipmann, Imogen Stubbs, Kathryn Hunter, Frances Barber, Nicola McAuliffe, Alison Steadman, Josette Simon, Julie Walters, and Fiona Shaw. No less important, the many and diverse styles here represented were beginning to be served by a fairer distribution of female roles, in terms alike of quantity and of their centrality to a play's action.
Although this was in part due to the increased responsiveness of male playwrights, women writers for the theatre were also becoming more numerous. An instant recall of dramatists of the eighties could thus set such names as Louise Page, Andrea Dunbar, Sarah Daniels, Maureen Duffy, Timperlake Wertenbaker, Winsome Pinnock, Tasha Fairbanks, Ann Devlin, Charlotte Keating, and Helene Edmundson alongside those of Terry Johnson, Doug Lucie, Michael Wilcox, Peter Flannery, Nicholas Wright, Alan Bleasdale, Anthony Minghella, Robert Holman, Jim Cartwright, Willy Russell, Stephen Poliakoff, Hanif Kureishi, Ron Hutchinson, Nick Dear, and Martin Crimp—suggesting at least a widening breach in the virtual male monopoly of old.
These listings serve well enough their chief purpose—of suggesting the welcome reinforcement of women's numbers in all branches of theatre. But to resort, as I have done, to such representative roll-calls of both sexes is also implicityly (so why not explicitly?) to acknowledge the difficulty of making instant assessments of so many careers still in formative progress, let alone considering their relative significance. In the absence of consensual verdicts, trying to evaluate theatrical experiences so close to one's recent life experiences can only tempt one into the optimistic oxymorons and hopefully illuminating adjectives through which personal taste assumes a cloak of objectivity.
No less, then, will any selection of the major plays of the eighties reflect my own prejudices—in this case, a preference for those few which shared and also shed new light upon my own depressed view of the state of the nation. Among these—some obvious choices, some not—were Louise Page's Falkland Sound (183), Hare and Brenton's Pravda (1985), Churchill's Serious Money (1987), Alan Ayckbourn's A Small Family Business (1987), Doug Lucie's Fashion (1987), Peter Flannery's Singer (1989), and Hare's Racing Demon (1990) and Murmuring Judges (1991).
Aong plays which worked more allusivelly, Nick Dear's The Art of Success (1986) found its analogies in the times of Fielding and Hogarth, while Wertenbaker's Our Country's Good (1988) drew illuminatingly upon Farquhar's Recruiting Officer (with which it played in tandem at the Court) to make its points about coloniaalism and class. Brian Friel's Translations (1981) similarly explored elements of the continuing Irish 'troubles' by protraying the rape of the nation's language and cultural heritage during the nineteenth century. Translations was the inaugural production of the Field Day company, based in Derry, whoe cross-sectarian and cross-cultural approach to its community's problems valiantly spanned the decade following its creation in 1980 by Friel and the actor Stephen Rea.
(Illustration:) Brian Friel's Translations, which transferred from Hampstead Theatre Club to the National Theatre in 1981. Here a derelict tramp (Sebastian Shaw), saturated in folk knowledge of classical and pagan gods, and the pretty but uneducated Maire (Bernadette Shortt) are among the ill-assorted pupils in one of the Irish 'hedge-schools' of the 1830, through which the peasantry attempted a measure of self-education in the face of a British government concerned only with the 'translation' into English of the Irish culture and language. The play had already been presented in Ireland by the Field Day company, founded in 1980 by Friel and the actor Stephen Re. Based in Derry, Field Day worked thorughout the decade to create a non-sectarian but committed theatre for the whole of Ireland. Their later productions included Freil's The Communication Cord, The Cartaginians by Frank McGuinness, Thomas Kilroy's Double Cross, and Stewart Parker's Pentecost.
'HERITAGE', SPECTACLE, AND THE THEATRE OF THE STREETS
In the entertainment industry as in the nation at large, however, the eighties preferred the escapist refuge offered by history to any insights it might offer into present-day problems. Indeed, with manufacturing industried being run down and even service industries deflected into the 'service' of the boom-or-bust philosophy, the 'heritage industry' seemed at times to be the only sector of the economy set for sustained expansion. The new vogue for commodifying the past led, among much else, to 'interactive' encounters with Jack the Ripper in the murky vaults below London Bridge Station, or with bucolic Chaucerian pilgrims in the shadow of Canterbury Cathedral. Even at Madame Tussaud's a homogenized history of London came complete with sounds, smells, and other environmental illusions.
The taste for spectacle reached into the future as well as synthesizing the past, and in the old Trocadero on Piccadilly Circus one could thus experience the full horror of a twenty-minute 'alien invasion'. But just as dioramas appeared primitive in the age of cinemascope, so will even the battery of computerized effects there employed seem unsophisticated before the holograhic and silicon-rooted shows of the near future—when miniaturized circuits will also be capable of sensitizing every part, including the most private, to the closeted experience of 'virtual reality'.
Of course, no foreseeable electronic wizardry will be able to supplant that sense of participation and communal celebration which humanity still seems to need—and to derive from live enterntainment before a live audience. Whether at the level of 'high' or 'low' art—of Pavarotti in the Park or of Band Aid in Wembley Stadium, to cite two contrasting mass events of the eightiess—spectacle on a grand scale thus continued intermittently in fashion. That this was in part a reaction against the domesticating tendencies of television did not, of course, deter the medium from domesticating such events for couch-potato consumption.
A humbler, partial, and more widely remunerative reaction in favour of live performance was the vogue in pubs and clubs for 'karaoke'—a Japanese-originated craze which, thorugh a suble use of backing tracks, gave amateurs the sense of personally rendering some favoured 'standard' or current hit. Consciously or not, the creators of 'karaoke' thus managed simultaneously and effectively to interweave the three instincts from which most modern participatory performance derives—the folk-rooted need to celebrate shared cultural values; the no less ancient desire of the professional entertainer to tun that need into personal profit; and its more recent manipulation, by those controlling the means of mass communication, to increased dependence upon technology.
More humbly still, as the old fruit and vegetable market left Covent Garden and an artsy-craftsy shopping precinct took its place, street entertainers began to return in force to central London—as to railway stations, subways, pedestrianized town centres, and postmodern shopping malls throughout the land. They enjoyed no subsidy or security—and remained subject to the weather and the whims of passers-by as itinerant performers have always been. Some followed a 'new age' trail by choice, turning up one week at Glastonbury, the next at the Hat Fair in Winchester, like strolling players of old: but others, the new underclass of 'masterless men', slept haplessly on the streets as well as begging a living there. A return to the roots of theatre? Or the restoration of an ignoble cultural 'heritage', as the nation reneged on its duty, only belatedly recognized, to shield its people from such deprivations?
Not that such support for the arts as remained was always happily deployed. In 1990, for example, one regional theatre chose to suspend its home-based repertoire and to double its ticket prices in order to guarantee a fixed return to the Peter Hal Company for its visiting production of The Wild Duck. In the event, derisory audiences left the theatre badly in debt—a debt it chose to expunge by closing down its theatre-in-education team. It woud be unfair to name the theatre, for in other respects it had an honourable record in the field: but the tale is only too typical of a decade of distorted values and misplaced priorities.
Also in 1990, and also for lack of funding, the RSC closed down (albeit temporarily) its Barbican stages, leaving London for the first time in thirty years without the invigorating presence of the company from Stratford. At the Aldwych, for so long its makeshift but maybe happier London home, a British star of American TV soaps, Joan Collins, was reimported in September, to lend glamour to a revival of Noël Coward's Private Lives. In a nation where—or so Margaret Thatcher had declared—there was no such thing as society, private lives were, presumably, what it was all about. By the time the production closed in January, the prime minister had herself fallen victim to the law of the jungle she espoused.
Una ponencia presento en el seminario "Individuo y espacio público" organizado por HERAF - el 10 de enero a las 11h en la Sala Angel San Vicente de la Facultad de Filosofía y Letras (Zaragoza).
José Angel García Landa: "La evolución del dividuo social y de los espacios públicos".
Pondré aquí algunas referencias y lecturas adicionales relacionadas con la cuestión.
Sobre el título:
individuum, -ui lat. àtomo.
En la era atómica, el individuo ya no es lo que era—aunque siga habiéndolos.
1) Los siete papeles y edades del hombre (Shakespeare, Como gustéis, II.7)
Duque: Ya ves que no somos los únicos desdichados.
Este teatro amplio y universal
Presenta espectáculos más dolorosos que el de la escena
En la que actuamos nosotros.
Jaques: Todo el mundo es un escenario,
Y los hombres y mujeres meramente actores.
Tienen sus salidas de escena y sus entradas,
Y un hombre en su tiempo representa muchos papeles,
Siendo sus actos siete edades. Primero el infante,
Maullando y vomitando en brazos de la nodriza.
Luego el colegial quejoso, con su mochila
Y cara limpia mañanera, arrastrándose como un caracol
De mala gana hacia la escuela. Y luego el amante,
Suspirando como un horno, con una doliente balada
Dedicada a la ceja de su amada. Luego un soldado,
Lleno de juramentos extraños, y barbudo como un leopardo,
Celoso de su honor, brusco, y rápido en buscar pelea,
Buscando la burbuja de la reputación
Hasta la boca misma del cañón. Y luego el juez,
Con buena tripa redonda forrada de capón,
Severos ojos y barba de corte formal,
Lleno de dichos sabios y de casos modernos;
Y así representa su papel. La sexta edad cambia
A Pantalón, viejo flaco en zapatillas,
Gafas en la nariz y bolsa al costado,
Con sus calzas de cuando era joven, bien ahorradas, anchas como un mundo
Para sus piernillas encogidas, y su voz fuerte y viril
Volviéndose otra vez en voz aguda de niño, como flauta
Da pitidos al sonar. La última escena de todas,
Que termina esta extraña historia llena de eventos,
Es la segunda niñez y el mero olvido,
Sine dientes, sine ojos, sine gusto, sine nada de todo.
2) El vasallo altivo que da voz al bien general (Hegel, Fenomenología del Espíritu §508):
Pero la alienación tiene lugar únicamente en el lenguaje o discurso, que aparece aquí con su significación característica. En el mundo del orden ético, en la ley y en el mando, y en el mundo efectivo, en el mero consejo, el lenguaje tiene la esencia de su contenido y es la forma de ese contenido; pero aquí tiene por contenido la forma misma, la forma que el lenguaje mismo es, y tiene autoridad en tanto que lenguaje o discurso. Es el poder del habla, en tanto que es lo que lleva a cabo lo que hay que llevar a cabo. Porque es la existencia real del puro sujeto como sujeto; en el lenguaje, la consciencia de sí, en tanto que individualidad independiente separada, llega como tal a la existencia, de forma que existe para otros. De otro modo el "yo", este puro "yo", es inexistente, no está allí; en cualquier otra expresión está inmerso en la realidad, y está en un forma de la que puede retirarse a sí mismo; se refleja a sí mismo a partir de su acción, además de su expresión fisiognómica, y se disocia a sí mismo de una existencia tan imperfecta, en la que siempre hay a la vez demasiado y demasiado poco, haciendo que quede atrás sin vida. El lenguaje o discurso, sin embargo, lo contiene en su pureza, sólo él expresa al "yo", al "yo" mismo. Esta existencia real del "yo" es, en tanto que existencia real, una objetividad que tiene la naturaleza auténtica del "yo". El "yo" es este "yo" particular—pero igualmente el "yo" universal; su manifestación es asimismo a la vez la externalización y la desaparición de este "yo" particular, y como resultado de esto, el "yo" permanece en su universalidad. El "yo" que se enuncia a sí mismo es oído o percibido; es una infección en la cual ha pasado inmediatamente a formar una unidad con aquéllos para quienes es una existencia real, y es una autoconsciencia universal. Que es percibido u oído significa que su existencia real se extingue; esta su otredad ha sido reasumida en sí mismo, y su existencia real es sólo ésta: que en tanto que es un Ahora auto-consciente, en tanto que existencia real, no es una existencia real, y por medio de esta desaparición es una existencia real. Este desaparecer es por tanto en sí mismo, a la vez, su permanencia; es su propio conocerse a sí mismo, y su conocerse a sí mismo en tanto que un sujeto que ha pasado a otro sujeto que ha sido percibido y es universal.
Más sobre esta cuestión:
José Angel García Landa. "Interacción internalizada: el desarrollo especular del lenguaje y el orden simbólico." Zaguán 17 abril 2009.
Shibutani, Tamotsu. "Reference Groups as Perspectives." American Journal of Sociology 60 (1955): 562-69.
Smith, Adam. The Theory of Moral Sentiments.1759. Vol. 1 of Glasgow Edition of the Works and Correspondence of Adam Smith. Ed. R. R Raphael and A. L. Macfie. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 1982. Online Library of Liberty:
La dinámica de lo relevante y de lo irrelevante en la realidad social—en Facebook se percibe agudamente, por ser espacio público comprimido, pero se aplica a todo espacio público o todo mundo social. Esto viene de Berger y Luckmann, The Social Construction of Reality:
Although the total stock of knowledge represents the everyday world in an integrated manner, differentiated according to zones of familiarity and remoteness, it leaves the totality of that world opaque. Put differently, the reality of everyday life always appears as a zone of lucidity behind which there is a background of darkness. As some zones of reality are illuminated, others are adumbrated. I cannot know everything there is to know about this reality. Even if, for instance, I am a seemingly all-powerful despot in my family, and know this, I cannot know all the factors that go into the continuing success of my despotism. I know that my orders are always obeyed, but I cannot be sure of all the steps and all the motives that lie between the issuance and the execution of my orders. There are always things that go on 'behind my back'. This is true a fortiori when social relationships more complex than those of the family are involved—and explains, incidentally, why despots are endemically nervous. My knowledge of everyday life has the quality of an instrument that cuts a path through a forest and, as it does so, projects a narrow cone of light on what lies just ahead and immediately around; on all sides of the path there continues to be darkness. This image pertains even more, of course, to the multiple realities in which everyday life is continually transcended. This latter statement can be paraphrased, poetically if not exhaustively, by saying that the reality of everyday life is overcast by the penumbras of our dreams.
My knowledge of everyday life is structured in terms of relevances. Some of these are determind by immediate pragmaic interests of mine, others by my general situation in society. It is irrelevant to me how my wife goes about cooking my favourite goulash as long as it turns out the way I like it. It is irrelevant to me that the stock of a company is falling, if I do not own such stock; or that Catholics are modernizing their doctrine, if I am an atheist; or that it is now possible to fly non-stop to Africa, if I do not want to go there. However, my relevance structures intersect with the relevance structures of others at many points, as a result of which we have 'interesting' things to say to each other. An important element of my knowledge of everyday life is the knowledge of the relevance structures of others. Thus 'I know better' than to tell my doctor about my investment problems, my lawyer about my ulcer pains, or my accountant about my quest for religious truth. The basic relevance structures referring to everyday life are presented to me ready-made by the social stock of knowledge itself. I know that 'woman talk' is irrelevant to me as a man, that 'idle speculation' is irrelevant to me as a man of action, and so forth. Finally, the social stock of knowledge as a whole has its own relevance structure. Thus, in terms of the stock of knowledge objectivated in American society, it is irrelevant to study the movemements of the stars to predict the stock market, but it is relevant to study and individual's slips of the tongue to find out about his sex life, and so on. Conversely, in other societies, astrology may be highly relevant for economics, speech analysis quite irrelevant for erotic curiosity, and so on.
One final point should be made here about the social distribution of knowledge. I encounter knowledge in everyday life as socially distributed, that is, as possessed differently by different individuals and types of individuals. I do not share my knowledge equally with all my fellowmen, and there may be some knowledge that I share with no one. I share my professional expertise with colleagues, but not with my family, and I may share with nobody my knowledge of how to cheat at cards. The social distribution of knowledge of certain elements of everyday reality can become highly complex and even confusing to the outsider. I not only do not possess the knowledge supposedly required to cure me of a physical ailment, I may even lack the knowledge of which one of a bewildering variety of medical specialists claims jurisdiction over what ails me. In such cases, I require not only the advice of experts, but the prior advice of experts on experts. The social distribution of knowledge thus beigins with the simple fact that I do not know everything known to my fellowmen, and vice versa, and culminates in exceedingly complex and esoteric systems of expertise. Knowledge of how the socially available stock of knowledge is distributed, at least in outline, is an important element of that same stock of knowledge. In everyday life I know, at least roughly, what I can hide from whom, whom I can turn to for information on what I do not know, and generally which types of individuals may be expected to have which types of knowledge.
(from ch. 2, "Language and Knowledge in Everyday Life")
—Que viene de mi ponencia en el seminario sobre "Individuo y espacio público":
La realidad de por sí no tiene estructura—al menos no tiene estructura humana. ¿Quién la estructurará? Nosotros, con nuestras convenciones y expectativas acerca de ella. Sobre los hechos brutos se ha de edificar un sistema de hechos institucionales y culturales. Es lo que Erving Goffman denomina "marcos", frames, en su libro Frame theory (1974). La realidad es un complejo sistema de marcos entrecruzados, si llamamos marco a un conjunto de signos que se dejan interpretar como una unidad estructural. Una vez hemos establecido un marco, podemos contrastarlo con otros marcos—por ejemplo, podemos aislar una conferencia de otra conferencia, o una conferencia de la sesión de discusión—o podemos transformar ese marco de alguna manera, ponerlo en clave de… en clave de humor, por ejemplo, si en lugar de dar una conferencia parodiamos una conferencia. Podemos insertar ese marco dentro de otro, como este texto puede insertarse en una página web. Y así la realidad va tomando forma.
Cada marco es un pequeño espacio público—engastado en otros marcos, otros espacios públicos, que en última instancia se insertan en el gran espacio público que denominamos la realidad. No hay por tanto un solo "espacio público", sino muchos espacios más o menos públicos solapados, secuenciados o superpuestos, a veces con transiciones problemáticas entre unos y otros.
Van desde el espacio público subjetivado e interiorizado, plegado para constituir la identidad personal, al espacio de la calle donde podemos circular más o menos todos, o al espacio global de la web. Son estos marcos espacios accesibles o disponibles para unos sujetos sí y para otros no, y a los que se aplican reglas diversas y variables. Cada marco es una unidad con reglas propias, una unidad poética o drámatica podríamos decir, y en cada uno rigen reglas interaccionales que lo definen como tal marco y lo hacen utilizable para la comunicación social. Desde la palabra individual, pequeño marco, hasta la frase en que se engasta, o al discurso del rey.
Las reglas del juego, claro, no van siempre en manual de instrucciones, sino que están con frecuencia sujetas a cambio, a transformación súbita o a negociación. Parte del trabajo de interpretación de la realidad es no sólo reconocer en qué papel nos hemos metido, en qué marco estamos, sino quizá también salirnos del marco si no nos conviene, renegociar el papel, o el contrato social. La construcción de la realidad, su reconstrucción y su transformación van por tanto unidas. Y es necesaria para esto la negociación con los demás actores: saber si estamos buscando setas o relojes de oro, como decía el chiste de vascos (Van dos vascos por el bosque buscando setas, y uno se encuentra un reloj de oro. "Coño, Pachi, mira qué he encontrado, ¡un reloj de oro!" Y Pachi, "A ver a qué estamos, hostias. ¿Estamos a setas, o a relojes?"). Es decir, se requiere definir el tipo de interacción social en el que estamos participando.
Esta complicada dramaturgia social tiene consecuencias, como decíamos, para el sujeto. Lo sujeta, sí, y así lo constituye—pero lo sujeta a un sistema cambiante de roles, papeles e identidades en última instancia móviles y transitorias. O heredadas—a veces es la identidad del otro la que representamos, la de un role model, por ejemplo, con consecuencias para la nuestra.
De hecho, la propia identidad personal surge de la internalización de este teatro social. Podríamos decir que no es otra cosa sino ese teatro de relaciones sociales, visto desde dentro, tal como es interiorizado por un sujeto que sólo mediante esa interiorización pasa a ser un sujeto humano propiamente dicho.
Para el interaccionalista simbólico (como George Herbert Mead) la propia posesión de una identidad personal significa que el actor actúa con referencia a ella—que el actor es capaz de verse a sí mismo en una situación y tener en cuenta este objeto simbólico (uno mismo en la situación) como un factor para guiar la actuación. Es una reflexividad o autoconciencia inherente al sujeto humano, que actúa por referencia a su propia identidad personal y a la identidad de los otros en los que se proyecta, y a los que interioriza como elementos de referencia, tomando el papel de los demás en una relación de circularidad hermenéutica con el suyo propio y con la situación. —Definida ésta, en gran medida, por los marcos cognitivos e interaccionales que sean aplicables en ella.
José Angel García Landa. "Narrative and Identity." Café Philosophy (Auckland, Nueva Zelanda) Octubre-noviembre 2011: 9-10.* (De "Rereading(,) Narrative(,) Identity(,) and Interaction). http://www.cafephilosophy.co.nz/ 2011 _____. "Narrative and Identity." En red en Social Science Research Network 13 enero 2014.* http://ssrn.com/abstract=2378357 2014 From the point of view of hermeneutic psychology, the self is a product of action and of representation, with narratives of the self as a major representational and structuring principle. In this sense reality is interwoven with narrative fictions. Experimental fictions and reflexive narratives are therefore a prime cognitive instrument in the development of complex structures of self-identity and subjetivity.
Desde la perspectiva de la filosofía hermenéutica, la identidad personal es producto de la acción y de la representación, y las narraciones sobre esta identidad son en ella un elemento de representación y estructuración cuya importancia es crucial. En este sentido, la realidad está entretejida con las ficciones narrativas. Las obras de ficción experimentales y las narraciones reflexivas son por tanto un instrumento cognitivo de primera categoría a la hora de desarrollar estructuras complejas en la identidad personal y en la subjetividad.
God on Trial is a 2008 BBC/WGBH Boston television play written by Frank Cottrell Boyce, starring Antony Sher, Rupert Graves and Jack Shepherd. The play takes place in Auschwitz during World War II. The Jewish prisoners put God on trial in absentia for abandoning the Jewish people. The question is if God has broken his covenant with the Jewish people by allowing the Nazis to commit genocide.
The play is based on an event described by Elie Wiesel in his book The Trial of God, though Boyce describes this tale as "apocryphal". According to Boyce, producer Mark Redhead "had been trying to turn the story into a film for almost 20 years by the time he called me in 2005 to write the screenplay."
Blog de notas de José Ángel García Landa (Biescas y Zaragoza) :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: "Algo hay en el formato mismo de los blogs que estimula un desarrollo casi canceroso de nuestro ego" (John Hiler)