Open stage to empty space: the Granville-Barker inheritance

Jan 1, 2002   //   by Kate Powers   //   Director's Notebook

[I wrote this essay as part of my graduate work at the Shakespeare Institute, Stratford-upon-Avon, UK.]

Harley Granville-Barker’s dramaturgical criticism has transformed our collective perception of Shakespeare’s plays. Full stop. Once he had completed his work as a director and as an analyst, it would no longer be defensible to consider Shakespeare’s plays as literary works devoid of a performative existence in the theatre. While the chasm between dramatic scholarship and the theatre is still craggy and sometimes deep, critics in the late 20th and early 21st centuries routinely concede the significance of the texts as plays, meant to be performed. Directors, or producers, as Granville-Barker called them, perform ephemeral acts of criticism and interpretation through their productions of Shakespeare’s plays and there are now scholars who focus their energies on exploring and occasionally exploding those dramaturgical interpretations (Taylor Reinventing 307). Scholars such as John Russell Brown have continued to man Barker’s trenches, fighting to foreground the theatrical in analysis of the plays. Granville-Barker’s influence excavated the terrain of the theatrical landscape: while we still have the proscenium arch, we also have the three-quarter thrust stage and theatre in the round. We have experimented, in the 1960s and the 1970s, with Richard Schechner’s environmental theatre and with happenings, which, in their search for vitality and intimacy of connection between performer and spectator, are the dramaturgical grandchildren of Granville-Barker. We have the open stage for which Tyrone Guthrie fought at the inception of the Stratford Festival and we have Peter Brook’s ’empty space’. In their work, indeed, in their identities as practical men of the theatre who have directed, thought and written extensively about the nature of the theatre and how best to enliven our ongoing conversation with Shakespeare within it, Guthrie and Brook are among the true heirs to the Granville-Barker inheritance. It is upon Guthrie as the next runner to carry Barker’s baton that I will focus in the second half of this paper.

At the turn of the 20th Century, Shakespeare production stagnated under the “static treatment of Shakespeare in the grand manner” (Bridges-Adams 8 ) presented by actor-managers such as Sir Henry Irving and Beerbohm Tree; the star-centered, bombastic declamation of a text heavily cut and sometimes rearranged to accommodate elaborate changes of spectacular scenery, quarantined from the audience behind a no man’s land of apron and footlights, encased in an operatic proscenium arch, dominated the treatment of Shakespeare on the stage. Charles Lamb and Swinburne eschewed the theatre, preferring their Shakespeare ‘pure’ in the privacy of the study. Granville-Barker wrote that the scholarly reluctance to see the plays in the theatre was almost understandable when seen in the context of the ludicrous treatment that Shakespeare so often received onstage: “In the theatre Shakespeare has been cut to the measure and customs of an alien stage, till some performances we have many of us seen could more properly be called: Extracts” (HGB Associating 11). Elsewhere he speaks of the “usual mangling of the text” (HGB Second 81). He was less tolerant of scholarly claims that certain plays, principally King Lear and certain parts of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, were unstageable: “If a play written for the stage cannot be put on the stage the playwright, it seems to me, has failed, be he who he may” (HGB VI 35). He was impatient with scholarship for its failure to recognize the primacy of the theatrical in any consideration of Shakespeare: “To transport Shakespeare from the world of the theatre into the vacuum of scholarship is folly” (HGB VI 166). Drama was a living entity, there was an “integrity of a play as acted in a theatre” and it was “never fully alive till then” (HGB Tasks 21).

Influenced early in his acting career by William Poel’s experimentation in Elizabethan theatre practices and frustrated by the work of both the scholars and the practitioners, Granville-Barker wanted to return Shakespeare’s plays, as written, to the public stage. “There always is the vulgar notion that the normal place for a play is in the theatre, and that, if it is a good play, one will enjoy it most there. This is held, without much question, to apply to every dramatist but Shakespeare. Why not to Shakespeare?” (HGB Associating 16). Granville-Barker was fundamentally concerned with seeking maximum dramatic effect and he wanted to restore to Shakespeare’s performance its vitality and effectiveness. It was obvious to Barker that the plays were stage-worthy; was the stage play-worthy?

Granville-Barker wrote that “19th Century scholarship suffered from a surfeit of Shakespeare as philosopher, Shakespeare as mystic, as cryptogrammatic historian, as this & that, and as somebody else altogether . . . Till at last it seemed but as common sense to return to Shakespeare as Elizabethan playwright” (HGB VI 161). He spent his working lifetime developing an intricate recipe for Shakespeare performance in the modern theatre; while there are tangy portions of character analysis and perceptive pinches of interpretation specific to each play, in all of his work, there are several ingredients which are always essential. These elements are not discreet, but blended together in Barker’s theory and, for the most part, in his theatrical execution of the theory. Barker wanted to see Shakespeare “fully effective on the English stage” (HGB Second viii), but he saw that the English stage as it was embodied by the proscenium or picture-frame theatre was not suited to playing Shakespeare. He perceived that a better understanding, without a slavish emulation, of the Elizabethan platform stage for which Shakespeare wrote was fundamental to restoring vitality to the plays and intimacy to the relationship between actors and spectators. The plays should be performed “as written”, not cut and certainly not rearranged to suit the convenience of the set designer. Any scenery should serve as an unlocalized, ambient backdrop to support the work of the actors, “the sole interpreters Shakespeare has licensed” (Ibid. 166). Speed was of the essence: Shakespeare’s verse should be spoken purposefully and rapidly. The production should move quickly, seamlessly from scene to scene, as it must have on Shakespeare’s platform stage. The soliloquy must be retrieved from its appropriated aria-performing position downstage center, and restored to its original intimate point of contact between char/actor and spectator. Granville-Barker is, in each of these considerations, and in his close analysis of individual scenes and characters, always and tightly focused on the dramatic viability of each moment, each scene, each play.

Granville-Barker was absolutely committed to the primacy of the text in his work, both as director and as dramaturgical critic: “There is no Shakespearean tradition. We have the text to guide us, half a dozen stage directions, that is all” (HGB Mail 4). Barker was suspicious of editorial interventions in general and the five act structure and its divisions in particular on the grounds that it often allowed the emotional tension to “not only relax, but lapse altogether” (HGB Second 32). Act breaks were often an artificial construct imposed upon the plays by editors. “One could vary the division as legitimately in half a dozen different ways; and this in itself, argues against any division at all” (Ibid. 34). The director “must free the play from act and scene divisions. The Folio gives none” (Ibid. 127); he is a little inconsistent here because elsewhere he contends that modern directors should emancipate themselves from “slavery to the five acts of the Folio” (HGB VI 100), but his point is clear: if the act and scene divisions allow the dramatic tension to dissipate, if they do not actually help to tell the story, the play will suffer by their employment. Any time that editorial emendation is at odds with what Granville-Barker considers to the maximum dramatic effect of a moment, he challenges its utility and calls the editors on the worn library carpet as those who “you might suppose, could never have been inside a theatre in their lives” (HGB Tasks 2). He cites what editors since Rowe have referred to as Act 4, Scene 3 through the end of Act 4, Scene 5 of Romeo & Juliet to make his case; this is “one scene, one integral stretch of action”. There is a dramatic build-up of emotional intensity here, and this “mutilation” is an act of “sheer editorial murder” (HGB Second 25) because it suggests a tension-quashing pause or scene change between Juliet’s taking of the potion and Capulet’s late night wedding preparations, and another between this and the Nurse’s discovery of Juliet lying ‘dead’ within the curtains of the discovery space, or inner below.

The Elizabethan platform stage was not a theatre of illusion. For the Elizabethans, “the actors were very plainly on the stage” (HGB Second 135) and Granville-Barker believed that Shakespeare may not have regarded the spare features of the platform stage purely as a limitation. With Henry V, Shakespeare discovered that the platform stage did not lend itself to telling stories about “men of action” and that as he continued, he sought, in Brutus, in Macbeth, in Hamlet, to pluck out the heart of the human mystery:

Shakespeare’s dramatic development has lain in the discovering and proving of the strange truth that in the theatre, where external show seems everything, the most effective show is the heart of a man . . . Shakespeare fails in Brutus just where he will succeed in Hamlet . . . he is instinctively searching . . . to express something which the poet in Hamlet will accommodate, which the philosopher in Brutus will not.  (HGB First 52, 61)

He insightfully observes that the man of action is still present in Hamlet, but that Henry V has become Fortinbras, pivotal but off to one side of the storytelling. Barker also asserted that the intimate relationship between the actor and the audience, which surrounded him on three sides, was integral to the playing of Shakespeare. The soliloquy was not the star turn that it became in the late 19th Century theatre, but a means of fostering emotional intimacy between the character and the audience member. Because the plays were performed during daylight hours, there were no footlights – what Guthrie would later call “a barrier of fire” (Minneapolis 37) – between the actor and the spectator. What Barker repeatedly calls the freedom of the platform stage, that is, the absence of scenic illusion, fostered immediacy; in his introduction to the Players’ Shakespeare, Barker says of the soliloquy “he used it as a means of bringing us into the closest contact with his characters’ most secret thoughts and most passionate emotions” (HGB VI 51). He laments “Banished behind footlights into that other world of illusion, the solitary self-communing figure rouses our curiosity at best” (HGB Antony 20). For Shakespeare to come alive onstage, it was imperative to recreate the intimacy which the platform stage had provided for the soliloquy.

Granville-Barker knew that elaborate design was the enemy of focused and viable storytelling. There was no design, as far as we know, to the Elizabethan platform stage and Shakespeare tells us where we are when he thinks that we need to know. “With Cleopatra we are surely in Egypt, with Caesar in Rome” (HGB First xxi) and again, as always, embracing only that which is essential to telling the story, that which heightens the dramatic effect, Granville-Barker writes, “There was no scene, nor any sense of locality implied, apart from the immediate effect required by the action” (HGB Chapters 64). He cites Duncan’s “This castle has a pleasant seat” as well as the murderer’s “The west yet glimmers with some streaks of day” (Macbeth 1.6.1, 3.3.5) as just two amid the legion of Shakespeare’s need-to-know scenic revelations his audience. The absence of scenery facilitated a much faster, and uninterrupted, playing of the entire production, which Barker considered to be essential. “No swifter movement is well possible than that for which the Elizabethan stage provides” (HGB VI 67). In his preface to Twelfth Night, Barker writes “The scene changes constantly from anywhere suitable to anywhere else that is equally so. The time of the play’s action is any time that suits the author as he goes along” (Ibid. 27). Granville-Barker would not have been interested in the rebuilt Globe; “Archaeology will insensibly undo us” (Ibid. 71). He wanted to rediscover the intimacy of the relationship between performer and spectator and the speed of the action that Shakespeare’s platform stage offered, but it was not a simple matter of recreating that space. While he did encourage his readers to read the Folio or the Quartos on the grounds that they were just foreign enough to reawaken one’s attention, he sought to produce effervescent Shakespeare to which his audiences could spontaneously respond. And that meant finding a new theatre which would appeal to a modern audience as the platform stage did to spectators in the early 17th Century: “We shall not save our souls by being Elizabethan” (Barker Pictorial). Barker struggled in his own productions at the Savoy in 1912 to find a solution. In his introduction to the Players’ Shakespeare, he contends “The producer wishing to enscene the play must devise such scenery as will not deform, obscure or prejudice its craftsmanship or its art. That is all. But it is not easy to do” (HGB Second 36). He built a curved apron out in front of the proscenium and a second, false proscenium far upstage; while the sets –”decorated”, not designed– by Norman Wilkinson did not do away with defined location completely, the productions utilized expressionistically painted drop curtains in lieu of extravagant changes. Dennis Kennedy writes about the strengths and limitations of this first practical experiment:

The modified stage alone could not do it, of course, but could aid actor and audience alike, give them an imaginative shove in the right direction . . . Abolishing the footlights, breaking down the picture-frame, were actions that took the audience back to an older sense of the theatre and its purpose (125).

Barker had taken a revolutionary first step towards creating a new kind of theatre.

Granville-Barker believed that the plays should be performed as Shakespeare wrote them. While this has since become a bibliographically ambiguous phrase, Barker meant the plays should be performed straight through, without cuts. “It is both wanton and ludicrous to cut every line which can puzzle or bore your audience; once you start on that track there is no stopping short of consideration for the village idiot” (HGB Associating 11). Barker conceded the potential need for small edits as a result of what he called the “pornographic problem”; the sensibilities of the early 20th Century were more delicate than those of the early 17th, and if what was meant to be a quick laugh took the audience uncomfortably out of the play, then it was better cut. These questions of indecency are no longer the issue that they were for Barker; an early 21st Century audience is more comfortable with Shakespeare’s cruder humor, but we still confront another of Barker’s concerns: “We have learned editors disputing over the existence and meaning of jokes at which the simplest soul was meant to laugh unthinkingly. I would cut out nothing else, but I think I am justified in cutting those pathetic survivals” (HGB VI 31). The definition of a ‘pathetic survival’ can be complicated. No one knows exactly what “The yeoman of the wardrobe married the Lady of the Strachy” means; the Furness Variorum devotes more than five pages to rarefied discussions of laundresses, starch and status in an unsuccessful attempt at unpacking this lexical suitcase, but the line always gets a laugh in spite of its, to us, non-sense. Granville-Barker retained this line in his 1912 production of Twelfth Night, and until he died, continued to warn of the dangerous licentiousness of the director’s blue pencil, which solved “too many difficulties far too easily” (HGB VI 46).

Granville-Barker wanted to put Shakespeare’s language back to work: “Here is the first thing to restore – the art of speech made eloquent by rhythm and memorable by harmony of sense and sound” (HGB VI 167). The language should be spoken swiftly, much more swiftly than anyone was accustomed to hearing it in the early 1900s. I quote him here at length, because his is the most concise analysis of what confronted him and what he planned to do about it:

We must break the crust of false tradition beneath which the brightness and vigor of this Elizabethan speech is hid . . . . our current talk has been flattening out and slowing down; and we make it ceremonious by pomposity. It is certain that Shakespeare’s verse is meant to be spoken swiftly and yet with great variety of emphasis and tone, that the voice must color it richly and delicately . . .   (HGB VI 57-8)

Barker believed that the sound of the words, as much as the words themselves, contributed to the action. Citing opaque passages such as Leontes’ “Affection! Thy intention stabs the centre” or Cleopatra’s “O see, my women, / The crown o’ the earth doth melt . . . “, Barker contended that incomprehensibility was to be celebrated, not solved: “This . . .is little better than ecstatic nonsense; and it is meant to sound so. It has just enough meaning in it for us to feel as we hear it that it may possibly have a little more” (HGB Second 186). Barker wants to know what the words are doing dramaturgically and linear logic is not necessarily a constituent of dramatic viability. Elsewhere he sees a short verse line as an indication of the gasping breaths of the dying Antony. Talking about Macbeth’s confrontation with Macduff at Dunsinane, he writes “And from the beginning the exchange of speeches between the two men should be like the exchange of blows” (HGB VI 90). His ear is always attuned to the stage.

Harley Granville-Barker loved these plays; he wanted to give them exuberant life upon the English stage, even if it meant working to create a new English stage upon which to do it. Even if, paradoxically, it meant leaving the theatre to spend the rest of his life in the library. In his analysis, he is constantly on the lookout for the most dramatically viable interpretation of an exchange, a moment, a breath. He joys in the vitality which Shakespeare has already inhered in the plays, from his insightful variations in arrangement, as “One cannot too strongly insist upon the effect Shakespeare gains by this vivid contrast between scene and scene” (HGB Second 12) and “This antiphony of high romance and rasping hate enhances the effect of both” (Ibid. 72); through his openness to entertain myriad alternative interpretations, as he describes Romeo “so packed with emotions that the actor may interpret it in half a dozen ways, each legitimate (and by such an endowment we may value a dramatic situation)” (Ibid. 13); to his understanding that there was something more than Charles Lamb’s perfectly realized image to be achieved, “We must not look for perfect performances of such plays, for there is nothing so finite as perfection about them . . . they seem to surpass such perfection and to take on something of the quality of life itself” (HGB VI 165).

Of his criticism, Granville-Barker reflected “This sort of work finds its best reward in being forgotten because the need for it has gone” (HGB Second ix), but his work was far from irrelevant when he died. Tyrone Guthrie was only twelve years old when Granville-Barker staged his revolutionary productions at the Savoy, and worked with him only once, briefly, on a production of King Lear with Gielgud in 1940. Granville-Barker considered himself not a director, but a consultant on the production. In the 1930s, when he was contracted at the Old Vic, Guthrie had already begun to seek his own solution to the problems Barker had enumerated. “We would follow Poel and Barker and Shaw, make no cuts merely to suit the exigencies of stage carpenters, have no scenery except a ‘structure,’ which would offer the facilities usually supposed to have been available in the Elizabethan theatres” (Guthrie Life 108). Guthrie often sold Granville-Barker short, crediting William Poel with innovations that Barker had further developed, both on the page and on the stage, but Guthrie, whether he acknowledged the inheritance or not, was very much in Barker’s debt. Guthrie had striven at the Old Vic for a permanent structure instead of a series of sets; “but, far from avoiding any precise suggestion of period,” as he had hoped, “it proclaimed itself, almost impertinently, to be modern” (Ibid. 109). It was cumbersome as well as obtrusive.

Reflecting on his difficult first year at the Old Vic, Guthrie wrote “No radical advance in the production of Shakespeare would be possible until we could create a stage which resembled . . . the sort of stage for which the plays were written” (Various 66); Guthrie saw that the open, or thrust, stage facilitated the crucial intimate relationship between actor and audience; it suited the text better as well as being a more economic and democratic use of theatrical space. It was spatially economical because more people were much closer to the playing area than they would be in a comparably-sized proscenium house. “A thousand people cannot be got near enough to the actors for really intimate effects to be achieved unless they are put to some extent around the stage” (Guthrie “Minneapolis” 37). With regard to design, Guthrie repeated Granville-Barker’s maxim that when it was dramatically relevant, Shakespeare told us where we were; he cited many of the same moments that Barker had. “As long as that picture frame remains, some kind of picture has to be put inside it” (Guthrie Life 185). Guthrie echoed Barker’s concern for dramatic integrity and recognized that scene changes were anathema to Shakespeare’s storytelling: “such breaks undermine some of Shakespeare’s most thrilling and best calculated effects, which depend upon the immediate juxtaposition of scenes” (Guthrie Various 69). Guthrie then took Barker’s next step. Rather than trying to force a conventional proscenium theatre to bend to his Will, Guthrie figuratively tore down the picture frame by starting with a thrust stage. At the nascent Stratford Festival in Canada, the open stage theatre sat 2,225 people and no one was more than 13 rows from the playing space. In Minneapolis, Guthrie built a 1,000 seat theatre on the same principle, even though the theatre was not going to foreground Shakespeare in its repertoire. Guthrie contended “everything that was written for the theatre from the Greeks until the suppression of the theatre in this country by the puritans” (“Minneapolis” 38) and a great deal more would benefit from the freedom, the intimacy and the candor of the open stage. “The theatre is endeavouring to make a comment on real life by symbolical re-enactments of real life, but not to create illusion” (Ibid. 45). Only plays that were striving to be at a great remove from real life, such as Restoration comedies, would suffer egregiously on the open stage, and Guthrie decided that was a risk he was willing to take.

Guthrie evokes Granville-Barker’s passion for the dramatic imperative of the soliloquy and theorized about the delivery with the maximum emotional impact: “the soliloquy must have been spoken by the actor on the move, or rotating on his own axis, so that at different moments everyone in the house could see his eyes and the expression of his face” (Guthrie Life 187). The stage, the soliloquy, the speech were all about intimate communication with the audience. Guthrie picks up Barker’s argument about confrontations such as the one between Macbeth and Macduff, maintaining that single combats such as this one, and that between Coriolanus and Aufidius, “represent the resolution in action of an antagonism which has already been implied in the dialogue and which is crucial to the whole meaning of the play.” He takes the meme a dramaturgical step further, challenging the stinginess of the staged duel. These moments should “jet-propel” the storytelling and “thrill the audience with a display of virtuosity” (Various 88) and not simply be a couple of quick hits of the rapier.

Granville-Barker’s love of the plays in performance and his easy openness towards other interpretations resonated with Guthrie, who acknowledged the subjectivity of his own work. “My collaborators and I have merely added one more comment to the vast corpus of criticism, admiration, revulsion, reverence, love and so on, with which a masterpiece of human expression is rightly surrounded” (Life 125). He also echoes Barker’s suspicion of the ‘perfect’ production: “If the objective meaning of a work of art were known, there would be no point in its existence” (Ibid. 124); it is the striving that is worth the effort. At the same time, he embraced Barker’s reverence for the text: “Although there can never be a completely right way of interpreting Hamlet, there are many partly wrong ones, and the wrongest . . . are those which are demonstrably at odds with the text” (Various 76). Guthrie likewise foregrounded the performance of the play on the stage in all critical discussion: “There are limits to the usefulness of purely intellectual and literary criticism of works which are intended to be realized in theatrical terms” (Life 125). Tyrone Guthrie, even more than Granville-Barker before him, was fundamentally a theatre practitioner, even as Albert Rossi cavalierly proclaims “Guthrie is probably the world’s most prolific director in writing about his philosophy of the theatre” (Rossi 6). His theoretical work, as Barker’s, was manifest as often on the stage, and in the designing of a new stage, as it appeared on the page. The performative act became for both men an interpretive and critical one as well. Theatrical practice was answering dramatic theory.

In Peter Brook, Guthrie’s link between the nature of the playing space and the vitality of the work would become direct, causal. As with Barker, Brook wants each performance of Shakespeare to be as if for the first time. Guthrie wrote a great deal beyond his dramaturgical analyses of Shakespeare and Brook has moved on to exploring the essence of the theatrical event, but both men have returned throughout their critical and practical careers to Shakespeare: “Shakespeare is always the model that no one has surpassed” (Brook Secrets 102). The intimacy of Peter Brook’s empty space, of Tyrone Guthrie’s three-quarter thrust, is the intimacy of Harley Granville-Barker’s, and William Shakespeare’s, soliloquy on the open stage.

Selected Bibliography

  • Bridges-Adams, W. The Lost Leader. London: Sidgwick & Jackson. 1954.
  • Brook, Peter. Evoking Shakespeare. London: Nick Hern Books. 1998.
    • The Empty Space. London: Macgibbon & Kee. 1968.
    • There Are No Secrets. London: Methuen. 1993.
  • Delgado, Maria M. and Paul Heritage, ed. In Contact with the Gods? Manchester: MUP. 1996. 36-54.
  • Eastman, Arthur. A Short History of Shakespearean Criticism. New York: Random House. 1968. 100-15, 322-44.
  • Granville-Barker, Harley. “A Note Upon Chapters XX and XXI of The Elizabethan Stage.” RES 1 (1925): 60-71.
    • “Associating with Shakespeare.” Pamphlet for the Shakespeare Association. London: OUP. 1932.
    • Letter. Daily Mail. September 26, 1912: 4.
    • Preface to Antony and Cleopatra. London: Nick Hern Books. 1993. Orig. pub. 1930.
    • Prefaces to Shakespeare, First Series. London: Sidgwick & Jackson, Ltd. 1927, rpt. 1949.
    • Prefaces to Shakespeare, Second Series. London: Sidgwick & Jackson, Ltd. 1930, rpt. 1954.
    • Prefaces to Shakespeare, Third Series. London: Sidgwick & Jackson, Ltd. 1936, rpt. 1949.
    • Prefaces to Shakespeare, Volume VI. London: B.T. Batsford Ltd. 1974.
    • “Shakespeare: A Standard Text.” TLS. February 17, 1921.
    • “Some Tasks for Dramatic Scholarship.” Essays in Divers Hands. Ed. F.S. Boas. London: 1923.
    • “The Stagecraft of Shakespeare.” The Fortnightly Review DCCXV. July 1, 1926.
    • “The Staging of Romeo & Juliet.” TLS. February 22, 1936.
  • Guthrie, Tyrone. A Life in the Theatre. London: Readers Union. 1961.
    • In Various Directions: A View of the Theatre. London: Michael Joseph. 1965.
    • “Theatre at Minneapolis”. Actor and Architect. Ed. Stephen Joseph. Manchester: MUP. 1964.
  • Kennedy, Dennis. Granville Barker and the Dream of Theatre. Cambridge: CUP. 1985.
  • Purdom, C.B. Harley Granville Barker: Man of the Theatre, Dramatist and Scholar. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. 1956.
  • Rossi, Alfred. Minneapolis Rehearsals: Tyrone Guthrie Directs Hamlet. Berkeley: UCP. 1970.
  • Salmon, Eric. “Barker and Shakespeare.” Granville-Barker: A Secret Life. London: Heinemann. 1983.
  • Taylor, Gary. Reinventing Shakespeare. Oxford: OUP. 1989. 231-372.
  • Taylor, Michael. “Shakespeare in the Theatre (and the Theatre in Shakespeare).” Shakespeare Criticism in the 20th Century. Oxford: OUP. 2001.
  • Trousdale, Marion. “The Question of Harley Granville-Barker and Shakespeare on Stage.” Renaissance Drama NS4 (1971): 3-36.
  • Wells, Stanley, Ed. Shakespeare in the Theatre: An Anthology of Criticism. Oxford: OUP. 1997.

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