This chapter focuses on a thirteen-year period which shook the foundations of Uruguayan society. Between 1960 and 1973 the country was between, on the one hand, the admiration of European living standards and culture and, on the other hand, the realisation of the similarities between Uruguay and other Latin American nations, mainly regarding poverty and social inequalities. I seek to explore the ways in which this tension is present in the text and materiality of films. First, I explore traces of avant-garde in La ciudad en la playa (henceforth, La ciudad) to demonstrate the oppositional potential of a film funded by the National Office for Tourism to promote Uruguay as a tourist destination; second, I delve into the University Film Institute (ICUR) and the film Carlos: cineretrato de un caminante en Montevideo (henceforth, Carlos) to analyse the blurred boundaries between political documentaries and scientific cinema; and third, I study Refusila through Stella Bruzzi's concept of ‘approximation’ to go beyond the idea of representation in political documentaries. This chapter also introduces an innovative way of complementing the textual analysis by exploring the films’ material transformations over time. It discloses the current location of these works and focuses on the different layers of physical changes that generated the ‘palimpsestic copies’ that can be accessed today.

The ‘Switzerland of America’, the Guerrilla and the Coup d’état

During the first half of the twentieth century, Uruguay enjoyed a fairly well established democracy, except for the years of Gabriel Terra's dictatorship (1933–38). Several historians have remarked that political tensions were mostly resolved through dialogue and negotiation between the main political figures. These politicians would usually be members of one or the other of the two traditional parties: Blanco and Colorado. This tradition of negotiating and establishing dialogue would lead Germán Rama to speak about a ‘sociedad hiperintegrada’ (hyper-integrated society) and Carlos Real de Azúa about a ‘sociedad amortiguadora’ (buffer society). Historians have also frequently analysed the people's trust in democratic institutions, an example of which is the first triumph of the Blanco party in 1958. The Colorado party had ruled for ninety-three years; however, the severe crisis suffered by the nation as 1958 approached caused the people to consider a different option in the general election.

TRADITIONAL monks and nuns lived a static and enclosed life in their convents, following St Benedict's rule of stabilitas loci; friars certainly had elements of this lifestyle but had a dual focus, looking inwards at the community and outwards at the town. The friars’ liturgy and in-house schools represent the inward aspect (Chapter 16: Spiritual Life and Education in the London Friaries), but other aspects of the friars’ lives were outward looking: they regularly stepped outside their precincts, going out into the city and supplying what might be termed spiritual services to Londoners, whether native, foreign or alien. These same Londoners increasingly came into the friars’ convents (in life and in death) to ‘consume’ spiritual services and to use the spaces of the convents in a number of other ways; a comparison can be drawn between the thriving mercantile economy of London and the developing ‘salvation market’ of debits (sin) and credits (intercession and good works). The relations between friars and Londoners were therefore quite extensive and surprisingly varied. It is notable that the surviving place-names relating to the London friaries nearly all derive from the way that Londoners saw or talked about the friars outside the friaries: ‘Blackfriars’ describes the black cloak the Dominicans wore in the street, not the white tunic and scapular they wore in church and cloister; ‘Whitefriars’ the white cloak of the Carmelites rather than their undyed wool tunic. And the modern street of Crutched Friars takes its name from the way that Londoners pronounced the Latin name for the Crossed friars: cruciferi (presumably ‘crutchy-furry’).

The friars’ patrons

Ordinary Londoners had begun to act as founders of religious institutions in the late twelfth century when the mercer Walter Brown (Brunus) and his wife Rosia endowed the hospital and priory of St Mary Spital. However, to found a religious house, especially one in London, was an expensive business and the founders of most houses were higher ranking landowners and nobility. The priory of the Sack friars was founded directly by Henry III and his daughter-in-law Eleanor of Castile, and the king was certainly a prominent supporter of many English monastic houses.

STRICTLY SPEAKING, Beethoven's cello music comprises five sonatas and three variation sets, though there is another substantial work that requires our attention because of the prominence accorded the instrument, albeit in an unusual way. It dates from 1804, about four years before he composed his third cello sonata, Op. 69. The singular Triple Concerto in C major Op. 56 for violin, cello, piano, and orchestra is a most curious outlier that has befuddled audiences since its creation. In 1841 Mendelssohn confessed that he could not fathom the work, and more recently Leon Plantinga has described it as ‘probably no one's favorite piece’. Here a piano trio, as if extracted from the intimate realm of chamber music, assumes the roles of three soloists pitted against the orchestra, and, one might suppose, against themselves, were it not for the most distinctive feature of the work: the unabashed privileging of the cello. Indeed, its very key signature - C major - suggests that Beethoven regarded the acoustic properties of the cello's open C string as the starting point for his concerto. Because the composition is so cello-centered, it calls for consideration here, before we take up the masterpiece for the instrument that followed, the Sonata in A major Op. 69.

First, some issues of generic identity. What the composer called a Konzertant and what has since been characterized as ‘an interlude in the French manner’ had clear ties to the French symphonie concertante, a hybrid genre from the eighteenth century that cast various solo instruments into the spotlight and was generally calculated to please audiences rather than challenge them. This form of symphonic entertainment remained popular throughout the first decade of the nineteenth century, even in musical centers beyond the French border that were affected by the rippling currents of French musical taste, such as Mannheim. But Beethoven had an ulterior design in creating a work that might appeal to French audiences: initially seduced by the idealism of revolutionary France, by 1803 he was determined to move to Paris. We need not reiterate the narrative of the ‘Eroica’ Symphony, with its initial Napoleonic pretensions and alternative Promethean formulations in the finale. Leonore, the composer's sole opera, was of course based on the model of the French rescue opera, another example of the power of French music on Beethoven's imagination.

THE APPARENT TENDENCY to reduce emotional exuberance in the Norse translations evokes questions of literary precedence and cultural conventions. As stated before, the Icelandic sagas are notorious for their lack of emotional display. The same can be said to apply to many medieval Icelandic genres, such as konungasögur (sagas of kings) and fornaldarsögur (legendary sagas). This does not imply that the sagas are void of feelings – quite the opposite, in fact, as they often describe dramatic events and the efforts of characters to come to terms with these events. Yet the objective narrative style of the sagas as a rule avoids emotive declarations or vivid (gestural or performative) exhibitions of internal emotions. When compared with romance or even with other epic genres, such as the chansons de geste, there is a distinct difference in the portrayal of emotions that is most visible in the lack of emotive vocalisation, a significantly diminished gestural behaviour and a distinct evasion of the physical display of internal emotions, particularly when it comes to male characters. How do these texts then proclaim emotional interiority in their characters and by what means does the saga author create a self that the reader can then construe as emotive?

This chapter addresses these questions and seeks to explore and establish how emotional interiority is communicated in the absence of expressive emotional performativity. The focus is on Egils saga Skallagrímssonar as a prime example of the so-called objective narrative style that is considered to be the hallmark of the saga style. The ways in which emotion is conceptualised, conveyed and configured in the text and how the author uses narrative structure, somatic indicia and expressive silence to manipulate the reader (or audience) into an empathetic stance are explored.

Emotion words and emotive evasion

The story of the Viking Egill Skalla-Grímsson relates how his father, Skalla- Grímr, and grandfather, Kveld-Úlfr, migrate to Iceland following disputes with King Haraldr hárfagri (Haraldr Fairhair). Egill is raised in Iceland and reveals a flair for poetic composition at an early age. His poetical skills will save him more than once, but they also enact a view into the fictive (and/or historical) persona of Egill.

On 23 April 1805, two years after the commencement of the Napoleonic wars, George iii reinvigorated the Order of the Garter at Windsor Castle with an event that presented medieval-style pageantry on a grand scale. The order dated back to the reign of Edward iii who established it in 1348, and whose son, the Black Prince, was one of the founder members. While the Garter had played a part in earlier monarchical ceremonies, George III's expansion of the fourteenth-century order represented something new: it was part of the king's larger reinvention of the monarchy. On this day in 1805 members of the order arrived at St George's Chapel through the king's newly commissioned Gothic entrance. A banquet was set up outside the castle with tables decorated with silver knights on horseback. More than 8,000 members of the public viewed this ticketed event. The link between the order and war was not lost on contemporaries. The author of An appendix to the Windsor Castle guide observed that ‘its revival, therefore, at a moment of danger, like the present, is not only requisite to the splendor which should adorn the Fountain of honour, but is an act of sound policy … to fan the flame of loyalty and patriotism which pervades every class of His Majesty's subjects’.

George's interest in the late Middle Ages has been underplayed by scholars more interested in the medievalism which boomed in the period after 1820. Yet his use of the fourteenth-century past played an integral role in fostering a vibrant eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century medievalism. These royal reinventions offered new visions of the medieval which worked alongside other ‘popular’ eighteenth-century expressions to create a shift towards more positive interpretations of this past and its revival. This chapter will examine George's interest in the late Middle Ages and how he imagined this period as a time of chivalry, heroic military victories, pomp and ceremony. In doing so, it will reveal George's two primary interests in the period: first, his fascination with Edward iii and the Black Prince as heroic characters who could be used to comment on royalty and virtue and, second, his focus on ‘medieval’ ceremonies to emphasise his majesty and power.

IN THIS CHAPTER we return to the world of romance and its re-invention within the Norse cultural realm. The so-called riddarasögur (literally ‘stories of knights’) is a modern generic denominator intended to encapsulate a group of stories whose main generic features are on the one hand thematic and on the other geographic; i.e. they are composed of stories that focus on adventures beyond the borders of the Nordic world. They are distinguished from the fornaldarsögur (legendary sagas) and the Icelandic sagas by the place of action (outside the borders of Scandinavia) and the characters’ places of origin, and from other genres by their romance-oriented thematic and episodic structure. Regardless of the legitimacy of the generic distinction (which has been questioned) the stories form an assorted collection. While they vary greatly in their narrative emphasis and functionality, the stories are bound together (generically speaking) by a common generic functionality that derives ultimately from romance.

While the translated romances have garnered some interest, particularly in the larger context of trans-continental transmission patterns and the diffusion of the romance across Europe, the indigenous riddarasögur have attracted less attention. They have historically been dismissed as frivolous, intentionally fanciful and often incoherent. Geraldine Barnes has, however, recently sought to demonstrate that the riddarasögur adopted the generic form of romance as a framework for their own engagement with historiography and that their authors drew on a learned tradition of world history and geography to frame their narratives. The diversity of the indigenous romance material, ranging from fabliaux-like comedies to hagiographical accounts, reveals the plasticity of romance as a generic framework and its capacity to encompass a multitude of narrative goals. The representational force and capacity of the Norse romance lies, as before, within the emotive script provided by the generic framework of the romance and the particular adaptation of that script to the authors’ narrative objectives.

This chapter focuses on one of these indigenous romances, Sigur ðar saga þogla (The Story of Sigurd the Silent). The process of adaptation of the emotive functionality of romance in Sigur ðar saga þogla is analysed as a way to probe the underlying social anxieties in the saga. In particular the focus is upon the underlying narrative tensions related to gender and social status. The romance queries gendered categorisations and female autonomy through a fabliau-like staging of gendered dichotomies.

THE Castilian priest Dominic of Caleruega (sometimes referred to with his probably aristocratic name of de Guzmán) founded a new religious order in the second decade of the thirteenth century. Dominic was an Augustinian canon and his new order grew out of his band of priests (which also included Cistercian monks) who were combating the Cathar heresy in the Languedoc. Dominic's way of dealing with the heresy was through itinerant, straightforward and organised preaching. This Dominican order of friars shared many characteristics with St Francis’ new order founded in the same decade in Italy. The Dominicans quickly began to expand their order throughout Europe, moving from Toulouse to Paris and to Spain. They came to England in 1221 and the first friar to arrive in London was Gilbert de Fresnay in August. He began to look for a suitable site for a new priory, which was to be the second friary in England after the Oxford house. De Fresnay quickly found a powerful supporter. Hubert de Burgh, earl of Kent, was the royal justiciar – senior minister to Henry III, who was still a minor. De Burgh purchased and then gave to the friars a parcel of land in suburban Holborn, just by the bridge over the Fleet river. The donation was confirmed with a quitclaim, datable to the mayoral term of October 1223 to October 1224, although the grant itself may well have been slightly earlier. Although this was not a city-centre location, the site occupied a prominent position on the main approach to London from the west, and was only 320m from the Newgate entrance into the city (Figure 3, Figure 4). Furthermore, the proximity to the bridge over the Fleet gave the friars a good opportunity to provide spiritual services to travellers and, potentially, receive alms in return.

The Dominicans in England have long been known as Black friars, the colour referring to the cloak they wore outside the friary. The numbers of these London Black friars quickly increased in the period when the Holborn friary was being constructed and used. By 1243 there were about eighty Dominicans in London, although in 1278 numbers were down to sixty. When the Black friars left their Holborn friary in the 1280s, there may have been sixty-seven friars.

1973: Kingdom Coming The Card The Water Babies

Clocking in for its two-week season, Kingdom Coming (Roundhouse, 21 May 1973; 14) was little liked. Another car-crash that would never have withstood the West End, here was what everyone had been waiting for: the cryogenic musical about putting dead people in the freezer. A tiny audience witnessed its first night, some probably deafened by the appalling amplification system. The list of its creators, music Bill Snyder, lyrics Stanley Baum, with book and lyrics by David Climie and Ronnie (Ronald) Cass, represented an Anglo-American collaboration that was going nowhere. The evening involved characters being stuffed into refrigerators and (if they were lucky) being successfully defrosted. Richard Macdonald's sets claimed to be the first to be made entirely of fibreglass and polystyrene, but Charles Lewsen for The Times noted that Kingdom Coming was ‘the first show in which both plot and dialogue are biodegradable’. Climie and Cass's book was ‘a cross-eyed wreck’ in ‘a show with something for everyone to dislike’, for it was ‘not every day you see a musical that ends with the refrigerated being carried out, like the rest of us, board-stiff’.

What possible excuse was there for using Arnold Bennett's 1911 novel as the prop on which to hang The Card (Queen's Theatre, 24 July 1973; 130), with a score by popsters Tony Hatch and Jackie Trent? Hugely successful as they were in providing hit songs for popular singers or the theme music for the television soap Crossroads, could they extend their talents to writing a theatre score? Bennett had little regard for his story of Denry Machin, a lovable social climber, thinking his novel ‘Stodgy, with no real distinction, but well invented and done to the knocker, technically, right through.’3 Eric Ambler wrote the 1952 film screenplay for which William Alwyn wrote the score. Now, Keith Waterhouse and Willis Hall, whose work in musicals included Joey Joey, Lost Empires, Budgie, Andy Capp and Billy, adapted the book for the musical.

IN THIS CHAPTER, I will argue that the translation into Modern Irish of literature from the Old and Middle Irish periods can offer advantages that do not always accrue from translations of such texts into English and other languages. I should, of course, point out immediately that translations into languages with a broad global reach have played a major role in bringing this literature to an international readership and in gaining for it a prestigious place in international scholarship. So my proposal is for Modern Irish translations in addition to rather than instead of translations into other languages. In the Appendix to this chapter, I present a Modern Irish translation of a medieval Irish poem, beginning ‘Oenach indiu luid in rí’, known generally under the English title of ‘Find and the Phantoms’ given to it by Whitley Stokes, which is reprinted following the Modern Irish translation. The poem tells of a terrifying encounter between the hero, Find Mac Cumaill, his son Oisín and his foster-son Caílte, and a collection of aggressive phantoms in a house in a remote glen where they go to seek shelter one night. Due mainly to the prowess of Find, the three survive their gruesome ordeal until morning when, as the sun rises, all are mysteriously overcome by sleep. When Find and his companions awake, the ghostly house and its phantoms have vanished and all three are unscathed. At the outset, I will provide some contextual information about the text chosen for translation. I will outline my aims and overall approach to the task and discuss some general theoretical questions as well as practical issues that influenced my approach. As translators always have to choose between possible alternatives, I will then try to explain some of the choices that I have made and discuss some problems that I encountered.

Source Text and Its Place within Fiannaíocht

My source text is a poem taken from the twelfth-century Book of Leinster (Dublin, Trinity College MS 1339, fols 206b–207b), and published by Whitley Stokes with an English translation in 1886.

Introduction

In the early nineteenth century a fundamental transformation in the established German system of governance occurred; at the same time, Kameralwissenschaft went into decline. These two events have been linked, and several explanations advanced for this linkage, but none is convincing in detail. The decline of cameralism has often been treated as a result of the ‘rise of liberalism’ and the diffusion of English political economy, especially in the wake of Adam Smith's Wealth of Nations. Unfortunately, this argument – like others along similar lines – is simply incorrect. On the one hand, the influence on contemporary German economic thought that some theorists assign to the Wealth of Nations is exaggerated; and on the other, cameralism continued to play a substantial role in German offices and administrations, even though its theoretical presence had altered and it was progressively replaced by Nationalokonomie in German universities.

A central focus of this chapter will be the development of cameralism as a university discipline and its divorce from administrative practice. Keith Tribe has argued that the pedagogical and philosophical influence of late cameralism should not be underestimated, suggesting a closer analysis of the changing philosophical foundations of university scholarship and training during the nineteenth century, when the idea of happiness as the goal and purpose of the state was increasingly replaced by that of the state providing the conditions for autonomous personal development. Insight can also be derived from Andre Wakefield's critical view of the authenticity of the ideas and teaching of many cameralists, especially regarding their personal credibility and professional ambitions. Finally, arguments for the decline of cameralism at the turn of the nineteenth century can be described by the idea that ‘cameralism becomes more legally minded’. Here I will highlight the impact of alterations to the financial support of the court household that led the activities of the Kammern to be transferred into the sphere of constitutional law.

The development of cameralism as a science and its perception in theory

From the mid-eighteenth century a new curricular structure emerged in German universities including disciplines such as natural law, constitutional law and, of course, the theory and practice of cameralism [Kameralwissenschaft]. Cameralism offered the prospect of telescoping the related subjects of law, history, politics and economy into a single system without rejecting the old teaching tradition of the philosophia practica.

THE study of architectural fragments offers us the possibility of understanding – and even reconstructing – long-vanished medieval buildings. In a city such as London – where the Dissolution, the Great Fire, redevelopment and wartime bombing have taken a severe toll on the stock of medieval architecture – architectural fragments are the only surviving primary source for understanding the architectural styles and features of great lost medieval buildings, including the London friaries. More general discussion of the architecture of the friaries can be found in the friary-by-friary chapters of Part I of this book (Chapters 1 to 9), and in Chapter 10: Churches.

The architectural fragments have usually come to us through two processes: demolition and excavation. When masons were dismantling a medieval monastic building, for example in the fourteenth century in order to rebuild it or in the sixteenth century in order to destroy it, the more decorative pieces of stonework – windows, arches, door surrounds – were often recycled as rough foundation material: their particular shapes meant that they were not generally suitable for ‘ordinary’ recycling in new wall superstructures. Several centuries later, modern archaeologists encounter batches of this recycled ‘low value’ stonework in wall foundations. Sometimes this material is studied to great advantage; on other occasions the architectural fragments are retained but languish unstudied in museum store rooms.

About 140 architectural fragments from archaeological sites within the London friary precincts were identified at the Museum of London's archive and stores. The present author then examined this material to assess its potential to yield useful information about the architecture, structure and decoration of the friary buildings. It would be misleading to talk of a ‘statistically meaningful sample’ in what is essentially an art-historical exercise, but a sample of about thirty items (the majority of which are window fragments) has proved useful in answering the above points (Table 14). The tradition of art-historical and archaeological study of medieval architecture means that several important pieces of friary architecture that were discovered in the early twentieth century were preserved. A pillar and an arch from the undercroft of the late thirteenth-century chapter house at Black Friars survive, the former in the new Dominican priory in Belsize Park (London) and the latter in the wooded garden of the Selsdon Park Hotel in Croydon (London and Surrey).