How popular was The Merry Wives of Windsor in the eighteenth century? Because records show that the original, unadapted version of the play was performed a substantial number of times, scholars have usually assumed that it was both a critical and theatrical success during this period. This opinion is, however, based on an incomplete picture of the play's stage history, and it does not take into account the importance of casting to a play's popularity. A review of commentaries and theatrical records indicates that we should alter our view of the comedy's place in the eighteenth-century repertory. The play was not, overall, as popular as has long been believed, and it owed much of its vogue to James Quin in the role of Falstaff.

Music theatre scholarship, and indeed theatre history research in general, can be accurately described as a subset of media studies. As much as we might claim the contrary to our theatre students, theatre scholarship is not, by and large, the study of live performance but is instead an analysis of our own reconstructions built from the traces theatrical events leave behind. We study not moments but materials, not what was live but rather what was left. Increasingly, these leavings are likely to be digital. Much has been written of late about the current and imminent challenges these “born digital” materials pose for librarians and archivists, and many are now developing processes and procedures for preserving and providing access to them. Relatively little published scholarship has been done using these archives, however, so the emerging practices have yet to be thoroughly tested by researchers.1 In this article I narrate my experiences using the born-digital artifacts in the Jonathan Larson collection at the Library of Congress in an effort to provide an example of one form this sort of scholarship might take.

The career of Philip James de Loutherbourg, the Alsatian scene designer, assumes considerable importance in a history of the English theatre. More than anyone else, De Loutherbourg was responsible for freeing stage spectacle from the rigidities of the conventional wing and border system, thus preparing the way for Capon, Planché, Stanfield and the other great romantic designers of the nineteenth century.

In October of 1903, The United Irishman, a leading newspaper of the Irish nationalist movement, published an essay by William Butler Yeats entitled “The Irish National Theatre and Three Sorts of Ignorance.” Yeats wrote this essay after an infuriated nationalist community protested the Irish National Theatre Society's production of John Millington Synge's play, In the Shadow of the Glen. In response to Yeats's admonishment of the nationalist movement for putting politics over aesthetics in their creation and judgment of Irish drama, Arthur Griffith, the editor of the newspaper, added some remarks of his own:

Mr. Yeats does not give any reason why if the Irish National Theatre has no propaganda save that of good art it should continue to call itself either Irish or National. If the Theatre be solely an Art Theatre, then its plays can be fairly criticized from the standpoint of art. But whilst it calls itself Irish National its productions must be considered and criticised as Irish National productions.

Decades before the rise of the international megamusical, Franz Lehár's operetta Die lustige Witwe (The Merry Widow) traveled the world, becoming a franchise surrounded by a constellation of commodities. Within two years of its opening in Vienna on 30 December 1905, the romantic tale of Hanna Glawari's second chance at love was playing in theatres across Europe and in “virtually every city in the German-speaking world,” including colonial communities in Africa and Asia. In Argentina, as many as five versions of the operetta opened simultaneously in Buenos Aires, each in a different language. By 1908, three Merry Widow road companies were touring the United States, and numerous burlesques of the piece were vying for the attention of theatregoers.

In 1882, Walter Besant declared that the hinterland beyond Aldgate had two million people yet “no institutions of their own to speak of, no public buildings of any importance, no municipality, no gentry, no carriages, no soldiers, no picture-galleries, no theatres, no opera—they have nothing.” The fact that Whitechapel first appeared in the theatrical annals in 1557, Stepney contained several of the largest engineering projects in Regency London, and Shoreditch's Britannia was one of the most successful theatres in Victorian Britain belies the prejudice in Besant's statement. Cultural historians of all types need to resist such propaganda and have good cause to suspect the entire record of life, leisure, and entertainment in the industrialized inner suburbs. The history of nineteenth-century English theatre has—with very few exceptions—focussed on London, yet apart from essays by Michael Booth and Clive Barker little serious attention has been paid to theatre in the East End. Booth points out the limitations arising from scholarship that ignores the area where half of the metropolitan theatre seats were located, while Barker shows the methodological difficulties that arise once a redressive investigation into the audience is undertaken. The omissions from the historical record are compounded by narrow selectivity of enquiries: leading performers receive scholarly attention while supernumeraries (supers), ballet dancers, front of house staff, property makers, and the many functionaries who made up the whole community responsible for running a theatre are consistently neglected. These characteristics are somehow more evident in scholarship on the East End, where no matter how sociogeographically biased the enquirers may be the working class and its conditions are central themes, and the repertoire has always been allowed (perhaps stereotyped) as sensational.

In 1594, as stability was about to return to the London stage after several years of disruption, a company under the patronage of the fifth Earl of Sussex played two brief engagements at Philip Henslowe's theatre, the Rose. Historians of the Elizabethan stage have had little to say about Sussex's men, for although the company appears fairly regularly in performance records of the 1590s, and although Henslowe's Diary lists their day-by-day repertory for a few weeks in 1594, their plays do not seem to have formed an important part of the Elizabethan drama (only George a Greene survives as a piece attributable solely to Sussex's men), and their personnel do not seem to have aroused sufficient interest to leave any record of an actor's name after 1576. Yet there may be a story to tell about Sussex's men after all. If we look closely at their repertory of 1594, keeping in mind the affairs of other companies at this time, we can see that the Sussex company may have briefly included some of the most important figures of the Elizabethan theatre.

In 1820 Pierre-Luc-Charles Cicéri (1782–1868) and Louis-Jacques-Mandé Daguerre (1787–1851) were the two most successful set designers in Paris, and for a two-year period (1820–1822) they shared the most prestigious design position in France: chief designer at the Paris Opera. During the Empire both men had worked at the Opera under the supervision of the designers Degotti and Isabey, Cicéri as a staff painter specializing in paysages and Daguerre as a day laborer specializing in the painting of architectural detail. In 1816, when Cicéri was promoted to the position of chief designer at the Opera, Daguerre worked briefly on his staff.

Peter Brook begins the second chapter of The Empty Space, “The Holy Theatre,” with a lament for the loss of sacred approaches to theatre; approaches that satisfy a community's need to make visible its identity, its hope, and its history. In describing the vacuum within the modern theatre once occupied by ceremony—what he defines as the importance of a noble aim for theatre—Brook critiques hollow and backward attempts to fill new and grand spaces with old and meaningless ritual. In postwar Europe, he saw a need for new spaces that “crie[d] out for a new ceremony, but of course it is the new ceremony that should have come first—it is the ceremony in all its meanings that should have dictated the shape of the place.” Brook's assessment of postwar European bourgeois theatre and its search for new and meaningful agendas is framed by conceptions of space as antecedent to action, requiring only performer and audience in order for theatre to occur, and for a space to be called a theatre. Indeed, theatrical space is always a product of well-established cultural performance conventions—a phenomenon common throughout history. Brook's critique focuses on the conventions of theatrical space that developed from the romantic dramas and spectacle-driven performances of the late nineteenth century and continued well into the twentieth century. Echoing Bertolt Brecht, Brook rejected theatres that predetermined the limits of drama and performance, arguing that it was necessary to strip them of conventional expectations in order to lay bare their potential. Essentially, he asks: When and how does a space become a theatre?

The recent rubs and resistances within the various flows of religious thought and practice in American culture and politics have become near clichés. The impact of right-wing religions on government and cultural policies has been well noted, as have the concomitant attempts to keep religion of all kinds out of politics entirely. Meanwhile, the problematic status of Islam both locally and globally has become a continuous topic of debate, as have the debates over creationism and so-called intelligent design in American schools. These high-profile debates have in turn eclipsed the suspicions of academic leftist thought regarding religious questions of any sort, and this has in turn resulted in an entrenchment of theory—especially political theory—into a kind of religiosity of its own, while various forms of revivalism have signaled the mutation of faith into dogma, most recently the dogma of moderation. Each of these issues, apart from its intrinsic importance and currency, speaks to the practice of religion as a fundamentally philosophical problem of appearances that continues to emerge as a first cause of politics and of culture. The status of religion as a uniquely performative issue will, I think, occupy theorists over the coming years. Indeed, I suggest here that the thinking through of religion and spirituality will necessarily take place along the ontologic fault lines not just of performance but of theatre itself, and will come to delineate the important differences between performance and theatre. Finally, the reappraisal of religion as an ontologically charged theatricality will move into areas far afield from normative spirituality: cyberreligions and technoshamanism, chaos magic and the new alchemies, rave culture and other varieties of hyperinduced trance states.1 Although the focus in these newer forms of performance is almost exclusively on music, sound, and movement, the ultimate goal is the created intensity of a shared performative experience framed by theatrical perception: Artaud is the genius cited by nearly all of the authors of these phenomena. One larger suggestion here, in fact, is the moribund state of current theory, which sees dance culture (techno, hip-hop, electronica, rave), when it sees it at all, almost exclusively in cultural and political terms, ignoring the ecstatic, trance, and transformative aspects of DJ culture at large.2

In early January 2020, when Chinese theatre director Wang Chong (b. 1982) arrived in New York to remount his production of Nick Payne's Constellations for the Public Theater's Under the Radar Festival, he couldn't have predicted that this would be the last time for months that he would watch his actors from the middle of a full house. By the time his work-in-progress solo show, Made in China 2.0, opened at the Asia TOPA Festival in Melbourne, Australia, at the end of that February, it was clear that there would be no live theatre in Wang's hometown of Beijing for some time. All of China was on lockdown as the disease now tragically familiar as COVID-19 swept the country. Then, as Wang returned to Beijing in early March, businesses around the globe were shuttering, theatres were going dark, and theatre artists were confronting an unprecedented challenge to their personal safety, livelihoods, and ability to make meaningful art. In short order, some well-resourced theatre institutions began to stream performance recordings and reconfigure their seasons for online platforms. Only a month after returning home, Wang Chong joined this mass online movement with his production of Samuel Beckett's Waiting for Godot, streamed live on 5–6 April 2020 as Dengdai Geduo.

The narrative works extremely hard to convince through evidence: we have a date, an eyewitness, and the events that inspired the song's conception. Since it is written in bronze and mounted on stone, the story seems fixed and immovable. However, cracks have begun to form in the beloved “Jingle Bells” narrative, and as with many such sentimental stories, we find there is always more to uncover. This essay confronts one of the most popular Christmas carols of all time: “Jingle Bells; or, The One Horse Open Sleigh,” whose history has usually been told in relation to a singular event—“Where was it first written?” The answer depends on where you ask, since both Medford, Massachusetts and Savannah, Georgia lay claim to being the song's city of origin. Commemorative plaques can be found in both cities, and this musical North–South discord carries on to this day.

Although Aida Overton Walker (1880–1914) belonged to the same generation of turn-of-the-century African American performers as did Bob Cole, J. Rosamond Johnson, Bert Williams, and George Walker, she had a rather different view of how best to represent her race and gender in the performing arts. Walker taught white society in New York City how to do the Cakewalk, a celebratory dance with links to West African festival dance. In Walker's choreography of it, it was reconfigured with some ingenuity to accommodate race, gender, and class identities in an era in which all three were in flux. Her strategy depended on being flexible, on being able to make the transition from one cultural milieu to another, and on adjusting to new patterns of thinking. Walker had to elaborate her choreography as hybrid, merging her interpretation of cakewalking with the preconceptions of a white culture that became captivated by its form. To complicate matters, Walker's choreography developed during a particularly unstable and volatile period. As Anna Julia Cooper remarked in 1892.

One of the more obscure episodes in the long history of the English stage is the foundation and short-lived existence of a French language Royal Academy of Music in the early 1670s. I intend to sum up here the evidence so far available and to show, using for the purpose a double MS. of Pierre Perrin's Ariane in the Bibliothèque Nationale, together with a few other documents, that the enterprise was indeed a very serious one, and was modelled on an earlier and very similar attempt in Paris a few years previously.

“Art is a kind of innate drive that seizes a human being and makes him its instrument.” With this statement and related discussion Carl Jung suggested that the decision to work as an artist is involuntary; however he did not actually explain the nature of being “seized.” Working with numerous artists, reading about many others, and examining the specific example of Robert Edmond Jones, I would suggest that the artist is both seized by and seizes the innate drive and that it is a process which occurs over time. An examination of Jones's childhood, education, and early production experience reveals the complex nature of his progression toward a career as a theatre artist.

Anyone who has staged a show has an idea of the numberless odd things that can go wrong. We expect, of course, that they will go right. From experience and knowledge, we can conceive the contingencies in categories; they range from the personal to the institutional and the natural (as in a force of nature). Contingencies of performance are the many variables that could impact performance in any number of ways, mostly unforeseen, and even if foreseen, mostly unpredictable in effect. Of course, contingency factors are time and space dependent, as what is contingent in one context or time may be completely under control in another context or time. We need to conceive of performance as fundamentally “a changing function of multiple variables,” as Barbara H. Smith once said of value. This changing function is a concept we need to hold tightly as we navigate common challenges of performance: What is our purpose or goal? What should we perform? What are the mechanics of the performance? Where should we perform? When? And for whom? These challenges are theoretically of indeterminate and indeterminable chronological sequence, and beginning from and working diligently through any one of them is bound to lead us into the others.

Theatre scholars and historians assume too easily that theoretical reflection on the performative qualities of the theatre began only in the eighteenth century. In mid-eighteenth century France, writers and philosophers such as Denis Diderot, Jean le Rond D'Alembert, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Antoine-François Riccoboni, or Jean-Georges Noverre (to name but a few) showed a passionate interest in the aesthetics and the morality of performance practices in dramatic theatre, music theatre, or dance. Compared to this rich diversity of ideas in the eighteenth century, seventeenth-century French writings on theatre and the performing arts seem, at first sight, far less interesting or daring. However, this is merely a modern perception. Our idea of le théâtre classique is still rather reductionist, and often limited to the theatrical canon of Pierre Corneille, Jean Racine, and Molière. It affords a view of the performing arts that is dominated by tragedy and comedy and that, firmly embedded within a neo-Aristotelian poetics, privileges dramatic concerns above performative interests.

The long stage life of A Midsummer Night's Dream as a leafy Victorian valentine, with all the traditions our era has so strained to be rid of, is all but gone—with few questions ever having been asked about its origins and development. That Victorian stage image of the play, still familiar to us, owes the most to the production of the remarkable Madame Lucia Elizabeth Vestris. Her A Midsummer Night's Dream opened on 16 November 1840, in the second of her three season management of Covent Garden with her new husband and lessee, Charles James Mathews. As well as restoring the text, for which Odell duly credited her, Vestris set many precedents in staging, casting, costuming, and music. Her production has never been studied in detail, either for itself or its considerable influence.

Following the translation of Jürgen Habermas's The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere into English in 1989, we have come to see “the public” and “the private” as historically contingent categories bearing upon nests of social practices. The public and private are not just distinctions of geography—so that beyond our front doors we are necessarily and unavoidably in the public—for they bear on authority, authorized voice, citizenship, and credibility in democratic societies. Whereas the Hellenic Greek social order recognized freedom only in the public realm, and only embodied by household masters, the nineteenth-century model of separate spheres cast the public realm as the place where individuals defended the family (equated to the private) from state domination while debating the proper roles for the sexes. Unacknowledged in both models is that agents of the state and the private individuals who have access to the public realm are normalized as exclusively male and of the hegemonic class. The Greek and Victorian models—explicitly relegating women to the home (private) and men to the marketplace (public)—are equally open to critique for being as class-blind as they are hyperbolically universalizing of all cultures and sub-cultures, as if they obeyed a natural law instead of ideological preferences. If we write theatre history with either model in mind and assume that “the public” does not carry with it connotations of power, then we are distorting the evidence and misfiring on our interpretations.