This notion of dramatic space allowed for the virtual representation of visibly inaccessible or unrepresentable events through the hic et nunc expedient and, more often, through the use of sensorial signs, such as sounds and lighting. In Aretino’s Orazia, both the stage and the theater public are startled by the sounds of trumpets and cries of joy coming from afar. In an instinctive attempt to see what is happening, they all turn in the direction of the racket. And though neither the characters on the stage nor the spectators can see what is going on, they can all hear and appreciate the euphoria of the Roman people celebrating Horace’s victory over the Curiatius brothers. In this way, noise extends the space of the dramatic action to the streets of Rome, the stage, as it were, of the events signified by the commotion. Thus Rome, visible only in scenic perspective, comes to life as the staging ground of events that converge through street noises on the actual stage, where they are verbally explained and placed in the context of the main action.
The increasing tendency to signify space and events through sensorial signs points to an evolving notion of theater as a mimetic vehicle of reality. This encouraged the introduction and use of mechanical devices meant to show, rather than tell, the occurrence of specific sensorial phenomena. Thus, instead of verbally informing the audience of the action’s time frame, a luminous contraption representing the sun or the moon moving slowly across the fictional skies of the stage showed the time of day and its passing (Vasari 1568, 442). Prismatic devices, called periatti, facilitated the change of scenes by rotating their painted surfaces to form new perspectives. And the rolling of a large stone on the floor above the stage produced the sound of thunder, while flashes of burning powder created the illusion of lightning. Serlio even suggested ways to simulate thunderbolts. He insisted on the use of mechanical devices largely because he believed that sensory effects such as lightning, the sounds of trumpets, human voices, footsteps, and horses’ hoofbeats delighted the spectators and excited their fancy (Serlio 1545, 205). Perhaps most amusing was the realistic reproduction of certain natural phenomena, which in the past had usually been suggested through verbal constructs. But, whereas words could only evoke the idea of, say, thunder, the noise simulating its sound appealed to the spectators’ senses, intensifying their theatrical experience and drawing them further into the illusion of theater.
The language of loud noises, motions, and movements played a fundamental role in the dramaturgical development of Renaissance theater. To be sure, dramatists did not set out to revolutionize ancient drama, which continued to be a source of authority and imitation. They simply introduced changes that reflected their enlarged concept of theatrical communication. The capture scene in Rucellai’s Oreste, mentioned earlier, is a good example of how Renaissance playwrights enlivened the representation through the use of sensory signs. In Euripides, the episode is mostly narrated and presented as far removed from the audience both in time and space. A messenger reports that local herdsmen have apprehended two strangers hiding by the rocks on the seashore. The spectators gather that the captives are the two youths who, at the beginning of the play, faced with the difficult task of breaking into the temple, decided to hide on the shore until nightfall and attempt the break-in under the cover of darkness (Iphigenia among the Taurians 106-12). In the adaptation, however, the youths are forced to abort their plan and go into hiding because of the sudden sounds of a horn and loud human voices. Pilade succeeds in convincing Oreste to get away from the temple only after pointing out that a noisy crowd is coming toward the temple: ‘‘Can you not see [non vedi] all those people gathering?’’ he asks rhetorically, ‘‘Can you not hear [non senti] the shrill voices and the sound of the horn?’’ (1.174-75).
These loud noises tend to free the action from the verbal constraints of the original version and thrust it more toward a theatrical realization. In the Greek source, the young men discuss the danger of scaling the temple’s high walls or of forcing the ‘‘brazen locks’’ (99) in plain daylight, and come to the logical conclusion that the best strategy is to hide until dark. The sequence develops entirely on the discursive plane. In Rucellai, by contrast, the youths’ decision to withdraw is occasioned not by verbal arguments but by the alarming sound of the horn and the excitement it has generated among the gathering crowd. The commotion (not found in Euripides) indicates clearly that dramatic events relevant to the plot are taking place in areas beyond the scenic space, promoting the illusion that the whole town is a stage and that all its citizens are on it. The noises also foster in the audience the sensation of being close to the developing action, for noises tend to bridge the distance between the ‘‘somewhere’’ of the action and the spectators. This sense of proximity is also achieved through the eyes of Pilade as he notices people gathering in the distance and points them out to Oreste (vedi... senti). We would expect the exhortation to rouse Oreste’s anxiety as well as the curiosity of the spectators who, like the young protagonists, turn their heads in the direction of the noise. As the spectators cannot see beyond the physical limits of the stage, Pilade’s eyes become the visual medium through which they may behold, in the mind’s eye of course, the unseen space and the action associated with it. Thus, they watch and wait with anticipation for the crowd to converge in front of the temple, on stage, and shed light on the meaning of the tumult.
Unlike noise, movement often does not create suspense because it is visually perceptible and is generally observed in association with its referent, thus communicating directly and immediately with the audience. But movement too contributes to a lively representation and, in some instances, may even help to shed light on the personality of a character. Consider the flurry in the scene following Artemis’ alleged displeasure with the sacrificial victims, Orestes and Pylades. In Iphigenia among the Taurians, the rapid stichomythia of Iphigenia’s dialogue with King Thoas connotes agitation and urgency. The conversation turns on the need to keep all citizens off the streets, while the young priestess goes to the shore to purify Artemis’ statue and her two prisoners (1157-1221). But there is hardly any action on stage; there is only the idea of movement verbally created. In Rucellai, on the other hand, this same scene is characterized by both emotional excitement and hasty physical movement, as suggested in part by the use of reduplicatio or repetition. Here is King Toante shouting orders, following Ifigenia’s warning to keep everybody inside:
Andiam via tosto, andiam via tosto, andiamo,
Andiam via, fuggiam via, entriam la dentro,
E voi, Olimpia, prendete le chiavi,
Ch’in la piii scura parte io vo’ serrarmi.
Let’s go away quickly, let’s go away quickly, let’s go, let’s go away, let’s flee, let’s enter there, and you, Olimpia, get the keys,
For I want to lock myself in the safest corner. (5.145-48)
This speech prompts one to visualize a stage in total disarray, with frightened people running in all directions. Most terrified of all is Toante, who runs around looking for a secure place to hide, and screaming over and over the only command his fear-gripped mind is capable of articulating. This unexpected terror shatters in an instant the carefully fashioned image of Toante as a cruel tyrant and externalizes his true nature: the savage king is actually a wretched coward. This trait is in stark contrast with the kingly demeanor of his Greek counterpart, and accounts for the different conclusions of the two plays. In Iphigenia among the Taurians, a wise Thoas follows
Athena’s admonition and, swallowing his pride, calls off the pursuit of the fleeing Greeks in the belief that there is nothing admirable in challenging a god (1478-79). Order is thus reestablished in the Taurian kingdom. Oreste, instead, ends with Toante frantically cursing the gods and inciting his subjects to pursue the fugitives and avenge their king. The kingdom plunges deeper into chaos, as the cowardly king tries recklessly to reassert his old, tyrannical image.
Although thematic novelty, contemporary sociopolitical issues, formal innovations, and new dramaturgical techniques point to the rise of a typically Italian theater, Renaissance Italy never fully broke away from the great tragedians of ancient Athens and classical Rome. Indeed, without ever losing enthusiasm for the auctoritas of the past, cinquecento playwrights made tragedy a mirror of their own culture. On the stage, audiences saw their own customs, recognized their own religious beliefs, experienced their own fears, witnessed debates on social prejudice and political ideology, heard the language of Dante and Petrarch, and marveled at the ingenuity of famed stage ‘‘architects.’’ They saw their living world cast in the prestigious and revered traditions of Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, and Seneca. Dramatists were proud to emulate the giants of the Greek and Roman stage, wealthy patrons eagerly sought the honor of sponsorship, and audiences cherished their reputation as people of culture and sophistication.
Because of its deep admiration for the classics, Renaissance Italy tolerated anachronistic situations in an otherwise realistic theater, finding it acceptable that pagan characters should pray to a Christian deity or that mythological kings should dress like Renaissance princes and live in modern castles with their barons and knights. These contradictions notwithstanding, the tragic theater of the Renaissance became an important legacy in Italy and in all of Europe. As Kyd’s Hieronimo remarks, the Italian Renaissance example inspired ‘‘stately-written tragedies... [for] the Italian tragedians were so sharp of wit’’ ( The Spanish Tragedy 4.1.155, 160). The Italians’ most important legacy lies in having discovered classical tragedy, given it a modern identity, and guaranteed its survival in Western culture.
World History
