By Alexis Soloski
By R. C. Baker
By Alexis Soloski
By Tom Sellar
By Araceli Cruz
By Brienne Walsh
By Alexis Soloski
By Alexis Soloski
He was born 100 years ago (February 10, 1898), and in the U.S. the celebrations have been minimal: If the Drama League hadn't elected to fund seven Brecht productions by young directors for this year's Fringe Festival, New York would have taken virtually no notice of poor B.B. It seems odd. After all, Bertolt Brecht is a byword as well as a classic. Virtually every American theater artist knows his major plays, and the number who use tactics learned from him is at least a million times the number who can spell Verfremdungseffekt. Like him or not, Brecht is one of the geniuses who made the theater what it has been in this century. What's not to celebrate?
Well, lots. First, he was a political dramatist, sometimes noisily dogmatic, and after 1929 his politics were (dirty word) Communist. Most great modern artists have political skeletons in their closets, but Brecht's is a virtual ossuary, cluttered with items like "The Carpet Weavers of Kujan-Bulak Honor Lenin." Like many such lives, his now embarrasses us a little. What the Fringe directors chose to omit was telling: There was politics, but no talk of mass movements or class wars.
In most people's minds, Brecht's politics get muddled with his theories of theater, which need more words than one page of the Voice can hold, but three simple points should be stressed: (1) There's no particular link to the politics. Brecht's attempts to codify his aesthetics began well before his conversion to Communism. (2) Like his politics, Brecht's aesthetics was always under construction. It changed with time, situation, atmosphere, and even impulse. (3) Most importantly, Brecht's theory was only a theory. He was an artist, not an intellectual, and a theory to any artist is just a provisional guideline for finding a path through the work.
From this angle, it pays to view Brecht's politics as an extension of his aesthetics, not vice versa. In both, the point is to keep the work alive, to startle the audience into staying alert. Taking the word alienation literally, Americans too often start with the attitude and omit the passion that's meant to provoke it: The implied premise of the alienation effect is a tale so involving that the audience will need to be distanced from it.
On the personal level, of course, Brecht's passions have come under critical attack too. Again, there's no dodging the truth: His conduct, especially towards women, was one long parade of offenses. Little could be said in favor of Brecht the man, except for the one tiny point his detractors always overlook: Despite every dreadful thing we know about him, hundreds of people, many among the best and brightest of his time, willingly befriended him, worked with him, helped him, and clamored for his attention.
Which suggests that his attackers must have left out some mitigating factor. It's too easy to say that he was obeyed as a man and a famous artist; it was an era of disobedience, and Germany had no dearth of artists. Brecht & Company, John Fuegi's massive collection of half-truths and hysterical accusations, would like us to believe that the women who served Brecht as secretaries were plagiarized as well as emotionally abused, that in effect they wrote his plays for him. Evidence suggests that the women themselves, barring occasional flashes of bitterness, knew better. They may have wanted and deserved more money, credit, or affection, but they made no notable efforts at authorship without him, and Germany had no dearth of women writers, either. I don't mean that Brecht was entitled to maltreat women, just that his having done so is irrelevant to the quality of his work. If we rated artists by their personal rectitude, reading lists would be a lot shorter, and many eminent writers besides Brecht would be landfill.
When we do look at the work, in German, what we find is an extraordinary theater poet, whose eminence doesn't need a boost from any system, political, aesthetic, or gossip-peddling. He may have used what his secretaries drafted, just as he used everything that came to hand--Kipling and Goethe, folk songs and Salvation Army hymns. Few playwrights since Shakespeare have ingested so much material, and fed it back so distinctively transformed. As with Shakespeare, the recurring themes are treated with a variety that makes their scope seem enormous; the writing has a supple tang that makes the plays seem vast wonder boxes of poetic treasures.
The two achievements, of substance and of style, are inseparable, which is where translation becomes a problem. English gives a clear view of Brecht's dramatic scope, but only a faint glimmer of the verbal beauty in which the original comes wrapped. Brecht began to write just as two centuries of poetic tradition collapsed in the dismal aftermath of World War I. His triumph was to have revived it with the breath of modern life. Even in translation, you can hear the surge of freshness that animates an early play like Baal or Drums in the Night, the easy assurance that gives a late work like Antigone its fervent lucidity.
One key is Brecht's equal openness to "low" and "high" diction--another way in which his politics was a device to expand his aesthetic horizons. Even in naturalism, German stage speech had maintained a stuffy dignity. Brecht loosened its stays with the speech of the cabaret, the pop tune, and the gutter rhyme. Not that his approach is ever merely coarse--another American misunderstanding. His aim was to show that we could find value in both Goethe and gutter.