In ‘Theatre in the 1850s’, Kate Newey writes about the ‘mapping of London as an international entertainment centre’ and looks at the ways in which theatre began to create a new collective national identity, based in the act of spectatorship, and in what was seen on stage, even when that included the Irish Dion Boucicault’s adaptation of a French melodrama. Newey reminds us of the persistent popularity of melodrama, and of the use of the theatre as a site for discussion of contemporary events, and gives an extended reading of Charles Kean’s work with Boucicault on his drama, The Corsican Brothers (1852), which went on to become one of the most popular plays of the century. The chapter also considers the links between the stage and realist and sensation fiction, the internalisation of British theatre culture, and how nineteenth-century theatre became part of an international, commercial, cultural matrix.

Like Spielmann’s chapter, Roxane Martin’s emphasizes the energy of a wealth of theatrical forms which, for decades marginalized by theatre historiography, are sites of innovation. Focusing on the particularly productive period of the long nineteenth century and on the dynamism of boulevard theatres, Martin draws her examples from vaudeville, melodrama, féerie, café concert, pantomime, operetta and music hall and the flow between these different genres. Martin describes how these theatrical forms, which did not enjoy the privilège and could therefore not officially contain text and dialogue, overcame censorship through innovation. The chapter reveals the new approaches to storytelling and plot, set design and musical composition that emerged, and the new careers to which these innovations gave rise, notably that of stage director.

During the 1750s and 60s, Rousseau formulated perhaps the most influential philosophical and political arguments for sentimentality and the tableau. Against the claim of early capitalist ideologues that society was no more than a rational balance of individuals’ material ‘interests’, Rousseau imagined the mythical origin of society as a theatrical scene or musical performance, in which self-regard or vanity (amour-propre) competed with sympathy and tenderness towards others. The balance between these could be tipped away from individualism through the persuasive power of sentimental music and drama, shaping public opinion by absorbing audiences in its affecting tableaux. This vision proved its political effectiveness in eighteenth-century opéra comique and nineteenth-century Romantic melodrama. On the other hand, Rousseau’s denial of rights over public sentimental feeling to women, though contested, in the long run weakened sentimentality by making it into a private, domestic commodity – as shown by the history of another genre Rousseau inaugurated, the romance.

Chapter Five charts Rogers’ move into silent pictures, a dynamic new entertainment form taking the country by storm in the late 1910s. He headed to Hollywood in 1919 to work for producer Samuel Goldwyn, for whom he would star in a dozen films over the next two years. His films combined humor with depictions of ordinary people struggling to surmount some kind of travail or imposition. In 1923, Rogers moved on and signed a contract with another pioneering producer, Hal Roach. Over a two-year period the Oklahoman would complete thirteen more films, while subsequently appearing in a few independent productions and starring in a series of European travelogue films. Involvement with silent films placed Rogers squarely within the new world of leisure entertainment, and further enhanced his status as a celebrity.

This chapter explores the history of representations of race in the Irish theatre, with a particular focus on blackface and minstrelsy – a discussion which uses at is focal point the pre-histories and afterlives of Dion Boucicault’s 1859 play The Octoroon. That melodrama is resituated within an Irish performance tradition (one that Boucicault himself would have encountered as a young man in Dublin) that stretches from the late nineteenth century, and which involved the performance on Irish stages of African-American characters – whose identity was often juxtaposed with that of stage Irish characters, and often performed by white Irish actors. In such a context, The Octoroon represents a form of continuity with what came before – and must therefore be seen in Irish as well as American contexts. Its impact on subsequent performance histories is also considered, up to and including the staging on the Abbey Theatre stage of An Octoroon – an adaptation of the original play – in 2022.

Chapter Twelve addresses the circulation and reception of Shakespeare’s plays in the late eighteenth- and early-nineteenth century, showing how the non-classical elements of his drama vitally contributed to Romantic-period literature and culture. Beginning with a comparison of commemorations of the Bard’s bicentenary in various European capitals, the chapter then looks at his early reception in Germany and France. While Voltaire, Goethe, and Herder celebrated him as a natural genius, French critics realigned Shakespeare’s plays according to neoclassical rules. French audiences increasingly sought out melodrama, however, and accepted these ‘irregularities’, which also inspired Beaumarchais’s Figaro plays. The chapter demonstrates the productive convergences between Shakespearean drama and melodrama, pantomime, harlequinades and other popular theatrical forms, in particular as political satire. It then looks at how Tieck and A.W. Schlegel promoted Shakespeare as the supreme playwright and as part of the German opposition to Napoleon, leading to the banning of his plays in Vienna and elsewhere, and to many literary appropriations in Kleist, Goethe, and Schiller. The chapter concludes with a survey of some of Shakespeare’s influences on drama in Italy, Spain, and, again, France.

This chapter examines the ways in which pre-war drama explored growing fears over major international conflict. Works considered include Du Maurier’s An Englishman’s Home (1909), Zangwill’s The War God (1911) and a number of less well-known plays and comic skits. The chapter contextualises these works in relation to the fraught geopolitical landscape in which they were produced and the wider cultural phenomenon of ‘invasion fiction’. Both critical and public reactions to these productions are also examined. The chapter concludes by exploring how the pre-war plays established the play-book for propagandistic war-time drama as theatre mobilised for the war effort.

Following the previous discussion of popular performance forms, this chapter examines the ways in which popular war-time melodramas drew on both existing traditions within British theatre and on the kinds of social debates which prevailed before the war and were transformed by it. The chapter also considers how genres such as the sketch or the one act play, circulating in music halls, in revues and at wartime charity fund-raisers, like melodramas, adapted to and reflected the changing and gendered experience of wartime conditions. These dramas often represented topical events - such as espionage - and explored contemporary anxieties - especially around gender and domestic life in war-time - whilst capitalising on the popularity of pre-existing dramatic forms.

In late 1823- early 1824 London society was agog at news of a brutal murder that took place just north of the metropolis in Hertfordshire. A professional gambler, William Weare, was killed by John Thurtell and his accomplices Joseph Hunt and William Probert, all denizens of the ‘flash’ underworld that was the subject of Pierce Egan’s outstandingly successful book and play, Life in London (1821). The minor theatres of the Surrey and the Royal Coburg, the latter only recently opened in 1818, sought to capitalise on the sensational case by putting on melodramas in the weeks following news of the murder breaking in the London press in late October 1823. These plays were subject to censorship, unusually not by the authorities, but by legal intervention on the behalf of the accused John Thurtell on the grounds that the virtual re-enactment of the murder (including the appearance of the actual carriage or gig used to transport Weare to his death) would prejudice his trial in February 1824. The fate of these dramas thus represents a new perspective on the history of the censorship of the theatre, as well as offering insights into the intersections of theatre, scandalous celebrity, the metropolitan ‘flash’, print publicity, and the genre of melodrama in the formative decade of the 1820s.

A review of Collins’s engagements with Victorian theatre, in particular the melodramatic mode, and his dramatisation of some of his own novels

Surrealist collage, favouring immediacy over sustained diegetic developments, would seem to contradict the possibility of coherent or cohesive narratives. Yet the elliptical mode of juxtaposition, which replaces in collage the (con)sequential links of conventional narratives, tantalizes the viewer-reader into searching for new links between disparate elements, recalling past stories or imagining potential scenarios. The chapter explores various key examples of surrealist collage narrative in both the verbal and visual fields: the micro-narratives suggested in André Breton’s early collage poems; Benjamin Péret’s collage poems made up of newspaper fragments; Giorgio de Chirico’s or René Magritte’s painted collages of enigmatic encounters; or Czech surrealist Jindřich Štyrský’s erotic scenarios. Focusing in particular on the parodic rewriting of the codes of melodrama in Max Ernst’s collage-novels, the chapter examines how fragments of popular nineteenth-century illustrated novels are recycled into new narratives. Finally, the study proposes a critique of psychoanalytical or alchemical interpretations, hermeneutic models that erase local disruptions in favour of a global coherence.

This chapter uses a close reading of The Lancet medical journal, and its radical, charismatic editor Thomas Wakley, to delineate the ‘high-water mark’ of Romantic sensibility as an emotional regime. It explores the ways in which Wakley and The Lancet leveraged the emotional politics of contemporary melodrama to critique the alleged nepotism and corruption of the London surgical elites. More especially, it analyses their campaign to expose instances of surgical incompetence at the city’s leading teaching hospitals, demonstrating the ways in which this strategy weaponised the emotions of anger, pity, and sympathy, and considering its implications for the cultural norms of an inchoate profession and for the ultimate stability of the emotional regime of Romantic sensibility.

In James’s late tales, he offers a critique of his own procedures, raising to an absurd pitch one of his most characteristic structures of feeling: the determining power of an absent cause, as his characters contemplate something that is not only hidden from view but is constitutively unavailable for direct representation. This structure, I argue, is fundamentally about the veiled social relations of the all-dominating money culture James found in The American Scene. James’s work thus takes shape against the background of an economic world that is less represented than it is formalized as the very structure from which it seeks autonomy. If the “Beast in the Jungle” and The Sacred Fount offer the most negative version of this autonomy – works that fail to engage the world around them – The Golden Bowl tells a different story, consistently gesturing towards a series of determining social contexts it nevertheless withholds from the reader’s view. In this way, James shows us how the fine discriminations in which he is invested rest on a set of real-world determinations that his characters are constitutively unable to see.

If there was no Civil War drama written during the conflict, there was an active theater culture thriving before, during, and after the war, one represented most clearly in American melodrama. Tracing the particular genealogy of racial melodrama from before the Civil War to the beginnings of Black Lives Matter, this chapter discovers the way in which playwrights have deployed and manipulated melodrama’s black-or-white aesthetic mode both to retrench and to reimagine Black and white racial relations. From sensational melodramas before the war, through conservative ones after it, to radical ones today, racial melodrama has a long genealogy. Recovering this genealogy allows us to witness how the American theater played a crucial role in not only staging this country’s fraught racial relations for audiences, but also inviting these audiences—from the nineteenth century to today—to think and feel differently about the unfinished racial drama of the American Civil War.

Turning to the genre that was included in the repertoire of nearly every company, this chapter explores melodrama. Featuring only a select few performers, melodramas were showpieces for the finest dramatic actors and vehicles for their fame. The genre spread rapidly throughout the Empire, and although some recognized the role of Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712–78) in melodrama's inception, it was eventually labelled ‘Germany’s daughter’. The success of Ariadne auf Naxos (Gotha, 1775) by Georg Benda (1722–95) led to an intense period of melodramatic reform. This chapter traces this reform movement through such pieces as Sophonisbe (Leipzig, 1776) by Christian Gottlob Neefe (1748–98), Benda’s Philon und Theone (Vienna, 1779), and Zelmor und Ermide (Vienna, c.1779) by Anton Zimmermann (1741–81). Arguing that such pieces as these pushed melodrama's generic boundaries to the verge of opera and imparted instrumental music with new aesthetic powers, this chapter offers new insight into music-text relations, generic hybridity, and melodrama's aesthetic entanglements with opera and symphonic music.

The final chapter explores music theatre as a cultural expression of the Empire. Dramatists and composers responded to current events by creating works of varying genres for the Empire's stages. Focusing on Günther von Schwarzburg (Mannheim, 1777; German serious opera) by Ignaz Holzbauer (1711–83), Oberon, König der Elfen (Vienna, 1789; Singspiel) by Paul Wranitzky (1756–1808), Heinrich der Löwe (Frankfurt am Main, 1792; Singspiel) by Carl David Stegmann (1751–1826), Die Feier des achtzehnten Jahrhunderts (Leipzig, 1794; melodrama) by Siegfried Schmiedt (1756–99), the anonymous Der Retter Deutschlands (Vienna, 1797; melodrama), and Achille (Vienna, 1801; opera seria) by Ferdinando Paer (1771–1839), this chapter argues that music theatre portraying the Reich called for cooperation in uncertain times by appealing to a sense of belonging to both local Estate and the Empire. Studies of these works tend to view them as expressions of an emerging German nationalism. This chapter challenges such perceptions, arguing that although the Reich was not a nation-state, composers nevertheless portrayed it as a complex nation and state, placing its past, present, and future centre stage.

Chapter 6, ‘Absence of the Other’, points to moments in Schumann where the music is marked by the absence of another’s voice, be it through the Romantic evocation of distant voices in pieces such as the Novelletten’s ‘Stimme aus der Ferne’, or, more troublingly, the loss of voice in songs like ‘Des Sennen Abschied’ and ‘Die Sennin’ – a non-presence often explicitly denoting death, as is the case at the close of Frauenliebe or in the Kerner setting ‘Aus das Trinkglas eines verstorbenen Freundes’. As is found increasingly in Schumann’s later work, the music may pointedly not trace a successful ‘coming to lyricism’: the emergence of an expected lyrical voice is missing. This tendency is epitomised in the genre of melodrama, where music accompanies a declaimed speech that refuses to attain the subjective presence of lyricism, and in pieces such as Manfred.

Leslie Arliss’s The Man in Grey features a Regency-period staging of Othello’s murder of Desdemona, with a white Jamaican named Swinton Rokeby (played by Stewart Granger) blacked up for the title role. Partly through Othello, the film suggests a racial fantasy in which Rokeby reaffirms his whiteness by violently reclaiming his island home from emancipated black slaves. In this way, the film captures anxieties about race, sexuality and colonial participation that are activated by the migration to Britain of black West Indians to aid in the war effort; to put it differently, The Man in Grey appropriates Othello in order to explore how racial difference reveals the limits of a coherent British identity. The film also collapses the distinction between Shakespearean tragedy and costume melodrama, thereby mocking the canons of taste (and the view of the Bard) generally shared by film companies, period critics and government propagandists