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PERFORMING
ANTAGONISM
THEATRE, PERFORMANCE
& RADICAL DEMOCRACY
E D I T E D BY
Tony Fisher A N D
Eve Kat s ou ra k i
Performance Philosophy
Series Editors
Laura Cull Ó Maoilearca
Department of Dance, Film and Theatre
University of Surrey
Guildford, United Kingdom
Alice Lagaay
Zeppelin University
Friedrichshafen, Germany
Freddie Rokem
Faculty of the Arts
Tel Aviv University
Tel Aviv, Israel
Will Daddario
Independent Scholar
Asheville, North Carolina, USA
Performance Philosophy is an emerging interdisciplinary field of thought,
creative practice and scholarship. The newly founded Performance
Philosophy book series comprises monographs and essay collections
addressing the relationship between performance and philosophy within
a broad range of philosophical traditions and performance practices,
including drama, theatre, performance arts, dance, art and music. It also
includes studies of the performative aspects of life and, indeed, philosophy
itself. As such, the series addresses the philosophy of performance as well
as performance-as-philosophy and philosophy-as-performance.
Series Advisory Board: Emmanuel Alloa, Assistant Professor in
Philosophy, University of St. Gallen, Switzerland; Lydia Goehr, Professor
of Philosophy, Columbia University, USA; James R. Hamilton, Professor
of Philosophy, Kansas State University, USA; Bojana Kunst, Professor of
Choreography and Performance, Institute for Applied Theatre Studies,
Justus-Liebig University Giessen, Germany; Nikolaus Müller-Schöll,
Professor of Theatre Studies, Goethe University, Frankfurt am Main,
Germany; Martin Puchner, Professor of Drama and of English and
Comparative Literature, Harvard University, USA; Alan Read, Professor
of Theatre, King’s College London, UK
http://www.performancephilosophy.org/books/
Performing
Antagonism
Theatre, Performance & Radical Democracy
Editors
Tony Fisher Eve Katsouraki
Royal Central School of Speech University of East London
and Drama London, United Kingdom
London, United Kingdom
Performance Philosophy
ISBN 978-1-349-95099-7 ISBN 978-1-349-95100-0 (eBook)
DOI 10.1057/978-1-349-95100-0
The idea for this book began in 2010, in the midst of the turbulence of the
student protests in London following the arrival of the Tory-led Coalition
government and the imposition of a new fee regime; a few months later,
the Jasmine Revolution had seized the headlines, and shortly after the
occupation of Wall Street had begun in Zuccotti Park. In the six years that
have since elapsed, much has changed and nothing has changed. Austerity
regimes have intensified across European countries, with Greece experi-
encing one of the most profound economic recessions in its recent history.
Moreover, the threat of global economic depression—that spectre of 2007
that still continues to haunt us—far from disappearing looms over our
collective horizon, a consequence of the ghastly refusal on the part of the
world’s elite to draw any lessons from the recent past. For this reason, we
believe the essays assembled in this volume testify to a continued sense of
urgency in the face of ongoing crisis, but perhaps also they bear witness
to a sense of hopefulness, regarding what those events rendered possible:
the work of imagining an alternative to the status quo. And so for their
commitment to this shared project, we are profoundly grateful to all of
our contributors. We are also grateful to the Theatre and Performance
Research Association’s Theatre, Performance and Philosophy Working
Group (TaPRA), which we co-convened (2011–15), for enduring a num-
ber of our presentations on the topic of antagonism and performance, as
well as those who attended our presentation, along with our collaborator
Broderick Chow, at the London Theatre Seminar, where this book was
first conceived. Thanks are due to the series editors for their diligence, sup-
port and excellent advice—Laura Cull, Alice Lagaay and Freddie Rokem.
v
vi ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
We would also like to thank Maria Delgado and Gilli Bush-Bailey for their
words of encouragement and feedback on the project. The onerous task
of indexing was alleviated with the help of Adelina Ong, and with the sup-
port of the Research Office at Royal Central School of Speech and Drama,
for which we are also thankful. Thanks to the University of East London
and the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama for providing us with
teaching relief at various stages for completing this book. Lastly, we would
like to recognise with deep appreciation the roles played by Paula Kennedy,
who first encouraged us to pursue this book as a viable and worthwhile
project; Jenny McCall who—taking over from Paula—ensured seamless
continuity of support, and April James and the editorial team at Palgrave
who helped finally steer the book to its eventual completion.
Contents
2 Tragedy’s Philosophy 25
Simon Critchley
vii
viii Contents
Bibliography313
Index335
Notes on Contributors
xi
xii NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS
Tony Fisher
Why antagonism and performance? In one sense the answer to this ques-
tion is obvious. Consider the following as a preamble to the discussion that
follows. We are living through the aftermath of world-changing events.
Clearly any number spring to mind: the fall of the Berlin Wall, the launch-
ing of the World Wide Web, G8 protests, and many more. If one looks
closely enough, or (like Benjamin’s Angel of History) one is compelled to
bear witness with open eyes, no doubt events pile up like the carnage left in
history’s wake. Still, two particular events sit prominently at the forefront
of these opening reflections owing to their devastating consequences—the
war in Iraq and the global financial crash of 2008. To say that we are liv-
ing through the aftermath of those events is really to say that we are living
through the time of their aftermath. It is a time of uneasy alliances, fraught
with dangers, in which governments are blindsided by the rapid develop-
ment of unforeseen threats and by the rise of new p olitical forces that are
T. Fisher (*)
Royal Central School of Speech and Drama, University of London,
Eton Avenue, London NW 3 3HY, UK
if, as we have demonstrated, the social only exists as a partial effort for
constructing society—that is, an objective and closed system of differ-
ences—antagonism, as a witness of the impossibility of a final suture, is the
‘experience’ of the limit of the social. Strictly speaking, antagonisms are not
internal but external to society; or rather, they constitute the limits of soci-
ety, the latter’s impossibility of fully constituting itself.15
such practices explicitly say at the level of discursive statements, but what
they show (regarding the structures that produce those statements).
It is in light of this distinction between saying/showing that one final
book bears some mention at this point: Janelle Reinelt and Shirin M. Rai’s
edited volume The Grammar of Politics and Performance proposes to
‘bring practical political processes back into theatre and performance stud-
ies, from where they have been somewhat displaced in recent years’.16 This
is a proposition and sentiment with which, I think, most authors in the
present volume would entirely concur. It can also be agreed that politics
and performance share, at least on the face of it, many features in com-
mon: they are both ‘discursive’ and also ‘embodied practices’; neither can
take place without ‘actors’ and both indeed perform for ‘publics’—how-
ever loosely construed; historically both have employed performance as a
means of staging or procuring certain rhetorical effects, seeking either to
influence or to sway those publics in one way or another by directing the
passionate attachments of their respective audiences, thus changing the
existing affective relations between individuals and the wider world.
Where I would suggest the path taken by the contributions to the subject
in this volume differ from Reinelt and Rai is over the suggestion that poli-
tics and performance (theatre) thereby share a ‘grammar’—an underlying
structure in common, however open-ended one conceives it. At the very
least I would suggest we pause before embracing the idea that performance
and politics have a symmetrical morphology, or possess the same syntactical
operations, or function by means of the same discursive procedures, accord-
ing to which one can superimpose the communicational relays of one onto
the codifications of the other. One reason for resisting this proposal has to
do with acknowledging, as we have just seen, the considerable degree of
ambiguity in the very word ‘politics’ (one might equally say the same is true
for the word performance). What is questionable is whether there is any
‘one’ grammar of performance or theatre that is shared with the political
and not least because it is questionable whether there is any one grammar
that defines the performance of politics. This is not to deny the utility of
thinking about the grammar of politics in relation to performance. What is
important to recognise, however, is the need to displace the terrain of such
thinking by introducing the element of antagonism into the mix. In the field
of politics, for example, there are—I would suggest—multiple and oppos-
ing grammars in play. But in order to clarify this, let us ask, first, what is
meant by the term ‘grammar’ in this context? Following the lead of Chantal
Mouffe, a grammar is akin to what Wittgenstein terms a ‘language game’: it
8 T. FISHER
describes the ways of doing, saying and speaking that account for the ‘rules’
governing a specific—that is, ‘context dependent’ performance (as well
as the coalescing of forms of political identification around those rules).17
Every politics has its ‘grammar’; yet no grammar is so set in stone, or so free
from overdetermination, as to entirely preclude its articulation with alterna-
tive and sometimes contradictory and even inconsistent grammars. Thus the
grammar of liberalism—at least until fairly recently—must be seen as oppos-
ing the grammar of democracy; while, conversely, the grammatical rules that
determine the performance of nationalist politics have, at times, been com-
patible with the grammar of democracy—even if both of these relations can
be (and have been) reversed. Turning to the theatre, one can no doubt also
speak albeit in a different way of the grammars that demarcate forms and
genres of performance. For instance, one can speak of a grammar of natural-
ism, or realism, or expressionism, and perhaps, even, of the ‘post-idiomatic’
grammar that is ‘postdramatic’ theatre. What cannot be said, however, is
that there is a grammar of performance as such. For if ‘grammar’ refers here
to the set of contingent rules and context-bound principles that govern
the performance of a certain ‘politics’, specifying what can and cannot be
said, then performance itself is not a ‘grammar’ but the mode by which a
specific grammar is articulated in relation to other possible grammars; and
this performance will occur in conjunction with and in opposition to those
grammars (whether in the fields of politics or performance).18
And it is this problem of articulation rather than grammar per se that
allows the possibility of entertaining a certain type of radical intervention
through grasping performance as antagonism. What is at stake in that
problem can be related to the phenomenon Antonio Gramsci identified
with the question of ‘hegemony’.19 Thus, in terms of the practices invoked
in the chapters that follow, the relation between performance and poli-
tics is not simply a matter of grammar, but of the performatives involved
in the hegemonic struggle between contesting grammars of the political.
The role of theatre and performance, however, serves a further function
in this argument—and this testifies to a second problem that I would like
to briefly mention and which arises from the attempt to identify ‘gram-
matically’ the communicative dimension of politics with that of theatre.
For it is not, in my view, particularly helpful to draw together too tightly
the tenuous threads that connect the forms of representation involved in
theatre and performance with those of representative politics. Rather, I
would suggest that the appearance of any similitude between the space of
the theatrical and that of the political should be understood precisely in
INTRODUCTION: PERFORMANCE AND THE TRAGIC POLITICS... 9
terms of what separates theatre from politics, and what, concerning the-
atre’s peculiar effects, is consequently most threatening (about theatre) to
the ‘politics of dispersion’ (as Plato and Rousseau understood full well).
Namely, that theatre possesses a power of ventriloquism that—to borrow a
term from the French philosopher François Laruelle—‘clones’ the space of
politics without thereby reproducing its effects.20 As I shall shortly argue,
this power of cloning is, properly considered, a non-power since what it
exposes through its gestures and specifically through the gestures that it
clones, is the limit of the political domination of the social. But before I
get to more fully flesh out this idea, first a short digression, since I would
like to examine in a little more detail the problem of the agōn that lies at
the heart of the tragic conception of the political.
I remarked earlier that the tragic conception of the political is both very
new and at the same time very old. To reflect on its provenance is invari-
ably to invite a return to the time of the tragic age of the Greeks, where
the agōn was first imbricated with athletic, political, legal and theatrical
forms of display. This was a culture entirely saturated, if I may borrow
Paul Cartledge’s luminous expression, by the ‘mentality of agonia’.21 The
words agonia (meaning ‘contest’ or competition) and agōn (connoting
various forms of ‘struggle’) had originally celebrated athletic contests but
later came to be applied to non-athletic striving and non-physical forms
of struggle.22 Agonia is, of course, linked etymologically to the English
word ‘agony’, indicating the affective dimension of struggle; that politics,
for instance, is not reducible to the tinder-dry stuff of reasoned delibera-
tion but involves complex emotional and affective forms of identification,
of passions and desires that animate political commitments. Wherever the
agōn expresses itself, it is invariably accompanied by agonia. In all spheres
of adversarial rivalry, intense forms of attachment are experienced (erotic
in the case of the symposium) as well as the kinds of visceral animosity—
hatred even—inspired by more combative confrontations.
Setting aside, for a moment, the problem of affect, it should be observed
that these multiple forms of struggle, contest, debate, combat and compe-
tition were identified exclusively with the public realm. Displays of conflict
were always held in the open: in the gymnasium—an arena for competitive
demonstrations of masculine prowess; in the symposium, as dramatised in
10 T. FISHER
the Socratic dialogues, in the contest between debaters (it is worth recall-
ing the context of the Symposium, which takes place during the ‘tragic
agon’ where Agathon is celebrating his victory during the contest of the
tragedians held at the Dionysia festival); as well as in the law courts, politi-
cal assembly and in the theatres themselves. Each constituted a site in
which the agōn was revealed, performed, audited and thus collectively
experienced. Greek culture was fundamentally a ‘performance culture’, as
Simon Goldhill has pointed out, that ‘valorised competitive public display
across a vast range of social institutions and spheres of behaviour’.23 The
public realm was thus understood, in a pre-eminent sense, as an agonis-
tic space activated by and promoting an ethic of ‘agonic’ participation
(excluding metics—resident foreigners—women, children and slaves, who
were not counted as citizens of the polis). But it was also understood as a
spectatorial realm—the verb agonizomai signifying the act of fighting and
struggling before a public and of speaking and debating in public—a fact
that led the historian, Thucydides, to write sardonically that the Athenians
were ‘theātai tōn logōn’—mere ‘spectators of speeches’. Nevertheless,
the Athenian democracy understood itself as structured around a specific
commitment to the idea that public affairs should be placed ‘es mesai’—‘in
the public domain to be contested’.24
But in another sense, the distinction between participant and spectator
does not hold in the case of the Athenian culture. This is exemplified per-
haps nowhere more prominently than on the theatre stage, which was not
separate from but continuous with the audience, in both literal and meta-
phorical terms. The classicist Peter Arnott has suggested that both tragic
and comic theatre laid bare an ‘argumentative disposition’ that ‘springs
naturally from the temperament of the people’.25 For Arnott, if the average
Greek was illiterate—and if reading was an exception—Greek audiences
were nevertheless ‘trained to listen’.26 But perhaps more than simply lis-
ten, they were trained to listen conflictually—they were active spectators:
hence Plato’s complaint that the theatre audiences were a nuisance to the
good government of the polis. We find this in the Laws: audiences are sim-
ply incapable of quietly sitting back, of knowing their place, or of dutifully
attending to the poetry. A veritable democratic rabble, this participative
and unruly audience, stirred by the argumentative dynamics of the theatre,
perhaps nowhere more so than before the Aristophanic comedy with its
satirical invective and opinionated proclamations levelled at prominent cit-
izens. But the theatres also exemplified the formality with which the agōn
was inscribed within the social structures that reflected the Athenian men-
INTRODUCTION: PERFORMANCE AND THE TRAGIC POLITICS... 11
tality. In both tragedy and comedy, for example, the agōn took the form of
the ‘debate scene’, frequently employing well-defined tropes and formal
rhetorical figures derived from legal processes—leading Edith Hall to pro-
claim that ‘the stage is virtually turned into a court of law’.27 Polymester—
for example—is ‘prosecuted’ by Hecuba in an impromptu trial for the
murder of Polydorus; the trial of Orestes is presided over by Athena in the
court of the Areopagos, with Orestes defended by Apollo and prosecuted
by the Chorus of the Furies; Helen is tried by Hecabe in Women of Troy,
who explicitly frames the agōn in legal terms of indictment, accusation,
defence and condemnation: ‘Let her speak, Menelaus; she must not die
without a hearing. And let me undertake in turn to speak against her’;28
and—a final example—in Aristophanes’ The Frogs, the dispute between
Aeschylus and Euripides, over which is the better tragedian, has the setting
of a formal trial presided over by Dionysus. ‘We are dealing here,’ writes
Arnott, ‘with a theatre whose main weapon is words.’29
While far more could be said on this topic I hope this brief account
will suffice to give a sense of the extent to which Greek society, during the
age of the tragic drama, produced a political imaginary that defined itself
in every sense as agonistic. But in what way does this description of an
agonistic culture provide us with any insight into the tragic nature of the
political as such, understanding the question now not at a historical but at
a conceptual level? Here I would like to return to the earlier claim that the
political is essentially tragic. It is not simply that Greek culture understood
itself as agonistic—and it is not my aim to valorise that culture here—but
rather to understand it in the following terms: that during this period we
find a culture that committed itself to the idea that its social being was
permeated by the agōn. One might go so far as to say that for the Greeks
being itself was experienced in wholly agonistic terms. In Olympiodorus’s
commentary on Plato’s ‘First Alcibiades’—to give an example—the cathar-
sis induced by the trial of tragic drama, as intended by Aristotle, is grasped
precisely as an agonic trial: one must experience ‘the conflict of opposites’,
one must learn that to ‘cure an evil’ one must employ ‘evil’—for only in
this way can the spectator learn to mitigate its effects, and be led to a sense
of ‘due proportion’.30 This does not entail that Aristotle believed that
the agonic dimension of social being was thereby vitiated: catharsis aims
to produce a transfiguration, not the elimination of the agōn. Cornelius
Castoriadis provides a useful way of understanding this problem. Within
the polis, he writes, ‘the agonistic element was channelled toward forms
that no longer were destructive of the collectivity but on the contrary were
12 T. FISHER
creative of positive works for the community’.31 What this signifies is the
fundamental way in which the agōn held sway over the Greek mentality,
producing a consciousness of the necessity of sublimating antagonism—
socially, culturally and politically. The issue is perhaps nowhere more suc-
cinctly expressed than in the aphorism of the pre-Socratic philosopher
Heraclitus, who wrote: ‘It is necessary to realise that war is common, and
strife is justice, and that everything happens in accordance with strife and
necessity.’32 If I may offer a rather barbaric interpretation of this frag-
ment—barbaric in the literal sense that I speak as an ‘outsider’—to say
that war is common is already to alert us to the fact of the insuperability of
antagonism as a permanent existential threat to the security of the polis—
of course, the Greeks were no strangers to the calamities of war. Yet to say
that strife is justice is to point, I think, to something equally if not more
fundamental in our experience of political life: that because everything hap-
pens in accordance with strife and necessity, war is a constitutive possibility.
This means that, contrary to the kinds of view elaborated by philosophers
such as Jürgen Habermas, for whom the ultimate political aim of what he
calls ‘communicative action’ is the rational harmonisation of ‘individual
plans of action’33 (on which basis one must assert that the ideal of delib-
erative forms of justice requires the decisive elimination of antagonism),
by contrast, according to a tragic conception of politics, no such harmon-
isation is possible. One cannot eradicate antagonism through reasoned
debate, and the necessity of which Heraclitus speaks here recognises that
justice is a matter of ongoing struggle—a struggle that is permeated by the
acknowledgement that no final reconciliation of the social is possible.
This, then, is what is meant by a tragic conception of the political—
incarnated in the form of an ‘agōn tragikos’: a properly democratic politics
understands the constitutive lack upon which it is founded. In the case of
Athenian Greece, as Castoriadis explains, democracy consists of an exit
‘from a sacred world, from the imaginary signification of a transcendent
foundation for law and of an extra social norm for social norms’ raising
thereby ‘the crucial problem of self-legitimation’. The task bequeathed
by such an exit, for a properly democratic society, is precisely that it must
‘posit its own norms, and it has to posit them without being able to lean
on another form for support’. If a democratic society is a society that
understands itself as a social order, constituted without any possibility of a
final closure, or any reconciliation that would put an end to social conflict,
then ‘democracy’, Castoriadis concludes, ‘is certainly a tragic regime’.34
INTRODUCTION: PERFORMANCE AND THE TRAGIC POLITICS... 13
The political enemy need not be morally evil or aesthetically ugly; he need
not appear as an economic competitor, and it may even be advantageous to
engage with him in business transactions. But he is, nevertheless, the other,
the stranger; and it is sufficient for his nature that he is, in a specially intense
way, existentially something different and alien, so that in the extreme case
conflicts with him are possible. These can never be decided by a previously
determined general norm nor by the judgment of a disinterested and there-
fore neutral third party.37
Properly political relations are antagonistic, then, for the simple reason
that political identities are forged around the differential that allows a ‘we’
to demarcate itself from a ‘they’. And because identity is essentially the
expression of this fundamental differential, the agōn becomes the invariant
feature of all politics. It is for this reason that a ‘consensus without exclu-
sion’ is impossible. Indeed, to imagine such a non-conflictual world is to
entertain—in the words of Daniel Bensaïd—the ‘pretension that the social
might absorb the political completely, that a mythical “great society”, a
primordial Gemeinschaft, might be regained’. But this is to presuppose
‘a homogenous society that contrasts with the irreducible heterogene-
ity of the social’.38 The task confronting an agonistic or ‘radical’ demo-
14 T. FISHER
Turpan, fettered like a common criminal, lay upon his couch in the
tent where he had sat not long ago, a conqueror. The powerful
floodlight that shone in his face did nothing to sooth his raw temper.
Someone entered the tent and he strained in his bonds to see who it
was. Stephen came and stood over him.
Turpan licked his dry lips. "What time is it?" he asked.
"It is almost midnight. They have destroyed your rifle, but it has been
decided that, in view of your predatory nature, it would be dangerous
to release you again upon this colony. Are you prepared to meet your
fate?"
Turpan sneered. "Destroy me, fool—eunuch! It will not change your
lot here. You will remain an untouchable—an odd man out. May your
books comfort your cold bed for the rest of your life. I prefer death."
Stephen removed the hypodermic needle from the kit which they had
furnished him and filled it. He bared Turpan's arm. The muscles of
that arm were tense, like cords of steel. Turpan was lying. He was
frightened of death.
Stephen smiled a little. He looked a good deal younger when he
smiled. "Please relax," he said. "I am only a biological technician; not
an executioner."
Two hours later Stephen emerged from the tent, perspiring, and
found that the revel in the encampment continued unabated even at
this time of morning. Few suspected what had been going on in
Turpan's tent. These few now anxiously awaited his verdict.
"How did it go?" the former Planner of Flight One asked. "Was—the
equipment satisfactory? The drugs and chalones sufficient?"
He nodded wearily. "The character change appears to have been
complete enough. The passivity will grow, of course." A group of men
and women were playing a variety of hide-and-seek, with piercing
shouts and screams, among the shadows of the tents, and it was no
child's game.
"Don't worry about them," the Planner said. "They'll be over it in the
morning. Most of them have never had anything to drink before. Our
dictator's methods may have been cruder than we intended, but
they've certainly broken the ice."
"When will we see—Turpan?" someone asked. It was Ellen.
Stephen had not known that she was waiting. "Any moment now, I
believe," he said. "I will go in and see what is keeping him."
He returned in a few seconds. "A matter of clothing," he said with a
smile. "I warned you that there would be a complete character
change."
The garments were supplied. Stephen took them in. The floodlight
had been turned off now, and it was fairly dark in the tent.
"Hurry up," Stephen said gently.
"I can't—I cannot do it!"
"Oh, but you can. You can start all over now. Few of the colonists
ever knew you by sight. I am sure that you will be warmly enough
received."
Stephen came out. Ellen searched his face. "It will not be much
longer now," he told her.
"And to think that I doubted you!"
"I am only a technician," he said.
"There are one hundred and sixty-two male high scientists upon this
island," she said, coming forward and putting her arms around him,
"but only one, solid, unimaginative, blessed technician. It makes a
nice, even arrangement for us women, don't you think?"
"Even enough," he said. And at that moment Turpan stepped out of
the tent, and all of them looked. And looked. And Turpan, unable to
face that battery of eyes, ran.
Ran lightly and gracefully through the tent village toward the cliffs
beyond. And all along that gauntlet there were catcalls and wolf
whistles.
"Don't worry," the Planner said. "She will come back to us. After all,
there is a biological need."
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