The ‘crisis of drama’, as analysed by Peter Szondi – the critique of neoclassicism arising in early romanticism, as well as the later critique of bourgeois realism – which is essentially characteristic of modernism in the theatre, implies the critique of the human character, the plastic and harmonious bodily image and the subject entrenched in the centre of its own world.Footnote ¹ While, from the point of view of many art forms and art philosophies, modernism has already exhausted its critical resources, in the theatre, I shall argue, the debate has far from reached a conclusion. The question often unnecessarily avoided by theatrical modernism still remains – how is it possible to present, describe and understand theoretically what, in the case of the acting and speaking human being, appears beyond anthropocentric delimitation: the presence and pre-givenness of a human figure? How to play and talk theatre without referring to the human presence, and yet retain what is seen as theatre? Perhaps the ‘postdramatic theatre’ outlined by Hans-Thies Lehmann in its many forms represents an attempt to answer this question artistically. However, there can be no certainty; in other words, until we have a theory that can take responsibility for this new situation, we are incapable of critiquing it adequately.

This article is an attempt to propose some directions for a critique of theatrical anthropocentrism. It proceeds in three steps. The first section is a phenomenological presentation of theatre and theatricality, as an aspect of everyday, theoretical or artistic perceptions that are always at our disposal.Footnote ² It will show how the evidence of the phenomenon hides a structure and a set of dynamics that can be analysed, an essence that cannot be reduced to other forms of experience or deducted from them. This transcendental structure or scheme – of which a certain pre-comprehension exists – is what I suggest we call the ‘scene’. Wherever there is theatrical representation or activity recognizable as such, ‘there’ is also a scene that delimits and determines the representational aspects and conditions of that activity. To begin with, therefore, the scene is understood as a name given to a problem rather than as a theoretical concept solving that problem. A certain choice has, however, been made: the question of theatricality as a scene directs our theoretical gaze to the ‘scenic thing’, the phenomenon of human action and what is given and understood in it and along with it.

The second and third sections trace the early history of Western thinking with regard to the scene. As the etymology of the terms suggests, both ‘theatre’ and ‘theory’ go back to ‘seeing’ (thea) and therefore have a common denominator; both have to do with an arranged and conscious observation of phenomena within the sphere of public judgement. This familiarity has always attracted the attention of philosophers. Ever since Democritus – ‘the world is a scene’, ho kosmos skènè Footnote ³ – the theatre has been perceived as a means to understand the world as a whole. When philosophers have spoken of the ‘scene’, their interest has usually lain elsewhere than in the theatre. The metaphoric use of the term is based on a predetermined meaning. My purpose is to ask what price has been paid for this understanding. To what extent has Western thinking depended, and in what ways does it continue to depend, on an implicit scenic understanding? My discussion focuses on two basic works on the philosophy of the theatre: Plato's Republic and Aristotle's Poetics.

Evidences

The theatre has its evidence. As any other form of art, theatre presupposes a relationship with something we consider a shared reality – the world. It is also one of the forms in which that relationship is realized. The theatre opens up a certain optics where our relationship with the world can appear freely. The exclusion of reality, usually understood as the condition for the realization of a theatrical performance, is therefore to be understood as conditional, relative and temporary, as a means of making certain things in our world relationship apparent which might otherwise not come to view. This is the archi-opsis of theatrical action, and it is on these conditions that all individual scenic solutions are realized. Something concerning something has been put in brackets in order to make something else (concerning the same thing) visible. But what?

Let us look at another aspect of theatrical evidence. The evidence is now related to our ability to recognize things as theatre, even outside representational conventions, in everyday perception and interaction as well as in moments when the theatre makes an unexpected intervention in our everyday life. What I refer to here are the seemingly natural situations where an event spontaneously assumes a representational mode in our perception. This may happen in particular when the representational features of an event are sufficiently highlighted, at the expense of its other senses or when an activity fails, is interrupted or remains an attempt or gesture; or when an event or encounter is suddenly circumscribed or framed so that it becomes detached from its context, as if it were a citation of its own reality; or when it simply presents itself or is exposed from a suitably unusual perspective. Street theatre and various performative interventions are artistic applications of this implicit theatricality of everyday life. Theatrical bracketing of the world always seems to imply a certain perspective, circumscription or framing. The same theatrical perspective may, of course, also be reached by a conscious effort. This is particularly familiar to artists who try to observe and analyse their surroundings and reality ‘as theatre’, in order to transfer elements from it to their own creative work.

By simulating situations of different kinds in our mind, we may become convinced that it is possible for us to achieve a theatrically representative perspective at any moment and on any event. Conscious representation is not necessary; only the consciousness of representation is needed. From the point of view of perception itself, however, it is impossible to decide which one of these, representation or its consciousness, precedes the other. The representational contract with reality is always already signed. Our experience is born theatrical, and theatricality forms the a priori modality, the pre-understanding, of our experience, through and according to which we encounter the things of the world. Furthermore, it is in accordance with this that theatrical judgement and the understanding of theatrical phenomena are realized in each case. Finally, as the evidence of theatre thus becomes conscious, it invites us to think of our experience as ‘something’, a world relationship with a structure and dynamics that we may be able to reflect upon and understand. This way of looking at things is ‘transcendental’ insofar as it starts with the manifest content of consciousness or experiences and proceeds towards their conditions, the forms of consciousness or experience ‘itself’, that which does not appear directly but which we inevitably assume. Yet this is necessarily so every time we speak of our relation to the world: there is no external perspective to it.

If we accept this notion of the theatricality of experience, we also, insofar as all experience is an experience of something, implicitly accept a certain object of that experience. The theatrical object is not the world ‘as such’ but a certain way of encountering and perceiving the world. If, following this idea, we consider the situations where theatricality appears spontaneously and where it takes us by surprise, we note that each case assumes a particular something: human activity. That does not mean, however, that we have, every time, some human being who acts in view. Activity must be understood in a broad sense, as the realization of a relationship with the world. It must, on the one hand, contain situations where nothing seems to happen on the outside, or no one is around. And if nothing and no one is expected or assumed to appear, the performance, too, eventually dissolves. On the other hand, even situations where animals, plants, inanimate objects or natural phenomena assume the mode of action (where ‘nature’ turns into ‘world’) can be considered theatre. Human beings, who according to Aristotle are “the most mimetic” (mimètikôtaton) creatures,Footnote ⁴ have the ability to represent or imitate theatrically everything that exists. No matter how masterly, clumsy, credible or incredible the imitation is, it may always be meaningful on a theatrical level.

A theatrically imitated thing assumes the appearance of action; that is, a worldly appearance. Naturally, in most cases human activity has a primary ‘practical’ object and purpose – a piece of work, a product or a performance – but it is through that work, product or performance that a certain kind of world relationship, with all its assumptions, expectations and judgements, appears and is put into effect. What interests us in the theatre is the totality of these affinities. When an activity appears as action (praxis), it appears, in Aristotelian terms, as something with an end (telos) in itself, and in this it differs specifically from the various forms of production (poiein).Footnote ⁵ In the theatre, this particular self-sufficiency of action appears in the form of a ‘gesture’, the act of appearing (something that can be said for all action). A theatrical gesture does not only content itself with reflecting on itself or offering others something to reflect on, but is always a more or less direct comment on our shared reality, the world. It invites its witnesses – the spectators – to make an aesthetic, ethical and political judgement on its manner of effectuation. Thus, when theatrical discourse, in Aristotle's words, consists of the ‘imitation of an action’ (mimèsis praxeôs),Footnote ⁶ the object of the imitation must be understood as action in some kind of milieu, which to Aristotle was the ancient polis, while to us is the modern mundus. Theatre imitates what appears in all action, its way of opening and intending a world.

If we accept the theatricality of our experience and, correspondingly, the action in theatricality, we will also arrive at an understanding of the theatricality of the experience of action. When, accordingly, we recognize activity as action, which is not always the case, we do so by leaning on the theatricality of the phenomenon. And when we recognize the theatre as theatre, we do so in relation to the understanding we have of human activity. Theatre and action are not reduced to one another, but through our experience of them they offer each other a criterion which we usually understand as a given. The way in which this criterion works remains a question to be studied. Similarly, our experience itself is problematized in its fundamental ability to exercise this reciprocal mode of critique.

In the theatre of our experience, on the other hand, the bracketing of the surrounding world with all its practical objects adds something specific to the action: its worldliness. I suggest that we call the structure and dynamics of the theatre of experience – that is, that which the evidence of the theatre is based on – the ‘scene’. The name is not arbitrary, but is based on the assumption that the real scenic solutions, structures and dynamics of historically existing scenes unfold the transcendental understanding described above into time and space, and thus represent it in our shared empirical reality. Through the fact of the scene, the theatre of experience can ‘come out’ as a thing to be encountered and judged together. We are used to seeing the scene as a space and/or time that separates itself from the world and reality,Footnote ⁷ a ‘dimension’, where our relationship with reality becomes observable. What appears on the scene is a piece of the quoted or cited world.Footnote ⁸ Thus the scene's manner of existence is always already understood transcendentally: when something functions as a scene, it sets forth something, allowing it to appear theatrically or scenically. The scene ‘itself’ functions by hiding itself, by pulling back while providing a space, time and place for the scenic thing; that is, the phenomenon of action. Part of the scene always remains in the ‘shadow’ (skia). If the scene comes out fully, the show is undoubtedly over or has not yet begun. On the other hand, if it does not appear at all we do not know that we are in the theatre.

In its ambivalence, therefore, the scene constitutes a kind of hinge between world and theatre; it forms a gate, door or threshold, according to which the relationship between world and theatre becomes articulated and understood. To speak of the scene of the mind or imagination is not just to speak metaphorically, as demonstrated by radio plays or the play script read in solitude. The ‘first’ mise-en-scène thus opens up the scene itself. Nevertheless, this event or act never appears as such. It is so self-evident and such an integral part of the scenic gesture itself that we (no longer) need to pay attention to it or mention it separately. However, this event always takes place: being on the scene simultaneously means being as the scene. When something appears theatrically, it opens or clears a scene for itself. The scenic gesture opens the dimension of its appearance. The scene is the stage that carries the performer, the background against which her or his body stands out, the space commanded by the spectacle and the spectators in a street or in a crowd.Footnote ⁹ The scene is in the gesture of the actor, the line he or she speaks, and in the spectator's mind; the scene is in the mind of someone reading a book alone, as it lays bare before the eyes of any public in any theatre building, at any moment of representation. No contradiction should be seen in this, but rather a fundamental problem which does not just concern defining concepts but also, simultaneously, the possibility of all theatre as well as how our experience relates to the world. As will be shown in what follows, this is a traditional philosophical problem, to which different philosophers have offered different solutions.

Plato and mimèsis

What Plato discovers always again and justifies in his dialogues is ideality as such, the sphere of ideality, as the most proper and (relatively) independent dimension of speech, discussion and logical argumentation (or logos). This timeless, infinite and universal dimension works and is realized independently of whether the dialogue arrives at some stated conclusion or not. Its maintenance and the practice of thinking corresponding to it are accompanied by a metaphysical concern and/or desire, which no subsequent philosophical thinking can question without also questioning its own possibility. Between the ideal and the sensual, some regular, accessible and justifiable connection, order or hierarchy exists, which guarantees that ideas are specifically ideas of the sensual, and that the sensual, for its part, is open to the influence of ideas. Plato's theory of ideas, aims both to delineate and to justify that connection, order or hierarchy logically, as an ontology. That is, it is a theory of true being, beyond mythical and religious explanations. The truth of a phenomenon is that its appearance corresponds to the way it is; that is, it corresponds to its own inner, eternal and unchanging idea, which can be attained by theoretical study. In The Republic, where we can also find the basics of his theory of the scene, Plato deals with the idea of ‘justice’ (dikè). According to Socrates, justice is to be understood as truthfulness, which again is understood as being part of the ‘idea of man’.

If man's outer appearance must reflect man's inner essence, or the idea of man, it is easy to understand why Socrates directs his critique against a certain kind of mimèsis, namely poetry, which imitates human activity artistically. Poetry imitates people externally, in any way whatsoever, without knowing or wishing to know anything about the idea of man. And thus, willy-nilly, it promotes injustice. At the same time, the conspiracy of the phenomenon of man and the theory of ideas is revealed. All the metaphoric and dialectic justifications of the doctrine of ideas (such as the famous craftsman paradigm) become possible by appealing to the theoretical ability of human beings to see internally and distinguish between the internality of the soul and the externality of the senses. Man is able to perceive and express that distinction both in him- or herself and in the action, speech and thinking of others. When I look at another human being, I am seeing him or her in two registers, internally and externally, as well as perceiving the mutual relationship between these two spheres. In this sense, the idea of man promoted by Plato is inevitably the idea of an idea: the principle of idealization is in itself articulated in it.

This is clearly demonstrated in Book 9 of The Republic, where Socrates finally asks his interlocutor to form in his mind the idea or ‘soul’ of man (psykhè).Footnote ¹⁰ The metaphor consists of a thing whose exterior has the shape of a human being and it envelops a threefold hierarchy: in the area of the stomach, sensual ‘desires’ (epithumia) rage, resembling a multiheaded monster; in the chest, lion-shaped ‘courage’ (thumos) rules; while the head houses the rational part (nous) which has the form of a tiny human creature. At the political level, these three functions of the soul correspond to the three classes of citizenship: craftsmen, soldiers and guardians. The question of (in)justice is here illustrated as a power struggle between the different parts of the soul. An unjust person yields to the power of various desires and temptations of the phenomenal world by way of thumos, so that the human creature as a whole follows and expresses chaotic impulses. Its internality, furthermore, is subjected to externality. Ruled by the senses, people become monstrous, both to themselves and to others. A just person yields power to the best part of the soul so that externality, too, is subject to internality and the external human creature obeys the ‘internal person’ (entos anthrôpos).Footnote ¹¹ Amazingly, the metaphor seems to guarantee the external stability and self-identity of the human creature. The effectiveness of the demonstration is based on the repetition of the human form in the structure of the metaphor, first as the outer form that both hides and reveals the inner threefold hierarchy and then as the internal person that seems to have no other ‘content’ than this hierarchy, which thus comes to repeat itself ad infinitum.

Thus, as soon as we submit ourselves to imagining the construction, following Socrates’ instructions, we have already also submitted ourselves to the internalizing, idealizing, symbolizing and linguistic principle effective in all imagination. Plato's metaphor asks us to reflect on the limits and conditions of man's mimetic ability. Imagination is possible only to the extent that it respects and maintains a representative link that is both mimetic and logical between the phenomenon and the idea. This theory of representation established by Plato has its irreducible scenic aspects.

What makes Plato's theory scenic is the fact that it simultaneously considers the phenomenon of the acting and speaking human as something given. It is only in the phenomenon of man that the mimetic interactions prevalent in all nature, the wild and violent arena of attracting and rejecting forces, can be linked to a logical order.Footnote ¹² Only the human being both appears and speaks; that is, appears in two concomitant registers which do not fall into one. Only in a human being do word and gesture meet without coinciding; only he or she gives a meaningful articulation to the appearance of him-/herself as well as to others, simultaneously building a representative relationship with him-/herself and the world, and appears to others as that relationship. Every time this relationship is taken as ‘given’, the human phenomenon is understood as a ‘figure’.Footnote ¹³ Obviously, most often, this is the case. When the human figure is ‘present’, it always precedes itself, being always already present, occupying both the first and the hindmost position, and therefore it constitutes a critical scheme that repeats itself endlessly. It is a frame and a support for the reception and presence of all imaginary (physical or spiritual) things. Any attempt to fashion a theoretical model for the appearance of an acting and speaking human being is here suggested to be called ‘scene theory’. In Plato's case, we are dealing with an anthropocentric scene theory, which is based on the paradigm of the presence of a human figure.

It is therefore to be expected that the Platonic theory of the scene should reject most existing forms of theatrical expression. The decision in Plato's dialogue to expel poets from the ideal State is also related to this issue. However, the solution does not exclude all forms of scenic aesthetics. The tragic aesthetics is only replaced by another, philosophical aesthetics, whose axiom is also clearly stated in the dialogue: ‘When there is a coincidence of a beautiful disposition in the soul and corresponding and harmonious beauties of the same type in the bodily form – is not this the fairest spectacle [theama] for one who is capable of its contemplation?’Footnote ¹⁴ The external form derives its beauty from the appearance of its internal harmony. According to Plato, this classic ideal of beauty corresponds to a certain kind of theatre and a certain kind of dramaturgy, towards which The Republic hints, but which is more meaningfully crystallized in particular in Phaidon. There, internal harmony becomes externalized as temperance in suffering. At the same time, the character of Socrates, as (re-)created by Plato, is elevated through his sublime self-sacrifice to the role of a new kind of hero, a philosophical hero.Footnote ¹⁵ Furthermore, the Christian interpretation of classical agony, modern neoclassic tragedy and aesthetics are based on Plato's dramaturgic model.

Aristotle and opsis

The word skènè appears frequently in the Poetics.Footnote ¹⁶ As far as the argument of the work is concerned, however, the term seems secondary: it only appears in chapter 12, after the constitutive dramaturgic principles of tragedy have been discussed. The scene is determined at this point, in accordance with the conventional division of the theatrical space in antiquity, by the space reserved for the singing and action of the actors (hypokritès) as separated from the orkhestra, the space occupied by the chorus.Footnote ¹⁷ However, the secondary status of the term ‘scene’ does not mean that the question of the scene, in the sense defined above, is not of utmost importance to the author of the Poetics. I will now attempt to show how Aristotle formulates the question and how he answers it.

The critical argument of Aristotle's Poetics is that tragedy is an ‘imitation of an action’ (mimèsis prakseôs). Unlike Plato, Aristotle thus allows us to justify theatrical mimesis theoretically. The recognition of the dramaturgical form of action, its ‘composition’ (synthesis, systasis), produces both pleasure and learning.Footnote ¹⁸ What interests our theoretical gaze in this comparison? One might think, for example, that, watching tragedies would promote practical wisdom (fronèsis).Footnote ¹⁹ This ‘praxeological’ interpretation justifies tragedy theoretically, however simultaneously excluding the theoretical questions of the scene I have outlined above. Yet, these same questions arise immediately when, for example, we begin to practise aesthetic criticism internal to the art of poetry itself, a tradition Aristotle starts when asking how tragedies should be represented. Retrospectively, the question primarily concerns the theatrical aspects of tragedy, the status of the opsis, ‘visual representation’ or ‘spectacle’ (mise-en-scène), a topic that is significantly ambivalent in Aristotle.

At the beginning of chapter 6 in the Poetics, where the parts of tragedy are defined, Aristotle states that visual representation, opsis, in a way ‘possesses’ (ekhein) all the other parts – plot, character, style, thought and song. However, later in the same chapter he argues that

This would seem to lead to the paradoxical conclusion that opsis both is and is not part of tragedy. We may, of course, try to dismiss the problem philologically,Footnote ²¹ but, substantially, at the level of argumentation, it stands. The theorizing of tragedy comes to one of its limits in opsis.

Unlike the composition of action, with its basis in a theoretical understanding, spectacles focus on producing specifically sensory visions with strong mimetic effect – horror for horror's sake, and pity for pity's sake. For this reason, argues Aristotle, not only is the spectacle the opposite of theory and knowledge, but it is also bad tragic art and cheap entertainment at best. Of all the elements of tragedy, opsis, the spectacle, has the least value. This is a permanent thesis in all theatrical critique; it has a millennia-old history and cannot be avoided even today. Can we deduct from it the recommendation, so fatal to the theatre, that visual representation should be banned? Aristotle's idea of tragedy as a kind of pre-theoretical reflection on the form of action is here supported by empirical and psychological observation according to which tragic satisfaction can be reached independently of scenic realization. The tragic effect, purification of fear and pity,

This, however, is where phenomenological doubt arises. If scenic representation is replaced by the recital and hearing of tragedy, is the external scene not merely replaced by the internal scene? And what is the difference between these two ‘scenes’?

The question is in no way anachronistic in the context of the Poetics, since Aristotle himself seems to rely on the same distinction. On the one hand, he states that the primary skill of the tragic poet is to ‘put things before his eyes’ as vividly as possible:

The imagination of the poet is described not only as a creative instance, but also as a means of verification in relation to the action imagined. ‘Incongruities’ that the poet should avoid deprive mimed action of its ‘plausibility or necessity’ (eikos è to anagkaion), which is the basic criterion of the theoretical recognition of the action as action. This modal criterion can, however, be fulfilled independently, simply by appealing to the spectator's innate understanding of the form of action, regardless of whether the events described have in fact taken place or whether they are the creation of tradition or of the poet himself.Footnote ²⁴ Plausibility is achieved by seeing the action ‘as if’ it took place before our eyes. The external gesticulation provides a useful means for a poet to verify that the internally ‘seen’ gestures are well depicted, in order to guarantee to them a maximum of probability. Aristotle uses an artistic example to argue for his claim:

Although the play referred to is unknown to us, the distinction it makes is essential: the possibility of a scenic verification of action is also an integral part of good tragedy. No matter if the play is only recited and listened or if it is put on stage: the dramatist's perception of action is fundamentally scenic and his discourse also conveys it as such to the viewer/listener.

We find further support for this view in chapter 18, where Aristotle sums up the four types of tragic composition: the complex tragedy, the tragedy of suffering, the tragedy of character, and the spectacle.Footnote ²⁶ The last type, which from the point of view of the philosopher is hardly tragedy at all, is exemplified by The Phorcides, Prometheus and ‘all plays with the scene laid in the nether world’. In Greek mythology, the Phorcides were a type of Gorgon, while Prometheus was a Titan and Hades the invisible home of monsters and the deceased. ‘Monstrosity’, meaning mere play with violent effects is, as Aristotle states above, most spectacular. However, what is essential here is that horror tragedies necessarily exclude the possibility of scenic verification or the judgement of probability or necessity. All we can expect from spectacle is mere fantasy. If this interpretation holds, it means that the Poetics also makes a distinction between imagined action and imaginary action. The former results from the a priori scenic nature of our perception, while the latter is based on our ability to fantasize, to which the scene as the seat of illusion also typically sets certain limits. From the point of view of scenic perception the move from the ‘internal’ scene of the poet where possible business perceived or invented by the author appears, to the stage where business executed by the actors (epi tôn ergôn) appears before the eyes of the spectators has always already taken place. In all cases, the different spaces of the realization of dramatic fiction and the movement between them are regulated by our scenic understanding.

This view is also reinforced by the fact that, in the Poetics, tragic dramaturgy is less commonly based on actual reality, as perceived by the poet, than on Homeric epic and its already dramatic characters and episodes. In this sense it is also understandable that the Poetics calls Homer's epic ‘dramatic’, dramatikos.Footnote ²⁷ Epic and tragedy share a dramatic form. In both, action is considered according to the phase and manner of action, as the Aristotelian use of the verb drân, ‘to act’, seems to suggest.Footnote ²⁸ Nevertheless, as Aristotle shows elsewhere, epic description of action does not necessarily stand the scenic test: in the eyes of the theatre spectator, the epic hero's gesture may prove quite implausible.Footnote ²⁹ Similarly, the criticism of the actor's art in the Poetics understandably aligns itself with the criticism of the spectacle discussed earlier. The vulgarity of expression is not necessarily characteristic of tragedies but is rather the result of weak acting. The same is true for the scenic movement:

Aristotle's criticism may now be understood unambiguously: movement is the internal dimension of scenically perceived (read, imagined or seen) action. Whereas the ‘happenings’ or ‘facts’ (pragmata) already contain a certain movement in themselves, a bad actor relies on unnecessary movement and gesticulation. Acting is unnecessary if all it does is to hide what was supposed to be shown, or if it hides the fact that there is nothing to show.

In other words, Aristotle does not reject opsis altogether, but rather engages in a critique of the ‘optic’ features of dramatic poetry – the mise-en-scène of the drama – or, to put it in modern terms, a critique of the theatre. If opsis is an indelible part of the theatre, it is still not its telos. Something must always be imagined at the beginning – tragedy began from the ‘improvisations’ (autoskhediasmata), as Aristotle confirms elsewhereFootnote ³¹ – but the scenic imagination of action is already its theorization to a certain degree, at least in what concerns its above-mentioned modal aspects. The (theoretical) purification of action, the critique of the spectacle and other similar emotional intrusions have already begun. They constitute a part of our scenic understanding according to which we recognize something as action and do not confuse it with our imaginary productions. Correspondingly, theoretical discourse may be successful in its criticism of the spectacle only to the extent that it shares the goal of tragic discourse, which it at the same time tries to mould into a definition.

In Aristotle's theatre we follow the actions of ‘scenic agencies’ (prattontes) which do not differentiate between the action represented and the act of representation, the stage character and the performer. Once these agencies are given, as they appear in our mind or on stage, the scene is also ‘there.’ In this way, the scenic aspect of theatre is both concealed and admitted, renounced and affirmed. The question of the human appearance, still manifest in Plato, is suspended. The actor opens and defines the sphere of truthfulness which we all recognize and share on the basis of our scenic understanding. This ‘solution,’ unlike that of Plato's, guarantees the citizenship of the theatre makers, while simultaneously conceiving theatre (and the city) in completely human terms, i.e. as the sphere of appearance for autonomous agencies. The ‘Aristotelian’ theatre, in its various classical, bourgeois or realistic applications, criticized by Szondi, is devoted to the repetition and reproduction of this completely humanized scene. Despite its historical dominance, this model provides but one possible answer to the question of the scene. Something in the scenic thing, the phenomenon of human action, flows over its limits and cannot remain the prisoner of anthropocentric closure. Does ‘postdramatic’ imply breaking away from the scene, going beyond it, or does it only mean that we have to understand and theorize the scene otherwise than before? Contemporary theatre and criticism may offer different answers, but the question itself cannot be avoided any longer.